VI
The glowing ellipse cast by the heavily shaded lamp at the head of her bed shone upon the weapons with which young Mrs. Hudson had armed herself against drowsiness when, at midnight, she had retired with a novel, two magazines, and a leather writing case embarrassingly stuffed with unanswered letters, resolved to stay awake until Joyce returned.
Shortly before two, she had lost the battle and now slept with the light shining into her troubled face. Not that the trifling incident of dropping off could have worried her; but it was all of a piece with the general failure.
Had the late Doctor Hudson been subpoenaed to the witness-box on the day of his death to report on the success of the marriage he had contracted on behalf of his daughter, he, being unusually fastidious about truth-telling, might have found it an awkward question.
The three of them had stood up, that crisp January morning at St. Andrew’s, in the presence of Uncle Percival and Monty—and the Senator Byrnes, who had run over from Washington—not so much as a bride and groom, attended by a grown daughter, cordially consenting; rather as a pair of strikingly lovely young women, attended by an elderly, distinguished guardian, invoking Church and State to legalize and bless their comradeship and give them a deed to it.
That it was candidly a mariage de convenance (the French for it was more euphonious than the English equivalent) caused Doctor Hudson no serious misgivings. He nursed no illusions on that subject, aware that if all the world’s weddings were limited to romantic attachments in which no material advantages were at issue on either side, the human race would long since have been exterminated; and that if it were unethical for a young woman to marry with the knowledge that she could not immediately give herself with unqualified devotion to her husband, the Holy Virgin herself was at fault.
Immediately upon the consummation of his wedding, however, Doctor Hudson had found himself falling sincerely in love with his girl-bride, and the comradeship he had sought to insure between Helen and Joyce was put in jeopardy.
Joyce was a poor sailor, and the first three days were rough.
“No, darling; not a thing … Please run along. I’d much rather you did.”
So when, on Sunday noon, she had been persuaded to come down to the blanketed chair they had prepared for her on B-Deck, she realized that she was being solicitously attended, on either side, not by an indulgent father and a devoted college chum, but by a man and his wife—good friends of hers, unquestionably, but, well—there you were!
All three of them tried to twist the contemplated relationship back into focus, but it wouldn’t go. Perhaps their very efforts to do so made it impossible. Hudson, in Paris, had enthusiastically encouraged Joyce in her shopping extravagances; and Helen, eager to join in her husband’s approval, may have overdone it.
“What an exquisite coat! So glad you found it, Joyce! How very becoming!”
It was the right attitude without a doubt, but it hadn’t the right inflection. It wasn’t as one girl to another, but as an ingratiating stepmother overanxious to be generous, affectionate.
There were no disagreements. Perhaps it might have cleared the air if there had been. Nor was there any constraint on the surface. It was too deep to come to the surface. That was the difficulty. Everything they said to each other was amplified—as through a loud speaker—intensifying their mutual assurances of devotion until it took on a tone of unreality. Each knew the other was trying hard to be natural. Each knew the other was playing a difficult part. Almost desperately, they scrambled for the old position; but they had lost the way to it.
Shortly after the death of Doctor Hudson, the distance between them increased markedly. For the first few days, they had clung to each other with a rededicated bond that promised to be, if not a restoration of their earlier comradeship, at least an earnest of future indispensability … possibly to become a more valuable relation than any they had heretofore sustained. But it was not for long.
Joyce’s grief, inconsolable for a week, quickly exhausted itself. It was only common honesty in her when she declared one day that she wasn’t going to sit moping any longer, for, volatile as she was, any protracted mourning would have been mere affectation, even if she were capable of it, which was doubtful.
Presently there came a disquieting furtiveness in her explanation of late hours. Helen’s gently tactful queries, implying an uneasiness about her social programme, were either dismissed lightly with a chaffing reply, or met with a brief—albeit friendly—hint that one was quite old enough now to know where one wanted to go, and with whom, and until when. She was not to trouble her pretty head about her flighty Joyce. She was to live her own life and stop worrying about trifles.
“Don’t sit up, darling!” Joyce would protest, at nine.
