Part 6

“Why, so did I,” he returned evenly. “But apparently I was mistaken. The Derry I knew was not a plaster saint, you see!”

“Nor is the Derry that I know--plaster.” Her voice shook, but she held her head very high. “Are you trying to make me mistrust him, Hal? Be careful, please; you are only making me mistrust you.”

“Oh, good God!” He flung at her a look of such revolt and despair that the small frozen face softened. “Look here, don’t--don’t let’s make more of a mess of this. You can’t believe that kind of thing of me, Anne; you may know Derry, but you’ve known me longer, after all. I’d cut my throat before I’d try to come between you two. Derry’s worth a thousand of me, of course--I know. He’s made you happy, and nothing that I could do in this life or the next would ever repay him for that. But just for a moment it galled me hideously to have you lavishing that flood of adoration on any man that lived: it was a flick on a raw wound, and something deep in me yelled out rebellion. You think jealousy a cheap and ugly thing, you say--well, now you know just how cheap, just how ugly it can be!”

“Ah, I’m sorry----” She leaned to him, all gentleness once more. “I’m sorry that I was hateful; it’s nothing but these unspeakable nerves, truly. Let’s forget it all, shan’t we? Do you think it’s letting up a little outside? It doesn’t sound quite so--so savage, does it?” As though resentful of her waning terror, the beast outside flung itself at them once more, pouncing on the house with a long and terrible roar, shaking it in its monstrous claws as though it would rattle the flimsy barriers of wood and glass out of their cracking frames. She shrank deeper into the chair with a tremulous laugh. “Oh, no, it’s incredible--no, _listen_ to it. I’ll wager that it’s literally tearing trees up by the roots and----” She broke off tensely. “Hal, you don’t think that it could damage the wires, do you?”

“No, no; nonsense! It sounds a great deal worse than it is; this house is nothing but a rattletrap, I tell you. It takes a worse storm than this to put a telephone out of commission.”

“If he doesn’t telephone, I can’t bear it,” she said softly. “That’s not rhetoric. I simply can’t bear it.”

“Well, we can settle that,” said Devon briefly. “I’ll get Central and----”

The telephone that he reached for suddenly gave a faint jangle--a small, far-off warning of sound--and then it rang aloud, sharp and imperative.

“Oh, _Hal_!” Her voice was an exultant quiver. “No, no, give it to me; he’s early, isn’t he? It’s not nearly twelve, is it? Yes--yes, this is Mrs. Carver--this is Anne, darling----” The thrilled voice wavered and flagged. “Oh--oh, I’m sorry; you must have the wrong number.... Yes, it’s Mrs. Carver--Mrs. Derrick Carver. No, but it’s a mistake.... No, no one’s been using the wire this evening; no, it hasn’t rung at all. I’ve been rather expecting a call, but the wire’s been perfectly clear since nine.... What?... I can’t hear--there’s a singing on the wires.... What?... No, the receiver hasn’t been off; I’m sorry that you’ve had so much trouble getting us, but I really think that there’s some mistake--perhaps the maids----” She bit her lip, with a glance of despairing amusement at Devon. “Why, yes, it’s possible that someone else has been trying to get a call through to me, but none has come through.... Yes, it might have been long distance.... What? You’ve been trying for an hour? Well, that really isn’t my fault, is it? If you’ll tell me what you want.... I can’t hear; please speak a little louder.... No, it doesn’t make any difference whether any one else is here or not, you can give the message to me. I’m quite as capable of hearing what you have to say as any one else.... No, I most certainly will not; please tell me what you want, or I shall simply ring off.... Yes. Yes. I can hear.... Oh, its _Headquarters_. Well, you can tell for yourself that the telephone’s not working well; there’s that singing on the wires and every now and then it buzzes, too. I suppose it’s this storm; I’m so glad you’re working on it. Do see if there’s not something that you can do; I _am_ expecting an important call any minute. Can’t one of your men?... Well, then, what on earth did you call up for? I do think that this service---- _Oh_----” Her voice died suddenly in her throat, and at the look in her eyes Devon leapt to his feet.

“Here, Anne--give it to me!”

She shook her head, fighting desperately to get back her voice.

