Re-Creations (31 page)

“I hardly think you’d call it that—
anymore!”
he answered in a curiously hard tone. But Cornelia was too preoccupied to notice.

“Shall we—meet her?” she asked after studying the exquisite doll face across the distance and wondering if it really were as wonderfully perfect up close. Wondering, too, why she seemed to suddenly feel disappointed in the man beside her if this was his choice of a wife.

“I think
not,”
he said decidedly, and then a sudden clapping arose, growing, like a swift-moving shower. “There, there they are! The players. That’s the Englishman, that big chap; and this man, this is our man. See how supple he is. He has a great reach. Watch him now.”

After that there was no more opportunity to talk personalities and Cornelia was glad that she could just sit still and watch, although with her preoccupied mind she might as well have been at home cooking dinner for all she knew about that tournament. The players came and went like little puppets in a show, the ball flew back and forth, and games and sets were played, but she knew no more about it than if she had not been there. Now and then her eyes furtively stole a glance across the way at the scarlet line on the white.

Maxwell had glanced at her curiously several times. Her attitude was one of deep attention. She smiled just as pleasantly when he spoke, but somehow her voice had lost the spring out of it, and he could not help thinking she was weary.

“Let’s get out of here before the crowd begins to push,” he whispered, as the last set was finished and the antagonists shook hands under fire of the heavy rounds of applause.

He guided her out to the car so quickly that they almost escaped the rush, but just within a few paces of the car they came suddenly upon the voluble Dotty and her escort.

“Oh, Cousin Artie!” cried Dotty eagerly. “I’ve just been telling Tommy that I knew you would take us over to Overbrook if we could catch you in time. You see, we both have a dinner engagement out to Aunt Myra’s, and we’ve missed the only train that would get us there in time. You won’t mind, will you, Miss Cope, Copley, I mean? It isn’t far, and you know how cross Aunt Myra gets when any of us are late to an engagement with her, don’t you, Artie?”

“Not at all!” answered Cornelia coolly as soon as there was opportunity to speak. “My home is right on the way.”

Maxwell accepted the situation with what grace he could. Dotty climbed into the front seat when he opened the door for Cornelia.

“You can sit back there with Miss Copley, Tommy,” she laughed back at the other two. “I choose front seat. I just
love
to watch Cousin Arthur drive.”

Arthur Maxwell scarcely spoke a word during the whole drive and Cousin Dotty chattered on in an uninterrupted flow of nothings. Cornelia found herself discussing the game and various plays with a technique newly acquired and being thankful that she did not have to ride alone with Maxwell—not now—not until she had gotten herself in hand. It was all right, of course, and he was perfectly splendid, but she had been a silly little fool, and she had to get things set straight again before she cared to meet him as a friend. Oh, it would be all right, she assured herself minute by minute, only she must just get used to it. She hadn’t at all realized how she had been thinking of him, and she was glad that the romance of this afternoon had been destroyed, so that she would not find herself in future weakness lingering over any pleasant phrases or little nothings that would link her soul to disappointment. She wanted to be just plain, matter of fact. A respectable girl going out for an afternoon with a respectable man who was soon to be married to another woman who understood all about it. There was nothing whatever the matter with that situation, and that was the way she must look at it, of course. She must get used to it and gradually make her family understand, too. Not that they had thought anything else yet—of course, but it would be well for them to understand from the start that there was no nonsense about her friendship with Maxwell and that they need not appropriate him in such wholesome manner as they had begun to do. She was a businesswoman, meant to be a businesswoman all her life, and she would probably have lots of nice friendships like this one.

Thus she reasoned in undertone with herself, while she discussed tennis with the bored Tommy and came finally to her own door realizing suddenly that Arthur Maxwell would perhaps not care to have his elegant cousin know from what lowly neighborhoods he selected his friends. But she held her head high as she stood on the pavement to bid them good-bye, and not by the quiver of an eyelash on her flushed cheek did she let them see that she did not like her surroundings.

