Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

“Well, but my good child! Long Island and the twentieth century and the tottering state of holy matrimony--it’s simply defying the laws of gravity! Do you sit here hanging the crane every night of your lives?”

“Oh, Hal, you lovely idiot! Of course we don’t; we go out any amount and have people here a lot, and go in town, too. Only we happen to like each other--rather--and to like to play together--rather--so we just go ahead and do it. It’s simply happened that up to now nothing turned up that we couldn’t do together; _of course_ it was bound to happen sooner or later. Of course I know that, Hal.” She leaned forward, the firelight painting flying shadows on the vivid, high-bred little face. “But I’m an utter goose about Derry. I feel _empty_ when he isn’t around, and I don’t care who knows it.”

“A bit hard on the rest of us, isn’t it? Still, if it’s the same Derry that I practically bestowed on you at the altar I’m rather inclined to get your point of view. Not changed for the worse?”

“Changed for the better, thank you!” laughed Derry’s wife. “Better and better and better every minute, once removed from your sinister influence.” She smiled her gay affection at him, and then suddenly the smile wavered, faded--she sprang to her feet, trailing her blue-green draperies over to the long window.

“Don’t you _hate_ that noise, Hal? No, listen. The rain’s out to drown the world, and that wind----” She shivered, staring out into the menacing blackness, raging like a wild beast on the other side of the lighted window. “Poor Hal, it’s going to be simply awful for you! It’s a good ten minutes’ walk to the club, and these back roads turn into mud soup if it even showers! I do think it’s a wicked shame.”

“Perhaps I’d better be getting on my way----”

“No, no!” There was a note of sheer panic in her voice, though she laughed it down valiantly. “Why, it can’t be eleven, and he isn’t going to call up till twelve. You simply have to entertain me; I won’t be abandoned yet. No, I mean it. Let’s start again--about Brazil. You were telling me about Brazil----”

“You aren’t even remotely interested in Brazil,” he accused. “But I’ll talk to you about any place from Peoria to Patagonia, if you’ll stop wandering about like a lost soul, and come back to the fire, like a good child.”

“Yes,” replied the good child obediently, dropping the curtain. “Does--does it seem cold to you in here, Hal?”

“Cold? It’s heavenly warm; if I were a cat I’d purr for you.”

“It feels--cold, to me,” said Anne Carver, spreading her hands before the leaping flames. “As though the wind had got in through the window somehow, and into my blood--and into my bones----”

“Nonsense,” said Devon sharply. “You got chilled standing over there; you’re an unconscionable goose, and I’m beginning to be strongly out of patience with you. Sit down and put your feet on the fender--want something over your shoulders?”

She shook her head, holding her hands closer to the fire.

“No, please--I’d rather not sit down just yet. It was the window, of course. Don’t be cross; I do want to hear the rest of that about Brazil. Some day I’m going there; some day I’m going to find a country where there’s no such time as autumn--no such month as November, full of dead leaves, and wind and cold--and emptiness. Tell me what’s prettiest there; there must be so many pretty things? Birds with shining feathers--butterflies like flowers--flowers like butterflies--gold like sunshine and sunshine like gold--oh, I’m warmer just for thinking of it! Tell me what was prettiest?”

“I saw nothing half so pretty as a lady with the lamplight falling about her, bending over pansies black as her hair in a bowl green as her eyes.”

“Oh!” She straightened swiftly, giving the flowers a last friendly touch, and facing him, lightly flushed, lightly reproachful. “_Green_, Hal? That’s not pretty at all--and it stands for something shameful.”

Devon raised quizzical eyebrows.

“Never felt the honest pangs of jealousy, Anne?”

“But how could I, even if I were capable of such cheapness and ugliness? I’ve never in my life cared for any one but Derry.”

“And Derry, lovely lady, would never give you cause?”

“_Derry?_” The startled incredulity of that cry rang into clear mirth. “Why, Hal, it may be difficult for you to believe, but Derry _loves_ me.”

Devon tapped the ashes off his cigarette, and sat staring for a moment at the reddened tip.

“It doesn’t precisely strain my credulity to the breaking point,” he replied drily. “No, I can imagine that Derry might love you. It hardly requires any colossal stretch of imagination on my part, either. I’ve loved you myself for thirteen years.”

“Hal!”

“Loved you with every drop of blood in my body. There’s no use looking stricken and melodramatic, Anne. I’ve never worried you much about it, have I?”

“No,” she whispered voicelessly.

“No. Well, then, don’t worry me about it now, there’s a good girl. I’m off for Ceylon to-morrow, and I haven’t the most remote intention of making a nuisance of myself to-night. You don’t have to remind me of the fact that Derry’s my best friend, that I was his best man, that you are his wife. I have an excellent memory for such trifling details myself. It’s only fair to add, however, that I wouldn’t give a tuppenny damn for the whole collection if it weren’t for one other.”

“Which other?” she asked, her eyes meeting his steadily, infinitely gentle and remote.

“The rather important one that you’re happy,” replied Devon evenly. “I came all the way back from Brazil to find out whether he was making you happy--and now I’m off to-morrow.”

“Happy is a poor word for what he has made me,” she said. “You should have known that, you who know Derry. Oh, Hal--oh, Hal, how could you?”

“It isn’t done, I know,” he assented. “It’s always the cad and the villain who is caught out making love to his friend’s wife at all hours of the night. But there’s a slight distinction in my favour, you see; I am loving you, not making love to you.”

“You’re hurting me,” she told him. “Pretty badly.”

