Chapter 14

CUTTING IN ON THE BLISS

We thought it was all over too. That's the way it is in plays and books, where they don't gen'rally take 'em beyond the final clinch, leavin' you to fill in the bliss _ad lib_. But here we'd seen 'em clear through the let-no-man-put-asunder stage, even watched 'em dodge the rice and confetti in their dash to the limousine.

"Thank goodness that's through with!" remarks Mother, without makin' any bones of it.

Course, her reg'lar cue was to fall on Father's neck and weep; but, then, I expect Mrs. Cheyne Ballard's one of the kind you can't write any form sheet for. She's a lively, bunchy little party, all jump and go and jingle, who looks like she might have been married herself only day before yesterday.

"I hope Robbie knows where she put those trunk checks," says Father, at the same time sighin' sort of relieved.

From where I stood, though, the guy who was pushin' overboard the biggest chunk of worry was this I-wilt boy, Mr. Nicholas Talbot. He'd got her at last! But, z-z-z-zingo! it had been some lively gettin'. Not that I was all through the campaign with him; but I'd had glimpses here and there.

You see, Robbie's almost one of the fam'ly; for Mr. Robert's an old friend of the Ballards, and was bottle holder or something at the christenin'. As a matter of fact, she was named Roberta after him. Then he'd watched her grow up, and always remembered her birthdays, and kept her latest picture on his desk. So why shouldn't he figure more or less when so many others was tryin' to straighten out her love affairs? They was some tangled there for awhile too.

Robbie's one of the kind, you know, that would have Cupid cross-eyed in one season. A queen? Well, take it from me! Say, the way her cheeks was tinted up natural would have a gold medal rose lookin' like it come off a twenty-nine-cent roll of wall paper. Then them pansy-colored eyes! Yes, Miss Roberta Ballard was more or less ornamental. That wa'n't all, of course. She could say more cute things, and cut loose with more unexpected pranks, than a roomful of Billie Burkes. As cunnin' as a kitten, she was.

No wonder Nick Talbot fell for her the first time he was exposed! Course, he was half engaged to that stunnin' Miss Marian Marlowe at the time; but wa'n't Robbie waverin' between three young chaps that all seemed to be in the runnin' before Nick showed up?

Anyway, Miss Marlowe should have known better than to lug in her steady when she was visitin'. She'd been chummy with Robbie at boardin' school, and should have known how dangerous she was. But young Mr. Talbot had only two looks before he's as strong for Robbie as though it had been comin' on for years back. Impetuous young gent that way he was too; and, bein' handicapped by no job, and long on time and money, he does some spirited rushin'.

Seems Robbie Ballard didn't mind. Excitement was her middle name, novelty was her strong suit, and among Nick's other attractions he was brand new. Besides, wa'n't he a swell one-stepper, a shark at tennis, and couldn't he sing any ragtime song that she could drum out? The ninety-horse striped racin' car that he came callin' in helped along some; for one of Robbie's fads was for travelin' fast. Course, she'd been brought up in limousines; but the mile in fifty seconds gave her a genuine thrill.

When it come to holdin' out her finger for the big solitaire that Nick flashed on her about the third week, though, she hung back. The others carried about the same line of jew'lry around in their vest pockets, waitin' for a chance to decorate her third finger. One had the loveliest gray eyes too. Then there was another entry, with the dearest little mustache, who was a bear at doin' the fish-walk tango with her; not to mention the young civil engineer she'd met last winter at Palm Beach. But he didn't actually count, not bein' on the scene.

Anyway, three was enough to keep guessin' at once. Robbie was real modest that way. But she sure did have 'em all busy. If it was a sixty-mile drive with Nick before luncheon, it was apt to be an afternoon romp in the surf with the gray-eyed one, and a toss up as to which of the trio took her to the Casino dance in the evenin'. Mother used to laugh over it all with Mr. Robert, who remarked that those kids were absurd. Nobody seemed to take it serious; for Robbie was only a few months over nineteen.

But young Mr. Talbot had it bad. Besides, he'd always got about what he wanted before, and this time he was in dead earnest. So the first thing Mother and Father knew they were bein' interviewed. Robbie had half said she might if there was no kick from her dear parents, and he wanted to know how about it. Mr. Cheyne Ballard supplied the information prompt. He called Nick an impudent young puppy, at which Mother wept and took the young gent's part. Robbie blew in just then and giggled through the rest of the act, until Father quit disgusted and put it square up to her. Then she pouted and locked herself in her room. That's when Mr. Robert was sent for; but she wouldn't give him any decision, either.

