VII.
Not since she left Stonehurst had Marie Louise enjoyed a really satisfactory gossip with a female friend. Some of the girls she had met in New York had been friendly, had even confided in her; but a certain sense of danger, of something unknown and hostile and critical in them, had kept Marie Louise from similar imprudence.
She spent the whole of the next morning with Dora, going over the modest trousseau, looking at presents, and hearing the story of the growth of Bobby Peters’ newer passion. This story would have seemed a hard one to tell, for, of course, it was also the story of how he had freed himself from the toils of Marie Louise, but Dora's loyalty to her friend attributed the change entirely to Marie Louise’s greatness. No man could go on loving a woman who had soared so far above him.
Marie Louise found all this interesting, but it was as nothing to her excitement when Dora asked the inevitable question as to the state of Marie Louise’s own affections. For, somehow, while expressing the utmost coldness to the sex in general and as individuals, Marie Louise, wishing to give merit where it was due, soon found herself talking almost exclusively about Jerry.
Dora knew everything in an instant. It was all as clear as day to Dora. Of course, he loved Marie Louise. Naturally a man would hesitate, knowing his own unworthiness. Why, even Bobby had hesitated, for Dora had been his confidant at one time. This was the only explanation. That a man should hesitate was to be expected; that he should be received by her as a friend and not instantly adore her, was, in Dora’s opinion, perfectly incredible.
“Oh, I think he likes me,” Marie Louise observed, “but nothing more—I am sure of that. If he did, you know, Dora, I don’t see why he doesn’t say so.”
“Or else go away from you entirely,” said Dora sagely. “He'll probably try to do that first.”
The wedding was to be in the evening. We may be sure that Marie Louise had already learned from Mrs. Emmons that this was not the fashionable hour, although until recently she had never supposed that a wedding could take place at any other time.
A few of the great ones of Stonehurst, whom Miss Carman deigned to honor, came to lunch on the private car—a sumptuous feast, very much admired by the porter. Afterward Marie Louise had intended a tour of the country in automobiles, but a chance question from Jerry changed her plans.
“Where did you used to live?” he said, “I'd like to see the house.”
And so it happened that the rest of the party were sent off without Jerry and their hostess, and these two presently found themselves standing in front of the little slate-colored cottage.
Its appearance had not been improved by a year of desertion.
The grass, which had grown long in tufts showed here and there above the melting snow; the paint had faded on the scalloped shingles, and the shutters were shut and barred.
They passed at once into the little sitting-room, and, looking about, Jerry felt a perfect frenzy of pity for any one who had had to spend the first twenty years of life in such surroundings.
The paper was a dark mixture of brown and gold scrolls; the furniture, now pushed into the middle of the room, was stained a deep purple, in optimistic imitation of old mahogany. The tables had marble tops and brass legs; the prints on each side of the mantelpiece (there was no place for a fire in it) represented ladies of the early days of the century, eloping without their parents’ consent.
“My poor, dear child,” he said, “did you really call this place home for twenty years? Good heavens, the patience of women! I should have robbed the till and gone to the devil in six months.”
“Oh, no, you wouldn't,” returned Marie Louise, beaming on him in the intensity of her admiration. Somehow the strength of his sympathy for her seemed to necessitate his taking her hand; and she did not take it away. “No, you wouldn't; you would have made it all over into something beautiful, and you would have made your fortune, even in Stonehurst.”
“Well, I haven't been so successful at it, even in New York,” he answered, smiling; “but perhaps I shall have more success up the Amazon.”
Oh, prophetic Dora! “Up the Amazon! What do you mean?” asked Marie Louise, with an alarm she did not think of concealing.
“These chaps have been backing and filling for six months, but I think we are really off now.”
Marie Louise turned him with serious eyes, and said in a tone calculated to compel the truth “Why are you going?”
Now, in the face of so much significance, it was almost impossible to answer: “Because I want to;” and Jerry, casting about for a suitable and agreeable answer, said finally:
“I think I had rather be out of the country while you are making that grand match that you are so evidently destined for. This will give you at least eighteen months to break my heart in.”
