CUTTING IN ON THE BLISS
We thought it was all over too. That's the way it is in plays and
books, where they don't gen'rally take 'em beyond the final clinch,
leavin' you to fill in the bliss _ad lib_. But here we'd seen 'em
clear through the let-no-man-put-asunder stage, even watched 'em dodge
the rice and confetti in their dash to the limousine.
"Thank goodness that's through with!" remarks Mother, without makin'
any bones of it.
Course, her reg'lar cue was to fall on Father's neck and weep; but,
then, I expect Mrs. Cheyne Ballard's one of the kind you can't write
any form sheet for. She's a lively, bunchy little party, all jump and
go and jingle, who looks like she might have been married herself only
day before yesterday.
"I hope Robbie knows where she put those trunk checks," says Father, at
the same time sighin' sort of relieved.
From where I stood, though, the guy who was pushin' overboard the
biggest chunk of worry was this I-wilt boy, Mr. Nicholas Talbot. He'd
got her at last! But, z-z-z-zingo! it had been some lively gettin'.
Not that I was all through the campaign with him; but I'd had glimpses
here and there.
You see, Robbie's almost one of the fam'ly; for Mr. Robert's an old
friend of the Ballards, and was bottle holder or something at the
christenin'. As a matter of fact, she was named Roberta after him.
Then he'd watched her grow up, and always remembered her birthdays, and
kept her latest picture on his desk. So why shouldn't he figure more
or less when so many others was tryin' to straighten out her love
affairs? They was some tangled there for awhile too.
Robbie's one of the kind, you know, that would have Cupid cross-eyed in
one season. A queen? Well, take it from me! Say, the way her cheeks
was tinted up natural would have a gold medal rose lookin' like it come
off a twenty-nine-cent roll of wall paper. Then them pansy-colored
eyes! Yes, Miss Roberta Ballard was more or less ornamental. That
wa'n't all, of course. She could say more cute things, and cut loose
with more unexpected pranks, than a roomful of Billie Burkes. As
cunnin' as a kitten, she was.
No wonder Nick Talbot fell for her the first time he was exposed!
Course, he was half engaged to that stunnin' Miss Marian Marlowe at the
time; but wa'n't Robbie waverin' between three young chaps that all
seemed to be in the runnin' before Nick showed up?
Anyway, Miss Marlowe should have known better than to lug in her steady
when she was visitin'. She'd been chummy with Robbie at boardin'
school, and should have known how dangerous she was. But young Mr.
Talbot had only two looks before he's as strong for Robbie as though it
had been comin' on for years back. Impetuous young gent that way he
was too; and, bein' handicapped by no job, and long on time and money,
he does some spirited rushin'.
Seems Robbie Ballard didn't mind. Excitement was her middle name,
novelty was her strong suit, and among Nick's other attractions he was
brand new. Besides, wa'n't he a swell one-stepper, a shark at tennis,
and couldn't he sing any ragtime song that she could drum out? The
ninety-horse striped racin' car that he came callin' in helped along
some; for one of Robbie's fads was for travelin' fast. Course, she'd
been brought up in limousines; but the mile in fifty seconds gave her a
genuine thrill.
When it come to holdin' out her finger for the big solitaire that Nick
flashed on her about the third week, though, she hung back. The others
carried about the same line of jew'lry around in their vest pockets,
waitin' for a chance to decorate her third finger. One had the
loveliest gray eyes too. Then there was another entry, with the
dearest little mustache, who was a bear at doin' the fish-walk tango
with her; not to mention the young civil engineer she'd met last winter
at Palm Beach. But he didn't actually count, not bein' on the scene.
Anyway, three was enough to keep guessin' at once. Robbie was real
modest that way. But she sure did have 'em all busy. If it was a
sixty-mile drive with Nick before luncheon, it was apt to be an
afternoon romp in the surf with the gray-eyed one, and a toss up as to
which of the trio took her to the Casino dance in the evenin'. Mother
used to laugh over it all with Mr. Robert, who remarked that those kids
were absurd. Nobody seemed to take it serious; for Robbie was only a
few months over nineteen.
But young Mr. Talbot had it bad. Besides, he'd always got about what
he wanted before, and this time he was in dead earnest. So the first
thing Mother and Father knew they were bein' interviewed. Robbie had
half said she might if there was no kick from her dear parents, and he
wanted to know how about it. Mr. Cheyne Ballard supplied the
information prompt. He called Nick an impudent young puppy, at which
Mother wept and took the young gent's part. Robbie blew in just then
and giggled through the rest of the act, until Father quit disgusted
and put it square up to her. Then she pouted and locked herself in her
room. That's when Mr. Robert was sent for; but she wouldn't give him
any decision, either.
