THE GOLDEN DOORS
The hour was eleven-thirty of that same night. Clifford sat in the
Gold Room at the Grantham, and kept a careful eye upon the proceedings
across the great room at the little corner table known among the
waiters as “Mr. Loveman’s table.”
Clifford watched many persons speak briefly to Loveman. He tried to
guess what the shrewd little lawyer might now be up to. Among those
who came to Loveman’s table he particularly noted a dark, perfectly
tailored young man, of perhaps thirty, with the lithe slenderness of
the expert dancing male. Clifford knew him by name and reputation, and
already he had set him down as one he must watch, together with Loveman
and Bradley.
But for all his efforts to concentrate upon his present business,
Clifford’s mind kept shifting back to Mary Regan. It was a most
difficult situation which she had taken upon herself: the daughter of
one famous criminal, the niece of another, the sister of another, and
herself a former participant in criminal acts--secretly married to a
rich young man who knew nothing of her past, and who was dependent
upon the approval of an autocratic father. To succeed in the soaring
worldly plans she had admitted to him with such cold frankness would
require marvelous skill, marvelous daring, marvelous self-control.
Well--skill, daring, control, she had them!
But there was Loveman to be considered. Clifford asked himself if he
had deduced aright Loveman’s plans concerning her? Loveman’s words,
spoken in the early hours of that morning, and spoken with mockery
glinting through his habitual amiability of manner, came back to him:
“Just supposing I do have any little plan under way, Clifford, I wonder
how close you’ve come to guessing it? Now, I wonder?”
Looking over at the cherubic face of the shrewd little lawyer, Clifford
felt for the moment all the doubt that these words had been intended to
arouse. Had he, perhaps, guessed only a part of Loveman’s plan?--or was
he altogether wrong?
And Clifford’s restless mind flashed to his last act in the destiny of
Mary Regan: the extreme measure he had resorted to in taunting her into
that impulsive marriage with Jack Morton; and then his telling her with
almost brutal directness, during the brief moment just before she and
Jack had motored off, that he had come to realize that only going her
own worldly way, only the experience of life, could avail to awaken the
real woman that was in her.
He wondered. But only time, as it unrolled its film of unborn events,
could answer these questions. He could now do no more than hope the
best results for Mary Regan--wherever she might be.
With an effort Clifford brought himself back to his present business,
and again gave sharp attention to that darkly handsome figure of the
dancing man. And then--his heart skipped a beat or two. Across the
line of his vision, coming from the main entrance of the Gold Room,
and convoyed by a suave captain of waiters, walked Mary Regan and
Jack Morton. They were ushered to a side table, and at once fell into
intimate talk.
Clifford, after his first surprise, watched them closely; and he
quickly perceived that, though she smiled and chatted, not more than
the surface of Mary’s attention was given to her husband of a dozen
hours. He tried to look beneath, to what was going on in the hidden
deeps of her mind....
That mind was teeming. For her this was a moment of triumph, of
exultation. As she had told Clifford, with her cool directness, she
had analyzed herself, and had decided that she was a worldling, and,
moreover, she knew herself a competent worldling. The things in life
that to her were worth while were luxury, admiration, the pleasures
that money could buy. She had dreamed this dream--and here was her
dream come true!
Her quickened eyes, with a new sense, swiftly took in this great room,
decorated in gold and black and with hangings of a kingly blue brocade,
and with smartly dressed people at the tables or swinging in alluring
rhythm in the latest dances. After the studied maneuvers, and sometimes
necessary seclusion of life with her uncle, all this gayety, and
richness, and freedom, warmed the heart of her desire. All this was now
hers!--hers whenever she wished it!
It was as if golden doors had swung open. From her subconscious mind
these two magic words had emerged to the very forefront of her thought,
had become a mental figure of speech which she concretely visualized as
a glorious structure which almost existed--Golden Doors!...
Clifford, watching that rapt face, hardly noted that Jack had sighted
him and was bearing down upon him until Jack seized him by the shoulder
and dragged him over to where Mary sat.
“Look who’s here, Mary,--almost my bridesmaid!” Jack cried gayly. “Sit
down, Clifford,” pressing Clifford into a chair and reseating himself.
“Now, come across with congratulations!”
Clifford tried to restrain all personal feeling from his tone, and to
speak lightly. “I can’t do better than to say what’s always said--that
I hope marriage is going to make a real man out of you.”
