"I don't think they will be able to hurt us much," he said confidently.

"Then it must come out _without_ a name!" she cried with sudden pa.s.sion.

He wished to avoid a scene; he failed to see just what her object was.

"Let me think over this, Miss Vaughan. I'll send you my decision by letter to-morrow."

She followed him weakly to the door.

"There are plenty of books," she half pleaded, "that have sold better for being brought out anonymously."

"I'll think over it, Miss Vaughan, and let you know definitely to-morrow."

Before his letter was written the printers were already at work on The Unwise Virgins. The note from him which eventually reached Cordelia was brief, but to the point. It said:

"MY DEAR MISS VAUGHAN: In reply to your inquiry of yesterday, I would state that we are reluctantly forced to abide strictly by the letter of our contract with you. It seems almost superfluous for us to point out that your name is now of such weight in the literary world that under no circ.u.mstances should we agree to any such terms as those you have been granted unless it had been most definitely understood the name of America's most ill.u.s.trious author should go upon our season's lists. We are rushing work on the book; in fact, we hope to have it out by the end of the month.

"Very truly yours,

"HENRY H. SLATER."

Cordelia, as she read and reread this letter, dimly felt that they were crushing her to the wall. She cried out, in her bewilderment, that they were giving her no chance.

While she was still pondering over this confounding new turn of affairs she received a message from Repellier, asking if she would not drop up to his studio the following afternoon. She remembered that she and Hartley had planned to spend the afternoon in the Park. But some indefinite dread of yet meeting him face to face, a longing for some temporary escape from an ordeal which she had not the courage to go through, made her decide in favor of Repellier. But just why that stern-faced artist should want to see her she could not understand.

Indeed, in her present mood she did not much care.

CHAPTER XXIII

TATTERED COLORS

... We see The sorrowing G.o.ds regretfully Bar out the bird, but after all How lightly song still leaps the wall!

JOHN HARTLEY, "The Lost Voice."

"But, after all, even without love, life is life," ventured Evelyn.

The older woman sighed as she answered: "Yes, it is life, my child, but it is the axle of existence without grease."

From an unpublished ma.n.u.script of CORDELIA VAUGHAN.

Cordelia failed to understand why she should feel so nervous. She half wished, as she climbed the long stairs leading up to Repellier's studio, that she had kept her promise with Hartley, and spent the afternoon in the open air, in the Park, with him. She idly wondered how many more rides they should have together--as she pulled the dangling rabbit's-foot which Repellier affected for a bell-rope--suddenly whimsically curious to know if Hartley was missing her that afternoon.

The old artist himself answered the ring, greeting her with a face that looked peculiarly aged and worn, she thought. As she stepped into the studio, notwithstanding her desire for perfect self-control, she could not help looking up at him with anxious and inquiring eyes--his solemnity frightened her.

"Why, I'm the only one," she said, inadequately, glancing round the large, airy-looking room, with its profusion of casts and sketches and sc.r.a.ps of costume and old armor about the walls.

"I thought from your note, you know, that there would be--be others,"

she went on, b.u.t.toning and unb.u.t.toning the white glove on her slender wrist.

He asked her to be seated. "And won't you let me take your wraps?" he said, still quite impa.s.sively.

"Thank you, no," she answered coldly. "I can stay for just a minute or two."

"But this is important," he protested, still waiting dominantly, "and I fear I may detain you."

She surrendered them reluctantly, and seated herself in the chair stiffly, uncomfortably. She wondered why her heart should be beating at such a rate. But she looked out at him with coldly inquiring eyes, and with just a touch of indignation in the down-drawn corners of her thin lips.

"The truth is, Miss Vaughan," he began slowly, "I want you to help me out of a very great difficulty."

"Concerning what?" she asked nervously.

She was sitting in the full light of one of the broad-silled windows of the studio, and the afternoon sun worried her eyes. She tried to shade them with her daintily gloved hand.

"How long have you been writing, Miss Vaughan?"

"Almost two years; two _whole_ years, I mean. It's that long since I really wrote my first book. Why?" Her eyebrows lifted superciliously.

"Would you mind telling me the name of that first book?"

"Of course not. It was The Silver Poppy."

The sun still worried her eyes, and she moved her chair uneasily.

"That was your only book?"

"Yes, so far."

He reached over to the table beside him.

"Did you write that book alone--I mean without help or guidance?"

"Quite alone!" she said distinctly.

He picked up a book from the table. It was Hartley's copy of The Silver Poppy. A mounting wave of crimson swept over Cordelia's face, leaving it, in turn, almost a dead white.

"One writes nothing quite alone," she added, smiling hastily. "I _did_ have a little help, perhaps, but it was very little!"

"That's better. Could you tell me just how much?"

"Every author, I think, absorbs things that--But am I a prisoner before the bar?" she suddenly flashed back at him angrily. Then she saw his quiet smile, and an answering smile came to her own pale lips. "Or is it a--a joke?" she added.

"No," he said, "I'm afraid it's almost a tragedy."

"I don't understand," she said feebly.

"Perhaps I can help you to," he answered. "I have, for the first time, just finished reading The Silver Poppy. Miss Vaughan, The Silver Poppy was not written by you!"