Part 88 (1/2)
”I don't see why they were married so quietly. n.o.body's in mourning----”
”Dear?”
”What, dear?”
”Do something for me.”
”I promise.”
”Then ask Delancy up here to shoot. Do you mind?”
”I'd love to. Can he come?”
”I think so.”
”I'll write now. Won't it be jolly,” she said innocently, ”to have him and Rosalie here together----”
The blank change on his face checked her. ”Isn't it all right?” she asked, astonished.
He had made his blunder. There was only one thing for him to say and he said it cordially, mentally d.a.m.ning himself for forgetting that Rosalie was to be invited.
”I'll write to them both this morning,” concluded Geraldine. ”Of course poor Jack Dysart is out of the question.”
”A little,” he said mildly. And, furious with himself, he rose as she stood up, and followed her into the armory, her cool little hand trailing and just touching his.
For half an hour they prowled about, examining Winchesters, Stevens, Manlichers--every make and pattern of rifle and fowling-piece was represented in Scott's collection.
”Odd, isn't it, that he never shoots,” mused Duane, lifting out a superb weapon from the rack behind the gla.s.s doors. ”This seems to be one of those murderous, low trajectory pieces that fires a sort of bra.s.sy shot which is still rising when it's a mile beyond the bunker. Now, sweetheart, if you've a heavy suit of ancient armour which I can crawl into, I'll defy any boar that roots for mast on Cloudy Mountain.”
It was great fun for Geraldine to lay out their equipment in two neat piles; a rifle apiece with cases and bandoliers; cartridges, two hunting-knives with leather sheaths, shooting hoods and coats; and timberjack's boots for her lover, moccasins for her; a pair of heavy sweaters for each, and woollen mitts, fas.h.i.+oned to leave the trigger finger free.
Beside these she laid two fur-lined overcoats, and backed away in nave admiration at her industry.
”Wonderful, wonderful,” he said. ”We'll only require saucepans and boiler lids to look exactly like Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee arrayed for battle. I say, Geraldine, how am I going to flee up a tree with all that on--and snow-shoes to boot-s,” he added shamelessly, grinning over his degraded wit.
She ignored it, advised him with motherly directness concerning the proper underwear he must don, looked at her rifle, examined his and, bidding him a.s.sume it, led him out to the range in the orchard and made him target his weapon at a hundred yards.
There was a terrific fusillade for half an hour or so; his work was respectable, and, satisfied, she led him proudly back to the house and, curling up on the leather divan in the library, invited him to sit beside her.
”Do you love me?” she inquired with such impersonal curiosity that he revenged himself fully then and there; and she rose and, instinctively repairing the disorder of her hair, seated herself reproachfully at a distance.
”Can't a girl ask a simple question?” she said, aggrieved.
”Sure. Ask it again, dearest.”
She disdained to reply, and sat coaxing the tendrils of her dark hair to obey the dainty discipline of her slender fingers.
”I thought you weren't going to,” she observed irrelevantly. But he seemed to know what she meant.