The next morning Margaret announced herself as feeling so much better
that she thought she would go to New York. She had several errands,
she said, and the day was beautiful and the little change would do
her good. She would take the train with her husband, but a different
ferry, as she wished to go up town. Wilbur acquiesced readily. "It is
a mighty fine morning, and you need to get out," he said. Poor Wilbur
at this time felt guiltily culpable that he did not own a motor car
in which his Margaret might take the air. He had tried to see his way
clear toward buying one, but in spite of a certain improvidence, the
whole nature of the man was intrinsically honest. He always ended his
conference with himself concerning the motor by saying that he could
not possibly keep it running, even if he were to manage the first
cost, and pay regularly his other bills. He, however, felt it to be a
shame to himself that it was so, and experienced a thrill of positive
pain of covetousness, not for himself, but for his Margaret, when one
of the luxurious things whirled past him in Fairbridge. He, it was
true, kept a very smart little carriage and horse, but that was not
as much as Margaret should have. Every time Margaret seemed a little
dull, or complained of headache, as she had done lately, he thought
miserably of that motor car, which was her right. Therefore when she
planned any little trip like that of to-day, he was immeasurably
pleased. At the same time he regarded her with a slightly bewildered
expression, for in some subtle fashion, her face as she propounded
the trifling plan, looked odd to him, and her voice also did not
sound quite natural. However, he dismissed the idea at once as mere
fancy, and watched proudly the admiring glances bestowed upon her in
the Fairbridge station, while they were waiting for the train.
Margaret had a peculiar knack in designing costumes which were at
once plain and striking. This morning she wore a black China silk,
through the thin bodice of which was visible an under silk strewn
with gold disks. Her girdle was clasped with a gold buckle, and when
she moved there were slight glimpses of a yellow silk petticoat. Her
hat was black, but under the brim was tucked a yellow rose against
her yellow hair. Then to finish all, Margaret wore in the lace at her
throat, a great brooch of turquoise matrix, which matched her eyes.
Her husband realised her as perfectly attired, although he did not in
the least understand why. He knew that his Margaret looked a woman of
another race from the others in the station, in their tailored
skirts, and shirtwaists, with their coats over arm, and their
shopping bags firmly clutched. It was a warm morning, and feminine
Fairbridge's idea of a suitable costume for a New York shopping trip
was a tailored suit, and a shirtwaist, and as a rule, the shirtwaist
did not fit. Margaret never wore shirtwaists,--she understood that
she was too short unless she combined a white skirt with a waist.
Margaret would have broken a commandment with less hesitation than
she would have broken the line of her graceful little figure with two
violently contrasting colours. Mrs. Sturtevant in a grey skirt and an
elaborate white waist, which emphasised her large bust, looked
ridiculous beside this fair, elegant little Margaret, although her
clothes had in reality cost more. Wilbur watched his wife as she
talked sweetly with the other woman, and his heart swelled with the
pride of possession. When they were on the train and he sat by
himself in the smoker, having left Margaret with Mrs. Sturtevant, his
heart continued to feel warm with elation. He waited to assist his
wife off the train at Jersey City and realised it a trial that he
could not cross the river on the same ferry. Margaret despised the
tube and he wished for the short breath of sea air which he would get
on the Courtland ferry. He glanced after her retreating black skirts
with the glimpses of yellow, regretfully, before he turned his back
and turned toward his own slip. And he glanced the more regretfully
because this morning, with all his admiration of his wife, he had a
dim sense of something puzzling which arose like a cloud of mystery
between them.
Wilbur Edes sailing across the river had, however, no conception of
the change which had begun in his little world. It was only a shake
of the kaleidoscope of an unimportant life, resulting in a different
combination of atoms, but to each individual it would be a tremendous
event partaking of the nature of a cataclysm. That morning he had
seen upon Margaret's charming face an expression which made it seem
as the face of a stranger. He tried to dismiss the matter from his
mind. He told himself that it must have been the effect of the light
or that she had pinned on her hat at a different angle. Women are so
perplexing, and their attire alters them so strangely. But Wilbur
Edes had reason to be puzzled. Margaret had looked and really was
different. In a little while she had become practically a different
woman. Of course, she had only developed possibilities which had
always been dormant within her, but they had been so dormant, that
they had not been to any mortal perception endowed with life.
