"And now, Mr. Harley," said Grandmother Ludlow, lashing the
septuagenarian footman with one sharp look because he had spilt two or
three drops of Veuve Cliquot on the tablecloth, "tell me about the
present state of the money market."
Under his hostess's consistent courtesy and marked attentions George
Harley had been squirming during the first half of dinner. He had led
her into the fine old dining room with all the style that he could
muster and been placed, to his utter dismay, on her right. He would
infinitely rather have been commanded to dine with the Empress of
China, which he had been told was the last word in mental and physical
torture. Remembering vividly the cold and satirical scorn to which he
had been treated during his former brief and nightmare visit the old
lady's change of attitude to extreme politeness and even deference made
him feel that he was having his leg pulled. In a brand new dinner
jacket with a black tie poked under the long points of a turned-down
collar, which, in his innocence, he had accepted as the mode of
gentlemen and not, as he rightly supposed of waiters, he had done his
best to give coherent answers to a rapid fire of difficult questions.
The most uneasy man on earth, he had committed himself to statements
that he knew to be unsound, had seen his untouched plate whisked away
while he was floundering among words, and started a high temperature
beneath what he was perfectly certain was lurking mockery behind
apparently interested attention.
If any banker at that moment had overheard him describing the state of
the money market he would have won for himself a commission in the
earth's large army of unconfined lunatics.
The old sportsman, sitting with Joan on his right and his
daughter-in-law on his left, was more nearly merry and bright than any
one had seen him since the two great changes in his household. His
delight in having Joan near him again was pathetic. He had shaved for
the second time that day, a most unusual occurrence. His white hair
glistened with brilliantine, and there was a gardenia in his
buttonhole. Some of the old fire had returned to his eyes, and his
tongue had regained its once invariable knack of paying charming
compliments. In his excitement and delight he departed from his rigid
diet, and, his wife's attention being focussed upon George Harley,
punished the champagne with something of his old vigor, and revived as
a natural result many of the stories which Joan and her mother had been
told ad nauseam over any number of years with so much freshness as to
make them seem almost new.
Mrs. Harley, wearing a steady smile, was performing the painful feat of
listening with one ear to the old gentleman and with the other to the
old lady. All her sympathy was with her unfortunate and uneasy husband
who looked exactly like a great nervous St. Bernard being teased by a
Pekinese.
Joan missed none of the underlying humor of the whole thing. It was
amusing and satisfactory to be treated as the guest of honor in a house
in which she had always been regarded as the naughty and rebellious
child. She was happy in being able to put her usually morose
grandfather into such high spirits and moved to a mixture of mirth and
pity at the sight of George Harley's plucky efforts. Also she had
brought away with her from the girl she called the fairy a strengthened
desire to play the game and a good feeling that Marty was nearer to her
than he had been for a long and trying week. It's true that from time
to time she caught in her grandmother's eyes that queer look of
triumphant glee that had disturbed her when they met and the same
expression of malicious spite at the corner of Gleave's sunken mouth
which had made her wonder what he knew, but these things she waved
aside. Instinct, and her complete knowledge of Mrs. Cumberland Ludlow's
temperament, made her realize that if the old lady could find a way to
get even with her for having run off she would leave no stone unturned,
and that she would not hesitate to use the cunning ex-fighting man to
help her. But, after all, what could they do? It would be foolish to
worry.
Far from foolish, if she had had an inkling of the trap that had been
laid for her and into which she was presently going to fall without
suspicion.
The facts were that Gleave had seen Martin drive up to his house with
Tootles, had watched them riding and walking together throughout the
week, had reported what he had seen to Mrs. Ludlow and left it to her
fertile imagination to make use of what was to him an ugly business.
And the old lady, grasping her chance, had written that letter to Mrs.
Harley and having achieved her point of getting Joan into her hands,
had discovered that she did not know where Martin was and had made up
her mind to show her. Revenge is sweet, saith the phrasemonger, and to
the old lady whose discipline had been flouted and whose amour propre
had been rudely shaken it was very sweet indeed. Her diabolical scheme,
conceived in the mischievous spirit of second childhood, was to lead
Joan on to a desire to show off her country house to her relations at
the moment when the man she had married and the girl with whom he was
amusing himself on the sly were together. "How dramatic," she chuckled,
in concocting the plan. "How delightfully dramatic." And she might have
added, "How hideously cruel."
