XXXIII
Mrs. Walbrough was one of those women who are happiest when troubleimpends or is at hand. She had fallen in love with Clancy almost atsight; but her affection had been rendered durable and lasting as soonas she had discovered that Clancy was in danger. Wives who are notmothers but who have always craved children furnish the majority of thiskind of woman.
And now, when Clancy's story had been told to her, and she hadexclaimed, and colored in rage and grown white with apprehension, andafter she had tucked Clancy securely in bed, so that there was no moreto be done for her protegee, the thoughts of the motherly woman turnedto Sophie Carey.
"Would you be afraid," she asked, "if I went over to the Carey place?Poor thing! I never forgave her for marrying Don Carey; I don't thinkI've been kind enough to her."
The remark caused Clancy to remember that not, during the entire day,had Mrs. Walbrough mentioned the fact that the Careys were such nearneighbors. Of course, that might be accounted for by the fact that Mrs.Walbrough had no idea that Sophie and her husband were at their countryplace. But she realized that Mrs. Walbrough imagined that her attitudetoward Sophie had not been as generous as she now wished. So, even ifshe had feared being left alone in the house, she would have denied it.Mrs. Walbrough, Clancy readily understood, was like all whose naturalaffections have not sufficient outlet. They wonder if "So-and-So" willmisinterpret their remarks, if "Such-and-Such" has been offended.
"I don't believe," she said, "that you've ever been anything but sweetand good to every one. But, of course, I don't mind your going.'Afraid?'" She laughed heartily at the idea.
And so, with many motherly injunctions about the hot-water bottle at herfeet and the heavy woolen blankets drawn up about her shoulders, Mrs.Walbrough departed.
Clancy reached for the electric button at the head of her bed. Sheturned off the lights. She was not sleepy, yet she felt that she couldthink better in the dark. But it was a long time before her mentalprocesses were coherent. She was more tired than she knew. To-day'sexertions upon the snow-covered hill would ordinarily have been no taxat all upon her youthful strength. But excitement saps vitality. Andwhen one combines too much exercise with too much mental strain, onebecomes bewildered.
So, as she lay there, her thoughts were chaotic, nightmarish. Like onein an audience, she seemed to detach herself, not merely from her bodybut from her brain. She found amusement in her own mental wanderings.For from some incident of childhood her mind leaped to the studio-danceat Mrs. Carey's city house. From there it went to her motion-pictureambitions, thence to Vandervent's flowers with their somewhat illegiblecard. She thought of Randall's conveyance of her to the Napoli on thatnight, so shortly ago, when she had mistaken him for a taxi-man. Shethought of her entrance into Vandervent's office, with confessiontrembling on her lips.
Always, her mind came back to Vandervent. And finally, her mentalgyrations ceased. Steadily she thought of him. She wondered at the thingwe call "attraction." For she was sure that neither his great name norhis wealth had anything to do with this irresistible something that drewher to him.
Not that she would ever delude herself with the idea that wealth andposition meant nothing to her. They did. They meant a great deal, as isright and proper. But had Philip Vandervent been poor, had his prospectsbeen inconsiderable, she would still have been ready, aye, anxious toyield herself to him.
She wondered why. Of course, she knew that he was decent, kindly,possessor of all those virtues which are considered ordinary, but arereally uncommon. But it is none of these things, unhappily, that makefor love. Combined with love, they make for happiness, but alone theynever won the fickle heart of woman.
He was intelligent; she knew that. He was, perhaps, brilliant. She hadno proof of that. Their conversations could hardly afford evidenceeither way, they had been interchanges of almost monosyllabicutterances. So, at any rate, reviewing them, it seemed to Clancy.
What was it, then, that drew her to him? Not his looks; she had knownmany handsomer men. She smiled whimsically. Highly as she appraised herown beauty, she supposed that somewhere was a more lovely woman. AndVandervent might have seen her. Why did he reserve his love for Clancy?
