"CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET?"
Miss Marks was punctual that morning, as usual.
She looked like a creature of moods and storms and sudden revolts, but
her behaviour as a typist-stenographer belied her appearance as a woman.
Not only was she always on time, but she was invariably correct in her
deportment. Yes, "deportment" was the word! No other would have enough
dignity to express Miss Marks.
As a rule, Mrs. Sorel came into the salon soon after the arrival of the
secretary, leaving no idle interval after the preparation of paper,
pencils, and sorting of letters. Zelie Marks remembered only one
occasion when Miss Sorel had appeared before her mother. That was the
day when she was anxious to find a certain letter in the bulky pile of
correspondence, and make sure that no eye spied it save her own.
Zelie happened to be thinking of that affair to-day, when the door of
Marise's bedroom opened and a Vision showed itself upon the threshold.
"Good morning, Miss Marks," it said.
"Good morning, Miss Sorel," echoed its paid employee.
The said employee would not have been human had she never felt qualms of
envy of the Vision. Sometimes it was merely a negative discomfort like a
grumbling tooth that doesn't quite ache. Sometimes it was sharply
positive; and this was such a moment. Queer! Zelie always envied Marise
most when she saw the girl in what Mrs. Sorel called "undress uniform."
There were few young women even among wage-earners who couldn't make a
fairly brave show in a neat tailor gown or a "Sunday best" for Church
Parade. But only the Truly Rich could have such heavenly "undies," and
only the young and lovely--lovely of figure as well as of face--could
look in them more thrilling than the wondrous wax ladies in shop
windows, or the willowy dreams of line-artists in fashion magazines.
Zelie had never had, and felt that she never would have (though she was
sure she _ought_ to have!) such things as Marise Sorel wore in her
bedroom. They were utterly absurd, almost indecent, she told herself.
What could be more idiotic for cold weather than a pale pink,
low-necked, short-sleeved chiffon nightgown, with the only solid thing
about it a few embroidered wild roses! What more brainless than a _robe
de chambre_ of deeper pink silk georgette, trimmed with sable fur in all
the places where fur couldn't possibly give warmth?
She, Zelie Marks, wore comfortable delaine night-dresses at this time of
year, and wadded kimonos. She respected herself for her economy and good
sense. But she wished she were Miss Sorel!
"Miss Marks," said Marise, "can you keep a secret?"
Zelie smiled. "In my work, I have to keep a good many."
"I suppose you do! Well, will you keep one for me?"
"Certainly."
"That's a promise! Now--I shall surprise you very much."
Zelie smiled politely, and waited.
"I'm--going to be married."
"Pardon me, Miss Sorel," said Zelie, in rather a stilted, professional
manner, "but that doesn't surprise me at all."
"You haven't heard the name of the man yet."
"No. You haven't _told_ me that."
"You mean, you believe you've guessed?"
"I hope you don't think me presumptuous?"
"Of course not! Why should it be--such a long word? Guessing's free! But
I wonder if you _have_ guessed?"
Zelie allowed herself to look slightly bored. If Miss Sorel were going
to be married, and leave for England, she wouldn't want a secretary
long, so there was no need to grovel! "Do you wish me to try?" she asked
primly.
"Yes."
"The Earl of Severance."
Marise had known she would say that, yet she blushed. "Lord Severance
and I are quite old pals," she replied. "This is something much newer
and more exciting! I'm going to marry your friend Major Garth."
There were few warmer-hearted girls, few who hated more to give pain,
than Marise, yet as she spoke she fixed her eyes--minx-like, if not
lynx-like--on the face of Miss Marks. Even when she saw it go pale--that
greenish pallor of olive complexions--and then a dull, unbecoming red
which gave the dark eyes a bloodshot effect, she wasn't conscious of
repentance for what she had done. She had an odd, unpleasant feeling
that Miss Marks had no right to turn pale and red about a man _she_ was
going to marry. So instead of softening, she went on, hard as nails.
"Don't forget it's a _great_ secret. I want to spring a surprise on
_everyone_. Will you please 'phone him--Major Garth--at the Belmore for
me? I haven't got time now to call him myself. Just ask him to come
round in three-quarters of an hour. I'll have had my coffee and be
dressed by then, if I rush."
"Very well, Miss Sorel," agreed Zelie, controlling her voice. After
which she added, "I hope you'll allow me to congratulate you."
Marise laughed a funny little laugh. "Thanks! But doesn't one 'wish joy'
to the bride and '_congratulate_' the bridegroom?"
By this time Zelie was at the telephone, but she turned, and her black
eyes darted at Marise one small flame of the fire in her heart. "I wish
you joy, of course," she said. "But I _must_ congratulate you too,
because I've known Ja--Major Garth since before the war, and I know what
he _is_. He's _great_! If you lumped together most of the best men
you've met, they wouldn't make _one_ John Garth!"
"Ha ha! he _is_ very big!" giggled Marise. "Quite an out-size."
