Francie Comes Home

  CHAPTER 17

  “What I just can’t make out is how you could have done it,” said Francie.

  Bruce shrugged and didn’t try to reply. He walked across the room and stared out at the street. They were in his living room; Francie had insisted on seeing him that very afternoon in private, and though he had tried to put her off, she won out.

  The silence became too painful to bear, and she tried again. “If you didn’t know the rules—” she began, and waited for him to claim ignorance so that she could excuse him. But would ignorance have excused him, even then? The ugly facts were that he had sold the desk as an antique; he must have. He had introduced her to Mr. Morris, and certainly Bruce knew the desk wasn’t genuine when he sold it.

  He turned away from the window and came back to where she sat on the sofa. “You know, you’re making a hell of a fuss over nothing at all,” he said. “Anybody would think to look at you that the end of the world had come. Whereas actually they can’t even take me to court over this.”

  The end of the world had come, Francie wanted to say. She felt the room rocking. But Bruce went on calmly, “This Redfern female hasn’t any kind of a case: what’s she making a fuss about, anyway? She hasn’t lost anything.”

  “She can tell—”

  Bruce interrupted. “So she gives me a bad name in the trade. So what? I’ll survive. I’ve survived worse.”

  “But … And anyway you’ve cheated Mr. Morris, haven’t you?”

  “I’ll handle Morris,” said Bruce. “There may be a little sticky business there, but if I give him his money back he’ll have no kick coming. Bad luck, their knowing each other,” he added regretfully. “It was one chance in a thousand.”

  Francie didn’t know where to begin. She said, “You don’t seem to mind in the least that you were dishonest.”

  “Dishonest!” He sniffed. “You talk like a kindergarten kid sometimes. You really do. And after all, Francie, you haven’t got much call to be so high and mighty. You might feel a little gratitude. After all, I did it for you.”

  “Bruce Munson, what do you mean?” she cried.

  “Well, isn’t it the truth?” demanded Lucky. “Think it over a minute. What am I supposed to use for money when I take you out? Gasoline has a way of running into cash figures at the end of the month, and so do dinners in restaurants. Do you think I was doing it on my salary?”

  Francie snapped, “You didn’t spend so much on me that I had any reason to wonder where it came from. Now if my name had been Fredericks …”

  “They always pay their own way,” said Bruce absently.

  “I don’t think that’s anything for you to boast about.… Oh darling, this is so terrible,” said Francie. “I’ve thought and thought about it. I can’t understand your attitude at all. And there’s another thing, the most important of all: you let me get into trouble. You used my name. I’m the one Mrs. Redfern blamed for the whole thing. Can’t you see what you did to me? How can you say you love me and want to marry me and then do a thing like that?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Bruce. “I’m sorry. Of course I never thought you’d get into trouble: I didn’t do it on purpose. I can’t say more than that.”

  “But didn’t you even give it a thought?”

  “I didn’t expect to be caught, I tell you!”

  Francie had come in to the apartment with every intention of remaining calm. The last thing in the world that she wanted was to burst into tears, but it happened nevertheless. Bruce put his arms around her and for a minute she left her head on his shoulder as she sobbed. For a minute she pretended it was all a very nasty nightmare. Her good-looking Bruce was nice, really; he loved her and was taking care of her. The rest was just a ghastly mistake. Then she pulled away and went to the door, fumbled for the knob, and got out before he could persuade her to wait a little.

  She had said she was ill and wouldn’t come down to dinner. She wouldn’t be waiting to see anybody or talk to anyone on the phone, she said, and locked her door. In the course of the evening she heard the telephone several times, but her wishes were respected; nobody disturbed her.

  But quite late in the evening, there came a soft knock on the door.

  “It’s Anne Clark. I may come in, mayn’t I?”

  Francie put on a robe and unlocked the door, and Mrs. Clark walked in as if everything were perfectly normal. There was no hint of excitement or worry in the way she said, “Thank you, dear. I’ve just been to see Florence Ryan, and I promised I would do my best to fix up this misunderstanding.”

  Francie said in a voice that came out very choked, “It can’t be fixed up. Not ever.”

