“Is this a seance?” inquired Kathleen, watching the group from the doorway. Another of Miss Kiametia’s receiving party had taken her place at the tea-table.
“Come and lend Captain Miller your moral support,” called Miss Kiametia, while his character is being divulged. “No, you are to sit still,” as Miller made a motion to rise. “Kathleen can stand behind us and prompt me if my deductions go astray; she knows you better than the rest of us.”
Kathleen advanced with lagging steps into the room. She had turned singularly pale, and Miss Kiametia, watching her closely, wondered if she was taking the game seriously. She stopped just back of Miller’s chair and rested her hand lightly on Miss Kiametia’s shoulder as the latter pulled the electric lamp nearer so that its rays fell full upon Miller’s palm.
“Has the size of the hand anything to do with the subject?” asked Miller, as the spinster picked up a magnifying glass.
“Don’t make suggestions to the oracle,” laughed Foster. “Go ahead, Kiametia.”
“Your life line is good,” pronounced the spinster, “but as it divides toward the end you will probably die in a country different from that of your birth.”
“Any particular time scheduled for the event?” questioned Miller, skeptically, but Miss Kiametia ignored the remark.
“This branch from the head line to the heart”—indicating it with a slender paper-cutter—“denotes some great affection which makes you blind to reason and danger.” She paused irresolutely. “Pshaw! I’m reading from the left hand, let me see the other.…”
“Isn’t the one nearest the heart the surest guide?” inquired Miller.
“It is not,” with decision, and Miller, smiling whimsically, extended his hand toward them.
“The right hand of fellowship,” he remarked, placing his palm directly under the light.
“My theory is correct.” Miss Kiametia shot a triumphant look at Mrs. Whitney. “There are always more lines in the right palm than in the left; and see, here is a wider space between the lines of the head and life—contact with the world, Captain Miller, has taught you self—reliance, promptness of action, and readiness of thought. Hello, what is that on your index finger—a half-moon?”
“Yes.” Miller smiled covertly; the spinster’s seriousness amused him immensely. “Isn’t that according to Hoyle?”
“No, nor according to Cheiro, either,” tartly. “Hold your palm steady so that I can see more clearly. It’s a scar, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Whitney and Senator Foster were closely following Miss Kiametia’s words, and neither saw the perplexed frown which wrinkled Kathleen’s forehead as she stared down at Miller’s right hand. She was distinctly puzzled.
“The strength of your own individuality will carry you over many obstacles,” finished Miss Kiametia, giving Miller’s hand a friendly tap with the paper-cutter.
“Read mine next,” and Foster held out his right hand.
“Haven’t time; besides,” the spinster’s eyes twinkled, “I know your character like a book. What is it, Sylvester?” as her colored butler appeared, card tray in hand. “More visitors? Oh, yes, the Peytons—I particularly want you to know them, Minna; no, you must not think of leaving yet,” and with her accustomed energy Miss Kiametia whisked Mrs. Whitney into the drawing-room, Senator Foster following. As Kathleen stepped toward the door, Miller stopped her.
“Don’t go,” he pleaded, his voice, though low, vibrating with pent-up feeling. “Kathleen, my beloved, don’t go.”
She placed an unsteady hand on the portiere. “I must,” she stammered. “They need me.…”
“No, I am the one who needs you. My last chance of happiness lies in the balance. Kathleen, give me a hearing.”
Slowly, reluctantly she turned in his direction. “Be wise, leave things as they are.…”
“I cannot.” Miller was white with the intensity of his emotion. “I love you, love you.”
Kathleen’s hand crept to her heart as if to still its wild throb.
“Don’t, don’t”—she looked beseechingly at him. “Have you forgotten …”
“Yes,” boldly. “I only realize you are all in all to me.”
In the dead silence that followed the ticking of the small desk clock was distinctly audible.
“Why not leave well enough alone?” she begged, a trifle wildly.
“Because I cannot stand it,” huskily. “To see you day after day—Will nothing I say convince or move you? Am I outside the pale of affection?”
No answer. In the prolonged silence Miller’s self-control snapped, and stepping to her side he drew her in his arms. For a second she struggled to release herself, then her strength gave way and she leaned limply against him.
