XVI
JOCELYN CONFESSES
Larry declares that he isn't superstitious, but he never walks under a ladder or crosses a funeral. I'm superstitious and don't mind acknowledging it. I have all sorts of superstitions; like helping to salt, and putting shoes on chairs or beds, and putting things on wrong side out, and hanging towels on door-knobs, and seeing black cats crossing the road, and lots of things. The Major says that if I had lived a few hundred years ago, I'd have been burned for witchcraft. One of my gravest superstitions concerns Fridays. I was born on a Friday, and ever since I was old enough to know anything at all I've regarded Friday as especially momentous. And you'd be surprised if I told you how many important things have befallen me on Friday. It's really quite startling and creepy. And Phæro said the same thing. He's the great astrologer, you know. Once some of us girls at Madame Du Flond's went to him and had our horoscopes written He told me that mine was unusually interesting. It seemed that planets that hadn't spoken to each other for eons and eons got together in conjunction when I was born, and the professor was terribly excited and nervous about it. I've forgotten most of the things he told me; in fact, I didn't understand very well at the time; but I remember that my horoscope was so unusual that it cost me two dollars more than the other girls paid for theirs and that he especially mentioned Fridays. One thing he told me was, that my nineteenth year would prove the most eventful of my life. Jessamine Walton said that there was nothing wonderful in that, because it was a safe bet that I'd be either getting engaged or being married then. But I think Jessamine was a little huffed, because Phæro had spent so much more time with me than he had with her. Anyhow, several things that he told me have come true since. Larry may laugh all he wants to, but I'm sure there's something in it.
On this especial Friday morning, I awoke with the feeling that things were going to happen. It I just felt it all through me. was a regular premonition. Of course, I didn't know whether the things were going to be pleasant or unpleasant, but I was convinced that the day was to prove one of the most eventful of my life. Nor was I mistaken.
Jocelyn looked very pale and unhappy at breakfast, just as though she hadn't slept well. Larry and Ned went off early to the Country Club and I went up to my room, telling Jocelyn that I was going to write letters. You see, it was her last day there and it did seem a pity not to let her and Mr. Tully have a few minutes alone. But it was rather dull upstairs, for I hadn't any idea of writing, and so, after a while I crept down again and went into the parlor. The parlor, which is kind of stiff and formal and uncomfortable, isn't used very much; the library, across the hall, is much cosier and cheerfuller. The curtains were pulled down and it was rather dark in there, but I didn't care. I took a book from the center-table and curled up in the big green rep armchair in the corner. I opened the book and then put my arms over my head and thought. Presently I heard Mr. Tully come up on the porch and heard Jocelyn say good-morning. The next thing I knew they were in the hall, and then, before I could jump up or cough, or do anything at all, they had come into the parlor. They stopped just inside the door, which Jocelyn half closed, and Mr. Tully whispered “Jocelyn! Jocelyn!” in a funny choking sort of voice, and put his arms around her and—well, I think I must have made a noise of some sort, although I haven't any recollection of it, for Jocelyn looked into the corner and saw me. And then Mr. Tully saw me and turned quite pale, and I stared at them a moment and they stared back. And then Jocelyn drew away from him and said quite calmly:
“It's Marjorie.”
And they went out.
I sat there for a moment feeling like a thief and a murderer, with my cheeks just burning up. Then I crept out of the room and upstairs and threw myself into the chair by the window and had the sniffles. I hadn't the slightest idea what I was crying about, and I don't know yet. After a while there was a knock on my door, and when I had blown my nose and wiped my eyes and said, “Come in,” Jocelyn appeared. She didn't look the least bit embarrassed, but just closed the door behind her, walked across and sat down on the edge of the bed and smiled at me.
“Marjorie dear,” she announced, “I'm going to tell you all.”
I sniffed.
“Maybe you'd—better not,” I said coldly. Then I was sorry, for fear she wouldn't.
“You goose!” she laughed. “As though I didn't know you could keep a secret!”