“You have no right to be hurt. It’s nothing ugly that I am giving you. Out of pain and bitterness and despair I’ve wrought something rather fine; it isn’t like you to disdain it, my dear. Ever since you were a little girl with dark braids swinging to your waist, I’ve brought you presents; every corner of the earth I’ve ransacked just to have you touch those gifts with your fingers, and say, ‘That’s lovely, Hal--that’s lovely’--and smile. The only thing worth giving you was not in my power to bestow, but I wanted to make sure that you had it, no matter whose hands had held it out to you. Happiness is yours, Anne--I have nothing left to give you but my love. I swear to you that there is not one thing in it that gives you the right to say that it hurts you. Believe me, you can take it in your hands--and smile.”

“Yes. Yes, Hal.” She smiled at him, grave and misty-eyed--and he smiled back.

“Then that’s about all, my dear, and I’ll be going. It’s no hour at all for a poor bachelor to be awake. Good-night, Anne; sweet dreams to you.”

“Hal, I don’t want you to go--please, I don’t want you to go.” There was something so desperate in her low entreaty that he halted with lifted brows. “I know that it’s utterly foolish and unreasonable--and--and selfish, but I simply can’t bear to be left here alone until Derry calls me up. Please, please don’t leave me.”

“Very well.” He turned back to his chair slowly. “This isn’t like you, you know.”

“I know.” She sat staring down at her locked fingers. “It isn’t a bit like me; I haven’t any nerves at all, as a rule--not enough to make me sympathetic even. Derry says my lack of imagination is simply appalling--that unless I can see a thing or touch it or taste it or smell it or hear it, I simply won’t believe that it exists--that I don’t really believe that the world’s round, because it looks flat to me! He laughs about it, but I do honestly think that it worries him.”

“It generally worries Derry when someone doesn’t see things his way.” Devon smiled reminiscently.

“Well, you know how _he_ is. He fully believes that they’re trying to signal to us from Mars, and he almost goes wild because no one pays any attention to the signals! He thinks that phonographs are much more incredible than Ouija boards, and that telephones are far more extraordinary than telepathy. It wouldn’t be any effort to Derry to believe that the world was shaped like a hat-box, with blue and green stripes and a nice little handle to carry it around!”

“You must be a great trial to him, Madame Materialist.”

“Oh, he wrings his hands over me. He says for any one to seem as spiritual and be as literal as I am is nothing more nor less than a swindle. Oh, oh, if he could see me to-night!”

“But will you be good enough to tell me what in the name of Heaven _is_ the matter with you to-night?”

“I don’t know; I don’t know.” She drew a long breath, making a piteous effort to smile. “I’m--frightened.”

“Frightened of _what_?”

“I don’t know, I tell you.” She glanced about her with a long, despairing shiver. “Of the night--of the world--of the room--of--of everything.”

“The room! You know when you talk like that, Anne, you make me seriously consider ringing up a doctor. I don’t believe that all America holds a more delightful room--gayer or kinder or more friendly; it’s nothing short of a miracle what you’ve done to this old barn! It’s the most reassuring room I’ve ever set my foot in; you know, when you come into it with its fires and flowers and lights, you can almost hear it singing and laughing to itself, ‘Here--here dwells happiness.’”

“Oh, yes, you’re right--it has been happy.” Her eyes strayed over its treasures; the shelves warm and bright with books, with the beloved Lowestoft standing like flowers against the panelled cream of the walls, the lustre gleaming in blue and copper bravery along the firelit mantel, the glazed chintz holding out its prim nosegays proudly for all to see--the English prints on the walls echoing the gay warmth of the hooked rugs on the floor--she brought her haunted eyes back to Devon.

“It’s a pretty room,” she said in a strange little voice. “I do think it’s quite a pretty room. But do you know what it looks like to me to-night? To-night it looks to me like a corpse that someone had dressed in a flowered frock and a ribboned hat.”

“Anne!” His voice cracked out like a whip. “Now that’s enough; you’re to pull yourself together at once, or I’m going to call up the doctor. That’s an abominably morbid thing to say--it’s simply not healthy. I’m not joking, my dear; I have every intention of calling him up if you haven’t yourself in hand in the next five minutes.”

He leaned across to the table, drawing the shining black instrument closer toward him.

“D’you think I’m sick?” she asked piteously. “You know, I do think I must be sick. I’m so--I’m so dreadfully cold.”

“Here----” He rose abruptly. “Where’s your scarf?”

“No--no--it isn’t a scarf I want. I’m cold inside, dreadfully, dreadfully. It isn’t a scarf.”

“You’re worrying me badly, Anne. Look here, what is it? This party of Derry’s, honestly?”

“Yes, the party. It’s foolish, I know; I know--don’t say it, please--I know.”

“Well, but what about it? Did Derry seem worried himself? Did he sound upset?”

“No. He sounded--casual. As casual as--as casual as----” She made a little despairing gesture with her hand. “I can’t tell you how casual he sounded.”

“Well, then----”

“Well, then, but that’s it, Hal. Derry isn’t a bit a casual person, and here were you for the first time in three years--and here was I, and he knows how I loathe being left alone out here with the maids--and he sounded as though it were--nothing. Just nothing at all.”

“And is this honestly the mole-hill out of which you’ve built your mountain?”

“No--I don’t know; I can’t even explain it to myself--how could I explain it to you? It wasn’t anything tangible at first. Just a feeling of--of discomfort--something vague and not pleasant; I couldn’t even put my finger on it. I told myself that I was being silly and unreasonable--I did indeed. You mustn’t think that I enjoy this kind of thing. I hate it, I hate it.”

“But I’m so utterly at sea to account for this, my dear, and I want to help you. You’re tormenting yourself about something real if we could only put our finger on it. Something that Derry said or did that worried you; you can’t make me believe that you’ve manufactured all of this out of thin air! It’s too unlike you--why, ever since that first day I met you, a pale mite of a thing with great eyes and long braids, brave and proud and gentle in the midst of the rest of those young hoydens, I’ve found you exquisitely fair and adorably, adorably reasonable. No one’s ever been like you, Anne; you mustn’t wreck my world by showing me little clay feet to-night.”

