THE STRINGS OF HUMAN NATURE
Loveman had been gone no more than fifteen minutes, and Mary was
thinking upon her plans, balancing this prospect against that danger,
when her telephone began to ring. She took it up, and to her dismay the
voice that greeted her over the wire was the voice of Jack’s father.
His first words she did not hear at all--her senses were almost wholly
concentrated in dismay that two of the persons from whom she had sought
seclusion had within a single hour learned of her whereabouts! How soon
before all would be about her again?
“How did you learn where I am?” she asked automatically.
“Why, you called me up awhile ago, and said Mrs. Grayson wanted to
speak to me,” he replied. “When I tried to answer, you had hung up. But
Central located the telephone the call had come from.”
Mr. Morton went on to ask to see her at once--anyhow, not later than
luncheon. She considered whether she should see him again, after
her admission of her liaison with Jack, after that orchid-smothered
invitation to a voyage in tropical waters--or should she evade him by
once more running away? But running away would mean the abandonment of
her plans involving Maisie Jones--and that she could not do. Besides,
at the best she would only delay the meeting with Mr. Morton; the
meeting itself was inevitable.
While her lips replied to him, her mind considered rapidly. Should
she see him alone--or in public? Only by a solitary meeting could she
reduce the ever-present danger of accident prematurely revealing her
identity to him; but a solitary meeting, in view of what he supposed
to be her character, might prompt him to make open advances of a
sort suggested by his perfumed invitation--which advances she dared
neither permit nor too bluntly repel. And then she thought of what
might be a way out--the small Japanese Room just off one of the large
dining-rooms: this would give her the protection of both privacy and
publicity. She suggested it to Mr. Morton, and he promptly said he
would reserve the room and would meet her at half-past twelve. “Please
remember this,” she ended,--“here at the Grantham I am known as Mrs.
Gardner.”
She slipped down shortly after twelve, to avoid the danger of
recognition by any one in the crowd of lunchers who would come in a
little later. But as she passed through a hallway on the main floor,
she glimpsed a square figure behind a newspaper--Bradley. She went on
without pause and slipped into the Japanese Room. So Bradley, too, had
learned of her whereabouts!
Ten minutes later Mr. Morton entered, looking as sprucely young as
fifty can look, smiling admiration in the gray eyes that were more
accustomed to a gaze of autocratic command. Mary had previously placed
herself at the table so that she could see into the larger room without
being seen, and during the preliminaries of their conversation her main
faculties were surreptitiously directed beyond the hangings. Presently
she saw Loveman enter the larger room. Instinctively she knew Loveman
had followed Mr. Morton here, to keep close watch over what he did and
what might develop. After her scene that morning with Loveman, she knew
he would strike the instant he saw she was failing, or thought she was
about to fail. Loveman and Bradley--her seemingly simple plan certainly
was growing complicated!
And then a little later she saw Clifford enter. Her heart skipped a few
beats: so, then, he was watching her, as she had expected! What might
he intend doing?... Well, whatever it might be, she would go straight
ahead!
Presently she had to give more heed to Morton, for he was touching upon
things that were vitally personal. “Let me again applaud the discretion
you showed in your affair with Jack, Mrs. Gardner,” he was saying. “And
again let me compliment you on your sensible attitude when you saw the
affair had to be broken off.”
“Thank you.”
“Pardon my referring to the sordid money side of things,” he went on.
“I was prepared to meet whatever you had in mind--but Mr. Clifford has
reported to me that you would accept no settlement. I do not quite
understand.”
“I did not enter into the affair with Jack expecting to be bought off,”
she replied.
He looked at her keenly, but said no more on the subject. “There is one
thing that has surprised me a bit, though, in so discreet a woman as
you are, Mrs. Gardner: that is, your coming to the very hotel at which
Miss Jones is staying.”
“It is the hotel at which I usually stop.”
“I was merely thinking that your being under the same roof might lead
to some unexpected happening that would let Miss Jones learn--you
understand. But you are very sensible and careful.”
He leaned over the little table. “And now let’s talk about you and me,”
he said softly. “What is your answer?”
“My answer?” she evaded.
“To my suggestion that we explore a more amiable climate--together.”
Her back was against the wall. “I’d rather not have to answer.”
“But your mind is made up?”
