Читать книгу Where's Emily - Carolyn Wells - Страница 4

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“Why not?” and Betty’s round, chubby face registered fine indignation. “Girls nowadays can go to anything evil, see anything evil, hear anything evil——”

“You sound like the Japanese monkeys,” Pennington laughed at her. “And don’t say ‘nowadays’ to me! I’m not your uncle.”

Jim Pennington was a man of thirty, but to flapper Betty he seemed a generation removed. He was an erratic playwright, some of his work achieving marked success and some falling flat. One of his plays had been suppressed and others ought to have been, but they were not quite popular enough to make it worth while.

He was not distinguished-looking in any way, but his bored, languid air and his soft, drawling voice had an attraction for some women.

He made slight appeal to Betty, however, who liked her men louder and funnier.

“How’d you come to marry your wife?” she said, feeling she ought to startle a playwright.

“She made me,” returned Pennington, straightforwardly.

“Why, what a churlish speech!”

He stared at her, and comprehended.

“Oh,” he laughed, “I didn’t mean it that way! I mean she was the making of me—of my career. Her sympathy and help——”

“I see—your dearest friend and severest critic—or whatever it is. She’s very beautiful, too.”

“Yes; if she weren’t quite so pretty, she’d be the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“Does that mean anything?” asked Betty idly. She was bored with the man, and didn’t want to waste any sparkle on him.

“Not to you, I daresay. Are you to be maid of honor?”

“Yes, and Mrs. Pennington is matron of honor, I know. We’ll do well together.”

“Watch your step, then. Polly is a marvel when she’s in regalia.”

“So’m I,” returned Betty; “what’s she going to wear?”

“Lord, I don’t know. Let me see—she should wear—oh, well, nothing short of a complete Carmen costume brings out her best points.”

“Yes, I can see that. She’s a perfect Carmen. That wonderful black hair, those eyes—even the very way her cigarette droops from her lips. Do you care for any other woman, Mr. Pennington?”

“Woman? No. Women? Yes. I adore many of them. May I adore you?”

“’Fraid I haven’t time. There are so many enticing strangers here. Look at that man who just came in! Is he the one they’re all crazy about?”

“Yes, he’s the Swami. His name is Lal Singh. I think he’s a faker.”

“Fakir with an i or an e?”

“All the same. Want to meet him?”

Betty did and the two went across to where the Swami and Emily were talking together, a little apart from the rest.

“Do we intrude?” said Pennington lightly. “Miss Bailey wants to meet a real live celebrity.”

Lal Singh bowed, gravely accepting the compliment.

Whereupon Betty monopolized him, and Emily turned to Pennington.

“Where’s Polly?” he asked.

“In the present room. Oh, Penn, look at my necklace! Isn’t it perfect?”

“Let me see it,” and Pauline Pennington came toward them. “Yes, Emily, it’s awfully good. Might have been a bit heavier——”

“Not at all. I wouldn’t have it of larger stones. Just because Penn gave you a Kohinoor——”

Polly held up her chin, as if to show off better the diamond pendant that had been her wedding gift six years ago.

“Funny for you to have the Rehearser, Emily. What’s the idea?”

“Oh, everybody does now. Of course, six years ago, such a thing was unheard of, but it’s a great discovery, really.”

“But Spinks is the undertaker.”

“What of it? Can’t he undertake a wedding as well as a funeral?”

“Oh, you give me the creeps——”

“Don’t come to rehearsal if you feel nervous about it, Polly dear.”

Emily was not of a catty disposition, but Polly Pennington, though one of her dearest friends, often rubbed her the wrong way.

Moreover they were rivals for social queendom.

Emily, as a belle and heiress was easily first with the younger men, but Polly, who was really a married flirt, had a long list of admirers.

The two girls were opposites as to character, Emily being daring, unafraid and impulsive.

Pauline, nearly seven years older, had learned to be diplomatic, discreet and careful. She had the mentality of a Machiavelli and the suave countenance of a Mother Superior.

Not that she looked nun-like. Her suavity was a mask and she meant it to be known as a mask. Beneath it were fires of many sorts, to be kindled or extinguished at her pleasure.

Emily’s personality was frank, free, and open. Pauline’s was deep, mysterious, hidden.

Yet the two were friends, after a fashion, and Emily never fought Pauline with her own weapons of sarcasm and pettish faultfinding, unless goaded to it.

And during the preparations for the wedding Pauline had been especially irritating. Both jealous and envious by nature, she resented Emily’s triumphs and sought to belittle the elaborate plans.