“Trying to flatter me into being a good child? That’s dear of you, but oh, I’m beyond flattery. I’m making up for any past arrears of reason to-night, I promise you.”

“Well, then, let’s try to get to the bottom of it--hunt the good old subconscious into the open! Now what exactly was this famous telephone conversation, word for word?”

She turned her head restlessly.

“Oh, Hal, what does it matter? Very well--only I’ve told you once, you know. He said, ‘I’m awfully sorry, dear, but I won’t be able to get out this evening. Tell Hal that I’m sorry as the dickens, but that we can have lunch at the office to-morrow; one sharp. That’ll give him plenty of time to get off again on his globe-trotting.’ And I said, ‘But what time will you get out?’ He said, ‘Six-thirty to-morrow, as usual. I may bring Joe Carey along with me.’ I was so surprised that I almost lost my voice, Hal, and I said, ‘Why, Derry, not _to-night_?’ And he just laughed, and said, ‘No; I’ve been roped in on the darnedest party you ever heard of--got to run now, or I’d explain. I can’t possibly get out of it. You’ll be awfully amused when I tell you. It’s a good joke on me!’ I said, ‘But where are you going?’ And Derry said, ‘Lord knows! I’ve got to run, honestly, dear. Tell you what I’ll do: I’ll call you up when it’s over, and let you in on the whole blooming thing. It’s too good to sleep on; wait till you hear! It may be late--will you be awake at twelve?’ And I said, ‘I’ll be awake at six if you don’t call up. Promise, Derry.’ And he said, ‘Promised! Not later than twelve. Give Hal my best--see you both to-morrow.’ And--he rang off.”

“That was absolutely all there was to it?”

“Absolutely all.”

“Very well. I’ll bet you five thousand dollars to a pansy, Lady Tragedy, that the midnight expedition runs somewhat on these lines. Mr. Jabez K. Rugg from Omaha, Nebraska, blows into our Derry’s office late this afternoon with an interesting proposition. He has heard that he is the most promising young architect in America, and as he is desirous of presenting his third wife with a cross between a Moorish palace and a French château for a little anniversary surprise he has applied to Derry for some sound advice, for which he is willing and eager to disburse colossal sums. Time presses, however, and the worthy Mr. Rugg yearns to invest his precious hours in New York both profitably and pleasantly. He suggests that the promising young architect put on his hat, lock up his office, and sally forth into the night, which they will spend together, chattering of business and painting the unfortunate town a brilliant red. He doesn’t happen to know the ropes, but he has a really touching confidence in our Derrick. And our Derrick, fired with the desire to hang pearls about your neck and sables about your shoulders, wafts a good-night kiss to the pleasant anticipation of firelight and candlelight, and sallies forth into what the poet refers to as ‘the lights of old Broadway.’ And there you are! Please pick me out a nice pansy.”

“That’s all very clever and amusing, Hal, but it isn’t especially convincing. And it doesn’t relieve me any more than if someone tried to cheer things up by doing a fox-trot to the funeral march. You needn’t scowl; it doesn’t. If it was as simple as that, why didn’t he explain it at the time?”

“My dear child, he was evidently in a tearing hurry--he’d have had to go into elaborate explanations to make it clear, and he obviously wasn’t in any position to indulge in the luxury of explanations. The impetuous Mr. Rugg may have been clamouring at the door, or tooting his horn underneath the window. At any rate, he’s going to call you up in a bare half hour, and clear up the whole thing; he’s apt to keep his word, isn’t he?”

“_Apt_ to?” she echoed scornfully. “He’d keep his word if the world came to an end. I thought that you knew him.”

At the disdain in her voice something violently resentful flared in the dark eyes that met hers.

“Why, so did I,” he returned evenly. “But apparently I was mistaken. The Derry I knew was not a plaster saint, you see!”

“Nor is the Derry that I know--plaster.” Her voice shook, but she held her head very high. “Are you trying to make me mistrust him, Hal? Be careful, please; you are only making me mistrust you.”

“Oh, good God!” He flung at her a look of such revolt and despair that the small frozen face softened. “Look here, don’t--don’t let’s make more of a mess of this. You can’t believe that kind of thing of me, Anne; you may know Derry, but you’ve known me longer, after all. I’d cut my throat before I’d try to come between you two. Derry’s worth a thousand of me, of course--I know. He’s made you happy, and nothing that I could do in this life or the next would ever repay him for that. But just for a moment it galled me hideously to have you lavishing that flood of adoration on any man that lived: it was a flick on a raw wound, and something deep in me yelled out rebellion. You think jealousy a cheap and ugly thing, you say--well, now you know just how cheap, just how ugly it can be!”

“Ah, I’m sorry----” She leaned to him, all gentleness once more. “I’m sorry that I was hateful; it’s nothing but these unspeakable nerves, truly. Let’s forget it all, shan’t we? Do you think it’s letting up a little outside? It doesn’t sound quite so--so savage, does it?” As though resentful of her waning terror, the beast outside flung itself at them once more, pouncing on the house with a long and terrible roar, shaking it in its monstrous claws as though it would rattle the flimsy barriers of wood and glass out of their cracking frames. She shrank deeper into the chair with a tremulous laugh. “Oh, no, it’s incredible--no, _listen_ to it. I’ll wager that it’s literally tearing trees up by the roots and----” She broke off tensely. “Hal, you don’t think that it could damage the wires, do you?”

