This is a story of the Mystic Three—Fate, Chance, and Destiny; and what happens to people who trifle with them.
It begins with a young man running after a train. He had to run.
The connection at Westport Junction was normally a close one, but now, even before the incoming train had entirely stopped, the local on the other line began to move out, while the engineers of the two locomotives, leaning from their cab windows, exchanged sooty grins. It was none of their business—this squabble between the two roads which wasmaking the term, "Junction," as applied to Westport, a snare and a derision.
So the roads squabbled, and young Seabury ran. Other passengers ran, too, amid the gibes of newsboys and the patronizing applause of station loafers.
He heard them; he also heard squeaks emitted by females whose highest speed was a dignified and scuttering waddle. Meanwhile he was running, and running hard through the falling snow; the ice under foot did not aid him; his overcoat and suit-case handicapped him; the passengers on the moving train smiled at him behind frosty windows.
One very thin man smoking a cigar rubbed his thumb on the pane in order to see better; he was laughing, and Seabury wished him evil.
There were only two cars, and the last one was already rolling by him. And at one of the windows of this car he saw a pretty girl in chinchilla furs watching him curiously. Then she also smiled.
It may have been the frank amusement of a pretty woman, and it may have been the sorrowful apathy of a red-nosed brakeman tying the loose end of the signal rope on the rear platform; doubtless one or the other spurred him to a desperate flying leap which landed him and his suit-case on the rear platform of the last car. And there he stuck, too madto speak, until a whirlwind of snow and cinders drove him to shelter inside.
The choice of cars was limited to a combination baggage and smoker and a more fragrant passenger coach. He selected a place in the latter across the aisle from the attractive girl in chinchilla furs who had smiled at his misfortunes—not very maliciously. Now, as he seated himself, she glanced up at him without the slightest visible interest, and returned to her study of the winter landscape.
The car was hot; he was hot. Burning thoughts concerning the insolence of railroads made him hotter; the knowledge that he had furnished amusement for the passengers of two trains did not cool him.
Meanwhile everybody in the car had become tired of staring at him; a little boy across the aisle giggled his last giggle; several men resumed their newspapers; a shopgirl remembered her gum and began chewing it again.
A large mottled man with a damp moustache, seated opposite him, said: "Vell, Mister, you runned pooty quvick alretty py dot Vestport train!"
"It seems to me," observed Seabury, touching his heated face with his handkerchief, "that the public ought to do something."
"Yaw; der bublic it runs," said the large man,resuming his eyeglasses and holding his newspaper nearer to the window in the fading light.
Seabury smiled to himself and ventured to glance across the aisle in time to see the dawning smile in the blue eyes of his neighbor die out instantly as he turned. It was the second smile he had extinguished since his appearance aboard the train.
The conductor, a fat, unbuttoned, untidy official, wearing spectacles and a walrus moustache, came straddling down the aisle. He looked over the tops of his spectacles at Seabury doubtfully.
"I managed to jump aboard," explained the young man, smiling.
"Tickuts!" returned the conductor without interest.
"I haven't a ticket; I'll pay——"
"Sure," said the conductor; "vere you ged owid?"
"What?"
"Vere do you gedowid?"
"Oh, where do I getout? I'm going to Beverly——"
"Peverly? Sefenty-vive cends."
"Not to Peverly, to Beverly——"
"Yaw, Peverly——"
"No, no; Beverly! not Peverly——"
"Aind I said Peverly alretty? Sefenty-vive——"
"Look here; there's a Beverly and a Peverly on this line, and I don't want to go to Peverly and I do want to go to Beverly——"
"You go py Peverly und you don'd go py Beverly alretty! Sure! Sefenty-vive ce——"
The young man cast an exasperated glance across the aisle in time to catch a glimpse of two deliciously blue eyes suffused with mirth. And instantly, as before, the mirth died out. As an extinguisher of smiles he was a success, anyway; and he turned again to the placid conductor who was in the act of punching a ticket.
"Wait! Hold on! Don't do that until I get this matter straight! Now, do you understand where I wish to go?"
"You go py Peverly——"
"No, Beverly! Beverly!Beverly," he repeated in patiently studied accents.
The large mottled man with the damp moustache looked up gravely over his newspaper: "Yaw, der gonductor he also says Peverly."
"But Peverly isn't Beverly——"
"Aind I said it blenty enough dimes?" demanded the conductor, becoming irritable.
"But you haven't said it right yet!" insisted Seabury.
The conductor was growing madder and madder."Peverly! Peverly!!Peverly!!!In Gottes Himmel, don'd you English yet alretty understandt? Sefenty-vive cends! Und"—here he jammed a seat check into the rattling windows-sill—"Und ven I sez Peverly it iss Peverly, und ven I sez Beverly it iss Beverly, und ven I sez sefenty-vive cends so iss it sefenty-vi——"
Seabury thrust three silver quarters at him; it was impossible to pursue the subject; madness lay in that direction. And when the affronted conductor, mumbling muffled indignation, had straddled off down the aisle, the young man took a cautious glance at the check in the window-sill. But on it was printed only, "Please show this to the conductor," so he got no satisfaction there. He had mislaid his time-table, too, and the large mottled man opposite had none, and began an endless and patient explanation which naturally resulted in nothing, as his labials were similar to the conductor's; even more so.