“What's it about?” I asked, just as though I didn't know.
“It's about myself—and Jeff, of course.”
Jeff?” I exclaimed, startled.
“Mr. Tully,” explained Jocelyn.
“Oh!” I gasped. Fancy calling him Jeff! It seemed like referring to Michael Angelo as Mike, or calling Herbert Spencer Herb! I wondered how she had the courage to do it.
“After what happened downstairs,” she went on, “we both feel that you ought to know everything.”
“Just as you like,” I said indifferently.
“Don't be nasty, Marjorie, please,” she begged. “Don't you—don't you want to know?”
“Well, I really think some explanation is due,” I said with my best New England primness. “After what I was witness to—an unwilling witness, Jocelyn—it seems as though”
“What you saw was quite quite natural and proper,” said Jocelyn with dignity. “Mr. Tully and I are—are—very fond of each other.”
“So I imagined,” I replied dryly. “You didn't look or act as though you exactly hated each other!”
“If you're going be nasty, and mean, I shan't tell you another word!” exclaimed Jocelyn indignantly. I sniffed again to show that my feelings were still hurt.
“I think you might have confided in me a little,” I said mournfully. Jocelyn came over and sat on the arm of my chair.
“Marjorie dear, I wanted to all along, but Jeff—Mr. Tully thought I oughtn't to. If you only knew how unhappy and miserable I've been with this awful load on my mind and no one to talk with about it, dear, you'd pity me.”
“I didn't mean to be nasty,” I said, taking her hand. “Tell me all about it, Jocelyn. Is he—is Mr. Tully the one you meant the other day?”
“Why, of course! Didn't you know that?”
“I guessed. Are you—awfully fond of him, Jocelyn?”
“Fond of him! I'm—well, I'm just daffy, Marjorie!” She hugged me, laughing and blushing “And that's what is making me so unhappy.”
“Oh,” I murmured, “is it? Why?”
She shook me gently.
“Don't be such a little Puritan,” she said. “I guess if you were married to a man and”
“Married!” I screamed. “You don't mean, Jocelyn, that—that”
“Hush! I forgot I hadn't told you, dear.”
“Jocelyn Hare, are you married to Mr. Tully? Married?”
“Why, of course, Marjorie. We've been married for almost seven months. Please, please don't scream again.”
“I'm—not going to scream,” I murmured. “I haven't any scream left.” I huddled up to her limply, my thoughts in a whirl. Finally, “Then it was you that night,” I said, “the night Larry climbed up the porch.”
“Yes, and that was a terribly narrow escape. I never knew that you were out there. After that I didn't dare see him again at night, so we met before breakfast. You understand now, dear, don't you, why I didn't want you to walk with me?”
“I understood long ago,” I said dryly, only I never for a single instant imagined that you were-were”
“Married? I can't believe it myself sometimes,” said Jocelyn thoughtfully. “It—it seems too wonderful to be true. To think that he should care or for me, Marjorie!”
“Humph!” I said. “It would be funny if he didn't. But tell me, how—where—how did it happen?” Then I pulled away and faced her with an awful suspicion upon me. “Jocelyn, are you sure?” I cried. “Are you certain that—that you're really married? You know sometimes—you read about such things in books”
“Don't be a goose,” she laughed softly, pulling me back to her. “It was all proper enough, dear, and I've got my marriage certificate, and my wedding ring, too, only I don't dare to wear it, except at night. Let me tell you all about it, Marjorie.”
So she did. It had begun the summer before when she and Bob—Bob's her young brother—were staying with the Baldwins in the Adirondacks. Steve Baldwin and Bob had been room-mates at preparatory school and were to enter Yale in the autumn if they could pass the examinations. Mr. Tully was there tutoring them. It seems to have been love at first sight on both sides. Jocelyn stayed there almost seven weeks, and before she went away Mr. Tully had proposed and been accepted.”
