Delight Haverford was to come out in December, but there were times when the Doctor wondered if she was really as keen about it as she pretended to be. He found her once or twice, her usually active hands idle in her lap, and a pensive droop to her humorous young mouth.
“Tired, honey?” he asked, on one of those occasions.
“No. Just talking to myself.”
“Say a few nice things for me, while you're about it, then.”
“Nice things! I don't deserve them.”
“What awful crime have you been committing? Break it to me gently. You know my weak heart.”
“Your tobacco heart!” she said, severely. “Well, I've been committing a mental murder, if you want to know the facts. Don't protest. It's done. She's quite dead already.”
“Good gracious! And I have reared this young viper! Who is she?”
“I don't intend to make you an accessory, daddy.”
But' behind her smile he felt a real hurt. He would have given a great deal to have taken her in his arms and tried to coax out her trouble so he might comfort her. But that essential fineness in him which his worldliness only covered like a veneer told him not to force her confidence. Only, he wandered off rather disconsolately to hunt his pipe and to try to realize that Delight was now a woman grown, and liable to woman's heart-aches.
“What do you think it is?” he asked that night, when after her nightly custom Mrs. Haverford had reached over from the bed beside his and with a single competent gesture had taken away his book and switched off his reading lamp, and he had, with the courage of darkness, voiced a certain uneasiness.
“Who do you think it is, you mean.”
“Very well, only the word is 'whom.'”
Mrs. Haverford ignored this.
“It's that Hayden girl,” she said. “Toots. And Graham Spencer.”
“Do you think that Delight—”
“She always has. For years.”
Which was apparently quite clear to them both.
“If it had only been a nice girl,” Mrs. Haverford protested, plaintively. “But Toots! She's fast, I'm sure of it.”
“My dear!”
“And that boy needs a decent girl, if anybody ever did. A shallow mother, and a money-making father—all Toots Hay den wants is his money. She's ages older than he is. I hear he is there every day and all of Sundays.”
The rector had precisely as much guile as a turtle dove, and long, after Mrs. Haverford gave unmistakable evidences of slumber, he lay with his arms above his head, and plotted. He had no conscience whatever about it. He threw his scruples to the wind, and if it is possible to follow the twists of a theological mind turned from the straight and narrow way into the maze of conspiracy, his thoughts ran something like this:
“She is Delight. Therefore to see her is to love her. To see her with any other girl is to see her infinite superiority and charm. Therefore—”
Therefore, on the following Sunday afternoon, the totally unsuspecting daughter of a good man gone wrong took a note from the rector to the Hayden house, about something or other of no importance, and was instructed to wait for an answer. And the rector, vastly uneasy and rather pleased with himself, took refuge in the parish house and waited ten eternities, or one hour by the clock.
Delight herself was totally unsuspicious. The rectory on a Sunday afternoon was very quiet, and she was glad to get away. She drove over, and being in no hurry she went by the Spencer house. She did that now and then, making various excuses to herself, such as liking the policeman at the corner or wanting to see the river from the end of the street. But all she saw that day was Rodney Page going in, in a top hat and very bright gloves.
“Precious!” said Delight to herself. Her bump of reverence was very small.
But she felt a little thrill, as she always did, when she passed the house. Since she could remember she had cared for Graham. She did not actually know that she loved him. She told herself bravely that she was awfully fond of him, and that it was silly, because he never would amount to anything. But she had a little argument of her own, for such occasions, which said that being really fond of any one meant knowing all about them and liking them anyhow.
She stopped the car at the Hayden house, and carried her note to the door. When she went in, however, she was instantly uncomfortable. The place reeked with smoke, and undeniably there was dancing going on somewhere. A phonograph was scraping noisily. Delight's small nose lifted a little. What a deadly place! Coming in from the fresh outdoors, the noise and smoke and bar-room reek stifled her.
Then a door opened, and Marion Hayden was drawing her into a room.
“How providential, Delight!” she said. “You'll take my hand, won't you? It's Graham's dummy, and we want to dance.”
The two connecting rooms were full of people, and the air was heavy. Through the haze she saw Graham, and nodded to him, but with a little sinking of the heart. She was aware, however, that he was looking at her with a curious intentness and a certain expectancy. Maybe he only hoped she would let him dance with Toots.
