paula finding that both giants have entered her castle, rushes in tumult into the night
it was after eight that sunday night, when paula emerged from the elevator in the upper-hall of the zoroaster, and noted that the door of the selma cross apartment was ajar.... the interval since she had parted from the actress the evening before had been abundant with misery. almost, she had crossed the bay to visit the reifferscheids; would have done so, indeed, had she been able to 'phone her coming. her rooms had become a dismal oppression; bellingham haunted her consciousness; there were moments when she was actually afraid there alone.
all saturday night she had sleeplessly tossed, knowing that quentin charter was speeding eastward, and dreading the moment when he should arrive in the city and find no welcoming note from her. she dared not be in her rooms after he was due to reach the granville, lest he call her by telephone or messenger—and her purpose of not seeing him be destroyed by some swift and salient appeal. she had waited until after the hour in which he had asked to call, to be sure that this time he would have given up all hope of seeing her. the prospect now of entering her apartment and remaining there throughout the night, challenged every ounce of will-force she possessed....
battling with loneliness and bereavement, as she had been for hours, paula was grateful to note, by the open door, that the actress was at home, even though she had left her the evening before, hurt and disappointed by the other's swift change of manner upon learning that quentin charter was to be in new york to-day.... it was with a startling but indefinable emotion that she heard the man's voice now through the open door. stephen cabot was there, she thought, as she softly let herself in to the place of ordeals, which her own flat had become.
in the dark and silence of the inner hall, the old enemy swept into her consciousness—again the awful localizations of the preying force! the usual powers of mind scattered, as in war the pith of a capital's garrisons rush forth to distant borders. by habit, her hand was upon the button, but she did not turn on light. instead, she drew back, steeling her will to remember her name, her place in the world, her friends. harshly driven, yet paula repressed a cry, and fought her way out into the main hall—as from the coiling suction of a maelstrom. even in her terror, she could not but repress a swift sense of victory, in that she had escaped from the vortex of attraction—her own rooms.
the man's voice reached her again, filled her mind with amazing resistance—so that the point of the occultist's will was broken. suddenly, she remembered that she had once heard stephen cabot, protesting that he was quite well—at the end of the first new york performance of the thing, and that his tones were inseparably identified with his misfortune. the voice she heard now thrilled her like an ancient, but instantly familiar, harmony. it was not stephen cabot's. she stood at the open door, when the vehemence of selma cross, who was now speaking, caused her to refrain from making her presence known. the unspeakable possibility, suddenly upreared in her mind, banished every formality. the full energies of her life formed in a prayer that she might be wrong, as paula peered through the inner hall, and for the first time in the flesh glimpsed quentin charter.
she was standing before the elevator-shaft and had signaled for the car eternities ago. selma cross was moving up and down the room within, but her words though faintly audible, had no meaning to the woman without. paula's mind seemed so filled with sayings from the actress that there was no room for the interpretation of a syllable further. one sentence of charter's startled her with deadly pain.... she could wait no longer, and started to walk down. half-way to the main-floor, the elevator sped upward to answer her bell.... she was very weak, and temptation was fiercely operative to return to her rooms, when she heard a slow, firm step ascending the flight below. she turned from the stairs on the second floor, just as the huge, lean shoulders of bellingham appeared on the opposite side of the elevator-shaft.
the two faced without words. his countenance was livid, wasted, but his eyes were of fire. paula lost herself in their power. she knew only that she must return with him. there was no place to go; indeed, to return with him now seemed normal, rational—until the brightly-lit car rushed down and stopped before them.
"excuse me for keeping you waiting, miss linster," the elevator-man said, "but i had to carry a message to the rear."
in the instantaneous break of bellingham's concentration, paula recovered herself sufficiently to dart into the car.
