The Black Bag by Louis Joseph Vance (snow like ashes txt) 📕

and summon her by name, when

he heard footfalls on the other side of the door, followed by a click of

the lock. The door was opened grudgingly, a bare six inches.

 

Of the alarmed expression in the eyes that stared into his, he took no

account. His face lengthened a little as he stood there, dumb, panting,

staring; and his heart sank, down, deep down into a gulf of disappointment,

weighted sorely with chagrin.

 

Then, of the two the first to recover countenance, he doffed his cap and

bowed.

 

“Good evening, Mrs. Hallam,” he said with a rueful smile.

XV REFUGEES

Now, if Kirkwood’s emotion was poignant, Mrs. Hallam’s astonishment

paralleled, and her relief transcended it. In order to understand this it

must be remembered that while Mr. Kirkwood was aware of the lady’s presence

in Antwerp, on her part she had known nothing of him since he had so

ungallantly fled her company in Sheerness. She seemed to anticipate that

either Calendar or one of his fellows would be discovered at the door,—to

have surmised it without any excessive degree of pleasure.

 

Only briefly she hesitated, while her surprise swayed her; then with a

hardening of the eyes and a curt little nod, “I’m sorry,” she said with

decision, “but I am busy and can’t see you now, Mr. Kirkwood”; and

attempted to shut the door in his face.

 

Deftly Kirkwood forestalled her intention by inserting both a foot and a

corner of the newly purchased hand-bag between the door and the jamb. He

had dared too greatly to be thus dismissed. “Pardon me,” he countered,

unabashed, “but I wish to speak with Miss Calendar.”

 

“Dorothy,” returned the lady with spirit, “is engaged….”

 

She compressed her lips, knitted her brows, and with disconcerting

suddenness thrust one knee against the obstructing hand-bag; Kirkwood,

happily, anticipated the movement just in time to reinforce the bag with

his own knee; it remained in place, the door standing open.

 

The woman flushed angrily; their glances crossed, her eyes flashing with

indignation; but Kirkwood’s held them with a level and unyielding stare.

 

“I intend,” he told her quietly, “to see Miss Calendar. It’s useless your

trying to hinder me. We may as well understand each other, Madam, and I’ll

tell you now that if you wish to avoid a scene—”

 

“Dorothy!” the woman called over her shoulder; “ring for the porter.”

 

“By all means,” assented Kirkwood agreeably. “I’ll send him for a

gendarme.”

 

“You insolent puppy!”

 

“Madam, your wit disarms me—”

 

“What is the matter, Mrs. Hallam?” interrupted a voice from the other side

of the door. “Who is it?”

 

“Miss Calendar!” cried Kirkwood hastily, raising his voice.

 

“Mr. Kirkwood!” the reply came on the instant. She knew his voice! “Please,

Mrs. Hallam, I will see Mr. Kirkwood.”

 

“You have no time to waste with him, Dorothy,” said the woman coldly. “I

must insist—”

 

“But you don’t seem to understand; it is Mr. Kirkwood!” argued the

girl,—as if he were ample excuse for any imprudence!

 

Kirkwood’s scant store of patience was by this time rapidly becoming

exhausted. “I should advise you not to interfere any further, Mrs. Hallam,”

he told her in a tone low, but charged with meaning.

 

How much did he know? She eyed him an instant longer, in sullen suspicion,

then swung open the door, yielding with what grace she could. “Won’t you

come in, Mr. Kirkwood?” she inquired with acidulated courtesy.

 

“If you press me,” he returned winningly, “how can I refuse? You are too

good!”

 

His impertinence disconcerted even himself; he wondered that she did not

slap him as he passed her, entering the room; and felt that he deserved it,

despite her attitude. But such thoughts could not long trouble one whose

eyes were enchanted by the sight of Dorothy, confronting him in the middle

of the dingy room, her hands, bristling dangerously with hat pins, busy

with the adjustment of a small gray toque atop the wonder that was her

hair. So vivacious and charming she seemed, so spirited and bright her

welcoming smile, so foreign was she altogether to the picture of her, worn

and distraught, that he had mentally conjured up, that he stopped in an

extreme of disconcertion; and dropped the hand-bag, smiling sheepishly

enough under her ready laugh—mirth irresistibly incited by the

plainly-read play of expression on his mobile countenance.

 

“You must forgive the unconventionally, Mr. Kirkwood,” she apologized,

needlessly enough, but to cover his embarrassment. “I am on the point of

going out with Mrs. Hallam—and of course you are the last person on earth

I expected to meet here!”

 

“It’s good to see you, Miss Calendar,” he said simply, remarking with much

satisfaction that her trim walking costume bore witness to her statement

that she was prepared for the street.

 

The girl glanced into a mirror, patted the small, bewitching hat an

infinitesimal fraction of an inch to one side, and turned to him again,

her hands free. One of them, small but cordial, rested in his grasp for an

instant all too brief, the while he gazed earnestly into her face,

noting with concern what the first glance had not shown him,—the almost

imperceptible shadows beneath her eyes and cheek-bones, pathetic records of

the hours the girl had spent, since last he had seen her, in company with

his own grim familiar, Care.

 

Not a little of care and distress of mind had seasoned her portion in those

two weary days. He saw and knew it; and his throat tightened inexplicably,

again, as it had out there in the corridor. Possibly the change in her had

passed unchallenged by any eyes other than his, but even in the little time

that he had spent in her society, the image of her had become fixed so

indelibly on his memory, that he could not now be deceived. She was

changed—a little, but changed; she had suffered, and was suffering and,

forced by suffering, her nascent womanhood was stirring in the bud. The

child that he had met in London, in Antwerp he found grown to woman’s

stature and slowly coming to comprehension of the nature of the change in

herself,—the wonder of it glowing softly in her eyes….