So for a week there things was in a mess, with Robbie balkin', Mother havin' a case of nerves, Father nursin' a grouch, and Nick Talbot mopin' around doleful. Then some girl friend suggested to Robbie that if she did take Nick they could have a moonlight lawn weddin', with the flower gardens all lit up by electric bulbs, which would be too dear for anything. Robbie perked up and asked for details. Inside of an hour she was plannin' what she would wear. Late in the afternoon Nick heard the glad news himself, through a third party.

First off the date was set for early next spring, when she'd be twenty. That was Father's dope; although Mother was willin' it should be pulled off around Christmas time. Nick, he stuck out for the first of October; but Robbie says:

"Oh, pshaw! There won't be any flowers then, and we'll be back in town. Why not week after next?"

So that's the compromise fin'lly agreed on. The moonlight stunt had to be scratched; but the outdoor part was stuck to--and believe me it was some classy hitchin' bee!

They'd been gone about two weeks, I guess, with everybody contented except maybe the three losers, and all hands countin' the incident closed; when one forenoon Mother shows up at the general offices, has a long talk with Mr. Robert, and goes away moppin' her eyes. Then there's a call for Mr. Cheyne Ballard's downtown number, and Mr. Robert has a confab with him over the 'phone. Next comes three lively rings for me on the buzzer, and I chases into the private office. Mr. Robert is sittin' scowlin', makin' savage' jabs with a paper knife at the blotter pad.

"Torchy," says he, "I find myself in a deucedly awkward fix."

"Another lobbyist been squealin'?" says I.

"No, no!" says he. "This is a personal affair, and--well, it's embarrassing, to say the least."

"Another lobbyist been squealin'?" says I.

"It's about Roberta," says he.

"What--again?" says I. "But I thought they was travelin' abroad?"

"I wish they were," says he; "but they're not. At the last moment, it seems, Robbie decided she didn't care for a foreign trip,--too late in the season, and she didn't want to be going over just when everyone was coming back, you know. So they went up to Thundercaps instead."

"Sounds stormy," says I.

"You're quite right," says he. "But it's a little gem of a place that young Talbot's father built up in the Adirondacks. I was there once. It's right on top of a mountain. And that's where they are now, miles from anywhere or anybody."

"And spoony as two mush ladles, I expect," says I.

"Humph!" says he, tossin' the brass paper knife reckless onto the polished mahogany desk top. "They ought to be, I will admit; but--oh, hang it all, if you're to be of any use in this beastly affair, I suppose you must be told the humiliating, ugly truth! They are not spooning. Robbie is very unhappy. She--she's being abused."

"Well, what do you know!" says I. "You don't mean he's begun draggin' her around by the hair, or----"

"Don't!" says Mr. Robert, bunchin' his fists nervous. "I can't tell. Robbie hasn't gone into that. But she has written her mother that she is utterly wretched, and that this precious Nick Talbot of hers is unbearable. The young whelp! If I could only get my hands on him for five minutes! But, blast it all! that's just what I mustn't do until--until I'm sure. I can't trust myself to go. That is why I must send you, young man."

"Eh?" says I, starin'. "Me? Ah, say, Mr. Robert, I wouldn't stand any show at all mixin' it with a young husk like him. Why, after the first poke I'd be----"

"You misunderstand," says he. "That poke part I can attend to very well myself. But I want to know the worst before I start in, and if I should go up there now, feeling as I do, I--well, I might not be a very patient investigator. You see, don't you?"

"Might blow a gasket, eh?" says I. "And you want me to go up and scout around. But what if I'm caught at it--am I peddlin' soap, or what?"

"A plausible errand is just what I've been trying to invent," says he. "Can you suggest anything?"

"Why," says I, "I might go disguised as a lone bandit who'd robbed a train and was----"

"Too theatrical," objects Mr. Robert.

"Or a guy come to test the gas meter," I goes on.

"Nonsense!" says he. "No gas meters up there. Forget the disguise. They both know you, remember."

"Oh, well," says I, "if I can't wear a wig, then I expect I'll have to go as special messenger sent up with some nutty present or other,--a five-pound box of candy, or flowers, or----"

"That's it--orchids!" breaks in Mr. Robert. "Robbie expects a bunch from me about every so often. The very thing!"

