BALDY AS AMBASSADOR
Baldy Barnes faring forth to find Edith Towne on Sunday morning was a
figure as old as the ages--youth in quest of romance.
It was very cold and the clouds were heavy with wind. But neither cold
nor clouds could damp his ardor--at his journey’s end was a lady with
eyes of burning blue.
People were going to church as he came into the city and bells were
ringing, but presently he rode again in country silences. He crossed
the long bridge into Virginia and followed the road to the south.
It was early and he met few cars. Yet had the way been packed with
motors, he would have still been alone in that world of imagination
where he saw Edith Towne and that first wonderful moment of meeting.
So he entered Alexandria, passing through the narrow streets that speak
so eloquently of history. Beyond the town was another stretch of road
parallel to the broad stream, and at last an ancient roadside inn,
of red brick, with a garden at the back, barren now, but in summer a
tangle of bloom, with an expanse of reeds and water plants, extending
out into the river, and a low spidery boat-landing, which showed black
at this season above the ice.
For years the old inn had been deserted, until motor cars had brought
back its vanished glories. Once more its wide doors were open. There
was nothing pretentious about it. But Baldy knew its reputation for
genuine hospitality.
He wondered how Edith had kept herself hidden in such a place. It was
amazing that no one had discovered her. That some hint of her presence
had not been given to the newspapers.
He found her in a quaint sitting-room up-stairs. “I think,” she said to
him, as he came in, “that you are very good-natured to take all this
trouble for me----”
“It isn’t any trouble.” His assurance was gone. With her hat off she
was doubly wonderful. He felt his youth and inexperience, yet words
came to him, “And I didn’t do it for you, I did it for myself.”
She laughed. “Do you always say such nice things?”
“I shall always say them to you. And you mustn’t mind. Really,” Jane
would have recognized returning confidence in that cock of the head,
“I’m just a page--twanging a lyre.”
They laughed together. He was great fun, she decided, different.
“You are wondering, I fancy, how I happened to come here,” she said,
leaning back in her chair, her burnished hair against its faded
cushions. “Well, an old cook of Mother’s, Martha Burns, is the wife
of the landlord. She will do anything for me. I have had all my meals
up-stairs. I might be a thousand miles away for all my world knows of
me.”
“I was worried to death when I thought of you out in the storm.”
“And all the while I was sitting with my feet on the fender, reading
about myself in the evening papers.”
“And what you read was a-plenty,” said Baldy, slangily. “Some of those
reporters deserve to be shot.”
“Oh, they had to do it,” indifferently, “and what they have said is
nothing to what my friends are saying. It’s a choice morsel. Every girl
who ever wanted Del’s millions is crowing over the way he treated me.”
The look in his eyes disconcerted her. “Do you really think that?”
“Of course. We’re a greedy bunch.”
“I don’t like to hear you say such things.”
“Why not?”
“Because--you aren’t greedy. You know it. It wasn’t his millions you
were after.”
“What was I after? I wish you’d tell me. I don’t know.”
“Well, I think you just followed the flock. Other girls got married. So
you would marry. You didn’t know anything about love--or you wouldn’t
have done it.”
“How do you know I’ve never been in love?”
“Isn’t it true?”
“I suppose it is. I don’t know, really.”
“You’ll know some day. And you mustn’t ever think of yourself as
mercenary. You’re too wonderful for that--too--too fine----”
She realized in that moment that the boy was in earnest. That he was
not saying pretty things to her for the sake of saying them. He was
saying them all in sincerity. “It is nice of you to believe in me. But
you don’t know me. I am like the little girl with the curl. I can be
very, very good, but sometimes I am ‘horrid.’”
“You can’t make me think it.” He handed her a packet of letters. “Your
uncle sent these. There’s one from Simms on top.”
“I think I won’t read it. I won’t read any of them. It has been
heavenly to be away from things. I feel like a disembodied spirit,
looking on but having nothing to do with the world I have left.”
They were smiling now. “I can believe that,” Baldy said, “but I think
you ought to read Simms’ letter. You needn’t tell me you haven’t any
curiosity.”