Zelie could have boxed the ears under the delicious boudoir cap. They
deserved to be boxed!
"His _soul_ is big!" the older girl snapped. "I only hope you--I mean,
there aren't many women capable of appreciating him. But, of course, you
must be, or you wouldn't have succumbed to him so soon."
"Succumbed!" Marise flung back the word with just the least shrug of her
shoulders. For an instant the two glared at each other, though "glare"
is a melodramatic word which doesn't chime well with nicely-brought-up
girls in the twentieth century. When Marise, as a child, had looked at
anyone in that way, she called it "snorting with her eyes."
Now, it was only for a third of a second. Then Miss Marks applied
herself to the telephone, and never had her neat back looked so square
and business-like. There was no more time to waste upon useless
repartees with a secretary, so Marise bolted to her own room.
She meant and wished to be dressed and fed in three-quarters of an hour,
but never had she quite brought off that feat--at least, never since
she'd become a successful star; and she didn't quite bring it off now.
Her hair was being done when Mums tapped and entered upon the scene. She
looked grave and rather worried, though she never actually frowned, for
fear of wrinkles.
"That man Garth has come," she announced in a low voice. "What an hour
for a call! Do you wish to see him?"
"I sent for him," Marise explained. "Didn't he tell you? Or haven't you
spoken to him?"
"I have spoken to him, but he didn't tell me," said Mary Sorel. "I came
into the salon, and there he was with Miss Marks. I was never so
surprised in my life!"
"I don't see why, as you know perfectly well I'm going to marry him,"
returned Marise. "Oh, Celine! you've dug a hairpin about an _inch_ into
my head! Now mind, whatever you hear us say must go no further."
"But certainly not, Mademoiselle," vowed Celine, who spoke excellent
English, though the two ladies loved proudly to air their French for her
benefit. "It is indeed true that Mademoiselle will marry this _Monsieur
American_?"
"It is indeed true," Marise repeated drily.
"It won't take place--I mean the wedding--for some time, however," Mrs.
Sorel hurried to add.
Marise said nothing, but looked suddenly as mulish as a beautiful girl
can look. She had been wondering whether or no to confide in Mums what
was in her mind, and see what Mums would say and think about it. But on
the instant she decided "_No_." She _knew_ beforehand what Mums would
think and say. Everything would be from Tony's point of view. Mums was
obsessed with the wonder and majesty and glory of the great--soon to be
the rich--Lord Severance! The news should be sprung on Mums at the last
moment, when everything was "fixed up."
Meanwhile, Zelie was snatching a few words with Garth--not the words she
wanted personally to speak, but as nearly those as she dared.
"Jack Garth!" she whispered, "Miss Sorel told me just now you and she
are going to be _married_. She wasn't _joking_?"
"I hope not," said Garth steadily, "because I'd be--rather cut up if I
thought it was a joke."
"Listen, Jack," Zelie hurried on. "We're pals--we've been pals for a
long time. I _want_ you to be happy. I'd do a whole lot to make you
happy. So you've just _got_ to forgive me if I say.... _Do_ you know
what you're doing? _Can_ you be happy? That girl--I mean, Miss
Sorel--doesn't love you any more than she does me. And that isn't a
_little_ bit!"
"I love her," said Garth. "I don't care a damn whether I'm happy or
not."
"Oh! Then it's all right. Of course, I _suppose_ you know your own
business. Still--Jack--I can't help feeling there's something
queer--some sort of mystery. Don't let yourself be deceived."
"I'm not being deceived."
"I hope not, I'm sure. But--oh, _do_ forgive me!--it's Lord Severance
she loves."
"Then the sooner she unloves him the better it will be all around."
"I know you think I'm a meddler. But remember we're friends. Remember
Mothereen told me to be your friend, Jack. Those two Sorel women think
Severance the perfect beau ideal of a man. They look upon you--oh, I
can't say it!"
"You needn't," Garth drily assured her; "I'm a cad; a bounder; a lout."
"The _beasts_! I hate them both!" Zelie gasped. "They're not worthy to
black your boots."
"I mostly wear brown ones," said Garth.
"You're right to snub me. I won't say any more. You must go your own
way, and I hope--I hope with all my heart" (Zelie choked a little)
"you'll never regret it. But just this _one_ thing let me beg you to do.
Whatever they're up to, don't give them the chance to despise you. I
mean, in little things. They _can't_ in big! I saw the way they looked
at--at your clothes Sunday afternoon, Jack. I could have _thrown_
something at them!--not the clothes, but the Sorels--and Severance, the
conceited Greek snob! But the clothes _weren't_ right, boy. They didn't
do you justice. They had a sort of 'Sunday-go-to-meeting' look: kind of
_smug_! And your gloves and shoes _just_ the wrong yellow! For heaven's
sake don't lose a minute in going to a good tailor if you don't want
your life to be a hell!"
Garth laughed out, a hard, spasmodic laugh; and at that instant Marise
came in.