Headquarters. I didn’t understand. It’s some mistake, of course....
No.... No, he’s not here.... Well, then, if you knew that, what do
you want?... I don’t know where--I don’t know, I tell you.... I
can’t hear you--please spell.... Green’s? Breen’s?... No, I never
heard of such a place.... No, I don’t know who he went with; it was
some kind of a party--some kind of a.... Who?... Lola? Lola what?
No, no, never mind--I never heard of her--never.... Please--please
wait a minute--I want to ask you a question--just one. Please. I’ve
answered all of yours, haven’t I?... Then--where is Mr. Carver?
Where is he?... No, no, you know where he is--you do--you do--you
do! You have to tell me--You have to--you.... Hal! Hal!”
She thrust the telephone toward him, the frantic voice slipping and
stumbling in its haste.
“Make them tell you--you’re a man--make them--make them----”
Her teeth were chattering so violently that the words were lost;
she clung to the table edge, shaken with a dreadful and racking
tremor, her tortured eyes fastened on his face.
“What the devil do you mean, calling up at this hour of the night?”
demanded Devon violently. “I don’t care who you are; it’s a damned
outrage, ringing up a woman at this hour and frightening the heart
out of her. One of your dirty charges for speeding, I’ll bet.... If
you’ve got Mr. Carver there, send him to the ’phone and send him
quick.... Well, if it comes down to that, I don’t like your tone,
either.... What?... What?... Oh, report and be damned; you’re going
to get a report on yourself that’ll blow the inside of your head
out.... Well, get me Mr. Carver then and snap into it.... I can’t
hear.... Where is he then?... Where?... Oh, speak louder--where is
he?... _What?..._”
There was a moment of absolute silence, and then he spoke again,
very quietly.
“Yes, I heard you; I heard you perfectly--be good enough not to
shout.... Yes.... No, I’ll explain to Mrs. Carver.... Well, I can’t
give you credentials over the telephone, but I have known Mr. and
Mrs. Carver for years; I was at school with him--yes. My name’s
Devon.... D-e-v-o-n. Henry Devon.... Yes, I’ll drop in to see
you to-morrow.... No, you can’t speak to Mrs. Carver--no, that’s
final. I’d be much obliged if you’d give me any details that you
have. Just run over the facts.... Yes.... I didn’t get that....
Oh--blonde.... No, I couldn’t tell you.... No, you’re on the wrong
track; there has been no trouble of any kind between them.... Well,
there isn’t any explanation--not any; it’s--it’s.... Look here,
give me your number and I’ll call up again in a few minutes....
Yes. 5493?... oh, 53!... In about fifteen minutes.... Yes.”
He placed the receiver slowly on the hook, and stood staring down
at the little black instrument that had been so vocal, and now was
dumb.
“Hal?” The voice was not more than a breath, but at its sound he
shuddered, as though he were cold. “Hal?”
“Sit down, Anne; here, I’ll pull it closer to the fire--that’s it.”
“Hal, what did that man say? Has there been an accident?”
“Something like that.”
“Is Derry--hurt?”
“Yes, dear.”
She sat quite still, only her fingers stirring, drawing the silken
tassel on her girdle back and forth, back and forth.
“Is Derry--dead, Hal?”
“Yes, dear.”
She let the girdle slip from her fingers, lifting her hands to push
back the weight of hair from her forehead with a small sigh, like a
tired child.
“I think it’s just some mistake, don’t you, Hal?”
“I wish to God that I could think so.”
“Well--but what made them think it was Derry?”
“He had letters--cards--initials on his cigarette case.”
“Oh, yes, it’s a diamond-shaped monogram--awfully pretty. I gave
it to him last Christmas; you can’t think how pleased he was.
D.H.C.--Derrick Horn Carver---- Who was Lola?”
“She was a--a girl who was with him.”
“Was she? Where did it happen?”
“In New Jersey, somewhere this side of Princeton.”
“Please tell me just what happened. Did another automobile hit
them?”
“No.”
After a long moment she said again in that dreadful, gentle little
voice.
“Well? Then what was it? I’m waiting.”
“Anne, I don’t know how to tell you. I’d rather have the heart torn
out of my body then tell you. Wait----”
“I’m through waiting. Is it as bad as that? Hurry up, please. What
happened? Where did they find him?”
“In a road-house near Princeton--a place called Breen’s.”
“Was he alone?”
