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THE MIRROR ON THE BRIDGE

A novel by CHARLOTTE ARMSTRONG

PLUS

THE DOOMSDAY BOOK

a short story By URSULA CURTISS

THE MIRROR ON THE RRIOGE
By Charlotte Armstrong

HELEN MALLORY, who was

the first to hear, said to her-
self," "Oh, dear, I wish she

wouldn't!" "Wish" was the
only word. There was no way

to stop Sybil Rolfe from coming
back to town if that was what Sybil
wanted to do, and it was impossible
not to have James' sister at the
house if she came.

Sybil's letter left no time for any
gently discouraging replies and
Helen was not prepared to be blunt,
especially since the one thing she
distrusted was Sybil's own tempera-
ment. So Helen sighed and said to
James, "I wish she wouldn't."
James Mallory refused to share
her dismay. He said he foresaw no
embarrassment. By this, his wife
knew very well, James meant that
he did not intend to be embarrassed.
He was a solid citizen who made his
moves, after full deliberation, upon
principle.
It was James who had laid it
down, at the time of the divorce,
that there was much to be said on
both sides, no doubt, but he, for
one, and Helen, for another, were
not going to say any of it. They
would do the right thing. Thev
would not approve, but they would
not judge, either, and they would be
very sorry for the fact. They would
thus survive with their personal
dignity unblemished. And so they

had.

Afterwards, no believer in feuding.

James had continued to befriend
Barton Rolfe, who, after all, was
here. (Sybil it was who went away.)
When Bart had married again,
Helen and James were in atten-
dance at the small quiet wedding,
and James had gone so far 4s to
produce a pleasantry about having
had his faithful secretary stolen

away.

Now, James proposed to ride out

his sister's visit in his usual stately
manner, taking one slow step at a
time, and always doing the right
thing. It was lust like James to cut
through to this resolve, ignoring all
the fascinating ways there were to
worry about the hitman situation
refus'TiT to say be wished she
wouldn't come. Helen sighed (and
admired) and kept hoping, privately,
that Svbil would think better of her
pl<>n.
Barton Rolfe was the next to hear,
bemuse James, doing the risht
thin"", made the occasion to te'l him
so. If Bart was dismayed he did not
admit it. When he told Dorry and
saw her wince, Bart gathered UD his
forces and projected an imae° of
recklessness, tinged with mischief
"The hell with her." was what he
projected. He might wish she
wouldn't, but if she would - then,
let her come.

He saw Dorry deny the throb of
dismay in her own heart and return
an image of perfect, reckless
security. She looked at him.
Bart was always touched by
Dorry's way of simply looking at
him - as if his face had been
designed from the foundations of
the world for her delighted admira-
tion. Sometimes he was reminded

that his face had been in the world
thirteen years before her founda-

tions.

His was a face that had not al-
ways been admired, or even trusted,
at first sight, by men with less
consistently arranged features.
Straight on, it was a smooth oval
with a mouth that turned up at
the corners, as few mouths do in
the flesh. At the outer corners
of his eyes there were lines, slant-
ing upward and outward that gave

him a cat-whiskery or even a

satanic aspect. The hair, which
grew in a peak complementary to
those other lines, was blond. If
a few white hairs hide among the
straw, they were not conspicuous.
He was only - only? - thirty
eight.
His profile was another face,
sharp, questing prow of long straight
nose, a streamlined effect consis-
tent with his drive and his im-
patience.
Of course, now that everybody
knew he was a genius, his face was
appropriate. His energy and cap-
acity for speed which had some-
times been suspected to be arro-
gance, and even his quick temper
were now forgiven him.

H IS legend was

growing. Bart was riding on an
updraft and he knew it. Citizens
pointed with pride to the City Hall
and they would lead out-of-town
guests to some strategic spot in
order to point out The House.
Everybody knew the Rolfe House.
Its startling exterior was visible for
miles, where it reposed upon the
shoulder of the hill. It had been
photographed many times, inside
and out. The citizens, looking at
the pictures and then at the House,
did not doubt what authority told
them. It was a masterpiece.

People did not hold it against
Barton Rolfe that not very long
after The House was finished his
first wife had divorced him. They
knew better than to take much
stock in the "mental cruelty" device.
Most did not really care what had
happened to that marriage, once it
became clear that there had not
been, and would not be, any in-1
teresting scandal.
Some, taking the long view, de-
plored one more instance when a
man, now that he had it made, cast
aside the wife of his struggling
youth. 'But Bart was a genius
which somehow made a difference.
He and Sybil had no children; this
made a difference, too. "Too bad,"
people said cheerfully, and forgot

about it.

When Bart married Dorry Brown,

people were startled and rummaged
around for scandal, after all. But
found none. He had been divorced
from his wife, and had since-even
if precipitously-taken up with,
courted, and married another
woman. Happens every day.

Dorry Brown, looking at his won-
derful face, knew that such a thing
certainly did not happen every day.
She had not known him, but had
seen him come and go, and care-
lessly shared the town's approval

of his art. She had not known
Sybil, either, except casually with
ordinary greeting, whenever Sybil
had dropped in at the bank to see
her brother. In fact, Dorry had
rather admired the lines of Sybil's
tall figure, and the clothes she wore
so well. Her long face, with the
crisp and classic nose, her black hair
in a shining knot on the back ot
the long, graceful neck, Sybil's air
of stormy sophistication, and even
her heavy-lipped and extremely
mobile mouth, had impressed Dorry,
who was herself a small brown
haired girl with country curves.
The Rolfe divorce had meant only
a local news item to her, until sud-
denly one day .

Then suddenly she was married

to her own true love (which was
rare), and she was living in the most
beautiful house in the entire world,
which he had made, and she was
inside the real, the warm, the
delicious currents of a lived life, a
life loved ... It was a miracle!
Did she not sing to herself ten
times a day "I'm in love! I'm in
love!" Did she not know his prob-
lems as nobody else knew them'
Was she not the one who kneu
how much it would mean if he got
the big job, the wonderful job, the
one he was waiting for? And how
much it would mean if he did not?
She knew the risks Bart was run-
ning by holding out, refusing to
succumb to doing little miserable
architectural chores for miserable
little people. She knew the nerve
it took, the fierce courage. She
knew he was "going for broke," and

she was with him.
Or-followed where he led. Dorrv
knew very well that she had been
praised in the town, pitied and
praised, for the sacrifice of her
early twenties to her mother's sick-
room. But the fact was it hadn't
been much of a sacrifice, since Dorry
couldn't have done otherwise. She
hadn't the courage. Or whatever it

took.

She had never been in love before,

either.

Now, although she, herself, would
have been happy in a hut with
Bart, she knew that he would not
be happy in a hut, and that he
must go after what he wanted and
that she was with him. None closer!

None! Ever!

So Dorry tola herself that Sybil
would, naturally, come to visit her
brother. James Mallory, from time
to time. More times than this first
time. It couldn't matter. She and
Bart wouldn't even have to see her
They were not sociable these days,
except for their patterned and delib-
erate Thursday night out.

For one thing they were still too
much enchanted with each other
to be willing to put up with people.
Then, they were running close to

the money margin. To entertain on

the scale their beautiful house de-

manded would cost a great deal. So

they ducked invitations to other

people's houses.

Well, then, they would not run

into Sybil at any party or have to

hobnob with her and put on

spurious party goodwill. Dorry did

not have any particular goodwill to-

wards Sybil. Bart never talked about

her, but Dorry knew. She could tell

by what surprised him.

So Dorry would not brood about

her husband's first wife, even if she

couldn't help wishing that, some-

how, Sybil wouldn't come.

But Sybil came.

Havine driven herself some hun-

dreds of miles, she appeared, as

threatened, in the middle of the

Monday evening, looking as slim and

as smart as ever. "Why, Sybil," cried

Helen Mallory, "you are looking

marvellous!"

Sybil was tall. Helen was short.

Sybil was slim. Helen was plump

(and resigned to it because Helen

knew better than to expect herself

to diet off a thoroughly natural ten-

dency) . Helen's hair, which she wore

in a pompadour, was a miserable

mixture of dark and grey. (James

did not approve of dyed hair.)

Sybil's hair was the same stunning

black as ever.

She is still young, or at least

youngish, and she is still attrac-

tive. Helen thought. Now why on

earth has she come back here?

James in his kindly, simple way,

was glad to see his sister looking

well.

But Helen thought that Sybil was

unusually subdued. Her passions

and her energies-which had made

that marriage the battle that it had

ever been - were dampened down.

She had acquired a humble bend

to her long neck. She had compli-

ments and embraces for them both,

but, very soon, she claimed to be

weary from her journey and asked

if they minded if she went up.

So Sybil went up. Helen took her

to the blue room. Helen came back

down.

Well, then, she was here, under

the Mallorys' roof. She was just the

same, but she was different.

James was mixing a nightcap.

"What's wrong with the rose

room?" James wanted to know.

Helen said, "I told her the bath

needed repairs.''

"Helen?"

Helen put her teeth together

momentarily. Then she said to

James, "I prefer to put her in the

blue room."

James blinked. There were occa-

sions when Helen simply did.> some-

thing, and could not, would not,

did not explain. James did not argue.

"She seems all right," was all he

said. By which he meant that Sybil

did not seem to be in a mood that

would interrupt the balanced peace.

Helen said, "Yes." But Helen was,

in herself, seething with mixed emo-

tions. Glad to see Sybil, yet not glad.

Pond, after sixteen years, and yet

not fond. Worried . . . and yet. why?

Finally, Helen cast herself, as a chip,

upon the currents of fate, and went

up.

There was silence in the blue

room, whose windows looked to the

south. There was emptiness in the

rose room, whose windows looked

north to the hill with a fine view

of the Rolfe House, where it sat.

Helen went into her bathroom,

thought about fate, grinned to her-

self, and took one of her pills. She

wouldn't tempt it. Not she.

The next morning, James having

gone to the bank, Sybil described

her new life to Helen, over the.

coffee cups. She spoke of it as rather

pleasant and free. She had such a

dear little apartment, she said, with

a magnificent view of the bay. San

Francisco, as everyone knew, was

a fascinating city. Sybil managed to

get about a bit. She had met some

very nice people. There was a Mr.

Wayne Price, who had taken to

squiring her.

Helen, watching and listening

shrewdly, no longer thought that

Sybil looked "marvellous." There

were suggestions of dark rings under

Sybil's dark eyes and she had no

tan. Helen surmised that to live

alone and, no doubt, not without

thoughts of the expense, in however

"dear" a little apartment was neither

as pleasant nor as free as Sybil was

saying.

Sybil's whole manner, tinged with

this new humility and sadness, con-

tradicted her words. Even her voice

did not have the bite it used to have.

Just as Helen was pricking up her

ears at the mention of a man, Sybil

recovered that bite, momentarily.

"Wayne's lust an old pussy-cat,"

she said, with the familiar writhe of

the full mouth, "who likes to take a

woman out, provided she doesn't

threaten him, you know."

So Helen, warned off imagining

a new romance, thought to herself,

"What's wrong with her? Does she

really know, now. what a fool she

was?"

SYBIL said. "That's

enough about me. There isn't much,

really." And her long neck bent.

Helen took an instinctive alarm.

But it was her turn, so Helen be-

gan to tell about this one or that

one. catching Sybil up. She knew

she couldn't get out of it. The

moment came, as clearly present to

them both as if a bell had rung,

when Helen must mention Bart. So

Helen said, "You know Bart married

Dorry Brown?"

"Of course." said Sybil calmly.

"You wrote me that yourself. Don't

worry, Helen. Listen," Helen was al-

ready stretching her ears for every

least intonation. "I've just about got

over all of it." said Sybil with every

evidence of speaking earnestly. "I

can truly say that I hope Bart is

going to be happy."

Helen told herself to give Sybil

credit, now. This was the "right"

attitude, as attitudes go. It was

the one that wouldn't be trouble-

some. "We don't see so very much

of them," she told Sybil. "James

sees Bart, I guess, around and about.

But we don't entertain them here,

except very rarely. After all, Dorry

Helen felt the brakes scream on

her tongue. She had been about to

say that Dorry was so much younger,

but she had better not say that . . .

"used to be James' secretary," she

substituted and did not like the way

the phrase came out. "Dorry's a

nice girl," she added, smiling.

"I'm sure she is," said Sybil. "I

see how it might be a little awkward

for you."

But Helen, perceiving how quickly

Sybil had pounced upon the hint of

snobbishness, wasn't having any.

She said lightly, "Oh, no. Now what

shall we do to entertain you?" And

hung in the bright air of her break-

fast room, without words, the

hostess' question, "How long are

you going to stay?"

Sybil heard it well enough. She

said. "I won't be here more than

a few days. A week at the most.

Don't bother much." She cocked

her head. "Still - Dorry Brown

. . ." she murmured musingly.

So Helen knew that she was in

" vited to talk about it. i

Dorry had been James' secretars

for how long? Five, six years? One

was so used to seeing her in the

office. Everybody knew she hadn't

married at the normal age because

her mother had refused to die. How-

ever, when she had finally

succumbed, Dorry had up and

married Barton Rolfe not a month

later. It had been a little soon.

Still, poor Dorry. All the bright

young men were taken. Barton

Rolfe had been a catch for

such a girl. Nobody supposed there

could be much money left over from

the Brown estate, such as it was.

Not after the old lady had hung

on so long and required so much

medical attention.

In the town's opinion, Dorry had

very sensibly grabbed for Bart's

growing prosperity and fame. As

for Bart, well, if he had grabbed

for something young and lively in

his empty house, the town smiled

and understood. Helen did not state

all this.

She said. "It wasn't too surpris-

ing." Which was clear enough.

Sybil said, "Of course not." She

sighed. "Bart is architecting away

as usual, I suppose?"

Well, yes. Helen supposed he was.

The City Hall, that he had designed

with such stunning success, was still

the town's pride and joy. Then The

House. Had Sybil seen the latest

photographic spread?

Of course Sybil had. Who hadn't?

She bent her head. Into Helen's

mind's eye leaped the vivid con-

trast between the Rolfe House and

the "dear little apartment." Helen

hurried on to tell how Bart was now

after the job of designing the whole

new Branch University, and she

predicted that he would get the

assignment because the local com-

mittee would put pressure on.

After all, having a genius in their

midst, they would resent the

bringing-in of any foreign genius

to design the complex of new

buildings proposed upon that big

tract of land on the north-western

outskirts.

Sybil murmured and agreed.

"Nothing ever really mattered to

Bart but his work," she said, "as

you and I know." Sybil's dark eyes

took on prophecy. "Does Dorry

Brown know that, I wonder?"

Helen caught and observed her

own brief surge of pleasure. (After

all. serve the girl right if all she

got was the prosperity and status

that she had grabbed for. As if

prosperity and status could make

a woman happy ! )

Helen at once turned this little

flash of feeling over with the ease

of long practice. She perceived her

own small resentment of the sud-

den elevation of a little secretary

to a status comparable to her own.

She saw that lt was very small; she

smiled at it and dismissed lt. Helen

shrugged, "Well, she may And out,"

said Helen carelessly.

Sybil said warmly, "Oh, Helen,

it's so good to be here. I've missed

you." And there wasn't the tiniest

trace, in her tone or in her look,

of insincerity.

"I've missed you, too," said Helen,

dutifully. But she thought to her-

self, Oh, dear, oh, dear!

In the course of sixteen years,

Helen had often seen, in Sybil's

eyes, the alien and contemptuous

stare of another generation. Helen

was nine years older and had been

made to feel it. Sybil had taken

credit for a tall and handsome body

and given blame for a short and

dumpy physique.

Helen's counsels of moderation

THE MIRROR ON THE BRIDGE

had been put down as stuffiness.
Helen had been made to feel that
she was not quite alive, her balance
a cowardice, her control a defect of
passion, and old-fogyness, a kind of

death.

So Helen, replying dutifully, was
reflecting with an inside-out logic
and perfect objectivity, Oh, heavens,
she means it! She's been sitting
up there alone, brooding and think-
ing. And goodness knows what she
thinks she thinks!

Helen said aloud, "Well, now,
would you like a gathering in the
afternoon? Or an evening party?
We won't ask Bart. Don't worry."
On Thursday, Bart said to Dorry,

as he always did on Thursdays,
"Shall we go out to dinner?"
She answered in the pattern,
"Can we afford it?"

"No."
"Then, of course."
It was a ridiculous bit of dialogue,

but they both enjoyed it. Bart had
laid this down for their pattern be-
cause, he said, it was wise for them
to show themselves, appearing pros-
perous and easy in their minds. And
although they had no maid, Thurs-
day night was maid's night out and
the townspeople who really were
prosperous would be seen in the
town's best restaurant, and would

see.

"Them as has gits," Bart had told
her. "It's best that people don't
begin to think we need that job
too desperately. Sometimes that
puts the back up. I can hear James,
for instance. The banker's reflex.
If you need money real bad, that's
the time he'll hesitate. How come
you need money? As bad as all
that? Is anything wrong?"
Dorry always laughed at the silly
old joke that had only a trace of
truth in it . . . just enough to make
it amusing. She did enjoy going
out to the Riviera, being seen with
Bart, behaving properly, dancing
with him, "pretending that both of
us wouldn't rather be home canood-
ling," as Bart said.
This Thursday, however, was a
little different. They both knew
the risk.

"Whatever shall I wear?" Bart
teased, continuing the ritual.
"My diamonds are a little
shabby," improvised Dorry. "The
rubies, do you think? Ör aren't
they quite?"

13 ART grinned at

her. "Do you dare?" he asked her
seriously. She could feel his own
recklessness.
"Whatever will people think," she
said, "if we don't sweep in in our
usual grandeur."

"Sure?"
"Why, darling," said Dorry

absurdly, little-girlishly, adoringly,
"aren't I richer than anybody?"
So he touched her cheek and his
whole face seemed to wink.
Side by side they played the game,
pretending to be able to afford the
wine, turning their heads from time
to time, to nod to familiar faces,
playing the game of gay successful
people who hadn't a thing in the
world to worry about.
Bart saw them arrive. The music

began. In the shelter of the dancers,
as they began to move between
them, he leaned to Dorry. He was
swallowing down a bit of shock, not
that they were here, but that she
was the same o'd Svbil . . . Svbil
as ever was shockingly familiar.
"Continue to look bored stiff,

please," he said. "Helen and James
and Sybil just came in."
She managed to drag her eyelids
wearily down, then up. He knew
that Dorry was not really surprised.

He said, "Here is the procedure.

I get our bill and take care of it.
Then, you sit quietly and finish your
coffee while I go across and speak
to them."

"Shouldn't I go, too?" She smiled
at him sweetly. She had not even
turned her head. Oh, she was a
dear good child.
"Best not," he said. "Helen and

James will understand, I'll guaran-
tee. I go for two minutes because
people are watching and that is
civilised and James will appreciate
it. You stay here and don't go, be-
cause that's easier all around and
Helen will be just as glad. When I
come back we dance and dance out.
And away home. As we go by their
table, then you smile and nod . . .
all-in-a-day's-routine-like? O.K.?"

"O.K.," said Dorry a trifle too
solemnly.
"Try," he teased her, "not to look
too beautiful and desirable."
"I will try," said Dorry, dead-pan.
So he asked for the bill from the

waiter and took care of it: As he
got up he could not help touching
the back of Dorry's hand. He began
to wend his way around the dance
floor, hugging his luck to have a
woman whose hand had not turned
over to clutch, either with, or for,
sentimental reassurance.
Dorry's hand fiddled with the
handle of her cup. The hand was
damp; the fingers were slippery.
The chiffon on her bosom was
trembling with her heart. She was
not surprised that Sybil was here.
She was surprised that she herself
was so shocked to know it was a
living woman . . .
"Good evening." Bart bent a
little, standing on the empty fourth
side of their table. He spoke to
Helen and her nod was gracious,
her voice was calm as she replied.
James was his spectacled, owl-eyed
self, solid where he sat, and he
boomed, "Evening, Bart."

Bart said easily, "How are you,
Sybil?"
He knew all the shapes of those
eyes. He should know the meaning
of every tiny motion of those lids.
The eyes were smiling, the lids con-
trolled. She said, "I'm fine, Bart.
Congratulations, I believe? You have
a lovely bride."