“No, thanks,” she said. “Sorry.”
“Why not, Delight? Just a hand, anyhow.”
“Three good reasons: I don't play cards on Sunday; I don't ever play for money; and I'm stifling for breath already in this air.”
She was, indeed, a little breathless.
There was, had she only seen it, relief in Graham's face. She did not belong there, he felt. Delight was—well, she was different. He had not been thinking of her before she came in; he forgot her promptly the moment she went out. But she had given him, for an instant, a breath of the fresh out-doors, and quietness and—perhaps something clean and fine.
There was an insistent clamor that she stay, and Tommy Hale even got down on his knees and made a quite impassioned appeal. But Delight's chin was very high, although she smiled.
“You are all very nice,” she said. “But I'm sure I'd bore you in a minute, and I'm certain you'd bore me. Besides, I think you're quite likely to be raided.”
Which met with great applause.
But there was nothing of Delight of the high head when she got out of her car and crept up the rectory steps. How could she even have cared? How could she? That was his life, those were the people he chose to play with. She had a sense of loss, rather than injury.
The rector, tapping at her door a little later, received the answer to his note through a very narrow crack, and went away feeling that the way of the wicked is indeed hard.
Clayton had been watching with growing concern Graham's intimacy with the gay crowd that revolved around Marion Hayden. It was more thoughtless than vicious; more pleasure-seeking than wicked; but its influence was bad, and he knew it.
But he was very busy. At night he was too tired to confront the inevitable wrangle with Natalie that any protest about Graham always evoked, and he was anxious not to disturb the new rapprochement with the boy by direct criticism.
The middle of December, which found the construction work at the new plant well advanced, saw the social season definitely on, also, and he found himself night after night going to dinners and then on to balls. There were fewer private dances than in previous Winters, but society had taken up various war activities and made them fashionable. The result was great charity balls.
On these occasions he found himself watching for Audrey, always. She had, with a sort of diabolical cleverness, succeeded in losing herself. Her house was sold, he knew, and he had expected that she would let him know where to find her. She had said she counted on him, and he had derived an odd sort of comfort from the thought. It had warmed him to think that, out of all the people he knew, to one woman he meant something more than success.
But although he searched the gayest crowds with his eyes, those hilarious groups of which she had been so frequently the center, he did not find her. And there had been no letter save a brief one without an address, enclosing her check for the money she had borrowed. She had apparently gone, not only out of her old life, but out of his as well.
At one of the great charity balls he met Nolan, and they stood together watching the crowd.
“Pretty expensive, I take it,” Nolan said, indicating the scene. “Orchestra, florist, supper—I wonder how much the Belgians will get.”
“Personally, I'd rather send the money and get some sleep.”
“Precisely. But would you send the money? We've got to have a quid pro quo, you know-most of us.” He surveyed the crowd with cynical, dissatisfied eyes. “At the end of two years of the war,” he observed, apropos of nothing, “five million men are dead, and eleven million have been wounded. A lot of them were doing this sort of thing two years ago.”
“I would like to know where we will be two years from now.”
“Some of us won't be here. Have you seen Lloyd George's speech on the German peace terms? That means going on to the end. A speedy peace might have left us out, but there will be no peace. Not yet, or soon.”
“And still we don't prepare!”
“The English tradition persists,” said the Irishman, bitterly. “We want to wait, and play to the last moment, and then upset our business and overthrow the whole country, trying to get ready in a hurry.
“I wonder what they will do, when the time comes, with men like you and myself?”
“Take our money,” said Nolan viciously. “Tax our heads off. Thank God I haven't a son.”
Clayton eyed him with the comprehension of long acquaintance.
“Exactly,” he said. “But you'll go yourself, if you can.”
“And fight for England? I will not.”
He pursued the subject further, going into an excited account of Ireland's grievances. He was flushed and loquacious. He quoted Lloyd George's “quagmire of distrust” in tones raised over the noise of the band. And Clayton was conscious of a growing uneasiness. How much of it was real, how much a pose? Was Nolan representative of the cultured Irishman in America? And if he was, what would be the effect of their anti-English mania? Would we find ourselves, like the British, split into factions? Or would the country be drawn together by trouble until it changed from a federation of states to a great nation, united and unbeatable?