Arthur Maxwell stepped up to the door with her in spite of his cousin’s irritated protest, “Artie, we’ll be
late
to Aunt Myra’s,” and said in a low tone, “This whole afternoon has been spoiled by that poor little idiot, but I’m going to make up for it soon, see if I don’t. I’m sorry I have a director’s meeting this evening or I’d ask if I might return to dinner, but I’m going to be late as it is when I get those two poor fools to their destination, so I’ll have to forego, but suppose I come over Sunday evening and go to church with you? May I? Then afterward, perhaps we’ll have a little chance to talk.”

Cornelia smiled and assented and hurried up to dash cold water over her hot cheeks and burning eyes and then down to the kitchen where Louise was bustling happily about putting the final touches to the evening meal.

“Oh, Nellie!” she greeted her sister. “Have you got back already? I thought perhaps he’d take you somewhere to dinner. They do, you know. I’ve read about it. But wasn’t he
lovely
to take you to that game. All the boys at school were talking about it, and one of the girls had a ticket to go with her brother. I think it was just
wonderful.
I’m so
glad
you had that nice time! You are so
dear!
Now tell me about it.”

And Cornelia told all she could remember about the day and the ride and the wonderful game, told things she had not known she noticed by the wayside, told about Dotty and Tommy, and even gave a hint of a wonderful friend of Mr. Maxwell’s who wore a white, soft, silk dress lined with scarlet and carried a gold mesh bag, till Louise’s eyes grew large with wonder, though she looked a little grave when she heard about the lady. Cornelia hid her heavy heart under smiles and words and was merrier than usual and very, very tired when she crept at last to bed, where she might not even weep, lest the little sister should know the secret of her foolish heart.

Saturday morning dawned with all its burden and responsibility, a new day full of new cares and the gladness of yesterday gone into graver tints. But Cornelia would not admit to herself that she was unhappy. There was work to do, and she would immerse herself in it and forget. There was no need being a fool always, after one had found out one was. And anyway, she meant to live for her family—her dear family!

Chapter 26

C
ornelia had had a brief space of anxiety, lest her brother should begin to feel his own importance and perhaps offend his boss in being entirely too smart in his own conceit. But it soon became apparent that the boss was a big enough man to have impressed Carey and made him a devoted servant. He kept quoting what he said with awe and reverence and showing great delight at being admitted to the inner sanctum and entrusted with important affairs.

Carey was to begin his new work on Monday morning, and all Saturday as he went about doing various little things—pressing his trousers, picking up his laundry, getting his affairs in order to leave all day as other businessmen had to do every day—he kept dropping into the room where his sister was at work on some pretty dresses for Louise and telling with a light in his eyes and a ring of pleasure in his voice what “the boss” had said or done, or how the office was furnished, and how many salesmen and secretaries there were. And he could not say enough about Maxwell.

“That fellow’s a prince!” he exclaimed. “D’ye know it? A perfect prince of a man. He might have run in any number of friends, old friends, you know, instead of mentioning me. I can’t make out what made him. The boss took me out to lunch with him today at a swell restaurant. Gee! It was great! Lobster salad, café parfait, and all that! Some lunch! Took the best part of a ten-dollar bill to pay for it, too. Oh, boy! It was great! Think of
me!
And he told me how much Maxwell thought of me and how he believed I’d bear it out, and all that. He talked a lot about personal appearance and a pleasant manner and keeping my temper and that line, you know. Gee! It’s going to be hard, but it’s going to be great. He told me that it was up to me how high I climbed. There wasn’t any limit practically if I stuck it out and made good. And believe me, I’m going to stick. I like that guy, and I like the business. Say, Nell, do you think this necktie would clean? I always liked this necktie. And whaddaya think? I’ve got to wear hard collars. Fierce, isn’t it? But I guess I can get used to ‘em. Say, where’s that old silk shirt of mine? I wonder if you could mend a tear in the sleeve. I’ll have to keep dolled up in nice clothes a lot now, and I have to get everything in shape. Imagine it. I’ve got to take big guys out to lunch myself sometimes and show them the ropes, and all that. Gee! Isn’t it wonderful?”

So Cornelia laid aside the rose-colored gingham and the blue-flowered muslin she was making for Louise and mended shirts, ironed neckties, and helped press coats, until Carey expressed himself as altogether pleased with his outfit, and joy bubbled over in the house. That night and all the next day their hearts seemed so light that they were in danger of having their feet lifted off the ground with the joy of it.

Brand came over after lunch as usual and heard the news. He looked a bit sober over it, although he congratulated his friend warmly. But once or twice Cornelia caught him looking wistfully at Carey, as if somehow he had suddenly grown away from him, and she realized that it was the first break in their boyhood life. For Carey was a new Carey since the morning, walking with a spring in his step, giving a command in the tone of one who had authority, making a decision as one who had long been accustomed to being recognized as having a right. He had in a single morning become a man and seemed for the time to have put away childish things. He even declined to take a ride with Brand after dinner, to which Brand had stayed, saying that he had promised to run over to the Kendalls after dinner and try over the music for tomorrow. Ordinarily Brand would have gone along without even being asked, but there was about Carey such a manner of masterfulness and of being aloof and having grave matters to attend to, that the boy hesitated with a wistful, puzzled look; and when Cornelia, half sensing his feeling, said, “Well, Brand, you stay here with me, and we’ll go over that music, too,” he laughed happily and sat down again, letting Carey go out by himself.

It was altogether plain that Carey didn’t even see it. Carey was exalted. His head was in the clouds, and a happy smile played over his face continually.

Brand stayed all the evening till Carey came back at half past ten, still with that happy, exalted smile on his face. And then Brand, with an amused, almost hopeless expression, laughingly bade good night to Cornelia, telling her he’d had “a peach of a time.” Just as he was going out the door, he looked back and said soberly, “I might have a job myself next week. Dad wants me to come in the office with him this summer, and I believe I will.” Then he went away without any of the usual racket and showing off of his noisy car.

Carey’s new dignity carried him to church the next morning and to a special Children’s Day service in the afternoon, where he had been asked to usher, and joy still sat on his face when he returned at four o’clock and lolled around the living room, restless and talking of the morrow, now and then telling some trifling incident of the afternoon, humming over a tune that had been sung, and finally asking Cornelia to play and sing with him the music for the evening. It was altogether so unusual to have Carey at home like this all day Sunday and seeming to be happy in it, that Cornelia was excitedly happy herself, and every little while Louise would look at him joyously and say, “Oh Carey, you look so nice in that new suit!”

It was like a regular love feast, and Cornelia began to tell her anxious heart that Carey really was started on the right way. There was no further need to worry about him at all. Perhaps there hadn’t ever been. Perhaps it was all only because he hadn’t had the right kind of job.

It was just six o’clock. The Copleys had elected to have their Sunday-night supper after the evening service, and to that end Cornelia had prepared delectable lettuce, cheese, and date sandwiches and had wrapped them in a damp cloth in the icebox to be ready. There was a fruit salad all ready also, and a maple cake. It would take but a few minutes to make a pot of chocolate, and they would eat around the fire in the living room. Maxwell had promised to come early and go to church with them. Cornelia rather dreaded the ordeal, for she felt sure that Maxwell meant to tell her about the crimson lady. Well, she might as well get it over at once and have him understand that she knew exactly where she stood.

She had gone upstairs to dress and left Carey lying on the couch, looking into the fire, dreamily listening to Louise and Harry playing hymn tunes as duets. She planned to write a letter to her mother early the next morning, giving her a picture of their beautiful Sunday and telling the news about Carey. She was flying around getting dressed for the evening when she heard a car come up to the front and stop. It came quietly, almost stealthily, so it could not be Brand. Could it be that Arthur Maxwell had arrived so soon? She tiptoed into her father’s room to look out of the window. If it was Maxwell, she must hurry and go downstairs.

The car was a shabby old affair with a rakish air, and she could not see the face of the man who sat in the driver’s seat. A small boy was coming in the gate with a letter in his hand, which he pulled from his pocket, looking up at the house apprehensively. There was something familiar about the slouch of the boy and about the limpness of his unkempt hair as he dragged his cap off and knocked at the door, but she could not place it.