  “Never’s a long time. As a matter of fact, I think it’s practically fixed up already,” said Mrs. Clark. She sat down at the desk chair, facing Francie, who crouched on her bed. “My dear,” she said gently, “I’m very, very sorry, believe me. So is Florence. She doesn’t blame you in the slightest.”

  “But I did it!” cried Francie. “I did it!”

  “You did what? You surely hadn’t any intention of doing anything. I realize you can’t very well whimper and say it wasn’t your fault, but you can let someone else say it for you. What are the facts? No, I’m not really asking you to tell me; that was a rhetorical question. I can tell you, I think, exactly what happened. Bruce Munson used your name because the Birthday Box was a good guarantee, and he didn’t want to commit himself, or the Fredericks firm. Wasn’t that the way it was?”

  Francie nodded reluctantly. “Just about. But I didn’t catch on to why he did it. I remember I asked, and he was vague. Oh, Mrs. Clark, I’ve been so stupid.”

  “Better stupid than wrong,” said Anne Clark. “You’ll be glad to know that everybody understands. Florence does, and so does Mrs. Redfern now that she’s talked it over. So all you need do is forget all the unpleasantness; Florence hopes you’ll be back at work tomorrow.”

  Francie said earnestly, “It’s a horrible feeling when people suspect you of being tricky. It’s perfectly horrible. I don’t see how crooks can bear it, Mrs. Clark. What do you think about—him? Do you think he’s as bad as it looks?”

  “Bruce?” Mrs. Clark’s pleasant expression hardened a trifle. “Why, I can’t tell. Certainly he seems to have been at the very least reckless, and silly, and selfish.” She looked searchingly at Francie. “Does it mean such a lot to you?” she asked.

  Francie hesitated. “Well, naturally, if you like a man and think you know him pretty well, it’s a shock. Maybe he’s not as bad as it looks. I—he—” No, she thought; now was not the time to confide, even in Anne Clark. “He said he needed money to take me out,” she said instead. Her lips trembled. “Honestly, Mrs. Clark, he doesn’t seem to realize at all that he’s done something he shouldn’t. It worries me. The desk itself wasn’t a matter of life or death, but Lucky’s attitude is so queer.”

  “Very queer,” said Mrs. Clark.

  “He can’t have been brought up very well,” said Francie. “Maybe if I’m awfully patient and try to show him that certain things are wrong … Do you think he might learn?”

  “Reform him, you mean? My dear, I don’t know the young man well enough to give you any advice, but as a general rule young girls don’t have startling success when they set out to reform their husbands.”

  Francie said quickly, “He’s not my husband. I didn’t mean that.”

  “No. I see,” said Anne Clark. It was disconcertingly clear that she really did. She changed the subject briskly. “I’ll let you get back into bed, I think, but wouldn’t you like to eat something before you go to sleep? Poor Norah’s been worrying about you. Let me get you some tea, and we can have a snack.”

  She was out of the room before any objections could be made. What a nice person she was, Francie mused. This was almost like being comfortably sick in bed with a very kind nurse to stand between herself and the annoying world. She felt much better about things. Why, it was really quite all right. Tomorrow morning, in spite of everything
that had happened, in spite of all her despair, she would be going to the Birthday Box as usual and there would be no trouble about facing Mrs. Ryan. The relief was luxurious. As for Bruce, he might have some explanation, Francie thought hopefully. It was true that he hadn’t behaved very well during their talk, but lots of men aren’t at their best when they’re being accused. I must have sounded pretty fierce, thought Francie. It would be wonderful to have everything the way it had been between them, but—well, no, on second thought, it hadn’t been so wonderful. Having to be so careful not to let people suspect they were engaged. And those awful moments of jealousy. No, she couldn’t go back to that status. She would have to insist on a different understanding from now on.

  When Mrs. Clark brought back a tray with a pot and cups and plenty of crackers and cheese, they set the little bedside table and had a very good time over the food. “How’s Pop?” asked Francie as she munched. She felt as if she had been separated from the family for several days.

  “He’s very glad you can sit up and take nourishment,” said Mrs. Clark.