“No, no--wait.... Yes, I heard you perfectly--yes, Police Headquarters. I didn’t understand. It’s some mistake, of course.... No.... No, he’s not here.... Well, then, if you knew that, what do you want?... I don’t know where--I don’t know, I tell you.... I can’t hear you--please spell.... Green’s? Breen’s?... No, I never heard of such a place.... No, I don’t know who he went with; it was some kind of a party--some kind of a.... Who?... Lola? Lola what? No, no, never mind--I never heard of her--never.... Please--please wait a minute--I want to ask you a question--just one. Please. I’ve answered all of yours, haven’t I?... Then--where is Mr. Carver? Where is he?... No, no, you know where he is--you do--you do--you do! You have to tell me--You have to--you.... Hal! Hal!”

She thrust the telephone toward him, the frantic voice slipping and stumbling in its haste.

“Make them tell you--you’re a man--make them--make them----”

Her teeth were chattering so violently that the words were lost; she clung to the table edge, shaken with a dreadful and racking tremor, her tortured eyes fastened on his face.

“What the devil do you mean, calling up at this hour of the night?” demanded Devon violently. “I don’t care who you are; it’s a damned outrage, ringing up a woman at this hour and frightening the heart out of her. One of your dirty charges for speeding, I’ll bet.... If you’ve got Mr. Carver there, send him to the ’phone and send him quick.... Well, if it comes down to that, I don’t like your tone, either.... What?... What?... Oh, report and be damned; you’re going to get a report on yourself that’ll blow the inside of your head out.... Well, get me Mr. Carver then and snap into it.... I can’t hear.... Where is he then?... Where?... Oh, speak louder--where is he?... _What?..._”

There was a moment of absolute silence, and then he spoke again, very quietly.

“Yes, I heard you; I heard you perfectly--be good enough not to shout.... Yes.... No, I’ll explain to Mrs. Carver.... Well, I can’t give you credentials over the telephone, but I have known Mr. and Mrs. Carver for years; I was at school with him--yes. My name’s Devon.... D-e-v-o-n. Henry Devon.... Yes, I’ll drop in to see you to-morrow.... No, you can’t speak to Mrs. Carver--no, that’s final. I’d be much obliged if you’d give me any details that you have. Just run over the facts.... Yes.... I didn’t get that.... Oh--blonde.... No, I couldn’t tell you.... No, you’re on the wrong track; there has been no trouble of any kind between them.... Well, there isn’t any explanation--not any; it’s--it’s.... Look here, give me your number and I’ll call up again in a few minutes.... Yes. 5493?... oh, 53!... In about fifteen minutes.... Yes.”

He placed the receiver slowly on the hook, and stood staring down at the little black instrument that had been so vocal, and now was dumb.

“Hal?” The voice was not more than a breath, but at its sound he shuddered, as though he were cold. “Hal?”

“Sit down, Anne; here, I’ll pull it closer to the fire--that’s it.”

“Hal, what did that man say? Has there been an accident?”

“Something like that.”

“Is Derry--hurt?”

“Yes, dear.”

She sat quite still, only her fingers stirring, drawing the silken tassel on her girdle back and forth, back and forth.

“Is Derry--dead, Hal?”

“Yes, dear.”

She let the girdle slip from her fingers, lifting her hands to push back the weight of hair from her forehead with a small sigh, like a tired child.

“I think it’s just some mistake, don’t you, Hal?”

“I wish to God that I could think so.”

“Well--but what made them think it was Derry?”

“He had letters--cards--initials on his cigarette case.”

“Oh, yes, it’s a diamond-shaped monogram--awfully pretty. I gave it to him last Christmas; you can’t think how pleased he was. D.H.C.--Derrick Horn Carver---- Who was Lola?”

“She was a--a girl who was with him.”

“Was she? Where did it happen?”

“In New Jersey, somewhere this side of Princeton.”

“Please tell me just what happened. Did another automobile hit them?”

“No.”

After a long moment she said again in that dreadful, gentle little voice.

“Well? Then what was it? I’m waiting.”

“Anne, I don’t know how to tell you. I’d rather have the heart torn out of my body then tell you. Wait----”

“I’m through waiting. Is it as bad as that? Hurry up, please. What happened? Where did they find him?”

“In a road-house near Princeton--a place called Breen’s.”

“Was he alone?”

“No--there was a girl with him. They don’t know who she was; her handkerchief had ‘Lola’ on it.”

“Had she killed him?”

“No.”

“How do they know she hadn’t?”

