Daphne Deane Read online

  Daphne sat down at the piano and touched the keys lightly, wandering into an old melody that reminded him of his mother. They all sat down and a sort of holy hush came over them, as if it were a special time, a ceremony that they expected. And now Keith noticed the Bible Mr. Deane was opening. Family worship, of course, but it had been so long since he had even heard of the custom that he had forgotten. Dimly in his early childhood he could remember his father, too, with an open Bible and his mother's arm about him while they knelt in prayer. His heart was deeply stirred. He felt as if he were in a dream of other days, and he began to dread the awakening. Tomorrow there would be New York, and--what? Anne Casper? His two worlds did not belong together. But this one was something he had lost long ago. In a few days it would be but a memory again.

  After the prayer they sang a song or two, old hymns that he was surprised to find he knew. Then suddenly the living room clock struck the half hour and Don jumped up.

  "I've got to beat it!" he declared with a wistful note in his voice. "I'm driving Mrs. Houghton into town tonight to the symphony concert, and it's time we were on the way."

  "That means you'll be late coming home again," said his mother anxiously. "You need your sleep."

  "Not necessarily," said Don with a wry face. "She may not stay long. She only wants to be seen in her private box awhile, and then she may come home. She does that sometimes. I gather she doesn't give a whoop about the music itself. She may not know a symphony from a permanent wave, with a majority in favor of the perm. And that daughter of hers is a pain in the neck if there ever was one!"

  "Donald, you shouldn't criticize your employers."

  "I know, Mother, but it's true. Good night, Mr. Morrell. Hope you come again. I'll vote for you to join our sunset team if you will."

  "Thanks awfully, Don," said Morrell. "I appreciate that, and if I ever get the chance I'll remind you of it. But say, haven't we known each other long enough for you to call me Keith? I'd like that."

  "Sure, if you don't mind," grinned Donald. "But I'm a lot younger than you are, you know."

  "Now, don't remind me of my age!" laughed Keith. "I can't help it, you know."

  Merrily they separated, and then Keith suddenly remembered that he had heard Daphne tell the minister last night that she had two music lessons to give that evening. There used to be an eight o'clock train to the city, and of course he should take it.

  With a blank feeling of disappointment in his heart as if the light of a nice pleasant day had suddenly been put out, he said good night and hurried away. It was almost time for that train, and of course he ought to take it. Why did he feel so reluctant? By this time they must think him a great nuisance, though they had all eagerly invited him to return whenever he could.

  Mr. and Mrs. Gassner were sitting on their vine-clad porch in the soft darkness as he passed their house, and Mr. Gassner was very hard of hearing. His wife was giving him an account of the day, while she kept an eye out toward the Deane home.

  "Well, for goodness' sake, if there he doesn't come now!" she was saying as Keith Morrell came within hearing. "At last! Do you know he's been there this whole blessed day, hobnobbing with Daphne Deane! I thought she had better principles than that, and her as good as engaged to the new minister----if all they say is true, and I guess it is!"

  Then the train sounded afar and Keith Morrell had to run, but he carried that sentence with him and wondered as he swung himself on the last car why he should care even if she was engaged. She was just an old schoolmate. He had had a pleasant day, yes, but tomorrow night--or was it the next night?--Daphne Deane was going out with that prig of a minister he had seen at her gate last night, and he was going back to New York.

  And Anne Casper.

  Chapter 8

  The train was well on its way to the city, when Bill Gowney arrived at the house of the real estate agent, William Knox, and rang the bell.

  The agent was just on the point of going out to escape him. He hadn't expected him quite so early. Gowney's other visits had been made about nine o'clock. Knox wasn't anxious to meet Bill Gowney until he had that promised telephone call from New York. It was going to be embarrassing to explain the owner's reluctance to come to a settlement, and Knox felt that he must handle this matter cautiously. He couldn't afford to miss the fat commission on a sale like this. It must go through!

