The Mystery of the Pink Pieces/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX.
But the pleasure of being proved right loses half its keenness if one has to carry about that knowledge unuttered and unshared, and Rose was realizing this after the first pleasure in Madame Arnold's revelations had become a little subdued by much contemplation. She longed to triumph openly over Willy. He had been so very sure that he was right in regarding Mrs. Darrell as a scheming adventuress and in trying in every way to shield and exculpate Sonia MacKenzie.
The more she considered the matter, the more she felt that Willy had really been insufferably superior about his circumstantial evidence, and absurdly obstinate in the stand he had taken; and, looking at the question from all sides, she determined to give him a much-needed lesson,
She was sure that if Madame Arnold knew all the circumstances she would be the last person to bid her forego such sweet revenge. Therefore she again approached that lady, and with all the grace and graciousness of manner of which she was mistress presented to her a little plan she had, so beguilingly that Mrs. Darrell-Arnold consented to it at once.
She—Rose—said that she had so enjoyed their companionship, brief though it had been, that she could not bear to let Madame Arnold go without some small celebration of the event that meant so much in her new friend's life. And she greatly wished to arrange for the following evening—since the Arnolds would be leaving early the next morning—a small party in her sitting room, just the same little group that Mrs. Darrell-Arnold was accustomed to meet; and she begged that upon this occasion she might be allowed to announce the happy ending to this charming romance.
Again Madame Arnold was much moved. She thought it a charming plan, and gladly accepted for both Monsieur Arnold and herself; and she had no objection at all to Miss O'Hara's making the announcement. In fact, she preferred that she should do so.
So Rose, delighted with the success of her plans, and gloating over the discomfiture of Willy Gaines, informed Miss Hodgkins that she would have a small party the next evening, and requested her to make arrangements about the flowers and the supper at once.
Then she hastened to invite in person Mrs. and Miss Mayhew, Sonia MacKenzie, Phil Wodeburn, and Willy Gaines. These, with Monsieur and Madame Arnold and herself, comprised the party.
In those days the star of Venus must have been in the ascendant, for that evening, while Monsieur and Madame Arnold sat under the eyes of the hotel, murmuring tender speeches with what discretion they could summon, Willy Gaines, finding Rose so joyous and even kind, proposed to her for the thousand and oneth time, and Phil Wodeburn proposed to Vivien Mayhew for the first.
These two had been sitting in a dim, shadowy nook of one of the long porches, where the honeysuckle clambered up the railing and gave out its sweetness to the, soft, mild night. An unusual silence had fallen between them, and suddenly he had turned, and, without any preliminary speeches, had bluntly asked her to marry him.
She had not answered him at once, and the moon had slipped behind a cloud; but had there been more light he would have seen an entirely different person from the one to whom he had become so accustomed that he had begun to think his life incomplete without her. Instead of the daring and accomplished sportswoman, the merry girl, ready for any adventure in any kind of weather, was a woman who had paled and saddened, and who looked at him with a great wistfulness in her eyes.
“We couldn't help but be happy,” he was arguing earnestly. “Every taste, every inclination, we have is in common. We like to do exactly the same things, and we understand one another perfectly.”
“You have forgotten that I am older than you,” she said gently, all the jesting tones gone out of her voice.
He shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “Surely you wouldn't—you couldn't—let that stand between us?”
“Oh, I like you so much,” she cried distressedly. “I am so sincerely fond of you. I appreciate so thoroughly all your clean, high-minded qualities; but there”
“Nonsense!” he said almost roughly. “Vivien, this doesn't sound a bit like you. Are you trying to hedge, to let me down easy, because you don't care for me?”
“I wish that were it.” She spoke so low that the words were almost breathed. “Phil,” resolutely, “I've got to tell you something. I've been sailing under false pretenses. I am already married.”
“What!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “What!” He seemed stunned for a moment or two, and then he leaned forward eagerly, and opened his lips to speak.
But she forestalled him. “It's no use,” she said. “I know what you are going to say. The barrier can't be broken down, and it's no use to suggest ways and means. I'll be perfectly frank with you. I do not love him now,” she spoke drearily, “but there are ties between us, interests in common, threads that can never be broken.”
“Why not?” he asked. “Any threads can be broken.”
