A CHANGE OF FRONT
The following morning, Willa and Dan Morrissey went motor shopping.
The latter was still slightly bewildered by his sudden change of
fortune, but it was plain to be seen that he regarded his new employer
with worshipful admiration and respect, and she in turn was satisfied,
from his discussion of technical details with the several automobile
salesmen, that he was sufficiently expert for her purposes. His
loyalty remained to be proven, but she had learned to read faces
swiftly and surely, and she had formed an instinctive belief that he
was worthy of trust.
The car she decided upon was a gray roadster, light and high-powered
with long low lines like a racer and a multiplicity of cylinders which
made Dan fairly delirious with joy. This important matter settled, she
gave him his initial instructions.
"You are simply to hold yourself in readiness for a call from me at any
hour of the day or night. You are to obey no summons unless you hear
my voice over the telephone, or a written order in my handwriting is
brought to you--unless a hunch backed boy about sixteen, a foreigner
with very dark skin, should come to you. In that case, you are to
accompany him wherever he directs. Do you drink, Dan?"
"Only beer, and not that when I'm on the job, Miss." He eyed her
straightforwardly. "I don't go joy-ridin', and I keep my mouth shut,
and ask no questions. I'll be on the spot when you want me, Miss, and
there till the finish."
"I'm sure you will!" she smiled. "I sha'n't mind your asking questions
so much as answering them. There are apt to be quite a few people
interested in our doings, Dan; a young man and two older ones
particularly, and they will try all sorts of methods to get information
from you."
"Let 'em," he responded, briefly. "It's precious-little dope they'll
get out of me! But have you forgotten the registry, Miss, and the
license?"
"No." Willa drew a roll of bills from her purse. "It had better be
attended to at once, for I don't know how soon I may need you. That's
why I insisted upon having their exhibition car, without waiting for
delivery. Take this and get yourself an outfit; something dark and
neat, not noticeable so that it could be easily described. Then can't
you take out the license in your own name? You can refer to me if you
like, and say that I gave you the car."
"As if you'd set me up in the renting business, maybe," he observed
shrewdly. "I guess I can put it over, Miss. I've got a good, clean
record in taxi'-driving, and I know most of the cops. You'll 'phone
when you want me?"
Taking leave of her new henchman, Willa crossed the Park on foot and
swung down the Avenue, so intent upon her own thoughts that she all but
collided with Vernon, descending the steps of his club. He appeared
troubled and morose, but his brow cleared at sight of her.
"Hello! May I walk a bit of the way with you?" He fell into step
beside her. "I say, you aren't angry with me about last night, are
you?"
"Indeed no, Vernon. Why should I be? You did nothing."
"That's just why." He reddened. "Perhaps you think I might have taken
your part after what a bully pal you proved yourself the night you
showed Cal Shirley up, and I did feel like telling the whole bunch to
stop hectoring you, the mater included, only--well, we can't do just
what we'd like, always!"
"There wasn't anything you could have said, really," she assured him.
"I was the only one involved and I had to see it through."
"At least, I want you to believe I never mentioned any house on the
Parkway, or saw you there. Angie made a mistake. Someone did say
something about it once, but I didn't repeat it." He gave her a
curious sidewise glance, but her face was inscrutable.
"I believe you, of course, but it doesn't matter anyway, Vernon. I'm
sorry everyone was so worried about my absence last evening, but it was
unavoidable. Don't let's discuss it any more."
"All right," he sighed. "I only wish, though, that I'd learned to
stand up to the family the way you can. You're so different to the
girls up here, but I suppose that is the result of the wonderful, free
kind of a life you led in Mexico. You must have had some great
experiences down there."
It was Willa's turn to glance curiously at him, for Vernon's tone was
oddly constrained and hesitant as if he were endeavoring, awkwardly
enough, to lead up to some point in his own mind.
"Yes," she assented quietly, and waited.
"Starr Wiley was disappointed last night at not seeing you," he
pursued. "I never knew you had met him down there."
"You never asked." Her tone was serenely noncommittal.
"He was telling us of some of the queer characters he has run across in
that part of the country." Vernon paused, and then plunged in
desperately. "He said you knew one old woman who was a wonder; a
half-caste hoodoo-worker who brewed magic potions in a big pot, and
knew all the legends of the countryside. 'Tia--' something, her name
is. Do you know what has become of her?"
He blurted the question point-blank, and Willa smiled in spite of
herself.
