Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

She was sitting on the hay-pile, fooling with the kittens and keeping the jealous Nut away from them with one hand.

  “Oh, was I smiling? Some darned thought — I forget now what it was!”

  Suppose he should come right out and ask her who she was? Why not? The question would be civil. He was quite willing to tell her who he was. Would it be fair? Perfectly. But would it? And how about her? She knew nothing whatever about him — except that he made some beastly rude remarks to her about women in general. She was all alone; and she was trusting him implicitly had paid him the compliment of never once doubting him. The white thing to do was to wait until he found her friends, and had backing, and could use unembarrassed judgment. Then —

  “Oh, look!” she exclaimed suddenly. “I’ve found something for you to read! It must have fallen out of your coat pocket.”

  She held up a folded newspaper, torn and pulpy-looking from having been soaked through — then suddenly threw it away from her, biting her lip. She wished she had bitten her tongue off before she spoke. A newspaper meant only one thing to her — Wahl and his story!

  “Let’s look through the advertisements!” said Sherry. He picked the paper up and sat beside her.

  Jacqueline steeled herself and set her teeth. Sherry unfolded the paper, back page first, but it was not very legible; the ink was rubbed off where the folds had been. There was a column of “swaps” that made humorous reading, and he laughed over that for a while, rather wondering why she did not laugh too. Then he turned to the front page, and remembered why Wahl had given him the paper.

  There was a triangular tear extending one-third down the page, and one illustration was missing; but Wahl’s face was there sure enough— “our special correspondent” — grinning in his “box” on top of column one, and most of the headlines were intact. It was the story of Jacqueline Lanier, and Sherry in front of Jacqueline — she looking over his shoulder, with her hair three inches from his face — began reading it aloud.

  It was a full minute before it dawned on him that something was the matter. He glanced over his shoulder. Jacqueline was not reading the paper; she was staring at it. Her hands were trembling. Her face was horror-stricken, and deathly white.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked her. He was afraid she was going to faint.

  She did not answer. Instead, she snatched the paper, tore it down the middle, crumpled it in both hands, and threw it to the floor, where Nut promptly pounced on it and finished the destruction, ripping it into a thousand pieces. Sherry decided she was not going to faint; her eyes were blazing with indignation, and she watched Nut tearing up the paper as if that gave her comfort.

  “Do tell me what’s wrong,” he begged her.

  She made no answer, and the indignation in her eyes seemed to melt into something else that he could not quite place; but it was tragic — he was sure of that.

  “Won’t you tell me?”

  She shook her head.

  “Was it the paper?”

  She nodded.

  He saw tears brimming very near the surface, and knew she was fighting gamely to keep them back. He admired that. He found it hard to take his eyes off her, she looked so tragically unhappy, and brave, and more beautiful than anything he remembered to have seen. But it was only decent to turn his back, to give her a chance, he occupied himself with picking up the scraps of newspaper and throwing them out into the flood.

  “Damn that man Wahl! He’s a jinx!” he muttered. When he turned at last to look she was still sitting on the hay-pile, staring straight in front of her, but her expression had changed. She looked as if everything she ever loved was lost; he never saw such grief, or such a proud, brave air of hopelessness.

  “Say,” he said, “you stirred my memories yesterday, and did me lots of good by talking to me about them. If you’d like to tell me yours, maybe I can help you.”

  Her eyes seemed to be searching his desperately. She was hanging on to something — hanging on like grim death.

  “Did you — did you read that paper?” she asked him breathlessly.

  “No — didn’t have time to.”

  He was going to say something else, but checked himself. The look of relief that suddenly crossed her face was just as if acute physical torture had come to an end.

  “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “It was cruel. I think it was as cruel as what happened to your mother.”

  “I don’t quite get you. My mother simply left us — went away without a word of—”

  “I tell you I know she ran away because she simply had to! There was no other way out. She had reached a place where she couldn’t endure life another minute, and she ran — ran — ran — hoping nobody would ever find or recognize her. And you all said she was a criminal. And then she read the papers, I suppose, and — and of course she couldn’t ever come back.”

