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Day after day went by with not a word from Martin. April was slippingoff the calendar. A consistent blue sky hung over a teeming city thatgrew warm and dry beneath a radiant sun. Winter forgotten, spring anovergrown boy, the whole town underwent a subtle change. Its rathersullen winter expression melted into a smile, and all its foreigncharacteristics and color broke out once more under the influence ofsun and blue sky. Alone among the great cities of the world stands NewYork for contrariety and contrast. Its architecture is as various asits citizenship, its manners are as dissimilar as its accents, itsmoods as diverse as its climate. Awnings appeared, straw hats pepperedthe streets like daisies in long fields, shadows moved, dayslengthened, and the call of the country fell on city ears like the thinwistful notes of the pipes of Pan.
Brought up against a black wall Joan left the Roundabout, desisted fromjoy-riding, and, spending most of her time with her mother, triedsecretly and without any outward sign, to regain her equilibrium. Shesaw nothing of Alice and the set, now beginning to scatter, in whichAlice had placed her. She was consistently out to Gilbert Palgrave andthe other men who had been gathering hotly at her heels. Her policy of"who cares?" had received a shock and left her reluctantly andimpatiently serious. She had withdrawn temporarily into a backwater inorder to think things over and wait for Martin to reappear. It seemedto her that her future way of life was in his hands. If Martin cameback soon and caught her in her present mood she would play the gameaccording to the rules. If he stayed away or, coming back, persisted inconsidering her as a kid and treating her as such, away would goseriousness, life being short, and youth but a small part of it, andback she would go to the Merry-go-round, and once more, at twice thepace, with twice the carelessness, the joy-ride would continue. It wasall up to Martin, little as he knew it.
And where was Martin?
There was no letter, no message, no sign as day followed day. Withoutallowing herself to send out an S. O. S. to him, which she well knewthat she had the power to do, she waited, as one waits at crossroads,to go either one way or the other. Although tempted many times to tapthe invisible wire which stretched between them, and to put an end to astate of uncertainty which was indescribably irksome to her impulsiveand imperative nature, she held her hand. Pride steeled her, and vanitygave her temporary patience. She even went so far as to think of himunder another name so that no influence of hers might bring him back.She wanted him to return naturally, on his own account, because he wasunable to keep away. She wanted him, wherever he was and whatever hewas doing, to want her, not to come in cold blood from a sense of duty,in the spirit of martyrdom. She wanted him, for her pride's sake, to beagain the old eager Marty, the burning-eyed, inarticulate Marty, whohad brought her to his house and laid it at her feet with all that washis. In no other way was she prepared to cross what she thought of asthe bridge.
And so, seeing only her mother and George Harley, she waited, saying toherself confidently "If he doesn't come to-day, he will come to-morrow.I told him that I was a kid, and he understood. I've hurt him awfully,but he loves me. He will come to-morrow."
But to-morrow came and where was Martin?
It was a curious time for this girl-woman to go through alone, hidingher crisis from her mother behind smiling eyes, disguising her anxietyunder a cloak of high spirits, herself hurt but realizing that she hadcommitted a hurt. It made her feel like an aeroplane voluntarily landedin perfect condition at the start of a race, waiting for the pilot toget aboard. That he would return at any moment and take her up againshe never doubted. Why should she? She knew Martin. His eyes wonconfidence, and there was a heart of gold behind his smile. She didn'tbelieve that she could have lost him so soon. He would come backbecause he loved her. Hadn't he agreed that she was a kid? And when hedid come back she would take her courage in both hands and tell himthat she wanted to play the game. And then, having been honest, shewould hitch on to life again with a light heart, and neither Alice norGilbert could stand up and flick her conscience. Martin would be happy.
To-morrow and to-morrow, and no Martin.
