Читать книгу The Ball of Fire - George Randolph Chester - Страница 5

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The grand privilege of Mrs. Jim Sargent’s happy life was to worry all she liked. She began with the rise of the sun, and worried about the silver chest; whether it had been locked over night. Usually she slipped downstairs, in the grey of the morning, to see, and, thus happily started on the day, she worried about breakfast and luncheon and dinner; and Jim and her sister and her niece, Lucile; and the servants and the horses and the flowers; and at nights she lay awake and heard burglars. Just now, as she sat on the seven chairs and the four benches of the mahogany panelled library, amid a wealth of serious-minded sculpture and painting and rare old prints, she was bathed in a new ecstasy of painful enjoyment. She was worried about Gail! It was six-thirty now, and Gail had not yet returned from Lucile’s.

At irregular intervals, say first two minutes and then three and a half, and then one, she walked into the Louis XIV reception parlour, and made up her mind to have a new jeweller try his hand at the sun-ray clock, and looked out of the windows to see if Lucile’s car was arriving. Between times she pursued her favourite literary diversion; reading the automobile accidents in the evening papers. She had spent all her later years in looking for Jim’s name among the list of the maimed!

Mrs. Helen Davies, dressed for dinner with as much care as if she had been about to attend one of the unattainable Mrs. Waverly-Gaites’ annuals, came sweeping down the marble stairs with the calm aplomb of one whom nothing can disturb, and, lorgnette in hand, turned into the library without even a glance into the floor-length mirror in the hall. Her amber beaded gown was set perfectly on her fine shoulders, and her black hair, fashionably streaked with grey, was properly done, as she was perfectly aware.

“I’m so glad you came down, Helen!” breathed Mrs. Sargent, with a sigh of relief. “I’m so worried!”

“Naturally, Grace,” returned her sister Helen, who was reputed to be gifted in repartee. “One would be, under the circumstances. What are they?” and she tapped her chin delicately with the tip of her lorgnette, as a warning to an insipient yawn. It was no longer good form to be bored.

“Gail!” replied Mrs. Sargent, who was inclined to dumpiness and a decided contrast to her stately widowed sister. “She hasn’t come home from Lucile’s!”

Mrs. Helen Davies sat beneath the statue of Minerva presenting wisdom to the world, and arranged the folds of her gown to the most graceful advantage.

“You shouldn’t expect her on time, coming from Lucile’s,” she observed, with a smile of proper pride. She was immensely fond of her daughter Lucile; but she preferred to live with her sister. “I have a brilliant idea, Grace. I’ll telephone,” and without seeming to exert herself in the least, she glided from her picturesque high-backed flemish chair, and sat at the library table, and drew the phone to her, and secured her daughter’s number.

“Hello, Lucile,” she called, in the most friendly of tones. “You’d better send Gail home, before your Aunt Grace develops wrinkles.”

“Gail isn’t here,” reported Lucile triumphantly. “She dropped in, two hours ago, and dropped right out, without waiting for her tea. You’d never guess with whom she’s driving! Edward E. Allison! He’s the richest bachelor in New York!”

Mrs. Helen Davies turned to her anxious sister with a sparkle in her black eyes.

“It’s all right, Grace,” and then she turned eagerly to the phone. “Did he come in?”

“They were in too big a rush,” jabbered Lucile excitedly. “He doesn’t look old at all. Arly and I watched them drive away. They seemed to be great chums. Gail got him at Uncle Jim’s vestry. Doesn’t she look stunning in red!”

“Where is she?” interrupted Mrs. Sargent, holding her thumb.

“Out driving,” reported sister Helen. “Have you sent your invitations for the house-party, Lucile?” and she discussed that important subject until Mrs. Sargent’s thumb ached.

“With whom is Gail driving, and where?” asked sister Grace, anxious for detail.

Mrs. Helen Davies touched all of her fingertips together in front of her on the library table, and beamed on Grace.

“Don’t worry about Gail,” she smilingly advised. “She is driving with Edward E. Allison. He is the richest bachelor in New York, though not socially prominent. No one has ever been able to interest him. I predict for Gail a brilliant future,” and she moved over contentedly to her favourite contrast with Minerva.

“Gail would attract any one,” returned Mrs. Sargent complacently, and then a little crease came in her brow. “I wonder where she met him.”

“At the vestry meeting, Lucile said.”

“Oh,” and Mrs. Sargent’s brow cleared instantly. “Jim introduced them. I wonder where Jim is!”

