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 only _want_. 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.
“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. 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!”