Mothereen led them over the house, which was built in bungalow style, all on one floor, saying to Garth, "Do you remember this? Do you remember that?" and pointing out to Marise details upon which she could hang some anecdote of "Johnny."
"But I've saved the best for the last," she announced. "Now I'm going to take ye to your 'suite,' as Zé—as it's fashionable to call it. Ye know, Johnny, the spare bedroom with the bath openin' out? Well, I've added onto it the little sewin'-room, done up the best I could in a hurry. And if that doesn't make a 'suite,' whatdoes? There's no door from one room into the other, that's the trouble! I'd a' had one cut if there'd been time, but there wasn't. Still, it's the next room, and the two of ye will have the whole use of it, so I hope the dear gurrl will excuse the deficiencies."
"I'm sure there won't be any deficiencies!" exclaimed Marise graciously. Garth was right to love his "Mothereen"! She was certainly an adorable woman, and too delicious when she rolled out a long word. The girl was pleased to hear that there was no door between her room and Garth's. Not that he was likely to annoy her. But—who could tell if he would not be different here in his own home, where everyone made a hero of him, from what he had seemed inherNew York? It was just as well that she was to be on the safe side.
"What a pretty room!" she cried out, as, with a proud housewifely look, Mothereen flung open a door. "Why, it's lovely! Is this mine?"
"Of course it's yours, darlin'—yours and Johnny's," said Mothereen, beaming with pleasure at such praise. "Come and look out of the window, ducky. John knows what's there, but 'twill be a surprise for you."
Still clasped by the plump arm, Marise crossed the polished floor, which was spread with beautiful Indian rugs. The walls were white, and hung with a few good pictures of desert scenery and strange Indian mesas. The furniture was simple, but interesting: made of eucalyptus wood, pink as faded rose-leaves against its white background; and everywhere were bowls of curious Egyptian-looking Indian pottery, filled with roses. The one immense window took up nearly all one end of the room, and opened Spanish fashion upon a garden-court with a fountain, a marble bench, and a number of small orange trees grouped together to shade the seat.
"'Twas Johnny's idea," Mothereen explained, when Marise had complimented the court. "The next room looks on it, too. And now ye'd both better come and see what I've done with that same!"
She led the way out again, and opened the door of an adjoining room. "I do hope ye'll like it too!" she said. "It's yer own little sittin'-room, and you two turtle-doves can have yer breakfast here by yerselves if ye like."
With all her goodwill towards "Mothereen," Marise could not repress a slight gasp, or a stiffening of the supple young figure belted by the kind woman's arm; for her first glimpse of the room gave her an electric shock. The roomwasa "sittin'-room," and nothing else.
"Is anything wrong, darlin'?" anxiously asked Mothereen.
Marise hesitated. Involuntarily she glanced over her shoulder at Garth, who was close behind. She met his eyes, which implored hers.
"Oh no, indeed!" the girl protested. "It's—it's charming. I was thinking of something else for an instant."
"Ye'resureeverything's all right?" Mothereen persisted, her pretty brows puckered.
"Quite sure. Thank yousomuch!"
"Nothing ye'd like to have me change?"
"Nothing at all," Marise consoled her, in a strained tone.
"Well then, I'm glad, and I'll leave ye to yerselves for a while. Come out to me when ye feel like it and not before—one or both. And ye'll be welcome as the flowers in May."
She kissed Marise and snuggled her cheek, rosy and fresh as an apple, against the arm of her adopted son. Then she was gone with a parting smile, and Garth shut the door.
"That was mighty fine behaviour of yours, and I thank you with all my heart," he said to Marise.
She had dropped into a chair, tremulous about the knees. "You needn't thank me," she answered. "What I did was forher."
"I know. That's why I thank you," said Garth. "I think a lot more about Mothereen's feelings than I do my own. Mine are case-hardened—hers aren't, and never could be. You see, she's fond of me."
"I do see! So is everybody else—here, it seems."
"They're warm-hearted folks out in the West. They love to make a noise. I hope you weren't disgusted."
"No, I liked them," said Marise. "They seemed so sincere. And Mrs. Mooney is the dearest little woman. I'd have my tongue cut out—almost!—rather than she should be sad. But now the question is, what's to be done? I tried to help you. You must help me."
"I will," Garth assured her. "It's going to be all right."
"But how—without hurting her?" Marise looked round the room. "You can't sleep on that little sofa."
"I can sleep on the floor rolled up in a blanket. That would have seemed a soft billet in France."
"You'd be wretchedly uncomfortable. And how would you bathe?"
"I guess you don't need to worry yourself about that detail. I'll manage the business in one way or other."
"That sounds vague! What's become of the room which used to be yours in this house, before you went to the war?"
"Your bedroom next door is the one. The only spare room we had in those days was this, where we're sitting now. We never had any people come to stay, though, so Mothereen turned it into a sewing-room."
"I see! And you can't slip out to an hotel or anywhere, because every human being in town knows you."
"No, I can't slip out. But—well, wearemarried!"
Marise started, and stared. Her eyes opened wide. She looked ready to spring up and run away.
"All I was going to say is this," Garth went on. "There's a big screen or two in your room, I noticed. Perhaps, as you're kind enough not to want me to go unwashed, you'd stretch a point, and let me walk through to the bath with a couple of screens in position. We needn't stay more than two days and nights, the way things have turned out. Mothereen will be disappointed, but her feelings won't be hurt because I shall take steps to get a wire from a friend of mine at the Grand Canyon. The friend will tell me that I'm needed at once on a matter of importance. That'll do the trick. And Mothereen can make up for lost time by visiting me—us, at Vision House."
"Vision House!"
"Yes, I named it that. You wouldn't be interested in the reason why."
Marise felt that she would be interested, but didn't care to say so.
"You wouldn't mind her coming to the Canyon?" he asked.
"Of course not! I should be delighted. That is, if I were there."
"You would be there."
"I mightn't. You see—things will change. Mums will come, and—and—I shall go away—with her. You know what will happen."
"Who knows anything about the future? But let it take care of itself. There's plenty to think of in the present, isn't there?"
"Too much!"
"Not for me. Can you bring yourself to agree to that plan I proposed? The screen——"
"Oh, I suppose it's the only thing to do! I've played bedroom scenes on the stage, and this——"
"Very well. That's settled, then."
"Ye-es. Except—about your belongings. I suppose Mrs. Mooney is sure to run in now and then to see how—we—are getting on."
"I'm afraid she will. Unless we tell her to stay out."
"We won't do that! I suppose your toilet things will have to be inmyroom—on that tallboy with the mirror which Mrs. Mooney evidently meant for them."
"If you can bear the contamination!"
Marise glanced at him. But he did not speak the words bitterly. He was faintly smiling, though it was not precisely a gay smile. She wanted to smile back, but feared to begin again with "smiling terms," so she replied gravely that it could be quite well arranged. "I'll explain—enough—to Céline, and she'll unpack for you," the girl suggested.
"That's a kind thought!" said Garth. And then, as if satisfied with the way in which troublesome matters had shaped themselves, he got up. "I expect you'd like to have your maid in now, to help you," he suggested. "You can ring, and I'll go and have a chin with Mothereen."
