IV

The front door had closed after the last of the guests. Mrs. Holland

stood in the hall for a long moment, staring blankly at the closed door,

and turned toward the stairs. The caterer’s men were busy in the dining

room. She stopped to look at them, glad that they were here, glad of

any bustle or stir that postponed the hour when ordinary daily life

should begin. After all, Joyce’s going away was not the intolerable

moment. That would come when she would have to take up her life without

Joyce.

At the foot of the stairs she met Hilda.

“Go up in the sewing room, ma’am,” said Hilda in a stern, almost

threatening voice. “I’ll bring you up a nice hot cup of tea. You never

ate a mouthful of all that fancy stuff, and you need something.”

“I really should like a cup of tea,” Mrs. Holland replied gratefully.

She climbed the stairs slowly, not because she was weary, but because

there was so much time before her. The door of the sewing room was open,

and Hilda had drawn up a chair to the folding table. It looked

comfortable there in the ugly, familiar little room, with the sun

pouring in across the faded carpet. As she went in, she saw a pin on the

floor, glinting silvery bright in the sun’s path, and she stooped to

pick it up.

“See a pin and pick it up, and all the day you’ll have good luck”--that

was what Miss Brown, the dressmaker, used to say to Joyce, and Joyce, as

a tiny girl, used to trot about the room, her head bent, her hair

falling over her eyes, earnestly looking for pins.

Mrs. Holland smiled, remembering a shocking episode. She had promised

the child five cents a dozen for all the pins she picked up, and so

many, many dozens had been recovered from the floor that day--an

abnormal quantity. Before she went to sleep that night, Joyce had

confessed her crime. She had secretly emptied Miss Brown’s papers of

pins upon the floor. Poor, contrite little Joyce!

Over in the corner stood a dress form--a pompous thing with a

marvelously rounded figure. “Aunt Sarah,” Joyce used to call it, very

disrespectfully. Only yesterday a skirt of Joyce’s had hung on it. No

Joyce now, no more of her laughter, no more of her dear voice!

A heavy and deliberate tread was coming along the hall. It was Frank.

Madeline did not want to talk to him, or to any one, just then, but of

course he would come. Whenever he was at home in the daytime, away from

his beloved office, he was always a little forlorn, inclined to follow

her about from room to room.

“Hello!” he said from the doorway. “So here you are, eh? Resting?”

“Come in, Frank,” she invited. “Hilda’s going to bring up tea.”

“Tea!” he repeated, with his big, hearty laugh. “Why, my dear girl, I’m

full of _pâté de foie gras_, and lobster salad, and _café parfait_, and

all the rest of it! Caterer did pretty well, don’t you think?”

He came in and sat down in a queer, old-fashioned rocking-chair, with an

antimacassar tied to its back with faded ribbons. Such an incongruous

figure he was in a sewing room, this big, handsome man in his morning

coat, with spats, and a white gardenia in his buttonhole! He was smoking

a cigar, and was enjoying it. He crossed his legs and leaned back, and

Mrs. Holland smiled at the sight of the scarlet ribbons of the

antimacassar peeping coyly over his broad shoulder.

He was glad to see her smile.

“That’s the idea!” he said. “Thing is, not to mope. First day or

two--pretty hard, without the little girl. Thing is, to distract your

mind. It’s early. Plenty of time for a matinée. I’ll telephone for a

couple of seats at the Palace. You drink your tea and then get your hat

on. That’s right, Hilda! Tea--that’s what Mrs. Holland needs!”

But Hilda was not responsive to his good humor just now. Her eyes and

nose were red, and her blunt face wore an expression of angry defiance.

She poured out a cup of tea and set it before Mrs. Holland in stony

silence. She was suffering, this faithful heart, and it was her own

grief that she defied. She had loved Joyce so, and she missed her so

greatly!

Holland watched his wife in silence for a time.

“By the way,” he said, “that Johnson girl, you know--”

Mrs. Holland glanced up, in nowise deceived by his casual tone.

“Who? Stella’s daughter?”

“Yes. Er--pathetic case, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know much about her,” replied Mrs. Holland dryly.

“Well, it seems to me--I was talking to her--as far as I can see, a very

pathetic case.”

He paused, and Mrs. Holland regarded him with a faint smile. His manner

was apologetic, but he was pleased with himself. His hand was raised to

his mustache, and he was looking down at the floor with a modest air.

“Thing is,” he went on, “she wants to be a musician. She’s studied,

but--present circumstances--family had to sell their piano last month.

That’s pretty hard, isn’t it, my dear?”

“Oh, very,” murmured Mrs. Holland.

“She said that when she saw the piano here, she couldn’t keep her hands

off it. That’s hard luck, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.”

