The Unsuspected (5 page)

would want to know all about it, especially when it was the same name. He wouldn't just sit, looking indifferently away, out of the window.

The cab pulled up. A doorman helped them out, a bellhop came for her suitcase. She knew the place. Francis guided her into the lobby, into the elevator. Mathilda stood stiff and cold. The funny thing was that just as they walked into the elevator, as he gave the

floor number to the boy, she caught a flash of his eye on her, and it was a look of both impatience and anger. Mathilda bit hard on her teeth. He had no business being angry with her, for the love of Mike! She marched down the corridor after the bellboy, holding

her head haughtily.

They were admitted to a suite. Mathilda stood in the middle of the floor. She indicated the telephone. Francis was muttering to the bellboy about trains, bags. Without a word to her, he crossed to the telephone and asked for Grandy s number. He sat hunched over the phone, his right arm dangling. The call went through without much delay.

"Hello. . . . Jane?"

Mathilda thought, Now, who is Jane? It seemed to her that he'd mentioned a Jane before.

"Francis," said Francis. . . . "Yes, she's here." He looked around at Mathilda coldly, as if to say, "What, are you listening to a private conversation?" He said, as if he were speaking in code, "Is everybody well?" Then he said, with a hint of desperation, "Jane, can you get out? And I mean now?"

"Why, no," said Jane cheerfully from Connecticut, "of course not. He's right here, Mr. Howard. Here he is!"

Grandy's voice took her place. "My dear boy, is she really with you?"

"She's here," he said again, this time with a very odd inflection. He held out the phone to Mathilda. She took it, surprised, touched, excited, and suddenly ready to weep again.

"Oh, Grandy, darling!"

"Mathilda, little duck, are you all right? You're back? You're safe?"

"I'm fine," she quavered. "Oh, Grandy, I want to see you."

"Don't cry," said Grandy. "Don't cry. God bless us every one. What a darling you are to telephone. Are you happy?"

"Oh, Grandy!"

"Tell Francis to bring you home."

"I will, I will. I'm coming just as fast—"

"Strawberries and cream, Tyl," said Grandy. "You hurry, sweetheart."

He hung up and she hung up, sobbing. Strawberries and cream was her special treat. How like him! How dear!

Mr. Howard was standing with his hands in his pockets, staring out the window.

"Grandy says you're to bring me home." She was willing to smile at him now.

He turned around. She thought, with a shock,
Somethings hurt him. He's going to cry.
 

He said in a low, vibrant voice that startled her with its passionate appeal, "Tyl, don't you remember?"

Chapter Five

"Remember what?"

He started to pull his hands out of his pockets and then thrust them deeper instead. "Never mind. Foolish question. Obviously, you don't. You can't or you—" He came one step nearer. "Tyl, what happened to you? Were you hurt, darling? You must have been . . .

ill for part of the time. That's so, isn't it?" Everything in his manner begged her to say yes.

"No," said Mathilda. "That isn't so."

"But it must be so, and you've forgotten that too."

"I haven't forgotten anything!" she cried. "I wish you'd tell me! Who are you and what am I supposed to—"

"I'm your husband," he said sharply, almost angrily.

She backed away a little. In her mind was a vague idea of mistaken identity. "Are you sure you know who I am?" she asked gently. "My name is Mathilda Frazier. I have no husband. I'm not married."

He moved away from her, and with his hands still in his pockets, almost as if he didn't dare to take them out, he sat down on a straight chair, keeping his feet close together. He looked like a man controlling himself at some cost.

"Sorry," he said. "Let's try to straighten this out, shall we?"

He smiled. Mathilda moved to another chair and sat down it Her knees felt a little shaky. It was just as well to sit down.

"Yes, please " she agreed.

They sat looking at each other.

"Do you remember" said Francis finally, in a quiet conversational tone, "when you left Grandy's house, that Sunday afternoon last January, to come to New York?"

Mathilda nodded. She thought,
But he knows Grandy. It can't be that he's mistaken me for someone else.
 

