absently seated herself and lay back, caressing the roses with delicate lips and chin.
Twice she looked up at him, standing there by the boarded windows. Sunshine filtered through the latticework at the top–enough for them to see each other as in a dull afterglow.
“I wonder how soon my maid will come,” she mused, dropping the loose roses on her knees. “If she is going to be very long about it perhaps– perhaps you might care to find a chair–if you have decided to wait.”
He drew one from a corner and seated himself, pulses hammering his throat.
Through the stillness of the house sounded at intervals the clink of glass from the pantry. Other sounds from above indicated the plumber’s progress from floor to floor.
“Do you realize,” she said impulsively, “how _very_ nice you have been to me? What a perfectly horrid position I might have been in, with poor Clarence on the back fence! And suppose I had dared follow him alone to the cellar? I–I might have been there yet–up to my neck in coal?”
She gazed into space with considerable emotion.
“And now,” she said, “I am safe here in my own home. I have lunched divinely, a maid is on the way to me, Clarence remains somewhere safe indoors, Mr. Quinn is flitting from faucet to faucet, the electric light and the telephone will be in working order before very long–and it is _all_ due to you!”
“I–I did a few things I almost w-wish I hadn’t,” stammered Brown, “b-because I can’t, somehow, decently t-tell you how tremendously I–I–” He stuck fast.
“What?”
“It would look as though I were presuming on a t-trifling service rendered, and–oh, I can’t say it; I want to, but I can’t.”
“Say what? Please, I don’t mind what you are–are going to say.”
“It’s–it’s that I—-“
“Y-es?” in soft encouragement.
“W-want to know you most tremendously now. I don’t want to wait several years for chance and hazard.”
“O-h!” as though the information conveyed a gentle shock to her. Her low- breathed exclamation nearly finished Brown.
“I knew you’d think it unpardonable for me–at such a time–to venture to–to–ask–say–express–convey—-“
“Why do you–how can I–where could we–” She recovered herself resolutely. “I do not think we ought to take advantage of an accident like this…. Do you? Besides, probably, in the natural course of social events—-“
“But it may be years! months! weeks!” insisted Brown, losing control of himself.
“I should hope it would at least be a decently reasonable interval of several weeks—-“
“But I don’t know what to do if I never see you again for weeks! I c-care so much–for–you.”
She shrank back in her chair, and in her altered face he read that he had disgraced himself.
“I knew I was going to,” he said in despair. “I couldn’t keep it–I couldn’t stop it. And now that you see what sort of a man I am I’m going to tell you more.”
“You need not,” she said faintly.
“I must. Listen! I–I don’t even know your full name–all I know is that it is Betty, and that your cat’s name is Clarence and your plumber’s name is Quinn. But if I didn’t know anything at all concerning you it would have been the same. I suppose you will think me insane if I tell you that before the car, on which you rode, came into sight I _knew_ you were on it. And I–cared–for–you–before I ever saw you.”
“I don’t understand—-“
“I know you don’t. _I_ don’t. All I understand is that what you and I have done has been done by us before, sometime, somewhere–part only– down to–down to where you changed cars. Up to that moment, before you took the Lexington Avenue car, I recognized each incident as it occurred…. But when all this happened to us before I must have lost courage–for I did not recognize anything after that except that I cared for you…. _Do_ you understand one single word of what I have been saying?”
The burning color in her face had faded slowly while he was speaking; her lifted eyes grew softer, serious, as he ended impetuously.
She looked at him in retrospective silence. There was no mistaking his astonishing sincerity, his painfully earnest endeavor to impart to her some rather unusual ideas in which he certainly believed. No man who looked that way at a woman could mean impertinence; her own intelligence satisfied her that he had not meant and could never mean offense to any woman.
“Tell me,” she said quietly, “just what you mean. It is not possible for you to–care–for–me…. Is it?”
He disclosed to her, beginning briefly with his own name, material and social circumstances, a pocket edition of his hitherto uneventful career, the advent that morning of the emissary from The Green Mouse, his discussion with Smith, the strange sensation which crept over him as he emerged from the tunnel at Forty-second Street, his subsequent altercation with Smith, and the events that ensued up to the eruption of Clarence.
He spoke in his most careful attorney’s manner, frank, concise, convincing, free from any exaggeration of excitement or emotion. And she listened, alternately fascinated and appalled as, step by step, his story unfolded the links in an apparently inexorable sequence involving this young man and herself in a predestined string of episodes not yet ended– if she permitted herself to credit this astounding story.
Sensitively intelligent, there was no escaping the significance of the only possible deduction. She drew it and blushed furiously. For a moment, as the truth clamored in her brain, the self-evidence of it stunned her. But she was young, and the shamed recoil came automatically. Incredulous, almost exasperated, she raised her head to confront him; the red lips parted in outraged protest–parted and remained so, wordless, silent–the soundless, virginal cry dying unuttered on a mouth that had imperceptibly begun to tremble.
Her head sank slowly; she laid her white hands above the roses heaped in her lap.
For a long while she remained so. And he did not speak.
First the butler went away. Then Mr. Quinn followed. The maid had not yet arrived. The house was very still.
And after the silence had worn his self-control to the breaking point he rose and walked to the dining room and stood looking down into the yard. The grass out there was long and unkempt; roses bloomed on the fence; wistaria, in its deeper green of midsummer, ran riot over the trellis where Clarence had basely dodged his lovely mistress, and, after making a furry pin wheel of himself, had fled through the airhole into Stygian depths.
Somewhere above, in the silent house, Clarence was sulkily dissembling.
“I suppose,” said Brown, quietly coming back to where the girl was sitting in the golden dusk, “that I might as well find Clarence while we are waiting for your maid. May I go up and look about?”
And taking her silence as assent, he started upstairs.
He hunted carefully, thoroughly, opening doors, peeping under furniture, investigating clothespresses, listening at intervals, at intervals calling with misleading mildness. But, like him who died in malmsey, Clarence remained perjured and false to all sentiments of decency so often protested purringly to his fair young mistress.
Mechanically Brown opened doors of closets, knowing, if he had stopped to think, that cats don’t usually turn knobs and let themselves into tightly closed places.
In one big closet on the fifth floor, however, as soon as he opened the door there came a rustle, and he sprang forward to intercept the perfidious one; but it was only the air stirring the folds of garments hanging on the wall.
As he turned to step forth again the door gently closed with an ominous click, shutting him inside. And after five minutes’ frantic fussing he realized that he was imprisoned by a spring lock at the top of a strange house, inhabited only by a cat and a bewildered young girl, who might, at any moment now that the telephone was in order, call a cab and flee from a man who had tried to explain to her that they were irrevocably predestined for one another.
Calling and knocking were dignified and permissible, but they did no good. To kick violently at the door was not dignified, but he was obliged to do it. Evidently the closet was too remote for the sound to penetrate down four flights of stairs.
He tried to break down the door–they do it in all novels. He only rebounded painfully, ineffectively, which served him right for reading fiction.
It irked him to shout; he hesitated for a long while; then sudden misgiving lest she might flee the house seized him and he bellowed. It was no use.
The pitchy quality of the blackness in the closet aided him in bruising himself; he ran into a thousand things of all kinds of shapes and textures every time he moved. And at each fresh bruise he grew madder and madder, and, holding the cat responsible, applied language to Clarence of which he had never dreamed himself capable.
Then he sat down. He remained perfectly still for a long while, listening and delicately feeling his hurts. A curious drowsiness began to irritate him; later the irritation subsided and he felt a little sleepy.
His heart, however, thumped like an inexpensive clock; the cedar-tainted air in the closet grew heavier; he felt stupid, swaying as he rose. No wonder, for the closet was as near air-tight as it could be made. Fortunately he did not realize it.
And, meanwhile, downstairs, Betty was preparing for flight.
She did not know where she was going–how far away she could get in a rose-silk morning gown. But she had discovered, in a clothespress, an automobile duster, cap, and goggles; on the strength of these she tried the telephone, found it working, summoned a coupe, and was now awaiting its advent. But the maid from Dooley’s must first arrive to take charge of the house and Clarence until she, Betty, could summon her family to her assistance and defy The Green Mouse, Beekman Brown, and Destiny behind her mother’s skirts.
Flight was, therefore, imperative–it was absolutely indispensable that she put a number of miles between herself and this young man who had just informed her that Fate had designed them for one another.
She was no longer considering whether she owed this amazing young man any gratitude, or what sort of a man he might be, agreeable, well-bred, attractive; all she understood was that this man had suddenly stepped into her life, politely expressing his conviction that they could not, ultimately, hope to escape from each other. And, beginning to realize the awful import of his words, the only thing that restrained her from instant flight on foot was the hidden Clarence. She could not abandon her cat. She must wait for that maid. She waited. Meanwhile she hunted up Dooley’s Agency in the telephone book and called them up. They told her the maid was on the way–as though Dooley’s Agency could thwart Destiny with a whole regiment of its employees!
