The collected stories of Elisabeth Sanxay Holding from Munsey's Magazine, 1920-1928 (part 4 of 5)

The collected stories of Elisabeth Sanxay Holding from Munsey's Magazine, 1920-1928 (part 4 of 5)

Over in the corner stood a dress form--a pompous thing with a marvelously rounded figure. “Aunt Sarah,” Joyce used to call it, very disrespectfully. Only yesterday a skirt of Joyce’s had hung on it. No Joyce now, no more of her laughter, no more of her dear voice!

A heavy and deliberate tread was coming along the hall. It was Frank. Madeline did not want to talk to him, or to any one, just then, but of course he would come. Whenever he was at home in the daytime, away from his beloved office, he was always a little forlorn, inclined to follow her about from room to room.

“Hello!” he said from the doorway. “So here you are, eh? Resting?”

“Come in, Frank,” she invited. “Hilda’s going to bring up tea.”

“Tea!” he repeated, with his big, hearty laugh. “Why, my dear girl, I’m full of pâté de foie gras, and lobster salad, and café parfait, and all the rest of it! Caterer did pretty well, don’t you think?”

He came in and sat down in a queer, old-fashioned rocking-chair, with an antimacassar tied to its back with faded ribbons. Such an incongruous figure he was in a sewing room, this big, handsome man in his morning coat, with spats, and a white gardenia in his buttonhole! He was smoking a cigar, and was enjoying it. He crossed his legs and leaned back, and Mrs. Holland smiled at the sight of the scarlet ribbons of the antimacassar peeping coyly over his broad shoulder.

He was glad to see her smile.

“That’s the idea!” he said. “Thing is, not to mope. First day or two--pretty hard, without the little girl. Thing is, to distract your mind. It’s early. Plenty of time for a matinée. I’ll telephone for a couple of seats at the Palace. You drink your tea and then get your hat on. That’s right, Hilda! Tea--that’s what Mrs. Holland needs!”

But Hilda was not responsive to his good humor just now. Her eyes and nose were red, and her blunt face wore an expression of angry defiance. She poured out a cup of tea and set it before Mrs. Holland in stony silence. She was suffering, this faithful heart, and it was her own grief that she defied. She had loved Joyce so, and she missed her so greatly!

Holland watched his wife in silence for a time.

“By the way,” he said, “that Johnson girl, you know--”

Mrs. Holland glanced up, in nowise deceived by his casual tone.

“Who? Stella’s daughter?”

“Yes. Er--pathetic case, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know much about her,” replied Mrs. Holland dryly.

“Well, it seems to me--I was talking to her--as far as I can see, a very pathetic case.”

He paused, and Mrs. Holland regarded him with a faint smile. His manner was apologetic, but he was pleased with himself. His hand was raised to his mustache, and he was looking down at the floor with a modest air.

“Thing is,” he went on, “she wants to be a musician. She’s studied, but--present circumstances--family had to sell their piano last month. That’s pretty hard, isn’t it, my dear?”

“Oh, very,” murmured Mrs. Holland.

“She said that when she saw the piano here, she couldn’t keep her hands off it. That’s hard luck, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.”

Again he paused for some time.

“I’m afraid,” he said, “that I--well, that perhaps you won’t approve--”

“Why? What did you do?”

“On the spur of the moment, my dear--”

“What was it, Frank?” Madeline demanded, with a trace of impatience.

“Well,” he said, “I told her--said she could come here and practice--arrange with you--when it wouldn’t bother you.”

“What?” she cried. “You--”

Then she stopped short, because of the look she saw on his face--a little guilty, but pleased.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t like it,” he said.

If she said she didn’t like it, he would be still more pleased. He would think she was jealous.

“I don’t mind at all, Frank,” she told him pleasantly.

“Oh!” said he, somewhat taken aback. “Very good of you, my dear!” He rose and went toward the door. “As long as we’re going out this afternoon,” he added, “why not--well, why not let her begin to-day, eh?”

Mrs. Holland had also risen.

“I suppose you told her she could come this afternoon?”

Frank was not very happy now.

“Simply mentioned that we’d be out, and that--well, I didn’t think her practicing would bother any one, you see.”

“Yes--I see!” said Mrs. Holland.

He lingered in the doorway, as if there were something else he wanted to say; but whatever it may have been, he decided against voicing it.

“Then you’ll get on your bonnet and shawl, eh?” he suggested.

She smiled affably, and off he went.

Mrs. Holland sat very still, listening to his footsteps going down the hall. Her heart was filled with anger.

“On his own daughter’s wedding day!” she thought. “A girl younger than Joyce--a silly, artful little thing like that! Of course, she’s laughing at him. Very well--let her! I shan’t try to stop him. He can make himself just as ridiculous as he likes!”

She poured herself another cup of tea, and ate the toast that Hilda had brought with her. Anger had given her an appetite and a sort of energy. Mope? Not she!

As she went to dress, she passed the closed door of Joyce’s room, with only a strange little qualm that was like the warning of a neuralgic pain. Later would come the moment for the full realization of her loss. Just now she had an important task to perform. She had to dress so that she would look her best. She had to appear before Frank in the most nonchalant and pleasant humor. She had to show him that she wasn’t at all angry, and didn’t care in the least how absurd he was about poor Stella’s daughter.

She succeeded. That is, she was so very, very polite and casual that Frank was somewhat dismayed. His intention had been to cheer her up, and she gave him no chance for that. She never mentioned Joyce, she never once looked downcast, but kept her eyes fixed upon the stage, showing a lively interest even in the trained poodles.

He was in nowise deluded by all this. He knew that she was angry, and she could tell that he knew it by his anxious sidelong glances.

V

“See here, old girl!” he said, as they drew near the house. “Suppose we stay out for dinner? Eh?”

“I’d rather go home, thank you, Frank.”

He sighed.

“Well,” he said, “we’ve got to go some time, of course; but it’s--Madeline!” There was a note in his voice that she had never heard before--an almost panic-stricken appeal. “Madeline!” he repeated. “I hate the thought of going back. She--I can’t realize it. She seemed such a child to me--such a--” He turned away his head. “Only hope the boy’ll turn out well,” he added gruffly.

They walked on in silence. When at last he spoke again, it was in his usual vague, good-humored way. He had recovered himself; yet Mrs. Holland was not glad. There was a strange little ache of regret in her heart, as if she had missed some irrecoverable opportunity. She wanted to speak, but the moment had passed. He did not need comfort from her now, that was evident.

* * * * *

Hilda opened the door for them, and her face was not pleasant.

“There’s a young lady here, ma’am,” she said, “playin’ the pianner.”

That hardly needed saying, for all the house seemed filled with it--with the austere beauty of a Bach fugue, played with a noble and honest simplicity. It was music like a benediction upon a home. The hall was dim, but through the window on the landing came the glow of sunset. A pool of light lay upon the wine-red carpet; and that glow and color, and the music, were strangely and gravely exalting. The old house had found a voice for its loss--not sorrowful, not weary, but proclaiming a strong, sure hope.

Madeline Holland moved quietly to the doorway, and looked into the drawing-room. No sunset light was there. The long room was shadowy and without color, the roses set about were ghostly white, and their perfume was like a haunting thing. The little figure at the piano was only a shadow, too, with her head thrown back, her profile clear, pale, expressionless.

Mrs. Holland was strangely stirred. She turned toward her husband. The light was too dim for her to see his face clearly, but in the merciful dusk his features had their old romantic quality. He was staring straight before him, motionless as a statue. She stretched out her hand to touch his arm, to recall him from his distant world to herself, when just at that moment he moved abruptly, pressed the switch, and filled the room with light from the chandelier in the ceiling.

The spell was broken. The girl spun around on the stool, sprang up, and came toward Madeline.

“Oh, Mrs. Hol-land!” she cried in her drawling little voice. “I’m afraid I bothered you!”

Yes, the spell was broken now. There was no music in the big, bright room. The rapt young St. Cecilia was only Stella’s daughter, vain, insincere, coquettish.

“Not at all,” said Madeline.

Her tone might have warned the most impervious, but Stella’s daughter was not in the habit of noticing warnings. Instead, she looked at Frank, smiling up into his face; and Mrs. Holland saw his hand go up to his mustache.

“Ask Miss Johnson to play something else for you, Frank,” she suggested.

He did, and she consented archly. She went back to the piano, and he sat down near her.

“Fine technique!” he observed gravely.

Frank talking about “technique!” Frank sitting there, quite unable to conceal his satisfaction in this flattering attention! The girl glanced at him sidelong, dropped her eyes, and bent her head.

“What would you like, Mr. Hol-land?” she asked, timidly.

“Oh--er--anything--anything,” he replied. “Er--what about something operatic? Wagner, eh?”

“Oh, how can he be so idiotic?” thought Madeline. “She’s laughing at him!”

As the girl began to play again, Mrs. Holland went out of the room. It was Rubinstein’s “Melody in F,” but Frank wouldn’t know the difference. He would recognize it as something familiar and “classical,” and would be impressed; but the girl would know. She was laughing at Frank!

For the first time in many years Mrs. Holland felt a desire to bang doors. It would be a positive satisfaction to slam the drawing-room door, and then to go upstairs and slam her own door and lock it. She had done that once, long, long ago. Frank had come running up after her, and had stood outside in the hall, angry himself, but very miserable, and secretly frightened by her obstinate silence. They had “made it up” soon enough in a silly, beautiful, generous young way, each of them insisting on taking all the blame; but of course she wasn’t a foolish, headstrong young thing like that any more. If Frank liked to make himself ridiculous, he was quite at liberty to do so.

At the foot of the stairs she paused, and decided that before going to her room she would see the cook. For the last two mornings the oatmeal had been much too thin, and a tactful remonstrance was needed. She turned back. As she did so, the music stopped, and she could hear their voices in the drawing-room. She could not help hearing.

“Oh, Mr. Hol-land! You look so tired!”

“Well--”

“I’m so sorry for you! It must be awfully sad for you, your daughter getting married, and all!”

“Well--” said Frank again, in the same indulgent tone.

Mrs. Holland went on down the stairs to the basement, so angry that her knees trembled. Frank was delighted with that silly girl’s impertinent pretense of sympathy, charmed by her sidelong glances and her self-conscious smiles!

“It’s his vanity,” she thought. “He’s always been like that. Any one could flatter him.”

There was no denying that Frank liked flattery. In his younger days he used to come home and tell her, in the most artless way, of the various compliments he had received. He didn’t do that now, for he was older and wiser; but that didn’t mean that he got no more compliments, or that he had ceased to relish them. He was a remarkably likable fellow. If this girl so brazenly pursued him the first time she met him, there were probably others--

This was so arresting a thought that Madeline stopped halfway down the stairs. After all, how little she knew of Frank’s life outside his home! They were old-fashioned people. He seldom mentioned business affairs to his wife. That was his province, and the home was hers. There was a wall between them--a high wall.

It hadn’t been like that at first. She could remember very well the time when Frank used to talk to her about his business, when she had known the names of all his most important customers and had taken an anxious interest in all his “big deals,” even reading the market reports. Of course, when Joyce was born, everything had changed. She had been absorbed in her baby. That was natural and right, wasn’t it?

But perhaps Frank hadn’t changed when Madeline did. She began to remember more and more of him in those early days. Here, up and down these very stairs, he used to tramp, carrying the tiny Joyce on his shoulders, both of them filling the house with their laughter. In that basement dining room how many makeshift meals he had eaten, so cheerfully, because she and Hilda were both busy with the baby! He had always been so good-tempered about being put aside, so glad and willing to help, so interested in every detail about the marvelous baby!

She had depended upon Frank very much in those days. Then, as she grew older and more competent, she had needed him less and less, and he had been shut out of such domestic concerns. That was right, wasn’t it? A man ought not to be bothered by household matters. He had his work, and she had hers.

“But Joyce belonged to both of us,” she thought. “He always loved her so! He misses her, too.”

A great fear seized her. Frank missed Joyce. He was lonely, and in the moment of his loneliness this pretty young creature had appeared, to flatter and interest him. He was middle-aged and lonely, and Stella’s daughter was so pretty! Suppose this wasn’t a ridiculous and exasperating episode, but a serious thing? Suppose she lost Frank?

“I won’t!” she cried. “I’ll send that girl away! I’ll never let her come here again!”

That was stupid. She couldn’t keep Frank in a glass case. Even if this girl were gone, there were plenty of others in the world, pretty, cajoling, flattering young creatures.

“I’m not young any more,” she thought. “I’m old--old and selfish and dull--a hundred years older in heart than Frank. He’s still a boy. He always will be. If he likes to be flattered, it’s because he’s young enough to believe in people.”

Mechanically, moved by a blind impulse to hurry to Frank, she had mounted the stairs again, and had come to the door of the drawing-room.

“You’re so understanding!” Stella’s daughter was saying.

Mrs. Holland stopped in the dimly lit hall and looked into the room. The girl was sitting on the piano stool, her hands clasped in her lap, her pretty head bent. Frank stood beside her.

“Must be pretty hard for you,” he said gravely.

The girl looked up at him, and her eyes were filled with tears.

“You’re just the k-kindest man!” she murmured uncertainly.

Flattery? Why need it be that? Wasn’t it possible that she really liked Frank, and that he liked her? Oh, how young she was, and how pretty!

All through this long, long day Mrs. Holland had borne herself gallantly, with pride and with fortitude; but they both failed her now. She leaned against the wall and covered her eyes with her hand, shaken by a dreadful weakness and pain.

“I’m old,” she thought. “I’m old and selfish. I’ve shut Frank out. I haven’t appreciated him--and now I’ve lost him. It’s my own fault!”

A door opened in the basement, and she heard Hilda’s tread on the stairs. Hilda mustn’t see her like this! She was about to go upstairs to her own room when it occurred to her that Hilda might think that was “queer,” so she went into the drawing-room instead.

Frank came a few steps toward her, with his vague smile, but the girl did not rise. She looked at Mrs. Holland with a sort of defiance.

“She’s old!” thought Stella’s child. “There’s gray in her hair, and there are lines around her eyes. She never laughs; and he’s so jolly--much too nice for her!”

“She’s young,” thought Mrs. Holland. “So young, so pretty--and her music is magic!”

They looked and looked at each other, these two.

“Well, old girl!” said Frank.

Mrs. Holland turned, startled by his tone; and the sight of his face filled her with an intolerable emotion. All the old tenderness there, all the old kindliness and loyalty, not changed, not lost.

“Frank!” she cried.

“Tired, eh?” said he. “Well, sit down, my dear--sit down! Hard day, eh?”

“No,” she said; “a beautiful, a very wonderful day!”

“That’s the way to look at it,” he replied approvingly. “That’s the spirit, eh?”

Stella’s daughter had risen now, and was looking at Holland with angry eyes and a trembling lip. He had forgotten all about her, just because Mrs. Holland had come in! The way he looked at his wife, as if he didn’t even know that there were lines around her eyes and gray in her hair! The way she looked at him, as if she were so proudly and gratefully sure of him and of herself!

“I’m going home!” the girl announced vehemently.

They both turned toward her, a little surprised, so that she felt like an ill mannered child; and indeed she was a child, with only a child’s crude weapons--a poor, ignorant, reckless child.

“My dear,” said Madeline gently, “tell your mother I’ll come to see her to-morrow, and we’ll talk things over--about your music, and so on.”

The girl gave one last glance at Holland, but she knew it was useless. When Mrs. Holland was there, she simply didn’t count with him.

“Good night!” she said in a sulky, unsteady voice.

“Good night!” their kind, grown-up voices answered in unison.

The front door closed vigorously behind her. Madeline sat still, and Frank stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder. The house was very quiet, but it was not empty. Life was still going on in it. Life never stopped, while the heart beat.

“Frank,” she said, “I think we’d better go out to dinner, after all.”

“If you feel up to it, my dear.”

“We’ll have to go out more together, Frank. Now that Joyce has gone--”

She stopped, and for a moment he was afraid that she would break down; but when he bent and looked into her face, he saw that she was smiling a very lovely smile.

“Joyce has gone,” she said, “but you’re here, Frank!”

He patted her shoulder, and, glancing up, she saw his hand raised to his mustache. In all simplicity, he was pleased, because she had remembered that.

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

JULY, 1926 Vol. LXXXVIII NUMBER 2

The Compromising Letter

A ROMANTIC AFTERMATH OF THE RARE OLD DAYS WHEN CHARMING LADIES WIELDED A FACILE QUILL

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

Mr. Ronald Phillips was an authority upon Mme. Van Der Dokjen; indeed he was the greatest living authority.

He was also the sole authority. His fellow countrymen knew little about Mme. Van Der Dokjen, and seemed to care less. He was not sorry for this.

He had written a book called “Mme. Van Der Dokjen and Her Milieu,” in which he gave as much information as he thought suitable for the public; but he had a large collection of her letters and so on. He was thankful that there were no other authorities to go snooping around and finding out the things he did not choose to publish.

Not that the lady had any guilty secrets in her life. She was perfection. Only, there were little things, what you might call trifling inconsistencies, things pardonable, even charming in themselves, but foreign to her austere and energetic character.

For instance, that letter written to her sister in 1777, in which she described, with such unexpected enthusiasm, a certain young captain in General Washington’s army. Mme. Van Der Dokjen was at that time forty-three years of age. No doubt her interest in the young soldier was pure patriotism.

But Mr. Phillips preferred not to publish that letter; so squeamish was he, that he did not even make use of the recipe it contained for quince conserve, which illustrated her splendid housewifely talents.

Indeed, he grew nervous about Mme. Van Der Dokjen. He lived in dread lest some one should discover new documents concerning her. It was for this reason that he went to live in the historic cottage on the banks of the Hudson, in which she had ended her days. He thought that perhaps there were documents hidden in it.

It was as historic a cottage as one could wish to see. There were in it a spinet, a frame for making candles, a spinning-wheel, and other interesting objects. He set to work at once upon a new book to be called “When Home Was Home,” which would depict Mme. Van Der Dokjen living in this cottage, making conserves and candles, playing upon the spinet, and entertaining the illustrious men of the age.

Mr. Van Der Dokjen was there, too, but Phillips did not care much for him. A dull dog, he must have been.

In this book, Phillips was going to kill two birds with a pretty heavy stone. He was going to give more highly valuable information about Mme. Van Der Dokjen, and he was also going to show how lamentably had the home declined since that day. Home life had degenerated, and home life was the very foundation of morality.

And the foundation of home life was--thrift. There was no virtue he admired more. There was a great deal about thrift in his book.

In the meantime, though, he had to eat to live. He could not himself make conserves and candles; there must be a womanly spirit to look after all this. So he invited his Cousin Winnie to become his housekeeper.

She said that life could hold no greater joy, but that she could not leave her only child. This was natural and admirable, and, as the child was a daughter of twenty, who would not be likely to scratch the furniture or steal the conserves, he said to bring her.

In that branch of the family, Ronald Phillips was supreme. Not only was he rich, but he was rich in the correct way--mysteriously. Everybody knew exactly how much he had inherited from his father, but nobody knew how much he had now, or how much he spent--or how he intended to leave his fortune. Cousin Ronald’s money was one of the best and brightest topics in the family.

Also he was literary. He was rich, he was literary, and he had great natural distinction. He disapproved of more things than any one else in the family. He was tall, and handsome, in a distinguished way; he had gray hair parted in the middle, a gray goatee, and a fine voice. Cousin Winnie admired him profoundly.

Her child, though, the young Lucy, belonged to a more critical generation. She saw certain flaws. But she said nothing. She came with her mother to the historic cottage, prepared to do her best.

She had studied domestic science; she was energetic and healthy, and she thought that she and her mother could make Cousin Ronald very comfortable. She wished to do so; that was her nature. She was a kind little thing.

She was a pretty little thing, too. Cousin Ronald admitted it. Not in the Mme. Van Der Dokjen style, but she was young yet. The years might bring her more of the dignity, the calm of that matchless woman.

And, as it was, she had her good points; she had clear, steady blue eyes, and very satisfactory light hair, and she had a pleasing sort of gayety about her. She sang while she was working. It was agreeable to hear her.

She had faults, undoubtedly, but they were, Cousin Ronald thought, more the faults of her deplorable generation than anything inherent. He thought they might be cured. He interpreted Mme. Van Der Dokjen to her, also the significance of home life.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Cousin Ronald, I know it’s lovely. But, you see, I don’t have much time during the day, and in the evening I do like to read or write letters.”

“Mme. Van Der Dokjen wrote letters,” he pointed out. “An astounding quantity of letters, when one considers her unflagging devotion to her domestic duties, and her truly brilliant social life. There is no doubt but that many of these letters--models of the epistolary art--were written by the light of candles, Lucy.”

“Yes, I know!” Lucy agreed. “But she was different.”

“I concede the point,” said Cousin Ronald, with a trace of severity. “Where, I ask, in the modern world, can one find a woman who is not different--deplorably different? But I should like to point out to you, Lucy, that this habit of continually saying--‘I know!’--gives a quite false impression of your character. I do not believe you to be one of these intolerable modern young women who fancy they ‘know’ everything.”

“Yes, I know!” said Lucy. “I mean--I know that what you say is right, Cousin Ronald. Only, I thought that just one oil lamp--”

He told her that even one oil lamp would utterly destroy the “atmosphere” of the historic cottage.

“All right!” Lucy replied.

He remembered how Mme. Van Der Dokjen was wont to reply to the requests or commands of her elders. “You must be assured, Hon’d Sir, of my pleasure in conforming to y’r lightest wish.” “All right!” That was the modern way. He sighed.

“And now your dinner’s ready,” Lucy announced. “Something awfully nice, too.”

He sighed no more. These meals which Cousin Winnie and her child prepared for him were charming; he had never enjoyed anything more. They had the real old-fashioned homeliness; plain food, but beautifully cooked, and plenty of it. Cousin Ronald had spent his life in modest hotels; and this was his first experience, since childhood, of home life.

“You have been here one month to-day, Cousin Winnie,” he remarked, as he finished his fried chicken. “I must thank you. It has been--for me, that is--a most delightful month.”

“I’m sure, Cousin Ronald, it has been a pleasure,” said Cousin Winnie. Tears came into her eyes. It was so touching to see Cousin Ronald grateful.

By common consent they omitted Lucy from the compliments. Like most persons of middle-age, they knew that it is not wise to praise the young; they remember what you say, and use it against you later on. Cousin Ronald knew this by instinct, but Cousin Winnie knew from experience.

She was a thin, worn little lady, with a gentle and pretty face. It was the general opinion in the family that she had been the helpless victim of a cruel fate, and certainly she had had many undeserved misfortunes. But she had survived them. She had kept upon the surface of the stormy sea, like a cork. She could stand a good deal.

This was a good thing, for fresh trials were approaching.

II

It was a superb September morning, warm and still. The windows of the dining room were open as they sat at breakfast, and Cousin Winnie saw white butterflies out in the neat little garden. Most lovely perfumes drifted in, fresh-cut grass and pine needles, and the very last roses; and from the kitchen came another current, warmer, like a Gulf Stream, and less romantic, but beautiful, made of the aromas of pancakes, maple sirup, bacon, and coffee.

The sun shone in; everything was good, and right, and Cousin Winnie was happy. Her mail, too, was satisfactory. She had a letter from a jealous and spiteful cousin in California, who insinuated that Cousin Ronald was growing old, and falling prey to certain unscrupulous relatives.

The injustice of this really flattered Cousin Winnie. Nobody could have been less designing than she. The arrangement was entirely of Cousin Ronald’s making; he had sought them out, in their cozy little flat in New York, where they had managed well enough with the aid of Lucy’s salary as an assistant librarian.

They had been glad to come, but it was nothing like so dazzling a situation as the spiteful cousin in California imagined. The financial compensation was very modest. Very! Cousin Ronald was no spendthrift.

And there was a great deal of work to be done in this cottage which was so charmingly old fashioned. Still, Cousin Winnie was glad she had come, because, for all Cousin Ronald’s distinction, his literary attainments, she thought he was pathetic. She glanced up from the spiteful cousin’s letter, to enjoy the heart-warming spectacle of the poor man eating buckwheat cakes.

But he was not eating at all. He was staring before him with unseeing eyes.

“Is anything the matter, Cousin Ronald?” she asked, anxiously.

“Er--no, no,” he answered. “That is--nothing wrong with this most excellent breakfast, my dear Winnie. But--er--but--er--”

“Did you say ‘butter,’ Ronald?”

“No, no, thank you. I have received a letter. I fear I must ask you to excuse me, Winnie.” He arose. “I--I am perturbed!” he added. “I must be alone for a time.”

He gathered together his letters, most of which he had not yet opened, and went out of the dining room, into his study. He locked the door, and sat down before his desk.

“Merciful Powers!” he murmured.

The blow had fallen. Mme. Van Der Dokjen was most hideously threatened.

Again he read the fatal letter.

DEAR MR. PHILLIPS:

Having heard of your interest in Colonial history, and particularly in Mme. Van Der Dokjen, I feel sure you will be pleased to learn that I have discovered a letter written by her to an ancestor of mine--a certain Ephraim Ordway, captain in General Washington’s army.

Apparently Mme. V. took a pretty lively interest in Captain Ordway, and the letter may provide an amusing sidelight upon the lady’s history.

If you would care to see it, I shall be glad to bring it to you some day.

Very truly yours, STEPHEN ORDWAY.

“This,” said Cousin Ronald to himself, “is blackmail. ‘An amusing sidelight--!’ Merciful Powers!”

On a shelf before him stood a copy of “Mme. Van Der Dokjen and Her Milieu,” chastely bound in gray and gold. As frontispiece there was a portrait of her, smiling; but how dignified, how superb! “An amusing sidelight!”

“Of course I shall write to this fellow, and bid him bring his letter,” thought Cousin Ronald. “But I’ll have to pay. Heaven knows what I shall have to pay!”

It was a truly horrible situation, for it combined the two greatest fears of his soul; the fear of injury to Mme. Van Der Dokjen, and the fear of spending much money. Because, as was mentioned before, Cousin Ronald was no spendthrift.

It was with the object of obtaining temporary relief from these painful matters that he opened his other letters. But instead of relief, here were more blows. It was the beginning of the month, and all the other envelopes contained bills--for groceries, for meat, for vegetables, for laundry. He added them together, and was appalled. He knew what it had cost Mme. Van Der Dokjen to run this house; this was five times as much.

For a moment, a sort of desperation seized upon him. He saw his hard earned--by his father--money being squandered and dissipated upon all sides. He saw himself paying these bills, and buying the compromising letter, and being left a ruined man.

“Merciful Powers!” he cried, with a groan.

Then he arose, and went to Cousin Winnie, and told her that he was a ruined man.

In that chapter on Mme. Van Der Dokjen “During the War,” he had written with a certain eloquence about her benevolence, and about womanly sympathy in general; he had praised it, but not before had he encountered it. And he found it even sweeter than he had believed.

He and Cousin Winnie had a long talk. He assured her that he was confiding in her. To tell the truth, he told her nothing, but he spoke of his “troubles” in a large, vague fashion, he begged her to help him to economize. And she pitied him.

Lucy pitied him, too. But she was of a somewhat more practical nature.

“If he’s ruined,” she said, “it seems to me that we’d better go back to the city, and I’ll get another job. And at least we’ll have hot baths, and electric lights, and enough to eat.”

“I could not leave your Cousin Ronald now,” her mother declared, solemnly. “He says that any day now he will know. And then we can decide.”

“Know what?” asked Lucy.

“Know the worst,” her mother replied.

“Nothing,” said Lucy, “could be worse than this.”

Indeed, matters were bad, very bad. A black shadow lay over the household. Every morning Cousin Ronald came to the breakfast table, with a stern, set face, opened his letters, looked at Cousin Winnie, and said “Nothing!” She knew not what fateful news he expected, but she dreaded it, and yet wished it would come, that the blow would fall, the suspense be ended.

In the meantime, she did her utmost to aid the stricken man. Her economies were heroic. No need to detail them here. She grew thinner and paler, but she did not falter. Cousin Ronald told her frequently that he did not know what he could do without her coöperation, and that was a spur to the willing horse.

She did not like her child to endure all this, though. Again and again she urged Lucy to go back to the city, but Lucy refused. She would not leave her mother, and she, too, was sorry for Cousin Ronald; quite as sorry as her mother, though in a different way. In her eyes he was not the distinguished and admirable figure Cousin Winnie thought him; he was simply a “poor, funny old darling.” So, she remained, also waiting for the blow.

But no one suffered as did Cousin Ronald. He had written at once to this Stephen Ordway, requesting him to bring the letter at his “earliest convenience.” No answer came; days went by, and Cousin Ronald wrote again. He waited and waited, in growing anguish. What, he asked himself, could be the reason for this silence? Awful fancies came to him.

His publishers wrote, asking if they might expect the manuscript of his new book in time for their spring list. He knew not how to reply. He dared not publish anything further about Mme. Van Der Dokjen while that letter was at large.

One night he had a dream. He dreamed that he went into Brentano’s, to look at his book--“A Historic Cottage”--which had just been published, in gray and gold, like the former volume. He was, in his dream, examining this volume with justifiable pleasure, when his eye fell upon another book beside it--a slim little book in a scarlet jacket--“The Lady and the Soldier--An Amusing Sidelight Upon Mme. Van Der Dokjen.”

It was a frightful dream, from which he awoke, cold and trembling.

“Whatever he asks, I’ll pay it!” he thought. “But--Merciful Powers! It may be a sum beyond the very bounds of reason.”

Still, he would pay. He would not see this noble woman held up to the world’s ridicule. Whatever the cost, he would pay.

And, until he knew the cost, every cent must be saved. Very well; every cent was saved. Cousin Winnie assisted him in this. He waited. They all waited.

III

The summer ran its course, and the great winds were beginning to blow. The leaves were falling fast. And, in the city, janitors were informing tenants that the furnace was being repaired; who so sorry as they for any delay in getting up a fine sizzling head of steam in the boiler these chilly mornings?

In the historic cottage there was, of course, not even a hope of a furnace. Cousin Winnie spent most of her time in the kitchen, where there was a coal stove, and Cousin Ronald took long, healthful walks. So did Lucy; often they went together, but not on this especial afternoon. If they had, if Lucy had accompanied Cousin Ronald this afternoon, all might have been different.

Cousin Ronald, however, had remained in his study, communing, so to speak, with Mme. Van Der Dokjen. It was growing late when from his window he saw Lucy coming back from her walk. Her hair was blown about, her cheeks were glowing, she looked the most alive, warm, radiant creature imaginable.

And he was chilly and dispirited, and, seeing her, he thought that perhaps a walk might do all that for him. So he put on his hat and overcoat and took up his stick, and set forth. Not ten yards from his own gate he passed the man he so anxiously awaited, but he knew him not. He went on, in one direction, and the man went on in the other.

The man knocked at the door of the cottage, and Lucy opened it. She was still flushed from her walk, and in that dim, low-ceilinged room she seemed to him, with her fair hair that shone, her clear blue eyes, her scarlet jersey, almost impossibly vivid.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Does Mr. Phillips live here?”

“Oh, yes!” Lucy answered. “But he’s just gone out. You might catch him if--”

“I’d be sure to miss him,” the stranger declared, firmly. “If it won’t bother you, may I wait? I’ll just sit down out here.” And he indicated a very historic settle which was built into the porch. All the winds that blew, blew here; an eddy of leaves whirled about his feet, now, and Lucy could scarcely hold the door open.

“You’d better come in,” she suggested.

“Well, thank you,” said he.

Fresh from the stir and color of the windy day, the sitting room seemed to him unpleasantly chill and dark as Lucy closed the door behind him. The fire was out, for economy’s sake, and the tiny panes in the historic window did not admit much light.

“This is a pretty old house, isn’t it?” he observed.

“Awfully!” said Lucy. “Sit down, won’t you? That chair’s a hundred and fifty years old. And it’s one of the junior set, too!”

“I’ve heard about this place. Belonged to Mme. Van Der Dokjen, didn’t it?”

“It still does!” said Lucy, grimly.

The stranger glanced at her.

“My name’s Ordway,” he explained. “I wrote to Mr. Phillips, and he asked me to come. I’ve been away--on my vacation--or I’d have come before.”

He wished that he had. He wished that he had come weeks ago. He felt that he had lost priceless time. And he looked as if he thought that.

Lucy had always liked red hair, and noses that turned up a little. This young man had red hair and that sort of nose; he was big, too, and broad-shouldered, and he looked cheerful. She asked him if he would care to look over the historic cottage and its antiques.

“Well--no, thanks,” he said. “Tell you the truth, I’ve had all I want of historic things. My aunts, you know--they’ve got ancestors, and documents. If you don’t mind, I’d rather just sit here and--”

He said “wait,” but what he meant was “talk to you.” The girl knew this. They did sit there, and they talked. The room grew dark; a very fine sunset was going forward in its proper place; indeed, at that moment Cousin Ronald was standing upon a hilltop, admiring it. But the laws of nature kept it away from the sitting room.

In the course of time Cousin Winnie was obliged to call for her daughter’s aid. She came into the doorway; Mr. Ordway was presented to her; she spoke to him graciously, and gave him a candle, then she took away the radiant Lucy.

Candle or no candle, the room seemed darker than ever to Ordway. He began to walk about, but he knocked his shins against too many historic objects, and at last he paused, in a spot where he could see into the kitchen. He saw Cousin Winnie and Lucy preparing dinner by candlelight.

And he did not find it picturesque. He saw Lucy vigorously plying the pump beside the sink. He was not reminded of the old days, when home life had been so much finer. He thought:

“Good Lord! A pump! Candles! It’s a shame! It’s a darned shame! A girl like that! It’s a darned shame!”

He blamed Mr. Ronald Phillips for all this.

When Cousin Ronald came home, he found a Stephen Ordway even more sinister than he had feared; a stern and very reticent young man, a very large one, too. By the light of the one candle in the sitting room, he loomed, in the dictionary sense of the word--“loom: to appear larger than the real size, and indefinitely.” His red hair had an infernal gleam.

“Mr.--er--Ordway?” said Cousin Ronald. “Yes--yes--I had--er--a communication from you?”

“You did, Mr. Phillips.”

“Er--have you brought it with you?” asked Cousin Ronald, very low.

The young man said “Yes,” but made no move to produce any document. He was thinking of something else.

“This house is old,” he remarked; “but it seems pretty solid.”

“Yes, indeed!” Cousin Ronald assented anxiously. “Yes, indeed!” He saw that the young man was leading up to something. “Suppose we step into my study?”

The young man was looking about him, at the walls, up at the ceiling.

“Yes,” he asserted. “The place could be wired.”

“W-wired?” said Cousin Ronald. “I don’t--”

“I’m an electrical engineer,” said Ordway. “I’ve been looking around here. Think what electricity could do for you here! Light--plenty of light--electric water heater--pump--dish washer--vacuum cleaner--percolator--stoves. You could have decent comfort!”

Cousin Ronald could not fathom the motives of the stranger, but he felt sure that they were profoundly subtle, and inimical to Cousin Ronald’s welfare. Again he said:

“Will you--er--step into my study, sir?”

Ordway stepped, and when he got in there he loomed worse than ever.

“See here!” he said. “Let me do this job for you--wiring the house.”

Cousin Ronald felt a sort of illness, a sort of faintness. He believed that he could comprehend the plot now. Instead of bluntly demanding a certain sum for Mme. Van Der Dokjen’s letter, he was going to demand this job--this impious, this vandal job, of “wiring” the cottage. And the price--the price--

“I--er--fear it would be a somewhat costly undertaking,” said Cousin Ronald.

Ordway thought of the wonderful girl, groping about in this dismal house, cold, forlorn, captive to an ogre relative. He was perhaps a little obsessed by electricity--a good thing for one of his profession. He thought it the great hope of the modern world. And he could not endure the idea of a wonderful girl deprived of its benefits. He said:

“The question is--if anything can be too ‘costly,’ when it’s a matter of human dignity and welfare.”

A shudder ran along Cousin Ronald’s spine. The moment had come. Very well; he was ready. He admitted, in his own heart, that nothing could be too costly where Mme. Van Der Dokjen’s dignity was concerned. He was silent for a moment; then he raised his distinguished head.

“Mr. Ordway,” he said, “name your price, sir!”

Ordway stared at him with a faint frown.

“I didn’t mean that,” he explained. What he had meant was that he would be glad to do this job for nothing. But he feared to affront Mr. Phillips. “It’s--I’d enjoy doing it,” he said earnestly.

Cousin Ronald could not endure the suspense any longer.

“Mr. Ordway,” he said, “let us be direct, sir. That is ever my way. I have long been prepared for this eventuality. I am ready, sir, to consider the purchase of this letter. Be good enough to name your price.”

IV

Like many another man before him, Cousin Ronald was ill-served by his own impatience. Ordway had come, intending to hand the letter over as a gift of no importance, but being asked to name his price put ideas into his head. He reflected. He reflected so long that Cousin Ronald grew still more impatient.

“I have been practicing the strictest economy,” he announced. “I may say that I have endured something not short of actual discomfort, sir, in order that I might be in a position to meet any--er--reasonable terms--”

There was a knock at the door. It was Cousin Winnie.

“Your dinner!” she whispered. “It’s ready!”

Cousin Ronald did some quick reflecting himself. If the young man could observe their strict economy for himself--

“Mr. Ordway, sir,” he said, “will you favor us with your company at a very simple meal?”

“Thank you!” Ordway replied. “I’d be pleased to.”

This dinner had, in Cousin Ronald’s eyes, a sweet, old-fashioned charm. A fire burned now upon the hearth; the board was set out with Wedgwood and with Sheffield plate. And Cousin Ronald positively recreated Mme. Van Der Dokjen, describing her just as she had been, here in this very room.

But Ordway was not moved. He did not give the Wedgwood or the plate anything like the attention he gave to the economical dinner, and the late Mme. Van Der Dokjen was, to him, of very inferior merit to the living Lucy. All the time Cousin Ronald discoursed, Ordway was thinking of Lucy, deprived of electricity and of all the other privileges she so richly deserved.

“It’s a darned shame!” he thought. “The old skinflint thinks more of that letter than he does of his own family. A darned shame!”

When the meal ended, Cousin Ronald suggested that Lucy sing, accompanying herself upon the spinet--an art she had recently acquired. He believed that this would soften the heart of the rapacious young man.

It did. It did, indeed. To the sweetly jangling spinet she sang some gentle old song. In firelight and candlelight--

The young man, watching her and hearing her, was quite as much moved as Cousin Ronald could have desired--but in the wrong direction.

Her song ended, Cousin Ronald and Ordway withdrew to the study, Cousin Winnie and her child to the kitchen. Twenty minutes passed; then Ordway reappeared. With a curtsy almost old-fashioned, Lucy went with him to the door, even across the threshold.

The wind slammed the door behind her, and for a few minutes she stood in the porch, talking to the young man. Cousin Winnie, in the kitchen, heard them; they were discussing a new play. Lucy said yes, she did like the theater, but she didn’t go very often now. And she had heard “The Maddened Brute” spoken of as a wonderful play--a really big thing. Cousin Winnie missed a little here, owing to her duties; the next thing she heard was Lucy saying good night to Mr. Ordway.

It had been a very brief conversation, but Ordway, as he walked to the station in the windy dark, imagined that she had said a great deal. He thought, somehow, that she had told him what a miserable existence she led in the historic cottage. What a darned shame!

V

Lucy was sitting at a small table by the dining room window. She had bought a tube of cement, and with it she was mending a varied assortment of antique china she had discovered in a cupboard. It was raining outside, a chill, steady downpour. And the room was dim and cold, and it was a dismal world.

“I wish I was thirty!” she thought. Because at that advanced age she believed that one could be content to live in a historic cottage, and not mind dullness, or rain, or anything, very much. At thirty she would be content to devote her life to the ruined Cousin Ronald and her heroic mother. Yet, in a way, she disliked the thought of being thirty. She disliked all her thoughts this afternoon.

“As far as that goes,” she reflected, pursuing a certain familiar line, “I don’t have to wait for anybody to invite me. I can take mother to see ‘The Maddened Brute’ this very Saturday, if I like. I’ve got enough money for that. Only, mother wouldn’t like that sort of play. Anyhow, I don’t care!”

Carefully she cemented a handle on an ancient sugar basin; then, setting it down to dry, she looked out of the window. The postman, in a rubber coat, was coming along the muddy road.

“I don’t care!” she said again. She was not the sort of girl who waited with the slightest interest for letters that people had said they were going to write a week ago. Let them write, or not write; what cared she?

The postman came up on the porch and whistled, and the door opened--like a sort of cuckoo clock--and Cousin Winnie took in the letters. But what a long time she was in the hall!

“I suppose she’s got another letter from a cousin,” thought Lucy. “If there was anything for me--But I don’t care, anyhow.”

At last Cousin Winnie came into the dining room.

“A letter for you, Lucy,” she said, handed it to her child, and vanished. With the utmost indifference Lucy opened her letter. It contained two tickets for “The Maddened Brute” for Saturday afternoon, an explanation of the difficulty of getting them, and a very civil request that she and her mother meet Stephen Ordway for lunch at the Ritz before the play.

Not yet being thirty, the girl was pleased.

“Mother!” she called. “Isn’t this nice? Listen--”

No answer. She got up and went into the kitchen, and found her mother standing by the window--just standing, doing nothing. This was alarming.

“Mother!” she said. “What’s wrong?”

“Lucy--” said her mother. “Oh, Lucy! Oh, think of it! You can travel! You can have really nice clothes!” She was actually in tears.

“What is the matter?” cried Lucy. And then: “What’s this?”

It was a check for five thousand dollars which Cousin Winnie extended in her trembling hand.

“Your--your Cousin Peter--left it to you!”

“Cousin Peter! Who’s he?”

“You wouldn’t remember,” said Cousin Winnie. “A--a second cousin of--your grandfather’s. Oh, Lucy! My dear, good child! Now you can go away!”

“But the check’s made out to you, and it’s signed L. B. Grey--”

“A legal form,” Cousin Winnie explained. “I myself shall be well and amply provided for. This check is entirely for you, Lucy.”

VI

Somehow, “The Maddened Brute” was a disappointment. It was truly, as the advertisements declared it, a tense and gripping drama of life in the raw, but the characters were all so very violent that it was rather a relief than a tragedy when any one of them was silenced by stabbing, drowning, and so on.

Mr. Ordway was a little tense himself. When Cousin Winnie had seen him in the historic cottage, he had appeared such a cheerful young man, and now he was so odd, so silent. He ordered a superb luncheon at the Ritz; he provided them with an unparalleled box of chocolates; he was, in material ways, a most satisfactory host.

But spiritually he was depressing. In the theater he sat on the aisle, next to Cousin Winnie, and whenever the curtain went down he kept asking her about her plans, in a low and alarmingly serious voice.

“You won’t stay in that house all winter, will you?” And he spoke of pneumonia, of bronchitis, of rheumatism, with a horrid eloquence. He said that candles often set houses on fire. He pictured such a disaster on a bitter midwinter night.

He spoke of thieves. He went on to escaped lunatics; and when the curtain rose on the third act and showed the Maddened Brute gibbering in a cellar by the light of one candle, she gasped.

“I must speak to Lucy!” she thought. “She’s got to go away!” It was her policy not to interfere with her child, and she had waited very patiently for some word as to what Lucy meant to do with the check. But now she would wait no longer; she would speak to her about going away.

She had no opportunity, though. The young man insisted on taking them all the way back to the cottage.

It did, indeed, look sinister that evening, so small, so lonely under a stormy sky. Mad things could so easily be hiding behind those bushes. Of course they weren’t, but they could.

“You must come in, Mr. Ordway,” said Cousin Winnie.

“Thanks,” he replied. “But--thanks, but I’ve got to go. Only, I wish you’d tell me first that you’ve decided not to stay here this winter.”

“Oh, dear!” said Cousin Winnie, mildly. “I’m sure I can’t.”

“Why don’t you go to Bermuda?” continued the young man. “Or Florida? You--both of you--look pale.”

Although a little tiresome, Cousin Winnie thought the young man’s solicitude rather touching. But Lucy answered him bluntly.

“We can’t afford things like that. We’re going to stay here--”

“But five thousand dollars ought--” he began, vehemently, and stopped short. There was a blank silence.

“Mother!” said Lucy, reproachfully.

“My dear!” said Cousin Winnie. “Naturally, I never mentioned--”

There was another silence.

“Mr. Ordway,” Lucy began. “What made you say ‘five thousand dollars’?”

“Oh! It--it just came into my head,” he replied.

“It couldn’t,” said Lucy, coldly. “I’d like to know. Will you tell me, please, why you thought I had five thousand dollars?”

Another silence.

“Because,” said Ordway, “I sent it.”

“Oh!” cried mother and daughter.

“But--listen, please!” said the young man, in great distress. “It’s--if you’ll just listen. You see, I had a letter written by this Mme. Van Der What’s Her Name--and Mr. Phillips wanted it--badly. And when I saw how--what it was like in the cottage--and he seemed to have all he wanted to spare for that darn fool letter. I made him pay five thousand for it. Please! Just a minute! It really belongs to you. You’re his relatives.”

“But--Cousin Peter!” cried Lucy.

“I made him up,” said Cousin Winnie, faintly. “The letter said--from an anonymous friend--and I thought--perhaps your Cousin Ronald himself--But now, of course, Lucy will return it to you at once, Mr. Ordway.”

“I can’t,” said Lucy, with a sob. “You told me this Cousin Peter yarn--and you said you were amply provided for--and I’m young and healthy--and the poor thing did look so wretched--”

“Lucy! What ‘poor thing’? Oh, Lucy, what have you done?”

“You told me he was ruined,” said Lucy. “And he did look so cold, and wretched, and dismal--and I rather like him.”

“Lucy! You didn’t--”

“I did!” cried Lucy in despair. “I gave it to Cousin Ronald!”

“He accepted it?” asked Ordway, in a terrible voice.

“He had to,” Lucy replied. “I put it in an envelope and wrote--‘from an admirer of Mme. Van Der Dokjen’!”

No one spoke for a time.

“I know it was foolish,” said Lucy, finally. “But the day I got it, I felt so--I can’t describe it--so--well, so healthy, you know, and able to do anything I wanted. And he was sitting in there, writing his poor silly old book, with one candle. And his gray hair, and his funny little beard--and the way he clears his throat--sort of baaing--like a lamb. And I thought he was ruined.”

“Foolish!” repeated Cousin Winnie, and with that she walked briskly up the path.

“I really am a little bit sorry,” Lucy remarked.

“Sorry for what?” inquired Ordway.

“Well,” said she. “For you, I guess. You must feel pretty flat, just now.”

“Thank you,” said he. “I do.”

“It was a nasty, condescending thing.”

“It wasn’t meant like that,” he declared. “What I--”

The door of the cottage opened, and Cousin Winnie called:

“Don’t stand there in the cold!”

“Mother says--” Lucy began.

“I heard her,” said Ordway. “Thing is--what do you say?”

“Well, I’d--I’d like you to come,” said Lucy.

VII

Then they went in. They found Cousin Winnie standing by a console in the hall, with a strange look on her face.

“Really!” said she. “This is--Look at this!”

And she held out to them a check for five thousand dollars, drawn by Cousin Ronald to her order.

“Listen!” she said, and began to read:

“MY DEAR WINNIE:

“An unexpected stroke of good fortune enables me to tender to you this small token of my profound appreciation of your kindness toward me in a dark hour. I beg that you will honor me by accepting it.

“Furthermore, it occurs to me that this cottage, hallowed as it is to me by its associations, is scarcely suitable in its present condition for a winter residence for ladies accustomed to modern conveniences. I shall endeavor to arrange for the installation of electricity, and I am this afternoon going into the city to consult with an expert upon the advisability of a small furnace.

“I shall be somewhat late in returning. Indeed, my dear Winnie, I should prefer that you read this in my absence, and to consider--”

“That’s all that matters,” said Cousin Winnie, hastily, folding up the letter.

“No! Read the rest!” her child firmly insisted.

“No,” Cousin Winnie asserted. “I--I prefer not.”

“But why?” Lucy began, and then stopped, staring at her mother.

“Mother!” the girl exclaimed.

“Don’t be silly!” said Cousin Winnie, severely.

“Merciful Powers!” Lucy remarked, with a shocking mimicry of Cousin Ronald’s manner. “I fear this is another compromising letter!”

“It is not, at all!” Cousin Winnie declared indignantly. “Nothing could be more honorable and--”

Then suddenly they all began to laugh. Cousin Ronald, coming up the path, heard them. He thought it was an agreeable thing to hear, suggestive of that fine, old-fashioned home life.

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

AUGUST, 1926 Vol. LXXXVIII NUMBER 3

Miss Cigale

IT SHOULD BE QUITE NATURAL FOR A GRASSHOPPER TO KNOW MORE ABOUT PAWN TICKETS THAN DOES AN ANT

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

Mrs. Russell sat on the veranda, waiting for her son. A handsome and dignified woman she was, and a very calm one, but her calmness did not suggest patience.

On the contrary, she looked like one of those persons who wait until exactly the right moment, and then proceed to do whatever is exactly the right thing to be done, leaving late or careless persons to their well-deserved fate. Half past six was the dinner hour; at half past six she would go into the dining room, and if her son were not home--

He always was home, though. For twenty-three years he had been trained in punctuality, neatness, and economy, and his mother was satisfied with the result. She turned her eyes toward the west, where the sun was preparing to leave, gathering together his gorgeous, filmy raiment.

She was not looking at, or thinking of, any sunset, however, but looked in that direction because the railway station lay there, and she had heard a train whistle. It was not Geordie’s regular train, but once in awhile he came a little earlier; and, though Mrs. Russell was too reasonable to expect such a thing, she hoped he was coming now.

It was nice to have an extra half hour with her boy; nice to walk about the lawn with him, to talk to him, to listen to him, even just to look at him, as long as he didn’t catch her at it.

No; he wasn’t coming early to-night. The long tree lined street was empty, except for a woman who had just crossed the road. She was an odd figure; even the judicial Mrs. Russell had to smile a little at her frantic progress. A flower crowned hat had slipped far to the back of her head, a gray dust coat, unbuttoned, flew out behind her.

She walked bent by the weight of two heavy bags, pressing forward in haste, as if struggling against a mighty wind. She came nearer, and through the branches of a tree a shaft from the setting sun fell upon her wild fair hair.

“But--goodness gracious!” said Mrs. Russell, half aloud. “But--no! Nonsense! It can’t be!”

For there had been somebody else, with wild fair hair like that, shining not gold, but silver when the sun lay on it; somebody else slight and tall, and always in a desperate hurry. That was years and years ago.

She got up and came to the edge of the veranda, a queer flutter in her heart. Could there be any one else with quite that air--distinguished, and yet a little ridiculous, and somehow so touching?

“Louie!” she said, incredulously.

Down went the bags on the pavement. The newcomer stood where she was for an instant, then, headlong, rushed through the gate, up the steps, and clasped Mrs. Russell in her arms so violently that the flower crowned hat fell off and rolled down the steps. It lay on the gravel walk like a poor dry little flowerpot.

“Oh, Bella!” she cried. “Oh, Bella! Oh, Bella!”

“There--” said Mrs. Russell. “Sit down, my dear! Try to control yourself!”

As a matter of fact, she was crying herself, in a quiet, dignified sort of way. But, by the time she had gone down the steps and fetched her sister’s lively hat, she had put an end to all such nonsense, and was quite calm again.

“I’m very happy to see you, Louie--” she began, but the other interrupted her.

“After all these years!” she cried, with a sob. “It doesn’t seem possible, does it, Bella? We were young then, Bella. Oh, think of that! Young, Bella--”

“I shan’t think of any such thing,” said Mrs. Russell, tartly. “Do stop crying, Louie, please, and tell me something about yourself.”

“It isn’t me yet, Bella; not the poor, silly forty-five-year-old me. It’s the other Louie, with her hair down her back, sitting here with the old Bella in that plaid dress. Do you remember that plaid gingham, Bella, that mother made for you? With the bias--”

“No!” Mrs. Russell replied. “I do not. I don’t want to, either. What I want to hear is something about yourself, Louie--something sensible and intelligible.”

“I remember you, Bella, so well--sitting at the piano, with a great black braid over your shoulder, playing that ‘Marche Aux Flambeaux,’ and poor father keeping time with his pipe. And that duet, Bella! You and I--the Grande Fantasia for Les Huguenots--” She giggled through her tears, and that giggle was more than Mrs. Russell could bear. It made the plaid dress and the duet and a hundred heartbreaking, dusty, forgotten things rise up before her.

“Louie!” she said. “I’m ashamed of you! When two sisters haven’t met for--”

“For two lifetimes!” said the incorrigible Louie. “I don’t care, Bella! The old things are the best.”

“What,” interrupted Mrs. Russell, sternly, “have you been doing all these years, Louie? Why didn’t you ever write to me?”

“I never had time, Bella. I’ve been too busy, failing. I’ve failed at everything, Bella, everything! I gave my recital--and you must have read how quickly and thoroughly I failed there. Then I tried giving music lessons, but I was always late, or I forgot to come at all, or I’d feel not in the mood for teaching. Then I studied filing and indexing, and oh, Bella, you should have seen the awful things I did! You know I never was exactly methodical! Then I learned typing. I was a little frightened then, Bella. I really tried, at that. But, you see, I wasn’t young any more then, and not good at the work. That failed, too. Then I tried to peddle things--scented soap, from door to door.”

“Louie! I--I’m very sorry, my dear!”

“Well, you needn’t be!” said her sister, drying her eyes. “It’s been very wonderful--sometimes, Bella. I’ve been happy most of the time--because, you see, I never minded failing.”