"Why, thank you," he replied

genially, but not complacently. Per-
haps she knew the shapes of his
eyes, the shades of his voice. Be
said to James, "Shall I see you at
the committee meeting tomorrow
afternoon?"
'I'll be there," boomed James.
James did approve of all this civil-
isation.

"Well, have a good dinner - all,"
said Bart rather gaily. "I recom-
mend the prime rib." He ducked his
head for a moment. He would turn
to go.

Sybil said, "Ba-art?"
He could not go yet. He knew the
drawing out of the vowel into two,
the rise at the end of his name. A
demand coming? He had a quickly
vanishing vision as of a tiny claw
reaching forth from some shelled
creature.

"Yes, Sybil?"
"You wouldn't mind if I had that
old print of Daddy's?"
"Of course not. I'll have it sent
down to James'."
"But I . . ."
So he could not walk away yet.

He knew the small pouting motion

of those full lips (those lips-he
felt the echo of shock.)
"I'd like to look over Dad's
books, too. If you wouldn't mind."

"I'll have them sent along."
"Oh, mercy! Not all of them,"
she said. "There'd be only a few
"You would like to look them
over?" Bart knew that his voice
had turned too nat. "Well then,
do," he said as cordially as he could.

"Soon?"
"Why not? How about between
five and six tomorrow? I should
be home by then." He looked at
James. "You think so?"
"The meeting shouldn't go beyond

a couple of hours," said James.
"However . . ." He cleared his
throat. He did not approve. He
was about to say so.

SYBIL spoke. "That's

very nice of you, Bart," she said
sweetly. "I'm glad we needn't be
stupid the rest of our lives. And I
would rather like to see The House
once more."
"Then we'll expect you," he said.

He looked at Helen. "Come along.
Helen, why don't you?" he invited.
Helen's bright tea-colored eyes
understood perfectly. The soft rolls
on her neck rolled a bit deeper.
"Why, thank you, Bart. I very well
may . . ."

"We'll see you. Good-night."
Now he could go.
James Mallory cleared his throat
with vigor this time. "Sybil, you
ought to let Bart send the books

down. After all, they are my father's
books as well. It is not necessary
for you to go up there."
Helen said nothing. She was won-
dering how Sybil, who had insisted
that she would take her host and
hostess out to dinner the night that
Sarah wasn't there to cook and' had
herself chosen where to go . . . how
had Sybil known that Bart would
be here.

She was flipping through her
memory of the past few days to
decide which of Sybil's old friends
might have mentioned seeing Bart
at the Riviera regularly. Helen
did not doubt that somebody had.
She tuned a sceptical ear in upon
Sybil's mournful voice.
". . . necessary for me, James,
in a way. I know, in my mind,
that the whole thing is finished.
In my mind, you see? But if
I once stand in that house as a
visitor . . . then I will feel it
and it will be over for ever." She
put her napkin to her lips. "A
woman sometimes has to feel her
way . . ." she murmured.
"I don't think it is at all wise . . ."
James began.
But Helen, with her female heart
swelling to the challenge, said, "Oh,
James, don't fuss." She said to
Sybil, "I'm having my hair done,
Sybil dear, but I can be ready by
a quarter after five, which will be
just right, won't it?"
Sybil met her sister-in-law's
bright look with misty eyes. James
was clearing his throat for the
third time. Sybil straightened up.
"Don't fuss. James ..." she said
sweetly, "Helen will look after me.
Are we having cocktails?"

"Whatever you ladies decide,"
said James stiffly. He did not ap-
prove. He had said so, and it was
not dignified to nag . .
Bart touched Dorry's chair; she
rose; they danced. Dorry could feel
his inner storm in every step he
took. When she glanced inquiringly
up, he smiled and said nothing.

THE MIRROR ON THE BRIDGE

"Didn't I tell you those stairs were
dangerous. Oh, they are pretty.
Very pretty. Very artistic, I'm sure.
But, they're not safe. I told you.
Did you see me fall? I told you that
someone was going to fall and go
all the way to the bottom and be
hurt, terribly. Oh, it's hurt me.
Terribly! Is there blood on my
face? I told you . . ."

Dorry slipped away from James
and to the farthest corner, where
she sat down. Her own right knee
was bleeding. Her arm ached. Her
fingers ached.
Her husband bent over his wife

and his wife kept on. "Nobody
listens. Although I never lie. Why
wouldn't you listen? Now, do you
see? She threw me right down all
those iron stairs - and hurt me so
. . . Oh . . ."
Helen's voice mingled with that
sad and terrible sound as she
greeted the doctor.
Bart came away from that couch
and touched Dorry's shoulder. She
drew her coat over her injured knee.
She looked up and shook her head
just slightly. He turned, like a man
driven almost to distraction. The
voice went on.
"Doctor? Will I die? She wants
me to, you know. She hates me. Oh.
why should she hate me and throw
me down when I gave up every-
thing? I never even complained."
Then at last James and the doctor

and Captain Bowers were carrying
Sybil out and away.
The big room seemed empty.

Quiet. Oh, blessed quiet! Bart had
gone, too.
Helen Mallory said to Dorry.
"Here. You had better have some."
She Dut a glass into Dorry's hand.
"Drink it. It's brandy. Always drink
something."
Dorry held it and the liquid
sloshed.
Bart had not eone with them. He
was coming back into the house,
now. He came to them and nut
Helen gently aside. Dorry looked up
and could not bear what she saw
in his face. So she straightened her
right leg suddenly and made a
whimper of nain.

"Hey, that's nasty," he said

sharoly. "Better fix that. I'll get the
sti'ff." He swuno away.
Dorry, with the brandv sloshing

in the little glas~. locked down at
her lacerated kneecap and the
blood. "It's not much." «he said.
Helen said. "That's right. But give
him a minute."

c

KJO Dorry looked at

her. Helen was perched on a chair
arm. She was sipping brandy. In
her bright eyes, Dorry thought,
there was something better than
pity. There was wisdom.

Dorry said to her, "Sybil is his

wife."

"Oh, yes." Helen changed hands on
her glass.

"Wnat am I going to do?"
"Do?" said Helen, "that's right."
She.v was erect where she had
perched her dumpy little body, and

she looked quaintly childish, licking
her fingers. But Helen was not a
child.
" 'Do' is the word you want." said

Helen. "I try to listen to James,
you know. Sometimes it's madden-
ing, the simple way he sees things.
But James is often right."
Dorry was listening as hard as
she could.
"Women," said Helen, "and some
men, try to feel their way." Her
eyes slipped sideways. "I'm so ner-
vous! I've been scared about to
death! I'm ready for hysterics."
Helen bent her small body forward,
"And I've had two glasses of brandy
and I'll tell you something.
"Right now I am saying to my-
self, 'Oh that Sybil, she never was
as stable as I am. Ha, ha, who was
right, eh? She should have listened
to me, that Sybil-with her airs.'
And that's not very nice. No, it
isn't. Only . . .'.

"Only . . .?" Dorry begged.
"Only I know it," said Helen, and
she grinned and lilted her glass as
if to toast a triumph. "And so,
I'll do all right."
They stared brightly at each
other. Then Helen said, with per

4 LL characters in the novels, serials,

- and short stories which appear
in The Australian Women's Weekly
are fictitious and have no refer-
ence to any living person.

feet knowledge of the devil under
the balcony, "You did very well."

Dorry began to tingle as if her
blood were released to flow.
Bart came with a bottle of anti-
septic and some gauze and tape.
He would have gone down on his
knees, but Dorry snatched at the
things and said, "I can do it."
Helen said, at the same time, as
if they had had a treaty between
them, "I have to go home now."
She rose from her perch and swayed
and said, "Whoops!"
Bart looked at her. "You'd better
not drive."
"Oh, would you take me?" Helen
sounded very feminine and help-
less. She swayed there and went
on dreamily, or as if liquor, shock,
nerves, the sudden loss of tension,
or all of these had loosened her
tongue helplessly:
"Begin to think you never have

an evil thought . . . Whoops! . .
Then there's the mirror. Every-
thing's your own shadow. There's
nobody else ou* there-that you
can see . . . They all wear your
faces . . . Bart. I must go . . ."

Helen swayed off toward the
door and Bart said, "Dorry, you re
not hurt any worse? Are you all
right? I know what you did, darl-
ing ..."
"Captain Bowers would have done

it better." Dorry said. "Please take
her home, Bart."

So he turned.
Dorry had dressed her knee,

changed her dress, combed her hair,
disposed of the remains of the lunch
she had begun so long ago, and
composed herself. Even the house
seemed composed. It settled down
around her, stone and wood and
^lass, wrought to a beautiful shape,
neither good nor bad, just here.
Bart came in silence, too distressed

and tormented to greet her lightly,

or even at all.

S HE pushed away

some cowardly impulses ... to
babble and chirp comfort, to touch
him and ask for comfort. She said,
without any cushioning, "You'll have
to watch over Sybil, be sure they're
doing the best that can be done.
You'll probably have to talk to the
doctors quite a lot, to help them.
There is no way you'll get out of

that."

"No," he said sombrely. "There
is no way I'll get out of that."
"And you'll have to work . . ."
A flicker of surprise lit in his

eye.

"You'll get the Job." Dorry said.
But he stopped her. "I am going
to have to go over and over the
whole fourteen years, whether i am
to blame . . . and how much.
Whether this has been latent-and
how long . . . What it is . . . "

"I know."

"How can I ask you to put up

with all this?"

"Why don't you ask me what I
intend to do?" she said. "I intend
to live with you and keep whatever
house. I'll keep your books, too. I

can do that."

She saw the struggle on his face,

whether to think this was childishly
charming. But she was not his
child. She went to him and put
her hands on his arms.

"Listen, Bart. 1 married you. If

you had a father and mother I'd
have married them, too-in a way.
If you had children. I certainly
would have married them. You had
a wife. Well? That's the way it

is."

She felt his muscles jump, and he
lifted his arms and swept hers down
and was holding her. For a moment
she thought he was going to cry,
or go to pieces. But she was not
his mother. She stood quietly.

He stiffened and lifted his head
and looked down into her face, in-
tently. "Don't . dream that
there won't be misery."
"Many a day," she said. "For me,
too. But not every day."
She gave him the deepest open-
ing of her eyes that she could, and
let her heart fly toward him. It
was the only thing to do. And it
could be done. In spite of the devil,
if you knew him where he was . . .
it could be done.
Because there-in the trouble in
the torment, and the brighter and
the better for it:-bloomed a deep
delight.
"My friend." he said.
(Copyright (c) Charlotte Arm-
strong, 1963.)

none Help

THE MIRROR ON THE BRIDGE

They whirled toward the exit. Bart

steered her cleverly, so that as the

music stopped Dorry was facing the

Mallorys' table.

They were there, like three birds

in a row, Dorry thought. Helen

plump as a dove, James and his

owly eyes, and then, between them,

that raven-haired one who was por-

ing over the menu, not looking up.

So Dorry smiled and nodded to

the Mallorys, who returned her

greeting in kind. Then Bart's hand

was turning her, and they were

leaving.

He put her into the car, his

car, and started off with anger in

his foot. The car stuttered and

lagged ' and Bart cursed it. He

had to gentle it into a willingness

to proceed, and he did so. They

shot straight across the flat part of

town and found the little crooked

turn toward their hill road. At

the very base of the hill a narrow

bridge took the road over a dry

ravine. At the far end, temporarily,

there was a half circle of red lan-

terns, guarding an excavation, mak-

ing that end of the bridge even

narrower than normal.

T

A HERE would one

day be a new bridge, but now, as

they were rattling over the old

bridge, a pair of headlights jumped

into view and seemed to block their

way completely. Bart did not jam on

the brakes. He seemed to seek for

safety in more speed. The car leapt.

The other car slid by them with

inches to spare. Dorry felt the re-

action seize her whole body.

"Idiot," Bart snapped. He put his

foot down and made a run for the

hill. He swooped in upon their

own concrete apron. The garage

door was open and he seemed to

ram his ailing car inside. He

slammed the garage door down. His

key chattered in the lock of the

house door. Then they were in

their beautiful dwelling place, look-

ing along the great room to the

glass wall.

Dorry slipped the lacy woollen

scarf from her bare shoulders, al-

though she was cold now and still

trembling from the near-disaster on

the bridge. Her teeth were ready

to chatter.

Bart puffed out his cheeks and

let the breath gush forth. "I

asked for it, I guess." he said rue-

fully.

"We might have known they'd be

there."

She could only swallow.

"So guess what? She wants to

come up here."

"She does?" said Dorry. Who

does? Oh, yes. Sybil. Her fright on

the bridge and the image of Sybil

blended in Dorry's mind. She shook

herself to attention.

"And I should have told her to

go to the devil!" Now Bart let his

anger gush. "You know why I

didn't? Because James is on the

damn committee to recommend for

the University. And because I need

his influence. I was afraid to tell

his sister to go to hell. How do you

like that for integrity?"

Dorry sat down on the couch.

"Bart," she said slowly, "why should

you have told her to go to the

devil?"

He turned to look at her.

"The job is important, isn't it?"

Dorry said. "Why shouldn't it count

for more than just her coming up

here? She isn't going to stay long,

is she? Why does she want to

come?"

"Why?" Bart exploded. "Oh, she

said why! And every word she said

was phony. Could she have that old

print of her Daddy's?" Bart began

to pace back and forth gesturing

and mimicking.

"She doesn't want that old print

of her Daddy's. Listen! I had to

rescue it from her wastebasket

years and years ago. She not only

didn't know what it was but had

never bothered to find out.

"She's given me a considerable

amount of hell for fishing it out of

the trash and having it framed.

For twelve years that I know of

she never once caught sight of it

on my wall that she didn't sneer at

me, all over again, for cherishing

junk. Dorry. I'm sorry . . ."

"No, no. Go on," Dorry said. She

was thinking he has to be able to

go on. He has to be able to tell

me what he is thinking and feeling.

I am his wife now. He needs to be

able to tell me. Under these

thoughts there were other layers,

curiosity and shock.

Bart said, "I offered to send the

print down to her, but no. Seems

she wants to look over 'Daddy's

books.' Listen, Sybil never read a

book in her life! Furthermore, she

is not only not sentimental about

her dear old Daddy, she happened

to loathe him!

"She was very well aware that he

was on his la^t legs when we were

being divorced. And she was quite

pleased when he did die, right on

schedule, so that she got a nice bit

of change out of his estate and I

did not." Bart looked at her and

said, "What terrible things to say!

Eh? But true."

"Oh, Bart," said Dorry sadly.

She herself was always wounded by

ugliness. Anger distressed her.

"That's not what °ot me so much.

When she said she'd like to 'see the

house once more.' All over-pious

nostalgia! What you don't know

. . . Sybil hated this house with

such a passion that she trapped

herself into giving me a divorce on

account of it. And that's a truth I

happen to know.

"So what she is up to. who can

say. But I do not believe in her

sentiments. I know better. I know

worse. I know."

Dorry sat verv still. She knew

now what Sybil's coming meant.

It meant that there had been be-

tween a man and a woman an angry

bitterness and Dorry had no way

to understand. It meant the bit-

terness was not dead yet.

Dorry said aloud, "Bart, did you

think I wouldn't imagine there had

been any bitterness?"

He said, "So help me, I've tried

to be the little gent, but it doesn't

come natural."

She cried. "Then tell me."

"It was war," he said solemnly.

"Everything I've ever done was done

in spite of her. I'm the artist. I'm

supposed to be erratic. But I can

tell you there's nothing like the

erratic behaviour of a woman with

the short view. She doesn't know

there's discipline in art. She doesn't

know there's discipline, period.

"We fought! Times I should take

the regular job, do the safe thing,

climb the daily ladder . . . and my

life's blood bleeding out the hours

. . what did she care for that?

Oh, no, the short view.

"And next week-jump at some

quick money. Never mind for what.

Take the cash, so she'd have the

right clothes that week. She could

wear what other women wore, only

better, and go and preen herself.

Dorry, she thinks . . ." Bart pounded

his fists together, "that architec-

ture, the very art itteli it ol very

little consequence. Get paid. Put

up tour walls. To fuss about lt

very much is pretty sissy for a

grown man."

"Oh, Bart . . ."

"Never wanted one thing that

mattered to me. Didn't want kids.

Why not? Oh, some short view!

Her precious figure! Couldn't see

past the baby era. Oh, that's a

cold woman, Dorry-a very cold

fish. And she can be meaner than

a snake. Don't tell me that she

would 'like to see the house one«

more'."

Dorry opened her lips, but Bart

raged on.

"This house? My house? After

the City Hall job I took the bit in

my teeth. I was hell-bent to build

this house and I did it over, you

might say, Sybil's dead body. Not

one single solitary item here that

she didn't fight. The site. The size.

The style. The materials. The plan.

The detail. Now she claims to have

some pious wish to see it again. Oh,

come on." Bart struck himself on

the forehead. "Not for one spiit

second do I believe that!"

"But it's so beautiful," said

Durry wistfully, not wanting things

to be so ugly. "Maybe she regret*

"Didn't I tell you," Bart said,

"that the house broke us un at

last. She ordered me to chop up

the bedroom wing and ruin the

lines. I said I would not. I had

given up the war, you see. I was

just doing. And I was getting some-

where, in my way. I was on the

move, and she knew that."

"She couldn't bear it, that's the

trouble. Don't think I don't know

that everything she wanted she

had to get in spite of me. All

wrong. Always, that's the way it was.

"Well, she accused me of being

in love with the house, not her.

And I told her the truth. So she

said, 'Then marry the house and

divorce me.' Maybe she thought

she was threatening; something so

terrible that I'd fold up. But it

was as good an excuse as any-to

break it off."

His face was b'Uer and Do>-v

closed her eyes. Then she heard

him saying. "Heaven knows I un

sounding mean. 1 don't like t ie

sound. I know you don't. Dor.v,

you are a little girl who has never

seen much meanness. I love it that

you haven't."

HE felt his phv>-i.

cal presence as he sank do.v¡i > :i

the couch beside her. "Dorry, cit . :.

you see, I never knew a friend v

woman. It was the war between t.ie

sexes all the way all the lony,.

totten, miserable way . . "

"Ah, Bart," she said lovinglv

"Honey," he said, ' you're the little

innocent sparrow that got caught

in the badminton game. I don't

want you hurt. That's why I should

have told her to go to the devil."

"But I won't be." Dorry said

"Hope not," he said tiredly.

His body tipped toward her. Now

she was holding his head in her

arms. Dorry's heart grew to the

stature of the comforter.

"How can I be hurt?" she whis-

pered into his hair. "I'm richer

than anybody I told you! Let

her come." Dorry s-.iid, reckless with

love. "Nothing can bother me."

So she held his distress to her

heart, to heal it, and counted this

her privilege. He had been hurt

so much, she thought. But she also

thought to herse»; TOOT Sybil

Ul

a

S

m

LU

X

r

Z
O

et
o
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0;

I

Ul

Z

r

more. She said. "Sybil, remember

ou've been living all alone. "You've

een spending too much time just

going over and over the past. You

haven't had enough to do. You

haven't been having any fun . . ."

To Helen's slight surprise, this

line of talk seemed to be having

an effect.

"No. I haven't." Sybil said, almost

tearfully. "I've been lonely. I hope

you never have to be so lonely."

"Sybil, dear," said Helen, "you are

young and attractive. You should

have fun."

IT

A AER face was losing

the look of white rage.

"Nobody hates you." Helen con-

tinued. "Nobody wants to hurt you."

"I have been hurt . . . Oh, I

have been hurt ..."

"I know, dear. But not by an

automobile. Nobody wanted to

run you off the road." Helen was

feeling encouraged, and she went

too far.

"Sybil, you'll feel better if you

will just think a moment. The

reason we know it couldn't have

been Dorry . . . You said you saw

her face in the driver's seat?

Two feet away?"

"I saw her. I know that. Hang-

ing out her window. Hating me."

"Ah. no," said Helen meaning,

in her heart, to be helpful,

"because Dorry's car has a right

hand drive. So that you couldn't

have. It's a little English car . . . "

Sybil sat very still. The devil

.was intelligent in his way.

