CHAPTER XIII

It was always an occasion of significance when Mr. and Mrs. Basil Sequin

found time in their busy lives to discuss a family matter. There was

no particular lack of interest on either side, it was simply that their

hours did not happen to fit. When he was not at his club, she was at

hers; when she was dining at home, he was detained at a directors'

meeting; when he went North to a Bankers' Convention, she went South to

attend a bridge tournament. So it was small wonder the butler, removing

the breakfast things, should have looked puzzled when Mr. and Mrs.

Sequin remained at table in earnest conversation.

Mr. Sequin was a thin, stooped man, prematurely old at fifty. The

harassed, driven expression that was so habitual to his face had plowed

furrows that no lighter mood could now erase. His present mood, however,

was not a light one. He sat with his hand shading his eyes, and scowled

gloomily at the tablecloth.

“I told you a month ago,” he was saying, “that you'd have to cut some of

the expenses on the new house. We've already gone twenty thousand over

the original estimate. There isn't a month now that our accounts are

not overdrawn. Nothing has been said directly, but it is known on the

street. Nothing will be said, as long as it is understood that I am to

have the management of the Dillingham estate at the general's death,

but if this estrangement should continue between Margery and Lee

Dillingham--”

“Now, Basil!” Mrs. Sequin cried dramatically, “don't for mercy's sake

take a nervous-prostration patient seriously. Margery is nothing but a

bunch of notions, and Cropsie Decker has gotten her all stirred up about

the injustice that has been done to Don. I won't even let her talk to

me about it, it's all so silly. What possible difference can it make who

did the shooting? The boys are well out of the scrape and it's almost

forgotten by this time. Young people who are engaged have to have

something to quarrel over; this won't amount to a row of pins. I am

going right on making preparations for an early spring wedding. By the

way, you know the bow window in the drawing-room? Well, I am having it

made four feet wider so they can be married there facing the loggia,

like this!”

Mrs. Sequin's two plump fingers did duty for the bride and groom, but

Mr. Sequin was not interested.

“I should not be surprised if Decker cabled Donald to come home. He's

in a great state of indignation over the fact that the blame was put on

Don. You see, it is all a fresh issue with them.”

“I'd be perfectly furious with Don,” declared Mrs. Sequin, “if he came

back and got into a quarrel with Lee. Margery will be sure to take his

part; she's always so silly about Don. If she were well enough I'd

be tempted to rush the wedding through before Christmas. But then, we

couldn't have it in the new house, and I have practically built that

first floor for the wedding. Everything depends on our having it there.”

“Everything depends on our having it somewhere!” said Mr. Sequin grimly.

“Mrs. Queerington's cook, madam, wishes to speak to you,” announced the

butler at the pantry door.

“Tell her to wait,” said Mrs. Sequin without turning her head. “What did

you decide about the decorator's estimates, Basil?”

“Decide? What time have I to be considering decorations? Why can't you

attend to it?”

“Why, indeed? I only have to attend to the alterations on the bow

window, look at the new sketches for the garage, have a shampoo and

massage, lunch at the Weldems', take Fanchonette to the veterinary, be

fitted at three, and go to the Bartrums' at five. By all means, I'll

attend to it. I'll give the order to Lefferan; he handles the most

exclusive designs.”

“That's what we want,” said Mr. Sequin, rising; “the most exclusive and

the most expensive. Our credit is good for a few months yet. Have the

small car at the bank at 6:30. I will not be home for dinner.”

Mrs. Sequin sighed as he slammed the front door. There was no use

denying the fact that men were trying, even the best of them. Hadn't

Cousin John Queerington, that paragon of perfection, toppled on his

pedestal at the smile of an unsophisticated little country girl? And

there was Basil, recognized as a veritable wizard of finance, waiting

until the new house was almost completed, then getting panicky about the

cost. And now Donald, whom she thought safely anchored on the other side

of the world, threatening to come home at the most inopportune time and

create no end of trouble!

“Excuse me, madam,” said the butler, “but she says she ain't going to

wait another minute.”

“Jenkins!” Mrs. Sequin raised her brows disapprovingly. “Send that

odious woman up to Miss Margery's room; I will see her there.”

