Vision House

"We must – must face things!" Mary let herself sob. "I'm afraid we are awake – wider awake than we've ever been in our happy life these last three years. We took the pleasant side of things for granted. As they say over here, we're 'up against' the grim side now. If you love Tony only half as much as he loves you, why, it seems to me you ought – indeed it's your duty to your future – to think twice before sending him out into darkness, with no light of hope."

"Things like my plan often happen to people, just by accident," said Tony. "A man who loves one girl has to marry another. His wife dies. Meanwhile, the first girl has taken a husband – perhaps out of pique. He's a rotter. She divorces him. Then the pair who've loved each other are free to be happy ever after. If they're rich, too, so much the better for them! They don't feel guilty. Why should they? They've nothing to feel guilty about. Why should it be so appalling if a man, to save his soul and his love, plans out something of this sort, instead of blundering into it? I can't see any reason. Aren't you being a Pharisee – or a hypocrite, Marise?"

"Aren't you being a Joseph Surface?" she flung back. "Perhaps I never told you that I played 'Lady Teazle,' and got a prize at my dramatic school. So I know all about the 'consciousness of innocence.'"

The girl spoke stormily. Her eyes blazed at the man through tears. Yet he and Mary both knew from her words – her tone – that in spite of herself she had begun to "think."

"Joseph Surface was a cold snake," said Tony. "At worst I'm not that, or I wouldn't be ready to wade through fire and water to win you at last."

"No, you're not a cold snake," Marise agreed. And the eyes of Severance and Mrs. Sorel met, as the girl dashed a handkerchief across hers. Mary's glance telegraphed Tony, "This sad business may come right, after all!" "You had better leave us, my friend," she said aloud. "Marise and I will at least talk this over – thrash it out, and – "

"A thrashing is just what it deserves," the girl snapped. "A thorough thrashing!"

"It shall have it," Mums soothed her patiently. "But we may think – "

"Even if we did think," Marise broke out, with a sudden flash at Severance, "what good would it do? Even if I were willing – though I can't conceive it! What use would that be? You can't kindle a fire without a match. There isn't a man living who'd be the match. A dummy match!"

"You forget the million dollars," Severance said.

"I don't. But you admitted yourself, he must at least seem a decent man, or the scheme would fail. No decent man – "

"Some smart actor who fancies himself, and dreams of having his own New York theatre," cried Severance, inspired. "With a million dollars – "

"He'd want me to stay on the stage and star with him – "

"Well, then, some inventor who'd sell his soul to have his invention taken up. A million dol – "

The phrase called back an echo in the girl's mind. "I'd sell my soul!" What man had used those words to her that day – an hour ago?..

Marise laughed out aloud. "An inventor!" she exclaimed. "Oh, it's easy to generalise – to suggest someone – anyone – vaguely, in a world of men. But if I should name one – if I should say, 'Here's the man,' you would shudder. The thought of him in flesh and blood as my husband – dummy or no dummy – would drive you mad – if you really love me."

"I wouldn't let it drive me mad," Severance swore. "I'd control myself – and control the man, too."

"You would? Suppose I name your bête noire, Major John Garth?"

Severance withered visibly. "Garth wouldn't do it," he stammered.

"There you are!" sneered Marise. But she began to experience a very extraordinary sensation. It was composed of obstinacy, anger, vanity, recklessness, resentment, and several fierce sub-emotions, none of which she made the slightest effort to analyse. Tony Severance believed that his passion for her excused everything, because he thought it stronger than any other man living had ever felt. But there was another man, one at least – who thought and said the same thing of himself.

Much as Tony hated and pretended to despise John Garth, without stopping to reflect an instant he set the Bounder aside as one among a few men who wouldn't stoop – who couldn't be tempted – to play so low a part as that of a "dummy husband." Was Tony right? Or was the man he discarded the very one who would marry her at any price? Dimly she wondered in a sullen and heavy curiosity.

"There are plenty of other fellows – of sorts – to choose from, without dragging in Garth," Severance went on. "Give me leave, Marise (give me new life, by giving me leave!), to find such a man. If I must go without finding one here, I will search England. Or I can put it in the hands of – "

"No!" shrilled Mary. "In no hands but our own."

