Mr. Ronald Phillips was an authority upon Mme. Van Der Dokjen; indeed he
was the greatest living authority.
He was also the sole authority. His fellow countrymen knew little about
Mme. Van Der Dokjen, and seemed to care less. He was not sorry for this.
He had written a book called “Mme. Van Der Dokjen and Her Milieu,” in
which he gave as much information as he thought suitable for the public;
but he had a large collection of her letters and so on. He was thankful
that there were no other authorities to go snooping around and finding
out the things he did not choose to publish.
Not that the lady had any guilty secrets in her life. She was
perfection. Only, there were little things, what you might call trifling
inconsistencies, things pardonable, even charming in themselves, but
foreign to her austere and energetic character.
For instance, that letter written to her sister in 1777, in which she
described, with such unexpected enthusiasm, a certain young captain in
General Washington’s army. Mme. Van Der Dokjen was at that time
forty-three years of age. No doubt her interest in the young soldier was
pure patriotism.
But Mr. Phillips preferred not to publish that letter; so squeamish was
he, that he did not even make use of the recipe it contained for quince
conserve, which illustrated her splendid housewifely talents.
Indeed, he grew nervous about Mme. Van Der Dokjen. He lived in dread
lest some one should discover new documents concerning her. It was for
this reason that he went to live in the historic cottage on the banks of
the Hudson, in which she had ended her days. He thought that perhaps
there were documents hidden in it.
It was as historic a cottage as one could wish to see. There were in it
a spinet, a frame for making candles, a spinning-wheel, and other
interesting objects. He set to work at once upon a new book to be called
“When Home Was Home,” which would depict Mme. Van Der Dokjen living in
this cottage, making conserves and candles, playing upon the spinet, and
entertaining the illustrious men of the age.
Mr. Van Der Dokjen was there, too, but Phillips did not care much for
him. A dull dog, he must have been.
In this book, Phillips was going to kill two birds with a pretty heavy
stone. He was going to give more highly valuable information about Mme.
Van Der Dokjen, and he was also going to show how lamentably had the
home declined since that day. Home life had degenerated, and home life
was the very foundation of morality.
And the foundation of home life was--thrift. There was no virtue he
admired more. There was a great deal about thrift in his book.
In the meantime, though, he had to eat to live. He could not himself
make conserves and candles; there must be a womanly spirit to look after
all this. So he invited his Cousin Winnie to become his housekeeper.
She said that life could hold no greater joy, but that she could not
leave her only child. This was natural and admirable, and, as the child
was a daughter of twenty, who would not be likely to scratch the
furniture or steal the conserves, he said to bring her.
In that branch of the family, Ronald Phillips was supreme. Not only was
he rich, but he was rich in the correct way--mysteriously. Everybody
knew exactly how much he had inherited from his father, but nobody knew
how much he had now, or how much he spent--or how he intended to leave
his fortune. Cousin Ronald’s money was one of the best and brightest
topics in the family.
Also he was literary. He was rich, he was literary, and he had great
natural distinction. He disapproved of more things than any one else in
the family. He was tall, and handsome, in a distinguished way; he had
gray hair parted in the middle, a gray goatee, and a fine voice. Cousin
Winnie admired him profoundly.
Her child, though, the young Lucy, belonged to a more critical
generation. She saw certain flaws. But she said nothing. She came with
her mother to the historic cottage, prepared to do her best.
She had studied domestic science; she was energetic and healthy, and she
thought that she and her mother could make Cousin Ronald very
comfortable. She wished to do so; that was her nature. She was a kind
little thing.
She was a pretty little thing, too. Cousin Ronald admitted it. Not in
the Mme. Van Der Dokjen style, but she was young yet. The years might
bring her more of the dignity, the calm of that matchless woman.
And, as it was, she had her good points; she had clear, steady blue
eyes, and very satisfactory light hair, and she had a pleasing sort of
gayety about her. She sang while she was working. It was agreeable to
hear her.
She had faults, undoubtedly, but they were, Cousin Ronald thought, more
the faults of her deplorable generation than anything inherent. He
thought they might be cured. He interpreted Mme. Van Der Dokjen to her,
also the significance of home life.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Cousin Ronald, I know it’s lovely. But, you see,
I don’t have much time during the day, and in the evening I do like to
read or write letters.”
“Mme. Van Der Dokjen wrote letters,” he pointed out. “An astounding
quantity of letters, when one considers her unflagging devotion to her
domestic duties, and her truly brilliant social life. There is no doubt
but that many of these letters--models of the epistolary art--were
written by the light of candles, Lucy.”
“Yes, I know!” Lucy agreed. “But she was different.”
“I concede the point,” said Cousin Ronald, with a trace of severity.
“Where, I ask, in the modern world, can one find a woman who is not
different--deplorably different? But I should like to point out to you,
Lucy, that this habit of continually saying--‘I know!’--gives a quite
false impression of your character. I do not believe you to be one of
these intolerable modern young women who fancy they ‘know’ everything.”
“Yes, I know!” said Lucy. “I mean--I know that what you say is right,
Cousin Ronald. Only, I thought that just one oil lamp--”
He told her that even one oil lamp would utterly destroy the
“atmosphere” of the historic cottage.
“All right!” Lucy replied.
He remembered how Mme. Van Der Dokjen was wont to reply to the requests
or commands of her elders. “You must be assured, Hon’d Sir, of my
pleasure in conforming to y’r lightest wish.” “All right!” That was the
modern way. He sighed.
“And now your dinner’s ready,” Lucy announced. “Something awfully nice,
too.”
He sighed no more. These meals which Cousin Winnie and her child
prepared for him were charming; he had never enjoyed anything more. They
had the real old-fashioned homeliness; plain food, but beautifully
cooked, and plenty of it. Cousin Ronald had spent his life in modest
hotels; and this was his first experience, since childhood, of home
life.
“You have been here one month to-day, Cousin Winnie,” he remarked, as he
finished his fried chicken. “I must thank you. It has been--for me, that
is--a most delightful month.”
“I’m sure, Cousin Ronald, it has been a pleasure,” said Cousin Winnie.
Tears came into her eyes. It was so touching to see Cousin Ronald
grateful.
By common consent they omitted Lucy from the compliments. Like most
persons of middle-age, they knew that it is not wise to praise the
young; they remember what you say, and use it against you later on.
Cousin Ronald knew this by instinct, but Cousin Winnie knew from
experience.
She was a thin, worn little lady, with a gentle and pretty face. It was
the general opinion in the family that she had been the helpless victim
of a cruel fate, and certainly she had had many undeserved misfortunes.
But she had survived them. She had kept upon the surface of the stormy
sea, like a cork. She could stand a good deal.
This was a good thing, for fresh trials were approaching.