At the end of a week a letter was received by her mother fromGrandmother Ludlow, in which, with a tinge of sarcasm, she asked thatshe might be honored by a visit of a few days, always supposing thattrains still ran between New York and Peapack and gasolene could stillbe procured for privately owned cars. And there was a postscript inthese words. "Perhaps you have the necessary eloquence to induce theathletic Mrs. Martin Gray to join you."
The letter was handed to Joan across the luncheon table at the Plaza.She read the characteristic effusion with keen amusement. She couldhear the old lady's incisive voice in every word and the tap of herstick across the hall as she laid the letter in the box. How good tosee the country again and go through the woods to the old high placewhere she had turned and found Martin. How good to go back to that oldprison house as an independent person, with the right to respect andeven consideration. It would serve Martin right to find her away whenhe came back. She would leave a little note on his dressing table.
"No wonder the old lady asks if the trains have broken down," said Mrs.Harley. "Of course, we ought to have gone out to see her, Geordie."
"Of course," said George, "of course"--but he darted a glance at Joanwhich very plainly conveyed the hope that she would find some reasonwhy the visit should not be made. Would he ever forget standing in thatstiff drawing-room before that contemptuous old dame, feeling exactlylike a very small worm?
The strain of waiting for Martin day after day had told on Joan. Shelonged for a change of atmosphere, a change of scene. And what a jokeit would be to be able to face her grandfather and grandmother withoutshaking in her shoes! "Of course," said Joan. "Let's drive out to-dayin time for dinner, and send a telegram at once. Nothing like strikingwhile the iron's hot. Papa Geordie, tell the waiter to bring a blank,and we'll concoct a message between us. Is that all right for you,Mother?"
Mrs. Harley looked rather like a woman being asked to run a quarter ofa mile to catch a train, but she gave a little laugh and said, "Yes,dear. I think so, although, perhaps, to-morrow--"
"To-day is a much better word," said Joan. She was sick of to-morrowand to-morrow. "Packing won't take any time. I'll go home directlyafter lunch and set things moving and be here in the car at threethirty. We can see the trees and smell the ferns and watch the sun setbefore we have to change for dinner. I'm dying to do that."
No arguments or objections were put forward.
This impetuous young thing must have her way.
And when the car drove away from the Plaza a few minutes after theappointed time Joan was as excited as a child, Mrs. Harley quitecertain that she had forgotten her sponge bag and her bedroom slippers,and George Harley betting on a time that would put more lines on hisface.
There was certainly more than a touch of irony in Joan's gladness to goback so soon to the cage from which she had escaped with such eagerness.
There had been no word and no sign of Martin.
But as Joan had run upstairs Gilbert Palgrave had come out from thedrawing-room and put himself deliberately in her way.
"I can't stay now, Gilbert," she had said. "I'm going into the country,and I haven't half a second to spare. I'm so sorry."
He had held his place. "You've got to give me five minutes. You've gotto," and something in his eyes had made her take hold of her impatience.
"You don't know what you're doing to me," he had said, with no sign ofhis usual style and self-consciousness, but simply, like a man who hadsat in the dark and suffered. "Or if you do know your cruelty isinhuman. I've tried to see you every day--not to talk about myself orbore you with my love, but just to look at you. You've had me turnedaway as if I were a poor relation. You've sent your maid to lie to meover the telephone as if I were a West Point cadet in a primitive stateof sloppy sentiment. Don't do it. It isn't fair. I hauled down myfourth wall to you, and however much you may scorn what you saw thereyou must respect it. Love must always be res
pected. It's the rarestthing on earth. I'm here to tell you that you must let me see you, justsee you. I've waited for many years for this. I'm all upheaved. You'veexploded me. I'm different. I'm remade. I'm beginning again. I shallask for nothing but kindness until I've made you love me, and then Ishall not have to ask. You will come to me. I can wait. That's all Iwant you to know. When you come back ring me up. I'll be patient."
With that he had stood aside with a curious humbleness, had gripped thehand that she had given him and had gone downstairs and away.
