XVI
Mr. T. P. Randall was extremely solicitous in his attitude toward his charming client. She had telephoned him at ten, and they had agreed on a business conference at one-thirty.
He was tall, fifty-five, well-fed; grizzled at the temples. The tailor who had made his waistcoat might have succeeded as a sculptor. He rose, as she entered his padded leather and dark mahogany sanctum, dignifiedly offered his hand, bowed to the top of her close-fitting grey hat from his considerable altitude, helped off the grey fur coat from the grey gown, drew out the throne-like chair for her, seated her, walked around the table majestically, sat down in his swivel-chair, folded his big, pink, newly manicured hands on the bare desk, and said again that he was glad to see her. He mentally doubted his assertion, however, and looked more than a little troubled.
Considering it highly important that he should lead the conversation into safe channels, he talked of Paris, where he had once spent a fortnight, and of Venice, where, he declared, he would like to live; but it was obvious, from the restlessness with which she chafed the backs of her grey gloves, that she hadn’t come to hear his impressions of Europe.
At the first semicolon, she leaned forward in her big chair.
“You had a long talk with Mr. Brent about my affairs.”
T. P.—he was known as T. P. throughout the Fourth National organization—drew an anxious smile. Now, why the devil hadn’t he been told that he was supposed to have talked with this rapscallion Brent? He had been under the impression that Brent was to be presumed as having had all his business with him by correspondence.
“Umm!” murmured T. P., deep in his throat. He gave it just that quality of indeterminateness which might make it pass either for an affirmative, or a mere receipt of information already in hand, or a promise that presently he would discourse at more length about the matter when she had quite finished her remarks.
But she was not going to be contented with his “Umm.” He saw that at a glance.
Mrs. Hudson smiled—a bit roguishly.
“There was one man you had to look up to; is it not so?”
Her syntax was unfortunately under continental influence. It made the query difficult to evade … My eye!—was this innocent child with the wide blue eyes leading Detroit’s most resourceful side-stepper into a trap? … Well, he’d follow along, and see what came of it. Of a sudden he remembered; he brightened; he tossed up an outspread hand.
“Rather! … Uncommonly tall! … Your cousin, I think.”
“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Hudson.
T. P. took a long breath, exhaled it luxuriously, and felt relieved.
“Must be six feet three, isn’t he?”
“About my height,” said Mrs. Hudson. “But—he is my cousin.”
“Oh—of course!” T. P. laughed, boisterously. “Of course! You knew I was jesting, of course!”
She did not join in his merriment.
“Odd that you should have forgotten!” she said meaningly.
When in doubt about what next to do, T. P. always fell back on the didactic style. He could stun and bewilder with his voluminous vocabulary of technical terms relating to the upper ether of large finance. He settled sternly to it, ignoring their brief exchange of exploratory thrusts, and discoursed of stocks. Most industrials were good now; motors especially; Axion most assuredly. She could be confident that her money was prudently placed. Moreover, she could sleep soundly o’ nights while the Fourth National looked out for her interests … And—by the way—he wanted to show her about through this fine new building before she left, if there was time … Not quite satisfied with her expression, he launched upon an oration of some length, rumbling wisely of economic trends, cycles, the periodicity of financial mutations now happily stabilized by the Federal Reserve. At the first full stop, she said:
“I would like to see my stock certificates.”
“To be sure, Mrs. Hudson! Of course!”
T. P.’s tone was paternal. Inwardly he chuckled. If this amazingly good looking young widow had hopes of learning how she had become possessed of her Axion Motors by inspecting her stock certificates, she was about to be disappointed. She had caught him napping in respect to his relations with her ne’er-do-well cousin, and it was up to him to take the next trick in this little game. Well—she would discover nothing new, bearing on the question, from these certificates. Hadn’t he told Riley to hustle those shares of Doctor Merrick’s back to the Axion office to be reissued in the name of Mrs. Hudson? Of course!
