Part 21 (1/2)

”Ah! Why didn't you come earlier?”

The nurse sat by her light, reading; the chess board lay on the small table; Uncle Peter was propped in his cus.h.i.+ons and the game began.

From below stairs Felicia could hear faint echoes of conversations.

She had heard the mistress of the house departing in the same motor that had brought them, but a steady rumble of men's voices and a faint aroma of cigars floated up the stairway. You can't think what exultation it gave her, just having a sense of nearness to st.u.r.dy masculinity after a lifetime of invalids and old folks! She liked the spirit of argument that dimly arose, the eager confab--”It's not feasible”--”It couldn't be pulled off”--”Quixotic plan”--”take a mint of money--”

The sheltered sick room was like all her life, but below stairs there were--men! She moved her p.a.w.ns quietly, watching Uncle Peter's adroit game. She watched too, something else, the light in Uncle Peter's eyes. They sparkled.

The room was impossibly hot yet the old man s.h.i.+vered, just as Grandy s.h.i.+vered, and drew his dressing gown closer. Felicia was very tired from her exciting day. She grew paler and paler; the circles under her eyes grew deeper; her forehead was moist; her hand trembled a bit. But presently she heard.

”Check!” She roused herself, she had been playing badly, he had caught her! But he laughed, a feeble, senile laugh, and leaned back, altogether pleased with himself.

”A drink,” he panted and closed his eyes. ”Come again, Miss Whadda- you-call-it-”

The nurse's eyes reproached her as she tiptoed out.

A pert maid arose, from the hall chair,

”Mr. Alden said for me to 'phone the garage, that the car would be here for you directly--will you sit down--”

There was a bench on the stair landing below them beside an open window. Felicia gestured toward it, and the maid nodded.

She could hear the voices more clearly now, she could even see two of the speakers through an arched doorway. They were sprawled easily in big chairs, a blue haze of smoke floating over them. One of them was laughing,

”That's all right--we agree with you--we'll go in your wild scheme if you can find some other fools too--only, I say Dud, before you beat it just sing a couple things, will you? You might be gone six months instead of three and that's too long between songs. I know you aren't singing and you haven't any voice and all that, but just a couple to show there's no hard feeling--those things you used to--the one that the darkey boy wrote--that Dunbar chap--'The Sum'--and that other one--”

Others added to the appeal. Some one objected. Felicia caught a brief glimpse of a tall figure, over-coat on arm, the doorway, and a hand pulling him back. But on he came, protesting vibrantly that he never sang any more. He looked up toward the figure on the stairs,

”I believe I'll run up to say Howdy and Good-by to your Uncle Peter--”

One step, two steps he had ascended before she could actually see him.

Then with her heart in her eyes she looked to him--he was so tall, so broad shouldered, so superb in his ruddy blondeness!

”Oh, Dudly Hamilt!” her lips moved. But she leaned back against the shadow of the curtains as he drew nearer.

He was so close she could touch him, he was so close that at last he saw her--that is he saw a little drab person whose figure was lost in a caped coat.

”Beg pardon,” he murmured--and pa.s.sed her--

She buried her face in her hands. She was too weak to move. She was still sitting with her face thus hidden when he came down the stairway a moment later, calling back to the invalid,

”You'll be as good as ever when it's summer--”

The others were waiting for him at the foot of the stairway.

”Un-cle Pe-ter-” called Freddie Alden, ”ask Dud to sing 'Who Knows'

for you.” Uncle Peter did.

And so with her pulse racing madly, with her throat so dry it seemed as though she could not breathe, Felicia Day sat and listened, listened with her trembling hand over her mouth to keep her lips from crying out. Listened to the first firm chords as Dudley Hamilt's long fingers moved over the keys, listened as he began to sing. He wasn't using very much voice, just enough to let the melody ring upward to Uncle Peter, round and smooth and inexpressibly caressing. He wasn't singing as though it mattered especially what he sang, indeed at first the phrasing was careless. But presently his voice soared more freely, it grew vibrant with longing.