"down, if you please," she said hoarsely. "the gentleman is going up."
bellingham, who had started to follow, was stopped by the sliding-door. the conductor called that he would be back directly, as his car slid down.... in the untellable disorganization of mind, paula knew for the moment only this: she must reach the outer darkness instantly or expire. in that swift drop to the main floor, and in the brief interval required to stop the car and slide the door, she endured all the agony of tightened fingers upon her throat. there was an ease in racing limbs, as she sped across the tiles to the entrance, as a frightened child rushes from a dark room. she would die if the great door resisted—pictured it all before her hand touched the knob. she would turn, scream, and fall from suffocation. her scream would call about her the horror that she feared.
the big door answered, as it seemed, with a sort of leisurely dignity to her spasm of strength—and out under the rain-blurred lamps, she ran, ready to faint if any one called, and continually horrified lest something pluck at her skirts—thus to central park west. an eighth avenue car was approaching, half a square above. to stand and wait, in the fear lest bellingham reach the corner in time for the car, assailed the last of her vitality. it was not until she had boarded it, and was beyond reach of a pedestrian on cathedral way, that she breathed as one who has touched shore after the rapids. still, every south-bound cab renewed her panic. she could have made time to south ferry by changing to the elevated, but fear of encountering the destroyer prevented this. fully three-quarters of an hour was used in reaching the waiting-room, where she was fortunate in catching a staten island boat without delay. every figure that crossed the bridge after her, until the big ferry put off, paula scrutinized; then sank nearly fainting into a seat.
bellingham's plot was clear to her mind, as well as certain elements of his craft to obviate every possibility of failure. he had doubtless seen her enter the house, and timed his control to dethrone her volition as she reached her rooms. since the elevator-man would not have taken him up, without word from her, bellingham had hastened in and started up the stairs when the car was called from the main floor. his shock at finding her in the second-hall was extraordinary, since he was doubtless struggling with the entire force of his concentration, to hold her in the higher apartment and to prepare her mind for his own reception. it was that moment that the elevator-man had saved her; yet, she could not forget how the voice of quentin charter had broken the magician's power a moment before; and it occurred to her now how wonderfully throughout her whole bellingham experience, something of the westerner's spirit had sustained her in the crises—quentin charter's book that first night in prismatic hall; quentin charter's letter to which she had clung during the dreadful interview in the park....
as for quentin charter rushing immediately to the woman of lawless attractions, because he had not received the hoped-for note at the granville—in this appeared a wantonness almost beyond belief. wearily she tried to put the man and his base action entirely out of mind. and selma cross, whose animation had been so noticeable when informed of charter's coming, had fallen beneath the reach of paula's emotions.... she could pity—with what a torrential outpouring—could she pity "that finest, lowest head!"
she stepped out on deck. the april night was inky-black. all day there had been a misty rain from which the chill of winter was gone. the dampness was sweet to breathe and fresh upon her face. the smell of ocean brought up from the subconscious, a thought already in tangible formation there. the round clock in the cabin forward had indicated nine-forty-five. it seemed more like another day, than only an hour and a half ago, that she had caught the eighth avenue car at cathedral way. the ferry was nearing the staten slip. in a half-hour more, she would reach reifferscheid's house. her heart warmed with gratitude for a friend to whom she could say as little or as much as she pleased, yet find him, heart and home, at her service. one must be terrified and know the need of a refuge in the night to test such values. a few hours before, she had rejected the thought of going, because a slight formality had not been attended to. hard pressed now, she was seeking him in the midst of the night.... at the mention of the big man's name, the conductor on the silver lake car took her in charge, helped her off at the right road, and pointed out the reifferscheid light. thus she felt her friend's kindness long before she heard the big elms whispering over his cottage. the front-window was frankly uncurtained, and the editor sat within, soft-shirted and eminently comfortable beside a green-shaded reading-lamp. she even saw him drop his book at her step upon the walk. a moment later, she blinked at him laughingly, as he stood in the light of the wide open doorway.
"properly 'driven from home,' i suppose i should be tear-stained and in shawl and apron," she began.
he laughed delightedly, and exclaimed: "how could father be so obdurate—alas, a-a-las! lemme see, this is a fisherman's hut on the moors, or a gardener's lodge on the shore. anyway, it's good to have you here.... annie!"
he took her hat and raincoat, wriggling meanwhile into a coat of his own, arranged a big chair before the grate, then removed her rubbers. not a question did he ask, and sister annie's greeting presently, from her chair, was quite the same—as if the visit and the hour were exactly in order.