However—just to make doubly sure. He quite distinctly remembered having written to Blair, the transfer agent of the Axion Motor Corporation, notifying him that, beginning at once, all future dividends on that block of stock were to be forwarded to the address of Mrs. Hudson, who now owned them, and that the certificates would be brought over to him for re-issuance. Surely he had remembered to tell Riley about that. To be on the safe side, he’d inquire.
“I’ll send for them,” continued T. P., beaming amiably. “Excuse me, please.”
He was detained in the adjoining office for fully five minutes, and when he returned he was mopping his expansive brow with a large, monogrammed handkerchief. Resuming his chair, he smiled, not very happily, and said:
“It may take quite a little time. Had we known you would want to see them, they would have been ready for you. We have such things pretty carefully stowed away, you know.”
“Yes,” said Helen, comprehendingly, “you would have, of course.”
“It’s rather a pity to keep you waiting so long,” regretted T. P. Why the devil couldn’t the woman say, “Oh—never mind about them, then.”
“I can wait,” she replied, settling comfortably in her big chair.
T. P. drummed on the desk with anxious fingers.
“You know we have them, of course, or you wouldn’t be getting your dividends.”
“Oh—certainly.”
“They’re just like any other … You’ve seen stock certificates, haven’t you?” He was still amiable, but he was growing desperate.
“Yes … and I would like to see these!” She glanced at her watch.
There was nothing more that T. P. could do about it. He pushed a button, gave an order, tried to be cheerful, tried to be nonchalant; but the conversation was unsatisfactory. Neither of them had the slightest interest in it.
At length the certificates arrived, and he pushed them across the desk.
She slipped the top one from under the broad rubber band, spread it out, turned it over, and noted the endorsement whereby it had been transferred from Robert Merrick to Helen Hudson.
“Thank you!” she said, rising. “That will be all, I think. I shall be in again tomorrow to talk further with you.”
T. P. did not waste time, immediately his client had left. He took up the telephone, and in his best bank manner told the switchboard to get him Doctor Merrick at Brightwood Hospital. The contact was no sooner made than T. P. went off the deep end, without ceremony, and reported what had happened. The answer he received consisted of a few words not properly used over the telephone, which really has to draw the line somewhere.
“Now—Doc—you’ve got to keep your shirt on! I tell you it absolutely couldn’t be avoided! It was either that—or tell her we didn’t have the stuff at all! Would that have improved the situation any? … Hell! … She’s suspected all along. You might ’a’ known she would! That woman’s no ninny! … What say? … Why—damned if I know, Doc. She left here—pronto—shot out of a gun—a bit flustered, maybe … No—I don’t know, I tell you. Perhaps she was. If so, I suppose you’ll soon find it out! … Well, I’m sorry as you are, Doc; but you might ’a’ …”
There was a metallic click that made T. P. wince. He laid the instrument back on its rack, opened the left lower drawer of the desk, took out a bottle and a glass; poured, swallowed, sizzled and shuddered; replaced the bottle, shut the drawer, lighted a cigar, pushed a button.
“Riley—put those certificates back where you got ’em … and if anybody wants me importantly, call me at the Athletic Club. I’ve a headache.”
Not often was Helen Hudson a victim of emotional stampede. Her poise was not a pose; neither was it arrived at by effort. It was native to her.
This afternoon she simply tossed the reins of discretion upon the neck of her indignation and abandoned herself to the tempestuous rush of it. Mentally at full gallop, she hurled herself at Brightwood.
It was as if a huge, ugly cauldron of anxieties, perplexities, forebodings, misgivings and suspicions, which had been simmering and bubbling for all the dragging months, had suddenly reached that stage of the brewing when it was time to pour.
A taxi waited at the door of the bank as she emerged, half-blind with humiliation. She walked swiftly to it, gave the driver an order, and sat tense throughout the journey.
This abominable Merrick had placed her in an impossible position … No matter about the intent … He had doubtless enjoyed his Galahading … But he had made her his pensioner; treated her like an irresponsible child; helplessly loaded her with an obligation she would probably be unable to discharge … Well, she could disavow her willingness to accept anything further at his hands! She could return the capital of it, at once; and set to work toward a replacement of what she had spent.
