When Jimmy came home to luncheon that day, Aggie succeeded in getting a general idea of the state of affairs in the Hardy household. Of course Jimmy didn't tell the whole truth. Oh, no—far from it. In fact, he appeared to be aggravatingly ignorant as to the exact cause of the Hardy upheaval. Of ONE thing, however, he was certain. “Alfred was going to quit Chicago and leave Zoie to her own devices.”
“Jimmy!” cried Aggie. “How awful!” and before Jimmy was fairly out of the front gate, she had seized her hat and gloves and rushed to the rescue of her friend.
Not surprised at finding Zoie in a state of collapse, Aggie opened her arms sympathetically to receive the weeping confidences that she was sure would soon come.
“Zoie dear,” she said as the fragile mite rocked to and fro. “What is it?” She pressed the soft ringlets from the girl's throbbing forehead.
“It's Alfred,” sobbed Zoie. “He's gone!”
“Yes, I know,” answered Aggie tenderly. “Isn't it awful? Jimmy just told me.”
“Jimmy told you WHAT?” questioned Zoie, and she lifted her head and regarded Aggie with sudden uneasiness. Her friend's answer raised Jimmy considerably in Zoie's esteem. Apparently he had not breathed a word about the luncheon.
“Why, Jimmy told me,” continued Aggie, “that you and Alfred had had another tiff, and that Alfred had gone for good.”
“For GOOD!” echoed Zoie and her eyes were wide with terror. “Did Alfred tell Jimmy that?”
Aggie nodded.
“Then he MEANS it!” cried Zoie, at last fully convinced of the strength of Alfred's resolve. “But he shan't,” she declared emphatically. “I won't let him. I'll go after him. He has no right——” By this time she was running aimlessly about the room.
“What did you do to him?” asked Aggie, feeling sure that Zoie was as usual at fault.
“Nothing,” answered Zoie with wide innocent eyes.
“Nothing?” echoed Aggie, with little confidence in her friend's ability to judge impartially about so personal a matter.
“Absolutely nothing,” affirmed Zoie. And there was no doubting that she at least believed it.
“What does he SAY,” questioned Aggie diplomatically.
“He SAYS I 'hurt his soul.' Whatever THAT is,” answered Zoie, and her face wore an injured expression. “Isn't that a nice excuse,” she continued, “for leaving your lawful wedded wife?” It was apparent that she expected Aggie to rally strongly to her defence. But at present Aggie was bent upon getting facts.
“HOW did you hurt him?” she persisted.
“I ate lunch,” said Zoie with the face of a cherub.
“With whom?” questioned Aggie slyly. She was beginning to scent the probable origin of the misunderstanding.
“It's of no consequence,” answered Zoie carelessly; “I wouldn't have wiped my feet on the man.” By this time she had entirely forgotten Aggie's proprietorship in the source of her trouble.
“But who WAS the man?” urged Aggie, and in her mind, she had already condemned him as a low, unprincipled creature.
“What does that matter?” asked Zoie impatiently. “It's ANY man with Alfred—you know that—ANY man!”
Aggie sank in a chair and looked at her friend in despair. “Why DO you do these things,” she said wearily, “when you know how Alfred feels about them?”
“You talk as though I did nothing else,” answered Zoie with an aggrieved tone. “It's the first time since I've been married that I've ever eaten lunch with any man but Alfred. I thought you'd have a little sympathy with me,” she whimpered, “instead of putting me on the gridiron like everyone else does.”
“Everyone else?” questioned Aggie, with recurring suspicion.
“I mean Alfred,” explained Zoie. “HE'S 'everyone else' to me.” And then with a sudden abandonment of grief, she threw herself prostrate at her friend's knees. “Oh, Aggie, what can I do?” she cried.
But Aggie was not satisfied with Zoie's fragmentary account of her latest escapade. “Is that the only thing that Alfred has against you?” she asked.
“That's the LATEST,” sniffled Zoie, in a heap at Aggie's feet. And then she continued in a much aggrieved tone, “You know he's ALWAYS rowing because we haven't as many babies as the cook has cats.”
“Well, why don't you get him a baby?” asked the practical, far-seeing Aggie.
“It's too late NOW,” moaned Zoie.
“Not at all,” reassured Aggie. “It's the very thing that would bring him back.”
“How COULD I get one?” questioned Zoie, and she looked up at Aggie with round astonished eyes.
“Adopt it,” answered Aggie decisively.
Zoie regarded her friend with mingled disgust and disappointment. “No,” she said with a sigh and a shake of her head, “that wouldn't do any good. Alfred's so fussy. He always wants his OWN things around.”
“He needn't know,” declared Aggie boldly.
“What do you mean?” whispered Zoie.
Drawing herself up with an air of great importance, and regarding the wondering young person at her knee with smiling condescension, Aggie prepared to make a most interesting disclosure.
“There was a long article in the paper only this morning,” she told Zoie, “saying that three thousand husbands in this VERY CITY are fondling babies not their own.”
