"Well, that has been troubling me a little, Ann," he said in his unsmiling voice, and I felt that his eyes were looking coldly into the s.p.a.ce just beyond his telephone. "I see that you are disposed to argue the matter. I had an idea that you had not sent it back, so I decided to ask you when I got you to the 'phone. Now, the question is, are you going to be guided by what I tell you in this matter, or not?"

No woman who has not experienced the agony can half appreciate the feeling of sudden terror that came over me at the cold sound of his voice. It seemed to have a threatening tone of _finality_ in it that chilled me to the bone. I had such a feeling of helplessness somehow.

You can argue with a man and cajole him and smooth his hair when he is where you can get your hands on him, knowing all the time that you are not going to let him leave the house until he has smiled the smile that won your heart; but, oh, the futility of trying to argue with a masterful lover over a long-distance telephone.

"Are you talking? I can't hear a word."

"I'm not talking, Richard," I answered. "I'm--I'm _thinking_."

"Well, I called you because I wanted to hear you talk. You haven't answered my question yet." Again that tone of cold meaning. A hundred thoughts a minute were flying through my brain. Should I say no and have a quarrel with him? Should I say yes, and prove myself a coward--or should I lie to him?

If this were a tale of heroism, I should have a few ringing words of challenge to insert right here and then a quick curtain. But this is not a heroic story, it is only simple truth, told with regret and aspirations after a higher courage, yet still a true account of what happened in our back hall this beautiful Sunday morning. _I hedged._

"I'll send it back, Richard," I told him, and he at once changed his tone and the subject of his discourse, beginning a recital of how he missed me and how he was going to cut short his trip up there and come on back. I scarcely heard the words, for I was trying to frame for my own conscience my sophisticated excuse. "I shall send it back if he _convinces_ me that there is any just occasion for doing so," I pleaded to myself. But after he had said good-by and I started from the telephone I found mother's eyes fixed upon me in a kind of pitying wonder.

I flushed and looked away. Then I recalled Cousin Eunice's words: "Don't let him make you do anything that will lower your self-respect.

Many wives don't know the meaning of that word." Wives? Dear me! I have been his fiancee only a week!

CHAPTER XIII

THANKSGIVING DAY

Thanksgiving day--and I have written nothing since the middle of October! But you remember I told you in the beginning that my journal might be, not so much a record of deeds as a setting forth of wishes; and my wishes all come to pa.s.s so speedily these days that there is no time to write them down.

To be honest, I had no idea of bringing my journal up here to Charlotteville with me, when I came for this Thanksgiving visit, for I thought of course Richard would be here all the time and I should not find a moment dull enough for me to sit down and write. But, as it happens, I am glad that the book was slipped into the tray of my trunk almost without my knowledge, else I should be spending a lonely evening right now.

Let me see--shall I begin where I left off--that sunny morning when I parried with Richard across half the state and lived to regret it? Or shall I begin with my entree into Charlotteville and then jot down the past happenings as they come to me? The latter course strikes me as rather the better, then perhaps I shall not be tempted to give any one little occurrence too much s.p.a.ce. Things seen in a sort of over-the-shoulder perspective are more likely to shrink into their normal size.

If I had s.n.a.t.c.hed you up, my journal, the day that Richard sent me that exquisite chased card-case--a counterpart in pattern of his own sacred cigarette-case which I had once fingered with admiring reverence--I should have used up pages and pages of s.p.a.ce, besides impoverishing myself in the way of adjectives. But I spent so many days dangling that card-case in front of me, as I stood before the mirror--using always my sparkling left hand--that before I had grown accustomed to the possession of it there came something even better calculated to take my breath away. A dull gold brooch it was this time, set with a green jade scarab--the little beetle bearing along with it a page of typed pedigree, showing the why and wherefore of its being. It in nowise detracted from the joy of possession, that these trinkets came in the nature of olive branches.

Yes, my sovereign was angry when I brought up the discussion of the book again, the Byron book, which I had promised to return, but with the proviso, under my breath, that I should be made to see the reason why first. I learned that he not only has the heart of a lion, but a little of that beautiful animal's kingly fury also when he is aroused.

And he was aroused at what he termed my deception.

I made a clean breast of the matter the very first hour we were together again, knowing that I could make him listen to reason if I got him _literally_ at arm's length. But I had to listen to some things, too, in that hour; coming off victorious to such an extent that he finally called himself every kind of high-cla.s.s villain imaginable. Then, the next week this plethora of express packages.

So it seems that my idea concerning the warring elements in his character was not altogether wrong.

But to hasten on to Charlotteville! Mrs. Chalmers wrote mother several weeks ago that she wanted me to come for Thanksgiving, so there was plenty of time for the getting together of clothes which I now knew to be absolutely essential to my peace of mind when I should be with Richard. I never knew a man to pay such attention to these little details. But what else can you expect when you are engaged to an Olympian G.o.d? Still--I almost wish sometimes that he did not lay so much stress on mere luxuries, for people can have a lot of enjoyment in life without them. Yet to Richard a big house, servants, expensive clothes, all are as necessary as the air he breathes, and he wants to make me feel the same dependence on them.