  He came into his small parlor reluctantly, at the call of his angular wife, who resisted his mild effort to get out the back door unseen, and personally shepherded him down the narrow hall to the parlor.

  "Oh, hello, Gowney! That you already?"

  "Yeah. I thought I'd come in and sign them papers. You said you'd have 'em ready by last night, ya know, but I couldn't make it then. Had a little business up the state. But I had my son telephone. You got the message, didn't ya? Got the papers here?"

  "Well, no, not to say here, Gowney. You see, there's been a little hitch in the matter. It may hold ya up a day or two, but it'll come out all right in the end."

  "Hitch? Whaddya mean?" Gowney got up and stalked over to the desk where the agent sat, and scowled down at him.

  "Well, you see, the owner was here himself yestiday. I found he wasn't just ready to fall in with our plans, not to say ready, not as ready as I had been led to expect by his letters."

  "You mean, he wasn't willin' ta take the offer? You mean, he wanted more money?"

  "Well, I s'pose that's about what it amounted to," said the agent cautiously. "He didn't exactly say so in so many words, but he wasn't impressed with the figures offered. Not as impressed as I expected him to be. You see, he's been away in New York and Europe and other places, and I suppose he's got pretty big ideas."

  "Well, why didn't ya offer him more?"

  "Well, I did suggest that you might be willing to raise the figure a little, but I didn't get anywhere. You see, you have to have a definite offer to get anywhere with a young man like that."

  Gowney strode to the window and stared out into the dark a minute, and then he whirled around.

  "Well, offer him another ten thousand," he said, biting his words off shortly. "Things have gone too fur for me to go back, an' I gotta get this settled right away. Time's a big object with me. When's he gonta let ya know?"

  "Well, he didn't exactly say."

  "Know his telephone number?"

  "I have his New York address," said Knox. "I could get him on the phone, I s'pose. But there ain't any hurry like that, is there? Long-distance phone calls mount up quick, ya know."

  "Get him on the phone, I tell ya. I gotta get this settled right away. Several things have come up an' I wantta be able to tell somebuddy I'm taking possession tanight."

  The agent looked startled at the haste.

  "I cud get him in a letter by airmail," he suggested.

  "I gotta know right away, I tell ya. Call up right now! Whadd' I give ya that retainer for ef I ain't got no rights? Get busy there an' call 'im!"

  The buyer was ominously still while the call was put in, and while they were waiting Knox tried to be affable.

  "Nice day it's been," he remarked, dropping into a chair by the telephone.

  But the buyer only grunted, and then after a second he whirled around with stormy eyes and asked: "You think ten thousand more'll satisfy him?"

  "Well, I should think it would," said the agent blandly, seeing his commission rise. "Of course, I wouldn't want to guarantee it would. But I can't see why he wouldn't be satisfied with that. It's really more than I would expect ta get myself if the property was mine, but young folks have ideas, ya know."

  The buyer sat down stiffly in a straight chair and stared at the agent.

  But presently the ring came, with the message that Mr. Morrell was out of town and was not expected back till late that night, or even tomorrow morning.

  Gowney made some strong remarks, then, and the agent looked anxiously toward the hall door hoping Martha hadn't heard them. Martha had a way of appearing and speaking her mind at times
, and this was too momentous a matter to run any risks. What if it should be all off and he should lose that commission? He would have missed the chance of his lifetime.

  "Tell you what," he said mildly. "I don't see any harm in your tellin' your friends you've taken possession taday. Of course, it is a little irregular, but ef you saw fit ta pay a small down-payment, ya know, I should think it would work out all right. I should think he might feel a moral obligation ta let it go at that!"

  Gowney's sharp little eyes twinkled as he studied the mild face of the agent.

  "Okay by me!" he said and flung down a roll of bills. "You'll stand by me if I take possession tanight, so ta speak?"

