The Hollow of Her Hand

G >> George Barr McCutcheon >> The Hollow of Her Hand

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"Why, damn it all," roared Carroll, "you countenance his ridiculous
assertions--"

"No; I do nothing of the sort, Mr. Carroll, and Mr. Smith knows it
quite as well as you do. He still has it in his power to set the
tongues to wagging. We can't get around that, gentlemen. I want to
pay him to drop the case entirely. The reward has been withdrawn.
Will it satisfy your cupidity, Mr. Smith, if I agree to pay to you
a like amount?"

"Good Lord!" gasped Smith, staggered.

"I cannot permit--" began Mr. Wrandall.

She looked him squarely in the eye and the words died on his lips.

"I prefer to have it my way," she said. "I will not accept favours
from Mr. Smith--nor any other man." Wrandall alone caught the
significance of the last four words. She would not accept the favour
of a lie from him! And yet she would not humiliate by denying him
in the presence of others. "Mr. Carroll will attend to this matter for
me, Mr. Smith, if you will call at his office at your convenience.
I shall make but a single stipulation in addition to the one
involved: you are to drop the case altogether. Mr. Wrandall has
already dismissed you. You are under no further obligations to him
or his family. I respectfully submit to all of you, gentlemen, that
when the investigations go so far astray as they have gone in this
instance, it isn't safe to let them continue with the possible chance
of proving unwholesome to other innocent persons, toward whom, in
some justice, attention might be drawn. The young woman now in the
far West is a sickening example. I refer to the Ashtley girl. If,
by any chance, the right person should be taken, I will do my part,
Mr. Wrandall, with the same purpose if not the same spirit that
actuates you, but I am opposed to baring skeletons to gratify
the morbid curiosity of a public that despises all of us because,
unhappily, we are what we are. I trust I make myself plain to you.
I loved my husband. I have no desire to know the names of women
who were his--we will say--who were in love with him."

Mr. Wrandall bowed his head and said not a word. His attorney, who
had been a silent listener from the beginning, spoke for the first
time.

"If Mr. Smith will call at my office to-morrow, I will attend to
the closing of this matter to his entire satisfaction. Mr. Wrandall
has already authorised me to settle in full for his time and--patience."

"I don't like to take money in this way--"

"We won't discuss ethics, Mr. Smith."

"Just as you like, then. I'm only too happy to be off the job. Good
morning, madam. Good morning, gentlemen."

He stalked from the room. Watson was waiting in the hall.

"This way," he said, indicating the big front door.

Smith grinned sheepishly. "'Gad, they don't even think I can find
a front door," he said.

Redmond Wrandall turned to the two men after he heard the door of
his automobile slam in the porte-cochere.

"Gentlemen, I believe it is unnecessary to announce to you that I
did not speak over the telephone with my daughter-in-law on that
wretched night," he said slowly.

They nodded their heads.

"I am not a good liar. Do you think the fellow believed me?"

"No," said Sara instantly. "He is accustomed to better lying than
you can supply. But it doesn't in the least matter. He knows, however,
that you spoke the truth when you said I was in my apartment, even
though you are not sure of it yourself, Mr. Wrandall. I will not
presume to thank you for what you did, but I shall never forget
it, sir."

He regarded her rather austerely for a moment. "I am glad you do
not thank me, Sara," he said. "You are not to feel that you are
under the slightest obligation to me."

"I regret that you felt it necessary to perjure yourself," she
said levelly, and then broke into a soft little laugh as she laid
her hand on his arm once more. "Come! Let us have a semi-public
view of Hetty's portrait."

He looked up alertly at the mention of the girl's name.

"By the way, where is Miss Castleton?" he asked, drawing a long
breath as if the air had suddenly become wholesome.

"She is back yonder in the living-room, having her last sitting
to Brandon Booth. Just a few finishing touches, that's all. I hear
them laughing. The day's work is done."

She led the way down the long hall, followed by the old gentlemen,
who came three abreast, hoary retainers at the heels of youth.

CHAPTER XIV

IN THE SHADOW OF THE MILL

Later on Sara, in sober reflection, endorsed what had appeared at
the time to be a whimsical, quixotic proceeding on her part. She
brought herself completely to the point where she could view her
action with complacency. At first, there was an irritating, nagging
fear that Mr. Wrandall had been genuinely soul-sacrificing in his
effort to defend her; that his decisive falsehood was a sincere
declaration of loyalty to her and not the transparent outburst of
one actuated by a sort of fanatical selfishness, in that he dreaded
the further dragging in the dust of the name of Wrandall, and all
that in spite of his positive belief that she was being wrongly,
unfairly attacked. She knew that her father-in-law had no doubt in
his mind that she could successfully combat any charge Smith might
bring against her; that her innocence would prevail even in the
opinion of the scheming detective. But behind all this was the
Wrandall conclusion that a skin was to be saved, and that skin the
one which covered the Wrandall pride.