Again he paused for some time.

“I’m afraid,” he said, “that I--well, that perhaps you won’t approve--”

“Why? What did you do?”

“On the spur of the moment, my dear--”

“What was it, Frank?” Madeline demanded, with a trace of impatience.

“Well,” he said, “I told her--said she could come here and

practice--arrange with you--when it wouldn’t bother you.”

“What?” she cried. “You--”

Then she stopped short, because of the look she saw on his face--a

little guilty, but pleased.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t like it,” he said.

If she said she didn’t like it, he would be still more pleased. He would

think she was jealous.

“I don’t mind at all, Frank,” she told him pleasantly.

“Oh!” said he, somewhat taken aback. “Very good of you, my dear!” He

rose and went toward the door. “As long as we’re going out this

afternoon,” he added, “why not--well, why not let her begin to-day, eh?”

Mrs. Holland had also risen.

“I suppose you told her she could come this afternoon?”

Frank was not very happy now.

“Simply mentioned that we’d be out, and that--well, I didn’t think her

practicing would bother any one, you see.”

“Yes--I see!” said Mrs. Holland.

He lingered in the doorway, as if there were something else he wanted to

say; but whatever it may have been, he decided against voicing it.

“Then you’ll get on your bonnet and shawl, eh?” he suggested.

She smiled affably, and off he went.

Mrs. Holland sat very still, listening to his footsteps going down the

hall. Her heart was filled with anger.

“On his own daughter’s wedding day!” she thought. “A girl younger than

Joyce--a silly, artful little thing like that! Of course, she’s laughing

at him. Very well--let her! I shan’t try to stop him. He can make

himself just as ridiculous as he likes!”

She poured herself another cup of tea, and ate the toast that Hilda had

brought with her. Anger had given her an appetite and a sort of energy.

Mope? Not she!

As she went to dress, she passed the closed door of Joyce’s room, with

only a strange little qualm that was like the warning of a neuralgic

pain. Later would come the moment for the full realization of her loss.

Just now she had an important task to perform. She had to dress so that

she would look her best. She had to appear before Frank in the most

nonchalant and pleasant humor. She had to show him that she wasn’t at

all angry, and didn’t care in the least how absurd he was about poor

Stella’s daughter.

She succeeded. That is, she was so very, very polite and casual that

Frank was somewhat dismayed. His intention had been to cheer her up, and

she gave him no chance for that. She never mentioned Joyce, she never

once looked downcast, but kept her eyes fixed upon the stage, showing a

lively interest even in the trained poodles.

He was in nowise deluded by all this. He knew that she was angry, and

she could tell that he knew it by his anxious sidelong glances.

V

“See here, old girl!” he said, as they drew near the house. “Suppose we

stay out for dinner? Eh?”

“I’d rather go home, thank you, Frank.”

He sighed.

“Well,” he said, “we’ve got to go some time, of course; but

it’s--Madeline!” There was a note in his voice that she had never heard

before--an almost panic-stricken appeal. “Madeline!” he repeated. “I

hate the thought of going back. She--I can’t realize it. She seemed such

a child to me--such a--” He turned away his head. “Only hope the boy’ll

turn out well,” he added gruffly.

They walked on in silence. When at last he spoke again, it was in his

usual vague, good-humored way. He had recovered himself; yet Mrs.

Holland was not glad. There was a strange little ache of regret in her

heart, as if she had missed some irrecoverable opportunity. She wanted

to speak, but the moment had passed. He did not need comfort from her

now, that was evident.

* * * * *

Hilda opened the door for them, and her face was not pleasant.

“There’s a young lady here, ma’am,” she said, “playin’ the pianner.”

That hardly needed saying, for all the house seemed filled with it--with

the austere beauty of a Bach fugue, played with a noble and honest

simplicity. It was music like a benediction upon a home. The hall was

dim, but through the window on the landing came the glow of sunset. A

pool of light lay upon the wine-red carpet; and that glow and color, and

the music, were strangely and gravely exalting. The old house had found

a voice for its loss--not sorrowful, not weary, but proclaiming a

strong, sure hope.

Madeline Holland moved quietly to the doorway, and looked into the

drawing-room. No sunset light was there. The long room was shadowy and

without color, the roses set about were ghostly white, and their perfume

was like a haunting thing. The little figure at the piano was only a

shadow, too, with her head thrown back, her profile clear, pale,

expressionless.

Mrs. Holland was strangely stirred. She turned toward her husband. The

light was too dim for her to see his face clearly, but in the merciful

dusk his features had their old romantic quality. He was staring

straight before him, motionless as a statue. She stretched out her hand

to touch his arm, to recall him from his distant world to herself, when

just at that moment he moved abruptly, pressed the switch, and filled

the room with light from the chandelier in the ceiling.

