“You see, really, Daryl, in my position as a rising businessman”—he cleared his throat, arranged his necktie, and tried to look stern and important—“I’m obliged to go into society a good deal, and one can’t go into society and not do as others do. You know I don’t care anything about drinking. I’ve told you that before. And I promised you—yes, I promised you, I know—that I would swear off entirely, but I found it wouldn’t work. It just doesn’t go down with my friends! When in Rome you’ve got to do as the Romans do, you know. Doesn’t the Bible say that?”
Daryl did not answer. She wanted to laugh but found herself instead struggling with sudden tears. How she was getting her eyes opened!
“I don’t intend to make a practice of drinking of course,” he went on. “That’s absurd! What do you think I am? A drunkard?”
Daryl lifted honest eyes.
“You were drunk when you talked to me over the telephone, Harold!” She said it solemnly, with utter sorrow in her eyes.
“Nonsense!” he said sharply. “Nothing of the kind! I may have been a bit funny, kidding you and all that! I had taken a little more than I usually allow myself, but I certainly wasn’t drunk. I can stand a good deal of liquor, Daryl. It doesn’t affect me easily. But I had had a long, cold drive, and I thought it would keep me from being sick if I took an extra glass.”
He looked at her almost virtuously.
Still Daryl didn’t answer, and then a big tear fell down on her hands that were folded in her lap.
“Aw, forget it!” he said in an annoyed tone; and then suddenly he reached out and drew her into his arms embracing her fiercely.
“You silly little pretty Puritan!” he said, half angrily, half passionately, and kissed her again and again on lips and forehead and wet eyelids, before she could get free.
For Daryl was fighting him off, struggling from his grasp, pushing him away from her, and she sprang to her feet as soon as she got free, wiping off his kisses with her handkerchief, her face white and excited. She had a sudden revelation that she did not want his kisses.
“No!” she said vehemently. “No! You must not do that! You have no right!”
“Right?” said Harold, lifting amazed eyes. “Why haven’t I the right, I’d like to know? Haven’t you been my girl for almost six months? Haven’t I intimated that I was expecting to marry you pretty soon?”
“I don’t think you have,” said Daryl, suddenly haughty. “But if you had it wouldn’t make any difference now.”
There was such an utter sadness, a withdrawing in her voice, that Harold was startled.
“Oh, I say, now, Daryl, that isn’t fair of you! I came out here with the intention of talking it all over with you. I even brought you a ring! Come here and see it! It’s a beauty!”
“No!” said Daryl sharply. “No, please!”
But he held the little blue velvet box out on his hand temptingly.
“Aw, come on, Daryl. Forget all this nonsense and come and look at your ring. I didn’t say much about it because I wanted to wait till I could get a really fine one. But I decided not to wait any longer. If you and I are going out a lot you should have it to wear right now, so I borrowed the money and got it! Come on, baby! Come on and look at it. It’s a beaut!”
He rose and came toward her, springing the cover of the box open and letting the afternoon sun glitter through the big, showy diamond.
“Isn’t it a pip?” he said, suddenly throwing his arm around her and holding the diamond in front of her, resting his chin possessively on her shoulder.
But Daryl pulled away and stood back from him.
“Don’t!” she said seriously. “I could not wear your ring, Harold! There was a time when I would have been overjoyed at a ring from you, even a little plain one. You would not have had to get me a large, gorgeous one like that if everything had been all right. But Harold—!” She half turned away, struggling with tears. Then she turned back, her head lifted high, an earnest look on her face.
“Harold, you killed something that I thought was very precious that night you got drunk and talked to me over the telephone. I never, never could forget that. I kept trying and trying to think how I could be mistaken, how you would come and tell me that you had only been joking or something—though it seemed a cruel sort of joke when you knew how I felt about it—and then you came and not only didn’t excuse yourself, but you are trying to justify yourself in doing something that made it possible. Oh! You cannot know how awful it was to me! And then the fact that you went away to another place after planning for our Christmas together, you actually went without saying a word about it until you got there! Altogether it just broke my faith in you. For two whole days I tried with all my might to build up again the ideal I had of you, but it is gone. I can’t get it back. It was a terrible shock, but I haven’t any illusions left.”
