MR. MORTON TAKES A HAND
All thought of the sickly-smiling Loveman, and all his ironic
jocularity, slipped from Clifford as he stepped back into the graver
situation which existed in the drawing-room. The pair had seated
themselves during his absence; Mary was regarding Mr. Morton with a
composure that must have heavily taxed her nervous capital.
Clifford took a chair slightly apart. He felt that he had become merely
an onlooker. The scene was to be played out between Mr. Morton and
Mary. He judged that the easy manner of Mr. Morton was a ruthless fury,
marvelously controlled. Watching them, he pulsed with suspense as to
how Mary would bear herself during this scene, as to how it would come
out.
Clifford had found them silent when he had reëntered, and this silence,
pregnant with big drama, continued for a moment longer. Then Mr. Morton
smiled.
“I don’t believe in beating about the bush, Mrs. Grayson. It’s awfully
hard on the shrubbery. So I’ll come to the point. Of course you know
why I’m here.”
“You said you came to renew your acquaintance with Miss Gilmore,” she
managed to say.
“Oh, that, of course. But there’s another reason. You see”--with his
pleasant smile--“I happen to know Mr. Grayson.”
(Why in God’s name, Clifford asked himself, didn’t the man set loose
the anger and denunciation and defiance customary in such situations,
and not play this cat-and-mouse game!)
“And Mr. Grayson being such a good friend,” Mr. Morton continued,
“in fact, a most intimate friend, I naturally was most eager to
become acquainted with Mrs. Grayson. Please do not consider that I am
descending to mere flattery, Mrs. Grayson, when I say that I applaud
his taste.”
“Thank you.”
“I do not mean to depreciate him, but he has shown a finer
discrimination than I thought Mr. Grayson capable of.”
Clifford saw Mary stiffen. He knew her instinct to rush forth to meet
an inevitable danger.
“I also do not believe in beating about the bush,” she said quietly.
“We both are aware that in speaking of Mr. Grayson we are speaking of
your son.”
The veiled keenness in Mr. Morton’s eyes became open. “I perceive, Mrs.
Grayson, that you are not only beautiful, but that you are an unusual
woman.” He did not speak for a moment; then, “Let me add that I not
only applaud Jack’s taste, but approve his choice.”
Both Clifford and Mary started. “You approve Jack’s choice!” she
breathed.
“How could I help it?” he returned.
Clifford and Mary could only stare at him. They had expected outraged
fury--and this had come! They were so dazed that they did not know Jack
had entered until he stammered:--
“Father--you here!”
“The evidence indicates such, my boy,” returned the elder Morton.
“Why--why--” He looked about, frightened, helpless, at the three;
and then stammered on: “I went to the Biltmore to meet you, as you
telephoned; but they told me you were out, and I thought I’d run up
here for a minute and then get back--”
“My engagement with you,” interrupted Mr. Morton, “was merely a
fatherly subterfuge to keep you away from here while I had a little
visit with Mrs. Grayson.”
“Then”--he choked, swallowed--“then you know everything?”
“Not everything. But I know the essentials.”
“Oh, my God!” And Jack collapsed almost bonelessly into a chair and
covered his face with his hands.
“Come, brace up--there’s nothing to worry about,” half growled Clifford.
“It’s all right, Jack,” explained Mary. “Your father says he approves
your choice!”
Jack was on his feet as though an electric current had hurled him
upright. “Is that so, dad?”
Mr. Morton nodded.
In two eager steps Jack was across the room wringing his father’s hand.
“You don’t know how relieved I am!”
“Why should you think I’d object after really meeting Mrs. Grayson?”
“Call her Mary, dad.”
“Mary, then, with your permission. Plainly Mary is a young woman of
exceptional sense, and I am sure she and I will understand each other
splendidly.”
Jack crossed swiftly to Mary. “Mary!” he exclaimed, seizing her hands,
“Mary!” And then in a lower voice, though Clifford heard him: “It’s all
coming true, Mary,--it’s all coming true!”