Céline was lodged at a distance, but there was a bell communicating with her quarters. She came, in an excited mood.
"But it is a house of charm, Madame!" she exclaimed. (It had ceased to seem strange, now, being "Madamed" by Céline.) "Monsieur Garth—the two domestics who have for him an adoration, say he built it. And he has another place larger and more beautiful, where we go. It is, then, that Monsieur is rich."
Marise did not answer. But she would have given something to do so, out of her own knowledge. Garth and all his circumstances, and surroundings, were becoming actually mysterious to her. She was puzzled at every turn.
"You mustn't gossip with the servants here, Céline," she said.
"But no, naturally not, Madame!" protested the maid. "I will listen to all they say, and speak nothing in return. So Madame wishes the effects of Monsieur placed in this room?Parfaitement!It shall be done."
Luncheon was outwardly a happy meal. Mothereen so radiated joy in her adored one's return that Marise was infected with her gaiety of spirit. After all, life was only one adventure after another, and this was an adventure like the rest. Well, not exactlylikethe rest! But at least, it was not dull!
All the afternoon there were callers, and Mothereen broke it to the bride and bridegroom that, without being disagreeable, she could not avoid inviting a "few folks to dinner, and some to drop in later." "The dinner ones are our grand people," she explained to Marise, "the Mayor and his wife, and a son who is a Colonel. He has married a French wife. She is very stylish, and she'll have on her best clothes to-night. They say she's got grand jewels. But sure, they won't hold a candle to yours."
"I haven't brought many with me, I'm sorry to say," replied Marise.
Mothereen's face fell for an instant, then brightened. "Oh, I clean forgot," she exclaimed. "The beautiful things I have waitin' fur ye. They'll be on yer dressin'-table to-night. Now, not a wurrud, darlin'! Ask me no questions, I'll tell ye no lies. This is asecret."
Intrigued, Marise became impatient to go to her room, but could not escape there till it was time to dress. Céline was already on the spot, preparing her mistress's dress for the evening: bridal white frock, scintillating with crystal; little slippers, silk stockings, a petticoat of rose-embroidered chiffon and lace.
But Marise did not cast a glance at these things. She walked straight to the dressing-table, and couldn't help giving a little squeak. For there lay the missing jewel-cases—those she had thrown into the corridor at the Plaza Hotel on her wedding night—and had never seen since.
Marise and Garth neatly arranged their life according to stateroom etiquette on shipboard. When one was in the bedroom the other was in the sitting-room next door. They were like the figures of the man and woman who come out and go in at the adjacent doors of a barometer; and the plan, though inconvenient, was not unworkable. When the girl had opened the jewel-cases and gazed once more at the glories she had thought lost forever to her repentant eyes, she couldn't resist tapping on the wall with a gold-backed hair-brush—one Garth had given her. Indeed, she did not stop to think better of the impulse.
Her heart—or some distantly related muscles round the organ—had suddenly warmed towards the man. This thaw was doubtless produced by remorse. For she had believed, on no evidence save instinct, that he had given these lovely things—herwedding presents, although discarded!—to Zélie Marks. Instead, he must have expressed them to Mrs. Mooney in order that she—Marise—should have a chance to change her mind. Foxy of him, because it would be difficult to refuse the gifts again, coming as they did from the innocent hands of Mothereen! However, she would see. She'd have a talk with Garth, and then decide.
Garth was in the sitting-room, pretending to himself that he was interested in the evening paper. He jumped up at the sound of a tap on the wall, hardly believing his own ears. But a knock at Marise's door brought a "Come in!" which did not sound grudging.
Marise in a so-calledrobe de chambrewas more dressed than in "Dolores's" third act ball-gown at the theatre, yet there was such a bizarre touch of intimacy in being admitted to this bedroom scene on the stage of life that numerous volts of electricity seemed to shoot through Garth's nerves. His face was composed, however, even stolid. "You wanted me?" he asked.
Marise didn't directly answer that question. She pointed to the jewel-cases. "Mrs.—Mooney put these here," she said. "I—wanted to tell you I'm glad they weren't stolen or—anything."
Her words gave him time to swallow his surprise, which was quite as great as her own had been at sight of the jewels. But he guessed at once what had happened. What a trump Zélie was! A grand girl! She'd make a fine wife for someone. He'd been a clumsy ass to force these things upon her in a moment of fury against Marise; and Zélie had done exactly right. He was immensely grateful. Some day he must find a way to repay her for silently handing him a big chance—a chance that might mean a lot, which but for her thought, her generosity, he would have missed.
Well, it was up to him not to miss it now! He'd been an idiot over these baubles once. He mustn't "fall down" over them again; and to let Marise guess how he'd bungled—how a girl she didn't appreciate yet had straightened matters out—would be to prove himself a priceless ass.
"Thank you for saying that," he quietly replied.
"I did tell you once before that I was sorry I'd thrown the jewel-cases on the floor. It washorridof me. I felt afterwards I'd been most ill-bred," vouchsafed Marise.
"No. More like a bad-tempered child," said Garth.
"You weren't nice to me when I tried to apologise," the girl went on.
"Were you trying to apologise? Sorry! I didn't understand."
"What did you think I was trying to do?"
"Did you ever see a small boy take a stick, and stir up some beast in its cage at a Zoo? If you did, you'll know."
Marise laughed. "What sort of a beast?"
"Any sort with a sore head."
"Well—to change the subject," she said rather hastily, "let's talk not about beasts, but about jewels. I've apologised. And now officially I put these valuable things into your hands."
"I'd rather leave them in yours," said Garth.
"But—I told you before I really couldn't keep them—in the circumstances."
"Haven't the circumstances changed—just a little?"
"I—don't quite see how you mean."
"Don't you? In that case, I suppose they haven't. Won'tyouchange, then—enough to keep the things, as I've no use for them?"
"I'm afraid I can't. You may have a use for them some day, you know."
"What use? I don't seem to see Mothereen in pearls and laurel wreaths."
The picture called up made them both smile. "No, but you won't—won't be bound to me for ever," Marise explained, her cheeks growing pink. "There'll be some other girl; a girl that perhaps you haven't even met, yet——"
"Never on God's earth will there be a girl for me, that I haven't met."
Remembrance of a girl hehadmet darted through the mind of Marise. Zélie Marks! Was the same thought in his mind? she wondered.
"Who can tell about these things?" she murmured vaguely. "Anyhow, you must please take charge of your jewels now."
"But you said this morning you wouldn't like to hurt Mothereen's feelings."
"What have her feelings to do with the jewels?"
"Just this. She's been keeping them for the great day—the day of our coming. She knows they were my wedding present to you——"
"Then she knows that you were shockingly extravagant."
