Kitty was as good as her word and telephoned her cousin the address of
Mademoiselle Mariposa that evening,--a fact that rather surprised Hayden,
as he had a sort of indefinable idea that she would conveniently forget
her promise.
On his part, he lost no time in seeking the Mariposa, calling at her
apartment the next morning, only to be informed by a particularly trim
and discreet maid that her mistress received no one save by appointment.
Therefore, bowing to the inevitable with what philosophy he could summon,
he went home and wrote a note to the seeress, requesting an early
interview and signing an assumed name. He was gratified to receive an
answer, dictated, the next morning in which Mademoiselle Mariposa stated
that she would be pleased to receive him at three o'clock in the
afternoon, on the following Thursday. Thursday, and this was Tuesday. Two
days farther away than he desired, but there was nothing to do but curb
his impatience, and he set about occupying his mind and incidentally his
time until Thursday.
Fortunately, he discovered in glancing over his list of engagements that
a number of events dovetailed admirably, thus filling up the hours, and
among them was Edith Symmes' luncheon on Wednesday. He heaved a sigh of
relief that there were enough things on hand to give time wings, even if
artificial ones, when it seemed bent on perversely dragging leaden feet
along the ground. In consequence he betook himself to Mrs. Symmes' house
on Wednesday with more eagerness than he would otherwise have shown had
he not regarded her luncheon as a time-chaser.
Mrs. Symmes had been early widowed. Her experience of married life
included a bare two years, her husband living a twelve-month longer than
the friends of both had predicted. He was, so it was rumored, a charming
fellow of rare artistic taste and discrimination, a dilettante, and a
connoisseur of all things beautiful. So sensitively was he organized that
inharmonies or discords of color, or any lack of artistic perception
affected him acutely, often to the verge of illness, and always
irritation. Although he permitted his wife no voice in the decoration and
furnishing of either town or country house, almost desperately withheld
it from her in fact, he could not control or even influence her taste in
dress, and there were those who did not hesitate to whisper that Edith's
costumes alone were quite sufficient to have caused his death.
After that event, Mrs. Symmes endured the low-toned harmonies of her
husband's faultless taste for six months, and then declaring her
environment depressing to her spirits, she refurnished the house from
garret to cellar, perpetrating crimes in decoration which made the
horrors of her toilets seem mere peccadillos.
Hayden was soon to realize this, for on arriving at her home on Wednesday
he was shown to a drawing-room large in size but crowded with furniture.
Little tables, chairs, footstools, anything which would serve as a
stumbling-block, seemed to be placed in the direct path of the guest
advancing toward his hostess.
Robert, seeing that it behooved him to walk as delicately as Agag,
reached Mrs. Symmes without misadventure, and after exchanging the usual
light-weight coin of conventional greeting, looked about him for a
familiar face. Most of the people he knew only casually; but presently,
he spied Mrs. Habersham and made his way toward her as rapidly as the
manifold objects in his path permitted.
She was, as usual, in one of the shades of American Beauty, which she so
much affected, and which were admirably suited to her, giving depth and
opulence, the rich restfulness of color to her too sharply defined and
restless beauty. Upon her breast was her silver butterfly and the
enameled chains were about her throat.
"I have walked twice across this room," said Hayden triumphantly, after
shaking hands with her, "and I haven't fallen once. If I came here often
I should bring an ax, notch the furniture and then clear a path. There
goes some one!" as a heavy stumble was heard. "I did better than that."
"Don't boast. Remember that it's the wicked who stand in slippery
places," said Bea, with meaning. "But indeed, I am glad you got here.
There is some distorted, goggle-eyed Chinese monster at my elbow, and on
the table before me is an ornament which chills the marrow of my bones. I
dare not look up."
Hayden gazed bravely about him. "I don't think I ever saw such a hideous
room in my life," he said slowly and with conviction.
"There is only one room in the world uglier," Bea assured him, "and that
is the dining-room; but they do say that the wall-paper in her bed-room
is of a bright scarlet, with large lozenges representing green and blue
parrots swinging in gilded cages."
Hayden laughed and shivered. "It takes strong nerves," he said. "Do you
suppose there are people who come often?"
"Oh, dear me, yes," returned Mrs. Habersham. "One would dine in Inferno
if the food were good. Her table is as perfect as her house and gowns are
dreadful, and then Edith herself is very clever and amusing. Here she
comes."
"The cause of this delay," smiled Mrs. Symmes in passing, "is Mrs. Ames.
I'll give her just one minute more."
Bea smiled perfunctorily, and then turned on Hayden an alarmed face. "I
never would have come to-day--never, if I had fancied she would be
present. She will be sure to launch out on Marcia Oldham before luncheon
is over. She never misses an opportunity. She has a mania on the
subject."
Hayden glanced toward the door with curiosity. "Where is this pepper and
vitriol old dame?" he asked, with elaborate carelessness.
