It was a superb September morning, warm and still. The windows of the
dining room were open as they sat at breakfast, and Cousin Winnie saw
white butterflies out in the neat little garden. Most lovely perfumes
drifted in, fresh-cut grass and pine needles, and the very last roses;
and from the kitchen came another current, warmer, like a Gulf Stream,
and less romantic, but beautiful, made of the aromas of pancakes, maple
sirup, bacon, and coffee.
The sun shone in; everything was good, and right, and Cousin Winnie was
happy. Her mail, too, was satisfactory. She had a letter from a jealous
and spiteful cousin in California, who insinuated that Cousin Ronald was
growing old, and falling prey to certain unscrupulous relatives.
The injustice of this really flattered Cousin Winnie. Nobody could have
been less designing than she. The arrangement was entirely of Cousin
Ronald’s making; he had sought them out, in their cozy little flat in
New York, where they had managed well enough with the aid of Lucy’s
salary as an assistant librarian.
They had been glad to come, but it was nothing like so dazzling a
situation as the spiteful cousin in California imagined. The financial
compensation was very modest. Very! Cousin Ronald was no spendthrift.
And there was a great deal of work to be done in this cottage which was
so charmingly old fashioned. Still, Cousin Winnie was glad she had come,
because, for all Cousin Ronald’s distinction, his literary attainments,
she thought he was _pathetic_. She glanced up from the spiteful cousin’s
letter, to enjoy the heart-warming spectacle of the poor man eating
buckwheat cakes.
But he was not eating at all. He was staring before him with unseeing
eyes.
“Is anything the matter, Cousin Ronald?” she asked, anxiously.
“Er--no, no,” he answered. “That is--nothing wrong with this most
excellent breakfast, my dear Winnie. But--er--but--er--”
“Did you say ‘butter,’ Ronald?”
“No, no, thank you. I have received a letter. I fear I must ask you to
excuse me, Winnie.” He arose. “I--I am perturbed!” he added. “I must be
alone for a time.”
He gathered together his letters, most of which he had not yet opened,
and went out of the dining room, into his study. He locked the door, and
sat down before his desk.
“Merciful Powers!” he murmured.
The blow had fallen. Mme. Van Der Dokjen was most hideously threatened.
Again he read the fatal letter.