Part 22 (1/2)

”If our friend Langdon hadn't slipped away, I might not look and feel so comfortable,” said I. ”His brother blundered, and there was no one to checkmate my moves.” She seemed nearer to me, more in sympathy with me than ever before.

”I can't tell you how glad I am!”

Her eyes were wide and bright, as from some great excitement, and her color was high. Once my attention was on it, I knew instantly that only some extraordinary upheaval in that household could have produced the fever that was blazing in her. Never had I seen her in any such mood as this.

”What is it?” I asked. ”What has happened?”

”If anything disagreeable should be said or done this evening here,” she said, ”I want you to promise me that you'll restrain yourself, and not say or do any of those things that make me--that jar on me. You understand?”

”I am always myself,” replied I. ”I can't be anybody else.”

”But you are--several different kinds of self,” she insisted. ”And please--this evening don't be _that_ kind. It's coming into your eyes and chin now.”

I had lifted my head and looked round, probably much like the leader of a horned herd at the scent of danger.

”Is this better?” said I, trying to look the thoughts I had no difficulty in getting to the fore whenever my eyes were on her.

Her smile rewarded me. But it disappeared, gave place to a look of nervous alarm, of terror even, at the rustling, or, rather, bustling, of skirts in the hall--there was war in the very sound, and I felt it. Mrs. Ellersly appeared, bearing her husband as a dejected trailer invisibly but firmly coupled. She acknowledged my salutation with a stiff-necked nod, ignored my extended hand. I saw that she wished to impress upon me that she was a very grand lady indeed; but, while my ideas of what const.i.tutes a lady were at that time somewhat befogged by my sn.o.bbishness, she failed dismally. She looked just what she was--a mean, bad-tempered woman, in a towering rage.

”You have forced me, Mr. Blacklock,” said she, and then I knew for just what purpose that voice of hers was best adapted--”to say to you what I should have preferred to write. Mr. Ellersly has had brought to his ears matters in connection with your private life that make it imperative that you discontinue your calls here.”

”My private life, ma'am?” I repeated. ”I was not aware that I had a private life.”

”Anita, leave us alone with Mr. Blacklock,” commanded her mother.

The girl hesitated, bent her head, and with a cowed look went slowly toward the door. There she paused, and, with what seemed a great effort, lifted her head and gazed at me. How I ever came rightly to interpret her look I don't know, but I said: ”Miss Ellersly, I've the right to insist that you stay.” I saw she was going to obey me, and before Mrs. Ellersly could repeat her order I said: ”Now, madam, if any one accuses me of having done anything that would cause you to exclude a man from your house, I am ready for the liar and his lie.”

As I spoke I was searching the weak, bad old face of her husband for an explanation. Their pretense of outraged morality I rejected at once--it was absurd. Neither up town nor down, nor anywhere else, had I done anything that any one could regard as a breach of the code of a man of the world.

Then, reasoned I, they must have found some one else to help them out of their financial troubles--some one who, perhaps, has made this insult to me the price, or part of the price, of his generosity. Who? Who hates me? In instant answer, up before my mind flashed a picture of Tom Langdon and Sam Ellersly arm in arm entering Lewis' office. Tom Langdon wishes to marry her; and her parents wish it, too; he is the man she was confessing to me about--these were my swift conclusions.

”We do not care to discuss the matter, sir,” Mrs. Ellersly was replying, her tone indicating that it was not fit to discuss. And this was the woman I had hardly been able to treat civilly, so nauseating were her fawnings and flatterings!

”So!” I said, ignoring her and opening my batteries full upon the old man.

”You are taking orders from Mowbray Langdon now. Why?”

As I spoke, I was conscious that there had been some change in Anita. I looked at her. With startled eyes and lips apart, she was advancing toward me.

”Anita, leave the room!” cried Mrs. Ellersly harshly, panic under the command in her tones.

I felt rather than saw my advantage, and pressed it.

”You see what they are doing, Miss Ellersly,” said I.

She pa.s.sed her hands over her eyes, let her face appear again. In it there was an energy of repulsion that ought to have seemed exaggerated to me then, knowing really nothing of the true situation. ”I understand now!”

said she. ”Oh--it is--loathsome!” And her eyes blazed upon her mother.

”Loathsome,” I echoed, das.h.i.+ng at my opportunity. ”If you are not merely a chattel and a decoy, if there is any womanhood, any self-respect in you, you will keep faith with me.”

”Anita!” cried Mrs. Ellersly. ”Go to your room!”