it, but he might--he can manage anything. And he wanted so
dreadfully to see you; it’s been years, hasn’t it?”
“Three,” replied Devon concisely.
“Well, you see! And of course he’d want to see _me_ dreadfully,
because it’s been years since he’s seen me, too; we have breakfast
at half-past seven. Isn’t that hideous? It takes him an hour to get
into town; I do hate that. A whole hour away--think of it----”
“Anne, I blush for you; I do indeed. It’s embarrassing for any
well-behaved bachelor to hear you talk. It’s sinful to lavish that
amount of devotion on any man that lives.”
“Not on Derry.” The clear face was a little flushed, but the
shining eyes met his unwaveringly. “You lavish it, too, Hal! I used
to be bored to distraction by the tales that you’d pour out for
hours on end about the fabulous student who was on his way back
from Paris to spread havoc amongst the maidens of America. I used
to laugh at you--remember?”
“Of course I remember.” The dark, ironic face was suddenly touched
with a very charming smile. “That first evening that I brought him
over after supper, and he talked until a quarter to one until he
had everyone as excited as he was about things that we actually
wouldn’t give a snap of our fingers for; I can see him standing by
the mantel now, with every golden hair on his head ruffled up, and
those crazy sherry-coloured eyes of his half mad with excitement,
ranting like a Frenchman and laughing like a lunatic--I can see you
with your face tilted up to him, forgetting that any of the rest of
us were alive---- You had on a gray dress and someone had sent you
white flowers, and you were wearing a long string of green beads
that hung to your knees----”
“Hal, you’re making that up! Four years----”
“Is four years too long to remember green beads and white flowers?
Perhaps you’re right! But it isn’t too long to remember Derry’s
voice when he told us about the night that he and the drunken cab
driver spent in the Louvre, is it? Shades of Gargantua, how that
kid could laugh! After all, there’s never been any one else just
like him, has there?”
“Not ever--oh, not ever. It’s the cruellest shame that he couldn’t
be here now; he’d love it so, and you could have such a beautiful
time reminiscing--oh, I can’t bear having him away on a night like
this. When I went to the door just then those trees by the gate
were straining like dogs on a leash, and the wind had wrenched a
great branch off the lilac bush. I do hate November! And the rain
like gray floods--and so _cold_, Hal. He oughtn’t to be out in
that, truly. He ought to be here where he could play with us, where
it’s warm and kind and--safe. Do you suppose they were motoring?”
“I don’t suppose anything at all. My dear girl, you aren’t going to
start that all over again?”
“Ah, it’s frightfully silly, I know. Old married
people--three-year-old married people--they oughtn’t to mind things
like that. But it’s the first time that he’s been away all night,
and I’m--oh, I’m ridiculous. Scold me, scold me hard!”
“You’re a very difficult person to scold, all things considered.
It’s those unprincipled eyelashes, probably. First time in three
years, honestly, Anne? Good Lord, it’s unbelievable!”
“_Hal!_”
“Well, but my good child! Long Island and the twentieth century and
the tottering state of holy matrimony--it’s simply defying the laws
of gravity! Do you sit here hanging the crane every night of your
lives?”
“Oh, Hal, you lovely idiot! Of course we don’t; we go out any
amount and have people here a lot, and go in town, too. Only
we happen to like each other--rather--and to like to play
together--rather--so we just go ahead and do it. It’s simply
happened that up to now nothing turned up that we couldn’t do
together; _of course_ it was bound to happen sooner or later.
Of course I know that, Hal.” She leaned forward, the firelight
painting flying shadows on the vivid, high-bred little face. “But
I’m an utter goose about Derry. I feel _empty_ when he isn’t
around, and I don’t care who knows it.”
“A bit hard on the rest of us, isn’t it? Still, if it’s the same
Derry that I practically bestowed on you at the altar I’m rather
inclined to get your point of view. Not changed for the worse?”
“Changed for the better, thank you!” laughed Derry’s wife. “Better
and better and better every minute, once removed from your sinister
influence.” She smiled her gay affection at him, and then suddenly
the smile wavered, faded--she sprang to her feet, trailing her
blue-green draperies over to the long window.
“Don’t you _hate_ that noise, Hal? No, listen. The rain’s out to
drown the world, and that wind----” She shivered, staring out into
the menacing blackness, raging like a wild beast on the other side
of the lighted window. “Poor Hal, it’s going to be simply awful
for you! It’s a good ten minutes’ walk to the club, and these back
roads turn into mud soup if it even showers! I do think it’s a
wicked shame.”
