CHAPTER IX

As Mrs. Basil Sequin swept up the broad steps at Thornwood, she

congratulated herself upon a duty about to be accomplished. She had not

foregone a bridge luncheon to make this tiresome trip to the country for

purely altruistic reasons. She had come to prove to herself, and to

her circle, the bond of friendship that existed between her and her

distinguished cousin. Experience had taught her that an occasional

reference to “my favorite cousin, John Jay Queerington, the author, you

know,” had its influence. “His is the only great intellect,” she was

fond of telling her husband, “to which I am related either by blood or

marriage.”

Doctor Queerington's reputation was one of those local assumptions that

might be described as prenatal rather than posthumous. It was what

he was going to be, that made his name an awe-inspiring word in the

community, more than what he was already. It was the conviction of his

friends and colleagues that a tardy world would too late recognize his

genius.

After waiting impatiently for some one to respond to her vigorous use

of the heavy knocker, Mrs. Sequin tucked Fanchonette under her arm and

pushed open the door. The hall had doors to right and left, but before

making further investigations she paused to examine minutely the tall

mahogany clock, and the quaint silver candlesticks that stood on an old

table at the foot of the steps.

While bending to inspect the latter, she heard a door open, and

looking up saw a pretty, slender girl in a short white petticoat and

a sleeveless black dress lining, which displayed a pair of remarkably

shapely arms.

“Oh, I didn't know you had come!” exclaimed the young person, cordially

extending a smiling welcome. “What a darling little dog! Is he a

poodle?”

“She is a French poodle,” said Mrs. Sequin with a manner intended to

impress this exceedingly casual person. “Where shall I find my cousin,

Doctor Queerington?”

“The front room up-stairs, on that side. I'd go up with you, only Miss

Ferney Foster, our neighbor, is fitting this lining and she has to get

back to her pickles. I wish we were born feathered like birds, don't

you?”

Mrs. Sequin, who had a masculine susceptibility to a pretty face, could

not repress a smile.

“I know this lining looks queer,” went on the girl with an answering

twinkle. “But it doesn't look any queerer than it feels. Miss Ferney

doesn't know what's the matter, and neither do I. Would you mind taking

a peep at it up there between the shoulders? I'll hold the doggie.”

To her surprise, Mrs. Sequin found herself removing her gloves, and

adjusting a badly cut lining across a smooth white neck, while the girl

before her, having shifted all responsibility, fell to making love to

the poodle which she cuddled in her arms.

“It's too tight here,” said Mrs. Sequin, pinning and adjusting, “and too

loose there. Have her take up the side seams to the place I have marked,

and lengthen the shoulder seams at least an inch.”

“Thank you so much. It feels heavenly now. You go right up-stairs! You

can take your things off in my room, if you like, just across the hall

from the Doctor's.” And without further ceremony the young hostess went

tripping down the hall, leaving Mrs. Sequin to ascend the stairs alone.

Ascending was one of Mrs. Sequin's chief accomplishments. Twenty-five

years' experience on the social ladder had made her exceedingly

surefooted. Her reward now was in sitting on the top rung and dictating

arbitrarily to all those below. She had acquired a passion for

dictating, for arranging, and setting in order. The crooked seams

which she had just pinned straight gave her a satisfaction that almost

counteracted her annoyance at the informality of her reception.

Once established at the Doctor's bedside, with the nurse detailed to

exercise Fanchonette in the yard below, she gave herself up to the

pleasure of recounting at length her troubles of the past few months.

She enjoyed talking, as a prima donna enjoys singing: she loved to hear

the cadences of her own voice, and to watch the gestures of her jeweled

hands.

“It's an unspeakable relief,” she assured the Doctor, “to actually see

with my own eyes that you aren't a mangled cripple from the terrible

wreck! You can't imagine how frightfully anxious I've been, but then

this whole spring has been a veritable nightmare. Donald and Lee

Dillingham both involved in this unspeakable scrape, Margery on the

verge of nervous prostration, you perhaps fatally injured, and Basil

Sequin too engrossed in his own affairs to give mine a moment's

consideration.”