“Are you--” Mrs. Russell began, with no little embarrassment. “Are you--in difficulties now, Louie?”

“I haven’t a penny in the world, Bella. You remember that fable of La Fontaine’s we used to recite in school? ‘La Cigale et La Fourmis’? (The Grasshopper and the Ant.) I’m Miss Cigale, Bella, and you’re Mrs. Fourmis. I’m the poor, silly grasshopper who danced the summer away--and here I am, Bella. It’s winter--for me--and I want to rest, here with you, until the summer comes back.”

“Oh, don’t be so--‘highfalutin’’!” cried Mrs. Russell, stung by emotion into using a long-forgotten word. “Try to talk sensibly, Louie.”

This was all so typical of her sister; all her memories of Louisa were made up of these queer little storms, these showers of tears, these rainbow smiles.

“Always so upsetting!” she thought, half angry. Yet there never had been any one dear to her in the way Louisa was.

“Come upstairs,” she said, firmly, “and get ready for dinner, and then--Oh! There’s Geordie!”

“Oh, Bella! Your son!”

“Louie, listen to me! You must not be--silly about Geordie. He won’t understand it, and he won’t like it. Do, for goodness’ sake, pull yourself together!”

But Louie couldn’t. She tried; she sat up very straight in her chair, and smiled, but Mrs. Russell was not satisfied. She wished that she had had time to put Louie in order before the boy saw her. He was so fastidious; what would he think of this unexpected aunt, with her wild, fair hair, her blue eyes swimming in tears, her trembling smile?

“She looks worn,” thought Mrs. Russell, “but not--well, somehow, not grown up!”

Geordie had come up the steps now; a good-looking young fellow, and somehow touching, with his sulky mouth and his sulky blue eyes.

“Louisa!” said Mrs. Russell, in a threatening voice. “This is my son, George. Geordie, your Aunt Louisa!”

Poor Louisa said nothing at all, for fear of bursting into tears, but Geordie could be trusted to behave with decorum. He said something about this being an unexpected pleasure; said it punctiliously. But Mrs. Russell knew at once, by the tone of his voice, that he didn’t like this aunt. She saw him cast a quick glance at her lamentable untidiness.

“Are those your bags, out in the street?” he inquired. “Shan’t I get them?”

“Oh, no!” cried Louie. “Please don’t bother! I’ll get them!” And she made a sort of rush forward, which Mrs. Russell checked.

“Louie!” she said, sternly, and after Geordie had gone down the steps: “Louie! You must have more dignity!”

II

There was no dinner at half past six that evening, or at seven, either. When the clock struck the hour, there was Mrs. Russell sitting on the veranda, while her son paced up and down, hands in his pockets, and his face sulkier than ever. The sun was gone, now, and the clear sky was fading from lemon-yellow into gray; the honeysuckle was coming to life in the quiet dusk.

“How long is she going to stay?” he demanded.

Mrs. Russell didn’t like that tone.

“Naturally I didn’t ask her,” she answered, stiffly. “She’s had a great many--difficulties, and she’s come here, to me, for a rest.”

“D’you mean she’s going to live here?”

She was hurt and amazed at his manner, but it was not her way to show it.

“Your aunt hasn’t mentioned her plans for the future,” she replied.

He walked up and down in silence for a time, and to his mother there was something ominous in his steady footfall; it was, she thought, as if he were going away from her, miles and miles away. Suddenly he spoke again, from the other end of the veranda:

“Isn’t it hard enough for us to get on as it is?” he asked. “Without an extra--”

“George!” she cried, too hurt to stifle the cry. “Your own aunt!”

“Oh, let’s look at the thing from a practical point of view!” he suggested, impatiently. “You know what my salary is, mother, and you know how far it goes, or doesn’t go.”

“Please!” said Mrs. Russell, curtly. “Surely we needn’t discuss this now--before your aunt has been in the house an hour.”

“Just as you please!” said he. “But--” Again he walked down to the other end of the veranda. “All I mean is”--he went on, in a strained unsteady voice--“that I can’t do any more. I’ve--I’ve done my best, and I can’t do any more.”

Mrs. Russell sat like a statue in the gathering darkness. She had come face to face with sorrow and anxiety more than once in her life; she had had her full share of all that; but never, never before had anything wounded her like this. So she was a burden to her son.

All the little money left her by her husband she had used for the boy’s education and welfare, with all her love, her time, all her life thrown, unconsidered, into the bargain. And now she was a burden to him.

“I’ve lived too long,” she said as if to herself.

Geordie had stopped in his restless pacing to and fro.

“Mother!” he said. “You know I didn’t mean it. Mother! I’m sorry.”

“Very well, my boy!” she answered, in her composed way. “We’ll say no more about it.”

He came a few steps nearer, but halted; he hadn’t been bred to the habit of affection. A hundred thousand old impulses that had been stifled by cool common sense made a great barrier now, just there, a few steps away from his mother. He turned away again, and Mrs. Russell did not stir.

It was over; that was their sensible way of dealing with all such matters; not to take them out into the daylight and destroy them, but to shut them up, to weigh down the heart for many and many a day. They had ten minutes more alone there in the dusk together, ten long minutes, and neither of them spoke.

They were, of course, waiting for their luckless guest, and both silently condemning her unpardonable delay. But, if they could have seen her just then, down on the floor on her knees beside the neat little bed in the neat, strange little room, not weeping, but very still, as if a ruthless hand had struck into quietude all her flutterings.

She had come downstairs, quite airy, quite gay, in a fresh blouse and a not too dingy skirt, and, standing unnoticed in the doorway, she had heard her nephew’s words. She had rushed up the stairs again, silent as a moth, except for the tinkle of countless small hairpins dropping from her riotous hair, and had sunk down on the floor like this, to taste failure again.

The clear chiming of the clock roused her. She got up, a little bewildered for a moment.

“I’ll go away!” she thought, at first. But, after all, her failure had taught her something. She put more pins into her hair, a little more powder on her nose; she tried a smile or two before the mirror, and down the stairs she went, airy as before.

“The only really terrible thing,” she said to herself, “is to fail because you haven’t tried.”

And so she did try. She sat at the table with her unsmiling and calm sister, her unsmiling and sulky nephew, and she smiled for three; she talked, and in the end she made them smile, not because she was especially witty, but because her sweet, light spirit gave a glimmer to all her words. She was ridiculous, but she was charming; she made of that sober family dinner a high festival. And when they had finished:

“Oh, let’s have coffee in the garden, Bella!” she said.

“No!” said Mrs. Russell, startled. “We don’t have coffee, Louie. I think it keeps one awake.”

“But who doesn’t want to be awake on a night like this? Let’s be awake! Let’s have a little table on the lawn, and candles--candlelight under the trees is so wonderful, Bella!”

“Mary won’t like it!” whispered Mrs. Russell. “It means extra work for her.”

“I’ll do it! All alone!”

Mrs. Russell might have protested more, if she had not observed her son pushing the books and papers off the top of a small table in the next room. If he wanted it so, or if he were trying to atone, very well; she would agree to this absurd proposal.

So the table was placed in the back garden, and there Mrs. Russell and her son sat, to wait for Louie and the coffee. They sat there under the great dark beeches that rustled solemnly in the night wind and set the candles to flickering.

Candlelight wonderful under the trees? It was horrible; it was the most sorrowful, gloomy, bitter thing. Was that the leaves stirring, or a sigh from the boy? Mrs. Russell wanted to look at him, but dared not, for fear that their eyes should meet, and with what lay between them, they must not look into each other’s eyes. A burden to him--a burden too heavy for his young shoulders--

Louie came across the grass with the tray, and this time Geordie’s sigh was quite audible as he arose to take it from her.

“There!” she cried. “Isn’t this nice?”

Her gay voice sounded very pitiful in the dark. Mrs. Russell resolved to make an effort to help the poor creature.

“Yes,” she said. “It is--very nice.” But no other words came.

There could be no silence where Louie was, though; even if no one spoke, there was a swarm of dainty little sounds, the clink of a porcelain cup on its saucer, the musical ring of a silver spoon on the brass tray; the sugar tongs against the crystal bowl.

“There!” Louie cried again. “Don’t you smoke, Geordie?”

“Thanks!” said he, gloomily, and taking a cigarette from his case, he leaned forward to light it at the candle.

“Mercy!” exclaimed Mrs. Russell. The two others looked inquiringly at her, but she said hastily that it was nothing. For she certainly did not intend to explain what had startled her.

It was the sight of Geordie’s face as he had leaned over the candle. His blue eyes had seemed to dance and gleam, the flickering light had given him a look as if smiling in impish glee--altogether, he had looked so much, so very much, as Louie had looked years ago.

He had drawn back into the shadows, tilting his chair against the trunk of a tree, and, feeling herself deserted, Mrs. Russell tried to talk to her sister. Useless! Geordie was there, and could hear if he wished.

She understood what Louie was thinking about--what things she had in her queer, pitiful life to think about, what compensations she had found for missing wifehood and motherhood?

“Because she’s not unhappy,” thought Mrs. Russell. “She hasn’t anything at all, as far as I can see, and yet she’s not unhappy. Perhaps I’m as much a failure as she is. I meant to help him--to make him happy. But he’s miserable. I’ve done the best I can; I can’t do any more. It’s as if his heart was breaking. Why? He has a good salary. I’ve only taken just enough to keep his home as he likes it. He has plenty for his clothes and whatever else he wants. I thought--I made him--happy.”

Not one minute more could she endure this soft, dark silence; she wanted to get into the house, in the lamplight, safely shut into her home, away from the vast summer night.

“What time is it, Geordie?” she asked, so suddenly that he started.

“Nine,” he replied.

“But what watch is that?”

“A new one.”

“Then where’s the one they gave you at the office, Geordie? Such a handsome one, Louie! A present to him on his twenty-fourth birthday. Engraved. Geordie, I hope you haven’t left it about, anywhere. It’s not a thing to be careless with.”

“No; it’s safe,” he said, briefly.

“Where? In your room?”

“It’s perfectly safe!” he answered, with such a note of exasperation in his voice that Louie pitied him.

“I’m sure--” she began happily, but her sister interrupted.

“Well, I’m not. You don’t know what a boy that age is capable of. And it’s a handsome watch. Geordie, I wish--There! Now you’ve broken this new one! Oh, my dear--”

For, as he arose, his foot had caught in the chair; he stumbled, and dropped the watch with a thud. It was Louie who recovered it; Louie who hastily gathered together the small oblong papers that fluttered out of his breast pocket. One had fallen at Mrs. Russell’s feet; she stooped.

“What--” she began; but Louie fairly snatched it out of her fingers.

“Here, Geordie!” she said, gayly.

Mrs. Russell did not know what these tickets were, but Louie did. Louie knew well.

III

Indeed, all the three inmates of the house were heavy at heart that night, each with some especial knowledge not shared by the others. The night grew sultry, too, and when the morning came, it was the first day of real summer, hot and still. It was a day to make any one jaded who had not slept well.

Geordie was down first, and walking up and down the veranda; smoking, too, his aunt noticed.

“You shouldn’t, before breakfast!” she admonished him, cheerfully. “And you can’t smell the flowers, either, if you do.”

He smiled, a forced, strained sort of smile, but civil enough, considering how unwelcome the sight of her was. He stopped walking up and down, too, and, after a moment, said, in a perfunctory voice:

“It’s going to be a hot day.”

“Geordie!” said she. “Let me talk to you!”

As much as his mother, did he hate and dread that note of fervor, of intimacy. He moved his shoulders restlessly, and smiled again.

“About time for breakfast,” he murmured evasively.

“No, it’s not. Geordie, you won’t mind if I stay here with you and your mother for a little while, will you?”

He turned scarlet.

“No. Of course not,” he replied. “Very glad.”

“I want to stay--ever so much. But only if it can be my way. Because I’m a frightfully obstinate creature, Geordie; absolutely unmanageable. And I can’t bear not to be independent. I’m going to find myself a job--”

“No!” he interrupted, with a frown. “Please don’t.”

She seated herself on the rail of the veranda, a most undignified attitude for one of her years, and yet, as always, there was a debonair grace about her; something unconquerably girlish.

“I will get a job, Geordie!” she announced. “That’s settled. No matter where I live, I’ll do that. But I want so much to stay here, if you’ll let me stay on my own terms. Let me pay my board and feel like a nice, independent business woman!”

“No!” he said, again. “I--it can’t be that way.”

“But why, Geordie?” she asked, smiling a little.

And he couldn’t endure her smile; he couldn’t endure her proposal; it was the final straw for his already mutinous and unhappy spirit. If she had any faint idea of what he already suffered from this talk about being “an independent business woman”; if she had imagined what a sore subject that was.

“No!” he said. “If you want to stay here and make mother a visit, you’re more than welcome. But--I don’t approve of women going out to work.”

“What!” she cried. “Oh, but my dear boy!”

There was something in her good-humored protest that made him hot with resentment. She wasn’t laughing at him--and yet, she might as well have been; she couldn’t have pointed out more plainly the absurdity of his words and his attitude. Just by some little inflection of the voice, she made him the youngest twenty-five that ever lived--a boy, a child, a silly, pompous, impertinent young ass.

“I won’t have it!” he said.

She saw her mistake then--she was always quick to recognize her failures--but it was too late to remedy it.

“I’m sorry you feel like that, George,” she said, gravely. “Because, you see, I couldn’t stay here unless it could be that way.”

“Suit yourself!” he answered, briefly.

But he regretted the words as soon as they were spoken.

“I only meant--” he began, but when he turned he found her gone, vanished in her own quick, quiet way. He hurried into the house to find her, and looked for her everywhere, but in vain.

And it seemed to him that he could not go off to the city with this new burden upon his conscience. It was bad enough that he should have hurt his mother the evening before; bad enough to endure the other harassments that had tried him so sorely, for so long, without this new misery. He thought of his aunt’s sprightliness; her gay and touching friendliness toward him; he remembered how grave her face had become.

“She might have known I didn’t mean that,” he thought, dismayed. “I don’t like her, and she’ll be a bore and a nuisance; but I didn’t mean to offend her.”

And all the time he was perfectly aware that she wasn’t “offended,” any more than a clover blossom is offended if you tread it underfoot. It was he who had been offended at the idea of his mother’s sister going out to work every day from under his roof--of any woman doing so, in whom he was interested. Come to think of it, he was glad he had said he “wouldn’t have it”; he meant that. He had told Nell also that he wouldn’t have it.

“Still,” he admitted, “I might have been a little more--well, more cordial to her. Because I can see that she’s another one of those people.”

For lately the poor fellow had been learning something about that other sort of people--people not sensible and restrained, but full of fancies and notions and feelings; people who needed careful handling, unless you were willing to see that look of pain and disappointment in their eyes.

Mrs. Russell thought that her son looked pale and jaded that morning, and noticed, with a heavy heart, how little he ate.

“I suppose he’s working too hard,” she said to herself. “Wearing himself out, and wasting all his youth--to take care of me. I suppose what he wants is--”

But she couldn’t quite imagine what he might want.

“Perhaps he’d rather go off and live in the city with one of his friends, like Dick Judson,” she thought. “I wonder if I couldn’t--” So there she sat, calm and composed as ever, making the most absurd plans for living on her own private income of thirty dollars a month.

“Perhaps Louie and I together might manage something,” she thought. “Louie knows more than I do about things of that sort. I’ll speak to her.”

Geordie went off, and still Mrs. Russell sat at the breakfast table, waiting for her sister, and silently condemning this sloth that kept her so late abed.

As a matter of fact, Louie was half a mile away from the house, picking daisies in a wide, sunny field. Seen from the road, you might have thought that tall and slender creature with fair hair shining in the sun was a care-free young girl; she moved so lightly, and now and then she sang a snatch of song.

But all this was mere bravado, her own especial method of preparing herself for a painful ordeal. She had something to do that morning which she dreaded, and instead of taking an extra cup of coffee, or anything of that sort, the silly creature forgot all about breakfast and wandered off into a daisy field. No wonder she was such a failure!

She had peculiar compensations, though. The fierce hot sun, and the rank, sweet smell of the humble little field flowers and weeds, even the troublesome insects that crawled out from the daisies onto her hands, and the little winged nuisances that flew in her face, amused and solaced her, and did her, or so she fancied, more good than ten breakfasts.

And after a time she felt strong and tranquil enough to face her day. From a pocket in her skirt she drew out a bit of paper--one of those dropped by her nephew the evening before, and she looked at it carefully.

It was a pawn ticket, marked:

Gold Watch. $50.00

IV

Now it happened that Miss Cigale, although she had said she hadn’t a penny in the world, really did have sixty-five dollars. Considered as the savings of a lifetime, it might pretty well be called nothing, and in her careless way she had so thought of it; but now she saw it in a quite different light.

She had kept that ticket when she had picked up the others, for her idea was to get back the watch for her nephew and make him happy. And to make him, perhaps, a little fond of her. She had thought it possible last night; had thought that if she brought him his watch, and told him that she was going to take a position, he would see she wouldn’t be simply an extra person to feed, but a friend and a helper; that he would like her, and they would all three live together in that dear little house, in that sweet, dear garden, in the jolliest way. She didn’t expect any of that now, though.

“No,” she said to herself. “I irritate and annoy him. I can see that. I’m afraid he belongs to the ants, and he can’t endure grasshoppers. Oh, I’m sorry! He’s such a dear boy!”

She didn’t cry, for her tears were far more apt to be brought by joy than by pain; but she was certainly unhappy, all by herself there in the daisy field. To tell the truth, Miss Cigale was very tired, and had of late been haunted by specters. Wan failure she knew and didn’t mind, but when loneliness and uselessness came out hand in hand, she trembled.

“I’ll get the watch,” she decided. “I’ll do that, anyhow. But I shan’t come back. He doesn’t want me here, and--he’s a dear boy, but I don’t think I want to come.”

It was characteristic of her that she didn’t tell her sister she would not return. If she had to do anything unpleasant, well, then, she did it, as gallantly as she could; but if unpleasant things could be avoided, right gladly would she sheer off. So she only said that she had to “run into town,” and hugged and kissed her rather unresponsive sister, and off she went, leaving behind her those heavy bags which contained all the clothes and books and ridiculous, sentimental rubbish she had in the world.

“I can send for them,” she thought, “when I decide where I’m going.” And she troubled her head no more about them. What did trouble her was a memory. It was a memory of a girl--a tall, slender, fair-haired girl, a music student in New York, living on an allowance from home. And living all too carelessly on it, so that one day she found herself penniless, and very hungry, and with four days to wait before the allowance could arrive. And this girl--in the persistent memory--had taken a little gold locket and a silver watch to the pawnbroker. She had thought it rather a joke, until she had got there.

“It’s silly to feel like that,” she said to herself this morning. “Very silly. There’s nothing dishonorable or disgraceful in--in being temporarily short of money. The most important business men have to get loans. Heads of trusts and--every one. People go to their banks to get loans, and they’re not ashamed of it. Well, this is exactly the same thing. I simply walk in, repay the loan, take the watch, and go. Exactly like paying a note at the bank.”

Was it, though? Exactly like a bank--this queer, dark little shop, with barred windows--and the man behind the counter was exactly like the cashier her father used to bring home to dinner. She handed the ticket across the counter, with the money; but the man pushed the money back to her.

“Wait a moment!” said he, with a curious glance at her.

Then he disappeared, and Miss Cigale stood there, trying desperately hard not to feel like a criminal, an outlaw, a highly suspicious character. If she had been a man she would certainly have whistled; but, as it was, she stared about her with the most casual, offhand air.

Oh, but it was pitiful! To think that there were people so hard pressed that they must bring here a cotton quilt, or a dingy umbrella, or, worst of all, a child’s pair of rubber boots. Hanging on a line from the ceiling were guitars and banjos and mandolins and ukeleles--music sold into bondage.

“Is this your own ticket, madam?” asked a voice, and, turning, she saw a severe little elderly man looking at her through his spectacles. The question dismayed her. He appeared so very much displeased; perhaps it was a wrong sort of ticket, which Geordie shouldn’t have had.

“Yes. Oh, yes!” she answered, with a very poor attempt at sprightliness. “It’s mine.”

“You didn’t buy it--or find it?” he asked.

“Oh, no!” Miss Cigale replied, quite certain now that there was something wrong. “It’s my own!”

The elderly man looked at her steadily for a moment.

“Wait a minute, please!” he said. “Be seated, madam!”

So Miss Cigale sat down on a chair in a black corner, where a fur neckpiece, smelling terribly of moth balls, brushed her shoulder, and waited and waited. A little girl came in, gave up a ticket, and while she, too, waited, stared at Miss Cigale, and diligently chewed gum.

Such a queer little girl, with wispy hair, and a pale, drawn little face, and so very nonchalant an air. At last she was given a small gas stove, and went off with it. A young man came in with a traveling bag to dispose of; a stout woman came and drove a hard bargain over a ring. Nobody else had to wait, only Miss Cigale.

“Something is wrong!” she thought. “Oh, what has the poor boy done?”

Her hands and feet were very cold, her thin cheeks flushed and hot; she wished now that she had taken a cup of coffee. For she was very far away now from any such consolations as daisy fields. A burly man, with a straw hat at the back of his head, entered the shop; he spied her, and, to her horror, came directly over to her.

“You, the one with this here ticket; what’s the number?” he asked.

“I don’t remember the number,” said Miss Cigale faintly. He went over to the counter and spoke to the elderly man in a voice too low for her to hear. Then he sat down beside her, tipping his chair, and lit a cigar. The smoke blew into her face, and his boot, crossed on his knee, brushed her skirt.

“I can’t stand this,” thought she. “I’ll take the ticket, and come back later. I can’t bear this.” And she got up to go to the counter and ask for the ticket.

“Here!” said the man beside her. “Where you goin’?”

Miss Cigale didn’t trouble to answer, but, to her amazement, he sprang up and barred her way.

“Go away!” she cried, in a trembling voice, but with a jerk of the thumb he turned back his coat lapel and revealed a badge.

Miss Cigale sank back into her chair again, in the dark corner. The man was speaking to her, but she did not hear him.

“What has he done?” she thought. “A detective! If I can only make them think it was me. But, oh! How can I bear this?”

Because, for all her failures, Miss Cigale had never before encountered disgrace. She had suffered the crudest disappointments, she had been hungry, cold, shabby, sleepless with anxiety, and all this she had endured gallantly. But to be arrested by a detective in a pawnshop!

Her idea of what was going to be done to her might have been laughable if there could be found on earth any one able to laugh at the stricken, heartsick creature. She thought that she would presently be taken before a judge, and that, if she kept silent, as she intended to do, she would be put into prison for whatever unimaginable offense the real owner of the ticket had committed.

“I can’t be brave about it!” she said to herself. “I can’t; I’m--I’m frightened.”

Why must she sit here so long? Why didn’t they take her away? It would be almost better to be in prison than here, where the door opened and closed, and people came in and out, and every one had a glance, casual or curious, at her corner. The detective was writing in a notebook. What was he waiting for?

“Handcuffs!” thought Miss Cigale. “Or--or a--warrant.” Imagination carried her very far; she would not have been surprised by the entrance of a file of soldiers, or white-coated doctors with a strait-jacket. The most astounding images of things read or heard of filled her mind; she lost track of time and space; what she suffered was a timeless, universal thing, such as had been suffered these thousands of years by how many dazed and trembling victims. The law--The Law!

“Here she is!” said the detective to some one who had just entered. “Claims it’s her own ticket.”

“Oh--good--Lord!” cried a voice which reached Miss Cigale from very far away.

“Well, come along!” said the detective. “Come over to the station an’ you can make your charge.”

Miss Cigale did not understand; all she knew was that Geordie was here, and in danger.

“I--I don’t know that man,” she said, faintly.

“Never mind!” the detective retorted, laughing. “You will, soon enough!”

“No! Look here! It’s--it’s a mistake!” said Geordie. “It’s--I’ll drop it.”

Miss Cigale moved nearer to him.

“Pretend you don’t know me!” she whispered. “I’ll--”

V

That was the end of Miss Cigale’s struggle; at the critical moment she failed again, most shamefully. She fainted. That is what comes of preferring daisies to breakfast; of carrying romantic Victorian sentiments over into modern life. She fainted.

As long as she had failed, she thought she might as well do it thoroughly. She could have come to before she did; she could have opened her eyes before she did, only that there was nothing she cared to see. She could hear, too. She heard her nephew calling “Aunt Louisa!” but his low, furious tones did not make her in a hurry to answer. No; better to lie here, like this, for as long a time as she could.

“Aunt Louisa!” he said again, and this time his voice was quite desperate. She opened her eyes.

“If you’d only pretended,” she whispered chidingly.

“Can you walk?” demanded the young man. “As far as a taxi?”

“But--” she began, and, raising her head, looked about her. The man behind the counter was writing in a book, the shop was empty. “The--the detective?” she asked.

He didn’t even answer; but, helping her to rise, and holding her very firmly by the arm, led her out into the street. No one molested them.

“But--Geordie!” she said. “Is it--postponed?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, curtly. “I’ve arranged the thing, anyhow, so that there’ll be no trouble for you. But if you wanted that watch--why didn’t you tell me? I’d have done anything, rather than have this happen.”

“George!” cried Miss Cigale. “Is it possible? No; it can’t be! You can’t think that I--” She stopped short, looking into his stern face, and with an expression on her own that somehow troubled him.

Out here, in the bright sun, she seemed so different. It was hard to think of her as a muddle-headed, desperate creature, trying, very clumsily, to get possession of a watch that didn’t belong to her. No; there was something about her that was--rather impressive. She didn’t look ridiculous now, or pathetic.

“I see!” she said. “You thought I wanted the thing for myself. Well, that was quite a natural thing to think, George.” She spoke without the slightest trace of rancor, simply admitting that it was natural--to some human beings--to think as he did, and she could not blame him.

“Well!” said he, surprised. “You see, when I couldn’t find the ticket, I telephoned to the pawnbroker, and to the police. I thought it had been stolen, and I said that if any one brought it in, to let me know.”

“Yes,” said Miss Cigale. “It was a perfectly natural way for you to think, my dear boy. And I was frightfully stupid to try to do it that way. I meant to help you a little bit, but--” She smiled. “Anyhow, it’s all over and done with now, and I hope we’ll part good friends.”

“Part!” said he. “But aren’t you coming back?”

“I’d rather not.”

There they stood, on the street corner, all idea of a taxi forgotten.

“But, look here!” said Geordie. “You did that for me--and I behaved--I behaved--like a--” His voice broke. “I didn’t know,” he went on, unsteadily. “Because, you see--I didn’t think any one could--any one in the world.”

“Oh, there are lots of people like me!” Miss Cigale assured him. “Lots of grasshoppers. They dance the summer away, and then, when the winter comes, they’re a horrible nuisance to the ants, but they’re inclined to be pretty sympathetic toward any one else who has grasshopperish troubles. Not that I think you’re the least bit of a grasshopper, my dear boy! I’m quite sure you’re far too intelligent and sensible for that!”

“No!” said Geordie, vehemently. “I am a grasshopper! Nobody knows what a grasshopper--and a fool--I am!”

“I’m sure it was just a temporary difficulty.”

“I’ve been doing my best, for nearly a year, to make it permanent,” he said, grimly. “You see, there’s a girl.”

“I’m so glad!” cried Miss Cigale.

“Glad? But I can’t afford to think about girls.”

“I don’t care! As soon as I saw you, I hoped there was a girl,” Miss Cigale went on. “Because you’re such a dear, obstinate, helpless, splendid boy, and I hoped there was some one to see all that. She does, doesn’t she?”

Geordie had grown very red.

“She sees the obstinacy, anyhow,” he answered. “You see, she’s a secretary, and--” His jaw set doggedly. “She won’t give up her job!” he said. “And I won’t get married unless she does.”

“Too many won’ts!” said Miss Cigale.

“Well, all of them together make a pretty big can’t,” said he. “We can’t get married, that’s all. I’ve tried to make her see that we could manage, but she says we can’t. Those--those tickets, you know. I bought her a ring, and a--” He had to stop for a moment. “A little inlaid writing desk for our home. Only--it’s nearly a year, and she won’t see that we can manage without her salary, and I won’t--”

“Oh, Geordie!” protested Miss Cigale.

“I won’t!” said he. “I won’t!” And a more mulish expression was never seen on a young man before.

“Do get a taxi!” Miss Cigale suggested.

VI

And not one of them realized the outrageous folly of that dinner! There they sat, Miss Cigale, and Geordie, and Nell, who was the girl in the case, in that expensive restaurant, eating all sorts of expensive dishes, and all fancying themselves so businesslike! There was some excuse for Miss Cigale, but Geordie, who was considered a practical and level-headed young man by his business superiors, and Nell, whose employer could not say enough in praise of her good sense and ability--they should have known better.

“He offered the position to me,” Miss Cigale was saying. “He almost begged me to take it. To be his personal assistant in his booking agency for musicians and concert singers, and so on. He said--” An odd change came over her face; she looked for an instant remarkably handsome and dignified.

“He said,” she went on, calmly, “that no one else could handle his clients as I could--no one else would have just the right manner, and the sympathy and understanding of their problems. He always was very flattering, years ago, when I gave my unlucky concert. It’s really a very good position. But I wouldn’t take it then, because I was so sick and tired of jobs that didn’t do the least bit of good to any one except myself. I’m so tired of working just for myself. But now, if we arrange this thing in a really businesslike way, you could take that sweet, tiny house at the end of your mother’s street, Geordie. Nell could stay at home, to look after things, and I’d contribute toward the expenses, of course. It would be very much to my advantage--because then I’d have a home, you see.”

There was a silence.

“Unless I’d be a nuisance?” Miss Cigale remarked.

“You couldn’t be!” cried Nell. “There never was any one so kind and dear!”

“Unless Geordie objects?” said Miss Cigale.

He glanced at her, and then stared. For there was a light of the most charming malice in Miss Cigale’s eyes, and such a significant hint of a smile on her lips. She was laughing at him! She was getting the better of him!

She was giving him a chance to get married in his own, obstinate way, with Nell safely at home, and, in return, she demanded absolute surrender from him. He could have his way--but only if Miss Cigale had her way, and defiantly went out to work every day from under his roof. Could he allow this? He looked at his Nell.

This time Miss Cigale didn’t fail; she triumphed.

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

SEPTEMBER, 1926 Vol. LXXXVIII NUMBER 4

Blotted Out

IN THIS STORY A TIGRESS MASQUERADES AS A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN--IN OTHER WORDS, AMY ROSS WAS PREDATORY AND CRUEL

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

James Ross was well content, that morning. He stood on the deck, one elbow on the rail, enjoying the wind and the cold rain that blew in his face, enjoying still more his feeling of complete isolation and freedom.

None of the other passengers shared his liking for this bleak November weather, and he had the windward side of the deck to himself. He was alone there; he was alone in the world--and he meant to remain alone.

Through the window of the saloon he could, if he liked, see the severe, eagle-nosed profile of Mrs. Barron, who was sitting in there, more majestic than ever in her shore-going outfit. She was a formidable lady, stern, resolute, and experienced; she had marked him down as soon as he had come on board at San Juan.

Yet he had escaped from her; he had got the better of her, and so skillfully that even to this moment she was not sure whether he had deliberately avoided her, or whether it was chance. Yes, even now, if the weather had permitted, she would have come out after him with her card.

But, if the weather had permitted that, Ross would not have been where he was. The day before, she had captured him for an instant in the dining saloon, and she had said that before they landed she would give him her card.

He had thanked her very civilly, but he had made up his mind that she should do nothing of the sort. Because, if she did, she would expect a card from him in return; she would want to know where he was going, and he meant that she should never know, and never be able to find him. Even she was not likely to go so far as to rush across the rain-swept deck with that card of hers.

He could also see, if he liked, the little blond head of Phyllis Barron, who was sitting beside her mother, her hat in her lap. He knew very well that Phyllis had taken no part at all in pursuing him, yet, in a way, she was far more dangerous than Mrs. Barron.

Before he had realized the danger, he had spent a good deal of time with Phyllis--too much time. It was only a five days’ run up from Porto Rico; he had never seen her before he came on board, and he intended never to see her again; yet he felt that it might take him considerably more than five days to forget her.

This made him uncomfortable. Every glimpse of that quiet, thoughtful little face, so very pretty, so touching in its brave young dignity and candor, gave him a sort of qualm, as if she had spoken a friendly word to him, and he had not answered. Indeed, so much did the sight of Phyllis Barron disquiet him that he turned away altogether.

And now, through the downpour, he saw the regal form of the Statue of Liberty. It pleased him, and somehow consoled him for those qualms. It was a symbol of what his life was going to be, a life of completest liberty. He had left nobody behind him, there was nobody waiting for him anywhere in the world; he cared for nobody--no, not he; and nobody cared for him. That was just what he liked.

He was young, he was in vigorous health, he had sufficient money, and no one on earth had any sort of claim upon him. He could go where he pleased, and do what he pleased. He was free. And here he was, coming back to what was, after all, his native city, and not one soul there knew his face.

He smiled to himself at the thought, his dour, tight-lipped smile. Coming home, eh? And nobody to greet him but the Statue of Liberty. He was glad it was so. He didn’t want to be greeted; he wanted to be let alone. And, in that case, he had better go now, before they came alongside the pier, and Mrs. Barron appeared.

He went below to his cabin, intending to stop there until all other passengers had disembarked. The steward had taken up his bags, and the little room had a forlorn and untidy look; not an agreeable place in which to sit. But it was safe.

Ross hung up his wet overcoat and cap, and sat down with a magazine, to read. But he could not read a word. The engines had stopped; they had arrived; he was in New York. In New York. Try as he would to stifle his emotions, a great impatience and restlessness filled him.

There were, in this city, thousands of men to whom Manila and Mayaguez would seem names of almost incredible romance; men to whom New York meant little but an apartment, the subway, the office, and the anxious and monotonous routine of earning a living. But to Ross, New York had all the allurement of the exotic, and those other ports had meant only exile and discontent. He thought uncharitable thoughts about Mrs. Barron, because she kept him imprisoned here when he so longed to set foot on shore.

There was a knock at the door.

“Well?” Ross demanded.

“Note for you, sir,” answered the steward.

Ross grinned to himself at what he considered a new instance of Mrs. Barron’s enterprise. For a moment he thought he would refuse to take the note, so that he might truthfully say he had never got it; then he reflected that Mrs. Barron was never going to have a chance to question him about it, and he unlocked the door.

“We’ve docked, sir,” the steward said.

“I know it,” Ross agreed briefly.

He took the note, tipped the steward, and locked the door after him. Extraordinary, the way this lady had pursued him, all the way across! He was not handsome, not entertaining, not even very amiable; she knew nothing about him.

Indeed, as far as her knowledge went, he might be any sort of dangerous and undesirable character. Yet she had persistently--and obviously--done her best to capture him for her daughter.

He glanced at himself in the mirror. A lean and hardy young man, very dark, with the features characteristic of his family, a thin, keen nose, rather long upper lip, a saturnine and faintly mocking expression. They were a disagreeable family, bitterly obstinate, ambitious, energetic, and grimly unsociable.

And he was like that, too; like his father and his grandfather and his uncles. Without being in the least humble, he still could not understand what Mrs. Barron had seen in him to make her consider him a suitable son-in-law.

With Phyllis Barron it was different. He had sometimes imagined that her innocent and candid eyes had discerned in him qualities he had long ago tried to destroy. It was possible that she had found him a little likable.

But she wouldn’t pursue him. He was certain that she had not written this note, or wanted her mother to write it. When he had realized his danger, and had begun to spend his time talking to the doctor, instead of sitting beside her on deck, she had never tried to recall him. Whenever he did come, she always had that serious, friendly little smile for him; but she had tried to make it very plain that, where she was concerned, he was quite free to come or to go, to remember or to forget.

Well, he meant to forget. His life was just beginning, and he did not intend to entangle himself in any way. He sighed, not knowing that he did so, and then, out of sheer idle curiosity, just to see how Mrs. Barron worked, he opened the note.

“Dear Cousin James--” it began.

But, as far as he knew, he hadn’t a cousin in the world. With a puzzled frown, he picked up the envelope; it was plainly addressed, in a clear, small hand, to “Mr. James Ross. On board the S. S. Farragut.”

“Must be a mistake, though,” he muttered. “I’ll just see.” And he went on reading:

You have never seen me, and I know you have heard all sorts of cruel and false things about me. But I beg you to forget all that now. I am in such terrible trouble, and I don’t know where to turn. I beg you to come here as soon as you get this. Ask for Mrs. Jones, the housekeeper. Say you have come from Cren’s Agency, about the job as chauffeur. She will tell you everything. You can’t refuse just to come and let me tell you about this terrible thing.

Your desperately unhappy cousin, AMY ROSS SOLWAY.

“Day’s End,” Wygatt Road, near Stamford.

He sat, staring in amazement at this letter.

“It’s a mistake!” he said, aloud.

But, all the same, it filled him with a curious uneasiness. Of course, it was meant for some one else--and he wanted that other fellow to get it at once; he wanted to be rid of it in a hurry.

He had nothing to do with any one’s Cousin Amy and her “terrible trouble.” He rang the bell for the steward, waited, rang again, more vigorously, again waited, but no one came.

Then, putting the note back in its envelope, he flung open the door and strode out into the passage, shouting “Steward!” in a pretty forcible voice. No one answered him. He went down the corridor, turned a corner, and almost ran into Mrs. Barron.

“Mr. Ross!” said she, in a tone of stern triumph. “So here you are! Phyllis, dear, give Mr. Ross one of our cards--with the address.”

Then he caught sight of Phyllis, standing behind her mother. In her little close fitting hat, her coat with a fur collar, she looked taller, older, graver, quite different from that bright-haired, slender little thing in a deck chair. And, somehow, she was so dear to him, so lovely, so gentle, so utterly trustworthy.

“I’ll never forget her!” he thought, in despair.

Then she spoke, in a tone he had not heard before.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I haven’t any cards with me.”

“Phyllis!” cried her mother. “I particularly asked you--”

“I’m sorry,” Phyllis declared again. “We’ll really have to hurry, mother. Good-by, Mr. Ross!”

Her steady blue eyes met his for an instant, but, for all the regret and pain he felt, his stubborn spirit refused to show one trace. Evidently she knew he had tried to run away, and she didn’t want to see him again. Very well!

“Good-by, Miss Barron!” he said.

She turned away, and he, too, would have walked off, but the dauntless Mrs. Barron was not to be thwarted.

“Then I’ll tell you the address!” said she. “Hotel Bernderly--West Seventy-Seventh Street. Don’t forget!”

“I shan’t,” Ross replied. “Thank you! Good-by!”

He went back along the corridor, forgetting all about the note, even forgetting where he was going, until the sight of a white jacket in the distance recalled him.

“Steward!” he shouted.

The man came toward him, anxious and very hurried.

“Look here!” said Ross. “This note--it’s not meant for me.”

“Beg your pardon, sir, but a boy brought it aboard and told me to give it to you.”

“I tell you it’s not meant for me!” said Ross. “Take it back!”

“But it’s addressed to you, sir. Mr. James Ross. There’s no other Mr. Ross on board. The boy said it was urgent.”

“Take it back!” Ross repeated.

“I shouldn’t like to do that, sir,” said the steward, firmly. “I said I’d deliver it to Mr. Ross. If you’re not--satisfied, sir, the purser might--”

“Oh, all right!” Ross interrupted, with a frown. “I haven’t time to bother now. I’ll keep it. But it’s a mistake. And somebody is going to regret it.”

II

A casual acquaintance in San Juan had recommended the Hotel Miston to Ross. “Nice, quiet little place,” he had said; “and you can get a really good cup of coffee there.”

So, when the United States customs officers had done with Ross, he secured a taxi, and told the chauffeur to drive him to this Hotel Miston. Not that he was in the least anxious for quiet, or had any desire for a cup of coffee; simply, he was in a hurry to get somewhere, anywhere, so that he could begin to live.

In spite of the rain, he lowered the window of the cab, and sat looking out at the astounding speed and vigor of the life about him. This was what he had longed for, this was what he had wanted; for years and years he had said to himself that when he was free, he would come here and make a fortune.

Well, he was free, and he was in New York, and he had already the foundation of a nice little fortune. For eight years he had worked in the office of a commission agent in Manila, and every day of those eight years he had told himself that he wouldn’t stand it any longer. But he had stood it.

His grandfather had been a cynical old tyrant; he had thwarted the boy in every ambition that he had. When James said he wanted to be a civil engineer, as his father had been, old Ross told him he hadn’t brains enough for that. James had not agreed with him, but as he had no money to send himself home to college, he had been obliged to put up with what old Ross called “a sound practical education.”

At eighteen his education was declared finished, and he went to work. He hated his work, he hated everything about his life, and from his meager salary he had saved every cent he could, so that he would get away.

Long ago he had saved enough to pay his passage to New York--but he had not gone. His grandfather was old and ill, and, because of his bitter tongue, quite without friends; he certainly gave no sign that he enjoyed his grandson’s company, and James showed no affection for him; their domestic life was anything but agreeable.

Sick at heart, James saw his youth slipping by, wasted, his abilities all unused; he told himself that he had done his duty, and more than his duty to his grandfather. Yet he could not leave him.

Then, six months ago, the old man had died, leaving everything he had to “my grandson, James Ross, in appreciation of his loyalty,” the only sign of appreciation he had ever made. It was a surprisingly large estate; there was some property in Porto Rico, where James had spent his childhood with his parents, but the greater part consisted of very sound bonds and mortgages in the hands of a New York lawyer, Mr. Teagle.

Mr. Teagle had written to James, and James had written to Mr. Teagle several times in the last few months, but James had not told him when he expected to arrive in New York. He had gone to Porto Rico in a little cargo steamer, by the way of Panama; he had wound up his business there, and now he wanted to walk in on Mr. Teagle in the most casual fashion. He hated any sort of fuss; he didn’t want to be met at the steamer, he didn’t want to be advised and assisted. He wanted to be let alone.

The taxi stopped before the Hotel Miston, a dingy little place not far from Washington Square. Ross got out, paid the driver, and followed the porter into the lobby. He engaged a room and bath, and turned toward the elevator.

“Will you register, sir?” asked the clerk.

Ross hesitated for a moment; then he wrote “J. Ross, New York.” After all, this was his home; he had been born here, and he intended to live here.

He went upstairs to his room, and, locking the door, sat down near the window. The floor still seemed to heave under his feet, like the deck of a ship. He visualized the deck of the Farragut, and Phyllis in a deck chair, looking at him with her dear, friendly little smile.

He frowned at the unwelcome thought. That was finished; that belonged in the past. There was a new life before him, and the sooner he began it, the better.

He reached in his pocket for Mr. Teagle’s last letter--and brought out that note to “Cousin James.” At the sight of it, he frowned more heavily; he tossed it across the room in the direction of the desk, but it fluttered down to the floor. Let it lie there. He found Mr. Teagle’s letter, and took up the telephone receiver. Presently:

“Mr. Teagle’s office!” came a brisk feminine voice.

“I’d like to see Mr. Teagle this morning, if possible.”

“Sorry, but Mr. Teagle won’t be in to-day. Will you leave a message?”

“No,” said Ross. “No, thanks.” And hung up the receiver.

He sat for a time looking out of the window at the street, far below him. The rain fell steadily; it was a dismal day. He could not begin his new life to-day, after all. Very well; what should he do, then? Anything he wanted, of course. Nobody could have been freer.

He lit a cigarette, and leaned back in the chair. Freedom--that was what he had wanted, and that was what he had got. And yet--

He turned his head, to look for an ash tray, and his glance fell upon that confounded note on the floor. In the back of his mind he had known, all the time, that he would have to do something about it. He disliked it, and disapproved of it; a silly, hysterical sort of note, he thought, but, nevertheless, it was an appeal for help, and it was from a woman. Somebody ought to answer it.

He began idly to speculate about the “terribly unhappy” Amy Ross Solway. Perhaps she was young--not much more than a girl--like Phyllis.

“Not much!” he said to himself. “She wouldn’t write a note like that. She’s not that sort. No matter what sort of trouble menaced--”

It occurred to him that if Phyllis Barron were in any sort of trouble, she would never turn to James Ross for help. He had shown her too plainly that he was not disposed to trouble himself about other people and their affairs.

His family never did. They minded their own business, they let other people alone, and other people soon learned to let them alone. Very satisfactory! Lucky for this Amy Ross Solway that she didn’t know what sort of fellow had got that note of hers.

Still, something had to be done about it. At first he thought he would mail it back to her, with a note of his own, explaining that he was not her Cousin James, but another James Ross, who had got it by mistake. But, no; that plan meant too much delay, when she was no doubt waiting impatiently for a gallant cousin.

Then he thought he would try to get her on the telephone, but that idea did not suit him, either. It was always awkward, trying to explain anything on the telephone--and, besides, she seemed anxious for secrecy. He might explain to the wrong person, and do a great deal of harm.

He began to think very seriously about that note now. And, for some unaccountable reason, his thoughts of the unknown woman were confused with thoughts of Phyllis Barron. It seemed to him that if Phyllis could know how much attention he was giving to this problem which was not his business, she would realize that he was not entirely callous. If she thought he was, she misjudged him.

Perhaps he was not what you might call impulsively sympathetic, but he was not lacking in all decent feeling. He was not going to ignore this appeal.

“I’ll go out there!” he decided. “I’ll see this Amy Ross Solway, and explain. And, if her trouble’s anything real, I’ll--” He hesitated. “Well, I’ll give her the best advice I can,” he thought.

No, James Ross was not what you might call impulsively sympathetic. But, considering how vehemently he hated to be mixed up in other people’s affairs, it was creditable of him even to think of giving advice, creditable of him to go at all.

He arose, put on his overcoat, caught up his hat, and went downstairs. Nobody took any notice of him. He walked out of the Hotel Miston--and he never came back.

III

It did not please the young man to ask questions in this, his native city. He had spent time enough in studying a map of New York, and he knew his way about pretty well. But there were, naturally, things he did not know; for instance, he went to the Pennsylvania Station, and learned that his train for Stamford left from the Grand Central.

It was after one o’clock, then, so he went into a restaurant and had lunch before going farther--his first meal in the United States. He had never enjoyed anything more. To walk through these streets, among the hurrying and indifferent crowds, to be one of them, to feel himself at home here, filled him with something like elation. It was his city.

A little after three, he boarded the train. And, in spite of his caution and his native reticence, he would, at that moment, have relished a talk with one of his fellow countrymen in the smoking car. He was not disposed to start a conversation without encouragement, though, and nobody took any notice of him; nobody had, since his landing. A clever criminal, escaping from justice, could not have been much more successful in leaving no traces.

When he got out at Stamford, the rain had ceased, but the sky was menacing and overcast. He stood for a moment on the platform, again reluctant to ask questions, but there was no help for it this time.

He stopped a grocer’s boy, and asked him where Wygatt Road was. The boy told him. “But it’s a long way,” he added.

Ross didn’t care how long it was. This was the first suburban town he had seen, and it charmed him. Such a prosperous, orderly, lively town! He thought that he might like to live here.

Dusk was closing in early this dismal day; it was almost dark before he reached the hill he had to climb. The street lights came on, and through the windows of houses he could see shaded lamps and the shadows of people, comfortable rooms, bright little glimpses of domestic life. Past him, along the road, went an endless stream of motor cars, with a rush and a glare of light; he scarcely realized that he was in the country until he came to the top of the hill, and saw before him a signpost marked “Wygatt Road.”

He turned down here, and was at once in another world. It was dark, and very, very quiet; no motors passed him, no lights shone out; he walked on, quite alone, under tall old trees, to which clung a few leaves, trembling in every gust of wind. Overhead, ragged black clouds flew across the darkening sky; the night was coming fast.

And now he began to think about his extraordinary errand, now he began to think that he had been a fool to come. But it did not occur to him to turn back. He never did that. He was sorry he had begun a foolish thing, but, now that he had begun, he would carry on. If it took him all night, if it took him a week, he would find “Day’s End,” and do what he had set out to do.

There was no one to ask questions of here; no human being, no house in sight. On one side of him was a belt of woodland, on the other an iron fence which appeared to run on interminably. Well, he also would go on interminably, and if “Day’s End” was on Wygatt Road, he would certainly come to it in the course of time.

He did. There was a break in the fence at last, made by a gateway between stone pillars, and here he saw, by the light of a match, “Day’s End,” in gilt letters. He opened the gate and went in; a long driveway stretched before him, tree lined; he went up it briskly.

He saw nothing, and heard nothing, but he had a vague impression that the grounds through which he passed were somber and forbidding, and he expected to see a house in keeping with this notion, an old, sinister house, suitable for people in “terrible trouble.”

It was not like that, though. A turn in the driveway brought him in sight of a long façade of lighted windows, and a large, substantial, matter-of-fact house--which made him feel more of a fool than ever. Yet, still he went on, mounted the steps of a brick terrace, and rang the doorbell.

The door was opened promptly by a pale and disagreeable young housemaid.

“I want to see Mrs. Jones, the housekeeper,” said Ross.

“You ought to go to the back door!” she remarked sharply. “You ought to know that much!”

Ross did not like this, but it was not his habit to let his temper override discretion.

“All right!” he said, and was turning away, ready to go to the back door, ready to go anywhere, so that he accomplished his mission, when the housemaid relented.

“As long as you’re here, you can come in,” she said. “This way!”

He followed her across a wide hall, with a polished floor and a fine old stairway rising from it, to a door at the farther end.

“It’s the room right in front of you when you get to the top,” she explained.

She opened the door; he went in, she closed the door behind him, and he found himself in what seemed a pitch-black cupboard. But, as he moved forward, his foot struck against a step, and he began cautiously to mount a narrow, boxed-in staircase, until his outstretched hand touched a door.

He pushed it open, and found himself in a well lighted corridor, and, facing him, a white painted door. And behind that door he heard some one sobbing, in a low, wailing voice.

He stopped, rather at a loss. Then, because he would not go back, he went forward, and knocked.

“Who is it?” cried a voice.

“I came to see Mrs. Jones,” Ross replied casually.

There was a moment’s silence; then the door was opened by the loveliest creature he had ever seen in his life. He had only a glimpse of her, of an exquisite face, very white, with dark and delicate brows and great black eyes, a face childlike in its soft, pure contours, but terribly unchildlike in its expression of terror and despair.

“Wait!” she said. “Go in and wait!”

She brushed past him, with a flutter of her filmy gray dress and a breath of some faint fragrance, and vanished down the back stairs.

Ross went in as he was instructed, and stood facing the door, waiting with a certain uneasiness for some one to come. But nobody did come, and at last he turned and looked about him.

It was a cozy room, with a cheerful red carpet on the floor, and plenty of solid, old-fashioned walnut furniture about; it was well warmed by a steam radiator, and well lighted by an alabaster electrolier in the ceiling; a clock ticked smartly on the mantelpiece, and on the sofa lay a big yellow cat, pretending to be asleep, with one gleaming eye half open.

It was such a thoroughly commonplace and comfortable room that the young man felt reassured. He decided to ignore the wailing voice he had heard, and the pallid, lovely creature who had opened the door. For all he knew, such things might be quite usual in this household, and, anyhow, it was none of his business. He had come to see Mrs. Jones, and to explain an error.

He watched the smart little clock for five minutes, and then began to grow restless. He had walked a good deal this day; he was tired; his shoes were wet; he wanted to be done with this business and to get away. Another five minutes--

It seemed to him that this was the quietest room he had ever known. Even the tick of the clock was muffled, like a tiny pulse. It was altogether too quiet. He didn’t like it at all.

He frowned uneasily, and turned toward the only other living thing there, the cat. He laid his hand on its head, and in a sort of drowsy ecstasy the cat stretched out to a surprising length, opening and curling up its paws. Its claws caught in the linen cover and pulled it up a little, and Ross saw something under the sofa.

He doubted the very evidence of his senses. He could not believe that he saw a hand stretched out on the red carpet. He stared and stared at it, incredulous.

Then he stooped and lifted up the cover and looked under the sofa. There lay a man, face downward.

He was very still. It seemed to Ross that it was this man’s stillness which he had felt in the room; it was the quiet of death.

IV

Ross stood looking down at the very quiet figure in a sort of daze. He did not find this horrible, or shocking; it was simply impossible. Here, in this tranquil, cozy room--No, it was impossible!

Going down on one knee, he reached out and touched the nape of the man’s neck. But he did it mechanically; he had known, from the first glance, that the man was dead. No living thing could lie so still. Quite cold--

The sound of a slow footstep in the corridor startled him. He sprang to his feet, pulled down the linen cover, and was standing idly in the center of the room when a woman entered, a stout, elderly woman with calm brown eyes behind spectacles.

“Well?” said she.

“I came to see Mrs. Jones,” said Ross. “I had a note--”

He spoke in a tone as matter-of-fact as her own, for to save his life he could think of no rational manner in which to tell her what he had seen. Such a preposterous thing to tell a sensible, elderly woman! The very thought of it dismayed him. Of all things in the world, he hated the theatrical. He could not be, and he would not be, dramatic. He wished to be casual.

But, in this case, it would not be easy. The thing he had found was, in its very nature, dramatic, and was even now defying him to be casual and sensible. He would have to tell her, point-blank, and she probably would shriek or faint, or both.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Jones. A note?”

Her voice trailed away, and she stood regarding him in thoughtful silence. Ross was quite willing to be silent a little longer, while he tried to find a reassuring form for his statement; he looked back at her, his lean face quite impassive, his mind working furiously.

“Yes?” said Mrs. Jones. “Miss Solway did think, for a time, that she might need some one to--advise her. But everything’s quite all right now.” She paused a moment. “She’ll be sorry to hear you’ve made the journey for nothing. She’ll appreciate your kindness, I’m sure. But everything’s quite all right now.”

