The collected stories of Elisabeth Sanxay Holding from Munsey's Magazine, 1920-1928 (part 3 of 5)

The collected stories of Elisabeth Sanxay Holding from Munsey's Magazine, 1920-1928 (part 3 of 5)

So out she went, and the very sight of the garden on this summer day made her so happy that tears came to her eyes. Maude had improved the house a good deal, but she had been satisfied to leave the garden to her aunt, and it was just as it had always been--a gay, careless sort of garden, with a lawn shaded by fine old trees, and a rebellious crowd of bright, old-fashioned flowers. The sweet alyssum was foaming over the borders of the largest bed and marching down to the path, just as it had done when she was a little girl. There were the rosebushes that her mother had planted, and the privet hedge that had seemed so tall and dark and impenetrable to a child’s vision. It was indeed a dear and wonderful old garden!

With a sigh of content, she sank into a chair--and almost at once jumped up again. She mustn’t sit out here in her gingham house dress, wearing these old shoes! Somebody might see her, and Maude would never get over it if anybody should see her aunt looking really comfortable; so she went back to the house, and up to her own room.

This was, in Miss Carter’s eyes, the most charming room in all the world. The things in it were old, and some of them were not very beautiful, but she liked them--all of them, even the two old calendars on the wall and the French clock that had not ticked for years and years. The dark shades were pulled down against the afternoon sun, and a limpid green light filled the room. The mahogany bureau shone like dark water, and the big four-post bed, with its old-fashioned bolster and the ruffled spread, looked exquisitely restful.

“Upon my word,” said Miss Carter to herself, “I believe I could take forty winks! Such a hot afternoon! And there’s nothing much I ought to do for the next half hour.”

Now the naps of housekeepers are different from the naps of other people. There is always a faint feeling of guilt about them, no matter how much work has been done, or how well earned the rest--always a consciousness of all sorts of other things that ought to be done. Even Miss Carter, whose house was a model of cleanliness and order, had this feeling of guilt, and was quite human enough to enjoy her nap all the more for it.

She settled herself comfortably on the sofa, and closed her eyes. One of the shades flapped softly in the breeze, and she thought that it was like a sail, and that she was floating off somewhere--floating off--

The telephone bell rang.

Miss Carter sat up, frowned a little, yawned, and went downstairs; and over the wire came the voice that was dearer to her than any other voice in the world.

“Auntie Sue, darling, would it bother you if I were to bring some one home for dinner?”

“Bother me?” cried Miss Carter. “Why, of course not, child! You can bring a dozen people, any time you’ve a mind to!”

“I just thought I’d ask Mr. Rhodes,” said Maude.

A very odd sort of feeling came over Miss Carter. She smiled graciously, as people do who wish to hide their emotions from the watchful telephone, and said:

“I’ll be very glad to see him, child.”

But this was not quite true. She had never heard of Mr. Rhodes before, yet she had been expecting him for five years, ever since Maude was eighteen. She had known that somebody was bound to come and take Maude away, and this was the man--she was sure of it! The way Maude said she would “ask Mr. Rhodes” was enough.

“Well, why not?” Miss Carter demanded sternly of herself. “You couldn’t expect a girl like Maude t-to s-stay--Pshaw, I’ve left my handkerchief upstairs!”

She went upstairs hastily, and lay down on the sofa again for a little while, but she did not go to sleep.

After awhile she got up and washed her face in cold water, and began to get ready for Maude’s guest. Naturally Maude would expect her to wear the crêpe de Chine dress she had given her aunt as a birthday present, so Miss Carter opened the cupboard door, and there it was--a dark and elegant stranger, hanging there with a sort of disdainful air among the sensible, sturdy linens and cottons.

She brought it out, took off her loose, comfortable house dress, and struggled into the crêpe de Chine.

“A slip-on-dress,” Maude had called it.

“A squirm-on dress, I should say!” thought Miss Carter.

She did not like herself in that dress. She looked at her image in the mirror, and she did not like it. A sturdy little woman she was, straight as an arrow. Her face, with its small, clear, regular features and healthy color, and those very blue eyes of hers, was quite as pretty as it had been fifteen years ago--perhaps even more so, because of the patience and the compassion she had learned; but she had long ago forgotten to think about being pretty. She noted nothing except the dress, which didn’t suit her.

“Specially designed upon long, slender lines,” Maude had said.

“And I’m not!” thought Miss Carter. “What’s the sense in a dress being long and slender, if the person inside it is short and”--she paused--“and roly-poly,” she added firmly. “That’s what I am!”

She covered up all this magnificence with a big checked apron, and went down into the kitchen again. The dinners that she prepared for Maude every night were so good that it was scarcely possible to improve upon them, but this evening she intended to try. She intended to outdo herself for Maude’s Mr. Rhodes.

From the garden she picked enough early June peas to make cream-of-pea soup. The chicken, which she had intended to roast, was not, she thought, quite large enough for three, so she made it into a fricassee, with dumplings beyond description. Then she had a dish of wax beans, and a dish of asparagus, cooked to perfection and seasoned only with plenty of butter, and potatoes most marvelously fried, and she made fresh strawberry ice cream. When you consider what it meant to crack ice and turn the freezer, in that dress with long, tight sleeves and floating things that hung from the shoulders--

She didn’t dare to take it off, though, for fear of their coming by an early train, because she knew that even more than a superb dinner Maude would want to see her aunt in all her glory.

Then she laid the table with her finest tablecloth and her grandmother’s china, and with every rose in the garden in a bowl in the center. She really was pleased with the result.

II

As it happened, they came by a late train, so that Miss Carter was sitting on the veranda, looking very calm and leisurely, as they approached. She did not feel so, however. When, around the corner of the hedge, she saw Maude’s familiar gray hat, which came down almost to the tip of her niece’s pretty little nose, and beside it a most unfamiliar straw hat on a tall head that bent deferentially, she was anything but calm--and, for a moment, anything but hospitable. How could she be glad to see this man who might take Maude away from her?

“He’d never appreciate her!” said Miss Carter. “Not in a month of Sundays!”

Perhaps this might seem a little unjust, when Miss Carter hadn’t even seen the man yet; but what she meant was that neither this man nor any one else in the world could know the Maude she knew. He had never seen and never would see the remarkable infant Maude, the neatest baby that ever was, who used to lie out in a basket under that elm tree, her long white dress pulled down perfectly straight, her little dark head exactly in the center of the tiny pillow, her clenched fists lying one on each side of her round, serious face.

How Maude’s mother used to laugh at that neat baby of hers! And how she used to laugh at the slightly older Maude who went, every day for weeks, in a pink sunbonnet and a pink dress, to try to open the garden gate, and each time sat down unexpectedly upon the path!

When there was no mother to laugh any more, Miss Carter had taken on the job. At first she had thought that without her sister she never could laugh again; but it proved easier than she had expected. She found that when the person you love wants anything, you can do impossible things. When figured out on paper, she had seen that it was impossible to send Maude to college; but she had sent her. And now, when she realized how impossible it would be to let Maude go, she knew in her heart that she could and would do that gladly.

“If he’s anything like good enough for her,” she stipulated.

She felt pretty sure, though, that Maude would never look at a man who was not admirable. She had seen that this Mr. Rhodes was tall, and she expected him to be marvelously handsome, with knightly manners and a commanding intellect. Maude was so very particular, and so intelligent herself--a private secretary at the age of twenty-three!

The garden gate opened, and there they were. Miss Carter rose with a welcoming smile, but--

“Good gracious!” she cried to herself. “The man’s old!”

He carried himself well, this tall man. His face, in its way, was a fine one, kindly and strong and trustworthy; but Miss Carter saw the tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and the touch of gray in his dark hair, and she was cruelly disappointed. If she had seen him alone, she wouldn’t have dreamed of calling him old, for he wasn’t more than forty-five; but with Maude beside him he was a Methuselah. Maude was so pathetically young! Her very earnestness was such a young sort of thing! She hadn’t really learned to smile yet.

“Auntie,” she said, “this is Mr. Rhodes.”

Over the telephone her voice had sounded very happy, but now there was a note of portentous solemnity in it. She spoke as if she were bidding her aunt gaze upon one of the wonders of the world; and this did not please Miss Carter.

“I’m very glad to see you, Mr. Rhodes,” she said.

She said it pleasantly enough, but in a tone that Maude had never heard before. She looked different, too. No one would have dared to think of her as roly-poly now. Her dignity was such that she actually looked taller.

“Dinner,” said she, “will be served in ten minutes.”

From the way she spoke, there might have been a butler and two footmen to serve dinner. It was hard to imagine that this Miss Carter knew what a gingham apron was. Nevertheless, she put one on as soon as she entered the kitchen.

Almost at once Maude appeared in the doorway.

“Auntie!” she said. “Auntie, do you like Mr. Rhodes?”

“My dear, I don’t know him!” answered Miss Carter, as if surprised.

But Maude, though young, was also a woman, and she knew what a deceitful answer this was.

“Yes, but--” she said, and paused. “You know, auntie, he’s a very remarkable man,” she went on briskly.

“Oh, indeed, is he?” replied Miss Carter pleasantly.

Well, she didn’t think so. When called, Mr. Rhodes came in from the veranda, took his place at the table, and ate his dinner. He said yes, the weather was cool for this time of the year, and no, he hadn’t been in this part of the State before, and yes, thanks, he would have a little more of the fricassee, and the roses on the table were very fine, and he liked roses. Remarkable, was he?

“A wooden Indian!” said Miss Carter to herself.

It hurt her to see Maude sitting there, with shining eyes and flushed cheeks, fairly hanging on the man’s words, and to see that he never looked at the girl in that way. When he did look at her--which was not often--he wore a kind, grown-up sort of smile which Miss Carter thought detestable. He did not appreciate Maude. Miss Carter was sorry she had made ice cream, and she wouldn’t let him have a single doughnut.

When dinner was over, they all went out on the veranda. Dusk had settled over the garden, and the stars were out, faint in the violet sky. A breeze stirred in the leaves of the old trees and swayed the gay little flowers, which, scarlet or blue or orange, all looked white now. It was a lovely night. Even the disapproving and indignant Miss Carter yielded a little to its softening influence, and was silent, thinking of the old, dear things that haunted her garden.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” came Mr. Rhodes’s deep, quiet voice from the dark corner where he sat.

“Oh, no!” said Miss Carter, somewhat frigidly polite.

Nobody had smoked a cigar on this veranda for a good many years. Miss Carter’s father used to smoke. How the smell of the smoke drifting through the dark brought back the memory of that big, jolly man, who used suddenly to chuckle aloud when something amusing crossed his mind! She smiled to herself, thinking of the days when the house had not been the silent, orderly place it was now--the days when she and her brothers had been young, and the house alive with voices, and laughter, and youth.

“And that’s what poor little Maude ought to have,” she thought. “Young people--silly young people--music and dancing. She shouldn’t be sitting out here with me and this wooden Indian!”

She made up her mind that at least the man should be made to talk, and in a firm and resolute manner she set about the task of drawing him out. Perhaps, in her heart, she hoped that he would reveal himself as dull and pompous; but he did not.

He was a shipbuilder, the descendant of a long line of Massachusetts shipbuilders. To Miss Carter there was romance in that business, and Mr. Rhodes evidently had the same feeling. He had a sort of reverence for ships, and an inexhaustible fund of interesting tales about them. Not that he was at all eloquent. He was rather a shy man, and halting in his speech, and he needed a good deal of drawing out; but Miss Carter did it.

He talked, and Miss Carter, leaning back in her chair, enjoyed hearing him. She liked the sound of his quiet, careful voice, and liked the fragrant smoke of his cigar. She intended to go into the house presently, to wash the dishes, leaving him and Maude by themselves for awhile; but a dreadful thing happened. There was a pause in the conversation, and suddenly the clock in the hall struck eleven.

Mr. Rhodes got up hastily. He apologized for having stayed so long. He seemed conscience-stricken, and wouldn’t even wait while they looked up a train for him. He said good night and set off hurriedly.

“You must come again,” Miss Carter told him.

“Thank you,” he replied earnestly.

“Soon!” cried Miss Carter, still more earnestly.

“Thank you!” answered his voice, from halfway down the path.

“He never will,” thought Miss Carter, in despair. “Never! I’ve spoiled everything! I never even gave him a chance to speak one single word to Maude. Of course he’ll never come again!”

And it did not add very greatly to her peace of mind to see that Maude was unusually silent and pale.

“You get right to bed, child,” she said. “I’ll do the dishes.”

“No--I’ll help you, auntie darling.”

“But you have to get up in the morning,” Miss Carter protested.

“So do you,” returned Maude.

“But you have to go to work.”

“I don’t work as hard as you do,” said Maude.

This startled Miss Carter, because somehow she never thought of her work as work. It touched her, too, very much, and if she had not been a Connecticut Carter she would probably have cried; but she was one, so she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t even hint to Maude how sorry she was for her wicked, selfish conduct. All she could do was to be very, very brisk and cheerful, and to fly around the kitchen like a bee.

And there was Maude, drying the dishes, her lovely young face so pale, so grave!

“A meddlesome old maid!” thought Miss Carter. “That’s what I am!”

At last she had to say something.

“I think Mr. Rhodes is--very nice,” she observed, in an unexpectedly loud voice.

“Do you, auntie?” said Maude. “Well, I--I think so, too; but”--she turned away, to put some glasses up on a shelf--“but I’m afraid that he doesn’t consider me very interesting.”

“Nonsense, child!” cried Miss Carter.

“Well, I’m not,” said Maude. “I just don’t know anything!”

Miss Carter was on the point of telling Maude that she was a college graduate and a private secretary, and probably the most intelligent young woman alive; but something stopped her. Instead, she said that she must wind up the clock while she thought of it. In passing behind the girl, she laid a hand on her shoulder.

“My dear!” she said. “My dear!”

Their eyes met--those two pairs of blue eyes that were so much alike.

“Good night, auntie,” said Maude.

“Good night, Maude,” said Miss Carter.

And in those six words they said more than some people could have expressed in an hour’s conversation.

III

Miss Carter, lying awake in the dark, had before her eyes the image of Maude, so pale and grave and so very young, standing there in that dazzlingly white, highly efficient kitchen. The night wind blew in at the open window, fluttering the curtains, and outside in the dark garden a little owl gave its tremulous cry. A great loneliness came over her. She thought of this old house, with all those rooms, so neat and orderly--and empty, standing in the dark, quiet garden, and with herself and poor lovely young Maude all alone in it. Two spinsters all alone!

“No!” said Miss Carter, aloud.

Miss Carter’s forefathers, three hundred years ago, had kept themselves alive on the “stern and rock-bound coast” of New England because of their grim determination; and though Miss Carter had inherited very little of their grimness, she certainly was determined. Then and there she made up her mind; and, what is more, she was positively artful about it.

“I was wondering,” she said to Maude, the next morning. “Didn’t Mr. Rhodes say that his business was up in Massachusetts? How did you come to meet him, child?”

“Oh, he’s a great friend of Mr. Lawrence’s,” said Maude, very, very casually. “Mr. Lawrence’s firm are shipowners, you know, and we write all their insurance for them. Their office is on the same floor with us, and I often--I often have to run in there. Whenever Mr. Rhodes comes to New York, he always stops in there, and I’ve met him there several times.”

“I see!” said Miss Carter brightly.

What she saw was the wave of color that rose in Maude’s cheeks. She also saw how a letter could be addressed to Mr. Rhodes, in care of Mr. Lawrence, in the same building where Maude worked.

After Maude had gone, she wrote the letter. She told Mr. Rhodes that she and her niece would be very pleased to see him next Sunday afternoon, and she said that the “best” train was one that arrived at their station about three o’clock.

How could the truthful Miss Carter write such a letter? How could she say that Maude would be glad to see Mr. Rhodes when she never told Maude a word about his coming? How could she call a train a “best” train that stopped at every tiniest station, and that arrived, moreover, at a time when Maude would not be at home? But she did say all this, and was not even ashamed of it.

And then, right under Maude’s nose, she prepared a supper which utterly surpassed the previous dinner; and when the poor, unsuspicious girl had gone off to the Sunday school where she taught a class, Miss Carter flew upstairs, put on the crêpe de Chine dress, arranged her hair in a new fashion, and just had time to get down to the veranda when Mr. Rhodes appeared.

She kept on in the same deplorably artful manner. Although she was still a little out of breath from her struggle with the dress, she pretended to be so deeply absorbed in the magazine she had just that moment snatched up that she didn’t hear him coming up the path. There she sat, looking calm, serene, almost queenly.

As he mounted the steps, she glanced up with a mendacious air of surprise, and rose, smiling, very polite, but still queenly.

“Oh, Mr. Rhodes!” she said. “This is very nice! Sit down, won’t you?”

He did so, and Miss Carter began her campaign. She said she was sorry Maude wasn’t at home, but nothing could induce that girl to miss her Sunday school class.

“She’s so conscientious!” Miss Carter said, and told him several anecdotes about Maude’s conscientiousness.

Then she told him how devoted the children in the class were to Maude. There was no pretense about Miss Carter now. She was speaking from her heart, telling him what she knew to be the truth about her dear girl, pleading Maude’s cause with dignity and sincerity. This man, this wooden Indian, must be made to realize what Maude was!

Miss Carter watched him pretty closely, but it did her no good, for it was impossible to tell from his face what impression she was making. He just listened. She waited for him to ask questions about Maude, but he did not. After awhile she grew indignant, and spoke no more. He, too, fell silent, and there they sat.

He was one of those persons to whom the sunshine is becoming. In spite of his age and his exasperating silence and his shocking lack of curiosity, Miss Carter was obliged, in justice, to admit that she liked his face. It was honest and keen and strong. She remembered, too, that when he had talked about his ships he had been really interesting. Well, he wasn’t going to talk about ships this time. He had been brought here to be taught appreciation of Maude, and taught he should be.

“Your garden--” he began.

“Maude’s making a little rock garden,” Miss Carter said. “She had the prettiest violets this spring!”

“I like those bright-colored things that grow in the sun better,” said he, with a gesture toward the glowing bed of pinks and phlox and verbena. “My mother used to have those things in her garden.”

Miss Carter didn’t say that she wasn’t interested in his mother’s garden, but she looked it, and he seemed a little taken aback. He glanced at her anxiously. He felt that somehow he had said the wrong thing, and that he had better start another topic.

“I’m going up home next week,” he observed.

Miss Carter made no sort of reply to this. She could not. Going home, was he? Going away? She thought of Maude’s pale, grave young face, of the odd little note in her voice when she had said that she was afraid Mr. Rhodes didn’t think she was very interesting.

“He’s a--a selfish beast!” thought Miss Carter.

This thought, too, was reflected in her honest face, and Mr. Rhodes saw that once more he had said the wrong thing.

“You see,” he explained, still more anxiously, “I’m obliged to go there. My business--”

Miss Carter raised her eyebrows with a toplofty expression never before seen upon her face.

“Indeed!” she said.

The unhappy man could not imagine in what way he had offended her, but he had no doubt that she was offended. He felt that he must go on explaining.

“You see,” he said, “it’s this.”

From the pocket of his coat he brought out an advertisement. Miss Carter glanced at it, and saw that on the 8th of July, at Rhodes’s dock, two schooners were to be sold “as is where is.”

“Indeed!” she said again.

He gave up then, and relapsed into total silence.

“Very well!” said Miss Carter, but not aloud. “Go home, then, and stay there! I wish you’d never left your home! Maude was happy before you came. Oh, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

She looked at him, and to save her life she couldn’t help feeling just a little sorry for him. He had such a bewildered and miserable air.

“After all,” she thought, “he’s a guest.”

So she went into the kitchen, took six doughnuts out of a stone crock, put them on a plate, and brought them out to the veranda.

“Maybe you’d like one,” she said.

It was a mistake. While the man was eating a doughnut, he did not look in the least old, or like a wooden Indian. Indeed, his enjoyment was positively boyish, and Miss Carter could not help feeling a little touched. She invited him to take another and another.

“Did you make them?” he asked.

“Yes, I did,” replied Miss Carter, with modest pride.

“I never tasted anything like them--never!” he declared.

“Well, I like to cook,” said Miss Carter.

“You know,” he went on, “your niece told me a good deal about you, and--”

“Maude makes the most delicious soda biscuits!” cried Miss Carter, suddenly recalled to her duty.

“She told me all you’d done for her,” he continued. “I--I wanted to meet you. I”--he paused--“I knew you’d be--like this!”

It was Miss Carter’s intention to greet this statement with an amused, indulgent smile; but she could not. There was something in the man’s straightforward glance, in his quiet voice, that filled her with confusion. She turned her head aside, feeling her cheeks grow hot.

“You don’t know what I’m really like, Mr. Rhodes,” she said.

“Yes, I do,” said he. “When I came this afternoon, you didn’t see me, at first, but I--I saw you.” His face had grown red, but he went on sturdily. “You--you don’t know how you looked, sitting there--in your own home!”

Miss Carter understood his speech only too well. She understood, by a sort of instinct, that he was one of those men who see all the romance and glamour of the world about the head of a woman in her own home. She understood, too, that he was very lonely and very homesick; and she made another mistake.

“Tell me about your home,” she said. “Your mother’s garden--”

He was silent for a moment.

“Well, you see,” he said, “when my father died, my elder brother got the old place; and he and his wife--well, they’ve made a good many changes.”

Miss Carter felt a sudden and most unreasonable indignation against Mr. Rhodes’s brother and sister-in-law.

“I hate changes!” she said. Then, feeling that she had been too vehement, she smiled. “That’s a sign of growing old,” she said. “I’m--”

“Old!” he cried. “You!”

Now this was the sort of thing almost any chivalrous man would have said in the circumstances, but the way he said it--the way he looked at her--

A most curious thing happened. Suddenly Miss Carter saw the Miss Carter that he saw--not the practical, brisk, busy woman who was simply Maude’s aunt and a good housekeeper, but the woman who had bidden farewell to romance fifteen years ago, when the man she was to have married died. No--this Miss Carter was a charming and gracious woman, and a pretty one. She positively felt the lovely color in her cheeks, the soft tendrils of her brown hair about her temples, and even the clear blueness of her eyes; and all her heart was filled with an innocent and beautiful joy that it should be so.

She sat very still, almost afraid to breathe, for fear of breaking the enchantment. She was so happy!

The garden gate clicked, and, looking up, she saw Maude.

IV

Miss Carter was a wonderful hostess that evening. Maude was amazed. Never in her life had she seen her aunt so lively and amusing, with such a fine color on her cheeks and such a light in her eyes. She herself was a serious and quiet young creature, as a rule, but this evening Miss Carter made her talk and made her laugh--and Mr. Rhodes, too.

There they sat at the table, a most cheerful little party, with a most delectable tea set before them--a cold baked ham, a salad of tomatoes stuffed with celery, corn muffins, little custards baked in brown cups, strawberries and cream, and a superb three-layer chocolate cake; but Miss Carter didn’t seem to be very hungry. It was all dust and ashes to her. Every minute was a penance to her, and every smile she gave was a little stab of pain.

“Maude!” she cried, in her heart. “Oh, Maude, my dear, beautiful girl, talk to him! Laugh, my darling! Talk to him, and make him see! I do truly believe he is a good man--almost good enough for you! Oh, Maude, my darling, laugh, and talk, and be young! Make him see your beautiful, blessed youngness!”

Poor serious Maude was always trying to turn the conversation toward business, always bringing up charters, and marine insurance policies, and so on; and Miss Carter was forever turning her skillfully aside from these dangers, making her talk about dances and picnics and frivolous and entertaining episodes from her college days. Miss Carter understood the man, and Maude didn’t. Miss Carter knew only too well what things pleased and touched him, and she was fiercely determined that he should discover all those things in Maude.

It was very hard, though. Every time she got a chance, Maude began again about business. Her interest in shipping matters was prodigious.

“Do you think those two schooners you’re going to sell will bring--” she began, but again Miss Carter intervened.

“I saw the advertisement,” she said. “For sale ‘as is where is’--that’s a pretty high and mighty way to do business, I must say! Here they are--take ’em or leave ’em!”

“Well, you see--” Maude began again.

Miss Carter felt sure that the girl wanted to explain to her aunt exactly how schooners were sold.

“Oh, can’t she see?” she thought, almost in despair. “He doesn’t want to talk business! Oh, why can’t she just be young and--silly?”

In the end, for all her gallant efforts, she was defeated. Maude got the conversation where she wanted it, and she and Mr. Rhodes talked gravely about charters.

Miss Carter left them on the veranda, and went into the kitchen to wash the dishes. She wished that there were twice as many. She wished that there were enough dishes to keep her busy all night long, so that she needn’t go to bed and lie there in the dark.

She had failed--she knew it. Mr. Rhodes was very courteous and kindly to Maude, but nothing more. All her youth and loveliness were wasted on him. She was trying so desperately hard to please him, and she couldn’t!

“Oh, it’s so cruel!” cried Miss Carter to herself, alone in the kitchen. “Never mind, my dear little Maude! I’ll sell this house, dear, and we’ll go and live somewhere else, where there are more young people--more life for you. You mustn’t mind--you mustn’t care. Just forget all about him! He’s going away, and we’ll never think about him again--never!”

She heard Maude’s light footstep coming along the hall.

“Auntie,” her niece told her, “Mr. Rhodes is going.”

“Oh, is he?” said Miss Carter.

She dried her hands, took off her apron, and came out to the front door.

“Good night, Mr. Rhodes,” she said.

“Good night,” he answered.

She could not see him. It was dark out there. She hoped she would never see him again, never remember his face, never think of the words that he had not spoken.

The front door closed, and he was gone. Miss Carter and Maude stood alone in the dimly lit hall, and for a time neither of them spoke or stirred.

“Well!” said Miss Carter briskly. “Time we were in bed, child.”

“Yes,” replied Maude, just as briskly. “It’s late.”

Then they looked at each other and smiled. With their arms about each other they went up the stairs and through the dark house, with all its orderly, empty rooms; and at Maude’s door they said good night, both of them still smiling. That was their way.

V

It was the stillest afternoon. The sun blazed on high in a blue sky without a single cloud, and all the growing things stood patient and motionless in the fierce heat. Miss Carter was down on her knees, weeding a flower bed. She wore an immense blue sunbonnet and a gay blue and white calico dress. Grubbing down there among her beloved flowers, she somehow had the air of belonging to them--a sort of flower nurse.

“I don’t know,” she said to herself, “whoever decided which were flowers and which were weeds. Why are the dear little dandelions weeds, when the big, staring sunflowers aren’t? I guess it’s the same with a good many other things. People look at children, and then set to work to weed them--to uproot all sorts of brave little dandelion qualities in them, and water and tend the big, showy sunflower traits.”

Her reflections were interrupted by the sound of the telephone ringing inside the house. She rose, clapped her hands vigorously together to get rid of the clean, warm dirt, and went into the hall to answer the summons.

“Auntie!” said Maude’s voice.

“Well, child?” asked Miss Carter.

“Would it bother you if I brought Jack Rhodes home to dinner?”

Miss Carter did not answer for a moment; but when she did speak, it was with all her usual affectionate heartiness.

“Of course it won’t bother me, my dear!” she said. “Any one you want, any time!”

But when she had hung up the receiver, she stood there in the hall with a great weariness and dismay upon her face. All the peace of the hot, still day was shattered--all the peace that she had won through the long, long week. He was coming back!

It seemed to her that she could not bear it. She could not watch Maude, with her shining eyes and her flushed cheeks, looking at the man who returned only a kindly, grown-up smile--the man who did not find Maude’s sweet youth “interesting,” but turned to herself instead. She remembered how he had looked at her, how his voice had sounded, speaking to her; and that look and that tone should have been for Maude.

“I won’t have it!” cried Miss Carter aloud, in an angry, trembling voice.

She felt a tear warm on her cheek, and she dashed it away, leaving a smudge under her eye.

“There I was,” she said, “all dressed up, sitting on the porch as if--well, it won’t be like that this time! It was that dress--I always hated that dress! Oh, Maude, my dear!”

She felt other tears in her eyes, but she ignored them.

“It won’t be like that this time!” she repeated with a grim smile. “You’ll see!”

She went out into the back entry and opened the ice box.

“Plenty good enough!” she said. “It won’t take me half an hour to get it ready. Now I’m going to finish that weeding!”

Certainly Mr. Rhodes wouldn’t bother her. He could come if he liked. There was plenty of good, wholesome food in the house for him to eat; but not one extra touch would she give to the dinner, and not one extra touch to her own appearance. She would have to wash her hands and face and put on a clean dress, but not until after he arrived. First he should see her just as she was.

“As is where is!” said Miss Carter.

So, when she thought it was about time for him to be coming, out she went again, and down on her knees by the flower bed. The garden gate clicked, but she did not raise her head until Maude spoke. Then she rose, dusted off her hands, and turned.

“Good after--” she began.

But who was there? Who was that nice boy standing beside Maude, hat in hand, with such an anxious, appealing smile on his young face?

“This is Mr. Jack Rhodes, auntie,” Maude explained.

“Oh!” said Miss Carter.

Then, recovering her senses, she held out a somewhat grimy hand, and the young man seized it in a hearty grasp. His face was scarlet, but his eyes met hers very honestly.

“I--I--it’s--” he said. “I--I hope--”

Miss Carter beamed upon him, to reassure him, but he turned an imploring glance toward Maude. No help did he get from her, however. Never had Miss Carter seen that serious young woman so confused. She actually frowned at the poor fellow.

“I told you auntie wouldn’t mind!” she said reproachfully.

“Yes, I know you did,” said he; “but such short notice--”

Miss Carter could scarcely believe her eyes; for Maude shrugged her shoulders and turned her head away, and upon her face there was an expression very like a pout. Now at last Maude was being young and silly, and it was all most thoroughly appreciated.

“There’s not much use my telling you anything!” she observed.

“You know it isn’t that,” said Jack.

They had both entirely forgotten Miss Carter. Maude looked coldly at the young man. Then her eyes fell, and a faint smile appeared on her lips.

“Yes, I do know,” she said.

Again she looked at him and he looked at her, and it was the most touching and absurd and beautiful look that Miss Carter had ever seen.

“I’ll have to go in and look after the dinner,” she murmured; but they didn’t even hear her.

She was in too much of a hurry, just then, to trouble her head about the mystery of this second Mr. Rhodes. It was enough for her to know that for Maude he was the right and only Mr. Rhodes; and therefore he must have a dinner such as had never been equaled. She flew about the kitchen like a little whirlwind, and presently enchanting odors began to float out from the oven and from the bubbling saucepans. She rushed down into the cellar, and brought up her best preserves. She rushed out to the ice box, and brought in a box of eggs, a crock of butter, a basket of peaches, and a bottle of cream. As she hurried about, she was inventing a dessert that should have freshly baked sponge cake and peaches and strawberry preserves and cream in it.

She had just begun to whip the cream when she was interrupted.

“Isn’t it a pretty hot afternoon for you to be doing all this?” asked a voice from the doorway.

It was the first and original Mr. Rhodes.

“Good gracious!” cried Miss Carter. “What ever are you doing here?”

Suddenly she was aware that she was very hot and tired and flustered, that her hair was untidy, that she was wearing a rumpled and unbecoming calico dress. She also remembered that she was sternly displeased with Mr. Rhodes, and had intended him to see her like this; but she was still more displeased with him because he did so see her.

“If you’ll go out on the veranda,” she said, “I’ll have the dinner ready in a--”

“I want to help you,” he told her.

“Certainly not!” replied Miss Carter. “Please go out on the veranda!”

But he did not go.

“They’re out there,” he said. “They don’t want me.”

Miss Carter faced him squarely.

“Who is that young man?” she demanded. “I can’t understand--”

“He’s my nephew,” said Mr. Rhodes. “Perhaps I can explain. You see, he’s in Lawrence’s office--doing very well, too; and your niece--well, the first time I saw them together, I knew how the land lay.”

“Nonsense!” said Miss Carter.

“No,” he insisted. “It’s not. It’s the real thing.”

They were both silent for a moment.

“I’m fond of the boy,” he went on; “and--of course I saw what sort of girl she was, but I wanted to see you.” He smiled. “It was a pretty mean trick,” he said. “She telephoned to Lawrence’s office and asked for Mr. Rhodes, and I happened to be there. I knew she meant Jack, but I answered; and when she asked if Mr. Rhodes would like to come to dinner, I said yes. We arranged to meet at the station, and”--he smiled again--“there I was! Poor little thing, she made the best of it, but--”

“I see!” said Miss Carter.

She took up the egg beater and began to turn it vigorously, so that the noise of it drowned whatever the man was saying. She didn’t want to hear, anyhow. A strange and unreasonable alarm filled her. If this man wasn’t Maude’s Mr. Rhodes--no, she wouldn’t think about that. She wouldn’t think at all, but would simply turn that egg beater with a prodigious clatter in the earthenware bowl.

A large, strong hand was laid upon the handle of the thing, and the noise ceased abruptly, leaving the kitchen amazingly quiet.

“Miss Carter!” said Mr. Rhodes.

“No!” said she, though she couldn’t have explained just what she meant.

“You know you wrote and asked me to come last Sunday.”

“That,” said Miss Carter, “was due to a misunderstanding.”

“I know it was, but I thought--well, you see, I came again. I--I wanted to see you.”

Miss Carter left the egg beater and faced him squarely. She stood where the golden light of the setting sun fell upon her soft, untidy hair. She stood there, in her unbecoming dress, with her flushed, tired face, and defied Mr. Rhodes. She thought that when he really looked at her, when he realized what the true Miss Carter was like, a great change would come over him.

“I couldn’t go away until I’d seen you,” he said. “And now--”

And now that he had seen her “as is,” of course he would never want to see her again!

“Now it’s harder than ever to go away,” he said. “Now I never want to go away. You don’t know how you look--how--how lovely!”

“Lovely?” she cried.

“Yes!” said he. “You do! I mean it.”

His steady eyes were fixed upon her face, but Miss Carter would not look at him--not she! It was very well for Maude and that young man to stand and stare at each other, but she wasn’t young, and she wasn’t going to be silly.

“If you really do want to help me--” she began briskly.

“That’s what I want more than anything else in the world!” he told her.

Then she did look at him, and she gave a smile which she believed to be a very sensible, noncommittal, grown-up smile; but it didn’t seem like that to him.

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

JANUARY, 1926 Vol. LXXXVI NUMBER 4

That’s Not Love

SERENA PAGE’S COUNTRY PLACE WAS A HOUSE OF MIRTH, BUT MERRIMENT AND TRAGEDY ARE OFTEN CLOSE TOGETHER

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

A gay world, that summer morning! The sprinkler on the lawn flung a rainbow mist into the air, and left tiny diamonds shining on the grass blades. Everything was astir--the leaves rustling on the trees, gay flowers swaying on their stalks. Curtains fluttered at the open windows, and through the cool, bright house voices came floating, light as butterflies. Serena Page had arisen.

To be sure, she had told her house guests the night before that just because she had to get up was no reason why any one else should be disturbed at the outrageous hour of half past eight; but somehow everybody was disturbed. Somehow her getting up made confusion all through the house; for that was Serena’s especial talent--to create an exciting sort of bustle about her, without herself doing anything at all. Serena! Never was a woman so misnamed!

She came down the stairs, her filmy black negligee floating out behind her, so that she seemed, as always, to be coming in a breeze--an artificial breeze, though, perfumed and enervating, bringing no health or color. She was without make-up at this early hour. Her handsome, haggard face was pale, her eyes were heavy.

She entered the breakfast room, and there was the Moriarty girl, standing by the window.

“Good morning, Mrs. Page,” she said, with that enigmatic smile of hers.

Serena smiled, too, but faintly. Geraldine Moriarty was beginning to get on her nerves very badly, and she was longing for an excuse to fly into a rage with the girl. That was the only way Serena could get rid of people. She could do nothing in cold blood. She had taken on Geraldine in an outburst of generosity, and she would have to have an outburst of anger before she could send her away.

“Had breakfast?” she inquired.

“No--I was waiting for you, Mrs. Page.”

Serena took her place at the table, and the Japanese butler came forward to serve her. She did not know his name. She was not even sure that she had seen him before. She got her servants from an agency in the city, which upon demand would send her out a “crew” commanded by a butler. Sometimes things went wrong, and the whole lot left together; but another crew always came promptly, and her household suffered very little from the change. She had the art of making her home as impersonal as a hotel; but she did notice this butler. She smiled upon him, because his charmingly deferential air pleased her. He seemed to appreciate the solemnity of the occasion.

It was indeed an important occasion. It was the beginning of Serena’s diet. Before this elegant and luxurious creature the butler set half of a grapefruit, two slices of Graham bread toast without butter, and a cup of black coffee.

She shuddered a little, and closed her eyes. Every morning, henceforth, she was to get up at half past eight, go through a set of exercises, take a cold shower, and come downstairs--to this! Every one said she wouldn’t be able to stand it. Those who pleased her best said she had absolutely no need of a reducing diet, and would be made ill by it.

Only the Moriarty girl showed no interest at all. Serena observed that Geraldine had a slice of grilled Virginia ham on her plate.

“How Connie could ever have called her a sweet child!” she thought. “She’s as hard as nails!”

Some six weeks ago Connie Blanchard had come to Serena with a most piteous tale about Geraldine Moriarty.

“Her mother and I went to the same school in Paris,” she had said; “and now this sweet child’s all alone in the world. Something awful happened to her father. He went bankrupt, or lost his mind, or something--I can’t remember now--and Geraldine simply hasn’t a penny. Fine old Irish family, you know, and she’s awfully well educated. I’d love to help her, but you know how it is with me, my dear, living as I do in hotels--and I’m not strong. Do please do something for the poor child, Serena!”

Who could have done more? Serena had at once engaged Miss Moriarty as secretary-companion, and here she was, getting a nice little salary, and with practically no work to do. The secretarial duties were almost nonexistent, for Serena very seldom wrote or even answered a letter. She and her friends carried on their social activities by telephone, and they liked to do their own talking.

As for the companion part, that was absurd. Serena was always surrounded by companions, and mighty obliging ones, too--penniless cousins, ambitious and ambiguous ladies, all sorts of eager and pliant creatures, who made up a little court where Serena ruled magnificently. No--all the Moriarty girl had to do was to look on, and of course to admire; and it was at this simple task that she so utterly failed.

She didn’t seem to admire anything or anybody, not even herself. She was ironically indifferent to her own dark beauty. She had no decent clothes, and when Serena had offered her some very good things that she was tired of, Geraldine had refused--politely, of course. She was always polite, always careful not to give Serena any excuse for getting rid of her.

“But you’ll go, my dear!” thought Serena. “I’ve done quite enough for you!”

She glanced across the table at her silent companion.

“Hopeless!” she reflected. “Simply hopeless! Of course she’s good-looking, in a way--but she has absolutely no charm, and no figure.”

Miss Moriarty went on eating with an excellent appetite. She was never talkative. She was quiet, but with a quiet which Serena did not find restful or soothing. She was a tall girl, thin and supple, with a careless grace in every movement. Her face had a gypsy darkness, with high cheek bones, features delicate and yet bold, and black eyes with a scornful light in them. She was dressed in a black skirt, a black jersey, and a plain white blouse--a costume that made her look lanky, thought the dieting Serena; and she had that air of not caring.

“For Heaven’s sake, do talk, my dear!” cried Serena, overcome by exasperation. “I’m all on edge this morning, and it makes me horribly nervous to see you sitting there like a--like a graven image!”

“I’ll try,” said Miss Moriarty obligingly. “Have you seen the delphiniums?”

“Never heard of the things,” said Serena. “Oh, do answer that for me, my dear!”

For the butler had come forward to say that a “generman” wanted to speak to Mrs. Page on the telephone.

There was, inevitably, a telephone in the breakfast room. There were telephones everywhere in that house, so that, in order to speak to a friend perhaps a hundred miles away, one need not have the fatigue of walking more than twenty feet. Geraldine took up the receiver.

“This is Mrs. Page’s secretary,” she said. “Will you give me the message, please?”

“Tell Mrs. Page it’s Sambo,” said a curt and very clear masculine voice.

“It’s Sambo,” repeated Miss Moriarty, turning toward Serena.

She was surprised by the change that came over that haggard, petulant face. Forgotten were the nerves and the cruel diet. Serena sprang to her feet and ran to the telephone, and even her voice was changed.

“Sambo!” she cried. “What an hour! Yes, I know, but why didn’t you write me, just once? I’m not reproaching you, silly boy! Only I did think you’d have time just for a line. No, no! To-day, Sambo? But can’t you give me some idea what time? Surely some time to-day? Oh, all right! By-by, big boy!”

She came back to the table and sank into her chair, laughing.

“I’ll take a slice of that ham,” she said to the butler, “and cream for my coffee. Quick! I’m starving!” Then she looked at Geraldine. “Sammy Randall is coming,” she announced.

“How nice,” said Geraldine.

But Serena missed any irony there may have been in the words. Mrs. Anson had appeared in the doorway, and she called to her:

“Betty, Sambo’s coming out to-day!”

“My dear, how simply marvelous!” cried Betty Anson, with fervor.

Serena expected that fervor. She took it for granted that all her friends would rejoice with her; and so they did. Serena, the queen, was happy, and all her court was happy, too, reaping the benefits of her good humor.

“But that awful Moriarty!” she whispered to Betty Anson. “She’s worse than usual this morning. I don’t know what’s the matter with her. She’s so indifferent and ungrateful!”

“Those people are always envious,” said Mrs. Anson. “Governesses and companions--they’re not exactly servants, you know, and yet they’re not--well, they’re simply out of everything.”

“I wish she’d stay out altogether!” said Serena.

Geraldine Moriarty wished the same thing. As she stepped out through the long window of the breakfast room to the lawn, she wished that she need never set foot in that house again. She hated it, she hated the life there, and at times she came dangerously close to hating the people in it.

For, though Serena’s conclusion that the girl was “as hard as nails” was an exaggeration, there was a grain of truth in it. She had, for her nineteen years, a character remarkably definite and independent. She had fortitude, courage, and the pride of Lucifer. She had come here, penniless, solitary, and so young, direct from the almost cloistered life she had led with her invalid mother, and not for one instant had she been dazzled or swayed by the luxury and the feverish gayety about her. She stayed because she knew no other way to earn her bread, but all her salary she put into a savings bank, and would not touch a penny of it. When there was enough, she meant to go away. She would learn typing and shorthand, find work in an office, and be done with this existence which she hated.

She lived here in exile, utterly alien and lonely, among these people whom she neither comprehended nor pitied. Her people had been gentlefolk. She had been brought up in a tradition of dignity, honor, and reserve, and she clung to that tradition with all the strength of her loyal heart. What her people had been, she would be. Their ways were the right ways. Their manners, their speech, their tastes, formed the standards by which all others should be judged. And, so judged, Serena and her friends were damned. Geraldine saw no good in them at all. They were base, heartless, and vulgar.

She walked across the lawn to the sea wall at the foot of the garden, and jumped down to the beach, a few feet below. She wanted to be alone for a little while in the fresh, sweet summer morning, in the sun and the salt wind, and to forget the monstrous thing she had seen; but she could not forget. In anger, in contempt, she was obliged to remember Serena’s face at the mention of that man’s name.

Evidently Serena “loved” this man with the mountebank name, and her friends seemed to think it a charming idyl--the “love” of a woman of forty, who had divorced one husband and was living in constant bickering with a second. The fact of her being married was simply a side issue. Faith and honor had no meaning at all for these people, and love--that was what they called “love”!

II

The summer day was drawing to a close. The shadows of the trees were long upon the grass, the sun was sinking through a sky wistful and delicate, faint rose and yellow.

There was a blessed quiet all through the house. Serena and her friends had certainly intended to be back for tea, but they had not come. They never could do what they meant to do. Obstacles intervened, and they were not well equipped for dealing with obstacles. It took so little to stop them, to bar a road, to turn them off toward a new destination. They had not come back, and Geraldine was having her tea alone in the library, reading a book as she sipped it.

That was how Sambo first saw her, sitting, very straight, in a high-backed chair, with the last light of the sunset on her clear, pale face. He said later that she had put him in mind of a Madonna, and there were not many women he knew who could do that. He stood in the doorway, staring at her, for quite a long time--so long that he never afterward forgot how she looked then, so still, so lovely, so aloof. For a moment he was almost afraid to disturb her.

But the fear of disturbing other persons had not yet greatly influenced young Samuel Randall. He was a conqueror, nonchalant and superb. He took whatever things pleased him in this world. Slender, almost slight, with his fine features, his mournful dark eyes, he had a poetic and touching look about him; but it belied him. He was not poetic. He was greedy, and willful, and reckless.

He wanted to talk to this lovely image, so in he went.

“This a gentle hint?” he asked.

Geraldine put down her book and looked at him.

“I said I was coming to-day,” he went on, “and they’re all out. That mean I’m not wanted?”

And he smiled his charming, arrogant smile, for he knew so well that he was always wanted.

“Mrs. Page meant to be home by five,” said Geraldine, with no smile at all. “Something must have delayed her.”

“Then you’ll give me a cup of tea, won’t you? I’m Randall, you know.”

She said yes, none too cordially, and rang the bell for fresh tea. He sat down opposite her, slouching in his chair, his handsome head thrown back, his dark eyes watching her.

“I’m Mrs. Page’s secretary,” she explained with cold formality.

“Lucky, lucky Mrs. Page!” said he.

A faint color rose in her cheeks. She resented his attitude, his easy and careless manner, his appraising glance, and he read the resentment in her face.

“Prudish!” he thought.

This did not annoy him. He liked this tall, dark, unsmiling girl just as she was, a charming novelty; but he would have to change his tactics.

“You were reading, weren’t you?” he said respectfully. “I hope I didn’t interrupt you.”

“No, Mr. Randall,” she answered.

Then, suddenly, his undisciplined soul was filled with a sort of envy for this untroubled and superior creature who read books.

“I try to read,” he said. “I wish to Heaven I could; but it’s too late now.”

“I don’t see how it could ever be too late to read,” said Geraldine, with a trace of scorn.

He had straightened up in his chair. He was no longer staring at her, but at the unlighted cigarette that he was rolling between his fingers.

“The thing is,” he said, “I’ve been spoiled. People listen to me--any damned nonsense I spout--and I’ve got out of the way of listening myself. Now, you see, when I take up a book that’s worth reading, I feel as if the writer fellow had got me into a corner, and was trying to lay down the law; so I want to contradict him, and I chuck the blamed thing across the room.”

He spoke earnestly, and he was in earnest. It was his great charm that he was always sincere. He was not inventing things to say to this girl. He was simply selecting from his restless, curious mind those things which he thought would interest her. He was succeeding, too--he saw that.

Geraldine did not speak, because to her reserved and proud spirit it was impossible to speak easily to a stranger; but she thought over his words with an odd sensation of distress. She felt sorry for the conquering Sambo.

He had picked up her book, and was turning the pages. It was a copy of “The Hound of Heaven,” which her father had given her long ago.

“Poetry!” he said. “Queer sort of stuff!”

Then he read aloud:

“I fled Him, down the nights and down the days; I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways Of my own mind--”

He stopped, and for a moment he sat silent. The light was fading out of the sky now, and in the dusk his face looked white and strained. The echo of his strong young voice seemed still to drift through the shadowy room.

Looking at him, Geraldine had an extraordinary fancy, almost a vision, of his terribly defiant soul fleeing, swift and laughing, to its own destruction. She was filled with an austere compassion and wonder. It was as if, in an instant, and without a word spoken, he had told her all the long tale of his wasted years.

“Sometimes,” he said, “the prey gets away from Him!”

“No!” said Geraldine steadily. “No--never!”

He struck a match, and by the flame that sprang out, vivid in the gray dusk, she had a glimpse of his face, with eyes half closed, proud and sorrowful; and he was changed in her sight forever. She saw him, not as a puppet in a shameful drama, but as a fellow creature with a soul.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve got lost!”

The match went out, and the room seemed very dark now. Geraldine wanted to speak, to tell him something, but she could not remember, afterward, what incredible words had come to her mind. They were never to be spoken, however, for just at that moment Serena came home.

III

In her first generous enthusiasm Serena had declared that the “sweet child” must dine with them, no matter who was there, and now neither she nor Geraldine could find a plausible reason for altering the arrangement which had grown so irksome. This evening, as usual, Geraldine went upstairs to put on her one and only dinner dress.

But she was not so reluctant as usual, nor so disdainful. She felt that she was no longer utterly alone. This man who had come to the house was different from the others. She remembered his face as she had seen it in the flare of the match, and remembered the sound of his voice. If he was lost, it was because he had been misguided. He was somehow a victim.

Nobody noticed Miss Moriarty when she came to the table, for they were all very well used to her and her one evening gown--that is, nobody but Sambo; and to him she was new and lovely and profoundly interesting. He thought that her slender hands were beautiful. So was the sweep of her shining black hair away from her temples, and so was the proud arch of her brows; and he thought that her poor little black dress, and her youth and her disdainful air, were beyond measure touching.

But he prudently kept his interest in Miss Moriarty to himself, and behaved as he was expected to behave. The diet was postponed, and Serena had asked the butler to see that there was “an awfully good dinner.” He had justified her blind faith in him, for the dinner was an excellent one. From the well stocked cellar he had selected the proper wines; but nobody cared for these. They all preferred whisky. Throughout the meal they drank whisky and smoked cigarettes, and their talk was in keeping with this.

“It’s not my business,” thought Geraldine. “I can’t change the world. I’m just here to earn a living.”

But the contempt and indifference which until now had been her armor failed her to-night. She was troubled and very unhappy. None of these people were mere puppets any longer. They had come alive, and they were pitiful, and a little horrible.

There was the girl they called Jinky--tall, gaunt, with a sort of wasted beauty in her face. A year ago she had eloped with a very young millionaire, and, as he was under age, his parents had had the marriage annulled--annulled, wiped out, so that Jinky had come back from her wedding trip discredited and shamed before all her world. She didn’t seem to care. She seemed hilariously amused by the whispered conversation of Levering, who sat next her; but to-night Geraldine felt sure that Jinky did care--that the wound had left a cruel scar.

There was Levering himself, with his supercilious, high-bred face. He had married for money, and he hadn’t got the money. It was a notorious joke in that circle that his middle-aged wife begrudged him every penny. He suffered his ignoble humiliation, and his wife suffered, too, because of her jealous and bitter infatuation for him.

There was the chic and lively little Mrs. Anson, with her eternal scheming for invitations and other benefits. There was her husband, gray-haired, distinguished in appearance, a slave to her ambition and his own weakness.

There was Serena, magnificent in her diamonds, talking only to Sambo, looking only at Sambo. There was Sambo himself, the man who had said that he was lost. He listened to Serena carelessly, and smiled, even when her face was anxious and frowning. He smoked incessantly. The light ashes from his cigarettes fell upon his plate, into his glass, and he swallowed them, as if he neither knew nor cared what was barren ash and what life-giving food.

“Now what?” cried Serena, jumping up. “Bridge, or dancing, or what?”

Geraldine had risen, too, and she fancied that she heard Mr. Anson, standing beside her, mutter:

“The deluge!”

He was unsteady on his feet, and his weary face was a curious gray. Geraldine had seen him like this before. He was trying to play, trying to be one of them, to forget--and he never could.

“Oh, dancing, of course!” said Jinky.

They all went into the drawing-room, and one of the servants started the phonograph playing. The music began, the thud of drums like bare feet stamping, the sweet whine of Hawaiian guitars, like lazy laughter. Geraldine had followed the others, meaning only to pass through on her way to the garden, but halfway across the room Sambo stopped her.

“Give me this dance!” he said softly.

“No!” she answered with a quick frown, and moved away.

But he came after her, and laid his hand on her shoulder.

“Please!” he said. “Why won’t you?”

The touch of his hand filled her with a great anger. She turned her head and looked at him with scornful amazement--and found in his face only laughter and cajolery.

“Please!” he said again. “Just one dance!”

“No!” she said.

He could not very well misunderstand--or pretend to misunderstand--her tone. He dropped his hand and stood back.

“Sorry!” he said.

She knew that he wasn’t sorry. She went past him, threading her way among the dancing couples, and went upstairs to her own room. She locked the door and stood leaning against it, in the dark, breathing a little fast from her haste and anger.

She hated him! Vivid before her was the image of his handsome face, flushed with drinking, and of his conqueror’s smile. Intolerable was the memory of his hand upon her shoulder. She hated him, and she could almost hate herself because even for a minute she had thought he was different.

IV

The next morning, when Geraldine came downstairs, the house was like an enchanted castle. The sun was streaming in, for it was full day, yet all the rooms were silent and deserted. The little Japanese men had done their work like brownies, and were now invisible, and all the people who had danced the night before were lost in sleep.

She went into the breakfast room and rang, and the butler came hurrying in, smiling cheerfully. She told him what she wanted to eat, and crossed to the window, for a breath of sweet air and a glimpse of the garden in its morning beauty.

The first thing she saw was Sam Randall, on the terrace, smoking a cigarette. Her first impulse was to run away. He was down at the other end, and he had not seen her yet; but she checked herself with a sort of severity. Why should she run away from him? What had she to do with him, or with any of the people in this house? She had judged and condemned them long ago. It was only through a moment’s weakness that she had been betrayed into taking an interest in this man. The weakness was mastered now, and the interest had turned to scorn. He was just like the others--perhaps a little worse!

She heard his leisurely footsteps on the flags outside. She heard him come in through the long window. She knew that he was standing beside her, but she paid no heed until he spoke.

“Good morning!” he said.

Then she looked straight into his face.

“Good morning,” she answered evenly.

She was sorry, then, that she had looked at him, for there was no laughter or arrogance about him now. He seemed subdued and anxious, younger than she had remembered, and somehow appealing.

“Look here!” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend you last night. I don’t quite see why--but anyhow, I’m sorry!”

Her breakfast was on the table, and she sat down before it. It occurred to her that her silence was ungracious and unkind, but she knew no way to break it. For all her self-reliance, she was very young and very inexperienced. She could not mask her resentment; she could only hold her tongue.

Sambo sat down opposite her. She was determined not to raise her eyes, but, without doing so, she could see his slender brown hands extended across the table, and the cuffs of his soft blue shirt. She also saw that he was holding a little field daisy. Surely there was nothing in that to touch her heart, yet it did, and the pity that she felt for a passing instant increased her anger. An obstinate and forbidding look came over her face.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Look here! Do you mind if I sit here with you?”