“I am glad Gail is not definitely engaged,” mused Mrs. Davies. “I am pleased with her. Young Mr. Clemmens may seem to be a very brilliant match, back home, but, with her exceptional advantages, she has every right to expect to do better.”

Again the creases came in Mrs. Sargent’s brow.

“I don’t know,” she worried. “Gail has had four letters in four days from Mr. Clemmens. Of course, if she genuinely cares for him—”

“But she doesn’t,” Helen comforted herself, figuring it all out carefully. “A young man who would write a letter a day, would exert every possible pressure to secure a promise, before he would let a beautiful creature like Gail come to New York for the winter; and the fact that he did not succeed proves, conclusively, that she has not made up her mind about him.”

The door opened, and Jim Sargent came in, wiping the snow from his stubby moustache before he distributed his customary hearty greetings to the family.

“Where’s Gail?” he wanted to know.

“Out driving with Edward E. Allison,” answered both ladies.

“Still?” inquired Jim Sargent, and then he laughed. “She’s a clever girl. Smart as a whip! She nearly started a riot in the vestry.”

“Was Willis Cunningham there?” inquired Mrs. Davies interestedly.

“Took me in a corner after the meeting and told me that Gail bore a remarkable resemblance to the Fratelli Madonna, and might he call.”

“Mr. Cunningham is one of the men I was anxious for her to meet,” and Mrs. Davies touched her second finger, as if she were checking off a list.

“What did Gail do?” wondered Mrs. Sargent.

Jim, crossing to the door, chuckled, and removed his watch chain from his vest.

“Told Boyd that Market Square Church was a good business proposition.”

The ladies did not share his amusement.

“To the Reverend Boyd!” breathed Mrs. Sargent, shocked. She considered the Reverend Smith Boyd the most wonderful young man of his age.

“How undiplomatic,” worried Mrs. Davies. “I must have a little talk with her about cleverness. It’s dangerous in a girl.”

“Not these days,” declared Jim Sargent, who stood ready to defend Gail, right or wrong, at every angle. “Allison and Manning enjoyed it immensely.”

“Oh,” remarked Helen Davies, somewhat mollified. “And Mr. Cunningham?”

“And what did the Reverend Boyd say?” inquired Mrs. Sargent, much concerned.

“I don’t think he liked it very well,” speculated Gail’s Uncle Jim. “He’s coming over to-night to discuss church matters. I’ll have to dress in a hurry,” and he looked at the watch which he held, with its chain, in his hand.

The telephone bell rang, and Sargent, who could not train himself to wait for a servant to sift the messages, answered it immediately, with his characteristic explosive-first-syllabled:

“Hello!”

“Oh, it’s you, Uncle Jim,” called a buoyant voice. “Mr. Allison and I have found the most enchanting roadhouse in the world, and we’re going to take dinner here. It’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Certainly,” he replied, equally buoyant. “Enjoy yourself, Chubsy,” and he hung up the receiver.

“What is it?” asked Mrs. Davies, in a tone distinctly chill. She had a premonition that Jim Sargent had done something foolish. He seemed so pleased.

“Gail won’t be home,” he announced carelessly, starting for the stairs. “She’s dining with Allison at some roadhouse.”

“Unchaperoned!” gasped Mrs. Davies.

“She’s all right, Helen,” remarked Jim, starting upstairs. “Allison’s a fine fellow.”

“But what will he think of Gail!” protested Helen. “That sort of unconventionality has gone clear out. Jim, you’ll have to get back that number!”

“Sorry,” regretted Jim. “Can’t do it. Against the telephone rules,” and he went on upstairs, positively humming!

The two ladies looked at each other, and sat down in the valley of the shadows of gloom. There was nothing to be done! Mrs. Davies, however, was different from her sister. Grace Sargent was an accomplished worrier, who could remain numb in the exercise of her art, but Helen Davies was a woman of action. She presently called her daughter.

“Have you started your dinner, Lucile?” she demanded.

“No, Ted just came home,” reported Lucile. “What’s the matter?”

“Don’t let him take time to dress,” urged her mother. “You must go right out and chaperon Gail.”

“Where is she?” Lucile delayed to inquire.

“At some roadhouse, dining with Mr. Allison!”

“Well, what do you think of Gail!” exulted Lucile. “Oh, Arly!” and Mrs. Davies heard the receiver drop to the end of its line. She heard laughter, and then the voice of Lucile again. “Mother, she’s with Edward E. Allison, and they’ll do better without a chaperon. Besides, mother dear, there’s a million roadhouses. We’ll come down after dinner. I want to see her when she returns.”

