THE TROUBLE WITH MARJORY
She was surprised when the car stopped before the café, and mildly
interested.
"Do you mind?" he asked.
"No, Monte."
She followed him through the smoke and chatter to one of the little
dining-rooms in the rear where the smoke and chatter were somewhat
subdued. There Henri removed their wraps with a look of frank
approval. It was rather an elaborate dinner that Monte ordered,
because he remembered for the first time that he had not yet dined this
evening. It was also a dinner of which he felt Edhart would thoroughly
approve, and that always was a satisfaction.
"Now," he said to the girl, as soon as Henri had left, "tell me about
yourself."
"You knew about Aunt Kitty?" she asked.
"No," he replied hesitatingly, with an uneasy feeling that it was one
of those things that he should know about.
"She was taken ill here in Paris in February, and died shortly after we
reached New York," she explained.
What Covington would have honestly liked to do was to congratulate her.
Stripping the situation of all sentimentalism, the naked truth remained
that she had for ten years given up her life utterly to her aunt--had
almost sold herself into slavery. Ostensibly this Aunt Kitty had taken
the girl to educate, although she had never forgiven her sister for
having married Stockton; had never forgiven her for having had this
child, which had cost her life; had never forgiven Stockton for losing
in business her sister's share of the Dolliver fortune.
Poor old Stockton--he had done his best, and the failure killed him.
It was Chic Warren who had told Covington the pitiful little tale.
Chic always spoke of the aunt as "the Vamp.," the abbreviation, as he
explained, being solely out of respect to her gray hairs. Marjory had
received her education, to be sure; but she had paid for it in the only
coin she had--the best of her young self from seventeen to
twenty-seven. The only concession the aunt had ever made was to allow
her niece to study art in Paris this last year.
"I have n't heard from Chic since Christmas," he explained; "so I did
n't know. Then you are back here in Paris--alone?"
Unconsciously he had emphasized that word "alone."
"Why not?" she asked directly.
She held her head a bit high, as if in challenge.
"Nothing; only--"
He did not finish. He could not very well tell her that she was too
confoundedly good-looking to be alone in Paris. Yet that was what he
thought, in spite of his belief that, of all the women he had ever met,
she was the best able to be alone anywhere. There were times when he
had sat beside her, not feeling sure that he was in the same room with
her: it was as if he were looking at her through plate-glass.
To-night, however, it was not like that. She looked like a younger
sister of herself.
"Still painting?" he inquired.
"As much as they will let me."
"They?"
She leaned forward with a frown, folding her arms upon the table.
"What is the matter with men?" she demanded. "Why won't they believe a
woman when she tells the truth?"
He was somewhat startled by the question, and by her earnestness.
"Just what do you mean?"
"Why can't they leave a woman alone?"
It was clear that he was not expected to answer, and so, with her
permission, he lighted a cigarette and waited with considerable
interest for her to go on.
For a moment she studied him, as if wondering if it were worth while to
continue her confidence. Her acquaintance with Monte dated back ten
years, when, as a girl of seventeen, she had met him on one of his rare
week-end visits to the Warrens. She was then fresh from finishing
school, and he was one of the very few men she had been allowed to meet
in any more intimate way than merely to shake hands with in passing.
She had been tremendously impressed. She could smile at it now. But,
really, she had been like one of the younger sisters, and for a year or
so after that he had been to her a sort of vague knight errant.
It was three years ago that her aunt had begun to travel with her, and
after that she had seen Monte not oftener than once or twice a year,
and then for scarcely more than a greeting and good-bye. On the other
hand, Mrs. Warren had always talked and written to her a great deal
about him. Chic and he had been roommates in college, and ever since
had kept in close touch with each other by letter. The trivial gossip
of Monte's life had always been passed on to Marjory, so that she had
really for these last few years been following his movements and
adventures month by month, until she felt in almost as intimate contact
with him as with the Warrens. She had reason to think that, in turn,
her movements were retailed to Monte. The design was obvious--and
amusing.
On the whole, Marjory concluded that it was not especially worth while
to burden him with her troubles; and yet, it was just because of that
she was inclined to continue--in, however, a less serious mood. Monte
had so few burdens of his own. That odd little smile--scarcely more
than the ghost of a smile--returned to the corners of her mouth.
"To-night," she said, "I ran away from Teddy Hamilton, for all the
world like a heroine of melodrama. Do you know Teddy?"
"Yes," he answered slowly, "I do."
He refrained with difficulty from voicing his opinion of the man, which
he could have put into three words--"the little beast." But how did it
happen that she, of all women, had been thrown into contact with this
pale-faced Don Juan of the New York music-halls and Paris cafés?
"I lent Marie, my maid, one of my new hats and a heavy veil," she went
on. "She came out and stepped into a taxi, with instructions to keep
driving in a circle of a mile. Teddy followed in another machine.
