ROSE-COLOR!
Jean found the day stretching out ahead of her in a series of exciting
events. At the breakfast table her father told her that Hilda would
stay on General Drake's case, and that she had better have Emily
Bridges up for a visit.
"I don't like to have you alone at night, if I am called away."
"It will be heavenly, Daddy, to have Emily--"
And how was he to know that there were other heavenly things to happen?
She had resolved that if Derry came, she would tell her father
afterwards. But he might not come, so what was the use of being
premature?
She sallied down to the Toy Shop in high feather. "You are to stay
with us, Emily."
"Oh, am I? How do you know that I can make it convenient?"
"But you will, darling."
Jean's state of mind was beatific. She painted Lovely Dreams with a
touch of inspiration which resulted in a row of purple camels:
"Midnight on the Desert," Jean called them.
"Oh, Emily," she said, "we must have them in the window on Christmas
morning, with the Wise Men and the Star--"
Emily, glancing at the face above the blue apron, was struck by the
radiance of it.
"Is it because Hilda is away?" she asked.
"Is what--?"
"Your--rapture."
Jean laughed. "It is because Hilda is away, and other things. But I
can't tell you now."
Then for fear Emily might be hurt by her secrecy, she flew to kiss her
and again call her "Darling."
At noon she put on her hat and ran home, or at least her heart ran, and
when she reached the house she sought the kitchen.
"I am having company for tea, Ellen--at four. And I want
Lady-bread-and-butter, and oh, Ellen, will you have time for little
pound cakes?"
She knew of course that pound cakes were--_verboten_. She felt,
however, that even Mr. Hoover might sanction a fatted calf in the face
of this supreme event.
She planned that she would receive Derry in the small drawing room. It
was an informal room which had been kept by her mother for intimate
friends. There was a wide window which faced west, a davenport in deep
rose velvet, some chairs to match, and there were always roses in an
old blue bowl.
Jean knew the dress she was going to wear in this room--of blue to
match the bowl, with silver lace, and a girdle of pink brocade.
Alone in her room with Polly-Ann to watch proceedings, she got out the
lovely gown.
"Oh, I do want to be pretty, Polly-Ann," she said with much wistfulness.
Yet when she was all hooked and snapped into it, she surveyed herself
with some dissatisfaction in the mirror.
"Why not?" she asked the mirror. "Why shouldn't I wear it?"
The mirror gave back a vision of beauty--but behind that vision in the
depths of limitless space Jean's eyes discerned something which made
her change her gown. Quite soberly she got herself into a little nun's
frock of gray with collars and cuffs of transparent white, and above it
all was the glory of her crinkled hair.
Neither then nor afterwards could she analyze her reasons for the
change. Perhaps sub-consciously she was perceiving that this meeting
with Derry Drake was to be a serious and stupendous occasion.
Throughout the world the emotions of men and women were being quickened
to a pace set by a mighty conflict. Never again would Jean McKenzie
laugh or cry over little things. She would laugh and cry, of course,
but back of it all would be that sense of the world's travail and
tragedy, made personal by her own part in it.
Julia, the second maid, was instructed to show Mr. Drake into the
little drawing room. Jean came down early with her knitting, and sat
on the deep-rose Davenport. The curtains were not drawn. There was
always the chance of a sunset view. Julia was to turn on the light
when she brought in the tea.
There was the whir of a bell, the murmur of voices. Jean sat tense.
Then as her caller entered, she got somewhat shakily on her feet.
But the man in the door was not Derry Drake!
In his intrusive and impertinent green, pinched-in as to waist, and
puffed-out as to trousers, his cheeks red with the cold, his brown eyes
bright with eagerness, Ralph Witherspoon stood on the threshold.
"Of all the good luck," he said, "to find you in."
She shook hands with him and sat down.
"I thought you had gone back to Bay Shore. You said yesterday you were
going."
"I got my orders in the nick of time. We are to go to Key West. I am
to join the others on the way down."
"How soon?"
He sat at the other end of the davenport. "In three days, and anything
can happen in three days."
He moved closer. She had a sense of panic. Was he going to propose to
her again, in this room which she had set aside so sacredly for Derry
Drake?
"Won't you have some tea?" she asked, desperately. "I'll have Julia
bring it in."