So for a week there things was in a mess, with Robbie balkin', Mother
havin' a case of nerves, Father nursin' a grouch, and Nick Talbot
mopin' around doleful. Then some girl friend suggested to Robbie that
if she did take Nick they could have a moonlight lawn weddin', with the
flower gardens all lit up by electric bulbs, which would be too dear
for anything. Robbie perked up and asked for details. Inside of an
hour she was plannin' what she would wear. Late in the afternoon Nick
heard the glad news himself, through a third party.
First off the date was set for early next spring, when she'd be twenty.
That was Father's dope; although Mother was willin' it should be pulled
off around Christmas time. Nick, he stuck out for the first of
October; but Robbie says:
"Oh, pshaw! There won't be any flowers then, and we'll be back in
town. Why not week after next?"
So that's the compromise fin'lly agreed on. The moonlight stunt had to
be scratched; but the outdoor part was stuck to--and believe me it was
some classy hitchin' bee!
They'd been gone about two weeks, I guess, with everybody contented
except maybe the three losers, and all hands countin' the incident
closed; when one forenoon Mother shows up at the general offices, has a
long talk with Mr. Robert, and goes away moppin' her eyes. Then
there's a call for Mr. Cheyne Ballard's downtown number, and Mr. Robert
has a confab with him over the 'phone. Next comes three lively rings
for me on the buzzer, and I chases into the private office. Mr. Robert
is sittin' scowlin', makin' savage' jabs with a paper knife at the
blotter pad.
"Torchy," says he, "I find myself in a deucedly awkward fix."
"Another lobbyist been squealin'?" says I.
"No, no!" says he. "This is a personal affair, and--well, it's
embarrassing, to say the least."
"Another lobbyist been squealin'?" says I.
"It's about Roberta," says he.
"What--again?" says I. "But I thought they was travelin' abroad?"
"I wish they were," says he; "but they're not. At the last moment, it
seems, Robbie decided she didn't care for a foreign trip,--too late in
the season, and she didn't want to be going over just when everyone was
coming back, you know. So they went up to Thundercaps instead."
"Sounds stormy," says I.
"You're quite right," says he. "But it's a little gem of a place that
young Talbot's father built up in the Adirondacks. I was there once.
It's right on top of a mountain. And that's where they are now, miles
from anywhere or anybody."
"And spoony as two mush ladles, I expect," says I.
"Humph!" says he, tossin' the brass paper knife reckless onto the
polished mahogany desk top. "They ought to be, I will admit; but--oh,
hang it all, if you're to be of any use in this beastly affair, I
suppose you must be told the humiliating, ugly truth! They are not
spooning. Robbie is very unhappy. She--she's being abused."
"Well, what do you know!" says I. "You don't mean he's begun draggin'
her around by the hair, or----"
"Don't!" says Mr. Robert, bunchin' his fists nervous. "I can't tell.
Robbie hasn't gone into that. But she has written her mother that she
is utterly wretched, and that this precious Nick Talbot of hers is
unbearable. The young whelp! If I could only get my hands on him for
five minutes! But, blast it all! that's just what I mustn't do
until--until I'm sure. I can't trust myself to go. That is why I must
send you, young man."
"Eh?" says I, starin'. "Me? Ah, say, Mr. Robert, I wouldn't stand any
show at all mixin' it with a young husk like him. Why, after the first
poke I'd be----"
"You misunderstand," says he. "That poke part I can attend to very
well myself. But I want to know the worst before I start in, and if I
should go up there now, feeling as I do, I--well, I might not be a very
patient investigator. You see, don't you?"
"Might blow a gasket, eh?" says I. "And you want me to go up and scout
around. But what if I'm caught at it--am I peddlin' soap, or what?"
"A plausible errand is just what I've been trying to invent," says he.
"Can you suggest anything?"
"Why," says I, "I might go disguised as a lone bandit who'd robbed a
train and was----"
"Too theatrical," objects Mr. Robert.
"Or a guy come to test the gas meter," I goes on.
"Nonsense!" says he. "No gas meters up there. Forget the disguise.
They both know you, remember."
"Oh, well," says I, "if I can't wear a wig, then I expect I'll have to
go as special messenger sent up with some nutty present or other,--a
five-pound box of candy, or flowers, or----"
"That's it--orchids!" breaks in Mr. Robert. "Robbie expects a bunch
from me about every so often. The very thing!"