  “You’ve been awfully decent, Mrs. Clark.”

  “I want to be,” said Anne Clark. “Francie, something happened today. I mean, something happened to me. Your Cousin Biddy dropped in to see me.” Francie groaned. “Yes, exactly,” said Mrs. Clark. “She told me that everybody’s been talking for weeks and weeks, about—well, it’s rather embarrassing to say it, about your father and me. I was surprised. Is it true?”

  “Oh yes,” said Francie. “Yes, everybody has.”

  Mrs. Clark laughed. “It all goes to show how blind one can be about one’s own affairs,” she said. “I don’t know why I should have assumed that I of all people should be invisible to Jefferson, but I just wasn’t thinking. Francie, it’s quite true: I mean, your father and I do want to get married, and even though we didn’t mean to speak about it until his affairs are settled, I think I’ll have to ask you now. Cousin Biddy has rather hurried matters along, that’s all.”

  “Ask me? Why, what do you want to ask me?”

  Anne Clark’s lips twitched. “Why, we want your consent, of course,” she said.

  “Oh, Mrs. Clark, I think it would be marvelous! I can’t imagine anything better.”

  “That’s nice,” said Mrs. Clark, “because I do think myself it’s a rather good idea. We’re old enough to be sensible; we’ve both been happily married before, and—you know, Francie, your father really is a darling.”

  “Of course I know. Who better? But Mrs. Clark—”

  “You can hardly call me that any more, after I’m married. What about plain Anne?”

  “All right, plain Anne.”

  They laughed at that, and Francie insisted on coming downstairs to tell Pop in person that he had her hearty consent.

  The telephone rang early in the morning. Francie had come down to put the coffee on; she was lifting the receiver before the third peal.

  “Francie,” said a worried voice, “this is Lottie Fredericks. Is Chadbourne with you, by any chance?”

  “No, Mrs. Fredericks. Why, no, she isn’t.”

  “Oh dear,” said the voice.

  “Is she supposed to be?” asked Francie, “She didn’t say anything about it. There’s probably a mistake: I mean, she must be somewhere else.” What an idiotic thing to say, she thought.

  “Never mind; I’m sure it’s all right,” said Mrs. Fredericks, and hung up.

  This made Francie wonder. She thought so hard that she finally rang Lucky Munson’s apartment, but though the signal buzzed and buzzed, there was no reply. She knew he was usually a late riser. Very odd, she thought, but there was no way to get an explanation, and so she put it out of her mind and went to work, not without a sidewise glance into the window of Fredericks & Worpels as she passed it. Nobody was there. Not even Lottie Fredericks’s office light was on, as it should have been that gray morning, and the door looked uncompromisingly locked; she didn’t venture to try it. She had a feeling of caution about that shop; better not get mixed up with whatever was going on. She avoided all thought of Bruce. Better cross that bridge when she came to it.

  At the Birthday Box everything was aggressively normal. Mrs. Ryan called a cheery good morning and nobody mentioned William and Mary desks, or Mrs. Redfern, or anything like that. The morning was uneventful. Francie found that she had plenty of time to think about Bruce and all the rest of it. Well, what was she going to do about him? In a manner of speaking, she had reached the bridge, and now it seemed that she saw it all clearly. There were girls, she knew, who married charming men who were “weak,” like Bruce. Handsome men, they sometimes were, without much strength of character. Life had been made easy for them—doors were opened for them, opportunities were offered them, girls beckoned them. And their women felt that their men were theirs, right or wrong—she thought vaguely—and turned up pale but gallant if, or when, their husbands appeared in court. They were the heroic females who went out to work, reflected Francie gloomily, to make ends meet while their men drifted from job to job, from one slightly shady deal to another. A woman could be loyal and try to hold her head high—it was a noble life, but …

  “Oh no!” she decided suddenly.

  She saw how silly she had been, thinking even for a minute that there was anything noble in that sort of self-sacrifice. It was only that Bruce had such sorrowful eyes, and was so good-looking. So handsome, she thought, but not at all a prize. A man hardly marriageable—except to a woman who would take care of him.