“Oh, you do! And I suppose”--with joyous acerbity--“that that’s what
you’re wishing for Mary--that it’ll make a real woman out of her!”
Clifford still tried to speak easily. “Honestly, now, could one make a
better wish for a woman than that she should never be anybody else but
her best self?”
Mary met his gaze steadily. On his side he tried to look, and feel,
the part of one who is no more than a casual friend--but, despite his
effort at this detached rôle, he could not help guessing at just what
was going on behind that calm face.
“You’ve got a thought on your chest,” remarked Jack. “Better cough it
up.”
“I am merely feeling a bit surprised at seeing you back again.”
“Surprised? Why?”
“I imagined you’d stay away for a while.”
“I’ve had enough of the St. Helena life--and so has Mary. New York’s
the only place!”
“Where are you going to live?”
“Right here at the Grantham. That is, till we like something better.”
“Then you are registered here?” pursued Clifford.
“Not I. Mary is, since she’s been living here. I was just going to
have my things sent over from the Biltmore, and then register with the
special hotel pen, which has two ink drops that flow as one.”
Clifford was silent for a moment. He had noted that Peter Loveman was
watching them from his corner, and that the lithe, dark gentleman he
had been closely observing during the evening--his name was Hilton--was
now seated at the table adjoining them and was covertly watching Mary.
“Don’t register here together,” he said abruptly.
“Why not?” exclaimed Jack.
“Would you mind explaining?” Mary asked quietly.
Clifford remembered himself. Only that very morning he had told Mary
that he would no longer try to help shape the course of her life--that
he would keep his hands off--that hereafter he would let Life pull the
strings of her destiny. And here he was interfering again.
“I guess I wasn’t thinking,” he said, trying to be casual. “Anyhow,
it’s really none of my business.”
Mary gazed at him sharply. She surmised that some idea had been behind
his remark; but she did not speak. Jack, whose gaze had wandered, gave
a start and cried out:--
“Hello, there’s dad! And he’s spotted us--look, he’s coming this way!”
Clifford glanced at Jack’s father, an erect man of fifty, with
unchallengeable dominance in his manner which the lordship of large
affairs had developed from his native self-confidence. Then quickly
Clifford glanced back, and managed to comprehend with his gaze both
Mary and the dark man at the next table. Mary, grown tense as crisis
approached in the form of the elder Morton, said quickly to Jack in a
low voice:--
“Introduce me by another name: Gilmore--anything!”
At the same moment Clifford saw her hands beneath the table swiftly
remove engagement and wedding rings and thrust them into a white glove
which lay in her lap. Also he noted that the dark gentleman had caught
this action; and he noted that the black eyes glinted with a sudden
light.
The next moment he heard Mary being introduced as Miss Gilmore.
Clifford watched the meeting keenly.
“I’m very glad to meet Miss Gilmore,” the elder Morton said, bowing
over her hand and taking her in with a swift, appraising eye. He had a
reputation of a sort as a connoisseur of femininity, and what he saw
was evidently pleasing to him.
“And I am glad to meet you,” Mary returned.
Clifford knew her self-control, but he was freshly amazed at the
composed agreeability with which she met her unsuspecting father-in-law.
“Of course, you know Mr. Clifford,” Jack went on nervously. “Sit down,
dad. We were just finishing a little supper. Can’t I order something
for you?”
“Nothing for me, son. But I’ll sit with Miss Gilmore and you for a
minute.”
He took a chair, and fixed his gray eyes, trained to penetrate and read
what others would hide from him, upon Mary. Clifford tautened with
suspense as these two sat face to face. And out of the tail of his eye
he saw that the dark man was covertly watching and listening.
“I don’t get to New York very often, Miss Gilmore,” Mr. Morton
continued, “but this time I’m making it an old man’s business and
pleasure to try to recapture some of my own youth by getting acquainted
with Jack’s friends. I suppose he’s known you a long time?”
“On the other hand, we first met quite recently.”
“If I knew how to be gallant in your Eastern fashion, I might remark
that Jack has lost a lot, then. I wonder if you’re one of our leading
actresses? Jack seems to know so many stage people.”
“I’m not even the greatest motion-picture star yet discovered; and you
know there are thousands of her. I’m just an ordinary woman.”
“Not ordinary!” protested Mr. Morton. “I suppose-- But, of course, this
curiosity of a provincial must be offensive to you?”
“I did not know that a Chicagoan ever admitted himself a provincial.”
“Call it the prying curiosity of an old father. That’s just as bad.”
