It seemed to Ross that the great noise of the wind outside was mingled now with the throb of engines and the rushing of water. He thought he felt the lift and roll of the ship beneath him; he thought he was lying in his berth again, on his way across the dark waste of waters, toward New York. He wondered what New York would be like.
Phyllis Barron was knocking at his door, telling him to hurry, hurry and come on deck. This did not surprise him; he was only immensely relieved and glad.
“I knew you’d come!” he wanted to say, but he could not speak. He tried to get up and dress and go out to her, but he could not move. He made a desperate struggle to call to her.
“Wait! Wait!” he tried to say. “I’m asleep. But I’ll wake in a minute. Please don’t go away!”
Then, with a supreme effort, he did wake. He opened his eyes. There was Eddy, stretched out on his two chairs, sound asleep. And there was a muffled knocking at the door, and a little wailing voice:
“Eddy! Eddy! Oh,can’tyou hear me? Eddy!”
For a moment Ross thought it was an echo from his dream, but, as the drowsiness cleared from his head, he knew it was real. He got up and touched the sleeping youth on the shoulder.
“There’s some one calling you!” he said.
Eddy opened his eyes with an alert expression and glared at Ross.
“What?” he demanded, sternly. “No monkey tricks, now!”
As a matter of fact, he was still more than half asleep, and Ross had to repeat his statement twice before it was understood. Then he sprang up, pushed aside the chairs, and unlocked the door.
It was Miss Solway. She came in, like a wraith; she was wrapped in a fur coat, but she looked cold, pale, affrighted; her black eyes wide, her misty dark hair in disorder; a fit figure for a dream.
“Eddy!” she said. “Go away!”
“Lookit here, Miss Amy,” Eddy protested, anxiously. “Wait till morning.”
“But it is morning!” she cried. “Go away, Eddy! Quick! I want to speak to—Go away, do! I only have a minute to spare.”
“Morning!” thought Ross. He looked at his watch, which showed a few minutes past six; then at the window. It was as black as ever outside.
“Lookit here, Miss Amy,” Eddy began again. “If I was you, I’d—”
“Get out, fool!” she cried. “Idiot! This instant!”
Her fierce and sudden anger astounded Ross. Her eyes had narrowed, her nostrils dilated, her short upper lip was drawn up in a sort of snarl. Yet this rage was in no way repellent; it was like the fury of some beautiful little animal. He could perfectly understand Eddy’s answering in a tone of resigned indulgence.
“All right, Miss Amy. Have it your own way.”
It seemed to Ross that that was the only possible way for any man to regard this preposterous and lovely creature, not critically, but simply with indulgence.
Taking up his cap and overcoat, Eddy departed, whistling as he went down the stairs. Miss Solway waited, scowling, until he had gone; then she turned to Ross.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
He was greatly taken aback. He had not yet had time to collect his thoughts; nothing much remained in his mind except the decision of the night before that this[Pg 451]morning he was going to the police with an account of what he had seen. And, stronger and clearer than anything else, was his desire and resolve to get away from here.
“Oh, tell me!” she entreated.
Ross reflected well before answering. Eddy suspected him of something—Heaven knew what. Perhaps this girl did, too. He imagined that they were both a little afraid of him. And, if he held his tongue, and didn’t let them know how casual and unpremeditated all his actions had been, he might keep them in wholesome doubt about him, and so get away.
“My name’s Moss,” he replied, as if surprised. “I came to get a job.”
“No!” she said. “You got my note. But how could you? Whocanyou be? Nanna said—but I don’t believe it! I knew—as soon as I saw you—I felt sure you’d come to help me. Oh, tell me! My cousin James sent you, didn’t he?”
“James Ross?” asked Ross, slowly.
“Yes!” she answered, eagerly. “My cousin James. He did! I know it! Mother always told me to go to him if I needed help. Of course, I know he must be old now. I was afraid—so terribly afraid that he’d left the ship, or that I’d forgotten the name of it. But I was right, after all. I thought mother had said he was purser on the Farragut.”
“What!” cried Ross.
He began to understand now. Years and years ago—the dimmest memory—he had had a cousin James who was purser on one of the Porto Rico boats. He could vaguely remember his coming to their house in Mayaguez; a gloomy man with a black beard; son of his father’s elder brother William. It must have been on the old Farragut, scrapped nearly twenty years ago.
And that cousin James had vanished, too, long ago. William Ross had had three children, and outlived them all. Ross could remember his grandfather telling him that.
“All gone,” the old man had said; “both my sons and their sons. No doubt the Almighty has some reason for sparingyou; but it’s beyond me.”
“YourCousin James?” said Ross, staring at her—because that had beenhisCousin James.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” she answered, impatiently. “I told you. Now tell me how—”
But Ross wanted to understand.
“What was your father’s name?” he demanded.
“Luis Delmano,” she replied. “But what does that matter? I only have a minute—”
“Then why do you call yourself Solway if your name is—”
“Oh!” she cried. “Now I see! You didn’t know the name of my mother’s second husband! Nobody had told you that! Of course! I should have thought of that. Mother told me how horrible her brothers were. When she married daddy, they were so furious. They said they’d never see her or speak to her or mention her name again—and I suppose they didn’t. Nasty, heartless beasts! Their only sister!”
Although Ross had never before heard of any sister of his father’s, the story seemed to him probable. His grandfather, his father, and his uncle were so exactly the sort of people to possess a sister whose name was never mentioned; grim, savage, old-fashioned, excommunicating sort of people. Yes; it was probable; but it was startling. Because, if this girl’s mother had been his father’s sister, then he was her Cousin James, after all.
He did not want to be. His dark face grew a little pale, and he turned away, looking down at the floor, considering this new and unwelcome idea.
“Now you understand!” she said. “And you did come to help me, didn’t you?”
This time his silence was deliberate, and not due to any confusion in his thoughts. The blood in his veins spoke clearly to him. What those other Rosses had condemned, he, too, condemned. He was like them. This girl was altogether strange, exotic, and dangerous, and he wanted to get away from her.
It was his gift, however, to show no sign of whatever he might be thinking; his face was expressionless, and she read what she chose there. She came nearer to him, and laid her hand on his arm.
“You will help me?” she said, softly.
He looked down at her gravely. He knew that she was willfully attempting to charm him—and how he did scorn anything of that sort! And yet—He looked at her as some long forgotten Ross of Salem might have looked at a bonny young witch. The creature was dangerous, and yet—Bonny she was, and a young man is a young man.
“I don’t see,” he began, doubtfully,[Pg 452]when suddenly she cried: “Look!” and pointed to the window. He turned, startled, but he saw nothing there.
“It’s getting light!” she cried.
