“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 said—But he’s _old_!”
“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 think _you’re_ a 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 you
_talk_? 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’t_ help 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 tonight.”
“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 tonight,” 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 tonight.”
“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?”
“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 tonight, 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’t_ you let me have just a chance?”
“But look here! Even if the man didn’t come tonight, 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 tonight. Then tomorrow
I’ll tell you the whole thing. And perhaps you’ll think of something
to do. But—just tonight—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!_”