A SHORT NOTE
Wonderful to relate, we managed to keep secret the story of
Nanette’s indiscretion. Her mother never knew that she had left her
room. And it was toward dusk of the following day that the first act
of the tragi-comedy came to a close.
To Ensleigh’s inquiries touching my disappearance from the dance, I
had returned evasive replies. Jack kept his room, for good and
sufficient reasons, and O’Shea had gone into the town early and had
not come back. Nanette remained invisible.
For all the glory of the Madeiran sunshine and the wonder of the
flowers, black depression sat heavily upon us.
I was lounging on the terrace at about six o’clock wondering what
Nanette was doing and whether her mother suspected anything, when
O’Shea suddenly walked out to me.
“Hello!” I cried. “I thought you had gone for good!”
“No,” he answered musingly, “not yet.”
He sank into a chair, as though dog weary.
“Had a hard day?” I asked.
“Fairly,” he replied; “but I’ve done my job. I suspect there are
harder to come.” He paused, then: “Have you seen Nanette?” he asked.
“No,” I stared at him. “O’Shea, tell me if you resent my
frankness--but that girl’s madly in love with you.”
“I don’t resent it, Decies,” he answered. “I know she thinks she is.
But Nanette is very young. There is something you don’t know--that
nobody else will ever know.”
I looked into the gray eyes. But they were not cold: they were on
fire! I drew a sharp breath.
“O’Shea----” I began.
He nodded, and gripped my hand hard.
“Yes!” he said simply. “From the first moment I saw her. I daren’t
trust myself to see her again. You understand? It’s quite impossible.”
“But why?”
“For many reasons. Thank God, _she’s_ young enough to forget.”
There was a short silence, which is more memorable to me than many
long conversations.
“What shall you do?” I asked.
He pointed across the bay.
Trailing a pennant of smoke in her wake, the greyhound shape of a
destroyer raced for the harbour.
“I sail in an hour,” he answered. “I can take care of myself, Decies,
but Nanette is of an age when a--silly attachment might spoil years of
her life. So”--he took a letter from his pocket--“I have done a cruel
thing. I have said what isn’t true--God knows it isn’t true! Her pride
will do the rest. Will you give it to her--after I have gone?”
The promise was made. I thought of Nanette’s fresh young loveliness,
which this man, who wanted her madly, might have taken as an
unconditional gift. I thought of certain others I had met. I recalled
that we moved in the year of freedom, 1927. And I wondered.
I have known some good Irishmen and some bad. But Edmond O’Shea would
be a mighty fine advertisement for any race on earth.
Nanette came down to dinner, and I can never forget her expression
when she saw O’Shea’s deserted table.
My task was going to be a hard one.
I took her out to the terrace afterward. Away on the distant horizon I
could trace a faint wisp of smoke.
“Do you mean,” she said, and her voice had changed strangely, “that
Major O’Shea--has gone?”
I looked at her, a sweet picture in the moonlight. And little Nanette
had grown up. She watched me with a woman’s eyes.
I handed the note to her. She ran to the library window, tearing open
the envelope as she went. I turned away and tried to trace the slender
smoke trail fading, fading on a distant horizon.
A cry brought me sharply about.
Nanette stood before me, her eyes blazing, her face deathly white.
“Do you know what is in this?” she demanded.
“I do not, Nanette.”
And indeed I shall never know; but I know what it cost him to write
it.
A moment she stood so, glaring at me. Then, frenziedly she began to
tear the letter into tiny fragments, and:
“How dare he!” she cried. “Oh, God! how _dare_ he!”
Whereupon she burst into such passionate sobs that it was agony to
hear them. Dropping into a chair on the deserted terrace, she cried
until my heart ached.
It was her first love, and a very big one. An O’Shea inspires nothing
petty. But she had courage, and pride.
She conquered her weakness, and stood up.
“You are very kind, Mr. Decies,” she said. “I am sorry I made a fool
of myself.”
Then she went in, walking very upright.
I spent a wretched evening, and when I retired to my room, sleep
simply would not come. I got up, with an idea of smoking a pipe, but,
first, I crossed to the open window. On a moon-dappled path below the
terrace I espied a moving figure; and Burns’s words flashed through my
mind: “The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men…”
Nanette was stealing among the flowers, collecting tiny fragments of
the torn letter that a light evening breeze had blown from the terrace
above. It was a hurt, an affront; but it was the only thing of his she
had.