A FACE IN THE GLASS
Shortly before one o'clock the chiming gong for luncheon resounded
pleasantly through the big house and Mrs. Baxter, with thoughtful
consideration, came to the library for Betty, who, owing to her
secluded dinner the evening before and her breakfast in bed, had not
yet met the relatives.
"Don't you think, my dear," began Eleanor, "that we had better stop
this foolishness before it goes any farther? Really, now?"
"It's not foolishness, it's very far from foolishness," declared the
girl. "You promised to respect my wishes, Mrs. Baxter." Her eyes
were so serious that the other yielded forthwith and, leading the way
to the dining room, presented Mr. Baxter's new secretary, Miss
Thompson, to the assembled guests; and, suddenly, by their
indifferent civility, Betty realized how, by a word, she had reduced
her importance in the world of Ipping House to about that of a
nursery governess.
Very much on her dignity, the new secretary began her meal, seated
between Harriet Merle and Lionel Fitz-Brown and directly opposite the
Countess Clendennin, whom she studied with alert feminine interest,
partly because Kate was obviously a pretty woman of the dashing,
showy kind that all other women regard as natural enemies (especially
if they happen to be widows under thirty) and chiefly because the
countess had Bob Baxter on her right and seemed disposed to make the
most of this proximity. "She isn't losing any time," thought Betty,
giving Lionel the "listening look," while she noted the breezy
unconcern of Kate Clendennin's attack. "She'll be calling him 'old
top' in another minute," she said to herself, and Kate, in the next
breath, actually did say "my dear boy." Betty laughed aloud, causing
Lionel to beam with the happy consciousness of having scored a hit.
Some deprecating references to a Hollandaise sauce served with the
turbot drew from Eleanor an apology for the inefficiency of a new
cook. There was trouble in the kitchen, she explained, owing to the
fact that Mr. Baxter had discharged the housekeeper, Mrs. Edge. This
was the first thing he had done the previous evening. He thought
Mrs. Edge extravagant and no doubt she was, and, of course, Mr.
Baxter must do as he thought best, but it did seem a pity to upset
the household.
This indication of Hiram's attitude toward extravagance cast a
momentary gloom over the company, which was dissipated by the
countess, who pointed out amusingly, and with surprising culinary
knowledge, exactly what was wrong with the Hollandaise and added that
the late count, her husband, had been an invalid for years before his
death, during which time Kate had personally seen to the preparation
of his meals.
"I say, Miss Thompson," chuckled Fitz-Brown, in a whisper, "she
probably poisoned the old boy. Eh, what?" This genial fancy threw
the gentleman into a paroxysm of suppressed laughter.
Betty turned to scrutinize her neighbor and the sight of his jolly,
wholesome countenance, as he put forth this singular suggestion,
brought her back to complete good humor. England has produced
various types of great men, great fighters on land and sea, great
writers, great orators, and so have other countries, but England has
undisputed preëminence in one variety of masculine product, that is
the amiable, monocled, haw-haw, dear old chap, well-meaning, silly
ass creation that blooms extensively in London clubs and
drawing-rooms.
Such was Lionel Fitz-Brown, who had not been at Betty's side for five
minutes before he had given her detailed information as to his dear
old uncle in Upper Tooting, who had the title, don't you know, that
would come to him one of these days if something would only happen to
his cousin in Wormwood Scrubs, who stood between and was disgustingly
healthy.
"Can't you get him to go in for flying machines?" suggested Betty
mirthfully.
"I say! that's an idea, Miss Thompson," exclaimed Lionel, readjusting
his eyeglass. "By Jove, that's an idea! What an awfully jolly thing
if I could get one of those airmen or birdmen to give my uncle a few
lessons!" And again he burst into roars of laughter.
Betty's attention was now drawn to some remarks of Harriet Merle
touching the Progressive Mothers' bazaar that was to be opened this
afternoon in St. Timothy's parish house. Harriet dwelt with pride on
the fact that her husband, the Reverend Horatio, was to deliver the
address. The Reverend Horatio, she said, was at present resting in
his room in preparation for his oratorical flights and Harriet would
bring him up a light luncheon on a tray. Horatio found it necessary
to be very abstemious at these periods of intense mental
concentration.
At which Lionel again exploded softly for Betty's particular benefit.