“No, no; nonsense! It sounds a great deal worse than it is; this house is nothing but a rattletrap, I tell you. It takes a worse storm than this to put a telephone out of commission.”

“If he doesn’t telephone, I can’t bear it,” she said softly. “That’s not rhetoric. I simply can’t bear it.”

“Well, we can settle that,” said Devon briefly. “I’ll get Central and----”

The telephone that he reached for suddenly gave a faint jangle--a small, far-off warning of sound--and then it rang aloud, sharp and imperative.

“Oh, _Hal_!” Her voice was an exultant quiver. “No, no, give it to me; he’s early, isn’t he? It’s not nearly twelve, is it? Yes--yes, this is Mrs. Carver--this is Anne, darling----” The thrilled voice wavered and flagged. “Oh--oh, I’m sorry; you must have the wrong number.... Yes, it’s Mrs. Carver--Mrs. Derrick Carver. No, but it’s a mistake.... No, no one’s been using the wire this evening; no, it hasn’t rung at all. I’ve been rather expecting a call, but the wire’s been perfectly clear since nine.... What?... I can’t hear--there’s a singing on the wires.... What?... No, the receiver hasn’t been off; I’m sorry that you’ve had so much trouble getting us, but I really think that there’s some mistake--perhaps the maids----” She bit her lip, with a glance of despairing amusement at Devon. “Why, yes, it’s possible that someone else has been trying to get a call through to me, but none has come through.... Yes, it might have been long distance.... What? You’ve been trying for an hour? Well, that really isn’t my fault, is it? If you’ll tell me what you want.... I can’t hear; please speak a little louder.... No, it doesn’t make any difference whether any one else is here or not, you can give the message to me. I’m quite as capable of hearing what you have to say as any one else.... No, I most certainly will not; please tell me what you want, or I shall simply ring off.... Yes. Yes. I can hear.... Oh, its _Headquarters_. Well, you can tell for yourself that the telephone’s not working well; there’s that singing on the wires and every now and then it buzzes, too. I suppose it’s this storm; I’m so glad you’re working on it. Do see if there’s not something that you can do; I _am_ expecting an important call any minute. Can’t one of your men?... Well, then, what on earth did you call up for? I do think that this service---- _Oh_----” Her voice died suddenly in her throat, and at the look in her eyes Devon leapt to his feet.

“Here, Anne--give it to me!”

She shook her head, fighting desperately to get back her voice.

“No, no--wait.... Yes, I heard you perfectly--yes, Police Headquarters. I didn’t understand. It’s some mistake, of course.... No.... No, he’s not here.... Well, then, if you knew that, what do you want?... I don’t know where--I don’t know, I tell you.... I can’t hear you--please spell.... Green’s? Breen’s?... No, I never heard of such a place.... No, I don’t know who he went with; it was some kind of a party--some kind of a.... Who?... Lola? Lola what? No, no, never mind--I never heard of her--never.... Please--please wait a minute--I want to ask you a question--just one. Please. I’ve answered all of yours, haven’t I?... Then--where is Mr. Carver? Where is he?... No, no, you know where he is--you do--you do--you do! You have to tell me--You have to--you.... Hal! Hal!”

She thrust the telephone toward him, the frantic voice slipping and stumbling in its haste.

“Make them tell you--you’re a man--make them--make them----”

Her teeth were chattering so violently that the words were lost; she clung to the table edge, shaken with a dreadful and racking tremor, her tortured eyes fastened on his face.

“What the devil do you mean, calling up at this hour of the night?” demanded Devon violently. “I don’t care who you are; it’s a damned outrage, ringing up a woman at this hour and frightening the heart out of her. One of your dirty charges for speeding, I’ll bet.... If you’ve got Mr. Carver there, send him to the ’phone and send him quick.... Well, if it comes down to that, I don’t like your tone, either.... What?... What?... Oh, report and be damned; you’re going to get a report on yourself that’ll blow the inside of your head out.... Well, get me Mr. Carver then and snap into it.... I can’t hear.... Where is he then?... Where?... Oh, speak louder--where is he?... _What?..._”

There was a moment of absolute silence, and then he spoke again, very quietly.

“Yes, I heard you; I heard you perfectly--be good enough not to shout.... Yes.... No, I’ll explain to Mrs. Carver.... Well, I can’t give you credentials over the telephone, but I have known Mr. and Mrs. Carver for years; I was at school with him--yes. My name’s Devon.... D-e-v-o-n. Henry Devon.... Yes, I’ll drop in to see you to-morrow.... No, you can’t speak to Mrs. Carver--no, that’s final. I’d be much obliged if you’d give me any details that you have. Just run over the facts.... Yes.... I didn’t get that.... Oh--blonde.... No, I couldn’t tell you.... No, you’re on the wrong track; there has been no trouble of any kind between them.... Well, there isn’t any explanation--not any; it’s--it’s.... Look here, give me your number and I’ll call up again in a few minutes.... Yes. 5493?... oh, 53!... In about fifteen minutes.... Yes.”

He placed the receiver slowly on the hook, and stood staring down at the little black instrument that had been so vocal, and now was dumb.

“Hal?” The voice was not more than a breath, but at its sound he shuddered, as though he were cold. “Hal?”

“Sit down, Anne; here, I’ll pull it closer to the fire--that’s it.”

“Hal, what did that man say? Has there been an accident?”

“Something like that.”

“Is Derry--hurt?”

“Yes, dear.”

She sat quite still, only her fingers stirring, drawing the silken tassel on her girdle back and forth, back and forth.

“Is Derry--dead, Hal?”

“Yes, dear.”

She let the girdle slip from her fingers, lifting her hands to push back the weight of hair from her forehead with a small sigh, like a tired child.

“I think it’s just some mistake, don’t you, Hal?”

