All that was most vague and sometimes greatly disturbing, because he did not know what to do about it. Obviously it was his part to find out, but how? Yet he had to let her know that he had not forgotten.
And sometimes he wondered if the girl understood all this. If that kiss and pledge had meant as much to her as to himself. Or had she long ago forgotten, even as other girls forgot? No, she was not like that. She did not have jacinth eyes. He was glad that her eyes were brown and deeply true, and sometime he would have a chance to tell her all about this that was in his soul, which he could not express in words. But now, he must write her, nevertheless.
She had said she was not of his world. So much he remembered, and it had stricken him with its possibilities. Very well, there was a story like that in mythology. A maiden of the sea and a man who was of the earth? Or was it the other way around? He could not remember. They had somehow come together because they really belonged together, wasn’t that it? Had the man plunged into the sea? Or the maiden? Somehow they had found each other. It had meant the death of one to his own environment, but he had gained infinitely! Well then, he would somehow become a part of her world. He would find a way. What was that she had said that night before they were interrupted—a strange phrase, be “born again”? Was that it? How would one be born again?
And so he lingered, looking at the sea, holding his pen over the paper, and asking age-old questions of himself that he could not answer any more than the rich young ruler of old who found the price too great.
Yet one thing worked out of that long hour of thought, perhaps deeper thought than he had ever given to any one subject before, and that was that he must find this thing, whatever it was, that would make him of her world; and not alone for her sake, but for something even deeper, some so far unsuspected longing in his own breast that demanded it of him and would not otherwise be satisfied.
Out of the chaos of that lovely hour, and that bright illusive head against the sea with deep, sweet eyes, he drew one clear thought. This thing he sought was not being sought for her, not even for love of her, though he knew he loved her, but was being sought for its own sake, because she had made him see that it was the only thing in the universe worthwhile. It was better than herself. It was enough in itself even without her, and it was not to be sought just for her sake but for its own sake and for his sake.
When he came to that point, where he was sure of his own heart about that, his pen was free and he could write.
It was only a little commonplace letter that he felt he had any right to write, but the words came quick and hot from his pen, and his face lit with a new kind of joy.
Dear Camilla,
You can’t think how annoyed I am that things have shaped themselves so that I cannot come home and see you. There are questions I must ask you and things that I would understand, and I cannot find their answer anywhere down here, but I am not free to leave yet, for Dad can’t come. And now Mother has taken a notion that I must go on a camping spree with my kid brother down in the Everglades. The scoutmaster is a stranger to us, and she can’t feel safe unless I go along. It’s fishing and hunting and a little exploring perhaps, just the thing a kid brother is crazy about, so I’ve promised to go for a day or two and see that it’s all right. Then as soon as I can get away I’m coming north again, and I want to see you as soon as I can. I want to understand what you were saying when we parted. Perhaps you’ll remember what I mean. Please don’t forget.
Your friend,
Jeff
Jeffrey was humming a bright little tune when he came down in the elevator with his letter. To the girl with the jacinth eyes and the red-gold hair who sat in the opposite reception room with an open, unread book in her lap and watched the elevators all the afternoon as a cat might watch for a mouse, he looked most disconcertingly handsome in his sports attire and that strange light in his eyes that so set him apart from other young men—from her. She could not understand that light in his eyes. He did not used to have it. It was a new development, and she wanted to find its source.
She saw the letter in his hand, watched him jealously as he went over to the desk and dropped it in the mailbox. Then he walked out to the terrace and stood surveying the beach from afar.
But she did not go out to him at once. Instead, she stole to a window where she could watch him from behind a curtain and waited until he turned his footsteps down toward the beach. Then, watching her opportunity, she went over to the desk and dropped a letter into the mail slot in the counter, and slowly, casually walked away. The letter was only an advertisement of a dress shop and had been opened. Suddenly she stopped, opened her book, looked hastily through its leaves, and then turned back to the desk.
“Oh, Billy,” she said sweetly, addressing the clerk behind the desk in her husky, drawling tone, “I’ve made a mistake and dropped an open letter into the box along with another. Get the box out for me, that’s a dear, and let me find it?”
Bill came all smiles to do her bidding. She had known he would. When she spoke in that tone, with that kind of a smile, all male population everywhere came running.
Billy reached under the counter and pulled out the mailbox that stood on a shelf under the counter, setting it up on the top for her inspection.
“It must be right on top,” she said, peering in speculatively and sighting Jeffrey Wainwright’s handwriting at once just below her own letter.
“There it is!” she caroled, and then she reached in her hand.
Just then a gruff old gentleman came up and demanded his key.
Billy turned alertly to take it from its hook, and Stephanie skillfully slid her own letter over Jeff’s and picked both up at once, holding them firmly together so that they looked like one. She hadn’t hoped for such a break as this. She had merely hoped to be able to see to whom that letter was addressed.
“Thanks awfully, Billy. You’ve saved me a lot of embarrassment,” she said with a twinkle, as the good-natured clerk turned back and slid the mailbox down into its niche again.
Then slowly, innocently, Stephanie walked away from the desk, laying the letters carefully in her book as she ran for the elevator and rose to her room with the stolen letter safe in her possession.
