"My dear Tom," exclaimed Miss Hinsdale, "you forget Wetherford Swift!"

"I could stand it all," put forth the widower, "if it were not for Wetherford Swift."

"When is Miss Sherwood coming home?" asked one of the ladies. "Why does she stay away and leave him to his sufferings?"

"Us to his sufferings," subst.i.tuted a bachelor. "He is just beginning; listen."

Through all the other sounds of music, there penetrated from an unseen source, a sawish, sc.r.a.ped, vibration of catgut, pathetic, insistent, painstaking, and painful beyond belief.

"He is in a terrible way to-night," said the widower.

Miss Hinsdale laughed. "Worse every night. The violinist is young Wetherford Swift," she explained to Harkless. "He is very much in love, and it doesn't agree with him. He used to be such a pleasant boy, but last winter he went quite mad over Helen Sherwood, Mr. Meredith's cousin, our beauty, you know--I am so sorry she isn't here; you'd be interested in meeting her, I'm sure--and he took up the violin."

"It is said that his family took up chloroform at the same time," said the widower.

"His music is a barometer," continued the lady, "and by it the neighborhood nightly observes whether Miss Sherwood has been nice to him or not."

"It is always exceedingly plaintive," explained another.

"Except once," rejoined Miss Hinsdale. "He played jigs when she came home from somewhere or other, in June."

"It was Tosti's 'Let Me Die,' the very next evening," remarked the widower.

"Ah," said one of the bachelors, "but his joy was sadder for us than his misery. Hear him now."

"I think he means it for 'What's this dull town to me,'" observed another, with some rancor. "I would willingly make the town sufficiently exciting for him--"

"If there were not an ordinance against the hurling of missiles,"

finished the widower.

The piano executing the funeral march ceased to execute, discomfited by the persistent and overpowering violin; the banjo and the coster-songs were given over; even the collegians' music was defeated; and the neighborhood was forced to listen to the dauntless fiddle, but not without protest, for there came an indignant, spoken chorus from the quarter whence the college songs had issued: "Ya-a-ay! Wetherford, put it away! _She'll_ come back!" The violin played on.

"We all know each other here, you see, Mr. Harkless," Miss Hinsdale smiled benignantly.

"They didn't bother Mr. Wetherford Swift," said the widower. "Not that time. Do you hear him?--'Could ye come back to me, Douglas'?"

"Oh, but it isn't absence that is killing him and his friends," cried one of the young women. "It is Brainard Macauley."

"That is a mistake," said Tom Meredith, as easily as he could. "There goes Jim's double quartette. Listen, and you will hear them try to----"

But the lady who had mentioned Brainard Macauley cried indignantly: "You try to change the subject the moment it threatens to be interesting.

They were together everywhere until the day she went away; they danced and 'sat out' together through the whole of one country-club party; they drove every afternoon; they took long walks, and he was at the Sherwoods' every evening of her last week in town. 'That is a mistake!'"

"I'm afraid it looks rather bleak for Wetherford," said the widower. "I went up to the 'Journal' office on business, one day, and there sat Miss Sherwood in Macauley's inner temple, chatting with a reporter, while Brainard finished some work."

"Helen is eccentric," said the former speaker, "but she's not quite that eccentric, unless they were engaged. It is well understood that they will announce it in the fall."

Miss Hinsdale kindly explained to Harkless that Brainard Macauley was the editor of the "Rouen Morning Journal"--"a very distinguished young man, not over twenty-eight, and perfectly wonderful." Already a power to be accounted with in national politics, he was "really a tremendous success," and sure to go far; "one of those delicate-looking men, who are yet so strong you know they won't let the lightning hurt you." It really looked as if Helen Sherwood (whom Harkless really ought to meet) had actually been caught in the toils at tet, those toils wherein so many luckless youths had lain enmeshed for her sake. He must meet Mr.

Macauley, too, the most interesting man in Rouen. After her little portrait of him, didn't Mr. Harkless agree that it looked really pretty dull for Miss Sherwood's other lovers?

Mr. Harkless smiled, and agreed that it did indeed. She felt a thrill of compa.s.sion for him, and her subsequent description of the pathos of his smile was luminous. She said it was natural that a man who had been through so much suffering from those horrible "White-Cappers" should have a smile that struck into your heart like a knife.

