MARY RESIGNS
When the car reached a clear block, Pete turned his head for a hurried
glimpse at the partly-huddled figure at his right.
"Air doing you any good?" he asked.
"I--I think so."
Miss Norcross spoke uncertainly. She was not quite clear concerning even
such a matter as air.
Pete skillfully lighted a cigarette without checking the car's pace. He
smoked in silence for several blocks.
"How did you like our little party?" he inquired.
No answer.
"He didn't mean any harm; that was only his way of being democratic."
There was no comment from Miss Norcross.
"Of course," mused Pete, "when you take the warm and impulsive
Neapolitan nature and stack it up against the New England conscience you
produce a contact of opposites. Looking at the matter impartially----"
"Please stop talking to me."
"Why?"
"For excellent reasons."
"Because I am a valet?"
"Because you choose to forget your position," said Nell, sharply.
Pete sighed mournfully.
"Everywhere it's the same," he said. "They all draw the line. It'll
haunt me even when I'm a bishop. Did you know I was going to be a
bishop? I am. But, of course, being once a valet will have its
advantages as well as its drawbacks. I'll be able to clean and press my
own robes. I'll be a neat bishop if I'm nothing else. If there's one
thing I dislike it's a dowdy bishop. You just run over all your bishop
friends and you'll appreciate what I mean."
"Stop talking!"
"I don't believe you mean that, Miss Wayne. I believe that you have a
secret liking for my conversation. Most people have. You see, it's like
this: when I was a young boy----"
Nell sat up abruptly and looked about her.
"Where are you taking me to?" she demanded.
"I thought I'd drop you at the Ritz. That's where you live, isn't it?
You have the Ritz manner."
"We've got to go back," she said furiously. "I don't live up this way at
all. I live down-town."
"Well, you didn't tell me," said Pete, mildly. "You just let me go right
on driving. I never dreamed of taking you anywhere except to the Ritz."
She told him the address and huddled back into her seat. Pete merely
elevated an eyebrow as he turned the car.
"To return to our discussion of the party," he said, "it is unfortunate
that you fainted before Signor Valentino took his departure. There were
features connected with his exit that were unique. But I am greatly
afraid that my master, Mr. Marshall, will have difficulty in making
explanations. To bring your dearest friend to your house and then----"
"If you don't stop talking I'll shriek."
"We shall see. To make it interesting, I'll bet you five dollars that
you don't."
And he continued to talk, smoothly, placidly and without cessation. She
did not shriek. She did not even whimper. She sat in outraged silence,
her hands clenched, her brain swimming with the futility of trying to
puzzle out this mystery of Bill Marshall's valet.
"And so we arrive," said Pete, as he stopped the car in front of the
boarding house and glanced up at its gloomy front. "No shrieking, no
police whistles, no general alarm. Allow me."
He assisted her from the car and escorted her across the sidewalk. "You
need not come up the steps," she said.
But already he was urging her up the steps, with a firm yet considerate
grip on her arm. Also, he rang the bell.
"Thank you," said Nell, hurriedly. "That will be all, if you please."
"Suppose they should not hear your ring? Suppose you had to sit on the
top step all night? No; I should never forgive myself. It is my duty to
remain until---- Ah! The concierge."
The door opened and the landlady peered out into the vestibule.
"Madam," said Pete, removing his hat, "I have the honor to leave in your
charge Miss Wayne. May I ask that you show her every consideration,
inasmuch as she is somewhat indisposed?"
"Miss Wayne?" echoed the landlady. "There's nobody here----"
And then, in a flicker of light that came from the hallway, she
established an identification. At the same instant Nell pushed weakly
past her and stumbled into the house.
"There! I told her she wasn't fit to go out," declared the landlady. "I
warned her. I knew she'd pay for it. But you can't drill sense into
some people; not a particle."
She seemed to be soliloquizing, rather than addressing the stranger on
her doorstep. But Pete was not interested in the soliloquy. There was a
matter that mystified him. He interrupted.
"When I presented Miss Wayne did I understand you to say----"
She suddenly remembered that he was there.
"None of your business, young man. And don't stand around on my front
stoop."
Then she was gone, with a slamming of the door that echoed through the
lonely block. Pete decided that her advice was sound; there was nothing
to be achieved by standing there. He walked down the steps, climbed into
the car and drove slowly off.
"Something is peculiar," he observed, half aloud. "Let us examine the
facts."
