THE THING SHE COULD NOT EXPLAIN
Marise and Mary Sorel talked late that night in the girl's room. The
family breadwinner--always indulged--had not been so petted, so spoiled,
since she was threatened with _grippe_ in the first week of her great
London triumph. In those days she had shone as a bright planet rather
than a fixed star. The proud but anxious mother had feared that some
understudy might mine the new favourite's success, as Marise had mined
the toppling fame of Elsa Fortescue. The invalid had been surrounded
with the warmth of mother-love, caressed, almost hypnotised back to
health, and after a worrying day of high temperature had been encouraged
to the theatre without giving the understudy even one night's chance.
This, although that young woman was dressed and painted for the part!
So it was again on this fateful Sunday in New York, although the most
wily Vivien of an understudy could now safely be defied.
Mary went in to Marise the moment Severance had gone. She kissed and
cooed over her child. She flattered her. She told her that she was
beautiful and brave--_too_ beautiful! Men loved her too much. Mums
warded off an impending attack of hysterics which Marise had been
longing to have, and would have enjoyed. She said that her girl's tears
burned her heart. She kept Celine away and undressed Marise herself,
with purrings and pettings as if the girl had been three instead of
twenty-three.
Never was a bed so sweetly smoothed to the downiness of a swan's breast!
The pillows were plumped almost with a prayer, that they might yield
soft rest to the aching head. Finally, Marise--conscious of all Mums'
guile, yet dreamily content with it--was tucked in between the scented
sheets, her "nighty" put on by Mums; her long hair brushed and braided
by Mums, as no French maid could ever braid or brush.
"Don't think of anything yet," the loving voice soothed. "Just bask, and
let your poor old Mums watch over you. Forget you're grown up. Be
Mummie's baby girl again."
Marise was not of a temperament to hold out against these charms and
woven spells. She cuddled down in bed, and felt an angel child. When
Mums herself brought in a tray containing a few exquisite little dishes,
she ate, though she had expected--even intended--to starve herself for
days. Then when one glass of iced champagne (she didn't touch wine twice
a year) and a tiny cup of Turkish coffee had brightened her spirits,
"poor old Mums" (looking thirty-five at most, and mild as a trained
dove) brought cigarettes for both. After that, they drifted into talk of
the future, rather than driving stormily into the teeth of it, like
tempest-tossed leaves.
Mary confessed that, if she were in her daughter's place, it would be
anguish to give up such a wonderful, gorgeous young man. And then, he
was so handsome! No one could compare with him in looks. What eyes! They
were pools of ink, on fire! She had never known what tragedy human eyes
could express till she had gazed into those of Lord Severance to-day.
They had frightened her! If she hadn't sent the man away with a grain of
hope she believed that by this time he would be dead, his brains blown
out. One didn't take such threats from most people seriously. But Tony
was different. It was true, as he said; love was his life--love for this
one dear girl. What Mums felt was, that _she_ couldn't have resisted
him, at her daughter's age. Few women could. Few women would!
By this time, Marise being ready for arguments, her mother engaged in a
fencing match, at first with a button on her foil, then with the point
gleaming bare. Boldly she talked of what Severance (enriched by his
uncle and a dead wife's will) would have to offer. Was he, and all that
would be his, to be thrown away for a scruple? A millionaire earl? A
unique person?
About two a.m. Marise agreed to Mary's many-times-reiterated wish that
she would "think things over"; and promptly fell into a sleep so sound
that she looked like a beautiful dead girl.
Miss Marks was sent away next morning by Mrs. Sorel, because "My
daughter has had a bad night, and mustn't be disturbed." It was not
until eleven o'clock that Marise waked suddenly in her darkened room, as
if a voice had called her name. She sat up in bed, dazed. Whose voice
was it? Or was it only a voice in a dream? Thinking back, it came to her
that she had been dreaming of John Garth--"Samson." With an "Oh!" that
revolted against life as it must be lived, she flung herself down again,
and remembered everything. For an hour her body lay motionless: but mind
and soul moved far. When Mums tapped lightly at the door, and peeped in
to inquire, "Do you feel like waking up, pet, and having me bring you a
cup of delicious hot coffee? It's twelve o'clock!" she answered quietly,
"Yes, I've been awake a long time. I'd love some coffee."
