IV
THE MURMUR OF THE STORM
It seemed that everything were to go wrong with Roger Sands that day. Hehad felt for the last few months that a cloud had risen between him andJohn Heron, whose cause he had won in California. If ever a business manowed a debt of gratitude to the brains of another, John Heron owed sucha debt to Roger Sands, who had risked not only his reputation, but evenhis life against the powerful enemies of the alleged "California OilTrust King." Heron had appeared fully to appreciate this; and beforeRoger left for New York had been almost oppressively cordial, begging invain that Roger would visit him and his wife, a famous beauty withSpanish blood in her veins. He had written once, immediately afterSands' departure, and had telegraphed congratulations on reading thenews of Roger's marriage. But the friendly reply had remainedunacknowledged. The wedding present of a gold tea service had beenaccompanied by no letter, only a card with the names of "Mr. and Mrs.John Heron." With Sands' thanks the correspondence ended.... This hadvexed Roger, who liked Heron and was not used to being slighted. Theonly thing he could think of was Beverley's failure to enclose a note toMrs. Heron in his letter of thanks. She had argued that the present wasfor him, really, and that if she wrote Mrs. Heron it would look"pushing."
Roger let the matter slide, and had written in his wife's name and hisown. At last he read in some newspaper that "Mr. and Mrs. John Heronintended shortly to start for the east, where they would spend thesummer." Without waiting to consult Beverley he wrote, saying he hadread the news, and he and his wife hoped for a visit in their Newporthouse as soon as it was ready. He had written, not from the office, butfrom home, with the Park Avenue address on the paper. To-day, as heentered his study, his eye lit on an envelope with John Heron's writingupon it.
The letter lay on the top of others on his desk, and instead of going tofind Beverley at once, as was his lover's custom, he sat down to readhis correspondence.
The first letter he opened was Heron's, which consisted of a few lineson one page. Roger's eyes took in the whole at a glance.
DEAR MR. SANDS:
My wife and I are obliged to you for your kind invitation, but owing to the fact that we have already made a great number of engagements I fear we shall be unable to give ourselves the pleasure of accepting.
Yours truly, JOHN HERON.
The blood rushed to Roger's forehead. He realized that this was adeliberate insult.
The last letter had begun "Dear Sands," and had been signed "Yoursgratefully ever." Roger was even more furious than mystified. "Next timehe wants me to pull him out of a death trap, he can whistle for hispains!"
At that instant Beverley tapped at the door, and half opened it to peepin.
This irritated Roger. He had told her from the first that she need notknock at his study door.
"How often have I begged you not to knock?" he broke out at her. "Comein if you want to."
It was the first time he had ever spoken crossly. Beverley started, andthe look on her face, instead of overwhelming Roger with remorse,hardened him.
Beverley's colour had been bright, but she turned pale as Roger flung ather his scolding words. Seeing the letter in her husband's hand theblood streamed back to her cheeks. If she could possibly have known andrecognized Heron's writing, it might have seemed that the sight of ithad struck her with fear. But no such far-fetched thought occurred toher husband.
"I--I'm sorry!" she said hastily. "I heard your voice--I supposedsomeone was with you----"
Roger forgot that he had spoken aloud. In silence he let the girl crossthe floor and sit down in the easy chair she called "hers." She droppedinto it as if her knees had given way, and looked at Roger. When he didnot speak, she could bear the suspense no longer.
"You--you're reading a letter--I interrupted you?"
"The letter's of no importance," said Roger, throwing it upon the desk."It's only from John Heron to tell me that he and his wife won't be ableto come and see us at Newport. One would suppose by his tone that he wasoffended. Probably Mrs. Heron expected you to gush over the weddingpresent, and has put him up to snubbing me because you didn't."
"You asked the Herons to visit us? I--didn't know----"
"I did ask them," Roger cut her short. "I heard they were coming East."
"Oh, Roger, I couldn't have met them! If they'd accepted I should havehad to be ill, or--or go away!" Beverley exclaimed on one of herimpulses, which instantly she appeared to regret. "I'm glad you don'tlike Mr. Heron's letter, because--you'll never ask them again! I haven'tdone anything to annoy you, have I?"
"You know best whether you have or not."
"What do you mean?"
"Is it necessary to ask? I came home intending not to question you. ButI must make one comment: you're surprised that I invite a friend tovisit us without consulting you. That seems inconsistent with whatyou've done. I've read the evening paper, and----"
"Oh, Roger! It's in the paper ... about that poor child and me?"
"Naturally! You and I aren't nonentities."
"You don't think I did wrong?"
"Wrong's a big word. You've done something foolish, and inconsiderate tome."
"What harm can the child do to you?"
"That depends upon what sort of 'child' she is! Perhaps you can give mea better account of her than the _Evening Star_ gives!"
"I can't give you any," said Beverley, in a trembling voice, "exceptthat she was the most pitiful thing I ever saw ... so young anddesperate, lying in pools of blood."
"Which pools of blood you transferred to your new motor car, my present,that I thought you valued."
"Roger! What did the motor matter, compared with saving a life?"
"Saving a life wasn't in question. An ambulance would have been on thespot in a minute to take the girl to a hospital."