She had discarded her roses with a shudder; cap, goggles, duster, lay in her lap. If the maid came before Brown returned she’d flee. If Brown came back before the maid arrived she’d tell him plainly what she had decided on, thank him, tell him kindly but with decision that, considering the incredible circumstances of their encounter, she must decline to encourage any hope he might entertain of ever again seeing her.
At this stern resolve her heart, being an automatic and independent affair, refused to approve, and began an unpleasantly irregular series of beats which annoyed her.
“It is true,” she admitted to herself, “that he is a gentleman, and I can scarcely be rude enough, after what he has done for me, to leave him without any explanation at all…. His clothes are ruined. I must remember that.”
Her heart seemed to approve such sentiments, and it beat more regularly as she seated herself at a desk, found in it a sheet of notepaper and a pencil, and wrote rapidly:
“_Dear Mr. Brown:_
“If my maid comes before you do I am going. I can’t help it. The maid will stay to look after Clarence until I can return with some of the family. I don’t mean to be rude, but I simply cannot stand what you told me about our–about what you told me…. I’m sorry you tore your clothes.
“Please believe my flight has nothing to do with you personally or your conduct, which was perfectly (‘charming’ scratched out) proper. It is only that to be suddenly told that one is predestined to (‘marry’ scratched out) become intimately acquainted (all this scratched out and a new line begun).
“It is unendurable for a girl to think that there is no freedom of choice in life left her–to be forced, by what you say are occult currents, into–friendship–with a perfectly strange man at the other end. So I don’t think we had better ever again attempt to find anybody to present us to each other. This doesn’t sound right, but you will surely understand.
“Please do not misjudge me. I must appear to you uncivil, ungrateful, and childish–but I am, somehow, a little frightened. I know you are perfectly nice–but all that has happened is almost, in a way, terrifying to me. Not that I am cowardly; but you must understand. You will–won’t you?…. But what is the use of my asking you, as I shall never see you again.
“So I am only going to thank you, and say (‘with all my heart’ crossed out) very cordially, that you have been most kind, most generous and considerate–most–most—-“
* * * * *
Her pencil faltered; she looked into space, and the image of Beekman Brown, pleasant-eyed, attractive, floated unbidden out of vacancy and looked at her.
She stared back at the vision curiously, more curiously as her mind evoked the agreeable details of his features, resting there, chin on the back of her hand, from which, presently, the pencil fell unheeded.
What could he be doing upstairs all this while. She had not heard him for many minutes now. Why was he so still?
She straightened up at her desk and glanced uneasily across her shoulder, listening.
Not a sound from above; she rose and walked to the foot of the stairs.
Why was he so still? Had he found Clarence? Had anything gone wrong? Had Clarence become suddenly rabid and attacked him. Cats can’t annihilate big, strong young men. But _where_ was he? Had he, pursuing his quest, emerged through the scuttle on to the roof–and–and–fallen off?
Scarcely knowing what she did she mounted on tiptoe to the second floor, listening. The silence troubled her; she went from room to room, opening doors and clothespresses. Then she mounted to the third floor, searching more quickly. On the fourth floor she called to him in a voice not quite steady. There was no reply.
Alarmed now, she hurriedly flung open doors everywhere, then, picking up her rose-silk skirts, she ran to the top floor and called tremulously.
A faint sound answered; bewildered, she turned to the first closet at hand, and her cheeks suddenly blanched as she sprang to the door of the cedar press and tore it wide open.
He was lying on his face amid a heap of rolled rugs, clothes hangers and furs, quite motionless.
She knew enough to run into the servants’ rooms, fling open the windows and, with all the strength in her young body, drag the inanimate youth across the floor and into the fresh air.
“O-h!” she said, and said it only once. Then, ashy of lip and cheek, she took hold of Brown and, lashing her memory to help her in the emergency, performed for that inanimate gentleman the rudiments of an exercise which, if done properly, is supposed to induce artificial respiration.
It certainly induced something resembling it in Brown. After a while he made unlovely and inarticulate sounds; after a while the sounds became articulate. He said: “Betty!” several times, more or less distinctly. He opened one eye, then the other; then his hands closed on the hands that were holding his wrists; he looked up at her from where he lay on the floor. She, crouched beside him, eyes still dilated with the awful fear of death, looked back, breathless, trembling.
“That is a devil of a place, that closet,” he said faintly.
She tried to smile, tried wearily to free her hands, watched them, dazed, being drawn toward him, drawn tight against his lips–felt his lips on them.
Then, without warning, an incredible thrill shot through her to the heart, stilling it–silencing pulse and breath–nay, thought itself. She heard him speaking; his words came to her like distant sounds in a dream:
“I cared for you. You give me life–and I adore you…. Let me. It will not harm you. The problem of life is solved for me; I have solved it; but unless some day you will prove it for me–Betty–the problem of life is but a sorry sum–a total of ciphers without end…. No other two people in all the world could be what we are and what we have been to each other. No other two people could dare to face what we dare face.” He paused: “Dare we, Betty?”
Her eyes turned from his. He rose unsteadily, supported on one arm; she sprang to her feet, looked at him, and, as he made an awkward effort to rise, suddenly bent forward and gave him both hands in aid.
“Wait–wait!” she said; “let me try to think, if I can. Don’t speak to me again–not yet–not now.”
But, at intervals, as they descended the flights of stairs, she turned instinctively to watch his progress, for he still moved with difficulty.
In the drawing-room they halted, he leaning heavily on the back of a chair, she, distrait, restless, pacing the polished parquet, treading her roses under foot, turning from time to time to look at him–a strange, direct, pure-lidded gaze that seemed to freshen his very soul.
Once he stooped and picked up one of the trodden roses bruised by her slim foot; once, as she passed him, pacing absently the space between the door and him, he spoke her name.
But: “Wait!” she breathed. “You have said everything. It is for me to reply–if I speak at all. C-can’t you wait for–me?”
“Have I angered you?”
She halted, head high, superb in her slim, young beauty.
“Do I look it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nor I. Let me find out.”
The room had become dimmer; the light on her hair and face and hands glimmered dully as she passed and re-passed him in her restless progress– restless, dismayed, frightened progress toward a goal she already saw ahead–close ahead of her–every time she turned to look at him. She already knew the end.
_That_ man! And she knew that already he must be, for her, something that she could never again forget–something she must reckon with forever and ever while life endured.
She paused and inspected him almost insolently. Suddenly the rush of the last revolt overwhelmed her; her eyes blazed, her white hands tightened into two small clenched fists–and then tumult died in her ringing ears, the brightness of the eyes was quenched, her hands relaxed, her head sank low, lower, never again to look on this man undismayed, heart free, unafraid–never again to look into this man’s eyes with the unthinking, unbelieving tranquillity born of the most harmless skepticism in the world.
She stood there in silence, heard his step beside her, raised her head with an effort.
“Betty!”
Her hands quivered, refusing surrender. He bent and lifted them, pressing them to his eyes, his forehead. Then lowered them to the level of his lips, holding them suspended, eyes looking into hers, waiting.
Suddenly her eyes closed, a convulsive little tremor swept her, she pressed both clasped hands against his lips, her own moved, but no words came–only a long, sweet, soundless sigh, soft as the breeze that stirs the crimson maple buds when the snows of spring at last begin to melt.
From a dark corner under the piano Clarence watched them furtively.
[Illustration]
XII
SYBILLA
_Showing What Comes of Disobedience, Rosium, and Flour-Paste_
About noon Bushwyck Carr bounced into the gymnasium, where the triplets had just finished their fencing lesson.
“Did any of you three go into the laboratory this morning?” he demanded, his voice terminating in a sort of musical bellow, like the blast of a mellow French horn on a touring car.
The triplets–Flavilla, Drusilla, and Sybilla–all clothed precisely alike in knee kilts, plastrons, gauntlets and masks, came to attention, saluting their parent with their foils. The Boznovian fencing mistress, Madame Tzinglala, gracefully withdrew to the dressing room and departed.
“Which of you three girls went into the laboratory this morning?” repeated their father impatiently.
The triplets continued to stand in a neat row, the buttons of their foils aligned and resting on the hardwood floor. In graceful unison they removed their masks; three flushed and unusually pretty faces regarded the author of their being attentively–more attentively still when that round and ruddy gentleman, executing a facial contortion, screwed his monocle into an angry left eye and glared.