“I wish to God that I could think so.”

“Well--but what made them think it was Derry?”

“He had letters--cards--initials on his cigarette case.”

“Oh, yes, it’s a diamond-shaped monogram--awfully pretty. I gave it to him last Christmas; you can’t think how pleased he was. D.H.C.--Derrick Horn Carver---- Who was Lola?”

“She was a--a girl who was with him.”

“Was she? Where did it happen?”

“In New Jersey, somewhere this side of Princeton.”

“Please tell me just what happened. Did another automobile hit them?”

“No.”

After a long moment she said again in that dreadful, gentle little voice.

“Well? Then what was it? I’m waiting.”

“Anne, I don’t know how to tell you. I’d rather have the heart torn out of my body then tell you. Wait----”

“I’m through waiting. Is it as bad as that? Hurry up, please. What happened? Where did they find him?”

“In a road-house near Princeton--a place called Breen’s.”

“Was he alone?”

“No--there was a girl with him. They don’t know who she was; her handkerchief had ‘Lola’ on it.”

“Had she killed him?”

“No.”

“How do they know she hadn’t?”

“Because she was shot herself--in the back.”

“Then who killed him?”

“They----” He set his teeth, the sweat standing out on his forehead. “I’m not going to tell you any more about it now. Wait--wait----”

“If you don’t tell me, I’m going out through that door and walk until I get to New York. Who killed him?”

“They say he killed himself.”

“Killed himself? I never heard of such ridiculous nonsense.” She was speaking as quietly and evenly as though she were discussing the labour problem, frozen to a calm more terrible than any madness. “Why should he have killed himself?”

“My God, how do I know? There was no one else to kill him--the pistol was still in his hand.”

“Where were the rest of the party?”

“There was no one else in the party. The proprietor said that they came alone, arrived at about nine and ordered supper--it was after ten when they heard the shots.”

“The proprietor probably did it himself,” said Anne Carver softly. “You let them say these things about Derry without contradiction--you, who know that he would die rather than give pain to any wretched little animal that lives?”

“I can’t believe it, Anne. I can’t believe it--but what else in God’s name can I believe?”

“You can believe what you please; and you evidently please to believe something more filthy than any nightmare that I have ever had.”

“You are being extraordinarily cruel, Anne. What explanation do you give?”

“There are a thousand. Robbery----”

“But nothing that he had was touched----”

“He was protecting the girl----”

“Against whom?”

“It might have been blackmail--it might have been a maniac; it might have been anything, anything, anything but the thing that you think. If Derry were here he would strike you dead for what you believe of him. I wish that he were here to strike you dead.”

“I wish it, too. Believe me, life does not very greatly appeal to me at present.”

“Did you think that if you destroyed my faith in him I would fall weeping into your arms?” she asked smoothly. “Spare yourself the trouble. I would die before I touched you with a finger, now that I know what you think of him.”

“By God!” He towered suddenly above her. “That’s enough, I’m off. You’ll live yet to regret that, Anne.”

“No--no--no--don’t leave me--don’t, don’t.” She caught at his arm as though she were drowning--slipping, slipping deeper into icy water. For a moment he thought that she was going to die where she sat in the great chintz chair. “No, no; I’ll be good--I’ll be good. I didn’t mean it, truly, truly. Hold me, hold me--you loved him, too, didn’t you, Hal?”

“Yes, dear.”

“If he were here he’d tell us how it happened--you’d see. He said it was an awfully good joke on him, too good to keep. He’d tell us.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Isn’t it too bad not to believe in God and Heaven and angels and Ouija boards? Then I could pretend that I could see him again, and that he would tell me. Derry believed all that kind of thing, but I never believed in anything but Derry--and now he’s gone. What time is it?”

“A minute or so to twelve, by this clock.”

“He didn’t keep his word, either, did he? He said not later than twelve--promised! Think of Derry breaking a promise----”

“Anne--Anne----”

“Oh, I know--of course he’s dead, but still--he was Derry. The wind’s worse, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“When it pounces like that, you can see the flames flatten out; it comes down the chimney. Look--it’s burning lower. I’m cold--I’m cold----”

“I’ll get more wood. Is it in the hall?”

“No, let it burn out. It’s late; you must go, mustn’t you? I don’t want you to go--there’s too much wind. It sounds as though it were alive--it sounds as though it were the only thing alive in the world--listen----”

She leaned far forward in the winged chair, and suddenly above the rush and clamour of the wind the telephone rang out, loudly and urgently. Again--again. She sat quite still, with lifted hand, her incredulous eyes frozen on the small black messenger blaring out its summons, the receiver fairly quivering on the hook. Again--again--strident and insistent--again. Devon rose slowly to his feet.

“I’ll answer it.”

“No,” breathed Anne. “No.”

“It’s probably Headquarters again.”

“No,” she whispered. “No--no--it’s not Headquarters again.”

She stumbled out of the chair, clinging to the arms, groping, uncertain, like someone suddenly gone blind, and then in a swift rush she was past him, and the telephone was fast in her hands.

“Yes,” she said clearly. “Long distance--yes, I know.... It’s Anne, dear, it’s Anne.... I can’t hear--it’s so far away--can’t you speak louder? Please, please.... Can you hear me? Can you?... Listen--listen.... I can’t hear very well--listen--you were going to tell me about the party. Remember?... The party--you were going to explain.... No--no--no--I can’t hear.... Make me hear--make me hear--say it again!... No, no, don’t go--no, you can’t go.... No! Derry! Derry!”

The terrible cry tore through the room like something unchained, and Devon sprang to her.