"I'd rather talk."
But she had it brought, and Julia, wheeling in the tea-cart, offered a
moment's reprieve. And Ralph ate the Lady-bread-and-butter, and the
little pound cakes with the nuts and white frosting which had been
meant for Derry, and then he walked around the tea-cart and took her
hand, and for the seventh time since he had met her he asked her to
marry him.
"But I don't love you." She was almost in tears.
"You don't know what love is--I'll teach you."
"I don't want to be taught."
"You don't know what it means to be taught--"
Jean had a stifling sense as of some great green tree bending down to
crush her. She put out her hand to push it away.
In the silence a bell whirred--.
Derry Drake, ushered in by Julia, saw the room in the rosy glow of the
lamp. He saw Ralph Witherspoon towering insolently in his aviator's
green. He saw Jean, blushing and perturbed. The scene struck cold
against the heat of his anticipation.
He sat down in one of the rose-colored chairs, and Julia brought more
tea for him, more Lady-bread-and-butter, more pound cakes with nuts and
frosting.
Ralph was frankly curious. He was also frankly jealous. He was aware
that Derry had met Jean for the first time at his mother's dinner
dance. And Derry's millions were formidable. It did not occur to
Ralph that Derry, without his millions, was formidable. Ralph's idea
of a man's attractiveness for women was founded on his belief in their
admiration of good looks, and their liking for the possession of, as he
would himself have expressed it, "plenty of pep" and "go." From
Ralph's point of view Derry Drake was not handsome, and he was utterly
unaware that back of Derry's silver-blond slenderness and apparent
languidness were banked fires which could more than match his own.
And there was this, too, of which he was unconscious, that Derry's
millions meant nothing to Jean. Had he remained the shabby son of the
shabby old man in the Toy Shop, her heart would still have followed him.
So, fatuously hopeful, Ralph stayed. He stayed until five, until
half-past five. Until a quarter of six.
And he talked of the glories of war!
Derry grew restless. As he sat in the rose-colored chair, he fingered
a tassel which caught back one of the curtains of the wide window. It
was a silk tassel, and he pulled at one strand of it until it was
flossy and frayed. He was unconscious of his work of destruction,
unconscious that Jean's eyes, lifted now and then from her knitting,
noted his fingers weaving in and out of the rosy strands.
Ralph talked on. With seeming modesty he spoke of the feats of other
men, yet none the less it was Ralph they saw, poised like a bird at
incredible heights, looping the loop, fearless, splendid--beating the
air with strong wings.
Six o'clock, and at last Ralph rose. Even then he hesitated and hung
back, as if he expected that Derry might go with him. But Derry, stiff
and straight beside the rose-colored chair, bade him farewell!
And now Derry was alone with Jean!
They found themselves standing close together in front of the fire.
The garment of coldness and of languor which had seemed to enshroud
Derry had dropped from him. The smile which he gave Jean was like warm
wine in her veins.
"Well--?"
"I asked you to come--to say--that I am,--sorry--," her voice breaking.
"Daddy told me that he knew why--you couldn't fight--"
"I didn't intend that he should tell."
"He didn't," eagerly, "not your reasons. He said it was a--confidence,
and he couldn't break his word. But he knew that you were brave. That
the things the world is saying are all wrong. Oh, I ought to go down
on my knees."
Her face was white, her eyes deep wells of tears.
"It is I," he said, very low, "who should be on my knees--do you know
what it means to me to have you tell me this?"
"I wasn't sure that I ought to write. To some men I couldn't have
written--"
His face lighted. "When your note came--I can't tell you what it meant
to me. I shouldn't like to think of what this day would have been for
me if you had not written. Everybody is calling me--a coward. You
know that. You heard Witherspoon just now pitying me, not in words,
but his manner."
"Oh, Ralph," how easily she disposed of him. "Ralph crows, like
a--rooster."
They looked at each other and tried to laugh. But they were not
laughing in their hearts.
He lifted her hand and kissed it--then he stood well away from her,
anchoring himself again to the silken tassel. "Now that you know a
part," he said, from that safe distance, "I'd like to tell you all of
it, if I may."