Zoie turned her small head to one side, the better to study Aggie's face. It was apparent to the latter that she must be much more explicit.
“Babies adopted in their absence,” explained Aggie, “while they were on trips around the country.”
A dangerous light began to glitter in Zoie's eyes.
“Aggie!” she cried, bringing her small hands together excitedly, “do you think I COULD?”
“Why not?” asked Aggie, with a very superior air. Zoie's enthusiasm was increasing her friend's admiration of her own scheme. “This same paper tells of a woman who adopted three sons while her husband was in Europe, and he thinks each one of them is his.”
“Where can we get some?” cried Zoie, now thoroughly enamoured of the idea.
“You can always get TONS of them at the Children's Home,” answered Aggie confidently.
“I can't endure babies,” declared Zoie, “but I'd do ANYTHING to get Alfred back. Can we get one TO-DAY?” she asked.
Aggie looked at her small friend with positive pity. “You don't WANT one TO-DAY,” she explained.
Zoie rolled her large eyes inquiringly.
“If you were to get one to-day,” continued Aggie, “Alfred would know it wasn't yours, wouldn't he?”
A light of understanding began to show on Zoie's small features.
“There was none when he left this morning,” added Aggie.
“That's true,” acquiesced Zoie.
“You must wait awhile,” counselled Aggie, “and then get a perfectly new one.”
But Zoie had never been taught to wait.
“Now Aggie——” she began.
Aggie continued without heeding her.
“After a few months,” she explained, “when Alfred's temper has had time to cool, we'll get Jimmy to send him a wire that he has an heir.”
“A few months!” exclaimed Zoie, as though Aggie had suggested an eternity. “I've never been away from Alfred that long in all my life.”
Aggie was visibly annoyed. “Well, of course,” she said coldly, as she rose to go, “if you can get Alfred back WITHOUT that——”
“But I can't!” cried Zoie, and she clung to her friend as to her last remaining hope.
“Then,” answered Aggie, somewhat mollified by Zoie's complete submission. “THIS is the only way. The President of the Children's Home is a great friend of Jimmy's,” she said proudly.
It was at this point that Zoie made her first practical suggestion. “Then we'll LET JIMMY GET IT,” she declared.
“Of course,” agreed Aggie enthusiastically, as though they would be according the poor soul a rare privilege. “Jimmy gives a hundred dollars to the Home every Christmas,”—additional proof why he should be selected for this very important office.
“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Zoie with shocked surprise. “If Alfred were to give a hundred dollars to a Baby's Home, I should suspect him.”
“Don't be silly!” snapped Aggie curtly. In spite of her firm faith in Jimmy's innocence, she was undoubtedly annoyed by Zoie's unpleasant suggestion.
There was an instant's pause, then putting disagreeable thoughts from her mind, Aggie turned to Zoie with renewed enthusiasm.
“We must get down to business,” she said, “we'll begin on the baby's outfit at once.”
“Its what?” queried Zoie.
“Its clothes,” explained Aggie.
“Oh, what fun!” exclaimed Zoie, and she clapped her hands merrily like a very small child. A moment later she stopped with sudden misgiving.
“But, Aggie,” she said fearfully, “suppose Alfred shouldn't come back after I've got the baby? I'd be a widow with a child.”
“Oh, he's sure to come back!” answered Aggie, with a confident air. “He'll take the first train, home.”
“I believe he will,” assented Zoie joyfully. All her clouds were again dispelled. “Aggie,” she cried impulsively, “you are a darling. You have just saved my life.” And she clasped her arms so tightly around Aggie's neck that her friend was in danger of being suffocated.
Releasing herself Aggie continued with a ruffled collar and raised vanity: “You can write him an insinuating letter now and then, just to lead up to the good news gradually.”
Zoie tipped her small head to one side and studied her friend thoughtfully. “Do you know, Aggie,” she said, with frank admiration, “I believe you are a better liar than I am.”
“I'm NOT a liar,” objected Aggie vehemently, “at least, not often,” she corrected. “I've never lied to Jimmy in all my life.” She drew herself up with conscious pride. “And Jimmy has NEVER LIED TO ME.”
“Isn't that nice,” sniffed Zoie and she pretended to be searching for her pocket-handkerchief.
But Aggie did not see her. She was glancing at the clock.
“I must go now,” she said. And she started toward the door.
“But, Aggie——” protested Zoie, unwilling to be left alone.
“I'll run in again at tea time,” promised Aggie.
“I don't mind the DAYS,” whined Zoie, “but when NIGHT comes I just MUST have somebody's arms around me.”
“Zoie!” gasped Aggie, both shocked and alarmed.
“I can't help it,” confessed Zoie; “the moment it gets dark I'm just scared stiff.”
“That's no way for a MOTHER to talk,” reproved Aggie.
“A mother!” exclaimed Zoie, horrified at the sudden realisation that this awful appellation would undoubtedly pursue her for the rest of her life. “Oh, don't call me that,” she pleaded. “You make me feel a thousand years old.”
