CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XIX

Before another month had elapsed, society learned of the engagement.

Society was “appalled”!

That the distinguished young architect, Mr. Joseph Grimsby, was about to throw himself away for life to marry a little nobody—a girl who sang for a living—was beyond their exclusive comprehension. Moreover, that there were several worthy mammas with débutante daughters who had actually set for him one of those splendid matches that nine times out of ten turn out badly, cannot be denied. In a twinkling this popular young man became the sole topic of gossip, having fallen so low in their estimation that they put him down as an erratic Bohemian—clever, no doubt, but a disgrace to the name of Grimsby.

They prattled on at teas and dinners apropos of his “ridiculous engagement,” of the shock to his family, though the only near relative left to the boy was his uncle, both his father and mother having died when he was little. They discussed his good looks, which he still possessed; his brilliant career, which in fact had only just begun, though it bid fair to lead him to the foremost rank as an architect. They remembered his breezy good nature, which he still gave out as easily as he laughed or breathed to everyone he came in contact with—all these society discussed, argued, and gossiped over at their leisure—all save the fact that they loved each other.

“I should not have been at all surprised, my dear,” declared Mrs. Gulliver Jones, whose diamonds trembled in unison with her years, and who rouged at sixty, “had he chosen a dancer—some low person of the stage,” she confided, wrinkling her beak. “Why, my dear, his family comes from the bluest of the blue. Of course you know his mother was a Pierrefont, a noted beauty, my dear, in my day. We were girls at school together. I can see her now at her first Charity Ball. Why, I’ll tell you who her sister married—Johnny Selwyn—why, my dear, Mrs. Selwyn Rivers’s own first cousin. The Selwyns were great swells in my day. As I told Gulliver yesterday, what are our young men coming to! Who is this young person, anyway? This Miss What’s-her-name? Preston, you say? They tell me she goes about giving lessons; that she can be actually hired for performances—paid in the hand—paid in the hand, my dear, like a mountebank, or a minstrel. You say she sang at Mrs. Van Cortlandt’s,” she cackled on. “I am not surprised. Do tell me what has become of that wretched woman! That extravagant creature! That she drove her poor husband to suicide does not at all amaze me. Vanity, my dear. What a fool Joe Grimsby has made of himself. Have I seen her? Certainly not. Neither has any one met the mother as far as I am able to discover. They tell me that both mother and daughterlive in the same house as the young man—engaged and under the same roof—shocking state of affairs—and that if I am to believe my ears, her stepfather, who lives with them, takes in washing—or is in the laundry business?—or something of the sort as equally impossible. Suppose he does marry her—who will receive them? Certainly notI. Not a door will be open to them, mark my word. For heaven’s sake, my dear Elizabeth, if you have the slightest influence over him, do go and tell him he is making a fool of himself. I almost feel it is my duty to go myself, if it were not that I dreaded meeting those wretched people.”

Much of this tittle-tattle reached Emma Ford’s ears, who received it with resignation. She nevertheless suffered keenly from a sort of disappointment of what might have been, and which she was thoroughly incapable of defining. Having given her consent, she had begun to prepare herself for the inevitable, and become as satisfactory a mother-in-law as circumstances permitted. So much had happened in the past few months to shatter her hopes and ambitions. Her dream had been to see Sue placed upon the pinnacle of her social aspirations, surrounded by luxury, living in a continual reception, the centre of admiration, the daily recipient of armfuls of American beauty roses, bonbons, and applause. Never once had she thought seriously of her some day marrying—all that was in the vague, comforting future, if that were really to happen—but it had. Sue with her usual frankness had gone straight to her mother on herreturn from the woods, and had told her everything. Mrs. Ford was at first overwhelmed. Then she burst into tears. Then she sent for Joe. The usual scene had ensued, during which his gentleness and his courtesy had touched her. There is no gainsaying that it had its effect. Even she could not deny his sincerity or his love for Sue. She had embraced him in the end, and under the stress of emotion and her fast-returning tears (for she had a tender heart, poor soul) had patted him affectionately on the shoulder, declaring that she was sure he would make Sue a good husband. Ebner Ford standing by, ready with his best deportment and his long hand for the fifth time during the interview to congratulate him.

