CHAPTER XIIEVERYBODY PLOTS
“MAY I come in?”
Nan Lockhart hardly paused for permission to enter Fanny’s room, so accustomed was she to share intimately with her friend most of her possessions, including rooms. Therefore she followed her knock and question with her entrance—and paused upon the threshold with a boyish whistle of surprise not unmixed with derision.
Fanny turned away from the long mirror with a little laugh. “Well, how do you like me in it?” she inquired.
“Oh, you’re stunning, of course,” Nan admitted. “Trying on all the different forms of war service, to see which is most becoming? You’ll let that decide it, of course?”
“Certainly, Miss Cynic! And why not? Shouldn’t a girl make the most of herself, under all conditions?”
Fanny had donned a white blouse and skirt, white shoes and stockings, and had pinned a white towel about her head. She had even gone to the trouble of cutting out a small red cross and fastening it upon the front of her head-gear. The towel did not entirely cover her hair; engaging ringlets showed themselves about her small ears. She resembled a fascinating young nun except that in her eyes danced a most unconventional wickedness.
“This is merely stage play, I suppose?” Nan questioneddryly. “You’ve no possible thought of offering your services, in towels or out of them?”
Fanny Fitch swung herself up to the footboard of her bed, and sat there, swinging her pretty feet. She smiled at her friend disarmingly; but Nan did not disarm under the smile.
“You’re the most distrustful creature I ever knew, Nancy Lockhart. Don’t you think I could get away with the nursing proposition? Smooth the fevered brow, and count the throbbing pulse, and charm the disordered brain back to sanity and calm? Read aloud to——”
“And wade around in floods of gore, and scrub the floor of the operating room, and keep on working when your back aches like fury, and get about four hours’ sleep out of twenty-four? Wear your white uniform with the ward below fifty degrees—and zero outside? Game, are you, Fanny?”
“Bless my soul!—how terribly technical you sound! What do you know about it all?”
“More than you do, I’ll wager. I’ve been reading about an American girl who has been in it for two years already. She ‘wears the rue—with a difference,’ methinks, Fanny.”
“Oh, well—I’ve got to get in it somehow,” announced the wearer of the pseudo-uniform frankly. “Because, you know, my friend Robert Black is going, and I can’t think with serenity of the wide Atlantic rolling between us. Of course there’s just one way I’d like to go, and maybe I’ll achieve that yet.” Her eyes sparkled. “Ye gods, but wouldn’t that be great! What’ll you wager I go—that way?”
“What way?”
“As his—well—” Fanny seemed to be enjoyingherself intensely—“as his comrade-at-arms, you know—meaning, of course, his—comradeinarms. Oh-h!”—she gave the exclamation all the dramatic force it could hold, drawing it out with an effect of ecstasy—“Think of walking away with Robert McPherson Black from under the very eyes of his congregation—and of the demure but intriguing Jane!” And she threw both arms wide in a gesture of abandon, then clasped them across her breast, slipped down from the footboard, and fell at Nan’s feet, looking up at her with beseeching eyes and an utter change of aspect. “Oh, please, my dearest dear, don’t put any spokes in my wheel! Let me just imagine I’m doing something to bridge the chasm—the enormous chasm between us. It’s a frightful thing to be so deeply, darkly, desperately in love as I am—and then to see your hero absorbed in plans to take himself away from you, out of your world, with never a look behind!”
“Fanny!”
“Oh, but I’llmakehim look behind—I will—I will! I’ll turn those rapt black eyes of his back to the earth, earthy—or to the United States, United States-y—and to Fanny Fitch. And—I’ll keep Jane Ray home if I have to put poison in her food.”
“Fanny, get up!” Nan reached down and shook her friend’s shoulders. “What on earth is the matter with you? Have you gone crazy?”
“I think so.” Fanny buried her head in Nan’s skirts, clasping her arms about the other’s waist. “Raving crazy. I met Mr. Black on the street just now. He was rushing along with his wagon hitched to a star, by the look of him. He didn’t even see me till he all but ran into me. Of course I had put myself in his way. Then he snatched off his hat, asked pardon and how I was, allin the same breath—as if I had been one of his very oldest old ladies—and got away like a catapult. He was going in the direction of the station, I admit, but that wouldn’t reasonably have prevented his exchanging a few friendly words with me. Oh, I can stand anything—anything—but having a man not even see me!”