Half an hour afterward she appeared on the beach in a becoming bathing suit and with narrowed eyes called a cheerful greeting to Jeff as he strolled by, still trying to conjure brown eyes and gold hair against a summer sea.
But the letter that had taken so long to write lay in little flecks of ashes in a jeweled ashtray, and the beautiful young vixen with jacinth eyes sat far into the night watching the curl of those ashes and gloating over them and over the girl who would wait forever for a letter that would not come.
But the jacinth eyes were smoldering with thought and were not satisfied. There was something behind all this. A casual letter like that, and yet something had somehow changed him. She was not sure she wanted him for herself exclusively—at least she was not sure she wanted to be his exclusively—but she did not want another girl to have him. What had those two been talking about when he left her? That was what she had to find out. That was what she would find out one day. Without that secret, she was powerless to conquer him.
In the early dawn of the tropical morning, just as the sun was beginning to tinge the sea with celestial colors and cause the world to resemble the Holy City let down out of heaven from God, Jeff stole forth from his room clad in a hunting outfit.
He went down to join his kid brother and the campers at a little rendezvous beside the sea, beyond the confines of the world where Stephanie Varrell moved. So he disappeared from the life of the great playground into an odd new playground of his own, seeking something whose name he did not know and conjuring, with the thought of a kiss, a bright head with eyes of brown.
Chapter 13
Camilla went out of the office and down the marble hall in company with her employer, a sudden constriction in her heart. What might the next hour bring forth? But there was
one thing to which she was resolved. If there was a chance at all, she would put in a good word for poor Marietta. She would take her own medicine as well as she could. But she would tell her employer just what a proposition Marietta was up against. If he had a heart at all he would be affected. Perhaps the story of little crippled Ted would reach him. Of course, she knew that Marietta was by no means a model secretary, but perhaps she would do better if he would take her back and give her another trial. At least she would put in a word for her, if it seemed at all practical.
Whitlock put her in his luxurious car and threaded his way gravely through traffic, out to one of the older parts of town where quiet culture still reigned for three or four ancient blocks and vague, quaint footprints of aristocracy were visible in massive stone walls—the flute of a column, the grill of a gate or a balcony.
Camilla looked around her in surprise. She did not know where she was. She lifted a quick, questioning glance to her escort’s face.
He was smiling down at her, almost as if she were something he had found and captured, a butterfly or a strange bird, out of the sunshine. “I’m taking you to a quaint old place that I love,” he said in answer to her questioning look. “I felt you would appreciate it. Have you ever been here before?”
“No,” she said wonderingly, “where is this?”
“Hampden Row,” he answered, pleased at her interest, “and this is the old Warrington Inn. This is where the elite of fifty years ago used to come for their dignified social life. It happens that business, in its ebb and flow, has left these four blocks here high and dry, just as they used to be. A strange twist of circumstances has kept the march of progress from touching a finger to these fine old buildings. Fortunes have been offered for the land they are built upon, but the unusual phrasing of a will has so far prevented the original estate from being divided, and the absence of an heir, whose heirs in turn cannot be traced, protects them. Meantime, those who are in on the secret can enjoy the quaint old-time place and its ways. I thought you might be one of those who could appreciate this.”
Camilla was intrigued at once. She had forgotten for the time being her troubles and perplexities and gave attention to this quiet oasis in the midst of the whirl and noise of the city traffic.
They entered the old Warrington Inn with its mellowed oak beams and its huge stone fireplace, its quaint interiors and vistas, and its spacious air of the dignity of other days, and immediately Camilla felt a quiet peace descend upon her.
“Oh,” she said softly to her escort, “how my mother would love this!”
“We’ll bring her here sometime!” said Whitlock instantly. “I would enjoy bringing her here!”
“Oh, you must excuse me!” said Camilla, with flaming cheeks. “I didn’t realize what I was saying. I didn’t mean to hint!”
“Of course you didn’t!” Whitlock’s eyes were wearing that pleasant smile, and he looked down into her troubled brown eyes. “I really mean it. I would love to bring her here. How soon will she be able to come?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” evaded Camilla. “Several weeks, I’m sure. She hasn’t been out yet. You are very kind, but you mustn’t trouble yourself. I can bring her around to see it sometime in the spring when she is able to go out. I have my little car, you know. And Mother would be terribly distressed at my going around hinting things. I really didn’t realize. I was just talking to myself.”
“Don’t worry!” he laughed. “I’m glad you did. It rather lets me into the group, doesn’t it? I must do myself the honor of calling upon your mother!”
Camilla looked distressed and rather dismayed.
“I’m afraid you won’t feel it much honor,” she said, frankly embarrassed, “not when you see the little old grubby house where we live.”
“I am quite sure the house is being greatly honored by the people who are condescending to live in it,” he said gracefully, and Camilla looked up to see a different Mr. Whitlock from any she had known before. The stiffness and dignity, the brusque manner and sharp glance were gone, and in their place were all the graces of a courteous, genial gentleman. Not that he had been discourteous before, but this was a new kind of courtesy. Social courtesy.
