CHAPTER IV

"WHAT DOES IT MEAN?"

Returning from New York on the five o'clock train, Kirklan Gilmore stood for a minute or so on the station platform, looking along the assembled line of cars in which thoughtful wives were meeting their city-working husbands. He felt disappointed and hurt that Helen had not come for him, especially as this was his first absence.

Then it occurred to him that she might not have returned from her drive across the river; the country roads might have lured her farther than her announced destination of Tuxedo. A worried frown appeared over his eyes, as his imagination led him to take the unpleasant possibility that, since Helen was new at the steering wheel, there might have been an accident. A horrifying picture of a collision, his beautiful wife maimed, cut, bleeding, arose before him, but he brushed it aside with a shudder.

"I suppose all doting husbands do a lot of unnecessary worrying," he told himself. "I couldn't stand losing her."

Gilmore did not for a moment believe that it had been Helen whom Atchinson had seen on the street in New York; he considered it a bit of a joke on the publisher and intended having a good laugh by teasing his wife about her "double."

The village of Ardleigh is small, and, since it is surrounded with people owning their country homes and their own cars, there is small demand for taxicab service. There were just three of the ramshackle vehicles, but Gilmore delayed so long that the last one was occupied and started in motion, as he crossed the platform toward it.

Except that it might delay him getting to Helen, he felt no annoyance over this incident; it was only two miles from the village to Greenacres, and he often made the trip on foot by choice. It was a splendid, picturesque walk, which to him had never lost its charm.

Carrying his manuscript case of black leather, he swung off briskly, choosing the dirt road rather than the paved highway; this not only afforded the more scenic view, but also saved him nearly a quarter of a mile. He was in a hurry for, try as he would, he could not help being rather anxious about Helen and her safe return.

The road ran along the backbone of a ridge, so that, while still some distance from the house, he was able to get a glimpse of the driveway through an opening in the trees, and he gave a breath of relief as he saw the car. His anxiety had been quite unfounded; his wife was home.

Approaching the house itself, he saw Joan on the lawn teaching tricks to the new collie pup, and she was so engrossed with the task that she failed to hear the crunch of his shoes on the gravel.

"Hello, Joan!" he called cheerily.

The girl, on her knees in the grass, dropped the puppy's paws and turned half toward him, the drooping brim of her hat shielding whatever expression may have been in her dark eyes.

"Hello, Kirk," she answered, getting to her feet.

"I see Helen's got home. I was just a little worried about her--she being new about driving the car."

"Yes, she's home," nodded Joan. "She drove in about five minutes ago; I think you'll find her dressing for dinner." She essayed a brief and fairly successful laugh. "I won't keep you, Kirk; I know you'll be anxious to see her after being away from her all these hours."

Gilmore hesitated for a moment. "See here, Joan," he protested, "I believe you're trying to get away from me. Somehow I've got the feeling that you've been trying to avoid me ever since you got back from your trip. You haven't told me a thing about it."

"I--I didn't think you'd want to be bothered; all your time belongs to Helen. I've thanked you for the glorious treat, haven't I? I know I intended to."

"There are no thanks due, Joan; you earned it--and more. Atchinson was speaking of some passages in 'Rogue's Paradise' only to-day, and, bless your life, most of them were yours!"

"It's nice of you to say that, Kirk," she murmured lifelessly; he would never know--must never know--what a labor of love it had been. There was an uncomfortable pause, during which Gilmore fumbled at his watch chain, and Joan bent over to pull gently at the puppy's ears.

"I guess there's something else I ought to say," he floundered. "I feel mighty guilty about Helen taking your room. I don't blame you for being hurt about it. I did my best to make her understand, but----"

"We'll not talk about that, Kirk. The house belongs to you; it was quite within your right. I'll get accustomed to my new quarters, and it will be all right, Kirk--quite all right."

It was strange that Gilmore, whose books were considered to contain keen analysis of the human emotions, should have missed the catch in her voice, the touch of pathos, as she tried to mask her true feelings with a careless, matter-of-fact tone. But miss them he did, and he felt relieved that she was being such a good sport about it.

