Chapter 7

Two days later, on his way back from Deanebury, Dan slowed his car in the village. He didn't want to go home, to run into Alan Hunt again, and perhaps some other people; he wanted to go where it was quiet and where he could think. He sat hesitating until an impatient driver behind him blew loudly; then, on an impulse, he swung onto River Road and drove past the house that used to be Christina's. It had been sold; she had told him that her mother had gone to live with a sister in Wisconsin. Dan drove by slowly. It had been enlarged, and a garage built beside it, but the porch and the walk between the day lilies were just as they were the first night he drove Christina home.

He drove on, past the abandoned cider mill and down the river. Where the road divided, he took the right-hand fork that narrowed, winding closer to the water, until it stopped at the old ford that was paved with flat stones. Once, when he was very small, in the days when his uncle still had horses, they had driven down here for a picnic, and Edgar Blake had allowed him to wade across on the slippery stones to the far side of the river where a bridle path wound between tall, dark pines. His mother had come that day, Dan remembered; it was one of the few times she had ever left the house. The next day, of course, she was ill. Now he stopped his car and got out, remembering that curiously Victorian picnic, but remembering much more clearly the September afternoon he and Christina had come here, the day before he left Windover for college. It had been a brilliant day, cooler than this, and as they looked upstream the light on the water had been more dazzling, for the sun was already swinging on its southward course that autumn nearly eight years ago.

There had been no trace of embarrassment that day, for by then he knew Christina Edgren better than he knew anyone else in the world. The night he took her home had been the beginning of a relationship that, Dan supposed now, was strange between a girl of twenty-four and a boy of eighteen. But it had held no strangeness.

The next day, thinking over their short drive to her house, and the few sentences they had exchanged, he realized that he liked her better than anyone else in Windover. She was older than he, but she didn't seem like an older person, or like a girl, or like another boy, though she had a certain impersonality that was boyish. No, she wasn't at all like anyone he had ever met-he wasn't sure how he knew. He was only sure that he wanted to talk to her again.

The drugstore was too public a meeting place, and besides, he had a feeling that old Mr. Pringle was watching him, watching Christina, too. Dan thought, I mustn't do anything to make her lose her job. Presently he hit on a plan that was relatively simple. In the summer, the store was open until eight in the evening. After dinner-always a silent meal, for since his sister's death Edgar Blake was more and more withdrawn, more like a thin, Edwardian ghost than ever-Dan would murmur something about getting a breath of air, and taking the small car, which no one but Peter Romano ever drove, he would circle to Green, passing the drugstore a moment or two after eight, just in time to see Christina come out. She was always alone, for Mr. Pringle lived in an apartment over the store. Dan would sit in the car, on the far side of the Green, watching her. She was unmistakable, even without the light of the street lamp on the corner; no one else walked with such a light, swift stride, her fair head held high, her shoulders slim and straight. He would wait until she was beyond the yellow circle of light, then he would slip the car into gear, drive abreast of her and stop. "Hello."

"Oh, hello, Dan."

"May I take you home?"

And she always answered gravely, as if it were a new idea, "That's awfully nice of you."

One evening, he suggested driving somewhere to get cool, and waited, his heart beating fast, for her reply. "It would be fun, if you have time."

He turned to her almost fiercely. "I haven't got anything else to do." His cheeks burned as he added. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I'd rather drive around with you than do anything else. But, well, probably you won't understand, because you've got a job, and a family, and friends. I've got nothing but time on my hands, this summer."

"But don't you-" She hesitated. "I mean, aren't there boys and girls that you see? What about the summer people at the club?"

He shook his head, scowling. "I've met some of them, but they're all kids. The others are working. In a way, I'll be glad when college starts. I'm going to work next summer, but my uncle wouldn't let me this year-I don't know why."

"He's probably lonely," Christina said. "He must miss your mother."

Dan muttered, "Maybe, but he never says so. He's queer."

"Men get lonely, you know, when they're older," she said. "Like my father."

That surprised him. "But he has fun. I mean," he said awkwardly, "he goes to the tavern and drinks with his friends."

"He does that because he's lonely. And they're not really his friends. You see, he's better educated-or he was, before he came to America-than most of the men in town, and they know it and resent it. And now that his heart is so bad and he can't work, everything is worse."

Dan said, "I liked him a lot, that night when I saw him. Maybe I could come to see him sometime."

Christina was silent, and he changed the subject. Perhaps, he thought, Axel Edgren wouldn't want to see him-a kid of eighteen who had taken him home one night when he was drunk. But maybe Christina could arrange it.

