in the same colorless tone she had used from the first. "It's on Shore
Road. The Germans own it. Mr. Gorman, he's a builder, and he built
an old house over into a copy of Shakespeare's house in England. Mrs.
Gorman is English. She serves tea there on the porch in the summer,
and I've heard she will serve a meal to anybody that happens along
any time of the year, although she doesn't keep a regular restaurant.
That's the only place I know of anywhere near. Of course, down on the
bay there's the Marvin Harbor Hotel. You can get a pretty good meal
there."
"Thank you very much," said Dicky, laying a dollar bill down on the
table near us.
I had a sudden flash of understanding. Dicky meant all the time to
recompense the woman in this way for allowing us to see the house. But
the principle of the thing remained the same. Why could he not have
told her frankly that he wished to look at the house and given her the
dollar in the beginning?
I did not ask the question, however, even after we had left the old
mansion and were walking down the road. I felt like adopting the old
motto and leaving well enough alone.
I did not speak again until we had turned from the street down which
we were walking into a winding thoroughfare labelled "Shore Road."
Then a thought which had come to me during our walk demanded
utterance.
"Dicky," I said quietly, "wasn't Gorman the name of the woman of whom
the station master told you, and didn't she live on Shore Road?"
Dicky stopped short as if he had been struck.
"Of course it was," he almost shouted. "What a ninny I was not to
remember it. She's the sister of that stunning girl we saw in the
train. Isn't this luck? I may be able to get that girl to pose for me
after all."
But I did not echo his sentiments. Secretly I hoped the girl would not
be at her sister's home.
"This surely must be the place, Dicky," I said as we rounded a sudden
turn on Shore Road and caught sight of a quaint structure that seemed
to belong to the 16th century rather than the 20th.
Dicky whistled. "Well! What do you want to know about that?" he
demanded of the horizon in general, for the little brown house with
its balconies projecting from unexpected places and its lattice work
cunningly outlined against its walls was well worth looking at. But
our hunger soon drove us through the gate and up the steps.
A comely Englishwoman of about 40 years answered Dicky's sounding of
the quaintly carved knocker. He lifted his hat with a curtly bow.
"We were told at Putnam Manor that we might be able to get dinner
here," he began. "We came down from the city this morning expecting
that the inn would be open. But we found it closed and we are very
hungry. Would it be possible for you to accommodate us?"
"I think we shall be able to give you a fairly good dinner," she said
with a simple directness that pleased me. "My husband went fishing
yesterday and I have some very good pan fish and some oysters. If you
are very hungry I can give you the oysters almost at once, and it will
not take very long to broil the fish. Then, if you care for anything
like that, we had an old-fashioned chicken pie for our own dinner.
There is plenty of it still hot if you wish to try it."
"Madam," Dicky bowed again, "Chicken pie is our long suit, and we
are also very fond of oysters and fish. Just bring us everything
you happen to have in the house and I can assure you we will do full
justice to it."
She smiled and went to the foot of the staircase, which had a mahogany
stair rail carved exquisitely.
"Grace," she called melodiously. "There are two people here who will
take dinner. Will you show them into my room, so they can lay aside
their wraps?"
Without waiting for an answer, she motioned us to the staircase.
"My sister will take care of you," she said, and hurried out of
another door, which we realized must lead to the kitchen.
Dicky and I looked at each other when she had left us.
"The beautiful unknown," Dicky said in a stage whisper. "Try to get on
the good side of her, Madge. If I can get her to pose for that set
of outdoor illustrations Fillmore wants, me fortune's made, and hers,
too," he burlesqued.
I nudged him to stop talking. I have a very quick ear, and I had heard
a light footstep in the hall above us. As we reached the top of the
stairs the girl of whom we were talking met us.
I acknowledged unwillingly to myself that she was even more beautiful
than she had appeared on the train. She was gowned in a white linen
skirt and white "middy," with white tennis shoes and white stockings.
Her dress was most unsuitable for the winter day, although the
house was warm, but with another flash of remembrance of my own past
privations, I realized the reason for her attire. This costume could
be tubbed and ironed if it became soiled. It would stand a good deal
of water. Her other clothing must be kept in good condition for the
times when she must go outside of her home.
But if she had known of Dicky's mission and gowned herself accordingly
she could not have succeeded better in satisfying his artistic eye.
He stared at her open-mouthed as she spoke a conventional word of
greeting and showed us into a bedroom hung with chintzes and bright
with the winter sunshine.
