Part 77

That was true enough. The sky was not black now, but all gray, pallid, swept clean of clouds. The rain had ceased, but the mighty wind still blew, and the tops of the trees bowed and bent before it, like inky marionettes before a pale curtain. There was no sign yet of the sun, but you could feel that the dawn was coming.

“What of it?” asked Ross, briefly.

“It’s the last day!” she answered.

What a thing to say! The last day. It filled him with a vague sense of dread, and it made him angry.

“That’s not--” he began, but she did not heed him.

“Listen!” she said. “You must help me! I don’t know what to do. I’m--I’m desperate! I’ve--” She stopped, looking up into his wooden face; then, seizing him by the shoulder, she tried to shake him.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, look at me like a human being!” she cried.

He stared at her, dumfounded.

“Stop it!” she commanded. “You’ve got to listen to me!”

He had never in his life been so amazed. She had flown at him, and shaken him! It was unbelievable. It was pathetic. She was such a little thing; so fierce, and so helpless.

“All right!” he said, mildly. “I’m listening. What’s it all about?”

His tone, his faint smile, did not please her.

“Oh, you think it’s nothing!” she said. “You think I’m just a silly girl, making an awful fuss about some childish trouble. _Don’t_ you? Well, you’re wrong. Listen to me!”

She stopped, and drew back a little, looking him straight in the face with those strange black eyes of hers.

“I’ve done a terrible thing,” she said, in a low, steady voice. “A wicked, terrible thing. If I get what I deserve, I’m ruined and lost.”

She turned away from him, and walked over to the window. Ross turned, too, and followed her. She was gazing before her at the gray sky; the curve of her cheek, her half parted lips, her wide brow, were altogether innocent and lovely, but the look on her pale face was not so. It was somber, bitter, and tragic.

“The sun is coming up,” she said, almost inaudibly. “_Will_ you help me?”

“Yes,” Ross answered.

VII

Ross stood by the window, watching the sun come up--the first sunrise he had witnessed in his native land. From the east the light welled up and spread, slow and inexorable, across the sky, like the Master’s glance traveling over the chill world; and in his soul Ross dreaded that light. It would mean discovery. That very quiet figure in the housekeeper’s room would have his revenge.

“I’m in it now,” Ross muttered. “Up to the neck.”

And why? Was it pity for that girl? Was it a stirring of sentiment because she was his kinswoman, his cousin? He did not think so. He might have pitied her, and still gone away. He might have recognized their kinship simply by keeping silent about what he had seen. No; it was something more than that; something he could not quite understand.

It was the claim of life upon a strong spirit. You are hardy and valiant, life said; your shoulders are fitted to bear burdens, and bear them you shall. Here before you is a cruel burden, and you cannot turn aside. All the strong ones shall be chosen to suffer for the weak. You are chosen, and you shall suffer.

Well, he did.

“I’ve done a wicked, terrible thing. If I get what I deserve, I’m ruined and lost.”

That was what she had said to him, and he interpreted it readily enough. It was hideous to think of, but not difficult to believe. She was, he thought, capable of any imaginable thing, good or evil. She would not weigh, or calculate, or even understand; she would only _want_. She would want to possess something, or she would want to destroy something which irked her.

“And after all,” he thought, “it’s not a hard thing to do. Even a little, weak thing like her can--”

His mind balked at the fatal word, but, with a frown, he deliberately uttered it to himself.

“Can kill,” he said. “I’ve got to face this squarely. Other women have done things like that. A few drops of something in a glass, perhaps.”

An uncontrollable shudder ran through him.

“No!” he thought. “I needn’t think--that. I’ll wait till she’s told me. The whole thing may be--some accident--something else.”

But he remembered that she had been there alone in the housekeeper’s room, and that he had heard her crying in there. He remembered her words--“a wicked, terrible thing.” And he remembered, above everything else, her face, with that look upon it.