“So I should judge, my dear, from past experience,” Nan commented, grimly. She had put her arms rather reluctantly about Fanny, however; it was impossible not to see that something, at least, of this hysteria was caused by real feeling, if amazingly undisguised. She was quite accustomed to Fanny’s self-revelations, and entirely used to taking them without seriousness. But in the present instance her sympathies were supplemented by her understanding of how it might be quite possible for a girl to lose her head over Robert Black without his being in the least responsible by personal word or deed. She now endeavoured to apply a remedy to the situation.
“Fanny,” she said, “Mr. Black isn’t thinking about anything just now but war, and how to get across. He has lost those fine young nephews, whom he expected to have come here when the war was over, and his mind is full of them. He hasn’t a corner of his attention to give to women—any woman——”
“I’ve met him twice in the last week coming out of Jane Ray’s. Of course Cary was with him one of the times, and Doctor Burns the other—but that doesn’t mean he hadn’t been confabbing with Jane. He’s wise as a serpent, but I’m not at all sure he’s harmless as a dove—he’s much too clever to be seen paying attentions to any of us. He’s always with some man—you can’t get at him. And when he comes here he has Tom hanging round him every minute. Of course I know Tommy wantsto keep him away from me—but he appears to want to be kept away, so I can’t so much as get a chance. If I could—— But—Iwill!”
Fanny sat back on her heels, wiping away a real tear with the corner of her towel.
“Of course you will, if you set out to do it. But—be careful, my dear. Robert Black can’t be taken by storm.”
“That’s the one way he can be taken. I might plot and plan forever to make an impression on him in the ordinary ways—he’s steel proof, I think, against those. The only way to get his attention is the way this war has got it—by shot and shell. If I can just somehow be badly wounded and fall down in his path, he’ll—stoop and pick me up. And if he once finds me in his arms——”
“Oh, Fanny, Fanny! For heaven’s sake don’t try to play a game with him!” Nan spoke sternly. She removed herself by a pace or two from her friend, and stood aloof, her dark brows drawing together. “I know you’re a born actress and can assume any part you like. That may be well enough in ordinary times—though I doubt it—but not in times like these. Don’t go to war to play the old game of hitting hearts. You’re not going to war—I know that—but don’t pretend you want to. It isn’t fair. This thing is one of life or death, and that’s what’s taking men like Doctor Burns and Mr. Black into it. They’ll have no use for anybody who doesn’t offer himself, body and soul. That’s what Jane Ray is doing—but not you, you know. You just want—to marry a man.”
“Oh, but you’re hard!” Fanny got to her feet, moved over to the window and stood looking out, the picture of unhappiness. “Jane Ray, indeed! How does it happen you believe in her so fast? Why isn’t she playing a game,too?—Of course she is. But because her hair is smooth and dark, and her manner so sweetly poised, you take her at her own valuation. She’s clever as Satan, and she’ll put it over, I suppose. But why, just because I’m of a different type, I must be forever accused of acting——”
“My dear—I’m takingyouat your own valuation. Haven’t you explained to me exactly the part you intend to play—getting badly wounded and falling down in Robert Black’s path——”
“You’re so intensely literal!” Fanny spoke bitterly. “Heaven knows it will be no acting if I do get wounded. I’m wounded now—to the heart. And if I fall down in his path it’ll be because I can’t stand up. Last Sunday, when he stood there under the colours—whowouldn’thave wanted him? Why, even you—” she turned to look full at Nan, with her reddened eyes searching Nan’s grave face—“it wouldn’t take an awful lot of imagination to put you in the same class with me, in spite of that wonderful grip you always keep on yourself. Honestly, now, can you tell me you wouldn’t marry him, if he asked you?”
Annette Lockhart was not of those who turn scarlet or pale under cross-examination. Moreover, she was the daughter of Samuel Lockhart and had from him the ability to keep close hold of her emotions. She was entirely accustomed to facing down Fanny Fitch when she did not choose to reveal herself to her. Nevertheless, it may have cost her the effort of her life to answer neither too vehemently nor too nonchalantly this highly disconcerting question.