“Aw, applesauce!” said Harold as she paused and gave him a sorrowful glance. “I didn’t know you were a sob-sister! For heaven’s sake, snap out of it. Don’t you know you are spoiling all my weekend? If this has got to keep on I’m leaving the first thing in the morning!”
He whirled around and went and stood staring sullenly out of the window. He was standing so when Ruth came to call them to the evening meal, and Daryl was sitting strangely quiet, as if all happiness had fled from her life.
The rest of them did their best during dinner to bring about a happier state of things, but Harold remained sullen and silent, scarcely answering decently when a question was addressed to him. After dinner he did not offer to help with the dishes as the others were doing. Instead he took himself off to his room while Daryl was busy. Her mother kept trying to send her back to the living room to keep him company, saying she and Ruth would finish, but she would not go. With a forced brightness she remained until the last dish was put away and the table set for breakfast, and when she finally came back to the living room Harold stalked out of his room and remarked in a tone plenty loud enough to be heard in the dining room where the others were about to take refuge from his company, that it wasn’t right that she should have to do menial work when her people were plenty able to hire servants. And that even if she did want to do it she shouldn’t have to be tied down that way, especially when he was there, and had only a short time to stay.
Lance heard that and pricked up his ears. Then he laid his hand on Ruth’s arm and said in a good clear tone, “Come on, folks, let’s have some music,” and he marched them all into the living room and established Ruth at the piano.
“Come on, Harold,” called Lance politely, “you sing, don’t you? How about this quartette? Are you tenor or bass?”
“Baritone,” said Harold languidly, “but I don’t care to sing tonight! I came here to see Daryl!” he added pointedly.
“Yes?” said Lance with imperturbable good humor. “Well, Daryl sings. Come on and be a good sport!”
“Thanks! No!” said Harold decidedly.
“Well then, how about a jigsaw puzzle?” offered Mother Devereaux, determined if possible to get a little acquainted with this young man whom she might have to have for her son-in-law someday.
“They’re a pain in the neck!” growled the handsome, spoiled boy. “I might rise to a game of bridge though, if any of you are good players,” he offered contemptuously.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to pass that,” said Lance crisply. “We don’t any of us play bridge. But I could get out the ping-pong table. It doesn’t take any time at all to set it up.”
“Child’s play!” said Harold scornfully. “I have to work hard enough all the week without doing it under the guise of amusement.”
“Well, I have it, we’ll go sledding then! The hill is fine tonight and the moon is out!” Lance grinned in his most friendly manner at the glowering guest.
“Oh, heavens!” said Harold. “How restless you are. I have no desire to go wallowing around in the snow getting wet and cold. Go if you want to. I prefer to stay here.”
So they all sett
led down around the fire genially and began to talk. Lance distinctly heard Harold say quite audibly to Daryl, who sat not far from him, “How long do we have to stand this?” but he went right on telling jokes and laughing with his father at some little local happenings they were talking about, and the whole family sat quietly by just as if nothing at all was going on, just as if everything were perfectly serene and harmonious. Ruth told little incidents of her kindergarten, some childish pranks that were truly amusing. Father told how Chrystobel had nosed under the hay he had brought her and got the apple he had hidden there for her dessert. Lance got off an anecdote of his college days, and even Mother roused to ask Harold about his business, where he boarded, and if he had pleasant surroundings. He answered in monosyllables as far as possible and looked bored to extinction. Only Daryl sat silent for the most part, though now and then rousing to talk brightly and then relapsing into sad silence again. But the family was so exceedingly pleasant as if they were trying so hard to stand by her, that she began to suspect them of a plot as she watched them one by one, and then eyes glowed with sudden love for them all, and she came out of her silence and told some bright stories herself.