Exactly what she was going to say to Bobby Merrick when she saw him, Helen had not yet determined clearly. Of one thing she was sure: she would denounce his officious meddling with her affairs, and let him know exactly where he stood in her regard … He should have it all back! … Oh! … She pressed her shaking fingers against her eyes and tried to cool her cheeks with the back of her gloves.
Barely conscious of the journey, the unhappy girl stepped out of the cab as it stopped in front of the hospital, ordered the driver to wait—she would not be long—and quickly pattered up the broad concrete walk between masses of formal shrubbery coated with glistening ice.
At the desk in the snug little lobby, she inquired for Mrs. Ashford, and was shown into her office, where she quite took that pretty lady’s breath away with her exotic beauty.
“Why—what a joy!” cried Nancy, putting forward both hands in greeting. “I knew you were in town, and have been so anxious to see you!”
“Yes,” said Helen breathlessly, and with an effort to steady her voice, “I do want to have a good visit with you—and I shall—soon. But not—just now … I find I have a rather sudden errand with Doctor Merrick. Could I see him? … Is he here?”
He was here, and she could see him. Nancy believed he had just now finished an operation, and would probably be at liberty. She would send him in, and they could talk in her office.
Nancy went out, her own heart beating rapidly, and closed the door behind her. For a while, Helen fidgeted on the little divan, fumbled with her pocketbook, latching and unlatching and latching, tapping her little grey-shod toes impatiently on the rug; then, unable to sit still another instant, she rose, walked to the window, and stood gazing preoccupiedly at the street, her fingers busy with her coral beads.
At length, the door was quietly opened and as quietly closed, and she was aware of his presence in the room. She knew he was standing there, just inside the door, expectant, waiting for her to turn and face him … Why in the world didn’t she? … Would he cross the little room, and approach her—speak to her? … Perhaps not … But why didn’t she turn quickly and confront him? … She had asked for this interview, hadn’t she? … She had sent for him to come to her, hadn’t she? … What ever ailed her, anyway? … The difficult thing about it was that she had delayed turning about to face him! … Every second that passed made the situation more trying …
After a young eternity, he spoke—rather unsteadily.
“You wanted to see me?”
His quiet query broke the spell for her. She turned quickly, and, leaning against the window, put her outspread hands upon the sill, in a pose that Bobby sorrowfully interpreted as a sort of back-to-the-wall defence; but not defiance. Her head was bowed; her eyes to the floor. It was so thoroughly against his wish and hope that whatever he had done for her should put her into this attitude.
Helen was dismayed at her own sensations. Ten minutes ago, she had been ready to do violence. When she had stepped to that window, she had been aflame with a passionate anxiety to call him hard names; to hurt him, somehow; to let him taste a little of the humiliation he had put upon her … What had happened to her? … She felt deserted even by her own rage … Well—she could not stand there silently any longer.
She lifted heavy eyes to meet Bobby’s.
“I must have a talk with you,” she said, in that throaty contralto he so keenly remembered; a timbre that seemed to set up all manner of curious vibrations in him.
“Won’t you shake hands?” he begged.
“No need!” she said, with a little gesture of futility.
“Then—will you sit down?”
“Thank you—no. I think I can say it—quickly!”
Bobby leaned against a corner of Nancy Ashford’s desk, folded his arms and listened.
“I have just discovered that everything I have in the world is—is yours. I have been living, for some time, as your dependent … I didn’t know. I’m sure you will believe I didn’t know …”
“Of course you didn’t know! You have nothing to blame yourself with—in this matter.”
She went on as if she had not heard.
“The very clothes I have on me …”
She lowered her head and covered her eyes with her outspread fingers.
Bobby could stand no more. With his heart furiously pounding, he stepped quickly to her, and took her hands in his. For the tiniest instant, she permitted his impulsive gesture of sympathy, and then withdrew from him, shaking her head.
“No! No! I didn’t come here to be pitied!” Her voice was firmer now, and there was a note of rising impatience in it. “I’ve been pitied—quite long enough! All I came to tell you is that all your money at the bank I am going to turn back to you; and, as fast as I can possibly earn it, I shall pay you every dollar I have spent.”