“Nonsense,” laughed Aggie, and before Zoie could again detain her she was out of the room.
When the outside door had closed behind her friend, Zoie gazed about the room disconsolately, but her depression was short-lived. Remembering Aggie's permission about the letter, she ran quickly to the writing table, curled her small self up on one foot, placed a brand new pen in the holder, then drew a sheet of paper toward her and, with shoulders hunched high and her face close to the paper after the manner of a child, she began to pen the first of a series of veiled communications that were ultimately to fill her young husband with amazement.
When Jimmy reached his office after his unforeseen call upon Zoie, his subsequent encounter with Alfred, and his enforced luncheon at home with Aggie, he found his mail, his 'phone calls, and his neglected appointments in a state of hopeless congestion, and try as he would, he could not concentrate upon their disentanglement. Growing more and more furious with the long legged secretary who stood at the corner of his desk, looking down upon him expectantly, and waiting for his tardy instructions, Jimmy rose and looked out of the window. He could feel Andrew's reproachful eyes following him.
“Shall Miss Perkins take your letters now?” asked Andrew, and he wondered how late the office staff would be kept to-night to make up for the time that was now being wasted.
Coming after repeated wounds from his nearest and dearest, Andrew's implied reproach was too much for Jimmy's overwrought nerves. “Get out!” he answered unceremoniously. And when Andrew could assure himself that he had heard aright, he stalked out of the door with his head high in the air.
Jimmy looked after his departing secretary with positive hatred. It was apparent to him that the whole world was against him. He had been too easy he decided. His family, friends, and business associates had undoubtedly lost all respect for him. From this day forth he was determined to show himself to be a man of strong mettle.
Having made this important decision and having convinced himself that he was about to start on a new life, Jimmy strode to the door of the office and, without disturbing the injured Andrew, he called sharply to Miss Perkins to come at once and take his letters.
Poor Jimmy! Again he tried in vain to concentrate upon the details of the “cut-glass” industry. Invariably his mind would wander back to the unexpected incidents of the morning. Stopping suddenly in the middle of a letter to a competing firm, he began pacing hurriedly up and down the room.
Had she not feared that her chief might misconstrue any suggestion from her as an act of impertinence, Miss Perkins, having learned all the company's cut-glass quotations by rote, could easily have supplied the remainder of the letter. As it was, she waited impatiently, tapping the corner of the desk with her idle pencil. Jimmy turned at the sound, and glanced at the pencil with unmistakable disapproval. Miss Perkins waited in silence. After one or two more uneasy laps about the room, Jimmy went to his 'phone and called his house number.
“It's undoubtedly domestic trouble,” decided Miss Perkins, and she wondered whether it would be delicate of her, under the circumstances, to remain in the room.
From her employer's conversation at the 'phone, it was clear to Miss Perkins that Mrs. Jinks was spending the afternoon with Mrs Hardy, but why this should have so annoyed MR. Jinks was a question that Miss Perkins found it difficult to answer. Was it possible that Mr. Jinks's present state of unrest could be traced to the door of the beautiful young wife of his friend? “Oh dear,” thought Miss Perkins, “how scandalous!”
“That will do,” commanded Jimmy, interrupting Miss Perkins's interesting speculations, and he nodded toward the door.
“But——” stammered Miss Perkins, as she glanced at the unfinished letters.
“I'll call you when I need you,” answered Jimmy gruffly. Miss Perkins left the room in high dudgeon.
“I'LL show them,” said Jimmy to himself, determined to carry out his recent resolve to be firm.
Then his mind wend back to his domestic troubles. “Suppose, that Zoie, after imposing secrecy upon him, should change that thing called her 'mind' and confide in Aggie about the luncheon?” Jimmy was positively pale. He decided to telephone to Zoie's house and find out how affairs were progressing. At the 'phone he hesitated. “If Aggie HAS found out about the luncheon,” he argued, “my 'phoning to Zoie's will increase her suspicions. If Zoie has told her nothing, she'll wonder why I'm 'phoning to Zoie's house. There's only one thing to do,” he decided. “I must wait and say nothing. I can tell from Aggie's face when I meet her at dinner whether Zoie has betrayed me.”
Having arrived at this conclusion, Jimmy resolved to get home as early as possible, and again Miss Perkins was called to his aid.
The flurry with which Jimmy despatched the day's remaining business confirmed both Miss Perkins and Andrew in their previous opinion that “the boss” had suddenly “gone off his head.” And when he at last left the office and banged the door behind him there was a general sigh of relief from his usually tranquil staff.
Instead of walking, as was his custom, Jimmy took a taxi to his home but alas, to his surprise he found no wife.
“Did Mrs. Jinks leave any word?” he inquired from the butler.
“None at all,” answered that unperturbed creature; and Jimmy felt sure that the attitude of his office antagonists had communicated itself to his household servants.
