FOR a week or more Gloria neither saw nor heard from the girl. At the
end of that time she did, to her surprise, encounter the erstwhile
bogus Sir Montrose without his hirsute adornments and in his proper
person of Mr. Jacob Remsen, sauntering idly along the Park. Hailing
him, she took him into her taxi. Mr. Remsen was not looking his
customary sunny self.
“Did the law’s minions catch you in spite of your whiskers?” she asked.
“No. Case was compromised. So I’ve come back.”
“And what are you going to do now?”
“I’m going to work.”
“Work! You?” said the actress with unfeigned and unflattering surprise.
“Why? What’s the answer?”
“Ambition,” replied Mr. Remsen in a lifeless voice.
“Sounds more like penal servitude,” commented Gloria. “And what is to
be the scene of your violent endeavors?”
“Ask the Government,” he replied wearily. “Washington, maybe. Or
perhaps San Francisco or Savannah. Or right here in New York, for all I
know.”
“Jerusalem and Madagascar
And North and South Amerikee,”
quoted the other. “Are you about to become an American courier for the
peripatetic Mr. Cook, his agency?”
“Got a chance to go into the Treasury Department,” answered Remsen
gloomily.
“Don’t give up heart,” she encouraged him. “Strong young men like you
often survive the rigors of that life. Pity they don’t send you to
London, where your monocle and your accent would be appreciated. By the
way, have you seen your quondam fiancée since your return?”
“No,” said Remsen.
Gloria, noting that he winced much as Darcy had winced, wondered, and
turned the talk to other topics which gave her opportunity to revolve
the problem of the two masqueraders in her mind. That there was a
problem she was now well assured. She took it to luncheon with her,
after dropping one of the subjects of it, and came to a conclusion
characteristic of her philosophy and worthy of a mathematician; namely,
that the figures in any problem work out their own solution if properly
arranged. She decided to do the arranging after luncheon by telephone.
She sent word to Darcy to meet her at the studio without fail at five.
Then she got Remsen at his club and told him that a matter of
importance had come up about which she wanted to see him at her place
about five-fifteen. Whether she herself could get through her
engagements and be back home at that hour she did not know nor
particularly care. Her duties as hostess did not weigh heavily upon her
in this respect. Let Jack or Darcy or both reach the place before her;
it didn’t greatly matter. Perhaps it would even be better that way.
Furthermore, Gloria Greene was very deeply and happily preoccupied with
certain affairs of her most intimate own, which will serve to explain a
slight vagueness in her usually accurate schedules, with consequences
quite unforeseen by her managerial self. For one of Miss Greene’s
errands that day had been to send a vitally important telegram which
called for an answer in person on the following day. That the answer in
person might arrive that same day she had not reckoned. She had
consulted only railway time-tables, forgetting that
far-and-swift-flying chariot of Cupid, the high-powered automobile.
ALL things threaten a guilty conscience.
Haunted by the unlaid ghost of Sir Montrose Veyze, Darcy, on receipt of
Gloria’s message, fearfully anticipated that some new complication had
arisen. Having concluded a satisfactory interview with B. Riegel & Sons
(whose representative was impressed anew with her splendor) she reached
Gloria’s studio a little before the appointed time. The place was
empty. For a few moments she idled about, examining the new pictures,
glancing casually at books, and presently drifted to the piano seat.
Insensibly guided by memories, her fingers wandered into the little,
soothing cradle-song which she had first heard in that very spot from
Jack Remsen’s lips. Long ago, it seemed; so long ago! Once she played
it through, and then in her tender and liquid voice she crooned it
softly.
She did not hear the door open and close. But she felt a light draught
of air, and the next instant a man’s figure loomed through the
gathering dusk, a man’s strong hands fell on her shoulders, and a man’s
glad voice cried:
“Dearest!”
“Oh!” exclaimed Darcy in consternation. “Good Lord!” ejaculated the
newcomer in an altered and horrified tone.
Darcy turned to confront Thomas Harmon. She had seen him but once, but
she carried the clearest memory of his quiet eyes, his vital
personality, his big, light-moving, active frame, and his persuasively
friendly manner. Mr. Harmon was a person not easy to forget. Now he was
covered with confusion.
“I—I _really_ beg your pardon,” he stammered. “It was inexcusably
stupid of me.” Darcy held out her hand, smiling. “I’m Darcy Cole, Mr.
Harmon,” she said. “And I have a great deal to thank you for.”
“Me?” said the big man in surprise. “I’d be glad to think so, but—”
“But you don’t know why,” she concluded, kindly intent on putting him
at his ease. (Darcy, who a year before would have been on live coals of
embarrassment before any strange man!) “You gave me a refuge at Boulder
Brook when I very much needed one.”