That was true enough. The sky was not black now, but all gray, pallid, swept clean of clouds. The rain had ceased, but the mighty wind still blew, and the tops of the trees bowed and bent before it, like inky marionettes before a pale curtain. There was no sign yet of the sun, but you could feel that the dawn was coming.
“What of it?” asked Ross, briefly.
“It’s the last day!” she answered.
What a thing to say! The last day. It filled him with a vague sense of dread, and it made him angry.
“That’s not—” he began, but she did not heed him.
“Listen!” she said. “You must help me! I don’t know what to do. I’m—I’m desperate! I’ve—” She stopped, looking up into his wooden face; then, seizing him by the shoulder, she tried to shake him.
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, look at me like a human being!” she cried.
He stared at her, dumfounded.
“Stop it!” she commanded. “You’ve got to listen to me!”
He had never in his life been so amazed. She had flown at him, and shaken him! It was unbelievable. It was pathetic. She was such a little thing; so fierce, and so helpless.
“All right!” he said, mildly. “I’m listening. What’s it all about?”
His tone, his faint smile, did not please her.
“Oh, you think it’s nothing!” she said. “You think I’m just a silly girl, making an awful fuss about some childish trouble.Don’tyou? Well, you’re wrong. Listen to me!”
She stopped, and drew back a little, looking him straight in the face with those strange black eyes of hers.
“I’ve done a terrible thing,” she said, in a low, steady voice. “A wicked, terrible thing. If I get what I deserve, I’m ruined and lost.”
She turned away from him, and walked over to the window. Ross turned, too, and followed her. She was gazing before her at the gray sky; the curve of her cheek, her half parted lips, her wide brow, were altogether innocent and lovely, but the look on her pale face was not so. It was somber, bitter, and tragic.
“The sun is coming up,” she said, almost inaudibly. “Willyou help me?”
“Yes,” Ross answered.
Ross stood by the window, watching the sun come up—the first sunrise he had witnessed in his native land. From the east the light welled up and spread, slow and inexorable, across the sky, like the Master’s glance traveling over the chill world; and in his soul Ross dreaded that light. It would mean discovery. That very quiet figure in the housekeeper’s room would have his revenge.
“I’m in it now,” Ross muttered. “Up to the neck.”
And why? Was it pity for that girl? Was it a stirring of sentiment because she was his kinswoman, his cousin? He did not think so. He might have pitied her, and still gone away. He might have recognized their kinship simply by keeping silent about what he had seen. No; it was something more than that; something he could not quite understand.
It was the claim of life upon a strong spirit. You are hardy and valiant, life said; your shoulders are fitted to bear burdens, and bear them you shall. Here before you is a cruel burden, and you cannot turn aside. All the strong ones shall be chosen to suffer for the weak. You are chosen, and you shall suffer.
Well, he did.
“I’ve done a wicked, terrible thing. If I get what I deserve, I’m ruined and lost.”
That was what she had said to him, and he interpreted it readily enough. It was hideous to think of, but not difficult to believe. She was, he thought, capable of any imaginable thing, good or evil. She would not weigh, or calculate, or even understand; she would onlywant. She would want to possess something, or she would want to destroy something which irked her.
“And after all,” he thought, “it’s not a hard thing to do. Even a little, weak thing like her can—”
His mind balked at the fatal word, but, with a frown, he deliberately uttered it to himself.
“Can kill,” he said. “I’ve got to face this squarely. Other women have done things like that. A few drops of something in a glass, perhaps.”
An uncontrollable shudder ran through him.[Pg 453]
“No!” he thought. “I needn’t think—that. I’ll wait till she’s told me. The whole thing may be—some accident—something else.”
But he remembered that she had been there alone in the housekeeper’s room, and that he had heard her crying in there. He remembered her words—“a wicked, terrible thing.” And he remembered, above everything else, her face, with that look upon it.
“Damn it!” he cried. “I won’t think at all—until I know something definite. I’ll just carry on.”
He could, and did, refuse to think of his immediate problem, but his mind would not remain idle. It presented him with a very vivid picture of Phyllis Barron. And now, for the first time, he welcomed that gentle image. She was so immeasurably remote now, so far away, in an entirely different world; a friendly, honest world, where she was living her daily life, while he stood here, watching the sun rise upon a dreaded and unpredictable day.
“Well, shover!” said Eddy’s cheerful voice behind him. “The big boss ’ll want the car for the eight forty.”
“All right!” Ross agreed, promptly. “I want a bath and a shave first. And maybe you’ll lend me a collar and a pair of socks.”
“I’ll do that for you!” said Eddy. “And say! You could try Wheeler’s uniform that he left behind. He was the shover before you. He left in a hurry. Got kicked out. Most of our shovers do.”
“Why?”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Eddy explained, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and watching Ross shave with cold water, a very dull razor, and the minute fragment of a shaving stick. “Most of our shovers get tempted and fall—hard. Miss Amy ’ll ask ’em to take her some place where the boss don’t want her to go, and not to mention it at home. And they do. And then, the next time she gets mad at the boss, she tells him the whole tale, just to worry him. And the shover goes. See?”
“I see!” said Ross.
“She was talking to me just now,” Eddy went on. “I guess I was mistaken about you. She says you’re going to stay. Well!” He grinned. “I wish you luck!”
“Thanks!” said Ross.
He understood that Eddy was warning him against the devices of Miss Amy, but it was a little too late.
He took a bath in water colder than any he had yet encountered; then he tried on the uniform left behind by the unfortunate Wheeler. It was a bit tight across the shoulders, and the style was by no means in accordance with his austere taste, but he could wear it.
“And I shan’t keep up this silly farce much longer,” he thought.
“We might as well go over to the house for breakfast,” said Eddy. “Ready?”
Ross did not relish the glimpse he had of his reflection in the mirror. That snug-fitting jacket with a belt in the back, those breeches, those puttees—he did not like them. Worst of all, Eddy’s collar would not meet round his neck, and he had fastened it with a safety pin. As he took up the peaked cap and followed the cheerful youth, he felt, not like an accomplice in a tragedy, but like a very complete fool—and that did not please him.
They crossed the lawn to the house, went in at the back door, and entered the kitchen. There he sat down to breakfast with the cook, the housemaid, the laundress, and Eddy. The kitchen was warm and clean, and neat as a new pin; very agreeable in the morning sunshine. The breakfast was good, and he was very hungry, and ate with a healthy appetite. But, except for a civil good morning, he did not say one word.
For he was listening. He was waiting, in an unpleasant state of tension, for something which would shatter this comfortable serenity. It must come. It was not possible that the figure under the sofa should remain undiscovered, that life should progress as if nothing at all had happened. Amy had said this was the “last day.”