"Haw, haw, haw! I'll tell you about this intellectual
concentration," he confided. "There's a jolly good reason why the
Reverend Horatio isn't sittin' in that chair next to the countess
puttin' down this beastly sauce and all the rest of it."
"Tell me," laughed Betty.
"Bend over so she can't hear. Now! It's because she jolly well
locks Horatio in his room and leaves him there until he gets his work
done."
Betty's eyes danced. "Doesn't he like to work?" she whispered.
"Like to work! Why, Mrs. Horatio nailed up the blinds yesterday in
the Reverend Horatio's room so he couldn't climb out through the
window. Haw, haw, haw! Intense intellectual cat!"
Whether this last was meant as a slur on Harriet or a compliment to
Martin Luther Betty never discovered, for at this moment the luncheon
came to an end with a murmur of talk as to afternoon plans. The
countess, having flashed her fascinations on young Baxter, now
carried him off with a suggestion of cigarettes. Mrs. Baxter
proposed a drive and offered to drop the Merles at St. Timothy's,
which offer Harriet accepted for herself alone, explaining that the
walk would do Horatio good and would allow him to continue his
oratorical meditations uninterrupted. This proved to be an
unfortunate decision.
Betty returned to her work in the library, where she was glad to be
alone, away from the chatter and the trivialities, alone with her
thoughts; yet not alone, for every corner of this great room seemed
alive with memories of the morning, memories of him. What a very
great difference a few hours had made! How extraordinary that this
vigorous young American, whom she had not seen for years, should have
suddenly--without intending to do it, without dreaming that he had
done it--should have--well, what had he done? What was the truth
about her feeling for this playmate of her childhood, Bob Baxter?
Does a woman ever admit, even to herself, that a man has won her
heart until she has good reason to believe that she has won his?
Does a pretty woman, a young and charming woman, ever admit such a
thing? Probably not, and Betty was no exception to this rule of
feminine reserve. But there were two significant indications in her
thoughts, one that she did not in the least enjoy the Countess Kate's
flirtatious tendencies with Bob and the other a decision that now she
could not break her incognito, even if she would. Her pride forbade
it. To let Bob know that she was his old friend, Betty Thompson,
would be a confession of weakness, as if she admitted that she was
not charming or pretty enough to attract him simply as Miss Thompson.
No, decidedly she would not tell him.
Betty had just arrived at this self-respecting conclusion when there
came a step outside and the curate entered.
"I beg your pardon," he began timidly. "I am the Reverend Horatio
Merle, one of the relatives. I believe you are Miss Thompson, the
new secretary?"
"Yes," said Betty.
Horatio consulted his watch and paused as if making an arithmetical
calculation.
"Let me see, the bazaar opens at half past three. My watch says five
minutes past three, which means that it is really a quarter past two.
I like to keep my watch fifty-five minutes ahead of time, Miss
Thompson," he explained, with a bright smile.
"Why not an hour ahead?" she laughed.
"No, no! An hour would be too much. Fifty-five minutes gives me
exactly time to dress and shave and--I beg your pardon for going into
these details. The point is I had just started for the bazaar--you
see I like to go leisurely--and I was passing the lodge when I met a
young woman, a fellow country-woman of yours--my wife mentioned to
me, Miss Thompson, that you are an American?"
"Yes, I'm an American."
"Ah! Very fortunate! Extremely fortunate!" He stood twisting his
long fingers together in great satisfaction. "The young woman I
speak of is also an American, a most deserving person, but--er--she
has met with reverses and--er--Mrs. Baxter has been kind enough to
let her stay at the lodge and do what she can to--er--assist."
"I see," nodded the girl.
"Her name is Hester Storm, and, as she naturally feels lonely here,
being an American, I thought that you would speak to her
and--er--perhaps encourage her?"
"Of course I would."
"I may add that Miss Storm rendered me an important service the other
day when I was sore beset in--er--I'll explain that later on. She is
outside now, in fact, she seems anxious to meet you and--er--may I?"
"Certainly," said Betty, with cordial sympathy and following the
curate toward the conservatory she made out the figure of a woman in
a red cloak, a strangely familiar red cloak, sharply contrasted
against the foliage, and as the woman turned and came forward Betty
saw, with a start of recognition, that it was her companion on the
train, Jenny Regan.
