Sara Wrandall's house in the country stood on a wooded knoll overlooking the Sound. It was rather remotely located, so far as neighbours were concerned. Her father, Sebastian Gooch, shrewdly foresaw the day when land in this particular section of the suburban world would return dollars for the pennies, and wisely bought thousands of acres: woodland, meadowland, beachland and hills, inserted between the environs of New York City and the rich towns up the coast. Years afterward he built a commodious summer home on the choicest point that his property afforded, named it Southlook, and transformed that particular part of his wilderness into a millionaire's paradise, where he could dawdle and putter to his heart's content, where he could spend his time and his money with a prodigality that came so late in life to him that he made waste of both in his haste to live down a rather parsimonious past.
Two miles and a half away, in the heart of a scattered colony of purse-proud New Yorkers, was the country home of the Wrandalls, an imposing place and older by far than Southlook. It had descended from well-worn and time-stained ancestors to Redmond Wrandall, and, with others of its kind, looked with no little scorn upon the modern, mushroom structures that sprouted from the seeds of trade. There was no friendship between the old and the new. Each had recourse to a bitter contempt for the other, though consolation was small in comparison.
It was in the wooded by-ways of this despised domain that Challis Wrandall and Sara, the earthly daughter of Midas, met and loved and defied all things supernal, for matches are made in heaven. Their marriage did not open the gates of Nineveh. Sebastian Gooch's paradise was more completely ostracised than it was before the disaster. The Wrandalls spoke of it as a disaster.
Clearly the old merchant was not over-pleased with his daughter's choice, a conclusion permanently established by the alteration he made in his will a year or two after the marriage. True, he left the vast estate to his beloved daughter Sara, but he fastened a stout string to it, and with this string her hands were tied. It must have occurred to him that Challis was a profligate in more ways than one, for he deliberately stipulated in his will that Sara was not to sell a foot of the ground until a period of twenty years had elapsed. A very polite way, it would seem, of making his investment safe in the face of considerable odds.
He lived long enough after the making of his will, I am happy to relate, to find that he had made no mistake. As he preceded his son-in-law into the Great Beyond by a scant three years, it readily may be seen that he wrought too well by far. Seventeen unnecessary years of proscription remained, and he had not intended them for Sara ALONE. He was not afraid of Sara, but for her.
When the will was read and the condition revealed, Challis Wrandall took it in perfect good humour. He had the grace to proclaim in the bosom of his father's family that the old gentleman was a father-in-law to be proud of. "A canny old boy," he had announced with his most engaging smile, quite free from rancour or resentment. Challis was well acquainted with himself.
And so the acres were strapped together snugly and firmly, without so much as a town-lot protruding.
So impressed was Challis by the farsightedness of his father-in-law that he forthwith sat him down and made a will of his own. He would not have it said that Sara's father did a whit better by her than he would do. He left everything he possessed to his wife, but put no string to it, blandly implying that all danger would be past when she came into possession. There was a sort of grim humour in the way he managed to present himself to view as the real and ready source of peril.
Among certain of the Wrandall clan there was serious talk of contesting the will. It was a distinct shock to all of them. Some one made bold to assert that Challis was not in his right mind at the time it was executed. For that matter, a couple of uncles on his mother's side were of the broad opinion that he never had been mentally adequate.
During a family conference four days after the funeral, Leslie launched forth at some length and with considerable heat, expressing an opinion that met with small favour at the outset but which had its results later on.
"Why," he declaimed, standing before the fireplace with his hands in his pockets, "if Sara dreamed that we even so much as contemplate making a fuss about Chal's will, she'd up and chuck the whole blooming legacy in our faces, and be glad to do it. She's got plenty of her own. She doesn't need the little that Challis left her. Then, what would we look like, tell me that? What would the world say? Why, it would say that she didn't think our money was clean enough to mix with old man Gooch's. She'd throw it in our faces and the whole town would snicker."
"Figuratively speaking, young man, figuratively speaking," said one of the uncles, a stockholder and director.
"What do you mean by that?"
"That she—ahem! That she couldn't actually THROW it."
"I'm not so literal as you, Uncle George."
"Then why use the word THROW?"
"Of course, Uncle George, I don't mean to say she'd have it reduced to gold coin and stand off and take shots at us. You understand that, don't you?"
"Leslie," put in his father, "you have a most distressing way of—er—putting it. Your Uncle George is not so dense as all that."
"I didn't use the word 'throw' in the first place," said Leslie, with a shrug. "I said 'chuck.'"
"I distinctly heard you use the word 'throw,'" said Uncle George, very red in the face.
"It was on the second occasion, George," said Mrs. Wrandall, loyal to Leslie.
"In either case," said her son, "we'd be made ridiculous. That's the long and short of it. Even if she HANDED it to us on a silver plate,—figuratively speaking, Uncle George,—we'd be made to look like thirty cents."
"Well, I'm damn—" began Uncle George, almost forgetting where he was, but remembering in time. He was afraid to utter a word for the next ten minutes, and Leslie was spared the interruptions.
It was decided that the will should stand. Later on, the alarming prospect of Sara's perfect right to marry again came up to mar the peace of mind of all the Wrandalls, and it grew to be horribly real without a single move on her part to warrant the fears they were encouraging.
Sara and Hetty did not stay long in town. The newspapers announced the return of Challis Wrandall's widow and reporters sought her out for interviews. The old interest was revived and columns were printed about the murder at Burton's Inn, with sharp editorial comments on the failure of the police to clear up the mystery.
