It was an old tune, but the words were new to Captain Hewes—as the girl chanted them, in that repressed voice that yet tore the heart out of him.
"He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat,He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat,Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him, be jubilant my feet,Our God is marching on—"
The Captain sat on the edge of his chair. His face was illumined.
"By Jove," he ejaculated, "that's topping!"
Drusilla stood up with her back to the piano, and sang without music.
"In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea—With the glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me,As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,While God is marching on—"
She wore a gown of sheer dull blue, there was a red rose in her hair—her white arms, her white neck, the blue and red, youth and fire, strength and purity.
When she finished the room was very still. The big Englishman had no words for such a moment. The music had swept him up to unexpected heights of emotion. While Drusilla sang he had glimpsed for the first time the meaning of democracy, he had seen, indeed, in a great and lofty sense, for the first time—America.
Among the shadows a young man shrank in his seat. His vision was not of Democracy, but of a freezing night—of a ragged old voice rising from the blackness of a steep ravine—
"Oh, be swift, my soul—to answer—Him—Be jubilant my feet—"
Why had Drusilla chosen that of all songs? Oh, why had she sung at all?
A maid came in to say that Mr. Drake was wanted at the telephone. The message was from Dr. McKenzie. The General was much worse. It might be well for Derry to come home.
So Derry, with a great sense of relief, got away from the frigid Captain, and from the flaming Drusilla, and from Peggy with her flushed air of apology, and went out into the stormy night. He had preferred to walk, although his shoes were thin. "It isn't far," he had said when Margaret expostulated, "and I'll send my car for Drusilla and Captain Hewes."
The sleet drove against his face. His feet were wet before he reached the first corner, the wind buffeted him. But he felt none of it. He was conscious only of his depression and of his great dread of again entering the big house where a sick man lay in a lacquered bed and where a painted lady smiled on the stairs. Where there was nothing alive, nothing young, nothing with lips to welcome him, or with hands to hold out to him.
He found when at last he arrived that the Doctor had sent for Hilda Merritt.
She came presently, in her long blue cloak and small blue bonnet. Hilda made no mistakes in the matter of clothes. She realized the glamour which her nurse's uniform cast over her. In evening dress she was slightly commonplace. In ordinary street garb not an eye would have been turned upon her, but the nun's blue and white of her uniform added the required spiritual effect to her rather full-blown beauty.
As she passed the painted lady at the head of the stairway she gave her a slight glance. Then on and up she went to her appointed task.
"It is pneumonia," Dr. McKenzie told Derry; "that's why I wanted Miss Merritt. She is very experienced, and in these days of war it is hard to get good nurses."
Derry found his voice shaking. "Is there any danger?"
"Naturally, at his age. But I think we are going to pull him through."
Derry went into the shadowed room. His father was breathing heavily. Something clutched at the boy's heart—the fear of the Thing which lurked in the darkness—a chill and sinister figure with a skeleton hand.
He could not have his father die. He would feel as if his thoughts had killed him—a murderer in intention if not in deed. Not thus must the Obstacle be removed. He raised haggard eyes to the Doctor's face. "You—you mustn't think that I store things up against him. He's all I have."
The Doctor's keen glance appraised him. "Don't get morbid over it; he has everything in his favor—and Miss Merritt is famous in such cases."
Hilda took his praise with downcast eyes. Her manner with the Doctor when others were present was professionally deferential. It was only when they were alone that the nurse was submerged in the woman.
With her bonnet off and a white cap in its place, she moved about the room. "I shall be very comfortable," she said, when Derry inquired if anything could be done for her.
"We haven't any women about the place but Cook," he explained. "She has been in our family forever—"
"I'll put a day nurse on tomorrow," the Doctor said, "but I want Hilda with him at night; she can call me up if there's any change, and I'll come right over."
When the Doctor had gone, Derry, seeking his room, found Muffin waiting. Bronson bustled in to see that his young master got out of his wet clothes and into a hot bath. "All the time the Doctor was talking to you, I was worrying about your shoes. Your feet are soaked, sir. Whatever made you walk in the rain?"
"I couldn't ride—I couldn't."
