Target Practice

Baba

A house party, being an institution established and maintained solely for the convenience of storywriters and matchmakers, has no excuse for existence unless it serves the purposes of one or the other of these valuable members of society.

In real life no matron dreams of giving a house party without inviting a man, preferably young, and a girl, necessarily pretty, whom she wishes to bring together; and no novelist ever puts one in his book if he can find any other way out of it. With the hostess it necessitates many indifferent guests, and with the novelist many undesirable characters. It belongs, therefore, to that species of artificial phenomena known as last resorts.

Knowing all this — for she was a wise matron — Mrs. T. M. S. Hartshorn had nevertheless invited fourteen persons to a house party at her country home in Westchester County during the last week of April.

This fact produces an alternative. Either she knew I was going to write a story about it or she had certain designs in connection with the fates of Edward Besant and Sylvia Herrow; for he was the only young man in the crowd and she the only pretty girl.

Mrs. Hartshorn was a wise matron!

But it would seem that her plan was doomed to failure. Consider: On the evening of the third day of the party Mrs. Hartshorn, making a tour of exploration some time after the dinner hour discovered Mr. Besant seated in gloomy solitude in a dark corner of the library. She paused, waiting for recognition.

He looked up and said: “Oh, is it you?” And buried his face in his hands again.

“Ned, what on earth is the matter with you?” demanded his hostess. “Come on in front; we need you for a fourth table.”

Mr. Besant muttered something very uncomplimentary to tables in general and fourth tables in particular, and declared his intention of remaining where he was forever. Then he looked up with an air of weary decision:

“I forgot. I wanted to speak to you, Dora. I’m going home on the seven-ten.”

“The seven-ten?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

She exploded immediately. She declared that he couldn’t go; that everyone would know why, and laugh at him; that she couldn’t possibly explain his departure, and wouldn’t try; and that she would never give another houseparty as long as she lived.

“Anyway,” she finished, “it’s perfectly silly of you. I suppose Sylvia has refused you, just because she doesn’t happen to know what she wants. Good Heavens! And you run away like this! Ned Besant, you’re a coward!”

But all that the young man would permit himself was a gloomy reiteration of his purpose to leave on the seven-ten in the morning. His hostess presented a dozen arguments — but what is the good of arguing with an oyster?

And at length, convinced of the inflexibility of his determination, she returned to the waiting tables in the drawingroom, announcing:

“We’ll have to do without him. He’s in the library writing letters. Just received a telegram and says he has to leave on the seven-ten tomorrow.”

“Leave!” exclaimed the parrot of the party — a little, fat, red-faced man with eyeglasses.

“Telegram! It couldn’t—” began Tom Hartshorn, the host; then subsided at a glance from his wife.

“Too bad!”

“It breaks up the game.”

“Miss Herrow, you go after him — he’ll come then, all right.”

But Miss Herrow — a slender, graceful girl with fair, velvety skin and gray eyes shot with lights of green, merely continued toying with a pack of cards.

“We shall have to cut in,” said Mrs. Hartshorn, advancing to a table. “Tom, give Mr. Nelson your seat. Mr. Graves, you will have to be a fifth. Higgins, take away the extra table.”

And, after some confusion and chatter, they found their places and began the pleasant pastime of trying to win one another’s money.

In the meantime Edward Besant remained in his dark corner in the library. The only light in the room entered through the open door leading into the hall, and it barely permitted him to see the deep outline of a chair here and a table there.

Occasionally an exclamation of triumph or annoyance or a burst of laughter floated down the hall from the room in front.

Mr. Besant seemed not to hear. For thirty minutes he sat staring straight ahead at nothing, then he arose, walked noiselessly to the door and down the hall, appropriated the first hat in sight, and sought the night without.

An hour later he returned, went directly to the library, and switched on the electricity.

By its light could be seen an expression on his face that belied the hopelessness of his words to his hostess a short time before. It wore an air of determination and resolve — the look of a man who has sought a decision and found it.

“It’s the only thing to do,” he muttered aloud, crossing to the desk and searching for a pen. “I’m tired of this faithful Fido business. This will end it for good.”

He sat down and wrote four letters — one long, two medium, and one short. Then he rang for a servant.

