It was one of those occasions when the auditory nerve seems to connect
imperfectly with the brain. Mrs. Collingham placed her cup on the table
and leaned forward, puzzled, tense.
"What did you say? Sit down. Tell me that again."
Jennie collapsed against the tan cushion of the chair, and repeated her
confession. Her hostess's brows knitted painfully.
"But I don't understand. When did you marry him?"
The girl explained that it had been on the previous afternoon.
"But--but--you said just now that you were in love with some one else."
"So I am--only--only, Bob made me."
"Made you what?"
"Made me go and get a license and marry him. He said"--her lips and
tongue were so parched that it was hard to form the words--"he said he
was going away in a few days to South America, and that he couldn't go
unless he knew I was his wife. I begged him to let me off, but he--he
wouldn't. Oh, Mrs. Collingham, what am I to do?"
The appeal helped Junia to rally her stricken powers. It enabled her to
say inwardly: "I must act through this girl herself. If I estrange her,
I may lose my son." A flash of the lioness wrath with which she trembled
might lead to an irretrievably false step. So she made her tone kindly,
sympathetic, almost affectionate.
"And Bob--does he know that--that you care for some one else?"
"He never asked me."
"But don't you think you should have told him?"
"That's not so very easy when--"
"But there was some sort of understanding between you and Hubert, wasn't
there?"
Jennie's only answer to this was to clasp her hands and say,
"Oh, Mrs. Collingham, how do people get divorces?"
This being more than Junia had hoped for, she tried to use the opening
to the best of her ability.
"They--they do something that--that makes the other person want to be
free." Trying to explain this further, she ran the risk of citing a case
perhaps too close to the point. "For instance, if my husband wanted to
be free, he'd do something that would make me willing to divorce him."
"And would you?"
"You see, I'm taking the case of _his_ wanting to be free. In that
situation, _he's_ the one who would do the thing. If I wanted to be
free, I suppose--I suppose I should do it."
"So that if I wanted to be free, it would be up to me to do the thing
rather than up to Bob."
A moral issue being here at stake, Junia was obliged, in the expressive
American phrase, "to sidestep," though she supposed that the suggestion
in the air was of no more than Jennie had done already. As an artist's
model, it would be part of her professional occupation.
"I'm not giving you advice, my dear; I'm only trying to answer your
question. I'm so sorry for you that I'd do anything I could to help you
unravel the tangle."
"Then you think there are ways of unraveling it?"
"Oh, certainly, if you were willing to--"
"To what, Mrs. Collingham. There's almost nothing I wouldn't do--to get
us all out--when you've been so kind to me."
Having a conscience of her own, Junia continued to "sidestep."
"My dear, I can't tell you what to do. I'm not sure that I know--very
well. You see, it's your trouble, and you must get out of it. I'll help
you. I _will_ do that. In every way I can I'll make it easy for you. But
I couldn't advise--or--or put anything in your way that might be
considered as--as temptation."
But conscientious scruples were not in Jennie's line. When eager to
reach a point, she went to it straight.
"If Bob came back from South America and found I was living with Hubert,
wouldn't he have to divorce me then?"
Junia rose in the agitation of one unused to plain talk, and shocked by
it.
"Jennie--your name _is_ Jennie, isn't it?--I must go and speak to Mr.
Collingham. You'll stay here--won't you?--till I come back. I may have
something then rather important to say."
The girl sat still, looking up adoringly.
"Are you going to tell him?"
"No; I think not. But there's something I want to ask him. I don't think
that either you or I had better say anything to anyone. What do you
think?"
Jennie shook her head.
"I don't want to. I wish nobody would ever have to know."
"I wish Hubert didn't have to know. Perhaps he won't; and yet--Let us
think." She dropped into a chair nearer to Jennie than the one behind
the tea table. "One thing I _must_ ask you. What happened after you and
Bob went through that ceremony yesterday afternoon?"
"Nothing happened. He motored back to his friends on Long Island and I
took the ferry and went home. He said he'd see me on Saturday to say
good-by."
"Where?"