"You must put it all down," said

Helen, "to feeling upset, and

brooding too much. Now, every-

body wants to help you. There

is nothing to be afraid of. If

you would just think. Think about

it. Sybil."

The door flew open and there

was Bart.

"Where's Dorry?" he demanded.

Sybil dragged her thick lashes

up.

"She's all right," said Helen,

meaning Sybil, meaning Dorry,

meaning everybody, meaning

"hush."

"What's happened to Dorry?"

"Oh, she just-kept away," Helen

said. "Sybil's feeling much better.

She realises, now, that Dorry

couldn't have been driving hjer car

on the bridge."

Svbil said. "Oh, yes. I realise.

Now."

She got up. She looked at Bart

and he looked at her and Helen

Mallory quaked.

Sybil said, "So it was you. driv-

ing on the right-hand side."

Bart started toward her. Sybil ran

on the carpet. She ran to the slid-

ing glass. She tugged at it.

"Where are you going?" cried

Helen.

"You tell me she couldn't have

been driving. Then he was! Then,

it was the two of them. Because I

saw her. I did! Did! Did! Do you

think I'm crazy? Dp you think I

don't know what I see?"

Bart came along the carpet.

"Sybil, will you please-?"

Sybil said. "Don't come near me."

She yanked the sliding screen back.

She went out upon the balcony.

Helen said. "Be careful. Bart."

Her hand was at her soft throat.

"Where is James?"

"I don't know." BTt said. He

walked toward the glass wall. Be-

hind him. Helen Mallory sfx>d up

and started toward the telephone.

Bart stood ia the opening from

house to balcony. He said, "Sybil,

what is it now?"

She was out there and she re-

treated. Her hips struck the

wrought-iron railing and she began

to slide them along it, toward the

opening through which the stairs

descended. She spoke and her dis-

torted voice terrified him. "You

drove. You wanted me to go down

to the bottom of the pit and be des-

troyed so you'd be rid of me. I

should have known. I should have

known."

Bart said, "That isn't true." Said

it mechanically, with no hope that

she would hear and heed. She never

had in fourteen years.

"I really don't care," she cried.

"Did you think of that? I really

don't care. Tm willing for you to

be rid of me. Why not?" She

turned her head, on her long neck,

and looked behind her, looked down.

The balcony was high above the

sloping ground.

Bart thought "You'll be sorry

when I'm dead." The child idea.

But watch it! She could. He was

pwolvsed in the ñ^or to the house.

He dared not move.

He said, coaxingly, "Sybil, come

in. Let's talk."

"No." she said. "No." she re-

peated loudly. "No," she cried out.

"You never listen to me!"

Under the balcony, Dorry was

listening.

"You've made them all think I am

a villain," Sybil was crying. "Crazy!

All right, then-that's the end. I

am not a villain. I have done

nothing. I have been done-to. I

have been exiled. I have been sent

away.

"I have been cheated and threat-

ened. I have been in peril of my life.

All for no reason. I never wished

you any harm. Why couldn't you let

me live?"

"I want you to live," he said.

He might as well have said the

opposite.

"What you want you'll have.

You'll have. I don't care. Why

should I live? No one believes any-

thing I say."

"Sybil . . ." Dorry could hear

Bart's terrible patience. "I want to

talk to you."

"What is there to talk about?

More of her lies? Her insolence?"

"Dorry isn't here. Just you and

I." His voice had a dead quality.

"The way it used to be, and still

is," he said.

Into the house, behind Bart, came

James Mallory and Captain Bowers.

Helen stopped them with a high

sweep of her arm. She said into the

phone, "You had better come up

here right away, Dr. Crane. It's

terribly urgent." She hung up and

put herself close to James, imped-

ing him.

It was Bowers who walked softly

on the carpet and came up behind

Bart, who quickly put his hands on

either side of the opening where he

stood, and blocked Bowers' way.

"Sybil, come and talk to me?"

"No."

"Come and talk to James, then?"

"To James?" said Sybil. "My

dear brother, who is against me,

too?"

She lifted her body to its tallest.

"Why should I live?" she asked

the sky. "When a scheming little

nothing like Dorry Brown can walk

right in and take everything

everything I ever had."

Down underneath. Dorry, shak-

ing with pity and fear and anger,

all compounded, thought to her-

self, she's too far out. She can't

get back. Oh, Bart, my darling,

why should she live to torment

you so? Dorry could imagine the

body hurtling down before her

eyes. And then little Do'r" .

all horror, all sorrow, rushing to

do what she could but too late

And then with a shock she saw

what the devil was up to-and she

kicked off her shoes and began

to creep softly toward the bottom

of the stairs.

Sybil was up there. Dorry could

see her back, as she edged her

hips along the rail, close to the

top of the steps. Bart must be in

the door. Dorry could hear him

clearly.

"Sybil, is it true that I never

did understand you?" Oh, his

torment and his patience! Oh, the

writhing of his soul to be saying

what was so inane!

But he had known what would

stop her. Sybil stood still, at the

top of the flight of steps.

Her voice was monotonous. You

never will. You never knew . . ,

Dorry began to creep, shoeless,

up the steps behind her.

"I'm sorry." Bart moistened his

mouth. He had felt the departure

of Bowers, a presence removed from

behind him. He knew he had to

keep Sybil standing there. He said,

"What can I do, Sybil? Will you

please tell me what I can do?"

This time he had judged poorly.

She tensed. "Why," she said, "what

do you think you can do, now?

You're married, aren't you? You

had to marry Dorry Brown. So

you can't do anything. It would just

be so much nicer to have me out

of her way.

"All rignt. I told you. I don't care.

She can have you. She can have

everything. She can have me out

of her way, if that's what she wants.

I'd be very glad. I'll be the one

to give you to her . . ." Sybil threw

up both arms. "Forever! Forever!

Enjoy it!" she cried, with malice

triumphant. "Forever!"

Sybil whirled. Dorry was behind

her. Sybil cast away her balance.

Dorry had onë hand on the iron

rail to the steps and it was frozen

there, with all the strength she had.

Sybil's body fell upon hers with such

force that she was slammed down

upon her knees and felt the pain.

She might have Ditched sideways.

But something soft and firm was

right behind her.

s

K_»YBIL. caught against

Dorry's body, folded over it, limp as

a rag-baby. And Bowers' hands were

strong to take hoid of her shoulders

and lift her away. Bart came. They

lifted Sybil up and away. Bowers,

who had come up the steps, took

her. Bart said. "Dorry, are you all

right?"

"All right. Just let me . . . Let

me stay a minute . . . Let me alone

So Dorry knelt where she was.

Knelt as if she prayed. Her fore-

head touched the cold edge ol the

balcony floor. The hot sun beat

upon her bowed back. She heard

the twittering of James Mallory's

voice and paid no attention. After

a long time, slowly, she unfroze her

aching hand.

James helped her creep into the

big room. Bart knew they had en-

tered, by an alteration in the light,

and turned his head, just briefly

Sybil was stretched supine upon the

big couch and her voice went on

and on.

THE MIRROR ON THE BRIDGE

what she's lost!" And she knew
that her lips moved with a small
quirk at the corners that signified
not her pity but her victory.

Bart sat up and smiled at her.
The next day, however, Dorry
watched herself go through some
amusingly female manoeuvres. First,
she slicked up the house to per-
fection. Then, after Bart had gone
restlessly off to snatch a bite down-
town with a man who was on the
committee, Dorry washed her hair
and set it in rollers and clips. She
bathed, put on her prettiest lin-
gerie, creamed her face, laid out
the blue dress to wear. But first
she would nap, to be fresh.

D ORRY fell asleep

rehearsing the manner she would
wear. Quiet, very polite, quite will-
ing to be background, not wishing
to assert herself, but, even so, the
present mistress of this house, surely
and truly.

The doorbell woke her. She blinked
at the clock. It was two-fifteen.
Bart would be at his meeting. Dorry
got up, put her feet into her scuffs,
buttoned her robe, cast one glance
at her shining face, her plnned-up
hair, and went to the door.
Sybil said, "Oh, I've disturbed
you. I'm sorry."
"It doesn't matter," said Dorry,
trying to smile.
"You do remember me?" said
Sybil.
This couldn't even be answered.

"Will you come in?" stammered
Dorry. "We d-didn't expect .. . Bart
isn't here."

Sybil walked past Dorry's con-
fusion. Sybil was wearing black and

earls, a little hat, gloves, very
andsome high-heeled shoes. She

was taller than Dorry, and she held
herself well. She looked around the
beautiful room, as if it stopped her
breath.

Behind her Dorry clenched her

jaw. She willed herself to banish
her confusion, her surprise, her dis-
advantage, and her resentment. She
said, "I must apologise for not be-
ing dressed. I was lying down."
Dorry heard her own mind say
"on his bed" with a little lick of
triumph and she was horrified. "Now
come, she said to herself, this isn't
going to be a cat-fight. So stop that.
She can't make it into a cat-fight
because I won't let her."

Sybil said, "Then I must apologise
for waking you. I . . . was driving
around you see . . ." Her voice
trailed off.
"You wanted some things?" said
Dorry pleasantly. "Books, I be-

lieve?"
"I do," said Sybil with an air of

being relieved that Dorry knew
about this. (As if Bart wouldn't
have told me, Dorry thought.) "I
know where they are," said Sybil.
"That is" - she frowned a little -
"I think I do."
"They are still in Bart's work-
room," said Dorry gently. She would
not fight. "And the print you want
is down there, too. Will you come
down?"
"Thank you." said Sybil rather
humbly.
Dorry went only a step ahead ol

her to the sliding glass, not too
obviously, she hoped, leading the
way that this woman already knew
She slid the panel and the screen
and let Sybil step out upon the bal-
cony first. Sybil went to the top
of the flight of iron steps that
curved so gracefully to where Bart's
workroom was built into the hill
below, and hesitated. Dorry ges-
tured, smiling.

Sybil went down first. At the

bottom she stood aside. Dorry passed
her to open the sliding panel to the
big room. Dorry stood aside and
Sybil, smiling, preceded her and
stepped in.
lt was like a dance. Dorry thought
-a figured pattern of deference
that had elements of mockery in

it.

Bart's room was for working. Here
he had his big drawing-board under
his working lights, his cabinets for
holding the tools of his trade, his
records, his papers. His big flat
topped desk was heaped with mater-
ial for his present research - all
about a campus - its function, its
flow. There on the wall were the
old books.

Dorry stopped herself from say-
ing, "There they are," remember-
ing that this woman knew the
house as well as she did. Dorry
went over to the spot where the
print was hanging-a stiff, old
fashioned thing it was, and began
to disengage it from its hook. Sybil
was looking at the books on a cer-

tain shelf.

Dorry put the picture gently down
upon the desk-top. She said, "If
I can help you . . . but I don't sup-
pose."
"No, no," said Sybil. "It's just
that these were Daddy's, and some
of them ..." Her gloved finger
tipped a book out of the row.
"I'm surprised that Bart has kept
them, really," she said. "I've never
seen him read one."
Now then, thought Dorry, is she

letting me know how well she knows
him? All right, she does. That's
true. Dorry was feeling an inner
storm that quite surprised her.
When she valiantly said nothing,
Sybil looked over her shoulder.
"James' office misses you," she said
brightly.
An impossible remark! "Oh. I
don't suppose so, really," said Dorry,
as gently as she could.

"This is quite a house, isn't it?'

said Sybil as if she floundered nerv-
ously. She had a book in her hand.
She moved to put it on the desk
top.
Dorry entrenched herself in as

deep a calm as she could. "Yes,"

she said.

Sybil sighed. "I don't suppose I'll
ever help design another."
The impossible things this woman

said! (You didn't help, thought
Dorry. You fought it. You don't
know that I know.) But she held
herself steadily quiet.
"Is Bart very busy?" Sybil's eyes
raked the desk, did they?

"Not too-"

"He lives well," Sybil said, turn-

ing away.
Impossible! Dorry wished this

woman would go away. She said
aloud, trying to sound simply help-
ful, "Will you need a box, do you
think? Or perhaps some cord?"

Sybil took two more books from

the shelf, decisively and quickly.
She said, "Cord? There's a ball of
cord in the bottom drawer over
there."

Dorry controlled her impulse to
snap. I know. Remember, I live
here? She crossed meekly to the
bank of drawers and opened the
bottom one. The ball of cord was
there, of course. Bart had the habit
of keeping his things in perfect

order.

Dorry, with her back to Sybil,

took her time about plucking it
out. But she would not take too
much time. She wasn't going to be
flustered or caught trying not to
be flustered, either. When she turned

she saw that Sybil had one of the
drawers of Bart's desk open. What
was she after? Scissors? Knife?
That wasn't where Bart kept such
objects.

Dorry said, just a little sharply,
"What is it?"
Sybil was looking down into the
drawer. Her cheek twitched. "Bart
does keep things-just so," she said.

"Doesn't he?"

"Some things," said Dorry tone-

lessly. She was very angry now;
she didn't know what to do. Sybil,
who knew so much, must know that
Bart kept his letters in that drawer,
all neatly stacked and rubber
banded, chronologically arranged,
and she had no right . . .

Sybil put her hand into the
drawer and took out a thin packet.
"I'll take these, too," she said.

Dorry took one quick step that
voicelessly protested.
"Oh, they're mine," said Sybil,

and her dark eyes looked up. "My
own letters."
"Bart didn't mention that you
wanted your letters," Dorry said.
"Oh, but he'll understand." Sybil
tipped her head. "We've had to cor-
respond on occasion. But I think
now I'd rather not have these let-
ters kept . . ." She trailed off.
Dorry said, stiffly, "I don't read
my husband's letters."
Sybil was opening her black hand-

bag and putting the packet of letters
inside. She looked up. "Oh, I don't
mean to imply . . Oh, not at all

. ." She smiled.

Dorry said, "I wish that you had

come when Bart was here. I don't
open his desk drawers, either." Her
heart was pounding.

Sybil stood still, with the bag in

both hands. She did not seem to
take offence. She said to Dorry
quietly and rather sadly, "I wish
that you would try to understand.
Won't you see that I can never
write quite the same kind of letter,
again? Won't you see that it is
quite a different thing to write to
your husband? Won't you see that
what I am doing is just-accepting
that?" She smiled, sweetly sad.
Dorry swallowed. She managed a
nervous smile herself.

SYBIL said, "These

were written, after all, to a man I
had known very well for many
years." Dorry thought that her dark
eyes were shadowed with sorrow.
(But I can't have any more ot
this, she thought. I can't listen to
her tell me this.)
So Dorry said, aloud, "Have you
everything that you came for then?
The books?"

"Just these," Sybil picked up the

three volumes. "No need to tie
them. Thank you so much."

"And the print?" said Dorry.
"Oh, yes . . ."
"I'll carry it," said Dorry. "Will

you come up? Would you like to go
through the rest of the house. Bart
said you wanted to see it."
Sybil, carrying the books and her

bag, did not reply but went to the
door and held her long neck bent
while Dorry opened lt. Dorry closed

it behind them.
Sybil deferred at the bottom ot
the steps and Dorry went up ahead,
feeling as if her bare heels must
be the most conspicuous and ugliest
sight in the world. Dorry slid back
the living-room door. Sybil went
through.
"Would you like to put the things
down?" said Dorry. "May I bring
you some tea, perhaps? Will you
stay until Bart comes home?" Dorry
was determined now to be as cordial
as she could possibly manage. She

THE MIRROR ON THE BRIDGE

Then, right here in the bank,

before his eyes, he saw Chet Bowers,
talking to Barton Rolfe, and James,
with an access of hope for some
facts, hurried his steps to them.
"Morning." Bowers turned. "5

went by your house, James, to make
a report. We found the car."
"A truck, you say?" Bart was
impatient.

"Right. One of those snazzy pick-

ups that looks like a convertible,
almost. A good lead, see, because
there aren't many of them around
town. The driver was an Oriental
besides, as Sperling told me. So we
located him all right."
"You . . located him?" said
James hoarsely.
"Right. Seems he and his wife
were coming home. They're care-
takers on the Merriweather place,
around the hill. So they're coming
to the bridge and they see head-
lights, on the other side, acting
erratic. Fellow thought it was a
drunk driver, wavering all over the

road, so

"Chap's name is Mori . . . This

Mori, he knows the bridge and the
excavation at the other end and all.
He thinks the better part of valor is
to stay where he is till this car
makes it over the narrow bridge. So
he stoDS. Townside of the bridie
see? Waits. Sees that car just take
off for the verge.

"Well . . . seems his wife's ner-

vous. She thought it was going
over. He had to kind of help her
get hold of herself. So they are still
standing where they were when the
Sperlings pass them. They stop to

help.

"Well, he's got his hysterical wife

(practically) on his hands, but he
does his duty. When they cross
over he asks Bob Sperling if there's
anything he can do and Bob waves
him by. This Mori doesn't know a
thing about old Winslow getting
hurt. So why should he come to
us? We found him, though."

"Yes, but what .?" James

started.

"We got two witnesses who say
there wasn't any car on that bridge,
at all," says Bowers, "when Mrs
Rolfe went off the road "
"Then what did happen?"

B ART said, "I'll

tell you." His eyes seemed to have
gone backward into his head. "Sybil
went up to the Lookout, sat there

and cried. She told me so. No fit
state to drive a car. Dorry's dream
was in her mind, whether she knew
it consciously or not. That's what
took her up there in the first place.

"So coming down, at the bridge,
she must be somehow thinking to
herself that this was the place .
She sees the lights of this Mori's
car. Ah, can't you imagine? She
gets it into her head that she is
being attacked. And all the rest
was-her delusion And it's

terrible."

"That's it, I'd say," said Bowers,
in his friendly unhurried way.
"I'm not too surprised. Checked it
out, see. Your car, Mr Rolfe, was
in the shop, all right. And Dorry's
car was cold as stone Checked
that out before I even rang your
bell. Seeing's you don't lock your
garage " Bowers was cheerful

But Bart looked at James. "So
now we know I'm sorry What's

to be done?"

James Mallory swallowed hard
"Listen. Bart. Helen just called.
Sybil's up at your house."
"Why?" Bart stiffened in a

flash. James goggled. Before he
could reply, Bart was gone.
"Helen was going - It's all . . ."

James' voice died-uselessly pur-
suing. James said to bis friend,
anxiously, "You talked to her,
Chet, did you? How did she seem?
How did she take all this?"
"Quietly," Bowers said with his

Prows high. ''Said she guessed
she had got confused."
James sighed. "Helen thinks
you upset her ..."
"Hmmm . . ." Bowers' thoughts

turned backward. "Only thing . . .
She sounded kinda vague and
unconvinced, you know? I was
making my point. I said this
Mori would have no reason to
gitfe false testimony. And she
gave me a funny look just then.
"And then when I went on to
say how I'd checked out Rolfe's
car and Dorry's, too. Then she
just shut up. Shut up cold. Know
what I mean? Didn't even say
'goodbye.' " The policeman mused
back, on his memories, with
accumulating alarm.
James said, painfully, "What's
her position now, Chet? My poor

sister."

"It might be up to some jury.
"The old fellow has settled."
"I can't say, then. I wouldn't

worry too much on the legal
side. I wonder . . . Think I'd
better go along up to the Rolfe

house."

"Wait for me," said James,

steadily. "I've got no car. I'll
have to see to my sister, Chet.
I'll have to go." James was right.

When Dorry saw James Mallory's
car coming across the bridge with
Helen at the wheel, she stood up
and made herself conspicuous.
Helen saw her and stopped.
"I didn't know what else to do,"
said Dorry.
"You did right," said Helen

"Get in." Her pink face was tight

and resolute.

"Should I? Are you going?"
"I've called James. He'll be on
his way. Yes. I'm going up there.
You'd better get in. You don't
have to go inside the house." said
Helen, impatiently.

Dorry hesitated.
"Dorry, you cannot sit upon that
rock. Now, get in, child."

Dorry got in
"What did she do?" Helen
asked.
Dorry, riding beside her said,

"Nothing. Nothing. What she
said I couldn't understand. Is
Bart coming?"

