Part 10 (1/2)

”This is _too_ bad!” breathed the lady impatiently, and plainly she was not speaking to Varney. ”I believe it's coming down harder and harder every minute!”

”Yes,” he answered cheerfully, ”the good old rain is at it in earnest.

We're probably fixed for hours and hours. I might argue, you know,” he added, ”that I have a right to know these things. The box of matches I just gave away like a madman would have told me, and no questions asked.

Matches and lamps you have none, but such as you have--”

”Could you not talk of something else, please?”

Varney laughed. ”Certainly, if I must. Only I've been rather generous about this, I think, showing you my hand and giving you the chance to laugh at me. You see, for all I know you may be fifty-two, after all. Or even sixty-two--Oh, glory! Hallelujah!”

”What on earth is the matter?”

”Oh, nothing! Nothing at all! Just I have found a match. That's all!”

”A _match_! Splendid!” she cried, and her voice suddenly seemed to come from a higher point in the darkness, as though she had risen. ”Just one!

Oh, we--you must be extremely careful with it.”

”The trouble is,” he said with exaggerated dejection, ”it's pretty wet.

I don't know whether it will strike or not.”

”You must _make_ it strike. Oh, it will be--unpardonable--if you don't make it strike!”

”Then I'll throw my soul into the work. I'll concentrate my whole will-power upon it. On the back of this chair here--shall I?”

”All right. I'll concentrate too. Are--you ready?”

”Ready it is,” said Varney.

Gently he drew the match across the rough wood of the chair-back, his ear all eager expectancy--and nothing happened. Thrice he did this fruitless thing, and something told him that a large section of the sulphur had been rubbed away into eternity.

”It's nip and tuck,” he breathed, stifling an impulse to laugh. ”Nip and tuck!”

Pressing the match's diminished head firmly against the wood, he drew it downward vigorously and long. There was a faint crackle, a little splutter, and--glory of glories!--a tiny flame faltered out into the darkness.

”Oh--_be careful_!”

Varney cupped his hand about the little flare, and for a moment ceased to breathe. Then it caught more fully, and it was evident to both that the victory was won.

He had meant to look instantly about for lamp or candle to light; but if all his future happiness had hinged upon it, it seemed to him that he could not have helped one glance at the lady who shared that shelter and that match with him.

She stood a few feet away, regarding him breathlessly, hatted, gloved, all in white, one hand resting lightly on the center-table, one folded about the crook of a dainty draggled parasol. The match threw a small and ghostly light, but he saw her, and she wore no veil.

”Why--why--I--”

”Oh, quick! There's a lamp just behind you.”

He caught himself with a start. By incredible luck a lamp was at his very elbow; as it was the match died on the wick. He put back the chimney and shade, turned up the wick, and the room was bathed in golden light.