Deena had ample time to get accustomed to the old home life before her
parents returned, for she had already been in charge for two weeks and
still they tarried.
It was evident that young Mr. Beck wished to carry out his aunt's
bequests in the spirit as well as the letter of her instructions, for
trunks of linen and silver began to arrive from Chicago which gave
some idea of the loot obtained from the dismantling of Mrs. Beck's
fine house. The young Sheltons took the keenest interest in unpacking
these treasures. Children are naturally communistic. They enjoy
possessions held in common almost as much as their individual
acquisitions--only in a different way. There is more glorification in
the general good luck, but not such far-reaching privilege.
In the midst of these excitements Deena received a letter the
possession of which no one seemed inclined to dispute with her. It was
from Simeon, posted at Montevideo, and containing the first news of
his voyage. His wife read it in the retirement of her own room, but
she might have proclaimed it from the rostrum, so impersonal was its
nature. He had made an attempt, however, to meet what he conceived to
be feminine requirements in a correspondent, for the handwriting was
neat, and the facts he recorded of an unscientific nature. He
described his cabin in the vessel, also his fellow passengers; not
humorously, but with an appreciation of their peculiarities Deena had
not anticipated; he introduced her to flying fish, and then to the
renowned albatross, and he conducted her up the river Platte to
Montevideo, which he described with the ponderous minuteness of a
guide book. At the end he made a confidence--namely, that even his
summer flannels had proved oppressive in that climate--but the
intimacy of his letter went no further, and he omitted to mention any
personal feelings in regard to their separation.
It was an admirable family letter, instructive and kind, and rather
pleasanter and lighter in tone than his conversation. Deena was glad
that no exhortations to economy made it too private to show to French
when he called that afternoon. She but anticipated his object in
coming. He also had a letter which he had brought for her to read, and
they sat on opposite sides of the fire, enjoying their exchanged
correspondence.
But what a difference there was in the letters; Deena's had three
pages of pretty handwriting; Stephen's six of closely written scrawl.
In Deena's the ideas barely flowed to the ink; in Stephen's they
flowed so fast they couldn't get themselves written down--he used
contractions, he left out whole words; he showed the interest he felt
in the work he left behind in endless questions in regard to his
department; he thanked Stephen more heartily than he had ever done by
word of mouth for suggesting him for the appointment, and finally he
gave such an account of his voyage as one intelligent man gives
another.
Deena recognized her place in her husband's estimation when she
finished his letter to Stephen, and said, with pardonable sarcasm:
"Simeon saves the strong meat of observation for masculine digestion,
and I get only the _hors-d'oeuvres_; perhaps he has discriminated
wisely."
The mere fact of being able to exchange letters with Deena was a
revelation to French, and as he walked home from their interview his
fancy was busy putting himself in Simeon's place. The paths that lead
through another man's kingdom are never very safe for the wandering
feet of imagination. It is an old refrain, "If I were king," the song
of a usurper, if only in thought.
If he were king of Deena Ponsonby's life, Stephen thought, would he
write letters that another chap might read? Would he dwell upon the
shape of an albatross, when there must be memories--beautiful, glowing
memories--between them to recall? Pen and ink was a wretched medium
for love, but the heart of the world has throbbed to its inspiration
before now. Why, if a woman like Mrs. Ponsonby shared his hearth, he
would let Tierra del Fuego, with its flora and its fauna, sink into
the sea and be damned to it, before he'd put the hall door between
himself and her. His own front door had suggested the idea, and he
shut it with a bang.
He picked up the letters he found waiting on the hall table, and went
directly to his library, passing through a room that would have been a
drawing-room had a lady presided there, but to the master served only
as a defense against intrusion into the privacy of his sanctum.
The postman had left a pile of bills and advertisements, but there was
one letter in Ben Minthrop's familiar writing, and Stephen turned up
his light and settled himself to read it. Ben wrote:
DEAR FRENCH: When I asked you to spend Christmas with us in
Boston I had no idea that, like the Prophet Habbacuc, I, with my
dinner pail, was to be lifted by the hair of my head, and
transported to Babylon--in other words, New York. But so it is!