The country round Peapack was in its first glorious flush of youngbeauty. The green of everything dazzled under the sun. The woods werefull of the echo of fairy laughter. Wild flowers ran riot among thefields. Delicate-footed May was following on the heels of April withits slight fingers full of added glory for the earth.
There was something soft and English in the look of the trees andfields as they came nearer to the old house. They might have beendriving through the kind garden of Kent.
Framed in the fine Colonial doorway stood the tall old man with hiswhite head and fireless eyes, the little distinguished woman stillcharged with electricity and the two veteran dogs with their hollowbarks.
"Not one blushing bride, but two," said Grandmother Ludlow. "Howromantic." She presented her cheek to the nervous Mrs. Harley. "Youlook years younger, my dear. Quite fluttery and foolish. How do you do,Mr. Harley? You are very welcome, Sir." She passed them both on to theold man and turned to Joan with the kind of smile that one sees on thefaces of Chinese gods. "And here is our little girl in whose marvelloushappiness we have all rejoiced."
Joan stood up bravely to the little old lady whose sarcasm went homelike the sharp point of a rapier.
"How do you do, dear Grandmamma," she said.
"No better than can be expected, my love, but no worse." The queersmile broadened. "But surely you haven't torn yourself away from theyoung husband from whom, I hear, you have never been parted for amoment? That I can't believe. People tell me that there has never beensuch a devoted and love-sick couple. Martin Gray is driving anothercar, of course."
Joan never flicked an eyelash. She would rather die than let thiscunning old lady have the satisfaction of seeing that she had drawnblood. "No, Grandmamma," she said. "Martin needed exercise and isplaying golf at Shinnecock. He rang me up this morning and asked me tosay how sorry he was not to have the pleasure of seeing you this time."She went over to her grandfather and held up a marvellously equableface.
The old dame watched her with reluctant admiration. The child had allthe thoroughbred points of a Ludlow. All the same she should be shownthat, even in the twentieth century, young girls could not break awayfrom discipline and flout authority without punishment. The smilebecame almost gleeful at the thought of the little surprise that was instore for her.
The old sportsman took Joan in his arms and held her tight for amoment. "I've missed you, my dear," he said. "The house has been like amausoleum without you. But I've no reproaches. Youth to youth,--it'sright and proper." And he led her into the lofty hall with his armround her shoulder.
There was a sinister grin on Gleave's poacher-like face when Joan gavehim a friendly nod. And it was with a momentary spasm of uneasinessthat she asked herself what he and her grandmother knew. It was evidentthat they had something up their sleeves. But when, after a tea duringwhich she continued to fence and play the part of happy bride, she wentout into the scented garden that was like an old and loving friend,this premonition of something evil left her. With every step she feltherself greeted and welcomed. Young flowers as guileless as childrenwaved their green hands. Heads nodded as she passed. The old trees thathad watched her grow up rustled their leaves in affectionateexcitement. She had not understood until that very moment how many truefriends she had or how warm a place in her heart that old house hadtaken. It was with a curious maternal emotion that clouded her eyeswith tears that she stood for a moment and kissed her hands to theright and left like a young queen to her subjects. Then she ran alongthe familiar path through the woods to the spot where she had beenfound by Martin and stood once more facing the sweep of open countryand the distant horizon beyond which lay the Eldorado of her girl'sdreams. She was still a girl, but she had come back hurt and sorry andashamed. Martin might have lost his faith in her. He had gone awaywithout a word or sign. Gilbert Palgrave held her in such small respectthat he waited with patience for her to come, although married, intohis arms. And there was not a man or a woman on the Round-about, exceptAlice, who really cared whether she ever went back again. The greedysquirrel peeked at her from behind a fern, recognized his old playmate,and came forward in a series of runs and leaps. With a little cry Joanbent down and held out her hand. And away in the distance there was thebaying of Martin's hounds. But where was Martin?
Who Cares? A Story of Adolescence Page 16