“A father should be curious,” Mary said evenly.
“I was about to say that I suppose you are a native New Yorker?”
“Not in the sense that you probably mean--that I am of an old family
here, and have a lot of relations.”
“But you are a New Yorker?”
“I was born here. But a large part of my life I spent in
France--where,” she added, “both my parents died.”
“An orphan--and no relations! Perhaps you are one of those independent
New York bachelor girls we read about?”
“I live with an aunt. We have an apartment--just a little box of a
thing.”
“Indeed. Would it be presuming too much on Jack’s friendship if I might
call upon you and your aunt?”
“Aunt Isabel and I will be pleased to have you,” she returned evenly.
“Thank you. If you will find out just when it will be most convenient
for her, and let me know through Jack, I’ll be there.”
Clifford had to admire the composure with which she carried herself
through this polite but dangerous inquisition--every instant of which,
he saw, was an almost unbearable strain upon the suspense-ridden
Jack. But by her invention of an aunt, which had opened the way for a
proposal to call, he felt that she might have made a fatal slip. But
there was no telling: it looked bad, yes,--but she had a faculty, a
gift, for smoothly extricating herself from the worst of situations.
Before this cross-examination could proceed further, little Peter
Loveman appeared at the table. Clifford instantly surmised the shrewd
little lawyer’s motive: he had witnessed the scene, and, knowing its
dangers to himself, sought to intervene before there could be exposure
and explosion.
“Pardon me for breaking in on your party, Mr. Morton,” he said, with
his glib amiability. “But some facts just came to my knowledge which,
as your lawyer, I feel you ought to know at once.”
“All right; I was just leaving, anyhow. Jack, I’ve been wanting to see
you all day--it’s really very important. I wonder if Miss Gilmore would
forgive you, and us, if we left her with Mr. Clifford?”
It had been a scene that had almost crumpled Jack. Mary saved the
situation for him by speaking promptly but with composure.
“It will be quite all right, Mr. Morton.”
“To pay the check with,” Jack mumbled huskily, pushing a bank-note
beside Clifford’s plate.
The next moment Clifford and Mary were alone. She gazed across at him
very steadily, not speaking. Her breath came with a slight, fluttering
irregularity, and her face had taken on a slight pallor; he could guess
how much the stress of the last few minutes had taxed her. She glanced
about the tables for a brief space, then her eyes came back to him.
“I’d like to go up to my apartment,” she said quietly.
Clifford paid the bill and escorted her out of the great, glittering
room. Near the row of elevators she halted and faced him.
“What was in your mind a while ago when you started to tell Jack and me
not to register here together?”
He tried to speak coldly. “Please overlook that. I forgot for the
moment that I had promised you I would not again interfere in your
affairs.”
“Please tell me what was in your mind,” she quietly insisted.
“First of all, I was surprised that you and Jack should return to New
York--so soon.”
“Why?”
“Something similar to what has just happened was bound to happen if you
appeared in New York openly together--only it might have been a great
deal worse. And that worse thing would inevitably have happened if you
two had registered. I thought you would have considered this danger.”
“I had thought of it, yes,--that is, before to-day. But to-day so much
was happening to me--it was all so sudden--that all day I was thinking
of other things.”
He looked at her sharply, a sudden leaping at his heart. Was he in any
way concerned in those other things? But he put the question from him.
Abruptly he obeyed an impulse that had been growing in him. “May I
break my promise to the extent of telling you of a few matters?”
“Please do.”
“You have chosen your own way,” he said, in even tones, looking very
straight into her dark eyes, “but--well, after all, I want you to make
the best of it for yourself. These few facts--perhaps you know them
already--may help you. First, and I say this without any personal
prejudice to Jack, Jack has the reputation of caring for many women
often rather than for one woman long. Second, largely for business
reasons, Mr. Morton desires to have Jack marry a girl from Chicago.
Third, this girl’s parents will not consider such a marriage until Jack
has proved that he has settled down; therefore, it naturally is Mr.
Morton’s dominating desire at present that Jack should become a steady
business man. He’d like to have Jack enter the New York offices of his
firm. That is all. If you think these matters over, perhaps you will
see a way in which they may serve you.”
“Perhaps I shall. Thank you.” She moved to the elevators, and stood
silent until a car opened. “Good-night,” she said, and stepped inside.
“Good-night,” he returned.
He stood an instant after her car had shot upward. She had chosen her
own course. And this was only the beginning of the consequences. What
might the ending be?