“You certainly must be a little mad to-day, my dear girl. Just because you are so hard hit, don’t go to fancying that the woods are full of the slain. I like Mr. Blackvery much, but I’m not a case for the stretcher-bearers—nor likely to be. And just now I’m wanting so much to go myself, and know I can’t possibly, because Tom will, and Father and Mother couldn’t face our both going at once.”
Fanny began suddenly to get out of her white apparel. “I’m going round to see Jane Ray,” she announced, with one of the characteristic impulses to whose expression Nan was well used. “It’s best to make friends with the enemy in this case, I think. And possibly I may meet Robert Black—coming out or going in under cover of a man friend. In that case I may receive one casual glance from His Eminence which will complete my undoing for to-day. That will surely be worth while.” She laughed unhappily.
Half an hour afterward she walked into Jane Ray’s shop. Her eyes were red no longer, her colour was charming, her manner was composed. When Jane was at liberty Fanny discussed “pie-crust” tables with her, declaring her intention to present something of the sort to Mrs. Lockhart.
“I’ve made such a terribly long visit,” she explained, “and still they urge me to stay on. Of course it’s wonderful for me—with my mother so far away. But I shall only stay till I can find out where to offer myself—if mother will just say I may go. Poor dear, she has such a horror of war—she may make it difficult for me. Meanwhile—I want to take every possible step, so I can have every argument to meet her with. If I could only go with someone—some other girl—she might feel differently about it.”
“Yes, I should think that might help it,” Jane agreed. Her dark eyes met Fanny’s lustrous blue ones across the group of tables they had been considering. She was verymuch on her guard now wherever Miss Fitch was concerned. The problem of the friendship between Nan Lockhart, whom Jane couldn’t help liking and thoroughly trusting, and Fanny Fitch, whom she could somehow neither like nor trust, was one which she had as yet found no means of solving. Also, Cary’s sudden and intense interest in Fanny had set his sister to studying the girl with new acuteness. Thus far she seemed to Jane all actress; it was becoming increasingly difficult not to suspect her constantly of being other than she seemed.
“And yet we all act, more or less,” Jane said to herself honestly. “I’m acting this very minute, myself. I’m playing the part of one who is only politely interested in what she means to do, while I’m really crazily anxious that she shall not do certain things which involve Cary and me.”
“I wonder if you would trust me with any of your own plans,” Fanny said, engagingly. “I can’t help knowing that you mean to go, and I’m sure you must have much real knowledge that I’m ignorant of. Is nursing the only thing a girl can do? You’re not trained for that, are you? Forgive me—I’m not just curious, you know—I’m tremendously serious.”
“My plans aren’t fully worked out,” Jane answered. “I have enough training to go as nurse’s assistant, under the Red Cross.”
“Oh, have you? How wonderful! Could I get that, do you suppose? I’m really a terribly quick study—I used to cram any amount of stuff in the forty-eight hours before an exam, and get away with it. If I could—oh, Miss Ray—would it be possible—would you be willing—couldyou consider letting me go with you?”
Jane looked into the sea-blue eyes which were looking so appealingly into her own. “Yes,” she said to herselfagain, “I can see exactly how you do it. That look is absolutely irresistible—just angel-sweet and full of sincerity. I wish I could trust you—I really wish I could. But somehow—I can’t. Something inside me says that you don’t mean it—you don’t—you’re not genuine. You’ve some stake you’re playing for—you don’t care a copper cent about helping over there. How am I going to deal with you?”
It’s odd, isn’t it? How do we do it—how do we keep up this double discussion, one with our lips, the other with our thoughts? Jane and Fanny went into the matter rather thoroughly, talking with entire friendliness of manner about possible courses to be followed, sources of information to be consulted; and all the time the things they both were thinking ran so far ahead in volume and in direction of the things they were saying that there could be no comparison between the two. Both were much too well trained in worldly wisdom to allow the smallest particle of personal antagonism to show in word or manner, and yet as the talk proceeded each became more and more aware that there was and could be no sympathy or openness between them.
