It seems incredible and yet it is a fact that Bainbridge never knew
that young Mrs. Spence had run away. Full credit for this must be given
to Miss Caroline Campion, who never really believed it herself--a
mental limitation which lent the necessary air of unemphasized truth to
her statement that Desire had been summoned suddenly to her father.
Miss Campion had, in her own mind, built up an imaginary Dr. Farr in
every way suited to be the father-in-law of a Spence. This creation she
passed on to Bainbridge as Desire's father. "Such a fine old
gentleman," she would say. "And so devoted to his only daughter. Quite
a recluse, though, my nephew tells me. And not at all strong." This
idea of delicacy, which Miss Campion had added to the picture from a
sense of the fitness of things, proved useful now. An only daughter may
be summoned to attend a delicate father at a moment's notice, without
unduly straining credulity.
One feels almost sorry for Bainbridge. It would have enjoyed the truth
so much!
"Is Desire going to have no breakfast at all?" asked Aunt Caroline,
from behind the coffee-urn on the morning following the garden-party.
It was an invariable custom of hers to pretend that her nephew was
fully conversant with his wife's intentions.
"She may be tired," said Benis.
"No. She has been up some time. The door of her room was open when I
came down."
"Then she is probably in the garden. I'll ask Olive to call her."
"Why not call her yourself? I have a feeling--"
The professor rose from his untasted coffee. When Aunt Caroline "had a
feeling" it was useless to argue.
"Are you sleeping badly again, Benis?" asked Aunt Caroline. "Your eyes
look like burnt holes in a blanket."
"Nothing to bother about, Aunt." He stepped out quickly into the sunny
garden. But Desire was not among the flowers, neither was she on the
lawn nor in the shrubbery. A few moments' search proved that she was
not out of doors at all. Benis returned to his coffee. He found it
quite cold and no waiting Aunt Caroline to pour him another cup. "I
wonder," he pondered idly, "why, when one really wants coffee, it is
always cold."
Then he forgot about coffee suddenly and completely, for Aunt Caroline
came in with the news that Desire was gone.
"Gone where?" asked Spence stupidly.
"That," said Aunt Caroline, "she leaves you to inform me."
With the feeling of being someone else and acting under compulsion he
took the few written lines which she held out to him. "Dear Aunt
Caroline," he read, "Benis will tell you why I am going. But I cannot
go without thanking you. I'll never forget how good you have
been--Desire."
"I had a feeling," said Aunt Caroline with mournful triumph. "It never
deceives me, never! As I passed our dear girl's room this morning, I
said, 'She is not there'--and she wasn't!"
"I think you mentioned that the door was open."
"That has nothing to do with it. I--"
"Where did you find this note?"
"On her dressing table. When you went into the gar-den, I went
upstairs. I had a feeling--"
"Was there nothing else? No note for me?"
"No," in surprise. "She says you know all about it. Don't you?"
"Something, not all."
Aunt Caroline was, upon occasion, quite capable of meeting a crisis.
Remembering the neglected coffee, she poured a cup for each of them.
"Here," said she, "drink this. You look as if you needed it. I must
say, Benis, that you don't act as if you knew anything, but if you do,
you'd better tell me. Where is Desire?"
"I don't know."
"Umph! Then what you do know won't help us to find her. Finding her is
the first thing. I wonder," thoughtfully, "if she told John?"
A wintry smile passed over the professor's lips.
"I shall ask him," he said.
Aunt Caroline proceeded with her own deducing. "There is no one else
she could have told," she reasoned. "She did not tell you. She did not
tell me. Naturally, she would not tell Mary. And a girl nearly always
tells somebody. So it must be John. I hope you are sufficiently ashamed
of yourself, Benis? I told you Desire wouldn't understand your
attentions to Mary. Though I admit I did not dream she would take them
quite so seriously. I don't envy you your explanations."
"Aunt--"
"Wait a moment, Benis. On second thought, if I were you I would not
explain at all. Simply tell her she is mistaken and stick to that. She
may believe you. Promise her that you will never see Mary again--and
you won't" (grimly) "if I have anything to say about it. Desire will
come around. I have a feeling--"
"My dear Aunt!"
"Let me proceed, Benis. I have a feeling that she will forgive
you--once. But let this be a lesson. Desire is not a girl who will
forgive twice."
"You are all wrong, Aunt," with weary patience. "But it doesn't matter.
Say nothing about this. I am going to see John."
"Not before you drink that coffee."
Benis obediently drank. Hurry would not mend what had happened.
"She has taken her travelling coat and hat," pursued Aunt Caroline.
"Her train slippers, that taupe jersey-cloth suit, some fresh blouses,
her dressing case, her night things and your photo off the dressing
table."
Benis smiled, a wry smile, and pushed back his cup.
"You don't look fit to go anywhere," said Aunt Caroline irritably. "Why
can't you call John on the 'phone?"
"That would be quite modern," said Benis. "But--I think I'll see him. I
shan't be long."
It never once occurred to the professor, you will notice, that he might
find John vanished also. His obsessing thought had not been able to
change his essential knowledge of either Desire or John. If Desire had
gone, she had gone because she could not stay. But she had gone alone.
Just what determining thing had happened to make her flight imperative,
Benis could not guess. But he would not have been human if he had not
blamed the other man. "The fool has bungled it!" he thought. "Lost
control of his precious feelings, perhaps--broken through--said
something--frightened her." We may be sure that he cursed John in his
heart very completely.
But when he entered John's office and saw John he began to doubt even
this. There was no guilt on the doctor's face--no sign of apprehension
or regret, no tremor of knowledge. An angry-eyed young man looked up
from a letter he was reading with nothing more serious than injured
wonder in his gaze.
"Can you beat it?" asked John disgustedly, waving the letter. "Aren't
women the limit? Here's this one going off without a word, or an
excuse, or anything. Just gone! And a silly note thrown on my desk. I
tell you women have absolutely no sense of business
obligation--positively not!"
Spence restrained himself.
"You are speaking of--?"
"That nurse of mine, Miss Watkins. Never a word about leaving
yesterday, and today vanished--vamoosed--simply non est! Look at what
she says.--"
Spence pushed the letter aside.
"There is something more important than that, John," he said quietly,
"Desire has left me."
The two men stared at each other. Spence was the first to speak.
"There is no doubt about it. She is gone. She has not told us where. I
see that you do not know."
John shook his head.
"There may be a note for you in the morning's mail." Benis was coldly
brief. "I must know where she is. If you can help me, let me know." He
turned to the door.
With difficulty John found his voice.
"I knew nothing of this, Benis."
"I realize that," dryly. "But you may be responsible for it. She had no
idea of leaving yesterday."
"Benis, I swear--"
"It is not necessary. Besides," bitterly, "you could afford to be
patient. You felt fairly--sure, didn't you?"
"Sure! No, I--"
"You mean you merely hoped?"
"Oh--damn!"
"Quite so. There is nothing to say. Not being a sentimentalist, I
shan't pretend to love you, John. But I gambled and I've lost. I have
always admired a good loser."