Part 70

“Humph!” said the old lady thoughtfully. “Stella here?”

“No--only the girl.”

“Humph!” said the old lady again, and was silent.

She remembered Stella very well--a cousin of Madeline’s, a pale, silent girl, mulishly obstinate, who had taken a fancy to a man against whom all her family and her friends had warned her. She had been bent upon marrying him, had married him, and had vanished into a forlorn limbo.

“And that’s her child,” observed old Mrs. Marriott. “A saucy chit, I should call her!”

“Mother!” said a voice beside Madeline, and she looked up to see Joyce’s husband.

It was the first time he had ever called her that, and in her heart she winced at the word on his lips. It was hard for him to say it--she could see that. His honest young face had flushed, and his voice was not very steady. He was a little in awe of the grave and quiet Mrs. Holland, and yet he was doggedly determined to say what he wanted to say.

“I’ll--I’ll do my best,” he said. “She’s so fond of you, and she’s always been so happy with you, but I--I’ll try to make her happy. I’ll--”

Mrs. Holland held out her hand, and he seized it in a nervous grasp.

“There’s no reason in the world why you shouldn’t both be very happy, dear boy,” she said earnestly. “You’re both--”

She stopped, because Joyce had come. The last minute was here. She looked at her daughter, but that beloved and wonderful face swam in a haze before her.

“Mother!” cried Joyce. “Oh, mother!”

She threw her arms about her mother, and for a moment they clung to each other, forgetting everything else in the world. Mrs. Holland felt her child’s tears warm on her cheek, felt the poor, eager young heart beat against her own. This was the last moment--and she could endure it. Shaken by a tenderness that was anguish, she could think quite clearly, could tell herself that her feeling was wrong, could detach herself from those clinging arms.

“This will never do!” she cried. “We mustn’t be so silly, must we?”

Her steady, smiling eyes were fixed upon her child. There was not the faintest shadow on her face, not the least tremor in her voice. There was nothing in her heart but the one passionate wish that Joyce should go away untroubled and happy, to begin her new life.

For a moment Joyce wavered, ready to fly once more into those faithful arms. Then, with a laugh that was half a sob, she gave her mother one more kiss--and was gone.

Mrs. Holland went out with the others and stood on the top step in a cheerful, excited group. As Joyce leaned out of the car, her mother had a last glimpse of her face, her eyes soft with tears, a trembling smile on her lips. Then the car started. Everything was over. Joyce was gone.

IV

The front door had closed after the last of the guests. Mrs. Holland stood in the hall for a long moment, staring blankly at the closed door, and turned toward the stairs. The caterer’s men were busy in the dining room. She stopped to look at them, glad that they were here, glad of any bustle or stir that postponed the hour when ordinary daily life should begin. After all, Joyce’s going away was not the intolerable moment. That would come when she would have to take up her life without Joyce.

At the foot of the stairs she met Hilda.

“Go up in the sewing room, ma’am,” said Hilda in a stern, almost threatening voice. “I’ll bring you up a nice hot cup of tea. You never ate a mouthful of all that fancy stuff, and you need something.”

“I really should like a cup of tea,” Mrs. Holland replied gratefully.

She climbed the stairs slowly, not because she was weary, but because there was so much time before her. The door of the sewing room was open, and Hilda had drawn up a chair to the folding table. It looked comfortable there in the ugly, familiar little room, with the sun pouring in across the faded carpet. As she went in, she saw a pin on the floor, glinting silvery bright in the sun’s path, and she stooped to pick it up.

“See a pin and pick it up, and all the day you’ll have good luck”--that was what Miss Brown, the dressmaker, used to say to Joyce, and Joyce, as a tiny girl, used to trot about the room, her head bent, her hair falling over her eyes, earnestly looking for pins.

Mrs. Holland smiled, remembering a shocking episode. She had promised the child five cents a dozen for all the pins she picked up, and so many, many dozens had been recovered from the floor that day--an abnormal quantity. Before she went to sleep that night, Joyce had confessed her crime. She had secretly emptied Miss Brown’s papers of pins upon the floor. Poor, contrite little Joyce!