“No--there was a girl with him. They don’t know who she was; her
handkerchief had ‘Lola’ on it.”
“Had she killed him?”
“No.”
“How do they know she hadn’t?”
“Because she was shot herself--in the back.”
“Then who killed him?”
“They----” He set his teeth, the sweat standing out on his
forehead. “I’m not going to tell you any more about it now.
Wait--wait----”
“If you don’t tell me, I’m going out through that door and walk
until I get to New York. Who killed him?”
“They say he killed himself.”
“Killed himself? I never heard of such ridiculous nonsense.” She
was speaking as quietly and evenly as though she were discussing
the labour problem, frozen to a calm more terrible than any
madness. “Why should he have killed himself?”
“My God, how do I know? There was no one else to kill him--the
pistol was still in his hand.”
“Where were the rest of the party?”
“There was no one else in the party. The proprietor said that they
came alone, arrived at about nine and ordered supper--it was after
ten when they heard the shots.”
“The proprietor probably did it himself,” said Anne Carver
softly. “You let them say these things about Derry without
contradiction--you, who know that he would die rather than give
pain to any wretched little animal that lives?”
“I can’t believe it, Anne. I can’t believe it--but what else in
God’s name can I believe?”
“You can believe what you please; and you evidently please to
believe something more filthy than any nightmare that I have ever
had.”
“You are being extraordinarily cruel, Anne. What explanation do you
give?”
“There are a thousand. Robbery----”
“But nothing that he had was touched----”
“He was protecting the girl----”
“Against whom?”
“It might have been blackmail--it might have been a maniac; it
might have been anything, anything, anything but the thing that you
think. If Derry were here he would strike you dead for what you
believe of him. I wish that he were here to strike you dead.”
“I wish it, too. Believe me, life does not very greatly appeal to
me at present.”
“Did you think that if you destroyed my faith in him I would fall
weeping into your arms?” she asked smoothly. “Spare yourself the
trouble. I would die before I touched you with a finger, now that I
know what you think of him.”
“By God!” He towered suddenly above her. “That’s enough, I’m off.
You’ll live yet to regret that, Anne.”
“No--no--no--don’t leave me--don’t, don’t.” She caught at his arm
as though she were drowning--slipping, slipping deeper into icy
water. For a moment he thought that she was going to die where she
sat in the great chintz chair. “No, no; I’ll be good--I’ll be good.
I didn’t mean it, truly, truly. Hold me, hold me--you loved him,
too, didn’t you, Hal?”
“Yes, dear.”
“If he were here he’d tell us how it happened--you’d see. He said
it was an awfully good joke on him, too good to keep. He’d tell us.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Isn’t it too bad not to believe in God and Heaven and angels and
Ouija boards? Then I could pretend that I could see him again, and
that he would tell me. Derry believed all that kind of thing, but I
never believed in anything but Derry--and now he’s gone. What time
is it?”
“A minute or so to twelve, by this clock.”
“He didn’t keep his word, either, did he? He said not later than
twelve--promised! Think of Derry breaking a promise----”
“Anne--Anne----”
“Oh, I know--of course he’s dead, but still--he was Derry. The
wind’s worse, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“When it pounces like that, you can see the flames flatten out; it
comes down the chimney. Look--it’s burning lower. I’m cold--I’m
cold----”
“I’ll get more wood. Is it in the hall?”
“No, let it burn out. It’s late; you must go, mustn’t you? I don’t
want you to go--there’s too much wind. It sounds as though it were
alive--it sounds as though it were the only thing alive in the
world--listen----”
She leaned far forward in the winged chair, and suddenly above the
rush and clamour of the wind the telephone rang out, loudly and
urgently. Again--again. She sat quite still, with lifted hand,
her incredulous eyes frozen on the small black messenger blaring
out its summons, the receiver fairly quivering on the hook.
Again--again--strident and insistent--again. Devon rose slowly to
his feet.
“I’ll answer it.”
“No,” breathed Anne. “No.”
“It’s probably Headquarters again.”
“No,” she whispered. “No--no--it’s not Headquarters again.”
She stumbled out of the chair, clinging to the arms, groping,
uncertain, like someone suddenly gone blind, and then in a swift
rush she was past him, and the telephone was fast in her hands.
“Yes,” she said clearly. “Long distance--yes, I know.... It’s
Anne, dear, it’s Anne.... I can’t hear--it’s so far away--can’t
you speak louder? Please, please.... Can you hear me? Can you?...
