Vision House

She, Zélie Marks, wore comfortable delaine night-dresses at this time of year, and wadded kimonos. She respected herself for her economy and good sense. But she wished she were Miss Sorel!

"Miss Marks," said Marise, "can you keep a secret?"

Zélie smiled. "In my work, I have to keep a good many."

"I suppose you do! Well, will you keep one for me?"

"Certainly."

"That's a promise! Now – I shall surprise you very much."

Zélie smiled politely, and waited.

"I'm – going to be married."

"Pardon me, Miss Sorel," said Zélie, in rather a stilted, professional manner, "but that doesn't surprise me at all."

"You haven't heard the name of the man yet."

"No. You haven't told me that."

"You mean, you believe you've guessed?"

"I hope you don't think me presumptuous?"

"Of course not! Why should it be – such a long word? Guessing's free! But I wonder if you have guessed?"

Zélie allowed herself to look slightly bored. If Miss Sorel were going to be married, and leave for England, she wouldn't want a secretary long, so there was no need to grovel! "Do you wish me to try?" she asked primly.

"Yes."

"The Earl of Severance."

Marise had known she would say that, yet she blushed. "Lord Severance and I are quite old pals," she replied. "This is something much newer and more exciting! I'm going to marry your friend Major Garth."

There were few warmer-hearted girls, few who hated more to give pain, than Marise, yet as she spoke she fixed her eyes – minx-like, if not lynx-like – on the face of Miss Marks. Even when she saw it go pale – that greenish pallor of olive complexions – and then a dull, unbecoming red which gave the dark eyes a bloodshot effect, she wasn't conscious of repentance for what she had done. She had an odd, unpleasant feeling that Miss Marks had no right to turn pale and red about a man she was going to marry. So instead of softening, she went on, hard as nails.

"Don't forget it's a great secret. I want to spring a surprise on everyone. Will you please 'phone him – Major Garth – at the Belmore for me? I haven't got time now to call him myself. Just ask him to come round in three-quarters of an hour. I'll have had my coffee and be dressed by then, if I rush."

"Very well, Miss Sorel," agreed Zélie, controlling her voice. After which she added, "I hope you'll allow me to congratulate you."

Marise laughed a funny little laugh. "Thanks! But doesn't one 'wish joy' to the bride and 'congratulate' the bridegroom?"

By this time Zélie was at the telephone, but she turned, and her black eyes darted at Marise one small flame of the fire in her heart. "I wish you joy, of course," she said. "But I must congratulate you too, because I've known Ja – Major Garth since before the war, and I know what he is. He's great! If you lumped together most of the best men you've met, they wouldn't make one John Garth!"

"Ha ha! he is very big!" giggled Marise. "Quite an out-size."

Zélie could have boxed the ears under the delicious boudoir cap. They deserved to be boxed!

"His soul is big!" the older girl snapped. "I only hope you – I mean, there aren't many women capable of appreciating him. But, of course, you must be, or you wouldn't have succumbed to him so soon."

"Succumbed!" Marise flung back the word with just the least shrug of her shoulders. For an instant the two glared at each other, though "glare" is a melodramatic word which doesn't chime well with nicely-brought-up girls in the twentieth century. When Marise, as a child, had looked at anyone in that way, she called it "snorting with her eyes."

Now, it was only for a third of a second. Then Miss Marks applied herself to the telephone, and never had her neat back looked so square and business-like. There was no more time to waste upon useless repartees with a secretary, so Marise bolted to her own room.

She meant and wished to be dressed and fed in three-quarters of an hour, but never had she quite brought off that feat – at least, never since she'd become a successful star; and she didn't quite bring it off now. Her hair was being done when Mums tapped and entered upon the scene. She looked grave and rather worried, though she never actually frowned, for fear of wrinkles.

"That man Garth has come," she announced in a low voice. "What an hour for a call! Do you wish to see him?"

"I sent for him," Marise explained. "Didn't he tell you? Or haven't you spoken to him?"

"I have spoken to him, but he didn't tell me," said Mary Sorel. "I came into the salon, and there he was with Miss Marks. I was never so surprised in my life!"