She was as calm, as unconsciously regal, as she had been on the train.
I knew, however, that she was not as indifferent to Dicky's open
admiration as she appeared. The slightest heightening of the color in
her cheek, a quickly-veiled flash of her eyes in his direction--these
things I noticed in the short time she was in the room with us.
Was Dicky too absorbed in his plan or his drawings to see what I had
seen? His words appeared to indicate that he was.
"Gee!" He drew a long breath as we heard Miss Draper--the name I had
heard the 'bus driver give her--going down the stairs. "If I get a
chance to talk to her today I'm going to make her promise to save that
rig to pose in. She's the exact image of what I want. And graceful!
'Grace by name and grace by nature.' The old saw certainly holds good
in her case."
I did not answer him. As I laid aside my furs and removed my hat and
coat I felt a distinct sinking of the heart. I knew it was foolish,
but the presence of this girl in whom Dicky displayed such interest
took all the pleasure out of the day's outing.
"This is what I call eating," said Dicky as he helped himself to
a second portion of the steaming chicken pie which Mrs. Gorman had
placed before us. The oysters and the delicious broiled fish which
had formed the first two courses of our dinner had been removed by her
sister a few moments before.
Dicky had not been so absorbed in his meal, however, as to miss any
graceful movement of Miss Draper's. The admiring glances which he gave
her as she served us with quick, deft motions were not lost upon me.
I knew that she was not oblivious of them either, although her manner
was perfect in its calm, indifferent courtesy.
When it came time for dessert Mrs. Gorman bore the tray in on which it
was served, a cherry roly-poly, covered with a steaming sauce.
"You're in luck," she said with a naive pride in her own culinary
ability, as she served the pudding. "I don't often make this pudding,
and my canned cherries from last summer are getting scarce. But my
sister came home unexpectedly this morning, and this pudding is one
of her favorites. So I made it for dinner. I thought perhaps it would
cheer her up."
Miss Draper who entered at that moment with the coffee and a bit
of English cheese that looked particularly appetizing, appeared
distinctly annoyed at her sister's reference to her. Her cheeks
flushed, and her eyes flashed a warning glance at Mrs. Gorman.
"I am sure this pudding would cheer anybody up," said Dicky genially,
attacking his.
"It is delicious," I said, and, indeed, it was. "I have tasted nothing
like this since I was a child in the country."
Mrs. Gorman beamed at the praise. She evidently was a hospitable soul.
"Would you like the recipe for it?" she asked.
"Indeed she would," Dicky struck in. "If you can teach Katie to make
this," he turned to me, "I'll stand treat to anything you wish."
"What a rash promise," I smiled at Dicky, then turned to Mrs. Gorman.
"I should be very glad to have the recipe," I said.
"Here," Dicky passed a pencil and the back of an envelope over the
table.
So, while Mrs. Gorman dictated the recipe, I dutifully wrote it down.
"Thank you so much, Mrs. Gorman," I said as I finished writing.
"You are very welcome, I am sure," she said heartily. "You are
strangers here, aren't you? I've never seen you around here before."
"This is my wife's first visit to this village," Dicky struck into
the conversation. I realized that he welcomed this opportunity of
beginning a conversation with Mrs. Gorman and her sister, so that he
might lead up to his request for Miss Draper's services as a model.
"I have been in the village frequently," went on Dicky. "I used to
sketch a good deal along the brook to the north of the village."
"Then you are an artist!" We heard Miss Draper's voice for the first
time since she had shown us to the room above. Then her tones had been
cool and indifferent. Now her exclamation was full of emotion of some
sort.
"An artist!" echoed Mrs. Gorman, staring at Dicky as if he were the
President.
There was a little strained silence, then Miss Draper picked up the
serving tray and hurried into the kitchen. Mrs. Gorman wiped her eyes
as she saw her sister's departure.
"You mustn't think we're queer," she said at length. "But I suppose
your saying you are an artist brought all her trouble back to Grace,
poor girl." Mrs. Gorman's eyes threatened to overflow again.
"If it wouldn't trouble you too much, tell us about it." Dicky's voice
was gentle, inviting. "Perhaps we could help you."
"I don't think anybody can help." Mrs. Gorman shook her head sadly.
