Having heard of your interest in Colonial history, and particularly
in Mme. Van Der Dokjen, I feel sure you will be pleased to learn
that I have discovered a letter written by her to an ancestor of
mine--a certain Ephraim Ordway, captain in General Washington’s
army.
Apparently Mme. V. took a pretty lively interest in Captain Ordway,
and the letter may provide an amusing sidelight upon the lady’s
history.
If you would care to see it, I shall be glad to bring it to you
some day.
Very truly yours,
STEPHEN ORDWAY.
“This,” said Cousin Ronald to himself, “is blackmail. ‘An amusing
sidelight--!’ Merciful Powers!”
On a shelf before him stood a copy of “Mme. Van Der Dokjen and Her
Milieu,” chastely bound in gray and gold. As frontispiece there was a
portrait of her, smiling; but how dignified, how superb! “An amusing
sidelight!”
“Of course I shall write to this fellow, and bid him bring his letter,”
thought Cousin Ronald. “But I’ll have to pay. Heaven knows what I shall
have to pay!”
It was a truly horrible situation, for it combined the two greatest
fears of his soul; the fear of injury to Mme. Van Der Dokjen, and the
fear of spending much money. Because, as was mentioned before, Cousin
Ronald was no spendthrift.
It was with the object of obtaining temporary relief from these painful
matters that he opened his other letters. But instead of relief, here
were more blows. It was the beginning of the month, and all the other
envelopes contained bills--for groceries, for meat, for vegetables, for
laundry. He added them together, and was appalled. He knew what it had
cost Mme. Van Der Dokjen to run this house; this was five times as much.
For a moment, a sort of desperation seized upon him. He saw his hard
earned--by his father--money being squandered and dissipated upon all
sides. He saw himself paying these bills, and buying the compromising
letter, and being left a ruined man.
“Merciful Powers!” he cried, with a groan.
Then he arose, and went to Cousin Winnie, and told her that he was a
ruined man.
In that chapter on Mme. Van Der Dokjen “During the War,” he had written
with a certain eloquence about her benevolence, and about womanly
sympathy in general; he had praised it, but not before had he
encountered it. And he found it even sweeter than he had believed.
He and Cousin Winnie had a long talk. He assured her that he was
confiding in her. To tell the truth, he told her nothing, but he spoke
of his “troubles” in a large, vague fashion, he begged her to help him
to economize. And she pitied him.
Lucy pitied him, too. But she was of a somewhat more practical nature.
“If he’s ruined,” she said, “it seems to me that we’d better go back to
the city, and I’ll get another job. And at least we’ll have hot baths,
and electric lights, and enough to eat.”
“I could not leave your Cousin Ronald now,” her mother declared,
solemnly. “He says that any day now he will know. And then we can
decide.”
“Know what?” asked Lucy.
“Know the worst,” her mother replied.
“Nothing,” said Lucy, “could be worse than this.”
Indeed, matters were bad, very bad. A black shadow lay over the
household. Every morning Cousin Ronald came to the breakfast table, with
a stern, set face, opened his letters, looked at Cousin Winnie, and said
“Nothing!” She knew not what fateful news he expected, but she dreaded
it, and yet wished it would come, that the blow would fall, the suspense
be ended.
In the meantime, she did her utmost to aid the stricken man. Her
economies were heroic. No need to detail them here. She grew thinner and
paler, but she did not falter. Cousin Ronald told her frequently that he
did not know what he could do without her coöperation, and that was a
spur to the willing horse.
She did not like her child to endure all this, though. Again and again
she urged Lucy to go back to the city, but Lucy refused. She would not
leave her mother, and she, too, was sorry for Cousin Ronald; quite as
sorry as her mother, though in a different way. In her eyes he was not
the distinguished and admirable figure Cousin Winnie thought him; he was
simply a “poor, funny old darling.” So, she remained, also waiting for
the blow.
But no one suffered as did Cousin Ronald. He had written at once to this
Stephen Ordway, requesting him to bring the letter at his “earliest
convenience.” No answer came; days went by, and Cousin Ronald wrote
again. He waited and waited, in growing anguish. What, he asked himself,
could be the reason for this silence? Awful fancies came to him.
His publishers wrote, asking if they might expect the manuscript of his
new book in time for their spring list. He knew not how to reply. He
dared not publish anything further about Mme. Van Der Dokjen while that
letter was at large.
One night he had a dream. He dreamed that he went into Brentano’s, to
look at his book--“A Historic Cottage”--which had just been published,
in gray and gold, like the former volume. He was, in his dream,
examining this volume with justifiable pleasure, when his eye fell upon
another book beside it--a slim little book in a scarlet jacket--“The
Lady and the Soldier--An Amusing Sidelight Upon Mme. Van Der Dokjen.”
It was a frightful dream, from which he awoke, cold and trembling.
“Whatever he asks, I’ll pay it!” he thought. “But--Merciful Powers! It
may be a sum beyond the very bounds of reason.”
Still, he would pay. He would not see this noble woman held up to the
world’s ridicule. Whatever the cost, he would pay.
And, until he knew the cost, every cent must be saved. Very well; every
cent was saved. Cousin Winnie assisted him in this. He waited. They all
waited.