His lie was not glorifying. She even consented that it might
be the first deliberate falsehood this honourable, discriminating
gentleman had told in all his life. At the moment, he may have
been actuated by a motive that deceived him, but even unknown to
him the Wrandall self-interest was at work. He was not lying for
her, but for the Wrandalls! And she would have to remain his debtor
all her life because of that amiable falsehood!

She intuitively felt the force of that secret motive almost
the instant it found expression, and she resented it even as she
applauded it in the first wave of inward enthusiasm. She might
have marked it down to his credit, and loved him a little for it,
had not his rather distorted integrity impelled him to confess his
transgression to the lawyers, whereas it was perfectly plain that
they appreciated his distortion of the truth without having it
explained to them in so many words. That virtuous little speech
of his was all-illuminating; it let in a great light and laid bare
the weakness that was too strong for him.

Her abrupt change of front, her suddenly formed resolve to pay the
man his price, was the result of a natural opposition to the elder
Wrandall. She acted hastily, even ruthlessly, in direct contradiction
to her original intentions, but she now felt that she had acted
wisely. There could be no doubt in the mind of the keen-witted
Smith that Mr. Wrandall had lied; his lips therefore were sealed,
not by the declaration, but by her own surprising offer to remunerate.

When she told Hetty what she had done, the girl, who had been
tortured by doubts and misgivings, threw herself into her arms and
sobbed out her gratitude.

"I could die for you, Sara. I could die a thousand deaths," she
cried.

"Oh, I dare say Smith is quite delighted," said Sara carelessly.
"He had come up against a brick wall, don't you see. He could go
no further. There was but one thing for him to do and he did it.
He had no case, but he felt that he ought to be paid just the same.
Mr. Wrandall would never have paid him, he was sure of that. His
game failed. He thinks better of me now than he ever did before,
and I have made a friend of him, strange as it may appear."

"Oh, I hope so."

Sara stroked her cheek gently. "Don't be afraid, Hetty. We are
quite safe."

Hetty secretly gloated over that little pronoun 'we.' It spelt
security.

"And wasn't it splendid of Mr. Wrandall to say what he did?" she
mused, lying back among the cushions with a sigh of relaxation.

Sara did not at once reply. She smiled rather oddly.

"It was," she said succinctly. "I am sure Leslie will go into
raptures over his father's decline and fall."

"Must he be told?" in some dismay.

"Certainly. Every son should know his own father," she explained,
with a quiet laugh.

The next day but one was overcast. On cloudy, bleak days Hetty
Castleton always felt depressed. Shadowless days, when the sun was
obscured, filled her with a curious sense of apprehension, as if
when the sun came out again he would not find the world as he had
left it. She did not mope; it was not in her nature. She was more
than ever mentally alert on such days, for the very reason that
the world seemed to have lapsed into a state of indifference, with
the sun nowhere to be seen. There was a queer sensation of dread
in knowing that that great ball of fire was somewhere in the vault
above her and yet unlocated in the sinister pall that spread over
the skies. Her fancy ofttimes pictured him sailing in the west when
he should be in the east, dodging back and forth in impish abandon
behind the screen, and she wondered at such times if he would be
where he belonged when the clouds lifted.

Leslie was to return from the wilds on the following day. Early
in the morning Booth had telephoned to enquire if she did not want
to go for a long walk with him before luncheon. The portrait was
finished, but he could not afford to miss the morning hour with
her. He said as much to her in pressing his invitation.

"To-morrow Leslie will be here and I shan't see as much of you as
I'd like," he explained, rather wistfully. "Three is a crowd, you
know. I've got so used to having you all to myself, it's hard to
break off suddenly."

"I will be ready at eleven," she said, and was instantly surprised
to find that her voice rang with new life, new interest. The greyness
seemed to lift from the view that stretched beyond the window; she
even looked for the sun in her eagerness.

It was then that she knew why the world had been bleaker than usual,
even in its cloak of grey.

A little before eleven she set out briskly to intercept him at
the gates. Unknown to her, Sara sat in her window, and viewed her
departure with gloomy eyes. The world also was grey for her.