Listen--listen.... I can’t hear very well--listen--you were going
to tell me about the party. Remember?... The party--you were going
to explain.... No--no--no--I can’t hear.... Make me hear--make me
hear--say it again!... No, no, don’t go--no, you can’t go.... No!
Derry! Derry!”
The terrible cry tore through the room like something unchained,
and Devon sprang to her.
“Take your hands away,” she panted. “Don’t dare--don’t dare....
Central!” She jangled the hook frenziedly. “Central--you cut me
off.... Central.... No, no, I won’t excuse it--never, never....
Get him back, I tell you--get him back.... No, I don’t know
the number.... No--you mustn’t say that--you _can_ help me....
You can....” She was weeping terribly, throwing back her head
to keep her lips clear of the flooding tears, stammering
desperately, “No--no.... It was long distance, I tell you--long
distance--long----”
Her voice rose--fell--was suddenly and startlingly silent. After
a long moment she let the receiver slip from her fingers; it
swung limply across the blue-green draperies while she stood very
straight, holding the telephone against her heart.
“There’s no one on the line,” she said, in a small, formal,
courteous voice.
Devon tried to speak, failed, tried again.
“It was a mistake?”
“Oh, no.” She smiled forgivingly at him. “It wasn’t a mistake; it
was Derry. He wanted to explain to me, but I couldn’t hear. It was
my fault, you see--I couldn’t hear.”
She stood quite still, stroking the small dark thing against her
heart with light and gentle fingers, and then, with an infinitely
caressing gesture, she bent her head to it--closer, closer, still
smiling a little, as though against her curved lips she heard the
echo of a far-off voice.
PHILIP THE GAY
Fairfax Carter sat up very straight in the great carved walnut bed,
and plaintively inspected the breakfast tray which the red-cheeked
Norman maiden had just deposited beside her. Those eternal little
hard rolls--the black bowl of coffee beneath whose steaming
fragrance lurked the treacherous chicory--the jug of hot thin
milk--the small brown jar of pale honey--she bestowed a rebellious
scowl on the entire collection. She felt suddenly, frantically
homesick for a bubbling percolator, for thick yellow cream and
feathery biscuits, for chilled crimson berries with powdered mounds
of sugar. Marie Léontine, briskly oblivious, was coaxing the very
small fire in the very large chimney into dancing animation.
“_V’la!_” she announced triumphantly, with all the hearty deference
that is the common gift of the French servant. “_Beau matin, p’tite
dame!_”
“_Oui_,” conceded the “small lady” grudgingly. She shivered
apprehensively as Marie Léontine shoved the copper water jug
closer to the flames, and trotted smiling from the room. Ugh!
How in the world could any nation hope to keep clean and warm
with three sticks of wood and four teaspoonfuls of water? She
remembered another country--a bright and blessed country--where
water rushed hot and joyous from glittering faucets into great
shining tubs--where warmed and fleecy towels hung waiting to fold
you hospitably close. She shivered again, forlornly, scanning the
stretch of distance across the bare floor to the hook where the
meagre towel hung limp and forbidding. “_La douce France!_” Ha! She
pulled the tray toward her, still scowling.
Even when she scowled, Fair Carter was more distracting looking
than any one young woman has a right to be. She was very
small--absurdly small sitting bolt upright in the great dark
bed--but she had enough charms to equip any six ladies of ordinary
size and aspirations. There was the ruffled glory of her hair,
warmer than gold, brighter than bronze, and her rain-coloured
eyes--and the small, warm mouth, and the elfin tilt to her brows.
There was that look about her, eager and reckless and adventurous,
that made your heart contract, when you remembered what life did
to the eager and reckless and adventurous. It had made a great
many hearts contract. It had made one despairing young adorer from
Richmond say: “Fair always looks as though she were carrying a
flag--and listening to drums.” And it had wrung tribute from her
father, who had been all her family and all her world, and who had
adored her even more than the young man from Richmond. “She’s the
bravest of all the fighting Carters, is my Fair. And never quite
so brave as when she’s frightened. Panic arms her with really
desperate valour!”
The bravest of the fighting Carters swallowed the dregs of the
coffee bowl, pushed the tray from her, and bestowed a sudden and
enchanting smile on one of the dark carved figures on the bedposts.
There were four of them, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, but she
liked Mark the best. He had a very stern face and a little lion.