But still Harold sat in silent gloom, enduring, and waiting for the family to take themselves off, which they showed no signs of doing. They just sat and laughed and talked.
Suddenly Lance said, “Daryl, get your violin and let’s do that Messiah music. Harold wasn’t here last week to hear it.”
“Oh, Lance!” said Daryl softly, aghast at the suggestion. “Don’t bother, Daryl” said Harold loftily, “I hate to hear girls play the violin. They never do it well, and they always look so extremely awkward, all long arms.”
“Oh, but we don’t mind,” laughed Lance. “Come on, Darrie, we’ve got to do something to entertain the crowd. Can’t waste a whole perfectly good Saturday night like this.” He held out his hand to his sister and pulled her to her feet, and then he took Ruth’s hand with his other one and pulled them along to the piano.
Daryl’s cheeks were flaming, but she rose to the occasion, taking down her violin and beginning to tune it. As she gave a preliminary touch of the bow across the strings she looked up comically at Harold and said, “Never mind, Harold, if you don’t like it you can go to sleep.” Then she turned quickly toward the piano and began to play, dashing into the music with a fuller tone, and a truer swing than she usually had, and presently the sweet strains of Handel filled the room, and Father and Mother Devereaux sat back and watched their three proudly, forgetting for the moment the unwanted guest whom they had tried so hard to entertain, forgetting that they had all agreed to rally around their girl and help her out of what appeared to be a most unhappy evening. They had heard the arguments. They could not avoid it, for Harold talked loudly. They could not help but know that Daryl was being true to her own standards, although they didn’t understand the whole thing of course. But Mother Devereaux was beginning to hope that her girl was getting her eyes opened.
The musicians were doing some fine work. They all had good voices; Ruth sang alto and Daryl’s voice was high and clear. Lance, adaptable always, took either tenor or bass solos, rearranging the high notes to his range. They all had fine musical appreciation and had been well taught. There was something in having their backs to the audience, too, as they stood by the piano. They were not courting appreciation. They were singing for mere love of it and perhaps for the glory of God, too, and Harold was entirely out of the picture.
He lolled suddenly on the couch, watching his former girl with smoldering eyes and wondering just what line he would take with her. Should he make it up to her after this farce was over and compel her to wear his ring? Or should he just go away offended and stay away awhile until she got over her sulking and got frightened lest he wouldn’t return? He had no question that his wouldn’t be the ultimate result. He decided on the latter, unless she showed signs herself of weakening before the evening was over. It would be better at once to let her know that he was master, and that he wasn’t going to stand any more foolishness. Imagine marrying a little prude!
When the last lovely note of the final chorus died away and Daryl turned with an air of finality and put her instrument in its case, Father Devereaux rose.
“Well, folks,” he said genially, his fine old face shining with pleasure, “that was lovely! And now I guess it’s about time we had worship.” And he went and got his big old Bible and brought it back to his place by the fire. The musicians came and sat down in their places, and the room grew quiet. Then suddenly Harold rose precipitately.
“If you’ll excuse me I think I’ll go to bed!” he said bluntly. “I’ve got a beastly headache.”
“Why, that’s too bad!” said Mother Devereaux sympathetically. “Can I get you anything? Some soda, or hot water, or a bit of medicine? I noticed you didn’t seem to enjoy your supper.”
“Better light the fire, Lance,” said Father Devereaux as he turned to the place in the Bible. “It’s all laid ready!”
“Thanks! I’ll light it myself if I need it!” said Harold curtly and stalked off to his room, making short work of his preparations for sleep. They heard him thump down into the bed during the prayer as if he had flung himself there from a height, and Daryl felt a desire to giggle nervously, in spite of the tears brought by her father’s prayer for “the stranger within our gates.”
Oh, that prayer! If Harold could have heard it, how angry he would have been to think that anyone supposed that he needed praying for. But even if Daryl had been more in love than she ever had thought she was, she could not have found fault with the tenderness of that prayer.
