by Peggy Gaddis
“Oh, it’s beautiful, like—oh, like something in a movie,” she told him eagerly. “I never dreamed I’d ever be a guest at such a place.”
Her artless pleasure soothed him. After all, his wealth and the luxury and beauty it could buy was an old story to Letty. She accepted without question, without thought, all the things he could offer her. She was accustomed to them; anything else would have shocked and repelled her. And so he had been denied the pleasure of showering her with expensive, extravagant trinkets by which a wealthy man demonstrates his ability to provide more than adequately for the woman he loves. But he would not be denied that with this lovely creature.
Dinner on the terrace, the deft maid and the rather awe-inspiring butler, the view of the sound as the stars twinkled out and the moon rose, soft and amber-colored, the scent of dew-wet flowers from the garden—all evidence of the great wealth that surrounded her. It enchanted Anice, and her eyes glowed with happiness as Kenyon watched her with deep pleasure.
“This will make a lovely ‘pretend,’” she said at last, when coffee had been served and the butler and the maid had departed.
“A ‘pretend?’” asked Kenyon, a little puzzled.
She gave a shy little laugh and said, “Oh, I suppose it will sound terribly silly to you, Mr. Rutledge, but—well, when you are poor and lonely, you sort of make up games to amuse yourself. I pretend—oh, all sorts of things, like that I’m beautifully dressed and going to a marvelous party. Then, going to the movies alone don’t seem so dull. And after this, when I have my dinner at a cheap, grubby little restaurant, I can remember tonight, and pretend that I’m having dinner with you again in this lovely, lovely place.”
“This is only the first time, my dear. We’ll have dinner together many times, and in many places hereafter,” said Kenyon rashly.
She hesitated, and in the light of the hurricane candles on the table, he saw that her color had deepened and her eyes were lowered.
“I’m afraid you’re just pretending now, Mr. Rutledge,” she told him gently. “But it’s nice of you, and thank you.”
Kenyon hesitated. Of course, he knew the thought that was in her mind. In less than two weeks he would be married to Letty, and while he might occasionally take a pretty girl like Anice to dinner it would be in some spot where he could be reasonably sure that neither his own nor Letty’s friends would be likely to see him. Definitely it would not be in his own home!
He didn’t like the prospect. It made him suddenly restive, and he stood up, held out his hand to her and said, smiling, “Now that the moon is up, shall we have a look at the garden? I like it best at this time of the evening.”
“I’d love it,” she said radiantly, and slipped her hand shyly in his.
They crossed the terrace and went down shallow steps of fieldstone that matched the paving of the terrace. At the bottom, a path branched. One fork proceeded through a shoulder-high hedge of magnificent box shrubs that surrounded the garden, protecting it from the winds off the sound; the other went on to the driveway.
Kenyon and Anice walked through the small white gate set in the boxwood hedge, and Anice caught her breath at the sight of the formal sunken garden, thinking that it must require the constant care of five hard-working men to keep it perfect. Anice’s eyes went swiftly over it, and she drew a deep hard breath.
“It’s like fairyland,” she told him, her voice hushed by awe. She walked ahead of him down the path, a golden-topped, misty, black-clad figure, bending yearningly above an especially lovely plant, touching the lilies with a gentle fingertip as though caressing the cheek of a baby. Beyond the formal garden were the roses; more than a hundred varieties were in bloom, all the finest of their kind as befitted the garden of a man of Kenyon’s wealth. He looked about him and it seemed to him that he saw the lovely expanse of dewy, exquisitely scented blossoms for the first time—through the eyes of this lovely girl.
She looked up at him and the white moonlight showed him her face so clearly that he caught the shimmer of tears in her eyes and the soft trembling of her rose-red mouth.