"I wash mine of it!" cried Marise.

"Perhaps you will think it over – the pros and cons – with me, dear," coaxed her mother. "The wonderful future you could have with Tony, when the clouds should pass and all those millions – "

The girl shrugged her shoulders. And turning without another word, she whirled away to her room. It would not have been true to nature if she hadn't slammed the door!

Mary prepared to follow. "Go, Tony," she ordered. "Leave the poor child to me. All this is awful – terrible! But it isn't as if we were wishing for Miss Ionides' death. If she's doomed… Oh, I hear Marise crying! Go at once – please!"

CHAPTER X

THE THING SHE COULD NOT EXPLAIN

Marise and Mary Sorel talked late that night in the girl's room. The family breadwinner – always indulged – had not been so petted, so spoiled, since she was threatened with grippe in the first week of her great London triumph. In those days she had shone as a bright planet rather than a fixed star. The proud but anxious mother had feared that some understudy might mine the new favourite's success, as Marise had mined the toppling fame of Elsa Fortescue. The invalid had been surrounded with the warmth of mother-love, caressed, almost hypnotised back to health, and after a worrying day of high temperature had been encouraged to the theatre without giving the understudy even one night's chance. This, although that young woman was dressed and painted for the part!

So it was again on this fateful Sunday in New York, although the most wily Vivien of an understudy could now safely be defied.

Mary went in to Marise the moment Severance had gone. She kissed and cooed over her child. She flattered her. She told her that she was beautiful and brave —too beautiful! Men loved her too much. Mums warded off an impending attack of hysterics which Marise had been longing to have, and would have enjoyed. She said that her girl's tears burned her heart. She kept Céline away and undressed Marise herself, with purrings and pettings as if the girl had been three instead of twenty-three.

Never was a bed so sweetly smoothed to the downiness of a swan's breast! The pillows were plumped almost with a prayer, that they might yield soft rest to the aching head. Finally, Marise – conscious of all Mums' guile, yet dreamily content with it – was tucked in between the scented sheets, her "nighty" put on by Mums; her long hair brushed and braided by Mums, as no French maid could ever braid or brush.

"Don't think of anything yet," the loving voice soothed. "Just bask, and let your poor old Mums watch over you. Forget you're grown up. Be Mummie's baby girl again."

Marise was not of a temperament to hold out against these charms and woven spells. She cuddled down in bed, and felt an angel child. When Mums herself brought in a tray containing a few exquisite little dishes, she ate, though she had expected – even intended – to starve herself for days. Then when one glass of iced champagne (she didn't touch wine twice a year) and a tiny cup of Turkish coffee had brightened her spirits, "poor old Mums" (looking thirty-five at most, and mild as a trained dove) brought cigarettes for both. After that, they drifted into talk of the future, rather than driving stormily into the teeth of it, like tempest-tossed leaves.

Mary confessed that, if she were in her daughter's place, it would be anguish to give up such a wonderful, gorgeous young man. And then, he was so handsome! No one could compare with him in looks. What eyes! They were pools of ink, on fire! She had never known what tragedy human eyes could express till she had gazed into those of Lord Severance to-day. They had frightened her! If she hadn't sent the man away with a grain of hope she believed that by this time he would be dead, his brains blown out. One didn't take such threats from most people seriously. But Tony was different. It was true, as he said; love was his life – love for this one dear girl. What Mums felt was, that she couldn't have resisted him, at her daughter's age. Few women could. Few women would!

By this time, Marise being ready for arguments, her mother engaged in a fencing match, at first with a button on her foil, then with the point gleaming bare. Boldly she talked of what Severance (enriched by his uncle and a dead wife's will) would have to offer. Was he, and all that would be his, to be thrown away for a scruple? A millionaire earl? A unique person?

About two a.m. Marise agreed to Mary's many-times-reiterated wish that she would "think things over"; and promptly fell into a sleep so sound that she looked like a beautiful dead girl.