"You came to this hotel," he was saying. "Do you remember that?"

"Yes " said Mathilda. "Yes, of course I did. Not this room."

"You were in Seven-o-five," he stated. The number seemed right to her. She could not have recollected it, but she recognized it. "You had some supper sent up," he went on. She nodded. "But a little later, about nine o'clock, you went down to the lobby."

"No " said Mathilda bluntly. Not at all. It was not so. She had crawled into bed to read. She hadn't been able to read or sleep either. She remembered getting up to look for aspirin, waiting for drowsiness that would not come, the desperate tricks she had tried to play on her own mind, the getting up at last to sit by the window holding her head.

"So that's where it begins," the man was saying.

"Where what begins?"

"Your forgetting."

"But I— What is it you say I've forgotten?"

"You came downstairs about nine o'clock," he told her, "that Sunday evening. You were pretty distressed; you were feeling pretty sick about Oliver."

A thrill of dismay and excitement went through Mathilda. How did he know that?

"So you were restless and you came down to get something to read. It was a kind of excuse to get away from your room. You hated to go back. You drifted across the lobby toward the grillroom. That's when I saw you."

Mathilda said, "You couldn't have seen me. I didn't leave my room that Sunday night."

"Please," he begged. He closed his eyes. "You made me think of flying," he said in quite a different voice. "You made me think of the sky or a bird. You're like a Winged Victory in modern dress, but with better ankles. You've got such a tearing beauty, Tyl—you're windblown. It's in your bones, your long, lovely legs, the way you walk, your face, your nose. The molding of the upper part of your cheek, around the outside of your eye. I've dreamed about it. And how that dear old soul, your Luther Grandison, can be so blind as to call you his ugly duckling and never see the swan! Why, Tyl, don't you know you make Althea look like a lump of paste?"

Mathilda heard what he said; she heard the words. But her mind went spinning off into confusion. How could he say such things? How could such things be said at all? She tightened her fingers around her purse. She felt a little dizzy. She was used to people

saying kind words about her looks. It was because she was so rich. She told herself that this, too, must be deliberate flattery, because she was so rich.

He opened his eyes, he smiled. His voice sank back as if it had begun to tire. "Maybe I'd better make it plain right away. I fell in love with you, Mathilda, but you didn't fall in love with me. I knew that. I still know it. If you only had, maybe you wouldn't have for-

gotten."

Mathilda took hold of herself. She dismissed the thought that someone must have gone mad. It wasn't helpful. She must think better than that. "Why are you trying to make me believe something I know is not so?" she asked quietly. "I do know, because I remember every minute of that time. There is nothing I've forgotten. I haven't been hurt or sick. I know exactly what happened to me in this hotel while I was here, and everything that has happened since. There is no gap." She straightened her shoulders. "I thought at first you might be honestly mistaken. You'd somehow or other got me mixed up with some other girl. But now I see you aren't mistaken, Mr. Howard. You're just lying. I'd like to know why."

He shut his eyes to hide a brief gleam that baffled her. He groaned. He took his hands out of his pockets and held his head for a moment. Then his hands fell, relaxed and open, and he said, "My poor Tyl. Don't—don't be upset."

But Mathilda was thinking hard. "What about Grandy?" she cried. "Grandy knows you! Does Grandy think—"

"Yes," he said. "I've been—well, I've been staying there."

Mathilda got up. She was furious. "So that's why, is it? You've wormed your way into Grandy's house! Are you trying to cheat him, some way? What was it you said? Something about dirty work? What are you trying to do to Grandy?"

"My dear—"

"Using my name! Using me!" she stormed. "You probably thought I was dead. Didn't you?"

"Perhaps I did," he murmured. He was sitting still, watching her anger almost as if it couldn't hurt him personally, but he was curious about it, examining it, studying it.

"You'd better tell me right away what you meant in the taxicab. About Grandy."

"I was being facetious," he said in a monotone.

"Oh, nonsense! Who's Jane?"