"I don't see why, as you know perfectly well I'm going to marry him," returned Marise. "Oh, Céline! you've dug a hairpin about an inch into my head! Now mind, whatever you hear us say must go no further."

"But certainly not, Mademoiselle," vowed Céline, who spoke excellent English, though the two ladies loved proudly to air their French for her benefit. "It is indeed true that Mademoiselle will marry this Monsieur American?"

"It is indeed true," Marise repeated drily.

"It won't take place – I mean the wedding – for some time, however," Mrs. Sorel hurried to add.

Marise said nothing, but looked suddenly as mulish as a beautiful girl can look. She had been wondering whether or no to confide in Mums what was in her mind, and see what Mums would say and think about it. But on the instant she decided "No." She knew beforehand what Mums would think and say. Everything would be from Tony's point of view. Mums was obsessed with the wonder and majesty and glory of the great – soon to be the rich – Lord Severance! The news should be sprung on Mums at the last moment, when everything was "fixed up."

Meanwhile, Zélie was snatching a few words with Garth – not the words she wanted personally to speak, but as nearly those as she dared.

"Jack Garth!" she whispered, "Miss Sorel told me just now you and she are going to be married. She wasn't joking?"

"I hope not," said Garth steadily, "because I'd be – rather cut up if I thought it was a joke."

"Listen, Jack," Zélie hurried on. "We're pals – we've been pals for a long time. I want you to be happy. I'd do a whole lot to make you happy. So you've just got to forgive me if I say… Do you know what you're doing? Can you be happy? That girl – I mean, Miss Sorel – doesn't love you any more than she does me. And that isn't a little bit!"

"I love her," said Garth. "I don't care a damn whether I'm happy or not."

"Oh! Then it's all right. Of course, I suppose you know your own business. Still – Jack – I can't help feeling there's something queer – some sort of mystery. Don't let yourself be deceived."

"I'm not being deceived."

"I hope not, I'm sure. But – oh, do forgive me! – it's Lord Severance she loves."

"Then the sooner she unloves him the better it will be all around."

"I know you think I'm a meddler. But remember we're friends. Remember Mothereen told me to be your friend, Jack. Those two Sorel women think Severance the perfect beau ideal of a man. They look upon you – oh, I can't say it!"

"You needn't," Garth drily assured her; "I'm a cad; a bounder; a lout."

"The beasts! I hate them both!" Zélie gasped. "They're not worthy to black your boots."

"I mostly wear brown ones," said Garth.

"You're right to snub me. I won't say any more. You must go your own way, and I hope – I hope with all my heart" (Zélie choked a little) "you'll never regret it. But just this one thing let me beg you to do. Whatever they're up to, don't give them the chance to despise you. I mean, in little things. They can't in big! I saw the way they looked at – at your clothes Sunday afternoon, Jack. I could have thrown something at them! – not the clothes, but the Sorels – and Severance, the conceited Greek snob! But the clothes weren't right, boy. They didn't do you justice. They had a sort of 'Sunday-go-to-meeting' look: kind of smug! And your gloves and shoes just the wrong yellow! For heaven's sake don't lose a minute in going to a good tailor if you don't want your life to be a hell!"

Garth laughed out, a hard, spasmodic laugh; and at that instant Marise came in.

CHAPTER XIV

MARISE PUTS ON BLACK

A girl in love with one man, flinging herself at the head of another out of pique or something worse, should have been utterly careless how she appeared to the eyes of the latter. But for some reason – she hardly knew what – Marise had been anxious to look her most desirable. She was dressed in black velvet with shimmering fringes, and a drooping black velvet hat which made her fairness dazzling, her yellowish-brown hair bright gold.

With a faint smile, and in silence, she held out her hand. Garth took it, and this time didn't crush it unduly.

Zélie, who had risen as Garth rose, began pinning on her toque, but Marise turned to her. "Don't go, Miss Marks," she said. "I've told you the secret, and maybe we shall need your help about something. I don't want my mother here till everything's arranged. It doesn't matter about you."

Zélie slowly took out a hatpin. Oh no, it didn't matter about her! She laid the toque down again, but drew a chair to the typewriter table, her back turned to the man and the girl. She could, if she glanced up from her papers, however, see them both in a mirror. She tried not to glance up, but she succeeded about half as often as she failed. The look on Garth's face hurt a great deal worse than the hatpin had done when just now she had jammed the point of it into her head. Oh, it was ridiculous – or heartbreaking – the way some men loved the wrong girls!

