The Ball of Fire

by George Randolph Chester; Lillian Chester

“I came too late!” he bitterly charged. “They’ve already spoiled you!”

Gail sprang from the couch, and a round red spot flashed into each cheek. She had never looked so beautiful as when she stood before him, her tiny fists clenched and her eyes blazing. She almost replied to him, then she rang the bell for the butler, and hurried upstairs. Wild as was her tumult, she stood with her hand on the knob of her dressing-room until she heard the front door open and close; then she ran in and threw herself downward on the chintz-covered divan, and cried!

She sat up presently, and remembered that the dove-coloured gown was her pet. With a quite characteristic ability of self-segregation, she put out of her mind, except for the dull ache of it, the tangled vortex of distress until she had changed her garments and let down her waving hair, and, disdaining the help of her maid, performed all the little nightly duties, to the putting away of her clothing. Then, in a perfectly neat and orderly boudoir, she sat down to take herself seriously in hand.

First of all, there was Howard. She must cleanse her conscience of him for all time to come. In just how far had she encouraged him; in how far was he justified in assuming there to be an “understanding” between them? It was true that they had grown up together. It was true that, from the first moment she had begun to be entertained by young men, she had permitted him to be her most frequent escort. She had liked him better than all the others; had trusted him, relied on him, commanded him. Perhaps she had been selfish in that; but no, she had given at least as much pleasure as she had received in that companionship. More; for as her beauty had ripened with her years, Howard had been more and more exacting in his jealousy, in his claims upon her for the rights and the rewards of past service. Had she been guilty in submitting to this mild form of dictatorship, and, by permitting it, had she vested in him the right to expect it? Possibly. She set that weakness to one side, as a mark against her.

Then had come the age of ardour, when a more serious note crept into their relation. It was the natural end and aim of all girls to become married, and, as she blossomed into the full flower of her young womanhood, this end and aim had been constantly borne in on her by all her friends and relatives, by her parents, her girl chums, and by Howard. They had convinced her that this was the case, and, in consequence, the logical candidate was the young man who had expended all his time and energy in trying to please her. How much of a debt was that? Well, it was an obligation, she gravely considered, with her dimpled chin in her hand. An obligation which should be repaid—with grateful friendship.

She was compelled to admit, being an honest and a just young person, that at various times she had herself considered Howard Clemmens the logical candidate. She must be married some time, and Howard was the most congenial young man of all her acquaintance. He was of an excellent family, had proved his right to exist by the fact that he had gone into business when he had plenty of money to live in idleness, was well-mannered, cheerful, good-natured, self-sacrificing, and an adorer whose admiration was consistent and unfaltering. Even—she confessed this to herself with self-resentment for having confessed it—even at the time she had left for New York, she had been fairly well settled in her mind that she would come back, and invite all her hosts of friends to see her marry Howard, and they would build a new house just the way she wanted it, and entertain, and some day she would be a prominent member of the Browning Circle.

However, she had never, by any single syllable, hinted to Howard, or any one else, that this might be the case, and her only fault could lie in thinking it. Now, just how far could Howard divine this mental attitude, and just how far might that mental attitude influence her actions and general bearing toward Howard, so that he might be justified in feeling that there was an actual understanding between them?

She did not know. She was only sure that she was perfectly miserable. She had yielded to a fit of impetuous anger, and had sent away her lifelong friend without a word of good-bye, and he had been a dear, good fellow who had been ready to bark, or fetch and carry, or lie down and roll over, at the word of command; and they had been together so much, and he had always been so kind and considerate and generous, and he was from back home, and he did really and truly love her very much, and she was homesick; and she cried again.

She sat upright with a jerk, and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, which was composed of one square inch of linen entirely surrounded by embroidered holes. She had been perfectly right in sending Howard away without a good-bye. He had insulted her friends and her, most grossly; he had been nasty and unreasonable; he had been presumptuous and insolent; his voice was harsh and he had crossed his legs in a fashion which showed his square-toed shoe at an ugly angle. She had never seen anybody cross his legs in just that way. “They had spoiled her already!” Indeed! Why had she not waited long enough to assert herself? Why had she not told him what a conceited creature he was? Why had she not said all the hot, bitter, stinging things which had popped into her mind at the time? There were half a dozen better and more scornful ways in which she could have sent him away than by merely calling the butler and running upstairs. She might even have stretched out her hand imperiously and said “Go!” upon which thought she laughed at herself, and dabbed her eyes with that absurdity which she called a handkerchief.

There was knock at the door and, on invitation, the tall and stately Mrs. Helen Davies came in, frilled and ruffled for the night. She found the dainty, little guest boudoir in green tinted dimness. Gail had turned down all the lights in the room except the green lamps under the canopy, and she sat on the divan, with her brown hair rippling about her shoulders, her knees clasped in her arms, and her dainty little boudoir slippers peeping from her flowing pink negligee, while the dim green light, suited to her present sombre reflections, only enhanced the clear pink of her complexion. Mrs. Davies sat down in front of her.