When Jimmy's anxious ear at last caught the rustle of a woman's dress in the hallway, his dinner had been waiting half an hour, and he had worked himself into a state of fierce antagonism toward everything and everybody.
At the sound of Aggie's voice however, his heart began to pound with fear. “Had she found him out for the weak miserable deceiver that he was? Would she tell him that they were going to separate forever?”
Aggie's first words were reassuring. “Awfully sorry to be so late, dear,” she said.
Jimmy felt her kiss upon his chubby cheek and her dear arms about his neck. He decided forthwith to tell her everything, and never, never again to run the risk of deceiving her; but before he could open his lips, she continued gaily:
“I've brought Zoie home with me, dear. There's no sense in her eating all alone, and she's going to have ALL her dinners with us.” Jimmy groaned. “After dinner,” continued Aggie, “you and I can take her to the theatre and all those places and keep her cheered until Alfred comes home.”
“Home?” repeated Jimmy in alarm. Was it possible that Alfred had already relented?
“Oh, he doesn't know it yet,” explained Aggie, “but he's coming. We'll tell you all about it at dinner.” And they did.
While waiting for Aggie, Jimmy had thought himself hungry, but once the two women had laid before him their “nefarious baby-snatching scheme”—food lost its savour for him, and one course after another was taken away from him untouched.
Each time that Jimmy ventured a mild objection to his part in the plan, as scheduled by them, he met the threatening eye of Zoie; and by the time that the three left the table he was so harassed and confused by the chatter of the two excited women, that he was not only reconciled but eager to enter into any scheme that might bring Alfred back, and free him of the enforced companionship of Alfred's nerve-racking wife. True, he reflected, it was possible that Alfred, on his return, might discover him to be the culprit who lunched with Zoie and might carry out his murderous threat; but even such a fate was certainly preferable to interminable evenings spent under the same roof with Zoie.
“All YOU need do, Jimmy,” explained Aggie sweetly, when the three of them were comfortably settled in the library, “is to see your friend the Superintendent of the Babies' Home, and tell him just what kind of a baby we shall need, and when we shall need it.”
“Can't we see it ourselves?” chimed in Zoie.
“Oh yes, indeed,” said Aggie confidently, and she turned to Jimmy with a matter-of-fact tone. “You'd better tell the Superintendent to have several for us to look at when the time arrives.”
“Yes, that's better,” agreed Zoie.
As for Jimmy, he had long ceased to make any audible comment, but internally he was saying to himself: “man of strong mettle, indeed!”
“We'll attend to all the clothes for the child,” said Aggie generously to Jimmy.
“I want everything to be hand-made,” exclaimed Zoie enthusiastically.
“We can make a great many of the things ourselves, evenings,” said Aggie, “while we sit here and talk to Jimmy.”
“I thought we were going OUT evenings!” objected Zoie.
Jimmy rolled his eyes toward her like a dumb beast of burden.
“MOST evenings,” assented Aggie. “And then toward the last, you know, Zoie——” she hesitated to explain further, for Jimmy was already becoming visibly embarrassed.
“Oh, yes, that's true,” blushed Zoie.
There was an awkward pause, then Aggie turned again toward Jimmy, who was pretending to rebuild the fire. “Oh yes, one more thing,” she said. “When everything is quite ready for Alfred's return, we'll allow you, Jimmy dear, to wire him the good news.”
“Thanks, so much,” said Jimmy.
“I wish it were time to wire now,” said Zoie pensively, and in his mind, Jimmy fervently agreed with that sentiment.
“The next few months will slip by before you know it,” declared Aggie cheerfully. “And by the way, Zoie,” she added, “why should you go back to your lonesome flat to-night?”
Zoie began to feel for her pocket handkerchief—Jimmy sat up to receive the next blow. “Stay here with us,” suggested Aggie. “We'll be so glad to have you.” She included Jimmy in her glance. “Won't we, dear?” she asked.
When the two girls went upstairs arm in arm that night, Jimmy remained in his chair by the fire, too exhausted to even prepare for bed. “A man of mettle!” he said again to himself.
This had certainly been the longest day of his life.
WHEN Aggie predicted that the few months of waiting would pass quickly for Zoie, she was quite correct. They passed quickly for Aggie as well; but how about Jimmy? When he afterward recalled this interval in his life, it was always associated with long strands of lace winding around the legs of the library chairs, white things lying about in all the places where he had once enjoyed sitting or lying, late dinners, lonely breakfasts, and a sense of isolation from Aggie.
One evening when he had waited until he was out of all patience with Aggie, he was told by his late and apologetical spouse that she had been helping Zoie to redecorate her bedroom to fit the coming occasion.
“It is all done in pink and white,” explained Aggie, and then followed detailed accounts of the exquisite bed linens, the soft lovely hangings, and even the entire relighting of the room.
“Why pink?” asked Jimmy, objecting to any scheme of Zoie's on general principles.
“It's Alfred's favourite colour,” explained Aggie. “Besides, it's so becoming,” she added.
