She stared thoughtfully out of the living room windows,
and the sudden splash of raindrops against the pane lent a final touch
to the whole desolate ensemble. "I'm just a superstitious little idiot!" she told herself. "I laugh
at Mother because she always likes to play North and South, and here
I'm letting myself worry over superstitions that were discarded before
there was any such thing as a game called contract bridge." But her arguments failed to carry conviction. The memory of the
terrible eyes of that _other_ had clicked too aptly to Magda's phrase. She couldn't subdue the picture that haunted her, and she couldn't cast
off the apprehensiveness of her mood. She recalled gloomily that Dr.
Horker was at the Club--wouldn't be home before evening, else she'd
have gladly availed herself of his solid, matter-of-fact company. She thought of Nick's appointment with the Doctor for that evening. Suppose his psychoanalysis brought to light some such horror as these
fears of hers--that would forever destroy any possibility of happiness
for her and Nick. Even though the Doctor refused to recognize it,
called it by some polysyllabic scientific name, the thing would be
there to sever them. She wandered restlessly into the hall. The morning mail, unexamined,
lay in its brazen receptacle, she moved over, fingering it idly. Abruptly she paused in astonishment--a letter in familiar script
had flashed at her. She pulled it out; it was! It was a letter from
Nicholas Devine! She tore it open nervously, wondering whether he had reverted to his
original refusal of Dr. Horker's aid, whether he was unable to come,
whether _that_ had happened. But only a single unfolded sheet slipped
from the envelope, inscribed with a few brief lines of poetry. "The grief that is too faint for tears,
      And scarcely breathes of pain,
    May linger on a hundred years
      Ere it creep forth again. But I, who love you now too well
      To suffer your disdain,
    Must try tonight that love to quell--
      And try in vain!" 24

The Dark Other


It was early in the evening, not yet eight o'clock, when Pat saw the
car of Nicholas Devine draw up before the house. She had already been
watching half an hour, sitting cross-legged in the deep window seat,
like her jade Buddha. That equivocal poem of his had disturbed her,
lent an added strength to the moods and doubts already implanted by
Magda's mystical tale, and it was with a feeling of trepidation that
she watched him emerge wearily from his vehicle and stare in indecision
first at her window and then at the Horker residence. The waning
daylight was still sufficient to delineate his worn features; she
could see them, pale, harried, but indubitably the mild features of her
own Nick. While he hesitated, she darted to the door and out upon the porch. He
gave her a wan smile of greeting, advanced to the foot of the steps,
and halted there. "The Doctor's not home yet," she called to him. He stood motionless
below her. "Come up on the porch," she invited, as he made no move. She uttered
the words with a curious feeling of apprehension; for even as she ached
for his presence, the uncertain state of affairs was frightening. She
thought fearfully that what had happened before might happen again. Still, there on the open porch, in practically full daylight, and for
so brief a time--Dr. Carl would be coming very shortly, she reasoned. "I can't," said Nick, staring wistfully at her. "You know I can't." "Why not?" "I promised. You remember--I promised Dr. Horker I'd not see you except
in his presence." "So you did," said Pat doubtfully. The promise offered escape from
a distressing situation, she thought, and yet--somehow, seeing Nick
standing pathetically there, she couldn't imagine anything harmful
emanating from him. There had been many and many evenings in his
company that had passed delightfully, enjoyably, safely. She felt a
wave of pity for him; after all, the affliction was his, most of the
suffering was his. "We needn't take it so literally," she said almost reluctantly. "He'll
be home very soon now." "I know," said Nick soberly, "but it was a promise, and besides, I'm
afraid." "Never mind, Honey," she said, after a momentary hesitation. "Come up
and sit here on the steps, then--here beside me. We can talk just as
well as there on the settee." He climbed the steps and seated himself, watching Pat with longing
eyes. He made no move to touch her, nor did she suggest a kiss. "I read your poem, Honey," she said finally. "It worried me." "I'm sorry, Pat. I couldn't sleep. I kept wandering around the house,
and at last I wrote it and took it out and mailed it. It was a vent, a
relief from the things I'd been thinking." "What things, Honey?" "A way, mostly," he answered gloomily, "of removing myself from your
life. A permanent way." "Nick!" "I didn't, as you see, Pat. I was too cowardly, I suppose. Or perhaps
it was because of this forlorn hope of ours. There's always hope, Pat;
even the condemned man with his foot on the step to the gallows feels
it." "Nick dear!" she cried, her voice quavering in pity. "Nick, you mustn't
think of those things! It might weaken you--make it easier for _him_!" "It can't. If it frightens _him_, I'm glad." "Honey," she said soothingly, "we'll give Dr. Carl a chance. Promise me
you'll let him try, won't you?" "Of course I will. Is there anything I'd refuse to promise you, Pat? Even," he added bitterly, "when reason tells me it's a futile promise." "Don't say it!" she urged fiercely. "We've got to help him. We've got
to believe--There he comes!" she finished with sudden relief. The Doctor's car turned up the driveway beyond his residence. Pat saw
his face regarding them as he disappeared behind the building. "Come on, Honey," she said. "Let's get at the business." They moved slowly over to the Doctor's door, waiting there until his
ponderous footsteps sounded. A light flashed in the hall, and his broad
shadow filled the door for a moment before it opened. "Come in," he rumbled jovially. "Fine evening we're spoiling, isn't it?" "It could be," said Pat as they followed him into the library, "only
it'll probably rain some more." "Hah!" snorted the Doctor, frowning at the mention of rain. "The course
was soft. Couldn't get any distance, and it added six strokes to my
score. At least six!" Pat chuckled commiseratingly. "You ought to lay out a course in
Greenland," she suggested. "They say anyone can drive a ball a quarter
of a mile on smooth ice." "Humph!" The Doctor waved toward a great, low chair. "Suppose you sit
over there, young man, and we'll get about our business. And don't look
so woe-begone about it." Nick settled himself nervously in the designated chair; the Doctor
seated himself at a little distance to the side, and Pat sat tensely in
her usual place beside the hearth. She waited in strained impatience
for the black magic of psychoanalysis to commence. "Now," said Horker, "I want you to keep quiet, Pat--if possible.