And"--she paused to look up and smile--"for all I know, he may still be
following her round and round. I came on to the opera."
"Kind of tough on Marie," he commented, with his blue eyes reflecting a
hearty relish of the situation.
"Marie will undoubtedly enjoy a nap," she said. "As for Teddy--well,
he is generally out of funds, so I hope he may get into difficulties
with the driver."
"He won't," declared Monte. "He'll probably end by borrowing a
_pour-boire_ of the driver."
She nodded.
"That is possible. He is very clever."
"The fact that he is still out of jail--" began Monte.
Then he checked himself. He was not a man to talk about other
men--even about one so little of a man as Teddy Hamilton.
"Tell me what you know of him," she requested.
"I'd rather not," he answered.
"Is he as bad as that?" she queried thoughtfully. "But what I don't
understand is why--why, then, he can sing like a white-robed choir-boy."
Monte looked serious.
"I've heard him," he admitted. "But it was generally after he had been
sipping absinthe rather heavily. His specialty is 'The Rosary.'"
"And the barcarole from the 'Contes d'Hoffmann.'"
"And little Spanish serenades," he added.
"But if he's all bad inside?"
She raised those deep, dark eyes as a child might. She had been for
ten years like one in a convent.
Covington shook his head.
"I can't explain it," he said. "Perhaps, in a way, it's because of
that--because of the contrast. But I 've heard him do it. I 've heard
him make a room full of those girls on Montmartre stop their dancing
and gulp hard. But where--"
"Did I meet him?" she finished. "It was on the boat coming over this
last time. You see-- I 'm talking a great deal about myself."
"Please go on."
He had forgotten that her face was so young. The true lines of her
features were scarcely more than sketched in, though that much had been
done with a sure hand. Whatever was to come, he thought, must be
added. There would be need of few erasures. Up to a certain point it
was the face of any of those young women of gentle breeding that he met
when at home--the inheritance of the best of many generations.
As she was sitting now, her head slightly turned, the arch of one brow
blended in a perfect curve into her straight, thin nose. But the mouth
and chin--they were firmer than one might have expected. If, not
knowing her, he had seen her driving in the Bois or upon Rotten Row, he
would have been curious about her title. It had always seemed to him
that she should by rights have been Her Royal Highness Something or
Other.
This was due partly to a certain air of serene security and a certain
aloofness that characterized her. He felt it to a lesser degree
to-night than ever before, but he made no mistake. He might be
permitted to admire those features as one admires a beautiful portrait,
but somewhere a barrier existed. There are faces that reflect the
soul; there are faces that hide the soul.
"Please go on," he repeated, as she still hesitated.
She was trying to explain why it was that she was tempted at all to
talk about herself to-night. Perhaps it was because she had been so
long silent--for many years silent. Perhaps it was because Monte was
so very impersonal that it was a good deal like talking out loud to
herself, with the advantage of being able to do this without wondering
if she were losing her wits. Then, too, after Teddy, Monte's
straight-seeing blue eyes freshened her thoughts like a clean north
wind. She always spoke of Monte as the most American man she knew; and
by that she meant something direct and honest--something four-square.
"I met Teddy on the boat," she resumed. "I was traveling alone
because--well, just because I wanted to be alone. You know, Aunt Kitty
was very good to me, but I'd been with her every minute for more than
ten years, and so I wanted to be by myself a little while. Right after
she died, I went down to the farm--her farm in Connecticut--and thought
I could be alone there. But--she left me a great deal of money, Monte."
Somehow, she could speak of such a thing to him. She was quite
matter-of-fact about it.
"It was a great deal too much," she went on. "I did n't mind myself,
because I could forget about it; but other people--they made me feel
like a rabbit running before the hounds. Some one put the will in the
papers, and people I'd never heard of began to write to me--dozens of
them. Then men with all sorts of schemes--charities and gold mines and
copper mines and oil wells and I don't know what all, came down there
to see me: down there to the little farm, where I wanted to be alone.
Of course, I could be out to them; but even then I was conscious that
they were around. Some of them even waited until I ventured from the
house, and waylaid me on the road.
"Then there were others--people I knew and could n't refuse to see
without being rude. I felt," she said, looking up at Monte, "as if the
world of people had suddenly all turned into men, and that they were
hunting me. I could n't get away from them without locking myself up,
and that was just the thing I did n't want to do. In a way, I 'd been
locked up all my life. So I just packed my things and took the steamer
without telling any one but my lawyer where I was going."
"It's too bad they wouldn't let you alone," said Monte.
"It was like an evil dream," she said. "I did n't know men were like
that."
Monte frowned.