The woods were green and the earth was redolent of rich spring odours; wild flowers peeped shyly from the leaf-strewn soil in the shadow of the trees; some, more bold than others, came down to the roadway, and from the banks and hedges smiled saucily upon all who passed; the hillsides were like spotless carpets, the meadows a riot of clover hues. The world was light with the life of the new-born year, for who shall say that the year does not begin with the birth of spring? May! May, when the earth begins to bear, not January when it sets out in sorrow to bury its dead. New Year's day it is, when the first tiny flower of spring comes to life and smiles oh the face of Mother Earth, and the sun is warm with the love of a gentle father.
"I shall ask Leslie down for the week-end," said Sara, the third day after their arrival in the country. The house was huge and lonely, and time hung rather heavily despite the glorious uplift of spring.
Hetty looked up quickly from her book. A look of dismay flickered in her eyes for an instant and then gave way to the calmness that had come to dwell in their depths of late. Her lips parted in the sudden impulse to cry out against the plan, but she checked the words. For a moment, her dark, questioning eyes studied the face of her benefactress; then, as if nothing had been revealed to her, she allowed her gaze to drift pensively out toward the sunset sea.
They were sitting on the broad verandah overlooking the Sound. The dusk of evening was beginning to steal over the earth. She laid her book aside.
"Will you telephone in to him after dinner, Hetty?" went on Sara, after a long period of silence.
Again Hetty started. This time a look of actual pain flashed in her eyes.
"Would not a note by post be more certain to find him in the—" she began hurriedly.
"I dislike writing notes," said Sara calmly. "Of course, dear, if you feel that you'd rather not telephone to him, I can—"
"I dare say I am finicky, Sara," apologised Hetty in quick contrition. "Of course, he is your brother. I should remem—"
"My brother-in-law, dear," said Sara, a trifle too literally.
"He will come often to your house," went on Hetty rapidly. "I must make the best of it."
"He is your friend, Hetty. He admires you."
"I cannot see him through your eyes, Sara."
"But he IS charming and agreeable, you'll admit," persisted the other.
"He is very kind, and he is devoted to you. I should like him for that."
"You have no cause for disliking him."
"I do not dislike him. I—I am—Oh, you always have been so thoughtful, so considerate, Sara, I can't understand your failing to see how hard it is for me to—to—well, to endure his open-hearted friendship."
Sara was silent for a moment. "You draw a pretty fine line, Hetty," she said gently.
Hetty flushed. "You mean that there is little to choose between wife and brother? That isn't quite fair. You know everything, he knows nothing. I wear a mask for him; you have seen into the very heart of me. It isn't the same."
Sara came over and stood beside the girl's chair. After a moment of indecision, she laid her hand on Hetty's shoulder. The girl looked up, the ever-recurring question in her eyes.
"We haven't spoken of—of these things in many months, Hetty."
"Not since Mrs. Wrandall and Vivian came to Nice. I was upset—dreadfully upset then, Sara. I don't know how I managed to get through with it."
"But you managed it," pronounced Sara. Her fingers seemed to tighten suddenly on the girl's shoulder. "I think we were quite wonderful, both of us. It wasn't easy for me."
"Why did we come back to New York, Sara?" burst out Hetty, clasping her friend's hand as if suddenly spurred by terror. "We were happy over there. And free!"
"Listen, my dear," said Sara, a hard note growing in her voice: "this is my home. I do not love it, but I can see no reason for abandoning it. That is why we came back to New York."
Hetty pressed her friend's hand to her lips. "Forgive me," she cried impulsively. "I shouldn't have complained. It was detestable."
"Besides," went on Sara evenly, "you were quite free to remain on the other side. I left it to you."
"You gave me a week to decide," said Hetty, in a hurried manner of speaking. "I—I took but twenty-four hours—less than that. Over night, you remember. I love you, Sara. I could not leave you. All that night I could feel you pulling at my heart-strings, pulling me closer and closer, and holding me. You were in your room, I in mine, and yet all the time you seemed to be bending over me in the darkness, urging me to stay with you and love you and be loved by you. It couldn't have been a dream."
"It was not a dream," said Sara, with a queer smile.
"You DO love me?" tensely.
"I DO love you," was the firm answer. Sara was staring out across the water, her eyes big and as black as night itself. She seemed to be looking far beyond the misty lights that bobbled with nearby schooners, far beyond the yellow mass on the opposite shore where a town lay cradled in the shadows, far into the fast darkening sky that came up like a wall out of the east.
Hetty's fingers tightened in a warmer clasp. Unconsciously perhaps, Sara's grip on the girl's shoulder tightened also: unconsciously, for her thoughts were far away. The younger woman's pensive gaze rested on the peaceful waters below, taking in the slow approach of the fog that was soon to envelop the land. Neither spoke for many minutes: inscrutable thinkers, each a prey to thoughts that leaped backward to the beginning and took up the puzzle at its inception.
"I wonder—" began Hetty, her eyes narrowing with the intensity of thought. She did not complete the sentence.
Sara answered the unspoken question. "It will never be different from what it is now, unless you make it so."
Hetty started. "How could you have known what I was thinking?" she cried in wonder.
"It is what you are always thinking, my dear. You are always asking yourself when will I turn against you."
"Sara!"
"Your own intelligence should supply the answer to all the questions you are asking of yourself. It is too late for me to turn against you." She abruptly removed her hand from Hetty's shoulder and walked to the edge of the verandah. For the first time, the English girl was conscious of pain. She drew her arm up and cringed. She pulled the light scarf about her bare shoulders.
The butler appeared in the doorway.