"This is the young woman--Miss Hester Storm," said the curate.
"Miss Hester Storm?" repeated Betty, in surprise, while the other
threw her a beseeching glance for silence.
"Yes. An interesting name, is it not?" chattered Merle, quite
oblivious to the rapid pantomime that was passing between the two
women. "She has been traveling with a Russian princess, but the
princess drank--it was very unfortunate and--Hester will tell you
about it--won't you, my dear?"
"I'll tell her all about it," answered the dark-eyed girl, and she
managed, with the pleading of her eyes, to give the words a double
meaning.
This being arranged, Horatio took a hurried departure, announcing
that he must have time to compose his mind before the Progressive
Mothers' address.
"Well?" questioned Betty, when the two women were alone.
"Don't blame me, Miss Thompson, until you've heard what I have to
say," begged Hester.
"He called you Hester Storm."
"I know, but----"
"Your name is Jenny Regan--isn't it?"
"Please let me speak. I couldn't give my real name--after what
happened on the train. It's been printed in the papers and--don't
you see, nobody here would have trusted me? It's terrible to be
suspected of a thing when--when you're innocent."
Betty pondered this. "I suppose that is true," she agreed, and
Hester breathed more easily. At least she was to have a chance to
tell her story, some story, and her inventive faculties had never
failed her yet. It was a pity if she couldn't cook up a tale that
would satisfy this rich girl's curiosity without arousing her
suspicion.
"You want to know how I happen to be here?" anticipated Hester.
Betty admitted that she would like to know this and straightway the
other began her extemporization, the general lines of which, it must
be said, had been planned in advance, for she realized that her
benefactress was no fool. It was simply a plausible continuation of
her hard luck story as outlined on the train, with a vivid insistence
on the shock she had suffered through being unjustly suspected. This
was the last straw and it had broken her spirit. No one would
believe in her or help her, and she hadn't the courage to struggle
any longer. She didn't care what happened to her, she didn't want to
live and--just as she was in this wicked spirit, she had thought of
Betty, and it had seemed as if she heard a voice telling her to go to
this gentle lady who had befriended her and--trusted her and----
At this point, as Hester was working up to an effective climax of
sighs and tears, Parker entered and addressed Betty in his most
haughty manner.
"Mr. Robert Baxter gave me these 'ere letters. He said I was to give
'em to the new secretary."
"Very well," said Betty, and she took the papers, while the dark girl
stared in amazement. The tables were suddenly turned.
"The new secretary?" questioned Hester, when the butler had gone.
"He called you the new secretary?" Her eyes were on Betty steadily
now, and they were no longer pleading, submissive eyes, but had
suddenly become hard and suspicious.
"Why--er--I can explain that," Betty hesitated.
Hester nodded shrewdly. "It'll take a lot of explaining, if you ask
me. On the level, are you a lady or--what?"
"I've been doing Mr. Baxter's secretarial work----"
She felt the color flaming in her cheeks under Hester's bold
scrutiny. "It's a--a sort of a joke."
"A joke? You pound that typewriter--for a joke?"
"Why--er--I do it to help Mr. Baxter."
Hester studied Betty silently, then, in a cold, even tone, "Say,
lady, you'll have to show me. I'm in bad myself and--I want to know
about you. Ain't this Mr. Baxter that you're tryin' to help, ain't
he a rich man?"
"Yes, but--Mr. Baxter has had losses in business and--he has enemies
and---- Oh, you wouldn't understand! You can't understand!"
Hester turned away and walked toward the conservatory. She must
think. After all it was none of her business why Elizabeth Thompson
was doing Baxter's secretary work. Hester was at Ipping House for
the golf bag and for nothing else, and straightway she returned to
her original plan of propitiating Miss Thompson and thus establishing
herself in the Baxter household.
"All right, lady," she said, softening her tone, "I'll take your word
for it, but--if you've had troubles yourself you know how I feel
and--all I ask is a chance to work and--make a living."
"What kind of work can you do?"
"Sewing, all kinds of sewing and--I can trim hats. I make all my own
things. I made this dress and this cloak."
"Really! I think your cloak is very smart," and Hester reflected
that it might well be, seeing that she had paid five hundred francs
for it on the Rue de la Paix.
"I suppose I could recommend you to Mrs. Baxter and the other
ladies," hesitated Betty, "for sewing and mending, only--there's our
meeting on the train--it's very awkward."