"Tia Juana, you mean? Did Mr. Wiley say she had left her home? I
never heard of her doing that before," she remarked innocently enough.
"It seems she disappeared some time ago, and no one knows what happened
to her. She must have been a queer old bird."
"Why are you so interested in her?"
He started, blinking at the swift directness of the question.
"Oh, I was thinking what a hit she'd make telling fortunes at some of
the charity bazaars, if she ever came up here. People are always so
nutty about anything new and a genuine witch would be a sensation."
"Tia Juana is not a witch and she doesn't tell fortunes. She is a
little bit peculiar, perhaps, like many other very old people, but that
is all." Willa laughed lightly. "Mr. Wiley must have been stringing
you! What else did he tell you about Mexico?"
But Vernon's mind was apparently hazy on the subject of his friend's
further reminiscences, and he left her at the door with ill-concealed
alacrity. She knew that the conversation had not been uninspired, and
his otherwise futile questions had served a useful purpose in
forewarning her.
"You will go to the opera with us to-night?" It was more a query than
a command which Mrs. Halstead addressed to her. "We are going on
afterward to the Judsons', but we can drop you at home if you don't
care to accompany us."
"Thank you, no," Willa responded. "If you don't mind I think I will
stay quietly at home this evening, but I'll try to keep my engagements
in future. I wish there were not quite so many of them!"
"That can be arranged," Mrs. Halstead assured her stiffly. "I wish to
give you every opportunity to meet all the eligible people in our
circle and then you must select your own friends."
The truce between them was evidently to be an armed one, but it was a
respite at least. Willa realized that her cousin would not soon
forgive defeat at her hands, but her attitude was more fortuitous than
open war.
She had intended to write a long-delayed letter to Jim Baggott, but
after the family departed and she settled herself at her desk, the
words would not frame themselves in her thoughts. A spirit of unrest
took possession of her, a sensation of suspense which did not lighten
with the dragging minutes, and in despair she flung down her pen and
wandered into the music-room.
Piano lessons had appeared to Willa to be a sheer waste of time and
patience in this era of mechanism, and she had not responded with any
degree of enthusiasm to Mrs. Halstead's suggestion made shortly after
her arrival, but now she touched the keys wistfully. Oh, for one of
Mestiza Bill's tinkley old tunes on the piano in the Blue Chip!
She was turning blindly away, when the phonograph in the corner caught
her eye and on an idle impulse she started it. By chance, the record
left on the machine had been that of the latest tango, and as she
listened to the pulsing, languorous strains, Willa commenced
half-unconsciously to sway in rhythm with its lilting harmony.
The next minute she was dancing, but not in the dull, mincing fashion
in which she had so recently been coached. The music caught at her
homesick heart-strings, the old familiar scent of blossoming gardenias
was in her nostrils and she was out under a Mexican night. Her pulses
leaped to the throbbing notes, and she flung herself sinuously into the
measures of the tango, snapping her fingers in lieu of castanets.
All thought of her present environment had slipped away from her, but
she was recalled sharply to herself when the music stopped and she
halted, flushed and panting.
"Brava!" a cool, slightly mocking voice called from the doorway, and
the soft pad of gloved hands sounded upon her startled ears. Whirling
about, she found herself face to face with Starr Wiley.
"Brava!" he repeated. "Charming, Miss Murdaugh! I would not have
missed it for worlds!"
"How did you come here?" she stammered.
"By way of the front door, most conventionally, I assure you. I heard
the phonograph and told Welsh not to announce me." He shrugged, and
drew off his glove. "Aren't you going to greet me, Miss Murdaugh?"
There was a covert sneer in the repetition of her name, and Willa made
no advance.
"My cousin is not at home."
"I did not come to see your cousin. I came to renew my acquaintance
and make my peace with you. Are you going to punish me still for my
temerity in Limasito?"
"No." A little, quizzical smile hovered about her lips. "I think you
were quite sufficiently punished for that."
Ignoring the dull red which swept up into his face, she led the way to
the drawing-room and dropped into a chair, motioning him to one on the
opposite side of the glowing hearth.
"I thought you would be at the opera to-night; I looked for you there,
but Mrs. Halstead said you did not feel quite up to it, so I came on
the chance that you would say 'How do you do?' to me. We have all
missed you in Limasito."
"You have become quite a native, then?" She raised her eyebrows. "You
find the life there more congenial, perhaps, than at first."
"Not since you left, my dear Billie. Or is that name forbidden?"