“I am a fool, a fool to listen to you,” she gasped, “but I—I—love you now as I never did before.”
With a low cry of unutterable happiness Miller bent his head and their lips met in a passionate kiss.
The hall clock was chiming six when Mrs. Whitney and Kathleen reached home. Not waiting for her mother, Kathleen ran upstairs and shut herself in her own room. Without troubling to switch on the electric lights she made her way to a chair by the window and flung herself into it.
Love, the all-powerful, had conquered reason. Against her better judgment she had pledged her faith to Charles Miller. Her heart throbbed high with hope, and with dreamy, happy eyes she stared out of the window into the darkness. Slowly she reviewed the events of the past six weeks. Never intrusive, yet always by her side and at her beck and call, never at a loss to do and say the right thing, Miller had wooed her in his own masterful way, trampling down prejudice, suspicion, unbelief, until he had gained his heritage—love. The specter of the past was laid—involuntarily Kathleen shivered.
“Is Mademoiselle here?” asked the French maid, peering in uncertainly from the hall door. She had rapped repeatedly and getting no response had gone downstairs to look for Kathleen, only to be told that she was in her own room.
“Come in, Julie, and turn on the electric switch,” directed Kathleen, and blinked as the room was suddenly flooded with light. Without rising she removed her hat-pins and handed her hat and coat to the maid. “Just the blue foulard tonight. What have you there?”
“Some flowers, mademoiselle,” handing the box to Kathleen. “Captain Miller left them at the door himself, and seeing me in the hall asked that I give them to you at once.” With a Frenchwoman’s tact she busied herself in getting out the blue foulard and pretended not to see the blush and smile which accompanied Kathleen’s opening of the box. She did not speak again, helping Kathleen with deft fingers to finish her toilet, and then stood back to contemplate the effect. “Will mademoiselle attend the meeting tonight?” she asked.
“No, I am not a member of the Sisters in Unity. I had forgotten the club was to meet here. Perhaps mother will need you now. Don’t wait.”
But the Frenchwoman lingered. “Mademoiselle,” she began. “Mademoiselle.”
“Yes, Julie.”
“Pardon”. Turning abruptly, Julie opened the door and glanced up and down the hall, then gently closed and locked it. With equal quietness she bolted the sitting-room door. Watching her with growing curiosity Kathleen saw that her comely face was white and drawn.
“Listen, mademoiselle.” The Frenchwoman was careful to keep her voice low-pitched. “I dare to speak tonight—for France.”
“For France!” echoed Kathleen.
“France.” Julie’s tone caressed the word. “My country needs your father’s invention—Ah, mademoiselle, do not let him sell it to another.”
“He will offer it first to our own Government.”
“Will he, mademoiselle? Ah, do not be offended,” catching Kathleen’s swift change of expression. “I dare speak as I do—for France; think me not disrespectful—but others wait to tempt your father.”
“Nonsense!”
“I know what I know, mademoiselle. It has gotten abroad that Mr. Whitney has complet
ed his invention, that tests prove it successful—and, mademoiselle, this house is watched.”
Kathleen looked at Julie incredulously. Had the maid taken leave of her senses? Between nervousness and anxiety the Frenchwoman was trembling from head to foot.
“Warn your father, mademoiselle; he will listen to you.”
“I will,” with reassuring vigor. “Tell me, Julie, what has aroused your suspicion?”
“Many things. When it creeps out that M. Whitney has succeeded, I say to myself—the Germans, they will be interested. And I wait. Then madame engages Henry.…”
“Henry? The chauffeur?”
“But yes. I do not like Henry, mademoiselle. He is too much in the house for a chauffeur; I meet him on the stairs, always on his way to the attic with some message to M. Whitney who works in his studio there. He laughs and teases me, that Henry, but wait!” Julie’s eyes were blazing. “And that Monsieur Spencer; I trust him not also. Ah, mademoiselle, do not let him be closeted with your father—he is the younger and stronger man.”
“Julie, are you quite mad?” exclaimed Kathleen, her eyes twice their usual size.
