Читать книгу Prillilgirl - Carolyn Wells - Страница 5

Table of Contents

Thorndike came home from his trip before the two weeks were up. This was due to accident and was not intentional, but as he reached his house just at dinner time, he felt a certain curiosity to learn what Prillilgirl might be up to.

It was late June, but the evening was pleasantly cool and as he entered the house he saw shaded lights in the big dining room, and went straight out there. The table was laid with as much formality as if for a party, but Prillilgirl sat alone in her place. Thorndike’s quick eye noted that there was another place laid opposite to her at the table, and a fierce anger stirred him. Was this child inviting other guests in his absence? His anger was all the deeper because a latent sense of justice seemed to tell him that his neglect gave her a certain latitude.

When she saw him enter an expression of fear came over her lovely face. Not a tragic fear, but the frightened look of a small child caught in mischief. She sprang from her seat and whirled at him.

“Webb,” she cried, “remove that, quickly!”

As she spoke, she put two little hands lightly but firmly across Thorndike’s eyes, but not before he had caught a glimpse of flashing silver in the butler’s hands and he could hear hurried steps, most unusual for the impeccable Webb.

A moment, then the shielding hands were taken away, and Prillilgirl smiled up at him. Webb was correctly in his place, and Thorndike’s curiosity was thoroughly roused.

“What did you have taken away from that place?”

“Nothing.”

“All the silver is on the table that is necessary for dinner. Webb, place a cover for Mr. Thorndike.”

“There is a cover already placed,” Thorndike said, sternly. “Were you expecting a guest?”

“A guest! How absurd! I don’t know any one.”

“Then why this other place laid?”

Prillilgirl looked at him, and gave a little half smile. “For you, in case you came home unexpectedly.”

Her gaze was so honest, her expression so sincere, that Thorndike’s mind was evenly divided between two opinions. Either she was speaking the absolute truth, or she was the most consummate and accomplished liar he had ever seen, and he inclined to the latter. But as she continued to meet his gaze without faltering, he almost decided she was truthful, and he took a seat at the table.

But the dinner was not a success. Thorndike was so nervous he could scarcely speak and could not eat at all. Prillilgirl was perfectly at ease and ate with a normal appetite, enjoying the delicate dishes with appreciation.

She began to chatter. She was gay, insouciant and altogether charming. But entirely impersonal. She gave Thorndike no word or look of welcome, she said nothing that implied the faintest interest in him or his doings, but she told of her own affairs and how she had redecorated her boudoir and had bought a white Pomeranian.

With the contrariness of which women are sometimes mistakenly said to hold the monopoly, Thorndike resented her very apparent happiness.

He had spent the two weeks yachting with some friends, and incidentally, had been bored stiff, but he thought she might make a few inquiries out of mere politeness.

He ignored that it had been arranged she was to have no interest in his affairs, and he was most unreasonably annoyed because she seemed to be in a state of enjoyment.

“You seem very happy,” he grumbled.

“I am!” with a beaming smile.

“Why are you so happy?”

“’Cause I’ve been singing so much.”

“Why have you been singing so much?”

“’Cause I’m so happy!”

Thorndike laughed in spite of himself, and immediately was angry with himself for laughing. Truly, his was not an admirable disposition, but only those who are conversant with the vagaries of an over-shy and over-sensitive nature can understand the perversities that accompany such. Moreover, one thing rankled.

“What was that piece of silver you told Webb to take away?”

“That I shall never tell you, and you have no right to ask.”

There was no smile now, but the brown eyes looked into his with a dignity and justice that carried conviction.

But he would not desist.

“You expected some one else to dinner?”

“And if I did, what of it? Surely, I may do as I choose in my own home. But, as I told you, Guy, I couldn’t invite any one if I wanted to—for I have no friends in New York.”

“Have you any in Spriggville that you would like to entertain?”

“No.”

“Do you want friends, Corinne?”

“I promised not to bother you.”

“Well, it wouldn’t bother me much to provide a few friends for you. Would you like to meet some girls of your own age. I can arrange it quite easily.”

“No, Guy, thank you. I hate to bother you, but since you offer me friends, I would like some, but I don’t want girls. I’d like to know a few nice young men.”

“I think I can hardly have heard you aright.”

“I said I should like to meet some young men. Attractive ones. Society men, who know the world.”