“Oh, is it?” murmured Ross.

He found difficulty in suppressing a grim smile. Everything was all right now, was it, and he could run away home? He did not agree with Mrs. Jones.

“Yes,” she replied. “It was very kind of you to come, but--”

“Wait!” cried Ross, for she had turned away toward the sofa.

Without so much as turning her head, she went on a few steps, took the knitted scarf from her shoulders, and threw it over the end of the sofa. And he saw then that just the tip of the man’s fingers had been visible, and that the trailing end of the scarf covered them now. She knew!

“Well?” she asked, looking inquiringly at him through her spectacles. No; it was impossible; the whole thing was utterly impossible!

This sedate, respectable, gray-haired woman, this housekeeper who looked as if she would not overlook the smallest trace of dust in a corner, certainly, surely would not leave a dead man under her sofa.

She was stroking the cat, and the animal had assumed an expression of idiotic delight, pink tongue protruding a little, eyes half open. Would even a cat be so monstrously indifferent if--if what he thought he had seen under the sofa were really there?

“Would you like me to telephone for a taxi to take you to the station?” asked Mrs. Jones, very civilly.

“Ha!” thought Ross. “You want to get rid of me, don’t you?”

And that aroused all his stiff-necked obstinacy. He would not go away now, after all his trouble, without any sort of explanation of the situation.

“There’s a good train--” Mrs. Jones began, with calm persistence, but Ross interrupted.

“No, thanks,” he said. “I’d like to see Miss Solway first.”

His own words surprised him a little. After all, why on earth should he want to see this Miss Solway? A few hours ago he had been greatly annoyed at the thought of having to do so; he would have been only too glad never to see or to hear of her again.

“It’s because I don’t like being made such a fool of,” he thought.

For the first time since she had entered the room, Mrs. Jones’s calm was disturbed. She came nearer to him, and looked into his face with obvious anxiety, speaking very low, and far more respectfully.

“It would be much better not to!” she said. “Much better, sir, if you’ll just go away--”

“I want to see Miss Solway,” Ross repeated. “There’s been a mistake, and I want to explain.”

“I know that, sir!” she whispered. “Of course, as soon as I saw you, I knew you weren’t Mr. Ross. But--”

“Look here!” said Ross, bluntly. “What’s it all about, anyhow?”

“There was a little difficulty, sir,” said Mrs. Jones, still in a whisper. “But it’s all over now.”

All over now? A new thought came to Ross. Had the man under the sofa been Miss Solway’s “terrible trouble,” and had Cousin James been sent for to help--in doing what had already been done?

He had, at this moment, a most clear and definite warning from his brain. “Clear out!” it said. “Get out of this, now. Don’t wait; don’t ask questions; just go!” All through his body this warning signal ran, making his scalp prickle and his heart beat fast. “It is bad for you here. Go! Now!”

And his stubborn and indomitable spirit answered: “I won’t!”

“I want to see Miss Solway,” he said, aloud.

Mrs. Jones looked at him for a moment, and apparently the expression on his face filled her with despair.

“Oh, dear!” she said, with a tremulous sigh. “I knew; I told her it was a mistake to send. Oh, dear!”

Ross stood there and waited.

“If you’ll go away,” she said, “Miss Solway will write to you.”

Ross still stood there and waited.

“Very well, sir!” she said, with another sigh. “If you must, you must. This way, please!”

He followed her out of the room, and he noticed that she did not even glance back. She couldn’t know. It was impossible that any one who was aware of what lay under the sofa could simply walk out of the room like that, closing the door upon it.

They went down the corridor, which was evidently a wing of the house, and turned the corner into a wider hall. Mrs. Jones knocked upon a door.

“Miss Amy, my pet!” she called, softly.

The door opened a little.

“The gentleman,” said Mrs. Jones. “He will see you!”

“All right!” answered a voice he recognized; the door opened wider, and there was the girl he had seen before. Her body, in that soft gray dress, seemed almost incredibly fragile; her face, colorless, framed in misty black hair, with great, restless black eyes and delicate little features, was strange and lovely as a dream.

Too strange, thought Ross. For the first time he realized the significance of her presence in the housekeeper’s room. He remembered the wailing voice, her air of haste and terror as she had brushed past him. She had been in there, alone. What did she know? What had she seen?

“I had a note from you--” he began.

“Hush!” said Mrs. Jones. “If you please, sir! It’s a mistake, Miss Amy, my pet. This isn’t Mr. Ross. It’s quite a stranger.”

Obviously she was warning her pet to be careful what she said, and Ross decided that he, too, would be careful. He would have his own little mystery.

“Quite a stranger!” he repeated.

“But--how did you get my note?” asked the girl.

“It was given to me,” he answered.

He saw Mrs. Jones and the girl exchange a glance.

“If I hold my tongue and wait,” he thought, “they’ll surely have to tell me something.”

“But I don’t--” the girl began, when, to Ross’s amazement, Mrs. Jones gave him a vigorous push forward.

“You’re the new chauffeur!” she whispered, fiercely.

Then he heard footsteps in the hall. He stood well inside the room, now; a large room, furnished with quiet elegance. It was what people called a boudoir, he thought, as his quick eye took in the details; a dressing table with rose shaded electric lights and gleaming silver and glass; a little desk with rose and ivory fittings; a silver vase of white chrysanthemums on the table.

“I’m afraid we can’t take you,” said Mrs. Jones, in an altogether new sort of voice, brisk, and a little loud. “I’m sorry.”

Ross was very well aware that some one else had come to the door and was standing behind him. He was also aware of a sort of triumph in Mrs. Jones’s manner. She thought she was going to get rid of him. But she wasn’t.

“If it’s a question of wages,” he said, “I’ll take a little less.”

He saw how greatly this disconcerted her.

“No,” she said. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“What’s the matter? What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” demanded an impatient voice behind him. He turned, and saw a stout, middle-aged man of domineering aspect standing there and frowning heavily.

“The young man’s come to apply for the chauffeur’s position, sir,” Mrs. Jones explained. “But I’m afraid--”

“Well, what’s the matter with him?” cried the domineering man. “Can he drive a car? Has he got references, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” Ross replied.

“Let’s see your references!”

“I left them at the agency,” said Ross, as if inspired.

“Agency sent you, eh? Well, they know their business, don’t they? Can you take a car to pieces and put it together again? Have you brains enough to keep your gasoline tank filled, and to remember that when you’re going round a corner some other fellow may be doing the same thing?”

“Yes, sir,” said Ross.

The domineering man stared hard, and Ross met his regard steadily.

“He’ll do,” said the man. “I like him. Looks you straight in the face. Level headed. Well set up. Good nerves. Doesn’t drink. We’ll give him a chance. Eddy!”

He went out into the hall.

“Eddy!” he shouted. “I want Eddy!”

Mrs. Jones came close to Ross.

“Go away!” she whispered. “You must go away!”

The domineering man had come back into the room.

“Now, then, what’s your name?” he demanded brusquely.

“Moss,” said Ross.

“Moss, eh? Very well! Ah, here’s Eddy! Eddy, take this young man over to the garage. See that he’s properly looked after. He’s our new chauffeur.”

V

The door closed behind them, and Ross round himself in the hall, alone with this Eddy. They stared at each other for a moment; then, in spite of himself, a grudging smile dawned upon Ross’s lean and dour face. Eddy grinned from ear to ear.

“Come on, shover!” he said. “I’ll show you your stall!”

A sheik, Eddy was; very slender, with black hair well oiled and combed back from his brow, and wearing clothes of the latest and jauntiest mode. But he lacked the lilylike languor of the true sheik; his rather handsome face was alert and cheerful; and although he moved with the somewhat supercilious grace of one who had been frequently called a just wonderful dancer, there was a certain wiry vigor about him.

Ross followed him down the hall and around the corner, into the corridor where Mrs. Jones’s room was. Ross saw that the door was a little ajar, and he dropped behind, because he wanted to look into that room, but Eddy, in passing, pulled it shut.

Did he know, too? Certainly he did not look like the sort of youth who went about closing doors unbidden, simply from a sense of order and decorum. And that grin--did it signify a shrewd understanding of a discreditable situation?

It was at this instant that Ross began to realize what he had done. Only dimly, though; for he thought that in a few moments he would be gone, and the whole affair finished, as far as he was concerned. He felt only a vague disquiet, and a great impatience to get away. He went after Eddy down the back stairs and through a dark passage on the floor below, at the end of which he saw a brightly lit kitchen where a stout cook bent over the stove, and that same disagreeable housemaid was mixing something in a bowl at the table.

Then Eddy opened a door, and a wild gust of wind and rain sprang at them.

“Step right along, shover!” said Eddy. “Here! This way!” And he took Ross by the arm.

It was black as the pit out there; the wind came whistling through the pines, driving before it great sheets of rain that was half sleet. It was a world of black, bitter cold and confusion, and Ross thought of nothing at all except getting under shelter again.

It was only a few yards; then Eddy stopped, let go of Ross’s arm, and slid back a door. This door opened upon blackness, too, but Ross was glad enough to get inside. Eddy closed the door, turned on a switch, and he saw that they were in a garage.

It was a very ordinary garage, neat and bare, with a cement floor, and two cars standing, side by side; yet, to Ross it had a sinister aspect. He was very weary, wet and chilled to the bone, and this place looked to him like a prison, a stone dungeon. Storm or no storm, he wanted to get out, away from this place and these people.

“Look here--” he began, but Eddy’s cheerful voice called out: “This way!” and he saw him standing at the foot of a narrow staircase in one corner.

The one thing which made Ross go up those stairs was his violent distaste for the dramatic. He felt that it would be absurd to dash out into the rain. Instinct warned him, but once again he defied that warning, and up he went.

He was surprised and pleased by what he found up there: the jolliest, coziest little room, green rug on the floor, big armchairs of imitation red leather, reading lamp. It was not a room of much æsthetic charm, perhaps, but comfortable, cheerful and homelike, and warm.

The rain was drumming loud on the roof and dashing against the windows, and Ross sighed as he looked at the big chairs. But he was beginning to think now.

“Take off your coat and make yourself at home,” said Eddy.

“No,” Ross objected. “I can’t stay to-night. Didn’t bring my things along.”

“Oh, didn’t you?” said Eddy. “Why not?”

“Because I didn’t come prepared to stay.”

“What did you come for?” asked Eddy.

Now, this might be mere idle curiosity, and Ross decided to accept it as that.

“No,” he said, slowly. “I’ll go back to the city and get my things.”

“It’s raining too hard,” Eddy declared. “It wouldn’t be healthy for you to go out just now, shover.”

This was a little too much for Ross to ignore.

“Just the same,” he insisted, “I’m going now.”

“Nope!” said Eddy.

Ross moved forward, and Eddy moved, too, so that he blocked the doorway. He was grinning, but there was an odd light in his eyes.

“Now, lookit here!” he said. “You just make yourself comfortable for the night, see?”

Ross looked at him thoughtfully. He believed that it would not be difficult to throw this slender youth down the stairs, and to walk out of the garage, but he disliked the idea.

“I don’t want to make any trouble, Eddy,” he explained, almost mildly. “But I’m going.”

“Nope!” said Eddy.

Ross took a step forward. Eddy reached in his hip pocket and pulled out a revolver.

“Nope!” he said again.

“What!” cried Ross, astounded. “Do you mean--”

“Tell you what I mean,” said Eddy. “I mean to say that I know who you are, and what you come for, and you’re going to sit pretty till to-morrow morning. That’s what I mean.”

He spoke quite without malice; indeed, his tone was good-humored. But he was in earnest, he and his gun; there was no doubt about it.

It was not Ross’s disposition to enter into futile arguments. He took off his overcoat, sat down, calmly took out a cigarette and lit it.

“I see!” he remarked. “But I’d like to know who I am, and what I came for. I’d like to hear your point of view.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t,” said Eddy. “Anyway, that can wait. Got to see about feeding you now.”

He locked the door behind him and dropped the key into his pocket. Then he opened another door leading out of the sitting room, disclosing a small kitchen.

“Last shover we had, he was a married man,” he explained. “Him and his wife fixed the place up like it is. I been living here myself, lately. Let’s see--I got pork and beans, cawfee, cake--good cake--cook over at the house made it. How does that strike you?”

“Good enough!” answered Ross, a little absently.

Eddy was moving about in the kitchen, whistling between his teeth; from time to time he addressed a cheerful remark to his captive, but got no answer. Presently he brought in a meal, of a sort, and set it out on a table.

“Here you are!” he announced.

Ross drew up his chair, and fell to, with a pretty sharp appetite.

“Look here!” he said, abruptly. “Who was that man--the one who--hired me?”

“Him? The Prince of Wales!” Eddy replied. “Thought you’d recognized him.”

This was Ross’s last attempt at questioning. Indeed, he was quite willing to be silent now, for his deplorably postponed thinking was now well under way. His brain was busy with the events of this day--this immeasurably long day. Was it only this morning that he had got the note? Only this morning that he had said good-by to Phyllis Barron?

“She’d be a bit surprised if she knew where I’d gone!” he thought.

And then, with a sort of shock, it occurred to him that nobody--absolutely nobody on earth knew where he had gone, or cared. These people here did not know even his name. He had come here, had walked into this situation, and if he never came out again, who would be troubled?

Mr. Teagle had not expected him at any definite time, and would wait for weeks and weeks before feeling the least anxiety about his unknown client. The people at the Hotel Miston would scarcely notice for some time the absence of Mr. Ross of New York, especially as his luggage remained there to compensate them for any loss. Nobody would be injured, or unhappy, or one jot the worse, if he never saw daylight again.

This was one aspect of a completely free life which he had not considered. He was of no interest or importance to any one. He began to consider it now.

Eddy had cleared away their meal, and had been turning over the pages of a magazine. Now he began to yawn, and presently, getting up, opened another door, to display a tidy little bedroom.

“Whenever you’re ready to go by-by, shover,” he suggested.

“Thanks, I’m all right where I am,” Ross asserted.

“Suit yourself,” said Eddy.

He set a chair against the locked door, pulled up another chair to put his feet on, and made himself as comfortable as he could. But Ross made no such effort. His family had never cared about being comfortable. No; there he sat, too intent upon his thoughts to sleep.

The realization of his own utter loneliness in this world had set him to thinking about the man under the sofa. There might be some one waiting, in tears, in terrible anxiety for that man. Probably there was. There were very, very few human beings who had nobody to care.

He had made up his mind to go to the police with his story the next morning. And he saw very clearly the disagreeable position into which his perverse obstinacy had brought him. He had discovered a man who was certainly dead, and possibly murdered, and he had said not a word about it to any one.

He had refused to go away when he had a chance, and now, here he was, held prisoner while, if there had been foul play, the persons responsible would have ample time to make what arrangements they pleased. He could very well imagine how his tale would sound to the police.

“Good Lord!” he said to himself. “What a fool I’ve been!”

VI

It seemed to Ross that the great noise of the wind outside was mingled now with the throb of engines and the rushing of water. He thought he felt the lift and roll of the ship beneath him; he thought he was lying in his berth again, on his way across the dark waste of waters, toward New York. He wondered what New York would be like.

Phyllis Barron was knocking at his door, telling him to hurry, hurry and come on deck. This did not surprise him; he was only immensely relieved and glad.

“I knew you’d come!” he wanted to say, but he could not speak. He tried to get up and dress and go out to her, but he could not move. He made a desperate struggle to call to her.

“Wait! Wait!” he tried to say. “I’m asleep. But I’ll wake in a minute. Please don’t go away!”

Then, with a supreme effort, he did wake. He opened his eyes. There was Eddy, stretched out on his two chairs, sound asleep. And there was a muffled knocking at the door, and a little wailing voice:

“Eddy! Eddy! Oh, can’t you hear me? Eddy!”

For a moment Ross thought it was an echo from his dream, but, as the drowsiness cleared from his head, he knew it was real. He got up and touched the sleeping youth on the shoulder.

“There’s some one calling you!” he said.

Eddy opened his eyes with an alert expression and glared at Ross.

“What?” he demanded, sternly. “No monkey tricks, now!”

As a matter of fact, he was still more than half asleep, and Ross had to repeat his statement twice before it was understood. Then he sprang up, pushed aside the chairs, and unlocked the door.

It was Miss Solway. She came in, like a wraith; she was wrapped in a fur coat, but she looked cold, pale, affrighted; her black eyes wide, her misty dark hair in disorder; a fit figure for a dream.

“Eddy!” she said. “Go away!”

“Lookit here, Miss Amy,” Eddy protested, anxiously. “Wait till morning.”

“But it is morning!” she cried. “Go away, Eddy! Quick! I want to speak to--Go away, do! I only have a minute to spare.”

“Morning!” thought Ross. He looked at his watch, which showed a few minutes past six; then at the window. It was as black as ever outside.

“Lookit here, Miss Amy,” Eddy began again. “If I was you, I’d--”

“Get out, fool!” she cried. “Idiot! This instant!”

Her fierce and sudden anger astounded Ross. Her eyes had narrowed, her nostrils dilated, her short upper lip was drawn up in a sort of snarl. Yet this rage was in no way repellent; it was like the fury of some beautiful little animal. He could perfectly understand Eddy’s answering in a tone of resigned indulgence.

“All right, Miss Amy. Have it your own way.”

It seemed to Ross that that was the only possible way for any man to regard this preposterous and lovely creature, not critically, but simply with indulgence.

Taking up his cap and overcoat, Eddy departed, whistling as he went down the stairs. Miss Solway waited, scowling, until he had gone; then she turned to Ross.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

He was greatly taken aback. He had not yet had time to collect his thoughts; nothing much remained in his mind except the decision of the night before that this morning he was going to the police with an account of what he had seen. And, stronger and clearer than anything else, was his desire and resolve to get away from here.

“Oh, tell me!” she entreated.

Ross reflected well before answering. Eddy suspected him of something--Heaven knew what. Perhaps this girl did, too. He imagined that they were both a little afraid of him. And, if he held his tongue, and didn’t let them know how casual and unpremeditated all his actions had been, he might keep them in wholesome doubt about him, and so get away.

“My name’s Moss,” he replied, as if surprised. “I came to get a job.”

“No!” she said. “You got my note. But how could you? Who can you be? Nanna said--but I don’t believe it! I knew--as soon as I saw you--I felt sure you’d come to help me. Oh, tell me! My cousin James sent you, didn’t he?”

“James Ross?” asked Ross, slowly.

“Yes!” she answered, eagerly. “My cousin James. He did! I know it! Mother always told me to go to him if I needed help. Of course, I know he must be old now. I was afraid--so terribly afraid that he’d left the ship, or that I’d forgotten the name of it. But I was right, after all. I thought mother had said he was purser on the Farragut.”

“What!” cried Ross.

He began to understand now. Years and years ago--the dimmest memory--he had had a cousin James who was purser on one of the Porto Rico boats. He could vaguely remember his coming to their house in Mayaguez; a gloomy man with a black beard; son of his father’s elder brother William. It must have been on the old Farragut, scrapped nearly twenty years ago.

And that cousin James had vanished, too, long ago. William Ross had had three children, and outlived them all. Ross could remember his grandfather telling him that.

“All gone,” the old man had said; “both my sons and their sons. No doubt the Almighty has some reason for sparing you; but it’s beyond me.”

“Your Cousin James?” said Ross, staring at her--because that had been his Cousin James.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” she answered, impatiently. “I told you. Now tell me how--”

But Ross wanted to understand.

“What was your father’s name?” he demanded.

“Luis Delmano,” she replied. “But what does that matter? I only have a minute--”

“Then why do you call yourself Solway if your name is--”

“Oh!” she cried. “Now I see! You didn’t know the name of my mother’s second husband! Nobody had told you that! Of course! I should have thought of that. Mother told me how horrible her brothers were. When she married daddy, they were so furious. They said they’d never see her or speak to her or mention her name again--and I suppose they didn’t. Nasty, heartless beasts! Their only sister!”

Although Ross had never before heard of any sister of his father’s, the story seemed to him probable. His grandfather, his father, and his uncle were so exactly the sort of people to possess a sister whose name was never mentioned; grim, savage, old-fashioned, excommunicating sort of people. Yes; it was probable; but it was startling. Because, if this girl’s mother had been his father’s sister, then he was her Cousin James, after all.

He did not want to be. His dark face grew a little pale, and he turned away, looking down at the floor, considering this new and unwelcome idea.

“Now you understand!” she said. “And you did come to help me, didn’t you?”

This time his silence was deliberate, and not due to any confusion in his thoughts. The blood in his veins spoke clearly to him. What those other Rosses had condemned, he, too, condemned. He was like them. This girl was altogether strange, exotic, and dangerous, and he wanted to get away from her.

It was his gift, however, to show no sign of whatever he might be thinking; his face was expressionless, and she read what she chose there. She came nearer to him, and laid her hand on his arm.

“You will help me?” she said, softly.

He looked down at her gravely. He knew that she was willfully attempting to charm him--and how he did scorn anything of that sort! And yet--He looked at her as some long forgotten Ross of Salem might have looked at a bonny young witch. The creature was dangerous, and yet--Bonny she was, and a young man is a young man.

“I don’t see,” he began, doubtfully, when suddenly she cried: “Look!” and pointed to the window. He turned, startled, but he saw nothing there.

“It’s getting light!” she cried.

That was true enough. The sky was not black now, but all gray, pallid, swept clean of clouds. The rain had ceased, but the mighty wind still blew, and the tops of the trees bowed and bent before it, like inky marionettes before a pale curtain. There was no sign yet of the sun, but you could feel that the dawn was coming.

“What of it?” asked Ross, briefly.

“It’s the last day!” she answered.

What a thing to say! The last day. It filled him with a vague sense of dread, and it made him angry.

“That’s not--” he began, but she did not heed him.

“Listen!” she said. “You must help me! I don’t know what to do. I’m--I’m desperate! I’ve--” She stopped, looking up into his wooden face; then, seizing him by the shoulder, she tried to shake him.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, look at me like a human being!” she cried.

He stared at her, dumfounded.

“Stop it!” she commanded. “You’ve got to listen to me!”

He had never in his life been so amazed. She had flown at him, and shaken him! It was unbelievable. It was pathetic. She was such a little thing; so fierce, and so helpless.

“All right!” he said, mildly. “I’m listening. What’s it all about?”

His tone, his faint smile, did not please her.

“Oh, you think it’s nothing!” she said. “You think I’m just a silly girl, making an awful fuss about some childish trouble. Don’t you? Well, you’re wrong. Listen to me!”

She stopped, and drew back a little, looking him straight in the face with those strange black eyes of hers.

“I’ve done a terrible thing,” she said, in a low, steady voice. “A wicked, terrible thing. If I get what I deserve, I’m ruined and lost.”

She turned away from him, and walked over to the window. Ross turned, too, and followed her. She was gazing before her at the gray sky; the curve of her cheek, her half parted lips, her wide brow, were altogether innocent and lovely, but the look on her pale face was not so. It was somber, bitter, and tragic.

“The sun is coming up,” she said, almost inaudibly. “Will you help me?”

“Yes,” Ross answered.

VII

Ross stood by the window, watching the sun come up--the first sunrise he had witnessed in his native land. From the east the light welled up and spread, slow and inexorable, across the sky, like the Master’s glance traveling over the chill world; and in his soul Ross dreaded that light. It would mean discovery. That very quiet figure in the housekeeper’s room would have his revenge.

“I’m in it now,” Ross muttered. “Up to the neck.”

And why? Was it pity for that girl? Was it a stirring of sentiment because she was his kinswoman, his cousin? He did not think so. He might have pitied her, and still gone away. He might have recognized their kinship simply by keeping silent about what he had seen. No; it was something more than that; something he could not quite understand.

It was the claim of life upon a strong spirit. You are hardy and valiant, life said; your shoulders are fitted to bear burdens, and bear them you shall. Here before you is a cruel burden, and you cannot turn aside. All the strong ones shall be chosen to suffer for the weak. You are chosen, and you shall suffer.

Well, he did.

“I’ve done a wicked, terrible thing. If I get what I deserve, I’m ruined and lost.”

That was what she had said to him, and he interpreted it readily enough. It was hideous to think of, but not difficult to believe. She was, he thought, capable of any imaginable thing, good or evil. She would not weigh, or calculate, or even understand; she would only want. She would want to possess something, or she would want to destroy something which irked her.

“And after all,” he thought, “it’s not a hard thing to do. Even a little, weak thing like her can--”

His mind balked at the fatal word, but, with a frown, he deliberately uttered it to himself.

“Can kill,” he said. “I’ve got to face this squarely. Other women have done things like that. A few drops of something in a glass, perhaps.”

An uncontrollable shudder ran through him.

“No!” he thought. “I needn’t think--that. I’ll wait till she’s told me. The whole thing may be--some accident--something else.”

But he remembered that she had been there alone in the housekeeper’s room, and that he had heard her crying in there. He remembered her words--“a wicked, terrible thing.” And he remembered, above everything else, her face, with that look upon it.

“Damn it!” he cried. “I won’t think at all--until I know something definite. I’ll just carry on.”

He could, and did, refuse to think of his immediate problem, but his mind would not remain idle. It presented him with a very vivid picture of Phyllis Barron. And now, for the first time, he welcomed that gentle image. She was so immeasurably remote now, so far away, in an entirely different world; a friendly, honest world, where she was living her daily life, while he stood here, watching the sun rise upon a dreaded and unpredictable day.

“Well, shover!” said Eddy’s cheerful voice behind him. “The big boss ’ll want the car for the eight forty.”

“All right!” Ross agreed, promptly. “I want a bath and a shave first. And maybe you’ll lend me a collar and a pair of socks.”

“I’ll do that for you!” said Eddy. “And say! You could try Wheeler’s uniform that he left behind. He was the shover before you. He left in a hurry. Got kicked out. Most of our shovers do.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” Eddy explained, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and watching Ross shave with cold water, a very dull razor, and the minute fragment of a shaving stick. “Most of our shovers get tempted and fall--hard. Miss Amy ’ll ask ’em to take her some place where the boss don’t want her to go, and not to mention it at home. And they do. And then, the next time she gets mad at the boss, she tells him the whole tale, just to worry him. And the shover goes. See?”

“I see!” said Ross.

“She was talking to me just now,” Eddy went on. “I guess I was mistaken about you. She says you’re going to stay. Well!” He grinned. “I wish you luck!”

“Thanks!” said Ross.

He understood that Eddy was warning him against the devices of Miss Amy, but it was a little too late.

He took a bath in water colder than any he had yet encountered; then he tried on the uniform left behind by the unfortunate Wheeler. It was a bit tight across the shoulders, and the style was by no means in accordance with his austere taste, but he could wear it.

“And I shan’t keep up this silly farce much longer,” he thought.

“We might as well go over to the house for breakfast,” said Eddy. “Ready?”

Ross did not relish the glimpse he had of his reflection in the mirror. That snug-fitting jacket with a belt in the back, those breeches, those puttees--he did not like them. Worst of all, Eddy’s collar would not meet round his neck, and he had fastened it with a safety pin. As he took up the peaked cap and followed the cheerful youth, he felt, not like an accomplice in a tragedy, but like a very complete fool--and that did not please him.

They crossed the lawn to the house, went in at the back door, and entered the kitchen. There he sat down to breakfast with the cook, the housemaid, the laundress, and Eddy. The kitchen was warm and clean, and neat as a new pin; very agreeable in the morning sunshine. The breakfast was good, and he was very hungry, and ate with a healthy appetite. But, except for a civil good morning, he did not say one word.

For he was listening. He was waiting, in an unpleasant state of tension, for something which would shatter this comfortable serenity. It must come. It was not possible that the figure under the sofa should remain undiscovered, that life should progress as if nothing at all had happened. Amy had said this was the “last day.”

Nothing interrupted the breakfast, though; and, when he had finished, he went back to the garage, to look over the sedan he was to drive. It was a good car, and in perfect condition; nothing for him to do there. He lit a cigarette, and stood talking to Eddy for a time.

Eddy’s theme was Mr. Solway, Miss Amy’s long-suffering stepfather.

“He’s the best man Gawd ever made,” said Eddy, seriously. “My father was coachman to him for eighteen years, and when he passed out, Mr. Solway, he kept me here. He seen that I got a good education and all. I wanted this here shover’s job, but he said nothing doing. He said I’d ought to get a job with a future. I’m down in the telephone comp’ny now--repair man. He lets me live here for nothing--just for doing a few odd jobs. He’s a prince!” He stamped out his cigarette with his heel. “And he has a hell of a life!” he added.

“How?” asked Ross, thirsting for any sort of information about this household.

“Her,” said Eddy. “Remember, I’m not saying nothing against Miss Amy. I’ve known her all my life. But, I’ve done things for that girl I wouldn’t have done for my own mother.” He paused. “I done things for her I wish to Gawd I hadn’t done,” he said, and fell silent.

Ross was silent, too. He remembered how Eddy had closed the door of the housekeeper’s room. He remembered how very anxious Eddy had been to keep him shut up in the garage all night. And he remembered that Eddy carried a revolver.

Why should he imagine that Amy Solway would do for herself any unpleasing task, when apparently she found it so easy to make others do things for her? This boy admitted he had done things for her which he wished “to Gawd” he hadn’t.

“You better start,” said Eddy, and Ross got into the sedan and drove up to the house. He was undeniably nervous. He expected to see--he didn’t know what; a pale face looking at him from one of the windows, a handkerchief waved to him, a note slipped into his hand, some signal. But there was nothing.

Mr. Solway came bursting out of the front door, ran down the steps, said “Good morning! Good morning!” to his new chauffeur, popped into the sedan, and immediately began to read the newspaper. At the station he bounced out, said “Four fifty,” and walked off.

Ross stopped in the town and bought himself some collars. Even this delay worried him; he might be badly needed at the house. But, in spite of his haste to get back, he was mighty careful in his driving, because he had no sort of license. He returned to the garage and put up the car--and waited.

Four hours did he wait. Eddy was nowhere about; no doubt he was repairing telephones. Nobody came near the garage. Ross sketchily overhauled both cars, swept out the place, and waited, not patiently, either.

He had agreed to help that girl, and he was prepared to do so, but he was not going to be a chauffeur much longer. It was, he thought, a singularly dull life. What is more, he had his own affairs to look after; he wanted to get back to New York, and to see Mr. Teagle.

At one o’clock the telephone in the garage rang, and the disagreeable housemaid informed him that lunch was ready. Very well, he was ready for lunch; he went over to the house and again sat down in the kitchen, and ate again in silence. He had nothing to say, and the three women said nothing to him.

He was not a talkative young man; he and his grandfather had often passed entire days with scarcely a word between them, and he took this silence as a matter of course, quite innocent of the fact that it was hostile. The new chauffeur was not liked in the kitchen.

Then he went back to the garage, and waited, and waited, and waited, with grim resentment. A little after four o’clock he was preparing to take the sedan out again, when Amy appeared in the doorway, in her fur coat and a little scarlet hat.

“Oh, good!” she cried. “You’re all ready! I want you to take me--”

“No!” said Ross. “Mr. Solway said four fifty, and I’m going to meet his train.”

“But he meant the four fifty from New York!” said she. “You’ll have plenty of time.” She came nearer to him. “Please, please be quick!” she said. “It’s my last chance!”

VIII

“To the left, and straight ahead!” said Amy, as they drove out of the gates.

So, to the left he turned, and drove straight ahead. And he looked straight ahead, too, although he knew very well that she was looking at him. This girl took entirely too much for granted. It was one thing to help her, but to obey her orders blindly was quite another, and it did not suit him. Here he was, dressed up in a chauffeur’s uniform somewhat too small for him, and behaving, no doubt, as those other chauffeurs had behaved--like a fool.

He heard her stir restlessly, with little flutterings and jinglings of her silly feminine finery. She sighed deeply.

“I don’t believe you’ve told me your right name,” she said, plaintively.

“James Ross,” he announced.

“James Ross!” she cried. “Oh, but you said--But he’s old!”

“Another James Ross,” he remarked, coldly. But in his heart he was rather pleased with the sensation his words caused.

“Another one? Then--are you my cousin? Are you?”

“I believe so,” Ross replied.

She was silent for a moment; then she observed, thoughtfully:

“I guess I’ll call you Jimmy.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Ross. “I don’t like it.”

“I do!” said she. “I think Jimmy’s a darling name.” Suddenly she flung one arm about his neck. “And I think you’re a darling!” she added, with a sob.

“Look out!” Ross cried, sharply. “You mustn’t do that when I’m driving.” He cast a glance along the straight, empty road, and then turned to her. Her dark eyes were soft and shining with tears, but she was trying to smile.

“Oh, Jimmy!” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad you’ve come!”

“All right!” said the Spartan young man. “Then suppose you tell me what’s wrong?”

“I can’t, Jimmy,” she answered. Her hand rested on his shoulder, but her head was turned away. “I can’t--just now. Only, oh, Jimmy! Sometimes I wish I were dead! Dead and buried with my darling mother--”

He could think of nothing adequate to say to that, and, once more giving a careful glance at the road, he patted her hand.

“I’m sorry,” he declared gravely.

“I know it’s not fair--not to tell you,” she said. “But--can’t you just help me, Jimmy, and--and not care?”

A curious emotion filled him; a great compassion and a great dread.

“Why not?” he thought. “I don’t want to hear. I don’t want to know. Better let well enough alone.”

But he knew it was not better, and not possible. Not all the pity in the world should make him a blind and ignorant tool. He was in honor bound to ask his question.

“Just this,” he said. “That man--in the housekeeper’s room?”

“Why, what man?” she asked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

His heart sank. Disappointment, and a sort of disgust for this childish lie filled him; he did not want to look at her again. He drove on, down a road which seemed to him endless, like a road in a dream.

The sun was going down quietly, without pomp and glory, only slipping out of sight and drawing with it all the light and color in the world. They passed houses, they passed other cars, and it seemed to him that he and this girl passed through the everyday life about them like ghosts, set apart from their fellows, under a chill shadow.

“Jimmy!” she said, abruptly. “How can you be so horrid! Why don’t you talk? Why can’t you be like--like a real cousin?”

“Perhaps I haven’t had enough practice,” Ross replied.

She did not like this.

“All right, then! Don’t help me! Just go away and leave me to suffer all alone!” she cried. “You’re a heartless--beast! Go away!”

“Just as you please,” said Ross. “Can you drive the car?”

She began to cry, but he paid no attention to this.

“Jimmy,” she resumed, at last, “my Gayle’s coming to-night.”

“Your Gayle?” he repeated. “What’s that?”

“He’s the man I love,” she said, simply.

And she was honest now, wholly in earnest; the childish artfulness had gone, and she spoke quietly.

“He’s coming to-night,” she went on. “And if anything--goes wrong, he’ll go away, and never come back. And something’s very likely to go wrong, Jimmy.”

“You’ll have to remember that I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Ross.

She did not resent his blunt manner now.

“In the house where we’re going,” she explained, “there’s some one Gayle must not see--no matter what happens. I’ll talk to--this person first; I’ll try to persuade him. But if I can’t--That’s what I want you to do for me. I want you to be sure to see that--this person doesn’t leave that house to-night.”

“And how am I to do that?”

She was silent for a moment.

“I don’t care,” she said then. “It doesn’t matter how it’s done.”

“It does matter--to me.”

“Listen to me!” she said, with a sort of sternness. “This man--in the cottage--he’s blackmailing me. Because of something I did--something I’m sorry for--terribly, terribly sorry--”

“What will he take to keep quiet?”

“Nothing. All he wants is to hurt and ruin me.”

“That’s not blackmail,” said Ross. “If he can’t be bribed--”

“Oh, what does it matter what you call it? He’s coming to-night, to tell--this thing--and Gayle will go away!”

“Look here!” said Ross. “Let him tell. If this Gayle of yours cares for you, he’ll stand by you. If he doesn’t, you’re well rid of him. No; just wait a minute! Don’t you see? You can’t lie to a man you’re--fond of. You--”

“I’m not going to lie. I’ll just say nothing. The thing is over, Jimmy; over and done with. Mustn’t I even have a chance? Jimmy, I’m young! I’m sorry--God knows I’m sorry for what I did--but it’s done. Nothing can undo it. Won’t you--won’t you let me have just a chance?”

“But look here! Even if the man didn’t come to-night, he’d come some other time. You don’t expect me to--”

He stopped short, appalled by the words he had not spoken. He looked at her, and in the gathering dusk he saw upon her white face that terrible, still look again.

“No!” he cried.

“Jimmy!” she said. “Just keep him from coming to-night. Then to-morrow I’ll tell you the whole thing. And perhaps you’ll think of something to do. But--just to-night--keep him from coming!”

Ross made no answer.

“Down here, Jimmy--to the left,” she said, presently, and he turned the car down a solitary lane, narrow, scored with ruts of half frozen mud. It had grown so dark now that he turned on the headlights.

“There!” she said. “That’s the house. Let me out!”

He stopped the car.

“Look here!” he began, but she had sprung out, and was hurrying across a field of stubble. He could not let her go alone. He followed her, sick at heart, filled again with that sense of utter solitude, of being cut off from all his fellows, in a desolate and unreal world. His soul revolted against this monstrous adventure, and yet he could not abandon her.

She went before him, light, surprisingly sure-footed upon those high heels of hers. For some reason of her own, she had chosen to approach the house from the side, instead of following the curve of the lane. She came to a fence, and climbed it like a cat, and Ross climbed after her.

They were in a forlorn garden, where the withered grass stood high, and before them was the sorriest little cottage, battered and discolored by wind and rain, all the shutters closed, not a light, not a curtain, not a sign of life about it.

“Look here!” Ross began again. “I’ve got to know--”

She ran up the steps to the porch, where a broken rocking-chair began to rock as she brushed it in passing. She opened the door and entered; it was dark in there, but she ran up the stairs as if she knew them well; before he was halfway up, he heard her hurrying footsteps on the floor above, heard doors open and shut.

Then a light sprang out in the upper hall, and she stood there, looking down at him. By the unshaded gas jet he could see her face clearly, and it shocked him; such anguish there, such terror.

“Gone!” she gasped. “Gone!”

IX

To Ross, with his rigid self-control, it seemed impossible that a human creature could safely endure such violent emotion as hers. She was so fragile; she looked ill, horribly ill, ghastly, he thought she would faint, would fall senseless at his feet. He sprang up the stairs to be with her.

“Amy!” he cried.

Her dark brows met in a somber frown; she shook her head, waving her forefinger in front of her face; an odd, foreign little gesture.

“No!” she said. “Keep quiet! Don’t speak to me. Let me think.”

“Think!” said Ross to himself. “I don’t believe you’re capable of it, my girl. But certainly you’re even less capable of listening to any one. Very well; go ahead with your thinking, then; and I’ll wait for the next development.”

He lit a cigarette, and leaned against the wall, smoking, not sorry for an interval of peace.

“Look at the time!” Amy commanded sharply. “You’ll be late getting to the station, unless you hurry. Why didn’t you remind me?”

“Inexcusable of me,” said Ross. “I hope I shan’t lose my job.”

She apparently did not choose to notice this flippancy.

“Come!” she ordered, and went past him, down the stairs, and out of that sorry little cottage. She ran all the way to the car, and two or three times she said “Hurry!” to Ross, who kept easily at her side with his usual stride.

“Now!” she said. “Drive as fast as you possibly can!”

“Sorry,” said Ross, “but my only license is one I had in Manila--and even that’s expired. I can’t afford to take chances.”

She shrugged her shoulders, with an unpleasant little laugh. She was in a very evil temper; the light was on inside of the car, and now and then he glanced at her, saw her sitting there, her black eyes staring straight before her, her mouth set in a mutinous and scornful line.

She was in torment; he felt sure of that, but he felt equally sure that she would not hesitate to inflict torment upon others. She was cruel, reckless, blind, and deaf in her folly. He wondered why it was that he pitied her so.

Then he, too, shrugged his shoulders; mentally, that is, for he was incapable of so theatric a gesture in the flesh. He himself was in an odd humor, a sort of resigned indifference. He had, for the moment, lost interest in the whole affair. It was too fantastic, too confusing; he didn’t care very much what happened, just now.

“Let me out here!” she said. “There’s not time for you to take me up to the house. I’ll walk. Now hurry!”

He stopped the car at the corner of Wygatt Road; she got out, and he went on, alone. And he was surprised by the difference which her going made. It was as if a monstrous oppression were lifted from his spirit, and he could once more draw a free breath, and once more see the open sky. One clear star was out. No; it was not a mad world; there was awful and majestic order in the universe, inexorable law.

And she was truly pitiable, hurrying home beneath that one star; a poor, helpless futile young thing, defying the whole world for her own desire. She wanted him to help her! He would not help her in her desperate folly, but he would not leave her now. Not now.

These admirable ideas were entirely put out of his head by a new dilemma. He arrived at the station; he heard the train coming in, and he could find no advantageous place for his car. All the good places were taken. He had to stop where he was certain Mr. Solway would never find him, until, as the train came in, a taxi was seized by an alert woman, and Ross got his car into that vacant place.

Mr. Solway was not in the vanguard of the commuters; he came leisurely and with dignity, talking with another man. Ross stood beside the open door of the car; with a nod Mr. Solway got in, and the other man, too. They paid no attention whatever to Ross; they settled themselves, and went on talking, as if he were a ghost.

“They closed at five and an eighth,” said the other man. “I can’t help thinking that--”

“Now, see here!” Mr. Solway interrupted. “You hold on to them, my boy. I told you it was a good thing.”

“It would be,” said the other. “A very good thing, sir, if I could unload at five and an eighth--or even a bit less--when I bought at three and three-fourths.”

“Now, see here!” said Mr. Solway. “I’ll tell you something--which you needn’t mention anywhere. I’m buying at five and an eighth--up to six and a half. Buying, mind you, my boy!”

This was almost more than Ross could bear. This was just the sort of talk he had thirsted for; this was what he had come to New York for; to buy stocks at three and three-fourths and sell at six and one-half, or more. There he sat, with his peaked cap pulled down over his lean, impassive face, listening with a sort of rage. If he could only ask Mr. Solway questions, only tell him that he had a few thousands of his own all ready and waiting for a little venture like this.

“And you’ll need all you can get, my boy,” Mr. Solway went on, “if you’re going to marry Amy.”

Then this was Gayle? Ross turned his head for one hasty glance--and then, encountering the astonished frown of Mr. Solway, realized what an improper thing he had done. Chauffeurs must not look.

He had had this look, though, and had gained a pretty accurate impression of the stranger. A tall young fellow, fair haired and gray eyed; he was stalwart and broad shouldered, and altogether manly, but there was in his face something singularly gentle and engaging.

“And that’s the fellow!” thought Ross. “That’s the fellow who’s going to be fooled and lied to.”

He liked him. And he liked the vigorous and blustering Mr. Solway, and he liked this rational, masculine conversation. It reassured him. He reflected that, after all, he was not alone in this miserable affair, not hopelessly cornered with the preposterous girl. No; Solway was her stepfather, and the other man was her “Gayle.” They were in it, too. They were his natural allies.

“She’s got to tell them, that’s all,” he said to himself. “They’ll both stand by her. I’ll make her tell them. I can’t handle this infernal mystery alone. I’m too much in the dark.”

He drove in at the gates, up the driveway, and stopped the car before the house with a smartness that pleased him. Mr. Solway bounced out.

“Here, now!” he said. “You--Moss--Moss, that’s it. Moss, just lend a hand with this bag. That’s right; up the stairs--first door on the left. That’s it! That’s it! There you are, Gayle, my boy!”

He turned to Ross.

“Moss,” he said. “Everything going along all right? That’s it! That’s it! You let me know if there’s anything wrong.”

Ross was hard put to it to suppress a smile. He imagined how it would be if he should say:

“Well, sir, there was one little thing--a dead man under the housekeeper’s sofa. But, perhaps I shouldn’t mention it.”

He looked for a moment into the bluff, scowling, kindly face of the man Eddy had called “a prince.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said, and turned away, down the hall toward the back stairs. And, as he came round the corner into the corridor, where the housekeeper’s room was, his quick ear caught some words of such remarkable personal interest to him that he stood still.

“Another James Ross!” Mrs. Jones was saying. “That’s a likely story, I must say! Amy, that man’s a fraud and a spy!”

“No, Nanna darling, he’s not!” answered Amy, with sweet obstinacy.

“I tell you he is, child. He’s got to go.”

“No, dear,” said Amy. “He’s going to help me.”

“Amy!” cried Mrs. Jones. “Can’t you trust me? I tell you it’s all right. He won’t come to-night. I promise you he won’t!”

“Oh, you mean well!” Amy remarked. “But you’ve made plenty of mistakes before this.”

“Amy, I promise you--”

“No,” said Amy. “You told me before that I needn’t worry, that you’d ‘settled everything.’ And what happened? No; I’m afraid you’re getting old, Nanna--old and stupid. I’m going to manage for myself now. And Jimmy’s going to help me.”

“Child!” Mrs. Jones protested. “That man will ferret out--”

“I don’t care if he does,” said Amy. “He won’t tell, anyhow. Now don’t bother me any more, Nanna. I’ve simply got to go.”

Ross stepped quickly backward along the hall for a few yards; then he went forward again, with a somewhat heavier tread. And just round the corner of the corridor, he came face to face with Amy.

Her beauty almost took his breath away. She wore a dress of white and silver, and round her slender throat a short string of pearls. And against all this gleaming white the pallor of her skin was rich and warm, with a tint almost golden; and her misty hair was like a cloud about her face, and her black eyes so soft, so limpid.

“Jimmy!” she whispered. “Do I look nice?”

“Er--yes; very nice,” Ross answered stiffly.

She came close to him, put her hand on his shoulder.

“Please, Jimmy!” she said, earnestly. “I do so awfully want to be happy--just for a little while!”

Ross had a moment of weakness. She was so young, so lovely; it seemed important, even necessary, that she should be happy. But he valiantly resisted the spell.

“Who doesn’t?” he inquired.

“Jimmy, dear!” she said. “I’m coming to the garage after dinner--to ask you something--to beg you to do something. Will you do it, my dear little Jimmy?”

“I’ll have to hear what it is first,” said Ross.

But she seemed satisfied.

X

Ross went up to the room over the garage, and sat down there. He was hungry and tired, and in no pleasant humor.

“It’s entirely too damned much!” he said to himself. “I’m--comparatively speaking--a rich man. There’s money waiting for me. There’s a nice, comfortable room in a hotel waiting for me; and decent clothes. I could have gone to a play to-night. There was one I wanted to see. And here I am--in a garage--dressed up like a monkey. No, it’s too much! I’m going back to the city to-morrow. I’m going to see Teagle, and settle my affairs. If Amy wants me to help her, I suppose I shall. But I won’t stay here, and I won’t be a chauffeur.”

The more he thought of all this, the more exasperated he became. And it was nearly nine o’clock before he was summoned to dinner, which did not tend to placate him. In spite of his hunger, he took his time in going over to the house. He had no objection to being late, and he would have no objection to hearing some one complain about it. Indeed, he wished that some one would complain. Just one word.

Looking for trouble, Ross was, when he entered the house. He pushed open the swing door of the kitchen.

What marvelous aromas were there! What a festive air! That grave woman, the cook, was wreathed in smiles, for had she not this night accomplished a dinner which even Mrs. Jones had praised?

And the disagreeable housemaid was in softened mood, too, for she had waited upon romance. She had already described, more than once, the splendor of Miss Amy’s costume, and the way “him and her” had looked at each other.

The laundress was elated, because she was fond of romance, and still more because she was a greedy young creature, and scented an especially good dinner. And they all welcomed Ross with cordiality.

“It’s too bad you had to be waiting the long time it was!” said the cook. “You’ve a right to be famished entirely, Mr. Moss!”

Much mollified, the young man admitted that he was hungry.

“You’d oughter of come over for a cuper tea this afternoon,” said the housemaid. “And a piecer cake.”

“You’d oughter of tole him, Gracie,” the laundress added. “Poor feller! He don’t know the ways here, yet!”

“Sit down, the lot of ye!” said the cook.

They did, and that unparalleled dinner began. It must be borne in mind that Ross was wholly unaccustomed to this sort of thing, to home cooking at its best, to the maternal kindness of women toward a hungry man. He liked it.

He was in no hurry to go back to the solitude of the garage, and his own thoughts. Being invited to smoke, he lit a cigarette and made himself very comfortable, while the cook washed the dishes, and Gracie and the laundress dried them. He was still taciturn, because he couldn’t be anything else; but he answered questions.

He admitted that he had traveled a bit, and when the laundress, who was disposed to be arch, asked to be told about them queer places, he gave a few facts about the exports and imports of Manila. Anyhow, they all listened to him, and said, “Didjer ever!” and it was altogether the pleasantest hour he had yet spent in his native land.

And then--the swing door banged open, and there stood Amy, with a fur coat over her shimmering dress, and an ominous look in her black eyes.

“Moss!” she said. “What are you doing here? Get up and come with me at once! I want to speak to you!”

Without a word, he arose and followed her into the passage.

“I told you I was coming to the garage!” she pointed out, in a low, furious voice. “Why didn’t you wait there?”

“Look here!” said Ross. “I don’t like this sort of thing.”

Before his tone her wrath vanished at once.

“I’m sorry, Jimmy!” she said. “I didn’t mean to be horrid. Only, it was so hard for me to slip away--and I went all the way out to the garage in the cold and the dark, and you weren’t there--and I’m so terribly worried. Oh, you will hurry, won’t you?”

“Hurry? Well, what do you want me to do?”

“It may be too late, even now. Any instant he may come. He’ll ring the bell, and Gracie will open the door. I can’t tell her not to. He’ll come in. Oh, Jimmy, you won’t let that happen, will you? Oh, do, do please hurry!”

“But just what--”

“Go out and hide some place where you can watch the front door. And if you see him coming--stop him! A thin, dark man, with a mustache. Oh, hurry, Jimmy! All evening long I’ve been waiting and waiting--in torment--for the sound of the bell. Go, Jimmy dear!”

“How long do you expect me to wait for him?”

“Oh, not so awfully long, dear. Just--” She paused. “Just till Eddy comes home. I’m sure he won’t be late. Now hurry!”

“I don’t want to do this,” said Ross. “I can’t stop--”

“Oh, shut up!” she cried; and then tried to atone by patting his cheek. “Jimmy, I’m desperate! Just help me this once! To-morrow I’ll explain it all, and you’ll see. Only go now!”

“I’ll have to get my overcoat from the garage,” he explained.

“All right, dear!” she said, gently, and turned away. And as he went toward the back door, he heard her sob.

All the way to the garage that sob echoed in his ears. Her tears had not affected him; they were too facile, too convenient. But that half stifled sob in the dark--He went quickly, taking the key from his pocket as he went; he, too, was in a hurry, now, to spare her this thing she dreaded.

He unlocked the door, turned on the switch, ran up the stairs, through the sitting room, and into the bedroom, where his coat hung.

He stopped short in the doorway. For, sitting on the bed was a tiny girl, seriously engaged in tying a ribbon about the waist of a white flannel rabbit. She looked up at the young man, but apparently was not interested, and went on with her job.

“Who are you?” demanded Ross.

“Lil-lee,” said she.

“Yes, but I mean--how did you get here?”

“I comed in a balloon,” she assured him.

Ross was completely ignorant about young children, but he realized that they were not to be held strictly accountable for their statements. And this child was such a very small one; such a funny little doll. She had a great mane of fair hair hanging about her shoulders, and, on one temple, a wilted bit of pink ribbon; she had serene blue eyes, a plump and serious face, by no means clean.

She wore a white dress, still less clean, a coral necklace, white--or grayish white--socks all down about her ankles, and the most dreadful little white shoes. He observed all this, because it was his way to observe, and because he was so amazed that he could do nothing but stare at her.

“But who brought you?” he asked.

“Minoo,” she replied.

“Who’s Minoo?”

The child held up the rabbit.

“Oh, Lord!” cried Ross. “Won’t you please try to be--sensible? I don’t know--Are you all alone here?”

“I fink I are.”

“The door was locked,” he said, aloud. “I can’t see--But what shall I do with you?”

“Gimme my dindin,” said she.

Ross wished to treat so small and manifestly incompetent a creature with all possible courtesy, but he was handicapped by his inexperience.

“Look here, Lily!” he said, earnestly. “I’m in the deuce of a hurry just now. If you’ll wait here, I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

“I will be a good baby!” said she. “But I want my dindin!”

He could have torn his hair. He could not fail Amy now. And he could not leave a good baby alone and hungry, for he did not know how long.

“Shall I take it to the house?” he thought. “The cook would feed it. But--perhaps it’s another of these damned mysteries. I haven’t time to think it out now. I’d better keep it here until I’ve thought a bit. See here, Lily, what do you eat?”

“Dindin,” Lily answered.

“Yes, I know. But--I’ve got bread. Will that do?”

“I like bread and thugar!” she agreed.

He hurried into the kitchen, cut four good, sturdy slices of bread, covered them well with butter and sugar, and brought them back on a plate. Then, with a vague memory of a puppy he had once had, he thought of water, and brought a glassful.

“Now I’ve got to go, Lily,” he explained. “But I’ll come back as soon as I can. You just wait, see?”

“I will!” she said, pleasantly, and held out her arms.

He hesitated for a moment, half frightened; then he caught up the funny little doll and kissed its cheek.

It was not a doll. It was warm and alive, and solider than it looked. It clung to him, and kissed him back again.

XI

“You won’t feel the cold the first winter in the States.”

That was what people in Manila and Porto Rico had told Ross. He thought of those people now. You didn’t feel it, did you? Yes, you did!