“It’s not for me to dictate to Mrs. Page’s guests.”

“You can dictate to me all you want,” said he. “Nothing I’d like better!”

Again she was conscious that she was behaving ill, and again it strengthened her obstinacy.

“I’ll go away, if you like,” he went on; “but the way you talked to me yesterday--I’ve been thinking so much about it! Please tell me what I’ve done--what has made you change?”

“I haven’t changed,” she answered coldly.

He leaned nearer to her.

“Look here!” he said entreatingly. “Don’t treat me like this! Don’t shut me out! I came down early, just on the chance of seeing you. The others will be down presently, so I only have this little minute. Let me talk to you! You’re so wonderful--no one like you in the world--you and your poetry and your lovely, quiet face! Don’t send me away, dear girl!”

She sprang to her feet.

“You have no right!” she cried.

He, too, had risen.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You wouldn’t mind, if you knew how I felt about you. I’m at your feet.”

“You--” she began, but her voice was so uncertain that she could not go on.

“I’m at your feet,” he repeated quietly. “If you want to treat me like this, I can’t help it. It won’t make any difference. I’ll always--”

“Hush!” she said. “The servants will hear you!”

“Let ’em!” said he. “I’ll bet they’ve heard worse than that!”

Without another word he walked away, through the window, out to the terrace again.

Geraldine tried to go on with her breakfast, but a strange confusion and pain filled her. She told herself that this was only an episode, of no significance. Randall would go away soon, and she need never see him or think of him again. What he had said to her he said, very likely, to every woman he met. He had come here to see Serena. He belonged to Serena. He was one of that circle, one of those people without heart, without honor, without decency.

“At her feet!”

Geraldine remembered his hand on her shoulder, his laughter in the face of her just anger. It was a lie! He had no more respect for her than he had for these other women. He thought she was like them, and would be flattered by a smile from him. She hated him!

She had a fine opportunity to test his alleged humility that very day. By noon, the rest of the household had come downstairs, languid and heavy-eyed, and all in need of “bracers”; but not Sambo. He was not jaded or depressed. He laughed at the others. It seemed to Geraldine that wherever she went she could hear the sound of his debonair laughter. He was easily the leader among them. No longer was Serena their queen; it was Sambo who reigned supreme, not only because she had exalted him, but because of his quick wit, his audacity, his graceless and irresistible charm.

They sat about half dead, until lunch time. After lunch they were revivified enough to begin considering what to do with the afternoon. Serena wanted to visit some friends, Mrs. Anson wanted to play bridge, Levering wanted to go out on the yacht, but Sambo said they would go to the Country Club, and he had his way. Every one went upstairs to dress, except Geraldine. She wasn’t expected to come. Nobody thought about her at all.

Sambo had not spoken one word to her, had scarcely glanced at her. When they were alone, he called her “wonderful”; but when the others were there, he ignored her as they did.

V

Geraldine was in her room, dressing for dinner, when they returned. The house was suddenly in confusion. Electric bells rang, and she heard their voices in an excited babel. They came in like a party of raiders taking possession of an abandoned stronghold.

“I can’t stand it much longer,” thought Geraldine. “I’m getting nervous and irritable. I ought to go, only--”

Only she had nowhere to go--nowhere in all the world. Strangers were living in her old house. She wondered how it looked now. There used to be an air of peace about it at this hour of a summer day, when the tangled garden had grown dim, and the old house full of shadows. She and her mother used to sit by the open window, in the dusk, not talking very much, but so happy! Even old Norah in the kitchen was blessed by that peace, and would croon contentedly as she moved about. All gone now!

Geraldine had been a young girl then, like a child in the safe shelter of her mother’s love--only a little while ago; but she would not think of that. She would not shed a single tear. Her mother had been so brave, even when her father was ruined and heartbroken by his failure in business--for that was the “something dreadful” that had happened to him. Even when he died, her mother had been so brave, and always so quiet. That was the right way, and the way that Geraldine would follow. If her forlorn young heart grew faint in her exile, she would look back, just for a glance, would remember, just for an instant, and would be comforted and strengthened.

She put on her black dress, gave an indifferent glance in the mirror, and opened the door; and there in the hall was Sambo, waiting for her.

“Look here!” he said. “I want to know--I’ve simply got to know--what’s the matter!”

“Nothing,” she replied.

She tried to pass, but he barred the way.

“No!” he said. “I’m going away to-morrow morning, and I’ve got to know. Have I offended you, or done anything you don’t like? The first time I saw you, yesterday afternoon--what has made you change?”

She did not answer, but her averted face was eloquent enough.

“Look here!” he said. “If I thought it was simply that you disliked me--” He paused for a moment. “But I don’t think that,” he went on. “You did like me, at first. I’ve been thinking--Is it on account of Ser--of Mrs. Page?”

“What?” she cried, appalled.

“Because, you know”--she noticed that he glanced up and down the softly lit hall before he continued--“if it’s that, I give you my word there’s nothing in it--absolutely nothing! I’ve never even pretended to her--”

“Do you think I’m going to discuss that with you?” she said, looking at him with a sort of horror.

“There’s nothing to discuss,” he answered. “I wanted you to know that; but then--”

“Please let me pass!” she said. “I don’t want to--talk to you!”

He did not move. He stood squarely before her, with a queer, dogged, miserable look on his face.

“Not until you tell me why you--hate me,” he said.

She was silent for a moment, her heart filled with almost intolerable bitterness. Then suddenly she laughed.

“Oh, but you’d really better go!” she said. “You wouldn’t like it if some one should come and find you speaking to me!”

She regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. A singular change came over him.

“You mean--” he began, and paused. “You think I’m ashamed to be seen talking to you?”

“Let me go!” she said vehemently. “I won’t listen!”

But her defiance was little more than bravado. Her knees felt weak. She was frightened by the inexplicable thing she had done.

“That was a beastly, unjust thing to think,” he went on. “It was only on your account. I thought you wouldn’t want any one to know--”

“Know? Know what?” she interrupted, with an attempt at her former scornfulness; but in her heart she was dismayed and terribly uneasy.

“All right!” he said. “You think I’m ashamed. By Heaven, you’ll see! I’m proud of it! It’s the finest thing I ever did in my life--to love you!”

“Oh, stop!” she whispered.

“No! I’d like every one in the world to know it. I’m proud of it! I told you I was at your feet, and I meant it. I’ll--”

“Oh, please!” she said.

He stopped, looking at her as if stricken dumb by some unbearable revelation. All that was hard and proud had vanished from her face, leaving a tragic and exquisite loveliness. She stood there, in her distress, like a lost princess, bewildered and solitary, but unassailable in her mystic innocence.

“Look here!” he said. “I--” His voice was so unsteady that he could not go on for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize how--how young you are. If you’ll forgive me--”

She shook her head mutely. He waited in vain for a word, but none came. Then he turned and walked away, and she went back into her own room and locked the door.

She, too, had not realized how young she was, how untried her strength. This overwhelmed her; she was so miserable, so shaken, that now at last the tears came in a wild storm. Her pride was mortally wounded. It was a disgrace to her that Sam Randall should think of her like that. It was cruel, horrible, unforgetable, that the first words of love she had ever heard from a man should be his words. His talk of love was a mockery, an insult.

Yet the memory of his set face and his unsteady voice caused her a strange pain that was not anger.

“I can’t understand!” she cried to herself. “I can’t understand!”

And it was the first time in her life that Geraldine, with her rigid code, her intolerant and sharply defined opinions, had ever thought that.

VI

Jesse Page ordered the car stopped at the entrance to the driveway, and went the rest of the way on foot. The stars were out in the bland summer sky, and among the dark trees, stirred by no wind, the house with its lighted windows had a gay and delicate beauty, an air of festival. Down by the sea wall the little yacht was moored, swinging gently, throwing into the black water two little quivering pools of red and green; but there was not a sound from house or garden.

“Not even a dog to bark when I come home!” he thought, with a faint, bitter smile.

Heaven knows he had made this solitude for himself! He was a man who had found it easy to win affection--so easy that he distrusted what cost him so little effort. He could believe in nothing and no one--himself least of all.

He walked on the grass, so that his footsteps made no sound. He was a stalwart man, tall and of soldierly bearing, with a handsome, heavy face and dark hair a little gray on the temples. He was a domineering, headstrong, passionate man, and terribly unhappy. He wanted to be angry, but it was unhappiness that filled him--a queer, pathetic sort of bewilderment.

“By God, it’s not fair! It’s not fair!” he said to himself over and over again.

That was the way he saw it--it was not fair that he should be hurt like this. He never once looked for a cause, for any fault in himself, or for any general rule to apply. It simply was not fair that this should happen to him.

He had been away, in Chicago, looking after some business affairs, making more money--for her to spend, of course; and then this letter came. What if it was anonymous, what if it was written in savage malice? He had a pretty fair idea as to who had written it, and why. Serena had enemies. He had listened to innuendo before; and now he was going to know.

The front of the house was deserted, and he went round to the side, where the dining room was. Just as he turned the corner, he saw some one come out through one of the French windows. He stopped, and drew back into the shadow of the wall. It was a man, and he fancied he recognized that slender and vigorous figure. He waited and watched.

The other man stopped to light a cigarette, but his back was toward the house. Then he strolled on leisurely toward the garage. Page followed him a little way, but when the other entered the brightly lit building, he was satisfied. It was young Randall.

That was all he needed to know. He went back to the front of the house and entered there. It was his own house, but the servants--a new crew--did not know him. The butler tried to stop him, but he pushed the anxious little man aside, and proceeded to the dining room.

They were there, the whole crowd of them, sitting about the disordered table, jaded and hot, and full of a restless languor. The air was thick with cigarette smoke. A little blue-eyed man with a gray mustache was performing an elaborate conjuring trick with match sticks and somebody’s gold watch, and Serena lay back in her chair, looking at him with a distant smile. Her haggard face was flushed, her eyes heavy. Jesse Page thought he had never seen her more beautiful, or more hateful.

“By God, it’s not fair!” he thought again. “I’ve given her everything, I’ve put up with all her whims, and now I--I could kill her!”

It was as if his thought had sped through the room like an arrow. Serena straightened up in her chair, turned her head, and saw him standing in the doorway.

“Jesse!” she cried.

He did not speak or move. He stood there, his straw hat pushed back, staring at her with narrowed eyes.

“Jesse!” she said again.

She half rose from her chair, her own eyes dilated and fixed upon him. Then some one near her stirred, and the sound recalled her to her surroundings. Here was the stage upon which she was accustomed to play a leading part, and every one was looking at her.

She sank back into the chair again, with a laugh.

“You beast!” she said. “You startled me so! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home, Jesse? Have you had your dinner?”

He gave his hat to a servant, and sat down in the one chair that was vacant. Now he had found out; now he knew. Startled her, had he? That was guilty terror he had seen in her face! Let her sit there smiling, radiant in her jewels, at the head of her own table! She was frightened, she couldn’t take her eyes off her husband.

“Hello, everybody!” he said genially. “Don’t let me spoil the party! Come on, now! All have another drink, eh?”

The response he got made him feel physically sick.

“God, what people!” he thought. “They’re all afraid of me--afraid of a row!”

He looked around the table at the eagerly smiling faces, and he smiled himself--a broad grin.

“One missing, isn’t there?” he asked. “Who was sitting in this place?”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Oh, there?” said Serena. “Miss Moriarty. She’s gone upstairs with a bad headache.”

“I see!” said Page, still grinning.

“I suppose I really ought to go up and see how the poor girl’s getting on,” continued Serena.

“Oh, no!” he said suavely. “Don’t go! Wait a bit, and perhaps she’ll come back.”

There was another silence.

“We don’t want to sit here!” cried Betty Anson nervously, pushing back her chair. “Let’s go!”

“I like to sit here,” said Page. He poured himself another whisky, and lit a cigarette. “I think I’ll have a demi-tasse and a sandwich. You people must keep me company. Don’t go, Betty!”

She settled back again. She was sorry for Serena, but it would never do to offend Jesse.

“If there’s any serious trouble,” she thought, “poor Serena ’ll be done for!”

The ambitious Mrs. Anson couldn’t afford to take up the cause of people who were done for. She glanced covertly across the table. Her husband sat with his eyes fixed on the cloth, his distinguished gray head bent. Levering was grave, but the shadow of a smile hovered about his lips. Jinky, sitting next him--what was the matter with Jinky?

“How queer she looks!” thought Mrs. Anson.

She was really distressed by the look on Jinky’s wasted young face; for of all the people there, Jinky could least afford any indiscreet pity. Jesse Page was a distant cousin of hers; he had been generous to her, and she needed it. No--she really shouldn’t look at Serena like that!

Suddenly Jinky jumped up, and, without a word, walked across the room to the window, and out on the terrace.

“Jinky!” Page called sharply. “Where are you going?”

She turned her head and glanced at him, but she did not answer. For a moment she stood there in the bright light, a curiously dramatic figure in her emerald green dress, with her gleaming black hair and her white, thin face. Then she put her jade cigarette holder between her teeth, and went off over the lawn.

Page jumped up and followed her.

“See here, Jinky!” he said furiously. “You’d better--”

“See here, Jesse!” she interrupted. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

“All right! Perhaps I enjoy it.”

“It’ll take,” said Jinky deliberately, “just about five minutes for you to make such a mess of things that you’ll regret it all the rest of your days, Jesse!”

“Oh, no!” he said, with a grin. “It’ll take a good deal less than five minutes--when I catch sight of that lad!”

Jinky stopped. From where she stood she could look into the garage, and she was satisfied.

“Go ahead!” she said. “I’ll drop out.”

As she turned back toward the house, he went with her.

“Somehow,” he said, “I feel that where Jinky goes, there must I go, too.”

“Keep it up, Jesse!” said she. “You deserve what you’ll get!”

They found the dining room deserted, with an air of haste and disorder about it. A cigarette smoldered in a saucer, a cup of coffee had been overturned, and a dark stain was still spreading slowly over the lace cloth. Page went into the drawing-room, and Jinky followed. Serena was not there.

He went toward the door again, hesitated, and came back. Jinky had vanished now, through the card room.

“All right!” he said to himself. “Let them have a little more rope!”

VII

Jinky met Serena coming down the stairs. There had been no love lost between these two. They had never been friends, and Serena, with the memory of more than one petty blow dealt to Jinky, expected no mercy from her now. She was about to pass with a vague, strained smile, when the girl stopped her.

“You’ll have to try another line, Serena,” she said. “No use pretending that Sambo wasn’t here.”

“Oh, let me alone!” cried Serena desperately. “Don’t I know that?”

“Well, look here,” said Jinky thoughtfully. “Where is he, anyhow?”

“Down on the shore road, waiting for me. We were going to run over to the Abercrombies’ in his car. If I don’t show up, he’ll come back here, and they’ll telephone. Oh, Jinky, I’m--”

“Hold up a minute! Let’s see! No use in my going--Jesse would tag along; but the Moriarty girl could go.”

“Moriarty!” cried Serena. “You’re simply insane, Jinky! Why, she’s the most--”

“I think she’s a pretty decent sort of kid. Anyhow, I’ll try.”

“But, Jinky, she’s ill--didn’t come down to dinner. She sent me word that she had an awful headache. There’s no use wasting time over her.”

“I’ll have a try at it,” persisted Jinky.

“Jinky!” said Serena, with fervor. “You’re a simply wonderful pal to me! I’ll never forget this--never!”

“I hope you won’t,” replied Jinky.

She went on up the stairs, and knocked on the Moriarty girl’s door.

“Who is it?” asked a cold voice.

“Let me in! I want to speak to you.”

The door was opened. Jinky went in and closed the door after her.

“Yes?” said Geraldine.

But Jinky did not answer for a moment. She was looking at Geraldine, studying her, with all her hard won wisdom. A child, she thought her--a lovely child, with her heavy hair in a braid, and her outgrown bath robe; but a child already half awakened to reality.

“Look here!” she said briefly. “Do you want a chance to do a decent thing?”

“I--what is it?”

“I’ll tell you,” said Jinky. “If you want to help, you can get dressed and run down to the Shore Road and meet Sam Randall--”

“No!” cried Geraldine. “I won’t! I won’t have anything to do with--with that!”

“You needn’t think it’s a grand operatic tragedy,” said Jinky. “Serena and Sam aren’t exactly Tristan and Isolde. There’s nothing very wicked in their little flirtation; but Jesse Page just came home in a pretty poisonous temper, and if Sambo comes back to the house now there’ll be trouble.”

“I don’t care!”

“I suppose you don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Jinky. “I hope you don’t. If you understood that you could stop a nasty scandal, and perhaps something even worse, and you just wouldn’t do it, and didn’t care--” She paused. “It’s serious,” she went on. “Jesse means business. You can help these people if you want to. If you don’t want to, all right! It’s up to you.”

This was the first time Geraldine had had a problem presented to her in such a way. There was no question of right or wrong. Evidently Jinky thought it didn’t matter whether these people deserved to be helped or not. She simply offered the other girl a chance to do a decent thing.

Geraldine looked at Jinky, and found Jinky looking at her; and Savonarola never preached a more eloquent sermon than Jinky did by her silence. She stood there, smoking her cigarette, a haggard, reckless, wasted young creature, just waiting to see if the other girl was willing to help. It was up to Geraldine.

“I’ll go,” she said.

“Moriarty,” cried Jinky, “you’re a little gentleman! Hurry up now! I’ll help you.”

Geraldine needed assistance. Her hands were so unsteady that she was glad to let Jinky pin up her hair and hook her belt.

“Now, step!” said Jinky. “And see here, Moriarty--better let Sambo run you down to the Abercrombies’ and tell them not to telephone here. See Olive Abercrombie yourself; she’s got a down on Sambo. Tell her not to say anything about anything. She’ll understand.”

Geraldine put on her hat and took up a scarf--a funny, old-fashioned knitted scarf that made Jinky smile. She could never afterward think of that evening without remembering the old scarf.

VIII

Sambo sat in his car, smoking, and contemplating the starry sky. He was very unhappy, very much troubled, and so intent upon his own affairs that Serena’s lateness had caused him no concern whatever. Indeed, when he thought of her at all, it was to wish that she would never come. He wished that he could start up his car and drive off somewhere--into another world.

Yet the world he was in was beautiful to-night. His car was drawn up beside a coppice of pine trees--brave, tall trees standing black against the sky, which was filled with the mild light of the stars. Behind him lay the sea. He could hear it breaking quietly on the sand, and the salt savor of it was in the air, with the aromatic fragrance of the pines. A beautiful world, and he was young and vigorous, and his pockets were well filled, and still he was saying to himself:

“I’m so sick of the whole show--so blamed sick of the whole thing!”

His quick ear caught the sound of footsteps hurrying along the road. He sighed, sat up a little straighter, and waited, with a resigned and somber expression upon his face. Now he realized that Serena was very late, and he thought he would be justified in being rather disagreeable about it. He didn’t want to see her, didn’t want to go to the Abercrombies’. He was mortally weary of all this.

The hurried steps drew nearer, and now he could dimly see an approaching figure. Serena never walked like that--never came light and swift, tall and free-moving as a young Diana! It looked like--but of course it couldn’t be. It seemed so only because he had been thinking so much of that other girl, and longing so much to see her.

He turned up the headlights of his car, sending a clear river of light along the road; and the hastening figure was plain to him now. It was Geraldine.

He sprang out of the car and went to meet her, his dark face all alight.

“Dear girl!” he cried. “Why, I couldn’t believe--”

She drew back a little.

“No!” she cried. “I--I only came--”

“I don’t care why you came,” he began. “You’re here--that’s enough!”

Then he noticed how anxious she was, how hurried, and how pale. The light died out of his face. He became grave, as she was.

“Anything wrong?” he asked.

His voice was gentle, and he stood before her with a sort of humility. He knew now that she had not come on his account, and he was terribly disappointed. She saw that, yet she felt that, after all, it would not be hard to explain to him, to ask anything of him. She felt sure that he would understand, and would do whatever she wanted; and that knowledge caused her an odd little thrill, half of pain, half of pride.

“Mr. Randall,” she said, “Mr. Page has come home, and--”

She stopped, and he saw a change come across her face--that cold and scornful look again. When she had to put this thing into words, the shamefulness and the ugliness of it were not to be disguised.

“So they sent me,” she went on curtly, “to say that you had better not come back now.”

“I see!” said Randall. “I’m to run away, when Jesse comes? Well, I won’t!”

She had not expected this.

“But don’t you see?” she said vehemently. “You’ll have to, on--on Mrs. Page’s account.”

“I won’t!” he declared again.

They were both silent for a moment.

“Look here!” he said abruptly. “How did you get mixed up in this? Why did you come?”

“Because--I wanted--to help,” she answered, as if the words were hard to speak.

Again there was a silence.

“All right!” he said, at last. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

She looked away as she answered:

“Miss--Jinky is the only name I know her by--she thought I’d better go and speak to Mrs. Abercrombie.”

“All right! Do you want me to run you down there now?”

“Yes, please.”

He opened the door of the car, but made no effort to help her in. Then, when she was seated, he got in beside her.

“Miss Moriarty!” he said. “Look here! Will you marry me?”

She was too much astounded to utter a word. She sat staring at him.

“You needn’t bother to answer,” he went on, without even turning his head toward her. “I know you won’t. I just wanted you to know that that was how I felt about you. Now you understand, anyhow!”

He started the engine, and the little car shot off smoothly along the road, under the shadow of trees, out into the open country, past wide and quiet fields, past little lighted houses. They went at a terrific speed. Geraldine closed her eyes, dazed by the rush of wind against her face, the steady hum of the engine, and the dark landscape that seemed to be streaming past her like a figured scarf.

Randall did not speak again, yet she could almost believe that this wild haste was the very voice of his reckless spirit. It was as if she were listening to him all the time, as if he were telling her again that he was lost--that he didn’t know where he was going, and didn’t care.

And a very passion of regret and pity seized upon her. She did not judge him now, or remember his misdeeds. She could not see him, but she knew so well how he looked--so young, so gallant, so debonair, and so pitiful. She was not frightened; she was sorrowfully resigned to go with him, rushing through the dark, whatever their destination.

Suddenly the car slowed down. Geraldine opened her eyes, faintly surprised to find the world so quiet again.

“Need gas,” he explained.

He stopped before a little gasoline station, theatrically brilliant against the dark trees. He jumped out, lifted the hood, looked in at the engine, was satisfied; and, closing the hood, turned to speak to the man who had come out of the station.

The thing that followed was utterly unreal. Geraldine saw him standing there, bareheaded, in his dinner jacket, in that brilliant light, like an actor on a stage. He had just lit a cigarette, and was smiling at something the garage man said, when another car came by and stopped with grating brakes, a voice shouted something, and a shot rang out. Before the girl could believe that it had happened, the other car had gone on, and Randall and the garage man stood there, motionless, white, as if listening intently to the shot that still echoed in the air.

“Get his number!” the man bawled suddenly.

She saw Randall put his hand into his pocket and bring out a roll of bills. She could not hear what he said, but it was a short enough speech. The man thrust the money into his own pocket, and ran to connect the hose. Randall climbed back into the car.

“That’s enough!” he said.

In a minute they were off again. They went around the drive before the station, turned homeward.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said curtly. Then, in a moment: “I suppose you’ve got to know. It was Page, trying a little melodrama. No harm done, but--but I wish to God you hadn’t got mixed up in it! I’m going to get you home as fast as I can. Just keep quiet about the whole thing, won’t you? Don’t--”

He stopped abruptly, and the car swerved to one side. He muttered something under his breath, and went on steadily again; but suspicion began to dawn upon her.

“Mr. Randall!” she cried. “Are you hurt?”

“No!” he replied, with a laugh--a strange laugh; “only--”

“Mr. Randall,” she said, “I’m sure--oh, please stop the car! I know you’re hurt!”

“Would you care, if I were?”

“Yes!” she cried. “Yes, I would care! Oh, please don’t go on! Stop the car, and let me see!”

But he went on along the smooth, empty road, not driving fast now, but very, very carefully.

“It would be worth a bullet through the head,” he said, “to hear you speak like that! But I’m not hurt--I’m--not--”

His labored voice almost broke her heart.

“Sambo!” she cried. “Please, please let me see! Stop! Stop!”

He did stop then. He put his arm about her, and drew her close to him.

“My little darling!” he said. “My little blessed angel! For you to care like this!”

She let her head rest against his shoulder. She let him kiss her pale, cold cheek. Then she began to sob.

“Tell me!” she pleaded.

“I’m not hurt,” he said gently. “Nothing for you to cry about, little sweetheart; only, don’t you see, you’ve got to get home quick, before he does? If you’ll go quietly to your room, and say nothing, there’ll be no harm done. Come, now!”

He took his arm from her shoulder, and started the engine. He went still faster now. She spoke, but he did not answer. His eyes were intent upon the road before him. He stopped at the foot of Serena’s garden.

“Now stroll up to the house as if you’d been taking a walk,” he said.

“No, I won’t! I can’t! I’m afraid you’re hurt!”

“Look here!” he said. “There’s just one thing on earth you can do for me, and that is to clear out. There’s nothing that could be so bad as your getting mixed up in this. I mean it! Don’t--don’t make it hard. Just go!”

She could not withstand his broken and anxious voice. She obeyed as a child obeys, leaden-hearted, in tears, only half comprehending, going simply because he entreated her to go. She opened the door of the car and got down into the road; but her scarf had caught in something. She pulled at it, jerked it upward, and still it held fast.

“Oh, go on!” he cried, as if in anger.

“It’s my scarf!” she explained, with a sob.

He turned to help her, tore the scarf loose, and then, with a strange little whistling sigh, doubled over, with his head lying against the side of the car.

“Mr. Randall!” she cried. “Sambo! Oh, what’s the matter?”

There was no answer from him. The engine was still running, the headlights were shining out in the dark. The car was like a living creature, trembling with impatience to be off, but the owner and master of it lay still and silent. Geraldine reached out her hand, and her fingers touched the soft, short hair on his temple.

“What shall I do?” she said to herself. “Oh, what shall I do?”

For a moment she was lost, panic-stricken, ready to sink down in the dust beside the car and hide her eyes; but not for long. Little by little her native courage flowed back. She grew strong again, and tried to face this situation with her old austere and straightforward mind.

“He’s fainted--that’s all,” she thought. “I must help him. I mustn’t call any one else, because that’s just what he doesn’t want. It would be unfair and cruel to call any one else, now that he’s--helpless!”

Helpless, this man who, not an hour ago, had been so vividly alive, so headstrong, so impetuous! Such pity seized her that she sobbed aloud. Her hand still rested upon his bent head. She drew nearer, and kissed his hair.

“Oh, Sambo, dear!” she said. “I will help you!”

Then she set off across the lawn that lay before her like a vast wilderness. She dared not hurry, lest some one might see her and question her. She had to go at a quiet and ordinary pace, had to restrain her passionate impulse to run.

“Brandy!” she thought. “That’s what they give people who faint. I’m sure there’s some on the sideboard in the dining room. I mustn’t be silly. I mustn’t let go of myself!”

She had left him there alone, unconscious and helpless, but she must not run. Nobody else must know. As she passed the front of the house, she heard the sound of music and dancing feet from the drawing-room, and she went by, carefully avoiding the bright rectangles of light from the windows. On the buffet were three decanters. She was not quite sure which was the brandy, but there was no time for hesitation. She poured out a glassful from what she hoped was the right one, and turned toward the window again.

A voice spoke behind her.

“Caught in the act!” It was Serena. She stood in the doorway, gay and glittering, her face bright with a feverish excitement. “I’d never have thought it of you!” she said, laughing.

Geraldine stood like a statue, with the glass in her hand. It was horrible to her to be caught like this, to be judged guilty as these others were guilty; but it never occurred to her to invent a plausible lie. Serena might think what she liked; there would be no explanation. The girl turned to face her.

“I needed it,” she said.

“It’s a pretty stiff--” Serena began, and stopped short, staring at the girl. “My God!” she cried. “What’s happened? Your scarf--”

Geraldine looked down. One side of the scarf about her shoulders was sodden and stained with blood.

The glass dropped from her hand and crashed upon the floor, and a sickening blackness swam before her eyes. She stretched out her hands, and they touched nothing. Her knees gave way, and she staggered back. Then, with a supreme effort, she recovered herself. She leaned against the wall, sick and trembling, until the wild chaos in her brain passed by. She heard Serena speaking. Presently she could see Serena’s frightened face before her.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” she was saying.

“It’s Sambo,” said Geraldine, with an effort. “He’s hurt. Send some one to bring him in!”

“In here? Where is he?”

“Down on the North Road, in his car. Send some one--”

Serena came nearer.

“See here, Geraldine!” she whispered. “I can’t! Wait! Let’s see--let’s think how we can get him away!”

“I tell you he’s hurt!” insisted Geraldine. “Send some one--”

“Hush! Not so loud! I can’t have him here! You don’t understand. I’ve had the most awful time with Jesse! I had to promise I’d never speak to Sambo again. I simply can’t--”

“I tell you he’s hurt!” reiterated Geraldine, with a sort of horror. “It may be serious. He may be--”

Serena began to cry.

“I can’t help it! I’m awfully sorry, but I simply can’t have any more trouble with Jesse. You ought to see that--”

“Mrs. Page,” said Geraldine, “he may be dying. He’s got to be brought in here at once!”

“I can’t help it!” cried Serena petulantly. “Sam Randall is nothing to me, and Jesse is simply everything. Jesse’s the only man I ever really cared for, and I won’t--”

“You beast!” said Geraldine.

Serena stared at her in blank astonishment. It was incredible that the cold and correct Miss Moriarty should have said that.

“I’m surprised--” she began, but Geraldine would not listen.

“A beast!” she said again. “You will have him in here, too!”

“I won’t!” declared Serena.

“Yes, you will!” said Geraldine.

She stood holding the stained scarf against her heart, and it was as if she held him, as if she were sheltering and defending the man who had done so gallant a thing for her. Wounded and suffering, his one thought had been for her--to protect her good name, to bring her safely home. He was helpless now, and it was her turn. Nothing else mattered. All her stern reserve, her stiff-necked dignity, her pride, were flung to the winds. She was ready to fight for him, to defy all the world for his sake.

“Send some one out for him at once!” she said. “He’s been shot--and I know who shot him. It was your--”

“Hush! Not so loud, you horrible girl!”

“I don’t care!” said Geraldine. “I don’t care who hears me! He’s been shot. He’s going to be brought in here and taken care of, no matter what it means to you or any one else. If you won’t do it, then I’m going to--”

“Wait!” whispered Serena. “Oh, what shall I do? Oh, can’t you see?”

“No!” said Geraldine. “I don’t care about anything but Sambo!”

IX

When young Randall opened his eyes again, he found himself back in his room at the Pages’. He lay still for a moment, remembering. The window was open, and the dark blue silk curtains fluttered, giving a glimpse of darkness outside. The room was filled with a mild, quiet light, however, and he felt sure that some one was there. He could not turn; his shoulder was stiff and painful, and a mortal weariness weighed him down. He tried to speak, and could not. All that he could manage was to draw one hand across the cover a little way.

But it was enough. Geraldine saw it. She came and stood beside him, grave and lovely as ever, so untroubled, so quiet.

“Everything’s all right,” she said gently. “The doctor’s seen you. You’re very weak, but he says you’ll soon--”

She stopped, because it was so hard to see him there, white and still, with that mute appeal in his eyes.

“You’re getting on nicely!” she said, with a sudden brisk cheerfulness.

Then he managed to speak.

“No!” he said, in that old defiant way of his.

That was more than Geraldine could bear. She knelt down beside him and laid her hand over his. She did not know how to say the words he wanted to hear. She could only look and look at him, with tears in her eyes and a little anxious, trembling smile on her lips.

Again he tried to speak, but only one word came:

“Love!” he said faintly.

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

FEBRUARY, 1926 Vol. LXXXVII NUMBER 1

The Thing Beyond Reason

A COMPLETE SHORT NOVEL--THE STORY OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE THAT LED LEXY MORAN TO A HOUSE OF TRAGEDY AND MYSTERY IN THE SUBURBS OF NEW YORK

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

Author of “Angelica,” etc.

The house was very quiet to-night. There was nothing to disturb Miss Alexandra Moran but the placid ticking of the clock and the faint stir of the curtains at the open window. For that matter, a considerable amount of noise would not have troubled her just then. As she sat at the library table, the light of the shaded lamp shone upon her bright, ruffled head bent over her work in fiercest concentration. She was chewing the end of a badly damaged lead pencil, and she was scowling.

“No!” she said, half aloud. “Won’t do! It can’t be ‘fix’; but, by jiminy, I’ll get it if it takes all night!”

She laid down the pencil and sat back in the chair, with her arms folded. Though her present difficulty concerned nothing more serious than a cross-word puzzle, an observer might have learned a good deal of Miss Moran’s character from her manner of dealing with it. The puzzle itself, with its neat, clear little letters printed in the squares, would have been a revelation that whatever she undertook she did carefully and intelligently--and obstinately.

She was a young little thing, only twenty-three, and quite alone in the world, but not at all dismayed by that. Her father had died some three years ago, and, instead of leaving the snug little fortune she had been taught to expect, he had left nothing at all; so that at twenty she had had her first puzzle to solve--how to keep alive without eating the bread of charity.

Copyright 1926, by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

It was no easy matter for a girl who was still in boarding school, but she had done it. She had come to New York and had found a post as nursery governess, and later as waitress in a tea room, and then in the art department of an enormous store. She had gained no tangible profit from these three years, she had no balance in the bank, but that did not trouble her. She had learned that she could stand on her own feet, that she could trust herself; and with this knowledge and the experience she had had, and her quick wits and splendid health, she felt herself fully armed against the world. Indeed, she had not a care on earth this evening except the cross-word puzzle.

“It must be ‘tocsin,’” she said to herself. “There’s something wrong with the verticals. It can’t be ‘fix,’ and yet--”

The telephone bell rang. Still pondering her problem, Lexy went across the room.

“Is Miss Enderby there?” asked a man’s voice.

“She’s out,” answered Lexy cheerfully.

“No!” said the man’s voice. “She can’t--I--for God’s sake, where’s Miss Enderby?”

“She’s out,” Lexy repeated, startled. “She went to the opera with her mother and father.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Mrs. Enderby’s secretary.”

“Look here! Didn’t Miss Enderby say anything? Isn’t there any sort of message for me?”

“Nothing that I know of. The servants have gone to bed, but I’ll ask them, if it’s anything important.”

“No!” said the voice. “Don’t! No, never mind! Good-by!”

“That’s queer!” said Lexy to herself, as she walked away from the instrument, and then she dismissed the matter from her mind. “None of my business!” she thought, and returned to her puzzle.

Suddenly an inspiration came.

“It is ‘fix’!” she cried. “And it’s not ‘tocsin,’ but ‘toxins’! Hurrah!”

This practically completed the puzzle, and she began to fill in the empty squares with the peculiar satisfaction of the cross-word enthusiast. It was perfect, now, and she liked things to be perfect.

As she leaned back, with a contented sigh, the clock struck twelve.

“Golly! I didn’t realize it was so late!” she reflected. “Queer time for any one to ring up!”

She frowned again. Her special problem solved, she began to take more interest in other affairs; and the more she thought of the telephone incident, the more it amazed her. Caroline Enderby wasn’t like other girls. The mere fact of a man’s telephoning to her at all was strange and indeed unprecedented.

“And he was badly upset, too,” thought Lexy. “He asked if she left a message for him. Think of Caroline Enderby leaving a message for a man!”

She began to feel impatient for Caroline’s return.

“I’ll tell her when we’re alone,” she thought; “and she’ll have to explain--a little, anyhow.”

Lexy wanted an explanation very much, because she was fond of Caroline, and very sorry for her.

Mrs. Enderby was a Frenchwoman of the old-fashioned, conservative type, with the most rigid ideas about the bringing up of a young girl, and her husband--Lexy had often wondered what Mr. Enderby had been before his marriage, for now he was nothing but a grave and dignified echo of his wife. Between them, they had educated Caroline in a disastrous fashion. She had never even been to school. She had had governesses at home, and when a male teacher came in, for music or painting lessons, Mrs. Enderby had always sat in the room with her child. Caroline never went out of the house alone. She was utterly cut off from the normal life of other girls. She was a gentle, lovely creature--a little unreal, Lexy had thought her, at first; and she, at first, had been afraid of Lexy.

Mrs. Enderby had advertised for a secretary, and Lexy had answered the advertisement. Mrs. Enderby had wanted personal references, and Lexy had supplied them, some five or six, of the highest quality. Mrs. Enderby had investigated them with remarkable thoroughness, and had asked Lexy many questions. Indeed, it had taken ten days to satisfy her that Miss Moran was a fit person to come into her house, and Lexy had lived under her roof and under her eagle eye for a month before she was allowed to be alone with Caroline. After that first month, however, Mrs. Enderby had made up her mind that Lexy was to be trusted, and the thin pretext of “secretary” was dropped.

Mrs. Enderby suffered from a not uncommon form of insomnia. She could not sleep at convenient hours--at night, for instance--but could and did sleep at very inconvenient hours during the day; and what she wanted was not a secretary, but a companion for her daughter during these hours.

She realized, too, that even the most strictly brought up jeune fille needed some sort of youthful society, and in Lexy she had found pretty well what she wanted--a well mannered, well bred young woman of unimpeachable honesty. So she had permitted Lexy and Caroline to go shopping alone, and sometimes to a matinée or to a tea room. She asked them shrewd questions when they came home, and their answers satisfied her perfectly. They had never even spoken to a man!

“And yet,” thought Miss Moran, “somehow Caroline has been carrying on with some one, without even me finding out! I didn’t know she had it in her!”

Lexy yawned mightily. She was growing very sleepy, but not for worlds would she go to bed until she had seen Caroline. She lay down on the divan, her hands clasped under her head, and let all sorts of little idle thoughts drift through her mind. Now and then a taxi went by, but this street in the East Sixties was a very quiet one. The house was so very still, and there was nothing in her own young heart to trouble her. Her eyes closed.

She was half asleep when the sound of Mrs. Enderby’s voice in the hall brought her to her feet. It was a penetrating voice, with a trace of foreign accent, and it was not a voice that Lexy loved. She went out of the library into the hall.

“Did you enjoy--” she began politely, and then stopped short. “But where’s Caroline?” she cried.

“Caroline? But at home, of course,” answered Mrs. Enderby.

“At home? Here?”

“But certainly! She had a headache. At the last moment she decided not to go with us. You were not here when we left, Miss Moran.”

“I know,” murmured Lexy. “I had just run out to the drug store; but--”

“She went directly to bed,” Mrs. Enderby continued. “I thought, however, that she would have sent for you during the course of the evening.”

“Oh, I see!” said Lexy casually.

At heart, however, she was curiously uneasy. Mr. Enderby stopped for a moment, to give her some kindly information about the opera they had heard. Then he and his wife ascended the stairs, followed by Lexy; and with every step her uneasiness grew. She was sure that Caroline would have sent for her if she had been in the house.

Mrs. Enderby paused outside her child’s door.

“The light is out,” she said. “She will be asleep. I shall not disturb her. Good night, Miss Moran!”

“Good night, Mrs. Enderby!” Lexy answered, and went into her own room.

She gave Mrs. Enderby twenty minutes to get safely stowed away; then she went out quietly into the hall, to Caroline’s room. She knocked softly; there was no answer. She turned the handle and went in; the room was dark and very still. She switched on the light.

It was as she had expected--the room was empty. Caroline was not there.

II

Lexy’s first impulse was to close the door of that empty room, and to hold her tongue. It seemed to her that it would be treachery to Caroline to tell Mrs. Enderby. She and Caroline were both young, both of the same generation; they ought to stand loyally together against the tyrannical older people.

“Because, golly, what a row there’d be if Mrs. Enderby ever knew she’d gone out!” Lexy thought.

That was how she saw it, at first. Caroline had pretended to have a headache so that she would be left behind, and would get a chance to slip out alone. It was simply a lark. Lexy had known such things to happen often before, at boarding school; and the unthinkable and impossible thing was for one girl to tell on another.

“She’ll be back soon,” thought Lexy, “and she’ll tell me all about it.”

So she went into Caroline’s room, to wait. It was a charming room, pink and white, like Caroline herself. Lexy turned on the switch, and two rose-shaded lamps blossomed out like flowers. She sat down on a chaise longue, and stretched herself out, yawning. On the desk before her was Caroline’s writing apparatus, a quill pen of old rose, an ivory desk set, everything so dainty and orderly; only poor Caroline had no friends, and never had letters to write or to answer.

“I wonder who on earth that was on the telephone,” Lexy reflected. “It was queer--just on the only night of her life when she’d ever gone out on her own. And he sounded so terribly upset! It was queer. Perhaps--”

She was aware of a fast-growing oppression. The influence of Caroline’s room was beginning to tell upon her. Caroline didn’t understand about larks. She wasn’t that sort of girl. Quiet, shy, and patient, she had never shown any trace of resentment against her restricted life, or any desire for the good times that other girls of her age enjoyed. The more Lexy thought about it, the more clearly she realized the strangeness of all this, and the more uneasy she became.

When the little Dresden clock on the mantelpiece struck one, it came as a shock. Lexy sprang to her feet and looked about the room, filled with unreasoning fear. One o’clock, and Caroline hadn’t come back! Suppose--suppose she never came back?

Lexy dismissed that idea with healthy scorn. Things like that didn’t happen; and yet--what was it that gave to the pink and white lamplit room such an air of being deserted?

“Why, the photographs are gone!” she cried.

She noticed now for the first time that the photographs of Mr. and Mrs. Enderby in silver frames, which had always stood on the writing desk, were not standing there now.

She turned to the bureau. Caroline’s silver toilet set was not there. She made a rapid survey of the room, and she made sure of her suspicions. Caroline had gone deliberately, taking with her all the things she would need on a short trip.

“I’ve got to tell Mrs. Enderby now,” she thought. “It’s only fair.”

She went out into the corridor, closing the door behind her, and turned toward Mrs. Enderby’s room. She was very, very reluctant, for she dreaded to break the peace of the quiet house by this dramatic announcement. She hated anything in the nature of the sensational. Level-headed, cool, practical, her instinct was to make light of all this, to insist that nothing was really wrong. Caroline had gone, and that was that.

“There’s going to be such a fuss!” she thought. “If there’s anything I loathe, it’s a fuss.”

And all the time, under her cool and sensible exterior, she was frightened. She felt that after all she was very young, and very inexperienced, in a world where things--anything--things beyond her knowledge--might happen.

She knocked upon the door lightly--so lightly that no one heard her; and she had to knock again. This time Mrs. Enderby opened the door.

“Well?” she asked, not very amiably.

“I thought I ought to tell you--” Lexy began; and still she hesitated, moved by the unaccountable feeling that this might be treachery to Caroline.

“Tell me what?” asked Mrs. Enderby. “Come, if you please, Miss Moran! Tell me at once!”

“Caroline’s gone.”

The words were spoken. Lexy waited in great alarm, wondering if Mrs. Enderby would faint or scream.

The lady did neither. She came out into the corridor, shutting the door of her room behind her, and her first word and her only word was:

“Hush!”

Then she glanced about her at the closed doors, and, taking Lexy’s arm in a firm grip, hurried her to Caroline’s room. Not until they were shut in there did she speak again.

“Now tell me!” she said. “Speak very low. You said--Caroline has gone?”

“Yes,” said Lexy. “I came in here after you’d gone to bed, and--you can see for yourself--the bed hasn’t been slept in. She’s taken her things--her brush and comb and--”

“And she told you--what?”

“Me? Why, nothing!” answered Lexy, in surprise. “I didn’t see her. I haven’t seen her since dinner.”

“But you know,” said Mrs. Enderby. “You know where she has gone.”

She spoke with cool certainty, and her black eyes were fixed upon Lexy with a far from pleasant expression.

Lexy looked back at her with equal steadiness.

“Mrs. Enderby,” she said, “I don’t know.”

Mrs. Enderby shrugged her shoulders.

“Very well!” she said. “You do not know exactly where she has gone. Bien, alors! You guess, eh?”

“No,” answered Lexy, bewildered. “I don’t. I can’t.”

“She has spoken to you of some--friend?”

Seeing Lexy still frankly bewildered, Mrs. Enderby lost her patience.

“The man!” she said. “Who is the man?”

“I never heard Caroline speak of any man,” said Lexy.

She spoke firmly enough, and she was telling the truth; but she remembered that telephone call, and the memory brought a faint flush into her cheeks. Mrs. Enderby did not fail to notice it.

“Listen!” she said. “There is one thing you can do--only one thing. You can hold your tongue. Tell no one. Let no one know that Caroline is not here. You understand?”

“But aren’t you going to--”

“I am going to do nothing. You understand--nothing. There is to be no scandal in my house.”

“But, Mrs. Enderby!”

“Hush! No one must know of this. To-morrow morning I shall have a letter from Caroline.”

“Oh!” said Lexy, with a sigh of genuine relief. “Oh, then you know where she’s gone!”

“I?” replied Mrs. Enderby. “I know nothing. This has come to me from a clear sky. I have always tried to safeguard my child. I--”

She paused for a moment, and for the first time Lexy pitied her.

“It is the American blood in her,” Mrs. Enderby went on. “No French girl would treat her parents so; but in this country--She has gone with some fortune hunter. To-morrow I shall have a letter that she is married. ‘Please forgive me, chère Maman,’ she will say. ‘I am so happy. I, at nineteen, and of an ignorance the most complete, have made my choice without you.’ That is the American way, is it not? That is your ‘romance,’ eh? My one child--”

Her voice broke.

“No more!” she said. “It is finished. But--attend, Miss Moran! There must be no scandal. No one is to know that she is not here.”

She turned and walked out of the room. Lexy sank into a chair.

“I don’t care!” she said to herself. “She’s wrong--I know it! It’s not what she thinks. Caroline’s not like that. Something dreadful has happened!”

III

It seemed perfectly natural to be awakened in the morning by Mrs. Enderby’s hand on her shoulder, and to look up into Mrs. Enderby’s flashing black eyes. Lexy had gone to sleep dominated by the thought of that masterful woman. She vaguely remembered having dreamed of her, and when she opened her eyes--there she was.

“Get up!” said Mrs. Enderby in a low voice. “Go into Caroline’s room. When Annie comes with the breakfast tray, take it from her at the door. I have told her that Caroline is ill with a headache. You understand?”

“Yes, Mrs. Enderby,” answered Lexy.

She sprang out of bed and began to dress, filled with an unreasoning sense of haste. It wasn’t a dream, then--it was true. Caroline had gone, and there was something Lexy must do for her. She could not have explained what this something was, but it oppressed and worried her. She could not rid herself of the feeling that she was not being loyal to Caroline.

“And yet,” she thought, “I had to tell Mrs. Enderby she wasn’t there. I suppose I ought to have told her about that telephone call, too, but I hate to do it! I know Caroline wouldn’t like me to; and what good can it do, anyhow? Whoever it was, he didn’t know where she was. It was the queerest thing--a man asking, ‘For God’s sake, where’s Miss Enderby?’ when she wasn’t here! No, Mrs. Enderby is wrong. Caroline hasn’t just gone away of her own accord. She’s not that sort of girl. Something has happened!”

Lexy finished dressing and went into Caroline’s room. In the gay April sunshine, that dainty room seemed almost unbearably forlorn.

She went over to the window and looked down into the street. People were passing by, and taxis, and private cars--all the ordinary, casual, cheerful daily life at which Caroline Enderby had so often looked out, like a poor enchanted princess in a tower. A wave of pity and affection rose in Lexy’s heart.

“Oh, poor Caroline!” she said to herself. “Such a dull, miserable life! I do wish--”

There was a knock at the door, and she hurried across the room to open it. The parlor maid stood there with a tray. Lexy took it from her with a pleasant “good morning,” and closed the door again. Caroline’s breakfast! There was something disturbing in the sight of that carefully prepared tray, ready for the girl who was not there.

The door opened--without a preliminary knock, this time--and Mrs. Enderby came in. She turned the key behind her, and, without a word, went over to the bed and pulled off the covers. Then she went into the adjoining bathroom and started the water running in the tub. This done, she sat down at the table and began to eat the breakfast on the tray.

Lexy stood watching all this with indignation and a sort of horror.

“All she cares about is keeping up appearances,” the girl thought. “The only thing that worries her is that some one might find out. She doesn’t know where poor Caroline is--and she can sit down and eat! I’m comparatively a stranger, and even I--”

Lexy was an honest soul, however. The fragrance of coffee and rolls reached her, and she admitted in her heart that she, too, could eat, if she had a chance.

Mrs. Enderby was not going to give her a chance just yet. She finished her meal and rose.

“Now!” she said. “Just what is gone from here? We shall look.”

So they looked, in the wardrobe, in the drawers, even in the orderly desk. Very little was gone.

“And now,” said Mrs. Enderby, “you lent her--how much money, Miss Moran?”

“I never lent her a penny in my life,” replied Lexy.

Mrs. Enderby’s tone aroused a spirit of obstinate defiance in her. Those flashing black eyes were fixed upon her with an expression which did not please Lexy, and Lexy looked back with an expression which did not please Mrs. Enderby.

“So you will not tell me what you know!” said Mrs. Enderby, with a chilly smile.

It was on the tip of Lexy’s tongue to say, with considerable warmth, that she had told all she knew; but the memory of the telephone call checked her.

“If I tell her about that,” she thought, “she’ll just say, ‘Ah, I thought so!’ And she’ll be surer than ever that Caroline has eloped with a fortune hunter, and she won’t make any effort to find her. No--I’m not going to tell her until she gets really frightened.” Aloud she said: “I’ll do anything in the world that I can do, Mrs. Enderby, to help you find Caroline.”

“It is not necessary,” said Mrs. Enderby. “I shall have her letter.”

There was another tap at the door. Mrs. Enderby closed the door leading into the bathroom, and then called:

“Come in!”

The parlor maid entered.

“You may take away the tray,” her mistress said graciously. “Miss Enderby has finished.”

Again a feeling that was almost horror came over Lexy. There was the bed Caroline had slept in, there was the breakfast Caroline had eaten, there was Caroline’s bath running--and Caroline wasn’t there! Lexy wanted to get out of that room and away from Mrs. Enderby.

“Do you mind if I go down and get my own breakfast now?” she asked, when the parlor maid had gone out with the tray.

“But certainly not!” Mrs. Enderby blandly consented. “We shall go down together.”

She turned off the water in the bath, and, following Lexy out of the room, locked the door on the outside. The girl dropped behind her as they descended the stairs, and studied the stout, dignified figure before her with indignant interest.

“A mother!” she thought. “A mother, behaving like this! How long is she going to wait for her letter, I wonder? Well, if she won’t do anything, then, by jiminy, I will!”

A fresh example of Mrs. Enderby’s remarkable strength of mind awaited them. Mr. Enderby was already seated at the table in the dining room. As his wife entered, he rose, with his invariable politeness, and one glance at his ruddy, cheerful face convinced Lexy that he knew nothing of what had happened.

“Caroline has a headache,” Mrs. Enderby explained. “It will be better for her to rest for a little.”

“Ah! Too bad!” said he. “Don’t think she gets out in the air enough. Er--good morning, Miss Moran!”

Lexy almost forgot to answer him, so intent was she upon watching Mrs. Enderby open her letters. There must, she thought, be some change in that calm, pale face when she didn’t find a letter from Caroline, there must be something to break this inhuman tranquillity.

But nothing broke it. Mr. Enderby ate his breakfast, and his wife chatted affably with him while she glanced over her mail. The sunshine poured into the room, gleaming on silver and linen, and on the cheerful young parlor maid moving quietly about her duties. It was a morning just like other mornings; and, in spite of herself, Lexy’s feeling of dread and oppression began to lighten. Mr. Enderby was so thoroughly unperturbed, Mrs. Enderby was so serene and majestic, the house was so bright and pleasant in the spring morning, that it was hard to believe that anything could be really amiss.

“But I don’t care!” she thought sturdily. “I know there is!”

Mr. Enderby finished his breakfast and rose, and, as usual, his wife accompanied him to the front door. Alone in the dining room, Lexy made haste to finish her own meal. Just as she pushed back her chair, Mrs. Enderby returned.

“I shall ring, Annie,” she told the parlor maid, and the girl disappeared. Then she turned to Lexy. “The letter has come,” she said.

Lexy stared at her with such an expression of amazement and dismay that Mrs. Enderby smiled.

“You are very young,” she said. “You wish always for the dramatic. When you have lived as long as I, you will see that such things do not happen.”

She spoke kindly, and Lexy saw in her dark eyes a look of weariness and pain.

“No, my child,” she went on. “In this life it is always the same things that happen again and again. At twenty, one breaks the heart for a man; at forty, one breaks the heart for one’s child. There is only that--and money. Love and money--nothing else!”

Lexy felt extraordinarily sorry for Mrs. Enderby; but even yet she couldn’t quite believe that Caroline could have done such a thing.

“But do you mean that she’s really--that she’s--” she began.

“See, then!” said Mrs. Enderby. “Here is the letter!”

Lexy took it from her, and read:

CHERE MAMAN:

I only beg you and papa to forgive me for what I have done; but I knew that if I told you, you would not have let me go. When you get this I shall be married. To-morrow I shall write again, to tell you where I am, and to beg you to let me bring my husband to you.

Oh, please, dear, dear mother and father, forgive me!

Your loving, loving daughter, CAROLINE.

“You see!” said Mrs. Enderby. “It is as I told you.”

There were tears in Lexy’s eyes as she put the letter back into the envelope.

“It doesn’t seem a bit like Caroline, though,” she remarked.

Mrs. Enderby smiled again, faintly, and held out her hand for the letter. Lexy returned it to her, with an almost mechanical glance at the postmark--“Wyngate, Connecticut.”

All her defiance had vanished. She was obliged to admit now that Mrs. Enderby was wise, and that she herself was--

“A little fool!” said Lexy candidly to herself.

IV

“Do you mind if I go out for a walk?” asked the crestfallen Lexy; for that was her instinct in any sort of trouble--to get out into the fresh air and walk.

“No,” answered Mrs. Enderby; “but I shall ask you to return in half an hour. There is much to be done.”

“Done!” cried Lexy. “But what can be done--now?”