Bobby drew a deep sigh of regret, stepped back, and leaned his weight against the desk, his eyes brooding.
“I’m so sorry,” he said slowly. “You see—the circumstances were very strange. I wanted to spare you, if I could, a misfortune that would bring you some unhappiness. I guess I went about it the wrong way—but I meant it all right. Won’t you believe that?”
For a second, their eyes met in a look that each remembered later, when, that night, the episode was reviewed, inch by inch, and word by word, on sleepless pillows—Bobby solemnly wondering whether, had he taken her in his arms at that moment, their difficulties might have been solved—Helen remorsefully chiding herself for what she feared was a serious disclosure of a feeling she had tried to batter into submission.
“Perhaps you did,” she admitted, tugging herself loose from his eyes. “But it doesn’t make my position any more endurable. I don’t propose to be pensioned by you! I’m going to give all your money back—the capital, tomorrow—the amount I have used, at the earliest moment I can earn it!”
“You mustn’t do that!”
Bobby’s voice was stern, commanding. He stood erect and faced her determinedly.
“There’s more to this than you are aware of … more than I dare tell you! The lives of many people would unquestionably be affected! Whatever you may decide to do with that money, you can’t give it back to me! I won’t take it! I can’t take it … because you see, I’ve used it all up!”
Helen glanced up quickly, her eyes wide with amazement. She swallowed convulsively.
“W‑h‑a‑t?” she whispered. “What is that you say?”
“I’ve used it all up! … Do you know what that means?”
“No! Tell me! What does it mean?”
“Sit down,” he said gently. “I’ll try to explain … It’s not easy, though.”
She walked with some reluctance to the little divan and sat.
“Perhaps you never had it called to your attention,”—Bobby was feeling his way with caution—“that there is sometimes a strange relation between the voluntary, secret bestowal of a gift, without expectation of any return or reward, and certain significant results that accrue from it in the experience of the giver … Now I am not sure that this money I was so happy to put at your disposal is not that kind of an investment. Shortly after I arranged for it, something of quite tremendous importance occurred—something that dared not be trifled with by either of us … It’s almost hopeless to try to make it convincing to you, I know … Can’t you just take my word for it—and trust me—dear?”
Helen flushed deeply, and rose—her eyes flashing.
“No—you’re not dealing squarely with me!” she retorted hotly. “And I’m not—your—dear! You have humiliated me! There are many things I have wanted to know, and you seem to be able to clear up some mysteries; but you are plainly not disposed to do so. I’m going now. I shall arrange at the bank about the money. And—the rest of it—the part I’ve spent—I shall pay that back! You can depend on it!” She was at the door, her hand on the knob.
Bobby stepped swiftly to her side and covered her hand with his own.
“Listen!” he demanded soberly. “It is quite important, both for your sake and mine, that we do not set every tongue in this place wagging with the gossip that we met here to have a row. You’re ready to go stamping out through the office, rosy with rage. Much curiosity will be aroused and explanations will be in order.”
“Then you can make them! I do not feel that I owe anybody an explanation. If you think you do, that is your affair! Let me go, please.”
Bobby did not remove his detaining hand.
“My dear,” he said, scarcely above a whisper, “I appeal to your good sportsmanship! Granted—that you have cause to be indignant. Granted—that I have blunderingly placed you in an awkward predicament. Let us at least keep our misunderstanding to ourselves. Please! Compose yourself—and we’ll go out to face these people as if there were no trouble between us. Wouldn’t that be ever so much better?”
She hesitated for a long moment; looked up searchingly into his eyes, like a bewildered little child, and finally replied:
“Agreed.”
He released her hand and she walked to the window, took out a tiny vanity case and consulted her reflection, Bobby regarding her with repentant eyes. How wretchedly he had bungled everything—everything!
Presently she turned and faced him calmly, like a stranger.
“I’m quite ready, if you are.”
Bobby hesitated.
“But—really—don’t you think—” he stammered shyly, “that a wee bit of a smile might help to—to …”
“I’ll attend to that when we need it!”