"The telephone, if you please, Miss Castleton. Mr. Leslie Wrandall is calling."
The girl stared. "For me, Watson?"
"Yes, Miss. I forgot to say that he called up this afternoon while you were out," very apologetically, with a furtive glance at Mrs. Wrandall, who had turned.
"Loss of memory, Watson, is a fatal affliction," she said, with a smile.
"Yes, Mrs. Wrandall. I don't see 'ow it 'appened."
"It is not likely to happen again."
"No, madam."
Hetty had risen, visibly agitated.
"What shall I say to him, Sara?" she cried.
"Apparently it is he who has something to say to you," said the other, still smiling. "Wait and see what it is. Please don't neglect to say that we'd like to have him over Sunday."
"A box of flowers has just come up from the station for you, Miss," said Watson.
Hetty was very white as she passed into the house. Mrs. Wrandall resumed her contemplation of the fog-screened Sound.
"Shall I fetch you a wrap, ma'am?" asked Watson, hesitating.
"I am coming in, Watson. Open the box of flowers for Miss Castleton. Is there a fire in the library?"
"Yes, Mrs. Wrandall."
"Mr. Leslie will be out on Saturday. Tell Mrs. Conkling."
"The evening train, ma'am?"
"No. The eleven-thirty. He will be here for luncheon."
When Hetty hurried into the library a few minutes later, her manner was that of one considerably disturbed by something that has transpired almost on the moment. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were reflectors of a no uncertain distress of mind. Mrs. Wrandall was standing before the fireplace, an exquisite figure in the slinky black evening gown which she affected in these days. Her perfectly modelled neck and shoulders gleamed like pink marble in the reflected glow of the burning logs. She wore no jewellery, but there was a single white rose in her dark hair, where it had been placed by the whimsical Hetty an hour earlier as they left the dinner table.
"He is coming out on the eleven-thirty, Sara," said the girl nervously, "unless you will send the motor in for him. The body of his car is being changed and it's in the shop. He must have been jesting when he said he would pay for the petrol—I should have said gasoline."
Sara laughed. "You will know him better, my dear," she said. "Leslie is very light-hearted."
"He suggested bringing a friend," went on Hetty hurriedly. "A Mr. Booth, the portrait painter."
"I met him in Italy. He is charming. You will like HIM, too, Hetty." The emphasis did not escape notice.
"It seems that he is spending a fortnight in the village, this Mr. Booth, painting spring lambs for rest and recreation, Mr. Leslie says."
"Then he is at our very gates," said Sara, looking up suddenly.
"I wonder if he can be the man I saw yesterday at the bridge," mused Hetty. "Is he tall?"
"I really can't say. He's rather vague. It was six or seven years ago."
"It was left that Mr. Wrandall is to come out on the eleven-thirty," explained Hetty. "I thought you wouldn't like sending either of the motors in."
"And Mr. Booth?"
"We are to send for him after Mr. Wrandall arrives. He is stopping at the inn, wherever that may be."
"Poor fellow!" sighed Sara, with a grimace. "I am sure he will like us immensely if he has been stopping at the inn."
Hetty stood staring down at the blazing logs for a full minute before giving expression to the thought that troubled her.
"Sara," she said, meeting her friend's eyes with a steady light in her own, "why did Mr. Wrandall ask for me instead of you? It is you he is coming to visit, not me. It is your house. Why should—"
"My dear," said Sara glibly, "I am merely his sister-in-law. It wouldn't be necessary to ask me if he should come. He knows he is welcome."
"Then why should he feel called upon to—"
"Some men like to telephone, I suppose," said the other coolly.
"I wonder if you will ever understand how I feel about—about certain things, Sara."
"What, for instance?"
"Well, his very evident interest in me," cried the girl hotly. "He sends me flowers,—this is the second box this week,—and he is so kind, so VERY friendly, Sara, that I can't bear it—I really can't."
Mrs. Wrandall stared at her. "You can't very well send him about his business," she said, "unless he becomes more than friendly. Now, can you?"
"But it seems so—so horrible, so beastly," groaned the girl.
Sara faced her squarely. "See here, Hetty," she said levelly, "we have made our bed, you and I. We must lie in it—together. If Leslie Wrandall chooses to fall in love with you, that is his affair, not ours. We must face every condition. In plain words, we must play the game."
"What could be more appalling than to have him fall in love with me?"
"The other way 'round would be more dramatic, I should say."
"Good God, Sara!" cried the girl in horror. "How can you even speak of such a thing?"
"After all, why shouldn't—" began Sara, but stopped in the middle of her suggestion, with the result that it had its full effect without being uttered in so many cold-blooded words. The girl shuddered.
"I wish, Sara, you would let me unburden myself completely to you," she pleaded, seizing her friend's hands. "You have forbidden me—"
Sara jerked her hands away. Her eyes flashed. "I do not want to hear it," she cried fiercely. "Never, never! Do you understand? It is your secret. I will not share it with you. I should hate you if I knew everything. As it is, I love you because you are a woman who suffered at the hand of one who made me suffer. There is nothing more to say. Don't bring up the subject again. I want to be your friend for ever, not your confidante. There is a distinction. You may be able to see how very marked it is in our case, Hetty. What one does not know, seldom hurts."
"But I want to justify myself—"
"It isn't necessary," cut in the other so peremptorily that the girl's eyes spread into a look of anger. Whereupon Sara Wrandall threw her arm about her and drew her down beside her on the chaise-longue. "I didn't mean to be harsh," she cried. "We must not speak of the past, that's all. The future is not likely to hurt us, dear. Let us avoid the past."