"Perhaps she doesn't think so. She's better acquainted with my circumstances than you are. Anyhow, she's looking forward to seeing you all dolled up in the things to-night, and it'll be a blow for her if you're not. She won't say a word to you. Only she's sure to ask me——"
"Oh, all right! I'll wear the lot!" snapped Marise. She spoke rather crossly, but Garth was not dashed. He was, indeed, happier than he had been since his wedding day. His dummy hand might have scored a success once or twice before during the strange fortnight they had passed together, yet a world apart. He wasn't certain. But he was certain of this: it was a small triumph. He had a "hunch" that, when the girl had once seen herself in the pearls, the pendant, and the wreath of emerald laurel leaves, she wouldn't be anxious to give them up.
"That's very good of you," he thanked her formally. "I'm obliged to you for Mothereen's sake as well as—but no matter for the rest. It's nothing to you, of course."
As he spoke, Garth walked to the door without waiting for a hint from Marise. "You'll want to go on dressing," he said, "so as to leave the place clear for me." Then, without another word, he went out and shut the door.
Marise stared at herself in the mirror. "You might have two noses—or none—for all the notice he took of your looks," she told her reflection.
History repeated itself that evening. The guests were all hero-worshippers, as the crowd had been at the station. The bride was admired. No one could help admiring her. Face, figure, hair, clothes, and jewels were all wonderful. But even those who seemed to admire her most blatantly betrayed their opinion that she was a lucky girl to have got Jack Garth—she, only an actress!
Some of the people had come a long distance to welcome home the V.C. from the great war, and among these were a young couple who interested Marise, because they appeared so frankly in love with each other. What their last name was, she didn't learn. Mothereen must have thought that she had heard of them from Garth. "Here are Billy and Cath," she introduced them, adding, "This is our dear Marise."
Billy was in the Army, and had fought in France when America "went in." He was stationed somewhere—Marise didn't know where—and Cath had been a "war bride." She looked delicate, though pretty; and another girl whispered to Marise, "Cath was never strong, but when Billy was reported missing a year ago she went right down, and the doctors thought she'd got T.B. My, you don't know whatT.B.means? Everyone out here knows only too well, because the climate in these parts and Arizona is so good, lots of 'em come to get cured. Consumption, of course. But joy's the best medicine in the world. You can realise how it would be with you if it had been your gorgeous Jack! I guess Cath will get well now, though she isn't quite right yet—and I don't suppose Billy'd have let her take such a trip for anyone but Jack Garth."
They had motored from "home," wherever that was, in what they called a "tin Lizzie," and Billy had driven the car himself. When everyone else was gone, Cath was still in the house, for there was trouble with "Lizzie," and Garth had gone out with his friend to see what it was.
Cath looked very tired, but her eyes were bright, and a pink flush high on her rather thin cheeks melted into shadows under thick dark lashes. She talked excitedly to Marise about "Jack and Bill," telling the stranger anecdotes which would have thrilled a loving bride, but now and then she glanced wistfully at the door.
At last the two men came back, and the girl half sprang up. "I was getting worried!" she cried. "Is Lizzie going to behave herself?"
"That's what I wish I was sure of," said Billy. "The little brute is in the sulks, and not even Jack can get at the reason, so it must be pretty deep-seated. Still, she may bump us home if I coax her along."
"Good gracious, boy!" exclaimed Mothereen. "That'll never do for Cath! Why, you might be stuck for hours. You and she must stay here and we'll lend you what you need."
"Oh, thank you, darling!" Cath answered. "That would be wonderful. Iamtired. But are you sure you've room to squeeze us in, now you've got Jack and his wife with you?"
Mothereen started. "My saints!" she gasped. "I'd forgotten we'd made a suite for them. But that doesn't matter a bit. There'llberoom. And you'll stop."
Billy and Cath protested. They wouldn't upset the house for worlds. It wasn't so late but Bill could go into the town and knock up the folks at a hotel.
"Nothing of the sort," Mothereen scolded. "We'll have a cot bed put into my room—mine's too narrow for two; and sure I am that Marise won't mind my having a bunk fixed up for the night in her sitting-room."
Fortunately Cath and Bill were both talking too fast at the same time to notice the expression of the bride's face, and Mothereen was looking at them. With all her wish not to hurt Mothereen, the line had to be drawn somewhere. Marise, trying to control her face, glanced at Garth. Her eyes said, "This is up to you. You've got to save me. Think of something, quick!"
"Of course, nobody'll hear of your turning out, Mothereen!" Garth flung himself into the breach. "I expect Marise will invite Cath in to chum with her. Then Bill and I will shift for ourselves. We——"
But an outcry from Cath, Bill, and Mothereen cut his words in two. None of them would hear of such a thing. Part a honeymoon pair like that? Never! It would be a crime.
"Why shouldn't Cath and I have that sitting-room if Mrs. Garth can spare it?" asked Bill.
"We-ell," Mothereen temporised, and glanced with a smile at Marise. "What do you say, darling?"
It was a terrific moment for the girl. It was worse than not knowing your part on the first night of a new play. Again her eyes turned to Garth. But this time he was caught unprepared. He missed his cue, and looked agonised. Marise believed that he was thinking of Mothereen more than of her. Still, she was sorry for the man. She just couldn't "let him down" before his adored one and his friends. Besides, she had never quite forgotten the ring of his voice on the night after the wedding when he had bidden her trust him. In his strange way—such as it was—he had never failed her since. No, shewouldn'tlet him down!
"What do I say?" she answered Mothereen. "I say 'Yes,' of course. I'm—delighted! Can't we all help to make up their beds, and bring in washstands and things?"
They all did help. And everyone lent Cath and Bill something—"for luck." Garth contributed pyjamas for his friend. Mothereen kept a supply of new toothbrushes of all sizes and qualities. Cath squeaked with joy over the "nighty" Marise offered.
Then at last came the moment for bidding each other "sleep well!—sweet dreams!" The door of Cath and Bill's bedroom shut. Mothereen followed Marise into her quarters adjoining, kissed and complimented her, and called Garth, who was looking at a picture of himself in his first British uniform, enlarged to enormous size in crayon, framed in gilt and hung up in the hall.
"Marise has sent her maid to bed," Mothereen explained. "She was tired after the journey—a train headache. I thought I could undo this lovely wreath for her, but I can't. Will you try?"
Garth tried. He'd never touched the girl's hair before. Its ripples were so soft—so soft! He had not known that a woman's hair could feel so divine as that. For an instant he was afraid that a certain unsteadiness of his fingers would make him awkward. But he almost prayed that it might not, and the prayer—if it was a prayer—had its answer. He happened to be particularly deft. The emerald laurel wreath yielded its secret to him, and without disturbing one of those wonderful golden waves, he laid the glittering thing on the table.
"Well, I'll say good night, then, me dear ones," said Mothereen. "It's made me as happy as a bird, sure it has, to see your happiness. The Lord is good to us all, He who brought Johnny back, safe and sound, out o' the Furnace. His blessin' on ye both this night!"
Then she was gone.
Her words had brought a sense of peace into the room, as if a white dove had flown in.
"I'll go and rouse up one of the hotels," said Garth.
"But you're in evening dress," Marise reminded him. "You can't come back like that in the morning. Besides, what would the people think?"
"Hang the people!" Garth replied.
"One can't—unfortunately."