Mary brought it herself--and a covered plate of buttered toast. She
asked no question except, "Is your head better, darling?" until pale,
composed Marise had bathed, and been dressed with the aid of Celine.
Then Mums chirped cheerfully, "Well, what are you going to do to-day?
Anything important?"
"It may be important," said Marise. "I don't know yet--till I've talked
with him. It depends on what he says. He may say nothing. He may just
bash me over the head and stalk away. He'd be capable of that."
"What do you mean?" Mary implored. "Are you speaking of Tony?"
"Oh no! Of a very different man. Of Major Garth."
"Marise! What are you going to do?"
The girl turned from her dressing-table to face her mother. "What you've
been goading me on, all last night, to do. What I shall be perfectly mad
if I _do_ do! Now, please, don't say any more--unless you want me to
scream. I'm keeping myself calm. I'd better stay calm--till after."
Mary's breast heaved. She breathed back her emotions, as one checks a
cough. "You--talk the way you sometimes do after a dress rehearsal!" she
tried to laugh. "Before a big first night."
"That's the way I feel," said Marise. "Like before the biggest first
night that ever was. Or before the Judgment Day."
She knew that John Garth was staying at the Belmore. She had seen that
item in the papers--had seen it in the same day's papers which had
informed Garth that Miss Sorel was an actress. The girl began a letter,
but tore it up. Then she thought of the telephone. Two minutes later she
heard Garth's voice: "Hello! who is this talking?"
"Marise Sorel--calling you from the Plaza. Can you come over?"
"Yes. When?"
"Now."
"I'll be there as soon as a taxi can bring me."
"Good!"
Yet she knew that it was far from good.
* * * * *
"The Spring Song!--The Spring Song!"
The name of Marise Sorel's play sang itself over and over in Garth's
brain to wild, strange music, as the taxi flashed him to the Plaza; for
there was spring in the air, in the bursting buds on the trees in the
park--and in his breast. She must have changed her mind. She must mean
to give him some hope, or she wouldn't have sent for him to come back.
That would be too cruel--even for her, as he had thought her yesterday,
when there was no spring, only winter in his heart and soul.
It was not till he had been rushed up in the lift, and a page-boy had
knocked at the door, that the hope seemed too good to be true. Perhaps
she merely wished to apologise for being rude? Yet--even that would be
better than nothing. It was what he hadn't dared expect--being sent for
again. He had resolved to see her in spite of herself, but she was
making things easy. This time, not Celine, but Marise herself opened the
door. The sight of her gave the man a shock of joy, though she hardly
looked him in the face.
"You're very kind to be so prompt," she glossed over the surface of
their emotions. "Come in. I--I've something special to say to you."
"So I judged," he helped her out.
"We shan't be disturbed by anyone to-day. I've arranged that."
"I'm glad."
She sat down with her back to the light and made him take a chair facing
the window. He knew too little of women to realise that this was
deliberate; but he noticed that she seemed more of a woman, less of a
girl to-day. Perhaps, he thought, this was because she wore a black
dress. It was filmy and becoming to her fairness; but it made her
graver, more dignified. As for Marise, she liked his looks better this
afternoon. He had not had time to "dress himself up"; and his morning
suit of tweed was not objectionable. She remembered once arguing with
Severance that the "Blighter" might be distinguished-looking, even
handsome, if decently dressed. She was in a fair way to be proved right
to-day, but she was in no mood for self-congratulation. The man's
personality didn't matter in the least, she told herself. Yet she was
subconsciously burning with curiosity concerning him.