He opened the door and signed for her to precede him. At that instant, she became another person, gracious, smiling.
Nancy Ashford, who had been hovering about, with curiosity and some anxiety, met them. She drew a quick breath, apparently of relief.
“I’m so glad you two have found some occasion to become acquainted at last,” she exclaimed, searching their faces eagerly.
“Yes—isn’t it?” responded Helen, slightly confused over her cue. “Doctor Merrick and I have been talking of so many interesting things—some of them quite mystifying, I’m afraid.”
Ah! … Good! … So that was it! … Mystifying things! … Mrs. Hudson had been asking questions … Somehow she had learned—by a chance word, perhaps—that Bobby Merrick was in a position to clear up some of the strange riddles bequeathed to her by her husband … So—that was what had brought them together … Good! … Nancy was radiant.
“I hope I may soon have a little visit with you, Mrs. Ashford,” continued Helen rather breathlessly. “Today—I’m in something of a rush … Important errands.”
At the sound of the familiar voice, just outside the door of her little filing-room, Joyce came bounding into the circle with a shrill exclamation of surprise and delight and a torrent of questions.
“Why, whatever brought you here, darling? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming so soon? And you and Doctor Merrick have actually met! How jolly? Oh—now we can have that dinner we talked about! Let’s do it tonight! We four! My party! And I’ll get tickets for Jasmine! What do you all say? Can you come, Mrs. Ashford?”
Nancy swiftly sought Helen’s eyes, and thought she detected a faint expression of annoyance. Should she encourage the dinner project? It was an awkward moment.
Suddenly sensing her own obligation to take a cordial interest in Joyce’s proffer of hospitality, Helen smiled inquiringly, and Nancy replied, “I should be very happy, Joyce. Thank you.”
“And you can come, too, can’t you, Bobby?” persisted Joyce.
He studied Helen’s face for a brief second, and found his heart pounding when she glanced up unmistakably interested to hear his reply.
“I’ll be very glad to come, Joyce.”
Helen glanced at her watch.
“I must be going,” she said determinedly. “I’ll see you all this evening, then.”
The three of them accompanied her to the big, glass-panelled doors—Bobby at her elbow, obviously proposing to see her to the waiting taxi. The pair descended the snowy steps, his hand on her arm, both conscious that Nancy and Joyce were still standing just inside the door, observant.
“We must talk,” said Bobby cheerfully. “This game isn’t over yet.”
“True,” agreed Helen, turning toward him with a smile that fairly dizzied him. “And from all indications, you’ve let us in for a whole evening of this delightful recreation! Whatever made you say you would come to that wretched dinner Joyce contrived to plan? Some more of your good sportsmanship, I suppose!”
Bobby was contrite. His face was overspread with it.
“Don’t look like that!” she commanded, her tone oddly out of step with her smile. “They’ll think we are quarrelling!”
“Well—” glumly, “aren’t we?”
She laughed.
“As a dramatist, you seem to be better as a producer than an actor!”
“But, really, I was going to refuse the invitation. And then, when I happened to glance at you, you seemed so—so friendly about it …”
“What had you thought I might do? Scowl at you? It was your own suggestion that we appear to be on good terms. And now—well, you have taken advantage of me—as usual.” She was still smiling. They had reached the kerb. The taxi-driver was churning his engine.
“I’ll contrive some excuse,” decided Bobby, weakly. “I’m sorry.”
“No! You can’t do that. We’re in for it, and we’ll see it through; and I can promise you that my own feelings will not be apparent to anybody.” She hesitated for a moment, and added, “Not even to you! I’ll guarantee not to spoil your dinner.”
Bobby opened the door and helped her in. The warm grasp of his hand on her arm vexed her—thrilled her. Safe in her seat, she no longer felt under compulsion to make further show of amiability. The smile had vanished. He held out his hand, and she, annoyed, was obliged to accept it. He held it tightly.
“Goodbye, dear,” he said tenderly. “Please don’t think too badly of me. I have blundered, terribly, but—my dear—I do love you so!”