"Well, here's a better plan. I'll sit outside in the garden court. I can come in—if you'll let me—before there's any chance of being seen."
Marise shivered. "It would be cold!"
"Pooh!" said Garth. "It's never really cold here. Don't forget it wasn't exactly a picnic, those years in France. I don't think I shall ever mind cold again."
"Anyhow, I should feel a brute sleeping calmly here, with you sitting on a hard bench out of doors. I may not be a very nice person," Marise criticised herself, "but I'm not a thorough-pacedpig. We must think of some other possible arrangement."
"There's only one other possible arrangement. And you'd not consider that possible."
"What is it?" rather breathlessly.
"For you to make yourself comfortable behind a barricade of those two useful screens in your bedroom, while I sit up in an armchair—or spread myself out on this sofa."
"Idoconsider that possible," said Marise, "now I know what kind of a man you are. That's what we'll do! I'll slip on a dressing-gown and curl up on top of the bed under an eiderdown. And early in the morning the one that's awake will call the other. It's quite simple—and you see I'm not so disagreeable as you thought."
"Have I ever given you cause to believe I thought you disagreeable?"
"Dear me, yes! Whole heaps of times! Not that it matters."
"I suppose it wouldn't matter to you. But it does matter to me, 'what kind of a man' you 'now know' me to be. Have you been studying me? I hadn't noticed it. But if you have, I'd be interested to hear what conclusions you've come to. Do you mind telling me?"
"Oh, my conclusions mostly concern your state of mind regardingme!" said Marise.
"What, according to you, is it?"
"Dislike," she replied promptly.
"That's a strong word!" Garth blurted out. They were standing in the middle of the room, eyeing each other as might a pair of duellists obliged to fight over some technical dispute. "Have I been so brutal to you as all that?"
"You haven't been brutal lately. You were—dreadfully—at first."
"H'm! You weren't exactly angelic to me."
"There's nothing very angelic in the—in the affair."
"What, precisely, do you mean by 'the affair'?"
"The—er—bargain."
"I thought I'd convinced you that the 'bargain' had collapsed."
"Well, our—marriage, then, if you like that better. I've wondered every minute what you did marry me for, if it wasn't money. And sometimes I think it couldn't have been, because you seem to have plenty of your own. Still——"
"Some men with plenty could do with more. Is that what you'd say?"
"I'm not sure what I'd say—about you."
"I suppose you think that a million dollars would always be worth having. I'm sure your mother would think that."
"The question is, not whatwe'dthink, but what you thought—when you married me."
Garth looked at her for a moment in silence, as if weighing his answer, wondering whether to stick to his fixed plan of remoteness, or risk "giving himself away."
"Do you remember any of the things I said to you the first day we met?" he asked at last.
"Yes, I remember you thought—then—you lo—you admired me a good deal. But you were a different man that day from what you were afterwards."
"You're right! I was. A different man. The word you broke off just now was the one word for what I felt. Only it didn't express half. I loved you with all there was of me. I adored and worshipped you. But—I don't believe you've ever been in love yourself except on the surface, or I'd ask you how much you think love can stand, and live?"
Marise felt the blood pour up to her cheeks and tingle in the tips of her ears. So it was true that hedidn'tlove her now! The thought hurt her vanity. She hated to believe that a man who'd loved her once couldunlove her in a few days or weeks. But it annoyed her very much to flush. She wished to look entirely unmoved. Instead, she wanted to cry.
"Please do tell me once for allwhyyou married me if it wasn't either for love or money!" she said crossly, with a quiver in her voice.
"When one makes a bold move on the chessboard—the chessboard of life—there are often several motives," Garth replied. "Sometimes it's to save the queen from being taken by an enemy piece. Perhaps that was my principal motive, who can tell?—I don't know just what piece to compare with Severance, though with acardit would be easy. He's not a knight. Nor yet a bishop. We might call him a castle. I hear he's got one—which needs a bit of doing up before it would suit a queen."
"You married me only to keep Tony Severance from getting me?"
"That might have had something to do with it."
"Not for the million?"
"I leave you to guess that, from what you say you know of me."
"And not because you wanted me yourself?"
"I don't get much good from having you, do I?"
"Then it was like the dog in the manger."
Garth shrugged his shoulders. "Let it go at that for to-night, anyhow. We must talk more softly if we don't wish to keep Bill and Cath awake in the next room."
This warning was a dash of cold water!
"We won't talk at all," half whispered Marise. "If you'll arrange the screens for me, I'll rest on the bed."
There were two large, four-leaved screens in the room, one in a corner behind a sofa, keeping off a window draught, one in front of the door. Placed as Garth placed them, they formed a room within a room, hiding the bed from view. Marise stepped behind this "barricade," as Garth had called it, contrived with great difficulty to unfasten a complicated family of tiny hooks, wriggled out of her sparkling dress and into arobe de chambre, turned off the light of an electric candelabrum, turned on that of a green-shaded bedside lamp, and lay down under a silk quilt.
From Garth's part of the room she heard no sound, except when several electric lights were switched off, and Marise imagined him uncomfortably folded up on the sofa which was far too small for what she called "an out-size" of man.
It was dark in the room save for her bedside lamp, the shade of which drank most of the light. So dim was it, so still was it, that after a while Marise grew drowsy.
She hadn't meant to sleep at all, but she realised that Nature was too strong for her. Besides, what did it matter? Garth was probably asleep too—and there were hours before dawn.
The girl ceased to resist the soft pressure as of fingers on her eyelids. They drooped, closed, and—she slept. By and by she dreamed. She dreamed most vividly of Zélie Marks, as she had dreamed once or twice before.
She—Marise—was in this house of Mothereen's; in this very room, though Garth was not with her. He existed, but he had gone out—or away. Marise had taken off the jewels he had given her, and was laying them on a table. They were beautiful! It was a pity not to keep them for her own! Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and without waiting for permission Zélie Marks burst in.
"I've come for the jewels," she announced, in a hateful voice, looking at Marise with angry, wicked eyes.
"They're not yours, and you're not to have them," said Marise in the dream. She spoke with courage; but suddenly she was afraid of Zélie. She knew that the girl meant to do her harm. Some dreadful thing was going to happen. But her voice was gone. She could not cry out. She couldn't even speak. It was impossible to move. She felt like a bird fascinated by a snake. The dream had become a nightmare.
Zélie saw her helplessness. The big black eyes became more and more evil. The girl advanced slowly, yet with set purpose. Without removing her stare from Marise's face, she picked up the rope of pearls.
"As you won't give these to me, though Jack wants me to have everything of his, I'm going to make you swallow them," she said in a low voice, cold as the tinkle of ice.
Marise strove with all her might to cry out, "No—no!" but could not. She tried to turn and dart away before Zélie could touch her, but she was immovable as the pillar of salt that had been Lot's wife.
Zélie took a handful of pearls and began stuffing them into Marise's mouth. It was suffocation! Marise wrenched herself free of the frozen spell and uttered a shriek.
It waked her; and at the same time she was conscious of another sound—a sound which brought back to her brain a whirling vision of things as they really were.
She remembered the screens, and why they were there.
