in the weeks following Grace Draper's first visit to our Marvin home.
Many times I looked back to that night when I had lain sobbing on my
bed, fighting the demon of jealousy and gasped in amazement at my own
folly.
That evening had ended in Dicky's arms on our moonlight veranda, and
ever since he had been the royal lover of the honeymoon days, which
had preceded our first quarrel. I wondered vaguely sometimes if he
had guessed the wild grief and jealousy which had consumed me on that
night, but if he had any inkling of it he made no sign.
Grace Draper had gone out of our lives temporarily.
If I had needed reassurance as to Dicky's real feeling for her, the
manner in which he told me the news of her going would have given it
to me.
"Blast the luck," he growled one evening, after reading a manuscript
which he had been commissioned to illustrate. "Here's something I'll
need Draper for, and she's 200 miles away. I ought to have known
better than to let her go."
The tone and words were exactly what he would have used if the girl
had been a man or boy in his employ. Even in my surprise at his news,
I recognized this, and my heart leaped exultantly. I was careful,
however, to keep my voice nonchalant.
"Why, has Miss Draper gone away?" I asked.
"Oh, that's so, I didn't tell you," he returned carelessly, looking
up from the manuscript. "Yes, she went away two days ago. She has a
grandmother, or aunt, or old party of some kind, down in Pennsylvania,
who is sick and has sent for her. Guess the old girl has scads of coin
tucked away somewhere, and Draper thinks she'd better be around when
the aged relative passes in her checks. Bet a cooky she won't die at
that, but if she's going to, I wish she'd hurry up about it. I need
Draper badly, and she won't be back until the old girl either croaks
or gets better."
Under other circumstances, the callousness of this speech, the
coarseness of some of the expressions, the calling of Miss Draper by
her surname, would have grated upon me. But I was too rejoiced both at
the girl's departure and the matter of fact way in which Dicky took it
to be captious about the language in which he couched the news of her
going.
"Grace Draper is gone, is gone." The words set themselves to a little
tune, which lilted in my brain. I felt as if the only obstacle to my
enjoyment of our summer in the country had been removed.
How I did revel in the long, beautiful summer days! Dicky appeared
to have a great deal of leisure, in contrast to the days crowded with
work, which had been his earlier in the spring.
"Each year I work like the devil in the spring so as to have the
summer, June especially, comparatively free," he exclaimed one day
when I commented on the fact that he had been to his studio but twice
during the week.
I had dreamed in my girlhood of vacations like the one I was enjoying,
but the dream had never been fulfilled before. Dicky had fixed up a
tennis court on the, grassy stretch of lawn at the left of the house,
and we played every day. Two horses from the livery were brought
around two mornings each week, and, after a few trials, I was able to
take comparatively long rides with Dicky through the exquisite country
surrounding Marvin.
Our motor boat trips were frequent also, although Dicky found that it
was more convenient to rent one when he wished it than to enter into
any ownership arrangement with any one else.
Automobile trips, in which his mother joined us, long rambles through
the woods and meadows which we took alone, little dinners at the
numberless shore resorts, all these made a whirl of enjoyment for me
unlike anything I had ever known.
I was careful to cater to my mother-in-law's wishes in every way I
could. Either because of my attentions or of the beautiful summer
days, she was much softened in manner, so that there was no
unpleasantness anywhere.
"This is the bulliest vacation I ever spent," Dicky said one evening,
after a long tramp through the woods. It was one of the frequent
chilly evenings of a Long Island summer, when a fire is most
acceptable. Katie had built a glorious fire of dry wood in the living
room fireplace, and after dinner we stretched out lazily before
it, Mother Graham and I in arm chairs, Dicky on a rug with cushions
bestowed comfortably around him.
"I am naturally very glad to hear that," I said, demurely, and Dicky
laughed aloud.
"That's right, take all the credit to yourself," he said, teasingly.
Then as he saw a shadow on my face, for I never have learned to take
his banter lightly, he added in a tone meant for my ear alone:
"But you are the real reason why it's so bully, old top."
The very next day, Dicky and I went for a long walk.
We had nearly reached the harbor, when I saw Dicky start suddenly,
gaze fixedly at some one across the road, and then lift his hat in a
formal, unsmiling greeting. My eyes followed his, and met the cool,
half-quizzical ones of Grace Draper. She was accompanied by a tall,
very good-looking youth, who was bending toward her so assiduously
that he did not see us at all.
