Part 74

“Wait a minute, please!” he said. “Be seated, madam!”

So Miss Cigale sat down on a chair in a black corner, where a fur neckpiece, smelling terribly of moth balls, brushed her shoulder, and waited and waited. A little girl came in, gave up a ticket, and while she, too, waited, stared at Miss Cigale, and diligently chewed gum.

Such a queer little girl, with wispy hair, and a pale, drawn little face, and so very nonchalant an air. At last she was given a small gas stove, and went off with it. A young man came in with a traveling bag to dispose of; a stout woman came and drove a hard bargain over a ring. Nobody else had to wait, only Miss Cigale.

“Something is wrong!” she thought. “Oh, what has the poor boy done?”

Her hands and feet were very cold, her thin cheeks flushed and hot; she wished now that she had taken a cup of coffee. For she was very far away now from any such consolations as daisy fields. A burly man, with a straw hat at the back of his head, entered the shop; he spied her, and, to her horror, came directly over to her.

“You, the one with this here ticket; what’s the number?” he asked.

“I don’t remember the number,” said Miss Cigale faintly. He went over to the counter and spoke to the elderly man in a voice too low for her to hear. Then he sat down beside her, tipping his chair, and lit a cigar. The smoke blew into her face, and his boot, crossed on his knee, brushed her skirt.

“I can’t stand this,” thought she. “I’ll take the ticket, and come back later. I can’t bear this.” And she got up to go to the counter and ask for the ticket.

“Here!” said the man beside her. “Where you goin’?”

Miss Cigale didn’t trouble to answer, but, to her amazement, he sprang up and barred her way.

“Go away!” she cried, in a trembling voice, but with a jerk of the thumb he turned back his coat lapel and revealed a badge.

Miss Cigale sank back into her chair again, in the dark corner. The man was speaking to her, but she did not hear him.

“What has he done?” she thought. “A detective! If I can only make them think it was me. But, oh! How can I bear this?”

Because, for all her failures, Miss Cigale had never before encountered disgrace. She had suffered the crudest disappointments, she had been hungry, cold, shabby, sleepless with anxiety, and all this she had endured gallantly. But to be arrested by a detective in a pawnshop!

Her idea of what was going to be done to her might have been laughable if there could be found on earth any one able to laugh at the stricken, heartsick creature. She thought that she would presently be taken before a judge, and that, if she kept silent, as she intended to do, she would be put into prison for whatever unimaginable offense the real owner of the ticket had committed.

“I can’t be brave about it!” she said to herself. “I can’t; I’m--I’m frightened.”

Why must she sit here so long? Why didn’t they take her away? It would be almost better to be in prison than here, where the door opened and closed, and people came in and out, and every one had a glance, casual or curious, at her corner. The detective was writing in a notebook. _What_ was he waiting for?

“Handcuffs!” thought Miss Cigale. “Or--or a--warrant.” Imagination carried her very far; she would not have been surprised by the entrance of a file of soldiers, or white-coated doctors with a strait-jacket. The most astounding images of things read or heard of filled her mind; she lost track of time and space; what she suffered was a timeless, universal thing, such as had been suffered these thousands of years by how many dazed and trembling victims. The law--The Law!

“Here she is!” said the detective to some one who had just entered. “Claims it’s her own ticket.”

“Oh--good--Lord!” cried a voice which reached Miss Cigale from very far away.

“Well, come along!” said the detective. “Come over to the station an’ you can make your charge.”

Miss Cigale did not understand; all she knew was that Geordie was here, and in danger.

“I--I don’t know that man,” she said, faintly.

“Never mind!” the detective retorted, laughing. “You will, soon enough!”

“No! Look here! It’s--it’s a mistake!” said Geordie. “It’s--I’ll drop it.”

Miss Cigale moved nearer to him.