  "Well, I'll do my best--" said Knox, with an uneasy memory of the young owner's face as he left him the night before. Perhaps he might be getting himself into a jam by making these tentative promises. But then, surely--all that money! No young man in his senses would hold out for more, and he had never heard that the Morrells were so awfully wealthy. No, of course it would be all right. But he sincerely hoped that Martha had not heard this last transaction. He stuffed the roll of bills hastily into his side pocket and tried to talk in a genially quiet tone.

  "Well, I'm sure it will be all right. Of course, I'll--I'll return this--in case the deal--falls through!"

  "Falls through?" shouted the bully. "It can't fall through now! I tell ya I've got ta have that property, an' you gave me your guarantee that it was as good as mine. I'll hold ya responsible! I'll knock anybody's block off that stops me now, an' I don't mean mebbe!"

  Knox found he was trembling a little as he opened the door to usher his visitor away, but he drew a long breath and soothed him with a few smiling words of assurance. Then he turned with relief to come back into his bright little room and close the door behind him, and there was Martha standing in his way, her lips drawn in a thin line and her gray eyes full of apprehension.

  "Now, William!" she assailed him. "What's that man going to hold you responsible for? He looks to me like a jailbird!"

  And while the temeritous Knox was taking a grilling from the capable Martha, Keith Morrell was leaning back in the train with his eyes closed, thinking with relief that he didn't have to sell his house. Of course he wouldn't sell the old home. He must have been crazy to even think of it. It had just been that dread of going through it alone and having his feelings harrowed. But now he was glad he had gone, glad that wonderful girl had been willing to go with him and give him a picture of his boyhood that somehow had been slipping, fading from his mind. He must not ever lose that. It was too precious a heritage.

  Later that evening, after both her pupils were gone, Daphne went and stood in the window of her own room, which looked out across the backyard and into the Morrell garden. It was from this window that as a child she had learned to watch for the movements of the little boy in the great house and to idealize his life.

  The darkness was soft and sweet as it wafted into the open window. Breath of honeysuckle and lilies from the dewy garden, old-fashioned pinks and mignonette. Daphne drew a deep breath of it, and it seemed like the essence of the day, a beautiful happy day with no shadows and doubts in it. It seemed like something perfect that she could put away with her treasures of memory and keep, a jewel that had no flaw in it.

  Likely he would not come again. It was not to be expected. Though he had asked if he might. But that of course was just his courtesy, his pleasant appreciation of the day. He was in business, and that would hold him. And he likely had a lot of worldly friends and interests. Oh, he wouldn't come again, of course, but it was nice to feel that he had been all right, not spoiled in any way, from the boy he had promised to be when she had known him in school. It was like closing the covers of a delightful book that one had enjoyed. Looking over the story and finding it good to hold in memory as a part of the beauty of life. She would think of it many times, perhaps, with pleasure, but the reading of it was definitely over of course.

  Well, it was more than she had ever expected out of the childish visions, that they should come to a finish so happily.

  She drew a little wistful sigh as she looked out at the familiar lines of the dear old house across the garden, a lovely dark etching under its tall old elms, against the night sky, and there came a warm feeling at her heart that now she knew it both inside and out. She could envision the desk where the mother had sat, and the eager boy coming home from school to his welcome. She could see the fireplace before which the little boy had knelt to pray at his mother's knee, and the room as it must have looked with the toys scattered over the floor. She had a background now for all the stories her own mother had told when she was a child.

  It was characteristic of Daphne that she was thinking more now of the boy she had not known intimately than of his real self with whom she had spent the long bright day. The little boy had belonged to her, but the young man was someone who lived afar and whom she would not likely see again, at least not often.

  But suddenly as she stood watching the dim old house in the sweet darkness, a speck of light winked through the shrubbery. She watched it with alert eyes. A firefly? Only one? If it was a firefly, there would be more than one surely, and she searched the darkness intently for others. Perhaps this was only the advance guard.

