_In Which a Long Name is Bestowed Upon a Beautiful Baby; and in Which a
Letter in a Long Envelope Brings Freedom to Mary._
The christening of Constance's baby brought together a group of
feminine personalities, which, to one possessed with imagination, might
have stood for the evil and beneficent fairies of the old story books.
The little Mary-Constance Ballard Richardson, in spite of the dignity
of her hyphenated name, was a wee morsel. Swathed in fine linen, she
showed to the unprejudiced eye no signs of great beauty. With a
wrinkly-red skin, a funny round nose, a toothless mouth--she was like
every other normal baby of her age, but to her family and friends she
was a rare and unmatched object.
Even Aunt Frances succumbed to her charms. "I must say," she remarked
to Delilah Jeliffe, as they bent over the bassinet, "that she is
remarkable for her age."
Delilah shrugged. "I'm not fond of them. They're so red and squirmy."
Leila protested hotly. "Delilah, she's lovely--such little perfect
hands."
"Bird's claws!"
Mary took up the chant. "Her skin's like a rose leaf."
And Grace: "Her hair is going to be gold, like her mother's."
"Hair?" Delilah's tone was incredulous. "She hasn't any."
Aunt Frances expertly turned the small morsel on its back. "What do
you call that?" she demanded, indignantly.
Above the fat crease of the baby's neck stuck out a little feathery
duck's-tail curl--bright as a sunbeam.
"What do you call that?" came the chorus of worshipers.
Delilah gave way to quiet, mocking laughter. "That isn't hair," she
said; "it is just a sample of yellow silk."
Porter, coming up, was treated to a repetition of this remark.
"Let us thank the Gods that it isn't red," was his fervent response.
Grace's hands went up to her own lovely hair.
"Oh," she reproached him.
Porter apologized. "I was thinking of my carroty head. Yours is
glorious."
"Artists paint it," Grace agreed pensively, "and it goes well with the
right kind of clothes."
Delilah looked from one to the other.
"You two would make a beautiful pair of saints on a stained glass
window," she said reflectively, "with a spike of lilies and halos back
of your heads."
"Most women are ready for halos," Porter said, "and wings, but I can't
see myself balancing a spike of lilies."
"Nor I," Grace rippled; "you'd better make it hollyhocks, Delilah--do
you know the old rhyme
"'A beau never goes
Where the hollyhock blows'?"
"You've never lacked men in your life," Delilah told her, shrewdly,
"but with that hair you won't be one of the comfortable married
kind--it will be either a _grande passion_ or a career for you. If you
don't find your Romeo, you'll be Mother Superior in a convent, the head
of a deaconess home, or a nurse on a battle-field."
Grace's eyes sparkled. "Oh, wise Delilah, you haven't drifted so very
far away from my dreams. Where did you get your wisdom?"
"I'm learning things from Colin Quale. We study types together. It's
great fun for me, but he's perfectly serious."
Colin Quale was Delilah's artist. "Why didn't you bring him?"
Constance asked.
"Because he doesn't belong in this family group; and anyhow I had
something for him to do. He's making a sketch of the gown I am to wear
at the White House garden party. It will keep him busy for the
afternoon."
"Delilah," Leila looked up from her worship of Mary-Constance, "I don't
believe you ever see in people anything but the way they look."
"I don't, duckie. To me--you are a sort of family art gallery. I hang
you up in my mind, and you make a rather nice little collection."
Barry, coming in, caught up her words, with something of his old
vivacity.
"The baby belongs to the Dutch school--with that nose."
There was a chorus of protest.
"She looks like you," Delilah told him. "Except for her nose, she's a
Ballard. There's nothing of her father in her, except her beautiful
disposition."
She flashed a challenging glance at Gordon. He stiffened. Such women
as Delilah Jeliffe might have their place in the eternal scheme of
femininity, but he doubted it.
"She is a Ballard even in that," he said, formally; "it is Constance
whose disposition is beyond criticism, not mine."
"And now that you've carried off Constance, you're going to take
Barry," Delilah reproached him.
Leila dropped the baby's hand.
"Yes," Gordon discussed the subject with evident reluctance, "he's
going over with me, to learn the business--he may never have a better
opportunity."
The light went out of Barry's eyes. He left the little group, wandered
to the window, and stood looking out.
"Mary will go next," Delilah prophesied. "With Constance and Barry on
the other side, she won't be able to keep away."
Mary shook her head. "What would Aunt Isabelle and Susan Jenks and
Pittiwitz do without me?"
"What would I do without you?" Porter demanded, boldly. "Don't put
such ideas in her head, Delilah; she's remote enough as it is."