“Pretend you don’t know me!” she whispered. “I’ll--”

V

That was the end of Miss Cigale’s struggle; at the critical moment she failed again, most shamefully. She fainted. That is what comes of preferring daisies to breakfast; of carrying romantic Victorian sentiments over into modern life. She fainted.

As long as she had failed, she thought she might as well do it thoroughly. She could have come to before she did; she could have opened her eyes before she did, only that there was nothing she cared to see. She could hear, too. She heard her nephew calling “Aunt Louisa!” but his low, furious tones did not make her in a hurry to answer. No; better to lie here, like this, for as long a time as she could.

“Aunt Louisa!” he said again, and this time his voice was quite desperate. She opened her eyes.

“If you’d only pretended,” she whispered chidingly.

“Can you walk?” demanded the young man. “As far as a taxi?”

“But--” she began, and, raising her head, looked about her. The man behind the counter was writing in a book, the shop was empty. “The--the detective?” she asked.

He didn’t even answer; but, helping her to rise, and holding her very firmly by the arm, led her out into the street. No one molested them.

“But--Geordie!” she said. “Is it--postponed?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, curtly. “I’ve arranged the thing, anyhow, so that there’ll be no trouble for you. But if you wanted that watch--why didn’t you _tell_ me? I’d have done anything, rather than have this happen.”

“George!” cried Miss Cigale. “Is it possible? No; it can’t be! You can’t think that I--” She stopped short, looking into his stern face, and with an expression on her own that somehow troubled him.

Out here, in the bright sun, she seemed so different. It was hard to think of her as a muddle-headed, desperate creature, trying, very clumsily, to get possession of a watch that didn’t belong to her. No; there was something about her that was--rather impressive. She didn’t look ridiculous now, or pathetic.

“I see!” she said. “You thought I wanted the thing for myself. Well, that was quite a natural thing to think, George.” She spoke without the slightest trace of rancor, simply admitting that it was natural--to some human beings--to think as he did, and she could not blame him.

“Well!” said he, surprised. “You see, when I couldn’t find the ticket, I telephoned to the pawnbroker, and to the police. I thought it had been stolen, and I said that if any one brought it in, to let me know.”

“Yes,” said Miss Cigale. “It was a perfectly natural way for you to think, my dear boy. And I was frightfully stupid to try to do it that way. I meant to help you a little bit, but--” She smiled. “Anyhow, it’s all over and done with now, and I hope we’ll part good friends.”

“Part!” said he. “But aren’t you coming back?”

“I’d rather not.”

There they stood, on the street corner, all idea of a taxi forgotten.

“But, look here!” said Geordie. “You did that for me--and I behaved--I behaved--like a--” His voice broke. “I didn’t know,” he went on, unsteadily. “Because, you see--I didn’t think any one could--any one in the world.”

“Oh, there are lots of people like me!” Miss Cigale assured him. “Lots of grasshoppers. They dance the summer away, and then, when the winter comes, they’re a horrible nuisance to the ants, but they’re inclined to be pretty sympathetic toward any one else who has grasshopperish troubles. Not that I think _you’re_ the least bit of a grasshopper, my dear boy! I’m quite sure you’re far too intelligent and sensible for that!”

“No!” said Geordie, vehemently. “I am a grasshopper! Nobody knows what a grasshopper--and a fool--I am!”

“I’m sure it was just a temporary difficulty.”

“I’ve been doing my best, for nearly a year, to make it permanent,” he said, grimly. “You see, there’s a girl.”

“I’m so glad!” cried Miss Cigale.

“Glad? But I can’t afford to think about girls.”

“I don’t care! As soon as I saw you, I hoped there was a girl,” Miss Cigale went on. “Because you’re such a dear, obstinate, helpless, splendid boy, and I hoped there was some one to see all that. She does, doesn’t she?”

Geordie had grown very red.

“She sees the obstinacy, anyhow,” he answered. “You see, she’s a secretary, and--” His jaw set doggedly. “She won’t give up her job!” he said. “And I won’t get married unless she does.”

