VIII
The very next evening, when he should have been on his way to Chicago, he was ringing the door bell of Madeline’s flat. His presence brought ineffable consolation to the aunt, and was not displeasing to the girl herself.
“My!” she said loftily. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d come back!”
“Well, I did,” said he. “Aren’t you going back to Compson’s any more?”
“That’s my business!” she answered, but she let him in, and he did not appear rebuffed.
“Well, I guess they miss you there,” he observed.
“Let ’em!” she retorted with spirit. They were both too polite, too formal, to take any notice of the tears rolling down her cheeks. “I went out with that Mr. Bradley, and we got lost in his car. We never got back here until near noon. There’s no use telling those girls that. They’re awful spiteful, and they’d never believe me.”
“Well, I do,” said Ritchie.
“I should think you ought to!” said Madeline, with a sternness that concealed a very warm gratitude.
“Well, I said I did, didn’t I?” pursued Ritchie.
There was a pause.
“He was here to-day,” said Madeline; “him and his sister. I must say I didn’t think much of her—all painted and everything. She wants to get me a job with one of those Fifth Avenue dressmakers, as a model, to show off the dresses.”
There was calm triumph in her tone, but despair seized Ritchie’s heart.
“She says I’d be an elegant model,” observed Madeline.
“All right!” said Ritchie. “Go ahead! Be one! Suit yourself!”
Another pause.
“That po’try you showed me,” said Madeline. “I thought it was sweet.”
“It’s not meant to be sweet,” replied Ritchie severely. “It’s more like, now, tragic. If you’d read more—”
“I always admired the way you read such a lot,” said Madeline.
In spite of himself, he was mollified. He glanced at her covertly. She was quite as lovely and disturbing as ever.
“Well,” he said, “of course I got to read. I want to get on. I’m making twenty-seven a week now, and more when there’s overtime. I spend a good lot on those correspondence courses, and the Coyote Club and all; but I guess I could do without them, if I felt like it.”
“I’m not going to take that job,” said Madeline suddenly. “I wouldn’t—not for anything. I guess I’ve had enough of that[Pg 101] kind of people—all that drinking and all. I’d never get on with that kind!”
“Well, twenty-seven a week, clear—” said Ritchie.
The collapse of castles in the air doesn’t make a sound. Down came the magnificent edifice of Everard Ritchie’s ambitions, and the airy palace of Madeline’s dreams. In their place was instantaneously erected a three-room flat in a respectable quarter.
Their hands met, but not their eyes. They were timid lovers; but by that handclasp they could say all they wished.
“Those people just make me sick,” said Madeline. “You ought to have seen them dancing out at that place!”
Then their eyes did meet, full of profound confidence and understanding. His arm went round her shoulders, and she drew close to him.
“I know!” said he. “Fellers like that are no good at all; and those girls!” He looked at his haughty and incorruptible Madeline. “Those girls,” said he, from the depths of his vast worldly knowledge, “are nothing but a bunch of jazz babies![Pg 102]”
MUNSEY’S
MAGAZINE
AUGUST, 1923
Vol. LXXIX NUMBER 3
The Postponed Wedding
IN WHICH THE PRINCIPALS WERE A TEARFUL BRIDE AND A SUBSTITUTE BRIDEGROOM
By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding
MILDRED stood like a statue—a trite figure of speech, but in this case an apt one. With the white satin draped about her bare shoulders, immobile in her cool and tranquil loveliness, she was truly like a statue, and an admirable one.
The dressmaker knelt at her feet as if before an idol, gathered the gleaming material into folds here and there, and put in pins, serious and happy in this congenial work. She admired Mildred immeasurably, because Miss Henaberry was polite and kind and beautiful, and did justice to a dressmaker’s art.
Mildred was not the first idol to be obliged to stand still and look lovely while the keenest anguish racked her. Not by the flicker of an eyelash would she betray what she suffered. She had read the letter calmly; she held it now in fingers that trembled not at all. Obediently she turned, or lifted an arm, and did everything necessary, so that the dress might be perfect.