"I don't know about Bart."
"I'm so sick for Bart." Dorry
bent forward in pain.
"There isn't time," said Helen
When they pulled up before the

house Dorry said with renewed
alarm, "Helen, why don't we both
stay outside and wait?"
"No, no, I had better see what
she is up to," said Helen "She
won't hurt me, you know."

Dorry got out. "Look. I'll
climb down to Bart's workroom
and use the phone. If I can find
Bart He'll have to know."
"Yes," said Helen "All right
Be careful "
Helen put her little plump feet
to the surface of the road, wiggled
to make her coat hang straight,
put her fingers tight around hf»r
purse, ano drew herself up She
went to the door of the house
It was not completely closed So.
calling Sybil's name, she pushed
it open and went in.

Sybil was sitting on the couch,
her whole body rigid. Her head
was high; her dark eyes glowered.

"He'll be here, in a minute,"
said Helen soothingly. "Are you
all right?"
"Who will be here?"

"Why, James. Sybil, what's
happened?"
"Nobody believed me," said
Sybil. "But I saw her. I knew.
Now, they'll believe me. She's
gone." Sybil's mouth was ugly
with contempt. Her mouth had
always been able to be ugly.

H ELEN advanced

and sat down beside her sister-in
law. She did not feel fear. But she
took care not to touch Sybil. "Tell
me about it." she said, thinking that
this was safe and it would pass the
time . . .

Dorry slithered down the east

side of the house, through the
plants again. Below, she crossed
the entire face of the house and
reached Bart's workroom. The
sliding door would not budge.
Bart hadn't been down here, this
day, and he locked it at night.
It was still locked.
Dorry looked behind her at the
curving iron stairway. No, better
not go up on the balcony. She
could be plainly seen through the
glass wall and she was the red
rag to the bull. Wait then.
Lie low. Wait down here. She
would be safe. Although that wasn't
the point, exactly. Dorry began to
think she ought to climb back up
to the road-couldn't think why.
James would come soon. Some-

body else would come who could
deal with Sybil. Dorry was the last
one who ever could. It wasn't a
question of her safety. It was her
total helplessness. How could she
live? How could she bear the help-
lessness? Dorry moved under the
overhang of the balcony and put
her back against the foundation
wall.

In the great room above, Sybil,
with her lips drawn to a bitter
grimace, said to Helen, "I'll tell
you who will believe me. Bart will.
He knows I don't lie."

"Believe what, dear'"
"That Dorry Brown did run me
off the road at the bridge. No mat-
ter what anyone says. Oh, she hates
me, she's mean enough. She even
told you what she was going to
do. Oh, she waited there for me."
"Sybil, how could she know . . .?"
"Oh, she saw my car parked at

the Lookout. And don't think she
wouldn't know it was mine. I told
you how she had to carry things
for me. the poor old woman. She
put things in my car. She knew
it. So she saw her chance.
"She got out of the house and
down there and I saw her waiting
for me. I saw her lights on the
other side I saw her when she
passed me by. I knew her nasty
little face, all right. Not a one of
vou believer! me! How she's bribed
a gardener to say she wasn't there.
And Bowers he's on her side,

too."
"Sybil . ."
"Yes he is. Are you?"
"James and I," said Helen, "are
not on anyone's 'side.' "
"How do you know?" said Sybil

wildly 'When James had her in
his office all those years? How do
you know he's not on her side?"
Helen thought, oh, dear! Oh, dear!

She braced to endure. She thought
James must come in about a minute

THE MIRROR ON THE BRIDGE

wanted Sybil to be here still, when

Bart came. She didn't feel that she

had coped with this situation at all

well. She was flustered.

She babbled on, "In the meantime

if you'll excuse me, I can look more

respectable in about two minutes.

Perhaps there is something else that

you would like to take along? Will

you look around? Please do."

But Sybil did not put her burden

of three books down. She chose to

cut through all this and she said

with that sad look that made Dorry

squirm, "No, I must go. Thank you

for being so gracious when I was

rude enough to come too early.

Please believe I sincerely hope that

you will make Bart happy and be

very happy yourself."

Dorry could not think of a single

syllable to utter.

It was Sybil who broke the ten-

sion of her silence. "If you can just

tuck the print under my arm," she

said brightly.

So Dorry managed to say, "Oh,

please, it is heavy. Let me carry it

to the car for you."

"Why, thank you."

So Dorry opened the door to the

roadside. Sybil stepped through.

Dorry, in her scuffs and her robe,

went as far as the smart little black

car. The print and the books went

upon the seat. Sybil in her black

and her pearls got in.

She said, "Please tell Bart that

I am very grateful, and do forgive

me. I thought," said Sybil sadly,

"that you and I could face this a

little bit better if we faced it by

ourselves. Neither of us, I'm sure,

she said with the sad smile, "wants

Bart to be, in any way, tormen-

ted."

"No," choked Dorry.

Sybil put her elegantly shod foot,

her elegantly gloved hands on the

controls. "We are getting a new

bridge, I see," she said, carelessly.

"It is time."

"G-goodbye," Dorry stammered.

Sybil smiled, faintly, nodded, and

drove off.

They had not once called each

other by a name. Not by first

names; they were not such friends.

Not by last names; they had the

same one.

Mrs. Barton Rolfe, the second,

went back into her house, bare

heeled, shiny-faced, richer than

anybody. She went through to her

bathroom and began to fumble with

the rollers and the clips that

bristled upon her head. Oh, what

would Bart say? No, that wasn't the

question. What would she say to

Bart? Oh, must she tell him every

sentence, every nuance, used on

either side? Surely that would tor-

ment him. The cattiness! Although

she wondered, now, which of them

had been the catty one.

M AYBE Sybil had

meant to be kind in coming early,

so as not to put Bart between the

two of them. Yes, maybe not only

kind, but wise. And as for awkard

ness, the whole thing had been at

least as awkward for Sybil as for

Dorry. Hadn't it? Had it? Dorry

had better simply say to Bart that

Sybil had come, she had taken what

she had taken, she had gone away.

And yet . . . wouldn't that-~be, in

a way, to tell him lies?

Now, Dorry was possessed and

overwhelmed by a sense of division

and of woe . . . even of disaster.

Oh, no, she had not coped. She had

not done well at all. She hadn't

known what to do. She hadn't been

able to meet Sybil's frankness with

frankness. But how could she have?

Bart wouldn't be home for a while

yet. Dorry had time to cry.

Helen Mallory was disconcerted

when Sybil came in, carrying a few

books and a picture of some kind,

and, standing there in Helen's

foyer, began to cry.

James wasn't home yet. It was

only a quarter after three. Helen

was, in fact, due at the beauty

parlor right now. But she couldn't

walk away from a house-guest who

stood and sobbed.

"What's Happened? Sybil, please

. . ." Then Helen realised what the

objects were. "Oh, no! You didn't

go up there alone? Oh, Sybil, why

in the world did you do that?"

"Because I knew it wouldn't be

-easy for you," sobbed Sybil, "and

it wouldn't be easy for Bart . . .

and I didn't expect . . ."

Helen glanced at her watch. She'd

be late for the appointment.

She took the things out of Sybil's

arms. "You'd better come sit down

"I'm so cold ." wept Sybil,

shuddering.

Helen looked around, desperately.

She was in half a mind to call the

doctor. She remembered that a fire

was laid in the den. Helen gave up

her plans for her hair-do. No help

for that. "Come, shall I light a

fire?"

"Oh, yes," wept Sybil, "please

So Helen led her into the den and

crouched down to put a match to

the paper under the kindling. She

turned her face to where Sybil had

fallen into a chair.

"What happened, Sybil?" said

Helen severely. Now that she had

given up her own plans, she felt,

in the moment that Sybil had better

explain and it had better be good,

too. But Helen Mallory knew, with

good humor, her own pettiness for

exactly what it was, and she had

other resources. She and James had

a daughter, married now, and Helen

had dismissed her own concerns

before. So she summoned up her

female strength to listen and stand-

by where she was needed.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," wept Sybil,

"I didn't think I'd have such a re-

action. I never cry like this!"

"Maybe you need a good cry,"

said her sister-in-law, cheerfully,

"büt try to tell me."

"Oh. Helen. I hope vou will never

have to feel so humiliated."

"Was Dorry there?" asked Helen

with interest.

"Oh, yes, she was there."

"But what happened?"

Sybil put her hands out toward

the flames that were dancing up

now. "Helen, you know that house.

You know me. You know Bart. too.

You know how immaculate . . .

ho"- neat we both . ."

"Yes."

"At two-fifteen in- the afternoon

she wasn't even dressed yet."

"Dorry wasn't?"

"Slopping around in a robe and

slippers, with her hair in curlers

Helen clucked automatically.

"Of course, if that's her way, then

that's her privilege." said Sybil.

"But it hurt. And it hurt to have her

showing me the way around her

house. Oh, she knew where Bart

kept the books. Helen, I put those

books on that shelf with my own

hands." Sybil wept.

"Hush, now . . ,

"I never was so uncomfortable.

She-she wouldn't . . . You know

how you chatter to . . . well,-just

to make things easier? But she

wouldn't . . ."

"Oh, now . . ." Helen projected a

motherly calm.

"I know it's nothing to cry about,"

said Sybil, "but I can't seem to

h-help it. I mentioned the office.

She just . . . well . . . she seemed

to sneer . . ."

"Oh?" Helen bridled a little.

Sybil rubbed her temples. "I know

I may be too sensitive but . . .

"Cracks?" said Helen, genuinely

puzzled.

"She was very nasty about my

taking my own letters," said Sybil

with an effect of evasion. "I don't

know . . ." She opened her handbag

and took out a packet of letters and

put them on her lap. She took out

a handkerchief and dabbed at her

eyes. "I'm sorry, Helen."

"I'm just sorry you are so upset.

Shall I have Sarah make us some

tea?"

"Oh, no, no," cried Sybil. "Don't

let me be seen. I don't want anybody

to see me like this."

c

kJHE was a sight,

thought Helen. A mess, really. Her

eyes were puffy; her hair was

frowsy. Some strands had left their

moorings. She looked old. Helen

felt truly sorry for her, although she

was not quite sure why. Not that

it mattered whv. A human being in

such distress, for any reason, was

not a sight that Helen wanted to

see.

"You had better have something

to drink," she said and went to-

ward James' array of bottles and

glasses. "That's the thing. Have you

ever noticed on television or in the

movies . . .If somebody's feeling

bad . .. quick, get the glass of water.

It cures everything. I should think

a highball might do." She was

rattling on. trying to lighten the

atmosphere.

"Helen, you can understand about

my letters, can't you?" said Sybil

plaintively. "I've had to write to

Bart since . . . since I went away.

There were business matters to do

with the settlement."

"Of course." A part of Helen's

mind was discarding the notion of

fetching ice. Surely it wasn't neces-

sary in an emotional crisis. Helen

didn't know much about liquor.

"Well, after all," said Sybil, "how

could I write to Bart as if he were

a stranger? So can you blame me

for not wanting those letters in . . .

in her house. I was honest about it.

I even said to her, just as straight-

forwardly as I could, that I would

not write to him any more."

Helen turned with the glass in

her hand.

Sybil had taken the rubber-band

off the packet of letters. She had

slipped one sheet out of its envelope

and was gazing at it. Now she bent

and laid it upon the fire. "Not any

more," she said.

"Here, drink this," said Helen,

like a stern physician.

"Thank you. Helen." Sybil took

the glass and gulped eagerly. "I

said something about Bart's keep-

ing things, you know? And she . . ."

Helen sat down to listen out the

tale. It was necessary.

"She took the opportunity," said

Sybil, in low sad tones, "to make

a crack about his getting rid of me."

"Oh, no, she didn't," Helen mur-

mured.

"Yes and then . . . well, she asked

me, very sarcastically, if there was

anything else I wanted? Oh. I can't

tell you . . ." Sybil picked up

another letter and threw it into the

flames. "She pressed me to stay . . .

Bs if I could have borne that ."

THE MIRROR ON THE BRIDGE

Helen Mallory's car was out there,

parked sloppily, half across the

road. Sybil Rolfe was standing

there. Her eyes were blazing and

the devil was in them.

When Dorry winced away, Sybil

swept into the house with an effect

of using force. Her voice was half

strangled with rage. "Where is

everybody? You won't do this to

me! Where is Bart? Helen, James?

Where are they?"

DoRRY knew deeply

that no word of hers would be heard.

The devil was loose and could not

listen.

"Aren't you sly!" raged Sybil.

"Who is this Jap .gardener? Old

family retainer?" Her mouth was

bitter and ugly. "Bribed him. did

you? With what? With my money?

And Captain Bowers calls vou by

. your first name? Very cosy! What's

.his relationship? Old familv friend?

Is he? Or just boy-friend? You

have a taste for older men.

"You think you can bribe and lie

your way out of this, do you? You

forget that I know. I was there. I

would have let you get away with

it. But not if you are going to lie!

Where is Bart? Where is he?"

Dorry backed away, another step.

"I have been patient." Sybil cried.

"I even told Captain Bowers that

I was just confused. I lied for you.

Oh. not for you. For Bart, I even

lied! But you won't do this to me.

You won't make them think I'm

crazy! Oh, no, that you won't! I've

had about enough! You won't stop

me from talking to Bart. Don't

try!"

Dorry said, "I'll get him. Ill

get Bart."

"You do that," Sybil was almost

screaming. "You just do that. You

had better. I won't take any more!"

So Dorry went quickly, almost

running, into the bedroom wing.

She snatched her coat from the

closet and her purse from her

drawer. She listened . . .

The devil was in the house.

There was nothing Dorry could

do to handle this woman, and the

risk, if she tried, was too great

The only thing that she could do

was run.

Cut and run.

So she opened the glass door to

the small patio at the %rest side,

slipped out, and closed it softly. She

crept up to the road and around

the corner of the house.

No, not this way. Sybil might see

her run by the front. Dorry was

terrified. She could imagine Sybil's

face in every pane of glass. And

Sybil screaming after her down the

road and that would be too ter-

rible a thing to bear.

So Dorry turned back and went

slithering down the slope.

Now she tiptoed along the foun-

dation, keeping deep under the

balcony's overhang. At the east

side she had to climb again, up

the rough hillside, among the

plants. But she made it to the

road on the far side of *-he garage

and she set off downhill.

But where could she run?

If she went all the way down

into town, what then? She

wouldn't go to a friend. Couldn't

let this be added to the gossip

grapevine How Bart's first wife

had run her out of his house.

Dorry began to cry, stumblins

down the road. Couldn't go to

the Mallorys'-that was where

Sybil (temporarily) belonged.

To the bank, then? To so public

a place? No, she'd come too late.

To the police? No, it wasn't a

police matter. Sybil wasn't com-

mitting any crime. She was just

possessed of the devil and no

one knew what would come of it.

Dorry thought that she had

better wait by the side bf the road

for Bart to come. Oh, Bart, poor

Bart! If he did come, it would

be to torment. She must try not

to add to that, but she didn't know

what she could do.

She sat down on a rock at the

point where the road that went

around the base of the hill joined

this road. If anyone came whom

she knew she could duck behind

those wild shrubs. If Sybil were

to come down the road in Helen's

car Dorry could hide from her,

too.

A vision rose in her mind of

Sybil, in her present state, roaring

down the curving road to disaster.

Dorry shook herself, hard.

She could see the end of the

bridge from here. There were

some workmen there, Ailing in that

excavation. The sight of them

was comforting, although they

were too far away to hear her if

she screamed and they did not

seem to notice her where she sat.

Still, it was comforting to know

that there was a real world, where

sane people went about their work

and were able to agree with each

other upon events, check with each

other about what was happening.

Dorry had better stay in that

world.

Sitting on the rock, with her

coat around her, she shivered in

the sunshine. What would Sybil

do up there? What Hes could she

devise and believe? Had Dorry

been smart to run? Yes, smart.

Sybil might not have done any-

thing violent to hurt Dorry. But

Sybil wanted to be hurt . . . and

Dorry, who would not hurt her,

had been smart to run away. A

devil that wants to be hurt can

manage this so easily. Oh, too

easily !

So Dorry sat on the rock, with-

out a home. Put out of the house

where she called herself the

mistress. Oh, very funny! Put

out of it by the devil, to sit on

a rock in the middle of the day. with

nowhere to go. Poor little Dorry

Brown.

So she wrestled with the devil.

Don't do that! Don't call yourself

abused.

"What if it is true? Still don't

think in such terms. Don't say

'poor me.' It is also true that Sybil s

mad . . . and you are the last one

who can help her. Just don't let

the devil rise up in you!"

She sat very straight on her rock,

then, on the lonely hill. Nobody's

child. Nobody's comforter. Nobody's

wife.

"Nobody's fool," said Dorry, aloud.

"Not even my own!"

Helen dropped James at the bank,

stopped for five minutes at the hos-

pital and was cheerful in the ward.

Then she took James' car on home.

She vaguely thought that some-

thing there was different-missing.

But she let herself into the house

without having figured out what it

was.

Sarah, her housekeeper, came

bustling. "Oh, Mrs. Mallory, I don't

know whether I did right."

"What is it?"

"Mrs. Rolfe. Mr. Bowers was here

and I don't know, Mrs. Mallory,

what it was they talked about; but

she was real upset, after he went.

She wanted to know where the keys

to your car were and I told her."

"She took my car?" (Now Helen

realised what was missing.) "Where

did she go, Sarah?"

"I don't know, ma'am."

"Captain Bowers was here, you

say?"

"Yes, ma'am, he was."

"Then she went off, by herself,

in my car?"

"Yes, ma'am, she did. And I don't

know if I did right. I didn't know

what to do."

Helen went directly to the phone

and dialled the bank. She smiled

at Sarah, with a reflex impulse to

comfort her, but Helen was wor-

ried.

"Mr. Mallory is in conference,"

said his new secretary, Miss Lee.

"Can I help you, Mrs. Mallory?"

"Maybe so. Has my sister-in-law,

Mrs. Sybil Rolfe, come there?"

"I haven't seen her, Mrs. Mal-

lory."

"Would you have seen her?"

"Oh, yes, I think so. I'm sure

she hasn't been here."

"Thank you."

Helen hung up and rubbed her

temples. She dialled again. The

Rolfe House.

"Hello."

"Sybil! What are you doing up

there?"

"Helen?"

"Yes. Sybil, I wish you hadn't

taken my car. What . . ?"

"Listen to me." The voice was

guttural. "She's guilty."

Helen, hearing the tone as well

as the words, felt thoroughly

frightened.

"Who?"

"Oh, she's guilty, all right. She's

run away! What do you think of

that?"

"You mean, Dorry isn't there?"

"Dorry, Dorry," the voice sneered.

"Oh, no, she isn't here. She was

here. But she lied to me and

sneaked out and ran away. Oh, she's

afraid of the truth! You will all

have to see that, now."

"Sybil, just wait quietly, will you?

I'm coming ..."

"Where's Bart?"

"I might be able to find him,"

Helen soothed. "Just wait there,

quietly, Sybil. Please now!"

"Somebody had better listen to

me . . ."

"Yes, dear ... of course . . .

just wait . .

Helen hung up.

SHE dialled the

bank once more. "Miss Lee, I'm sorry

but I must speak to Mr. Mallory,

right now. It's important."

She had to hang on while James

was fetched. Helen found a hand-

kerchief in her pocket and wiped

her face. She was forty-two years

old and lived a quiet life and she

did not, in her self, feel very well.

But there wasn't time for Helen

Mallory to feel ill. Something had

to be done and she was going to

have to do it.

James Mallory hung up and

walked out of his office trying to

decide upon the right thing to do.

Surely he need not call in doctors

and policemen, such public servants,

immediately.

Surely he, Sybil's brother, must

first make his own sober estimate

of Sybil's condition. How could she

be dangerous as suddenly as this?

Was Helen exaggerating? Sybil

had seemed 'all right' this morn-

ing. Helen was going up there, right

away, and Helen would calm her,

surely. What could Chet Bowers

have had to say that could pos-

sibly have upset Sybil to such a

degree?