“No, mademoiselle. I watch; yes, always I watch and listen. Your father did well to have iron shutters on the windows and new bolts on the door, but he knows not that I am within call—on the other side of the door.”
“Upon my word!” Kathleen’s brain was in a whirl. Was Julie’s mind unbalanced? She knew that the Frenchwoman’s fiance and two brothers had been killed early in the war. Had grief for them and anxiety for her beloved country developed hallucinations? One thing was apparent—it would never do to disagree with her in her overwrought condition. Kathleen laid her arm protectingly about her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. She was very fond of the warm-hearted Frenchwoman.
“Do not worry, Julie. I will see that father takes every precaution to safeguard his invention.” She hesitated. “I, too, sympathize deeply with France.” “God bless thee, mademoiselle.” With a movement full of grace Julie raised Kathleen’s hand to her lips, then glided from the room, her slippers making no noise on the thick carpet.
Left alone Kathleen picked up her box of flowers and walked thoughtfully into her sitting-room. Her interview with Julie had depressed her. As she passed her desk she saw a note addressed to her lying on it, but recognizing Sinclair Spencer’s handwriting she tossed it down again unopened. It would keep to read later. She walked over to the pier glass and began to adjust the flowers which Miller had sent her. More interested in his note which accompanied his gift, she had at first taken them for violets, but looking more closely at the corsage bouquet she found it contained cornflowers. Again she read his note:
“MY DARLING:
“I send you the harbinger of spring, of hope, of happiness. Ever fondly your lover,
“CHARLES.”
Back to Kathleen’s memory came a vision of waving wheat in a field on the outskirts of Berlin and scattered among the grain grew the cornflower—Kaiser blumen. She raised her hand to her hot cheeks. How came Miller to send her flowers which he knew were connected with that past he so ardently wished forgotten?
Chapter IX.
The Spider and the Fly
Whitney scanned the long drawing-room and library beyond in comic despair. The furniture of both rooms, which opened out of each other, had been carried into another part of the house, and in its place were rows on rows of gilt chairs, while in the bow window stood an improvised platform.
“Can I get you a seat, sir?” asked Vincent, placing a pitcher of ice water and tumblers on the speaker’s table.
“No, thanks; my days as parliamentarian are over, thank the Lord. I have learned, Vincent, that when the Sisters in Unity hold an election it’s safer to be on the other side of the bolted door.”
“Yes, sir.” Vincent removed a cherished Sevres vase from its customary abiding place on the mantel and tucked it carefully under his arm. “Miss Kathleen is looking for you, sir. I think I hear her in the hall now, sir,” and he hastened into the library as Kathleen stepped into the drawing-room.
“Where have you been since dinner, Dad? I went from the top of the house to the bottom looking for you.”
“Had to go over to the drugstore to get a prescription filled. Can I do anything for you?”
“Yes. Come and spend the evening with me,” she coaxed.
Whitney laughed. “Can’t, my dear. I have important work ahead of me tonight.”
“It must wait until tomorrow,” coaxingly, stroking his cheek softly. “I don’t like these lines, Dad. Your health is more to be considered than your work.”
Whitney’s air of tolerance turned to one of determination. “You are wrong; my work is of primary importance. It’s only a matter of hours now, Kathleen; then I can loaf for the rest of my days.”
She shook her head. “Unless you take rest you cannot stand the strain. Mother tells me you worked all last night and far into the morning.”
“My brain is clearer at night, and I have always required very little sleep.” He frowned with growing impatience. “There is no use discussing the subject.” He spoke in a tone which forbade further argument.
“Dad,” Kathleen lowered her voice and moved closer to him, “has it occurred to you that—that people are unduly curious about your invention?”
Whitney eyed her keenly. “It has,” he admitted tersely, “and I have taken precautions.” He stared at the clock and frowned impatiently. “Nearly eight—the meeting will commence soon; let’s get out of here.”
“Wait, Dad,” Kathleen laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. “I cannot bear to think of you alone in the attic—so far away from—”
“Sisters in Unity—the very best of reasons for going to the attic—”
“Let me come with you,” eagerly. “I’ll bring my own work and not say a word to you. I’m nervous, Daddy, I—I don’t want to be by myself tonight—and there’s something I want to—to—” her voice broke.