Turning to the man behind him Seabury attempted to extract a little information, and the man was very affable and anxious to be of help, but all he could do was to nod and utter Teutonic gutturals through a bushy beard with a deep, buzzing sound, and Seabury sank back, beaten and dejected.
"Good Lord!" he muttered to himself, "is the entire Fatherland travelling on this accursed car! I—I've half a mind——"
He stole a doubtful sidelong glance at his blue-eyed neighbor across the aisle, but she was looking out of her own window this time, her cheeks buried in the fur of her chinchilla muff.
"And after all," he reflected, "if I ask her, she might turn out to be of the same nationality." But it was not exactly that which prevented him.
The train was slowing down; sundry hoarse toots from the locomotive indicated a station somewhere in the vicinity.
"Plue Pirt Lake! Change heraus für Bleasant Falley!" shouted the conductor, opening the forward door. He lingered long enough to glare balefully at Seabury, then, as nobody apparently cared either to get out at Blue Bird Lake or change for Pleasant Valley, he slammed the door and jerked the signal rope; the locomotive emitted a scornful Teutonic grunt; the train moved forward into the deepening twilight of the December night.
The snow was now falling more heavily—it was light enough to see that—a fine gray powder sifting down out of obscurity, blowing past the windows in misty streamers.
The bulky man opposite breathed on the pane, rubbed it with a thumb like a pincushion, and peered out.
"Der next station iss Beverly," he said.
"The next is Peverly?"
"No, der next issBeverly; und der nextest iss Peverly.
"Then, if I am going to Beverly, I get out at thenext station, don't I?" stammered the perplexed young fellow, trying to be polite.
The man became peevish. "Nun, wass ist es?" he growled. "I dell you Peverly und you say Beverly. Don'd I know vat it iss I say alretty?"
"Yes—butIdon't——"
"Also, you ged owid vere you tam blease!" retorted the incensed passenger, and resumed his newspaper, hunching himself around to present nothing to Seabury except a vast expanse of neck and shoulder.
Seabury, painfully embarrassed, let it go at that. Probably the poor manhadmanaged to enunciate the name of the station properly; no doubt the next stop was Beverly, after all. He was due there at 6.17. He looked at his watch. It was a quarter past six already. The next stopmustbe Beverly—supposing the train to be on time.
And already the guttural warning of the locomotive sounded from the darkness ahead; already he sensed the gritting resistance of the brakes.
Permitting himself a farewell and perfectly inoffensive glance across the aisle, he perceived her of the blue eyes and chinchilla furs preparing for departure; and, what he had not before noticed, her maid in the seat behind her, gathering a dainty satchel, umbrella, and suit-case marked C. G.
So she was going to Beverly, too! He hoped she might be bound for the Christmas Eve frolic at the Austins'. It was perfectly possible—in fact, probable.
He was a young man whose optimism colored his personal wishes so vividly that sometimes what he desired became presently, in his imagination, a charming and delightful probability. And already his misgivings concerning the proper name of the next station had vanished. HewantedBeverly to be the next station, and already it was, for him. Also, he had quite made up his mind that she of the chinchillas was bound for the Austins'.
A cynical blast from the locomotive; a jerking pull of brakes, and, from the forward smoker, entered the fat conductor.
"Beverly! Beverly!" he shouted.
So he, too, had managed to master hisP'sandB's, concluded the young man, smiling to himself as he rose, invested himself with his heavy coat, and picked up his suit-case.
The young lady of the chinchillas had already left the car, followed by her maid, before he stepped into the aisle ready for departure.
A shadow of misgiving fell upon him when, glancing politely at his fellow-passenger, he encounteredonly a huge sneer, and concluded that the nod of courtesy was superfluous.
Also he hesitated as he passed the fat conductor, who was glaring at him, mouth agape—hesitated a moment only, then, realizing the dreadful possibilities of reopening the subject, swallowed his question in silence.
"It'sgotto be Beverly, now," he thought, making his way to the snowy platform and looking about him for some sign of a conveyance which might be destined for him. There were several sleighs and depot-wagons there—a number of footmen bustling about in furs.
"I'll just glance at the name of the station to be sure," he thought to himself, peering up through the thickly descending snow where the name of the station ought to be. And, as he stepped out to get a good view, he backed into a fur-robed footman, who touched his hat in hasty apology.
"Oh, Bailey! Is that you?" said Seabury, relieved to encounter one of Mrs. Austin's men.
"Yes, sir. Mr. Seabury, sir! Were you expected——?"
