So it went on all the way, all of them so happy they didn't quite know what they were saying.

Then, when they got to the house even Father was so far gone that he couldn't let them go up-stairs alone. He just had to leave the machine standing by the kitchen door and carry that little hand-bag up as an excuse to see how she would like the room.

Bonnie, pulling off her gloves, entered the room when Mother opened the door. She looked around bewildered a moment, as if she had stepped from the middle of winter into a summer orchard. Then she cried out with delight:

"Oh! How perfectly beautiful! You don't mean me to have this lovely room? It isn't right! A stranger and a pauper!"

"Nothing of the kind!" growled Father, patting her on the shoulder.

"Just a daughter come home!"

Then he beat a hasty retreat to the fireplace and touched a match to the fire already laid, while Mother, purring like a contented old p.u.s.s.y, pushed the bewildered girl into the big flowered chair in front of the fire and began unfastening her coat and taking off her hat, reverently, half in awe, for she was not used to girl's fixings, and they held almost as much mystery for her as if she had been a man.

In the midst of it all Mother remembered that dinner ought to be eaten at once, and that Bonnie must have a chance to wash her face and straighten her hair before dinner.

So Father and Mother, with many a reluctant lingering and last word, as if they were not going to see her for a month, finally bustled off together. In just no time at all Bonnie was down there, too, begging to be allowed to help, and declaring herself perfectly able, although her white face and the dark rings under her tired eyes belied her. Mother Marshall was not sure, after all, but she ought to have put Bonnie to bed and fed her with chicken broth and toast instead of letting her come down-stairs to eat stewed chicken, little fat biscuits with gravy, and the most succulent apple pie in the world, with a creamy gla.s.s of milk to make it go down.

Father had just finished trying to make Bonnie take a second helping of everything, when he suddenly dropped the carving-knife and fork with a clatter and sprang up from his chair:

"I declare to goodness, Mother, if I didn't forget!" he said, and rushed over to the telephone.

"Why, that's so!" cried Mother. "Don't forget to tell him how much we love her!"

Bonnie looked from one to the other of them in astonishment.

"It's that young man!" explained Mother. "He wanted we should telegraph if you got here all safe. You know he sent us a message after he put you on the train."

"How very thoughtful of him!" said Bonnie, earnestly. "He is the most wonderful young man! I can't begin to tell you all he did for me, a mere stranger! And so that explains how you knew where to send your message.

I puzzled a good deal over that."

Four hours later Courtland, coming up to his room after basket-ball practice, a hot shower, and a swim in the pool, found the telegram:

Traveler arrived safely. Bore the journey well. Many thanks for the introduction. Everybody happy; if you don't believe it come and see for yourself.

FATHER AND MOTHER MARSHALL.

Courtland read it and looked dreamily out of the window, trying to fancy Bonnie in her new home. Then he said aloud, with conviction, "Some time I shall go out there and see!"

Just then some one knocked at his door and handed in a note from Gila.

DEAR PAUL,--Come over this evening, I want to see you about something very special.

Hastily, GILA.

CHAPTER XXIV

Gila's note came to Courtland as a happy surprise. He had not expected to see her until the next evening. Not that he had brooded much over the matter. He was too busy and too sanely healthy to do that. Besides, he was only as yet questioning within himself whether he was going to fall in love. The sensation so far was exceedingly pleasurable, and he was ready for the whole thing when it should arrive and prove itself; but at present he was just in that quiescent stage when everything seemed significant and delightfully interesting.

He had firmly resolved that the next time he saw Gila he would tell her of his own heart experience with regard to the Presence. He realized that he must go carefully, and not shock her, for he had begun to see that all her prejudices would be against taking any stock in such an experience. He had only so shortly himself come from a like position that he could well understand her extreme views; her what amounted almost to repugnance, toward hearing anything about it. But he would make her see the whole thing, just as he had seen it.