“Because she was shot herself--in the back.”

“Then who killed him?”

“They----” He set his teeth, the sweat standing out on his forehead. “I’m not going to tell you any more about it now. Wait--wait----”

“If you don’t tell me, I’m going out through that door and walk until I get to New York. Who killed him?”

“They say he killed himself.”

“Killed himself? I never heard of such ridiculous nonsense.” She was speaking as quietly and evenly as though she were discussing the labour problem, frozen to a calm more terrible than any madness. “Why should he have killed himself?”

“My God, how do I know? There was no one else to kill him--the pistol was still in his hand.”

“Where were the rest of the party?”

“There was no one else in the party. The proprietor said that they came alone, arrived at about nine and ordered supper--it was after ten when they heard the shots.”

“The proprietor probably did it himself,” said Anne Carver softly. “You let them say these things about Derry without contradiction--you, who know that he would die rather than give pain to any wretched little animal that lives?”

“I can’t believe it, Anne. I can’t believe it--but what else in God’s name can I believe?”

“You can believe what you please; and you evidently please to believe something more filthy than any nightmare that I have ever had.”

“You are being extraordinarily cruel, Anne. What explanation do you give?”

“There are a thousand. Robbery----”

“But nothing that he had was touched----”

“He was protecting the girl----”

“Against whom?”

“It might have been blackmail--it might have been a maniac; it might have been anything, anything, anything but the thing that you think. If Derry were here he would strike you dead for what you believe of him. I wish that he were here to strike you dead.”

“I wish it, too. Believe me, life does not very greatly appeal to me at present.”

“Did you think that if you destroyed my faith in him I would fall weeping into your arms?” she asked smoothly. “Spare yourself the trouble. I would die before I touched you with a finger, now that I know what you think of him.”

“By God!” He towered suddenly above her. “That’s enough, I’m off. You’ll live yet to regret that, Anne.”

“No--no--no--don’t leave me--don’t, don’t.” She caught at his arm as though she were drowning--slipping, slipping deeper into icy water. For a moment he thought that she was going to die where she sat in the great chintz chair. “No, no; I’ll be good--I’ll be good. I didn’t mean it, truly, truly. Hold me, hold me--you loved him, too, didn’t you, Hal?”

“Yes, dear.”

“If he were here he’d tell us how it happened--you’d see. He said it was an awfully good joke on him, too good to keep. He’d tell us.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Isn’t it too bad not to believe in God and Heaven and angels and Ouija boards? Then I could pretend that I could see him again, and that he would tell me. Derry believed all that kind of thing, but I never believed in anything but Derry--and now he’s gone. What time is it?”

“A minute or so to twelve, by this clock.”

“He didn’t keep his word, either, did he? He said not later than twelve--promised! Think of Derry breaking a promise----”

“Anne--Anne----”

“Oh, I know--of course he’s dead, but still--he was Derry. The wind’s worse, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“When it pounces like that, you can see the flames flatten out; it comes down the chimney. Look--it’s burning lower. I’m cold--I’m cold----”

“I’ll get more wood. Is it in the hall?”

“No, let it burn out. It’s late; you must go, mustn’t you? I don’t want you to go--there’s too much wind. It sounds as though it were alive--it sounds as though it were the only thing alive in the world--listen----”

She leaned far forward in the winged chair, and suddenly above the rush and clamour of the wind the telephone rang out, loudly and urgently. Again--again. She sat quite still, with lifted hand, her incredulous eyes frozen on the small black messenger blaring out its summons, the receiver fairly quivering on the hook. Again--again--strident and insistent--again. Devon rose slowly to his feet.

“I’ll answer it.”

“No,” breathed Anne. “No.”

“It’s probably Headquarters again.”

“No,” she whispered. “No--no--it’s not Headquarters again.”

She stumbled out of the chair, clinging to the arms, groping, uncertain, like someone suddenly gone blind, and then in a swift rush she was past him, and the telephone was fast in her hands.

“Yes,” she said clearly. “Long distance--yes, I know.... It’s Anne, dear, it’s Anne.... I can’t hear--it’s so far away--can’t you speak louder? Please, please.... Can you hear me? Can you?... Listen--listen.... I can’t hear very well--listen--you were going to tell me about the party. Remember?... The party--you were going to explain.... No--no--no--I can’t hear.... Make me hear--make me hear--say it again!... No, no, don’t go--no, you can’t go.... No! Derry! Derry!”