The old man on his knees removing the wet shoes looked up. "Restless, sir?"
"Yes. There are times, Bronson, when I want my mother."
He could say it in this room to Bronson and Muffin—to the gray old dog and the gray old man who adored him.
Bronson put him to bed, settled Muffin among his blankets in a basket by the hot water pipes, opened the windows wide, said "God bless you," and went away.
"Sweet dreams, Muffin," said Derry from the big bed.
The old dog whuffed discreetly.
It was their nightly ceremony.
The sleet came down in golden streaks against the glow of the street lights. Derry lay watching it, and it was a long time before he slept. Not since his mother's death had he been so weighed down with heaviness.
He kept seeing Jean with her head up, declining to dance with him; on the high stool at the confectioner's, her eyes cold above her chocolate; the English Captain and his contemptuous stare; Alma, basely excusing him; Drusilla, in her red and blue and white—singing—!
He waked in the morning with a sore throat. Young Martin came in to light the fire and draw the water for his bath. Later Bronson brought his breakfast and the mail.
"You'd better stay in bed, Mr. Derry."
"I think I shall. How is Dad?"
"The nurse says he is holding his own."
"I am glad of that."
Bronson, feeding warm milk and toast to Muffin, ventured an opinion, "I am not sure that I like the nurse, sir."
"Why not?"
"She's not exactly a lady, and she's not exactly a nurse."
"I see." Derry, having glanced over a letter or two, had picked up an envelope with embossed thistles on the flap. "But she is rather pretty, Bronson."
"Pretty is as pretty does," sententiously.
Silence. Bronson looked across at the young man propped up among the pillows. He was rereading the letter with the thistles on the flap. The strained look had gone out of his eyes, and his lips were smiling.
"I think I'll get up."
"Changed your mind, sir?"
"Yes." He threw back the covers. "I've a thousand things to do."
But there was just one thing which he was going to do which stood out beyond all others. Neither life nor death nor flood nor fire should keep him from presenting himself at four o'clock at Jean McKenzie's door, in response to the precious note which in a moment had changed the world for him.
Jean found the day stretching out ahead of her in a series of exciting events. At the breakfast table her father told her that Hilda would stay on General Drake's case, and that she had better have Emily Bridges up for a visit.
"I don't like to have you alone at night, if I am called away."
"It will be heavenly, Daddy, to have Emily—"
And how was he to know that there were other heavenly things to happen? She had resolved that if Derry came, she would tell her father afterwards. But he might not come, so what was the use of being premature?
She sallied down to the Toy Shop in high feather. "You are to stay with us, Emily."
"Oh, am I? How do you know that I can make it convenient?"
"But you will, darling."
Jean's state of mind was beatific. She painted Lovely Dreams with a touch of inspiration which resulted in a row of purple camels: "Midnight on the Desert," Jean called them.
"Oh, Emily," she said, "we must have them in the window on Christmas morning, with the Wise Men and the Star—"
Emily, glancing at the face above the blue apron, was struck by the radiance of it.
"Is it because Hilda is away?" she asked.
"Is what—?"
"Your—rapture."
Jean laughed. "It is because Hilda is away, and other things. But I can't tell you now."
Then for fear Emily might be hurt by her secrecy, she flew to kiss her and again call her "Darling."
At noon she put on her hat and ran home, or at least her heart ran, and when she reached the house she sought the kitchen.
"I am having company for tea, Ellen—at four. And I want Lady-bread-and-butter, and oh, Ellen, will you have time for little pound cakes?"
She knew of course that pound cakes were—verboten. She felt, however, that even Mr. Hoover might sanction a fatted calf in the face of this supreme event.
She planned that she would receive Derry in the small drawing room. It was an informal room which had been kept by her mother for intimate friends. There was a wide window which faced west, a davenport in deep rose velvet, some chairs to match, and there were always roses in an old blue bowl.
Jean knew the dress she was going to wear in this room—of blue to match the bowl, with silver lace, and a girdle of pink brocade.
Alone in her room with Polly-Ann to watch proceedings, she got out the lovely gown.
"Oh, I do want to be pretty, Polly-Ann," she said with much wistfulness.