Now Gila had no notion of allowing any such recital as Courtland was planning. She had her stage all set for entirely another scene, and she had on her most charming mood. She was wearing a little frock of pale-blue wool, so simple that a child of ten might have worn it under a white ruffled ap.r.o.n. The neck was decorated with a soft 'kerchief-like collar. Not even a pin marred the simplicity of her costume. Her hair, too, was simpler than usual, almost carrying out the childish idea with its soft looping away from the face. Little heelless black-satin slippers were tied with narrow black ribbons quaintly crossed and recrossed over the slim, blue-silk ankles, carrying out the charming idea of a modest, simple maiden. Nothing could be more coy and charming than the way she swept her long black lashes down upon her pearly cheeks. Her great eyes when they were lifted were clear and limpid as a baby's. Courtland was fairly carried off his feet at sight of her, and felt his heart bound in rea.s.surance. This must be love! He had fallen in love at last! He who had scorned the idea so long and laughed at the other fellows, until he had really begun to have doubts in his own heart whether the delightful illusion would ever come to him! The glamour was about Gila to-night and no mistake! He looked at her with his heart in his eyes, and she drooped her lashes to hide a glint of triumph, knowing she had chosen her setting aright at last. Softly, dreamily, pleasantly, in the back of her mind floated the Capitol of the nation, and herself standing amid admiring throngs receiving homage. She was going to succeed. She had achieved her first triumph with the look in Courtland's eyes. She would be able to carry out Mr. Ramsey Thomas's commission and win Courtland to anything that would forward ambitious hopes for him!

She was sure of it!

The very important business about which she had wished to see Courtland was to ask him if he would be her partner in a bazaar and pageant that was shortly to be given for some charitable purpose by the society folks with whom she companioned. She wanted Courtland to march with her, and to consult him about the characters they should choose and the costumes they should wear.

As if she had been a child desiring him to play with her, he yielded to her mood, watching her all the time with delighted eyes, that anything so exquisite and lovely should stoop to sue for his favor. Of course he would be her partner! He entered into the arrangements with a zest, though he let her do all the planning, and heeded little what character she had chosen for him, or what costume, so she was pleased. Indeed, his part in the matter seemed of little moment so he might go with her--his sweet, shy, lovely maiden! For so she seemed to him that night! A perfect Solveig!

The reason for the little slippers became apparent later, when she insisted upon teaching him the dancing-steps that were to be used in a final splendid a.s.sembly after the pageant. There was intoxication in the delight of moving with her through the dreamy steps to the music of the expensive Victrola she set going. Just to watch her little feet like fairies for lightness and grace; to touch her small, warm hand; to be so near those down-drooping lashes; to feel her breath on his hand; to think of her as trusting her lovely little self to him--made him almost deliriously happy. And she, with her drooping lashes, her delicate way of barely touching his arm, her utter seeming unconsciousness of his presence, was so exquisite and pure and lovely to-night! She did not dream, of course, of how she made his pulses thrill and how he was longing to gather her into his arms and tell her how lovely she was.

Afterward he was never quite sure what kept him from doing it. He thought at the time it was herself, a sort of wall of purity and loveliness that surrounded her and made her sacred, so that he felt he must go slowly, must not startle her nor make her afraid of him. It never occurred to him that the wall might be surrounding himself. He had entirely forgotten that first visit to Gila in the Mephistophelian garments, with the red light filling all the unholy atmosphere. There had never been so much as a hint of a red light in the room since he said he did not like it. The lamp-shade seemed to have disappeared. In its place was a great wrought-metal thing of old silver jeweled with opalescent medallions.

But it was part of the deliberate intention of Gila to lead him on and yet hold him at a distance. She had read him aright. He was a man with an old-fashioned ideal of woman, and the citadel of his heart was only to be taken by such a woman. Therefore, she would be such a woman until she had won. After that? What mattered it? Let time plan the issue! She would have attained her desire!

But the down-drooping lashes hid no unconscious sweetness. There was sinister gleam in those eyes as she looked at herself over his shoulder when they pa.s.sed the great mirror set in a cabinet door. There was deliberate intention in the way the little hand lay lightly in the strong one. There was not a movement of the dreamy dance she was teaching him, not a touch of the little satin slipper, that did not have its nicely calculated intention to draw him on. The sooner she could make him yield and crush her to him, the sooner he declared his pa.s.sion for her, that much nearer would her ambitions be to their fulfilment.

Yet she must be very sure that she had him close in her toils before she discovered to him her purpose.

So the little blue Puritan-like spider threw her silver gossamer web about him, tangling more and more his big, fine manly heart, and flinging diamond dust, and powder made of charms and incantations, in his eyes to blind him. But as yet she knew not of the Presence that was now his constant companion.

They had danced for some time, floating about in the pure delight of the motion together, and the nearness of each another, when it seemed to Courtland as if of a sudden a cooling hand was laid on his feverish brow and a calm came to his spirit like a beloved voice calling his name with the accent that is sure of quick response.

