As Jeffrey Wainwright reviewed that conversation on the way through the next morning’s traffic, it seemed to him that he was reading it or dreaming it about someone else. It couldn’t be that he, Jeffrey Wainwright, had been sap enough after that, knowing that Myles Meredith was there with her, waiting for that dinner, to go on home and get dressed and actually plan to go back to that dinner.
Oh, he remembered that he was undecided about it. He had raged within himself that he wouldn’t go a step, that she deserved to be let severely alone until she came around and saw how she was treating him, decided to do half a dozen different things instead of going to Stephanie Varrell’s dinner.
But then he had reflected that that course would only please Meredith. It would only leave the coast clear for Meredith to play the lover to Stephanie. It would leave himself a prey to his angry imagination. He should at least be there and block the fellow’s plans, sit at the feast and show his disapproval, courteously, of course, so that only his hostess should understand.
Yet even so, she would have triumphed! Had she not told him he would not stay away for anything? Had she not challenged him to stay away if he dared? The real way to show her would be to stay away, of course, and he would do it!
A dozen times he had changed his mind until he was ready to go. Nor did he hasten in his preparation. If he was late, it would not matter. It rather pleased him to keep her waiting. To make her think he was not coming.
No, he would not go, he told himself. Of course he would not go. He fairly despised himself for his hesitancy.
And after all that vacillating, he had gone and bought those white orchids.
“Infant!” Yes, infant! She had been right to call him that! In the clearness of the morning it seemed impossible that he should have been contemplating, even for a moment, going to that dinner with the man whom he despised and whom Stephanie not so long ago had promised to strike off her list of acquaintances.
Well, he had stayed away. Quite without his own planning. The matter had been taken out of his hands. Although he was dressed and ready and on his way with his white orchids in the backseat of his car, he had been stopped on the road and sent in an entirely different direction. And the strangest thing about it all was that he had not once thought about it the whole night through.
His mind went slowly back over his experiences since the shabby little car in front of him had suddenly stopped with screeching brakes that did not brake and the big gas truck had come roaring down upon it and sent it whirling in the air to roll over in the ditch.
He felt again that thrill of horror as he looked down into the crumpled little car and saw that white, unconscious face of the girl, certain that she must be dead. The thrill of relief when he found she was still alive; his overpowering pity for her when she turned that desperate look upon him and told him her mother was dying and she must go for the medicine.
As he looked back upon it all, he could not remember a single thought of wonder of what Stephanie thought about his absence or what Meredith was doing. By the light of day neither seemed to matter.
He had been close to vital matters. He had been watching and waiting all night while a battle between life and death went on, and for the time being, at least, life had been victorious. As he thought it over now, he wouldn’t have missed that experience for all the dinners, no, nor for all the Stephanies in the world. The night seemed to have been a sort of eye-opener that had made a number of things plain to him. For one thing, he had seen life from another side, the side of suffering and unselfishness, sorrow and pain, and bravery. Beside it, even granting that Camilla and her little unconscious mother had not been interesting in themselves, his life of play, courting emotions of various sorts, seemed the merest trifling. Child’s play, that was all.
Oh, he would come back to it, he knew. One smile from Stephanie would lure him as it always did these last two years; one frown would twist itself in his soul like a sword, and he would be under the same tyranny as before. Only, for this one time, matters had been overruled and taken out of his hands, and he had been a part of another world. Just now he wasn’t anxious to get back to Stephanie. What she thought and felt did not seem so much to concern him as what he was going to be able to do about Camilla’s poor little crumpled car.
He experienced a distinct satisfaction in the thought that whatever harm had been done by his absence last night was done already and beyond his power and that a few more hours could not make any difference. For once he had been saved from bowing to Stephanie’s outrageous whims and fancies. For once he would see what would happen now that he had defied her. If she turned from him forever, well, it was not his fault, and there would be some peace at least in knowing that the tortuous problem was settled and over with. If he had to suffer afterward—well, he would have had to suffer one way or the other eventually, he supposed. At least he felt more self-respect this morning than he would have felt if he had gone to Stephanie’s dinner in company with Myles Meredith.
Now that he had taken this step, unbeknownst to himself, now that the white orchids were in the safekeeping of another girl, a girl with clear, true eyes, a girl who was not out to play the game that most of womankind were playing, he might as well let things alone for a while, keep away from Stephanie, and just see what would come. He certainly would never have a better opportunity to test her. And if she wasn’t true at heart—well, he didn’t want her, did he? Even in spite of her glamour and her beauty, in spite of her poise and her smart dressing and her ability to thrill and amuse?
In the small watches of the night, while the son of one of the comparatively few multimillionaires who had not lost their millions in the depression had sat in a shabby Morris chair listening to the quiet movements of the nurse and the doctor in the sickroom and to the soft breathing of the exhausted girl in the front room, he had thought out a plan of action. It was one of the things that had kept him from thinking long of Stephanie and Meredith and his wasted white orchids.