So less'n an hour later I'm on my way, with fifty dollars' worth of
freak posies in a box, and instructions to stick around Thundercaps as
long as I can, with my eyes wide open and my ears stretched. Mr.
Robert figures I'll land there too late for the night train back,
anyway, and after that I'm to use my bean. If I finds the case
desp'rate, I'm to beat it for the nearest telegraph office and wire in.
"Poor little girl!" is Mr. Robert's closin' remark. "Poor little
Robbie!"
Cheerful sort of an errand, wa'n't it, bein' sent to butt in on a Keno
curtain raiser? Easy enough workin' up sympathy for the abused bride.
Why, she wa'n't much more'n a kid, and one who'd been coddled and
petted all her life, at that! And here she ups and marries offhand
this two-fisted young hick who turns out to be bad inside. You
wouldn't have guessed it, either; for, barrin' a kind of heavy jaw and
deep-set eyes, he had all the points of a perfectly nice young gent.
Good fam'ly too. Mr. Robert knew two of his brothers well, and durin'
the coo campaign he'd rooted for Nick. Then he had to show a streak
like this!
"But wait!" thinks I. "If I can get anything on him, he sure will have
it handed to him hot when Mr. Robert arrives. I want to see it done
too."
You don't get to places like Thundercaps in a minute, though. It's the
middle of the afternoon before I jumps the way train at a little
mountain station, and then I has to hunt up a jay with a buckboard and
take a ten-mile drive over a course like a roller coaster. They ought
to smooth that Adirondack scenery down some. Crude stuff, I call it.
But, say, the minute we got inside Thundercaps' gates it's
diff'rent--smooth green lawns, lots of flowerbeds, a goldfish
pool,--almost like a chunk of Central Park. In the middle is a
white-sided, red-tiled shack, with pink and white awnings, and odd
windows, and wide, cozy verandas,--just the spot where you'd think a
perfectly good honeymoon might be pulled off.
I'm just unloadin' my bag and the flowerbox when around a corner of the
cottage trips a cerise-tinted vision in an all lace dress and a
butterfly wrap. Course, it's Robbie. She's heard the sound of wheels,
and has come a runnin'.
"Oh!" says she, stoppin' sudden and puckerin' her baby mouth into a
pout. "I thought someone was arriving, you know." Which was a sad
jolt to give a rescuer, wa'n't it?
"Sorry," says I; "but I'm all there is."
"You're the boy from Uncle Robert's office--Torchy, isn't it?" says she.
"It is," says I. "Fired up with flowers and Mr. Robert's compliments."
"The old dear!" says she, grabbin' the box, slippin' off the string and
divin' into the tissue paper. "Orchids, too! Oh, goody! But they
don't go with my coat. Pooh! I don't need it, anyway." With that
she, sheds the butterfly arrangement, chuckin' it casual on the steps,
and jams the whole of that fifty dollars' worth under her sash.
"There, how does that look, Mr. Torchy?" says she, takin' a few fancy
steps back and forth.
"All right, I guess," says I.
"Stupid!" says she, stampin' her double A-1 pump peevish. "Is that the
prettiest you can say it? Come, now--aren't they nice on me?"
"Nice don't cover it," says I. "I was only wonderin' whether orchids
was invented for you, or you for orchids."
This brings out a frilly little laugh, like jinglin' a string of silver
bells, and she shows both dimples. "That's better," says she. "Almost
as good as some of the things Bud Chandler can say. Dear old Bud!
He's such fun!"
"He was the gray-eyed one, wa'n't he?" says I.
"Why, yes," says she. "He was a dear. So was Oggie Holcomb. I wish
Nick would ask them both up."
"Eh?" says I. "The also rans? Here?"
"Pooh!" says she. "Why not? It's frightfully dull, being all alone.
But Nick won't do it, the old bear!"
Which reminds me that I ought to be scoutin' for black eyes, or wrist
bruises, or finger marks on her neck. Nothin' of the kind shows up,
though.
"Been kind of rough about it, has he?" says I.
"He's been perfectly awful!" says she. "Sulking around as though I'd
done something terrible! But I'll pay him up. Come, you're not going
back tonight, are you?"
"Can't," says I. "No train."
"Then you must play with me," says she, grabbin' my hand kittenish and
startin' to run me across the yard.
"But, see here," says I, followin' her on the jump. "Where's Hubby?"