“Didn’t I warn you to keep out of that laboratory?” he asked wrathfully; “didn’t I explain to you that it was none of your business? I believe I informed you that whatever is locked up in that room is no concern of yours. Didn’t I?”
“Yes, Pa-_pah_.”
“Well, confound it, what did you go in for, then?”
An anxious silence was his answer. “You didn’t all go in, did you?” he demanded in a melodious bellow.
“Oh, no, Pa-_pah!_”
“Did two of you go?”
“Oh-h, n-o, Pa-_pah!_”
“Well, which one did?”
The line of beauty wavered for a moment; then Sybilla stepped slowly to the front, three paces, and halted with downcast eyes.
“I told you not to, didn’t I?” said her father, scowling the monocle out of his eye and reinserting it.
“Y-yes, Pa-_pah_.”
“But you _did?_”
“Y-yes—-“
“That will do! Flavilla! Drusilla! You are excused,” dismissing the two guiltless triplets with a wave of the terrible eyeglass; and when they had faced to the rear and retired in good order, closing the door behind them, he regarded his delinquent daughter in wrathy and rubicund dismay.
“What did you see in that laboratory?” he demanded.
Sybilla began to count on her fingers. “As I walked around the room I noticed jars, bottles, tubes, lamps, retorts, blowpipes, batteries—-“
“Did you notice a small, shiny machine that somewhat resembles the interior economy of a watch?”
“Yes, Pa-_pah_, but I haven’t come to that yet—-“
“Did you go near it?”
“Quite near—-“
“You didn’t touch it, did you?”
“I was going to tell you—-“
“_Did_ you?” he bellowed musically. “Answer me, Sybilla!”
“Y-yes–I did.”
“What did you suppose it to be?”
“I thought–we all thought–that you kept a wireless telephone instrument in there—-“
“Why? Just because I happen to be president of the Amalgamated Wireless Trust Company?”
“Yes. And we were dying to see a wireless telephone work…. I thought I’d like to call up Central–just to be sure I could make the thing go– _What_ is the matter, Pa-_pah?_”
He dropped into a wadded armchair and motioned Sybilla to a seat opposite. Then with another frightful facial contortion he reimbedded the monocle.
“So you deliberately opened that door and went in to rummage?”
“No,” said the girl; “we were–skylarking a little, on our way to the gymnasium; and I gave Brasilia a little shove toward the laboratory door, and then Flavilla pushed me–very gently–and somehow I–the door flew open and my mask fell off and rolled inside; and I went in after it. That is how it happened–partly.”
She lifted her dark and very beautiful eyes to her stony parent, then they dropped, and she began tracing figures and arabesques on the polished floor with the point of her foil. “That is partly how,” she repeated.
“What is the other part?”
“The other part was that, having unfortunately disobeyed you, and being already in the room, I thought I might as well stay and take a little peep around—-“
Her father fairly bounced in his padded chair. The velvet-eyed descendant of Eve shot a fearful glance at him and continued, still casually tracing invisible arabesques with her foil’s point.
“You see, don’t you,” she said, “that being actually _in_, I thought I might as well do something before I came out again, which would make my disobedience worth the punishment. So I first picked up my mask, then I took a scared peep around. There were only jars and bottles and things…. I was dreadfully disappointed. The certainty of being punished and then, after all, seeing nothing but bottles, _did_ seem rather unfair…. So I–walked around to–to see if I could find something to look at which would repay me for the punishment…. There is a proverb, isn’t there Pa-_pah?_–something about being executed for a lamb—-“
“Go on!” he said sharply.
“Well, all I could find that looked as though I had no business to touch it was a little jeweled machine—-“
“_That_ was it! Did you touch it?”
“Yes, several times. Was it a wireless?”
“Never mind! Yes, it’s one kind of a wireless instrument. Go on!”
Sybilla shook her head:
“I’m sure I don’t see why you are so disturbingly emphatic; because I haven’t an idea how to send or receive a wireless message, and I hadn’t the vaguest notion how that machine might work. I tried very hard to make it go; I turned several screws and pushed all the push-buttons—-“
Mr. Carr emitted a hollow, despairing sound–a sort of musical groan–and feebly plucked at space.
“I tried every lever, screw, and spring,” she went on calmly, “but the machine must have been out of order, for I only got one miserable little spark—-“
“You got a _spark?_”
“Yes–just a tiny, noiseless atom of white fire—-“
Her father bounced to his feet and waved both hands at her distractedly.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” he bellowed.
“N-no—-“
“Well, you’ve prepared yourself to fall in love! And you’ve probably induced some indescribable pup to fall in love with you! And _that’s_ what you’ve done!”
“In–_love!_”
“Yes, you have!”
“But how can a common wireless telephone—-“
“It’s another kind of a wireless. Your brother-in-law, William Destyn, invented it; I’m backing it and experimenting with it. I told you to keep out of that room. I hung up a sign on the door: _’Danger! Keep out!’_”
“W-was that thing loaded?”
“Yes, it _was_ loaded!”
“W-what with?”
“Waves!” shouted her father, furiously. “Psychic waves! You little ninny, we’ve just discovered that the world and everything in it is enveloped in psychic waves, as well as invisible electric currents. The minute you got near that machine and opened the receiver, waves from your subconscious personality flowed into it. And the minute you touched that spring and got a spark, your psychic waves had signaled, by wireless, the subconscious personality of some young man–some insufferable pup–who’ll come from wherever he is at present–from the world’s end if need be–and fall in love with you.”
Mr. Carr jumped ponderously up and down in pure fury; his daughter regarded him in calm consternation.
“I am so very, very sorry,” she said; “but I am quite certain that I am not going to fall in love—-“
“You can’t help it,” roared her father, “if that instrument worked.”
“Is–is that what it’s f-for?”
“That’s what it’s invented for; that’s why I’m putting a million into it. Anybody on earth desiring to meet the person with whom they’re destined, some time or other, to fall in love, can come to us, in confidence, buy a ticket, and be hitched on to the proper psychic connection which insures speedy courtship and marriage–Damnation!”
“Pa-_pah!_”
“I can’t help it! Any self-respecting, God-fearing father would swear! Do you think I ever expected to have my daughters mixed up with this machine? My daughters wooed, engaged and married by _machinery!_ And you’re only eighteen; do you hear me? I won’t have it! I’ll certainly not have it!”
“But, dear, I don’t in the least intend to fall in love and marry at eighteen. And if–_he_–really–comes, I’ll tell him very frankly that I could not think of falling in love. I’ll quietly explain that the machine went off by mistake and that I am only eighteen; and that Flavilla and Drusilla and I are not to come out until next winter. That,” she added innocently, “ought to hold him.”
“The thing to do,” said her father, gazing fixedly at her, “is to keep you in your room until you’re twenty!”
“Oh, Pa-_pah!_”
Mr. Carr smote his florid brow.
“You’ll stay in for a week, anyway!” he thundered mellifluously. “No motoring party for you! That’s your punishment. You’ll be safe for today, anyhow; and by evening William Destyn will be back from Boston and I’ll consult him as to the safest way to keep you out of the path of this whippersnapper you have managed to wake up–evoke–stir out of space– wherever he may be–whoever he may be–whatever he chances to call himself—-“
“George,” she murmured involuntarily.
“_What!!_”
She looked at her father, abashed, confused.
“How absurd of me,” she said. “I don’t know why I should have thought of that name, George; or why I should have said it out loud–that way–I really don’t—-“
“Who do you know named George?”
“N-nobody in particular that I can think of—-“
“Sybilla! Be honest!”
“Really, I don’t; I am always honest.”
He knew she was truthful, always; but he said:
“Then why the devil did you look–er–so, so moonily at me and call me George?”
“I can’t imagine–I can’t understand—-“
“Well, _I_ can! You don’t realize it, but that cub’s name must be George! I’ll look out for the Georges. I’m glad I’ve been warned. I’ll see that no two-legged object named George enters this house! You’ll never go anywhere where there’s anybody named George if I can prevent it.”
“I–I don’t want to,” she returned, almost ready to cry. “You are very cruel to me—-“
“I wish to be. I desire to be a monster!” he retorted fiercely. “You’re an exceedingly bad, ungrateful, undutiful, disobedient and foolish child. Your sisters and I are going to motor to Westchester and lunch there with your sister and your latest brother-in-law. And if they ask why you didn’t come I’ll tell them that it’s because you’re undutiful, and that you are not to stir outdoors for a week, or see anybody who comes into this house!”
“I–I suppose I d-deserve it,” she acquiesced tearfully. “I’m quite ready to be disciplined, and quite willing not to see anybody named George– ever! Besides, you have scared me d-dreadfully! I–I don’t want to go out of the house.”