“You must promise never to tell a soul,” said Jocelyn, “but the truth is, Marjorie, that I almost did the proposing myself. I just saw that he never would get up courage because he isn't very well off and he thought, bless him, that he hadn't any right to ask me to marry him. So I-of course, I didn't actually propose, dear, but I made it easy for him. You know a girl can do that, Marjorie.”
I couldn't imagine doing it myself, but I nodded.
“Then I didn't see him for over a month, not until late in October, after we'd gone back to New York. He came over there for a week and we used to meet around in picture galleries and places. It was heavenly! And when he was away we wrote to each other regularly every day. I wish you could see some of the letters he writes, dear!”
Jocelyn showed symptoms of going into a trance, so I nudged her.
“And then what?” I asked.
“After that he used to come over for a day or two days, every little while. He had begun his new book then and so he couldn't spare much time for me, you see. And then, it was two days before Christmas, the twenty-third of December, we quarreled.”
“Mercy! What about?”
“About men. You see, nobody knew I was engaged and so—so, of course, the men were just as nice to me as ever. I couldn't tell them not to be, could I? And Jeff got jealous, terribly jealous.” (I closed my eyes and tried to picture Mr. Tully in a jealous rage, but had to give it up.) “It was hard on him, Marjorie; you can see that. And I oughtn't to have lost my temper, but I did. I told him that if he couldn't trust me we'd better—better break the engagement.
“And did you?” I gasped.
“N-no; he would have, but I wouldn't let him. So I told him finally, that if he felt afraid of losing me, there was just one thing to do and that was to get married.”
“Jocelyn!”
“So we did.”
”Jocelyn Hare!”
“It was the only thing to do, my dear. He was worried and upset and couldn't do his work for fear that someone would come along and steal me. Just as though”
“Well?” I said after a moment. Jocelyn came back to earth with a jump.
“Oh! Where was I? Well, he didn't want to do it at first; said it was taking an unfair advantage of me and not acting square toward my folks. But I bullied him into it finally.”
“You—bullied him!”
“That's what it amounted to” laughed Jocelyn merrily. “Oh, I dare say it sounds quite awful to your puritanical young ears, Marjorie, but when you're a woman and in love, you'll see things differently.” (Jocelyn is twenty-one.) “I just decided that it wasn't at all likely I'd have more than one husband in this life and that I might as well have the one I wanted. When a woman's in love, Marjorie, she's got to reach out and help herself sometimes. It's all well enough to be modest and maidenly, but that doesn't repay you for spending a lifetime with the wrong man—or none at all! Does that sound horrible?”
“It's a little bit—startling,” I answered.
“I suppose I've told it so that it sounds as though I'd actually kidnapped Jeff,” she gurgled, “but it wasn't that bad. I merely talked common-sense to him, my dear. I said 'You've got to have your mind at rest if you're going to write your book. We're going to marry each other some time, anyway, so why not right now? Then you'll know that you've got me and I can't get away. When the book comes out and is a great success, we'll go to papa and mamma together and tell them all about it. Then, if they want us to, we'll be married all over again, with bridesmaids and ushers and orange blossoms. As for taking advantage of me, that's all nonsense. I'm twenty-one years old and I know my own mind to-day just as well as I shall ten years from now. You're the man I want to marry, Jeff, and if you have any spunk, you'll marry me to-morrow.' So he did. We were married the next afternoon at half-past four in a little church up in Harlem. It was Christmas Eve, Marjorie, and the happiest of my life. After we came out of the church, we got into a carriage and drove to a funny little restaurant and had our wedding breakfast. Afterwards he put me in the carriage again, said good-bye and sent me home with a marriage certificate in my bag, a wedding ring on my finger, and a bunch of lilies-of the-valley pinned to my coat. And that's how I was married, dear.”
“Oh, Jocelyn!” I whispered.
