REFERENCES
To the horror of Bill Marshall, the undisguised wonder of Pete Stearns
and unexpected joy of Mary Wayne, Aunt Caroline announced herself as
much pleased with the party. There were a few things she did not
understand, others that she did not know--such as the manner of Signor
Valentino's leave-taking--and, therefore, between unsophistication and
ignorance, she thoroughly enjoyed matters in retrospect.
Upon Mary she heaped praise, upon Bill gratitude, while to Peter she
confided the impression that the bishop was well disposed toward him and
would doubtless supply him with any theological hints that he might find
necessary in the pursuit of his life-work.
As for Bill and Mary, they were on terms again. Mary had not forgotten
what he called her as she fled to her room; it was the second time he
had alluded to her freckles, which hitherto she had been wont to regard
as a liability. Nor had she forgotten the storm and the tears. It was
all very unsecretarial, she realized, and it might easily have been
embarrassing if Bill had not displayed a tact and delicacy that she
never expected of him. He made neither hint nor allusion to the matter;
he behaved as if he had forgotten it. He had not, of course, and Mary
knew he had not; and Bill himself knew that it was still vivid in Mary's
mind. It was a shunned topic, and underneath this tacit ladies' and
gentlemen's agreement to shun it, it survived as an invisible bond.
In fact, a sort of three-cornered alliance had grown out of Bill's
party, so that Pete came to be included in the triangle. This was also
tacit as between Pete and Mary, although it was directly responsible for
certain covert inquiries that Pete made from time to time concerning
"Miss Wayne." His anxiety as to her health appeared to do great credit
to his goodness of heart. Between Bill and Pete there was always frank
discussion, in private, although on the subject of the social secretary
it flowed with perhaps a trifle less freedom.
So greatly had the party furthered the innocent dreams of Aunt Caroline
that she lost no time in urging further assaults and triumphs in the new
world that had been opened to her nephew.
"My dear," she said to Mary, "I think it would be well to give a small
dinner--very soon."
Mary agreed that it would be very well, indeed.
"I confess that I have certain ambitions," said Aunt Caroline. "I would
like to have William extend his circle somewhat, and among people whom
it would be a very fine thing for him to know."
Mary carelessly approved that, too.
"It would be wonderful, my dear, if we could have Mrs. Rokeby-Jones as a
guest."
Mary glanced sharply at Aunt Caroline. She was suddenly trembling with a
premonition.
"But do we know Mrs. Rokeby-Jones?" she asked.
Aunt Caroline smiled confidently.
"You do, my dear."
To which, of course, Mary was forced to nod an assent.
"I believe it would be all right for you to speak to her about it,"
added Aunt Caroline. "She thinks so highly of you that I am sure she
would not consider it strange in the least. And besides, there is always
the Marshall name."
The Marshall name was Aunt Caroline's shield and buckler at all times,
and since Bill's party she had come to regard it as a password of potent
magic.
Mary felt suddenly weak, but she fought to avoid disclosure of the fact.
Mrs. Rokeby-Jones! What could she say? Already, in the case of Bill's
party, threads of acquaintanceship that were so tenuous as scarcely to
be threads at all had been called upon to bear the strain of
invitations, and, much to her astonishment, they had borne the strain.
Thereby emboldened, Aunt Caroline was now seeking to bridge new gulfs.
But why did she have to pick Mrs. Rokeby-Jones? Was it because---- Mary
tried to put from her mind the unworthy suspicion that Aunt Caroline was
still delving as to the facts concerning what they said about the elder
daughter. But whatever the motive, whether it be hidden or wholly on the
surface, booted little to Mary. It was an impossible proposal.
"She will recall you, of course," Aunt Caroline was saying. "And I am
sure that she knows the Marshalls. In fact, I have an impression that at
one time William's mother----"
"But are you sure she hasn't gone to Newport?" asked Mary, desperately.
"I saw her name in the paper only this morning, my dear. She was
entertaining last night at the theater."
Mary began wadding a handkerchief.
"And perhaps she could suggest somebody else," added Aunt Caroline. "At
any rate, suppose you get in touch with her and let me know what she
says."
Mary went up-stairs to nurse her misery. It was out of the question to
refuse, yet she dreaded to obey. She could not call upon Mrs.
Rokeby-Jones; even a blind person could tell the difference between Nell
Norcross and Mary Wayne. She could not get Nell to go, for Nell was
still overcome by her adventures at the party. She could not send a
letter, because the writing would betray her. She could telephone,
perhaps; but would Mrs. Rokeby-Jones detect a strange voice? And even if
she succeeded in imposture over the wire, how was she to approach the
matter of an invitation to the home of a stranger?
