CHAPTER XVITHE STRINGS OF HUMAN NATURE
Lovemanhad been gone no more than fifteen minutes, and Mary was thinking upon her plans, balancing this prospect against that danger, when her telephone began to ring. She took it up, and to her dismay the voice that greeted her over the wire was the voice of Jack’s father. His first words she did not hear at all—her senses were almost wholly concentrated in dismay that two of the persons from whom she had sought seclusion had within a single hour learned of her whereabouts! How soon before all would be about her again?
“How did you learn where I am?” she asked automatically.
“Why, you called me up awhile ago, and said Mrs. Grayson wanted to speak to me,” he replied. “When I tried to answer, you had hung up. But Central located the telephone the call had come from.”
Mr. Morton went on to ask to see her at once—anyhow, not later than luncheon. She considered whether she should see him again, after her admission of her liaison with Jack, after that orchid-smothered invitation to a voyage in tropical waters—or should she evade him by once more running away? But running away would mean the abandonmentof her plans involving Maisie Jones—and that she could not do. Besides, at the best she would only delay the meeting with Mr. Morton; the meeting itself was inevitable.
While her lips replied to him, her mind considered rapidly. Should she see him alone—or in public? Only by a solitary meeting could she reduce the ever-present danger of accident prematurely revealing her identity to him; but a solitary meeting, in view of what he supposed to be her character, might prompt him to make open advances of a sort suggested by his perfumed invitation—which advances she dared neither permit nor too bluntly repel. And then she thought of what might be a way out—the small Japanese Room just off one of the large dining-rooms: this would give her the protection of both privacy and publicity. She suggested it to Mr. Morton, and he promptly said he would reserve the room and would meet her at half-past twelve. “Please remember this,” she ended,—“here at the Grantham I am known as Mrs. Gardner.”
She slipped down shortly after twelve, to avoid the danger of recognition by any one in the crowd of lunchers who would come in a little later. But as she passed through a hallway on the main floor, she glimpsed a square figure behind a newspaper—Bradley. She went on without pause and slipped into the Japanese Room. So Bradley, too, had learned of her whereabouts!
Ten minutes later Mr. Morton entered, lookingas sprucely young as fifty can look, smiling admiration in the gray eyes that were more accustomed to a gaze of autocratic command. Mary had previously placed herself at the table so that she could see into the larger room without being seen, and during the preliminaries of their conversation her main faculties were surreptitiously directed beyond the hangings. Presently she saw Loveman enter the larger room. Instinctively she knew Loveman had followed Mr. Morton here, to keep close watch over what he did and what might develop. After her scene that morning with Loveman, she knew he would strike the instant he saw she was failing, or thought she was about to fail. Loveman and Bradley—her seemingly simple plan certainly was growing complicated!
And then a little later she saw Clifford enter. Her heart skipped a few beats: so, then, he was watching her, as she had expected! What might he intend doing?... Well, whatever it might be, she would go straight ahead!
Presently she had to give more heed to Morton, for he was touching upon things that were vitally personal. “Let me again applaud the discretion you showed in your affair with Jack, Mrs. Gardner,” he was saying. “And again let me compliment you on your sensible attitude when you saw the affair had to be broken off.”
“Thank you.”
“Pardon my referring to the sordid money sideof things,” he went on. “I was prepared to meet whatever you had in mind—but Mr. Clifford has reported to me that you would accept no settlement. I do not quite understand.”
“I did not enter into the affair with Jack expecting to be bought off,” she replied.
He looked at her keenly, but said no more on the subject. “There is one thing that has surprised me a bit, though, in so discreet a woman as you are, Mrs. Gardner: that is, your coming to the very hotel at which Miss Jones is staying.”
“It is the hotel at which I usually stop.”
“I was merely thinking that your being under the same roof might lead to some unexpected happening that would let Miss Jones learn—you understand. But you are very sensible and careful.”
He leaned over the little table. “And now let’s talk about you and me,” he said softly. “What is your answer?”
“My answer?” she evaded.
“To my suggestion that we explore a more amiable climate—together.”
Her back was against the wall. “I’d rather not have to answer.”
“But your mind is made up?”
