ADVENTURE
I
All the time, under that motivating anger and determination not to go
back, ran the two threads of thought--one quickly sifting the
practicalities of a situation for a bare headed young girl in the
streets of a city at two o’clock in the morning, the other analyzing,
jeering at the melodrama of her position.
“It’s a warm night,” she thought, “I’ll probably get nothing but a
terrific cold in my head if I do sit in Lincoln Park all night. That
young devil! She planned all that. She deliberately didn’t tell Ted they
were not coming straight home. There’s no way of proving it. I’d like to
bring her to her knees. I’ll probably meet some fool policeman. How it
will embarrass mother if this gets about. It’s an ugly mess if I don’t
do things right. Nice ending to this visit. I knew the whole thing was
bound to be disastrous. It was all a fake trip. That girl hated me from
the start. As if I wanted that young fool.”
She was walking in the direction of the park, past the long iron fences,
the smooth sloping terraces which characterized the Brownley part of the
city. The street was absolutely quiet. Street lamps seemed very bright
as she passed them. Here and there a light gleamed in a house, a night
light behind an iron grilled door. Her footsteps seemed to resound with
disastrous noise. She felt the sound of her walking was a disturbance of
the peace, an affront to the quiet of everything about her. She
hurried, trying to feel as if she were called out by illness, imagining
what she would say if accosted, a little cooler of anger and beginning
to be enthralled and intrigued by her own adventure.
Angry as she was, there was a thrill in the circumstances. She was sure
she would not go back to the Brownley house and that resolve was backed
perhaps by her interest in what might happen--what adventure might be
awaiting her. Quite fearless and untroubled by any physical nervousness,
her only anxiety was that she was not quite sure of how to meet any
eventuality. But the night was hers. For a few hours she was thrown upon
its mercy, and it exhilarated her, as if she had been released from
annoying restraints. In her rush from the Brownley house she had
satisfied a host of petty feelings which had been accumulating for
weeks. It was as if she had broken through a horde of petty conventions
which had been gaining a hold on her. She felt more herself than she had
yet felt in the city. As she went along she almost forgot Barbara.
The park was still. The iron benches had long ago been deserted by even
the last of the romantic couples. The policeman had evidently left the
park for the night. Freda sat on a bench under a tree and tucked her
feet under her to keep warm.
“Good thing mother insisted on an interlining in this coat,” she said to
herself.
She heard the clock in Trinity High School sound half past two, after
what seemed a long time. She was already chilled and cramped. Then she
heard a sound of voices and looked up to see two men on the far side of
the park, half a block away. It made her a little apprehensive. She
suddenly felt a little unable to cope with two of them. Two had no
romantic possibilities. If it had been one wanderer--
Hurriedly getting up, she slipped through the shadows and cleared the
park, thankful that her coat was dark.
“Well, then, I must walk,” she said, trying to reassure herself by her
own voice. Her feet were very cold and a little damp in their thin
slippers. They hurt.
For a minute she considered going to Mrs. Flandon’s house. But she
abandoned that idea. Mrs. Flandon wasn’t the sort of person she wanted
to know about all this. She’d think she was such a fool. It might hurt
her chances of getting that place. Did she want that place, she queried
and kept her mind fixed on that for a little, sliding into a dream of
what she might do and how she might confound Barbara Brownley.
By this time her walking had become fairly aimless. She had come through
the residence district where she had been living, into a street of tall
apartment houses. Here and there in the windows of these buildings
lights still gleamed. Freda tried to amuse herself by wondering what was
happening there, tried to forget her painful feet. Then she met her
second adventurer.
He was walking very fast, his head up, and he rounded a corner so
abruptly that she had no time to avoid him. As if he had hardly sensed
her presence he passed her, then she heard his steps cease to resound
and knew he was turning to look at her. He did more, he followed her. In
a few strides he had caught up with her and Freda, turning her head,
gave him a look meant to be fraught with dignity but which turned out to
be only very angry. The man laughed.