But it was not until some little time after they had all adjourned to
the drawing-room, and Joan had played the whole range of her old pieces
for the edification of her grandfather, that she set her trap.
"If I had my time over again," she said, looking the epitome of
benevolence, "I would never spend spring in the city."
"Wouldn't you, dear?" prompted Mrs. Harley, eager to make the
conversation general and so give poor George a rest.
"No, my love. I would make my winter season begin in November and end
in February--four good months for the Opera, the theatres, entertaining
and so forth. Then on the first of March, the kind-hearted month that
nurses April's violets, I would leave town for my country place and, as
the poets have it watch the changing skies and the hazel blooms peep
through the swelling buds and hear the trees begin to whisper and the
throstles break into song. One loses these things by remaining among
bricks and mortar till the end of April. Joan, my dear, give this your
consideration next year. If your good husband is anything like his
father, whom we knew very slightly and admired, he is a lover of the
country and should be considered."
"Yes, Grandmamma," said Joan, wondering if Marty had come back and
found her note on his dressing-table.
"Always supposing, of course, that next year finds you both as much in
love as you are to-day,--the most devoted pair of turtle doves, as I am
told." She laughed a little roguishly to disguise the sting.
"They will be," said Mrs. Harley quickly. "There is no doubt about
that."
"None," said Joan, looking full at the old lady with a confident smile
and a high chin. Would her grandmother never forget that escape from
the window?
"Why suggest the possibility of a break?" asked Mr. Ludlow, with a
touch of anger. "Really, my dear."
"A little joke, Cumberland, merely a little joke. Joan understands me,
I know."
"I think so," said Joan, smiling back. Not on her, whatever happened,
would she see the white feather. Some one had told the tale of her
kid's rush into the heart of things and her many evenings with Palgrave
and the others, when "Who cares?" was her motto.
The old lady went on, with infinite artfulness. "During the coming
summer, my love, you should look out for a pleasant little house in
some charming part of the country, furnish it, put men to work on the
garden, and have it all ready for the following spring."
"I know just the place," put in George. "Near a fine golf course and
country club with a view across the Hudson that takes your breath away."
"That might necessitate the constant attendance of a doctor," said Mrs.
Ludlow drily, "which would add considerably to the expenses. I would
advise the Shinnecock Hills, for instance, which are swept by sea
breezes and so reminiscent of Scotland. Martin would be within a
stone's throw of his favorite course, there, wouldn't he, Joan?"
"Yes, Grandmamma," said Joan, still with a high head and a placid
smile, although it came to her in a flash that her statement as to
where Martin was had not been believed. What if Grandmother knew where
Martin had gone? How absurd. How could she?
And then Mr. Ludlow broke in again, impatiently. The effect of the
champagne was wearing off. He hated feminine conversation in
drawing-rooms, anyhow. "Why go searching about for a house for the
child when she's got one already."
"Why, so I have," cried Joan. "Here. I'd forgotten all about it!"
Nothing could have suited the old lady so well. Her husband could not
have said anything more right if he had been prompted. "Of course you
have," she said, with a cackle of laughter. "I had forgotten it too.
Mr. Harley, can you believe our overlooking the fact that there is a
most excellent house in the family a gunshot from where we are all
sitting? It's natural enough for me, who have never met Joan's young
husband. But for you, my love, who spent such a romantic night there!
Where are your wits?"
Joan's laugh rang out. "Goodness knows, but I really had forgotten all
about it. And although I've only been in it once I've known it by sight
all my life. Martin's father had it built, Papa George, and it's
awfully nice and sporting, with kennels, and tennis courts, and
everything."
"Yes, and beautifully furnished, I remember. I dined there several
times, years ago before Mr. Gray had--" Mrs. Harley drew up short.
Mrs. Ludlow finished the sentence. "A little quarrel with me," she
said. "I objected to his hounds scrambling over this property and wrote
pithily to that effect. We never spoke again. My dear, while we are all
together, why not personally conduct us over this country house of
yours and give us an unaccustomed thrill of excitement."
"Yes, do, darling," said Mrs. Harley. "George would love to see it."
"I will," said Joan. "I'd adore to. I don't know a bit what it's like,
except the hall and the library. It will come as a perfect surprise to
me."
"A very perfect surprise," said Mrs. Ludlow.