"You see, ever since Grace was a baby, almost, she has wanted to draw
things. I brought her up. I was the oldest and she the youngest of 12
children, and our mother died soon after she was born. I was married
shortly afterward, and from the time she could hold a pencil in her
hand she has drawn pictures on everything she could lay her hands
on. In school she was always at the head of her class in drawing, but
there was no money to give her any lessons, so she didn't get very
far. Since she left school she has been planning every way to save
money enough to go to an art school, but something always hinders."
Mrs. Gorman paused only to take breath. Having broken her reserve she
seemed unable to stop talking.
"She went into a dressmaking shop as soon as she left school--I had
taught her to sew beautifully--thinking she could earn money enough
when she had learned her trade to have a term in an art school. But
her health broke down at the sewing, and I had her home here a year."
I remembered the remarkable appearance of costly attire Miss Draper
had achieved when we saw her in the station. This, then, was the
solution. She had made them all herself.
"Then she got another position--"
Miss Draper came into the room in time to hear Mrs. Gorman's last
words. She walked swiftly to her sister's side, her eyes blazing.
"Kate," she said, her voice low but tense with emotion. "Why are you
troubling these strangers with my affairs?"
Before Mrs. Gorman could answer Dicky interposed.
"Just a minute, please," he said authoritatively. "As it happens, Miss
Draper, I am in a position to make a proposition to you concerning
employment which will provide you with a comfortable income, and at
the same time enable you to pursue your studies."
Mrs. Gorman uttered an ejaculation of joy, but Miss Draper said
nothing, only looked steadily at him. "This girl has had lessons in a
hard school," I said to myself. "She has learned to distrust men and
to doubt any proffered kindness."
"I have been commissioned to do a set of illustrations," Dicky went
on, "in which the central figure is a young girl in the regulation
summer costume, such as you have on. I have been unable to find a
satisfactory model for the picture. If you will allow me to say so,
you are just the type I wish for the drawings. If you will pose for
them I will give you $50 and buy you a monthly commutation ticket from
Marvin, so that you will have no expense coming or going. There are
several artist friends of mine who have been looking for a model of
your type. I think you could safely count upon an income of $40 or $50
a week after you get started. I know there are several other drawings
I have in mind in which I could use you."
Mrs. Gorman had attempted to speak two or three times while Dicky was
explaining his proposition, but Miss Draper had silenced her with
a gesture. Now, however, she would not be denied. "A model!" she
shrilled excitedly. "You're not insulting my sister by asking her to
be a model, are you? Why, I'd rather see her dead than have her do
anything so shameful--"
"Kate, keep quiet. You do not know what you are talking about." Miss
Draper's voice was low and calm, but it quieted her older sister
immediately.
"I take it you do not mean--figure posing." She hesitated before the
word ever so slightly.
"Oh, no, nothing of the kind," I hastened to reassure her. "It's the
ability to wear clothes well with a certain air, that he especially
wants."
"And what do you mean by an opportunity to go on with my studies?"
The girl was really superb as she faced Dicky. With the prospect of
more money than I knew she had ever had before, she yet could stand
and bargain for the thing which to her was far more than money.
"Show me some of your drawings," Dicky spoke abruptly.
She went swiftly upstairs, returning in a moment with two large
portfolios. These she spread out before Dicky on the table, and he
examined the drawings very carefully.
I felt very much alone; out of it. For all Dicky noticed, I might not
have been there.
"Not bad at all," was Dicky's verdict. "Indeed, some of them are
distinctly good. Now I'll tell you what I will do," he said, turning
to Miss Draper. "Until you find out what time you can give to an art
school, I will give you what little help I can in your work. If you
can be quiet, and I think you can, you may work in my studio at odd
times, when you are not posing. What do you think of it?"
"Think of it?" Miss Draper drew a long breath. "I accept your offer
gladly. When shall I begin?"
"I will drop you a postal, notifying you a day or two ahead of time,"
he returned.
We went out of the house and down the path to the gate before Dicky
spoke.
"That was awfully decent of you, Madge, to square things with Mrs.
Gorman like that. I appreciate it, I assure you."
"It was nothing," I said dispiritedly. I felt suddenly tired and old.
"But I wish you would do something for me, Dicky."
"Name it, and it is yours," Dicky spoke grandiloquently.
"Take me home. We can see the harbor another time. I really feel too
tired to do any more today."
Dicky opened his mouth, evidently to remind me that my fatigue was of
sudden development, but closed it again, and turned in silence toward
the railroad station.