THE MIRROR ON THE BRIDGE
Helen'« own nerves were quivering
now. She knew that she was in the
middle of it and couldn't help it.
«he might as well know what it was
all about. Might better . . . She was
thinking to herself, poor Dorry
Brown. "Oh. dear! Poor Svbil. But
.he would go. Why did she?
Sybil was putting her letters one
at a time upon the fire. She went
.bout it slowly, ritualistically. Helen
watched her, fascinated.
Then Sybil smiled. "It was funny
tn a way," she said, "how she kept
karping on the fact that she was
young and spry."
"Why, how did she?"
"She wa* a mess, I told you. But
Ibo took care to say that she could
?Mt glamorous in two seconds. She
fuistod on carrying things for me,
I was too decrepit . . ." Sybil
.ighad and sipped. And laughed
again in a manner that made Helen
wine«, because it was so full of
pam.
"Ton shouldn't have gone up
there," she said flatly.
But Sybil didn't seem to hear. "I
.wear to you," she said solemnly,
"that I tried to be as friendly as
I could, under the circumstances.
I »»en wished her happiness."
"You did?"
"Yes, I did. She didn't even
answer. She was as cold ... as hos-
tile . . ." Sybil threw the last
letter into the fire. "Why is she
afraid of me? My marriage is
ashes."
Helen didn't admire the drama of
it at all. She was outraged by the
corny phrase. She said tartly, "I
can't understand why you wanted
to go? It wasn't easy for her, you
know, either."
"I know," said Sybil, "I under
atand. Of course, it wasn't. The
truth is the house upset me-more
than I had expected."
Sybil lifted her chin and her face
fell into tragic lines. Helen thought,
with a pang, she's suffering, what-
ever it is. And what can I do, I
wonder?
Q
«_/ YBIL said in a
throbbing voice, "Do you realise
what has happened to me, Helen?
Do you realise that I have had to
give up not only my marriage, and
the house, but this whole town
my town where I was born? And
all my friends and even all my
family? Do you see that I have been
exiled? Was it all mv fault?"
"Of course, it wasn't all your
fault," said Helen, briskly. "It never
is. Svbil. Don't feel so James
will be home any minute . . ."
"I know it is the way it is," said
Sybil, bravely, "and must be. I'll
be all right. But don't you see
that I cannot come here? I can-
not come to see you any more."
"Oh. now," said Helen, uncomfor-
tably.
"My whole lite's memories," said
Sybil', "I have to start all over
aaain Helen. I am thirty-four years
old!"
Tnis was very touching, being
true. Helen felt desperately sorry.
But there it is. she thought. She
was saved from having the reply by
a familiar sound in her own house.
"Here's James," she warned quickly.
Sybil went down upon the hearth
rui, taking the poker, stirring at
the burning paper, as if she would
in t.iis way hide her tear-stained
ti.ee.
But James, once he had found
them in the den, wanted to know
what was burning wanted to know
whether Sybil had been crying
and, if so, why. When he was told
that seeing the house again had
rather upset her James sat down
in his favorite chair, looking, as
usual, like a wise owl.
"The object of your going there
was in order to feel," he said; "or
so you told me."
Helen couldn't help a fond flick
of her eye toward him. After all,
James was right as usual.
But Sybil said wearily, "Oh,
James, you don't understand."
"You don't understand," said
Bart.
He had come rushing in at a
quarter after five, apologising for
being as late as this. The car had
conked out finally. He had had to
call a garage, then a taxi.
Dorry, proper in the blue dress,
as she had once planned to be,
told him all about it. She tried to
keep emotions out, and yet to tell
him the truth.
"I didn't know what to do or say
about the letters," she said. "I let
myself be flustered. I'm sorry. I'm
afraid I was a little bit mean."
"You don't understand," he said.
"I don't know what you mean."
"We'll see," he said oddly.
He sat down to face her and
as he talked his clever face seemed
to her for the first time too clever,
but not-well, not wise. Not worldly
wise. She listened and was appalled.
"Dorry. I owe her money. It was
like this. I kept the house. So she
was to get quite a lot of money, to,
make the division equal, don't you
see? I was supposed to pay it in in-
stalments. The last one . . . Well. I
wrote and asked her to let me defer
it. To make it into a loan.
"I knew she was all right finan-
cially, because by that time she
had the legacy from her father's
estate. I offered her interest. She
knows she'll, get it. It was the
quickest and the easiest way to
keep myself-well, on top of things.
That was just before we were mar-
ried."
"Oh, Bait!" Dorry's voice couldn't
help wailing.
"She agreed," he said, "in writ-
ing."
"Oh. no!" Dorry sat straight
with alarm. "You can't mean . . .!
Bart, she wanted her letters for
personal reasons."
"There wasn't anything personal
in those letters.'' he, said.
She stared at him. "But, Bart,
that's impossible . . ."
"We are in to that last payment,
you know," he said, "I can't produce
it all. Not right now."
"You don't think . . .?"
"I can be wrong. Trouble is. there
is no way for me to borrow any
money in this town without James
knowing about it. James is going
to be on me like a fox."
"But Bart . . ."
"I've got a good chance for the
job," he said. "The meeting went
well. James was leaning over back-
wards, not to favor even an ex
brother-in-law, but the committee
saw through that. They'll recom-
mend me. It's a step."
"How . . . how soon?"
"Nothing moves as slowly as a
committee." he said. "Except two
committees. This one will recom-
mend in due course. The Univer-
sity's committee will deliberate.
Time will pass. Nothing else will
happen, you know. Just time pass-
ing. They could just as easily decide
tomorrow, before lunch-the whole
pack of them But they won't."
Hr got up and walked around
restlessly. Every line of his body
was grace and energy, and she
adored him, but then he said -
forlornly, "We can sell the house.
Even so, James will want to know
why."
Dorry-who had worked six years
In the bank-put both hands to her
throat and choked off her wish to
cry out, "Oh, darling, don't be a
fool!"
J AMES said to his
sister Sybil, "Why can't you afford
a moderate amount of travel? Dad's
stocks were pretty much blue-chip."
He was doing sums in his head. "I
assume you've done something sen-
sible with the settlement money.
Let's see, you will have had the last
payment. You would be justified,
i'd say, in taking a couple of thous-
and for a trip of some kind."
Sybil shook her head. Her face
was wearing its old look of sulky
rejection. "I can't," she repeated.
Helen, spooning the last of her
dessert, knew exactly what was hap-
pening. James was concerned to
find his sister's feelings still as
strong as they seemed to be. Hr
felt that the thing for her to do
was to stop brooding about the past
and set on with new interests of
her own. And he was right.
Sybil, however, would resent his
advice, just as she so often had, and
there would be one of the familiar
brother-and-sister scenes, with Sybil
balking and pouting. James bein«
patient and sensible and thoroughly
tactless.
James said, "Sybil, you will have
to do something with yourself. Bart
has his career. He has done well
and he is going to do better. He's
married again. He is going right
ahead and that is sensible. Now you
must have your life . . ."
Sybil put her head high. Tears
glittered in her eyes. "I presume
that I may be generous?" she said
haughtily.
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that I haven't had the
last payment."
"You what!"
"And I don't care to talk about
money."
James said severely, "Bart hadn't
paid it? Well, he had better."
"Why?" said Sybil. "He knows I
don't really need it. And if he
does . . ."
"Whether he needs it or not."
boomed James, "it is not his "
"Oh, James . . ."
"Now, just a minute." said
James, his ears sharp for what he
really understood. "What do you
mean by 'generous'?"
"Why, I told him he needn't pay
. . ." she said.
"Sybil, you cannot do such a
thing."
"Why can't I? Yes. I can."
"No. you cannot." said her brother.
"There was a contract in the law.
He took the house and that house
is valuable. You were awarded a
money settlement, in three instal-
ments . . ."
"I know. I know . ."
"And that is exactly what you are
going to get." James was blinking
rapidly. "I don't understand this.
Bart should know better. I don't like
the sound of this at all. He had
the impudence to beg off, did he?"
Sybil was moving a clean spoon
on the white cloth. "Oh, I don't
know." she said feebly. "He wrote
... He said I don't remem-
ber. Anyway, he needed it and 1
didn't . . ."
"Why did he need it?" snapped
THE MIRROR ON THE BRIDGE
So Sybil bent her head on its long
neck and murmured her apologetic
sorrow to be such trouble.
"Wc won't be long." Helen took
James' arm.
Still,,she took time to cut off the
upstairs phone-bell. People had
been calling. Helen didn't fancy
Sybil answering their inquiries. She
sensed very clearly some restless
energy seething and seeking the
way to get out of its cage. Enough,
however, was enough. She for one
-and James for another-would
ask for no more trouble than they
already had.
On their way up the hill she
sensed that James was glad to have
her with him. Sensed it from long
familiarity, by an invisible current
that flowed between them.
"I'll want to stop by the hos-
pital afterwards," she said comfort-
ably, "and bring the old man a
little something.
"That's the right thing," said
James, which was the prettiest
speech that he could make. It
warmed her heart.
When they arrived James sat
down, in his solid way, and said at
once, "Now, Bart, we're here to talk
some sense into you."
"So I imagined," Bart said
sheepishly.
"You must have been . . ." James
stopped himself and cleared his
throat. "Porter called me, you know.
He couldn't do a thing with you
yesterday. Don't you realise that
your obligation to Sybil amounts to
a certain sum. no less, and no
more?"
Bart sat lacing his long fingers.
"It was unneccessary and unwise,"
James pronounced. "In fact, it is
impossible. You cannot turn over
this house to her. In fact, I'll advise
her not to have anything to do
with such a transaction if that's
what it can be called. So I advise
you to tear it up, Bart. Forget it."
Bart was taking his scolding
quietly.
Helen said, in a gentle tone, as if
to comfort them all, "James is quite
right."
Dorry, watching, listening, felt
very fond of the Mallorys; they
were solid people. She smiled at
Helen. Helen's salt-and-pepper
pompadour moved in a little nod.
B ART said, "I
haven't got the cash, as you no
doubt know. My finances are not
what they should be, as I'm sure
you suspect." He was smiling. "The
fact is, I've been holding out for
the University job and studying to
do it because that is the job' that I
just plain want to do. So I've been
gambling, you might say, that I am
going to get it.
"If I don't, I'll have to fall to
on some other jobs, and that right
quickly, to keep above water. Well,
since it looks now pretty much as
if I won't get that job' . . . what
can I do to discharge my obligation?
Sell the house? Convert it to cash?
That will take time. I don't want
to take time. I'd better not."
James said stiffly, "What makes
you think you won't get the Univer-
sity assignment?"
Bart didn't answer.
"Why not?" snapped James.
Bart lifted his head and said,
"Town talk. Public opinion hap-
pens to be a fact of life"
"There'll be no talk." James as
good as announced that he would
not permit it.
But Helen said, in her cool and
gentle voice, "There is talk. It will
die down, I suppose."
"Certainly," James said. He took
oft* his glasses. He looked naked
and older, and somehow softer,
without them. "I never like to see
a man destroy himself. You have
the talent and the potential. You
are well qualified. But, it occurs to
me, that if you throw away this
house in a fit of emotion, that
would make talk among the mem-
bers of the committee. Not a mat-
ter of scandal, but of plain stabil-
ity."
Bart's jaw clenched, but he took
his scolding.
"Furthermore," James went on,
"since Sybil gave up this house,
once, she should keep to her bar-
gain. I advise you to let me arrange
to loan you whatever sum you need
to pay off that settlement and keep
you afloat."
"That's good of you," Bart said.
"I don't know, Janies."
"If you are not in the shape you
should be in, you can recover. Dorry
can help you. She's had good train-
ing, as I happen to know."
James meant this to be seml
humorous. Bart said nothing.
"Remember this," said James,
"speaking of public opinion. People
know what vou must have made on
the City Hall job."
"People don't know the tax bite
or what it costs just to live here.
People don't know what it is that
I want to do." Bart sounded gloomy.
"People may not know details, but
they have a sense of the general.
And nothing succeeds like success."
"And nothing fails like failures."
Bart grinned. "James, you sound
like a gambler."
"Naturally," said James. "I'm a
banker. What do you think? Every
day of his life a banker makes his
bets. On people, products, trends,
expectations. I am not a fool.
Naturally, I don't play hunches. I
try to bet on a good thing. Now
then, what I say here . let me,
personally, bet on you."
Bart said. "Thank you very much,
James." He said it with grace and
sincerity and James puffed with
satisfaction.
"Very sensible. Now then. Better
come right along, downtown, and
we'll get Porter and his piece of
paper and destroy that."
"We'll draw up a reasonable
paper and transfer the money to
your account and thence to
Sybil's . . . and that will be that."
The men got up. They shook
hands
Dorry rose, with hostess-like
murmurs about some refreshment,
feeling delighted that these two
men had been able to understand
each other Helen rose, rrtaking
the sounds of grateful declining.
Bart said, "How is Sybil today?"
"Why. better," James answered.
"She seems all right."
"What about the old man
what's h's name?
"Winslow? He's doing well. He
will make the settlement, so that's
all right. Sybil, I imagine, will
be going back north."
"Do you mean that she is free
to go?"
James cleared his throat. "Well,
Chet Bowers, of course, is still
checking."
"Looking for another car?"
"That's his responsibility," said
James. "To check up on whether
or not there was a crime."
Dorry wasn't breathing. Let
nothing spoil the accord! She
glanced at Helen, who stood still,
very still.
"It's my understanding." James
went on, "that if Sybil simply lost
control of her car, why, then it
was a simple accident. But if
another car did intervene and did
cause her to go off the road, why
that's a little different."
"I doubt-" Bart began.
"All we can do," James spoke
over him, "is let Bowers proceed
with his routine. He is a good
man. Known him for years."
"Yes."
Something disagreeable hovered.
Bart was drawing back. Doubt lit
in his eye.
H ELEN put herself
into the conversation. "Don't mix
things up," she said, a trfle sharply,
for James' sake. (Because Bart must
not begin to think that he was
being bribed.) "Whatever hap-
pened, there's no crime involved on
Sybil's part, you see? She most
certainly could not have intended
to hurt old Mr. Winslow. It's not
negligence, either. You are not
required to say to yourself 'Wait
a minute. Maybe some old tramp
is asleep in those weeds at the
side of the road, exactly there.'"
Helen rattled along, meantime
moving toward the door. "Will
you ride down with us, Bart?" she
said brightly, "or will you take a
car?" It was as if she warned
him to let the subject of Sybil
alone.
"I'll take Dorry's," Bart said
mildly. He went for her keys.
James went out, saying that he
would turn the car around.
Dorry looked into Helen's eyes.
"What is the law if she really thinks
she saw me . but isn't seeing
straight?"
Helen said, "We don't know.
James didn't ask his lawyer that
question." Helen touched Dorry's
arm. "It's hard for him," she said
softly.
"Yes, I suppose," said Dorry. But
looking into Helen's eyes, she served
notice.
Helen said, "James will do what
is right."
Dorry said, steadily, "Yes."
Then Bart came. Dorry stood in
the open door until James and
Helen had pulled away, and Bart
had backed her skittish little car
out and turned to follow downhill.
Then she closed the door and was
alone in the house.
Dorry said to herself, "Be happy.
Rejoice. Bart isn't going to lose the
house or the job. either. James Mal-
lory was very good Helen is good
and she knows. Mavbe they'll get
doctors for Sybil. At any rate, she'll
go away, somehow. The old man
has settled for money. There'll be
no sensational lawsuit. Everything
is going to be all right.
"Just wait until the police ac-
complish their routine. Then the
whole thing will die down, just die
away, just splutter out. As the talk
will. This is the way of real things.
Time passes over the world and
trouble fades. After a while, vou
can't remember lt, So Bart and I
are all right now."
Why must she keep telling her-
self all this?
She had fixed herself a bite of
lunch and had eaten half her
cream-cheese sandwich when the
doorbell rang. It startled her. Bart
wouldn't ring. Then she thought it
must be the police. When she
opened the door she was braced to
see the face of Captain Bowers.
She saw the face of the devil,
who was loose

THE MIRROR ON THE BRIDGE

James. "Bart should be in better

shape."

Sybil's head was bent. "Don't fuss,

James."

"Fuss!" James said with hackles

up. "If Bart has been playing fast

and loose with that settlement . . ."

"But, James . . ." said Sybil, "I

understood about the house, you

know. It means so much to him. I

wanted to be fair . . ."

"You were. And now he had bet-

ter be. He can't have both the house

and the money," said James

grimly. "What is he thinking of!

What does he do with money?"

"Bart isn't . . ." said Sybil, softly

. . ." the most sensible man in the

world. And, of course . . ." She

stopped.

"What did you tell him?" James

demanded. "When and how?"

"Why, I wrote . . ."

"You wrote that he needn't pay?

You wrote and said that you would

let him off?"

H ER dark eyes were

misty and she looked through the

wall. "He has expenses," she said,

wistfully.

James threw his napkin upon the

table and got up.

"I'll have to see about this . . ."

He left the dining-room.

James was going to do the right

thing.

Helen sat where she was and

watched her sister-in-law. "Oh,

Sybil," she said, "were you so fool-

ish?"

Sybil's tears came. "Why can't I

be? I wanted to be generous. Just

because we couldn't be happy to-

gether, does that have to mean we

must neither of us ever be happy?"

Helen's breath came shallow.

She said in a minute, quietly, "Sybil,

go home." She waited for what

would come, expecting anger.

But Sybil said pitifully. "I don't

want to drive on the weekend. I'll

go on Monday."

The dinner dishes were still on

the table, but Dorry sat listening to

the two men. She had listened to

James Mallory many times; his

ways were familiar to her. She

could read through his calm re-

marks, to his sensibly marching

thoughts. Now, although he was

polite, she thought that James was

chilly and suspicious.

"Defer," Bart was saying, "is not

the same as default, James," and

Dorry winced. What a thing to say

to a banker! "If Sybil told you that

she was giving up that money to

me for ever, then she is mistaken."

Dorry knew Bart's voice, too, and

she could hear how his guard was

up, how he wasn't intending to

betray anv more information about

his affairs than he must. The

trouble" was, such an attitude oiVv

made James the more suspicious.

"If Sybil understood differently,"

Bart went on, "then I am sorry. I

don't see how she could have. She

wrote me a fairly clear resume of

the position and agreed to it."

"May I see what she wrote?"

"I don't know whether you may,"

Bart said. "Sybil has it."

"Why would Sybil have it?"

"Because she took all her letters

away from here this afternoon."

Bart's voice tried not to betray any

anger.

"You mean to say that her written

agreement to this loan was kept

among her personal letters?"

"None of her letters were per-

sonal," said Bart patiently. "They

all had to do, one way or another,

with the division of property. That

letter was no more nor less a busi-

ness matter than the rest. Why

shouldn't I keep them together?"

Bart was slipping too much to the

defensive. "I can show you a copy

of my letter to her, if you like."

Bart's brow challenged.

James was not one to worry about

the implication of insult. He said

simply, "I wish you would."

So Bart got up and went off to

cross the balcony and go down to

his workroom.

James looked at Dorry and cleared

his throat. "Did you know about

this. Miss - uh. Dorry?"' he said

severely.

"No, sir," said Dorry with a smile.

"I did not."

"I should hope not," James mur-

mured. A warmth of mutual under-

standing enveloped them-a memory

of old times.

"Wouldn't it be simplest, sir,"

said Dorry, "to read her letter?"

James looked at her and said

nothing. But he had frozen.

When Bart came back, James

read the copy carefully and grunted.

He handed it back to Bart. "I can't

say I think the arrangement was

proper at all," he said stiffly.

"This arrangement?" said Bart,

a little dangerously.

"If she agreed . . ."

"If?" said Bart.

But James went right on, with

neither apology nor defiance-"then

I think she must have been poorly

advised."

"Then you advise me," said Bart,

"to get the final instalment to her.

right away?"

"I do," said James.

"Right." Bart said, "Monday

morning."

But James did not stir, to rise

and go. He said, "If you needed a

loan, you might have come to me."

"I realise that," said Bart, smil-

ing. He said only the three words.

They were too bare.

Then Bart stood up, and Dorry

held her breath because, by all the

conventions of business etiquette,

Bart was putting James out.