Were we really the melting pot of the world, and was war the fiery furnace which was to fuse us together, or were there elements, like Nolan, like the German-Americans, that would never fuse?
He left Nolan still irritable and explosive, and danced once with Natalie, his only dance of the evening. Then, finding that Rodney Page would see her to her car later, he went home.
He had a vague sense of disappointment, a return of the critical mood of the early days of his return from France. He went to his room and tried to read, but he gave it up, and lay, cigaret in hand, thinking!
There ought to have come to a man, when he reached the middle span, certain compensations for the things that had gone with his youth, the call of adventure, the violent impulses of his early love life. There should come, to take their place, friends, a new zest in the romance of achievement, since other romance had gone, and—peace. But the peace of the middle span of life should be the peace of fulfillment, and of a home and a woman.
Natalie was not happy, but she seemed contented enough. Her life satisfied her. The new house in the day-time, bridge, the theater in the evening or the opera, dinners, dances, clothes—they seemed to be enough for her. But his life was not enough for him. What did he want anyhow? In God's name, what did he want?
One night, impatient with himself, he picked up the book of love lyrics in its mauve cover, from his bedside table. He read one, then another. He read them slowly, engrossingly. It was as though something starved in him was feeding eagerly on this poor food. Their passion stirred him as in his earlier years he had never been stirred. For just a little time, while Natalie danced that night, Clayton Spencer faced the tragedy of the man in his prime, still strong and lusty with life, with the deeper passions of the deepening years, who has outgrown and outloved the woman he married.
A man's house must be built on love. Without love it can not stand.
Natalie, coming in much later and seeing his light still on, found him sleeping, with one arm under his head, and a small black hole burned in the monogrammed linen sheet. The book of poems had slipped to the floor.
The next day she missed it from its place, and Clayton's man, interrogated, said he had asked to have it put away somewhere. He did not care for it. Natalie raised her eyebrows. She had thought the poems rather pretty.
One resolution Clayton made, as a result of that night. He would not see Audrey again if he could help it. He was not in love with her and he did not intend to be. He was determinedly honest with himself. Men in his discontented state were only too apt to build up a dream-woman, compounded of their own starved fancy, and translate her into terms of the first attractive woman who happened to cross the path. He was not going to be a driveling idiot, like Chris and some of the other men he knew. Things were bad, but they could be much worse.
It happened then that when Audrey called him at the mill a day or so later it was a very formal voice that came back to her over the wire. She was quick to catch his tone.
“I suppose you hate being called in business hours, Clay!”
“Not at all.”
“That means yes, you know. But I'm going even further. I'm coming down to see you.”
“Why, is anything wrong?”
He could hear her laughter, a warm little chuckle.
“Don't be so urgent,” she said gayly. “I want to consult you. That's all. May I come?”
There was a second's pause. Then,
“Don't you think I'd better come to see you?”
“I've only a little flat. I don't think you'll like it.”
“That's nonsense. Where is it?”
She gave him the address.
“When shall I come?”
“Whenever it suits you. I have nothing to do. Say this afternoon about four.”
That “nothing to do” was an odd change, in itself, for Audrey had been in the habit of doling out her time like sweetmeats.
“Where in the world have you been all this time?” he demanded, almost angrily. To his own surprise he was suddenly conscious of a sense of indignation and affront. She had said she depended on him, and then she had gone away and hidden herself. It was ridiculous.
“Just getting acquainted with myself,” she replied, with something of her old airy manner. “Good-by.”
His irritation passed as quickly as it came. He felt calm and very sure of himself, and rather light-hearted. Joey, who was by now installed as an office adjunct, and who commonly referred to the mill as “ours,” heard him whistling blithely and cocked an ear in the direction of the inner room.
“Guess we've made another million dollars,” he observed to the pencil-sharpener.
Clayton was not in the habit of paying afternoon calls on women. The number of such calls that he had paid without Natalie during his married life could have been numbered on the fingers of his two hands. Most of the men he knew paid such visits, dropping in somewhere for tea or a highball on the way uptown. He had preferred his club, when he had a little time, the society of other men.
He wondered if he should call Natalie and tell her. But he decided against it. It was possible, for one thing, that Audrey still did not wish her presence in town known. If she did, she would tell Natalie herself. And it was possible, too, that she wanted to discuss Chris, and the reason for his going.