It was her wedding dress, and her wedding had been announced for the first day of June—and for the past fifteen minutes she had known that there would be no wedding then.
The dressmaker rose and stood back a few feet, to look at the tall, straight young creature, with her proud little dark head, so nobly set off by the lustrous satin.
“My!” said she. “You’ll be a perfect vision, Miss Henaberry!”
Mildred smiled then, somewhat faintly. She was able, even willing, to endure the worst that fate could inflict upon her; but she very much wanted one hour alone, to endure the first shock. She did not want to cry, or even to think; all that she needed was a little space of time to steady and fortify that pride so horribly shaken.
Pride was at once the girl’s finest quality, and her worst. It was a splendid pride that had made her come out so bravely after her father’s bankruptcy and death, and, after twenty years of easy and luxurious living, had set to work to earn her bread as a teacher in a private school. It was a pride diabolic that made her stand so aloof, and refuse friendship, because of her morbid fear that some one might pity her.
You could read all that in her face; for though she had the profile, the wide, low brow, and the fine, grave eyes of Minerva, there was that about her mouth and chin which was simply mulish obstinacy. She never had listened, she never would listen, to any warning or advice. Any number of people had wanted to warn and advise her about Will Mallet.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Terhune, an old friend of her mother’s, “Will can’t support a wife.”
“He’s never tried,” answered Mildred. “He’s never had a wife.”
“But Will is—” Mrs. Terhune began, and had to stop.
Impossible to describe just what was wrong with Will Mallet. He came of a good family, and, though he hadn’t a penny, he had influential connections. He wasn’t lazy, he hadn’t a vice in the world, he was intelligent, almost scholarly, and altogether a handsome and endearing boy. Even the fact that at twenty-four he was still at loose ends, and still looking for his appointed work in the world, couldn’t justify what Mrs. Terhune said.
She declared that as a husband Will was impossible. He couldn’t be taken seriously. It was nice to dance with him, play tennis with him, hear him recite his poems—but marry him!
He had seldom been seen in the little[Pg 104] town on the Hudson where he had been born. Now and then he came to visit an indulgent relative, and to get assistance moral and material, after which he would go off to try his luck once more. Every one liked him and no one respected him.
On this last visit he had surprised them all by deciding to stay. He said he intended to open a florist’s shop and greenhouses. He had looked about for a likely site, and had asked for advice—which he got in generous measure. His relations were pleased and rather touched by this venture, which seemed at once practical and poetic, and he had received more attention and encouragement than was good for him; but when his engagement to Mildred was made known, he lost all favor. He was severely condemned, and remonstrated with, and still further advised.
Will was a young man of no great vanity or self-assurance. He was fatally inclined to agree with people. He listened, downcast and wretched, to the admonitions of friends and relatives, and hastened off to tell Mildred that he was no good, and that she would be better off without him.
She thought otherwise. She had few illusions about her Will, but she thought that with help and encouragement he might be improved. She had for him a maternal sort of love, exacting and yet very tender. She didn’t wish to spoil him. She meant to inspire him with greater energy and self-reliance. She told him that he was capable of great things, for she really thought so. She was kind, indulgent, and yet firm with him—and she never suspected how she terrified him.
She had all the virtues. She worked hard and earnestly, she saved money, she read, she studied, she was intelligent, tender-hearted, modest, reserved, and matchlessly polite. She was beautiful, she knew how to dress and how to carry herself, and socially she was perfect; but there is one little truth which Mildred had never been taught. A good example must not be too good, or, instead of producing a desire for imitation, the beholders feel only despair and hopeless inferiority.
The bell rang for lunch, and Mildred had difficulty in suppressing a sob of relief. The dressmaker had the pleasure of going downstairs and eating at the same table with her idol. She looked about the dismal dining room of the boarding house with a happy smile.
“Well, you won’t be here much longer, Miss Henaberry,” she said.
Mildred agreed with that. She knew what she could endure, and she knew also what would be too much for her. She could not endure to remain there, among those friendly, interested people—not after this!