A RETICENT GENTLEMAN--AND MISS BANCROFT
With only the one aim of getting to harbor by hook or crook, Nancy, her
cheeks burning with shyness, edged her way along the wall. She would
not have felt half so much alone if she had been dropped into the
middle of the Sahara desert, and, while her little feet tingled with
the rhythm of the music, she surrendered herself to the unhappy
conviction that she was doomed to be a wall-flower.
She did not know these people; she felt as if she could never know
them. Everything in their manner, their speech and their dress
suggested a foreignness to her own nature that could never be bridged,
unless she herself changed and became another being. It was something
that she could not define, this difference; it was simply something
that grew out of a different way of thinking and feeling about life.
All these people seemed to make pleasure their business, the most
important purpose of their existence, and this attitude, expressed in
the very way that the girls carried themselves, in the tones of their
voices, in their light scraps of inconsequential and not very clever
talk, made her feel strange beyond description.
She stood near a group of palms under the arch of the staircase,
watching the faces all about her, longing one minute to be at home,
curled up with a book on her shabby, comfortable window-seat, and the
next, that she might be drawn into the centre of all that bubbling,
companionable enjoyment. Now she caught a glimpse of Alma, who was
standing near the door of the dancing-room, bantering and coquetting
with a little cluster of youths who had gathered about her, heaven
knows where from or how, like flies about a jar of new honey; it was
plainly Alma's natural environment, in which she revelled like a joyous
young fish in a sunny pool.
"So that pretty little creature is George Prescott's daughter?" The
question, spoken in a rather deep and penetrating voice, carried
clearly to Nancy's ears, and she turned. At a little distance from
her, seated on a small couch, sat Mrs. Porterbridge, a lean woman with
a tight-lipped, aquiline face, and painfully thin neck and arms, and
the old lady who had put the question. A quite remarkable-looking old
lady, Nancy thought, enormously fat, dressed in purple velvet, her
huge, dimpled arms and shoulders billowing, out of it, like the whipped
cream on top of some titanic confection. Two small, plump, tapering
hands clasped a handsome feather fan against her almost perpendicular
lap. Two generous chins completely obliterated any outward evidences
of neck, so that her head seemed to have been set upon her shoulders
with the naive simplicity of a dough-man's; yet for all this, one
glance at her keen, intelligent face, with its sleepy, twinkling eyes
and humorous, witty mouth, was enough to assure one that, whoever she
might be, she was not an ordinary old lady by any means. One guessed
at once that she had seen much of the world in her sixty-five or
seventy years, that she had enjoyed every moment of the entertainment,
and that while she probably required everyone else to respect public
opinion, she felt comfortably privileged to disregard it herself
whenever she pleased. She had been busily discussing everyone who
attracted her attention, disdaining to lower her sonorous voice or to
conceal in any way the fact that she was gossiping briskly. Young and
old alike hastened up to her to pay their respects, and it was evident
from their manner of eager deference that she was a rather important
old person, whose keen and fearless tongue made her good opinion worth
gaining.
At present she had centred her lively interest upon Alma, and Nancy
could not resist the temptation of listening to her remarks, especially
since the old lady was obviously perfectly willing to let anyone and
everyone hear her who might have reason to listen.
"That is little Alma Prescott," Mrs. Porterbridge was replying. "She
is charmingly pretty, isn't she?"
"The image of her mother. Tell me something about them. It's
ridiculous, isn't it, how we can live for years within a stone's throw
of our neighbors without ever knowing whether their Sunday clothes are
made of silk or calico. George Prescott used to be my particular
favorite, when he was a youngster. I remember when he married that
empty-pated little beauty--I gave him tons of my choicest advice--was
absolutely prodigal of my finest gems of wisdom; but when I saw
her--well, I knew very well that there would be ups and downs--she
should have married an Indian nabob--but, thought I, I might as well
shout to the north wind to be placid as to tell him to give her up and
find himself some sensible, excellent creature, who could mend his
socks and turn his old suits for him. He would rather have lived on
burnt potatoes and bacon, with that charming little spendthrift, than
have enjoyed all the blessings of good housekeeping at the hands of the
most estimable creature we could have found for him. I do like that
spirit in a young man, however much my excellent common sense may
disapprove of it.
"I saw nothing of George after his marriage. I was too fond of him to
stand around offering advice, when he couldn't possibly make any use of
it. I should probably have lost my temper just as Tom Prescott
did--and I cannot endure to be in such a ridiculous position. I had a
notion that Lallie Prescott didn't live here any more."