Nothing interrupted the breakfast, though; and, when he had finished, he went back to the garage, to look over the sedan he was to drive. It was a good car, and in perfect condition; nothing for him to do there. He lit a cigarette, and stood talking to Eddy for a time.
Eddy’s theme was Mr. Solway, Miss Amy’s long-suffering stepfather.
“He’s the best man Gawd ever made,” said Eddy, seriously. “My father was coachman to him for eighteen years, and when he passed out, Mr. Solway, he kept me here. He seen that I got a good education and all. I wanted this here shover’s job, but he said nothing doing. He said I’d ought to get a job with a future.[Pg 454]I’m down in the telephone comp’ny now—repair man. He lets me live here for nothing—just for doing a few odd jobs. He’s a prince!” He stamped out his cigarette with his heel. “And he has a hell of a life!” he added.
“How?” asked Ross, thirsting for any sort of information about this household.
“Her,” said Eddy. “Remember, I’m not saying nothing against Miss Amy. I’ve known her all my life. But, I’ve done things for that girl I wouldn’t have done for my own mother.” He paused. “I done things for her I wish to Gawd I hadn’t done,” he said, and fell silent.
Ross was silent, too. He remembered how Eddy had closed the door of the housekeeper’s room. He remembered how very anxious Eddy had been to keep him shut up in the garage all night. And he remembered that Eddy carried a revolver.
Why should he imagine that Amy Solway would do for herself any unpleasing task, when apparently she found it so easy to make others do things for her? This boy admitted he had done things for her which he wished “to Gawd” he hadn’t.
“You better start,” said Eddy, and Ross got into the sedan and drove up to the house. He was undeniably nervous. He expected to see—he didn’t know what; a pale face looking at him from one of the windows, a handkerchief waved to him, a note slipped into his hand, some signal. But there was nothing.
Mr. Solway came bursting out of the front door, ran down the steps, said “Good morning! Good morning!” to his new chauffeur, popped into the sedan, and immediately began to read the newspaper. At the station he bounced out, said “Four fifty,” and walked off.
Ross stopped in the town and bought himself some collars. Even this delay worried him; he might be badly needed at the house. But, in spite of his haste to get back, he was mighty careful in his driving, because he had no sort of license. He returned to the garage and put up the car—and waited.
Four hours did he wait. Eddy was nowhere about; no doubt he was repairing telephones. Nobody came near the garage. Ross sketchily overhauled both cars, swept out the place, and waited, not patiently, either.
He had agreed to help that girl, and he was prepared to do so, but he was not going to be a chauffeur much longer. It was, he thought, a singularly dull life. What is more, he had his own affairs to look after; he wanted to get back to New York, and to see Mr. Teagle.
At one o’clock the telephone in the garage rang, and the disagreeable housemaid informed him that lunch was ready. Very well, he was ready for lunch; he went over to the house and again sat down in the kitchen, and ate again in silence. He had nothing to say, and the three women said nothing to him.
He was not a talkative young man; he and his grandfather had often passed entire days with scarcely a word between them, and he took this silence as a matter of course, quite innocent of the fact that it was hostile. The new chauffeur was not liked in the kitchen.
Then he went back to the garage, and waited, and waited, and waited, with grim resentment. A little after four o’clock he was preparing to take the sedan out again, when Amy appeared in the doorway, in her fur coat and a little scarlet hat.
“Oh, good!” she cried. “You’re all ready! I want you to take me—”
“No!” said Ross. “Mr. Solway said four fifty, and I’m going to meet his train.”
“But he meant the four fifty from New York!” said she. “You’ll have plenty of time.” She came nearer to him. “Please, please be quick!” she said. “It’s my last chance!”
“To the left, and straight ahead!” said Amy, as they drove out of the gates.
So, to the left he turned, and drove straight ahead. And he looked straight ahead, too, although he knew very well that she was looking at him. This girl took entirely too much for granted. It was one thing to help her, but to obey her orders blindly was quite another, and it did not suit him. Here he was, dressed up in a chauffeur’s uniform somewhat too small for him, and behaving, no doubt, as those other chauffeurs had behaved—like a fool.
He heard her stir restlessly, with little flutterings and jinglings of her silly feminine finery. She sighed deeply.
“I don’t believe you’ve told me your right name,” she said, plaintively.
“James Ross,” he announced.
“James Ross!” she cried. “Oh, but you[Pg 455]said—But he’sold!”
“Another James Ross,” he remarked, coldly. But in his heart he was rather pleased with the sensation his words caused.
“Another one? Then—are you my cousin? Are you?”
“I believe so,” Ross replied.
She was silent for a moment; then she observed, thoughtfully:
“I guess I’ll call you Jimmy.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Ross. “I don’t like it.”
“I do!” said she. “I think Jimmy’s a darling name.” Suddenly she flung one arm about his neck. “And I thinkyou’rea darling!” she added, with a sob.
“Look out!” Ross cried, sharply. “You mustn’t do that when I’m driving.” He cast a glance along the straight, empty road, and then turned to her. Her dark eyes were soft and shining with tears, but she was trying to smile.
“Oh, Jimmy!” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad you’ve come!”
“All right!” said the Spartan young man. “Then suppose you tell me what’s wrong?”
“I can’t, Jimmy,” she answered. Her hand rested on his shoulder, but her head was turned away. “I can’t—just now. Only, oh, Jimmy! Sometimes I wish I were dead! Dead and buried with my darling mother—”
He could think of nothing adequate to say to that, and, once more giving a careful glance at the road, he patted her hand.
“I’m sorry,” he declared gravely.
“I know it’s not fair—not to tell you,” she said. “But—can’t you just help me, Jimmy, and—and not care?”
A curious emotion filled him; a great compassion and a great dread.
“Why not?” he thought. “I don’t want to hear. I don’t want to know. Better let well enough alone.”
But he knew it was not better, and not possible. Not all the pity in the world should make him a blind and ignorant tool. He was in honor bound to ask his question.
“Just this,” he said. “That man—in the housekeeper’s room?”
“Why, what man?” she asked. “I don’t know what you mean.”
His heart sank. Disappointment, and a sort of disgust for this childish lie filled him; he did not want to look at her again. He drove on, down a road which seemed to him endless, like a road in a dream.
The sun was going down quietly, without pomp and glory, only slipping out of sight and drawing with it all the light and color in the world. They passed houses, they passed other cars, and it seemed to him that he and this girl passed through the everyday life about them like ghosts, set apart from their fellows, under a chill shadow.
“Jimmy!” she said, abruptly. “How can you be so horrid! Why don’t youtalk? Why can’t you be like—like a real cousin?”
“Perhaps I haven’t had enough practice,” Ross replied.
She did not like this.
“All right, then!Don’thelp me! Just go away and leave me to suffer all alone!” she cried. “You’re a heartless—beast! Go away!”