“Oh! So you’re Gloria’s—Miss Greene’s little friend. I hope they made
you comfortable.”
“Didn’t you get a note from me telling you how delightful your place
is?”
“No. But, you see, I’ve been away. Just got in.”
They stood looking at each other for a moment, the girl demure but
dimpling, the man still in some confusion of spirit. Then, encouraged
perhaps by the dimples, perhaps by some aura of fellowship and
understanding which exhaled from the girl, Hannon burst out boyishly:
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Miss Darcy, and I believe you’re a—well, a
good fellow.”
“I am,” Darcy assured him with absolute conviction.
“Well, after the break I made I’ve got to tell somebody or _bust_.”
“Tell me,” invited the girl. “Whom did you think I was when you rushed
on me?”
“Gloria, of _course!_”
“Gloria!”
Although untrained in fancy gymnastics, Darcy’s brain whirled around
ten times in one direction, clicked, and whirled around ten times on
the reverse. She put her hand to her head dizzily, striving to readjust
her thoughts.
“Isn’t it very sudden?” she faltered.
“About as sudden as Jacob’s little affair with Rachel,” laughed Harmon.
“It’s been a seven-year siege on my part.”
“But, Gloria—”
“Oh, it’s been a heap suddener for Gloria. In fact she only—I only got
the word to-day. And here I am.” He examined the girl’s troubled face.
“You don’t look exactly pleased,” he added, crestfallen.
“Indeed, you mustn’t think that,” she cried earnestly. “But I—I—I
thought it was Mr. Remsen.” In her bewilderment she blundered on. “I
saw her k-k-k-” Too late she strove to catch herself on the brink of a
shameful betrayal.
“You saw her kiss Jack,” he interpreted, smiling. “He’s a sort of a
third cousin or something, and a privileged character, anyway.”
“I didn’t know,” answered the girl. Then, recovering herself: “Oh, Mr.
Harmon, I _am_ so glad. I believe you’re just as fine as Gloria is—and
that’s the most any one could say.”
“My dear,” he said more gravely. “Nobody on earth is that. But—well, I
want to shout and sing and—Play your music again, won’t you? Maybe
that’ll help.”
Maybe, thought Darcy, it would help her, too; for she also wanted to
shout and sing, and, most contradictorily, to hide and cry—and wait.
Forgetful, in the turmoil of her mind, of the pledge to Jack Remsen
about the little song which was to be their one keepsake of those
enchanted days in the mountains, she turned back to the piano and
hummed the melody.
“It’s built for a second part,” commented Harmon. “Do you mind if I try
it?”
So she went over it again, and he struck in, in a clear, charming
barytone, and with a singularly happy inspiration of a tenor part. Over
and over it they went, she suggesting, and he perfecting his second;
and they were still at it when the door opened again, upon deaf ears.
In the hallway Jack Remsen stopped dead. The first thing of which he
was conscious was that the voice of the girl he loved and had continued
to love against every dictate of conscience and honor was running like
sweet fire through his veins again. Instantly the fire became bitter
and scorching. For there was another voice, accompanying and fulfilling
hers, the barytone which she had adduced as one of her British lover’s
chief charms.
(Remsen had to admit the quality of the voice, now raised in _his_
song. The song which she had promised to keep as his and hers; the one
thing which he might claim of her!)
A hot anger rose in his heart and as quickly faded. Why shouldn’t she
sing that song with her lover? At most it was an idle promise which he
had had no right to exact. He conquered an impulse to turn and leave.
No; the thing had to be faced. Might as well face it now. When the
chords died down he advanced to the door and spoke.
Darcy whirled on her seat, and rose, very white. His one glance told
Remsen that she was lovelier than ever. Then everything was swallowed
up in the amazement of finding Hannon there. Harmon—alone in the dusk
with Darcy where he had expected to find the fiancé—his song—and that
charming, clear barytone of which Darcy had boasted in Sir Montrose!
An explanation came to his mind, light in the darkness. It was just
another masquerade—Darcy apparently specialized in them—and Veyze had
been but a blind for Harmon, the real lover in the background, all the
time. He felt Harmon wringing his hand in welcome and heard himself
saying with a creditable affect of heartiness:
“Then I suppose it’s you that I’m to congratulate.”
“It is,” returned the other, chuckling joyously. “Though how on earth
you knew it I can’t conceive.”
“Isn’t it evident enough?” said Jack.
He marched over to Darcy. She saw him changed, thinned, with lines in
his smooth face; lines of thoughtfulness, of self-control, of achieved
manhood, and her heart was in her eyes as they met his and drooped.
“And you,” he said. “I wish you every happiness. I couldn’t wish you
better than Tom Harmon.”
“_What!_” cried that complimented but astounded gentleman. “Me? Miss
Darcy?”