And when her father had retired with a bounce she remained alone in the gymnasium, eyes downcast, lips quivering. Later still, sitting in precisely the same position, she heard the soft whir of the touring car outside; then the click of the closing door.
“There they go,” she said to herself, “and they’ll have such a jolly time, and all those very agreeable Westchester young men will be there– particularly Mr. Montmorency…. I _did_ like him awfully; besides, his name is Julian, so it is p-perfectly safe to like him–and I _did_ want to see how Sacharissa looks after her bridal trip.”
Her lower lip trembled; she steadied it between her teeth, gazed miserably at the floor, and beat a desolate tattoo on it with the tip of her foil.
“I am being well paid for my disobedience,” she whimpered. “Now I can’t go out for a week; and it’s April; and when I do go out I’ll be so anxious all the while, peeping furtively at every man who passes and wondering whether his name might be George…. And it is going to be horridly awkward, too…. Fancy their bringing up some harmless dancing man named George to present to me next winter, and I, terrified, picking up my debutante skirts and running…. I’ll actually be obliged to flee from every man until I know his name isn’t George. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What an awful outlook for this summer when we open the house at Oyster Bay! What a terrible vista for next winter!”
She naively dabbed a tear from her long lashes with the back of her gauntlet.
Her maid came, announcing luncheon, but she would have none of it, nor any other offered office, including a bath and a house gown.
“You go away somewhere, Bowles,” she said, “and please, don’t come near me, and don’t let anybody come anywhere in my distant vicinity, because I am v-very unhappy, Bowles, and deserve to be–and I–I desire to be alone with c-conscience.”
“But, Miss Sybilla—-“
“No, no, no! I don’t even wish to hear your voice–or anybody’s. I don’t wish to hear a single human sound of any description. I–_what_ is that scraping noise in the library?”
“A man, Miss Sybilla—-“
“A _man!_ W-what’s his name?”
“I don’t know, miss. He’s a workman–a paper hanger.”
“Oh!”
“Did you wish me to ask him to stop scraping, miss?”
Sybilla laughed: “No, thank you.” And she continued, amused at herself after her maid had withdrawn, strolling about the gymnasium, making passes with her foil at ring, bar, and punching bag. Her anxiety, too, was subsiding. The young have no very great capacity for continued anxiety. Besides, the first healthy hint of incredulity was already creeping in. And as she strolled about, swishing her foil, she mused aloud at her ease:
“What an extraordinary and horrid machine!… _How_ can it do such exceedingly common things? And what a perfectly unpleasant way to fall in love–by machinery!… I had rather not know who I am some day to–to like–very much…. It is far more interesting to meet a man by accident, and never suspect you may ever come to care for him, than to buy a ticket, walk over to a machine full of psychic waves and ring up some strange man somewhere on earth.”
With a shudder of disdain she dropped on to a lounge and took her face between both hands.
She was like her sisters, tall, prettily built, and articulated, with the same narrow feet and hands–always graceful when lounging, no matter what position her slim limbs fell into.
And now, in her fencing skirts of black and her black stockings, she was exceedingly ornamental, with the severe lines of the plastron accenting the white throat and chin, and the scarlet heart blazing over her own little heart–unvexed by such details as love and lovers. Yes, unvexed; for she had about come to the conclusion that her father had frightened her more than was necessary; that the instrument had not really done its worst; in fact, that, although she had been very disobedient, she had had a rather narrow escape; and nothing more serious than paternal displeasure was likely to be visited upon her.
Which comforted her to an extent that brought a return of appetite; and she rang for luncheon, and ate it with the healthy nonchalance usually so characteristic of her and her sisters.
“Now,” she reflected, “I’ll have to wait an hour for my bath”–one of the inculcated principles of domestic hygiene. So, rising, she strolled across the gymnasium, casting about for something interesting to do.
She looked out of the back windows. In New York the view from back windows is not imposing.
Tiring of the inartistic prospect she sauntered out and downstairs to see what her maid might be about. Bowles was sewing; Sybilla looked on for a while with languid interest, then, realizing that a long day of punishment was before her, that she deserved it, and that she ought to perform some act of penance, started contritely for the library with resolute intentions toward Henry James.
As she entered she noticed that the bookshelves, reaching part way to the ceiling, were shrouded in sheets. Also she encountered a pair of sawhorses overlaid with boards, upon which were rolls of green flock paper, several pairs of shears, a bucket of paste, a large, flat brush, a knife and a T-square.
“The paper hanger man,” she said. “He’s gone to lunch. I’ll have time to seize on Henry James and flee.”
Now Henry James, like some other sacred conventions, was, in that library, a movable feast. Sometimes he stood neatly arranged on one shelf, sometimes on another. There was no counting on Henry.
Sybilla lifted the sheets from the face of one case and peered closer. Henry was not visible. She lifted the sheets from another case; no Henry; only G.P.R., in six dozen rakish volumes.
Sybilla peeped into a third case. Then a very unedifying thing occurred. Surely, surely, this was Sybilla’s disobedient day. She saw a forbidden book glimmering in old, gilded leather–she saw its classic back turned mockingly toward her–the whole allure of the volume was impudent, dog- eared, devil-may-care-who-reads-me.
She took it out, replaced it, looked hard, hard for Henry, found him not, glanced sideways at the dog-eared one, took a step sideways.
“I’ll just see where it was printed,” she said to herself, drawing out the book and backing off hastily–so hastily that she came into collision with the sawhorse table, and the paste splashed out of the bucket.
But Sybilla paid no heed; she was examining the title page of old Dog- ear: a rather wonderful title page, printed in fascinating red and black with flourishes.
“I’ll just see whether–” And the smooth, white fingers hesitated; but she had caught a glimpse of an ancient engraving on the next page–a very quaint one, that held her fascinated.
“I wonder—-“
She turned the next page. The first paragraph of the famous classic began deliciously. After a few moments she laughed, adding to herself: “I can’t see what harm—-“
There was no harm. Her father had meant another book; but Sybilla did not know that.
“I’ll just glance through it to–to–be sure that I mustn’t read it.”
She laid one hand on the paper hanger’s table, vaulted up sideways, and, seated on the top, legs swinging, buried herself in the book, unconscious that the overturned paste was slowly fastening her to the spattered table top.
An hour later, hearing steps on the landing, she sprang–that is, she went through all the graceful motions of springing lightly to the floor. But she had not budged an inch. No Gorgon’s head could have consigned her to immovability more hopeless.
Restrained from freedom by she knew not what, she made one frantic and demoralized effort–and sank back in terror at the ominous tearing sound.
She was glued irrevocably to the table.
[Illustration]
XIII
THE CROWN PRINCE
_Wherein the Green Mouse Squeaks_
A few minutes later the paper hanging young man entered, swinging an empty dinner pail and halted in polite surprise before a flushed young girl in full fencing costume, who sat on his operating table, feet crossed, convulsively hugging a book to the scarlet heart embroidered on her plastron.
“I–hope you don’t mind my sitting here,” she managed to say. “I wanted to watch the work.”
“By all means,” he said pleasantly. “Let me get you a chair—-“
“No, thank you. I had rather sit th-this way. Please begin and don’t mind if I watch you.”
The young man appeared to be perplexed.
“I’m afraid,” he ventured, “that I may require that table for cutting and—-“
“Please–if you don’t mind–begin to paste. I am in-intensely interested in p-pasting–I like to w-watch p-paper p-pasted on a w-wall.”
Her small teeth chattered in spite of her; she strove to control her voice–strove to collect her wits.
He stood irresolute, rather astonished, too.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but—-“
“_Please_ paste; won’t you?” she asked.
“Why, I’ve got to have that table to paste on—-“
“Then d-don’t think of pasting. D-do anything else; cut out some strips. I am so interested in watching p-paper hangers cut out things–“
“But I need the table for that, too—-“
“No, you don’t. You can’t be a–a very skillful w-workman if you’ve got to use your table for everything—-“
[Illustration: “‘I’m afraid’, he ventured ‘that I may require that table for cutting.'”]
He laughed. “You are quite right; I’m not a skillful paper hanger.”
“Then,” she said, “I am surprised that you came here to paper our library, and I think you had better go back to your shop and send a competent man.”
He laughed again. The paper hanger’s youthful face was curiously attractive when he laughed–and otherwise, more or less.
He said: “I came to paper this library because Mr. Carr was in a hurry, and I was the only man in the shop. I didn’t want to come. But they made me…. I think they’re rather afraid of Mr. Carr in the shop…. And this work _must_ be finished today.”
She did not know what to say; anything to keep him away from the table until she could think clearly.
“W-why didn’t you want to come?” she asked, fighting for time. “You said you didn’t want to come, didn’t you?”
