CHAPTER IX

A RED GLARE

"By all that's astonishing, are you actually idling? And may I come and idle, too?"

Shirley looked up from the depths of one of the capacious willow chairs, which, well stocked with cushions, were favourite lounging-places upon the great side porch of the Townsend house, and from which one could look out over a long and charming stretch of lawn toward the tennis-court.

It was a warm evening in late May. Everybody else was away, and Shirley had settled herself for one of the rare hours of rest and solitude which she so much enjoyed when her work was done. But she answered Brant Hille cordially:

"Of course you may, if you will be nice and soothing. These first warm days make me feel a trifle lazy."

"Not strange, when you spend them in a stuffy office." Brant accepted the cushions she tossed to him, and disposed himself comfortably upon them on the top step near her feet.

"The office is n't stuffy. I 've sat by a wide-open window all day. Besides, the first thing Murray did when he went in with father was to overhaul our whole system of ventilation. So the office is never stuffy, even in winter."

"Don't be belligerent, or I 'll not be responsible for the soothing effects of my society. What can I do to lull you to repose? You don't like banjo music, or I 'd have brought my banjo over. It's just the evening for that."

"If you had, you'd have gone home again."

"You _are_ in a sweet mood!" Brant spoke with the familiarity of old acquaintance. "Would you object to telling me what's gone wrong with your ladyship?"

"I can't find out the French for certain phrases it's necessary to use in the correspondence we have on hand just now. There are no equivalents for the idioms that I can discover as yet, and it's most important that I get them right. I 've practically had to make a phrase-book for myself so far, because the dictionaries and hand-books don't give the terms I want. I got hold of some old correspondence last week that helped me immensely, but to-day I was completely baffled. I suppose it has got on my nerves, and made me fractious."

Yet she did not look particularly nerve-worn, lying there in the low chair, in her thin white frock, her round arms resting upon the arms of the chair, her head thrown back, as she regarded her visitor from under low-sweeping lashes. Neither did she look in the least like the young woman of business she had become.

Brant was always trying to convince himself that her work was spoiling her--it would be a comforting realisation if he could think it. But as often as he had succeeded in making himself half believe that some other girl, whose ways of living were such as he approved, was nearly as attractive as Shirley Townsend, just so often did the sight of Shirley in some unbusinesslike surroundings upset his convictions. To-night she looked particularly feminine and alluring, in spite of her avowed fractiousness and her explanation of the cause.

"All baffling things wear on one," he answered, with an air of being sympathetic. "I know how it is, from experience. I 'd like a dictionary or a phrase-book myself--one that would tell me what to say to you when you want to be 'soothed.' Shall I go in and get a book of verse and read aloud to you?"

"Please don't."

"Fiction, then?

"Worse and worse."

"History? Philosophy? Science? Travel?--Or humour?"

"None of them. I don't like to be read to--as a duty."

"Duty! I'd be delighted."

"I should n't, then."

"What _do_ you want?"

"Silence, I think," said the girl in the chair, with a mischievous look at the back of her companion's head. Her face was demure again, however, when he turned. "Don't you like just to sit and gaze off into space on a languid night like this, and say nothing at all?"

"If you prefer to have me go home----"

"Not in the least. I 'd like to know you were there on call--if you would n't talk."

A silence of some length ensued. Brant stared moodily off over the darkening lawn, watching distant electric lights twinkle into existence along the rows of tree-tops which outlined the streets. Shirley closed her eyes. She really was more weary than she knew. It had been a busy winter in the office, and she had worked hard to be able to fill the place she held. Her achievements in the matter of the technical French correspondence had proved of considerable importance to the firm, and her satisfaction at becoming so useful had led her to spend much of her spare time in making herself proficient.

It was fully fifteen minutes--he thought it at least an hour--before Brant looked around. He had vowed to himself that he would give her all the silence she wanted, that he would not speak until she spoke. But after a time her absolute motionlessness struck him as caused by something even less flattering to himself than her desire for absence of speech.

"Confound it--I believe she 's gone to sleep!" he said to himself, and rose abruptly, to stand looking down at her, discomfited and very nearly angry. Of all the odd girls, one who would tell you to stop talking, and then go off to sleep in your presence, was certainly the oddest. He supposed she might be tired, and with reason, but--to go to sleep!

The shaded electric bulbs, which hung at each corner of the porch, at this moment came glowingly into life, as somebody within switched on the current. They were not designed to illuminate the porch strongly, only to turn its gloom into a mellow moonlight effect. But the light was quite sufficient to show Brant that although Shirley's lashes still swept her cheek, her lips were smiling.