After much anguished thought, she decided upon the telephone.
"But even if she consents," murmured Mary, "I'll never dare meet her
face to face."
A connection was made in disconcertingly short time and Mary, after
talking with a person who was evidently the butler, held the wire, the
receiver trembling in her fingers. And then a clear, cool voice----
"Well? Who is it?"
"This--this is Miss Norcross talking," and then Mary held her breath.
"Miss who?"
"Norcross. Miss Norcross."
"Do I know you? Have I met you?" said the voice on the wire.
"This is Nell Norcross." Mary was raising her voice.
"Yes; I hear the name. But I don't place you."
"Miss Norcross--formerly your secretary."
There was an instant's pause. Then the cool voice again:
"Perhaps you have the wrong number. This is Mrs. Rokeby-Jones talking."
"Then I have the right number," said Mary, wrinkling her forehead in
perplexity. "I used to be your secretary--Miss Norcross."
"But I have never had a secretary by that name," said Mrs. Rokeby-Jones.
Mary gasped.
"But the reference you gave me! Don't you remember?"
"I have an excellent memory," the voice said. "I have never employed any
person named Miss Norcross, I never knew anybody by that name and I
certainly never supplied a reference to any such person. You are
laboring under some mistake."
"But--but----"
"Good-by."
And Mrs. Rokeby-Jones hung up.
Mary slowly replaced the receiver and sat staring at the telephone. A
blow between the eyes could not have stunned her more effectually. Mrs.
Rokeby-Jones had repudiated her reference!
Presently she rallied. She ran to her own room and began dressing for
the street. She felt that she must escape from the house in order to
think. At all costs she must avoid Aunt Caroline until she had been able
to untangle this dismaying snarl. A few minutes later she made certain
of that by slipping down the rear staircase and leaving the house by a
side entrance.
Fifteen minutes later she was at Nell's boarding-house, impatiently
ringing the bell.
Nell was propped up in a rocker, looking very wan as Mary entered, but
brightening as she recognized her visitor. Mary drew a chair and sat
opposite.
"A most embarrassing thing has happened," she said. "I have just had
Mrs. Rokeby-Jones on the telephone."
Nell stifled an exclamation.
"And she doesn't remember me--or you, rather--or anybody named
Norcross!"
"Oh, my dear!"
"It's the truth, Nell. Oh, I never felt so queer in my life."
Nell moistened her lips and stared with incredulous eyes.
"What--what made you call her up?" she faltered.
"Because I couldn't help it. I was forced to."
And Mary explained the further ambitions of Aunt Caroline and what they
had led to.
"Oh, it was shocking, Nell! What did she mean? How dared she do it?"
"I--I---- Oh, Mary!"
"But how could she?" persisted Mary. "That's what I don't understand.
Even if my voice sounded strange I don't see how she could. Why did she
deny that she ever wrote a reference?"
Nell Norcross pressed a hand to her lips to keep them from quivering. In
her eyes there was something that suggested she had seen a ghost. Slowly
she began to rock to and fro in her chair, making a gurgling in her
throat. Then she whimpered.
"B-because she never wrote it!" she moaned.
"Why--Nell. Oh, Heavens!"
Mary suddenly seemed to have become as frightened as Nell. She glanced
quickly over her shoulder, as though expecting to face an eavesdropper.
Then she sprang up, went to the door and locked it.
"Nell Norcross, tell me what you mean!"
"She--she didn't write it. Oh, Mary! Oh--please!"
For Mary had taken her by the shoulders and was pushing her rigidly
against the back of the chair.
"Who wrote it?" demanded Mary.
"I did."
It required several seconds for Mary to absorb this astounding
confession. Then:
"You forged it?"
"I--I wrote it. It isn't forgery, is it? I won't go to jail, will I? Oh,
Mary, don't let them----"
Mary shook her somewhat roughly.
"Tell me more about it," she commanded. "Did you lose the reference she
gave you? Or did she refuse to give you one?"
Nell shook her head miserably.
"It's worse than that," she sobbed. "I--I never set eyes on the woman in
my life."
Mary collapsed into her own chair. She seemed to hear the cool, clear
voice of Mrs. Rokeby-Jones calmly denying. Now it was taking an
accusative tone. She flushed to a deep red. The memory of that telephone
conversation appalled her.
"But the other references?" she managed to whisper.
"All the same."
"All! You wrote them yourself?"
Nell answered with a feeble nod.
"Every one of them?"
"Every one."
"And do you know any of the women who--whose names are signed?"
"Two--one of them by sight."