He felt a real sense of relief, when at last he saw her, to find her looking much the same as ever. He hardly knew what he had expected. Audrey, having warned him as to the apartment, did not mention its poverty again. It was a tiny little place, but it had an open fire in the living-room, and plain, pale-yellow walls, and she had given it that curious air of distinction with which she managed, in her casual way, to invest everything about her.
“I hope you observe how neat I am,” she said, as she gave him her hand. “My rooms, of course.”
“Frightfully so.”
He towered in the low room. Audrey sat down and surveyed him as he stood by the fire.
“It is nice to have a man about again.”
“Do you mean to say you have been living here, without even visitors, for two months?”
“You'll laugh. Clay, I'm studying!”
“Studying! What?”
“Stenography. Oh, it's not as bad as that. I don't have to earn my living. I've just got to do something for my soul's sake. I went all over the ground, and I saw I was just a cumberer of the earth, and then I thought—”
She hesitated.
“What did you think?”
“If, some time or other, I could release a man to go and fight, it would be the next best thing to giving myself. Not here, necessarily; I don't believe we will ever go in. But in England, anywhere.”
“You've released Chris.”
“He released himself. And he's not fighting. He's driving an ambulance.”
He waited, hoping she would go on. He was not curious, but he thought it might be good for her to talk Chris and the trouble over with some one. But she sat silent, and suddenly asked him if he cared for tea. He refused.
“How's Natalie?”
“Very well.”
“And the house?”
“Held up by cold weather now. It should be finished by the end of April.”
“Clay,” she said, after a moment, “are you going to employ women in the new munition works?”
“In certain departments, yes.”
“I have a girl I want work for. She's not trained, of course.”
“None of them are. We have to teach them. I can give you a card to the employment department if you want it.”
“Thanks.”
There was a short silence. She sat looking at the fire, and he had a chance to notice the change in her. She had visualized it herself. Her long ear-rings were gone, and with them some of the insolence they had seemed to accentuate. She was not rouged, and he had thought at first, for that reason, that she looked ill. She was even differently dressed, in something dark and girlish with a boyish white Eton collar.
“I wonder if you think I'm hiding, Clay,” she said, finally.
“Well, what are you doing?” He smiled down at her from the hearth-rug.
“Paying my bills! That's not all the truth, either. I'll tell you, Clay. I just got sick of it all. When Chris left I had a chance to burn my bridges and I burned them. The same people, the same talk, the same food, the same days filled with the same silly things that took all my time and gave me nothing.”
“How long had you been feeling like that?”
“I don't know. Ever since the war, I suppose. I just got to thinking—”
Her voice trailed off.
“I have some of Chris's Scotch, if you want a high-ball.”
“Thanks, no. Audrey, do you hear from Chris?”
“Yes. He's in a dangerous place now, and sometimes at night—I suppose I did force him, in a way. He was doing no good here, and I thought he would find himself over there. But I didn't send him. He—-Tell me about making shells.”
He was a little bit disappointed. Evidently she did not depend on him enough to tell him Chris's story. But again, she was being loyal to Chris.
He told her about the mill, phrasing his explanation in the simplest language; the presses drilling on white-hot metal; the great anvils; the forge; the machine-shop, with its lathes, where the rough surfaces of the shells were first rough-turned and then machined to the most exact measurements. And finding her interested, he told her of England's women workers, in their khaki-colored overalls and caps, and of the convent-like silence and lack of movement in the filling-sheds, where one entered with rubber-shod feet, and the women, silent and intent, sat all day and all night, with queer veils over their faces, filling shells with the death load.
Audrey listened, her hands clasped behind her head.
“If other women can do that sort of thing, why can't I, Clay?”
“Nonsense.”
“But why? I'm intelligent.”
“It's not work for a lady.”
“Lady! How old-fashioned you are! There are no ladies any more. Just women. And if we aren't measured by our usefulness instead of our general not-worth-a-damn-ness, well, we ought to be. Oh, I've had time to think, lately.”
He was hardly listening. Seeing her, after all those weeks, had brought him a wonderful feeling of peace. The little room, with its fire, was cozy and inviting. But he was quite sure, looking down at her, that he was not in danger of falling in love with her. There was no riot in him, no faint stirring of the emotions of that hour with the mauve book.