Yet when she was all hooked and snapped into it, she surveyed herself with some dissatisfaction in the mirror.
"Why not?" she asked the mirror. "Why shouldn't I wear it?"
The mirror gave back a vision of beauty—but behind that vision in the depths of limitless space Jean's eyes discerned something which made her change her gown. Quite soberly she got herself into a little nun's frock of gray with collars and cuffs of transparent white, and above it all was the glory of her crinkled hair.
Neither then nor afterwards could she analyze her reasons for the change. Perhaps sub-consciously she was perceiving that this meeting with Derry Drake was to be a serious and stupendous occasion. Throughout the world the emotions of men and women were being quickened to a pace set by a mighty conflict. Never again would Jean McKenzie laugh or cry over little things. She would laugh and cry, of course, but back of it all would be that sense of the world's travail and tragedy, made personal by her own part in it.
Julia, the second maid, was instructed to show Mr. Drake into the little drawing room. Jean came down early with her knitting, and sat on the deep-rose Davenport. The curtains were not drawn. There was always the chance of a sunset view. Julia was to turn on the light when she brought in the tea.
There was the whir of a bell, the murmur of voices. Jean sat tense. Then as her caller entered, she got somewhat shakily on her feet.
But the man in the door was not Derry Drake!
In his intrusive and impertinent green, pinched-in as to waist, and puffed-out as to trousers, his cheeks red with the cold, his brown eyes bright with eagerness, Ralph Witherspoon stood on the threshold.
"Of all the good luck," he said, "to find you in."
She shook hands with him and sat down.
"I thought you had gone back to Bay Shore. You said yesterday you were going."
"I got my orders in the nick of time. We are to go to Key West. I am to join the others on the way down."
"How soon?"
He sat at the other end of the davenport. "In three days, and anything can happen in three days."
He moved closer. She had a sense of panic. Was he going to propose to her again, in this room which she had set aside so sacredly for Derry Drake?
"Won't you have some tea?" she asked, desperately. "I'll have Julia bring it in."
"I'd rather talk."
But she had it brought, and Julia, wheeling in the tea-cart, offered a moment's reprieve. And Ralph ate the Lady-bread-and-butter, and the little pound cakes with the nuts and white frosting which had been meant for Derry, and then he walked around the tea-cart and took her hand, and for the seventh time since he had met her he asked her to marry him.
"But I don't love you." She was almost in tears.
"You don't know what love is—I'll teach you."
"I don't want to be taught."
"You don't know what it means to be taught—"
Jean had a stifling sense as of some great green tree bending down to crush her. She put out her hand to push it away.
In the silence a bell whirred—.
Derry Drake, ushered in by Julia, saw the room in the rosy glow of the lamp. He saw Ralph Witherspoon towering insolently in his aviator's green. He saw Jean, blushing and perturbed. The scene struck cold against the heat of his anticipation.
He sat down in one of the rose-colored chairs, and Julia brought more tea for him, more Lady-bread-and-butter, more pound cakes with nuts and frosting.
Ralph was frankly curious. He was also frankly jealous. He was aware that Derry had met Jean for the first time at his mother's dinner dance. And Derry's millions were formidable. It did not occur to Ralph that Derry, without his millions, was formidable. Ralph's idea of a man's attractiveness for women was founded on his belief in their admiration of good looks, and their liking for the possession of, as he would himself have expressed it, "plenty of pep" and "go." From Ralph's point of view Derry Drake was not handsome, and he was utterly unaware that back of Derry's silver-blond slenderness and apparent languidness were banked fires which could more than match his own.
And there was this, too, of which he was unconscious, that Derry's millions meant nothing to Jean. Had he remained the shabby son of the shabby old man in the Toy Shop, her heart would still have followed him.
So, fatuously hopeful, Ralph stayed. He stayed until five, until half-past five. Until a quarter of six.
And he talked of the glories of war!
Derry grew restless. As he sat in the rose-colored chair, he fingered a tassel which caught back one of the curtains of the wide window. It was a silk tassel, and he pulled at one strand of it until it was flossy and frayed. He was unconscious of his work of destruction, unconscious that Jean's eyes, lifted now and then from her knitting, noted his fingers weaving in and out of the rosy strands.