“Basil has grave responsibilities as president of the People's Bank,

Katherine,” said the Doctor, keeping his fingers between the leaves of

the massive volume which he had regretfully closed at her entrance. “I,

for one, owe him a debt of gratitude for relieving me of all financial

anxiety. Besides you are always thoroughly capable of taking the reins

in a family crisis.”

“Yes, but it's telling on me. I notice it in bridge. I am not the player

I was a year ago. This trial of Lee Dillingham's has been a hideous

strain. Of course, if he had been convicted, I should have compelled

Margery to break her engagement, and that would have complicated things

frightfully. You know his grandfather, the old general, is the largest

stockholder in the People's Bank, and Basil insists that he must not be

offended. That was one reason why I was so anxious to keep Don out of

the way. Even if Lee was guilty, Don couldn't appear against him when

he was engaged to Margery. The only possible course was to hush up

the entire affair with as little publicity as possible. Thank heaven,

General Dillingham has gotten Lee off, and I am beginning to breathe

again.”

“And you have heard nothing from Donald?”

“No, indeed, and I hope I won't for the present. I wrote immediately

after the shooting to every place I could possibly think of his going,

and implored him, if he had a grain of gratitude for me, or affection

for Margery, that he would keep away, and not even let his whereabouts

be known until this wretched affair had blown over. I can nearly always

appeal to Don on the score of gratitude. I must say for him that, like

the rest of the Morley men, he sows his wild oats like a gentleman. You

remember Uncle Curtis? They said at the club he was a frightful drinker,

and yet not a woman of his family ever saw him intoxicated. Then look

at Grandfather Morley!” Mrs. Sequin was mounted on a favorite hobby.

She had a large and varied collection of family skeletons, some of rare

antiquity, which she delighted in exhibiting. She could recount the

details of the unfortunate matrimonial alliances on both sides of the

family for generations back, and was even more infallible in the matter

of birth dates than the family Bible. If a relative by any chance got

a trifle confused, and acknowledged to thirty-nine next June instead of

last June, Mrs. Sequin pounced upon the error like a cat on a mouse. She

could prove to him immediately that he was born the spring that Uncle

Lem Miller died, and that was the same year that Grandmother Weller

married the second time, therefore he _was_ thirty-nine _last_ June.

“Donald ought to return at once,” declared Doctor Queerington, when she

paused for breath; “if he is guilty, he ought to take his punishment; if

innocent, as I believe, he ought to be vindicated.”

“Well, we can't find him,” said Mrs. Sequin with resigned cheerfulness.

“He is probably in the Orient with Cropsie Decker. What a magnificent

bed this is! Do you suppose I could buy it? Country people nearly always

prefer new furniture.”

The suggestion of a smile hovered over the Doctor's thin lips:

“Thornwood's possessions, I imagine, are not for sale.”

“I suppose the extraordinary young person I met in the front hall was

Miss Carsey? What sort of a girl is she, anyhow?”

“Miss Lady?” The Doctor shifted his pillow. “An extremely nice girl,

I believe. Exceedingly sympathetic and attentive to all my wants, and

receptive to a remarkable degree. She has been reading to me daily, and

I find rather an unusual mind, undisciplined of course, but original and

interesting.”

“But what amazing manners the child has! She greeted me in her bare

arms, and asked me to fit a dress for her when she had never seen me

before in her life. But she certainly is pretty! I haven't seen as

pretty a creature for years.”

“Indeed!” said the Doctor, adjusting his eyeglasses. “I had not observed

it, especially. A fine, frank countenance, with dark eyes--yes, I

believe I did notice that she had chestnut eyes of unusual clearness; I

remember I did notice that.”

“What is she going to do? Who is going to stay with her?” asked Mrs.

Sequin. “Fancy a girl like that buried here in the country! Properly

dressed, and toned down a bit, she'd make a sensation. I shouldn't at

all mind asking her in to spend a few days with me sometime. You know

I adore young people, and poor Margery, like all the other last year

debutantes, is simply done for. Hasn't a spark of enthusiasm for

anything. I hope you have not forgotten the fact that your Constance

ought to come out this winter?”