“Damn it!” he cried. “I won’t think at all--until I know something definite. I’ll just carry on.”

He could, and did, refuse to think of his immediate problem, but his mind would not remain idle. It presented him with a very vivid picture of Phyllis Barron. And now, for the first time, he welcomed that gentle image. She was so immeasurably remote now, so far away, in an entirely different world; a friendly, honest world, where she was living her daily life, while he stood here, watching the sun rise upon a dreaded and unpredictable day.

“Well, shover!” said Eddy’s cheerful voice behind him. “The big boss ’ll want the car for the eight forty.”

“All right!” Ross agreed, promptly. “I want a bath and a shave first. And maybe you’ll lend me a collar and a pair of socks.”

“I’ll do that for you!” said Eddy. “And say! You could try Wheeler’s uniform that he left behind. He was the shover before you. He left in a hurry. Got kicked out. Most of our shovers do.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” Eddy explained, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and watching Ross shave with cold water, a very dull razor, and the minute fragment of a shaving stick. “Most of our shovers get tempted and fall--hard. Miss Amy ’ll ask ’em to take her some place where the boss don’t want her to go, and not to mention it at home. And they do. And then, the next time she gets mad at the boss, she tells him the whole tale, just to worry him. And the shover goes. See?”

“I see!” said Ross.

“She was talking to me just now,” Eddy went on. “I guess I was mistaken about you. She says you’re going to stay. Well!” He grinned. “I wish you luck!”

“Thanks!” said Ross.

He understood that Eddy was warning him against the devices of Miss Amy, but it was a little too late.

He took a bath in water colder than any he had yet encountered; then he tried on the uniform left behind by the unfortunate Wheeler. It was a bit tight across the shoulders, and the style was by no means in accordance with his austere taste, but he could wear it.

“And I shan’t keep up this silly farce much longer,” he thought.

“We might as well go over to the house for breakfast,” said Eddy. “Ready?”

Ross did not relish the glimpse he had of his reflection in the mirror. That snug-fitting jacket with a belt in the back, those breeches, those puttees--he did not like them. Worst of all, Eddy’s collar would not meet round his neck, and he had fastened it with a safety pin. As he took up the peaked cap and followed the cheerful youth, he felt, not like an accomplice in a tragedy, but like a very complete fool--and that did not please him.

They crossed the lawn to the house, went in at the back door, and entered the kitchen. There he sat down to breakfast with the cook, the housemaid, the laundress, and Eddy. The kitchen was warm and clean, and neat as a new pin; very agreeable in the morning sunshine. The breakfast was good, and he was very hungry, and ate with a healthy appetite. But, except for a civil good morning, he did not say one word.

For he was listening. He was waiting, in an unpleasant state of tension, for something which would shatter this comfortable serenity. It must come. It was not possible that the figure under the sofa should remain undiscovered, that life should progress as if nothing at all had happened. Amy had said this was the “last day.”

Nothing interrupted the breakfast, though; and, when he had finished, he went back to the garage, to look over the sedan he was to drive. It was a good car, and in perfect condition; nothing for him to do there. He lit a cigarette, and stood talking to Eddy for a time.

Eddy’s theme was Mr. Solway, Miss Amy’s long-suffering stepfather.

“He’s the best man Gawd ever made,” said Eddy, seriously. “My father was coachman to him for eighteen years, and when he passed out, Mr. Solway, he kept me here. He seen that I got a good education and all. I wanted this here shover’s job, but he said nothing doing. He said I’d ought to get a job with a future. I’m down in the telephone comp’ny now--repair man. He lets me live here for nothing--just for doing a few odd jobs. He’s a prince!” He stamped out his cigarette with his heel. “And he has a hell of a life!” he added.

“How?” asked Ross, thirsting for any sort of information about this household.

“Her,” said Eddy. “Remember, I’m not saying nothing against Miss Amy. I’ve known her all my life. But, I’ve done things for that girl I wouldn’t have done for my own mother.” He paused. “I done things for her I wish to Gawd I hadn’t done,” he said, and fell silent.