"Why! I didn't know Miss Draper had returned," I said, wondering why
Dicky had kept the knowledge from me.
"I didn't know it myself," Dicky answered, frowning. "Queer, she
wouldn't call me up. Wonder who that jackanapes with her is, anyway."
Dicky was moody all the rest of the trip. I know that he has the most
easily wounded feelings of any one in the world, and naturally he
resented the fact that the beautiful model, whom he had befriended and
who was his secretary and studio assistant, had returned from her trip
without letting him know she was at home.
If I only could be sure that pique at an employee's failure to report
to him was at the bottom of his sulkiness! But the memory of the
good-looking youth who hung over the girl so assiduously was before my
eyes. I feared that the reason for Dicky's moody displeasure was the
presence of the unknown admirer of his beautiful model.
Of course, all pleasure in the day's outing was gone for me also,
and we were a silent pair as we wandered in and out through the sandy
beaches. Dicky conscientiously, but perfunctorily, pointed out to
me all the things which he thought I would find interesting, and in
which, under any other circumstances, I should have revelled.
In my resolution to be as chummy with Dicky as possible, I determined
to put down my own feelings toward Grace Draper. But it was an effort
for me to say what I wished to Dicky. We had chatted about many
things, and were nearly home, when I said timidly:
"Dicky, now that Miss Draper is back, don't you think you and I ought
to call on her and her sister, and have them over to dinner?"
Dicky frowned impatiently:
"For heaven's sake, don't monkey with that old cat, Mrs. Gorman. She
is making trouble enough as it is."
He bit his lip the next instant, as if he wished the words unsaid,
and, for a wonder, I was wise enough not to question him as to
the meaning of the little speech. But into my heart crept my own
particular little suspicious devil--always too ready to come, is this
small familiar demon of mine--and once there he stayed, continually
whispering ugly doubts and queries concerning the "trouble" that Mrs.
Gorman was making over her sister's intimate studio association with
my husband.
My constant brooding affected my spirits. I found myself growing
irritable. The next day after Dicky and I had seen Miss Draper and her
attendant cavalier on the road to Marvin harbor, Dicky made a casual
reference at the table to the fact that she had returned to the studio
and her work as his secretary and model.
"She said she called up the studio when she got in, and again
yesterday morning, but I was not in," he said. I realized that the
girl had cleverly soothed his resentment at her failure to notify him
that she had returned from her trip.
Whether it was the result of my own irritability or not I do not know,
but Dicky seemed to grow more indifferent and absent-minded each day.
He was not irritable with me, he simply had the air of a man absorbed
in some pursuit and indifferent to everything else.
Grace Draper's attitude toward me puzzled me also. She preserved
always the cool but courteous manner one would use to the most casual
acquaintance, yet she did not hesitate to avail herself of every
possible opportunity to come to the house. Then, two or three times
during the latter part of the summer, I found that she had managed to
join outings of ours. Whether this state of affairs was due to Dicky's
wishes or her own subtle planning I could not determine.
I struggled hard with myself to treat the girl with friendliness, but
found it impossible. My manner toward her held as much reserve as was
compatible with formal courtesy. Of course, this did not please Dicky.
Dicky was also developing an unusual sense of punctuality. I always
had thought him quite irresponsible concerning the keeping of his
appointments, and he never had any set time for arriving at his
studio. But he suddenly announced one morning that he must catch the
8:21 train every morning without fail.
"The next one gets in too late," he said, "and I have a tremendous
amount of work on hand."
The explanation was plausible enough, but there was something about it
that did not ring true. However, the solution of his sudden solicitude
for punctuality did not come to me until Mrs. Hoch, one of my
neighbors, called with her daughter, Celie, and enlightened me.
"We just heard something we thought you ought to know," Celie began
primly, "so Ma and I hurried right over, so as to put you on your
guard."
"Yes," sighed Mrs. Hoch, rocking vigorously as she spoke, "everybody
knows I'm no gossip. I believe if you can't say nothing good about
nobody, you should keep your mouth shut, but I says to Celie as soon
as I heard this, 'Celie,' says I, 'it's our duty to tell that poor
thing what we know.'"