“I shall never forget this,” she told him softly, her voice a little husky. “I’ll never be lonely or tired again. Because when things sort of—well, gang up on me, I’ll remember this and pretend I’m here again, seeing it all.” She broke off and made a little effort at control and managed a smile. “I love flowers so! Grannie’s little house was shabby and ugly, but she always had the most beautiful flowers! I’ve missed them so! I’ve a pot of red geraniums I bought when I first came to New York—I take them with me wherever I go. But they need sunshine and there isn’t any in my room. I wonder—oh, please don’t laugh at me! But I know they are not happy on my windowsill, without sun. If I brought them out here, would you let your gardener tuck ‘em somewhere out of sight, where they’d have sun and be happy?”
Kenyon said, “You precious angel!” And then she was in his arms, and he was holding her close and hard against him, and she had tilted back her head and offered him her soft, exquisite mouth. Kenyon set his mouth on hers, and felt a little shock of such exquisite ecstasy that for a moment it shook him badly. He had never known anything like this—a girl whose soft young mouth was flower-like in its silky smoothness, untouched by lipstick, fragrant with its own exquisite scent free from the taint of cigarettes or alcohol.
It was a kiss of such magic enchantment that he lost count of time. He forgot everything except that perfect moment; the perfect girl held close in his arms. He sensed dimly that he had found a girl who was an innocent virgin—and the wonder of that stunned him for a long moment.
It was Anice who broke the kiss, and turned swiftly away from him and leaned her trembling body against the old sun dial that had been imported from Italy many years before.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she told him at last, in a small, shaken voice. “Now I can’t ever get you out of my heart.”
“I don’t want you to, Anice—I want your heart for always, just as you will have mine,” he told her swiftly, and drew her, resisting ever so little, back into his arms. “Anice, my dearest, don’t you understand? I want to marry you!”
She was still for a moment, almost rigid. She was shocked speechless; she could not believe her ears. But Kenyon was going on swiftly, “I know what you’re thinking—that I’m a … well, a cad and a bounder and all that for asking you to marry me when I’m engaged to Mrs. Lawrence. But this thing that has happened to us, Anice—it’s too wonderful for us to lose. I love you. I’ve never loved anyone before. We—well, we’re mated! It would be unthinkable that we should let anything keep us apart. You’ve said you love me.”
“Oh, I do, I do,” she breathed ecstatically, and kissed him shyly.
“And I adore you, so we’re going to be married,” said Kenyon eagerly.
For a moment she was still in his arms, and then she drew a little way from him and looked up at him, her eyes starry through the bright shimmer of her tears.
“You’re sweet, darling, and I’m perfectly mad about you,” she told him unsteadily. “But she’ll never let you go—no woman could! I know that if you were engaged to me, I’d kill anybody who tried to come between us!”
Kenyon laughed fondly at that. She was like a kitten offering its tiny growl in the hope that the menace would be afraid of it and it need not be afraid of the menace.
“Mrs. Lawrence will understand when I tell her,” he began.
But Anice shook her golden head, on which the silver-white moonlight lay like a caress.
“No woman could be that generous,” she told him sweetly. “And anyway, dearest, I couldn’t hold you to this. I mean, it’s a marvelous night and the moonlight is so soft and the scent of the flowers. And I’m here and I’m a girl and you’re a man. It’s only natural that you should make the mistake of believing yourself in love with me. Tomorrow you’ll feel quite different.”
“I’m not a callow schoolboy, my darling,” Kenyon told her firmly. “I know my own min
d. I’m in love with you, and nothing on earth is going to stop me from marrying you.”
She caught her breath and swayed a little as his arms caught her close, and with her tear-wet cheek against his, she said huskily, “Oh, if it were only possible—but we mustn’t. I’m just nobody at all, and you’re … you’re rich and famous and—well, just terribly important.”
Kenyon’s mouth on hers stopped the words, and he said swiftly, “You’re the only really important person in the world, darling, to me. And you’re going to marry me, as quickly as it can be arranged.”
She smiled tremulously and shook her head a little.
“They won’t let us,” she told him unsteadily.
Puzzled, he frowned. “They?”
“Mrs. Lawrence and Phyllis,” she answered him quietly.
“Mrs. Lawrence has too much pride to insist on marrying a man who is in love with someone else!” he told her firmly. “And as for Phyllis—Miss Gordon—what’s she got to do with it?”