Of course, that is just what would happen to a young woman as
good-looking as she, suddenly left alone with a fortune. Her name,
without a doubt, was on the mailing list of every promoter from New
York to San Francisco. It was also undoubtedly upon the list of every
man and woman who could presume an acquaintance with her. She had
become fair game.
"Then on the boat I met Teddy," she went on. "It was difficult not to
meet him."
He nodded.
"I did n't mind so much at first; he was interesting."
"Yes, he's that," admitted Monte.
"And he was very pleasant until--he began to make love to me."
If Monte knew Teddy Hamilton, this happened about the third day.
"That was very annoying," she said reminiscently. "It was annoying,
not only because of Teddy, but in itself. In some ways he did it very
nicely--especially when he sang in the moonlight. I suppose it was my
fault that I gave him the opportunity. I could have kept myself in my
stateroom, or I could have played bridge with the elderly ladies in the
cabin. But, you see, that's what Aunty always made me do, and I did
want to get out. I did enjoy Teddy up to that point. But I did not
want to fall in love with him, or with any one else. I suppose I 'm
too selfish--too utterly and completely selfish."
"To--er--to fall in love?" he questioned.
"Yes. Oh, as long as I'm making you my father confessor, I may as well
be thorough." She smiled.
Monte leaned forward with sudden interest. Here was a question that at
odd moments had disturbed his own peace of mind. It was Chic Warren
who had first told him that in remaining a bachelor he was leading an
utterly selfish life.
"Does a distaste for falling in love necessarily go back to
selfishness?" he asked. "Is n't it sometimes merely a matter of
temperament?"
"And temperament," she asked, "is what?"
That was altogether too abstract a problem for Monte to discuss. Yet
he had his own ideas.
"It's the way you're made," he suggested.
"I doubt it, Monte," she answered. "I think it's rather the way you
make yourself; because I imagine that, to start with, we are all made a
good deal alike. It's just what you 'd rather do."
"And you'd rather paint?"
She considered a moment. It was as if she were trying at this time to
be very honest with herself.
"I'd rather be free to paint or not," she declared. "While Aunty was
alive, to paint seemed to be the only way to be free. It gave me the
excuse for coming here, for getting away a few hours a day. Now--well,
just to be free seems enough. I don't suppose a man knows how a woman
hungers for that--for just sheer, elemental freedom."
He did not. He supposed that freedom was what women enjoyed from
birth--like queens. He supposed they even had especial opportunities
in that direction, and that most men were in the nature of being their
humble servitors.
"It is n't that I want to do anything especially proper or improper,"
she hastened to assure him. "I have n't either the cravings or the
ambitions of the new woman. That, again, is where I 'm selfish. I'd
like to be"--she spoke hesitatingly--"I'd like to be just like you,
Monte."
"Like me?" he exclaimed in surprise.
"Free to do just what I want to do--nothing particularly good, nothing
particularly bad; free to go here or go there; free to live my own
life; free to be free."
"Well," he asked, "what's to prevent?"
"Teddy Hamilton--and the others," she answered. "In a way, they take
the place of Aunty. They won't let me alone. They won't believe me
when I tell them I don't want them around. They seem to assume that,
just because I'm not married-- Oh, they are stupid, Monte!"
Henri, who had been stealing in with course after course, refilled the
glasses. He smiled discreetly as he saw her earnest face.
"What you need," suggested Monte, "is a sort of chaperon or secretary."
She shook her head.
"Would you like one yourself?" she demanded.
"It would be a good deal of a nuisance," he admitted; "but, after all--"
"I won't have it!" she burst out. "It would spoil everything. It
would be like building one's own jail and employing one's own jailer.
I could n't stand that. I 'd rather be annoyed as I am than be annoyed
by a chaperon."
She was silent a moment, and then she exclaimed:
"Why, I'd almost rather marry Teddy! I'd feel freer--honestly, I think
I 'd feel freer with a husband than a chaperon."
"Oh, see here!" protested Monte. "You must n't do that."
"I don't propose to," she answered quietly.
"Then," he said, "the only thing left is to go away where Teddy and the
others can't find you."
"Where?" she asked with interest.
"There are lots of little villages in Switzerland."
She shook her head.
"And along the Riviera."
"I love the little villages," she replied. "I love them here and at
home. But it's no use."
She smiled. There was something pathetic about that smile--something
that made Covington's arm muscles twitch.
"I should n't even have the aid of the taxis in the little villages,"
she said.
Monte leaned back.
"If they only had here in Paris a force of good, honest Irish cops
instead of these confounded gendarmes," he mused.
She looked her astonishment at the irrelevant observation.
"You see," he explained, "it might be possible then to lay for Teddy H.
some evening and--argue with him."
"It's nice of you, Monte, to think of that," she murmured.
Monte was nice in a good many ways.
"The trouble is, they lack sentiment, these gendarmes," he concluded.
"They are altogether too law-abiding."