"The future!" sighed the girl, staring blankly before her.
"To appreciate what it is to be," said the other, "you have but to think of what it might have been."
"I know," said Hetty, in a low voice. "And yet I sometimes wonder if—"
Sara interrupted. "You are paying me, dear, instead of the law," she said gently. "I am not a harsh creditor, am I?"
"My life belongs to you. I give it cheerfully, even gladly."
"So you have said before. Well, if it belongs to me, you might at least permit me to develop it as I would any other possession. I take it as an investment. It will probably fluctuate."
"Now you are jesting!"
"Perhaps," said Sara laconically.
The next morning Hetty set forth for her accustomed tramp over the roads that wound through the estate. Sara, the American, dawdled at home, resenting the chill spring drizzle that did not in the least discourage the Englishwoman. The mistress of the house and of the girl's destiny stood in the broad French window watching her as she strode springily, healthily down the maple lined avenue in the direction of the gates. The gardeners doffed their caps to her as she passed, and also looked after her with surreptitious glances.
There was a queer smile on Sara's lips that remained long after the girl was lost to view beyond the lodge. It was still on her lips but gone from her eyes as she paused beside the old English table to bury her nose in one of the gorgeous roses that Leslie had sent out to Hetty the day before. They were all about the room, dozens of them. The girl had insisted on having them downstairs instead of in her own little sitting-room, for which they plainly were intended.
A nasty sea turn had brought lowering grey skies and a dreary, enveloping mist that never quite assumed the dignity of a drizzle and yet blew wet and cold to the very marrow of the bones. Hetty was used to such weather. Her English blood warmed to it. As she strode briskly across the meadow-land road in the direction of the woods that lay ahead, a soft ruddy glow crept up to her cheeks, and a sparkle of joy into her eyes. She walked strongly, rapidly. Her straight, lithe young figure was a joyous thing to behold. High boots, short skirt, a loose jacket and a broad felt hat made up her costume. She was graceful, adorable; a young, healthy, beautiful creature in whom the blood surged quickly, strongly: the type of woman men are wont to classify as "ineffably feminine," though why we should differentiate is no small mystery unless there really is such a thing as one woman possessing an adorably feminine quality denied to her sisters. Be that as it may, there IS a distinction and men pride themselves on knowing it. Hetty was alluringly feminine. Leaving out the matter of morals, whatever they are, and coming right up to her as an example of her sex, pure and simple if you please, we are bound to say that she was perfect. The best thing we can say of Challis Wrandall is that he took the same view of her that we should, and fell in love with her. He would have married her if he could, there isn't much doubt as to that, no matter what she had been before he knew her or what she was at the time of his discovery. No more is it to be considered unique that his brother should have experienced a similar interest in her, knowing even less.
She was the sort of girl one falls in love with and remembers it the rest of his life.
Take her now, for instance, as she swings along the highway, fresh, trim and graceful, her chin uptilted, her cheeks warm, her eyes clear and as blue as sapphires, and we experience the most intense, unreasoning desire to be near her, at her side, where hands could touch her and the very spell of her creep out over one to make a man of him.
The kind of woman one wants to draw close to him because his heart is sweet.
She had the blood of a fellow creature on her hands—the blood of one of us—and yet we men will overlook one commandment for another. It is a matter of choice.
What of her present position in the house and in the heart of the one woman who of all those we know is abnormally unfeminine in that she subordinates the natural and instinctive animosity of woman toward another who robs her of a husband, no matter how unworthy or how hateful he may have been to her behind the screen with which she hides her sores from the world. The answer is ready: Hetty was a slave bound to an extraordinary condition. There had been no coercion on the part of Challis Wrandall's wife; no actual restraint had been set upon the girl. The situation was a plain one from every point of view: Hetty owed her life to Sara, she would have paid with her life's blood the debt she owed. It had become perfectly natural for her to consider herself a willing, grateful prisoner—a prisoner on parole. She would not, could not abuse the parole. She loved her gaoler with a love that knew no bounds; she loved the walls Sara had thrown up about her; she was content to live and die in the luxurious cell, attended by love and kindness and mercy. After all, Hetty was even more feminine than we seem able to convey in words.
Not in that she lacked in pride or sensitiveness, but that she possessed to a self-satisfying degree the ability to subordinate both of these to a loyalty that had no bounds. There were fine feelings in Hetty. She was honest with herself. She did not look beyond her present horizon for brighter skies. They were as bright as they could ever be, of that she was sure; her hopes lay within the small circumference that Sara Wrandall made possible for her. She knew that her peril, her ruin lay in the desire to step outside that narrow circle, for out there the world was cold and merciless.
She lived as one charmed by some powerful influence, and was content. Not once had the fear entered her soul that Sara would turn against her. Her trust in Wrandall's wife was infinite. In her simple, devoted heart she could feel no prick of dread so far as the present was concerned. The past was dreadful, but it was the past, and its loathsomeness was moderated by subtle contrast with the present. As for the future, it belonged to Sara Wrandall. It was safe.
If Sara were to decide that she must be given up to the law, all well and good. She could meet her fate with a smile for Sara, and with love in her heart. She could pay in full if the demand was made by the wife of the man she had left in the grim little upstairs room at Burton's Inn on that never-to-be-forgotten night in March.
The one great, inexplicable mystery to her was the heart of Sara Wrandall. She could not fathom it.
She could understand her own utter subjection to the will of the other woman; she could explain it satisfactorily to herself, and she could have explained it to the world. Self-preservation in the beginning, self-surrender as time went on, self-sacrifice as the prerogative.