“Oh, all right,” he said, “if you look like that, maybe there is
something I can do for you. I wasn’t sure of what sort of person you
were. But I see now.”
His voice was rich and clear and pleasant. Freda could not see what he
looked like but she could tell he was young, and he did not sound
dangerous.
“Please don’t bother me,” she said, “I’m just--out for a walk.”
“I hope you’re near home,” he answered.
Freda couldn’t resist it.
“I’m just exactly a hundred and thirty-nine miles from home.”
He tried to see her closely but her head was down.
“No, you’re not crazy,” he commented, “so there must be a story or a
mystery to you. Can I walk home with you--the hundred and thirty-nine
miles?”
“It’s too far--and I’m really better alone.”
“Please. I’m not in the least dangerous and I don’t want to annoy you.
But you must admit that a young woman at three o’clock in the morning
ought to let somebody accompany her on such prodigious walks. I’m out
for one myself. I’d enjoy it.”
He talked like an Englishman--or an Irishman, thought Freda. And why
shouldn’t she talk to him. It was all too ridiculous anyway. But rather
exciting.
“I’m in a very silly mess,” she told him, “and I haven’t any place to go
to-night.”
“And you wish I’d mind my own business?”
“No--but there’s nothing you can do. I’m not in the least a tragedy. In
the morning I can straighten things out. I haven’t committed any murders
or anything like that. But I said I wouldn’t go back to-night, and I
won’t.”
The young man considered.
“Is it by any chance a husband to whom you made that statement?”
“Oh, no,” Freda laughed. “It wasn’t a husband or even a father. It was
just a girl.”
“Well, you’re a bit thinly clad to carry out your high resolve.”
She shivered.
“Nights are longer than I thought.”
“Oh, you’re right there,” said he, “nights can stretch themselves out to
infinity. However, we must shorten this one for you. I’d just as soon do
it by conversation but your slippers--don’t you think you’d better go
back--for this one night?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Well, I approve of high resolves myself. I’m used to them and seeing
people offer themselves up on their altar. There’s no real reason why
you should give in on any position you took, just because the sun is on
the other side of the world. Could you tell me a bit more, maybe? If
names mean anything to you at this hour of the night, mine’s Gregory
Macmillan. I don’t live here. I’m staying at some hotel or other and I
came here on business--that’s what you always say in the States, isn’t
it, when you give an account of yourself?”
“You’re English.”
“Oh, God forbid,” he cried, “English! You insult me--but you don’t mean
to. No--Irish, Irish, Irish--I should have said it first and have been
spared that accusation.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what your accent was. I see now. It was stupid
of me.”
He laughed at her. “It’s no matter. You’re a very young woman, aren’t
you? I can tell from your voice. Well, you don’t want to wander further
with an Irish adventurer, do you?”
“I can’t help myself.”
“Let’s get down to facts. You quarreled.”
“Hardly that. I tell you it’s a silly business. A drunk young man--a
vicious girl who chanced to be my hostess said things. So I walked out
of her house. I can’t go back without crawling back, can I?”
“No--you can’t go back if you’d have to crawl. But where else can you
go? Haven’t you some friend--some intimate?”
“No--I can’t disturb families at this hour--and I only know people here
a little.”
“Isn’t there perhaps some single lady? Some unmarried woman to whom you
could turn? At this hour of the night it may be easier, you know, than
at dawn. And you’re dressed for the evening. Of course we might go back
to my hotel. Let’s see--a motor accident might do. No--that would
involve things. You’re sure you don’t know some discreet spinster?”
She thought.
“I’ve only been here three weeks. Only perhaps Miss Duffield--?”
He started.
“You don’t mean Margaret Duffield? You know her? Why, of course, she’s
the very one. Do you mean her?”
“And you know her too?”