 

The clear understanding of mankind that is an appanage of woman’s estate,

was now added to the intuitions of a girl’s untroubled heart. She could

not be blind to the mute adoration of his gaze; nor could she resent it.

Beneath it she colored and lowered her lashes.

 

“I was about to go out,” she repeated in confusion. “I—it’s pleasant to

see you, too.”

 

“Thank you,” he stammered ineptly; “I—I—”

 

“If Mr. Kirkwood will excuse us, Dorothy,” Mrs. Hallam’s sharp tones struck

in discordantly, “we shall be glad to see him when we return to London.”

 

“I am infinitely complimented, Mrs. Hallam,” Kirkwood assured her; and of

the girl quickly: “You’re going back home?” he asked.

 

She nodded, with a faint, puzzled smile that included the woman. “After a

little—not immediately. Mrs. Hallam is so kind—”

 

“Pardon me,” he interrupted; “but tell me one thing, please: have you any

one in England to whom you can go without invitation and be welcomed and

cared for—any friends or relations?”

 

“Dorothy will be with me,” Mrs. Hallam answered for her, with cold

defiance.

 

Deliberately insolent, Kirkwood turned his back to the woman. “Miss

Calendar, will you answer my question for yourself?” he asked the girl

pointedly.

 

“Why—yes; several friends; none in London, but—”

 

“Dorothy—”

 

“One moment, Mrs. Hallam,” Kirkwood flung crisply over his shoulder. “I’m

going to ask you something rather odd, Miss Calendar,” he continued,

seeking the girl’s eyes. “I hope—”

 

“Dorothy, I—”

 

“If you please, Mrs. Hallam,” suggested the girl, with just the right shade

of independence. “I wish to listen to Mr. Kirkwood. He has been very kind

to me and has every right….” She turned to him again, leaving the woman

breathless and speechless with anger.

 

“You told me once,” Kirkwood continued quickly, and, he felt, brazenly,

“that you considered me kind, thoughtful and considerate. You know me

no better to-day than you did then, but I want to beg you to trust me a

little. Can you trust yourself to my protection until we reach your friends

in England?”

 

“Why, I—” the girl faltered, taken by surprise.

 

“Mr. Kirkwood!” cried Mrs. Hallam angrily, finding her voice.

 

Kirkwood turned to meet her onslaught with a mien grave, determined,

unflinching. “Please do not interfere, Madam,” he said quietly.

 

“You are impertinent, sir! Dorothy, I forbid you to listen to this person!”

 

The girl flushed, lifting her chin a trifle. “Forbid?” she repeated

wonderingly.

 

Kirkwood was quick to take advantage of her resentment. “Mrs. Hallam is not

fitted to advise you,” he insisted, “nor can she control your actions. It

must already have occurred to you that you’re rather out of place in the

present circumstances. The men who have brought you hither, I believe you

already see through, to some extent. Forgive my speaking plainly … But

that is why you have accepted Mrs. Hallam’s offer of protection. Will you

take my word for it, when I tell you she has not your right interests at

heart, but the reverse? I happen to know, Miss Calendar, and I—”

 

“How dare you, sir?”

 

Flaming with rage, Mrs. Hallam put herself bodily between them, confronting

Kirkwood in white-lipped desperation, her small, gloved hands clenched and

quivering at her sides, her green eyes dangerous.

 

But Kirkwood could silence her; and he did. “Do you wish me to speak

frankly, Madam? Do you wish me to tell what I know—and all I know—,” with

rising emphasis,—“of your social status and your relations with Calendar

and Mulready? I promise you that if you wish it, or force me to it….”

 

But he had need to say nothing further; the woman’s eyes wavered before his

and a little sob of terror forced itself between her shut teeth. Kirkwood

smiled grimly, with a face of brass, impenetrable, inflexible. And suddenly

she turned from him with indifferent bravado.

 

“As Mr. Kirkwood says, Dorothy,” she said in her high, metallic voice, “I

have no authority over you. But if you’re silly enough to consider for a

moment this fellow’s insulting suggestion, if you’re fool enough to go with

him, unchaperoned through Europe and imperil your—”

 

“Mrs. Hallam!” Kirkwood cut her short with a menacing tone.

 

“Why, then, I wash my hands of you,” concluded the woman defiantly. “Make

your choice, my child,” she added with a meaning laugh and moved away,

humming a snatch from a French chanson which brought the hot blood to

Kirkwood’s face.

 

But the girl did not understand; and he was glad of that. “You may judge

between us,” he appealed to her directly, once more. “I can only offer

you my word of honor as an American gentleman that you shall be landed in

England, safe and sound, by the first available steamer—”

 

“There’s no need to say more, Mr. Kirkwood,” Dorothy informed him quietly.

“I have already decided. I think I begin to understand some things clearly,

now…. If you’re ready, we will go.”

 

From the window, where she stood, holding the curtains back and staring

out, Mrs. Hallam turned with a curling lip.

 

[Illustration: From the window, Mrs. Hallam turned with a curling lip.]

 

“‘The honor of an American gentleman,’” she quoted with a stinging sneer;

“I’m sure I wish you comfort of it, child!”

 

“We must make haste, Miss Calendar,” said Kirkwood, ignoring the

implication. “Have you a traveling-bag?”

 

She silently indicated a small valise, closed and strapped, on