When Jimmy came home to luncheon that day, Aggie succeeded in getting a
general idea of the state of affairs in the Hardy household. Of course
Jimmy didn't tell the whole truth. Oh, no--far from it. In fact, he
appeared to be aggravatingly ignorant as to the exact cause of the Hardy
upheaval. Of ONE thing, however, he was certain. “Alfred was going to
quit Chicago and leave Zoie to her own devices.”
“Jimmy!” cried Aggie. “How awful!” and before Jimmy was fairly out of
the front gate, she had seized her hat and gloves and rushed to the
rescue of her friend.
Not surprised at finding Zoie in a state of collapse, Aggie opened her
arms sympathetically to receive the weeping confidences that she was
sure would soon come.
“Zoie dear,” she said as the fragile mite rocked to and fro. “What is
it?” She pressed the soft ringlets from the girl's throbbing forehead.
“It's Alfred,” sobbed Zoie. “He's gone!”
“Yes, I know,” answered Aggie tenderly. “Isn't it awful? Jimmy just told
me.”
“Jimmy told you WHAT?” questioned Zoie, and she lifted her head and
regarded Aggie with sudden uneasiness. Her friend's answer raised Jimmy
considerably in Zoie's esteem. Apparently he had not breathed a word
about the luncheon.
“Why, Jimmy told me,” continued Aggie, “that you and Alfred had had
another tiff, and that Alfred had gone for good.”
“For GOOD!” echoed Zoie and her eyes were wide with terror. “Did Alfred
tell Jimmy that?”
Aggie nodded.
“Then he MEANS it!” cried Zoie, at last fully convinced of the strength
of Alfred's resolve. “But he shan't,” she declared emphatically. “I
won't let him. I'll go after him. He has no right----” By this time she
was running aimlessly about the room.
“What did you do to him?” asked Aggie, feeling sure that Zoie was as
usual at fault.
“Nothing,” answered Zoie with wide innocent eyes.
“Nothing?” echoed Aggie, with little confidence in her friend's ability
to judge impartially about so personal a matter.
“Absolutely nothing,” affirmed Zoie. And there was no doubting that she
at least believed it.
“What does he SAY,” questioned Aggie diplomatically.
“He SAYS I 'hurt his soul.' Whatever THAT is,” answered Zoie, and
her face wore an injured expression. “Isn't that a nice excuse,” she
continued, “for leaving your lawful wedded wife?” It was apparent that
she expected Aggie to rally strongly to her defence. But at present
Aggie was bent upon getting facts.
“HOW did you hurt him?” she persisted.
“I ate lunch,” said Zoie with the face of a cherub.
“With whom?” questioned Aggie slyly. She was beginning to scent the
probable origin of the misunderstanding.
“It's of no consequence,” answered Zoie carelessly; “I wouldn't have
wiped my feet on the man.” By this time she had entirely forgotten
Aggie's proprietorship in the source of her trouble.
“But who WAS the man?” urged Aggie, and in her mind, she had already
condemned him as a low, unprincipled creature.
“What does that matter?” asked Zoie impatiently. “It's ANY man with
Alfred--you know that--ANY man!”
Aggie sank in a chair and looked at her friend in despair. “Why DO you
do these things,” she said wearily, “when you know how Alfred feels
about them?”
“You talk as though I did nothing else,” answered Zoie with an aggrieved
tone. “It's the first time since I've been married that I've ever eaten
lunch with any man but Alfred. I thought you'd have a little sympathy
with me,” she whimpered, “instead of putting me on the gridiron like
everyone else does.”
“Everyone else?” questioned Aggie, with recurring suspicion.
“I mean Alfred,” explained Zoie. “HE'S 'everyone else' to me.” And then
with a sudden abandonment of grief, she threw herself prostrate at her
friend's knees. “Oh, Aggie, what can I do?” she cried.
But Aggie was not satisfied with Zoie's fragmentary account of her
latest escapade. “Is that the only thing that Alfred has against you?”
she asked.
“That's the LATEST,” sniffled Zoie, in a heap at Aggie's feet. And then
she continued in a much aggrieved tone, “You know he's ALWAYS rowing
because we haven't as many babies as the cook has cats.”
“Well, why don't you get him a baby?” asked the practical, far-seeing
Aggie.
“It's too late NOW,” moaned Zoie.
“Not at all,” reassured Aggie. “It's the very thing that would bring him
back.”
“How COULD I get one?” questioned Zoie, and she looked up at Aggie with
round astonished eyes.
“Adopt it,” answered Aggie decisively.
Zoie regarded her friend with mingled disgust and disappointment. “No,”
she said with a sigh and a shake of her head, “that wouldn't do any
good. Alfred's so fussy. He always wants his OWN things around.”
“He needn't know,” declared Aggie boldly.
“What do you mean?” whispered Zoie.
Drawing herself up with an air of great importance, and regarding the
wondering young person at her knee with smiling condescension, Aggie
prepared to make a most interesting disclosure.
“There was a long article in the paper only this morning,” she told
Zoie, “saying that three thousand husbands in this VERY CITY are
fondling babies not their own.”
Zoie turned her small head to one side, the better to study Aggie's
face. It was apparent to the latter that she must be much more explicit.
“Babies adopted in their absence,” explained Aggie, “while they were on
trips around the country.”
A dangerous light began to glitter in Zoie's eyes.