But Mary was not listening. Barry had slipped from the room, and
presently she followed him. Leila had seen him go, and had looked
after him longingly, but of late she had seemed timid in her public
demonstrations; it was as if she felt when she was under the eye of
others that by some sign or look she might betray her secret.
Mary found Barry down-stairs in the little office, his head in his
hands.
"Dear boy," she said, and touched his bright hair with hesitating
fingers.
He reached up and caught her hand.
"Mary," he said, brokenly, "what's the use? I began wrong--and I guess
I'll go on wrong to the end."
And now she spoke with earnestness, both hands on his shoulders.
"Oh, Barry, boy--if you fight, fight with all your weapons. And don't
let the wrong thoughts go on molding you into the wrong thing. If you
think you are going to fail, you'll fail. But if you think of yourself
as conquering, triumphant--if you think of yourself as coming back to
Leila, victorious, why you'll come that way; you'll come strong and
radiant, a man among men, Barry."
It was this convincing optimism of Mary Ballard's which brought to
weaker natures a sense of actual achievement. To hear Mary say, "You
can do it," was to believe in one's own powers. For the first time in
his life Barry felt it. Hitherto, Mary had seemed rather worrying when
it came to rules of conduct--rather unreasonable in her demands upon
him. But now he was caught up on the wings of her belief in him.
"Do you think I can?" a light had leaped into his tired eyes.
"I know you can, dear boy," she bent and kissed him.
"You'll take care of Leila," he begged, and then, very low, "I'm afraid
I've made an awful mess of things, Mary."
"You mustn't think of that--just think, Barry--of the day when you come
back! How all the wedding bells will ring!"
But he thought of a wedding where there had been no bells. He thought
of Little-Lovely Leila, in her yellow gown on the night of the mad
March moon.
"You'll take care of her," he said again, and Mary promised.
And now the Bishop arrived, and certain old friends of the family. As
Barry and Mary made their way up-stairs, they met Susan with the mail.
There was one long letter for Mary, which she tore open with eagerness,
glanced at it, and tucked it into her girdle, then went on with winged
feet.
Porter, glancing at her as she came in, was struck by the radiance of
her aspect. How lovely she was with that flush on her cheek, and with
her sweet shining eyes!
With due formality and with the proper number of godfathers and
godmothers, little Mary-Constance Ballard Richardson was officially
named.
During the ceremony, Leila sat by her father's side, her hand in his.
In these days the child clung to the strong old soldier. When she had
come back to consciousness on the night that she had fainted on the
threshold of the library, he had asked, "My darling, what is it?"
And she had cried, "Oh, Dad, Dad," and had wept in his arms. But she
had not told him that she was Barry's wife. It was because of Barry's
going, she had admitted; it seemed as if her heart would break.
The General talked the situation over with Mary. "How will she stand
it, when he is really gone?"
"It will be better when the parting is over, and she settles down to
other things."
Yet that day, after the christening, Mary wondered if what she had said
was true. What would life hold for Leila when Barry was gone?
Her own life without Roger Poole was blank. Reluctantly, she was
forced to admit it. Constance, the baby, Porter, these were the
shadows, Roger was the substance.
The letters which had passed between them had shown her depths in him
which had hitherto been unrevealed. Comparing him with Porter Bigelow,
she realized that Porter could never say the things which Roger said;
he could not think them.
And while in the eyes of the world Roger was a defeated man, and Porter
a successful one, yet there was this to think of, that Porter's
qualities were negative rather than positive. With all of his
opportunities, he was narrowing his life to the pursuit of pleasure and
his love for her. Roger had shirked responsibility toward his fellow
man by withdrawal; Porter was shirking by indifference.
So she found herself, as many another woman has found herself, fighting
the battle of the less fortunate. Roger wanted her, yet pressed no
claim. Porter wanted her and meant to have her.
He had shown of late his impatience at the restraint which she had put
upon him. He had encroached more and more upon her time--demanded more
and more. He had been kept from saying the things which she did not
want him to say only by the fact that she would not listen.
She knew that he was expecting things which could never be--and that by
her silence she was giving sanction to his expectations. Yet she found
herself dreading to say the final word which would send him from her.
The friendship between a man and a woman has this poignant quality--it
has no assurance of permanence. For, if either marries, the other must
suffer loss; if either loves, the other must put away that which may
have become a prized association. As her friend, Mary valued Porter
highly. She had known him all her life. Yet she was aware that she
was taking all and returning nothing; and surely Porter had the right
to ask of life something more than that.
She sighed, and going to her desk, took out of it the letter which she
had received in the morning mail.
She knew that the moment that she announced the contents of that letter
would be a dramatic one. Even if she did it quietly, it would have the
effect of a bomb thrown into the midst of a peaceful circle. She had a
fancy that it would be best to tell Porter first. He was to come back
to dinner, so she dressed and went down early.