“Indeed! And what do you propose to do with these young men?”

“I thought perhaps they might invite me to go to a cabaret show. Lamb says she can’t take me.”

Thorndike looked at her. He still had that strange uncertainty whether she could be the innocent baby she looked or whether she was a deep-dyed little villain scheming for adventures.

And as usual, her clear-eyed gaze convinced him, at least for the moment, of her truth and honesty.

Yet even as he opened his mouth to speak, he was uncertain whether to swear at her or to speak gently.

“Corinne,” he said, “I don’t think you quite know what you are talking about. In our walk of life it isn’t considered the thing for a wife to go about with other men than her husband.”

“Oh,” and Mrs. Thorndike looked thoughtful. “Very well, Guy. I beg your pardon.”

“Didn’t you really know that?” and Thorndike’s smile was a little quizzical.

“I suppose I knew it in a general way,” and the flower face looked troubled. “But, you see, Guy, we are so—so different from other married people, that I thought it would be all right for me to go with somebody else and not bother you. It is foolish, I suppose, but I have always wanted to see a cabaret, or a Café Chantant. Aren’t they very attractive?”

“Why, Sweet o’ the Year, they are not attractive to me—but I suppose you would like to see one. I don’t believe you’d care to go a second time. It’s only a case of ungratified curiosity on your part.”

“Yes, that’s it. But I do want to see it once. How old shall I have to be, Guy, before I can go alone?”

“Good Heavens! Don’t you know anything? You never could go alone, not if you were a thousand years old!”

“Well,” and Prillilgirl drew a soft little sigh of regret, “then I suppose I must give it up. I’m sorry I bothered you about it, for you have filled my life so full of joy and happiness that it is ungrateful of me to ask for anything more.”

Thorndike looked at her. What a queer little bundle she was, apparently all made up of joyfulness, ignorance and beauty, each of which she possessed to a most appalling degree.

“The truth is,” he burst out, “I don’t know what to do with you!”

“It’s all my fault, and I’m awfully sorry. I promised not to bother you a bit if you’d only marry me, and here I’ve gone and bothered you a whole lot! If you’ll forgive me this time, I’ll never do anything of the sort again.”

“Very well, see that you remember that. There’s no use talking, Corinne, I can’t take you around with me. You’d make me no end of trouble driving off the men.”

“Are all the men bad?”

“Yes, every one. You can’t have anything to do with them, for I can’t be everlastingly tagging at your heels! You’ll have to amuse yourself without society. Can you?”

“Yes, of course I can, Guy, and you know it. You married me, and I’ll never ask you to do another thing for me in all my life.”

“Very well. Now I’ll ask you one question and I’ll never ask you another in all my life. What was that silver thing you made Webb hide when I came in here?”

Prillilgirl stepped out of the room a moment, and returned with something she held behind her.

“Please don’t make me show it to you, Guy,” she pleaded; “I don’t want to one single little bit.”

“You must,” he said, coldly, and he stood, with folded arms, waiting.

Slowly, Prillilgirl brought her hands in front of her and disclosed a photograph of Thorndike in a silver frame.

She looked him squarely in the eyes with a funny little touch of dignity which she assumed on certain occasions. “I set it at your place,” she said, “to make believe you were there. Then when you came in unexpectedly, I didn’t want you to see it, so I told Webb to take it away. Good night, Guy.”

“Good night, Prillilgirl,” and he stood looking after her as she left the room and went up the stairs.

A few days later, Thorndike sent an imperative message for Prillilgirl to appear in the library at once.

“Lemmelone!” remarked Mrs. Thorndike, as Lamb woke her from an afternoon nap to tell her this.

It was a warm day, and Prillilgirl was drowsy, but when she sensed the situation she sprang up.

“Good gracious me!” she exclaimed, as she flew to the mirror. “Give me a fresh frock, Lambie, and some white shoes.”

She kicked off her boudoir slippers and twisted up her gold curls at the same time, and in a few moments was garbed in a smart but very simple lingerie gown with a touch of pale green ribbon about it.

Then she tripped along the halls in the wake of Webb, who opened doors or held curtains for her until she was in the august presence of Thorndike.

With the flush of sleep still on her baby cheeks, Prillilgirl was a picture to charm Saint Anthony himself. But if Guy Thorndike were charmed he gave no sign of it.