"It is forgotten. Only my friends may recall it, and you were never of
their number, Mr. Wiley."
"I beg your pardon. I, too, had forgotten for the moment that it must
bring you tragic memories." His voice was lowered to the tones of
conventional condolence. "Believe me, I would not have grieved you,
Miss Murdaugh. I meant it for a jest, but it was lucklessly ill-timed."
"I would rather not speak of what is past, Mr. Wiley. It is still too
fresh in my memory." Willa's eyes, fixed on the flames, were dry and
very bright.
"But now that you are here, perhaps you will tell me something of my
friends."
"Gladly, but there is little news," he responded hastily. "I have been
very busy and, as you know, nothing interests me below the border now
but my work. Your friend, Jim Baggott, is flourishing, the crowd that
bought out the Blue Chip are bringing new life to Limasito--but I have
hurt you again. I am sorry."
Willa had winced uncontrollably, but she recovered herself and smiled.
"And Mr. Thode?" She voiced her query blandly, and Wiley flushed.
"I have seen nothing of him," he responded. "To tell you the truth,
I've forgotten the very existence of the fellow. He took care to keep
out of my way after your departure until I myself went West."
"You have not come, then, directly from Mexico?"
"No. A little matter of business took me to Arizona. I may tell you
of it sometime, I am sure it would be of peculiar interest to you." He
smiled, with an odd light in his eyes. "As for Kearn Thode, if you'll
permit a little friendly advice, Miss Murdaugh, I wouldn't waste any
thoughts on him. I don't believe in discussing a chap's affairs behind
his back, but I can assure you his own memory is very short."
"Still, I do not forget my friends, Mr. Wiley, nor my enemies."
"There is much else that I would like to ask you to forget," he said
slowly. "I was a cad, I know, but I fancied that you were too broad
and generous to hold the madness of a moment against me. I hoped you
would be more kind to me when we met here in the environment in which
we both belong. I even dreamed that we might be friends."
"Are we enemies, Mr. Wiley?" She raised her eyes to his. "I assure
you I have not given that little scene on the camino a second thought."
"Then shall we start all over?" he asked eagerly. "Since you deny me a
former one, won't you let our friendship date from this hour? I cannot
tell you how delighted I was when I learned that your relatives had
found you and that you had taken your rightful place. I knew from the
first that you were different to the rest; you were the only one I
cared to know, and you would not----"
"Play about with you?" She smiled dryly. "I don't think I have ever
learned how to play, and now I am more serious than ever. There are
responsibilities, I find, attached to my present situation of which
that other girl in Limasito never dreamed."
"Naturally," he conceded, adding quickly: "But you are fortunately not
troubled with the details of your estate, while you have two such
efficient guardians as Mr. North and your cousin."
The rising inflection in his tone seemed to demand a reply, but Willa
vouchsafed none and after a moment he went on:
"You must find the social life very engrossing. I know that I am
always glad to get back to civilization after a few months in the
wilds. I would have returned earlier in the season, but my work was
not completed."
"And is it now?" she asked with studied carelessness.
"Almost. I came to consult my partner, Harrington Chase--I believe you
know him, by the way."
"He dined here, but he said nothing about your return. My cousin was
quite agreeably surprised. She is going on to the Judsons' after the
opera, did she tell you?"
The hint was unmistakable, but he shook his head, smilingly.
"I really don't remember. I only had a moment's chat with her after
the curtain fell on the first act. I saw that you were not in the box
with them, and I went to it merely to inquire about you. You were not
in evidence when I called last evening----"
"You came to see Angie, did you not? At least, that was my impression."
"I came to see the whole family, of course, but particularly you." He
smiled constrainedly. "Your cousin is a very charming girl, and we
were great pals before I left for Mexico, but I assure you she does not
regard me with any more warmly personal interest than she grants to a
host of her other friends."
"My cousin does not discuss her affairs with me, but I have heard
rumors which led me to believe you were to be congratulated."
Starr Wiley writhed.
"I have not that good fortune," he said stonily.
"Perhaps my remark was premature?"
"No. Your cousin is quite too clever and worldly to have misunderstood
my interest. We were congenial, and it happened that we were thrown
together a lot, but I am sure she never thought of any serious outcome
of our companionship. I would not have mentioned this to you, but you
seemed to be laboring under a false impression. Rumor is never at rest
in our set, and I want you to be assured of the truth."