And so it was, on this grey spring day, that she gazed undaunted at the world, with the shadows all about her, and hummed a sprightly tune through warm red lips that were kissed by the morning mist.
She came to the bridge by the mill, long since deserted and now a thing of ruin and decay. A man in knickerbockers stood leaning against the rail, idly gazing down at the trickling stream below. The brier pipe that formed the circuit between hand and lips sent up soft blue coils to float away on the drizzle.
She passed behind him, with a single furtive, curious glance at his handsome, undisturbed profile, and in that glance recognised him as the man she had seen the day before.
When she was a dozen rods away, the tall man turned his face from the stream and sent after her the long-restrained look. There was something akin to cautiousness in that look of his, as if he were afraid that she might turn her head suddenly and catch him at it. Something began stirring in his heart, the nameless something that awakens when least expected. He felt the subtle, sweet femininity of her as she passed. It lingered with him as he looked.
She turned the bend in the road a hundred yards away. For many minutes he studied the stream below without really seeing it. Then he straightened up, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and set off slowly in her wake, although he had been walking in quite the opposite direction when he came to the bridge,—and on a mission of some consequence, too.
There was the chance that he would meet her coming back.
Leslie Wrandall came out on the eleven-thirty. Hetty was at the station with the motor, a sullen resentment in her heart, but a welcoming smile on her lips. The sun shone brightly. The Sound glared with the white of reflected skies.
"I thought of catching the eight o'clock," he cried enthusiastically, as he dropped his bag beside the motor in order to reach over and shake hands with her. "That would have gotten me here hours earlier. The difficulty was that I didn't think of the eight o'clock until I awoke at nine."
"And then you had the additional task of thinking about breakfast," said Hetty, but without a trace of sarcasm in her manner.
"I never think of breakfast," said he amiably. "I merely eat it. Of course, it's a task to eat it sometimes, but—well, how are you? How do you like it out here?"
He was beside her on the broad seat, his face beaming, his gay little moustache pointing upward at the ends like oblique brown exclamation points, so expansive was his smile.
"I adore it," she replied, her own smile growing in response to his. It was impossible to resist the good nature of him. She could not dislike him, even though she dreaded him deep down in her heart. Her blood was hot and cold by turns when she was with him, as her mind opened and shut to thoughts pleasant and unpleasant with something of the regularity of a fish's gills in breathing.
"I knew you would. It's great. You won't care much for our place, Miss Castleton. Sara's got the pick of the coast in that place of hers. Trust old Sebastian Gooch to get the best of everything. If my dad or my grand-dad had possessed a tenth of the brain that that old chap had, we'd have our own tabernacle up there on the point, instead of sulking at his back gate. That's really where we're located, you know. His back gate opens smack in the face of our front one. I think he did it with malice aforethought, too. His back gate is two miles from the house. It wasn't really necessary to go so far for a back gate as all that, was it? To make it worse, he put a big sign over it for us to read: 'NO TRESPASSING. THIS MEANS YOU.' Sara took it down after the old boy died."
"I suppose by that time the desire to trespass was gone," she said. "One doesn't enjoy freedom of that sort."
"I've come to believe that the only free things we really covet are passes to the theatre. We never get over that, I'm sure. I'd rather have a pass to the theatre than a ten dollar bill any time. I say, it was nice of you to come down to meet me. It was more than I—er—expected." He almost said "hoped for."
"Sara was too busy about the house to come," she explained quickly. "And I had a few errands to do in the village."
"Don't spoil it!"
"I am a horribly literal person," she said.
"Better that than literally horrible," he retorted, rather proud of himself for it. "It's wonderful, the friendship between you two girls—Sara's not much more than a girl, you see. You're so utterly unlike in every way."
"It isn't strange to me," said she simply, but without looking at him.
"Of course, I can understand it," he went on. "I've always liked Sara. She's bully. Much too good for my brother, God rest his soul. He never—"
"Oh, don't utter a thing like that, even in jest," she cried, shocked by his glib remark.
He flushed. "You didn't know Challis," he said almost surlily.
She held her breath.
After a moment, the points of his little moustache went up again in the habitual barometrical smile. Rather a priggish, supercilious smile, she thought, taking a glance at his face.
"I say I can understand it, but mother and Vivian will never be able to get it through those tough skulls of theirs. They really don't like Sara. Snobs, both of 'em—of the worst kind, too. Why, mother has always looked upon Sara as a—e—-a sort of brigandess, the kind that steals children and holds them for ransom. Of course, old man Gooch was as common as rags—utterly impossible, you know—but that shouldn't stand against Sara. By the way, her father called her Sallie. Her mother was a very charming woman, they say. We never knew her. For that matter, we never knew the old man until he became prominent as a father-in-law."
The girl was silent. He went on.
"Mother likes you. She doesn't say it in so many words, but I can see that she wonders how you can have anything in common with Sara. She prides herself on being able to distinguish blue blood at a glance. Silly notion she's got, but—"
"Please don't go on, Mr. Wrandall," cried Hetty in distress.
"I'm not saying she isn't friendly to Sara nowadays," he explained. "She's changed a good deal in the last few months. I think she's broadening out a bit. Since that visit to Nice, she's been quite different. As a matter of fact, she expects to see a good bit of Sara and you this summer. It's like a spring thaw, by Jove, it is."
"When does she come to the country?" asked Hetty, bent on breaking his train of confidence.
"In three or four weeks. But, as I was saying, the mater has taken a great fancy to you. She—"
"It's very nice of her."