Hitherto Margaret had walked along the straight and narrow way,
sometimes, it is true, jostling circumstances and sometimes being
jostled by them, yet keeping to the path. Now she had turned her feet
into that broad way wherein there is room for the utmost self which
is in us all. Henceforth husband and wife would walk apart in a
spiritual sense, unless there should come a revolution in the
character of the wife, who was the stepper aside.
Margaret seated comfortably on the ferry boat, her little feet
crossed so discreetly that only a glimpse of the yellow fluff beneath
was visible, was conscious of a not unpleasurable exhilaration. She
might and she might not be about to do something which would place
her distinctly outside the pale which had henceforth enclosed her
little pleasance of life. Were she to cross that pale, she felt that
it might be distinctly amusing. Margaret was not a wicked woman, but
virtue, not virtue in the ordinary sense of the word, but straight
walking ahead according to the ideas of Fairbridge, had come to drive
her at times to the verge of madness. Then, too, there was always
that secret terrible self-love and ambition of hers, never satisfied,
always defeated by petty weapons. Margaret, sitting as gracefully as
a beautiful cat, on the ferry boat that morning realised the
vindictive working of her claws, and her impulse to strike at her
odds of life, and she derived therefrom an unholy exhilaration.
She got her taxicab on the other side and leaned back, catching
frequent glances of admiration, and rode pleasurably to the regal
up-town hotel which was the home of Miss Martha Wallingford, while in
the city. She, upon her arrival, entered the hotel with an air which
caused a stir among bell boys. Then she entered a reception room and
sat down, disposing herself with slow grace. Margaret gazed about her
and waited. There were only three people in the room, one man and two
ladies, one quite young--a mere girl--the other from the resemblance
and superior age, evidently her mother. The man was young and almost
vulgarly well-groomed. He had given a glance at Margaret as she
entered, a glance of admiration tempered with the consideration that
in spite of her grace and beauty, she was probably older than
himself. Then he continued to gaze furtively at the young girl who
sat demurely, with eyes downcast beneath a soft, wild tangle of dark
hair, against which some pink roses and a blue feather on her hat
showed fetchingly. She was very well dressed, evidently a
well-guarded young thing from one of the summer colonies. The mother,
high corseted, and elegant in dark blue lines, which made only a
graceful concession to age, without fairly admitting it, never
allowed one glance of the young man's to escape her. She also saw her
slender young daughter with every sense in her body and mind.
Margaret looked away from them. The elder woman had given her costume
an appreciative, and herself a supercilious glance, which had been
met with one which did not seem to recognise her visibility. Margaret
was not easily put down by another woman. She stared absently at the
ornate and weary decorations of the room. It was handsome, but
tiresome, as everybody who entered realised, and as, no doubt, the
decorator had found out. It was a ready-made species of room, with no
heart in it, in spite of the harmonious colour scheme and really
artistic detail.
Presently the boy with the silver tray entered and approached
Margaret. The young man stared openly at her. He began to wonder if
she were not younger than he had thought. The girl never raised her
downcast eyes; the older woman cast one swift sharp glance at her.
The boy murmured so inaudibly that Margaret barely heard, and she
rose and followed him as he led the way to the elevator. Miss
Wallingford, who was a young Western woman and a rising, if not
already arisen literary star, had signified her willingness to
receive Mrs. Wilbur Edes in her own private sitting-room. Margaret
was successful so far. She had pencilled on her card, "Can you see me
on a matter of importance? I am not connected with the Press," and
the young woman who esteemed nearly everything of importance, and was
afraid of the Press, had agreed at once to see her. Miss Martha
Wallingford was staying in the hotel with an elderly aunt, against
whose rule she rebelled in spite of her youth and shyness, which
apparently made it impossible for her to rebel against anybody, and
the aunt had retired stiffly to her bedroom when her niece said
positively that she would see her caller.
"You don't know who she is and I promised your Pa when we started
that I wouldn't let you get acquainted with folks unless I knew all
about them," the aunt had said and the niece, the risen star, had set
her mouth hard. "We haven't seen a soul except those newspaper men,
and I know everyone of them is married, and those two newspaper women
who told about my sleeves being out of date," said Martha
Wallingford, "and this Mrs. Edes may be real nice. I'm going to see
her anyhow. We came so late in the season that I believe everybody in
New York worth seeing has gone away and this lady has come in from
the country and it may lead to my having a good time after all. I
haven't had much of a time so far, and you know it, Aunt Susan."
"How you talk, Martha Wallingford! Haven't you been to the theatre
every night and Coney Island, and the Metropolitan and--everything
there is to see?"