They came upon each other unexpectedly at a sharp turn in the
avenue. Hetty coloured with a sudden rush of confusion, and had
all she could do to meet his eager, happy eyes as he stood over her
and proclaimed his pleasure in jerky, awkward sentences. Then they
walked on together, a strange shyness attending them. She experienced
the faintness of breath that comes when the heart is filled with
pleasant alarms. As for Booth, his blood sang. He thrilled with
the joy of being near her, of the feel of her all about him, of
the delicious feminine appeal that made her so wonderful to him.
He wanted to crush her in his arms, to keep her there for ever, to
exert all of his brute physical strength so that she might never
again be herself but a part of him.

They uttered commonplaces. The spell was on them. It would lift,
but for the moment they were powerless to struggle against it. At
length he saw the colour fade from her cheeks; her eyes were able
to meet his without the look in them that all men love. Then he
seemed to get his feet on the ground again, and a strange, ineffably
sweet sense of calm took possession of him.

"I must paint you all over again," he said, suddenly breaking in
on one of her remarks. "Just as you are to-day,--an outdoor girl,
a glorious outdoor girl in--"

"In muddy boots," she laughed, drawing her skirt away to reveal a
shapely foot in an American walking shoe.

He smiled and gave voice to a new thought. "By Jove, how much better
looking our American shoes are than the kind they wear in London!"

"Sara insists on American shoes, so long as I am with her. I don't
think our boots are so villainous, do you?"

"Just the same, I'm going to paint you again, boots and all. You--"

"Oh, how tired you will become of me!"

"Try me!"

"Besides, you are to do Sara at once. She has consented to sit to
you. She will be wonderful, Mr. Booth, oh, how wonderful!"

There was no mistaking the sincerity of this rapt opinion.

"Stunning," was his brief comment. "By the way, I've hesitated
about asking how she and Mr. Wrandall came out with the detective
chap."

Her face clouded. "It was so perfectly ridiculous, Mr. Booth. The
man is satisfied that he was wrong. The matter is ended."

"Pure blackmail, I'd call it. I hope it isn't ended so far as she
is concerned. I'd have him in jail so quick his--"

"She's tender-hearted, and sensitive. No real harm has been done.
She refuses to prosecute him."

"You can't mean it."

"If you knew her as I do, you would understand."

"But her lawyer, what had he to say about it? And Mr. Wrandall? I
should have thought they--"

"I believe they quite approve of what she has done. Nothing will
come of it."

He walked on in silence for a couple of rods. "I have a feeling
they will never know who killed Challis Wrandall," he said. "It is
a mystery that can't be solved by deduction or theory, and there
is nothing else for them to work on, as I understand the case. The
earth seems to have been generous enough to swallow her completely.
She's safe unless she chooses to confess, and that isn't likely.
To be perfectly frank with you, Miss Castleton, I rather hope they
never get her. He was something of a beast, you know."

She was looking straight ahead. "You used the word generous, Mr.
Booth. Do you mean that she deserves pity?"

"Without knowing all the circumstances, I would say yes. I've had
the feeling that she was more sinned against than sinning."

"Would you believe that she acted in self-defence?"

"It is quite possible."

"Then, will you explain why she does not give herself up to the
authorities and assert her innocence? There is no proof to the
contrary." She spoke hurriedly, with an eagerness which he mistook
for doubt.

"For one reason, she may be a good woman who was indiscreet. She
may have some one else to think of besides herself. A second reason:
she may lack moral courage."

"Moral courage!"

"It is one thing to claim self-defence and another thing to get
people to believe in it. I suppose you know what Leslie thinks
about it?"

"He has not discussed it with me."

"He believes his brother deserved what he got."

"Oh!"

"For that reason he has not taken an active part in hounding her
down."

She was silent for a long time, so long indeed that he turned to
look at her.

"A thoroughly decent, fair-minded chap is Leslie Wrandall," he
pronounced, for want of something better to say. "Still, I'm bound
to say, I'm sorry he is coming home to-morrow."

The red crept into her cheeks again.

"I thought you were such pals," she said nervously.

"I expect to be his best man if he ever marries," said he, whacking
a stone at the road-side with his walking stick. Then he looked
up at her furtively and added, with a quizzical smile: "Unless
something happens."

"What COULD happen?"

"He MIGHT marry the girl I'm in love with, and, in that case, I'd
have to be excused."

"Where shall we walk to this morning?" she asked abruptly. He had
drawn closer to her in the roadway. "Is it too far to the old stone
mill? That's where I first saw you, if you remember."

"Yes, let us go there," she said, but her heart sank. She knew what
was coming. Perhaps it were best to have it over with; to put it
away with the things that were to always be her lost treasures. It
would mean the end of their companionship, the end of a love dream.
She would have to lie to him: to tell him she did not love him.

