_In Which a Scarlet Flower Blooms in the Garden; and in Which a Light
Flares Later in the Tower._
In September everybody came back to town, Porter Bigelow among the rest.
He telephoned at once to Mary, "I'm coming up."
She was radiant. "Constance and Gordon arrived Monday, and I want you
for dinner. Leila will be here and the General and Aunt Frances and
Grace from New York."
His growl came back to her. "And that means that I won't have a minute
alone with you."
"Oh, Porter--please. There are so many other girls in the world--and
you've had the whole summer to find one."
"The summer has been a howling wilderness. But mother has put me
through my paces at the resorts. Mary, I've learned such a lot of new
dances to teach you."
"Teach them to Grace."
He groaned. "You know what I think of Grace Clendenning."
"Porter, she's beautiful. She wears little black frocks with wide
white collars and cuffs and looks perfectly adorable. To-night she's
going to wear a black tulle gown and a queer flaring black tulle
head-dress, and with her red hair--you won't be able to drag your eyes
from her."
"I've enough red hair of my own," Porter informed her, "without having
to look at Grace's."
"I'll put you opposite her at dinner. Come and see, and be conquered."
Roger Poole was also invited to the home-coming dinner. Mary had asked
nobody's advice this time. Of late Roger and Barry had been much
together, and it was their friendship which Mary had exploited, when
Constance, somewhat anxiously, had asked, on the day preceding the
dinner, if she thought it was wise to include the lonely dweller in the
Tower Rooms.
"He's really very nice, Constance. And he has been a great help to
Barry."
It was the first time that they had spoken of their brother. And now
Constance's words came with something of an effort. "What of Barry,
Mary?"
"He is more of a man, Con. He is trying hard for Leila's sake."
"Gordon thinks they really ought not to be engaged."
The sisters were in Mary's room, and Mary at her little desk was
writing out the dinner list for Susan Jenks. She looked up and laid
down her pen. "Then you've told Gordon?"
"Yes. And he says that Barry ought to go away."
"Where?"
"Far enough to give Leila a chance to get over it."
"Do you think she would ever get over it, Con?"
"Gordon thinks she would."
Mary's head went up. "I am not asking what Gordon thinks. What do you
think?"
"I think as Gordon does." Then as Mary made a little impatient
gesture, she added, "Gordon is very wise. At first it seemed to me
that he was--harsh, in his judgment of Barry. But he knows so much of
men--and he says that here, in town, among his old associations--Barry
will never be different. And it isn't fair to Leila."
Mary knew that it was not fair to Leila. She had always known it. Yet
she was stubbornly resentful of the fact that Gordon Richardson should
be, as it were, the arbiter of Barry's destiny.
"Oh, it is all such a muddle, Con," she said, and put the question
aside. "We won't talk about it just now. There is so much else to
say--and it is lovely to have you back, dearest--and you are so lovely."
Constance was curled up on Mary's couch, resting after her journey. "I
am so happy, Mary. No woman knows anything about it, until she has had
it for herself. A man's strength is so wonderful--and Gordon's care of
me--oh, Mary, if there were only another man in the world for you like
Gordon I should be perfectly content."
It was a fervent gentle echo of Aunt Frances' demand upon her, and Mary
suppressing her raging jealousy of the man who had stolen her sister,
asked somewhat wistfully, "Can you talk about me, for a minute, and
forget that you have a husband?"
"I don't need to forget Gordon," was the serene response. "I can keep
him in the back of my mind."
Mary picked up her pen, and underscored "_Soup_"; then: "Constance,
darling," she said, "would you feel dreadfully if I went to work?"
"What kind of work, Mary?"
"In one of the departments,--as stenographer."
"But you don't know anything about it."
"Yes, I do, I've been studying ever since you went away."
"But why, Mary?"
"Because--oh, can't you see, Constance? I can't be sure of--Barry--for
future support. And I won't go with Aunt Frances. And this house is
simply eating up the little that father left us. When you married, I
thought the rental of the Tower Rooms would keep things going, but it
won't. And I won't sell the house. I love every old stick and stone
of it. And anyhow, must I sit and fold my hands all the rest of my
life just because I am a woman?"
"But Mary, dear, you will marry--there's Porter."