“Just as you please,” said Ross. “Can you drive the car?”
She began to cry, but he paid no attention to this.
“Jimmy,” she resumed, at last, “my Gayle’s coming to-night.”
“Your Gayle?” he repeated. “What’s that?”
“He’s the man I love,” she said, simply.
And she was honest now, wholly in earnest; the childish artfulness had gone, and she spoke quietly.
“He’s coming to-night,” she went on. “And if anything—goes wrong, he’ll go away, and never come back. And something’s very likely to go wrong, Jimmy.”
“You’ll have to remember that I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Ross.
She did not resent his blunt manner now.
“In the house where we’re going,” she explained, “there’s some one Gayle must not see—no matter what happens. I’ll talk to—this person first; I’ll try to persuade him. But if I can’t—That’s what I want you to do for me. I want you to be sure to see that—this person doesn’t leave that house to-night.”
“And how am I to do that?”
She was silent for a moment.
“I don’t care,” she said then. “It doesn’t matter how it’s done.”
“It does matter—to me.”
“Listen to me!” she said, with a sort of sternness. “This man—in the cottage—he’s blackmailing me. Because of something I did—something I’m sorry for—terribly, terribly sorry—”
“What will he take to keep quiet?[Pg 456]”
“Nothing. All he wants is to hurt and ruin me.”
“That’s not blackmail,” said Ross. “If he can’t be bribed—”
“Oh, what does it matter what you call it? He’s coming to-night, to tell—this thing—and Gayle will go away!”
“Look here!” said Ross. “Let him tell. If this Gayle of yours cares for you, he’ll stand by you. If he doesn’t, you’re well rid of him. No; just wait a minute! Don’t you see? You can’t lie to a man you’re—fond of. You—”
“I’m not going to lie. I’ll just say nothing. The thing is over, Jimmy; over and done with. Mustn’t I even have a chance? Jimmy, I’m young! I’m sorry—God knows I’m sorry for what I did—but it’s done. Nothing can undo it. Won’t you—won’tyou let me have just a chance?”
“But look here! Even if the man didn’t come to-night, he’d come some other time. You don’t expect me to—”
He stopped short, appalled by the words he had not spoken. He looked at her, and in the gathering dusk he saw upon her white face that terrible, still look again.
“No!” he cried.
“Jimmy!” she said. “Just keep him from coming to-night. Then to-morrow I’ll tell you the whole thing. And perhaps you’ll think of something to do. But—just to-night—keep him from coming!”
Ross made no answer.
“Down here, Jimmy—to the left,” she said, presently, and he turned the car down a solitary lane, narrow, scored with ruts of half frozen mud. It had grown so dark now that he turned on the headlights.
“There!” she said. “That’s the house. Let me out!”
He stopped the car.
“Look here!” he began, but she had sprung out, and was hurrying across a field of stubble. He could not let her go alone. He followed her, sick at heart, filled again with that sense of utter solitude, of being cut off from all his fellows, in a desolate and unreal world. His soul revolted against this monstrous adventure, and yet he could not abandon her.
She went before him, light, surprisingly sure-footed upon those high heels of hers. For some reason of her own, she had chosen to approach the house from the side, instead of following the curve of the lane. She came to a fence, and climbed it like a cat, and Ross climbed after her.
They were in a forlorn garden, where the withered grass stood high, and before them was the sorriest little cottage, battered and discolored by wind and rain, all the shutters closed, not a light, not a curtain, not a sign of life about it.
“Look here!” Ross began again. “I’ve got to know—”
She ran up the steps to the porch, where a broken rocking-chair began to rock as she brushed it in passing. She opened the door and entered; it was dark in there, but she ran up the stairs as if she knew them well; before he was halfway up, he heard her hurrying footsteps on the floor above, heard doors open and shut.
Then a light sprang out in the upper hall, and she stood there, looking down at him. By the unshaded gas jet he could see her face clearly, and it shocked him; such anguish there, such terror.
“Gone!” she gasped. “Gone!”
To Ross, with his rigid self-control, it seemed impossible that a human creature could safely endure such violent emotion as hers. She was so fragile; she looked ill, horribly ill, ghastly, he thought she would faint, would fall senseless at his feet. He sprang up the stairs to be with her.
“Amy!” he cried.
Her dark brows met in a somber frown; she shook her head, waving her forefinger in front of her face; an odd, foreign little gesture.
“No!” she said. “Keep quiet! Don’t speak to me. Let me think.”
“Think!” said Ross to himself. “I don’t believe you’re capable of it, my girl. But certainly you’re even less capable of listening to any one. Very well; go ahead with your thinking, then; and I’ll wait for the next development.”
He lit a cigarette, and leaned against the wall, smoking, not sorry for an interval of peace.
“Look at the time!” Amy commanded sharply. “You’ll be late getting to the station, unless you hurry. Why didn’t you remind me?”
“Inexcusable of me,” said Ross. “I hope I shan’t lose my job.”
She apparently did not choose to notice this flippancy.
“Come!” she ordered, and went past him, down the stairs, and out of that sorry little cottage. She ran all the way to the[Pg 457]car, and two or three times she said “Hurry!” to Ross, who kept easily at her side with his usual stride.
“Now!” she said. “Drive as fast as you possibly can!”
“Sorry,” said Ross, “but my only license is one I had in Manila—and even that’s expired. I can’t afford to take chances.”
She shrugged her shoulders, with an unpleasant little laugh. She was in a very evil temper; the light was on inside of the car, and now and then he glanced at her, saw her sitting there, her black eyes staring straight before her, her mouth set in a mutinous and scornful line.
She was in torment; he felt sure of that, but he felt equally sure that she would not hesitate to inflict torment upon others. She was cruel, reckless, blind, and deaf in her folly. He wondered why it was that he pitied her so.
Then he, too, shrugged his shoulders; mentally, that is, for he was incapable of so theatric a gesture in the flesh. He himself was in an odd humor, a sort of resigned indifference. He had, for the moment, lost interest in the whole affair. It was too fantastic, too confusing; he didn’t care very much what happened, just now.
“Let me out here!” she said. “There’s not time for you to take me up to the house. I’ll walk. Now hurry!”
He stopped the car at the corner of Wygatt Road; she got out, and he went on, alone. And he was surprised by the difference which her going made. It was as if a monstrous oppression were lifted from his spirit, and he could once more draw a free breath, and once more see the open sky. One clear star was out. No; it was not a mad world; there was awful and majestic order in the universe, inexorable law.
And she was truly pitiable, hurrying home beneath that one star; a poor, helpless futile young thing, defying the whole world for her own desire. She wanted him to help her! He would not help her in her desperate folly, but he would not leave her now. Not now.
