"Take it off."
Marian obeyed, very slowly, then threw herself at the side of the couch
sobbing. "Edith, Edith," she cried, "don't be so cross to me! I am so
dreadfully unhappy!"
"Marian, dearest, I'm not cross, but I want you to be a sensible girl.
The happiness of your whole life is at stake, and I want you to be
brave--it is now or never with Mr. Thomas Drayton. If you let him
torture you now for his own amusement, he will do it all his life!"
"I'll try, Edith, but you don't know how it hurts."
"Yes, I do know, dear; I've been through it myself. Now listen. First,
no more tears or reproaches. Secondly, don't allude to his absence, nor
to the Perkins girl. Thirdly, you must find some one else at once."
"That's as bad as what he is doing, isn't it?"
"_Similia similibus curantur_," laughed Edith. "Joe's friend, Jackson,
is coming to the city for a month or so, and he'll do nicely. He's
awfully handsome, and a perfectly outrageous flirt. He always singles
out one girl, however, and devotes himself to her, so we won't have any
trouble on that score. People who don't know Jackson, think that he's
in deadly earnest, but I don't believe he ever had a serious thought in
his life."
"I think I have seen him," said Marian. "Wasn't he at the Charity Ball
with you and Mr. Bently last year?"
"Yes, he was there, but only for a few minutes. Now, let's see--to-day
is Thursday. Have you seen Tom this week?"
Marian hesitated. "N-no, that is, not since Sunday. But I think he will
come this afternoon."
"Very well, my dear, you have an engagement for the rest of the day
with me. Run home and put on your prettiest gown. We'll go to the Art
Gallery and call on Mrs. Kean later. We both owe her a call, and I'll
look for you at two."
Promptly at two o'clock Marian appeared with all traces of tears
smoothed away. "You'll do," said Edith. "I believe you're a
thoroughbred after all."
At the Art Gallery they met what Mrs. Bently termed "the insufferable
Perkins" clad in four different colours and looking for all the world
like a poster. She was extremely pleasant, and insisted upon showing
them a picture which was "one of Mr. Drayton's favourites."
Miss Reynolds adjusted her lorgnette critically. "Yes, I think this is
about the only picture in this exhibit which Tom and I both like. I'm
so glad that you approve of our taste, Miss Perkins," and Marian smiled
sweetly.
Edith squeezed her arm rapturously as they moved away. "I'm proud of
you. Those pictures were hung only day before yesterday. Why, there's
Joe."
Mr. Bently greeted them cordially. "Jackson came this morning, Edith,
and I have asked him to dine with us Monday evening."
"That will be charming. Marian is coming to visit us over Sunday and I
think they will like each other."
"I hope so," was Mr. Bently's rejoinder. "It's really good of you
to come, Miss Reynolds, for I very seldom see you, and Jackson is a
capital fellow."
"Come, Marian," said Edith, "you know we were going to make a call."
"Always going somewhere, aren't you, sweetheart?" and Mr. Bently smiled
lovingly at his pretty wife.
"Never far away from you, dear," she answered and waved her hand to him
as the crowd swept them apart.
"You're going to stay all night with me, you know," Edith said.
"We'll stop at your house on our way back, and leave word with your
mother--incidentally we can learn if any one has called."
It was almost dark when they reached Marian's home, and Edith waited
in the hall, while she went in search of her mother. As she came
down-stairs, Mrs. Bently held up a small white card, triumphantly.
Marian's face flushed as she saw the name.
"_Mr. Thomas E. Drayton._"
"It's all right," said her friend, "just wait and see."
Friday morning, the servant who admitted Marian, said that Mr. Drayton
had called the previous evening and left some flowers which Miss
Reynolds would find in the library.
A great bunch of American Beauties stood on the table, and almost
overpowered her with their fragrance.
"Dear, dear Tom! He _does_ love me," she thought. "I'll write him a
note."