One would go many a fruitless day in quest of a more attractive pair
than they as they strode swiftly down the shady road. They lagged
not, for they were strong and healthy, and walking was a joy
to them, not an exercise. She kept pace beside him, with her free
stride; half a head shorter than he, she did not demand it of him
that he should moderate his stride to suit hers. He was tall and
long-limbed, but not camel-like in his manner of walking, as so many
tall men are apt to be. His eyes were bright with the excitement
that predicted a no uncertain encounter, although he had no
definite purpose in mind. There was something singularly wistful,
unfathomable, in her velvety blue eyes that gave him hope, he knew
not why.

Coming to the jog in the broad macadam, they were striking off
into the narrow road that led to the quaint old mill, long since
abandoned in the forest glade beyond, when their attention was drawn
to a motor-car, which was slowing down for the turn into Sara's
domain. A cloud of dust swam in the air far behind the machine.

A bare-headed man on the seat beside the driver, waved his hand to
them, and two women in the tonneau bowed gravely. Both Hetty and
Booth flushed uncomfortably, and hesitated in their progress up
the forest road.

The man was Leslie Wrandall. His mother and sister were in the back
seat of the touring car.

"Why--why, it was Leslie," cried Booth, looking over his shoulder
at the rapidly receding car. "Shall we turn back, Miss Castleton?"

"No," she cried instantly, with something like impatience in her
voice. "And spoil our walk?" she added in the next breath, adding
a nervous little laugh.

"It seems rather--" he began dubiously.

"Oh, let us have our day," she cried sharply, and led the way into
the by-road.

They came, in the course of a quarter-of-an-hour, to the bridge over
the mill-race. Beyond, in the mossy shades, stood a dilapidated,
centurion structure known as Rangely's Mill, a landmark with
a history that included incidents of the revolutionary war, when
eager patriots held secret meetings inside its walls and plotted
under the very noses of Tory adherents to the crown.

Pausing for a few minutes on the bridge, they leaned on the rail
and looked down into the clear, mirror-like water of the race. Their
own eyes looked up at them; they smiled into their own faces. And
a fleecy white cloud passed over the glittering stream and swept
through their faces, off to the bank, and was gone for ever.

Suddenly he looked up from the water and fixed his eyes on her
face. He had seen her clear blue eyes fill with tears as he gazed
into them from the rail above.

"Oh, my dear!" he cried. "What is it?"

She put her handkerchief to her eyes as she quickly turned away.
In another instant, she was smiling up at him, a soft, pleading
little smile that went straight to his heart.

"Shall we start back?" she asked, a quaver in her voice.

"No," he exclaimed. "I've got to go on with it now, Hetty. I didn't
intend to, but--come, let us go up and sit on that familiar old
log in the shade of the mill. You must, dear!"

She suffered him to lead her up the steep bank beyond and through
the rocks and rotten timbers to the great beam that protruded
from the shattered foundations of the mill. The rickety old wheel,
weather-beaten and sad, rose above them and threatened to topple
over if they so much as touched its flimsy supports.

He did not release her hand after drawing her up beside him.

"You must know that I love you," he said simply.

She made no response. Her hand lay limp in his. She was staring
straight before her.

"You DO know it, don't you?" he went on.

"I--God knows I don't want you to love me. I never meant that you
should--" she was saying, as if to herself.

"I suppose it's hopeless," he said dumbly, as her voice trailed
off in a whisper.

"Yes, it is utterly hopeless," she said, and she was white to the
lips.

"I--I shan't say anything more," said he. "Of course, I understand
how it is. There's some one else. Only I want you to know that I
love you with all my soul, Hetty. I--I don't see how I'm going to
get on without you. But I--I won't distress you, dear."

"There isn't any one else, Brandon," she said in a very low voice.
Her fingers tightened on his in a sort of desperation. "I know what
you are thinking. It isn't Leslie. It never can be Leslie."

"Then,--then--" he stammered, the blood surging back into his
heart--"there may be a chance--"

"No, no!" she cried, almost vehemently. "I can't let you go on
hoping. It is wrong---so terribly wrong, You must forget me. You
must--"

He seized her other hand and held them both firmly, masterfully.

"See here, my--look at me, dearest! What is wrong? Tell me! You
are unhappy. Don't be afraid to tell me. You--you DO love me?"

She drew a long breath through her half-closed lips. Her eyes
darkened with pain.

"No. I don't love you. Oh, I am so sorry to have given you--"

He was almost radiant. "Tell me the truth," he cried triumphantly.
"Don't hold anything back, darling. If there is anything troubling
you, let me shoulder it. I can--I will do anything in the world
for you. Listen: I know there's a mystery somewhere. I have felt it
about you always. I have seen it in your eyes, I have always sensed
it stealing over me when I'm with you--this strange, bewildering
atmosphere of--"

"Hush! You must not say anything more," she cried out. "I cannot
love you. There is nothing more to be said."