I started to speak, to stop whatever revelation she wished to make,
but I might as well have attempted to stem a torrent with a leaf
bridge.
"We've heard things for a long time," Mrs. Hoch went on, "but we
didn't want to say nothin', 'specially as you seemed such friends, her
runnin' here and all. But we noticed she hain't been comin' lately,
and then our Willie, he hears things a lot over at the station, and
he says it's common talk over there that your husband and that Draper
girl are planning to elope. They take the same train every morning
together, come home on the same one at night, and they are as friendly
as anything."
"Mrs. Hoch," I snapped out, "if I had known what you were going to
say, I would not have allowed you to speak. Your words are an insult
to my husband and myself. You will please to remember never to say
anything like this to me again."
Mrs. Hoch rose to her feet, her face an unbecoming brick red. Her
daughter's black eyes snapped with anger.
"Come, Celie," the elder woman said, "I don't stay nowhere to be
insulted, when all I've tried to do is give a little friendly warning
to a neighbor."
Mother and daughter hurried down the path, chattering to each other,
like two angry squirrels.
"Horrid, stuck-up thing," I heard Celie say spitefully, as they went
through the fence. "I hope Grace Draper does take him away from
her. She's got a nerve, I must say, talkin' to us like that. I don't
believe she cares anything about her husband, anyway."
She might have changed her mind had she seen me fly to my room as soon
as she was safely out of sight, lock the door, and bury my face in the
pillows, that neither my mother-in-law nor Katie should hear the sobs
I could not repress.
"Dicky! Dicky! Dicky!" I moaned. "Have I really lost you?"
Of course I knew better than to believe the statement of the
elopement. I had seen and heard enough of village life to realize how
the slightest circumstance was magnified by the community loafers.
That Dicky and the girl took the same train, going and coming from
the city, was a fact borne out by my own observations. I had remarked
Dicky's regularity in catching the 8:21 in the mornings, something so
opposed to his usual unpunctual habits, and wondered why. Now I had
the solution.
I told myself, dully, that I was not surprised; that I had really
known all along something like this was coming. My thoughts went
back to the night, a few weeks before, when I had suffered a similar
paroxysm of grief over Dicky's evident interest in the girl. Then all
my doubts and fears had been swept away in Dicky's arms on the
moonlit veranda. I caught my breath as I realized in all its miserable
certainty the impossibility of any such tender scene now. Dicky and I
seemed as far apart emotionally as the poles.
But the determination I had reached that other night, before Dicky's
voice and caresses dispelled my doubts, I made my own again. There was
nothing for me to do but to wait quietly, with dignity, until I was
absolutely certain that Dicky no longer loved me. Then I would go
out of his life without scenes or recriminations. I would not lift a
finger to hold him.
By the time I had gained control of myself once more, Dicky came home.
"Letter for you," he said, "from the office of your old principal."
He tossed it into my lap, eyeing it and me curiously. I knew that his
desire to know what was in it had made him remember to give it to me.
His mother, who had opened her door at his step, came forward eagerly.
I opened the letter, to find an offer of my old school position. My
principal wrote that the woman who was appointed to the position had
been suddenly taken ill and could not possibly fill it. He asked me
to write him my decision at once, as it was within a few days of the
opening of the school.
Mechanically, I read it aloud. My brain was whirling. I wondered if,
perhaps, this was the way out for me. If Dicky really did not love me
any longer, I ought to accept this position, even if by taking it I
broke my agreement with the Lotus Study Club.
I did not like the thought of leaving the women who had thus honored
me, but, on the other hand, if Dicky and I were to come to the parting
of the ways, I could not refuse this rare chance to get back into the
work I had left for his sake.
I decided to be guided by his attitude. If he were opposed to my
course, I would know that my actions had ceased to be resentful to
him, and I would accept the position. But if he showed willingness at
the proposition--
I did not have long to wait. As I lifted my eyes to his face, when I
had finished reading the letter I saw the old familiar black frown on
his face. I never had thought that my heart would leap with joy at
the sight of Dicky's frown, but it did. Before either of us could say
anything, his mother spoke:
"Isn't it splendid? You are a most fortunate woman, Margaret, to be
able to step back into a position like that. If it had come earlier,
when my health was so poor, you could not have taken it. Now you can
accept it, for I am perfectly able to run the house. You, of course,
will write your acceptance at once."