"Oh, I don't know. In Central Park, I expect. He's asked me to meet him
there once or twice already."
"But I wouldn't go anywhere else with him if I were you--not into a
house, or anything."
"I won't if he doesn't make me."
"I'd be firm about that. You see, if you did--well, I'm sure you
understand--it might--it might make it harder for you to find your way
out to where you'd be happy again. Are you sure you see what I mean?"
"I've had that out with him. He'd said that nothing would happen till he
got back from South America."
Relieved by this simple statement, Junia went on.
"And if I were you, I wouldn't say a word to anybody--not even to your
own father and mother. Your mother is living, isn't she? Don't even tell
Bob that you've seen me. Don't tell anyone anything. Let it be your
secret and mine. I want you to feel that I'm your friend and anxious to
help you out of the muddle in which you've tied up your happiness. At
first, when you told me, I thought more of Hubert; but now that we've
talked I'm thinking of you, too, and how much I should like to see
you--" A dim smile conveyed the rest of the thought while she rose
again. "Now I'll go. Don't be alarmed if I'm a little long. Max will
take care of you."
Left to herself, Jennie's emotions came in waves of conflicting
calculation. Had she only been in love with Bob, and not with Hubert,
all this graciousness would have lapped her round in silk and softness.
Nothing would have been denied her from a limousine to pearls. There
would have been the villa for the family, with Gussie and Gladys turned
into "buds."
But, as an offset to it, there would be the renunciation. Somehow, since
cutting herself away from Hubert by the ceremony with Bob, he seemed
nearer to her than before. Things she had supposed to be out of the
question now presented themselves as more in the line of those that
could be done. Within twenty-four hours she had lived much; she had
ripened much. Now that she had had this talk with Mrs. Collingham,
Hubert became more definitely an alternative. She could choose him and
let this wealth and beauty go, or she could choose the wealth and beauty
and let him....
But at the thought of turning her back on him something seemed to choke
her. To choose what money could buy instead of this great love was
treachery to all she knew as sublime. She clutched herself over the
heart. It was as if she were going to die. Max was so startled that he
sprang upon her with his mighty paws in the roughness of young
consternation.
On the other hand, home conditions were well-nigh imperative. Love and
Hubert were all very well, but they were part of the world of romance.
The family, with their concrete needs, were actuality. Jennie thought of
each one of them in turn, but of Teddy most of all. Among those of her
own generation, he was her favorite. If she became openly Mrs. Robert
Bradley Collingham, Junior, of Marillo Park, Teddy would go far. He
might have a place like Mr. Brunt's. Only the other day her father had
said of Mr. Brunt, "There's one who don't have any trouble in pickling
down his ten a week." To see Teddy pickling down his ten a week, which
would be more than five hundred dollars in a year, Jennie was ready to
submit to almost anything--even Bob's hands on her person. She might get
used to them, and, if she didn't, why, the daily sacrifice would be not
without its reward.
She had reached something like this decision when Mrs. Collingham came
back. Watching her from the minute when she rounded the corner of the
flagged pavement, Jennie noted a rapid change in her expression. At
first it was terrible--that of a queen in wrath. As she approached the
bird cage, however, it cleared so quickly that by the time she reached
the threshold it was almost tender.
"That's because she likes me," Jennie said to herself. She was
accustomed to being liked, though especially by men. "I think it will
cheer her up if I say right off that I've come to stay with her."
To make this announcement she had risen to her feet, with lips already
parted; but Mrs. Collingham forestalled her.
"Sit down again, my dear. I want to talk to you some more. I must tell
you about Mr. Collingham." She herself sank into the chair near Jennie
which she had already occupied. She panted as after a difficult
experience. "Oh dear! It's been so trying! You don't know him, do you?
Well, he's a good man--kind and just in his way--but oh, so stern and
relentless! If he knew what Bob had done in going through that mad thing
with you, he'd turn the boy adrift."
Having reseated herself already, Jennie now closed her lips. She had
forgotten Mr. Collingham. Coming to stay was meeting a new obstacle.
