The Streets of Ascalon Part 89

Then, incredulous, and a little nervous, she rose to prepare the tea; and he sprang up to bring the folding table.

The ceremony pa.s.sed almost in silence; neither he nor she made the effort to return to the lighter, gayer vein. When they spoke at all it was on some matter connected with business; and her voice seemed to him listless, almost tired.

Which was natural enough, for the heat had been trying, and, in spite of the open windows, no breath of coolness stirred the curtains.

So the last minutes of the afternoon pa.s.sed but the sunshine still reddened the cornices of the houses across the street when she rose to put away the tea-things.

A little later she pinned on her hat and moved toward the front door with a friendly nod to him in silent adieu.

"Will you let me walk home with you?" he said.

"I--think--not, this evening."

"Were you going anywhere?"

She paused, her gloved hand on the k.n.o.b, and he came up to her, slowly.

"_Were_ you?" he repeated.

"No."

"Then--don't you care to let me walk with you?"

She seemed to be thinking; her head was a trifle lowered.

He said: "Before you go there is something I wanted to tell you"--she made an involuntary movement and the door opened and hung ajar letting in the lively music of a street-organ. Then he leaned over and quietly closed the door.

"I'm afraid," he said, "that I'm taking an unwarrantable liberty by interfering in your affairs without consulting you."

She looked up at him, surprised.

"It happened yesterday about this hour," he said.

"What happened?"

"Do you remember that you went home about three o'clock instead of waiting until this hour as usual?"

"Yes."

"Well, this is what occurred. I left the gallery at this same hour.

Ahead of me descending the steps was a young girl who had just delivered a business letter to Mr. Quarren. As she set foot on the pavement a footman attached to an automobile drawn up across the street touched his cap to her and said: 'Beg pardon, Miss Vining, I am Mr. Sprowl's man.

Mr. Sprowl would like to see you at the Cafe Cammargue. The car is waiting.'"

Miss Vining's colour faded; she stared at Dankmere with widening eyes, and he dropped his hands into his coat-pockets and returned her gaze.

"I don't understand you," she said in a low voice.

"Neither did the young girl addressed by the footman. Neither did I. But I was interested. So I said to the footman: 'Bring around your car. I shall have to explain about Miss Vining to Mr. Sprowl.'"

"What!" she said breathlessly.

"That's where I interfered, Miss Vining. And the footman looked doubtful, too, but he signalled the chauffeur.... And so I went to the Cafe Cammargue----"

He hesitated, looking at her white and distressed face, then continued coolly:

"Sprowl seemed surprised to see me. He was waiting in a private room....

He's looking rather badly these days.... We talked a few minutes----"

Pale, angry, every sense of modesty and reserve outraged, the girl faced him, small head erect:

"You went there to--to discuss _me_ with _that_ man!"

He was silent. She turned suddenly and tried to open the door, but he held it closed.

"I did it because I cared for you enough to do it," he said. "Don't you understand? Don't you suppose I know that kind of man?"

"It--it was not your business--" she faltered, twisting blindly at the door-k.n.o.b. "Let me go--please----"

"I made it my business.... And that man understood that I was making it my business. And he won't attempt to annoy you again.... Can you forgive me?"

She turned on him excitedly, her eyes flashing with tears, but the impetuous words of protest died on her lips as her eyes encountered his.

"It was because I love you," he said. And, as he spoke, there was about the man a quiet dignity and distinction that silenced her--something of which she may have had vague glimpses at wide intervals in their acquaintances--something which at times she suspected might lie latent in unknown corners of his character. Now it suddenly confronted her; and she recognised it and stood before him without a word to say.

It mended matters a little when he smiled, and the familiar friend reappeared beside her; but she still felt strange and shy; and wondering, half fearfully, she let him lift her gloved hands and stand, holding them, looking into her eyes.

"You know what I am," he said. "I have nothing to say about myself. But I love you very dearly.... I loved before, once, and married. And she died.... After that I didn't behave very well--until I knew you.... It is really in me to be a decent husband--if you can care for me.... And I don't think we're likely to starve----"

"I--it isn't that," she said, flushing scarlet.

"What?"

"What you _have_ ... I could only care for--what you are."

"Can you do that?"

But her calm had vanished, and, head bent and averted, she was attempting to withdraw her hands--and might have freed herself entirely if it had not been for his arm around her.

This new and disconcerting phase of the case brought her so suddenly face to face with him that it frightened her; and he let her go, and followed her back to the empty gallery where she sank down at her desk, resting her arms on the covered type-machine, and buried her quivering face in them.

It was excusable. Such things don't usually happen to typewriters and stenographers although they have happened to barmaids.

When he had been talking eloquently and otherwise for a long time Jessie Vining lifted her pale, tear-stained face from her arms; and his lordship dropped rather gracefully on his knees beside her, and she looked down at him very solemnly and wistfully.

It was shockingly late when they closed the gallery that evening. And their mode of homeward progress was stranger still, for instead of a tram or of the taxi which Lord Dankmere occasionally prevailed upon her to accept, they drifted homeward on a pink cloud through the light-shot streets of Ascalon.