“You’re too confounded pretty,” he muttered under his breath, and scowled at her as he met her at the library door.

“Yes, Guy,” and her smile was merely that of one who is politely resigned to her awful fate.

“Come in, Pril,” he said, aloud; “here are some people who want to meet you.”

And to the girl’s intense amazement, she found a gay group of men and women, sitting or standing about, and seemingly, very much at home there.

So this was Guy’s crowd. This was the sort of people with whom he was at ease and unembarrassed.

“Me first!” cried a tall, beautiful woman, jumping up and crossing the room quickly. “Well, you are a peach!” she exclaimed, as she grasped Prillilgirl’s shoulders and almost shook her. “What do you mean by looking like that? Are you real?”

The banter was gay and the voice merry, but instinctively Prillilgirl felt the resentment expressed by that clutch on her shoulders. She knew at once that this woman was an enemy and to be feared.

With canny prescience she disarmed her for the moment, by a frank gaze of admiration and said in a gentle voice, “Yes, Beautiful Lady, I am real. Are you?”

“Not very,” was the response and still the long slender hands held her shoulders. “I am Agatha Barr—”

“I know,” said Prillilgirl, “the great actress. I am proud to know you.”

And then others claimed introduction and Prillilgirl was frankly and openly admired and commented on.

“Found her in Sir Joshua Reynolds’ scrap book, I suppose,” said one man.

“Or in Kate Greenaway’s,” said another.

Thorndike said nothing, but his eyes rested on Prillilgirl with more of bored anxiety than admiration.

He cared nothing for her himself, but he didn’t want this horde of people to turn her head.

As he watched, however, he was forced to the conclusion that she could look after herself. Her manner was perfect; modest without being shy. Bright, even piquant, without being forward. Where had she learned such finesse? And then he realized it was not acquired, but merely the simplicity of her own frank, unembarrassed nature.

He looked at Agatha Barr.

Clearly, she was disturbed. He chuckled to himself. Agatha—Thousand Ship Agatha, as she was called—disturbed by a doll-faced chit—no, that was unfair. Doll-faced the child was not. Angel-faced, fairy-faced, pastel, Greuze-like—all these—but never doll-faced.

Thorndike sighed. What could he do with her? He had not wanted to introduce her into this set, but they had insisted until he could no longer refuse. And now they had set upon her like a pack of hungry lions.

There were less than a dozen, altogether, but to Prillilgirl it seemed like a mob. She began to get a little frightened, and looked about for Guy. But he had stepped into another room with Agatha, and she couldn’t see him.

A man came and sat by her, pushing one or two others aside.

“Mrs. Thorndike,” he said, in a gentle well-bred voice, “may I introduce myself? I kept off at first, in order to make a more effective entrance later.” He smiled pleasantly. “I am Mallory Vane, and one of your husband’s very good friends, but a sad scapegrace. That’s why I venture to ask your friendship.”

This gay appeal quite took the fancy of Prillilgirl, and she smiled at the handsome speaker.

“Mr. Thorndike will be back in a moment,” she said, glancing uncertainly about. “He must be in the drawing room.”

“Yes, he is. But he said I was to make friends with you.”

Prillilgirl looked at him.

“Did Mr. Thorndike say that?” she asked, not in surprise, but as if desiring corroboration.

“Yes,” but Mallory Vane’s eyes fell before the brown ones that looked at him so coolly.

“You are not telling the truth,” she said, but with such a calm air of making a mere statement that it scarce sounded like an accusation.

“I beg your pardon,” Vane said, just because he didn’t know what else to say.

“I said, you are not telling the truth; you are telling a wrong story. My husband didn’t say that to you.”

Vane was completely bowled over. The entrancing face wore an expression of such good-humored tolerance and at the same time such aloofness from his proposition, and the beautiful eyes looked at him with a smile so tantalizing yet unafraid, that he lost his head.

“No matter what he said or didn’t say, we’re going to be friends. Come, I want you to dance with me—I’ll turn on the music.”

He rose, and took one of her hands, and clasping her other dimpled elbow, urged her to rise.

The brown eyes flashed one look of surprise and indignation at him and then turned to see Thorndike approaching.

“Guy,” she said, simply, “will you please speak to this man?”

“What are you doing, Vane?” said Thorndike.

“I’m going to dance with your wife.”