What worried the promoter most was what the new building for the Lawyers’ Consolidated Trust Company would cost. He already began to compute the Atwater-Grimsby percentage as being more or less of a personal asset to himself. All things reflected upon, he considered “girlie’s latest move” in a promising light. The only thing he regretted was that the award had not been for a colossal hotel as big as the Fifth Avenue. In that case he felt that his prerogative as a father-in-law would entitle him to supplying its subterraneous portion with a steam-mangle plant, and give him a ten-year contract for the entire wash of the establishment, from guests to barber-shop.

There was one gentleman, however, who lived on the top floor, whose heart beat with entire approval. If any one had been instrumental in bringing aboutthis happy state of affairs it was he. Had he not at the first inkling from Sue that her friends, the Jacksons, were thinking seriously of going to the woods and had begged her to be their guest in camp, somewhere—their own in Canada being too far for a short vacation—had not Enoch immediately invited the three to dine at Delmonico’s?—an excellent and exceedingly diplomatic little dinner, during which he convinced the Jacksons that the most sensible thing they could do was to join Mr. Grimsby—eulogizing on that young man’s charm, character, and knowledge of the woods in such glowing terms that the trip was decided upon then and there.

Even before they had risen from the table he had sent Joe the telegram by a trusted waiter, who had served him for years. Three days later, at a meeting of the board of directors of the Lawyers’ Consolidated Trust Company, his deciding vote had given Joe and Atwater the building.

“You seem happy, Crane,” remarked his old friend Gresham at the club that night. “Look as if Wall Street had handed you a million.”

Enoch gripped his hands behind him and looked sharply up at his questioner.

“Millions do not make happiness, Gresham,” he returned curtly. “Why the devil are you fellows always thinking about money?”

One thing he could rub his hands over with satisfaction. He had nothing more to fear from Lamont’s attentions to Sue. He had checkmated thatgentleman for all time and had wiped him off the board.

Needless to say, at the news of Sue’s engagement, Jack Lamont avoided Waverly Place now as he would have the pest. Bitter as he felt toward the stepfather since he had been fool enough to give him what would clear him out of his difficulties, he suffered even a deeper humiliation that his generosity had brought him nothing in the way of forcing his way into Sue’s favor. He had called upon her twice—once to find from the maid she was out, and again to discover from the same servant that she had left the day before with the Jacksons for camp. He had played and lost—a new experience for Handsome Jack, when it involved money and the pursuit of a girl that pleased him. More than once he decided to put the screws on Ebner Ford and bring him to account. After all, he had given him his check of his own free will, accepting his gilt-edged preferred as collateral. Man of the world as he was, he ended by shrugging his shoulders and considering the affair in the light of a bad investment. Moreover, his mind was occupied with a far graver affair these days, that threatened as it developed to drive him out of New York. He even went to Rose Van Cortlandt for advice, begging her to ransack her feminine ingenuity and rid him of a woman who was making his life daily unbearable. Both he and Rose were much too old and worldly pals not to have talked the affair over sensibly together—at least she was not fool enough to believethat she alone was the only one who could lay claim to him.

Rose had changed. She was no longer the gracious spoiled Rose Van Cortlandt of old. Her widowhood and the Bohemian life she had led since Sam Van Cortlandt’s suicide had left its imprint. She was still a seductive, remarkably handsome woman, but she had grown harder. This showed in certain lines about her still glorious eyes, especially when she smiled; her lips were thinner, the angle of her jaw squarer, the subtle curves of her once lovely throat and neck less interesting. Strange to say, she still preserved her figure, her white skin, and her splendid arms. She looked upon life now with more of the view-point of a man of the world than of a woman. Much of her femininity had gone. She had grown calmer, more calculating; men no longer disillusioned her, though she still trusted them more than she did women. Of the latter, she could still count a few among her acquaintances who came to her studio apartment in Washington Square. All of them she had met since her husband’s death; but mostly her friends were men. Like the women, they, too, had come into her life after the tragedy. She still regarded Jack Lamont, however, as her oldest friend, the one who understood her best, and no one understood Jack Lamont better than Rose. Both had reached that stage in their friendship when they knew each other perfectly. Illusion no longer existed between them. Between two such people there are no secrets—even jealousy is absurd.It was now nearly the middle of September. He had called upon her to-day a little before five. She saw at a glance that he was worried and depressed and extremely nervous.

She flung herself down on the big divan in the corner of the studio, stretched forth a bare arm from the flowing pink sleeve of a tea-gown, picked up a fresh cigarette from a green jarful on a small smoking-table close to the mass of cushions, and after a few whiffs, half closed her dark eyes, and with an amused smile, began to question him.