“Because,” he said, smiling, “I don’t like to hang wall paper.”
“But if you are a paper hanger by trade—-“
“I suppose you think me a real paper hanger?”
She was cautiously endeavoring to free one edge of her skirt; she nodded absently, then subsided, crimsoning, as a faint tearing of cloth sounded.
“Go on,” she said hurriedly; “the story of your career is _so_ interesting. You say you adore paper hanging—-“
“No, I don’t,” he returned, chagrined. “I say I hate it.”
“Why do you do it, then?”
“Because my father thinks that every son of his who finishes college ought to be disciplined by learning a trade before he enters a profession. My oldest brother, De Courcy, learned to be a blacksmith; my next brother, Algernon, ran a bakery; and since I left Harvard I’ve been slapping sheets of paper on people’s walls—-“
“Harvard?” she repeated, bewildered.
“Yes; I was 1907.”
“_You!_”
He looked down at his white overalls, smiling.
“Does that astonish you, Miss Carr?–you are Miss Carr, I suppose—-“
“Sybilla–yes–we’re–we’re triplets,” she stammered.
“The beauti–the–the Carr triplets! And you are one of them?” he exclaimed, delighted.
“Yes.” Still bewildered, she sat there, looking at him. How extraordinary! How strange to find a Harvard man pasting paper! Dire misgivings flashed up within her.
“Who are you?” she asked tremulously. “Would you mind telling me your name. It–it isn’t–_George!_”
He looked up in pleased surprise:
“So you know who I am?”
“N-no. But–it isn’t George–is it?”
“Why, yes—-“
“O-h!” she breathed. A sense of swimming faintness enveloped her: she swayed; but an unmistakable ripping noise brought her suddenly to herself.
“I am afraid you are tearing your skirt somehow,” he said anxiously. “Let me—-“
“No!”
The desperation of the negative approached violence, and he involuntarily stepped back.
For a moment they faced one another; the flush died out on her cheeks.
“If,” she said, “your name actually is George, this–this is the most– the most terrible punishment–” She closed her eyes with her fingers as though to shut out some monstrous vision.
“What,” asked the amazed young man, “has my name to do with—-“
Her hands dropped from her eyes; with horror she surveyed him, his paste- spattered overalls, his dingy white cap, his dinner pail.
“I–I _won’t_ marry you!” she stammered in white desperation. “I _won’t!_ If you’re not a paper hanger you look like one! I don’t care whether you’re a Harvard man or not–whether you’re playing at paper hanging or not–whether your name is George or not–I won’t marry you–I won’t! I _won’t!_”
With the feeling that his senses were rapidly evaporating the young man sat down dizzily, and passed a paste-spattered but well-shaped hand across his eyes.
Sybilla set her lips and looked at him.
“I don’t suppose,” she said, “that you understand what I am talking about, but I’ve got to tell you at once; I can’t stand this sort of thing.”
“W-what sort of thing?” asked the young man, feebly.
“Your being here in this house–with me—-“
“I’ll be very glad to go—-“
“Wait! _That_ won’t do any good! You’ll come back!”
“N-no, I won’t—-“
“Yes, you will. Or I–I’ll f-follow you—-“
“What?”
“One or the other! We can’t help it, I tell you. _You_ don’t understand, but I do. And the moment I knew your name was George—-“
“What the deuce has that got to do with anything?” he demanded, turning red in spite of his amazement.
“Waves!” she said passionately, “psychic waves! I–somehow–knew that he’d be named George—-“
“Who’d be named George?”
“_He!_ The–man… And if I ever–if you ever expect me to–to c-care for a man all over overalls—-“
“But I don’t–Good Heavens!–I don’t expect you to care for–for overalls—-“
“Then why do you wear them?” she asked in tremulous indignation.
The young man, galvanized, sprang from his chair and began running about, taking little, short, distracted steps. “Either,” he said, “I need mental treatment immediately, or I’ll wake up toward morning…. I–don’t know what you’re trying to say to me. I came here to–to p-paste—-“
“That machine sent you!” she said. “The minute I got a spark you started—-“
“Do you think I’m a motor? Spark! Do you think I—-“
“Yes, I do. You couldn’t help it; I know it was my own fault, and this– _this_ is the dreadful punishment–g-glued to a t-table top–with a man named George—-“
“What!!!”
“Yes,” she said passionately, “everything disobedient I have done has brought lightning retribution. I was forbidden to go into the laboratory; I disobeyed and–you came to hang wall paper! I–I took a b-book–which I had no business to take, and F-fate glues me to your horrid table and holds me fast till a man named George comes in….”
Flushed, trembling, excited, she made a quick and dramatic gesture of despair; and a ripping sound rent the silence.
“_Are you pasted to that table?_” faltered the young man, aghast.
“Yes, I am. And it’s utterly impossible for you to aid me in the slightest, except by pretending to ignore it.”
“But you–you can’t remain there!”
“I can’t help remaining here,” she said hotly, “until you go.”
“Then I’d better—-“
“No! You shall _not_ go! I–I won’t have you go away–disappear somewhere in the city. Certainty is dreadful enough, but it’s better than the awful suspense of knowing you are somewhere in the world, and are sure to come back sometime—-“
“But I don’t want to come back!” he exclaimed indignantly. “Why should I wish to come back? Have I said–acted–done–looked–_Why_ should you imagine that I have the slightest interest in anything or in–in–anybody in this house?”
“Haven’t you?”
“No!… And I cannot ignore your–your amazing–and intensely f-flattering fear that I have d-designs–that I desire–in other words, that I–er–have dared to cherish impossible aspirations in connection with a futile and absurd hope that one day you might possibly be induced to listen to any tentative suggestion of mine concerning a matrimonial alliance—-“
He choked and turned a dull red.
She reddened, too, but said calmly:
“Thank you for putting it so nicely. But it is no use. Sooner or later you and I will be obliged to consider a situation too hopeless to admit of discussion.”
“What situation?”
“Ours.”
“I can’t see any situation–except your being glued–I _beg_ your pardon!–but I must speak truthfully.”
“So must I. Our case is too desperate for anything but plain and terrible truths. And the truths are these: _I_ touched the forbidden machine and got a spark; your name is George; _I’m_ glued here, unable to escape; _you_ are not rude enough to go when I ask you not to…. And now–here– in this room, you and I must face these facts and make up our minds…. For I simply _must_ know what I am to expect; I can’t endure–I couldn’t live with this hanging over me—-“
“_What_ hanging over you?”
He sprang to his feet, waving his dinner pail around in frantic circles:
“What is it, in Heaven’s name, that is hanging over you?”
“Over _you_, too!”
“Over me?”
“Certainly. Over us both. We are headed straight for m-marriage.”
“T-to _each other?_”
“Of course,” she said faintly. “Do you think I’d care whom you are going to marry if it wasn’t I? Do you think I’d discuss my own marital intentions with you if you did not happen to be vitally concerned?”
“Do _you_ expect to marry _me?_” he gasped.
“I–I don’t _want_ to: but I’ve got to.”
He stood petrified for an instant, then with a wild look began to gather up his tools.
She watched him with the sickening certainty that if he got away she could never survive the years of suspense until his inevitable return. A mad longing to get the worst over seized her. She knew the worst, knew what Fate held for her. And she desired to get it over–have the worst happen–and be left to live out the shattered remains of her life in solitude and peace.
“If–if we’ve got to marry,” she began unsteadily, “why not g-get it over quickly–and then I don’t mind if you go away.”
She was quite mad: that was certain. He hastily flung some brushes into his tool kit, then straightened up and gazed at her with deep compassion.
“Would you mind,” she asked timidly, “getting somebody to come in and marry us, and then the worst will be over, you see, and we need never, never see each other again.”
He muttered something soothing and began tying up some rolls of wall paper.
“Won’t you do what I ask?” she said pitifully. “I-I am almost afraid that–if you go away without marrying me I could not live and endure the–the certainty of your return.”
He raised his head and surveyed her with deepest pity. Mad–quite mad! And so young–so exquisite… so perfectly charming in body! And the mind darkened forever…. How terrible! How strange, too; for in the pure- lidded eyes he seemed to see the soft light of reason not entirely quenched.
Their eyes encountered, lingered; and the beauty of her gaze seemed to stir him to the very wellspring of compassion.
“Would it make you any happier to believe–to know,” he added hastily, “that you and I were married?”
“Y-yes, I think so.”
“Would you be quite happy to believe it?”
“Yes–if you call that happiness.”
“And you would not be unhappy if I never returned?”
“Oh, no, no! I–that would make me–comparatively–happy!”
“To be married to me, and to know you would never again see me?”