Miss Marks was sent away next morning by Mrs. Sorel, because "My daughter has had a bad night, and mustn't be disturbed." It was not until eleven o'clock that Marise waked suddenly in her darkened room, as if a voice had called her name. She sat up in bed, dazed. Whose voice was it? Or was it only a voice in a dream? Thinking back, it came to her that she had been dreaming of John Garth – "Samson." With an "Oh!" that revolted against life as it must be lived, she flung herself down again, and remembered everything. For an hour her body lay motionless: but mind and soul moved far. When Mums tapped lightly at the door, and peeped in to inquire, "Do you feel like waking up, pet, and having me bring you a cup of delicious hot coffee? It's twelve o'clock!" she answered quietly, "Yes, I've been awake a long time. I'd love some coffee."

Mary brought it herself – and a covered plate of buttered toast. She asked no question except, "Is your head better, darling?" until pale, composed Marise had bathed, and been dressed with the aid of Céline. Then Mums chirped cheerfully, "Well, what are you going to do to-day? Anything important?"

"It may be important," said Marise. "I don't know yet – till I've talked with him. It depends on what he says. He may say nothing. He may just bash me over the head and stalk away. He'd be capable of that."

"What do you mean?" Mary implored. "Are you speaking of Tony?"

"Oh no! Of a very different man. Of Major Garth."

"Marise! What are you going to do?"

The girl turned from her dressing-table to face her mother. "What you've been goading me on, all last night, to do. What I shall be perfectly mad if I do do! Now, please, don't say any more – unless you want me to scream. I'm keeping myself calm. I'd better stay calm – till after."

Mary's breast heaved. She breathed back her emotions, as one checks a cough. "You – talk the way you sometimes do after a dress rehearsal!" she tried to laugh. "Before a big first night."

"That's the way I feel," said Marise. "Like before the biggest first night that ever was. Or before the Judgment Day."

She knew that John Garth was staying at the Belmore. She had seen that item in the papers – had seen it in the same day's papers which had informed Garth that Miss Sorel was an actress. The girl began a letter, but tore it up. Then she thought of the telephone. Two minutes later she heard Garth's voice: "Hello! who is this talking?"

"Marise Sorel – calling you from the Plaza. Can you come over?"

"Yes. When?"

"Now."

"I'll be there as soon as a taxi can bring me."

"Good!"

Yet she knew that it was far from good.

"The Spring Song! – The Spring Song!"

The name of Marise Sorel's play sang itself over and over in Garth's brain to wild, strange music, as the taxi flashed him to the Plaza; for there was spring in the air, in the bursting buds on the trees in the park – and in his breast. She must have changed her mind. She must mean to give him some hope, or she wouldn't have sent for him to come back. That would be too cruel – even for her, as he had thought her yesterday, when there was no spring, only winter in his heart and soul.

It was not till he had been rushed up in the lift, and a page-boy had knocked at the door, that the hope seemed too good to be true. Perhaps she merely wished to apologise for being rude? Yet – even that would be better than nothing. It was what he hadn't dared expect – being sent for again. He had resolved to see her in spite of herself, but she was making things easy. This time, not Céline, but Marise herself opened the door. The sight of her gave the man a shock of joy, though she hardly looked him in the face.

"You're very kind to be so prompt," she glossed over the surface of their emotions. "Come in. I – I've something special to say to you."

"So I judged," he helped her out.

"We shan't be disturbed by anyone to-day. I've arranged that."

"I'm glad."

She sat down with her back to the light and made him take a chair facing the window. He knew too little of women to realise that this was deliberate; but he noticed that she seemed more of a woman, less of a girl to-day. Perhaps, he thought, this was because she wore a black dress. It was filmy and becoming to her fairness; but it made her graver, more dignified. As for Marise, she liked his looks better this afternoon. He had not had time to "dress himself up"; and his morning suit of tweed was not objectionable. She remembered once arguing with Severance that the "Blighter" might be distinguished-looking, even handsome, if decently dressed. She was in a fair way to be proved right to-day, but she was in no mood for self-congratulation. The man's personality didn't matter in the least, she told herself. Yet she was subconsciously burning with curiosity concerning him.

"First of all – before we start on our real talk, I'd like to ask you a question," she began. "Did you send Miss Marks here, to – " ("to spy," she had almost said!) – "to try and get work as my secretary?"

"I did not," promptly replied Garth.

"But you knew her – before yesterday."