“How about my heart?” said she.
“Oh, the great match won't break your heart, because—I am selfish enough to be glad—yours won't be sufficiently involved.”
“And suppose I do; suppose I should do as you say and marry while you are away—you would be glad?”
“Glad that I had one less friend to come back to? Hardly.”
Marie Louise’s steady gaze never faltered. “You mean that if I were married we shouldn’t be friends any more?”
Jerry looked at her, smiled, and slowly shook his head.
The smile was both tender and regretful, but beyond this it might have been interpreted in any one of a dozen different ways, but Marie Louise, under the influence of Dora’s prophetic spirit, interpreted in the way she most desired.
“Don’t go,” she said. “Why should you, if you don’t want to, and I can’t bear to have you? I can’t bear to have you go, Jerry. Why should money stand between us? What is my money for if not to make me happy?”
“You wonderful, generous woman,” cried Orvice, pressing both the hands she gave him against his breast; “I'll tell you what your money is for—to make you happy on a good deal higher plane, with a good deal more important man than I, I'm afraid.”
“But how could I ever be happy with any one else, if I love you?” asked Marie Louise.
For answer Jerry kissed her, and the next instant was hearing that she had guessed a long time before that he cared, that it was wicked to think of going away from her without telling her, that it was insulting of him to have thought she would marry some one else as soon as his back was turned, and that, in short, she was the happiest of women, and was utterly undeserving of him.
Marie Louise had never hesitated to share anything, and she was now only too eager to share her happiness. Her mother was at once informed of her engagement. Mrs. Carman was sitting in the glassed-in observation-car, knitting, when Marie Louise and Jerry returned. The elder lady was at once smothered in the sable boa that her daughter was wearing, while the girl explained:
“He did care for me all along, mommer, and we're engaged. Aren’t you glad?”
She did not wait for an answer, but whirled away to where she heard Mrs. Emmons’ voice.
Jerry and Mrs. Carman were thus left alone, and a silence followed which he, at least, soon found only too suggestive.
“Am I all wrong, Mrs. Carman,” he said, at length, “in thinking that you used to like me?”
“Oh, no,” replied the future mother-in-law, “I like you very much, Mr. Orvice. I have often said to Marie Louise that I liked you better than any gentleman that came to see her, but I ain't a great believer in matrimony; no, nor a great admirer of your sex. My husband ran away from me, Mr. Orvice; and I don’t know why to this day.”
“Probably because you were much too good for him.”
Mrs. Carman chuckled faintly. “And you think that wouldn’t apply to you and Marie Louise?”
“A man who loves a woman probably appreciates her even more than her mother, Mrs. Carman.”
“Yes, if he loves her.”
They exchanged a quick, violent glance.
“Is that what you think?” he asked.
“I don’t just know what to think. I made sure you'd never ask her to marry you.”
“And you would have thought better of me if I had not?”
Mrs. Carman shook her head. “I don’t know that, either.”
“Well, I tell you what it is,” said Jerry. “Suppose you agree to think well of me if I succeed in making her happy?”
“Oh, it isn’t hard to make Marie Louise happy. She mostly does it for herself.”
“What are you afraid of?” he asked.
She shook her head again, “I don’t know exactly.”
He could get nothing more satisfactory from her, and went away confirmed in his opinion that she was a wise woman. Under certain circumstances the wise can depress one a good deal, and Jerry, feeling rather dispirited, left Mrs. Carman only to fall into the clutches of Mrs. Emmons.
He had not had time to think of Mrs. Bill’s attitude toward his engagement, but now he recognized at once that she was not pleased. They had only a second, and stood facing each other in the narrow hallway of the car.
“There,” she said quickly, “don’t apologize. I suppose no man would be proof against having nine millions and a bouncing young woman thrown at his head—certainly not you.”
“I was not going to apologize,” said Jerry; “and I’m afraid you would have difficulty in making any one believe that”
“Oh, yes, of course, you had the utmost trouble in winning a reluctant consent. My dear boy, have I not eyes in my head? Well, I dare say you will be quite as happy.”