“Higgins,” he said, “I’m leaving on the seven-ten in the morning. I don’t want to bother Mrs. Hartshorn about it; so will you see that the car is ready at six-fifty-five to take me to the village? And here are some letters. These three are to be posted; the other is for Miss Herrow. Please send it to her room.”

Higgins took the letters and something else with them.

“Thank you, sir. Sorry you’re going to leave. Mr. Besant. I’ll see that the car is ready. And your luggage, sir?”

“I have only a bag. I’ll attend to it myself. By the way, you’d better call me about a quarter past six. Good night.”

“Very well, sir. Good night, sir.”

When Higgins had gone Besant again passed noiselessly down the hall. At the door of the drawing room he halted a moment listening to the voices within. For a time nothing could be distinguished; then came:

“Two club.”

“Two heart.”

“Two royal.”

“Two no trump.”

And then, evidently from another table, a silvery girlish voice sounded suddenly:

“But Mr. Nelson! You had only led diamonds once, so how could I know?”

This was followed by a burst of laughter from many throats.

Besant sighed, turned to the stairs, and mounted to his own room. For a while he sat on the edge of a table, then rose and began to pace the floor.

But despite this his face still held its expression of determination and decision; and his lips were pressed together in a grim line as he undressed and prepared for bed. Fifteen minutes later he was sound asleep.

At exactly six-fifteen in the morning he was called by Higgins.

Again at six-twenty, and six-thirty, and this time he was informed in a respectful but firm voice that trains were stubborn things. Accordingly he leaped out of a bed, into a tub, and thence into his clothes.

Then he threw his things hurriedly but effectively into his bag and descended to the breakfast room. It was empty, except for a servant, who approached as the young man entered.

“Eggs, sir?”

“Yes. As usual,” replied Besant absently as he stood looking out of the window.

April sunshine was just beginning to chase away the long shadows and transform the drops of cool dew into glittering jewels, but the young man did not see. The expression of his face would seem to imply that he was filled with regret for his decision of the evening before.

He sighed deeply twice, passed his hand wearily across his forehead, took a cigarette from his case, and turned to the table for a match.

Then suddenly he started back and uttered a sharp exclamation of surprise, while the cigarette fell from his fingers to the floor.

A girl had entered the room, stopping three paces from the threshold — a slender, graceful girl with gray eyes shot with lights of green.

“Miss Herrow!” exclaimed Besant, finding his tongue.

“Good morning,” said the girl quite as though she were speaking to Higgins, advancing to the opposite side of the table.

But Besant was too agitated with surprise to notice her tone. Simple wonder and astonishment at her appearance shone in his eyes, to be followed soon by a sudden expression of embarrassment and hesitation.

“It is quite early this morning,” he stammered, then wanted to bite his tongue off.

Miss Herrow did not smile; instead, she approached a step, holding out something white in her hand.

“It is,” she agreed icily. “I got up,” she continued, “to return something to you which — that is — something sent to me by mistake.”

And she threw the something white on the table. Then she turned and started for the door — not too hastily.

“But Miss Herrow!” cried Besant. “What do you mean? What is it?”

She paused, turning her head and pointing to the table.

“It is there. You will understand when you read it.” Then she turned full around. “Mr. Besant, I want to say that I am painfully disappointed in you. After yesterday — after what you said yesterday — I thought—”

She stopped, caught her breath, and went on: “When I went to my room last night I found an envelope on the dressing table. It contained that! I have never been so — so insulted before, and I showed it to Dora — to Mrs. Hartshorn. I asked her to return it to you, but she said you deserved — that is — I should return it myself. I have done so.”

Besant was staring at her with an expression of the most profound amazement.

“Insult!” he exclaimed finally. “That is a hard term, Miss Herrow. Is it an insult for a man to tell a woman he loves her? Or is a farewell an insult?”

“That he loves her?” repeated the girl scornfully. “No. But that — read it and you will understand. It is — evidently — intended for some — some person.”

Besant stared at her for a moment, then turned to the table and picked up the sheet of paper. He read:

“Good God!” cried the young man in a tone of utter consternation, and sank limply into a chair.

“One can’t be too careful with one’s correspondence,” observed Miss Herrow acidly. She seemed somehow unable to get to the door.