"I've been thinking in the night," said Marise in a brisk, cheerful tone, "what fun for us – since we are to be married – to get married at once and give everyone we know the surprise of their young lives!.. What do you say?"

Garth had not expected this at all. In fact, when he'd been sent for at a very early hour, he expected to hear that Marise had "changed her mind." It was easy for her to ask "what he said," knowing that he could say only commonplaces before Zélie Marks; and he believed that Zélie had been invited to remain in the room for precisely this reason.

"I say, 'Great!'" He rose to the occasion, with the memory of Zélie's words and his own drumming through his head. "They despise you. Cad: bounder: lout!" "That's nice of you! – very!" cooed Marise, noticing how his jaw squared, and feeling the tide of her curiosity rise. (Was it love? Or was it the million?) "Well then, we'll just do the deed! How long does it take to get licenses and things?"

Garth kept himself firmly in hand. "Only as long as it takes to buy the license and notify a parson."

"That's what I hoped," said Marise. "I felt sure it was different here from England."

"Shall we – that is, would you care" – (Garth's mouth was dry) – "would you care to be married to-day?"

"Yes," the girl flashed back, "I would care to, if that suits you. Because, you see, I want it to be done and over before —anybody knows. Except my mother, of course. She won't like the idea one bit. But I'll make her come round."

"I see," said Garth. And he did see. He saw very clearly. But he could not understand, all in a moment like this, why she wanted to marry him without letting Severance know beforehand. It didn't seem, just on the face of it, a good sign for Severance. Still, he couldn't be sure. Women were supposed to be very subtle, and he'd never had much time even to try and analyse the strange creatures. Except Mothereen (he'd named her that because she was Irish), the little old woman who'd given him the only mothering he remembered, Garth had never got very near any woman's mentality. He braced himself, and asked, "How soon can you be ready?"

"In an hour – in less than an hour. As soon as I've told Mums," Marise spoke quickly and thickly, over a beating heart. Each moment excited her more and more. She felt herself the heroine of a thrilling drama – a drama where she had to play the star part without any rehearsals, and without ever having read further than the first scene of the first act. It might be a drama of "stunts," too – as the movie people said: dangerous stunts, where she might have to walk a tightrope with a deep drop underneath. But she wasn't afraid. She would not have thrown over the part now if some other easier one with the same ending had offered. She didn't recognise herself as she was to-day. But she did not care. It was all Tony's fault. Or perhaps a little Mums' fault too.

"And afterwards?" she heard Garth quietly asking.

"Oh!.. Well, the first thing is the fun of surprising everyone. After that – well, I haven't exactly thought yet."

"You had better think," he said. "Much better."

Marise glanced at the back of Zélie's head, then met Miss Marks's eyes in the mirror.

"We'll talk it over presently with Mums. She's so wise– and always knows how to do the right thing." The "correct thing" would have been more apt an expression, but Marise wasn't thinking of the fine shades. She was thinking just then more of Zélie; and the thought of Zélie made her blush, she didn't quite see why!

"Miss Marks," she said, "I may want you by and by to take down several notes for me, letters to some of my most intimate friends, to be sent after – after the wedding. But at this particular instant I fancy there's nothing more for you to do, except – oh yes, do be very nice, and run down to the mail counter, or wherever in the hotel you can buy stamps."

As these instructions were being given, Zélie pencilled with incredible quickness a few words on a scrap of paper. This scrap she tucked up her sleeve, and a second or two later, as Garth opened the door for her to go out, she contrived to slip the paper into the hand on the knob.

"Now I'll call Mums," cried Marise, fearing to risk such a moment alone with this unclassified wild animal, soon to become her dummy husband. "Mums is not pleased, because I said I wanted a few words with you before she came in – though she'd be much crosser if she knew I'd let Miss Marks stay. You'll back me up with her, won't you, that my plan —ours, I mean – is the best?"

"I think," said Garth, "you don't need much backing from me with your mother, though if you do, I'll give it as well as I know how. But wait a second before she comes. I have a superstition. I ask that you won't be married in black."