There was no suspicion in him that the ways of love change with the years, that the passions of the forties, when they come, are to those of the early years as the deep sea to a shallow lake, less easily roused, infinitely more terrible.
“This girl you spoke about, that was the business you mentioned?”
“Yes.” She hesitated. “I could have asked you that over the telephone, couldn't I? The plain truth is that I've had two bad months—never mind why, and Christmas was coming, and—I just wanted to see your perfectly sane and normal face again.”
“I wish you'd let me know sooner where you were.”
She evaded his eyes.
“I was getting settled, and studying, and learning to knit, and—oh, I'm the most wretched knitter, Clay! I just stick at it doggedly. I say to myself that hands that can play golf, and use a pen, and shoot, and drive a car, have got to learn to knit. But look here!”
She held up a forlorn looking sock to his amused gaze. “And I think I'm a clever woman.”
“You're a very brave woman, Audrey,” he said. “You'll let me come back, won't you?”
“Heavens, yes. Whenever you like. And I'm going to stop being a recluse. I just wanted to think over some things.”
On the way home he stopped at his florist's, and ordered a mass of American beauties for her on Christmas morning. She had sent her love to Natalie, so that night he told Natalie he had seen her, and such details of her life as he knew.
“I'm glad she's coming to her senses,” Natalie said. “Everything's been deadly dull without her. She always made things go—I don't know just how,” she added, as if she had been turning her over in her mind. “What sort of business did she want to see you about?”
“She has a girl she wants to get into the mill.”
“Good gracious, she must be changed,” said Natalie. And proceeded—she was ready to go out to dinner—to one of her long and critical surveys of herself in the cheval mirror. Recently those surveys had been rather getting on Clayton's nerves. She customarily talked, not to him, but to his reflection over her shoulder, when, indeed, she took her eyes from herself.
“I wonder,” she said, fussing with a shoulder-strap, “who Audrey will marry if anything happens to Chris?”
She saw his face and raised her eyebrows.
“You needn't scowl like that. He's quite as likely as not never to come back, isn't he? And Audrey didn't care a pin for him.”
“We're talking rather lightly of a very terrible thing, aren't we?”
“Oh, you're not,” she retorted. “You think just the same things as I do, but you're not so open about them. That's all.”
Graham was engaged. He hardly knew himself how it had come about. His affair with Marion had been, up to the very moment of his blurted—out “I want you,” as light-hearted as that of any of the assorted young couples who flirted and kissed behind the closed doors of that popular house.
The crowd which frequented the Hayden home was gay, tolerant and occasionally nasty. It made ardent love semi-promiscuously, it drank rather more than it should, and its desire for a good time often brought it rather close to the danger line. It did not actually step over, but it hovered gayly on the brink.
And Toots remained high-priestess of her little cult. The men liked her. The girls imitated her. And Graham, young as he was, seeing her popularity, was vastly gratified to find himself standing high in her favor.
Marion was playing for the stake of the Spencer money. In her intimate circle every one knew it but Graham.
“How's every little millionaire?” was Tommy Hale's usual greeting.
She knew only one way to handle men, and with the stake of the Spencer money she tried every lure of her experience on Graham. It was always Marion who on cold nights sat huddled against him in the back seat of the Hayden's rather shabby car, her warm ungloved hand in his. It was Marion who taught him to mix the newest of cocktails, and who later praised his skill. It was Marion who insisted on his having a third, too, when the second had already set his ears drumming.
The effect on the boy of her steady propinquity, of her constant caressing touches, of the general letting-down of the bars of restraint, was to rouse in him impulses of which he was only vaguely conscious, and his proposal of marriage, when it finally came, was by nature of a confession. He had kissed her, not for the first time, but this time she had let him hold her, and he had rained kisses on her face.
“I want you,” he had said, huskily.
And even afterward, when the thing was done, and she had said she would marry him, she had to ask him if he loved her.
“I—of course I do,” he had said. And had drawn her back into his arms.
He wanted to marry her at once. It was the strongest urge of his life, and put into his pleading an almost pathetic earnestness. But she was firm enough now.
“I don't think your family will be crazy about this, you know.”
“What do we care for the family? They're not marrying you, are they?”
“They will have to help to support me, won't they?”
And he had felt a trifle chilled.