She chose to ignore this. “Honestly Phil”—she laid her hand lightly on the smooth brown head he had bowed on the arm of her chair—“I would have prevented this if I could. I had no idea until lately that you—you cared; and ever since I began to realize it I have been trying to assure myself that it was just a passing fancy of yours because we had been spending so much of our time together. Mother warned me days ago, but I wouldn't believe her. I tried to persuade myself that our comradeship couldn't involve any sentiment—that you looked upon me just as if I were another boy.”
“Never, Vivien,” he murmured; “never after the first day or so.” She did not reply to this, and after a bit he asked half angrily: “Where is he? Why isn't he with you?”
She sighed. “Oh, he is on the other side. I told you we—we had interests in common.” Her voice was hesitating, as if she were choosing her words with special care. “Either he or I had to come to this country to look after a certain matter, to—to—attend to some finances. It was thought best, for a number of reasons, that I should come.” Again she sighed heavily. “My work is about finished now, and I shall soon be returning.”
“But people do not always stay married,” he said boyishly. “Vivien, if you don't love him, why couldn't it be arranged for you to be free? I have such a beastly lot of money, you know. Oh, Vivien, if you only would!”
“Dear Phil”—she laughed faintly, laughter that was sadder than tears, but spoke decisively—“put that out of your mind forever. These days here with you have been a little holiday time for me in spite of the work I have been doing; it has been a happy interlude, one of the sweetest things that ever came into my life. But that life is settled, and within very definite limits. I cannot, for many reasons, begin a new one.
“Dear boy, you think that we are so congenial, that all of our tastes are in common; and so they are, as far as our enthusiasm for every kind of sport goes. But, believe me, Phil, we have nothing in common. I am a woman who knows the world from an angle that is impossible to your view.”
“I won't believe it!” he said vehemently. “I've never cared much for women. They've always seemed to me tiresome and silly and affected; but I love you, Vivien, and I'll never stop.”
“Yes, you will.” She spoke as one assured of what she was saying. “And, Phil, I want you to forget this disappointment, and listen to me for a moment. I need your help, and I am going to ask it.”
“You know that it's yours in any way, to any extent,” he murmured.
“I do know it,” she said sweetly, “and that is why I am going to tell you something, and ask you to be very particular not to mention it to any one. I am going away very soon—almost at once.”
“No!” he protested.
“Yes; the work I came here to look after is all finished. And now I am going to ask you a favor.”
“Anything; you know that,” dispiritedly.
“It is this: You know how uncertainly and inconveniently the trains run here, and it is quite possible, although hardly probable, that I may wish to leave here in a hurry, and perhaps—but I hardly think that—not alone. Therefore for the next day or two can you keep your racing machine ready to start on a moment's notice?”
“Of course,” he said simply. “Anything you wish. I will keep two chauffeurs on the job; one by day, and one by night.”
“Thank you,” she said; and for a moment her hand lingered on his. “And now,” rising, “we must go in. It is growing late.”
“But, Vivien,” he pleaded, “listen to”
“It's no use, Phil,” she answered. “It never will be any use—and now it's good night.”
Whether under the influence of the romantic star or incited thereto by the sweetness of the night, or by the sight of a half moon shedding its silver beams over the ocean, at the same time that poor Phil Wodeburn was receiving the greatest disappointment of his young life, Willy Gaines was occupied in assuring Rose O'Hara of his oft-told and undying devotion.
But her after-dinner mood was not nearly so complaisant as the one in which he had found her a few hours before, when she had invited him to be present at her little gathering the next evening; and, had he but known it, this was due to a little episode that had occurred just after dinner.
Rose, who had been watching the gambols of Ahmed upon the lawn, had just told Ernestine to take him in lest he get his paws wet with the dew, and thereby suffer a chill, and was herself preceding them, when, quite inadvertently, she came upon Willy Gaines and Sonia MacKenzie, standing so absorbed in conversation that they were unconscious of her approach. She paused, not wishing to intrude, and yet failing to see how she could recede without awkwardness; and in that moment of hesitation could not help overhearing a part of their conversation.
“But you are sure that you can manage it?” Miss MacKenzie was saying.
“Give yourself no uneasiness on that score,” Willy returned boastfully. “I've done it a hundred times.”
“And you will not mention it—promise me—not to any one?” with a special emphasis on the last two words.
“Certainly not,” emphatically. “It would spoil the surprise. Oh!” flushing a little as he looked up and saw Rose standing so near them, the impersonation of surprised and wounded dignity.
But Miss MacKenzie was equal to the situation. “”Ah!” she exclaimed, in her usual cool tones, taking in Rose's confusion, however, with one quick, scrutinizing glance. “It is an enchanting night, isn't it, Miss O'Hara? I should love to spend the evening down here on the porch, and instead I must go to my room and turn on the electric light and answer a sheaf of letters. Good night.”