"She prides herself, as I said before, but she always makes sure by asking questions."
"Questions?"
"Yes. Although she could see through you as if you were plate glass, she made it a point to ask Sara all the questions she could think of. Over in Nice, you know. Of course Sara told her everything, and now she's quite sure she can't be mistaken in people. Really, Miss Castleton, she's very amusing sometimes, mother is."
Hetty was looking straight ahead, her face set.
"What did Sara tell her about me?"
"Oh, all that was necessary to prove to mother that she was right. As if it really made any difference, you know."
"Please explain."
"What is there to explain? She merely gave your pedigree, as we'd say at the dog show, begging your pardon, ma'am. Pedigrees are a sort of hobby with the mater. She collects 'em wherever she goes."
He gave his moustache a little twist.
"Then my references are satisfactory, so to speak," said she, with a wry little smile.
"Perfectly," said he, with conviction; "if we are to put any dependence in the intelligence office."
"Doesn't it stagger Mrs. Wrandall somewhat to reconcile my pedigree to the position I occupy in Sara's household—that of companion, so to say?" asked Hetty, a slight curl to her lip.
He looked rather blank. "I don't believe she looks at you in just that light," said he uncomfortably.
"I fancy you'd better enlighten her."
"Let well enough alone," quoted he glibly.
"But I AM a companion," insisted Hetty, a little spot of red in each cheek.
"In a sense, I suppose," said he affably. "Of course, Sara puts you down as a friend."
"I think you'd better understand my real position, Mr. Wrandall," said she firmly.
"I do," said he. "You are Sara's friend. That's enough for me. The fact that your father was or is a distinguished English army officer, and some sort of a cousin to a lord, and that you have the entre to fashionable London drawing-rooms, is quite enough for mother. That qualifies you to be companion to anybody, she'd say. And there's the end to it."
She was looking at him in amazement. Her lips were slightly parted and her eyes were wide. For a moment she was puzzled. Then a swift smile illumined her face. She understood.
"Of course, in London, it really isn't anything to boast about, getting into drawing-rooms," she said, vastly amused.
"Well, it is over here," said he promptly.
"And it isn't always open sesame to be related to a peer."
"I suppose not."
"Nevertheless, I am glad that your mother and Miss Vivian take me for what I am. Do you, by any chance, go in for pedigree, Mr. Wrandall?"
The shaft of irony sped over his head.
"Only in dogs and horses," he replied promptly. "It means a lot when it comes to buying a dog or a horse."
"How do you feel when you've been sold?"
"I take my medicine."
"As a good sportsman should."
"I dare say you think I'm a deuce of a prig for saying the things—"
"On the contrary, I appreciate your candour."
"Don't hesitate to say it. I'm used to being called a prig. My brother Challis always considered me one. I think he meant snob. But that was because our ideals weren't the same. By the way, you ought to like Vivian."
"That depends."
"On Vivian, I suppose?"
"Not precisely. I should say it depends on your sister's attitude toward Sara."
"Oh, she likes Sara well enough. Viv's not particularly narrow, Miss Castleton."
Hetty bestowed a smile upon him.
"That's comforting, Mr. Wrandall," she said, and he was silent for a moment, reflecting.
"Do you know," said he, as if a light had suddenly burst in upon him, "you've got more poise than any girl I've ever seen?"
"It's my bringing up, sir," she said mockingly.
"Ancestral habit," he explained, with a polite bow.
"Pedigreeable manners, perhaps."
"I wish the mater could have heard you say that." admiringly.
"Don't you adore the country at this time of the year?"
"When I get to heaven I mean to have a place in the country the year round," he said conclusively.
"And if you don't get to heaven?"
"I suppose I'll take a furnished flat somewhere."
Sara was waiting for them at the bottom of the terrace as they drove up. He leaped out and kissed her hand.
"Much obliged," he murmured, with a slight twist of his head in the direction of Hetty, who was giving orders to the chauffeur.
"You're quite welcome," said Sara, with a smile of understanding. "She's lovely, isn't she?"
"Enchanting!" said he, almost too loudly.
Hetty walked up the long ascent ahead of them. She did not have to look back to know that they were watching her with unfaltering interest. She could feel their gaze.
"Absolutely adorable," he added, enlarging his estimate without really being aware that he voiced it.
Sara shot a look at his rapt face, and turned her own away to hide the queer little smile that flickered briefly and died away.
Hetty, pleading a sudden headache, declined to accompany them later on in the day when they set forth in the car to "pick up" Brandon Booth at the inn. They were to bring him over, bag and baggage, to stay till Tuesday.
"He will be wild to paint her," declared Leslie when they were out of sight around the bend in the road. He had waved his hat to Hetty just before the trees shut off their view of her. She was standing at the top of the steps beside one of the tall Italian vases.
Sara did not respond.
"By the way, Sara, is she the niece or the grand-daughter of old Lord Murgatroyd? I'm a bit mixed."
"Her father is Colonel Castleton, of the Indian Army, and he is the eldest son of a second son, if you don't find that too difficult to solve. The second son aforesaid mentioned, so to speak, was the brother of Lord Murgatroyd. That would make Colonel Castleton his Lordship's nephew, but utterly without prospects of coming into a title, as there are several healthy British obstacles in the way. I suppose one would call Hetty a grand-niece."
"Mother wasn't quite certain whether you said niece or grand-daughter," explained Leslie. "Her mother's dead, I take it. Who was she?"
"Why are you so curious?"
"Isn't it quite natural?"