"Certainly," nodded the young man gayly, abandoning his suit-case to the footman and following him to a big depot-sleigh.
And there, sure enough, was his lady of the chinchillas,nestling under the robes to her pretty chin, and her maid on the box with the coachman—a strangely fat coachman—no doubt a new one to replace old Martin.
When Seabury came up the young lady turned and looked at him, and he took off his hat politely, and she acknowledged his presence very gravely and he seated himself decorously, and the footman swung to the rumble.
Then the chiming silver sleigh-bells rang out through the snow, the magnificent pair of plumed horses swung around the circle under the bleared lights of the station and away they speeded into snowy darkness.
A decent interval of silence elapsed before he considered himself at liberty to use a traveller's privilege. Then he said something sufficiently commonplace to permit her the choice of conversing or remaining silent. She hesitated; she had never been particularly wedded to silence. Besides, she was scarcely twenty—much too young to be wedded to anything. So she said something, with perfect composure, which left the choice to him. And his choice was obvious.
"I have no idea how far it is; have you?" he asked.
"Yes," she said coolly.
"This is a jolly sleigh," he continued with unimpaired cheerfulness.
She thought it comfortable. And for a while the conversation clung so closely around the sleigh that it might have been run over had not he dragged it into another path.
"Isn't it amazing how indifferent railroads are to the convenience of their passengers?"
She turned her blue eyes on him; there was the faintest glimmer in their depths.
"I know you saw me running after that train," he said, laughingly attempting to break the ice.
"I?"
"Certainly. And it amused you, I think."
She raised her eyebrows a trifle. "What is there amusing about that?"
"But youdidsmile—at least I thought so."
Evidently she had no comment to offer. Shewashard to talk to. But he tried again.
"The fact is, I never expected to catch your—that train. It was only when I saw—saw"—he floundered on the verge of saying "you," but veered off hastily—"when I saw that brakeman's expression of tired contempt, I simply sailed through the air like a—a—like a—one of those—er you know——"
"Do you mean kangaroos?" she ventured so listlessly that the quick flush of chagrin on his face diedout again; because it was quite impossible that such infantine coldness and candour could be secretly trifling with his dignity.
"It was a long jump," he concluded gayly, "but I did some jumping at Harvard and I made it and managed to hold on."
"You were very fortunate," she said, smiling for the first time.
And, looking at her, he thought he was; and he admitted it so blandly that he overdid the part. But he didn't know that.
"I fancy," he continued, "that everybody on that train except you and I were Germans. Such a type as sat opposite me——"
"Which car were you in?" she asked simply.
"Why—in your car——"
"Inmycar?"
"Why—er—yes," he explained; "you were sitting across the aisle, you know."
"Was I?" she asked with pleasant surprise; "across the aisle from you?"
He grew red; he had certainly supposed that she had noticed him enough to identify him again. Evidently she had not. Mistakes like that are annoying. Every man instinctively supposes himself enough of an entity to be noticed by a pretty woman.
"I had no end of trouble of finding out where Beverly was," he said after a minute.
"Oh! And how did you find out?"
"I didn't until I backed into Bailey, yonder.... Do you know that I had a curious sort of presentiment that I should find you in this sleigh?"
"That is strange," she said. "When did you have it?"
"In the car—long before you got off."
She thought it most remarkable—rather listlessly.
"Those things happen, you know," he went on; "like thinking of a person you don't expect to see, and looking up and suddenly seeing that very person walking along."
"How does that resemble your case?" she asked.
It didn't. He realised it even before he began to try to explain the similarity. It really didn't matter one way or the other; it was nothing to turn red about, but he was turning. Somehow or other she managed to say things that never permitted that easy, graceful flow of language which characterised him in his normal state. Somehow or other, he felt that he was not doing himself justice. He could converse well enough with people as a rule. Something in that topsy-turvy and maddeningly foolish colloquywith those Germans must have twisted his tongue or unbalanced his logic.
"As a matter of fact," he said, "there's no similarity between the two cases except the basic idea of premonition."
She had been watching him disentangle himself with bright eyes in which something was sparkling—perhaps sympathy and perhaps not. It may have been the glimmer of malice. Perhaps she thought him just a trifle too ornamental—for he certainly was a very good-looking youth—perhaps something in the entire episode appealed to her sense of mischief. Probably even she herself could not explain just why she had thought it funny to see him running for his train, and later entangling himself in a futile word-fest with the conductor and the large mottled man.
"So," she said thoughtfully, "you were obsessed by a premonition."
"Not—er—exactly obsessed," he said suspiciously. Then his face cleared. How could anybody be suspicious of such sweetly inquiring frankness? "You see," he admitted, "that I—well, I rather hoped you would be going to the Austins'."
"TheAustins'!" she repeated.
"Yes. I—I couldn't help speculating——"
"About me?" she asked. "Why should you?"
"I—there was no reason, of course, only I k-kept seeing you without trying to——"
"Me?"