Garth had bounded up from some resting-place and had knocked over a chair. He must think, either that she wasin extremis, or else that she had cried out as an excuse to bring him to her. She saw one of the two screens sway, as if Garth had struck against it inadvertently. Then, hastily she closed her eyes. He must be made to realise that she had truly screamed in her sleep, and that there was no horrid coquettish trick.
Marise lay quite still, so that she hardly breathed; and Garth's steps made scarce a sound; yet she knew that he had come round the screens and was looking at her.
After the things he had said, she was wild to knowwhat that look was like. If she could see his face at that moment, when she'd just given him a fright, she would know without any possible doubt whether he'd spoken the plain truth in hinting (he hadn't exactlysaid!) that he didn't love her because she had tried him too far. But she couldn't see his face without opening her eyes; and if she opened her eyes he'd know she was awake. He'd suspect that she had screamed on purpose.
The girl tried to breathe with long, gentle sighs, hardly moving her breast, as she did when she played the part of a sleeper on the stage. It was easy enoughthere; but she couldn't be a good actress after all, because she was unable to control her breath now. Her heart was beating fast, and her bosom rose and fell in jerks.
A long time seemed to pass. Was Garth standing there gazing down at her still, or had he tiptoed away? Marise simplyhadto know! Surely she could just peep from under those celebrated eyelashes of hers for half a second, without his catching her in the act, if he were there?
The lashes flickered, and were still again. But Marise had seen. Garthwasthere. He was looking down at her. Yet all her subtleties had been vain. She couldn't read his face. It was as inscrutable as that of the Sphinx, which she knew only from photographs. Presently she heard a slight, almost indefinable sound, and peeping again, saw Garth in the act of disappearing behind a leaf of the taller screen. Had he caught that tell-tale flicker, or not?
Garth went back to his darkened corner of the room, but his brain felt as it had been brilliantly lit up, with a hundred electric candles suddenly turned on in it. They dazzled him. But he composed himself outwardly and lay down again on the crampingly short sofa.
He had taken off collar, tie, coat and waistcoat, slipping on instead a futurist dressing-gown which a haughty salesman in a smart shop had forced upon him as "thething." Zélie would probably have approved it. In any case, it would have graced a Russian ballet.
Minutes, hours perhaps, passed before he felt even somnolent. But the ring of light on the ceiling above Marise's concealed lamp, resembling a faint, round moon in a twilight sky, hypnotised him. At last sleep caught him like a wrestler, and downed him for a moment. In a flash came a dream. He thought that Marise had cried out again. Then he waked, in another flash, and knew that it was not true. Vividly he saw her face, as it had been in that last glimpse he had stolen; sweet as a rose; lips apart, long lashes shadowing the cheeks; then—a flicker; and he saw the bosom that had been shaken all through the silent scene with heart-beats too quick for those of a sleeper.
With this photograph upon his retina, he deliberately rolled off the sofa, and fell with a bump on the floor.
Crash! went a screen.
Marise was beside him.
"Are youdead?" she gasped.
"No. Only asleep," he answered with a yawn.
The next day Garth received a telegram urging him to come at once to the Grand Canyon. He was needed because of some work at Vision House which had been stopped for his decision.
Marise believed that he had had the message sent to himself, and was grateful, for his departure relieved the situation. Later, she thought differently; but at the time she was pleased with the man. She even gave him a little appreciative squeeze of the hand when they said good-bye.
Garth was to be gone two days. He would then return, travelling at night, and after a few hours with Mothereen would take his wife and her maid away. Considering the circumstances, this was as good an arrangement as could have been hoped for by Marise. His absence, however, did leave the house very dull! Whether one liked Jack Garth or not, even if one hated him, his was a personality that made itself missed.
Of course, it was very unpleasant that she had to go and live in his house. In his rough-hewn fashion, he'd been rather decent in some ways, not abusing the man's power he had over her as a woman; still, Marise told herself that she thanked Heaven to be rid of him. She must not appear too joyous, however, or Mothereen would be shocked. So realistic was the girl's air of sadness (helped by a prospect of heavy boredom), that the dear woman attempted the task of cheering her up.
"Would ye like me to show ye an album of photos I have of himself as a boy and a growin' lad?" Mothereen wanted to know. "He was never much on bein' took, after he grew up. But I've kept all his letters he wrote me from the Front. They're great, and ye can have the run of 'em, me pet. But first we'll go through the album together, don't ye think?"
Marise said that she would be delighted. And she must have had a more angelic nature than she'd supposed, because the thought of the ordeal left her unruffled.
Mothereen brought the volume in question—bound in purple morocco—and a ribbon-tied bundle of letters to the girl's sitting-room. Then, with a beaming countenance, she settled herself on the sofa and opened the album on her lap. She had evidently no suspicion that she was being patronised good-naturedly by "Johnny's" wife. Indeed, she fully believed that the girl was impatiently waiting a treat.
"Come and sit down beside me, Mavourneen," she said. "That's right! Now we're cosy. See, this cute little photo at the beginnin' was Johnny when I had him first. Ye know the story, don't ye?"
"No-o," confessed Marise. She could easily have given an evasive answer; but suddenly she was conscious that shewishedto know the story. "Maj—he—never told me."
"Never told ye!" echoed Mothereen. "Never told ye aught about the father he's so proud of, and all the rest? Why, if it had not been for that father of his, I don't suppose he'd have gone to the war like a shot, the way he did."
"Will you tell me—unless you think he'd rather you didn't?" asked Marise, gazing at the badly-taken photograph of a handsome, fearless-eyed child of five or six, in funny little trousers.
"Sure, there's no reasonwhyhe should mind. The boy has nothing to blush for. It's all the contrary!" said Mothereen. "And Iwilltell ye. It's right ye should hear what the gossoon fought his way up from to where he stands now. Ye've heard, at the least, that the father was English?"
"I think I did hear him tell someone—not me—that his father was a Yorkshireman," Marise remembered.
"He was that, and a gentleman besides, an officer in the British Army. His name was the same as the child's—John Garth. It was an American girl he'd married, a girl from out West here. She went over to England as a kind of a nursery governess with a family of rich folks, and there was a row—a flare-up of some sort. The folks left her behind when they came home, and the girl got engaged to sing with a little concert party, tourin' the provinces. It was in Yorkshire Captain Garth saw her, and fell in love. He was always inventin' something or other, was my Johnny's dad: like father like son, and when the one child born to the pair of 'em was a toddler, the Captain had an accident with some explosive stuff he was workin' at. The poor young man's right arm was blown off, and his eyes were hurt. That meant he must leave the army, and as he wasn't wounded in the service of his country, not a red cent of pension did he get! The poor girl wife was expectin' a second child, but the shock she got by the accident brought on her trouble before its time, and she and the baby died together.
"It was nip and tuck that the Captain didn't die too. But he pulled through somehow, and there was the boy to think of. When it turned out that Government would do nothin', the poor man had a notion to come to this side of the world—his dead wife's country. She'd always been tellin' him, it seems, that those inventions of his, that the British War Office turned up its nose at, might make his fortune in the States.
