Who Cares? Part 34

"Young fool, you young fool," she cried, with the feeling of being forgotten and deserted, with not one speck on the blank horizon.

"You've failed--failed in everything. You haven't even carried out your program. Others have paid,--Martin and Gilbert and Alice, but the big bill has come in to you ... Who cares? You do, you do, you young fool, and you must creep out of the procession with only one thing stored in your memory,--the loss of Martin, Martin."

It was a bad hour for this girl-child who had tried her wings too young.

And when Gilbert straightened up and gave thanks to G.o.d for the woman who had never stirred him, but whose courage and tenderness had added to his respect, he too turned towards the sea with its blank horizon,--the sea upon which he was to be taken by his good wife for rest and sleep, and there was Joan ... young, and slight and alluring, with her back to him and her hands behind her back, and the mere sight of her churned his blood again, and set his dull fire into flames. Once more the old craving returned, the old madness revived, as it always would when the sight and sound of her caught him, and all the common sense and uncommon goodness of the little woman who had given him comfort rose like smoke and was blown away.... To win this girl he would sacrifice Alice and barter his soul. She was in his blood. She was the living picture of his youthful vision. She only could satisfy the Great Emotion.... There was the plan that he had forgotten,--the lunatic plan from which, even in his most desperate moment, he had drawn back, afraid,--to cajole her to the cottage away from which he would send his servants; make, with doors and windows locked, one last pa.s.sionate appeal, and then, if mocked and held away, to take her with him into death and hold her spirit in his arms.

To own himself beaten by this slip of a girl, to pack his traps and leave her the field and sneak off like a beardless boy,--was that the sort of way he did things who had had merely to raise his voice to hear the approach of obsequious feet? ... Alice and the yacht and nothing but sea to a blank horizon? He laughed to think of it. It was, in fact, unthinkable.

He would put it to Joan in a different way this time. He would hide his fire and be more like that cursed boy. That would be a new way. She liked new things.

He left the summer house, only the roof of which was touched by the last golden rays of the sun, and with curious cunning adopted a sort of caricature of his old light manner. There was a queer jauntiness in his walk as he made his way over the sand, carrying his hat, and a flippant note in his voice when he arrived at her side.

"Waiting for your ship to come home?" he asked.

"It's come," she said.

"You have all the luck, don't you?"

She choked back a sob.

He saw the new look on her face. Something,--perhaps boredom,--perhaps the constant companionship of that cursed boy,--had brought her down from her high horse. This was his chance! ...

"You thought I had gone, I suppose?"

"Yes," she said.

"To-morrow suits me best. I'm off to-morrow,--I've not decided where. A long journey, it may be. If you're fed up with these people what do you say to my driving you somewhere for dinner? A last little dinner to remind us of the spring in New York?"

"Would you like me to very much?"

He steadied his voice. "We might be amused, I think."

"That doesn't answer my question," she said.

"I'd love you to," he answered. "It would be fair, too. I've not seen much of you here."

Yes, it would be fair. Let her try, even at that late stage of the game, to make things a little even. This man had paid enough.

"Very well," she said. "Let's go." It would be good to get away from prying eyes and the dull ache of pain for a few hours.

He could hardly believe his ears. Joan,--to give him something! It was almost incredible.

She turned and led the way up. The sun had almost gone. "I'll get my hat at once," she said, "I'll be ready in ten minutes."

His heart was thumping. "I'll telephone to a place I know, and be waiting in the car."

"Let me go in alone," she said. "We don't want to be held up to explain and argue. You're sure you want me to come?" She drew up and looked at him.

He bowed to hide his face. "Of all things on earth," he said.

She ran on ahead, slipped into the house and up to her room.

Exultant and full of hope, Gilbert waited for a moment before following her in. Going straight to the telephone room he shut the door, asked for the number of his cottage and drummed the instrument with his fingers.

At last!

"Is that you, Itrangi? ... Lay some sort of dinner for two,--cold things with wine. It doesn't matter what, but at once. I shall be over in about an hour. Then get out, with the cook. I want the place to myself to-night. Put the door key on the earth at the left-hand corner of the bottom step. Telephone for a car and go to the hotel at Sag Harbor. Be back in the morning about nine. Do these things without fail. I rely upon you."

He hardly waited for the sibilant a.s.surance before putting back the receiver. He went round to the garage himself. This was the first time he had driven Joan in his car. It might be the last.

Harry was at the bottom of the stairs as Joan came down.

"You're not going out?" he asked. She was still in day clothes, wearing a hat.

"Yes, I am, Harry."

"Where? Why?"

She laid her hand on his arm. "Don't grudge Gilbert one evening,--his last. I've been perfectly rotten to him all along."

"Palgrave? Are you going out with Palgrave?"

"Yes, to dine somewhere. I want to, Harry, oh, for lots of reasons. You know one. Don't stop me." Her voice broke a little.

"But not with Palgrave."

"Why?"

"I saw him dodge out of the telephone room a minute ago. He looked--queer. Don't go, Joan."

"I must," she said and went to the door. He was after her and caught hold of her arm.

"Joan, don't go. I don't want you to."

"I must," she said again. "Surely you can understand? I have to get away from myself."

"But won't I do?"

"It's Gilbert's turn," she said. "Let go, Harry dear." It was good to know that she hadn't hurt this boy.

"I don't like it. Please stay," but he let her go, and watched her down the steps and into the car, with unaccountable misgiving. He had seen Gilbert's face.

And he saw it again under the strong light of the entrance--triumphant.

For minutes after the car had gone, with a wave from Joan, he stood still, with an icy hand on his heart.

"I don't like it," he repeated. "I wish to G.o.d I'd had the right to stop her."