by Rex Stout
She had probably decided to elevate him.
“Damned idiot!” he said aloud.
“Mr. McNair!” came a voice. He turned.
It was the girl. As she approached Carl stiffened perceptibly.
“I am going uptown,” she said breathlessly, “and I supposed you were, too, so I wanted to ask you to ride up with me. Will you?”
“I am sorry,” declined Carl, with finality and extreme dignity.
“But I—” she stopped, surprised. “Please.”
Carl was silent. Just in front of them a footman was opening the door of a limousine.
“You may help me in,” said the girl. Carl did so, politely, and stood by the open door.
“Now,” she continued, “did you have to beg me to have luncheon with you?”
Carl could not speak. She was very, very sweet.
“Well, then,” taking his silence for assent, “please.”
Carl entered and seated himself at her side. To the waiting footman Miss Carson gave the address of Carl’s office, and the car started uptown.
“Now,” said the girl, “why were you in such a hurry to leave?”
“I—I had to catch a train.”
“Oh!” A pause. Then, with calm impertinence, “Where were you going?”
“To Caxton: I am going back there to live.” And then, as she started to interrupt, “There’s no use pretending. You know why I am going.”
There was a long silence.
Carl gazed out of the window, seeing nothing. He reproached himself that he had not refused obstinately to enter the car. He hated the soft luxuriousness of the cushions; he almost persuaded himself that he hated the girl.
Finally she spoke.
“I have an explanation to make, Mr. McNair. And a request. You see, I do settlement work. On Saturday one of the girls was ill, and I offered to do her work for her. That is why—that is how I met you. If my father knew of it he would be angry. I mean, if he knew I was an inspector,” smiling. “I told him I met you at a reception. You won’t tell him, will you?”
“Likely not, since I sha’n’t see him again.” Clearly, Carl was very unhappy.
The girl smiled. “Oh, but you will. I thought the one thing you wanted was a start. Well.”
“So did I. But now I know what I want. And it is beyond me. You are very kind, Miss Carson—and charitable.”
The car stopped at Carl’s office.
He glanced up at it with a shudder, and leaving the car, stood at its door looking in at the girl. She looked at him questioningly. Plainly, he was ready to go without a word.
“What—” she began, and then finished bravely, “what if I, too, know what you want?”
Carl looked at her in wonder, unbelieving. She was bending toward him, face flushed and lips parted. And her eyes—but Carl was blind.
“Please stay,” she whispered. “And now go—quick.”
Carl mechanically lifted his hat and obeyed. He had walked all of five blocks before he understood anything.
That evening he wrote a letter to Caxton, telling of his new position with R. U. Carson & Co. After it was folded and sealed he tried for an hour to convince himself, and finally went to the mirror and examined himself critically.
“Why,” he said aloud, and with emphasis, “the thing is impossible.”
But it wasn’t. It never is.
Baba
A HOUSE PARTY, BEING AN institution established and maintained solely for the convenience of storywriters and matchmakers, has no excuse for existence unless it serves the purposes of one or the other of these valuable members of society.
In real life no matron dreams of giving a house party without inviting a man, preferably young, and a girl, necessarily pretty, whom she wishes to bring together; and no novelist ever puts one in his book if he can find any other way out of it. With the hostess it necessitates many indifferent guests, and with the novelist many undesirable characters. It belongs, therefore, to that species of artificial phenomena known as last resorts.
Knowing all this—for she was a wise matron—Mrs. T. M. S. Hartshorn had nevertheless invited fourteen persons to a house party at her country home in Westchester County during the last week of April.
This fact produces an alternative. Either she knew I was going to write a story about it or she had certain designs in connection with the fates of Edward Besant and Sylvia Herrow; for he was the only young man in the crowd and she the only pretty girl.
Mrs. Hartshorn was a wise matron!
But it would seem that her plan was doomed to failure. Consider: On the evening of the third day of the party Mrs. Hartshorn, making a tour of exploration some time after the dinner hour discovered Mr. Besant seated in gloomy solitude in a dark corner of the library. She paused, waiting for recognition.
He looked up and said: “Oh, is it you?” And buried his face in his hands again.
“Ned, what on earth is the matter with you?” demanded his hostess. “Come on in front; we need you for a fourth table.”
Mr. Besant muttered something very uncomplimentary to tables in general and fourth tables in particular, and declared his intention of remaining where he was forever. Then he looked up with an air of weary decision:
“I forgot. I wanted to speak to you, Dora. I’m going home on the seven-ten.”
“The seven-ten?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
She exploded immediately. She declared that he couldn’t go; that everyone would know why, and laugh at him; that she couldn’t possibly explain his departure, and wouldn’t try; and that she would never give another houseparty as long as she lived.
“Anyway,” she finished, “it’s perfectly silly of you. I suppose Sylvia has refused you, just because she doesn’t happen to know what she wants. Good Heavens! And you run away like this! Ned Besant, you’re a coward!”
But all that the young man would permit himself was a gloomy reiteration of his purpose to leave on the seven-ten in the morning. His hostess presented a dozen arguments—but what is the good of arguing with an oyster?