Then, for the first time, doubt came to her. She sat bolt-upright inbed. Suppose that she'd been deluding herself? She smiled, shaking herhead. She knew. She didn't know why she knew, but--she knew. Womenalmost always do. And slowly she took less interest in the problem.Sleep descended lightly upon her. So lightly that whisperings outsideher door woke her.
"Who is it?" she called.
"Sophie Carey. May I come in?"
Clancy switched on the light.
"Of course," she said.
Sophie entered. She sat immediately down upon the edge of the bed. Herface was deathly pale and wore no rouge. Her cheeks were sunken. Shelooked forty. Rather, she would have looked forty but for her eyes. Forthey were softened, somehow; yet through their softness shone abrilliance that spoke of youth. It was as though some heavy burden hadbeen lifted from her. Clancy could not censure her. Sophie would havebeen less than human if she had not responded, in some expression, tothe hidden relief that must have come to her, even though throughtragedy and scandal.
She put her arms quickly round Clancy.
"I think," she said, "that you are the sweetest, bravest person I haveever met."
"Why--why--" stammered Clancy.
"You had every reason to suspect that Don had--done what he did. Mr.Vandervent has told me all that you told him. And yet--you didn't sayanything."
"I would have," said Clancy, honestly, "had I been sure."
Sophie nodded gravely.
"But most persons, on the faintest of suspicions, to clear themselves--Oh, I can't talk about it." Suddenly she kissed Clancy. "Miss Deane, Ihope--I know--that you are going to be very happy."
She was gone at once. Clancy didn't ponder long over her last remark.She went to sleep, this time in earnest.
It was bright day when she awoke. Mrs. Walbrough entered a moment afterClancy had thrown the coverlets from her and was on her way to thewindows, to shut them.
"I wondered if you could still be sleeping," said her hostess. "Do youknow the time, young lady?"
Clancy shivered and yawned. "Eight o'clock?"
"Eleven-thirty," said Mrs. Walbrough. "And in the country we haveluncheon early, as you know. Would you like your coffee here, or willyou wait?"
"I want to eat with you," said Clancy.
"And with Tom and Philip Vandervent, too, I suppose."
"Are they here?"
Mrs. Walbrough nodded gravely.
"I got Tom on the 'phone after you went to bed last night. He came onthe first train this morning. He wanted, of course, to do anything forMrs. Carey that he could. But Mr. Randall is attending to everything. Heand Mrs. Carey left on an early train for New York."
"And Mr. Vandervent?" Timidly, Clancy asked the question.
Mrs. Walbrough smiled.
"There were certain matters that had to be gone over with the DutchessCounty authorities. He stayed. That's why he _said_ he stayed."
Clancy's expression was innocence personified.
"What other reason could there be?"
Mrs. Walbrough hugged her.
"Don't you dare attempt to deceive me, young lady." She slapped hergently.
In something less than half an hour Clancy was down-stairs, in thedining-room, attacking healthily a meal that Mrs. Walbrough described,because it was really neither breakfast nor lunch, as "brunch."
During the meal, in response to Walbrough's questions, Vandervent toldthe gist of the written confession that Don Carey had left behind him.It was a sordid tale. Carey, in that pursuit of pleasure which kills,had started an alleged office where young women applied for theatricalpositions. Beiner, more legitimately engaged in the same business, hadbecome acquainted with Carey. Spofford's discoveries were verified inCarey's own handwriting. Beiner had introduced Carey to a young woman.Carey, retaining some decenc
y, did not mention the girl's name. He said,however, that Beiner had become jealous of his attentions to the youngwoman, and friendship between the two men had ceased. Learning whatCarey was doing, Beiner had attempted blackmail. Carey, intending tohave it out with Beiner, had knocked on Beiner's door. During theintimacy that had existed previous to Beiner's blackmailing attempts,Beiner had given Carey a key to his office.
Carey had heard a groan coming from behind the locked door. He hadentered, with Beiner's key, and found the man lying, half-conscious,upon the floor. The scene, to Carey's drink-inflamed mind, spelledopportunity. He had snatched the paper-knife from Beiner's desk andstabbed the man to death. Then he had quietly left the office, lockingit after him.
