The Second House. V. J. Banis

a sense, he meant more to me as well. In the first flush of our meeting, I had wondered if this were to be my grand amour, my knight in shining armor.

      I quickly realized that I was not in love with Jeffrey, at least not in the sense that I understood romantic love; but I did love him, with an affection that was nearly shocking for having been so quickly established. I felt closer to him than to anyone else I had ever known. I felt so close in fact that, although I knew we would never be lovers in that true sense of the word, I did not stop myself from wondering what a future with Jeffrey would be like.

      I knew that he was handsome, sensitive, more inclined toward the arts than toward business. Enjoying his visit, but producing no success in his business mission, he had nevertheless sent off telegrams to his father that gave every reasonable excuse for staying on. I knew too that Jeffrey was wealthy and would be vastly more so at the death of his father. I had a notion that he was somewhat spoiled; he himself said that he was essentially a coward and lazy.

      “But you risked your neck to save me,” I protested.

      “An impulse,” he said. “It was so romantic, the lovely young woman drowning to save a sackful of kittens, I couldn’t help flinging myself into it. I don’t mind telling you now that when we were fighting that current I was sorry I hadn’t let you float downstream.”

      I didn’t believe him at all. I told him of my illness, and he was surprised. “Yet you went right into the river after those kittens, knowing you had been sick?”

      “Impulse,” I told him. He grinned and grabbed me impulsively, hugging me. That was the first time we had ever embraced. We both knew when it stopped being a silly gesture and became something quite a bit different. It was I who ended it finally, freeing myself gently but firmly from his arms.

      We said nothing about it, but when I saw into his eyes, I had a shock. I had never seen it before, and except for the books I had read, I was quite ignorant of the subject. But I was suddenly aware that Jeffrey Forrest was in love with me.

      Although it startled me, the full impact of this emotion, I could not honestly say that I was sorry about it. I still did not love him, not in the romantic sense; I had to be honest with myself about that. But I had lived my entire life alone and unhappy. Now, for the first time, I was happy. I had someone whose companionship I enjoyed, someone I liked and with whom I could share simple pleasures, and laughter, and interesting conversation.

      I found myself wondering if Jeffrey would propose. In my fancy, I thought ahead to what that life might be like—the wife of Jeffrey, handsome, kind, witty, living in a luxurious mansion haunted with legends of the past. I compared that vision to what my life was and had been. And it would be lonelier still when once Jeffrey went away. Having shared a little of my life with someone, it would be worse still to go back to being alone.

      I think he meant to ask me that day to marry him; and I would have accepted. But the moment was shattered for us—shot away, as it were.

      We were by the river, at a spot that was a mutual favorite of ours. Hepzibah, out of her basket, was engrossed in the pursuit of a grasshopper. I was leaning against the trunk of a large elm tree. Jeffrey had been lying beside me but he had gotten to his knees to embrace me.

      That embrace had just ended, and we were still close, still gazing uncertainly into one another’s eyes. So absorbed was I that at first I did not realize the significance of the loud cracking sound I heard, or the ping of something striking the tree trunk in the short space between our faces.

      There was a second crack, and this time a piece of bark jumped from the tree, striking Jeffrey’s cheek. Suddenly I realized that the reports were gunshots, and that the bullets had struck the tree within inches of us.

      “Get down,” I cried, throwing myself to the ground. Jeffrey fell too, covering me with his body. For a long moment there was silence.

      “Some stupid hunter,” I said breathlessly, shaking with anger. We were at the edge of the woods, and hunting, even out of season, was not very unusual.

      “Hallo!” Jeffrey called. “Watch out for us.”

      There was no answer. After another long moment we got shakily to our feet. “I wish I had gotten a look at him,” I said, staring in the direction from which the shots seemed to have come. “He’d hear about this before I was finished.”

      Jeffrey managed a faint laugh, but when I looked at him I was quite shocked. He was far more shaken than I. He had gone absolutely white.

      He said, “It’s lucky for him you didn’t, I guess.” He got Hepzibah and put her into her basket. Taking my arm, he started me quickly along toward the road. “Come on, I suppose we had better get away before he spies another rabbit or whatever he was after.”

      In the car, and on the way home, we both tried to make jokes about the incident. For all his attempts at humor, however, I could see that Jeffrey remained very upset by what had happened. He scarcely took time to say goodbye before driving away from Aunt Gwyneth’s house.

      Chapter Three

      I suppose that I should have known then that danger hovered about Jeffrey Forrest. I had imagined myself Jeffrey’s wife, I had seen myself living in luxury, in comfort—and in happiness. But the omens were all there for me to see, and my failure to see them must have been a deliberate form of blindness on my part.

      At first I had attributed that shooting to some careless hunter, but later as I reflected upon it, this seemed less and less reasonable. I had been dressed in red and blue, hardly inconspicuous colors, and Jeffrey had been wearing a yellow shirt. Only a nearly blind hunter could have failed to see us.

      If not an accident, though, what? Surely not a deliberate attempt on our lives. I had no enemies locally; having spent so much of my time in hospitals, I hardly knew anyone well enough to have earned enmity.

      As for Jeffrey, how could he have enemies when he knew no one at all here? He had come to the area on a business mission, true. He was here to attempt to persuade a local silversmith to join his company, but surely that gentleman, whose name was Lescott, would have no motive to try to shoot Jeffrey. If the business offer were not to his taste, he could simply say “no.” I doubted that Jeffrey was particularly stubborn in his persuasion.

      No, there was no one about who had any motive to shoot at either of us, and I was left with the awkward but obviously correct theory of an accident.

      I was mistaken in thinking, however, that there was no one in the area who knew Jeffrey. The very evening after the shooting, I had occasion to meet another member of his family.

      Jeffrey and I had taken to having dinners together several nights a week. Sometimes we ate at Aunt Gwyneth’s house, where I prepared dinner for all three of us. In my years of convalescence I had learned to cook well, and I enjoyed the task.

      Other times Jeffrey and I ate out, so that we could be alone. We were not, on these occasions, particularly romantic with one another, and very little of our conversation could not have been made in Aunt Gwyneth’s company. The simple truth was that Aunt Gwyneth and Jeffrey were not awfully fond of one another. So, one or two nights each week, I joined Jeffrey in the dining room of the little hotel at which he was staying; it was the only really nice restaurant in the town. The food was well prepared, if not particularly exotic, and the atmosphere was quiet and intimate.

      We had arranged to have dinner at the hotel that particular night. I saw, as soon as I arrived, that Jeffrey was still quite upset over the shooting incident. Although it was on my mind too, I deliberately tried to put a good face on things, to cheer him up. By the time our desserts—freshly baked apple pie—had arrived, he seemed relaxed and happy again. His moods changed swiftly, as if curtains lifted and fell to hide or reveal the dark brooding landscapes of his personality.

      He was telling me a funny little story of an incident in his childhood; we were so engrossed in our conversation and laughter that I did not even see the man who approached our table. I was suddenly aware that someone was standing there, looking down upon us. We looked up; I heard Jeffrey gasp.

      “Guy,”