Joan was alone at last in such a bed as she had never occupied in her
life, even in her most luxurious games of Pretend. To her inexperience
the sheets felt as if made of softest silk--at its crest the Darcy
establishment had never run to fine linen--and they were edged with lace
which Joan longed frugally to transfer to a best petticoat; only that
there seemed no need for her to trouble further about best petticoats,
nor about anything else. Under the eager guidance of her "new mamma,"
drawer after drawer in the room she occupied had been opened to disclose
piles of exquisite underthings, of the sort Joan had first encountered
upon the Calloway clothes lines, except that these were white instead of
pink.
"Pink's _my_ color," explained the former Mrs. Calloway. "Besides, white
lawngerie seems sort of better for a girl that's never been married,
don't you think? Even if it isn't so becoming. 'Tain't as if there was
anybody to see her in it," she added, with a conscious blush.
Joan found no suitable comment to make upon this treasure-trove. Her
lips would not utter anything beyond a perfunctory "Thank you," even
when further investigation discovered a closet hung with dresses of
every sort, with peignoirs, with motor-coats and dainty wraps, with
everything in the way of finery which every girl alive hopes at some
time to possess, but which the daughter of Richard Darcy had learned to
look upon from afar with an air of indifference.
"Are these all for me?" she asked dully.
"Of course they are! Just a few little models I had sent up on
approval." (The ex-Mrs. Calloway invariably referred to her costumes in
affectionate diminutives, as "little gowns," "little negligees," "little
hats," etc., though the adjective could rarely be said to fit them.) "If
these don't suit we'll get others--though anything ought to look good on
your form, dearie." She added, clasping her hands, "It certainly is fun
shoppin' for a daughter of your own!"--an outburst which might have
struck some responsive chord in a heart less young than Joan's, less
hard and tight and bitter with the tears that would not come.
Major Darcy had observed her apathy under this rain of largesse with
some disapproval. It was not the first time he had secretly wished that
his daughter might have inherited a trifle more of the Darcy manner. At
length, as the girl stood looking about her new room silently, still
with the strange lack of comment that seemed like indifference, he
ventured a remonstrance.
"I don't think you quite realize how much time and thought and trouble
your--er, your mother and I have expended on these little surprises for
your home-coming, Dollykins. Or you would be more appreciative."
"_My mother!_" repeated Joan to herself with a sick gasp.
It was the bride who came to her rescue. "She's tired out, Major, that's
all. And no wonder! She hardly ate a bite of dinner. You go right to bed
and sleep, girlie," she advised comfortably. "In the morning you'll be
better able to enjoy all your pretties."
So Joan was at last alone, wondering whether she would ever be able to
enjoy anything again; alone in a strange room crowded with large blond
bird's-eye maple furniture which reminded her oddly of her step-mother;
with pale blue walls, a blue rug, blue silk covers on chairs and bed,
blue stationery spread out on the desk, all to match. There was nothing,
not a chair, nor book nor picture, to remind its forlorn inhabitant of
home; until suddenly, lost amid the glitter of the silver on the
dressing-table, she discovered a faded photograph of her mother which
her father had for many years carried in his pocket. This she jerked out
of the opulent silver frame that disguised it, and held hungrily to her
cheek, going to bed with it finally under her pillow. It did not occur
to her to wonder who had put it there. (But it was not Richard Darcy.)
Yet still the tears would not come. She lay staring into the dark with
hot, dry, aching eyes, repeating agonizingly to herself the questions
she had not found courage to ask her father--foolish, trivial questions
that seemed almost irrelevant in the face of this overwhelming
calamity.... What had he done with the furniture, their furniture, the
dear, shabby tables and chairs and hangings which were part of the home
Mary Darcy had given her life in making?... And where was Ellen? What
had he done with Ellen? Was there to be nothing left?
Once she whispered aloud, "How _could_ he?"--but resolutely turned her
mind away from that. It did not bear thinking of. The luxury of the room
seemed to crowd upon her, choking her.... The price of her father's
shame!...
It seemed to her near morning when her door opened, softly. She began to
shiver, thinking it must be her father come for the intimate explanatory
talk which was inevitable between them. What could she say to him? How
could she ever find anything to say to her father again?
But it was not Richard Darcy who tiptoed in. The lamp beside her bed
clicked on, revealing a good deal of the former Mrs. Calloway in a
marvellous nightgown, her golden head as carefully coiffed as for a
ball.
"Major's off and going strong," she announced, "so I slipped away to see
how you were gettin' on, dearie. I Had a kind of feelin' you wouldn't be
asleep yet. I'm like that myself in a strange bed.... Look here," her
voice changed as she saw the white and miserable face among the
pillows--"you aren't holding it against your papa and me, girlie,
because we sprung this on you as a surprise? I _told_ Major we ought to
wait till you came home! But it was you who introduced us, you know; and
I knew it would be all right as soon as we got to know each other
better. And Major wouldn't hear to waiting, was bound and determined to
have me just as soon as he could get me. Men,"--she laughed her plump,
merry laugh--"are such babies when it comes to havin' what they want
right away, ain't they?"
"Are they?" said Joan dully.
"You take it from me they are! A man that doesn't want you quick don't
want you at all. And I must say your father needed marryin' more than
any one I _ever_ saw! Spots all over his clothes, and that shiny in the
back you could see your face in him. Your mother must have had a time
keepin' that man neat! Besides, if we'd waited till you came, what would
we have done with you on the honeymoon? Not," she added coyly, "that
it's over yet, by any means! When he was on his death-bed Calloway said
to me, says he, 'Effie May, our honeymoon never has been over, has it?'
Some women are that way, just naturally affectionate and fond of makin'
men feel at home. And both of us were real lonesome.... You don't blame
me for marrying Major, do you?" she finished rather wistfully.
Joan said after a long pause, "No, I don't think I blame you, Mrs.
Calloway."
The other gave an unexpected squeal of mirth. "Goodness' sakes, don't
call me _that_! If you don't feel like callin' me 'mamma' yet"--(there
was a hopeful pause, which Joan did not fill)--"then you might as well
call me Effie May. I'm not so awfully much older than you, I guess--I
was only sixteen when I eloped with my first. But there's one thing I
wanted to tell you"--(her voice lost its confident note and became
rather shy). "I married your father as much to get you as to get him,
dearie. A man's easy enough to pick up anywhere, goodness knows! if
you've got the looks. But a child--" she sighed. "That's something else
again. I used to think I'd like to adopt one, only Calloway didn't want
to be bothered--Say, it was more fun than anything I've ever done in my
life, shopping for lawngerie and little models and all, and telling the
girls in the stores they were for my little girl just coming home from
boarding-school!..."
At this juncture, for some inexplicable reason--perhaps the warmth of a
kindly human presence, perhaps sheer rage with the vulgar, impossible
creature who, having purchased her father, expected also to purchase
her--whatever brought them, Joan's tears suddenly arrived--a torrent, a
deluge of them; in the midst of which her new mamma, with more tact than
might have been expected of her, disappeared.