The room above the dining-room was one of those pink-and-white jumbles

that convention prescribes for debutantes. Garlands of pink roses

festooned the paper, tied at intervals by enormous pink bows. Pink bows

and ruffles smothered the dresser and sewing table, and pink and white

cushions filled the window seat. Cotillion favors, old dance cards,

theater programs, were pinned to the heavy pink and white curtains that

shut out the sunlight. Among the lace pillows of the brass bed lay a

languid, pale-faced girl, who stared up at the rose-entwined ceiling, as

a prisoner might stare at her bars.

“Close the door, Myrtella,” Mrs. Sequin said as they entered. “I am

mortally afraid of drafts. Good morning, Margery. Where is your blue

hat? I told Miss Lady to send up for it, because I am going to take her

to the Bartrums' this afternoon and I simply could not have her appear

in that ridiculous little hat she wears all the time.”

The girl in the bed turned a fretful face toward her mother:

“Why, Miss Lady promised to spend the afternoon with me. I've been

looking forward to it for days.”

“Yes, I know, dear, but I told her you weren't quite so well, and that

she could come to-morrow. You see, she really can't afford to miss the

Bartrums' tea; it's the first entertainment this fall and everybody will

be there. I know you think Mrs. Bartrum a little gay, but you can't deny

she runs that younger set.”

Margery Sequin clasped her thin white hands tensely, and resumed her

study of the vine-covered ceiling.

“Here's the hat,” said Mrs. Sequin, handing a large hat box to Myrtella,

then noting her offended expression she added by way of propitiation: “I

don't know how they would get along without you at the Doctor's. I hear

that the new mistress doesn't know a saucepan from a skillet.”

“She ain't no fool,” returned Myrtella instantly on the defensive.

“Of course not, just young and careless. I dare say she doesn't even

order the groceries, does she?”

“No, mam.”

“Nor plan for the meals?”

“No, mam.”

“And you attend to everything just as if she weren't there? It's really

too funny, isn't it, Margery? Tell Mrs. Queerington that I'll send the

motor for her at five; and do see that she is properly hooked up.”

Myrtella succeeded in getting herself and the box silently out of the

room, but the butler passing her on the back stairs was startled by a

verbal shower that was not in the least intended for him. It was as if

a watering cart had suddenly and unexpectedly turned on its supply

regardless of its surroundings.

At five o'clock Miss Lady, very radiant and apparently in high spirits,

presented herself at the Sequins'.

“May I come in just for a minute?” she asked at Margery's door. “I've

brought you some chrysanthemums. Uncle Jimpson brought them in from

Thornwood this morning. It's too bad you aren't so well.”

Margery turned admiring eyes on the bright face above her.

“I'm no worse,” she said, “just disappointed. I thought I was going to

have you all to myself this afternoon.”

“But I didn't know you could have me! I'll run in and tell your mother.”

Mrs. Sequin, who was being insinuated into a very tight gown by the

sheer physical prowess of her maid, exclaimed with satisfaction as Miss

Lady entered:

“There, I knew it! The hat makes the costume. You are perfect! Now,

remember the people I want you to be especially nice to, Mrs. Gibbs,

Mrs. Marchmont--”

“The silly old woman that paints her face and wears the pearls like

moth balls? She drove around yesterday to tell me the name of her

hairdresser. It's always the people that haven't any hair that want to

have it dressed.”

“Miss Lady! She is Mrs. Leslie Marchmont, the most sought after woman in

town!”

“I don't care, her horses look as if they had been fed on corn stalks.”

“But you mustn't say such things! You must cultivate discretion. If you

want me to introduce you to the right people--”

“But they may not be the right people for me! Some of them are lovely,

but I can't stand the affected ones, nor the ones that patronize me.”

“But they won't patronize you if you are a little more reserved. There's

no earthly reason for your telling them that you keep only one servant,

and saying that you come from Billy-goat Hill. It's a horrid name given

our beautiful hillside, by horrid people. You see, you really must

cultivate more caution. You are,--what shall I say? too frank, too

natural.”

Miss Lady laughed. “I haven't the least idea how to go about being

unnatural, but, thank heaven, I don't have to learn to-day! Margery is

feeling better and is going to let me stay with her.”

“That's absurd! You are all ready to go, and I want Mrs. Bartrum to see

you for the first time just as you look now. Where are your gloves?”

“I forgot them, but it doesn't matter, I'm not going.”