"First of all--before we start on our real talk, I'd like to ask you a
question," she began. "Did you send Miss Marks here, to--" ("to spy,"
she had almost said!)--"to try and get work as my secretary?"
"I did not," promptly replied Garth.
"But you knew her--before yesterday."
"I knew her out in Arizona, before the war. She'd written me since she
was working at the Belmore. That was how I happened to think of going
there before I went over to England in 1914. She's a good stenographer,
and a good girl. Since I landed she's done a lot of letters for me, and
done them very well."
"She's clever!" admitted Marise. "I asked, because I never quite
understood now she happened to come here to see if I wanted a secretary.
Besides, there's something in her manner--the way she looks at me--I
hardly know what--but as if she had reasons of her own for being
interested----"
"Perhaps she had. And perhaps it's my fault," Garth spoke out. "You see,
I'd set my heart on sending you a few presents, something not just
ordinary. It popped into my head to do that the day I landed. Reading
about you in the papers gave me the idea. But it didn't seem easy, when
it came to choosing. Miss Marks began work for me that same afternoon,
for I had a heap of back correspondence, and I hate writing. I couldn't
keep my mind on the dictation for wondering what I could send you,
different from everything and better than anything. That's how I said to
myself, 'Why not ask Zelie Marks what there is to buy in New York?' And
that is what I did."
"I thought as much!" exclaimed Marise.
"But I didn't tell her about you. I didn't mention who the things were
for. I just described the lady. I said, 'She's beautiful, with golden
hair and blue eyes, and dark eyelashes and dazzling white skin. She's
tall and slender, and I expect she's rich and has everything she wants.
The things I'd like to give her must be so new she hasn't had time to
want them yet, but so stunning she won't know how she lived without
'em.' Miss Marks hit on the right stunt from the first. Your name has
never been spoken between us till yesterday, when we went out of this
room together. I suppose you believe me, don't you?"
"Yes, I believe you," Marise grudged. "Miss Marks simply guessed. But I
wonder how? Could she have seen your theatre tickets--seats for every
performance of 'The Song'?"
"By George, yes! She may--must have done. I ordered them the first day
at my hotel. They were in a bunch, tickets for three weeks, fastened
with an elastic band, on the desk where she worked. I've got a private
sitting-room, like a howling swell."
"So Miss Marks chose all those exquisite things!"
"She told me about 'em, and where to look. Then I went, and picked out
in my mind's eye what I wanted. I always had a messenger-boy waiting in
a taxi, and sent him in to buy, and pay on the spot, for fear someone
else should jump in ahead. That kept up the mystery. I didn't care to
have you find out at once that the things came from me. I was afraid it
would queer the whole business for you."
"So it would!" Marise might have capped him. But she did not. Instead,
she asked, "But surely you meant me to know sooner or later--or where
would be the fun?"
"There was plenty of fun in sending the presents and knowing the secret
myself," said Garth. "Silly, I guess! But there it was! And--I might as
well tell you now--I did kind of hope you'd try to get at the truth, one
way or another, just from pure devilment."
"You were right. I did! 'Just from pure devilment.' In the same way that
Miss Marks got work with me. She must have been enjoying herself these
days!"
"She's a nice girl," Garth defended the absent.
"Oh, I don't mean to discharge her. There's no reason why I should.
She's useful to me. I shan't seem to know anything about this. But I
wanted to ask you."
"I'm mighty pleased you did," said the man. "I'd have been--just what
your friend calls me, if I'd sent her to get an engagement with you."
Colour stole into Marise's pale cheeks. She had been more interested in
the subject of her secretary's connection with Garth than she had
expected to be when bringing it up, and for a few minutes had actually
forgotten the loathed burden on her heart.
"Let's say no more about Miss Marks!" the girl exclaimed. "My inviting
you to call to-day had nothing to do with her. I only thought I'd--clear
the air."
"Is it cleared now?" Garth wanted to know. "I hope it is. If not----"
"Oh, it is--quite!"
