In the music-room of the Manor the rugs had been rolled back, the voice
of the phonograph released from captivity and the Courtlandts' guests
were dancing, at least some of them were. Sir Peter had beguiled
Glamorgan to the library for a smoke. The oil-king had cast a gloom over
the dinner. Was it because he was disturbed about Nicholas Fairfax,
Jerry wondered. To the amazement of all, he and the ranchman had become
great friends. It would be like her father to be irritable if he were
moved. Perhaps it had been the arrival of Greyson which had infuriated
him. Last winter he had quickly made her see the folly of her engagement
to the owner of the X Y Z, and now she was grateful to him. She had
known at the time that she did not love Bruce Greyson, but that she was
in love with love. In a way her life had been a lonely one, and when he
had pleaded with her to marry him, she had agreed to a tentative
engagement. Now she was glad that she had kept him at a distance, even
in those two weeks.
She looked up at Greyson as he sat beside her in one of the deep
embrasures of a window. A distinguished looking man, he gave the
impression of having lived in great spaces, of having achieved
worth-while things, of being absolutely poised and self-assured. His
dark hair was tending toward neutral at the temples, his keen blue eyes
had fine lines radiating from them, which denoted long-distance gazing.
The weather-beaten texture of his skin was emphasized by the immaculate
white of the shirt and collar of his up-to-the-minute dinner clothes.
Peggy Glamorgan, as she danced with her brother-in-law, was doing
direful things to the heart of young Don Curtis, whose family estate
adjoined the Manor. She was a charming, younger model of her sister,
except that where Jerry's eyes were brown, Peggy's were a somewhat
elfish hazel. She was making the most of a week-end freedom from school
discipline. Steve Courtlandt's glance wandered to the two in the deep
window. Peggy looked up at him with tormenting concern.
"That's the second time you've lost step, Steve. I protest. I hate being
trodden on." Her laughing eyes and mischievously curved lips robbed the
words of their sting.
"I'm sorry! Give me one more trial, Peg-o'-my-heart, and I'll do
better," promised Steve. He had taken an immense liking to the girl, she
was so genuine, so unaffected, so brimming over with the zest of
living.
"Nothing doing, brother. Go get Jerry. It's a part of her job to put up
with your poor dancing, isn't it? A part of the love, honor and obey
stuff? Catch me saying 'I will' to that. Jerry's different. She'd walk
over the proverbial ploughshares if she thought duty called." She looked
across the room to where her sister sat and added softly, "It's a queer
trick of fortune that Bruce Greyson should be your uncle's confidential
man and should come to this house."
"Why accent this?" demanded Steve Courtlandt bluntly.
Peggy flushed guiltily beneath his stern eyes.
"That's only my exclamatory style. I meant that it was strange that
Jerry should meet him here after--after--I--I wonder if that was what
made her cry last night?"
"Did Jerry cry last night?"
"She cross-my-throat-and-hope-to-die swore she didn't, this morning, but
her lids were suspiciously pink. Didn't you notice it? Thank you, I
should love it," she responded to young Curtis who had been impatiently
hovering in the offing. "There really isn't much fun dancing with old
married men," she confided in a tone intended to reach Steve. She made
an impudent little face at her brother-in-law over her partner's
shoulder. He smiled and blew her a kiss as she danced away but her
words hurt, hurt because he knew that she was right. He felt years older
than he had that epoch-making October night when his father had revealed
to him the state of the family finances, and had presented the means
whereby it could be remedied. Had he chosen wisely, he wondered;
wouldn't it have been better to let the property go than to have married
a girl who had so quickly acquired an aversion for him?
He looked across at the two engrossed faces in the window. He'd break
that up. Jerry should remember where she was and not give occasion for
silly gossip. Already Felice Denbigh, who had motored out from town for
dinner, had called his attention to Greyson's apparent devotion. With
eyes combative, Steve strolled to where Jerry sat.
"Will you dance with me, Mrs. Courtlandt?" he asked with aggressive
formality. In the midst of a sentence, she looked up in startled
surprise. Greyson rose.
"I have committed the unpardonable blunder of monopolizing my hostess,
Steve," he apologized, "but the temptation to live over a perfect
friendship was too great to be resisted. I will beg a dance from your
sister, Mrs. Courtlandt."
Jerry's eyes followed him as he crossed the room. They made Steve think
of deep, troubled pools when she looked up at him. Was it because Peg
had put the idea into his head or did they look as though they had known
recent tears? Was she finding her marriage a bar to happiness already?
His face was a trifle white, a trifle grim as he reminded:
"Do we dance?"
Without answering she rose, and he put his arm about her. Except for
taking her hand it was the first time he had touched her. How slender
she was, how soft, how graceful. He could feel her heart pound heavily
against his breast. One might think that she was frightened, but with
him--that was absurd. Her dancing like her walk was perfection of
motion. He was careful of his steps as they danced down the long room.
Jerry should have no occasion to echo Peg's reprimand. She stopped.
"Tired?" he asked solicitously, his senses still throbbing from the
appeal of music and dance. She shook her head.
"Tired! I don't know what it is to be tired. Some of our guests are not
dancing. Mrs. Denbigh is quite alone and looking horribly bored. Peg
seems to have appropriated more than her share of men; she is
surrounded. Don't you think that as host you should dance with Felice?"