And at length, convinced of the inflexibility of his determination, she returned to the waiting tables in the drawingroom, announcing:
“We’ll have to do without him. He’s in the library writing letters. Just received a telegram and says he has to leave on the seven-ten tomorrow.”
“Leave!” exclaimed the parrot of the party—a little, fat, red-faced man with eyeglasses.
“Telegram! It couldn’t—” began Tom Hartshorn, the host; then subsided at a glance from his wife.
“Too bad!”
“It breaks up the game.”
“Miss Herrow, you go after him—he’ll come then, all right.”
But Miss Herrow—a slender, graceful girl with fair, velvety skin and gray eyes shot with lights of green, merely continued toying with a pack of cards.
“We shall have to cut in,” said Mrs. Hartshorn, advancing to a table. “Tom, give Mr. Nelson your seat. Mr. Graves, you will have to be a fifth. Higgins, take away the extra table.”
And, after some confusion and chatter, they found their places and began the pleasant pastime of trying to win one another’s money.
In the meantime Edward Besant remained in his dark corner in the library. The only light in the room entered through the open door leading into the hall, and it barely permitted him to see the deep outline of a chair here and a table there.
Occasionally an exclamation of triumph or annoyance or a burst of laughter floated down the hall from the room in front.
Mr. Besant seemed not to hear. For thirty minutes he sat staring straight ahead at nothing, then he arose, walked noiselessly to the door and down the hall, appropriated the first hat in sight, and sought the night without.
An hour later he returned, went directly to the library, and switched on the electricity.
By its light could be seen an expression on his face that belied the hopelessness of his words to his hostess a short time
before. It wore an air of determination and resolve—the look of a man who has sought a decision and found it.
“It’s the only thing to do,” he muttered aloud, crossing to the desk and searching for a pen. “I’m tired of this faithful Fido business. This will end it for good.”
He sat down and wrote four letters—one long, two medium, and one short. Then he rang for a servant.
“Higgins,” he said, “I’m leaving on the seven-ten in the morning. I don’t want to bother Mrs. Hartshorn about it; so will you see that the car is ready at six-fifty-five to take me to the village? And here are some letters. These three are to be posted; the other is for Miss Herrow. Please send it to her room.”
Higgins took the letters and something else with them.
“Thank you, sir. Sorry you’re going to leave. Mr. Besant. I’ll see that the car is ready. And your luggage, sir?”
“I have only a bag. I’ll attend to it myself. By the way, you’d better call me about a quarter past six. Good night.”
“Very well, sir. Good night, sir.”
When Higgins had gone Besant again passed noiselessly down the hall. At the door of the drawing room he halted a moment listening to the voices within. For a time nothing could be distinguished; then came:
“Two club.”
“Two heart.”
“Two royal.”
“Two no trump.”
And then, evidently from another table, a silvery girlish voice sounded suddenly:
“But Mr. Nelson! You had only led diamonds once, so how could I know?”
This was followed by a burst of laughter from many throats.
Besant sighed, turned to the stairs, and mounted to his own room. For a while he sat on the edge of a table, then rose and began to pace the floor.
But despite this his face still held its expression of determination and decision; and his lips were pressed together in a grim line as he undressed and prepared for bed. Fifteen minutes later he was sound asleep.
At exactly six-fifteen in the morning he was called by Higgins.
Again at six-twenty, and six-thirty, and this time he was informed in a respectful but firm voice that trains were stubborn things. Accordingly he leaped out of a bed, into a tub, and thence into his clothes.
Then he threw his things hurriedly but effectively into his bag and descended to the breakfast room. It was empty, except for a servant, who approached as the young man entered.
“Eggs, sir?”
“Yes. As usual,” replied Besant absently as he stood looking out of the window.
April sunshine was just beginning to chase away the long shadows and transform the drops of cool dew into glittering jewels, but the young man did not see. The expression of his face would seem to imply that he was filled with regret for his decision of the evening before.
He sighed deeply twice, passed his hand wearily across his forehead, took a cigarette from his case, and turned to the table for a match.
Then suddenly he started back and uttered a sharp exclamation of surprise, while the cigarette fell from his fingers to the floor.
A girl had entered the room, stopping three paces from the threshold—a slender, graceful girl with gray eyes shot with lights of green.
“Miss Herrow!” exclaimed Besant, finding his tongue.
“Good morning,” said the girl quite as though she were speaking to Higgins, advancing to the opposite side of the table.
But Besant was too agitated with surprise to notice her tone. Simple wonder and astonishment at her appearance shone in his eyes, to be followed soon by a sudden expression of embarrassment and hesitation.
“It is quite early this morning,” he stammered, then wanted to bite his tongue off.
Miss Herrow did not smile; instead, she approached a step, holding out something white in her hand.
“It is,” she agreed icily. “I got up,” she continued, “to return something to you which—that is—something sent to me by mistake.”
And she threw the something white on the table. Then she turned and started for the door—not too hastily.