“Morning,” she saluted him affably, and if St. Mark’s head had
not been made of walnut he would have lost it. She had kept the
most potent of her charms in reserve, like a true daughter of
Eve. Fair’s extravagant prettiness might steel the sceptical,
leading them to argue that so ornamental a head must necessarily be
empty, and that no one could look that way long without becoming
unbearably vain, spoiled, and capricious. But if she spoke just
once--if she said any three indifferent words at random--the
veriest sceptic was undone for ever. Because Fair had a Voice.
Not the coloratura kind--perhaps Patti could do more justice to
_Caro Nome_--but a voice which Galli-Curci and the nightingale
and the running brook and church bells and Sarah Bernhardt might
well envy. She could sing a little--small, candle-lit songs about
love, and absurdly stirring things that had marched down through
the centuries, and haunting bits of lullabies--she had a trick of
chanting them under her breath, as though it were to herself that
she was singing. But when she spoke--ah, then any coloratura that
ever lived might well shed tears of bitter envy. For the voice that
Fair Carter used for such homely purposes as wishing lucky mortals
good day and good night and God-speed was compact of magic. It was
wine and velvet and moonlight and laughter and mystery--and for
all its enchantment, it was as clear and honest as a nice little
boy’s. It did remarkable things to the English language. Fair would
have widened her eyes in cool disdain at the idea of indulging
in such far-advertised Southern tricks as “you all” and “Ah
raickon” and “honey lamb,” but she managed to linger over vowels
and elude consonants in a way that did not even remotely suggest
the frozen North. It reduced English to such a satisfactory state
of submission that she only experimented half heartedly with any
other language. A Chinaman would have understood her when she said
“Please”--a Polynesian would have thrilled responsive to her “Thank
you.”
Therefore she had gone serenely on her way during those two
terrible and thrilling years in France, those three terrible and
bitter years in Germany, ignoring entirely the fact that the
Teutons had a language of their own, and acquiring just enough of
the Gallic tongue to enable her to indulge in the gay and hybrid
banter of her beloved doughboys--a swift patter consisting largely
of “_Ah oui_,” “_ça ne fait rien_” and “_pas compris!_” It had
served her purpose admirably for a good five years, but it had
proved a broken reed during the past five weeks. The De Lautrecs
were capable of speaking almost any kind of French--Monsieur le
Vicomte leaned toward a nice mixture of Bossuet and Anatole France,
Madame his ancient and regal mother to Marivaux with sprightly
touches of Voltaire, Laure and Diane, to René Bazin when they were
being supervised and Gyp when they weren’t--Philippe le Gai to a
racy and thrilling idiom, at once virile and graceful, as old as
the Chanson de Roland, as new as Sacha Guitry’s latest comedy. But
after several courteous and tense attempts to exchange amenities
with Laure’s “Little American” they had abandoned the tongue of
their fathers and devoted their earnest attention to mastering
the English language. It was easy enough for Philippe and Laure,
of course; they already knew a great deal more about English
literature than Fair had dreamed existed, though they tripped over
the spoken word, but the other members of the family laboured
sternly and industriously, while their small guest surveyed their
efforts with indulgent amusement. It seemed quite natural and
reasonable to Fairfax Carter they they should continue to do so
indefinitely--they wanted to talk to her, didn’t they? Well, then!
They were getting on quite well, too, she reflected benevolently,
still smiling at St. Mark, who stared back at her so unresponsively
that she suddenly ceased to smile.
“I suppose you don’t understand English, either?” she demanded
severely. “’Bout time a little old thing like you started to learn
it, I should think!”
Her eye wandered to the travelling clock ticking competently away
on the desk, and rested there for an electrified second.
“Mercy!” she murmured, appalled, and was out of the bed and
across the room with all the swift grace of a kitten. Half-past
nine, and the De Chartreuil boys were to ride over for a game of
“croquo-golf” at ten! Her toes curled rebelliously at the contact
of the cold flags, but she ignored them stoically, pouncing on
the copper jug and whirling across the room like a small, bright
tempest. What a divine day, chanted her heart, suddenly exultant,
as she splashed the water recklessly and tumbled into her clothes.
It was wonderful to feel almost well again--to feel weariness
slipping from her like a worn-out garment. The sun came flooding in
through the deep windows, gilding the faded hangings--gilding the
vivid head--she could hear horses’ hoofs beneath her window, and
she flung it wide, leaning far out.
