A COQUETTE.
Alice found Helen in her room, seated before a mirror and waiting for
Celine to arrange her hair. On the dressing table were combs and brushes
and cut glass bottles and all the paraphernalia of a lady’s toilet,
golden stoppered and silver mounted, showing a luxurious taste and utter
disregard of expenditure. She had read Tennyson’s May Queen in bed and
two or three shorter poems, and had committed a stanza or two here and
there in order to seem posted, if Craig proved to be an admirer of
Tennyson. If he were not and she found herself in deep waters she
trusted to her tact and Alice’s help to extricate herself some way.
Getting tired of Tennyson and the bed she arose at last and in her
dressing gown dawdled about the room, beginning to feel bored and
wondering why Alice did not come. She had heard from her mother that
Craig was stopping in the hotel, and Celine had told her of being
introduced to him by a funny old gentleman as Miss Mooseer, and Helen
had laughed till she cried. Celine had also told her that Alice was
talking with him on the north piazza.
“Pumping him,” she said to herself. “I hope it won’t take her long. I am
so impatient to hear the result and know if he is worth the trouble.”
Sitting down by the window in a chair she began to think of the past and
the white faces and sad eyes which had looked at her during the seven
years since her first offer when she was only fifteen. Behind these were
other faces, some of boys, some of men, whom she had played with and
flattered and then thrown aside without regret.
“Doesn’t it say somewhere in the Bible ‘Vengeance is mine and I will
repay,’ saith the Lord,” she thought. “Surely my payment will be heavy
if it equal my indebtedness; but it is my nature, and I cannot help it.”
At last as she grew more and more impatient and Alice did not come, she
sent Celine for her. Celine, who had been Helen’s maid for years and
knew her nearly as well as she knew herself, was never in the way, and
Helen bade her go on with her hair dressing as soon as she re-entered
the room. To Alice who came in with Celine her first word was, “Well?”
“Well!” Alice returned, and Helen continued, “What news from Genoa? You
have been gone a long time and must have something to tell.”
“Lots! About everything. Shall it be the Sphinx first, or Hercules?”
Alice asked, and Helen repeated, “Hercules? Who is he? Oh, yes, I know.
I’ll take him second, and the Sphinx first. I know he is here; mamma
told me. You have been on the river with a dreadful boy who stands on
his head and picked your pocket. Skip him, and begin with the Sphinx.
What is he like?”
“Very much like any other city bred gentleman,” Alice replied. “A little
stiff, perhaps, especially in the matter of shirt fronts and collars.
Jeff,—that’s the dreadful boy,—says he changes them every day, and he
does impress you as having just been washed and ironed, he looks so
clean from his head to his feet.”
“Nonsense! You are comparing him with those sweaty men on your uncle’s
farm. Seven shirts and collars and fourteen cuffs a week! What a laundry
bill! But go on. Is he good looking?”
“Yes; with a rather delicate cast of countenance for a man. He was very
polite, and after his stiffness wore off, talked delightfully. He
mistook me for _you_.”
“Oh,” Helen said quickly, as if not quite pleased. “You undeceived him
of course.”
“Certainly I did. I told him I was only your cousin, a teacher in a
district school among the mountains.”
“I don’t see the need of your dragging that in,” Helen said, and Alice
rejoined, “Knowing how rich you are he might think me rich, too, and I
don’t want to sail under false colors.”
Helen, to whom deception, or even a lie was nothing, if circumstances
warranted it, tossed her head and continued, “What are his tastes? What
does he like?”
“He likes the country, especially Ridgefield.”
“So do I adore it. Go on.”
“He likes rowing.”
Helen had a mortal terror of a sail boat and could scarcely ever be
persuaded to enter one, but answered quickly: “So do I. Go on.”
“He likes driving over the hills and into the woods.” Helen made a
grimace, for if there were anything she detested it was driving over the
country roads in country vehicles. But if Craig liked it, she liked it,
too, and said so.
“What next?” she asked, and Alice replied, “He likes to sit on the north
piazza, where it is cool, and away from the street.”
“Now you please me; that is delicious. What does he do? Smoke?”
“I think not, or drink either.”
“That’s bad. What _does_ he do?”
“Reads, I judge, as he had a book with him.”
“Reads what? Tennyson, I hope. I went through with the May Queen and one
or two other poems.”
“I think his preference is Browning.”
“Browning!” Helen almost shrieked. “I never read a line of him in my
life. Do you mean he likes Browning and will talk to me about _him_?”
“I think so. He belongs to a Browning club, and is trying to master
Sordello.”
“Sordello! What’s that?” Helen asked.
“I am sure I don’t know. A man, I imagine,” Alice replied. “He said he
found it hard work reading alone and suggested that we join him for half
an hour, or an hour, every afternoon.”
“Oh, horror,” Helen cried in dismay. “Join a Browning club, and not know
a thing except that I have seen Mrs. Browning’s house and grave in
Florence, and mamma had to tell me who she was. Do you think there is a
library in town?” and Helen began to brighten.
Alice thought there must be. She would inquire.
“No, that would give me away. Take a walk by yourself, and if there is
one, get me Browning’s Poems. Wretched, that I must wade through them,
when I was getting on so nicely with Tennyson.”
Alice laughed at her distress, but promised to go for a walk and find
the library, if there were one, and get Browning, if she could.