James rose. "Perhaps I could go

over your figures, Bart. If I can

be of any help . . ."

"No, that's all right. Thank you,

James," Bart said.

Dorry leaped into a role that

would fill the cold space between

them. She said to James, warmly,

"You have been of help, Mr. Mal-

lory. Thank you so much for com-

ing."

James' large eyes behind the

glasses lit upon her. He knew her

of old. He forgot. "Happy to be of

service, Miss Brown," said James,

and then he left.

Bart went back into the big room

and looked out across the twinkling

town. "Tore it. eh?" he said. "Well,

there we go. This will do it."

""Oh, Bart-"

"I'll pay her. The last penny.

That means the house. Can't raise

the mortgage. I won't go scrounging

for money in this town. Make over

the house to her. Let her sell it.

The equity is more than the pay-

ment. James will see to it that I

get the difference some day. We'll

be rich . . ." He was very bitter.

"That isn't necessary," Dorry

said. "That's not the way . . ."

"Oh, maybe it is," he said, and

his face looked devilishly shrewd.

"Let her take the house. Then I

might still get the big job."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean human sympathy. Let

Sybil be the big bad wolf. Listen,

if I run around to James with my

hat in one hand and my pitiful

little figures in the other, James

isn't going to help me gamble. Why

haven't I been as busy as a little

bee, building drugstores or some-

thing? Couldn't I get any work?

Oh, I could? Then why didn't I

take it? Am I shiftless? Oh, gamb-

ling, eh? Unwise . . ."

Dorry, watching him in great dis-

tress, knew what she had not known

before. Bart simply did not under-

stand money. He was one of those

who bucketed along in the natural

currents that money took, but who

had no notion how to ride them or

in any way control them. He

wasn't a banker, of course. He was

an artist.

"And how do you suppose," he

said drearily, "that Sybil knew just

what she could do to me - just

now?"

"Knew?" said Dorry, startled.

"Oh, Bart, I can't believe that she

knew."

"That's all right, honey," he said

absently. "Don't you believe it."

"But you can't think," gasped

Dorry, "that she made a cold-

blooded plan!"

"Who told James I begged off

entirely? Did she lie to James by

chance?" he asked her sadly.

"But why would she do such a

thing?"

"For spite," he said.

"Oh, no-"

"To punish me for getting mar-

ried."

Then he looked at her and said

quickly, "Doesn't matter why. It's

been done. Never mind. We'll pull

out of it."

"Bart, what will we do?"

"Get us a ducky little apartment,"

he said. "We can afford that fine.

Then we'll hope and pray for the

big job. Meantime, some moneyed

idiot will buy this house, and no

doubt remodel."

He spoke lightly, but her heart

ached. "Couldn't you talk to her?

Remind her? Make her tell James

Mallory it might have been foolish

but it wasn't . . .'?

"No," he said.

"Bart, maybe I could talk to

him?"

"You keep out of it," he said. "It's

done. James is on to me and my

improvident ways. Too late. Sybil

would enjoy it if I crawled to her.

But she doesn't really need re-

minding, remember."

D ORRY put both

hands over her face. She felt his

hands on her wrists, pulling down-

ward. "Dear child," he said, "dear

friend . . . you didn't marry the

house, did you?"

"But I wish . . ."

"Don't let it bother you." she

heard him say very softly. So she

was reminded.

The next morning, very early,

Dorry woke groping for the cause of

her woeful feelings. Oh, yes, Sybil

had come and taken the letters.

Then she had told James a lie. So

Bart had been knocked off the tight-

rope he had been walking. This

was the very reason that Sybil had

come too early.

It hadn't been what Sybil said,

a way to spare him. It hadn't been

just a small and female thing, either

-a way of catching Dorry off guard,

a catty business. Sybil had planned

the whole course of events. Now,

Bart said, they were going to lose

the house and Dorry didn't know

how to shake him out of that con-

viction. It didn't seem possible!

Dorry watched the light on the

THE MIRROR ON THE BRIDGE

was glad to be moving. She didn't

know what she was going to do.

Sybil's door was open. Dorry

stopped within its frame.

Sybil was sitting there, sipping

from a small glass, looking very

comfortable and contented.

And in Dorry's head rose a red

rage.

She said, "Mrs. Rolfe."

Sybil looked up and, at once,

she cringed as if she saw evil, saw

menace, saw threat.

"I've done nothing to you," cried

Dorry, shaking with anger. "What

is it that you want?" She took a

step. "Do you want money or the

house? Take them. Do you want

Bart? Is that it? Or do you just

want to make us suffer?"

c

YB IL was reach-

ing for the button on the cord that

would summon a nurse.

"Don't push that," cried Dorry.

"Just tell me-if you know-what

it is you want?"

But Sybil pushed it.

Dorry took hold of herself and

swung away. She started rapidly

down the corridor. A nurse swished

past her. Dorry heard her exclaim.

She looked behind, and saw another

nurse come the other way, saw both

of them dart, with an air of sud-

den alarm, into Sybil's room.

Dorry drifted backward. When

she could see in. at that door, she

stopped breathing for a moment.

Sybil had fallen out of the hioh

bed. The bedding was dragged by

her body. Her head was at the

floor, her feet high and entangled.

The two nurses were struggling to

lift her.

They got Sybil back upon the

bed, in a sitting position. They were

twittering, exclaiming, wanting to

know what had happened. Sybil

linked straight at he door and saw

Dorry.

"Nothing," she said, in a high

pitched voice. "Nothing. I got dizzy.

B"t rfnn't let her in again! Don't

let her . . ."

The two nurses turned startled

faces.

Dorry slipped away out of their

sight. She scurried back toward

the lobby, reeling a little. Now

she knew what Sybil wanted. To

be hurt by Dorry Brown. Wanted

to be wronged, to suffer, to be

persecuted.

Dorry set her teeth together and

said to herself, I won't! I will

not! I will never! That she

cannot have!

She came up to the group of

four. She did not hear a word

that was said. She did not feel

Helen touch her arm. or meet

Helen's inquiring look of concern.

Her throat was shut. Her face

was frozen.

Then Bart took her arm and

they went out of the hospital.

Bart said, "One good thing. The

old man's all right and he'll settle

out of court."

"That's good," Dorry said,

numbly.

They crossed the parking lot.

Bart stood beside her car and

said, "You go ahead home. I

have something to do." His face

looked desperate. "Go on, please."

"All right." Dorry slid into the

driver's seat.

"Be careful." he said.

"Oh, yes, I'll be careful."

Dorry started for the hill. She

was glad to be alone. Very glad

to be alone

By the time he came, in a taxi,

Dorry had been alone with her

distress long enough to have put

it into place. Now she was able

to realise his distress, even before

he came directly to her and said,

"I went to the lawyer Sybil had

at the time of the divorce. I

made him take the house-for

her."

"All right," said Dorry.

"We'll cut and run. Get out

of here. Shall we?"

"All right." She didn't care for

the house, the town.

He swung away and went to the

glass wall. "It won't work,

though," he said with his back

turned. "I can't make it work.

I tried."

"Bart?"

"My darling child, I deceived

you. I shouldn't have married

you."

She stiffened. "Why do you say

that?"

"Oh. it was légal," he said turn-

ing. "Divorce is all right with the

law. That doesn't make lt work.

I never understood . . . thought

you could shed a wife. But I

didn't get free. I'm not free,

now."

He came swiftly to her. He

meant what he was saying. This

was his distress. "Dorry, I didn't

want you hurt. Believe that much?

I don't want you hurt in any way,

ever. But I've done you great

wrong."

"No." she said.

"I thought if I gave her the house,

gave up the big job, cut and ran

. . . But it won't work. That's not

what she wants. She wants her

power, Dorry, and she has got it."

"Her power?"

"Yes, her true power. By the vows

took. In sickness or in health."

"I know what she wants . . ."

began Dorry.

"Ah. don't ... no. don't . . ."

"Yes, I will," said Dorry loudly.

"Yes, I will say what I think. One

thing she wants is for me to hurt

her and that I will not do."

He rolled his head." I don't sup-

pose you can understand."

"I suppose I can," said Dorry.

She sprang up. She was going to

have to fight for her life. "And I

understand this. I may be only one

of your wives, but I am at least

one of them."

She had snapped him to some

genuine attention. "That's right."

he said, trying to smile. "It's a

mess . . ."

"Not for me, it isn't! Maybe vou

are connected. But I am not. What

I did was marry the man I loved

very much and nobody Ls going to

make me feel guilty for it! Is that

girlish?"

"No," he said. His face was grave

and still.

"Very well. then. I am not going

to play the little gentlewoman or

everybody's saviour, either. I am

Hist going to hancr on and keep the

vows I took . . . which, by the wai; I

was free to take."

Did it hurt him? Dorry didn't

know whether they were fighting.

Phe was fighting for her life, fhp

had never fought like this. She

hadn't known she co"ld. She had

been mild and amiable but never

a sacrifice She hadn't car°d before.

She hadn't given up a thing that

mattered. But this mattered.

She said, "Bart. I am afraid of

her. She doesn't know what she's

doing. So heaven knows what she'll

do. But I'm not so scared that I'll

give up, mind. And I can't afford

to be too sorry for her. Or even for

you. Do you hear that? All right,

I don't ask you to deny what may

be true for you. I'm telling you

what's true for me."

"I hear you," he said.

She turned away and tried to

compose herself. It was a strange

sensation to have been on her feet

and spitting fire. She was atremble.

But she said as coolly as she could,

"Then shall I talk to James Mal-

lory? Or will you?"

Bart said, "Why James?"

"Because his sister needs look-

ing after," Dorry said, "and he is

goirig to have to face up to it."

Bart said nothing.

"And you need looking after,"

she said severely.

"It was pretty ridiculous to go

rushing to that lawyer, trying to

give the house away. Did you want

to be a martyr?"

She saw his face begin the look

she called to herself a wink all

over. "It's a temptation," Bart said,

"to us all, eh?"

"It's the devil," ,she cried. "And

I was playing the poor little, put

upon, innocent, myself, when Cap-

tain Bowers was here and it was

fun! Well, fun is fun, Bart ... but

no more."

"All right, then," he said. "We

start from where we are?"

But he didn't touch her. She

didn't want him to touch her. The

strange electric connection she had

felt when she'd been fighting was

fading away.

Where they were was a dreary

place. Her husband had a wife.

morning. Helen was ready and wait-

ing for James to pick her up.

Iron had entered into Helen's soul.

Sybil was back from the hospital,

none the worse physically, and

Helen saw to it that she was being

properly cosseted, but Helen Mal-

lory had detached herself. She was

very suspicious of the accident at

the bridge, and not at all pleased to

think that she had been put in the

middle, as it were, and used as a

go-between in some hidden war-

fare. So she did not concern her-

self, this morning, for Sybil, or for

Barton Rolfe, or Dorry, either.

Helen was concerned for James.

He kept saying, rather pathetic-

ally, that Sybil seemed all right

now, didn't she? Helen didn't think

that Sybil was all right. Although

her outward manner was as mild

as milk and toast, Helen did not

trust this surface. She did not point

out to Sybil's brother that such a

surface, in the face of the fact that

Sybil's car had injured a man, was

peculiar.

Helen did not argue the point or

try to alarm him, because she had

faith that in his own pace and his

own way. James Mallory would, of

course, do what was best for his

sister. For all she knew, the best

solution was to ship Sybil back

where she had come from and that

as soon as Dossible. So Helen was

kind, but calm.

One thing Helen was not going

to oermit. Sybil was not going with

t'^m to the Rolfe house this morn

ins.

Sybil said she thought she ought

to go. "After all, Helen, dear, it is

mv business. I don't want you to

have to be bothered."

"No bother. We are family. We'll

attend to it. You need to rest,"

Helen's kindness was made of iron.

When James came, Sybil tried

a sain, but James simply said that it

was unwise. He wouldn't hear of lt.
.T eleven the next

THE MIRROR ON THE BRIDGE

ceiling. It wasn't possible! She
simply didn't believe it. All right,
she could believe in mixed-up
emotions, in a bitterness that sur-
vived, even in wicked spite. But
she could not believe in a brainy,
deliberate plan.
Bart was too ready to suspect a
plot. But such a plot just was not
a female invention.
Dorry struggled to understand the

woman.

It was too early to get up. She
turned her head upon the pillow
and drifted into a half-dream state.
Whatever the truth about Sybil
was, Dorry was afraid of her. Afraid
of her, why? Afraid of her because
. . . Dorry's mind had been beating
upon the puzzle of Sybil last night,
before she had fallen asleep. She
had dreamed, Dorry remembered.
Something frightening. The fright
on the bridge . . .

Now, as she dozed, she had a kind
of vision. Perhaps it was a dream.
The fears came together, Sybil and
the bridge.
In a little while, she awoke fully
again, and pushed herself up to sit
against the head-board.

Bart stirred.

Dorry began to speak without any

preliminaries, to capture the thing

before it vanished.

"She was driving down our hill
in the dark. She came to the bridge.
Right across our end, where that
excavation is, there was a huge
mirror, the kind they put on the
walls of hotels. She could see her
own headlights in the mirror. She
thought it was another car, but
when she turned right the other
lights did, too.
"So she tried to get around to
the left and that didn't work. The
other lights went to the left. She
was frantic. She was going out of
control. It was just her own reflec-
tion but she didn't know that. She
was going off the road."

13 ART up on one

elbow said sleepily, "This is a

dream?"

"I don't know." Dorry pushed at
her hair. Still tangled in the soft
skeins of her vision she said, "I
think it explains-"

"H'm?"

"I really do."
"Explains what?"
"Explains Sybil and the letters
and everything."
"Quite a dream," Bart said dryly.
His look had a bit of warning in it.
But Dorry's desire was strong to
help and she must.
"She never did make a cold,

blooded plan, Bart. She couldn't
have. She doesn't know what she's
doing."
"Dreamer." Bart tousled her hair

with one hand. He swung his feet

out of bed.
"No, I mean it. Because of the
mirror, Bart, listen to me . . ."
"I'm listening." He didn't sound
very flexible.
"She took the letters, but she
didn't plan. She didn't realise what
she knew about them. She just
somehow fell into the lie she told

to James. She wouldn't hurt you
on purpose - she wouldn't let
herself."
"Beautiful dreamer," he said.

"Wake up, Dorry." He padded off to

the bathroom.

But Dorry sat against the head-
board. She felt as if an angel had
come and told her the truth. Every-
thing Sybil had said, Sybil be

lieved. Even to wishing Dorry hap
'piness. What Sybil was doing, to
cause this trouble, she was doing
bv a craft within, secret from her
sèlf.
Why, Dorry could see right
through! Sybil had sighed and said
she had helped design the house,
which was false. But Sybil had an
image of herself that simply wasn't
real. The "impossible" remarks she
had made, all of them, came out of
that mirror. And Sybil did not
know it. Nobody was to blame.
As for James Mallory, he had

been right to try to protect his
sister's interests. Bart needn't have
jumped to the conclusion that
James would never help him in his
"gamble." James might. If only
James could be sure that Bart had
not tried to cheat.
Bart was inconsistent. First, to

ask her to change the debt into a
loan. Now, to jump to these bitter
and suspicious conclusions. Why,
if Bart would only take a clear look
at what it was he professed to
believe, then he must see how it
wasn't humanly possible.
Sybil could not have said to her-
self, "I will go back to visit. I
will get into that house on some
excuse. I will take my letters, in-
cluding the one with my agreement
in it. Then, I will make James

think that Bart begged off com-
pletely.
"This will embarrass Bart finan-
cially, and damage his reputation
with James, and spoil his chances
for the big job. All this I will do
because I am very angry that he
has dared to marry again."
Oh, no, no! Although something

must have done almost that,
craftily, working along from point
to point, snatching little opportun-
ities, improvising as it saw its
chance. What if Sybil could see
through to her own deeds?
But how can I tell her, or any-

body? Dorry thought. I am in the
worst possible position. Partisan,
myself. Too young. Who is going to
believe that I am not making all
this up?
Am I? She soberly considered
this possibility.
No, I do see! And I do believe

that Sybil would not want to think
of herself as being so mean and
vindictive. So she would not, con-
sciously, plot and plan to do these
things. I can't believe in that kind
of evil. I just can not.
But Bart brushed off any more

discussion of her vision with enough
pitying impatience to discourage

her.

"Just let it alone," Bart said,

wearily. "I guess you're trying to
be charitable. But skip it. Forget
it." He was trying to be more hope-
ful today, agreeing that perhaps
he had been extreme last night.
There must be a wav to discharge

his obligation without throwing the
house into alien hands. He went
down to the workroom to ponder,
he said, the arithmetic. It was Sat-
urday. Nothing had to be done
until Monday.

Dorry said she must take the
car to do the marketing, a little
later. Did he mind being marooned?
Bart didn't mind. "I'm not going
anywhere." he said lightly. But the
phrase echoed through the rooms.

Dorry went about, tidving the

house, wondering what she could
do to help him or anyone. She
couldn't go to James Mallory. After
all, Sybil was his sister, and Dorry
was only his ex-secretary. She
couldn't even got to him and swear
that she, herself, was a witness and
knew that Bart's version of the
agreement was correct.

She had already, in a moment of
pure vanity, told James she hadn't
known about the loan, was too
smart to have permitted such a
thing to have been arranged, with-
out a protest. Vanity! Dorry saw
through.
But was there nothing that she
could do? Nothing to blow away
the trouble, like the smoke it was?

Late in the morning, Dorry, in

her little English car, on her way
to market, saw Helen Mallory's car
parked in front of a bakery. Dorry
pounced on a place at the kerb
and walked back, peering into
shops, until she saw Helen stand-
ing at the bakery counter. She
seemed to be alone. Dorry took in
breath and walked into the bakery.

H ELEN was waiting

for her change. She said, "Oh, good
morning." The two of them, ex-
changing phrases about the goods
in the display counter, sent to each
other, within the turn of the
phrases and the tone of their voices,
the news that they did not wish to
be each other's enemy.
Helen Mallory, in fact, tipped a

little off centre. She had been firmly
instructed in the right by James,
who had told her that, in the matter
of that money, Sybil had behaved
at least as foolishly as had Bart.
There was no need for details.
He for one and Helen for

another would not discuss the
matter further, with either party.
Now Bart would pay his debt, as
he ought to have done, and that

would be that.

As for Sybil, if she had upset

herself by going up to the house,
she had been warned not to go.
And if she felt "exiled," she would
have to get over it. Had she wanted
to keep the house, she ought to
have fought for it at the time of
the settlement. She had chosen
the money and chosen to go away
Now she would get the money arid
would go away again-on Monday.
And that would be that, too.

In the meantime, James declared,

let the Mallorys not be drawn into
behaving unpleasantly, or in any-
way beneath themselves, toward

anyone.

James was right, of course.
"Miffed," guessed Helen, in some
way she did not quite understand
but absolutely right, as ever.

So Helen was cordial toward
Dorry this morning. And Dorry
dared asked her to come next door
for a cup of coffee.
If the girl wanted the reassurance
of a friendly gesture, Helen was
quite willing to provide it, but Helen
had a streak of iron resolve this
morning, and when Dorry said she
was sorry for the misunderstanding
of the day before. Helen spoke her
piece

"It's settled now," she said, "and

no harm done. The last thing I
am going to do is criticise either
Bart or Sybil. Or you," she added,
smiling. "Or anyone."
Obviously the girl had more to
say. Helen did not intend to permit
it - but what the girl did say

startled her.

"I'm sure," said Dorry, "that Mr.

Mallory has read her letter, by
now, and knows that the arrange-
ment was set up as a loan. And
if he has, why then that harm
wasn't done, at least."
Helen knew her soft throat was
working.
Dorry said, "Mrs. Mallory, I am

THE MIRROR ON THE BRIDGE

practised without any old-fashioned
starchiness. James Mallory's sister
would have one of the few private

rooms.

When they arrived Dorry sat
down in the handsome lobby, let-
ting him go with no more than a
nod. So Bart walked by himself
along the wide corridor to Sybil's
room, which was right here along
the first-floor wing.

