V
She waited until Constance and Shepherd had found reading matter and were settled before the fireplace, and then with the remark that she wanted to fix her hair, went upstairs; and after closing a door noisily to allay suspicions, went cautiously down the back stairs to the telephone in the butler’s pantry. Satisfying herself by a glance through the window that her father was still at the stables, she called Thomas’s number and explained her inability to go to the Burtons’ where they had planned to meet. Happy to hear his voice, she talked quite as freely as though speaking to him face to face, and his replies over the wire soothed and comforted her....
“No, dear; there’d only be a row if you asked father now. You’ll have to take my word for that, Freddy.”
“I’m not so sure of that—if he knows you love me!”
“Of course I love you, Freddy!”
“Then let us be married and end all this bother. You’re of age; there’s nothing to prevent us. I’d a lot rather have it out with your father now. I know I can convince him that I’m respectable and able to take care of you. I’ve got the record of the divorce case; there’s nothing in it I’m ashamed of.”
“That’s all right enough; but the very mention of it would make him furious. We’ve talked of this a hundred times, Freddy, and I’m not going to let you make that mistake. We’re going to wait a little longer!”
“You won’t go back on me?”
“Never, Freddy!”
“You might meet someone on the trip you’d like better. I’m going to be terribly nervous about you!”
“Then you don’t trust me! If you don’t trust me you don’t love me!”
“Don’t be so foolish. I’m mad about you. And I’m sick of all this sneaking round for a chance to see you!”
“Be sensible, dear; it’s just as hard for me as it is for you. And people are talking!”
In her absorption she had forgotten the importance of secrecy and the danger of being overheard. The swing doors had creaked several times, but she had attributed this to suction from an open window in the kitchen. Constance and Shepherd would wonder at her absence; the talk must not be prolonged.
“I’ve got to go!” she added hurriedly.
“Say you care—that you’re not just putting me off——”
“I love you, Freddy! Please be patient. Remember, I love you with all my heart! Yes, always!”
As she hung up the receiver she turned round to face her father. He had entered the house through the kitchen and might or might not have heard part of her dialogue with Thomas. But she was instantly aware that her last words, in the tense, lover-like tone in which she had spoken them, were enough to convict her.
“Hello, Dada! How’s the live stock?” she asked with poorly feigned carelessness as she hung the receiver on the hook.
Mills, his overcoat flung over his arm, his hat pushed back from his forehead, eyed her with a cold stare.
“Why are you telephoning here?” he demanded.
“No reasons. I didn’t want to disturb Connie and Shep. They’re reading in the living-room.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, I’m sure!”
“I thought so myself,” she replied, and took a step toward the dining-room door. He flung out his arm arrestingly.
“Just a moment, please!”
“Oh, hours—if you want them!”
“I overheard some of your speeches. To whom were you speaking—tell me the truth!”
“Don’t be so fierce about it! And do take off your hat! You look so funny with your hat stuck on the back of your head that way!”
“Never mind my hat! It will be much better for you not to trifle with me. Who was on the other end of that telephone?”
“What if I don’t tell you?” she demanded.
“I want an answer to my question! You told me one falsehood today; I don’t want to hear another!”
“Well, you won’t! I was talking to Mr. Frederick V. Thomas!”
“I thought as much. Now I’ve told you as plainly as I know how that you’ve got to drop that fellow. He’s a scoundrel to force his attentions on you. I haven’t wanted to bring matters to an issue with you about him. I’ve been patient with you—let him come to the house and go about with you. But you’ve not played fair with me. When I told you I didn’t like his coming to the house so much you began meeting him when you thought I wouldn’t know it—that’s a fact, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Dada—only a few times, though.”
“May I ask what you mean by that? That a girl brought up as you have been, with every advantage and indulgence, should be so basely ungrateful as to meet a man I disapprove of—meet him in ways that show you know you’re doing a wrong thing—is beyond my understanding. It’s contemptible; it’s close upon the unpardonable!”
“Then why don’t you act decently about it?” She lifted her head and met his gaze unwaveringly. “If you didn’t hear what I said I’ll tell you! I told him I love him; I’ve promised to marry him.”
“Well, you won’t marry him!” he exclaimed, his voice quavering in his effort to restrain his anger. “A man who’s left a wife somewhere and plays upon the sympathy of a credulous young girl like you is a contemptible hound!”
“All right, then! He’s a contemptible hound!”
Her insolence, her refusal to cower before him, increased his anger. His time-tried formula for meeting emergencies by superior strategy—the method that worked so well with his son—was of no use to him here. He had lost a point in letting her see that for once in his life his temper had got the better of him. He had been too tolerant of her faults; the bills for his indulgence were coming in now—a large sheaf of them. She must be handled with care—with very great caution, indeed; thus far in his life he had got what he wanted, and it was not for a girl whom he saw only as a spoiled child to circumvent him.
But he realized at this moment that Leila was no longer a child. She was not only a woman, but a woman it would be folly to attempt to drive or frighten. He was alarmed by the composure with which she waited for the further disclosure of his purposes, standing with her back against the service shelf, eyeing him half hostilely, half, he feared, with a hope that he would carry the matter further and open his guard for a thrust he was not prepared to parry. He was afraid of her, but she must not know that he was afraid.
He took off his hat and let it swing at arm’s length as he considered how to escape with dignity from the corner into which she had forced him. Sentiment is a natural refuge of the average man when other resources fail. He smiled benevolently, and with a quick lifting of the head remarked:
“This isn’t the way for us to talk to each other. We’ve always been the best of friends; nothing’s going to change that. I trust your good sense—I trust”—here his voice sank under the weight of emotion—“I trust your love for me—your love for your dear mother’s memory—to do nothing to grieve me, nothing that would hurt her.”
“Yes, Dada,” she said absently, not sure how far she could trust his mood. Then she walked up to him and drew her hand across his cheek and gave his tie a twitch. He drew his arm about her and kissed her forehead.
“Let this be between ourselves,” he said. “I’ll go around and come in the front way.”
She went up the back stairs and reappeared in the living-room, whistling. Constance and Shepherd were still reading before the fire where she had left them.
After supper—served at the dining-room table tonight—Leila was unwontedly silent, and the attempts of Constance and Shepherd to be gay were sadly deficient in spontaneity. Mills’s Sunday, which had begun with high hopes, had been bitterly disappointing. Though outwardly tranquil and unbending a little more than usual, his mind was elsewhere.