I woke up the next morning, broad awake before seven o'clock, a full
hour earlier than my habit. I woke to find myself greatly troubled by
Susan's parting words of the night before, and lay in bed for perhaps
twenty minutes turning them over fretfully in my mind. Then I could
stand it no longer and rose, bathed, dressed and ate my breakfast in
self-exasperating haste, yet with no very clear idea of why I was
hurrying or what was to follow. I had an appointment with my lawyer for
eleven; I was to lunch with Heywood Sampson at one; after lunch--my
immediate business in town being completed--I had purposed to return to
New Haven.
Susan would be expecting me for my daily morning call at half-past nine.
That call was a fixed custom between us when I was stopping in New York.
It seldom lasted over twenty minutes and was really just an opportunity
to say good-morning and arrange conveniently for any further plans for
the day or evening. But it was now only a few minutes past eight. No
matter, Susan was both a nighthawk and a lark, retiring always too late
and rising too early--though it must be said she seemed to need little
sleep; and I felt that I must see her at once and try somehow to
encourage her about her work and bring her back to a more reasonable and
normal point of view. "Overstrain," I kept mumbling to myself,
idiotically enough, as I charged rather than walked down Fifth Avenue
from my hotel: "Overstrain--overstrain...."
However, the brisk physical exertion of my walk gradually quieted my
nerves, and as I turned west on Tenth Street I was beginning to feel a
little ashamed of my unreasonable anxiety, was even beginning to poke a
little fun at myself and preparing to amuse Susan if I could by a
whimsical account of my morning brainstorm. I had now persuaded myself
that I should find her quietly at work, as I so usually did, and quite
prepared to talk things over more calmly. I meant this time to make a
supreme effort, and really hoped to persuade her to do two sensible
things: First, to accept Heywood Sampson's offer; second, to give up all
other work for the present, and get a complete rest and change of scene
until her services were needed for the review. That would not be for six
or eight weeks at the very least.
And I at last had a plan for her. You may or may not remember that
Ashton Parker was a famous man thirty years ago; they called him "Hyena
Parker" in Wall Street, and no doubt he deserved it; yet he faded gently
out with consumption like any spring poet, having turned theosophist
toward the end and made his peace with the Cosmic Urge. Mrs. Ashton
Parker is an aunt of mine, long a widow, and a most delightful,
easy-going, wide-awake, and sympathetic old lady, who has made her home
in Santa Barbara ever since her husband's death there. Her Spanish villa
and gardens are famous, and her always kindly eccentricities scarcely
less famous than they. I could imagine no one more certain to captivate
Susan or to be instantly captivated by her; and though I had not seen
Aunt Belle for more than ten years, I knew I could count on her in
advance to fall in with my plan. Her hospitality is notorious and would
long since have beggared anyone with an income less absurd. Susan should
go there at once, for a month at least; the whole thing could be
arranged by telegraph. Why in heaven's name hadn't I thought of and
insisted upon this plan before!
Miss O'Neill, in person, opened the front door for me.
"Oh, Mr. Hunt!" she wailed. "Thanks to goodness you're here early. I
can't do nothing with Togo. He won't eat no breakfast, and he won't let
nobody touch him. He's sitting up there like a--I don't know what, with
his precious tail uncurled and his head sort of hanging down--it'll
break your heart to look at him! I can't bear to myself, though I'd
never no use for the beast, neither liking nor disliking! He's above his
station, I say. But what with all---- And I've got to get that room
cleared and redone by twelve, feelings or no feelings, and Gawd knows
feelings _will_ enter in! Not half Miss Susan's class either, the new
party just now applied, and right beside my own room, too, though well
recommended, so I can't complain!"
I broke through her dusty web of words with an impatient, "What on earth
are you talking about, Miss O'Neill?"
"You don't know?" she gasped. "You don't----"
"I most certainly do not. Where's Miss Susan?"
"Oh, Mr. Hunt! If I'd-a knowed she hadn't even spoke to you! And you
with her all evening--treating to dinner and all! But thank Gawd it's a
reel lady she went away with! Miss Leslie, in her big limousine, that's
often been here! _That_ I can swear to you with my own eyes!"
Susan was gone, and gone beyond hope of an immediate return. There is no
need to labor the details of her flight. A letter, left for me with Miss
O'Neill, gives all the surface facts essential.
"_Dear Ambo_: Try not to be angry with me; or too
hurt. When I left you last night I decided to
seize an opportunity which had to be seized
instantly, or not at all. Mona Leslie has been
planning for a long European sojourn all winter,
and for the past two weeks has been trying to
persuade me to go with her as a sort of overpaid
companion and private secretary. She has dangled a
salary before me out of all proportion to my
possible value to her, but--never feeling very
sympathetic toward her sudden whims and
moods--that hasn't tempted me.
"Now, at the eleventh hour, literally, this
chance for a complete break with my whole past and
probable future has tempted me, and I've flopped.
You've been urging my need for rest and change; if
that's what I do need this will supply it, the
change at least--with no sacrifice of my
hard-fought-for financial independence. It was the
abysmal prospect, as I came in, of having to go
straight to my room--with no Sister waiting for
me--and beat my poor typewriter and poorer brains
for some sparks of wit--when I knew in advance
there wasn't a spark left in me--that sent me to
the telephone.
"Now I'm packed--in half an hour--and waiting for
Mona. The boat sails about three A.M.; I don't
even know her name: we'll be on her by midnight.
Poor Miss O'Neill is flabbergasted--and so I'm
afraid will you be, and Phil and Jimmy. I know it
isn't kind of me simply to vanish like this; but
try to feel that I don't mean to be unkind. Not
even to Togo, though my treachery to him is
villainous. It will be a black mark against me in
Peter's book forever. But I can't take him, Ambo;
I just can't. Please, please--will _you_? You see,
dear, I can't help being a nuisance to you always,
after all. And I can't even promise you Togo will
learn to love you, any more than Tumps--though I
hope he may. He'll grieve himself thin at first.
He knows something's in the air and he's grieving
beside me now. His eyes---- If Mona doesn't come
soon, I may collapse at his paws and promise him
to stay.
"Mona talks of a year over there, from darkest
Russia to lightest France; possibly two. Her plans
are characteristically indefinite. She knows heaps
of people all over, of course. I'll write often.
Please tell Hadow and Mr. Sampson I'm a physical
wreck--or mental, if it sounds more convincing.
I'm neither; but I'm tired--tired--_tired_.
"If you can possibly help Phil and Jimmy to
understand----
"Here's Mona now. Good-by, dear.
"Your ashamed, utterly grateful
"SUSAN.
"P. S. I'm wearing your furs."