Jimmy could not help feeling that this lure to Alfred's senses was absolutely indecent, and he said so.
“Upon my word,” answered Aggie, quite affronted, “you are getting as unreasonable as Alfred himself.” Then as Jimmy prepared to sulk, she added coaxingly, “I was GOING to tell you about Zoie's lovely new negligee, and about the dear little crib that just matches it. Everything is going to be in harmony.”
“With Zoie in the house?” asked Jimmy sceptically.
“I can't think why you've taken such a dislike to that helpless child,” said Aggie.
A few days later, while in the midst of his morning's mail, Jimmy was informed that it was now time for him to conduct Aggie and Zoie to the Babies' Home to select the last, but most important, detail for their coming campaign. According to instructions, Jimmy had been in communication with the amused Superintendent of the Home, and he now led the two women forth with the proud consciousness that he, at least, had attended properly to his part of the business. By the time they reached the Children's Home, several babies were on view for their critical inspection.
Zoie stared into the various cribs containing the wee, red mites with puckered faces. “Oh dear!” she exclaimed, “haven't you any white ones?”
“These are supposed to be white,” said the Superintendent, with an indulgent smile, “the black ones are on the other side of the room.”
“Black ones!” cried Zoie in horror, and she faced about quickly as though expecting an attack from their direction.
“Which particular one of these would you recommend?” asked the practical Aggie of the Superintendent as she surveyed the first lot.
“Well, it's largely a matter of taste, ma'am,” he answered. “This seems a healthy little chap,” he added, and seizing the long white clothes of the nearest infant, he drew him across his arm and held him out for Aggie's inspection.
“Let's see,” cried Zoie, and she stood on tiptoe to peep over the Superintendent's elbow.
As for Jimmy, he stood gloomily apart. This was an ordeal for which he had long been preparing himself, and he was resolved to accept it philosophically.
“I don't think much of that one,” snipped Zoie. And in spite of himself. Jimmy felt his temper rising.
Aggie turned to him with a smile. “Which one do YOU prefer, Jimmy?”
“It's not MY affair,” answered Jimmy curtly.
“Since when?” asked Zoie.
Aggie perceived trouble brewing, and she turned to pacify Jimmy. “Which one do you think your FRIEND ALFRED would like?” she persisted.
“If I were in his place——” began Jimmy hotly.
“Oh, but you AREN'T,” interrupted Zoie; then she turned to the Superintendent. “What makes some of them so much larger than others?” she asked, glancing at the babies he had CALLED “white.”
“Well, you see they're of different ages,” explained the Superintendent indulgently.
“We told Mr. Jinks they must all be of the same age,” said Zoie with a reproachful look at Jimmy.
“What age is that?” asked the Superintendent.
“I should say a week old,” said Aggie.
“Then this is the one for you,” decided the Superintendent, designating his first choice.
“I think we'd better take the Superintendent's advice,” said Aggie complacently.
Zoie looked around the room with a dissatisfied air. Was it possible that all babies were as homely as these?
“You know, Zoie,” explained Aggie, divining her thought, “they get better looking as they grow older.”
“They couldn't look worse!” was Zoie's disgusted comment.
“Fetch it home, Jimmy,” said Aggie.
“What!” exclaimed Jimmy, who had considered his mission completed.
“You don't expect US to carry it, do you?” asked Aggie in a hurt voice.
The Superintendent settled the difficulty temporarily by informing them that the baby could not possibly leave the home until the mother had signed the necessary papers for its release.
“I thought all those details had been attended to,” said Aggie, and again the two women surveyed Jimmy with grieved disappointment.
“I'll get the mother's signature the first thing in the morning,” volunteered the Superintendent.
“Very well,” said Zoie, “and in the meantime, I'll send some new clothes for it,” and with a lofty farewell to the Superintendent, she and Aggie followed Jimmy down stairs to the taxi.
“Now,” said Zoie, when they were properly seated, “let's stop at a telegraph office and let Jimmy send a wire to Alfred.”
“Wait until we get the baby,” cautioned Aggie.
“We'll have it the first thing in the morning,” argued Zoie.
“Jimmy can send him a night-letter,” compromised Aggie, “that way Alfred won't get the news until morning.”
A few minutes later, the taxi stopped in front of Jimmy's office and with a sigh of thanksgiving he hurried upstairs to his unanswered mail.
When Alfred Hardy found himself on the train bound for Detroit, he tried to assure himself that he had done the right thing in breaking away from an association that had kept him for months in a constant state of ferment. His business must come first, he decided. Having settled this point to his temporary satisfaction, he opened his afternoon paper and leaned back in his seat, meaning to divert his mind from personal matters, by learning what was going on in the world at large.
No sooner had his eye scanned the first headline than he was startled by a boisterous greeting from a fellow traveller, who was just passing down the aisle.
“Hello, Hardy!” cried his well meaning acquaintance. “Where are you bound for?”
“Detroit,” answered Alfred, annoyed by the sudden interruption.
“Where's the missus?” asked the intruder.