"There isn't much to see in New York anyway except the people,"
returned the niece. "People are all I care for anyway, and I don't
call the people I have seen worth counting. They only came to make a
little money out of me and my sleeves. I am glad I got this dress at
McCreery's. These sleeves are all right. If this Mrs. Edes should be
a newspaper woman, she can't make fun of these sleeves anyway."
"You paid an awful price for that dress," said her aunt.
"I don't care. I got such a lot for my book that I might as well have
a little out of it, and you know as well as I do, Aunt Susan, that
South Mordan, Illinois, may be a very nice place, but it does not
keep up with New York fashions. I really did not have a decent thing
to wear when I started. Miss Slocumb did as well as she knew how, but
her ideas are about three years behind New York. I didn't know
myself, how should I? And you didn't, and as for Pa, he would think
everything I had on was stylish if it dated back to the ark. You
ought to have bought that mauve silk for yourself. You have money
enough; you know you have, Aunt Susan."
"I have money enough, thanks to my dear husband's saving all his
life, but it is not going to be squandered on dress by me, now he is
dead and gone."
"I would have bought the dress for you myself, then," said the niece.
"No, thank you," returned the aunt with asperity. "I have never been
in the habit of being beholden to you for my clothes and I am not
going to begin now. I didn't want that dress anyway. I always hated
purple."
"It wasn't purple, it was mauve."
"I call purple, purple, I don't call it anything else!" Then the
aunt retreated precipitately before the sound of the opening door and
entrenched herself in her bedroom, where she stood listening.
Margaret Edes treated the young author with the respect which she
really deserved, for talent she possessed in such a marked degree as
to make her phenomenal, and the phenomenal is always entitled to
consideration of some sort.
"Miss Wallingford?" murmured Margaret, and she gave an impression of
obeisance; this charming elegantly attired lady before the Western
girl. Martha Wallingford coloured high with delight and admiration.
"Yes, I am Miss Wallingford," she replied and asked her caller to be
seated. Margaret sat down facing her. The young author shuffled in
her chair like a school girl. She was an odd combination of enormous
egotism and the most painful shyness. She realised at a glance that
she herself was provincial and pitifully at a disadvantage personally
before this elegant vision, and her personality was in reality more
precious to her than her talent.
"I can not tell you what a great pleasure and privilege this is for
me," said Margaret, and her blue eyes had an expression of admiring
rapture. The girl upon whom the eyes were fixed, blushed and giggled
and tossed her head with a sudden show of pride. She quite agreed
that it was a pleasure and privilege for Margaret to see her, the
author of _Hearts Astray_, even if Margaret was herself so charming
and so provokingly well dressed. Miss Martha Wallingford did not hide
her light of talent under a bushel with all her shyness, which was
not really shyness at all but a species of rather sullen pride and
resentment because she was so well aware that she could not do well
the things which were asked of her and had not mastered the art of
dress and self poise.
Therefore, Martha, with the delight of her own achievements full upon
her face, which was pretty, although untutored, regarded her visitor
with an expression which almost made Margaret falter. It was probably
the absurd dressing of the girl's hair which restored Margaret's
confidence in her scheme. Martha Wallingford actually wore a frizzled
bang, very finely frizzled too, and her hair was strained from the
nape of her neck, and it seemed impossible that a young woman who
knew no better than to arrange her hair in such fashion, should not
be amenable to Margaret's plan. The plan, moreover, sounded very
simple, except for the little complications which might easily arise.
Margaret smiled into the pretty face under the fuzz of short hair.
"My dear Miss Wallingford," said she, "I have come this morning to
beg a favour. I hope you will not refuse me, although I am such an
entire stranger. If, unfortunately, my intimate friend, Mrs.
Fay-Wyman, of whom I assume that you of course know, even if you have
not met her, as you may easily have done, or her daughter, Miss Edith
Fay-Wyman, had not left town last week for their country house,
Rose-In-Flower, at Hyphen-by-the-Sea, a most delightful spot. Mr.
Edes and I have spent several week ends there. I am prevented from
spending longer than week ends because I am kept at home by my two
darling twin daughters. Mrs. Fay-Wyman is a sweet woman and I do so
wish I could have brought her here to-day. I am sure you would at
once fall madly in love with her and also with her daughter, Miss
Edith Fay-Wyman, such a sweet girl, and--" But here Margaret was
unexpectedly, even rudely interrupted by Miss Wallingford, who looked
at her indignantly.