Over in the corner stood a dress form--a pompous thing with a marvelously rounded figure. “Aunt Sarah,” Joyce used to call it, very disrespectfully. Only yesterday a skirt of Joyce’s had hung on it. No Joyce now, no more of her laughter, no more of her dear voice!

A heavy and deliberate tread was coming along the hall. It was Frank. Madeline did not want to talk to him, or to any one, just then, but of course he would come. Whenever he was at home in the daytime, away from his beloved office, he was always a little forlorn, inclined to follow her about from room to room.

“Hello!” he said from the doorway. “So here you are, eh? Resting?”

“Come in, Frank,” she invited. “Hilda’s going to bring up tea.”

“Tea!” he repeated, with his big, hearty laugh. “Why, my dear girl, I’m full of _pâté de foie gras_, and lobster salad, and _café parfait_, and all the rest of it! Caterer did pretty well, don’t you think?”

He came in and sat down in a queer, old-fashioned rocking-chair, with an antimacassar tied to its back with faded ribbons. Such an incongruous figure he was in a sewing room, this big, handsome man in his morning coat, with spats, and a white gardenia in his buttonhole! He was smoking a cigar, and was enjoying it. He crossed his legs and leaned back, and Mrs. Holland smiled at the sight of the scarlet ribbons of the antimacassar peeping coyly over his broad shoulder.

He was glad to see her smile.

“That’s the idea!” he said. “Thing is, not to mope. First day or two--pretty hard, without the little girl. Thing is, to distract your mind. It’s early. Plenty of time for a matinée. I’ll telephone for a couple of seats at the Palace. You drink your tea and then get your hat on. That’s right, Hilda! Tea--that’s what Mrs. Holland needs!”

But Hilda was not responsive to his good humor just now. Her eyes and nose were red, and her blunt face wore an expression of angry defiance. She poured out a cup of tea and set it before Mrs. Holland in stony silence. She was suffering, this faithful heart, and it was her own grief that she defied. She had loved Joyce so, and she missed her so greatly!

Holland watched his wife in silence for a time.

“By the way,” he said, “that Johnson girl, you know--”

Mrs. Holland glanced up, in nowise deceived by his casual tone.

“Who? Stella’s daughter?”

“Yes. Er--pathetic case, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know much about her,” replied Mrs. Holland dryly.

“Well, it seems to me--I was talking to her--as far as I can see, a very pathetic case.”

He paused, and Mrs. Holland regarded him with a faint smile. His manner was apologetic, but he was pleased with himself. His hand was raised to his mustache, and he was looking down at the floor with a modest air.

“Thing is,” he went on, “she wants to be a musician. She’s studied, but--present circumstances--family had to sell their piano last month. That’s pretty hard, isn’t it, my dear?”

“Oh, very,” murmured Mrs. Holland.

“She said that when she saw the piano here, she couldn’t keep her hands off it. That’s hard luck, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.”

Again he paused for some time.

“I’m afraid,” he said, “that I--well, that perhaps you won’t approve--”

“Why? What did you do?”

“On the spur of the moment, my dear--”

“What was it, Frank?” Madeline demanded, with a trace of impatience.

“Well,” he said, “I told her--said she could come here and practice--arrange with you--when it wouldn’t bother you.”

“What?” she cried. “You--”

Then she stopped short, because of the look she saw on his face--a little guilty, but pleased.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t like it,” he said.

If she said she didn’t like it, he would be still more pleased. He would think she was jealous.

“I don’t mind at all, Frank,” she told him pleasantly.

“Oh!” said he, somewhat taken aback. “Very good of you, my dear!” He rose and went toward the door. “As long as we’re going out this afternoon,” he added, “why not--well, why not let her begin to-day, eh?”

Mrs. Holland had also risen.

“I suppose you told her she could come this afternoon?”

Frank was not very happy now.