"It was a frightful test of your friendship, n't it?" she murmured, without opening her eyes. "But you did nobly. I never thought you could hold out so long!"

"You--rascal! I 'll wager you wanted to talk, yourself, after a while."

"Of course I did. The minute a woman gets what she wants, she wants--something else."

"What is it now? Me to go home?"

"How distrustful of yourself you are to-night!"

"That's the effect you usually have on me." Brant drew up a chair. "Shirley," he began again abruptly, "do you know what I wish?"

"No."

"Do you want to know it?"

"Not badly."

"You don't care a straw for me, do you?"

"Several straws."

"You do! I say----"

A door opened. Sophy said, deferentially, "You 're wanted at the telephone, if you please, Miss Shirley."

Shirley vanished. Brant rose and paced about the porch, waiting.

"Of course it's no use!" he said, discontentedly, to himself. "I 've got as far as this forty times--and no farther. The next thing she did would be to throw a soaking wet blanket over me. I ought to be used to it. But she might at least take me seriously. She never does. It 's no good--this growing up with a girl and then trying to convince her that you mean anything when you speak!"

Inside, Shirley was listening to a rapid fire of words which woke her up as thoroughly as anything had ever done in her life. They came in the voice of Peter Bell, a voice at once excited and controlled:

"Shirley, the factory is on fire. I don't want father to hear about it--he 'd come down--you understand. Will you think up some way to get him off with yourself for the next hour? We 'll probably have to turn in a general alarm, and if we do, somebody 'll be sure to call him up and tell him. That 's all. I can count on you?"

"Yes--yes. Peter----"

But Peter was already gone. Evidently he had no time to spare for answering questions. Shirley turned away from the telephone, thinking rapidly.

She knew that Mr. Joseph Bell was at home, for she had seen him, an hour earlier, training vines over the front porch. She understood that Peter had remained for late work at the factory office, as he so often did, although it was now nearly nine o'clock. And she knew well that it would never do for Peter's father to go down to the burning building--the excitement of a great fire at his own place of business would be the worst thing in the world for him.

Mr. Joseph Bell had kept steadily on at his work throughout the year, and nothing that Peter had feared had happened. It had been arranged somehow so that the most fatiguing part of his duties now came upon the broad shoulders of the son instead of the bent ones of the father. But it was as necessary as ever that there should be no sudden strain, either physical or mental, and it was this which she now must prevent.

Brant Hille, waiting impatiently outside, saw Shirley fly back to him, and looked up at her with gratification. But her first words made him sit up, for she spoke in haste:

"Brant, is your car ready for a start?"

"Always is. Want to----"

"Will you get it--quick? The Armstrong paper-factory is on fire. Mr. Bell mustn't know it. I can't stop to explain. I must get him away where he won't hear. I 'll go ask him and Mrs. Bell to take a drive with us--out to the farm, perhaps. I 'll run over. You drive round there--will you?"

"Why on earth should n't he know? He----"

"Oh, don't stop to talk about it. I 'll tell you afterward. The general alarm may go in any minute, and somebody will telephone him if he's at the house. Quick--please!"

Of course Brant did not understand, but Shirley's manner was not to be taken lightly. Even as she spoke she left him and ran indoors again. Well, if he could serve her, it would be better than having to sit beside her in silence while she thought about technical French phrases. Besides, he was an enthusiastic motorist, and a hurry call for the car always gave him more or less pleasure. He bolted across the lawn, through the hedge by a short cut to the street, and so to his own home, on the farther side of Worthington Square.

Shirley hurried across Gay Street, having stopped only to pick up a long coat and scarf. She caught sight of Mrs. Bell's light skirt at the edge of the vine-screen of the porch.

"Isn't it a perfect night?" Mrs. Bell heard a familiar, clear-toned voice ask. "Don't you and Mr. Bell want to take a gentle little spin down Northboro road in Mr. Hille's car? He 's asked me out, and given me leave to invite whomever I want. I 'd love to have you."

Mr. Brant Hille--inviting Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Bell to go motoring with him at nine o'clock on a May evening--there was no precedent for this! But Mrs. Bell, with the intuition of the mother of young people, thought she understood. Shirley wanted a chaperon, and her kind young heart prompted her to ask a pair who were not much accustomed to the delights of automobiling in the moonlight.

"Why, yes, we'll go," said Mr. Bell, getting up from his rocking-chair. "We 're all alone to-night--the young people are off at a party. If you 'll persuade the young man not to put on too much speed."

So in less than five minutes the party were settling themselves in the big green car, its headlights making a wide, brilliant track before it down the quiet street.