"Certainly. I couldn't help seeing you, could I?"
"Not if you were looking at me," she murmured, pressing her muff to her face. Perhaps she was cold.
Again it occurred to him that there was something foolish in her reply. Certainly she was a little difficult to talk to. But then she was young—very young and—close enough to being a beauty to excuse herself from any overstrenuous claim to intellectuality.
"Yes," he said kindly and patiently, "I did see you, and I did hope that you were going to the Austins'. And then I bumped into somebody and there you were. I don't mean," as she raised her pretty eyebrows—"mean that you were Bailey. Good Lord,whatis the matter with my tongue!" he said, flushing with annoyance. "I don't talk this way usually."
"Don't you?" she managed to whisper behind her muff.
"No, I don't. That conductor's jargon seems to have inoculated me. You will probably not believe it, but Icantalk the English tongue sometimes——"
She was laughing now—a clear, delicious, irrepressible little peal that rang sweetly in the frostyair, harmonising with the chiming sleigh-bells. And he laughed, too, still uncomfortably flushed.
"Do you think it would help if we began all over again?" she asked, looking wickedly at him over her muff. "Let me see—you had an obsession which turned into a premonition that bumped Bailey and you found it wasn't Bailey at all, but a stranger in chinchillas who was going to—wheredid you say she was going? Oh, to the Austins'!Thatis clear, isn't it?"
"About as clear as anything that's happened to me to-night," he said.
"A snowy night does make a difference," she reflected.
"A—a difference?"
"Yes—doesn't it?" she asked innocently.
"I—inwhat?"
"In clearness. Things are clearer by daylight?"
"I don't see—I—exactly how—as a matter of fact I don't follow you at all," he said desperately. "You say things—and they sound all right—but somehow my answers seem queer.Doyou suppose that German conversation has mentally twisted me?"
Her eyes above the fluffy fur of her muff were bright as stars, but she did not laugh.
"Suppose," she said, demurely, "thatyouchoose a subject of conversation and try to make sense ofit. If youarementally twisted it will be good practice."
"And you will—you won't say things—I mean things not germane to the subject?"
"Did you say German?"
"No, germane."
"Oh! HaveIbeen irrelevant, too?"
"Well, you mixed up mental clarity with snowy nights. Of course it was a little joke—I saw that soon enough; I'd have seen it at once, only Iamrather upset and nervous after that German experience."
She considered him with guileless eyes. He wastoogood-looking, too attractive, too young, and far too much pleased with himself. That was the impression he gave her. And, as he was, in addition, plainly one of her own sort, a man she was likely to meet anywhere—a well-bred, well-mannered and agreeable young fellow, probably a recent undergraduate, which might account for his really inoffensive breeziness—she felt perfectly at ease with him and safe enough to continue imprudently her mischief.
"If you are going to begin at the beginning," she said, "perhaps it might steady your nerves to repeat your own name very slowly and distinctly. Physicians recommend it sometimes," she added seriously.
"My name is John Seabury," he said, laughing. "Am I lucid?"
"Lucid so far," she said gravely. "I knew a Lily Seabury——"
"My sister. She's in Paris."
"Yes, I knew that, too," mused the girl, looking at him in a different light—different in this way that his credentials were now unquestionable, and she could be as mischievous as she pleased with the minimum of imprudence.
"Do you ever take the advice of physicians," he asked naïvely, "about repeating names?"
"Seldom," she said. "I don't require the treatment."
"I was only wondering——"
"You were wondering what C. G. stood for on my satchel? I will be very glad to tell you, Mr. Seabury.Cstands for Cecil, andGfor Gay; Cecil Gay. Is that lucid?"
"Cecil!" he said; "that's a man's name."
"How rude! It ismyname. Now, do you think your mental calibre requires any more re-boring?"
"Oh, you know about calibres and things. Do you shoot? Icantalk about dogs and guns. Listen to me, Miss Gay." The subject shifted from shooting to fishing, and from hunting to driving four-in-hand, and eventually came back to the horses and the quaint depot-sleigh which was whirling them so swiftly toward their destination.
"Jack Austin and I were in Paris," he observed.
"Oh—recently?"
"Last year."
"I thought so."
"Why?" he asked.
"Oh, I suppose it was one of those obsessed premonitions——"
"You are laughing at me, Miss Gay."
"Am I? Why?"
"Why? How on earth is a man to know why?Idon't know why you do it, but you do—all the time."
"Notallthe time, Mr. Seabury, because I don't know you well enough."
"But you know my sister!"
"Yes. She is a dear."
"Won't that introduce me? And, besides, you know Jack Austin——"
"No, I don't."
"Isn't that odd?" he said. "You don't know Jack Austin and I don't know Mrs. Austin. It was nice of her to ask me. They say she is one of the best ever."
"It was certainly nice of her to ask you," said the girl, eyes brightening over her muff.
"I was in Europe when they were married," he said. "I suppose you were there."