“Oh, yes, I’ll come,” she answered Emily’s suggestion. “I want to see what the undertaker person does. I never should have had such a thing at my wedding.”

“Of course not—seven years ago.”

“Six.”

“Well, six, then. You see, modes were very different then. How would I look having the sort of wedding you had?”

“What do you know about it? You weren’t there!”

“No, I was in the nursery. But, now, the Rehearser is a regulation thing; one has to have him. You’ll see.”

“And that Spinks is a general-utility man. Why, he manages bridge games and costume parties.”

“Of course he does. He attends to everything except christenings——”

Emily stopped suddenly, and quickly changed the subject. There had been one great tragedy in Pauline’s life, the loss of her baby.

She worshipped the child, really idolized it, and when the little thing died of croup the night before the christening day, Polly Pennington almost went mad.

Highly strung and nervous of temperament, she was a long time regaining her poise and her health.

Her friends even now were careful not to mention children or christenings in her presence, and Emily’s slip was a real catastrophe.

She turned quickly toward the pair at her side, Betty and the Swami.

The Hindu would, she knew, distract Pauline’s attention at once.

“Come with me, Betty,” she said, peremptorily. “There’s some one I want you to meet.”

Betty was enjoying herself and didn’t want to leave, but the look on Emily’s face compelled her, and she obeyed.

“Wassamatter?” she said, curiously. “You and Polly had a spat?”

“No. Keep still, do.”

She shepherded Betty across the room toward a man who had just come in.

A man much older than the rest, a man who gave the effect of an elderly beau, which, indeed, is just what he was.

Abel Collins, sixty or thereabouts, was the friend of all the world.

He had been a friend of Emily’s parents and had known and loved the girl all her life.

His bright, blue eyes gleamed from beneath shaggy gray eyebrows, and his gray hair, a bit long, curled at the ends.

He was good-looking in the sense that he looked good and his attire was immaculate, if not quite of the latest styles.

He put an arm round Emily without speaking to her and held out a hand to Betty as Emily introduced them.

“My godfather,” Emily said, “and my guide, philosopher and friend. My overseer and general superintendent. My mentor and tormentor——”

“There, there,” Abel Collins interrupted, “I’m sure Miss Bailey knows enough about me now to last the rest of her life. Let’s talk of something else.”

“Talk about me,” said Betty promptly. “I’m maid of honor, and I’m next to the bride in importance now, and as soon as she goes off with Rod, I’ll be top of the heap! I guess you’ll be glad then that you know me, Mr. Collins!”

“Oh, I hope so,” he returned. “My dear young lady, I truly hope so! And if you’ll only behave yourself——”

“Now, now,” said Betty, taking to him at once, “don’t set me too hard a task——”

Seeing the two fairly launched on a gay conversation, Emily slipped away from Abel Collins’ clasp and went to Sayre’s side.

She slipped naturally into Rodney’s circling arm and joined in a spirited discussion he was having with Burton Lamb.

“You’re crazy, Burt,” Sayre was saying; “what do I care what Emily does?”

“Why, why!” Emily said, smiling up at him as she felt his arm tighten round her. “What’s the wild Lambkin saying to make my sweetie talk like that?”

Her perfect faith and trust left no room in her heart to imagine that Sayre’s words cast any aspersion upon herself, as indeed they did not.

“He’s a goof,” Rodney informed her. “And he’s also an interfering old cuss and a general rotter. Want to know any more?”

“I do,” said Emily, “I want to know it all. First, the subject of the debate.”

“No debate about it,” Lamb said, with some heat. “I merely told this lunatic that you’re planning to marry that you had been bamboozled into giving a lot of money to the present pet of Hilldale, the dear little Swammikins——”

“Oh, that!” and Emily laughed. “Well, go on, my Lamb, go on; I’m a member of the What-Of-It? Club.”

“Oh, nothing much,” said Lamb, airily, “only I thought any good citizen who dared ought to remonstrate with you.”

“And I interrupted friend Sayre here as he was saying he doesn’t care what Emily does with her money, didn’t I?”

“Exactly that,” agreed Rodney, glad that Emily had sensed his meaning.

“Exactly that,” agreed Lamb. “So, as best man, I think it my duty to do a little in the remonstrating line myself.”

“Why?” and Emily was suddenly serious.

“Because, Emily dear, I’m sure that man is a fraud. He’s not a real Hindu, to begin with, and if he is, he isn’t the holy man he pretends to be.”