“Take your hands away,” she panted. “Don’t dare--don’t dare.... Central!” She jangled the hook frenziedly. “Central--you cut me off.... Central.... No, no, I won’t excuse it--never, never.... Get him back, I tell you--get him back.... No, I don’t know the number.... No--you mustn’t say that--you _can_ help me.... You can....” She was weeping terribly, throwing back her head to keep her lips clear of the flooding tears, stammering desperately, “No--no.... It was long distance, I tell you--long distance--long----”

Her voice rose--fell--was suddenly and startlingly silent. After a long moment she let the receiver slip from her fingers; it swung limply across the blue-green draperies while she stood very straight, holding the telephone against her heart.

“There’s no one on the line,” she said, in a small, formal, courteous voice.

Devon tried to speak, failed, tried again.

“It was a mistake?”

“Oh, no.” She smiled forgivingly at him. “It wasn’t a mistake; it was Derry. He wanted to explain to me, but I couldn’t hear. It was my fault, you see--I couldn’t hear.”

She stood quite still, stroking the small dark thing against her heart with light and gentle fingers, and then, with an infinitely caressing gesture, she bent her head to it--closer, closer, still smiling a little, as though against her curved lips she heard the echo of a far-off voice.

PHILIP THE GAY

Fairfax Carter sat up very straight in the great carved walnut bed, and plaintively inspected the breakfast tray which the red-cheeked Norman maiden had just deposited beside her. Those eternal little hard rolls--the black bowl of coffee beneath whose steaming fragrance lurked the treacherous chicory--the jug of hot thin milk--the small brown jar of pale honey--she bestowed a rebellious scowl on the entire collection. She felt suddenly, frantically homesick for a bubbling percolator, for thick yellow cream and feathery biscuits, for chilled crimson berries with powdered mounds of sugar. Marie Léontine, briskly oblivious, was coaxing the very small fire in the very large chimney into dancing animation.

“_V’la!_” she announced triumphantly, with all the hearty deference that is the common gift of the French servant. “_Beau matin, p’tite dame!_”

“_Oui_,” conceded the “small lady” grudgingly. She shivered apprehensively as Marie Léontine shoved the copper water jug closer to the flames, and trotted smiling from the room. Ugh! How in the world could any nation hope to keep clean and warm with three sticks of wood and four teaspoonfuls of water? She remembered another country--a bright and blessed country--where water rushed hot and joyous from glittering faucets into great shining tubs--where warmed and fleecy towels hung waiting to fold you hospitably close. She shivered again, forlornly, scanning the stretch of distance across the bare floor to the hook where the meagre towel hung limp and forbidding. “_La douce France!_” Ha! She pulled the tray toward her, still scowling.

Even when she scowled, Fair Carter was more distracting looking than any one young woman has a right to be. She was very small--absurdly small sitting bolt upright in the great dark bed--but she had enough charms to equip any six ladies of ordinary size and aspirations. There was the ruffled glory of her hair, warmer than gold, brighter than bronze, and her rain-coloured eyes--and the small, warm mouth, and the elfin tilt to her brows. There was that look about her, eager and reckless and adventurous, that made your heart contract, when you remembered what life did to the eager and reckless and adventurous. It had made a great many hearts contract. It had made one despairing young adorer from Richmond say: “Fair always looks as though she were carrying a flag--and listening to drums.” And it had wrung tribute from her father, who had been all her family and all her world, and who had adored her even more than the young man from Richmond. “She’s the bravest of all the fighting Carters, is my Fair. And never quite so brave as when she’s frightened. Panic arms her with really desperate valour!”

The bravest of the fighting Carters swallowed the dregs of the coffee bowl, pushed the tray from her, and bestowed a sudden and enchanting smile on one of the dark carved figures on the bedposts. There were four of them, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, but she liked Mark the best. He had a very stern face and a little lion.

“Morning,” she saluted him affably, and if St. Mark’s head had not been made of walnut he would have lost it. She had kept the most potent of her charms in reserve, like a true daughter of Eve. Fair’s extravagant prettiness might steel the sceptical, leading them to argue that so ornamental a head must necessarily be empty, and that no one could look that way long without becoming unbearably vain, spoiled, and capricious. But if she spoke just once--if she said any three indifferent words at random--the veriest sceptic was undone for ever. Because Fair had a Voice. Not the coloratura kind--perhaps Patti could do more justice to _Caro Nome_--but a voice which Galli-Curci and the nightingale and the running brook and church bells and Sarah Bernhardt might well envy. She could sing a little--small, candle-lit songs about love, and absurdly stirring things that had marched down through the centuries, and haunting bits of lullabies--she had a trick of chanting them under her breath, as though it were to herself that she was singing. But when she spoke--ah, then any coloratura that ever lived might well shed tears of bitter envy. For the voice that Fair Carter used for such homely purposes as wishing lucky mortals good day and good night and God-speed was compact of magic. It was wine and velvet and moonlight and laughter and mystery--and for all its enchantment, it was as clear and honest as a nice little boy’s. It did remarkable things to the English language. Fair would have widened her eyes in cool disdain at the idea of indulging in such far-advertised Southern tricks as “you all” and “Ah raickon” and “honey lamb,” but she managed to linger over vowels and elude consonants in a way that did not even remotely suggest the frozen North. It reduced English to such a satisfactory state of submission that she only experimented half heartedly with any other language. A Chinaman would have understood her when she said “Please”--a Polynesian would have thrilled responsive to her “Thank you.”