And then Cary came dashing into the shop, and seeing Fanny pounced upon her and bore her away with him for a walk, vowing he should so soon be gone he must make the most of every opportunity. Jane looked after them as they went, wishing heartily that the day would come quickly when Cary would be off and away. His plans were rapidly taking shape; his old newspaper, after a searching interview with him and a series of inquiries directed toward establishing the thoroughness of his reformation, had made him a sort of probational offer which he had accepted with mingled glee and resentment.
“They’ll send me, only with all kinds of conditions attached which I’d never accept if I weren’t so wild to go. But they’ll see—I’ll show them. Just let me send back one rattling article from the real front, and they’ll be wiring to tie me up to the thing for the duration of the war.” Thus he had exultantly prophesied to his sister, and to Robert Black, and to Red, and they had agreed that it was certainly up to him. He had his chance—the chance to retrieve himself completely; they were all three concernedly eager to see him safely off upon his big adventure.
He was so excited about it, so restless, so impatient for the call which had been virtually promised him for an early date, that they felt constrained to watch him carefully. Without knowing exactly why, none of these three friends quite liked to see him often with Fanny Fitch. Jane herself was unwilling to appeal to Fanny, or to give her even a vague idea of his past weakness; she now saw them go away together with an uneasy feeling that she wished it hadn’t happened.
An hour later Cary telephoned that he wouldn’t be back for dinner; he would take it in town, he said—he had some equipment to look up. He might be back late—Jane was not to sit up for him. He said nothing about Miss Fitch, but Jane’s instant conviction was that the two were dining together. Probably they would go to the theatre afterward and come out on a late local. Well, what of it? Fanny was no schoolgirl to need chaperonage; there was nothing in this program to disturb anybody. But Jane was disturbed. Suppose—well, suppose Fanny were the sort of girl who didn’t object to having a cocktail—or a glass of champagne—or both—at a hotel dinner alone with a man? What would companionship on that basis do for Cary, just now? She had no reason to suppose thatMiss Fitch was that sort of girl, and yet—somehow—she felt that the chances were in favour of her being precisely that sort of girl. Nan Lockhart’s friend—wasn’t that voucher enough? Still, friends didn’t always know each other as well as they supposed they did. And Fanny, ever since she had dressed the part of the French actress with such fidelity to fact, had seemed to Jane an over-sophisticated young woman who wouldn’t much mind what she did, so that she drew men’s eyes and thoughts to herself. Excitement—that was what Fanny wanted, Jane was sure. An excellent chance for it, too, dining with a brilliant young war-correspondent, himself keyed to high pitch over his near future. And if the play chanced to be——
A certain recollection leaped into Jane’s brain. She went hurriedly to the back of the shop for the city daily, and scanned a column of play offerings. Yes, there it was—she remembered seeing it, and Cary’s laughing reference to it at the breakfast table that morning, coupled with the statement that he meant to see it. The play was one of the most noted dramatic successes of the season, its star one famous for her beauty and sorcery, and not less than infamous for the even artistically unjustifiable note she never failed to strike, its lines and scenes the last word in modern daring. A great play for a man and woman to see together, with wine before and after! And Cary could not safely so much as touch his lips to a glass of the most innocent of the stimulants without danger to that appetite of his which was as yet only scotched, not slain. If anything happenednowto wreck his plans—what confidence in him, what hope of him, could be again revived?
After all, perhaps Jane was borrowing trouble. The pair might have had only the walk they went for, Cary afterwardtaking the train for town alone. On the impulse—what did it matter whom she offended if she saved her brother from his great temptation?—she went to the telephone and called up the Lockhart residence. Was Miss Fitch in? The answer came back promptly: Miss Fitch was not in. She had not left word when she would be in, but it was likely that she had gone into town, as she had spoken of the possibility.
Jane hung up the receiver with a heavy heart. Perhaps her imagination was running away with her—she hoped it was. But the conviction grew upon her that part, if not all, of her supposition was likely to prove true. Fanny Fitch might be quite above the kind of thing Jane was imputing to her; it might be that Cary himself, aware of the danger to his whole future of one false step now, would be too thoroughly on his guard to take one smallest chance. Hotel lobbies and cafés were always the meeting places of newspaper men; he might easily be recognized by some man who knew that he was upon probation; Cary understood this perfectly; he would take care to run no risk. Would he?