She sat down to her desk without removing her hat. "Perhaps I've been
mistaken all along." The words shaped themselves under her pen: "My
Dearest." Then she stopped and surveyed it critically. "Not in the
present incarnation of Miss Reynolds." She tore the sheet straight
across, and dropped it into the waste basket. Taking another, she
wrote:
"MY DEAR TOM:
"The roses are beautiful. I am passionately fond of flowers--of roses
especially, and I must thank you for the really great pleasure the
'Beauties' are giving me.
"Sincerely yours,
"MARIAN REYNOLDS."
Over his coffee the next morning Tom studied the little note. "I wonder
what's the matter. 'My Dear Tom'! 'Marian Reynolds' and not a bit of
love in it. It isn't the least bit like her. I must go and see her this
afternoon. No, I'll be hanged if I will, she had no business to be
out," and he chewed a toothpick savagely. "I'll ask her to go to the
theatre."
After much cogitation, he evolved a note which struck him as being a
marvel of diplomacy.
"MY DEAR MARIAN:
"I am glad the roses give you pleasure. Will you go to the theatre
with me on Monday evening?
"Yours in haste,
"TOM."
Marian's reply was equally concise:
"MY DEAR TOM:
"I am very sorry that I have an engagement for Monday evening and
cannot possibly break it. You know I enjoy the theatre above all
things, and I am sure I should have an especially pleasant evening
with you.
"Sincerely,
"MARIAN REYNOLDS."
Tom grew decidedly uncomfortable. What the mischief was the matter
with the girl! One thing was certain, next time he called, it would be
at her invitation. But the following afternoon found him again at the
house.
"Miss Reynolds is out, sir," said the servant as he opened the door, in
response to his ring.
"I know," he responded impatiently; "I want to return a book I borrowed
the other day."
"Certainly, sir," and the servant ushered him into the library.
He put the book in its place, and his glance, travelling downward met
the waste basket. Marian's distinctive penmanship stared him in the
face. "My Dearest!"
Mr. Thomas Drayton was an honourable gentleman, but he wanted to
examine that waste-paper basket. He rushed out of the library, lest he
should yield to the temptation, and said to the servant in the hall:
"Say nothing of my having been here to-day, Jones."
"Certainly not, sir."
"The book is a joke on Miss Reynolds," he said putting a silver half
dollar in Jones's ready palm.
"All right, sir, I see." And Tom went out.
Before he reached the avenue, he was mentally kicking himself for
explaining to a servant. He had of course noticed the roses on the
table, and he was very sure they had not been in Marian's room.
Once she had told him, how she had slept with one of the roses next
her heart, and a thorn had pricked the flesh, making a red spot on a
white petal. She showed him the rose with its tiny blood stain. He had
kissed the flower and put it in a little memorandum book with a gold
clasp. And he had told Marian, over and over again, what a horrid rose
it was--to hurt his sweetheart. He smiled grimly at his own previous
foolishness, and felt sure that none of the American Beauties would
rest next to Marian's heart that night.
Miss Reynolds and Mrs. Bently sat in the latter's boudoir. Edith nodded
sagely over Tom's note, and Marian was curled up in a forlorn heap on
the couch.
"How does he usually begin his notes to you?"
"'My Dearest Girl,' or 'Dear Sweetheart,'" answered Marian.
"H'm! Well, my dear, you may depend upon it, he is 'beginning to take
notice.'"
Sunday, Tom spent morosely at his club, and was so disagreeable that
his friends were very willing to give him a wide berth. Marian was
neither cheerful nor happy, and wept copiously in private, fancying Tom
worshipping at the shrine of Miss Perkins.
Monday evening she and Edith dressed together. Marian had a new gown of
that peculiar shade of blue which seems to be especially made for brown
eyes and hair, and looked, as her friend told her, "simply stunning."
"Joe has a box at the theatre to-night. Isn't he lovely?"
Marian assented, but inwardly hoped that Tom would not hear of her
being there.
Mr. Sterling Jackson was a very pleasant fellow, with an inexhaustible
fund of humour. He devoted himself to Marian and looked unutterable
things whenever opportunity offered. Handsome, he certainly was, and
she was secretly flattered by his evident adoration. Tom didn't matter
quite so much now.