Ralph talked on. With seeming modesty he spoke of the feats of other men, yet none the less it was Ralph they saw, poised like a bird at incredible heights, looping the loop, fearless, splendid—beating the air with strong wings.
Six o'clock, and at last Ralph rose. Even then he hesitated and hung back, as if he expected that Derry might go with him. But Derry, stiff and straight beside the rose-colored chair, bade him farewell!
And now Derry was alone with Jean!
They found themselves standing close together in front of the fire. The garment of coldness and of languor which had seemed to enshroud Derry had dropped from him. The smile which he gave Jean was like warm wine in her veins.
"Well—?"
"I asked you to come—to say—that I am,—sorry—," her voice breaking. "Daddy told me that he knew why—you couldn't fight—"
"I didn't intend that he should tell."
"He didn't," eagerly, "not your reasons. He said it was a—confidence, and he couldn't break his word. But he knew that you were brave. That the things the world is saying are all wrong. Oh, I ought to go down on my knees."
Her face was white, her eyes deep wells of tears.
"It is I," he said, very low, "who should be on my knees—do you know what it means to me to have you tell me this?"
"I wasn't sure that I ought to write. To some men I couldn't have written—"
His face lighted. "When your note came—I can't tell you what it meant to me. I shouldn't like to think of what this day would have been for me if you had not written. Everybody is calling me—a coward. You know that. You heard Witherspoon just now pitying me, not in words, but his manner."
"Oh, Ralph," how easily she disposed of him. "Ralph crows, like a—rooster."
They looked at each other and tried to laugh. But they were not laughing in their hearts.
He lifted her hand and kissed it—then he stood well away from her, anchoring himself again to the silken tassel. "Now that you know a part," he said, from that safe distance, "I'd like to tell you all of it, if I may."
As he talked her fingers were busy with her knitting, but there came moments when she laid it down and looked up at him with eyes that mirrored his own earnestness.
"It—it hasn't been easy," he said in conclusion, "but—but if you will be my friend, nothing will be hard."
She tried to speak—was shaken as if by a strong wind, and her knitting went up as a shield.
"My dear, you are crying," he said, and was on his knees beside her.
And now they were caught in the tide of that mighty wave which was sweeping the world!
When at last she steadied herself, he was again anchored to the rose-colored tassel.
"You—you must forgive me—but—it has been so good to talk it out—to some one—who cared. I had never dreamed until that night in the Toy Shop of anybody—like you. Of anybody so—adorable. When your note came this morning, I couldn't believe it. But now I know it is true. And that night of Cinderella you were so—heavenly."
It was a good thing that Miss Emily came in at that moment—for his eloquence was a burning flood, and Jean was swept up and on with it.
The entrance of Emily, strictly tailored and practical, gave them pause.
"You remember Mr. Drake, don't you, Emily?"
Emily did, of course. But she had not expected to see him here. She held out her hand. "I remember that he was coming back for more of your Lovely Dreams."
"I want all of her dreams," said Derry, and something in the way that he said it took Miss Emily's breath away. "Please don't sell them to anyone else. You have a wholesale order from me."
Miss Emily looked from one to the other. She was conscious of something which touched the stars—something which all her life she had missed, something which belongs to youth and ecstasy.
"Wholesale orders are not in my line," she said. "You can settle that with Jean."
She surveyed the tea-wagon. "I'm starved. And if I eat I shall spoil my dinner."
"I can ring for hot water, Emily, and there are more of the pound cakes."
"My dear, no. I must go upstairs and dress. Your father sent for my bag, and Julia says it is in my room."
She bade Derry a cheerful good-bye, and left them alone.
"I must go, too," said Derry, and took Jean's hand. He stood looking down at her. "May I come tomorrow?"
"Oh,—yes—"
"There's one thing that I should like more than anything, if we could go to church together—to be thankful that—that we've found each other—"
Tears in the shining eyes!
"Why are you crying?"
"Because it is so—sweet."
"Then you'll go?"
"I'd love it."
He dropped her hand and got away. She was little and young, so divinely innocent. He felt that he must not take unfair advantage of that mood of exaltation.