“Yes. Will you?”
“Yes,” he said soothingly. And yet a curious little throb of pain flickered in his heart for a moment, that, mad as she undoubtedly was, she should be so happy to be rid of him forever.
He came slowly across the room to the table on which she was sitting. She drew back instinctively, but an ominous ripping held her.
“Are you going for a license and a–a clergyman?” she asked.
“Oh, no,” he said gently, “that is not necessary. All we have to do is to take each other’s hands–so—-“
She shrank back.
“You will have to let me take your hand,” he explained.
She hesitated, looked at him fearfully, then, crimson, laid her slim fingers in his.
The contact sent a quiver straight through him; he squared his shoulders and looked at her…. Very, very far away it seemed as though he heard his heart awaking heavily.
What an uncanny situation! Strange–strange–his standing here to humor the mad whim of this stricken maid–this wonderfully sweet young stranger, looking out of eyes so lovely that he almost believed the dead intelligence behind them was quickening into life again.
“What must we do to be married?” she whispered.
“Say so; that is all,” he answered gently. “Do you take me for your husband?”
“Yes…. Do you t-take me for your–wife?”
“Yes, dear—-“
“Don’t say _that_!… Is it–over?”
“All over,” he said, forcing a gayety that rang hollow in the pathos of the mockery and farce…. But he smiled to be kind to her; and, to make the poor, clouded mind a little happier still, he took her hand again and said very gently:
“Will it surprise you to know that you are now a princess?”
“A–_what?_” she asked sharply.
“A princess.” He smiled benignly on her, and, still beaming, struck a not ungraceful attitude.
“I,” he said, “am the Crown Prince of Rumtifoo.”
She stared at him without a word; gradually he lost countenance; a vague misgiving stirred within him that he had rather overdone the thing.
“Of course,” he began cheerfully, “I am an exile in disguise–er– disinherited and all that, you know.”
She continued to stare at him.
“Matters of state–er–revolution–and that sort of thing,” he mumbled, eying her; “but I thought it might gratify you to know that I am Prince George of Rumtifoo—-“
“_What!_”
The silence was deadly.
“Do you know,” she said deliberately, “that I believe you think I am mentally unsound. _Do_ you?”
“I–you–” he began to stutter fearfully.
“_Do_ you?”
“W-well, either you or I—-“
“Nonsense! I _thought_ that marriage ceremony was a miserably inadequate affair!… And I am hurt–grieved–amazed that you should do such a–a cowardly—-“
“What!” he exclaimed, stung to the quick.
“Yes, it is cowardly to deceive a woman.”
“I meant it kindly–supposing—-“
“That I am mentally unsound? Why do you suppose that?”
“Because–Good Heavens–because in this century, and in this city, people who never before saw one another don’t begin to talk of marrying—-“
“I explained to you”–she was half crying now, and her voice broke deliciously–“I told you what I’d done, didn’t I?”
“You said you had got a spark,” he admitted, utterly bewildered by her tears. “Don’t cry–please don’t. Something is all wrong here–there is some terrible misunderstanding. If you will only explain it to me—-“
She dried her eyes mechanically: “Come here,” she said. “I don’t believe I did explain it clearly.”
And, very carefully, very minutely, she began to tell him about the psychic waves, and the instrument, and the new company formed to exploit it on a commercial basis.
She told him what had happened that morning to her; how her disobedience had cost her so much misery. She informed him about her father, and that florid and rotund gentleman’s choleric character.
“If you are here when I tell him I’m married,” she said, “he will probably frighten you to death; and that’s one of the reasons why I wish to get it over and get you safely away before he returns. As for me, now that I know the worst, I want to get the worst over and–and live out my life quietly somewhere…. So now you see why I am in such a hurry, don’t you?”
He nodded as though stunned, leaning there on the table, hands folded, head bent.
“I am so very sorry–for you,” she said. “I know how you must feel about it. But if we are obliged to marry some time had we not better get it over and then–never–see–one another—-“
He lifted his head, then stood upright.
Her soft lips were mute, but the question still remained in her eyes.
So, for a long while, they looked at each other; and the color under his cheekbones deepened, and the pink in her cheeks slowly became pinker.
“Suppose,” he said, under his breath, “that I–wish–to return–to you?”
“_I_ do not wish it—-“
“Try.”
“Try to–to wish for—-“
“For my return. Try to wish that you also desire it. Will you?”
“If you are going to–to talk that way–” she stammered.
“Yes, I am.”
“Then–then—-“
“Is there any reason why I should not, if we are engaged?” he asked. “We _are_–engaged, are we not?”
“Engaged?”
“Yes. Are we?”
“I–yes–if you call it—-“
“I do…. And we are to be–married?” He could scarcely now speak the word which but a few moments since he pronounced so easily; for a totally new significance attached itself to every word he uttered.
“Are we?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Then–if I–if I find that I—-“
“Don’t say it,” she whispered. She had turned quite white.
“Will you listen—-“
“No. It–it isn’t true–it cannot be.”
“It is coming truer every moment…. It is very, very true–even now…. It is almost true…. And now it has come true. Sybilla!”
White, dismayed, she gazed at him, her hands instinctively closing her ears. But she dropped them as he stepped forward.
“I love you, Sybilla. I wish to marry you…. Will you try to care for me–a little—-“
“I couldn’t–I can’t even try—-“
“Dear—-“
He had her hands now; she twisted them free; he caught them again. Over their interlocked hands she bowed her head, breathless, cheeks aflame, seeking to cover her eyes.
“Will you love me, Sybilla?”
She struggled silently, desperately.
“_Will_ you?”
“No…. Let me go—-“
“Don’t cry–please, dear–” His head, bowed beside hers over their clasped hands, was more than she could endure; but her upflung face, seeking escape, encountered his. There was a deep, indrawn breath, a sob, and she lay, crying her heart out, in his arms.
* * * * *
“Darling!”
“W-what?”
It is curious how quickly one recognizes unfamiliar forms of address.
“You won’t cry any more, will you?” he whispered.
“N-n-o,” sighed Sybilla.
“Because we _do_ love each other, don’t we?”
“Y-yes, George.” Then, radiant, yet sweetly shamed, confident, yet fearful, she lifted her adorable head from his shoulder.
“George,” she said, “I am beginning to think that I’d like to get off this table.”
“You poor darling!”
“And,” she continued, “if you will go home and change your overalls for something more conventional, you shall come and dine with us this evening, and I will be waiting for you in the drawing-room…. And, George, although some of your troubles are now over—-“
“All of them, dearest!” he cried with enthusiasm.
“No,” she said tenderly, “you are yet to meet Pa-_pah_.”
[Illustration]
XIV
GENTLEMEN OF THE PRESS
_A Chapter Concerning Drusilla, Pa-pah and a Minion_
Capital had now been furnished for The Green Mouse, Limited; a great central station of white marble was being built, facing Madison Avenue and occupying the entire block front between Eighty-second and Eighty- third streets.
The building promised to be magnificent; the plans provided for a thousand private operating rooms, each beautifully furnished in Louis XVI style, a restaurant, a tea room, a marriage licence bureau, and an emergency chapel where first aid clergymen were to be always in attendance.
In each of the thousand Louis XVI operating rooms a Destyn-Carr wireless instrument was to stand upon a rococo table. A maid to every two rooms, a physician to every ten, and smelling salts to each room, were provided for in this gigantic enterprise.
Millions of circulars were being prepared to send broadcast over the United States. They read as follows:
ARE YOU IN LOVE? IF NOT, WHY NOT?
Wedlock by Wireless. Marriage by Machinery. A Wondrous Wooer Without Words! No more doubt; no more hesitation; no more uncertainty. The Destyn-Carr Wireless Apparatus does it all for you. Happy Marriage Guaranteed or money eagerly refunded!
Psychical Science says that for every man and woman on earth there is a predestined mate!
That mate can be discovered for you by The Green Mouse, Limited.
Why waste time with costly courtship? Why frivol? Why fuss?
There is only ONE mate created for YOU. You pay us; We find that ONE, thereby preventing mistakes, lawsuits, elopements, regrets, grouches, alimony.
Divorce Absolutely Eliminated
By Our Infallible Wireless Method
Success Certain
It is now known the world over that Professor William Augustus Destyn has discovered that the earth we live on is enveloped in Psychical Currents. By the Destyn-Carr instrument these currents may be tapped, controlled and used to communicate between two people of opposite sex whose subconscious and psychic personalities are predestined to affinity and amorous accord. In other words, when psychic waves from any individual are collected or telegraphed along these wireless psychical currents, only that one affinity attuned to receive them can properly respond.