She paused. I knew she expected me to reply. But I closed my lips
firmly. Dicky should be the one to decide this. He did it with
thoroughness.
"I thought we settled all this rot last spring," he said. "Mother, I
don't want to be disrespectful, but this is my business and Madge's,
not yours. You will refuse, of course, Madge."
He turned to me in the old imperious manner. Months before I should
have resented it. Now I revelled in it. Dicky cared enough about me,
whether from pride or love, to resent my going back to my work.
"If you wish it, Dicky," I said quietly. He turned a grateful look at
me. Then his mother's voice sounded imperiously in our ears.
"I think you have said quite enough, Richard," she said, with icy
dignity. "Will you kindly telegraph Elizabeth that I shall start
for home tomorrow? I certainly shall not stay in a house where I am
flouted as I have been this morning."
XXV
PLAYING THE GAME
The big house seemed very lonely to me after my mother-in-law's abrupt
departure. I had not dreamed that I could possibly miss the older
woman's companionship, especially after her hateful behavior
concerning my refusal of the school position.
But when she had left, in dignified dudgeon, for a visit with her
daughter, Elizabeth, I realized that I had come to like her, to
depend upon her companionship more than I had thought possible. If the
country had not been so beautiful I would have proposed going back to
the city. But the tall hedges inclosing the old place were so fresh
and green, the rolling woodland view from my chamber window so
restful, my beds of dahlias, cosmos, marigolds and nasturtiums so
brilliant that I could not bring myself to leave it.
If I had not had the vague uneasiness concerning Dicky I could have
been perfectly happy in spite of the loneliness. But my uneasiness
concerning Dicky's friendship with Grace Draper was deepening to real
alarm and anger. I had nothing more tangible than the neighborhood
gossip, which I had so thoroughly repulsed when it was offered me
by Mrs. Hoch and her daughter. But Dicky was becoming more and more
distrait, and when he would allow nothing to keep him from taking
the morning train on which Miss Draper traveled to the studio, I
remembered that when we had first come to Marvin he had taken any
forenoon train he happened to choose.
The second morning after his mother's departure, Dicky almost missed
kissing me good-by in his mad haste to catch his train. He rushed out
of the door after a most perfunctory peck at my cheek, and I saw him
almost running down the little lane bordered with wild flowers that
led "across lots" to the railroad station.
"I cannot bear this any longer," I muttered to myself, clenching my
hands, as I saw the Hochs, mother and daughter, watching him from
their screened porch, and imagined their satirical comments on his
eagerness to make the train.
I sat listlessly on the veranda for an hour. Then the ringing of the
telephone roused me. As I took down the receiver I heard the droning
of the long distance operator: "Is this Marvin, 971?" and at my
affirmative answer the husky voice of Lillian Underwood.
"Hello, my dear." Her voice had the comforting warmth which it had
held for me ever since the memorable day when by her library fire we
had resurrected the secret which her past life and Dicky's shared.
We had buried it again, smoothed out all our misunderstandings in the
process and been sworn friends ever since.
"Oh, Mrs. Underwood!" My voice was almost a peal of joy. "I am so glad
to hear your voice."
"Are you very busy? Is there anything you cannot leave for the day?"
She was direct as usual.
"Only the dog and cat and Katie," I answered.
"Good. Then what train can you get into town, and where can I meet
you? I want you to lunch with me. I have something important to talk
over with you."
I hastily consulted my watch. "If I hurry I can catch the 10:21. Where
can I see you? The train reaches the Pennsylvania at 11 o'clock."
"I'll be in the woman's waiting room at the Pennsylvania, not the Long
Island; the main waiting room. Look for me there. Good-by."
As soon as I caught sight of Lillian I knew that something was the
matter, or she would not look at me in that way. Impulsively I laid my
hand on hers.
"Tell me, Mrs. Underwood, is anything the matter?"
She imprisoned my hand in both of hers and patted it.
"Nothing that cannot be helped, my dear," she said determinedly. "Now
I am going to forbid asking another question until we have had our
luncheon. I decline to discuss the affairs of the nation or my own on
an empty stomach, and my breakfast this morning consisted of the juice
of two lemons and a small cup of coffee."
"Why?" I asked mechanically, although I knew the answer.
"The awful penalty of trying to keep one's figure," she returned
lightly. "But I certainly am going to break training this noon. I am
simply starved."