“Chicago,” was Alfred's short reply.
“THAT'S a funny thing,” declared the convivial spirit, not guessing how funny it really was. “You know,” he continued, so loud that everyone in the vicinity could not fail to hear him, “the last time I met you two, you were on your honeymoon—on THIS VERY TRAIN,” and with that the fellow sat himself down, uninvited, by Alfred's side and started on a long list of compliments about “the fine little girl” who had in his opinion done Alfred a great favour when she consented to tie herself to a “dull, money-grubbing chap” like him.
“So,” thought Alfred, “this is the way the world sees us.” And he began to frame inaudible but desperate defences of himself. Again he told himself that he was right; but his friend's thoughtless words had planted an uncomfortable doubt in his mind, and when he left the train to drive to his hotel, he was thinking very little about the new business relations upon which he was entering in Detroit, and very much about the domestic relations which he had just severed in Chicago.
Had he been merely a “dull money-grubber”? Had he left his wife too much alone? Was she not a mere child when he married her? Could he not, with more consideration, have made of her a more understanding companion? These were questions that were still unanswered in his mind when he arrived at one of Detroit's most enterprising hotels.
But later, having telephoned to his office and found that several matters of importance were awaiting his decision, he forced himself to enter immediately upon his business obligations.
As might have been expected, Alfred soon won the respect and serious consideration of most of his new business associates, and this in a measure so mollified his hurt pride, that upon rare occasions he was affable enough to accept the hospitality of their homes. But each excursion that he made into the social life of these new friends, only served to remind him of the unsettled state of his domestic affairs.
“How your wife must miss you!” his hostess would remark before they were fairly seated at table.
“They tell me she is so pretty,” his vis-a-vis would exclaim.
“When is she going to join you?” the lady on his left would ask.
Then his host would laugh and tell the “dear ladies” that in HIS opinion, Alfred was afraid to bring his wife to Detroit, lest he might lose her to a handsomer man.
Alfred could never quite understand why remarks such as this annoyed him almost to the point of declaring the whole truth. His LEAVING Zoie, and his “losing” her, as these would-be comedians expressed it, were two separate and distinct things in his mind, and he felt an almost irresistible desire to make this plain to all concerned.
But no sooner did he open his lips to do so, than a picture of Zoie in all her child-like pleading loveliness, arose to dissuade him. He could imagine his dinner companions all pretending to sympathise with him, while they flayed poor Zoie alive. She would never have another chance to be known as a respectable woman, and compared to most women of his acquaintance, she WAS a respectable woman. True, according to old-fashioned standards, she had been indiscreet, but apparently the present day woman had a standard of her own. Alfred found his eye wandering round the table surveying the wives of his friends. Was there one of them, he wondered, who had never fibbed to her husband, or eaten a simple luncheon unchaperoned by him? Of one thing he was certain, there was not one of them so attractive as Zoie. Might she not be forgiven, to some extent, if her physical charms had made her a source of dangerous temptation to unprincipled scoundrels like the one with whom she had no doubt lunched? Then, too, had she not offered at the moment of his departure to tell him the “real truth”? Might this not have been the one occasion upon which she would have done so? “She seemed so sincere,” he ruminated, “so truly penitent.” Then again, how generous it was of her to persist in writing to him with never an answer from him to encourage her. If she cared for him so little as he had once imagined, why should she wish to keep up even a presence of fondness? Her letters indicated an undying devotion.
These were some of the thoughts that were going through Alfred's mind just three months after his departure from Chicago, and all the while his hostess was mentally dubbing him a “dull person.”
“What an abstracted man he is!” she said before he was down the front steps.
“Is he really so clever in business?” a woman friend inquired.
“It's hard to believe, isn't it?” commented a third, and his host apologised for the absent Alfred by saying that he was no doubt worried about a particular business decision that had to be made the next morning.
But it was not the responsibility of this business decision that was knotting Alfred's brow, as he walked hurriedly toward the hotel, where he had told his office boy to leave the last mail. This had been the longest interval that Zoie had ever let slip without writing. He recalled that her last letters had hinted at a “slight indisposition.” In fact, she had even mentioned “seeing the doctor”—“Good Heavens!” he thought, “Suppose she were really ill? Who would look after her?”
When Alfred reached his rooms, the boy had not yet arrived. He crossed to the library table and took from the drawer all the letters thus far received from Zoie. He read them consecutively. “How could he have been so stupid as not to have realised sooner that her illness—whatever it was—had been gradually creeping upon her from the very first day of his departure?”
The boy arrived with the mail. It contained no letter from Zoie and Alfred went to bed with an uneasy mind.
The next morning he was down at his office early, still no letter from Zoie.
Refusing his partner's invitation to lunch, Alfred sat alone in his office, glad to be rid of intrusive eyes. “He would write to Jimmy Jinks,” he decided, “and find out whether Zoie were in any immediate danger.”