"No, I wasn't. That sounds rather strange, doesn't it?"
"Why, yes, rather!" he replied, looking up at her in his boyish, perplexed way. And for a moment her heart failed her; hewasnice, but also he was a living temptation. Never before in all her brief life had she been tempted to do to anybody what she was doing to him. She had often been imprudent in a circumspect way—conventionally unconventional at times—even a little daring. At sheer audacity she had drawn the line, and now the impulse to cross that line had been too much for her. But even she did not know exactly why temptation had overcome her.
There was something that she ought to tell him—and tell him at once. Yet, after all, it was really already too late to tell him—had been too late from the first. Fate, Chance and Destiny, the Mystic Three, disguised, as usual, one as a German conductor; one as a large mottled man; the other as a furry footman had been bumped by Seabury and jeered at by a girl wearing dark blue eyes and chinchillas. And now the affronted Three were taking exclusive charge of John Seabury and Cecil Gay. She was partly aware of this; she did not feel inclined to interfere where interference could do no good. And that being the case, why not extract amusement frommatters as they stood? Alas, it is not well to laugh at the Mystic Three! But Cecil Gay didn't know that. You see, evenshedidn't know everything.
"You will like Jack Austin," he asserted.
"Really?"
"I'm willing to bet——"
"Oh, wait till we know one another officially before we begin to make wagers.... Still, I might, perhaps safely wager that I shall not find your friend Jack Austin very agreeable to-night."
So they settled the terms of the wager; cigarettes versus the inevitable bonbons.
"Everybody likes Jack Austin on sight," he said triumphantly, "so you may as well send the cigarettes when you are ready;" and he mentioned the brand.
"You will never smoke those cigarettes," she mused aloud, looking dreamily at him, her muff pressed alongside of her pretty cheek. "Tell me, Mr. Seabury, are you vindictive?"
"Not very."
"Revengeful?"
"Well—no, I don't think so," he replied. "Why?"
"I'm much relieved," she said, simply.
"Why?"
"Because I've done a dreadful thing—perfectly dreadful."
"To me?"
She nodded.
Perplexed and curious, he attempted to learn what she meant, but she parried everything smiling. And now, the faster the horses sped, the faster her pulses beat, and the more uncertain and repentant she became until her uncertainty increased to a miniature panic, and, thoroughly scared, she relapsed into a silence from which he found it beyond his powers to lure her.
For already a bright light was streaming out toward them from somewhere ahead. In its rays the falling snow turned golden, every separate flake distinct as they passed a great gate with the lodge beside it and went spinning away along a splendid wooded avenue and then straight up toward a great house, every window ablaze with light.
John Seabury jumped out and offered his aid to Cecil Gay as several servants appeared under the porte-cochère.
"I had no idea that Jack Austin lived so splendidly," he whispered to Miss Gay, as they entered the big hall.
But she was past speech now—a thoroughly scared girl; and she lost no time in following a maid intothe elevator, whither Seabury presently followed her in tow of a man-servant.
"Luxury! Great Scott," thought Seabury. "This dubbing a palace a cottage is the worse sort of affectation, and I'll tell Jack Austin so, too."
The elevator stopped; the doors clicked open; Seabury turned smilingly to Cecil Gay, but she hurried past him, crimson-cheeked, head bent, and he followed his pilot to his room.
"Dinner is hannounced at 'awf awfter height, sir," announced the man with dignity.
"Thank you," said Seabury, watching a valet do sleight-of-hand tricks with the contents of his suit-case. And when he was alone he hopped nimbly out of his apparel and into a bath and out again in a high state of excitement, talking to himself all the while he was dressing.
"Good old Jack! The Mrs. must have had the means to do this sort of thing so well. I'm delighted!—de—lighted!... If ever a man deserved affluence, it's Jack Austin! It suits him. It will do him good. It becomes him.... Plucky fellow to go on grinding at the law!... Only thing to do, of course—decent thing to do—self-respect and all that.... But, by jingo!"—he looked about him as he stood buttoning his collar. "Hah!" stepping to the wall and examining a picture—"GreatJenkins!—why, here's a real Fortuny—in abedroom!"
He cared for good pictures, and he stood before the exquisite aquarelle as long as he dared. Then, glancing at his watch, he completed his toilet, opened his door, and, scorning the lift, fled blithely down the great staircase on pleasing bent—and on being pleased.
A big drawing-room, charmingly lighted, and gay already with the chatter and laughter of a very jolly throng—this is what confronted him as a servant offered him a tray containing cards.
"I don't see my name here," he said, examining the slim envelopes.
"Beg pardon, sir—what name, sir?"
"Mr. Seabury."
The servant looked and Seabury looked in vain.
"An oversight," commented the young fellow, coolly. "I'll ask Mrs. Austin about it." And he walked in, and, singling out the hostess, advanced with smiling confidence, thinking to himself: "Sheispretty; Jack's right. But—but, by George!—she looks like Cecil Gay!"
