"WHAT DOES IT MEAN?"
Returning from New York on the five o'clock train, Kirklan Gilmore
stood for a minute or so on the station platform, looking along the
assembled line of cars in which thoughtful wives were meeting their
city-working husbands. He felt disappointed and hurt that Helen had not
come for him, especially as this was his first absence.
Then it occurred to him that she might not have returned from her drive
across the river; the country roads might have lured her farther than
her announced destination of Tuxedo. A worried frown appeared over his
eyes, as his imagination led him to take the unpleasant possibility
that, since Helen was new at the steering wheel, there might have been
an accident. A horrifying picture of a collision, his beautiful wife
maimed, cut, bleeding, arose before him, but he brushed it aside with a
shudder.
"I suppose all doting husbands do a lot of unnecessary worrying," he
told himself. "I couldn't stand losing her."
Gilmore did not for a moment believe that it had been Helen whom
Atchinson had seen on the street in New York; he considered it a bit of
a joke on the publisher and intended having a good laugh by teasing his
wife about her "double."
The village of Ardleigh is small, and, since it is surrounded with
people owning their country homes and their own cars, there is small
demand for taxicab service. There were just three of the ramshackle
vehicles, but Gilmore delayed so long that the last one was occupied
and started in motion, as he crossed the platform toward it.
Except that it might delay him getting to Helen, he felt no annoyance
over this incident; it was only two miles from the village to
Greenacres, and he often made the trip on foot by choice. It was a
splendid, picturesque walk, which to him had never lost its charm.
Carrying his manuscript case of black leather, he swung off briskly,
choosing the dirt road rather than the paved highway; this not only
afforded the more scenic view, but also saved him nearly a quarter of a
mile. He was in a hurry for, try as he would, he could not help being
rather anxious about Helen and her safe return.
The road ran along the backbone of a ridge, so that, while still some
distance from the house, he was able to get a glimpse of the driveway
through an opening in the trees, and he gave a breath of relief as he
saw the car. His anxiety had been quite unfounded; his wife was home.
Approaching the house itself, he saw Joan on the lawn teaching tricks
to the new collie pup, and she was so engrossed with the task that she
failed to hear the crunch of his shoes on the gravel.
"Hello, Joan!" he called cheerily.
The girl, on her knees in the grass, dropped the puppy's paws and
turned half toward him, the drooping brim of her hat shielding
whatever expression may have been in her dark eyes.
"Hello, Kirk," she answered, getting to her feet.
"I see Helen's got home. I was just a little worried about her--she
being new about driving the car."
"Yes, she's home," nodded Joan. "She drove in about five minutes ago;
I think you'll find her dressing for dinner." She essayed a brief and
fairly successful laugh. "I won't keep you, Kirk; I know you'll be
anxious to see her after being away from her all these hours."
Gilmore hesitated for a moment. "See here, Joan," he protested, "I
believe you're trying to get away from me. Somehow I've got the feeling
that you've been trying to avoid me ever since you got back from your
trip. You haven't told me a thing about it."
"I--I didn't think you'd want to be bothered; all your time belongs to
Helen. I've thanked you for the glorious treat, haven't I? I know I
intended to."
"There are no thanks due, Joan; you earned it--and more. Atchinson was
speaking of some passages in 'Rogue's Paradise' only to-day, and, bless
your life, most of them were yours!"
"It's nice of you to say that, Kirk," she murmured lifelessly; he would
never know--must never know--what a labor of love it had been. There
was an uncomfortable pause, during which Gilmore fumbled at his watch
chain, and Joan bent over to pull gently at the puppy's ears.
"I guess there's something else I ought to say," he floundered. "I feel
mighty guilty about Helen taking your room. I don't blame you for
being hurt about it. I did my best to make her understand, but----"
"We'll not talk about that, Kirk. The house belongs to you; it was
quite within your right. I'll get accustomed to my new quarters, and it
will be all right, Kirk--quite all right."
It was strange that Gilmore, whose books were considered to contain
keen analysis of the human emotions, should have missed the catch in
her voice, the touch of pathos, as she tried to mask her true feelings
with a careless, matter-of-fact tone. But miss them he did, and he felt
relieved that she was being such a good sport about it.
