The Hollow of Her Hand

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"Come, come! You're dotty about her."

"Get Vivian to tell you about her," said Leslie sweepingly. "Come
down and have dinner with me to-night. She'll bear out--"

"I'll take your word for it. Thanks for the bid, but I can't come.
Dining at the Ritz with Joey and Linda. I think I'll be off."

He stretched himself, took the final, reluctant look of the artist
at the "slicker" man, and moved away. Leslie called after him:

"Wait till you see her."

"All right. I'll wait."

Sara Wrandall returned to New York at the end of the month,
and Leslie met her at the dock, as he did on an occasion fourteen
months earlier. Then she came in on a fierce gale from the wintry
Atlantic; this time the air was soft and balmy and sweet with the
kindness of spring. It was May and the sea was blue, the land was
green.

Again she went to the small, exclusive hotel near the Park. Her
apartment was closed, the butler and his wife and all of their
hastily recruited company being in the country, awaiting her arrival
from town. Leslie attended to everything. He lent his resourceful
man-servant and his motor to his lovely sister-in-law, and saw to
it that his mother and Vivian sent flowers to the ship. Redmond
Wrandall called at the hotel immediately after banking hours,
kissed his daughter-in-law, and delivered an ultimatum second-hand
from the power at home: she was to come to dinner and bring Miss
Castleton. A little quiet family dinner, you know, because they
were all in mourning, he said in conclusion, vaguely realising all
the while that it really wasn't necessary to supply the information,
but, for the life of him, unable to think of anything else to say
under the circumstances. Somehow it seemed to him that while Sara
was in black she was not in mourning in the same sense that the
rest of them were. It seemed only right to acquaint her with the
conditions in his household. And he knew that he deserved the scowl
that Leslie bestowed upon him.

Sara accepted, much to his surprise and gratification. He had been
rather dubious about it. It would not have surprised him in the
least if she had declined the invitation, feeling, as he did, that
he had in a way come to her with a white flag or an olive branch
or whatever it is that a combative force utilises when it wants to
surrender in the cause of humanity.

Leslie was a very observing person. It might have been said of him
that he was always on the lookout for the things that most people
were unlikely to notice: the trivial things that really were
important. He not only took in his father's amiable blunder, but
caught the curious expression in Hetty's dark blue eyes, and the
sharp almost inaudible catch of her breath. The gleam was gone
in an instant, but it made an impression on him. He found himself
wondering if the girl was a snob as well as the rest of them.
The look in her eyes betrayed unmistakable surprise and--yes, he
was quite sure of it--dismay when Sara accepted the invitation to
dine. Was it possible that the lovely Miss Castleton considered
herself--but no! Of course it couldn't be that. The Wrandalls were
good enough for dukes and duchesses. Still he could not get beyond
the fact that he HAD seen the look of disapproval. 'Gad, thought
he, it was almost a look of appeal. He made up his mind, as he
stood there chatting with her, that he would find out from Vivian
what his mother had done to create an unpleasant estimate of
the family in the eyes of this gentle, refined cousin of old Lord
Murgatroyd.

He was quite as quick to detect the satirical smile in Sara's frank,
amused eyes as she graciously accepted the invitation to the home
whose doors had only been half-open to her in the past. It scratched
his pride a bit to think of the opinion she must have of the family,
and he was inexpressibly glad that she could not consistently class
him with the others. He found himself feeling a bit sorry for the
old gentleman, and hoped that he missed the touch of irony in Sara's
voice.

Old Mr. Wrandall floundered from one invitation to another.

"Of course, Sara, my dear, you will want to go out to the cemetery
to-morrow, I shall be only too ready to accompany you. We have
erected a splendid--"

"No, thank you, Mr. Wrandall," she interrupted gently. "I shall
not go to the cemetery."

Leslie intervened. "You understand, don't you, father?" he said,
rather out of patience.

The old gentleman lowered his head. "Yes, yes," he hastened to
say. "Quite so, quite so. Then we may expect you at eight, Sara,
and you, Miss Castleton. Mrs, Wrandall is looking forward to seeing
you again. It isn't often she takes a liking to--ahem! I beg your
pardon, Leslie?"

"I was just going to suggest that we move along, dad. I fancy you
want to get at your trunks, Sara. Smuggled a few things through,
eh? Women never miss a chance to get a couple of dozen dresses
through, as you'll discover if you become a real American, Miss
Castleton. It's in the blood."

Mr. Wrandall fell into another trap. "Now please remember that we
are to dine very informally," he hastened to say, his mind on the
smuggled gowns. It was his experience that gowns that escaped duty
invariably were "creations."