“Perhaps I’d better be getting on my way----”
“No, no!” There was a note of sheer panic in her voice, though she
laughed it down valiantly. “Why, it can’t be eleven, and he isn’t
going to call up till twelve. You simply have to entertain me; I
won’t be abandoned yet. No, I mean it. Let’s start again--about
Brazil. You were telling me about Brazil----”
“You aren’t even remotely interested in Brazil,” he accused. “But
I’ll talk to you about any place from Peoria to Patagonia, if
you’ll stop wandering about like a lost soul, and come back to the
fire, like a good child.”
“Yes,” replied the good child obediently, dropping the curtain.
“Does--does it seem cold to you in here, Hal?”
“Cold? It’s heavenly warm; if I were a cat I’d purr for you.”
“It feels--cold, to me,” said Anne Carver, spreading her hands
before the leaping flames. “As though the wind had got in through
the window somehow, and into my blood--and into my bones----”
“Nonsense,” said Devon sharply. “You got chilled standing over
there; you’re an unconscionable goose, and I’m beginning to be
strongly out of patience with you. Sit down and put your feet on
the fender--want something over your shoulders?”
She shook her head, holding her hands closer to the fire.
“No, please--I’d rather not sit down just yet. It was the window,
of course. Don’t be cross; I do want to hear the rest of that
about Brazil. Some day I’m going there; some day I’m going to
find a country where there’s no such time as autumn--no such
month as November, full of dead leaves, and wind and cold--and
emptiness. Tell me what’s prettiest there; there must be so many
pretty things? Birds with shining feathers--butterflies like
flowers--flowers like butterflies--gold like sunshine and sunshine
like gold--oh, I’m warmer just for thinking of it! Tell me what was
prettiest?”
“I saw nothing half so pretty as a lady with the lamplight falling
about her, bending over pansies black as her hair in a bowl green
as her eyes.”
“Oh!” She straightened swiftly, giving the flowers a last friendly
touch, and facing him, lightly flushed, lightly reproachful.
“_Green_, Hal? That’s not pretty at all--and it stands for
something shameful.”
Devon raised quizzical eyebrows.
“Never felt the honest pangs of jealousy, Anne?”
“But how could I, even if I were capable of such cheapness and
ugliness? I’ve never in my life cared for any one but Derry.”
“And Derry, lovely lady, would never give you cause?”
“_Derry?_” The startled incredulity of that cry rang into clear
mirth. “Why, Hal, it may be difficult for you to believe, but Derry
_loves_ me.”
Devon tapped the ashes off his cigarette, and sat staring for a
moment at the reddened tip.
“It doesn’t precisely strain my credulity to the breaking point,”
he replied drily. “No, I can imagine that Derry might love you. It
hardly requires any colossal stretch of imagination on my part,
either. I’ve loved you myself for thirteen years.”
“Hal!”
“Loved you with every drop of blood in my body. There’s no use
looking stricken and melodramatic, Anne. I’ve never worried you
much about it, have I?”
“No,” she whispered voicelessly.
“No. Well, then, don’t worry me about it now, there’s a good
girl. I’m off for Ceylon to-morrow, and I haven’t the most remote
intention of making a nuisance of myself to-night. You don’t have
to remind me of the fact that Derry’s my best friend, that I was
his best man, that you are his wife. I have an excellent memory
for such trifling details myself. It’s only fair to add, however,
that I wouldn’t give a tuppenny damn for the whole collection if it
weren’t for one other.”
“Which other?” she asked, her eyes meeting his steadily, infinitely
gentle and remote.
“The rather important one that you’re happy,” replied Devon evenly.
“I came all the way back from Brazil to find out whether he was
making you happy--and now I’m off to-morrow.”
“Happy is a poor word for what he has made me,” she said. “You
should have known that, you who know Derry. Oh, Hal--oh, Hal, how
could you?”
“It isn’t done, I know,” he assented. “It’s always the cad and the
villain who is caught out making love to his friend’s wife at all
hours of the night. But there’s a slight distinction in my favour,
you see; I am loving you, not making love to you.”
“You’re hurting me,” she told him. “Pretty badly.”
“You have no right to be hurt. It’s nothing ugly that I am giving
you. Out of pain and bitterness and despair I’ve wrought something
rather fine; it isn’t like you to disdain it, my dear. Ever since
you were a little girl with dark braids swinging to your waist,
I’ve brought you presents; every corner of the earth I’ve ransacked
just to have you touch those gifts with your fingers, and say,
‘That’s lovely, Hal--that’s lovely’--and smile. The only thing
worth giving you was not in my power to bestow, but I wanted to
make sure that you had it, no matter whose hands had held it out
to you. Happiness is yours, Anne--I have nothing left to give you
but my love. I swear to you that there is not one thing in it that
gives you the right to say that it hurts you. Believe me, you can
take it in your hands--and smile.”