The spell was broken. The girl spun around on the stool, sprang up, and

came toward Madeline.

“Oh, Mrs. Hol-land!” she cried in her drawling little voice. “I’m afraid

I bothered you!”

Yes, the spell was broken now. There was no music in the big, bright

room. The rapt young St. Cecilia was only Stella’s daughter, vain,

insincere, coquettish.

“Not at all,” said Madeline.

Her tone might have warned the most impervious, but Stella’s daughter

was not in the habit of noticing warnings. Instead, she looked at Frank,

smiling up into his face; and Mrs. Holland saw his hand go up to his

mustache.

“Ask Miss Johnson to play something else for you, Frank,” she suggested.

He did, and she consented archly. She went back to the piano, and he sat

down near her.

“Fine technique!” he observed gravely.

Frank talking about “technique!” Frank sitting there, quite unable to

conceal his satisfaction in this flattering attention! The girl glanced

at him sidelong, dropped her eyes, and bent her head.

“What would you like, Mr. Hol-land?” she asked, timidly.

“Oh--er--anything--anything,” he replied. “Er--what about something

operatic? Wagner, eh?”

“Oh, how can he be so idiotic?” thought Madeline. “She’s laughing at

him!”

As the girl began to play again, Mrs. Holland went out of the room. It

was Rubinstein’s “Melody in F,” but Frank wouldn’t know the difference.

He would recognize it as something familiar and “classical,” and would

be impressed; but the girl would know. She was laughing at Frank!

For the first time in many years Mrs. Holland felt a desire to bang

doors. It would be a positive satisfaction to slam the drawing-room

door, and then to go upstairs and slam her own door and lock it. She had

done that once, long, long ago. Frank had come running up after her, and

had stood outside in the hall, angry himself, but very miserable, and

secretly frightened by her obstinate silence. They had “made it up” soon

enough in a silly, beautiful, generous young way, each of them insisting

on taking all the blame; but of course she wasn’t a foolish, headstrong

young thing like that any more. If Frank liked to make himself

ridiculous, he was quite at liberty to do so.

At the foot of the stairs she paused, and decided that before going to

her room she would see the cook. For the last two mornings the oatmeal

had been much too thin, and a tactful remonstrance was needed. She

turned back. As she did so, the music stopped, and she could hear their

voices in the drawing-room. She could not help hearing.

“Oh, Mr. Hol-land! You look so tired!”

“Well--”

“I’m so sorry for you! It must be awfully sad for you, your daughter

getting married, and all!”

“Well--” said Frank again, in the same indulgent tone.

Mrs. Holland went on down the stairs to the basement, so angry that her

knees trembled. Frank was delighted with that silly girl’s impertinent

pretense of sympathy, charmed by her sidelong glances and her

self-conscious smiles!

“It’s his vanity,” she thought. “He’s always been like that. Any one

could flatter him.”

There was no denying that Frank liked flattery. In his younger days he

used to come home and tell her, in the most artless way, of the various

compliments he had received. He didn’t do that now, for he was older and

wiser; but that didn’t mean that he got no more compliments, or that he

had ceased to relish them. He was a remarkably likable fellow. If this

girl so brazenly pursued him the first time she met him, there were

probably others--

This was so arresting a thought that Madeline stopped halfway down the

stairs. After all, how little she knew of Frank’s life outside his home!

They were old-fashioned people. He seldom mentioned business affairs to

his wife. That was his province, and the home was hers. There was a wall

between them--a high wall.

It hadn’t been like that at first. She could remember very well the time

when Frank used to talk to her about his business, when she had known

the names of all his most important customers and had taken an anxious

interest in all his “big deals,” even reading the market reports. Of

course, when Joyce was born, everything had changed. She had been

absorbed in her baby. That was natural and right, wasn’t it?

But perhaps Frank hadn’t changed when Madeline did. She began to

remember more and more of him in those early days. Here, up and down

these very stairs, he used to tramp, carrying the tiny Joyce on his

shoulders, both of them filling the house with their laughter. In that

basement dining room how many makeshift meals he had eaten, so

cheerfully, because she and Hilda were both busy with the baby! He had

always been so good-tempered about being put aside, so glad and willing

to help, so interested in every detail about the marvelous baby!

She had depended upon Frank very much in those days. Then, as she grew

older and more competent, she had needed him less and less, and he had

been shut out of such domestic concerns. That was right, wasn’t it? A

man ought not to be bothered by household matters. He had his work, and

she had hers.

“But Joyce belonged to both of us,” she thought. “He always loved her

so! He misses her, too.”