He had found “some place where he could hide and watch the front door”; a plantation of firs halfway between the house and the gates. He had been there more than an hour, prowling up and down behind the screen of branches; he had at first tried to smoke, but darkness and cold annihilated any sort of zest in the tobacco. He had attempted the army setting-up exercises, considerably hampered by his overcoat; but nothing produced in him either bodily warmth or a patient serenity of mind.

He was worried about that child. Not once did he say to himself that it was none of his business; he admitted willingly that a creature of that size had a claim upon all full-grown persons; he admitted that, whoever it was, and wherever it came from, it was entitled to his protection.

“She’s too little to be left there alone,” he thought. “Much too little. They always have nurses--or some one. She might fall down the stairs--or turn on the gas stove. I’ve been gone more than an hour. Good Lord! This is too much! What the devil’s the matter with that fellow, anyhow?”

He was disgusted with this thin dark man with a mustache, who was so outrageously late in coming. Very likely the funny little doll was sitting up there, crying. The raw cold pierced to the marrow of his bones.

And this, he reflected, was his second night in his native land. The first had been spent imprisoned in the garage, at the point of a revolver, but it had been a thousand times better than this. He had been warm and comfortable--and he had been innocent, a victim. Now he was taking an active part in a thoroughly discreditable affair.

He was committed to wait for a thin dark man with a mustache, and to prevent his entering the house. And how was he to do this? Walk up to him and begin to expostulate? Try to bribe him?

The thought of bribery aroused in the young man an anger which almost made him warm. No Ross would ever pay blackmail. Indeed, no Ross of his branch was fond of parting with money for any purpose at all. They were very prompt in paying their just bills and debts, but they took care that these should be moderate.

“No!” thought Ross. “If I was fool enough to give this fellow money, he’d only come back for more, later on. I’m not going to start that. No! But how am I going to stop him? Knock him out? That’s all very well, but suppose he knocked me out? Or he may carry a gun. Of course, I suppose I could come up behind him and crack him over the head with a rock. That’s what my Cousin Amy would appreciate. But somehow it doesn’t appeal to me. After all, what have I got against this fellow? What do I know about him? Only what she’s told me. And she’s not what you’d call overparticular with her words.”

His thoughts were off, then, upon the track of that problem which obsessed him. What had happened to the man under the sofa? He couldn’t still be there. But who had taken him away, and where was he now? He looked toward the house, so solid and dignified, with its façade of lighted windows. He remembered his cozy dinner in the kitchen; he thought of the orderly life going on there.

It was impossible! Yet it was true. He had seen that dead man with his own eyes. He had touched him.

Who else knew? Surely Amy; but it was obvious that she had some one to help her in all emergencies. Mrs. Jones? Ross believed that Mrs. Jones had been well aware of the man’s presence in her room. Eddy? Eddy’s behavior had been highly suspicious.

He refused to go on with this profitless and exasperating train of thought. He was sick of the whole thing. Amy had said that she would “explain everything” to him the next day. Not for a moment did he believe that she would do anything of the sort, but he did hope that at least she would tell him a little. And, anyhow, whatever she told him, whatever happened or did not happen, he was going away--back to normal, honest, decent life.

“I said I’d help her, and, by Heaven, I am!” he thought. “After to-night we’re quits. I’ll hold my tongue about all this; but--I’m going!”

He whacked his stiff arms across his chest.

“Hotel Benderly, West Seventy-Seventh Street,” he said to himself. “I’m going there to-morrow.”

For he no longer saw Phyllis Barron as a danger. He was considerably less infatuated with liberty after these two days. It occurred to him, now, that to be entirely free meant to be entirely alone, and that to be without a friend was not good.

He wanted some one to trust, and he trusted Phyllis. No matter that he had known her only five days; he had seen that she was honest; that she was steadfast, and, loveliest virtue of all, she was self-controlled. He knew that from her one need never dread tears, fury, despairs, selfishness and cajoleries.

Out there, in the cold and dark of his unhappy vigil, he thought of Phyllis, and longed for her smile.

“She’d never in her life get a fellow into a mess like this!” he thought. “But Amy--”

His distrust for his Cousin Amy was without limits. There was nothing, he thought, that she might not do. She was perfectly capable of forgetting all about him, and then, in the morning, if he were found frozen to death at his post, she would pretend to wonder what on earth the new chauffeur had been doing out there.

“After eleven,” he thought. “And Eddy hasn’t come yet. Very likely she knew he wouldn’t come. Perhaps he’s never coming back. All right! I’ll wait till twelve, and then I’m going to take a look at that little kid. I’ve got to. It’s too little.”

So he walked up and down, up and down, over the rough, frozen patch of ground behind the fir trees; his coat collar turned up, his soft hat pulled low over his eyes, his face grim and dour; a sinister figure he would have been to meet on a lonely road.

Up and down--and then something happened. At first he could not grasp what it was, only that in some way his world had changed. He stopped short, every nerve alert. Then he realized that it was a sudden increase in the darkness, and, turning toward the house, he saw the lights there going out, one by one.

“By George!” he thought. “They’re all going to bed! And I suppose I can stay here all night, eh? While they’re warm and snug, the faithful Cousin James will be on guard. All right! I said I’d do it. But I’m going to get a glass of milk for that baby.”

He set off as fast as his numb feet and stiff legs would carry him, toward the back door. He would tell the cook that he was hungry, and she would give him what he wanted. A kind, sensible woman, that cook.

He pushed open the back door and went in; it was dark in the passage, but warm, and the entrancing perfumes of the great dinner still lingered there. He went on, toward the kitchen, but before he got there, the swing door opened, and Mrs. Jones appeared. She stopped, and he thought that she whispered: “It’s I!”

He was a little disconcerted, because he knew that Mrs. Jones was not fond of him, and he was extremely suspicious of her. But she looked so sedate, almost venerable, standing there in the lighted doorway, in her best black dress, with her gray hair, her spectacles. He took off his hat, and spoke to her civilly.

“I came to ask for a glass of milk,” he said.

Then she repeated what she had said before, and it was not “It’s I,” but the word “Spy!” uttered with a suppressed scorn that startled him.

“Spy!” she said. “I know you!”

He looked at her in stern amazement.

“Leave this house!” she said. “You can deceive a poor innocent young girl, but you can’t deceive me. You and your glass of milk! I know you! And I tell you straight to your face that you’re not coming one step farther. I’m going to stay here all night, and I’m going to see to it that neither you nor anybody else comes to worry and torment that poor girl. Go!”

“All right!” said Ross, briefly, and, turning on his heel, went out of the house.

“If she’s going to take over the job of watchdog, she’s welcome to it,” he thought. “I guess she’d be pretty good at that sort of thing. But--spy!”

His face grew hot.

“I don’t feel inclined to swallow that,” he said to himself, deliberately. “Some day we’ll have a reckoning, Mrs. Jones!”

XII

The funny little doll lay asleep, very neat and straight, just in the center of the bed, the covers drawn up like a shawl, one cheek pressed against the pillow, its fair mane streaming out behind, as if it were advancing doggedly against a high wind. There was no creature in the world more helpless, yet it was not alert, not timid, as defenseless little animals are; it slept in utter confidence and security.

And that confidence seemed to Ross almost terrible. The tiny creature, breathing so tranquilly, took for granted all possible kindness and protection from him. It had asked him for food; it had offered a kiss.

He stood looking down at it with considerable anxiety, yet with the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Made yourself at home, didn’t you?” he thought.

As he looked, the child gave an impatient flounce, and threw one arm over her head. Ross drew nearer, frowning a little; bent over to examine that arm, that ruffled sleeve.

“I don’t believe--” he muttered, and very carefully pulled out the covers from the foot of the bed. His suspicions were confirmed; she was fully dressed, even to her shoes.

“Must be darned uncomfortable!” he thought. He hesitated a moment, half afraid to touch her; but at last he cautiously unbuttoned one slipper. She did not stir. He drew off the slipper, then the other one; then the socks, and tucked in the covers again.

“Poor little devil!” he said to himself. “Poor little devil! I wonder--”

A great yawn interrupted him.

“I’ll think about this in the morning,” he thought; “but I’m going to get some sleep now--before anything else happens.”

For, coming from the cold of his vigil into this warmth was making him intolerably drowsy. He took off his collar and sat down to remove those objectionable puttees.

As this unprincipled intruder had so coolly taken possession of the bed, he would have to sleep on the couch in the sitting room, but that didn’t trouble him. He felt that he could sleep anywhere, and that nothing--absolutely nothing--could keep him awake ten minutes longer.

A sound from below startled him. Some one was unlocking the door.

In his blind fatigue, he was ready to ignore even that. He didn’t care who came; he wanted to go to sleep.

But he remembered the tiny creature in the bed, the creature who expected his protection, and that roused him. Closing the bedroom door, he went to the head of the stairs, and, in a voice husky with sleep, but distinctly threatening, called out:

“Who’s that?”

“Me,” answered Eddy’s voice.

Even before he saw the boy, Ross was aware that there was something amiss with Eddy to-night. His voice was different; he climbed the stairs so slowly. He came into the sitting room, and flung down the bag he was carrying.

“I’m all in!” he said.

He looked it. His face was haggard and white; his glossy hair was no longer combed back, but flopped untidily over his forehead. There was nothing jaunty about Eddy now. He was weary, grimy, and dispirited.

“Been doing overtime,” he explained. “Lot of wires down in that storm last night.”

“Look here!” said Ross. “There’s a child here--a baby. I don’t know whose it is, or how it got here. But it’s asleep in there. Better not disturb it.”

“Wha-at!” cried Eddy. He looked amazed, he spoke in a tone of amazement, but there was something--

“By Heaven!” thought Ross. “You’ve got the other key to the garage, my lad! And the child didn’t come through a locked door.”

“A kid!” Eddy repeated.

“Queer, isn’t it?” Ross inquired, sarcastically. “If not peculiar!”

Eddy glanced at him, and then sat down and lit a cigarette.

“I’ll say it’s queer!” he observed.

“Especially as I’d left the door locked when I went out.”

Again Eddy glanced at him.

“Did you--what did they say--over at the house?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing much!”

He observed, with satisfaction, that this answer alarmed Eddy.

“Well, lissen here,” he said. “Who did you tell? Old Jones?”

“I don’t remember,” Ross declared.

“But--” Eddy began, and stopped.

“I’m going to turn in now,” said Ross. “Afraid you’ll have to put up with the chair again to-night.”

He crossed the room to the couch and lay down there. He was only partly undressed, and he put his shoes beside him, and his overcoat across his feet, because, in this nightmare existence, he had to be prepared for every impossible emergency.

“But I’ll get some sleep anyhow!” he thought, defiantly.

He stretched out, with a sigh of relief, and closed his eyes, when an almost inaudible sound, like the faintest echo of his own sigh, made him glance up again. He saw that Eddy had buried his face in his hands, and sat there, his slight shoulders hunched, his young head bent, in an attitude of misery and dejection.

And Ross was sorry for him. All through his confused and heavy dreams that night ran a little thread of pity, of regret and pain, which he could not understand. Only, he felt that in this adventure there was more than the tragedy of death.

* * * * *

When he opened his eyes again, the room was filled with a strange, pale light, unfamiliar to him. Dawn? It was more like twilight. He raised himself on one elbow and looked out of the window, and, for the first time in his life, he saw the snow.

Thick and fast the flakes went spinning by, tapping lightly against the glass, and, out beyond, he saw that all the world was white. White and unimaginably still. He had seen plenty of pictures of snow-covered landscapes, but he had never known the feel of a snowstorm, the odd tingle in the air, the sense of hushed expectancy.

He was amazed and delighted with it. Old and forgotten fancies of his childhood stirred in him now; queer little memories of glittering Christmas cards, of fairy tales. He remembered a story his mother had read to him, so very long ago, about a Snow Queen.

And it was good for him to remember these things, after so many ungracious years, just as it was good to see the snow, after so long a time of tropic sun and rain. He knew that it was good, and for a little time he was content, watching the snow fall.

But his destiny was not inclined to allow him many peaceful moments just then. Before he had even begun to think of his complicated anxieties, a sound from the next room brought the whole burden upon him like an avalanche. It was the child’s voice.

He jumped up from the couch, and then he noticed that Eddy had gone. He frowned, not knowing whether this was a disaster or a thing of no importance, and, without stopping to put on his shoes, went across to the bedroom door and turned the knob. He had come so quietly that no one had heard him, and he was able to observe a curious scene.

Eddy was on his knees, his head bowed before the little girl, who sat on the bed, lifting strands of his glossy hair and pulling them out to their fullest extent, with a grave and thoughtful air.

“Lookit here!” whispered Eddy. “I wish you’d quit that, baby!”

“You dot funny, flippety-floppety hair,” said she.

“Well, anyway, hold your foot still won’t you?” he entreated.

Ross saw, then, that Eddy was trying to put the child’s socks on, and getting no intelligent coöperation from her.

“What are you doing that for?” he asked.

Eddy sprang to his feet like a cat. He looked at Ross, and Ross looked at him, and the little girl lay back on the bed and began jouncing up and down.

“Well,” Eddy replied, slowly, “if you really want to know, it was me brought her here, and now I’m goin’ to take her away again; that’s all.”

Once more Ross was conscious of a disarming pity for the boy. He thought he had never seen a human creature who looked so unhappy.

“Look here, Eddy!” he remarked. “Who is she, anyhow?”

“Her?” said Eddy. “Why what does it matter?”

Ross was silent for a moment.

“I--I’m interested in the little girl,” he said, half ashamed of this weakness. “I’d like to know where she’s going.”

“Gawd knows,” said Eddy, briefly.

“What do you mean?”

“She can’t stay here,” said Eddy. “That’s one sure thing.”

Again he looked at Ross, with a strange intensity, as if he were trying desperately to read that quite unreadable face.

“If you’re really interested in the kid--” he began.

“I am,” said Ross.

Eddy sat down on the bed.

“I don’t believe you told them, over at the house,” he continued. “‘Cause, if they knew, they’d of--”

“No, I didn’t,” said Ross.

“Then nobody knows she’s here--but me and you?”

“That’s all.”

“Well,” said Eddy.

Again Ross had a distinct warning of danger, and again he defied it, standing there stubbornly resistant to all the ill winds that might blow.

“This kid,” Eddy pointed out--“she hasn’t got anybody in the world.”

As if by common consent, they both turned to look at the child. She was holding the rabbit aloft, and trying to touch it with one little bare foot; she was quite happy; with superb unconcern she left her fate in the hands of these two young men.

“I’d explain it to you, if I could,” Eddy went on; “but I can’t, just now. Later on, maybe. Only, she can’t stay here. I got to take her away before anybody sees her.” He paused. “I know somewheres I could leave her to-day, and bring her back here to-night, all right, only after that--”

A dim and monstrous suspicion stirred in Ross, but he would not examine it. He did not want to understand.

“After that,” he said, “I’ll look after her.”

XIII

They had breakfast together, Ross and Eddy and the child. And the rabbit was there, too, propped up against the coffeepot; he was fed with spoonfuls of water, and he got pretty wet in the process.

It was an amazing meal. It seemed to Ross sometimes that he was still asleep, and this a dream--the little kitchen filled with that strange, pale light, the snow falling steadily outside, and the child beside him.

“Why did I say I’d look after her?” he thought, with a sort of wonder. “What’s the matter with me, anyhow?”

He didn’t know, and could not understand. He was hopelessly involved, now, in this sorry muddle, and he saw, very clearly, that every step had been taken deliberately, of his own free will. He could have got out, long ago, but--here he was. And he was committed now to an undertaking almost too fantastic, too preposterous to contemplate.

Yet he did not regret it. Just as, in a shipwreck, he would have given his life for a tiny creature like this, so was he obliged now to offer it his protection. Eddy said she had nobody in the world. Very well, then; he had to stop, to turn aside from his own affairs, and lend a hand to this forlorn little fellow traveler. He had to do it.

“More!” said the child, briskly.

“More what?” asked Ross.

“More--evvysing!” she cried, bouncing up and down perilously upon the telephone directories he had piled on her chair. “More evvysing!”

“Give her some cawfee,” suggested Eddy.

“No,” said Ross. “Too young. They only have milk--things like that.”

And, with these words, the fantasy became real. He had actually assumed the responsibility, now. He was taking care of the child. He looked down at her, frowning a little, and she looked up into his face with cheerful expectancy. She knew very well! He was the one appointed to serve her, and she knew it. He was to supply her with “more evvysing.”

“Look here, Eddy!” he said. “There must be some one who’ll turn up later to--to take care of the child. There’s bound to be some one.”

Eddy glanced up as if he were about to speak, but his face grew scarlet, and he turned away.

“Well,” he said, after a time, “I dunno. It’s kind of hard to say. Only, I thought you--I thought you’d be a good one to--take her.”

Ross was surprised and curiously touched by this, and somewhat embarrassed. A good one, was he, for this charge? He looked at the child again.

“Her face is dirty,” he observed, sternly. “She ought to be washed. Any warm water in that kettle, Eddy?”

“Yep. But I got to hurry, before the rest of ’em get up. Go on and eat, kid!” He turned to Ross. “Tell you what I thought. I know a place where I can take her and keep her till you come and get her after dark. It’s a cottage where there’s nobody living just now. You go up the Post Road about eight miles, till you come to a church that’s being built on the left side of the road. Then you turn--”

“Yes,” said Ross. “I--” He stopped, and Eddy sat staring blankly at him.

“What?” he cried. “D’you know?”

“Go on!” said Ross. “Go on! Tell me how to get there.”

“What made you say ‘yes,’ like that?”

“I meant I was listening to you. Go on, man!” And because of his distaste for this lie, Ross spoke with a brusque impatience which impressed Eddy.

“All right!” he said. “But lissen here! I--well--you’re a funny sort of guy. I never seen any one so close-mouthed in my life. I can’t make out yet who you are, or what you come here for. But--” He sighed, and stroked his glossy hair. “I got to trust you, that’s all. Last night I thought I’d go crazy, trying to think what I could do about the kid. I couldn’t--I’ll tell you where this place is, and I hope to Gawd you’ll keep still about it. ’Cause, if we get any one else monkeying around there--well--there’ll be trouble, that’s all. Big trouble.”

“Go on!” said Ross.

So Eddy did go on, giving him careful directions for reaching the cottage Ross had visited the day before with Amy.

“And for Pete’s sake, come as early as you can,” he ended. “Come before it gets dark, will you? I--” He arose. “Come on, baby!”

She jumped down from her chair, with a piece of bread and butter in one hand, and the rabbit in the other; she was quite ready to go anywhere, with any one. Ross washed her sticky hands and tried to wash her face, but this annoyed her so much that he was not successful. Eddy brought out her coat and bonnet from a cupboard; put on his own very modish overcoat, and a cap, picked up the child, and off they went.

From an upper window, Ross watched them go across the great white waste that was so strange and yet somehow so familiar to him. Eddy stumbled now and then, over some hidden unevenness in the ground, but the child in his arms sat up straight and triumphant, her head, in the knitted hood, turning briskly from side to side. Then they were lost to sight in the falling snow and the gray morning light, and Ross turned back to the empty rooms.

It was only half past seven; he had nearly an hour before Mr. Solway expected him, and he thought he would use that time for investigating the engine of the limousine. Both cars were in deplorably good condition; there was little he could justifiably do to them, and he was, moreover, a mechanic of more enterprise than experience. But he was devoted to engines, and pretty well up in the theory of the internal combustion type.

He put on a suit of overalls he found in the garage; he started the engine and opened the hood; he was so pleased with that fine roar, that powerful vibration which was like the beat of a great, faithful heart, that he began to whistle. A superb motor; he would enjoy driving that car.

“She’s a beauty, all right!” said a voice, so very close to his ear that he jumped.

Standing at his elbow was a burly fellow of thirty-five or so, with a bulldog jaw; his voice and his smile were friendly, but his blue eyes, Ross thought, were not.

“Yes, sir!” he went on. “You’ve got a mighty fine car there.”

Ross said nothing. He did not care to continue his amateur explorations under those cold blue eyes. He shut off the engine, closed the hood, and turned toward the stranger with a challenging glance.

But the stranger was not at all abashed.

“Have a smoke,” he asked, proffering a packet of cigarettes.

“No, thanks!” said Ross, and stood there, facing the other, and obviously waiting for an explanation.

“Dirty weather!” said the stranger.

“All right!” said Ross sullenly. “What about it?”

His tone was very nearly savage, for, to tell the truth, his position was having a bad effect upon his temper. Having so much to conceal, so many unwelcome secrets intrusted to him, he had begun to suspect every one. He didn’t like this fellow.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” said the stranger, in an easy and confidential manner. “I came up this way, looking for a man. And I thought I’d drop in here and see if you could give me any information.” He stopped to light a cigarette, and his blue eyes were fixed upon Ross. “Fellow by the name of Ives,” he said. “Ever hear of him, eh?”

“No!” said Ross.

“Ives,” said the other, slowly. “Martin Ives. Fellow about your age. About your build. Dark complexioned--like you.”

“D’you think I’m your Martin Ives?” demanded Ross, angrily.

“I wish you were,” said the stranger, and his tone was so grave that Ross had a sudden feeling of profound uneasiness.

“Well, I’m not,” he said, “and I never heard of him. I’m new here--just came two days ago.”

“Two days, eh?” said the stranger. “That was Wednesday, eh?”

“I shouldn’t have told him that,” thought Ross, dismayed. “But, good Lord, I can’t remember to lie all the time! And, anyhow, what difference can it make--when I came here?”

But he could see, from the stranger’s face, that it had made a difference.

“You came here on Wednesday,” he continued. “I wonder, now, did you happen to see any one--”

“No!” shouted Ross. “I didn’t see any one. I didn’t see anything. I never heard of your Ives. Go and ask some one else. I’m busy!”

“I don’t want to bother you,” said the stranger, grown very mild. “I can see you’re busy. But it’s a pretty serious thing. You see, Ives came to Stamford on Tuesday. I’ve traced him that far. And after that--he’s disappeared.”

“Well, do you think I’ve got him hidden here?”

“My name’s Donnelly,” the stranger went on. “And I’ve come out here to find Ives.”

“All right! I wish you luck!”

“I don’t know,” said Donnelly, thoughtfully. “Maybe it won’t be so lucky--for some people.”

He was not looking at Ross now; his cold blue eyes were staring straight before him.

“But I think I’ll find him, all the same,” he declared, gently.

“Ives was the man under the sofa,” thought Ross.

XIV

Ross could not understand why that notion came as a shock to him. Naturally, the man under the sofa had a name; every one had. Yet, directly he thought of that figure as “Martin Ives,” instead of “the man,” the whole affair grew ten times more tragic and horrible--and ten times more dangerous.

“A man” might disappear, but not Martin Ives. Martin Ives was real, he had friends; he must have lived somewhere. He would be sought for--and found.

“This Donnelly--” thought Ross. “He’s got this far already. And he’ll keep on.”

In his mind he envisaged the inexorable progress of the search. Step by step, hour by hour. If this man went away, another would come. The awful march of retribution had begun. Nothing could stop it.

“Murder will out.”

His anger, his impatience, had quite vanished now. He could not resent Donnelly’s presence, because he was inevitable. He seemed to Ross the very personification of destiny, not to be eluded, not to be mollified. He looked at him and, as he had expected, found the cold blue eyes regarding him.

“Do you think you can help me?” asked Donnelly.

“I don’t see how,” said Ross. “I don’t know the fellow you’re looking for. I’ll have to get along, now. Got to drive down to the station.”

“Well,” said Donnelly, blandly, “I can wait.”

“Not here!” said Ross, with energy. “They wouldn’t like--”

“Oh, no, not here!” said the other. “See you later. So long!” And off he went.

Ross watched his burly figure tramping along the driveway until he was out of sight; then he made haste to get himself ready, took out the car, locked the garage, and drove up to the house.

It was much too early. There he sat, shut up in the snug little sedan, with the snow falling outside, as if he were some unfortunate victim of an enchantment, shut up in a glass cage. And he began to think, now, of what lay immediately before him.

“I’ll have to make some sort of excuse to Mr. Solway for going away,” he thought. “A lie, of course. I wish to Heaven I didn’t have to lie to him. Then I’ll get the child, and clear out. I’ll find some sort of home for her. Phyllis Barron will help me.”

The idea dazzled him, the magnificent simplicity of it, the unspeakable relief of just picking up the child and walking off. No explanations, no more lies. He contemplated it in detail. How he would walk into the Hotel Miston, into his comfortable room, and unpack his bags. How he would take the child to Phyllis Barron, and tell her that here was a poor little kid who had nobody in the world. She would know what to do; she would help him; the nightmare would end.

As for Amy--

“I’ll have it out with her to-day!” he thought. “I’m not called upon to give up my entire life for that girl. I’ve done enough, and more than enough.”

The door opened, and out came Mr. Solway. Ross jumped out and opened the door of the car.

“Ha!” said Mr. Solway. “Very sensible--very sensible! You came early, so that you’d have time to drive carefully. Very important--weather like this. Very sensible! But wait a bit! Mr. Dexter’s coming along.” Standing out in the snow, he shouted: “Gayle! Come, now! Come!” to the unresponsive house; then he got into the car.

“I’d like to speak to you for a minute, sir,” said Ross.

Mr. Solway observed how white and strained the young man’s face was, and he spoke to him very kindly.

“Well?” he said. “What is it, Moss?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to leave to-morrow, sir.”

“Leave, eh?”

“Yes, sir. I--it’s--family troubles, sir.”

“Married man?” asked Mr. Solway, in a low voice.

“No, sir,” said Ross. The honest sympathy in the other man’s tone made him sick with shame. “It’s a--a younger sister of mine.”

“Well, my boy,” said Mr. Solway, “I’m sorry, very sorry. You’re the sort of young fellow I like. Family troubles--Too bad! I’m sorry. Come back here any time you like.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Ross.

“Nonsense! Nonsense! You’re the type of young--Ha, Gayle! Step in! Step in. Start her up, Moss!”

Ross did so. He had never been more unhappy in his life than he was now, with his lie successfully accomplished.

“This finishes it!” he thought, as he drove back from the station. “I’m going to see Amy, and have it out with her. I’ll tell her about this Donnelly. I’ll warn her--”

And then go off and leave her to face the consequences alone?

“But, hang it all, she’s not alone!” he cried to himself. “She’s got Solway, and she’s got her Gayle. Why doesn’t she go to him? He’s the natural one to share her troubles.”

Unfortunately, however, he could not help understanding a little why Amy did not want to tell Gayle. He had had another good look at Gayle when he got out of the car at the station, and he was obliged to admit that there was something very uncompromising in that handsome face. Nobody, he thought, would want to tell Gayle Dexter a guilty secret.

“I suppose she doesn’t particularly mind my knowing anything,” he reflected, “because, as far as she’s concerned, I don’t count.”

This idea pleased him as much as it would please any other young fellow of twenty-six. And, combined with his many anxieties, and his hatred and impatience toward his present position, it produced in him a very unchivalrous mood. He brought the car into the garage, and sat down on its step, with his watch in his hand. He gave Amy thirty minutes in which to send him a message.

Of course she didn’t send any. Then he went to the telephone which connected with the house. Gracie’s voice answered him.

“I want to speak to Miss Solway!” he said.

“I’ll see,” said Gracie.

He waited and waited, feeling pretty sure that Amy would not come; that she would, indeed, never speak to him or think of him unless she wanted him to do something for her. But presently, to his surprise, he heard her voice, so very gentle and sweet that he could scarcely recognize it.

“Moss?” she said, as if in wonder.

“Yes,” he said. “Look here! I’d like to--”

“I don’t think I’ll want the car all day,” said she. “Not in this weather.”

“Look here!” he began, again. “I want to speak to you. Now.”

“I shan’t need you at all to-day, Moss,” said she, graciously, and he heard the receiver go up on the hook.

He stood for a moment, looking at the telephone. His dark face had grown quite pale, and there was upon it a peculiar and unpleasant smile.

But he was, in his way, a just man, and not disposed to let his temper master him. He looked at the telephone, and he thought his thoughts for a few moments; then he resolutely put this exasperation out of his mind, and proceeded with his business.

He decided to go and get the child without any further delay. There was no reason for delay, and, to tell the truth, he was vaguely uneasy with her away. He could easily keep her hidden in the garage until the morning, and then get away early. And he wanted her here.

He took off the hated uniform, dressed himself in his customary neat and sober fashion, put his papers and what money he had into his pockets, and set off toward the station, where he knew he could get a taxi.

The beauty which had so enchanted him early in the morning was perishing fast, now. The fields still showed an unbroken expanse of white, but the trees were bare again. The flakes melted as they fell; the roads were a morass of slush, and all the tingle had gone out of the air. It was a desolate, depressing day, now, with a leaden sky. The slush came over the tops of his shoes, his hat brim dripped, his spirits sank, in this melancholy world.

But at least he was alone, and able to go his own way, in his own good time, and that was a relief. He stopped in the town, and bought himself a pipe and a tin of tobacco. He stopped whenever he felt like it, to look at things; and, passing a fruit stand, went in and bought two apples for the little girl.

“Good for children,” he thought, with curious satisfaction.

He reached the station, and saw three or four vacant taxis standing there; he selected one and went up to it, and was just about to give his directions when a hand fell on his shoulder.

“Well!” said a voice--the most unwelcome one he could have heard.

It was Donnelly, grinning broadly.

“Well!” said Ross, in a noncommittal tone.

His brain was working fast. He couldn’t go to the cottage now. He must somehow get rid of this fellow, and he must invent a plausible reason for being here.

“I walked down to get a few things,” he said, “but I guess I won’t try walking back. The roads are too bad.”

“You’re right!” said Donnelly, heartily.

“Wygatt Road!” Ross told the taxi driver, and got into the cab.

“Hold on a minute!” said Donnelly. “I’m going that way, too. I’ll share the cab with you.”

“Look here!” cried Ross.

“Well?” said Donnelly. “I’m looking.”

The unhappy young man did not know what to say. He felt that it would be extremely imprudent to antagonize the man.

“All right,” he said, at last, and Donnelly got in beside him.

The cab set off, splashing through the melted snow--going back again to that infernal garage. Suppose Donnelly hung about all day?

“Where do you want to get out?” he demanded.

“To tell you the truth,” said Donnelly, “I was waiting for you.”

“Waiting! But--”

“I sort of thought you might be coming to the station some time to-day,” said the other, tranquilly, “and I waited. Wanted a little talk with you.”

“What about?”

“Well, it’s this. I told you I was looking for a man called Ives.”

“And I told you I didn’t--”

“Now, hold on a minute! You told me you’d never heard of him. All right. Now, I told you I knew Ives came out to Stamford on Tuesday. That was about all I did know--this morning. But I’ve found out a little more since then.”

“What’s that got to do with me?” asked Ross, with a surly air and a sinking heart.

“That’s just what I don’t know. On Wednesday you came to Mr. Solway’s house. You didn’t bring anything with you, and you haven’t sent for any bag or trunk, or anything like that. Now, hold on! Just wait a minute! You said you’d come from Cren’s Agency, I’m told. But Cren’s Agency told me on the telephone that--Now, hold on! Don’t lose your temper! You can clear this up easy enough. Just show me your license. Haven’t got it with you, I suppose?”

“No!” said Ross.

“All right. You’ve left it in the garage. Very well. That’s where you’re going now, isn’t it? Unless--” He paused. “Unless you’d like to come along with me.”

“Come--where?” asked Ross.

“Why, there’s a little cottage off the Post Road,” said Donnelly. “I’d like to pay a little visit there this morning, and it came into my head that maybe you’d like to come along with me, eh?”

XV

Ross was, by nature, incapable of despair; but he felt something akin to it now. He was so hopelessly in the dark; he did not know what to guard against, what was most dangerous. He remembered Eddy’s warning, not to let any one come “monkeying around” that cottage; but he did not know the reason for that warning. Nor could he think of any way to prevent Donnelly’s going there.

Should he lock the fellow up in the garage until he had warned Eddy? No; that was a plan lacking in subtlety. Certainly it would confirm whatever suspicions Donnelly might have; it might do a great deal more harm than good.

Should he tell Amy, on the chance that she might suggest something? No. The chance of her suggesting anything helpful was very small, and the chance that she would do something reckless and disastrous very great. Better keep Amy out of it.

Then what could he do? The idea came into his head that he might keep Donnelly quiet for a time by boldly asserting that he himself was Ives. But perhaps Donnelly knew that he wasn’t.

“By Heaven, why shouldn’t I tell him the truth?” he thought, in a sort of rage. “Why not tell him I’m James Ross? There’s nothing against me. I’ve done nothing criminal. I don’t even know what’s happened here. I’ll just tell him.”

And then Donnelly would ask him why he had come, and why he was here masquerading as a chauffeur. How could he explain? For it never occurred to him as a possibility that he could ignore Donnelly’s questions.

There was an air of unmistakable authority about the man. Ross had not asked him who he was, and he had no wish in the world to find out, either; simply, he knew that Donnelly was justified in his very inconvenient curiosity, that he had a right to know, and that he probably would know, before long.

“Perhaps I can manage to get away from him,” thought Ross.

That was the thing! Somehow he must sidetrack Donnelly; get him off upon a false scent, while he himself hastened to Eddy. Such a simple and easy thing to do, wasn’t it?

“Well!” said Donnelly. “Do we go back, and have a look at that license of yours--or do we go and pay a little visit to that cottage, eh?”

“I’m going back,” said Ross, curtly.

“Of course,” Donnelly went on, in a mild and reasonable tone, “I know, and you know, that you’re not going to show me any license. What you want is a little time to make up your mind. You’re saying to yourself: ‘I don’t know this fellow. I don’t know what he’s up to. I don’t see any reason why I should trust him with any of my private affairs.’ You’re right. Why should you? You’ve talked to certain other people, and you’ve heard good reasons why you ought to keep quiet--about one or two little things. That’s sensible enough. Why, naturally,” he went on, growing almost indignant in defense of Ross, “naturally an intelligent young man like you isn’t going to tell all he knows to a stranger. Why should you?”

Ross found it difficult to reply to this.

“No,” said Donnelly. “Naturally not. What you say to me is: ‘Put your cards on the table, Donnelly. Let’s hear who you are, and what you know, and what you’re after. Then we can talk.’ That’s what you say. All right. Now, I’ll tell you. I’ll be frank. I’ll admit that when I saw you this morning, I thought you were Ives. You see, I’m frank--not pretending to know it all. I made a mistake. You’re not Ives.”

“Thanks!” said Ross.

“When Ives came out here on Tuesday,” Donnelly proceeded, “he took a taxi. I’ll tell you frankly that I just found that out this morning by a lucky fluke. No credit to me. He went out to this cottage, and there he met somebody.”

“Oh, that was me, I suppose,” said Ross.

“No,” said Donnelly. “It was a woman.”

“Oh, Lord!” thought Ross. “This is--I can’t stand much more of this.”

“Now, I’m not going to pretend I know who that woman was,” Donnelly went on. “I don’t. I haven’t found that out--yet. Not yet.”

“But you will,” thought Ross.

He felt sure of that. He believed that there was no hope now for the guilty ones, and he felt that he was one of the guilty ones. He did not know what had happened at “Day’s End,” but the burden of that guilt lay upon his heart. This man was the agent of destiny, inexorable, in no way to be eluded. He had come to find out, and find out he surely would.

Ross was a young man of remarkable hardihood, though; no one had ever yet been able to bully him, or to intimidate or fluster him. He had precious little hope of success, but he meant to do what he could. If he could only gain a little time, perhaps he might think of a plan, and, in the meanwhile, he would say nothing and admit nothing.

“Now, before we talk,” said Donnelly, “you want to know who I am, and how I came to be mixed up in this business. As soon as you saw me, you said to yourself: ‘Police!’”

Ross winced at the word.

“That was natural. But you made a mistake. I’ll tell you frankly that I was a police detective once, but I’ve left the force. I’m a private citizen, now, same as you are. Got a little business of my own--what you might call a private investigator. Collecting information--jobs like that. Nothing to do with criminal cases.”

He was silent for a moment.

“Nothing to do with criminal cases,” he repeated. “I don’t like ’em. Now, this--”

Again he fell silent.

“We’ll hope this isn’t one,” he said. “I’ll tell you about it. My sister, she’s a widow, and she keeps a rooming house, down on West Twelfth Street. Well, yesterday she came to me with a story that sort of interested me. She told me that about a month ago a young fellow took a room in her house. Quiet young fellow, didn’t give any trouble, but she’d taken a good deal of notice of him, in what you might call a sort of motherly way.”

“Yes, I know,” Ross nodded.

“A good-looking young fellow, very polite and nice in his ways--and she thought from the start that he was pretty badly worried about something. She’d hear him walking up and down at night--and she said there was a look on his face--You know how women are.”

“Yes,” Ross agreed.

“So, when he didn’t show up for a couple of nights, she came to me. I told her to go to the police, but she had some sort of notion that he wouldn’t like that--and I dare say she didn’t like it herself. Bad for business--a thing like that in the newspapers, you know. So, just to please her, I got his door unlocked, and had a look at his room.”

“You found--”

“Well, the first thing I saw there was a pile of money on the table--about seventy-five dollars in bills, under a paper weight, and a half finished letter. No name--just began right off--‘I won’t wait any longer.’ But here’s the letter. You can see for yourself.”

Unbuttoning his overcoat, he took a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and handed it to Ross. It read:

I won’t wait any longer. I am coming out to Stamford to-morrow, and if you refuse to see me this time, it will be the end. You’ve been putting me off with one lie after the other for all this time, and now it’s finished. I don’t know how you can be so damned cruel. Don’t you even want to see your own child? As for your husband--I have no more illusions about that. You’re sick of me. All you want is to get rid of me, and you don’t care how, either. Well, I don’t care. I’d be better off with a bullet through the head. It’s only the baby--

Here there were several words scratched out, and it began again:

Darling, my own girl, perhaps I’m wrong. I hope to God I am. Perhaps you are really doing your best, and thinking of what’s best for the child. Only, it’s been so long. I want you back so. I’ve got a little money saved. I can keep you both. I can work. I can make you happy, even if we are a bit poor. Darling, just let me see you and--

That was the end. Ross touched his tongue to his dry lips, and folded up the letter again. He dared not look at Donnelly, but he knew Donnelly was looking at him.

“Ives wrote that letter,” said Donnelly. “The way I figure it out is this. He began to write, and then he decided that, instead of sending a letter, he’d go. He must have been in a pretty bad state to leave all that money behind. But, of course, he meant to come back. Well, he didn’t. Aha! Here we are!”

The taxi stopped before the gates of “Day’s End,” and Donnelly, getting out, told the driver to wait for him. Then he set off with Ross, not along the drive, but across the lawn, behind the fir trees.

“I won’t bother you by telling you how I know he came to Stamford on Tuesday,” he proceeded. “It’s my business to find out things like that. He came, and he took a taxi out to this cottage I’ve mentioned, and a woman met him there. He sent the taxi away--and that’s the last I’ve heard of him.”

The snow was wholly turned to rain, now; it blew against Ross’s face, cold and bitter; the trees stood dripping and shivering under the gray sky. He was wet, chilled to the bone, filled with a terrible foreboding.

“That cottage belongs to an old lady in the neighborhood,” said Donnelly. “But she doesn’t know anything about this. She said the place had been vacant two years, and she didn’t expect to rent it till she’d made some repairs. She said anybody could get into it easily enough if they should want to. Well!”

They stood before the garage, now, and Ross took the key from his pocket.

“So you see,” said Donnelly, “that’s how it is. I’ve traced him that far. I know that there’s some woman in Stamford who has a good reason for wanting to get rid of him. And now--” He looked steadily at Ross, “And now I’ve about finished.”

“Finished?” said Ross. “You--you mean--”

But Donnelly did not answer.

XVI

Ross went upstairs to the sitting room over the garage. It did not occur to him to extend an invitation to his companion; he knew well enough that he would hear those deliberate footsteps mounting after him; he knew that Donnelly would follow.

He took off his hat and overcoat and flung himself into a chair, and Donnelly did the same, in a more leisurely fashion. Certainly he was not a very troublesome shadow; he did not speak or disturb Ross in any way. He just waited.

And Ross sat there, his legs stretched out before him, hands in his pockets, his head sunk, lost in a reverie of wonder, pity, and great dread.

“Her child?” he thought. “Amy’s child? Ives was her husband, and that baby is her child?”

He recalled with singular vividness the phrases of that pitiful, unreasonable letter. “Just let me see you.” “It’s been so long!” “You’re sick of me. All you want is to get rid of me.” He could imagine Ives, that fellow who was about his age, about his build--alone in his furnished room, writing that letter. “How can you be so damned cruel?” And “darling.”

“In a pretty bad state,” Donnelly had said. And he had come, with all his hope and his fear and his pain, to “Day’s End,” and--

“But if--if that was Ives I saw in Mrs. Jones’s room,” thought Ross, “then who was it Amy wanted me to watch for last night?”

This idea gave him immeasurable relief. That man had not been Ives. Ives hadn’t come yet. The whole tragedy was an invention of his own.

“No reason to take it for granted that that letter was meant for Amy,” he thought. “Plenty of other women in Stamford. No; I’ve simply been making a fool of myself, imagining.”

But there was one thing he had not imagined. There was, among all these doubts and surmises, one immutable fact, the man under the sofa. He could, if he pleased, explain away everything else, but not that.

It seemed to him incredible that he had, in the beginning, accepted that fact so coolly. He had thought it was “none of his business.” And now it was the chief business of his life. It was as if that silent figure had cried out to him for justice; as if he had come here only in order to see that man, and to avenge him.

“No!” he protested, in his soul. “I’ve got nothing to do with justice and--vengeance. The thing’s done. It can never be undone. I don’t want to see--any one punished for it. That’s not my business. I’m nobody’s judge, thank God!”

“Well?” said Donnelly, gently.

Ross looked up, met his glance squarely.

“I can’t help you,” he said.

Donnelly arose.

“I’m sorry for that,” he said. “Mighty sorry. I’ve been very frank with you. Showed you the letter--laid my cards on the table. Because I had a notion that you’d heard one side of the case, and that if you heard the other you might change your mind. You might think that Ives hadn’t had a fair deal.”

“I can’t help that,” muttered Ross.

“No,” said Donnelly, “of course you can’t. And I can’t help it now, either.” He sighed. “Well,” he said, “I’ll be off now. Good-by!”

“What are you going to do?” asked Ross, sitting up straight.

“Why, I’m going to that cottage I mentioned,” said Donnelly. “And if I don’t find Ives there, or something that’ll help me to find him--then I’ll have to turn the case over to the police.”

Ross got up and began to put on his damp overcoat.

“I’ll go with you,” he said.

Whether this was the best thing for him to do, he could not tell. But he could see no way of preventing Donnelly from going, and he would not let him go alone. He meant to be there, with Eddy and the little girl.

Donnelly had already gone to the head of the stairs, and Ross followed him, impatient to be gone. But the other’s burly form blocked the way. He was listening. Some one was opening the door of the garage.

Ross made an attempt to get by, but Donnelly laid a hand on his arm.

“Wait!” he whispered.

Light, quick footsteps sounded on the cement floor below, and then a voice, so clear, so sweet:

“Jim-my!”

“Miss Solway!” he cried. “Jimmy’s not here. Only me--Moss--and a friend of mine!”

This was his warning to her, and he hoped with all his heart that she would understand, and would go. Donnelly had begun to descend the stairs. If she would only go, before that man saw her!

But she had not gone. When he reached the foot of the stairs, and looked over Donnelly’s shoulder, he saw her there. She was wearing her fur coat, with the collar turned up, and a black velvet tam; the cold air had brought a beautiful color into her cheeks; her hair was clinging in little damp curls to her forehead; he had never seen her so lovely, so radiant. And for all that he knew against her, and all that he suspected, he saw in her now a pitiful and terrible innocence.

“She doesn’t know!” he thought. “She doesn’t realize--she can’t realize--ever--what she’s done. She doesn’t even know when she hurts any one.”

And there was Donnelly, standing before her, hat in hand, his eyes modestly downcast; a most inoffensive figure. She was not interested in him; she thought he didn’t matter; she was looking past him at Ross, with that cajoling, childish smile of hers.

“Oh, Moss!” she said. “Will you bring the sedan round to the house? Please? I want to go out.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Solway,” he said, and it seemed to him that any one could hear the significance in his voice. “Mr. Solway told me not to take you out--in this weather.”

“Oh!” she said, and sighed. “All right,” with gentle resignation; “I’ll just have to wait, then.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Solway,” said Ross again.

Didn’t she see how that fellow was watching her? It was torment to Ross. There was not a shadow on her bright face; she stood there, gay, careless, perfectly indifferent to the silent Donnelly.

“All right!” she said, and turned away, then, to open the door. But it was heavy for her small fingers, and Donnelly hastened forward.

“Excuse me, miss!” he said, and pushed back the door for her.

“Oh, thanks!” she said, smiling into his face, and off she went, running through the rain across the sodden lawn. Ross looked after her; so little, so young.

“And that’s Miss Solway!” said Donnelly, speculatively.

Ross glanced at him, and his heart gave a great leap. For, on the other’s face, was an unmistakable look of perplexity.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s Miss Solway.”

“She’s pretty young, isn’t she?” Donnelly pursued, still following with his eyes the hurrying little figure.

“I suppose so,” said Ross, casually. It was difficult for him to conceal his delight. Donnelly was evidently at a loss; he couldn’t believe ill of that girl with her careless smile. He thought she was too young, too light-hearted. The very fact of her ignoring Ross’s warning had done this for her. If she had understood, if across her smiling face had come that look Ross had seen, that look of terror and dismay, Donnelly would not have thought her too young.

“He’s not sure now!” thought Ross. “He’s not sure. She has a chance now. If I can only think of something.”

He could not think of anything useful now, but he felt sure that he would, later on. There was a chance now. Donnelly was only human; he, like other men, could be deluded.

They left the garage and walked back to the waiting taxi.

“What about a little lunch first?” suggested Donnelly.

“All right!” said Ross.

So they stopped at a restaurant in the town, and sent away the cab. They sat down facing each other across a small table. Ross was hungry, and Donnelly, too, ate with hearty appetite, but he did not talk. He was thoughtful, and, Ross believed, somewhat downcast.

“Getting up a new theory,” said the young man to himself. “Perhaps I can help him.”

The vague outline of a plan was assembling in his mind, but he could not quite discern it yet. It seemed to him plain that Donnelly had nothing but suspicions; that he had no definite facts as to any connection between Ives and Amy Solway. He had thought she was the woman to whom that letter was addressed; but since he had seen her, he doubted. Very well; he must be kept in doubt.

When they had finished lunch, they went round the corner to a garage, and took another taxi. Ross settled himself back comfortably, and filled and lighted his new pipe; a good time to break it in, he thought. Donnelly brought out a big cigar, which he kept in the corner of his mouth while he talked a little upon the subject of tobacco. The cab grew thick with smoke, and Ross opened the window beside him. The rain blew in, but he did not mind that.

They came to the cottage along the lane which took them directly to its front gate. There it stood, forlorn and shabby, the shutters closed, the neglected garden a dripping tangle. They went up the steps; Donnelly knocked, but there was no answer. He pushed open the door, and they went in. He called out: “Is there anybody here?”

But Ross knew then that the house was empty. The very air proclaimed it.

“My luck’s in!” he thought, elated.

XVII

“Nice, cheerful little place!” observed Donnelly, looking about him.

Ross said nothing. He had not even dared hope for such a stroke of luck as that Eddy and the little girl should be gone, yet the silence in this dim, damp, little house troubled him. Where and why had they gone?

“We’ll just take a look around,” said Donnelly.

He opened a door beside him, revealing a dark and empty room. He flashed an electric torch across it; nothing there but the bare floor and the four walls. He closed the door and went along the passage, and opened the door of the next room. The shutter was broken here, and one of the window panes, and the rain was blowing in, making a pool on the floor that gleamed darkly when the flash light touched it.

That door, too, he closed, with a sort of polite caution, as if he didn’t want to disturb any one. Then he looked into the room at the end of the passage. This was evidently the kitchen, for there was a sink there, and a built-in dresser. He turned on the taps; no water.

“Now we’ll just take a look upstairs,” he said, in a subdued tone.

He mounted the stairs with remarkable lightness for so heavy a man; but Ross took no such precaution. Indeed, he wanted to make a noise. He did not like the silence in this house.

Donnelly opened the door facing the stairs. One shutter had been thrown back, and the room was filled with the gray light of the rainy afternoon. And, lying on the floor, Ross saw a white flannel rabbit.

It lay there, quite alone, its one pink glass eye staring up at the ceiling, and round its middle was a bedraggled bit of blue ribbon which Ross remembered very well.

“Now, what’s this?” said Donnelly.

He picked up the rabbit, frowning a little; he turned it this way and that, he fingered its sash. And, to Ross, there was something grotesque and almost horrible in the sight of the burly fellow with a cigar in one corner of his mouth, and an intent frown on his red face, holding that rabbit.

“It’s a clew, isn’t it?” he inquired, with mock respect.

Donnelly glanced at him quickly. Then he put the rabbit into the pocket of his overcoat, from which its long ears protruded ludicrously.

“Come on!” he said.

The next door was locked, and here Donnelly displayed his professional talents. Before Ross could quite see what he was at, he had taken something from his pocket; he bent forward, and almost at once the lock clicked, and he opened the door.

It seemed to Ross that nothing could have been more eloquent of crime, of shameful secrecy and misery, than that room. There was a wretched little makeshift bed against one wall, made up of burlap bags and a ragged portière; there was a box on which stood a lantern, an empty corned beef tin, and a crushed and sodden packet of cigarettes. There was nothing else.

With a leaden heart, he looked at Donnelly, and saw him very grave.

“Come on!” he said, again.

And they went on, into every corner of that house that was so empty and yet so filled with questions. They found nothing more. Some one had been here, and some one had gone; that was all.

Donnelly led the way back to the room where that some one had been.

“Now we’ll see if we can find some more clews here,” he said. “Like the fellows in the story books.”

He took up the packet of cigarettes and went over to the window with it. But, instead of examining the object in his hand, his glance was arrested by something outside, and he stood staring straight before him so long that Ross came up beside him, to see for himself.

From this upper window there was an unexpectedly wide vista of empty fields, still white with snow, and houses tiny in the distance, and a belt of woodland, dark against the gray sky; all deserted and desolate in the steady fall of sleet. What else?

Directly before the house was the road, where the taxi waited, the driver inside. Across the road the land ran downhill in a steep slope, washed bare of any trace of snow, and at its foot was a pond, a somber little sheet of water, shivering under the downpour. But there was nobody in sight, nothing stirred. What else? What was Donnelly looking at?

“I think--” said Donnelly. “I guess I’ll just go out and mooch around a little before it gets dark. Just to get the lay of the land. You don’t want to come--in this weather. You just wait here. I won’t keep you long.”

Ross did want to go with him, everywhere, and to see everything that he saw, but he judged it unwise to say so. He stood where he was, listening to the other’s footsteps quietly descending; he heard the front door close softly, and a moment later he saw Donnelly come out into the road and cross it, with a wave of his hand toward the taxi driver, and begin to descend the steep slope toward the pond.

“What’s he going there for?” thought Ross. “What does he think--”

Before he had finished the question, the answer sprang up in his mind. Donnelly had not found Ives in the cottage, so he was going to look for him down there. Suppose he found him?

“No!” thought Ross. “It’s--impossible. I--I’m losing my nerve.”

To tell the truth, he was badly shaken. He was ready to credit Donnelly with superhuman powers, to believe that he could see things invisible to other persons, that he could, simply by looking out of the window, trace the whole course of a crime.

“I’ve got to do something,” he thought. “Now is my chance. I can give him the slip now.”

But he was a good seven or eight miles from “Day’s End.” Well, why couldn’t he hurry down, jump into the taxi, and order the driver to set off at once? Long before Donnelly could find any way of escape from this desolate region, he could get back to the house and warn Amy. And, in doing so, he would certainly antagonize Donnelly, and confirm any suspicions he might already have.

“No,” he thought. “He’s not sure about Amy now. And I don’t believe he’s got anything against me. I can’t afford to run away. He hasn’t found anything yet that definitely connects Amy with the--the case.”

But when he did?

Donnelly had reached the bottom of the slope now, and was sauntering along the edge of the pond, hands in his pockets. He had in nowise the air of a sleuth hot upon a scent, but to Ross his leisurely progress suggested an alarming confidence. He knew--what didn’t he know? And Ross, the guilty one, knew nothing at all. In angry desperation, he turned away from the window.

“All right!” he said, aloud. “I’ll have a look for clews myself!”

And, without the slightest difficulty, he found all the clews he wanted.

The makeshift bed was the only place in the room where anything could be hidden; he lifted up the portière that lay over the bags, and there he found a shabby pocket-book in which were the papers of the missing Martin Ives.

Everything was there--everything one could want. There was a savings bank book, there were two or three letters, and there was a little snapshot of Amy, on the back of which was written: “To Marty--so that he won’t forget.”

Ross looked at that photograph for a long time. He was not expert enough to recognize that the costume was somewhat outmoded, but he did know that this picture had been taken some time ago, because Amy was so different. It showed her standing on a beach, with the wind blowing her hair and her skirts, her head a little thrown back, and on her face the jolliest smile--a regular schoolgirl grin.

It hurt him, the sight of that laughing, dimpled, little ghost from the past. He remembered her as he had seen her to-day, still smiling, still lovely, but so changed. She was reckless now, haunted now, even in her most careless moments.

He opened the top letter; it bore the date of last Monday, but no address. It read:

DEAR MR. IVES:

Amy has asked me to reply to your letter of a month ago. I scarcely need to tell you how greatly it distressed her. If you should come to the house publicly now, everything she has tried to do would be ruined. She had hoped that you would wait patiently, but as you refuse to do so, she has consented to see you.