"Oh, I don't know," says she. "Off tramping through the woods with his
dog, I suppose. He's sulking, as usual. And all because I insisted on
writing to Oggie! Then there was something about the servants. I
don't know, only things went wrong at breakfast, and some of them have
threatened to leave. Who cares? Yesterday it was about the tennis
court. What if he did telegraph to have it laid out? I couldn't play
when I found I hadn't brought any tennis shoes, could I? Besides,
there's no fun playing against Nick, he's such a shark. He didn't like
it, either, because I wouldn't use the baby golf course. But I will
with you. Come on."
"I never did much putting," says I.
"Nor I," says she; "but we can try."
Three or four holes was enough for her, though, and then she has a new
idea. "You rag, don't you?" says she.
"Only a few tango steps," says I. "My feet stutter."
"Then I'll show you how," says she. "We have some dandy records, and
the veranda's just right."
So what does she do but tow me back to the house, ring up a couple of
maids to clear away all the rugs and chairs, and push the music machine
up to the open window.
"Put on that 'Too Much Mustard,' Annette," says she, "and keep it
going."
Must have surprised Annette some, as I hadn't been accounted for; but a
little thing like that don't bother Robbie. She gives me the proper
grip for the onestep,--which is some close clinch, believe me!--cuddles
her fluffy head down on my necktie, and off we goes.
"No, don't try to trot," says she. "Just balance and keep time, and
swing two or three times at the turn. Keep your feet apart, you know.
Now back me. Swing! There, you're getting it. Keep on!"
Some spieler, Robbie; and whether or not that was just a josh about
orchids bein' invented for her, there's no doubt but what ragtime was.
Yes, yes, that's where she lives. And me? Well, I can't say I hated
it. With her coachin' me, and that snappy music goin', I caught the
idea quick enough, and first I knew we was workin' in new variations
that she'd suggest, doin' the slow toe pivot, the kitchen sink, and a
lot more.
We stopped long enough to have tea and cakes served, and then Robbie
insists on tryin' some new stunts. There's a sidewise dip, where you
twist your partner around like you was tryin' to break her back over a
chair, and we was right in the midst of practisin' that when who should
show up but the happy bridegroom. And someway I've seen 'em look more
pleased.
[Illustration: We was right in the midst of practisin' the sidewise
dip, when who should show up but the happy bridegroom!]
"Oh, that you, old Grumpy?" says young Mrs. Talbot, stoppin' for a
minute. "You remember Torchy, from Uncle Robert's office, don't you?
He came up with some orchids. We're having such fun too."
"Looks so," says Nick. "Can't I cut in?"
"Oh, bother!" says Robbie. "No, I'm tired now."
"Just one dance!" pleads Nick.
"Oh, afterward, perhaps," says she. "There! Just look at those silly
orchids! Aren't they sights?" With that she snakes 'em out and tosses
the wilted bunch careless over the veranda rail. "And now," she adds,
"I must dress for dinner."
"You've nearly two hours, Pet," protests Nick. "Come to the outlook
with me and watch the sunset."
"It's too lonesome," says Robbie, and off she goes.
It should have happened then, if ever. I was standin' by, waitin' for
him to cut loose with the cruel words, and maybe introduce a little
hair-draggin' scene. But Nick Talbot just stands there gazin' after
her kind of sad and mushy, not even grindin' his teeth. Next he sighs,
drops his chin, and slumps into a chair. Honest, that got me; for it
was real woe showin' on his face, and he seems to be strugglin' with it
man fashion. Somehow it seemed up to me to come across with a few
soothin' remarks.
"Sorry I butted in," says I; "but Mr. Robert sent me up with the
flowers."
"Oh, that's all right," says he. "Glad you came. I--I suppose she
needed someone else to--to talk to."
"But you wouldn't stand for invite the leftovers on your honeymoon,
eh?" I suggests.
"No, hang it all!" says he. "That was too much. She--she mentioned
it, did she?"
"Just casual," says I. "I take it things ain't been goin' smooth
gen'rally?"
He nods gloomy. "You were bound to notice it," says he. "Anyone
would. I haven't been able to humor all her whims. Of course, she's
been used to having so much going on around her that this must seem
rather tame; but I thought, you know, that when we were married--well,
she doesn't seem to realize. And I've offered to take her
anywhere,--to Newport, to Lenox, to the White Mountains, or touring.
Three times this week we've packed to go to different places, and then
she's changed her mind. But I can't take her back to Long Island, to
her mother's, so soon, or ask a lot of her friends up here. It would
be absurd. But things can't go on this way, either. It--it's awful!"
I leaves him with his chin propped up in his hands, starin' gloomy at
the floor, while I wanders out and pipes off the sun dodgin' behind the
hills.