“This is horrible!” groaned poor Besant from the chair. But he must have been keeping an eye on the girl, for as she turned again to leave he sprang to his feet. And, as though by a superhuman effort, he appeared suddenly calm.

“Miss Herrow,” he said. Again she turned.

“I — you know — I’m dashed, of course. I would have given anything not to have this happen. I would like to cut off my hand for doing it. But I cannot agree that I have insulted you. Where is the insult?”

“Where?” exclaimed the girl in withering scorn. “But I am not surprised that you do not see it, Mr. Besant. After what you told me yesterday — and then this—”

“What did I tell you yesterday?”

“Yes, worse than insult!” She rode over the interruption. “You know very well what you told me yesterday. You love me! Bah! To write—” she choked with scorn and indignation — “to write to another girl that you cannot live without her, and in the very room where you had said exactly the same thing to me not two hours before!

“If that is what your love is like, I am glad it is no longer mine. I wish it never had been. I wish I’d never seen you. What if I had believed you? What if I had admitted — that is — what if I had pretended to return your love? You, who cannot live without Baba. Oh, you... you monster!”

“It was true!” exclaimed the young man as she paused for breath.

“Ah! You declare it to my face!”

“I mean,” he stammered, “I mean that I love you.”

“Bah!” Her eyes blazed. “As though you could write to another — to someone like that if you loved me!”

“I could and did,” replied Besant, a little more calmly. “What is the use of pretending, Sylvia, when you know? Why, Baba — the girl I wrote to — she knows I love you!”

“She?”

“Yes. That is, she knows I love someone. That’s why — she went away, you see — that’s why I had to write. She told me to, if ever — And why not?” he demanded fiercely. “If I cannot have your love, why should I not take what I can get? You say I insult you. Good Heavens! What do you care? If I insult anyone it is she who loves me — who will always love me—”

He stopped, swallowing hard, and walked to the window.

As he did so a servant appeared, bearing a platter and a pot of coffee, and Higgins’s voice came from the doorway announcing that the car was waiting. But at the sight of Miss Herrow and the sound of Mr. Besant’s sharp answer they both retreated in confusion.

Presently, as the young man stood looking out on the April sunshine, a voice came from behind:

“Who is she?”

He made no answer. Again the voice:

“Is her name Baba?”

At that he turned and observed dryly:

“Miss Herrow, you have no right to ask those questions. Her name is not Baba. I call her that. You do not know her.”

Then, as the girl started back at the rebuff, he continued calmly:

“You see, you make a mistake if you think your indignation proceeds from a sense of insult. It comes from selfishness. For two years you tell me that you can never love me until you end by convincing me. Then, when I turn to one who loves me — Heaven knows why, but she does — then what happens? You don’t want me; then what does it matter where I go, or to whom?”

“I didn’t say I could never love you,” replied Miss Herrow.

“I beg your pardon; the last time you said it was yesterday.”

“I did not! I merely said that I didn’t happen to love you at that moment.”

“If there has been a more auspicious moment in the past two years, I have failed to find it.”

“Perhaps you didn’t try hard enough. But then—” a sigh — “that is all over now.”

“Yes,” the young man assented grimly, “it is.”

“You have written to... to her?”

“I have.” He crossed to the table, picked up the paper, and put it in his pocket.

“I suppose — she will come?”

“She will.” He smiled — a smile of assurance, almost of happiness.

“She... she loves you?”

“Yes. Of course, you can’t understand that; but she does.”

“And what will you do when... when she comes?”

“What will I do?” He stared. “Go to meet her, I suppose.”

“At the train?”

“Yes. She comes by train.”

There ensued a long silence. Besant walked to the window; the girl seated herself abruptly in a chair, then abruptly got up again. For six seconds she gazed at the young man’s broad back, then exclaimed suddenly and fiercely:

“I hate her!”

Besant turned in surprise.

“I mean,” stammered the girl, flushing, “I mean — she has no right to love you! I mean, there is no earthly reason for it!”

“I admit it is inexplicable,” agreed Besant. “But I assure you such is the case.”

“Tell me her name.”

“Miss Herrow!”

“Yes. Well... yes. I want to know.”