“That I shall tell you when you return,” said Mrs. Enderby. “In the meantime, I trust you to say nothing of all this to any person whatever. You understand, Miss Moran?”

Miss Moran certainly did not understand, but she gave her promise to keep silent, and, putting on her hat and coat, hurried out of the house. Mighty glad she was to get out, too!

“But why make a mystery of it like this?” she thought. “Every one has to know, sooner or later, and it’s so--so ghastly, pretending that Caroline’s there! Oh, it doesn’t seem possible, Caroline running off like that, and I never even dreaming she was the least bit interested in any man! I don’t see how she could have seen any one or written to any one without my knowing it. It doesn’t seem possible!”

She had reached the corner of Fifth Avenue, and was waiting for a halt in the traffic, when she became aware of a young man who was standing near her and staring at her. She glanced carelessly at him, and he took off his hat, but he got no acknowledgment of his salute. He was a stranger, and she meant him to remain a stranger. The bright-haired, sturdy little Lexy was a very pretty girl, and she was not unaccustomed to strange young men who stared. She knew how to handle them.

As she crossed the avenue, he crossed, too. When she entered the park, he followed. Now Lexy was never tolerant of this sort of thing, and to-day, in her anxiety and distress, she was less so than ever. She turned her head and looked the young man squarely in the face with a scornful and frigid look; and he took off his hat again!

“Just you say one word,” said she to herself, “and I’ll call a policeman!”

Yet, as she walked briskly on, something in the man’s expression haunted her. He didn’t look like that sort of man. His sunburned face somehow seemed to her a very honest one, and the expression on it was not at all flirtatious, but terribly troubled and unhappy.

“Perhaps he thinks he knows me,” she thought. “Well, he doesn’t, and he’s not going to, either!”

And she dismissed him from her mind.

“When did Caroline go?” she pondered, continuing her own miserable train of thought. “While I was doing cross words in the library? If she went out by the front door, she must have gone right past the library. She must have known I was there--and not even to say good-by!”

It hurt. She had grown very fond of the shy, quiet Caroline, and she had firmly believed that Caroline was fond of her. What is more, she had thought Caroline trusted her.

“She didn’t though. All the time, when we were so friendly together, she must have been planning this and--what?”

She stopped short, her dark brows meeting in a fierce frown, for the unknown man had come up beside her and spoken to her.

“Excuse me!” he said.

Lexy only looked at him, but he did not wither and perish under her scorn.

“I’ve got to speak to you,” he said. “It’s--look here! I’ve been waiting outside the house all morning. Look here, please! You’re Lexy, aren’t you?”

This was a little too much!

“If you don’t stop bothering me this instant--” she began hotly, but he paid no heed.

“Where’s Miss Enderby?” he cried.

Lexy grew very pale. Those were the words she had heard over the telephone last night, and this was the same voice.

For a moment she was silent, staring at him, while he looked back at her, his blue eyes searching her face with a look of desperate entreaty. All her doubts vanished. She had not been wrong. She had been right--she was sure of it. She knew that something had happened--something inexplicable and dreadful.

“Please tell me!” he said. “You don’t know--you can’t know--she told me you were her friend.”

“But who are you?” cried Lexy.

His face flushed under the sunburn.

“I--” he began, and stopped. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” he went on. “I’d like to, but, you see, I can’t. If you’ll just tell me where Car--Miss Enderby is! She’s safe at home, isn’t she? She--of course she is! She must be! She--she is, isn’t she?”

“Well,” said Lexy slowly, “I don’t see how I can tell you anything at all. I don’t know what right you have to ask any questions. I don’t know who you are, or anything about you.”

“No,” he replied, “I know that; but, after all, it’s not much of a question, is it--just if Miss Enderby’s all right?”

Lexy felt very sorry for him, in his obvious struggle to speak quietly and reasonably. She wanted to answer him promptly and candidly, for his sake and for her own, because she felt sure that he could tell her something about Caroline; but she had promised Mrs. Enderby to say nothing.

“It’s so silly!” she thought, exasperated. “If I could tell him, I might find out--”

Find out what? Hadn’t Caroline written to say that she had gone away to get married? In a day or two, probably to-morrow, they would learn all the details from Caroline herself. This unhappy young man couldn’t know anything. Indeed, he was asking for information.

Who could he possibly be? A rival suitor? Lexy remembered Caroline’s pitifully restricted life. Two suitors of whom she had never heard? It wasn’t possible!

“No,” she thought. “There’s something queer--something wrong!”

“Look here!” the young man said again. “Aren’t you going to answer me? Just tell me she’s all right, and--”

“What makes you think she isn’t?” asked Lexy cautiously.

He looked straight into her face.

“You’re playing with me,” he said. “You’re fencing with me, to make me give myself away; and it’s a pretty rotten thing to do!”

“Rotten?” Lexy repeated indignantly. “Rotten, not to answer questions from a perfect stranger?”

“Yes,” he said, “it is; because that’s a question you could answer for any one. I’ve only asked you if Miss Enderby is--all right.”

This high-handed tone didn’t suit Lexy at all. He was actually presuming to be angry, and that made her angry.

“I shan’t tell you anything at all,” she said, and began to walk on again.

He put on his hat and turned away, but in a moment he was back at her side.

“Look here!” he said. “Caroline told me you were her friend. She said you could be trusted. All right--I am trusting you. I’ve felt, all along, that there was--something wrong. I’ve got to know! If you’ll give me your word that she’s safe at home, I’ll clear out, and apologize for having made a first-class fool of myself; but if she’s not, I ought to know!”

Lexy stopped again. Their eyes met in a long, steady glance.

“I can’t answer any questions this morning,” she told him. “I promised I wouldn’t.”

“Then there is something wrong!” the young man exclaimed.

He was silent for a long time, staring at the ground, and Lexy waited, with a fast beating heart, for some word that would enlighten her. At last he looked up.

“I’ve got to trust you,” he said simply. “Caroline meant to tell you, anyhow. You see”--he paused--“I’m Charles Houseman, the man she’s going to marry.”

“Oh!” cried Lexy.

“Now you’ll tell me, won’t you?”

She stared and stared at him, filled with amazement and pity. Such a nice-looking, straightforward, manly sort of fellow--and such a look of pain and bewilderment in his blue eyes!

“But--did she say she would marry you?”

“Of course she did! She--look here! You don’t know what I’ve been through. It was I who telephoned last night. I--”

“But why did you? Oh, please tell me! I am Caroline’s friend--truly her friend. I want to understand!”

“All right!” he said. “I telephoned because I was waiting for her, and she didn’t come.”

“Waiting for--Caroline?”

“We had arranged to get married last night. She was to meet me, but she didn’t come,” he said, a little unsteadily. “Perhaps she just changed her mind. Perhaps she doesn’t want to see me any more. If that’s the case, I’ll trust you not to mention anything about me--to any one. You see now, don’t you, that I--I had to know?”

Lexy’s eyes filled with tears. Moved by a generous impulse, she held out her hand.

“I’m so awfully sorry!” she cried.

“Why? You mean--for God’s sake, tell me! You mean she has changed her mind?”

“I can’t tell you--not now.”

“You can’t leave it at that,” said he. He had taken her outstretched hand, and he held it tight. “I ought to know what has happened. I can’t believe that Caroline would let me down like that. She--she’s not that sort of girl. Something’s gone wrong. She wouldn’t leave me waiting and waiting there for her at Wyngate.”

“Wyngate!” cried Lexy. “But that was--”

She stopped abruptly. Caroline’s letter had been postmarked “Wyngate.” She had gone there to meet--some one. She had married--some one.

“I can’t understand,” Lexy went on. “It’s terrible! I can’t tell you now; but I’ll meet you here this afternoon, after lunch--about two o’clock--and I’ll tell you then.”

She turned away, then, in haste to get back to Mrs. Enderby, but he stopped her.

“Remember!” he said sternly. “I’ve trusted you. If Caroline hasn’t told her people about me, you mustn’t mention my name. I gave her my word that I would let her do the telling. I didn’t want it that way, but I promised her, and you’ve got to do the same. If she hasn’t told about me, you’re not to.”

“Oh, Lord!” cried poor Lexy. “Well, all right, I won’t! Now, for goodness’ sake, go away, and let me alone--to do the best I can!”

V

Lexy was late. The half hour had been considerably exceeded when she ran up the steps of the Enderbys house. She rang the bell, and the door was opened promptly by Annie.

“Mrs. Enderby would like to see you at once, miss,” the parlor maid said primly.

But Lexy stopped to look covertly at Annie. Did she know anything? It was possible. Anything was possible now. Lexy was obliged to admit, however, that Annie had no appearance of guilt or mystery. A brisk and sober woman of middle age, who had been with the family for nearly ten years, she looked nothing more or less than disapproving because this young person had presumed to keep Mrs. Enderby waiting for several minutes.

“Anyhow, I can’t ask her,” thought Lexy. “That’s the worst part of all this--I can’t ask anybody anything without breaking a promise to somebody else; and yet everybody ought to know everything!”

In miserable perplexity, she went upstairs to Mrs. Enderby’s sitting room. Only one thing was clear in her mind, and that was that she must be freed from her weak-minded promise not to mention Caroline’s absence.

“And that’s not going to be easy,” she reflected, “when I can’t explain to her. There’ll be a row. Well, I don’t care!”

She did care, however. She respected Mrs. Enderby, and in her secret heart she was a little afraid of her. She felt very young, very crude and blundering, in the presence of that masterful woman; and she doubted her own wisdom.

“But what can I do?” she thought. “He said he trusted me. I can’t tell her! No, first I’ll get her to let me off that promise, and I’ll go and tell that young man. Then I’ll make him let me off, and I’ll come and tell her. Golly, how I hate all this fool mystery!”

Mrs. Enderby was writing at her desk as Lexy entered the room. She glanced up, unsmiling.

“You are late,” she said. “I asked you to return in half an hour.”

“I’m sorry,” Lexy replied meekly.

“Very well! Now you will please to come with me.”

She rose, and Lexy followed her down the hall to Caroline’s room. Mrs. Enderby unlocked the door, and, when they had entered, locked the door on the inside.

“In fifteen minutes the car is coming,” she said. “I wish you to put on Caroline’s hat and coat and a veil, and leave the house with me.”

“You mean you want me to pretend I’m Caroline?” cried Lexy.

“I wish it to be thought that you are Caroline,” Mrs. Enderby corrected her. “Please waste no time. The car will be here--”

“Mrs. Enderby, I--I can’t do it!”

“You can, Miss Moran, and I think you will.”

But Lexy was pretty close to desperation now. Her honest and vigorous spirit was entangled in a network of promises and obligations and deceptions, and she could not see how to free herself; but she would not passively submit.

“No,” she said, “I can’t. I’ve found out something--I can’t tell you about it just now, but this afternoon I hope--”

“This afternoon is another thing,” said Mrs. Enderby. “In the meantime--”

“But it’s important! It’s--”

“You think I do not know? You think this letter sets my mind at rest?” Mrs. Enderby demanded, with one of her sudden flashes of temper. “That is imbecile! I know how serious it is that my child should leave me like this; but I know what is my duty--first, to my husband. That first, I tell you! It is for me to see that no disgrace comes upon his house, no scandal--that first! Then, next, I must see to it that the way is left open for Caroline to come back--if she wishes.” She came close to Lexy, and fixed those black eyes of hers upon the girl’s face. “I tell you, Miss Moran, there will be no scandal!”

In spite of herself, Lexy was impressed.

“But suppose--” she began.

“No--we shall not suppose. I have told the servants that to-day Miss Enderby goes into the country, to visit her old governess for a few days. Very well--they shall see her go. If there is no other letter to-morrow, I shall tell Mr. Enderby.”

“Doesn’t he know?”

“Please make haste, Miss Moran!” said Mrs. Enderby.

As if hypnotized, Lexy began to dress herself in Caroline’s clothes; but, as she glanced in the mirror to adjust the close-fitting little hat, the monstrousness of the whole thing overwhelmed her. She had so often seen Caroline in this hat and coat!

“Oh, I can’t!” she cried. “I can’t! Suppose something terrible has happened to her, and I’m--”

“Keep quiet!” said Mrs. Enderby fiercely. “I tell you it shall be so! Now, the veil. No, not like that--not as if you were disguising yourself! So!”

She unlocked the door, and, taking Lexy by the arm, went out into the hall. Together they descended the stairs, Mrs. Enderby chatting volubly in French, as she was wont to do with her daughter. None of the servants would think of interrupting her, or of staring at her companion. It was an ordinary, everyday scene. Annie was crossing the lower hall.

“Miss Moran will be out all day,” said Mrs. Enderby. “There will be no one at home for lunch.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Annie.

The maid would not notice when--or if--Miss Moran went out. There was nothing to arouse suspicion in any one.

They went out to the car. A small trunk was strapped on behind. Everything had been prepared for Miss Enderby’s visit to the country. The chauffeur opened the door and touched his cap respectfully, the two women got in, and off they went.

“Now you will please to dismiss this subject from your mind,” said Mrs. Enderby. “I do not wish to talk of it.” She spoke kindly now. “You will have a pleasant day in the country.”

“Day!” said Lexy. “But what time will we get back?”

“Before dinner.”

“Oh, I’ve got to get back this afternoon! I’ve got to see some one! It’s important--terribly important!”

Mrs. Enderby smiled faintly.

“The chauffeur must see you descend at Miss Craigie’s house,” she said. “Once we are there, I have a hat and coat of your own in the trunk. I shall explain what is necessary to Miss Craigie, who is very discreet, very devoted. You can change then, but you must go home quietly by train; and I think there are not many trains.”

Lexy had a vision of the young man waiting and waiting for her in the park that afternoon--the young man who had trusted her, who was waiting in such miserable anxiety for some news of Caroline.

“Mrs. Enderby,” she protested, “I can’t come with you. I’ve got to get back this afternoon.”

“No,” said Mrs. Enderby.

Lexy made a creditable effort to master her anger and distress.

“It’s important--to you,” she said. “I have to see some one about Caroline--some one who can tell you something.”

This time Mrs. Enderby made no answer at all. There she sat, stout, majestic, absolutely impervious, looking out of the window as if Lexy did not exist. What was to be done? She couldn’t communicate with the chauffeur except by leaning across Mrs. Enderby, and a struggle with that lady was out of the question.

“But I’m not going on!” she thought.

She waited until the car slowed down at a crossing. Then she made a sudden dart for the door. With equal suddenness Mrs. Enderby seized her arm.

“Sit down!” she said, in a singularly unpleasant whisper. “There shall be no scene. Sit down, I tell you!”

“I won’t!” replied Lexy, but just then the car started forward, and she fell back on the seat.

“You will come with me,” said Mrs. Enderby.

That overbearing tone, that grasp on her arm, were very nearly too much for Lexy. She had always been quick-tempered. All the Morans were, and were perversely proud of it, too; but Lexy had learned many lessons in a hard school. She had learned to control her temper, and she did so now. She was silent for a time.

“All right!” she agreed, at last. “I’ll come. I don’t see what else I can do--now; but after this I’ll have to use my own judgment, Mrs. Enderby.”

“You have none,” Mrs. Enderby told her calmly.

Lexy clenched her hands, and again was silent for a moment.

“I mean--” she began.

“I know very well what you mean,” said Mrs. Enderby. “You mean that you will keep faith with me no longer. I saw that. You wished to run off and tell your story to some one this afternoon. I stopped that. After this, I cannot stop you any longer. You will tell, but I think no one will listen to you. I shall deny it, and no one will be likely to listen to the word of a discharged employee.”

Lexy had grown very pale.

“I see!” she said slowly. “Then you’re going to--”

“You are discharged,” interrupted Mrs. Enderby, “because I do not like to have my daughter’s companion running into the park to meet a young man.”

“I see!” said Lexy again.

And nothing more. All the warmth of her anger had gone, and in its place had come an overwhelming depression. For all her sturdiness and courage, she was young and generous and sensitive, and those words of Mrs. Enderby’s hurt her cruelly.

She sat very still, looking out of the window. They had left the city now, and were on the Boston road. It was a sweet, fresh April day, and under a bright and windy sky the countryside was showing the first soft green of spring.

Lexy remembered. She remembered the things she had so valiantly tried to forget--the dear, happy days that were past, spring days like this, in her own home, with her mother and father; early morning rides on her little black mare, and coming home to the old house, to the people who loved her; her father’s laugh, her mother’s wonderful smile, the friendly faces of the servants.

She was not old enough or wise enough as yet, for these memories to be a solace to her. They were pain--nothing but pain. There was no one now to love her, or even to be interested in her. She had cut herself off from her old friends and gone out alone, like a poor, rash, gallant little knight-errant, into the wide world to seek her fortune. Caroline had disappeared, and Mrs. Enderby had dismissed her with savage contempt. She would have to go out now and look for a new job.

She straightened her shoulders.

“This won’t do!” she said to herself. “It’s disgusting, mawkish self-pity, and nothing else. I’m young and healthy, and I can always find a job. What I want to think about now is Caroline, and what I ought to do for her.”

So she did begin to think about Caroline. The first thought that came into her head was such an extraordinary one that it startled her.

“Anyhow, she’s a pretty lucky girl!”

Lucky? Caroline, who had lived like a prisoner, and who had now so strangely disappeared, lucky--simply because a sunburned, blue-eyed young man was so miserably anxious about her?

“I suppose he’s thinking about her this minute,” Lexy reflected; “and I’m sure nobody in the world is thinking about me. Well, I don’t care!”

VI

The car took them to a drowsy little village, and stopped before a small cottage on a side street. Mrs. Enderby got out, followed by Lexy, the living ghost of Caroline. Side by side they went up the flagged path and on to the porch. Mrs. Enderby rang the bell, and in a moment the door was opened by a thin, sandy-haired woman in spectacles.

“Mrs. Enderby!” she cried, her plain face lighting up in a delighted smile. “And my dear little Caroline!” She held out her hand to Lexy, and suddenly her face changed. “But--” she began.

Mrs. Enderby pushed her gently inside and closed the door.

“But it’s not Caroline!” cried Miss Craigie.

“Hush!” said Mrs. Enderby. “I shall explain to you. Please allow the chauffeur to carry upstairs a small trunk, and please have no air of surprise.”

Evidently Miss Craigie was in the habit of obeying Mrs. Enderby. She opened the front door and called the chauffeur, who came in with the trunk.

“Turn your back!” whispered Mrs. Enderby to Lexy. “Go and look out of the window!”

Lexy heard the man go past the sitting room and up the stairs. Presently he came running down, and the front door closed after him.

“Now, Miss Craigie,” said Mrs. Enderby, “if you will permit Miss Moran to go upstairs?”

“Oh, certainly!” answered the bewildered Miss Craigie. “Whatever you think best, Mrs. Enderby, I’m sure.”

“Go!” said Mrs. Enderby.

The lady’s tone aroused in Lexy a great desire not to go. Of course, now that she had gone so far, it would be childish to refuse to continue; but she meant to take her time. She stood there by the window, slowly drawing off her gloves, her back turned to the room. Suddenly Mrs. Enderby caught her by the shoulder and turned her around.

“Go!” she said again. “Take off those things of my child’s. Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Have you no heart?”

There was such a note of anguish in her voice that Lexy no longer delayed. She followed Miss Craigie up the stairs to a neat, prim little bedroom, where the trunk stood, already unlocked.

“If you want anything--” suggested Miss Craigie, in her gentle and apologetic way.

“No, thank you,” replied Lexy.

Miss Craigie went out, closing the door softly behind her. Lexy took off Caroline’s hat and coat and laid them on the bed.

“I wonder if I’ll ever see her wearing them again!” she thought.

For a long time she stood motionless, looking down at the things that Caroline had worn. Most pitifully eloquent, they seemed to her--the hat that had covered Caroline’s fair hair, the coat that had fitted her slender shoulders. Lexy looked and looked, grave and sorrowful--and in that moment her resolution was made.

“I’m going to find her!” she said, half aloud. “I don’t care what any one else does or what any one else thinks. I know she’s in trouble of some sort, and I’m going to find her!”

The last trace of what Lexy had called “mawkish self-pity” had vanished now. She was no longer concerned with Mrs. Enderby’s attitude toward herself. It didn’t matter. Finding another job didn’t matter, either. She had a little money due her, and she meant to use it--every penny of it--in finding Caroline.

She washed her hands and face, brushed her hair, put on her own hat and jacket, and went downstairs again. Mrs. Enderby was standing in the tiny hall, and from the sitting room there came a sound of muffled sobbing.

“She is an imbecile, that woman!” said Mrs. Enderby, with a sigh; “but she will hold her tongue. And you?”

“I’ve got to do as I think best,” answered Lexy. “I’ll say good-by now, Mrs. Enderby.”

“There is no train until three o’clock. It is now after one. We shall have lunch directly.”

“No, thank you,” said Lexy. “I’d rather go now. I dare say I can find something to eat in the village.”

She was not in the least angry now, or hurt; only she wanted to get away, by herself, to think this out.

“Good-by?” repeated Mrs. Enderby, with a smile. “You think, then, never to see me again?”

“No,” said Lexy. “I mean to see you again--when I have something to tell you; but just now I want to go back and pack up my things.”

“And leave my house?”

“Yes.”

They were both silent for a moment. Then, to Lexy’s amazement, Mrs. Enderby laid a hand gently on the girl’s shoulder.

“My child,” she said, “you think I am a very hard woman. Perhaps it is so; but, like you, I do what seems to me the right. Certainly it is better now that you should leave us; but not like this. You must have your lunch here, then you must return to the house and sleep there, all in the usual way. To-morrow you shall go.” She paused a moment. “You shall go, if you are still determined that you will not keep faith with me.”

It was not a very difficult matter to touch Lexy’s heart. Whatever resentment she may have felt against Mrs. Enderby vanished now, lost in a sincere pity and respect; but she was firm in her purpose.

“I’ve got to tell one person,” she said. “If I do, I shall be able to tell you something you ought to know. I wish you could trust me! I wish you could believe that all I’m thinking of is--Caroline!”

“I do believe you,” said Mrs. Enderby. “You are very honest, and very, very young. You wish to do good, but you do harm. Very well, my child--I cannot stop you. Go your way, and I go mine; but”--she paused again, and again smiled her faint, shadowy smile--“if I think it right that you should be sacrificed, it shall be so. I am sorry. I have affection for you. I shall be sorry if you stand in my way.”

Lexy met her eyes steadily.

“I’m sorry, too,” she said.

And so she was. There was nothing in her heart now but sorrow for them all--for Caroline, for Mrs. Enderby, for the luckless Mr. Houseman, even for Miss Craigie; but most of all for Caroline.

“I’ve got to find her,” she thought, over and over again; “and he’ll help me!”

She had lunch in Miss Craigie’s cottage--a melancholy meal, with the hostess red-eyed and dejected and Mrs. Enderby sternly silent. Then, after lunch, poor Miss Craigie was sent out for a drive, in order to get rid of the chauffeur while Lexy slipped out of the house and down to the station.

Everything went as Mrs. Enderby had willed it. Lexy caught the designated train, and returned to the city. All the way in, her great comfort was the thought of Mr. Houseman. He would help her. Now she could tell him that Caroline had gone, and he would help her.

“Of course, I’ve missed him to-day,” she thought; “but he’s sure to be in the park again to-morrow. Perhaps he’ll telephone. He’s not the sort to be easily discouraged, I’m sure.”

It was dark when she reached the Grand Central, but, at the risk of being late for dinner, Lexy chose to walk back to the house. She could always think better when she was walking.

“I want to get the thing in order in my own mind,” she reflected. “Mrs. Enderby is so--confusing. Here’s the case--Mr. Houseman says Caroline promised to meet him last night at a place called Wyngate, and they were to be married. She left the house. This morning there was a letter from her, postmarked Wyngate; but he says she didn’t go there. Well, then, where did she go?”

Impossible to answer that question with even the wildest surmise.

“I’ll have to wait,” Lexy went on. “I’ll have to find out more from Mr. Houseman. Perhaps they misunderstood each other. It’s no use trying to guess. I’ll have to wait till I see him.”

She recalled his honest, sunburned face with great good will. He was her ally. He was young, like herself, not old and cautious and deliberate. She liked him. She trusted him. In her loneliness and anxiety, he seemed a friend.

Annie opened the door with her customary air of disapproval.

“Yes, miss,” she answered. “Mrs. Enderby came home in the car half an hour ago. Dinner ’ll be served in ten minutes. Here’s a letter for you. A young man left it about twenty minutes ago.”

“If I’d taken a taxi from Grand Central, I’d have seen him!” was Lexy’s first thought.

Even a letter was something, however, and she ran upstairs with it, very much pleased. Of course, it was from Mr. Houseman. She locked the door, and, standing against it, looked at the envelope. It was addressed to “Miss Lexy” in a good clear hand. That made her smile, remembering her first indignation that morning.

The letter ran thus:

DEAR MISS LEXY:

Please excuse me for addressing you like this, but I don’t know your other name. I forgot to ask you.

I waited in the park for you all afternoon. When it got dark, I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I went to the house and asked for Miss Enderby. The servant told me she had gone away to the country with her mother this morning.

Please tell Miss Enderby that I understand. I am sorry she didn’t tell me before that she had changed her mind, instead of letting me wait like that; but it’s finished now. Please tell her she can count on me to hold my tongue, and never to bother her again in any way.

We are sailing to-night, or I should have tried to see you to-morrow. In case you have any message for me, you can address me at the company’s office, J. J. Eames & Son, 99 State Street. I expect to be back in about six weeks.

Very truly yours, CHARLES HOUSEMAN.

“Sailing to-night!” cried Lexy. “Then he’s gone! He’s gone!”

VII

“So you are still of the same mind?” inquired Mrs. Enderby.

“More so, if anything,” Lexy answered seriously.

It was after breakfast the next morning. Mr. Enderby had gone to his office, and Mrs. Enderby and Lexy were alone in the dining room. There was an odd sort of friendliness between them. Lexy felt no constraint in asking questions.

“There isn’t any letter this morning, is there, Mrs. Enderby?”

“There is not.”

“Then I suppose you’re going to tell Mr. Enderby?”

“This evening.”

“And then?”

“Then I shall be guided by his advice,” Mrs. Enderby replied blandly.

Lexy could have smiled at this. She knew how likely Mrs. Enderby was to be guided by her husband; but she kept the smile and the thought to herself.

“I don’t want to interfere with your plans--” she began.

“I have no plans.”

“I mean, if you’re going to take steps to find her--”

“My child,” said Mrs. Enderby, “it is clear that you wish to amuse yourself with a grand mystery. I tell you there is no mystery, but you do not believe me. I ask you to say nothing of this matter, but you refuse. So I say to you now--go your own way, proceed with your mystery. I do not think you can hurt me very much.”

Lexy flushed.

“I don’t want to hurt any one,” she declared stiffly. “I just want to help your daughter.”

“Proceed, then!” said Mrs. Enderby.

Lexy rose.

“Then I’ll say good-by, Mrs. Enderby,” she said. “My trunk’s packed. I’ll send for it this afternoon.”

“And where are you going in such a hurry?”

“I’m going to Wyngate,” said Lexy.

“Ah!” said Mrs. Enderby. “It is a pretty place, is it not?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen it.”

“Pardon me--you saw it yesterday. It is a small village through which we passed on the way to Miss Craigie’s house.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Now that you do know, perhaps you will spare yourself the trouble of going there,” said Mrs. Enderby. “I assure you you will not find Caroline there. I myself made certain inquiries. No such person has arrived in Wyngate.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“But I observe by your face that you are not convinced,” Mrs. Enderby went on. “‘This Mrs. Enderby, she is a stupid old creature,’ you think to yourself. ‘I shall go there myself, and I shall discover that which she could not.’”

Lexy reddened again.

“I don’t mean it that way,” she said. “It’s only that we look at this from different points of view, and I feel--I feel that I’ve got to go.”

“Very well!” said Mrs. Enderby, and she, too, rose. “You will please to come to my room with me. There is part of your salary to be paid to you.”

Lexy followed her, still flushed, and very reluctant. She wished she could afford to refuse that money.

“But I’ve earned it,” she thought; “and goodness knows I’ll need it!”

Mrs. Enderby sat down at her desk and took out her check book. While she wrote, Lexy looked out of the window.

“The amount due to you, including to-day, is thirty-two dollars,” said Mrs. Enderby. “Here is a check for it.”

“Thank you,” said Lexy.

“One minute more! Here, my child, is another check.”

Lexy stared at it, amazed. It was for one hundred dollars.

“But, Mrs. Enderby, I can’t--”

“You will please take it and say nothing more. I give you this because I shall give you no reference. I shall answer no inquiries about you. You understand?”

“But I don’t want--”

Mrs. Enderby pushed back her chair, and rose. She crossed the room to Lexy, put both hands on the girl’s shoulders, and then did something far more astonishing than the gift of the check. She kissed Lexy on the forehead.

“Good-by, and God bless you, little honest one!” she said, with a smile. “I think we shall not see each other again, but I shall sometimes remember you. Go, now, and bear in mind that you can always trust Miss Craigie. She is an imbecile, but she can be trusted. Adieu!”

Lexy’s eyes filled with tears.

“Au revoir!” she said stoutly; and then, with one of her sudden impulses, she put both arms around Mrs. Enderby’s neck and returned her kiss vigorously. “I’m sorry!” she said. “I’m awfully sorry!”

This was their parting. Lexy was thankful that it had been like this, very glad that she could leave the house in good will and kindliness. It strengthened her beyond measure. She wanted to help Caroline, and she wanted to help Mrs. Enderby, too.

“And I will!” she thought. “I know that I’m right and she’s wrong! She’s rather terrible, too. Sometimes I think she’d almost rather not find out the truth, if it was going to make what she calls a scandal. She will have it that Caroline’s gone away of her own free will, to get married; and if it’s anything else, she doesn’t want to know. She is hard, but there’s something rather fine about her.”

There was no one in the hall when Lexy left, and this was a relief, for she supposed that Mrs. Enderby had told the servants, or would tell them, that Miss Moran had been discharged.

She went out and closed the door behind her. A fine, thin rain was falling--nothing to daunt a healthy young creature like Lexy; yet she wished that the sun had been shining. She wished that she hadn’t had to leave the house in the rain, under a gray sky. Somehow it made her only too well aware that she was homeless now, and alone.

As was her habit when depressed, she set off to walk briskly; and by the time she reached the Grand Central her cheeks were glowing and her heart considerably less heavy. She learned that she had nearly three hours to wait for the next train to Wyngate; so she bought her ticket, checked her bag, and went out again.

In a near-by department store she bought a little chamois pocket. Then she went to the bank, cashed both her checks, and, putting the bills into her pocket, hung it around her neck inside her blouse. It was very comfortable to have so much money.

Then, only as a forlorn hope, she rang up the offices of J. J. Eames & Son, on State Street.

“I don’t suppose they keep track of their passengers,” she thought; “but it can’t do any harm.”

So, when she got the connection, she asked politely:

“Could you possibly tell me where Mr. Charles Houseman has gone?”

“Certainly!” answered an equally polite voice at the other end of the wire. “Just a moment, please! You mean Mr. Houseman, second officer on the Mazell?”

“I don’t know,” said Lexy, surprised. “Has he blue eyes?”

There was an instant’s silence. Then the voice spoke again, a little unsteadily.

“I--I believe so.”

“He’s laughing at me!” thought Lexy indignantly, and her voice became severely dignified.

“Can you tell me where the--the Mazell has gone?”

“Lisbon and Gibraltar. We expect her back in about five weeks.”

“Thank you!” said Lexy. “And that’s that!” she added, to herself. “So he’s a sailor! I rather like sailors. Well, anyhow, he’s gone.” She sighed. “Carry on!” she said.

She went into a tea room on Forty-Second Street and ordered herself a very good lunch.

“Much better than I can afford,” she thought. “Goodness knows what’s going to happen to me! Here I am, without visible means of support. I suppose I’m an idiot. Lots of people would say so. They’d say I ought to be looking for a new job this instant; but I don’t care! I’m not going back on Caroline. Mrs. Enderby won’t do anything, and Mr. Houseman’s gone away, and there’s nobody but me. Perhaps I can’t do very much, but, by jiminy, I’m going to try!”

There was still an hour to spare, and she passed it in a fashion she had often scornfully denounced. She went shopping--without buying. She wandered through a great department store, looking at all sorts of things. Some of them she wanted, but she resolutely told herself that she was better off without them.

Then, at the proper time, she went back to the Grand Central, recovered her bag, bought herself two or three magazines and a bar of chocolate, and boarded the train. For all that she tried to be so cool and sensible, she could not help feeling a queer little thrill of excitement. Her quest had begun, and she could not in any way foresee the end.

VIII

Now it certainly was not Lexy’s way to take any great interest in strange young men. There was not a trace of coquetry in her honest heart, and she had always looked upon the little flirtations of her friends with distaste and wonder.

“I’m not romantic!” she had said more than once.

She believed that. She would have denied indignantly that her present mission was romantic. She thought it a matter-of-course thing which she was in honor bound to do for her friend Caroline Enderby. She felt that she was very cool and practical about it, and a mighty sensible sort of girl altogether.

Certainly she saw the young man on the train, for her alert glance saw pretty well everything. She saw him, and she thought she had never set eyes on a handsomer man.

He was very tall, and slenderly and strongly built. He was dressed with fastidious perfection, and he had an air of marked distinction. In short, he was a man whom any one would look at--and remember; but Lexy, the unromantic girl, thought him inferior to the blue-eyed Mr. Houseman. She preferred young Houseman’s blunt, sunburned face to the dark and haughty one of this stranger. She simply was not interested in dark and haughty strangers, however distinguished and handsome. She looked at this one, and then returned to her magazines.

She had a weakness for detective stories, and she was reading one now--reading it in the proper spirit, uncritical and absorbed. Whenever the train stopped at a station, she glanced up, and more than once, as she turned her head, she caught the stranger’s eye. She wondered, later on, why she hadn’t had some sort of premonition. People in stories always did. They always recognized at once the other people who were going to be in the story with them; but Lexy did not. Even toward the end of the journey, when she and the stranger were the only ones left in the car, she was not aware of any interest in him.

Even when he, too, got out at Wyngate, Lexy was not specially interested. It was only a little after five o’clock, but it was dark already on that rainy afternoon, and the only thing that interested her just then was the sight of a solitary taxi drawn up beside the platform. Bag in hand, she hurried toward it, but the stranger got there before her. When she arrived, he was speaking to the driver.

There was no other taxi or vehicle of any sort in sight, no other lights were visible except those of the station. It was a strange and unknown world upon which she looked in the rainy dusk, and she felt a justifiable annoyance with the ungallant stranger. He jumped into the cab and slammed the door.

“Driver!” cried Lexy. “Will you please come back for me?”

But before the driver could answer, the door of the cab opened, and the stranger sprang out.

“I beg your pardon!” he said, standing hat in hand before Lexy. “I’m most awfully sorry! Give you my word I didn’t notice. I should have noticed, of course. Absent-minded sort of beggar, you know! Please take the cab, won’t you? I don’t in the least mind waiting. Please take it! Allow me!”

He tried to take her bag. His manner was not at all haughty. On the contrary, it was a very agreeable manner, and the impulsive Lexy liked him.

“Why can’t we both go?” said she.

“Oh, no!” he protested. “Please take the cab! Give you my word I don’t mind waiting.”

“It’s a dismal place to wait in,” said Lexy. “We can both go, just as well as not.”

The driver approved of Lexy’s idea. It saved him trouble.

“Where do you want to go, miss?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Lexy. “I suppose there’s a hotel, isn’t there?”

“I say!” exclaimed the stranger. “Just what I’d been asking him, you know! He says there’s no hotel, but a very decent boarding house.”

“Mis’ Royce’s,” added the driver. “She takes boarders.”

“All right!” said Lexy cheerfully. “Miss Royce’s it is!”

The stranger took her bag, and put it into the taxi. He would have assisted Lexy, but she was already inside; so he, too, got in. He closed the door, and off they went.

“I am sorry, you know,” he said, “shoving ahead like that; but I didn’t notice--”

“Well, please stop being sorry now,” requested Lexy firmly.

“Right-o!” said he. “You won’t mind my saying you’ve been wonderfully nice about it?”

“No, I don’t mind that a bit,” replied Lexy. “I like to be wonderfully nice.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Will you allow me to introduce myself?” said the stranger. “Grey, you know--George Grey--Captain Grey, you know.”

“Captain of a ship?” asked Lexy, with interest. She thought she would like to talk about ships.

“Oh, no!” said he, rather shocked. “Army--British army--stationed in India.”

“I knew you were an Englishman.”

“Did you really?” said he, as if surprised. “People do seem to know. My first visit to your country--six months’ leave--so I’ve come here to see my sister--Mrs. Quelton. She’s married to an American doctor.”

Lexy thought there was something almost pathetic in his chivalrous anxiety to explain himself.

“I’m Alexandra Moran,” she said.

“Thank you!” said Captain Grey. “Thank you very much, Miss Moran!”

There was no opportunity for further polite conversation, for the taxi had stopped and the driver came around to the door.

“Better make a run fer it!” he said. “I’ll take yer bags.”

So Captain Grey took Lexy’s arm, and they did make a run for it, through the fine, chilly rain, along a garden path and up on a veranda. The door was opened at once.

“Miss Royce?” asked Captain Grey.

“Mrs. Royce,” said the other. “Come right in. My, how it does rain!”

They followed her into a dimly lit hall. She opened a door on the right, and lit the gas in what was obviously the “best parlor”--a dreadful room, stiff and ugly, and smelling of camphor and dampness. Captain Grey remained in the hall to settle with the driver, and Lexy decided to let her share of the reckoning wait for a more auspicious occasion. She went into the parlor with Mrs. Royce.

“You and your husband just come from the city?” inquired the landlady.

“He’s not my husband,” replied Lexy, with a laugh. “I never set eyes on him before. There was only one taxi, and we were both looking for a hotel. The driver said you took boarders, and that’s how we happened to come together.”

“I don’t take boarders much, ’cept in the summer time,” said Mrs. Royce. She was a stout, comfortable sort of creature, gray-haired, and very neat in her dark dress and clean white apron. She had a kindly, good-humored face, too, but she had a landlady’s eye. “People don’t come here much, this time of year,” she went on. “Nothing to bring ’em here.”

These last words were a challenge to Lexy to explain her business, and she was prepared.

“I passed through here the other day in a motor,” she said, “on my way to Adams Corners, and I thought it looked like such a nice, quiet place for me to work in. I’m a writer, you know, and I thought Wyngate would just suit me.”

“I was born and raised out to Adams Corners,” said Mrs. Royce. “Guess there’s no one living out there that I don’t know.”

“Then perhaps you know Miss Craigie?”

“Miss Margaret Craigie? I should say I did! If you’re a friend of hers--”

“Only an acquaintance,” said Lexy cautiously.

“Set down!” suggested Mrs. Royce, very cordial now. “I’ll light a nice wood fire. A writer, are you? Well, well! And the gentleman--I wonder, now, what brings him here!”

“He told me he’d come to see his sister,” said Lexy. “Mrs. Quelton, I think he said.”

“Quelton!” cried the landlady. “You didn’t say Quelton? Not the doctor’s wife?”

“Yes,” said the captain’s voice from the doorway. “Nothing happened to her, has there? Nothing gone wrong?”

Mrs. Royce stared at him with the most profound interest, and he stared back at her, somewhat uneasily.

“No,” said she, at last. “No--only--well, I’m sure!”

There was a silence.

“Could we possibly have a little supper?” asked Lexy politely.

“Yes, indeed you can!” said Mrs. Royce. “Right away!” But still she lingered. “Mrs. Quelton’s brother!” she said. “Well, I never!”

Then she tore herself away, leaving Lexy and Captain Grey alone in the parlor.

“Seems to bother her,” he said. “I wonder why!”

Lexy was also wondering, and longing to ask questions, but she felt that it wouldn’t be good manners.

“People in small places like this are always awfully curious,” she observed.

“Yes,” said he; “and Muriel may be a bit eccentric, you know. I rather imagine she is, from her letters. I’ve never seen her.”

“Never seen your own sister!”

Lexy would certainly have asked questions now, manners or no manners, only that Mrs. Royce entered the room again, to fulfill her promise to make a “nice wood fire.” Amazing, the difference it made in the room! The ugliness and stiffness vanished in the ruddy glow. It seemed a delightful room, now, homely and welcoming and safe.

“It’s real cozy here,” said Mrs. Royce, “on a night like this. I’m sorry the dining room’s so kind of chilly.”

“Oh, can’t we have supper here, by the fire?” cried Lexy. “Please! We’ll promise not to get any crumbs on your nice carpet, Mrs. Royce!”

“I guess you can,” replied the landlady benevolently.

And so it happened that the ancient magic of fire was invoked in Lexy’s behalf. Probably, if she and Captain Grey had had their supper in the chilly dining room, they would have been a little chilly, too, and more cautious. They might not have said all that they did say.

IX

It was an excellent supper, and Captain Grey and Lexy thoroughly appreciated it. They ate with healthy appetites, and they talked. Mrs. Royce, from the kitchen, heard their cheerful, friendly voices, and their laughter, and she didn’t for one moment believe that they had never met before. Listening to them, she wore that benevolent smile once more, and felt sure that she had encountered a very charming little romance.

It was all Lexy’s doing. It was Lexy’s beautiful talent, to be able to create this atmosphere of honest and happy camaraderie. Before the meal was finished, Captain Grey was talking to her as if they had known each other since childhood, and he didn’t even wonder at it. It seemed perfectly natural.

Mrs. Royce came in to take away the dishes.

“Going to set here a while?” she asked, looking at the two young people with a smile of approval. “I’ll bring in some more wood.” She hesitated a moment, and the landladyish glimmer again appeared in her eyes. “If it was me,” she observed, in the most casual way, “the fire’d be enough light. If it was me, now, I wouldn’t want that gas flaring and blaring away--and burning up good money,” she added, to herself.

“You’re right,” Lexy cheerfully agreed. “We’ll turn it down.”

The rain was falling fast outside, driving against the windows when the wind blew; and inside the young people sat by the fire, very content.

“Queer thing!” said Captain Grey meditatively. “Never been in this place before--never been in this country before--and yet it’s like coming home!”

“I know that feeling,” said Lexy. “I’ve had it before. I think only people who haven’t any real homes of their own ever have it.”

“But haven’t you any real home?” he asked, evidently distressed.

“No,” she answered; “but please don’t think it’s tragic. It’s not.”

“You haven’t impressed me as tragic,” he admitted.

Lexy laughed.

“Thank goodness!” she said. “I do want to keep on being--well, ordinary and human, even when outside things seem a little tragic.”

“Miss Moran!” he said, and stopped.

It was some time before he spoke again. Lexy took advantage of his abstraction to study his face by the firelight. When you come to understand it a little, it wasn’t a haughty face at all, but a very sensitive and fine one.

“Miss Moran!” he said again. “About being ordinary and human--of course, one wants to be that; but the thing is--I don’t know quite how to put it, but if you have a feeling, you know--I mean a feeling that something is wrong--” He paused again. “I mean,” he went on, “if you have a feeling like that--a sort of--well, call it uneasiness--the question is whether one ought to laugh at it, or take it as”--once more he stopped--“as a warning,” he ended.

A strange sensation came over Lexy.

“I’ve been thinking a good deal about that very thing lately,” she replied. “I believe feelings like that are a warning. I’m sure it’s wrong--foolish and wrong--to disregard them. Even if every one else, even if your own mind tells you it’s all nonsense, you mustn’t care!”

“I think you’re right,” he gravely agreed. “I’ve been trying to tell myself that I’m an utter ass, but all the time I knew I wasn’t. I knew--I know now--that there’s something--”

An unreasoning dread possessed Lexy. She felt for a moment that she didn’t want to hear any more.

“I’d like to tell you about it, if you wouldn’t mind,” he said. “Somehow I think you could help.”

For an instant she hesitated.

“Please do tell me,” she said at length. “I’d be glad to help, if I can.”

“It’s this,” he said. “Do you mind if I smoke? Thanks!”

He took a cigarette case from his pocket. As he struck a match, she could see his face very clearly in the sudden flame; and, for no reason at all, she pitied him.

“It’s this,” he said again. “It’s about my sister.”

“The sister you’ve never seen?”

The sensation of dread had gone, and she felt only the liveliest interest. She wanted very much to hear about Captain Grey’s sister.

“It wasn’t quite true to say I’d never seen her,” he explained, in his painstaking way. “I have, you know; but not since I was six years old and she was a baby. Our mother died when Muriel was born, out in India. An aunt took the poor little kid to the States with her, and I stayed out there with my father.”

He drew on his cigarette for a minute.

“She’s twenty-one now,” he said. “Last picture I had of her was when she was fourteen or so. A pretty kid--a bit more than pretty--what you’d call lovely.”

He was silent for a little, staring into the fire.

“When I was at school in England, it was arranged that she was to come over; but she didn’t, and we’ve never met again. Twenty-one years--it’s a long time.”

“Yes, it is,” said Lexy gently, for something in his voice touched her.

“We’ve written to each other, on and off. I’m not much good at that sort of thing, but I thought her letters were--well, rather remarkable, you know; but I dare say I’m prejudiced. She’s the only one of my own people left.”

“You poor, dear thing!” thought Lexy, with ready sympathy, but she did not say anything.

“Anyhow,” he presently continued, “I got an impression from her letters that she was rather an extraordinary girl. She was studying music--said she was going on the concert stage--awfully enthusiastic about it; and then she married this doctor chap. She never said much about him, only that she was very happy; but--well, I don’t believe that.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Anyhow, she was married about two years ago, and a few months after her marriage she began writing oftener--almost every mail. She was always wanting me to come over here and see her; and lately, in her last letters, I--somehow I fancied she wanted me rather badly. It--it worried me, so I arranged for leave. On the very day when I wrote that I would be coming over this month, I had a letter from her, asking me not to make any plans for coming this year. She said she’d taken up her concert work again, and would be too busy to enjoy the visit, and so on. I’d already made my plans, you see, so I went ahead. Then, about a fortnight later, after she’d got my letter, I suppose, I had a cable. ‘Don’t come,’ it said. I cabled back, but she didn’t answer.”

He looked anxiously at Lexy, but she said nothing. She sat very still, curled up in a big chair, staring into the fire with an odd look of uncertainty on her face.

“You know,” he went on, “I’ve tried to think that she was simply too busy, or something of that sort. But, Miss Moran, didn’t this woman’s manner rather make you think there was something a bit--out of the way?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Lexy, in a casual tone which very much disconcerted him.

“I’ve been making a fool of myself!” he thought, flushing. “Why the devil didn’t I keep my old-woman notions to myself? Now she’ll think--”

But Lexy was not thinking that Captain Grey was a fool. She was only very much afraid of being one herself, and was engaged in a severe struggle against this danger. That dread, that vague and oppressive dread, had come back, and she was fighting to throw it off. She wanted to be, she would be, her own normal, cheerful self again, living in a normal, everyday world.

“All this about his sister, and about Caroline!” she thought. “It’s really nothing--nothing serious. Our both being here in Wyngate--that’s nothing, either. It’s just a coincidence. If the gas wasn’t turned down, I wouldn’t feel like this.”

She would have risen and turned up the gas, only that she was ashamed to do so. The fire was blazing merrily, shedding a ruddy light upon the homely room, the most commonplace room in the world. There was Captain Grey sitting there smoking--just an ordinary young man come to visit his sister. There was herself--just Lexy Moran, well fed and warm and comfortable, with more than a hundred dollars in a bag round her neck. She could hear Mrs. Royce moving about in the kitchen, humming to herself in a low drone.

“I will not be silly!” she told herself.

And just then a train whistled--a long, melancholy shriek. Lexy had a sudden vision of it, rushing through the dark and the rain. She had a sudden realization of the outside world, vast, lonely, terrible, stretching from pole to pole--forests, and plains, and oceans. The monstrous folly of pretending that everything was snug and warm and cozy! Things did happen--only cowards denied that.

“Captain Grey!” she cried abruptly. “What you’ve told me--it is queer; and it’s even queerer when I think what has brought me here to this little place. Both of us here, in Wyngate! I think I’ll tell you.”

And she did.

He listened in absolute silence to the tale of Caroline Enderby’s disappearance. Even after Lexy had finished, it was some time before he spoke.

“I’ll try to help you,” he said simply.

“Oh, thank you!” cried Lexy, with a rush of gratitude. She wanted some one to help her, and she could imagine no one better for the purpose than this young man. He would help her--she was sure of it. Even the fact of having told him most wonderfully lightened her burden. She gave an irrepressible little giggle.

“We have almost all the ingredients for a first-class mystery story,” she said; “except the jewel--the famous ruby, or the great diamond.”

“It’s an emerald, in this case,” said Captain Grey.

Lexy straightened up in her chair, and stared at him.

“You don’t really mean that?” she demanded. “There isn’t really an emerald?”

He smiled.

“I’m afraid it hasn’t much to do with the case--with either of the cases,” he said; “but there is an emerald--my sister’s.”

“It didn’t come from India?”

“It did, though!”

“Don’t tell me it was stolen from a temple! That would be too good to be true!”

“I’m sorry,” he said; “but as far as I know, it’s never been stolen at all, and its history for the last eighty years hasn’t been sinister. One of the old rajahs gave it to my grandfather--a reward of merit, you know. When my father married, it went to my mother. She never had any trouble with it. She never wore it, because she didn’t like it.”

“Why?”

“Well, you see, it’s an ostentatious sort of thing, and she wasn’t ostentatious.” He paused a moment. “My father told me, before he died, that he wanted Muriel to have it when she was eighteen; and so, three years ago, I sent it over to her.”

“But how?”

“You’re a good detective,” said he, smiling again. “You don’t miss any of the points. It was a bit of a problem, how to send the thing; but I had the luck to find some people I knew who were coming over here, and they brought it. So that’s that!”

“An emerald!” said Lexy. “This is almost too much! I think I’ll say good night, Captain Grey. I need sleep.”

As she followed Mrs. Royce up the stairs, she saw Captain Grey still sitting before the fire, smoking; and it was a comforting sight.

X

Lexy slept late the next morning. It was nearly nine o’clock when she opened her eyes. She lay for a few minutes, looking about her. The gray light of another rainy day filled the neat, unfamiliar little room, and outside the window she could see the branches of a little pear tree rocking in the wind.

“I’m here in Wyngate,” she said to herself. “I was bent on coming here to find Caroline; and now, here I am, and how am I going to begin?”

She got up, and washed in cold water, in a queer, old-fashioned china basin painted with flowers. She brushed her shining hair, and dressed, feeling more hopeful every minute.

“One step at a time!” she thought. “The first step was to come here; and the next step--well, I’ll think of it after breakfast. Perhaps Captain Grey will have thought of something.”

But Captain Grey had gone out.

“Jest a few minutes ago,” Mrs. Royce informed her. “He was down real early--around seven, and he waited and waited for you. At half past eight he et, and off he went.”

“Did he say when he’d be back?”

“No,” said Mrs. Royce. “He didn’t say much of anything. He’s a kind of quiet young man, ain’t he? Well, he’d ought to get on with his sister, then.”

“Is she very quiet?” asked Lexy.

“Quiet!” repeated Mrs. Royce. “Set down an’ begin to eat, Miss Moran. I’ve fixed a real nice tasty breakfast for you, if I do say it as shouldn’t. Corn gems, too. Mis’ Quelton quiet? I should say she was! Quiet as”--she paused--“as the dead,” she went on, and the phrase made an unpleasant impression upon Lexy. “An’ her husband, too. I never saw the like of them. They never come into the village, an’ nobody ever goes out there to the Tower. About twice a week the doctor drives into Lymeswell--the town below here--and he buys a lot of food an’ all, an’ he goes home. I can see him out of my front winder, an’ the sight of him, driving along in that black buggy of his--it gives me the shivers!”

“But if he’s a doctor--”

“Don’t ask me what kind of doctor he is, Miss Moran! He don’t go to see the sick--that’s all I know.”

“But his wife--what is she like?”

“Miss Moran,” said the landlady, with profound impressiveness, “I guess there ain’t three people in Wyngate that’s ever set eyes on her!”

“But how awfully queer!”

“You may well say ‘queer,’” said Mrs. Royce. “There she stays, out in that lonely place--never seeing a soul from one month’s end to another. She’s a young woman, too--young, an’ just as pretty as a picture.”

“Then you are--”

“I’m one of the few that has seen her,” said Mrs. Royce, with a sort of grim satisfaction. “That’s why I take a kind of special interest in her. I seen her the night the doctor brought her here to Wyngate a young bride. That’ll be three years ago this winter, but I remember it as plain as plain. There was a terrible snowstorm, and he couldn’t git out to his place, so he had to bring her here, and she sat right in this very room, just where you’re sitting.”

Instinctively Lexy looked behind her.

“I feel that same way myself--as if she was a ghost,” said Mrs. Royce solemnly. “Near three years ago, and her living only three miles off, an’ I’ve never set eyes on her again. I’ve never forgotten her, though, the sweet pretty young creature!”

“But why do you suppose she lives like that?”

Mrs. Royce came nearer.

“Miss Moran,” she said, “that doctor is crazy. I’m not the only one to say it. He’s as crazy--hush, now! Here’s that poor young man!”

The “poor young man” came into the room, with that very nice smile of his.

“Good morning!” he said. “I say, I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you a bit longer, Miss Moran.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” said Lexy. “I’d have felt awfully guilty.”

“I went out to telephone,” he explained. “Thought I’d tell Muriel I was here, you know; but they have no telephone. Dashed odd, isn’t it, for a doctor not to have a telephone in the house?”

“I don’t think he’s a real doctor--a physician, I mean,” said Lexy. She glanced around and saw that Mrs. Royce had gone. Springing up, she crossed the room to Captain Grey. “Has Mrs. Royce--has any one said anything to you?” she asked, almost in a whisper.

“No!” answered the young man, startled. “Why? What’s up?”

“Mrs. Royce says--I suppose I really ought to tell you.”

“No doubt about it!”

“Mrs. Royce says Dr. Quelton is crazy!”

Captain Grey took the news very coolly. Lexy observed that he suppressed a smile.