She wants to see Lily as well, and, although there is a great deal of risk in this, if you will follow my directions, I think we can manage. Telephone to the nurse with whom the child is boarding to bring her to the station at Greenwich by the train leaving New York at 7.20 A.M. on Tuesday and Eddy will meet her there. You can take an early afternoon train to Stamford. Take a taxi there and go up the Post Road to Bonnifer Lane, a little past the Raven Inn. There is a new church being built on the corner. Turn down here, and stop at the first house, about half a mile from the main road. You will find the little girl there, and I shall be there, waiting for you, between three and five, and we can make arrangements for you to see Amy.

Remember, Mr. Ives, that Amy trusts you to do nothing until you have seen her.

Respectfully yours, AMANDA JONES.

Ross folded up the letter. Yes; nobody could ask for a much better clew. He took out another letter, but before opening it, he glanced out of the window. And he saw Donnelly coming back.

He put the wallet into his pocket, and went to the head of the stairs. A great lassitude had come upon him; he felt physically exhausted. His doubt--and his hope--were ended now.

Donnelly came in quietly, and advanced to the foot of the stairs. It was not possible to read his face by that dim light, but his voice was very grave.

“Come on!” he said.

“Find anything?” asked Ross.

Donnelly was silent for a moment.

“I’ve finished,” he said, at last.

“What--” began Ross.

“I’ve finished,” Donnelly repeated, almost gently. “It’s up to the police now. We’ll have that pond dragged.”

Ross, too, was silent for a moment.

“All right!” he said. “I’ll just get my hat.”

He turned back into the room; Donnelly waited for him below. In a few minutes Ross joined him, and they got into the cab.

XVIII

M. Solway descended from the train and walked briskly toward his car. The new chauffeur was standing there, stiff as a poker.

“Well, Moss!” he said. “Everything all right, eh?”

“Yes, thank you, sir,” said Ross.

“That’s it!” said Mr. Solway, with his vague kindliness. He got into the car, and Ross started off through the sleet and the dark. Mr. Solway made two or three observations about the weather, but his chauffeur answered “Yes, sir,” “That’s so, sir,” rather absent-mindedly. He was, to tell the truth, very much preoccupied with his own thoughts. He was wondering how a pond was dragged, and how long such a thing might take.

He had seen no one, spoken to no one, since he had left Donnelly at the police station and gone back to the garage alone. So he had had plenty of time to think.

He stopped the car before the house, Mr. Solway got out, and Ross drove on to the garage. There would be a little more time for thinking before he was summoned to dinner. He went upstairs and sat down, stretched out in a chair, staring before him. He was still wearing the peaked cap which had belonged to Wheeler; perhaps it was not a becoming cap, for his face looked grim and harsh beneath it.

He was not impatient, now, as that James Ross had been who had landed in New York three days ago. Indeed, he seemed almost inhumanly patient, as if he were willing to sit there forever. And that was how he felt. He had done his utmost; now he could only wait.

The sleet was rattling against the windows, and a great wind blew. It must be a wild night, out in the fields, where a lonely little pond lay. A bad night to be in that little cottage. A bad night, anywhere in the world, for a child who had nobody.

From his pocket he brought out a snapshot, and looked at it for a long time; then he tore it into fragments and let them flutter to the floor. He closed his eyes, then, but he was not asleep; the knuckles of his hand grasping the arm of the chair were white.

No; he wasn’t asleep. When the telephone rang in the garage, he got up at once and went downstairs to answer it.

“Dinner’s ready!” said Gracie’s voice. “Eddy come in yet?”

“Not yet,” answered Ross. “But--wait a minute!”

For he thought he heard some one at the door. He was standing with the receiver in his hand when the door slid open and Eddy came in.

“He’s just--” he began, turning back to the telephone, when Eddy sprang forward and caught his arm, and whispered: “Shut up! Sh-h-h!”

“Just about due,” said Ross to Gracie. Then he hung up the receiver and faced Eddy.

“Don’t tell ’em I’m here!” said Eddy. “I--I don’t want--I c-can’t stand any--jabbering. I--Oh, Gawd!”

At the end of his tether, Eddy was. His lips twitched, his face was distorted with his valiant effort after self-control. And it occurred to Ross that, for all his shrewdness and his worldly air, Eddy was not very old or very wise.

“What’s up, old man?” he asked. “Tell me. You’d better get your dinner now.”

“Nope!” said Eddy. “I--can’t eat. I--I don’t want to talk.”

Ross waited for some time.

“Lissen here,” said Eddy, at last. “You--you seemed to like--that kid. You--you’ll look after her, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Ross answered.

He would have been surprised, and a little incredulous, if any one had called him tactful, yet few people could have handled Eddy better. He knew what the boy wanted; knew that he needed just this cool and steady tone, this incurious patience.

“Go and get her,” Eddy pleaded. “She’s down at the barber’s--near the movie theayter. Go and get her.”

“All right. I’ll have my dinner first, though. Want me to bring you something?”

“Nope!” said Eddy. “Lissen! I guess the cops are after me already.”

“You mean they’ve--found him?”

“Yep,” said Eddy. “They’ve found him. How did you know?”

Ross did not answer the question.

“Can’t you get away?” he asked.

“Not going to try,” said Eddy. “I--I’m too d-darn tired. I--I don’t care!” There was a hysterical rise in his voice, but he mastered it. “Let ’em come!”

“What have they got against you?”

“They’ve found him--in the pond--where I put him.”

“Who’s going to know that?”

“Oh, they’ll know, all right!” said Eddy. “They got ways of finding out things. They’ll know, and they’ll think it was me that--All right! Let ’em!”

“Then you’re not going to tell?”

Eddy looked at him.

“D’you think it--wasn’t me?”

“Yes,” Ross replied. “I think it wasn’t you, Eddy.”

There was a long silence between them.

“What d’you think I’d ought to do?” asked Eddy, almost in a whisper.

“Suppose we talk it over,” said Ross.

“Yes--but--I dunno who you are.”

“Well, let’s say I’m Ives.”

Eddy sprang back as if he had been struck.

“Ives!”

“Look here!” said Ross. “I’m going to tell you what I did.”

And, very bluntly, he told. Eddy listened to him in silence; it was a strange enough thing, but he showed no surprise.

“D’you think it’ll work?” he asked, when Ross had finished.

“I hope so. Anyhow, there’s a chance. Now, you better tell me the whole thing. There’s a lot that I don’t know--and I might make a bad mistake.”

The telephone rang again. It was Gracie, annoyed by this delay.

“I’ll come as soon as I can,” said Ross, severely. “But I’m working on the car, and I can’t leave off for a few minutes.”

He turned again to Eddy.

“Go ahead!” he said.

Eddy sat down on the step of the sedan, and Ross leaned back against the wall, his arms folded, his saturnine face shadowed by the peaked cap.

“Tuesday I went and got her--the kid, y’ know, and took her to the cottage.”

“Did you know about her before?”

“Sure I did! I knew when they got married--her and Ives--four years ago. She told me herself. You know the way she tells you things--crying an’ all.”

Ross did know.

“Well, I used to see Ives hanging around. He was a nice feller--but he didn’t have a cent. He was an actor. She was too young, anyway--eighteen--same age as me. I told her I’d tell Mr. Solway, and then she told me they’d got married. I felt pretty bad--on Mr. Solway’s account. But she--well, you know how she acts. Her mother’d left her some money she’s going to get when she’s twenty-five, if she don’t get married without her stepfather’s consent. Mrs. Solway had the right idea. She knew Amy, all right. Only, it didn’t work. Amy wanted to get married and have the money, too. That’s how she is. So she told me she was going to tell Mr. Solway when she was twenty-five. I know I’d ought to have told him then, but--I didn’t.”

Ross understood that.

“Mr. Solway went over to Europe that summer, and she and Mrs. Jones went somewheres out West, and Lily was born out there. And Ives, he took the kid, and she came back here. She used to see Ives pretty often for awhile--go into the city and meet him. Then she began talking about what a risk it was. That was because she’d met this Gayle Dexter. That made me sick! I said I’d tell Mr. Solway, but she said her and Ives was going to get divorced, an’ nobody’d ever know, and that I’d ruin her life and all. And I gave in--like a fool. Only, you see, I--I’ve known Amy all my life.”

“I see!” said Ross.

“Well, it seems Ives was beginning to get suspicious, when she didn’t see him no more. He kept writing; I used to get the letters for her--general delivery--an’ she kept stalling--and at last he said he was coming here to see her. Well, her and Mrs. Jones must have told him to come along. And Tuesday I met the kid and took her to that cottage. My idea, that was. I told Mrs. Jones about the place. I wish to Gawd I hadn’t.” He was silent for a moment. “Only, I thought it might--I was glad to do it, ’cause I thought maybe if Amy seen Ives and the kid, she’d--kinder change her mind. He come that afternoon, and seen Mrs. Jones. Well, I went there after work, and he told me Amy was coming to see him next morning. He was real pleased. He was--he was a--nice feller--”

Eddy’s mouth twitched again. “I wish--I’d known. Anyway, she wouldn’t go to see him. Jones tried to make her--said she’d got to have a talk with him--but Amy, she took on something fierce. Said she’d never see him again. Well, I guess he must of waited and waited, and in the afternoon he come here to the garage. I tried to argue with him and all, but it wouldn’t work. He started off for the house, and I telephoned over to Jones. An’ he went--he went out of that door--”

Eddy turned and stared at the door with an odd blank look. It was as if he saw something--which was not there.

“This very door,” he muttered. “My Gawd!”

“Yes,” said Ross, quietly. “He went to the house. And then?”

Eddy turned back with a shudder.

“I didn’t never think,” he said. “Wheeler’d left, then, so I drove the big car down to the station to meet Mr. Solway, and when I brung him home, you was there. Old Lady Jones tried to tip me off. I saw her trying to tell me something behind your back. I couldn’t make out what it was, but I knew there was something queer. I thought you was a detective Ives ’d sent to see what was going on, ’cause he’d been saying he’d do that. I didn’t know, then--But next day Jones told me that--that Ives had--died. Said he’d fell down dead from a heart attack. And she said we’d got to get rid of him on the Q. T., for Amy’s sake. I--I thought I couldn’t--but I did. Fella I know lent me his Ford. I said I wanted to take a girl out. And, while you were out there on the lawn, I--I got him--out of Jones’s room.”

“Do you mean he’d been there all that time?”

“I guess so. She told me she been sitting up all night, trying to--to see if she could--do anything for him. But he--Anyway, Jones told me what to do, and I did it. I--you don’t know what it was like--going all that way--alone--with him. And I had to put stones in his pockets.” He looked at Ross with a sort of wonder.

“I can’t believe it now!” he cried. “It don’t seem true! I don’t know why--only Jones told me that if I didn’t, there’d be a inquest an’ all. And she said everyone’d think that Amy--It would all come out, she said, and Amy and Mr. Solway’d be in the newspapers and all. And she said he was dead, anyway. The pond couldn’t hurt him. I--”

He came closer to Ross, and laid a hand on his sleeve. “Lissen here!” he said. “D’you think that’s true--that he--just died?”

“There’s no use thinking about that--now,” said Ross.

XIX

Ross could feel sorry enough for Eddy, for his ghastly trip to the pond, for all the dread and misery that lay upon his soul. He was sorry for Ives, although his sufferings were at an end. He pitied Mr. Solway, in his ignorance of all this. He was sorry, in his own way, for Amy. But, above all creatures in this world, he pitied that little child.

Eddy told him about her. When Ives had gone to “Day’s End,” he had left the child with the obliging barber in town, and she had been there all that night and the next day, until Mrs. Jones had sent Eddy after her.

“She said it would start people talking, if the kid stayed there, and she told me to take her back to the cottage and leave her till she made some plans. But I couldn’t do that. The way I felt last night, I didn’t care. I’d rather have seen the whole thing go to smash than leave the kid alone there all night. That’s why I brung her here. And this morning--I couldn’t stay there--in that house. It kind of gave me the creeps. So I took her back to the barber’s.” He paused.

“Jones don’t care about the kid,” he added. “She don’t care about anything on earth but Amy. Lissen here! I know she’s old and all, but I think--maybe she--I just wonder if the old girl had the nerve?”

Ross had had that thought, too. But it seemed to him that, no matter who had actually done this thing, even if it were an accident--which he did not believe--the guilt still lay upon the woman who had betrayed and abandoned the man and the child. Amy was guilty, and no one else.

He straightened up, with a sigh.

“Come along!” he said. “We’ll get our dinner. No! Don’t be a fool, my lad. It’s what you need.”

Eddy was considerably relieved by his confession. He went upstairs, washed, changed his coat, and brushed his glossy hair, and when he set off toward the house, there was a trace of his old swagger about him. Only a trace, though, for he walked beneath a shadow.

As for Ross, there was precious little change to be discerned in his dour face and impassive bearing. And it was his very good fortune to be so constituted that he did not show what he felt, for he was to receive an unexpected shock.

“Sit down!” said Gracie, sharply. “I put somethin’ aside for you. Now hurry up! It puts me back with the dishes an’ all.”

“An’ thim extry people,” said the cook, who was also a little out of temper. “There’ll not be enough butter for breakfast, the way they did be eatin’, an’ me without a word of warnin’ at all.”

“It’s that Mr. Teagle,” said Gracie. “Them small men is always heavy eaters.”

“Teagle? Who’s he?” asked Eddy.

“Haven’t you heard?” cried Gracie, almost unable to believe that she was to have the bliss of imparting this amazing news. “Why, there was a body found in a lake somewheres.”

“Oh, I heard about that, down at the comp’ny!” said Eddy, scornfully.

“But lissen, Eddy! It turns out it was a cousin o’ Miss Amy’s! It seems they found some papers an’ letters an’ all near where they found him, an’ he turns out to be her cousin! This Mr. Teagle, he’s a lawyer. They sent for him, an’ he come out here to look at the poor feller, and then he come to the house, ’cause Miss Amy’s goin’ to get all his money. She took on somethin’ terrible! Mr. Solway, he telephoned to Mr. Dexter, and he come out, too. I guess it was kinder to comfort her.”

“What would she be needin’ all the comfortin’ for?” demanded the cook. “She’d never set eyes on the cousin at all, and her to be gettin’ all that money.”

“She’s kinder sensitive,” said Gracie.

“Sensitive, is it!” said the cook, with significance.

Ross went on eating his dinner. He did not appear to be interested. When he had finished, he bade them all a civil good night, and got up and went out.

“He’s a cold-blooded fish,” said Gracie.

Yet, something seemed to keep him warm--something kept him steadfast and untroubled as he walked, head down, against the storm of wind and sleet, along the lonely roads to the town. He found the barber shop to which Eddy had directed him, and when he entered, the lively little Italian barber did not think his face forbidding.

“I’ve come for the little girl,” said Ross.

“Oh, she’s all right!” cried the barber. “She’s O. K. She eata soom nica dinner--verrie O. K. She sooma kid.”

He was a happy little man, pleased with his thriving business, with his family, with his own easy fluency in the use of the American tongue. He took Ross through the brilliantly lighted white tiled shop--a sanitary barber, he was--into a back room, where were his wife and his own small children.

And among them was the little fair-haired Lily, content and quite at home as she seemed always to be. You might have thought that she knew she had nobody, and no place of her own in this world, and that she had philosophically made up her mind to be happy wherever fate might place her.

She was sitting on the floor, much in the way of the barber’s wife, who pursued her household duties among the four little children in the room with the deft unconcern of a highly skilled dancer among eggshells. The woman could speak no English, but she smiled at Ross with placid amiability. She could not understand why three different men should have brought this child here at different times; but, after all, she didn’t particularly care. A passing incident, this was, in her busy life.

As for the barber himself, he had his own ideas. He saw something suspicious in the affair; a kidnaping, perhaps; but he preferred to know nothing. It was his tradition to be wary of troubling the police. He took the money Ross gave him, and he smiled. Nobody had told him anything. He knew nothing.

The barber’s wife got the little girl ready, and Ross picked her up in his arms. She turned her head, to look back at the children, and her little woolen cap brushed across his eyes; he had to stop in the doorway of the shop, to shift her on to one arm, so that he could see. And then, what he did see was Donnelly.

“Well! Well!” said Donnelly, in a tone of hearty welcome.

“Well!” said Ross. “I’m in a hurry to get back, now. To-morrow--”

“Of course you are!” said Donnelly. “I’m not going to keep you a minute. I’ve got something here I’d like the little girl to identify.”

Ross’s arm tightened about the child.

“No!” he protested. “No! She’s got nothing to do with--this.”

“Pshaw!” said Donnelly, with a laugh. “It’s only this.” And from his pocket he brought out the rabbit.

“Oh, my wabbit!” cried the little girl, with a sort of solemn ecstasy.

“Hi! Taxi!” called Donnelly, suddenly, and a cab going by slowed down, turned, skidding a little on the wet street, and drew up to the curb. Without delay, Ross put the child inside, and got in after her, but Donnelly remained standing on the curb, holding open the door. Light streamed from the shop windows, but his back was turned toward it; his face was in darkness; he stood like a statue in the downpour.

“There’s some funny things about this case--” he observed.

Ross said nothing.

“Mighty funny!” Donnelly pursued. “And, by the way--” He leaned into the cab. “I’ve seen a good deal of you to-day, but I don’t believe you’ve told me your name.”

It seemed to Ross for a moment that he could not speak. But, at last, with a great effort, he said:

“Ives.”

“Ah!” said Donnelly.

Ross waited and waited.

“If you’d like to see--my bank book and papers,” he finally suggested.

“No,” said Donnelly, soothingly. “No, never mind. And this James Ross. You never heard of him, I suppose?”

“No.”

“He landed in New York on Wednesday, went to a hotel in the city, left his bags, and came right out to Stamford--and fell in a pond. Now, that’s a queer stunt, isn’t it?”

Ross put his arm round the child’s tiny shoulders and drew her close to him.

“Very!” he agreed.

“I thought so myself. Queer! I found the man’s pocketbook in that cottage--in that very room where you waited for me. What d’you think of that? There was a letter from a lawyer in New York--name of Teagle. I telephoned to him, and he came out. He could identify the man’s handwriting and so on. But he’d never seen him. Said he didn’t think there was any one in this country who had. He has a theory, though. Like to hear it--or are you in a hurry?”

“No! Go ahead!”

“Well, Teagle’s theory is that this Mr. James Ross knew he had a cousin out this way. Miss Solway, you know. It seems her mother made a match the family didn’t approve of, and they dropped her, years ago. Now, Teagle thinks this Mr. James Ross wanted to see for himself what this cousin was like, and that he came out to that cottage to stay while he sort of mooched around, getting information about her. Family feeling, see? Only--he met with an accident.”

“That sounds plausible,” said Ross.

“You’re right! Now, of course, there’ll be a coroner’s inquest to-morrow. But--” He paused. “I happened to be around when the doctor made his examination. And he says--the man was dead before he fell in the pond.”

“Oh, God!” cried Ross, in his torment. “Don’t go on!”

“Hold on a minute! Hold on! Of course that startles you, eh? You think it’s a case of murder, eh? Well, I’ll tell you now that the verdict’ll be--death from natural causes. No marks of violence. And Mr. James Ross had a very bad heart. I dare say he didn’t know it. He died of heart failure, and then he rolled down that slope. I saw that for myself--saw bushes broken, and so on, where something had rolled or been dragged down there.”

“Then?”

“Then,” said Donnelly, “as far as I’m concerned, there’s no case. And I’ll say good-by to you. Maybe you wouldn’t mind shaking hands, Mr.--Ives?”

Their hands met in a firm clasp.

“On Miss Solway’s account,” said Donnelly, “I’m mighty glad you’re Mr. Ives. Good-by!”

XX

Ross was going away, at last. He was going as he had come, with no luggage, with no ceremony. Only, he was going to take with him a small child, and he left behind him his name, his money, and a good many illusions--and a friend. Eddy was not likely to forget him.

“You’re--you’re a white man!” he said, in a very unsteady voice. “You’re--a prince.”

“No,” Ross objected. “I’m a fool. The biggest damned fool that ever lived.”

“Have it your own way!” said Eddy. “I can think different if I like. I--” He paused a moment. “It makes me sick, you goin’ away like this. It--it--”

Ross laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Drop it!” he said. “Now, then! It’s about time for us to be off.” He turned toward the bedroom. “I’ll wake her up, while you start the car. I’ll take one of the blankets to wrap her in.”

It was a little early for the train he wanted to catch, but he was in a hurry to be gone. He might have known, though, that it was his fate never to leave this place when or how he wished.

He might have known that there was one inevitable thing still to be faced. He heard the throb of the sturdy little engine downstairs; he thought, he hoped, that the last moment had come, and, instead, he was called upon to endure a moment almost beyond endurance.

For Amy came. The sound of the engine prevented his hearing her entrance; he had just gone into the bedroom when he heard her footsteps on the stairs. In a wild storm of tears, desperate, white as a ghost, she ran in to him.

“Jimmy!” she gasped. “Oh, Jimmy! Jimmy!”

He did not speak. What had he to say to her now?

She was panting for breath, and her sobs were horrible, as if they choked her. He wanted to close the bedroom door, but she had seized him by the shoulder.

“I didn’t know!” she cried. “Not--till to-night. Oh, Jimmy, I didn’t know he was dead! He came to see me--and he died. Oh, Jimmy! Just when Nanna told him--that I didn’t want to see him ever again. It killed him, Jimmy. I killed him!”

“Oh, do keep quiet!” said Ross, in a sort of despair.

“I can’t! I can’t! I can’t! If I’d only seen him--just once more! Nanna begged me to--but I wouldn’t. And when Nanna told him, he--died! How can I bear that? Oh, Jimmy! I didn’t think he’d care so much! Just as I care for Gayle. Jimmy, listen to me! I’ll tell Gayle. I’ll go to him now. I can’t let you do this for me, Jimmy!”

For a moment his heart beat with a great hope.

“Do you mean that?” he asked.

“I never meant it to be like this. Never! Never! I thought Martin would let me go--let me get a divorce. And if he hadn’t, I’d have given up Gayle. I’ll give him up now, if you tell me to. Even if I die, too!”

The hope was faint now.

“You think he’d give you up, if he knew?” he asked.

“Think? I know! He’d loathe me!”

“And you’d be willing to marry him with--”

“You don’t understand!” she interrupted, violently. “You never could. You’re too good. And I’m not good--in your way. I was just a child when I met Martin. I’m not a child now. Gayle’s my whole life to me. I love him so that--”

“For God’s sake, stop!” cried Ross. “It’s--infamous! Have you forgotten?”

All the light and passion fled from her face at his tone. She looked up at him in terrified inquiry. Ross stood aside from the doorway, so that she could see the child lying asleep on the bed. She went in very softly, and stood looking down at the little creature.

“You see,” she whispered, “I’ve given up--my soul--for Gayle.”

He took her by the arm and led her out of the room, closing the door behind them.

“Very well!” he said. “On her account, it’s better like this. I’ll take her. And you’ll have to forget her. Do you understand? There’s to be no repentance, and so on. Make up your mind now.”

“No,” she said, faintly. “I can’t. I won’t! I’ll just do what you tell me. You’ve got to decide.”

“What!” he cried, appalled. “You’d try to make me?”

The child gave a little chuckle in her sleep. He thought what the child’s life would be, with Amy, if Amy were denied her Gayle. He thought of Ives. He had taken Ives’s name, and with it the burden that Ives could no longer carry.

“All right!” he said. “It’s finished. I only hope to Heaven that Mr. Solway can end his days without knowing. As for Dexter--he’ll have to take his chance--like the rest of us. Good-by, Amy!”

She caught one of his hands in both of hers, and pressed it against her wet cheek.

“Can you ever, ever forgive me, Jimmy?” she asked, with a sob.

“I dare say!” said Ross, grimly.

XXI

“Left hand, please!”

Obediently, Mrs. Barron took her left hand out of the bowl of warm water, and laid it on the towel, carefully, as if it might melt. And the manicurist bent over it with her nice air of earnest attention.

All this was agreeable to Mrs. Barron. She was rather proud of her hands; she was altogether comfortable and tranquil; she had a pleasant, restful day before her.

In the afternoon she and her daughter were going to look at fur coats, which was really better than the actual buying; and, in the evening, they were all going to a play. The sun was shining, too, and the formal sitting room of her hotel suite was cheerful and warm, and filled with the perfume of the roses that stood all about.

“It’s good to be home again,” she remarked. “At my time of life traveling is not--” The telephone bell rang. “Answer that, my dear. It’s dangerous to touch a telephone with damp hands--Oh! A gentleman to see Miss Barron? What a strange time to call--ten o’clock in the morning! Ask his name, my dear. He was on the Farragut with us? But how very strange! Why doesn’t he give his name? But ask him to come up.”

She dried her hands and arose, majestic even in her frivolous negligee.

“Very strange!” she murmured.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in!” she said.

The door opened--and it was Mr. Ross! She took a step forward, with a welcoming smile; then she stopped short.

“Mr. Ross!” she cried. “But--Mr. Ross!”

He did not fail to notice the change in her tone, the vanishing of her smile. It did not surprise him. He stood in the doorway, hat in one hand, the little girl clinging to the other, and he felt that, to her piercing glance, he was a sorry enough figure. He felt shabby, as if he had been long battered by wind and rain; he felt that somehow the emptiness of his pockets was obvious to any one.

“I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “I’m afraid I’ve disturbed you. I thought perhaps I could see Miss Barron, just for a moment.”

“Come in!” said Mrs. Barron, and, turning to the manicurist, “Later, my dear!” she said.

Ross came in, and the manicurist, gathering her things together on her tray, made haste to escape. She went out, closing the door behind her.

“Mr. Ross!” said Mrs. Barron, in the same tone of stern wonder.

“I’m sorry,” he said, again. “I’m afraid I’ve dis--”

“But, my dear boy, what has happened?” she cried.

He was absolutely astounded by her voice, by the kindly anxiety in her face.

“I just thought--” he began.

“Sit down!” said she. “Here! On the sofa. You do look so tired!”

“I--I am,” he admitted.

“And such a dear little girl!” said Mrs. Barron. “Such a dear little mite.”

She had sat down on the sofa beside the child, and was stroking her fair mane, while her eyes were fixed upon Ross with genuine solicitude. She looked so kind, so honest, so sensible--he marveled that he had ever thought her formidable.

“You wanted to see Phyllis?” she went on. “She’s out, just now; but you must wait.”

“By George!” cried Ross.

For he had an inspiration. With all his stubborn soul he had been dreading to meet Phyllis in his present condition. He was penniless, and, what was worse, he could not rid himself of an unreasonable conviction of guilt. And now that he found Mrs. Barron so kind--

“Mrs. Barron!” he said. “It’s really you I ought to speak to. It’s about this child. She’s a--sort of cousin of mine, and she’s”--he paused a moment--“alone.”

Mrs. Barron was looking down at the child, very thoughtfully.

“I don’t know any one in this country,” he went on, “so I thought if you’d advise me. I want to find a home for her. A--a real home, you know, with people who’ll--be fond of her. Just for a few months; later on I’ll take her myself. But, just now--” His dark face flushed.

“I’m a bit hard up just now,” he said; “but I’ll find a job right away, and I’ll be able to pay for her board and so on.”

Mrs. Barron continued to look thoughtful, and it occurred to him that his request must seem odd to her--very odd. The flush on his face deepened.

“I’m sorry,” he said, coldly; “but there are a good many things I can’t explain--”

“Yes, you can!” Mrs. Barron declared, in her old manner. “And that’s just what you’re going to do. As soon as I set eyes on you, on board that ship, I knew what you were. And I am never deceived about character. Never, Mr. Ross! I knew at once that you were to be trusted. I said to Phyllis: ‘That young man has force of character!’ I knew it. Now you’ve gone and got yourself into trouble of some sort, and you’ve come to me--very properly--and you’re going to tell me the whole thing.”

“I can’t!” Ross protested.

“Oh, yes, you can! Here you come and tell me you haven’t a penny, and don’t know a soul in this country, and here’s this poor little child who’s been foisted upon you--Don’t look surprised! I know it very well! She’s been foisted upon you by selfish, heartless, unscrupulous people, and you can’t deny it! Now, tell me what’s happened.”

He did. And what is more, he was glad to tell her.

There were a good many details that he left out, and he mentioned no names at all, but the main facts of his amazing story he gave to her. Especially was he emphatic in pointing out that he had now no name and no money, and he thought that would be enough for her.

But when he carefully pointed this out, she said:

“Nonsense! You’ve got your own name, and you can go right on using it. As for money, you’re never going to let that horrible, wicked woman rob you like that--”

“Look here, Mrs. Barron!” said Ross. “I am. I give you my word, I’ll never reopen that case again. It’s finished. I’m going to make a fresh start in the world and forget all about it.”

“I shan’t argue with you now,” said Mrs. Barron, firmly. “You’re too tired. And if you want a position--for awhile--Mr. Barron will find you one. The little girl will stay here with us, of course. Now, take off your coat and make yourself comfortable until lunch time.”

“No!” said Ross. “No! I--don’t you see for yourself? I don’t want to see--anybody.”

“Mr. Ross!” said Mrs. Barron. “I’m not young any longer. I’ve lived a good many years in the world, and I’ve learned a few things. And one of them is--that character is the one thing that counts. Not money, Mr. Ross; not intellect, or appearance, or manners; but character. What you’ve done is very, very foolish, but--” She leaned across the child, and laid her hand on his shoulder. “But it was very splendid, my dear boy.”

Ross grew redder than ever.

“Just the same, I’d rather go,” he muttered, obstinately.

“Here’s Phyllis now!” cried Mrs. Barron, in triumph.

So he had to get up and face her--the girl he had run away from when he had had so much to offer her. He had to face her, empty-handed, now; heartsick and weary after his bitter adventure.

And she seemed to him so wonderful, with that dear friendly smile.

“Mr. Ross!” she said.

She held out her hand, and he had to take it. He had to look at her--and then he could not stop. They forgot, for a moment; they stood there, hands clasped, looking at each other.

“Didn’t I know he’d come!” cried Mrs. Barron.

THE END

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

OCTOBER, 1926 Vol. LXXXIX NUMBER 1

Human Nature Unmasked

A CYNIC SEES THE TRUE CHARACTERS OF HIS FRIENDS REVEALED BY A SEARCHING TEST, THE LURE OF A MILLION DOLLARS

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

Wilder sprang off the train, jostled his way through the crowd on the platform, and dashed up the steps to the street, scowling with impatience; and yet, when he got there, he stopped short.

The trolley car that met the train was waiting in front of him, and there was a rush of commuters toward it. He had meant to get on that car, but he could not. He was too tired, too mortally sick and tired of his fellow creatures. He could not and would not be crowded in there. He wanted miles of uninhabited space about him. He felt that it was impossible to endure the sight of a human face or the sound of a human voice.

Then, just behind him, some one called out cheerily:

“Hello, Wilder!”

He pretended not to hear, and set off down the street, with that headlong gait of his.

“Let me alone!” he said to himself. “Oh, Lord! I’m so tired!”

All he asked was to be let alone, but he never was. At this moment Marian was waiting for him.

“Let her wait!” he thought.

But, just the same, he hurried home to her.

“I’m a slave!” he thought. “I’m a fool, an ass, an idiot, an imbecile!”

These weaknesses were not obvious in Leonard Wilder’s appearance. A big fellow, well set up, lean and vigorous, he looked like one abundantly able to take care of himself. His face, with its big, bold nose, its keen gray eyes, and that out-thrust underlip, looked like a clever face. He was by no means handsome, but there was something about him that pleased the eye. People were inclined to stare at him. People who knew him detested and loved him at the same time. He was impossible to get on with; yet, once you got used to him, it was hard to get on without him.

He was an architect; but he said that if he could choose again, he would be a house wrecker. There was, he said, no room on earth for an architect until ninety-five per cent of all buildings now standing had been razed to the ground. Feeling as he did, he nevertheless helped in the erection of more monstrosities. The owners of a “development park” employed him to design houses.

“Regular little love nests!” said Connolly, the senior partner.

“Why d’you call these things ‘nests’?” asked Wilder. “Haven’t you ever seen a nest? Don’t you realize the fundamental decency of birds? Why, man, birds hide their nests! ‘Love nests,’ eh? Sheep pens, you mean!”

Connolly laughed; but he always arranged to keep his architect and his clients as far apart as possible. When this could not be done, he took care to explain in advance that Wilder was a genius. Connolly believed this. He believed that only a genius could be so outrageous; that only a genius would do such good work for so little money. He liked geniuses.

Leonard’s own opinion of himself was less flattering. He called himself a fool. For instance, here he was, hurrying home, when he so violently did not want to go home, simply because it would upset Marian if he were late. He always hurried home, and not out of good will. He felt no good will toward anybody on earth. He was the complete cynic. He did not love his fellow man. If he caught trains, it was only through a very contemptible weakness.

The sun had gone, but it was not yet dusk. As he reached his own corner, the street lamps suddenly came alive, glowing with a faint, luminous violet against the pallor of the sky. He was startled and enchanted by the effect. He stopped, to stare up at them, to watch the delicate changes in the sky.

“Extraordinary thing!” he thought. “I spend my life looking for the beautiful line--the clean, strong, inevitable line; and here is beauty without line, almost without form or color--half tints, shadows--of nothing. Why is this beautiful to me?”

He wanted a formula, and could find none. He lit a cigarette, and leaned back against the lamp-post, meditating. Marian saw this from the window. She saw her brother-in-law standing on the street corner, smoking a cigarette and staring at the sky, when he knew very well that dinner was ready. Let him! She made up her mind that she would not say one word. She put everything into the oven to keep hot, went out on the veranda, and sat down there.

When, at last, Wilder came down the street, and saw her, he knew by her face that she was not saying a word. Instead of admiring this forbearance, a fierce exasperation rose in him. He wanted her to say a word, so that he could reply in other words. He desired a barrage of peppery words. He had stopped, just to look at the sky--and she begrudged him that!

“Good evening, Leonard,” she said, quite politely.

“Oh! Good evening!” said he, as if surprised. “You here?”

Then he sat down on the top step and lit another cigarette.

“And here I sit until you do say something!” he thought.

“I will not be drawn into a dispute with Leonard,” thought Marian. “He’s simply looking for a chance to be nasty; but I shan’t say a word.”

From inside the house came a sound of hammering. It was Evan Wilder, doing some little carpentering job; and this--this creditable and helpful thing--filled Leonard with still greater exasperation.

He was weary and hot. He wanted peace. He wanted a dim and lofty dining room, a silent and highly competent manservant, and a rare sort of dinner; and when he thought of what he was actually going to get--

He had meant not to speak, but that hammering was too much.

“Peter Pan, the Boy Scout who never grew up,” he observed. “What good turn is he doing now?”

Marian still said nothing, but the effort she made to hold her tongue vibrated through the air.

“He is misguided,” Leonard went on. “If he were to follow our example, Marian! Here we sit, developing serenity of soul in contemplation. I’m happy to see you contemplative, Marian. Don’t you feel strengthened by it?”

“Leonard,” she replied, in a voice unsteady from many suppressed emotions, “if, instead of sneering at Evan--”

“Shan’t I put dinner on the table?” interrupted a voice.

It was the voice of Marian’s young sister, Violet. Leonard rose.

“Why didn’t you tell me she was here?” he asked sternly.

“Why should I?” returned Marian. “I didn’t want to disturb you in your soulful contemplations.”

She, too, had risen. He admitted that she was a nice looking girl, but it exasperated him to see that she was tired. It made him feel that every one in the world was tired. He thought of Marian working all day in this detestable little house. He thought of Evan sitting in his office, waiting for the patients who did not come. Everything was awful!

Violet disturbed him. He was sorry for her, just entering upon life in all its awfulness; and she was so unsuspicious. She did not look either tired or discouraged. She was a designer, working in a fashion studio, and she did not seem to mind it.

There she stood in the doorway. The light behind her shone on her bright hair, making it glitter like gold wire. She had a nice color in her cheeks, and across her nose was a band of freckles that seemed to Wilder funny and very touching. She had serious blue eyes. She was a serious girl altogether, but he always felt that the seriousness was not quite honest. He strongly suspected that there were moments when she laughed.

She glanced at Leonard as he came in, and smiled seriously. He would have said that he was sorry he was late, only that Marian would have heard, and it would have been mean to be sorry to Violet and not to her.

As he went upstairs to wash, he met his brother Evan coming down, with a clean collar, and his dark hair still damp. He looked neat and subdued, yet cheerful. Evan was always cheerful. His valiant smile did not soothe the cynic, who came downstairs worse than ever.

They all sat down at the table.

“Ah! Tomato soup!” said Evan, bravely and brightly.

“Tomatoes have gone up awfully,” observed Marian.

“Listen!” said Violet. “That taxi--isn’t it stopping here?”

“Good Lord!” cried Evan, springing up. “A patient!”

“Probably an accident who can’t afford to pay,” said Marian.

Evan retired, so that he might be mysteriously invisible to any patient, and Marian went to open the door.

II

From the dining room, Leonard and Violet could see who stood outside--a large figure in a plumed hat and billowing cloak, like a cavalier. It was no cavalier, however, but a lady.

“Dr. Wilder’s house?” the stranger asked.

“Yes,” said Marian. “If you’ll step into the waiting room, I’ll see if the doctor’s disengaged.”

“Deary,” said the visitor, “tell him it’s his Aunt Jean!”

At this Evan stepped forward.

“I am Dr. Wilder,” he announced sternly--sternly, because he had no Aunt Jean.

“No!” cried she. “You don’t say! You must be one of the boys; but it’s old Dr. Wilder I’m looking for.”

“He--” Evan began, and hesitated. “My father--”

“No!” said she, all sympathy. “Gone? That’s just terrible! I looked in the telephone book, and I saw ‘Dr. Wilder,’ and I came here. My! That’s sad! And you’re a doctor, too? Deary, you’ve got a grand presence!”

Evan was considerably taken aback.

“Deary,” said she, “I’ll explain--”

Just then she caught sight of Leonard, who had come into the hall, urged by sheer curiosity. He wished to hear the preposterous tale this woman would surely tell. It was almost pathetic, to think of her coming before him, the cynic, the merciless detector of human weakness, with her ridiculous yarn.

“You’re the one to remember!” she said. “Your eyes--so kind o’ piercing looking, and all! You remember your Auntie Jean, I bet!”

“No,” said Leonard, “I can’t say that I do.”

Indeed, he felt that if he had ever set eyes on her before, he would have remembered. She was not one easy to forget. Stout and tall, she carried herself with majesty. In her face, powdered white as a clown’s, her lips were a vivid scarlet. Sticky dark lashes surrounded her eyes, and crowning all was a bushy halo of blond hair, dry and unreal as a doll’s wig. No, Leonard did not remember her.

Nevertheless, looking at her, a queer sympathy stirred in him. There was something honest in her. Even the paint and powder and dyed hair were honest. They showed no intention to deceive, but merely an artless desire to make the best of what nature had provided.

“Deary,” she said, “I’m your Uncle Lambert’s second.”

There really had been an Uncle Lambert, a black sheep brother of their father’s, and Leonard thought he could remember some talk about a dreadful marriage. He was almost ready to believe that this lady might be a relation--by marriage; but that did not exclude the possibility of her being also a swindler.

“I remember,” said she, “as plain as plain. Your mother was the only one in the family that ever had a kind word for me--a sweet, lovely woman, she was. Well do I remember her saying to me: ‘Jean,’ she said, and those were her words--‘Jean,’ she said, ‘come and see the children.’ Then she took me up through that rich, elegant house, and the taste there was in those lace curtains I shall remember to my dying day, and the carpet on the stairs as thick as fur, and there you were in the nursery, the two of you, in little black velvet pants and white silk shirts, as sweet and clean as two little lambs.” She sobbed. “Two little lambs!” she insisted. “And Evan, he sat on my lap and played with my locket, and well I remember he broke it off the chain and tried to swallow it, and you stood in a corner, saying, ‘Go ‘way! Go ‘way!’ Two l-little l-lambs!”

Leonard believed her. He could not recollect the incident, but he believed it had been as she said.

“Sit down, Aunt Jean,” he said firmly.

“Aunt!” said she. “Deary, I will not forget this sweetness!”

Still in tears, she sat down, and so did Leonard, but the others remained standing.

“Boys!” she said. “I’m all kind of fluttery.” She paused. “Boys!” she said solemnly. “How are things with you?”

“Bad,” replied Leonard, promptly.

“Oh, no!” Evan chivalrously declared. “I’m married--”

“A sweet, lovely woman!” said Aunt Jean, looking at Marian. “I can see that; but--” She glanced about the neat, quiet little room. “Boys!” she said. “I know!”

There was something so portentous, so mysterious in her manner that Evan glanced behind him, as if a specter had thrown a shadow.

“This is not what you’ve been accustomed to,” she went on. “This is not what you ought to have. No, sir! Servants to wait on you hand and foot, and a fine house and all--that’s what you ought to have; and that’s what you’re going to have! That’s just what I came for!”

She was gratified to see that they were astonished.

“Yes, sir!” she continued. “As soon as ever I heard the news, I came right here. You’ve heard of Darcy Rose, of course?”

To her surprise, they had not.

“A grand man!” she said. “Him and I--he and me--were partners years ago. A novelty act, it was--Rose and La Reine. He did mind reading and mesmerizing, and I was Jean La Reine, the galvanic girl. I used to be galvanized, you know, stiff as a board, lying in the air, all dressed in white, and my hair down. It was a real pretty act, if I do say it myself; but it kind of went out of style. Darcy, he went in for private mind readings--séances and all, and he made a lot of money.”

“Won’t you join us at dinner?” asked Evan, because he saw Marian looking so patient.

“Deary, I will!” said she. “And sweet it is of you to ask me!”

She flung off the voluminous cape with a fine gesture, and stood before them in a low-necked black satin dress, with a rope of pearls reaching to what might be called her waist. Combined with the plumed hat and the high-heeled velvet slippers, the effect was remarkable--especially if one did not notice how worn and dusty the slippers were, how shabby the dress, how bedraggled the feather.

“Darcy Rose is doomed,” she said. “A grander spirit I never saw. One week ago this very night he sent for me. ‘J.,’ he said, ‘I’m going,’ he said.” She wiped her eyes. “‘And I’m ready,’ he said. ‘I haven’t one of my own kin left,’ he said, ‘and me with a million dollars! J.,’ he said, ‘you and me were partners;’ and the way he talked about old times would have wrenched tears out of a stone. He wanted to know what I was doing, and I told him the solemn truth. ‘Darcy,’ I said, ‘I won’t tell you I’m resting, for the truth is, I’ve given up the profession. I may look all right to you,’ I said, ‘and there are many who admire a stately figger; but it’s not the style just now, and on the stage I do not look so young. I will not hide from you, Darcy, that I am demonstrating French Cream Balm of Lettuce in the stores.’ Tears came into the man’s eyes.” She turned to Marian. “He made a last will and testament,” she said, “leaving all to me.”

“I see!” said Marian.

“And I wish to share it with the boys,” said Aunt Jean. “Darcy Rose isn’t the only one can be grateful. Their mother was an angel to me, when the rest of the family were--were not; and I’ve come to set things right.”

“That’s mighty kind of you,” said Evan.

“Do have another slice of ham!” said Marian.

“And wouldn’t you like a nice cup of tea?” asked Violet.

Leonard said nothing. Although he had long ago lost all illusions about human nature, he felt a queer sort of pain at seeing them all so very kind and attentive--to a million dollars. It sickened him. He was not going to join the crowd of flatterers. Let them truckle as they liked to the poor old soul; he would be rudely honest.

He was.

III

It was an unseasonably hot June that year, and Wilder suffered from it. He was tired to the bottom of his soul. A competition for a model house was organized by a popular magazine, and he had been working in the evenings on a set of plans, and had sent them in.

He knew he would not win, for his house was much too good. Nobody would appreciate that roof line, that staircase. He had done it to please himself, as a relief from the love nests, and to divert his mind from the sickening state of affairs at home, where Aunt Jean was now installed in the house, an honored guest.

The hot weather had brought on a boom in love nests. His firm advertised that “every house will be built according to your ideas. The home we build for you will be your Home o’ Dreams;” and clients came in with all sorts of queer ideas.

Basically, the love nests were strangely alike, but it was Wilder’s task to give each one a mendacious air of individuality.

“Seems to me that sort o’ cupola effect isn’t so artistic as the others,” said Connolly, the senior partner.

“Oh, yes, it is!” said Wilder. “More so, if possible. That cupola is the most arty thing I’ve ever done. It makes the love nest a perfect little hencoop.”

Connolly glanced at his genius with a shade of anxiety.

“Wilder,” he said, “you’re all wore out.”

“No,” said Wilder, “I’m a man of iron.” He took off his eye shade and got up. “And now,” he said, “peace and rest at length have come, all the day’s long toil is past.” He stopped to light his pipe. “And now,” he continued, “each heart is whispering ‘Home--home at last!’”

“I’ll say you got the right idea,” said Connolly.

“Just think of that to-night, as you’re going uptown in the subway,” said Wilder. “Try to realize that all the hearts crammed in there with you are whispering, ‘Home--home at last!’ Good night!”

He took his hat and stepped out of the office; and there, in the arcade of the big building, he saw Violet. She was looking at the window where small models of the love nests were displayed.

He had not seen Violet for some weeks, and it seemed to him that she had improved during that time. He had seen her wearing the same hat and dress before; but she had not looked like this in them. No--formerly she had appeared serious and competent, and now she looked a gentle, an appealing figure. You could imagine her waiting for a man, and glancing up when he came, with a charming blush.

“Hello, Violet!” he said.

She glanced up, but she did not blush. On the contrary, the hot weather had made her unusually pale.

“Hello, Leonard!” she replied in her usual serious and friendly way.

But he was not quite as usual. He could not help thinking that if she had been waiting for him, it would be a curiously agreeable thing.

“I haven’t seen you for a long time,” he said.

“I’ve been to the house for dinner two or three times,” said Violet; “but you weren’t home, and I can’t stay overnight any more, on account of Aunt Jean having the spare room.”

Violet lived in a furnished room on West Twelfth Street, and she had been in the habit of spending the week-ends with her sister; but not any more. She had been sacrificed. Compared with Aunt Jean’s million, all Violet’s kindnesses, her loyal assistance in family crises, didn’t count at all. She looked pale and jaded, and she had grown so extraordinarily pretty in these last weeks! Leonard had been missing her--that was what was the matter with him.

Over her shoulder, he looked at the model love nests in the window. One of them was lighted now; there were curtains in its tiny windows, through which shone a mellow pink glow. Wilder knew that there was nothing inside except an electric bulb with a crape paper shade, and yet--

Somewhere there was a real house just like it, softly lighted in the summer dusk, with flowers in a little garden. He could imagine that a tired man, coming home to a house like that--to a smile, a kiss, to quiet and tenderness--might find even one of Connolly’s love nests not without beauty.

“Vi!” he said.

This time she did blush, and glanced away.

“They are sweet little houses!” she said defiantly.

“Vi, let’s have dinner together! I’ll telephone to Marian.”

“Well--” said Violet. “I should like it awfully. I get so lonely, sometimes!”

She had never talked like this before. She had never looked like this before.

“I’ll get a taxi,” said Leonard, “and we’ll go up to Claremont. I only ask you not to come across with the usual family line about its being an extravagance.”

“I wasn’t going to,” said Violet. They had come out into the street now, where a wan daylight lingered. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot--about being extravagant. I’ve been--just afraid. I could do ever so many things; but I’ve been afraid to get the thing I want to-day, because then I might not be able to get something else to-morrow.”

“That’s thrift, my dear girl--keeping your cake until you haven’t any teeth to eat it with.”

“Well, I--there’s a cab, Leonard.”

He hailed it, and the driver slid up to the curb. Wilder opened the door and took Violet’s arm, to help her in. Somehow it was such a young sort of arm, firm and sturdy enough, but very slender--too slender. She herself was altogether too slender and too young. It worried him.

“I’m going to stop being afraid,” she said. “I’m going to trust life.”

Wilder was silent. They were going up Broadway in an endless procession of cabs and cars. Out of every building more and more people were pouring, going home. Perhaps, for some of them, home was not a joke.

Trust life? Just go ahead, and take the things that belong to youth? Not to be so bitterly afraid of being disillusioned and disappointed, but to trust life--and trust this girl? Didn’t he know by this time how faithful, honest, and kind she was?

“Could you rent one of those love nests?” she asked.

His heart stood still for a moment.

“I could buy one, on easy terms,” he said.

“I mean could any one--could I rent one?”

“You?”

“Yes,” she said. “You see, Leonard, I’ve been thinking. I’d like a little house.”

He reached out for her hand, and took it, and she did not draw it away.

“Vi!” he said.

“I want to get a house for the summer, where I can take Aunt Jean,” she said. “I think I can afford it. She’s nearly sixty, Leonard. Don’t you think she’s--pathetic?”

“Pathetic?” said Leonard.

The most pathetic thing, he thought, was a man’s unconquerable longing for the sort of girl who didn’t exist--a gentle young thing who waited for him, who would be happy with him, in one of Connolly’s houses.

Violet was a practical girl. She was perfectly willing to be sacrificed for Aunt Jean’s million. She was sensible, and he was a fool.

He could not very well push the girl’s hand away, but his clasp became so limp that she withdrew it. She looked at him, but he did not look at her. She tried to talk to him, but he answered with marked indifference.

“If you can’t be a little more agreeable,” said Vi, a trifle unsteadily, “I don’t see much use in our having dinner together.”

“It wasn’t intended as a useful thing,” said Leonard. “Simply a diversion.”

“Well, I’m not diverted,” said Vi. “You’re being very--trying, Leonard!”

“I’m sorry,” said he; “but I didn’t think you’d be able to stand me very long.”

“If you’d try--”

“Didn’t you say I was trying?”

“I think--” said Violet. “Please stop the cab! I’ll take a bus home.”

Very well, he was not going to argue with her. He stopped the cab, and they both got out. He put Violet on a bus, and then he walked uptown along the Drive. There were lights in almost every window, now, and across the river other lights shone out--from homes.

“She was crying,” Leonard mused.

Was he to be held responsible for that? Hardly. He had been on the point of offering her all he had, but he had discovered in time that she was after bigger game. Life in a love nest--with Aunt Jean and her million, not with him! It was funny, in a way.

And in another way it was not so very funny. He knew all about human nature, but for a long time he had thought that Violet was different. Well, she wasn’t. She had reproached him for being disagreeable. All right! He reproached her, in his heart, for something a good deal worse than that.

It hurt--he would admit it. It hurt like the devil!

IV

Leonard did not telephone home to Marian. After a solitary dinner in a restaurant, he caught the nine o’clock train. He walked up from the station at a leisurely pace. He was defying Marian.

“Just let her start something!” he said to himself.

The trouble was that she never did start anything. In her way, she was a pretty decent sort of girl, and patient with Leonard. That winter, when he had had the flu--

If she knew now how he felt! Of course he could not tell her, ever; but if she did know! She would call him “poor boy,” and would not care how late he was.

He stopped in at the Greek confectioner’s and got a box of chocolates. It would please the foolish woman, and he was rather fond of her.

As he came down the street, he heard voices from the porch. He concealed the chocolates in his newspaper. When he entered the house, Marian would follow him, and then, if she happened to mention that he looked miserable, he might admit he was, and let her call him “poor boy.”

“And you’ll get a car,” he heard Aunt Jean say.

“It certainly would help,” said Evan.

“Deary, you’ve got to put up a good front. Just you get a bigger house, and a car, and a maid in a cap and apron to open the door, and the patients’ll come fast enough!”

“You’re right!” agreed Evan, heartily.

“And Marian ought to have a fur coat this winter. Deary, things like that are an investment!”

“I shouldn’t know myself in a fur coat,” said Marian, with an unnatural little laugh.

“And we’ll travel!” Aunt Jean went on, growing excited. “Go to California, and all!”

“Wonderful!” cried Marian.

“And I’m going to get Leonard to build me a house,” said Aunt Jean. “He’s a real genius.”

“He is!” said Marian.

“And Violet--”

Leonard could endure no more. All of them eager to take anything they could get from that poor old soul! Sitting there, discussing plans for the spending of her money! Even Vi--Vi was going to rent a love nest for Aunt Jean’s million.

“Well, Leonard!” greeted Aunt Jean, as he came up the steps. “Sit down! I bet you’re all tired out after this hot day.”

“I am,” said Leonard. “I’m sick and tired.”

“We were just talking about--”

“I heard you,” Leonard interrupted; “but you can count me out, thanks. I don’t need any assistance.”

“But, deary!”

“No!” said Leonard. “I’m grateful to you, but you’ll have plenty of others to help you get rid of your money. I’m going--” He paused for a moment. “I’m going away,” he went on. “I’m going out to California. After you’ve finished helping everybody in sight, you can come out to me, any time you like.”

He went into the house, slamming the screen door behind him. He was sick of it. He loathed human nature. Knaves and fools! Aunt Jean was one of the fools, and he was another.

There were some letters for him on the hall table. He took them into the sitting room, and flung himself into a chair. He had never felt so tired and so dispirited in his life. All of them, even Vi!

He realized now that he had not been a really complete cynic. He had thought that Evan was a darned fine fellow, making a gallant fight in the world. He had thought Marian was a rather wonderful girl, loyal and patient and strong. He had thought that Vi was the pluckiest, dearest kid. He had had faith in these people.

But no more! He was a cynic now, all right; and he really was going away. He had not dreamed of such a thing until he said it, but he meant it now. He would leave the rest of them to divide poor Aunt Jean’s million, and, when she was cleaned out, he would look after her.