He found her in the garden. There were double rows of hyacinths in the
paths now, with tulips coming up between, and beyond the fountain was
an amethyst sky where the young moon showed.
She rose to greet him, her hands full of fragrant blossoms.
He held her hand tightly. "How happy you look, Mary."
"I am happy."
"Because I'm here? If you could only say that once truthfully."
"It is always good to have you,"
"But you won't tell a lie, and say you're happier, because of my
coming? Oh, Contrary Mary!"
She shook her head. "If I said nice things to you, you'd
misunderstand."
"Perhaps. But why this radiance?"
"Good news."
"From whom?"
"A man."
"What man?" with rising jealousy.
"One who has given me the thing I want."
He was plainly puzzled.
"I don't know what you mean."
"A letter came this morning--a lovely letter in a long envelope."
She took a paper out of a magazine which lay on the stone bench by her
side. "Read that," she said.
He read and his face went perfectly white, so that it showed chalkily
beneath his red hair.
"Mary," he said, "what have you done this for? You know I'm not going
to let you."
"You haven't anything to do with it."
"But I have. It is ridiculous. You don't know what you are doing.
You've never been tied to an office desk--you've never fought and
struggled with the world."
[Illustration: "You don't know what you are doing."]
"Neither have you, Porter."
"Well, if I haven't, is it my fault?" he demanded, "I was born into the
world with this millstone of money around my neck, and a red head. Dad
sent me to school and to college, and he set me up in business. There
wasn't anything left for me to do but to keep straight, and I've done
that for you."
"I know," she was very sweet as she leaned toward him, "but, Porter,
sometimes, lately, I've wondered if that's all that is expected of us."
"All? What do you mean?"
"Aren't we expected to do something for others?"
"What others?"
She wanted to tell him about Roger Poole and the boy in the pines. Her
eyes glowed. But her lips were silent.
"What others, Mary?"
"The people who aren't as fortunate as we are."
"What people?"
Mary was somewhat vague. "The people who need us--to help."
"Marry me, and you can be Lady Bountiful--dispensing charity."
"It isn't exactly charity." She had again the vision of Roger Poole
and the boy. "People don't just want our money--they want us
to--understand."
He was not following her. "To think that you should want to go out in
the world--to work. Tell me why you are doing it."
"Because I need an outlet for my energies--the girl of limited income
in these days is as ineffective as a jellyfish, if she hasn't some
occupation."
"You could never be a jellyfish. Mary, listen, listen. I need you,
dear. I've kept still for a year--Mary!"
"Porter, I can't."
And now he asked a question which had smouldered long in his breast.
"Is there any one else?"
Was there? Her thoughts leaped at once to Roger. What did he mean to
her? What could he ever mean? He had said himself that he could
expect nothing. Perhaps he had meant that she must expect nothing.
"Mary, is it--Roger Poole?"
Her eyes came up to meet his; they were like stars. "Porter, I
don't--know."
He took the blow in silence. The shadows were on them now. In all the
beauty of the May twilight, the little bronze boy grinned at love and
at life.
"Has he asked you, Mary?"
"No. I'm not sure that he wants to marry me--I'm not sure that I want
to marry him--I only know that he is different." It was like Mary to
put it thus, frankly.
"No man could know you without wanting to marry you. But what has he
to offer you--oh, it is preposterous."
She faced him, flaming. "It isn't preposterous, Porter. What has any
man to offer any woman except his love? Oh, I know you men--you think
because you have money--but if--if--both of you loved me--you'd stand
before me on your merits as men--there would be nothing else in it for
me but that."
"I know. And I'm willing to stand on my merits." The temper which
belonged to Porter's red head was asserting itself. "I'm willing to
stand on my merits. I offer you a past which is clean--a future of
devotion. It's worth something, Mary--in the years to come when you
know more of men, you'll understand that it is worth something."
"I know," she said, her hand on his, "it is worth a great deal. But I
don't want to marry anybody." It was the old cry reiterated. "I want
to live the life I have planned for a little while--then if Love claims
me, it must be _love_--not just a comfortable getting a home for myself
along the lines of least resistance. I want to work and earn, and know
that I can do it. If I were to marry you, it would be just because I
couldn't see any other way out of my difficulties, and you wouldn't
want me that way, Porter."
He did want her. But he recognized the futility of wanting her. For a
little while, at least, he must let her have her way. Indeed, she
would have it, whether he let her or not. But Roger Poole should not
have her. He should not. All that was primitive in Porter rose to
combat the claims which she made for his rival.
"I knew there'd be trouble when you let the Tower Rooms," he said
heavily at last; "a man like that always appeals to a girl's sense of
romance."