As he talked her fingers were busy with her knitting, but there came
moments when she laid it down and looked up at him with eyes that
mirrored his own earnestness.
"It--it hasn't been easy," he said in conclusion, "but--but if you will
be my friend, nothing will be hard."
She tried to speak--was shaken as if by a strong wind, and her knitting
went up as a shield.
"My dear, you are crying," he said, and was on his knees beside her.
And now they were caught in the tide of that mighty wave which was
sweeping the world!
When at last she steadied herself, he was again anchored to the
rose-colored tassel.
"You--you must forgive me--but--it has been so good to talk it out--to
some one--who cared. I had never dreamed until that night in the Toy
Shop of anybody--like you. Of anybody so--adorable. When your note
came this morning, I couldn't believe it. But now I know it is true.
And that night of Cinderella you were so--heavenly."
It was a good thing that Miss Emily came in at that moment--for his
eloquence was a burning flood, and Jean was swept up and on with it.
The entrance of Emily, strictly tailored and practical, gave them pause.
"You remember Mr. Drake, don't you, Emily?"
Emily did, of course. But she had not expected to see him here. She
held out her hand. "I remember that he was coming back for more of
your Lovely Dreams."
"I want all of her dreams," said Derry, and something in the way that
he said it took Miss Emily's breath away. "Please don't sell them to
anyone else. You have a wholesale order from me."
Miss Emily looked from one to the other. She was conscious of
something which touched the stars--something which all her life she had
missed, something which belongs to youth and ecstasy.
"Wholesale orders are not in my line," she said. "You can settle that
with Jean."
She surveyed the tea-wagon. "I'm starved. And if I eat I shall spoil
my dinner."
"I can ring for hot water, Emily, and there are more of the pound
cakes."
"My dear, no. I must go upstairs and dress. Your father sent for my
bag, and Julia says it is in my room."
She bade Derry a cheerful good-bye, and left them alone.
"I must go, too," said Derry, and took Jean's hand. He stood looking
down at her. "May I come tomorrow?"
"Oh,--yes--"
"There's one thing that I should like more than anything, if we could
go to church together--to be thankful that--that we've found each
other--"
Tears in the shining eyes!
"Why are you crying?"
"Because it is so--sweet."
"Then you'll go?"
"I'd love it."
He dropped her hand and got away. She was little and young, so
divinely innocent. He felt that he must not take unfair advantage of
that mood of exaltation.
He drove straight downtown and ordered flowers for her. Remembering
the nun's dress, he sent violets in a gray basket, with a knot on the
handle of heavenly blue.
The flowers came while Jean was at dinner. Emily was in Hilda's place,
a quiet contrast in her slenderness and modest black to Hilda's
opulence. Dr. McKenzie had not had time to dress.
"I am so busy, Emily."
"But you love the busy-ness, don't you? I can't imagine you without
the hours crammed full."
"Just now I wish that I could push it away as Richards pushed it--"
Jean looked up. "But Dr. Richards went to France, Daddy."
"I envy him."
"Oh, do you--?" Then her flowers came, and she forgot everything else.
The Doctor whistled as Julia set the basket in front of Jean. "Ralph
is generous."
Jean had opened the attached envelope and was reading a card. A wave
of self-conscious color swept over her cheeks. "Ralph didn't send
them. It--it was Derry Drake."
"Drake? How did that happen?"
"He was here this afternoon for tea, and Ralph, and Emily--only Emily
was late, and the tea was cold--"
"So you've made up?"
"We didn't have to make up much, Daddy, did we?" mendaciously.
Miss Emily came to the rescue. "He seems very nice."
"Splendid fellow. But I am not sure that I want him sending flowers to
my daughter. I don't want anyone sending flowers to her."
Miss Emily took him up sharply. "That's your selfishness. Life has
always been a garden where you have wandered at will. And now you want
to shut the gate of that garden against your daughter."
"Well, there are flowers that I shouldn't care to have her pluck."
"Don't you know her well enough to understand that she'll pluck only
the little lovely blooms?"
His eyes rested on Jean's absorbed face. "Yes, thank God. And thank
you, too, for saying it, Emily."
After dinner they sat in the library. Doctor McKenzie on one side of
the fire with his cigar, Emily on the other side with her knitting.