"All ready?" asked Hille, and started the car. As it began to move, the distant but distinct sound of a telephone-bell struck upon Shirley's ear. Mr. Bell turned his head. "Was that in our house?" he asked.

Mrs. Bell was tying a scarf over her hair, slightly muffling her ears. She had not heard.

"Go on--fast!" breathed Shirley in Hille's ear. The street was nearly empty, and he obeyed. For a moment Mr. Bell's attention was taken by the new sensation of speed,--not appreciable speed, from the motorist's stand-point, because the car was within city limits, but to the novice considerable.

At the intersection of Gay Street with Conner Street it was possible to look for a moment straight down toward the heart of the city, into the business district. A red glare was plainly visible, although partly dimmed by hundreds of twinkling electric lights between.

"Must be a big fire," said Mr. Bell, straining his eyes to see. Then the trees and houses hid the city from view. "It was down our way, too. I wish I could telephone the factory and find out. Peter's there. He 'd know. Might be that was our telephone-bell that rang."

"I did n't hear any bell, dear," his wife assured him.

"A fire always looks nearer than it is," said Hille, over his shoulder, driving on without diminishing his speed. Instead, he accelerated it. The street was a quiet one, there was nobody in sight.

"One summer, when I was a little girl, and we were staying in the country, father and I walked half a mile to see a fire--and found a big red moon coming up behind the trees," said Shirley, and talked lightly on.

Brant seconded her efforts with skill, for which she inwardly thanked him, and between them they soon had the thoughts of their guests far away from the dangerous subject. They ran quickly through the suburbs out into the open country, taking the Northboro road, for that course led directly away from the red glare which, as Shirley covertly glanced back from time to time, could be clearly perceived on the western side of the city behind them.

Gaily as she talked and laughed, the girl's thoughts were with Peter. He was somewhere back in that red glare, working, without doubt, if there were anything for him to do. She was thankful that it was after hours, and that there were probably few of the factory hands about the place, yet there were undoubtedly many things to be saved in the office--books and papers and drawings. She knew Peter well enough to be sure that his own personal safety would be the last thing he would think of, so long as he could do what might look like his duty to the house he served.

The Bells did not know how far they went, nor did they guess at what a pace. Brant's machine was a fine one, and he was an expert at smooth running. The flight through the warm moonlight was a delightful experience, for few curves and no sharp grades gave accent to the speed, and the hour flew by as swiftly as the road. When they turned again toward the city, the crimson glow upon the clouds had gone.

"The fire is out," remarked Mr. Bell, as they arrived at the top of a small hill in the suburbs, from which he could see into the heart of the business district. "Hope it was n't as serious as it looked."

But Brant's eyes and Shirley's, younger and sharper, could make out a dense mass of smoke hanging over the place where the flames had been.

"It won't do to take them home yet," thought the girl, setting her wits at work again.

The result was an invitation to the Bells to alight at the great porch of the Townsend house, instead of in Gay Street, with the promise of some light refreshment. At first they shook their heads; but Hille declared so loudly that he knew what Shirley had to offer, and could not think of letting them down short of the full measure of the entertainment, that there seemed to be no way out without spoiling the pleasure of the two young people. So presently they were all partaking of a hastily concocted iced drink, served with tiny cakes, and laughing over Hille's stories of certain college incidents, which he told with gusto, incited thereto by Shirley's whispered, "You 're helping me splendidly. Please keep it up, and I 'll be forever in your debt."

"If there's any way of making you forever in my debt," Brant made reply under his breath, "I 'll do a continuous performance for your friends till daylight."

But such an effort as this would have been was unnecessary. Mrs. Bell presently took her husband away, and since it was a late hour, and no other chaperons appeared upon the scene, Brant was forced to go, also. He was obliged to give up making any further attempts at gaining headway in Shirley's good graces, for although she dismissed him with hearty thanks, it was with an air of abstraction hardly to be wondered at. Her one desire was to hear the telephone-bell ring again, and learn that although the factory might have burned to the ground, no lives were lost--and that not a hair of her friend's head was hurt.

She stood alone upon the porch, waiting anxiously, when the Townsend landau drove in at the gate, bringing home Murray and Jane, who had been out to dinner.

"There she is," said Murray, with suppressed excitement. The next instant he was out, had whirled Jane out also, and was grasping his young sister's hands.

"Don't be frightened--it 's all right. But a few things have happened this evening. The Armstrong factory----"

"I know. Is it gone?"