"She has not come yet. Did you not hear Edith say that it is she for whom
we are waiting? You will see her in a moment, though. She is always late;
but she will come, never fear."
Her words were prophetic, for at that moment Mrs. Ames hurried into the
room, a wiry, spare old woman with a small hooked nose and a jaw like a
nut-cracker. The skin of her face was yellow and deeply wrinkled, her
eyes were those of a fierce, untamed bird, and she was gowned--swathed is
the more suitable word--in rusty black with a quantity of dangling
fringes and many jingling chains.
Luncheon was announced immediately after her arrival, and to Hayden's
dismay he found that it was served at small tables and that he was placed
between Mrs. Ames and Mrs. Habersham, with Horace Penfield opposite
smiling in faint satirical glee at the situation.
"I shall never forgive Edith Symmes for this, never," was Bea's indignant
whisper in Hayden's ear. "But just the same, I shall not give that old
witch a chance to air any of her grievances. You'll see. With your help
and cooperation I intend to monopolize the conversation."
Robert hastily assured her that she could depend on him to the limit of
his capacities, and together they seized and held the ball of
conversation, occasionally tossing it from one to the other; but never
permitting it for a moment to fall into either Penfield's or Mrs. Ames'
hands.
Hayden pottered over this incident or that, dawdling through long-winded
tales of travel, and when his recollection or invention flagged Mrs.
Habersham introduced topics so inimical to Mrs. Ames' frequently aired
views that this lady rose passionately to the fray. Woman's Suffrage,
Socialism, the Decline of the Church, Bea, a conservative, flung upon the
table and Mrs. Ames pounced upon them as a dog upon a bone, a radical of
radicals.
Meantime, Horace Penfield had sat enjoying his luncheon with a cool
placidity, and listening with a smile of faint amusement to the arguments
which surged and eddied about him. He looked for the most part
indifferent, although, perhaps, he was only patient.
At last, in an unguarded moment Mrs. Habersham paused for breath, and in
the brief ensuing silence Penfield entered the conversation like a thin
sharp wedge.
"What a fad those butterflies are among you lovely ladies," he said to
Mrs. Habersham. "But yours are paler than most of them, more opaline.
Why?"
"Because I wear red so frequently," she replied indifferently. "The
purple and yellow butterflies would look horrid with my crimson frocks."
"I really think," said Penfield slowly, meeting her eyes with a cool,
blank gaze, "that, saving your presence, Mrs. Habersham, Marcia Oldham
has by far the handsomest set I have seen."
At this red rag, purposely fluttered as Hayden felt before the eyes of
Mrs. Ames, that lady sniffed audibly and tossed her head, emitting at the
same moment a faint, contemptuous cackle.
"Oh, no," Bea assured him with languor, although the scarlet burned in
her cheek. "Marcia's are nothing to compare to Mrs. ----," mentioning the
name of the London actress.
"Oh, I must differ from you." Penfield was suavely positive. "I am
surprised that you should say that, for Miss Oldham's are quite the most
artistic I have seen."
"Naturally Miss Oldham would have the handsomest set in the market,
wouldn't she?" queried Mrs. Ames in what no doubt was intended to be a
tone of innocent inquiry.
"Marcia's taste is very beautiful," said Mrs. Habersham coldly.
"And very extravagant, I understand." Mrs. Ames was started now; there
was no stopping her. "If one wears beautiful things in these days one
must expect to pay for them."
Mrs. Habersham shrugged her shoulders and turning to Hayden asked him
when he had last seen his cousin Kitty Hampton; but Mrs. Ames' cracked
voice rose above their low tones.
"I wish some one would explain to me--perhaps you can, Mr. Penfield--just
how a young woman who hasn't a penny to her name can afford a superb
necklace. Such things could not have occurred in my young days; but
different times, different manners. Humph!"
Before Penfield could reply, Bea Habersham leaned across the table and
addressed her clearly: "It seems to me that such imaginary and absurd
behavior would be considered as reprehensible to-day as in the remote era
you mention."
Mrs. Ames held her lorgnon to her eyes with one withered, yellow hand,
each finger covered to the swollen knuckles with diamonds dim with dust,
then she dropped it in her lap with another dry cackle and said with a
complete change of tone, as if reverting to some new topic of
conversation:
"Mr. Penfield was speaking of your friend, Miss Oldham, a moment or two
ago, Mrs. Habersham. Perhaps you will be able to tell me the identity of
the rather elderly, ordinary-looking man with whom I have seen her
several times lately?"
It seemed to Hayden that Bea's face grew a shade paler, but his momentary
apprehension gave way to a swift admiration for her poise, the casual and
careless indifference with which she answered:
"I am sure I can't imagine, Mrs. Ames. Marcia has many friends, more I
fancy than you dream of." He also felt a swift longing to take Horace
Penfield by the scruff of his thin, craning neck and drop him from the
window instead of permitting him to sit there calmly sipping his liqueur
with that faint, amused smile as of gratified malice about his lips.