All the way back to the Marshall house he examined the facts, but when
he backed the car into the garage he had reached no conclusion.
Another conversation had been in progress during the time that Pete
Stearns was playing rescuer to a stricken lady. It took place in the
"office," a term that Mary Wayne had fallen into the habit of applying
to the sun parlor where she transacted the affairs of Bill Marshall. For
a considerable time all of the conversation flowed from one pair of
lips. To say that it flowed is really too weak a characterization; it
had the fearsome speed and volume of an engulfing torrent.
Bill walked during most of it. He could not manage to stay in one place;
the torrent literally buffeted him about the room. He felt as helpless
as a swimmer in the Niagara rapids. Never before had he realized the
conversational possibilities of a social secretary. He was particularly
disquieted because she did not rant. She did not key her voice high; she
did not gesture; she did not move from her chair. She simply sat there,
pouring scorn upon him in appallingly swift and even tones. She drenched
him with it; she seemed in a fair way to drown him.
At last, inevitably, there came a pause. There was awe as well as
surprise in the gaze with which Bill contemplated her. She sat stiffly
on the edge of her chair, pinker in the cheeks than he had ever seen her
before, with her lips tightly set and her eyes glowing.
"That's more than I ever stood from anybody," he said slowly.
"Then you have been neglected in the past," was the comment she shot
back.
"My aunt never went as far as you have."
"She would if she appreciated what you have done. When I think of the
way you have deceived that dear old woman it makes me want to be an
anarchist. Even now she doesn't understand what you've done. She doesn't
know that you deliberately ruined everything; she's too innocent to
suspect. All your guests know; all the servants know--everybody knows
except your poor aunt. But you've imposed on her, you have deceived her,
you have lied to her----"
"Oh, hold on there, please."
"Well, you have!" cried Mary. "And you've lied to me."
"How?" he demanded.
"You ask me that! Do I need to remind you? You said you were bringing a
friend, an artist. You even lied about his name. And then you had the
effrontery to bring into this house a disreputable bruiser----"
"Now, wait a minute," commanded Bill. "I didn't lie about his name. I
told you the truth. His name is exactly as I gave it--Antonio
Valentino."
"I don't believe a word of it."
"Simply because you're ignorant about a lot of things. Probably you
don't know that nearly every wop fighter in New York City goes into the
ring under an Irish name. It's done for business reasons mostly. This
man's name is Valentino; he was born in Italy. But when he fights it's
Kid Whaley. And if you don't choose to believe me, write to any sporting
editor and he'll tell you."
But Mary was not to be thrust aside.
"It makes no difference what his real name is, you concealed his
identity. You deliberately deceived me. Not that _I_ care," she added
bitterly. "I'm thinking of your aunt and the reputation of her home."
"How could I help it if you misunderstood me?" demanded Bill. "I said he
was an artist, didn't I? Well, he is. He's next to the top in his
line, and it won't be long before he takes first place. If you ever saw
him fight you'd understand what art is."
"You said he was a sculptor."
"Well, he is, too, in a way. That may be a bit of artistic license, but
he's a sculptor. I've seen him take a man, go to work on him, carve him
up and change him so that you couldn't identify him with anything short
of finger prints. He's a sculptor of human beings. He works on heads and
busts; I said he did, didn't I? And I said he was an impressionist and a
realist rolled into one. And he is. A man can do impressionistic work
with a pair of six-ounce gloves just as well as he can with a paint
brush or a chisel. And you yourself suggested that his work must have
strength, and I agreed with you."
Bill rather hoped that this would settle it; not that he banked heavily
on the soundness of his defense, but rather because he felt that it was
technically adroit. Mary simply curled a lip and regarded him with fresh
scorn.
"That's what I call a very cowardly explanation," she said. "You know as
well as I do that it's worthless. It doesn't explain the fact that you
let me deceive myself and made me the instrument for deceiving your
aunt. I'd have more respect for you if you came out boldly and admitted
what you've done."
Bill was beginning to glare.
"If you think I'm going to throw down my friends in order to get into
society, then I'll stay out."
"You'd better change your friends," she advised. "So long as you have
friends who are an offense to decent people----"
"Stop right there!" warned Bill. "I pick my own friends and I stick by
'em. The Kid has been a good friend of mine and I've tried to be a good
friend of his. He's helped me out of more than one hole. And I've helped
him. I backed him in his first big fight and got him started on the
uproad. I've backed him more than once and I'll back him again, if he
asks me to. Why can't you be reasonable about this? Suppose he is a
fighter. He's a friend of mine, just the same. And what's a little scrap
now and then between friends?"