"Oh! But I chose this dress on purpose!" The words escaped before she'd stopped to think.

Garth didn't flush. He was past that. He needed all his blood at his heart. "I supposed you did," he said. "All the same, don't wear it."

"But it's such a pretty dress – and hat. They're new. I like them – better than anything I've got."

"For this occasion! I understand."

"Are you – being sarcastic?" Marise hesitated.

"No-o. Only sincere. Why did you want to wear black to be married – to me?"

"I – don't know." She stammered a little.

"Well then, if you don't know, change to another colour."

"Oh, I'm quite willing to do that if you make a point of it!"

The man's manner was so different from the other day, that Marise was less sure of his motives in taking her at the price. He spoke shortly and sharply now, like a military martinet, she decided. But he wasn't exactly "common." He wasn't even ordinary.

Her last words were at the door of her own room, and she whisked through, to find her mother. She thought how she should break the news. And she thought, also, what she should wear in place of the black dress. Should she put on grey – or heliotrope – "second mourning"? She would have liked to try this trick upon Garth. But the man was capable of making her take off one thing after the other, on pain of not being married to-day – which meant, not spiting Severance.

Mrs. Sorel was flabbergasted.

She would not have used such a vulgar expression herself; but that is what she was.

She argued, she warned, she scolded, she besought. Severance would be furious. It would be a blow which his love might not survive. Tony had not dreamed of this marriage taking place with such – indecent haste!

"If you say much more it won't take place at all!" shrilled Marise, on the verge of hysterics, which (Mums knew from bitter experience) her twentieth-century child was not at all above having when thwarted, just like an early Edwardian.

While Marise was away, Garth opened the folded scrap of paper that Zélie Marks had slipped into his hand, and read the line she had pencilled.

"For goodness' sake don't be married in those awful best clothes of yours that you wore Sunday. Put on the uniform of the Guards, and look a regular man."

He was in no mood for laughing, yet he grinned. "And look a regular man!" … Girls were queer. As if it would matter to Marise what he wore! But – well, hang it, why shouldn't he make her notice him? She would do that if he turned up in uniform. And wasn't that what he wished to look in her eyes, "A regular man"?

He'd made up his mind to take Zélie's tip, when suddenly he remembered that Marise and he would not be married in church. They'd walk into some parson's parlour, and the knot would be tied there. He couldn't get into his uniform for a home-made affair like that.

Garth had gone no further than this when Marise came back, chaperoned by Mums.

"My mother makes one stipulation," the girl announced. "That the wedding shall be in a church. She's picked up English ideas, and thinks anything else 'hardly respectable.' Though I should have thought for that reason it would be more appropriate! However, I don't care. Do you?"

"Not a da – not a red cent," said Garth.

Two minutes later he had gone to buy a marriage license, engage the services of a clergyman – and a church.

Marise changed her dress. She would not wear white, like a real bride. That would be sacrilege, she said; and compromised by putting on her favourite blue. But it was the oldest dress she owned; and she had intended giving it to Céline.

The girl wished she were pale. But that could be arranged. And she was arranging it with powder when the bell of the telephone rang.

Mums flew to the instrument, tearfully drawing on her gloves.

Garth had called up, to give the name of the church and the hour fixed for the wedding. They must start at once.

CHAPTER XV

THE CHURCH DOOR

Céline was a fervent admirer of Lord Severance. Half Greek, she had heard him called. To her he was wholly Greek: a Greek god. Indeed, he was miles handsomer than "cet Apollon en marbre" adorning a pedestal in the salon, which statue she tried to drape tastefully with climbing flowers each morning. His lordship's nose was much the same as Apollo's; so was his proud air of owning the world and not caring particularly about it: and to Céline's idea he had more to be proud of than a mere god who went naked.

Gods had no pockets, and Lord Severance had many, beautifully flat yet containing banknotes with which he was generous when nobody looked. Since she could not marry him, Céline wanted Mademoiselle to do so, for Mademoiselle was her alter ego. She shared Mademoiselle's glory and her dresses. She wished to be maid to a countess – a chic countess, as the wife of Milord Severance would be. It was desolating that Mademoiselle should throw everything over because of a silly quarrel (it must be a quarrel!) and fling herself away on a gawky giant whose clothes might have been made by a butcher!