“Oh, that!” he said. “But you know, Miss Moran, in these little villages any one who’s at all out of the ordinary is called crazy. I’ve noticed it before. I can soon find out for myself, though, can’t I? I thought, if you didn’t want me this morning, I’d go over there--pay a call, you know. I understand it’s three miles from here, so I shouldn’t be very long. I’d come back here for lunch.”

“But, Captain Grey, you mustn’t think I expect you to--”

“It’s not that,” he said. “Only you said you’d let me help you in your little job, and I want to!” He smiled down at her. “So,” he said, “I’ll be back for lunch;” and off he went.

Lexy went to the window and looked out. She saw Captain Grey striding off up the muddy road, perfectly indifferent to the rain, and curiously elegant, in spite of his wet weather clothes. She was thinking of him with great friendliness and appreciation; but she was not thinking of him in the least as Mrs. Royce imagined she was thinking.

Mrs. Royce stood in the doorway, watching Lexy watch Captain Grey, smiling and even beaming with benevolence; but she would have been disappointed if she had suspected what was in Lexy’s head.

“He’s awfully nice,” thought Lexy, “and awfully handsome, and I’m certain that he’s absolutely trustworthy and honorable, but--”

But somehow he wasn’t to be compared to Mr. Houseman. She knew practically nothing about Mr. Houseman. She had talked with him for five or ten minutes in the park, and his conversation had been entirely about Caroline Enderby. He had shown himself to be quick-tempered and sadly lacking in patience. He had written Lexy a stiff, offended, boyish letter, and then he had disappeared. There was no sensible reason in the world why she should think of him as she did, no reason why she should hope so much to see him again; but she did.

“Well, now!” said Mrs. Royce, at last. “You’ll be wanting a nice quiet place for your writing.”

“Writing!” said Lexy. “I never--” She stopped herself just in time, remembering her shocking falsehood of the night before. “I never care much where I write,” she ended.

“Well, I’ve fixed up the sewing room for you,” said Mrs. Royce. “I’ve put a nice strong table in there with drawers, where you can keep your papers an’ all.”

“You’re a dear!” said Lexy warmly.

She said this because she thought it, and without the least calculation. She liked Mrs. Royce, and when she liked people she told them so. That was what made people love her.

Mrs. Royce was completely won.

“I’m real glad to do it for you,” she said. “I won’t bother you, neither, while you’re working. I know how it is with writing. My cousin, now--her husband was writing for the movies, an’ he was that upset if he was disturbed!”

Still conversing with great affability, Mrs. Royce led the reluctant writer upstairs to the small room prepared for her, and shut her in. Lexy sat down in a chair before the workmanlike table, and grinned ruefully. She had said she was a writer, and now she had to be one.

“Well,” she reflected, “here’s a chance to write to Mr. Houseman, anyhow.”

She never had the least difficulty in writing letters. For one reason, she never bothered about them unless she had something to say, and then she said it, briefly and lucidly, and was done. She told Mr. Houseman all she knew about Caroline’s disappearance, and explained that she had gone out to Wyngate in the hope of picking up some trace of her.

“Of course,” she wrote, “I don’t know whether I’ll still be here when you get back. If I’ve gone, I’ll leave my address with Mrs. Royce, in case you should want to communicate with me.”

This was admirable, so far; but, reading it over, Lexy was not satisfied. She remembered the misery, the trouble and anxiety, in Mr. Houseman’s blue eyes. She imagined him sailing the seas, bitterly hurt because he thought Caroline had changed her mind. She thought of him coming back and getting this letter, to revive all his alarm for Caroline. This wasn’t, after all, a business letter. She took up her pen again, and added:

I think I can imagine how you feel about all this, and I am more sorry than I can tell you. I hope we shall meet soon.

This last phrase rather astonished her. She hadn’t meant to write just that. She picked up the letter, intending to tear it up and write another; but she thought better of it.

“No!” she said to herself. “Let it stay. It’s true; why shouldn’t I hope that we’ll meet again?”

So she addressed the letter and sealed it, and then sat looking out of the window at the rain. It was a hopeless sort of rain, faint and fine--a hopeless, melancholy world, without color or promise.

“I’d better take a walk!” thought Lexy, springing up.

Before she reached the door there was a knock, and Mrs. Royce put her head in.

“He’s here!” she whispered. “He’s asking for you.”

“Who?” cried Lexy.

“Hush! The doctor!” answered Mrs. Royce. “You could ’a’ knocked me down with a feather!”

XI

Feathers would not have knocked down the sturdy Lexy, however. On the contrary, she was pleased and interested by this utterly unexpected visit. The sinister doctor here, in this house, and asking for her! She started promptly toward the stairs.

“Miss Moran!” cautioned the landlady, in a whisper. “Don’t tell him nothing!”

“Tell him!” said Lexy. “But I haven’t anything to tell!”

“Well, you’d best be very careful!” said Mrs. Royce.

With this solemn warning in her ears, Lexy descended the stairs. She saw Dr. Quelton standing in the hall, hat in hand, waiting for her. The doctor was rather a disappointment. He was not the dark, sinister figure he should have been. He was a big man, powerfully built, with a clumsy stoop to his tremendous shoulders. His heavy, clean-shaven face would have been an agreeable one if it had not been for its expression, but that expression was not at all an alarming or dangerous one. It was an expression of the most utter and hopeless boredom.

He came toward her.

“Miss Moran?” he asked.

Even his voice was listless, and his glance was without a spark of interest.

“Yes,” said she.

“My brother-in-law, Captain Grey, told us you were here, and I did myself the honor of calling,” he went on.

“You certainly were quick about it!” thought Lexy. “Captain Grey couldn’t have reached his sister’s house an hour ago, and it’s three miles from here. Won’t you come into the sitting room?” she asked aloud.

“Thank you,” he replied, and followed Lexy into the decorous and dismal room.

He sat down opposite her in a small chair that cracked under his weight, and he smiled a bored and extinguished smile.

“A writer, I believe?” he said.

“Well, yes, in a way,” answered Lexy, growing a little red.

“My wife and I were very much interested,” he went on, with as little interest as a human being may well display. “We don’t have many newcomers here. It’s a very quiet place.”

His apathetic manner exasperated Lexy.

“But I don’t care how quiet it is,” she observed.

“My wife and I like a quiet life,” he said. “My wife asked me to explain, Miss Moran, that she is something of a recluse. Her health prevents her from calling upon you; but she wished me to say that she would be very happy to see you at the Tower, whenever it may be convenient for you to call, any afternoon after four o’clock.”

“Thank you,” replied Lexy. “Please thank Mrs. Quelton. I shall be very pleased to come.”

And now why didn’t he go away? This visit was apparently a painful duty for him. He had delivered his message, and yet he lingered.

“A very quiet place,” he repeated; “but perhaps you are not sociably inclined?”

“Oh, I’m sociable enough--at times,” said Lexy.

“But at the present time you prefer solitude? For the purposes of your work? As a change from the stimulating atmosphere of the city?”

Any mention of her work made Lexy uncomfortable.

“Well, yes,” she answered in a dubious tone.

“I lived in New York myself for a number of years,” he went on. “I wonder if you--may I ask what part of the city you lived in, Miss Moran?”

Lexy hesitated, and she meant him to see that she hesitated. After all, however, it was not an unnatural or impertinent question, and she couldn’t very well refuse to answer it.

“In the East Sixties, near the park,” she said. “It wasn’t my own home, though--I was a companion,” she added.

She always liked people to know that. She was far from being cynical, but she was aware that this information made a difference--to some people.

She was astonished to see the difference it made in Dr. Quelton. He raised his black, weary eyes to her face and stared at her with unmistakable insolence.

“Ah!” he said. “I see! I thought so!”

There was a moment’s silence.

“And you’ve come to Wyngate to--er--to write?” he went on. “Very interesting--very!”

Lexy felt her cheeks grow hot. She wished with all her heart that she had not involved herself in that stupid falsehood. It humiliated her so much that she couldn’t answer Dr. Quelton with her usual spirit. He noticed her confusion--no doubt about that.

“Poetry, perhaps?” he suggested.

“No!” said Lexy vehemently. “Not poetry!”

He leaned forward a little, looking directly into her face.

“Perhaps,” he said, “you write detective stories?”

“Yes!” said Lexy.

The doctor rose.

“The solving of mysteries!” he said, with his unpleasant smile. “That makes very interesting fiction!”

Lexy rose, too. His tone, his manner, exasperated her almost beyond endurance. She felt an ardent desire to contradict everything he said. What is more, she was in no humor to hear mystery stories made light of. She had had enough of that--first Mrs. Enderby pretending there was no mystery, and then Mr. Houseman going off and pretending it was solved, so that she was left alone to do the best she could. Wasn’t she in a mystery story at this very minute, and without a single promising clew to guide her?

“There are plenty of mysteries that aren’t fiction,” she observed curtly.

“But they are never solved,” said Dr. Quelton.

“Never solved?” said Lexy. “But lots of them are! You can read in the newspapers all the time about crimes that--”

“The mystery of a crime is never solved,” the doctor blandly proceeded. “Never! Let us say, for example, that a murder is committed. The police investigate, they arrest some one. There is a trial, the jury finds that the suspect is guilty, the judge sentences him, and he is executed. Public opinion is satisfied; but as a matter of fact, nothing whatever has been solved. It is all guesswork. Not one living soul, not one member of the jury, not the judge, not the executioner, really knows that the accused man was guilty. They think so--that is all. What you call a ‘solution’ is merely a guess, based upon probabilities.”

Lexy considered this with an earnest frown.

“Well,” she said at last, “quite often criminals confess.”

“In the days of witchcraft trials,” said he, “it was not uncommon for women to come forward voluntarily and confess to being witches. In the course of my own practice I have known people to confess things they could not possibly have done. No!” He shook his head and smiled faintly. “An acquaintance with the psychology of the diseased mind makes one very skeptical about confessions, Miss Moran.”

This idea, too, Lexy took into her mind and considered for a few minutes.

“Even an eyewitness,” Dr. Quelton went on, “is entirely unreliable. Any lawyer can tell you how completely the senses deceive one. Three persons can see the same occurrence, and each one of the three will swear to a quite different impression. Each one may be entirely honest, entirely convinced that he saw or heard what never took place.”

“Do you mean that you think it’s never possible to find out who’s guilty?”

“Never,” he replied agreeably. “It can never be anything but a guess, as I said, based upon probabilities. Human senses, human judgment, human reason, are all pitifully liable to error.”

Lexy was silent for a time, thinking over this.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said slowly, “about the senses, and judgment, and reason. Perhaps their evidence isn’t always to be trusted; but there’s something else.”

“Something else?” he repeated. “Something else? And what may that be?”

Lexy looked up at him. There was a smile on his heavy, pallid face, aloof and contemptuous; but she was chiefly concerned just then in trying to put into words her own firm conviction, more for her own benefit than for his. It was not reason that had brought her here to look for Caroline, it was not reason that sustained her.

“There’s something else,” she said again, with a frown. “There’s a way of knowing things without reason. It’s--I don’t know just how to put it, but it’s a thing beyond reason.”

He laughed, and she thought she had never heard a more unpleasant laugh.

“Certainly!” he said. “Beyond reason lies--unreason.”

“I don’t mean that,” said Lexy. “I mean--”

She stopped, because he had abruptly turned away and was walking toward the door. She stood where she was, amazed by this unique rudeness; but in the doorway he turned.

“The thing beyond reason!” he said, almost in a whisper. Then, with a sudden and complete change of manner, he went on: “It has been very interesting to meet you, Miss Moran. My wife will enjoy a visit from you. Any afternoon, after four o’clock!” He bowed politely. “After four o’clock,” he repeated, and off he went.

Lexy stood looking at the closed door.

“Crazy?” she said to herself. “No--that’s not the word for him at all. He’s--he’s just horrible!”

XII

At half past twelve Captain Grey had not yet returned, and Mrs. Royce declared that the ham omelet would be ruined if not eaten at once; so Lexy went down to the dining room and ate her lunch alone.

The rain was still falling steadily, and the little room was dim, chilly, and, to Lexy, unbearably close. She wasn’t particularly hungry, either, after such a hearty breakfast and no exercise. She felt restless and uneasy. When Mrs. Royce went out into the kitchen to fetch the dessert, she jumped up from the table, crossed the room, and opened the window.

The wild rain blew against her face, and it felt good to her. She drew in a long breath of the fresh, damp air, and sighed with relief.

“I’m going to go out this afternoon,” she said to herself, “if it rains pitchforks! I can’t--”

Just then she caught sight of Captain Grey coming down the road. Her first impulse was to call out a cheerful salutation, but after a second glance she felt no inclination for that. He was tramping along doggedly through the rain, his hands in his pockets, his collar turned up. He was as straight and soldierly as ever, but his face was pale, with such a queer look on it!

“Oh, dear!” thought Lexy. “Something’s gone wrong! Oh, the poor soul! And he set off so happy this morning.”

She went into the hall and opened the front door for him. Filled with a motherly solicitude, she wanted to help him off with his overcoat, but he abruptly declined that.

“Am I late?” he asked. “I thought one o’clock, you know--I’m sorry.”

“Mercy, that doesn’t matter!” said Lexy. “Aren’t you going to change your shoes? You ought to. Well, then, you’d better come in and eat your lunch this minute.”

“You’re no end kind, to bother like that!” he said earnestly. “I do appreciate it!”

“Who wouldn’t be?” thought Lexy, glancing at him. “You poor soul, you look as if you’d seen a ghost!”

He took his place at the table, and Lexy sat down opposite him, her chin in her hands, anxiously waiting for him to begin to tell her what had happened.

“Beastly day, isn’t it?” he said, with an obvious effort to speak cheerfully.

“Awful!” agreed Lexy.

“And yet, you know,” he went on, “I rather like a walk on a day like this. The country about here is pretty, don’t you think?”

Lexy glanced around, to make sure that Mrs. Royce had closed the door behind her.

“Captain Grey!” she said, leaning across the table. “Tell me, did you see her?”

He did not meet Lexy’s eyes. He was looking down at his plate with that curious dazed expression in his face.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I saw her.”

Lexy was hurt and disappointed by his manner. Evidently he didn’t want to tell her anything, didn’t want to talk at all. Very well--the only thing for her to do was to maintain a dignified silence. She did so for almost ten minutes, but then nature got the upper hand.

“Well?” she demanded. “Was everything all right?”

“All right?” he repeated. “Oh, rather! Oh, yes, thanks--absolutely all right.”

This was too much for Lexy.

“That’s good,” she said frigidly. “I’m going upstairs now, to write some letters.”

Her tone aroused him. He sprang to his feet, very contrite.

“No! Look here!” he said. “Please don’t run away! I--I want to talk to you, but it’s a bit hard. You can’t imagine what it’s like to see one of your own people, you know--after such a long time.”

Lexy sat down again.

“Was she as you expected her to be?” she asked.

“I don’t quite know what I expected,” he said. “Only--”

He paused for a long time, and Lexy waited patiently, for she felt very sorry for Captain Grey. At first sight she had imagined him to be haughty, stiff, and aloof. She knew now that he was a very sensitive man. He was terribly moved, and he wanted to tell her, but he couldn’t.

She tried to help him.

“Dr. Quelton came to see me this morning,” she observed.

“Yes--he said he would. Very decent sort of chap, don’t you think?”

“Do you mean you liked him?” asked Lexy.

Captain Grey was a little startled by this Yankee notion of liking a person at first sight.

“Well, you see,” he said, “I’ve only met him once; but he seems to me a very decent sort of chap. He’s clever, you know, and--and so on, and my sister seems very happy with him.”

“Happy?”

“Yes. I’ve been an ass, imagining all sorts of silly rot. She’s not very strong, I’m afraid, but she’s happy, and--well, you know, their life out there is lonely, of course, but there’s something about it, rather--rather charming, you know. I’d like you to see it for yourself. I was speaking about you to Muriel. She wants to know you, and I think you’d like her. Would you come out there to tea with me this afternoon?”

“Yes!” cried Lexy, with a vehemence that surprised him.

There was nothing in the world she wanted more at that moment than to see Captain Grey’s sister and to visit Dr. Quelton’s house. She didn’t exactly know why, and she didn’t care, but she wanted to.

Her trunk had not yet arrived. Indeed, she had only sent to Mrs. Enderby’s for it that morning, but she was able to make herself presentable with what she had in her bag, and excitement gave her an added charm. She was in high spirits, gay and sparkling, so pretty and so lively that Captain Grey was quite dazzled.

He had engaged the one and only taxi. After they were settled in it, and on their way along the muddy road, he said:

“I say, Miss Moran, are there many American girls like you?”

“No!” replied Lexy calmly. “I’m unique.”

“I can believe that!” he said. “I’ve never seen any one like you. I was telling Muriel how much I hope that you and she will hit it off. It would be a wonderful thing for her to have a friend like you in this place.”

Something in his tone made Lexy turn serious. He was speaking as if she was simply a nice girl he had happened to meet, as if she had nothing to do but go out to tea and make agreeable friendships.

“Yes,” she said, “but I don’t know how long I’ll be here. I certainly haven’t accomplished much so far.”

He was silent, and to Lexy his silence was very eloquent.

“I came here for a definite purpose,” she told him. “I haven’t forgotten that, and I’m not likely to forget it.”

“I know,” said he, “but--”

“But,” interrupted Lexy, “I know very well what you’re thinking--that it’s a wild-goose chase, and that I’m a young idiot. Isn’t that it?”

“I don’t mean that,” he protested; “only--don’t you see?”

“I don’t!” Lexy grimly denied. “You’ve thought over the talk we had last night, and you’ve decided that it was all nonsense.”

“No, Miss Moran--not nonsense; but we were both a bit tired then, and perhaps a bit overwrought.”

“All right!” said Lexy. “Don’t go on! No--please drop it. I’ve talked too much, anyhow. From now on I’m not going to talk to any one about my little job. I’m going to go ahead in my own way, alone.”

“You can’t,” said Captain Grey firmly. “I’m here, you know.”

This did not appease Lexy, and she remained curt and silent all the rest of the way. For a couple of miles the taxi went on along a broad, smooth highway; then it turned off down a rough lane, bordered by dark woodland, and entirely deserted. The rain drummed loud on the leather top of the cab, the wind came sighing through the gaunt pines and the slender, shivering birches; but when there was a lull, she heard another sound, a sound familiar to her from childhood and yet always strange, always heart-stirring--the dim, unceasing thunder of the sea.

“Is the doctor’s house near the shore?” she inquired.

“Yes--just on the beach.”

“Oh, I’m so glad!” cried Lexy. “Our old house, where I was born, was on the shore, and on days like this I used to love to go out and walk with father. I love the sea so!”

Captain Grey gave her an odd look, which she didn’t understand. Perhaps that was just as well, for her words and her voice had troubled the young man to an unreasonable degree. He wished he could say something to comfort her. He wished he could offer her the sea as a gift, for instance; and that would have been a mistake, because Lexy did not like to be pathetic.

Just at that moment, however, the taxi turned into a driveway, and there was the house--the Tower. Lexy was disappointed. The name had called up in her mind the picture of a gloomy edifice of gray stone, more or less medieval, and altogether somber and forbidding; and this was nothing in the world but a rather shabby old house, badly in need of paint, and forlorn enough in the rain, but very ordinary and very ugly. Even the tower, which had given the place its romantic name, was only a wooden cupola with a lightning rod on top of it.

“Can you get a good view of the sea from the windows?” Lexy demanded.

“Well, not from the library, where I was,” he answered; “but perhaps--”

“Captain Grey, I want to get out! I want to run down on the beach for one instant!”

“In this rain?” he protested. “You can’t!”

“I’m not made of sugar,” said Lexy scornfully, “I’ve got to run down there just for an instant, before I go in.”

“But, I say, your nice little hat, you know!”

Lexy pulled off the nice little hat and laid it on his knee. Then she rapped on the window, the driver stopped, and Lexy opened the door.

“No! Look here! Please, Miss Moran!” cried Captain Grey. “Very well, then, if you will go, I’ll go with you!”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Lexy. “I feel as if I’d like to go alone just for one look. You know how it is, sometimes. I haven’t had even a smell of the sea for so long; and it reminds me--”

She looked at him with a shadowy little smile, and he did understand.

“All right!” he said. “Then slip on my coat.”

She did so, to oblige him, and off she went, half running, down the lane, in the direction of the sound of the surf. Captain Grey looked after her--such an absurd little figure in that aquascutum of his that almost touched the ground! He watched her till she was out of sight; then he sat down in the cab and lit a cigarette.

He thought about her, but Lexy had forgotten him. She found herself on a desolate stretch of wet sand, with the gray sea tossing under a gray sky. She smelled the hearty, salt smell, she remembered old things, sad and sweet. Tears came into her eyes, and she felt them on her cheeks, warm, salt as the sea. If only she could go running home, back to the house where her mother used to wait for her! If only she could find her father’s big, firm hand clasping her own!

“I mustn’t be like this,” she said to herself. “Daddy would feel ashamed of me.”

In a cavernous pocket of the captain’s overcoat she found a handkerchief. She dried her eyes with it, and turned back. The Tower faced the lane, and the left side of it fronted the beach, rising stark and high from the sands. She looked up at it. On the first floor a sun parlor had been built out, and through the windows she could see a woman sitting there in a deck chair.

“I suppose that’s Muriel,” she thought, with a reawakening of her lively interest.

She came a little nearer. The woman was wearing a negligee and a coquettish little silk cap. Her back was turned toward Lexy. She lay there motionless, as if she were asleep.

Lexy drew closer. The woman turned, straightened up in the chair, and rose. A shiver ran along Lexy’s spine. She stopped and stared and stared.

The woman had raised her thin arms above her head, stretching. Then, for a moment, she stood in an odd and lovely pose, with her hands clasped behind her head. Oh, surely no one else ever stood like that! That figure, that attitude--it couldn’t be any one else!

“Caroline!” cried Lexy. “Caroline!”

The woman did not hear. She was moving toward the long windows of the room, and her every step, every line of her figure, was familiar and unmistakable to Lexy.

“Caroline!” she cried, running forward across the wet sand. “Wait! Wait for me, Caroline!”

A hand seized her arm. With a gasp, she looked into the pale, heavy face of Dr. Quelton. He was smiling.

“Miss Moran!” he said. “This is an unexpected pleasure--”

Lexy jerked her arm away, and looked up at the windows of the sun parlor. The woman had gone.

“I saw Caroline!” she said. “In there!”

“Caroline?” he repeated. “I’m afraid, I’m very much afraid, Miss Moran, that you’ve made a mistake.”

Their eyes met. In that instant, Lexy knew. He was still smiling with an expression of bland amusement at this extraordinary little figure in the huge coat; but he was her enemy, and she knew it.

“Suppose we go on?” he suggested. “I believe it’s raining.”

They turned and walked side by side around the house to the front door, where Captain Grey stood waiting.

“I say!” he exclaimed anxiously. “Your hair--your shoes--you’ll take a chill, Miss Moran!”

“I feel anxious about Miss Moran myself,” said Dr. Quelton. “I’m afraid she’s a very imprudent young lady.”

But Lexy said nothing.

XIII

The doctor’s library had a charm of its own. It was a big room, careless, a little shabby, but furnished in fastidious taste and with a friendly sort of comfort. A great wood fire was blazing on the hearth, and Dr. Quelton drew up an armchair before it for Lexy.

“There!” he said. “Now you’ll soon be warm and dry. Anna!”

“Yes, sir!” the parlor maid responded from the doorway.

“Please tell Mrs. Quelton that Miss Moran is here.”

“Yes, sir!” repeated the maid, and disappeared.

Lexy sat down. Captain Grey stood, facing her, leaning one elbow on the mantelpiece. Dr. Quelton paced up and down, his hands clasped behind him. He looked like a dignified middle-aged gentleman in his own home.

A door opened somewhere in the house, and for a moment Lexy heard the homely and familiar sound of an egg-beater whirring and a cheerful Irish voice inquiring about “them potaters.” It was surely a cheerful and pleasant enough setting; but Lexy did not find it so.

“I saw Caroline!” she insisted to herself. “I don’t care what any one says. I saw Caroline!”

A strange sensation of pain and dread oppressed her. What should she do? Whom should she tell?

“Captain Grey,” she thought; “but not now. It’s no use now. Dr. Quelton would deny it. I’ll have to wait until we get out of here; and then, perhaps, it ’ll be too late. He knows I saw her. Something--something horrible--may happen!”

A shiver ran through her.

“Miss Moran is nervous,” said the doctor, with solicitude.

“I’m not!” replied Lexy sharply.

“I hope it’s not a chill,” said Captain Grey.

“I should be inclined to think it nervousness,” said Dr. Quelton. “Our landscape here is lonely and depressing, and Miss Moran has the artist’s temperament, impressionable, high-strung.”

“Not I!” declared Lexy, in a tone that startled Captain Grey. “Lonely places don’t bother me. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Oh!” said the doctor. “But here’s Mrs. Quelton. Muriel, this is Miss Moran, the young writer of fiction.”

Mrs. Quelton was coming down the long room, a beautiful woman, dark and delicate, with a sort of plaintive languor in her manner. She held out her hand to Lexy.

“I’m so glad you’ve come!” she said. “George has told me so much about you--the first American girl he’s known!”

She glanced at her brother with a little smile. Lexy glanced at him, too; and she was surprised and very much touched by the look on his face. He couldn’t even smile. His face was grave, pale, almost solemn, and he was regarding his sister with something like reverence.

“Oh, poor fellow!” thought Lexy. “Poor lonely fellow! It’s such a wonderful thing for him to find his sister--some one of his own. I only hope she’s as nice as she looks.”

This thought caused her to turn toward her hostess again. She was beautiful, and in a gentle and gracious fashion, and yet--

“I don’t know,” thought Lexy. “There’s something--she doesn’t look ill--perhaps she’s just lackadaisical; but certainly she’s not simple and easy to understand. She must know about Caroline Enderby. The thing is, would she help me, or--”

Or would Mrs. Quelton also be her enemy? Lost in her own thought, Lexy sat silent. She had, indeed, certain grave faults in social deportment. The head mistress of the finishing school she had attended had often said to her:

“Alexandra, it is absolutely inexcusable to give way to moods in the company of other people!”

In theory Lexy admitted that this was true, but it made no difference. If she didn’t feel inclined to talk, she didn’t talk. It was so this afternoon. She merely answered when she was spoken to--which was not often, for Dr. Quelton was asking his brother-in-law questions about India, and Mrs. Quelton seemed no more desirous to talk than Lexy was. What is more, Lexy felt certain that the doctor’s wife was not listening to the talk between the two men, but, like herself, was thinking her own thoughts.

The parlor maid wheeled the tea cart in, and Mrs. Quelton roused herself to pour the tea and to make polite inquiries, in her plaintive tone, as to what her guests wanted in the way of cream and sugar. The maid vanished again, and Dr. Quelton passed about the cups and plates.

“It’s China tea,” he observed. “I import it myself. It has quite a distinctive flavor, I think.”

Captain Grey praised it, and Lexy herself found it very agreeable. She sipped it, staring into the fire, glad to be let alone. Behind her she could hear Captain Grey talking about the Ceylon tea plantations. His voice sounded so pathetic!

“Another cup, Miss Moran?” asked Mrs. Quelton.

“Yes, thank you,” answered Lexy, and the doctor brought it to her.

Poor Captain Grey and his precious, new-found sister! The sound of his voice brought tears to her eyes.

“But this is idiotic!” she thought, annoyed and surprised.

Still the tears welled up. She gulped down the rest of her tea hastily, hoping that it would steady her, but it did not help at all. Sobs rose in her throat, and an immense and formless sorrow came over her.

“This has got to stop!” she thought, in alarm. “I can’t be such a chump!”

She turned to Mrs. Quelton.

“Are you going to grow any--” she began, but her voice was so unsteady that she had to stop for a moment. “Any flowers in--in your--g-garden?”

The question ended in a loud and unmistakable sob. They all turned to look at her, startled and anxious.

She made a desperate effort to regain control of herself.

“S-snapdragon,” she said. “So--so p-pretty!”

Then, suddenly, all her defenses gave way. The teacup fell from her hand and was shattered on the floor, and, burying her head in her arms, she cried as she had never cried in her life.

Mrs. Quelton stood beside her, one hand resting on Lexy’s shoulder. Captain Grey was bending over her, profoundly disturbed. She tried to speak, but she could not.

“Miss Moran!” said Dr. Quelton solicitously. “Will you allow me to give you a mild sedative?”

“No!” she gasped. “No--I want to go home!”

“I’ll telephone for the taxi,” suggested Captain Grey. “He wasn’t coming back until half past five.”

“Unfortunately we have no telephone,” said the doctor; “but I’ll drive Miss Moran home.”

“No! I want to walk.”

“Not in this rain,” the doctor protested, “and in your overwrought condition.”

“I must!” She got up, the tears still streaming down her cheeks. “I must!” she said wildly. “Let me go! Please let me go!”

The doctor turned to Captain Grey. In the midst of her unutterable misery and confusion, Lexy still heard and understood what he was saying.

“In a case of hysteria--better to humor her--the exercise and the fresh air may help her.”

The doctor’s wife helped Lexy with her hat and coat. She was very gentle, very kind, and genuinely concerned for her unhappy little guest. Lexy remembered afterward that Mrs. Quelton kissed her; but at the moment nothing mattered except to get away, to get out of that house into the fresh air.

Without one backward glance she set off at a furious pace, splashing through the puddles, almost running. Captain Grey kept easily by her side with his long, lithe stride. Now and then he spoke to her, but she could not trust herself to answer just yet. The storm within her was subsiding. From time to time a sob broke from her, but the tears had stopped.

And now she was beginning to think.

Twilight had come early on this rainy day, and it was almost dark before they reached the end of the lane. Lexy slackened her pace. Then, as they came to the corner of the highway, she stopped and laid her hand on her companion’s sleeve.

“Captain Grey!” she said.

He looked down at her, but it was too dark to see what expression there was on her pale face. He was vastly relieved, however, by the steadiness of her voice.

“Captain Grey!” she said again. “If I told you something--something very important--would you believe me?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he answered hastily. “Of course, I would always believe you; but I wish you wouldn’t try to talk about anything important just now, you know. Let’s wait a bit, eh?”

Lexy smiled to herself in the dark--a smile of extraordinary bitterness. He wouldn’t believe her if she told him about Caroline. He would think she was hysterical. She saw quite plainly that by this strange outburst she had lost his confidence.

She could in no way explain her sudden breaking down. Such a thing had never happened to her before. She could not understand it, but she was in no doubt about the unfortunate consequences of it. She was discredited.

XIV

Lexy sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped loosely before her, her bright head bent, her eyes fixed somberly upon nothing; and she could see nothing--not one step of the way that lay ahead of her. She could not think what she ought to do next. For the first time in her life, she had a feeling of utter confusion and dismay.

“It’s because I’m so tired,” she said to herself. “I’ve never been really tired out before.”

But that in itself was a cause for alarm. Why should she feel like this, so exhausted and depressed? Horrible thoughts came to her. Dr. Quelton had called her nervous, high-strung, hysterical. Was that because he had seen in her something which she herself had never suspected? Was she hysterical? Mrs. Enderby had laughed at her. Mr. Houseman had gone away, satisfied with his own solution. Captain Grey, chivalrous and kindly as he was, had obviously lost interest in her affairs. Nobody believed in her. Was it because every one could see--

She remembered the intolerable humiliation of the day before, her wild outburst of tears in the Queltons’ house. Even in her childhood she had never done such a thing before.

“What does it mean?” she asked herself in terror. “What is the matter with me? Is this whole thing just a delusion? I came here to find Caroline, and I thought--I thought I did see her. Am I mad?”

That was the awful thing that had lain in ambush in her mind ever since yesterday, that had haunted her restless sleep all night. She had not admitted it, but it had been there every minute. All her actions, all her words, to-day, had the one object of showing Mrs. Royce and Captain Grey how entirely normal and sensible she was.

“That’s what they always do!” she whispered with dry lips.

All day, hiding her terror and weakness, talking to Mrs. Royce, sitting at the lunch table and talking and laughing with Captain Grey, trying to make them believe her quite cheerful and untroubled--and all the time perhaps they knew. Perhaps they were humoring her!

She sprang up and went over to the window. The sun was beginning to sink in a tranquil sky. It had been a beautiful day, but Lexy felt too weary and listless to go out. She remembered now that both Captain Grey and the landlady had urged her to do so, that they had both said it would do her good. Then they must have noted that something was wrong with her. What did they think it was? Did she look--

She crossed the room and stood before the mirror. The rays of the setting sun fell upon her hair, turning it to copper and gold. It seemed to her to shine with a strange light about her pallid little face. Her eyes seemed enormous, somber, and terrible.

She covered her face with her hands and flung herself on the bed, sick and desperate. She could not see any one, could not speak to any one. When a knock came at her door, she thrust her fingers into her ears and lay there, with her eyes shut tight, trembling from head to foot; but the knocking went on until she could endure it no longer.

“Yes?” she said, sitting up.

“Supper’s all on the table!” said Mrs. Royce’s cheerful voice.

“I don’t want any supper to-night, thank you,” replied Lexy.

Mrs. Royce expostulated and argued for a time, but she could not persuade Lexy even to unlock the door; and at last, with a worried sigh, she went downstairs again.

The room was quite dark now, and the wind blowing in through the open window felt chill; but Lexy was too tired to close the window or light the gas. She was not drowsy. She lay stretched out, limp, overpowered with fatigue, but wide awake, and with a curious certainty that she was waiting for something.

There was another knock at the door, and this time Captain Grey’s voice spoke.

“I say, Miss Moran!” he said anxiously. “You’re not ill, are you?”

“No!” she answered, with a trace of irritability. “I’m just tired.”

“But don’t you think you ought to eat something, you know? Or a cup of tea?”

“No!” she cried, still more impatiently. “I can’t. I want to rest.”

“Can you open the door for half a moment?” he asked. “I’ve some roses here that my sister sent to you. She wanted me to say--”

The door opened with startling suddenness. Lexy appeared, and took the roses out of his hand.

“Thank you! Good night!” she said, and was gone again before he quite realized what was happening.

Then he heard the key turn in the lock, and, bewildered and very uneasy, he went away.

Lexy flung the roses down on the table, not even troubling to put them into water.

“Anything to get rid of him!” she said to herself. “I want to be let alone!”

She lay down on the bed again, pulling a blanket over herself. Downstairs she could hear Mrs. Royce moving about in the kitchen, and Captain Grey’s singularly agreeable voice talking to the landlady. It seemed to her that they were in a different world, and that she was shut outside, in a black and terrible solitude.

“If I can only sleep!” she thought. “Perhaps, in the morning--”

She was beginning to feel a little drowsy now. How heavenly it would be to sleep, even for a little while! To sleep and to forget!

The wind was blowing through the dark little room, bringing to her the perfume of the roses--a wonderful fragrance. It was wonderful, but almost too strong. It was too strong. It troubled her.

“I’ll put them out on the window sill,” she murmured. “It’s such a queer scent!”

But she was too tired, too unspeakably tired. She didn’t seem able to get up, or even to move. She sighed faintly, and closed her eyes. The wind blew, strong and steady, heavy with that sweet and subtle odor.

* * * * *

“Look out!” cried Mr. Houseman. “She’s going about!”

Lexy laughed, and ducked down into the cockpit while the boom swung over. The little sailboat was flying over the sunny water like a bird. There was not a cloud in the pure bright sky, not a shadow in her joyous heart.

“I am so glad you came!” she said.

“Of course I came,” he answered. “I had to swim all the way from India.”

“Mercy!” cried Lexy. “That must have been dreadful! But why?”

Mr. Houseman leaned forward and whispered solemnly:

“There was a tempest in a teapot.”

This frightened her.

“Do you think there’s going to be another one?” she whispered back.

“Sure to be!” said he. “Don’t you see how dark it’s getting?”

It was getting very dark. Lexy couldn’t see his face now.

“Hold my hand!” he shouted, and she reached out for it; but she couldn’t find him at all.

“Mr. Houseman!” she cried.

There was no answer. She stared about her, numb with terror. What was it that rustled like that? What were these black, tall things that were standing motionless about her on every side?

“I’ve been dreaming,” she said to herself. “I’m in my own room, of course. If I go just a few steps, I’ll touch the wall. I’m awake now--only it’s so dark!”

And what was it that rustled like that--like leaves in the wind? What were these black, still forms about her? Trees? No--they couldn’t be trees.

In a wild panic she moved forward. Her outstretched hand touched something, and she screamed. The scream seemed to run along through the dark, leaping and rolling over the ground like a terrified animal. She tried to run after it, stumbling and panting, until her shoulder struck violently against something, and she stopped.

And into her sick and shuddering mind her old sturdy courage began to return. She tried to breathe quietly. She struggled desperately against the awful weakness that urged her to sink down on the ground and cover her eyes.

“No!” she said aloud. “I won’t! I’m here! I’m alive! I will understand! I will see!”

She was able now to draw a deep breath, and the horrible fluttering of her heart grew less. She stood motionless, waiting. It was coming back to her, that immortal, unconquerable spirit of hers. The anguish and the strange fear were passing.

“I’m here,” she said. “I’m in a wood somewhere. These are trees. What I hear are only the leaves in the wind. I don’t know where it is, or how I got here; but I’m alive and well. I can walk. I can get out of it.”

She moved forward again, quietly and deliberately. Her eyes were more accustomed to the darkness now, and she made her way through the trees, looking always ahead, never once behind her.

“The wood must end somewhere,” she said. “The morning will have to come some time. All I have to do is to go on.”

Patter, patter, patter, like little feet running behind her.

“Only the leaves on the trees,” said Lexy. “All I have to do is to go on.”

And she went on. Sometimes a wild desire to run swept over her, but she would not hasten her steps, and she would not look behind. The primeval terror of the forest pressed upon her, but she cast it away. Alone, lost, in darkness and solitude, she kept her hold upon the one thing that mattered--the honor and dignity of her own soul.

“I’m not afraid,” she said.

And then she saw a light. At first she thought it was the moon, but it hung too low, and it was too brilliant. Even then she would not run. She went on steadily toward it. In a few minutes she stepped out of the woodland upon a road--a hard, asphalt road with lights along it. It was quite empty, it was unfamiliar to her, but she would have gone down on her knees and kissed the dust of it. It was a road, and all roads lead home.

XV

There were no stars and no moon, for the sky was filled with wild black clouds flying before the wind. Lexy could not guess at the time. She had no idea where she was, but it didn’t matter. The morning would come some time, and the road would lead somewhere.

“It’s better here,” she said to herself. “I’d far, far rather be here, wherever it is, than shut up in that room with the thoughts I had!”

Those thoughts, those fears, had utterly gone from her now, but the memory of them was horrible. She shuddered at the memory of the hours she had spent locked in her room, with that monstrous dread of madness in her heart. Thank God, it had passed now! She walked along the interminable empty road, her old self again, but graver and sterner than she had ever been before in her life.

“I’ve got to understand all this,” she said to herself. “I’ve got to know what’s been the matter with me. That breakdown at the Queltons’, that awful time yesterday afternoon, and this! I suppose I’ve been walking in my sleep. I never did before. Something’s gone wrong with my nerves, terribly wrong; and I’ve got to find out why.”

She quickened her pace a little, because a trace of the old panic fear had stirred in her.

“It’s over!” she thought. “I’ll never imagine such a thing again; but I wonder if I’ll ever feel quite sure of myself again!”

For all her valiant efforts, tears came into her eyes. She had always been so proudly and honestly sure of herself, she had always trusted herself, and now--now she knew how weak, how untrustworthy she could be. Now she would always have that knowledge, and would fear that the weakness might come again.

“I don’t know whether I really did see Caroline. I can’t feel certain of anything. Perhaps I ought to give up all this and go away and rest; only I’ve no place to go. There isn’t any one I can tell.”

She straightened her shoulders and looked up at the vast, dark sky, where black clouds ran before a wind that snapped at their heels like a wolf; and the sight assuaged her. This world that lay under the open sky--the woods, the hills, and above all, the sea--was her world. It belonged to her equally with all God’s creatures. She had her part in it and her place. There was no one to whom she could turn for comfort, her faith in herself was cruelly shaken, and yet somehow she was not forsaken and helpless. Some one was coming. It was dark, but the light was coming!

She went on, her brisk footsteps ringing out clearly in the silence. The road was bordered on both sides by woods, where the leaves whispered, and there was no sign anywhere of another human being; but the road must lead somewhere. It began to go steeply uphill, and she became aware for the first time that she was very tired and very hungry, and that one of her shoes was worn through; but she had her precious money in the bag around her neck, and, if she kept on going, she couldn’t help reaching some place where she could get food and rest.

“At the top of the hill I’ll be able to see better,” she thought.

It was a long, long hill, and the stones began to hurt her foot in the worn shoe; but she got to the top, and then below her she saw the lights of a railway station.

She went down the hill at a lively trot, and it was as if she had come into a different world. Dogs barked somewhere not far off, and she passed a barn standing black against the sky. It was a human world, where people lived.

When she reached the platform, the door of the waiting room was locked, but inside she could see a light burning dimly in the ticket booth, and a clock. Half past one! With a sigh of relief, she sat down on the edge of the platform. She wouldn’t in the least mind sitting here until morning, in a place where there were lights and a clock, and she could hear a dog barking. She took off her shoe and rubbed her bruised foot, and sighed again with great content. In four hours or so somebody would come, and then she would find out where she was, and how to get back to Mrs. Royce, and Mrs. Royce’s comfortable breakfast--coffee, ham and eggs, and hot muffins.

She started up, and hastily put on her shoe again, for in the distance she heard the sound of a motor. She told herself that it would be the height of folly to stop an unknown car in this solitary place, for there were evil men abroad in the world; but there were a great many more honest ones, and if she could only get back to Mrs. Royce’s now!

She crossed the road and stood behind a big tree. The purr of the motor was growing louder and louder, filling the whole earth. Her heart beat fast, she kept her eyes upon the road, excited, but not sure what she meant to do.

It was a taxi. She sprang out into the road and waved her arms.

“Taxi!” she shouted joyously.

The car stopped with a jolt, and the driver jumped out.

“Now, then! What’s up?” he demanded suspiciously. From a safe distance, the light of an electric torch was flashed in her face. “Well, I’ll be gosh-darned!” said he. “Ain’t you the boarder up to Mrs. Royce’s?”

“Yes! I am! I am!” cried Lexy, overwhelmed with delight. “Can you take me there?”

“I can,” he replied; “but what on earth are you doing out here?”

“I got lost,” said Lexy. “Where is this, anyhow?”

“Wyngate station,” said he. “I’ll be gosh-darned! I never! Lost?”

“Yes,” said Lexy. “Aren’t you the driver who took me up the day I came here?”

“That’s me--only taxi in Wyngate. Took you out to the Queltons’, too. Hop in, miss!”

His engine had stalled, and he set to work to crank it, while Lexy stood beside him.

“Drive awfully fast, will you?” she asked.

He was too busy to answer for a moment. Then, when his engine was running again, he straightened up and looked at her.

“No, ma’am!” he said firmly. “No more of that for me! Not after what happened a while ago. No, ma’am! I had my lesson!”

“An accident?” inquired Lexy politely.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I s’pose it was; but the more I think it over, the more I dunno!”

In the brightness cast by the headlights, Lexy could see his face very well, and the look on it gave her a strange little thrill of fear. It was not a handsome or intelligent face, but it was a very honest one, and she saw, written plain upon it, a very honest doubt and dismay. Like herself, he wasn’t sure.

“It was this way,” he went on. “About three miles up Carterstown way there’s a bad piece of road. There’s a steep hill, and a crossroad cuts across the foot of it, and it’s too narrer for two cars to pass. It’s a bad piece, and I always been keerful there. I was keerful that night. I was coming along the crossroad, and I heard another car somewhere, and I sounded the horn two or three times before I come to the foot of the hill. Jest as I got there, and was turning up the hill, down comes another car, full tilt. I couldn’t git out o’ the way. There’s stone walls on both sides. I tried to back, but he crashed into me. I kind of fainted, I guess. My cab was all smashed up, and I was cut pretty bad with glass. They found me lying there about an hour after. The other fellow--he was killed.” He stopped for a minute. “If it hadn’t been fer his license number, nobody could ’a’ known who he was, he was so smashed up. Seems he was from New York, driving a taxi belonging to one of them big companies.”

“Poor fellow!” said Lexy.

“Yes,” said the other solemnly. “I kin say that, too, whatever he meant to do.”

“Meant to do?”

The countryman came a step nearer.

“I keep thinking about it,” he said in a half whisper. “This is the queer thing about it, miss. That there car didn’t start till I got to the foot of the hill! The engine was just racing, and the car wasn’t moving along--I know that. It was as if he’d been waiting up there for me, and then down he came as if he meant”--the speaker paused again--“to kill me,” he ended.

“But--” Lexy began, and then stopped.

She had a very odd feeling that this story was somehow of great importance to her, but that she must put it away, that she must keep it in her mind until later. This wasn’t the time to think about it.

“Joe,” she said, “I want to hear more about this--all about it; but not now. I’m too tired.”

He gave himself a shake, like a dog. Then he turned to her with a slow, good-natured smile.

“I guess you are!” he said. “Lucky for you I just happened to be late to-night, taking them Ainsly girls ’way out to their house after a dance. Hop in, miss!”

Lexy got in, and they set off. She leaned back and closed her eyes, but they flew open again as if of their own accord. There was something she wanted to see. Through the glass she could see Joe’s burly shoulders, a little hunched--Joe, who, like herself, wasn’t sure.

“Not now!” said something inside her. “Don’t think about that now. Try not to think at all. Wait! Something is going to happen.”

At the corner of the road leading to Mrs. Royce’s, she tapped on the window. Joe stopped the cab with a jerk, sprang down from his seat, and ran around to open the door.

“What’s the matter, miss?”

“Nothing,” said Lexy. “I’m sorry if I startled you, Joe. I thought I’d get out here and slip into the house quietly, without disturbing any one.”

Joe grinned sheepishly.

“I’ve got kind of jumpy since--that,” he said. “Howsomever, come on, miss!”

“Oh, I don’t mean to trouble you!”

“I’m going to see you safe inside that there house!” Joe declared firmly.

Grateful for his genuine kindness, Lexy made no further protest. Side by side they walked down the lane, their footsteps noiseless in the thick dust, and Joe opened the garden gate without a sound.

“I thought perhaps I could climb up that tree and get in at my window,” Lexy whispered.

“I’ll do it for you,” said Joe, “and come down and let you in by the back door.”

He was up the tree like a cat. He went cautiously along a branch, until he could reach the roof of the shed with his toes. He dropped down on the roof, and Lexy saw him disappear into her room. She went to the back door. In a minute she heard the key turn inside, and the door opened.

“Thank you ever so much, Joe!” she whispered.

But he paid no attention to her. He stood still, drawing deep breaths of the night air.

“Them roses!” he said. “The smell of ’em made me kind of sick, like. Throw ’em out, miss! Don’t go to sleep with them roses in the room!”

Lexy did not answer for a time.

“I’ll see you to-morrow, Joe,” she said. “I’ll pay you for the taxi, and have a talk with you. And thank you, Joe, ever so much!”

He touched his cap, murmured “Good night,” and off he went.

Lexy went in, locked the kitchen door behind her, and stood there, leaning against it, half dazed by the great light that was coming into her mind. She was beginning to understand! The roses--the roses with their strange and powerful fragrance! Her hysterical outburst after her tea at Dr. Quelton’s house! She was beginning to understand, not the details, but the one tremendous thing that mattered.

“He did it,” she said to herself. “He made all this happen. I didn’t just break down. I haven’t been weak and hysterical. He made it all happen!”

For a time her relief was an ecstasy. She could trust herself again. She was so happy in that knowledge that she could have shouted aloud, to waken Mrs. Royce and Captain Grey, and tell them. The monstrous burden was lifted, she was free, she was her old sturdy, trustworthy self again.

She sank into a chair by the kitchen table, staring before her into the dark, her lips parted in a smile of gratitude and delight; and then, suddenly, the smile fled. She rose to her feet, her hands clenched, her whole body rigid.

“He did it!” she said again. “It’s the vilest and most horrible thing any one can do. He tried to steal my soul. He turned me into that poor, terrified, contemptible creature. I’ll never in all my life forgive him. I’m going to find out--about that, and about Caroline. I’ll never give up trying, and I’ll never forgive him!”

She groped her way through the dark kitchen and into the hall. That was where she had first seen Dr. Quelton. She stopped and turned, as if she were looking into his face.

“I’m stronger than you!” she whispered.

XVI

Lexy came down to breakfast a little late the next morning, but in the best of spirits, and with a ferocious appetite. She had no idea how or when she had left the house the night before, but obviously neither Mrs. Royce nor Captain Grey knew anything about it, and that sufficed. She could go on eating, quite untroubled by their friendly anxiety. Let them think what they chose--it no longer mattered to her.

For, in spite of the warm liking she had for them both, she felt entirely cut off from them now. If she told them the truth, they would not believe her, they would not and could not help her. Nobody on earth would help her. She faced that fact squarely. Whatever Dr. Quelton had meant to accomplish, he had perfectly succeeded in doing one thing--he had discredited her. Anything she said now would be regarded as the irresponsible statement of a hysterical girl.

Very well! She had done with talking. She meant to act now.

“It was awfully nice of your sister to send me those roses,” she observed.

Captain Grey was standing by the window in the dining room, keeping her company while she ate. He turned his head aside as she spoke, but not before she had noticed on his sensitive face the odd and touching look that always came over it at any mention of his sister. Evidently he worshiped her, and yet Lexy was certain that he was somehow disappointed in her.

“She likes you very much,” he said.

“I’m glad,” said Lexy; “but how did you manage to keep the roses so wonderfully fresh, Captain Grey?”

“The doctor wrapped them for me--some rather special way, you know--damp paper, and then a cloth. He told me not to open them until I gave them to you. Very clever chap, isn’t he?”

“He is!” agreed Lexy, with a faint smile.

“Mind if I smoke, Miss Moran?” asked the young man. “Thanks!”

He lit a cigarette and sat down on the window sill. He was silent, and so was Lexy, for she fancied that he had something he wished to say.

“Miss Moran,” he said, at last, “you’ll go there again to see her, won’t you?”

Lexy considered for a moment.

“Why?” she asked. “Why did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I was afraid you might think--it’s the atmosphere of the place--I’m sure of it--that made you nervous the other afternoon. It’s something about the place, you know. I’ve felt it myself. I was afraid you wouldn’t care to go again, and I don’t like to think of her there--alone.”

“She’s not alone,” observed Lexy blandly. “She has her clever husband.”

“Yes, I know that, of course, but he’s--well, he’s not very cheery,” said the young man earnestly.

Lexy couldn’t help laughing.

“No, he’s not very cheery,” she admitted. “Of course I’ll go again--this afternoon, if you’d like.”

“I say! You are good!” he cried. “I know jolly well that you don’t want to go.”

“I do, though,” declared Lexy.

“Shall we walk over?”

“If you don’t mind,” said Lexy, “I’ll go by myself. There’s something I want to attend to first. I’ll meet you there at four o’clock.”

“Right-o!” said he. “Then you won’t mind if I go there for lunch?”

She assured him that she wouldn’t.

“You poor dear thing!” she added, to herself. His solicitude touched her. He seemed to feel himself responsible for her, as if she were a very delicate and rather weak-minded child. “You’re not very cheery, either!” she thought. And indeed he was not. His meeting with his sister had upset him badly. Ever since he had first seen her, he had been troubled and anxious and downcast. “And that’s because she’s not human,” thought Lexy. “She’s beautiful, and gentle, and all that, but she’s like a ghost. Of course it bothers him!”

She did not give much more thought to Captain Grey, however. As soon as he left the house, she went upstairs into the little sewing room, and until lunch time she was busy writing the clearest and briefest account she could of what had occurred. This she put into an envelope, which she addressed to Mr. Charles Houseman and laid it on her bureau.

“If anything happened, I suppose they’d give it to him,” she said to herself. “I’d like him to know.”

Somehow this gave her a good deal of comfort. Not that she expected anything to happen, or was at all frightened, but she did not deny that Dr. Quelton was a singularly unpleasant sort of enemy to have; and he was her enemy--she was sure of it.

Just because he had made such a point of her arriving after four o’clock, she had made up her mind to reach the house well before that hour--which would not please him. Directly after lunch she walked down to the village. She found Joe taking a nap in his cab, outside the station; and, regardless of the frightful curiosity of the villagers, she stood there talking to him for a long time. He assured her, with his sheepish grin, that he had told no one of his having met her the night before, and he willingly promised never to mention it to any one without her consent.

“I ain’t so much of a talker,” he said.

That was true, too. He was reluctant, to-day, to talk about his strange adventure with the cab on the hill; but Lexy made him answer her questions, and he wavered in no respect from his first version.

“There was an inquest, an’ all,” he said. “I’m darned glad it’s all over!”

“It isn’t!” thought Lexy. “Somehow it belongs with other things. It’s a piece of the puzzle. I can’t fit it in now, but I will some day!”

So she thanked Joe, and paid him for last night’s trip, though he made miserable and embarrassed efforts to stop her. Then she set off on her way.

It was four o’clock by her watch when she reached the garden gate. She stopped for a moment with her hand on the latch, and, in spite of herself, a little shiver ran through her. The battered old house in the tangled garden looked more menacing to-day, in the tranquil spring sunshine, than it had in the rain. It was utterly lonely and quiet. Lexy could hear nothing but the distant sound of the surf, which was like the beating of a tired heart.

Against the advice of Mrs. Enderby, almost against her own reason, she had come here to Wyngate, and to the house--and she had seen Caroline. The thing which was beyond reason had been right--so right that it frightened her; and now it bade her go on. It was like a voice telling her that her feet were set in the right path.

Lexy pushed open the gate and went in. The pleasant young parlor maid opened the door. She looked alarmed.

“I don’t know, miss,” she said. “Mrs. Quelton--I’ll go and ask the doctor.”

But from the hall Lexy had caught sight of Mrs. Quelton in the drawing-room alone, and, with an affable smile for the anxious parlor maid, she went in there.

“I’m afraid I’m awfully early--” she began, and then stopped short in amazement.

Mrs. Quelton did not welcome the visitor, did not smile or speak. She lay back in her chair and stared at Lexy with dilated eyes and parted lips. Her face was as white as paper, and strangely drawn.