Jane looked up the train schedule. Then she dressed carefully, locked the shop, took the earliest train which would get her to town, and tried to make plans on the way. As to just what she meant to do she was not clear. If no other way presented she felt that she must get hold of Fanny herself and warn her of Cary’s susceptibilities and the consequences of any weakening at this hour of his life. And then what? Was there that in Fanny to be counted on?
All the way she was wishing for Robert Black! Just what he could do she had no idea; that he would somehow find a way she was certain. But it was small use wishing.The next best thing would be to come upon Red Pepper Burns, and this seemed not impossible, because he was daily to be found in this city of which his own town was the suburb; he did most of his operating at one of its hospitals. What Red might do in the emergency she could hardly imagine, either—but she was equally sure that he would cut across all obstacles to force Cary out of possible danger.
To what hotel would Cary take Fanny? She could be pretty sure of this—it was one at the moment highly popular with the sociably inclined younger element of the city, as well as with the floating class who pick out a certain pronounced type of hostelry wherever they may go. Rather more than moderately high prices, excellent food, superlatively good music, a management astute beyond the average—plus a general air of prosperity and good fellowship—this makes the place for the gathering of the clans who love what they call a good time, and who have in their pockets—for the hour, at least—the money to pay for it.
Jane left her train in haste, crossed the big waiting-room with quick glances to right and left in search of a possible encounter, and at the outer door ran full upon someone she had not been looking for but at sight of whom a light of relief leaped into her face. Mrs. Redfield Pepper Burns stood close beside the door, evidently waiting for someone. Instantly Jane’s decision was made. She did not know Mrs. Burns nearly as well as she did the red-headed doctor, but she knew her quite well enough to take counsel with her, sure that she would understand and help.
“Mrs. Burns,”—Jane spoke rapidly and low—“please forgive me for bothering you with my affairs. I may be borrowing trouble, but I am anxious about my brother.I think he is dining in town to-night at the Napoleon, and may be going to a play. He is with Miss Fitch, I believe, and I’m afraid she doesn’t understand that—just now—he mustn’t take—any sort of stimulant. Doctor Burns understands—perhaps you do, too—or will, from my telling you this much. I wish—would it be too much?—to ask you to stay and have dinner with me at the Napoleon, and perhaps join Miss Fitch and Cary—or ask them to join us? I can’t think just what else to do.”
She had always deeply admired Ellen Burns; now, quite suddenly, she found herself loving her. One long look from the beautiful black eyes, one firm pressure from the friendly hand, the sound of the low, warm-toned voice in her ear, and she knew that she had enlisted a true friend.
“My dear—just let me think. I believe we can do even better than that.” A minute of silence followed, then Mrs. Burns went on: “My husband and Mr. Black are staying in together, to meet a quite famous man from abroad. They were to have dinner together first at——Wait—I’ll not stop to explain—Let me leave a message here, and then we’ll take a cab and run back up there. I’ve only just left them.”
In the cab, five minutes later, Mrs. Burns worked out her quickly conceived idea.
“We’ll find my husband and Mr. Black, go to dinner at the Napoleon, and ask your brother and Miss Fitch to join us. Once Red knows the situation he will find a way to get Mr. Ray off with them to meet the famous one, and you and I will take Miss Fitch to the play. What is on to-night?” She drew her lovely brows together. “Not—oh, not that very unpleasant Russian thing?—Yes? Oh, we’ll find something else—or go to a charming violin recital I had half intended to stay in for. Don’t be anxious, MissRay, we’ll work it out. And what we can’t think of Robert Black will—he’s quite wonderfully resourceful.”
Hours afterward, when, well towards morning, Jane closed her eyes and tried to sleep, her mind refused to give her anything to look at but a series of pictures, like scenes in a well-staged play. Certain ones stood out, and the earliest of these showed Mrs. Burns crossing a quiet reception room to lay one hand on her husband’s arm, while her eyes met frankly first his questioning gaze and then that of Robert Black. Nothing could have been simpler than her reasonable request of them. Might they change their plans a bit, now that she had found Miss Ray, and all go over to the Napoleon to dinner, to find Miss Fitch and Mr. Ray? The hazel eyes of Red Pepper Burns had looked deeply into his wife’s at this—he saw plainly that she was definitely planning, with a reason. He was well used to trusting her—he trusted her now. He nodded. “Of course, dear,” he said.