During the one little visit I have made in the city since our engagement he kept his promise of taking me for long country drives--but always in a big touring car, with a chaperon and a chauffeur! When I suggested that it would be more "fun" to drive that pretty horse of his and go alone, he a.s.sured me gravely that many things in this life which were good "fun" were not proper. So I said no more, but I felt a sudden sense of grat.i.tude toward fate for not ever sending Richard driving past me last winter when I used not only to drive out the pikes with Alfred, but get out and go down on my knees to help him with a puncture. True, I wasn't much help, usually being good only to hand him things, or _blow_ on the patches to make them dry the faster--but I always liked to help, and he always let me.

But Charlotteville! Well, it is a small town in the eastern end of the state--a citified little place enough--where there are at least a dozen people who own handsome motor-cars; and the ices are always frozen in fancy shapes at the parties. Still it is a little town, where everybody likes to talk about everybody else--and the power-house shuts off the electricity at midnight.

I was glad when I found that there were other guests for this occasion, for I thought that would give me more time alone with Richard, and after I had met these guests I felt glad on their own account, for they are delightful.

Mr. Maxwell, the only other man, came down the same day that I reached here; on the same train, in fact, but neither of us knew this at the time, for I happened to be in the day-coach and he was in the Pullman.

When I reached the station here at Charlotteville, and at first saw no one on the little platform to meet me, I felt a sudden sinking around my heart; but, after the crowd had moved along a bit, I espied Richard's tall form at the extreme end of the platform. He was looking with a good deal of eagerness into the windows of the one Pullman car. With him, and talking exuberantly, was a boyish-looking young man who had forgotten to remove his traveling-cap. Richard seemed to be paying no attention to this bright-faced youth.

I dropped my bag and hastened down the platform.

"Oh, she's disappointed you, old boy! 'Tain't another thing," the man in the cap was saying as I came up close behind them and slackened my pace. "I'll swear there wasn't a thing in that car that looked like a cross between Venus de Milo and--"

"Richard," I called softly, and he wheeled around in delighted surprise.

"Bless your little heart!" he said, so genuinely glad to see me that he forgot for a moment the presence of the other man. That is, I thought at the time he had forgotten, but I soon saw that he considered Mr. Maxwell too much of a good-natured fool to count. "I thought you had failed to come," he kept on. "Where the d.i.c.kens were you?"

"I was in the day-coach," I answered, after I had shaken hands with Mr. Maxwell, when Richard remembered to present him.

"What?"

His tone was low and quiet, but his eyes spoke surprise, and I remembered, with a sudden chill, that according to his ethics I had done almost a disgraceful thing.

"There were some people in the day-coach I--wanted to be with," I began by way of explanation, but I saw that this was making matters worse.

"What kind of people?" he asked drily.

"A woman. I got to talking to her when we changed trains at M--; she had _such_ a headache--and two babies. The littlest one consented to let me walk him around some; and I fed the other one the remains of a box of chocolates. When this train came they got into the day-coach, and of course I went with them."

"Why 'of course?'" he asked again, but with an amused smile dawning in his eyes.

"Well, I was still carrying the baby! I couldn't go off into another car with him, could I?"

Richard looked at Mr. Maxwell and laughed perfunctorily, but I knew that in some way he felt that I had humiliated him. Mr. Maxwell did not laugh, although his is essentially a laughing face.

"I understand," Richard said finally, turning to me again and asking for my checks. "You have quite the appearance of a good Samaritan.

Your hair is--er--just a trifle ruffled. Couldn't you have managed some way to smooth it a little before you reached here? Evelyn always spends the last hour of a journey back in the dressing-room arranging her hair and powdering her face."

"Well, of course I know that is the ladylike thing to do," I responded, with something more nearly like sarcasm than I had ever used to him before.

Mr. Maxwell was busy taking his things from the porter, and as he exchanged his cap for a more dignified, but less becoming, hat, I noticed a scar on his forehead, high up and extending quite a distance toward the crown of his head. His hair grew queerly along the line of the scar. He seemed purposely to have detached himself from us for a moment, so I spoke to Richard again.

"Richard," I said, speaking low and rapidly, so that only he could hear. "I am sorry if I am a _fright_! But I just couldn't prink before that woman on the train. She was deathly sick, so I kept the baby all the way. Then she was _poor_ and proud and--I didn't care about opening my bag and spreading all my silver things out before her!"

He laughed again.

"You are an extremist, Ann," he said. "But you are not a fright.

Only, you're so fine, when you're at your best--and mother won't understand."

"Of course not," I answered rather shortly; and the drive out to the house might have been a very quiet one if it had not been for Mr.

Maxwell's irrepressible chatter.

I was grateful for the chatter at the time, still more so when we reached the house, for it helped my ruffled hair to pa.s.s unnoticed.

The feminine portion of the family met us at the front steps, and, as darkness was drawing on, I failed to take in at the time the full magnificence of the outside of the house. When I saw it next morning in the bright sunshine it struck me as being an oppressively ma.s.sive, gleaming structure, with a great display of plate-gla.s.s doors and windows; and, instead of long, generous porches, as we have at home, there are several tiled vestibules that each morning are--no, not scoured, they are _manicured_.