His hostess received him very charmingly, saying that it was so good of him to come; and he said it was so good of her to have asked him, and then they said several similar things. He spoke of Jack—mentioninghim and continuing to another subject; and she smiled a trifle uncertainly. Her smile was still more vague and uncertain when he laughingly mentioned the dinner-cards; and she said it was a vexing oversight and would be immediately arranged—glancing rather sharply at an amiable gentleman standing near her. And this amiable gentleman came up to Seabury and shook hands very cordially, and said several agreeable things to which Seabury responded, until new arrivals separated him from his hostess and the amiable gentleman, and he fell back and glanced about him. And, after a little while an odd expression came into his eyes; he stood very still; a slight flush slowly spread over his face which had grown firmer. In a few moments the color went as it had come, slowly; the faint glitter died out in his eyes.
There were several people he knew among the guests; he nodded quietly to young Van Guilder, to Brimwell and others, then crossed to speak to Catherine Hyland and Dorothy Minster. He was very agreeable, but a little distrait. He seemed to have something on his mind.
Meanwhile his hostess was saying to her husband: "Whoisthat, Jim?" And her husband said: "You can search me. Didn't you ask him?" And his wife responded: "He's talking to nearly everybody. It'scurious, isn't it?" Here she was interrupted by the flushed entrance of her unmarried sister, Cecil Gay.
Meanwhile, Seabury was saying coolly: "I haven't seen Jack yet."
"Jack?" repeated Dorothy Minster. "Which Jack?"
"Jack Austin."
"Oh," said Miss Minster, who did not know him; "is he to be here?"
But Seabury only smiled vaguely. His mind, his eyes, his attention were fixed upon a vision of loveliness in the foreground—a charmingly flushed young girl who knew everybody and was evidently a tremendous favorite, judging from the gay greetings, the little volleys of laughter, and the animated stirring of groups among which she passed.
Watching her, quite oblivious to his surroundings, the servant at his elbow was obliged to cough discreetly half a dozen times and repeat "Beg pardon, sir," before he turned to notice the silver salver extended.
"Oh—thank you," he said, picking up an envelope directed, "Mr. Seabury," and opening it. Then a trifle surprised but smiling, he turned to find the girl whose name was written on the card. She was speaking to the hostess and the amiable man who had firstgreeted him. And this is what he didn't hear as he watched her, waiting grimly for a chance at her:
"Cecil!Whois that very young man?"
"Betty, how shouldIknow——"
"Look here, Cis," from the amiable gentleman; "this is some of your deviltry——"
"Oh,thankyou, Jim!"
"Yes, it is. Who is he and where did you rope him?"
"Jim!"
"Cecil! What nonsense is this?" demanded her hostess and elder sister. "How did he get here and who is he?"
"I didnotbring him, Betty. He simply came?"
"How?"
"In the depot-sleigh, of course——"
"Withyou?"
"Certainly. He wanted to come. Hewouldcome! I couldn't turn him out, could I—after he climbed in?"
Host and hostess glared at their flushed and defiant relative, who tried to look saucy, but only looked scared. "Hedoesn't know he's made a mistake," she faltered; "and there's no need to tell him yet—is there?... I put my name down on his card; he'll take me in.... Jim, don't, for Heaven's sake, say anything if he calls Betty Mrs. Austin. Oh, Jim,be decent, please! Iwasa fool to do it; I don't know what possessed me! Wait until to-morrow before you say anything! Besides, he may be furious! Please wait until I'm out of the house. He'll breakfast late, I hope; and I promise you I'll be up early and off by the seven o'clock train——"
"In Heaven's name, whoishe?" broke in the amiable man so fiercely that Cecil jumped.
"He's only Lily Seabury's brother," she said, meekly, "and he thinks he's at the Austins'—and he might as well be, because he knows half the people here, and I've simplygotto keep him out of their way so that nobody can tell him where he is. Oh, Betty—I've spoiled my own Christmas fun, and his, too!Isthere any way to get him to the Austins' now?'
"The Jack Austins' of Beverly!" exclaimed her sister, incredulously. "Of course not!"
"And youlethim think he was on his way there?" demanded her brother-in-law. "Well—you—are—the—limit!"
"So ishe," murmured the abashed maid, slinking back to give place to a new and last arrival. Then she turned her guilty face in a sort of panic of premonition. She was a true prophetess; Seabury had seen his chance and was coming. Andthat'swhat comes of mocking the Mystic Three and cutting capers before High Heaven.
He had taken her in and was apparently climbing rapidly through the seven Heavens of rapture—having arrived as far as the third unchecked and without mishap. It is not probable that she kept pace with him: she had other things to think of.
Dinner was served at small tables; and it required all her will, all her limited experience, every atom of her intelligence, to keep him from talking about things that meant exposure for her. Never apparently had he been so flattered by any individual girl's attention; she was gay, witty, audacious, charming, leading and carrying every theme to a scintillating conclusion.
