CHAPTER IV
MOLLY TELLS THE STORY
The day after the Harland inquest I meant to go down and see Iola andfind out if she'd heard anything from Miss Whitehall. But that day I gotsidetracked some way or other and the next it rained.
Usually I don't mind rain, but this was the real wet, straight kind thatwould get in at you if you wore a diver's suit. As I stood at the parlorwindow, looking down at the street all pools and puddles, with the wallsshining under a thin glaze of water, and the umbrellas like wet, blackmushrooms, I got faint-hearted. I could just as well phone, and ifanything had transpired (it was the business I was uneasy about) go downand help Iola through the fit of blind staggers she'd be bound to have.
So presently it was:
"Hello, Iola, I was coming down today but it's too moistuous."
Then Iola's voice, sort of groaning:
"Oh, Molly, is that you? I _do_ wish it had been fine and you'd havecome."
"Why--anything wrong?"
"Oh, yes, everything. Miss Whitehall isn't back yet, and Mr. Ford'shardly been in at all and has such a gloom on him you wouldn't know him,and I'm awful discouraged."
"Have you tried to see Miss Whitehall?"
"No, I can't seem to get up enough spunk."
"Why don't you phone her?"
"Well, I don't know, I'm sort of scared of what I'll hear. I thought I'dbetter sit around and wait, and then I thought I ought to find out, andbetween the two--Oh, dear, _what's the use_!"
That was just like Iola. The only way you can be sure she's got a mindat all is the trouble she has making it up. If it's true that men likethe helpless kind she ought to have a string of lovers as long as theline at the box office when Caruso sings _Pagliacci_. I wonder _I_ evergot married!
"Tell you what, girlie," I said, "you come up tonight and dine with me.Himself is going to be late and we two bandits will steal out afterdinner and make a raid on Miss Whitehall's."
Even then she hung back. I had to coax and urge and it was only mepromising I'd see her through and if necessary ask the questions, madeher finally agree.
The rain held on all day and it was teeming when we started out. MissWhitehall's flat was on the other side of town--the East Sixties--and wehad to go round the Park, crowding on and off cars, fighting our waythrough packs of people, Iola clawing at my back and catching herumbrella in men's hats and women's hair till you'd think she did it onpurpose. When we got to the street we turned east, walking from MadisonAvenue over Park with its great huge apartment houses, and then on aways--not far, but far enough to make you feel Miss Whitehall's homewasn't as stylishly located as her office. Iola was that nervous I wasafraid she'd forget the number, but we found it, on a corner over a drugstore, where there were large, glassy bottles in the window andadvertisements of ladies offering pills and candy with such glad,inviting smiles you'd know it was damaged stock.
The entrance was round on the side, and as we stood in the vestibule,dimly lit, with a line of letter boxes on each side, I couldn't help butwhisper:
"You'd never think from her offices she'd live over a store."
And Iola answered, pushing the button under a letter box marked "Mrs.Serena Whitehall."
"It's a shock to me. I'd no more connect her with a push-button than Iwould you with a glass-topped entrance and a man in knee pants."
The door clicked and we went up the stairs, one feeble little electricbulb furnishing the light. There was a smell in the air like one of thetenants had had lamb stew for dinner and another was smoking the kind ofcigar that tells you it's strong and hearty half a block off. Thefirst-floor landing was hers--a card in a frame by the door told usso--and we pressed on the bell, hearing it give a loud, whirring ringinside.
The door was opened by a young girl, very neat in a black dress andwhite apron. She was sure we couldn't speak to Miss Whitehall, butperhaps Mrs. Whitehall would see us and she showed us up the tiny littlehall into the dining-room. I'd never have believed a room furnished soplain could be so elegant. There was a square of brown carpet on thefloor and ecru linen curtains--no lace, just hemstitched--at the windowsand on the side table some silver; yet it had a refined, classy look.Two doors opened from it, one into the hall hung with a blue portiereand double ones that I guessed led into the parlor. We could hear voicescoming from there, low and murmuring.
By this time Iola was that nervous she was licking her lips with hertongue like a baby that's had a sugar stick. I was just edging round togive her a dig and whisper, "Brace up," when the curtain into the hallwas lifted and a lady came in.
As she was well along in years--near to fifty I'd say--I knew she wasMrs. Whitehall. She was very dignified and gentle, with black hairturning gray and lots of lines on her forehead and round her eyes, whichwere dark like her hair and had a sad, weary expression. I guessed she'dbeen handsome once, but she looked as if she'd had her troubles, andwhen I heard her voice, low and so quiet, there was something in it thatmade me feel she was having them still.
I'd promised to be spokesman and not seeing any reason to waste time Iwent straight to the point. Mrs. Whitehall stood listening, her handsclasped on the back of a chair, her eyes on the little fern plant in thecenter of the table.
"Perhaps it would be best," she said, in that soft, faded sort of voice,"if Miss Barry were to see my daughter. I hardly know what to say toher."
She turned and left the room by the hall door and Iola gasped at me:
"Oh, Molly, it's true!"
"Don't cross your bridges till you come to them," I said, but all thesame, I thought it looked bad.
"What'll I do if the business shuts down?"
"Shut up till you know if it does," I whispered back.
The double doors rolled back and Mrs. Whitehall stood between them. Shelooked at Iola.
"If you'll come in here, Miss Barry," she said, "my daughter will seeyou."
It was plain she didn't expect me, so I stood by the table withoutmoving. As Mrs. Whitehall drew back and before Iola got to the doorway,there was a moment when I saw into the room. It looked real artistic,flowered cretonne curtains, wicker chairs with cushions and lowbookcases around the walls, the whole lit up by the yellow glow oflamps. But I wasn't interested in the furniture--what caught my eye wasa couch just opposite the open door, on which a woman was lying.