Ross was silent, too. He remembered how Eddy had closed the door of the housekeeper’s room. He remembered how very anxious Eddy had been to keep him shut up in the garage all night. And he remembered that Eddy carried a revolver.

Why should he imagine that Amy Solway would do for herself any unpleasing task, when apparently she found it so easy to make others do things for her? This boy admitted he had done things for her which he wished “to Gawd” he hadn’t.

“You better start,” said Eddy, and Ross got into the sedan and drove up to the house. He was undeniably nervous. He expected to see--he didn’t know what; a pale face looking at him from one of the windows, a handkerchief waved to him, a note slipped into his hand, some signal. But there was nothing.

Mr. Solway came bursting out of the front door, ran down the steps, said “Good morning! Good morning!” to his new chauffeur, popped into the sedan, and immediately began to read the newspaper. At the station he bounced out, said “Four fifty,” and walked off.

Ross stopped in the town and bought himself some collars. Even this delay worried him; he might be badly needed at the house. But, in spite of his haste to get back, he was mighty careful in his driving, because he had no sort of license. He returned to the garage and put up the car--and waited.

Four hours did he wait. Eddy was nowhere about; no doubt he was repairing telephones. Nobody came near the garage. Ross sketchily overhauled both cars, swept out the place, and waited, not patiently, either.

He had agreed to help that girl, and he was prepared to do so, but he was not going to be a chauffeur much longer. It was, he thought, a singularly dull life. What is more, he had his own affairs to look after; he wanted to get back to New York, and to see Mr. Teagle.

At one o’clock the telephone in the garage rang, and the disagreeable housemaid informed him that lunch was ready. Very well, he was ready for lunch; he went over to the house and again sat down in the kitchen, and ate again in silence. He had nothing to say, and the three women said nothing to him.

He was not a talkative young man; he and his grandfather had often passed entire days with scarcely a word between them, and he took this silence as a matter of course, quite innocent of the fact that it was hostile. The new chauffeur was not liked in the kitchen.

Then he went back to the garage, and waited, and waited, and waited, with grim resentment. A little after four o’clock he was preparing to take the sedan out again, when Amy appeared in the doorway, in her fur coat and a little scarlet hat.

“Oh, good!” she cried. “You’re all ready! I want you to take me--”

“No!” said Ross. “Mr. Solway said four fifty, and I’m going to meet his train.”

“But he meant the four fifty from New York!” said she. “You’ll have plenty of time.” She came nearer to him. “Please, please be quick!” she said. “It’s my last chance!”

VIII

“To the left, and straight ahead!” said Amy, as they drove out of the gates.

So, to the left he turned, and drove straight ahead. And he looked straight ahead, too, although he knew very well that she was looking at him. This girl took entirely too much for granted. It was one thing to help her, but to obey her orders blindly was quite another, and it did not suit him. Here he was, dressed up in a chauffeur’s uniform somewhat too small for him, and behaving, no doubt, as those other chauffeurs had behaved--like a fool.

He heard her stir restlessly, with little flutterings and jinglings of her silly feminine finery. She sighed deeply.

“I don’t believe you’ve told me your right name,” she said, plaintively.

“James Ross,” he announced.

“James Ross!” she cried. “Oh, but you said--But he’s _old_!”

“Another James Ross,” he remarked, coldly. But in his heart he was rather pleased with the sensation his words caused.

“Another one? Then--are you my cousin? Are you?”

“I believe so,” Ross replied.

She was silent for a moment; then she observed, thoughtfully:

“I guess I’ll call you Jimmy.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Ross. “I don’t like it.”

“I do!” said she. “I think Jimmy’s a darling name.” Suddenly she flung one arm about his neck. “And I think _you’re_ a darling!” she added, with a sob.

