They laughed, and at the sound of laughter the tall-stemmed alders echoed with the rushing roar of a cock-grouse thundering skyward. Crack! Crack! Whirling over and over through a cloud of floating feathers, a heavy weight struck the springy earth. There lay the big mottled bird, splendid silky ruffs spread, dead eyes closing, a single tiny crimson bead twinkling like a ruby on the gaping beak.
Dead! said Siward to the dog who had dropped to shot; Fetch! And, signalling the boy behind, he relieved the dog of his burden and tossed the dead weight of ruffled plumage toward him. Then he broke his gun, and, as the empty shells flew rattling backward, slipped in fresh cartridges, locked the barrels, and walked forward, the flush of excitement still staining his sunburnt face.
You deal death mercifully, said the girl in a low voice. I wonder what your ci-devant sweetheart would think of you.
A bungler had better stick to the traps, he assented, ignoring the badinage.
I am wondering, she said thoughtfully, what I think of men who kill.
He turned sharply, hesitated, shrugged. Wild things lives are brief at bestfox or flying-tick, wet nests or mink, owl, hawk, weasel or man. But the death man deals is the most merciful. Besides, he added, laughing, ours is not a case of sweethearts.
My argument is purely in the abstract, Mr. Siward. I am asking you whether the death men deal is more justifiable than a womans gift of death?
Oh, well, life-taking, the giving of lifethere can be only one answer to the mystery; and I dont know it, he replied smiling.
I do.
Tell me then, he said, still amused.
They had passed swale after swale of silver birches waist deep in perfumed fern and brake; the big timber lay before them. She moved forward, light gun swung easily across her leather-padded shoulder; and on the woods sunny edge she seated herself, straight young back against a giant pine, gun balanced across her flattened knees.
You are feeling the pace a little, he said, coming up and standing in front of her.
The pace? No, Mr. Siward.
Are you a triflebored? She considered him in silence, then leaned back luxuriously, rounded arms raised, wrists crossed to pillow her head.
This is charmingly new to me, she said simply.
What? Not the open?
No; I have camped and done the usual roughing it with only three guides apiece and the champagne inadequately chilled. I have endured that sort of hardship several times, Mr. Siward.... What is that furry hunch up there in that tall thin tree?
A raccoon, he said presently. Can you see the foxy head peeping so slyly down at us? Look at Sagamore nosing the air in that droll blind mole-like way. He knows theres something furry up aloft somewhere; and he knows its none of his business.
They watched the motionless ball of fur in the crotch of a slim forest elm. Presently it uncurled, cautiously; a fluffy ringed tail unfolded; the rounded furry back humped up, and the animal, moving slowly into the tangent foliage of an enormous oak, vanished amid bronzing leafy depths.
In the silence the birds began to reappear. A jay screamed somewhere deep in the yellowing woods; black-capped chickadees dropped from twig to twig, cheeping inquiringly.
She sat listening, bright head pillowed in her arms, idly attentive to his low running comment on beast and bird and tree, on forest stillness and forest sounds, on life and the wild laws of life and death governing the great out-world twixt sky and earth. Sunlight and shadows moving, speech and silence, waxed and waned. A listless contentment lay warm upon her, weighting the heavy white lids. The blue of her eyes was very dark nowalmost purple like the colour of the sea when the wind-flaws turn the blue to violet.
Did you ever hear of the Lesser Children? she asked. Listen then:
Multitudes, multitudes, under the moon they stirred!
The weakerbrothers of our earthly breed;
All came about my head and at my feet
A thousand thousand sweet,
With starry eyes not even raised to plead:
Bewildered, driven, hiding, fluttering, mute!
And I beheld and saw them one by one
Pass, and become as nothing in the night.
Do you know what it means?
Winged mysteries of song that from the sky
Once dashed long music down
Do you understand? she asked, smiling.
Who has not seen in the high gulf of light
What, lower, was a bird!
She ceased, and, raising her eyes to his: Do you know that plea for mercy on the lesser children who die all day to-day because the season opens for your pleasure, Mr. Siward?
Is it a woodland sermon? he inquired, too politely.
The poem? No; it is the case for the prosecution. The prisoner may defend himself if he can.
The defence rests, he said. The prisoner moves that he be discharged.