The Golden Doors had marvelously swung open!
Mr. Morton was speaking again: “Let’s get back to sensible talk--which
is what I came here for. I wish to commend your discretion in this
matter. Boys will be boys, but usually they’re boys in such a noisy
way. I’m sure the discretion was yours, Mary.”
“Discretion? I don’t know what you mean,” said Mary.
“I mean that you have done everything so well,” he continued
pleasantly. “You’ve not laid the affair open to instant recognition by
thoughtlessly flaunting yourself about with Jack. You’ve even taken the
precaution of wearing the conventional rings. It’s the Riverside Drive
affair done in the best Riverside-Drive-affair manner.”
Clifford saw Mary go white again, and whiter than before, as Mr. Morton
spoke; and he thought she was going to fall as she gathered the meaning
of his words--gathered what, since he had first entered, had been his
real conception of the relationship.
“But, dad--” began Jack in a throaty voice. “You don’t know what you’re
saying! You don’t understand. The truth is--”
“Jack!” cut in Mary.
“Oh, yes, I do understand,” his father assured him. “And don’t try
to shield Mary with protestations. She doesn’t need such flimsy
protection.”
“Dad,” demanded the young fellow huskily, “what do you think this
situation is?”
“The obvious and usual one: you’re living here together; as they always
say it on the stage, she’s your mistress.”
He turned to Mary. “Jack’s a sentimentalist. But you’re a sensible
woman and don’t humbug yourself by hesitating to call a thing by its
right name.”
His last words were an even-toned affirmation of a commonplace, not
a question. Clifford watched Mary closely: of a certainty, Life was
testing her! He waited tensely for her reply, and so did Jack--and
Clifford realized what vague worlds of different events hung upon the
words yet within her lips.
“I am Jack’s mistress--yes,” she said, looking very straight into Mr.
Morton’s eyes.
“Mary, that’s--”
“Jack!” she ordered sharply.
“There’s no nonsense about you, Mary,” said Mr. Morton approvingly.
“Jack has braced up so much recently--”
“If I have braced up, it’s been because Mary has made me!” put in Jack.
“I don’t doubt it, and I want to thank you, Mary. He’s braced up so
much that a long-contemplated marriage, which has been delayed by his
irresponsibility, can now go through; and I want it settled and over
with, quick, while Jack is still in a reformed mood--before he breaks
loose again. I know you’ll be sensible and reasonable about this
matter, for I know you went into the affair knowing it could not last.”
Jack seized his father’s arm. “Father, you’ve got to listen--”
“Jack!” Mary again cried peremptorily.
“She’s taking it with a lot more sense than you are, son. I’ll see that
you have no reason to complain, Mary. I’ll ask Mr. Clifford to talk
over the arrangement with you. He can speak in better taste for me than
I can speak for myself.”
He took her hand, and there was a very real admiration--of its sort--in
his gray eyes. He spoke in a lowered voice.
“Merely because Jack must go, I don’t want it to be the end of things
between you and the Mortons. I hope I may have the pleasure of seeing
you soon.”
“Perhaps,” said her lips.
“I shall count on it!”--pressing her hand.
He turned away. “Well, son, are you ready? I’ve made an engagement for
you for to-night.”
But Jack sprang to Mary’s side, and seized in both of his the hand his
father had just relinquished. His handsome if weak face was working
with indignant, protesting passion; for the moment he was strong and
sincere and fine to the capacity of his nature.
“Mary, I’m not going to stand for this! I’m not going to leave you in
this way--I’m not that kind of a rat!”
“We’re going to do just as your father says, Jack,” she said with quiet
dominance, her face very pale. “What he suggests is wisest for us all.”
Jack stared at her; he could not read whether there was subterfuge or
utter finality in her words. But whatever her purpose, he recognized
that in this situation her way had to be his. His figure slumped down,
and he turned about.
