Norma had indeed chanced to make one girl friend, and one of whom Leslie
and Alice, and even Annie, heartily approved. Caroline, the
seventeen-year-old daughter of the Peter Craigies, was not a débutante
yet, but she would be the most prominent, because the richest, of them
all next winter. Caroline was a heavy-lidded, slow-witted girl, whose
chief companions in life had been servants, foreign-born governesses,
and music-masters. Norma had been seated next to her at the
international tennis tournament, and had befriended the squirming and
bashful Caroline from sheer goodness of heart. They had criticized the
players, and Caroline had laughed the almost hysteric, shaken laugh that
so worried her mother, and had blurted confidences to Norma in her
childish way.
The next day there had been an invitation for Norma to lunch with
Caroline, and Mrs. von Behrens had promptly given another luncheon for
both girls. Norma was pleased, for a few weeks, with her first social
conquest, but after that Caroline became a dead weight upon her. She
hated the flattery, the inanities, the utter dulness of the great
Craigie mansion, and she began to have a restless conviction that time
spent with Caroline was time lost.
The friendship had cost her dear, too. Norma hated, even months later to
remember just what she had paid for it.
In August a letter from Rose had reached her at Newport, announcing
Rose's approaching marriage. Harry Redding's sister Mary was engaged to
a most satisfactory young man of Italian lineage, one Joe Popini, and
Mrs. Redding would hereafter divide her time between the households of
her daughter and her son. Harry, thus free to marry, had persuaded Rose
to wait no longer; the event was to be on a Monday not quite two weeks
ahead, and Norma was please, _please_, PLEASE to come down as soon as
she could.
Norma had read this letter with a sensation of pain at her heart. She
felt so far away from them nowadays; she felt almost a certain
reluctance to dovetail this life of softness and perfume and amusement
in upon the old life. But she would go. She would go, of course!
And then she had suddenly remembered that on the Monday before Rose's
wedding, the Craigies' splendid yacht was to put to sea for a four- or
five-days' cruise, and that Caroline had asked her to go--the only other
young person besides the daughter of the house. And great persons were
going, visiting nobility from England, a young American Croesus and his
wife, a tenor from the Metropolitan. Annie had been delighted with this
invitation; even Leslie, just returned from California and Hawaii, had
expressed an almost surprised satisfaction in the Craigies'
friendliness.
If they got back Friday night, then Norma could go down to the city
early Saturday morning, and have two days with Rose and Aunt Kate. But
if the yacht did not return until Saturday--well, even then there would
be time. She and Rose could get through a tremendous lot of talking in
twenty-four hours. And the voyage certainly would not be prolonged over
Saturday, for had not Mrs. Craigie said, in Norma's hearing, that
Saturday was the very latest minute to which she could postpone the
meeting for the big charity lawn party?
So Norma and the enslaved Caroline continued to plan for their sea trip,
and Norma commissioned Chris to order Rose's wedding present at
Gorham's.
Mrs. von Behrens had been a trifle distant with the newcomer in the
family until now, but the day before the cruise began she extended just
a little of her royal graciousness toward Norma. Like Leslie, Norma
admired her Aunt Annie enormously, and hungered for her most casual
word.
"You've plenty of frocks, Kiddie?" asked Annie. "One uses them up at the
rate of about three a day!"
"Oh!"--Norma widened her innocent eyes--"I've a wardrobe trunk full of
them: white skirts and white shoes and hats!"
"Well, I didn't suppose you had them tied in a handkerchief!" Annie had
responded, with her quiet smile. "See if that fits you!"
They had been up in Mrs. von Behrens's big bedroom, where that lady was
looking at a newly arrived box of gowns. "That" was the frail,
embroidered coat of what Norma thought the prettiest linen suit she had
ever seen.
"It's charming on you, you little slender thing," Annie had said. "The
skirt will be too long; will you pin it, Keating? And see that it goes
at once to my mother's house."
Keating had pinned, admired. And Norma, turning herself before the
mirror, with her eyes shy with pleasure and gratitude, had known that
she was gaining ground.
So they had started radiantly on the cruise. But after the first few
miraculous hours of gliding along beneath the gay awnings that had all
been almost astonishingly disappointing, too. Caroline, to begin with,
was a dreadful weight upon her young guest. Caroline for breakfast,
luncheon, and dinner; Caroline retiring and rising, became almost
hateful. Caroline always wanted to do something, when Norma could have
dreamed and idled in her deck chair by the hour. It must be deck golf or
deck tennis, or they must go up and tease dignified and courteous
Captain Burns, "because he was such an old duck," or they must harass
one or two of the older people into bridge. Norma did not play bridge
well, and she hated it, and hated Caroline's way of paying for her
losses almost more than paying them herself.