She hesitated. “Yes,” she admitted. “But I’d rather not speak--not just
now.”
“Why not?”
“There may develop complications; complications which I can’t now
explain.”
“But at least,” he urged, “can’t you give me a hint of what your answer
will be, if complications do not interfere?”
She thought rapidly. He was pressing her hard from one direction, and
outside sat Loveman, a danger from another direction--watching her,
ready to expose and destroy her at the slightest sign of failure. Of
the two she just then feared Loveman the more. She had to put Morton
off--she had to have some weapon against Loveman.
An idea flashed into her brain--a desperate idea, but she was now
playing a desperate game.
“Won’t you please give me a hint?” he insisted.
“Well,” she said, with the air of one consenting, “here is a
proposition that may sound to you absurd--but then a woman is supposed
to be irrational. For my own reasons I can’t now tell you what my
answer is, but I’ll write it out in a letter and give it to you if
you’ll promise not to read it until you have my permission. That way
you’ll always have my answer with you. I may telephone or telegraph
you, when I’m ready for you to open the letter.”
“I promise,” he agreed.
“Then I’ll write it here,” she said.
The waiter brought heavy stationery, and with Mr. Morton’s fountain pen
she began to write. He watched her closely until he was certain she
was engrossed in her note, then stealthily he possessed himself of her
handbag which she had left upon a third chair beside the table. This he
cautiously opened, and into it he slipped an envelope which he took
from his pocket. Then he closed the bag and returned it to its place.
Mary finished her letter, thrust it into an envelope, which she sealed.
This she held tentatively above the table.
“On your honor as a gentleman you promise not to open this until I give
you the word?”
“Promise? I swear!”
“And you promise not to try to be--too friendly until I give you the
word?”
“That comes hard--but I promise that, too.”
She held out the sealed envelope. He took it, and also caught her hand.
“Even if I’m not allowed to read, I’m allowed to guess--and hope,” he
said softly; “and in the meantime, I’m going to call on you now and
then--and for the sake of discretion, I’ll take my chances and come
unannounced.” And smiling expectantly he slipped her letter into the
inner pocket of his coat.
A little later, when they had parted, she met Uncle George near the
elevators. It was evident that he, too, had just finished lunching.
“Mary,” he said solemnly, “excuse me for not having failing eyesight,
as a man of incurable senility should have--but really I couldn’t help
lamping the would-be gazelle you were eating with.”
“What’s wrong with my doing that?” she asked defensively.
“Nothing at all, dear--nothing at all: only just remember that no
matter what his song is nor how soft he sings it, he’s an old goat in a
canary’s skin.”
“I believe I can manage him,” she returned confidently.
“I hope so, Mary--I hope so. But he’s descended from one of the first
families of Sodom and Gomorrah, and he’s a wise party, and he knows
what he wants and he knows how to get it, and he usually gets it, too.”
Uncle George paused a moment, then added: “Excuse my seeing it,
dear--I’ve got the habit of seeing things and can’t break it. But did
you notice that he put something in your bag?”
“No.”
“Then if you don’t believe my old eyes, you might take a look for
yourself.”
She opened her bag. There was the envelope Mr. Morton had slipped into
it, unsealed and fat. Surprised, she drew from the envelope a folded
packet of bills and rapidly fingered them.
“Ten one-thousand-dollar bills!” she breathed.
Uncle George nodded. “Just so. That’s how he sings a little love
song. But he can sing a lot of different sorts of songs, and he’s a
swell performer at a lot of other acts besides singing. That’s all,
Mary--except here’s hoping you beat him in the end. But, though you’re
clever, I’m not placing any bets on you. Good-bye, dear.”
Up in her apartment Mary considered the matter of this money. Mr.
Morton, she perceived, was playing the game as he saw it; and for the
present, she decided, she must seemingly play the game in the same way.
She returned the notes into the envelope, and slipped the packet into a
drawer of her desk.
She thought over her situation as a whole for a few minutes. Her
original plan involving Maisie Jones would have been difficult enough
had she been permitted the few days on which she had counted in which
to work it out uninterrupted, but this prompt injection of Loveman, and
then of Morton, into her scheme, doubled the number of human objects
which she must juggle without a slip. The situation was difficult,
yes,--it would require the sharpest alertness of all her wits,--but she
could do it!