It gradually became plain to his mind that this other girl, Camilla, would never let him fix up that car for her and pay for it himself. He realized that this plain little house with its shabby air of gentility had a pride of its own, and he began to suspect that that pride had even more self-respect and genuine honesty in it than even the vaunted pride of the House of Wainwright.
And yet, on the other hand, he saw with a new insight, gained from the experiences of the evening, that life for Camilla without that staunch little car was going to be 100 percent harder in the future than it had been in the past. And he knew by the dark circles under her tired eyes, by the whiteness of her face, and by the slenderness of her graceful body that it had been hard enough in the past without the deprivation of that little old friendly car that always got up and went on after every hard knock. He determined that that car must get up even this time and go on. Yes, if he had to learn how and repair it himself!
He didn’t know how all this was to be accomplished, but he first determined that it should be and then worked it out in his mind. The truck driver with the broken leg must be made to help, not by money, perhaps, though it might take money to coerce him, but he must be made to own the truth, that the accident had been his fault.
So when morning came he hunted up his traffic policeman and had an interview. Then he went to the hospital where the drunken truck driver with the broken leg had been taken.
The truck driver proved amenable to reason as expressed in dollars, and later Jeffrey sought the office of the company that employed him and discovered there a powerful acquaintance well disposed toward the family of Wainwright. A few words with his lawyer, a magic little paper for Camilla to sign, and the matter was arranged. He had been prepared to shoulder the thing himself, if necessary, only he had a strong feeling that it would be rather hard to put it over without making the keen-eyed girl suspicious, and he was sure she would never let him pay for having her car repaired. She would extract the knowledge of the exact sum from him somehow and
pay it back through the years. So he was greatly relieved that the company had shouldered a goodly share of the expense and done it graciously, and he would not have to resort to deception. It was much the easier way, and he was a young man who preferred to be honest, all things being equal.
So he drove to the garage where he had ordered Camilla’s car to be taken and had a long talk with the mechanic. It took a good deal of persuading, and a good deal of assurance, to make that honest mechanic admit that that little old battered, crumpled car could be renewed bit by bit in its entirety, using the one fender that remained intact, parts of the tired old engine, and the cushions—yes, the worn old cushions that would make it look like its old self again, yet supplying new parts enough to give renewed youth. Yes, the mechanic finally admitted, it would be possible, if one had unlimited money to spend and were fool enough to spend it that way. But he openly declared that no one would be fool enough for that.
Jeffrey Wainwright finally convinced the mechanic that he was that one and only fool in the world who was fool enough to want that little dead car brought to life and made to look like itself again, except for the “touching up,” which an innocent driver would feel was absolutely necessary for a car that had been in a smash-up.
The mechanic, in wonder, finally folded away a bill of such denomination that he patted his pocket with awe to make sure it was real and agreed to go at the repairs that very afternoon.
“And now,” said Jeffrey Wainwright to himself, “that’s that, and I’d better get a bite to eat and then go back and tell her.”
Of course, he could have telephoned, but somehow it seemed a trivial matter about which to cause the blatant ringing of that noisy little telephone so near the sickroom. And anyway, he had not stayed all night in the anxious household without being eager to learn if all was going as well as when he left.
So he took a quick lunch at an unfamiliar counter, not in the least like the places where his fastidious soul delighted to dine, and drove back to the shabby brick house on Vesey Street.
Camilla was in the kitchen making broth, and there was a flush on her cheeks and a light of hope in her eyes.
“She’s better!” she greeted Jeffrey Wainwright as he came softly in like an old friend without waiting to knock, just tried the door and tiptoed in until he found her.
“Oh, that’s good!” he said, laying a hand each side of her two that she had clasped in her eagerness and looking into her tired, sweet eyes. For just an instant he felt as if he were going to lean over and kiss her eager trembling lips, and then suddenly he knew he mustn’t. Knew quite well that would spoil it all, this lovely impersonal friendship that had only existed a day. Knew also that there were other things as well as her attitude toward such a thing that should restrain him, and he took his hands down gently from hers, deciding he was a bit lightheaded from staying up all night.
“Yes, the doctor says it is wonderful. He says she reacted marvelously to that medicine that we brought. He says if she had been without it much longer he couldn’t have answered for the consequences. And oh, if it hadn’t been for you I would never have been able to get it here in time! I shall never get done thanking you!”
His glance melted into her own eager one, and he felt a warm glow around his heart. He couldn’t at the time recall that he had ever before in his life done anything that was worth such thanks. It was good! Better than all the banter of his frivolous playtime world.
Then presently he told her about the car and watched a soft pink flush of relief steal up into her cheeks and a glow of contentment into her eyes.
“Oh, God has been very good to me!” she breathed softly. “I have been wondering all day how I was going to get along without that poor little old car. I never would have been able to pay even for a very little repair. And I’m quite sure there must have been a lot to do on it. As I remember it lying down there in the ditch, it seems to me now that it must have needed a lot. I’ve been remembering what that policeman said about it and trying to make up my mind that I would have to get along without it. You must have waved a magic wand! And to think it’s going to be repaired without cost! It seems too good to be true!”
