Re-Creations

  Maxwell watched the dancers idly for a moment. He was not a dancer himself and not particularly interested in it. As he looked, he was suddenly struck with the contrast between this scene and the quiet little home where he had spent the evening. How hard these people were trying to enjoy themselves, and how excited and restless and almost unhappy many of them looked.

  A group of ladies seated near the railing quite close to where he stood were discussing one of the couples on the floor.

  “She is disgusting,” said one. “I wonder who she is? How dare she come to a respectable place and dance in that way?”

  His eyes followed their glances, and he easily singled out the two who were under their criticism. The man, a tall, dark, bizarre-looking fellow he knew by sight, with money enough and family irreproachable enough to get away with anything in these days.

  But the woman! Why did there seem to be something familiar about her? Sleek black hair wound closely about a small, languid head, lizard-like body inadequately sheathed in gold brocade, sparkle of jewels from lazy, graceful feet.

  A break in the throng as someone went off the floor, and the two swept around facing him. The woman looked up and met his eyes. It was Evadne!

  Something clicked and locked in his soul as if the machinery could not go on any longer without readjustment. He stood staring down at her, a growing wonder in his face, aware that she was looking at him and waving, aware that he was expected to smile. Instead he felt as if he were glaring. Was this the woman for whom he had spent two years of agony and struggle? This little empty-faced creature with a smile upon her painted, selfish mask? As he stood looking at her he was struck with a fleeting notion that she resembled Clytie, poor feather-brained Clytie trying to exploit her own little self in the best way she knew, to play the game of life to her own best advantage. What was the difference between them?

  Was it for a woman like this that he had wasted two of the best years out of his young manhood? He used to call her beautiful, but now her face seemed so vapid. Was it just the years that had come between or had she changed, grown coarser, less ethereal? A vision of Cornelia Copley floated in his mind. Why hadn’t he known sooner that there was a girl like that somewhere in the world? What a fool he had been!

  Evadne had signaled to him and led her partner off the floor. Now they were coming to him. He wished he might vanish somewhere. Why had he come? This girl had no real need of him. She was merely enjoying herself.

  “What made you so late?” she challenged merrily. “We’ve been waiting supper for an age. I met an old friend tonight. Bob, meet Artie Maxwell. Come on, I’ve had the food served in my suite, and I’ve ordered lobster Newburg and all the things you used to like.”

  “I’ll answer for the drinks,” broke in the one called Bob. “I’ve sampled them already.”

  “Sh! Naughty! Naughty! Bob!” hushed Evadne with her finger on her lips. “Artie is a good little boy. He doesn’t break the law—” She laughed. “Come on, Artie, I’m nearly starved. I thought you never would get here. Ring for the elevator, Bob, please.”

  Maxwell’s whole being simply froze.

  He didn’t want to remain, and he didn’t like the other man, but he could not ask her point-blank what she wanted of him in the presence of this stranger. He was gravely silent as the elevator carried them to the right floor, and Evadne did the talking. But when the door opened into the apartment and showed a table set for three with flowers and lights and preparations for a feast, he made a stand.

  “I can’t possibly stay for supper,” he declared. “I’ve dined only a little while ago, and I must leave for New York on business very early in the morning. I only dropped in to explain—”

  “Indeed, you are not going to leave in that way!” she flashed upon him angrily. “I told you in my note that I had something very important to tell you.”

  Maxwell looked at the other man politely. “If we could have just a word together now,” he said, turning back to the girl. “I really must get back to my apartment at once. I have important papers to prepare for tomorrow.”

  The other man turned away toward the table haughtily, with a scornful, “Why certainly,” and poured himself a glass from the flask that stood there.

  Maxwell turned to the angry girl. “Now, what can I do for you? I shall be very glad to do anything in my power of course.” He spoke stiffly as to a stranger. The girl perceived that her power over him was waning. Yet she was too subtle to let him see it.

  “I am in deep trouble,” she sighed with a quiver of the lips. “But I can’t tell it in a moment. It is a long story.” Her eyelids fluttered down on her lovely painted cheeks. She knew the line that would touch him most.

  “What sort of trouble?” he asked almost gently. He never could bear to see a woman suffer.

  She clasped her little jeweled hands together fiercely and bent her head dejectedly.

  “I cannot tell you all now,” she answered desperately. “You would have to hear the whole before you could understand. Wait until we are alone.”

  “Is it financial trouble?” he urged after a pause with a gentle persistence in his voice.

  “Yes, that—and—other things!” Evadne forced a tear to the fringes of her almond lids.

  He studied her gravely.

  “I’ll tell you what I want you to do,” he said at last. “I will not be here tomorrow nor possibly for several days, but I would like you to talk with our old family lawyer. He was a friend of my father’s and is very wise and kind. Anything you could tell to me you can tell to him. He knows you and will fully understand. I can call him tonight when I get back and explain, and he will be glad to come here and see you I am sure. Or if you prefer you can go to his office.”

  But Evadne lifted her sleek black head wrathfully, flicked off the tear, flung out her chin, and looked him down with her almond eyes as if from a great height. “Thank you!” she said crisply. “When I want a family lawyer I can get one! And YOU—can—GO!”