“Burton, darling, you’re a brick. It’s nice of you to put me on my guard. And to tell you the truth, I more than half believe you’re right. But you see I didn’t pay him any money; I only added a codicil to my will that he shall receive a bequest for his charitable work when I no longer have any use for such things. I don’t intend to die for a long time yet, but if I should, I won’t begrudge the legacy. Whether he’s the real thing or not, he has entertained us all and has wormed himself into the good graces of the Hilldale people.”

“But, Emily, if you knew anything about theosophy, anything about Hinduism——”

“Never mind the isms; he can spout the lore of Farther India, or whatever it is, farther than any Orientalist I ever knew before. And his talk when he’s alone with you, would charm the birds off the trees!”

Sayre bent down and kissed the top of her head, to show that he was not jealously roused by this revelation.

“And another thing,” Emily went on, “since you feel so deeply about the matter, I’ll tell you there’s nothing in it.”

“About fifty thousand dollars, I’ve been told,” Lamb put in.

“Yes, on paper.”

“But aren’t wills usually on paper?”

“Yes, O wise one. But, hearken. Said will, on said paper, becomes null and void when Miss Emily Duane, Spinster, becomes Mrs. Rodney Sayre, Matron.”

“Of course it does!” and Lamb’s face broke into smiles. “I knew that, but I forgot it. Oh, Emily, you’re all right!”

“Then,” Sayre said bewilderedly, “when you go off with me on our wedding trip, you leave no will behind you?”

“That’s right, my best beloved,” Emily returned. “Should battle, murder and sudden death o’ertake me, you are my sole heir——”

“Hush, Emily, you shan’t say things like that!”

“Well, my Heavens! Rod, you’re my only heir anyway, so what need for a will?”

“There’s Aunt Judy——”

“Yes, dear, but I trust her to you. And, anyway, I’m to have a little talk with Mr. Craven about all this to-night or to-morrow. And there’s his massive dome now!”

Burton Lamb turned to look at the mentioned lawyer, but his glance paused halfway, for he caught sight of Lal Singh staring at Emily.

His face was distorted with passion, and it was impossible not to realize that he had heard Emily’s remarks about her bequest to the Hindu and was greatly upset in consequence.

Lamb chuckled, for he had no faith in the Oriental’s sincerity and hoped he would never receive a cent of Emily’s money.

To be sure it was a legacy, but he was apprehensive lest the wily mystic might persuade Emily to make a cash payment in advance.

After her pronouncement, however, he felt at ease about the matter, and in a moment, Everett Craven, Emily’s lawyer, joined their group.

Lamb then faded away, for he felt the business confab was only for the principals, and even a best man was not needed there.

Everett Craven had long been a suitor of Emily’s. Though several years older, he was a man of persistency and determination, and her repeated rejections seemed only to intensify his resolves to win her.

Of course, since her engagement to Sayre had been announced, Craven had given up hope, and though still attending to her legal affairs, he was a changed man.

A good lawyer, though of no brilliance, a good citizen, in a non-committal way, Craven had few friends and no enemies. He was uninteresting and rather self-centred.

As a matter of fact, Emily had thought little about him. She rejected his proposals as fast as he made them, and then, as he showed no special resentment, she continued to retain his legal services.

Craven continued because she was his best-paying client and he had none too many.

So now, taking the opportunity, Emily spoke to him, in Sayre’s presence, about her will, and about the advisability of making a new one to be signed after she was married, and before starting on her wedding trip.

“But there isn’t time now to discuss this thing at length,” she said, glancing at her watch. “Will you come to-morrow morning, at ten, and we can go into it? You see, we’re having the rehearsal soon now, and I have to get rid of these people.”

She danced away and Rodney’s watching eyes saw her go into the telephone booth. This was just outside one of the doors into the lounge, and Emily found her maid, Pearl, hovering in the hall.

Pearl was a negro, as black as jet, and devoted, soul and body, to her Miss Em’ly.

Not much older than her mistress, Pearl did everything for her, and was so capable as a personal maid, a needlewoman, and to a degree, a social secretary, that Emily was tempted to take the maid with her on her wedding trip. But the desire to be alone with Rodney for their honeymoon was too strong, and Emily had decided to leave Pearl at home, and send for her if she needed her too greatly.

She smiled at the grinning negress as she entered the booth.

There was great understanding between the two, and Black Pearl, as she was of course called, stood sentinel at the door of the booth.

As Emily became excited and her voice rose in exclamation, Pearl, too, rolled her eyes in delight, and clapped her hands softly.

For she had overheard Emily’s part of this conversation:

“Is this the hospital?”

“Yes, madam.”

“May I speak to Nurse Graham?”

“I’ll see. Wait a moment.”

“This you, Nurse Graham?”

“Yes, Miss Duane.”