“Well, I have,” she broke the envelope. “More than that I am madly
curious. I wouldn’t confess it though to anyone--but you.”
“They can cut me up in little pieces--before I break my silence.”
Again they laughed together. Then she broke the seal of the letter.
Read it through to herself, then read it a second time aloud.
“Now that it is all over, Edith, I want to tell you how it happened.
I know you think it is a rotten thing I did. But it would have been
worse if I had married you. I am in love with another woman, and I
did not find it out until the day of our wedding.
“She isn’t in the least to blame, and somehow I can’t feel that I
am quite the cad that everybody is calling me. Things are bigger
sometimes than ourselves. Fate just took me that morning--and swept
me away from you.
“It isn’t her fault. She wouldn’t go away with me, although I begged
her to do it. And she was right of course.
“She is poor, but she isn’t marrying me for my money. The world will
say she is--but the world doesn’t recognize the _real thing_. It has
come to me, and if it ever comes to you, you’re going to thank me
for this--but now you’ll hate me, and I’m sorry. You’re a beautiful,
wonderful woman--and I find no excuse for myself, except the one that
it would have been a crime under the circumstances to tie us to each
other.
“In spite of everything,
“Faithfully,
“DEL.”
There was a moment’s silence, as she finished. Then Edith said, “So
that’s that,” and tore the letter into little shreds. Her blue eyes
were like bits of steel.
“He’s right,” said Baldy. “I’d like to kill him for making you
unhappy--but the thing was bigger than himself.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Of course if you are going to
condone--dishonor----”
He was leaning forward hugging his knees. “I am not condoning anything.
But--I know this--that some day if you ever fall in love, you’ll
forgive----”
“I am not likely to fall in love,” coldly, “I’m too sensible----”
He studied her with his bright gray eyes. “Oh, no, you’re not. You’re
not in the least--sensible. You think you are because the men you’ve
met have been poor sticks who couldn’t make you care----”
“I’ve met some of the most distinguished men in America--and a few of
them have fallen in love with me----”
“Oh, I know. You’ve had strings of lovers--you’re too tremendously
lovely not to have. But they’ve all been afraid of you. No caveman
stuff--or anything like that. Isn’t that the truth?”
“I should hate a caveman.”
“Of course, but you wouldn’t be indifferent, and you’d end by
caring----”
“I dislike brutal types--intensely----”
He sat with his chin in his hand, his shoulders hunched up like a faun
or Pan at his pipes. “All cavemen aren’t brutal types. Some day I’m
going to paint a picture of a man carrying off a woman. And I’m going
to make him a slender young god--and she shall be a rather substantial
goddess--but she’ll go with him--his spirit shall conquer her----”
She looked at him in surprise. “Then you paint?”
“I’ll say I do. Terrible things--magazine covers. But in the back of my
mind there are masterpieces----”
He was a whimsical youngster, she decided. But no end interesting.
“I don’t believe your things are terrible. And I shall want to see
them----”
“You are going to see them. I have a studio in our garage. I sometimes
wonder what happens at night when my little Ford is left alone with my
fantasies. It must feel that it is fighting devils----”
He broke off to say, “I’m as garrulous as Jane. Please don’t let me
talk any more about myself.”
“Is Jane your sister?”
“Yes. And now let’s get down to realities. Your uncle wants you to come
home.”
“I’m not going. I know Uncle Fred. He’ll make me feel like a returned
prodigal. He’ll kill the fatted calf, but I’ll always know that there
were husks----”
“And hogs,” Baldy supplemented, dreamily. “Some people are like that.”
“He’s always been worshipped by women. And I didn’t fall at his feet.
That’s why we didn’t get on. He ruled his mother and his servants--and
he couldn’t rule me. And he’d run away to his affinities to be
comforted, and they’d tell him what a cat I was----”
“Affinities?”
“Oh, I call them that, because there has always been a procession of
them. Women he adores for the moment. But it never lasts, and they
spoil him to death--and I won’t spoil him. I like my own way, too,
sometimes, and I fight for it. And I am the only person in the world
who makes Uncle Frederick lose his temper. And he hates that. His
manners are lovely as a rule, but he simply blows up when we get into
an argument.”