"Constance, I couldn't think of marriage that way--as a chance to be
taken care of. Oh, Con, I want to wait--for love."
"Dearest, of course. But you can live with us. Gordon would never
consent to your working--he thinks it is dreadful for a woman to have
to fight the world."
Mary shook her head. "No, it wouldn't be fair to you. It is never
fair for an outsider to intrude upon the happiness of a home. If your
duet is ever to be a trio, it must not be with my big blundering voice,
which could make only a discord, but a little piping one."
She looked up to meet Constance's shy, self-conscious eyes.
Mary flew to her, and knelt beside the couch. "Darling, darling?"
And now the list was forgotten and Susan Jenks coming up for it was
made a party to that tremulous secret, and the fate of the dinner was
threatened until Mary, coming back to realities, kissed her sister and
went to her desk, and held herself sternly to the five following
courses of the family dinner which was to please the palates of those
fresh from Paris and London and from castles by the sea; and which was
to test to the utmost the measure of Susan's culinary skill.
At dinner the next night, Gordon Richardson looked often and intently
at Roger Poole, and when, under the warmth of the September moon, the
men drifted out into the garden to smoke, he said, "I've just placed
you."
Roger nodded. "I thought you'd remember. You were one of the younger
boys at St. Martin's--you haven't changed much, but I couldn't be sure."
Gordon hesitated. "I thought I heard from someone that you entered the
Church."
"I had a church in the South--for three years."
Gordon tried to keep the curiosity out of his voice.
"And you gave it up?"
"Yes. I gave it up."
That was all. Not a word of the explanation for which he knew Gordon
was waiting. Nothing but the bare statement, "I gave it up."
They talked a little of St. Martin's after that, of their boyish
experiences. But Roger was conscious that Gordon was weighing him, and
asking of himself, "Why did he give it up?"
The two men were sitting on the stone bench where Roger had so often
sat with Mary. The garden was showing the first signs of the season's
blight. Fading leaf and rustling vine had replaced the unspringing
greenness and the fragrant growth of the summer. There were, to be
sure, dahlias and chrysanthemums and cosmos. But the glory of the
garden was gone.
Then into the garden came Mary!
She was wrapped in a thin silken, scarlet cloak that belonged to
Constance. As she passed through the broad band of light made by the
street lamp. Roger had a sudden memory of the flame-like blossoming of
a certain slender shrub in the spring. It had been the first of the
flowers to bloom, and Mary had picked a branch for the vase on his
table in the Tower sitting-room.
"Constance wants you, Gordon," Mary said, as she came nearer; "some one
has called up to arrange about a dinner date, and she can't decide
without you."
She sat down on the stone bench, and Roger, who had risen at her
approach, stood under the hundred-leaved bush from which all the roses
were gone.
"Do you know," he said, without warning or preface, "that it seemed to
me that, as you came into the garden, it bloomed again."
Never before had he spoken thus. And he said it again. "When you
came, it was as if the garden bloomed."
He sat down beside her. "Is any one going to claim you right away?
Because if not, I have something I want to say."
"Nobody will claim me. At least I hope nobody will. Grace Clendenning
is telling Porter about the art of woman's dress. She takes clothes so
seriously, you know. And Porter is interested in spite of himself.
And Barry and Leila are on the terrace steps, looking at the moon over
the river, and Aunt Frances and Aunt Isabelle and General Dick are in
the house because of the night air, so there's really no one in the
garden but you and me."
"Just you--and--me----" he said, and stopped.
She was plainly puzzled by his manner. But she waited, her arms
wrapped in her red cloak.
At last he said, "Your brother-in-law and I went to school together."
"Gordon?"
"Yes. St. Martin's. He was younger than I, and we were not much
together. But I knew him. And after he had puzzled over it, he knew
me."
"How interesting."
"And he asked me something about myself, which I have never told you;
which I want to tell you now."
He was finding it hard to tell, with her eyes upon him, bright as stars.
"Your brother said he had heard that I had gone into the Church--that I
had a parish. And what he had heard was true. Until five years ago, I
was rector of a church in the South."
"_You_?" That was all. Just a little breathed note of incredulity.
"Yes. I wanted to tell you before he should have a chance to tell, and
to think that I had kept from you something which you should have been
told. But I am not sure, even now, that it should be told."