  She pointed to the door with her jeweled hand imperiously, and Maxwell arose with dignity, his eyes upon her as if he would force himself to see the worst, and went.

  “Bob!” said Evadne to the intoxicated man at the table when the elevator door had clanged shut after her onetime beau. “I’m not sure, but I shall come back to Philadelphia after a few days and stay awhile. I wonder if you could keep track of that man for me and tell me just where he goes and what he does. I’ll make it worth your while, you know.”

  “Surely, old dear. I’ll be delighted. No trouble at all. I know a private detective who would be tickled to death for the job. What did you say the poor fish’s name is? Seemed a harmless sort of chump. Not quite your kind, is he? Come, Vaddie, let’s have another drink.”

  But Evadne’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she took the glass and drank slowly. She was not one to take lightly any loss.

  Out in the night the young man drew a deep breath of the clean air thankfully. It seemed as though he had escaped from something unwholesome and tainted. He was glad that he had the sense to know it, and he thought back again with relief to the happy evening in the simple, natural home.

  Chapter 22

  Carey had been working quite steadily at the garage and giving money to his father and Cornelia every week. It really made things much easier in the home. Word had come that the mother was steadily progressing toward health, and everybody was much happier. It seemed that Carey was happier, too. He was not away so much at night, which relieved his sister and his father tremendously.

  Nothing had been said about Clytie Dodd. Carey had thanked his sister for the party and for taking so much trouble to make a pleasant evening, but he utterly ignored the presence of the girl who had been the cause of the whole affair. It was as if she had not been there. Mr. Copley had asked as he sat down to dinner the next evening after the birthday, “Where did you pick up that strange Dodd girl you had here?” and Cornelia had answered quite casually, as if it didn’t matter at all, “O
h, she was just a girl I thought perhaps we ought to know,” and slipped back into the kitchen to get the potatoes just as Carey entered the dining room. He must have heard the conversation and heard his father’s reply: “Well, I guess she’s not quite our sort, is she? I guess we can get along without her, can’t we?” He made no comment and began to talk at once eagerly about the new stone porch he was going to build. It appeared that he had discovered a lot of stone that was being dug from the street where they were putting down new paving, and it was to be had for little more than the carting away. Pat would let him have his truck at night, and he was going to bring the first load that very evening. Brand was coming around to help. Brand wanted to have a hand in the building.

  Brand appeared soon after, coming breezily out to the dining room without an invitation and sitting down for a piece of lemon pie as if he were a privileged friend of long standing. There was nothing backward about Brand. Yet somehow they all liked him, and Cornelia could see that Carey was pleased that they did. She felt a glow of thankfulness in her heart that it was possible to like one of Carey’s friends when the other one was so unspeakably impossible.

  Brand took off his coat and put on an old sweater of Carey’s, and they went off together after the truck. In a little while they were back with the first load of cobblestones and worked till long after dark, load after load, piling them neatly between the sidewalk and the curb till they had a goodly lot. Brand seemed as interested in that porch as if it were his own. After they took the truck back, Brand came in again and wanted to sing. They sang for nearly an hour, and when he left, Cornelia felt as if they had fully taken over Brand as a part of their little circle. She couldn’t help wondering what his society mother and elegant sister would say if they knew where he had spent the last two evenings. Then she reflected that there were much worse places where he might spend them, and probably often did, and she began to take Brand into her thoughts and plans for the future with almost the same anxious care as she gave to Carey. Brand was a nice boy and needed helping. He was too young to spend his time running around with girls like Clytie Dodd and taking joyrides with a happy crowd. She would make their little home a haven where Carey and his friends would at least be safe and happy. She could not give them anything elaborate in the way of entertainment, but there should always be a welcome, plenty of music, and something to eat.

  Cornelia could see her father visibly brighten day by day as the week went by, and Carey seemed to stick to his task and spend his evenings at home. Brand had bought a pair of overalls and made blisters on his hands digging for the foundation of the stone porch. And every afternoon Carey came home from the garage at five o’clock and worked away with a will.

  At this rate it did not take long for the wall to rise. It was level with the front doorstep now, and Carey had put a plank across and a few stones for steps to go up and down.

  It was late on Thursday afternoon, and Carey was hard at work trying to finish the front wall before dark. Brand’s racing car was standing by the curb with the engine throbbing, and Brand himself was standing with one foot on the wall talking to Carey.

  Cornelia had just come out with a plate of hot gingerbread for them and was standing a moment watching them enjoy it when another car suddenly came down the hill and stopped in the road just in front of Brand’s car. A wriggling child in the front seat peered out curiously from beside the driver, and Cornelia had a glimpse of a fretful elderly woman’s face in the backseat. Then the door on the driver’s side of the car was opened, and someone got out and came around. She hadn’t thought of its being Maxwell until he was in full view, and a soft flush came into her cheeks with the welcome light in her eyes.

  “Come in and have a piece of hot gingerbread!” she called, holding out the plate.

  He came springing up the plank and stood beside her.