If you know your Apocrypha, this figurative language will seem
apt, but in case you should like my end of it explained I will
leave the mystifications of Bel and the Dragon and come down to
plain speech.
My father has conceived the idea that I am one of the dawning
lights in the financial world, and he has decided to open a
branch office of our business in New York and to put me at its
head. I must confess that the whole thing is very pleasant and
flattering, and it has stirred all the decent ambitions I
have--that I have any I owe to you, old fellow--and I am rather
keen to be off.
We have taken a house not far from the park in East Sixty-fifth
Street, where a welcome will always be yours, and where Polly
and I hope you will eat your Christmas dinner.
Perhaps you may reflect that it is a serious thing to befriend
straying men and dogs; they are apt to regard past kindness as a
guarantee of future interest in their welfare. I do not believe,
however, that I am making too large a demand upon your
friendship in asking for your good wishes in this pleasant turn
to my future affairs.
Of course I want one more favor. If you have any influence with
Deena Ponsonby, will you urge her to spend the winter with us?
Polly is writing to her by this same mail, but I know the New
England conscience will suggest to Deena that anything amusing
is wrong, and so you might explain that I am nervous about
Polly's health, and that I look to her to help me get settled
without overstrain to my wife--in short, administer a dose of
duty, and she may see her way to coming.
Ever, my dear French,
Sincerely yours,
BENJAMIN MINTHROP.
Anger gives to the natural man a pedal impulse--in plain language, he
wants to kick something. Rage flows from the toes as freely as
gunpowder ran out of the great Panjandrum's boots when he played
"Catch who catch can" on the immortal occasion of the gardener's wife
marrying the barber. Now, Stephen French was a man of habitual
self-restraint, and yet upon reading Ben Minthrop's letter he got up
and--ignoring the poker and tongs--kicked the fire with a savagery
that showed how little the best of us has softened by civilization.
And yet the letter was distinctly friendly, even modest and
grateful--without one kick-inspiring sentence. Stephen began pacing
his library floor, hurling his thoughts broadcast, since there was no
one to listen to his words.
Why were people never content to let well enough alone? he demanded.
There was old Minthrop, with enough money to spoil his son, laying
plans for Ben to muddle away a few millions in New York in the hope of
making more; or even if, by some wild chance, the boy were successful
and doubled it--still one would think the place for an only son was in
the same town with his parents. Of course it was their business, but
when it came to dragging Mrs. Ponsonby into their schemes it was a
different matter. Simeon would disapprove, he knew, and as her adviser
in Simeon's absence, he felt it his duty to tell her to stay at home
with _her_ parents till her husband returned.
And then common sense asserted itself, and he asked himself what Deena
owed to her parents; and why Harmouth was a better place for her than
New York; and what possible difference it could make to Simeon? The
answer came in plain, bold, horrid words, and he shrank from them. The
curse of Nathan was upon him; like David, he had condemned his friend
to absence and danger, and had then promptly fallen in love with his
wife. But not willingly, he pleaded, in extenuation; it had crept upon
him unawares. It was his own secret, he had never betrayed himself,
and so help his God, he would trample it down till he gained the
mastery. Not for one moment would he tolerate disloyalty to his
friend, even in his thoughts. Ben's suggestion was a happy solution of
the situation as far as he was concerned; he would urge Deena to go
before his folly could be suspected. To have any sentiments for a
woman like Mrs. Ponsonby except a chivalrous reverence was an offense
against his manhood.
French was a man who had been brought up to respect ceremonial in
daily living, and he dressed as scrupulously for his lonely dinner as
if a wife presided and expected the courtesy to her toilet. Somebody
has wisely said that unconsciously we lay aside our smaller worries
with our morning clothes, and come down to dinner refreshed in mind as
well as body by the interval of dressing. If Stephen did not exactly
hang up his anxiety with his coat, he at least took a more reasonable
view of his attachment to his neighbor's wife. He began to think he
had exaggerated an extreme admiration into love--that he was an
honorable man and a gentleman, and could keep his secret as many
another had done before him; and that if Deena went away for the
winter it removed the only danger, which was in daily meeting under
terms of established intimacy.