"Well, he took the little money he had left, and thought to try his luck. But he was pretty well done for, poor man, and a big storm there was, crossin', just about put the finishin' touch; for he broke his leg aboard ship."
"Were you on the ship?" Marise asked.
"Not me! 'Twas many a year since I was on board a ship," said Mothereen. "Me and my man—Pat was his name—we had our honeymoon in the steerage. 'Twas out to the West we came, near to where we are now, which is why me heart is in the West always. But troubles fell on Pat in business, and a friend of his invited him to join in a new scheme, back East in New York. The fellow'd been left a house there, off Third Avenue, and with Pat to help in the expense of a start, furnishin', advertisin' and the like, accordin' to him, they could coin money takin' boarders. It sounded all right on paper, and so it might have been in practice, maybe, with Pat to manage and me to cook, if half the boarders hadn't slipped off without settlin' their bills. But that's what they did, the spalpeens. And if troubles had been black out West, they was black and blue in N'York! This was the time when Captain Garth came limpin' in out of hospital, with his boy hangin' onto his hand. He'd seen our advertisement in a paper, offerin' cheap board. The man looked like death—and he didn't look like pay. But sure, me heart opened to the pair of 'em at first sight! Ses I to meself, 'If I was to have a child, I'd want one the pattern o'that.'"
"What happened then?" Marise wanted to know, when Mothereen paused for her thoughts to rush back to the past.
"Just the things ye might suppose! We none of us had any luck. There was no more doin' for the inventions in the States than there'd been in England. The Captain left the child in my charge, and went to Washington. There he hung about the place till the last of his money was frittered away, and nothin' to show for it. But my, didn't that boy grow into me heart, those days when he was like me own? Four years old he was, and to look at him or hear him talk, you'd have said six! There came along a big wave of 'flu, the end of that hard winter, and my Pat and Captain Garth was both laid low with the sickness. Pat took it from the Captain, nursin' him—and within a week of each other they was dead. That's how me Johnny boy got to be me son."
"You were a saint to adopt him, when his father caused your husband's death," said Marise.
"Saint, is it? Wait till ye hear the rest of the story, and know what it was the boy did for me. Not much more than a baby he was, but with twice the understandin' of many a grown-up man I've met. He saw the way things were for me, with his wise little eyes, and he made up his mind to help when the time came.
"I had to give up the house, I couldn't hold on. I sold up my bits of things, and took one room for the two of us, Johnny and me. I got some sewin' to do, but 'twas in a neighbourhood of poor folk, and there wasn't enough comin' in to keep bread in our mouths. What do you think that baby did then, darlin'? I'm surethisis the part of the story he'dneverbe tellin' ye!"
"I can't imagine," said Marise.
"How he saved a few cents I've never rightly known, for he was mum about it. What I think is, he must have begged till he had a half-dozen nickels or dimes. Then he bought newspapers, and sold 'em in the streets. From the first minute he was a success, and it's not hard to see why. He was in a different class from the poor dirty brats in the same business. And if ye'll believe it, me girl, there was times when the child kept the two of us on what he earned. From that day we never looked back. He put spirit into me, and the heart to work. Now, I'll turn over a page in the album, and show you our boy at the age of ten. What d'ye think of him?"
"He doesn't look like a seller of newspapers," said Marise.
"No more he wasn't, by then. He and I had gone into the molasses candy business. We made the candy ourselves; and if I do say it, there wasn't its equal in New York. Johnny would have the stuff wrapped up in pretty little packets of coloured paper tied with gold string, and I tell you, it went like smoke! At night, Johnny attended a school, and picked up knowledge as a chicken picks up corn.
"Now, here he is in the album again at fifteen. We had the Mooney Molasses Candies—three sorts—for sale in a lot of shops, and we'd a little flat of our own, and money in the bank. Isn't he a fine fellow to look at there? The makings of a man! 'Twas when he was fifteen that he began to study the notebooks his father had left, and to turn his thoughts to inventions of his own. The first thing was an oyster-opener. The second was a fastener to keep shoe-strings from untying. Then there was a big leap, and at eighteen he'd patented a toy pistol that fired six shots, and no danger in one of 'em! That was what began to bringrealmoney in; and Johnny said, 'Mothereen' (he'd called me that name from the first), 'the next step is goin' to take us out West to the place that you love!' So it did! 'Twas that high-speed bullet of his which won him the notice of the War Office. It won him ten thousand dollars, too; and on the strength of it he brought me back to the town where Pat and I settled first, in the happy old days. But little did I dream even then of the destiny ahead of the boy! I was lovin' him too much, and rememberin' the child he'd been, to realise that by me side a real genius was growin' up. I might o' done, though, if I'd kept me eyes open, the way he studied and worked, worked and studied, readin' the classics and learnin' languages and mathematics the while he'd be faggin' out some new invention. But Johnny was never the boy to brag or talk about himself. He was always queer in spots, sort of broodin', you'd almost say sulky, unless you knew him, and a temper, too; though never with me. Then came his discovery of how to make motor spirit out of coke. That finished buildin' this house we're in, and bought his land at Grand Canyon. I mean it did all that in the first few months. Soon afterwards the dollars poured on us by thousands—yes, tens of thousands! You sure heard of the trench motor-tool for diggin', I know, because 'twas in all the English papers after the war had broken out, and Johnny was at the Front. There was all that about his Victoria Cross at the same time, or was it a bit before? You can tell me, I guess?"
"It must have been before. I never knew why he was decorated," Marise said.
"He wouldn't tell you when ye asked?" cried Mothereen, as certain as she was of life that the girlhadasked—yes, begged and prayed!
"He never did tell."
"Well, ye shall read the newspaper paragraphs yerself—American papers, mind ye!—for he never sent me the English ones, and I got what I got through his friends. I've columns cut out. And with them there's the praise of the trench machine, and the new kind of steel—Radium steel, he calls it—that they say will make him a millionaire in a year or two."
"A millionaire!" echoed Marise. "I thought he was poor!"
"Poor! Ye thought that—yet yemarriedhim—you, who could get anyone ye liked, from Princes of the Blood down to Cotton Kings! Youdarlin'! Well, ye'll have yer reward. The boy is not poor. He's rich—whatanybodywould call rich."
"Then why——" Marise burst out, and stopped herself. If she hadn't bitten back the words, they would have tumbled out: "Whydid he marry me?"
She felt very small in spirit and mean of soul compared with humble Mothereen, whose faith and loyalty had bridged the dark years with gold.
Why had a man brought up by Mothereen wanted to play the dummy hand in this ridiculous game of marriage?
When his ship docked, two telegrams were handed to Lord Severance. The first which he opened was from Mrs. Sorel, and he glanced through it eagerly.
"Everything going as well as could be expected, but your return and final completion of arrangement eagerly awaited.—Mary S."
"Everything going as well as could be expected, but your return and final completion of arrangement eagerly awaited.—Mary S."