These admirable ideas were entirely put out of his head by a new dilemma. He arrived at the station; he heard the train coming in, and he could find no advantageous place for his car. All the good places were taken. He had to stop where he was certain Mr. Solway would never find him, until, as the train came in, a taxi was seized by an alert woman, and Ross got his car into that vacant place.
Mr. Solway was not in the vanguard of the commuters; he came leisurely and with dignity, talking with another man. Ross stood beside the open door of the car; with a nod Mr. Solway got in, and the other man, too. They paid no attention whatever to Ross; they settled themselves, and went on talking, as if he were a ghost.
“They closed at five and an eighth,” said the other man. “I can’t help thinking that—”
“Now, see here!” Mr. Solway interrupted. “You hold on to them, my boy. I told you it was a good thing.”
“It would be,” said the other. “A very good thing, sir, if I could unload at five and an eighth—or even a bit less—when I bought at three and three-fourths.”
“Now, see here!” said Mr. Solway. “I’ll tell you something—which you needn’t mention anywhere. I’mbuyingat five and an eighth—up to six and a half. Buying, mind you, my boy!”
This was almost more than Ross could bear. This was just the sort of talk he had thirsted for; this was what he had come to New York for; to buy stocks at three and three-fourths and sell at six and one-half, or more. There he sat, with his peaked cap pulled down over his lean, impassive face, listening with a sort of rage. If he could only ask Mr. Solway questions, only tell him that he had a few thousands of his own all ready and waiting for a little venture like this.
“And you’ll need all you can get, my boy,” Mr. Solway went on, “if you’re going to marry Amy.”
Then this was Gayle? Ross turned his head for one hasty glance—and then, encountering the astonished frown of Mr. Solway, realized what an improper thing he had done. Chauffeurs must not look.
He had had this look, though, and had gained a pretty accurate impression of the stranger. A tall young fellow, fair haired and gray eyed; he was stalwart and broad shouldered, and altogether manly, but there was in his face something singularly gentle and engaging.
“And that’s the fellow!” thought Ross. “That’s the fellow who’s going to be fooled and lied to.”
He liked him. And he liked the vigorous and blustering Mr. Solway, and he liked this rational, masculine conversation. It[Pg 458]reassured him. He reflected that, after all, he was not alone in this miserable affair, not hopelessly cornered with the preposterous girl. No; Solway was her stepfather, and the other man was her “Gayle.” They were in it, too. They were his natural allies.
“She’s got to tell them, that’s all,” he said to himself. “They’ll both stand by her. I’ll make her tell them. I can’t handle this infernal mystery alone. I’m too much in the dark.”
He drove in at the gates, up the driveway, and stopped the car before the house with a smartness that pleased him. Mr. Solway bounced out.
“Here, now!” he said. “You—Moss—Moss, that’s it. Moss, just lend a hand with this bag. That’s right; up the stairs—first door on the left. That’s it! That’s it! There you are, Gayle, my boy!”
He turned to Ross.
“Moss,” he said. “Everything going along all right? That’s it! That’s it! You let me know if there’s anything wrong.”
Ross was hard put to it to suppress a smile. He imagined how it would be if he should say:
“Well, sir, therewasone little thing—a dead man under the housekeeper’s sofa. But, perhaps I shouldn’t mention it.”
He looked for a moment into the bluff, scowling, kindly face of the man Eddy had called “a prince.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said, and turned away, down the hall toward the back stairs. And, as he came round the corner into the corridor, where the housekeeper’s room was, his quick ear caught some words of such remarkable personal interest to him that he stood still.
“Another James Ross!” Mrs. Jones was saying. “That’s a likely story, I must say! Amy, that man’s a fraud and a spy!”
“No, Nanna darling, he’s not!” answered Amy, with sweet obstinacy.
“I tell you he is, child. He’s got to go.”
“No, dear,” said Amy. “He’s going to help me.”
“Amy!” cried Mrs. Jones. “Can’t you trust me? I tell you it’s all right. He won’t come to-night. I promise you he won’t!”
“Oh, you mean well!” Amy remarked. “But you’ve made plenty of mistakes before this.”
“Amy, I promise you—”
“No,” said Amy. “You told me before that I needn’t worry, that you’d ‘settled everything.’ And what happened? No; I’m afraid you’re getting old, Nanna—old and stupid. I’m going to manage for myself now. And Jimmy’s going to help me.”
“Child!” Mrs. Jones protested. “That man will ferret out—”
“I don’t care if he does,” said Amy. “He won’t tell, anyhow. Now don’t bother me any more, Nanna. I’ve simply got to go.”
Ross stepped quickly backward along the hall for a few yards; then he went forward again, with a somewhat heavier tread. And just round the corner of the corridor, he came face to face with Amy.
Her beauty almost took his breath away. She wore a dress of white and silver, and round her slender throat a short string of pearls. And against all this gleaming white the pallor of her skin was rich and warm, with a tint almost golden; and her misty hair was like a cloud about her face, and her black eyes so soft, so limpid.
“Jimmy!” she whispered. “Do I look nice?”
“Er—yes; very nice,” Ross answered stiffly.
She came close to him, put her hand on his shoulder.
“Please, Jimmy!” she said, earnestly. “I do so awfully want to be happy—just for a little while!”
Ross had a moment of weakness. She was so young, so lovely; it seemed important, even necessary, that she should be happy. But he valiantly resisted the spell.
“Who doesn’t?” he inquired.
“Jimmy, dear!” she said. “I’m coming to the garage after dinner—to ask you something—to beg you to do something. Will you do it, mydearlittle Jimmy?”
“I’ll have to hear what it is first,” said Ross.
But she seemed satisfied.
Ross went up to the room over the garage, and sat down there. He was hungry and tired, and in no pleasant humor.
“It’s entirely too damned much!” he said to himself. “I’m—comparatively speaking—a rich man. There’s money waiting for me. There’s a nice, comfortable room in a hotel waiting for me; and decent clothes. I could have gone to a play to-night. There was one I wanted to see.[Pg 459]And here I am—in a garage—dressed up like a monkey. No, it’s too much! I’m going back to the city to-morrow. I’m going to see Teagle, and settle my affairs. If Amy wants me to help her, I suppose I shall. But I won’t stay here, and I won’t be a chauffeur.”
The more he thought of all this, the more exasperated he became. And it was nearly nine o’clock before he was summoned to dinner, which did not tend to placate him. In spite of his hunger, he took his time in going over to the house. He had no objection to being late, and he would have no objection to hearing some one complain about it. Indeed, he wished that some one would complain. Just one word.
Looking for trouble, Ross was, when he entered the house. He pushed open the swing door of the kitchen.
What marvelous aromas were there! What a festive air! That grave woman, the cook, was wreathed in smiles, for had she not this night accomplished a dinner which even Mrs. Jones had praised?