_We catch your psychic waves for you. We send them out into the world._
WATCH THAT SPARK!
When you see a tiny bluish-white spark tip the tentacle of the Destyn- Carr transmitter,
THE WORLD IS YOURS!
for $25.
Our method is quick, painless, merciful and certain. Fee, twenty-five dollars in advance. Certified checks accepted.
THE GREEN MOUSE, Limited.
President PROF. WM. AUGUSTUS DESTYN. Vice-Presidents THE HON. KILLIAN VAN K. VANDERDYNK. THE HON. GEORGE GRAY, 3D.
Treasurer THE HON. BUSHWYCK CARR.
These circulars were composed, illuminated and printed upon vellum by what was known as an “Art” community in West Borealis, N.J. Several tons were expected for delivery early in June.
Meanwhile, the Carr family and its affiliations had invested every cent they possessed in Green Mouse, Limited; and those who controlled the stock were Bushwyck Carr; William Augustus Destyn and Mrs. Destyn, nee Ethelinda Carr; Mr. Killian Van K. Vanderdynk and Mrs. Vanderdynk, nee Sacharissa Carr; George Gray and Mrs. Gray, very lately Sybilla Carr; and the unmarried triplets, Flavilla and Drusilla Carr.
Remembering with a shudder how Bell Telephone and Standard Oil might once have been bought for a song, Bushwyck Carr determined that in this case his pudgy fingers should not miss the forelock of Time and the divided skirts of Chance.
Squinting at the viewless ether through his monocle he beheld millions in it; so did William Augustus Destyn and the other sons-in-law.
Only the unmarried triplets, Flavilla and Drusilla, remained amiably indifferent in the midst of all these family financial scurryings and preparations to secure world patents in a monopoly which promised the social regeneration of the globe.
The considerable independent fortunes that their mother had left them they invested in Green Mouse, at their father’s suggestion; but further than that they took no part in the affair.
For a while the hurry and bustle and secret family conferences mildly interested them. Very soon, however, the talk of psychic waves and millions bored them; and as soon as the villa at Oyster Bay was opened they were glad enough to go.
Here, at Oyster Bay, there was some chance of escaping their money-mad and wave-intoxicated family; they could entertain and be entertained by both of the younger sets in that dignified summer resort; they could wander about their own vast estate alone; they could play tennis, sail, swim, ride, and drive their tandem.
But best of all–for they were rather seriously inclined at the age of eighteen, or, rather, on the verge of nineteen–they adored sketching, in water colors, out of doors.
Scrubby forelands set with cedars, shadow-flecked paths under the scrub oak, meadows where water glimmered, white sails off Center Island and Cooper’s Bluff–Cooper’s Bluff from the north, northeast, east, southeast, south–this they painted with never-tiring, Pecksniffian patience, boxing the compass around it as enthusiastically as that immortal architect circumnavigated Salisbury Cathedral.
And one delicious morning in early June, when the dew sparkled on the poison ivy and the air was vibrant with the soft monotone of mosquitoes and the public road exhaled a delicate aroma of crude oil, Drusilla and Flavilla, laden with sketching-blocks, color-boxes, camp-stools, white umbrellas and bonbons, descended to the great hall, on sketching bent.
Mr. Carr also stood there, just outside on the porch, red, explosive, determined legs planted wide apart, defying several courtly reporters, who for a month had patiently and politely appeared every hour to learn whether Mr. Carr had anything to say about the new invention, rumors of which were flying thick about Park Row.
“No, I haven’t!” he shouted in his mellow and sonorously musical bellow. “I have told you one hundred times that when I have anything to say I’ll send for you. Now, permit me to inform you, for the hundred and first consecutive time, that I have nothing to say–which won’t prevent you from coming back in an hour and standing in exactly the same ridiculous position you now occupy, and asking me exactly the same unmannerly questions, and taking the same impertinent snapshots at my house and my person!”
He executed a ferocious facial contortion, clapped the monocle into his left eye, and squinted fiercely.
“I’m getting tired of this!” he continued. “When I wake in the morning and look out of my window there are always anywhere from one to twenty reporters decorating my lawn! That young man over there is the worst and most persistent offender!”–scowling at a good-looking youth in white flannels, who immediately blushed distressingly. “Yes, you are, young man! I’m amazed that you have the decency to blush! Your insolent sheet, the Evening Star, refers to my Trust Company as a Green Mouse Trap and a _Mouse_leum. It also publishes preposterous pictures of myself and family. Dammit, sir, they even produce a photograph of Orlando, the family cat! You did it, I am told. Did you?”
“I am trying to do what I can for my paper, Mr. Carr,” said the young man. “The public is interested.”
Mr. Carr regarded him with peculiar hatred.
“Come here,” he said; “I _have_ got something to say to _you_.”
The young man cautiously left the ranks of his fellows and came up on the porch. Behind Mr. Carr, in the doorway, stood Drusilla and Flavilla. The young man tried not to see them; he pretended not to. But he flushed deeply.
“I want to know,” demanded Mr. Carr, “why the devil you are always around here blushing. You’ve been around here blushing for a month, and I want to know why you do it.”
The youth stood speechless, features afire to the tips of his glowing ears.
“At first,” continued Mr. Carr, mercilessly, “I had a vague hope that you might perhaps be blushing for shame at your profession; I heard that you were young at it, and I was inclined to be sorry for you. But I’m not sorry any more!”
The young man remained crimson and dumb.
“Confound it,” resumed Mr. Carr, “I want to know why the deuce you come and blush all over my lawn. I won’t stand it! I’ll not allow anybody to come blushing around me—-“
Indignation choked him; he turned on his heel to enter the house and beheld Flavilla and Drusilla regarding him, wide-eyed.
He went in, waving them away before him.
“I’ve taught that young pup a lesson,” he said with savage satisfaction. “I’ll teach him to blush at me! I’ll—-“
“But why,” asked Drusilla, “are you so cruel to Mr. Yates? We like him.”
“Mr.–Mr. _Yates!_” repeated her father, astonished. “Is that his name? And who told _you?_”
“He did,” said Drusilla, innocently.
“He–that infernal newspaper bantam—-“
“Pa-_pah!_ Please don’t say that about Mr. Yates. He is really exceedingly kind and civil to us. Every time you go to town on business he comes and sketches with us at—-“
“Oh,” said Mr. Carr, with the calm of deadly fury, “so he goes to Cooper’s Bluff with you when I’m away, does he?”
Flavilla said: “He doesn’t exactly go with us; but he usually comes there to sketch. He makes sketches for his newspaper.”
“Does he?” asked her father, grinding his teeth.
“Yes,” said Drusilla; “and he sketches so beautifully. He made such perfectly charming drawings of Flavilla and of me, and he drew pictures of the house and gardens, and of all the servants, and”–she laughed–“I once caught a glimpse in his sketch-book of the funniest caricature of you—-“
The expression on her father’s face was so misleading in its terrible calm that she laughed again, innocently.
“It was not at all an offensive caricature, you know–really it was not a caricature at all–it was _you_–just the way you stand and look at people when you are–slightly–annoyed—-“
“Oh, he is so clever,” chimed in Flavilla, “and is so perfectly well-bred and so delightful to us–to Drusilla particularly. He wrote the prettiest set of verses–To Drusilla in June–just dashed them off while he was watching her sketch Cooper’s Bluff from the southwest—-“
“He is really quite wonderful,” added Drusilla, sincerely, “and so generous and helpful when my drawing becomes weak and wobbly—-“
“Mr. Yates shows Drusilla how to hold her pencil,” said Flavilla, becoming warmly earnest in her appreciation of this self-sacrificing young man. “He often lays aside his own sketching and guides Drusilla’s hand while she holds the pencil—-“
“And when I’m tired,” said Drusilla, “and the water colors get into a dreadful mess, Mr. Yates will drop his own work and come and talk to me about art–and other things—-“
“He is _so_ kind!” cried Flavilla in generous enthusiasm.
“And _so_ vitally interesting,” said Drusilla.
“And so talented!” echoed Flavilla.
“And so–” Drusilla glanced up, beheld something in the fixed stare of her parent that frightened her, and rose in confusion. “Have I said– done–anything?” she faltered.
With an awful spasm Mr. Carr jerked his congested features into the ghastly semblance of a smile.
“Not at all,” he managed to say. “This is very interesting–what you tell me about this p-pu–this talented young man. Does he–does he seem– attracted toward you–unusually attracted?”
“Yes,” said Drusilla, smiling reminiscently.
“How do you know?”
“Because he once said so.”
“S-said–w-what?”
“Why, he said quite frankly that he thought me the most delightful girl he had ever met.”
“What–else?” Mr. Carr’s voice was scarcely audible.