This was not quite as reassuring, somehow, as the sender intended it to be. There seemed to be a hidden meaning behind the words, which twanged the wrong chords of Severance's emotions. Hastily he tore open the second envelope, hoping to find a message from Marise herself. But the signature was "Constantine Ionides." Then Severance read with horrified, incredulous eyes, "Œnone died suddenly last night of heart failure."
For a moment Tony did not understand all that the news would mean for him. Œnone dead! Well, he was free, at least! The hateful farce would not have to be gone through. He could sail for New York again in a few days.
But a shock of realisation broke the thought. Not to marry Œnone meant that he would not get his uncle's promised wedding gift. A fortune was lost!
The blow was a staggering one. He felt its full force, as if he had abruptly turned to face a gale from the east.
Wasn't it just his luck? Didn't everything always go like that for him in life? Almost to lay his hand on the things he wanted, to see them slip away from under his fingers!
The journey to London was interminable. He suffered so much during the miserable hours that it seemed as if he must have the consolation of some reward at the end—must learn that Œnone hadn't died after all, or that, better still, Uncle Constantine intended in any case to give him the money which should have been his.
But there was no brightening of the gloom for him. In fact, things were rather worse at the end of the journey, if possible, than he had expected. Uncle Constantine's heart was not softened by sorrow. On the contrary, he turned upon Severance in a rage and blamed him for Œnone's death.
The girl had faded visibly after her cousin left England. She knew one or two people who thought it for her good to be told that Tony's "mission" was to follow Marise Sorel. Œnone had subscribed for several American papers, in order to read of Lord Severance's doings on the other side. One was a weekly gossip rag, and she had been turning over a copy when she died. In fact, the thing was found in her hand, open at a page where Severance's name was coupled in a sneering way with that of Marise Sorel. The actress was said to have jilted him for a Major Garth, V.C., of his own regiment, and the rumour was reported that out of pique Severance would now marry his rich Greek cousin in London.
"It was enough to kill her—and it did!" said Ionides. "Damn you, Severance! I wish to Heaven you were dead instead of my poor girl who loved you. And I wish to hell I could upset her will in your favour. I can't do that. But not a shilling ofmymoney will you ever get."
So Œnone had left him her own private fortune, as she had told him she meant to do if she died! That was something—probably the equivalent of the pledged million dollars—not allowing for the vile exchange. But of what use wasonemillion dollars to him, in his present plight? The least he could do with was double that sum.
To carry out the bargain with Garth and free Marise he would have to hand over a cool million. But how was he going to pay even his most pressing debts and live—much lessmarry—if he cleaned himself out of his whole inheritance at one stroke?
On the other hand, if he kept the million doubtless coming to him by Œnone's will, he would have nothing to offer Garth. The whole plan would be a colossal failure: worse than a failure—a catastrophe. Garth would stick to Marise from motives of spite, if nothing worse. The girl's life would be ruined, and she would be lost to him unless he killed Garth, or unless the man laid himself open to divorce proceedings—which was the very thing he would be careful not to do—unless well paid.
Of course, a woman could divorce a man for incompatibility of temper and things of that sort in one or two states out West, in America, Severance had vaguely heard. But a hocus pocus affair of that sort wouldn't be considered legal in England, and Marise could never, in such circumstances, become the Countess of Severance, even if they had money to marry on—which they wouldn't have!
Severance had not known or guessed how the girl had said to herself that, if there were a question of jilting,shewished to be the jilter, not the jilted. Had he known, he would have felt even more bitter against Fate. As it was, he pitied Marise, although the disasters which had fallen on them both came through her impulsiveness. If only she hadn't rushed off and married John Garth on an hour's notice, that beastly paragraph would never have been printed, and Œnone would still be alive. It had been foolish, rash, passionately mistaken. Severance felt hotly. But there was little resentment in his pain. He blamed himself almost, if not quite, as much as Marise, and all that was Greek in him accepted, while it writhed at, the fatality.
When Œnone's funeral was over and the contents of her will known, the legacy reached the amount promised. But—the exchange, the awful exchange between England and America! And the equally appalling death duties! Even if Severance decided to plunge, and offerallto Garth, the sum would fall far short of a million dollars. Besides, he couldn't offer all, or nearly all. He was dunned on every side.
There were moments—moments when he was most Greek—when Tony said to himself that he would have to leave Marise to her fate. She had made her bed. She must lie on it. He would stay in England, pay his debts, and be extremely comfortable on what was left over out of Œnone's gift. But there were other moments, burning moments, fanned to molten fire by Mrs. Sorel's letters and telegrams. Hecouldn'tgive up Marise! Something must be done. And at last, through the red mists he saw a way to bluff himself out of the depths.
"Coming back at once," he cabled Mary Sorel at Bell Towers, and started the same day (the fourteenth day after Œnone's funeral) in a cabin given up at the eleventh hour by its purchaser.
The legacy was not yet in his hands, nor would it be for months to come, but Severance had been able to borrow a substantial sum on the certainty of his prospects. The voyage was stormy, and not being a good sailor, he arrived in New York a wreck. He had courage enough, however, to start at once for Los Angeles, where he meant to see his friend and well-wisher, Mrs. Sorel. With her counsel he would consolidate his plans, and start the campaign against Garth.
"Oh, Tony, what a downfall of our castle in the air!" were Mary's first words, as she held out her hands to Severance. "This beautiful Bell Towers, where we hoped we should be so happy—you and Marise and I—wasted—wasted! Our dream broken! The best prospect for my poor child now is, that she can go back to the stage and begin again where she left off."
Severance had come to her for comfort, but found he had to give instead of get it.
"Oh, I say! Things aren't as bad as all that!" he protested. "Tell me exactly how matters are, so far as you know, with Marise. Then I'll tell you how they are with me. You must remember, I'm not without resources—or ideas."
They were standing together on a rose-hung loggia, looking over a fountain terrace where oranges shone in the sun and a hundred flowers poured forth perfume like a hymn of praise. As Mary Sorel had said, the place was a perfect setting for romance. But all hope wasn't over yet!
Tea was brought to the loggia; and when the maid had gone, Mary began to tell Severance—not only the news he wanted to hear, but, alas! much news that made sorry hearing indeed.
"Céline writes me, as often as Marise does," Mrs. Sorel explained, a little shamefacedly. "I arranged that she should do so. Marise isoddin some ways, you know. Not secretive exactly. No. But she has sudden, unexpected sort of reserves. And I wanted an unbiased account of affairs, from—well, from more than one point of view. They've left Albuquerque, near where the adopted mother lives, and gone to the place I wrote you about—the Grand Canyon. At least, Garth's property isn't far from the Canyon. You can see it from the windows. 'Vision House,' he calls the place; but I think it's more because getting the land was the fulfilment of some old dream than because of the view. Marise says that's wonderful, though—the view, I mean."
"You can't expect me to care about the view from Garth's damned house, where he keeps Marise a prisoner!" exploded Severance.
"No, dear boy—forgive me! I was wandering from the point, thinking of her letters.Theywander, too. She tells me all kinds of things about the place. She says it's amazing. She talks more of everything else than herself."
"What does she say about Garth?"
"Not more than she can help. But—oh,onething! Tony, she tells me he's rich—very rich."