He dreaded having to talk to her.
When he saw her he felt that

shock. There she was in the high
bed, the same old Sybil, just the
same, with her long hair caught
back the way she had always worn
it for the night. She didn't seem,
didn't look, didn't even sound, in
any way different.
"Oh, Bart," she said sleepily,
"how are you?"

"How do you feel?"
"All right. They can't find any-
thing broken." She smiled at him.
Except your sanity, he thought.
He beat back the impulse to be
angry with her very comfort. No,
that wouldn't do. He said, "Sybil,
what happened last night?"
Now she looked over his head.
She said, "They're letting me go
back to Helen's later today. I'll be
going back to San Frncisco Mon-
day. That's tomorrow?"
Bart thought, "But doesn't she
know about the old man yet?
He said, "I'm glad you weren't

hurt. I wish you would tell me how
it happened."
"Will you tell her?" Sybil still
still wasn't looking at him.
"Who?"

"Tell your wife," said Sybil, "what
I Just told you."
"I don't . . ."

"I'm going," she said meaning-

fully. Now she looked at him, dark
eyes shining with a familiar light.
Bart closed his own eyes tight.

He thought: Now wait. Now wait.
She believes it. Dorry thinks she
really does. And if she believes it,
then the light ip her eyes is mad,
and maybe always was.
He said humbly, "I came to find
out. Won't you please tell me?"
She sighed. He moved around

to the side of the bed and her hand,
which was lying palm upward, lifted
toward his. It was an old gesture,
well remembered. So he took her
hand in the old way. "Tell me
about it," he coaxed.
She had such thick, dark lashes.

Her eyes were so dark. There were
dark half-rings on her cheek -
tokens of strain.

c

k_JHE began to speak,

as if she were reciting. "I hadn't
been out of the house all day. It
was a pretty evening. I knew I was
going back up north on Monday,
to breathe a little and to say good-
bye to this town."

Bart's mind churned. (It was bet-
ter to work the mind.) The Look-
out was a flat half-circle of park-
ing space on a ledge of the hill
just below his house. The city
fathers had recently put a street
lamp there, to discourage, they
hoped, the teenage neckers.
So Sybil, parked at the Lookout,

would know very well that her car
could be seen from the Rolfe house,
if you stood close to the glass. Was
this what the policeman Bowers had
looked out to check? Was this how
he was going to explain Dorry's
possible knowledge of the fact that
Sybil was on the hill, that side of
the bridge, and bound to have to
cross over it? Oh, now . . .

"Go on," he encouraged.
"I smoked a cigarette or two,"
said Sybil mournfully. "I . . . may
have wept."

Now, she was different. The old
Sybil would not have gone up there,
to moon over the town. The old
Sybil would never have admitted
to weeping. The old Sybil would
never have confessed that she, in
any way, felt defeated. Her hand
was hot. She said, "Bart, don't make
me tell you."
So he played the same game. He
said, "I have to know."
Her hand grew restless. "On the
way back, there was a car at the
bridge. I must have been confused.
Stupid of me."

"That's not what you said last
night."
"But I didn't say anything!" Her
eyes popped wide open.
He held on to her hand, vaguely

thinking that he had, here, a kind
of primitive lie-detector. He waited,
warily.
"Oh, Bart," she said, and her hand
was hot and tight. "Yes, I suppose
you do have to know." She rolled
her head on the pillow. "The car
blocked my way. Whichever way
I turned, I couldn't get by. She
meant me to go over. But I could
remember, you see . . ." Sybil was
excited now and she sat up, still
clutching his hand . . .

"I remembered how much ground
there was on the right, just before
the bridge. I thought I could get
off the road, there, and let her by,
and not go over, and save myself.
And I did it!" she said trium-
phantly. "She couldn't hit me, you
know. I pulled -off in time. She
rushed by, so close . . ."
Bart thought, she believes this.
"Who was it?" he asked quietly.
"Don't you know who it was?"
she murmured. Her hand went limp.
"How could you tell? How could
you see? After dark."
"No, no." she said, "there was
enough light. From her dashboard
light, maybe. Something. I saw her
face, two feet away. With such a
look! She just skinned by me . . .
not two feet away."
He began to think that the primi-
tive lie-detector could work both
ways and he tried to conceal the
jump of his own hand. He said, "I
don't like to believe that it was
Dorry."
"Oh, 1 know," she said mourn-
fully, "I know. But you would be
told. In a way, it was my fault. I
shouldn't have gone there. I had
been warned. Do you know about
that?"

"Yes," he said. He drew his hand
away from hers. "But you haven't
told anyone about that dream busi-
ness, have you?"
"Anyone?"
"The police?"
She said, "Bart, what do you want

me to say to the police?" Her eyes
shone, ready to conspire.
He couldn't answer. He couldn't

say, "Tell them exactly what you
just told me because then you con-
vict yourself out of your own
mouth." Nor could he say, 'Conspire
with me to spare my guilty second

wife."

"I don't want you in such trouble.'
There was a tear on her eyelash. A
real tear! He marvelled. "I wasn't
hurt. I am going away. I can saj
I was just confused. I think that's
best. I wouldn't w^ant in any waj

to make such trouble."

He could not speak.
"Of course, she hates me," Sybi

said, "Poor little thing. You and J

can understand."

He felt paralysed.
"So . . . never mind." Sh(

smiled and stretched. "I'm quite
all right. Is there any orange juice

there?"

He looked into the pitcher on
her bedside table and took it up
and poured thejuice into the glass.

She said, "Thanks, dear," as

mechanically as she had been say-
ing it for so many years. Then,
with the glass in her hand, she sat
against her pillow and stretched her
body. It stretched with lazy animal
ease as it had stretched before, in
his sight, so many times. The aura
she was projecting was familiar
oh, well known to him. She was his

wife.

Sybil said, "Don't blame her, Bart.
Can't you understand?"

H E blurted out of

his genuine horror, "What about the

old man?"

Her expression took time to re-
member. "Oh, yes ..." Then she
sipped and her tongue slipped to
relish the taste. "But surely," said
Sybil as if to comfort him, "she
couldn't have known that, could

she?"

Bart said hoarsely, "I'll see you,"

and he left her room.
He swung back down the corri-

dor, glad of one thing only, glad
to be moving. Dorry was still sit-
ting in the lobby. He didn't want
to see her, or talk to her. Beyond
there was a group of three and
Bart hurried past her to go to them.
James turned his eyeglasses and
boomed, "Oh, Bart, how is she?"
He couldn't answer.
Helen said, "Old Mr. Winslow is

snug as a bug. Maybe he's never
had it so good."
Bart drowned in her bright, in-
telligent gaze.
"That's good," he croaked.
"His fingernails," said Helen
crisply, "have never been so clean."
Bart laughed. The release of ten-
sion was explosive.
"Yes, that's all right," said James,
who was himself again this morn-
ing, proceeding step by step. "Bart,
this is George Polk, from the in-
surance company. The old fellow
is going to be happy to settle. So
that's all right."
Bart took in his breath and said
to James Mallory: "She had some
kind of hallucination, James. She
really thinks she saw Dorry. Says
Dorry's face went by her, two feet
away. But listen . . . Sybil doesn't
know one thing. She doesn't know
that Dorry drives an English car.
So the way she tells it . . . couldn't
have been. Dorry would have been
on the other side. So she proves
it wasn't Dorry."
"Well, of course it wasn't Dorrv,"
said Helen. "For pity's sake. Birt!"
"But then . . . Sybil has to have

. . . help ..." He was staggering

where he stood.

James said. "The police have a
lead to some other car."

"What?"

"We'll wait and see. How do we

know that some car didn't do just
what she said and some driver's
face gb by." James' voice rose to
a pronouncement. "Wait on all the
facts. That is the only right thing

to do."

Bart stared at him, hopelessly.
James was not going to judge -
not yet. And who could argue that
he wasn't right?
Dorry at the sight of Bart's face
as he passed her was stricken bv
the sight of it. Oh, help him! Oh,

how?

She got up and went down the
corridor where he had gone. She

THE MIRROR ON THE BRIDGE

near sliding over into the gulch,
you know. Fact, if the soil had been
damper, it would have gone.

"Well, Mrs. Rolfe was sitting
there in the driver's seat, hysterical.
Bob says he couldn't see that she
was physically hurt. He figured
she'd been scared, all right, and was
having a bad reaction. Thought
they had better get her to a doctor.
He put her in the back seat of his
car with old Mrs. Sperling. Wasn't
until he swung his car around to
head back into town that he
realised there was somebody under
her right rear wheel.

"Bob didn't think it was the
thing to tell Mrs. Rolfe about this
at the moment. So he sent the
women on to the hospital and
stayed there, hailed the next car
. . . fellow name of Walker . . .
and "ot help."
"What does the old man say hap-
pened?"
"He can't say. Doesn't know what
happened."

D ORRY was sitting

quietly, feeling as if her throat had
rusted shut and would never open
F gain. It was peaceful not to have
to speak. It crossed her mind to be
a little amazed or amused that a
policeman had come, and it was so
little liVie a grilling, so much like
a friendly call.

"The Sperlings sav - I guess

James Mallory told you? - Mrs.
Rolfe insists that Mrs. Rolfe . . ."
Bowers stopped and grinned at the
confusion of having to use the same
name for two separate women.
"Sybil says Dorry was driving a
car that forced her off the road,"
said Bart. "Yes, he told us. But I
want to know what really hap-
pened."
"Me. too," the policeman said,

genially. "You were home all even-
ing, were you?"
Bart said, "Dorry was. I went out
for a little while." He said this and
grinned, as if he had made some
kind of challenge.

"When was this?"
"I don't know exactly. Do you.

Dorry?"

She shook her head.
"Took a car, did you. Mr. Rolfe?"
"My car's in the shop."
"There's a car available."
"Yes, there's Dorry's car. I
walked."
"Where did you go?"
"Up hill. To the end of the road."
"For how long?"
"Half an hour, more or less. I
cou'dnt say. Can you. Dorry?"
She shook her head, asain. She

kept looking down at her hands in
her lap. The accused.
"See anything?" Bowers asked.
"Not much." Bart answered. "No

bodv lives above us."
"I mean below. See anything
going on at the bridge?"
"You can't see the bridge. Can't
even see it from here."
Bowers got up and walked to the

glass wall, as if he meant to check
on Bart's statement. Without turn-
ing around, he said. "How long had
you been home when you heard

about this?"

"About two minutes," Bart snap-
ped. "James came. I wish you would
..." When Bart stopped himself.
Eowers' broad back seemed to wait
for the rest of the sentence. There
was a tension of unasked questions.
No one had said a word about a
dream, a prophecy, a threat-or a

coincidence.

Dorry's throat was shut. She

would never say another word about
her vision Let someone else say

it. She had been right. Sybil wai
crazy. Truth would prevail. She
wouldn't have to say another word
She would simply sit quietly ano
let them think what they liked
Be vindicated in the end.

Bowers turned back to them
"Well," he said cheerfully, "we bet-
ter find the other car. That's about
the size of it."
"Was there another car?" said
Bart tensely.
"Oh. yes, one," said Bowers. "The
question is, were there two?"
"Two!" Bart exploded.
Bowers did not sit down again,

but he stood at ease; his manner
appeared open. "The Sperlings
passed a car. They remember it
was standing still, with its lights
on, at the town-end of the bridge.
Well, they crossed over and stopped
to help Mrs. . . . Sybil. And pretty
soon this car moved across. The
driver pulled up, asked Bob ii he
could be of assistance.
"At that time Bob hadn't found

the old fellow under the wheel, so
he said, no, everything was under
control, and he waved this fellow
by. Thing is, when we find him he
ought to be able to tell us some-
thing. Might have seen it, you know.
Well, good-night to you both."
Bart trailed him to the door,
not speaking.
At the door the policeman said,
easily, casually, "Where do you go
for auto repairs?"

"Carter and Hayes. Why?"
Bowers didn't say why. He said,
"Good night. Get some rest now."
Dorry sat where she was, her

throat still closed.
Bart paced the carpet. "If he

hasn't heard about this famous
dream he will. And then he'll see
the impossible coincidence. Maybe
he knows about it already. Why
didn't he mention it? I don't under-
stand his questions. What was he
getting at? What's his line of
reasoning? Dorry?"

She shook her head.

He gave her a haunted glance
and almost shouted, "Talk to me."
She thought, he wants to talk
and try to use logic and reasoning,
even though it isn't any good in this
case. He wants to work it like a
puzzle, because he doesn't want to
feel. She spoke. "I don't ... see
what he is going to do, or what
is going to happen."

"I don't see what did happen.

How could it be that Sybil gets into
this mess at the bridge just exactly
when von happen to be all alone''
Dorry, this is crazy! What time was
it when I went out? T. wish I had

lied to him."

Her mind was working sluggishly.
Couldn't have lied, she thought.
She said "I wish I had answered
the telephone "
Bart's head jerked high. "How
many times did the phone ring?"
"I . . didn't count. It rang
and rang. I didn't know you'd
gone out . "
"No, no. I mean, how many

calls?"

"The one.'
"And that was James." Bart
flopped into a chair. "That's
better," he said. "It didn't

coincide."

"What do you mean?"
"Look. The Sperlings come along

afterwards. Put Sybil in their
car. Drive her to the hospital.
Talk there, no doubt. Then call
James. Then James and Helen
drive to the hospital. Talk there.
Only after all of that did James
phone this house. So the whole
thing was over, had happened,
was over and done with, before I

ever went out, before I left you.
See, I heard the phone ring, too."
His grin was not as cheerful as

it attempted to be. "I feel better,"
he announced, as if to convince
himself. "I wonder if we should
go into this with Bowers."
But Dorry thought, it doesn't
really matter. It doesn't touch
the real trouble. Bart's trying to
reason. The policeman will reason,
and try to use evidence and testi-
mony and proof. And he'll suspect
the testimony and test it and he'll
see that it is only Bart and I
who testify about that phone call
and its relation to my alibi. It
tells us that I didn't do it, but we
knew that already. The real
trouble is in Sybil's mind.
She thought that Bowers might
be the type to say "emotionally
disturbed" as a blanket caption
for anything at all, any combina-
tion of emotions. She thought
the question wasn't what did
happen but why.
She looked at her hands in her
lap and said, sadly, "Is he going
to believe she could hate me so
much and not know it?"
Bart said, after a moment, "I
wish you, being a woman, could
explain to me."

"What, Bart?"
"Why is it enjoyable to be the

poor, put-upon, wronged and
martyred little woman?"
Blood roared in her ears. "1
didn't . . didn't mean to ... "
she gasped.
"Sybil." He was correcting her
without seeming to have noticed
the shock of guilt that had made
her speak. "I'd have said it was
pure meanness," he mused on
"Wanting you in trouble. Me in
trouble, too. But you don't think
so, do you?"
"N-no," she stammered. "N-not
. . . planned."
"I'll try to talk to her. Maybe
I can't. Maybe I never could.
What is this, Dorry? Why does it
go like this? Is it fun?"
Dorry said, "Like children. 'You'll
be sorry when I'm dead'.1' She

swallowed.
"That's so," he agreed. "And
soap operas. Grown women - all
suffering and persecuted."
"It's a temptation,'1 she said

brightly. "Its very old. As old a.;
Cinderella."
"Oh, yes, sure. But Cinderella

was working up to a happy ending
I don't understand this. What does
it get Sybil?" he asked painfully.

"Nothing." Dorry said, "nothing
That's what's so terrible. Nobod\
wants her to be unhappy."

"No," he said broodingly, "not

now."

There was no way to comfort him
Trouble had come to sit down be-
tween them, the suffering, put-upon.
persecuted figure of the other

woman.

At nine o'clock on Sunday morn-
ing they drove to the hospital in
Dorry's car. When Bart had apolo-
gised for having to take it, Dorry
had said calmly that she would ridie
along because she didn't want to be

marooned.

They were both behaving calmly
this morning, not mentioning tb
each other the bad night just past,
and not worrying aloud about the
coming day.

Bart wanted to be ahead of Cap-
tain Bowers. No reason why Sybil
could not have an early caller. The
hospital was a gay and modern
place where the arts of healing were

THE MIRROR ON THE BRIDGE

not in anv position to talk to . . .

Mrs. Rolfe."

Helen said, more sharply than

she had intended . . . "Oh, for
pity's sake use first names, Dorry.
It's too confusing;." (James couldn't
read a letter that was ashes!)

"To Sybil, then," said Dorry.

"And I can't talk to Mr. ... to
James. I wish I could talk to you."
Helen put sugar into coffee that
had already been sugared.
"I know that you must be fond
of Sybil," Dorry went on.
"Yes," said Helen, bristling. Dorry
now verged on impudence.
"I don't believe she meant to do
Bart all this harm ..."
"All what harm, my dear?"

D ORRY said, throw-

ing concealment away, because she
knew it could not last, "Bart hasn't
got the money. He says he is going
to sell the house. She can't want
that to happen. I had a dream . . ."
Helen stared at her.
"It won't go out of my mind,"

said Dorry. "There is nobody but
you ... to tell. I feel so strongly
that somebody might be able to do
something. If I didn't think it might
help all of us, I wouldn't try.

Helen was still staring and now

Dorry seemed to withdraw. "I'm
sorry. I suppose I can't, really."
Helen examined the girlish face,

the brown hair upon which Dorry
took no fashionable pains, this girl
who had been faithful and unas-
suming all those years.
Helen said with an air of com-
mand, "What's the matter?"
So Dorry told her.
After she had stumbled through

the best account she could make of
her vision, Dorry began to plead.
"I know I'm young, I'm not par-
ticularly wise. How could I be?

"I know I'm in love with Bart and

maybe that makes me blind. I
have no right to judge, like this,
or make any guesses. Maybe I
can never understand and maybe
the mirror on the bridge doesn't
mean what I think it does. Only
. I wish that somebody else
would wonder.
"Mrs. Mallory, could it be that
Sybil ls much angrier than she
knows she is? Would it be so
strange if she resented me, quite
a lot, very deeply? Would it be
possible that she is just hitting out
. . . hit-or-miss, you know . .
while all the time she really does
see herself wishing us happiness?
"I know it sounds presumptuous.
I don't mean it to be. I'm saying
that she's too-too good a person
to do this, if she weren't in some
way out of her own control."
Helen said. "If I were you I

wouldn't go around saying this sort
of thing."
Dorry's face changed as if it had
been slapped.
Helen rose. "Thank you for the
coffee. Have you told anybody else
what you are wondering?"

"I did try to tell Bart. But not
. . not so clearly. He didn't listen
Helen stood looking down into
the girl's obviously frightened face.
She felt frightened herself, as if a
kind of chasm was opening up be-
fore her. But something took hold
of Helen Mallory and spoke through
her mouth. "Are you sure what
woman it was? In the car? In the

dream?"

Dorry understood her. instantly,
and answered. "I've thought of that.
I don't think it was I. It might

be."

In a moment, Helen touched her

shoulder with one finger. "That's
right," she said decisively. "So just
be quiet."

Helen came almost stealthily in

at her own front door, put the
bakery box down in the hall, and

stood still to listen.
Sarah would be in the kitchen.