“Put into a suitcase whatever you may need at once; you can send for
your other things,” said his father, and pressed him through the door.
“Mary, after a few minutes in the next room with me, Mr. Clifford will
return for a talk with you. For myself this must be good-night.”
“Good-night.”
Bowing, he went out. As Clifford--mere audience--followed him,
he saw that Mary stood unchanged: stiffly erect, and pale and
composed--though he had a sense that her dark eyes were unnaturally
wide.
* * * * *
When Clifford reëntered the room fifteen minutes later, Mary was lying
face downward on the couch, her whole figure taut. She heard him come
in, and at once spoke, not changing her posture:--
“You’ve been talking all this while?”
“We spoke for only a few minutes. The rest of the time I’ve been
sitting in there, thinking.” Then, with a savage burst: “I wouldn’t
have let Morton use me, only I wanted to see you again!”
“What did he say?”
“He told me to settle with you on any reasonable terms.” Clifford
stopped and waited, but she did not speak. “Want to know what he might
possibly give?” he demanded.
“What else did he say?” she asked, not moving.
“A lot of things--to the general effect that you were a damned decent,
square little sport.”
She made no response to this.
“Why did you accept the position he put you in, of being Jack’s
mistress?” he burst out roughly.
“I could not help myself--unless I wanted to ruin everything.”
“Surely you do not still hope to save that situation?” he exclaimed.
She did not answer, and again there was silence. Then the doorbell
rang.
“Shall I answer it?” he asked. “It’s probably Jack slipped up for a
private word.”
“I’ll answer it,” she said.
She rose from the couch. He had expected signs of conflict, agony,
perhaps tears or hysteria;--if only there should be a real outbreak of
hysteria! But her face was composed and clear-eyed.
She returned a moment later, bearing a large box, on its top in gilded
letters the name of the florist who had a shop opening on the Mordona’s
lobby. She removed the lid and disclosed a rich mass of orchids. On
their top lay a small envelope such as florists have in stock for the
convenience of patrons. From this she drew a card, which she read and
then passed to Clifford without comment. It was Mr. Morton’s card, and
on its two sides was closely written:--
I am going to be a lonely man to-morrow. Won’t you save me from
myself by dining with me at the Ritz?--and then an act or two of a
play, and then supper wherever you like? I’ll telephone you.--The
West Indies are heaven just now, and I’m thinking of chartering a
yacht. A cruise of a month or so in those waters-- But shall we talk
it over to-morrow night?
Clifford gazed at her, automatically handing her back the card. Rage
surged up in him, and he seized the box from her arms and, stepping to
the window near which they stood, he raised it, and threw far out into
the Drive some fifty dollars’ worth of orchids. He drew down the window
and turned back to her. But her look expressed neither approval nor
disapproval.
“Well, you see where you are!” he said grimly. “And you once called
them the Golden Doors!”
She nodded, but otherwise did not respond. Her face, fixed absently on
his, was intently thoughtful.
Her silence, her control, her look of far-away thought, stirred both
anger and consuming curiosity. “Well--what are you going to do? What’s
the way out?”
“It’s not the way out I’m thinking of--it’s the way in,” she returned
slowly, quietly. “The Golden Doors are going to open.”
“Open! How?”
“I do not know.”
“Through that Mr. Mor--” he was beginning, when he noticed that her
fingers had mechanically torn the card across.
“I do not know,” she repeated quietly. “But they are going to open. And
now, please go--I want to think.”
He gazed at her a moment, marveling that such unforeseen manipulations
of Life, Life the great moulder and remoulder, had not seemed to
change her ambition, her pride, her will, her girlish confidence: he
understood her--yet she was the eternal mystery! Then he left her,
standing in the middle of the hired drawing-room, mechanically tearing
into tiny sifting flakes the invitation to a voyage among perfumed
seas.