"I never fall in love with women," stated that newly risen literary
star abruptly, "why should I? What does it amount to?"
"Oh, my dear," cried Margaret, "when you are a little older you will
find that it amounts to very much. There is a soul sympathy, and--"
"I don't think that I care much about soul sympathy," stated Miss
Wallingford, who was beginning to be angrily bewildered by her
guest's long sentences, which so far seemed to have no point as far
as she herself was concerned.
Margaret started a little. Again the doubt seized her if she were not
making a mistake, undertaking more than she could well carry through,
for this shy authoress was fast developing unexpected traits.
However, Margaret, once she had started, was not easily turned back.
She was as persistently clinging as a sweet briar.
"Oh, my dear," she said, and her voice was like trickling honey,
"only wait until you are a little older and you will find that you do
care, care very, very much. The understanding and sympathy of other
women will become very sweet to you. It is so pure and ennobling, so
free from all material taint."
"I have seen a great many women who were perfect cats," stated Miss
Martha Wallingford.
"Wait until you are older," said Margaret again and her voice seemed
fairly dissolving into some spiritual liquid of divine sweetness.
"Wait until you are older, my dear. You are very young, so young to
have accomplished a wonderful work which will live."
"Oh, well," said Martha Wallingford, and as she spoke she fixed
pitiless shrewd young eyes upon the face of the other woman, which
did not show at its best, in spite of veil and the velvety darkness
of hat-shadow. This hotel sitting-room was full of garish cross
lights. "Oh, well," said Martha Wallingford, "of course, I don't know
what may happen if I live to be old, as old as you."
Margaret Edes felt like a photograph proof before the slightest
attempt at finish had been made. Those keen young eyes conveyed the
impression of convex mirrors. She restrained an instinctive impulse
to put a hand before her face, she had an odd helpless sensation
before the almost brutal, clear-visioned young thing. Again she
shrank a little from her task, again her spirit reasserted itself.
She moved and brought her face somewhat more into the shadow. Then
she spoke again. She wisely dropped the subject of feminine
affinities. She plunged at once into the object of her visit, which
directly concerned Miss Martha Wallingford, and Margaret, who was as
astute in her way as the girl, knew that she was entirely right in
assuming that Martha Wallingford was more interested in herself than
anything else in the world.
"My dear," she said, "I may as well tell you at once why I intruded
upon you this morning."
"Please do," said Martha Wallingford.
"As I said before, I deeply regret that I was unable to bring some
well-known person, Mrs. Fay-Wyman, for instance, to make us
acquainted in due form, but--"
"Oh, I don't care a bit about that," said Martha. "What is it?"
Margaret again started a little. She had not expected anything like
this. The mental picture which she had formed of Martha Wallingford,
the young literary star, seemed to undergo a transformation akin to
an explosion, out of which only one feature remained intact--the
book, "_Hearts Astray_." If Miss Wallingford had not possessed a
firm foundation in that volume, it is entirely possible that Margaret
might have abandoned her enterprise. As it was, after a little gasp
she went on.
"I did so wish to assure you in person of my great admiration for
your wonderful book," said she. Martha Wallingford made no reply. She
had an expression of utter acquiescence in the admiration, also of
having heard that same thing so many times, that she was somewhat
bored by it. She waited with questioning eyes upon Margaret's face.
"And I wondered," said Margaret, "if you would consider it too
informal, if I ventured to beg you to be my guest at my home in
Fairbridge next Thursday and remain the weekend, over Sunday. It
would give me so much pleasure, and Fairbridge is a charming little
village and there are really many interesting people there whom I
think you would enjoy, and as for them--!" Margaret gave a slight
roll to her eyes--"they would be simply overwhelmed."
"I should like to come very much, thank you," said Martha
Wallingford.
Margaret beamed. "Oh, my dear," she cried, "I can not tell you how
much joy your prompt and warm response gives me. And--" Margaret
looked about her rather vaguely, "you are not alone here, of course.
You have a maid, or perhaps, your mother--"
"My Aunt Susan is with me," said Miss Wallingford, "but there is no
use inviting her. She hates going away for a few days. She says it is
just as much trouble packing as it would be to go for a month. There
is no use even thinking of her, but I shall be delighted to come."
Margaret hesitated. "May I not have the pleasure of being presented
to your aunt?" she inquired.