Anice looked down and one slim finger traced a numeral on the weathered old sundial.
“She’s in love with you and she hates me, and she will do everything in her power to keep you from marrying me,” she told him huskily.
“That’s absurd!” said Kenyon, and caught her close to him in jealous arms. Suddenly he said, with new inspiration. “See here, darling, why don’t we just elope, right this minute? Without saying anything to anybody?”
Anice caught her breath, and for a moment she dared not let him see her eyes. Did she dare? Could she risk it? It would be the perfect solution. Once she was married to him, no matter what Phyllis tried to tell him, she would be secure. And anyway, Phyllis could not tell him anything that would really matter. Phyllis knew that Anice was a decent girl, a nice girl; she did not drink or smoke, nor did she have lovers.
“Wouldn’t it be just wonderful if we could?” she whispered at last as though the prospect were so radiant she dared not even contemplate it.
“Won’t it be wonderful, you mean!” said Kenyon with a boyishness he had not felt for years. “Come on—what are we waiting for? We’ll drive down to Elkton and be married.”
“But—but I’m wearing a black gown and … well, I haven’t anything else,” she protested.
Kenyon laughed. “That’s one of the best things about it. You’ll come to me empty-handed and I can shower you with all the lovely things you deserve. I’ve always wanted to buy tons of beautiful things for a girl who’s never had anything. And to find a beautiful girl I love, who will appreciate and enjoy the things I can buy for her—why, precious, it’s going to be perfect!”
Hand in hand they went swiftly up the garden path and to the drive, where the car waited. There she hesitated just a moment, and asked him anxiously, “You—you won’t be sorry, later on? You won’t feel I took advantage of you because of the moonlight, and because I love you so much?”
“You precious silly!” He caught her and held her close and said, his voice a little rough, “Darling, all my life I’ve gone hungry for a love that would be real and lasting. I’ve found it, and it’s made me the happiest man that will ever draw breath. Sorry? Life won’t be long enough for me to be grateful to you—for loving me and letting me marry you.”
“Oh,” she said when he had kissed her. “Oh, my darling!”
But he seemed to find no inadequacy in the words, as he lifted her in his arms as though she weighed nothing and tucked her into the car.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
IT WAS ELEVEN IN THE MORNING when Mr. and Mrs. Kenyon Rutledge returned to New York. In spite of Kenyon’s pleas, Anice, in the crisply smart little frock he had bought for her en route as soon as the stores were opened, had insisted that she take a taxi to her “shabby little old room” to collect her scanty baggage. Even now, as his dewy-eyed, radiant bride, she could not bear to have him see where she had lived; and because he was idiotically in love with her and she could do no wrong, Kenyon finally reluctantly agreed.
“I’ll see Mrs. Lawrence, then, and pick you up here at one,” he promised, and kissed her before he put her into a waiting taxi.
Anice all but bounced like an excited, incredibly delighted child as the taxi threaded its way across town to the small and exclusive women’s hotel. She looked with awed eyes at the beautiful diamond ring on her slim finger and the hoop of diamonds that guarded it.
Buying it in the first jewelry shop that she could find open after their departure from Elkton that morning, Kenyon had said, dissatisfied, “It isn’t nearly good enough for you, sweet, though I suppose it’s the best we can do for now. But we’ll replace it. I’ll have my mother’s jewels reset for you and we can pick up something for you at Cartier’s or Tiffany’s until that’s being done.”
She made no effort to conceal her awed delight in the magnificence of the ring he did not feel was good enough for her. But as she drove through the thick morning traffic toward her hotel, her eyes were narrowed with greed and her rose-red mouth was thin.
In her room, she packed swiftly and competently. Gowns that she had loved and treasured she now despised. They were, as Kenyon had said about the ring, not nearly good enough for Mrs. Kenyon Rutledge. The smart, expensive luggage—she eyed it thoughtfully. Kenyon thought she was desperately poor and shabby, did he? He wanted to shower her with extravagant, expensive things, did he? Well, bless the man, he certainly should!