"Rot! He wants her to believe that."
"No. Someone else told her, not he. And the house, though it's simple, is the house of a rich man, she says. I should have been there by this time, if you hadn't wired me you were coming here to get my advice before—before deciding what to do next. And—besides, I was alittledelayed by the visit of acharmingComtesse de Sorel who came to Los Angeles, and thought she might be distantly related to poor dear Louis. We fagged up the family tree together. It appears that Louis just missed being a comte himself, by descent, because of—ah—a family accident: a marriage that didn't take place. Think of the difference to us if——"
"I'm thinking of the difference to me because of a marriage that did take place!" Severance cut her short. "I shall start for the Grand Canyon at once. I suppose there's an hotel there."
"Marise says there's adreamof an hotel, close to the abyss, or whatever you call it. The name is El Tovar, after some old Spanish general who seems to have been even more of a brute than Garth. You'll go there—naturally. Yet I thought from what you said that all was over—that you couldn'tpayGarth, and——"
"I'll do something! You don't suppose I'm going to stand quietly by and leave him in possession, do you?"
"Well, he's not exactly inpossession. To put it like that is to exaggerate——"
"He's got the legal power of a husband over Marise, and, one way or another, he'll have to be kicked out!"
"That, at least, will be something to the good—if you succeed, dear boy. But this terrible disappointment over the money.... Whatdoyou think of doing?"
Severance put into words what he thought of doing. Mums listened earnestly, weighing each pro and con as he talked. For a wonder, she didn't interrupt. It was only when he had finished and awaited an opinion that she spoke.
"Very good! Very good indeed!" she praised him. "It seems to me that you've analysed the man's character, and formed your plan on the analysis. Marise—ah, well,she'smore complicated than he is, of course! But I think this idea of yours will appeal to her romantic side. Like all girls, sheisromantic."
"Everything depends upon how she feels towards me," said Severance. "She did care a little—once. You don't think that what I—what's happened has changed her?"
"I don't see why it should have done," answered Mary. "After all, she consented."
"I'm afraid your influence was for something in that!"
"Naturally a mother has influence. But Marise's mind is her own. She's very individual. Besides, the time is so short since then."
Yes, Mums was right there! The time was short—very short. Only a few weeks had passed since the day when Marise had been persuaded to accept the first Great Plan, though it felt more like several years. She couldn't have changed—unless association with a man like Garth had made her value Severance more than ever.
The one amendment Mary had to make was that she should travel with Tony, and be on the spot to help in the carrying out of this new, second plan. But her suggestion was received with an ill grace. "I want to do it all on my own," he objected. "If Marise is romantic, as you say she is, it would spoil the whole show to have her mother in the background. No, what's got to be done I want to do myself. You must wait here. I'll bring her to you when I can, if things turn out the way I expect. Anyhow, you trust her to me, don't you?"
"Of course, dear Tony," Mums assured him. Her voice didn't sound quite sincere, but then, it seldom did, unless she was in a temper. And after all, Severance didn't care a hang whether she trusted him or not, so long as she did not interfere. The mother of Marise bored him with her pretensions and affectations, though she was useful at times; and in the future—that future which he hoped to share with Marise—he didn't intend to see a great deal of Mrs. Sorel.
Bell Towers was as beautiful as it had been described, and it was his own for the next few months. But weary as he was, Severance left the place that night, taking a stateroom in the train for Williams—"Williams" being the prosaically-named junction for perhaps the most romantic place in the world, the Grand Canyon.
Getting out at the small station Severance saw no Canyon at first. It couldn't be so huge or wonderful as people said, he thought, and anyhow, he didn't care for scenery—especially now. There was a pine wood, and ascending out of it for a short distance he came to the hotel—a glorified loghouse, it was—such a loghouse as the Geni of the Lamp might have created for Aladdin by request. It was very big and very beautiful. Even Severance, tired and out of temper, couldn't help admitting its charm. Then, on the plateau of the hotel, above the wood, he found himself gazing straight down into the canyon, and far across a gulf of gold and rose.
The man was amazed, almost stunned, for a moment. Constitutionally he dreaded great heights and depths, and though the place was stupendously magnificent, the moment his eyes saw its majesty Severance longed to escape from it. With relief, he turned his back upon the flaming rocks and sapphire depths, and almost ran into the hotel.
There was a vast, low-ceilinged hall, with just the right sort of furniture, and an odd invention—a cross between hammocks and hanging sofas—suspended here and there by chains from the roof. In these things girls sat; and there were several extremely handsome young men lounging about, dressed like cowboys. Severance caught snatches of conversation about ponies, and the "long trail" and the "short trail." Everyone had either just made the descent into the canyon, or intended to make it; but Severance had no wish for the adventure which brought most people to this abode of wonders.
The hotel, it appeared, was nearly full, but there were two or three rooms free for that night, and Tony engaged one. He then inquired the way and the distance to "Vision House."
"Oh, Major Garth's!" exclaimed the hotel clerk. "It's about a mile or a mile and a half from here. It's on the edge of the pine forest—has just a group of big trees between it and the canyon—not enough to hide the view, though. Some think the trees improve it—make a sort of frame. You can walk, easily. But I saw Major Garth in the hotel half an hour ago, with a friend who's convalescing here after being ill. I'm sure he's not gone yet. I can send and see if he——"
"Please don't do that!" Severance broke in. "I am—a relative of Mrs. Garth, and I have a message to deliver from her mother. There's no need to disturb Major Garth if he's with a friend."
Severance had intended to bathe, change into fresh clothes, and have a long, cool drink—the drink of his life—before starting out to call at Vision House. He could thus have been at his best, and have felt sure of doing himself justice in any ordeal he might be destined to go through. But with the certain knowledge that Garth was out of the way—perhaps only for a short time—it would have been tempting Providence to delay for one unnecessary second.
He inquired just how to go, and vetoed the suggestion that he should first look at his room.
"If you'll register, I'll ring for a chap to show you where you start from," said the clerk, pushing a big book forward and handing the guest a pen.
"Earl of Severance," Tony wrote, expecting to see the man look impressed, but no such emotion was visible. Instead, he turned back a few pages to show the signature of an Indian rajah and a Scottish duke. A mere earl looked small fry compared with them!
On the same page with the duke, Severance happened to catch sight of a name which was vaguely familiar to him, and he kept the book open to refresh his memory.
"Miss Zélie Marks," he repeated to himself. "Now where have I heard...."
Then, suddenly, he knew.
Zélie Marks's face rose before his mind, and he recalled where he had seen it last—recalled also a look he had caught in a pair of handsome eyes fixed upon Garth the day of the first visit.
Mrs. Sorel had tried to send the two off together, and Severance had said to himself, "That couple know each other pretty well. The girl's in love with the fellow!"
So she was out West, at this hotel, close to Garth's house! Why? What did it mean? It must meansomething.... Did Marise know?... Had Miss Marks been brought here purposely to give the wished-for—the arranged-for—excuse for a divorce? Or was the reason for her presence more subtle and more complicated?
Severance felt excited, as if he had picked up something of unexpected value.