"It's like you, Joan," he said warmly, "to take it like that, and I wish you'd try and make things as pleasant as you can for Helen. She still feels strange, and, I suppose, is overly sensitive. This is just between you and me, understand, but she has a notion that there is a feeling of antagonism, even among the servants, toward her. Of course that's ridiculous; no one could help loving Helen. She is wonderful, isn't she?"

Joan could not force the polite falsehood to her lips, but Gilmore rushed on, taking no cognizance of her silence.

"I've been honeymooning for the past three weeks, Joan, but I've got to get back into harness again--a very good simile, since my studio is a renovated stable--and rush the book to a finish. I've got to lock myself in and work.

"Well, I'm afraid Helen is going to get pretty lonesome unless some one looks after entertaining her a bit. Atchinson has arranged with Victor Sarbella--you remember meeting Sarbella in town, of course--to draw the illustrations for my coming book, and he'll be out to-morrow for a stay of several days. He'll have time for loafing, while I'm working, and I wish you'd see to it that things are made as jolly as possible for Helen.

"It's partly selfishness that I don't want country life to pall on Helen; I've got to make her contented with Greenacres, or she'll be pulling me away from the old place and into town."

Joan's lips tightened. Kirk did not know, of course, how much he was asking of her. "You'd better be getting in to Helen," she said.

And when Gilmore had gone, striding swiftly to the house, Joan Sheridan dropped to her knees in the grass, hugging the collie pup close, the one living thing she would have permitted to see the tears now flooding her dark eyes.

"Oh, Laddie, boy," she whispered into one of the inquiringly cocked ears, "it's so hard to pretend--so hard! Oh, how I hate that woman--how I hate her! I didn't know there was so much hate in me."

Kirklan Gilmore entered the house and went directly upstairs. A moment later he was rapping at the door of his wife's room and, after her muffled response from the other side of the panel, he went in.

Helen was not, as he expected, dressing for dinner. She sat by the window in a listless, preoccupied attitude, and she had not so much as removed her hat. Her greeting was not that spontaneous explosion of welcoming joy that he would have liked after their first parting, even of the brief hours.

"Hello, Kirklan," she said listlessly. "How's everything in New York? Hot, wasn't it?"

Gilmore kissed her eagerly, but found her even more than usually unresponsive.

"Not so hot," he answered, "but the humidity was stifling. What's wrong, Helen? You look all out of sorts."

"Just tired, I suppose," she said. "Driving a car is a strain on the nerves."

"Yes, it is for a beginner; you shouldn't attempt such long trips until you're more accustomed to the wheel. Have any trouble?"

"I stalled the motor on a hill, but I just put on the emergency brake and worked the starter. That's what you told me to do in a case like that."

"Good headwork, Helen. The truth is, I'd worried about you a good deal. If anything had happened to you, my darling----" His voice choked, husky with emotion, and he put his fingers softly to a strand of bronze hair that had broken prison from under the edge of her hat.

When a man is in a soft mood, that is the best time for a wife to ask what she wants. Helen realized this and decided not to delay the matter of the needed thousand dollars. So she reached up and let her hand close about his.

"Kirklan," she said, "I--I am worried about something. I am ashamed to come to you with it, but----"

A look of alarm came into Gilmore's face, as he waited for her to continue.

"Oh, Kirklan, I--I am so--so ashamed. It's money."

He gave a quick, relieved laugh. "And it hurts your pride to ask your husband for a little shopping money. Since you feel that way about it, I suppose we'd better decide on a regular allowance. No doubt you'd like to have your own little bank account. I'll be as generous with you as I can, dear, but, as I told you before we were married, I'm no bloated capitalist. The royalties from the last book are coming in pretty regularly now, although we hope they'll be even larger. The sales seem to be growing. Did you have your mind set on any particular amount? Don't be timid about it, honey; if it's more than I can stand I'll have to tell you so."

"There--there are so many things I need, Kirklan; sometimes a man doesn't understand about a woman's wardrobe. I've been afraid you would think I am extravagant, and I don't want to be a burden on you." It had been in her mind to manufacture some past debt, but his suggestion of an allowance seemed to make it easier.