“Yes. Yes, Hal.” She smiled at him, grave and misty-eyed--and he
smiled back.
“Then that’s about all, my dear, and I’ll be going. It’s no hour
at all for a poor bachelor to be awake. Good-night, Anne; sweet
dreams to you.”
“Hal, I don’t want you to go--please, I don’t want you to go.”
There was something so desperate in her low entreaty that he
halted with lifted brows. “I know that it’s utterly foolish and
unreasonable--and--and selfish, but I simply can’t bear to be left
here alone until Derry calls me up. Please, please don’t leave me.”
“Very well.” He turned back to his chair slowly. “This isn’t like
you, you know.”
“I know.” She sat staring down at her locked fingers. “It isn’t a
bit like me; I haven’t any nerves at all, as a rule--not enough
to make me sympathetic even. Derry says my lack of imagination is
simply appalling--that unless I can see a thing or touch it or
taste it or smell it or hear it, I simply won’t believe that it
exists--that I don’t really believe that the world’s round, because
it looks flat to me! He laughs about it, but I do honestly think
that it worries him.”
“It generally worries Derry when someone doesn’t see things his
way.” Devon smiled reminiscently.
“Well, you know how _he_ is. He fully believes that they’re trying
to signal to us from Mars, and he almost goes wild because no one
pays any attention to the signals! He thinks that phonographs are
much more incredible than Ouija boards, and that telephones are
far more extraordinary than telepathy. It wouldn’t be any effort
to Derry to believe that the world was shaped like a hat-box, with
blue and green stripes and a nice little handle to carry it around!”
“You must be a great trial to him, Madame Materialist.”
“Oh, he wrings his hands over me. He says for any one to seem as
spiritual and be as literal as I am is nothing more nor less than a
swindle. Oh, oh, if he could see me to-night!”
“But will you be good enough to tell me what in the name of Heaven
_is_ the matter with you to-night?”
“I don’t know; I don’t know.” She drew a long breath, making a
piteous effort to smile. “I’m--frightened.”
“Frightened of _what_?”
“I don’t know, I tell you.” She glanced about her with a long,
despairing shiver. “Of the night--of the world--of the room--of--of
everything.”
“The room! You know when you talk like that, Anne, you make me
seriously consider ringing up a doctor. I don’t believe that all
America holds a more delightful room--gayer or kinder or more
friendly; it’s nothing short of a miracle what you’ve done to
this old barn! It’s the most reassuring room I’ve ever set my foot
in; you know, when you come into it with its fires and flowers and
lights, you can almost hear it singing and laughing to itself,
‘Here--here dwells happiness.’”
“Oh, yes, you’re right--it has been happy.” Her eyes strayed over
its treasures; the shelves warm and bright with books, with the
beloved Lowestoft standing like flowers against the panelled cream
of the walls, the lustre gleaming in blue and copper bravery along
the firelit mantel, the glazed chintz holding out its prim nosegays
proudly for all to see--the English prints on the walls echoing the
gay warmth of the hooked rugs on the floor--she brought her haunted
eyes back to Devon.
“It’s a pretty room,” she said in a strange little voice. “I do
think it’s quite a pretty room. But do you know what it looks like
to me to-night? To-night it looks to me like a corpse that someone
had dressed in a flowered frock and a ribboned hat.”
“Anne!” His voice cracked out like a whip. “Now that’s enough;
you’re to pull yourself together at once, or I’m going to call up
the doctor. That’s an abominably morbid thing to say--it’s simply
not healthy. I’m not joking, my dear; I have every intention of
calling him up if you haven’t yourself in hand in the next five
minutes.”
He leaned across to the table, drawing the shining black instrument
closer toward him.
“D’you think I’m sick?” she asked piteously. “You know, I do think
I must be sick. I’m so--I’m so dreadfully cold.”
“Here----” He rose abruptly. “Where’s your scarf?”
“No--no--it isn’t a scarf I want. I’m cold inside, dreadfully,
dreadfully. It isn’t a scarf.”
“You’re worrying me badly, Anne. Look here, what is it? This party
of Derry’s, honestly?”
“Yes, the party. It’s foolish, I know; I know--don’t say it,
please--I know.”
“Well, but what about it? Did Derry seem worried himself? Did he
sound upset?”
“No. He sounded--casual. As casual as--as casual as----” She made
a little despairing gesture with her hand. “I can’t tell you how
casual he sounded.”