There was a lamp on a stand beside her and its light fell full over her.If I hadn't known Carol Whitehall was there I'd have guessed right offit was she from the likeness to her mother. She had just the same hairand deep, rich-looking eyes except in her the hair was black as nightand the eyes were young. She had a newspaper in her hand and as thedoors opened she'd looked up, intent and questioning, and I saw she wasbeautiful. She was like a picture, leaning forward with that inquiringexpression, her features clear in the flood of soft light. I got animpression of her then that I've never forgotten--of force and strength.It didn't come from anything especial in her face, but from something inher general makeup, something vivid and warm, like she was alivestraight through.
They stayed in the room some time while I sat waiting. I'd sized upeverything in sight, especially two little glass lamps on the sideboardthat I thought would be a nice present for Babbitts to give me on mynext birthday, when the doors slid back and Iola came in. She didn't sayanything and seemed in a hurry to be off. Mrs. Whitehall showed us out,very polite but depressed, and when the door was shut on us and we stoledown the stairs, I felt the worst had come. In the vestibule I looked atIola and said: "Well?"
She was struggling with her umbrella, her face bent over it.
"Fired!" she answered in a husky voice.
The rain was coming down in torrents, and wanting to cuddle upcomforting against her, I didn't raise my umbrella and we walked up thestreet, squeezed together, with the downpour spattering around us.Believe me, the water fell under Iola's umbrella pretty nearly as heavyas it did outside it. Miss Whitehall was broke. Mr. Harland _had_ beenher financial backer and now she was ruined and the
business wouldclose. The surprise and horror of the whole thing had prostrated her andas soon as she was better she'd wind up the Azalea Woods Estates and tryand sublet her offices, on which she had still a six months' lease.
"She was awful sweet," Iola sobbed. "She gave me a full month's salaryand said she'd meant to keep me forever. Oh, Molly, why did it have tohappen?"
I squeezed her and said:
"That's all right, dearie. We'll all hustle and get you another job. Igot lots of money and what's mine's yours--the way it always is betweengood and true friends."
But Iola wouldn't be comforted.
"I can't take your money. I never took a cent yet. And I thought I wasfixed for life. I thought even if the business didn't pan out big she'dmarry Mr. Barker and get a place for me."
"Marry Mr. Barker!" I cried out astonished.
"Yes--that's what I thought was coming."
Believe _me_, I was surprised. She'd never dropped a hint of it.
"Why didn't you tell me that before?" I asked.
"Because Tony Ford told me not to. He said I wasn't to tellanybody--that Barker being such a big bug it would get in the papers andthat might break it all up."
"But are you _sure_? Did he act like he was in love with her?"
We were passing one of those arc lights on Park Avenue, and the scornfullook she cast at me, tears and all, was plain.
"Wouldn't you think a man was in love--even if he was a magnate--who'dbuy a house and lot just for an excuse to _see_ a lady?"
"Did you ever _hear_ him making love to her?"
"No--but I didn't need to. I've been made love to enough myself to knowthe signs without hearing. First it was all business, and I believed itwas only that. Then, one day when Mr. Ford was out, he came in andlingered round making conversation. You know the way they do it, and forall he was a magnate Mr. Barker was just the same as the errand boy.That's the way it is with men--they got no variety. He wanted to knowabout her home and the farm and before that. Oh, Indiana, a fine state,Indiana! It made me laugh to see him with his hook nose and gray hairhanding out the same line of talk that Billy Dunn gave me when I was inthe linen envelope place."
"Did _she_ seem to care for him?"
"Not at first. She was very formal, just a bow and then right off aboutthe bungalow. But _he_ had the symptoms from the start--looking at herlike he couldn't take his eyes off and not caring whether the bungalowwas as small as a hencoop or as big as the Waldorf.
"They went along that way for a while then something happened--a fight,I guess when Tony Ford and I weren't there. Anyhow, after it she was socold and distant you'd wonder he had the nerve to come. Then oneafternoon he came in and asked her low--I heard him--if he could have afew words with her in the private office. She hesitated but I guess shecouldn't see her way to refusing, so in they went and had a long powwow.Whatever it was they said to each other it smoothed out all thewrinkles. After that she was as different to him as summer is to winter.In my own mind I thought they were engaged, for she'd brighten up whenhe came in and _smile_. I never saw her smile like that at anyone, andonce when they thought I couldn't hear I heard him call her 'dear.'They'd go into the private office and talk. Gee! how they talked! Andalways low like they were afraid Tony Ford and I might overhear. And onthe top of all _that_ he disappears."
"Perhaps that's why she's been sick."
"Sure it is. It's bad enough to lose your own money, but wouldn't itmake you sick to lose millions, let alone the man you're in love with,even if he has a nose you could hang an umbrella on?"
"Poor thing!" I said, for I could see now what the lady lying on thecouch had been up against.
"We're all poor things," said Iola, beginning to get sorry for herselfagain. "Miss Whitehall, and the man that's dead, and Tony Ford who'slost his job, and me, poor unfortunate me, that I thought was on velvetfor the rest of my days."
Babbitts didn't get home till late that night, but I was so full of whatIola had said that I waited up for him. When he did come, he hadn't butone kiss, when I pulled away from him and told him.
"Doesn't it seem to you, Soapy," I said, "that that story ought to goback to Mr. Whitney?"
He looked at me sideways with a sly, questioning glance.
"Why?" he asked.
"Why, if Barker's in love with her don't you think maybe he'll try andcreep back or get in touch with her some way?"
He burst out laughing.
"Oh, Morningdew, there's a lot of nice things about you, but one of thenicest is that you never disappoint a fellow. I was wondering if you'dsee it. Go back to Mr. Whitney? It'll go back the first thing tomorrowmorning and you'll take it."