  “But how are the cases similar? That was the story of a girl named Lanier, wasn’t it? Wahl asked me to interview her — said she was a scheming little vamp, who—”

  He checked himself again. There was fear now, as well as anger in her face. He had said something that hurt her terribly, he was sure of that.

  “Who — who did you say asked you to interview her?”

  “Clinton Wahl. He’s a reporter — special correspondent — just joined the Tribune. My dad owns the San Francisco Tribune. Why — why — what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, Mr. Mansfield!”

  She got up and left him — walked over to the hay-loft door. For a moment he thought she was going to throw herself into the water, and every muscle in his body tightened to spring after her.

  But Jacqueline did not do that because she knew very well he would jump after her. She had nothing left but pride. The world was gone again. She did not propose to be fished back and made to face her agony. Her heart was numb, and her head was dizzy with that last blow. But she would face it. The world might beat her down; but she would face it. Desmio would have done that.

  She would turn and face this gentleman — this kind and most considerate gentleman — this friend of the devil’s own — and not let him know she was stung in the heart — sick, lonely, and afraid.

  She did turn, standing bravely upright, just fingering the locket with Desmio’s picture in it, because that seemed to give her courage.

  “Isn’t it time the animals were fed?” she asked; and her own voice surprised her, it was so natural and unstrained.

  CHAPTER 18.

  “Tell me — Conchita—”

  The meal, however, progressed under difficulties. Even Nut seemed to sense a tension and refused to sit up or look interested.

  “Maybe he’s tired of soup,” Jacqueline said, with a wan attempt at humor.

  Sherry’s answering laugh failed to suggest mirth.

  “I’ll go up to the roof and watch for rescuers,” he announced, avoiding her eyes.

  Jacqueline made no effort to stop him. Why should she? He wasn’t hers. She had nothing — never could belong to any one — not even to Consuelo. All morning and all afternoon she lay, and tossed, and let her heart ache, hoping it would break and kill her. Why had this man been allowed to come into her life to hurt her cruelly again with the thought of what companionship might have been?

  Sherry swung himself into the doorway at last and stood looking in her direction, with the evening glow behind him accustoming his eyes to the darkness within.

  “No rescue in sight?” she asked, feeling she must say something; he looked so solemn and determined.

  “No. Not yet. At least I haven’t seen any — Conchita.”

  She felt startled — electrified. She almost jumped, and her heart beat so that it frightened her.

  “That is your name, isn’t it?”

  “It’s one of my names.”

  She could not lie to him! She would not lie to him. If he asked for her real name, she would simply refuse to answer.

  “Would you mind coming over to the li
ght? I can’t see you in there. I want to see your face distinctly.”

  Had he seen that newspaper before it was torn, and was he going to try to identify her from memory? If so, she would lie to him! There she stood looking at him, she against one side of the frame, he against the other. It was a long time before he spoke, even then, but he began with a rush at last, as if he had to force himself to it and the resistance had broken suddenly.

  “Conchita — I’ve been pondering all afternoon how to tell you what I want to say — and I don’t know now — but I’m going to say it — and I want you to listen, please. And by the way, my name’s Sherry. I don’t want you to call me Mr. Mansfield any longer.”

  Heart-beats — so furious that she could not say a word! As for Sherry it was already obvious enough to him that he was in for failure, so he set his jaw hard.

  “Will you please call me Sherry?”

  “Yes, Sherry.”

  Gee! That sounded better. Hitherto he had always rather disliked his name — wished it were George, or Frank, or something regular.

  “You don’t know much about me—”

  Except that she liked him awfully!

  “And I don’t want you to tell me a word about yourself — until afterward. Any one with half an eye can see you’re in trouble, Conchita. I want you to understand that I’m going it blind — that I don’t know what the trouble is, and don’t care, except that I hate to see you in trouble of any kind. And it’s awful nerve of me, and all that — I know it is; and I wouldn’t say what I’m going to, if I wasn’t sure you’re in a difficulty and may need some one who has a right to stand by you and raise hell generally. I’ll stand by you. I’m good at that.”