“Know her? I have been talking with her until an hour ago. You mystic
child, of course you’d know Margaret. Come, let’s go to her and she’ll
tell me about you--and I’ll get a chance to see her again to-night
even--and perhaps, with you in charge, she’ll want to see me.”
Freda was enchanted. Her feet were forgotten. Barbara was forgotten. The
night, the delicious hour, the stranger who was chivalric and mysterious
and knew Margaret Duffield,--all of it was rounding out a perfect
adventure. She laughed in sheer delight.
“Isn’t it marvelous?” she asked, “this meeting you--you knowing the only
person I could go to, isn’t it curious and like a well-made dream?”
He took her by the arm, holding her up a little as they crossed the
cobbled street.
“Life at its best is only a well-made dream,” he answered.
In all her life Freda had never met any one who dared to talk like that.
It was three o’clock but the light in Margaret’s apartment still burned.
Little lines of it streamed out from the curtain edges. At sight of the
light Gregory stopped.
“Lucky it’s on the ground floor,” he said, “she can let us in without
any of the others hearing us tramp by.”
Freda hung back a little.
“It’s rather an outrageous thing to do. I wonder if I should.”
“Nonsense. Anyway, you’ve no choice. I’m bringing my refugee here
myself.”
They tiptoed into the little hallway and rang her bell--then went over
by her door. It was characteristic of Margaret that she did not call,
“Who’s there?” from behind the door. She opened her door a little and
looked out.
“It’s I,” said Gregory, softly, “and a distressed lady, whom you know.
Can we come in?”
The door opened wider and Margaret put out her hand as Freda shrunk back
a little.
“Why, Freda--where did you come from?” Margaret looked at Gregory, but
he waited for Freda to tell her own story, perhaps not knowing how much
she wanted to tell.
In the light again, Freda had blushed scarlet and then turned pale, her
cheeks wonderfully waxen and lustrous from the night air. Under her eyes
there were circles of fatigue and her hair had clung to her head, damp
from moisture. She looked at Margaret and seemed to remember that her
adventure had begun in disaster.
“I’m so sorry to bother you like this--I’m so sorry. But he said I’d
better.”
Again Margaret exchanged glances with Gregory. Gregory was looking at
Margaret now as if he were conscious of the picture she made in the blue
Grecian negligée which suited that slim, straight figure so well. But if
she noticed his glance, she was impatient of it.
“Of course it’s no question of bother--but what is it?”
Freda had made no move to drop her cloak. She held it close around her
as she stood against the inside of the door.
She told them as much as she could.
“I couldn’t go back.”
The eyes of her hearers were angry.
“Of course you couldn’t,” said Margaret, simply. “And you can perfectly
well spend the night here. In the morning I’ll send for your clothes.”
She drew Freda, who was shivering now, over on the couch, then turned to
Gregory.
“Good night, Gregory--again. You bring adventure with you.”
There was a smile in her eyes which he seemed to answer by a look in his
own. Then he looked past her to Freda.
“Good night, little wanderer. I’ll see you to-morrow.”
Freda saw him fully now. He was tall and thin and ugly. His dark eyes
seemed to flash from caverns above his high cheekbones. But he had a
wide Irish mouth and it smiled very tenderly at them both as he softly
went out.
Freda would not take Margaret’s little couch bed for herself so Margaret
had to improvise a bed on the floor for her guest, a bed of blankets and
coats and Freda slept in Margaret’s warm bath robe. Oddly, she slept far
better than did Margaret, who, for a long while, held herself stiffly on
one side that her turning might not disturb Freda.
II
They both wakened early. Freda found the taste of stale adventure in her
mind a little flat and disagreeable. There were a number of things to be
done. Margaret telephoned briefly to the Brownley house, left word with
a servant that Miss Thorstad had spent the night with her.