So less'n an hour later I'm on my way, with fifty dollars' worth of freak posies in a box, and instructions to stick around Thundercaps as long as I can, with my eyes wide open and my ears stretched. Mr. Robert figures I'll land there too late for the night train back, anyway, and after that I'm to use my bean. If I finds the case desp'rate, I'm to beat it for the nearest telegraph office and wire in.

"Poor little girl!" is Mr. Robert's closin' remark. "Poor little Robbie!"

Cheerful sort of an errand, wa'n't it, bein' sent to butt in on a Keno curtain raiser? Easy enough workin' up sympathy for the abused bride. Why, she wa'n't much more'n a kid, and one who'd been coddled and petted all her life, at that! And here she ups and marries offhand this two-fisted young hick who turns out to be bad inside. You wouldn't have guessed it, either; for, barrin' a kind of heavy jaw and deep-set eyes, he had all the points of a perfectly nice young gent. Good fam'ly too. Mr. Robert knew two of his brothers well, and durin' the coo campaign he'd rooted for Nick. Then he had to show a streak like this!

"But wait!" thinks I. "If I can get anything on him, he sure will have it handed to him hot when Mr. Robert arrives. I want to see it done too."

You don't get to places like Thundercaps in a minute, though. It's the middle of the afternoon before I jumps the way train at a little mountain station, and then I has to hunt up a jay with a buckboard and take a ten-mile drive over a course like a roller coaster. They ought to smooth that Adirondack scenery down some. Crude stuff, I call it.

But, say, the minute we got inside Thundercaps' gates it's diff'rent--smooth green lawns, lots of flowerbeds, a goldfish pool,--almost like a chunk of Central Park. In the middle is a white-sided, red-tiled shack, with pink and white awnings, and odd windows, and wide, cozy verandas,--just the spot where you'd think a perfectly good honeymoon might be pulled off.

I'm just unloadin' my bag and the flowerbox when around a corner of the cottage trips a cerise-tinted vision in an all lace dress and a butterfly wrap. Course, it's Robbie. She's heard the sound of wheels, and has come a runnin'.

"Oh!" says she, stoppin' sudden and puckerin' her baby mouth into a pout. "I thought someone was arriving, you know." Which was a sad jolt to give a rescuer, wa'n't it?

"Sorry," says I; "but I'm all there is."

"You're the boy from Uncle Robert's office--Torchy, isn't it?" says she.

"It is," says I. "Fired up with flowers and Mr. Robert's compliments."

"The old dear!" says she, grabbin' the box, slippin' off the string and divin' into the tissue paper. "Orchids, too! Oh, goody! But they don't go with my coat. Pooh! I don't need it, anyway." With that she, sheds the butterfly arrangement, chuckin' it casual on the steps, and jams the whole of that fifty dollars' worth under her sash. "There, how does that look, Mr. Torchy?" says she, takin' a few fancy steps back and forth.

"All right, I guess," says I.

"Stupid!" says she, stampin' her double A-1 pump peevish. "Is that the prettiest you can say it? Come, now--aren't they nice on me?"

"Nice don't cover it," says I. "I was only wonderin' whether orchids was invented for you, or you for orchids."

This brings out a frilly little laugh, like jinglin' a string of silver bells, and she shows both dimples. "That's better," says she. "Almost as good as some of the things Bud Chandler can say. Dear old Bud! He's such fun!"

"He was the gray-eyed one, wa'n't he?" says I.

"Why, yes," says she. "He was a dear. So was Oggie Holcomb. I wish Nick would ask them both up."

"Eh?" says I. "The also rans? Here?"

"Pooh!" says she. "Why not? It's frightfully dull, being all alone. But Nick won't do it, the old bear!"

Which reminds me that I ought to be scoutin' for black eyes, or wrist bruises, or finger marks on her neck. Nothin' of the kind shows up, though.

"Been kind of rough about it, has he?" says I.

"He's been perfectly awful!" says she. "Sulking around as though I'd done something terrible! But I'll pay him up. Come, you're not going back tonight, are you?"

"Can't," says I. "No train."

"Then you must play with me," says she, grabbin' my hand kittenish and startin' to run me across the yard.

"But, see here," says I, followin' her on the jump. "Where's Hubby?"