“Simply mentioned that we’d be out, and that--well, I didn’t think her practicing would bother any one, you see.”

“Yes--I see!” said Mrs. Holland.

He lingered in the doorway, as if there were something else he wanted to say; but whatever it may have been, he decided against voicing it.

“Then you’ll get on your bonnet and shawl, eh?” he suggested.

She smiled affably, and off he went.

Mrs. Holland sat very still, listening to his footsteps going down the hall. Her heart was filled with anger.

“On his own daughter’s wedding day!” she thought. “A girl younger than Joyce--a silly, artful little thing like that! Of course, she’s laughing at him. Very well--let her! I shan’t try to stop him. He can make himself just as ridiculous as he likes!”

She poured herself another cup of tea, and ate the toast that Hilda had brought with her. Anger had given her an appetite and a sort of energy. Mope? Not she!

As she went to dress, she passed the closed door of Joyce’s room, with only a strange little qualm that was like the warning of a neuralgic pain. Later would come the moment for the full realization of her loss. Just now she had an important task to perform. She had to dress so that she would look her best. She had to appear before Frank in the most nonchalant and pleasant humor. She had to show him that she wasn’t at all angry, and didn’t care in the least how absurd he was about poor Stella’s daughter.

She succeeded. That is, she was so very, very polite and casual that Frank was somewhat dismayed. His intention had been to cheer her up, and she gave him no chance for that. She never mentioned Joyce, she never once looked downcast, but kept her eyes fixed upon the stage, showing a lively interest even in the trained poodles.

He was in nowise deluded by all this. He knew that she was angry, and she could tell that he knew it by his anxious sidelong glances.

V

“See here, old girl!” he said, as they drew near the house. “Suppose we stay out for dinner? Eh?”

“I’d rather go home, thank you, Frank.”

He sighed.

“Well,” he said, “we’ve got to go some time, of course; but it’s--Madeline!” There was a note in his voice that she had never heard before--an almost panic-stricken appeal. “Madeline!” he repeated. “I hate the thought of going back. She--I can’t realize it. She seemed such a child to me--such a--” He turned away his head. “Only hope the boy’ll turn out well,” he added gruffly.

They walked on in silence. When at last he spoke again, it was in his usual vague, good-humored way. He had recovered himself; yet Mrs. Holland was not glad. There was a strange little ache of regret in her heart, as if she had missed some irrecoverable opportunity. She wanted to speak, but the moment had passed. He did not need comfort from her now, that was evident.

* * * * *

Hilda opened the door for them, and her face was not pleasant.

“There’s a young lady here, ma’am,” she said, “playin’ the pianner.”

That hardly needed saying, for all the house seemed filled with it--with the austere beauty of a Bach fugue, played with a noble and honest simplicity. It was music like a benediction upon a home. The hall was dim, but through the window on the landing came the glow of sunset. A pool of light lay upon the wine-red carpet; and that glow and color, and the music, were strangely and gravely exalting. The old house had found a voice for its loss--not sorrowful, not weary, but proclaiming a strong, sure hope.

Madeline Holland moved quietly to the doorway, and looked into the drawing-room. No sunset light was there. The long room was shadowy and without color, the roses set about were ghostly white, and their perfume was like a haunting thing. The little figure at the piano was only a shadow, too, with her head thrown back, her profile clear, pale, expressionless.

Mrs. Holland was strangely stirred. She turned toward her husband. The light was too dim for her to see his face clearly, but in the merciful dusk his features had their old romantic quality. He was staring straight before him, motionless as a statue. She stretched out her hand to touch his arm, to recall him from his distant world to herself, when just at that moment he moved abruptly, pressed the switch, and filled the room with light from the chandelier in the ceiling.

The spell was broken. The girl spun around on the stool, sprang up, and came toward Madeline.

“Oh, Mrs. Hol-land!” she cried in her drawling little voice. “I’m afraid I bothered you!”

Yes, the spell was broken now. There was no music in the big, bright room. The rapt young St. Cecilia was only Stella’s daughter, vain, insincere, coquettish.