She was not a goddess--she was intensely human--a soul fighting to be
free, and he wanted to help her fight.
“Look here,” he said suddenly, “if I were you I’d go back.”
“I will not.”
“I think you ought. Face things out. Let your uncle understand that
there are to be no postmortems. It is the only thing to do. You can’t
stay here forever.”
“Did Uncle Fred make you his ambassador?” coldly.
“He did not. When I came, I felt that I would do anything to keep you
away from home as long as you liked. But I don’t feel that way now.
You’ll just sit here and grow bitter about it--instead of thanking God
on your knees.”
He flung it at her, unexpectedly. There was a moment’s intense silence.
Then he said, “Oh, I hope you don’t think I am preaching----”
“No--no----” and suddenly her head went down on her arm, that beautiful
burnished head.
She was crying!
“I’m sorry,” he told her, huskily.
And again there was silence.
She hunted for her handkerchief, and he handed her his. “You needn’t
be sorry,” she said; “it seems--rather refreshing to have someone
say things like that. Oh, I wonder if you know how hard we are--and
cynical--the people of my set. And I don’t believe any of us
ever--thank God.”
She wiped her eyes, found her own handkerchief, and handed his back to
him. She did not know how he treasured it--afterward--a chalice for her
tears. She found it many years later--shut away in a box with a sprig
of heliotrope.
They talked for an hour after that. “There is no reason why you should
hurry back,” Baldy said, “but I’d let your uncle tell people where you
are. Then the papers will drop it, don’t you see?”
“I see. Of course I’ve been silly--but you can’t think how I suffered.”
She would not have admitted it to anyone else. But she met his
sincerity with her own.
“I was going to have our lunch served up here,” she said, “but I think
I won’t. The dining-room down-stairs is charming--and if anyone comes
in that I know--I shan’t care--as long as I’m going back.”
The mammoth fireplace in the old dining-room had been restored to
ancient uses. Martha and her husband had recognized its value as a
background, so meat was roasted on the spit--a turkey to-day as it
happened. The tables were lighted by high white candles--and there were
old hunting prints on the walls.
The food was delicious, and having settled her problems, Edith showed
herself delightfully gay and girlish. There was heliotrope in a
Sheffield bowl on their table. “Martha grows old-fashioned flowers in
pots,” Edith said. She picked out a spray for him and he put it in
his coat. “It’s my favorite.” She told him about Delafield’s orchids.
“Think of all those months,” she said, “and he never knew the flowers I
like.”
There were other people in the room, but it was not until the end of
the meal that anyone came whom Edith recognized.
“Eloise Harper--and she sees me,” was her sudden remark. “Now watch me
carry it off.”
She stood up and waved to a party of four people, two men and two
women, who stood in the door.
They saw her at once, and the effect of their coming was a stampede.
“Blessed child,” said the girl who was in the lead, “have you eloped?
And is this the man?”
“This is Mr. Barnes,” said Edith, “who comes from my uncle. I am to go
back. But I have had a corking adventure.”
Only Baldy knew what was in her heart, and how hard it was to face
them. But on the surface she was as sparkling as the rest of them. “I
shall probably be in the papers again to-morrow morning. You know you
won’t be able to keep it, Eloise.”
Eloise, red-haired and vivid in a cloak and turban of wood-brown,
seemed to stand mentally on tiptoe. “I wouldn’t miss the talk I am
going to have with the reporters to-night.”
One of the men of the party protested. “Don’t be an idiot, Eloise.”
“Well, I owe Edith something. Don’t I, darling?”
“You do.” There was a flame in back of Edith’s eyes. “She liked
Delafield before I did.”
“Cat,” said Eloise lightly. “I liked his yacht, but Benny’s is bigger,
isn’t it, Benny?” She turned to the younger man of the party who had
not spoken.
“I’ll say it is,” Benny agreed, cheerfully, “and it isn’t just my yacht
that she’s after. She has a real little case on me.”
The second woman, older than Eloise, tall and fair-haired in
smoke-gray with a sweep of dull blue wing across her hat, said, “Edith,
you bad child, your uncle has been frightfully worried.”
