The Making of a Soul | Page 3

tale of the glorious nights and days he had lived through, or made his hearer laugh with his stories of the various attendants and their humours.
The clock had chimed the hour of midnight before the friends left the table; and then, sitting by the rosy fire, with pipes alight, each one felt that the moment had come in which a deeper subject might well be introduced.
Yet Barry, at least, would cheerfully have ignored that subject; for he foresaw, with friendship's intuition, that the thing he had to say would effectually mar and break the midnight peace; and as the moment drew near in which he must strike a fatal blow at his friend's serenity he fell into an embarrassed silence very unlike his recent cordiality.
At last it came--the question he had dreaded.
"I say, Barry, have you seen much of Vivian lately?" Although the subject affected the speaker so vitally, he was so calmly, confidently sure of the reply that his tone was quiet and unagitated. Even though Barry paused for a quite perceptible fraction of time before he replied, the other man was too certain of the answer to notice the pause.
"I ... I have seen her--yes." He spoke without removing his pipe from between his teeth, which might account for the curious thickness of his tone.
"And how is she? All right, I suppose? You see"--Owen laughed rather diffidently--"my return was to be a surprise to her. I wasn't coming for another couple of months, you know, and then all at once I couldn't bear it any longer. I simply had to come."
"But--haven't you corresponded all this time?"
"Well, not regularly. You know Vivian hates writing letters as much as I do; and I couldn't give her any settled addresses while we were moving about, so we agreed that we would not expect much from each other in that way!"
"I see. But--you have heard from her?"
"Oh, yes, now and then. Of course she had my banker's address and could cable to me from time to time. I got one cable from her in December--on my birthday, it was--and she said she was writing, but I never got the letter."
"In December. I see." And so he did--saw a vision of half-unwilling treachery, of hesitating loyalty, of dying faith, which turned his heart sick within him.
"I wrote to her for Christmas, of course, and sent her a card now and then." He seemed to be excusing his own quite allowable slackness in the matter. "You see, I really had no time for letter-writing, and I knew she would understand and forgive me."
"You ... did you tell her you were coming home to-day?"
"Yes. I wired to her a week ago.... I half expected she'd come down to meet me." He laughed shamefacedly. "But you know what her people are. I expect they'd think it frightfully unnecessary to do that. Of course, I'm going there first thing in the morning."
"You ... you haven't been there yet, then?" Barry hated himself for his fatuity as he put the question.
"No. Fact is, I was a perfect savage when I landed ... a beard half a yard long!" He laughed jovially. "Had to get trimmed up a bit ... but in any case she would probably have been out somewhere or other to-night."
"Yes. I see."
"But first thing in the morning, it's a taxi for mine, as the Americans say. And I shall catch her alone, after breakfast, before anyone's about."
"Yea." Barry paused, cursing himself for his cowardice, and then plunged recklessly into the quicksand before him. "Owen, old man, have you heard anything about Miss Rees lately?"
"Heard anything?" He laid down his pipe and stared at his questioner. "Why should I hear anything? What is there to hear?"
Before replying Barry rose, and stood leaning against the mantelpiece; and as he looked down on his friend his heart was wrung within him at the cruelty of fate.
"You ... you've not seen her name in the papers?" His throat was dry, but he went on bravely.
"Papers? I've not looked at a newspaper for months. And anyway, what should I see about Vivian in any paper?"
"Only ... I thought you might have done." Barry was finding his task almost incredibly hard, and his brow was pearled with fine drops of moisture as he stood before his friend.
"What was there to see, Barry?" Owen's voice was quiet--dangerously quiet. "Is there anything wrong with Vivian? Is she--has she been ill?"
"No."
"Then ... God! man, what are you trying to tell me?" His forced calm was breaking up. "Out with it--whatever it is. Is Vivian--is she dead?"
"No--oh, no." He spoke hurriedly, thankful that he could at least answer that question in the negative.
"Then ... what is it? Come, Barry"--Owen spoke through his teeth in a hoarse tone quite unlike his usual voice--"if Vivian is not