"But on Christmas Eve, you said that you did not believe----"
"I do not."
"And was that the reason you gave it up?"
"No. It is a long story. And it is not a pleasant one. Yet it seems
that I must tell it."
The wind had risen and blew a mist from the fountain. The dead leaves
rustled.
Mary shivered.
"Oh, you are cold," Roger said, "and I am keeping you."
"No," she said, mechanically, "I am not cold. I have my cloak. Please
go on."
But he was not to tell his story then, for a shaft of strong light
illumined the roadway, and a big limousine stopped at the foot of the
terrace steps. They heard Delilah Jeliffe's high laugh; then Porter's
voice in the garden. "Mary, are you there?"
"Yes."
"Grace Clendenning and her mother are going, and Delilah and Mr.
Jeliffe have motored out to show you their new car."
There was deep disapproval in his voice. Mary rose reluctantly as he
joined them. "Oh, Porter, must I listen to Delilah's chatter for the
rest of the evening?"
"You made me listen to Grace's. This is your punishment."
"I don't want to be punished. And I am very tired, Porter."
This was a new word in Mary Ballard's vocabulary, and Porter responded
at once to its appeal.
"We will get rid of Delilah presently, and then Gordon and Constance
will go with us for a spin around the Speedway. That will set you up,
little lady."
Roger stood silent by the fountain. Through the veil of mist the
little bronze boy seemed to smile maliciously. During all the years in
which he had ridden the dolphin, he had seen men and women come and go
beneath the hundred-leaved bush. And he had smiled on all of them, and
by their mood they had interpreted his smiles.
Roger's mood at this moment was one of impotent rebellion at Porter's
air of proprietorship, and it was with this air intensified that, as
Mary shivered again Porter drew her wrap about her shoulders, fastening
the loop over the big button with expert fingers and said, carelessly,
"Are you coming in with us, Poole?"
"No. Not now."
Above the head of the little bronze boy, level glance met level glance,
as in the moonlight the men surveyed each other.
Then Mary spoke.
"Mr. Poole, I am so sorry not to hear the rest of the--story."
"You shall hear it another time."
She hesitated, looking up at him. It was as if she wanted to speak but
could not, with Porter there to listen.
So she smiled, with eyes and lips. Just a flash, but it warmed his
heart.
Yet as she went away with Porter, and passed once more through the
broad band of the street lamp's light which made of her scarlet cloak a
flaming flower, he looked after her wistfully, and wondered if when she
had heard what he had to tell she would ever smile at him like that
again.
Delilah, fresh from a triumphal summer, was in the midst of a laughing
group on the porch.
As Mary came up, she was saying: "And we have taken a dear old home in
Georgetown. No more glare or glitter. Everything is to be subdued to
the dullness of a Japanese print--pale gray and dull blue and a splash
of black. This gown gives the keynote."
She was in gray taffeta, with a girdle of soft old blue, and a string
of black rose-beads. No color was on her cheeks--there was just the
blackness of her hair and the whiteness of her fine skin.
"It's great," Barry said,
Delilah nodded. "Yes. It has taken me several years to find out some
things." She looked at Grace and smiled. "It didn't take you years,
did it?"
Grace smiled back. The two women were as far apart as the poles.
Grace represented the old Knickerbocker stock, Lilah, a later grafting.
Grace studied clothes because it pleased her to make fashions a fine
art. Delilah studied to impress. But each one saw in the other some
similarity of taste and of mood, and the smile that they exchanged was
that of comprehension.
Aunt Frances did not approve of Delilah. She said so to Grace going
home.
"My dear, they live on the West Side--in a big house on the Drive. My
calling list stops east of the Park."
Grace shrugged. "Mother," she said, "I learned one thing in
Paris--that the only people worth knowing are the interesting people,
and whether they live on the Drive or in Dakota, I don't care. And
we've an awful lot of fossils in our set."
Mrs. Clendenning shifted the argument. "I don't see why General Dick
allows Leila to be so much with Miss Jeliffe."
"They were at school together, and the General and Mr. Jeliffe are old
friends."
Her mother shrugged. "Well, I hope that if we stay here for the winter
that they won't be forced upon us. Washington is such a city of
climbers, Grace."