“_Bonjour, Monsieur Raoul--bonjour, Monsieur André!_ Oh, Laure, are
you down already?”
“Already? This hour, small lazy one! Quick now, or we leave thee!”
“No, no,” wailed Fair. “I’ll be there--I’m almost there now, truly.
Save the red mallet for me, angel darling--it’s the only one I can
hit with. Don’t let her go, Monsieur André!”
“Never and never, Mademoiselle. We are your slaves.”
She knotted her shoe-laces with frantic fingers, snatched up the
brown tam from the table, and raced down the corridor between the
swaying tapestries like a small wild thing. But half way down she
halted abruptly. Behind one of the great doors someone was singing,
gay and ringing and reckless, a gallant thing, that set her heart
flying.
“_Monsieur Charette à dit a ces Messieurs
Monsieur Charette à dit----_”
Philippe le Gai was singing the old Vendée marching song that he
had translated for her the day before.
For a moment she wavered and then, thrusting her hands deep in her
pockets, she took a long breath. “Morning, Monsieur Philippe!” she
challenged clearly.
The song broke off, and Fair could see him, for all the closed
doors--could see his shining black head and the dark young face
with its recklessly friendly smile, and its curiously unfriendly
eyes, gray and quiet. She could see---- The blithe voice rang out
again.
“And a most good morning to Mistress Fairy Carter! Where is she
going, with those quick feet?”
“She’s going to play croquo-golf with Laure and Diane and the De
Chartreuils. It’s such a heavenly beautiful day. You--you aren’t
coming?”
“But never of this life!” laughed the voice. “How old you think
we in here are, hein? Seven? Eight? We have twenty-nine years and
thirty-nine gray hairs--we don’t play with foolish children.
Only fairies can do that! You be careful of the ball going by old
Daudin’s farm, see; there’s a sacred traitor of a ditch just over
the hill--hit him hard and good, that ball, and maybe you clear
it. Maybe you don’t, too! It is one animal of a ditch!” The light,
strong laughter swept through the door, and Fair swayed to it as
though it were a hand that pulled her. Then she turned away with a
brave lift to her head.
“Thanks a lot--I’ll be careful. See you this afternoon, then.”
But the light feet finished their journey down the gray corridor
and the worn flight of stone steps in an ominously sedate fashion.
No, it was no use; it was no use at all. She felt suddenly
discouraged and baffled, she who a few minutes before had been a
candle, brave and warm and shining--only to have a careless breath
blow out the light, leaving nothing but a cold little white stick
with a dead black wick for a heart. It was horribly unfair, and
someone should most certainly pay for it; someone who was sitting
blithe and callous and safe behind those heavy doors--heavy doors
of oak, and heavier ones of cool indifference. She drew a quivering
breath, and straightened, as though she had heard far off a bugle
sing. Oh, how dared he, how dared he be indifferent? He, who idled
all his life away, paying no tribute to the world save laughter,
a useless, black-haired, arrogant young good-for-nothing? How
dared he be indifferent to beauty and riches and grace and wit and
kindness, when they lingered at his side, tremulous and expectant?
It was worse than cruel to be indifferent to the personification
of all these attributes--it was crass, intolerable stupidity. She
made a sudden violent gesture, pushing something far from her. That
dream was ended; she was through. She would tell them to-night
that her visit was over--that to-morrow she must be on her way to
Paris--and America.
But at the thought of America her feet faltered to a halt, as
though she were reluctant to go one step nearer to that enchanted
country, empty now and strange, since Dad had gone. How could she
go back to that great house with its white pillars and echoing
halls?--how could she face its cold and silent beauty without
his arms about her? No, no, she couldn’t--she was afraid--she
was afraid of loneliness. While she had had her work, while she
had had those thousands of brown young faces lifted to her in
comradeship and worship and mirth, she had fought off the nightmare
of his going. No one had known but Laure--Laure who had loved “the
little American” from the first day that she had come laughing
and tiptoeing down the long room with contraband chocolates for
Laure’s bitter, dying poilus--Laure who had held her in her tired
young arms all the terrible night after the cable came--Laure who
had wept when a tearless and frozen Fair had set off for Germany
with her division--Laure who had come all the way to Coblenz to
bring her back to Normandy when she had literally dropped in her
tracks two years later. Dear Laure, who had healed and tended this
small alien, she would be loath to leave her go.