“I’m going out with Ned.” (Or Tom, or Pat, or Phil.) “We may be late, you know. Where? Oh—I’m not sure … to dance, some place, I suppose … and a bite of supper, later … Crystal Palace, maybe … Gordon’s, perhaps.”
“I don’t like your going out to Gordon’s, Joyce. Really—that’s not a nice place. Tell me you won’t … please!”
“Oh, very well! Only one can’t do all the deciding. One’s escort has something to say about that too.”
On the rose counterpane lay several letters; one of them from Montgomery Brent, brief, brotherly, suggesting that his counsel would be at his “little sister’s” disposal should she be troubled about business matters, now that her responsibilities were increased.
“Only too glad, you know, to straighten out the kinks for you when it comes to income tax, investments, and the safeguarding of your estate. That sort of thing is my daily work.”
“The dear boy!” she murmured half aloud, as she reread it, “How decent of him; and not a bit bad idea, either. I wonder does he really know anything about business. He ought to by this time.”
Montgomery, whom it pleased her to think of as her brother Monty (never more affectionately than now that she felt so desolated), was five years her senior. College not agreeing with him after his sophomore year, Monty had brought his saxophone to the jazz-market. Not quite satisfied to make a permanent profession of bouncing and writhing and puffing himself purple every night from eight until two in the front row of a dance orchestra, he had made some friends among the chalky-fingered youngsters who posted the board at a down town brokerage office. In a few months he had a desk and a small salaried position in the organization.
“I’m a broker!” he would reply maturely, when some young thing coyly inquired, while they danced, what college he attended.
Doubtless he was doing well enough now. He had not borrowed from Helen for more than a year; had given her an expensive silver vase for a wedding present, appearing on that occasion in a morning coat, striped trousers, and spats, the only man present who had given no quarter to the request for informal dress … It wasn’t a half-bad idea. There was one friend left, anyhow—good old Monty!
Another letter was a brief note, written to Joyce, by the young Merrick person, dated from Ann Arbor; evidently composed with much care. It left many things unsaid which its author assumed would be read into it. He had entered the Medical School, hopeful of becoming of some use, eventually, to the profession which her father had so conspicuously adorned.
“I never would have picked him for the part,” Joyce had interpolated, as she read that much of the letter to Helen. “Rather quixotic, don’t you think?”
“Did it on impulse, likely,” Helen had remarked.
“Rather fine of him, though—at that! Wouldn’t you say?” championed Joyce.
“I’ll tell you a year from now,” Helen had replied, half-audibly.
Joyce had continued reading to herself. With a gesture of impatience, upon finishing the letter, she tossed it across the table, and savagely dug into her grapefruit.
“I think you had better answer it, Helen. The only human, personal line in it is for you. Write and tell him you hope he gets on well with his teachers, and makes A in everything,” she snapped, with frank asperity.
The only human, personal line read, “Please convey my sympathy and regards to Mrs. Hudson, whom I hope I may soon have a chance to know.”
Helen had made no further comment. Her opinion of the Merrick person was based solely upon Joyce’s disquieting references to him—a spoiled youngster with loose habits and too much money. It was clear enough that the girl entertained an infatuation for him which he had made no effort to capitalize. Helen was glad of it. She had no wish to meet him—had dreaded the day when he might turn up. It was enough that he had been the cause of her husband’s tragedy … Not his fault, of course; but she hoped he would not make it necessary for her to try to be nice to him. It was a closed incident. She was relieved.
The letter had remained in her pile of morning mail, beside her plate. Later, it had been tucked into her portfolio. She had read it again, in bed. Well, it was no concern of hers, whether he made good or not. At least, he was out of Joyce’s calculations … One questionable friend less to worry about.
Helen was awakened with a start, as the door of her room was cautiously opened far enough to admit the flushed face of Joyce.
“You Joyce?”
The door was closing, slowly, cautiously.
“Sorry, darling … Good night!” came in muffled tones from beyond the door.
“Come in, dear!” called Helen.