It was not a part of Marion's program to enter the Spencer family unwelcomed. She had a furtive fear of Clayton Spencer, the fear of the indirect for the direct, of the designing woman for the essentially simple and open male. It was not on her cards to marry Graham and to try to live on his salary.
So for a few weeks the engagement was concealed even from Mrs. Hayden, and Graham, who had received some stock from his father on his twenty-first birthday, secretly sold a few shares and bought the engagement ring. With that Marion breather easier. It was absolute evidence.
Her methods were the methods of her kind and her time. To allure a man by every wile she knew, and having won him to keep him uncertain and uneasy, was her perfectly simple creed. So she reduced love to its cheapest terms, passion and jealousy, played on them both, and made Graham alternately happy and wretched.
Once he found Rodney Page there, lounging about with the manner of a habitue. It seemed to Graham that he was always stumbling over Rodney those days, either at home, with drawings and color sketches spread out before him, or at the Hayden house.
“What's he hanging around here for?” he demanded when Rodney, having bent over Marion's hand and kissed it, had gone away. “If he could see that bare spot on the top of his head he'd stop all that kow-towing.”
“You're being rather vulgar, aren't you?” Marion had said. “He's a very old friend and a very dear one.”
“Probably in love with you once, like all the rest?”
He had expected denial from her, but she had held her cigaret up in the air, and reflectively regarded its small gilt tip.
“I'm afraid he's rather unhappy. Poor Rod!”
“About me?”
“About me.”
“Look here, Toots,” he burst out. “I'm playing square with you. I never go anywhere but here. I—I'm perfectly straight with you. But every time here I find some of your old guard hanging round. It makes me wild.”
“They've always come here, and as long as our engagement isn't known, I can't very well stop them.”
“Then let me go to father.”
“He'll turn you out, you know. I know men, dear old thing, and father is going to raise a merry little hell about us. He's the sort who wants to choose his son's wife for him. He'd like to play Providence.” She watched him, smiling, but with slightly narrowed eyes. “I rather think he has somebody in mind for you now.”
“I don't believe it.”
“Of course you don't. But he has.”
“Who?”
“Delight. She's exactly the sort he thinks you'll need. He still thinks you are a little boy, Graham, so he picks out a nice little girl for you. Such a nice little girl.”
The amused contempt in her voice made him angry—for Delight rather than himself. He was extremely grown-up and dignified the rest of the afternoon; he stood very tall and straight, and spoke in his deepest voice.
It became rather an obsession in him to prove his manhood, and added to that was the effect of Marion's constant, insidious appeal to the surging blood of his youth. And, day after day, he was shut in his office with Anna Klein.
He thought he was madly in love with Marion. He knew that he was not at all in love with Anna Klein. But she helped to relieve the office tedium.
He was often aware, sitting at his desk, with Anna before him, notebook in hand, that while he read his letters her eyes were on him. More than once he met them, and there was something in them that healed his wounded vanity. He was a man to her. He was indeed almost a god, but that he did not know. In his present frame of mind, he would have accepted even that, however.
Then, one day he kissed her. She was standing very close, and the impulse was quick and irresistible. She made no effort to leave his arms, and he kissed her again.
“Like me a little, do you?” he had asked, smiling into her eyes.
“Oh, I do, I do!” she had replied, hoarsely.
It was almost an exact reversal of his relationship with Marion. There the huskiness was his, the triumphant smile was Marion's. And the feeling of being adored without stint or reservation warmed him.
He released her then, but their relationship had taken on a new phase. He would stand against the outer door, to prevent its sudden opening. And she would walk toward him, frightened and helpless until his arms closed about her. It was entirely a game to him. There were days, when Marion was trying, or the work of his department was nagging him, when he scarcely noticed her at all. But again the mischief in him, the idler, the newly awakened hunting male, took him to her with arms outheld and the look of triumph in his eyes that she mistook for love.
On one such occasion Joey came near to surprising a situation, so near that his sophisticated young mind guessed rather more than the truth. He went out, whistling.
He waited until Graham had joined the office force in the mill lunchroom, and invented an errand back to Graham's office. Anna was there, powdering her nose with the aid of a mirror fastened inside her purse.
Joey had adopted Clayton with a sort of fierce passion, hidden behind a pose of patronage.