“Too many won’ts!” said Miss Cigale.

“Well, all of them together make a pretty big can’t,” said he. “We can’t get married, that’s all. I’ve tried to make her see that we could manage, but she says we can’t. Those--those tickets, you know. I bought her a ring, and a--” He had to stop for a moment. “A little inlaid writing desk for our home. Only--it’s nearly a year, and she won’t see that we can manage without her salary, and I won’t--”

“Oh, Geordie!” protested Miss Cigale.

“I won’t!” said he. “I won’t!” And a more mulish expression was never seen on a young man before.

“Do get a taxi!” Miss Cigale suggested.

VI

And not one of them realized the outrageous folly of that dinner! There they sat, Miss Cigale, and Geordie, and Nell, who was the girl in the case, in that expensive restaurant, eating all sorts of expensive dishes, and all fancying themselves so businesslike! There was some excuse for Miss Cigale, but Geordie, who was considered a practical and level-headed young man by his business superiors, and Nell, whose employer could not say enough in praise of her good sense and ability--they should have known better.

“He offered the position to me,” Miss Cigale was saying. “He almost begged me to take it. To be his personal assistant in his booking agency for musicians and concert singers, and so on. He said--” An odd change came over her face; she looked for an instant remarkably handsome and dignified.

“He said,” she went on, calmly, “that no one else could handle his clients as I could--no one else would have just the right manner, and the sympathy and understanding of their problems. He always was very flattering, years ago, when I gave my unlucky concert. It’s really a very good position. But I wouldn’t take it then, because I was so sick and tired of jobs that didn’t do the least bit of good to any one except myself. I’m so tired of working just for myself. But now, if we arrange this thing in a really businesslike way, you could take that sweet, tiny house at the end of your mother’s street, Geordie. Nell could stay at home, to look after things, and I’d contribute toward the expenses, of course. It would be very much to my advantage--because then I’d have a home, you see.”

There was a silence.

“Unless I’d be a nuisance?” Miss Cigale remarked.

“You couldn’t be!” cried Nell. “There never was any one so kind and dear!”

“Unless Geordie objects?” said Miss Cigale.

He glanced at her, and then stared. For there was a light of the most charming malice in Miss Cigale’s eyes, and such a significant hint of a smile on her lips. She was laughing at him! She was getting the better of him!

She was giving him a chance to get married in his own, obstinate way, with Nell safely at home, and, in return, she demanded absolute surrender from him. He could have his way--but only if Miss Cigale had her way, and defiantly went out to work every day from under his roof. Could he allow this? He looked at his Nell.

This time Miss Cigale didn’t fail; she triumphed.

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

SEPTEMBER, 1926 Vol. LXXXVIII NUMBER 4

Blotted Out

IN THIS STORY A TIGRESS MASQUERADES AS A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN--IN OTHER WORDS, AMY ROSS WAS PREDATORY AND CRUEL

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

James Ross was well content, that morning. He stood on the deck, one elbow on the rail, enjoying the wind and the cold rain that blew in his face, enjoying still more his feeling of complete isolation and freedom.

None of the other passengers shared his liking for this bleak November weather, and he had the windward side of the deck to himself. He was alone there; he was alone in the world--and he meant to remain alone.

Through the window of the saloon he could, if he liked, see the severe, eagle-nosed profile of Mrs. Barron, who was sitting in there, more majestic than ever in her shore-going outfit. She was a formidable lady, stern, resolute, and experienced; she had marked him down as soon as he had come on board at San Juan.

Yet he had escaped from her; he had got the better of her, and so skillfully that even to this moment she was not sure whether he had deliberately avoided her, or whether it was chance. Yes, even now, if the weather had permitted, she would have come out after him with her card.

But, if the weather had permitted that, Ross would not have been where he was. The day before, she had captured him for an instant in the dining saloon, and she had said that before they landed she would give him her card.