"Oh, I don't know," says she. "Off tramping through the woods with his dog, I suppose. He's sulking, as usual. And all because I insisted on writing to Oggie! Then there was something about the servants. I don't know, only things went wrong at breakfast, and some of them have threatened to leave. Who cares? Yesterday it was about the tennis court. What if he did telegraph to have it laid out? I couldn't play when I found I hadn't brought any tennis shoes, could I? Besides, there's no fun playing against Nick, he's such a shark. He didn't like it, either, because I wouldn't use the baby golf course. But I will with you. Come on."

"I never did much putting," says I.

"Nor I," says she; "but we can try."

Three or four holes was enough for her, though, and then she has a new idea. "You rag, don't you?" says she.

"Only a few tango steps," says I. "My feet stutter."

"Then I'll show you how," says she. "We have some dandy records, and the veranda's just right."

So what does she do but tow me back to the house, ring up a couple of maids to clear away all the rugs and chairs, and push the music machine up to the open window.

"Put on that 'Too Much Mustard,' Annette," says she, "and keep it going."

Must have surprised Annette some, as I hadn't been accounted for; but a little thing like that don't bother Robbie. She gives me the proper grip for the onestep,--which is some close clinch, believe me!--cuddles her fluffy head down on my necktie, and off we goes.

"No, don't try to trot," says she. "Just balance and keep time, and swing two or three times at the turn. Keep your feet apart, you know. Now back me. Swing! There, you're getting it. Keep on!"

Some spieler, Robbie; and whether or not that was just a josh about orchids bein' invented for her, there's no doubt but what ragtime was. Yes, yes, that's where she lives. And me? Well, I can't say I hated it. With her coachin' me, and that snappy music goin', I caught the idea quick enough, and first I knew we was workin' in new variations that she'd suggest, doin' the slow toe pivot, the kitchen sink, and a lot more.

We stopped long enough to have tea and cakes served, and then Robbie insists on tryin' some new stunts. There's a sidewise dip, where you twist your partner around like you was tryin' to break her back over a chair, and we was right in the midst of practisin' that when who should show up but the happy bridegroom. And someway I've seen 'em look more pleased.

"Oh, that you, old Grumpy?" says young Mrs. Talbot, stoppin' for a minute. "You remember Torchy, from Uncle Robert's office, don't you? He came up with some orchids. We're having such fun too."

"Looks so," says Nick. "Can't I cut in?"

"Oh, bother!" says Robbie. "No, I'm tired now."

"Just one dance!" pleads Nick.

"Oh, afterward, perhaps," says she. "There! Just look at those silly orchids! Aren't they sights?" With that she snakes 'em out and tosses the wilted bunch careless over the veranda rail. "And now," she adds, "I must dress for dinner."

"You've nearly two hours, Pet," protests Nick. "Come to the outlook with me and watch the sunset."

"It's too lonesome," says Robbie, and off she goes.

It should have happened then, if ever. I was standin' by, waitin' for him to cut loose with the cruel words, and maybe introduce a little hair-draggin' scene. But Nick Talbot just stands there gazin' after her kind of sad and mushy, not even grindin' his teeth. Next he sighs, drops his chin, and slumps into a chair. Honest, that got me; for it was real woe showin' on his face, and he seems to be strugglin' with it man fashion. Somehow it seemed up to me to come across with a few soothin' remarks.

"Sorry I butted in," says I; "but Mr. Robert sent me up with the flowers."

"Oh, that's all right," says he. "Glad you came. I--I suppose she needed someone else to--to talk to."

"But you wouldn't stand for invite the leftovers on your honeymoon, eh?" I suggests.

"No, hang it all!" says he. "That was too much. She--she mentioned it, did she?"

"Just casual," says I. "I take it things ain't been goin' smooth gen'rally?"

He nods gloomy. "You were bound to notice it," says he. "Anyone would. I haven't been able to humor all her whims. Of course, she's been used to having so much going on around her that this must seem rather tame; but I thought, you know, that when we were married--well, she doesn't seem to realize. And I've offered to take her anywhere,--to Newport, to Lenox, to the White Mountains, or touring. Three times this week we've packed to go to different places, and then she's changed her mind. But I can't take her back to Long Island, to her mother's, so soon, or ask a lot of her friends up here. It would be absurd. But things can't go on this way, either. It--it's awful!"

I leaves him with his chin propped up in his hands, starin' gloomy at the floor, while I wanders out and pipes off the sun dodgin' behind the hills.