"It's like you, Joan," he said warmly, "to take it like that, and I
wish you'd try and make things as pleasant as you can for Helen. She
still feels strange, and, I suppose, is overly sensitive. This is just
between you and me, understand, but she has a notion that there is a
feeling of antagonism, even among the servants, toward her. Of course
that's ridiculous; no one could help loving Helen. She is wonderful,
isn't she?"
Joan could not force the polite falsehood to her lips, but Gilmore
rushed on, taking no cognizance of her silence.
"I've been honeymooning for the past three weeks, Joan, but I've got
to get back into harness again--a very good simile, since my studio is
a renovated stable--and rush the book to a finish. I've got to lock
myself in and work.
"Well, I'm afraid Helen is going to get pretty lonesome unless some one
looks after entertaining her a bit. Atchinson has arranged with Victor
Sarbella--you remember meeting Sarbella in town, of course--to draw the
illustrations for my coming book, and he'll be out to-morrow for a stay
of several days. He'll have time for loafing, while I'm working, and
I wish you'd see to it that things are made as jolly as possible for
Helen.
"It's partly selfishness that I don't want country life to pall on
Helen; I've got to make her contented with Greenacres, or she'll be
pulling me away from the old place and into town."
Joan's lips tightened. Kirk did not know, of course, how much he was
asking of her. "You'd better be getting in to Helen," she said.
And when Gilmore had gone, striding swiftly to the house, Joan Sheridan
dropped to her knees in the grass, hugging the collie pup close, the
one living thing she would have permitted to see the tears now flooding
her dark eyes.
"Oh, Laddie, boy," she whispered into one of the inquiringly cocked
ears, "it's so hard to pretend--so hard! Oh, how I hate that woman--how
I hate her! I didn't know there was so much hate in me."
Kirklan Gilmore entered the house and went directly upstairs. A moment
later he was rapping at the door of his wife's room and, after her
muffled response from the other side of the panel, he went in.
Helen was not, as he expected, dressing for dinner. She sat by the
window in a listless, preoccupied attitude, and she had not so much as
removed her hat. Her greeting was not that spontaneous explosion of
welcoming joy that he would have liked after their first parting, even
of the brief hours.
"Hello, Kirklan," she said listlessly. "How's everything in New York?
Hot, wasn't it?"
Gilmore kissed her eagerly, but found her even more than usually
unresponsive.
"Not so hot," he answered, "but the humidity was stifling. What's
wrong, Helen? You look all out of sorts."
"Just tired, I suppose," she said. "Driving a car is a strain on the
nerves."
"Yes, it is for a beginner; you shouldn't attempt such long trips until
you're more accustomed to the wheel. Have any trouble?"
"I stalled the motor on a hill, but I just put on the emergency brake
and worked the starter. That's what you told me to do in a case like
that."
"Good headwork, Helen. The truth is, I'd worried about you a good deal.
If anything had happened to you, my darling----" His voice choked,
husky with emotion, and he put his fingers softly to a strand of bronze
hair that had broken prison from under the edge of her hat.
When a man is in a soft mood, that is the best time for a wife to ask
what she wants. Helen realized this and decided not to delay the matter
of the needed thousand dollars. So she reached up and let her hand
close about his.
"Kirklan," she said, "I--I am worried about something. I am ashamed to
come to you with it, but----"
A look of alarm came into Gilmore's face, as he waited for her to
continue.
"Oh, Kirklan, I--I am so--so ashamed. It's money."
He gave a quick, relieved laugh. "And it hurts your pride to ask your
husband for a little shopping money. Since you feel that way about it,
I suppose we'd better decide on a regular allowance. No doubt you'd
like to have your own little bank account. I'll be as generous with
you as I can, dear, but, as I told you before we were married, I'm no
bloated capitalist. The royalties from the last book are coming in
pretty regularly now, although we hope they'll be even larger. The
sales seem to be growing. Did you have your mind set on any particular
amount? Don't be timid about it, honey; if it's more than I can stand
I'll have to tell you so."
"There--there are so many things I need, Kirklan; sometimes a man
doesn't understand about a woman's wardrobe. I've been afraid you would
think I am extravagant, and I don't want to be a burden on you." It had
been in her mind to manufacture some past debt, but his suggestion of
an allowance seemed to make it easier.