Grace let the matter drop there. She had learned discretion. She and
her mother viewed life from different angles. To attempt to reconcile
these differences would mean, had always meant, strife and controversy,
and in these later years, Grace had steered her course toward serenity.
She had refused to be blown about by the storms of her mother's
prejudices. In the midst of the conventionality of her own social
training, she had managed to be untrammeled. In this she was more like
Mary than the others of her generation. And she loved Mary, and wanted
to see her happy.
"Mother," she asked abruptly, "who is this Roger Poole?"
Mrs. Clendenning told her that he was a lodger in the Tower Rooms--a
treasury clerk--a mere nobody.
Grace challenged the last statement. "He's a brilliant man," she said.
"I sat next to him at dinner. There's a mystery somewhere. He has an
air of authority, the ease of a man of the world."
"He is in love with Mary," said Mrs. Clendenning, "and he oughtn't to
be in the house."
"But Mary isn't in love with him--not yet."
"How do you know?"
In the darkness Grace smiled. How did she know? Why, Mary in love
would be lighted up by a lamp within! It would burn in her cheeks,
flash in her eyes.
"No, Mary's not in love," she said.
"She ought to marry Porter Bigelow."
"She ought not to marry Porter. Mary should marry a man who would
utilize all that she has to give. Porter would not utilize it."
"Now what do you mean by that?" said Mrs. Clendenning, impatiently.
"Don't talk nonsense, Grace."
"Mary Ballard," Grace analyzed slowly, "is one of the women who if she
had been born in another generation would have gone singing to the
lions for the sake of an ideal; she would have led an army, or have
loaded guns behind barricades. She has courage and force, and the need
of some big thing in her life to bring out her best. And Porter
doesn't need that kind of wife. He doesn't want it. He wants to
worship. To kneel at her feet and look up to her. He would require
nothing of her. He would smother her with tenderness. And she doesn't
want to be smothered. She wants to lift up her head and face the
beating winds."
Mrs. Clendenning, helpless before this burst of eloquence on the part
of her usually restrained daughter, asked, tartly, "How in the world do
you know what Porter wants or Mary needs?"
"Perhaps," said Grace, slowly, "it is because I am a little like Mary.
But I am older, and I've learned to take what the world gives. Not
what I want. But Mary will never be content with compromise, and she
will always go through life with her head up."
Mary's head was up at that very moment, as with cheeks flaming and eyes
bright, she played hostess to her guests, while in the back of her
brain were beating questions about Roger Poole.
Freed from the somewhat hampering presence of Mrs. Clendenning, Delilah
was letting herself go, and she drew even from grave Gordon Richardson
the tribute of laughter.
"It was an artist that I met at Marblehead," she said, "who showed me
the way. He told me that I was a blot against the sea and the sky,
with my purples and greens and reds and yellows. I will show you his
sketches of me as I ought to be. They opened my eyes; and I'll show
you my artist too. He's coming down to see whether I have caught the
idea."
And now she moved down the steps. "Father will be furious if I keep
him waiting any longer. He's crazy over the car, and when he drives,
it is a regular Tam O'Shanter performance. I won't ask any of you to
risk your necks with him yet, but if you and the General are willing to
try it, Leila, we will take you home."
"I haven't fought in fifty battles to show the white feather now," said
the General, and Leila chirruped, "I'd love it," and presently, with
Barry in devoted attendance, they drove off.
Mary, waiting on the porch for Porter to telephone for his own car,
which was to take them around the Speedway, looked eagerly toward the
fountain. The moon had gone under a cloud, and while she caught the
gleam of the water, the hundred-leaved bush hid the bench. Was Roger
Poole there? Alone?
She heard Porter's voice behind her. "Mary," he said, "I've brought a
heavy wrap. And the car will be here in a minute."
Aunt Isabelle had given him the green wrap with the fur. She slipped
into it silently, and he turned the collar up about her neck.
"I'm not going to have you shivering as you did in that thin red
thing," he said.
She drew away. It was good of him to take care of her, but she didn't
want his care. She didn't want that tone, that air of possession.
She was not Porter's. She belonged to herself. And to no one else.
She was free.
With the quick proud movement that was characteristic of her, she
lifted her head. Her eyes went beyond Porter, beyond the porch, to the
Tower Rooms where a light flared, suddenly. Roger Poole was not in the
garden; he had gone up without saying "Good-night."