She did, and several times when he took her home he came in and sat on the porch with the old man, and listened to his stories about Sweden and about his first years in New Eng land. Some of the stories were tall, for Axel Edgren had plenty of imagination. He would break into old rhymes and songs as he talked, beating his empty beer mug gently on his knee. Christina never interrupted him, except when he began to talk about the town and neighbors; then she would say, "Now, Father, Dan's part of Windover."

"But he doesn't know what I know. I could tell you things, boy-things you never dreamed of." And Axel would go on, while Christina would touch Dan's arm and lead the way down the porch back to the car, and they would drive off into the summer darkness.

He drove her home every night-usually not straight home, but sometimes to the lake, seven miles away, lying dark and silent in its circle of hills; sometimes up Whittlesey Hill, which she said was the loveliest place in the world, even at night. She showed him woods roads he hadn't known, hidden valleys, high meadows silvered by the moon.

By the time July slipped into August, Dan realized that each day was no more than a period of waiting, a prelude to the evening when he would see Christina. The pattern was fixed, now; he would overtake her at exactly the same spot on the road, stop the car, and wait for her to get in-silently, as if she, too, had been waiting for that moment. Sometimes they hardly spoke, driving down the dark roads, but when Dan stopped the car, they talked-or rather, he did. It wasn't a sudden outpouring; he simply began to tell her things, and then realized that he had hardly ever talked to anyone before in his life-and never to anyone with so much understanding. He told her about the summer, and his uncle and the silence of the big house. "Of course it was always quiet," he said, "even with Mother there. But now you feel its silence even more, and you can see that it's a house where people ought to have fun." He told her about school, and his roommate who was so interested in girls; he went on about his own theories regarding girls, talking to her as easily as if she were another boy. She said little, but her silence held no constraint, and when she did talk, everything she said was sensible, tolerant, wonderfully sane. There was almost nothing they didn't discuss that summer, and there was only one time when they came near a misunderstanding.

That was the night when Dan told her about the mystery that had brooded over his life ever since he could remember-a potentially thrilling, potentially terrible mystery-the mystery of his father. He had never talked to anyone about it-it was the unlocking of his last reserve-and his voice was rough with shyness.

"I was going to ask you," he said. "Don't you think people ought to tell you things?"

They were sitting on Whittlesey Hill watching the moon climb the eastern ridges and spill silver over the town of Windover and its surrounding slopes. Christina's eyes were fixed on it. "What things, Dan?"

"All sorts of things. For instance, if I'd known my mother was going to die, I'd have been different. Uncle Edgar ought to have told me."

"Perhaps he thought you would be so upset that you'd make her upset, too. Or perhaps," she added, "your uncle himself didn't realize how ill she was."

Dan hadn't thought of that. There were so many things that Christina made him see, or that he came to see for himself, when he was with her. "Well," he said, "there's another thing. There's my father."

"Do you know when he went away?" she asked quietly.

"I don't know anything. He must have left when I was pretty young, because I don't remember him. Maybe my uncle made him go. But I don't know. I asked Mother once, when I was eight or nine, and she got very white and sent me out of the room, and Uncle Edgar told me I must never speak of him. He said I had no father. I asked if he were dead, and he wouldn't answer. But I know he's alive, because this summer a letter came and Uncle Edgar for warded it. I saw him mail it. But I don't know about anything, and I've got to." He stared out at the silver-drenched hills. "I've got to," he repeated. "Could you find out for me?"

There was a pause. Then Christina said, "How could I, Dan?"

"It's always easier for an outsider. If my uncle forwarded that letter, there must be some address. Couldn't you ask-what's her name?-the girl who helps sort the mail?"

Christina said, "I wouldn't like to, but if it would help-" Suddenly she turned to him. "Are you going to try to see your father, Dan?"

"Why not?" he asked defiantly. "I'm not a child. I have a right to know what my own father is like."

"But suppose he's-" She stopped.

"What?"

"Oh, queer, or-or bad. Of course he probably isn't, but suppose he was? I don't want to hurt you, but-"

"But you won't help me. All right," he said heavily. "That's O.K. It doesn't matter."

"Dan, listen." She faced him. In the spreading light he could see her wide-set eyes, not blue, now, but gray and deep like the sea. She said quietly, "You can love people very much and still disapprove of them. Mother and I both love my father, but we know that he complicates things. My younger brother is all mixed up about him. Some boys in school said something about Father's drinking and, well, I'm old enough to understand it, and so is Carl, but my younger brother is terribly upset."

Dan said sulkily: "I don't see what you mean."

