MARY FACES A CRISIS
Clifford had just gone, and Mary now sat alone in the ornate
drawing-room which for a brief week she had occupied as “Mrs.
Grayson,” and considered rapidly the situation in which her own will
and the unforeseen working-out of life and human nature had, within
the last half-hour, suddenly placed her. Concrete questions, with
their inseparable difficulties and dangers, rushed upon her: What was
Clifford going to do? What was Jack going to do, whose mistress she
had just declared herself to be before his father? And what would be
the next move of Jack’s father, amiable forgiver of what he considered
Jack’s discreet liaison, whose invitation to a yachting tour for two
among West Indian seas lay in tiny fragments upon the floor?--which
invitation, she knew, he would soon repeat and press for an answer. And
most especially, just what was she going to do herself to make her way
safely through all these dangers which beset her plans?
Again she recalled Clifford’s grim words: he was through interfering
with her, he was going to leave it to Life, to the shaping forces
of Life’s experiences, to make her or ruin her. Well, she was going
to show him! She was going to make Life her tool, her ally, her
servant--she was going to bend all its currents to carry her in the
direction of her desire!
And then for a space she felt herself at a loss in this new turn of
affairs. She felt the instant need of the guidance of some one near
to her. Clifford? No, she would have nothing to do with him now. Her
brother Slant-Face? But her present situation was not the sort in
which the skill of her brother, whom discretion had necessitated her
neglecting, could possibly avail her. And then she thought of Uncle
George. He was her friend, he would understand her; and no one could
give more shrewd counsel, could plan more cunningly, than this urbane
old master of the follies of the world and of the stratagems by which
the world could be made to believe his wishes to be its own inborn
desires. Yes, she would call in Uncle George.
And then, suddenly, she had a different vision of her situation. For
the present, at least, she must act alone. She arose quickly. These
questions that had been so prompt to ask themselves, those dangers that
had presented themselves so vividly, they indeed pressed her sorely;
but most pressing of all, she decided, was that she should move from
here where all could find her to some obscure hotel, where she might
remain undiscovered for a few days and have time in which to plan and
act. She ordered the trunks up; and at once, with the help of her maid,
she set about the packing, which was quickly finished since she and
Jack had brought nothing to this richly furnished apartment except
their clothes. All her own things for which she would have an early
need she put into one steamer trunk and a bag.
She had changed into a traveling-suit, had paid and sent away her maid,
and was standing in the hall of the apartment watching the baggageman
tag the trunks and taking from him the claim checks, when the apartment
door opened and in stepped Jack.
He stared at Mary, at the trunks, at the change that had been made
in their brief home since he had left it two hours before. But he
stood quietly at one side, until the baggageman had shuffled into the
corridor with a trunk humped upon his shoulders.
“Mary, what does this mean?” he demanded sharply.
“I’m just leaving; I haven’t time to tell you now. I’ll write you or
telephone you.”
She started past him, but he caught her arm. “Mary, I’m going to know
this now! And I’m going to understand everything else!”
He was white, and so wrought up with excitement that she perceived
that whatever problems she might be facing, the most pressing and
the most dangerous was the barely suppressed frenzy of the young man
before her--which frenzy, if not controlled and insulated, might bring
about an explosion and cause half a dozen other explosions. “Come
on,” she said, and led the way from the stack of trunks through the
drawing-room, so recently the scene of unforgettable drama, into the
study, where there was a heavy door that gave privacy and in which
minor explosions could take place unheard. Jack closed the door, and
stood with his back against it--a tense, white, haggard figure, made to
seem all the more haggard by the contrast of the unemotional formality
of evening clothes.
“I was at dinner with father and Maisie Jones--she’s the girl they want
to marry me to--and a few others, but I managed to give them the slip!”
he said rapidly, by way of explaining his presence. “Tell me”--his
burning eyes were fixed on her--“what do those trunks mean?”
She told him the truth; not the whole of it, but what she did tell was
true enough.
“You’re not going to do anything of the sort!” he declared. “But we
won’t argue that point now. First tell me this--why, in the name of
God, when my father discovered you here at the Mordona two hours ago,
did you admit that you were my mistress? Yes, and made me admit it!”
She spoke quietly, hoping to calm him by her reasonable voice. “It
began with your father’s mistaken conception of our relations. His
mistake saved us. It would have been foolish not to have fallen in with
his mistake. Surely you understand that?”
“I didn’t understand it, and it made me sick!” he cried. “I backed you
up, just because I knew you wanted me to. But I’m not going to stand
any longer for this lying, this living in secret! I’m going to end it!”
“End it? How?”
“I’m not going to let my father, or any one else, think of you as
my mistress! I’m going to tell him we’re married! And from now on
everything’s going to be in the open!”
She had never liked him more than just then. Whatever else he might be
in the future, she would never be able to forget him as he was at this
his highest moment--frenzied, outraged, dominated by reckless impulse.
But she saw the danger to her dreams in this attitude.
“It’s fine of you to say that, Jack, but you must not do it.”
“Why not?” he demanded.
She strove to keep her reasoning, soothing tone. “It ought to be plain
to you, Jack. You are entirely dependent on your father. If he were
told of our marriage--particularly since he’s so eager to have you
marry that other girl--he’d be sure to cut you off in every way, and
I’m not going to have that happen to you.” Within herself she was also
saying that if Mr. Morton were told of the marriage, and if she and
Jack lived in the open, father and son would inevitably and swiftly
learn who she really was--and that would end everything. “We must keep
it all quiet, Jack,” she went on, “and keep on waiting, and after a
time we’ll have our chance to win your father around. You leave it to
me.”
