Part 34

Isabel's gray eyes were crossed by a spark.

"No--I hate him!" she flared viciously. "What did he do it for? He had no right. He, he----" She pressed her drenched handkerchief hard against her lips. "Corrie, poor Corrie----"

Flavia shrank, commencing to tremble before a looming premonition of something still worse to be endured.

"What of Corrie? Isabel, what?"

"You will hear soon enough," she assured bitterly. "I've said all I can. No--don't ask me, don't follow me. They will tell you downstairs. I'm going."

Downstairs, meant the servants. Flavia Rose was, above all things, maiden-proud; as Gerard's fiancée, as Gerard's wife, no cost of pain or humiliation would have kept her from him. But she was neither. She had only her own interpretation of his mirthful glances and graceful speech, only a few yellow roses to hint that he did not regard her as the most casual of friends. Suppose she had been mistaken, suppose he had meant only courtesy to a hostess whose youth exacted gallantry?

Isabel had gone. Flavia turned her face to a diminutive mirror lying among the trifles on her desk. Could she go down to the curious servants so--pale, quivering and emotion-spent? Even as she looked into her own reflected eyes, the tears at last overflowed.

It was half an hour later before Flavia, quiet, dignified and only betrayed by her absolute pallor, trusted herself to descend the stairs.

The Rose house was too near the race course, too intimately concerned in the drama, for the information she sought not to be already rife gossip there. When Mr. Rose came home, near noon, he had little left to tell his daughter except Gerard's condition and his defense of Corrie.

"Then Corrie did not hurt him," she grasped the exquisite relief.

Mr. Rose shook his head, reluctantly discouraged and discouraging. He had not gone to the city during those intervening hours; he never, then or afterward, spoke of where he had been or what he had felt.

"There was the wrench," he heavily reminded her. "And where has he sent Dean, who must have seen all that happened and could have given Gerard's mechanician the lie? I've not seen Corrie except across the room," the recollection of that ghastly room broke the speech. "We have got to wait until he comes home to answer."

Flavia slipped her hand into his, nestling to him, and he put his arm about her. Both were remembering Corrie's brief, simoon-hot tempers, his hasty tongue and ready hand--and swift repentances. Had an occasion come when the repentance was too late, too vain! And what repentance! To the sister who knew with life-long knowledge the ardent, passionate Corrie, his young rigidity in honor and high pride, his tenacious affections, this menaced downfall was almost as appalling as his death. She thrust the possibility from her with revolted condemnation of herself for crediting this libel, this slander of her brother. What had he ever done to justify such a belief?

"Papa, he could not!" she defended. "Corrie could not. Not, not Corrie!"

"I hope not, my girl."

Something in his tone, some quality she did not recognize, brought her gaze to his face with a fresh dread. What would it mean to Thomas Rose, if this were true of his son? And what would the change in Thomas Rose mean to Corrie?

The early autumn dusk had fallen and the lamps were lit, when Corrie came home. The routine of the household had gone on through the long day; under the eye of convention, Flavia and Mr. Rose had dressed for dinner and now sat together in the drawing-room, each holding an unread book. But at the closing of the outer door both started erect, pretense forgotten.

"Corrie!" his father summoned. Not Corwin B.; by a trick of usage the nickname had become formal, the formal name a playfulness not to be spoken now.

Corrie came quietly between the velvet curtains. He still wore the pink racing costume, its hue in marked contrast to his worn young face. That one day had drawn white lines about his boyish mouth and set black circles under his blue eyes. As if feeling himself on trial, he stopped just within the room and stood with the quiescent endurance that he had shown in the farmhouse parlor and which sat so strangely upon him.

"First--Gerard?" required Mr. Rose hardly. "You've been there?"

"Yes, sir. They say he will live."

"Live! What----"

"They say he will never drive again."

Flavia cried out faintly, grasping the arms of her chair, and there was a pause.

"I've heard Rupert's story, and I've heard Gerard's," slowly pronounced Mr. Rose. "I haven't heard yours, yet. Nor I haven't learned that anyone has. What wrecked Gerard's car?"

There was no answer. Corrie's breathing quickened slightly, but he neither moved nor spoke, nor lifted his eyes to the two who watched him. After moments, Mr. Rose put out his hand and pushed away a tinted electric lamp from which the light fell too strongly on his face.

"Rupert isn't lying," he asserted. "He might be crazy. If he is, say so. I saw your nickel wrench picked up, myself, and a dozen people along the line saw you and Gerard racing just before the smash. Where is your mechanician, Dean? What has he got to say? It looks bad, your hiding him."

"He was not with me," Corrie replied, his voice oddly smothered.