"I believe that the family suffers rather keen financial difficulties,"
said Mrs. Porterbridge. "The girls go out very little--are quite
isolated, in fact."
"You mean that they are hard up--don't use those genteel euphemisms, my
dear,--I can't understand 'em.
"I'm sorry. It was inevitable, of course, but I'm one of the few
beings that sincerely regret seeing other people reaping what they've
sown. I've always avoided my own deserts so successfully." Her big,
jolly laugh rang out at this. "There are two girls, I remember. Both
pretty?"
"Yes, indeed," replied Mrs. Porterbridge, in the unenthusiastic tone
with which the mother of a rather plain daughter will praise the beauty
of another woman's daughter.
"Hum. Well, that's distinctly _something_. I really couldn't work up
any heartfelt interest in them if they were ugly--though, of course, I
understand that beauty is only skin deep, and handsome is as handsome
does, and all that--whoever invented those saws must have been
unbearably ugly--I've always suspected that it was some plain, jealous
old wife of King Solomon who got very philosophical in her old age.
Now, I'd really like to know what little Lallie Prescott is going to do
with them."
Mrs. Porterbridge gave a dry, affected little laugh, looking at Alma,
who was waltzing again with the obviously infatuated Frank Barrows.
"Well, I imagine that she is going to do all that she can to marry them
off as advantageously as possible, and I dare say that both of them----"
"Now, don't say anything cattish, my dear," interrupted the old lady,
quite sharply, a sudden coldness routing the twinkle in her merry eyes.
"I always know when you are going to say something that will annoy me,
and nothing annoys me more than to hear an older woman say anything
unkind about a young girl. I tell you this because I'm sure that you
don't want to make me angry. If you are trying to tell me that Lallie
Prescott is a schemer in regard to the future of her two daughters,
why, I should be very much surprised to learn anything else. We are
all schemers for our children--and just as in love and war, we consider
everything fair so long as it works for their advantage. But----"
Nancy, her cheeks burning, heard no more. In a last desperate effort
at escape, she turned and fled unseen through the nearest doorway.
At first she did not realize where she was; then she discovered that
she had chanced upon a veritable haven of refuge, a large, quiet room,
cosily lighted by a reading-lamp, furnished with huge, paternal-looking
armchairs and divans, and lined on three of its walls from floor to
ceiling with whole regiments of books. The fourth wall was monopolized
by a great stone fireplace, where three or four tree-trunks smouldered
softly, popping every now and then into small explosions of ruddy
sparks. The smell of leather, of wood smoke, and even the delicate
musty smell of the rich, yellowed paper of old books mingled with the
hazy fragrance of a Turkish cigarette. Nancy was too much concerned
with her own thoughts to wonder where the source of that comfortable
aroma oL tobacco lay--it was to her just a part of the atmosphere of
books and quiet and leather chairs which she always associated with her
memories of her father. Revelling in the sensation of being alone, as
she blissfully fancied herself to be, she wandered about looking at the
titles of the books, now and again taking down a volume and turning the
leaves. Here she chanced upon a delightful old edition of "Pickwick
Papers," bound in worn leather, there a copy of the "Vicar of
Wakefield," with yellowed pages, and quaint, old-fashioned print, and
the sight of these old friends, associated as they were with the
happiest and most tranquil hours of her life, soothed to a certain
extent her feelings which had been cruelly wounded by the conversation
she had overheard.
But she was still sore and angry. Still holding the "Vicar of
Wakefield" in her hand, she stood, staring absently into the fire.
"So that's what people will be saying about us--that we are pushing and
scheming, and--and trying to make friends just to use them for our
advantage," she thought bitterly, recalling Mrs. Porterbridge's
unfriendly little insinuation.
Sensitive and proud as she was, that unfinished remark, made in the
cold, hard tone of a woman who, judging the whole world by herself,
credited everyone alike with self-interested and worldly motives, had
inflicted a wound that would be long in healing. It was not indeed on
her own account that she resented it so bitterly, but because of her
mother and Alma, whose actions, she knew, could be so misinterpreted
and ascribed to quite false motives. She knew, too, less by experience
than by instinct, that beneath all the pleasures and gaiety which Alma
craved so eagerly, would flow that bitter undercurrent of cynical
comment made by people who had so long been self-seeking that they
could not believe in the artlessness of a young girl's simple thirst
for enjoyment.