“You know very well I will do nothing of the sort. You should not—” He stopped suddenly and glanced at his watch. “Good Heavens! It’s seven o’clock! Only ten minutes. Miss Herrow — you’ll pardon me—” He started for the door.

“But you haven’t had your breakfast!”

“I’ll have to go without it,” came from the hall. “Higgins, bring my bag! Good-by, Miss Herrow!”

The girl stood motionless, amazed. He was actually going — like that!

She heard the outer door open and close with a bang; then, through the window, came the sound of a motor whirring and the voice of Besant urging someone to go like the devil. Miss Herrow hesitated no longer. One bound and she was in the hall; another carried her to the outer door.

The next instant she was running like a deer down the gravel walk that encircled the house; and just as Higgins started to close the door of the tonneau after throwing in the bag, a streak of blue rushed past him and deposited itself on the seat beside Mr. Besant.

“What—” began the young man, dazed with wonder. Then he spoke to the chauffeur: “Go on! We have only seven minutes.”

The car leaped forward like a mad bull. It reached the gateway — a short, swift turn — then shot forward on the smooth, level road. Besant sat looking straight ahead, with the expression of one who is performing a painful duty.

“I don’t see why we are hurrying so fast,” observed Miss Herrow presently — if one may be said to observe anything when going at the rate of fifty miles an hour. “You aren’t going to catch that train, you know.”

“Yes, I am,” shouted the young man without turning his head. “It’s only five miles and we have six minutes. We’ll make it easy.”

“That isn’t what I meant. I mean you’re not going to get on it.”

“On what?”

“The train.”

He did not appear to think this worthy of an answer. She waited ten seconds, then added:

“Because I won’t let you.”

Still no answer. The car was eating up the road hungrily with great bounds and leaps; the fence posts and nearby landscapes were an indistinct blur. She waited till they had crossed a raised bridge, holding tightly to the seat to keep from bouncing out; then called:

“Mr. Besant!”

No answer.

“Ned!”

Even at that he did not turn. She saw the spire of the village church over some trees two miles away, and fancied she heard the whistle of a train — the train that was to carry him to Baba. She shouted in desperation:

“Ned, do you love me?”

Then, and then only, did the young man appear to find the conversation interesting. He turned.

“Yes!” he shouted back.

“Then don’t go! Because I love you, too! I do, indeed! And she can’t be very nice, or she wouldn’t let you send for her like that. Please! I do love you! Don’t go!”

Besant’s face had turned white, and the wind had brought the tears to his eyes. But his voice was loud and firm enough:

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t hear you!”

“Yes!”

Besant reached forward, touched the chauffeur’s arm, and shouted something in his ear. The car slowed down, stopped, backed, turned around, and headed back.

Then — it was a lonely country road, and the chauffeur, like all Mrs. Hartshorn’s servants, was well trained — Besant firmly put his arms where they had wanted to be for two years, and at the same time something caused a delicious sensation of warmth to creep around his neck. And if there was no conversation on the homeward journey, it was because there are times when lips have something more important to do than talk.

Late that evening a girl and a young man sat on a wooden bench in a moonlit garden. As far as shades of expression were revealed by the dim silvery light, it might be seen that their faces were filled with the fire of triumphant happiness; but it might also have been observed that every now and then the girl’s eyes were turned upward with a suggestion of mingled curiosity and hesitation.

“Ned,” she said suddenly, “I want to know — you must tell me — who is she?”

Mr. Besant took his lips away from her fingers long enough to answer, “Who?”

“Why — the — Baba.”

“Ah!” Mr. Besant looked up. “That’s a secret, my dearest Sylvia. But no” — he appeared to consider — “I might as well tell you now. You’re sure to find out some day. It is very simple. The word baba is Hindustani for baby. Speaking vulgarly and more or less metaphorically, you are certainly my baby. Therefore—”

“You don’t mean—” began Sylvia, while her eyes danced with sudden comprehension.

“Yes, I do,” interrupted Mr. Besant, again raising her fingers to his lips and preparing to resume operations. “Baba was what you might call a strategical creation — a figment of the imagination. There never was any Baba except you.

“And,” he added, as something happened that caused him to forget all about the fingers, “there never will be.”