Motion denied, she interrupted promptly.
Somewhere in the woodland world the crows were holding a noisy session, and she told him that was the jury debating the degree of his guilt.
Because youre guilty of course, she continued. I wonder what your sentence is to be?
Ill leave it to you, he suggested lazily.
Suppose I sentenced you to slay no more?
Oh, Id appeal
No use; I am the tribunal of last resort.
Then I throw myself upon the mercy of the court.
You do well, Mr. Siward. This court is very merciful.... How much do you care for bird murder? Very much? Is there anything you care for more? Yes? And could this court grant it to you in compensation?
He said, deliberately, roused by the level challenge of her gaze: The court is incompetent to compensate the prisoner or offer any compromise.
Why, Mr. Siward?
Because the court herself is already compromised in her future engagements.
But what has myengagement to do with
You offered compensation for depriving me of my shooting. There could be only one adequate compensation.
And that? she asked, coolly enough.
Your continual companionship.
But you have it, Mr. Siward
I have it for a day. The season lasts three months you know.
And you and I are to play a continuous vaudeville for three months? Is that your offer?
Partly.
Then one day with me is not worth those many days of murder? she asked in pretended astonishment.
Ask yourself why those many days would be doubly empty, he said so seriously that the pointless game began to confuse her.
Thenshe turned lightly from uncertain groundthen perhaps we had better be about that matter of the cup you prize so highly. Are you ready, Mr. Siward? There is much to be killed yetincluding time, you know.
But the hinted sweetness of the challenge had aroused him, and he made no motion to rise. Nor did she.
I am not sure, he reflected, just exactly what I should ask of you if you insist on taking away he turned and looked about him through the burnt gold foliage, if you took away all this out of my life.
I shall not take it; because I have nothing in exchange to offer you say, she answered imprudently.
I did not say so, he retorted.
You didreminding me that the court is already engaged for a continuous performance.
You didreminding me that the court is already engaged for a continuous performance.
Was it necessary to remind you? he asked with deliberate malice.
She flushed up, vexed, silent, then looked directly at him with beautiful hostile eyes. What do you mean, Mr. Siward? Are you taking our harmless, idle badinage as warrant for an intimacy unwarranted?
Have I offended? he asked, so impassively that a flash of resentment brought her to her feet, angry and self-possessed.
How far have we to go? she asked quietly.
He rose to his feet, turned, hailing the keeper, repeating the question. And at the answer they both started forward, the dog ranging ahead through a dense growth of beech and chestnut, over a high brown ridge, then down, always down along a leafy ravine to the waters edgea forest pond set in the gorgeous foliage of ripening maples.
I dont see, said Sylvia impatiently, how we are going to obey instructions and go straight ahead. There must be a stupid boat somewhere!
But the game-laden keeper shook his head, pulled up his hip boots, and pointed out a line of alder poles set in the water to mark a crossing.
Am I expected to wade? asked the girl anxiously.
This here, observed the keeper, is one of the most sportin courses on the estate. Last season I seen Miss Page go through it like a scared deerthe young lady, sir, that took last seasons cupin explanation to Siward, who stood doubtfully at the waters edge, looking back at Sylvia.
Raising her dismayed eyes she encountered his; there was a little laugh between them. She stepped daintily across the stones to the waters edge, instinctively gathering her kilts in one hand.
Miles and I could chair you over, suggested Siward.
Is that fairunder the rules?
Oh, yes, Miss; as long as you go straight, said the keeper.
So they laid aside the guns and the guides game-sack, and formed a chair with their hands, and, bearing the girl between them, they waded out along the driven alder stakes, knee-deep in brown water.
Before them herons rose into heavy flapping flight, broad wings glittering in the sun; a diver, distantly afloat among the lily pads, settled under the water to his eyes as a submarine settles till the conning-tower is awash.
Her arm, lightly resting around his neck, tightened a trifle as the water rose to his thighs; then the faint pressure relaxed as they thrashed shoreward through the shallows, ankle deep once more, and landed among the dry reeds on the farther bank.
Miles, the keeper, went back for the guns. Siward stamped about in the sun, shaking the drops from water-proof breeches and gaiters, only to be half drenched again when Sagamore shook himself vigorously.