Busy with these thoughts, a little strange and mature perhaps for her
age, she was quite unconscious of two interesting facts. First, that
from an armchair just beyond the radius of the lamplight, the source of
the cigarette smoke was regarding her with mingled astonishment and
approval, and, second, that she herself was making a very charming
picture as she stood in the deep, mellow glow of the firelight.
A small man, with a kind, whimsical, clever face, was looking at her
with a pair of singularly bright brown eyes--eyes which had the direct,
unwavering, gentle gaze of a person who has the gift of reading the
meaning of faces and expressions to which others are blind. Indeed, so
clearly had he guessed the trend of the thoughts which underlay the
seriousness of Nancy's sensitive face, that he felt almost like an
eavesdropper. Suddenly she jerked her head and saw him. He stood up.
"I--I beg your pardon," he apologized, still with the sensation of
having heard something that had not been meant for his ears. "You
didn't know I was here, and I was rather at a loss as to how I should
break it to you."
Nancy had flushed to the edge of her hair.
"That--that's all right," she stammered. "I--I mean, I should
apologize to you. You were reading." She began to move away toward
the door again, but he stopped her hastily.
"You mustn't go, and you mustn't for a moment think you've disturbed
me. I haven't any business to be in here anyway, because I think I was
invited to entertain and be entertained like any respectable guest. I
don't know what they do to unmannerly, unsociable creatures who sneak
off for a book and a smoke from the scenes of revelry, but I'm guilty,
and deserve to die the death, or whatever it is."
Nancy laughed. When he talked he had a droll way of wrinkling up his
forehead, and then suddenly breaking into a beaming, mischievous grin,
like a schoolboy.
"I'm guilty, too."
"Yes,--and really ever so much more so than I am; because you're
deliberately robbing at least ninety-nine per cent. of the guests of a
part of their evening's pleasure, whereas, my absence is of so little
importance one way or the other that, although I've been in here the
better part of an hour already, there hasn't been even a whimper of
protest. It's been decidedly injurious to my _amour-propre_. I had
hoped, when you came in, that you had been sent by the unanimous vote
of all present to request my immediate return to the regions of
festivity. I was prepared to be coy--but not adamantine. Imagine my
chagrin and dismay when it gradually dawned on me not only that you
hadn't come for any such flattering purpose, but even that you hadn't
the smallest notion I was here. As far as you were concerned I was of
less significance than a cockroach."
"But that's not bad--a cockroach would be of awful significance to me,"
said Nancy, with a laugh.
"We have caught each other red-handed in an overwhelming breach of
manners," continued he, severely. "But then, look at it this way--here
we are, each having a good time in our own way. Now it seems to me
that a hostess could ask no more of a guest than that he find his own
entertainment--if he seeks it by ambling out into the garden to weed up
wild onions, why, well and good----"
"You are only trying to dazzle me with a false argument in
self-defense," said Nancy.
"You should be grateful to me for furnishing such a good one, since
you've need of one yourself, ma'am. But if you don't like it, why then
I shall change my mind. As a matter of fact, the idea of dancing has
suddenly appealed to me very strongly--since Providence has at last
provided me with a--well, with a more delightful partner than I should
have dared to hope for. And they are playing a very charming waltz.
Will you dance with me?"
He made a graceful little old-fashioned bow, and offered her his arm.
Then he smiled.
"I--I haven't introduced myself yet. Do you mind? I should have done
it in the beginning, but I couldn't think of any graceful way of
hinting at my name, and it's so horribly clumsy just to say pointblank,
'My name's George Arnold. What's yours?'"
"But there isn't any other way," answered Nancy, a little shyly, but
laughing, too, "unless we both go to Mrs. Porterbridge and ask her to
introduce us. My name is Nancy--Anne Prescott."
"There now--it's perfectly simple, isn't it? I never could understand
why there should be any formal to-do about telling two people each
other's names. Do you know, the very minute you came in--perhaps it
was from the way you looked at those dear old books--I felt as
if--well, as if we ought to be friends. You are fond of them, aren't
you--of books--really fond of them?"
"I love those old, shabby ones. They--they looked so very friendly."
He stole a keen glance at her face, and smiled gently at what it told
him. Then, as she clung to his arm, he guided her dexterously through
the crowd to the dancing floor.
After that first dance the whole evening changed for Nancy. She had
half doubted that her companion would be a good dancer, but in two
moments that doubt was routed. Gliding smoothly, weightlessly as if to
the gentle rhythm of a wave, they circled through the moving swarm of
dancers; Nancy's cheeks flushing like two poppies and her eyes
glistening with the exhilaration of the music. Her timidity had left
her; she felt warm, vivacious and attractive, and it seemed perfectly
natural that after that first waltz she had partners for every dance.