Therefore she had gone serenely on her way during those two terrible and thrilling years in France, those three terrible and bitter years in Germany, ignoring entirely the fact that the Teutons had a language of their own, and acquiring just enough of the Gallic tongue to enable her to indulge in the gay and hybrid banter of her beloved doughboys--a swift patter consisting largely of “_Ah oui_,” “_ça ne fait rien_” and “_pas compris!_” It had served her purpose admirably for a good five years, but it had proved a broken reed during the past five weeks. The De Lautrecs were capable of speaking almost any kind of French--Monsieur le Vicomte leaned toward a nice mixture of Bossuet and Anatole France, Madame his ancient and regal mother to Marivaux with sprightly touches of Voltaire, Laure and Diane, to René Bazin when they were being supervised and Gyp when they weren’t--Philippe le Gai to a racy and thrilling idiom, at once virile and graceful, as old as the Chanson de Roland, as new as Sacha Guitry’s latest comedy. But after several courteous and tense attempts to exchange amenities with Laure’s “Little American” they had abandoned the tongue of their fathers and devoted their earnest attention to mastering the English language. It was easy enough for Philippe and Laure, of course; they already knew a great deal more about English literature than Fair had dreamed existed, though they tripped over the spoken word, but the other members of the family laboured sternly and industriously, while their small guest surveyed their efforts with indulgent amusement. It seemed quite natural and reasonable to Fairfax Carter they they should continue to do so indefinitely--they wanted to talk to her, didn’t they? Well, then! They were getting on quite well, too, she reflected benevolently, still smiling at St. Mark, who stared back at her so unresponsively that she suddenly ceased to smile.

“I suppose you don’t understand English, either?” she demanded severely. “’Bout time a little old thing like you started to learn it, I should think!”

Her eye wandered to the travelling clock ticking competently away on the desk, and rested there for an electrified second.

“Mercy!” she murmured, appalled, and was out of the bed and across the room with all the swift grace of a kitten. Half-past nine, and the De Chartreuil boys were to ride over for a game of “croquo-golf” at ten! Her toes curled rebelliously at the contact of the cold flags, but she ignored them stoically, pouncing on the copper jug and whirling across the room like a small, bright tempest. What a divine day, chanted her heart, suddenly exultant, as she splashed the water recklessly and tumbled into her clothes. It was wonderful to feel almost well again--to feel weariness slipping from her like a worn-out garment. The sun came flooding in through the deep windows, gilding the faded hangings--gilding the vivid head--she could hear horses’ hoofs beneath her window, and she flung it wide, leaning far out.

“_Bonjour, Monsieur Raoul--bonjour, Monsieur André!_ Oh, Laure, are you down already?”

“Already? This hour, small lazy one! Quick now, or we leave thee!”

“No, no,” wailed Fair. “I’ll be there--I’m almost there now, truly. Save the red mallet for me, angel darling--it’s the only one I can hit with. Don’t let her go, Monsieur André!”

“Never and never, Mademoiselle. We are your slaves.”

She knotted her shoe-laces with frantic fingers, snatched up the brown tam from the table, and raced down the corridor between the swaying tapestries like a small wild thing. But half way down she halted abruptly. Behind one of the great doors someone was singing, gay and ringing and reckless, a gallant thing, that set her heart flying.

“_Monsieur Charette à dit a ces Messieurs
Monsieur Charette à dit----_”

Philippe le Gai was singing the old Vendée marching song that he had translated for her the day before.

For a moment she wavered and then, thrusting her hands deep in her pockets, she took a long breath. “Morning, Monsieur Philippe!” she challenged clearly.

The song broke off, and Fair could see him, for all the closed doors--could see his shining black head and the dark young face with its recklessly friendly smile, and its curiously unfriendly eyes, gray and quiet. She could see---- The blithe voice rang out again.

“And a most good morning to Mistress Fairy Carter! Where is she going, with those quick feet?”

“She’s going to play croquo-golf with Laure and Diane and the De Chartreuils. It’s such a heavenly beautiful day. You--you aren’t coming?”

“But never of this life!” laughed the voice. “How old you think we in here are, hein? Seven? Eight? We have twenty-nine years and thirty-nine gray hairs--we don’t play with foolish children. Only fairies can do that! You be careful of the ball going by old Daudin’s farm, see; there’s a sacred traitor of a ditch just over the hill--hit him hard and good, that ball, and maybe you clear it. Maybe you don’t, too! It is one animal of a ditch!” The light, strong laughter swept through the door, and Fair swayed to it as though it were a hand that pulled her. Then she turned away with a brave lift to her head.

“Thanks a lot--I’ll be careful. See you this afternoon, then.”

But the light feet finished their journey down the gray corridor and the worn flight of stone steps in an ominously sedate fashion. No, it was no use; it was no use at all. She felt suddenly discouraged and baffled, she who a few minutes before had been a candle, brave and warm and shining--only to have a careless breath blow out the light, leaving nothing but a cold little white stick with a dead black wick for a heart. It was horribly unfair, and someone should most certainly pay for it; someone who was sitting blithe and callous and safe behind those heavy doors--heavy doors of oak, and heavier ones of cool indifference. She drew a quivering breath, and straightened, as though she had heard far off a bugle sing. Oh, how dared he, how dared he be indifferent? He, who idled all his life away, paying no tribute to the world save laughter, a useless, black-haired, arrogant young good-for-nothing? How dared he be indifferent to beauty and riches and grace and wit and kindness, when they lingered at his side, tremulous and expectant? It was worse than cruel to be indifferent to the personification of all these attributes--it was crass, intolerable stupidity. She made a sudden violent gesture, pushing something far from her. That dream was ended; she was through. She would tell them to-night that her visit was over--that to-morrow she must be on her way to Paris--and America.