He saw to the ordering in the easiest way, suggesting unusual dishes that were in order when the inn was built, delectable old-fashioned things. And then he began to tell the history of the inn, of famous occurrences in its time, noted men and women who had been its frequenters, incidents, brief stories of this one and that, until Camilla could see them seated at the various tables in their strange, old-fashioned garb. And as she ate her delicious meal she felt as if she were in a fairy story. Mr. Whitlock was certainly a fascinating conversationalist. But why was he wasting it all on her, just his secretary?
Suddenly she came to herself and glanced furtively at her watch.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Whitlock! Do you know what time it is? My lunch hour was over long ago!”
“I have been boring you!” he said quickly. “I’m sorry!”
“Oh no, you haven’t bored me at all,” said Camilla eagerly. “It was delightful! You made me entirely forget that I am an employee, not a guest, and that we came here to talk business. And you haven’t said a word about the business.”
His eyes studied her, and she could see that he was pleased that she had enjoyed herself.
“But you’re not an employee. You’re my guest today. And as for the business, that can wait. I was only going to ask you what you thought about Marietta. Is she hopeless, or do you think she could be trained? Consider your answer with deliberation, for if she has to be trained, the training will largely fall upon you, I’m afraid.”
“I train her? Oh, I wouldn’t know how!” said Camilla, “and I don’t believe she’d take it from me.”
“She would if I told her,” said the man, watching the play of lights on the girl’s face. “You see, it’s this way. I’ve had the offer of a Miss Townsend from the Fortescu office. She’s already trained and quite efficient, I understand, but—well, I don’t like the style of bob she wears for her age.”
Camilla couldn’t help laughing and enjoyed the answering twinkle in her employer’s eyes. Then she grew more serious. This, then, was what all this pleasant afternoon had meant. He had brought her here to put it up to her whether he should dismiss herself and Marietta and put Miss Townsend in their place. For, of course, Miss Townsend was an old hand and would be more efficient than both of them put together. Mr. Whitlock had taken this way to soften the dismissal. Her heart sank deep and missed a beat or two, but she tried to summon her courage and self-respect. If she was to pass out of the office this way, by all means, let it be done bravely!
“You mean,” she said, trying to steady her voice and look the man coolly in the eye, “that you would take Miss Townsend in our place? I should think that there was no question about what would be best for you. Miss Townsend is most efficient and would certainly be worth both of us put together.”
“Where do you get that ‘our place’? You surely don’t think I’m going to let anyone take your place, do you?” He gave her a deep, pleasant look, as if they had been close friends a long time, and Camilla’s tired heart gave a leap of relief. Then he didn’t mean to dismiss her after all. The relief was so great that it almost hurt.
But after the pain was gone there was a perplexity in the back of her mind. A little bewilderment over that look he had given her, as if perhaps he were looking to her for more than she realized. But the thought did not come out in the open in so many words. It simply remained there, a little uncomfortable impression. Yet when she tried to analyze it she laughed at herself. Truly, she was making mountains out of mole hills. There could have been nothing but a belated interest in his eyes. His conscience had probably troubled him that he had not more definitely looked after her before this, a friend of friends from his hometown, and now he was trying to show her that he had a real personal interest in her. That was the way with busy people; they didn’t
quite realize what impression they were making. Well, she was glad and relieved that she was not going to have to hunt another job in such hard times!
But what she said was, “You’re very kind, Mr. Whitlock, and of course that relieves me a lot. It wouldn’t be easy for me to lose my job just now when Mother has been so ill and there have been so many extra expenses. Still, I wouldn’t want you to feel that you had to keep me if you could get somebody that would do your work better. And, of course, I know it would easily be possible. I haven’t had long experience as Miss Townsend has.”
“Well, I don’t want anybody better than you are at present, so you can forget that.” He smiled graciously, watching the play of expression on Camilla’s speaking face. If she had only known it, he was wondering how it was that he had never noticed before how lovely she was. “But I was thinking about Marietta. Do you think you could do anything with her, or shall we let her go? In fact, I practically dismissed her this morning, told her she could go tomorrow morning if she wanted to hunt another job. Then I began to think it might be better to consult you.”
There was something delicately flattering in his tone, but Camilla was thinking of the woebegone Marietta who had been weeping all over her makeup that morning, and it came to her that perhaps, after all, there might be a way to help her.
“She’s having a hard time,” said Camilla speculatively. “Did you know about her home life?”
“Mercy, no! I don’t know a thing about her except that she’s the worst I ever tried. She seems to me a mess. I don’t know why I question keeping her at all, except that I thought I would consult your wishes before I made any definite changes.”
“You are very considerate,” said Camilla gratefully, “but I think it should be what you need, not what I want. However, personally, I’d be very glad if you could see your way clear to keep Marietta. I feel dreadfully sorry for her. She’s never had half a chance, if what she tells me is true. She has a flighty young stepmother who hates her and a little crippled stepbrother whom she adores, and apparently she’s the only one who cares for him. I don’t know whether I could do anything to help her or not, but I’d be glad to try if you think she wouldn’t resent it. I certainly think it is going to be terribly hard for her if she loses her job now.”
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