“But Miss Herrow!” cried Besant. “What do you mean? What is it?”
She paused, turning her head and pointing to the table.
“It is there. You will understand when you read it.” Then she turned full around. “Mr. Besant, I want to say that I am painfully disappointed in you. After yesterday—after what you said yesterday—I thought—”
She stopped, caught her breath, and went on: “When I went to my room last night I found an envelope on the dressing table. It contained that! I have never been so—so insulted before, and I showed it to Dora—to Mrs. Hartshorn. I asked her to return it to you, but she said you deserved—that is—I should return it myself. I have done so.”
Besant was staring at her with an expression of the most profound amazement.
“Insult!” he exclaimed finally. “That is a hard term, Miss Herrow. Is it an insult for a man to tell a woman he loves her? Or is a farewell an insult?”
“That he loves her?” repeated the girl scornfully. “No. But that—read it and you will understand. It is—evidently—intended for some—some person.”
Besant stared at her for a moment, then turned to the table and picked up the sheet of paper. He read:
Baba, you were right. I cannot live without you.
Ned.
“Good God!” cried the young man in a tone of utter consternation, and sank limply into a chair.
“One can’t be too careful with one’s correspondence,” observed Miss Herrow acidly. She seemed somehow unable to get to the door.
“This is horrible!” groaned poor Besant from the chair. But he must have been keeping an eye on the girl, for as she turned again to leave he sprang to his feet. And, as though by a superhuman effort, he appeared suddenly calm.
“Miss Herrow,” he said. Again she turned.
“I—you know—I’m dashed, of course. I would have given anything not to have this happen. I would like to cut off my hand for doing it. But I cannot agree that I have insulted you. Where is the insult?”
“Where?” exclaimed the girl in withering scorn. “But I am not surprised that you do not see it, Mr. Besant. After what you told me yesterday—and then this—”
“What did I tell you yesterday?”
“Yes, worse than insult!” She rode over the interruption. “You know very well what you told me yesterday. You love me! Bah! To write—” she choked with scorn and indignation—“to write to another girl that you cannot live without her, and in the very room where you had said exactly the same thing to me not two hours before!
“If that is what your love is like, I am glad it is no longer mine. I wish it never had been. I wish I’d never seen you. What if I had believed you? What if I had admitted—that is—what if I had pretended to return your love? You, who cannot live without Baba. Oh, you—you monster!”
“It was true!” exclaimed the young man as she paused for breath.
“Ah! You declare it to my face!”
“I mean,” he stammered, “I mean that I love you.”
“Bah!” Her eyes blazed. “As though you could write to another—to someone like that if you loved me!”
“I could and did,” replied Besant, a little more calmly. “What is the use of pretending, Sylvia, when you know? Why, Baba—the girl I wrote to—she knows I love you!”
“She?”
“Yes. That is, she knows I love someone. That’s why—she went away, you see—that’s why I had to write. She told me to, if ever—And why not?” he demanded fiercely. “If I cannot have your love, why should I not take what I can get? You say I insult you. Good Heavens! What do you care? If I insult anyone it is she who loves me—who will always love me—”
He stopped, swallowing hard, and walked to the window.
As he did so a servant appeared, bearing a platter and a pot of coffee, and Higgins’s voice came from the doorway announcing that the car was waiting.
But at the sight of Miss Herrow and the sound of Mr. Besant’s sharp answer they both retreated in confusion.
Presently, as the young man stood looking out on the April sunshine, a voice came from behind:
“Who is she?”
He made no answer. Again the voice:
“Is her name Baba?”
At that he turned and observed dryly:
“Miss Herrow, you have no right to ask those questions. Her name is not Baba. I call her that. You do not know her.”
Then, as the girl started back at the rebuff, he continued calmly:
“You see, you make a mistake if you think your indignation proceeds from a sense of insult. It comes from selfishness. For two years you tell me that you can never love me until you end by convincing me. Then, when I turn to one who loves me—Heaven knows why, but she does—then what happens? You don’t want me; then what does it matter where I go, or to whom?”
“I didn’t say I could never love you,” replied Miss Herrow.
“I beg your pardon; the last time you said it was yesterday.”
“I did not! I merely said that I didn’t happen to love you at that moment.”
“If there has been a more auspicious moment in the past two years, I have failed to find it.”
“Perhaps you didn’t try hard enough. But then—” a sigh—”that is all over now.”
“Yes,” the young man assented grimly, “it is.”
“You have written to—to her?”
“I have.” He crossed to the table, picked up the paper, and put it in his pocket.
“I suppose—she will come?”
“She will.” He smiled—a smile of assurance, almost of happiness.
“She—she loves you?”
“Yes. Of course, you can’t understand that; but she does.”
“And what will you do when—when she comes?”
“What will I do?” He stared. “Go to meet her, I suppose.”
“At the train?”
“Yes. She comes by train.”
There ensued a long silence. Besant walked to the window; the girl seated herself abruptly in a chair, then abruptly got up again. For six seconds she gazed at the young man’s broad back, then exclaimed suddenly and fiercely:
