“Ronnie Norris,” Carey answered quietly.
She saw her father age before her very eyes. His face went white; she saw suddenly the muscles of his face, the bones of its structure stand out almost nakedly beneath the force of his effort at self-control. And his gray eyes, so like her own, were sick with pain, as though he had received some cruelly bitter blow.
“You — are serious, of course. I can see that,” he said at last, speaking slowly, like one emerging unwillingly from an anesthetic that has dulled a pain momentarily.
“Of course, Dad,” Carey said swiftly, her voice shaken a little. “Oh, Dad, I’m terribly sorry to hurt you like this. But if you only
knew
Ronnie — you won’t even make an effort to know him, to understand him — ”
“A man who uses his good looks and magnetism to make himself so attractive to impressionable women that they gladly support him scarcely requires a great deal of understanding,” Silas said savagely.
Carey was on her feet, her head lifted proudly, her eyes blazing. “That’s unfair! You have no right to say that. He earns his own living — ”
“By commissions on things he sells at double and triple the price to women impressed with his good looks — ”
His voice caught and he was silent for a moment while Carey fought to stop the tears that threatened to destroy her self-control. They were so alike, these two; Silas, studying her, knew with an agony clutching at his heart that it was a waste of time to argue with her. Her mind was made up. There was nothing he could do.
“I’m sorry you can’t be fair to him, Dad — but it doesn’t make any difference,” Carey said steadily. “I love him and I’m going to marry him, either with your consent or without it. And some day, when you’ll let yourself, you’ll learn to like him.”
She turned blindly toward the door and Silas said, his voice thick, dull with the knowledge of his helplessness, “You love him, baby? You’re sure?”
“I was never so sure of anything in my life, Dad,” she told him steadily.
There was a little moment before he could force the words from his lips. “Then — there isn’t anything left for me to say, is there?” he yielded.
Carey turned. For a moment they looked at each other. And then she was in his arms, clinging to him, halfway between tears and laughter, saying shakily, “Well, there’s always — ‘bless you, my child.’ It would be nice if you’d say that!”
His arms held her very close and his cheek was against her dark curls. He would never again catch the scent of gardenias without a clutch of pain at this memory. But she was very dear to him.
“I do say it, baby,” he said huskily. “Bring that young man around and let’s have a look at him, will you?”
“Oh, Dad — yes — I’ll go call him. He’ll come right over. Dad, I knew you were going to be swell about it all!” she told him joyously, and sped to the telephone.
When she had gone Silas stood still for a long moment, looking up at the painting above the mantel. Carey’s mother, painted the last summer of her life and a portrait so beautifully done that Silas could almost feel that she looked at him and listened when he bowed his head and said: “Forgive me, dearest. I’ve — made a mess of things for her, haven’t I? I didn’t know — ”
His senses swam in a sea of pain, but somehow he managed to feel his way back to his chair and to collapse there, fighting with every shred of strength and courage he possessed. Finally the pain began to recede a little, leaving him spent and gasping. He sat exhausted — and alone.
There was a little glint in Carey’s eyes as she dialed the number of Ann Paige’s luxurious duplex. When a voice spoke in her ear, she said crisply, “Mr. Norris, please. He is dining there.”
“Of course, Madam,” said the voice. “Whom shall I say is calling?”
For just a moment Carey hesitated, then she said, “His fiancee.”
Obviously Ann Paige’s butler believed it was a trick. But his voice was superlatively polite as he insisted, “Yes, Madam — and the name?”
“Miss Carey Winslow,” snapped Carey.
“One moment, Madam,” said the butler and there was a silence.
“Yes? Who is it?” Ronnie’s voice said in her ear.
“Don’t sound so like the great big bear speaking to Goldilocks,” Carey snapped childishly. “Who did you think it was?”
“Oh, Carey,” said Ronnie, and now his tone was a trifle curt. “What the dickens do you mean, calling me here?”
Carey felt as though he had slapped her. She blinked for a moment, steadied her voice and said with an effect of airy nonchalance:
“I just thought you might be pleased to know that Dad has given his consent to our marriage.”
“Swell!” Ronnie said heartily, yet she had the curious feeling that he was being a bit wary for fear someone might be listening at his end of the line.
“He’d like you to come over and have a talk with him,” said Carey.
“Would he, now?” Ronnie answered pleasantly. “Well, that’s very nice indeed, Tomorrow evening, shall we say?”
“Why not now — right away?” demanded Carey, her voice slightly hostile.
“My dear Carey,” said Ronnie, as though she were a small and not very bright child, “I am a dinner guest here and we have just left the table. We haven’t even had coffee. Later, there will be bridge. I couldn’t possibly check out now. But suppose we make it tomorrow evening — for dinner, perhaps?”
Carey put down the receiver and sat for a little, her face hot with color, her eyes blazing. She was furious at Ronnie’s cavalier behavior and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Which only added to her fury.
Silas heard her out and said quietly, “Well, of course, darling, if he’s been invited to complete a table of bridge — naturally, he couldn’t rush away. But if he knew that you were going to tell me about — about your plans, why didn’t he have dinner with us tonight? Surely he wasn’t afraid of me. I don’t bite, you know.”
“He already had this engagement — I mean, he hadn’t planned to ask me to marry him today. I think that was it — ” she floundered, and Silas nodded.
After her father retired, she couldn’t endure her own thoughts or her own company any longer. She went to the telephone and called some of her friends. An hour later, as they were making the rounds of the nightclubs, they happened upon Ann Paige and Ronnie, tucked away in a secluded corner in the smartest and most popular club in town. And Carey set her teeth with fury. A table of bridge, indeed! She all but glared at Ronnie, who gave her a gay wave of the hand and went on devoting himself to Ann.
It was late when Carey’s crowd set her down on the steps of the austere house in East Sixty-third Street. And it was hours later before Carey finally fell into a sleep of complete exhaustion. She slept straight through the day and it was after four when she sat up and rang for her maid.
Hulda came, bringing her breakfast tray and with it the news that Mr. Ronald Norris had been telephoning since shortly after noon. He would like Miss Winslow to call him as soon as she awakened.
“Oh, he would, would he?” Carey said grimly, and dug a spoon into her grapefruit.
“He said so, Miss Carey,” Hulda answered lightly and went to turn on her bath.
Carey sat and glared at the telephone. She wanted to hear Ronnie’s voice. But she was stubbornly determined to hold her own against him. She was a little terrified this morning at the realization of how much she wanted to call him, to be with him; of how difficult it was to assert herself against him.
Hulda came to say that her bath was ready and she pushed aside the breakfast tray, slid out of bed, and accepted the velvet negligee that Hulda wrapped around her, thrusting her feet into the rosy pink slippers with their fluff of feathers across the instep.
She had had her bath and was standing before the dressing table while Hulda fastened the hooks of her rust-colored wool frock when the telephone rang. Her heart rose as she took up the receiver.
“Yes?” she said.
“It’s about time you woke up,” said Ronnie; and his voice was crisp, even a trifle sharp. “I left word that you were to call me when you awoke. I suppose they didn’t give you my message.”
“Oh, yes, I believe Hulda did say something about your calling — ”
“See here, Carey, you’ve got me in a dickens of a mess,” he cut in sharply. “What did you mean by springing the news that we were engaged, without consulting me?”
Carey gasped as though he had flung cold water in her face. A healthy anger seethed within her. “Not that I did anything of the sort,” she snapped hotly, “but are you suggesting that we are not?”
“It’s in Winchell’s column and my telephone has been ringing like mad all morning,” Ronnie said grimly. “I haven’t the slightest objection to an announcement — certainly not. Only I think it would have been a little more dignified if the news had been given to the society editors first, and by your father.”
“Look who’s being dignified,” Carey hooted derisively, but her eyes were not amused.
“That’s all very well for you, Carey. This sort of thing is a joke with you, of course,” snapped Ronnie, “but never mind that for the moment. What I telephoned you for was to remind you that there was to be a check in the mail this morning for the car — and there wasn’t. The showgirl is threatening to get nasty. It wasn’t my car, you know, nor is it my check — but it puts me in rather a spot.”
“Oh,” Carey said remorsefully, “I’m sorry, Ronnie. I forgot. I’ll run down to Dad’s office now and get the check — ”
“And meet me for tea,” said Ronnie. Now his voice was warm, caressing, so that her heart quivered. “And tonight after dinner you must get your father to telephone the society editors so that everything will be in order about our engagement. Then I’ll not feel such a fool when reporters ask me questions. ‘Bye, darling.”
“Goodbye — dearest,” Carey said shakily.
Hulda stared at her, too taken by surprise to realize that she was violating that ancient rule that says a servant must never show any human emotion in the presence of an employer.
Carey slid into a fur jacket, adjusted a crazy little hat at an incredible angle above one shining gray eye, and caught up her bag and gloves. She met Hulda’s startled eyes, laughed joyously, hugged Hulda, and went dancing out.
SILAS’ OFFICE was in Wall Street. A huge place with forty people filling the big outer office, and with a small private office where Margaret Hendrix stood on guard outside her employer’s sumptuously furnished sanctum, dividing the sheep that Silas wanted to see from the goats that he didn’t want to see.
Today when Carey, looking very smart and attractive in her rust-colored woolen dress, her fur jacket, and the crazy little hat, came dancing into the office, two junior clerks all but fell over themselves to swing open the gate set in the railing beyond Information’s desk.
Margaret emerged and, to Carey’s unbounded amazement, barred the way into Silas’ office.
“I’m sorry, Miss Carey,” said Margaret, and obviously wasn’t sorry at all, “but you can’t go in. Your father is in conference.”
Carey laughed. “What’s it this time? Practicing new golf shots — or having an old-fashioned pow-wow with his dearest enemy?” She put out her hand to the door.
Unexpectedly Margaret stood between her and the door, and Margaret said sternly, “You can’t go in, Miss Carey — no one can. A committee from the bank is in there about a vitally important matter. Your father is not to be interrupted under any circumstance.”
“Oh, see here, Miss Hendrix,” Carey said hotly, “I’ve got to see Dad. It’s important. And I haven’t a whole lot of time. I’ve an engagement at five o’clock and I can just make it if I hurry.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Carey — ”
A stenographer stood at Margaret’s elbow with a paper. Margaret turned away for a moment to consult with the girl. Carey brushed past them and opened the door into her father’s office.
For a moment she stood in the open door, paralyzed. Her father sat alone behind his mahogany desk. In one hand he held a short, squat automatic that he was just raising to his temple. Carey heard herself scream, then Margaret pushed her aside and sprang into the office.
The outer office was in an uproar, for several of the men and women there had had a glimpse of Silas behind his desk, the gun at his temple. Carey huddled against the door while Margaret flung herself forward and knocked the gun aside just as it spoke.
Carey had a confused impression of her father staring at Margaret with dazed, sick eyes. And then she saw him slump forward, his head on his arms. Carey covered her face with her shaking hands and her knees trembled beneath her.
Dazedly, dimly she was conscious of events going on about her. The uproar in the office outside, quelled by a furious speech from Margaret; the arrival of a doctor; a moment later, two brisk, white-coated young men carrying a stretcher on which her father was placed and borne out of the room. And then she was aware of Margaret shaking her by the shoulders. Shaking her savagely, as though she wanted very much to hurt her. Margaret’s homely face was very near her own and Margaret’s eyes blazed back of her rimmed spectacles.
“Snap out of it, Carey. Do you hear me? Snap out of it! He — he’s — not hurt. He — fainted. It’s a collapse — physical and almost mental. But — the gun went off harmlessly. Do you hear me?”
Carey tried to twist free of Margaret’s hands. “Don’t! You’re — you’re hurting me,” she stammered.
Margaret’s face was livid with hate. And the shock of that look in Margaret’s face did more to jerk Carey back from the borders of hysteria than anything else could possibly have done.
“Hurting you?” The woman’s voice stung like a whiplash. “I wish I could wring your neck. Maybe it might wake you up — you spoiled, egotistical little
brat!”
“Why — why — how dare you — ”
“Don’t you how dare
me,
Carey Winslow, or I swear I’ll do something I’ve wanted to do since the first day I set eyes on you. I’ll turn you down across my knee and whale the daylights out of you. Come on, we’ve got to get going. You want to be home when they get your father there, don’t you?”
“I — why — yes, of course,” whispered Carey, so bewildered by what was happening all about her that she wasn’t quite conscious just what part she was playing in it.