Later on Robbie insists on draggin' me in for dinner with 'em. She's some dream too, the way she's got herself up, and lighted up by the pink candleshades, with them big pansy eyes sparkling and the color comin' and goin' in her cheeks--say, it most made me dizzy to look. Then to hear her rattle on in her cute, kittenish way was better'n a cabaret show. Mostly, though, it's aimed at me; while Nick Talbot is left to play a thinkin' part. He sits watchin' her with sort of a dumb, hungry look, like a big dog.

And it was a punk dinner in other ways. The soup was scorched somethin' fierce; but Robbie don't seem to notice it. The roast lamb hadn't had the red cooked out of it; but Robbie only asks what kind of meat it is and remarks that it tastes queer. She has a reg'lar fit, though, because the dessert is peach ice-cream with fresh fruit flavorin'.

"And Cook ought to know that I like strawberry better," says she.

"But it's too late for strawberries," explains Nick.

"I don't care!" pouts Robbie. "I don't like this, and I'm going to send it all back to the kitchen." She does it too, and the maid grins impudent as she lugs it out.

That was a sample of the way Robbie behaved for the rest of the evenin',--chatterin' and laughin' one minute, almost weepin' the next; until fin'lly she slams down the piano cover and flounces off to her room. Nick Talbot sits bitin' his lips and lookin' desp'rate.

"I'm sure I don't know what to do," says he half to himself.

At that I can't hold it any longer. "Say, Talbot," says I, "before we get any further I got to own up that I'm a ringer."

"A--a what!" says he, starin' puzzled.

"I'm supposed to be here just as a special messenger," says I; "but, on the level, I was sent up here to sleuth for brutal acts. Uh-huh! That's what the folks at home think, from the letters she's been writin'. Mr. Robert was dead sure of it. But I see now they had the wrong dope. I guess I've got the idea. What you're up against is simply a spoiled kid proposition, and if you don't mind my mixin' in I'd like to state what I think I'd do if it was me."

"Well, what?" says he.

"I'd whittle a handle on a good thick shingle," says I, "and use it."

He stiffens a little at that first off, and then looks at me curious. Next he chuckles. "By Jove, though!" says he after awhile.

Yes, we had a long talk, chummy and confidential, and before we turns in Nick has plotted out a substitute for the shingle programme that he promises to try on first thing next morning I didn't expect to be in on it; but we happens to be sittin' on the veranda waitin' for breakfast, when out comes Robbie in a pink mornin' gown with a cute boudoir cap on her head.

"Why haven't they sent up my coffee and rolls?" she demands.

"Did you order them, Robbie?" says Nick.

"Why no," says she. "Didn't you?"

"No," says Nick. "I'm not going to, either. You're mistress of the house, you know, Robbie, and from now on you are in full charge."

"But--but I thought Mrs. Parkins, the housekeeper, was to manage all those things," says she.

"You said yesterday you couldn't bear Mrs. Parkins," says Nick; "so I'm sending her back to town. She's packing her things now. There are four servants left, though, which is enough. But they need straightening out. They are squabbling over their work, and neglecting it. You will have to settle all that."

"But--but, Nick," protests Robbie, "I'm sure I know nothing at all about it."

"As my wife you are supposed to," says Nick. "You must learn. Anyway, I've told them they needn't do another stroke until they get orders from you. And I wish you'd begin. I'd rather like breakfast."

He's real calm and pleasant about it; but there's somethin' solid about the way his jaw is set. Robbie eyes him a minute hesitatin' and doubtful, like a schoolgirl that's bein' scolded. Then all of a sudden there's a change. The pout comes off her lips, her chin stops trembling and she squares her shoulders.

"I'm--I'm sorry, Nicholas," says she. "I--I'll do my best." And off she marches to the kitchen.

And, say, half an hour later we were all sittin' down to as good a ham omelet as I ever tasted. When I left with Nick to catch the forenoon express, young Mrs. Talbot was chewin' the end of a lead pencil, with them pansy eyes of hers glued on a pad where she was dopin' out her first dinner order. She would break away from it only long enough to give Hubby a little bird peck on the cheek; but he seems tickled to death with that.

So it wa'n't any long report I has to hand in to Mr. Robert that night.

"All bunk!" says I. "Just a case of a honeymoon that rose a little late. It's shinin' steady now, though. But, say, I hope I'm never batty enough to fall for one of the butterfly kind. If I do--good night!"