The Lady of Big Shanty Part 5

"What has happened?" asked the doctor with sudden apprehension.

"Everything," she replied womanlike, raising her eyes slowly to his own. Impulsively he placed both hands on her shoulders.

"You are nervous," he said, his gaze riveted upon her parted lips. He felt her arms grow tense--she threw back her head stiffly and for a moment closed her eyes as if in pain.

"Don't!" she murmured--"we must be good friends--_good_ friends--do you understand?"

"Forgive me," was his tactful reply. He led her to the corner of the lounge and with fresh courage covered her hand firmly with his own.

"See--I am sensible," he smiled--"we understand each other, I think.

Tell me what has happened."

"Sam," she murmured faintly, freeing her hand--"Sam has dared to treat me like--like a child."

"You! I don't believe it--you? Nonsense, dear friend."

"You must help me," she returned in a vain effort to keep back the tears.

"Has he been brutal to you?--jealous?--impossible!" and a certain query gleamed in his eyes.

"Yes, brutal enough. I never believed him capable of it."

"I believe you, but it seems strange--psychologically impossible.

Why, he's not that kind of a man."

Alice slipped her hand beneath a cus.h.i.+on, drew forth her husband's note and gave it to him.

"Read that," she said, gazing doggedly into the fire, her chin in her hands.

"'I may pa.s.s the summer in the woods'"--he read. "'Make no arrangements--' Well, what of it?" This came with a breath of relief.

Alice raised her head wearily.

"It means that my life will be different--a country boarding house or a camp up in those wretched woods, I suppose--an _existence_"--she went on, her voice regaining its old dominant note--"not life!"

"And no more Newport for either of us," he muttered half audibly to himself with a tone of regret.

Alice looked up at him, her white hands clenched.

"I won't have it!" she exclaimed hotly; "I simply won't have it. I should die in a place like that. Buried," she went on bitterly, "among a lot of country b.u.mpkins! Sam's a fool!"

"And you believe him to be in earnest?" he asked at length. She made no reply; her flushed cheeks again sunk in her jewelled hands. "Do you, seriously?" he demanded with sudden fear.

"Yes--very much in earnest--that's the worst of it," she returned, with set, trembling lips.

For some moments he watched her in silence, she breathing in nervous gasps, her slippered feet pressed hard in the soft rug. A sudden desire rushed through him to take her in his arms, yet he dared not risk it.

"Come," he said, at last, "let us reason this thing out. We're neither of us fools. Besides, it does not seem possible he will dare carry out anything in life without your consent."

"I don't know," she answered slowly. "I never believed him capable of going to the woods--but he did. And I must say, frankly, I never believed him capable of this."

"You and he have had a quarrel--am I not right?"

She shrugged her shoulders in reply.

"Perhaps," she confessed--"but he has never understood me--he is incapable of understanding any woman."

"Quite true," he replied lightly, in his best worldly voice; "quite true. Few men, my dear child, ever understand the women they marry.

You might have been free to-day--free, and happier, had you--"

He sprang to his feet, bending over her--clasping her hands clenched in her lap. Slowly he sought her lips.

"Don't," she breathed--"don't--I beg of you. You must not--you _shall_ not! You know we have discussed all that before."

"Forgive me," said he, straightening and regaining his seat. The ice had been thinner than he supposed, and he was too much of an expert to risk breaking through. "But why are you so cold to me?" he asked gloomily, with a sullen glance; "you, whose whole nature is the reverse? Do you know you are gloriously beautiful--you, whom I have always regarded as a woman of the world, seem to have suddenly developed the conscience of a schoolgirl."

"You said you would help me," she replied, ignoring his outburst, her eyes averted as if fearing to meet his gaze.

"Then tell me you trust me," he returned, leaning toward her.

She raised her eyes frankly to his own.

"I do--I do trust you, but I do not trust myself. Now keep your promise--I insist on it. Believe me, it is better--wiser for us both."

"Come, then," he said, laying his hand tenderly on her shoulder--it had grown dark in the teakwood room--"let me tell you a story--a fairy tale."

She looked at him with a mute appeal in her eyes. Then with a half moan she said: "I don't want any story; I want your help and never so much as now. Think of something that will help me! Be quick! No more dreams--our minutes are too valuable; I must send you away at six."

For some minutes he paced the room in silence. Then, as if a new thought had entered his mind, he stopped and resumed his professional manner.

"What about Margaret?" he asked quietly. "Is she fond of the woods?"

"Why--she adores them." She had regained her composure now. "The child was quite mad about that wretched Long Lake. What a summer we had--I shudder when I think of it!"

"Did it ever occur to you, my dear friend, that Margaret _needed_ the woods?" His eyes were searching hers now as if he wanted to read her inmost thought.

"Needed them--in what way?"

"I mean--er--wouldn't it be better for her if she went to them? A winter at Saranac--or better still, a longer summer at the camp--if there is to be a camp. In that case her father would not leave her alone; there would be less chance, too, of his insisting on your being there--should you refuse. At least that would be a reason for his spending as much time as possible in camp with Margaret, and you might run up occasionally. I'm merely speaking in a purely professional way, of course," he added.

A sudden pallor crept over her face.

"And you really believe Margaret to be delicate?" she asked in a trembling voice full of sudden apprehension.

Sperry regained his seat, his manner lapsing into one that he a.s.sumed at serious consultations.

"I am a pretty good diagnostician," he went on, satisfied with the impression he had made. "Don't think me brutal in what I am going to say, but I've watched that young daughter of yours lately. New York is not the place for her."

"You don't mean her lungs?" she asked in a barely audible tone.

The doctor nodded.