There was a considerable delay before the door opened again. Joyce came in, jerkily, all but asleep on her feet, dazedly rubbing her forehead with the back of the hand in which she clutched her crumpled hat; the other groping, uncertainly, for something to support her. She leaned heavily against the foot of the bed, swaying dizzily.
“Oh!—but, my dear!” cried Helen, in consternation, propping herself up suddenly on her elbows. “What in the world—! Where have you been?”
“Gordon’s!”
Joyce ground out the guttural between tensely locked jaws, and smiled fatuously.
Helen sat up and peered incredulously, silently, at her dishevelled stepdaughter, who grew restive under the inspection.
“Been—been writin’ letters?” Joyce surveyed the litter on the bed with a pitiable attempt at casualness.
Helen nodded briefly, and pressed both hands tightly against her forehead in a gesture of despair, which Joyce decided to ignore.
“And if there isn’t ickle Bobby?” She leaned far forward over the foot of the bed and with elaborate precision flicked the letter contemptuously with her finger. “That!—for you!—Doctor Merrick!”
“Why—Joyce Hudson!—you’re drunk!”
Helen stepped out into her slippers, caught up a kimono, and put her arm about the girl’s sagging shoulders.
“Who? Me?” giggled Joyce amiably. “Me—drunk? You should shee Tommy!”
“Let me help you to bed,” pleaded Helen brokenly. “No—here! You may sleep in my room.”
Joyce fumbled helplessly at her buttons with one hand, the other clumsily mopping her dripping brow with her little hat. Presently she crumpled on the bed, and Helen tugged off her dress and laid a cold towel across her eyes.
“Thanks, darling!” mumbled Joyce, between heavy sighs. “Much bother … too bad … all my fault … Don’t blame Tommy. Tommy nice boy! Goin’—goin’ to marry Tommy … Well—can’t you congrat—can’t you felic—I’m afraid I can’t say it very distinc’ly—but aren’t you glad—about Tommy and me?”
“Let’s wait and talk it over in the morning, dear,” soothed Helen, turning the towel and patting it about the flushed temples.
“No—sir!” babbled Joyce, with an expansive gesture, “We’re goin’ talk about it—” she brought a slim, lovely hand down with a clumsy slap on the pillow—“ri’ now!” The towel was brushed aside, and she gazed up militantly with swollen eyes. “Tha’s just like you! You cry! I come home—all happy—to announce my engagesh to Tommy—and you cry! What’s the big idea? Do you want him?”
Bridling her impatience, Helen urged the drunken girl to leave off and go to sleep. Maudlin tears of self-pity bathed Joyce’s face.
“Nobody loves me!” she wailed. “Nobody but good old Tommy! … But I won’t marry him! … I won’t!”
Presently she relaxed, licked her stiff lips, sighed deeply, and slept. Helen knelt by the bed, her face buried in the covers to escape the heavy fumes, and wept piteously. Wayne Hudson had left her with a responsibility quite too serious to be met. Only one thing had he expected of her. She had failed him.
At length, rousing stiffly from the cramped position in which she had fallen asleep through sheer fatigue and nervous exhaustion, she mechanically collected the scattered letters from the floor, turned out the light, and went dejectedly to Joyce’s bedroom. She put down the letters on the little vanity table and bathed her face with cologne.
Bobby Merrick’s rather stilted note lay open before her as if inviting attention. Between the lines it announced that he considered himself under a moral obligation to Doctor Hudson … She had been disposed to waive that implication aside as a mere pose … a bit of ephemeral martyrdom to be toyed with until he tired of it … a pretence of gallantry. She averted her eyes from the letter, perplexed, accused by it. Was she too under a certain moral obligation to Doctor Hudson? Young Merrick was trying to discharge his! How about hers?
She carefully folded the letter, and stood for a long time preoccupiedly deepening its creases with nervous fingers. It occurred to her that she would like to have a long, confidential talk with Bobby Merrick. Perhaps he might have something to suggest … She stared at her haggard reflection in the mirror and shook her head. No—the way out did not lie in that direction. She tucked the letter into her writing-case, and tumbled wearily into bed.