“I don’t suppose she could be found, except by accident,” granted her mother, and gave up the enterprise. “Times are constantly changing,” she complained to her sister. “The management of a girl becomes more difficult every year. So much freedom makes them disregardful of the aid of their elders in making a selection.”

It was not until nine o’clock that the ladies expressed their worry again. At that hour, Ted and Lucile Teasdale and Arly Fosland came in with the exuberance of a New Year’s Eve celebration.

“It’s great sleighing to-night,” stated Lucile’s husband, who was a thin-waisted young man, with a splendid natural gift for dancing.

“All that’s missing is the bells,” chattered the black-haired Arly, breaking straight for her favourite big couch in the library. “The only way to have any speed in an auto is to go sidewise.”

“We’re to get up a skidding match, so I can bet on our chauffeur,” laughed Lucile, fluffing her blonde ringlets before the big mirror in the hall. “We slid a complete circle coming down through the Park, and never lost a revolution!”

“I’ve been thinking it must be bad driving,” fretted Mrs. Sargent. “Gail should be home by now!”

“Allison’s a safe driver,” comforted Ted, who liked to see everybody happy.

Jim Sargent came to the door of the study, in which he was closeted with the Reverend Smith Boyd. Jim was practically the young rector’s business guardian.

“Hello, folks,” he nodded. “Gail home?”

“Not yet,” responded Mrs. Sargent, in whose brow the creases were becoming fixed.

“It’s hardly time,” estimated Jim, and went back in the study.

“Ted has a new divinity,” boasted the wife of that agreeable young man.

“Had, you mean,” corrected Ted. “She’s deserted me for a single man.”

“Is it the Piccadilly widow?” inquired Arly, punching another pillow under her elbow.

“Certainly,” corroborated Ted. “You don’t suppose I have a new one every day.”

“You’re losing your power of fascination then,” retorted Arly. “Lucile’s still in the running with two a day.”

“She should have her kind by the dozen,” responded Ted, complacently stroking his glossy moustache.

“The young set takes up some peculiar fads,” mused Mrs. Davies, with a trace of concern. “I can’t quite accustom myself to the sanction of flirting.”

“Neither can I,” agreed Ted. “It takes the fun out of it.”

“The only joy is in boasting about it at home,” complained Arly Fosland. “I can’t even get Gerald interested in my affairs, so I’ve dropped them.”

“Gerald wouldn’t understand a flirtation of his own,” criticised Ted. “I never saw a man who made such hard work of belonging to twelve clubs. Arly, how did you manage to make him see your fatal lure?”

“Mother did it,” returned Arly, drowsily absorbing the grateful warmth of the room.

“I don’t think anything is half so dangerous to a bachelor as a mother,” stated Lucile, with a friendly smile at Mrs. Davies.

“I’m going to start a new fad,” announced Arly, sitting up and considering the matter; “prudery. There’s nothing more effective.”

“It’s too wicked,” objected Lucile’s mother, and scored another point for herself. It was a wearing task to keep up a reputation for repartee.

“I’m terribly vexed,” confided Lucile, stopping behind Ted’s chair, and idly tickling the back of his neck. “I thought it would be such a brilliant scheme to give a winter week-end party, but Mrs. Acton is going to give one at her country place.”

“Before or after?” demanded Mrs. Davies, with whom this was a point of the utmost importance.

“A week after,” answered Lucile, “but her invitations are out. I wish I hadn’t mailed mine. What can we do to make ours notable?”

That being a matter worth considering, the entire party, with the exception of Aunt Grace, who was listening for the doorbell, set their wits and their tongues to work. Mrs. Helen Davies took a keener interest in it than any of them. The invitation list was the most important of all, for it was a long and arduous way to the heaven of the socially elect, and it took generations to accomplish the journey. The Murdock girls, Grace and herself, had no great-grandfather. Murdock Senior had made his money after Murdock Junior was married, but in time to give the girls a thorough polishing in an exclusive academy. Thus launched, Helen had married a man with a great-great-grandfather, but Grace had married Jim Sargent. Jim was a dear, and had plenty of money, and was as good a railroader as Grace’s father, with whom he had been great chums; but still he was Jim Sargent. Gail’s mother, who had married Jim’s brother, had seven ancestors, but a mother’s family name is so often overlooked. Nevertheless, when Gail came to marry, the maternal ancestry, all other things being favourable, might even secure her an invitation to Mrs. Waverly-Gaites’ annual! Reaching this point in her circle of speculation, Mrs. Helen Davies came back to her starting place, and looked at the library clock with a shock. Ten; and the girl was not yet home!