Norma could not lie lazily with her book, raising her eyes to the
exquisite beauty of the slowly tipping sea, revelling in coolness and
airiness, because Caroline, fussing beside her, had never read a book
through in her life. The guest did not know, even now, that Caroline had
been a mental problem for years, that Caroline's family had consulted
great psycho-analysts about her, and had watched the girl's
self-centredness, her odd slyness, her hysteric emotions, with deep
concern. She did not know, even now, that the Cragies were anxious to
encourage this first reaching out, in Caroline, toward a member of her
own sex, and that her fancies for members of the opposite sex--for
severely indifferent teachers, for shocked and unresponsive
chauffeurs--were among the family problems, a part of the girl's
unfortunate under-development. Caroline's family was innocently
surprised to realize that her mind had not developed under the care of
maids who were absorbed in their own affairs, and foreigners who would
not have been free to attend her had they not been impecunious and
unsuccessful in more lucrative ways. They had left her to Mademoiselles
and Fräuleins quite complacently, but they did not wish her to be like
these too-sullen or too-vivacious ladies.
So they welcomed her friendship with Norma, and Caroline's passionate
desire to be with her friend was not to find any opposition on the part
of her own family. Little Miss Sheridan had an occasional kindly word
from Caroline's mother, a stout woman, middle-aged at thirty-five, and
good-natured smiles from Caroline's father, a well-groomed young man.
And socially, this meant that the Melroses' young protégée was made.
But Norma did not realize all this. She only knew that all the charm and
beauty of the yacht were wasted on her. Everyone ate too much, talked
too much, played, flirted, and dressed too much. The women seldom made
their appearance until noon; in the afternoons there was bridge until
six, and much squabbling and writing of checks on the forward deck, with
iced drinks continually being brought up from the bar. At six the women
loitered off to dress for dinner, but the men went on playing for
another half hour. The sun sank in a blaze of splendour; the wonderful
twilight fell; but the yacht might have been boxed up in an armoury for
all that her passengers saw of the sea.
After the elaborate dinner, with its ices and hot rolls, its warm wines
and chilled champagne, cards began again, and unless the ocean was so
still that they might dance, bridge continued until after midnight.
Norma's happiest times had been when she arose early, at perhaps seven,
and after dressing noiselessly in their little bathroom, crept upstairs
without waking Caroline. Sunshine would be flooding the ocean, or
perhaps the vessel would be nosing her way through a luminous fog--but
it was always beautiful. The decks, drying in the soft air, would be
ordered, inviting, deserted. Great waves of smooth water would flow
evenly past, curving themselves with lessening ripples into the great
even circle of the sea. A gentle breeze would stir the leaves of the
potted plants on the deck and flap the fringes of the awnings.
Norma, hanging on the railing, would look down upon a group of maids and
stewards laughing and talking on the open deck below. These were happy,
she would reflect, animated by a thousand honest emotions that never
crept to the luxurious cabins above. They would be waiting for
breakfast, all freshly aproned and brushed, all as pleased with the
_Seagirl_ as if they had been her owners.
On the fifth day, Friday, she had been almost sick with longing to hear
some mention of going back. Surely--surely, she reasoned, they had all
said that they must get back on Friday night! If the plan had changed,
Norma had determined to ask them to run into harbour somewhere, and put
her on shore. She was so tired of Caroline, so tired of wasting time, so
headachy from the heavy meals and lack of exercise!
Late on Friday afternoon some idle remark of her hostess had assured her
that the yacht would not make Greble light until Monday. They were
ploughing north now, to play along the Maine coast; the yachting party
was a great success, and nobody wanted to go home.
Norma, goaded out of her customary shyness, had pleaded her cousin's
marriage. Couldn't they run into Portland--or somewhere?--and let her go
down by train? But Caroline had protested most affectionately and
noisily against this, and Caroline's mother said sweetly that she
couldn't think of letting Norma do that alone--Annie von Behrens would
never forgive her! However, she would speak to Captain Burns, and see
what could be done. Anyway, Mrs. Craigie had finished, with her
comfortable laugh, Norma had only to tell her cousin that she was out
with friends on their yacht, and they had been delayed. Surely that was
excuse enough for any one?
It was with difficulty that Norma had kept the tears out of her eyes.
She had not wanted an excuse to stay away from Rose's wedding. Her heart
had burned with shame and anger and helplessness. She could hardly
believe, crying herself to sleep on Friday night, that two whole days
were still to spare before Monday, and that she was helpless to use
them. Her mind worked madly, her thoughts rushing to and fro with a
desperation worthy an actual prisoner.
On Saturday evening, after a day of such homesickness and
heavy-heartedness as she had never known before in her life, she had
realized that they were in some port, lying a short half mile from
shore.
It was about ten o'clock, warm and star-lighted; there was no moon.