Mary composed herself and went in again to see Maisie Jones, on whom
she had promised to call after she had lunched. While they chatted Mary
studied the girl with new intentness, dropping in adroit questions
which would bring out revealing remarks. Instinctively she despised
this daughter of plutocracy: a fluffy blonde, who had had every good
thing in life served to her, unasked for, upon a golden platter, who
had never once had to think for herself. She deserved just what was
being planned for her! But despite Mary’s scorn--which was, perhaps,
composed in part of that hate which human nature feels toward its
contemplated victim--Mary perceived that beneath the girl’s fluffy
worldliness, she was fundamentally the sort of girl who develops into
a woman whose life is centered upon her domestic affairs and domestic
happiness--who demands and subsists upon loyalty. And Mary now knew
enough of Jack to know what Jack, with his instability of purpose and
affection, would in the years to come bring into the life of this girl.
Again, as in the morning, Mary one by one drew out the other qualities
that lay beneath Maisie’s girlish charm. She was spoiled, selfish, full
of temper, vindictive--and also she was proud to the last degree, and
she seemed inflexibly a Puritan in mind and impulses. It was upon the
last two qualities, of pride and inflexible Puritanism, that Mary’s
quick mind based her now swiftly maturing plan.
Presently Mary, in her rôle of a member of the smarter New York set,
brought her light, humorously cynical talk about to some of the men she
knew--to rumors of their none too circumspect _amours_; and then, quite
casually, she mentioned Jack Morton.
“You know Jack Morton?” Maisie Jones asked.
“I’ve met him--yes.”
There was a quick flash of jealousy in the blue eyes. “I happen to know
him, too,--a little. Is he--is he like those other men you spoke of?”
“You mean in regard to women?”
“Yes.”
Mary appeared not to be aware that this topic had a personal interest
for Maisie Jones. Also she had swiftly calculated how she must handle
this particular business. If she told Maisie outright some scandal
concerning Jack, Maisie in her pride might refuse to believe her, and
the matter would end right there. Maisie had to be so led that she
believed herself to be leading, and whatever she learned she must
apparently find out for herself.
“Miss Jones, these men are all alike,” Mary answered lightly, “and they
say Jack Morton is the most alike of them all.”
“But--but I’d heard that Jack Morton was very steady just now.”
“That’s the little way men have.” Mary gave the soft, cynical laugh of
the wise young woman of fashion. “The more that men have to hide, the
more steady and proper do they try to appear.”
“You mean that he is--that there is a woman--” Maisie Jones could get
no further.
“So they say. And I’m told he’s the same as engaged to a nice girl in
Chicago--poor thing!”
There was a brief silence. Mary discreetly avoided looking in Maisie’s
direction.
“Are you--are you certain about that other woman?” asked a strained
voice.
“I’ve seen him about with her several afternoons.”
“Afternoons? I thought he was busy till five o’clock.”
“That’s a man’s oldest pretense, being busy all day.”
Again a brief silence; then again the strained voice, trying to be
steady and indifferent:
“What is she like?”
“I tell you what,” said Mary casually, “if you really want to know, I
think I can show her to you--with him. I’ve noticed them having tea
together at the Biltmore several times recently. If you like we can go
there for tea this afternoon--it will do us both good to get out--and
in the big crowd there at tea-time we’ll never be noticed.”
“All right,” said Maisie.
“Then suppose you call for me at my apartment at four.”
It was so agreed. Mary said that she might be a few minutes late
because of an errand she had to do, but that she would leave her outer
door unlatched so that Maisie might come right in and wait for her, and
she told Maisie she need not ring, as her bell was out of order.
Mary went away with a sense that her delicately devised plan was now
under full way; and she saw, as though the event were now concluded,
just how Maisie Jones would react when she, Mary, pulled the strings of
human nature. On learning what she believed to be the truth, Maisie’s
Puritanic soul would be so horrified that she could have nothing more
to do with Jack; and further, her pride would not permit her ever to
let the public know that she had been neglected for another woman, or
possibly even jilted. Her pride would make her keep Jack’s secret for
her own self-protection, and make her forestall the possible appearance
of being jilted by herself doing the jilting first.
All that now remained, before Mary should be safe again--barring
interference from Clifford--was for human nature to react according to
human promptings.