"Aunt Susan is out shopping," lied Miss Martha Wallingford. Aunt
Susan was clad in a cotton crepe wrapper, and Martha knew that she
would think it quite good enough for her to receive anybody in, and
that she could not convince her to the contrary. It was only recently
that Martha herself had become converted from morning wrappers, and
the reaction was violent. "The idea of a woman like this Mrs. Edes
seeing Aunt Susan in that awful pink crepe wrapper!" she said to
herself. She hoped Aunt Susan was not listening, and would not make a
forcible entry into the room. Aunt Susan in moments of impulse was
quite capable of such coups. Martha glanced rather apprehensively
toward the door leading into the bedroom but it did not open. Aunt
Susan was indeed listening and she was rigid with indignation, but in
truth, she did not want to accompany her niece upon this projected
visit, and she was afraid of being drawn into such a step should she
present herself. Aunt Susan did dislike making the effort of a visit
for a few days only. Martha had told the truth. It was very hot, and
the elder woman was not very strong. Moreover, she perceived that
Martha did not want her and there would be the complication of
kicking against the pricks of a very determined character, which had
grown more determined since her literary success. In fact, Aunt Susan
stood in a slight awe of her niece since that success, for all her
revolts which were superficial. Therefore, she remained upon her side
of the door which she did not open until the visitor had departed
after making definite arrangements concerning trains and meetings.
Then Aunt Susan entered the room with a cloud of pink crepe in her
wake.
"Who was that?" she demanded of Martha.
"Mrs. Wilbur Edes," replied her niece, and she aped Margaret to
perfection as she added, "and a most charming woman, most charming."
"What did she want you to do?" inquired the aunt.
"Now, Aunt Susan," replied the niece, "what is the use of going over
it all? You heard every single thing she said."
"I did hear her ask after me," said the aunt unabashed, "and I heard
you tell a lie about it. You told her I had gone out shopping and you
knew I was right in the next room."
"I didn't mean to have you come in and see a woman dressed like that
one, in your wrapper."
"What is the matter with my wrapper?"
Martha said nothing.
"Are you going?" asked her aunt.
"You know that too."
"I don't know what your Pa would say," remarked Aunt Susan, but
rather feebly, for she had a vague idea that it was her duty to
accompany her niece and she was determined to shirk it.
"I don't see how Pa can say much of anything since he is in South
Mordan, Illinois, and won't know about it, unless you telegraph,
until next week," said Martha calmly. "Now, come along, Aunt Susan,
and get dressed. I have made up my mind to get that beautiful white
silk dress we looked at yesterday. It did not need any alteration and
I think I shall buy that pearl and amethyst necklace at Tiffany's. I
know Mrs. Edes will have an evening party and there will be
gentlemen, and what is the use of my making so much money out of
_Hearts Astray_ if I don't have a few things I want? Hurry and get
dressed."
"I don't see why this wrapper isn't plenty good enough for a few
errands at two or three stores," said the aunt sulkily, but she
yielded to Martha's imperative demand that she change her wrapper for
her black satin immediately.
Meantime Margaret on her way down town to the ferry was conscious of
a slight consternation at what she had done. She understood that in
this young woman was a feminine element which radically differed from
any which had come within her ken. She, however, was determined to go
on. The next day invitations were issued to the Zenith Club for the
following Friday, from four to six, and also one to dinner that
evening to four men and five women. She planned for Sunday an
automobile ride; she was to hire the car from the Axminister garage,
and a high tea afterward. Poor Margaret did all in her power to make
her scheme a success, but always she had that chilling doubt of her
power. Miss Martha Wallingford had impressed her as being a young
woman capable of swift and unexpected movements. She was rather
afraid of her but she did not confess her fear to Wilbur. When he
inquired genially what kind of a girl the authoress was, she replied:
"Oh, charming, of course, but the poor child does not know how to do
up her hair." However, when Martha arrived Thursday afternoon and
Margaret met her at the station, she, at a glance, discovered that
the poor child had discovered how to do up her hair. Some persons'
brains work in a great many directions and Martha Wallingford's was
one of them. Somehow or other, she had contrived to dispose of her
tightly frizzed fringe, and her very pretty hair swept upward from a
forehead which was both intellectual and beautiful. She was well
dressed too. She had drawn heavily upon her royalty revenue. She had
worked hard and spent a good deal during the short time since
Margaret's call, and her brain had served her body well. She stepped
across the station platform with an air. She carried no provincial
bag--merely a dainty little affair mounted in gold which matched her
gown--and she had brought a small steamer trunk.