Leslie got him away.

As soon as they were alone, Hetty turned to her friend.

"Oh, Sara, can't you go without me? Tell them that I am ill--suddenly
ill. I--I don't think it right or honourable of me to accept--"

Sara shook her head, and the words died on the girl's lips.

"You must play the game, Hetty."

"It's--very hard," murmured the other, her face very white and
bleak.

"I know, my dear," said Sara gently.

"If they should ever find out," gasped the girl, suddenly giving
way to the dread that had been lying dormant all these months.

"They will never know the truth unless you choose to enlighten
them," said Sara, putting her arm about the girl's shoulders and
drawing her close.

"You never cease to be wonderful, Sara,--so very wonderful," cried
the girl, with a look of worship in her eyes.

Sara regarded her in silence for a moment, reflecting. Then, with
a swift rush of tears to her eyes, she cried fiercely:

"You must never, never tell me all that happened, Hetty! You must
not speak it with your own lips."

Hetty's eyes grew dark with pain and wonder.

"That is the thing I can't understand in you, Sara," she said
slowly.

"We must not speak of it!"

Hetty's bosom heaved. "Speak of it!" she cried, absolute agony in
her voice. "Have I not kept it locked in my heart since that awful
day--"

"Hush!"

"I shall go mad if I cannot talk with you about--"

"No, no! It is the forbidden subject! I know all that I should
know--all that I care to know. We have not said so much as this
in months--in ages, it seems. Let sleeping dogs lie. We are better
off, my dear. I could not touch your lips again."

"I--I can't bear the thought of that!"

"Kiss me now, Hetty."

"I could die for you, Sara," cried Hetty, as she impulsively obeyed
the command.

"I mean that you shall live for me," said Sara, smiling through
her tears. "How silly of me to cry. It must be the room we are in.
These are the same rooms, dear, that you came to on the night we
met. Ah, how old I feel!"

"Old? You say that to me? I am ages and ages older than you," cried
Hetty, the colour coming back to her soft cheeks.

"You are twenty-three."

"And you are twenty-eight."

Sara had a far away look in her eyes. "About your size and figure,"
said she, and Hetty did not comprehend.

CHAPTER VI

SOUTHLOOK

Sara Wrandall's house in the country stood on a wooded knoll
overlooking the Sound. It was rather remotely located, so far as
neighbours were concerned. Her father, Sebastian Gooch, shrewdly
foresaw the day when land in this particular section of the suburban
world would return dollars for the pennies, and wisely bought
thousands of acres: woodland, meadowland, beachland and hills,
inserted between the environs of New York City and the rich towns
up the coast. Years afterward he built a commodious summer home on
the choicest point that his property afforded, named it Southlook,
and transformed that particular part of his wilderness into
a millionaire's paradise, where he could dawdle and putter to his
heart's content, where he could spend his time and his money with
a prodigality that came so late in life to him that he made waste
of both in his haste to live down a rather parsimonious past.

Two miles and a half away, in the heart of a scattered colony of
purse-proud New Yorkers, was the country home of the Wrandalls, an
imposing place and older by far than Southlook. It had descended
from well-worn and time-stained ancestors to Redmond Wrandall,
and, with others of its kind, looked with no little scorn upon the
modern, mushroom structures that sprouted from the seeds of trade.
There was no friendship between the old and the new. Each had
recourse to a bitter contempt for the other, though consolation
was small in comparison.

It was in the wooded by-ways of this despised domain that Challis
Wrandall and Sara, the earthly daughter of Midas, met and loved and
defied all things supernal, for matches are made in heaven. Their
marriage did not open the gates of Nineveh. Sebastian Gooch's
paradise was more completely ostracised than it was before the
disaster. The Wrandalls spoke of it as a disaster.

Clearly the old merchant was not over-pleased with his daughter's
choice, a conclusion permanently established by the alteration he
made in his will a year or two after the marriage. True, he left
the vast estate to his beloved daughter Sara, but he fastened a
stout string to it, and with this string her hands were tied. It
must have occurred to him that Challis was a profligate in more ways
than one, for he deliberately stipulated in his will that Sara was
not to sell a foot of the ground until a period of twenty years had
elapsed. A very polite way, it would seem, of making his investment
safe in the face of considerable odds.

He lived long enough after the making of his will, I am happy to
relate, to find that he had made no mistake. As he preceded his
son-in-law into the Great Beyond by a scant three years, it readily
may be seen that he wrought too well by far. Seventeen unnecessary
years of proscription remained, and he had not intended them for
Sara ALONE. He was not afraid of Sara, but for her.