"Nell Norcross!"
But Nell had reached a fine stage of tears and there was nothing to be
had out of her for several minutes. Then Mary managed to calm her.
"Now, tell me about it," she said. "And stop crying, because it won't do
a bit of good."
Nell swallowed a sob and mopped at her eyes.
"I--I was in the same fix that you were," she said shakily. "Only I
guess I was that way longer. I didn't have any job, and I couldn't get
one--without references. You understand?"
Mary nodded. Indeed she did understand.
"I worked in a furrier's; one of the Fifth Avenue places. Stenographer,
and I helped on the books, too. And then--well, I had to leave. It
wasn't my fault; honestly, Mary. I couldn't stay there because of the
way he acted. And of course I wouldn't--I couldn't--ask him for
references."
Nell was quieting down, and Mary nodded again, to encourage her.
"Well you know how it is trying to get a job without any references. No
decent place will take you. I kept it up for weeks. Why, I couldn't even
get a trial. When I couldn't get references, or even refer them to the
last place, they'd look at me as if I were trying to steal a job."
"I know," murmured Mary. "They'd look at me, too."
"So I got desperate. You know what that is, too. I had to have a job or
starve. And I had to have references--so I wrote them!"
"Oh, Nell!"
Nell looked up defiantly.
"Well, what else could I do? And I didn't harm anybody, did I? I didn't
say anything about myself that wasn't true. All I did was to use some
good names. And not one of them would ever have known if you hadn't
called that woman up on the telephone. They were all customers of the
place where I worked. I knew their names and addresses. I couldn't go
and ask them to give me references, could I? I couldn't even do that
with the one I'd spoken to. So I got some stationery and wrote myself
references--that's all."
Mary pondered the confession.
"If it had only been one reference," she began, "but you had five or
six."
"I only intended to write one," declared Nell. "But what was the use of
being a piker, I thought. So--well I plunged."
"Yes; you plunged," agreed Mary. "And now look at the fix I'm in."
"But you've got a wonderful place!"
Mary smiled bitterly.
"Oh, yes; it's wonderful enough. I'm not only holding it under a false
name, but now it turns out that even the references were false.
And"--she looked sharply at Nell as something else occurred to
her--"perhaps it doesn't end even there. Tell me--is your name really
Nell Norcross?"
"Why, Mary Wayne! Of course it is!"
"Well, how could I be sure. I'm false; the references are false. Why
couldn't your name be false, too? That would be the finishing touch;
that would leave me--nowhere. And I'm just about there, as it is."
"But I _am_ Nell Norcross, I tell you. I can prove that."
"Oh, I suppose so," said Mary, wearily. "So am I Nell Norcross,
according to the references. If you've committed a crime, I suppose I
have, too. They call it compounding it, don't they? Oh, we're both in; I
dare say I'm in deeper than you, because I've been taking money for it."
"You haven't cheated them, have you? You've worked for it."
"Yes, I've worked. But--why, in Heaven's name, Nell, didn't you tell me
all this before I started?"
"I was too sick."
"You weren't too sick to give me the references and send me off to take
the job."
"But I was too sick not to have you take it," said Nell. "One of us had
to go to work. And if I'd told you, you wouldn't have done it."
"That's true enough," assented Mary. "I wouldn't have dared. It took all
the nerve I had, as it was. But now what am I going to do?"
"Why, you'll go right on sticking to your job, of course."
"And keep on being a liar, and a hypocrite, and a falsifier, and maybe
some kind of a forger---- Why, I believe I am a forger! I signed your
name to some kind of a bail bond!"
"Oh, well; you told me the case was settled, Mary. So you don't have to
worry about that."
"I can worry about my conscience if I like," declared Mary, resentfully.
"Yes; but you can't eat your conscience, or buy clothes with it, or hire
a room--or anything."
Mary stared down at the floor for a while.
"I suppose I've got to keep on taking care of you until you're well,"
she remarked.
Nell winced.
"I--I hate to be a charity patient," she faltered. "I'll make it all up
to you some time. But if you'll only keep on for the present----"
Mary reached forward impulsively and took her hands.
"I don't mean to suggest that," she said. "You're not a charity patient;
you got my job for me. Of course I'll look out for you, Nell. I'll see
it through somehow, as long as it's necessary. There; don't worry,
dear. I'm not angry. I'm just staggered."
Nell leaned forward and kissed her.
"You're a darling!" she said. "And just as soon as I'm strong I'll get a
job for myself."
Mary looked at her thoughtfully.
"Yes," she said slowly, "I suppose you might write yourself some more
references."
"Mary Wayne!"