Jonquil Cary was her name, and to George O'Kelly nothing had ever looked
so fresh and pale as her face when she saw him and fled to him eagerly
along the station platform. Her arms were raised to him, her mouth was
half parted for his kiss, when she held him off suddenly and lightly
and, with a touch of embarrassment, looked around. Two boys, somewhat
younger than George, were standing in the background.
"This is Mr. Craddock and Mr. Holt," she announced cheerfully. "You met
them when you were here before."
Disturbed by the transition of a kiss into an introduction and
suspecting some hidden significance, George was more confused when he
found that the automobile which was to carry them to Jonquil's house
belonged to one of the two young men. It seemed to put him at a
disadvantage. On the way Jonquil chattered between the front and back
seats, and when he tried to slip his arm around her under cover of the
twilight she compelled him with a quick movement to take her hand
instead.
"Is this street on the way to your house?" he whispered. "I don't
recognize it."
"It's the new boulevard. Jerry just got this car to-day, and he wants to
show it to me before he takes us home."
When, after twenty minutes, they were deposited at Jonquil's house,
George felt that the first happiness of the meeting, the joy he had
recognized so surely in her eyes back in the station, had been
dissipated by the intrusion of the ride. Something that he had looked
forward to had been rather casually lost, and he was brooding on this as
he said good night stiffly to the two young men. Then his ill-humor
faded as Jonquil drew him into a familiar embrace under the dim light of
the front hall and told him in a dozen ways, of which the best was
without words, how she had missed him. Her emotion reassured him,
promised his anxious heart that everything would be all right.
They sat together on the sofa, overcome by each other's presence, beyond
all except fragmentary endearments. At the supper hour Jonquil's father
and mother appeared and were glad to see George. They liked him, and had
been interested in his engineering career when he had first come to
Tennessee over a year before. They had been sorry when he had given it
up and gone to New York to look for something more immediately
profitable, but while they deplored the curtailment of his career they
sympathized with him and were ready to recognize the engagement. During
dinner they asked about his progress in New York.
"Everything's going fine," he told them with enthusiasm. "I've been
promoted--better salary."
He was miserable as he said this--but they were all _so_ glad.
"They must like you," said Mrs. Cary, "that's certain--or they wouldn't
let you off twice in three weeks to come down here."
"I told them they had to," explained George hastily; "I told them if
they didn't I wouldn't work for them any more."
"But you ought to save your money," Mrs. Cary reproached him gently.
"Not spend it all on this expensive trip."
Dinner was over--he and Jonquil were alone and she came back into his
arms.
"So glad you're here," she sighed. "Wish you never were going away
again, darling."
"Do you miss me?"
"Oh, so much, so much."
"Do you--do other men come to see you often? Like those two kids?"
The question surprised her. The dark velvet eyes stared at him.
"Why, of course they do. All the time. Why--I've told you in letters
that they did, dearest."
This was true--when he had first come to the city there had been already
a dozen boys around her, responding to her picturesque fragility with
adolescent worship, and a few of them perceiving that her beautiful eyes
were also sane and kind.
"Do you expect me never to go anywhere"--Jonquil demanded, leaning back
against the sofa-pillows until she seemed to look at him from many miles
away--"and just fold my hands and sit still--forever?"
"What do you mean?" he blurted out in a panic. "Do you mean you think
I'll never have enough money to marry you?"
"Oh, don't jump at conclusions so, George."
"I'm not jumping at conclusions. That's what you said."
George decided suddenly that he was on dangerous grounds. He had not
intended to let anything spoil this night. He tried to take her again in
his arms, but she resisted unexpectedly, saying:
"It's hot. I'm going to get the electric fan."
When the fan was adjusted they sat down again, but he was in a
supersensitive mood and involuntarily he plunged into the specific world
he had intended to avoid.
"When will you marry me?"
"Are you ready for me to marry you?"
All at once his nerves gave way, and he sprang to his feet.
"Let's shut off that damned fan," he cried, "it drives me wild. It's
like a clock ticking away all the time I'll be with you. I came here to
be happy and forget everything about New York and time----"
He sank down on the sofa as suddenly as he had risen. Jonquil turned off
the fan, and drawing his head down into her lap began stroking his hair.
"Let's sit like this," she said softly, "just sit quiet like this, and
I'll put you to sleep. You're all tired and nervous, and your
sweetheart'll take care of you."
"But I don't want to sit like this," he complained, jerking up suddenly,
"I don't want to sit like this at all. I want you to kiss me. That's the
only thing that makes me rest. And anyways I'm not nervous--it's you
that's nervous. I'm not nervous at all."
To prove that he wasn't nervous he left the couch and plumped himself
into a rocking-chair across the room.
"Just when I'm ready to marry you you write me the most nervous letters,
as if you're going to back out, and I have to come rushing down
here----"
"You don't have to come if you don't want to."
"But I _do_ want to!" insisted George.
It seemed to him that he was being very cool and logical and that she
was putting him deliberately in the wrong. With every word they were
drawing farther and farther apart--and he was unable to stop himself or
to keep worry and pain out of his voice.
But in a minute Jonquil began to cry sorrowfully and he came back to the
sofa and put his arm around her. He was the comforter now, drawing her
head close to his shoulder, murmuring old familiar things until she grew
calmer and only trembled a little, spasmodically, in his arms. For over
an hour they sat there, while the evening pianos thumped their last
cadences into the street outside. George did not move, or think, or
hope, lulled into numbness by the premonition of disaster. The clock
would tick on, past eleven, past twelve, and then Mrs. Cary would call
down gently over the banister--beyond that he saw only to-morrow and
despair.