The High Heart

by Basil King

  CHAPTER XVIII

  What happened on the train after Mrs. Brokenshire and I had left it Iheard from Mr. Strangways. Having got it from him in some detail, I cangive it in my own words more easily than in his.

  I may be permitted to state here how much and how little of the romancebetween Mr. Grainger and Mrs. Brokenshire Larry Strangways knew. He knewnext to nothing--but he inferred a good deal. From facts I gave him onceor twice in hours of my own perplexity he had been able to get light oncertain matters which had come under his observation as Mr. Grainger'sconfidential man, and to which otherwise he would have had no key. Heinferred, for instance, that Mrs. Brokenshire wrote daily to her lover,and that occasionally, at long intervals, her lover could safely writeto her. He inferred that when their meetings had ended in one place theywere taken up discreetly at another, but only with difficulty anddanger. He inferred that the man chafed against this restraint, and ashe had got out of it with other women, he was planning to get out of itagain. I understood that had Mrs. Brokenshire been the only suchinstance in Stacy Grainger's career Larry Strangways might not have feltimpelled to interfere; but seeing from the beginning that his employer"had a weakness," he felt it only right to help me save a woman for whomhe knew I cared.

  I have never wholly understood why he believed that the situation hadworked up to a crisis on that particular day; but having watched thelaying of the mine, he could hardly do anything but expect the explosionon the application of the match.

  When Mr. Grainger had bidden him that morning go to the station andsecure a drawing-room, or, if that was impossible, two parlor-car seats,on the five-o'clock for Boston, he had reasons for following the courseof which I have briefly given the lines. No drawing-room was available,because any that was not sold he bought for himself in order to set thestage according to his own ideas. How far he was justified in this willbe a matter of opinion. Some may commend him, while others will accusehim of unwarrantable interference. My own judgment being of noimportance I hold it in suspense, giving the incidents just as theyoccurred.

  It must be evident that as Mr. Strangways didn't know what was to happenhe could have no plan of action. All he could arrange for was that heand I should be on the spot. As it is difficult for guilty lovers toelope while acquaintances are looking on, he was resolved that theyshould find elopement difficult. For anything else he relied onchance--and on me. Chance favored him in keeping Stacy Grainger out ofsight, in putting Mrs. Brokenshire next to me, and in making the action,such as it was, run smoothly. Had I known that he relied on me I shouldhave been more terrified than I actually was, since I was relying onhim.

  It will be seen, then, that at the moment when Mrs. Brokenshire and Ileft the train Larry Strangways had but a vague idea of what had takenplace. He merely conjectured from the swish of skirts that we had gone.His next idea was, as he phrased it, to make himself scarce on his ownaccount; but in that his efforts miscarried.

  Hoping to slip into another car and thus avoid a meeting with theoutmanoeuvered lover, he was snapping the clasp of the bag into which hehad thrust his cap when he perceived a tall figure enter the car by theforward end. To escape recognition he bent his head, pretending tosearch for something on the floor. The tall figure passed, but came backagain. It was necessary that he should come back, because of the numberon the ticket, the ulster, the walking-stick, and the golf-clubs.

  What Stacy Grainger saw, of course, was three empty seats, with hissecretary sitting in a fourth. The sight of the three empty seats wasdoubtless puzzling enough, but that of the secretary must have beenbewildering. Without turning his head Mr. Strangways knew by his sixthand seventh senses that his employer was comparing the number on histicket with that of the seat, examining the hand-luggage to make sure itwas his own, and otherwise drawing the conclusion that his facultieshadn't left him. For a private secretary who had ventured so far out ofhis line of duty it was a trying minute; but he turned and glancedupward only on feeling a tap on his shoulder.

  "Hello, Strangways! Is it you? What's the meaning of this?"

  Strangways rose. As the question had been asked in perplexity ratherthan in anger, he could answer calmly.

  "The meaning of what, sir?"

  "Where the deuce are you going? What are you doing here?"

  "I'm going to Boston, sir."

  "What for? Who told you you could go to Boston?"

  The tone began to nettle the young man, who was not accustomed to beingspoken to so imperiously before strangers.

  "No one told me, sir. I didn't ask permission. I'm my own master. I'veleft your employ."

  "The devil you have! Since when?"