“He's all right,” he would say to the boys gathered at noon in the mill yard. “He's kinda short-tempered sometimes, but me, I understand him. And there ain't many of these here money kings that would sit up in a hospital the way he did with me.”
The mill yard had had quite enough of that night in the hospital. It would fall on him in one of those half-playful, half-vicious attacks that are the humor of the street, and sometimes it was rather a battered Joey who returned to Clayton's handsome office, to assist him in running the mill.
But it was a very cool and slightly scornful Joey who confronted Anna that noon hour. He lost no time in preliminaries.
“What do you think you're doing, anyhow?” he demanded.
“Powdering my nose, if you insist on knowing.”
They spoke the same language. Anna knew what was coming, and was on guard instantly.
“You cut it out, that's all.”
“You cut out of this office. And that's all.”
Joey sat down on Graham's desk and folded his arms.
“What are you going to get out of it, anyhow?” he said with a shift from bullying to argument.
“Out of what?”
“You know, all right.”
She whirled on him.
“Now see here, Joey,” she said. “You run out and play. I'll not have any little boys meddling in my affairs.”
Joey slid off the desk and surveyed her with an impish smile. “Your affairs!” he repeated. “What the hell do I care about your affairs? I'm thinking of the boss. It's up to him if he wants to keep German spies on the place. But it's up to some of us here to keep our eyes open, so that they don't do any harm.”
Sheer outrage made Anna's face pale. She had known for some time that the other girls kept away from her, and she had accepted it with the stolidity of her blood. She had no German sympathies; her sympathies in the war lay nowhere.
But—she a spy!
“You get out of here,” she said furiously, “or I'll go to Mr. Spencer and complain about you. I'm no more a spy than you are. Not as much!—the way you come sneaking around listening and watching! Now you get out.”
And Joey had gone, slowly to show that the going was of his own free will, and whistling. He went out and closed the door. Then he opened it and stuck his head in.
“You be good,” he volunteered, “and when the little old U.S. gets to mixing up with the swine over there, I'll bring you a nice fat Hun as a present.”
Two days before Christmas Delight came out. There was an afternoon reception at the rectory, and the plain old house blossomed with the debutante's bouquets and baskets of flowers.
For weeks before the house had been getting ready. The rector, looking about for his accustomed chair, had been told it was at the upholsterer's, or had found his beloved and ragged old books relegated to dark corners of the bookcases. There were always stepladders on the landings, and paper-hangers waiting until a man got out of bed in the morning. And once he put his ecclesiastical heel in a pail of varnish, and slid down an entire staircase, to the great imperilment of his kindly old soul.
But he had consented without demur to the coming-out party, and he had taken, during all the morning of the great day, a most mundane interest in the boxes of flowers that came in every few minutes. He stood inside a window, under pretense of having no place to sit down, and called out regularly,
“Six more coming, mother! And a boy with three ringing across the street. I think he's made a mistake. Yes, he has. He's coming over!”
When all the stands and tables were overflowing, the bouquets were hung to the curtains in the windows. And Delight, taking a last survey, from the doorway, expressed her satisfaction.
“It's heavenly,” she said. “Imagine all those flowers for me. It looks”—she squinted up her eyes critically—“it looks precisely like a highly successful funeral.”
But a part of her satisfaction was pure pose, for the benefit of that kindly pair who loved her so. Alone in her room, dressed to go down-stairs, Delight drew a long breath and picked up her flowers which Clayton Spencer had sent. It had been his kindly custom for years to send to each little debutante, as she made her bow, a great armful of white lilacs and trailing tiny white rosebuds.
“Fifty dollars, probably,” Delight reflected. “And the Belgians needing flannels. It's dreadful.”
Her resentment against Graham was dying. After all, he was only a child in Toots Hayden's hands. And she made one of those curious “He-loves-me-he-loves-me-not” arrangements in her own mind. If Graham came that afternoon, she would take it as a sign that there was still some good in him, and she would try to save him from himself. She had been rather nasty to him. If he did not come—
A great many came, mostly women, with a sprinkling of men. The rector, who loved people, was in his element. He was proud of Delight, proud of his home; he had never ceased being proud of his wife. He knew who exactly had sent each basket of flowers, each hanging bunch. “Your exquisite orchids,” he would say; or, “that perfectly charming basket. It is there, just beside Mrs. Haverford.”