"How much do you want, Helen? You fix the amount, and, if I've got it,
it's yours." Then, as she still seemed to hesitate, he suggested a
figure that to his mind was generous. "Suppose I deposit five hundred
in the village bank to start with? By the time you've checked against
that, I'll have some more money coming in."
"I--I'd like to have a thousand dollars, Kirklan. Does that seem a
great deal? Of course I won't have to ask you for any more for--oh, for
quite a long time."
Gilmore was not displeased with her, but he was chagrined, for the
reason that his own bank balance was three hundred dollars less than
the thousand.
"Store accounts, of course!" he said. "I've charge accounts at several
of the stores in New York, and you can buy what you want and charge it
to me. The truth is, dear, that I haven't got a thousand in cash. We
writer fellows aren't very good financiers and I've been living pretty
close to the last dollar. But my credit is good."
Helen bit her lip. "I'd rather not charge things, Kirklan. If it would
be just as convenient to let me have the cash----"
"I'll let you have it Friday," he agreed; "I'll drop a note to
Atchinson and ask him to make me an advance. The publishing house makes
out its checks on Thursday."
"Kirklan," she murmured, forced to try a new line, "I'll have to tell
you the truth. I'll have to have some money by Wednesday. Oh, I know
it's terrible, asking you to pay my old debts, but I'm so afraid of--of
being sued that I----"
Gilmore patted her shoulder reassuringly. Had he stopped to think about
it, he might have considered it strange that a girl in the humble
position in which he had found her should have got into debt to the
extent of a thousand dollars, but it was Helen, not he, who recognized
this possible inconsistency, and she hastened to add with that glibness
which even a poor liar may achieve in a moment of desperation: "It--it
was money that I borrowed for my sister's illness. I had to sign some
notes, and----"
"You shall have the money, Helen, but the truth is always the best in
the first place, dear. I want us always to be frank with each other. I
want you to feel that you can come to me with everything. After all,
a falsehood is the most futile thing in the world. You should have
told me the exact truth about the matter from the beginning. I'll get
in touch with Atchinson on the phone to-morrow and arrange it. You
shall have the money to-morrow night, but you must never lie to me,
dear--under any conditions. A lie is one of the things I find it hard
to forgive."
His tone was so gentle, his agreement to the request so prompt, and his
faith in her so unquestioning that Helen was touched. It made her think
that she might almost learn to love him; impulsively she brushed her
lips to the back of his hand.
"That's good of you, Kirklan; you--you'll never know what a weight
you've taken from my mind. You--you do love me a very great deal."
"Better than all else in the world, Helen!" he answered huskily.
There was a silence, to Gilmore an enraptured silence in which he felt
closer to his wife than ever before. It seemed that suddenly there was
a new bond between them.
"What does Atchinson think of the new book?" she asked him presently.
"Does he think it will have the success of the last one?"
"Yes, even more. He's enthusiastic--even for Atchinson." His lips
parted into a smile. "Speaking of Atchinson, that reminds me.
He was trying to convince me that he saw you in New York this
afternoon--going into some cheap dump just around the corner from
Eighth Avenue."
With a startled gasp, Helen's hand jerked away from the fondling caress
of his fingers and, clenched, went to her mouth. Her eyes became wide
with something that was more than either surprise or bewilderment. Her
gaze was fixed upon his face with a fascinated stare, and the smile
that she attempted was only a sickly grimace.
"Why, Kirklan! In--in New York? How silly! You know very well that I
drove the car to Tuxedo."
Kirklan Gilmore's blood was suddenly ice; his eyes were no longer
smiling.
"Great Lord!" he whispered. "It's true. Atchinson was right. Helen,
you've lied to me; you----"
"No!" she cried in a desperate frenzy of denial. "I swear to you----"
"I see guilt in your face. I know now; I know that you were the woman
Atchinson saw in New York this afternoon. What does it mean, Helen?
These lies, this deceit--what does it mean?"
Helen laughed hysterically.
"Don't--don't be so tragic--over nothing. I wasn't in New York; you
just startled me, that's all. Please don't be so silly. Atchinson was
mistaken; some one who looked like me, perhaps."
But, as much as he wanted to believe her, Kirklan Gilmore could not
convince himself; her face had betrayed her. The blood was pounding
in his brain, and he felt that the mystery of it, the doubts, the
suspicions would certainly drive him mad.