The terrible cry tore through the room like something unchained, and Devon sprang to her.

“Take your hands away,” she panted. “Don’t dare--don’t dare.... Central!” She jangled the hook frenziedly. “Central--you cut me off.... Central.... No, no, I won’t excuse it--never, never.... Get him back, I tell you--get him back.... No, I don’t know the number.... No--you mustn’t say that--you _can_ help me.... You can....” She was weeping terribly, throwing back her head to keep her lips clear of the flooding tears, stammering desperately, “No--no.... It was long distance, I tell you--long distance--long----”

Her voice rose--fell--was suddenly and startlingly silent. After a long moment she let the receiver slip from her fingers; it swung limply across the blue-green draperies while she stood very straight, holding the telephone against her heart.

“There’s no one on the line,” she said, in a small, formal, courteous voice.

Devon tried to speak, failed, tried again.

“It was a mistake?”

“Oh, no.” She smiled forgivingly at him. “It wasn’t a mistake; it was Derry. He wanted to explain to me, but I couldn’t hear. It was my fault, you see--I couldn’t hear.”

She stood quite still, stroking the small dark thing against her heart with light and gentle fingers, and then, with an infinitely caressing gesture, she bent her head to it--closer, closer, still smiling a little, as though against her curved lips she heard the echo of a far-off voice.

PHILIP THE GAY

Fairfax Carter sat up very straight in the great carved walnut bed, and plaintively inspected the breakfast tray which the red-cheeked Norman maiden had just deposited beside her. Those eternal little hard rolls--the black bowl of coffee beneath whose steaming fragrance lurked the treacherous chicory--the jug of hot thin milk--the small brown jar of pale honey--she bestowed a rebellious scowl on the entire collection. She felt suddenly, frantically homesick for a bubbling percolator, for thick yellow cream and feathery biscuits, for chilled crimson berries with powdered mounds of sugar. Marie Léontine, briskly oblivious, was coaxing the very small fire in the very large chimney into dancing animation.

“_V’la!_” she announced triumphantly, with all the hearty deference that is the common gift of the French servant. “_Beau matin, p’tite dame!_”

“_Oui_,” conceded the “small lady” grudgingly. She shivered apprehensively as Marie Léontine shoved the copper water jug closer to the flames, and trotted smiling from the room. Ugh! How in the world could any nation hope to keep clean and warm with three sticks of wood and four teaspoonfuls of water? She remembered another country--a bright and blessed country--where water rushed hot and joyous from glittering faucets into great shining tubs--where warmed and fleecy towels hung waiting to fold you hospitably close. She shivered again, forlornly, scanning the stretch of distance across the bare floor to the hook where the meagre towel hung limp and forbidding. “_La douce France!_” Ha! She pulled the tray toward her, still scowling.

Even when she scowled, Fair Carter was more distracting looking than any one young woman has a right to be. She was very small--absurdly small sitting bolt upright in the great dark bed--but she had enough charms to equip any six ladies of ordinary size and aspirations. There was the ruffled glory of her hair, warmer than gold, brighter than bronze, and her rain-coloured eyes--and the small, warm mouth, and the elfin tilt to her brows. There was that look about her, eager and reckless and adventurous, that made your heart contract, when you remembered what life did to the eager and reckless and adventurous. It had made a great many hearts contract. It had made one despairing young adorer from Richmond say: “Fair always looks as though she were carrying a flag--and listening to drums.” And it had wrung tribute from her father, who had been all her family and all her world, and who had adored her even more than the young man from Richmond. “She’s the bravest of all the fighting Carters, is my Fair. And never quite so brave as when she’s frightened. Panic arms her with really desperate valour!”

The bravest of the fighting Carters swallowed the dregs of the coffee bowl, pushed the tray from her, and bestowed a sudden and enchanting smile on one of the dark carved figures on the bedposts. There were four of them, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, but she liked Mark the best. He had a very stern face and a little lion.