“Are you ill?” cried Lexy, running toward her.

Mrs. Quelton only stared at her with those brilliant, dilated eyes. Lexy took the other woman’s hand, and it was as cold as ice, and utterly lifeless.

“Mrs. Quelton! Are you ill?” she asked again.

Somehow it added to her horror to see, as she bent over her, that the unfortunate woman’s face was ever so thickly covered with some curious sort of paint or powder. It made her seem like a grotesque and horrible marionette.

“She’s old!” thought Lexy. “She’s terribly, terribly old!”

She drew back her hand, for she could not touch that painted face. She didn’t fail in generous pity, but she could not overcome an instinctive repugnance. She turned around, intending to call the parlor maid, and there was Dr. Quelton striding down the long room with a glass in his hand. Without even glancing at Lexy, he stooped over his wife, raised her limp head on one arm, and put the glass to her lips. She drank the contents, and lay back again, with her eyes closed. Almost at once the color began to return to her ashen cheeks. Her arms quivered, and then she opened her eyes and looked up at him with a faint, dazed smile.

“You’re better now,” he said.

“Better!” she repeated. “But you were late! I needed it--I needed it!”

“Come, now!” he said indulgently. “The faintness has passed. Now you must go up to your room and rest a little before tea.”

She rose, and to Lexy’s surprise her movements showed no trace of weakness. Then, turning her head, she caught sight of the girl, and her face lighted with pleasure.

“Miss Moran!” she cried. “How very nice to--”

“Miss Moran will wait, I’m sure,” the doctor interrupted. “You must rest for half an hour, Muriel.”

Taking her by the arm, he led her down the room. In the doorway she looked back and smiled at her visitor; and if anything had been needed to steel Lexy’s heart against the doctor, that smile on his wife’s face would have done it--that poor, plaintive little smile.

Standing there by Mrs. Quelton’s empty chair, she waited for him to return, a cold and terrible anger rising in her. She heard his step in the hall, heavy and deliberate, and presently he reëntered the room and came toward her, his blank, dull eyes fixed upon nothing. She was quite certain that he wanted to put her out of his way, and that he had no scruple whatever as to methods; yet for all her youth and inexperience, her utter loneliness, she felt that she was a match for him.

“So you’ve come back to us, Miss Moran,” he said in his lifeless voice. “I was afraid you might not.”

“Oh, but why not?” Lexy inquired in a brisk and cheerful tone. “I like to come here!”

A curious thrill of exultation ran through her, for she saw on the doctor’s face the faintest shadow of a frown. He was perplexed! She baffled him, and he didn’t know whether she understood what had happened.

“It is a great pleasure to Mrs. Quelton and myself,” he said politely. Then he raised his eyes and looked directly at her. “Perhaps,” he went on, “you would be kind enough to spend a week here with us some time? Although I’m afraid you might find it very dull.”

“Oh, no!” Lexy assured him. “I’d love to come--whenever it’s convenient for you.”

They were still looking directly into each other’s eyes.

“Suppose we say to-morrow?” suggested Dr. Quelton.

“Thank you!” said Lexy. “I’ll come to-morrow!”

XVII

Captain Grey was enchanted with the idea of Lexy’s spending a week with his sister. He was going, too. Indeed, Lexy felt sure that Mrs. Quelton had wanted him to go there some time ago, and that he had refused simply on her own account. He didn’t like to leave her alone at Mrs. Royce’s, and after her nervous breakdown that afternoon nothing could have induced him to do so. He was anxious about her. He tried, with what he believed was great tact, to find out her plans for the future. He was genuinely troubled by the loneliness and uncertainty of her life.

Lexy appreciated all this, and she liked the young man very much--perhaps as much as he liked her; but the sympathetic understanding which had promised to develop on the night when they talked together in the firelight had never developed. Something had checked it. They were the best of friends, but Captain Grey never again referred to what Lexy had told him about Caroline Enderby, and about her reason for coming to Wyngate; and Lexy said nothing, either. Evidently he thought that it had been a far-fetched, romantic notion of hers, and hoped that she had forgotten all about it.

Lexy did not try to undeceive him. Her story would be too fantastic for him to believe. Nobody would believe it, except a person with absolute faith not only in her honesty but in her intelligence and clear-sightedness; and there was no such person. She was not resentful or grieved over this. She accepted it quietly, and prepared to go forward alone.

It had occurred to her lately that perhaps Mr. Houseman had been right, and that Caroline had gone away of her own free will; but she meant to know. She had seen the missing girl in Dr. Quelton’s house. Whatever the doctor might say about the false evidence of the senses, Lexy’s confidence in her own clear gray eyes was not in the least shaken. She had seen Caroline once, and she was going to see her again. That was why she was going to the Tower.

“It’ll do Muriel no end of good,” said Captain Grey, when they were in the taxi. “She’s--to tell you the truth, Miss Moran, I don’t feel altogether easy about her.”

“Why?” asked Lexy, very curious to know what he thought.

“Well,” he said, “it’s hard to put it into words; but that’s not a wholesome sort of life for a young woman, shut away like that. The doctor says her health’s not good, but it’s my opinion that if she got about more--saw more people, you know--”

Lexy felt a great pity for him. Apparently he did not even suspect what she was now sure of--that the unfortunate Muriel was hopelessly addicted to some drug, which her husband himself gave to her.

“And I hope he’ll go back to India before he does find out,” she thought. “It’s too horrible--he worships her so!”

“I’ve tried, you know,” he went on. “I wanted to take her into the city, to a concert. Seems confoundedly queer, doesn’t it, the way she’s lost interest in her music? She didn’t want to go. Then about the emerald--”

“Oh!” said Lexy, who had forgotten about the emerald.

“Chap I know designed a setting for it. It’s unset now, you know, and I thought I’d like to do that for her while I was here; but she doesn’t seem interested. I can’t even get her to let me see the thing. I’ve asked her two or three times, but she always puts me off. Do you think it bores her?”

“Perhaps it does,” replied Lexy.

“Well,” said the young man, “when a woman’s bored by a jewel like that, she’s in a bad way. I wish you could see it!”

“I wish I could,” said Lexy, and added to herself: “But I don’t think I ever shall. Probably her husband’s got it.”

They had now reached the Tower. The parlor maid opened the door for them, and at once conducted Lexy upstairs to her room.

It was a big room, with four windows, and very comfortably furnished; but even a fire burning in the grate and two or three shaded electric lamps could not give it a homelike air. There was a musty smell about it, and there was an amazing amount of dust. It was neat, but it wasn’t clean. Dust rose from the carpet when she walked, and from the chair cushions when she sat down. She saw fluff under the bed and under the bureau.

“Not much of a housekeeper, poor soul!” thought Lexy. “It’s a pity. One could do almost anything with a house like this, and all this beautiful old furniture!”

But this, after all, was a minor matter. She took off her hat, washed her hands and face, brushed her hair, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

“The house is strange to me,” she said to herself, with a grin. “I shouldn’t wonder if I turned the wrong way, and got lost!”

That was what she intended to do. She did not expect to make any sensational discoveries, for Dr. Quelton did not seem to be the sort of person who would leave clews lying about for her to pick up; but she did hope that she might see or hear something--Heaven knows what--that might bring her nearer to Caroline.

So, instead of walking toward the stairs, she turned in the opposite direction, along a hall lined with doors, all of them shut. At the end there was a grimy window, through which the sun shone in upon the dusty carpet and the faded wall paper. There was a forlorn and neglected air about the place, a stillness which made it impossible for her to believe that there was any living creature behind those closed doors.

“I wish I had cheek enough to open some of them,” she thought; “but I’m afraid I haven’t. I shouldn’t know what to say if there was some one in the room. After all, I’m supposed to be a guest. I’ve got to be a little discreet about my prying.”

She went softly along the hall to the window, to see what was out there. When she reached it, she was surprised to see that the last door was a little ajar. She looked through the crack. It wasn’t a room in there, but another hall, only a few feet long, ending at a narrow staircase.

“That must be the way to the cupola,” she thought. “I suppose a guest might go up there, to see the view.”

So she pushed the door open and went on tiptoe to the stairs; and then she heard a voice which she had no trouble in recognizing. It was Dr. Quelton’s.

“My dear young man,” he was saying. “I am not a psychologist. It has always seemed to me the greatest folly to devote serious study to the workings of so erratic and incalculable a machine as the human brain. It is a study in which there are, practically speaking, no general rules, no trustworthy data. It is, in my opinion, not a science at all, but a philosophy; and philosophy makes no appeal to me. I frankly admit that I am entirely materialistic. I care little for causes, but much for effects. Consequently, I have devoted myself to medicine, in which I can produce certain effects according to established rules.”

“But I meant more particularly the effect of--of things on the mind--the brain, you know,” said Captain Grey’s voice.

Again Lexy felt a great pity for him. He sounded very, very young in contrast to the doctor--so young and earnest, and so helpless!

“Exactly!” said the doctor. “You were, I believe, trying to lead to a suggestion that psychology might be of help to Muriel. Am I right?”

There was a moment’s pause, during which Lexy very cautiously went halfway up the stairs.

“I did think of that,” said the young man valiantly. “It seems to me she’s a bit--well, morbid, you know; and I’ve heard about those chaps--those psychoanalysts, you know. Simply occurred to me that one of them--merely a suggestion, you know. I’m not trying to be officious.”

“A psychoanalyst,” said Dr. Quelton, “is a man who analyzes the psyche, who solemnly and expensively analyzes something of whose existence he has no proof whatever.”

There was another silence.

By this time Lexy had reached the head of the stairs. Beside her was an open door, through which she could look, while she herself was hidden from view. Beyond it was, as she had thought, the cupola--a small octagonal room with windows on every side, through which the sun poured in a dazzling flood. There was nothing in the room except a white enamel table, a stool, a porcelain sink, and an open cabinet, upon the shelves of which stood rows and rows of bottles, each one labeled. Facing this cabinet, and with their backs toward the door, stood the two men--the doctor with his shoulders hunched and his hands clasped behind him, and Captain Grey, tall, slender, straight as a wand.

“Materia medica--that is my art,” said the doctor. “I have devoted my life to it, and I have learned--a little. I have made experiments. A psychologist will offer to tell you why a man has murdered his grandmother. I can’t pretend to do that, but I can give that man a tablet which will make it practically certain that he will kill his grandmother if they are left alone together for ten minutes.”

“But, I say!” protested Captain Grey.

“I can assure you that I have never made the experiment,” said Dr. Quelton, with a laugh; “but I could do it. I have learned that certain states of mind can be produced by certain drugs.”

Captain Grey turned his head, so that Lexy could see his handsome, sensitive face in profile.

“That seems to me a pretty risky thing to do,” he said, with a trace of sternness. “I hope, sir, that you don’t--”

“Don’t give Muriel drugs that make her disposed to murder her grandmother?” interrupted the doctor, with another laugh; but he must have noticed that his companion was unresponsive, for he at once changed his tone. “No,” he said gravely. “I have made a particular study of Muriel’s case. She seriously overtaxed herself in her musical studies. Don’t be alarmed, my dear fellow--there is no permanent injury. It is simply a profound mental and nervous lassitude--obviously a case where artificial stimulation is required, until the tone of the lethargic brain is restored. I am able to do for her what, I feel certain, no one else now living could do. In this bottle”--he tapped one of them with his forefinger--“I have a preparation which would make my fortune, if I had the least ambition in that direction. Five drops of that, in a glass of water, and her depression and apathy are immediately dispelled. There is an instantaneous improvement in--”

Lexy waited to hear no more. She slipped down the stairs as quietly as she had come up, hurried along the hall, and went into her own room again. Her knees gave way and she collapsed into a chair, staring ahead of her with the most singular expression on her face.

She was, in fact, looking at a new idea, and it was not a welcome one.

“No!” she said to herself. “It’s out of the question. It’s too dangerous. I can’t do it!”

But the idea remained solidly before her; and the more she contemplated it, the more was her honest heart obliged to admit the possibilities in it.

“It can’t do any real harm,” she said; “and it might do good--so much good! All right, I’m going to do it!”

Half an hour before dinner she went down into the library, a polite and quiet young guest, even a little subdued. Dr. Quelton took Captain Grey out for a stroll on the beach. He asked Lexy to go with them, but she said she would prefer to stay with Mrs. Quelton.

It was very peaceful and pleasant there in the library. The late afternoon sun shone in through the long window, touching with a benign light the shabby and graceful old furniture, picking out a glitter of gold on the binding of a book, a dull gleam of silver or copper in a corner. A mild breeze blew in, fluttering the curtains and bringing a wholesome breath of the salt air.

Mrs. Quelton was at her best. To be sure, she was not very interesting. She talked about rather banal things--about the weather, about a kitten that had run away, about the flowers in the conservatory; but Lexy, as she watched her and listened to her, could understand better than ever before what it was in Captain Grey’s sister that had so seized upon his heart. Languid and aloof as she was, there was nevertheless an undeniable charm about her, something sweet and kindly and lovable. She said, more than once, how very glad she was to have Lexy with her, and Lexy believed she meant it.

The two men had strolled out of sight.

“I must have left my handkerchief upstairs,” said Lexy. “Excuse me just a minute, please!”

But she was gone more than a minute, and when she returned her face was curiously white.

XVIII

The clock struck eleven. Lexy glanced up from her book, in the vain hope that somebody would speak, would stir, would make some move to end this intolerable evening; but nobody did.

Dr. Quelton and Captain Grey were playing chess. They sat facing each other at a small table, in a haze of tobacco smoke, silent and intent, as if they had been gods deciding human destinies. Mrs. Quelton lay on her chaise longue, doing nothing at all. If Lexy spoke to her, she answered in a low tone, but cheerfully enough; but she so obviously preferred not to talk that Lexy had taken up a book and vainly attempted to read.

It was the most wearisome and depressing evening she had ever spent. Her lively and restless spirit had often enough found it dull at the Enderbys’, and at other times and places; but this was different, and infinitely worse.

To begin with, a sense of guilt lay like lead upon her heart. She hoped and believed that what she had done was right, but she was afraid, terribly afraid, of what might result. She could not keep her eyes off Mrs. Quelton’s face. She watched the doctor’s wife with a dread and anxiety which she felt was ill concealed; and she had a chill suspicion that the doctor was watching her, in turn.

“Of course, he’s bound to find out some time,” she said to herself. “I wasn’t such a fool as to expect more than a day or two, at the very most; but I did hope there’d be time just to see--”

Again she glanced at Mrs. Quelton. Was it imagination, or was there already a faint and indefinable change?

“No, that’s nonsense,” she thought. “There couldn’t be, so soon--although I don’t know how often he gives her that priceless tonic.”

Suddenly she wanted to laugh. She had a very vivid memory of Dr. Quelton tapping that bottle with his finger, and saying to Captain Grey that he had a preparation in there which would make his fortune, if he chose.

“It wouldn’t now,” she thought, struggling with suppressed laughter.

There was nothing in that bottle now but water. Just before dinner she had run up to the cupola, emptied its contents into the sink, and filled it from the tap.

The idea had come to her when she overheard the two men talking. It had seemed to her then a plain and obvious duty to destroy the drug that so horribly affected Mrs. Quelton. Fate had allowed her to see which bottle it was. Fate gave her an undisturbed half hour when the doctor and Captain Grey were out; and, to make her plan quite perfect, the liquid in the bottle was colorless and almost without odor.

She had thought it possible that the doctor would not notice the substitution until his unhappy wife had had at least a chance to return to a normal condition. Lexy had meant to wait and to watch, and, when the moment came, to speak to Mrs. Quelton. She had thought that she could warn the doctor’s wife, and implore her not to submit to that hideous domination.

She had scarcely thought of the risk to herself, and it had not occurred to her that there might be serious risk to Mrs. Quelton. She knew almost nothing about drugs and their effects. Her one idea had been to destroy the thing that was destroying Mrs. Quelton. Only now, when it was done, did she realize the mad audacity of her act. A man like Dr. Quelton couldn’t be tricked by such a childish device. He would know what had happened, and who had done it. Very likely he had plenty more of the drug somewhere else. If he hadn’t--

“He’d feel like killing me,” thought Lexy. “I suppose he could, easily enough. He must know all sorts of nice, quiet little ways for getting rid of obnoxious people. Perhaps there was something in my dinner to-night!”

She dared not think of such a possibility.

“No!” she said to herself. “He asked me here just to show me how little I mattered. He knew I’d seen Caroline here, and he asked me to come, because he was so sure I couldn’t do anything. I’m too insignificant for him to bother with. He knows that nobody would believe what I said. He’d only have to say that I was hysterical, and Captain Grey and Mrs. Royce would be obliged to bear him out. He won’t trouble himself about me!”

She stole a glance at him, and, to her profound uneasiness, she found him staring intently at her. A shiver ran down her spine, and she turned back to her book with a very pale face. If only it had been an interesting book, so that she might have forgotten herself for a little while!

The clock struck half past eleven.

“After all, I don’t see why I have to sit here,” she thought. “I shouldn’t exactly break up the party if I went to bed.”

And she was just about to close her book when Mrs. Quelton spoke.

“I’m so tired!” she said in a high, wailing voice. “I’m so tired--so tired--so tired!”

Dr. Quelton hastily rose and came over to her chair.

“Then you must go to bed,” he said. “Come!”

He helped her to rise, and she stood, supported by his arm, her face drawn and ghastly.

“I’m so tired!” she moaned.

Captain Grey came toward her, making a very poor attempt to smile.

“Good night, Muriel!” he said, holding out his hand.

She did not answer, or even look at him. Leaning on the doctor’s arm, she went out of the room, into the hall, and up the stairs. Her wailing voice floated back to them:

“I’m so tired--so tired!”

For a moment Captain Grey and Lexy were silent. Then--

“Good God!” he cried suddenly. “I can’t stand this! I--”

Lexy came nearer to him.

“Don’t stand it!” she whispered. “Take her away! Can’t you see? Take her away!”

“How can I? Her husband--she doesn’t want to go.”

“Make her! Oh, can’t you see? He’s giving her some horrible drug!”

“You mustn’t be alarmed,” said Dr. Quelton’s voice from the hall. They both looked at him with a guilty start, but his blank eyes were staring past them, at nothing. “It is unfortunate,” he said. “The little excitement of this visit--”

He walked past them into the room and over to the table, where his pipe lay among the chessmen. He lit it deliberately and stood smoking it, with one arm resting on the mantelpiece.

“In her present highly nervous condition,” he went on, “the little excitement of this visit has proved too much for her. I shall drive over to the hospital and fetch a nurse--”

“A nurse!” cried the young man. “Then she’s--”

“There is absolutely no occasion for alarm, as I told you before. A few days’ rest and quiet--”

“Look here, sir!” said Captain Grey. “It seems to me--I’ve no wish to be offensive, or anything of that sort, but it seems right to me”--he paused for a moment--“to get a second opinion.”

“I shouldn’t advise it,” replied the doctor blandly.

“Possibly not, sir; but perhaps you would be willing to oblige me to that extent. I don’t want to insist--”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

There was a faint flush on the young man’s dark face.

“Nevertheless--” he began, but again the doctor interrupted him.

“My dear young man,” he said, “you oblige me to be frank. I should have preferred a discreet silence; but as you are obviously determined to make the matter as difficult as possible, you must hear the truth. For some years your sister has been addicted to the use of certain drugs. When I discovered this, I set about trying to cure the addiction. You probably have no idea what that means. I venture to say that there is nothing--absolutely nothing--more difficult in the entire field of medicine. I have been working on the case for more than a year, and I have made distinct progress; but it will be some time before the cure is completed, and I can assure you that it never will be unless I am left undisturbed. There is no other man now living who can do what I am doing.”

He spoke gravely and coldly, and his blank eyes were fixed upon Captain Grey with a sort of sternness; but Lexy had a curious impression--more than an impression, a certainty--that within himself Dr. Quelton was laughing.

“If you care to take another doctor into your confidence,” he went on, “I can scarcely refuse permission; but you will regret it.”

The young man said nothing. He turned away and stood by the open window, looking out into the dark garden. Lexy waited for a moment. Then, with a subdued “Good night,” she went out of the room, up the stairs, and into her own room.

“It’s a lie!” she said to herself.

XIX

“Then you’re not going to do anything?” asked Lexy.

“My dear Miss Moran, what in the world can I do?” returned Captain Grey, with a sort of despair.

They were sitting together on the veranda in the warm morning sunshine. They had had breakfast in the dining room, with the doctor--an excellent breakfast. The doctor had been at his best--courteous, affable, very attentive to his guests. Everything in his manner tended to reassure the young soldier.

Everything in the world seemed to tend in that direction, Lexy thought. A Sunday tranquillity lay over the country. Church bells were ringing somewhere in the far distance. The windows of the library stood open, and the parlor maid was visible in there, flitting about with broom and duster. Everything was peaceful and ordinary, and Captain Grey had come out on the veranda and attempted to begin a peaceful and ordinary conversation.

But Lexy had no intention of allowing him to enjoy such a thing. She felt pretty sure that her time in this house would not be long. She had caused Dr. Quelton an anxiety that he could not conceal. She had got in his way. She could not tell whether he had discovered her trick yet, but the effects were manifest; and if he didn’t know now, he would very soon, and then--

Captain Grey must carry on when she was gone.

“You’re properly satisfied--with everything?” she went on mercilessly. “You’re not allowed even to see your sister. No one can see her. You’re not allowed to call in another doctor.”

“Even if I’m not properly satisfied,” he answered, “what can I do? In her husband’s house, you know--I can’t make a row.”

“Why can’t you?”

He looked at her, startled and uneasy. Her question was ridiculous. Why couldn’t he make a row? Simply because he couldn’t; because he wasn’t that sort; because it wasn’t done; because almost anything was preferable to making a row.

“Of course, if you have a blind faith in Dr. Quelton--” she persisted.

“Well, I haven’t,” he admitted; “but--”

“Then let’s go upstairs and see her. The doctor has gone out.”

“But the nurse--”

“Put on your best commanding officer’s air,” said Lexy. “You can be awfully impressive when you like. If I were you, there’s nothing I’d stop at.”

“Yes, but look here--what can I say to Quelton when he hears about it?”

“Laugh it off,” said Lexy.

The idea of Captain Grey trying to laugh off anything made her grin from ear to ear.

“Not much of a joke, though, is it?” he said rather stiffly. “Suppose he hoofs us out of the house?”

“Oh, dear!” cried Lexy. “You’re not a bit resourceful! Let’s try it, anyhow. It’s horrible to think of her shut up like that. Perhaps she’s longing to see you.”

He rose.

“Right-o!” he said. “Let’s try it!”

Together they went up the stairs and down the hall of the other wing, opposite that in which Lexy’s room was. Captain Grey knocked on a door, and a quiet, middle-aged little nurse came out.

“I’ll just pop in to see how my sister’s getting on,” said the young man, and Lexy silently applauded his toploftical manner.

“I’m sorry,” said the little nurse, “but Dr. Quelton has given strict orders--”

“Er--yes, quite so!” he interrupted suavely. “I shan’t stop a minute.”

He came nearer, but the nurse drew back and stood with her back against the door.

“Dr. Quelton has given strict orders--” she repeated.

“No more of that, please!” he said with a frown. “I’m going to see Mrs. Quelton for a moment. Stand aside, please!”

He did not raise his voice, but the quality of it was oddly changed. Lexy felt a thrill of pleasure in its cool assurance and authority. Perhaps he objected very much to “making a row,” but what a glorious row he could make if he chose! If he would only once face Dr. Quelton like this!

“Stand aside, if you please!” he repeated, and the poor little nurse, very much flustered, did so.

“I’m afraid Dr. Quelton will be--” she began, but Captain Grey had already entered the room.

The nurse followed him, closing the door after her. Lexy opened it at once and went in after them. She caught a glimpse of the young man and the nurse vanishing through one of the long windows that led out to the balcony. For a moment she hesitated, looking about her at the big, dim room. The dark shades were pulled down, and not a trace of the spring’s brightness entered here.

Then she heard Captain Grey’s voice speaking.

“My dear, my dear!” he said. “Can I do anything in the world for you? My dear!”

There was no answer. Lexy crossed the room to the window and looked out. The balcony, too, was dim, with Venetian blinds drawn down on every side, and on a narrow cot lay Muriel Quelton. There was a bandage over her forehead and covering her hair, and under it her face had a mystic and terrible beauty. She was as white as a ghost, with great dark circles beneath her eyes; and she was so still--so utterly still--that Lexy was stricken with terror.

Captain Grey was sitting beside her in a low chair, holding one of her lifeless hands, and Lexy saw on his face such anguish as she had never looked upon before.

“My dear!” he said again.

Her weary eyes opened and looked up at him. Then the shadow of a smile crossed her face.

“Stay!” she whispered.

Lexy drew nearer. Tears were running down her cheeks. She tried to read the nurse’s face, but she could not.

“How is--she--getting on?” she asked, speaking very low.

“Lexy!” came a voice from the cot, almost inaudible. “Take it--the top drawer--of the bureau--for you.”

“But do you mean--I don’t understand!” cried Lexy.

“Hush, please!” said the nurse severely. “Mrs. Quelton is not to be excited.”

Lexy was silent for a moment. Then, just as she was about to speak, her quick ear caught a very unwelcome sound--the sound of a horse’s trot. She turned away and went back through the window into the room. Dr. Quelton was coming home. She couldn’t wait to find out what Muriel Quelton had meant. Once more she was compelled to do the best she could amid a fog of misunderstanding.

“Lexy--take it--the top drawer--of the bureau--for you.”

That was what she thought Mrs. Quelton had said, and she acted upon that premise. She crossed the room to the bureau, and opened the top drawer. In the dim light that filled the shuttered room she could not see very clearly; but, as far as she could ascertain, there was nothing in the drawer except some neatly folded silk stockings, a satin glove case, some little odds and ends of ribbons, and a pile of handkerchiefs. She looked into the glove case--nothing there but gloves. There was nothing hidden away among the stockings, nothing among the ribbons.

She heard the front door close and a step begin to mount the stairs, deliberate and heavy, in the quiet house. In haste she went at the pile of handkerchiefs. There were dozens of them, all of fine white linen, all with a “2” embroidered in one corner--very uninteresting handkerchiefs, Lexy thought; but halfway through the pile she came upon one that she had seen before.

It was so familiar to her that at first she was not startled or even surprised. It was a handkerchief that she had embroidered for Caroline Enderby.

She took it up and looked at it with a frown. Then she heard Dr. Quelton’s step in the hall outside. She tucked the handkerchief in her belt, and tried to close the drawer, but it stuck. Her heart was beating wildly, her knees felt weak. He would find her there, like a thief!

But the footsteps went on past the door. She waited for a moment, and then went noiselessly across to the door, opened it, looked up and down the empty corridor, and ran, like a hare, back to her own room.

Caroline’s handkerchief! Was that what Mrs. Quelton had meant her to find? Or had she discovered it by accident? Did it mean that Mrs. Quelton was at heart her ally? Or was this little square of linen all that was left of Caroline?

Lexy took it out of her belt and looked at it again, and her tears fell on it. Whatever else it might imply, it told her clearly enough that her friend had been there. Poor Caroline--the helpless little captive who had left her prison to be lost in the strange world outside--had come here, and she had brought with her the handkerchief that Lexy had embroidered for her. It had come now into Lexy’s hand, a mute and pitiful emissary, whose message she could not understand.

“What shall I do?” she thought. “Oh, what must I do? Perhaps it’s time for the police. Perhaps, if I show this to Captain Grey, he’ll believe me. There must be some one, somewhere, who’ll believe me and help me!”

There was a knock at the door.

“Yes?” she said.

“Open the door!” ordered Dr. Quelton’s voice.

“No!” Lexy promptly replied.

She put the handkerchief inside her blouse and stood facing the closed door, with her hands clenched. Now he knew!

She heard him laugh quietly.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “It is better, perhaps, for us not to meet again. Even making every allowance for your hysterical, unbalanced mind, I find it difficult to excuse this latest manifestation which I have just this moment discovered. It was you, of course, who filled that bottle with water?”

She did not answer.

“Why you did it, I don’t know,” he went on, “and probably you don’t know yourself. It was the wanton mischief of an irresponsible child, but the consequences in this instance are serious--very serious. Mrs. Quelton will suffer for them. I doubt if she will recover. No, Miss Moran, you are too troublesome a guest. You had better go--at once!”

“All right!” said Lexy, in a defiant but trembling voice.

“At once!” he repeated. “I shall send your bag this afternoon.”

XX

“I don’t care!” said Lexy to herself, “I’ll come back!”

She did not wish to have her bag sent after her. She packed it in great haste, put on her hat and coat, and, opening the door of her room, stepped out cautiously and looked up and down the corridor. There was no one in sight, so she picked up her bag and set forth.

She was running away--worse than that, she was being driven away; but just at the moment she could see no other course open to her. She could not appeal to Captain Grey while he was in such distracting anxiety about his sister. It would be cruel, and it would be useless. What could he do? If Dr. Quelton did not want her in his house, certainly his brother-in-law could not insist upon her staying.

“No!” she reflected. “He would only think it was his duty as a gentleman to leave with me, and he would be miserable, not knowing what became of his sister. I’ve got to go, that’s all; but, by jiminy, I’ll come back! And then we’ll see how much more wanton mischief this irresponsible child can manage!”

There was in her heart a steady flame of anger. Hatred was not natural to her, but her feeling for Dr. Quelton came dangerously near to it. For Caroline’s disappearance, for Mrs. Quelton’s pitiful state, for her own humiliation and suffering, she held him responsible; and she meant to settle that score.

She met no one on her way through the house. She went down the stairs, opened the door, and stepped out into the dazzling sunshine. It was a warm day, her bag was very heavy, and the three-mile walk to Mrs. Royce’s was not inviting. It had to be done, however, and off she started.

The lane was thick with dust, and it was hard walking with that heavy bag, but she went on at a smart pace as long as she thought any one could possibly see her from the cupola. Then she set down the bag and rested for a moment.

“There’s a certain way to carry things without strain,” she thought. “I read about it in a magazine. You use the muscles of your back, or your shoulders, or something.”

But she couldn’t remember how this was to be done; so, picking up the bag in her usual way, went on again. Obviously her way was a very wrong way, for by the time she had reached the end of the lane her fingers were cramped and painful, and her arms ached; and there was the highway, stretching endlessly before her under the hot noonday sun--two miles of it or more. There was no reasonable chance of a taxi, and she knew no one in the neighborhood who might come driving by. There was nothing in sight but a man walking along the road toward her, and that didn’t interest her.

She went on as far as she could, and then stopped under a tree, to rub her stiffening arms.

“I wonder,” she thought, “if I could hide this darned old bag somewhere, and send Joe for it later!”

But her nicest clothes were in it, and the risk was too great. With a resentful sigh she lifted it and stepped out again. The man coming along the road was quite close to her now. She stopped short, and so did he.

“Lexy!” he shouted, and came toward her on a run, with a wide grin on his sunburned face.

She dropped the bag with a thump, and stood waiting for him. He held out both hands, and she took them.

“Oh, golly!” she cried. “I’m so glad you’ve come, Mr. Houseman!”

“So am I!” he said. “Ever since I got that last letter from you--”

“Last! I only wrote one.”

“Well, I got two,” he told her. “The second one came yesterday, about this doctor, and the roses, you know.”

“Mrs. Royce must have posted it!” said Lexy. “I wrote it, but I didn’t mean it to be sent to you unless something happened to me.”

“Enough has happened to you already!”

“More things are going to happen,” said she. “Lots more!”

It suddenly occurred to her that the proper moment had come for withdrawing her hands from Mr. Houseman’s firm grasp. Indeed, she thought the proper moment might already have passed, and a warm color came into her cheeks.

The young man flushed a little himself.

“I didn’t mean to call you that,” he said; “but Caroline used to write a lot about you, and she always called you ‘Lexy,’ so I got into the way of thinking of you--like that.”

“I don’t mind,” Lexy conceded.

There was a moment’s silence.

“Charles is my name,” he observed.

Another silence.

“Queer, isn’t it?” he said seriously. “Here we’ve only seen each other once, and yet somehow it seems to me as if I’d known you for years!”

“Well, the circumstances are rather unusual,” said Lexy.

“You’re right! But look here--we’ve got to talk about all this. Where were you going?”

“Back to Mrs. Royce’s.”

“Let’s go!” he said cheerfully, and picked up the bag as if it were nothing at all.

“But where were you going?” asked Lexy.

“To find you. You see, we ran into some awfully bad weather, and the engines broke down, and we came back for repairs; so I got your letters. I explained to the old man that I’d have to have leave, for some very important business, and off I came to Wyngate. Your Mrs. Royce told me you’d gone out to the Queltons’. I didn’t like that. Why did you go there, after what had happened?”

“I’ll tell you all about that later,” said Lexy; “but now you’ve got to tell me things. How did you ever meet Caroline? How in the world did she manage to write to you?”

“Well, you see, I met her about a year ago, on board the Ormond. She and her parents were coming back from France, and I was third officer, you know. Her mother and father were seasick most of the time, so we had a chance to--to talk to each other; and, you see--”

“Yes, I see!” said Lexy gently.

“One of the servants--a girl called Annie--used to post Caroline’s letters for her, and I used to write to her in care of Annie’s mother. We never had a chance to meet again, after that trip. I wanted to come to the house and see her people, but she said it wasn’t any use; and from what I saw of them on the Ormond I dare say she was right. I wouldn’t have suited them. I haven’t any money, you know--nothing but my pay; but it was enough for us to live on. Other fellows manage!”

He was silent for a moment.

“After all,” he said, “I’m not a beggar. I can hold my own pretty well in the world, and I could look after a wife.”

“I know it!” cried Lexy, with vehemence. She felt curiously touched by his words, and quite indignant against the Enderbys and any one else who did not appreciate him.

“I asked Caroline to marry me,” he went on. “I told her I couldn’t give her much, but we could have had a jolly sort of life. Look here! Are you crying?”

“A little bit,” Lexy admitted; “but don’t pay any attention to it. Go on!”

“That’s about all there is. She said she would meet me here in Wyngate, because that’s the nearest station of the main line to some little place where a nurse or a governess of hers lived.”

“Miss Craigie!”

“Never heard the name. Anyhow, she wanted to go there after we got married, and--I wish you wouldn’t look like that!”

“But I’m so awfully sorry for you!”

“It was pretty hard, at first,” he said; “but--well, you see, I’ve thought a bit about it, and after all I’m glad we didn’t get married.”

“Oh!” cried Lexy, profoundly shocked. “But that’s--”

“Because I--you see, she didn’t--well, I don’t think she really liked me very much.”

Lexy was astounded.

“Fact!” said he. “What she wanted was romance, and all that sort of thing. She wanted to get away from home, and I was the only chance she had; so there you are!”

“That wasn’t very fair to you!”

“I don’t blame her,” he said thoughtfully. “We were both--but what’s the sense of talking about all that? The thing is to find her!”

Lexy agreed to that promptly.

“Now I’ll tell you everything that’s happened,” she said.

He listened to her with alert attention. He interrupted her often to ask questions, but they were always questions that she could answer. He wanted all the facts, and what Lexy told him he unquestioningly accepted as fact. When she said she had seen Caroline at the doctor’s house, he believed her. He didn’t suggest that her eyes might have deceived her. He trusted her--not only her good intentions, but her good sense.

At last she came to the part of her story about which she was most doubtful--the episode of the emptied bottle. She told it with reluctance.

“I don’t know now,” she said. “Perhaps I did wrong. Perhaps that really was wanton mischief. I did so hate that horrible drug that changed her so! When I did it, it seemed right; but now--”

“It was right,” said he. “Any one’s better off dead than being drugged. Everything you’ve done was right and splendid. You’re the pluckiest girl I ever heard of--the best and most loyal little pal to poor Caroline! There’s no one like you!”

After Mrs. Enderby’s cold and skeptical smile, after Dr. Quelton’s parting sneer, after Captain Grey’s doubts and uncertainties, this speech rather went to Lexy’s head. The world seemed a different place. She glanced at the young man, and he happened at that moment to be looking at her. They both looked away hastily.

“This fellow--this Captain Grey,” said Charles. “He seems to me to be rather a chump!”

“Oh, he’s not!” protested Lexy. “He’s as nice as can be!”

Charles Houseman, who had believed everything that Lexy had said, did not appear convinced of this; and for some inexplicable reason Lexy was not greatly displeased by his lack of belief.

XXI

Mrs. Royce was very much pleased to see her pet, Miss Moran, return. She was well disposed toward Mr. Houseman, too, and willingly agreed to put him up for a few days. She set to work at once to cook a good lunch for them, but she did not hum under her breath, as was her usual habit. In fact, she was greatly perplexed and worried.

When her guests were seated at the table, she retired, leaving them alone; but she did not go very far. She remained close to the door, so that she could look through the crack. She observed that Miss Moran seemed very lively and cheerful with this newcomer--though she had been quite as lively and cheerful with Captain Grey.

“Well, I don’t know, I’m sure!” said Mrs. Royce to herself, with a sigh. “It beats me!”

For the question which so troubled her was--which young man was the young man?

“Both of ’em as nice, polite young fellers as you’d want to see,” she repeated. “T’ other one’s handsomer, but he’s kind of foreignlike and gloomy. This one’s got more gumption. The way he walked in here, smart as a whip, and asked for Miss Moran, an’ when I says she’s gone to visit the Queltons, why, off he went, after her! I like a man with gumption!”

So did Miss Moran. Charles Houseman seemed to her the only living, vigorous creature in a world of ghosts, the only one whom she could really understand. There were no shadowy corners about him. He was altogether honest, direct, and uncomplicated. He had no tact and no caution. He had come now, in the midst of this wretched tangle, and she completely believed that he would cut the Gordian knot.

He had suggested that they should let the subject drop for a time.

“I think I’ve got the facts straight,” he said; “and now I want to think them over a bit. Let’s take a walk, and talk about something else.”

Lexy agreed to the entire program. If she was tired, she either didn’t know it, or she forgot it in the joy of this beautifully careless companionship. She could say exactly what came into her head to Charles Houseman. He understood her. He was interested in every word she spoke, and, what is more, she was aware of the profound admiration that underlay his interest. He thought she was wonderful, and that made her strangely happy.

“Do you know,” he said, “the first time I saw you, there in the park, I--I liked the way you talked to me!”

“How?” asked Lexy, with great interest. “I thought I must have seemed awfully irritating and mysterious.”

He grinned.

“You were awfully mad when I spoke to you,” he said; “but I liked that. I don’t know--somehow you made me think of Joan of Arc.”

“Me?” cried Lexy. “With freckles, and such a temper? You couldn’t imagine me listening to angels, could you?”

“Yes,” he said, “I could.”

She glanced at him to see if he was laughing, but he was not. His eyes met hers with a quiet and steady look.

“I didn’t need to imagine much,” he said. “You’ve told me what you’ve been through, and I can see for myself what you are. I don’t think there ever was another girl like you!”

“Nonsense!” said Lexy, looking away. “I’m just pig-headed--that’s all.”

They had wandered across the fields until they came to a little river, running clear and swift under the elm trees. By tacit consent they sat down on the bank. They didn’t talk much. Houseman skipped stones with skill and earnest attention, and Lexy watched the minnows flitting past through the limpid water. The sky was an unclouded blue. The sunlight came through the branches, where the leaves were scarcely unfolded, and made little golden sparkles on the hurrying current. It was all so quiet--and yet it wasn’t peaceful. The world seemed too young, too warmly and joyously alive, for peace. The spring was waiting in eagerness for the summer. This still, fresh, sunlit day was only an interlude.

Casually, Houseman told her a good deal about himself.

“From Baltimore,” he said. “My people wanted me to go into the navy. My father and grandfather were both navy, but I couldn’t see it. Too cut and dried! I’m on a cargo steamer now, and I like it.”

And this information--with the additional facts that he was twenty-six, that he had two brothers in the navy and three married sisters, and that both of his parents were living--was all that he had to give about himself. Lexy was satisfied. There he was, and any one with eyes to see and ears to listen could understand him. Honest, blunt, and careless, fearing nothing, shirking nothing, and facing life with cheerful unconcern, he was, she thought, a comrade and an ally without an equal.

The sun was setting when they turned homeward. The sky was swimming in soft, pale colors, and a little breeze blew, stirring the new leaves. It was a poetic and even a melancholy hour; but Houseman found nothing better to say than that he was hungry.

“So am I!” said Lexy.

They looked at each other as if they had discovered still another bond between them. They were happy--so happy!

Mrs. Royce saw them from the kitchen window. They were strolling along leisurely, side by side. They were quite composed and matter-of-fact, and their desultory conversation was upon the subject of shellfish. The young Baltimorean was an authority on oysters, but Lexy, as a New Englander, had something to say on the subject of clam chowder.

Mrs. Royce was suddenly enlightened.

“He’s the one!” she said to herself. “Well, I’m real glad, I’m sure!”

So glad was she that she at once began to make a superb chocolate cake, and she hummed a song about a young man on Springfield Mountain, who killed a “pesky sarpent.”

George Grey heard her. He was in the sitting room, smoking, and apparently reading a book; but he never turned a page. He lit one cigarette after another, and his hand was steady. He looked as he always looked--fastidiously neat, self-possessed, and a little haughty; but in spirit he was suffering horribly.

Lexy knew that as soon as she saw him, because she knew him and liked him so well. She held out her hand to him, not even pretending to smile, but searching his face with an anxious and friendly glance.

“Here’s Mr. Houseman, Caroline Enderby’s fiancé,” she said. “I’ve told him the whole thing, so if there’s anything new--”

Captain Grey stiffened perceptibly. He couldn’t see what possible connection anybody’s fiancé could have with his affairs. He shook hands with Houseman, but not very nicely; and Houseman was not excessively cordial.

Lexy took no notice of this nonsense. Her mood of happy confidence had passed now, and the dark and mysterious shadow had come back. There was something of greater importance to think about than her personal affairs.

“Captain Grey,” she said, with a sort of directness, “I didn’t tell you before, but I’m going to tell you now. I saw Caroline in that house, and this morning I found--this.”

He looked at the handkerchief, and then at Lexy.

“But--” he began.

“It means that she’s been there, or that she’s there now,” Lexy went on. “It’s time we found out. Of course, I know how you feel about Dr. Quelton. He’s your sister’s husband, and you didn’t want--”

“It doesn’t make much difference now,” he said. “If you’ll wait a day or so, she--”

He turned away abruptly, and took out his cigarette case.

“What do you mean?” cried Lexy.

“It won’t be long,” he said quietly. “She--my sister--he says it won’t be more than twenty-four hours, at the most.”

“Oh, no! It can’t be! Captain Grey, don’t believe him!”

“I tried not to,” he said. “I--well, we had a bit of a row, and I made him let me bring in another doctor from the village here. He said the same thing.”

“What did the doctor say it was?” asked Houseman.

“Pernicious anæmia. There’s nothing to be done.”

Captain Grey seemed to find some difficulty in lighting his cigarette; but when he had done so, and had drawn in a deep breath, he turned back toward Lexy with a smile that startled her. She had never imagined he could look like that. It was a wolfish kind of smile, lighting his dark face with a sort of savage mirth.

“When it’s over,” he said, “I’ll be very pleased to help you to hang him, if you can; or I’ll wring his neck myself.”

The other two stared at him in silence for a moment.

“You think he’s--” Houseman began.

“I don’t know whether he has actually murdered her or not,” said Captain Grey; “but he has destroyed her--utterly wasted and ruined her life. He taught her to take that damned drug; and when Miss Moran broke the bottle--”

“Oh! Did he tell you?”

“He did. He says you’ve killed her. There was some rare drug in it that he can’t get for a fortnight or so, and she can’t live without it.”

“Captain Grey!” she cried, white to the lips. “I didn’t--”

“I know,” he said gently. “You meant to help, and I’m glad you did it. She’s better dead. This afternoon, for a little while, she was--herself. She talked to me. She was very weak, but she was herself. She asked me to help her not to take it again. She thought she was getting better. Then that”--he paused--“that damned brute brought in a lawyer, so that she could make her will. She couldn’t believe it. She looked up at me. ‘Oh, I’m not going to die, am I?’ she said. Before I could answer her, he told her she must be prepared. Then I--”

Again he turned away.

“And you let him alone?” inquired Houseman.

“It’s not time to settle with him--yet,” said the other. “That’s why I came away, because I don’t want to kill him--yet. She’s unconscious now. She will be, until it’s finished. I’m going back later, but I wanted to come here--” He ceased speaking. “To you,” his eyes said to Lexy.

She forgot everything else, then, except this tormented and suffering human being who had turned to her for comfort. She pushed him gently down into a chair, and seated herself on the arm of it. She took both his hands and patted them, while she racked her brain for the right thing to say.

“We’ll do something!” she said. “There’s no reason to be in despair. That young country doctor was probably entirely under the influence of Dr. Quelton. We’ll get some one else. We’ll telephone to one of the big hospitals in New York and find out who’s the very best man, and well get him out here. Mr. Houseman will ring up--”

But Mr. Houseman had disappeared. Worse still, Mrs. Royce’s telephone was out of order.

“Never mind!” said Lexy. “We’ll have a nice hot cup of tea, and then well go to the grocery store. There’s a telephone there.”

She made the captain drink his tea and eat a little. Then she ran upstairs for her hat; and she was very angry at Charles Houseman for running away.

XXII

They set off together down the village street. There was no one about at that hour. All Wyngate was partaking of its Sunday night supper within doors, and one or two of the little wooden houses showed lights in the front windows; but for the most part life was concentrated in the kitchen.

The drug store was locked, but a dim light was burning inside, and a vigorous ringing of the night bell brought Mr. Binz, the owner, to open the door. He was deeply interested in their errand. He suggested St. Luke’s Hospital, for the reason that he had once been there himself, and therefore held it almost sacred.

“But,” he said, in his slow and impressive way, “if I was you, I’d ring up Doc Quelton first, and find out how things are going up there; because you may find out--”

Lexy interrupted him hastily, for she didn’t want him to say what he evidently wished to say.

“There won’t be any change in Mrs. Quelton,” she said. “It would only be a waste of time.”

It was not so much for that poor woman, who she feared was beyond hope, that she wanted the New York specialist, as for Captain Grey. It would help him so much to feel that something was being done, that some one was hurrying out here!

“Might be more of a waste of time,” said Mr. Binz, “if some one was to come all the way out here after she--”

“Oh, all right!” cried Lexy impatiently. Then suddenly she remembered. “They haven’t any telephone at the doctor’s house,” she said.

“Suppose I go out there first, and see?” suggested Captain Grey.

“No!” said Lexy. “Don’t!”

But the idea impressed him as a good one, and go he would.

“I’d rather see how she is, first,” he repeated. “If there’s no change, I’ll come back.”

Lexy looked at Mr. Binz with an angry and reproachful frown, which the poor man did not understand. He had only wanted to give helpful advice.

“Come on, then!” she said to Captain Grey.

“I’ll leave you at Mrs. Royce’s,” he told her.

“No, you won’t!” she contradicted with a trace of severity. “If you will go, I’m going with you!”

He protested against this, but she would not listen, and so they went to the garage for Joe’s taxi; but Joe and his taxi had gone out. An interested bystander said that they could get a “rig” from the livery stable with no trouble at all. They had only to find the proprietor, and he, in turn, would find the driver, who would harness up the horse.

“No, thanks,” said Captain Grey. He turned to Lexy. “I can’t wait,” he told her. “I’m going to walk. Thank you for--”

“I can walk, too,” said Lexy. “It’s only three miles.”

“I don’t want you to, Miss Moran.”

“I’m coming anyhow,” she replied.

For that instinct in her, the thing which was beyond reason, drove her forward. She could not let him go alone. She had walked that three miles once before to-day, and she had walked farther than that with Houseman in the afternoon. She was tired, terribly tired, and filled with a queer, sick reluctance to approach that sinister house again; but she had to go. She had said to herself that morning that she was coming back, and now she was going to do so.

They did not try to talk much on the way. What had they to say? They were both filled with a dread foreboding. They hurried, yet they wished never to come to the end of the journey.

They turned down the lane, leaving the lights of the highway behind, and went forward in thick darkness, under the shadow of the trees. The sound of the sea came to them--the loneliest sound in all the world.

“There’s a light in the house, anyhow!” said Lexy suddenly.

Her own voice sounded so small, so pert, so futile, in the dark, that she felt no surprise when Captain Grey showed a faint trace of impatience in answering.

“Naturally!” he said.

Only, to her, it did not seem natural, that one little light shining out through the glass of the front door. It would be more natural, she thought, if there were only the darkness and the sound of the sea.

They turned into the drive. Their footsteps sounded strangely and terribly loud on the gravel, and became as sharp as pistol shots when they mounted the veranda. The captain rang the bell, and the sound of it ran through the house like a shudder; but no one came. He rang again and again, but nothing stirred inside the house. He knocked on the glass, and they waited, looking into the bright and empty hall; but no one came.

Captain Grey turned the knob, the door opened, and they went in. The door of the library was open, showing only darkness. The stairs ran up into darkness. Nothing moved, nothing stirred. Then, suddenly, a little breeze rose, and the front door slammed with a crash behind them. Lexy cried out, and caught the young man’s arm.

“Don’t be afraid!” he said; but his face was ashen. For a moment they stood where they were. “Miss Moran,” he went on, “would you rather wait here while I go upstairs?”

“No,” said Lexy. “I’ll come with you.”

He started up the stairs, and she followed him closely. At almost every step she looked behind her, and she did not know which was the more horrible to her, the brightly lit hall or the darkness before them. Suppose she saw some one in the hall behind them!

Captain Grey did not once glance behind. He went on steadily. When he reached the top of the flight, he took a box of matches from his pocket and lit the gas. There was the long corridor, with the row of closed doors. He turned down in the direction of Mrs. Quelton’s room, but Lexy touched him on the shoulder.

“I think you had better let me go first,” she suggested. “Perhaps she won’t be ready to see you.”

Their eyes met.

“Thank you, Lexy!” he said simply, and went on again.

He had never used her name before. He was trying to tell her that he understood what she had wished to do for him. She had offered to go first, alone, into the silent room, to see whatever might be there--to spare him something, if she could.

But he would not have it so. He stopped outside the door, and knocked twice. Then he went in.

It was dark and still in there, with the night wind blowing in through the open windows. He struck a match and lit the gas. The room was empty.

He went across to the long windows and out on the balcony. There was no gas connection there. He struck one match after another, and went from one end of the balcony to the other. There was nothing.

“Not here!” he said, in a dazed, flat voice.

Lexy could not speak at all. She had come out on the balcony, and stood beside him. The sound of the sea was loud in her ears--or was it the beating of her own heart? She held her breath and strained her eyes in the darkness.

“There’s--something--here!” she whispered tensely.

“No!” he said aloud. “I looked. Come! We’ll go through the house.”

She followed close at his heels. He went into every room, lit the gas, looked about, and found nothing. Lexy grew confused with the opening and closing of doors, the sudden flare of light in the darkness, the succession of empty rooms.

He went up into the cupola. Nothing there, nor in the servants’ rooms. Then downstairs, through the long library, the dining room, the sitting room, the kitchen, the pantry. He proceeded with a sort of merciless deliberation, opened every door, looked into every cupboard.

Finding a stable lantern in the kitchen, he lighted it and carried it with him. The door to the cellar stood open. He went through it, down the steep wooden stairs, and Lexy followed him.

To her exhausted and frightened gaze the cellar seemed enormous--as vast and august as some great ancient tomb. The lantern made a little pool of light, and outside it the shadows closed in on them thickly. She came near to him and caught him by the sleeve.

“Oh, let’s go away!” she cried. “Let’s go away! We’ve looked--”

“This is the last place,” he said gently. “After this, we’ll give it up.”

Fighting down the sick terror that had come over her, she walked beside him in the little circle of light, and tried not to look at the shadows.

“What’s that?” he exclaimed.

“Oh, what?” she cried.

He went back a few paces and set down the lantern. Then he advanced again and bent over, staring at the floor.

“Do you see?” he asked.

She did see. A narrow strip of light lay along the floor.

“It comes up from below,” he said. “There must be a subcellar. Let’s see!”

He brought back the lantern and examined the floor by its light, going down on his hands and knees.

“Stand back!” he said suddenly. “It’s a trapdoor. See--here’s a ring to lift it.”

Captain Grey pulled at the ring, but nothing happened.

“I’m on the wrong side,” he said.

Moving over, he pulled again, and a square of stone lifted. A clear light came from below, showing a short ladder clamped to the floor.

“Stay there, please,” he told Lexy. “You have the lantern. I shan’t be a minute.”

But as soon as he had reached the foot of the ladder, Lexy climbed down after him; and just at the same moment, they saw--

They were standing in a tiny room with roughly mortared walls. A powerful electric torch stood on end in one corner, and at their feet lay the body of a man, face downward across a wooden chest. It was Dr. Quelton.

With a violent effort Captain Grey lifted the doctor’s heavy shoulder, while Lexy covered her eyes. She knew that he was dead. No living thing could lie so.

Her head swam, her knees gave way, and she tottered back against the wall, half fainting, when the captain’s voice rang out, with a note of agony and despair that she never forgot.

“My God! My God!” he wailed. “Oh, Muriel!”

She opened her eyes. For a moment she was too giddy to see. Then, as her vision cleared, she saw him on his knees beside the chest.

Not a chest--it was a coffin; and on it was a strange little plate glittering like gold, with an inscription:

MURIEL QUELTON

BELOVED WIFE OF PAUL QUELTON

XXIII

When she looked back upon the experiences of that dreadful night, it seemed to Lexy that both she and her companion displayed almost incredible endurance. Since morning they had lived through a very lifetime of emotion, to end now in this tragedy more horrible than anything they could have feared.

Yet, not five minutes after his cry of agony, Captain Grey had recovered his self-control. He was able to speak quietly to Lexy, and she was able to answer him no less quietly.

“We’d better go,” he said. “We can do nothing here. It’s a case for the police now.”

“I’ve got to go back to the balcony,” Lexy told him. “There was something there.”

“Very well!” he agreed, and, without another word or a backward glance, he went up the ladder.