“I don’t think you are. I want to talk to you myself. Now, Vane, you’ll have to decide between me and Larkin. If you’re going to give him your new play, say so—and I’ll look elsewhere. But you know how much I want it—it’s the very idea I’ve wanted for so long. That iron hand in the velvet glove effect is just my metier. I can play it as I’ve never played before. And your plot is great—I say, Vane, sign a contract with me for the thing, will you?”

“But Larkin claims it—”

“You bet I do!” and Dan Larkin joined the group.

He was a short, stout man, with pop eyes, close together and a bald head. But his smile was kindly, and the glance he cast at Prillilgirl was one of respectful admiration.

He sat down, and the three men began to talk, so interestedly that they took no notice of the little lady.

For great matters were at stake.

Thorndike, both as actor and manager, wanted the play Vane had just completed; and Larkin, a rival manager, declared it was the play he had ordered from Vane and lawfully belonged to him.

No compromise could be effected, for Larkin would never let Thorndike play in one of his productions. He had his own star, and though he and Guy were friendly enough when all went smoothly, in time of stress they had been known to quarrel deeply.

And this affair was at a deadlock. Vane, himself a poet, and this his first play, was ready and willing to give it over to either, though anxious to get the best price possible for his masterpiece.

“I’ve done this,” he had said to them, “but I may never do another. I don’t feel that it is mortgaged to Larkin—I’m more than willing to let you have it, Guy, but it’s for sale to the highest bidder.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Larkin insisted. “I ordered a play from you, Vane. You wrote it—this is it. Now, how can you honorably sell it to Thorndike?”

“I don’t see it as a question of honor,” Vane retorted. “I have a play for sale. I sell it to my own best advantage. That is all.”

“And I want it, because it just suits my own needs,” Guy put in. “You don’t really want it, Dan. Your Jeffreys couldn’t play in it—not as it should be played—”

“Have you seen it?” asked Larkin; “have you read it?”

“No,” said Guy, “but Vane has told me the plot and quoted some of the lines. It’s just what I want. It will make me—do be reasonable, Dan.”

“I am reasonable, and I reason that I want that play myself. And what’s more, I’m going to have it. Hear that, Vane? If you let anyone else have that play, I’ll sue you for breach of contract—and I can put that over, too!”

Mallory Vane knew this, for Larkin had ways and means of putting things over that were rather difficult to combat.

“All right, Lark, guess you’ll have to have it,” he said, but Thorndike broke in angrily:

“Nothing of the sort. Let me have it, Dan. I’ll pay you a bonus, and Mallory will write you another play, won’t you, Vane?”

“If I get all the price I want for this one, I shan’t write another very soon,” returned the indolent author. “I’ve worked like a dog on this one, and I want a good long vacation before tackling another.”

“Well, anyway, you’ll give Larkin your next one,” Guy urged.

“I don’t want the next one,” the rival manager declared. “I want this one. He’ll never do another like this. It’s a freak, a sport—I’ve read part of it, and it’s—why, it’s classic. You may as well give up, Guy, I’ve got the whip hand, and the play is mine.”

“I don’t give up,” Thorndike was growing obstinate. “We’ll drop the subject for the present, but understand, Larkin, I don’t give up. That play is to be mine, and I’m going to produce it and play in it.”

The guests went away at last, and, uncertain what to do next, Prillilgirl stood for a moment contemplating the moody, clouded face of Thorndike as he stood, lighting a cigarette.

Suddenly he turned to her. He frowned, then he scowled.

Then he said, “Go away, Corinne. My, but you’re a nuisance! I don’t know what I’m going to do with you! I don’t want to see you around.”

“Yes, Guy,” and she started to leave the room.

“Come back here, wait a minute.”

The little white figure came back and stood before him, the exquisite baby face as dear and sweet as ever.

“Now, look here, I’m going to send you up to a farmhouse in the mountains for the summer. Get your things ready. Take Lamb and your dog and anything you want to. Be ready day after tomorrow.”

“Yes, Guy, indeed I will; oh, I know I shall love it, in the mountains. Are they high mountains Guy?”

“Yes. I don’t know. Fairly high—now, get out!”

“Yes, Guy. You are so good to me—and make such lovely plans for me. Thank you, Guy.”

The clear-eyed smile he received proved beyond all shadow of doubt the entire absence of sarcasm and the happy little flower face turned from him and disappeared.