There was to be a lecture at the Athenaeum that evening on the
engineering difficulties incident to building the Panama Canal, and
Stephen, who was interested in the subject, made up his mind to start
early and stop for a moment at the Sheltons' to carry out Ben's
request. He took glory to himself for choosing an hour when Mrs.
Ponsonby was likely to be surrounded by a bevy of brothers and
sisters; he would never again try to see her alone.
His very footfall sounded heroic when he ran up the steps and rang the
bell. As he stood within the shelter of the storm door waiting to be
let in, the voices of the young Sheltons reached him, all talking at
once in voluble excitement, and then a hand was laid on the inside
knob and advice offered in a shrill treble.
"You had better run, Deena, if you don't want to be caught," and then
more giggling, and a quick rush across the hall.
Dicky threw open the hall door, and French, glancing up the stairs,
caught sight of a velvet train disappearing round the turn of the
first landing. He took the chances of making a blunder and called:
"Come down, Mrs. Ponsonby. It is I--Stephen French--and I have
something to say to you."
This was first received in silence, and then in piercing whispers, the
little sisters tried to inspire courage:
"Go down, Deena; you don't look a bit _funny_--really."
"'Funny'--ye gods!" thought French, as Deena turned and came slowly
down the stairs. He only wished she did look _funny_, or anything,
except the intoxicating, maddening contrast to her usual sober self
that was descending to him.
She was dressed in black velvet of a fashion evidently copied from a
picture, for the waist was prolonged over the hips in Van Dykes, and
from the shoulders and sleeves Venetian point turned back, displaying
the lovely neck and arms that Polly had so envied. Her hair was
loosely knotted at the back, and on her forehead were straying curls
which were seldom tolerated in the severity of her usual neatness. She
wore a collar of pearls, and her bodice was ornamented with two
sunbursts and a star.
French, who had never seen her in evening dress, was amazed. He seemed
to forget that he had asked speech with her, and stood gazing as if
she were an animated portrait whose exceeding merit left him dumb. He
was recalled alike to his senses and his manners by Dicky, who turned
a handspring over his sister's long train and then addressed Stephen,
when he found himself right-end up.
"I say, Mr. French, mustn't she have been sort of loony to wear a
dress like that, and she sixty-five?"
"Who?" asked French, completely mystified.
"Why, mother's cousin, Mrs. Beck. Didn't you know she had died and
left us things?" said Dicky, proudly. "A trunk full of clothes and
diamond ornaments came to-day, and mother wrote to Deena to unpack it,
and we persuaded her to dress up in this. Don't she look queer? That
Mrs. Beck must have been a dressy old girl."
Deena ignored the explanation. She appeared to treat her costume as a
usual and prosaic affair, and said to Stephen, almost coldly:
"You have something to tell me?"
He wondered whether his eyes had offended her, whether the stupidity
of his admiration had hurt her self-respect. She didn't look at him
squarely and openly, as usual, but kept her head half turned so that
the perfect line of her throat and chin was emphasized, and the tiny
curls at the back of her neck set off the creamy whiteness of her
skin. To tell the truth, Deena had never before worn a low-necked
dress. Prior to her early marriage a simple white muslin, a little
curtailed in the sleeves and transparent over the neck, had been
sufficient for any college dance she went to, and after Simeon had
assumed command, even the white muslin was superfluous, for she never
saw company either at home or abroad. Her present costume was
sufficiently discreet in sleeves--they came almost to the elbow, but
the bodice allowed so liberal a view of neck and shoulders as to cover
the wearer with confusion. She felt exactly as you feel in a dream
when you flit down the aisle of a crowded car in your night clothes,
or inadvertently remove most of your garments in a pew in church, and
with Deena self-consciousness always took the form of dignity.
Stephen pulled himself together.
"I have had a letter from Ben," he said, "who seems to think an appeal
he has made for your company in New York this winter will be more apt
to win a favorable answer if backed up by your _Temporary Adviser_.
That describes the position Simeon indicated for me; doesn't it, Mrs.
Ponsonby?"
She sank back in her chair and, forgetting herself for a moment,
allowed her eyes to meet his with a merry smile.