"She wouldn't have had love in a hospital. I felt it was for lack oflove she'd tried to kill herself...."
"A girl who steals her companions' money can't expect to have theirlove...."
"Oh! So that's what the newspaper says? I don't believe she stole. Waittill you see the poor little thing, Roger."
"I don't want to see her. Now she's here, she'll have to stay till shedies, or can be safely moved. I've no wish to be cruel. But when she cango, I want her to do so. I don't mind giving...."
"You do mind giving faith and sympathy!" Beverley burst out. "Why shouldyou take me on faith, and refuse it to another? You knew nothing aboutme ... I know nothing about this child...."
"Ah, you're sure you know nothing about her!" His tone was bitter.
"What could I know?" she echoed. "I brought her straight home, and shehasn't been able to talk ... except a few words."
"It occurred to me as rather odd you should do so much for a completestranger."
"Oh, I see! You think I knew her ... before?"
"I thought it possible. Her name put the idea into my head. I heard yousay it once ... in your ... sleep ... Riley ... or something like that."
For the third time Beverley blushed, one of her fatal, agonized blushes.The rush of blood forced tears to her eyes; and a certain strained lookin them, a quivering of the lips, brought back to Roger's mind a pictureof her in the train. That was the first time he had seen her blush. Shehad said--he remembered well--"You are the only man I'm interested in,"and had blushed furiously. He had been sure then that she was noadventuress. She had looked like a frightened child, and she looked likeone now. With that picture of the girl in the train came back anotherrecollection. She had asked if any man had inquired for her, or if any"noticeable" person had sought his acquaintance. He had replied thathe'd not spoken with a soul except a man he knew slightly, a Congressmanfrom California named O'Reilly. He supposed that O'Reilly didn'tinterest her? Upon this, with a desperate blush, she had made herstartlingly frank reply.
As this came back, Roger's heart was no longer soft. What a fool he hadbeen, that day in the train, not to connect the girl's change of colourwith his m
ention of O'Reilly! She might have blurted out her complimentto excuse the blush, instead of the blush having followed thecompliment. Good heavens! could Justin O'Reilly have been the man fromwhom she wished to hide?
"Perhaps the name you spoke in your sleep was O'Reilly!" he flung at hiswife.
Beverley gathered herself together.
"So all this time," she said, "you have been suspicious of me! And I wasso happy. I thought you were happy, too, but it's just as I was afraidit would be, if I married you. You can't endure the strain!"
"I have endured the strain," Roger defended himself; "because I lovedyou as few men have ever loved, but the question is, have you deservedit all?"
"This is the moment I felt must come!" she said. "If I had only myselfto think of, don't you know I'd have told you everything? I warned youhow it would be ... how I should have to keep the secret not for alittle while, but for always! If you don't believe, if you think I liedwhen I said no man had ever been anything to me ... if you think I lienow, when I say I never saw or heard of this girl till I found her inthe street.... I can go out of your life.... I can go to-day!"
As she spoke slowly, sentence by sentence, with a sobbing breathbetween, Beverley looked straight into her husband's eyes. Hers did notfalter though they swam in tears. With her last words, she rose andstood facing him as he sat at his desk.
Roger gave her back gaze for gaze, as if he would read her secretwritten in cypher on her soul. He saw that she meant what she said. Aword from him, and their experiment was at an end. She would go. Itseemed to him that never had her beauty been so gentle, so womanly.
"You shan't go!" he cried, springing to his feet. "I can't give you up!"
But she held him off.
"No!" she panted. "I won't stay if you want me only in that way--becauseyou have a kind of love for me, whether you believe in me or not. I loveyou too much to be shamed by you! Either you trust me, or you don't. Saywhich it is, and I'll stay, or go."
"I've got to trust you! I do!" The words seemed to burst from him. "Youknow I love you more than all the world. It would kill me to lose you."
"I'd rather die from the shock of losing you, Roger, than from such ahateful pain, going on and on----"
"It shan't go on," he said. "I've been happy, too. I'm a changed mansince the hour I saw you and loved you. It's only to-day I've beenwretched. Forgive me, Bev--and God forgive you if----"
"There's an 'if' for you?"
"No--no, there's no 'if' any more. You're to forgive me----that's all!"
"Oh, I do! The hard thing would be not to forgive. But--can we go onbeing happy again, just as if nothing had happened?"
"Of course we can, silly child. Nothing has happened." Roger had her inhis arms now. He kissed her over and over again, till she gasped forbreath. "This has only cleared the air. As for that beastly child, Idon't care if she's a murderess. Keep her forever, if you choose. Trainher as your maid----"
"But she's not 'beastly!' And she's not the kind to have for a maid. Ithink she's a lady. She seems----"
"Well, do whatever you like with her. Can I go further, to show you Iwant to atone?"
"No, you can't, Roger----" Beverley nestled her face into his neck. "Iadore you!"
She closed her eyes, but opening them she happened, looking over Roger'sshoulder, to see John Heron's letter on her husband's desk. A faintshiver ran through her body, and Roger felt it.
"What's the matter, my darling?" he asked.
"Nothing!" she answered. "A mouse ran over my grave."