  No, it was over, all over, and she would tell him so at the first opportunity. She faced the awful fact: he had come along at the right time. He had healed her pride. And she had hoped he would heal her heart, Francie admitted at last, painfully. The store was blessedly empty, the clock ticked noisily. But he had not, Francie knew, he had not healed her heart. The day was going by very, very slowly.

  It was evening before anything more transpired. She had gone past the empty decorator’s shop again on the way home, wondering what on earth was the matter with Chadbourne and the rest of them. On the hall table in the house was an envelope without a stamp, addressed to her. She was surprised. We live in an age when most people find it easier to reach for the telephone than a pen and paper.

  “When did this come?” she called to Aunt Norah in the kitchen. Aunt Norah didn’t know. She had found the letter on the mat, she said, when she came back from her marketing, and as Francie continued to stand there and speculate, she suggested, mildly, that the girl open the letter and see for herself. Finally Francie did.

  Francie my dear, it said, this is a hard letter to write. I suppose by this time you know how many kinds of a cad I am, so I don’t have to go into that in detail. But things were piling up and something had to give way. Do try to understand. When everything’s blown over, as it’s bound to do, I hope you’ll let bygones be bygones, for Chadbourne’s sake if not for mine. She thinks the world of you. And so, if you’ll permit me to say it, do I Only it was all too much for me.

  Fondly,

  Bruce

  P.S. Please burn this letter.

  “Well?” called Aunt Norah through the door, after a long pause. “Have you solved the mystery?”

  “Yes, I think I have,” said Francie. “Wait a minute, Aunt Norah, and I’ll give you a hand with that dinner, but I’ve got to call up Mrs. Fredericks first. I think I can tell her something she wants to know.”

  “I think he did like Chadbourne all the time quite a lot,” said Francie earnestly, scooping up the last of her peach Melba. It was three days later, and all Jefferson knew that Chad and Bruce had eloped. Francie had just lunched with Mrs. Clark at the Chocolate Shoppe. “And he was attracted by the money and the security of the thing, but until this last episode of the desk, he just couldn’t quite make up his mind to marry her for such reasons.” She reflected a moment. “Maybe there was a bit of good left, or strength left, in him. But then”—she brightened to the explanation—“he just gave up when everybody
started closing in—Mrs. Redfern, Mr. Morris, Mrs. Ryan, Mrs. Fredericks—me, even.” She laughed. “What a crowd of people at his heels!”

  “How are you about all this?” asked Mrs. Clark. “Do you mind terribly?”

  “Oh no. It was a kind of shock, I guess, but I’d already had a worse one. Bruce was good for my vanity, anyway.”

  Anne Clark smiled. “You can be vain with a clear conscience, Francie,” she said. “I expect there were moments when Bruce wouldn’t have minded if his campaign had worked out the other way.”

  Francie shook her head. “I didn’t have enough money for him. Chadbourne’s got some in her own name, you know. Oh dear, I hope she’ll be all right with him. She must have loved him so much all along.”

  “He may straighten up now,” said Anne. “Fortune hunters often do when they’ve made their goal. One of these days they’ll come back, and butter won’t melt in his mouth, and they’ll belong to the bridge club, and Lottie Fredericks will purr, and they’ll all be happy. More or less.” She broke off as if the subject bored her. “Now Francie, let’s talk about more important matters. What would you like to do? You know your father’s going to go East soon, after we’re married. We’re going back to his apartment. I don’t have to say how much I hope you’ll be with us.”

  Francie said, “I haven’t made up my mind for sure, but I don’t think I ought to walk out on Mrs. Ryan as soon as all that. And I’ll have to settle Aunt Norah with somebody dependable, too. I think it would be much better to let things remain as they are, anyway, until the doctor says her eyes are ready for the operation. Yes, Anne, I think I’ll hang on here.” She paused, not quite ready to mention the fun of it.

  “So you don’t hate Jefferson too much,” said Mrs. Clark.

  “Oh, it’s a lovely place,” said Francie. “There’s so much going on here! My job and my friends and the drama group and the mural and everything.… Did I tell you Glenn is coming back? He’s been offered a job here, a good one.”