The other four people at their table he had not before met—she had seen to that—and it proved to be a very jolly group, and there was a steady, gay tumult of voices around it, swept by little gusts of laughter; and he knew perfectly well that he had never had such a good time as he was having—had never been so clever, so interesting, so quick with his wit, so amusing. He had never seen such a girl as had been allotted to him—never! Besides, something else had nerved him to do his best. And he was doing it.
"It's a curious thing," he said, with that odd new smile of his, "what a resemblance there is between you and Mrs. Austin."
"What Mrs. Austin?" began the girl opposite; but got no further, for Cecil Gay was appealing to him to act as arbiter in a disputed Bridge question; and he did so with nice discrimination and a logical explanation which tided matters over that time. But it was a close call; and the color had not all returned to Cecil's cheeks when he finished, with great credit to his own reputation as a Bridge expert.
But the very deuce seemed to possess him to talk on subjects from which she strove to lead him.
These are the other breaks he made, and as far ashe got with each break—stopped neatly every time in time:
"Curious I haven't seen Jack Aus——"
"Mrs. Austindoesresemble——"
"This is the first time I have ever been in Bev——"
And each time she managed to repair the break unnoticed. But it was telling on her; she couldn't last another round—she knew that. Only the figurative bell could save her now. And she could almosthearit as her sister rose.
Saved! But—but—whatmight some of these men say to him if he lingered here for coffee and cigarettes?
"You won't, will you?" she said desperately, as all rose.
"Won't—what?" he asked.
"Stay—long."
He rapidly made his way from the third into the fourth Heaven. She watched him.
"No, indeed," he said under his breath.
She lingered, fascinated by her own peril.Couldshe get him away at once?
"I—I wonder, Mr. Seabury, what you would think if I—if I suggested that you smoke—smoke—on the stairs—now—with me?"
He hastily scrambled out of the fourth Heaven into the fifth. She saw him do it.
"I'd rather smoke there than anywhere in the world——"
"Quick, then! Saunter over to the door—stroll about a little first—no, don't do even that!—I—I mean—you'd better hurry.Please!" She cast a rapid look about her; she could not linger another moment. Then, concentrating all the sweetness and audacity in her, and turning to him, she gave him one last look. It was sufficient to send him in one wild, flying leap from the fifth Heaven plump into the sixth. The sixth Heaven was on the stairs; and his legs carried him thither at a slow and indifferent saunter, though it required every scrap of his self-control to prevent his legs from breaking into a triumphant trot. Yet all the while that odd smile flickered, went out, and flickered in his eyes.
She was there, very fluffy, very brilliant, and flustered and adorable, the light from the sconces playing over her bare arms and shoulders and spinning all sorts of aureoles around her bright hair. Hah! She had him alone now. She was safe; she could breathe again. And he might harp on the Austins all he chose. Let him!
"No,Ican't have cigarettes," she explained, "because it isn't good for my voice. I'm supposed to possess a voice, you know."
"It's about the sweetest voice I ever heard," hesaid so sincerely that the bright tint in her cheeks deepened.
"That is nicer than a compliment," she said, looking at him with a little laugh of pleasure. He nodded, watching the smoke rings drifting through the hall.
"Do you know something?" he said.
"Not very much. What?"
"If I were a great matrimonial prize——"
"You are, aren't you?"
"IfI was," he continued, ignoring her, "like a king or a grand duke——"
"Exactly."
"I'd invite a grand competition for my hand and heart——"
"We'd all go, Mr. Seabury——"
"——And then I'd stroll about among them all——"
"Certainly—among the competing millions."
"Among the millions—blindfolded——"
"Blinfo——"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"——Blindfolded!" he repeated with emphasis. "I would choose avoice!—before everything else in the world."
"Oh," she said, rather faintly.
"A voice," he mused, looking hard at the end of his cigarette which had gone out: and the odd smile began to flicker in his eyes again.
Mischief prompting, she began: "I wonder what chance I should have in your competition? First prize I couldn't aspire to, but—there would be a sort of booby prize—wouldn't there, Mr. Seabury?"
"There would be only one prize——"
"Oh!"
"And that would be the booby prize; the prize booby." And he smiled his odd smile and laid his hand rather gracefully over his heart. "You have won him, Miss Gay."
She looked at him prepared to laugh, but, curiously enough, there was less of the booby about him as she saw him there than she had expected—a tall, clean-cut, attractive young fellow, with a well-shaped head and nice ears—a man, not a boy, after all—pleasant, amiably self-possessed, and of her own sort, as far as breeding showed.
Gone was the indescribably indefinite suggestion oftoogood looks, of latent self-sufficiency. He no longer struck her as being pleased with himself, of being a shade—just a shade—too sure of himself. A change, certainly; and to his advantage. Kindness, sympathy, recognition make wonderful changes in some people.