It was so he remembered what he had come to tell Gila. Looking down to that exquisite bit of humanity almost within his embrace, a great tenderness for her, and longing, came over him, to make her know now all that the Presence was becoming to him.

"Gila," he whispered, and his voice was full of thrill. "Let's sit down awhile! There is something I want to tell you!"

Instantly she responded, lifting great innocent eyes, with one quick sweep, to his face, so moved and tender; and gliding toward the couch where they might sit together, settling down on it, almost nestling to him, then remembering and drawing away shyly to more perfectly play her part. She thought she knew what he was going to say. She thought she saw the love-light in his eyes, and it was so dazzling it almost blinded her. It frightened her a little, too, like the light in no lover's eyes that had ever drawn her down to whisper love to her before. She wondered if it was because she really cared herself so much now that it seemed so different.

But he did not take her in his arms as she had expected he would do; though he sat quite near, and spoke in a low, privileged tone, as one would do who had the right. His arm was across the back of the couch behind her; he sat sideways, turned toward her, and he still touched reverently the little hand he had been holding as they danced together.

"Gila, I have a story to tell you," he said. "Until you know it you can never understand me fully, and I want with all my heart to have you understand me. It is something that has become a part of me."

She sat quivering, wondering, half fearful. A gleam of jealousy came into her averted face. Was he going to tell her about another girl? A fierce, unreasoning anger shot across her face. She would not tolerate the thought that any one had had him before her. Was it--? It couldn't be that baby-faced pauper in the hospital? She drew her slim little body up tensely and waited for the story.

Courtland told the story of Stephen; told it well and briefly. He pictured Stephen so that the girl must needs admire. No woman could have heard that description of a man such as Stephen had been and not bow her woman's heart and wish that she might have known him.

Gila listened, fascinated, even up to the moment of the fire and the tragedy when Stephen fell into the flames. She shuddered visibly several times, but sat tense and still and listened. She even was unmoved when Courtland went on to tell of finding himself on a ledge above the burning ma.s.s, creeping somehow into a small haven, shut in by a wall of smoke, and feeling that this was the end. But when he began to tell of the Presence, the Light, the Voice, the girl gave a sudden start and gripped her cold hands together. Almost imperceptibly she drew her tense little body away from him, and turned slowly till she faced him, horror and consternation in her eyes, utter unbelief and scorn on her lips. But still she did not speak, still held her gaze on him and listened, while he told of coming back to life, the hospital walls, the strange emptiness, and the Presence; the recovery, and the Presence still with him; the going here and there and finding the Presence always before him and yet with him!

"He is here in this room with us, Gila!" he said, simply, as if he had been telling her that he had brought her some flowers and he hoped she would like them.

Then suddenly Gila gave a spring away from him to her feet, uttered a wild scream of terror, and burst into angry tears!

Courtland sprang to his feet in dismay and instant contrition. He had made the horror of the fire too dramatic. He had not realized how dreadful it would be to a woman's delicate sensibilities. This gentle, loving girl had felt it all to her soul and her nerves had given way before the reality of it. He had been an idiot to tell the story in that bald way. He should have gone about it more gently. He was not used to women. He must learn better. Would she forgive him?

And now indeed he had her in his arms, although he was utterly unaware of it. He was trying to comfort and soothe her, as he would soothe a little child who had been frightened. Not only his handkerchief but his hands were called into requisition to charm away those tears and comfort the pitiful little face that looked so streaked and pink and helpless there against his shoulder. He wanted to stoop and lay his lips on those trembling ones. Perhaps Gila thought he would. But he would not take advantage of her moment of helplessness. Not until she was herself and could give him permission would he avail himself of that sacred privilege. Now it was the part of a man to comfort her without any element of self in the matter.

When he had drawn her down upon the couch again, with the sobs still shaking her soft blue-and-white frilly breast, her blue-black hair all damp and tossed upon her temples, and tried to tell her how sorry he was that he had put her through the horrors of that fire, she put in a quivering protest. It was _not_ the fire. She shivered. It was not the horror and the smoke! It was _not_ Stephen's death, nor the danger to himself! It was not _any_ of those that had unnerved her! It was that other awful thing he had said: that ghostly, ghastly, uncanny, dreadful story of a Presence! She almost shrieked again as she said it, and she shivered away from him, as if still there were something cold and clammy in his touch that gave her the horrors.