Then he drew a breath of relief. Every one was rising.
"You were magnificent," he whispered as he drew aside for Bea to pass.
She smiled gratefully at him. "Thank goodness, it's to be bridge now and
not conversation."
A few minutes later they were all seated at the card-tables and except
for the occasional low-toned voicing of the conventions of the game, a
grateful silence reigned.
But at the close of the afternoon, just as they were leaving, Bea asked
Hayden if he would not drive down-town with her and let her drop him at
his apartment. He accepted gladly, hoping in the brief intimacy of the
drive homeward together that she would speak of Marcia.
But for a season, Mrs. Habersham cared only to discuss the scene they had
just left; the fortunes of the game; the excellencies of this player, the
atrocities of that; the eccentricities of their hostess and her
apparently ineradicable passion for ugliness.
"It is true," she assured him, "about the red paper and the green and
blue parrots in gilt cages; a woman who has seen it swore upon her
honor."
They had by this time turned into the Park, and Bea leaned forward to
inhale the fresher air. Night was falling fast; the spreading
lawn-spaces, the dense shrubbery, the irregularly disposed trees were no
longer distinct, but melted together, indistinguishable and unfeatured
blurs in the deepening twilight.
Bea drooped her brow on her hand and sat in silence for a few moments.
Then she turned to Hayden, her lips compressed, her hands clasped tightly
together.
"Isn't it awful! Isn't it dreadful!" she cried. "To think of that old
witch of Endor saying all those horrible untrue things about poor lovely
Marcia, and worse, spreading them broadcast?"
Hayden lifted his chin in quick determination. "Mrs. Habersham, I can not
be ignorant of what you refer to. I have, to my annoyance"--he hesitated
and then deliberately chose another word--"to my pain, heard various
hints and innuendoes before of the same kind. Now, why is this? Just
malice, envy, jealousy? Why"--his indignation vibrated through his
voice--"should one so lovely, so above reproach, as Miss Oldham, be the
victim of that sort of thing?"
"Because," said Bea bitterly, "Marcia attends strictly to her own
business and does not request any advice or permit any interference. Oh,
Mr. Hayden, it is useless to tell you what a dear she is. I know from
what you have just said that you do, you must admire her. No one could
help it," she added, with a simple and loyal conviction. "So you may
understand how difficult it is for us who love her, for the very few of
us who are in some measure in her confidence, to have to accept the fact
that there are certain things in her life which appear odd, which are
not--" She broke off, looking at him uncertainly.
"Mrs. Habersham--" Hayden had turned about in his seat so that he could
gaze more directly at her, and now, although his face had grown pale, he
smiled down upon her his charming smile. "Mrs. Habersham, let me go
further and tell you that I have never met a woman in my life toward whom
I have felt as I do toward Miss Oldham. Why not put it frankly and tell
you the exact truth? I love her."
Bea's eyes brightened delightedly and then grew a little sad. "I
suspected as much," she said gently, "and yet, I hardly knew whether you
had the courage or not. Now," impulsively moving nearer to him, "I will
be as frank as you have been. Nothing in all the world, nothing would
please me half so much as for you and Marcia to love each other. I don't
know you awfully well, Mr. Hayden, and yet," she laughed, "I do in a way.
True, we have only met a few times; but for many years I have been well
acquainted with Kitty's 'Bobby,' But," and her dark eyes smiled on him
with a soft shining in their depths, "I think that just now when there is
all this unkind whispering it is a beautiful and courageous thing for you
to love Marcia, and I want to assure you that all the support I can give
to your cause is yours."
Her ungloved hand lay on her knee, and Hayden lifted it and lightly
kissed it. "Dear lady," he began, his voice a little broken.
"Oh, wait!" She lifted the same hand in admonition. "My support may not
amount to anything. Reserve your gratitude. Marcia is extremely reticent
about her own affairs, but, nevertheless, I can give you a crumb of
comfort. No matter what every one says, I am sure that she and Wilfred
Ames are not engaged and that she does not begin to see as much of him as
people think; and I do know"--again her voice was shaken with
indignation--"that there wouldn't begin to be as much of this unpleasant
talk if it were not for his mother's wicked, frantic fears. Why, what
does she wish? She might be glad, proud to have such a daughter-in-law as
Marcia. Oh, Mr. Hayden, I can't talk about it. It makes me too angry."
"Mrs. Habersham"--Hayden spoke with that quiet, forceful determination
which was under all his impulses the real key-note of his character--"I
desire nothing so much in the world as to be of assistance to Miss
Oldham. Can't we"--his smile had never been more winning--"can't we clear
away these cobwebs of mystery which surround her?"
"Ah," cried Bea Habersham, tears in her eyes, "we who love her all long
to do that."
"Then you will help me?"
"Oh, you give me hope that it is a possibility," with one of her radiant
changes of mood. "But," and she fell again into depression, "I can not
help you. You must do it all, all yourself."