With a little bow, she moved away; and Willy found himself gazing into Rose's questioning and rather indignant eyes.
“I am sorry to have interrupted what was evidently so confidential a conversation,” she began stiffly; and, seeing her mood, Willy hastily took command of the situation.
“Oh, that was all over,” he said carelessly, leading her toward the stairway. “We had finished our conversation. Let's go up and sit on your porch, Rose. It is a heavenly night, and we can sit there and watch the moonlight on the ocean.”
He gave her no time to protest but continued his voluble conversation until they were safely on the porch, which formed an open-air extension of her sitting room.
“I think,” he said, “if you sit here you will be shielded from the wind, and if I draw my chair up beside you,” suiting the action to the words, “we shall have the effect of being absorbed in earnest conversation, and none will have the temerity to interrupt us—or is that just my fond hope? Will Ernestine be bringing Ahmed out for a good-night kiss before he says his prayers, or will Miss Hodgkins be chasing out on some fool errand or other?”
“Ernestine is probably at this moment engaged in a flirtation with one or another of the good-looking chauffeurs, while Miss Hodgkins is beyond doubt walking up and down the porches in her pursuit of fresh air. She acts as if it were something that was always trying to evade you, and that must be pursued with dragnets and sought as miners seek for gold. But, Willy, I am really very sorry to have interrupted your tête-à-tête with Miss MacKenzie.”
“'On such a night as this, Jessica,'” he murmured tenderly, “Miss S. MacKenzie, Mrs. Danvers Darrell, the stolen designs, everything, everybody but your own adorable self may go hang! Rose, when you hear the sacrifice that I am willing to make for you, you will never have the heart to refuse me again.”
He paused dramatically here, allowing his words to sink in. He could always arouse Rose's curiosity, and he knew it.
“Sacrifice!” she cried uncomprehendingly. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“The other day, you remember, you said that the only reason you wouldn't marry me was”
“Whatever it was,” she broke in ruthlessly, “I never said only reason. But go on.”
“That the only reason you wouldn't marry me,” he repeated firmly, “was that you were afraid that I might yield to an ever-present temptation to cuff Ahmed when left alone with him. I found, after a period of self-examination, that I might, especially if he were to keep up that hollow and artificial pretense of his that my legs are tree trunks, and that therefore there is no reason why he should not sharpen his claws upon me.
“But, Rose, the great sacrifice is this: I have now reached such a point of devotion to you that I am prepared to accept Ahmed with all his faults, to love him like a brother. And now, dearest,” bending toward her with his charming smile, “now that everything is satisfactorily settled, suppose you name the day.”
“Oh, Willy, you are incorrigible! What shall I do with you?”
“I have just told you what to do—marry me.” He drew nearer still, and, taking her hand, pressed his lips to it. “Oh, Rose-of-the-world, don't you love me a little?”
The magic of the night had wrought its spell. “Oh, Willy,” she sighed, “I'm afraid I do!”
“Rose! Afraid of love! Afraid of happiness! You? Never!”
Again she sighed, and drew a little farther away from him. “If I ever should say yes—mind you, I'm not saying it now, but if I ever should—it's just because I'm so deadly tired of saying no.”
“Then that is all settled,” said Willy briskly, and without a trace of sentiment in his tone, seeing that she had carefully drawn away from him as if to circumvent any attempt on his part to draw her into an ardent embrace.
“Nothing is settled.” She bent forward again, and spoke emphatically. “You are too absurd!”
Willy made no attempt to contradict her, but presently he turned to her and spoke as if drawing a neglected matter to her attention: “These affairs are usually sealed with a kiss.” He spoke casually. “It is considered a trifle more binding. It is, however, a matter of no importance—not really necessary.”
“So!” she said, and bent her laughing, teasing face nearer his. “Don't you want to kiss me, Willy?”
“I do,” he replied, still gently and indifferently; “but, as I told you, it is a matter of no importance. Any time again when it is quite convenient.”
“Then I want to kiss you!” And two arms were thrown about his neck, and Rose had kissed him twice.
But if she thought hastily to withdraw, mistress of the situation, she was mistaken; she had reckoned without her host. She found herself caught, almost crushed, in Willy Gaines' arms.
“Some time, some where, some when you've got to learn that my love for you isn't a jesting matter!” he said, and kissed her again and again.