The hours she had spent in her room, at her mother's insistence, began
to pall; she didn't feel particularly ill--it was more of a languor, a
depressed, worn-out feeling. Her mother, of course, was out somewhere;
she felt a desire for human companionship, and wondered if the Doctor
might by some chance drop in. It seemed improbable; he had his regular
Sunday afternoon routine of golf at the Club, and it took a real
catastrophe to keep him away from that. She sighed, stretched her legs,
rose from her position on the chaise lounge, and wandered toward the
kitchen where Magda was doubtless to be found. It was in the dusk of the rear hall that the first sense of her loss
came over her. Heretofore her renunciation of Nicholas Devine was a
rational thing, a promise given but not felt; but now it was suddenly a
poignant reality. Nick was gone, she realized; he was out of her world,
irrevocably sundered from her. She paused at the top of the rear flight
of stairs, considering the matter. "He's gone! I won't see him ever again." The thought was appalling; she
felt already a premonition of loneliness to come, of an emptiness in
her world, a lack that nothing could replace. "I shouldn't have promised Dr. Carl," she mused, knowing that even
without that promise her course must still have been the same. "I
shouldn't have, not until I'd talked to Nick--my own Nick." And still, she reflected forlornly, what difference did it make? She
had to give him up; she couldn't continue to see him not knowing at
what instant that terrible caricature of him might appear to torment
her. But he might have explained, she argued miserably, answering
her own objection at once--he's said he couldn't explain, didn't
understand. The thing was at an impasse. She shook her shining black head despondently, and descended the dusky
well of the stairs to the kitchen. Magda was there clattering among her
pots and pans; Pat entered quietly and perched on the high stool by the
long table. Old Magda, who had warmed her babyhood milk and measured
out her formula, gave her a single glance and continued her work. "Sorry about the accident, I was," she said without looking up. "Thanks," responded the girl. "I'm all right again." "You don't look it." "I feel all right." She watched the mysterious, alchemistic mixing of a pastry, and thought
of the vast array of them that had come from Magda's hands. As far back
as she could remember she had perched on this stool observing the same
mystic culinary rites. Suddenly another memory rose out of the grave of forgetfulness and
went gibbering across her world. She remembered the stories Magda used
to tell her, frightening stories of witchcraft and the evil eye, tales
out of an older region and a more credulous age. "Magda," she asked, "did you ever see a devil?" "Not I, but I've talked with them that had." "Didn't you ever see one?" "No." The woman slid a pan into the oven. "I saw a man once, when I was
a tot, possessed by a devil." "You did? How did he look?" "He screamed terrible, then he said queer things. Then he fell down and
foam came out of his mouth." "Like a fit?" "The Priest, he said it was a devil. He came and prayed over him, and
after a while he was real quiet, and then he was all right." "Possessed by a devil," said Pat thoughtfully. "What happened to him?" "Dunno." "What queer things did he say?" "Wicked things, the Priest said. I couldn't tell! I was a tot." "Possessed by a devil!" Pat repeated musingly. She sat immersed in
thoughts on the high stool while Magda clattered busily about. The
woman paused finally, turning her face to the girl. "What you so quiet about, Miss Pat?" "I was just thinking." "You get your letter?" "Letter? What letter? Today's Sunday." "Special delivery. The girl, she put it in the hall." "I didn't know anything about it. Who'd write me a special?" She slipped off the high stool and proceeded to the front hall. The
letter was there, solitary on the salver that always held the mail. She
picked it up, examining the envelope in sudden startled amazement and
more than a trace of illogical exultation. For the letter, post-marked that same morning, was addressed in the
irregular script of Nicholas Devine! 13

Indecision


Pat turned the envelope dubiously in her hands, while a maze of chaotic
thoughts assailed her. She felt almost a sensation of guilt as if
she were in some manner violating the promise given to Dr. Horker;
she felt a tinge of indignation that Nicholas Devine should dare
communicate with her at all, and she felt too that queer exultation,
an inexplicable pleasure, a feeling of secret triumph. She slipped the
letter in the pocket of her robe and padded quietly up the stairs to
her own room. Strangely, her loneliness had vanished. The great house, empty now
save for herself and Magda in the distant kitchen, was no longer a
place of solitude; the discovery of the letter, whatever its contents,
had changed the deserted rooms into chambers teeming with her own
excitements, trepidations, doubts, and hopes. Even hopes, she admitted
to herself, though hopes of what nature she was quite unable to say. What _could_ Nick write that had the power to change things? Apologies? Pleas? Promises? None of these could alter the naked, horrible facts of
the predicament. Nevertheless, she was almost a-tremble with expectation as she skipped
hastily into her own room, carefully closed the door, and settled
herself by the west windows. She drew the letter from her pocket, and
then, with a tightening of her throat, tore open the envelope, slipping
out the several pages of scrawled paper. Avidly she began to read. "I don't know whether you'll ever see this"--the missive began
     without salutation--"and I'll not blame you, Pat dear, if you do
     return it unopened. There's nothing you can do that wouldn't be
     justified, nor can you think worse of me than I do of myself. And
     that's a statement so meaningless that even as I wrote it, I could
     anticipate its effect on you. "Pat--How am I going to convince you that I'm sincere? Will you
     believe me when I write that I love you? Can you believe that I
     love you tenderly, worshipfully--reverently? "You can't; I know you can't after that catastrophe of last night. But it's true, Pat, though the logic of a Spinoza might fail to
     convince you of it. "I don't know how to write you this. I don't know whether you want
     to hear what I could say, but I know that I must try to say it. Not apologies, Pat--I shouldn't dare approach you for so poor a
     reason as that--but a sort of explanation. You more than any one
     in the world are entitled to that explanation, if you want to hear
     it. "I can't write it to you, Pat; it's something I can only make you
     believe by telling you--something dark and rather terrible. But
     please, Dear, believe that I mean you no harm, and that I plan no
     subterfuge, when I suggest that you see me.