Vision House Part 10

"You would? Suppose I name your _bete noire_, Major John Garth?"

Severance withered visibly. "Garth wouldn't do it," he stammered.

"There you are!" sneered Marise. But she began to experience a very extraordinary sensation. It was composed of obstinacy, anger, vanity, recklessness, resentment, and several fierce sub-emotions, none of which she made the slightest effort to a.n.a.lyse. Tony Severance believed that his pa.s.sion for her excused everything, because he thought it stronger than any other man living had ever felt. But there was another man, one at least--who thought and said the same thing of himself.

Much as Tony hated and pretended to despise John Garth, without stopping to reflect an instant he set the Bounder aside as one among a few men who wouldn't stoop--who couldn't be tempted--to play so low a part as that of a "dummy husband." Was Tony right? Or was the man he discarded the very one who would marry her at any price? Dimly she wondered in a sullen and heavy curiosity.

"There are plenty of other fellows--of sorts--to choose from, without dragging in Garth," Severance went on. "Give me leave, Marise (give me new life, by giving me leave!), to find such a man. If I must go without finding one here, I will search England. Or I can put it in the hands of----"

"No!" shrilled Mary. "In no hands but our own."

"I wash mine of it!" cried Marise.

"Perhaps you will think it over--the pros and cons--with me, dear,"

coaxed her mother. "The wonderful future you could have with Tony, when the clouds should pa.s.s and all those millions----"

The girl shrugged her shoulders. And turning without another word, she whirled away to her room. It would not have been true to nature if she hadn't slammed the door!

Mary prepared to follow. "Go, Tony," she ordered. "Leave the poor child to me. All this is awful--terrible! But it isn't as if we were wishing for Miss Ionides' death. If she's doomed.... Oh, I hear Marise crying!

Go at once--please!"

CHAPTER X

THE THING SHE COULD NOT EXPLAIN

Marise and Mary Sorel talked late that night in the girl's room. The family breadwinner--always indulged--had not been so petted, so spoiled, since she was threatened with _grippe_ in the first week of her great London triumph. In those days she had shone as a bright planet rather than a fixed star. The proud but anxious mother had feared that some understudy might mine the new favourite's success, as Marise had mined the toppling fame of Elsa Fortescue. The invalid had been surrounded with the warmth of mother-love, caressed, almost hypnotised back to health, and after a worrying day of high temperature had been encouraged to the theatre without giving the understudy even one night's chance.

This, although that young woman was dressed and painted for the part!

So it was again on this fateful Sunday in New York, although the most wily Vivien of an understudy could now safely be defied.

Mary went in to Marise the moment Severance had gone. She kissed and cooed over her child. She flattered her. She told her that she was beautiful and brave--_too_ beautiful! Men loved her too much. Mums warded off an impending attack of hysterics which Marise had been longing to have, and would have enjoyed. She said that her girl's tears burned her heart. She kept Celine away and undressed Marise herself, with purrings and pettings as if the girl had been three instead of twenty-three.

Never was a bed so sweetly smoothed to the downiness of a swan's breast!

The pillows were plumped almost with a prayer, that they might yield soft rest to the aching head. Finally, Marise--conscious of all Mums'

guile, yet dreamily content with it--was tucked in between the scented sheets, her "nighty" put on by Mums; her long hair brushed and braided by Mums, as no French maid could ever braid or brush.

"Don't think of anything yet," the loving voice soothed. "Just bask, and let your poor old Mums watch over you. Forget you're grown up. Be Mummie's baby girl again."

Marise was not of a temperament to hold out against these charms and woven spells. She cuddled down in bed, and felt an angel child. When Mums herself brought in a tray containing a few exquisite little dishes, she ate, though she had expected--even intended--to starve herself for days. Then when one gla.s.s of iced champagne (she didn't touch wine twice a year) and a tiny cup of Turkish coffee had brightened her spirits, "poor old Mums" (looking thirty-five at most, and mild as a trained dove) brought cigarettes for both. After that, they drifted into talk of the future, rather than driving stormily into the teeth of it, like tempest-tossed leaves.

Mary confessed that, if she were in her daughter's place, it would be anguish to give up such a wonderful, gorgeous young man. And then, he was so handsome! No one could compare with him in looks. What eyes! They were pools of ink, on fire! She had never known what tragedy human eyes could express till she had gazed into those of Lord Severance to-day.

