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Molly Make-Believe, a fiction by Eleanor Hallowell Abbott |
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Chapter 10 |
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_ CHAPTER X Though the ensuing interview with Cornelia and her mother began quite as coolly as the interview with the Doctor, it did not happen to end even in hysterical laughter. It was just two days after the Doctor's hurried exit that Stanton received a formal, starchy little note from Cornelia's mother notifying him of their return. Except for an experimental, somewhat wobbly-kneed journey or two to the edge of the Public Garden he had made no attempts as yet to resume any outdoor life, yet for sundry personal reasons of his own he did not feel over-anxious to postpone the necessary meeting. In the immediate emergency at hand strong courage was infinitely more of an asset than strong knees. Filling his suitcase at once with all the explanatory evidence that he could carry, he proceeded on cab-wheels to Cornelia's grimly dignified residence. The street lamps were just beginning to be lighted when he arrived. As the butler ushered him gravely into the beautiful drawing room he realized with a horrid sinking of the heart that Cornelia and her mother were already sitting there waiting for him with a dreadful tight lipped expression on their faces which seemed to suggest that though he was already fifteen minutes ahead of his appointment they had been waiting for him there since early dawn. The drawing room itself was deliciously familiar to him; crimson-curtained, green carpeted, shining with heavy gilt picture frames and prismatic chandeliers. Often with posies and candies and theater-tickets he had strutted across that erstwhile magic threshold and fairly lolled in the big deep-upholstered chairs while waiting for the silk-rustling advent of the ladies. But now, with his suitcase clutched in his hand, no Armenian peddler of laces and ointments could have felt more grotesquely out of his element. Indolently Cornelia's mother lifted her lorgnette and gazed at him skeptically from the spot just behind his left ear where the barber had clipped him too short, to the edge of his right heel that the bootblack had neglected to polish. Apparently she did not even see the suitcase but, "Oh, are you leaving town?" she asked icily. Only by the utmost tact on his part did he finally succeed in establishing tete-a-tete relations with Cornelia herself; and even then if the house had been a tower ten stories high, Cornelia's mother, rustling up the stairs, could not have swished her skirts any more definitely like a hissing snake. In absolute dumbness Stanton and Cornelia sat listening until the horrid sound died away. Then, and then only, did Cornelia cross the room to Stanton's side and proffer him her hand. The hand was very cold, and the manner of offering it was very cold, but Stanton was quite man enough to realize that this special temperature was purely a matter of physical nervousness rather than of mental intention. Slipping naturally into the most conventional groove either of word or deed, Cornelia eyed the suitcase inquisitively. "What are you doing?" she asked thoughtlessly. "Returning my presents?" "You never gave me any presents!" said Stanton cheerfully. "Why, didn't I?" murmured Cornelia slowly. Around her strained mouth a smile began to flicker faintly. "Is that why you broke it off?" she asked flippantly. "Yes, partly," laughed Stanton. Then Cornelia laughed a little bit, too. After this Stanton lost no possible time in getting down to facts. Stooping over from his chair exactly after the manner of peddlers whom he had seen in other people's houses, he unbuckled the straps of his suitcase, and turned the cover backward on the floor. Cornelia followed every movement of his hand with vaguely perplexed blue eyes. "Surely," said Stanton, "this is the weirdest combination of circumstances that ever happened to a man and a girl--or rather, I should say, to a man and two girls." Quite accustomed as he now was to the general effect on himself of the whole unique adventure with the Serial-Letter Co. his heart could not help giving a little extra jump on this, the verge of the astonishing revelation that he was about to make to Cornelia. "Here," he stammered, a tiny bit out of breath, "here is the small, thin, tissue-paper circular that you sent me from the Serial-Letter Co. with your advice to subscribe, and there--" pointing earnestly to the teeming suitcase,--"there are the minor results of--having taken your advice." In Cornelia's face the well-groomed expression showed sudden signs of immediate disorganization. Snatching the circular out of his hand she read it hurriedly, once, twice, three times. Then kneeling cautiously down on the floor with all the dignity that characterized every movement of her body, she began to poke here and there into the contents of the suitcase. [Illustration: He unbuckled the straps of his suitcase and turned the cover backward on the