He had thanked her very civilly, but he had made up his mind that she should do nothing of the sort. Because, if she did, she would expect a card from him in return; she would want to know where he was going, and he meant that she should never know, and never be able to find him. Even she was not likely to go so far as to rush across the rain-swept deck with that card of hers.

He could also see, if he liked, the little blond head of Phyllis Barron, who was sitting beside her mother, her hat in her lap. He knew very well that Phyllis had taken no part at all in pursuing him, yet, in a way, she was far more dangerous than Mrs. Barron.

Before he had realized the danger, he had spent a good deal of time with Phyllis--too much time. It was only a five days’ run up from Porto Rico; he had never seen her before he came on board, and he intended never to see her again; yet he felt that it might take him considerably more than five days to forget her.

This made him uncomfortable. Every glimpse of that quiet, thoughtful little face, so very pretty, so touching in its brave young dignity and candor, gave him a sort of qualm, as if she had spoken a friendly word to him, and he had not answered. Indeed, so much did the sight of Phyllis Barron disquiet him that he turned away altogether.

And now, through the downpour, he saw the regal form of the Statue of Liberty. It pleased him, and somehow consoled him for those qualms. It was a symbol of what his life was going to be, a life of completest liberty. He had left nobody behind him, there was nobody waiting for him anywhere in the world; he cared for nobody--no, not he; and nobody cared for him. That was just what he liked.

He was young, he was in vigorous health, he had sufficient money, and no one on earth had any sort of claim upon him. He could go where he pleased, and do what he pleased. He was free. And here he was, coming back to what was, after all, his native city, and not one soul there knew his face.

He smiled to himself at the thought, his dour, tight-lipped smile. Coming home, eh? And nobody to greet him but the Statue of Liberty. He was glad it was so. He didn’t want to be greeted; he wanted to be let alone. And, in that case, he had better go now, before they came alongside the pier, and Mrs. Barron appeared.

He went below to his cabin, intending to stop there until all other passengers had disembarked. The steward had taken up his bags, and the little room had a forlorn and untidy look; not an agreeable place in which to sit. But it was safe.

Ross hung up his wet overcoat and cap, and sat down with a magazine, to read. But he could not read a word. The engines had stopped; they had arrived; he was in New York. In New York. Try as he would to stifle his emotions, a great impatience and restlessness filled him.

There were, in this city, thousands of men to whom Manila and Mayaguez would seem names of almost incredible romance; men to whom New York meant little but an apartment, the subway, the office, and the anxious and monotonous routine of earning a living. But to Ross, New York had all the allurement of the exotic, and those other ports had meant only exile and discontent. He thought uncharitable thoughts about Mrs. Barron, because she kept him imprisoned here when he so longed to set foot on shore.

There was a knock at the door.

“Well?” Ross demanded.

“Note for you, sir,” answered the steward.

Ross grinned to himself at what he considered a new instance of Mrs. Barron’s enterprise. For a moment he thought he would refuse to take the note, so that he might truthfully say he had never got it; then he reflected that Mrs. Barron was never going to have a chance to question him about it, and he unlocked the door.

“We’ve docked, sir,” the steward said.

“I know it,” Ross agreed briefly.

He took the note, tipped the steward, and locked the door after him. Extraordinary, the way this lady had pursued him, all the way across! He was not handsome, not entertaining, not even very amiable; she knew nothing about him.

Indeed, as far as her knowledge went, he might be any sort of dangerous and undesirable character. Yet she had persistently--and obviously--done her best to capture him for her daughter.

He glanced at himself in the mirror. A lean and hardy young man, very dark, with the features characteristic of his family, a thin, keen nose, rather long upper lip, a saturnine and faintly mocking expression. They were a disagreeable family, bitterly obstinate, ambitious, energetic, and grimly unsociable.

And he was like that, too; like his father and his grandfather and his uncles. Without being in the least humble, he still could not understand what Mrs. Barron had seen in him to make her consider him a suitable son-in-law.