Margaret's heart sank more and more, but she conducted her visitor to
her little carriage and ordered the man to drive home, and when
arrived there, showed Martha her room. She had a faint hope that the
room might intimidate this Western girl, but instead of intimidation
there was exultation. She looked about her very coolly, but
afterward, upon her return to East Mordan, Illinois, she bragged a
good deal about it. The room was really very charming and rather
costly. The furniture was genuine First Empire; the walls, which were
hung with paper covered with garlands of roses, were decorated with
old engravings; there was a quantity of Dresden ware and there was a
little tiled bathroom. Over a couch in the bedroom lay a kimona of
white silk embroidered with pink roses. Afterward Martha made cruel
fun of her Aunt's pink crepe and made her buy a kimona.
"Shall I send up my maid to assist you in unpacking, Miss
Wallingford?" inquired Margaret, inwardly wondering how the dinner
would be managed if the offer were accepted. To her relief, Martha
gave her an offended stare. "No, thank you, Mrs. Edes," said she, "I
never like servants, especially other peoples', mussing up my
things."
When Margaret had gone, Martha looked about her, and her mouth was
frankly wide open. She had never seen such exquisite daintiness and
it daunted her, although she would have died rather than admit it.
She thought of her own bedroom at home in East Mordan, Illinois, with
its old black walnut chamber set and framed photographs and chromos,
but she maintained a sort of defiant pride in it even to herself. In
Martha Wallingford's character there was an element partaking of the
nature of whalebone, yielding, but practically unbreakable, and
sometimes wholly unyielding. Martha proceeded to array herself for
dinner. She had not a doubt that it would be a grand affair. She
therefore did not hesitate about the white silk, which was a robe of
such splendour that it might not have disgraced a court. It showed a
great deal of her thin, yet pretty girlish neck, and it had a very
long train. She had a gold fillet studded with diamonds for her
hair--that hair which was now dressed according to the very latest
mode--a mode which was startling, yet becoming, and she clasped
around her throat the Tiffany necklace, and as a crowning touch, put
on long white gloves. When she appeared upon the verandah where
Margaret sat dressed in a pretty lingerie gown with Wilbur in a light
grey business suit, the silence could be heard. Then there was one
double gasp of admiration from Maida and Adelaide in their white
frocks and blue ribbons. They looked at the visitor with positive
adoration, but she flushed hotly. She was a very quick-witted girl.
Margaret recovered herself, presented Wilbur, and shortly, they went
in to dinner, but it was a ghastly meal. Martha Wallingford in her
unsuitable splendour was frankly, as she put it afterward, "hopping
mad," and Wilbur was unhappy and Margaret aghast, although apparently
quite cool. There was not a guest besides Martha. The dinner was
simple. Afterward it seemed too farcical to ask a guest attired like
a young princess to go out on the verandah and lounge in a wicker
chair, while Wilbur smoked. Then Annie Eustace appeared and Margaret
was grateful. "Dear Annie," she said, after she had introduced the
two girls, "I am so glad you came over. Come in."
"It is pleasanter on the verandah, isn't it?" began Annie, then she
caught Margaret's expressive glance at the magnificent white silk.
They all sat stiffly in Margaret's pretty drawing-room. Martha said
she didn't play bridge and upon Annie's timid suggestion of pinocle,
said she had never heard of it. Wilbur dared not smoke. All that
wretched evening they sat there. The situation was too much for
Margaret, that past mistress of situations, and her husband was
conscious of a sensation approaching terror and also wrath whenever
he glanced at the figure in sumptuous white, the figure expressing
sulkiness in every feature and motion. Margaret was unmistakably
sulky as the evening wore on and nobody came except this other girl
of whom she took no notice at all. She saw that she was pretty, her
hair badly arranged and she was ill-dressed, and that was enough for
her. She felt it to be an insult that these people had invited her
and asked nobody to meet her, Martha Wallingford, whose name was in
all the papers, attired in this wonderful white gown. When Annie
Eustace arose to go, she arose too with a peremptory motion.
"I rather guess I will go to bed," said Martha Wallingford.
"You must be weary," said Margaret.
"I am not tired," said Martha Wallingford, "but it seems to me as
dull here as in South Mordan, Illinois. I might as well go to bed and
to sleep as sit here any longer."
