The Drums of Jeopardy

Kitty's days were pleasant enough, but her nights were sieges. One

evening someone put Elman's rendition of Schubert's "Ave Maria" on the

phonograph. Long after it was over she sat motionless in her chair.

Echoes. The Tschaikowsky waltz. She got up suddenly, excused herself,

and went to her room.

Six days, and her problem was still unsolved. Something in

her--she could not define it, she could not reach it, it defied

analysis--something, then, revolted at the idea of marrying Cutty,

divorcing him, and living on his money. There was a touch of horror in

the suggestion. It was tearing her to pieces, this hidden repellence.

And yet this occult objection was so utterly absurd. If he died and left

her a legacy she would accept it gratefully enough. Cutty's plan was

only a method of circumventing this indefinite wait.

Comforts, the good things of life, amusements--simply by nodding her

head. Why not? It wasn't as if Cutty was asking her to be his wife;

he wasn't. Just wanted to dodge convention, and give her freedom and

happiness. He was only giving her a mite out of his income. Because

he had loved her mother; because, but for an accident of chance, she,

Kitty, might have been his daughter. Why, then, this persistent and

unaccountable revulsion? Why should she hesitate? The ancient female

fear of the trap? That could not be it. For a more honourable, a

more lovable man did not walk the earth. Brave, strong, handsome,

whimsical--why, Cutty was a catch!

Comfy. Never any of that inherent doubt of man when she was with him.

Absolute trust. An evil thought had entered her head; fate had made it

honourably possible. And still this mysterious repellence.

Romance? She was not surrendering her right to that. What was a year out

of her life if afterward she would be in comfortable circumstances, free

to love where she willed? She wasn't cheating herself or Cutty: she was

cheating convention, a flimsy thing at best.

Windows. We carry our troubles to our windows; through windows we see

the stars. We cannot visualize God, but we can see His stars pinned

to the immeasurable spaces. So Kitty sought her window and added her

question to the countless millions forlornly wandering about up there,

and finding no answer.

But she would return to New York on the morrow. She would not summon

Bernini as she had promised. She would go back by train, alone,

unhampered.

And in his cellar Boris Karlov spun his web for her.