Mrs. Walbrough was one of those women who are happiest when trouble
impends or is at hand. She had fallen in love with Clancy almost at
sight; but her affection had been rendered durable and lasting as soon
as she had discovered that Clancy was in danger. Wives who are not
mothers but who have always craved children furnish the majority of this
kind of woman.
And now, when Clancy's story had been told to her, and she had
exclaimed, and colored in rage and grown white with apprehension, and
after she had tucked Clancy securely in bed, so that there was no more
to be done for her protégée, the thoughts of the motherly woman turned
to Sophie Carey.
"Would you be afraid," she asked, "if I went over to the Carey place?
Poor thing! I never forgave her for marrying Don Carey; I don't think
I've been kind enough to her."
The remark caused Clancy to remember that not, during the entire day,
had Mrs. Walbrough mentioned the fact that the Careys were such near
neighbors. Of course, that might be accounted for by the fact that Mrs.
Walbrough had no idea that Sophie and her husband were at their country
place. But she realized that Mrs. Walbrough imagined that her attitude
toward Sophie had not been as generous as she now wished. So, even if
she had feared being left alone in the house, she would have denied it.
Mrs. Walbrough, Clancy readily understood, was like all whose natural
affections have not sufficient outlet. They wonder if "So-and-So" will
misinterpret their remarks, if "Such-and-Such" has been offended.
"I don't believe," she said, "that you've ever been anything but sweet
and good to every one. But, of course, I don't mind your going.
'Afraid?'" She laughed heartily at the idea.
And so, with many motherly injunctions about the hot-water bottle at her
feet and the heavy woolen blankets drawn up about her shoulders, Mrs.
Walbrough departed.
Clancy reached for the electric button at the head of her bed. She
turned off the lights. She was not sleepy, yet she felt that she could
think better in the dark. But it was a long time before her mental
processes were coherent. She was more tired than she knew. To-day's
exertions upon the snow-covered hill would ordinarily have been no tax
at all upon her youthful strength. But excitement saps vitality. And
when one combines too much exercise with too much mental strain, one
becomes bewildered.
So, as she lay there, her thoughts were chaotic, nightmarish. Like one
in an audience, she seemed to detach herself, not merely from her body
but from her brain. She found amusement in her own mental wanderings.
For from some incident of childhood her mind leaped to the studio-dance
at Mrs. Carey's city house. From there it went to her motion-picture
ambitions, thence to Vandervent's flowers with their somewhat illegible
card. She thought of Randall's conveyance of her to the Napoli on that
night, so shortly ago, when she had mistaken him for a taxi-man. She
thought of her entrance into Vandervent's office, with confession
trembling on her lips.
Always, her mind came back to Vandervent. And finally, her mental
gyrations ceased. Steadily she thought of him. She wondered at the thing
we call "attraction." For she was sure that neither his great name nor
his wealth had anything to do with this irresistible something that drew
her to him.
Not that she would ever delude herself with the idea that wealth and
position meant nothing to her. They did. They meant a great deal, as is
right and proper. But had Philip Vandervent been poor, had his prospects
been inconsiderable, she would still have been ready, aye, anxious to
yield herself to him.
She wondered why. Of course, she knew that he was decent, kindly,
possessor of all those virtues which are considered ordinary, but are
really uncommon. But it is none of these things, unhappily, that make
for love. Combined with love, they make for happiness, but alone they
never won the fickle heart of woman.
He was intelligent; she knew that. He was, perhaps, brilliant. She had
no proof of that. Their conversations could hardly afford evidence
either way, they had been interchanges of almost monosyllabic
utterances. So, at any rate, reviewing them, it seemed to Clancy.
What was it, then, that drew her to him? Not his looks; she had known
many handsomer men. She smiled whimsically. Highly as she appraised her
own beauty, she supposed that somewhere was a more lovely woman. And
Vandervent might have seen her. Why did he reserve his love for Clancy?
Then, for the first time, doubt came to her. She sat bolt-upright in
bed. Suppose that she'd been deluding herself? She smiled, shaking her
head. She knew. She didn't know why she knew, but--she knew. Women
almost always do. And slowly she took less interest in the problem.
Sleep descended lightly upon her. So lightly that whisperings outside
her door woke her.
"Who is it?" she called.
"Sophie Carey. May I come in?"
Clancy switched on the light.
"Of course," she said.
Sophie entered. She sat immediately down upon the edge of the bed. Her
face was deathly pale and wore no rouge. Her cheeks were sunken. She
looked forty. Rather, she would have looked forty but for her eyes. For
they were softened, somehow; yet through their softness shone a
brilliance that spoke of youth. It was as though some heavy burden had
been lifted from her. Clancy could not censure her. Sophie would have
been less than human if she had not responded, in some expression, to
the hidden relief that must have come to her, even though through
tragedy and scandal.
She put her arms quickly round Clancy.
"I think," she said, "that you are the sweetest, bravest person I have
ever met."
"Why--why--" stammered Clancy.
"You had every reason to suspect that Don had--done what he did. Mr.
Vandervent has told me all that you told him. And yet--you didn't say
anything."
"I would have," said Clancy, honestly, "had I been sure."
Sophie nodded gravely.
"But most persons, on the faintest of suspicions, to clear themselves--
Oh, I can't talk about it." Suddenly she kissed Clancy. "Miss Deane, I
hope--I know--that you are going to be very happy."
She was gone at once. Clancy didn't ponder long over her last remark.
She went to sleep, this time in earnest.
It was bright day when she awoke. Mrs. Walbrough entered a moment after
Clancy had thrown the coverlets from her and was on her way to the
windows, to shut them.
"I wondered if you could still be sleeping," said her hostess. "Do you
know the time, young lady?"