The talkers

Sutton was too much wrought up to fall asleep, although reaction from shock now weighted him with physical weariness. Still dazed and depressed by the swift tragedy of his first romance, the memory of it both confused and accused him. In his anguished mind he reviewed it; their chance encounter in the throng; a dance together; other dances; the engaging shyness of the girl; her evident inexperience; something vaguely disturbing in the girlish fragrance of her. Then the lovely revelation of a youthful heart caught off its guard—and, suddenly, the swift blaze of impulse flaming to a kiss!—and the silent confusion of two disordered minds—to remember it overwhelmed him anew; even now a dull glow kindled through his veins.

He lifted his heavy head from the armchair and gazed at her folded hands, so still—so terribly still—

He was at that psychological period of general revolt when youth is most pitifully at the mercy of The Talkers—the period when faith becomes clouded and old beliefs grow obscure. He had heard The Talkers prove that there is no future existence. But now, gazing at the dead, he felt that there ought to be some compensation.

After a while he got up heavily, went to the bed and dropped on his knees.

Prayer, which The Talkers had proven to be a survival of gross superstition, and to which he had been, lately, unaccustomed, now proved difficult. He was ashamed to pray only in emergency. Confused, weary, he strove to think and to behave unemotionally; tried to ask in her behalf merely an equity in abstract justice.

In his boy’s heart, as in all hearts, there still remained fragments of that temple builded to “the unknown God,” which men call Hope.

His prayer was primitive enough—to the “Power responsible for the source of life”—asking decent compensation for this young death. It took long to formulate; left him on his knees with his head resting against the bed, very tired.

And, after a time, and still on his knees, he fell into a troubled doze.

Only when the clock again was striking did he become conscious. Stiff, benumbed, he stumbled to his feet. Recollection returned in horror; realisation frightened him.

He dragged himself to the curtained window. It was still dark outside, but the rain had ceased and snow covered the sill. He looked at his watch. It was nearly six o’clock in the morning.

For a little while he stood gazing into darkness, dreading to move. Then, very slowly he turned and went to the silent bedside.

And noticed that her clasped hands had fallen apart.

Lethargy still fettered mind and body; dully he noticed; dully attempted to account. Then the shock came. For her right hand clutched his rose-bud. And her fingers were stirring now—the hand almost imperceptibly creeping across the counterpane.

At that instant the girl opened her eyes.

There was no recognition in her gaze, no consciousness of environment. But consciousness was dawning. It came with a spasm of pain.

Suddenly she sat up.

“I want to get out of bed!” she said in a frightened voice, struggling to free her body of the sheets. Already she was touching the floor with one foot, when, half senseless himself, he restrained her, forcing her back to her pillow with shaking hands.

And now recognition dawned in her terrified eyes.

“Help me,” she said faintly. “Such—such a pain!—in my neck—deep inside. Could I have a drink of water?”

He brought it, trembling. She propped herself on one elbow, set her burning lips to the glass, draining it.

She asked for more; he brought it.

“Where is Casimir Sadoul?” she asked. “How long have I been here?”

“All night.” But she seemed not to comprehend him.

“My neck burns me so!” she whimpered. “Where are my clothes? I must have been very ill.”

“Yes, very ill,” he said thickly.

“I can’t see—clearly—” she murmured. “I can’t hear the music, either. Where is my green gown and my crown? Where are my clothes? I can’t stay here. I want to go!”

“Wait a little while——”

“Oh, goodness—goodness!” she whimpered, resting on one arm and gazing piteously around the room. “I must have been very, very ill. But I am well now. I want to get up——”

Her nervously moving hands encountered the rose-bud again. She looked at it stupidly, already half-blinded by a rush of tears.

“I—I want to go,” she sobbed, bowing her ruddy head and covering her face with desperate white hands.

His stupefaction was vanishing in the overwhelming surge of rising excitement. He brought her clothing to the bedside, drew her hands from her convulsed face:

“I want you to be careful,” he said. “You’ve been unconscious for six hours. There is a wound at the back of your neck. Do you understand?”

“Is that what burns me?” she asked tremulously, touching her neck with one finger.

“For God’s sake be careful!”

“It isn’t bleeding,” she said, looking at her finger.

Then she drew the sheets closer about her shoulders and bowed her head on her knees.