But at the thought of America her feet faltered to a halt, as though she were reluctant to go one step nearer to that enchanted country, empty now and strange, since Dad had gone. How could she go back to that great house with its white pillars and echoing halls?--how could she face its cold and silent beauty without his arms about her? No, no, she couldn’t--she was afraid--she was afraid of loneliness. While she had had her work, while she had had those thousands of brown young faces lifted to her in comradeship and worship and mirth, she had fought off the nightmare of his going. No one had known but Laure--Laure who had loved “the little American” from the first day that she had come laughing and tiptoeing down the long room with contraband chocolates for Laure’s bitter, dying poilus--Laure who had held her in her tired young arms all the terrible night after the cable came--Laure who had wept when a tearless and frozen Fair had set off for Germany with her division--Laure who had come all the way to Coblenz to bring her back to Normandy when she had literally dropped in her tracks two years later. Dear Laure, who had healed and tended this small alien, she would be loath to leave her go.

Fair’s lip quivered; she felt suddenly too small and solitary to face a world that could play such hideous tricks. It was bad enough and thrice incredible to have rendered Laure’s brother impervious to her every enchantment, but it was sheer wanton cruelty to have made him utterly unworthy of any lady’s straying fancy--and alas, alas, how fancy strayed! The bravest of all the fighting Carters was badly frightened; the whole thing savoured of black magic. She, who had flouted and flaunted every masculine heart that had been laid at her feet since she had put on slippers, to have fallen, victim to a laugh and a careless word! Why, she barely knew him, he held so lightly aloof, courteous and smiling and indifferent; it was hatefully obvious that he preferred his own society to any that they could offer. He wouldn’t play--he wouldn’t work--he wouldn’t even eat with them. Of course he had been in the hospital for ages, but he had been out of it for ages, too, and it was criminal folly to continue to pamper any one as he was pampered. A man--a real _man_--would die of shame before he would permit his sisters to give music lessons while he locked himself in his room and laughed. Never was he with them, save for the brief hour after _déjeuner_ when they drank their cups of black coffee under the golden beech trees--and for that heavenly space after dinner in the great salon, full of firelight and candlelight and falling rose-leaves and music, with Madame de Lautrec stitching bright flowers into her tapestry frame and Monsieur le Vicomte smiling his courteous and tragic smile into the leaping fire in the carved chimney, and the fresh young voices rising and falling about the piano over which Laure bent her golden head--Diane’s silver music lifting clearly, Laure’s soft contralto murmuring like far waters, and Philippe singing as his troubadour ancestor might have sung, fearless and true and shining--Fair caught her breath at the memory of that ringing splendour, and then looked stern. It was ridiculous to worship any one as the De Lautrecs worshipped their tall Philippe and it was obviously highly demoralizing for him--highly. Laure was the worst; it was as though she couldn’t bear to have him out of her sight for a minute; if he rose to go--oh, if he even stirred, she was at his side in a flash, her hand slipped into his, all her white tranquillity shaken into some mysterious terror at the thought that he might escape her again.

“No, no!” she would cry passionately when Fair rallied her with flying laughter. “You do not know what you say, my Fair. I have no courage left; none, none, I tell you. He is my life--and for four years every morning, every night I made myself say: ‘You will not see him again, you will not hear him again, you will not touch him again. But you will be brave, you hear? You will be brave because it is for France.’ Now France has no more need of my courage--and that is very well, because I have no more to give her. It is all gone. I will never be brave again.”

She was the only one that Philippe would suffer to come near him in all the long hours that he spent behind those dark barred doors; often, as Fair sped by on light feet, she could hear the murmur of their voices, low and absorbed--shutting her out, thought Fair forlornly, more than any lock on any door. What did they find to talk about, hour after hour, blind and deaf to the world that lay about them, golden under the October sun? What spell did Laure use to bind him, what magic to dispel all the endless witchery that Fair had spread before him, first carelessly, then startled into wide-eyed consciousness and finally, during these last flying days, driven to despairing prodigality? She bit her lip, blinking back the treacherous tears fiercely. Some day--some day he should pay for this indifference, and pay with interest. The loitering feet paused again while their owner visualized, through the mist of unwelcome tears, a contrite Philippe dragging himself to grovel abjectly at her feet, begging for one small word of mercy and of hope. The vivid countenance suddenly assumed an expression of exquisite contentment.

“No, Philippe,” she would tell him, lightly but inflexibly, “no, my poor boy, it would be sheer cruelty to mislead you. Never, under any circumstances could I----”

“_Enfin!_” rang out a richly indignant voice. “Do you walk in your sleep, my good goose? We wait and we wait until we are one half frozen, and you arrive like the snail he was your little brother and----”

“Oh, Laure, I _am_ sorry! Box my ears--no, hard--you tell her to box them hard, Monsieur André!”

“I, Mademoiselle? But never--I think we are well repaid for our vigil, hey, Raoul? Here is that very red mallet with which you will beat us all. We take Bravo with us, Diane?”

Diane shook her curly head dubiously at the frantic police dog.

“Who holds the leash; you, André? Last time he get loose, he bite three sheep--three, before we catch him. You hear, monster?”

Fair and Bravo exchanged guilty glances.

“Well, but Diane, he pulled so; truly he did. He went so fast, right over those hedges, and the leash cut through my mittens, and----”

Laure and Diane yielded to outrageous laughter.

“Raoul, you should see them! Right over those sticking hedges they go, Bravo ahead, big like three wolves, and Fair ’way behind at the other end of the leash, so small like the little Red Riding Hood, and so fast like she was flying! Oh, _bon Dieu_! I thought we die laughing!”

“Very, very funny,” commented Fair bitterly. “Specially for me. How are we going to-day?”

“How if we go across the little meadow to the Gates and home by the Cœur d’Or? Too far, Raoul?”

“We will be back for lunch? _À la bonheur_--we go. Ah, well hit, Mademoiselle. Straight like arrows, too!”

Fair raced after the red ball, her scarf flying behind her like a banner, wings at her heels, stars in her eyes, tragedy forgotten.