And the disagreeable housemaid was in softened mood, too, for she had waited upon romance. She had already described, more than once, the splendor of Miss Amy’s costume, and the way “him and her” had looked at each other.
The laundress was elated, because she was fond of romance, and still more because she was a greedy young creature, and scented an especially good dinner. And they all welcomed Ross with cordiality.
“It’s too bad you had to be waiting the long time it was!” said the cook. “You’ve a right to be famished entirely, Mr. Moss!”
Much mollified, the young man admitted that hewashungry.
“You’d oughter of come over for a cuper tea this afternoon,” said the housemaid. “And a piecer cake.”
“You’d oughter of tole him, Gracie,” the laundress added. “Poor feller! He don’t know the ways here, yet!”
“Sit down, the lot of ye!” said the cook.
They did, and that unparalleled dinner began. It must be borne in mind that Ross was wholly unaccustomed to this sort of thing, to home cooking at its best, to the maternal kindness of women toward a hungry man. He liked it.
He was in no hurry to go back to the solitude of the garage, and his own thoughts. Being invited to smoke, he lit a cigarette and made himself very comfortable, while the cook washed the dishes, and Gracie and the laundress dried them. He was still taciturn, because he couldn’t be anything else; but he answered questions.
He admitted that he had traveled a bit, and when the laundress, who was disposed to be arch, asked to be told about them queer places, he gave a few facts about the exports and imports of Manila. Anyhow, they all listened to him, and said, “Didjer ever!” and it was altogether the pleasantest hour he had yet spent in his native land.
And then—the swing door banged open, and there stood Amy, with a fur coat over her shimmering dress, and an ominous look in her black eyes.
“Moss!” she said. “What are you doing here? Get up and come with me at once! I want to speak to you!”
Without a word, he arose and followed her into the passage.
“I told you I was coming to the garage!” she pointed out, in a low, furious voice. “Why didn’t you wait there?”
“Look here!” said Ross. “I don’t like this sort of thing.”
Before his tone her wrath vanished at once.
“I’m sorry, Jimmy!” she said. “I didn’t mean to be horrid. Only, it was so hard for me to slip away—and I went all the way out to the garage in the cold and the dark, and you weren’t there—and I’m so terribly worried. Oh, you will hurry, won’t you?”
“Hurry? Well, what do you want me to do?”
“It may be too late, even now. Any instant he may come. He’ll ring the bell, and Gracie will open the door. Ican’ttell her not to. He’ll come in. Oh, Jimmy, you won’t let that happen, will you? Oh, do, do please hurry!”
“But just what—”
“Go out and hide some place where you can watch the front door. And if you see him coming—stop him! A thin, dark man, with a mustache. Oh, hurry, Jimmy! All evening long I’ve been waiting and waiting—in torment—for the sound of the bell. Go, Jimmy dear!”
“How long do you expect me to wait for him?”
“Oh, not so awfully long, dear. Just—” She paused. “Just till Eddy comes home. I’m sure he won’t be late. Now hurry!”
“I don’t want to do this,” said Ross. “I can’t stop[Pg 460]—”
“Oh, shut up!” she cried; and then tried to atone by patting his cheek. “Jimmy, I’m desperate! Just help me this once! To-morrow I’ll explain it all, and you’ll see. Only go now!”
“I’ll have to get my overcoat from the garage,” he explained.
“All right, dear!” she said, gently, and turned away. And as he went toward the back door, he heard her sob.
All the way to the garage that sob echoed in his ears. Her tears had not affected him; they were too facile, too convenient. But that half stifled sob in the dark—He went quickly, taking the key from his pocket as he went; he, too, was in a hurry, now, to spare her this thing she dreaded.
He unlocked the door, turned on the switch, ran up the stairs, through the sitting room, and into the bedroom, where his coat hung.
He stopped short in the doorway. For, sitting on the bed was a tiny girl, seriously engaged in tying a ribbon about the waist of a white flannel rabbit. She looked up at the young man, but apparently was not interested, and went on with her job.
“Who areyou?” demanded Ross.
“Lil-lee,” said she.
“Yes, but I mean—how did you get here?”
“I comed in a balloon,” she assured him.
Ross was completely ignorant about young children, but he realized that they were not to be held strictly accountable for their statements. And this child was such a very small one; such a funny little doll. She had a great mane of fair hair hanging about her shoulders, and, on one temple, a wilted bit of pink ribbon; she had serene blue eyes, a plump and serious face, by no means clean.
She wore a white dress, still less clean, a coral necklace, white—or grayish white—socks all down about her ankles, and the most dreadful little white shoes. He observed all this, because it was his way to observe, and because he was so amazed that he could do nothing but stare at her.
“But who brought you?” he asked.
“Minoo,” she replied.
“Who’s Minoo?”
The child held up the rabbit.
“Oh, Lord!” cried Ross. “Won’t you please try to be—sensible? I don’t know—Are you all alone here?”
“I fink I are.”
“The door was locked,” he said, aloud. “I can’t see—But what shall I do with you?”
“Gimme my dindin,” said she.
Ross wished to treat so small and manifestly incompetent a creature with all possible courtesy, but he was handicapped by his inexperience.
“Look here, Lily!” he said, earnestly. “I’m in the deuce of a hurry just now. If you’ll wait here, I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
“I will be a good baby!” said she. “But I want my dindin!”
He could have torn his hair. He could not fail Amy now. And he could not leave a good baby alone and hungry, for he did not know how long.
“Shall I take it to the house?” he thought. “The cook would feed it. But—perhaps it’s another of these damned mysteries. I haven’t time to think it out now. I’d better keep it here until I’ve thought a bit. See here, Lily, what do you eat?”
“Dindin,” Lily answered.
“Yes, I know. But—I’ve got bread. Will that do?”
“Ilikebread and thugar!” she agreed.
He hurried into the kitchen, cut four good, sturdy slices of bread, covered them well with butter and sugar, and brought them back on a plate. Then, with a vague memory of a puppy he had once had, he thought of water, and brought a glassful.
“Now I’ve got to go, Lily,” he explained. “But I’ll come back as soon as I can. You just wait, see?”
“I will!” she said, pleasantly, and held out her arms.
He hesitated for a moment, half frightened; then he caught up the funny little doll and kissed its cheek.
It was not a doll. It was warm and alive, and solider than it looked. It clung to him, and kissed him back again.
“You won’t feel the cold the first winter in the States.”
That was what people in Manila and Porto Rico had told Ross. He thought of those people now. You didn’t feel it, did you? Yes, you did!