And when she went to her bed that night Daryl rested her heart down hard on the everlasting God, and went straight to sleep. There were going to be no regrets in her heart when she let Harold and his ring go away just after a late breakfast the next morning, as he did. She had laid all her burden and perplexity in the hands of the Lord to do with her as He saw fit.
Chapter 15
Demeter Cass did not come to Alan Monteith’s office the first thing when she got home from the Wyndringham house party. She decided that she could do more with him if she could bring him to be a little anxious about it himself, and make him do the calling up. Perhaps it would come to him that he hadn’t been exactly kind to her, and if he should be repentant of course she would have a great part of her battle won. It wasn’t thinkable that that little country girl with the big angel-eyes had been able to make him forget her. She had her siren ways and knew she could depend upon them. Besides she had great stakes to win, and must go cautiously.
So she let three days go by without a sign from herself, and yet no ring or call, nor even a letter of apology came from the young lawyer, who had been so busy since his return that he had scarcely thought of her.
Then one morning when he came to the office he found a note summoning him to her house at eleven o’clock to stay to lunch.
He had to go over to the courthouse almost immediately, so he instructed his secretary to call her and tell her that it would be impossible for him to come as he had to be in court until four o’clock, but if she could be at the office then, or early the next morning, he would give her a half hour.
Demeter had told the secretary she would come that afternoon. But when Alan got back, tired and hungry for he had been too busy to stop for lunch, she was not there. He waited ten minutes and then there came a ring, and a sorrowful voice spoke.
“Alan, I’m sorry, but it’s quite impossible for me to come out this afternoon. The doctor has just been here and says it would be suicidal for me to go out in the cold with this condition of my lungs. It’s a bad cold on my chest, you know, and I’ve been threatened with pneumonia. Now, I’m sorry to ask it, but won’t you come over and have a cup of tea with me? It is imperative that I see you this afternoon. I cannot wait any longer!”
With an annoyed look at his watch and a hopeless thought of the papers he had to go through that night before court to
morrow, he reluctantly said, “All right, I’ll come, but I can’t stay more than a half hour, Demeter. I’m rushed to death just now.”
“Thank you, Alan!” she said drearily and hung up. So Alan jumped into his car and went.
He was vexed with himself for going. He felt somehow that to go to her apartment was poor. He had a lot to do and it would be hard to get away. Besides, business transacted in a house was not nearly so satisfactory as in an office where things were formal. A girl like Demeter could use the sentimental appeal to better advantage outside an office than in. But what else could he do but go? He couldn’t be brutal and refuse. And she seemed to think it was so important. Well, he would get away as soon as he could. What on earth could it be that was so important, anyway?
He passed a tired hand over a weary brow and sighed. And then he remembered.
Ever since he had left the farm, ever since that quiet moment when he had knelt with Lance by the fire and surrendered himself to the Lord he had had that sense of a Presence with him. It had wakened with him in the morning and been nearby in the offing all day when he was hard at work. Today, even in the busy courtroom where he had had to be alert every moment, he had still felt that there was Someone to whom he might turn in perplexity. Someone who was wiser than any judge or lawyer anywhere, and who could guide him unerringly. He put up a quick petition. “Oh Lord, you know about this. Show me what to do, solve any perplexity. Don’t let me do the wrong thing in any way.”
Demeter had set her stage well.
The room was spacious and luxurious, done in black and silver, a combination that well set off its owner with her gold hair and strange green eyes—eyes that could melt tenderly into almost blue at times and then into stormy gray!
There was a fire burning at one side of the wide room and the curtains were drawn, reflecting silvery lights from their folds. There was a large black velvet couch with many pillows of black inviting to comfort. It was drawn across the front of the fire, a low tea table at one end. An immense white bear skin sprawled across the floor in front like a gigantic protector, its glassy eyes regarding Alan, its great pink jaws menacingly wide open. A lavish wealth of roses, pale shell-pink, shed exquisite perfume through the air. Off through a wide doorway the outline of a grand piano gave pleasant vista.
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