“Well, if it isn’t you,” said Jack lifelessly, looking from one to the
other: “will you kindly tell—”
“It _is_ me, but it isn’t her,” broke in Harmon, with the superb
disregard of grammar suitable to the occasion. “Man alive, it’s
_Gloria!_”
As if in confirmation, Gloria’s voice came to them, down the hallway.
“Darcy! Where are you, child?”
Two chairs which foolishly attempted to impede Mr. Thomas Harmon’s
abrupt and athletic progress across the floor were sent to the janitor
next day.
“Tom!” cried Gloria’s voice in a breathless and different tone. Then
the door slammed.
Jack Remsen turned to Darcy. “So that’s it, is it?” he said slowly.
“That,” answered Darcy, “is it. Isn’t it splendid!”
“Couldn’t be splendider—for those most concerned. What about the rest
of it?”
“The rest of it?” Her brows were raised in dainty puzzlement, but her
eyes refused to meet his.
“Where is Veyze?”
“On his way back to the East, I understand,” said Darcy carefully.
“When is he coming over?”
“Not at all.”
“Are you going over there—to England?”
“No.”
“You’re not looking me in the face.”
“I—I don’t want to look you in the face. You’re not pretty when you
make a—a catechism of yourself.”
“Darcy,” said Remsen, “there’s been something queer about this Veyze
business from the start. As long as I could help I did, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” said the girl quite low.
“And I asked no questions?”
“No,” she said, even lower.
“But now I’ve got to know. I’ve got a right to know.”
“Why?” It was the merest whisper. “Because I’ve come back loving you
more than when you left me. I wouldn’t have believed it possible. But
it’s so. Every hope and wish of my heart is bound up in you. Darcy, is
it broken off between you and Montrose Veyze?”
She raised her eyes to his. The color flushed and trembled adorably in
her face. She spoke, clear and sweet as music.
“There never was anything between me and Sir Montrose Veyze.”
“You mean,” said the astounded Remsen, “that you were only
acquaintances?”
“If Sir Montrose walked into the room this minute I shouldn’t know
him.”
“But, how—”
“I made it up. All. Every bit of it.” She put her hands together in a
posture of half-mocking plea. “Please, sir, do I have to tell you the
whole shameful story?”
He caught the hands between his. “There’s only one thing you have to
tell me, Darcy. Shall I tell you what it is?”
There was no need. The hands stole to his shoulders, and then around
his neck. “Oh, I do! I do!” she breathed. “There never was any Veyze,
or any engagement, or anything or anybody—but—just—you.”
“But, Darcy, love,” he demanded, holding her close, “why wouldn’t you
give me a chance, when we were at Boulder Brook?”
“I—I—I thought it was G-g-g-gloria with you, all the time.”
“You didn’t! How could you miss seeing that I was mad about you from
the first? Why didn’t you tell me what you thought?”
With her cheek against his and her lips at his ear, she confessed,
between soft, quick catchings of the breath:
“Because I was afraid—of letting you see how much I cared. I—I’ve been
such a little fool, Jack, dear. And—and about the Veyze thing—I’m a
cheat—and an awful little liar—and—and—and—and a forger, I guess. But
it never hurt anybody but myself—and I’ve been loving you all the
time—until my heart—almost broke.”
“I’m pretty good at those crimes myself,” returned her lover
comfortingly. “And worse. I’ve robbed a mail-box. When did you ever
descend to such desperate depths as that?”
“I tried to kill my trainer,” retorted Darcy proudly; “and he’s the
best friend I ever had except Gloria. He’s the one that made me
presentable.”
“I’ll ask him to be best man,” said her lover promptly. “As for our
crimes, I’ll tell you, darling of my heart; let’s turn over a new leaf
and live straight and happy ever after.”
“Let’s,” agreed Darcy with a sigh of happiness.
Half an hour later Tom Harmon and Gloria outside heard music, the
cradling measures of the little song, and crept to the door hand in
hand. They caught the mention of Boulder Brook and shamelessly
listened. The pair within were already future-building on Tom Harmon’s
property.
“And we’ll get on that same train right after the wedding,” said
Remsen.
“And get off at Weirs,” added the prospective bride.
“And have the festive native there to meet us with ‘th’ ole boat.’”
“And take that awful, bumpy road slower than we did before.”
“And go straight to the Farmhouse—”
“I’m sorry, children,” the rightful owner of the coolly appropriated
property broke in upon their dreams; “but you can’t have the
Farmhouse.”
“Oh!” said Darcy, hastily moving north-by-west on the piano seat.
“That’s taken,” explained Harmon, beaming upon Gloria, “for another
couple.”
“Heaven bless ’em!” said Jack heartily. “Thank you! You,” concluded
their past and future host, “may have the Bungalow.”