Thomas slammed the ball with a force which carried it far over the wire
backstop.
"You must not drive them so hard, Mr. Webb; at least, not up. Drive
them down. Try it again."
Tennis looked so easy from the sidelines that Thomas believed all he
had to do was to hit the ball whenever he saw it within reach; but
after a few experiments he accepted the fact that every game required a
certain talent, quite as distinct as that needed to sell green neckties
(old stock) when the prevailing fashion was polka-dot blue. How he
loathed Thomas Webb. How he loathed the impulse which had catapulted
him into this mad whirligig! Why had not fate left him in peace; if
not satisfied with his lot, at least resigned? And now must come this
confrontation, the inevitable! No poor rat in a trap could have felt
more harassed. Mentally, he went round and round in circles, but he
could find no exit. There is no file to saw the bars of circumstance.
That the lithe young figure on the other side of the net, here, there,
backward and forward, alert, accurate, bubbling with energy . . .
Once, a mad rollicking impulse seized and urged him to vault the net
and take her in his arms and hold her still for a moment. But he knew.
She was using him as an athlete uses a trainer before a real contest.
There was something more behind his stroke than mere awkwardness. It
was downright savagery. Generally when a man is in anger or despair he
longs to smash things; and these inoffensive tennis-balls were to
Thomas a gift of the gods. Each time one sailed away over the
backstop, it was like the pop of a safety-valve; it averted an
explosion.
"That will be enough!" cried Kitty, as the last of a dozen balls sailed
toward the distant stables.
The tennis-courts were sunken and round them ran a parapet of lawn,
crisp and green, with marble benches opposite the posts, generally used
as judges' stands. Upon one of these Kitty sat down and began to fan
herself. Thomas walked over and sat down beside her. The slight
gesture of her hand had been a command.
It was early morning, before breakfast; still and warm and breathless,
a forerunner of a long hot summer day. A few hundred yards to the
south lay the sea, shimmering as it sprawled lazily upon the tawny
sands.
The propinquity of a pretty girl and a lonely young man has founded
more than one story.
"You'll be enjoying the game, once you learn it."
"Do you think I ever will?" asked Thomas. He bent forward and began
tapping the clay with his racket. How to run away!
Kitty, as she looked down at his head, knew that there were a dozen
absurd wishes in her heart, none of which could possibly ever become
facts. He was so different from the self-assertive young men she knew,
with their silly flirtations, their inane small-talk, their capacity
for Scotch whisky and long hours. For days she had studied him as
through microscopic lenses; his guilelessness was real. It just simply
could not be; her ears had deceived her that memorable foggy night in
London. And yet, always in the dark his voice was that of one of the
two men who had talked near her cab. Who was he? Not a single corner
of the veil had he yet lifted, and here it was, the middle of August;
and except for the week at Bar Harbor she had been with him day by day,
laid she knew not how many traps, over which he had stepped serenely,
warily or unconsciously she could not tell which. It made her heart
ache; for, manly and simple as he appeared, honest as he seemed, he was
either a rogue or the dupe of one, which was almost as bad. But to-day
she was determined to learn which he was.
"What have you done with the romance?"
"I have put it away in the bottom of my trunk. The seventh rejection
convinces me that I am not a story-teller."
He had a desperate longing to tell her all, then and there. It was too
late. He would be arrested as a smuggler, turned out of the house as
an impostor.
"Don't give up so easily. There are still ninety-three other editors
waiting to read it."
"I have my doubts. Still, it was a pleasant pastime." He sat back and
stared at the sea. He must go this day; he must invent some way of
leaving.
Then came the Machiavellian way; only, he managed as usual to execute
it in his blundering English style. Without warning he dropped his
racket, caught Kitty in his arms tightly and roughly, kissed her cheek,
rose, and strode swiftly across the courts, into the villa. It was
done. He could go now; he knew very well he had to go.
His subsequent actions were methodical enough; a shower, a thorough
rub-down, and then into his workaday clothes. He packed his trunk and
hand-luggage, overlooked nothing that was his, and went down into the
living-room where he knew he would find Killigrew with the morning
papers. He felt oddly light-headed; but he had no time to analyze the
cause.
"Good morning, Thomas," greeted the master of the house cordially.
"I am leaving, Mr. Killigrew. Will you be kind enough to let me have
the use of the motor to the station?"
"Leaving! What's happened? What's the matter? Young man, what the
devil's this about?"
"I am sorry, sir, but I have insulted Miss Killigrew."
"Insulted Kitty?" Killigrew sprang up.
"Just a moment, sir," warned Thomas. The tense, short but powerful
figure of Kitty's father was not at that moment an agreeable thing to
look at; and Thomas knew that those knotted hands were rising toward
his throat. "Do not misinterpret me, sir. I took Miss Kitty in my
arms and kissed her."
"You--kissed--Kitty?" Killigrew fell back into his chair, limp. For a
moment there had been black murder in his heart; now he wondered
whether to weep or laugh. The reaction was too sudden to admit of
coherent thought. "You kissed Kitty?" he repeated mechanically.
"Yes, sir."
"What did she do?"
"I did not wait to learn, sir."
Killigrew got up and walked the length of the room several times, his
chin in his collar, his hands clasped behind his back, under his
coat-tails. The fifth passage carried him out on to the veranda. He
kept on going and disappeared among the lilac hedges.
Thomas thought he understood this action, that his inference was
perfectly logical; Killigrew, rather than strike the man who had so
gratuitously insulted his daughter, had preferred to run away. (I
know; for a long time I, too, believed Thomas the most colossal ass
since Dobson.) Thomas gazed mournfully about the room. It was all
over. He had burned his bridges. It had been so pleasant, so
homelike; and he had begun to love these unpretentious people as if
they had been his very own.
Except that which had been expended on clothes, Thomas had most of his
salary. It would carry him along till he found something else to do.
To get away, immediately, was the main idea; he had found a door to the
trap. (The chamois-bag lay in his trunk, forgotten.)
"Your breakfast is ready, sir," announced the grave butler.
So Thomas ate his chops and potatoes and toast and drank his tea, alone.
And Killigrew, blinking tears, leaned against the stout branches of the
lilacs and buried his teeth in his coat-sleeve. He was as near
apoplexy as he was ever to come.