"I knew her out in Arizona, before the war. She'd written me since she was working at the Belmore. That was how I happened to think of going there before I went over to England in 1914. She's a good stenographer, and a good girl. Since I landed she's done a lot of letters for me, and done them very well."

"She's clever!" admitted Marise. "I asked, because I never quite understood now she happened to come here to see if I wanted a secretary. Besides, there's something in her manner – the way she looks at me – I hardly know what – but as if she had reasons of her own for being interested – "

"Perhaps she had. And perhaps it's my fault," Garth spoke out. "You see, I'd set my heart on sending you a few presents, something not just ordinary. It popped into my head to do that the day I landed. Reading about you in the papers gave me the idea. But it didn't seem easy, when it came to choosing. Miss Marks began work for me that same afternoon, for I had a heap of back correspondence, and I hate writing. I couldn't keep my mind on the dictation for wondering what I could send you, different from everything and better than anything. That's how I said to myself, 'Why not ask Zélie Marks what there is to buy in New York?' And that is what I did."

"I thought as much!" exclaimed Marise.

"But I didn't tell her about you. I didn't mention who the things were for. I just described the lady. I said, 'She's beautiful, with golden hair and blue eyes, and dark eyelashes and dazzling white skin. She's tall and slender, and I expect she's rich and has everything she wants. The things I'd like to give her must be so new she hasn't had time to want them yet, but so stunning she won't know how she lived without 'em.' Miss Marks hit on the right stunt from the first. Your name has never been spoken between us till yesterday, when we went out of this room together. I suppose you believe me, don't you?"

"Yes, I believe you," Marise grudged. "Miss Marks simply guessed. But I wonder how? Could she have seen your theatre tickets – seats for every performance of 'The Song'?"

"By George, yes! She may – must have done. I ordered them the first day at my hotel. They were in a bunch, tickets for three weeks, fastened with an elastic band, on the desk where she worked. I've got a private sitting-room, like a howling swell."

"So Miss Marks chose all those exquisite things!"

"She told me about 'em, and where to look. Then I went, and picked out in my mind's eye what I wanted. I always had a messenger-boy waiting in a taxi, and sent him in to buy, and pay on the spot, for fear someone else should jump in ahead. That kept up the mystery. I didn't care to have you find out at once that the things came from me. I was afraid it would queer the whole business for you."

"So it would!" Marise might have capped him. But she did not. Instead, she asked, "But surely you meant me to know sooner or later – or where would be the fun?"

"There was plenty of fun in sending the presents and knowing the secret myself," said Garth. "Silly, I guess! But there it was! And – I might as well tell you now – I did kind of hope you'd try to get at the truth, one way or another, just from pure devilment."

"You were right. I did! 'Just from pure devilment.' In the same way that Miss Marks got work with me. She must have been enjoying herself these days!"

"She's a nice girl," Garth defended the absent.

"Oh, I don't mean to discharge her. There's no reason why I should. She's useful to me. I shan't seem to know anything about this. But I wanted to ask you."

"I'm mighty pleased you did," said the man. "I'd have been – just what your friend calls me, if I'd sent her to get an engagement with you."

Colour stole into Marise's pale cheeks. She had been more interested in the subject of her secretary's connection with Garth than she had expected to be when bringing it up, and for a few minutes had actually forgotten the loathed burden on her heart.

"Let's say no more about Miss Marks!" the girl exclaimed. "My inviting you to call to-day had nothing to do with her. I only thought I'd – clear the air."

"Is it cleared now?" Garth wanted to know. "I hope it is. If not – "

"Oh, it is – quite!"

"Then you're ready to tell me the real thing you have to say?"

"Ye – es… Only I…" She paused. Her lips had gone so dry that she could hardly speak. Her brain felt dry, too – desiccated. She had not thought it would be like this. Stage-fright – the worst attack of stage-fright she could remember – had not been worse. Yet she cared little or nothing for this man's opinion, she reminded herself, except as it concerned the plan. "I – it's very difficult."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he offered eagerly.

Marise caught at his words. "That's just it! There's a very big thing you can do to help."

"You know I'll do it," Garth volunteered. "You know that, because there's nothing I wouldn't do. I told you so yesterday."

"If you hadn't, I should not have sent for you to-day."