They returned through the house. He had left the lights burning and the doors open, so that there was a monstrous air of festivity in the emptiness. They went into Mrs. Quelton’s room again, and crossed through it to the balcony. He carried the lantern with him, and by its steady yellow flame they could see into every corner. There was the couch upon which she had lain--disarranged, as if she had just risen from it. There was a little table with medicine bottles on it. All the usual things were in the usual places.

“Nothing here,” said Captain Grey.

Lexy was sure, however, that there was. She stepped to the balcony railing, to look down into the garden below, and there, on the white paint of the railing, she found something.

“Look!” she said, in a matter-of-fact voice. “What’s this?”

He came to her side.

“It’s the print of a hand,” he said. “In blood, I should imagine.”

For a moment they stared at the ghastly mark, a strange evidence of pain and violence in this quiet place.

“We’d better look in the garden,” he suggested.

They went down. The grass beneath the balcony was beaten down in one place, but there was nothing else. Some one had come and gone. They could not even guess who it had been. They knew nothing.

“Come, Lexy!” the captain said.

They both turned for one last look at the accursed house, blazing with spectral lights. Then they set off, away from it, over that weary road again.

“There’s no police station in the village, is there?” he asked.

“I’ve never seen one, but I’ve heard Mrs. Royce talk about the constable. Anyhow, she can tell us.”

“Yes,” he said, and was silent for a moment. “Rather a pity, isn’t it,” he went on, “that there has to be--all that? Because it doesn’t matter now. It’s finished. Better if the house burned down to-night!”

In her heart Lexy agreed with him. She had no curiosity left, and scarcely any interest. As he had said, it was finished. She wanted to rest, not to speak, not to think, not to remember; but it couldn’t be so. They would both have to tell what they had seen, to answer questions. It wasn’t enough that two people lay dead in that house of horror. All the world, which knew and cared nothing about them, must have a full explanation.

“I suppose we couldn’t wait till morning?” she suggested.

He took her hand and drew it through his arm.

“You’re worn out,” he told her. “It’s altogether wrong. There’s no reason why you should be troubled any more, Lexy. Slip into the house quietly, and get to bed and to sleep. Nobody need know that you went there.”

“No!” she said. “We’ll see it through together.”

The thought of Charles Houseman came to her, but she disowned it with a listless sort of resentment. She felt, somehow, that he had failed her. He had not been there when she needed him. He had not taken his part in this ghastly and unforgetable sight.

There was a light in Mrs. Royce’s front parlor. Perhaps he was in there, waiting for her, cheerful and cool, a thousand miles away from the nightmare world in which she had been moving. She did not want to see him or speak to him just now. He hadn’t seen. He wouldn’t understand.

Captain Grey opened the gate, and they went up the flagged walk. Before they had mounted the veranda steps, the front door was flung wide, and Mrs. Royce appeared.

“Oh, my goodness!” she cried. “I thought you’d never come!”

Her tone and her manner were so strange that they both stopped and stared at her.

“Oh, my goodness!” she cried again. “Oh, do come in! I don’t know what to do with her, I’m sure!”

“Who?” asked Lexy.

“Poor Mis’ Quelton. There she is, lyin’ upstairs--”

“Mrs. Quelton?”

“Joe, he brought her in his taxi, jest a little while after you’d gone.”

“Brought Mrs. Quelton here?”

“Brought her here and carried her up them very stairs,” declared Mrs. Royce impressively; “right up into the east bedroom, and there she lies!”

She stood aside, and Lexy and Captain Grey entered the house. The young man turned aside into the parlor, sank into a chair, and covered his face with his hands. Lexy stood beside him, looking down at his bent head, her face haggard and white.

“Why did Joe do that?” she asked.

“Don’t ask me, Miss Moran!” replied Mrs. Royce. “It beats me!”

There was a silence.

“But ain’t you going upstairs to see what she wants?” inquired Mrs. Royce anxiously.

Captain Grey sprang to his feet.

“Good God!” he shouted. “What are you talking about?”

Mrs. Royce backed into a corner, regarding him with alarm.

“I jest thought you’d like to talk to her,” she faltered.

“Do you mean she’s not dead?”

“Dead? Oh, my goodness gracious me!” cried Mrs. Royce. “I never--”

“Wait here,” Lexy told the captain.

“No!” he replied. “I must--”

But, disregarding him, Lexy turned to Mrs. Royce.

“Let me see her,” she said.

Mrs. Royce led the way upstairs. She went at an unusual rate of speed, so that she was panting when she reached the top.

“Kind of vi’lent!” she whispered, pointing downstairs, where Captain Grey was.

“This room?” asked Lexy. “Shall I go in?”

“Well,” said Mrs. Royce, “seems to me I’d knock, if I was you.”

Knock on the door of the room where Mrs. Quelton lay? Knock, and expect an answer from that voice? It seemed to Lexy, for a moment, that she could not raise her hand.

But she did. She knocked, and she was answered. She turned the handle and went in. An oil lamp stood on the bureau, and outside the circle of its mellow light, in the shadow, Mrs. Quelton was sitting on the edge of the bed; and it seemed to Lexy that she had never seen such a forlorn and pitiful figure.

“Oh, my dear!” she cried impulsively, and held out her arms.

Mrs. Quelton rose. She came toward Lexy, her hands outstretched--when a sudden cry from Mrs. Royce arrested her.

“But that ain’t Mrs. Quelton!” cried the landlady.

XXIV

If Lexy had not caught the unhappy woman, she would have fallen; but those sturdy young arms held her, and, with Mrs. Royce’s help, they got her on the bed. White as a ghost, incredibly frail in her black dress, she lay there, scarcely seeming to breathe.

“It ain’t Mrs. Quelton!” repeated Mrs. Royce, in a whisper.

“I know!” said Lexy softly. “Will you get me water and a towel, please?”

Mrs. Royce went out of the room, and Lexy knelt down beside the bed. She did know now--the woman whom they had all called Muriel Quelton was really Caroline Enderby.

Lexy did not blame herself for not having known before. Looking at that face now, in its terrible stillness, she could trace the familiar features easily enough, but how changed! How worn and lined, how old! The brows, the lashes, the soft, disordered hair, were black now instead of brown; but that merely physical alteration was of no significance, compared with that other awful change. It was Caroline Enderby, the gentle and pitifully inexperienced girl of nineteen, but it was Mrs. Quelton, too, that tragic and somber figure.

Mrs. Royce came back with a basin of water, clean towels, and a precious bottle of eau de Cologne.

“Poor lamb!” she whispered. “Ain’t she pretty?”

Lexy wet a towel and passed it over that unconscious face again and again. Mrs. Royce watched, spellbound; for the dark and haggard stranger was passing away before her very eyes, and some one else was coming into life--some one quite young and--

The closed lids fluttered, and then opened.

“Lexy!” murmured the metamorphosed one.

“I’m here, Caroline!” said Lexy, with a stifled sob. “Everything’s all right, dear! Don’t worry--just rest!”

“I can’t, Lexy! I can’t!” she answered, and from her eyes, now closed again, tears came running slowly down her cheeks.

“Yes, you can!” said Lexy. “We’ll--”

“Supposing I get her some nice hot soup?” whispered Mrs. Royce, and, at a nod from Lexy, she was off again.

Caroline reached out and caught Lexy’s hand.

“Oh, Lexy, Lexy!” she said. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“No!” her friend replied cheerfully. “Never! But don’t bother now. You can tell me later, when you feel better.”

“I’ll never, never feel better till I’ve told you! Oh, Lexy, I knew yesterday, and I didn’t tell you! Oh, Lexy, Lexy, I don’t understand! I want to tell you! I want you to help me!”

A flush had come into her cheeks. She was growing painfully excited. She tried to sit up, but Lexy firmly prevented that.

“Lie down, darling!” she said. “We’ll get a doctor.”

“No! No! I’m not ill--not ill, Lexy, only tired. Oh, you don’t know! You won’t let him come here, Lexy?”

“I promise you he’ll never trouble you again,” replied Lexy quietly.

She saw Captain Grey standing in the doorway, behind the head of the bed. She glanced at him, and then at Caroline again. Let him stay! Whatever had happened, he ought to know.

“I don’t understand,” said Caroline, clinging fast to Lexy’s hand. “I want to tell you--all of it. You know, Lexy, I did a horrible, wretched thing. I said I’d marry a man. I promised to meet him here in Wyngate, because it was near to dear Miss Craigie’s. I didn’t tell you, but it wasn’t because I didn’t trust you, Lexy--truly it wasn’t! It was only because I knew mother would be so angry with you. I told him I’d take the train that got here at eleven o’clock that night; but after I’d left the house, I got frightened. I’d never gone out alone before. I couldn’t bear it. If I hadn’t promised him, I’d have gone home again. I wanted to go home. I was sorry I’d promised.”

“Don’t try to go on now, dear!”

“I must! So I took a taxi. I thought I’d get here as soon as the train, but when it was eleven o’clock we were still miles away. I thought perhaps Charles wouldn’t wait, and there’d be nobody in Wyngate, and I didn’t dare go home again; so I kept begging the driver to go faster. Oh, Lexy, it was all my fault! He did go--terribly fast. It was wonderful to be alone, and rushing along like that; and then I think he ran into a telegraph pole, turning a corner. There was a crash, and I didn’t know anything more for--I don’t know how long it’s been.”

“Soup!” whispered Mrs. Royce, but Caroline was too intent upon her confession to stop.

Lexy took the broth and set it on the table.

“I don’t know how long it was,” Caroline went on. “It must have been days, or perhaps weeks. Sometimes I seemed to know, in a sort of dream. Oh, it was horrible! Oh, Lexy, I can’t explain! I didn’t really know anything, only that sometimes my mind seemed to be struggling--”

“Take some of this soup,” said Lexy. “You’ve got to, Caroline, or I won’t listen.”

Obediently Caroline allowed herself to be fed. She took fully half of that excellent soup, and it did her good.

“Yesterday,” she said, “I did know. I couldn’t sleep all night. I felt so ill, I thought I was going to die; and all the time it was coming back to me. I couldn’t think why I was there in that place. I was frightened--worse than frightened. The nurse kept calling me ‘Mrs. Quelton,’ and I told her I wasn’t Mrs. Quelton--I was Caroline Enderby. She must have told him. He came, he kept looking at me, and saying, ‘You are Muriel Quelton, I tell you!’ Then he sent the nurse away, and he said: ‘If you insist that you are Caroline Enderby, you’re mad, and I’ll send you to an asylum.’ I was--oh, Lexy, I’m not brave!--I was afraid of him. When you came that morning, I didn’t dare to tell you. I hoped you’d find the handkerchief, and know; and then--”

Suddenly she turned and buried her face in the pillow.

“Then I didn’t want you to know!” she sobbed. “Captain Grey--he sat there with me. Lexy! Lexy! I didn’t know there was any one like him in the world! I wanted to stay, then. I thought, if you found out, I’d have to go away--to go home again, or to marry Charles. I’d promised to marry him, Lexy, but I can’t! Not now!”

“Hush, darling!” said Lexy hastily.

This was something Captain Grey had no right to hear, but he did hear it. He was still standing outside the door, motionless.

“He was so kind!” Caroline went on. “And his face--”

“Never mind that!” Lexy interrupted sternly. “Tell me how you got away.”

“When he came back, he found George there--I had to call him George.”

“Yes, I see. Never mind!”

“George went away, and then--he told me. He said his wife had died a few months ago, and that in her will she’d left some jewel--a ruby--”

“An emerald,” corrected Lexy.

“Yes--it was an emerald. She’d left it to her brother, and he--Dr. Quelton--had taken it long ago, and sold it, to get money for his horrible drugs. She never knew that, and he didn’t tell her lawyer that she’d died. I don’t know how he managed, or what he did, but nobody knew. Then there came a letter from her brother, to say that he was coming; and the doctor said--I’ll never forget it:

“‘Consequently, Muriel Quelton had to be here, and she was; and she’ll remain here until her purpose is served!’

“He told me what had happened. He said that as soon as he knew Captain Grey was coming, he began to look for some one to take his poor wife’s place. The captain hadn’t seen his sister since she was a baby, you know, and all he knew was that she was tall and dark. Dr. Quelton said he had arranged for some one to come from a hospital; and then he found me. He drove by just a little while after the accident, and he found the poor driver dead and me unconscious. He found a letter to mother in my purse, and he mailed it afterward. Then he heard another car coming along the road, and he started the engine and sent the taxi--with the dead driver in his seat--crashing down the hill, to run into the other car. He wanted the driver’s death to look like an accident. He didn’t care if the other man were killed. He’s--he’s not human, Lexy! He told me he had never in his life cared for any one except his wife. He told me what a beautiful, wonderful woman she was--and yet he had stolen her emerald when she was dying. Love! He couldn’t love any one!”

But Lexy remembered her last glimpse of Dr. Quelton, lying dead across the coffin of the woman he had robbed. Who would ever know, who was to judge now, what might have been in his warped and utterly solitary heart?

“He told me,” Caroline went on, “that he had never felt any great interest in me. A mediocre mind, he said I had. He told me he had never so much as touched my finger tips. He sat there, talking so calmly! He said he had kept me under the influence of some drug that made my mind suggestible--I think that’s the word. He meant that whoever took that drug would believe anything, accept anything. He had told me I was Muriel Quelton, and I believed I was. Then he told me to dye my hair, and to make up my face with things he gave me. He told me I was ill and tired and growing old, and I felt so. Lexy, he said that even without that, without making the least change in my appearance, no one would have known me, because my mind was changed. He said there was no disguise in the world like that. Was it true, Lexy? Was I old, and--and horrible to every one?”

“No,” Lexy briefly replied.

“Then he went on. He said he had no more of the drug left, and that he’d have to dispose of me. ‘You know you’re very ill,’ he said. ‘The nurse and that young fool of a doctor agree with me. I think you’re likely to grow worse--very much worse--to-night. You’re very likely to die.’ Oh, Lexy! What could I do but agree? I was shut up--so weak and ill--I knew he could so easily give me something to kill me! He said that if I would make a will and sign it as he told me, he would let me go and be--be myself again. I couldn’t help it! And his wife was dead. It couldn’t do her any harm if I signed her name. He wrote it, and I traced it on another sheet of paper. I had to, Lexy! I knew it was wrong, but what else could I possibly do?”

“Never mind, Caroline!” said Lexy. “It didn’t do any harm, dear. And then did he let you go?”

An odd smile came over Caroline’s face.

“Not exactly,” she said. “After I’d signed the will, leaving him the emerald, he sent away the nurse. Then he came out on the balcony, sat down, and began to talk to me. He was so pleasant and kindly! He made plans for my getting away unnoticed, and brought me some sandwiches and a cup of tea. He said I would have to eat a little, or I wouldn’t have strength enough to go. It was getting dark then, and he couldn’t see my face. I pretended to believe him, but I knew all the time. He kept urging me to hurry up, and to eat the sandwiches and drink the tea. I knew! I had made the will, and now, of course, I had to die. I tried to think of a way out; and at last, when he saw that I didn’t eat or drink, he spoke out plainly. He said that he had sent the servants away for the afternoon, and that we were alone in the house. He got up; he stood there and looked down at me.

“‘That tea is an easy way out--quite painless and easy,’ he said; ‘but if you won’t take it, there’s another way--not so easy!’

“He had some sort of hypodermic needle; but just then some one began pounding on the door downstairs, and he had to go. He locked the door after him, and he knew I was too weak to move. I tried. I got off the couch, but I fell on the floor beside it; and then Charles came--”

“Charles?”

“He climbed up over the balcony. It was too dark to see him, but I heard his voice, whispering, ‘Where are you?’ He found me, lifted me up, and helped me over to the railing. Then we heard Dr. Quelton coming back. There was another man, down in the garden, with a taxi. Charles called out to him, and he stood below there. I heard Dr. Quelton unlock the door, and I was so frightened that I felt strong enough to do anything to get away. Charles helped me over, and the other man caught me. Then I heard Charles shout, ‘Quick! Get her away!’ The other man pushed me into the taxi and started off across the lawn. I fainted, and I didn’t know anything more until I opened my eyes here.”

“But where is he?” cried Lexy. “What happened to him?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you don’t seem to care, either!” said Lexy hotly. “He saved your life, and now--”

She thought of that bloody hand print, and the grass beaten down. The young man who had no caution, no regard for the proprieties, had done the direct and simple thing which appealed to his audacious mind. Perhaps he had been killed in doing it. He would know how to face death in the same straightforward way.

Lexy would be as straightforward as he. She would find him, and she wouldn’t try to think how much she cared about finding him.

She rose.

“I’ll get Mrs. Royce to stay with you, Caroline,” she said.

“But where are you going, Lexy?”

“I’m going to find Charles.”

In the doorway she encountered Captain Grey.

“Do you think she could stand seeing me?” he asked anxiously. “I mean do you--”

But Lexy didn’t even answer.

XXV

After all, Lexy’s search for Charles Houseman was neither difficult nor heroic, except in intention. She found him in the Lymewell Hospital. Joe told her where he was, and Joe took her there.

Houseman himself was rigidly determined not to be heroic. He had refused to go to bed, and Lexy found him in a bare, whitewashed waiting room, where he sat on a bench.

“Just came in to get the hand dressed,” he said. “I’ll go back with you now.”

The doctor advised him not to, but Charles was not very susceptible to advice. He wished to be entirely casual and matter-of-fact, and Lexy tried to humor him. They stood together in the hall of the hospital while a nurse went to get him a bottle of lotion from the dispensary, and he talked in what he intended to be an offhand manner; but Lexy could see that he was in pain, and almost exhausted, and his hair was all on end.

Somehow, that was the thing she couldn’t bear--that his hair should be so ruffled. She could respect his determination to ignore the throbbing anguish of his hand, she would, if he liked, pretend that there was nothing at all tragic or unusual in the night’s adventure; but his hair--

The nurse returned with the bottle, gave him directions for its use, and told him sternly that he must come back the next morning for a dressing.

“All right!” he said impatiently. “Come on, Lexy!”

They got into Joe’s cab together, and off they went.

“What happened to your hand?” inquired Lexy, as if it didn’t much matter.

“Knife through it,” he answered. “You see, I held the old fellow, to give Mrs. Quelton a chance to get away. When I thought it was all right, I gave him a shove backward, and started to climb over the balcony; and he jabbed a knife through my hand. That’s what kept me so long--I couldn’t get it out; and after I did, I--rested for a while. Then I started for Wyngate, and I met Joe coming back to look for me. He said he’d landed Mrs. Quelton all right. So that’s all!”

Lexy was silent for a moment.

“Of course you didn’t know it wasn’t Mrs. Quelton,” she said. “It was Caroline all the time.”

“Caroline?” he cried. “What do you mean? It couldn’t have been Caroline!”

Lexy gave him a very brief, very bare account of Caroline’s narrative.

“Oh!” he said, when she had done; and again there was silence for a time. “Does she still want to go on with the thing--marrying me, I mean?” he asked finally, in a queer, flat tone.

“No,” said Lexy pleasantly. “No--she does not.”

“Oh!” he said again, with undisguised relief. “Well, then--it’s all right, then!”

“You don’t seem to be much surprised,” said Lexy. “Don’t you think it’s the most extraordinary story you ever heard?”

“Well, you see--I’m a bit tired,” he explained. “I haven’t grasped it all yet; only, if she doesn’t want to marry me now, Lexy, dear, will you?”

At last Lexy could do what she had longed to do for the last half hour--she could stroke down his ruffled hair.

And this, as far as they were concerned, was the last act and the fitting climax of the play. They were ready now for the curtain to rise upon another play; but there were other people not so young, or not so sturdy, for whom the first drama was not so readily dismissed.

There was Captain Grey, who was never to see his sister now, never to know if she had really wanted him and needed him. He did not soon forget what had happened at the Tower.

Mrs. Enderby was sent for, and arrived that morning before sunrise, with her husband. She listened to Caroline’s strange story, and made what she could of it. She had not one word of reproach for her daughter.

“We shall not cry over the spilled milk,” she said. “Let us see what is to be done, before the police come.” She had a thoroughly European point of view about the police. “If we are fortunate enough to find an officer with discretion,” she added, “even yet a scandal may be averted.”

For that was still her passionate resolve--that there should be no scandal. She thought and planned with desperate energy; she directed every one as to the part he or she should play; and in the end she succeeded. Nobody knew that Caroline had disappeared, and nobody ever would know. Nobody knew that the so-called Mrs. Quelton was Caroline, and that, too, would never be known. Only let Joe and Mrs. Royce be persuaded to hold their tongues; as for Lexy, Captain Grey, and Houseman, she could of course rely upon them.

So the police were, as they say, baffled. Mr. Houseman told them a tale. He had been alarmed about the lady whom he knew as Mrs. Quelton, and he had climbed up on the balcony, hoping to see her alone; but he had met Dr. Quelton instead, and had been hurt in trying to escape from him.

Captain Grey also had a tale. He, too, had been alarmed about the lady whom he believed to be his sister. He had gone with Miss Moran to call upon her, and they had found the doctor dead, lying across the coffin.

There was an inquest, and Mr. Houseman had a very unpleasant time of it, being the last one who had seen the doctor alive; but there was no really serious suspicion against him. The post-mortem showed that the doctor had died of some unknown poison, at least half an hour after the young man had arrived at the hospital. The verdict was suicide, although the coroner’s jury had its own opinion about the mysterious dark woman who had posed as the doctor’s wife. An autopsy revealed that Mrs. Quelton had died from a natural cause--phthisis of the lungs. In short, as far as could be discovered, there was no murder at all.

This was a disappointment to the public, but there was always the mysterious dark woman. The police instituted a search for her, and there was much about her in the newspapers, but she was never found.

Miss Enderby returned to the city from her visit to Miss Craigie, and friends of the family were interested to learn that while away she had met such a nice young man--a Captain Grey, from India. He had to return to his regiment, but, before he went, Caroline’s engagement to him was announced. Later he was to retire from the army and come back to live in New York.

There was another item of news, of minor importance. That pretty little secretary of Mrs. Enderby’s got married, and the Enderbys were wonderfully kind about it--surprisingly so. It didn’t seem at all like Mrs. Enderby to let the girl be married from her own house, and to give her a smart little car for a wedding present. What is more, Mr. Enderby found a very good position in his office for the young man.

“My dear Sophie,” said one of Mrs. Enderby’s old friends, with the peculiar candor of an old friend, “I’ve never known you to do so much for any one before!”

Mrs. Enderby was standing on the top doorstep of her house, looking after the car in which Lexy and her Charles had driven off for their honeymoon, with Joe, of Wyngate, as their chauffeur.

“So much for her?” she said. “It’s not enough--not half enough!”

And there were actually tears in her eyes as she went back into the house where Caroline was.

THE END

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

MARCH, 1926 Vol. LXXXVII NUMBER 2

Dogs Always Know

INTO THIS DIGNIFIED LOVE STORY HUGE CAPTAIN MACGREGOR BARGES WITH A GRAND CARGO OF HUMOR TO MATCH LITTLE LEROY’S DRAMATIC DOG

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

The lovely little Miss Selby came from Boston, and the large and not unhandsome Mr. Anderson came from New York, and they did not like each other.

Indeed, Miss Selby was not very fond, just then, of any one who did not come from Boston. Sometimes she even went so far as to declare to herself that she did not like any one at all except the members of one certain household in Boston.

It was at night, after she had gone to bed, that she usually made this somewhat narrow-minded declaration, because it was at that time, when she was lying in the dark, that she would most vividly imagine that especial household. Her mother, her grandmother, and her two aunts; they were the kindest, wittiest, most delightful, lovable people who ever breathed, and she compared all other persons with them. And, so compared, Mr. Anderson came out very badly.

As for Mr. Anderson, the reason he did not like Miss Selby was because she obviously did not like him. He was a little sensitive about being liked.

He almost always had been, in the past, and when he saw Miss Selby’s eyes resting on him, with that look which meant that she was mentally comparing him with her mother, her grandmother, and her two aunts, he felt chilled to the bone. Not that he looked chilled; on the contrary, his face grew red, and he fancied that his neck, his ears, and his hands did also.

He justly resented this. It was not his fault that he was sitting at her table. It wasn’t her table, anyhow; purely by luck had she sat alone at it so long. It was the only place left in the dining room, and the landlady told him to sit there.

As he pulled out his chair he said, “Good evening,” with a friendly and unsuspicious smile, and Miss Selby glanced up at him as if she were surprised to hear a human voice issuing from this creature, and bent her head in something probably intended to be a nod.

Naturally, he did not speak again. But, as he sat facing her, and with his back to the room, he could not help his eyes resting upon her from time to time, and it was then that he had encountered that chilly look.

It was very pitiful, he thought, to see one as young as she behaving in such a way--really pitiful. Because she was not unattractive; even a casual glance had informed him of that.

Dark-browed, she was, and dark-eyed; but with hair that was bright and soft and almost blond, and a lovely rose color in her cheeks; the sort of girl a man would admire, if there had been the true womanly gentleness in her aspect. But after that look, it was impossible to admire; he could only pity.

Strange as it may seem, Miss Selby pitied him, and for a somewhat illogical reason. She saw pathos in the man because he was so large--so much too large. His great shoulders towered above the table; knives and forks looked like toys in his lean, brown hands, and his face was invisible, unless she raised her eyes, which she did not intend to do again.

She had seen him, though, as he crossed the room, and she might have thought him not bad looking, if he had not come to sit at her table. It was an honest and alert young face, healthily tanned, with warm, gray eyes, and a crest of wheat-colored hair above his forehead. But when he did sit down at her table, she immediately began her usual comparisons.

She imagined this young man in that sitting room in Boston, and she saw clearly how much too large he was. It was a small room, and her mother and her grandmother and her two aunts were all of a nice, neat, polite size.

“Like a bull in a china shop,” she thought, imagining him among them.

This was unjust. It is never fair to judge bulls by their possible behavior in china shops, anyhow; they seldom go into them, and when seen in the fields, or in bullfights, and so on, they are really noble animals.

But that is what she did think, and as soon as she could finish her dinner, she arose, with another of those almost imperceptible nods, and went away. She went up to her own room, and began to study shorthand.

She did this every evening, with great earnestness, for she was very anxious to get a better position than the one she now had, and she was so far advanced in her study that she could write absolutely anything in shorthand--if you gave her time enough. She could often read what she had written, too.

As for Mr. Anderson, he also went up to his room, but not to study. He had had all he wanted of that at college. Nor did he need to worry about a better position.

The one he had was good, and he was confident that he would have a better one next year, and a still better one the year after that, and so on and on, until he was one of the leading paper manufacturers in the country--if not the leading one. He had just been made assistant superintendent of a paper mill in this little town, and he had come out in the most hopeful and cheerful humor.

The hope and cheer had fled, now. He felt profoundly dejected. He had no friends here, and if other people were like that girl, he never would have any. For all he knew, there might be something repellent in his manner, which his old friends had kindly overlooked.

He began to think sorrowfully of those old friends, of the little flat he had had in New York with two other fellows--such nice fellows--such a nice flat. When you looked out of the window there you saw a façade of other windows, with shaded lamps in them, and the shadows of people passing back and forth, and down below in the street more people, and taxis, and big, quiet, smooth-running private cars, and all the familiar city sounds. And here, outside this window, there were trees--nothing but trees.

He had heard, often enough, about the loneliness of country dwellers when in a great city, but he felt that it was not to be compared with the loneliness of a city dweller among trees. He got up and went to the window, and he couldn’t even see a human creature, only those sentinel trees, moving a little against the pale and cloudy sky.

It was a May night, and the air that blew on his face was May air, a wonderful thing, filled with tender and exquisite perfumes, so cool and sweet that he grew suddenly sick of his tobacco-scented room, and decided to go out on the veranda.

What happened was a coincidence, but it would surely have happened, sooner or later. He met Miss Selby. As soon as he had stepped outside, she opened the door and came out, too.

There was an electric light in the ceiling of this veranda, which gave it a singularly cheerless appearance, rather like the deck of a deserted ship, with the chairs all drawn up along the wall. There was nobody else there, and Mr. Anderson stood directly under the light, so that she could see him very plainly.

She said: “Oh!” and drew back hastily, putting her hand on the doorknob.

This was a little too much!

“Look here!” said Mr. Anderson crisply. “Don’t go in on my account. I’ll go, myself.”

Now, Miss Selby was not really haughty or disagreeable. Simply, she had been brought up on all sorts of Red Riding-hood tales, in which all the trouble was caused by giving encouragement to strangers.

She had been taught that it was a mad, reckless thing to acknowledge the existence of persons whose grandparents had not been known, and favorably known, to her grandparents. But certainly she had no desire to offend any one, and this stranger did seem to be offended. So she said:

“Oh, no! You mustn’t think of such a thing!”

She meant it kindly, but unfortunately she was utterly unable to speak in a natural way to a stranger. In reality she was a poor, homesick, affectionate, kind-hearted young girl of twenty, who, not fifteen minutes before, had been weeping from sheer loneliness.

But she spoke in what seemed to him an obnoxiously condescending and superior tone. He was a young man of many excellent qualities, but meekness was not one of them, and he resented this tone.

So he spoke with an air of amused indulgence, as if he thought her such a funny little thing:

“I don’t want to drive you away, you know.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Why, of course not!” she said, just as much amused as he was, and sat down in one of the chairs against the wall.

She sat there, and he stood opposite her, leaning against the railing, both of them silently not liking each other. Presently the silence became unbearable.

“The spring has come early this year,” observed Miss Selby.

Mr. Anderson, the city dweller, knew precious little about what was expected of spring, but he was determined to say something, anything.

“Yes,” he agreed. “They were selling violets in the streets yesterday.”

Miss Selby looked at him with a sort of horror. Was that his idea of spring--violets being sold on street corners?

“But that doesn’t mean anything!” she cried. “They were probably hothouse violets, anyway. You can’t possibly see the real spring unless you go in the woods.”

She needn’t think she owned the spring. Every year of his life he had spent several weeks in the country at various hotels. He had seen any number of woods, had walked in them, and admired them, too, with moderation, however.

“Yes, I know,” he admitted. “Last June I motored up through Connecticut--”

“Oh, but that’s different!” she explained. “Motoring--that’s not the same thing at all! There’s a little wood near here--I go there almost every Sunday--I wish you could see it!”

“I’d like to,” he replied, without realizing the step implied.

They were both dismayed by what had happened. Miss Selby arose hastily.

“Well--good night!” she said, and fled upstairs to her room in a panic.

“Heavens!” she thought. “Did he think I wanted him to come with me to-morrow? Oh, dear! How--how awfully awkward! Oh, I do hope it will rain!”

Mr. Anderson, left by himself, lit his pipe.

“After that,” he mused, “of course I’ll have to ask her to let me go with her to-morrow. That’s only common courtesy.”

Very well, he was willing to make the sacrifice.

II

It did not rain the next day. On the contrary, it was as bright and blithe a day as ever dawned. There was no plausible reason why a person who went into the woods almost every Sunday should not go to-day.

“It would be too rude, just to walk off, if he thinks I meant him to come along,” thought Miss Selby. “But perhaps he won’t say anything more about it.”

He did not appear in the dining room while she ate her breakfast.

“Probably he’s still asleep,” she thought, with that pardonable pride every one feels at being up before some one else.

He was not asleep. On the contrary, he was looking at her that very moment, as she sat down at her precious table, eating the Sunday morning coffee ring. He had breakfasted early on purpose, hoping that by so doing he would avoid her, for the more he meditated upon her behavior, the more sternly did he disapprove of it, and he had come downstairs this morning resolved to be merely polite.

He could not help sitting at her table; certainly he didn’t want to, and she had no right to treat him as if he were an annoying intruder. But, no matter what she did, he intended to be polite.

And, as he sat on the veranda railing and observed her through the window, he thought that perhaps it would not be so very difficult to be polite to her. She looked rather nice this morning, in her neat, dark dress, with the sun touching her brown hair to a warm brightness, and a sort of Sunday tranquillity about her. He felt a chivalrous readiness to take a walk in the woods with her; she might even point out all the flowers and tell him facts about them, if she liked.

She arose, and he turned his head and contemplated the landscape, so that he would not be looking at her when she came out of the door. Only, she didn’t come. Although he kept his head turned aside for a long time, he heard no sound of a door opening or of footsteps, nothing but the subdued voices of the four old ladies who sat on the veranda, enjoying the sunshine.

He glanced toward the dining room. She was not there. Very well; probably she had changed her mind, and he would not be called upon to be chivalrous, after all. He would have the whole day to himself, the whole immensely long, blank, solitary day.

Miss Selby, however, had simply gone upstairs to put on her hat. Or, rather, she put on three hats, one after the other, two rather old ones, and one quite new. She decided in favor of an old one, and felt somewhat proud of herself for this, because didn’t it show how little she cared about strangers? If it happened to be a singularly becoming hat, she couldn’t help it.

She went downstairs and out on the veranda, and there he was, even bigger, she thought, than he had been last evening; a tremendous creature, fairly towering above all the old ladies, and looking most alarmingly masculine and strange.

Something like panic seized her. He was so absolutely a stranger; she knew nothing whatever about him; he might be the most undesirable acquaintance that ever breathed.

But when he said “Good morning,” she had to answer, and, in answering, had to look at him, and was obliged to admit that his face was not exactly sinister.

“Off for a stroll?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, I am.”

There was a silence, then chivalry required Mr. Anderson to speak.

“Well--” he said. “If you don’t mind--I mean--I’d be very pleased--”

“Oh! Certainly!” said Miss Selby.

So off they went, together. They went across the lawn and down the road, and after the first moment of awkwardness, they got on very well.

Indeed, it was extraordinary to see upon how many topics they thought alike. They both agreed that it was a beautiful morning; that the spring was the best time of the year, that the smell of pine needles warm in the sun was unique and delightful, and that Mrs. Brown’s coffee was very, very bad.

Then, according to Miss Selby’s directions, they turned off the highway and entered the wood. It was not a thick and somber wood, but a lovely little glade where slim silver birches grew, among bigger and more stalwart trees, standing well spaced, so that the sun came through the budding branches, making a delicate arabesque of light and shadow.

And it was all so fresh, so verdant, so joyous, like one of those half-enchanted forests through which knights used to ride, long ago, when the world was younger. It was so serene, and yet so gay, that even Mr. Anderson, the champion of cities, was captivated.

He walked through that wood with Miss Selby, he saw how she looked when she found violets growing, saw her, so to speak, in her natural habitat, where she belonged, and that seemed to him something not easily to be forgotten. There was Miss Selby, down on her knees, picking violets; Miss Selby looking up at him, with that lovely color in her cheeks, and her clear, candid eyes, asking him if they weren’t the “prettiest things?”

He answered: “No!” with considerable emphasis, but somehow she did not trouble to ask him what he meant.

She fancied that Mr. Anderson appeared to better advantage in the woods. Seen among the trees he didn’t seem too large; indeed, with his blond crest, his mighty shoulders, his long, easy stride, he was not in the least like a bull in a china shop, but a notably fine-looking young fellow.

In short, when Miss Selby and Mr. Anderson returned to the boarding house for the midday dinner, they no longer disliked each other.

III

The old ladies had noticed this at once, and it pleased them. They saw Miss Selby and Mr. Anderson talking cheerfully to each other at the little table, and they said to one another: “Young people--young people,” and they were old enough to understand what that meant.

The “young people” themselves did not understand. They didn’t even know that they were especially young, and certainly they saw nothing charming or interesting in the fact that they were sitting at a small table and talking to each other.

They were, at heart, a little uneasy because they had stopped disliking each other. Dislike was such a neat, definite, vigorous thing to feel, and when it melted away, it left such a disturbing vagueness. Of course, Miss Selby knew that she could not possibly like a stranger; the most she would allow herself was--not to dislike him, and simply “not disliking” a person is a very unsatisfactory state of mind.

It couldn’t be helped, however. The dislike was gone. And there they sat, not disliking each other, every single evening at that little table. Naturally, they talked, and naturally, being at such close quarters, they watched each other what time they talked, and when you do that, it is extraordinary what a number of things you learn without being told.

The little shadow that flits across a face, the smile that is on the lips and not in the eyes, the brave words and the anxious glance--these things are eloquent.

For instance, Miss Selby talked about that unique household in Boston. She did not say much, that wasn’t her way; yet Mr. Anderson deduced that the mother, the grandmother, and the two aunts were, so to speak, besieged in their Bostonian home, that the wolf was at their door, and that Miss Selby was engaged in keeping him at a safe distance. And that she was probably the pluckiest, finest girl who had ever lived, struggling on all by herself, homesick and lonely, and so young and little.

As for him, he talked chiefly about the manufacture of paper. Until now this subject had not been a particular hobby of Miss Selby’s, but the more she heard about it, the more she realized what an interesting and fascinating topic it was. What is more, while Mr. Anderson talked about paper, he told her, without knowing it, many other things.

She learned that he was a very likable young fellow, with a great many friends, and yet was sometimes a little lonely, because he had no one of his own; that he was prodigiously ambitious, yet found his successful progress in the paper business a little melancholy sometimes, because no one else was very much affected by it. He said he had been brought up by an aunt who had given him an expensive education and a great many advantages; he spoke most dutifully of this aunt, and of all that he owed to her, yet Miss Selby felt certain that this aunt was a very disagreeable sort of person, who never let people forget what they owed her.

Very different from Miss Selby’s aunts! She had even begun to think that perhaps her aunts, together with her mother and grandmother, might like Mr. Anderson, in spite of his size.

And then he spoiled everything. To be sure, he thought it was she who spoiled everything, but she knew better. It was his lamentable, his truly deplorable, masculine vanity. This man, who appeared so independent, so intelligent--

This disillusioning incident took place on the second Sunday of their acquaintance--the Sunday after that first walk. Almost as a matter of course they set forth upon another walk, and as it was a bright, windy day, rather too cool for sauntering in the woods, they went along the highway at a brisk pace.

The spring had capriciously withdrawn. The burgeoning branches were flung about wildly against a sky blue, clear and cold; the ground underfoot felt hard; everything gentle, promising and beguiling had gone out of the world. And perhaps this affected Miss Selby; her cheeks were very rosy, her eyes shining, and she was in high spirits, even to the point of teasing Mr. Anderson a little.

He found this singularly agreeable. For the most part, he could see nothing but the top of her hat, coming along briskly beside him; but every now and then she glanced up, and each time she did so he felt a little dazzled, because of the radiance there was about her this day. He thought--but how glad he was, later on, that he had kept his thoughts to himself!

There was a steep hill before them, and they went at it with that feeling of pleasant excitement one has about new hills; they wanted to get to the top and see what was on the other side. And very likely they were a sort of allegory of youth, which always wants to get to the top of hills and hopes to find something much better on the other side; but this idea did not occur to them. And, alas, they never reached the top!

Halfway up that hill there was a garden with a stone wall about it; a wide lawn, ornamented with dwarf firs, a fine garden of the formal sort, but not very interesting, and Miss Selby and Mr. Anderson were not interested. They would have passed by with no more than a casual glance, but as they drew near the gate a dog began to bark in a desperate and violent fashion. And a sweet and plaintive voice said:

“Oh, Sandy! Stop, you naughty boy!”

Naturally they both turned their heads then, and they saw Mrs. Granger standing behind the gate. At that time they did not know her name was Mrs. Granger, or any other facts about her; but Miss Selby always believed that, at that first glance, she learned more about Mrs. Granger than--well, than certain other people ever learned, in weeks of acquaintance.

A charming little lady, Mrs. Granger was--dark and fragile, very plaintive, very gentle, the sort of woman a really chivalrous man feels sorry for. Especially at that moment when she was having such a very bad time with that dog.

It was a rough and unruly young dog--a collie, and a fine specimen, too, but ill trained. She was holding him by the collar, and he was struggling to get free, and barking furiously, his jaws snapping open and shut as if jerked by a string, his whole body vibrating with his unreasonable emotional outburst.

“Keep quiet!” said she, with a pathetic attempt at severity, and when he did not obey, she gave him a sort of dab on the top of the head. It was more than his proud spirit would endure; he broke away from her, jumped over the low gate, and flew at Mr. Anderson.

But not in anger; on the contrary, he was wild with delight; he rushed round and round the young man, lay down on his shoes, licked his hands. And when Mr. Anderson patted him, he was fairly out of his mind, and rolled in the dust.

“Oh!” cried Mrs. Granger. “But--how wonderful!” She turned to Miss Selby. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Isn’t what?” inquired Miss Selby. “I’m afraid I don’t--”

“That strange instinct that animals have!” Mrs. Granger explained solemnly.

“What instinct?” asked Miss Selby, politely. “I thought he was just a friendly little dog.”

“Oh, but he’s not friendly with every one!” cried Mrs. Granger. “Not by any means!”

It was at this point that Miss Selby’s disillusionment began. She looked at Mr. Anderson, expecting to find him looking amused, and instead of that, he was pleased--a little embarrassed, but certainly pleased!

Then the charming little lady spoke again, addressing Miss Selby:

“What darling wild roses!” she exclaimed. “I do wish I could find some!”

“They’re azaleas,” said Miss Selby. “And the woods at the foot of the hill--next to your garden--are full of them.”

Mr. Anderson was not looking at them just then, but only heard their voices, and he was very much impressed by the contrast. One of them sounded so gentle and sweet, and the other so chill, so curt. It was deplorable that Miss Selby should be so ungracious; he was disappointed.

So he thought that he, at least, would be decently civil to the poor little woman, and he turned toward her with that intention, only he could think of nothing to say. He smiled, though, and Mrs. Granger smiled at him, and Miss Selby observed this.

And Mrs. Granger knew that Miss Selby observed this, and she smiled at Miss Selby. It was a smile that Mr. Anderson would never understand.

“I wish you’d both come in and look at my garden!” said Mrs. Granger, wistfully.

“We--” began Mr. Anderson, cheerfully, but Miss Selby interrupted.

“Thank you!” she said. “But I must go home now. Good morning.”

And she actually set off, down the hill. Mr. Anderson, of course, was obliged to follow, and the dog, Sandy, had the same idea.

“Go home, old fellow!” the young man commanded.

Sandy gave a yelp of joy at being addressed, and stood expectantly beside him, grinning dog wise into his face. Mr. Anderson again ordered him home, and Mrs. Granger called him, but he did not go. He had to be dragged back by the collar and held, while Mrs. Granger fastened a leash to his collar.

“I never saw anything like it,” she declared. “He’s simply devoted to you.”

“Dogs generally take to me,” the young man admitted.

Mrs. Granger raised her soft dark eyes to his face.

“I think that’s a very wonderful thing!” said she, quietly. “Because I’m sure they know. I’d trust Sandy’s judgment against any human being’s.”

“Oh--well--” Mr. Anderson remarked, grown very red.

“You must come and see Sandy again some day,” she suggested. “Poor little doggie!”

“I will!” said he. “Yes. Thanks, very much. I will!”

All this had taken considerable time, and Miss Selby was nowhere to be seen. He hurried after her and, turning the corner at the foot of the hill, saw her marching briskly along ahead of him. She must have known that he would follow, yet she did not look back once, and when he reached her side she said nothing--neither did he. They went on.

Presently Miss Selby began to talk, making a very obvious effort to be polite. Mr. Anderson did not like this, but he, too, made an equally obvious effort at politeness, and succeeded quite as well as she did, and they continued in this formal, almost stately tone, for some time.

When she looked back upon it, Miss Selby was always at a loss to understand just how and when this correct tone had vanished from their conversation, and the quarrel had begun. For it was a quarrel--a genuine and a hearty one. And although Mrs. Granger was never once mentioned, yet the quarrel was about her.

Miss Selby declared flatly that dogs did not have any “wonderful instinct” for judging people. Mr. Anderson said he knew they did.

“What?” she cried. “You don’t mean to say you think a dog knows by instinct whether any one is--good or bad?”

“That’s exactly what I do mean,” he declared.

Then Miss Selby laughed. She regretted it afterward, but it was done. She had laughed at Mr. Anderson, and he resented it, deeply.

They walked side by side for half a mile, and never said one single word, and by the time they reached the boarding house they had firmly established that worst of all complications, an angry silence. It was now impossible for either of them to speak.

IV

It was impossible to break that silence without an intolerable sacrifice of pride. Yet, so very, very small a thing would have sufficed; one entreating glance from Mr. Anderson, and Miss Selby would have responded willingly; just a shade of warmth in her smile, and the young man would have made an impetuous apology. But he was not going to give entreating glances to persons who laughed at him, and her smile showed no warmth at all, but instead an extreme chilliness.

They smiled when they met every evening in the dining room, simply to keep up appearances--and it was a complete failure. The old ladies noticed at once that something had gone wrong; they discussed it with unflagging interest all week, wondering what had happened, and whose fault it was. They all hoped that matters would be adjusted by Sunday.

Sunday came, and it was a sweet, bright, warm day. The hour for taking walks came, and Mr. Anderson went out--alone. The old ladies were truly sorry to see this. Miss Selby also saw it. She came out on the veranda just as he was going down the steps and, although she did not turn her head, she had caught a glimpse of his tall, broad-shouldered figure going off--alone. She had a book with her, and, siting down in a sheltered corner, she began to read.

It was impossible. On this gay spring morning nothing printed in books could interest her. Not that she cared what Mr. Anderson did or where he went. Only, she was homesick and so very lonely. There was nobody to talk to, and it would be such a long, long time before she could afford to take a vacation and go back to Boston to see her own people.

“Er--good morning!” said Mr. Quincey, in his apologetic way.

For two months Mr. Quincey had been apologetically making attempts to talk to Miss Selby. He was a most inoffensive young man, a teller in the local bank; he had virtually all the virtues there are: thrift, industry, sobriety, honesty--and he knew people in Boston. Yet hitherto Miss Selby had discouraged him, for no good reason at all, but simply because she wished so to do.

Imagine his surprise and delight when this morning she replied to him with something like cordiality. The old ladies saw him sit down on the railing near her chair, they saw his pleased smile, and they decided that Miss Selby was a fickle and a heartless girl.

Then presently they saw Miss Selby go out for a walk with Mr. Quincey.

In the meantime, Mr. Anderson was striding along the quiet country roads at a tremendous pace. No; he did not like the country.

Except for his unique and wonderful paper mill, he could wish with all his heart that he were back in the city, where there were numbers of people he knew, friendly faces to see, jolly voices to hear. He could think of no particular person he was especially anxious to see, yet it seemed to him that he missed somebody, badly.

So, he went up that hill again. Again Sandy was there, and Mrs. Granger; again he was invited to look at the garden, and this time he accepted.

V

Mrs. Granger was a widow, and she admitted herself that the loss of Mr. Granger had made her very sympathetic. She told Mr. Anderson that she “understood,” and he firmly believed this, without exactly knowing what there was to be understood.

Anyhow, her manner was wonderfully soothing to one who had recently been laughed at, and the young man appreciated it. Twice they strolled round the garden, followed by Sandy, and Mrs. Granger, in a charming and playful way, made a chaperon of Sandy.

“You know you’re Sandy’s friend,” she said. “He discovered you.”

Mr. Anderson found this very touching.

Then, when they had come round to the gate for the second time, she said that she would be very pleased to see him if he would like to come in for a cup of tea that afternoon.

“Thank you!” he replied heartily. “That’s very kind of you.”

And he really did think it was very kind of her, and that she was a charming, gracious, kindly little lady, yet he had not said definitely whether he would come to tea or not.

For all the time, in the back of his mind, there was a queer, miserable feeling he could not define, a sense of guilt, as if he had been very careless about something very dear to him. He thought that he would not make up his mind until--well, until he saw--

What he saw was Miss Selby coming home from a walk with Mr. Quincey. She was carrying a small bouquet of violets, so he supposed that she had been in the woods--in those same woods--and with Mr. Quincey. So Mr. Anderson did go to tea with Mrs. Granger.

Mrs. Granger said he might come on Wednesday evening, and he went. She played on the piano and sang for him, and he praised her music so much that she was charmingly confused. Never did she guess that it was not admiration that moved him, but pity because she made so many mistakes in technique.

And he accounted all these mistakes to her credit; he thought, like many another man, that the worse her performance in any art, the more domestic and womanly she must be. He felt a fine, chivalrous regard for the poor thing.

But still he kept waiting for some sign of relenting on the part of Miss Selby. Every evening, as he crossed the dining room to the little table he thought that perhaps to-night it would be different; perhaps to-night it would be as it had been during that time when they had talked to each other.

Of course, if she didn’t care, he wasn’t going to force his unwelcome conversation upon her. She was a woman; it was her place to make the first move.

What had he done, anyhow? Maybe he had been a little hasty, but at least he hadn’t laughed at her, or ever had the slightest desire to do such a thing. And if, in her unreasonable feminine way, she wanted him to apologize for things he hadn’t done, he was ready so to do--if she would make the first move.

“Very well!” thought Miss Selby every evening when she saw him. “If he’s satisfied to--to let things go on like this, I’m sure I don’t care.”

She was much better able to wear a calm expression of not caring than he was. He looked dejected and sulky. But when out of the public eye, he did better than she, for he merely walked up and down his room, or gazed out gloomily upon those depressing trees, while she, locked in her own room, often cried.

The next Sunday it rained, but nevertheless he went out early in the afternoon, and Miss Selby knew very well where he was going.

“Let him!” she said to herself. “If he’s so easily taken in by that--that designing woman and her dog, I don’t care! She’s probably trained the dog to behave like that.”

This was unjust. Mrs. Granger had no need to train dogs to bring guests into her house. Undoubtedly she liked Mr. Anderson, but if he had not come there would still have been Captain MacGregor, whom she had been liking for a good many years. Mr. Anderson was soon made aware of the captain’s existence by Leroy.

Now, there is no denying that Leroy himself was a shock to the young man. To begin with, it seemed incredible that any one who looked as young as Mrs. Granger should have a son eight years old, and in the second place, if she did have a son, it should have been a different kind of child.

Leroy was a nice enough boy in his way, but completely lacking in the plaintive and poetic charm of the mother. Indeed, he seemed more akin to Sandy, a rough, cheerful, headstrong young thing. But he had none of Sandy’s admirable instinct for judging human nature, and in the beginning he did not like Mr. Anderson.

He was frank about it. He said that Mr. Anderson’s watch was markedly inferior to Captain MacGregor’s, and he expressed a belief that Captain MacGregor could, if he wished, lick Mr. Anderson. He said a good many things of this sort, so that the young man was badly prejudiced against this unknown captain some time before he met him.

And when he did meet him, on that rainy Sunday, nothing occurred to soften the prejudice. He found MacGregor installed as an old friend. He found also that the man had brought to Mrs. Granger, as a gift, six silk umbrellas.

Six! It was an overwhelming gift. Anderson himself had brought a box of chocolates, but this was completely overshadowed by the umbrellas, just as he himself was overshadowed by the impressive silence of the other man.

A big, weather-beaten fellow of forty-five or so was this MacGregor, with the face and the manner of a gigantic Sphinx; he was neither handsome nor entertaining, but it was impossible to ignore or despise him. The solid worth of him, the honest self-respect, and the massive obstinacy, were plainly apparent.

He was not worried by the appearance of a strange young man; on the contrary, he seemed mildly amused. He let Anderson do all the talking, and just sat in a corner of the veranda, smoking his pipe.

This aroused in Anderson an unworthy spirit of emulation. He did not enjoy being so completely overshadowed by this man and his six umbrellas, and he returned the very next evening with four superb phonograph records. He found MacGregor there, just opening a paper parcel containing fourteen pairs of white gloves.

He waited until Wednesday, and then he arrived with a long box of the most costly roses. The captain was not there, but Mrs. Granger showed Anderson a little gift she had received from him the night before--five mahogany clocks.

The unhappy young man was almost ready to give up then, until Mrs. Granger casually explained that Captain MacGregor was a marine insurance adjuster and, in the course of his business, was often able to buy articles which had been part of damaged cargoes and yet were themselves in nowise damaged.

“So that he sometimes brings me the most wonderful things,” she said. “He is so thoughtful and generous. Don’t you like him, Mr. Anderson?”

“Well, you see, I don’t know him very well,” Anderson replied.

He went home somewhat comforted. Not only had Mrs. Granger been unusually sympathetic and charming, but her words had inspired him with a new idea.

On Friday evening he arrived with a very large package, which he left in the hall. He then entered the sitting room, and found Mrs. Granger sweetly admiring the captain’s latest gift--seven handsome black silk blouses, all exactly alike.

He let her go on admiring, and even generously said himself that they were “very nice.” Then, after a decent interval--“By the way,” he remarked, and went out into the hall and fetched in his package.

It was pretty imposing. He had spoken to the foreman of the paper mill, and the foreman had shown a friendly interest, so that he was now able to present to Mrs. Granger:

1 ream of the finest cream vellum writing paper, with envelopes.

2 reams of gray note paper, with blue envelopes.

1 ream of thin white writing paper, the envelopes lined with dark purple.

And a vast number of small memorandum pads; pink, blue, and yellow.

“Those are for Leroy,” he said, with a modest air which failed to conceal his triumph. This time he had won; there was no doubt about it.

VI

On Saturday night Miss Selby did not appear at the little table.

“Gone out to dinner,” he thought.

Why shouldn’t she go out to dinner? He simply hoped that she was enjoying herself. And, as he ate his solitary dinner, he thought about this; he imagined Miss Selby enjoying herself somewhere, sitting at some other table, and probably with some other young man sitting opposite her.

He knew how she would look if she were enjoying herself, with that lovely color in her cheeks, and that wonderful smile of hers. Well, it was none of his business--absolutely none of his business.

And yet, after dinner, he found occasion to stop the landlady in the hall, and to say, with an air of courteous indifference:

“That young lady who sits at my table--didn’t see her to-night. Has she gone away?”

“No, Mr. Anderson!” answered Mrs. Brown, with stern solemnity. “She has not. She’s lying upstairs, sick, at this very moment that I’m speaking to you. And I think it’s pneumonia, that’s what I think.”

“Pneumonia!” he cried. “But only last night--”

“It takes you sudden,” Mrs. Brown asserted. “And Miss Selby--well, people have often said to me how blooming she looked, but well I knew it was nerve, and nerve alone, that kept her going. Nerve strength!” she sighed. “It’s a treacherous thing, Mr. Anderson. You live on your nerves, and then, all of a sudden, they snap--like that!”

And her bony fingers snapped loudly, a startling sound in the dimly lit hall. The young man was in no condition to judge of the value of Mrs. Brown’s medical opinion; he was simply panic-stricken.