We had a silent journey back. Neither Dicky nor I spoke, except to
exchange the veriest commonplaces. We reached home about 5 o'clock to
Katie's surprise.
"I'll hurry, get dinner," she said, evidently much flurried.
"We're not very hungry, Katie," I said. "Some cold meat and bread
and butter, those little potato cakes you make so nicely, some sliced
bananas for Mr. Graham and some coffee--that will be sufficient."
For my own part I felt that I never wished to see or hear of food
again. The silent journey home, added to the events of the day, had
brought on one of my ugly morbid moods.
XI
"I OWE YOU TOO MUCH"
"Bad news, Dicky?"
We were seated at the breakfast table, Dicky and I, the morning after
our trip to Marvin, from which I had returned weary of body and sick
of mind. Tacitly we had avoided all discussion of Grace Draper, the
beautiful girl Dicky had discovered there and engaged as a model for
his drawings, promising to help her with her art studies. But because
of my feeling toward Dicky's plans breakfast had been a formal affair.
Then had come a special delivery letter for Dicky. He had read it
twice, and was turning back for a third perusal when my query made him
raise his eyes.
"In a way, yes," he said slowly. Then after a pause. "Read it." He
held out the letter.
It was postmarked Detroit. The writing reminded me of my mother; it
was the hand of a woman of the older generation.
I, too, read the letter twice before making any comment upon it. I
wondered if Dicky's second reading had been for the same purpose as
mine--to gain time to think.
I was stunned by the letter. I had never contemplated the possibility
of Dicky's mother living with us, and here she was calmly inviting
herself to make her home with us. For years she had made her home with
her childless daughter and namesake, Harriet, whose husband was one of
the most brilliant surgeons of the middle West.
I knew that Dicky's mother and sister had spoiled him terribly when
they all had a home together before Dicky's father died. The first
thought that came to me was that Dicky's whims alone were hard enough
to humor, but when I had both him and his mother to consider our home
life would hardly be worth the living.
I knew and resented also the fact that Dicky's mother and sisters
disapproved of his marriage to me. In one of Dicky's careless
confidences I had gleaned that his mother's choice for him had been
made long ago, and that he had disappointed her by not marrying a
friend of his sister.
I felt as if I were in a trap. To have to live and treat with
daughterly deference a woman who I knew so disliked me that she
refused to attend her son's wedding was unthinkable.
"Well!"
In Dicky's voice was a note of doubt as he held out his hand for his
mother's letter. I knew that he was anxiously awaiting my decision as
to the proposition it contained, and I hastened to reassure him.
"Of course there is but one thing to be done," I said, trying hard to
make my tone cordial.
"And that is?" Dicky looked at me curiously. Was it possible that he
did not understand my meaning?
"Why, you must wire her at once to come to us. Be sure you tell her
that she will be most welcome."
I felt a trifle ashamed that the welcoming words were such a sham from
my lips. Dicky's mother was distinctly not welcome as far as I was
concerned. But my thoughts flew swiftly back to my own little mother,
gone forever from me. Suppose she were the one who needed a home? How
would I like to have Dicky's secret thoughts about her welcome the
same as mine were now?
"That's awfully good of you, Madge." Dicky's voice brought me back
from my reverie. "Of course I know you are not particularly keen about
her coming. That wouldn't be natural, but it's bully of you to pretend
just the same."
I opened my mouth to protest, and then thought better of it. There was
no use trying to deceive Dicky. If he was satisfied with my attitude
toward his mother, that was all that was necessary.
I poured myself another cup of coffee, when Dicky had gone to the
studio, drank it mechanically, and touched the bell for Katie to clear
away the breakfast things.
I did not try to disguise to myself the fact that I was extremely
miserable. The day at Marvin, on which I had so counted, had been a
disappointment to me on account of the attention Dicky had paid to
Miss Draper. I reflected bitterly that I might just as well have
spent the afternoon with Mrs. Smith of the Lotus Club, discussing the
history course which she wished me to undertake for the club.
The thought of Mrs. Smith reminded me of the promise I had made her
when leaving for Marvin that I would call her up on my return and tell
her when I could meet her. I resolved to telephone her at once.
I felt a thrill of purely feminine triumph as I turned away from the
telephone. I knew that Mrs. Smith would have declined to see me if she
had consulted only her inclinations. That she still wished me to take
up the leadership of the study course gratified me exceedingly, and
made me thank my stars for the long years of study and teaching which
had given me something of a reputation in the work which the Lotus
Club wished me to undertake.