“Aggie!” she cried, bringing her small hands together excitedly, “do you
think I COULD?”
“Why not?” asked Aggie, with a very superior air. Zoie's enthusiasm was
increasing her friend's admiration of her own scheme. “This same paper
tells of a woman who adopted three sons while her husband was in Europe,
and he thinks each one of them is his.”
“Where can we get some?” cried Zoie, now thoroughly enamoured of the
idea.
“You can always get TONS of them at the Children's Home,” answered Aggie
confidently.
“I can't endure babies,” declared Zoie, “but I'd do ANYTHING to get
Alfred back. Can we get one TO-DAY?” she asked.
Aggie looked at her small friend with positive pity. “You don't WANT one
TO-DAY,” she explained.
Zoie rolled her large eyes inquiringly.
“If you were to get one to-day,” continued Aggie, “Alfred would know it
wasn't yours, wouldn't he?”
A light of understanding began to show on Zoie's small features.
“There was none when he left this morning,” added Aggie.
“That's true,” acquiesced Zoie.
“You must wait awhile,” counselled Aggie, “and then get a perfectly new
one.”
But Zoie had never been taught to wait.
“Now Aggie----” she began.
Aggie continued without heeding her.
“After a few months,” she explained, “when Alfred's temper has had time
to cool, we'll get Jimmy to send him a wire that he has an heir.”
“A few months!” exclaimed Zoie, as though Aggie had suggested an
eternity. “I've never been away from Alfred that long in all my life.”
Aggie was visibly annoyed. “Well, of course,” she said coldly, as she
rose to go, “if you can get Alfred back WITHOUT that----”
“But I can't!” cried Zoie, and she clung to her friend as to her last
remaining hope.
“Then,” answered Aggie, somewhat mollified by Zoie's complete
submission. “THIS is the only way. The President of the Children's Home
is a great friend of Jimmy's,” she said proudly.
It was at this point that Zoie made her first practical suggestion.
“Then we'll LET JIMMY GET IT,” she declared.
“Of course,” agreed Aggie enthusiastically, as though they would be
according the poor soul a rare privilege. “Jimmy gives a hundred
dollars to the Home every Christmas,”--additional proof why he should be
selected for this very important office.
“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Zoie with shocked surprise. “If Alfred were to
give a hundred dollars to a Baby's Home, I should suspect him.”
“Don't be silly!” snapped Aggie curtly. In spite of her firm faith in
Jimmy's innocence, she was undoubtedly annoyed by Zoie's unpleasant
suggestion.
There was an instant's pause, then putting disagreeable thoughts from
her mind, Aggie turned to Zoie with renewed enthusiasm.
“We must get down to business,” she said, “we'll begin on the baby's
outfit at once.”
“Its what?” queried Zoie.
“Its clothes,” explained Aggie.
“Oh, what fun!” exclaimed Zoie, and she clapped her hands merrily like a
very small child. A moment later she stopped with sudden misgiving.
“But, Aggie,” she said fearfully, “suppose Alfred shouldn't come back
after I've got the baby? I'd be a widow with a child.”
“Oh, he's sure to come back!” answered Aggie, with a confident air.
“He'll take the first train, home.”
“I believe he will,” assented Zoie joyfully. All her clouds were again
dispelled. “Aggie,” she cried impulsively, “you are a darling. You have
just saved my life.” And she clasped her arms so tightly around Aggie's
neck that her friend was in danger of being suffocated.
Releasing herself Aggie continued with a ruffled collar and raised
vanity: “You can write him an insinuating letter now and then, just to
lead up to the good news gradually.”
Zoie tipped her small head to one side and studied her friend
thoughtfully. “Do you know, Aggie,” she said, with frank admiration, “I
believe you are a better liar than I am.”
“I'm NOT a liar,” objected Aggie vehemently, “at least, not often,” she
corrected. “I've never lied to Jimmy in all my life.” She drew herself
up with conscious pride. “And Jimmy has NEVER LIED TO ME.”
“Isn't that nice,” sniffed Zoie and she pretended to be searching for
her pocket-handkerchief.
But Aggie did not see her. She was glancing at the clock.
“I must go now,” she said. And she started toward the door.
“But, Aggie----” protested Zoie, unwilling to be left alone.
“I'll run in again at tea time,” promised Aggie.
“I don't mind the DAYS,” whined Zoie, “but when NIGHT comes I just MUST
have somebody's arms around me.”
“Zoie!” gasped Aggie, both shocked and alarmed.
“I can't help it,” confessed Zoie; “the moment it gets dark I'm just
scared stiff.”
“That's no way for a MOTHER to talk,” reproved Aggie.
“A mother!” exclaimed Zoie, horrified at the sudden realisation that
this awful appellation would undoubtedly pursue her for the rest of
her life. “Oh, don't call me that,” she pleaded. “You make me feel a
thousand years old.”
“Nonsense,” laughed Aggie, and before Zoie could again detain her she
was out of the room.
When the outside door had closed behind her friend, Zoie gazed about
the room disconsolately, but her depression was short-lived. Remembering
Aggie's permission about the letter, she ran quickly to the writing
table, curled her small self up on one foot, placed a brand new pen in
the holder, then drew a sheet of paper toward her and, with shoulders
hunched high and her face close to the paper after the manner of a
child, she began to pen the first of a series of veiled communications
that were ultimately to fill her young husband with amazement.