He drove straight downtown and ordered flowers for her. Remembering the nun's dress, he sent violets in a gray basket, with a knot on the handle of heavenly blue.
The flowers came while Jean was at dinner. Emily was in Hilda's place, a quiet contrast in her slenderness and modest black to Hilda's opulence. Dr. McKenzie had not had time to dress.
"I am so busy, Emily."
"But you love the busy-ness, don't you? I can't imagine you without the hours crammed full."
"Just now I wish that I could push it away as Richards pushed it—"
Jean looked up. "But Dr. Richards went to France, Daddy."
"I envy him."
"Oh, do you—?" Then her flowers came, and she forgot everything else.
The Doctor whistled as Julia set the basket in front of Jean. "Ralph is generous."
Jean had opened the attached envelope and was reading a card. A wave of self-conscious color swept over her cheeks. "Ralph didn't send them. It—it was Derry Drake."
"Drake? How did that happen?"
"He was here this afternoon for tea, and Ralph, and Emily—only Emily was late, and the tea was cold—"
"So you've made up?"
"We didn't have to make up much, Daddy, did we?" mendaciously.
Miss Emily came to the rescue. "He seems very nice."
"Splendid fellow. But I am not sure that I want him sending flowers to my daughter. I don't want anyone sending flowers to her."
Miss Emily took him up sharply. "That's your selfishness. Life has always been a garden where you have wandered at will. And now you want to shut the gate of that garden against your daughter."
"Well, there are flowers that I shouldn't care to have her pluck."
"Don't you know her well enough to understand that she'll pluck only the little lovely blooms?"
His eyes rested on Jean's absorbed face. "Yes, thank God. And thank you, too, for saying it, Emily."
After dinner they sat in the library. Doctor McKenzie on one side of the fire with his cigar, Emily on the other side with her knitting. Jean between them in a low chair, a knot of Derry's violets fragrant against the gray of her gown, her fingers idle.
"Why aren't you knitting?" the Doctor asked.
"I don't have to set a good example to Emily."
"And you do to Hilda?" He threw back his head and laughed.
"You needn't laugh. Isn't it comfy with Emily?"
"It is." He glanced at the slender black figure. He was still feeling the fineness of the thing she had said about Jean. "But when she is here I am jealous."
"Oh, Daddy."
"And I am never jealous of Hilda. If you had Emily all the time you'd love her better than you do me."
He chuckled at their hot eyes. "If you are teasing," Jean told him, "I'll forgive you. But Emily won't, will you, Emily?"
"No." Emily's voice was gay, and he liked the color in her cheeks. "He doesn't deserve to be forgiven. Some day he is going to be devoured by a green-eyed monster, like a bad little boy in a Sunday School story."
Her needles clicked, and her eyes sparkled. There was no doubt that there was a sprightliness about Emily that was stimulating.
"But one's only daughter, Emily. Isn't jealousy pardonable?"
"Not in you."
"Why not?"
"Well," with obvious reluctance, "you're too big for it."
"Oh," he was more pleased than he was willing to admit, "did you hear that, Jean?"
But Jean, having drifted away from them, came back with, "I am going to church with him tomorrow."
"Him? Whom?"
"Derry Drake, Daddy, and may I bring him home to dinner?"
"Do you think a man like that goes begging for invitations? He has probably been asked to a dozen places to eat his turkey."
"He can't eat it at a dozen places, Daddy. And anyhow I should like to ask him. I—I think he is lonely—"
"A man with millions is never lonely."
She did not attempt to argue. She felt that her father could not possibly grasp the truth about Derry Drake. Her own understanding of his need had been a blinding, whirling revelation. He had said, "I wanted some one—who cared—." Not for a moment since then had the world been real to her. She had seemed in the center of a golden-lighted sphere, where Derry's voice spoke to her, where Derry's smile warmed her, where Derry, a silver-crested knight, knelt at her feet.
Julia came in to say that Miss Jean was wanted at the telephone.