The Reverend Smith Boyd came out of the study with his most active vestryman, and joined the circle of waiting ones. He was a pleasant addition to the party, for, in spite of belonging to the clergy, he was able to conduct himself, in Rome, in a quite acceptable Roman fashion. Pleasant as he was, they wished he would go home, because it was not convenient to worry in his company; and by this time Lucile herself was beginning to watch the clock with some anxiety. Only Mrs. Sargent felt no restraint. An automobile honked at the door as if it were stopping, and she half arose; then the same honk sounded half way down the block, and she sat down again.

“I’m so worried about Gail!” she stated, holding her thumb.

“We all are,” supplemented Mrs. Davies quickly. “She has been dining with a party of friends, and the streets are so slippery.”

“I should judge Mr. Allison to be a very capable driver,” said the Reverend Smith Boyd; and the ladies glared at Jim. “I envy them their drive on a night like this. I wonder if there will be good coasting.”

“Fine,” judged Jim Sargent, looking out of the window toward the adjoining rectory. “That first snow was wet and it froze. Now there’s a good inch on top of it, and, at this rate, there should be three by morning. A little thaw, and another freeze, and a little more snow to-morrow, and I’ll be tempted to make a bob-sled.”

“I’ll help you,” offered the Reverend Smith Boyd, with a glow of pleasure in his particularly fine eyes. “I used to have a twelve seated bob-sled, which never started down the hill with less than fifteen.”

“I never rode on one,” complained Arly. “I think I’m due for a bob-sled party.”

“You’re invited,” Lucile promptly told her. “Uncle Jim, you and Dr. Boyd will have to hunt up your hammer and saw.”

“I’ll start right to work,” offered the young rector, with the alacrity which had made him a favourite.

“If the snow holds, we’ll go over into the Jersey hills, and slide,” promised Sargent with enthusiasm. “I’ll give the party.”

“I seem to anticipate a pleasant evening,” considered Ted Teasdale, whose athletics were confined entirely to dancing. “We’ll ride down hill on the sleds, and up hill in the machines.”

“That’s barred,” immediately protested Jim. “The boys have to pull the girls up hill. Isn’t that right, Boyd?”

“It was correct form when I was a boy,” returned the rector, with a laugh. He held his muscular hands out before him as if he could still feel the cut of the rope in his palms. He squared his big shoulders, and breathed deeply, in memory of those health-giving days. There was a flush in his cheeks, and his eyes, which were sometimes green, glowed with a decided blue. Arlene Fosland, looking lazily across at him, from the comfortable nest which she had not quitted all evening, decided that it was a shame that he had been cramped into the ministry.

“There’s Gail!” cried Mrs. Sargent, jumping to her feet and running into the hall, before the butler could come in answer to the bell. She opened the door, and was immediately kissed, then Gail came back into the library without stopping to remove her furs. She was followed by Allison, and she carried something inside her coat. Her cheeks were rosy, from the crisp air, and the snow sparkled on her brown hair like tiny diamonds.

“We’ve been buying a dog!” she breathlessly explained, and, opening her coat, she produced an animated teddy bear, with two black eyes and one black pointed nose protruding from a puff ball of pure white. She set it on the floor, where it waddled uncertainly in three directions, and finally curled between the Reverend Smith Boyd’s feet.

“A collie!” and the Reverend Smith Boyd picked up the warm infant for an admiring inspection. “It’s a beautiful puppy.”

“Isn’t it a dear!” exclaimed Gail, taking it away from him, and favouring him with a smile. She whisked the fluffy little ball over to her Aunt Grace, and left it in that lady’s lap, while she threw off her furs.

“Where could you buy a dog at this hour?” inquired Mrs. Davies, glancing at the clock, which stood now at the accusing hour of a quarter of eleven.

“We woke up the kennel man,” laughed Gail, turning, with a sparkling glance, to Allison, who was being introduced ceremoniously to the ladies by Uncle Jim. “We had a perfectly glorious evening! We dined at Roseleaf Inn, entirely surrounded by hectic lights, then we drove five miles into the country and bought Flakes. We came home so fast that Mr. Allison almost had to hold me in.” She turned, laughing, to find the eyes of the Reverend Smith Boyd fixed on her in cold disapproval. They were no longer blue!