"Jane is Grandy's secretary."

"Where's Rosaleen?"

"Why, she's . . . not there any more," he said. "If you'll try to listen, I'll tell you what I meant in the taxicab." And she caught again that faint hint of antagonism as he looked up at her.

"If you please," said Mathilda grandly in her coldest voice, and she sat down stiffly.

"I was simply making small talk," said Francis. "I was going on to tell you how Grandy hijacked those strawberries."

"I don't believe you. Why did you all of a sudden act so collapsed? You crawled into the corner—"

"What you said," he murmured wearily.

"What?"

He made an effort. "You said, I don't know you.'" Mathilda was silent. "If you will try to accept this weird business that you and I remember the same period of time, the same place, entirely differently. If you will just for one brief second imagine me sitting there,

with my wife, my lost girl, found again. Trying like the very devil not to break down and bawl. Trunking in my innocence that you understood, that we were putting off the real—greeting, shall I say?—until we could be alone. And then, without any warning whatso-

ever, you say—what you said. I don't know you. I haven't the faintest idea who you are.'"

Mathilda swallowed hard. "Have you been hurt or ill lately, Mr. Howard?"

He got up and went back to looking out the window with his back to her.

Mathilda said with malice, "My father left me a great deal of money."

He swung around. She controlled an impulse to cringe. But he was smiling. "Why, so did mine," he said pleasantly. "I'm nearly as rich as you are, sweetie pie." Astonishment crossed her face and he laughed. Then he came nearer and spoke very gently. "It was just

love," he said. "I'm sorry you don't remember."

The bell rang. It was the porter, come to get the bags. He touched his cap. "How do, Mrs. Howard."

Shock sent Mathilda out of her chair. She crowded back against the desk. She was frightened now.

"Just a minute," said Francis. "Jimmy, will you do us a favor? Just tell Mrs. Howard when you last saw her."

"Why, lemme see, back in January. Last I saw her was Wednesday morning, right after the wedding. You gave me—"

"But I'm not married!"

The man looked distressed. "Honest, I never said anything. I never— I'd like to say I'm glad you got back safe, Mrs. Howard," the man stammered.

Mathilda turned away. Behind her, she knew Francis was giving him money. She heard him say, "Forget about this, Jimmy. Mrs. Howard's been ill."

She clenched her fists. So that would be his story. And she couldn't make a scene here, in front of a hotel servant. Or anywhere. She couldn't run to strangers or cry out that he bed. Not Mathilda Frazier. Not the long-lost heiress. No, never.

She must get home. Get to Grandy, who would know what to do. Just hold on to what she knew to be so, remember that he was lying, trying for some unknown reason to—to do what? Never mind now. Keep controlled. Get to Grandy as soon as she could.

But,
she thought,
it's not the truth. That porter is lying too.
 

She said, quite calmly, when the man had gone, "He was bribed."

Francis made no answer. She said, with more anger than she wished to show, "I dare say you forged a marriage certificate. Why don't you show me that?"

"Because the bride keeps the marriage certificate," he said slowly, "and I imagine you . . . lost it"

"No papers?" she sneered.

"Some," he said. "Look here, Tyl. Don't—hate me. Don't. I'm not trying— Please, can't we try to be a little bit friendly about this?"

He really did look upset and distressed, but she said coldly, "I think we'd better go to the station."

"Very well," he said.

She started toward the door. She stopped. "What papers?" she demanded. He shook his head. "I want to know how you managed to deceive Grandy!" she cried.

His face went black with emotion, suddenly. "Look here" he said roughly, "you hurt. You don't seem to know it, but I'll be damned if I see why I have to ... be hurt. Either you listen to my entire story, let me tell you the whole thing, all that happened, all you've forgotten—which seems to me the fair thing for you to do, by the way—or well say no more about it m see you to the train. And good-by. You can divorce me, get an annulment, do whatever you like. Ignore the whole thing. I'm not likely," he stated bitterly, "to want to marry anyone else for a while."