Yes, it was easy to see that there had been an upheaval of some sort. Mademoiselle was not the same since Sunday afternoon, when this huge personage had arrived by appointment, and Céline had recalled seeing him on shipboard. To be sure, Milord had come in later, and outstayed the Monsieur. But it was then the quarrel must have occurred, for Mademoiselle had been in a state unequalled even after the most trying dress rehearsals. Oh, it was a mystery – a mystery of the deepest blackness!

Céline moaned aloud, with a bleating noise, and gabbled argot as she tidied the belongings which Mademoiselle had flung everywhere.

"If I should call up Milord, how would that be?" she asked herself, and rushed to the 'phone.

Severance, as it happened, had been on the point of telephoning Mrs. Sorel, not daring to attempt direct communication with Marise. He had bad news and good news to give. The bad was that he must sail for England sooner than expected, in fact, on the following day, or perhaps not get a cabin for weeks.

The good news was that a friend had offered to lend him a wonderful house near Los Angeles for the next few months. He had spoken to a certain Lady Fytche (née Adêla Moyle, of California) about his marriage, and bringing Œnone across for her health. Whereupon Adêla (who was at his hotel, and sailing on his ship) said, "I'd love to lend you Bell Towers. The house is standing empty, and you know it's rather nice."

Severance did know, for Bell Towers was a famous place, illustrated in magazines; and if Adêla Moyle had been prettier, it might have become his own before she fell back – figuratively speaking – upon a baronet.

If Marise would give up the stage (he couldn't bear to leave her behind the footlights in New York, admired, interviewed, gossipped about by Tom, Dick and Harry!), he'd lend Bell Towers to Mrs. Sorel, and the girl could vanish from public view till time for her farcical marriage and his own return. If his uncle could be told by himself and the newspapers that Miss Sorel was engaged to Major Garth, it would be enough to cool the old boy's suspicions.

Then, as Tony's hand was stretched out for the receiver, came a ring at the telephone.

"The dentist!" he thought. For he had had to ask for a second appointment because of that loosened tooth, and was to be called up. It came as a surprise, therefore, to hear Céline's voice.

He could hardly believe the news which the French maid gave him. Marise wouldn't do such a thing! There must be a mistake, he told Céline. Or it was a clumsy joke.

"Milord, c'est la verité," came the answer. "Milord need not take my word. Let him go to the church. Milord may yet be in time. But he must make haste. It is a long way. I heard Madame telephone and talk."

"I will go – I'll do my best," Severance answered, to put the woman off. But – what could he do? What was his "best"?

Céline knew nothing of the secret pact. She judged from what she had overheard, and he could not explain that he didn't see his way to stop the marriage.

The more he thought, the more clear it became that this sudden move by Marise was a caprice to spite him – to "hoist him from his own petard." Severance could almost hear the girl defend herself. "You ought to be pleased that I took you at your word, before you went away. Otherwise I might have changed my mind about the whole thing!"

She was sure to say this, and even if he reached the church in time he wouldn't dare stop the business when it had gone so far. That devil Garth had a beast of a temper; and a fellow can't at the same moment see red, and which side his bread is buttered!

Severance hated Garth venomously since the episode at the Belmore. But the brute was a hero in the States, and would pass in the public eye as a reasonable husband for Marise Sorel.

Nobody who didn't know the ugly truth would say, "How could that beautiful girl throw herself away on that worm?"

Whatever Garth was, he wasn't a worm. Though he had apparently made no bones of accepting a million-dollar bribe, deep within his subconscious self Severance didn't believe that the million was the lure. Garth was in love with the girl, in his loutish way. Perhaps, even, he might hope to win some affection from her in return. Tony felt that he need wish the fool no worse than an attempt to "try it on"!

Force, Severance did not fear. Marise was no flapper. She had her eyes open. She'd know how to handle a man in Garth's position. Besides, Mums would be at her side, a pillar of strength. Tony even felt that in some ways Garth was ideal for the part he had to play. Marise would always contrast him unfavourably with the man she loved. And hating Garth, he – Severance – could enjoy the tortures which the paid dummy was doomed to suffer.