“Well, then----”
“Well, then, but that’s it, Hal. Derry isn’t a bit a casual person,
and here were you for the first time in three years--and here was
I, and he knows how I loathe being left alone out here with the
maids--and he sounded as though it were--nothing. Just nothing at
all.”
“And is this honestly the mole-hill out of which you’ve built your
mountain?”
“No--I don’t know; I can’t even explain it to myself--how could
I explain it to you? It wasn’t anything tangible at first. Just
a feeling of--of discomfort--something vague and not pleasant; I
couldn’t even put my finger on it. I told myself that I was being
silly and unreasonable--I did indeed. You mustn’t think that I
enjoy this kind of thing. I hate it, I hate it.”
“But I’m so utterly at sea to account for this, my dear, and I
want to help you. You’re tormenting yourself about something real
if we could only put our finger on it. Something that Derry said
or did that worried you; you can’t make me believe that you’ve
manufactured all of this out of thin air! It’s too unlike you--why,
ever since that first day I met you, a pale mite of a thing with
great eyes and long braids, brave and proud and gentle in the midst
of the rest of those young hoydens, I’ve found you exquisitely fair
and adorably, adorably reasonable. No one’s ever been like you,
Anne; you mustn’t wreck my world by showing me little clay feet
to-night.”
“Trying to flatter me into being a good child? That’s dear of you,
but oh, I’m beyond flattery. I’m making up for any past arrears of
reason to-night, I promise you.”
“Well, then, let’s try to get to the bottom of it--hunt the good
old subconscious into the open! Now what exactly was this famous
telephone conversation, word for word?”
She turned her head restlessly.
“Oh, Hal, what does it matter? Very well--only I’ve told you once,
you know. He said, ‘I’m awfully sorry, dear, but I won’t be able to
get out this evening. Tell Hal that I’m sorry as the dickens, but
that we can have lunch at the office to-morrow; one sharp. That’ll
give him plenty of time to get off again on his globe-trotting.’
And I said, ‘But what time will you get out?’ He said, ‘Six-thirty
to-morrow, as usual. I may bring Joe Carey along with me.’ I was
so surprised that I almost lost my voice, Hal, and I said, ‘Why,
Derry, not _to-night_?’ And he just laughed, and said, ‘No; I’ve
been roped in on the darnedest party you ever heard of--got to run
now, or I’d explain. I can’t possibly get out of it. You’ll be
awfully amused when I tell you. It’s a good joke on me!’ I said,
‘But where are you going?’ And Derry said, ‘Lord knows! I’ve got to
run, honestly, dear. Tell you what I’ll do: I’ll call you up when
it’s over, and let you in on the whole blooming thing. It’s too
good to sleep on; wait till you hear! It may be late--will you be
awake at twelve?’ And I said, ‘I’ll be awake at six if you don’t
call up. Promise, Derry.’ And he said, ‘Promised! Not later than
twelve. Give Hal my best--see you both to-morrow.’ And--he rang
off.”
“That was absolutely all there was to it?”
“Absolutely all.”
“Very well. I’ll bet you five thousand dollars to a pansy, Lady
Tragedy, that the midnight expedition runs somewhat on these lines.
Mr. Jabez K. Rugg from Omaha, Nebraska, blows into our Derry’s
office late this afternoon with an interesting proposition. He has
heard that he is the most promising young architect in America, and
as he is desirous of presenting his third wife with a cross between
a Moorish palace and a French château for a little anniversary
surprise he has applied to Derry for some sound advice, for which
he is willing and eager to disburse colossal sums. Time presses,
however, and the worthy Mr. Rugg yearns to invest his precious
hours in New York both profitably and pleasantly. He suggests
that the promising young architect put on his hat, lock up his
office, and sally forth into the night, which they will spend
together, chattering of business and painting the unfortunate
town a brilliant red. He doesn’t happen to know the ropes, but he
has a really touching confidence in our Derrick. And our Derrick,
fired with the desire to hang pearls about your neck and sables
about your shoulders, wafts a good-night kiss to the pleasant
anticipation of firelight and candlelight, and sallies forth into
what the poet refers to as ‘the lights of old Broadway.’ And there
you are! Please pick me out a nice pansy.”
“That’s all very clever and amusing, Hal, but it isn’t especially
convincing. And it doesn’t relieve me any more than if someone
tried to cheer things up by doing a fox-trot to the funeral march.
You needn’t scowl; it doesn’t. If it was as simple as that, why
didn’t he explain it at the time?”
“My dear child, he was evidently in a tearing hurry--he’d have
had to go into elaborate explanations to make it clear, and he
obviously wasn’t in any position to indulge in the luxury of
explanations. The impetuous Mr. Rugg may have been clamouring at
the door, or tooting his horn underneath the window. At any rate,
he’s going to call you up in a bare half hour, and clear up the
whole thing; he’s apt to keep his word, isn’t he?”