“Where did you meet her, Jack?” she asked, still smiling. “Do sit down. You make me nervous, walking about like a caged lion. Come! Where did you meet her?”

He drew up a low stool beside her, lighted a fresh cigarette himself, blew the smoke through his nostrils, and said with a shrug:

“At the Grand Central Station—oh, months ago—in January—waiting for an incoming train—the Buffalo express, I remember. Snowed up and two hours late.”

“Ah, I see! So you decided she was too good-looking to be left alone, was that it?”

“That was about it—she was.”

“Dangerous game, Jack,” she returned quite seriously. “You ought to be old enough not to do that sort of thing—picking up an acquaintance with a woman you knew nothing about.”

“I’ve always been able to take care of myself,” hestarted to explain, half in protest, but she raised her bare arm to interrupt him.

“Demure, of course—sincere, frank, too good-looking for you to resist,” she continued evenly. “Told you a little of her history without telling you anything. Worried over her aunt possibly, who she felt might be aboard the express. What sort of woman—I mean as far as station in life—young?”

“Twenty-eight, I should say—though she said twenty-five——”

“Well-dressed?”

“Er—yes—neatly.”

“Blond?”

“No, dark—darker, even, than you.”

“Startled—when you spoke to her?”

“A little embarrassed, of course—but we got talking.”

“You meanyougot talking. Any one she knew aboard the express when it arrived?”

“Not a soul.”

“Anxious—tearful?”

“Both.”

“Invite her to dinner?”

Jack nodded.

“So that was the beginning, eh? Champagne?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“McGowan’s Pass Tavern.”

“I see. When did she begin to hint at the breach-of-promise idea?”

“Oh! about two months ago. She was getting pretty savage about that time, used to follow me, wrote me twice a day, even hung around the club.”

“Scenes, hysterics, threats of suicide—and all that sort of thing?”

Jack nodded again with a furrowed brow.

“Plenty of them. Bluffed to kill me twice. Finally, when she found out I was married——”

“How did she find out that? You were not fool enough to tell her, I hope?”

“She found out. I don’t know how she found out, but she found out.”

For some moments neither spoke.

“What’s her final offer?” resumed Rose.

Lamont lifted his head with a worried look in his eyes.

“Twenty-five thousand and quits,” he said slowly, tugging at the end of his gray mustache with a hand that trembled visibly.

“Ridiculous! Modest, to say the least. Plain blackmail, Jack. If you pay that woman a cent you’ll never get rid of her.”

“Call it what you like,” he returned gloomily, “but I’ve got enough of it.”

Rose half raised herself among the pillows, and for a long moment regarded him intently.

“Does your—does Mrs. Lamont know?” she ventured.

He threw up his head with a jerk.

“Yes; Nelly knows,” he declared curtly.

“What didshesay?”

“Nothing.”

“How nothing?”

“She said it was my own affair,” he retorted with some heat. “Not much consolation in that,” he added, “is there?”

“Is thatallshe said?” she questioned him, clasping her knees, her chin buried in her hands.

“Not exactly all—I’ve still got the yacht; she suggested my getting some sea air.”

“I don’t see what you’ve got to worry about,” she returned, after a pause, a vestige of a smile playing about the corners of her mouth. “Jack, you’re a fool—forgive me, but you are. Here you are—pretty close to a nervous wreck—mooning over the threats of this cat of a woman, with a free course out of your difficulties wide open to you.”

“All that’s easier said than done,” he returned gloomily.

“You mean the expense?”

“Of course I mean the expense. Do you know what it costs to put theSeamaidin commission? She’s small, I’ll admit, and she’s been freshly overhauled—I even put two new staterooms in her last year when I was flush—but you know what yachting costs, Rose. It isn’t so much the craft, or her crew, or even her coal bill—it’s the life. There’s no use of sailing—whanging around by your lonesome, without friends aboard. I tried that once.”

“There is no need of your going alone,” she returned softly, meeting his eyes.

She stretched out her bare arms to him.

“Come,” she said quietly. “Come and sit here beside me. Ah, my poor old Jack! What a baby you are!

“There! That’s better,” she said, as he seated himself beside her on the divan.

He bent and kissed her, smoothing back her dark hair.

“Rose, I love you!” he exclaimed. “You’re the best—how can I ever——”

She sealed his lips with her hand.