"I wish you wanted me to kill somebody for you." (She guessed, by the fierce gleam in his eyes, what "body"!) "I'd go to 'the chair' singing."

"Oh!" she laughed feebly. "It's not as bad as that." (But wasn't it?) "You – you said several things here yesterday afternoon. One was, that you – "

"That I love you! Was that what you mean?"

"Yes."

"Well, it's the same to-day. Only more so."

"Even after – I'm afraid I was very selfish and thoughtless. I wasn't as nice to you as I ought to have been, after I'd got you to come, and – and – "

"You weren't nice to me at all," Garth gave her the truth bluntly. "I went away trying to hate you, but I didn't bring it off. Hate, if it starts from love, is a good deal like a boomerang, I guess. It comes back to what it was born from. And the friction stirs up the flame till it's hotter. Now, tell me that thing I can do for you. Because the quicker I hear what it is, the quicker I can set about it."

Marise threw up her head and drew in a long breath. She might have done the same if she had come, with a running jump, to the edge of a precipice.

"Would you – like to marry me?" she gasped.

The man bounded from his chair, and with a stride landed himself beside her. He had knocked over a smaller chair on the way, but this time he was untroubled by his clumsiness. He grabbed, rather than took, the girl's hand. She was afraid he would drop on his knees, and that would have been more than she could bear, because it was what Severance had done. But this stiff-backed soldier kept to his feet. He held her hand high, so high that the blood drained from it to her heart, and the little hand was white in his (save for the pink, polished nails) as a marble model. "You've changed your mind?" he asked hoarsely – because his mouth, too, was suddenly dry. "You know I love you more than any other man could. So you think, after all, you might grow to care?"

"It isn't that," she had to tell him. "I haven't – exactly – changed my mind. This hasn't anything to do with 'caring.' Only, if you do love me – as much as you say – you might be willing…" She could not finish. She felt his fingers suddenly tighten on hers, then loose them, as if he would dash her hand away. He did not do this. But, looking up, the girl saw that the man's face was scarlet. She even thought that a few beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead. What had she said to move him like that? "Why, she hadn't even begun!

"What is it?" she inquired. "What is it you think I mean?" Her eyes were large and innocent as a child's.

The blood ebbed slowly from the weathered face. "Whatever I thought, I don't think it now," he said harshly. "No one could, and look at you. Go on."

"But," she argued, "perhaps what you thought was right. I can't be sure, unless you tell me."

"I'd sooner die than tell you."

"Well, then I had better try and tell you what I do mean. After that you can see if your thought was the same. If so, and you feel it is so dreadful, you may go, and turn your back on me without another word."

"No, I wouldn't turn my back on you. Not even for that – now." The words left his lips heavily, like falling stones; and there was a strange look in his face. If it had come there in battle, it might have meant desperate courage which nothing could daunt and would have brought him a bar for his Victoria Cross. But being in a hotel salon, with no enemy present more dangerous than a beautiful young girl, it was only mulish.

"Would you want to marry me if I didn't love you one bit, and if we – didn't live together, except as friends? You and mother and I, all in the same house?"

He did not answer for a moment. Then he rapped out, "Do you need a husband to protect you – against some danger?"

Marise shook her head. "It isn't so romantic as that. No one is persecuting me. I – cared a little for somebody. I thought maybe he and I might be married. But things have altered with him. He has to marry a very rich girl. I haven't got money enough, it seems – although he loves me."

"The damned brute!" burst from Garth. (He knew who the "brute" was, well enough.)

"Don't call him that," Marise pleaded. "I understand how things are with him. But – "

"I suppose people have coupled your names. Good God, I'm thankful you sent for me! No one shall ever say he jilted you. It shall be the other way round. When will you marry me, girl?"

It was a new and piercing thought to Marise that, if Severance went home immediately and married his cousin, people would suppose she had been jilted. She, so sensitive to every breeze which blew praise or blame, ought to have realised that this would be the case.

Strange that it needed a blundering fellow like John Garth to point out the peril. The girl saw at once that it was a real one. She shrank from the prospect as from a lash. She could hear the "cats" who had already been "horrid" in England, and the cats awaiting their chance to be horrid in New York, mewing with joy over this creamy dish of scandal.