Despite all that Meredith could do, and after his notorious effort to shift the subject he could do very little, the light prattle ran on about Helen Sherwood and Brainard Macauley. Tom abused himself for his wild notion of cheering his visitor with these people who had no talk, and who, if they drifted out of commonplace froth, had no medium to float them unless they sailed the currents, of local personality, and he mentally upbraided them for a set of gossiping ninnies. They conducted a conversation (if it could be dignified by a name) of which no stranger could possibly partake, and which, by a hideous coincidence, was making his friend writhe, figuratively speaking, for Harkless sat like a fixed shadow. He uttered scarcely a word the whole evening, though Meredith knew that his guests would talk about him enthusiastically, the next day, none the less. The journalist's silence was enforced by the topics; but what expression and manner the light allowed them to see was friendly and receptive, as though he listened to brilliant suggestions.

He had a nice courtesy, and Miss Hinsdale felt continually that she was cleverer than usual this evening, and no one took his silence to be churlish, though they all innocently wondered why he did not talk more; however, it was probable that a man who had been so interestingly and terribly shot would be rather silent for a time afterward.

That night, when Harkless had gone to bed Meredith sat late by his own window calling himself names. He became aware of a rhomboidal patch of yellow light on a wall of foliage without, and saw that it came from his friend's window. After dubious consideration, he knocked softly on the door.

"Come."

He went in. Harkless was in bed, and laughed faintly as Meredith entered. "I--I'm fearing you'll have to let me settle your gas bill, Tom. I'm not like I used to be, quite. I find--since--since that business, I can't sleep without a light. I rather get the--the horrors in the dark."

Incoherently, Meredith made a compa.s.sionate exclamation and turned to go, and, as he left the room, his eye fell upon the mantel-piece. The position of the photographs had been altered, and the picture of the girl who looked straight out at you was gone. The mere rim of it was visible behind the image of an old gentleman with a sardonic mouth.

An hour later, Tom came back, and spoke through the closed door. "Boy, don't you think you can get to sleep now?"

"Yes, Tom. It's all right. You get to bed. Nothing troubles me."

Meredith spent the next day in great tribulation and perplexity; he felt that something had to be done, but what to do he did not know. He still believed that a "stirring-up" was what Harkless needed--not the species of "stirring-up" that had taken place last night, but a diversion which would divert. As they sat at dinner, a suggestion came to him and he determined to follow it. He was called to the telephone, and a voice strange to his ear murmured in a tone of polite deference: "A lady wishes to know if Mr. Meredith and his visitor intend being present at the country-club this evening."

He had received the same inquiry from Miss Hinsdale on her departure the previous evening, and had answered vaguely; hence he now rejoined:

"You are quite an expert ventriloquist, but you do not deceive me."

"I beg your pardon, sir," creaked the small articulation.

"This is Miss Hinsdale, isn't it?"

"No, sir. The lady wishes to know if you will kindly answer her question."

"Tell her, yes." He hung up the receiver, and returned to the table.

"Some of Clara Hinsdale's play," he explained. "You made a devastating impression on her, boy; you were wise enough not to talk any, and she foolishly thought you were as interesting as you looked. We're going out to a country-club dance. It's given for the devotees who stay here all summer and swear Rouen is always cool; and n.o.body dances but me and the very young ones. It won't be so bad; you can smoke anywhere, and there are little tables. We'll go."

"Thank you, Tom, you're so good to think of it, but----"

"But what?"

"Would you mind going alone? I find it very pleasant sitting on your veranda, or I'll get a book."

"Very well, if you don't want to go, I don't. I haven't had a dance for three months and I'm still addicted to it. But of course----"

"I think I'd like to go." Harkless acquiesced at once, with a cheerful voice and a lifeless eye, and the good Tom felt unaccountably mean in persisting.

They drove out into the country through mists like lakes, and found themselves part of a procession of twinkling carriage-lights, and cigar sparks shining above open vehicles, winding along the levels like a canoe fete on the water. In the entrance hall of the club-house they encountered Miss Hinsdale, very handsome, large, and dark, elaborately beaming and bending toward them warmly.

"Who do you think is here?" she said.

"Gomez?" ventured Meredith.

"Helen Sherwood!" she cried. "Go and present Mr. Harkless before Brainard Macauley takes her away to some corner."