Robert Black came to Jane. “I think I understand,” he said quietly. “We’ll all stand by.”
They crossed the street together—Red went to interview the head waiter. Within five minutes the four were being led to a table at the very back of the room, close beside one of those small recesses, holding each a table for two, which are among the Napoleon’s most popular assets. And then Mrs. Burns, looking across into the recess, had nodded and smiled, and spoken to her husband, and he had promptly gone across, and invited the pair there to come over and be his guests.
Cary had turned violently red, and had begun to say stiffly and very definitely that his order had gone in, and that it would be as well not to change, thank you, when Robert Black came also into the recess, bowing inhis most dignified manner to Fanny Fitch. Somehow Jane Ray had not known until that moment quite how much dignity he could assume. “Ray,” he had said, in the other’s ear, “I imagine you haven’t heard that Richard Temple is here to-night—on his way back. Couldn’t you cut everything else and go with me to hear him? There won’t be such a chance again before we get across. I’m sure Miss Fitch would excuse you. It’s a smoker, arranged in a hurry. Nobody knew he was coming.”
Well, that made all the difference. Call it luck, call it what you will, that the great war-correspondent, the greatest of them all up to that time, a man whom Cary Ray would almost have given his right arm to meet, was passing through the town that night. It had been another man, more famous in a different line, an Englishman from a great university, turned soldier, whom Black and Red had stayed in town to meet. But the moment Black had discovered Jane’s anxiety and its cause he had leaped at this solution. The correspondent’s coming was an accident owing to a train detention—he had arrived unheralded, and the two men had but just got wind of it. They had been saying, as Mrs. Burns and Jane came to the hotel, that it was hard to have to choose between two such rich events, and that they must look in on the smoker when the Englishman had been heard. But now—Black had all at once but one purpose in the world—to carry off Cary Ray to that smoker, and to stay beside him till he was at home again. That Cary would drink no drop while he, Robert, was beside him, was a thing that could be definitely counted on.
It is possible that no point of view, in relation to the remainder of the evening, could be better worth study than that of Fanny Fitch. Sitting on the foot of Nan Lockhart’sbed at two o’clock that morning, she gave a dramatic account of what had happened. Nan, sleepy enough at first, and indignant with Fanny for waking her, found herself wide awake in no time.
“The perfectly calm and charming way in which Mrs. Burns simply switched everything to suit Jane shows plainly what an intriguer that girl is—precisely as I told you. Oh, yes—Doctor Burns asked us over, and Robert Black fixed Cary for the war-correspondent affair, and Jane sat there looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Both she and Mrs. Burns seemed merely lovely, innocent creatures intent on distributing good to everybody! But those men never would have thought of taking Cary away from me if they hadn’t been put up to it; men never conceive that sort of thing by themselves. That dinner—oh, how I hated it!Willyou tell me why Cary Ray had to be pried loose from me, as if I were some kind of vampire of the movie variety——”
“But really, Fanny, Richard Templeisthe one man in the world Cary Ray ought not to miss hearing and meeting just now. It would mean such a lot to him. And if he was only there that one evening——”
“Oh, I’ll admit that! But to hear Richard Temple Cary Ray didn’t have to be moved over to the Burns table and put in a high chair and have a bib tied round his neck! He was furious himself when the change was proposed; then of course he went delirious at hearing that the Temple man was in town, and forgot his fury. He had to cancel part of his order—worse luck; Mrs. Burns is the sort who wouldn’t stand for iced tea if it was served in a champagne glass!”