The Tower Rooms! Mary saw Roger as he had stood in them for the first
time amid all the confusion of Constance's flight from the home nest.
That night he had seemed to her merely a person who would pay the
rent--yet the money which she had received from him had been the
smallest part.
She drifted away on the tide of her dreams, and Porter felt sharply the
sense of her utter detachment from him.
"Mary," he said, tensely, "Mary, oh, my little Contrary Mary--you
aren't going to slip out of my life. Say that you won't."
"I'm not slipping away from you," she said, "any more than I am
slipping away from my old self. I don't understand it, Porter. I only
know that what you call contrariness is a force within me which I can't
control. I wish that I could do the things which you want me to do, I
wish I could be what Gordon and Constance and Barry and even Aunt
Frances want--but there's something which carries me on and on, and
seems to say, 'There's more than this in the world for you'--and with
that call in my ears, I have to follow."
He rose, and his head was up. "All my life, I have wanted just one
thing which has been denied me--and that one thing is you. And no
other man shall take you from me. I suppose I've got to set myself
another season of patience. But I can wait, because in the end I shall
get what I want--remember that, Mary."
"Don't be too sure, Porter."
"I am so sure," lifting the hand which was weighted with the heavy
ring, "I am so sure, that I will make a wager with fortune, that the
day will come when this ring shall be our betrothal ring, I'll give you
others, Mary, but this shall be the one which shall bind you to me."
She snatched her hand away. "You speak as if you were--sure," she said.
"I am. I'm going to let you work and do as you please for a little
while, if you must. But in the end I'm going to marry you, Mary."
At dinner Mary announced the contents of her letter in the long
envelope. "I have received my appointment as stenographer in the
Treasury, and I'm to report for duty on the twentieth."
It was Aunt Frances who recovered first from the shock. "Well, if you
were my child----"
Grace, with little points of light in her eyes, spoke smoothly, "If
Mary were your child, she would be as dutiful as I am, mother. But you
see she isn't your child."
Aunt Frances snorted--"Dutiful."
Gordon was glowering. "It is rank foolishness."
Mary flared. "That's your point of view, Gordon. You judge me by
Constance. But Constance has always been feminine and sweet--and I've
never been particularly feminine, nor particularly sweet."
Barry followed up her defense. "I guess Mary knows how to take care of
herself, Gordon."
"No woman knows how to take care of herself," Gordon was obstinate,
"when it comes to the fight with economic conditions. I should hate to
think of Constance trying to earn a living."
"Gordon, dear," Constance's voice appealed, "I couldn't--but Mary
can--only I hate to see her do it."
"I don't," said Grace, stoutly. "I envy her."
Aunt Frances fixed her daughter with a stern eye. "Don't encourage her
in her foolishness, Grace," she said; "each of you should marry and
settle down with some nice man."
"But what man, mother?" Grace, leaning forward, put the question, with
an irritating air of doubt.
"There are a half dozen of them waiting."
"Nice boys! But a man. Find me one, mother, and I'll marry him."
"The trouble with you and Mary," Porter informed her, "is that you
don't want a man. You want a hero."
Grace nodded. "With a helmet and plume, and riding on a steed--that's
my dream--but mother refuses to let me wander in Arcady where such
knights are found."
"I think," Constance remarked happily, "that now and then they are
found in every-day life, only you and Mary won't recognize them."
From the other side her husband smiled at her. "She thinks I'm one,"
he said, and his fine young face was suffused by faint color. "She
thinks I'm one. I hope none of you will ever undeceive her."
Under the table Leila's little hand was slipped into Barry's big one.
She could not proclaim to the world that she had found her knight, and
loved him.
Aunt Frances, very stiff and straight in her jetted dinner gown,
resumed, "I wish it were possible to give girls a dose of common sense,
as you give them cough syrup."
"_Mother!_"
But Aunt Frances, mounted on her grievance, rode it through the salad
course. She had wanted Grace to marry--her beauty and her family had
entitled her to an excellent match. But Grace was single still,
holding her own against all her mother's arguments, maintaining in this
one thing her right to independent action.
Isabelle, straining her ears to hear what it was all about, asked Mary,
late that night, "What upset Frances at dinner?"
Mary told her.
"Do you think I'm wrong, Aunt Isabelle?" she asked.
The gentle lady sighed, "If you feel that it is right, it must be right
for you. But you're trying to be all head, dear child. And there's
your heart to reckon with."
Mary flushed "I know. But I don't want my heart to speak--yet."
Aunt Isabelle patted her hand. "I think it has--spoken," she said
softly.
Mary clung to her. "How did you know?"
"We who have dull ears have often clear eyes--it is one of our
compensations, Mary."