Helen could hear her, faintly. To
her left, the dining table was set
for lunch. To her right, the living
room was in silent order. Helen
listened at the bottom of the stairs,
and heard nothing.
She took off her hat with nervous

fingers, and tiptoed along the living
room carpet to peer in at the den.
James was there, relaxed in his big
chair, reading some dreary-looking
magazine.
"Where is Sybil?" asked Helen,
swallowing any overtones that
might carry
"I don't know," boomed James.
"What's the matter?"
Helen saw him as he was en-

trenched and solid in his simplicity.
James had taken his position and it
wouldn't be easy to shake him. No

use to say to him, "Come, let's dis-
cuss this matter, after all. "No use
reminding him that Sybil had
burned the letters. He knew that
as well as she.
No use reproaching him for his
rule of "no details." that had left
Helen out. No use saying, "James,
I am worried about your sister. I
have felt, all along, that she is too
much subdued, too meek and mild
and martyred, too humble on the
surface. It isn't like her. There's
something strange going on."
Helen decided to attack in a way
he could never expect. So she sat
down and said to him. "I ran into
Dorry Brown. She had a dream-"
James was so astonished at this
gambit that he simply listened.
"Sybil was in a car, coming down

hill to the bridge. Now across the
bridge there was a big mirror. So,
of course, she could see her own
lights coming toward her head-on.
Well, she tried to avoid them but
they weren't real. They were a re-
flection. They did as she did. And
she went out of control. She crashed

"At the bridge?" said James,
totally lost.
"Yes. As if another car were
forcing her off the road. But, James,
don't you see. she was only . . ."
Svbil said. "Who was only what?"
"You were," said James, "what-
ever it is."
"I?"
Helen looked around and there

was Sybil, in a green dress, carry-
ing a small tray on which there
were two glasses of sherry. "I didn't
bring you anv. Helen dear. I didn't
hear you come in."
"Never mind," said Helen, moving
her forearm as if to cancel every-
thing and start afresh. "Is Sarah
ready with lunch?"
"No, there's time . . ." said Sybil.
She gave James his sherry and sat
down with her own. "What was all
this about me? Being forced off the
road, was I?"
"It was a dream." said James,

looking outraged. "Didn't you say,
Helen?"
"A dream! Who dreamed it?"
Sybil sipped.
Helen said, "It was nothing. Sybil,
I've been thinking about a fourth
for cards, tonight."
T don't want to play, especially."
Sybil said. "Who dreamed this
dream about me?"

And James Mallory, totally lost,
and missing every signal that his

wife was sending, said in his honest
way, "Dorry Brown."
Helen saw Sybil's eyes jump to
fix themselves upon her and through
the eyes something wild and furious
and blazingly shrewd peeped, so
briefly as to vanish in an instant.

"Oh?" said Sybil, drawing out

the vowel.

Helen said, quietly, "Sybil, did
you agree to make Bart's last pay-
ment into a loan?"

"Of course," said Sybil, innocently.
"I told you."
The whole house seemed to
become perfectly quiet.
No, she did not, thought Helen.

She certainly let us both think . . .
She implied . . . Her brain was
reaching for an accurate memory
of all the words that had been
said that other evening at the

dinner table.

She flicked a glance at James and

knew, now, what had mysteriously
annoyed him. No doubt he had
been made to feel foolish. But
didn't Sybil realise how she had

the same as lied to them?

James said, "We are not speaking

about the money. What was your
point, Helen? About this dream?"

Helen leaned back and mur-

mured, "Oh, I don't know. I
forget now."
Sybil said, smilingly, amused,

"Doesn't that poor girl know better
than to tell her dreams?"
James said. "I don't see any
point at all in this whole . . ."
"Don't you?" said Sybil. "But
she gives herself away. She'd like
to see me go off the road and
crash. That's the point. At the
bridge, was it? Where were you,"
she said to Helen, "that Dorry
Brown was telling you her

dreams?"

Helen said, "Sybil, did you
deliberately go up there when
Bart wasn't home so that you
could get that letter and burn it
and confuse the issue?"

That was clear enough. There

had to be an answer. Helen
watched closely for the answer
beneath the answer. Sybil's dark
eyes were showing shock, innocent
shock.

James cleared his throat and

said, "Helen," severely disapprov-
ing.
Then Sybil's face cleared. "Oh."
she said. "I see. That's what she
told you? Oh, no, does she think
that?"
"Did you?" said Helen.
James was paralysed by her dis-

obedience.

SYBIL'S eyes be-

gan to shine with tears. "Of course,
I didn't. I said that I wasn't in-
terested in the money. I begged
James not to do anvthing about it.
What have I done that wasn't try-
ing the best I could to be fair and
even generous?

"I told you I don't want any-

thing for myself. I want Bart to be
happy. I have nothing against
Dorry Brown. Vve understood. I
know Bart needs a woman. Who
would know better? And I know
poor little Dorry Brown needed to
be married. Why does she hate me
so!"
James said, "Now, Sybil, there's
no need-"
But Sybil swept on. "I came here
to visit my own brother. Is that
wrong? I wanted some of my
father's things. Shouldn't I have
them? I didn't start any trouble

THE MIRROR ON THE BRIDGE

about the money. It was James who
said I couldn't let it wait.
"If Dorry Brown thinks I'm a

threat to her, then I wish some-
body would tell her that I am go-
ing, I am leaving, I am getting
out of town. She doesn't have to
threaten me, in her round-about
way . . ."

Sybil had one hand to her cheek.
The turn of her eyes was alarming.
Helen said sharply, "Oh, stop

that."

J AMES set down

his wineglass and said, "Yes, that
will do, Sybil. Nobody is threatening
anybody and I, for one, have had
enough of this."
Helen held her breath, waiting for

an outburst.

But Sybil trailed her flngertfos
down her cheek. She lifted her
wine and sipped.
She said, "Silly, isn't it? Poor
Dorry Brown." Sybil's wide mouth
was ready to smile. "Can't you see
through her?" she said gaily, and
laughed.
Sarah's cheerful voice announced
that luncheon was served.
Sybil sprang up, saying that she

was hungry, and she began on the
way to the table to query James
about his recent trip to France.

Helen followed them with mixed
emotions.
Bart said furiously, "I have

warned myself. I have inquired.
Was one thing I loved so much in
you the fact that you obeyed me?
I've told myself to watch that. St
was a responsibility. Yah! Any
man who dreams that he can find
a woman to obey him in this day
and age . . . the more fool he!"

"I shouldn't have done it," Dorry
said miserably. She sat in the corner
of the couch. Bart's figure paced
between her and the great window,
the dark sky and the town twinkling
below. She was tense to endure her
just punishment, now that she had
been able to confess.
Bart said, "Helen's all right, you
know. I'm rather fond of her. But
why you had to talk to her about
that crazy dream, of all things . .
when I asked you . . ."
She knew that he now tried to

beat down his temper. "Dorry,
don't you remember that I told you
there was nothing for you to do?
I told you to stay out of it?"
She murmured, "Yes, Bart." Her

head was bent. Her taut neck
ached of strain.
Her meekness did not help. "But

you were going to fix things up. eh?"
Bart's temper flew again. "Are you
kidding yourself that you did any
good?"
"I wanted to do good," she said
in a low voice.
"Oh, you had good intentions?
You weren't just meddling from
vanity." She gasped. "You had
this vision. You understood every-
body, and only you could under-
stand." Bart struggled with his
own tongue once again. He sat
down and held his head.
"What in the world did you think

the good was going to be?" he
asked. "Helpn would go home and
tell Sybil that Sybil's unconscious
was cutting up, and that's all the
trouble? Svbil would say, 'Well, of
course that's it! T< d'd plot. I did
lie. How clever of Dorry!' Honey
child, how could you imagine?"
Dorry said. "I don't know, Bart."
"Will vou keen out of this whole
business?" he blazed.
"Yes. Bart. I will." She cringed
in the storm

Now he was up again. "You
don't believe she could be plain
mean, eh? What do you know
about her? I told you she was
snake-mean. I should know."
"Then, if you knew," said Dorry
in a small clear voice, "why ever
did you ask her for a loan?"

"Because I needed the money,"
he snapped. "And I was a fool,
wasn't 1? And I'll pay for that."

"Bart ... I don't think you
understand . ."

"What?"
"About money," said Dorry, brave
with desperation.
"As you do? As all women do?

Well, they must, I guess, since they
can strip a man of everything he's
earned, just as the price of getting
rid of them."

"You're not being fair," she
gasped.
"Fair to whom? To Sybil?"
"Maybe not to her. either," said
Dorry, in pain.
"Oh, she agreed without any re-
luctance, to a high rate of interest,"
he said. "Money is money. But
when I got married, that did it. I
should have known. I didn't realise
what she could do about it. She
found out what she could do."

"I don't think . . ."
"Oh? Because vou were warned

in a dream? I tell you that Sybil
can be possessed of the devil."
Dorry lifted her head high. "Yes
And that is exactly what I am say-
ing."

He looked at her and shook his
head in exasperation. "Can't you
understand that you've onlv made
things worse? Telling Helen I'm
strapped, besides. Can't you under-
stand that vou, of all people, should
keep auiet?"
Suddenly Dorry was perfectly
furious. She got up. She said, "I
seem to think that I, of all people,
am an interested party," she cried
"And the truth about money comes
out. Bart."
"You really think it's a truth
about money?"
They were face to face about six
feet apart. Dorry had the sudden
knowledge that his face was made
for anger, it was beautiful in anger.
Bart said, "Money's not at the

bottom of Sybil's doings. Don't you
know there's sex in this? She's not
governed bv her brain, or any fin-
ancial considerations. She can't get
me back, she mav not even want
me . . . but she'll be damned if
vou are going to be happy with me.
if she can help it."
"It looks," said Dorry, clearly,
"as though she can help it. doesn't
it?"

He stared at her.
She said. "I wish I hadn't said
that. I don't like to fight. Bart. I
don't enjoy lt. It kills me."

"That's too bad," he said re-
motely.
"Bart, listen." said Dorry for her

life, "what I say, in my way, about
Sybil is just what vou say in yours.
If we agree, if that's the truth
then mustn't we both say so?"

"Baby Child," he said. They were
not pet names
"Don't you think James Mallory
ought to know it if his sister ls
'possessed of the devil'?"

"Are you commenting on my
famous integrity?"
"I am not " She was seething

with an unaccustomed turmoil in
all her veins. "You are impossible!"
she raged "You talk about sex .
You . ."
"Oh, for the love of Mike.

Dorry," said Bart. "I can't play
childish games with you for ever.
There's a true thing here. If it
spoils your girlish romance. T can't

help it. Fourteen years of
marriage with a woman leaves a
memory that neither Sybil nor I
can dismiss as if it had never
happened."
Dorry didn't make a sound, but
she began to cry.
"I don't want her any more,"
Bart said, "and I doubt she wants
me. But she certainly doesn't want
me to have you. You can count on
that."
Dorry said. "Bart, if you'd
listen . I was trying to say
that I know ..."

"Your intuition?"
Dorry threw up her chin, "All

right. I am beginning to under-
stand a whole lot I hadn't known
before. The war between the
sexes, for instance. Can't you
do without it?"
Bart looked at her; his face
seemed to become thinner.
Dorry said in a trembling voice,
"I am sorry I've done what has
displeased you. I can't undo it
I won't do it again."
"Go ahead." he shouted, "Turn
on the pious, superior, absolutely
female bit. No man has got a
chance against that."
"Against it?" said Dorry She
marched out of the room. She
went into the bedroom and closed
the door. The whole world was
broken into dark and disconnected
blobs. Dorry fell upon the bed
and wept, which was a silly thing
to do and wouldn't help. But
then she couldn't help anything
not anything-not at all.

Barton Rolfe stormed up and
down the big room. The phone
rang. He didn't touch it. He
went out of the house, sent him-
self striding up the road. There
wasn't much more of the hill road,
in this direction, it led nowhere
He raced upward.
Now what? He ground his teeth

together. Fighting with his wife,
was he? That his way of life,
was it? Did he contrive to press
his wives into such corners that
he forced them to fight him back?
Had he lived in that rhythm for
so long, was the rhythm of conflict
so deep a habit, that when he
found a woman willing to be his
friend, he couldn't take it?

His legs began to feel the use
of the climbing muscles and he
drove them harder. The night
was chilly. The sky was stern
The path he took was steep.

N

1.1 OW must he dc

without Dorry's adoring gazes, that
he had enjoyed so much. Was he so
vain that he had to be adored and
obeyed? Was he so weak that he
had to have that reassurance? Was
he so stupid as to have married
for anything, this time, except for
love?
Love Dorry? Yes, he did. Love

her enough to let her be? If I
don't, thought Bart, I'm finished
That is the end of me.

Down in the Rolfe House, lights
blazed, phone rang
But Dorry lay on the bed and
would not answer. Bart must take
phone calls. She was to stay out of
things. She would obey So do not
presume to pick up the telephone
Let him answer.
It rang and rang, as she lay in

this paralysis At last, it stopped
ringing.
Then, In the silence, Dorry sat
up. No one had answered it. Where
was he, then?
She felt frightened She went

THE MIRROR ON THE BRIDGE

close to the glass to look down-
wards but there was no glow of
light from his workroom. Couldn't
be there and not have answered the
extension phone. Wasn't he In the
house?

She shook off the creeping fear
that she couldn't understand and
went into her bathroom to wash her
face and disguise its state. A quar-
rel was the end of a girlish idyll
but not the end of the world, she
told herself.

Bart had a temper. Very well

then, he had a temper. She had
heard that he had. Now, she had
seen it. You could say this was
wrong. Or you could say it was the
other side of the coin of his bril-
liance.
Everybody had two sides. Dorry

herself was naive. Yes, she was. The
other side of that coin was her
perfect devotion. Perfect devotion
was worth something, worth a great
deal, for instance, to her who gave
it.
Dorry went out of the bedroom

wing and into the great silent room,
so beautiful, so empty. This was
Bart's house. He wasn't here. She
sat down to wait.
All her brave lectures fell into
pieces.
Dorry herself went to pieces. One

part ignorant child, looking for
innocent bliss . . . "caught like a
bird in a badminton game." in a
true and existing human relation-
ship made of pain she couldn't
ignore and couldn't cancel. One
Dart girl-trying-to-be-a - good-girl,
fancying that she had a solution
Sybil-possessed-of - th< - devil. By
what right did Dorry decide that
only Sybil was possessed of the
devil? Dorry had a devil, too. That

w is what Helen Mailor- had meanf.
Dorry might be seeing what she
would like to see. Sybil-possessed
of-the-devil - so nobody would
have to feel guilty for anything.
And Dorry, in the mirror, devoted
and wise, everybody's saviour.
It wasn't going to'work.
One part of Dorry longed for one

thing only. The touch of his arms,
the scent of his skin. Yes, he had
hurt her, let out his temper, cut
with his tongue punished her
too much, perhaps.
But there was a true thing, very
strong - it was neither good nor
bad. It was there.

When Bart came quietly in at

the front door she did not move.
But the whole house changed from
«tone and wood and glass to a
dwelling place

E came to her and
started to speak but she held up
her arms, like a child, for comfort-
ing.
And then she was in his arms,
and she was comforted. But not as
a child, and the words he said
pleasing and yet painful - she
didn't need. She scarcely heard.
The doorbell had to ring three
times before they realised that it
wanted answering.
Bart went, and James Mallory

rushed in He was in a state He
seemed to be steaming He said,
'Why don't you answer your tele-
phone? Never mind. Best I came
Listen to me. Sybil's in the hos-
pital."
"What!"
"Yes, and it ls mighty peculiar
. . mighty peculiar Listen

to me . . ." James was not himself
at all. "I'll tell you what happened
and then you tell me. Sybil was
driving down your hill and some car
forced her off the road at the
bridge."
"She what!"

"That's not the worst, even. She
didn't go over. The car stayed on
the verge. That's all right. But
. . ." James was shaking nis fore-

finger in the air. "There was some
old tramp asleep there in the weeds
and her car hit him. The police
know . . ."
"The police!"
"Oh, yes, the police." James was

bobbing his head like a wound-up
toy. "Oh, yes," he repeated. Sybil's
car missed the end of the bridge
and thc old man is hurt and he's
in the hospital, too. And let me
ask you this? How was it that
Dorry Brown told Helen this very
day what was going to happen and

where? How is that?"

"Now, wait a minute," Bart said.
"No, I won't," James said. "Be-

cause there's more. Sybil says that
a car forced her off the road and
she says that Dorry Brown was
driving the car and the police know
. . . and everybody will know. It'll
be all over town."
Bart's voice rang command. "Stop

dithering. Answer me. First, was
Sybil hurt?"
"Not-no-not--" James' head
was bobbing He seemed to have
become stuck like a broken record.
He sat down, with a solid plop,
pulled himsell together, and said,
"Not apparently, but they are keep-
ing her in the hospital. They can't
be sure. Helen is there. What did
happen?"
"How should we Know?" said
Bart. "The old man-he isn't dead?"
"No, no, no . . . But," said James,
struggling to recover his dominance,
"let me tell you ... If it was
just an accident, then the old man
was hurt in an accident. That's
one thing. Nobody could possibly
have known he was there. But if
some car did force Sybil off the
road then that car - whatever car
it is - is going to be in bad trouble
Oh, yes, bad trouble."
James' very hair seemed to be

on end. He was bobbing his head
again. "Where were you?" he de-
manded. "You didn't answer the
phone."
"Are you out of your .?"
"Ask Helen. Ask your wife,"

said James, "how Sybil was threat-
ened with this very thing very
thing . . "
The phone rang. Dorry could not
move. Bart got it. "Helen? . .
How is she? see Yes, he's
here. Yes, I will. When can I talk
to Sybil? Yes, I see."

He hung up.
"They've got her under sedation.

She won't talk any more tonight.
Helen needs picking up."

James opped out of the chair.

"Helen," he said proudly and a little
absurdly, "is not one of those hys-

terical women."

"No. she isn't." said Bart grimly,
"and I'm glad. She doesn't seem
to think that Dorry's a criminal."

"Well, I-I-I don't say- I
must go."
Dorry found her voice "Mr Mal-

lory, were you thinking that I really
was in whatever car .?"
"I didn't know what to think."

said James flatly "You figure it

out."

Bart said, 'Dorry had a dream
She thought it revealed something
true. She told it to Helen because
of that i nd only because of that."
"Now vou tell me something elsp

before vou go Did Svbil know
about this dream?"
"Well ves." James said 'Helen

started to tell me Svbil Yes.
she knew ."
"And Sybil took it for a threat?
Didn't you say 'threat'?"

"Yes." said James

"All right," said Bart. "Then IT*

got it figured out. Your sister
Sybil, is off her head, to put it

bluntly."

James was blinking rapidly be-

hind his glasses.

"Or would you rather think that
Dorry is a criminal?"
James said, pathetically, Its
so peculiar ..."

"It certainly is," said Bart, hotly.
Dorry had a pleasant sensation
of being warm and sheltered on the
other side of his temper. "And I'll
now tell you something more. Your
sister, Sybil, had better mind her

tongue."

"The police . . ."
"The police had better find out

what really did happen, for Sybil's

sake."

«I AMES said, "This

is terrible. I have to go. All I can
say is-this is terrible. Excuse me.
I have to go."

Bart came away from the door
and down the long room, with his
face pinched in thought. He caught
a glimpse of Dorry, in her shiver-
ing tension, and said, almost absent-
mindedly, "She can't do this. Dorry."

"I know. I did it."

"What do you mean, you did it?"
he said with a touch of impatience.
"Just that I put the idea . . .

If I had kept quiet . . You think
so. don't you?"
"Maybe. A muscle in Bart's
cheek jumped.
"And there's a man hurt . .
She shivered violently.
As if he were called to his duty
he came and put his arms around
her. "All right, now. Don't start
beating on yourself, Dorry. She
must have, somehow or other, made
this happen. How could there have

been another car?"

"Any car would do . " wailed
Dorry.
"All right. Hush, now." He held

her tightly but he wasn't think-
ing of her. "James said it, I guess.
This is terrible. If she really is
that far out "

So the devil in Dorry said to
Dorry, Well, you've convinced him.

He is sorry for her. He is very sad.
He wonders That's what vou

wanted?

The doorbell made them jump.
Bart put her aside, steadying her
upon her own feet. Chet Bowers
was at the door, friend and golf
partner to James Mallory well
respected in the town. Chief of the
Detective Bureau In fact, it was
the police

He came m like a quiet friend,
his manner was casual. Bart was
the one who fired the questions.
How was Sybil? How was the old
man? The old man had a broken
knee, but he'd be all right. Sybil
would be all right, at least by morn-
ing. Bowers hadn't been able to
talk to her for more than a minute.
Bowers had been down at the bridge
-too dark to see much Thought
he'd drop up
Under the spell ol his attitude,

all three sat down, as If this were
a friendly drop-in visit Bowers
arranged his trousers neatly at the
knees, and seemed to be in no hurry

at all

"What did nappen?' Bart de-

manded

"As I say, 1 wasn't able to get
much from Mrs Rolte Be better in
the morning. I've talked to the
Sperlings, though Bob and his wife
and Bob's mother came along after
it had happened saw her car on
the edee there It fame nrettv

$