"Her mother was a Glynn. You have heard of the Glynns, of course?" She trusted to his vanity and was rewarded. The question was a sort of reproach.
"Certainly," he replied, without hesitation. The mere fact that she spoke of them as "THE Glynns" was sufficient. It was proof enough that they were people one ought to know, by name at least, if one were to profess intelligence regarding the British aristocracy. As a matter of fact, he had not heard of the Glynns, but that didn't matter. "The Irish Glynns, you mean?" he ventured, taking a chance at hitting the mark. He had a faint recollection of hearing her say that Hetty was part Irish.
"You have only to look into her eyes to know she's Irish," she said diplomatically.
"I've never seen such eyes," he exclaimed.
"She's a darling," said Sara and changed the subject, knowing full well that he would come back to it before long. "Is it true that Vivian and Mr. Booth are interested in each other?"
"Yes and no," he replied, with a profound sigh. "That is to say, she's interested in him and he isn't interested in her—in the way I take you to mean it. I suspect it's an easy matter for a girl to fall in love with Brandy. He's a corking fine chap."
"Then it would be very nice for Vivian, eh?"
"Oh, quite so—quite so. His forbears came over with Noah, according to mother. You know mother, Sara."
"Indeed I do," said she with conviction.
He laughed without restraint. "Mother can rattle off the best families in the Bible without missing a name, beginning with the Honourable Adam. Of course, she knows the Glynns and the Castletons and the Murgatroyds, although I dare say they haven't had much to do with the Bible. Come to think of it, she did go to the trouble of looking up the Castleton family in the Debrett."
"She did?" exclaimed Sara, with a slight narrowing of the eyes.
"Yes. She established the connection all right enough. She's keen for Miss Castleton."
"Oh," said she, relieved. After a moment: "And you?"
"I'm mad about her," he said simply, and then, for some unaccountable reason, gave over being loquacious and lapsed into a state of almost lugubrious quiet.
She glanced at his face, furtively at first, as if uncertain of his mood, then with a prolonged stare that was frankly curious and amused.
"Don't lose your head, Leslie," she said softly, almost purringly.
He started. "Oh, I say, Sara, I'm not likely to—"
"Stranger things have happened," she interrupted, with a shake of her head. "I can't afford to have you making love to her and getting tired of the game, as you always do, dear boy, just as soon as you find she's in love with you. She is too dear to be hurt in that way. You mustn't—"
"Good Lord!" he cried; "what a bounder you must take me for! Why, if I thought she'd—But nonsense! Let's talk about something else. Yourself, for instance."
She leaned back with a smile on her lips, but not in her eyes; and drew a long, deep breath. He was hard hit. That was what she wanted to know.
They found Booth at the inn. He was sitting on the old-fashioned porch, surrounded by bags and boys. As he climbed into the car after the bags, the boys grinned and jingled the coins in their pockets and ventured, almost in unison, the intelligence that they would all be there if he ever came back again. Big and little, they had transported his easel and canvases from place to place for three weeks or more and his departure was to be regarded as a financial calamity.
"I could go to ten circuses this summer if that many of 'em was to come to town," said one small citizen as Croesus rode away in a cloud of village dust.
"Gee, I wish to goodness he'd come back," was the soulful cry of another.
"I don't like them pictures he paints, though, do you?" observed another, more critical than avaricious.
"Naw!" was the scornful reply, also in unison.
From which it may be gathered that Mr. Brandon Booth was not cherished for art's sake alone, but for its relation to Mammon.
The object of their comments was making himself agreeable to the lady who was to be his hostess for the next few days. Leslie, perhaps in the desire to be alone with his reflections, sat forward with the chauffeur, and paid little or no heed to that unhappy person's comments on the vile condition of ALL village thorough-fares, New York City included.
"By the way, Sara," he said, suddenly breaking in on the conversation that went on at his back, and thereby betraying a secret wish that was taking shape in his mind, "what have you done with the little red runabout you had a year or two ago?"
She started. "You mean—"
As she hesitated, he went on. "It would come in very handy for twosome tours."
"I disposed of it some time ago, Leslie," said she. "I thought you'd remember."
"Oh,—er—by Jove!" he stammered in confusion.
He remembered that she had GIVEN it away a day or two after that awful night in March, and he recalled her reason for doing so. He twisted the tiny end of his moustache with unnecessary vigour—I might say fury. It was a most unhappy FAUX PAS.
"Softening of the brain," he muttered, in dismal apology to himself.
"And you painted those wretched little boys instead of the beautiful things that Nature provides for us out here, Mr. Booth?" Sara was saying to the artist beside her.
"Of course, I managed to get in a bit of Nature, even at that," said he, with a smile. "Boys are pretty close to earth, you know. To be perfectly honest, I did it in order to get away from the eminently beautiful but unnatural things I'm required to paint at home."
"Your subjects wouldn't care for that," she warned him, in some amusement.
"Oh, as to that, the comments of the boys on the things I did up here weren't altogether flattering to me, so I'm chastened. They were more than frank about them. We live to learn."
"Where are the canvases?"
"I immortalised them, one and all, by destroying them by fire and sword, only the sword happened to be a penknife. They made a most excellent bonfire."
"And so, you've nothing to show for your fortnight?"
"Oh, yes. A most desirable invitation to forget my failures at your expense."
"Poof!"
"I don't blame you. It WAS inane. Still, I can't help saying, Mrs. Wrandall, that it is a desirable invitation. You won't say 'poof' to that, because I won't listen to it."
"On the other hand, it's very good of you to come."