“My dear Katherine,” said the Doctor with an air of enforced patience,

“you do not seem to realize that my time and mind are engrossed in far

greater things than society. I hope in the next year to complete the

fifth and last volume of my 'History of the Norman Influence on English

Literature and Language.' If I have been able to give my children very

little of my time and attention, it is only because of my desire to

leave them something of far greater worth--a name that I trust will

stand among those of the foremost English scholars of my day.”

Mrs. Sequin soothed her irritation by studying her highly polished

nails. “Of course, that will be an advantage to them. But what on

earth's to become of them in the meanwhile? Heaven knows what Hattie

will develop into if she isn't taken in hand. She refuses to have

trimming on her underclothes now, and wears boy's shoes. As for

Constance! I've quite despaired of getting hold of her. She's simply

running wild, making no social connections whatever. What they really

need, Cousin John, is a mother.”

“I must try to look after them more,” the Doctor said, somewhat

helplessly. “Have you seen them recently?”

“I came by there this morning. They were all well, I suppose; Connie was

at the Ivy's as usual, and Hattie at school. What a savage creature your

new cook, Myrtella, is. I believe she is an anarchist! She opened the

door only a crack, and when I asked her how the young ladies were, she

said she was sure she didn't know, that she hadn't asked them.”

“And Bertie, did you see Bertie?”

“Yes, he was with her. Had a dirty piece of dough in his hands which he

said was going to be a cake. I must say she seems good to Bertie, but I

would not tolerate her impertinence for a moment.”

“Myrtella carries concealed virtues,” said the Doctor. “She is an

excellent cook, and a good manager. Her only faults, apparently, are

faults of the disposition.”

“From which Heaven defend me! What on earth is that noise? It sounds as

if some one were kicking the door.”

“Please open!” called a voice from without, and as Mrs. Sequin complied,

Miss Lady came in, carrying a large luncheon tray gaily decorated with

flowers from the garden.

“'Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crowned,'” quoted the Doctor.

“You see how they spoil me, Katherine?”

“I don't believe he could be spoiled, do you, Mrs. Sequin?” Miss Lady

asked, as she fixed his eggs. “Is there anything else, Doctor?”

“Don't run away,” Mrs. Sequin said, following her movements with

frank admiration. “Come here and sit down, I want to talk to you. I've

discovered the ideal site for my new house, and I want to ask you about

it. You know the western crest of this hill overlooking the river; did

that belong to your father?”

“It all used to be ours, long before it was ever called Billy-goat

Hill.”

“The name _is_ a handicap,” said the Doctor. “You might modify it,

Katherine, by calling your prospective mansion 'Angora Heights.'”

“The very thing,” said Mrs. Sequin, eager to seize upon any suggestion

that emanated from the Queerington intellect. “But who does the ground

belong to?”

“It belongs to Mr. Wicker, now.”

“Wicker?” repeated Mrs. Sequin. “Where have I heard that name? Why,

Cousin John, wasn't that the man Don stayed with, when he was looking

for a farm? How we laughed over that absurd notion of his farming!”

“I did not laugh at it,” said the Doctor. “I encouraged him. It seemed

to me the most excellent idea!”

“But you did not allow for Don's fickleness. Of course he's a darling

fellow but he has had as many hobbies as he has had sweethearts.”

“I allowed for his character, which may yet strike root in the proper

soil,” the Doctor said with dignity; then turning to Miss Lady, who had

risen and was standing by the bed, her hands tightly clasped and her

eyes fixed on his, he explained: “We are speaking of the young brother

of Mrs. Sequin; I was telling you about him this morning. Why, child!”

For Miss Lady had suddenly dropped her face in her hands and made a rush

for the door.

“It's the shock of her father's death,” explained Mrs. Sequin, who

prided herself on divining motives. “I was like that for weeks when my

last dog was run over. The most casual thing would upset me. I lost two

games of cards one afternoon because somebody merely mentioned an ice

wagon.”

The Doctor's long, slender fingers drummed absently on the bedspread.

Presently he broke in quite irrelevantly on Mrs. Sequin's steady flow

of talk: “I said chestnut brown, Katherine, they are more of a hazel, I

should say, a deep hazel with considerable fire.”