Miraculously Derry's voice came over the wire. Was she going to the dance at the Willard? The one for the benefit of the Eye and Ear Hospital? The President and his wife would be there—the only ball they had attended this season—everybody would be there. Could he come for Jean and her father? And he'd bring Drusilla and Marion Gray. She knew Drusilla?
Jean on tiptoe. Oh, yes. But she was not sure about her father.
"But you—you—?"
"I'll ask."
She flew on winged feet and explained excitedly.
"Tonight?Tonight, Jean?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"But what time is it?"
"Only ten. He'll come at eleven—"
"But you can't leave Emily alone, dear."
"Emily won't mind—darling—will you, Emily?"
"Of course not. I am often alone."
It was said quietly, without bitterness, but Dr. McKenzie was quite suddenly and unreasonably moved by the thought of all that Emily had missed. He felt it utterly unfair that she should sit alone by an empty hearth while he and Jean frivolled. He had never thought of Hilda by an empty hearth—and she had been often alone—but there was this which made the difference, he would not have asked Hilda to meet his daughter's friends. She had her place in his household, but it was not the place which Emily filled.
Yet he missed her. He missed her blond picturesqueness at the dinner table, her trim whiteness as she served him in his office.
He came back to the question of Emily. "You can tell Drake we will go, if Emily can accompany us."
"But, Doctor, I'd rather not."
"Why not?"
"I'm not included in the invitation."
"Don't be self-conscious."
"And I haven't anything to wear."
"You never looked better than you do at this moment. And Jean can get you that scarf of her mother's with the jet and spangles."
"The peacocky one—oh, yes, Daddy." Jean danced back to the telephone.
Derry was delighted to include Miss Bridges. "Bring a dozen if you wish."
"I don't want a dozen. I want just Daddy and Emily."
"And me?"
"Of course—silly—"
Laughter singing along the wire. "May I come now?"
"I have to change my dress."
"In an hour, then?"
"Yes."
"I can't really believe that we are going together!"
"Together—"
White and silver for Jean, the peacocky scarf making Emily shine with the best of them, Dr. McKenzie called away at the last moment, and promising to join them later; Derry catching his breath when he saw his violets among Jean's laces; Drusilla wondering a little at this transfigured Derry; Marion Gray settling down to the comfort of a chat with Emily—what had these to do with a Tin Soldier on a shelf?
"How is your father, Derry?"
"Better, Drusilla. He has a fine nurse. Dr. McKenzie sent her."
"And I have Emily," Jean sang from the corner of the big car where Derry had her penned in, with the fragrance of her violets sweeping over him as he sat next to her. "I want Emily always, but Daddy has to have a nurse in the office, and Emily won't give up her toys. And in the meantime Hilda and I are ready to scratch each other's eyes out. Please keep her as long as you can on your father's case, Mr. Drake."
"Say 'Derry,'" he commanded under cover of the light laughter of the women.
"Not before—-everybody—"
"Whisper it, then."
"Derry, Derry."
His pulses pounded. During the rest of the drive, he spoke to his other guests and seemed to listen, but he heard nothing—nothing but the whisper of that beloved voice.
As Derry had said, all the world of Washington was at the ball. The President and his wife in a flag-draped box, she in black with a turquoise fan, he towering a little above her, more than President in these autocratic days of war. They looked down on men in the uniforms of the battling world—Scot and Briton and Gaul—in plaid and khaki and horizon blue—.
They looked down on women knitting.
Mrs. Witherspoon and a party of young people sat in a box adjoining Derry's. Ralph was there and Alma Drew, and Alma was more than ever lovely in gold-embroidered tulle.
Ralph knew what had happened when he saw Jean dancing with Derry. There was no mistaking the soft raptures of the youthful pair. In the days to come Ralph was to suffer wounds, but none to tear his heart like this. And so when he danced with Jean a little later he did not spare her.
"A man with money always gets what he wants."
"I don't know what you mean."
"I think you do. You are going to marry Derry Drake."
She shrank at this. She had in her meetings with Derry never looked beyond the bliss of the moment. To have Ralph's rough fingers tearing at the veil of her future was revolting.
She breathed quickly. "I shan't dance with you, if you speak of it again."
"You shall dance with me," grimly, "this moment is my own—"
She was like wax in his strong arms. "Oh, how dare you." She was cold with auger. "I want to stop."