"Then you're ready to tell me the real thing you have to say?"
"Ye--es.... Only I...." She paused. Her lips had gone so dry that she
could hardly speak. Her brain felt dry, too--desiccated. She had not
thought it would be like this. Stage-fright--the worst attack of
stage-fright she could remember--had not been worse. Yet she cared
little or nothing for this man's opinion, she reminded herself, except
as it concerned the plan. "I--it's very difficult."
"Is there anything I can do to help?" he offered eagerly.
Marise caught at his words. "That's just it! There's a very big thing
you can do to help."
"You know I'll do it," Garth volunteered. "You know that, because
there's nothing I wouldn't do. I told you so yesterday."
"If you hadn't, I should not have sent for you to-day."
"I wish you wanted me to kill somebody for you." (She guessed, by the
fierce gleam in his eyes, what "body"!) "I'd go to 'the chair' singing."
"Oh!" she laughed feebly. "It's not as bad as that." (But wasn't it?)
"You--you said several things here yesterday afternoon. One was, that
you----"
"That I love you! Was that what you mean?"
"Yes."
"Well, it's the same to-day. Only more so."
"Even after--I'm afraid I was very selfish and thoughtless. I wasn't as
nice to you as I ought to have been, after I'd got you to come,
and--and----"
"You weren't nice to me at all," Garth gave her the truth bluntly. "I
went away trying to hate you, but I didn't bring it off. Hate, if it
starts from love, is a good deal like a boomerang, I guess. It comes
back to what it was born from. And the friction stirs up the flame till
it's hotter. Now, tell me that thing I can do for you. Because the
quicker I hear what it is, the quicker I can set about it."
Marise threw up her head and drew in a long breath. She might have done
the same if she had come, with a running jump, to the edge of a
precipice.
"Would you--like to marry me?" she gasped.
The man bounded from his chair, and with a stride landed himself beside
her. He had knocked over a smaller chair on the way, but this time he
was untroubled by his clumsiness. He grabbed, rather than took, the
girl's hand. She was afraid he would drop on his knees, and that would
have been more than she could bear, because it was what Severance had
done. But this stiff-backed soldier kept to his feet. He held her hand
high, so high that the blood drained from it to her heart, and the
little hand was white in his (save for the pink, polished nails) as a
marble model. "You've changed your mind?" he asked hoarsely--because his
mouth, too, was suddenly dry. "You know I love you more than any other
man could. So you think, after all, you might grow to care?"
"It isn't that," she had to tell him. "I haven't--exactly--changed my
mind. This hasn't anything to do with 'caring.' Only, if you do love
me--as much as you say--you might be willing..." She could not finish.
She felt his fingers suddenly tighten on hers, then loose them, as if he
would dash her hand away. He did not do this. But, looking up, the girl
saw that the man's face was scarlet. She even thought that a few beads
of sweat had broken out on his forehead. What had she said to move him
like that? "Why, she hadn't even begun!
"What is it?" she inquired. "What is it you think I mean?" Her eyes were
large and innocent as a child's.
The blood ebbed slowly from the weathered face. "Whatever I thought, I
don't think it now," he said harshly. "No one could, and look at you. Go
on."
"But," she argued, "perhaps what you thought was right. I can't be sure,
unless you tell me."
"I'd sooner die than tell you."
"Well, then I had better try and tell you what I do mean. After that you
can see if your thought was the same. If so, and you feel it is so
dreadful, you may go, and turn your back on me without another word."
"No, I wouldn't turn my back on you. Not even for that--now." The words
left his lips heavily, like falling stones; and there was a strange look
in his face. If it had come there in battle, it might have meant
desperate courage which nothing could daunt and would have brought him a
bar for his Victoria Cross. But being in a hotel salon, with no enemy
present more dangerous than a beautiful young girl, it was only mulish.