“Come, let’s talk sensibly,” she resumed, stretching back against the pillows. “You’ve got a lot to be thankful for as far as I can see—your wife, I mean. Almost any other woman would have sued you for divorce.”

“I know,” he confessed. “Nell’s all right.”

“Jack, will you do as I say?”

“I’ll try,” he returned. “That depends.”

“Trying is not promising—and I want you to promise me.”

“Well, what?”

“Promise me that you will not communicate with this woman, or give her a cent; that if you meet her, that if she follows you, you will not open your lips to her.”

“She threatens to bring the matter to court. I got a letter from her yesterday, saying she had put the matter in her lawyer’s hands,” he explained nervously.

“Threats! Herlawyer! They’ve always got lawyers,those women. Don’t worry about threats, Jack. The more a woman threatens, the less she does. Nothing has happened yet, has there?”

He shook his head. “You don’t know her, Rose; she’s a devil incarnate. Sometimes I think she’s really insane.”

“She’s a good actress, Jack; most women are who get control of a man’s nerves. Suppose she does bring suit—you won’t be here.”

“I don’t see how I can very well get away,” he declared with a shrug.

“A question of money?”

“I’m afraid so, Rose.”

“Jack, you’ve been gambling.”

“A little.”

“You never gamble for a little. Whywillyou gamble?”

“Why does any one gamble—or drink—or do anything in life?”

She did not reply.

Finally she said, after a pause:

“Don’t worry about the money. I’ve got plenty of money.”

“Rose!”

“I don’t see why you should worry,” she smiled, “as long as I’ve got it.”

He started to speak, but she sealed his lips again, this time with the tips of her fingers. “What I’d like to know is, how you like Gladys Rice?”

“Who—little Mrs. Rice?”

“I heard you call her ‘Gladys’ the last time you met her here,” she smiled.

“Perhaps I did.”

“There’s no perhaps about it. I heard you.”

“Why—er—she’s charming—pretty—and clever,” he exclaimed, brightening.

“She’s more than that,” she declared. “Gladys is a trump. She’s been a good friend to me. We became widows about the same time. Her husband died in California, you know.”

“Yes, she told me.”

“Then there’s Billy Bowles—fat, jolly Billy Bowles—mighty good company, Jack.”

“Well, what of it?”

“And Johnny Richards. Did you ever see Johnny in a bad humor?Inever did.”

“Rose, what are you driving at?”

“I was only thinking they’d make a splendid trio on theSeamaid. We could run first to Bermuda—then just to any old place we thought of. I’m sick of New York.”

He looked at her, his whole face alight.

“Rose!” he cried. “You’re the best—” He bent over her, his black eyes gleaming. “Rose, I want to— Ah! what’s the use of trying to thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, Jack. Promise me what I’ve asked. Will you promise me? On your honor, Jack?”

“Yes—I promise you. I give you my word of honor, Rose, I’ll do as you say.” He lifted her hand to his lips in gratefulness.

“Feel better?” she asked, smiling into his eyes.

“Better? Why, I feel ten years younger.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll trust you, Jack. You keep your promise to me, and I’ll keep mine. Don’t worry about the money.”

“But I do!” he cried, springing to his feet dramatically. “If I wasn’t so deuced short, Rose, I wouldn’t hear of it. One thing you’ve got to promise me—that you’ll consider it as a loan,” he insisted.

“I’m going to consider it as I please,” she returned, reaching for a cigarette. “Your yacht—my money—that’s fair, isn’t it?”

“As you please,” he said, with a helpless shrug. “As you please, madame,” he returned with a smile, and bowed.

He was his old debonair self again. He felt like a man who had been given a new lease of life. Rose had lifted him out of his anxiety. The woman who had persecuted him seemed harmless to him now.

Again he took his seat beside her on the divan.

“You’ll dine with me to-night,” he ventured.

“That’s nice of you, Jack. Yes, of course I will.”

“There’s a lot to talk over,” he explained, “about getting theSeamaidready.”

“How long will it take,” she asked, “to get her in commission?”

“Oh, about a week. How about little Mrs. Rice—I mean Gladys—Bowles and Richards—can you count on them to go?”

“They’ll go,” she declared. “Leave that to me.”

“You’d better dress, dear,” he said, snapping out his watch. “It’s after seven. We’ll go around to Solari’s.”

Her hand went back of the pillows. She touched an electric button to summon her maid.

Marie was still with her.