"I mean that if I asked questions about your father, or if you did, or if you saw him, you might find out something complicating-something that you didn't want to know. I don't believe that your mother and Mr. Blake would have kept you away from him without a real reason. You've got to give people credit for doing what they think is right. You've got to trust them, Dan. That's why I think you oughtn't to try to find your father."

He knew she was right, but his heart swelled with anger and disappointment, and something else-a feeling he couldn't name. He sat staring out at the moon, and at the mist that was rising, white and iridescent, from the dark valley; then, without a word, he turned around and drove home. Christina said nothing until she got out of the car. "Dan," she said in a low voice, "are you angry with me?"

"No," he said stiffly.

"Yes, you are. I'm sorry, but-I'm sorry, that's all. Good night, Dan."

He drove away quickly, not trusting himself to speak. He thought resentfully, I won't see her tomorrow. But the next day he was ashamed of his anger. That evening when he met her, she was her usual serene self. The days went on, and neither of them mentioned their talk about his father, until the very last day-the afternoon before he left for college, when they were sitting by the river.

"I was angry with you that night," Dan confessed. "I had an idea-a sort of fixation, I guess-about my father. I still want to find out about him, but I know you're right. It's better not to know some things."

Christina smiled faintly, looking out at the river that sparkled in the September sunlight. He watched her face-the straight dark brows above the sea-blue eyes that seemed to be looking out at distances-had her ancestors, the men who had explored the northern seas, looked like that?-the golden hair that flowed from her forehead into a knot at her neck; her mouth that curved up at tha corners. Then, for the first time, he thought, I won't see her tomorrow; maybe never again. And suddenly he felt cold all over. He wasn't in love with her-in all these weeks he had never touched her hand. But he couldn't imagine not being able to see her and talk to her whenever he wanted to. It was unthinkable.

She was saying, "What are you thinking about, Dan?"

"You." The word was said before he could stop it. His cheeks burned and the river blurred in a mist, but he heard his voice going on, "I was thinking that I'll miss you."

"You'll be too busy," she said gently. "They work you hard at Tech, don't they?"

He nodded. "Yes, but-" The words rushed to his lips: But how can I work? I'll be alone again. I'll be as scared and lonely as I was when I was ten, and first went to boarding school; only it'll be worse, because now I know what it is to have someone who understands everything, to have you.

But he said nothing. He sat tensely beside her, staring unseeingly at the bright water. Presently, from a distance, he heard her say, "I must go home. Mother's working today, and won't be back until late. Come, Dan."

He turned. She had risen and was smiling down at him. A great lump rose in his throat. "Christina-"

"Yes, Dan?"

"You've been wonderful to me. I can't thank you-"

"For being friends?" Her lips curved, but her eyes didn't smile now; they held his steadily as she said, "I have just as much to thank you for, or more. You've been kind to me, Dan."

"Kind!" The lump choked him. "What are you talking about?"

"I wasn't very happy this spring about things at home. You've helped me to forget them. And you've been kind to my father, too. He's enjoyed seeing you."

"Christina-"

But he couldn't say it; he could only stretch out his hand and grasp hers tightly as he got to his feet. Still holding his hand, she walked to the car. When she turned, her eyes were almost on a level with his. "Christina," he said in a tight voice, "will you kiss me good-bye?"

"Of course." She put both hands on his shoulders. Her lips were firm and cool, but he was trembling. "Good-bye, Dan," she said softly. "I've had a nice summer."

He nodded, unable to say a word. He turned and went around to the other side of the car and got in, bending his head as he put the key in the ignition because his lips were twitching. They drove back down the river in silence. At the old cider mill, Christina said in a low voice, "Will you let me out here? I'd like to walk the rest of the way."

He stopped the car. "Good-bye," he said, not looking at her. "I'll see you. I'll come back sometime."

She didn't answer. He heard her get out and close the door. Then he drove on blindly, his heart on fire, his mind in a turmoil. I'll see her again, he thought. I must. I'll come back.

But he didn't come back. The first weeks of college were like floundering in a whirlpool; by the time he got his head above water it was winter, and his uncle had gone South and the Windover house was closed. He didn't write to her, because there was nothing to say-and because there was so much that he couldn't even begin. He didn't forget her; on the contrary, he thought about her more than he thought of anyone else, in the strange, ordered confusion that was his life. He always saw her standing beside the river on that blue September day. She was still there, still clear and lovely, but her figure grew smaller, and the river grew smaller, too, as the larger river swept him on through college, then the Service....

Dan roused himself. He had stared at the bright, tumbling water until his eyes had closed. "But I wasn't asleep," he said aloud.

A voice answered him. "Yes, you were." It was a voice that had been so closely woven into his thoughts, or his dreams, that he wasn't even surprised.

