Ainslee's magazine, Volume 16, No. 3, October, 1905. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ But they are men, and so, presumably, useful,” she said, spiritedly. “And the one person who would really like to go can’t; because she is a woman, and so, presumably, useless.” She flung her head backward a bit impatiently as she looked at her twin. He was fumbling among the papers on his desk; and the long mirror above it showed his face flushed and perturbed and boyish. Then she caught sight of her own in the glass, and started.

      “There isn’t a pen here,” Ned said, irritably. “I must send dad a cable.”

      “There’s one in my room,” she said, and her tone was full of energy and spirit. “Get it, while I tell Berthe to run for a cab, and you can take the message to the office on your way to tell Velantour.”

      Her hand was on the bell as he disappeared. She had snatched up paper and pencil the next second, and was dashing off a note.

      “Berthe,” she said, as the little maid hurried in, “you are to go for a cab, and see that it gets here in just fifteen minutes precisely; not before, mind. Tell the cocher that he shall have five francs pourboire if he is exact.”

      “Bien, mademoiselle,” said the little maid.

      “Post this note to Mrs. Walden, and come back with a second cab in twenty-five minutes, without fail. Either my brother or myself will give you your last instructions for the summer.”

      “Bien, mademoiselle,” said the little maid – as she would have said it to any command short of murder.

      She sped out, pleasingly stimulated by the silver coin in her palm.

      “Has she gone?” demanded Ned, feverishly, as he reappeared with the pen.

      “Yes,” said Elenore. “Write your message and read it off to me when you’ve done it, will you? I want to tuck some things into the bag that’s going to America.”

      She nodded, smilingly, as she sped into his room.

      Carrington sat down with a stifled groan. The sweetness had gone out of life. It was duty now. Say what you will, six years’ absence loosens ties of blood; and though he was ashamed to confess it himself, it was with a lagging loyalty that he thought of going home.

      His whole life had been bent in one direction, and this abrupt break demanded a heroism which he resolved to simulate, at least. But he need not begin yet.

      He could make his little moan to himself for this instant when he was alone.

      He dipped the pen in the ink.

      The first sheet of paper blotted hopelessly. And the second. The fingers that held a brush with unfaltering and delicate touch were clumsily nervous now.

      John Carrington, Yellow Dog, Mich, (he got down). Am coming first boat.

      “What was the boat?” he demanded of himself, and helplessly turned back to the Herald for information.

      Kaiser Wilhelm sailing Cherbourg tomorrow.

Ned.

      Then he dropped his face in his hands.

      The written words seemed to make the thing so irrevocable.

      He pulled himself together and walked nervously over to the window. Where on earth was the cab? It was a comfort to vent irritability on something.

      Then he roved over to the trunk he had packed with such forethought.

      He laughed a little bitterly.

      “Poor old Velantour! He will be disappointed, too,” he whispered. “But of the two old men who love me, one has to go to the wall. And it shan’t be dad.”

      He tramped up and down restlessly until he heard the sound of wheels.

      Then he called to Elenore.

      “I am going now.”

      “Not in this cab, you are not,” her voice answered him. “This is mine. Yours will be here in ten minutes, and you will have lots of time then.”

      “What?” he called, halfway to the door, and not believing his ears.

      The door swung open, and in it he saw – himself.

      Clad in loosely hanging dull gray velveteens, with a soft cravat the color of pigeon blood. Over his arm a long crimson-lined cape hung, half-concealing a suit case. The face, which was his, laughed at him triumphantly, and shook its dark hair, worn a trifle long, back from the forehead.

      In the disencumbered hand a soft felt hat waved him back with a dash of bravado.

      “Tell Berthe what you please when she comes with your cab,” his own voice cried gayly. “I’ve just time to catch the London train. You are for the east, I believe.” Then, as he stood thunderstruck, his double laughed exultantly.

      “There’s a letter, with copious details, on your dresser,” the apparition stated, with a lilt of pure joy of escapade. “Considering the shortness of the time, I think I’ve been marvelous in thinking out all possible exigencies.”

      And to his gesture of protest, of incredulity: “Don’t argue! You are to live the life you care for, for your three wonderful months, and so shall I. It’s not sacrifice. It’s selfishness. I want to go desperately. And I’ll write you here – volumes. You’ll find them when you get back.”

      Then that voice which was his, and was not his, chanted saucily:

      “Rue Boissonade

      Shall have its Claude,

      And l’Amerique

      The new Van Dyck;

      But Carrington

      Shall have his son.”

      The doorway was empty. He heard a cocher crack his whip, and a cab-horse evidently making record time. Five francs, mon Dieu, ça vaut la peine!

      Ned Carrington stood bewildered. What should he do? He might follow her – might make a scene – but he was always worsted when Elenore became daintily willful. She was quite capable of carrying it off, too. And it was a lark!

      A cab came clattering up the little street. The call of the East came to him with an overpowering lure. A wave of joy swept over him that he could go, after all. He felt a fury of impatience to be off. He grudged the time to give Berthe her instructions, to snatch Elenore’s letter from the dresser, to catch up his hat and coat. The mere thought to do these things should be enough. But Berthe’s willing feet were speeding up the stairway. He flung the rug from his more-than-ready trunk, and laughed as he touched the strap caressingly with his fingers.

      “I’m going!” he whispered; and the words sung themselves to the rhythm of rapture unalloyed.

      “Et puis, m’sieu?” said Berthe, breathlessly, from the doorway.

      CHAPTER II

      The case of the old-fashioned watch snapped together for the fortieth time in John Carrington’s restless hands, and he sighed impatiently.

      Not since those days of dread loneliness after his wife’s death, when he had first sent the children abroad, had time dragged so rackingly.

      His СКАЧАТЬ