“I’ll go up there after we have some breakfast,” she said to Freda, “and
get you some clothes. Then I think you’d better stay here with me. I’ll
ask the landlady to put an extra cot in here and we can be comfortable
for a few days. And please don’t talk of inconvenience”--she forestalled
Freda’s objections with her smile--“I’ll love to have company. If you
stay in town we’ll see if you can’t get a place of your own in the
building here. Lots of apartments have a vacant room to let.”
She was preparing breakfast with Freda’s help and the younger girl’s
spirits were rising steadily even though the thought of an interview
with Barbara remained dragging. It was great fun for Freda--the freedom
of this tiny apartment with its bed already made into a daytime couch,
the eggs cooking over a little electric grill on the table and the table
set with a scanty supply of dishes--two tall glasses of milk, rolls and
marmalade.
“It’s so nice, living like this,” she exclaimed.
Margaret laughed.
“Then the Brownley luxury hasn’t quite seduced you?”
“I was excited by it. I’m afraid it did seduce me temporarily. But for
the last week something’s been wrong with me. And this was it. I wanted
to get out of the machinery. They leave you alone and all that--but it’s
so ordered--so planned. Everything’s planned from the menus to the
social life. They try to do novel things by standing on their heads
sometimes in their own grooves--at least the girls do--but really they
get no freshness or freedom, do they?”
“I should say that particular crowd didn’t. Of course you mustn’t
confound all wealthy people with them. They’re better than some but a
great deal less interesting than the best of the wealthy. And of course
just because their life doesn’t happen to appeal to your temperament--or
mine--”
“Are you always so perfectly balanced?” asked Freda, so admiringly as to
escape impertinence.
“I wish I were ever balanced,” answered Margaret. “And now suppose you
tell me a little more about what happened so I’ll be sure how I had
better take things up with the Brownley girls.”
Freda had been thinking.
“It really began with me,” she said. “Ted Smillie was Barbara’s man and
I was flattered when he noticed me. And of course I liked him--then--so
I let it go on and she hated me for that.”
“Stop me if I pry--but do you care for the young man now?”
“Oh--no!” cried Freda. “I’m just mortally ashamed of myself for letting
myself in as much as I did.”
“Everybody does.”
Margaret’s remark brought other ideas into Freda’s mind. She remembered
Gregory Macmillan and his apparent intimacy with Margaret. But she asked
nothing, going on, under Margaret’s questioning, with her tale of the
night before, and as they came to the part of Gregory’s intervention,
Margaret vouchsafed no information.
An hour later, she came back from the Brownley house, with Freda’s
suitcase beside her in a taxi.
“You did give them a bad night,” she said to Freda, “Bob Brownley looks
a wreck. It appears that later they went out to search the park--scared
stiff for you. And you had gone. They saw some men and were terrified.”
“Are they very angry?”
“Barbara tried to stay on her high horse. Said that although it was
possible she had misunderstood the situation it looked very compromising
and she thought it her duty in her mother’s absence--. Of course, she
said, she was sorry that matters had developed as they had. Poor Allie’d
evidently been thinking you’d been sewed up in a bag and dropped in the
river. They both want to let the thing drop quickly and I said they
could say that you were staying with me for the remainder of your visit.
I also told Barbara a few home truths about herself, and advised her to
be very careful what she said to her mother or I might take it up with
her parents.”
“All this trouble for me!” cried Freda. “I am ashamed!”
“Nonsense. But I must go along quickly now. I’ve a meeting. Your trunk
will be along sometime this morning. Put it wherever you like and the
landlady will send the janitor up with a cot. And--by the way--if
Gregory Macmillan drops in, tell him I’m engaged for lunch, will you?
You might have lunch with him, if you don’t mind.”
“I feel aghast at meeting him.”
“Don’t let any lack of conventions bother you with Gregory. The lack of
them is the best recommendation in his eyes. He’s a wild Irish poet.
I’ll tell you about him to-night. I think you’ll like him, Freda. He’s
the kindest person I know--and as truthful as his imagination will let
him be.”
“What is he in St. Pierre for?”
“Oh, ask him--” said Margaret, departing.