Part 10 (1/2)
CHAPTER XI
It was Sunday afternoon, and Marcreta was expecting a caller. ”How long do you think he'll stay?” Clinton demanded as they rose from their two o'clock dinner.
”As long as I'll let him, I suppose.”
”Well, call a time-limit, Crete.” And then recalled suddenly to the realization that he must begin making the best of a situation that gave every evidence of forcing itself upon him for life, he added hastily, ”What's the use of trying that new cure if you're going to pull against it all the time?”
”Do you call this 'pulling against it'?”
”I do, decidedly. Every time that man comes here you're strung about an octave higher than normal.”
She looked at him, astonished. ”Why, Clinton, I don't feel it myself.
I'm not conscious that he affects me that way.”
”He does, though. We all know people who affect us that way. And it is not a question of attraction or aversion. Liking or disliking them doesn't alter the fact that they have the power to screw us up.
Sometimes, of course, it's a beneficial stimulant, but you shouldn't be taking anything like that just now. Give Dr. Reynolds a chance.”
”I will give him a chance. But to-day----Well, I promised Mr. Glover that I'd listen to something that he has written.”
”Help! Then he'll probably be here to supper. I didn't know he'd broken into the writing game.”
”I didn't either until the other day. But I think it is some advertising for the new springs. He is very versatile. He does a number of things and does them well.”
Her brother glanced at her sharply without replying. That note of champions.h.i.+p in her voice put an edge on his nerves.
But she was mistaken in her guess concerning advertising matter for the American Carlsbad. For when she and Richard Glover were alone in the living-room he produced a copy of one of the popular magazines. ”You remember you said I might read you something to-day?” he began, drawing his chair into a better light.
”Yes. I have been looking forward to it with pleasure. But I thought it would be in ma.n.u.script. It is something you have had published?”
”My first attempt at anything in this line. It's a serial story and this is the initial instalment. You see, I had a good deal of leisure time on my hands when I was down at Mont-Mer and I've always wanted to try my luck with a pen. I call this 'A Brother of Bluebeard.'”
”That's a gruesome t.i.tle, but excellently chosen if it's a mystery-story. I'm s.h.i.+vering already.”
He settled himself with his back to the light and his profile toward her. ”I may as well tell you at first that I am not bringing this out under my own name.”
”Why not?”
”Because I wouldn't have felt quite free about writing it if I were standing out in the open.”
”Oh, it's a true story?”
”No, I can hardly claim that for it. It's rather a fantastic plot as you will see. But every writer knows this, that when you first break into print whatever you write is supposed to be transcribed almost verbatim from actual experience, preferably your own experience. No matter how at variance with your own life-plot the story may be, the people who know you will leap to the conclusion that it is rooted in autobiography.
Imagination is the very last thing that our friends are willing to allow us.”
”What nom-de-plume do you use?”
”Ralph Regan. It's short and snappy and sounds as if it might be genuine, don't you think?”
He found the place and began to read in a resonant, well-modulated voice. The opening paragraph was a little stilted, a bit amateurish, but after that the story swung into bold and breathless action. It gripped its hearer with a compelling force that held her tense and motionless in her chair. Only the sound of the reader's voice and the crisp crackle of paper when he turned a page broke the quiet of the room. Outside, a gray January mist engulfed the city, and electric bulbs from the houses across the street cut bleary patches in the mantle of fog. For almost an hour Richard Glover read in his clear, unhurried voice, and Marcreta listened, her wide eyes fastened upon his face.