Norma had slipped from the deck, where Caroline was playing bridge, and
had gone to the lowered gang-plank. Captain Burns was there, going over
what appeared to be invoices, with the head steward.
"Captain," Norma had said, her heart pounding, "can't you put me on
shore? I must be in New York to-morrow--it's very important! If I get a
coat, will you let me go in when you go?"
He had measured her with his usual polite, impersonal gaze.
"Miss Sheridan, I really could not do it, Miss! If it was a telegram, or
something of that sort----But if anything was to happen to you, Miss, it
would be--it really would be most unfortunate!"
Norma had stood still, choking. And in the starlight he had seen the
glitter of tears in her eyes.
"Couldn't you put it to Mrs. Craigie, Miss? I'm sure she'd send
someone--one of the maids----"
But Norma shook her head. It would anger Caroline, and perhaps
Caroline's mother, and Annie, too, to have her upset the cruise by her
own foolish plans. There was no hope of her hostess's consent.
What!--send a girl of eighteen down to New York for dear knows what
fanciful purpose, without a hint from parent or guardian? Mrs. Craigie
knew the modern girl far too well for that, even if it had not been
personally extremely inconvenient to herself to spare a maid. They were
rather short of maids, for two or three of them had been quite ill.
The launch had put off, with Captain Burns in the stern. Norma had stood
watching it, with her heart of lead. Oh, to be running away--flying--on
the train--in the familiar streets! They could forgive her later--or
never----
"Norma, aren't you naughty?" Caroline had interrupted her thoughts, and
had slipped a hand through her arm. "Buoso is going to sing--do come in!
My dear, you know that last hand? Well, we made it----!"
The next two days were the slowest, the hardest, the bitterest of
Norma's life. She felt that nobody had ever had to bear so aching a
heart as hers, as the most beautiful yacht in the world skimmed over the
blue ocean, and the sun shone down on her embroidered linen suit, and
her white shoes, and the pearl ring that Caroline had given her for her
birthday.
What were they doing at Aunt Kate's? What were they saying as the hours
went by? At what stage was the cake--and the gown? Was Rose really to be
married to-morrow--to-day?
In New Brunswick she had managed to send a long wire, full of the
disappointment and affection and longing she truly felt, and after that
she had been happier. But it was a very subdued little Norma who had
come quietly into Aunt Kate's kitchen three weeks later, and had
relieved her over-charged heart with a burst of tears on Aunt Kate's
shoulder.
Aunt Kate had been kind, kind as she always was to the adored
foster-child. And Norma had stayed to dinner, and made soft and penitent
eyes at Wolf until the agonized resolutions of the past lonely months
had all melted out of his heart again, and they had all gone over to
Rose's, for five minutes of kissing and crying, before the big car came
to carry Norma away.
So the worst of that wound was healed, and life could become bright and
promising to Norma once more. Autumn was an invigorating season, anyway,
full of hope and enchantment, and Caroline Craigie, by what Norma felt
to be a special providence, was visiting her grandmother in Baltimore
for an indefinite term. The truth was that there was a doctor there
whose advice was deemed valuable to Caroline, but Norma did not know
that. Norma did not know the truth, either, about Mrs. von Behrens's
sudden graciousness toward her, but it made her happy. Annie had become
friendly and hospitable toward the newcomer in the family for only one
reason. As a social dictator, she was accustomed to be courted and
followed by scores of women who desired her friendship for the prestige
it gave them. Annie was extremely autocratic in this respect, and could
snub, chill, and ignore even the most hopeful aspirants to her favour,
with the ease of long practice. It made no difference to Annie that
dazzling credentials were produced, or that past obscurity was more than
obliterated by present glory.
"One truly must be firm," Annie frequently said. "It devolves upon a few
of us, as an actual duty, to see that society is maintained in its true
spirit. Let the bars down once----!"
Norma, a negligible factor in Annie's life when she first appeared, had
quite innocently become a problem during that first summer. While not a
Melrose, she was a member of the Melrose family, making her home with
one of the daughters of the house. Annie might ignore Norma, but there
were plenty of women, and men, too, who saw in the girl a valuable
social lever. To become intimate with little Miss Sheridan meant that
one might go up to her, at teas and dinners, while she was with Mrs.
Melrose, or young Mrs. Liggett, or even Mrs. von Behrens herself, in a
casual, friendly manner that indicated, to a watching world, a
comfortable footing with the family. Norma was consequently selected
for social attention.
Annie saw this immediately, and when all the families were settled in
town again, she decided to take Norma's social training in hand, as she
had done Leslie's, and make sure that no undesirable cockle was sown
among the family fields. She would have done exactly the same if Norma
had been the least attractive of girls, but Norma fancied that her own
qualities had won Annie's reluctant friendship, and was accordingly
pleased.