“Fanny! You don’t mean——Why, surely you’ve been told about Cary Ray. You wouldn’t let him——”
“Good gracious, can’t the man stand alone by this time? He’s going overseas—has he got to have a nurse along? What’s having one little glass at a dinner with a girl like me compared with the things men order when they’re alone together? He’d better stay home if he isn’t——”
“Yes, but—just now, when he’s on trial, and he might so easily be held back! And besides, Fanny—you’re not—you ought not——”
“Oh, don’t preach! Haven’t I been a very model of propriety? And am I not going to keep right on being one, as long as there’s the least chance of—getting what I want? You needn’t grudge me one little jolly evening with a boy like Cary Ray, who comes nearer understanding the sort of fire and flame I’m made of——”
Nan Lockhart lay back upon her pillow. “Fanny,” she said despairingly, “the best thing you can do is to go to bed. When you begin to talk about your temperament you make me want to give you a cold plunge and a rub-down, and tie an ice-cap on your head. You’ve probably been saved from helping Cary Ray make a fool of himself at a time when he can’t afford to be a fool, and you’d better be thankful. How you can imagine that a thing like that would help you to find a place in Robert Black’s good graces——”
“Oh, it’s gentle Jane who’s ace-high with him just now, of course!” Fanny pulled the hairpins out of her hair with vicious twitches, letting the whole gleaming fair mass fall upon the white silk of the luxurious little garment in which she had enveloped herself before coming to Nan’s room. “He’s the sort who was born to rescue the fallen, and serve the anxious and troubled. He acted like a regular knight to Jane—not that he said much to her, but one could see. He was very nice to me—too nice. I’dmuch prefer the Jane-brand of his chivalry—sort of an I’ll-stand-in-front-of-you-and-take-the-blows effect. And when he went off with Cary and Doctor Burns, and I was left with those two women creatures——”
“My dear, I can’t let you keep speaking of Mrs. Burns that way. She’s one of the finest, sweetest——”
“She’s a peach!” said Fanny, unexpectedly. “I admit I’ve nothing against Mrs. Burns except that she took me to a dismal violin recital when I’d awfully wanted to see a perfectly ripping play Cary had tickets for.”
“Not——”
Fanny nodded. “Of course—why not, Miss Prudy? I didn’t mind that so much, though. The thing I minded was Jane Ray’s sleekness. She makes me think of one of those silky black cats with yellow eyes——”
But here Nan Lockhart sat up in bed, fire in her own steel-gray eyes. “Fanny Fitch, that’s enough!” she said, with low distinctness. “Jane Ray is my friend.”
“I thoughtIwas! This is so sudden!” And quite unexpectedly, even to herself, Fanny Fitch began to cry, with long, sobbing breaths. Nan slipped out of bed, pulled on a loose gown hanging over its foot, and laid hold of Fanny.
“Come!” she commanded, firmly. “I’m going to put you to bed and give Nature a chance to restore those absurd nerves of yours. You don’t want Cary Ray, you can’t have Robert Black, and you might just as well give in and take that perfectly good lover of yours who has been faithful to you all these years. He adores you enough to put up with the very worst of you, and he ought to be rewarded with the best of you. You know absolutely that you’d be the most miserable girl in the world married to a man of Mr. Black’s type——”
Fanny drew a deep sigh, her head on Nan’s long-suffering shoulder.
“It’ll not be my fault if I don’t have a try at that sort of misery,” she moaned. “And I’ll do it yet, see if I don’t! I know a way!—Oh, yes! I know a way! Wait and see!”
Nan Lockhart saw her finally composed for sleep, her fair head looking like a captivating cameo against her pillow, her white arms meekly crossed upon her breast. Fanny looked up at her friend, her face once more serene.
“Don’t I look good enough now for just anybody?” she murmured.
“You look like a young stained-glass angel,” Nan replied, grimly. “But—since you were so unjust as to compare Jane Ray to a silkyblackcat I’ll tell you that just now you make me think of——”
“I know—a sleepy white one—with a saucer of cream near by. Good-night—saint! I don’t deserve you, but—I love you just the same. And I dare you to tell me you don’t love me!”
“I’ll take no dares of yours to-night. Go to sleep—and please let me, even if you don’t.” And Nan went away and closed the door.
Back in her own room, when she was once more lying alone in the dark, Nan said to herself, with a sigh deeper than any Fanny Fitch had ever drawn in all her gay young life: “What a queer thing it is to be able to wear one’s heart on one’s sleeve like that—and not even mind much when the daws peck at it!”