He went out of the house in a sort of blind haste, and began to walk along roads strange to him, under a cloudy and somber sky. He heard the voice of the wind in the trees, and to his unaccustomed ears it held no solace, but was a voice infinitely mournful.

Pneumonia! That little, little pretty thing--so far from home--ill and alone in a boarding house. Such a young, little thing.

He remembered that morning in the woods--her face when she had looked up at him from the violets she was picking--that radiant face, clear-eyed as a child’s.

“It’s my fault!” he cried aloud. “I ought to have known she couldn’t take care of herself properly. It’s my fault! The poor little thing! She’s done some fool trick--got her feet wet--probably makes her lunch of an ice cream soda--perhaps she can’t afford any lunch. And now--pneumonia! She had no right to get pneumonia! It’s--”

He stopped short, in a still, dark little lane, clenched his hands, stood there shaken by pain, by anger, by all the unreason of grief and anxiety.

“She ought to have known better!” he shouted.

VII

When he came downstairs the next morning, Mrs. Brown regarded his strained and haggard face with profound interest, and she observed to one of the old ladies that she believed Mr. Anderson was “coming down with something.”

He made inquiries about Miss Selby’s health, and obtained very vague and confused replies, which he interpreted as people jaded and despondent from a bad night are apt to interpret things. He went into the dining room, but he could eat no breakfast. Who could, sitting alone at a little table, opposite an empty chair? Then he went out again.

It was a rainy day, but that was so fitting that he scarcely noticed it. He remembered having seen a greenhouse not far away, and he went there. It was not open on Sunday, but he made it be open. He banged so loud and so long on the door that at last an old man came out of a near-by cottage.

“It’s a case of pneumonia!” said the young man, fiercely. “I’ve got to have some flowers.”

So he was admitted to the greenhouse, and he bought everything there was, and then sat down at a little desk to write a card. He never forgot the writing of that card, the rain drumming down on the glass roof, the palms and rubber trees standing about him, and the hot, moist, steamy smell like a jungle. He never forgot what he wrote, or how he felt while he wrote it.

But there would be no use in repeating what he wrote, for nobody ever read that card.

He put it with the flowers, and set off home. When he got there he gave the bouquet, very sodden now, to Mrs. Brown’s servant, and said to her:

“Please give this to Miss Selby. Give it to her yourself; don’t send it.”

Then he went up to his own room and locked the door. And the room was all filled with the gray light of a rainy day.

The clang of the dinner bell startled him; he jumped up, scowling, and muttered: “Oh, shut up!” But, just the same, he had to obey it. He had to go downstairs, and had to sit at the little table.

Scarcely had he sat down when he saw Miss Selby enter the room--Miss Selby in a new dark green linen dress, looking unusually pretty, and not even pale.

He arose; he was pale enough. He couldn’t speak. She must have received that card; she must have read it. As she glanced at him, he saw the color deepen in her cheeks, and her smile was uncertain. She was so lovely.

“I thought--” he began.

She sat down, and he did, too. Again their eyes met.

“It’s a miserable day,” she observed.

He didn’t think so. He thought it was the most beautiful day that had ever dawned; and he might have said something of the sort if he had not just at that moment seen an awful thing. He stared, appalled, almost unbelieving.

The waitress was coming across the room, carrying his immense bouquet.

“No!” he cried, half rising.

But it was too late; she had come; she presented the bouquet to Miss Selby with a pleased and kindly smile.

“For you!” she announced.

Every one in the room was watching with deep interest.

“See here!” said the young man, in a low and unsteady voice. “I--I only got them because I thought--they--she told me--you had pneumonia. I thought--Give them back to her. Throw them away! I--I’m sorry--”

“Sorry I haven’t got pneumonia?” asked Miss Selby. “It’s too bad, but perhaps I can manage it some other time.”

Her tone and her smile hurt him terribly. He wished that he could snatch the flowers away from her. She was laughing at him again; every one in the room was laughing at him.

And it didn’t occur to him that Miss Selby couldn’t possibly know how he felt, but was a very young and inexperienced creature who was also hurt by his strange manner of giving bouquets. She thought he wanted her to know that, unless she were very ill, he wouldn’t dream of giving her flowers. She was even more hurt than he was.

“Will you bring a vase, please, Kate?” she asked.

Katie did bring a vase, and the hateful and offensive flowers were set up between them, like a hedge. He leaned over, and with his penknife deliberately cut off the card tied to the stems and put it into his pocket.

And not one more word did they speak all through that dreadful meal.

VIII

In his pain and anger and humiliation he turned blindly to Mrs. Granger, the charming little lady who never laughed at any one. He couldn’t get to her fast enough; he strode on through the mud in the steady downpour of rain, simply longing to see her, and to hear her soft, gracious voice, and to be within the shelter of her friendly home.

That card was still in his pocket; he took it out, and as he walked along, tore it into bits and strewed them behind him. They fell into puddles, where they would lie to be trampled on, those words he had written--a suitable end for them.

He pushed open the gate of Mrs. Granger’s garden, and was very much comforted by Sandy’s ecstatic welcome. Dogs did know. They appreciated it when you meant well; they were not suspicious, not mocking. When you gave them something they accepted it in good faith.

He went on toward the house, walking rapidly, impatient to get in there to the gentle serenity of Mrs. Granger’s presence. He rang the bell, and directly the parlor-maid opened the door he knew he was not going to have peace and solace.

Something had gone wrong. He could hear Leroy’s voice raised in a loud, forlorn bellow, and Mrs. Granger’s voice, tearful and trembling, and Captain MacGregor’s voice, with a slightly exasperated note in it. He entered the sitting room, and there was Mrs. Granger, weeping, and Leroy sobbing. Sandy began to bark.

“Oh, Mr. Anderson!” cried Mrs. Granger. “How can you let him do that? Oh, please keep him quiet!”

Anderson put the dog outside, and then returned.

“But what’s the matter?” he asked.

“Leroy’s been bitten by a m-mad d-dog!” cried Mrs. Granger.

“Was not a mad dog!” Leroy asserted.

“See! Here on his leg!” she went on. “And he never told me! It happened late yesterday!”

“There’s no reason to assume that the dog was mad,” interrupted the captain.

“It was! Animals adore Leroy! Only a rabid dog would dream of biting him!”

“Was not a rabid dog,” Leroy insisted sullenly.

“Well, see here!” said Anderson. “If you think--if you’re worried--why not have his leg cauterized?”

“Oh, I can’t!” she cried. “My child burned with red-hot irons!”

Leroy began to bellow at this inhuman suggestion, and Mrs. Granger clasped him in her arms.

“Don’t cry, darling!” she sobbed. “Mother won’t let them hurt you!” And she looked at Captain MacGregor and Mr. Anderson with unutterable reproach.

They were silent for a time.

“Well, see here!” Anderson suggested. “If you could find the dog, and--keep it under observation for a few days--”

This idea appealed to the child.

“Sure!” he said. “I’ll find him, mom. You just let me alone, and I’ll find him for you, all right!”

“You said you couldn’t remember what the dog was like.”

“Yes, I know. But I remember the street where it was, an’ I’ll go back there to-morrow,” Leroy declared. “I could stay out o’ school jist in the mornin’ and jist--ferret it out. I got lots of clews. An’ I bet you--”

“I’ll go with you now,” said Anderson.

The agitated mother didn’t even thank him.

“Perhaps that would be a good idea,” she admitted. “You might try it, anyhow, and see.”

So Leroy was fortified against the rain in oilskins and rubbers, and he and Mr. Anderson set forth together in quest of the dog. The small boy was highly pleased with the adventure; he did not often have an opportunity to frolic in the rain, and he made the most of it, caracoling before Anderson like a sportive colt. Sandy, too, would have enjoyed it, but he was tied up.

“One dog at a time,” said Anderson. “Now, young feller, let’s hear about it.”

“Aw, it was nothin’,” Leroy replied with admirable nonchalance. “Jist a dog ran up an’ bit me. I mean, I was runnin’, an’ I guess I stepped on his paw an’ he bit me.”

“Did you tell your mother you stepped on the dog?”

“I dunno what all I told her,” Leroy admitted. “Anyway, what’s it matter? Had to do somethin’ to keep her quiet.”

Anderson considered that it was not his place to rebuke this child, and he let the disrespect pass.

“Where did it happen?”

“Long ways from here, all right!” said the boy, triumphantly.

He spoke no more than the truth. It was a very long way. They went on and on, down long, quiet suburban streets, lined with dripping trees and houses with no signs of life. They went on and on.

At first Leroy was talkative and cheerful, and found great satisfaction in splashing in puddles, but as time went on he grew silent, and tramped through the puddles more as a matter of principle than through enjoyment.

“What was the name of the street?” asked Anderson.

“Well, I don’t know,” the boy answered, “but I guess I’d know it if I saw it. Somewheres around here, it was. Might be around the next corner.”

They went round the corner, and there was a candy store.

“That’s it!” Leroy announced. “It’s open, too.”

Mr. Anderson said nothing, but walked steadily forward, and Leroy trotted by his side.

“They sure did have good lollypops in there,” observed Leroy. “Best I ever tasted.”

Still no response from the adult, possessor of all power and wealth. Leroy sighed. And Anderson turned to look at him, and discovered a wet and not very clean face upturned to his, with brown eyes very like Sandy’s. Poor little kid, tramping along so bravely in his oilskins! He looked tired, too.

“All right!” said Anderson. “We’d better go back and get a few lollypops.”

After that Leroy went on, much encouraged in spirit.

“Here’s the street!” he cried at last. “The lil dog ran out o’ one of those houses--I don’t know which one.”

Mr. Anderson rang the bell of the first house. The occupants owned no dog, never had, and never intended so to do. In the second house he was confronted by a very disagreeable old lady. She admitted that she had a dog, and she said, with unction, that her dog could and would bite any persons unlawfully trespassing on her property, as was any dog’s right.

“I dare say Rover did bite the boy,” she suggested, “if he came in here trampling and stampling all over my flower beds. And serve him right, I say!”

“I did not!” said Leroy, indignantly. “And that’s not the dog, Mr. Anderson. I can see him out the window. He’s a police dog, and my dog was a little one.”

They proceeded to the next house. Nobody came to the door at all. There was only one more house left on the street.

“Well, I hope the right dog’s in there,” said Leroy, “but--” He paused, then he laid his hand on Anderson’s sleeve. “Most any lil dog would do,” he said, very low, “for her.”

Mr. Anderson was about to protest sternly against such a dishonest and immoral suggestion, but somehow he didn’t. The child’s hand looked so very small, and his manner was so trusting. He said nothing at all, simply walked up the path to this last house.

He rang the bell, and the door was opened with startling suddenness by a little man with spectacles and a neatly pointed white beard. He looked like a professor, and he was a professor--of Romance Languages--and because of his scholarly unworldliness, he had been cheated and swindled so many times that he had become fiercely suspicious. He glared.

“This boy has been bitten by a dog,” Mr. Anderson explained. “And we want to find the dog, to see--”

“Ha!” said the little man. “And what has this to do with me, pray?”

“I thought perhaps you had a dog here--”

The professor folded his arms.

“Very well!” said he. “I have. And what of it?”

“If you’ll let us see the dog--”

“Aha!” said the professor. “I see! A blackmailing scheme! You wish to see my dog. You will then cause this child to identify the dog as the one which bit him, in order that you may collect damages. A ve-ry pret-ty little scheme, I must admit!”

Anderson had had a singularly trying day, and he was very weary of this quest, anyhow.

“Nothing of the sort!” he said curtly. “If you’ll be good enough to let us see your dog--or if you’ll give me your assurance that the animal is perfectly healthy--”

“Don’t you give him a penny, Joseph!” cried a quavering female voice from the dark depths of the hall.

The professor laughed ironically.

“Ve-ry pret-ty!” he repeated. “But you may as well understand, once and for all, that I absolutely refuse to allow you to see my dog, or to give you any assurance of any kind whatsoever.”

And nothing could move him. Mr. Anderson argued with him with as much tact and politeness as he could manage just at that time, but in vain.

“See here!” he said at last. “Let me see the dog, and if it’s the right one, I’ll buy it. Now will you believe--”

But the professor would not believe until Anderson had signed a document which he drew up, solemnly promising that, if the dog were identified by Leroy as the dog which had bitten him, he, Winchell Anderson, would purchase the said dog for the sum of twenty-five dollars.

Then, and then only, was the dog brought into the room. And Leroy instantly, loudly and fervently asserted that it was the dog. By this time Mr. Anderson was perfectly willing to believe him. He paid the money and stooped to pick up the dog, a small animal, of what might be called the spaniel type.

It snapped at him. He could not pick it up, because on the next attempt his hand was bitten. At last, upon his paying in advance for the telephone call, the professor summoned a taxi. Mr. Anderson could not get the dog into the taxi, but Leroy had no trouble at all with it. It seemed to like Leroy.

They rode home in silence, because every time Anderson uttered a word the animal growled and struggled in the boy’s arms.

They reached Mrs. Granger’s house, and while Leroy ran ahead with the dog in his arms, Anderson delayed a minute to pay the taxi with the last bill remaining in his pockets. Then he followed. It had been a costly and a wearisome quest, but Mrs. Granger’s relief and gratitude would be sufficient reward.

In the doorway of the sitting room he paused a moment, smiling to himself at the scene before him. Leroy was down on his knees, playing with this quite unexpected and delightful new dog, and Mrs. Granger knelt beside him, one arm about her son’s neck.

Captain MacGregor was there, but in a corner, so that one need not consider him in the picture--the peaceful lamp-lit room, the gentle mother and her child.

“I’m very glad--” he began, when, at the sound of his voice, the dog sprang up and rushed at him, and was caught by Leroy just in the nick of time. He growled threateningly.

“I guess I’d better tie him up,” said Leroy. “He doesn’t like Mr. Anderson.”

“Why, how very strange!” Mrs. Granger exclaimed.

Leroy did tie him up to the leg of a table.

“But why doesn’t the poor little doggie like Mr. Anderson?” pursued Mrs. Granger, and there was something in her voice that dismayed the young man.

“I don’t know,” he replied, briefly.

“It’s very strange,” she remarked. “Very! But sit down, Mr. Anderson. Perhaps you were just a little bit rough in handling him--without meaning to be.”

“No, he wasn’t!” Leroy asserted, indignantly. “He--”

At this point the dog broke loose, flew at Anderson, and would have bitten him if Anderson had not prevented him--with his foot.

“Oh!” cried Mrs. Granger. “Oh, Mr. Anderson, how could you! You kicked the poor little doggie!”

“I--I simply pushed him--with my foot,” said Anderson. “He’s a bad-tempered little brute.”

“Dogs are never bad-tempered unless they’re badly treated,” Mrs. Granger declared, with severity. “They always know a friend from a foe.”

“All right!” the young man agreed. “Then I’m afraid I’m a foe.” He turned toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I’ll be getting along. I’m--I’m tired. Good evening!”

“Good evening!” said Mrs. Granger and Captain MacGregor in unison.

She let him go! He opened the front door and stepped out into the rain again, and never in his life had he felt so bitter, so disappointed, so cruelly, intolerably depressed. After all he had done, she let him go like this! Not even a word of thanks. Poor little doggie, eh?

Halfway down the path he heard a shout; it was Leroy, rushing after him bareheaded through the rain.

“Say!” he shouted. “You’re--”

Words failed him, and he stretched out his hand, a rough, warm little hand, wet from the rain, sticky from lollypops. Yet Anderson was very glad to clasp it tight.

“Good-by, old fellow!” he said.

“Good-by, old fellow, yourself!” answered Leroy.

And he sat on the gatepost, watching, and waving his hand as Anderson went down the road in the rainy dusk.

IX

Mr. Anderson had finished with women forever. And this resolve gave to his face a new and not unbecoming sternness; the old ladies noticed it directly he entered the dining room that evening. Miss Selby noticed it, too, but pretended not to; she smiled that same chilly, polite smile, and said never a word--neither did he.

Supper was set before them, and they began to eat, still silent. And then she spoke suddenly.

“What’s the matter with your hand, Mr. Anderson?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing; thanks!” he answered.

Again a silence. But she could not keep her eyes off that clumsily-tied bandage on his hand.

“I wish you’d tell me!” she said.

It was an entirely different tone, but he was no longer to be trifled with like that. He smiled, coldly.

“No doubt you’ll be very much amused,” he remarked, “to learn that I’ve been bitten by a dog!”

He waited.

“Why don’t you laugh, Miss Selby?” he inquired. “It’s funny enough, isn’t it? After I said that dogs always know. It’s what you might call ‘biting irony,’ isn’t it?”

“I--don’t want to laugh,” said she. “I’m--just sorry.”

He looked at her.

“Miss Selby!” he cried.

“I took your flowers upstairs,” she said. “I think--they’re the prettiest--the prettiest flowers--I--ever saw.”

“Miss Selby!” he exclaimed again. “See here! Please! When I thought you were ill--”

“I only had a little cold.”

“I wrote a note,” he said. “I tore it up. I--I wish I hadn’t.”

Miss Selby was looking down at her plate.

“I wish you hadn’t, too,” she agreed.

The old ladies had all finished their suppers, but not one of them left the room. They were watching Miss Selby and Mr. Anderson. Surely not a remarkable spectacle, simply a nice looking young man and a pretty young girl, sitting, quite speechless, now, at a little table.

Yet one old lady actually wiped tears from her eyes, and every one of them felt an odd and tender little stir at the heart, as if the perfume of very old memories had blown in at the opened window.

“Let’s go out on the veranda,” said Mr. Anderson to Miss Selby, and they did.

The rain was coming down steadily, and the wind sighed in the pines. But it was a June night, a summer night, a young night.

Not an old lady set foot on the veranda that evening, not another human being heard what Miss Selby from Boston, and Mr. Anderson from New York had to say to each other.

Only Mrs. Brown, opening the door for a breath of fresh air, did happen to hear him saying something about the “best sort of paper for wedding announcements.”

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

APRIL, 1926 Vol. LXXXVII NUMBER 3

TO OUR READERS--Since Mr. Munsey’s death we have received so many inquiries for the books of which he was the author, all of which have been out of print for many years, that in the present number of the magazine we reprint, complete, this short novel, which was written in the early part of 1892. We feel sure that our readers will be greatly interested in the story, not only on account of its authorship, but because it is a convincing picture of a phase of American society thirty-five years ago.

Highfalutin’

THE BUNGALOW COLONY WAS A MAELSTROM OF MISUNDERSTANDING, BUT THE SHIP’S OFFICER ASHORE NEVER LOST HIS BEARINGS

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

“We must simply look on it as a--a lark!” said Mrs. De Haaven, resolutely. But her voice was not very steady, and her smile was somewhat strained, for in her heart she saw this, not as a lark, but as something very close to a tragedy.

“It’s wonderfully light and airy,” her sister Rose began.

This was true; a fresh sea breeze went blowing through the rooms, fluttering the curtains and stirring the dark hair on Rose’s temples. The tiny house was sweet with sun and salt wind. Both Mrs. De Haaven and her sister could appreciate this, and they were sternly determined to appreciate every possible good point about their new home.

But--it was so tiny, so bare, so terribly strange; a sitting room, a bedroom, and a kitchen, divided by partitions which did not reach to the unstained rafters; painted floors, badly scuffed, the queerest collection of scarred, weather-beaten furniture.

“It will be like--camping out!” Mrs. De Haaven decided.

The trouble was, that neither of them had had any sort of experience in camping out, and, what is more, had never desired any such experience. They had led the most casual, pleasant existence; when they had wanted to be in the city, they had occupied Mrs. De Haaven’s charming little flat; when it occurred to them that they would enjoy the country, they had gone out to the old De Haaven farm on Long Island; if the impulse seized them to travel, travel they did, in a comfortable and leisurely fashion.

Wherever they had been, in town or in the country, in Paris, in Cairo, in Nice, there always had been plenty of people about to do all the disagreeable and difficult things for them, and to do them willingly, because not only had the two ladies paid well for all services rendered them, but they were polite, kind and appreciative.

And now, with a jolt and a jar, that smooth-moving existence had stopped. Their lawyer, who had had complete charge of their nice little fortune inherited from their father, had either done something terrible, or something terrible had happened to him. They preferred, in charity, to believe the latter, and anyhow, it did not matter.

The money had dwindled down to almost nothing, the flat was sublet, the farm rented, and the poor ladies had taken this beach bungalow on Staten Island for the summer. They took it because it was cheap, and because it was their tradition that one had to leave the city in the summer, and because they hoped in this obscure little place to be let alone, to get accustomed to their new life in peace.

So here they were in their new home, all paid for, all furnished, all ready for them to begin living in. It was certainly quiet enough, yet somehow it did not impress Mrs. De Haaven as being peaceful; on the contrary, there was something alarming, almost terrible, in the quietness.

Nobody was doing anything or preparing anything for them; nothing would be done until she and Rose did it; the house simply stood there, waiting for them to begin. How did one begin?

She was a little shocked with Rose for turning her back on the house and sitting down on the veranda railing.

“Oh, Rose!” she said. “Shouldn’t we set to work--get things in order?”

But Rose only reached out and caught her sister by the arm and pulled her down beside her.

“Look, darling!” she remarked. “That is something, isn’t it?”

“That” was the sea before them--the North Atlantic, which rolled into the bay and broke upon the sands. They had looked upon the Pacific, upon the blue Mediterranean; they had seen many harbors, many beaches, beyond comparison lovelier than this flat shore.

But this, after all, was the great salt sea, the very source of life, and the sun made it glitter, and the wind blew off it, fresh and invigorating. It was something.

There they sat, with their arms about each other, such forlorn and lovely creatures! Nina De Haaven, dark and delicate; Rose taller, stronger, with a beautiful eagerness in her face, as if she waited in trust and delight for whatever her destiny might bring. She was twenty-four, and she had never really feared anything in her life.

Rose was not afraid, now, of this new existence, only a little puzzled, because she would have to be the one to start it. Nina was five years older, but she was too gentle, too easily rebuffed; she had never quite trusted life again after her beloved husband died.

“There’s dinner,” thought Rose. “I’m sure they don’t supply food with furnished bungalows. I’ll have to buy it and cook it. Mercy!”

She had to do it, though, and she would.

“Bread and butter,” she also thought, “and eggs and milk, and tea and coffee, and sugar and spice. Everything goes in pairs! Coal and wood--”

Nina, less abstracted, started up.

“Somebody’s knocking somewhere!” she said. “I believe it’s our own back door. I’ll go.” And she vanished into the house. Rose followed promptly, and found her in the little kitchen, stooping over a basket on the table.

“It must be the dinner!” Nina declared, very much pleased. “There are all sorts of things here.”

“How can it be the dinner?” Rose asked. She, too, bent over the basket and was enchanted by the varied assortment therein.

“Perhaps the tradespeople do that when some one new moves in,” Mrs. De Haaven suggested. “As a sort of sample. A boy just left it without a word.”

Rose shook her head.

“I don’t think that’s likely,” she said. “I’m afraid it must be a mistake. But--” She was busy cataloguing these household things in her mind. Salt--she hadn’t thought of that; and a box of bacon, and matches.

“I wish I’d kept house when Julian was alive,” said Mrs. De Haaven, “and not lived in hotels. Then I shouldn’t be so--useless.”

Rose gave her a little shake.

“Encumberer of the earth!” she said, smilingly. “The thing is--whether I dare to pretend to be as artless as you really are.”

“What do you mean, Rose?”

“I want to keep that basket!”

“Oh, Rose! When you think it’s a mistake!”

“Yes!” said Rose, firmly. “I’ll pay for it, of course, when I find out who it belongs to. But it’s such a wonderful collection. I want it! Here’s a package of pancake flour, and it tells you exactly how to make them. And the tin of coffee has directions on it, too. We could get on indefinitely, with pancakes and coffee.”

“It would be terrible for our complexions,” Nina objected.

“We can’t afford complexions, any more,” said Rose. And she began unpacking the basket, setting the tins and packages in neat rows on the dresser. The effect delighted them both; they were beginning to feel really at home now.

II

The sun was going down behind the house, and the sea before them reflected in its darkening waters the faint purples and pinks streaking the sky. Mrs. De Haaven and her sister were on the veranda, facing the spectacle, but it aroused no enthusiasm in them; they were silent. They were tired, dejected and--hungry.

It was early in the season, and most of the bungalows were still unoccupied; there was not a soul in sight, not a human sound to be heard, nothing but the quiet breaking of the waves on the beach. A vast and inhospitable world.

“There comes some one!” said Mrs. De Haaven.

Round the corner of the shore two figures came into sight, a girl and a man. They came on very slowly, so close to each other that now and then their shoulders touched. The strange sunset light touched their young heads with a sort of glory.

“We can ask her,” Mrs. De Haaven began doubtfully.

“I suppose I’ll have to,” said Rose. “There’s no one else alive on the surface of the earth. But--somehow I hate to bother them about oil stoves at such a moment. Still, I can’t let her go!”

She sighed, and got up, but just then the couple turned and began walking up the sands directly toward them. They were so absorbed in each other, not talking very much, but looking at each other from time to time, long, long glances.

The man was a passably good-looking young fellow of a somewhat scholarly type, lean and tall, and wearing spectacles, but the girl was a marvel, a miracle of soft, rich colors and vigorous health. Her eyes were blue, her hair the shade of ripe wheat, her sunburned face beautifully flushed. She was strong, lithe, straight-limbed, and such a joy to see that Rose forgot all about oil stoves.

“Well, good-by, Margie!” said the young man in spectacles, in the most casual sort of tone.

“Good-by, Paul!” the girl rejoined, equally casual.

Their eyes met, and they both glanced hastily away. The girl essayed a smile.

“Well,” she said. “Good-by, Paul!”

“Good-by, Margie!” he repeated. “I--”

There was a long silence.

“I’ll have to go in,” said she. “It’s late. Good-by, Paul!”

She held out her hand, and he took it. They stood hand in hand, looking at each other. Suddenly she snatched away her hand.

“Good-by, Paul,” she cried, and ran off.

“Good-by, Margie--dear!” he called after her.

She had gone into the bungalow next to them, slamming the screen door behind her.

“How--sweet!” Mrs. De Haaven declared. “How dear and young, Rose!”

“I’ll give her a chance to get settled first, before I go and ask her,” said Rose. “It’s too sordid to ask her how to light a stove when she’s just said good-by to Paul.”

So they waited a little. Their neighbor was extraordinarily noisy in there; doors banged, all sorts of things rattled and slammed, and while they waited for this alarming racket to subside, a small open car came down the road behind the houses, stopped, and presently the back door slammed and a voice sounded in there--a man’s voice, and a young one, too.

“Look alive with that dinner, Margie! I’m in a hurry!”

“The things haven’t come down from the store yet,” said Margie. “I ordered them--”

“Don’t make excuses,” the man interrupted. “I told you I’d be home at six, and that I’d be in a hurry.”

“Oh, I’m not making excuses!” answered Margie, scornfully. “I wouldn’t bother to do that to you. I was just explaining. It’s not my fault if the man doesn’t bring the things.”

“We’ve got their things!” Rose whispered to her sister. “I know it!”

“If you’d stay at home and look after your job, instead of running about with that measly little lawyer,” the man began.

“Shut up!” cried Margie.

And somehow that furious exclamation hurt both the listeners. For both those quarreling voices, in spite of their bad temper and unrestraint, were good voices, the voices of people who ought to know better.

“All right!” said the man. “You wait till Bill comes home, young woman!”

“I don’t give a darn about Bill!” she retorted. “If you’re in such a hurry, take the car and go up to the store and get the stuff.”

“Not much!” he said. “It’s your job to get the meals, and I won’t help you. I’ve got enough work of my own to do.”

“I’ll have to take them their things,” murmured Rose, and she and her sister went into the kitchen and, by the feeble light of an ill-trimmed lamp, began to repack the basket in haste.

And while they were so engaged, there came the most tremendous slam of all, next door, and a new voice sounded, another man’s voice, not loud and angry, like the others, but cool, deliberate, and masterful.

“What’s up?” he demanded.

“No dinner ready,” the other man replied petulantly.

“Because the things haven’t come from the store,” explained Margie, sullenly. “I ordered them in plenty of time.”

“Take your car and go and get ’em, Gilbert,” said the masterful voice.

“But, look here, Bill! I’m in a hurry--”

“Step!” said Bill.

And Gilbert was “stepping” out of the back door just as Rose was coming in with the basket. He backed into the kitchen again, and she followed him.

“I think these are yours,” she said. “They were left at our house--by mistake, I’m sure.”

Some one took the basket from her, and looking up, she had her first sight of Bill.

He was, she thought, the most impressive human being she had ever set eyes on, and one of the handsomest. A tremendous fellow, blue-eyed and fair-haired, like Margie, but without a trace of her sullenness; there was a sort of grim good-humor in his face.

He was not smiling, though; none of them were, and Rose was seized with a sudden uneasiness in the presence of these three silent, blue-eyed creatures. With a deprecating smile, she opened the back door, to flee--when she remembered Nina.

“I--I wish--” she said, addressing Margie. “After you’ve quite finished here, of course. If you could just spare a moment to show me how to light that oil stove.”

“I’ll show you now,” said Bill. He followed her out the door, and his fingers closed like steel on her arm as he helped her down the steps in the dark and across the little strip of grass behind the houses. He did not release her until she was safely in her own bare, dimly-lit kitchen.

“Good evening!” he remarked to Nina, and swept off his white-covered uniform cap with a magnificent gesture. Then, without words, he dropped on one knee beside the stove, and he turned up the wick and struck a match, just as Rose had done.

“No oil in it,” he announced, rising. “I’ll get you some.”

“Mercy!” said Nina, after he had gone. “What a-an overwhelming creature!”

“Isn’t he?” Rose agreed. “He made me forget that, even if the stove ever does get lighted, there’s nothing to cook on it. I’ll have to ask him where the store is.”

“It’s dark now, Rose. You can’t go wandering about in this strange place.”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do now for the sake of food!” said Rose.

There was a knock at the back door; they both called “Come in!” and Bill reëntered, letting the screen door crash behind him. He was carrying a tin of kerosene, and at once he set to work filling the stove.

“I’m very sorry to put you to all this trouble!” Nina asserted, earnestly.

He didn’t answer at all; he lit all the burners, and then:

“What next?” he asked.

“If you’ll please tell me where the store is--the store that basket came from--and how to get there--”

“Now? It’s closed,” said he. His keen glance traveled round the bare little kitchen.

“I’ll see that you get your dinner,” he declared, and went off again, before they could say a word.

It was Gilbert who brought the dinner in on a tray, and no one could have performed a neighborly service more ungraciously. He was a remarkably good-looking boy of nineteen or so, but so surly, ill-tempered--

“He’s a young beast!” said Rose, indignantly.

Nina was silent a moment.

“Isn’t it queer--” she remarked. “How contagious that is!”

“Beastliness? You’d never catch it!” Rose declared.

“My dear, when he banged that tray down, and never even took off his hat, I wanted to throw a plate at him,” said Nina, seriously. “I’d have enjoyed it!”

It was a good dinner, served on the coarsest of china, but well cooked. And after they had eaten it and washed the dishes, they were ready to go to bed and to sleep, not quite so forlorn in their new home.

III

They were awakened the next morning by a persistent and none too gentle knocking at the back door, and Nina, slipping on a dressing gown, hurried to respond. She opened the door upon a riotous, glittering June morning, and Margie, clear-eyed and glowing as the dawn--but far from amiable.

“Here’s your breakfast!” she said, thrusting a wooden box into Nina’s hands.

“Oh, but how awfully good and kind!” cried Nina. “I never--”

“Bill said you didn’t have a thing in the house,” Margie remarked, scornfully, “and couldn’t even light the stove. So he told me to bring this.”

Her brusque contempt was a little too much even for the gentle Nina.

“It’s very kind of you,” she said, with a polite smile. “But we’d have managed somehow--”

Margie shrugged her shoulders.

“Well, Bill told me to bring your breakfast,” she said. “And to ask what you wanted from the store.”

“Thank you, but I couldn’t think--” Nina began, but with another disdainful shrug Margie had turned away.

“We’ll have to swallow our pride,” Rose suggested from the doorway. “Let’s be quick, too, before it gets cold.”

“I’m going to dress first,” said Nina. “Because when that scornful Margie goes out, I’m going to follow. I’ll follow her all day long till she goes to the store.”

And she meant that. She dressed herself with all her usual unobtrusive art, and she kept an eye on the house next door. In the very act of lifting her second cup of coffee to her lips, she heard the front door slam. She sprang up, pulled on a delightful little hat, and ran out of her own front door.

Margie was walking quickly up the road, a strong, lithe young figure in a jersey and a short skirt, bareheaded in the sun. And after her went the slender and elegant Mrs. De Haaven, going to market for the first time in her life.

In a happy mood Rose set to work; she washed the dishes, made the bed, set the little place in order, and then began unpacking the two big trunks. Most of the clothes could stay in them, but there were all sorts of other things--silver toilet articles, photographs, books, writing materials, all the dear, friendly things that had often made even hotel rooms look homelike. They worked wonders here. The only trouble was, that there was no shelf for the books, and no flowers.

“I’ll make a shelf!” Rose told herself.

So she went out on the beach and found a suitable small board; then she screwed two coat hooks into the wall beneath the sitting room window, laid the board across them, and stood the favorite books on this in a row.

“Crude, but well-meaning!” she observed, surveying her first piece of carpentering with a smile, and she went out to see if there were any flowers about to delight Nina with when she came home.

The first thing she saw was Bill coming down the road. Her impulse was to step back into the house, but she was ashamed of such weakness; Bill ought to be spoken to and thanked. So she sat down on the steps, and Bill, catching sight of her, swung off his hat with that same fine gesture.

“Comment ça va?” he inquired, standing bareheaded before her.

Certainly she had not expected French from Bill, but she politely suppressed her surprise and answered cheerfully:

“Tres bien, merci, monsieur! I was just wondering if there were any wild flowers growing about here?”

She looked up at him, but hastily glanced aside, for Bill was looking down at her with a smile which disconcerted her.

“Flowers, eh?” he said.

They were both silent for a time. Then Rose began, in a somewhat formal tone:

“My sister and I are both very grateful for--”

A crash interrupted her.

“What’s that?” asked Bill.

“It sounds like my shelf,” she replied, ruefully.

“Did you try to put up a shelf?” Bill demanded. “Let’s have a look at it.”

Somehow she did not want Bill to come into their house. Not that she distrusted or disliked him, but he made her uneasy. Still, she could not very well refuse to let him come, so, with a good grace, she opened the door and they entered.

His blond head almost reached the ceiling; his great shoulders blocked all the sunshine from the window; he seemed completely to fill the little room. And she did not like him to be there.

The pretty little things she had set out on the table seemed like a child’s toys, the house was like a doll’s house, and she herself, with her ineffectual shelf, felt altogether too diminished. He had been staring at the fallen shelf and the coat hooks for some time with an odd expression--as if he felt sorry for her.

“Look here!” he said. “When you want anything of that sort done, tell me.”

“There’s no reason on earth why I should trouble you, Mr.--”

“Morgan,” said he. “It wouldn’t be a trouble. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Nothing!”

The earnestness with which he spoke confused her.

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” she began, hastily. “But--”

“Look here!” he interrupted. “I’ve got to go away--and I don’t like to leave you like this. You can’t look after yourself any better than a baby.”

Rose turned scarlet.

“You’re mistaken, Mr. Morgan!” she declared, with a cold little smile. “You’re very much mistaken!”

“No,” he said. “No, I’m not. I knew, the first moment I saw you--”

“We won’t discuss the matter, if you please.”

“I’m not discussing anything,” said he, with a sort of gentleness. “I’m only telling you that you’ve got me to count on whenever you need me.”

Her hands clenched, but she answered quietly enough:

“I can’t imagine any possibility of ‘needing’ you, Mr. Morgan.”

He turned toward the door.

“I don’t mean to make a nuisance of myself,” he declared, gravely. And then he smiled. “I’m going away,” he added. “But I’m coming back!”

The screen door banged after him, and Rose sat down on the couch and began to cry.

“Beast!” she cried. “I’d like to shake him!”

But the idea of her shaking Mr. Morgan made her laugh. She dried her tears, ashamed of her temper, and when Nina got back, she was her usual good-natured, delightful self again. She did not mention the episode to Nina; it would only distress her.

“And I think I’m capable of managing Mr. Morgan!” she told herself, grimly.

IV

Nina was surprised by her sister’s censorious attitude.

“But they do try to be neighborly!” she protested.

“I don’t care!” said Rose, with unwonted heat. “I don’t like them, and I don’t want anything to do with them. They’re a family of--savages!”

“Oh, Rose! When that poor little Margie brings us flowers from her own garden every day!”

“Yes, because that Bill told her to!” thought Rose. But aloud she said: “Brings them! She pretty nearly throws them at us.”

“That’s just her way.”

“Well, I don’t like her way, and I don’t want her flowers, and I don’t like any of those Morgans, or anything they do. I never imagined such an ill-tempered, quarrelsome family.”

“I know,” said Nina, seriously. “And I think it’s pitiful.”

“Pitiful! To snarl and snap at one another--”

“Yes,” said Nina. “Because there’s something so splendid about them, in spite of all that--something so honest and fine.”

“Fine!” cried Rose, with a snort.

“You must have noticed. They’re rough and unmannerly, but they’re never vulgar. And they speak well. I think they’ve come down in the world, Rose.”

“They certainly have!” Rose agreed. “Down to the bottom. Nina, you’re sentimental about your Morgans. You’ve seen how they live. A coarse, ugly life, without one gracious touch. They eat in the kitchen, on a table covered with oilcloth.”

“Yes, and it’s a spotless kitchen, and everything about them is wholesome.”

“It’s no use,” Rose objected. “I don’t like them, and I won’t like them. Now, you sit here on the veranda and read. I’m going to buy the Sunday dinner.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Nina, but she was glad Rose would not let her. It was a long walk, and she felt tired, very tired and languid. She did not want Rose to know how tired she was, or how worried.

It seemed that their financial affairs were not definitely settled, as they had believed. Mr. Doyle, the lawyer, kept writing to her letters she could not quite understand, anxious, almost desperate letters, accusing himself of “criminal folly”; begging her forgiveness, and making all sorts of promises. He wrote always to her, never to Rose, and she was glad of that, for she did not want Rose to know.

But she was so tired. She tried valiantly to do her share, to be a good comrade to her beloved sister; but she was not strong, either in body or in spirit; she was a gentle soul; she could endure, but she could not fight. She wanted only to live in peace and good will, harmless and lovely as a flower.

It was a Saturday afternoon; Gilbert had come home early in his little car, and he and Margie had at once begun to quarrel fiercely.

“Bill told you to take me to the village in the car, if I wanted!” she declared.

“Do you good to walk!” said her brother.

“I won’t walk!”

“All right! Then stay home!”

Presently the back door slammed, in the Morgan fashion, and Nina hoped he was going away. It hurt her to hear these two young creatures quarrel so; she always wished that she had some magic word to stop them, to bring quiet to their stormy spirits. She was waiting for the sound of his engine starting up, when, to her surprise, she saw him standing on the path before her.

“Mrs. De Haaven,” he said, “can you spare me a few minutes?”

“With pleasure!” she answered, as if this amazing request were quite a matter of course. “Come up on the veranda, won’t you?”

He did come up, and when she asked him, sat down opposite her. He was silent for a few moments, and Nina studied him with frank and kindly curiosity. For the first time she saw what a remarkably handsome boy he was, a little haggard, a little too thin, perhaps, but tall and sinewy, and notably distinguished.

Yes, that was the word; he was distinguished looking, with his thin, rather arrogant face, his slender, well-kept hands, his neat dark suit. He was not surly to-day, and not shy or awkward; he looked at her candidly as he spoke.

“I hope you won’t mind,” he said. “But I knew you could tell me. If you’d give me your advice. I’ve got an invitation--but perhaps I’d better show it to you.”

He took a letter out of his pocket and handed it to her. It read:

MY DEAR BOY:

Why not run down for this week-end? Don’t bother to let me know--just come if you can. I often think of you, and it seems to me perfectly terrible that you should be living like that. And quite unnecessary. I want you to meet some of your own sort.

Yours--most sincerely, LUCILLE WINTER.

Lucille Winter! And writing in this vein to this boy! Nina held the letter in her hand for a long time, unable to say anything to cloak her thought.

“You see,” said Gilbert, “I couldn’t go until to-day, on account of my job. And I’d have to come back to-morrow night. D’you think that would be all right?”

“No!” thought Nina. “Nothing could be less right. It’s--a horrible thing. You’re only a child. And Lucille--You don’t know Lucille, but I do.”

“You see,” he went on. “Mrs. Winter is my father’s cousin. You wouldn’t suspect it, but my father’s family were--decent people.”

“Oh!” Nina breathed.

“I don’t mean that mother’s family wasn’t--all right,” he said. “My mother--” He stopped. “My mother was a saint,” he announced. An odd change came over his face; all the arrogance vanished, leaving it weary and sorrowful. “And my father wasn’t,” he added.

Another silence ensued.

“So Bill’s got this idea of a simple life,” he said, with something like a sneer. “He won’t let us see any of father’s people. Wouldn’t let me go to college. He made me take this job--in the National Electric--when I was only seventeen. In a year I’ll be twenty-one, and then Bill can go to blazes. In the meantime--not much I can do. He controls the finances. He’s away now, though. And I’m to Mrs. Winter’s.”

“Oh, I don’t blame you!” thought Nina. “What a dreadful thing--to take a boy like this and put him to work at seventeen, and make him live in such a way! And if Lucille is his father’s cousin--She knows really good people--It really would help him--”

And because she was, in spite of her worldly experiences, so innocent and good at heart, so ready to think well of every one, and so anxious to help this unhappy boy, she did give him her advice. She told him what clothes to take, what to tip the servants, and so on.

“Please don’t tell Margie where I’ve gone,” he said. “I’ll be back to-morrow night for dinner. And she’ll be all right--with you next door.” He arose. “Thank you!” he said. “You’ve been--very kind to me.”

She had meant to be. She hoped, she believed, that she had done well in helping him to elude the tyrant Bill.

V

Such a quiet afternoon. Rose turned off the highway, into the beach road; the bright sea lay before her, roughened by a frolic wind, and on its edge three or four little children played; their voices came to her joyous and clear. Their end of the beach had been described by the real estate agent as “the quiet end,” and so it was; their bungalow and the Morgans’ were the only ones occupied as yet, and even these two showed no signs of life to-day.

Rose entered the house. It was certainly not a good house to hide in, and she very soon discovered Nina in the bedroom with her hat on!

“I had a telegram from Mr. Doyle,” she explained, hurriedly. “He wants to see me about--something. So I thought to-day would be a good time to run into town.”

“That won’t do!” said Rose, severely. “You can’t treat me this way, Mrs. De Haaven! I want to know all about it.”

Nina turned and put both hands on her sister’s shoulders, looking steadily into her face.

“Rose!” she said. “Let me do this--my own way--alone. I’ve been such a useless creature. No! Please, darling, let me finish! I have been useless. I know you don’t mind, but--sometimes--Rose! I do so want to manage this all by myself. And I know I can!”

They were both silent for a moment.

“All right! Go ahead, darling!” Rose agreed at last. “Only don’t come back to-night. Stay in a hotel and come back to-morrow morning.”

“And leave you all alone?”

“The Morgans are here, and they’re enough. If you don’t promise not to come back to-night, I’ll--I’ll go with you!”

So Nina consented, although reluctantly, and a few minutes later they set off together for the railway station. Rose stood on the platform, looking after the train.

“God bless you, darling!” she said, softly to herself.

Poor valiant, gentle Nina, going off to attend to business affairs, to “manage” the elusive and plausible Mr. Doyle.

“But it would have hurt her if I’d said anything,” thought Rose. “And, anyhow, things couldn’t be much worse, financially.”

She walked back to the bungalow, a long walk; but she was in no hurry to reënter the empty house. It was ridiculous to miss Nina so, just for one night; it was weak and sentimental to feel so lonely.

“I might learn a lesson from the Morgans,” she thought, as she went down the beach road. “No one could accuse them of being too sentimental in their family life!”

And suddenly she felt sorry for the Morgans, with their quarrels and their banging doors and their stormy, miserable existence. She thought of them, and she thought of the love between Nina and herself which made any place home, any trial endurable. And she pitied them with all her heart.

There was Margie on the veranda now, sewing--sewing in such a Morgan way! She had a paper pattern spread out on the table, and the wind fluttered it, and Margie pounced down upon it furiously, upsetting her workbasket and getting herself tangled up in the yards and yards of green charmeuse on her lap. Rose watched her for a minute; then she said, moved by a friendly impulse:

“Miss Morgan, won’t you let me help you?”

Margie spun round, upsetting everything again.

“No, thanks!” she replied, in her scornful way. But something in Rose’s face made her flush and glance away. “Well,” she said, sullenly, “I am having a pretty bad time. There’s no reason why you should bother, but--”

Rose came up on the veranda beside her, and surveyed the woeful muddle.

“What a pretty shade!” she remarked. “It ought to go well with your hair.”

“I know,” said Margie. “Paul--I mean--I’ve been told I ought to wear green. And I’m going somewhere to-morrow afternoon.”

“But you don’t expect to have this dress ready for to-morrow afternoon.”

“I’ve got to.”

Rose reflected for a moment.

“I’ll tell you what!” she announced at last. “I have a green dress--a really pretty georgette. I’ve only worn it once. With just a little bit of altering, we could make it do beautifully for you to wear to-morrow. It’s a good model. I got it in Paris last autumn. Won’t you come and look at it?”

“No!” cried Margie. “I don’t want any of your old clothes. I don’t want--” Her voice broke. “I just hate you and your--highfalutin’ ways!” she ended with a sob.

“Upon my word!” Rose began, indignantly. “Is that--” But her resentment could not endure against the sight of Margie weeping in that furious, defiant way, the tears falling recklessly on the green charmeuse.

“You don’t really hate me, Margie,” she said. “You couldn’t--when I like you so much.”

“Like me?”

“I liked you the very first time I saw you,” Rose explained. “You were saying good-by to Paul, on the beach.”

“You saw Paul?” cried Margie. “I suppose you’ll tell Bill. Well, I don’t care! If you don’t tell Bill, Gilbert will.”

Rose found it surprisingly easy not to get angry with Margie.

“But why should your brother object to Paul?” she inquired.

“It’s not that,” said Margie. “Only what do you suppose Paul would think of Bill--and this house--and the way we live? Oh, I’m so ashamed of us! I’m so--so ashamed of us! If you knew--when mother was alive--three years ago--we had our dear home, and everything so dainty and pretty in it--and she kept us from fighting--just by being there. Oh, mother! Mother darling! You don’t know--nobody knows--what it’s like--without her.”

Rose knelt down beside the girl, put an arm about her, and drew the bright head down on her shoulder.

“You poor little thing!” she crooned. “Poor little Margie!”

“And now--I’m going to lose Paul,” Margie went on, in a choked voice. “He’s always asking why he can’t come to see me in my own home. He’s awfully particular and high minded. He hates to meet me on the sly that way. And--”

“I’d let him come, if I were you.”

“I won’t! I’m too much ashamed of us.”

“Couldn’t you make things a little better?” Rose suggested, very gently.

“Bill won’t let me! Bill’s a beast! When mother died, he gave up our dear old house--he’s packed up all her pretty things--they’re in the woodshed, in barrels and boxes. He won’t let me touch them. He says we’ve got to learn to work and to live simply. He just adored mother, and he thought father didn’t make her happy enough, so he’s got this idiotic idea about our not being like father’s people--not being highfalutin’. ‘Plain living and high thinking,’ that’s what he’s always saying. High thinking, when he hasn’t left one beautiful thing in our lives! It’s all very well for him; he’s away at sea most of the time--”

“At sea?”

“Yes; he’s first mate on a cargo steamer,” said Margie, with a change in her voice. “I know he’s a beast, and all that, but there is something fine about Bill, after all. He’s a real man. And he’s been awfully good to us--in his way. When Gilbert had bronchitis last winter, Bill was--wonderful. And when mother died--I--I don’t know how I could have lived without Bill.”

She was silent for a moment. “Mother said she knew Bill would take care of us--and he does--only it’s in a wrong way. Bill’s so--I don’t know how to describe it--Bill’s so--big, he could live on a desert island and not be discontented. He can live in this rough, common way and still be--dignified. I don’t suppose you’ve ever noticed, but Bill has a way of coming into a room sometimes and taking off his hat, that’s like--like a king.”

Rose felt her cheeks grow scarlet.

“He is--impressive,” she agreed.

“Bill’s big,” Margie went on, “and he only wants a few big things. But Gilbert and I are little, and we want lots of little things. And--” She sat up straight.

“Paul wants to take me to see his sister to-morrow afternoon,” she said, “and I’m going! There’ll be a row--because Gilbert said he’d have to have his dinner at six, and he’s not going to get it. I’m not even going to try to get home by six. He can tell Bill about Paul if he wants. I don’t care. It’s got to happen some day.”

“Margie, I’ll get Gilbert’s dinner for him to-morrow.”

“You?” said Margie.

“I’d like to. And you can enjoy your afternoon with an easy mind. I’ll get Gilbert’s supper, and--Margie--bring Paul back with you, and I’ll have something nice ready for you both.”

VI

Rose had left a lamp burning in her own sitting room, as a beacon for Nina, and all the time she was busy in the Morgan’s kitchen, she was listening for that footstep. And for all her pleasure and excitement in this surprise she had prepared for the Morgans, a vague anxiety lay in the back of her mind, because Nina was so long in coming. She had expected her for lunch, and the whole afternoon had gone by without her.

She wished Nina could have seen Margie set out, in that Paris dress--the loveliest, happiest creature! And she wished Nina were here now, to lend her moral support in this wildly audacious plan, for, now that the thing was done, she felt a little frightened. Margie and Gilbert were little more than children; she could manage them; she could really help them.

But it seemed to her that the shadow of Bill lay over the house; he himself might be hundreds of miles away, but she couldn’t forget that this was his house, and that she was defying him. The thought caused her an odd sort of pain; you might dislike Bill, she thought, and vigorously resent his domineering ways, but it was impossible not to respect him.

It was even impossible not to like him just a little when you thought how honestly he tried to take care of his unruly household, and when you remembered all those little kindnesses. Well, the sensible thing was, not to remember.

She had a natural talent for cooking, and with the aid of a cookbook, she had managed an excellent dinner. That part of the plan caused her no worry. But the rest--She opened the oven door for one more look at the pair of chickens sizzling richly in there, and then with a sigh, went again to the dining room door.

An amazing change was there! The round table was covered with a fine damask cloth, and set out with gay, old-fashioned china, frail glassware, sturdy old plate, all gleaming in the light of the shaded lamp. On the walls hung two or three framed pictures, not masterpieces by any means, but somehow lovable and friendly.

“She’d like me to do this,” thought Rose. “For her children.”

Because, as she had unpacked these things from the boxes and barrels, such a strange feeling had come over her; she had felt that she understood that mother. Standing here now, surrounded by the perishable and infinitely touching belongings of that beloved woman, dead, but so tenderly remembered by all her children, she thought she knew how she had felt toward them all, how she had managed each one of them, wisely and patiently; how she had loved them for the qualities which were so splendid in them, and the faults that were only pitiful. And she wanted them to remember their mother, not in bitterness and grief, but happily, as if always conscious of her dear spirit.

A sound startled her; a noise like little feet running over the tarred paper on the roof. At first she thought, with no great comfort, that it was rats, but then the pattering came upon the windowpanes, against the door. It was rain.

“Nina!” she thought. “What can be keeping her so late!”

She went into the kitchen and opened the back door; the summer rain was driving down with steady violence, drumming loud on the roof now, spattering up from the path. Such a dark, strange world for Nina to be out in alone! Moved by a sudden impulse, she ran out into the rain and entered their own house; the lamp still burned clear and steady in the neat little room. The clock struck six.

“Oh, Nina!” she cried, aloud, in an unreasoning panic of fear. “Nina, darling!”

And then, above all the noise of the rain, she heard a familiar sound, the slam of a door by which all the Morgans announced their home coming. She hurried back there, her courage, her generous hopes, all gone now.

“I’m an officious busybody!” she thought. “Why didn’t I stay at home and mind my own affairs? Oh, I wish I’d let the Morgans alone! I wish--”

She stopped short in the kitchen doorway, staring at Gilbert. He was wearing a dinner jacket, and it was soaked through with rain; his collar was wilted, his tie askew, his fair hair plastered across his forehead, his blue eyes very brilliant. And his face, his clear-featured, handsome young face, so white, so strained, so lamentably changed! The momentary disgust she had felt turned to a painful compassion.

“Gilbert!” she said, in a pleasant, matter-of-fact voice. “Get on dry clothes. Your dinner’s ready for you.”

She spoke to him as she thought his mother might have spoken; she thought she felt a little as his mother might have felt to see the boy like this.

“No!” he said, in an unsteady voice. “Let me alone! What are you doing here?”

“I’m so glad I am here!” she thought. “So glad! Poor little Margie! If she brings her Paul here now--” And aloud: “Gilbert!” she said, with quiet authority. “Please do as I ask you--at once. Change your clothes.”

“I won’t!” he said. “No, I won’t! You don’t know. You can’t understand. Only Bill. Bill knew. Bill was right. I wish I was dead!”

The same childish passion and unreason that Margie had shown. He sank into a chair by the table and buried his face in his hands.

“I wish I was dead!” he said again.

And Rose, always listening for Nina’s step, had also to listen to this boy’s sorry little tale. He had gone to visit his father’s cousin, Lucille Winter.

“Bill told me they were no good,” he said, “but I wouldn’t believe him. And--you don’t know what it was like. I lost over a hundred dollars at bridge. And I drank. I didn’t mean to, but every one else did, and I’ve come home to my sister like this. If I’d had a penny left, I’d never have come home again--never! It’s--you don’t know--it’s all so beastly, and I thought I’d like that sort of life, but--I couldn’t get out fast enough. I’ve found out now that old Bill was right--but it’s too late.”

“It is not!” Rose declared, firmly.

“I can’t pay that hundred,” he said. “And I’ve got to pay it to-morrow. I--you can’t understand.”