I suppose, said Sylvia, looking sideways at Siward, your contempt for my sporting accomplishments has not decreased. Im sorry; I dont like to walk in wet shoes even to gain your approval.
And, as the keeper came splashing across the shallows: Miles, you may carry my gun. I shall not need it any longer
The upward roar of a bevey of grouse drowned her voice; poor Sagamore, pointing madly in the blackberry thicket all unperceived, cast a dismayed glance aloft where the sunlit air quivered under the winnowing rush of heavy wings. Siward flung up his gun, heading a big quartering bird; steadily the glittering barrels swept in the arc of fire, hesitated, wavered; then the possibility passed; the young fellow lowered the gun, slowly, gravely; stood a moment motionless with bent head until the rising colour in his face had faded.
And that was all, for a while. The astonished and disgusted keeper stared into the thicket; the dog lay quivering, impatient for signal. Sylvias heart, which had seemed to stop with her voice, silenced in the gusty thunder of heavy wings, began beating too fast. For the ringing crack of a gun shot could have spoken no louder to her than the glittering silence of the suspended barrels; nor any promise of his voice sound as the startled stillness sounded now about her. For he had made something a trifle more than mere amends for his rudeness. He was overdoing everythinga little.
He stood on the thickets edge, absently unloading the weapon, scarcely understanding what he had done and what he had not done.
A moment later a far hail sounded across the uplands, and against the sky figures moved distantly.
Alderdene and Marion Page, said Siward. I believe we lunch yonder, do we not, Miles?
They climbed the hill in silence, arriving after a few minutes to find others already at luncheonthe Page boys, eager, enthusiastic, recounting adventure by flood and field; Rena Bonnesdel tired and frankly bored and decorated with more than her share of mud; Eileen Shannon, very pretty, very effective, having done more execution with her eyes than with the dainty fowling-piece beside her.
Marion Page nodded to Sylvia and Siward with a crisp, business-like question or two, then went over to inspect their bag, nodding approbation as Miles laid the game on the grass.
Eight full brace, she commented. We have five, and an odd cock-pheasantfrom Black Fells, I suppose. The people to our left have been blazing away like Coney Island, but Renas guide says the ferns are full of rabbits that way, and Major Belwether cant hit fur afoot. You, she added frankly to Siward, ought to take the cup. The birches ahead of you are full of woodcock. If you dont, Howard Quarrier will. Hes into a flight of jack-snipe I hear.
Siwards eyes had suddenly narrowed; then he laughed, patting Sagamores cheeks. I dont believe I shall shoot very steadily this afternoon, he said, turning toward the group at luncheon under the trees. I wish Quarrier wellwith the cup.
Nonsense, said Marion Page curtly; you are the cleanest shot I ever knew. And she raised her glass to him, frankly, and emptied it with the precision characteristic of her: Your cup! With all my heart!
I also drink to your success, Mr. Siward, said Sylvia in a low voice, lifting her champagne glass in the sunlight. To the Shotover Cupif you wish it. And as other glasses sparkled aloft amid a gay tumult of voices wishing him success, Sylvia dropped her voice, attuning it to his ear alone: Success for the cup, if you wish itor, whatever you wishsuccess! and she meant it very kindly.
His hand resting on his glass he sat, smiling silent acknowledgment to the noisy generous toasts; he turned and looked at Sylvia when her low voice caught his earlooked at her very steadily, unsmiling.
Then to the others, brightening again, he said a word or two, wittily, with a gay compliment well placed and a phrase to end it in good taste. And, in the little gust of hand-clapping and laughter, he turned again to Sylvia, smilingly, saying under his breath: As though winning the cup could compensate me now for losing it!
She leaned involuntarily nearer: You mean that you will not try for it?
Yes.
That is not fairto me!
Why not?
Becausebecause I do not ask it of you.
You need not, now that I know your wish.
Mr. Siward, Imy wish
But she had no chance to finish; already Rena Bonnesdel was looking at them, and there was a hint of amused surprise in Eileen Shannons mischievous eyes, averted instantly, with malicious ostentation.
Then Marion Page took possession of him so exclusively, so calmly, that something in her cool certainty vaguely irritated Sylvia, who had never liked her. Besides, the girl showed too plainly her indifference to other people; which other people seldom find amusing.