"And I could dance forever. That's the irony of it—that I cannot make you. But if I had Drake's money, I'd make you."
"Do you think it is his money?"
"Perhaps not. But the world will think it."
"If—if he wanted me, I'd marry him if he were a beggar in the streets."
"Has it gone as far as that? But you wouldn't marry a beggar. A troubadour beneath your balcony, yes. But not a beggar. You'd want him silken and blond and singing, and staying at home while other men fought—"
She stopped at once. "If you knew what you were talking about; I'd never speak to you again. But because I was fool enough once to believe that Derry Drake was a coward, I am going to forgive you. But I shall not dance with you again; ever—"
Making her way back alone to the box, she saw with a throb of relief that her father had joined Emily and Marion Gray.
He uttered a quick exclamation as she came up. "What's the matter, daughter?"
Her throat was dry. "I can't tell you now—there are too many people. It was Ralph. I hate him, Daddy."
"My dear—"
"I do."
"But why?"
"Please, I don't want to talk about it—wait until we get home."
Looking out over the heads of the swaying crowd, she saw that Derry was dancing with Alma Drew. And it was Alma who had said at the Witherspoon dinner, "Everybody will forgive a man with money."
And that was what Ralph had thought of her, that she was like Alma—that money could buy her—that she would sell the honor of her country for gold—.
But worse than any hurt of her own was the hurt of the thing for Derry. Ralph Witherspoon had dared to point a finger of scorn at him—other people had dared—
She suffered intensely, not as a child, but as a woman.
Alma, out on the floor, was saying to Derry, "I saw you dancing with Jean McKenzie. She's a quaint little duck."
"Not a duck, Alma," he was smiling, "a white dove—or a silver swan." The look that he sent across the room to Jean was a revelation.
Like Ralph, she grew hateful. "So that's it? Well, a man with money can get anything."
He had no anger for her. Jean might blaze in his defense, but his own fires were not to be fanned by any words of Alma Drew. If he lost his fortune, Jean would still care for him. It was fore-ordained, as fixed as the stars.
So he went back to her, and when she saw him coming, the burden of her distress fell from her. The world became once more hers and Derry's, with everybody else shut out. When they had supper with the Witherspoon party joining them, and Ralph palely repentant beside her, she even, to the utter bewilderment of her father, smiled at him, and talked as if their quarrel had never been.
Drusilla watched her with more than a tinge of envy. She was aware that her own vivid charm was shadowed and eclipsed by the white flame of Jean's youth and innocence. "And he loves her," she thought with a tug of her heartstrings; "he loves her, and there'll never be anything like it for him again."
She sat rather silently between Captain Hewes and Dr. McKenzie. Dr. McKenzie had always admired Drusilla, but tonight his attention was rather more than usual fixed upon her by a remark which Captain Hewes had made when the two men had stood alone together watching the dancers. "I have seen very little of American women—but to me Drusilla Gray seems the supreme type."
"She is very attractive."
"She is more than that. She is inspiring, the embodiment of your best ideals. When she sings one wonders that all men have not fought for democracy."
That was something to say of a woman. Doctor McKenzie wondered if it could be said of his own daughter. Set side by side with Drusilla, Jean seemed a childish creature, unstable, swayed by the emotion of the moment. Yet her fire matched Drusilla's, her dreams outran Drusilla's dreams.
Two officers passed the table.
"How any man can keep out of it," Drusilla said. "Some day I shall put on a uniform and pass for a boy—"
"Why not go over as you are?"
"They won't let me now. But some day they will. I can drive a car—there ought to be a place for me."
"There is one for me," he said, "and my decision must be made tonight. They are asking me to head a hospital staff in France. A letter came this morning, and I've got to answer it."
Her eyes went to the flame-white maiden on the other side of the table. "What does Jean say?"
"I haven't asked her. She wouldn't keep me back. But I am all she has, and it would hurt."
"It would hurt. But you are not all that she has—you might as well try to sweep back the sea as to stop what is going on over there. I have been sitting here green with envy. Oh, if love might only come to me like that."
"Like what?"