When Margaret had returned from the guest room, her husband looked at
her almost in a bewildered fashion. Margaret sank wearily into a
chair. "Isn't she impossible?" she whispered.
"Did she think there was a dinner party?" Wilbur inquired
perplexedly.
"I don't know. It was ghastly. I did not for a moment suppose she
would dress for a party, unless I told her, and it is Emma's night
off and I could not ask people with only Clara to cook and wait."
Wilbur patted his wife's shoulder comfortingly. "Never mind, dear,"
he said, "when she gets her chance to do her to-morrow's stunt at
your club, she will be all right."
Margaret shivered a little. She had dared say nothing to Martha about
that "stunt." Was it possible that she was making a horrible
mistake?
The next day, Martha was still sulky but she did not, as Margaret
feared, announce her intention of returning at once to New York.
Margaret said quite casually that she had invited a few of the
brightest and most interesting people in Fairbridge to meet her that
afternoon and Martha became curious, although still resentful, and
made no motion to leave. She, however, resolved to make no further
mistakes as to costume, and just as the first tide of the Zenith Club
broke over Margaret's threshold, she appeared clad in one of her
South Mordan, Illinois, gowns. It was one which she had tucked into
her trunk in view of foul weather. It was a hideous thing made from
two old gowns. It had a garish blue tunic reaching well below the
hips and a black skirt bordered with blue. Martha had had it made
herself from a pattern after long study of the fashion plates in a
Sunday newspaper and the result, although startling, still half
convinced her. It was only after she had seen all the members of the
Zenith Club seated and had gazed at their costumes, that she realised
that she had made a worse mistake than that of the night before. To
begin with, the day was very warm and her gown heavy and clumsy. The
other ladies were arrayed in lovely lingeries or light silks and
laces. The Zenith Club was exceedingly well dressed on that day.
Martha sat in her place beside her hostess and her face looked like a
sulky child's. Her eye-lids were swollen, her pouting lips dropped at
the corners. She stiffened her chin until it became double. Margaret
was inwardly perturbed but she concealed it. The programme went on
with the inevitable singing by Miss MacDonald and Mrs. Wells, the
playing by Mrs. Jack Evarts, the recitation by Sally Anderson.
Margaret had not ventured to omit those features. Then, Mrs.
Sturtevant read in a trembling voice a paper on Emerson. Then
Margaret sprang her mines. She rose and surveyed her audience with
smiling impressiveness. "Ladies," she said, and there was an
immediate hush, "Ladies, I have the pleasure, the exceeding pleasure
of presenting you to my guest, Miss Martha Wallingford, the author of
_Hearts Astray_. She will now speak briefly to you upon her motive in
writing and her method of work." There was a soft clapping of hands.
Margaret sat down. She was quite pale. Annie Eustace regarded her
wonderingly. What had happened to her dear Margaret?
The people waited. Everybody stared at Miss Martha Wallingford who
had written that great seller, _Hearts Astray_. Martha Wallingford
sat perfectly still. Her eyes were so downcast that they gave the
appearance of being closed. Her pretty face looked red and swollen.
Everybody waited. She sat absolutely still and made no sign except
that of her obstinate face of negation. Margaret bent over her and
whispered. Martha did not even do her the grace of a shake of the
head.
Everybody waited again. Martha Wallingford sat so still that she gave
the impression of a doll made without speaking apparatus. It did not
seem as if she could even wink. Then Alice Mendon, who disliked
Margaret Edes and had a shrewd conjecture as to the state of affairs,
but who was broad in her views, pitied Margaret. She arose with
considerable motion and spoke to Daisy Shaw at her right, and broke
the ghastly silence, and immediately everything was in motion and
refreshments were being passed, but Martha Wallingford, who had
written _Hearts Astray_, was not there to partake of them. She was in
her room, huddled in a chair upholstered with cream silk strewn with
roses; and she was in one of the paroxysms of silent rage which
belonged to her really strong, although undisciplined nature, and
which was certainly in this case justified to some degree.
"It was an outrage," she said to herself. She saw through it all now.
She had refused to speak or to read before all those women's clubs
and now this woman had trapped her, that was the word for it, trapped
her.
As she sat there, her sullenly staring angry eyes saw in large
letters at the head of a column in a morning paper on the table
beside her, "'_The Poor Lady_,' the greatest anonymous novel of the
year."
Then she fell again to thinking of her wrongs and planning how she
should wreak vengeance upon Margaret Edes.