floor] "The 'minor results'?" she asked soberly. "Why yes," said Stanton. "There were several things I didn't have room to bring. There was a blanket-wrapper. And there was a--girl, and there was a--" Cornelia's blonde eyebrows lifted perceptibly. "A girl--whom you didn't know at all--sent you a blanket-wrapper?" she whispered. "Yes!" smiled Stanton. "You see no girl whom I knew--very well--seemed to care a hang whether I froze to death or not." "O--h," said Cornelia very, very slowly, "O--h." Her eyes had a strange, new puzzled expression in them like the expression of a person who was trying to look outward and think inward at the same time. "But you mustn't be so critical and haughty about it all," protested Stanton, "when I'm really trying so hard to explain everything perfectly honestly to you--so that you'll understand exactly how it happened." "I should like very much to be able to understand exactly how it happened," mused Cornelia. Gingerly she approached in succession the roll of sample wall-paper, the maps, the time-tables, the books, the little silver porringer, the intimate-looking scrap of unfinished fancy-work. One by one Stanton explained them to her, visualizing by eager phrase or whimsical gesture the particularly lonesome and susceptible conditions under which each gift had happened to arrive. At the great pile of letters Cornelia's hand faltered a trifle. "How many did I write you?" she asked with real curiosity. "Five thin ones, and a postal-card," said Stanton almost apologetically. Choosing the fattest looking letter that she could find, Cornelia toyed with the envelope for a second. "Would it be all right for me to read one?" she asked doubtfully. "Why, yes," said Stanton. "I think you might read one." After a few minutes she laid down the letter without any comment. "Would it be all right for me to read another?" she questioned. "Why, yes," cried Stanton. "Let's read them all. Let's read them together. Only, of course, we must read them in order." Almost tenderly he picked them up and sorted them out according to their dates. "Of course," he explained very earnestly, "of course I wouldn't think of showing these letters to any one ordinarily; but after all, these particular letters represent only a mere business proposition, and certainly this particular situation must justify one in making extraordinary exceptions." One by one he perused the letters hastily and handed them over to Cornelia for her more careful inspection. No single associate detail of time or circumstance seemed to have eluded his astonishing memory. Letter by letter, page by page he annotated: "That was the week you didn't write at all," or "This was the stormy, agonizing, God-forsaken night when I didn't care whether I lived or died," or "It was just about that time, you know, that you snubbed me for being scared about your swimming stunt." Breathless in the midst of her reading Cornelia looked up and faced him squarely. "How could any girl--write all that nonsense?" she gasped. It wasn't so much what Stanton answered, as the expression in his eyes that really startled Cornelia. "Nonsense?" he quoted deliberatingly. "But I like it," he said. "It's exactly what I like." "But I couldn't possibly have given you anything like--that," stammered Cornelia. "No, I know you couldn't," said Stanton very gently. For an instant Cornelia turned and stared a bit resentfully into his face. Then suddenly the very gentleness of his smile ignited a little answering smile on her lips. "Oh, you mean," she asked with unmistakable relief; "oh, you mean that really after all it wasn't your letter that jilted me, but my temperament that jilted you?" "Exactly," said Stanton. Cornelia's whole somber face flamed suddenly into unmistakable radiance. "Oh, that puts an entirely different light upon the matter," she exclaimed. "Oh, now it doesn't hurt at all!" Rustling to her feet, she began to smooth the scowly-looking wrinkles out of her skirt with long even strokes of her bright-jeweled hands. "I think I'm really beginning to understand," she said pleasantly. "And truly, absurd as it sounds to say it, I honestly believe that I care more for you this moment than I ever cared before, but--" glancing with acute dismay at the cluttered suitcase on the floor, "but I wouldn't marry you now, if we could live in the finest asylum in the land!" Shrugging his shoulders with mirthful appreciation Stanton proceeded then and there to re-pack his treasures and end the interview. Just at the edge of the threshold Cornelia's voice called him back. "Carl," she protested, "you are looking rather sick. I hope you are going straight home." "No, I'm not going straight home," said Stanton bluntly. "But here's hoping that the 'longest way round' will prove even yet the very shortest possible route to the particular home that, as yet, doesn't even exist. I'm going hunting, Cornelia, hunting for Molly Make-Believe; and what's more, I'm going to find her if it takes me all the rest of my natural life!" _ |
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