When the will was read and the condition revealed, Challis Wrandall
took it in perfect good humour. He had the grace to proclaim
in the bosom of his father's family that the old gentleman was a
father-in-law to be proud of. "A canny old boy," he had announced
with his most engaging smile, quite free from rancour or resentment.
Challis was well acquainted with himself.

And so the acres were strapped together snugly and firmly, without
so much as a town-lot protruding.

So impressed was Challis by the farsightedness of his father-in-law
that he forthwith sat him down and made a will of his own. He would
not have it said that Sara's father did a whit better by her than
he would do. He left everything he possessed to his wife, but put
no string to it, blandly implying that all danger would be past
when she came into possession. There was a sort of grim humour in
the way he managed to present himself to view as the real and ready
source of peril.

Among certain of the Wrandall clan there was serious talk of
contesting the will. It was a distinct shock to all of them. Some
one made bold to assert that Challis was not in his right mind at
the time it was executed. For that matter, a couple of uncles on
his mother's side were of the broad opinion that he never had been
mentally adequate.

During a family conference four days after the funeral, Leslie
launched forth at some length and with considerable heat, expressing
an opinion that met with small favour at the outset but which had
its results later on.

"Why," he declaimed, standing before the fireplace with his hands
in his pockets, "if Sara dreamed that we even so much as contemplate
making a fuss about Chal's will, she'd up and chuck the whole blooming
legacy in our faces, and be glad to do it. She's got plenty of her
own. She doesn't need the little that Challis left her. Then, what
would we look like, tell me that? What would the world say? Why,
it would say that she didn't think our money was clean enough to
mix with old man Gooch's. She'd throw it in our faces and the whole
town would snicker."

"Figuratively speaking, young man, figuratively speaking," said
one of the uncles, a stockholder and director.

"What do you mean by that?"

"That she--ahem! That she couldn't actually THROW it."

"I'm not so literal as you, Uncle George."

"Then why use the word THROW?"

"Of course, Uncle George, I don't mean to say she'd have it reduced
to gold coin and stand off and take shots at us. You understand
that, don't you?"

"Leslie," put in his father, "you have a most distressing way
of--er--putting it. Your Uncle George is not so dense as all that."

"I didn't use the word 'throw' in the first place," said Leslie,
with a shrug. "I said 'chuck.'"

"I distinctly heard you use the word 'throw,'" said Uncle George,
very red in the face.

"It was on the second occasion, George," said Mrs. Wrandall, loyal
to Leslie.

"In either case," said her son, "we'd be made ridiculous. That's
the long and short of it. Even if she HANDED it to us on a silver
plate,--figuratively speaking, Uncle George,--we'd be made to look
like thirty cents."

"Well, I'm damn--" began Uncle George, almost forgetting where he
was, but remembering in time. He was afraid to utter a word for
the next ten minutes, and Leslie was spared the interruptions.

It was decided that the will should stand. Later on, the alarming
prospect of Sara's perfect right to marry again came up to mar the
peace of mind of all the Wrandalls, and it grew to be horribly real
without a single move on her part to warrant the fears they were
encouraging.

Sara and Hetty did not stay long in town. The newspapers announced
the return of Challis Wrandall's widow and reporters sought her
out for interviews. The old interest was revived and columns were
printed about the murder at Burton's Inn, with sharp editorial
comments on the failure of the police to clear up the mystery.

The woods were green and the earth was redolent of rich spring
odours; wild flowers peeped shyly from the leaf-strewn soil in the
shadow of the trees; some, more bold than others, came down to
the roadway, and from the banks and hedges smiled saucily upon all
who passed; the hillsides were like spotless carpets, the meadows
a riot of clover hues. The world was light with the life of the
new-born year, for who shall say that the year does not begin with
the birth of spring? May! May, when the earth begins to bear, not
January when it sets out in sorrow to bury its dead. New Year's
day it is, when the first tiny flower of spring comes to life and
smiles oh the face of Mother Earth, and the sun is warm with the
love of a gentle father.

"I shall ask Leslie down for the week-end," said Sara, the third
day after their arrival in the country. The house was huge and
lonely, and time hung rather heavily despite the glorious uplift
of spring.