“Funny, wasn't it? Of course I've never felt really married for a moment since then, and if it wasn't for that piece of paper and a gold ring, I'd think it a dream, dear. From that day to the day I came here, I'd seen Jeff only four times. The last time was just before he came here with Mr. Harrington. He came over to New York and we had the afternoon together driving around town in a hansom. Of course, when I learned that he was coming to Eastmeadows, I set my heart on having you ask me down for a while. That's why I made papa take the Onyx to New London for the races, so I could ask you there, dear. It sounds underhand and deceitful, I know, but just think what it meant to me, Marjorie, to be with Jeff for a whole fortnight! And—and here's another confession, dear. Perhaps I was just a weeny bit nicer to your brother than I ought to have been, because I hoped that if you didn't think to ask me here, he would suggest it. But, as it turned out, that wasn't necessary, and I wish I hadn't now.”
“I guess this is where I confess,” I said. “I wasn't going to ask you, Jocelyn, until Larry suggested it. So, you see, it was necessary, after all.”
“Really? And didn't you want me, Marjorie?” she asked reproachfully.
“Y-yes, but—oh, it sounds terribly silly, dear, but I was jealous of you. I thought you wanted to marry Larry, and-and”
“Of course, you goose,” laughed Jocelyn, with a hug. “I see. But as I don't want your wonderful brother, you do like me a little, don't you?”
“Yes,” I whispered. Then we kissed each other, and Jocelyn cried a little, and laughed a little, and we didn't say anything for a while. Then I asked:
“When are you going to tell your folks, Jocelyn?”
“I—don't know. Jeff wanted to wait until the new book was published and had brought him some money. But—supposing it doesn't sell, Marjorie? You see, books about political economy aren't exactly popular. Of course, Jeff's books are quite wonderful. His first one, 'The Distribution of Wealth,' received all sorts of flattering notices and did beautifully for a book of its kind, but while it is awfully interesting, I can readily understand that the popular demand would be limited.”
“Do you mean that you've read it?” I asked.
“Why, of course; every word of it.”
“How you must love him, Jocelyn!” I murmured.
“So, supposing we waited another six months and the book didn't sell. Jeff declares that it will, that it can't fail to. He hopes that schools and universities will adopt it as a text-book. But if it shouldn't, we'd have waited for nothing, Marjorie. And now that you know our secret, it hardly seems safe to go on.”
“Jocelyn!”
“No, no, dear, really I didn't mean it that way. I know you will be as silent as the grave, Marjorie, but Jeff, while he agreed with me that you ought to be told, feels that, once a third party knows it, it is our duty to inform those who are most concerned. What do you say, dear?”
I sat up and wrinkled my forehead a moment. Then I said:
“If I were you, Jocelyn, I'd sit right down this very afternoon and write to my parents and tell them all about it. And I'd have Mr. Tully write too. I think it's perfectly absurd to go on this way and be miserable, and upset, and nervous. Money has nothing at all to do with it. Mr. Tully will never be rich, dear, because he isn't that sort of a man, and you know it as well as I do. And he doesn't need to be rich. He's perfectly splendid as he is.” Jocelyn hugged me here and I had to wait to get my breath back before I went on. “Your mother and father will be proud of him for what he is, and has done, and will do, Jocelyn. There's plenty of money in your family and some brains might be a distinct addition.”
“You insulting creature,” she laughed. Then she grew serious again. “But I think you're right, dear, and oh, I would like to 'fess up and be forgiven and feel really and truly married! Besides, Jeff may not be here much longer, and then”
“He's not going to leave Mr. Reed?” I exclaimed.
“Why, no, but” Jocelyn stopped and looked at me in such a funny way. “Of course not, dear, but Mr. Reed, as you call him, may get well most any time, and then Jeff would be out of a position. And now that his book is done” She stopped and looked thoughtful a moment. Then, “I must see him and talk it over first, Marjorie,” she said with decision. “But how can I see him? I don't dare to just walk over there and ask for him, as I have a perfect right to do.”
“We'll go over together directly after luncheon,” I said, “and I'll tell Mr. Tully to show you his flowers. And, Jocelyn dear, do promise me one thing. When you and Mr. Tully have a place of your own, please, please hire a gardener!”