At the theatre Marian sat in the front of an upper box beside Mrs.
Bently. The devoted Jackson leaned forward and talked to her in subdued
tones. After the first act, Edith whispered to her:
"Don't look, nor turn pale, nor do anything rash, but Mr. Thomas
Drayton is down in the parquet with Miss Matilda Perkins." Marian
turned white and grasped the rail of the box. "Don't faint till I tell
you. He hasn't taken his eyes off you since he first saw you, and I
don't believe he has seen the stage at all. Perkins is simply green
with rage, and I wish you could see her hat. It's a dream in pink and
yellow--an equine dream."
Marian's colour returned, and conscious of looking her best, she
flirted outrageously with the ever willing Jackson, though she confided
to Edith at the end of the second act, that she was "perfectly
wretched."
"Nobody suspects it," returned Mrs. Bently, "least of all Tom. He's
chewing Perkins's fan, and she's trying to draw him out."
For the remainder of the week Mr. Drayton studiously avoided the
Reynolds mansion. Marian had been seen on the Boulevard with the
odious Jackson, and Miss Perkins had suddenly lost her charm. Marian
was always at home on Tuesdays. Next week he would drop in, in the
afternoon, and see how the land lay.
Mrs. Bently had heard, through her husband, that Drayton had gone out
of the city, and the intelligence was promptly conveyed to Marian.
The solitaire lay in a corner of Marian's chatelaine bag. She meditated
the propriety of sending it back, but Edith would not hear of it.
Her heart ached constantly for Tom, and she flirted feverishly with
Jackson. "I am at home Tuesdays," she said one evening when he left
her. "Come in for a little while and I will give you a cup of tea."
He came early and found her alone. They chatted for a few minutes, and
then Mr. Thomas Drayton was announced. The two men were civil to each
other, but Marian felt their mutual irritation, and was relieved when
Jackson rose to take his departure. He crossed the room to Tom and
shook hands. "I am very glad to have met you, Mr. Drayton. I am sure we
shall meet often, if you find Miss Reynolds as charming as I do." He
bowed politely to Marian and went out.
"The insufferable cad!" thought Tom. He shivered, and Marian hastened
to the tea table.
"It's awfully cold outside," she said, "and these rooms are not any too
warm. I'll make you some tea. You take two lumps of sugar, don't you?"
Tom said nothing. Marian's pretty hands hovered over the teacups, and
he noticed that the left one was ringless.
"Don't you wear your solitaire any more, Marian?" His voice was strange
and she was half afraid.
"Oh, yes," she responded brightly, "sometimes. The points of the
setting catch in my glove though, and I am afraid of loosening the
stone."
"Marian, don't you care for me?"
"Certainly."
"How much?"
"As much as you care for me, I think, don't you?"
He went over and put his arm around her. She shrank a little at his
touch, but he pulled her down on the sofa beside him.
"Marian, darling, tell me what the matter is. I know I don't deserve
you, and I'll go, if you say I must. Has that fellow Jackson come
between us?"
Marian disregarded one of Edith's injunctions. "Perhaps it's Miss
Perkins."
Tom said a very emphatic swear word, which does not look well in print,
then buried his head in one of the sofa cushions. She was frightened
and sank down on her knees beside him, her armor of self-defence
vanishing in womanly pity. "Tom, dear Tom! What is it? Tell me!"
He straightened up and lifted her to the sofa beside him.
"I see, sweetheart, I've been a fool and a great deal worse than that.
Can you ever forgive me?"
"One thing first, Tom, do you love me?"
"Marian, dear, I never knew until this last wretched week, just how
much you meant to me. I am yours, body and soul, to do with what you
will. I have no right to insult you, Marian, but will you take me
back?" His voice trembled with the agony of love and pain, as she
drew the solitaire out of the chatelaine bag at her belt. She held it
silently toward him.
"Darling, is it good-bye?"
"No, dear, I want you to put it back."
And that evening, in accordance with instructions, the servant said to
Mr. Sterling Jackson, "Miss Reynolds is out."