"Christina," he said. "How long have you been here?"

"A few minutes. I didn't want to startle you."

He looked around, puzzled. "But I didn't hear your car."

"Then you must have been asleep." She smiled, sitting down on the rock beside him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke; he was collecting his thoughts, and she was looking across the river at the dark mass of the pines. "What made you come down here today?" he said.

"I often do, if I have time. It's such a peaceful place. Tonight an old friend of Anson's came for an early supper, so I got it for them and drove to town for some errands, and then came on here."

"It's queer," Dan said, "because I was thinking of you, and of that last afternoon. Do you remember?"

"Yes," she said. "I remember."

He said: "I went home and thought of drinking up Uncle Edgar's port, but I didn't. What did you do?"

"Nothing, I think. Oh, I got supper for the family." She shook her head, smiling a little. "That's the trouble with nice things. They spoil you for everything else. It was a good summer, wasn't it, Dan?"

"The best I ever had. But I hate to think what it would have been like without you."

"Nonsense."

"No, I was horribly at loose ends. Even with you as a balance wheel, I did stupid things. There was that Labor Day dance at the club, do you remember? Uncle Edgar made me go, because some friends of his were giving a dinner for their daughter beforehand. I was furious."

"So you went, and drank champagne, and then drove to my house and whistled under the window."

"And you came down and gave me black coffee and sent me back to the party. You were wonderful, Christina."

She shook her head. "You know, my father heard everything that night. He was sitting on the porch all the time. He teased me for weeks."

"Was it that winter that he died?" Dan asked. "I didn't know, or I'd have written you."

"Yes, just before Christmas. He was ill only a few hours, fortunately."

"And when were you married? Forgive all the vital statistics, but we haven't really talked yet."

"I got to know Anson in March and we were married in June, seven years ago. He went to war a year from that fall."

Dan looked at her clear profile, her hands, rather large hands for a woman, but beautifully shaped, clasped around her knee. He said, "Are you happy, Christina?"

"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "It's strange, suppose, with Anson so ill, but I am. Are you?"

He felt like saying, "At this moment, I am." But instead, he said, "I like my work; I like living with Leona, at least, most of the time. Just now we're in a certain stage-shaking down, you might call it. Living in New York was more like playing house than real marriage. She kept running off to see her family, or they came up to see her. And there's a queer rootlessness to living as we did, as apartment dwellers in a huge city. It was fun, but it wasn't real. Windover is much more real, or it could be."

There was a little pause before Christina said gently, "Give her time, Dan."

He nodded. But he wasn't thinking of Leona. He was wishing suddenly, and with all his heart, that he could go back seven years. But there was Leona, and Anson ... and even if he could relive that summer, what could he have done-then? Christina had been twenty-four and he had been eighteen.

No, this was better. She was here, sitting beside him. She was like a summer day-warm, yet cool, quiet and wonderfully peaceful. He said slowly, "You've always helped me, Christina. Will you go on?"

"Of course," she said. "Always, Dan."

"No matter what?"

"No matter what."

Their eyes met. Hers were deep, sea-blue, and a little troubled. "Dan, what is it?"

"Nothing-yet," he said truthfully. "Just a feeling."

"I know," she said. "I have those feelings, like premonitions."

"Of course-you must." Thinking of her life with Anson, he felt queerly ashamed. "I'm all right," he said. "But let's be friends-always."

"Always, Dan." Her eyes were still quiet, but her lips trembled for an instant, then regained their composed line. He wanted to lean toward her, to lose himself in the blue of her gaze, drowning deeper and deeper, to kiss her lips until they trembled again, awakened to urgency.

But she had turned away, her head up, listening. "What is it?" he asked.

"A car, I think. It came in, and then turned around."

He smiled. "We've blocked the road. But it doesn't lead anywhere except to this old ford, does it?"

"It goes on and rejoins the other road farther down. Don't you remember?"

"I should. But you showed me so many roads, that summer. We must have covered miles."

She smiled, getting up. "It's late, Dan; the sun is almost down. I must get back."

"Come and have dinner with me. We'll drive somewhere."

She searched his face. "What about your wife?"

"She'll have people for cocktails-Alan Hunt, or someone. She almost always does. I'll telephone that I was held up in Deanebury."

Slowly, her eyes on his, she shook her head. "No, Dan. Sometime, perhaps, but not tonight."

He knew there was no use in trying to persuade her. "Sometime, then." He walked with her to her car. "Good night, Christina. Don't forget."

She didn't ask him what; yet he was certain that she knew he didn't mean dinner sometime, that he meant much more than that. She didn't speak, but her faint smile reassured him. And that was enough for now.