The famous New York architect his father had engaged was treading the raw upturned earth with dainty feet, a blue print stretched between his hands. He greeted David gaily, beckoned to him and led him to a spot where the buildings were revealed in a magnificent perspective about the central mansion.
“The approach,” the architect said proudly. “I have had exactly the proper trees cut away. The effect is good, don’t you think? Spiritual, and yet solid! I have kept in mind the purpose your father has in the memorial. The house is the memorial center, the source let us say, the altar, so to speak. Around it the young men group themselves with their teachers. The inspiration comes from the center.”
He was a finicking little man, precise in speech, his black-ribboned pince-nez dangling from his buttonhole, but he was enthusiastic and David was compelled to admit that there was an effect and the new buildings were subdued to the lofty nobility of the main house.
“Very beautiful,” he said, knowing it was expected of him.
The little man was gratified. “Please tell your distinguished father,” he begged. “Mr. MacArd is a man difficult to please, but so worthy of being pleased. I wish to make every effort.”
David said, “I’ll tell him I like it very much.”
“Thank you, thank you—” the little man said.
David nodded and walked away. It was now nearly noon and he had not seen Olivia. He must find her, since she had not allowed herself to be found. He went to the house. The door as usual was open and the vista of wide rooms lay before him with no sign of Olivia. Fresh flowers were in the vases and she must be near, but he did not see her. He lifted the heavy knocker, struck it three times, and Mrs. Dessard’s voice floated out from the kitchen.
“Who is it?”
He stepped inside and went toward the voice. “It is I, Mrs. Dessard. I came to see the buildings for my father, and before I go back I thought I’d—” He opened the kitchen door. “What a heavenly fragrance!”
“Grapes,” Mrs. Dessard said. She stood by the stove, a tiny dignified figure, stirring a long spoon in a large pot. “Olivia is picking them and I am making jelly. It’s hot work.”
The weight lifted itself from his heart. “I wish I could help you,” he said with sudden gaiety, “but since I can’t make jelly perhaps I had better pick grapes.”
Mrs. Dessard did not answer for a few seconds, then she said without looking at him, “Olivia will be glad of help. At least, I suppose she will. You can’t always tell about her.”
“I’ll try, anyway,” he said.
He hastened into the hall again and out the back door which stood open to the small formal garden. Olivia had made a wonder here, the box trees were clipped, the flower beds weeded, and early chrysanthemums were beginning to blossom in red and white and yellow. He followed the paths and turned to the left through a yew gateway into the kitchen garden, and there he saw Olivia among the grapevines and shielded against the sun by a wide leghorn hat. Pilate the peacock walked beside her, his tail in full display. She did not see David, or hear him, and he stood for a minute, enjoying the picture of her beside the gorgeous bird. She had on a yellow cotton frock and the full skirt flowed about her on the ground. He could see her profile, earnest above her task, the dark hair escaping to her neck and her fingers nimble among the vines. She plucked a large purple grape and put it in her mouth.
“Is it good?” he called.
Pilate screeched, she gave a start and turned her head. “How long have you stood there watching me?” she demanded.
“Only a moment, I swear,” he said laughing. He came near to her and stood looking down upon her. “I wouldn’t have missed the sight for a world.” Her face was upturned to him, her eyes huge and reproachful. “Do you mind?”
“Yes, I do,” she said. “I thought I was alone.”
“It isn’t wicked to eat a grape,” he teased.
“I thought I was alone,” she repeated.
He divined a small anger in her, and he tried to dispel it, wanting no clouds upon this cloudless day. “Shall I help you? There are far more grapes here than you can ever pick in a day.”
“You have on your fine clothes,” she said, giving him a quick glance, up and down.
“I don’t care for clothes.” He stood beside her and spread searching fingers among the vines.
“The best ones grow underneath,” she directed.
“May I eat the biggest ones?” he asked.
“Only one every five minutes,” she said.
He met her eyes and rejoiced to see them only mischievous.
“Is your Indian friend gone?” she asked suddenly.
“Yes,” David said briefly. He did not want to talk about Darya.
“Will he come again?” she demanded.
“Not soon,” he said, and then impelled by some hidden motive he went on. “It is more likely that I shall visit him in India.”
“When?” she demanded.
“Not soon,” he said again.
They picked the fruit in silence for a few minutes.
“You pick ten times as fast as I do,” he said.
“I daresay this is the first time you have ever picked grapes,” she replied.
“It is,” he confessed. “I scarcely knew how they grew.”
“I thought so.”
“Is that despicable?” he asked.
“It depends on what else you can do,” she said.
“Not much, I am afraid,” he confessed and then he went on, urging the opportunity. “I am one of those men who need an inspiration before I work.”
He stopped to turn his head toward her but she went on picking.
“Olivia!”
She looked up at him, very grave.
“Olivia, I came here today to see you, only you.”
She did not reply or move, and he looked deep into the dark eyes under the black and finely etched brows.
“We haven’t known each other very long,” he faltered, “but long enough for me to know I — love you!” His breath forsook him and the last words were a whisper.
Her answer was instant and composed. “Oh David, I’m so sorry!”
He heard the words from afar off and her voice rang in his ears like the toll of a bell.
“Sorry?” he repeated, half stupidly.
“Oh, so sorry,” she said remorsefully, “I didn’t know, David, not until just now, a few minutes ago. I wouldn’t have let you go so far if I had known. I’d have stopped you at the very beginning.”
He could not speak a word, he could not make a sound. He stood still, looking down upon her grieving face.
“You haven’t loved me very long, I’m sure of that, and so it can’t be deep. You’ll get over it quickly.”
“It is deep!” he cried. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I have never loved anybody before, I never will again.”
“Oh don’t say that, David!”
“Why can’t you love me?” he demanded.
She let her eyelids flutter downward and saw his clenched fists. “I ought to be able to love you,” she said in a small voice. “Almost any girl would. But I can’t.”
“I ask you why,” he insisted.
She threw out her hands and let them fall in a wide and graceful gesture. “How can I tell? Maybe because you’re not strong enough. I don’t want to be the strong one. I want to look up to a man.”
“And you can’t look up to me,” he said in a dreadful voice. She was looking up at him, nevertheless, her eyes dark and pleading.
“I can’t,” she said in sorrow. “You’re just MacArd’s son, aren’t you? The great MacArd!”
He looked down upon her upturned face and felt bitterness acrid in his breast, dry upon his tongue. Then to his horror he felt that he must weep and he turned and walked quickly away. After such words he could not, must not weep. He hurried from the house, and down the little path to the river, and in a hidden spot he threw himself upon a bed of dying ferns. Among their curling fronds and fresh green, he buried his face and wept, it seemed to him for hours, and then weeping turned into prayer, the first real prayer of his life. “Oh God, what am I going to do? What use am I now?”