Whitney glanced at Kathleen in surprise. What had come over her?
“Oh, come along,” he agreed roughly. “Only remember, I won’t be tormented with small talk.”
Kathleen’s eyes brightened with relief as she accompanied him into the hall. As they appeared the elevator door opened and Mrs. Whitney stepped out into the hall.
“Why, I thought you were lying down, Kathleen; you said that you were too tired to come in later to our club meeting and hear Senator Foster’s address on ‘Peace,’” she exclaimed, and not waiting for an answer, turned to Whitney. “Can you spare me a moment, Winslow? I wish your advice,” and with a quick tilt of her head she indicated the small reception room on the left of the front door. “Come in here.”
“Certainly, Minna. Don’t wait for me, Kathleen,” but the girl paused irresolutely.
“Shall I go to the studio?” she asked.
“No, you cannot get in; the door is locked. Go to your sitting-room and I’ll stop for you on the way to the studio.”
“Honest Injun, Dad?” And her father, nodding vigorous assent, watched her go up the stairs, then with a brisk step entered the reception room.
“How charming you look, Minna!” he exclaimed, in honest admiration.
“You think so?” and Mrs. Whitney dimpled with pleasure. “I do want to win the election tonight—and clothes count for so much in woman’s politics.”
“I back you to win against all comers,” and Whitney gave her shapely shoulder a loving pat as he stooped to kiss her. “What is the matter with Kathleen tonight? Her behavior troubles me.”
His wife laughed softly. “She is suffering from an old complaint—she is in love.”
“What!” Whitney stared at her in blank astonishment. “With whom?” and sudden, sharp anxiety lay behind the abrupt question.
“I suspect—Captain Miller.”
“Miller? That silent—” Whitney checked his impetuous words. “Miller? Good Lord!”
“What can you tell me about Captain Mille
r?” Her feminine curiosity was instantly aroused at his quick change of expression.
“Just what I have seen of him and nothing more. He never talks of himself.”
“Such a relief,” sighed Mrs. Whitney. “There is Randall Foster—talks always of his own achievements. Wait until Kiametia Grey marries him. I sometimes wonder.…”
“I can’t see that we are directly concerned with that romance,” broke in Whitney with characteristic impatience. “What’s your opinion of Miller?”
“I rather like him; he’s very agreeable, good-looking, and seems to have plenty of money.…”
“Then you.…”
“Favor his suit? Yes,” tranquilly.
“But, heavens, Minna, you know nothing about Captain Miller’s past.”
“You can inquire about it; in fact, I think it is your duty to do so. He calls here entirely too frequently not to be asked his intentions.”
“What the—” Whitney reddened angrily and his voice rose. “A nice task you put before me. I dis—”
“Sh!” Rising hurriedly, Mrs. Whitney laid a warning hand on his arm. “There’s the bell, and this room is needed for the cloaks. Where is Julie?”
Paying no attention to her husband’s apparent desire to say something more, Mrs. Whitney stepped into the hall. Whitney stood in deep thought for a brief moment, then hastened after her, but his hope to slip upstairs unseen was frustrated. Miss Kiametia Grey, enveloped in a heavy fur coat, promptly hailed him and as he stood chatting to her in the hall the front door again opened and Henry, the chauffeur, who had been requisitioned to assist Vincent, ushered in Sinclair Spencer.
“Good evening, Mrs. Whitney,” Spencer’s loud cheery voice boomed through the hall, and under cover of his jovial manner he scanned Whitney and his wife. Had Kathleen spoken to them of his proposal of marriage that morning and her refusal? “Just dropped in to see your husband, Mrs. Whitney; hadn’t hoped for the pleasure of seeing you. Hello, Whitney. Evening, Miss Grey.” But the spinster, with a stiff bow, slipped past the lawyer and into the reception room without seeing his outstretched hand. Spencer’s florid complexion turned a deeper tint as he met Henry’s blank stare, but a covert glance at the Whitneys convinced him that they had not seen Miss Kiametia’s rudeness.
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