  “Oh, thank you! Isn’t this wonderful?” he said, taking a piece eagerly. “But I’m afraid I must eat and run. I’m taking my boss’s aunt and her grandchild down to the train and mustn’t delay. I just stopped to say that I’m leaving for the mountains tomorrow afternoon about three o’clock and will stop here for Harry. Do you think that will be too early for him?”

  “Oh, no, indeed. He can come home from school at noon and be all ready for you. It is wonderful of you to take him. He has talked of nothing else since you were here, and Father and I appreciate your kindness, I’m sure.”

  “No kindness about it. It will be great to have a kid along. I hate to go anywhere alone. Say, this gingerbread is luscious! No, really I mustn’t take another bite. I must go this minute. I’ve left my engine going, and the lady is inclined to be easily annoyed. I—”

  He happened to look up at that moment and saw to his horror that his car had begun to move slowly on down the hill. The child on the front seat had been doing things to the brakes and clutch. She had no idea what she was doing, but she always did things to everything in sight. If it was an electric bulb, she unscrewed it; if it was openable, she opened it; if it was possible to throw anything out of gear, she always could be depended upon to throw it. She was that kind of a child. She once threw a pair of heavy sliding doors off the track and almost down upon her and was saved from an untimely death only by the presence of some elderly rescuer. Had Maxwell known the child, he never would have left her alone in that front seat. She had wriggled herself into the driver’s seat, and her fat hands were manipulating the wheel. As the car began to move, she gave a shout of horrid glee. A scream from the woman in the backseat, and Maxwell turned sick with the thought of the possibilities and sprang down the wall toward the street.

  But quick as he was, Brand and Carey were ahead of him. At the very first sound, even before the car had been really in motion, Carey looked up over the wall he was building, gave a low whistle, and cried, “Hey there! Brand! Your car! Get a hustle!”

  Brand turned and needed not an explanation. He dashed across the intervening space to his own car, sprang to the driver’s seat, and was off. Carey, though handicapped by the wall he had to leap over, was scarcely a hair’s breadth behind and alighted on the running board after the car had started.

  “We’ve got to catch her before she reaches the corner,” he shouted above the noise of the racing engine. “There’s a trolley coming around the curve at the foot of the hill, and you can’t tell what that kid’ll do. It’s a cinch she never ran a car before; look at her wabble. She’s getting scared now. Look! The fool in the backseat has dragged her away from the wheel! Hey there! Give her plenty of room! Now curve her around, and give me space to jump her!”

  Maxwell was running frantically and vainly down the street after his car, which was now going at a wild pace. From either direction on the cross street at the foot of the hill he could see cars speeding along. Who would know that the oncoming car was managed by a child who had never run a car in her life, a child who knew nothing whatever about cars, was too young to know, had never even been accustomed to ride in one, but lived in a little country village where cars were scarce articles? All this he knew because the grandmother had talked much to the youngster on the way down, and the child had said she had never been in a car but once before, but she wished she had one; she knew she could run it.

  Horror froze in his veins as he remembered all these little details. He had made running a specialty when he was in college athletics, but now, although his way was downhill, his feet were like lead and his knees weak as water. He saw himself a murderer. Every possible detail of disaster rose and menaced his way as he sped onward, determined to do all in his power for rescue. The blood was pounding through his head so that he could scarcely see or hear. His breath came painfully, and he wondered blindly how long this would last. Then suddenly he saw the long, clean body of the racing car slide down the hill like a glance of light, glide close to the runaway car, then curve away and cross the street just in front of the oncoming trolley. He looked to see his own car smash into the trolley car, but instead it swept around in
a steady, clean curve that just cleared the trolley car and veered away to the right. It crossed the car track behind the trolley car and circled around and back up the hill again, a steady hand at the wheel. An instant more and the car stopped before him where he stood in the middle of the road, his face white, his eyes staring, unable to believe that the catastrophe had really been averted. He looked up, and there sat Carey in the driver’s seat as coolly as if he had been taking a pleasure trip.

  “Shall I turn her around?” asked Carey nonchalantly. “Or do you want to go back to the house?”

  “How did you do it?” asked Arthur Maxwell, grasping Carey’s grimy hand eagerly. “I didn’t see you catch her.”

  “Oh, just jumped her from Brand’s running board. Dead easy. Guess she gave a little start though. That kid ought to be spanked. I guess the lady’s pretty badly scared.”

  The lady and the “kid” were bathed in tears and wrapped in each other’s arms in the backseat. The child was experiencing a late repentance, and the grandmother was alternately scolding and babying and in a fair way to make the little criminal feel she had done a smart thing. Maxwell gave them a withering glance and turned to Carey, who had swung out over the door and was standing in the road, looking at the car like a lion tamer who has just subdued a wild creature.

  “I shall never forget this, Copley,” said Maxwell, grasping his hand once more in the kind of a grip a real man gives to another. “I’ll talk about it later when I’ve taken these people to the train. Meantime accept my thanks for yourself and your friend. You’re both princes, and I’ll see that everybody knows it.”

  “Forget it!” chanted Carey and swung himself like a thistledown to the running board of Brand’s car as he swept slowly, scrutinizingly up.

  “Got her all right, didn’t you, old man?” said Brand admiringly. “Any scratches? You had a mighty close shave!”