“At this moment I should be happier if you did not take quite such a disgusting view of my conduct.”
“I see that if I listen to you a moment longer you are going to protest that you love her—that she is the only woman for you. Upon my word, Jerry, I don’t think I can quite stand that. Let me offer you a piece of advice. You have to be honest with some one, in order to get the right lies told. I should advise you to be honest with your old friends.”
“What a beast I must have been,” said Orvice slowly, “if this is the best my old friends can think of me.”
“You're one of the people that one can think anything of; one feels just the same.”
“Thank you,” said Orvice; “but I don’t think I care much about being that kind of person.” And with some abruptness he turned on his heel and left her.
He was standing in the dining-car, which at that moment was utterly deserted, when Marie Louise whirled in upon him.
She slipped both hands through his arm.
“Oh, Jerry,” she said, “isn’t it wonderful? Isn't it exciting? Every one is so pleased. Mommer’s delighted. She always liked you.”
He drew her to him, and rested his cheek on her hair. From this position it was obviously impossible that she should see his face.
“Every one,’ she went on, “except Mrs. Emmons; and of course she would be a little envious, because you are so much nicer than Bill.”
“I wonder if I am nicer than Bill,” said Orvice; and indeed it was the very first time it had ever occurred to him that he was not. “You know, my dear,” he added, “that I am a pretty poor lot. Don’t you believe it?” he added, as she laughed gently. “Or don’t you care?”
“I don’t believe I understand you,” she returned, “I know you don’t just bristle with principles the way Bobby Peters used to. But I know when a man’s a gentleman it’s all right, and I like whatever you are.”
His arm pressed her so suddenly and so closely to him that when he released her she had quite forgotten that it had been she who initiated the caress.
Their avowed intention was not to announce the engagement until Jerry had had time to tell his mother, but any one who had observed them at Dora’s wedding night might have guessed the truth, even if the beaming happiness of Marie Louise’s expression had not already revealed it. After not too obvious maneuvering on her part they stood side by side in one of the front pews, and listened to the irremediable words exchanged by Dora and her Bobby. Marie Louise’s eyes kept turning from the bride and fastening themselves on her tall neighbor, until at last Jerry glanced down at her, They allowed themselves a short meeting of eyes—kind and a little amused on his part; exalted and serious on hers.
It is not surprising that Mrs. Orvice had heard rumors of all that had taken place even before Jerry, immediately after his return from Stonehurst, found himself alone with her.
The train got in about five, and Mrs. Orvice was in the drawing-room drinking her tea when Jerry entered. He knew at once by the piercing and agonized glance she directed at him that she feared the worst.
“Well, mother,” he said mildly, “does it stick out?”
It was one of those times, so common between people who love each other, when a crisis seemed to be only an opportunity of inflicting pain rather than of showing consideration.
“I don’t know what you mean,” returned his mother. She did know what he meant only too well, but she had no intention of softening his task for him, “Did you have a pleasant journey?” she added, in a tone of polite interest.
“You are quite right, my dear mother,” said Jerry, not even noticing her question. “Miss Carman has promised to marry me.”
After a short struggle, Mrs. Orvice answered with real warmth:
“I hope that you will be very, very happy, Jerry.”
“Well, if I weren’t”
“Ah, well, it does not seem to me that material benefits are the passports to happiness.”
“A very original point of view, I’m sure,” returned her son, with some bitterness.
“I am sorry you think it necessary to speak like that,” replied his mother, justly incensed at his tone. “But that is always the way with young people. You must do whatever you wish, and then you are angry at me for not approving of it.”
Her son laughed and kissed her. “Do you really think it was because you did not approve that I was angry? Of course, the world at large is going to take me for a mercenary beast, but I had rather hoped that you might see something more in, it.”
Plainly this was a point of view that had never occurred to Mrs. Orvice, and she honestly tried to invisage it.
“You mean you love her? How can I think so,” she moaned, “when I know she isn’t the kind of girl you could love?”
“Wait until you know a little more about her.”
“You do love her?”
“Am I to protest and justify myself to you?”
She did not answer, and he knew she was unconvinced.