And that was all. Although the newspapers, naturally enough, "played itup" to the extent of columns, it was a crime in what is known as "highlife," and they do not come too often for the public. Judge Walbroughhad brought the early editions of the afternoon papers with him andpermitted Clancy to look at them.
Spofford had not missed his chance. He was hailed as the greatestdetective genius of the day.
"Poor Mrs. Carey!" said Clancy.
The others nodded gravely. "Not another woman in New York could live itdown," said the judge.
"Why not?" demanded Clancy. "She did nothing wrong."
The judge shrugged.
"Scandal has touched her intimately. That is enough--for any otherwoman, but not for Sophie Carey. She has too many friends, is too greatan artist--let's hope she finds happiness now."
The judge pushed back his chair and left the room, ostensibly in searchof a pipe. The others drifted into the living-room. Clancy, staring outat the snow, was suddenly conscious that Vandervent stood at her elbow.She turned, to find that Mrs. Walbrough was no longer with them.
"Nice--nice view--" stammered Vandervent.
Clancy colored. She felt her heart beating.
"Isn't it?" she agreed.
Vandervent's trembling nervousness communicated itself to her. She halfturned toward him, ready to yield herself. But his eyes, that, a momentago, she had known were fixed upon the back of her head now stared outthe window, over her shoulder. She turned again.
Up the Walbrough drive was coming a sleigh, an open affair. Besides thedriver there was only one man. She looked up at Vandervent; His browswere knitted; behind his glasses his eyes gleamed angrily. Involuntarilyshe drew near to him.
"I--I'll have to see him," he exclaimed. "Reporter from the _Era_.Thought that I was all through with him. I wonder----"
The man descended from the sleigh. They saw him advance up the verandasteps, and then they heard his ring. A moment later, Mrs. Hebron enteredthe room.
"A gentleman to see Miss Deane," she announced.
And now Clancy understood why Vandervent had withheld the speech thatshe knew he wanted to utter, why he had seemed alarmed. She gasped. Thenshe grew reassured as she felt Vandervent's fingers on her own.
"Show him in here," said Vandervent.
Mrs. Hebron left the room.
"Just--say nothing," whispered Vandervent. "Leave him to me."
Clancy knew. The scandal that she had thought forever averted was aboutto break again. Her fingers were limp in Vandervent's clasp. Shereleased them as Mrs. Hebron returned, followed by the young man who haddescended from the sleigh.
"Miss Deane? Ah, how do, Mr. Vandervent?" he said.
"How do, Penwell? Miss Deane, let me present my good friend RoscoePenwell, the _Era_'s greatest reporter."
Penwell laughed.
"Why limit yourself when you're paying compliments? Why not the_world's_ greatest reporter?" he asked.
"I amend my statement," smiled Vandervent.
Clancy held out her hand. Penwell bowed over it. He was a good-lookingyoungster, not so very many years older than herself, Clancy judged.
"Penwell," said Vandervent, "will publish his memoirs some day. Be niceto him, Miss Deane, and you'll receive a gift-copy."
Penwell colored.
"Quit it!" he grumbled. The mirth went out of his voice. "Miss Deane,the _Era_ wants a statement from you."
Before she could reply, Vandervent spoke. "Then we _weren't_ mistaken.The maid said you asked for Miss Deane, but----"
Penwell shook his head.
"Naughty, naughty, Mr. Vandervent! You can't fool me."
"Then I won't try," said Vandervent crisply. "What is it that you want?"His tone was business-like.
Penwell's reply was equally so.
"The _Era_ has learned, from an authoritative source, that Miss Deanewas in the office of Morris Beiner shortly before he was murdered; that,in short, she was sought by the police on suspicion of having committedthe crime."
"Carey's dead, and left a confession," said Vandervent.
Penwell shrugged. "Even so."