"It's only fair to you to make you understand what kind of man my
husband is. Of course, he's a strong man, otherwise he wouldn't have
accomplished all he has. My son, my daughter, I myself--we're but
puppets on his string. His word has to be law to us. And with Bob the
way he is--wanting to marry every girl he meets--and forgetting her next
day--his father has no patience. You don't know how hard it is for me,
my dear, always to have to stand between them."
As she paused to dab her eyes, Jennie saw the limousine, the villa, with
Teddy's chance of pickling down ten a week, fading out like a picture in
the movies.
"I wouldn't dare to tell him of the great wrong Bob has done to you.
He'd disinherit him on the spot. If Bob were to insist on having this
escapade--you wouldn't really call it a marriage, would you?--but if he
were to insist on its being made public, why, there'd be an end of his
relations with his father. My husband would neither give him a cent nor
leave him a cent. I must say that Bob would deserve it; but, Jennie, I'm
thinking of you. You'd have forsaken the man you loved, married a man
you didn't care for, and got nothing in the world to show for it. That's
where you'd have to suffer, and I can see well enough that you're
suffering already."
There was every reason now that Jennie's tears should begin to flow.
Flow they did while her companion watched.
"And yet, as you'll see, Mr. Collingham is not an unkind man. When I
explained to him that we might be more indebted to you than I had
thought at first, he said--"
With a look of anticipation, Jennie stopped crying suddenly, though the
tears already shed were glistening on her cheek.
The point was now to find phraseology at once clear enough and delicate
enough to suggest a course and yet not shock the sensibilities.
"You see, my dear, it's this way. One has to keep one's ideals, hasn't
one? That goes without saying. Once we let our ideals go"--she flung her
hands outward--"well, what's the use of living? My own life hasn't been
as happy as you might think; and if it hadn't been for my ideals--"
Jennie broke in because she couldn't help it.
"Mr. Wray is ideal for a man, don't you think, Mrs. Collingham?"
It was the lead Junia needed.
"He's perfect, Jennie, in his way; and, oh, how I wish you were as free
as forty-eight hours ago! You could be, of course, if--But I mustn't
advise you, must I? I don't know how to. I'm just as lost as you are.
Only, if you could find a way to cast the burden of the whole thing on
Bob--"
"Do you mean to make him get the divorce?"
"In that case, we should want to feel that you had something to fall
back upon. And so my husband thought that perhaps twenty-five thousand
dollars--"
Jennie gave a great gasp. Her head began to swim. Not villas and
limousines rose before her, but cloud-capped towers and gorgeous
palaces.
"Poor daddy," she thought, "wouldn't have to hunt for a job any more,
and momma'd have nothing to do for the rest of her life but sit in a
chair and rock."
Yet that was only part of the vision. The rest did not go so easily into
words. She had only to hurry to the studio, fling herself into the arms
she was longing to feel clasped round her--and become fabulously rich.
That would be if Bob took the opening she offered him. If he didn't--
"But suppose Bob won't?" she asked, in terror lest he should not.
"I've thought of that, too," came the prompt answer. "He will, of
course. But suppose he didn't. Well, we're not hagglers, my dear. We're
only simple people trying to do right, just as you're trying to do right
yourself. If Bob is only in a position in which he _can_ undo his wrong,
whether he undoes it or not, you shall have your twenty-five thousand
just the same."
"Could I have it as early as--as next week?"
"If the conditions are fulfilled, certainly."
Jennie was anxious to free herself from the charge of cupidity.
"The reason I say next week is that my father is worried about the
interest on the mortgage and the taxes. He didn't pay the interest last
time, and the taxes are two months overdue. If he can't find the money
by next week--"
"You yourself can be in a position to take all the worry off his
hands--once the conditions are fulfilled."
Little more was said after this. There was little more to say. The
necessities of the case being once understood, Junia steered her guest
back to the car which waited at the door.
But into the leave-taking Max threw an odd note of hostility. As if he
resented some baseness toward his master, he pressed his flank against
Jennie with such force as almost to knock her down, and when she sprang
away from him into the car he growled after her.