“Not at all,” said Madeline.

Her tone might have warned the most impervious, but Stella’s daughter was not in the habit of noticing warnings. Instead, she looked at Frank, smiling up into his face; and Mrs. Holland saw his hand go up to his mustache.

“Ask Miss Johnson to play something else for you, Frank,” she suggested.

He did, and she consented archly. She went back to the piano, and he sat down near her.

“Fine technique!” he observed gravely.

Frank talking about “technique!” Frank sitting there, quite unable to conceal his satisfaction in this flattering attention! The girl glanced at him sidelong, dropped her eyes, and bent her head.

“What would you like, Mr. Hol-land?” she asked, timidly.

“Oh--er--anything--anything,” he replied. “Er--what about something operatic? Wagner, eh?”

“Oh, how can he be so idiotic?” thought Madeline. “She’s laughing at him!”

As the girl began to play again, Mrs. Holland went out of the room. It was Rubinstein’s “Melody in F,” but Frank wouldn’t know the difference. He would recognize it as something familiar and “classical,” and would be impressed; but the girl would know. She was laughing at Frank!

For the first time in many years Mrs. Holland felt a desire to bang doors. It would be a positive satisfaction to slam the drawing-room door, and then to go upstairs and slam her own door and lock it. She had done that once, long, long ago. Frank had come running up after her, and had stood outside in the hall, angry himself, but very miserable, and secretly frightened by her obstinate silence. They had “made it up” soon enough in a silly, beautiful, generous young way, each of them insisting on taking all the blame; but of course she wasn’t a foolish, headstrong young thing like that any more. If Frank liked to make himself ridiculous, he was quite at liberty to do so.

At the foot of the stairs she paused, and decided that before going to her room she would see the cook. For the last two mornings the oatmeal had been much too thin, and a tactful remonstrance was needed. She turned back. As she did so, the music stopped, and she could hear their voices in the drawing-room. She could not help hearing.

“Oh, Mr. Hol-land! You look so tired!”

“Well--”

“I’m so sorry for you! It must be awfully sad for you, your daughter getting married, and all!”

“Well--” said Frank again, in the same indulgent tone.

Mrs. Holland went on down the stairs to the basement, so angry that her knees trembled. Frank was delighted with that silly girl’s impertinent pretense of sympathy, charmed by her sidelong glances and her self-conscious smiles!

“It’s his vanity,” she thought. “He’s always been like that. Any one could flatter him.”

There was no denying that Frank liked flattery. In his younger days he used to come home and tell her, in the most artless way, of the various compliments he had received. He didn’t do that now, for he was older and wiser; but that didn’t mean that he got no more compliments, or that he had ceased to relish them. He was a remarkably likable fellow. If this girl so brazenly pursued him the first time she met him, there were probably others--

This was so arresting a thought that Madeline stopped halfway down the stairs. After all, how little she knew of Frank’s life outside his home! They were old-fashioned people. He seldom mentioned business affairs to his wife. That was his province, and the home was hers. There was a wall between them--a high wall.

It hadn’t been like that at first. She could remember very well the time when Frank used to talk to her about his business, when she had known the names of all his most important customers and had taken an anxious interest in all his “big deals,” even reading the market reports. Of course, when Joyce was born, everything had changed. She had been absorbed in her baby. That was natural and right, wasn’t it?

But perhaps Frank hadn’t changed when Madeline did. She began to remember more and more of him in those early days. Here, up and down these very stairs, he used to tramp, carrying the tiny Joyce on his shoulders, both of them filling the house with their laughter. In that basement dining room how many makeshift meals he had eaten, so cheerfully, because she and Hilda were both busy with the baby! He had always been so good-tempered about being put aside, so glad and willing to help, so interested in every detail about the marvelous baby!

She had depended upon Frank very much in those days. Then, as she grew older and more competent, she had needed him less and less, and he had been shut out of such domestic concerns. That was right, wasn’t it? A man ought not to be bothered by household matters. He had his work, and she had hers.