Her tone and words were reassuring, although I still felt there was
something behind her light manner which intimately concerned me. But I
had learned to count on her downright honesty, and her words, "Nothing
that cannot be helped, my dear," steadied me, gave me hope that no
matter what trouble she had to tell me, she had also a panacea for it.
We discussed our luncheon leisurely. Under the influence of the
bracing air, the beautiful view, the delicious viands, I gradually
forgot my worries, or at least pushed them back into a corner of my
brain.
As we lingered over the ices, Lillian leaned over the table to me.
"Will you do me a favor?" she asked abruptly.
"Try me," I smiled back at her.
"Ask me to your home for a week's stay. I have an idea you need my
fine Italian hand at work about now."
I looked at her wonderingly, then I began to tremble.
"Don't look like that," she commanded sharply. "Nothing dreadful is
the matter, but that Dicky bird of yours needs his wings clipped a
bit, and I think I am the person to apply the shears."
So there was something wrong with Dicky after all!
"Of course, it's that Draper cat," said Lillian Underwood, and the
indignation in her voice was a salve to my wounded pride.
"Then you know," I faltered.
"Of course, I know, you poor child; know, too, how distressed you
have been, although Dicky doesn't dream that I gathered that from his
ingenuous plea for the lady."
My brain whirled. Dicky making an ingenuous plea to Lillian Underwood
for his protégé, Grace Draper! I could not understand it.
"If Dicky has spoken of my feeling toward Miss Draper, even to you," I
began stormily, feeling every instinct outraged.
"Don't, dear child." Mrs. Underwood reached her firm, cool hand across
the table, and put it over my hot, trembling fingers. "You can't fight
this thing by getting angry, or by jumping at conclusions. Now, listen
to me."
There was a peremptory note in her voice that I was glad to obey. I
resolved not to interrupt her again.
"Don't misunderstand me," she went on, "and please don't be angry when
I say you are about as able to cope with the situation as a new born
baby would be. That's the reason why I want you to let me come down
and be a big sister to you. Will you?"
"Of course. You know I will," I returned. "But won't Dicky resent--"
"Dicky won't dream what I'm doing," she retorted tartly, "and when he
does wake up I'll take care of him."
Always the note of domination of Dicky! Always the calm assumption,
which I knew was justified, that no matter what she did he would not,
remain angry at her! It spoke much for the real liking I felt for
Lillian Underwood that the old resentment I felt for this condition of
things was gone forever. I knew that she was my friend even more than
Dicky's, and her history had revealed to me to what lengths she would
go in loyalty to a friend.
"You see," she went on, "If the Draper woman were the ordinary type of
model there would be no problem at all. Dicky has always been a sort
of Sir Galahad of the studios and he had been too proud to engage
in even a slight flirtation with any girl in his employ. He is very
sincerely in love with you, too, and that safeguards him from any
influence that is not quite out of the ordinary.
"But I tell you this Draper girl is a person to be reckoned with.
She is hard as nails, beautiful as the devil, and I believe her to be
perfectly unscrupulous. She is as interested in Dicky as she can be
in any one outside herself, and I think she would like to smash things
generally just to gratify her own egotism."
"You mean--" I forced the words through stiff lips.
"I mean she is trying her best to make Dicky fall in love with her,
but she isn't going to succeed."
"But I am afraid she has succeeded!" The wail broke from me almost
without my own volition.
"Why?" The monosyllable was sharp with anxiety.
I knew better than to keep my part of the story from her. I told her
of Dicky's growing coldness to me, his anxiety to get the train upon
which Miss Draper traveled, the neighborhood gossip, his determination
not to have me meet her sister. I also laid bare the coldness with
which I had treated the girl, and my determination never to say a word
which would lead Dicky to believe I was jealous of her.
When I had finished Lillian leaned back in her chair and laughed
lightly.
"Is that all?" she demanded. "I thought you had something really
serious to tell me. If you'll do exactly as I tell you we'll beat this
game hands down."
"I'll do just as you say," I responded, although it humiliated me to
be put in the position of trying to beat any game, the stake of which
was my husband's affections.
"Well, then, that is settled," she said, rising. "Now, for the first
gun of the campaign. Call Dicky up, tell him you just lunched with me,
and you are ready to go home any time he is."