Hetty looked up quickly from her book. A look of dismay flickered
in her eyes for an instant and then gave way to the calmness that
had come to dwell in their depths of late. Her lips parted in the
sudden impulse to cry out against the plan, but she checked the
words. For a moment, her dark, questioning eyes studied the face
of her benefactress; then, as if nothing had been revealed to her,
she allowed her gaze to drift pensively out toward the sunset sea.

They were sitting on the broad verandah overlooking the Sound. The
dusk of evening was beginning to steal over the earth. She laid
her book aside.

"Will you telephone in to him after dinner, Hetty?" went on Sara,
after a long period of silence.

Again Hetty started. This time a look of actual pain flashed in
her eyes.

"Would not a note by post be more certain to find him in the--"
she began hurriedly.

"I dislike writing notes," said Sara calmly. "Of course, dear, if
you feel that you'd rather not telephone to him, I can--"

"I dare say I am finicky, Sara," apologised Hetty in quick contrition.
"Of course, he is your brother. I should remem--"

"My brother-in-law, dear," said Sara, a trifle too literally.

"He will come often to your house," went on Hetty rapidly. "I must
make the best of it."

"He is your friend, Hetty. He admires you."

"I cannot see him through your eyes, Sara."

"But he IS charming and agreeable, you'll admit," persisted the
other.

"He is very kind, and he is devoted to you. I should like him for
that."

"You have no cause for disliking him."

"I do not dislike him. I--I am--Oh, you always have been so
thoughtful, so considerate, Sara, I can't understand your failing
to see how hard it is for me to--to--well, to endure his open-hearted
friendship."

Sara was silent for a moment. "You draw a pretty fine line, Hetty,"
she said gently.

Hetty flushed. "You mean that there is little to choose between
wife and brother? That isn't quite fair. You know everything, he
knows nothing. I wear a mask for him; you have seen into the very
heart of me. It isn't the same."

Sara came over and stood beside the girl's chair. After a moment of
indecision, she laid her hand on Hetty's shoulder. The girl looked
up, the ever-recurring question in her eyes.

"We haven't spoken of--of these things in many months, Hetty."

"Not since Mrs. Wrandall and Vivian came to Nice. I was upset--dreadfuly
upset then, Sara. I don't know how I managed to get through with
it."

"But you managed it," pronounced Sara. Her fingers seemed to tighten
suddenly on the girl's shoulder. "I think we were quite wonderful,
both of us. It wasn't easy for me."

"Why did we come back to New York, Sara?" burst out Hetty, clasping
her friend's hand as if suddenly spurred by terror. "We were happy
over there. And free!"

"Listen, my dear," said Sara, a hard note growing in her voice:
"this is my home. I do not love it, but I can see no reason for
abandoning it. That is why we came back to New York."

Hetty pressed her friend's hand to her lips. "Forgive me," she
cried impulsively. "I shouldn't have complained. It was detestable."

"Besides," went on Sara evenly, "you were quite free to remain on
the other side. I left it to you."

"You gave me a week to decide," said Hetty, in a hurried manner of
speaking. "I--I took but twenty-four hours--less than that. Over
night, you remember. I love you, Sara. I could not leave you. All
that night I could feel you pulling at my heart-strings, pulling
me closer and closer, and holding me. You were in your room, I in
mine, and yet all the time you seemed to be bending over me in the
darkness, urging me to stay with you and love you and be loved by
you. It couldn't have been a dream."

"It was not a dream," said Sara, with a queer smile.

"You DO love me?" tensely.

"I DO love you," was the firm answer. Sara was staring out across
the water, her eyes big and as black as night itself. She seemed
to be looking far beyond the misty lights that bobbled with nearby
schooners, far beyond the yellow mass on the opposite shore where
a town lay cradled in the shadows, far into the fast darkening sky
that came up like a wall out of the east.

Hetty's fingers tightened in a warmer clasp. Unconsciously perhaps,
Sara's grip on the girl's shoulder tightened also: unconsciously,
for her thoughts were far away. The younger woman's pensive gaze
rested on the peaceful waters below, taking in the slow approach of
the fog that was soon to envelop the land. Neither spoke for many
minutes: inscrutable thinkers, each a prey to thoughts that leaped
backward to the beginning and took up the puzzle at its inception.

"I wonder--" began Hetty, her eyes narrowing with the intensity of
thought. She did not complete the sentence.

Sara answered the unspoken question. "It will never be different
from what it is now, unless you make it so."

Hetty started. "How could you have known what I was thinking?" she
cried in wonder.

"It is what you are always thinking, my dear. You are always asking
yourself when will I turn against you."

"Sara!"