"Heaven-sent—never a doubt, never a speculation; just knowing and believing—souls stripped bare of all pretence."
How splendid she was—how beautiful! He bent down to her. "Why shouldn't it come to you?"
"Men don't love me that way. They admire and respect and then love. But Jean? She's a moon maiden, luring them to—madness." She smiled up at him.
"Captain Hewes says you are the supreme type—the perfect American."
"Yes, but he thinks of me as a type. Some day perhaps he will think of me as a woman."
She brought the conversation back to Jean. "You need not let the thought of her loneliness trouble you."
"You think then that I am going to lose her?"
"You have lost her already."
Sparks burned in the Doctor's eyes. "I don't believe it. She has known him a few days—and I've given her my whole life."
"'Forsaking all others,'" murmured Drusilla.
"Yet she loves me."
"It isn't that she loves you less—she loves him more."
"Don't," he lifted his hand. "I am not sure that I can stand it."
"It makes your way clear. That's why I have said it. There will be nothing now to keep you back from France."
Once upon a time she had said to Derry, "I can feel things, and I can make others feel." She had, perhaps, tonight, been a little cruel, but she had been cruel with a purpose.
All the way home Doctor McKenzie was very silent. When he kissed his daughter before she went upstairs, he held her close and smoothed her hair, but not a word did he say of the thing which had come to him.
He asked Emily, however, to wait a moment. "I have a letter to answer. I should like your advice."
Wondering a little, she sat down by the fire. The peacocky scarf gave out glittering lights of blue and green. She was tired and there were shadows under her eyes.
He came at once to his proposition. "I am thinking of going to France, Emily. If I do, can you stay with Jean?"
She turned her startled gaze upon him. "To France? Why?"
He told her. "They have been writing to me for weeks, and now the moment for my decision has come. I haven't said anything to Jean. But she won't keep me back. You know how she feels. But unless you can come, I can't leave her."
"I should have to be all day in my shop."
"I know, but you could be here in the evening and at night, and she could, of course, be with you in the shop, she likes that—and it would keep her from brooding. Or, if you will give up the shop, I should like to make it financially possible for you, Emily."
She shook her head. "No. You will be coming back, and then my occupation would be gone." She hesitated. "But if I come—what of Hilda?"
"She may decide to go over, too, as a nurse. We work well together."
She was silent, searching for the words which she felt that she ought to say. So that was it? They would go together, and the tongues of the world would wag. And Hilda would know that they were wagging, and would not care. But he, with his mind on bigger things, would never know, and would blunder unseeing into the net which was set for him. She felt that she ought to warn him, that the good friendship which existed between them demanded it. Yet it was a hard thing to say, and she hated it. So the moment passed.
It was he who spoke first—of Jean and Derry. "What do you think of it, Emily?"
"He is very much in love with her."
"And Jean?"
"Oh, I think you know. You saw her tonight."
He felt a sudden sense of age and loneliness. "She won't miss me, then?"
"Do you think that anyone could make up to your little Jean for the loss of her father?"
He covered his face with his hand. "You are feeling it like that?" she asked, gently.
"Yes. She is all I have, Emily. And I am jealous—desperately—desperately."
She searched for words to comfort him, and at last they came. "She will be very proud of her Daddy in France."
"Do you think she will?"
"I know it."
"And yet—I am not really worthy of all that she gives—"
She leaned forward, her white hands in her lap. Jean's comment echoed once more in his ears. "I like Emily's hands much better than Hilda's." They seemed, indeed, to represent all that was lovely in Emily, her refinement, her firmness, her gentle spirit.
"Bruce," she said—she rarely called him that—"your dear wife would never have loved you if you hadn't been worthy of love."
"I need her—to hold me to my best."
"Hold yourself to it, Bruce—" She stood up. "I must go to bed, and so must you. We have busy days before us."
He spoke impulsively. "You are a good woman, Emily—there's no one in the world that I would trust to stay with Jean but you."
She smiled a little wistfully as she went upstairs. She had perhaps comforted him, but she had left unsaid the words she should have spoken. "You must not take Hilda with you. If you take her with you, will your Jean be proud of her Daddy in France?"