Jean between them in a low chair, a knot of Derry's violets fragrant
against the gray of her gown, her fingers idle.
"Why aren't you knitting?" the Doctor asked.
"I don't have to set a good example to Emily."
"And you do to Hilda?" He threw back his head and laughed.
"You needn't laugh. Isn't it comfy with Emily?"
"It is." He glanced at the slender black figure. He was still feeling
the fineness of the thing she had said about Jean. "But when she is
here I am jealous."
"Oh, Daddy."
"And I am never jealous of Hilda. If you had Emily all the time you'd
love her better than you do me."
He chuckled at their hot eyes. "If you are teasing," Jean told him,
"I'll forgive you. But Emily won't, will you, Emily?"
"No." Emily's voice was gay, and he liked the color in her cheeks.
"He doesn't deserve to be forgiven. Some day he is going to be
devoured by a green-eyed monster, like a bad little boy in a Sunday
School story."
Her needles clicked, and her eyes sparkled. There was no doubt that
there was a sprightliness about Emily that was stimulating.
"But one's only daughter, Emily. Isn't jealousy pardonable?"
"Not in you."
"Why not?"
"Well," with obvious reluctance, "you're too big for it."
"Oh," he was more pleased than he was willing to admit, "did you hear
that, Jean?"
But Jean, having drifted away from them, came back with, "I am going to
church with him tomorrow."
"Him? Whom?"
"Derry Drake, Daddy, and may I bring him home to dinner?"
"Do you think a man like that goes begging for invitations? He has
probably been asked to a dozen places to eat his turkey."
"He can't eat it at a dozen places, Daddy. And anyhow I should like to
ask him. I--I think he is lonely--"
"A man with millions is never lonely."
She did not attempt to argue. She felt that her father could not
possibly grasp the truth about Derry Drake. Her own understanding of
his need had been a blinding, whirling revelation. He had said, "I
wanted some one--who cared--." Not for a moment since then had the
world been real to her. She had seemed in the center of a
golden-lighted sphere, where Derry's voice spoke to her, where Derry's
smile warmed her, where Derry, a silver-crested knight, knelt at her
feet.
Julia came in to say that Miss Jean was wanted at the telephone.
Miraculously Derry's voice came over the wire. Was she going to the
dance at the Willard? The one for the benefit of the Eye and Ear
Hospital? The President and his wife would be there--the only ball
they had attended this season--everybody would be there. Could he come
for Jean and her father? And he'd bring Drusilla and Marion Gray. She
knew Drusilla?
Jean on tiptoe. Oh, yes. But she was not sure about her father.
"But you--you--?"
"I'll ask."
She flew on winged feet and explained excitedly.
"Tonight? _Tonight_, Jean?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"But what time is it?"
"Only ten. He'll come at eleven--"
"But you can't leave Emily alone, dear."
"Emily won't mind--darling--will you, Emily?"
"Of course not. I am often alone."
It was said quietly, without bitterness, but Dr. McKenzie was quite
suddenly and unreasonably moved by the thought of all that Emily had
missed. He felt it utterly unfair that she should sit alone by an
empty hearth while he and Jean frivolled. He had never thought of
Hilda by an empty hearth--and she had been often alone--but there was
this which made the difference, he would not have asked Hilda to meet
his daughter's friends. She had her place in his household, but it was
not the place which Emily filled.
Yet he missed her. He missed her blond picturesqueness at the dinner
table, her trim whiteness as she served him in his office.
He came back to the question of Emily. "You can tell Drake we will go,
if Emily can accompany us."
"But, Doctor, I'd rather not."
"Why not?"
"I'm not included in the invitation."
"Don't be self-conscious."
"And I haven't anything to wear."
"You never looked better than you do at this moment. And Jean can get
you that scarf of her mother's with the jet and spangles."
"The peacocky one--oh, yes, Daddy." Jean danced back to the telephone.
Derry was delighted to include Miss Bridges. "Bring a dozen if you
wish."
"I don't want a dozen. I want just Daddy and Emily."
"And me?"
"Of course--silly--"
Laughter singing along the wire. "May I come now?"
"I have to change my dress."
"In an hour, then?"
"Yes."
"I can't really believe that we are going together!"
"Together--"