"How much do you want, Helen? You fix the amount, and, if I've got it, it's yours." Then, as she still seemed to hesitate, he suggested a figure that to his mind was generous. "Suppose I deposit five hundred in the village bank to start with? By the time you've checked against that, I'll have some more money coming in."

"I--I'd like to have a thousand dollars, Kirklan. Does that seem a great deal? Of course I won't have to ask you for any more for--oh, for quite a long time."

Gilmore was not displeased with her, but he was chagrined, for the reason that his own bank balance was three hundred dollars less than the thousand.

"Store accounts, of course!" he said. "I've charge accounts at several of the stores in New York, and you can buy what you want and charge it to me. The truth is, dear, that I haven't got a thousand in cash. We writer fellows aren't very good financiers and I've been living pretty close to the last dollar. But my credit is good."

Helen bit her lip. "I'd rather not charge things, Kirklan. If it would be just as convenient to let me have the cash----"

"I'll let you have it Friday," he agreed; "I'll drop a note to Atchinson and ask him to make me an advance. The publishing house makes out its checks on Thursday."

"Kirklan," she murmured, forced to try a new line, "I'll have to tell you the truth. I'll have to have some money by Wednesday. Oh, I know it's terrible, asking you to pay my old debts, but I'm so afraid of--of being sued that I----"

Gilmore patted her shoulder reassuringly. Had he stopped to think about it, he might have considered it strange that a girl in the humble position in which he had found her should have got into debt to the extent of a thousand dollars, but it was Helen, not he, who recognized this possible inconsistency, and she hastened to add with that glibness which even a poor liar may achieve in a moment of desperation: "It--it was money that I borrowed for my sister's illness. I had to sign some notes, and----"

"You shall have the money, Helen, but the truth is always the best in the first place, dear. I want us always to be frank with each other. I want you to feel that you can come to me with everything. After all, a falsehood is the most futile thing in the world. You should have told me the exact truth about the matter from the beginning. I'll get in touch with Atchinson on the phone to-morrow and arrange it. You shall have the money to-morrow night, but you must never lie to me, dear--under any conditions. A lie is one of the things I find it hard to forgive."

His tone was so gentle, his agreement to the request so prompt, and his faith in her so unquestioning that Helen was touched. It made her think that she might almost learn to love him; impulsively she brushed her lips to the back of his hand.

"That's good of you, Kirklan; you--you'll never know what a weight you've taken from my mind. You--you do love me a very great deal."

"Better than all else in the world, Helen!" he answered huskily.

There was a silence, to Gilmore an enraptured silence in which he felt closer to his wife than ever before. It seemed that suddenly there was a new bond between them.

"What does Atchinson think of the new book?" she asked him presently. "Does he think it will have the success of the last one?"

"Yes, even more. He's enthusiastic--even for Atchinson." His lips parted into a smile. "Speaking of Atchinson, that reminds me. He was trying to convince me that he saw you in New York this afternoon--going into some cheap dump just around the corner from Eighth Avenue."

With a startled gasp, Helen's hand jerked away from the fondling caress of his fingers and, clenched, went to her mouth. Her eyes became wide with something that was more than either surprise or bewilderment. Her gaze was fixed upon his face with a fascinated stare, and the smile that she attempted was only a sickly grimace.

"Why, Kirklan! In--in New York? How silly! You know very well that I drove the car to Tuxedo."

Kirklan Gilmore's blood was suddenly ice; his eyes were no longer smiling.

"Great Lord!" he whispered. "It's true. Atchinson was right. Helen, you've lied to me; you----"

"No!" she cried in a desperate frenzy of denial. "I swear to you----"

"I see guilt in your face. I know now; I know that you were the woman Atchinson saw in New York this afternoon. What does it mean, Helen? These lies, this deceit--what does it mean?"

Helen laughed hysterically.

"Don't--don't be so tragic--over nothing. I wasn't in New York; you just startled me, that's all. Please don't be so silly. Atchinson was mistaken; some one who looked like me, perhaps."

But, as much as he wanted to believe her, Kirklan Gilmore could not convince himself; her face had betrayed her. The blood was pounding in his brain, and he felt that the mystery of it, the doubts, the suspicions would certainly drive him mad.