His face had suddenly darkened at mention of his father. “What did
Clifford offer you in my father’s behalf, after we’d gone?” he
demanded abruptly.
“Mr. Clifford told me that your father would give me in settlement any
sum I might mention.”
“And your reply to that?”
“I didn’t make any reply. There was none.”
“He’ll expect a reply. He’ll come for it himself, if necessary.”
“That’s one reason for my moving--because I knew he would come.”
“Was that all dad offered?” Jack demanded. “You made a big hit with
him.”
She thought it best that the inflammable youth should remain ignorant
of the father’s invitation, convoyed by orchids each worth a bank-note,
to the supposedly disespoused mistress of his son to join him in a very
exclusive cruise.
“That was all that happened,” she answered steadily.
Quickly, but without seeming haste, she shifted from this dangerous
subject, back to their difference. “Of course you agree, Jack,” she
pressed him, “that we must still keep things quiet, and keep on
waiting?”
His desperate mood was instantly back upon him again. “Even if we could
keep up that pretense,” he cried,--“why, you’re forgetting Maisie
Jones! You’re forgetting my predicament!”
“Your predicament?”
“I can’t keep it quiet, even if I want to! Don’t you see? Now that
I’ve settled down into a steady business man--your doing!--all parties
are willing that Maisie and I should at once be formally engaged and
then be married in a very short time. Father’s pushing it across as
though it were a big option that expired to-morrow. Get the fix that
puts me in? There are only three things for me to do. Run away from it
all, in which case dad’ll be done with me as long as he lives. Or say I
won’t go through with the thing with Maisie, and give no reasons--which
means the same result. Or else come right out with the truth that I’m
married to you. See my fix?”
Mary saw; and swiftly judging her many-angled situation she saw that,
however pressing other matters might be, this matter of the other girl
was the first business that must be somehow adjusted if she were to
realize her vaulting dreams--if she were to pass through the Golden
Doors. And as she perceived this, she had an instant’s realization,
that this business of gaining the worldly heights, which had at the
inception of her plan seemed so simple and easily achievable, was every
day becoming more complicated, more tortuous. Again Clifford’s grim
words flashed briefly back: “I’ll leave it to Life to test you.”...
“So, you see, I might just as well come across with the truth about our
marriage!” Jack exclaimed. “It’s the best way out of the fix!”
Mary hardly heard him; she was rapidly considering this new problem.
“You’ve never told me how it came about, this arrangement with Miss
Jones.”
“Oh, just the way such matters usually happen. Maisie and I have
known each other for a long time; there’s been a sort of unspoken
understanding in our families that some day we’d get married--and I
guess I fell right in with it. You see, I rather liked Maisie, and
I’d never thought much about such affairs, and it didn’t make much
difference. But--well, you know, I haven’t been behaving very well;
and her people said there’d be nothing doing unless I straightened
out. Since you’ve set me to work and kept me working, they’ve recalled
their veto--and it’s all right with them. That’s about the size of the
situation.”
“What’s her attitude toward you?”
“Maisie’s? I guess Maisie rather likes me. In fact,” he confessed,
“though I don’t deserve it, Maisie really likes me a lot.”
“What’s she like?” Mary asked quickly.
“You mean looks, or--or personally?”
“Personally.”
“Maisie’s an awfully fine girl,” he answered soberly.
“Does she have any special interest?--something through which an appeal
might be made to her?”
“I don’t quite understand?”
Mary saw that for her purpose, it might not help any if he did
understand. “Where is she staying?”
“At the Grantham.”
“Who’s with her?”
“An aunt; her father’s sister, who thinks she manages Maisie. But
Maisie does just as she pleases.--But what are you driving at with all
these questions about Maisie?”
“I don’t know myself yet. You can avoid committing yourself for a few
days?”
“I suppose I can stall for that much longer.”
“Then listen, Jack,--here’s just what we’ve got to do,” she said
rapidly, dominantly. “No matter what you think, or feel, we’ve got
to keep our affair quiet for the present, and go ahead just as we
originally planned, except that you’re to stay with your father. I’ll
not consent to any other arrangement, so it’s no use arguing. You go
every day to your office just as you’ve been doing; I’ll call you up
there when I want you. And don’t be surprised at anything you see.”
“But what are you going to do, Mary?” he insisted.
“I don’t just know yet; I’ll let you know when I do. If we keep our
nerve it will all come out all right. Here are the claim checks to
your trunks: I have ordered all the baggage sent to the Grand Central
Station. You must go now, Jack,--you really must!”
She fairly pressed the bewildered, unwilling Jack from the apartment;
and then for a few moments she stood in the hall, now cleared of her
luggage, rapidly planning. Then she shot down the elevator and hurried
out of the Mordona to a taxi,--fortunately just missing Loveman, who
she knew was coming here to see her,--and some twenty minutes later,
again registered at the Grantham as “Mrs. Gardner.” She was the
occupant of a suite on the same corridor as Miss Maisie Jones, and had
ordered her trunks brought from the Grand Central Station.
Settled here, she continued her planning. There seemed no end to the
plans that had to be thought out, to the dangers that must be eluded
and averted. And yet she felt confident--very confident.
But mixed with her confidence was an intermittent apprehension. She
believed she had avoided the others. But Clifford--if Clifford would
only not interfere.