Not willing to await the return of his stenographer, or to acquaint her with his personal affairs, Alfred drew pen and paper toward him and sat helplessly before it. How could he inquire about Zoie without appearing to invite a reconciliation with her? While he was trying to answer this vexed question, a sharp knock came at the door. He turned to see a uniformed messenger holding a telegram toward him. Intuitively he felt that it contained some word about Zoie. His hand trembled so that he could scarcely sign for the message before opening it.
A moment later the messenger boy was startled out of his lethargy by a succession of contradictory exclamations.
“No!” cried Alfred incredulously as he gazed in ecstasy at the telegram. “Yes!” he shouted, excitedly, as he rose from his chair. “Where's a time table?” he asked the astonished boy, and he began rummaging rapidly through the drawers of his desk.
“Any answer?” inquired the messenger.
“Take this,” said Alfred. And he thrust a bill into the small boy's hand.
“Yes, sir,” answered the boy and disappeared quickly, lest this madman might reconsider his generosity.
Alfred threw down the time table in despair. “No train for Chicago until night,” he cried; but his mind was working fast. The next moment he was at the telephone, asking for the Division Superintendent of the railway line.
When Alfred's partner returned from luncheon he found a curt note informing him that Alfred had left on a special for Chicago and would “write.”
“I'll bet it's his wife!” said the partner.
During the evening of the same day that Alfred was enjoying such pleasurable emotions, Zoie and Aggie were closeted in the pretty pink and white bedroom that the latter had tried to describe to Jimmy. On a rose-coloured couch in front of the fire sat Aggie threading ribbons through various bits of soft white linen, and in front of her, at the foot of a rose-draped bed, knelt Zoie. She was trying the effect of a large pink bow against the lace flounce of an empty but inviting bassinette.
“How's that?” she called to Aggie, as she turned her head to one side and surveyed the result of her experiment with a critical eye.
Aggie shot a grudging glance at the bassinette. “I wish you wouldn't bother me every moment,” she said. “I'll never get all these things finished.”
Apparently Zoie decided that the bow was properly placed, for she applied herself to sewing it fast to the lining. In her excitement she gave the thread a vicious pull. “Oh, dear, oh dear, my thread is always breaking!” she sighed in vexation.
“You're excited,” said Aggie.
“Wouldn't YOU be excited,” questioned Zoie'”if you were expecting a baby and a husband in the morning?”
“I suppose I should,” admitted Aggie.
For a time the two friends sewed in silence, then Zoie looked up with sudden anxiety.
“You're SURE Jimmy sent the wire?” she asked.
“I saw him write it,” answered Aggie, “while I was in the office to-day.”
“When will Alfred get it?” demanded Zoie eagerly.
“Oh, he won't GET it until to-morrow morning,” said Aggie. “I told you that to-day. It's a night message.”
“I wonder what he'll be doing when he gets it?” mused Zoie. There was a suspicion of a smile around her lips.
“What will he do AFTER he gets it?” questioned Aggie.
Looking up at her friend in alarm, Zoie suddenly ceased sewing. “You don't mean he won't come?” she gasped.
“Of course I don't,” answered Aggie. “He's only HUMAN if he is a husband.”
There was a sceptical expression around Zoie's mouth, but she did not pursue the subject. “How do you suppose that red baby will ever look in this pink basket?” she asked. And then with a regretful little sigh, she declared that she wished she'd “used blue.”
“I didn't think the baby that we chose was so horribly red,” said Aggie.
“Red!” cried Zoie, “it's magenta.” And again her thread broke. “Oh, darn!” she exclaimed in annoyance, and once more rethreaded her needle. “I couldn't look at it,” she continued with a disgusted little pucker of her face. “I wish they had let us take it this afternoon so I could have got used to it before Alfred gets here.”
“Now don't be silly,” scolded Aggie. “You know very well that the Superintendent can't let it leave the home until its mother signs the papers. It will be here the first thing in the morning. You'll have all day to get used to it before Alfred gets here.”
“ALL DAY,” echoed Zoie, and the corners of her mouth began to droop. “Won't Alfred be here before TO-MORROW NIGHT?”
Aggie was becoming exasperated by Zoie's endless questions. “I told you,” she explained wearily, “that the wire won't be delivered until to-morrow morning, it will take Alfred eight hours to get here, and there may not be a train just that minute.”
“Eight long hours,” sighed Zoie dismally. And Aggie looked at her reproachfully, forgetting that it is always the last hour that is hardest to bear. Zoie resumed her sewing resignedly. Aggie was meditating whether she should read her young friend a lecture on the value of patience, when the telephone began to ring violently.
Zoie looked up from her sewing with a frown. “You answer it, will you, Aggie?” she said. “I can't let go this thread.”
“Hello,” called Aggie sweetly over the 'phone; then she added in surprise, “Is this you, Jimmy dear?” Apparently it was; and as Zoie watched Aggie's face, with its increasing distress she surmised that Jimmy's message was anything but “dear.”
“Good heavens!” cried Aggie over the telephone, “that's awful!”
