R. BETTERLEE gathered together the papers on the broad mahogany desk and, with careful precision, weighted them with a small bronze copy of the Lion of Lucerne. It was not that there was any likelihood of the letters being disarranged, for through the four great windows not the faintest breeze entered and Mr. Betterlee's servants were not of the careless sort. Carelessness and Mr. Betterlee were incapable of abiding together under one roof. He merely weighted the documents because he always did weight them. Being extremely methodical and, like all men of his years—he was fifty-odd—who have succeeded in amassing a large fortune, a slave to habit, he could no more have left them unweighted than he could have spread the meager tails of his dinner-jacket and floated aloft to the big white bed in the room above which had been inviting him for two hours.
He pushed the small tray holding an empty coffee-cup to a position twelve inches from the corner of the desk nearest to the hall door and glanced at the clock. Its hands were clasped, and, if corroboration was needed, the village clock sent twelve peals across the midnight world. Mr. Betterlee, from force of habit, opening his mouth to yawn, found to his surprise that no yawn was forthcoming, and frowned accusingly at the empty coffee-cup. Then, being a just man, he mentally exonerated the coffee-cup and laid the blame on himself. He was not in the habit of drinking coffee at night and it was only the fact that the New York office had sent him the papers in a matter which required immediate consideration that had caused a departure from the straight and narrow path of custom.
He felt abnormally, reprehensibly wide awake. In town Mr. Betterlee was frequently required to keep late hours; Mrs. Betterlee saw to that; but in the summer he was his own master and bedtime for the entire establishment, from Mr. Betterlee himself down to the scullery-maid, was ten o'clock. He had, however, no excuse for further absence from bed. And yet bed had never seemed less attractive!
He turned out the green-shaded lamp on the desk, and through the four great embrasures swept a flood of mellow moonlight that played strange pranks with the hues of the Persian carpet. He crossed to the nearer of the big windows. Beyond the terrace stretched the broad lawn, almost as light as day. The blue gravel drive, sweeping through clustered shrubs, looked like a silver stream. Mr. Betterlee marveled.
"A wonderful night!" he murmured.
He passed through the window and, softly, lest his criminal absence from his couch be discovered, he stepped to the balustrade. How silent the world was! Not a leaf moved, not a bird stirred in its nest. Below him the scarlet sage had changed its hue to a queer, indescribable shade that was neither red nor purple, but some strange unearthly blending of the two. The stillness was like that of a hot noontide, but there seemed no somnolence in it. Mr. Betterlee had the feeling that the world was wide awake; motionless, watchful, holding its breath. For many minutes he stood there. The moonlight gleamed on his face, silvered the grizzled hair at his temples, softened the sharp, straight nose, and warmed the steely blueness of his eyes. Perhaps the moon exerted a subtler influence, too. Strange virtues have been claimed for it. A few minutes later, keeping to the shadows of the shrubbery, Mr. Betterlee descended the drive unhurriedly. Once he cast a cautious glance toward the windows of the house, but not a curtain stirred. Past the gateway, he smiled and threw back his shoulders. The well-kept village road was a tunnel of alternate shadow and moonlight, a silent, mysterious cloister-path, deserted save for the solitary, severely erect figure. Pausing in the shadow of a maple, he found and lighted a cigar with a sort of desperate determination. Cigars after midnight were forbidden, unthought of these many years. Perhaps for that very reason this excellent cigar tasted like none other of its kind, seemed to gather some marvelous quality of fragrance and delectability from the magic of the night. He exhaled a cloud of smoke with a lingering sigh of rapture and then, turning his back on gateway and precedent, went adventurously forth.