She hesitated. “Yes,” she admitted. “But I’d rather not speak—not just now.”
“Why not?”
“There may develop complications; complications which I can’t now explain.”
“But at least,” he urged, “can’t you give me a hint of what your answer will be, if complications do not interfere?”
She thought rapidly. He was pressing her hard from one direction, and outside sat Loveman, a danger from another direction—watching her, ready to expose and destroy her at the slightest sign of failure. Of the two she just then feared Loveman the more. She had to put Morton off—she had to have some weapon against Loveman.
An idea flashed into her brain—a desperate idea, but she was now playing a desperate game.
“Won’t you please give me a hint?” he insisted.
“Well,” she said, with the air of one consenting, “here is a proposition that may sound to you absurd—but then a woman is supposed to be irrational. For my own reasons I can’t now tell you what my answer is, but I’ll write it out in a letter and give it to you if you’ll promise not to read it until you have my permission. That way you’ll always have my answer with you. I may telephone or telegraph you, when I’m ready for you to open the letter.”
“I promise,” he agreed.
“Then I’ll write it here,” she said.
The waiter brought heavy stationery, and with Mr. Morton’s fountain pen she began to write. He watched her closely until he was certain she was engrossed in her note, then stealthily he possessed himself of her handbag which she had left upon a third chair beside the table. This he cautiouslyopened, and into it he slipped an envelope which he took from his pocket. Then he closed the bag and returned it to its place.
Mary finished her letter, thrust it into an envelope, which she sealed. This she held tentatively above the table.
“On your honor as a gentleman you promise not to open this until I give you the word?”
“Promise? I swear!”
“And you promise not to try to be—too friendly until I give you the word?”
“That comes hard—but I promise that, too.”
She held out the sealed envelope. He took it, and also caught her hand.
“Even if I’m not allowed to read, I’m allowed to guess—and hope,” he said softly; “and in the meantime, I’m going to call on you now and then—and for the sake of discretion, I’ll take my chances and come unannounced.” And smiling expectantly he slipped her letter into the inner pocket of his coat.
A little later, when they had parted, she met Uncle George near the elevators. It was evident that he, too, had just finished lunching.
“Mary,” he said solemnly, “excuse me for not having failing eyesight, as a man of incurable senility should have—but really I couldn’t help lamping the would-be gazelle you were eating with.”
“What’s wrong with my doing that?” she asked defensively.
“Nothing at all, dear—nothing at all: only just remember that no matter what his song is nor how soft he sings it, he’s an old goat in a canary’s skin.”
“I believe I can manage him,” she returned confidently.
“I hope so, Mary—I hope so. But he’s descended from one of the first families of Sodom and Gomorrah, and he’s a wise party, and he knows what he wants and he knows how to get it, and he usually gets it, too.”
Uncle George paused a moment, then added: “Excuse my seeing it, dear—I’ve got the habit of seeing things and can’t break it. But did you notice that he put something in your bag?”
“No.”
“Then if you don’t believe my old eyes, you might take a look for yourself.”
She opened her bag. There was the envelope Mr. Morton had slipped into it, unsealed and fat. Surprised, she drew from the envelope a folded packet of bills and rapidly fingered them.
“Ten one-thousand-dollar bills!” she breathed.
Uncle George nodded. “Just so. That’s how he sings a little love song. But he can sing a lot of different sorts of songs, and he’s a swell performer at a lot of other acts besides singing. That’s all, Mary—except here’s hoping you beat him in the end. But, though you’re clever, I’m not placing any bets on you. Good-bye, dear.”
Up in her apartment Mary considered the matterof this money. Mr. Morton, she perceived, was playing the game as he saw it; and for the present, she decided, she must seemingly play the game in the same way. She returned the notes into the envelope, and slipped the packet into a drawer of her desk.
She thought over her situation as a whole for a few minutes. Her original plan involving Maisie Jones would have been difficult enough had she been permitted the few days on which she had counted in which to work it out uninterrupted, but this prompt injection of Loveman, and then of Morton, into her scheme, doubled the number of human objects which she must juggle without a slip. The situation was difficult, yes,—it would require the sharpest alertness of all her wits,—but she could do it!