"Why?" Willa sat straight in her chair. "What possible difference
could it make to me? I am interested, naturally in anything pertaining
to my cousin, but her affairs are her own."
"I want it to make a great deal of difference." He leaned toward her
with a swift, avid light in his eyes. "Ever since I first saw you in
Limasito I knew that you were the only girl I had ever really wanted,
the only girl who could hold me, who was worth working for and waiting
for. Gad! I loved everything about you, even that furious, blazing
temper of yours, and I determined then that I would make you care!"
"You!" She shrank from him in horror and amazement. "You dare to
speak to me of such a thing?"
"Why should I not?" he cried eagerly. "These other girls, these pretty
stuffed dolls who preen themselves and go through their conventional
paces like marionettes on a string; they are fitted perhaps to preside
at a man's table and hold up the social end of the game, but it is
women like you who fire a man's soul as well and drive him to madness!
I knew there in Mexico that you were the one woman who would ever be my
wife!"
"You were so sure?" Willa had regained her composure now, and her
quick brain was probing the possibilities of this unexpected situation.
"That is why, I suppose, you brought your cave-man method into play?"
"I lost control of myself," he admitted. "Can you blame me, now that
you know the truth? Your scorn, your refusal to accept even my
friendship, drove me to desperation. I could not endure it that you
should turn from me----"
"Was it not rather that you could not brook defeat at the hands of a
product of the Blue Chip, a mere gambler's daughter? It piqued you
that I did not faint with delight because I had found favor in your
eyes!" Her scorn bit deep. "Now that conditions are reversed, you
call it love!"
"You are horribly unjust!" He sprang from his chair and towered over
her. "You have listened to the lies of that braggart, Thode, and
condemned me unheard! His grand-stand play at the time of the raid has
blinded you and you will not be fair. You do not even know what love
is, but I can teach you and I will! I offended you by my impetuosity
when you provoked me to madness, but now I will be in the dust before
you! Only tell me that you don't quite hate me, that I have a fighting
chance!"
Willa realized the truth of his sudden change of front; the
granddaughter of Giles Murdaugh would be a more desirable asset as a
wife than Ripley Halstead's daughter. His audacity in attempting to
woo her in the very home of the girl he had so lately made love to, and
with his former conduct still fresh in the minds of both, filled her
with disgust and loathing, but she held herself with an iron hand.
"What can I say to you, Mr. Wiley?" She forced a smile. "I can
scarcely believe you serious!"
"I will prove it to you!" he exclaimed, bending until his impassioned
eyes were close to hers. "I will show you how patient I can be, and
devoted. I will wait, I will not try to rush you into a decision, but
you are going to care for me, Billie! You are going to be my wife."
"Upon my word!" A light voice, oddly shaken, came from behind them.
"You two look fearfully intense! Do I intrude?"
Angie, her face aflame, stood in the doorway.
"On the contrary!" Wiley was the first to recover himself. "A
delightful surprise, my dear Angelica! Had I known you were coming
directly home from the opera I would have offered my services."
"I--I thought you were going on to the Judsons' dance," Willa stammered.
"Evidently." Angie sneered, looking from one to the other of them. "I
was mistaken also, it appears. I fancied you were indisposed, but that
was a mere façon de parler, no doubt.--My cousin is getting on, isn't
she, Starr?"
Willa flushed, but Starr Wiley replied easily:
"We were just renewing our acquaintanceship, Miss Murdaugh and I met in
Limasito, you know."
"How unfortunate!" Angie tittered. "Just when Willa was so
successfully living down the past, too! It really wasn't tactful of
you, Starr--"
"You are mistaken once more, Angelica!" Willa had risen and her very
lips were white. "I am not trying to live down the past, but to live
up to it! If you will excuse me now--"
"Oh, don't let me interrupt your charming tête-à-tête," shrugged Angie.
"I only stopped on my way to the Judsons' for my vanity case. The car
is coming back for me."
Wiley glanced quickly at Willa, then turned to her cousin.
"I am going on also. Will you give me a lift? I really dropped in
just to say 'How-do-you-do'."
"Good-night, Mr. Wiley." Willa held out her hand to him.
"Good-night. Remember my prediction." His eyes rested upon her
daringly, their ardor for a fleeting instant unmasked as the other girl
turned away. "I am willing to stake my life that it will come true."
She smiled, adopting his own light bantering tone.
"Is it worth so high a stake? Good-night, Angie."
Without waiting for a reply, she bowed, and, turning, left them
together.