Later on Robbie insists on draggin' me in for dinner with 'em. She's
some dream too, the way she's got herself up, and lighted up by the
pink candleshades, with them big pansy eyes sparkling and the color
comin' and goin' in her cheeks--say, it most made me dizzy to look.
Then to hear her rattle on in her cute, kittenish way was better'n a
cabaret show. Mostly, though, it's aimed at me; while Nick Talbot is
left to play a thinkin' part. He sits watchin' her with sort of a
dumb, hungry look, like a big dog.
And it was a punk dinner in other ways. The soup was scorched
somethin' fierce; but Robbie don't seem to notice it. The roast lamb
hadn't had the red cooked out of it; but Robbie only asks what kind of
meat it is and remarks that it tastes queer. She has a reg'lar fit,
though, because the dessert is peach ice-cream with fresh fruit
flavorin'.
"And Cook ought to know that I like strawberry better," says she.
"But it's too late for strawberries," explains Nick.
"I don't care!" pouts Robbie. "I don't like this, and I'm going to
send it all back to the kitchen." She does it too, and the maid grins
impudent as she lugs it out.
That was a sample of the way Robbie behaved for the rest of the
evenin',--chatterin' and laughin' one minute, almost weepin' the next;
until fin'lly she slams down the piano cover and flounces off to her
room. Nick Talbot sits bitin' his lips and lookin' desp'rate.
"I'm sure I don't know what to do," says he half to himself.
At that I can't hold it any longer. "Say, Talbot," says I, "before we
get any further I got to own up that I'm a ringer."
"A--a what!" says he, starin' puzzled.
"I'm supposed to be here just as a special messenger," says I; "but, on
the level, I was sent up here to sleuth for brutal acts. Uh-huh!
That's what the folks at home think, from the letters she's been
writin'. Mr. Robert was dead sure of it. But I see now they had the
wrong dope. I guess I've got the idea. What you're up against is
simply a spoiled kid proposition, and if you don't mind my mixin' in
I'd like to state what I think I'd do if it was me."
"Well, what?" says he.
"I'd whittle a handle on a good thick shingle," says I, "and use it."
He stiffens a little at that first off, and then looks at me curious.
Next he chuckles. "By Jove, though!" says he after awhile.
Yes, we had a long talk, chummy and confidential, and before we turns
in Nick has plotted out a substitute for the shingle programme that he
promises to try on first thing next morning I didn't expect to be in on
it; but we happens to be sittin' on the veranda waitin' for breakfast,
when out comes Robbie in a pink mornin' gown with a cute boudoir cap on
her head.
"Why haven't they sent up my coffee and rolls?" she demands.
"Did you order them, Robbie?" says Nick.
"Why no," says she. "Didn't you?"
"No," says Nick. "I'm not going to, either. You're mistress of the
house, you know, Robbie, and from now on you are in full charge."
"But--but I thought Mrs. Parkins, the housekeeper, was to manage all
those things," says she.
"You said yesterday you couldn't bear Mrs. Parkins," says Nick; "so I'm
sending her back to town. She's packing her things now. There are
four servants left, though, which is enough. But they need
straightening out. They are squabbling over their work, and neglecting
it. You will have to settle all that."
"But--but, Nick," protests Robbie, "I'm sure I know nothing at all
about it."
"As my wife you are supposed to," says Nick. "You must learn. Anyway,
I've told them they needn't do another stroke until they get orders
from you. And I wish you'd begin. I'd rather like breakfast."
He's real calm and pleasant about it; but there's somethin' solid about
the way his jaw is set. Robbie eyes him a minute hesitatin' and
doubtful, like a schoolgirl that's bein' scolded. Then all of a sudden
there's a change. The pout comes off her lips, her chin stops
trembling and she squares her shoulders.
"I'm--I'm sorry, Nicholas," says she. "I--I'll do my best." And off
she marches to the kitchen.
And, say, half an hour later we were all sittin' down to as good a ham
omelet as I ever tasted. When I left with Nick to catch the forenoon
express, young Mrs. Talbot was chewin' the end of a lead pencil, with
them pansy eyes of hers glued on a pad where she was dopin' out her
first dinner order. She would break away from it only long enough to
give Hubby a little bird peck on the cheek; but he seems tickled to
death with that.
So it wa'n't any long report I has to hand in to Mr. Robert that night.
"All bunk!" says I. "Just a case of a honeymoon that rose a little
late. It's shinin' steady now, though. But, say, I hope I'm never
batty enough to fall for one of the butterfly kind. If I do--good
night!"