CHAPTER VII.

A SHORT NOTE

Wonderful to relate, we managed to keep secret the story of Nanette’s indiscretion. Her mother never knew that she had left her room. And it was toward dusk of the following day that the first act of the tragi-comedy came to a close.

To Ensleigh’s inquiries touching my disappearance from the dance, I had returned evasive replies. Jack kept his room, for good and sufficient reasons, and O’Shea had gone into the town early and had not come back. Nanette remained invisible.

For all the glory of the Madeiran sunshine and the wonder of the flowers, black depression sat heavily upon us.

I was lounging on the terrace at about six o’clock wondering what Nanette was doing and whether her mother suspected anything, when O’Shea suddenly walked out to me.

“Hello!” I cried. “I thought you had gone for good!”

“No,” he answered musingly, “not yet.”

He sank into a chair, as though dog weary.

“Had a hard day?” I asked.

“Fairly,” he replied; “but I’ve done my job. I suspect there are harder to come.” He paused, then: “Have you seen Nanette?” he asked.

“No,” I stared at him. “O’Shea, tell me if you resent my frankness--but that girl’s madly in love with you.”

“I don’t resent it, Decies,” he answered. “I know she thinks she is. But Nanette is very young. There is something you don’t know--that nobody else will ever know.”

I looked into the gray eyes. But they were not cold: they were on fire! I drew a sharp breath.

“O’Shea----” I began.

He nodded, and gripped my hand hard.

“Yes!” he said simply. “From the first moment I saw her. I daren’t trust myself to see her again. You understand? It’s quite impossible.”

“But why?”

“For many reasons. Thank God, _she’s_ young enough to forget.”

There was a short silence, which is more memorable to me than many long conversations.

“What shall you do?” I asked.

He pointed across the bay.

Trailing a pennant of smoke in her wake, the greyhound shape of a destroyer raced for the harbour.

“I sail in an hour,” he answered. “I can take care of myself, Decies, but Nanette is of an age when a--silly attachment might spoil years of her life. So”--he took a letter from his pocket--“I have done a cruel thing. I have said what isn’t true--God knows it isn’t true! Her pride will do the rest. Will you give it to her--after I have gone?”

The promise was made. I thought of Nanette’s fresh young loveliness, which this man, who wanted her madly, might have taken as an unconditional gift. I thought of certain others I had met. I recalled that we moved in the year of freedom, 1927. And I wondered.

I have known some good Irishmen and some bad. But Edmond O’Shea would be a mighty fine advertisement for any race on earth.

Nanette came down to dinner, and I can never forget her expression when she saw O’Shea’s deserted table.

My task was going to be a hard one.

I took her out to the terrace afterward. Away on the distant horizon I could trace a faint wisp of smoke.

“Do you mean,” she said, and her voice had changed strangely, “that Major O’Shea--has gone?”

I looked at her, a sweet picture in the moonlight. And little Nanette had grown up. She watched me with a woman’s eyes.

I handed the note to her. She ran to the library window, tearing open the envelope as she went. I turned away and tried to trace the slender smoke trail fading, fading on a distant horizon.

A cry brought me sharply about.

Nanette stood before me, her eyes blazing, her face deathly white.

“Do you know what is in this?” she demanded.

“I do not, Nanette.”

And indeed I shall never know; but I know what it cost him to write it.

A moment she stood so, glaring at me. Then, frenziedly she began to tear the letter into tiny fragments, and:

“How dare he!” she cried. “Oh, God! how _dare_ he!”

Whereupon she burst into such passionate sobs that it was agony to hear them. Dropping into a chair on the deserted terrace, she cried until my heart ached.

It was her first love, and a very big one. An O’Shea inspires nothing petty. But she had courage, and pride.

She conquered her weakness, and stood up.

“You are very kind, Mr. Decies,” she said. “I am sorry I made a fool of myself.”

Then she went in, walking very upright.

I spent a wretched evening, and when I retired to my room, sleep simply would not come. I got up, with an idea of smoking a pipe, but, first, I crossed to the open window. On a moon-dappled path below the terrace I espied a moving figure; and Burns’s words flashed through my mind: “The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men…”

Nanette was stealing among the flowers, collecting tiny fragments of the torn letter that a light evening breeze had blown from the terrace above. It was a hurt, an affront; but it was the only thing of his she had.