“But suppose there are several volumes? What shall I do? I can’t get
them all,” she asked, and Helen replied: “Get the one with that man in
it, if it is a man. Sorrento, isn’t it?”
“Sordello!” Alice answered, beginning to understand Helen’s drift.
Her toilet was completed by this time and Alice thought she had never
seen her lovelier than she was now in her Paris gown of some soft,
creamy stuff, with its frills of lace and knots of ribbon and wide
sleeves, which fell away from her white arms every time she raised them,
which she often did, for she knew their beauty. Her complexion was of
that smooth satiny kind which suggests art in its perfection. But no
cosmetic of any description had ever touched her face, which was of rare
beauty. Her greatest charm was in her large brown eyes, which she knew
so well how to use and could make grave or gay, or even tearful at her
will. They were very bright this morning, with an unusual sparkle in
them, for she was on the warpath, with a new kingdom to conquer, and
felt her blood tingle with excitement and pleasure.
“By the way,” she said, after surveying herself in the mirror and
walking before it several times, as she always did when dressing, “Mrs.
Mason is here,—a kind of dragon, I am afraid. I hear she is very proud.
Did you see her?”
“Yes, and she didn’t impress me as proud at all. She was very kind to
me. I like her,” Alice replied.
“You like everybody, and everybody likes you,” was Helen’s rejoinder;
then she said suddenly: “What about Hercules? I came near forgetting
him. Who is he?”
“Mr. Hilton, the hotel clerk,” was Alice’s reply.
“Oh—h,” and Helen’s countenance fell a little. “A clerk! A bartender! I
was afraid of that.”
“He is not a bartender; there is no bar to tend. This is a strictly
temperance house. You couldn’t get a drink if you wanted it. Jeff told
me so. Mr. and Mrs. Taylor are both good Christian people, and Mr.
Hilton seems a gentleman every way. He is splendid looking and Mr. Mason
likes him. He came when we were talking and I was introduced to him.”
Alice had made quite a long speech in defense of Mark Hilton, while
Helen, who was still surveying herself in the glass, smiled and said,
“Oh, hit, are you? Well, I wish you success, but to me there is not much
difference between a hotel clerk and a bartender. He did carry me
beautifully though, and I’d like to see him. Am I all right, and does my
dress hang as it should?”
“You couldn’t look better,” Alice said, and Helen continued, “I wish I
had a flower of some kind.”
“How would a lily do?” Alice asked, and Helen replied, “No, thanks. You
have chosen the lily, and resemble it more than I do. I ought to have a
rose.”
Here Celine, who had heard all the conversation, said, “There is a
beautiful rose on the table in the salon. It was there last night. Shall
I bring it for mademoiselle?”
She did not wait for an answer, but hurrying to the salon returned with
the rose which, though not quite as fresh as the previous night, was
still very fragrant.
“Oh, what a beauty! Did it grow in the garden? If so, there must be
more,” Helen said, inhaling the perfume, while Celine replied, “It
didn’t grow here. I asked Sarah and she said Monsieur Hilton put it on
the table. She did not know where he got it. Monsieur Mason helped pick
and arrange the _fleurs-de-lis_ in the centre of the table. There are
plenty of those. Shall I gather some for Mademoiselle?”
Helen was radiant. Both young men had put flowers on the table,—for
_her_, no doubt. Fond as she was of Alice, she never thought she could
be considered before or with herself. Everything was for Helen Tracy
first; then, Alice, if anything were left.
_“Fleurs-de-lis!_ Yes, I remember thinking them pretty with the ferns.
And Mr. Mason put them there? I ought to feel flattered and to wear one
of them. His color, too, as he is a Yale man; but they will not go well
with these ribbons. I must wear Mr. Hilton’s rose. I hope it won’t fall
to pieces. It does seem a little droopy.”
She fastened it in a knot of delicate pink ribbon near her shoulder
where it would be very conspicuous, and declared herself ready for the
preparatory skirmish.
“I suppose one can go on the north piazza any time. I wonder if Mr.
Mason is there still? Celine, please go and see,” she said.
Celine went out, and when they were alone Alice, who had never had quite
so clear an insight into Helen’s character before, said to her, “Do you
care for Mr. Mason?”
“Of course not. How should I, when I don’t know him,” Helen replied, and
Alice continued, “Then why not leave him alone. Will it be any
satisfaction to win him just to throw him over as you have so many
others? Is it right, or womanly?”
“A second Portia come to judgment,” and Helen laughed merrily.
“Seriously, though, it isn’t right, or womanly. It is wicked and mean,
and I know it as well as you do, and I had made up my mind to quit the
business, and maybe take Mr. Prescott for fear some terrible judgment
would overtake me. But when I heard Mr. Mason was here all the old Satan
woke up in me, and I said I’ll pay him for his slight of me last summer.
Perhaps I shall not throw him over. He may be the twenty-first and last.
Who knows? I shall be twenty-three in December,—time I was married. Is
he there?” and she turned to Celine who had just entered the room and
who reported that he was there with Monsieur Hilton and Monsieur Taylor,
too.
“Three men to subjugate. Nothing could suit me better,” and Helen
clasped her hands in ecstasy. “_Au revoir_, cousin mine. Wish me
success, and don’t forget the library.”
“If it were right I’d pray that she might not succeed. I have prayed for
more trivial things than that, and been heard,” Alice thought, as she
watched her cousin going down the stairs and saw her turn in the
direction of the north piazza.