The Firing Line Part 89

What are you doing here at this hour? I--I thought I heard you talking."

"I was talking to my father."

"What!" she said, startled.

"Pretending to," he added wearily; "sit down."

"Do you wish me--"

"Yes; sit down."

"I--" she looked fearfully at him, hesitated, and slowly seated herself on the arm of a lounge. "W-what is it you--want, Louis?" she faltered, every nerve on edge.

"Nothing much; a kindly word or two."

"What do you mean? Have I ever been unkind? I--I am too unhappy to be unkind to anybody." Suddenly her eyes filled.

"Don't do that," he said; "you are always civil to me--never unkind. By the way, my relatives leave to-morrow. That will comfort you, won't it?"

She said nothing.

He leaned heavily on the table, dark face framed in both hands:

"s.h.i.+ela, when a man is really tired, don't you think it reasonable for him to take a rest--and give others one?"

"I don't understand."

"A rather protracted rest is good for tired people, isn't it?"

"Yes, if--"

"In fact," with a whimsical smile, "a sort of endlessly eternal rest ought to cure anybody. Don't you think so?"

She stared at him.

"Do you happen to remember that my father, needing a good long rest, took a sudden vacation to enjoy it?"

"I--I--don't know what you mean!"--tremulously.

"You remember how he started on that restful vacation which he is still enjoying?"

A shudder ran over her. She strove to speak, but her voice died in her throat.

"My father," he said dreamily, "seems to want me to join him during his vacation--"

"Louis!"

"What are you frightened about? It's as good a vacation as any other--only one takes no luggage and pays no hotel bills.... Haven't you any sense of humour left in you, s.h.i.+ela? I'm not serious."

She said, trembling, and very white: "I thought you meant it." Then she rose with a s.h.i.+ver, turned, and mounted the stairs to her room again.

But in the stillness of the place something was already at work on her--fear--a slow dawning alarm at the silence, the loneliness, the forests, the rain--a growing horror of the place, of the people in it, of this man the world called her husband, of his listening silences, his solitary laughter, his words spoken to something unseen in empty rooms, his awful humour.

Her very knees were shaking under her now; she stared around her like a trapped thing, desperate, feeling that self-control was going in sudden, ungovernable panic.

Scarcely knowing what she was about she crept to the telephone and, leaning heavily against the wall, placed the receiver to her ear.

For a long while she waited, dreading lest the operator had gone. Then a far voice hailed her; she gave the name; waited interminable minutes until a servant's sleepy voice requested her to hold the wire. And, at last:

"Is it you?"

"Garry, could you come here to-night?"

"Danger? No, I am in no danger; I am just frightened."

"I don't know what is frightening me."

"No, not ill. It's only that I am so horribly alone here in the rain.

I--I cannot seem to endure it." She was speaking almost incoherently, now, scarcely conscious of what she was saying. "There's a man downstairs who talks in empty rooms and listens to things I cannot hear--listens every day, I tell you; I've seen him often, often--I mean Louis Malcourt! And I cannot endure it--the table that moves, and the--O Garry! Take me away with you. I cannot stand it any longer!"

"Will you come?"

"To-night, Garry?"

"How long will you be? I simply cannot stay alone in this house until you come. I'll go down and saddle my mare--"

"What?"

"Oh, yes--yes! I know what I'm doing--"