“Look out!” Ross cried, sharply. “You mustn’t do that when I’m driving.” He cast a glance along the straight, empty road, and then turned to her. Her dark eyes were soft and shining with tears, but she was trying to smile.

“Oh, Jimmy!” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad you’ve come!”

“All right!” said the Spartan young man. “Then suppose you tell me what’s wrong?”

“I can’t, Jimmy,” she answered. Her hand rested on his shoulder, but her head was turned away. “I can’t--just now. Only, oh, Jimmy! Sometimes I wish I were dead! Dead and buried with my darling mother--”

He could think of nothing adequate to say to that, and, once more giving a careful glance at the road, he patted her hand.

“I’m sorry,” he declared gravely.

“I know it’s not fair--not to tell you,” she said. “But--can’t you just help me, Jimmy, and--and not care?”

A curious emotion filled him; a great compassion and a great dread.

“Why not?” he thought. “I don’t want to hear. I don’t want to know. Better let well enough alone.”

But he knew it was not better, and not possible. Not all the pity in the world should make him a blind and ignorant tool. He was in honor bound to ask his question.

“Just this,” he said. “That man--in the housekeeper’s room?”

“Why, what man?” she asked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

His heart sank. Disappointment, and a sort of disgust for this childish lie filled him; he did not want to look at her again. He drove on, down a road which seemed to him endless, like a road in a dream.

The sun was going down quietly, without pomp and glory, only slipping out of sight and drawing with it all the light and color in the world. They passed houses, they passed other cars, and it seemed to him that he and this girl passed through the everyday life about them like ghosts, set apart from their fellows, under a chill shadow.

“Jimmy!” she said, abruptly. “How can you be so horrid! Why don’t you _talk_? Why can’t you be like--like a real cousin?”

“Perhaps I haven’t had enough practice,” Ross replied.

She did not like this.

“All right, then! _Don’t_ help me! Just go away and leave me to suffer all alone!” she cried. “You’re a heartless--beast! Go away!”

“Just as you please,” said Ross. “Can you drive the car?”

She began to cry, but he paid no attention to this.

“Jimmy,” she resumed, at last, “my Gayle’s coming to-night.”

“Your Gayle?” he repeated. “What’s that?”

“He’s the man I love,” she said, simply.

And she was honest now, wholly in earnest; the childish artfulness had gone, and she spoke quietly.

“He’s coming to-night,” she went on. “And if anything--goes wrong, he’ll go away, and never come back. And something’s very likely to go wrong, Jimmy.”

“You’ll have to remember that I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Ross.

She did not resent his blunt manner now.

“In the house where we’re going,” she explained, “there’s some one Gayle must not see--no matter what happens. I’ll talk to--this person first; I’ll try to persuade him. But if I can’t--That’s what I want you to do for me. I want you to be sure to see that--this person doesn’t leave that house to-night.”

“And how am I to do that?”

She was silent for a moment.

“I don’t care,” she said then. “It doesn’t matter how it’s done.”

“It does matter--to me.”

“Listen to me!” she said, with a sort of sternness. “This man--in the cottage--he’s blackmailing me. Because of something I did--something I’m sorry for--terribly, terribly sorry--”

“What will he take to keep quiet?”

“Nothing. All he wants is to hurt and ruin me.”

“That’s not blackmail,” said Ross. “If he can’t be bribed--”

“Oh, what does it matter what you call it? He’s coming to-night, to tell--this thing--and Gayle will go away!”

“Look here!” said Ross. “Let him tell. If this Gayle of yours cares for you, he’ll stand by you. If he doesn’t, you’re well rid of him. No; just wait a minute! Don’t you see? You can’t lie to a man you’re--fond of. You--”

“I’m not going to lie. I’ll just say nothing. The thing is over, Jimmy; over and done with. Mustn’t I even have a chance? Jimmy, I’m young! I’m sorry--God knows I’m sorry for what I did--but it’s done. Nothing can undo it. Won’t you--_won’t_ you let me have just a chance?”