  "Since this morning. I couldn't tell you, because when you left theoffice after I'd given you the tickets you didn't come back."

  "And do you call that decent to a man who's-- But no matter!" He pointedto the seat next his own. "Where's the--the lady who's been sittinghere?"

  Mr. Strangways raised his eyebrows innocently, and shook his head.

  "I haven't seen any lady, sir."

  "What? There must have been a lady here. Was to have got on at OneHundred and Twenty-fifth Street."

  "Possibly; I only say I didn't see her. As a matter of fact, I've beenreading, and I don't think I looked round during the entire journey.Hadn't we better not speak so loud?" he suggested, in a lower tone."People are listening to us."

  "Oh, let them go to-- Now look here, Strangways," he began again,speaking softly, but excitedly, "there must be some explanation tothis."

  "Of course there must be; only I can't give it. Perhaps the porter couldtell us. Shall I call him?"

  Mr. Grainger nodded his permission. The colored man with the flashingteeth came up on the broad grin, showing them.

  "Yep," he replied, in answer to the question: "they was two ladies inthem seats all the way f'um Ne' Yawk."

  "Two ladies?" Mr. Grainger cried, incredulously.

  "Yes, gen'lemen. Two different ladies. The young one she got in at theGrand Central--fust one in the cyar--and the ole one at a Hundred andTwenty-fifth Street."

  "Do you mean to say it was an old lady who got in there?"

  "Yep, gen'lemen; ole and cranky. I 'ain't handled 'em no crankier notsince I've bin on this beat. Sick, too. They done get off at Providence,though they was booked right through to Boston, because the ole lady shecouldn't go no farther."

  Mr. Grainger was not a sleuth-hound, but he did what he could in the wayof verification.

  "Did the young lady wear--wear a veil?"

  The porter scratched his head.

  "Come to think of it she did--one of them there flowery things"--hisforefinger made little whirling designs on his coffee-coloredskin--"what makes a kind of pattern-like all over people's face."

  Because he was frantically seeking a clue, Mr. Grainger blurted out thefoolish question:

  "Was she--pretty?"

  To answer as a connoisseur and as man to man the African took his time.

  "Wa-al, not to say p'ooty, she wasn't--but she'd pa-ss. A littleblack-eyed thing, an' awful smart. One of 'em trained nusses like--veryperlite, but a turr'ble boss you could see she'd be, for all she was sosoft-spoken. Had cyare of the ole one, who was what you'd call plumbcrazy."

  "That will do." The trail seemed not worth following any further."There's some mistake," he continued, furiously. "She must be in one ofthe other cars."

  Like a collie from the leash he bounded off to make new investigations.In five minutes he was back again, passing up the length of the car andgoing on to examine those at the other end of the train. His face as hereturned was livid; his manner, as far as he dared betray himself beforea dozen or twenty spectators, that of a balked wild animal.

  "Strangways," he swore, as he dropped to the arm of his seat, "you'regoing to answer for this."

  Strangways replied, composedly:

  "I'm ready to answer for anything I know. You can't expect me to beresponsible for what I don't know anything about."

  He sl
apped his knee.

  "What are you doing in that particular chair? Even if you're going toBoston, why aren't you somewhere else?"

  "That's easily explained. You told me to get two tickets by this train.Knowing that I was to travel by it myself I asked for three. I dare sayit was stupid of me not to think that the propinquity would be open toobjection; but as it's a public conveyance, and there's not generallyanything secret or special about a trip of the kind--"

  "Why in thunder didn't you get a drawing-room, as I told you to?"

  "For the reason I've given--there were none to be had. If you could havetaken me into your confidence a little--But I suppose that wasn'tpossible."

  To this there was no response, but a series of muttered oaths that borethe same relation to soliloquy as a frenzied lion's growl. For sometwenty minutes they sat in the same attitudes, Strangways quiet,watchful, alert, ready for any turn the situation might take, the otherman stretched on the arm of his chair, indifferent to comfort, cursingspasmodically, perplexity on his forehead, rage in his eyes, andsomething that was folly, futility, and helplessness all over him.

  Almost no further conversation passed between them till they got out inBoston. In the crowd Strangways endeavored to go off by himself, butfound Mr. Grainger constantly beside him. He was beside him when theyreached the place where taxicabs were called, and ordered his porter tocall one.