But when Natalie Spencer came in alone, splendid in Russian sables, he happened to be looking at Delight, and he saw the light die out of her eyes.
Natalie had tried to bring Graham with her. She had gone into his room that morning while he was dressing and asked him. To tell the truth, she was uneasy about Marion Hayden and his growing intimacy there.
“You will, won't you, Graham, dear?”
“Sorry, mother. I just can't. I'm taking a girl out.”
“I suppose it's Marion.”
Her tone caused him to turn and look at her.
“Yes, it's Marion. What's wrong with that?”
“It's so silly, Graham. She's older than you are. And she's not really nice, Graham. I don't mean anything horrid, but she's designing. She knows you are young and—well, she's just playing with you. I know girls, Graham. I—”
She stopped, before his angry gaze.
“She is nice enough for you to ask here,” he said hastily.
“She wants your money. That's all.”
He had laughed then, an ugly laugh.
“There's a lot of it for her to want.”
And Natalie had gone away to shed tears of fury and resentment in her own room.
She was really frightened. Bills for flowers sent to Marion were coming in, to lie unpaid on Graham's writing table. She had over-drawn once again to pay them, and other bills, for theater tickets, checks signed at restaurants, over-due club accounts.
So she went to the Haverfords alone, and managed very effectually to snub Mrs. Hayden before the rector's very eyes.
Mrs. Hayden thereupon followed an impulse.
“If it were not for Natalie Spencer,” she said, following that lady's sables with malevolent eyes, “I should be very happy in something I want to tell you. Can we find a corner somewhere?”
And Doctor Haverford had followed her uneasily, behind some palms. She was a thin little woman with a maddening habit of drawing her tight veil down even closer by a contortion of her lower jaw, so that the rector found himself watching her chin rather than her eyes.
“I want you to know right away, as Marion's clergyman, and ours,” she had said, and had given her jaw a particularly vicious wag and twist. “Of course it is not announced—I don't believe even the Spencers know it yet. I am only telling you now because I know how dearly”—she did it again—“how dearly interested you are in all your spiritual children. Marion is engaged to Graham Spencer.”
The rector had not been a shining light for years without learning how to control his expression. He had a second, too, while she contorted her face again, to recover himself.
“Thank you,” he said gravely. “I much appreciate your telling me.”
Mrs. Hayden had lowered her voice still more. The revelation took on the appearance of conspiracy.
“In the early spring, probably,” she said, “we shall need your services, and your blessing.”
So that was the end of one dream. He had dreamed so many—in his youth, of spiritualizing his worldly flock; in middle life, of a bishopric; he had dreamed of sons, to carry on the name he had meant to make famous. But the failures of those dreams had been at once his own failure and his own disappointment. This was different.
He was profoundly depressed. He wandered out of the crowd and, after colliding with a man from the caterer's in a dark rear hall, found his way up the servant's staircase to the small back room where he kept the lares and penates of his quiet life, his pipe, his fishing rods, a shabby old smoking coat, and back files of magazines which he intended some day to read, when he got round to it.
The little room was jammed with old furniture, stripped from the lower floor to make room for the crowd. He had to get down on his knees and crawl under a table to reach his pipe. But he achieved it finally, still with an air of abstraction, and lighted it. Then, as there was no place to sit down, he stood in the center of the little room and thought.
He did not go down again. He heard the noise of the arriving and departing motors subside, its replacement by the sound of clattering china, being washed below in the pantry. He went down finally, to be served with a meal largely supplemented by the left-overs of the afternoon refreshments, ornate salads, fancy ices, and an overwhelming table decoration that shut him off from his wife and Delight, and left him in magnificent solitude behind a pyramid of flowers.
Bits of the afternoon's gossip reached him; the comments on Delight's dress and her flowers; the reasons certain people had not come. But nothing of the subject nearest his heart. At the end of the meal Delight got up.
“I'm going to call up Mr. Spencer,” she said. “He has about fifty dollars' worth of thanks coming to him.”
“I didn't see Graham,” said Mrs. Haverford. “Was he here?”
Delight stood poised for flight.
“He couldn't come because he had enough to do being two places at once. His mother said he was working, and Mrs. Hayden said he had taken Marion to the Country Club. I don't know why they take the trouble to lie to me.”