"Authoritative source, you said?" questioned Vandervent. "I suppose thatmeans a drug fiend named Garland."
Penwell nodded.
"You should have locked that bird up, Mr. Vandervent, until he lost hislove for talk."
"And money," amended Vandervent.
"Not much. Fifty dollars."
"Cheap at the price. Still," said Vandervent, "rather expensive when youcan't use what he told you."
"No?" Penwell was politely interested. For all his youth, one would havejudged him a good poker player.
"Miss Deane was unfortunate; a victim of circumstances. The _Era_wouldn't drag her into a nasty scandal, would it?" demanded Vandervent.
"News is news," stated Penwell.
"Listen to a trade?" asked Vandervent.
"Always willing to," smiled Penwell.
Vandervent blushed.
"Unfortunately, sometimes, a Vandervent is always a Vandervent."
"Thou speakest truth, O Sage!" laughed the young man.
"And what a Vandervent eats for breakfast makes snappy reading, I thinkyou'd call it, for _hoi polloi_, eh?"
"Continue. You interest me strangely," said Penwell.
"My engagement--its announcement rather--would be a 'beat' of somevalue?"
Penwell bowed to Clancy.
"Miss Deane, gaze upon a man so sinful that he takes a bribe." He turnedto Vandervent. "The _Era_ won't print a word about Miss Deane. Who's thelady?"
"Miss Deane," said Vandervent.
For a moment Penwell stared at the young girl. Then, slowly, he spoke.
"Miss Deane, I didn't want this assignment. But a reporter does whathe's told. I can't tell you how glad I am that I can turn in somethingbigger for the paper. Why, Mr. Vandervent, the paper wouldn't dare takea chance on printing something that Garland said about your _fiancee_!"
"It might prove rather expensive for the _Era_," said Vandervent.
But Penwell didn't hear him. He was staring at Clancy. And smiling.
"Miss Deane, I don't know anything about you. I hope you'll tell mesomething for the paper. But whoever you may be, you've done well inyour engagement. You're going to marry one of the whitest--tell me, whenwas the engagement contracted?"
Clancy colored to the roots of her hair. Vandervent gently pushed thereporter toward the door.
"Come back," he said, "in five minutes and we'll answer that question."
Penwell looked from one to the other. Then he grinned. Then he backedout of the room. For a moment, there was silence between the girl andthe man. Vandervent spoke first.
"Was I--impertinent? Do I--assume too much?"
Slowly Clancy turned until she faced him. The heart of her stood in hereyes. Yet, because she was a woman, she must ask.
"Did you--is it because you want to save me--or do you really----"
He didn't answer. He crushed her in his arms. She had not known that hewas so strong. And within his arms she found the answer to herquestion. She owned the "Open, Sesame"--youth. Her challenging gray eyesmight some day grow dim; the satiny luster of her black hair might giveway to silver, but the heart of her would ever be young, and so theworld would be hers. For i
t is only the young in spirit who win life'sbattles; youth cannot comprehend defeat, and so it knows only victory.
And she had come to New York, which jibes at age, but bends a suppleknee to youth. And because she was young, would always be young, ClancyDeane would be bound by no rules, no mental timetables would fetter her.For the old, on learning that the train has gone, surrender to despair.The young take another train. Neither road nor the destination mattersto youth, and so--it always arrives.
She had come to work, to win a career. She would, instead, be a wife.For the present, happily, willingly, she surrendered ambition. But itwould come back to her. Whether it would speak to her in terms of herhusband's career, or of her own--that was on the knees of the gods.
For the moment, she was beaten--beaten by love. But the Clancy Deanesare never beaten by circumstances. If they bow to love, it is becausefrom love they build a greater triumph than from ambition. Youth alwaysis triumphant when it surrenders to youth.
She found the answer in his arms. And nestled there, she vowed that shewould keep the answer there. And because age would never touch her, shecould fulfil her vow if she chose. Clairvoyantly, she looked ahead;suddenly she knew that she would always choose. Her lips went up to his.
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