“Isn't Alfred coming?” was the first question that burst from Zoie's lips.
Aggie motioned to Zoie to be quiet. “TO-NIGHT!” she exclaimed.
“To-night!” echoed Zoie joyfully; and without waiting for more details and with no thought beyond the moment, she flew to her dressing table and began arranging her hair, powdering her face, perfuming her lips, and making herself particularly alluring for the prodigal husband's return.
Now the far-sighted Aggie was experiencing less pleasant sensations at the phone. “A special?” she was saying to Jimmy. “When did Alfred GET the message?” There was a slight pause. Then she asked irritably, “Well, didn't you mark it 'NIGHT message'?” From the expression on Aggie's face it was evident that he had not done so. “But, Jimmy,” protested Aggie, “this is dreadful! We haven't any baby!” Then calling to him to wait a minute, and leaving the receiver dangling, she crossed the room to Zoie, who was now thoroughly engrossed in the making of a fresh toilet. “Zoie!” she exclaimed excitedly, “Jimmy made a mistake.”
“Of course he'd do THAT,” answered Zoie carelessly.
“But you don't understand,” persisted Aggie. “They sent the 'NIGHT message' TO-DAY. Alfred's coming on a special. He'll be here tonight.”
“Thank goodness for that!” cried Zoie, and the next instant she was waltzing gaily about the room.
“That's all very well,” answered Aggie, as she followed Zoie with anxious eyes, “but WHERE'S YOUR BABY?”
“Good heavens!” cried Zoie, and for the first time she became conscious of their predicament. She gazed at Aggie in consternation. “I forgot all about it,” she said, and then asked with growing anxiety, “What can we DO?”
“Do?” echoed Aggie, scarcely knowing herself what answer to make, “we've got to GET it—TO-NIGHT. That's all!”
“But,” protested Zoie, “how CAN we get it when the mother hasn't signed the papers yet?”
“Jimmy will have to arrange that with the Superintendent of the Home,” answered Aggie with decision, and she turned toward the 'phone to instruct Jimmy accordingly.
“Yes, that's right,” assented Zoie, glad to be rid of all further responsibility, “we'll let Jimmy fix it.”
“Say, Jimmy,” called Aggie excitedly, “you'll have to go straight to the Children's Home and get that baby just as quickly as you can. There's some red tape about the mother signing papers, but don't mind about that. Make them give it to you to-night. Hurry, Jimmy. Don't waste a minute.”
There was evidently a protest from the other end of the wire, for Aggie added impatiently, “Go on, Jimmy, do! You can EAT any time.” And with that she hung up the receiver.
“Its clothes,” called Zoie frantically. “Tell him about the clothes. I sent them this evening.”
“Never mind about the clothes,” answered Aggie. “We're lucky if we get the baby.”
“But I have to mind,” persisted Zoie. “I gave all its other things to the laundress. I wanted them to be nice and fresh. And now the horrid old creature hasn't brought them back yet.”
“You get into your OWN things,” commanded Aggie.
“Where's my dressing gown?” asked Zoie, her elation revived by the thought of her fine raiment, and with that she flew to the foot of the bed and snatched up two of the prettiest negligees ever imported from Paris. “Which do you like better?” she asked, as she held them both aloft, “the pink or the blue?”
“It doesn't matter,” answered Aggie wearily. “Get into SOMETHING, that's all.”
“Then unhook me,” commanded Zoie gaily, as she turned her back to Aggie, and continued to admire the two “creations” on her arm. So pleased was she with the picture of herself in either of the garments that she began humming a gay waltz and swaying to the rhythm.
“Stand still,” commanded Aggie, but her warning was unnecessary, for at that moment Zoie was transfixed by a horrible fear.
“Suppose,” she said in alarm, “that Jimmy can't GET the baby?”
“He's GOT to get it,” answered Aggie emphatically, and she undid the last stubborn hook of Zoie's gown and put the girl from her. “There, now, you're all unfastened,” she said, “hurry and get dressed.”
“You mean undressed,” laughed Zoie, as she let her pretty evening gown fall lightly from her shoulders and drew on her pink negligee. “Oh, Aggie!” she exclaimed, as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, “isn't it a love? And you know,” she added. “Alfred just adores pink.”
“Silly!” answered Aggie, but in spite of herself, she was quite thrilled by the picture of the exquisite young creature before her. Zoie had certainly never looked more irresistible. “Can't you get some of that colour out of your cheeks,” asked Aggie in despair. “You look like a washerwoman.”
“I'll put on some cold cream and powder,” answered Zoie. She flew to her dressing table; and in a moment there was a white cloud in her immediate vicinity. She turned to Aggie to inquire the result. Again the 'phone rang. “Who's that?” she exclaimed in alarm.
“I'll see,” answered Aggie.
“It couldn't be Alfred, could it?” asked Zoie with mingled hope and dread.
“Of course not,” answered Aggie, as she removed the receiver from the hook. “Alfred wouldn't 'phone, he would come right up.”