“I'll send Jenkins for them at once.”

Miss Lady's cheek flushed and she looked at Mrs. Sequin in perplexity,

then her brow cleared.

“You are afraid I'll stay too long and wear Margery out? I promise to go

the minute she looks tired. You can trust her with me, can't you?”

“But she has her nurse, there's no earthly reason--”

“Except that she wants me to stay. You'll feel happier, too, knowing

that she isn't lonely.”

“But don't you want to go to the tea?”

“Oh, I did a little. But I think that was because you and Connie and

Margery said I looked nice. I'm awfully squeezed and uncomfortable; I

wonder if Margery can't lend me a dressing sacque?”

Thus it was that Mrs. Sequin went off to the Bartrums' in a very bad

humor, leaving the two girls chattering together in the pink boudoir,

with the nurse banished to the lower regions.

“Don't you want some fresh air?” asked Miss Lady, when she had stood the

heat as long as she could.

“You may open the door,” said Margery, “we never leave the window up on

account of drafts.”

“But I can wrap you up, and put the screen up. There! You can't take

cold with all that on. It's the kind of day that makes me want to be on

a horse, galloping through the woods with the wind in my face.”

Margery watched Miss Lady's quick motion as she opened all the windows

behind the ruffled curtains, and let in a current of fresh invigorating

air.

“How young you are!” she said. “Years and years younger than I feel. I

can't realize you are married and have three step-children.”

“Neither can I,” said Miss Lady. “I'm always forgetting it. Wouldn't you

like to sit up for a while?”

“Oh! I can't. I have to lie perfectly quiet.”

“Who said so?”

“Everybody does who has nervous prostration. The doctors say that my

nerves are nothing but quivering wires. I suppose I went too hard last

winter, but of course I couldn't drop out in the middle of my first

season.”

“I don't believe it would hurt you a bit to sit up. If I fix that big

rocker will you try it?”

“But I haven't sat up for six weeks. When I try it in bed I have such

tingly sensations.”

“That's because your legs are straight out. Let's try it in the chair,

with them hanging down.”

“I'll try it, but I know I can't stand it. There! Thank you so much! You

wouldn't think that a year ago I was as strong as you are! Why, between

October and March I went to over a hundred and fifty entertainments,

besides the theaters and opera.”

“Good heavens!” cried Miss Lady aghast.

“Of course, about New Year's, I began to wobble, but mother had me

take massage and electricity and kept me going until Lent. After that

I collapsed until summer. Then we went to White Sulphur, where the

Dillinghams have a cottage, I had to lie down every afternoon, but I was

always able to be up for the dances.”

The nurse coming in with a long flower box, paused in surprise at the

sight of her patient sitting up, then discreetly tiptoed out again.

“Somebody has sent you some flowers!” cried Miss Lady excitedly. “How

nice! Shall I open the box?”

“Just as you like. They are probably from Lee. He sends them now instead

of coming.”

“But there may be a note,” said Miss Lady, searching in the tissue

paper.

Margery shook her head wearily; the little animation that had flushed

her face, died out leaving it wan and listless.

“I suppose you think this is a queer way for an engaged girl to talk,”

she said presently, with a nervous catch in her voice. “The truth is Lee

and I have quarreled over my uncle, Donald Morley. I will never forgive

him for the way he has treated Don; never!”

“You will if you love him,” said Miss Lady.

“But I'm not sure that I do!” burst out Margery. “I oughtn't to say

it! I shan't say it again, but I shall die if I don't talk to somebody.

Mother won't listen to a word. She says it's nerves. But the truth is,

Miss Lady, I've never been sure; that's what's making me ill!”

“Have you told him?”

“Yes, and he laughs at me. He may be right, they all may be right. When

I get well I may laugh at myself. But just now it seems so terrible for

the preparations to be going on while I'm lying here, night after night,

fighting down the doubts, trying to persuade myself, trying to be sure.

How can you tell when you are in love? How do you know?”

Miss Lady's hand that had been softly stroking the girl's thin white

fingers, paused; her eyes sought the open window, and she drew a short

breath.

“Know?” she repeated as if to herself. “How do you know when you are

cold, when you are hungry, when you're tired, when you're lonesome? How

do you know that you want air when you are smothering? Everything about

you tells you, your heart, your mind, your body, your soul. You can't

help knowing!”