“And if you weren’t so honest and sound at heart you couldn’t feel so sorry!” thought Rose. But she did not intend to give him too much consolation; his shame and remorse were of inestimable value to him. “If you’ll wash and change your wet clothes, and eat your nice hot dinner, you’ll feel better,” she insisted.

“I’ll--I’ll never feel better!” said he.

“I’ll give you a cup of coffee now,” she began, when that sound, welcome beyond all others, reached her ears--Nina’s step on the veranda.

“Wait, Gilbert!” she cried, and ran back into her own house. Nina was standing in the front room, drawing off her gloves.

“Rose,” she said, in a strange, flat voice. “It’s all gone--every cent!”

Rose helped her off with her wet jacket, took off her hat, pushed her gently into a chair, and kneeling, began to unfasten her shoes, such absurd little shoes, and soaked through.

“Never mind, Nina!” she said. “We’re together, and that’s all that matters.”

Nina’s hands and feet were cold as ice, and her cheeks flushed.

“Even the check we gave for this rent was no good,” she explained. “The house belongs to Mr. Morgan, and I suppose he didn’t like to tell us. I tried to borrow--just a little--this afternoon--from friends--I thought they were friends--”

“Hush, darling! Who cares? You’ll get straight into bed, with a hot-water bottle at your poor cold feet, and I’ll make you a cup of beautiful coffee.”

She stopped short.

Margie, bringing back Paul, to find Gilbert like that. And she had told Margie to bring him. It was all her fault.

She looked at the clock; half past six. Margie was to be expected any minute now. Gilbert was sitting there in the kitchen in his wet clothes. He didn’t look very strong. And Nina! Nina was telling her about Mr. Doyle, and she pretended to pay attention, but she was listening for Margie’s home-coming now with as much anxiety as she had listened for Nina’s. This might spoil Margie’s poor little romance forever--and it was her fault. Gilbert would be ill.

She had just got Nina into bed when the screen door slammed in the next house.

“One instant, Nina!” she cried, and rushed out, down the steps, through the sodden little garden in the driving rain, and back into the Morgans’ kitchen. Gilbert still sat just as she had left him, his head on his arm.

“I’ll--lock him in!” she thought, desperately. “But I’ll have to tell Margie.”

She went into the little passage, closing the kitchen door behind her, and on into the sitting room. No one there. So she went toward the dining room. The doorway was blocked by a tremendous figure, standing there hat in hand, his back toward her.

“Oh, Bill!” she cried, in her immeasurable relief.

He turned; he saw her there, with her soft hair wet and disordered, her face so white; he had seen his dining table set out with his mother’s sacred possessions--and he showed no surprise. She thought that nothing would surprise him, nothing would shock him, that he would meet anything in his life coolly, honestly, and steadily--like a man.

“Gilbert’s been to a week-end party at Lucille Winter’s,” she said. “He’s--he’s in the kitchen. You’ve got to be very careful with him. He’s only a child.”

“All right!” Bill agreed, with the shadow of a smile. “I’ll take Gilbert back into the fold. But this--” His smile vanished as he glanced toward the dining room again. “This--”

“I’m sorry,” said Rose. “But--poor little Margie’s bringing Paul--a friend of hers, home to dinner to-night, and--” She paused a moment, then she looked resolutely up at Bill. “I thought she would like it,” she went on. “For her children--so that they’d remember--the things they’ve forgotten. I’m sorry, but--” A sob choked her.

“Please,” she begged, “be very kind to Margie--and Gilbert--and Paul. I’ve got to go. I meant to stay, but--my Nina’s sick.”

She turned to go, but tears blinded her; she stumbled against the lintel. Bill’s hand touched her arm, the lightest touch, to guide her.

“I promise you,” he said, “that everything shall be just as you want it.”

She brushed her hand across her eyes and looked at him. And she thought she had never in her life seen anything like that look on his face.

“I want to help you,” he announced. “That’s what I’ve always wanted, since the first moment I saw you.”

Neither of them had another word to say, to spoil that moment. She ran back again to Nina, through the rain, and she thought she must sing, for joy and relief.

Everything was all right now, for Bill had come. She was so happy--so happy--just because Bill had come.

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

MAY, 1926 Vol. LXXXVII NUMBER 4

Bonnie Wee Thing

MIMI DEXTER AND DESBOROUGH HUGHES WERE WORLDS APART IN THEIR APPRAISAL OF LIFE--WITH THE ODDS AGAINST COMPROMISE

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

Hughes did not desire or intend to fall in love, ever, with anybody. And when he realized that he was doing so, and that the girl was Mimi, he rebelled vigorously against this injustice on the part of fate.

She was such an absolutely unsuitable person. She was so much too young, and too pretty, and too lively. Even her name was almost an insult to his intelligence. Mimi! That he should be devoted to a Mimi! He would have struggled gallantly against this outrage, if he had had a chance. But he did not see it coming. It fell upon him like a bolt from the blue, like a sandbag upon the head in an apparently peaceful street.

He met this Mimi on the ship coming over from England, where she had been amusing herself, and he had been attending to some business for his company. He never saw her dancing, or flirting, or promenading the deck, as so many other girls did; on the contrary, he saw her always in a deck chair at her mother’s side, reading books, or looking out over the sea, with a grave and thoughtful expression. So he had thought that she was different from other girls--and did not know that that thought is almost always fatal to a young man’s peace of mind.

Nor had he suspected that her grave and quiet air came, not from a meditative spirit, but was due entirely to the malaise she always felt on shipboard. And by the time she had overcome this, had her sea legs, and was her true self again, it was too late. Five days only were needed to deprive him of all freedom. That fifth evening the blow fell.

There was no moonlight, no music, none of those things which might have put him on his guard. It was four o’clock in the afternoon--one of the most unromantic hours in the day--and he met her outside the purser’s office--surely not a romantic spot. What is more, he had been changing money and thinking about money. Then she came. She said she wanted to send a wireless message to her Uncle Tommy in London.

“I do love Uncle Tommy so!” she said.

In justice, Hughes was obliged to admit that she did not realize what she was doing. She was thinking solely of her Uncle Tommy at the moment; that misty look in her eyes was all for him. But when he saw that look, and when he heard her speak, Hughes was done for. He knew it.

A strange sort of confusion came over him, so that he saw her in a haze, her little, pointed face, her shining hair, her dark eyes, the striped scarf about her shoulders, all swimming before him in a sort of rainbow. He thought: “Good Lord! What a tender, sweet, lovely little thing! What a darling little thing! I can’t help it! I love her!”

It was a mercy that this confusion robbed him, temporarily, of all power to speak, otherwise he would have said this aloud. But all he could do was to stand there, staring at her; and her own preoccupation with Uncle Tommy prevented her from noticing the look on his face.

“You see,” she went on, “he said I’d probably never see him again. Of course he always does say that. Every year mother says we’ll probably never be able to go to England again, and every year they say good-by to each other like that. ‘Good-by, Thomas, my dear brother!’ ‘Good-by, Mary! It is not likely that we shall meet again in this world.’ I know they enjoy it, but it does make me feel miserable for the first month. And just suppose we couldn’t ever afford to go over again!”

“‘Afford’?” thought Hughes. “Is she poor? Good Heaven! Is she poor--worried--not able to get what she ought to have?”

He studied both Mimi and her mother very critically after that. They didn’t look poor; indeed, they seemed to him better dressed than any other ladies in the world. But what did he know of such matters? All those charming costumes might be pathetically cheap, for all he could tell. Perhaps they made everything themselves.

And, when you looked at them carefully, you saw that both mother and child were very slender and little. They certainly were not the sort of persons who could be poor with impunity.

They asked him to call, and he did so without delay, the very day after they landed. And his fears were confirmed. They were poor. They had a flat over on the West Side, in the Chelsea district--the most pathetic flat!

In the sitting room there were two of the strangest bookcases, which Mrs. Dexter said she had herself made, out of packing cases. Enameled white, they were, with blue butterflies painted upon them by Mimi. And there was a couch, covered in gay cretonne, which, directly he had sat upon it, Hughes felt sure had also been made by Mrs. Dexter, perhaps out of barrel staves.

And everything was so dainty, and so neat, and so fragile. He could scarcely open his mouth all the evening, for the distress and compassion that filled him.

Now, Hughes did not know it, but he was really a young man. He had lived for twenty-six years, and he believed that those years had aged him and completely disillusioned him. But Mrs. Dexter knew better. She knew how young he was. She was sorry for him. She said so, to her daughter. She said:

“Poor Mr. Hughes! He’s such a nice boy!”

She had seen other nice boys come into that pathetic flat, and she knew what happened to them. She knew, better than any one else, what a dangerous creature her child was. She expected Mimi to smile at her words as if they were, somehow, a compliment, but, to her surprise, the girl turned away, and pretended to look out of the window.

“He--he is awfully nice, isn’t he?” Mimi remarked.

Mrs. Dexter could scarcely believe her senses. She looked and looked at her child, saw that dangerous head bent, heard that note of uncertainty in her voice. Mrs. Dexter no longer felt sorry for Mr. Hughes; on the contrary, she was suddenly inspired with an amazing insight into his character. She saw grave faults in him.

It might have been wiser if she had kept these revelations to herself, but where her child was concerned she was perhaps a little prejudiced. She had been a widow for many years, and had had nobody but this child to think about; and although she had long ago made up her mind that she must lose her some day, although she really wanted Mimi to marry some day, she did wish to have a voice in electing the husband when the time came.

She wished to make no unreasonable demands; this husband need not be extraordinarily handsome, or particularly famous; no, all she required was a man of ancient lineage, considerable wealth, lofty character, great intelligence, courtly manners, and a humble if not abject devotion to Mimi.

Mr. Hughes did not possess these qualifications. He was nothing more than the branch office manager of a large typewriter company. His income was pretty good, and the president of the company thought him a very intelligent young man, but it was not the sort of intelligence Mrs. Dexter valued. It was too businesslike.

He did not scintillate. As for his character, that seemed to be good enough, in a matter-of-fact way, and his manners were civil enough. But it was in humility and abjectness that he was so deficient. She had noticed that at once.

“Of course, he’s a very ordinary sort of young man,” she observed.

“I don’t think so!” said Mimi. “I think--”

She couldn’t explain exactly what it was she thought. Only that the very first time she had set eyes on Mr. Hughes, she had realized that there was something about him. Even before she had spoken a word to him, she had watched him promenading the deck, had observed his long, vigorous stride, his keen and somewhat severe profile, and she had liked him. Impossible to explain just why; perhaps it was that very lack of abjectness that most entertained her.

Other young men had been so terribly eager and anxious to please; and Mr. Hughes was the only one who had ever sat beside her and not even smiled when she smiled. Anyhow, whatever the cause, she liked him, and when Mrs. Dexter called him “ordinary,” it hurt her.

Never before had Mrs. Dexter seen her daughter look hurt about any young man, and it frightened her. When she was alone in her room that night, she cried, and when that necessary prelude was done with, she began to think, and presently she made up her mind.

It was obvious to her that Mr. Hughes did not appreciate Mimi. Probably he was not capable of so doing, but, in the circumstances, it was her duty to do what she could. So she very cordially invited him to call on a Saturday afternoon; and just before he was due to arrive, she told Mimi that she had forgotten to buy tea, and sent her out to buy half a pound of a sort which could only be bought at a shop some distance away.

When Hughes arrived, he found Mrs. Dexter alone. He was not at all alarmed by this, or by her extra-friendly manner; indeed, he was rather touched by her welcome. They sat down, and she began to talk, and he was not surprised that she should talk about Mimi. Such was his condition that he couldn’t imagine how anybody could wish to talk of anything else.

She told him anecdotes of Mimi’s childhood and school days, all designed to show him what a gifted, brilliant, remarkable child she had been. Hughes listened with serious attention; he was impressed; he thought to himself, what a wonderful girl Mimi was. What a wonderful girl!

And then Mrs. Dexter ruined everything. If she had but stopped there, content to demonstrate her child’s rare qualities by her own evidence, all would have been well. But, instead, she tried to strengthen her case by bringing in Professor MacAndrews as a witness.

She began with a fervent eulogy of Professor MacAndrews, his vast learning, his wonderful achievements, his noble character. And Hughes, although still politely attentive, grew secretly restive, and wished to hear no more of this paragon. Then she fetched a photograph of the professor, and the young man was in no mood to admire.

A small man, the professor had been, physically, that is; with a pugnacious little white beard and fierce little eyes, and an upturned nose. Hughes looked at the photograph with what might be called a noncommittal expression, and said, “Yes, I see!”

“A wonderful intellect!” Mrs. Dexter declared. “And you can’t imagine how devoted he was to Mimi! He always predicted a remarkable future for her. He said she was too young, then, for him to tell just how her talents would develop, but he knew she would be something.”

“I see!” said Hughes.

His tone should have warned Mrs. Dexter, but it did not. She was too intent upon making her point.

“It really was beautiful,” she went on, “the devotion of that lonely old scholar for little Mimi! Every one spoke of it. He used to come to the house, you know, and as soon as he got inside the door, he’d say, ‘And where’s the bonnie wee thing?’ That’s what he used to call her. From one of Burns’s poems. See, it’s written here, in this book he gave her.

“‘Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, Lovely wee thing, was thou mine I wad wear thee in my bosom Lest my jewel I should tine.’

“Of course it sounded quite different with his quaint Scotch accent.”

“I see!” said Hughes.

He hoped it had sounded different, because, as Mrs. Dexter read it, he thought he had never heard anything so idiotic. The whole thing annoyed him. He had no objection to Mrs. Dexter’s talking about Mimi; in fact, he liked to hear her, and thought it natural and agreeable. But otherwise, apart from Mrs. Dexter, who was Mimi’s mother, he had wished to believe himself the sole true appreciator of Mimi.

It was a pity that there was nobody at hand to tell Mrs. Dexter anecdotes about Hughes’s childhood. If there had been any one--his sister, for instance--she would have learned what a pig-headed fellow he was; how, if you wanted to convince him, you must never, never argue with him; how he simply could not be driven, but must be humored. Any such person could have told her what a disastrous mistake she made in thus bringing Professor MacAndrews into the situation.

When Mimi came back with the tea, she saw at once that something had gone amiss. At first she was worried, but presently the young man’s silence and his very serious expression became annoying to her. It seemed to her important to show him that she didn’t care in the least, and in order so to do, she became more frivolous than he had ever before seen her. For the first time she treated him as she had treated those other nice boys; she laughed at him, and teased him, and dazzled him.

Hughes was no more proof against this than any of the others had been, but, unlike those others, he stubbornly resisted the enchantment. He was ready to admit that she was dazzling, but the gayer she was, the more he thought of Professor MacAndrews. He thought to himself that she must know only too well how pretty she was, and how great was her power.

“It’s a pity!” he thought, sternly. “It’s very bad for a girl to have a silly old cuckoo like that making such a fuss over her. Calling her a ‘bonnie wee thing’! Of course I won’t deny that she is, but--”

But no one should have told her so before Hughes had a chance. Certainly he wasn’t going to tell her those things all over again, and he wasn’t going to accept any bearded professor’s opinion of her, either. No; he intended to study her gravely and dispassionately, and judge for himself.

Three times he came to the flat for that purpose, and each time that he came, with his grave and dispassionate expression, the girl was more frivolous than ever. And on the third evening she was outrageous.

She said that evening that she would make him a Welsh rarebit. It appeared to him no more than his duty as a guest, or a gentleman, or something of the sort, to go into the kitchen with her, and there he watched her make a most horrible concoction, the most leathery, nightmare-provoking rarebit. And he saw that she knew nothing about cooking, in its true and serious meaning, and she wore a silly little apron, and she burned her silly little finger.

As he walked home that evening, he told himself, almost violently, that he had not kissed Mimi, and had not said a single word to her of any significance. But that gave him precious little comfort. He had wanted to, and he knew that she knew it. He remembered an unsteady little smile of hers.

“I won’t be a fool!” cried Hughes to himself. “I know she’s--well--a very nice girl. I’ll admit that I--I like her. But she’s--well--she’s not my sort. She’s--Look at the way they live! I couldn’t stand that. All those little frilly curtains and covers and doodabs, and those antique plates--with nothing real to eat on ’em. I know it’s all very dainty and so on--but it’s--it’s too damn’ fancy!”

He was honestly frightened, now. He didn’t see how he could ever escape from that atmosphere of doodabs and fanciness. That moment in the kitchen, that one glance they had exchanged, had shown him that being in love was a malady which grew worse with time.

He would inevitably ask Mimi to marry him, and if she refused him, life would be intolerable; and if she accepted him, they would have to have a home which would be filled with little lace doilies and antique plates, and his existence would be made dainty--and fancy.

Hughes had been brought up with Spartan simplicity by his very poor and very proud family in New Hampshire, and their ways were the ways he admired. He was not quite so fond of being poor, though, and had cured himself of that, but he still lived in Spartan style.

He had a furnished room, from which he had obliged the landlady to remove all those things she most admired; he ate his meals in a shining white restaurant where there were no tablecloths, and in his office he would permit no trace of luxury. He wouldn’t even have a private office; he sat out in plain view of his staff, upon a severely efficient chair, before a desk which was a model of neatness and order. That was how he liked things. And now, here he was, in love with Mimi!

What to do?

He thought of a plan.

II

There was one woman in the world whom Hughes admired without reservation, and that was his aunt, Kate Boles. He saw in her no flaw. She was a childless widow, living alone in the loneliest little cottage in the Berkshires; she had a hard life, and she gloried in it.

Not only did Aunt Kate live upon an almost impossibly small income, but she saved out of it, and when Hughes wanted to help her, she refused. She said she had a roof over her head, and enough to eat, and clothing to cover her decently, and that she wanted nothing more. He thought this admirable.

She admired him, too. It was a part of her philosophy of life to believe that men could never be so noble as women, but, for a man, she thought her nephew remarkably good. So, when he asked her, she came down from her mountains, for the first time in many years.

“Desborough Hughes!” she declared. “I shouldn’t do this for any one else on earth.”

“I appreciate it, Aunt Kate,” he agreed.

But when he explained his intention, her face grew mighty grim.

“Women!” she exclaimed. “You didn’t mention that in your letter, Desborough!”

“I know,” he said. “But--”

“All you told me,” she went on, “was that you wanted to open that house your Uncle Joseph left you out at Green Lake, and that you wanted me to keep house for you and some friends of yours for awhile. Not a word did you say about women.”

“I didn’t think it would make any difference--”

“Well, it does!” said she. “I don’t know that I’m inclined to keep house for a parcel of idle women.”

Hughes said that there were only two of them, a mother and a daughter.

“And why can’t they keep house for themselves?”

“They’re not accustomed to--to country life. They’re--”

“I see!” said Mrs. Boles. “A couple of these highfalutin’ city people. I may as well tell you, Desborough, that I don’t feel disposed to wait on them hand and foot.”

“I don’t want you to,” Hughes asserted. “It’s only--” He paused. He saw that he would be obliged to give his aunt some inkling of his plan. “It’s like this,” he said. “They’ve got used to that artificial, effete sort of life, and I thought--a week or two of a different sort of life--I thought it might--well--give them a--a new point of view.”

“Desborough!” she exclaimed. “They want to marry you. I can see that.”

“No, they don’t!” he pointed out. “I want to marry them. One of them, I mean.”

He had not wished to say that, but it couldn’t be helped. His serious face grew scarlet, and he turned away, very greatly dreading the questions and comments his aunt might utter. But, to his surprise, she said nothing at all for a long time, and presently, to his still greater surprise, she laid her bony hand on his shoulder.

“Very well, my boy!” she said.

He looked at her, but he could not read her face, and he was afraid to ask her what her words and her tone signified. They made him uneasy, and he wasn’t very happy, anyhow.

He knew that he could count upon his aunt to set a superb example of fine, old-fashioned simplicity and industry, but that, after all, was not quite what he had intended. His idea had been simply to let Mimi and her mother see what life was like--real life, without false and unnecessary adornments. He hoped that this glimpse would impress them, that was all, so that it would be easier for him to explain to Mimi later on:

“That’s what I call the right way to live. Plainly, simply--as you saw it out at Green Lake.”

And he did believe that when she actually saw this life in operation, she would admire it. Only, it was important that his Aunt Kate should not be too obviously an example.

There was nothing he could do about it now, though. He had written to his Aunt Kate, and she had come; he had arranged to open the house at Green Lake, and to spend a three weeks’ vacation there, and the house was open, and he was in it; he had invited Mrs. Dexter and Mimi for a fortnight, and they were coming this afternoon. The experiment was about to begin. He could only hope.

But this afternoon he found it difficult to do any really effective hoping. An unaccountable depression had come over him; he stood upon the veranda of this house of his, smoking a pipe, and regarding the scene before him with something very like dismay in his eyes.

He had only seen the house once before, and it seemed to him that his outlook must have been biased then by his pleasure in having inherited a house. Certainly it had looked very different, that first time. It had been midsummer, then, and he remembered standing in this same window and looking out at the lake--a glimpse of glittering water seen through the trees.

It was late September, now, and the leaves were thinner, and he could see the lake very well. Lake? It was a pond--a stagnant and sinister little pond, covered with scum, the source and the refuge of all these swarms and swarms of mosquitoes. And the house itself, which had seemed so dim and cool and restful on that summer day, was strangely altered now.

His late uncle’s furniture was good, and quite plain enough to suit any one, but it seemed to him that there wasn’t enough of it; the rooms had so bare and desolate a look. And it was damp. He had been here now for a week with his aunt, and she herself said that the dampness had “got into her bones.” He thought that was a good way of putting it; the dampness had got into his bones, too; he had never felt so cold in his life. He was positively shivering with it.

“That’s all nonsense!” he said to himself, angrily. “The mercury’s up to fifty-eight. I can’t be cold!”

He was, though--wretchedly, miserably cold. He sauntered down the hall and stood in the doorway of the kitchen, pretending that he wished to chat with his aunt, but really to be near the stove. It did him no good at all; he felt as cold as ever, and the aroma of the plain dinner--a lamb stew--which Mrs. Boles was cooking, filled him with unaccountable distaste. Such was his mood that Mrs. Boles herself had a chilling appearance; her gray hair seemed frosty; her white apron looked as if it would be icy to touch.

The cuckoo clock in the hall struck three. It was a cantankerous old clock, and when it struck three, it meant a quarter to four; time for him to be off. So off he went, out to the barn where he kept his car, in he climbed, and set off for the railway station.

And it was no use insisting that it was the jolting over bad roads which made him shake so, because the shaking kept on after he had alighted and was waiting on the platform. He was shivering violently; his teeth were chattering; his head ached; he felt horribly ill.

Still, when his guests descended from the train, he greeted them cordially; he clenched his teeth to stop their chattering; he forced his stiff lips into a smile; he talked. He drove them back to the house. And that finished him.

“Mr. Hughes! You have a chill!” cried Mrs. Dexter.

“N-n-no!” he insisted.

But nobody would pay any attention to what he said. He was driven upstairs and ordered to lie down, and Mrs. Boles covered him up with blankets and brought him hot lemonade to drink. He felt so exceedingly miserable that he submitted to all this, but when she mentioned a doctor, he rebelled.

“L-look here!” he said. “I won’t have a doctor! I mean that! I’ll be all right in the morning. I’d be all right now if I had--”

He told Mrs. Boles what he fancied he needed to make him all right, but she sternly disagreed with him. She told him that this remedy he mentioned was simply “poison,” and that hot lemonade was beyond measure more beneficial. And, to be sure, the chill was already passing off, only what took its place was even worse. He now became unbearably hot, burning, and she wouldn’t let him take off a single one of that mound of blankets.

He remembered afterward that he had not been very amiable toward his aunt. He was so humiliated by this weakness, so anxious about his guests; he seemed to remember shouting at her to let him alone, and go downstairs and look after those people. Anyhow, she went, and the instant she was out of sight, he pushed the blankets off onto the floor, and, with a throbbing head, lay back again and closed his eyes.

He heard her come back into the room. She paused near him.

“I tell you I’m all right!” he said, without opening his eyes. “For Heaven’s sake, don’t leave those people alone! Go downstairs--”

“It’s just me,” said the smallest voice. “I thought maybe you’d like a cup of tea.”

It was Mimi, standing there with a tray. He pulled the counterpane up to his chin, and turned away his face; what he really wanted to do was to cover up his head entirely, and not to answer, so that she could neither see nor hear him. But if he did that, she wouldn’t go away, and he had to make her go away immediately. It was unendurable that she should see him like this.

“Oh, thanks!” he said, in an odiously condescending voice. “But there’s nothing much wrong with me. Half an hour’s nap, and I’ll be all right again.”

That put a quick stop to her dangerous sympathy.

“Oh!” she observed. “I thought--I’m sorry I disturbed you, Mr. Hughes!”

And out she went. She was offended; he knew that, but he had to make her go, at any cost. He could endure almost anything with fortitude, but not the thought of Mimi being sorry for him. He never allowed any one to be sorry for him.

As the door closed behind her, he turned his head. She had left the tray on a chair beside him. On it were a cup and a saucer and a plate of his uncle’s antique china which he had carefully put away. There was thin bread with butter, cut star-shaped and placed just so.

And there were two doilies. No, not doilies; those, at least, she could not find in this house; they were two little lace handkerchiefs spread out.

And he was ill, helpless, unable to combat with any vigor this insidious attack. In the gathering dusk he lay propped up on one elbow, looking at those terrifying handkerchiefs.

III

Hughes had said that he would be all right in the morning, but he was surprised to find that he really was so. It seemed incredible that one could feel as he had felt in the evening, and wake in the morning quite well. More than ever was he ashamed of himself. He couldn’t have been really ill at all.

The great thing now was to efface the disastrous impression he must have made by this weakness. He must make Mimi realize that he was not the sort of person who was ever ill, or ever laid down, or desired cups of tea. He came downstairs early, and after a few repentant words to Mrs. Boles--who had got down still earlier--he decided to take a walk.

Mimi and Mrs. Dexter would, of course, get up late, as was the habit of city people, and when he met them, he would remark casually that he had had a five-mile walk before breakfast. He went into the library, where he had left his pipe, and he had just taken it in his hand when Mimi appeared in the doorway.

“Oh! I see you’re better this morning!” she remarked, polite and nothing more.

“Yes,” Hughes replied. “It was nothing. A cold--something of the sort. But, Miss Dexter! Look here! I’m--I’m afraid I wasn’t--I didn’t--You may have thought I didn’t appreciate your great kindness--”

Miss Dexter appeared very much mollified by this tone.

“Well, you weren’t yourself,” she said, softly.

Hughes was silent for a moment. It was generous of her to think that, but it wouldn’t do.

“I’m afraid I was myself,” he admitted at last. “I mean--I am like that sometimes. I don’t want you to think that I’m--”

“I don’t,” she said softly.

He was greatly disconcerted by this. He glanced at her; she was wearing a rose-colored dress, and it made him a little dizzy. She was so extraordinarily lovely. He did not think it wise to look at her any more or to speak to her just then, so he began to fill his pipe instead.

“Mr. Hughes,” she inquired, “have you had your breakfast?”

“No,” he answered, “I was waiting for--”

“Then you mustn’t smoke,” Mimi said firmly. “It’s the worst thing in the world before breakfast. Please put that pipe down!”

He was amazed, astounded, by this tone of authority, so much so that he forgot himself and looked at her again. Ordering him about, tyrannizing over him, this outrageous young thing!

He was saved just in the nick of time by Mrs. Dexter’s entrance. But he had had his warning. He knew that he would have put down that pipe. He saw clearly that he would be absolutely under the girl’s thumb if he didn’t look out.

Anyhow, she was getting a salutary example of the plain and simple life. Breakfast from thick, sensible china, set out on a red and white checked cloth, wholesome food, but no trace of demoralizing daintiness. He wondered anxiously what she thought of it; certainly she didn’t appear at all disdainful, and certainly her appetite was not adversely affected. And when the meal was ended, she offered, and even insisted, in the most sincere and friendly manner, upon helping Mrs. Boles with the dishes. He was proud of her.

But he was very much disappointed in Mrs. Boles. She wouldn’t allow this. She said: “No, child! Indeed you won’t!” as if she were defending Mimi against persons who wished to treat her like a Cinderella in the drudge phase. And when Mimi went out of the room to fetch something, both Mrs. Boles and Mrs. Dexter looked after her with the same sort of smile.

“Well! We’re only young once!” Mrs. Boles said with a sigh.

“Yes!” Mrs. Dexter agreed, also sighing. “Our troubles come soon enough!”

They meant him. He knew it. They meant that if Mimi should marry him, she would at once cease to be young and happy. This exasperated him, yet it worried him. Was it possible that these two matrons could discern in him qualities fatal to a woman’s happiness?

Did they think him capable of any harshness toward that small, gay creature in a pink dress? Well, he wasn’t. He knew, and he alone, how he felt about her.

Still, he did not mention his plan of taking them for a fine, healthful cross-country walk that afternoon, and instead he telephoned to the village for a motor car. It came promptly at half past two, but it went back again empty. Nobody cared to go out in it, because Mrs. Boles had a chill.

IV

It was nearly eight o’clock, and Hughes was suffering acutely from hunger. He walked up and down, and up and down, the library, smoking his pipe, and raging inwardly.

“Please don’t bother!” he had urged Mrs. Dexter.

And she had said: “Oh, but it’s no bother at all! Mimi and I really enjoy getting up a dainty little dinner!”

They were in the kitchen now. He could hear the egg-beater whirring, and, at intervals, their light, agreeable voices, always so good-tempered and affectionate toward each other. They had been at it for hours; they must be exhausted. Every fifteen minutes or so he had appeared in the kitchen doorway, to suggest, to plead, almost desperately:

“Look here! I wish you wouldn’t! I wish you’d come out of there! Anything will do, you know, any little simple thing--”

But they would not come out. They only laughed at him.

“I wish I could make her see how wasteful and foolish it is to give all this time and effort to a meal!” he thought. “This idea that everything must be so elaborate and ‘dainty.’ Why, good Lord! I’d rather have bread and cheese--”

Bread and cheese! He thought of a slice of homemade bread with a piece of Swiss cheese lying upon it. He had had nothing to eat since twelve o’clock. Bread and cheese! How he longed for that! And how he appreciated the plain and simple life which provided meals of no matter what sort at reasonable hours!

It came into his mind that he would go upstairs and see his Aunt Kate again. Just see her. He didn’t want to talk to her; simply, it was a comfort to know that she was there, his ally. She felt as he did; their ideals were the same. Plain, sensible people.

He went out of the library and began to mount the stairs. A miserable little jet of gas burned in the lower hall, and another one on the landing, and they both sang a sad little piping tune. The house seemed vast, this evening, a place of black shadows and chilly silence, and many closed, menacing doors.

He thought of Mrs. Dexter’s flat, with its homemade furniture and its pathetic brightness. This was, of course, a fine, solid old house, and the flat was a cheap and paltry thing. A girl would be glad, wouldn’t she, to leave such a place, to leave the noise and dust of the city, and come here?

Of course there was this unaccountable malady which had attacked first himself and now Mrs. Boles. But it had left him overnight, and she, too, would no doubt be quite recovered in the morning. An odd sort of cold, that was all it was.

He knocked upon the door, and Mrs. Boles called “Come in!” and in he went. The gas was turned low, and by the dim light the room looked remarkably cheerless. Mrs. Boles lay flat on her back, her gray hair in two braids, like an Indian, her gaunt, weather-beaten face immobile, her eyes staring straight before her.

“Desborough!” she said, without turning her head.

He waited, thinking she was going to go on, but she said nothing further.

“How are you feeling now?” he asked.

She didn’t trouble to answer that.

“Desborough!” she exclaimed. “It’s malaria. I thought so yesterday, and now I know it. You’ve got to get out of here. It’s a nasty, unwholesome place.”

“But perhaps--” said her nephew, terribly crestfallen.

“There’s no ‘perhaps’ about it,” she declared sharply. “I know all about malaria.” She was silent for a moment; then her brows drew together in a severe frown.

“That girl!” she remarked. “Just look at that!”

He looked where she pointed, and there, on the chair, he saw a tray. The antique china, the lace handkerchiefs--A great pain seized his heart.

“Mi--Miss Dexter--” he began.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Boles. “She brought me some tea. And just look how she fixed up that tray!”

Anger arose in him. He wouldn’t listen to a word against Mimi.

“It seems to me Miss Dexter has--” he began again, but once more Mrs. Boles interrupted him.

“I never in my life had any one take so much trouble for me,” she announced. “Bread--cut out star-shaped. Her own little handkerchiefs. No, I never.”

She paused, and across her grim face came a smile the like of which he had not seen there before.

“The bonnie wee thing!” she said.

“What!” cried Hughes. “What! I mean--why did you say--that?”

“It suits her,” said Mrs. Boles. “Her mother was talking to me to-day. She told me that there was an old professor--a Mr. MacAllister--”

“MacAndrews,” Hughes explained.

“You’ve heard about him, then. Well, it seems to me--” Once more she paused. “As soon as I told Mrs. Dexter that this was malaria, and we ought to leave here, they both invited me to visit them. Both of them--without an instant’s hesitation. She told me about their flat in the city--and their life. They’re not at all well off, but they’re happy.

“They know how to live!” Mrs. Boles continued. “Kind, gracious people. They know how to live. Any one could see that. They make every detail--this tray, for instance. Desborough, it’s been a revelation to me!”

“Er--yes--” her nephew said absently. “Well, I’d better go downstairs, now, and--and see if I can help them. What? What did you say?”

“I said--you’d better get them to help you!” Mrs. Boles explained.

V

He went out of the room, and closed the door behind him, but he did not go downstairs; he stood there in the dim and drafty hall, thinking. He had been going to show Mimi the right way to live, had he? He had brought her here, to this house, to these malarial mosquitoes, to this “nasty, unwholesome place.” He had made her eat her breakfast from a red and white checked cloth; he had deprived her of doilies and frilled curtains.

He had been the most heartless, the most presumptuous, priggish, despicable ass who had ever lived. Even his aunt had known better. His “plan”! It had served one purpose, though; it had shown him to Mimi as he really was, a blind, obstinate, humorless, cheerless--

She was coming up the stairs now; he knew her light, quick step. So he pretended that he was coming down, and in the middle of the flight they met.

“I was looking for you!” she announced cheerfully. “Dinner’s ready!”

He stood before her in silence for a few moments, his head bent; then suddenly he said:

“Mimi!”

Such a miserable voice!

“Oh, what’s the matter?” she cried, anxiously.

“I haven’t appreciated you!”

His tone was very contrite.

“Heavens!” said Mimi. “I don’t care such an awful lot about being appreciated, Mr. Hughes!”

“But I do love you!” he declared. “I always have loved you. Only--I didn’t appreciate you. I thought--if you came here--”

“Well,” she said, “you were right! You knew perfectly well that if I came here, and saw you in this awful house--and such an awful, dismal life--You knew! It wasn’t fair!”

“I never thought of such a thing!” he protested, indignantly. “My plan was--”

“Anyhow, it’s too late now,” she pointed out. “The harm’s done.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, with a sinking heart.

“I mean,” she replied sternly, “that you’ve simply got to have somebody to take care of you!”

He looked down at her. The size of her! The age of her!

“But--do you mean--that you are going to do that?” he demanded.

“Yes!” she cried. “That’s my plan!”

He came down onto the step where she was standing. And she had really very little trouble in convincing him of the merits of her plan.

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

JUNE, 1926 Vol. LXXXVIII NUMBER 1

Vanity

MADELINE HOLLAND HAS A TRYING HOUR WHEN SHE SEES HER MIDDLE-AGED HUSBAND ATTRACTED BY A YOUNGER AND PRETTIER RIVAL

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

Mrs. Holland came out of her room, closing the door carefully behind her. A shaft of sun came through the skylight, but beyond that bright bar the hall was dim and very quiet, for her footsteps made no sound on the thick carpet. She stood there for a moment, as if listening. A tall woman she was, straight and slender, with a proudly carried head and a proud and serene face. She did not look her fifty years, but she felt them this morning.

She listened, but she heard nothing, and presently she went on through the warm patch of sunshine that for an instant brightened the smooth blackness of her hair. At the head of the stairs she heard a sound of life. Some one was coming up from the basement, breathing hard and walking heavily, and accompanied by a pleasant little jingling of china and silver.

Mrs. Holland began to descend, and halfway down the flight she met Hilda, carrying a tray.

“I’ll take it to Miss Joyce, Hilda,” she said.

“No, ma’am,” replied Hilda firmly. “Don’t you bother.”

“I’d like to, Hilda,” returned Mrs. Holland with equal firmness.

“It’s too heavy, ma’am.”

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Holland.

Her hands, cool and slender, grasped the tray and came into contact with Hilda’s roughened fingers; and Hilda, the vassal, was somehow shocked by this.

“All right, ma’am,” she agreed.

Mrs. Holland took the tray and turned back. She heard a miserable little sniffle from Hilda, but she dared not take notice of it. She was not prepared to give consolation to other people this morning.

She set the tray down on the floor, and opened one of those closed doors. It was like another world in there, bright with sun, and a breeze rioting through, setting in motion all the charming disorder there--ribbons and silks and tissue paper in half open boxes, gay and frivolous things hanging over the backs of chairs. It was a very untidy room, but Mrs. Holland knew it would never be like this again. After to-day it would be a neat, quiet, empty room.

She closed the window, and then went over to the bedside. Joyce lay there, with the sheet huddled about her so that only the top of her rough, bright head was visible. Mrs. Holland touched her shoulder.

“Wake up, child!” she said.

She forced herself to stand there and to greet Joyce cheerfully on this last morning.

“Here’s your breakfast, you lazy little thing,” she added.

Joyce sat up, dazed and heavy-eyed. Mrs. Holland held out a dressing gown, and the girl slipped her arms into it with a childlike passivity.

“It’s a beautiful day,” said Mrs. Holland. “You couldn’t have a better day.”

Suddenly Joyce awoke. Her dark eyes widened, and over her face stole a shadow--a look so tender, so lovely, that Mrs. Holland was obliged to turn away to bend over the tray.

“Don’t let the toast get cold, child,” she said.

Joyce did not speak, and when Mrs. Holland turned toward her again she saw tears in her child’s steady, shining eyes.

“Joyce,” she said, “my dear, my dear, let’s make this a very happy, a very wonderful day!”

They looked at each other, and Joyce’s lip quivered, but Mrs. Holland still smiled.

“I must bear this,” she told herself. “I must, and I can.”

She pulled the table close to the bedside, poured out a cup of coffee, and put cream and sugar into it, just as Joyce always liked it. Then she lifted the silver cover from the toast.

“Poor Hilda was so disappointed!” she said. “She wanted to bring the tray herself. Come now, my pet! There, there!”

Joyce’s eyes were still fixed upon her mother’s face.

“This won’t do!” said Mrs. Holland, and then, with that gracious gayety which so few were ever permitted to see in her, she tied a napkin about the girl’s neck and began to feed her--a spoonful of coffee, a bit of toast, a spoonful of coffee.

“Spoiled little thing!” she scolded. “Naughty little thing, when there’s so much to be done to-day!”

“I know it!” cried Joyce, sitting up straight. “Mother, what shall we do about old Mrs. Marriott’s candlesticks? When she comes and doesn’t see them with the other presents, she’ll be so frightfully hurt!”

“I found them last night in a hat box,” replied Mrs. Holland, laughing.

“And, mother, suppose the jeweler hasn’t got that new clasp ready?”

“Your father’s going there as soon as he has had breakfast. He told me to tell you that if that clasp isn’t ready, he’ll buy you another necklace.”

“But I want the one that daddy picked out! I--oh, mother!”

The girl stretched out her arms, with tears raining down her face; but for an instant Mrs. Holland did not respond. She stood motionless, with an odd, stony look, as if beyond measure affronted by those tears.

“Oh, no, no!” she cried in her heart. “How can I stand this?”

“Mother!”

She sat down on the edge of the bed, took her child in her arms, and stroked the ruffled head that lay against her breast.

“Don’t, my darling,” she said gently. “It’s not right. It’s not kind to Nick.”

“I c-can’t help it,” Joyce answered in a stifled voice. “You and daddy--my own darling people--”

“You must help it, my sweetheart. You’ve eaten nothing at all. I’m going to run your bath, now, and afterward Hilda will bring you some hot coffee and toast.”

She disengaged the clinging arms from about her neck, and took both the girl’s hands in her own. She looked steadfastly into her child’s face, and still smiled.

“Don’t be so naughty!” she said. “There! Sit up and read your letters until the bath’s run.”

The tiled bathroom was dazzling in the sunlight. The nickel fittings flashed like silver, and the water filling the tub was a wonderful translucent green.

“Mother!” Joyce called out. “Uncle Thomas has sent a check and an awfully sweet letter!”

Mrs. Holland pretended not to hear. She could not speak just then. She sat on the edge of the tub, staring down into the shimmering, greenish water, and even her child’s voice sounded very far away. The last moment was almost here. In a few hours Joyce would be gone.

“I must not spoil her day,” she thought. “I’ve got to be brave, just until she goes; and then--then I don’t care.”

The water had risen high enough. She turned off the tap and went back into the bedroom.

“All ready!” she said cheerfully. “Don’t dawdle, sweetheart.”

“I won’t, mother,” Joyce promised.

She had dried her tears, now. She was very grave, but quite composed.

“That’s exactly how she looked when she went to apologize to grandma for losing the family photographs,” thought Mrs. Holland. “She was a tiny girl, then, and she was wearing that funny little plaid dress. She doesn’t look any older now. She’s so young--so young!”

She crossed the room briskly, opened the door, smiled back over her shoulder, and stepped out into the dim, silent hall. It seemed to her that the house had grown terribly old, a pompous, dull old house. She went down the stairs slowly, for she was old, too. Her life was finished. Joyce was going away.

II

Hilda was serving breakfast in the basement dining room this morning, leaving the upper floor to the caterer’s men. That basement room had not been used since Joyce was a small girl and Mrs. Holland a young and very anxious mother. She had had no one to help her then except Hilda, and Hilda couldn’t be expected to go up and down stairs with the dishes.

How different it had all been in those days--such a busy, eager sort of life, with herself and Hilda always doing something for the baby! She remembered other sunny mornings like this, and both of them in the kitchen, Hilda ironing little white dresses, while she prepared barley water for the precious bottles. Now there was a cook in the kitchen; a competent woman, but a trifle forbidding--a stranger, not a friend like Hilda. Everything was changed.

Frank was sitting at the table, a newspaper propped up before him.

“Oh, hello, Madeline!” he said with a vague sort of amiability. “How’s everything going, eh?”

“All right, thank you, Frank,” she replied, quietly.

As she sat down, he put aside the newspaper; but, after all, he found nothing to say. All he could think of this morning was Joyce, and he was afraid to mention her.

“Might upset Madeline,” he thought.

To be sure, it was a good many years since he had seen his wife at all upset. A quiet and dignified woman, she was, never at a loss; but this morning there was something about her that disquieted him.

“I remember how it used to be,” he thought, “when Joyce was a baby. That time when there was a blizzard, and the milkman didn’t come--Lord, she was almost wild! I had to go out in the storm to see what I could do. Couldn’t get milk anywhere, and I didn’t dare to go home and tell her so.”

He smiled a little at the memory of that very good-natured young husband, struggling through the blizzard in a vain search for milk. In the end he had gone to their family doctor. The doctor had laughed at him and told him to use condensed milk, and had written down directions on a piece of paper. Then Frank had gone home to find them all crying--Madeline and Hilda and the baby.

Mrs. Holland saw her husband’s smile, and it did not please her. It was so easy for Frank to smile, so easy for his nimble mind to turn away from anything disagreeable and go off upon another tack! She knew very well that his heart ached at the thought of losing Joyce. He had suffered and would suffer from that; but he could forget for a time, and she could not.

He had always been like that. There was gray in his hair, and he had grown much stouter--a big man, a handsome, jovial sort of Porthos, in place of the slender and romantic young fellow he had been; but he was changed in no other way. As he smiled, he had raised his hand to his mustache in a gesture that was familiar to her. It meant that something had amused him. He was not thinking about Joyce, because that would disturb him, and he did not like to be disturbed.

“Oh, life’s too short to worry!” he was fond of saying.

Sometimes the anxious young mother had found consolation in that debonair phrase, but to-day it seemed heartless and false. Life too short? It was the monstrous length of life that appalled her now. Twenty years more to her allotted span--twenty years, and they might be all empty, all useless.

Her divinely appointed work in the world had been to bear and to rear her child, and now it was done. Joyce was going away to a new life of her own in a distant city, and she no longer needed her mother. Nobody needed Madeline Holland any more--certainly not Frank. He loved her, but he was a remarkably independent creature, quite sufficient unto himself in his own cheerful fashion.

She looked across the table at him. He was a little downcast for the moment, but as he caught her eye he smiled. He had finished his breakfast. He rose, came round the table to her, and laid his hand on her shoulder.

“Well, old girl!” he said. “Here we are, eh? Day’s come at last! Thing is, she’s got a good man--fine fellow. She’ll be happy, eh?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Holland.

But her own words and her husband’s words had no meaning at all this morning. She had always hoped that Joyce would marry. Nick was a dear boy, and Joyce would be happy with him. If Joyce were happy, she, too, ought to be happy.

“Only--oh, I’m a selfish woman!” she thought. “A selfish, selfish woman! For I can’t be happy--not without my child, my baby, my one child. I don’t want to live without my child!”

Frank was speaking. She did not hear his words, for his voice sounded faint and far off, but she was grateful to him for his kindliness, and she looked up into his face with a smile.

He patted her shoulder.

“I know, old girl, I know,” he said. “I’m sorry! Well, I’ll be off, now--some things to see about.”

She heard him go out of the room, and heard his heavy tread on the stairs. Halfway up the flight he stopped, and struck a match, and the scent of tobacco smoke drifted down to her. He had “things to see about”--he had his business, his many friends, his club. His life would go on as usual, but hers was ended. Her work was done.

She got up and crossed the room to the battered old high chair that had been Joyce’s. For a moment she thought she would sink on her knees before it, press her lips against the rung where scuffling little feet had worn away the paint, close her eyes, and let the black and bitter tide of pain close over her head; but the hour had not come yet. Joyce still needed her for a few hours more.

III

There was the strangeness of a dream about it. Madeline Holland stood there and smiled and chatted with her guests, and nobody looked at her curiously, nobody suspected her anguish. It was incredible, inhuman, unreal.

There was a slight confusion in the hall. Looking across the crowded room, she saw the chauffeur and another young fellow bringing down Joyce’s trunks to the car that waited outside. It was over. Joyce was married--only it didn’t seem real yet.

Even in the church it hadn’t seemed real. Madeline had been preoccupied, distrait, her mind filled with the stupidest little thoughts. The caterer’s men had been a little late. No one had remembered to thank old Mrs. Marriott for her candlesticks, and she looked affronted. Would Hilda be sure to stitch the collar and cuffs on that jersey dress before she packed it?

There was Frank standing before the altar; and he and Joyce and Nick all looked so strange, so pale, so grave, so unfamiliar. Joyce’s veil was a little too long. It was the veil that Madeline had worn at her own wedding, but the fashion had changed so!

No, the whole thing hadn’t been real. It was a dream, like all these last days, when she had gone shopping with Joyce, when people had always been coming and going in the house, and presents arriving, with such a queer, excited sort of gayety in the air, and so much to be done. There had been no time to think.

She wasn’t really thinking now--only waiting, in a daze, for that last moment which she knew she could not endure. The perfume of the roses made her feel a little faint. There were roses everywhere, the breeze from the open windows made a soft stir among them, and the petals floated down silently upon the carpet.

The big dining room had lost its look of solemn formality. It was thronged with people, and filled with the sound of gay, light voices and little muffled clinkings of silver on china. When a lull came in the talk, Mrs. Holland could hear the familiar noises of the city streets, of daily life going on out there in the heat and dust of the June day. Unreal, all of it!

She remembered a children’s party, here in this very room, years and years ago, yet a hundred times more real than this. It was a dreadful failure, for Joyce had been the worst of young hostesses--such an absurd, impulsive little thing! She had devoted herself entirely to a rather obnoxious little girl with blond pigtails and a smug face. She had neglected all her other guests, even quarreling with them in defense of this idolized creature; and afterward she had been so sorry. She had knelt in her mother’s lap, with tears running down her flushed face into Mrs. Holland’s neck, and their arms clasped tight about each other.

“It’s so--so awful hard to be polite!” Joyce had sobbed.

But really it wasn’t. Mrs. Holland found it easy enough to be polite, even cheerful, with that last moment drawing nearer and nearer. Mrs. Marriott was giving her an account of her grandson’s wedding in California.

“In a bower of roses!” concluded the old lady, with a triumphant glance at Mrs. Holland’s mere bowls and jars.

“That must have been very pretty,” said Mrs. Holland.

“It was beautiful!” the old lady corrected her, rather severely.

She went on talking, but Mrs. Holland no longer heard her, for some one had touched the piano in the drawing-room--a little chain of arpeggios like a sweet and drawling voice. It hurt her to hear it, for she did not want any one else to touch that piano. She remembered Joyce, so straight and correct, her long braid hanging down her back, playing her new pieces for her mother and father. Such funny, sprightly pieces they were--“The Bullfrogs’ Carnival,” “The Elfin Schottische,” “Romping in the Barn”; and so earnestly, so heavily, so determinedly were they played by the blunt little fingers!

No, that surely was not Joyce’s touch. Madeline wanted to know who it could be, sitting there in Joyce’s place.

Skillfully she maneuvered the talkative old lady to the center of the room, where she could look through the open doorway into the drawing-room, and there she saw her--a little blond creature with the fragile figure of a child. She was a pretty girl, very young, and a little pitiful in her flimsy silk dress, sleeveless and short-skirted; but Mrs. Holland saw no pathos in her at that minute, for Frank Holland was standing beside her, looking down at her with an air of bland indulgence.

The blond girl touched the keys again, and then she raised her eyes to Frank’s face with a languishing smile. She spoke, and he raised his hand to his mustache with that familiar gesture.

“He’s flattered!” thought Mrs. Holland.

She forgot all about Mrs. Marriott, and stood staring over the old lady’s head at the pitiful scene--Frank so pleased and flattered by that silly, vulgar little thing.

“Madeline,” said old Mrs. Marriott, “who’s that young woman talking to Frank? I never set eyes on her before.”

“She’s poor Stella’s daughter,” replied Mrs. Holland. “I thought I ought to ask them.”

“Humph!” said the old lady thoughtfully. “Stella here?”

“No--only the girl.”

“Humph!” said the old lady again, and was silent.

She remembered Stella very well--a cousin of Madeline’s, a pale, silent girl, mulishly obstinate, who had taken a fancy to a man against whom all her family and her friends had warned her. She had been bent upon marrying him, had married him, and had vanished into a forlorn limbo.

“And that’s her child,” observed old Mrs. Marriott. “A saucy chit, I should call her!”

“Mother!” said a voice beside Madeline, and she looked up to see Joyce’s husband.

It was the first time he had ever called her that, and in her heart she winced at the word on his lips. It was hard for him to say it--she could see that. His honest young face had flushed, and his voice was not very steady. He was a little in awe of the grave and quiet Mrs. Holland, and yet he was doggedly determined to say what he wanted to say.

“I’ll--I’ll do my best,” he said. “She’s so fond of you, and she’s always been so happy with you, but I--I’ll try to make her happy. I’ll--”

Mrs. Holland held out her hand, and he seized it in a nervous grasp.

“There’s no reason in the world why you shouldn’t both be very happy, dear boy,” she said earnestly. “You’re both--”

She stopped, because Joyce had come. The last minute was here. She looked at her daughter, but that beloved and wonderful face swam in a haze before her.

“Mother!” cried Joyce. “Oh, mother!”

She threw her arms about her mother, and for a moment they clung to each other, forgetting everything else in the world. Mrs. Holland felt her child’s tears warm on her cheek, felt the poor, eager young heart beat against her own. This was the last moment--and she could endure it. Shaken by a tenderness that was anguish, she could think quite clearly, could tell herself that her feeling was wrong, could detach herself from those clinging arms.

“This will never do!” she cried. “We mustn’t be so silly, must we?”

Her steady, smiling eyes were fixed upon her child. There was not the faintest shadow on her face, not the least tremor in her voice. There was nothing in her heart but the one passionate wish that Joyce should go away untroubled and happy, to begin her new life.

For a moment Joyce wavered, ready to fly once more into those faithful arms. Then, with a laugh that was half a sob, she gave her mother one more kiss--and was gone.

Mrs. Holland went out with the others and stood on the top step in a cheerful, excited group. As Joyce leaned out of the car, her mother had a last glimpse of her face, her eyes soft with tears, a trembling smile on her lips. Then the car started. Everything was over. Joyce was gone.

IV

The front door had closed after the last of the guests. Mrs. Holland stood in the hall for a long moment, staring blankly at the closed door, and turned toward the stairs. The caterer’s men were busy in the dining room. She stopped to look at them, glad that they were here, glad of any bustle or stir that postponed the hour when ordinary daily life should begin. After all, Joyce’s going away was not the intolerable moment. That would come when she would have to take up her life without Joyce.

At the foot of the stairs she met Hilda.

“Go up in the sewing room, ma’am,” said Hilda in a stern, almost threatening voice. “I’ll bring you up a nice hot cup of tea. You never ate a mouthful of all that fancy stuff, and you need something.”

“I really should like a cup of tea,” Mrs. Holland replied gratefully.

She climbed the stairs slowly, not because she was weary, but because there was so much time before her. The door of the sewing room was open, and Hilda had drawn up a chair to the folding table. It looked comfortable there in the ugly, familiar little room, with the sun pouring in across the faded carpet. As she went in, she saw a pin on the floor, glinting silvery bright in the sun’s path, and she stooped to pick it up.

“See a pin and pick it up, and all the day you’ll have good luck”--that was what Miss Brown, the dressmaker, used to say to Joyce, and Joyce, as a tiny girl, used to trot about the room, her head bent, her hair falling over her eyes, earnestly looking for pins.

Mrs. Holland smiled, remembering a shocking episode. She had promised the child five cents a dozen for all the pins she picked up, and so many, many dozens had been recovered from the floor that day--an abnormal quantity. Before she went to sleep that night, Joyce had confessed her crime. She had secretly emptied Miss Brown’s papers of pins upon the floor. Poor, contrite little Joyce!

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