They had frightened her! If she hadn't sent the man away with a grain of hope she believed that by this time he would be dead, his brains blown out. One didn't take such threats from most people seriously. But Tony was different. It was true, as he said; love was his life--love for this one dear girl. What Mums felt was, that _she_ couldn't have resisted him, at her daughter's age. Few women could. Few women would!

By this time, Marise being ready for arguments, her mother engaged in a fencing match, at first with a b.u.t.ton on her foil, then with the point gleaming bare. Boldly she talked of what Severance (enriched by his uncle and a dead wife's will) would have to offer. Was he, and all that would be his, to be thrown away for a scruple? A millionaire earl? A unique person?

About two a.m. Marise agreed to Mary's many-times-reiterated wish that she would "think things over"; and promptly fell into a sleep so sound that she looked like a beautiful dead girl.

Miss Marks was sent away next morning by Mrs. Sorel, because "My daughter has had a bad night, and mustn't be disturbed." It was not until eleven o'clock that Marise waked suddenly in her darkened room, as if a voice had called her name. She sat up in bed, dazed. Whose voice was it? Or was it only a voice in a dream? Thinking back, it came to her that she had been dreaming of John Garth--"Samson." With an "Oh!" that revolted against life as it must be lived, she flung herself down again, and remembered everything. For an hour her body lay motionless: but mind and soul moved far. When Mums tapped lightly at the door, and peeped in to inquire, "Do you feel like waking up, pet, and having me bring you a cup of delicious hot coffee? It's twelve o'clock!" she answered quietly, "Yes, I've been awake a long time. I'd love some coffee."

Mary brought it herself--and a covered plate of b.u.t.tered toast. She asked no question except, "Is your head better, darling?" until pale, composed Marise had bathed, and been dressed with the aid of Celine.

Then Mums chirped cheerfully, "Well, what are you going to do to-day?

Anything important?"

"It may be important," said Marise. "I don't know yet--till I've talked with him. It depends on what he says. He may say nothing. He may just bash me over the head and stalk away. He'd be capable of that."

"What do you mean?" Mary implored. "Are you speaking of Tony?"

"Oh no! Of a very different man. Of Major Garth."

"Marise! What are you going to do?"

The girl turned from her dressing-table to face her mother. "What you've been goading me on, all last night, to do. What I shall be perfectly mad if I _do_ do! Now, please, don't say any more--unless you want me to scream. I'm keeping myself calm. I'd better stay calm--till after."

Mary's breast heaved. She breathed back her emotions, as one checks a cough. "You--talk the way you sometimes do after a dress rehearsal!" she tried to laugh. "Before a big first night."

"That's the way I feel," said Marise. "Like before the biggest first night that ever was. Or before the Judgment Day."

She knew that John Garth was staying at the Belmore. She had seen that item in the papers--had seen it in the same day's papers which had informed Garth that Miss Sorel was an actress. The girl began a letter, but tore it up. Then she thought of the telephone. Two minutes later she heard Garth's voice: "h.e.l.lo! who is this talking?"

"Marise Sorel--calling you from the Plaza. Can you come over?"

"Yes. When?"

"Now."

"I'll be there as soon as a taxi can bring me."

"Good!"

Yet she knew that it was far from good.

"The Spring Song!--The Spring Song!"

The name of Marise Sorel's play sang itself over and over in Garth's brain to wild, strange music, as the taxi flashed him to the Plaza; for there was spring in the air, in the bursting buds on the trees in the park--and in his breast. She must have changed her mind. She must mean to give him some hope, or she wouldn't have sent for him to come back.

That would be too cruel--even for her, as he had thought her yesterday, when there was no spring, only winter in his heart and soul.

It was not till he had been rushed up in the lift, and a page-boy had knocked at the door, that the hope seemed too good to be true. Perhaps she merely wished to apologise for being rude? Yet--even that would be better than nothing. It was what he hadn't dared expect--being sent for again. He had resolved to see her in spite of herself, but she was making things easy. This time, not Celine, but Marise herself opened the door. The sight of her gave the man a shock of joy, though she hardly looked him in the face.

"You're very kind to be so prompt," she glossed over the surface of their emotions. "Come in. I--I've something special to say to you."

"So I judged," he helped her out.

"We shan't be disturbed by anyone to-day. I've arranged that."