“_Apt_ to?” she echoed scornfully. “He’d keep his word if the world
came to an end. I thought that you knew him.”
At the disdain in her voice something violently resentful flared in
the dark eyes that met hers.
“Why, so did I,” he returned evenly. “But apparently I was
mistaken. The Derry I knew was not a plaster saint, you see!”
“Nor is the Derry that I know--plaster.” Her voice shook, but she
held her head very high. “Are you trying to make me mistrust him,
Hal? Be careful, please; you are only making me mistrust you.”
“Oh, good God!” He flung at her a look of such revolt and despair
that the small frozen face softened. “Look here, don’t--don’t
let’s make more of a mess of this. You can’t believe that kind of
thing of me, Anne; you may know Derry, but you’ve known me longer,
after all. I’d cut my throat before I’d try to come between you
two. Derry’s worth a thousand of me, of course--I know. He’s made
you happy, and nothing that I could do in this life or the next
would ever repay him for that. But just for a moment it galled me
hideously to have you lavishing that flood of adoration on any man
that lived: it was a flick on a raw wound, and something deep in me
yelled out rebellion. You think jealousy a cheap and ugly thing,
you say--well, now you know just how cheap, just how ugly it can
be!”
“Ah, I’m sorry----” She leaned to him, all gentleness once more.
“I’m sorry that I was hateful; it’s nothing but these unspeakable
nerves, truly. Let’s forget it all, shan’t we? Do you think it’s
letting up a little outside? It doesn’t sound quite so--so savage,
does it?” As though resentful of her waning terror, the beast
outside flung itself at them once more, pouncing on the house with
a long and terrible roar, shaking it in its monstrous claws as
though it would rattle the flimsy barriers of wood and glass out
of their cracking frames. She shrank deeper into the chair with a
tremulous laugh. “Oh, no, it’s incredible--no, _listen_ to it. I’ll
wager that it’s literally tearing trees up by the roots and----”
She broke off tensely. “Hal, you don’t think that it could damage
the wires, do you?”
“No, no; nonsense! It sounds a great deal worse than it is; this
house is nothing but a rattletrap, I tell you. It takes a worse
storm than this to put a telephone out of commission.”
“If he doesn’t telephone, I can’t bear it,” she said softly.
“That’s not rhetoric. I simply can’t bear it.”
“Well, we can settle that,” said Devon briefly. “I’ll get Central
and----”
The telephone that he reached for suddenly gave a faint jangle--a
small, far-off warning of sound--and then it rang aloud, sharp and
imperative.
“Oh, _Hal_!” Her voice was an exultant quiver. “No, no, give
it to me; he’s early, isn’t he? It’s not nearly twelve, is it?
Yes--yes, this is Mrs. Carver--this is Anne, darling----” The
thrilled voice wavered and flagged. “Oh--oh, I’m sorry; you must
have the wrong number.... Yes, it’s Mrs. Carver--Mrs. Derrick
Carver. No, but it’s a mistake.... No, no one’s been using the
wire this evening; no, it hasn’t rung at all. I’ve been rather
expecting a call, but the wire’s been perfectly clear since
nine.... What?... I can’t hear--there’s a singing on the wires....
What?... No, the receiver hasn’t been off; I’m sorry that you’ve
had so much trouble getting us, but I really think that there’s
some mistake--perhaps the maids----” She bit her lip, with a glance
of despairing amusement at Devon. “Why, yes, it’s possible that
someone else has been trying to get a call through to me, but none
has come through.... Yes, it might have been long distance....
What? You’ve been trying for an hour? Well, that really isn’t my
fault, is it? If you’ll tell me what you want.... I can’t hear;
please speak a little louder.... No, it doesn’t make any difference
whether any one else is here or not, you can give the message to
me. I’m quite as capable of hearing what you have to say as any
one else.... No, I most certainly will not; please tell me what
you want, or I shall simply ring off.... Yes. Yes. I can hear....
Oh, its _Headquarters_. Well, you can tell for yourself that the
telephone’s not working well; there’s that singing on the wires and
every now and then it buzzes, too. I suppose it’s this storm; I’m
so glad you’re working on it. Do see if there’s not something that
you can do; I _am_ expecting an important call any minute. Can’t
one of your men?... Well, then, what on earth did you call up for?
I do think that this service---- _Oh_----” Her voice died suddenly
in her throat, and at the look in her eyes Devon leapt to his feet.
“Here, Anne--give it to me!”
She shook her head, fighting desperately to get back her voice.