Mary stared at him in cold silence. He mistook it for wavering. He felt
that it was time to fling back the tide.
"I didn't choose to go into society, did I? I was dragged into it--and
you were hired to drag me. Now you take the job of trying to come
between me and my friends. You try to make a Rollo out of me. Would any
self-respecting man stand for that?"
Bill was working up to it as he went along.
"I think you'd better remember your position and mine. If I were you,
I'd bear in mind that you're my secretary--not my boss. If I were
you----"
Mary sprang to her feet. "I'm _not_ your secretary!" she cried, in a
trembling voice.
"Oh, but I think you've already admitted that," he said, with an angry
laugh.
"Well, I'm not now! I was, but not any more. I resign! Do you hear? _I
resign!_"
Saying which, she sat down again and burst into tears.
The wrath in Bill's eyes faded slowly. In its place came a look of
dismay, of astonishment, of clumsy embarrassment. He began shifting his
feet. He took his hands out of his pockets and put them back again. He
chewed his lip.
"Aw, hell!" he muttered under his breath.
Mary did not hear him. She was too much preoccupied with her sobs. She
began searching blindly for a handkerchief, and was not aware of what
she did when she accepted Bill's, which he hastily offered.
"Don't cry," he advised.
He might as well have advised the sky not to rain.
"Oh, come, Miss Norcross; please don't cry."
"I--I _will_ cry!"
"Well, then, don't resign," he said.
"I _will_ resign!"
"Let's be reasonable. Don't let's lose our tempers."
Mary swallowed a sob and shouted into the handkerchief:
"I resign! _I resign!_ I RESIGN!"
Bill gritted his teeth and planted himself threateningly in front of
her.
"I won't have it! Understand me? I won't let you resign. I refuse to
accept your resignation."
"You c-can't."
"Well, I do."
"I--I w-won't endure it! I've already resigned. I'm through. I'm----"
Right there she had a fresh paroxysm. Bill knew that he must be firm, at
all costs. If only on account of Aunt Caroline she couldn't be allowed
to resign. And then there was his own account to be considered. Any girl
with such nice freckles---- He was in a state of inward panic.
"See here; I'll try to do better," he promised. "I'm sorry. I didn't
mean to hurt your feelings."
"It's too--too l-late now," sobbed Mary.
"No, it isn't. We'll start all over again. Come, now."
She shook her head miserably.
"Pup-pup-please!" she wailed. "I--I want to resign."
Bill watched her as she curled up in the chair, tucked her feet under
her party dress and hunted for a dry spot on the handkerchief.
"I wonder if it would be all right for me to cuddle her," he mused. "The
poor kid needs it; maybe she expects it. Well, such being the case----"
* * * * *
A knock, a door opening, and Pete Stearns. He sensed the situation at a
glance and winked at Bill.
"I just wished to report, sir, that I escorted Miss Wayne to her home
and left her feeling somewhat better."
Mary hastily dabbed her eyes and looked up.
"She's all right? You're sure?"
"Miss Wayne is quite all right, ma'am." He accented the name, watching
Mary as he spoke.
"Thank you very much, Peter," she said.
"Once she got out into the air, ma'am----"
Bill interrupted him with a peremptory gesture. Pete winked again and
backed out.
* * * * *
Ten minutes later Mary Wayne was more concerned about the probability
that her nose was red than she was about her status as Bill Marshall's
secretary. Bill was smoking a cigarette and looking thoughtful. He did
not know whether it would have been all right to cuddle her or not. The
inopportuneness of Pete Stearns had left the question open.
"I think I'll go to bed," said Mary.
Bill went to the door and paused with his hand on the knob.
"That resignation doesn't go, you know," he said.
"Good night," answered Mary.
"Do you withdraw it?"
"I--I'll think about it. Will you open the door, please?"
He opened it a little way.
"I've got to know definitely," he said, with great firmness.
"Well, perhaps--if you really want----"
"Atta boy," said Bill, with a genial patting of her shoulder. "I mean,
atta girl. But listen: if you ever pull a resignation on me again
I'll----"
Mary looked up, a question in her eyes. Would he really accept
it--really?
"Why, I'll spank you--you freckle-faced little devil."
Mary yanked the door full wide and ran down the hall. Bill watched
hopefully, but she never looked back.