  Good at it? He looked like bravery itself! Tears came into her eyes. How was she ever going to lie to him?

  “You see — I want you to know that I love you as the way I find you. I don’t care a damn what sort mix-up you’ve got into; I’m for you. You can tell me all about it afterward; and when you’ve told me, I’ll tell you again, what I say now, that I love you. But I want you to understand that part first — that there aren’t any strings to it. I’ll fight a way for you out of any sort of mess.”

  She could not speak. She wanted to stop him, but not a word would come. She held her hand up, but let it fall again.

  He misinterpreted the gesture, naturally.

  “Well — I know I have made a bad break, Conchita. I’d no right to talk to you this way. But you’ve changed my whole ideas about women. I know now there’s one woman in the world, at any rate, who isn’t mean and selfish; and you’ve made me see that my mother may have been so badly up against it that she couldn’t help herself. Damn! I can’t put it into words. I’ve seen your soul! I love you! There you are. If I’ve said anything offensive — if I’ve done wrong — I’m sorry. I haven’t meant to offend.”

  “Mr. Mansfield — Sherry! But you haven’t! I’m so grateful I don’t know what to say, but—”

  “But what, Conchita?”

  It was getting very dark. He could hardly see her eyes now — only her outline leaning back against the door-frame, and he thought she looked more distressed, and terribly weary, than grateful.

  “But there are reasons, Sherry — serious reasons why—”

  “Why what?”

  “Why I can’t—”

  “Can’t what? You haven’t got to tell me anything. What I’ve said stands forever, without—”

  “Why I can’t!”

  “Of course, if you can’t love me — is that it?” he asked, and his tone was resolute; there was no self-pity in it.

  She shook her head. She could not lie to him. She meant to say she did not love him; but she did — she did! She loved him desperately, and her heart was faint at the thought of having to refuse him.

  “That isn’t it, Conchita?”

  No answer. She could not speak. He came a pace toward her, and she struggled desperately to summon all her resolution — thought of Desmio — of Sister Michaela — of Consuelo. Then for a second Wahl’s cavernous eyes leered between her and Sherry; Sherry’s replaced them, and looked into hers. She could feel his breath, and oh! how her heart was beating. She had no resolution — none whatever! She simply loved him.

  “Tell me, little girl. Do you love me, too?”

  Silence — averted eyes.

  “Conchita — do you?”

  “Yes!”

  Then oh, what utter heaven for a minute as he took her into his arms! They were strong arms — comforting — and she could lean on him. He was kissing the top of her head, for her face was buried in his shoulder, and she was not even thinking, she was living. Desmio seemed quite near — and he was right, wasn’t he, after all? He said, someday there would be another man, and —

  “Lookup first, Conchita. Won’t you lookup?”

  Their lips had not yet touched when a blinding ray of light swept by them — back again — wavered a moment, and then played on them steadily. Nut began barking. The light came from a pin-point in the distance, and they heard the chugging of a motor-launch.

  “Damn!” exclaimed Sherry. “They’ve come for us!”

  They held hands and watched the light. To Jacqueline it was the hideous eye of doom — of nemesis, from which there was no escape. She expected to see Wahl in the launch. She did not hear what Sherry said to her although she knew he was saying something; she stood dumb, numbed again, shuddering at nameless fear. She might have known this dream was too good to be true.

  “Cold? Here, put my coat on!”

  He slipped the coat over her shoulders, hugged her a moment, and ran to gather up the cats, herding them into a basket he found on a nail on the wall. Then he came back and waited beside her, holding the dog on a string.

  “Soon as we get ashore we’ll find your — was that your mother by the way?”

  She did not answer, for a man’s voice called out of the night:

  “How long have you all been here? Are you all right? Just two of you? Steady now — back her a bit — that’ll do, Mose. Why — hello, feller! You again?”