He lit a cigarette and lay back in his chair. The room was tranquil and pretty in the lamplight. The curtains fluttered in the night wind, and he could smell the honeysuckle outside. This place had been a home for him. He had believed that he hated it, but he hadn’t. He had loved it--the neat, airy bedroom upstairs, the porch where the honeysuckle climbed, the cheerful grin Evan had for him, Marian’s thousand affectionate little services, and Vi coming and going.

“They were all right,” he said to himself, forlornly, “until they smelled money. Well, that’s human nature.”

But he wanted to get away from human nature as fast as possible. There would surely be work in California for an expert designer of love nests. He knew nobody there; he would have no ties.

Marian entered the room.

“Excuse me, Leonard,” she said evenly, “but I’ll have to make up the couch here for Vi. She’s coming out on the nine fifty.”

“Don’t mind me,” said Leonard.

Let her be offended! Plain speaking might have helped them; anyhow, they knew now how he felt about things. He picked up his letters. The first one was addressed to “Miss Jean La Reine.” He rose.

“Letter for you, Aunt Jean!” he called.

“Leonard!” said Marian, in a whisper. “Don’t!”

He paid no heed. Holding the letter in his hand, he stood waiting until Aunt Jean came in.

“A letter?” said she. “My!” She looked at the envelope. “Boys!” she cried. “It’s from the lawyer! I’m all fluttery!”

Evan had come in with her, and, to Leonard’s furious disgust, he put his arm about Aunt Jean.

“Don’t be fluttery,” he said. “Take it easy! Sit down!”

She shook her head, and the ready tears came into her eyes.

“It’s the news,” she said. “Poor Darcy Rose! He was a grand friend to me!”

Leonard sat down again, and began to open his letters. He heard Aunt Jean tear the envelope.

“Oh, my God!” she cried.

“Take it easy!” said Evan. “Never mind, Aunt Jean!”

“Boys!” she cried.

Her face had grown chalk white beneath the rouge. She looked her years now.

“Boys, he never left a cent--for any one.”

“Never mind, dear!” said Marian. She was kneeling beside Aunt Jean, her smooth cheek pressed against the raddled old one.

“After I promised you--all I promised you--”

“Aunt Jean, dear, we knew.”

“Knew?”

“We asked Vi to see the lawyer, weeks ago, because we were afraid, from the very beginning, that--that you were going to be terribly disappointed. Poor old Mr. Rose didn’t have anything to leave.”

“And you let me stay, when you knew?”

“We only wished you’d never find out, dear. We thought that if you got used to us, you could be happy to keep on--”

“A s-silly old woman without a c-cent!” she sobbed. “And all those plans--that see-dan car for Evan, and the fur coat for you, and a little holiday this summer! Oh, I wish I was dead!”

Leonard had risen again. He saw that Evan and Marian were doing more for the silly old woman without a cent than even a millionairess could have expected. They had known all the time, all of them--Violet, too. Here was human nature unmasked at last!

Leonard had grown as pale as Aunt Jean.

“Look here!” he said, with a frown. “Aunt Jean, your idea was--to share with the family. Well, we can manage the car and the fur coat and the little holiday, all right. I’ve won the competition.”

“Leonard!” cried a voice from just beyond the doorway.

He knew it was Violet, but he did not care to look at her just then.

“Here’s a box of candy,” he said briefly, and turned toward the other door.

“Len, old man--” Evan began.

“Leonard!” cried Marian. “Oh, you splendid boy!”

“I knew he was a genius!” cried Aunt Jean.

He could not speak just then. He went into the dining room to escape; but Violet came after him. He turned and faced her.

“Vi!” he said. “I’m--I’m sorry.”

She held out her hand with a friendly smile, but somehow the friendliness vanished. It turned into another sort of look, such as he had never yet seen on any face.

“Vi,” he said, “why didn’t you tell me about Aunt Jean?”

“I hated to, Leonard. You--you do feel things so. You’d have been so upset. You have said that life was unjust, and--you’re such an idealist, Len!”

“What?” said Leonard. “You think I’m like that?”

“I--I know it!” replied Vi, with a break in her voice. “You can’t bear it if everything isn’t perfect. You don’t understand human nature or--”

“You mean you think I’m a fool,” said Leonard sternly.

“I do not!” contradicted Vi. “I think--” She tried to get her hand away, but it was impossible. “Imagine your wanting to give away your money the moment you get it! I--I think--”

Leonard was silent for a time, looking at her.

“Violet,” he said, somberly, “I need some one to look after me.”

“I’ve always known it!” agreed Violet.

* * * * *

“Don’t disturb ’em!” whispered Aunt Jean. “We’re young only once. That’s just human nature. Deary, what could be sweeter?”

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

DECEMBER, 1926 Vol. LXXXIX NUMBER 3

Home Fires

TEMPERAMENTAL HOUSEKEEPING MAY HAVE ITS DISADVANTAGES, ESPECIALLY IN A TWO-FAMILY HOUSE

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

It was a long way home, and a lonely way, along a road of frozen mud, bordered by empty fields and trees stripped bare in the autumn winds. The short November day was coming to a close, and the fields seemed vast in the gathering dusk. Only at the top of the hill lingered a streak of wild, unearthly yellow light, in a sky of flying clouds.

Bess climbed the hill steadily, her eyes fixed upon that transient glory; and she repeated to herself bits of poems she had learned in school:

“Count that day lost whose low descending sun Views from thy hand no worthy action done.”

A most characteristic sentiment! The frosty air had brought a fine color into her cheeks, and her hair, in the sunset light, shone like copper where the wind had blown it loose under her tam-o’-shanter. She was a solitary little figure in a desolate world, but invincibly gallant and earnest.

At an early age she had become enamored of Longfellow’s “A Psalm of Life,” and her diary was prefaced by the quotation:

Life is real! Life is earnest!

She had always felt like that. She had been left motherless when she was a very tiny girl, and the chief influence of her childhood had been that of her father, a man whom nobody could accuse of undue frivolity. He believed that life was real, and earnest, and pretty awful--especially now, when he was a ruined man.

Bess, however, being only nineteen, could not see things quite as he did. She was very grave about the situation, and desperately anxious to help him. Just now she was on her way home from the village post office, where she had mailed a letter to an old school friend, politely but firmly refusing an invitation for a week-end. She realized that things were very bad, but she could not help thinking that they might take a better turn at any time.

Her father thought this attitude half-hearted. He was a ruined man, and he wished to do the thing thoroughly--wished to be completely and properly a ruined man. He refused to cherish any illusions, any false hopes. When ruin came, he had sold their old house in Connecticut, and they had moved into the lower half of a two-family building in a New Jersey suburb. Bess suffered quite as much as he did from this uprooting, only she pretended to like it, so that he should not reproach himself so bitterly. Whenever the least thing went wrong, he would say in his most hopeless voice that all this was entirely his fault.

As a matter of fact, it was. He was a professor who had written philosophic essays, pointing out the pitiful follies of the human race, and he should have known better than to trust persons who were enthusiastic about oil wells. He did know better now, but it was too late.

Bess had almost reached the top of the hill now, and a ray of the sun, shining upon a broken bottle, sidetracked her thoughts. It looked like a piece of ice.

“I bet there’s skating,” she thought.

She thought of last winter--only last winter--and of all the girls skating on the little lake in the school grounds. In her heart there echoed the sound of their laughing voices, the strange, ringing hum of skates on ice. She could feel again her own quiet content in the companionship of her friends, the satisfaction of an orderly and purposeful life.

“But all that was just--a preparation,” she said to herself, valiantly. “This is the real thing. I’m really useful now.”

She repeated her very favorite verse:

“Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.”

That was what she intended to do, certainly. The pursuing and laboring part was not so hard, but the waiting--

II

The sound of a car coming along the road made Bess draw to one side. Very few cars came here, and she was a little curious about it. She glanced up as it passed, and then stared after it, amazed.

It was what looked like the wreck of a fine touring car, battered and scarred, but with an engine that took the steep hill superbly. It was piled high with household goods. A man was driving it, on the running board crouched another man, and, perilously balanced upon a table wedged into the tonneau, there sat a woman. She was laughing, and the brightness of her face lingered in the girl’s mind.

As they disappeared over the crest of the hill, a lamp shade fell out of the car. Bess was hastening forward to retrieve it, but, before she got there, one of the men appeared. He picked it up, and then something arrested his attention.

“Hi! Just come here!” he called, and the two others joined him.

They all stood there, as if entranced with the view; and Bess, as she passed them, heard the woman say something about “the austere charm of all this.” She was somewhat surprised, and very much impressed, to learn that any one could find charm of any sort in these barren fields, where great billboards stood, declaring them to be highly desirable building lots. She felt that she herself should have discovered this charm in the six weeks she had been here.

But now she observed something which the others had not seen. They had their backs turned to the car, which stood halfway down the slope, and they did not know that it had begun to slip. Bess called an anxious warning, but they were talking, and did not hear; and the top-heavy car was slowly gathering momentum.

“Oh, do look out!” she cried. “It’s running away!”

It was. Oblivious of brakes, it went careering down the hill, faster and faster, bumping over the ruts, and flinging out all sorts of things as it went. The others had heard her, now, and turned, and they all began rushing after it.

Too late! Going at great speed, the car smashed squarely into the stump of a tree, stood up on its hind feet, and threw a great part of its load over its head. Then it stood still and waited.

Bess was the first to reach the scene of disaster, and she was dismayed. There was a little red lacquer cabinet in splinters; there were books with the pages fluttering away; a china clock was shattered to pieces; the ground was strewn with wreckage.

“Oh, what a pity!” she cried. “I’m so sorry! Such pretty things!”

“Never mind!” said the woman, cheerfully. “Some of them were broken, anyhow; and I don’t believe in caring too much about things, do you?”

Struck by this philosophic point of view, Bess turned toward the speaker, and found her still smiling. She was not a pretty woman. She was small and pale and freckled, and her reddish hair was growing gray; but that smile offers was a thing rarer than youth or beauty.

“I like her!” thought Bess.

The two men had begun to stow the débris into the car in a way that caused anguish to the girl’s orderly spirit.

“Have you much farther to go?” she asked anxiously. “Because, if the things are packed like that, I’m afraid they’ll fall out.”

“My dear,” said the woman, “I don’t know how far it is. I took the place, in blind faith, from an agent. It’s No. 9 Edgely Road.”

“Oh, but that’s right there!” cried Bess, pointing. “That house, where I live!”

“A two-family house, isn’t it? Well, my dear, we’re the second family, then!” said the woman, very much pleased, and she called out joyously: “Tom Tench! Alan! I’ve found the place!”

The two men approached. They also seemed surprised and pleased.

“As if she’d done something very clever,” thought Bess. “Didn’t they ever expect to find their house?”

“My dear,” said the woman, “I’m Angelina Smith. This is my brother Alan, and my cousin, Tom Tench. Boys, imagine! This is the young lady who lives in the house!”

Both the men took off their hats and smiled at her.

“Shall we move the things in now?” asked the cousin, a somewhat portly young man, in horn-rimmed spectacles.

“Or will it bother you?” asked Miss Smith.

Bess was disconcerted to see that they regarded her as a sort of hostess.

“Just as you like, of course,” she said. “I--can’t I help you?”

“No!” replied the brother, promptly. “We can get along all right.”

Bess glanced at him, but looked away again, hastily. There was something in his steady, smiling gaze that confused her. He did not look much like his sister. She was little, and he was tall. Her hair was reddish, and his was black. He had the same wide, good-humored smile, but somehow it was different.

“It’s getting dark,” he said, “and it’s cold. You’d better run home.”

Bess might have felt a little annoyed by his rather masterful manner, if she had not noticed, as he moved to pick up a book, that he walked with a limp; but that disarmed her. She liked him; she liked all of them; there was something charming and a little pathetic about them.

“Won’t you all come in and have a cup of tea with us first?” she asked, strictly upon impulse.

“My dear!” cried Miss Smith. “How kind of you! We will!”

And they all followed her to the house, leaving the hapless car just where it was.

Bess knocked upon the door, to warn her father. He opened it with the distressed air of a disturbed hermit.

“Father,” said Bess, “these are our new neighbors. Miss Smith, my father, Professor Gayle.”

Miss Smith held out her hand, and the professor took it. She presented her cousin and her brother, and they all shook hands gravely.

“But how cozy!” she exclaimed, looking about her.

“Ah! Yes! Yes! Yes!” said Professor Gayle.

“Cozy” seemed a tactful word for that sitting room. When Bess and her father left their old home, they had brought with them what they had regarded, at the time, as just a few pieces of their old furniture; but in this room the things had become too many and too large.

Bess knew that the crowded room hurt her father not only æsthetically, but physically. He was a big, gaunt man, very near-sighted, and almost every time he moved his shins struck some sharp angle, or something bumped him under the knees. When he made one of his fine, sweeping gestures--sweeping, it truly was--it carried to the floor all sorts of things from near-by tables.

But Miss Smith was entranced.

“Really a home!” said she. “You know, we all suddenly felt the need of a home, ourselves, last week. It was at breakfast in the studio. Alan said, ‘Christmas will soon be here.’ ‘What does Christmas mean to us, who have no home?’ Tom Tench inquired. ‘Boys,’ I said, ‘you shall have a home!’ So, you see!”

“Ah, yes!” said the professor, vaguely. Bess had gone off to make tea, and he was obliged to entertain the party alone. He scarcely felt equal to it. “You said ‘studio’?” he continued. “Am I to understand that you are--er--an artist, Miss Smith?”

“All of us! I paint, and Tom Tench writes, and Alan designs. We’re very quiet people,” she assured him. “We shan’t disturb you in the least.”

“I’m sure,” said the professor, gallantly.

And he really did feel that, if he must have neighbors, these were remarkably unobjectionable ones--no children, no dogs, and he fancied that they were not the sort to possess a loud speaker.

He was still further encouraged when Tom Tench pulled a book from one of the shelves, and gave a stern and loud opinion upon it. That was the kind of thing the professor was accustomed to, and he immediately pronounced a loud and scholarly contradiction. Then he and Miss Smith and Tom Tench all began to talk about books. No one of them had any use for the books praised by the others, but that made it all the more interesting.

They did not miss the brother. He had followed Bess into the kitchen, and he said he wished to help her. She told him that there was really nothing that he could do, but still he stayed there. He sat on the end of the table, and talked to her.

His conversation was not scholarly. He did not talk about books. He talked about plays, and Bess had never seen anything except a few Shakespearean dramas. He talked about dancing, and Bess had never danced, except at school. Her particular friends had been very serious girls, and her father was invariably serious; she was not accustomed to frivolous conversation, and she could not answer Mr. Smith. After awhile he gave up and fell silent.

That night, after she had gone to bed, Bess lay awake for a time in the dark. She endeavored to think of the future, and to decide whether she could study shorthand by mail; but her thinking was unaccountably disturbed by the memory of that young man, with his steady, smiling glance and his very insignificant conversation. Somehow, it made her unhappy.

III

The new neighbors worked late into the night, with a great deal of noise, and in the morning a van came with more furniture. Bess went upstairs, to ask if she could help, but Miss Smith thanked her warmly, said that moving meant nothing at all to her, and invited Bess and her father to come up and dine with them that evening notwithstanding the unplaced furniture.

The professor, to his daughter’s surprise, seemed pleased by the invitation.

“It is something of an experience to meet genuine artists,” he said. “It will do us good. Miss Smith is, I consider, a remarkable woman. I had a talk with her yesterday, and the extent of her information is great.”

“She forgot to tell me what time to come,” said Bess; “but if we go up early--a little before six--perhaps I can help her.”

When they went up, it might have been a little before six in the morning, for any sign of dinner to be seen. Miss Smith, in a smock, was busy drawing; Tom Tench was shut up in his room, writing, and all the other rooms were in darkness.

“You won’t mind waiting until I finish this?” she asked. “It’s a design for a book jacket. It’s not at all what they ordered, and probably they won’t take it; but it seems criminal to me to stifle a good idea. Tom Tench won’t be long now. He makes a point of writing at least twenty-five hundred words a day. He will do that much, even if he’s not in the mood, and has to tear it all up.”

“I see!” said Bess, politely. “But, Miss Smith, you’re so busy--please let me go into the kitchen and get things started for you. I’d really love to.”

“My dear, I don’t use the kitchen,” Miss Smith replied, calmly.

“Don’t use the kitchen!” repeated the dinner guests in unison.

“Never!” said she. “For busy people like ourselves, housekeeping has to be reduced to the utmost simplicity. I’ve worked it all out. You’ll see! The dinner will be prepared here, in this room, before your very eyes. It won’t take me any time at all.”

She continued to work, and to entertain them with pleasant conversation until half past six. Then she rose, and, with a calm and efficient air, went to a cupboard and brought out a number of electric appliances--grill, percolator, toaster, and so on--which she placed upon her cleared work table, and began to attach to the chandelier outlets.

“Pray let me assist you,” said the professor, greatly distressed by what he saw, for the plugs were screwed in askew, the cords wildly tangled, and the chandelier rocking dangerously.

She smilingly declined assistance, but when her back was turned, he did what he could for the safety and welfare of the party.

“But why,” he whispered to his daughter, “does she keep the window open? It’s a cold night, and I find the draft is becoming most unpleasant.”

Bess crossed the room to Miss Smith, who was leaning out of the open window, and once more asked if she couldn’t help her.

“It’s a l-little imp-provised ice box,” said the hostess, with chattering teeth. “I nailed it up this morning.”

To Bess it seemed extraordinary to improvise an ice box outside the window when there was a genuine one in the kitchen; but she was beginning to understand Miss Smith, and could not help admiring her adventurous spirit, which wished to live like Robinson Crusoe, always improvising, if not improving.

“The meat!” whispered Miss Smith. “It’s frozen fast! I can’t get it off the plate, or the plate off the shelf!”

But, alas, she did get her ice box off the nails, and down it went into the garden below.

“Never mind, my dear!” she said. “Don’t say anything about it; I’m always prepared for emergencies.”

So she closed the window, retired into another room, and came back with a number of tins.

“Tom Tench!” she called. “Get ready! Dinner in ten minutes!”

It was, however, nearly nine o’clock before they dined. Miss Smith had trouble with her forest of electric cords, and never knew which things were turned on and which off, so that the concoctions which she believed to be cooling began to burn directly her back was turned, and the pots which she was anxiously expecting to boil would be found, after a long wait, to have been standing upon stoves absolutely cold.

Young Smith was a model of cheerful patience. He came in cold and hungry, and uncomplainingly remained cold and hungry for a long time. The professor was courteously serene through everything, and Bess and Angelina were unfailingly good-tempered; but Tom Tench was otherwise. He was silent all through the meal; and, after it had been eaten, and the ruins hidden behind a screen, he made himself felt. It was then that the bitter Tench-Gayle feud began.

“It’s darned cold!” he muttered, in a surly fashion.

“Bitter weather,” the professor agreed.

“I mean the house is cold,” said Tench, with a frown. “There’s not enough heat. The furnace needs looking after. Doesn’t somebody stoke it up in the evening?”

Now that furnace was the professor’s bête noire. He had not been able to get a man to look after it, and he had said that he believed he could do it himself. He was not so sure about it now, though, and this humiliating knowledge, combined with just resentment at the other’s tone, caused him to reply with considerable asperity:

“It might be advisable to put on more coal. Perhaps we might so arrange that I should attend to it in the morning, and you should see to it--”

“I?” said Tom Tench. “Not much! I’m a writer. My business is to write, and I have no time for anything else.”

“Mr. Tench--” the professor began sternly, but young Smith rose.

“I’ll have a go at it,” he said, cheerfully, and off he went.

But it was too late. The harm was done; the feud had started. Tom Tench strode off and shut himself into his own room, and Miss Smith interested the professor in a discussion of Hindu myths. She was, Bess thought, the kindest, the jolliest, the most utterly honest, and unaffected soul who ever lived, but she could not dispel the sinister cloud that had come over them. There was tension in the air.

Mr. Smith did not come back. Bess watched the door and listened for a footstep, but none came. At last she slipped out, without disturbing the other two, and went downstairs--not exactly to look for Mr. Smith, of course; but something might have happened to him. He might have fallen down the cellar stairs, he might have been overcome by coal gas.

The lower floor was very quiet. She listened, hesitated for a moment, and then opened the cellar door. A light was burning down there, but there was not a sound to be heard. Cautiously she began to descend the steep stairs--and there she saw the young man, sitting on a box, smoking a pipe, and reading a very frivolous comic magazine.

“Oh!” said she.

He sprang to his feet and came toward her, quickly enough, in spite of his limp.

“I’m waiting to see what will happen,” he explained. “I’ve done things to that furnace!”

He stood there, smiling up at her, and she felt obliged to smile back at him, but it was not easy.

“If he’d rather stay in the cellar,” she thought, “there’s no reason why he shouldn’t--absolutely no reason. I’m sure--”

“Look here!” said Mr. Smith, suddenly. “Couldn’t we go into the city to dinner some evening?”

A great indignation came over Bess, and a sort of alarm. Young Smith was not smiling now; he seemed earnest enough--too earnest. Nobody had ever looked at her like that before. He had preferred to hide in the cellar, rather than talk to her upstairs; and now, when she had come, merely out of humanity, to see if he were dead or alive, he misunderstood her. He thought she was one of those girls who would jump at any invitation, however casual. He thought she was running after him.

“Thank you,” she said, frigidly; “but I don’t care for things like that.”

Then she turned and went up the stairs. She went into the kitchen and made a cup of cocoa for her father to drink before he went to bed.

“I hope I’ve made him see!” she thought.

Suddenly she was overwhelmed by a recollection of Mr. Smith’s face, after she had spoken. She remembered him standing there at the foot of the cellar stairs, with a smudge on his cheek, and such a contrite, miserable look in his blue eyes.

“Oh!” she cried. “I’m nothing but a n-nasty little prig!”

IV

The feud over the furnace developed with alarming rapidity.

“In a house of this sort,” the professor observed severely to his child, a week later, “which is not adapted to the complete independence of two families, if the arrangement is to be tolerable, there must be a ready and harmonious adjustment of the responsibilities. Now this Tench--the other young man is away most of the time, and it is the natural, just, and proper thing for this Tench to do his share in taking care of the furnace.”

But “this Tench” steadily refused to do anything but write. He never went near the furnace. Miss Smith pluckily attempted to do his part. Three or four times a day she descended into the cellar, crammed the grate with coal, turned on or off whatever little turnable things she saw, and opened and closed all the doors, with great good will. Not only was this repugnant to Professor Gayle’s innate chivalry, but it was dangerous, and he implored so earnestly that finally she desisted, and the professor did it all. Alone he carried up the ashes, alone he intrigued with coal dealers.

When Miss Smith’s reckless management of her electric devices caused a fuse to blow out--which happened often--Tench simply lighted a lamp. He didn’t care.

Then there was the daily battle about the mail. The postman left all letters for the house with whatever person opened the door, and the professor, being on the ground floor, was usually that person. Now Tom Tench had all an author’s morbid attitude about mail. Whenever he thought a letter should have come, and it had not, he made general accusations of criminal carelessness. At last he took to walking out to meet the postman, and then the professor accused him of willful delay in the transmission of highly important documents.

But it was in the matter of waste paper that Tom Tench was most insufferable. He was always bringing down heaps of paper, and stuffing it into the ash can. On windy days it blew out all over the garden; but there was a still more serious aspect to this offense.

“Mr. Tench, sir!” protested the professor. “As you have persistently shirked your duty in helping me to carry up those ashes, you may not be aware that sometimes they are hot, and liable to set fire to any inflammable material placed upon them. Tie your--rubbish--into bundles, if you please, ready for the collector.”

“No time for that sort of nonsense,” said Tench, and kept on.

No attempt was made to gloss over this hostility. The professor had not had a quarrel for years, and it seemed to Bess that he actually enjoyed this one. He would not make the least effort to avoid Tench. Almost every evening he went upstairs for a chat with Miss Smith, and his manner of ignoring Tench was not soothing.

“Oh, Lord!” Tom Tench would rudely ejaculate.

Then he would go into his room and bang the door; but he would not stay there. He would come in and out of the sitting room, with an obnoxious smile.

If the two men enjoyed this, however, Bess and Angelina Smith did not. They had grown very fond of each other, and they said that this distressing situation did not and should not make the least difference in their friendship. Angelina held that it was all the fault of her temperamental cousin, Tom Tench, and that poor Professor Gayle was an innocent victim: while Bess thought secretly that her father, being older and wiser, should have avoided such an antagonism.

“But it does seem a pity,” she said once, “that--your brother has to suffer for it. He seems to work so hard, and he comes home late, and half the time the house is freezing cold, or the lights are out, because they’re squabbling about whose place it is to do things.”

“Oh, Alan doesn’t mind,” Miss Smith assured her. “He’s the most good-natured, darling creature! He doesn’t need to work so hard, either. My dear, he stays late at his office simply because he doesn’t like to come home. He told me so.”

Bess decided then that it would be more sensible not to bother about Mr. Smith, especially if he stayed late in his office simply because he didn’t want to come home. That meant, of course, that there was no one in the two-family house he wished to talk to, no one he cared to see. She had scarcely exchanged a word with him since that brief conversation on the cellar stairs. Sometimes she saw him from her window, going off in that dreadful old car, early, before any one else was stirring upstairs, probably without having had a proper breakfast. At night she often heard him come in late, to be greeted brightly by his sister, who never seemed to go to bed.

To be sure, she had meant to discourage him, and apparently she had succeeded. Very well--what of it? She had made up her mind to be a little nicer the next time she talked to him, but evidently there wasn’t going to be any next time. Again very well--what of it?

He was Angelina’s brother, and a neighbor, and as such she was obliged, was she not, to take a human interest in him? She learned that he was a naval architect, and that he had hurt his foot by falling down a ship’s hold during a visit of inspection. She also learned that he was the best brother in the world. She was pleased to hear this, and pleased to think that that pathetic limp would soon be gone, so that it would no longer be necessary to feel sorry for him; but she was not going to bother about him.

V

The week before Christmas was one of terrific activity for Bess and Angelina, and of unusually bitter hostility between Professor Gayle and Tom Tench. They were shamefully immune from any sort of Christmas spirit.

Indeed, it seemed impossible to arrange any sort of neighborly celebration. Bess had made mince pies and a plum pudding; Angelina had painted place cards to be used on the dinner table. They had both planned all sorts of jolly little Christmas presents, and a Christmas tree; but where was the gathering to be? Tom Tench refused to set foot in Professor Gayle’s domain; and though the professor could probably be induced to go upstairs, who could foresee the consequences?

Nevertheless, the two dauntless women refused to despair.

“At the very last instant we’ll find some way to reconcile them,” said Angelina. “We’ll have a wonderful Christmas--I know it! Let’s walk into the village this afternoon, and get quantities of holly and mistletoe. Why, my dear, it’s Christmas Eve! They can’t quarrel to-day. Nobody could!”

“They can, though,” said Bess, sadly. “I hear them now, out on the stairs.”

“It’s a shame!” said Angelina. “Of course, Tom Tench is very temperamental, but--my dear, I’m going to have one more talk with him this evening. Alan talked to him, but he only made it worse.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, my dear, that any one who could be boorish and ill tempered under the same roof as you was a--well, all sorts of things.”

“Oh! Did he?” said Bess, after a long silence.

“And he wants us to move away,” Angelina continued. “He says he simply can’t stand this.”

“Oh!” said Bess again.

Something in her voice touched the warm-hearted Angelina. She crossed the room and put her arm about the younger girl.

“My dear,” she said, “I’m not going to leave you. I’m much too fond of you. And--if you don’t mind my saying so--I really do think you need somebody cheerful here. Alan said it was absolutely my duty to teach you to laugh. He thinks--”

“It’s getting late, Angelina,” said Bess. “Let’s start!”

It was getting late, because Angelina had been suddenly inspired to finish a drawing after lunch, and it was after three before they set off for the village. When they had bought all the holly they could carry, and turned toward home, it was beginning to grow dark.

It was a bleak and bitter day. The wind was against them now--a savage wind that brought tears to their eyes. With their heads down against it, they went along the desolate road, their numb hands clasping the prickly holly, their numb feet suffering cruelly from the ruts frozen as hard as iron.

They came to the foot of the long hill--and how long it looked, that treeless road, going steeply up to meet the wild, dark sky!

“It’ll be--better--going down!” Bess shouted against the gale.

“Much!” cried Angelina. “And--I love Christmas!”

Bess could have kissed her for those gallant words. The good will she felt for her companion actually seemed to warm her, and she began the ascent doggedly. Shoulder to shoulder, on they went, nearer and nearer to home. They reached the top of the hill, where the wind was incredibly fierce, and--

Angelina dropped her load of holly and seized Bess’s arm.

“Look!” she cried. “Oh, look! Fire!”

And there was the two-family house in a horrible, reddish glare!

Of one accord they started running, battling against the wind. For a time Bess clung to her armful of holly, because she so hated throwing things away, but in the end it had to go. Their footsteps rang sharply on the frozen road. They were breathless and panting, but the world about them seemed strangely still--no shouts, no hurrying engines, no audible excitement. The two-family house was burning in solitary and awful splendor.

Angelina stumbled to her knees at the foot of the hill, and Bess helped her up. They heard the soft, rustling sound of flames, mounting unhindered.

“Where--is--everybody?” gasped Angelina. “Oh, Bess!”

They struggled on, and turned in at the gate. The front of the building was still untouched, and no one was there. They flew along the path to the back of the house. Two figures were standing there, motionless, sharply outlined against the red light--Professor Gayle and Tom Tench.

“Father!” cried Bess, with all the breath she had left. “Can’t you do anything?”

He answered in a voice that was positively ferocious:

“No! This is Mr. Tench’s fire. He is responsible, and he alone. His papers thrown upon the hot ashes--”

“Tom Tench!” cried Angelina, catching her cousin’s arm and shaking him. “Do something! This instant!”

“I won’t!” said he. “The fire started downstairs, on Gayle’s premises, and it was his business to check it.”

“It has spread to your premises. Put it out there, and--”

“You’ll begin,” said Tom Tench.

“I shall not!” said the professor. “I’ll be--I won’t!”

And they kept on doing nothing, in spite of the desperate appeals and entreaties, the wrath and despair, of Angelina and Bess.

“Then we will!” cried Angelina.

Followed by Bess, she ran around to the front of the house and up the steps of the veranda. She was just opening the door when she was seized by the arm and spun around.

“I’m here,” said her brother. “Don’t worry!”

To the surprise and indignation of Bess, the mere fact of her brother’s being there seemed to reassure Angelina entirely. She sat down on the rail of the veranda with a sigh of relief.

“Alan’s very practical!” she observed, with satisfaction.

But that did not suit Bess. She was not going to leave the fate of all their household goods in the hands of Mr. Smith. She opened the door and went in.

“Come back!” shouted Alan, but she closed the door behind her.

It was very much worse in there than she had expected. The hall was thick with smoke that stifled and blinded her. She groped her way toward the sitting room, with the desperate idea of saving at least an armful of her father’s precious books; but a few steps were enough. There was death for her there. Tears were streaming from her smarting eyes, and every breath was a fiery torment.

In a panic, she turned back. All she wanted now was to get out, to draw one breath of cold, clear air; but the room was a trap, overcrowded as it was with massive furniture. Stumbling and panic-stricken, she turned this way and that. She could not find the door. She could not get out. She tripped over something and fell.

Alan Smith lifted her up. She clung to him in that dreadful, choking darkness. She felt his strong arm about her, and heard his voice, cheerful and steady.

“All right! Don’t worry!”

“Father’s books!” she whispered.

And then the smoke came down and shut out all the world.

VI

The village fire apparatus had done its best, and departed, and the tenants of the two-family house were assembled in the Gayles’s sitting room, dejected, weary, and silent. Bess lay on the sofa, still weak and shaken. Angelina was looking over a mass of sodden papers which had once been a portfolio of drawings, and the professor was helping her. Tom Tench sat hunched in an armchair, staring gloomily before him.

The curtains were scorched rags. Through a hole chopped in the ceiling water was still dripping, and the room was devastated; but the worst damage had occurred upstairs. The flames from Tom Tench’s papers heaped upon the ash can had mounted upward, and had caught the curtains at a window that happened to be open. It was bad enough down here, but upstairs there was stark ruin.

“I wonder where Alan is,” said Angelina. “He drove down to the village--to buy something, I suppose; but it’s so late!”

“As a matter of fact,” Tom Tench told her curtly, “he went to find a doctor. He was hurt.”

“Hurt!” cried Angelina and Bess together. “Hurt!” they repeated.

“That’s what I said. He hurt himself. He came back in here--in this jungle--this old curiosity shop--”

“Mr. Tench!” said the professor.

“Oh, it’s your room,” said Tench. “If you like it this way--but Alan fell over one of these antique doodads and cut his head.”

“Boys!” cried Miss Smith, greatly distressed. “Boys!”

The professor glanced up. It was a long time since he had been classified as a boy, and it was pleasing.

“Miss Smith!” he said.

Bess sat up straight. Was it possible? The way her father and Miss Smith were looking at each other!

“I didn’t mean--” Angelina began, somewhat confused, and then: “But it’s true!” she said. “You really are--both of you--but there’s Alan!”

The front door opened, and just at that moment there came from upstairs the most pathetic, tired little voice. It was the cuckoo clock.

“Midnight!” cried Alan. “Look here! Merry Christmas, you people!”

The words might have been a charm, striking every one speechless. They could only look at him, as he stood in the doorway, a bandage around his head, his collar a wet and dirty rag, his face white with fatigue and pain, and a wide grin on it.

“Oh, Alan!” cried his sister. “My dear, dear boy! Your new set of plans--for that yacht--they’re burned up!”

It seemed to Bess that he winced a little, but it was almost imperceptible.

“Then we may starve yet,” he said; “but, anyhow, we’re all right for the present. Look at this!”

He held out a package that he was carrying. Bess took it from him, and opened it gingerly.

“But--” she said.

“It’s the best sort of plum pudding there is,” he said. “I only wish I could have got a bigger one. You’ll like it, all right!”

She stood looking at the round tin in her hands.

“But I’m afraid,” she said, “it--it must be a mistake. You see, it says--” She looked up at him, and her eyes filled with tears. It was too pathetic! His head bandaged, his plans destroyed, his home in ruins, and now this! “It says ‘corned beef’!” she faltered.

Then she could bear no more. Taking the corned beef, she ran into the kitchen, and began to cry there.

Alan came after her. He put his arm about her shoulders, but, this being the second time, she did not seem to notice it very much.

“I am s-so s-sorry!” she wailed.

“Please don’t be!” he entreated. “Two-family houses are a mistake, anyhow. I’ve been staying late at the office, trying my hand at designing a house, for a change. I wish you’d look at the plans!”

“I think I’ll make some coffee,” said Bess, hastily, moving away. Then her glance fell again upon the tin of corned beef.

She looked at him, and their eyes met, and she began to laugh.

“You little angel!” he cried. “I’ve never seen you do that before!”

“I’ve just learned,” said Bess, still laughing.

They had a good deal more to say. They took a very long time in getting a very simple supper; but nobody tried to hurry them. Nobody seemed at all impatient. Indeed, when Bess came in with a tray, they all smiled at her in a new sort of way, as if they, too, had been somehow touched by her gay young laughter.

Nothing could have been more festive than that supper of coffee and corned beef, eaten under a ceiling that still dripped, in a room with a broken windowpane stuffed with rags, and heaps of charred débris from upstairs piled in the corners. The wind howled outside, but nobody cared.

The professor rose to his feet.

“This,” he said, “is Christmas Day; and in some respects I may say that it is a--for me, personally--a merry one. I should like to take this occasion to say--Mr. Tom Tench, sir, your cousin, Miss Smith, has--er--shown me an example of--of--” He hesitated for a moment. “Mr. Tench, sir!” he said. “Your hand!”

Tom Tench sprang up and took the proffered hand in a vigorous clasp.

“Gayle!” he said. “Gayle! I--I think I’ll run down and take a look at that furnace!”

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

JULY, 1927 Vol. XCI NUMBER 2

The Old Ways

THE STORY OF A YOUNG MAN WHO FELT QUITE SURE THAT HE WAS A CONQUEROR, BUT WHO CAME TO HAVE SERIOUS DOUBTS ABOUT IT

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

It was bitter bread they had to eat, Mrs. Anders and her daughter.

“You deaf, hey?” bellowed Oscar Anders. “Don’t you hear that bell, hey? No! Ingeborg, you stay where you are! Marie, you go!”

The sight of them standing there, so downcast, filled him with anger.

“You two dumb ones!” he shouted. “Marie, you go!”

Mrs. Anders went. Ingeborg turned to the stove again, and lifted the lid of a saucepan; but she could not see through her tears. From the hall upstairs she could hear her mother’s voice, faltering out her broken English; then the front door slammed. Some one else had gone away, impatient and annoyed, unable to understand her.

Outside the snow was falling--the first snow Ingeborg had seen. It was not like the snow her mother had told her there was in Denmark. There were no sleigh bells here, no dark fir trees to catch and hold a glittering burden, no blazing fire within. This snow was sorrowful and faint, vanishing as it touched the pavement, and through it monstrous trucks thundered by, and people were passing, all hurried, all strangers, never a familiar face.

It was growing dark in the basement kitchen. The gas stove burned with a clear blue flame in its shadowy corner. Mrs. Anders, coming into the room, was almost invisible, but Oscar saw her.

“Well?” he demanded.

She answered him in Danish, and that made him so angry that he banged down the legs of his tilted chair.

“Speak American!” he shouted.

“He don’t vant a r-room,” said Mrs. Anders. “He vent avay.”

“Yes, and everybody’s going to ‘vent avay,’ if you don’t learn some sense! I give you your food, and a nice room, and a pair of shoes last week! A hat, even, for the girl! Everything you take, and bring nothing. The two of you--ach, Gott, so dumb!”

They said nothing, Mrs. Anders and her daughter. They had to endure this, and they did endure it.

“Oscar is a good man,” said Mrs. Anders to herself. “He gives us a home--that I won’t forget. It is a home for me and Ingeborg.”

Six months ago her husband had died. The poor man had been ill a long time, and he left very little. A very bad time that had been, even though the neighbors had been so kind. Then Oscar Anders, her husband’s brother, had sent her the fare to New York, and had written that she and Ingeborg could come to live with him, and maybe could help a little in the rooming house he had just bought.

“That was kind,” said Mrs. Anders to herself. “Oscar is a good man.”

So they had left St. Croix, where Ingeborg had been born, and where Mrs. Anders had lived for twenty years, and they had come to New York; and Mrs. Anders had tried to repay Oscar’s kindness. From six in the morning until perhaps nine at night she worked, keeping the big, old-fashioned house clean and neat, and cooking meals for Oscar. It was hard work, but she did not mind that. What she did mind was any contact with the alien world outside.

She had led a sheltered life in the West Indies, just with her husband and his people. She had never troubled to learn English, and now nobody understood her; and her timid air and poor clothes won very little patience for her. She was sick with dread when she had to enter a new shop to buy anything. She would return from one of these expeditions and shut the door of Oscar’s house behind her with a long sigh of relief.

Inside the house there were Oscar and the lodgers, all so cross! Well, let them be; she knew she did not deserve it. She was a respectable woman, and the mother of Ingeborg, and that was something to be proud of. Such a neat little woman, too--small and spare, with a long nose and a thin face with two spots of red on the high cheek bones; but only Ingeborg looked at her kindly now. Her man was gone, and she had nobody but Ingeborg, who was still a child to her mother.

“Oh, thou dear little one!” thought Mrs. Anders, looking at her daughter. “Thou little Ingeborg--so dear!”

Ingeborg was making the coffee. Oscar was a good man, but he ought not to call Ingeborg “dumb.” That was not right. Just think what the girl could do in the house--so clever and quick at cooking, fine ironing, sewing, anything you wanted done--

“The bell!” shouted Oscar. “Ach, Gott, she grows deaf now, the dumb old woman!”

“Ach, I don’t hear dot,” said Mrs. Anders hastily. “I go, Oscar!”

She hurried up the stairs, whispering to herself the English words she might need. She opened the front door, and there was another young man. So many of them came!

“Room?” he asked curtly.

“Nice room,” said Mrs. Anders. “Top floor. Seven dollars. I show you.”

“Seven?” said he. “Well, I’ll take a look.”

Mrs. Anders had already begun to mount the stairs, and he followed her. On the top floor she opened a door and showed him a bare little room, very clean.

“Seven dollars?” he repeated.

Mrs. Anders was terribly anxious to let the room, because Oscar said it was her fault that nobody had taken it yet. Perhaps seven dollars was too much for it. She knew nothing about such matters; only she did so want to let it.

“Ver-ry goot room!” she said, and looked about for advantages to praise. “Heatness!” she said, touching her worn shoe against the register, from which came a tepid current of air. “Vater!” And she turned on the tap in the wash basin.

Still the young man did not seem impressed.

“Well, see here,” he said. “What about--”

The rest of his question Mrs. Anders could not understand.

“Excoos?” she said, straining every nerve to catch his meaning. She saw that he was growing impatient. A formidable young man he was, big and blond, with eyes like blue ice, and a dogged jaw.

“Vait, plis!” she cried. “Yoost a minoot!”

“No!” he said, but Mrs. Anders was already hastening down the stairs.

He called after her, but she paid no attention. Down the last dark flight she stole, and looked into the kitchen, and behind Oscar’s back made a signal to her daughter. Ingeborg came out into the passage. They dared not even whisper, for fear of their tyrant; but Mrs. Anders pointed up the stairs, and Ingeborg followed her like a shadow.

The young man had not waited. He had come down into the hall, and was about to let himself out of the front door, when Ingeborg spoke.

“Is there something you want to ask about, please?”

He turned and looked at her. The hall was dim, with only a single gas jet high overhead, but he could see her well enough. She was small, and looked very slight in her plain, dark dress. Her dark hair was wound in braids about her head. Her face was pale and wide-browed, with clear, dark eyes that looked back at him steadily. A colorless, quiet little thing; what was there in her to catch at his heart?

“Yes,” he said curtly. “I wanted to know if I could get my breakfast here, and what you’d charge.”

Ingeborg explained the question to her mother in Danish, and then told the young man:

“I’ll find out, if you’ll please wait a moment.”

His blue eyes followed her as she moved away. Then he turned his head and looked out through the glass of the door. Mrs. Anders watched him, terribly anxious.

“Such a fine young man!” she thought. “So tall, and such a beautiful, rich overcoat! I only hope he’ll take that room!”

Now there came a great bellowing from downstairs. She could understand those words. Oscar was angry, and shouting at little Ingeborg.

“Excoos!” she cried. “Yoost a minoot!”

“No!” he said with a frown. “Never mind, anyhow--I’ll take the room, without breakfast. I’ll be back later.”

He opened the door and let himself out. Mrs. Anders stood in the hall, with tears in her eyes. She had not understood what he said. She thought he had gone away, as so many others went away, angry because she was so dumb.

As a matter of fact, if the young man was angry with any one, it was with himself, for his own folly. He ran down the steps and set off along the street as if he were in a hurry to get away from that house.

He had to wait at a crossing for the traffic to pass. On the opposite corner he could see the snow swirling about the street lamp in a little tumult; and it reminded him of something he had loved when he was a child. His mother had had a glass ball with a paper landscape in it, and when the ball was shaken a fierce snowstorm would fill the tiny world inside it. He remembered it so well, and somehow the thought of it made him recall other memories of his boyhood days, faint and sad and beautiful--the jingle of sleigh bells, a glimpse of the lighted window of a little house among the snow-covered hills, the long hoot of a train speeding swiftly through the dark.

He did not want to think of the past. He walked faster, but those thoughts went along with him, and in them, all the time, was the face of little Ingeborg. He had never seen her before, yet she seemed familiar to him, like a figure from his own past, or from a dream.

That pale face of hers, with its steadfast eyes--it was like a picture in his old fairy tales of a snow queen, dressed in fur, driving off in a sleigh shaped like a swan, and looking back sorrowfully over her shoulder. It was like a face he had seen long, long ago, at some window. It was the face of the beloved maiden who is always waiting, in every tale, in every dream--waiting her deliverance.

Not for him! He would not have it so. He had chosen another road, and nothing should stop him. What did he care for that girl--a little, shadowy, humble thing like that?

He thought of Mabel, with her pearls about her throat, and her red lips, and he laughed aloud. Who, seeing Mabel, would look again at that other? Not he!

He went back to his old room and packed his bag; then he walked over to a little Italian restaurant for his dinner. He had minestrone and ravioli--queer food for that blond son of vikings; but he was used to things like that. He had eaten stranger food in more unlikely places--in Naples, in Calcutta, in Marseilles. He had seen the world--the beauty of it and the worst of it.

He took his time over his dinner, and it was nearly nine o’clock when he ran up the steps of Oscar Anders’s house and rang the bell. Nobody came to open the door. The young man set down his heavy bag, and frowned impatiently. He was cold and wet, he was tired, and for some reason he did not feel happy. He rang again.

Then she came. She opened the door, and he entered and threw down his bag. He did not want to look at her, but he could not help seeing her. She was wearing a white blouse with a funny little plaid bow at the collar, and a long, dark skirt. She was altogether foreign in those clothes, with her dark braids about her head, and her subdued air--foreign, and yet in some way familiar to him, and dear.

“Well!” he said, with his masterful smile. “Here I am!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she replied.

“What about?”

“My mother didn’t understand you. She thought you weren’t coming back.”

“I told her I was.”

“But she doesn’t understand English very well. She thought--I’m so sorry--but just a little while ago we let the room.”

“What?” said he. He was angry now. “I should have paid, eh? Somebody came along with money--”

“No,” she said. “It was a mistake.”

“Ingeborg!” shouted a great voice.

The girl started a little, but she did not turn.

“I’m very sorry,” she said.

As she spoke, she looked straight at the young man, and she let him see that she really was sorry--as if she were his friend, and really anxious about him. Though she was so young and slight, there was a fine dignity about her.

“All right--I don’t care,” he said. “I can find another room.”

“There’s a telephone here,” she suggested. “You could--”

“No!” he interrupted roughly.

“Ingeborg!” shouted the voice again. From the basement stairs there appeared a great, fierce old head with grizzled brows and mustache. “You!” cried Oscar. “What you doing here, hey? Who’s this?”

“He came to see about a room,” said Ingeborg.

“Well, we have no room for him.”

“All right! Your daughter just told me--”

“Daughter? She’s no daughter of mine. You, Ingeborg, get downstairs! When there comes a man, you shall call your mother. You hear me? Get downstairs!”

The girl turned away, toward the stairs; and at sight of her mute submission a great anger rose in the young man. Not even a glance over her shoulder for him, not a smile at that old bully! She was just one of those foreign girls, with no pride.

II

He went out of the house, banging the door behind him. No pride--what was a woman without pride? If she set no value on herself, how was a man to hold her dear?

He thought of Mabel, of all the American girls he had known. There was not one among them who would have bent her head humbly to that old fellow--not one; only this Ingeborg, this little alien with the dark braids about her head.

Halfway down the street he remembered his bag. He turned and strode back, ran up the steps, and rang the bell violently. Perhaps she would come again. What did he care?

But it was Oscar who opened the door.

“My bag!” said the young man.

“Well, there it is,” said Oscar. “In this house we are not thieves.”

The young man took up the bag, and for a moment the two of them looked at each other.

“So was I a fine fellow when I was young,” thought Oscar. Aloud he said, with a sort of mildness: “Too bad that that dumb one didn’t keep you your room! If you had come to me, it would have been different.”

“A nice thing for me!” said the young man. “A night like this--and I gave up my old room. A fellow I know told me to come here--name of Nielsen.”

“Nielsen?” repeated Oscar, staring thoughtfully at him. “Well, maybe I find something. One room I have, but that’s not for a young fellow like you--a fine room, with a piano in it. Maybe I let you have that room for one night at the price of the other, because that dumb one--”

“Oh, I’ll pay you for your fine room with a piano!” interrupted the young man. “You can charge what you like--I don’t care!”

Oscar Anders accepted the challenge.

“Pay nothing at all--I don’t care!” he said.

He threw open the door of the fine room, the front parlor, and lit the gas.

“Make yourself at home,” he said carelessly; for he would not let the fellow see how much he thought of this parlor.

The young man brought out a wallet, and again he and Oscar looked at each other; and there was the same pride in both of them.

“What’s your name, hey?” asked Oscar.

“My name? Jespersen’s my name.”

Oscar began to laugh.

“Jespersen you call it?” he said. “Yespersen, I guess! That’s a name from the old country.”

“Well, I’m not from the old country. I was born here.”

Oscar spoke to him in Danish.

“Forget it!” said Jespersen curtly.

“That’s right!” agreed Oscar. “I’m an American, too.”

“Oh, you’re a squarehead!” said Jespersen.

They both laughed at that. They sat down on two slender chairs covered with faded tapestry, and began to smoke in the dim and chilly parlor.

“Gunnar Jespersen--that’s my name,” said the young man. “My father was a Dane and my mother was Swedish, but I was born here.”

“Twenty-five years I am here,” said Oscar slowly. “It is a good country, but some of the old ways are good, too.” He smoked for awhile in silence. “You been a sailor,” he remarked, looking at the other’s hand, with an anchor tattooed on its back.

Gunnar did not answer that.

“Better for me if I were a sailor now!” he thought.

For there would come across him, without warning in these days, terrible fits of bitterness and gloom. At the bottom of his soul there was a stern austerity, born in him and bred in him. He could laugh as much as he liked, he could swagger in his triumph, but in his soul he was sick and ashamed.

What was it that he had done?

Six months ago he had been at Long Beach, strolling along the sands, in his best shore clothes. He had been all alone, but he didn’t mind that. There was plenty to look at. Now and then some girl would smile at him, and he would smile back scornfully and go on his way.

And then he had met Mabel. At first he could not believe that it was he that she was looking at like that, out of the corners of her long black eyes. Heaven knows Gunnar was proud enough, but he could hardly believe that. The way she was dressed! The air she had!

She was with another girl, and it was the other girl who had dropped her purse almost at Gunnar’s feet. He had picked it up, and had spoken to them arrogantly; but the more curt and scornful he was, the more did Mabel smile on him, she with her pearls and her gloves and her drawling voice. Ignoring her friend, she had walked close beside Gunnar.

“It’s a shame,” she had said, “for you to be just a sailor!”

That made him angry. He was studying navigation, he was going to take an examination and get his mate’s ticket, and some day he would be master of a ship.

“My father’s the superintendent of a factory,” she said. “I know he’ll give you a job.”

“I don’t want any more jobs,” declared Gunnar.

But, all the same, he went to her father the next day, and he did get a job, and after two months he was made foreman. Now he had a little car of his own, and two suits of clothes, and a fine watch. He was making good money, and he wanted more. He had never thought much about money until he met Mabel.

Sometimes she came to the factory to drive her father home, and always she stopped to talk to Gunnar. She didn’t care how much the men stared.

“Gunnar,” she said one day, “I want you to come to the house to dinner.”

“Not me!” said Gunnar.

But he went, and he could not forget it. In the factory, grimy, in his rough work clothes, he would remember how he had sat at table in their fine house that night, with the girl opposite him, in a glittering low-cut dress, and her mother and father making much of him. They wanted him for their girl--he knew that. They would help him along in the world, for her sake, and to his ruin--he knew that, too.

For she waked everything that was worst in him. Sometimes in his heart he called her a devil, yet he could not escape from her. Waking and sleeping, his one dream was to conquer her, to make more money, to have a house such as she lived in, to have a place in her world, and to be his own master in it.

III

“Well, Gunnar Jespersen,” said Oscar, getting up, “your breakfast you can have downstairs at seven o’clock.”

“Good night!” returned Gunnar briefly.

But he did not have a good night in that fine room with a piano in it.

He got up early the next morning--too early. With the shades pulled down and the gas lighted, the parlor had a jaded look, as if it were tired and sullen, like himself. He dressed and went out into the hall, and downstairs to the basement.

At the kitchen door he stopped and looked in, and there he saw Ingeborg cooking the breakfast. She was as neat as a pin in her dark dress and white apron, and with her smooth coronet of braids. She was pale, and her eyes were red from weeping. A sad, quiet little thing she was, but so dear to him, all in a moment! How good she was, he thought, like a dear little angel! If only he could turn to her as his refuge!

He saw everything so clearly now. Here was his good angel, to save his soul from ruin. He had terrible need of her, of her goodness and gentleness and patience.

He went into the room. She turned at his footstep, and he came close to her and stood before her, looking down into her face. Her eyes, shining with clear truth, were lifted to his, but she did not smile. It was as if she knew how desperate was his case.

“Ingeborg!” he said, very low. “Dear little thing!”

She turned away her head, and a faint color rose in her cheeks.

“Such nice herrings for your breakfast!” she said.

It was part of her blessedness that she could think of things like that--safe and homely things. She was the innocent little handmaiden, destined to make a home for his stormy spirit. He caught both her hands.

“Look at me!” he commanded.

But she shook her head, confused and smiling.

“Ingeborg!” he began, but just then there came a stamping and a great voice calling out:

“Hey! You Ingeborg! I’m ready!”

She ran to the stove and looked into the coffeepot. Then she began to put the breakfast on the table, and Oscar and Gunnar sat down together.

“I’ll keep the room,” said Gunnar.

“That room’s for a married couple,” objected Oscar, “not for a young fellow like you.”

“I can pay for it,” said Gunnar.

“I guess you want to play on that piano!” cried Oscar, with a shout of laughter, and Gunnar laughed, too, because he was happy.