She took a taxi to a shop specializing in the slightly worn gowns of actresses and society women, and haggled successfully for an excellent price for the gowns and wraps and slippers and hats. She kept the simplest only, and acquired, in place of the expensive new luggage, a well-worn small bag in which she packed the few things she had kept. If Kenyon wanted to look upon himself as Prince Charming marrying Cinderella with the ashes still in her hair—if he liked to think of himself as a King Cophetua marrying a beggar maid—well, that was quite all right with her, she told herself contentedly. She took a taxi to the bank where her savings were deposited and added to the fund the not inconsiderate sum she had received for her clothes and the luggage.
It was an almost irresistible temptation to invade shops heretofore forbidden because of their expensiveness. She would have to wait, though, wait until the world—as much of it as was interested in such matters—knew that she was Mrs. Kenyon Rutledge….
Meanwhile, Kenyon was facing a surprised and puzzled Letty in the living room of her charming apartment. Quietly, with an almost grim look in his eyes, he said: “I’ve played you a very shabby trick, Letty, and the least I can do is come and tell you personally.”
“A shabby trick, Ken?” Letty repeated, puzzled. She laughed a little. “Darling, I can’t imagine your ever playing a shabby trick on anybody. You’ve always prided yourself on being a perfect gent, under any and all circumstances.”
He reddened slightly. There it was: the inevitable hint of raillery, of amusement, almost of ridicule that Letty seemed to feel for him. Well Anice thought he was perfect; the realization stiffened his determination.
He gave it to Letty in a single blow.
“I’m married, Letty,” he told her quietly.
Letty stiffened and stared at him, wide-eyed, shocked for the moment beyond the point of speech.
“I realize it’s a blow, Letty,” said Kenyon, and to give him credit he did not realize quite how pompous it sounded. “But after all, when two people love each other …”
Letty drew a deep hard breath. She was pale and her hands were clenched hard, but her voice was low and controlled, and there was still a tone of faint amusement in it, causing him to rage inwardly. She said: “So she won, after all.”
Kenyon said stiffly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Letty smiled. “I see I committed the cardinal error of underestimating my enemy. I was even fool enough to think that she and I might be friends.”
Puzzled, Kenyon said, “Anice is not your enemy. I didn’t even know you’d met.”
&n
bsp; “Anice?” Letty repeated, bewildered. “You married Miss Gordon, of course.”
Kenyon’s eyebrows climbed up and he was unpleasantly startled.
“Good Lord, whatever gave you that idea? Phyllis Gordon, that—that little tramp?” he exploded furiously.
Letty started, and her eyes widened.
“She’s not a tramp,” she cried, and went on before he could protest, “Then who in blazes did you marry? If I’m not asking too many questions?”
“Anice Mayhew, a girl in the office,” answered Kenyon. His voice softened at the very mention of her name, and there was a caressing look in his eyes that made Letty’s mouth harden a little. “She’s—well, she’s marvelous, Letty. The loveliest thing you ever saw—so good and sweet and innocent as the dawn.”
Letty made a little involuntary gesture of protest and Kenyon said hastily, “I’m sorry. It’s unforgivable to expect you to listen to praise of her. But I want you to meet her, Letty, you’ll understand immediately why it had to be this way.”
“I think I can forego the pleasure,” said Letty stiffly. “I’m afraid I understand better than you do, Ken. Some little chit you’ve barely met, of whom you know nothing, has aroused your protective instinct. And who was, incidentally, the one who sent me an anonymous message that brought me to your office when you and Miss Gordon were … working late, shall we say?”
Kenyon was stiff with outrage.
“You have a right to be bitter, Letty,” he said coldly. “But you have no right to be unfair. Anice is incapable of a dishonest, malicious, unkind act. She’s—why, she’s an innocent angel.”
“You poor damned fool!” said Letty slowly and distinctly, perhaps the most venomous statement she had ever made to him, as she slipped from her finger a superb emerald, exquisitely set, and held it out to him. “She will want this, I’m sure, and the other presents you have sent me. They’ll be returned to you immediately. And now if you don’t mind, I’d like you to go.”