  "Get in," he said, then.

  Larry Strangways protested.

  "I'm going to--"

  I must be sufficiently unlady-like to give Mr. Grainger's response justas it was spoken, because it strikes me as characteristic of men.

  "Oh, hell! Get in. You're coming with me."

  Characteristic of men was the rest of the evening. In spite of what hadhappened--and had not happened--Messrs. Grainger and Strangways partookof an excellent supper together, eating and drinking with appetite, andsmoking their cigars with what looked like an air of tranquillity.Though the fury of the balked wild animal returned to Stacy Grainger byfits and starts, it didn't interfere with his relish of his food andonly once did it break its bounds. That was when he struck the arm ofhis chair, saying beneath his breath, and yet audibly enough for hissecretary to hear:

  "She funked it--damn her!"

  Larry Strangways then took it on himself to say:

  "I don't know the lady, sir, to whom you refer, nor the reasons she mayhave had for funking it, but may I advise you for your own peace of mindto withdraw the two concluding syllables?"

  A pair of fierce, melancholy eyes rested on him for a seconduncomprehendingly.

  "All right," the crestfallen lover groaned heavily at last. "I may aswell take them back."

  Characteristic of women were my experiences while this was happening.

  Bundled out into the station at Providence no two poor females couldever have been more forlorn. Standing in the waiting-room with our bagsaround us I felt like one of those immigrant women, ignorant of thecustoms and language of the country to which they have come, I hadsometimes seen on docks at Halifax. As for Mrs. Brokenshire, she was aslittle used to the unarranged as if she had been a royalty. Never beforehad she dropped in this way down upon the unexpected; never before hadshe been unmet, unwelcomed, and unprepared. She was_bouleversee_--overturned. Were she falling from an aeroplane she couldnot have been more at a loss as to where she was going to alight. Smallwonder was it that she should sit down on one of her own valises andbegin to cry distressfully.

  That, for the minute, I was obliged to disregard. If she had to cry shemust cry. I could hear the train puffing out of the station, and as faras that went she was safe. My first preoccupations had to do with wherewe were to go.

  For this I made inquiries of the porter, who named what he considered tobe the two or three best hotels. I went to the ticket-office and put thesame question, getting approximately the same answer. Then, seeing awell-dressed man and lady enter the station from a private car, which Icould discern outside, I repeated my investigations, explaining that Ihad come from New York with an invalid lady who had not been well enoughto continue the journey. They told me I could make no mistake in goingto one of the houses already named by my previous informants; and so,gathering up the hand-luggage and Mrs. Brokenshire, we set forth.

  At the hotel we secured an apartment of sitting-room and two bedrooms,registering our names as "Miss Adare and friend." I ordered thedaintiest supper the house could provide to be served up-stairs, with asmall bottle of champagne to inspirit us; but, unlike the two heroes ofthe episode, neither of us could do more than taste food and drink. Nokidnapped princess in a fairy-tale was ever more lovely or pathetic thanMrs. Brokenshire; no giant ogre more monstrously cruel than myself. Nowthat it was done, I figured, both in her eyes and in my own, not as asavior, but a capturer.

  She had dried her tears, but she had dried them resentfully. As far aspossible she didn't look at me, but when she couldn't help it thereproach in her glances almost broke my heart. Though I knew I had actedfor the best, she made me feel a bad angel, a marplot, a spoil-sport. Ihad thwarted a dream that was as full of bliss as it was of terror, andreduced the dramatic to the commonplace. Here she was picking at a coldquail in aspic face to face with me when she might have been. . . .

  I couldn't help seeing myself as she saw me, and when we had finishedwhat was not a repast I put her to bed with more than the humility of aserving-maid. You will think me absurd, but when those tender eyes wereturned on me with their silent rebuke, I would gladly have put her backon the train again and hurried her on to destruction. As the dear thingsobbed on her pillow I laid my head beside hers and sobbed with her.

  But I couldn't sob very long, as I still had duties to fulfil. It wasof little use to have her under my care at Providence unless those whowould in the end be most concerned as to her whereabouts were to knowthe facts--or the approximate facts--from the start. It was a case inwhich doubt for a night might be doubt for a lifetime; and so when shewas sufficiently calm for me to leave her I went down-stairs.

