A Treasury of Stories by Cornell Woolrich

Author:Cornell Woolrich [Woolrich, Cornell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Noir fiction; American
Published: 2015-10-09T11:00:00+00:00

The following Monday morning the former Vivian Lane, now Mrs. George Worthington, was sitting breakfasting on the terrace with her brand-new husband when Yvette, the maid, appeared and told her someone wished to see her.

“I’m not at home to anyone,” said Vivian firmly, “from now on.”

“It’s that young lady who brought your dress the other night,” explained the maid.

Vivian jumped up. “Oh, that’s different. I must see her! She’s a dear! Come along, George, and meet her. She’s the one I told you about, that I used to turn the tables on Mr. Smart-Aleck Jimmy Saturday night.”

“Gee, the poor little kid,” said George penitently. “We’ll have to do what we can for her. It’s a foregone conclusion what happened to her if she went out with Indian!”

Instead of just Sybil, however, the terrible Jimmy Worthington had come along with her. Vivian and George took a deep breath when they saw him and edged closer to one another as if for mutual protection against the tirade that was to come.

He looked, however, slightly sheepish and not at all tiradeish. Sybil was the only one of the four who seemed to have her wits about her.

“I brought your dress back,” she told Vivian.

George stepped manfully into the breach. “Now, Jim,” he began earnestly, “you and the family can do what you like about it, but I married Vivian Saturday night up at Greenwich, Connecticut, and—”

“Congratulations, old man,” said Jimmy meekly.

George and Vivian just stared, mouths open, at this unexpected submission.

“Yes, and now you two can congratulate us,” remarked Sybil matter-of-factly. “We got married ourselves at Greenwich Saturday night. Isn’t that a coincidence? We must have passed each other on the way, you coming back and we going up.”

“You what?” Vivian gasped. When she had recovered somewhat, she put an arm about her new sister-in-law and murmured:

“Could I talk to you alone, dear, for a minute?” As soon as they were out of earshot, she burst out: “How did you ever land him? Him of all people! Why, he was known to be absolutely allergic to marriage.”

“Virtue is its own reward,” explained Sybil complacently. “When he got tired wrestling with me and not getting anywhere, he suddenly discovered he couldn’t live without me even if it meant marrying me, so he whisked me away to a justice of the peace up at Greenwich.”

“But how did you manage to hold out against him? He’s deadly to women, you know. What will-power!”

“Will-power nothing!” snapped Sybil. “I’ve got my own little private system. You remember when I borrowed those scissors before I left here that night? Well, they did it. I’ll show you what I used them for.” She stepped behind the screen for a moment or two, came out again holding what had once been a dainty pair of pantalettes. You couldn’t tell what they were any more, they were as full of holes as if an army of angry moths had been busy at them for months. They were tattered, threadbare, disreputable.

“You did that yourself ?” gasped Vivian.

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