Mary composed herself and went in again to see Maisie Jones, on whom she had promised to call after she had lunched. While they chatted Mary studied the girl with new intentness, dropping in adroit questions which would bring out revealing remarks. Instinctively she despised this daughter of plutocracy: a fluffy blonde, who had had every good thing in life served to her, unasked for, upon a golden platter, who had never once had to think for herself. She deserved just what was being planned for her! But despite Mary’s scorn—which was, perhaps, composed in part of that hate which human nature feels toward its contemplated victim—Maryperceived that beneath the girl’s fluffy worldliness, she was fundamentally the sort of girl who develops into a woman whose life is centered upon her domestic affairs and domestic happiness—who demands and subsists upon loyalty. And Mary now knew enough of Jack to know what Jack, with his instability of purpose and affection, would in the years to come bring into the life of this girl.
Again, as in the morning, Mary one by one drew out the other qualities that lay beneath Maisie’s girlish charm. She was spoiled, selfish, full of temper, vindictive—and also she was proud to the last degree, and she seemed inflexibly a Puritan in mind and impulses. It was upon the last two qualities, of pride and inflexible Puritanism, that Mary’s quick mind based her now swiftly maturing plan.
Presently Mary, in her rôle of a member of the smarter New York set, brought her light, humorously cynical talk about to some of the men she knew—to rumors of their none too circumspectamours; and then, quite casually, she mentioned Jack Morton.
“You know Jack Morton?” Maisie Jones asked.
“I’ve met him—yes.”
There was a quick flash of jealousy in the blue eyes. “I happen to know him, too,—a little. Is he—is he like those other men you spoke of?”
“You mean in regard to women?”
“Yes.”
Mary appeared not to be aware that this topichad a personal interest for Maisie Jones. Also she had swiftly calculated how she must handle this particular business. If she told Maisie outright some scandal concerning Jack, Maisie in her pride might refuse to believe her, and the matter would end right there. Maisie had to be so led that she believed herself to be leading, and whatever she learned she must apparently find out for herself.
“Miss Jones, these men are all alike,” Mary answered lightly, “and they say Jack Morton is the most alike of them all.”
“But—but I’d heard that Jack Morton was very steady just now.”
“That’s the little way men have.” Mary gave the soft, cynical laugh of the wise young woman of fashion. “The more that men have to hide, the more steady and proper do they try to appear.”
“You mean that he is—that there is a woman—” Maisie Jones could get no further.
“So they say. And I’m told he’s the same as engaged to a nice girl in Chicago—poor thing!”
There was a brief silence. Mary discreetly avoided looking in Maisie’s direction.
“Are you—are you certain about that other woman?” asked a strained voice.
“I’ve seen him about with her several afternoons.”
“Afternoons? I thought he was busy till five o’clock.”
“That’s a man’s oldest pretense, being busy all day.”
Again a brief silence; then again the strained voice, trying to be steady and indifferent:
“What is she like?”
“I tell you what,” said Mary casually, “if you really want to know, I think I can show her to you—with him. I’ve noticed them having tea together at the Biltmore several times recently. If you like we can go there for tea this afternoon—it will do us both good to get out—and in the big crowd there at tea-time we’ll never be noticed.”
“All right,” said Maisie.
“Then suppose you call for me at my apartment at four.”
It was so agreed. Mary said that she might be a few minutes late because of an errand she had to do, but that she would leave her outer door unlatched so that Maisie might come right in and wait for her, and she told Maisie she need not ring, as her bell was out of order.
Mary went away with a sense that her delicately devised plan was now under full way; and she saw, as though the event were now concluded, just how Maisie Jones would react when she, Mary, pulled the strings of human nature. On learning what she believed to be the truth, Maisie’s Puritanic soul would be so horrified that she could have nothing more to do with Jack; and further, her pride would not permit her ever to let the public know that she had been neglected for another woman, or possibly even jilted. Her pride would make her keep Jack’ssecret for her own self-protection, and make her forestall the possible appearance of being jilted by herself doing the jilting first.
All that now remained, before Mary should be safe again—barring interference from Clifford—was for human nature to react according to human promptings.