"Interrupted _you_. Besides--"
"What?"
"I don"t think you ought to," she said.
Sitting there before the oven, side by side, hand innocently clasped in hand, we heard the drumming of the dew on the roof, the night-wind stirring the palms, the m.u.f.fled snoring of the professor, the faint whisper and crackle of the fire.
A single candle burned brightly, piling our shadows together on the wall behind us; moonlight silvered the window-panes, over which crawled mult.i.tudes of soft-winged moths, attracted by the candle within.
"See their tiny eyes glow!" she whispered. "How their wings quiver!
And all for a candle-flame! Alas! alas! fire is the undoing of us all."
She leaned forward, resting as though buried in reverie. After a while she extended one foot a trifle and, with the point of her shoe, carefully unlatched the oven-door. As it swung outward a delicious fragrance filled the room.
"They"re done," she said, withdrawing her hand from mine. "Help me to lift them out."
Together we arranged the delicious pastry in rows on the bench to cool. I opened the door for a few minutes, then closed and bolted it again.
"Do you suppose those transparent creatures will smell the odor and come around the cabin?" she suggested, wiping her fingers on her handkerchief.
I walked to the window uneasily. Outside the pane the moths crawled, some brilliant in scarlet and tan-color set with black, some snow-white with black tracings on their wings, and bodies peac.o.c.k-blue edged with orange. The scientist in me was aroused; I called her to the window, and she came and leaned against the sill, nose pressed to the gla.s.s.
"I don"t suppose you know that the antennae of that silvery-winged moth are distinctly pectinate," I said.
"Of course I do," she said. "I took my degree as D.E. at Barnard College."
"What!" I exclaimed in astonishment. "You"ve been through Barnard? You are a Doctor of Entomology?"
"It was my undoing," she said. "The department was abolished the year I graduated. There was no similar vacancy, even in the Smithsonian."
She shrugged her shoulders, eyes fixed on the moths. "I had to make my own living. I chose stenography as the quickest road to self-sustenance."
She looked up, a flush on her cheeks.
"I suppose you took me for an inferior?" she said. "But do you suppose I"d flirt with you if I was?"
She pressed her face to the pane again, murmuring that exquisite poem of Andrew Lang:
"Spooning is innocuous and needn"t have a sequel, But recollect, if spoon you must, spoon only with your equal."
Standing there, watching the moths, we became rather silent--I don"t know why.
The fire in the range had gone out; the candle-flame, flaring above a saucer of melted wax, sank lower and lower.
Suddenly, as though disturbed by something inside, the moths all left the window-pane, darting off in the darkness.
"That"s curious," I said.
"What"s curious?" she asked, opening her eyes languidly. "Good gracious! Was that a bat that beat on the window?"
"I saw nothing," I said, disturbed. "Listen!"
A soft sound against the gla.s.s, as though invisible fingers were feeling the pane--a gentle rubbing--then a tap-tap, all but inaudible.
"Is it a bird? Can you see?" she whispered.
The candle-flame behind us flashed and expired. Moonlight flooded the pane. The sounds continued, but there was nothing there.
We understood now what it was that so gently rubbed and patted the gla.s.s outside. With one accord we noiselessly gathered up the pies and carried them into my room.
Then she walked to the door of her room, turned, held out her hand, and whispering, "Good-night! A demain, monsieur!" slipped into her room and softly closed the door.
And all night long I lay in troubled slumber beside the pies, a rifle resting on the blankets beside me, a revolver under my pillow. And I dreamed of moths with brilliant eyes and vast silvery wings harnessed to a balloon in which Miss Barrison and I sat, arms around each other, eating slice after slice of apple-pie.
XVII
Dawn came--the dawn of a day that I am destined never to forget. Long, rosy streamers of light broke through the forest, shaking, quivering, like unstable beams from celestial search-lights. Mist floated upward from marsh and lake; and through it the spectral palms loomed, drooping fronds embroidered with dew.
For a while the ringing outburst of bird music dominated all; but it soon ceased with dropping notes from the crimson cardinals repeated in lengthening minor intervals; and then the spell of silence returned, broken only by the faint splash of mullet, mocking the sun with sinuous, silver flashes.
"Good-morning," said a low voice from the door as I stood encouraging the camp-fire with splinter wood and dead palmetto fans.
Fresh and sweet from her toilet as a dew-drenched rose, Miss Barrison stood there sniffing the morning air daintily, thoroughly.
"Too much perfume," she said--"too much like ylang-ylang in a department-store. Central Park smells sweeter on an April morning."
"Are you criticising the wild jasmine?" I asked.
"I"m criticising an exotic smell. Am I not permitted to comment on the tropics?"
Fishing out a cedar log from the lumber-stack, I fell to chopping it vigorously. The axe-strokes made a cheerful racket through the woods.
"Did you hear anything last night after you retired?" I asked.
"Something was at my window--something that thumped softly and seemed to be feeling all over the gla.s.s. To tell you the truth, I was silly enough to remain dressed all night."
"You don"t look it," I said.
"Oh, when daylight came I had a chance," she added, laughing.
"All the same," said I, leaning on the axe and watching her, "you are about the coolest and pluckiest woman I ever knew."
"We were all in the same fix," she said, modestly.
"No, we were not. Now I"ll tell you the truth--my hair stood up the greater part of the night. You are looking upon a poltroon, Miss Barrison."