A great fear seized her. Frank missed Joyce. He was lonely, and in the

moment of his loneliness this pretty young creature had appeared, to

flatter and interest him. He was middle-aged and lonely, and Stella’s

daughter was so pretty! Suppose this wasn’t a ridiculous and

exasperating episode, but a serious thing? Suppose she _lost_ Frank?

“I won’t!” she cried. “I’ll send that girl away! I’ll never let her come

here again!”

That was stupid. She couldn’t keep Frank in a glass case. Even if this

girl were gone, there were plenty of others in the world, pretty,

cajoling, flattering young creatures.

“I’m not young any more,” she thought. “I’m old--old and selfish and

dull--a hundred years older in heart than Frank. He’s still a boy. He

always will be. If he likes to be flattered, it’s because he’s young

enough to believe in people.”

Mechanically, moved by a blind impulse to hurry to Frank, she had

mounted the stairs again, and had come to the door of the drawing-room.

“You’re so understanding!” Stella’s daughter was saying.

Mrs. Holland stopped in the dimly lit hall and looked into the room. The

girl was sitting on the piano stool, her hands clasped in her lap, her

pretty head bent. Frank stood beside her.

“Must be pretty hard for you,” he said gravely.

The girl looked up at him, and her eyes were filled with tears.

“You’re just the k-kindest man!” she murmured uncertainly.

Flattery? Why need it be that? Wasn’t it possible that she really liked

Frank, and that he liked her? Oh, how young she was, and how pretty!

All through this long, long day Mrs. Holland had borne herself

gallantly, with pride and with fortitude; but they both failed her now.

She leaned against the wall and covered her eyes with her hand, shaken

by a dreadful weakness and pain.

“I’m old,” she thought. “I’m old and selfish. I’ve shut Frank out. I

haven’t appreciated him--and now I’ve lost him. It’s my own fault!”

A door opened in the basement, and she heard Hilda’s tread on the

stairs. Hilda mustn’t see her like this! She was about to go upstairs to

her own room when it occurred to her that Hilda might think that was

“queer,” so she went into the drawing-room instead.

Frank came a few steps toward her, with his vague smile, but the girl

did not rise. She looked at Mrs. Holland with a sort of defiance.

“She’s old!” thought Stella’s child. “There’s gray in her hair, and

there are lines around her eyes. She never laughs; and he’s so

jolly--much too nice for her!”

“She’s young,” thought Mrs. Holland. “So young, so pretty--and her music

is magic!”

They looked and looked at each other, these two.

“Well, old girl!” said Frank.

Mrs. Holland turned, startled by his tone; and the sight of his face

filled her with an intolerable emotion. All the old tenderness there,

all the old kindliness and loyalty, not changed, not lost.

“Frank!” she cried.

“Tired, eh?” said he. “Well, sit down, my dear--sit down! Hard day, eh?”

“No,” she said; “a beautiful, a very wonderful day!”

“That’s the way to look at it,” he replied approvingly. “That’s the

spirit, eh?”

Stella’s daughter had risen now, and was looking at Holland with angry

eyes and a trembling lip. He had forgotten all about _her_, just because

Mrs. Holland had come in! The way he looked at his wife, as if he didn’t

even know that there were lines around her eyes and gray in her hair!

The way she looked at him, as if she were so proudly and gratefully sure

of him and of herself!

“I’m going home!” the girl announced vehemently.

They both turned toward her, a little surprised, so that she felt like

an ill mannered child; and indeed she was a child, with only a child’s

crude weapons--a poor, ignorant, reckless child.

“My dear,” said Madeline gently, “tell your mother I’ll come to see her

to-morrow, and we’ll talk things over--about your music, and so on.”

The girl gave one last glance at Holland, but she knew it was useless.

When Mrs. Holland was there, she simply didn’t count with him.

“Good night!” she said in a sulky, unsteady voice.

“Good night!” their kind, grown-up voices answered in unison.

The front door closed vigorously behind her. Madeline sat still, and

Frank stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder. The house was very

quiet, but it was not empty. Life was still going on in it. Life never

stopped, while the heart beat.

“Frank,” she said, “I think we’d better go out to dinner, after all.”

“If you feel up to it, my dear.”

“We’ll have to go out more together, Frank. Now that Joyce has gone--”

She stopped, and for a moment he was afraid that she would break down;

but when he bent and looked into her face, he saw that she was smiling a

very lovely smile.

“Joyce has gone,” she said, “but you’re here, Frank!”

He patted her shoulder, and, glancing up, she saw his hand raised to his

mustache. In all simplicity, he was pleased, because she had remembered

that.

MUNSEY’S

MAGAZINE

JULY, 1926

Vol. LXXXVIII NUMBER 2