“But Joyce belonged to both of us,” she thought. “He always loved her so! He misses her, too.”

A great fear seized her. Frank missed Joyce. He was lonely, and in the moment of his loneliness this pretty young creature had appeared, to flatter and interest him. He was middle-aged and lonely, and Stella’s daughter was so pretty! Suppose this wasn’t a ridiculous and exasperating episode, but a serious thing? Suppose she _lost_ Frank?

“I won’t!” she cried. “I’ll send that girl away! I’ll never let her come here again!”

That was stupid. She couldn’t keep Frank in a glass case. Even if this girl were gone, there were plenty of others in the world, pretty, cajoling, flattering young creatures.

“I’m not young any more,” she thought. “I’m old--old and selfish and dull--a hundred years older in heart than Frank. He’s still a boy. He always will be. If he likes to be flattered, it’s because he’s young enough to believe in people.”

Mechanically, moved by a blind impulse to hurry to Frank, she had mounted the stairs again, and had come to the door of the drawing-room.

“You’re so understanding!” Stella’s daughter was saying.

Mrs. Holland stopped in the dimly lit hall and looked into the room. The girl was sitting on the piano stool, her hands clasped in her lap, her pretty head bent. Frank stood beside her.

“Must be pretty hard for you,” he said gravely.

The girl looked up at him, and her eyes were filled with tears.

“You’re just the k-kindest man!” she murmured uncertainly.

Flattery? Why need it be that? Wasn’t it possible that she really liked Frank, and that he liked her? Oh, how young she was, and how pretty!

All through this long, long day Mrs. Holland had borne herself gallantly, with pride and with fortitude; but they both failed her now. She leaned against the wall and covered her eyes with her hand, shaken by a dreadful weakness and pain.

“I’m old,” she thought. “I’m old and selfish. I’ve shut Frank out. I haven’t appreciated him--and now I’ve lost him. It’s my own fault!”

A door opened in the basement, and she heard Hilda’s tread on the stairs. Hilda mustn’t see her like this! She was about to go upstairs to her own room when it occurred to her that Hilda might think that was “queer,” so she went into the drawing-room instead.

Frank came a few steps toward her, with his vague smile, but the girl did not rise. She looked at Mrs. Holland with a sort of defiance.

“She’s old!” thought Stella’s child. “There’s gray in her hair, and there are lines around her eyes. She never laughs; and he’s so jolly--much too nice for her!”

“She’s young,” thought Mrs. Holland. “So young, so pretty--and her music is magic!”

They looked and looked at each other, these two.

“Well, old girl!” said Frank.

Mrs. Holland turned, startled by his tone; and the sight of his face filled her with an intolerable emotion. All the old tenderness there, all the old kindliness and loyalty, not changed, not lost.

“Frank!” she cried.

“Tired, eh?” said he. “Well, sit down, my dear--sit down! Hard day, eh?”

“No,” she said; “a beautiful, a very wonderful day!”

“That’s the way to look at it,” he replied approvingly. “That’s the spirit, eh?”

Stella’s daughter had risen now, and was looking at Holland with angry eyes and a trembling lip. He had forgotten all about _her_, just because Mrs. Holland had come in! The way he looked at his wife, as if he didn’t even know that there were lines around her eyes and gray in her hair! The way she looked at him, as if she were so proudly and gratefully sure of him and of herself!

“I’m going home!” the girl announced vehemently.

They both turned toward her, a little surprised, so that she felt like an ill mannered child; and indeed she was a child, with only a child’s crude weapons--a poor, ignorant, reckless child.

“My dear,” said Madeline gently, “tell your mother I’ll come to see her to-morrow, and we’ll talk things over--about your music, and so on.”

The girl gave one last glance at Holland, but she knew it was useless. When Mrs. Holland was there, she simply didn’t count with him.

“Good night!” she said in a sulky, unsteady voice.

“Good night!” their kind, grown-up voices answered in unison.