The sun was up when he left for his work. It was a sharp March morning, with a wind that blew the sky clear and clean.

“The spring is coming,” thought Gunnar. “On Sunday, if it’s a nice day, maybe I’ll get out my car and take Ingeborg for a ride.”

He thought about that with a masterful joy. She was a little angel, but she was human enough to falter beneath his bold gaze. He was a conqueror again.

It was late in the afternoon when Mabel came in. She came like a queen, for wasn’t she the daughter of the superintendent? She beckoned to Gunnar with her gloved hand, and he left his work and came to her; but not like a subject to a queen. He stood before her with his blue shirt open at the neck, his fair hair damp with sweat, his hands blackened, but he was as cool and easy as she.

They stood apart in the great room that trembled and throbbed with the beat of machinery, and the men looked at them sidelong; but she was not abashed. She could do as she pleased.

“Gunnar,” she said, “I’ll wait for you by the bridge and drive you part of the way home.”

“You’ll have a nice long wait, then,” said Gunnar. “I won’t be finished here for another hour.”

“Perhaps they can manage to get on without you, if you leave a little early,” she suggested with a slow smile.

“Maybe they could,” said Gunnar; “but I’m not coming.”

It was just this insolence that she liked in Gunnar. It was a challenge to her.

“I want to talk to you, Gunnar,” she told him.

“There’s a rush order to get out,” replied Gunnar, “and I can’t leave early.”

At any cost she had to humble him--at any cost!

“Gunnar,” she said, “after all, if it wasn’t for me--”

“Some day I’ll pay you what I owe you,” he interrupted.

They looked steadily at each other.

“You’re a fool!” she said. “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be here at all.”

Gunnar laughed.

“Do you think I’d starve if I wasn’t here?” he said.

She wished it were like that. She wished she had the power of life and death over him. She would conquer him!

She was silent for a moment, thinking how she could do it. He watched her; and, for all his scorn, his heart beat fast at the sight of her vivid beauty. She was a tall girl, thin, with a dark, narrow face, rouged and powdered, her cruel mouth reddened. She was dressed in a fur coat and high-heeled shoes, with her pearls about her neck. She was for him the very symbol of the new world of money that he so fiercely desired.

“Gunnar!” she said.

“Well?” returned Gunnar.

She was not looking at him now.

“Sunday evening I’m going to be all alone.”

A sort of fear seized them both, for they saw a crisis coming near. Either she must win or he must win.

“What about it?” asked Gunnar.

“You can telephone me on Sunday afternoon,” she said, “if you want to come.”

“Well, I don’t,” declared Gunnar.

She smiled, but it was a queer smile, and she said nothing. Perhaps she herself did not know what she meant.

Gunnar spun around on his heel and went back to his work.

“Let her wait!” he thought, and laughed aloud. “Here, you, Kelly! Get on the job there!”

He slept well that night, and the next morning, when he came down into the kitchen, he was swaggering a little. Mrs. Anders was there, and he had no chance to talk to Ingeborg; but he looked straight into the girl’s face, and she smiled at him.

“I’ll marry her!” he thought. “Yes, that’s what I’ll do!”

“What you laughing about?” asked Mrs. Anders.

“Oh, nothing!” said Gunnar.

As a matter of fact, he was laughing at the idea of his getting married. Gunnar Jespersen a married man! It was funny, but it made him very happy.

“Such a fine young man!” thought Mrs. Anders. “The best room in the house he takes. He must be rich; and so handsome and strong, and his people from the old country! If there should be a man like that for the little Ingeborg--”

IV

The next morning was Sunday. Gunnar took his bath, put on his Sunday clothes, and came down into the kitchen, smiling with a secret happiness. It was a mild, bright day; he was going to get his car and take Ingeborg for a drive.

All morning he was busy in the garage where his sedan had been stored for the winter. Then he took off his overalls, scrubbed his hands, got some lunch in a dairy, and drove to the house. He let himself in with his latchkey, and went downstairs to the basement. In the kitchen Oscar was sitting alone, reading the newspaper. Not caring to disturb him, Gunnar went quietly away, looking for Ingeborg. He heard Mrs. Anders down in the cellar, shaking up the furnace.

Going upstairs again, in the front hall he stopped to listen, and he heard quick little footsteps overhead. He ran up the stairs to the next floor, and there he found Ingeborg, carrying a pile of clean towels.

“I’ve brought my car,” he announced. “I’m going to take you out.”

“Oh!” said Ingeborg.

“Come on!” said Gunnar. “Get your hat and coat. There’s a heater in my car.”

“I’ve got to ask Uncle Oscar--”

“No, you haven’t,” interrupted Gunnar. “None of his business! You’re working all the time. You can go out on Sunday afternoon if you like.”

“I can’t go without asking.”

He was not angry now at her old-fashioned, foreign ways. Indeed, they pleased him.

“Well, I’ll ask your uncle,” he said.

He went down into the basement, but before he got to the kitchen he passed the open door of Ingeborg’s dark little room, and in there he saw her hat and coat lying on the bed.

“He might say no, that old squarehead,” thought Gunnar; so he took the hat and coat, and ran upstairs again. “It’s all right,” he assured the girl.

If there was a row when they got home, he didn’t care. By that time he would have told Ingeborg that they were going to be married, and Oscar could say what he liked.

Ingeborg did not doubt his assurance. She put on her hat and coat, there in the hall.

“I don’t look so very nice,” she said.

“You’ll do,” replied Gunnar.

He could have caught her in his arms that moment, she was so dear and so funny in that hat and coat!

“When we get married,” he thought, “I’ll buy new clothes for her--stylish clothes. She’s pretty--prettier than any one else.”

He was in a hurry to get her out of the house, before any one could stop them.

“Hurry up!” he said.

She got into the car beside him, and they set off.

“Oh, how fast you go!” she said.

“Haven’t you ever been in a car before?” asked Gunnar.

“Oh, yes--Uncle Oscar brought us from the ship in a taxicab.”

“This is my own car,” said Gunnar. “In the summer I use it every day.”

He knew where he wanted to go--out of the city, and across the bridge to Long Island. It was not a pleasant neighborhood, but the rush of wind against her face, and Gunnar beside her, made her heart sing. He turned down a street gloomy and empty, lined with shuttered warehouses, and at the end of it he stopped the car.

“Here!” he said. “This is where I work.”

“Oh, what a big place!” said Ingeborg.

“I’m a foreman,” said Gunnar.

Then, even as he spoke, he saw what was going to happen. If he married Ingeborg, he wouldn’t be a foreman much longer. Mabel would see to that. He would lose his job. He would have to give up his car, give up the fine room, the good money. He could find another job in another factory, but not as foreman. That wasn’t so easy. He would have to go to work under another man.

For a time he sat staring before him, his blue eyes grown hard. He had not thought of this before. To give up so much, and of his own free will! He was terribly downcast.

Then Ingeborg stirred beside him, and he turned to her with a queer look. His eyes were narrowed; he stared and stared at her. She glanced at him, and then, with an uncertain little smile, bent her head. There she sat, with her small hands folded--patient, a little confused; and she was so dear to him--dearer than anything else in the world! He was glad to give up all these things for her. He would give his life for her, his beloved maiden, his little angel!

He looked up and down the empty street. There was no one in sight. He caught her in his arms, held her tight, and kissed her pale cheek.

“Don’t!” she cried.

He paid no attention to that. He laughed, because he was so proud and so happy; and, putting his hand under her chin, he turned her head and kissed her mouth.

“You’re my girl!” he said.

“Gunnar Jespersen!” she said. “How dare you treat me like this?”

Her eyes were looking into his, and he was astounded by the stern anger in them. She was not gentle now, not patient. Such a hot color there was in her cheeks, such a light in her eyes!

“Dare?” said Gunnar. “Do you think I’m afraid of you?”

But he let her go; for he was afraid, and ashamed, and terribly hurt.

“Gunnar Jespersen!” she said. “Take me home!”

“You came out with me quick enough,” argued Gunnar.

“Take me home!” repeated Ingeborg.

“You can’t talk to me like that,” said Gunnar. “I’ll go when I’m ready.”

But, just the same, he had to obey her. He turned the car and started back. He was sick to the soul with shame and disappointment. He had offered her everything, and she returned him only scorn and anger. Never before in his life had any woman been able to hurt him so. Whether it was anger or pure sorrow that he felt, he did not know; but it seemed to him that he could not endure it.

He wanted to say something that would hurt her; but when he looked at her, he could not. She had grown pale again, and sat very straight, looking before her, so stern and cold, and still dear to him. He could not endure it.

He stopped the car before a drug store.

“Going to telephone,” he said.

When he came out again, he felt that he had paid her back.

“You’re not the only one. If you don’t want me, all right! There’s somebody else that wants me--somebody who’s rich, with a fine house, and pearls. What do I care for you?”

In his heart he said this to Ingeborg, but not aloud. He dared not. For all his great anger against her, there was something in her, some strange dignity and power, that checked him.

He took her to the corner of his street.

“All right!” he said. “Now I’m going somewhere else.”

He did not want to look at her again, but, as she walked off, he had to look. There she went, so slender and little, so unattainable!

“What have I done, anyhow?” he asked himself, with a sort of amazement.

He did not know, and yet a terrible sense of guilt oppressed him; and because he would not be humbled, not by any human creature, not by his own soul, he would go to Mabel. He was reckless now.

Unfortunately, Mabel would not be expecting him for several hours. He drove about at random. At first he made up his mind that he would never go back to the house where Ingeborg was. Never mind about the clothes he had there! Let them go--what did he care?

As the dusk came, and his bitterness still grew, he changed his mind and turned back there. He was going to tell Ingeborg, going to tell all of them. He wanted to do some reckless, arrogant thing, to show them what a fellow he was.

The most extraordinary ideas came into his head. He thought that perhaps he would go down into the basement and tell Oscar that he wanted to buy that piano. He must do something to show them, and something to give rest to his inexplicable pain.

He strode up the steps, unlocked the door, and opened it with a violence that sent it crashing back against the wall. What did he care if he broke it? He could pay for it.

As he entered, a shadowy little form came up the stairs.

“Ach, Gott, what have you done?” whispered Mrs. Anders.

He closed the door and stood leaning against it.

“What d’you mean?” he asked.

She spoke to him rapidly in Danish, but he had long ago forgotten the language of his fathers.

“Speak English!” he said. “I don’t understand that stuff.”

“Ach, what a spectacle!” said Mrs. Anders. “Her Uncle Oscar, he finds she is vent out, and she will not say who vas it. Ach, so mad is he!” She wiped her eyes on her apron. “It is a badness dat you do so, Gunnar Jespersen!”

He wanted to laugh, but he could not. Something of the same fear he had felt for Ingeborg he felt now for Mrs. Anders--the mystic reverence for a good woman that was in his soul.

“Well, I’ll tell the old squarehead,” he said. “What’s the harm if she does go out with a fellow?”

“Hush!” said Mrs. Anders sternly. “It is a badness when you speak so of the Uncle Oscar. He is a goot man. He gifs us a home.”

Gunnar had to understand that, for in his own heart there was an echo of that simple fidelity. Let him try to laugh if he would, the old austerities were deathless in him. He stood before a good woman, and he was abashed.

He thought no more of going boastfully and arrogantly to Oscar Anders. Anders was the master of this house, as Gunnar’s father had been master of his. He was not to be affronted.

“Where’s Ingeborg?” asked Gunnar, speaking very low.

“You shall not tr-rouble my Ingeborg!” said Mrs. Anders.

“I can speak to her, can’t I?” he inquired sullenly.

Mrs. Anders looked at him in silence for a time.

“She sits up on the stairs,” she said. “Her Uncle Oscar is too mad, so he yells that she cannot come downstairs for it.”

Gunnar set his foot on the lowest stair. He did not want to go to Ingeborg. What had he to say to her? But he had to go. He went unwillingly, slowly.

“Well, what have I done, anyhow?” he asked himself.

V

Up at the top of the house he found Ingeborg sitting on the stairs, in the twilight. She was leaning her head against the wall, and her hands were folded in her lap. He stood looking down at her for a long while, but she paid no heed to him.

“Well!” he said, with a rough affectation of carelessness. “What you doing here?”

“Nothing,” she answered coldly.

Pain came over him like a wave, because of that coldness.

“Ingeborg,” he said, “what makes you so mad at me?”

“Go away, please! I don’t want to talk to you.”

He could see her only dimly, and he dared not go a step nearer to her, or even stretch out his hand.

“Ingeborg,” he said, “if I told you I was sorry--”

Such an effort it was to say that!

“It wouldn’t make any difference,” said she.

“What?” cried Gunnar. “If I’m sorry?”

“No!” said Ingeborg.

It was like a blow to him. He could not speak for a time. He had humbled himself again, and still she was cold and stern--and still so dear to him!

“She’s right!” he cried, in his heart. “If she knew--”

Suppose she did know? He was ready to believe that her clear and innocent glance had a terrible penetration. He could not understand her. Perhaps, in some way of her own, she did know all the wrong things he had done.

“Ingeborg!” he cried. “I--I’m sorry I did that! I--”

Despair and pain choked him. In his blind need for her kindness, he came close to her, sat down on the step below her, and buried his head in his hands.

“If you would marry me, Ingeborg,” he said, “then I’d be different!”

“Marry you?” she said. “Do you think I am like that? Do you think I would marry the first man who comes along? Why, I don’t even know you, Gunnar Jespersen!”

“Ingeborg!” he said.

And that was all he could say. He could not tell her what he meant--that for her sake he would give up all his pride, that for her sake he was sick and ashamed. All he could do was to speak her name.

She made no answer. He waited and waited for even one word, but in vain.

“Are you--mad at me, Ingeborg?” he asked unsteadily.

“No,” replied Ingeborg quietly.

He sat up abruptly.

“I think I’ll--lose my job,” he said. “Maybe I’ll have to go away.” He thought that somehow she would understand all that he meant by that, all that he renounced. “If I have to go away somewhere, to get a job,” he went on, “promise not to marry some other fellow!”

“I don’t want to marry any one, Gunnar Jespersen.”

“Just promise to wait!”

“No!” she said; but her voice was not cold now.

“Ingeborg!” he cried. “Do you like me?”

“I don’t know you, Gunnar Jespersen,” said Ingeborg with dignity.

He rose, chilled and hopeless.

“Well,” he said, “I’m going.”

Her clear little voice came to him through the dark:

“Maybe I will like you when I know you, Gunnar Jespersen!”

He spun around. She had risen, and was standing close to him. He put out his hand, but she drew back, and his arm fell to his side. He must not touch her. He must wait. She had given him hope, and that was all.

And it was enough. He had found at last the beloved maiden who must be won. It would be hard, but it was good; it was what he wanted. It was a challenge worthy of him.

“All right!” he said. “You’ll see!”

He ran down the stairs again, and his heart was light now. He was so proud of the little Ingeborg who made him wait!

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

AUGUST, 1927 Vol. XCI NUMBER 3

By the Light of Day

THE STORY OF A MAN WHO WANTED LIFE TO BRING HIM SOMETHING MUCH FINER AND BETTER THAN THE COMMONPLACE THINGS IT BRINGS TO OTHER MEN

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

Kirby lay stretched out on the sand, watching the driftwood fire he had built. The flame mounted steadily, this quiet night, sending out over the dark water a trembling path of ruddy light. Now and then a little rain of sparks fell, to die at once in the thick sand; and overhead a young moon swam, clear silver, in a sky without clouds.

He might have been alone on a desert island. Before him lay the calm summer sea, and all about him stretched the flat and empty beach. He liked this blank solitude--indeed, he needed it.

The tiny thread of smoke from his cigarette rose beside the column of smoke from the fire, like a sturdily independent spirit. His thoughts, too, were aloof, detached from the insistent current of other people’s thoughts.

He had received a substantial rise in salary that morning.

“Now you ought to think about getting married,” his sister had said, not for the first time.

He was thinking about it, but in a way that would have dismayed her. She was always introducing him to “nice girls,” and growing a little annoyed with him because of his indifference.

“I don’t see what fault you can find with her!” she would say, as if one of the “nice girls” was as good as another; and, in her heart, that was what she did think. She wanted only to see Kirby married and in a home of his own.

He kept his own counsel, for it was no use trying to tell his sister. Let her go on trying to snare him, to capture him, to bind him tight to the life that he so utterly rejected! He had seen it happen to other fellows he knew. He had watched them fall in love, get married, and set up homes of their own, and had seen them grow harassed, preoccupied, sometimes bitter. There was his brother-in-law, for instance, complaining about the bills, talking of giving up his club, guilty and apologetic if he came in late. It was supposed to be comic, all this sort of thing, but Kirby did not see it so.

“If there’s nothing better than that--” he thought.

When he was younger he had been sure that there was something better. In books, in operas, in plays, he had caught the echo of a sublime thing, and he had believed that it was every man’s birthright--a love passionate and honest and beyond measure generous. He had meant to wait for it; but, as he grew older, his faith died.

He did not see any such thing in actual life. He saw, instead, love that began beautifully and honestly, but ended in a suburban home and a thousand ignoble worries; and he would have none of that. If there was nothing better, then he would do without. He was doing well in business, and he would keep on doing better and better, and that would have to be enough.

He threw away his cigarette, clasped his hands under his head, and lay looking at the stars. Here on this beach, as a boy, he had played intensely serious games of Indians and pirates, always with a fire like this. Even now he could recapture something of the old thrill of wonder and expectancy, the feeling he had had that marvelous things were surely going to happen.

Well, they never had. Here he was, twenty-six, and assistant manager of the accounting department of a machine belting company; a quiet, competent young fellow with an air of businesslike reserve that disguised the moods of his exacting and sensitive spirit. He went to the office every day, he worked, he came home, he met those “nice girls.” He talked to them and danced with them, and sometimes made love to them a little, out of politeness; and that was all there was.

And it wasn’t enough. Out here, in the summer night, his restlessness grew intolerable. He wanted so much more--something stirring and lovely, something that would give to his work and his life a fine significance. So much more!

“I’d better go back now,” he thought, and tried to pretend that this was a concession to his sister. But it was not; it was because he had grown too lonely. He got up, and was about to kick out the fire, to scatter it and stamp it out, when, far down the beach, he saw a little white figure coming toward him.

He stood still, curiously intent. He had grown to think that this was his own private territory, for hardly any one else came here, especially after dark; yet here was this little thing coming on resolutely.

It was a girl in a white dress--he could see that now. Her step made no sound upon the sand. There was no breeze to flutter her skirts. She was like a wraith, silent and dim.

Then, to his surprise, she turned directly toward him. There was a rise in the beach here, up from the edge of the sea, and she mounted it briskly.

“Excuse me,” she said, in a serious little voice. “I just wanted to see the time.”

Stretching out her arm toward the fire, she looked at her wrist watch.

“You’ll have to come nearer,” Kirby told her. “I’m sorry, but mine’s stopped.”

But she stood where she was.

“I saw your fire,” she said. “I’ve been watching it as I came along. I do love fires on a beach!”

“Yes?” returned Kirby vaguely.

Her confident and friendly manner disconcerted him. He had never encountered a girl like this. There was something unreal about her, walking out of the dark, up to his fire, and beginning at once to talk to him, as if she knew and trusted him.

“Won’t you sit down for a little while?” he asked, a little doubtfully.

“Thank you,” she answered promptly, and, coming nearer, sat down on the sand, facing the sea.

“She ought to know better,” thought Kirby. “She can’t know what sort of fellow I might be.”

He stood behind her, looking down at her. The firelight behind her threw her slight figure, sitting with her hands clasped about her knees, into sharp relief, but her face he could not see at all.

“Do you know,” she said earnestly, “that pirates used to come here?”

“Pirates?” he echoed.

“Yes!” she said. “I read about it in a book from the library; and last summer I think I found a pirate’s earring. Auntie said it was a curtain ring, but perhaps it wasn’t.”

An odd thrill ran through Kirby. Pirates! Easy to imagine them, on just such a night as this, landing in the cove below the rocks--swarthy, evil men, creeping up inch by inch, with knives between their teeth. They would leap upon him suddenly; there would be a desperate fight in the glare of the fire. Then the pirate chief would carry away the girl, and Kirby, the hero, would somehow escape from his bonds and swim after them, and save her.

She would know exactly how to behave in such circumstances, he felt sure. He felt sure, too, that if he were to suggest that they should “make believe” there were pirates here, she would immediately and seriously agree. She was like a little girl, like some playmate from his lost youth. In some queer way of her own she evoked for him the glamour of childhood--she and her pirate’s earring!

He sat down beside her, and they began to talk. It no longer seemed to him a foolish and imprudent thing that she should have come to him like this. She had the unthinking independence that children have. She would go where she chose, and, if she was startled or distrustful, she would run away.

It made him happy that she should be here, this friendly little thing with her pretty voice.

“The fire’s getting low!” she cried.

Springing up, she gathered an armful of wood to put on it. So did he, and they stood side by side, throwing in the sticks with nice care. The flames leaped up, and he saw her face--a small, pointed face framed in dark hair, which floated in silky threads, and lit up by big, shining dark eyes. It was like a face in a dream, so lovely that it almost took his breath away.

She sat down again, her head a little turned away from the blaze, and he could no longer see her face; but he remembered it. It was there before him in the dark, in all its vivid loveliness. He could not think of her as a playmate now. The magic evocation of childhood was gone; he was a man, and she was a young and beautiful woman. His content, his happiness, had vanished. He was troubled, almost dismayed.

“I’ve never seen any one like her!” he thought. “I didn’t know there was any one like her; and for her to come to me like this!”

After all, wasn’t it what he had been waiting for, just this glimpse of a lovely face, this clear and steady little voice in the dark, this utterly unexpected encounter in the firelight on the lonely beach?

She was still talking to him, with a sort of eagerness, but he scarcely listened now. It seemed to him that her voice had changed. Indeed, he could not hear or see her now. The fire was dying down, and she was no more than a little silhouette against the starlit sky; but in her place there was another--some one very beautiful and almost august, like the young Diana come to earth. The innocence and candor of her were sublime; she was fearless, of course, just as she was beautiful.

Kirby did not realize how long he had been silent, when she stopped speaking. Her voice still echoed in his ears, blended with the whisper of the sea. He sat beside her, lost in a reverie.

“This is how it ought to be,” he thought. “This is just right--to have her come to me like this, and for her to be like this!”

He was roused by her getting up.

“I’ll have to be going,” she said.

“No!” said Kirby, rising, too. “Please don’t!”

“But it’s late.”

She turned toward him, and he had another glimpse of her face and her shining, solemn dark eyes.

“Please don’t!” he repeated.

“But, you see, I’ve got to,” she explained. “I promised I’d be home by nine o’clock.”

“I’ll walk home with you.”

“But--” she began. “I--I’d like you to, only--I think you’d better not, please.” Then, as he was silent, she added, in distress: “I’m sorry--really I am,” and held out her hand.

He took it. He might have known, by the clasp of that warm and sturdy little hand, that this was no goddess Diana whose feet were on the hilltops; but he would not know it. His heart beat fast, and his fingers tightened on hers.

“You’ll let me see you again?” he said.

“Oh, yes!” she replied. “Yes, of course! Some other evening--but I’ve got to go now. Good night!”

She tried to draw her hand away, but he held it fast.

“Look here!” he said. “You can’t go like this! I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Emmy--Emmy Richards,” she told him.

“Mine’s Alan Kirby. You’ll let me come to see you?”

“Well, you see,” she said, “I can’t very well. I’m just visiting here.”

“Then meet me somewhere.”

She stood before him with her head bent. The fire was almost out, and it seemed to him that the world had grown dark and very still and a little desolate. It was as if something had gone--some warm and living presence. In his heart he was vaguely aware of what had happened. It was the dear, jolly little playmate who had gone, taking with her the innocent glamour of this hour, driven away by the note of ardor in his voice.

He was sorry and uneasy, but he would not stop.

“Won’t you give me a chance?” he asked. “Let me see you again!”

“I will,” she promised. “I’ll come here again--some other evening--like this!”

He understood very well what she meant. She wanted to recapture the vanished charm, to come again in the same happy and careless way, to talk by the fire again; but he would not have it so.

“Look here!” he said. “Will you let me take you out to dinner to-morrow?”

She did not answer, but stood there with her head averted; and a fear seized him that was like anger.

“I don’t want to bother you,” he said curtly. “If you don’t want to see me again--”

“Well, I--I do!” she cried unsteadily. “Only--”

He would go on.

“Then come to dinner with me to-morrow!”

“Oh, let’s not!” she cried. “I never go out to dinner--with people.”

He smiled to himself at that, yet it hurt him. Poor little playmate, so reluctant to leave her world of make-believe!

“Just with me?” he urged, coming close to her.

“Well, all right!” she said suddenly, with a sort of desperation. “All right, then--I will!”

“Where shall I meet you?”

“I don’t know.”

“The Pennsylvania Station--Long Island waiting room--at six?”

She drew her hand away.

“All right!” she said again. “Good night!”

“Good night!” he answered.

II

He stood beside what was left of his fire and watched her walking away, a swift, light little figure against so vast a horizon; and he felt very unhappy.

“What’s the matter with me, anyhow?” he asked himself angrily. “It’s no crime to ask a girl out to dinner, is it?”

He stamped out the last sparks and set off for his sister’s house. He was surprised, when he drew near, to hear the phonograph still playing. It seemed to him that he had been gone so long, so far!

He crossed the lawn, went up on the veranda, and looked in at the window. They were still dancing in there. He saw that pretty little blond girl in her short, sleeveless white satin frock. There came before him the face of that other girl, seen only for a brief instant in the firelight--that little dark face with shining eyes.

“I love her!” he thought, with a sort of awe. “She’s the girl I’ve always been waiting for. Emmy--little darling, wonderful Emmy--I love her!”

He could not endure to go in, to dance, to speak to any one else. He stayed out there in the dark garden, walking up and down, smoking, cherishing his dear vision.

After awhile the two girls who had been dancing, and whom his sister had invited specially on his account, came out, with two young fellows. Kirby stepped back into the shadow of the trees and waited until they had driven off, until he could no longer hear their gay voices.

He compared these girls with Emmy. She wore no paint or powder; he had not seen her dancing in a hot and brilliant room. She belonged to another world--a world of sea and open sky and firelight. She was a creature with the free, fearless innocence of the Golden Age.

“I love her so!” he thought.

Nearly all of that long summer night he walked there in the garden, profoundly stirred by the great thing that had overtaken him. Before him was always the vision of her lovely face, filling his heart with tenderness and a troubled delight.

“I’m not good enough for her,” he thought.

Without realizing it, he began to forget that he had smiled to himself at the dear, funny things she had said, to forget what a little young thing she was. What was in his mind now was a sort of goddess, beautifully kind, but austere and aloof--a woman to be worshiped. His humility was honest and fine and touching, but it was cruel, because there was no goddess girl like that. There was only little Emmy Richards, who was nineteen, and altogether human and liable to error.

He let himself into the house quietly, so that no one heard him. He did not want to talk to any one.

When he came downstairs the next morning, he was still anxious for silence, but his sister was not disposed to humor him.

“Where did you go last night?” she demanded.

How was he to answer that? He had gone into an enchanted world, and he had found his beloved!

“I took a walk along the beach,” he said, briefly.

“A walk!” she cried. “You come here to visit me, and I ask people in to meet you, and you go off, without a word, and take a walk! I never heard of anything so selfish and hateful!”

Her indignation took him by surprise. It seemed to him the most preposterous thing that she should blame him for being with Emmy.

“I’m sorry,” he said, though he really wasn’t, and his sister knew it; but, looking at him, she saw that he was tired and troubled, and she held her tongue.

* * * * *

Kirby’s work suffered that day because of his preoccupation with the problem of the evening before him. He was determined to offer something at least a little worthy of her. He had taken other girls out to dinner, but this was beyond measure different.

At last he thought of a restaurant he had seen advertised--a quiet, dignified place; and he went there, engaged a table, and ordered a wonderful little dinner. All the rest of the day he imagined how it was going to be, he and Emmy sitting at that table, softly lit by candles. He knew what he was going to say to her, and how she would look at him, with her shining, solemn eyes.

He came early to the waiting room and walked up and down, restless and anxious.

“She didn’t want to come,” he thought. “Perhaps she didn’t like me.”

A pretty girl sitting on one of the benches smiled at him, but he looked past her. Ten minutes late now! Of course, other girls were usually late, but Emmy was different--utterly different. He remembered her now with a sort of amazement--the innocent beauty of her face, the almost incredible charm of her dear friendliness.

“No one like her!” he thought.

And that was true. There was not, and never could be, any girl like the one that he, in his ardent, imperious young heart, had invented.

Suppose she didn’t come at all?

“I’ll find her!” he thought. “I know her name, and I’ll find her. I won’t lose her!”

He glanced around the waiting room again, and again he met the eyes of the pretty girl who had smiled at him before. No denying that she was pretty, but he was sternly uninterested. Let her smile!

This time, though, she rose from her seat, and made a step in his direction.

“She’ll ask me some question about a train,” thought Kirby.

He was a good-looking young fellow, and this sort of thing had happened to him before. At another time he might perhaps have been a little less severe. She was very pretty--a tall, slender girl in a very short frock, with a red hat pulled down over one eye. Her piquant little face was rouged and powdered. Kirby might have seen a sort of debonair charm about her, if he had not had in his heart the image of another face, so honest, so unspoiled, so very different!

He walked the length of the room, and when he came back he passed quite close to her. She smiled again--a tremulous, miserable, forlorn little smile. He stopped and stared at her.

“Look here!” he said. “You’re not--are you--Miss Richards?”

“Yes, I am,” she replied in a defiant and unsteady voice.

He could not speak for a moment, so bitter was his disappointment. She was not rare and wonderful; she was only a pretty, silly, painted little thing, like thousands of others.

“If only she hadn’t come!” he thought. “If only I’d never seen her again! Then I could have gone on--”

He realized, however, that he had invited her to meet him, and that in common decency he must not let her see how he felt; so he smiled as politely as he could.

“Didn’t recognize you at first,” he said. “I’m sorry!”

That was all he could manage for the moment. She, too, was silent, with a set, strained smile on her lips.

“We can’t stand here like this,” he thought. “I’ve asked her to dinner!”

But he was not going to take this girl to the quiet little restaurant with candles on the table. That had been for the other girl--the grave, aloof, and beautiful one, who didn’t exist.

“Come on!” he said briefly. “We’ll get a taxi.”

She followed him without a word, and he helped her into a cab.

“Where would you like to go?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t care,” she answered.

Very well--if she didn’t care, neither would he. He gave the driver an address and got in beside her.

“Like to dance?” he asked.

“I love it!”

Then this would be merely an evening like other evenings. He would dance with her, spend more money than he could afford, and then forget her. She was not different, after all. There never had been any girl like the one he had dreamed of, or invented, last night in the firelight.

“What a fool I was!” he thought.

He wanted to laugh at himself, and could not; it hurt too much. He so badly needed the girl who did not exist--that honest, friendly, lovely little thing with the innocent glamour of childhood still about her. He glanced at the real one, sitting beside him. By the passing lights he could see her face, which was turned toward the window.

“She doesn’t know anything about me,” he thought. “She doesn’t care. All she wants is a ‘good time’!”

He took out his cigarette case and tendered it to her.

“No, thank you,” she said.

“I will, if you don’t mind,” said Kirby, and that was all he did say.

He sat back in his corner, smoking, lost in his own thoughts. It was a long drive, for he was taking her to a road house just outside the city--a third-rate sort of place.

“But she said she didn’t care,” he thought.

III

They went on in a stream of other cars, like a flotilla of lighted ships, in the mild summer night. He hated the whole thing--the dust, the reek of gasoline, the tawdriness and staleness of the undertaking. He had wanted something better. His ardent spirit had groped toward an ideal, and, when he thought he had found it, it was only this!

It was as if he had gone into a dim temple, ready to worship, and suddenly a flood of garish light had come, and he saw that it was not a temple at all, but a sorry palace of pleasure. He lit another cigarette from the first one.

“I’m--sorry I came!” said the girl beside him, in a shaky voice.

He turned, but it was too dark to see her.

“I beg your pardon?” he said, very much taken aback.

“I didn’t want to come,” she went on. “I told you, but you made me, and now--and now--you see--”

He quite realized that he had been behaving very ill, not even trying to talk to her. After all, it wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t know what a fool he had been.

“I don’t see at all,” he said. “I--I’m very glad you’re here.”

The feebleness of that made him ashamed, but he drew closer to her and took her hand. She kept her head averted, but she made no objection.

“That’s what she expects,” he thought bitterly. “She expects me to make love to her. All right!”

So he put his arm about her shoulders, and made up his mind to say to her the things he had said to other girls; and because he was young, and she was very pretty, some of his bitterness vanished.

“You’re the sweetest little thing!” he said. “The moment I saw you--”

She pulled away from him with a violence that astounded him.

“Don’t talk to me like that!” she cried. “It’s--horrible!”

“Sorry!” said Kirby stiffly, and withdrew to his corner; but the sound of a sob made him bend toward her, filled with a reluctant contrition. “Look here!” he continued. “I didn’t mean--”

“I just--bumped my head,” she said. “That’s all; but I’d rather go home now.”

“But we’ve just got here,” objected Kirby. “Better have some dinner first.”

He got out of the cab and held out his hand to her, but she jumped out unaided and walked to the foot of the steps. As he turned and saw her standing where the lights of the portico shone full upon her, a queer, reluctant tenderness swept over him. Her coat was a little too big for her. Her red hat was pushed back, showing more of her candid brow, and her dark hair was ruffled. She looked so weary and angry, and so young! Even if she was not what he wanted her to be, she was somehow dear to him.

“Look here!” he said. “Look here! Let’s have a nice evening, anyhow!”

She responded instantly to his tone. For the first time that night he saw in her some likeness to the lost little playmate.

“All right--let’s!” she cried.

He led the way to the glass-inclosed veranda where small tables were set out. The orchestra was playing, and through the long windows they could see the ballroom where couples were dancing.

“Isn’t it lovely?” she said.

Kirby did not think so. He was regretting that he had brought her here. They sat down at a table, and he took up the menu.

“What do you like?” he asked.

“Oh, anything!” said Emmy.

She was looking about her with a sort of rapture.

“Yes!” he thought. “This is the sort of thing she likes!”

And again his disappointment came back, sharper than ever. He thought of the dinner he had meant to have, by candlelight, in that quiet restaurant, with the girl who didn’t exist. Was there never to be anything like that for him, nothing fine and beautiful and stirring?

“Well, I’m here, and I’ve got to make the best of it,” he thought. “What will you have to drink?” he asked aloud.

“To drink?” she repeated, looking at him anxiously. “Oh, let’s not!”

Kirby ordered two cocktails.

“You can’t come to a place like this and not order anything to drink,” he explained when the waiter had gone. “Everybody does.”

“Then I wish we hadn’t come here,” said she.

The cocktails came, and he drank both of them.

“Care to try a dance?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” replied Emmy.

She was looking about her with a different vision now. All the light was gone from her face. Evidently she didn’t find the place lovely now. Kirby himself became more conscious of the loud voices, the hysteric laughter, the ugly disorder about him. He was sorry that he had brought her here. He was ashamed of himself, and he did not like being ashamed of himself.

“You said you loved dancing,” he suggested.

“Not now,” said Emmy. “It’s getting late. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go home.”

“Just as you please,” replied Kirby.

They finished the dinner in silence. Kirby paid the preposterous bill, and they went out to the taxi.

“You needn’t bother to come with me,” said Emmy politely.

“No bother at all,” returned Kirby, equally polite. “I’ll see you safely to the station.”

“I’m going to a friend’s house in the city.”

He got in beside her. He sat as far from her as he could, and neither of them spoke one word during all that long drive. In his heart he felt a great remorse and regret, but he would not let her know that.

But when the cab stopped at the address she had given him, and he helped her out, he could no longer maintain that stubborn, miserable silence.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I didn’t mean it to be like this.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Emmy. “Good night!”

IV

Kirby stood where he was until she had gone up the steps and into the house. Then he paid the cab and set off on foot for the Pennsylvania Station. When he got there he found that there was an hour to wait for the next train, and again he set off to walk about the streets, his hands in his pockets, his pipe between his teeth. All the time her voice echoed in his ears--her quiet little voice.

“Good Lord!” he said to himself angrily. “It’s no tragedy! I asked the girl out to dinner, I tried to give her a good time, and that’s all there is to it.”

But still her voice echoed in his heart, and still he felt that bitter ache of regret. Let him walk as far as he would, he could not escape from it.

“She was unhappy,” he thought, and the thought pained him. He went on walking, and when he got back to the station he found that he had missed his train. It was the last for that day; the next one left at four o’clock in the morning.

He didn’t really care. He went to an all-night restaurant and had coffee and bacon and eggs. Then he strolled back to the waiting room where he had met her, and sat down there. He had the place to himself; there was nothing to disturb his reflections.

“The trouble was,” he said to himself, “that I was disappointed.”

And, like an audible response, the words shaped themselves in his mind:

“Well, what about her?”

He had never been more unhappy in all his life. He dozed a little during those long hours; but whether he slept or waked, he was conscious all the time of that bitter ache of regret.

There was an air of unreality about the early morning train. It was almost empty, and such passengers as there were seemed to Kirby to be very incongruous. For instance, where could that neat little gray-haired woman be going at such an hour? Or that Italian with a fierce mustache, who carried a square package wrapped in newspaper?

The world outside, seen through the train window, had the same unreal air. It was still dark, but this was not the serene darkness of night; it was, he thought, more like the dim silence of an auditorium before the curtain goes up. There was a feeling in the air that something tremendous was about to happen, and that a myriad creatures waited.

He felt the thrill of that expectancy himself. The window beside him was open, and the wind blew in his face with a divine freshness. He could see the trees and the sharp lines of roofs, as if they had stepped forward out of the night’s obscurity. There came a drowsy chirping; the curtain had begun to rise.

Then all the birds began to wake, and the chorus swelled and swelled. The insects were chirping, and he could hear the lusty crow of barnyard cocks--such little creatures, raising so sublime and tremendous a “Laudamus.”

“The sun’s coming up,” said Kirby to himself.

When he got out of the train the sky was gray, with only a thin veil before the face of the coming wonder. There was a single taxi at the station, and he hesitated, because two women had got out of the train after him; but one of the women set off briskly along the village street and the other one took the road, so he got into the cab.

A moment later he had passed the woman on the road. There was light enough to see her now.

“Stop!” he cried, but the driver did not hear him. He banged on the glass. “Stop! I want to get out!”

Giving the man his last dollar bill, Kirby jumped out and turned back.

She was coming toward him steadfastly, a straight and slender figure in a dark dress and drooping black hat. He could see that the dress was shabby, that her shoes were dusty and a little worn. Her face was pale, and there was a smudge on her forehead.

“Emmy!” he cried.

She stopped short. A hot color rose in her cheeks, and ebbed away, leaving her still paler.

“Emmy!” he said uncertainly. “You look--you’ve changed!”

“Well, no,” she answered, in that serious little voice. “You see, I’d borrowed those clothes from a girl at the office. I stopped at her house to leave them, and I missed the train.” She paused a moment. “I’m sorry I ever wore them,” she said; “only she’s been so awfully dear and kind to me, and she said she wanted to make me look nice.”

“You did look nice!” said Kirby.

He felt a sort of anguish at the sight of her. Why hadn’t he known, all the time, that she was like this? She was innocent and honest and lovely--and he had so grossly offended against her! He had taken her to that third-rate place; he had been surly, obstinate, utterly blind; and, worst of all, he had judged her so arrogantly!

“I’m so sorry!” he said. “You don’t know--I didn’t mean--”

“I’m sorry, too,” she said. “I never went out like that before, and I wish I hadn’t done it.”

They stood facing each other, standing in the middle of the empty road. She was downcast, but he was looking at her with amazement. She was not that little flippant painted thing, like a thousand other girls! How could he ever have thought so? Neither was she the wise, aloof young goddess. She was just Emmy, rather shabby and very tired, with a smudge on her forehead.

“You don’t know,” he said, “how beautiful you are--in the daylight!”

Again the color rose in her cheeks, and as swiftly receded.

“I’ve got to hurry,” she exclaimed, with that earnest politeness of hers. “You see, my little brother’s taking examinations to-day, and I promised I’d make pancakes for his breakfast.”

“Oh, Emmy!” he said, and began to laugh.

She smiled herself, reluctantly.

“Well, I did promise,” she declared.

An immense happiness filled him. He knew now! He understood why those other fellows wanted to get married and set up homes! Bills and worries and even quarrels were not tragic, and not basely comic. They simply didn’t matter. The one great thing was this infinite tenderness. He did not want to worship a goddess any more; he wanted to take care of Emmy.

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

NOVEMBER, 1927 Vol. XCII NUMBER 2

For Granted

A COLORFUL STORY OF A PICTURESQUE ISLAND COLONY WELL KNOWN TO MANY AMERICAN TRAVELERS

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

The streets of Port Linton were empty under the brazen glare of the sun, so that Captain Vincey’s steps rang loud. They were unsteady, too. The heat came up from the white coral road in tremulous waves, and worried him. The blue sea and the blue sky, the white buildings and the white roads, and the great, fierce, brassy sun all dazzled him. He dropped his stick with a clatter, and from under the swing door of Willie’s Bar a dog ran out, sniffed at the stick, and ran back again.

“It’s the heat,” said Vincey to himself, as he straightened up.

But in his heart he was a little frightened by the giddiness, the surging in his head, and by the theatrically empty look of the world. He could not quite remember what had brought him out at this hour, but his footsteps were certainly directed toward the club.

He decided not to go there, and went on down the hill--a big, swaggering man, in a rumpled white linen suit and a green-lined helmet.

“A t-touch of the sun,” he said to himself.

He realized now that he could not very well go home alone, though he wanted to go home. He had had no lunch. He had sat in his office, looking over some papers, with a bottle of whisky on the desk.

“Got to c-cut down on that,” he thought. “Plays the devil with a man’s health!”

Sometimes, in his blackest hours, he felt that perhaps it was not only his health that had suffered. He would remember the James Vincey who had come to Port Linton twenty years ago, and sometimes he even shed tears, thinking of that promising young man and of what he had become.

Turning the corner, he saw before him the cool, dim office of the Green Arrow Navigation Company. He made for it with what haste he could. There was his refuge.

The doors stood open, and in he went. It was a dignified and handsome office. Along one side was a mahogany counter, and facing it were groups of wicker chairs and tables beneath palms in pots. At the end was a low wooden railing with a gate, and behind this a girl sat at a typewriter.

As he went toward her, she came hurrying out of the inclosure, shutting the gate behind her.

“Hello, Uncle James!” she said casually.

“’Lo, Joey!” he answered. “T-touch--sun.”

He sank heavily into one of the wicker chairs and took off his helmet.

“Shall I get you a carriage?” she asked.

“Might be ‘visable,” he said.

She turned, went back through the barrier to a door at the rear, and knocked.

“Come in!” said a voice.

She entered the private office, where a mild little gray-haired man sat at a desk.

“Uncle James isn’t feeling very well,” she said. There was no embarrassment in her manner, nor in the gray-haired man’s. “I want to get a carriage, and I left my purse at home,” she went on. “Can I get ten shillings, Mr. Brown, please?”

He pulled forward a little tin cash box, unlocked it, and took out a ten-shilling note. The girl, bending over his desk, wrote on a slip of paper:

July 8--ten shillings--J. CRAIG.

The transaction was a familiar one to both of them.

She was a thin young creature with dark gray eyes and bobbed hair cut square across her wide brow. She would have been pretty, with more color and animation. She might even have been beautiful; but her face was pale and impassive, and she had an air of quiet indifference, like one accustomed to being taken for granted and thankful to have it so.

“Why don’t you drive home with him, Joey?”

“It’s only half past two, Mr. Brown.”

“There’s nothing much to be done, Joey. Sprague will be back in a few moments. You go along with the captain.”

“But the last day, Mr. Brown!”

“Pshaw!” said he. “Everything’s ready for the new man, Joey. Everything’s in order.”

“I’m going to miss you awfully, Mr. Brown!”

There was a subdued sort of distress in her voice that touched him. He patted her shoulder kindly.

“I’ll be coming back to the island in six months, Joey, and then I’ll look in now and then to see how things are getting along. This new man--I don’t fancy he’ll make many changes. Things will go on in the same old way. You go along home with the captain, Joey.”

“I wish you a good trip, Mr. Brown. Good-by!”

“Pshaw!” he said again. “Au revoir, we’ll say, Joey.”

“Au revoir, Mr. Brown, and thank you.”

They shook hands, smiling at each other.

“I’ll just step out now and say good afternoon to your uncle,” said Brown.

Captain Vincey rose politely, dropping his helmet and stick.

“Wish you--besht--short of trip,” he said.

He was perfectly aware that he was swaying on his feet and speaking indistinctly, and that his niece and Mr. Brown were both aware of it; but none of them felt constrained or embarrassed. Captain Vincey’s little weakness was simply to be taken for granted.

The hack driver took it for granted. He helped the captain into the carriage--carriages are the only vehicles in Port Linton--with a grave and sympathetic air. Joey climbed in on the other side, and they set off. Every one who saw them took it for granted.

“There goes Vincey--tight again! Joey’s taking him home.”

They drove through the little town and out into the country, along the white road lined with oleanders, rose pink, creamy white, and scarlet, under the blue, blue sky. When she had first come here, this loveliness had stirred Joey to delight, but not any longer. She dare not be stirred now. She saw before her a way interminably long and weary, and she went forward in a sort of blindness, not stopping, not thinking, only enduring.

The carriage drew up before a little house standing on a hill, and the driver got down to assist the captain. He had a great deal of trouble, for Vincey was a big man and he a small one.

Joey picked up the helmet and stick from the road, and followed them to the house. Mrs. Vincey opened the door and received her son, and Joey paid the driver. All taken for granted!

“Your Uncle James says he doesn’t care for any tea. It’s this heat.”

An unconquerable woman was Captain Vincey’s mother--slight and small, straight as a dart, always neat and dignified and smiling. She was nearly seventy, but she did not look it, so great was the spirit that animated her fragile body.

She had made a pot of tea, and she and her granddaughter drank it in the kitchen.

“Joey,” she said, “I’ll have to ask you to get me a little money to-morrow.”

“To-morrow? But the new man’s coming to-morrow, gran.”

Both were silent for a time, looking out of the window, where below them the blue Atlantic stretched, unendurably bright in the sun. Mrs. Vincey was thinking of her old home in Kent, of green fields and dripping trees under the soft blue of an April sky. It was strange that the days of her girlhood seemed so close to her, so much more real than all the years of wandering with her engineer husband in South America, in Canada, in New York. That was all a little nebulous. What was vivid was the memory of her Kentish fields.

But to Joey the memory of her girlhood seemed so remote as to be incredible. She was the only child of Mrs. Vincey’s daughter and her American husband, left an orphan now, and penniless. She had come to Port Linton from New York, three years ago, a jolly, lively schoolgirl of seventeen, ready for adventure; and she had found--this.

“I think you’d be happier if you found something to do, wouldn’t you, Joey?” Mrs. Vincey had said.

Joey had gone to see Mr. Brown--who was expecting her--and he had taken her into his office.

Mrs. Vincey stayed home and kept house. With smiling dignity she faced tradesmen who explained why they could give her no more credit. Morning after morning she telephoned her son’s business partner, to tell him that “Captain Vincey was ill, and couldn’t come to the office.” She cooked meals and served them decently, out of Heaven knows what pitiful materials. She had kept the house neat, she had sat up at night, patching and turning and mending clothes for them all.

And she would not see, she dared not see, what was happening to Joey--the jolly schoolgirl turning into this pale, still woman. She would willingly have given her life for Joey, but she would not admit her son’s shame. It must be taken for granted!

Better to look at the dazzling blue sea than at Joey’s pale face.

“Another cup of tea, Joey?”

“Yes, thank you, gran.”

They did not mention the money again. Joey knew that her grandmother would not have asked for it, if it had not been urgently needed; and Mrs. Vincey knew that if it were in any way possible, Joey would get it for her at any cost.

The sun went down and a fresh breeze sprang up. The two women ate their supper of bread and cheese and more tea, in the kitchen, while Captain Vincey slept upstairs in his room. The moon came up and made a silver path on the dark sea, for prisoners to look at, if they chose.

“Good night, gran dear!”

“Good night, Joey. You’re a good girl, Joey. Sleep well!”

But Joey did not sleep very well. She sat up in bed, looking out at the garden, where the moon was shining. A breeze blew in her face, fragrant with jasmine.

“If only the new manager will be nice!” she thought. “Oh, please let him be nice!”

The captain was much better in the morning. He bathed and shaved, put on a clean white suit, and came down to breakfast in a witty and cheerful humor.

“Left my bicycle at the club,” he said. “You’d better telephone for a carriage, Joey. The walk into town is a little too much for me--at my age.”

As Joey had had to leave her own bicycle at the office the day before, in order to take him home, he asked her to drive in with him; but she said she would enjoy the walk.

Two miles of white coral road in the blazing sun, after an insufficient breakfast! It was better, though, than sitting beside the captain, driving in state past the shops where they owed money.

She was a little late, and the boat had come in unusually early. She was lying alongside the wharf, already unloading, and the door of the private office was shut.

“He’s come!” Sprague whispered to her. “He’s in there, talking to McLean.”

“What’s he like?” asked Joey.

“Hard as nails!” said Sprague.

She uncovered her typewriter and sat down before it, but she had no work to do. She could only sit there, with her heart like lead.

The door of the private office opened, and McLean came out.

“Mr. Napier wants to see you,” he said briefly to Joey. As he moved away, she heard him mutter: “New brooms sweep clean!”

She got up and went into the private office, and there, at Mr. Brown’s desk, sat the new man. It was a shock to find him so young. He looked almost boyish. He was thin and dark, with a careless, preoccupied air.

“Miss Craig?” he said. “Sit down! Take a letter, please. ‘Messrs. Pryden & Fort, P-r-y--’”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t take shorthand,” Joey interrupted in her quiet way.

He glanced up at her.

“I thought--” he began, and stopped short as their eyes met.

II

Mark Napier was hard as nails, in a way. Lucky for him that he was!

He had been a boy of eighteen, just out of school, and ready to enter Oxford, when the war broke out. He had enlisted, and had been sent to Flanders; had been wounded, patched up and sent back, and wounded twice again. The third time the doctors told him that very likely he would never walk again.

For six months he had lain in the hospital, facing that possibility, facing all the other new things he had learned. In the course of time the doctors had reversed their decision, and he was discharged as cured--a most interesting case.

He went home--only he had no home to go to. The war had done for his family. His mother had died, his brother had been killed, and so had most of the friends he had cared for. There was no money--nothing at all left for young Napier.

He had got a post as clerk in the London office of the Green Arrow Navigation Company. He had been only twenty-two then, and a queer mixture of boyishness and maturity. He had had a lifetime of experience of a sort; but of average, everyday life he knew next to nothing. He was a shabby, silent boy, coolly and doggedly determined to get on in the world.

He had got on. Here he was, at twenty-nine, manager of the Port Linton branch, going to master Port Linton and go on to something better. He was still very young and intolerant in some ways, very mature in others. He was very lonely, proud as Lucifer, and stubborn as a mule.

The leisurely air of the office--his office--had annoyed him. He knew how to handle men--he had learned that as a lieutenant at twenty-one. He was just, and he was inflexible. He saw that things were lamentably slack here, and he had wasted no time in telling Sprague and McLean that a new era had begun.

He had intended to let this girl know it, too--until he had glanced up and their eyes met.

Hard as nails was young Napier with Sprague, and McLean, and every one else with whom he did business; but not with Joey.

“Mr. Brown used to give me notes about the letters, and I answered them myself,” she explained.

Napier gave her his letters, and she answered them in the courteous and stilted fashion that Mr. Brown had taught her.

“I’m sorry,” said Napier, “but I’m afraid this won’t quite do. Sit down, and I’ll give you some idea of what I want.”

While he talked, he often glanced at her, and always he found her steadfast gray eyes fixed upon his face. She took the letters away and did them over again--his way this time.

“She’s game,” he thought. “No whining--no excuses!”

The others obeyed his orders because they had to; but Joey wanted to. She was eager to help. She admired his way of doing things. She was his friend.

He had plenty of difficulties in this new job. Port Linton was a conservative British colony, and some of the old clients resented young Napier. McLean was dourly hostile; Sprague, under an obliging manner, was impatient and scornful. Only Joey stood by him with absolute loyalty.

He would leave the door of his office open, so that he could see her at her typewriter. Even after she had gone, as he sat later at his work, he would look at the place where she had been and remember her wide-browed, candid face, her dark hair, her gray eyes. For that slender, quiet girl he felt a respect that was almost reverence, for she had the qualities that he prized above all others--dignity, reserve, and loyalty.

They had very little to say to each other during those first three days, for they were very busy; but he was always aware of Joey, and in his heart he always had confidence that she was his friend, his faithful helper.

“There’s no one like her,” he thought comfortably.

He thought her beautiful, too. He thought that her rare, slow smile was a wonderful thing, that her voice was the most solacing in all the world, that her sunburned hands were lovelier than any he had ever seen. His solitary and inflexible spirit turned toward her as its one refuge.

* * * * *

Late on Friday afternoon McLean brought him the books, which he wanted to look over before paying the salaries on Saturday morning. Every one else had gone home, and he and McLean sat alone in the private office, which was filled with the light of the sunset.

“Now!” thought McLean, watching. “Now you’ll have something to talk about, my lad!”

“What’s this?” said Napier, frowning.

“What?” asked McLean, who knew very well.