"Presently. I have something to say to you first." He changed his
position so that he stood between her and the others in the room.
"Why did you cry?"
She crimsoned even under the tiny curls at the nape of her white neck.
"I! Crying! How absurd. You really should go and dance with your
guest----"
"Not until you tell me why you cried."
"But I haven't been crying."
"Oh, yes you have. I----"
"Supper is served in the library, Mrs. Courtlandt," interrupted Judson
of the velvet tread. As they left the room in the wake of their guests
the butler detained Stephen Courtlandt and said something in a low tone.
"Has Mr. Greyson gone up?" he asked hurriedly and when Judson answered
in the affirmative he turned to Jerry:
"I must go to Uncle Nick. I may not be down again."
"Is he----" but he was mounting the stairs two steps at a time before
Jerry had finished the sentence. With a feeling of foreboding she
entered the library. The guests were grouped around the fire with Judson
and a maid serving supper. She stopped in the shadow of the doorway.
Up-stairs the spirit of an old, weary man was passing, here--the room
and its furnishings made a rich background for the shimmering satin of
dainty gowns; the firelight played mad pranks with jewels at white
throats and on pink fingers, with the glittering buckles on silver
slippers; bright eyes were laughing into eyes that pleaded or compelled,
young voices were teasing, challenging.
Jerry's breath came unevenly. She had cried last night. It was a rare
indulgence for her. She could not tell now why. How could Steve have
known? She hoped that none of these chattering boys and girls suspected
it. She looked about the room. How she loved it! It stood for all the
background she had acquired by her marriage. She loved the old
seventeenth century Courtlandt, she held long, one-sided conversations
with him when she was sure that she was quite alone. He had given her to
understand that a _marriage de convenance_ quite met with his approval,
that in his day girls married to please their parents. She wasn't so
sure of the judgment of Steve's mother. Her eyes, so like her son's,
looked down with a grave question in their depths when she appealed to
her.
The group around the fire made room as they welcomed her with gay
reproof for tardiness. Felice Denbigh inquired impatiently for Steve.
Jerry made his apologies and explained his absence. The voices of the
guests became hushed. One by one they left, almost tiptoeing through the
hall. Peggy snuggled up to her sister when the two were alone.
"Has--has Uncle N-Nick--gone?" she whispered. Then as Jerry shook her
head, "If--if he does will you come and sleep with me?"
"I will, dear, but there is nothing to frighten you. Why should there be
in the passing of an old man's spirit?"
"But--but he was such a cross old man. What has made you so brave,
Jerry? Once you would have dreaded it as much as I--being here at a time
like this, I mean."
"Perhaps it is the hours I have spent in the hospital with the sick and
wounded soldiers. I have seen so much and felt so much, that death has
seemed beautiful, not terrible. Go to bed, child. I'll come in later and
stay with you."
She went down the hall. "But he was such a cross old man!" Peggy's
obituary of Nicholas Fairfax echoed persistently in her mind. What a
tragic thing to have said about one. She couldn't blame her sister. Old
Nick had been consistently disagreeable to her and Peg was too young to
take into consideration his age and illness. She lingered for a moment
before the door of the room in which Nicholas Fairfax lay. Could she
help? The nurse came out suddenly and almost collided with her.
"Goodness, Mrs. Courtlandt, you gave me a start! I was just coming for
you. Mr. Stephen sent me. His uncle wants you."
With her breath coming hurriedly, her heart pounding, Jerry followed
the woman. What could Old Nick want? To continue his insults? She passed
into the inner room. The window was open to let in the clear winter air.
The old man was raised high on his pillows. Steve held one of the
gnarled hands. Courtlandt was behind him. Greyson, as rigid and
immovable as one of the mountains of his own country, stood at the foot
of the bed. Doctor Rand, his face grave and deeply lined, motioned the
girl to take her place opposite Steve, then he and the nurse and Greyson
moved back to the outer room. As Jerry bent over him, Nicholas Fairfax
looked up into her eyes. They met his tenderly. The tenseness of his
expression relaxed, he fumbled for something under his pillow. Jerry
reached for him and drew out an open prayer-book. His shaking finger
pointed to the page; it was the marriage service.
"Read that--read that--aloud," he commanded in a voice which still held
a ring of power.
Slipping to her knees beside the bed the girl read. Haltingly, huskily
at first, but as she lost thought of self in the beauty and meaning of
the words her voice cleared.
"'Wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together
after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony and forsaking all
others keep thee only to him as long as ye both shall live?'"
The gnarled, claw-like hand fell on the book. The Old man leaned
forward. His voice, weaker now, interrupted:
"'And forsaking all others keep thee only to him as long as ye
both--shall live,' did you mean it, girl, when you made that vow?"
Jerry's face was colorless. There was a broken exclamation from Steve.
She laid her hand gently over the icy hand on the book. Her young ardent
eyes met his dim ones steadily.
"I did, Uncle Nick."
He dropped back with a faint sigh.
"Then it will be all right--Steve. I was afraid--that I might have--but
I meant it for the best--it will come right Doc Rand says--things will
come right--marvelously--unbelievably--right!"
His voice trailed off into silence. The lines of pain and weakness in
his face disappeared as though a soothing hand had been laid upon them.
The curtains at the open window stirred for a moment and then were
still.