“Nothing,” said Drusilla; “except that he said he cared for me very much and wished to know whether I ever could care very much for him…. I told him I thought I could. Flavilla told him so, too…. And we all felt rather happy, I think; at least I did.”
Her parent emitted a low, melodious sort of sound, a kind of mellifluous howl.
“Pa-pah!” they exclaimed in gentle consternation.
He beat at the empty air for a moment like a rotund fowl about to seek its roost. Suddenly he ran distractedly at an armchair and kicked it.
They watched him in sorrowful amazement.
“If we are going to sketch Cooper’s Bluff this morning,” observed Drusilla to Flavilla, “I think we had better go–quietly–by way of the kitchen garden. Evidently Pa-pah does not care for Mr. Yates.”
Orlando, the family cat, strolled in, conciliatory tail hoisted. Mr. Carr hurled a cushion at Orlando, then beat madly upon his own head with both hands. Servants respectfully gave him room; some furniture was overturned–a chair or two–as he bounced upward and locked and bolted himself in his room.
What transports of fury he lived through there nobody else can know; what terrible visions of vengeance lit up his outraged intellect, what cold intervals of quivering hate, what stealthy schemes of reprisal, what awful retribution for young Mr. Yates were hatched in those dreadful moments, he alone could tell. And as he never did tell, how can I know?
However, in about half an hour his expression of stony malignity changed to a smile so cunningly devilish that, as he caught sight of himself in the mirror, his corrugated countenance really startled him.
“I must smooth out–smooth out!” he muttered. “Smoothness does it!” And he rang for a servant and bade him seek out a certain Mr. Yates among the throng of young men who had been taking snapshots.
[Illustration]
XV
DRUSILLA
_During Which Chapter Mr. Carr Sings and One of His Daughters Takes her Postgraduate_
Mr. Yates came presently, ushered by Ferdinand, and looking extremely worried. Mr. Carr received him in his private office with ominous urbanity.
“Mr. Yates,” he said, forcing a distorted smile, “I have rather abruptly decided to show you exactly how one of the Destyn-Carr instruments is supposed to work. Would you kindly stand here–close by this table?”
Mr. Yates, astounded, obeyed.
“Now,” said Mr. Carr, with a deeply creased smile, “here is the famous Destyn-Carr apparatus. That’s quite right–take a snapshot at it without my permission—-“
“I–I thought—-“
“Quite right, my boy; I intend you shall know all about it. You see it resembles the works of a watch…. Now, when I touch this spring the receiver opens and gathers in certain psychic waves which emanate from the subconscious personality of–well, let us say you, for example!… And now I touch this button. You see that slender hairspring of Rosium uncurl and rise, trembling and waving about like a tentacle?”
Young Yates, notebook in hand, recovered himself sufficiently to nod. Mr. Carr leered at him:
“That tentacle,” he explained, “is now seeking some invisible, wireless, psychic current along which it is to transmit the accumulated psychic waves. As soon as the wireless current finds the subconscious personality of the woman you are destined to love and marry some day—-“
“I?” exclaimed young Yates, horrified.
“Yes, you. Why not? Do you mind my trying it on you?”
“But I am already in love,” protested the young man, turning, as usual, a ready red. “I don’t care to have you try it on me. Suppose that machine should connect me with–some other–girl—-“
“It has!” cried Carr with a hideous laugh as a point of bluish-white fire tipped the tentacle for an instant. “You’re tied fast to something feminine! Probably a flossy typewriter–or a burlesque actress–somebody you’re fitted for, anyway!” He clapped on his monocle, and glared gleefully at the stupefied young man.
“That will teach you to enter my premises and hold my daughter’s hand when she is drawing innocent pictures of Cooper’s Bluff!” he shouted. “That will teach you to write poems to my eighteen-year-old daughter, Drusilla; that will teach you to tell her you are in love with her–you young pup!”
“I am in love with her!” said Yates, undaunted; but he was very white when he said it. “I do love her; and if you had behaved halfway decently I’d have told you so two weeks ago!”
Mr. Carr turned a delicate purple, then, recovering, laughed horribly.
“Whether or not you were once in love with my daughter is of no consequence now. That machine has nullified your nonsense! That instrument has found you your proper affinity–doubtless below stairs—-“
“I _am_ still in love with Drusilla,” repeated Yates, firmly.
“I tell you, you’re not!” retorted Carr. “Didn’t I turn that machine on you? It has never missed yet! The Green Mouse has got _you_ in the Mouseleum!”
“You are mistaken,” insisted Yates, still more firmly. “I was in love with your daughter Drusilla before you started the machine; and I love her yet! Now! At the present time! This very instant I am loving her!”
“You can’t!” shouted Carr.
“Yes, I can. And I do!”
“No, you don’t! I tell you it’s a scientific and psychical impossibility for you to continue to love her! Your subconscious personality is now in eternal and irrevocable accord and communication with the subconscious personality of some chit of a girl who is destined to love and marry you! And she’s probably a ballet-girl, at that!”
“I shall marry Drusilla!” retorted the young man, very pale; “because I am quite confident that she loves me, though very probably she doesn’t know it yet.”
“You talk foolishness!” hissed Carr. “This machine has settled the whole matter! Didn’t you see that spark?”
“I saw a spark–yes!”
“And do you mean to tell me you are not beginning to feel queer?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Look me squarely in the eye, young man, and tell me whether you do not have a sensation as though your heart were cutting capers?”
“Not in the least,” said Yates, calmly. “If that machine worked at all it wouldn’t surprise me if you yourself had become entangled in it–caught in your own machine!”
“W-what!” exclaimed Carr, faintly.
“It wouldn’t astonish me in the slightest,” repeated Yates, delighted to discover the dawning alarm in the older man’s features. “_You_ opened the receiver; _you_ have psychic waves as well as I. _I_ was in love at the time; _you_ were not. What was there to prevent your waves from being hitched to a wireless current and, finally, signaling the subconscious personality of–of some pretty actress, for example?”
Mr. Carr sank nervously onto a chair; his eyes, already wild, became wilder as he began to realize the risk he had unthinkingly taken.
“Perhaps _you_ feel a little–queer. You look it,” suggested the young man, in a voice made anxious by an ever-ready sympathy. “Can I do anything? I am really very sorry to have spoken so.”
A damp chill gathered on the brow of Bushwyck Carr. He _did_ feel a trifle queer. A curious lightness–a perfectly inexplicable buoyancy seemed to possess him. He was beginning to feel strangely youthful; the sound of his own heart suddenly became apparent. To his alarm it was beating playfully, skittishly. No–it was not even beating; it was skipping.
“Y-Yates,” he stammered, “you don’t think that I could p-possibly have become inadvertently mixed up with that horrible machine–do you?”
Now Yates was a generous youth; resentment at the treatment meted out to him by this florid, bad-tempered and pompous gentleman changed to instinctive sympathy when he suddenly realized the plight his future father-in-law might now be in.
“Yates,” repeated Mr. Carr in an agitated voice, “tell me honestly: _do_ you think there is anything unusual the matter with me? I–I seem to f-feel unusually–young. Do I look it? Have I changed? W-watch me while I walk across the room.”
Mr. Carr arose with a frightened glance at Yates, put on his hat, and fairly pranced across the room. “Great Heavens!” he faltered; “my hat’s on one side and my walk is distinctly jaunty! Do you notice it, Yates?”
“I’m afraid I do, Mr. Carr.”
“This–this is infamous!” gasped Mr. Carr. “This is–is outrageous! I’m forty-five! I’m a widower! I detest a jaunty widower! I don’t want to be one; I don’t want to—-“
Yates gazed at him with deep concern.
“Can’t you help lifting your legs that way when you walk–as though a band were playing? Wait, I’ll straighten your hat. Now try it again.”
Mr. Carr pranced back across the room.
“I _know_ I’m doing it again,” he groaned, “but I can’t help it! I–I feel so gay–dammit!–so frivolous–it’s–it’s that infernal machine. W-what am I to do, Yates,” he added piteously, “when the world looks so good to me?”
“Think of your family!” urged Yates. “Think of–of Drusilla.”
“Do you know,” observed Carr, twirling his eyeglass and twisting his mustache, “that I’m beginning not to care what my family think!… Isn’t it amazing, Yates? I–I seem to be somebody else, several years younger. Somewhere,” he added, with a flourish of his monocle–“somewhere on earth there is a little birdie waiting for me.”
“Don’t talk that way!” exclaimed Yates, horrified.
“Yes, I will, young man. I repeat, with optimism and emphasis, that _somewhere_ there is a birdie—-“
“Mr. Carr!”
“Yes, merry old Top!”
“May I use your telephone?”