With Phyllis Barron it was different. He had sometimes imagined that her innocent and candid eyes had discerned in him qualities he had long ago tried to destroy. It was possible that she had found him a little likable.

But _she_ wouldn’t pursue him. He was certain that she had not written this note, or wanted her mother to write it. When he had realized his danger, and had begun to spend his time talking to the doctor, instead of sitting beside her on deck, she had never tried to recall him. Whenever he did come, she always had that serious, friendly little smile for him; but she had tried to make it very plain that, where she was concerned, he was quite free to come or to go, to remember or to forget.

Well, he meant to forget. His life was just beginning, and he did not intend to entangle himself in any way. He sighed, not knowing that he did so, and then, out of sheer idle curiosity, just to see how Mrs. Barron worked, he opened the note.

“Dear Cousin James--” it began.

But, as far as he knew, he hadn’t a cousin in the world. With a puzzled frown, he picked up the envelope; it was plainly addressed, in a clear, small hand, to “Mr. James Ross. On board the S. S. Farragut.”

“Must be a mistake, though,” he muttered. “I’ll just see.” And he went on reading:

You have never seen me, and I know you have heard all sorts of cruel and false things about me. But I _beg_ you to forget all that now. I am in such terrible trouble, and I don’t know where to turn. I _beg_ you to come here as soon as you get this. Ask for Mrs. Jones, the housekeeper. Say you have come from Cren’s Agency, about the job as chauffeur. She will tell you everything. You _can’t_ refuse just to come and let me tell you about this terrible thing.

Your desperately unhappy cousin, AMY ROSS SOLWAY.

“Day’s End,” Wygatt Road, near Stamford.

He sat, staring in amazement at this letter.

“It’s a mistake!” he said, aloud.

But, all the same, it filled him with a curious uneasiness. Of course, it was meant for some one else--and he wanted that other fellow to get it at once; he wanted to be rid of it in a hurry.

He had nothing to do with any one’s Cousin Amy and her “terrible trouble.” He rang the bell for the steward, waited, rang again, more vigorously, again waited, but no one came.

Then, putting the note back in its envelope, he flung open the door and strode out into the passage, shouting “Steward!” in a pretty forcible voice. No one answered him. He went down the corridor, turned a corner, and almost ran into Mrs. Barron.

“Mr. Ross!” said she, in a tone of stern triumph. “So here you are! Phyllis, dear, give Mr. Ross one of our cards--with the address.”

Then he caught sight of Phyllis, standing behind her mother. In her little close fitting hat, her coat with a fur collar, she looked taller, older, graver, quite different from that bright-haired, slender little thing in a deck chair. And, somehow, she was so dear to him, so lovely, so gentle, so utterly trustworthy.

“I’ll never forget her!” he thought, in despair.

Then she spoke, in a tone he had not heard before.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I haven’t any cards with me.”

“Phyllis!” cried her mother. “I particularly asked you--”

“I’m sorry,” Phyllis declared again. “We’ll really have to hurry, mother. Good-by, Mr. Ross!”

Her steady blue eyes met his for an instant, but, for all the regret and pain he felt, his stubborn spirit refused to show one trace. Evidently she knew he had tried to run away, and she didn’t want to see him again. Very well!

“Good-by, Miss Barron!” he said.

She turned away, and he, too, would have walked off, but the dauntless Mrs. Barron was not to be thwarted.

“Then I’ll tell you the address!” said she. “Hotel Bernderly--West Seventy-Seventh Street. Don’t forget!”

“I shan’t,” Ross replied. “Thank you! Good-by!”

He went back along the corridor, forgetting all about the note, even forgetting where he was going, until the sight of a white jacket in the distance recalled him.

“Steward!” he shouted.

The man came toward him, anxious and very hurried.

“Look here!” said Ross. “This note--it’s not meant for me.”