“Morning,” she saluted him affably, and if St. Mark’s head had not been made of walnut he would have lost it. She had kept the most potent of her charms in reserve, like a true daughter of Eve. Fair’s extravagant prettiness might steel the sceptical, leading them to argue that so ornamental a head must necessarily be empty, and that no one could look that way long without becoming unbearably vain, spoiled, and capricious. But if she spoke just once--if she said any three indifferent words at random--the veriest sceptic was undone for ever. Because Fair had a Voice. Not the coloratura kind--perhaps Patti could do more justice to _Caro Nome_--but a voice which Galli-Curci and the nightingale and the running brook and church bells and Sarah Bernhardt might well envy. She could sing a little--small, candle-lit songs about love, and absurdly stirring things that had marched down through the centuries, and haunting bits of lullabies--she had a trick of chanting them under her breath, as though it were to herself that she was singing. But when she spoke--ah, then any coloratura that ever lived might well shed tears of bitter envy. For the voice that Fair Carter used for such homely purposes as wishing lucky mortals good day and good night and God-speed was compact of magic. It was wine and velvet and moonlight and laughter and mystery--and for all its enchantment, it was as clear and honest as a nice little boy’s. It did remarkable things to the English language. Fair would have widened her eyes in cool disdain at the idea of indulging in such far-advertised Southern tricks as “you all” and “Ah raickon” and “honey lamb,” but she managed to linger over vowels and elude consonants in a way that did not even remotely suggest the frozen North. It reduced English to such a satisfactory state of submission that she only experimented half heartedly with any other language. A Chinaman would have understood her when she said “Please”--a Polynesian would have thrilled responsive to her “Thank you.”

Therefore she had gone serenely on her way during those two terrible and thrilling years in France, those three terrible and bitter years in Germany, ignoring entirely the fact that the Teutons had a language of their own, and acquiring just enough of the Gallic tongue to enable her to indulge in the gay and hybrid banter of her beloved doughboys--a swift patter consisting largely of “_Ah oui_,” “_ça ne fait rien_” and “_pas compris!_” It had served her purpose admirably for a good five years, but it had proved a broken reed during the past five weeks. The De Lautrecs were capable of speaking almost any kind of French--Monsieur le Vicomte leaned toward a nice mixture of Bossuet and Anatole France, Madame his ancient and regal mother to Marivaux with sprightly touches of Voltaire, Laure and Diane, to René Bazin when they were being supervised and Gyp when they weren’t--Philippe le Gai to a racy and thrilling idiom, at once virile and graceful, as old as the Chanson de Roland, as new as Sacha Guitry’s latest comedy. But after several courteous and tense attempts to exchange amenities with Laure’s “Little American” they had abandoned the tongue of their fathers and devoted their earnest attention to mastering the English language. It was easy enough for Philippe and Laure, of course; they already knew a great deal more about English literature than Fair had dreamed existed, though they tripped over the spoken word, but the other members of the family laboured sternly and industriously, while their small guest surveyed their efforts with indulgent amusement. It seemed quite natural and reasonable to Fairfax Carter they they should continue to do so indefinitely--they wanted to talk to her, didn’t they? Well, then! They were getting on quite well, too, she reflected benevolently, still smiling at St. Mark, who stared back at her so unresponsively that she suddenly ceased to smile.

“I suppose you don’t understand English, either?” she demanded severely. “’Bout time a little old thing like you started to learn it, I should think!”

Her eye wandered to the travelling clock ticking competently away on the desk, and rested there for an electrified second.

“Mercy!” she murmured, appalled, and was out of the bed and across the room with all the swift grace of a kitten. Half-past nine, and the De Chartreuil boys were to ride over for a game of “croquo-golf” at ten! Her toes curled rebelliously at the contact of the cold flags, but she ignored them stoically, pouncing on the copper jug and whirling across the room like a small, bright tempest. What a divine day, chanted her heart, suddenly exultant, as she splashed the water recklessly and tumbled into her clothes. It was wonderful to feel almost well again--to feel weariness slipping from her like a worn-out garment. The sun came flooding in through the deep windows, gilding the faded hangings--gilding the vivid head--she could hear horses’ hoofs beneath her window, and she flung it wide, leaning far out.

“_Bonjour, Monsieur Raoul--bonjour, Monsieur André!_ Oh, Laure, are you down already?”

“Already? This hour, small lazy one! Quick now, or we leave thee!”

“No, no,” wailed Fair. “I’ll be there--I’m almost there now, truly. Save the red mallet for me, angel darling--it’s the only one I can hit with. Don’t let her go, Monsieur André!”

“Never and never, Mademoiselle. We are your slaves.”