“Has Mrs. Laurence’s baby arrived?”

“Yes, Miss Duane.”

“Oh, lovely! What is it?”

“A little girl.”

“Fine! How is Mrs. Laurence?”

“Doing beautifully. I must go now——”

“Wait a minute, Nurse. Listen. If I come over, right away, now, can I see her?”

“Mrs. Laurence!”

“Oh, no, no! The baby, the little girl——”

“Oh yes, you can see the baby. I’ll show her to you myself.”

“All right, be there in ten minutes. Good-by.”

Emily hung up the receiver, left the booth, flung her arms round Black Pearl and danced her down the hall, then ran back to the lounge.

People were leaving, and though Emily gave farewells to a few, she whispered to Aunt Judy to attend to that for her, and told Betty Bailey to help Mrs. Bell.

Then she turned toward Sayre, who was where she had left him, and as she passed the Penningtons, she saw they were just going.

“By-by, Polly,” she said, “come over for rehearsal soon after six—unless you’re afraid of the undertaker!”

“Oh, I’ll be here, Emily. If I’m late, don’t wait for me; you can get along——”

“Sure. Don’t come unless you want to.”

Emily didn’t like Pauline’s attitude, but she was so full of another matter she gave it no thought.

“Roddy-doddy,” she said, and he knew she was about to wheedle.

“Well?” he said, snatching a little kiss from the back of her neck, “what’s up?”

“Kitty Laurence’s baby is here!”

“No!”

Sayre’s pretended interest was so ludicrous Emily pinched him.

“Keep still! I don’t want anybody to know it, or the girls would all rush over. Now, I’m going to run over to the hospital, just a minute, to kiss it.”

“Kiss the hospital?”

“No, silly, to kiss the baby. It’s a girl—a darling, sweet little girl. And you know there’s no such sure-fire good luck as to kiss a new-born baby. And I do want our wedding to be a success.”

“Good Lord, Emily, what a kid you are! Am I to go along?”

“I should say not! You stay here and fend off inquiries. If any one says ‘Where’s Emily?’ you just say, ‘Why, she was here a minute ago,’ or something silly like that.”

“Don’t be gone long——”

“Indeed I shan’t. Why, they won’t let me stay more’n a minute. I know the nurse, you see, and she’ll let me have a peek at the kiddy when she wouldn’t let any one else. You hold the fort here—don’t budge from this sofa, will you?”

“Do bab, I wod’t,” and Rod looked the picture of half-witted obedience.

“Oh, Roddy, you are so sweet!” and Emily kissed him heartily, not caring whether they had spectators or not.

“Listen, dear. I’ve got a much better good-luck stunt for you than that. I’ve a gold piece to put in your shoe. They say——”

“Oh, I know all about that. I’ll have that, too. Save it for the wedding. Now, Rod, don’t fuss. I’ll just scoot over to the hospital, cross-lots. It isn’t a step, I won’t be a minute, and after say, ten minutes, you can tell them where I am if you like, for I’ll be home by that time. But don’t tell them at first, for Nell and Betty would come flying over, too.”

“And I’m to sit here until Your Royal Highness returns?”

“Yes, right here on this very sofa. Don’t budge.”

Seeing Sayre alone, Abel Collins went toward him, and Rod beckoned him to a seat by his side.

The older man sat down, lighted the cigarette proffered him, and then said:

“I envy you, feller.”

“Yes, you may,” returned Sayre, who liked the old chap, though he knew him but slightly.

“You see, I’ve known the Duanes, root and branch, all my life, and there’s no finer stock anywhere.”

“I can believe that,” and Rod smiled at him.

“But there’s one thing——”

“Ah, I thought there was a catch somewhere!”

Abel Collins grinned.

“Yes, and it’s this. There’s a streak of stubbornness in the whole family. It’s always there. Dormant, maybe, or prominent. But there. I’m giving you this tip for what it’s worth.”

“It’s worth a lot, Mr. Collins. Don’t think I undervalue it. But I admit it would be worth more if I didn’t already know it. Do you think I could know Emily as I do, and not be aware of her—well, we’ll call it firmness of character?”

“Call it all the pretty names you like, it’s stubbornness, obstinacy and pig-headedness, that’s what it is.”

“There aren’t three men in Boston I’d allow to talk like that. But I know your affection for my girl, so you may say what you choose. And after all, even pig-headedness isn’t a crime.”

“No sir, it isn’t. At least, not in Emily. In her father, it came mighty near being. Oh, well, it’s her only flaw, and knowing it you can make allowances.”

“Yes,” said Rodney Sayre, “I can make allowances.”