An Officer and a Lady (22 page)

Authors: Rex Stout

Then she bit her lip. How silly to have used that conventionally heroic phrase! But he did not notice.

“I can’t help it. I love you.”

“No—I must not listen—”

“You will listen! No, I don’t mean that—I only mean I can’t believe—yes—you
must
listen! Do you think I’m going to let you go? You accuse me of feeling secure in my strength! I do! As for
him
, I don’t give that for him. Nor for anyone else. You’re mine. Yes, you see now, Janet, what it means to me. It is simply that I must have you, and he—he is not to be thought of—he—”

He stopped. Janet had suddenly twisted herself about in the hammock so that she faced the lighted window above, and called in a clear, loud voice:

“Paul!”

Gorrin turned instinctively. Almost at once the shade flew up, then the window was opened, and the poet leaned out with his hands on the sill, peering into the darkness.

“Paul, are you busy?”

“What—who—oh, Janet? Why—yes—no.”

“I’m coming up.”

“All right. I dare you.”

Janet slipped out of the hammock to the ground as the window was closed above.

“You see, Mr. Gorrin, I
won’t
listen—” she began, then stopped short with astonishment at sight of his face. It was pale with stupefaction and amazement, but it was drawn and tight, too, like that of a man who has suddenly encountered some unexpected and overwhelming catastrophe and is using all his strength to keep from crying out in misery.

“My God,” he murmured, “you actually meant it—you mean to—Janet—”

She could not bear it a moment longer, so without a word she went swiftly past him to the walk and around that to the door of the house. At the corner she turned, but she could not see him near the hammock. Then she entered the hall and ran swiftly up the stairs and down the corridor, and knocked on a door at the end. It was opened immediately.

As soon as the poet saw her face he whistled expressively, and a smile appeared on his lips.

“Ah,” he said, “I take it you were not alone down there. I thought I discerned a dim and massive form on the greensward.” He stepped aside to allow her to pass. “Come in.”

“No,” she replied hurriedly, “I can’t. I just wanted—he is down there. Oh Paul, you were right! I was a silly girl. I guess I’m talking like one. I’m going—but wait—first, we’re not really engaged, you know. That is—what am I saying?—I don’t want to be.”

“What!” exclaimed the poet reproachfully. “You want to break our engagement!”

“Yes. That is—we never
were
engaged—I just wanted—”

“Indeed! Janet, you wound me. You even break my heart. You ruin my life. It was distinctly understood—”

“Silly!” cried Janet.

She stepped forward, raised herself and kissed him.

“There!” she cried, and turned and left him.

She went back down the stairs even faster than she had come up. But in the lower hall she slackened her pace, and when she reached the porch she came to a stop; and she felt a warm flush pass over her whole body so that the roots of her hair tingled. She stood still for a moment, then moved forward again, but slowly and as if reluctantly. She found herself again on the path that led to the garden; then the thought came, “What if he is not there?” and her step quickened. She turned the corner of the house, straining her eyes—No, she could not see him.

Still she went forward, and it seemed to her that her feet made a frightful commotion on the gravel. She was quite close now, and was just thinking that he had certainly gone, when a curious noise reached her ears, like the sound of someone choking or snoring, but not quite that. It was an odd, unprecedented noise. Then she saw that there was something in the hammock. Her heart pounded in her breast. She approached on tiptoe and saw him lying there, face down, his shoulders shaking convulsively and strange sounds coming from his throat.

Richard the Great was crying.

Her heart stopped beating, and it seemed to swell in her bosom and fill her with an overpowering, delicious warmth as she stooped down and placed her cheek against his and murmured his name.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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