  Though I had not referred to it again, I had made a mental note of thefact that Mr. Brokenshire was at Newport. If at Newport I knew he couldbe nowhere but in one hotel. Within fifteen minutes I was talking to himon the telephone.

  He was plainly annoyed at being called to the instrument so late as halfpast ten. When I said I was Alexandra Adare he replied that he didn'trecognize the name.

  "I was formerly nursery governess to your daughter, Mrs. Rossiter," Iexplained. "I'm the woman who's refused as yet to marry your son, Hugh."

  "Oh, that person," came the response, uttered wearily.

  "Yes, sir; that person. I must apologize for ringing you up so late; butI wanted to tell you that Mrs. Brokenshire is here at Providence withme."

  The symptoms of distress came to me in a series of choking sounds overthe wire. It was a good half-minute before I got the words:

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means that Mrs. Brokenshire is perfectly well in physical condition,but she's tired and nervous and overwrought."

  I made out that the muffled and strangled voice said:

  "I'll motor up to Providence at once. It's now half past ten. I shall bethere between one and two. What hotel shall I find you at?"

  "Don't come, sir," I pleaded. "I had to tell you we were in Providence,because you could have found that out by asking where the long-distancecall had come from; but it's most important to Mrs. Brokenshire that sheshould have a few days alone."

  "I shall judge of that. To what hotel shall I come?"

  "I beg and implore you, sir, not to come. Please believe me when I saythat it will be better for you in the end. Try to trust me. Mrs.Brokenshire isn't far from a nervous breakdown; but if I can have her tomyself for a week or two I believe I could tide her over it."

  Reproof and argument followed on this, till at last he yielded, with thewords:

  "Where are you going?"

  Fortunately, I had thought of that.

  "To some q
uiet place in Massachusetts. When we're settled I shall letyou know."

  He suggested a hotel at Lenox as suitable for such a sojourn.

  "She'd rather go where she wouldn't meet people whom she knows. Theminute she has decided I shall communicate with you again."

  "But I can see you in the morning before you leave?"

  The accent was now that of request. The overtone in it was pitiful.

  "Oh, don't try to, sir. She wants to get away from every one. It will beso much better for her to do just as she likes. She had got to a pointwhere she had to escape from everything she knew and cared about; and soall of a sudden--only--only to-day--she decided to come with me. Shedoesn't need a trained nurse, because she's perfectly well. All shewants is some one to be with her--whom she knows she can trust. Shehasn't even taken Angelique. She simply begs to be alone."

  In the end I made my point, but only after genuine beseeching on hispart and much repetition on mine. Having said good-night to him--heactually used the words--I called up Angelique, in order to bring peaceto a household in which the mistress's desertion would create someconsternation.

  Angelique and I might have been called friends. The fact that I spokeFrench _comme une Francaise_, as she often flattered me by saying, was abond between us, and we had the further point of sympathy that we wereboth devoted to Mrs. Brokenshire. Besides that, there is something inme--I suppose it must be a plebeian streak--which enables me tounderstand servants and get along with them.

  I gave her much the same explanation as I gave to Mr. Brokenshire,though somewhat differently put. In addition I asked her to pack suchselections from the simpler examples of Mrs. Brokenshire's wardrobe asthe lady might need in a country place, and keep them in readiness tosend. Angelique having expressed her relief that Mrs. Brokenshire wassafe at a known address, in the company of a responsible attendant--arelief which, so she said, would be shared by the housekeeper, the chef,and the butler, all of whom had spent the evening in painfulspeculation--we took leave of each other, with our customary mutualcompliments.

  Though I was so tired by this time that fainting would have been asolace, I called for a Boston paper and began studying theadvertisements of country hotels. Having made a selection of these Iconsulted the manager of our present place of refuge, who stronglycommended one of them. Thither I sent a night-letter commandeering thebest, after which, with no more than strength to undress, I lay down ona couch in Mrs. Brokenshire's room. When I knew she was sleeping I, too,slept fitfully. About once in an hour I went softly to her bedside, andfinding her dozing, if not sound asleep, I went softly back again.

  Between four and five we had a little scene. As I approached her bed shelooked up and said:

  "What are we going to do in the morning?"