"But I know it now. You do love me. I could shout it to--" The
miserable, whipped expression in her eyes checked this outburst.
He was struck by it. even dismayed. "My dearest one, my love," he
said, with infinite tenderness, "what is it? Tell me!"

He drew her to him. His arm went about her shoulders. The final
thrill of ecstasy bounded through his veins. The feel of her! The
wonderful, subtle, feminine feel of her! His brain reeled in a new
and vast whirl of intoxication.

She sat there very still and unresisting, her hand to her lips,
uttering no word, scarcely breathing. He waited. He gave her time.
After a little while her fingers strayed to the crown of her limp,
rakish panama. They found the single hat-pin and drew it out. He
smiled as he pushed the hat away and then pressed her dark little
head against his breast. Her blue eyes were swimming.

"Just this once, just this once," she murmured with a sob in
her voice. Her hand stole upward and caressed his brown cheek and
throat. Tears of joy started in his eyes--tears of exquisite delight.

"Good God, Hetty, I--I can't do without you," he whispered, shaken
by his passion. "Nothing can come between us. I must have you always
like this."

"Che sara, sara," she sighed, like the breath of the summer wind
as it sings in the trees.

The minutes passed and neither spoke. His rapt gaze hung upon the
glossy crown that pressed against him so gently. He could not see
her eyes, but somehow he felt they were tightly shut, as if in
pain.

"I love you, Hetty. Nothing can matter," he whispered at last.
"Tell me what it is."

She lifted her head and gently withdrew herself from his embrace.
He did not oppose her, noting the serious, almost sombre look in
her eyes as she turned to regard him steadfastly, an unwavering
integrity of purpose in their depths.

She had made up her mind to tell him a part of the truth. "Brandon,
I am Hetty Glynn."

He started, not so much in surprise as at the abruptness with which
she made the announcement.

"I have been sure of it, dear, from the beginning," he said quietly.

Then her tongue was loosed. The words rushed to her lips. "I was
Hawkright's model for six months. I posed for all those studies,
and for the big canvas in the academy. It was either that or
starvation. Oh, you will hate me--you must hate me."

He laid his hand on her hair, a calm smile on his lips. "I can't love
and hate at the same time," he said. "There was nothing wrong in
what you did for Hawkright. I am a painter, you know. I understand.
Does--does Mrs. Wrandall know all this?"

"Yes--everything. She knows and understands. She is an angel, Brandon,
an angel from heaven. But," she burst forth, "I am not altogether
a sham. I AM the daughter of Colonel Castleton, and I AM the cousin
of all the Murgatroyds,--the poor relation. It isn't as if I were
the scum of the earth, is it? I AM a Castleton. My father comes
of a noble family. And, Brandon, the only thing I've ever done in
my life that I am really ashamed of is the deception I practised
on you when you brought that magazine to me and faced me with it.
I did not lie to you. I simply let you believe I was not the--the
person you thought I was. But I deceived you--"

"No, you did not deceive me," he said gently. "I read the truth in
your dear eyes."

"There are other things, too. I shall not speak of them, except
to repeat that I have not done anything else in all my life that I
should be ashamed of." Her eyes were burning with earnestness. He
could not but understand what she meant.

Again he stroked her hair. "I am sure of that," he said.

"My mother was Kitty Glynn, the actress. My father, a younger son,
fell in love with her. They were married against the wishes of his
father, who cut him off. He was in the service, and he was brave
enough to stick. They went to one of the South African garrisons,
and I was born there. Then to India. Then back to London, where an
aunt had died, leaving my father quite a comfortable fortune. But
his old friends would have nothing to do with him. He had lived--well,
he had made life a hell for my mother in those frontier posts. He
deserted us in the end, after he had squandered the fortune. My
mother made no effort to compel him to provide for her or for me.
She was proud. She was hurt. To-day he is in India, still in the
service, a martinet with a record for bravery on the field of battle
that cannot be taken from him, no matter what else may befall. I
hear from him once or twice a year. That is all I can tell you about
him. My mother died three years ago, after two years of invalidism.
During those years I tried to repay her for the sacrifice she had
made in giving me the education, the--" She choked up for a second,
and then went bravely on. "Her old manager made a place for me in one
of his companies. I took my mother's name, Hetty Glynn, and--well,
for a season and a half I was in the chorus. I could not stay there.
I COULD not," she repeated with a shudder. "I gave it up after my
mother's death. I was fairly well equipped for work as a children's
governess, so I engaged myself to--"

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