  It winked about in a circle, hovered over the same location, danced about a bit, disappeared, then steadily glowed in one spot for a moment and was gone! A curious way for a firefly to act. There! There it was again! It was almost like the beam of a tiny pocket flashlight. Could it be that Keith had gone back to the house after all and was out there hunting for something that he had dropped in the darkness?

  But no. The train had gone, and he had been insistent that he must get back to New York. Besides, he hadn't any flashlight with him. She remembered his wishing for one when they went into the house and he had been searching for the fastening of the shutter in the dark parlor, for, of course, the electricity was not on in the house.

  There! There it was again! Just a wink. Oh, of course it was only an erratic little firefly, and she was a silly. She must go to bed.

  But she did not turn on her light. Instead she undressed in the dark, breathing in the garden scents and keeping watch toward the old house. Once she thought she heard a grating sound like the pushing open of a door that stuck, and once she saw a wider flare of light. But when she went closer to the window all was dark, and of course it must be only her imagination working, the way it often did if she let it go.

  After she lay down in her bed she thought she heard that creaking sound again, or was it more like the slam of a door? But when she went quickly to the window there was only still darkness, no more fireflies. She went back and lay down.

  She was going over the day bit by bit now, examining everything that had been done and said, and enjoying it, as one would pick up a book of poems and glance at a sentence here, a phrase there, and sense the loveliness of each.

  Usually she fell asleep at once when she lay down, but somehow tonight she couldn't. She told herself she was too excited. And why should she be excited over the mere dropping in of an old schoolmate whom she didn't know very well? Well, that perhaps was just the effect of her upbringing, her quiet life, filled with home duties and studies and little errands of kindliness. It was late when she did at last doze off, very late she knew, because Emily Lynd's light, which always burned long after midnight, and which usually she could barely see from her pillow if she lay over to the extreme edge, had gone out. She was just slipping over the border into dreamland----or had she been over and come back?--when she was roused by some unusual sound.

  It brought her wide awake and blinking toward the window again. Perhaps it was only some sliver of a dream mingling with her waking thoughts before she fell asleep.

  What was that? A car? Surely yes, a motor running! Perhaps a truck. Perhaps the milkman. But no, the darkness of the sky showed it was not near enough to morning for him, and even as she reasoned the little clock on her mantel chime
d three silvery strokes. Still that motor throbbed in low, subdued tones. It was almost a stealthy sound, as if the motor had become human and was trying to whisper and hold its breath. Now that was strange. Why should that be?

  She stole from her bed again and tried to pierce the darkness, but though she could now distinctly locate the sound, she could see nothing but dense darkness. It had hidden itself in the blackest depth of shrubbery, and as nearly as she could tell it seemed to be standing just behind the big house. But there wasn't a light on it, there wasn't a sign of anything human, besides that furtive throbbing.

  Wait! Wasn't there a movement, stealthy but unmistakable? A footstep! The low murmur of a voice? Or was it?

  She was growing weary as she knelt beside the window, and chilly with excitement, when at last there came a sound like a key turning in a rusty lock, a stealthy movement. Then a dark shape moved slowly across the night. The chugging of the motor was plainer now, and less furtive. Whatever it was had been parked behind the Morrell house, just opposite the low door to the cellar, she knew the exact spot, and now it was backing out of the drive! It had reached the road, and suddenly the sound of the engine went soft. It was coasting down the gentle slope that went past Emily Lynd's house to the road. And it grew bolder as it went. But strain her eyes as she would, she could see no light on it. They were traveling without a light.

  Then suddenly a light shot out from Emily Lynd's window. Ah! Emily had heard that stealthy traveler, too! She was not dreaming. Tomorrow she would take some flowers from the garden and go and call on Emily Lynd, and they would perhaps talk it over.

  There was no sound of the soft throbbing of that motor anymore. It had coasted smoothly down the grade and was thundering away into the night. And at last Daphne crept shivering back to her bed. Perhaps it was only some tired truck driver on a long trek from Washington to New York or somewhere, and he had just driven into the unused driveway to snatch a nap, lest he should fall asleep at his wheel.