“But look here! Even if the man didn’t come to-night, he’d come some other time. You don’t expect me to--”

He stopped short, appalled by the words he had not spoken. He looked at her, and in the gathering dusk he saw upon her white face that terrible, still look again.

“No!” he cried.

“Jimmy!” she said. “Just keep him from coming to-night. Then to-morrow I’ll tell you the whole thing. And perhaps you’ll think of something to do. But--just to-night--keep him from coming!”

Ross made no answer.

“Down here, Jimmy--to the left,” she said, presently, and he turned the car down a solitary lane, narrow, scored with ruts of half frozen mud. It had grown so dark now that he turned on the headlights.

“There!” she said. “That’s the house. Let me out!”

He stopped the car.

“Look here!” he began, but she had sprung out, and was hurrying across a field of stubble. He could not let her go alone. He followed her, sick at heart, filled again with that sense of utter solitude, of being cut off from all his fellows, in a desolate and unreal world. His soul revolted against this monstrous adventure, and yet he could not abandon her.

She went before him, light, surprisingly sure-footed upon those high heels of hers. For some reason of her own, she had chosen to approach the house from the side, instead of following the curve of the lane. She came to a fence, and climbed it like a cat, and Ross climbed after her.

They were in a forlorn garden, where the withered grass stood high, and before them was the sorriest little cottage, battered and discolored by wind and rain, all the shutters closed, not a light, not a curtain, not a sign of life about it.

“Look here!” Ross began again. “I’ve got to know--”

She ran up the steps to the porch, where a broken rocking-chair began to rock as she brushed it in passing. She opened the door and entered; it was dark in there, but she ran up the stairs as if she knew them well; before he was halfway up, he heard her hurrying footsteps on the floor above, heard doors open and shut.

Then a light sprang out in the upper hall, and she stood there, looking down at him. By the unshaded gas jet he could see her face clearly, and it shocked him; such anguish there, such terror.

“Gone!” she gasped. “_Gone!_”

IX

To Ross, with his rigid self-control, it seemed impossible that a human creature could safely endure such violent emotion as hers. She was so fragile; she looked ill, horribly ill, ghastly, he thought she would faint, would fall senseless at his feet. He sprang up the stairs to be with her.

“Amy!” he cried.

Her dark brows met in a somber frown; she shook her head, waving her forefinger in front of her face; an odd, foreign little gesture.

“No!” she said. “Keep quiet! Don’t speak to me. Let me think.”

“Think!” said Ross to himself. “I don’t believe you’re capable of it, my girl. But certainly you’re even less capable of listening to any one. Very well; go ahead with your thinking, then; and I’ll wait for the next development.”

He lit a cigarette, and leaned against the wall, smoking, not sorry for an interval of peace.

“Look at the time!” Amy commanded sharply. “You’ll be late getting to the station, unless you hurry. Why didn’t you remind me?”

“Inexcusable of me,” said Ross. “I hope I shan’t lose my job.”

She apparently did not choose to notice this flippancy.

“Come!” she ordered, and went past him, down the stairs, and out of that sorry little cottage. She ran all the way to the car, and two or three times she said “Hurry!” to Ross, who kept easily at her side with his usual stride.

“Now!” she said. “Drive as fast as you possibly can!”

“Sorry,” said Ross, “but my only license is one I had in Manila--and even that’s expired. I can’t afford to take chances.”

She shrugged her shoulders, with an unpleasant little laugh. She was in a very evil temper; the light was on inside of the car, and now and then he glanced at her, saw her sitting there, her black eyes staring straight before her, her mouth set in a mutinous and scornful line.

She was in torment; he felt sure of that, but he felt equally sure that she would not hesitate to inflict torment upon others. She was cruel, reckless, blind, and deaf in her folly. He wondered why it was that he pitied her so.