“Please let me dress,” she whispered.

“Are you strong enough?”

“I’ll call if I need you.”

He went out, drugged with excitement, incapable of reasoning—unable to realise—not daring to think—knowing only that the horror of that night was over, the frightful nightmare ended.

It was very dark outside; no hint of dawn above the chimneys opposite. Snow lay everywhere, dim but unsullied. Familiar sounds of the living world, however, now broke the wintry morning stillness. Once, to the westward, an elevated train roared past; two trams clanged and clattered south along Sixth Avenue; toward Broadway a taxi became audible.

When she called to him the sound of her voice almost stopped his heart. She had contrived to dress herself in her ball gown, and was twisting up her hair with her back to the mirror as he entered the room. Her features were painfully flushed; traces of tears marred her features.

“Could you find my masquerade costume for me?” she asked. “—And one of my green slippers is missing——”

He brought the golden-green robes of royalty and the missing slipper.

“Are you in much pain?” he ventured.

“I deserve it. What did they do to my neck?”

“That long, steel pin you wore wounded it. A physician cared for you.”

“What pin do you mean? These?” She displayed a bronze hairpin for his inspection and then passed it through a thick, ruddy strand that clustered over one ear.

“I think it had a gold hilt. You wore it to hold on your crown, didn’t you?”

“Oh. That was a ‘misericorde.’ My father gave it to me .... You don’t know how deathly strange I feel,” she murmured. “I had horrible dreams .... We fought.”

“Who fought?”

“Another woman and I. Ugh! It was too ghastly!... What time is it?”

“Half past six in the morning. You had better put on your costume, too. It’s cold out doors.”

“I have a fur coat in the cloak room downstairs.... I am ready if you are.”

He made a bundle of his own costume and they went out of Derring’s living quarters, leaving the lamps burning; and so, slowly, down the studio stairs to the littered ball-room, where the stale air stank of rotting flowers.

He discovered her fur coat. When she was well wrapped in it, they went through the hall to the grille and let themselves out. Dawn already grayed the street. A battered taxi, returning to headquarters, stopped for them. She gave Sutton her address; he directed the driver and they drove away over the snow, as yet unsoiled by traffic.

Lamp posts still remained lighted as they turned east into Thirty-fifth Street and drew up along the curb. Looking out, Sutton saw a line of darkened shops. Over them, the row of old-time brick houses evidently had been converted into apartments.

In silence he aided her to descend.

“Are you still in pain?” he asked.

“Not in pain.... No.”

“I think I’d better help you up the stairs.”

“If you will, please.”

He told the driver to wait, supported the girl to the swinging street door which was open, and aided her to mount a dark, uncarpeted stairway.

At the top of this was a narrow landing, a shop on the second floor, to the left, and another swinging door to the right, also open, revealing a shorter flight of carpeted stairs.

She was slow in mounting, rested on the landing of the third floor, supporting herself against the old-fashioned banisters. From the pocket of her fur coat she drew a gold-mesh bag and handed it to him. Among its varied contents he discovered keys. She indicated the right one; he fitted it and opened the door.

In a narrow hallway an electric bulb burned. To the right was a dim dining-room, to the left a living-room, where a lighted lamp stood on a piano.

He turned and closed the hallway door and led the girl into the large, square, lamp-lit room. Her bedroom opened out of it.

“Have you a maid?” he asked.

“She doesn’t sleep here.”

He drew off her fur coat, disembarrassed her of her masquerade robes, seated her in an upholstered armchair, and turned on the ceiling chandelier, which flooded everything with brilliant light. The room seemed very cold.

“Let me look at your injury,” he said. And she bent her head and remained so, resting her face between both hands.

The tiny vertical scar was purple, the area indurated but only slightly swelled.

“Does it pain very much?”

She shook her head.

“Shall I try to get a physician?”

“No, please.”

“What time does your maid arrive?”

“After ten. But I need nobody.”

After a silence: “Have you a telephone?... I should like to call you later to inquire how you are.”

She gave him her private number and he tore the margin from an evening paper and wrote it.

That seemed to be all there was to say. He picked up his hat; she extended her hand. He retained it for a moment, but neither spoke until he turned and opened the hallway door.

“I think you’re all right,” he said. “I’ll call up to be sure.”

“Yes, call me.”

And that was all.