"This seems to be like a conspiracy to make a hungry man eat!" she
answered. "No urging is necessary to persuade me to go to New
York--why should you and Ben suppose I do not like to do pleasant
things? I shall delight in being with Polly--I shall like the
excitement and the fun--I am perfectly mad to go!"
If it had not been for the exaggeration of the last sentence French
would have been sure of the genuineness of her wishes, but the force
of the expression was so foreign to her usual moderation that he asked
himself whether Deena might not also find a separation desirable. The
thought sent the blood bounding through his veins. If she cared for
him ever so little, it would be easier to let her go--easier if he
knew she suffered too! Then he called himself a coxcomb and a
self-deceiver, and made a grasp at the good resolutions that had
almost escaped him.
"I always knew you possessed that adorable quality, common sense," he
remarked. "Ben and I might have guessed you would do the wise thing.
When men rush hot-footed into the affairs of women, they are apt to
play the fool."
"Is there any reason why I shouldn't go?" she demanded, anxiously.
"On the contrary, every reason why you should; but I feared some
mistaken idea about expense or Simeon's approbation might interfere
with your taking a holiday, which you will enjoy as much as he enjoys
digging up roots in Patagonia."
Deena considered the two points of his answer--expense and Simeon's
approbation--and replied thoughtfully:
"My husband would recognize so simple a duty, and, as far as expense
goes, I am a perfectly independent woman. Didn't you know _our_
story--the one you made me rewrite--sold at once, and, besides that, I
have placed a number of fugitive poems? So I snap my fingers at
expenses till the bank breaks," and she tapped her forehead to
indicate from whence the supply flowed.
"Then make the most of the sensation while it lasts," he said, with
good-natured cynicism, "for expenses have a way of sizing you
up--cleaning out your pockets--and going you one better! If you are
still snapping your fingers when you come back from New York, then,
indeed, you may boast."
A troubled look came into her face.
"Simeon would like me to go to Polly when she is out of health and
needs me," she said, in a tone she meant to be assertive, but which
was only appealing, "and if we are careful about spending, it is
because we are proud and do not wish to incur obligations."
The _we_ was a masterpiece of loyalty, and French was suitably
impressed by it.
"Dear Mrs. Ponsonby," he said, "you speak as if _I_ were likely to
misjudge Simeon, whereas my object in coming here was to prevent
_your_ misjudging him by allowing your sensitive conscience to forbid
pleasures he would be the first to suggest."
The speech was genuine; in Stephen's estimation his friend had noble
qualities, and in bearing testimony to them he was beginning his
chapter of self-discipline. In this interview, at least, he had
preserved a conscience void of offense, and he hastened to say
goodnight before any temptation should assail his discretion. Perhaps,
also--for he was but mortal--the reflection in the parlor mirror of
what was passing in the hall may have accelerated his departure.
For the benefit of an admiring gallery at the head of the stairs,
Master Shelton was performing jugglers' tricks with their visitor's
best silk hat. Twice it had turned a somersault in the air, and twice
safely alighted well down over Dicky's ears, but a third time it might
miss even such a conspicuous mark and be smashed out of symmetry on
the hard floor. French beat a hasty retreat, but he was no match for
Dicky in change of tactics; as he came into the hall that young
gentleman stood stiffly and solemnly waiting to hand him his hat and
open the front door with an air he had copied precisely from Stephen's
own servant the day of the memorable feast. His presumption carried
him a little too far, however, for as he closed the door on Stephen he
favored his sister with a comment that promptly brought its
punishment.
"If I were an old bag of bones like brother Simeon," he said,
grinning, "I shouldn't care to have good-lookin' fellows like Mr.
French running after you twice in the same day, Deena!"
Deena had always been the tenderest of elder sisters, but at this
apparently innocent remark, she first got red as fire, and then,
paling with anger, she rushed at her brother and pulled his ruddy
locks till he cried for mercy, while she burst into tears.
"Stop it!" roared Dicky, burrowing his head in a sofa cushion. "I tell
you, you're hurting me! And I'd like to know what the mischief
_you're_ crying for, anyhow?"
Deena left the room, her face buried in her handkerchief, but she
managed to answer brokenly:
"I will--not--allow--you--to call--my husband--'a bag of bones'!"