The glow in her eyes fully repaid Wainwright for all the trouble he had taken that morning. He hung around and tried to find something else he might do to help, but there seemed to be little left except to mail a letter for the nurse. Yet still he stayed. He watched Camilla arrange the tray daintily for her mother, the broth in a thin old china cup. He found it hard to tear himself away. Somehow this little shabby house had come to have a deep and vital interest for him, just because he had been passing through a crisis with its inmates. He waited in the kitchen while Camilla took the tray to her mother and ventured shyly to steal a glance through the crack of the door at Camilla in the dimness of the sickroom sitting on a low stool beside the bed feeding the invalid. He noticed the soft hair fallen over her forehead and the delicate outline of feature, caught a glimpse of the face upon the pillow framed in white hair, saw a feeble smile on the sick woman’s lips, and felt his heartstrings pull with a new kind of joy as if somehow she belonged to him. He wondered vaguely if that was the kind of joy a doctor felt when he was able to pull a patient out of the jaws of death. He wasn’t a doctor, and he had had but a very slight hand in the recovery of this woman, yet he felt a distinct sense of triumph that she was better, a distinct joy in sympathy with her sweet daughter.
He knew in the back of his mind, of course, that this was only a temporary contact; that this little shabby house was entirely out of his world, and he would presently pass back to his own environment. But just for the time he was deeply intrigued, and his heart was touched. The interests and hopes and desires of these people, this mother and daughter, had become his own interests. Passing interests seldom went so deep with him.
So he lingered and watched the glow in the girl’s happy face when she came tiptoeing back to the kitchen with her tray and reported that Mother took all the broth, and seemed to like it, and that she had dropped to sleep again.
When he finally tore himself away, he promised that he would return that night about the time the doctor usually arrived and be on hand to run any possible errands and see what report the doctor gave of his patient. He drove home happily, thinking about a basket of fruit that he would take with him when he went back, planning what it should contain.
At home there was a note on his desk in his valet’s handwriting. Miss Varrell had called him three times during his absence, and the telephone was ringing madly even as he read the note. This was doubtless Stephanie again. With a frown he took down the receiver and answered. Now there would be a long argument, and he hated arguments. Stephanie was not attractive when she was angry.
Chapter 4
About that time, down in the barbershop of one of the more exclusive hotels of the city, Myles Meredith, in the hands of his own special attendant whom he always demanded when he was in the city, was being polished off for the day and gathering items of news especially interesting to him. Jean knew his man, always kept choice bits of gossip for his ears, and produced them tactfully at the right moment. He was a man who made it his business to know all about his customers and produce what they wanted in the most casual and discreet manner.
Jean had skillfully succeeded in discovering where his customer had been dining the evening before, had made his little joke about the lateness of the morning hour in connection with the revelries of last night, and then, just as if it were an afterthought and not a carefully thought-out plan, he remarked, “Monsieur Jeffrey Wainwright did not dine with Monsieur and the Mademoiselle Stephanie Varrell last evening.”
Meredith gave him a quick furtive glance.
“And what makes you say that, Jean?” he asked suspiciously. Meredith accepted all confidences and gave none. Jean understood his man perfectly.
“Oh, I just happened to see him halting under a traffic light, headed out of the city, with a very attractive lady by his side.”
Meredith gave the man another keen glance and his voice took on a shade of interest—but not too much interest.
“A lady?” said Meredith. “Who was it? Not the platinum star from the Lyric last night?”
“No, no!” said Jean, selecting a bottle from his array of beautifiers and giving it a professional shake. “No, no, quite different to little Madame Shirley. It was a—what shall I say?—more patrician face. Veri delicate. Veri lovely. Veri aristocratic!” Jean’s tone waxed eloquent. “Monsieur Wainwright seemed most interested, the brief glimpse I got. I wondered! He was always so—what shall I say?—devoted to Mademoiselle Varrell. But all things change, n’est-ce pas? But I wonder—!”
“Yes, all things change, Jean, including fair ladies. Isn’t that true, Jean?” said Meredith, with a sinister gleam in his half-closed eyes. “What other news have you, Jean?”
A few minutes later Meredith betook himself to a telephone booth and called up his hostess of the night before. “That you, Stef? Morning, baby! How about taking lunch with me this noon? What’s that? Where? Oh, your choice this time. And by the way, I happened on some news of your missing guest last night. He wasn’t eating his heart out as you fondly supposed. His technique is rather sudden, it appears. He attached a most attractive lady, I understand, and went off in her company instead of coming to your party. Now will you believe what I tell you next time?”
Back in the shabby old Chrystie house happiness was returning fast. Although Camilla had had to ask time off from her job and knew she was being docked on her salary for every day she took; although the nurse’s salary was mounting up minute by minute and Camilla didn’t see how she was ever going to pay it; even though the coal in the cellar was almost gone and last month’s bill had not been paid yet; even though the tiny bank account was all but overdrawn, she felt a song in her heart. For was not her mother growing better moment by moment? And her car was as by a miracle being repaired without charge! Oh, there were many things to be thankful for.
The Flower Brides Page 56