He had found “some place where he could hide and watch the front door”; a plantation of firs halfway between the house and the gates. He had been there more than an hour, prowling up and down[Pg 461]behind the screen of branches; he had at first tried to smoke, but darkness and cold annihilated any sort of zest in the tobacco. He had attempted the army setting-up exercises, considerably hampered by his overcoat; but nothing produced in him either bodily warmth or a patient serenity of mind.
He was worried about that child. Not once did he say to himself that it was none of his business; he admitted willingly that a creature of that size had a claim upon all full-grown persons; he admitted that, whoever it was, and wherever it came from, it was entitled to his protection.
“She’s too little to be left there alone,” he thought. “Much too little. They always have nurses—or some one. She might fall down the stairs—or turn on the gas stove. I’ve been gone more than an hour. Good Lord! This is too much! What the devil’s the matter with that fellow, anyhow?”
He was disgusted with this thin dark man with a mustache, who was so outrageously late in coming. Very likely the funny little doll was sitting up there, crying. The raw cold pierced to the marrow of his bones.
And this, he reflected, was his second night in his native land. The first had been spent imprisoned in the garage, at the point of a revolver, but it had been a thousand times better than this. He had been warm and comfortable—and he had been innocent, a victim. Now he was taking an active part in a thoroughly discreditable affair.
He was committed to wait for a thin dark man with a mustache, and to prevent his entering the house. And how was he to do this? Walk up to him and begin to expostulate? Try to bribe him?
The thought of bribery aroused in the young man an anger which almost made him warm. No Ross would ever pay blackmail. Indeed, no Ross of his branch was fond of parting with money for any purpose at all. They were very prompt in paying their just bills and debts, but they took care that these should be moderate.
“No!” thought Ross. “If I was fool enough to give this fellow money, he’d only come back for more, later on. I’m not going to start that. No! But how am I going to stop him? Knock him out? That’s all very well, but suppose he knocked me out? Or he may carry a gun. Of course, I suppose I could come up behind him and crack him over the head with a rock. That’s what my Cousin Amy would appreciate. But somehow it doesn’t appeal to me. After all, what have I got against this fellow? What do I know about him? Only what she’s told me. And she’s not what you’d call overparticular with her words.”
His thoughts were off, then, upon the track of that problem which obsessed him. What had happened to the man under the sofa? He couldn’t still be there. But who had taken him away, and where was he now? He looked toward the house, so solid and dignified, with its façade of lighted windows. He remembered his cozy dinner in the kitchen; he thought of the orderly life going on there.
It was impossible! Yet it was true. He had seen that dead man with his own eyes. He had touched him.
Who else knew? Surely Amy; but it was obvious that she had some one to help her in all emergencies. Mrs. Jones? Ross believed that Mrs. Jones had been well aware of the man’s presence in her room. Eddy? Eddy’s behavior had been highly suspicious.
He refused to go on with this profitless and exasperating train of thought. He was sick of the whole thing. Amy had said that she would “explain everything” to him the next day. Not for a moment did he believe that she would do anything of the sort, but he did hope that at least she would tell him a little. And, anyhow, whatever she told him, whatever happened or did not happen, he was going away—back to normal, honest, decent life.
“I said I’d help her, and, by Heaven, I am!” he thought. “After to-night we’re quits. I’ll hold my tongue about all this; but—I’m going!”
He whacked his stiff arms across his chest.
“Hotel Benderly, West Seventy-Seventh Street,” he said to himself. “I’m going there to-morrow.”
For he no longer saw Phyllis Barron as a danger. He was considerably less infatuated with liberty after these two days. It occurred to him, now, that to be entirely free meant to be entirely alone, and that to be without a friend was not good.
He wanted some one to trust, and he trusted Phyllis. No matter that he had known her only five days; he had seen that[Pg 462]she was honest; that she was steadfast, and, loveliest virtue of all, she was self-controlled. He knew that from her one need never dread tears, fury, despairs, selfishness and cajoleries.
Out there, in the cold and dark of his unhappy vigil, he thought of Phyllis, and longed for her smile.
“She’d never in her life get a fellow into a mess like this!” he thought. “But Amy—”
His distrust for his Cousin Amy was without limits. There was nothing, he thought, that she might not do. She was perfectly capable of forgetting all about him, and then, in the morning, if he were found frozen to death at his post, she would pretend to wonder what on earth the new chauffeur had been doing out there.
“After eleven,” he thought. “And Eddy hasn’t come yet. Very likely she knew he wouldn’t come. Perhaps he’s never coming back. All right! I’ll wait till twelve, and then I’m going to take a look at that little kid. I’ve got to. It’s too little.”
So he walked up and down, up and down, over the rough, frozen patch of ground behind the fir trees; his coat collar turned up, his soft hat pulled low over his eyes, his face grim and dour; a sinister figure he would have been to meet on a lonely road.
Up and down—and then something happened. At first he could not grasp what it was, only that in some way his world had changed. He stopped short, every nerve alert. Then he realized that it was a sudden increase in the darkness, and, turning toward the house, he saw the lights there going out, one by one.
“By George!” he thought. “They’re all going to bed! And I suppose I can stay here all night, eh? While they’re warm and snug, the faithful Cousin James will be on guard. All right! I said I’d do it. But I’m going to get a glass of milk for that baby.”
He set off as fast as his numb feet and stiff legs would carry him, toward the back door. He would tell the cook that he was hungry, and she would give him what he wanted. A kind, sensible woman, that cook.
He pushed open the back door and went in; it was dark in the passage, but warm, and the entrancing perfumes of the great dinner still lingered there. He went on, toward the kitchen, but before he got there, the swing door opened, and Mrs. Jones appeared. She stopped, and he thought that she whispered: “It’s I!”
He was a little disconcerted, because he knew that Mrs. Jones was not fond of him, and he was extremely suspicious of her. But she looked so sedate, almost venerable, standing there in the lighted doorway, in her best black dress, with her gray hair, her spectacles. He took off his hat, and spoke to her civilly.
“I came to ask for a glass of milk,” he said.
Then she repeated what she had said before, and it was not “It’s I,” but the word “Spy!” uttered with a suppressed scorn that startled him.
“Spy!” she said. “I know you!”
He looked at her in stern amazement.
“Leave this house!” she said. “You can deceive a poor innocent young girl, but you can’t deceive me. You and your glass of milk! I know you! And I tell you straight to your face that you’re not coming one step farther. I’m going to stay here all night, and I’m going to see to it that neither you nor anybody else comes to worry and torment that poor girl. Go!”
“All right!” said Ross, briefly, and, turning on his heel, went out of the house.
“If she’s going to take over the job of watchdog, she’s welcome to it,” he thought. “I guess she’d be pretty good at that sort of thing. But—spy!”
His face grew hot.
“I don’t feel inclined to swallow that,” he said to himself, deliberately. “Some day we’ll have a reckoning, Mrs. Jones!”