"It seems to me I'm always in debt to Leslie, with slim prospect of ever squaring accounts," said he whimsically. "But for him, I couldn't have come."
"I suppose we will see you at the Wrandall place this summer."
"I'm coming out to paint Leslie's sister in June, I believe. And that reminds me, I came upon an uncommonly pretty girl not far from your place the other day—and yesterday, as well—some one I've met before, unless I'm vastly mistaken. I wonder if you know your neighbours well enough—by sight, at least—to venture a good guess as to who I mean."
She appeared thoughtful.
"Oh, there are dozens of pretty girls in the neighbourhood. Can't you remember where you met—" She stopped suddenly, a swift look of apprehension in her eyes.
He failed to note the look or the broken sentence. He was searching in his coat pocket for something. Selecting a letter from the middle of a small pocket, he held it out to her.
"I sketched this from memory. She posed all too briefly for me," he said.
On the back of the envelope was a remarkably good likeness of Hetty Castleton, done broadly, sketchily with a crayon point, evidently drawn with haste while the impression was fresh, but long after she had passed out of range of his vision.
"I know her," said Sara quietly. "It's very clever, Mr. Booth."
"There is something hauntingly familiar about it," he went on, looking at the sketch with a frown of perplexity. "I've seen her somewhere, but for the life of me I can't place her. Perhaps in a crowded street, or the theatre, or a railway train—just a fleeting glimpse, you know. But in any event, I got a lasting impression. Queer things like that happen, don't you think so?"
Mrs. Wrandall leaned forward and spoke to Leslie. As he turned, she handed him the envelope, without comment.
"Great Scott!" he exclaimed.
"Mr. Booth is a mind reader," she explained. "He has been reading your thoughts, dear boy."
Booth understood, and grinned.
"You don't mean to say—" began the dumfounded Leslie, still staring at the sketch. "Upon my word, it's a wonderful likeness, old chap. I didn't know you'd ever met her."
"Met her?" cried Booth, an amiable conspirator. "I've never met her."
"See here, don't try anything like that on me. How could you do this if you've never seen—"
"He IS a mind reader," cried Sara.
"Haven't you been thinking of her steadily for—well, we'll say ten minutes?" demanded Booth.
Leslie reddened. "Nonsense!"
"That's a mental telepathy sketch," said the artist, complacently.
"When did you do it?"
"This instant, you might say. See! Here is the crayon point. I always carry one around with me for just such—"
"All right," said Leslie blandly, at the same time putting the envelope in his own pocket; "we'll let it go at that. If you're so clever at mind pictures, you can go to work and make another for yourself. I mean to keep this one."
"I say," began Booth, dismayed.
"One's thoughts are his own," said the happy possessor of the sketch. He turned his back on them.
Sara was contrite. "He will never give it up," she lamented.
"Is he really hard hit?" asked Booth in surprise.
"I wonder," mused Sara.
"Of course, he's welcome to the sketch, confound him."
"Would you like to paint her?"
"Is this a commission?"
"Hardly. I know her, that's all. She is a very dear friend."
"My heart is set on painting some one else, Mrs. Wrandall."
"Oh!"
"When I know you better, I'll tell you who she is."
"Could you make a sketch of this other one from memory?" she asked lightly.
"I think so. I'll show you one this evening. I have my trusty crayon about me always, as I said before."
Later in the afternoon Booth came face to face with Hetty. He was descending the stairs and met her coming up. The sun streamed in through the tall windows at the turn in the stairs, shining full in her uplifted face as she approached him from below. He could not repress the start of amazement. She was carrying a box of roses in her arms—red roses whose stems protruded far beyond the end of the pasteboard box and reeked of a fragrant dampness.
She gave him a shy, startled smile as she passed. He had stopped to make room for her on the turn. Somewhat dazed he continued on his way down the steps, to suddenly remember with a twinge of dismay that he had not returned her polite smile, but had stared at her with most unblinking fervour. In no little shame and embarrassment, he sent a swift glance over his shoulder. She was walking close to the banister rail on the floor above. As he glanced up their eyes met, for she too had turned to peer.
Leslie Wrandall was standing near the foot of the stairs. There was an eager, exalted look in his face that slowly gave way to well-assumed unconcern as his friend came upon him and grasped his arm.
"I say, Leslie, is—is she staying here?" cried Booth, lowering his voice to an excited half-whisper.
"Who?" demanded Wrandall vacantly. His mind appeared to be elsewhere.
"Why, that's the girl I saw on the road—Wake up! The one on the envelope, you ass. Is she the one you were telling me about in the club—the Miss What's-Her-Name who—"
"Oh, you mean Miss Castleton. She's just gone upstairs. You must have met her on the steps."
"You know I did. So THAT is Miss Castleton."
"Ripping, isn't she? Didn't I tell you so?"
"She's beautiful. She IS a type, just as you said, old man,—a really wonderful type. I saw her yesterday—and the day before."
"I've been wondering how you managed to get a likeness of her on the back of an envelope," said Leslie sarcastically. "Must have had a good long look at her, my boy. It isn't a snap-shot, you know."
Booth flushed. "It is an impression, that's all. I drew it from memory, 'pon my soul."
"She'll be immensely gratified, I'm sure."
"For heaven's sake, Les, don't be such a fool as to show her the thing," cried Booth in consternation. "She'd never understand."
"Oh, you needn't worry. She has a fine sense of humour."
Booth didn't know whether to laugh or scowl. He compromised with himself by slipping his arm through that of his friend and saying heartily:
"I wish you the best of luck, old boy."
"Thanks," said Leslie drily.