  The inspector of levees, gaunt and unshaven, held out a lean hand to Jacqueline, and she stepped down into the world she dreaded. Sherry followed and spilled cats on the seat beside her.

  “Go ahead, Mose.”

  CHAPTER 19.

  “You to repay—”

  The launch ran down a lane between two shimmering reflections of the watch fires, and shoved its nose into a bank where a state militiaman leaned on a rifle and yelled “Hi, there! Here’s two more!” There was a murmur of voices, and a great deal of moving to and fro in the shadows between the fires — dogs barking — the lowing of a cow — a chorus of squalling infants. Army tents loomed out of the gloom. There was a smell of wet clothes, and hot soup; and some one — a small boy probably — was beating an empty bucket with an iron spoon.

  “Step lively,” advised the militiaman, “there’s others waiting.”

  Jacqueline took Sherry’s hand and stepped on to the bank. Nut barked like an idiot, and the cats all tried to get out of the basket at the same time, until Sherry took the lot to a Negro mammy, who laughed and said “La-a-an’ sakes!” and walked off with them, nobody could guess where.

  “Back her a bit, Mose! So-o-easy now. Go ahead!”

  The launch chugged away and was lost between the liquid lanes of firelight. Sherry put his arm around Jacqueline’s waist and led her toward a great tree where some boxes were piled in disorder and another militiaman stood half in shadow with firelight gleaming on his rifle barrel and on the brass of his accouterments.

  “Now, sweetheart mine,” said Sherry, “will you sit on a box right here while I scout around a bit! Stay put, though, won’t you! Looks like a thousand people here. I’ll never find you again if you move away.”

  He spoke to the militiaman, who nodded. Jacqueline sat still, feeling as if she were dreaming, and watched Sherry walk off with Nut at his heels. She watched him pass into the fireligh
t by a tent not fifty paces off, and pause there to ask a question of some one in the tent. A man came running out — shook hands with Sherry. She felt herself trembling; but she wasn’t cold. She had Sherry’s coat on.

  She heard the man’s voice, and thought she recognized it.

  “ — No, they took no chances — stopped the Limited before the levee broke, so I had to do flood-stuff after all. Fair story, too. Where have you been? Say: did you read that newspaper I gave you? The Lanier girl bolted — I told you she was a bad lot. The latest is that she got caught in the flood and was drowned — they’ve found the horses, and got the nigger who drove her. He says he thinks she was drowned, but he doesn’t know, and I’ve a hunch she wasn’t. Now if you can find her, we can make this flood read like history!”

  He turned with his face toward the firelight. She nearly screamed. It was Wahl!

  Flight — instant flight — anywhere! Only a pause for a second to lay Sherry’s coat down on the box. Then off into the shadows — running — running. The militiaman called something after her, but that only lent her wings. She was fleet of foot always — ran like a roused doe — anywhere — out into the night, away from the people and the fires — away from Wahl, with his ghoul’s eyes haunting her — and the bedroom scene burning in her brain, and Wahl’s hand on her wrist, and his mean voice: “Now then — out with it! Tell me all you know!”

  She stumbled — hit things in the dark — ran on, sobbing for breath — fell — rose again — was frightened nearly out of her wits by a big dog that gave chase, but stumbled over a stick, picked it up, and struck the dog, sending him off yelping — ran on again, and at last fell breathless at the root of a tree, where she lay sobbing with a stitch that gnawed her side. When her head ceased swimming at last she could see the outline of the camp a mile away, and people moving back and forth before the fires.

  She had no notion what to do, except to keep on going as soon as her body would let her. Sherry would tell Wahl about her — why shouldn’t he? — and Wahl would recognize the description. They were both newspaper men. Sherry would believe Wahl. Of course he would. Why not? So she must never see Sherry again. And oh, how that thought hurt. It was far worse than the pain in her side. Never mind, she was glad — she was glad! He had loved her for a minute. She would love him forever!