“Of course, you’d know, Adelaide. And it does him good to be worried. I
am an antidote for the rest of you.”
Everybody laughed except Baldy. He ran his fingers with a nervous
gesture through his hair. He was like a young eagle with a ruffled
crest.
Martha came up to arrange for a table. “Bring your coffee over and sit
with us,” Eloise said; “we want to hear all about it.”
Edith shook her head. “I don’t belong to your world yet. And I’ve had a
heavenly time without you.”
They went on laughing. Silence settled on the two they left behind. And
out of that silence Edith asked, “You didn’t like the things we said?”
“Hateful!”
“Do you always show what you feel like that?”
“Jane says I do.”
“Well, if it had been anybody but Eloise Harper and Adelaide Laramore.
Adelaide is Uncle Fred’s latest.”
She rose. “Let’s go up-stairs. If I stay here I shall want to throw
things at their heads. And I don’t care to break Martha’s dishes.”
They stopped at the other table, however, for a light word or two, then
went up to Edith’s sitting-room on the second floor. When they were
once more by the fire, she said, “And now what do you think of me?
Nice temper?”
“I think,” he said, promptly, “that they probably deserved it.”
She laid her hand for a fleeting moment on his arm. “You are rather a
darling to say that. I was really horrid.”
When he was ready at last to go, she decided, “Tell Uncle Frederick to
send Briggs out for me in the morning. I might as well have it over,
now that Eloise is going to spread the news.”
“I wish you’d go in with me--to-night.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t----”
“Why not?”
She weighed it--“And surprise Uncle Fred?”
“I think we’d better telephone, so he can kill the fatted calf.”
“Yes. He doesn’t like things sprung on him. Hurts his dignity--but he’s
rather an old dear, and I love him--do you ever quarrel with the people
you love?”
“Jane and I fight. Great times.”
“I have a feeling I shall like Jane.”
“You will. She’s the best ever. Not a beauty, but growing
better-looking every day. Bobbed her hair--and I nearly took her head
off. But she’s rather a peach.”
“I’ll have you both down for dinner some day. I think we are going to
be friends”--again that light touch on his arm.
He caught her hand in his. “I shall only ask that you let the page
twang his lyre.” Then with a deeper note, “Miss Towne, I can’t tell you
how much your friendship would mean.”
“Would it? Oh, I am going to have some good times with you and your
little sister, Jane. I am so tired of people like Eloise and Adelaide,
and Benny and--Del....”
On this same afternoon little Lucy Logan was writing to Delafield Simms.
“It seems like a dream, lover, that you are to come for me in
February, and that then we’ll be married. And that all the rest of my
life I am to belong to you.
“Del, it isn’t because you are rich. Of course I shall adore the
things you can do for me. I am not going to pretend that I shan’t.
But if you were poor, I’d work for you--live for you. Oh, Del, I do
hope that you will believe it.
“The other day, Mr. Towne said in one of his letters that you had
always been fickle, that there had been lots of girls, Eloise Harper
before Edith. And I wanted to scream right out and say, ‘It isn’t
true. He hasn’t ever really cared before this.’ But of course I
couldn’t. But I broke a pencil point, and as for Mr. Towne, who is
he to say such things about you? I haven’t taken his letters for the
last three years for nothing. There’s always somebody--the last one
was Mrs. Laramore, and now he has his eye on a little Jane Barnes,
whose brother found Miss Towne’s bag and the ring. She’s rather a
darling, but I hope she won’t think he is in earnest.
“And now, my dear and my darling, good-night. I wonder how I dare
call you that. But I am always saying it to myself, and at night I
ask God to keep you--safe.”
Five days later, Delafield read Lucy’s letter. He was on his yacht in
southern waters. His man had been sent in for the mail.
When he had finished, Delafield lay back in his deck chair and thought
about it. Queer thing for him to fall like that for little Lucy. He had
not believed that it was in him to care in that way for a woman. But he
did. The letter lay like a live warm thing under his hand. It seemed to
beat with his heart as Lucy’s heart had beat against his own on that
last morning in Frederick Towne’s office, while his bride waited.