“Here’s fifteen pounds advanced to Sprague against his salary, before Christmas. It seems that he began paying it off, ten shillings a week, but here’s a month without paying anything; and here--why, he’s been getting full pay for the past six weeks, and he still owes seven pounds!”

“His mother’s been ill,” said McLean.

Napier said nothing. He didn’t need to speak--his look was enough.

“You’ll also find,” volunteered McLean, “that on the first of the month I had a week’s salary in advance.”

“This won’t do!” said Napier briefly.

McLean emptied Mr. Brawn’s little cash box on the desk.

“What’s this?” said Napier, looking at the slips of paper. “‘July 5, five shillings--J. Craig,’ ‘July 8, ten shillings--J. Craig’--so many of them!”

“It’s for cash advanced,” said McLean, looking at him.

“I see!” said Napier.

He stacked all the slips into a neat little pile and sat for a moment staring at them. It was a disgraceful thing, to run an office like this. It was not only slack, but very close to dishonesty. It was the firm’s money these people were using.

“Have a cigarette?” he said abruptly, holding out his case to McLean.

“Thanks!” replied McLean, hiding a start of surprise.

For a time they smoked in silence.

“I can’t be hard on Sprague and McLean and not speak to her,” Napier was thinking. “That would be too damned unjust. Her whole week’s salary has been paid already, and she may need it badly. She may be in serious trouble.”

A great wave of tenderness swept over him as he thought of Joey. She was so pale and slight, so young.

“He’s almost human, after all!” McLean told himself, glancing at the new manager. He waited for awhile. “Well?” he inquired at last. “What do you want me to do about the pay envelopes, Mr. Napier?”

“Deduct ten shillings from Sprague’s,” said Napier. “Deduct ten shillings each week until his loan is repaid. It’s impossible to run an office like this. Now, what about you? How do you want to manage your advance? Ten--”

“You can pay me nothing at all this week,” McLean replied curtly.

There was another silence.

“What about--Miss Craig?” asked Napier. “Is she--entirely dependent on her salary?”

“I can’t say.”

“Does she--live alone?”

“She does not. She lives with her uncle and her grandmother.”

“Her uncle--what does he do?”

“He’s in the commission business.”

The sun was going down, and the light was draining fast out of the sky. Napier’s face was in shadow.

“McLean has a wife and child,” he thought, “and Sprague supports his mother. She lives at home, with her people. I’ve got to be just!”

“Well?” asked McLean.

“Don’t make up an envelope for Miss Craig,” said Napier, rising.

After a solitary dinner, he walked down to the water front, and smoked a pipe, looking out over the little harbor. He was very unhappy over this problem.

III

“You see,” said Mark Napier, “I want to start with a clean slate, Miss Craig. You will understand.”

He was sitting on the edge of his desk, facing her, and she looked steadily back at him.

“Yes, I do see!” she said.

And it was true. He wasn’t like Mr. Brown, mild and kind and easy-going.

“I want to make a success of this thing,” he had told her before, and she had responded whole-heartedly.

He couldn’t understand her miserable anxieties, and she didn’t want him to. She wanted to help him make a success.

“But--er--if you would rather,” he said now, “we could deduct a little every week.”

His dark face had flushed, but he kept his eyes upon her with an anxious intensity. If she wanted her money, she should have it.

“Oh, no, thanks!” replied Joey politely. “It’s all right as it is, thank you.”

Her face grew scarlet. She dropped her eyes and turned away her head; and, seeing her so, he knew that he loved her.

“If there’s ever anything I can do--” he said unsteadily.

She glanced at him, and again their eyes met. She had never seen a look like that on any face.

“Th-thank you, Mr. Napier,” she stammered, and went away in haste.

She had no money for lunch, but she was not hungry. The hours went by quickly; she worked well to-day, and her heart was singing.

“See here, Miss Craig!” She looked up from her typewriter and saw Napier standing beside her. “You haven’t been out to lunch--and it’s two o’clock.”

“I just wanted to finish this last letter,” said Joey.

Again their eyes met, and he was dazzled by her loveliness. Her cheeks were burning with heat and fatigue, and her eyes were brilliant.

“Look here!” he said. “You’re tired. I want you to go home and rest.”

“Oh, no, thanks!”

“You do as I tell you!” ordered Napier. Fear made him brusque. He was worried about Joey. “Come! Get your hat and go home!” he said.

“But the letters--”

“Never mind the letters,” he said. “Plenty of time on Monday morning. Look here! You will rest, won’t you?”

He was dismayed by the change that came over her. All the color suddenly left her face, and she looked terribly white and strained.

“I didn’t mean to be--abrupt,” he said hastily. “It’s only--”

“I know!” said Joey, and smiled at him.

It was a smile that he did not soon forget, steadfast and radiant.

She had just remembered that she was going home empty-handed; and she was conscious now of a sharp headache and a great weariness, as if these things had also been waiting to be remembered. As she mounted her bicycle, her knees felt weak. The sun beat down upon her, stinging her shoulders beneath her thin blouse. Her eyes hurt from the glare of the white road. Her heart ached, as well as her head. She was Captain Vincey’s niece again, burdened by a hundred disgraceful anxieties.

“He’ll find out,” she thought. “Some one will tell him about--Uncle James.”

She did not delude herself with the notion that it would make no difference. Napier was not the sort to take Captain Vincey for granted. He was not tolerant. He wanted everything just right.

She found Mrs. Vincey sitting on the veranda, darning.

“Joey! So early! What’s the matter, dear?”

“I just felt--tired,” replied Joey; “but I’ll be all right after a nice cup of tea, gran.”

“We’ve run out of tea, Joey.”

“Oh!” said Joey, and sat down on the steps.

Mrs. Vincey stood behind her, turning and turning a sock in her thin hands.

“Unless you--brought home--anything,” she said.

“There wasn’t anything coming to me this week,” said Joey.

There was a moment’s silence. Mrs. Vincey stood looking down at that little dark head.

“Would you like a glass of lemonade, Joey?” she asked.

Joey wanted nothing except to be let alone, but the anxiety in Mrs. Vincey’s voice touched her beyond endurance.

“That would be awfully nice!” she began brightly, and then suddenly burst into tears.

“Come upstairs and lie down, my deary!”

Mrs. Vincey went up with her to the neat little room, dim and cool with the blinds drawn down, fresh with the smell of the sea.

“Lie down, deary! That’s it! I’ll unbutton your slippers. Never mind, Joey, my deary--just take a little rest.”

“I’m all right now, gran.”

Better not to notice that Joey was still crying, with her head buried in the pillow. Mrs. Vincey went out of the room, quietly closing the door behind her, and stood outside in the hall, clasping her hands tight.

“I haven’t anything to give her!” she thought. “Oh, it’s too much! She’s so young!”

She thought of one little thing she could do--a very little thing. She put on her hat and went down the road a little way, to a small grocery shop.

“Good day, Mr. Spier!”

“Good day, ma’am!”

“I’d like two fresh eggs and a tin of milk and a quarter pound of Ceylon tea and a quarter pound of butter, please, Mr. Spier.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She stood there while Mr. Spier put the things into a bag. Then she had to tell him that she would pay next Saturday, and to listen to Mr. Spier saying that the bill was already so large, and had run on so long, and times were so hard, that he didn’t see how he could--well, just this once, then.

A small package to carry, a small thing to do; yet Mrs. Vincey would have preferred to shut herself into the house and die for lack of food, rather than ask a favor from Mr. Spier.

When she got home, she made a nice little omelet, a cup of tea, and two slices of buttered toast, and brought them up to Joey; and Joey felt better.

Later in the afternoon a neighbor brought them a basket of tomatoes and beans, and Mrs. Vincey and Joey sat out in the back garden under a cedar tree, stringing the beans, and talking a little to each other--not talking much because of the things they must not say.

“James was quite himself this morning,” thought Mrs. Vincey. “If only the--the heat doesn’t trouble him, and he can attend to business, things ought to be better next week. Sunday dinner--who wants meat in this weather? If only James can--can keep well!”

For, with all her superb courage, there were things that Mrs. Vincey would not face.

“Aren’t the roses doing well?” said Joey.

She was thinking that, after all, things couldn’t be so bad. Something would surely happen!

A carriage was coming along the road. Mrs. Vincey glanced up. Joey sat very still. Oh, no, it couldn’t be! Stopping here!

They did not move, or speak, or look at each other. The carriage had stopped. The garden gate creaked, and footsteps were coming along the path at the front of the house--heavy and uncertain steps. They could not see; they did not need to see.

At the sound of the steps mounting to the veranda, Mrs. Vincey rose and went around to the front of the house, neat, smiling, and dignified. With a civil nod for the driver who had assisted him, she took her son’s arm to lead him into the house; but he was in a bad mood.

“The damned young jackanapes!” he shouted. “Sitting there--old Brown’s place--damned young jackanapes--threw me out of office!”

“Will you--settle with the driver, Joey?” asked Mrs. Vincey, very low.

Joey did not answer. She was standing near the foot of the steps, with such a look on her face!

The driver saw that look, and walked back to his carriage. Mrs. Vincey saw it, and her face grew rigid. Captain Vincey turned to see what she was staring at, and he, too, saw it. It silenced him.

IV

Mark Napier was sitting in the club that evening, reading the newspaper. He had brought letters of introduction, and he knew a good many men here--to nod to, at any rate; but conservative Port Linton was quite willing to let him alone for awhile, and he preferred it so. He was not genial, and had no talent for camaraderie. He was slow to give his friendship, but, once given, it was worth keeping.

The light of a shaded lamp fell on his dark face.

“Pig-headed young jackanapes!” thought Captain Vincey. “But here goes--on little Joey’s account!”

Crossing the room, he flung himself into a chair beside Napier.

“Well!” he said.

Napier glanced quietly at him.

“Thing is,” said the captain, “you didn’t know who I was, eh?”

“Not then,” said Napier.

He had been alone in his office that afternoon when this man had come in--a big, swaggering man in a rumpled white suit, obviously half drunk.

“You’re new manager?” he had begun.

“I’m busy,” Napier had said.

“I’m great friend old Brown’sh.”

“I’m busy,” Napier had repeated.

The visitor had sat down and begun to talk about Port Linton.

“Jewel shet in shea--”

Napier had pressed a button.

“Show this gentleman out,” he had said, when Sprague appeared.

The gentleman had protested vehemently, and had called Napier a “blasted little whippersnapper” and other things; but Sprague had taken his arm and got him out, murmuring soothing words in his ear.

“That was Captain Vincey, sir,” he had said, when he returned. “He’s Miss Craig’s uncle.”

He had spoken with a sort of horror, and he was horrified; but the new manager had only said:

“Don’t let him come in here again.”

Under Napier’s curt manner there had been a great dismay. This fellow her uncle? Evidently he was in the habit of coming to the office. Perhaps she would be hurt, or angry. Napier would do almost anything rather than hurt or anger Joey--almost anything; but he would not tolerate Captain Vincey. The firm had sent him out here to run this office properly, and he was going to do it. He hoped Joey would understand.

* * * * *

“Well, now you know!” said Vincey genially.

Napier did not reply, and the captain began to grow angry; but he remembered that look on Joey’s face.

James Vincey had been a handsome man in his day, and even now, wreck as he was, he had considerable personal charm. People liked him, and made allowances for him. For Joey’s sake he would make this fellow like him.

“Have a drink?” he said.

“No, thanks,” said Napier.

Unfortunately, it was a part of Vincey’s code to consider a refusal to drink as an insult, and his face grew crimson. He was about to speak, when again he remembered that look on Joey’s face, and again restrained himself.

“In climate like this--” he said. “You’re a newcomer. Wait till you’ve been here a bit. You’ve never been out of England before, eh?”

“I spent nearly four years--in Belgium and France,” said Napier, “and the climate wasn’t very wholesome, where I was.”

“Oh! The war, eh?” said Vincey.

An unwelcome memory awakened in him. He remembered how, at the beginning of the war, he had gone to enlist, and the doctor had rejected him--a fine, big fellow in the forties, in the prime of life. Vincey had been very indignant.

The doctor had known him well, and had made allowances.

“I’d advise you, Vincey,” he had said, “to cut down on--er--alcoholic stimulants.”

So Vincey had stayed behind in Port Linton, while his friends went overseas. He had wangled some sort of military post for himself, and had been made a captain; but a captain who sat at a desk was not what suited him, and for some weeks he had let “alcoholic stimulants” alone.

But he had gone back to them. “The strain of the war,” he said to himself; and then, when it was over, there was the strain of his uncomfortable financial position.

He glanced uneasily at Napier. This young jackanapes had had four years of it. Well, some fellows were like that--they could stand a strain.

He beckoned to one of the colored boys and ordered a whisky and soda.

“This climate--” he explained.

Then, to his great indignation, the other man rose.

“If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know,” said Napier, and walked off.

Vincey was purple with anger. He half rose, but the whisky had come, and he sank back to drink it. His eyes glaringly followed Napier.

“Damned young prig!” he said to himself.

Slender and strong and straight was the young prig, with a fine pair of shoulders and a well set head. A steady hand the young prig had, a steady voice, a steady glance. Four years of it!

“Another whisky!” called Captain Vincey.

He gulped it down, waiting for the familiar feeling of partial oblivion; but it did not come. Something within him was wide awake.

“Joey!” he thought.

His thoughts were not clear; they never were clear in these days. He felt a confused sort of anguish, for he had fleeting glimpses of Joey’s face, and it hurt him. He loved Joey, and had meant to do much for her--his only sister’s child. He still would do something for her--something, but what could he do?

That fellow--taken a fancy to him, had she? Well, perhaps she’d get over it, once she knew how he had treated her uncle.

“Joey’s very fond of me,” he thought.

Then he remembered the James Vincey he had been long ago--a promising young fellow. A girl had been fond of him, but she had decided to wait until he stopped drinking; and in the course of time he had forgotten about her.

“Don’t want--make trouble,” he thought. “If Joey likes the fellow--”

A clear moment came to him.

“You’ll never stop now!” he said to himself. “You’ll never do anything for any one now! ’Nother whisky!” he cried aloud, with a sob.

He saw James Vincey stumbling through the rest of his days, a cruel burden to his mother, a disgrace to Joey--ruining Joey’s life before it had well begun. He knew Joey. If it came to a choice between himself and that young prig, Joey would stand by her uncle.

And it had come to a choice. Joey would let Napier see what she thought of his turning her uncle out of the office!

* * * * *

As he was going out, somebody called Napier into the billiard room and held him in conversation for a few moments; and when at last he left the club, he saw Captain Vincey going down the hill before him, reeling a little.

It was not pleasant for Napier to pass Miss Craig’s uncle, but he did not slacken his pace. He was going to be here, on a small island, with Captain Vincey, for a good long while. Inevitably he would have to meet the man often. The same quality which had enabled Mark Napier to face danger and death and agony, to make his way in the world quite alone, made it impossible to shirk any unpleasantness. He went on down the hill and passed Vincey with a curt good night.

“A fine lad!” thought Vincey. “A fine, strong, clean lad!”

For though Captain Vincey’s steps were so uncertain, his brain was very clear now.

Napier had turned the corner, and was walking rapidly along the street that fronted the harbor, when he heard a splash. He stopped and turned his head. The shops were all closed, and there was not a soul in sight. There was not a sound--not a sound of those stumbling footsteps that had been following his own.

He ran back to the corner and crossed to the deserted wharf. Floating on the dark water was a white helmet.

He kicked off his shoes, threw off his coat, and jumped in over his head.

V

Caleb was half asleep on the seat of his carriage. He did not expect any fares, but it was a fine night, and his wife was always disagreeable if he came home too early.

He heard footsteps, and opened his eyes. Two men were coming along the street very slowly, arm in arm. That looked hopeful. He sat up.

Then, as they passed under a street lamp, he sat bolt upright; for he saw that they were both bareheaded and dripping wet, their linen suits sodden.

“Cap’n Vincey,” he said to himself, “and that new young fella!” He shook with silent laughter. “Dey surely been havin’ a good time!” he thought. “Been overboa’d!”

They came on in silence until they reached Caleb’s carriage. The young man hoisted Vincey in, and followed himself.

“Drive to Captain Vincey’s house,” he said sharply.

“Yes, sir!” replied the driver, still shaken with internal mirth.

Off they went along the road, which gleamed softly white in the starlight. A breeze blew in their faces, bearing the sweet and heavy scent of night flowers.

“Napier,” said James Vincey, “I’m much obliged to you. Missed my footing. It might have ended badly for me. Very much obliged to you, my boy!”

“You didn’t miss your footing,” contradicted Napier in a very low voice. “You--”

“My boy,” interrupted Captain Vincey, equally low, “it’s necessary in this life to take a good deal for granted. When you reach my age, you’ll probably have learned”--he paused a moment--“probably have learned to take it for granted that almost every man has a white streak in him. Now we’ll say no more about it, if you please!”

The horse’s hoofs rang loud and brisk in the quiet night. As they passed the door of the club, two men were coming out.

“Who’s that?” asked one of them.

“By jove, it’s Vincey and that new chap--rolling home!”

“Ha! I saw them having a few drinks in the club.”

“Oh, well!” said the other indulgently.

Napier and Vincey both heard the conversation.

“You see!” said Vincey, and chuckled. “My intentions were good--meant to make a neat exit.”

“No need for you to do that, sir.”

There was something in his tone which Captain Vincey had not heard for a very long time.

“My boy,” he said, “see here--I’m not asking for sympathy.”

“Suppose we take that for granted, too, sir?” said Napier.

He might have been a young officer speaking to his senior; or, thought the older man, he might have been a son speaking to his father. Vincey leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and set his teeth hard.

“My boy!” he said. “My boy!”

“Here we are, sir,” said Napier, as the carriage stopped. “Wait,” he told the driver, and helped Vincey out.

Mrs. Vincey was standing in the lighted doorway.

“James!” she cried. “What has happened?”

“Captain Vincey missed his footing,” Napier explained.

“Come in!” said Mrs. Vincey, neat, smiling, and dignified again.

So Napier crossed the threshold.

“The kettle’s on,” said Mrs. Vincey. “Joey will make some nice hot tea, to ward off a chill.”

“Ha!” said Vincey. “Hot tea, eh?” He glanced at his companion, and then for the first time he saw Napier smile. “My boy!” he said.

Mrs. Vincey, watching them, felt as if an immense burden were lifted from her weary shoulders. This stranger, in his youth and strength and confidence, had come to her aid.

“Won’t you sit down?” she asked anxiously.

“Thank you,” said Napier, accepting the invitation.

His dark hair was plastered against his forehead, and the water was running off his jacket into pools on the floor; but he paid no attention to that. The captain presented him, and he talked to Mrs. Vincey about London. He was perfectly quiet and matter-of-fact. He was taking everything for granted.

Joey brought in the tea, and he rose; and Mrs. Vincey hurried out into the kitchen, to cry, because of the look she had seen pass between them. It was a look of faith and love--taken for granted.

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

DECEMBER, 1927 Vol. XCII NUMBER 3

Incompatibility

WHEN THERE IS NO COMPLETE SOLUTION OF A HUMAN PROBLEM, IT MAY BE THAT A PARTIAL SOLUTION IS BETTER THAN NONE AT ALL

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

From the window of his office Blakie saw them coming, hand in hand, looking very neat in their white dresses, shiny black pumps, and big straw hats. They came quickly, eyes front, with a rigid, frightened air, among the hurrying crowds of the down town street.

“What’s she thinking of, to let them come alone?” he cried to himself.

Snatching up his hat, he went out to meet them. A man jostled them, and they stepped aside, directly in the path of another man in a hurry, who ran into Irene and went on, frowning. Her hat fell off. She stooped to pick it up, still holding fast to Martha’s hand.

Blakie swung her up and kissed her hot, anxious little face.

“Well, Renie!” he said.

“Daddy!” she answered, with a sigh of relief.

“And Marty!”

“Oh, daddy dear!”

Taking a hand of each, he turned back toward the office. No one would jostle them now--not with his strength to protect them. Poor little devils!

There came back to him, in a rush, all the old savage exasperation he thought he mastered. Just like Katherine, to send them alone!

“Daddy, I’ve got a kitten!” said Martha. “It’s a gray, fluffy one!”

But he was not listening.

“You shouldn’t have come alone,” he said curtly.

“Only just from the corner, daddy! Madge brought us to the corner, and then she pointed where your office was, and there weren’t any streets to cross or anything.” Something in Martha’s voice made him glance down at her. He found her looking up at him with a queer, anxious little frown knitting her brows. “She brought us right to the very corner, daddy!”

“That’s all right, chick!” he said, squeezing her hand. “I mustn’t even hint anything against--Katherine,” he thought. “Poor little kid--she’s worried. This way!” he said aloud. “In here!”

He opened the door of his new suite of offices. A fine suite it was, and he was proud of it.

“Rather different from the old place, eh?” he said.

“Oh, yes!” said Martha.

She had taken Renie’s hand again, and they stood stiff and straight, terribly conscious of so many strange eyes regarding them. They were beautiful children, dark as gypsies, with a lovely color in their sunburned cheeks. Both of them were straight and sturdy, like himself. They were unmistakably his children.

“Dead image of you, Blakie!” said Crisson, his partner. “Fine kids! Let’s see--how old are they?”

“Martha’s ten and Irene is eight.”

“Lord! How time flies!” said Crisson.

The past six months had not flown for Blakie.

Katherine was to have the children for six months of the year and he for the other six months.

“But you won’t really do that, Lew?” she had said. “You won’t take them away from me?”

Just like her, when she had tried to take them away from him! She had come to his office--that was just like her, too; an outrageous thing to do. They were divorced, by her wish. She had a generous allowance, and he had agreed to everything she wanted, except to give up his children.

“I won’t discuss it,” he had said to her.

At first she had begged and pleaded, with tears streaming down her face. When he remained unmoved, she had grown angry in her reckless, vehement way. He was pretty sure that Crisson had heard her that day, and he often wondered how much Miss Deering had heard. Certainly every one in the outer office had seen her when she went out, with the marks of tears on her face.

He could never think of that day without growing hot with shame. For a moment he even felt ashamed of the children, living reminders of his disgrace. His wife had left him--every one knew that.

“Miss Deering!” he said.

He felt a little thrill of pleasure at the girl’s instant response. She was always so eager, so willing. She answered his call with a smile on her grave young face and a quick glance at him, as if she were trying to read in his face what he wanted.

“Do you think you could entertain these two young ladies for half an hour?” he asked.

“Oh, I think so!” she replied cheerfully. He saw the color rise in her cheeks. She was proud to be chosen for this duty.

She took the little girls by the hand and went off, and Blakie stood for a moment, looking after them. Then he went into his private office and shut the door. There was some work he wanted to do before lunch; but he could not do it. The feel of those little hot hands had stirred him intolerably. His children! He loved them so, he wanted them so! His children!

“I’ll never forgive her!” he cried in his heart. “It was a damnable thing to do, to break up their home! They’re worried and puzzled. Poor little kids!”

His life with Katherine had been a misery to him, but he would have endured it all his days rather than hurt his children. It was she who had left her home. She had told him often enough that she “couldn’t stand it,” but he had never expected that.

“Heartless,” she had called him, and “a stiff, solemn prig.” That had been her standard reproach for him--that he was a prig. When, coming home late, he had found the children still up, romping with Katherine and mad with excitement, and he had protested, she had called him a prig. When he had asked her not to come down to breakfast in a dressing gown, and when he had asked her to be more careful of her gossip before the children, she had said the same thing.

He had wanted to give them a normal, decent life, to assure them a good start.

“And, by Heaven, I will!” he thought. “I’ll have them, alone, for half the year. I can give them some sort of idea!”

Then, at the end of his six months, they would go back to Katherine and her careless, rebellious life--breakfast in a dressing gown; old Madge doing the work of the house just as it suited her; the telephone ringing and people dropping in; Katherine, with her shining black hair in a great, untidy knot, sitting at the piano, singing.

He could never think of her singing without a twinge of pain, because of what it had once meant to him--the big, glorious voice that came pouring from her throat without effort; the feeling in it, the pity, the tenderness. “Theatrical,” he had learned to call it, just as he had learned to look upon her beauty with a fastidious detachment. Certainly she was beautiful--a tall, full-bosomed, long-limbed creature, with a lazy grace in every movement, and a face indestructibly lovely, with dark gray eyes, clear, fine features, and a mouth too wide, too generous, unforgetably sweet.

It seemed to him that whatever Katherine took in her careless hands she ruined. She wasted everything. She had had a magnificent career before her, in light opera, and she had thrown it aside to marry him; and now she had thrown him aside, hurt beyond healing. His love for her had been a madness. He had been swept off his feet, infatuated, desperate; and she had been so kind in the beginning--kinder than any other woman could be.

“Because she had her own way,” he thought.

He had never criticized her then. He had not been doing so well in business. They had lived in a tiny house in Brooklyn, with only old Madge to help; and he had come home there at the end of the day like a soul to Paradise. He remembered how he used to open the door with his latchkey and go in; and no matter how quiet he was, she would always hear him.

“It’s himself!” she would call to Madge, with the trace of brogue that never quite left her. “Put the dinner on the table, Madge darlin’!”

Then she would come running to him, fling her arms around him, and draw his head down on her breast.

“You’re tired, my heart’s darlin’! There! Don’t you talk! Come in and see what Madge and I have got for you!”

“I’ve got to wash, Katherine.”

“Wash in the kitchen, so you’ll not have to go upstairs, and you so tired, my dearest!”

But he never would wash in the kitchen.

Then they would have dinner, old Madge joining in the conversation as she waited on the table. Katherine had spoiled Madge from the start, calling her “darling,” and sitting in the kitchen to talk with her; but still, how Madge could cook!

After dinner people would usually come in--friends of Katherine’s, whom he did not much like, theatrical people, some of them charming, some of them queer old friends whom she would not abandon. To show her husband that he was supremely important, that he was not left out, she would sit on the arm of his chair, with her hand on his shoulder, bending now and then and kissing the top of his head.

“Talk now, Lew darlin’!” she would say. “Listen now, will you, to what Lew’s got to say!”

But he had not liked such public demonstrations.

“I loved her, though,” he thought. “I was happy.”

He did not want to remember all that. It was intolerable to remember, in his bitterness, those warm, glowing years of love and delight; and yet it seemed to him that it would be wrong and cowardly to shirk the memory, to shut his mind to any of the vivid little pictures that rose before him. He closed his eyes, to see more clearly, and let the full tide of the old pain rush over him. He was a man, and he could bear it. He must bear it.

Katherine had spoiled everything. As he got on in the world, he had had to live differently, and she would not help him. Once he had asked Crisson and his wife to dinner. He was not a partner then, and it was an important occasion for him; but Katherine took it with her usual careless good humor. When her guests arrived, she was not dressed. After a very awkward wait of nearly half an hour, down she came, laughing and lovely--and untidy.

Blakie saw her through the Crisson’s eyes that night. He got a fresh view of things to which he had grown almost accustomed--Madge’s casual fashion of waiting, and the badly ironed napkins.

After dinner she sat down at the piano and sang for them, and her coil of shining hair came loose and slipped down. Mrs. Crisson, with a tight smile, rose and put the pins in firmly, while Katherine went on singing.

They had their first real quarrel that night.

“Can’t you do your hair decently?” he said. “Mrs. Crisson--”

“And her with a wisp of hair that looks like nothing at all!” Katherine cried indignantly.

“That’s not the point,” he told her, but she would not listen, and they said cruel things to each other.

In the morning she was her usual jolly self again, but it was harder for him.

That had been the beginning. Later there had been more and more quarrels--when she had bought things they couldn’t afford, or, in one of her fits of repentant economy, had insisted upon going shabby.

“What do you care at all what people will be saying?” she would say, when he protested.

For she never cared. She came of a good family; her father had been aid-de-camp to the governor of a British colony, but she had never cared.

“No!” she assured him, laughing. “Nobody else cared, either. They all loved me. I could have gone to a ball in a flour sack, and nobody would have cared!”

“But, see here, for my sake, Katherine--”

“I’ll try,” she said, and that same day she bought herself a huge plum-colored velvet hat that appalled him. They had quarreled about that, too.

At first she had only laughed at his criticisms, but as time went on she grew to resent them. In her girlhood, and during her brief time on the stage, no one had criticized her. Every one had loved her.

“And you!” she had cried once. “You’re the one ought to love me best of all, and you do not, Lewis!”

“What about your loving me a little? Won’t you just try?”

There were years and years of that. Even after they had two servants, the house was always a little untidy--not dirty, but with a disorderliness that tormented him. The meals were often late, and she herself was always late. Her friends were forever dropping in. They came to her with all their troubles, and she would lend them money, or give them warm-hearted, prejudiced advice, or just sit listening and crying gallons of tears over some sad tale. Then she would want to tell her husband all about it, and would grow angry at his lack of sympathy.

All this went on until there was nothing left but bitterness between them; and then she had gone away with the children and had written him a letter to say that she was not coming back.

He remembered that first night in the house. He had gone into her room, all in disorder from her packing, and then into the empty nursery, where Renie’s despised and ill-used rag doll sat in a broken rocking chair. If he could have seen Katherine then he would have begged her to come back; but when it came to writing a letter, that was a different matter. He had his pride to consider.

He had written briefly, asking her to come back for the sake of the children, and he had had an answer from her lawyer. He had not been sorry. Lonely as he was, there was an immense relief in that loneliness, and there was a dignity which had long been lacking. It was as if he had found his soul again.

Finished now all their life together; but life itself was not finished. Blakie was only forty-five, and there were years and years ahead of him.

He thought of Frances Deering, with the curious uneasiness that the thought of her always caused him. He couldn’t help knowing! She was very grave, very businesslike in her manner, but he couldn’t help knowing!

Sometimes, when he caught her looking at him, the honest, innocent admiration in her eyes gave him a thrill of pride and pleasure. At other times it troubled and irritated him. Twenty-two she was, not much more than a kid--a good girl, and a pretty one, but he was not interested in that sort of thing. He had loved Katherine with a love that would never come again, and he wanted no more of that.

Yet sometimes, in his hours of dejection and loneliness, he would think of the solace of an honest, faithful affection, of what it would mean to have some one waiting for him at home, some one to care if he were ill, a companion for his older years.

With an impatient frown he pushed away his papers and rose. He couldn’t work now.

As he went into the outer office he saw Frances sitting at her desk, with the little girls beside her, all of them busy cutting out rabbits from colored memorandum pads, and talking quietly together. Something in the sight displeased him. The girl’s fair head, as it bent down toward the children, had a meek look about it. Her quick and whole-hearted acceptance of all Blakie’s orders made him feel like a sort of sultan, a very lonely autocrat. He didn’t like that.

“Thanks, very much, Miss Deering,” he said. “Now, kids!”

Her eyes sought his face, as if to read there the meaning of his crisp, impersonal tone.

“What have I done that you don’t like?” her eyes asked.

“You are not the one,” his heart answered. “You are good and pretty and young, but you are not the one. What you want to see in my face no woman will ever see again!”

II

Blakie had made very careful plans. He had taken a flat near the park. He had engaged a good cook, and a nursery governess who would come every morning to take the children to the school on Riverside Drive where Katherine had started them. It was not the school he would have chosen, but they could not change every six months.

He had consulted with his doctor about a proper diet for children of their age. He had drawn up a schedule, not too rigid, for their baths, meals, study, and exercise. He had bought roller skates for them to use in the park; he had arranged riding lessons and dancing lessons for them; he had bought them books and toys.

He had furnished a room for each girl. Martha’s was pink--a pink rug, rose-colored curtains, a little lamp with a rose-colored shade, wicker chairs with cushions, a bookcase, a desk, and a rose-colored eider down quilt on the foot of the little white bed. Next to Martha’s room was Renie’s, decorated in blue.

“How does that suit you?” he asked, opening the two doors.

They stood one on each side of him, looking into those bright, cozy little rooms with wide, solemn eyes.

“They’re awfully sweet, daddy dear,” said Martha.

“Awfully sweet,” Renie echoed, but he saw her restless dark eyes roving about, looking for something. What could he have neglected or forgotten?

“She feels strange here,” he thought. “It was bound to be like that at first.” Aloud he said: “Dinner in ten minutes, chicks.”

For it was his policy to give them no time to be homesick.

All afternoon he had had them out at the Bronx zoo, and the cool April air and the excitement had made them healthily tired.

“Just time for a wash and brush,” he said.

“I--can’t unbutton my shoes, daddy,” said Renie.

“Never mind about your shoes,” he answered.

“But mother said not to wear our best shoes in the house.”

Just like Katherine, he thought! Dress up for a public appearance, and never mind how you looked at home!

“Never mind about your shoes,” he repeated a little impatiently. “Just brush your hair.”

“But mother told us--” said Renie, and he saw her lip tremble.

“All right!” he said hastily. “Sit down!”

He knelt down and unbuttoned the shiny pumps, while Martha, with a brisk, competent air, opened their small suitcase and brought out two pairs of cracked old pumps.

They went off hand in hand to the bathroom, and came back damp and rosy.

“Now!” he said, hoping that the sight of the dinner table would arouse them to some expression of delight.

It had seemed to him a matter of great importance that his daughters should learn to like a well appointed table, to appreciate a charming and orderly environment, and he had done his best here. A damask cloth and gleaming silver, a centerpiece of roses, and before each child a silver knife, fork, and spoon, monogrammed, and, to charm them, a little china basket filled with pink and white sweets.

“This is the way things ought to be,” he wanted to tell them. “This is the way you ought to live. This is what I longed for, all through those years of carelessness and disorder!”

But he could not say that. He must not even hint at any disapproval of their mother’s régime. That would be an inexcusable treachery.

He felt certain that Katherine had never belittled him to them. He could trust her for that. There was nothing petty about Katherine.

“It’s awfully pretty, daddy!” said Martha.

Renie echoed her sister’s approval; but they didn’t seem impressed.

“They are strange here,” he thought. “After a few days it will be different.”

Their appetites were good, he noticed. Their mother had always looked after their physical welfare most vigilantly. Their table manners were good, too. Well, so were hers, when she bothered to think about such things.

“She’s taken good care of them,” thought Blakie.

He had known that she would. Her love for her children was an unfaltering, inexhaustible passion. She was often injudicious with them. She spoiled them, of course, and sometimes she grew angry at them. Once he had heard her call Martha a darned fool; but Martha had only laughed at her, and then Katherine herself had laughed and hugged the child tight.

“Didn’t mean to be so cross, sweetheart baby!”

“Oh, I know it, mother!”

What sort of way was that to bring up children?

“She’ll be missing them to-night,” he thought.

It was hard to imagine Katherine without her children. She had always been with them, and had taken them everywhere with her. Indeed, she had been ridiculous about them, running to the school to say that she feared Marty was tired, and calling in the doctor on any pretext. Yes, she would be missing them to-night!

“Good God, haven’t I missed them for the last six months?” he thought. “They are my children, too!”

He glanced at their little dark heads bent over their plates, at their blunt little fingers grasping the new knives and forks, and such a wave of tenderness and pain swept over him that he could scarcely breathe.

“I want to keep them!” he thought. “I want to give them the very best! Poor little things!”

After dinner he took them into the sitting room and read to them from one of the new books. They were passionately interested.

“Go on! Go on, daddy!” they cried, whenever he stopped to puff at his cigar.

At eight o’clock came the moment he dreaded.

“They’ll miss their mother,” he thought. “It’ll be hard, this first night.”

“We’ll have a race with the undressing,” he said. “Call me when you are ready--and the first one in bed gets a prize!”

That worked very well. In an incredibly short space of time Marty shouted:

“Ready, daddy!”

And her faithful little echo cried:

“Ready, daddy!”

They were both under the covers, grinning from ear to ear. Their clothes were scattered all over the room, but he decided not to notice that to-night. He even had an impulse to pretend to forget their prayers, for fear of troubling them, but he resisted that. He didn’t insist upon any great accuracy, however.

“Now,” he said, “I’m going to be there in the sitting room. You can see the light from your beds. If you want anything, call me.”

Then he turned out their lamps, opened their windows, and kissed them in a cheerful, casual way, fighting down his longing to catch them up, to hold them fast, tight in his arms, after these six long months.

“Night, daddy!” they called simultaneously.

He sat down with a new book to read; but after all he could not read. Here they were, safe in his care, surrounded with everything they ought to have--except one thing.

He smoked, staring at nothing. They were here with him, his children, and yet there was a desolation in the place. He felt it, and he knew they must feel it.

He put down his cigar and went into Renie’s room. She was sound asleep. He touched her head, found it damp with perspiration, and took off the eider down quilt, which she had pulled up.

Then he went into Martha’s room. She, too, was perfectly quiet, but her head was covered up, and, as he tried quietly to draw down the quilt, she clung to it.

“Marty, dear! Are you awake?” he asked gently.

“Yes, daddy,” replied a muffled voice.

“Uncover your head, pet. It’s not good for you.”

She obeyed him, but lay with her back turned to him.

“Look here, Marty dear! Don’t cry!” He sat down beside her, and stroked her hair. “Don’t cry, pet!”

She was very quiet, but he felt her little shoulders shake.

“Look here, Marty! I know how it is. You miss your mother.”

“Oh, no!” she declared with a sob.

“You needn’t mind telling me, Marty. It’s quite natural, dear.”

“But it isn’t--polite,” she said, with another sob.

“Yes, it is, Marty. I don’t mind.”

“Don’t you really and truly mind, daddy?” she asked, turning to him.

“Not a bit, Marty. It’s quite natural.”

She sat up and flung her arms around his neck, burying her head on his shoulder. She was drenched in tears. Even her little hands were damp.

“Oh, I do miss mother!” she whispered. “I do miss her, daddy! I don’t want to be unpolite, but I do miss mother so!”

He held her tight, in despair.

“I know, Marty, I know; but you’ll be going back to her soon, dear.”

“Then I’ll miss you,” she said. “All the t-time I’ll be going away and m-missing you both!”

He was frightened to feel her tremble so. He picked her up and carried her into the bathroom. Her face was stained with tears, her eyes were heavy, her body was shaken with sobs.

He bathed her face with cold water, and gave her a drink. Then he carried her into the sitting room.

“Don’t cry so, Marty dear! Shall I read to you?”

“I didn’t mean to be--so unpolite to you, daddy darling!”

“Don’t say that, Marty!” he cried. “It’s--”

Her wet cheek was pressed against his.

“I missed you so, daddy,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from sobbing.

She was growing quieter now, and he held her in his arms, feeling her little heart beat against his. Then, suddenly, she burst out again wildly:

“Oh, daddy! Oh, daddy! I’ve got to be--always going away--and missing you both! I can’t bear it, daddy! Oh, I miss mother so awfully, terribly much! Oh, daddy, I want mother!”

“Hush, Marty!” he said in anguish. “You’ll wake Renie, you know.”

That calmed her at once. She sobbed a little longer, but her tears had ceased.

“It’s worse for Renie,” she said soberly. “She slept right in mother’s room. I just had the door open between. I’d hate to have Renie wake up.”

“So we’d better not talk, eh?” said Blakie.

“I guess probably we hadn’t,” Martha agreed.

She fell asleep there in his arms. Presently he carried her back to her bed, and sat there beside her in the dark.

Every six months a cruel parting, a difficult readjustment! It was bad enough for a mature and armored spirit, but for children, two little loving, bewildered children--what would it do to them?

They were too young to be critical. They gave only love to both parents, making no comparisons; but as they grew older it would not be so. Suppose he succeeded in his attempt to make them appreciate a gracious, well ordered life? Then, when they were with Katherine, they would suffer--would suffer all the more because they loved her. Every six months a cruel parting, a difficult readjustment!

“It can’t be like this,” he said to himself.

It was not for them to suffer, to make readjustments, to have their love so tormented, their faithfulness so tried. No, let the guilty suffer, not these innocent ones!

He was guilty--he knew it; and Katherine was guilty. They had had a beautiful and invaluable thing, and they had destroyed it by a thousand almost imperceptible blows. It was gone now, and could never again be restored; but it need not have perished. If he had been less critical, if she had been less willful, if only there had been a little more patience and generosity on either side, their love could have lived.

Perhaps they were not well suited to each other. What did that matter? He and his business partner were ill suited to each other, but it was expedient for them to get on peacefully together, and they did. His mother had been a very exasperating old lady, but he had considered it his duty to get on with her, and he had done so. He had ardently disliked the captain of his football eleven at college, but as a matter of course he had mastered the dislike. He had learned to get on amicably with all sorts of people; but this woman whom he had chosen--

Any two persons who were reasonably civilized and self-controlled could get on together, if they tried. They might not be particularly happy in doing so, but they could do it, if they tried.

“We didn’t really try, either of us,” he thought.

It was too late now to start again. There was too much to be forgiven and forgotten; but these children should not suffer.

III

The next day was Sunday, and Blakie had promised to take the two girls into the country for a picnic; but at breakfast he suggested another plan.

“Suppose we go and see mother,” he said.

Renie’s sensitive face grew scarlet, but Martha frowned a queer little anxious frown. She couldn’t understand this.

“We’ll go early,” he went on, “so that she won’t be out.”

He sent them into the kitchen to talk to the cook, while he went into Martha’s room to repack their bag. They would not come back to these gay little pink and blue rooms!

Then he took the bag downstairs, put it under the seat in the car, and went up to fetch the children. He would not tell them they were not coming back. If he could help it, there should not be another cruel parting for them.

He drove the car himself, leaving them together in the back seat; and all the way he tried to find some consolation for his great bitterness.

In all the world there was nothing but Frances Deering.

“I’ll marry her,” he thought. “I’ll have a home of my own. She’s a dear little kid!”

He must have some one, and he saw clearly that he could build up a good life with Frances. He was fond of her; perhaps he could love her, in a way. He could have a good life, honorable and dignified and comfortable.

* * * * *

Katherine’s flat was in a very second-rate neighborhood. That was just like her!

“What do I care at all for the neighborhood,” he could imagine her saying, “if it’s a nice flat with plenty of air and room?”

He stopped the car before the door.

“You wait here for awhile,” he told the children.

Going into the ornate entrance hall, he asked the colored boy to telephone upstairs to Mrs. Blakie that a gentleman had come to see her on business.

“You’re to go up,” said the boy.

She opened the door for him herself. At the sight of him her face grew white as death.

“Oh, God!” she cried. “Something’s happened to them! Oh, God! I knew, if I let them go--”

“Don’t be silly!” he interrupted sharply. “They are both perfectly all right. I simply want to speak to you for a moment, if--”

He stopped short, shocked and dismayed that he had spoken in the old tone of irritation.

“Come in, Lew,” she said anxiously.

He followed her into the sitting room. It was untidy, with music scattered all about, and through the open doorway he could see the breakfast dishes still on the table.

“Madge has gone to mass,” she explained.

There was a strange sort of humility about her that he had never seen before. She was wearing a silk kimono, with her hair in a loose plait. Her face was pale and jaded and stained with tears.

“I’m sorry the place is so upset,” she said.

He knew what made her so apologetic. He had the upper hand now--he had her children.

“Sit down, Katherine,” he said, stung to a great pity. “I shan’t waste time beating about the bush. I’ve been thinking--most of the night.”

“So have I,” she replied. “All night!”

“It’s not right, Katherine. It’s not fair to them.”

“I know,” she said.

He was silent for a moment, looking about him. It was easy to see why her children loved her so, why she had so many friends. In all her carelessness there was something lavish and generous. She was never petty. She was like a child herself, reckless and impulsive--and lovely. Hadn’t Blakie loved her himself, and known how beautifully kind she could be? Never could his children suffer any great harm from her.

“I’ve brought them back,” he said.

“Lew!”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s too damned hard on them--this way. I’ve brought them back to you--to keep.”

“Lew!” she cried. “Oh, my poor Lew!”

Tears were running down her cheeks. He patted her shoulder.

“Buck up!” he said. “You’ve got to think of something to tell them, so that they won’t--be upset--about me.”

He turned away, but she followed him.

“Lew! They will be upset! They’ve missed you. They need you.”

He knew that.

“All the night long I’ve been thinking,” she went on. “Can’t we start again--for their sakes?”

They faced each other now, and all that they had lost. If they were to start again! There would be no gracious and dignified life for him, no careless freedom for her. They would exasperate and hurt each other, again and again.

He walked over to the window and looked down to Renie and Martha, sitting side by side in the car.

“We can try,” he said.

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

MARCH, 1928 Vol. XCIII NUMBER 2

Derelict

TELLING WHAT CHARLES HACKETT DID WHEN HE HAD HIS CHOICE BETWEEN A LIFE OF COMFORT AT HOME AND ONE OF ADVENTURE AND HARDSHIP IN THE TROPICS

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

The private office was dim in the gray light of a March dusk; through the open window a chilly wind came blowing, with a fine drizzle of rain. Wickham Hackett sat at his desk, in a circle of light from the shaded lamp that illumined sharply his fine, haggard face, and made the graying hair on his temples glisten like silver. He had the look of some worn and ascetic recluse, sitting there in the chill and shadowy room.

He was making notes for his address to the board of directors. He knew very well that he could do this far better in the morning, that he was too tired now for any efficient work; but he was too tired to think of resting. The strain of his day had left him horribly tense, filled with an almost unbearable sense of exasperation and urgency.

His stenographer came to the open door.

“Will you want me any longer, Mr. Hackett?” she asked.

He was silent for a moment, struggling gallantly against his savage mood. He wanted to shout at her, to swear at her, to tell her that it was her business to stay as long as he did, and that she was a little fool, with her high heels and her powdered nose; but he held his tongue, turned away his head so that he need not see her, and answered mildly:

“No. You can go, Miss Johnson.”

After she had gone, he rose and went to the window. The pavement far below was glistening, the lights were blurred. The rain blew in on him, cold and fine. He liked the feel of it. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.

“By Heaven, I won’t quit!” he said to himself. “I won’t give in! I won’t go home until I’ve got this thing straight in my mind, if I stay here all night!”

A great exultation seized him, a sense of power and energy. It was often like this. He would reach what would seem to be the very limit of his endurance, but if he held on, and would not rest, would not yield, this curious new vigor would come to him, this feeling of triumph, as if he had passed the boundary of normal endeavor and had become superhuman. He would pay for this later, in a long night of sleeplessness, but it was worth it.

He saw before him now, with perfect clarity, just the words he would use in his address. He drew back from the window, in a hurry to set them down, and as he turned he saw a tall figure standing near his desk. The shock made him dizzy for a moment.

“What--” he began furiously, and stopped, staring. “Oh, it’s you, is it, Charley?” he said.

“It’s me,” replied the other cheerfully. “Knocked at the outer door and nobody answered, so I walked in. Sorry I startled you.”

“Nerves, I suppose,” murmured Wickham Hackett. “I’m very tired. Sit down, man. I have something to tell you.”

But the other remained standing. He was a tall man, lean and sunburned, with a handsome, arrogant face and a swaggering air. He seemed like a man from another age, who should have worn a sword at his side. An adventurer, surely, but down on his luck now, with a frayed and threadbare overcoat, a shabby hat, and deep lines about his gray eyes.

“Sit down, man!” Wickham Hackett repeated impatiently. “Here, have a smoke. I have some news for you, Charley.”

“Can’t refuse!” said Charles Hackett, and he sat down, with one long leg over the arm of the chair. “That’s good!” he added, at the first puff of the cigar.

Wickham Hackett looked down at the papers on his desk, because the sight of this battered rover stirred him almost intolerably. He could remember such a different Charles, years and years ago--such a careless, joyous, and triumphant Charles; and to see him now, like this--

The returned wanderer had come into his brother’s office two weeks ago, in his old casual way, as if the twelve years of his absence were nothing at all.

“Touch of fever,” he had said. “The doctors tell me I can’t live in a tropical climate any more, so I’ve come home. Do you think you can find me some sort of a job, Wick? There’s not a damned thing I can do that’s any use; but you’re such a big fellow now, you might be able to find me something, eh?”

“I’ll find you a job,” Wickham Hackett had promised.

Then Charley had begun asking about old friends. This one was dead, that one gone away; all the inevitable vicissitudes of twelve years were starkly revealed. It had been horrible, as if Charles were a ghost come back to a world that had long forgotten him.

“Well, yes, of course--it’s natural,” he had said. “The life there, in the West Indies--quite different, you know. I like it.”

“That’s hard luck, Charley,” Wickham Hackett had said.

“No,” Charles had said. “No luck about it, Wick. I had it coming to me. I’ve lived hard, and now I’ve got to pay. I’m forty, my health is broken, and I haven’t a damned cent. That’s not bad luck, Wick--it’s bad management;” and he had smiled, his teeth very white against his sunburned face.

That was the worst of it, to Wickham Hackett’s thinking--that incurable carelessness and swagger of his brother’s. He was not sobered or steadied by whatever misfortunes had befallen him. He still laughed, as a man of another day might have laughed, with his back to the wall and nothing left him but the sword in his hand. In a way, it was admirable, but it was hard to witness that flashing smile, that debonair manner--with the threadbare overcoat and the shabby hat!

Wickham had taken his brother home with him.

“But you’re married now,” Charles had protested. “Perhaps your wife--”

“She’ll be glad to see you,” Wickham had answered.

He had not felt at all sure of that, but one thing he did know--whether Madeline was glad or sorry to see Charles, she would receive him kindly and graciously.

“I can always count on her,” Wickham had thought.

That was the best thing in his life, the feeling he had about Madeline. It was not the thing people usually speak of as “being in love.” In his early youth he had known what that was. He had been in love, miserably, bitterly, hotly in love, and he had come out of it, not unscarred; but this, his feeling for Madeline, was different. This was a love of dignity and utter trust. He honored her above all women on earth, and he profoundly admired her reserved beauty. He gave her everything freely, and put his very soul into her keeping.

He never told her things like that. In the course of his first disastrous love affair he had done plenty of talking, and he wished never to use those words again. He had proved to Madeline, in their five years of life together, what he thought of her, how he valued her, and of course she would understand.

She had been quite as kind and gracious to Charley as her husband had expected. She had looked after the poor fellow’s comfort, had made him feel at ease and happy. It had been good to see him so happy.

“And now,” thought Wickham, “his troubles are pretty well over. He’ll be all right.” Aloud he said: “Yes, I have news for you, Charley. I’ve--”

“Hold on a minute!” said Charles Hackett. “I have some news myself, Wick. Wait! Where is it? Here!”

He drew an envelope from his breast pocket, took out the letter inside, and spread it out on his knee.

“From a fellow I knew down in Nicaragua,” he observed. “He’s got a deal on there. Wants me to come in with him. Where is it? Here! ‘Your experience will be better than capital,’ he says. ‘I’ll put up the money and you’ll do the work.’ He says--”

“What are you talking about?” Wickham interrupted impatiently. “You can’t go down there. Now look here, Charley! I saw Carrick again to-day, and he’s willing to take you in there. It’s a remarkable opportunity.”

“Yes, but I--”

“Don’t belittle yourself!” said Wickham. “You’ve got certain qualities that ’ll be mighty useful to him. You’ve got brains, Charley--although you don’t like to use ’em. I’ve been after Carrick for the last ten days, and at last I’ve made him see the point. He wants to meet you to-morrow, and then we’ll make a definite arrangement.”

“Yes, but--” objected Charley. “I see; but--I think this Nicaragua job would suit me better, Wick.”

“Don’t be such a fool!” cried Wickham. “You know damned well that that climate would kill you in a year; and here I’m offering you a chance any other man would give his ears for!”

“Yes, I know,” said Charles. “Very good of you, Wick. I appreciate it; but--”

Wickham sprang to his feet, shaken with a terrible anger.

“You fool!” he shouted. “After I’ve--” He stopped suddenly, and stood there visibly making a tremendous effort at self-control; and he won it. “Sorry!” he said. “The truth is, I’m a bit tired. We won’t talk any more about it now, eh? We’ll go along home, and after dinner--”

“Yes,” said Charles; “but the thing is, Wick, I was thinking of having dinner in town to-night. You see, there’s a boat to-morrow--”

“No, you don’t!” said Wickham. “You’re not going to do any such foolish and suicidal thing as that until we’ve had a talk.”

“Yes, but--”

“Charley,” said the other, “look here--I’m pretty tired. I can’t talk to you properly now, and I want to. I’m not demonstrative, and never was. Perhaps I haven’t let you see how much”--he paused, looking down at his desk--“how much I have your welfare at heart,” he ended stiffly.

“Wick, of course I’ve seen,” replied Charles, profoundly touched. “I’ve appreciated everything; only you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. I’m a born tramp, Wick. I’d really better go.”

“For the Lord’s sake, shut up!” said Wickham, half laughing. “I can’t talk to you until after dinner. Come along now and we’ll just make the five forty.”

II

It was Wickham’s habit to read a newspaper on the train going home, not because his preoccupied mind felt any great interest in the outside world, but because it was a protection. It kept people from talking to him.

This time, however, sitting beside Charles, he did not open his paper. He showed his brother an almost exaggerated courtesy. For Charles’s sake he made an effort he would have made for no one else. He tried to talk about old friends and old days, turning his worn and sensitive face toward the other with a look of fixed attention; but his mind wandered. A thousand little anxieties and exasperations stirred him, and he grew silent and distrait.

Then his glance fell upon the sleeve of that threadbare overcoat, upon a worn shoe carefully polished, and an almost unbearable compassion seized him. Charley come home again, penniless and broken in health at forty!

It was dark when they reached the suburban station, and the rain fell steadily. They crossed the covered platform to Wickham’s car. The chauffeur held the door open, they got in, and the car started.

“I don’t know how it was,” said Charles, “but whenever I used to think of home it was always like this--cold, rainy nights, and the little houses lighted up. Sort of a charm about it, don’t you think?”

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