"To the foundations. Peter found the fire, fought it alone till the firemen came, rescued the night-watchman--played the leading part generally--till an accident put him out. My word!--that fellow----Well--he 's all right, but he 's burned a bit, and his leg 's broken. He was so confoundedly risky, trying to save the last calendar on the wall----"

"Where is he?"

"St. Martin's Hospital. We 've just come from there. He got his knock-out the first half-hour after the thing began, so there 's been time to get him fixed up. Our man Larrabee was at the fire, saw Peter put into the ambulance, and telephoned me at the Kingsfords'. Tried three times to get his people at home, but could n't. See here, he wants you to tell his mother--says Jane is too much upset."

Shirley looked at Jane. "I 'm not upset," said Jane, but her lips were unsteady. Murray put his arm around her.

"You see, Larrabee thought it was worse than it was with Peter, when they put him in the ambulance. He was stunned by the fall that broke his leg. It gave Janey a bad shock, and no wonder--it did me. But the old boy 's himself again, all right, and his one idea is to let his mother know why he does n't come home, but to keep even the news of the factory fire from his father to-night, if he can. We don't see why, but he seems to, so we 'll follow his wishes. It's the least we can do for him."

Shirley slipped through the hedge, and slowly crossed Gay Street in the moonlight. She was trying hard to be cool and do as Peter wanted her to do. If she rang, Mr. Bell would come to the door, and then how should she manage, what excuse should she give? She thought of a way.

"Mr. Bell," she said when he appeared, "Janey 's come home from her party--and she 's had just a little bit too much party. She feels like a small girl again, and wants her mother to come over for a few minutes."

"Why, of course," said Mr. Bell, heartily, from the shadow of the doorway. "Nothing much the matter with the little girl?"

"Oh, no--she 'll be all right in the morning."

So Mrs. Bell crossed the road with Shirley, and the girl, with her arm round the elder woman's shoulders, gently told her the news. Mrs. Bell took it as Peter had known she would, quietly, although, aside from his personal injury, there was much cause for anxious thought in the loss of the factory and the consequent putting of its workers out of employment.

When Peter's mother had gone home again, resting on Murray's promise that in the morning he would take her to the hospital, Shirley turned to her brother. He had taken Jane upstairs, and come down again, himself too restless to go to bed. He discovered his sister to be in a like mood, and they sat down once more in the moonlit porch to talk it over, regardless of the hour, which was past midnight.

"I wonder sometimes," said Murray, suddenly, when he had told Shirley in detail all he knew of the events of the evening, "whether anybody but me fully appreciates that chap, Peter Bell. Do you know what I' ve been thinking a long time? That he 's the man we need at the head of one of our departments. From all I can learn, he 's been growing as nearly invaluable to the Armstrongs as a man can be, yet they have n't raised his salary for two years. Now 's our chance to jump in and get him. If I can only convince father--and I think he 's pretty nearly convinced--I 'll make Peter an offer to-morrow. Pretty good medicine for a broken leg and burned hands--eh?"

"I should hope it would be."

"You 'd like to see him in the business, would n't you?"

"If you think him fit for it."

"If I think him fit! What about you?"

"How can I judge? It's for you to say."

Murray looked sharply at her, in the shaded light of the electric bulbs. He smiled, for in spite of her remarkably quiet manner, her fingers, unconsciously twisting and untwisting her delicate handkerchief, were, as he put it to himself, "giving her away." He had an idea that it mattered a good deal to his sister what Peter Bell's future might be, although he was confident that there was no understanding between them.

If he knew Peter, that young man was not the one to ask to marry a rich man's daughter until his own feet were on substantial ground. But that Peter cared, and cared very deeply, for Murray Townsend's sister, Murray was well assured.

"It's for me to say, is it?" he went on, wickedly persisting in his theme. "But it's for you to think! How about having him round our office every day--desk next mine--giving you dictation, now and then, maybe, when it suits me to put it off on him? Think you could stand it? Look up at him as coolly as you do at me? Could you, Miss Townsend, stenographer? See here, what are you jumping up for?"

"Because you are getting impudent," responded Miss Townsend, turning her head so that her face was in shadow. Her heart was beating so quickly she was afraid her brother would recognise the fact. It had been an agitating evening all through, and now this last suggestion was rather more than she could face with composure.

"I 've a notion P. B. himself could put up with the situation," went on Murray, watching her. "His dictation might be a trifle flurried at first, and he might forget himself now and then, and ignore those purely businesslike relations which should always exist between a business man and his stenographer. But I 've no doubt that by a judicious course of snubbing you could----"

But he was talking to the empty air. By a hasty flight and the abrupt closing of a door, his sister had put herself out of range.