"you'll stay a day or two, won't you?" he asked. "honestly, i don't like the way they treat you up there beyond the park.... it will be fine to-morrow. this soft rain will make mother earth turn over and take an eye-opener——"
"the truth is, i want to stay until there's a ship for the antilles," she told him, "and i don't know when the first one goes."
"i hope it's a week at least," he said briskly. "the morning papers are here with all the sailings. a sea-voyage will do you a world of good, and europe doesn't compare with a trip to the caribbean."
"just you two—and one other—are to know," paula added nervously.
reifferscheid had gathered up a bundle of papers, and was turning pages swiftly. "there isn't a reason in the world why everybody should know," he remarked lightly, "only you'd better be lottie or daisy whats-her-name, as the cabin lists of all outgoing ships are available to any one who looks."
"tim will be delighted to make everything easy for you," sister annie put in.
thus mountains dissolved. the soulful accord and the instant sympathy which sprang to meet her every word, and the valor behind it all, so solid as to need no explanation—were more than paula could bear.... reifferscheid looked up from his papers, finding that she did not speak, started with embarrassment, and darted to the buffet. a moment later he had given her a glass of wine and vanished from the room with an armful of newspapers. the door had no sooner closed upon him than paula discovered the outstretched arms of sister annie. in the several moments which followed her heart was healed and soothed through a half-forgotten luxury....
"the twin-screw liner, fruitlands,—do you really want the first?" reifferscheid interrupted himself, when he was permitted to enter later.
"yes."
"well, it sails in forty-eight hours, or a little less—savannah, santiago de cuba, san juan de porto rico—and down to the little antilles—tuesday night at ten o'clock at the foot of manhattan."
"that will do very well," paula said, "and i'd like to go straight to the ship from here—if you'll——"
"berth—transportation—trunks—and sub-let your flat, if you like," reifferscheid said as gleefully as a boy invited for a week's hunt. "why, miss linster, i am the original arrangement committee."
"you have always been wonderful to me," paula could not help saying, though it shattered his ease. "this one other who must know is madame nestor. she'll take care of my flat and pack things for me—if you'll get a message to her in the morning when you go over. i don't expect to be gone so long that it will be advisable to sub-let."
"which is emphatically glad tidings," reifferscheid remarked hastily.
"you'll want all your summer clothes," said sister annie. "tim will see to your trunks."
"sometime, i'll make it all plain," paula tried to say steadily. "it's just been life to me—this coming here—and knowing that i could come here——"
"miss linster," reifferscheid broke in, "i don't want to have to disappear again. the little things you need done, i'd do for any one in the office. please bear in mind that sister annie and i would be hurt—if you didn't let us do them. why, we belong—in a case like this. incidentally, you are doing a bully thing—to take a sail down past that toy-archipelago. they say you can hear the parakeets screeching out from the palm-trees on the shore, and each island has a different smell of spice. it will be great for you—rig you out with a new set of wings. you must take hearn along. i've got his volume here on the west indies. he'll tell you the color of the water your ship churns. each day farther south it's a different blue——"
so he jockeyed her into laughing, and she slept long and dreamlessly that night, as she had done once before in the same room.... the second night following, reifferscheid put her aboard the fruitlands.
"it's good you thought of taking your cabin under a borrowed name, miss—er—wyndam—miss laura wyndam," he said in a low voice, for the passengers were moving about. "i'll write you all about it. you have famous friends. selma cross, who is playing at the herriot, wanted to know where you were. i thought for a minute she was going to throw me down and take it away from me. quentin charter, by the way, is in town and asked about you. seemed depressed when i told him you were out of town, and hadn't sent your address to me yet. i told him and miss cross that mail for you sent to the states would get to you eventually. both said they would write—so you'll hear from them on the ship that follows this." he glanced at her queerly for a second, and added, "good-by, and a blessed voyage to you, tired lady. write us how the isles bewitch you, and i'll send you a package of books every ship or two——"
"good-by—my first of friends!"
two hours afterward paula took a last turn on deck. the spray swept in gusts over the fruitlands's dipping prow. the bare masts, tipped with lights, swung with a giant sweep from port to starboard and back to port again, fingering the black heavens for the blown-out stars. she was lonely, but not altogether miserable, out there on the tossing floor of the atlantic....