Mr. Arnold danced with no one else. When other partners claimed her,
he retired to the doorway, and stood with his arms folded, surveying
the scene with his whimsical, absent-minded smile; but evidently he
regarded it as his right to have each waltz with her.
"My aunt has ordered me to present you to her," he said, when he had at
length led her into a corner for an ice, and a moment's chat. "For
some reason she has evidently taken a great fancy to you at sight, and
she is giving me no peace. She is a very peremptory and badly spoiled
old lady, but it's impossible to resist her. I told her that she might
frighten you to death, and that then you'd blame me."
"You _didn't_!" cried Nancy, horrified.
"Indeed I did. I've had the experience before--and I told her that I'd
be hanged if I assumed the responsibility of surrendering any
unsuspecting person into her clutches without giving them fair warning.
But, seriously, she is a very dear lady,--though an eccentric one--and
she has been saying extremely nice things about you. Besides--she
asked me to tell you that she knew your father, and that _she_ loved
him long before _you_ were born."
Something in his softened, gentle tone went to Nancy's heart. She put
down her ice.
"Will you take me now? I think I know--I mean I've seen your aunt
already."
"She is a very remarkable person. She can be more terrifying--and more
tender, than any woman in the world. Utterly fearless, something of a
tyrant--possibly because she has never been denied anything she wanted
in her life. She simply doesn't accept denials. If she had been a man
she might have been a Pitt, or a Napoleon. As she is, she is a mixture
of Queen Elizabeth--and Queen Victoria."
The amazing individual, described by this brief biographical preface,
who was still enthroned on the coquettish little French couch, and who
was now consuming a pink ice with naive relish, was indeed the old lady
in purple--otherwise, Miss Elizabeth Bancroft, of Lowry House (for some
reason she had always been given this somewhat English style of
designation; possibly because she was the last of her name to be
identified with the magnificent collections for which Lowry House, the
American roof-tree of aristocratic English colonists, had been famous
for more than a hundred years).
As Nancy stood before her, she looked up at the girl keenly, her little
blue eyes diminished in size by the thick lenses of her pince-nez.
Then she handed her ice to Mr. Arnold without even glancing at him, and
held out both her plump white hands to Nancy. Her whole face softened,
with the dimpling, comfortable smile of a motherly old nurse.
"Oh, my dear child--if you were only a boy I could believe you were
George again--my George, your father--not this young rascal. Come, sit
down beside me. I shan't keep you long. Have you been having a good
time, my dear?"
She was not a terrible old lady at all. On the contrary, with
wonderful skill, with cosy, affectionate little ways, with her jolly
laugh, and her droll stories, she had succeeded in less time than it
takes to tell in completely winning Nancy to her. And somehow,
although she appeared to be doing all the talking herself, although she
touched so lightly and so adroitly that she hardly seemed to touch at
all on any topic that was delicately personal to the girl, she had
managed within a brief five minutes to glean a hundred little facts,
which, by piecing together in her keen old mind, gave her more
knowledge concerning the Prescotts than another person could have come
by in a week's diligent pumping.
"George, my dear----"
"Yes, Aunt Eliza."
"Oh, nothing. I wish to goodness you were a woman. It just occurred
to me that you can't possibly understand what I was going to say to
you, so never mind about listening to me. Smoke, if you want to, and
let me think in peace."
"Very well." From Mr. Arnold's docile submissiveness it might be
surmised that he, too, wanted to think in peace. Miss Bancroft's
lumbering, impressive coupe rumbled along over the wet roads toward
Lowry House; its two occupants buried in that mood of silence which
only two very sympathetic beings know how to respect. Presently Miss
Bancroft burst out:
"The child is quite charming. I shall give Tom a good sound piece of
my mind. To-morrow."
George Arnold grunted.
"It's only fair sportsmanship to give him twelve hours' warning."
"Poor Lallie Prescott. Like most silly women, she's going to try to
beat Providence by pushing them forward into premature rivalry with
girls who have every financial advantage over them, ruin their
contentment, so that they will be ready to fling away their happiness
on the first little whippersnapper who looks as if he could give them a
trip to Paris and a season in Cannes every year. I admire her fighting
spirit, but it's hopelessly misdirected."
"Am I meant to understand you, Aunt Eliza?"
"No. Don't even listen to me. Nancy has too much sense for a girl of
her age, and that exquisite little Alma has none. Tut-tut. I find
that I must interfere."