The funny little doll lay asleep, very neat and straight, just in the center of the bed, the covers drawn up like a shawl, one cheek pressed against the pillow, its fair mane streaming out behind, as if it were advancing doggedly against a high wind. There was no creature in the world more helpless, yet it was not alert, not timid, as defenseless little animals are; it slept in utter confidence and security.
And that confidence seemed to Ross almost terrible. The tiny creature, breathing so tranquilly, took for granted all possible kindness and protection from him. It had asked him for food; it had offered a kiss.
He stood looking down at it with considerable anxiety, yet with the hint of a smile on his lips.[Pg 463]
“Made yourself at home, didn’t you?” he thought.
As he looked, the child gave an impatient flounce, and threw one arm over her head. Ross drew nearer, frowning a little; bent over to examine that arm, that ruffled sleeve.
“I don’t believe—” he muttered, and very carefully pulled out the covers from the foot of the bed. His suspicions were confirmed; she was fully dressed, even to her shoes.
“Must be darned uncomfortable!” he thought. He hesitated a moment, half afraid to touch her; but at last he cautiously unbuttoned one slipper. She did not stir. He drew off the slipper, then the other one; then the socks, and tucked in the covers again.
“Poor little devil!” he said to himself. “Poor little devil! I wonder—”
A great yawn interrupted him.
“I’ll think about this in the morning,” he thought; “but I’m going to get some sleep now—before anything else happens.”
For, coming from the cold of his vigil into this warmth was making him intolerably drowsy. He took off his collar and sat down to remove those objectionable puttees.
As this unprincipled intruder had so coolly taken possession of the bed, he would have to sleep on the couch in the sitting room, but that didn’t trouble him. He felt that he could sleep anywhere, and that nothing—absolutely nothing—could keep him awake ten minutes longer.
A sound from below startled him. Some one was unlocking the door.
In his blind fatigue, he was ready to ignore even that. He didn’tcarewho came; he wanted to go to sleep.
But he remembered the tiny creature in the bed, the creature who expected his protection, and that roused him. Closing the bedroom door, he went to the head of the stairs, and, in a voice husky with sleep, but distinctly threatening, called out:
“Who’s that?”
“Me,” answered Eddy’s voice.
Even before he saw the boy, Ross was aware that there was something amiss with Eddy to-night. His voice was different; he climbed the stairs so slowly. He came into the sitting room, and flung down the bag he was carrying.
“I’m all in!” he said.
He looked it. His face was haggard and white; his glossy hair was no longer combed back, but flopped untidily over his forehead. There was nothing jaunty about Eddy now. He was weary, grimy, and dispirited.
“Been doing overtime,” he explained. “Lot of wires down in that storm last night.”
“Look here!” said Ross. “There’s a child here—a baby. I don’t know whose it is, or how it got here. But it’s asleep in there. Better not disturb it.”
“Wha-at!” cried Eddy. He looked amazed, he spoke in a tone of amazement, but there was something—
“By Heaven!” thought Ross. “You’vegot the other key to the garage, my lad! And the child didn’t come through a locked door.”
“A kid!” Eddy repeated.
“Queer, isn’t it?” Ross inquired, sarcastically. “If not peculiar!”
Eddy glanced at him, and then sat down and lit a cigarette.
“I’ll say it’s queer!” he observed.
“Especially as I’d left the door locked when I went out.”
Again Eddy glanced at him.
“Did you—what did they say—over at the house?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing much!”
He observed, with satisfaction, that this answer alarmed Eddy.
“Well, lissen here,” he said. “Who did you tell? Old Jones?”
“I don’t remember,” Ross declared.
“But—” Eddy began, and stopped.
“I’m going to turn in now,” said Ross. “Afraid you’ll have to put up with the chair again to-night.”
He crossed the room to the couch and lay down there. He was only partly undressed, and he put his shoes beside him, and his overcoat across his feet, because, in this nightmare existence, he had to be prepared for every impossible emergency.
“But I’ll get some sleep anyhow!” he thought, defiantly.
He stretched out, with a sigh of relief, and closed his eyes, when an almost inaudible sound, like the faintest echo of his own sigh, made him glance up again. He saw that Eddy had buried his face in his hands, and sat there, his slight shoulders hunched, his young head bent, in an attitude of misery and dejection.
And Ross was sorry for him. All through his confused and heavy dreams[Pg 464]that night ran a little thread of pity, of regret and pain, which he could not understand. Only, he felt that in this adventure there was more than the tragedy of death.
When he opened his eyes again, the room was filled with a strange, pale light, unfamiliar to him. Dawn? It was more like twilight. He raised himself on one elbow and looked out of the window, and, for the first time in his life, he saw the snow.
Thick and fast the flakes went spinning by, tapping lightly against the glass, and, out beyond, he saw that all the world was white. White and unimaginably still. He had seen plenty of pictures of snow-covered landscapes, but he had never known thefeelof a snowstorm, the odd tingle in the air, the sense of hushed expectancy.
He was amazed and delighted with it. Old and forgotten fancies of his childhood stirred in him now; queer little memories of glittering Christmas cards, of fairy tales. He remembered a story his mother had read to him, so very long ago, about a Snow Queen.
And it was good for him to remember these things, after so many ungracious years, just as it was good to see the snow, after so long a time of tropic sun and rain. He knew that it was good, and for a little time he was content, watching the snow fall.
But his destiny was not inclined to allow him many peaceful moments just then. Before he had even begun to think of his complicated anxieties, a sound from the next room brought the whole burden upon him like an avalanche. It was the child’s voice.
He jumped up from the couch, and then he noticed that Eddy had gone. He frowned, not knowing whether this was a disaster or a thing of no importance, and, without stopping to put on his shoes, went across to the bedroom door and turned the knob. He had come so quietly that no one had heard him, and he was able to observe a curious scene.
Eddy was on his knees, his head bowed before the little girl, who sat on the bed, lifting strands of his glossy hair and pulling them out to their fullest extent, with a grave and thoughtful air.
“Lookit here!” whispered Eddy. “I wish you’d quit that, baby!”
“You dot funny, flippety-floppety hair,” said she.
“Well, anyway, hold your foot still won’t you?” he entreated.
Ross saw, then, that Eddy was trying to put the child’s socks on, and getting no intelligent coöperation from her.
“What are you doing that for?” he asked.
Eddy sprang to his feet like a cat. He looked at Ross, and Ross looked at him, and the little girl lay back on the bed and began jouncing up and down.
“Well,” Eddy replied, slowly, “if you really want to know, it was me brought her here, and now I’m goin’ to take her away again; that’s all.”
Once more Ross was conscious of a disarming pity for the boy. He thought he had never seen a human creature who looked so unhappy.