But when we met at a little luncheon room, Mrs. Smith and I managed to
get through the preliminaries pleasantly.
"Now as to compensation," she said briskly. "I am authorized to offer
you $20 per lecture. I know that it is not what you might get from an
older or richer club, but it is all we can offer."
I was silent for a moment. I did not wish her to know how delighted I
was with the amount of money offered.
"I think that will be satisfactory for this season, at least," I said
at last.
"Very well, then. The first meeting, of course, will be merely an
introduction and an outlining of your plan of study, so I will not
need to trouble you again. If you will be at the clubrooms at half
after one the first day, I will meet you, and see that you get started
all right. Here comes our luncheon. Now I can eat in peace."
Her whole manner said: "Now I am through with you."
But I felt that I cared as little for her opinion of me as she
evidently did of mine for her.
Twenty dollars a week was worth a little sacrifice.
Lillian Underwood's raucous voice came to my ears as I rang the bell
of my little apartment. It stopped suddenly at the sound of the bell.
Dicky opened the door and Mrs. Underwood greeted me boisterously.
"I came over to ask you to eat dinner with us Sunday," she said. "Then
we'll think up something to do in the afternoon and evening. We always
dine Sunday at 2 o'clock, a concession to that cook of mine. I'll
never get another like her, and if she only knew it I would have
Sunday dinner at 10 o'clock in the morning rather than lose her. I do
hope you can come."
"There's nothing in the world to hinder as far as I know," said Dicky.
"I am so sorry," I turned to Lillian as I spoke. My dismay was
genuine, for I knew how Dicky would view my answer. "But I could not
possibly come on Sunday. I have a dinner engagement for that day which
I cannot break."
"A dinner engagement!" Dicky ejaculated at last. "Why, Madge, you must
be mistaken. We haven't any dinner engagement for that day."
"You haven't any," I tried to speak as calmly as I could. "There is no
reason why you cannot accept Mrs. Underwood's invitation if you wish.
But do you remember the letter I received a week ago saying an old
friend of mine whom I had not seen for a year would reach the city
next Sunday and wished an engagement for dinner? There is no way in
which I can postpone or get out of the engagement, for there is no way
I can reach my friend before Sunday."
I had purposely avoided using the words "he" or "him," hoping that
Dicky would not say anything to betray the identity of the "friend"
who was returning from the wilds. But I reckoned without Dicky.
Either he was so angry that he recklessly disregarded Mrs. Underwood's
presence or else his friendship with her was so close that it did not
matter to him whether or not she knew of our differences.
"Oh, the gorilla with the mumps!" Dicky gave the short, scornful,
little laugh which I had learned to dread as one of the preliminaries
of a scene. "I had forgotten all about him. And so he really arrives
on Sunday, and you expect to welcome him. How very touching!"
Dicky was fast working himself into a rage. Lillian Gale evidently
knew the signs as well as I did, for she hurriedly began to fasten her
cloak, which she had opened on account of the heat of the room.
"I really must be going," she murmured, starting for the door, but
Dicky adroitly slipped between it and her.
"Talk about your romance, Lil," he sneered, "what do you think about
this one for a best seller?"
"Oh, Dicky!" I gasped, my cheeks scarlet with humiliation at this
scene before Mrs. Underwood, of all people. But Dicky paid no more
attention to me than if I had been the chair in which I was sitting.
"Beautiful highbrow heroine," he went on, "has tearful parting with
gallant hero more noted for his size than his beauty. He's gone a
whole year. Heroine forgets him, marries another man. Now he
comes back, heroine has to meet him and break the news that she is
another's. Isn't it romantic?"
Lillian looked at him steadily for a moment, as if she were debating
some course of action. Then she suddenly squared her shoulders,
and, advancing toward him, took him by the shoulders and shook him
slightly.
"Look here, my Dicky-bird," she said, and her tones were like icicles.
"I didn't want to listen to this, and I beg your wife's pardon for
being here, but now that you've compelled me to listen to you, you're
going to hear me for a little while."
Dicky looked at her open-mouthed, exactly like a small boy being
reproved by his mother.
"You're getting to be about the limit with this temper of yours," she
began. "Of course I know you were as spoiled a lad as anybody could
be, but that's no reason now that you are a man why you should kick
up a rumpus any time something doesn't go just to suit your royal
highness."