Children of the Whirlwind [96]
concentrated upon a reexamination of Maggie and upon those questions which had been troubling her all evening and for these many days. Was there good in Maggie? Was she justified in longer suppressing the truth of Maggie's parentage?
"Why are you telling me all this?" the Duchess asked, when Maggie had finished her rapid recital.
"Why! Isn't it plain? I want you to get warning to Larry that the police are after him!"
"Why not do it yourself?"
"I'm going out where he is to-morrow, but that may be too late."
Maggie gave her other reasons, such as they were. The old woman's eyes never left Maggie's flushed face, and yet never showed any interest.
"I thought you were tied up with Barney and Old Jimmie," the Duchess commented. "Why are you going against them in this, and trying to help Larry?"
"What's the difference why I'm doing it," Maggie cried with feverish impatience, "so long as I'm trying to help him out of this!"
"Don't you realize," continued the calm old voice, "that Larry must already know, as a matter of course, that the police and all the old crowd are after him?"
"Perhaps he does, and perhaps he doesn't. All the same, he should know for certain! The big point is, will you get Larry word?"
A moment passed and the Duchess did not speak. In fact this time she had not heard Maggie, so intent was she in trying to look through Maggie's dark, eager eyes to the very core of Maggie's being.
"Will you get Larry word?" Maggie repeated impatiently.
The Duchess came out of her study. There was a sudden thrill within her, but it did not show in her voice.
"Yes."
"At once?"
"As soon as telling him will do any good. And now you better hurry back to your hotel, if you don't want Barney and Old Jimmie to suspect what you've been up to. Though why you still want to hang on to that pair, knowing what they are, is more than I can guess."
She stood up. "Wait a minute," she said as Maggie started for the door. Maggie turned back, and for another moment the Duchess silently peered deep into Maggie's eyes. Then she said shortly, almost sharply: "At your age I was twice as pretty as you are--and twice as clever-- and I played much the same game. Look what I got out of life! . . . Good-night." And abruptly the Duchess wheeled about and mounted the stairway.
Twenty minutes later Maggie was back at the Grantham, her absence unobserved. Though palpitant over Larry's fate, she had the satisfaction of having achieved with Larry's grandmother what she had set forth to achieve. She did not know, could not know, that what she had accepted as her achievement was inconsequential compared to what had actually been achieved by her spontaneous appearance before the troubled Duchess.
CHAPTER XXIX
As the Duchess had gazed into Maggie's excited, imploring eyes, it had been borne in upon her carefully judging and painfully hesitant mind that there was better than a fifty per cent chance that Larry was right in his estimate of Maggie; that Maggie's inclination toward criminal adventure, her supreme self-confidence, all her bravado, were but the superficial though strong tendencies developed by her unfortunate environment; that within that cynical, worldly shell there were the vital and plastic makings of a real woman.
And so the long-troubled Duchess, who to her acquaintances had always seemed as unemotional as the dust-coated, moth-eaten parrot which stood in mummified aloofness upon her safe, had made a momentous decision that had sent through her old veins the thrilling sap of a great crisis, a great suspense. She had tried to guide destiny. She was now through with such endeavor. She had no right, because of her love for Larry, to withhold longer the facts of Maggie's parentage. She was now going to tell the truth, and let events work out as they would.
But the events--what were they going to be?
For a moment the Duchess had been impelled to tell the truth straight out to Maggie. But she had caught herself in time. This whole affair was Larry's affair, and the truth belonged to him
"Why are you telling me all this?" the Duchess asked, when Maggie had finished her rapid recital.
"Why! Isn't it plain? I want you to get warning to Larry that the police are after him!"
"Why not do it yourself?"
"I'm going out where he is to-morrow, but that may be too late."
Maggie gave her other reasons, such as they were. The old woman's eyes never left Maggie's flushed face, and yet never showed any interest.
"I thought you were tied up with Barney and Old Jimmie," the Duchess commented. "Why are you going against them in this, and trying to help Larry?"
"What's the difference why I'm doing it," Maggie cried with feverish impatience, "so long as I'm trying to help him out of this!"
"Don't you realize," continued the calm old voice, "that Larry must already know, as a matter of course, that the police and all the old crowd are after him?"
"Perhaps he does, and perhaps he doesn't. All the same, he should know for certain! The big point is, will you get Larry word?"
A moment passed and the Duchess did not speak. In fact this time she had not heard Maggie, so intent was she in trying to look through Maggie's dark, eager eyes to the very core of Maggie's being.
"Will you get Larry word?" Maggie repeated impatiently.
The Duchess came out of her study. There was a sudden thrill within her, but it did not show in her voice.
"Yes."
"At once?"
"As soon as telling him will do any good. And now you better hurry back to your hotel, if you don't want Barney and Old Jimmie to suspect what you've been up to. Though why you still want to hang on to that pair, knowing what they are, is more than I can guess."
She stood up. "Wait a minute," she said as Maggie started for the door. Maggie turned back, and for another moment the Duchess silently peered deep into Maggie's eyes. Then she said shortly, almost sharply: "At your age I was twice as pretty as you are--and twice as clever-- and I played much the same game. Look what I got out of life! . . . Good-night." And abruptly the Duchess wheeled about and mounted the stairway.
Twenty minutes later Maggie was back at the Grantham, her absence unobserved. Though palpitant over Larry's fate, she had the satisfaction of having achieved with Larry's grandmother what she had set forth to achieve. She did not know, could not know, that what she had accepted as her achievement was inconsequential compared to what had actually been achieved by her spontaneous appearance before the troubled Duchess.
CHAPTER XXIX
As the Duchess had gazed into Maggie's excited, imploring eyes, it had been borne in upon her carefully judging and painfully hesitant mind that there was better than a fifty per cent chance that Larry was right in his estimate of Maggie; that Maggie's inclination toward criminal adventure, her supreme self-confidence, all her bravado, were but the superficial though strong tendencies developed by her unfortunate environment; that within that cynical, worldly shell there were the vital and plastic makings of a real woman.
And so the long-troubled Duchess, who to her acquaintances had always seemed as unemotional as the dust-coated, moth-eaten parrot which stood in mummified aloofness upon her safe, had made a momentous decision that had sent through her old veins the thrilling sap of a great crisis, a great suspense. She had tried to guide destiny. She was now through with such endeavor. She had no right, because of her love for Larry, to withhold longer the facts of Maggie's parentage. She was now going to tell the truth, and let events work out as they would.
But the events--what were they going to be?
For a moment the Duchess had been impelled to tell the truth straight out to Maggie. But she had caught herself in time. This whole affair was Larry's affair, and the truth belonged to him