“Bon soir, Marie,” said Lamont to her pleasantly, as she appeared.

“Bon soir, monsieur,” returned the girl cheerily. “Monsieur va bien!”

“My black chiffon—high neck, Marie.”

“Bien, madame,” and the maid left the room.

“One moment, Rose,” he said, detaining her as she started to rise from the divan. “There is something that I can’t quite understand.”

“Come, Jack! I must get dressed,” she protested.

“Forgive me,” he persisted, “but I can’t help wondering a little. Only last week you were worrying about your dressmaker’s bill, and now you are financing a yacht—with guests.”

She had risen to her feet, despite his detaining hand, and stood looking down into his eyes with an amused smile.

“You are indiscreet,monsieur,” said she, and rushed to her bedroom.

He waited for her to dress, striding impatiently up and down the polished studio floor, still wondering over her unexpected generosity and the real secret of her sudden wealth. Like most women left with an income, she had, as he knew, already made dangerousinroads into her capital. There had been times, too, when her old love of extravagance had led her far beyond her means—even to the pawnbrokers.

Through the half-open door of her bedroom familiar sounds reached him—the faint tinkle of hairpins falling upon a silver tray, the swish and rustle of a gown as Marie helped her mistress into it, the click-click of a button-hook—all favorite music to Lamont’s ears.

“Getting tired, Jack?” she called to him, rattling back into place the gilt cover of a crystal jar and slapping the powder from her hands. “What time is it?”

He glanced at his watch under the glow of the tall piano-lamp Marie had lighted.

“Ten minutes past eight.”

“I’ll be ready in a moment,” she called back to him.

Presently she came to him, drawing on her long gloves, followed by Marie bearing a marvellous wrap of steel blue, lined with chinchilla.

“How do you like it?” she asked, half turning for him to admire her gown.

“Exquisite!” he declared, running his eyes over the black chiffon. “Where didthatcome from?”

“Paris,” she said, as Marie helped her on with her wrap, and disappeared in the bedroom to pick up her things. “Where else do they make pretty gowns?”

“It’s charming,” he declared. He seized her gloved hands impulsively. “Rose! Forgive me, if I was indiscreet a moment ago. There’s always a reason for good fortune—for sudden luck. Naturally, you olddarling, I could not help asking—after your generous offer. Natural, wasn’t it? We’ve never had any secrets between us, Rose—besides, I think I have a right to know why you’re flush—under the circumstances; that is, since we are to be shipmates.”

“Ay, ay, captain!” she laughed, touching the brim of her becoming hat in salute.

“Rose, be serious—for once.”

“And if I were to tell you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Have I ever doubted you?”

“Suppose I give you three guesses,” she smiled teasingly, her lips close to his own. “Would that satisfy you, Mr. Inquisitive?”

“This is no guessing matter,” he returned, half irritably, tucking her sleeves deep into her wrap, his fingers lingering in the warm chinchilla. “This from Paris, too?”

“Don’t you adore making guesses?” she smiled mischievously, ignoring his question.

“You know I loathe guessing,” he retorted. “I abhor conundrums. I have an absolute horror of riddles and all that sort of thing. Come! Why won’t you be frank with me? Why are you in luck? Haveyoubeen gambling?”

“Perhaps,” she returned gently, watching him closely, “but not at your game.”

“What then—Wall Street?”

“I had enough of Wall Street with Sam. My dear Jack, has it occurred to you that I am famished? Come, let’s go to dinner.”

She drew him toward the door, and he followed her down the gaslit stairs in silence.

At the mention of her dead husband’s name, a new thought came to his mind. Was some other man enriching her? And though she detected for an instant a gleam of jealousy in his eyes, he questioned her no further. He brightened up over the good dinner. After all, he told himself, he had enough to be grateful for without pinning her down to facts.

Nine days later theSeamaidcleared, bound for Bermuda. Never had the yacht been more luxuriously provisioned. True to her promise, Gladys Rice, Billy Bowles, and Johnny Richards were with them.

“Out of sight out of mind” is an old adage, that proved itself to Lamont before they were many hours at sea. The woman who had threatened him seemed only an annoying memory now. He lapsed into the lazy, genial life aboard as easily as a cat takes to the fireside. With Rose’s money and his yacht, life seemed perfect. Not once did he question her as to its source.

There was something in fat Billy Bowles’s inside pocket, however, which would have enlightened him—possibly have destroyed some of his peace of mind—the stubs in his check-book.

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