  Afraid to tell her all I had put in train, I gave my ideas in the formof suggestion.

  "No, I sha'n't do that," she said, quietly.

  She lay quite still, her cheek embossed on the pillow, and a great straycurl over her left shoulder.

  "Then what would you like to do?"

  "I should like to go straight back."

  "To begin the same old life all over again?"

  "To begin to see him all over again."

  "Do you think that after last night you can begin to see him in the sameold way?"

  "I must see him in some way."

  "But isn't the way what you've still to discover?" I resolved on a boldstroke. "Wouldn't part of your object in going away for a time be tothink out some method of reconciling your feeling for Mr. Graingerwith--with your self-respect?"

  "My self-respect?" She looked as if she had never heard of such a thing."What's that got to do with it?"

  "Hasn't it got everything to do with it? You can't live without itforever."

  "Do you mean that I've been living without it as it is?"

  "Isn't that for you to say rather than for me?"

  She was silent for a minute, after which she said, fretfully:

  "I don't think it's very nice of you to talk to me like that. You've gotme here at your mercy, when I might have been--" A long, bubbling sigh,like the aftermath of tears, laid stress on the joys she had foregone."He'll never forgive me now--never."

  "Wouldn't it be better, dear Mrs. Brokenshire," I asked, "to considerwhether or not you can ever forgive him?"

  She raised herself on her elbow and looked at me. Seated in a lowarm-chair beside her bed, in an old-rose-colored kimono, my dark hairhanging down my back, I was not a fascinating object of study, even inthe light of one small, distant, shaded bedroom lamp.

  "What should I forgive him for?--for loving me?"

  "Yes, for loving you--in that way."

  "He loves me--"

  "So much that he could see you dishonored and disgraced--and shunned bydecent people all the rest of your life--just to gratify his owndesires. It seems to me you may have to forgive him for that."

  "He asked me to do only what I would have done willingly--if it hadn'tbeen for you."

  "But he asked you. The responsibility is in that. You didn't make thesuggestion; he did."

  "He didn't make it till I'd let him see--"

  "Too much. Forgive me for saying it, dear Mrs. Brokenshire; but do youthink a woman should ever go so far to meet a man as you did?"

  "I let him see that I loved him. I did that before I married Mr.Brokenshire."

  "You let him see more than that you loved him. You showed him that youdidn't know how to live without him."

  "But since I didn't know how--"

  "Ah, but you should have known. No woman should be so dependent on a manas that."

  She fell back again on her pillows.

  "It's easy to see you've never been in love."

  "I have been in love--and am still; but love is not the most importantthing in the world--"

  "Then you differ from all the great teachers. They say it is."

  "If they do they're not speaking of sexual love."

  "What are they speaking of, then?"

  "They're speaking of another kind of love, with which the mere sexualhas nothing to do. I'm not an ascetic, and I know the sexual has itsplace. But there's a love that's as much bigger than that as the sky isbigger than I am."

  "Yes, but so long as one never sees it--"

  I suppose it was her tone of feeble rebellion that roused my spirit andmade me speak in a way which I should not otherwise have allowed myself.

  "You do see it, darling Mrs. Brokenshire," I declared, more sweetly thanI felt. "I'm showing it to you." I rose and stood over her. "What do yousuppose I'm prompted by but love? What urges me to stand by Mr.Brokenshire but love? What made me step in between you and Mr. Graingerand save him, as well as you, but love? Love isn't emotion that leavesyou weak; it's action that makes you strong. It has to be action, and ithas to be right action. There's no love separable from right; and untilyou grasp that fact you'll always be unhappy. I'm a mere rag in my ownperson. I've no more character than a hen. But because I've got a weelittle hold on right--"

  She broke in, peevishly, as she turned away:

  "I do wish you'd let me go to sleep."

  I got down from my high horse and went back, humbly, to my couch.Scarcely, however, had I lain down, when the voice came again, inchildish complaint:

  "I think you might have kissed me."

  I had never kissed her in my life, nor had she ever shown any sign ofpermitting me this liberty. Timidly I went back to the bed; timidly Ibent over it. But I was not prepared for the sudden intense clingingwith which she threw her arms round my neck and drew my face down tohers.