"I'll tell you what I'd do if I were queen, and"—she glanced at him—"a matrimonial prize.... Shall I?"
"Why be both?" he asked.
"That rings hollow, Mr. Seabury, after your tribute to my voice!... Suppose I were queen.I'dhold a caucus, too. Please say you'd come."
"Oh, I am already there!"
"Thatwon't help you; it isn't first come, first served atmycaucus!... So, suppose millions of suitors were all sitting around twisting their fingers in abashed hopeful silence."
"Exactly."
"Whatdo you think I'd do, Mr. Seabury?"
"Run.Ishould."
"No; I should make them a speech—a long one—oh, dreadfully long and wearisome. I should talk and talk and talk, and repeat myself, and pile platitude on platitude, and maunder on and on and on. And about luncheon-time I should have a delicious repast served me, and I'd continue my speech as I ate. And after that I'd ramble on and on until dinner-time. And I should dine magnificently up there on the dais, and, between courses, I'd continue my speech——"
"You'd choose the last man to go to sleep," he said simply.
"Howdid you guess it!" she exclaimed, vexed. "I—it's too bad for you to knoweverything, Mr. Seabury."
"I thought you were convinced that I didn't knowanything?" he said, looking up at her. His voice was quiet—too quiet; his face grave, unsmiling, firm.
"I? Mr. Seabury, I don't understand you."
He folded his hands and rested his chin on the knuckles. "But I understand you, Miss Gay. Tell me"—the odd smile flickered and went out—"Tell me, in whose house am I?"
Sheer shame paralyzed her; wave on wave of it crimsoned her to the hair. She sat there in deathly silence; he coolly lighted another cigarette, dropped one elbow on his knee, propping his chin in his open palm.
"I'm curious to know—if you don't mind," he added pleasantly.
"Oh—h!" she breathed, covering her eyes suddenly with both hands. She pressed the lids for a moment steadily, then her hands fell to her lap, and she faced him, cheeks aflame.
"I—I have no excuse," she stammered—"nothing to say for myself ... except I did not understand what a—a common—dreadful—insulting thing I was doing——"
He waited; then: "I am not angry, Miss Gay."
"N-not angry? You are! You must be! It was too mean—too contemptible——"
"Please don't. Besides, I took possession of your sleigh. Bailey did the business for me. I didn't know he had left the Austins, of course."
She looked up quickly; there was a dimness in her eyes, partly from earnestness; "I did not know you had made a mistake until you spoke of the Austins," she said. "And then something whispered to me not to tell you—to let you go on—something possessed me to commit this folly——"
"Oh, no;Icommitted it. Besides, we were more than half-way here, were we not?"
"Ye-yes."
"And there's only one more train for Beverly, and I couldn't possibly have made that, even if we had turned back!"
"Y-yes. Mr. Seabury,areyou trying to defend me?"
"You need no defense. You were involved through no fault of your own in a rather ridiculous situation. And you simply, and like a philosopher, extracted what amusement there was in it."
"Mr. Seabury! You shall not be so—so generous. I have cut a wretchedly undignified figure——"
"You couldn't!"
"I could—I have—I'm doing it!"
"You are doing something else, Miss Gay."
"W-what?"
"Making it very, very hard for me to go."
"But you can't go! You mustn't! Do you think I'd let you go—now? Not if the Austins lived next door! I mean it, Mr. Seabury. I—I simply must make amends—all I can——"
"Amends? You have."
"I? How?"
"By being here with me."
"Th-that is—is very sweet of you, Mr. Seabury, but I—but they—but you—Oh! I don't know what I'm trying to say, except that I like you—theywill like you—and everybody knows Lily Seabury. Please, please forgive——"
"I'm going to telephone to Beverly.... Will you wait—here?"
"Ye-yes. Wh-what are you going to telephone? You can't go, you know. Please don't try—will you?"
"No," he said, looking down at her.
Things were happening swiftly—everything was happening in an instant—life, youth, time, all were whirling and spinning around her in bewildering rapidity; and her pulses, too, leaping responsive, drummed cadence to her throbbing brain.
She saw him mount the stairs and disappear—no doubt to his room, for there was a telephone there. Then, before she realized the lapse of time, he was back again, seating himself quietly beside her on the broad stair.
"Shall I tell you what I am going to do?" he said after a silence through which the confused sense of rushing unreality had held her mute.
"Wh-what are you going to do?"
"Walk to Beverly."
"Mr. Seabury! You promised——"
"Did I?"
"You did! It is snowing terribly.... It is miles and miles and the snow is already too deep. Besides, do you think I—we would let youwalk! But you shall not go—and there are horses enough, too! No, no, no! I—I wish you would let me try to make upsomethingto you—if I—all that I can possibly make up."
"At the end of the hall above there's a window," he said slowly. "Prove to me that the snow is too deep."
"Prove it?" She sprang up, gathering her silken skirts and was on the landing above before he could rise.