"Would you want to marry me if I didn't love you one bit, and if
we--didn't live together, except as friends? You and mother and I, all
in the same house?"
He did not answer for a moment. Then he rapped out, "Do you need a
husband to protect you--against some danger?"
Marise shook her head. "It isn't so romantic as that. No one is
persecuting me. I--cared a little for somebody. I thought maybe he and I
might be married. But things have altered with him. He has to marry a
very rich girl. I haven't got money enough, it seems--although he loves
me."
"The damned brute!" burst from Garth. (He knew who the "brute" was, well
enough.)
"Don't call him that," Marise pleaded. "I understand how things are with
him. But----"
"I suppose people have coupled your names. Good God, I'm thankful you
sent for me! No one shall ever say he jilted you. It shall be the other
way round. When will you marry me, girl?"
It was a new and piercing thought to Marise that, if Severance went home
immediately and married his cousin, people would suppose she had been
jilted. She, so sensitive to every breeze which blew praise or blame,
ought to have realised that this would be the case.
Strange that it needed a blundering fellow like John Garth to point out
the peril. The girl saw at once that it was a real one. She shrank from
the prospect as from a lash. She could hear the "cats" who had already
been "horrid" in England, and the cats awaiting their chance to be
horrid in New York, mewing with joy over this creamy dish of scandal.
"I told you how it would be! As soon as he got the title, and a little
money with it, he threw her over!"
In a flash she saw a second motive for her marriage with Garth, if
Severance were to marry OEnone Ionides. She must marry someone, and
she hadn't the heart just now to pick and choose as, of course, she
could do, given a little time. Prickling with shame over the explanation
which she tried stumblingly to make, her impulse was to catch at the one
Garth offered. Why not, since now that she thought of it, his point of
view was hers? Pain would be saved for both. And she realised that she
could not blurt out the naked truth in words. It seemed to her that, if
she attempted to do so, this rude giant, this primitive man in New York
"ready-mades," would kill her, as he had already suggested killing
Severance.
"Then you consent?" she took him up.
"Consent? What do you think of me? Yes, I consent."
"Only to be friends? You understand that part?"
"I agree to that, to begin with. Because I'm so mad about you. I'd take
you at any price."
"To 'begin with'?"
"Till I can make you care. I'm a man and you're a woman. And the rest
may come. I'll chance it."
"No. You mustn't hope for that. It won't come. I don't want it to come."
"Hope isn't easy to kill. If it was, I guess the war wouldn't have ended
the way it has. You don't know how I love you. Why, the thought even of
calling you 'my wife' is--is a kind of glorious shell-shock."
He laughed out, shyly yet violently, like a boy: and of a sudden Marise
felt sick with guilt. "I mustn't let you be happy!" she cried.
"Why not? You needn't grudge me that. But you haven't named the day
yet--Marise. Lord! The thrill it gives me to say 'Marise' to your
face--the way I've been saying it behind your back."
"You make me feel--a little beast!" The words spoke themselves, straight
out of her conscience. "I can't fix a time yet, because--if I'd
explained to you properly you mightn't have decided as you have. And
it's no use trying any more. I can't do it. Oh!" (as she saw his face
flush again, and pale to a sickly brown) "perhaps I see what was in your
head at first--what's come back there now. But I'm not so much of a
beast as that. My wishing to marry someone has nothing to do with the
past. No, the reason's all mixed up with the future. You could never
guess. I could never explain. And I couldn't let you marry me unless
everything had been explained. I thought for a minute I could--and I
wanted to--but I find I'm not like that. Tony--Lord Severance--must
explain. Yes, of course. When I've telephoned--no, written to him--he
will do it. I haven't really spoken to him of you yet. He doesn't even
know that--you care about me. If I make an appointment, will you call at
the Waldorf, where he is staying?"
"No!" Garth exploded. "That I will not do. I'll see Severance, if you
insist. I'll keep an appointment at any time. But it must be at my
hotel. I'm damned if I'll call on him!"