“But suppose I don't feel like that! And suppose I should, some day,

for some one else! Oh! Miss Lady tell me what to do! Everybody else is

rushing me on, telling me not to worry, not to be afraid. But you

are not like the others, you consider something more than the outside

advantages to be gained. Tell me, what would you do in my place?”

“I'd wait for the real one to come,” cried Miss Lady, turning upon her

almost fiercely, “I'd wait, if it was forever! They have no right to

persuade you. You either love or you don't love and no power on earth

can make it different. You can laugh at sentiment and pretend you don't

believe in it, you can tell yourself a thousand times that you are doing

the sensible thing. You can blind yourself utterly to the truth for a

time. But some day you've got to realize that the only real thing in

life is love, and that you are powerless to make it live or die.”

After that they sat a long time in silence, until Miss Lady rose

abruptly and, making some excuse, took a hurried departure. She was

frightened at what she had said, at what she had thought. She was

terrified at this strange, new self, that spoke out of a strange, new

experience, and set at naught all her carefully acquired opinions. It

was not until she reached home after a brisk walk through the crisp air,

that the turmoil in her brain subsided.

On the hall table, beside a well-worn copy of Shelley, lay the Doctor's

gloves and soft gray hat. She seized the gloves impulsively and laid

them against her cheek.

“Dear, dear Doctor!” she whispered almost fiercely. “So good, and kind,

and--and wonderful!”

Suddenly she was aware of some one watching her covertly through the

crack of the dining-room door.

“Myrtella!” she cried. “Is that you?”

“Yes'm, if you please,” came in strange, meek accents. “I'd like to

speak with you.”

It was so entirely out of the course of human events for Myrtella to

assume humility, that Miss Lady looked at her in amazement.

“I can't say,” began Myrtella, still half behind the door, “that I

like the way things is run in this house. I'm thinkin' some of givin'

notice.”

“Why, Myrtella!” cried Miss Lady in dismay. “I'm afraid the work is too

heavy. We might get--”

“Needn't mind finishing, Mis' Squeerington, you was goin' to say a house

girl. If you think I'd share my room with any Dutch or Irish biddy, I

must say you're mighty mistaken! Besides, ain't I givin' satisfaction?

Ain't I doin' the work to suit you?”

“Of course you are, but I thought you--”

“Was gettin' old, I suppose, and couldn't do as much work as I used to.

I look feeble, don't I?”

Miss Lady glanced at the massive figure with brawny arms akimbo, and

smiled.

“Well, what's the trouble then?” she asked kindly. “Why do you want to

leave?”

Myrtella's eyes shifted as she rubbed some imaginary dust from the door:

“I ain't used to working fer a lady that don't take no holt. It don't

seem natural, and it leaves folks room to talk.”

“But I thought you wanted to have full charge and run things just as you

have done in the past.”

“Well, it don't look right fer you not to be givin' me no orders, nor

rowin' the grocery man, nor lightin' into nobody. If folks didn't know

better they'd think you wasn't used to bein' a lady!”

Miss Lady bit her lip to keep from laughing. “I'll be only too glad to

keep house, only I don't know much about it. Aunt Caroline and Uncle

Jimpson did everything out home, and you've done everything here.”

“Well, I ain't goin' to no longer,” said Myrtella firmly. “If you want

to light in and learn, I'll learn you. But I ain't going to stay except

on one condition, you got to take a holt of everything! You got to lock

things up and give me out what I need. You got to order all the meals

and tell me what you want done every mornin'. I ain't goin' to have

people throwin' it in my face that I work for a lady that don't know a

skillet from a saucepan!”

“You're right, Myrtella,” said Miss Lady, her face grown suddenly grave.

“I don't wonder you are ashamed of me. Perhaps some good hard work will

brush the cobwebs out of my brain. When shall I take charge of things,

to-morrow?”

“As you say,” said Myrtella meekly; then with a sudden flare, “though it

does look like I might be trusted one more day to finish up the general

cleaning and git after the ashman for not emptyin' them barrels.”

“Friday, then?”

“Friday,” said Myrtella as one who signed her own death warrant, and the

young mistress gazing absently out of the window little guessed that a

powerful usurper was voluntarily abdicating a throne in order that the

rightful owner might come into her own.