"Your own intelligence should supply the answer to all the questions
you are asking of yourself. It is too late for me to turn against
you." She abruptly removed her hand from Hetty's shoulder and walked
to the edge of the verandah. For the first time, the English girl
was conscious of pain. She drew her arm up and cringed. She pulled
the light scarf about her bare shoulders.

The butler appeared in the doorway.

"The telephone, if you please, Miss Castleton. Mr. Leslie Wrandall
is calling."

The girl stared. "For me, Watson?"

"Yes, Miss. I forgot to say that he called up this afternoon while
you were out," very apologetically, with a furtive glance at Mrs.
Wrandall, who had turned.

"Loss of memory, Watson, is a fatal affliction," she said, with a
smile.

"Yes, Mrs. Wrandall. I don't see 'ow it 'appened."

"It is not likely to happen again."

"No, madam."

Hetty had risen, visibly agitated.

"What shall I say to him, Sara?" she cried.

"Apparently it is he who has something to say to you," said the
other, still smiling. "Wait and see what it is. Please don't neglect
to say that we'd like to have him over Sunday."

"A box of flowers has just come up from the station for you, Miss,"
said Watson.

Hetty was very white as she passed into the house. Mrs. Wrandall
resumed her contemplation of the fog-screened Sound.

"Shall I fetch you a wrap, ma'am?" asked Watson, hesitating.

"I am coming in, Watson. Open the box of flowers for Miss Castleton.
Is there a fire in the library?"

"Yes, Mrs. Wrandall."

"Mr. Leslie will be out on Saturday. Tell Mrs. Conkling."

"The evening train, ma'am?"

"No. The eleven-thirty. He will be here for luncheon."

When Hetty hurried into the library a few minutes later, her
manner was that of one considerably disturbed by something that
has transpired almost on the moment. Her cheeks were flushed and
her eyes were reflectors of a no uncertain distress of mind. Mrs.
Wrandall was standing before the fireplace, an exquisite figure
in the slinky black evening gown which she affected in these days.
Her perfectly modelled neck and shoulders gleamed like pink marble
in the reflected glow of the burning logs. She wore no jewellery,
but there was a single white rose in her dark hair, where it had
been placed by the whimsical Hetty an hour earlier as they left
the dinner table.

"He is coming out on the eleven-thirty, Sara," said the girl
nervously, "unless you will send the motor in for him. The body of
his car is being changed and it's in the shop. He must have been
jesting when he said he would pay for the petrol--I should have
said gasoline."

Sara laughed. "You will know him better, my dear," she said. "Leslie
is very light-hearted."

"He suggested bringing a friend," went on Hetty hurriedly. "A Mr.
Booth, the portrait painter."

"I met him in Italy. He is charming. You will like HIM, too, Hetty."
The emphasis did not escape notice.

"It seems that he is spending a fortnight in the village, this Mr.
Booth, painting spring lambs for rest and recreation, Mr. Leslie
says."

"Then he is at our very gates," said Sara, looking up suddenly.

"I wonder if he can be the man I saw yesterday at the bridge,"
mused Hetty. "Is he tall?"

"I really can't say. He's rather vague. It was six or seven years
ago."

"It was left that Mr. Wrandall is to come out on the eleven-thirty,"
explained Hetty. "I thought you wouldn't like sending either of
the motors in."

"And Mr. Booth?"

"We are to send for him after Mr. Wrandall arrives. He is stopping
at the inn, wherever that may be."

"Poor fellow!" sighed Sara, with a grimace. "I am sure he will like
us immensely if he has been stopping at the inn."

Hetty stood staring down at the blazing logs for a full minute
before giving expression to the thought that troubled her.

"Sara," she said, meeting her friend's eyes with a steady light
in her own, "why did Mr. Wrandall ask for me instead of you? It is
you he is coming to visit, not me. It is your house. Why should--"

"My dear," said Sara glibly, "I am merely his sister-in-law. It
wouldn't be neecssary to ask me if he should come. He knows he is
welcome."

"Then why should he feel called upon to--"

"Some men like to telephone, I suppose," said the other coolly.

"I wonder if you will ever understand how I feel about--about
certain things, Sara."

"What, for instance?"

"Well, his very evident interest in me," cried the girl hotly. "He
sends me flowers,--this is the second box this week,--and he is so
kind, so VERY friendly, Sara, that I can't bear it--I really can't."

Mrs. Wrandall stared at her. "You can't very well send him about
his business," she said, "unless he becomes more than friendly.
Now, can you?"

"But it seems so--so horrible, so beastly," groaned the girl.

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