"Why is it? We don't have to tell them about the train, do we? I'm
here anyway. The Reverend Merle got me here. All I ask you to do is
to let me fix over some dresses and shirtwaists."
"Very well," decided the secretary. "I'll do that."
"Say, will you let me begin right away? Will you? So I can satisfy
that she dragon down at the lodge?"
"Mrs. Pottle?"
Hester nodded, with expressive pantomime indicating the nature of the
dragon. "If that old thing knows I'm sewing for the ladies here
she'll let up on the scrubbing talk. Why should I scrub when I can
sew?"
This sounded reasonable and Betty began to feel that she had been not
quite kind to Hester.
"It's a good time now," she said, with increasing friendliness.
"I've nearly finished this work and, if you don't mind going to my
room, we'll see what we can find."
The Storm girl gave a little gasp of joy. Was there ever anything as
easy as this? Would she mind going to Miss Thompson's room! Would
she mind taking $25,000 on a gold spoon? Oh, dear! Oh, dear!
But she simply answered with a grateful, innocent look, "I'll be glad
to go."
So they climbed the winding stair, Hester thrilling with expectation.
She had no doubt the bishop's purse was still in the golf bag's
depths where she had dropped it, and the golf bag itself was probably
in this very room where they were going; or, if not there, it must be
knocking about in some odd corner or dusty closet, where she would
quickly find it, now that she had the run of the house, and, having
found it----
"Oh!" she cried suddenly and stopped short at the open door, unable
to speak or to move, for there, in plainest sight, resting against a
tall chest of drawers, was the coveted object, the treasure-holding
golf bag.
"What is it?" asked Betty.
"Nothing, lady. I--I was a little out of breath," stammered the
girl, recovering herself quickly. Here was her golden opportunity
and she must not spoil it by any queer behavior.
And now Hester's luck attended her, for not only was Betty quite
oblivious to her protégée's agitation, but, after some perfunctory
wardrobe investigation, she remembered, with misgivings, those
letters that Bob had sent to be copied, and she fell in readily with
an artful suggestion that the sewing girl be left here in the chamber
to repair a torn skirt while Betty descended to her duties in the
library. It really was too easy!
As soon as she was alone Hester moved swiftly toward the golf bag,
then paused and glanced cautiously about her. Every moment was
precious, but she must make no mistakes. A chance like this wouldn't
come twice to a girl and--what was that?
She listened intently, afraid of her own breathing. Silence! It
must have been a creaking timber. Absolute silence! Ah, there was
the typewriter clicking! A good thing Miss Thompson had left the
little door ajar! She could hear any slightest sound from the
library, any step on the stair.
Very carefully Hester lifted the golf bag by its supporting strap.
She remembered how the clubs had rattled that day in Charing Cross
station. They rattled a little now. Should she take them out or try
to reach down into the bag? Better see where the purse was first.
No, she couldn't see. There were too many clubs packed in close
together and--it was all dark--down at the bottom. Perhaps she could
see better by the window or--ah! the electric light! There by the
dressing table! She could hold the bag right under it.
A moment later, with a smothered click, the lamp gave forth its
yellow glare, and, quivering with excitement, Hester looked down
among the clubs. One glance was enough. There at the very bottom,
nestling comfortably between a niblick and a cleek, lay the fat brown
purse held tight in its elastic band, the bishop's purse, with its
incredible hoard of banknotes. The thing was done! The trick was
turned! She had only to lay the bag softly on Betty's bed--there,
and reach her arm in and--what was that?
With a swift, instinctive movement Hester stood the golf bag back in
its corner, then turned slowly, and, as her eyes swept the mirror,
she saw that she was deathly pale. What was that creaking noise? A
step? She strained her ears, but there was no sound save the steady
typewriter murmur from below. Then, still looking in the mirror, she
gazed, fascinated, at a door on the farther side of the chamber, not
the door to the library stair, but another door, a green door, and,
as she looked, this door opened slightly and she saw distinctly the
reflection of a man's face, a man with a slightly twisted nose and a
shock of black hair. He was standing there in the green door staring
at her, and it seemed to Hester that she had seen this man somewhere
before.
[Illustration: "It seemed to Hester that she had seen this man
somewhere before."]