But the morning brought no solution of the difficulty. Madame Grevet
professed to be too busy to come to the telephone, and sent a snippy
miss to negotiate.
Mrs. Chapparelle spoke to her gently, as a lady should, taking it as a
matter of course that she would wish to set a mistake right. The girl
was insolent, and when at last Mrs. Chapparelle’s continued protest
brought the Madame to the telephone, things were even worse. The Madame
declared that it was not for her to meddle in all Mr. Van Rensselaer’s
many love affairs. The clothes were paid for and the money in the bank.
Her responsibility was at an end. They would have to settle their
lovers’ quarrels themselves. No, she could not on any consideration
take back the things. She did not do business in that way. If they
wanted money they must apply to Mr. Van Rensselaer himself for it, not
to her. With which insult she hung up the receiver sharply.
Bessie, standing near the telephone, had heard it all. Her face was
very white and haughty. Her eyes seemed darker, almost black, with a
kind of blue fire in them. She began to dress at once, rapidly, in
spite of her mother’s protests.
“What are you going to do, Bessie? You mustn’t get up! You are not fit
to be out of bed.”
“I must, mother, don’t you see I must? I cannot have that woman
thinking those things.”
“But Bessie, you can’t carry those boxes down there yourself. You
oughtn’t to go out today at all.”
“I’ll hire a taxi and take them down, mother. Now, don’t you worry
about me. I’m quite all right I only needed this to stiffen me up.
No, you don’t need to go with me,” she protested, as her mother began
to unfasten her work-dress and take down her Sunday crêpe de chine,
“I think it is just as well that you shouldn’t. I’m not going to
make a scene. I’ll be a lady, mother dear. But that woman has got to
understand that I am not that kind of a girl!”
Bessie finished a hasty toilet, and looked every inch a lady herself as
she ran down-stairs to order a taxi.
She obediently drank the glass of milk her mother handed her, and let
the driver carry out her boxes, departing in state, with a promise to
return immediately.
She walked into Grevet’s clad in righteous indignation; quietly,
almost haughtily. She was not wearing the bargain coat this time. She
had chosen to put on a little ensemble suit that her mother had made
her from a beautiful piece of dark blue silk material, a touch of
exquisite embroidery on the tunic where it showed in front, a touch of
really fine fur on the collar. In lines and style it might have come
from Grevet’s itself, so unique and pleasing was the whole effect. The
salespersons were puzzled to understand, and looked at her with new
respect. Madame came forward smiling before she recognized her, and
halted half perplexed. The driver had set the boxes down inside the
door, and touched his cap with a smile for the tip she had given him.
This girl had an air about her that somehow took the condescension from
Madame’s manner.
“There has been some mistake,” Bessie said gravely, “I came here
yesterday with Mr. Van Rensselaer to help him select a gift for a
friend. The purchase has been sent to me instead of to the lady for
whom it was intended. I have brought it back. I am sorry I cannot
give you the correct name and address, but Mr. Van Rensselaer did not
happen to mention it. I have a kind of a dim memory that he called her
Gertrude, if that will help you any, but I am not quite sure. I wasn’t
interested to remember, you know.”
Bessie spoke with a grave air of finality.
Madame regarded the girl with a lenient, knowing smile.
“I think you will find the garments are yours, my dear. Mr. Van
Rensselaer distinctly told me they were to be sent to you, and wrote
out your address himself while you were changing.”
Bessie drew herself up with a heightened color.
“Then he wrote it absent-mindedly,” she said, “Mr. Van Rensselaer does
not buy clothes for me. We are just acquaintances, old schoolmates. I
haven’t seen him in years till I met him on the street yesterday, and
he asked me to stop a few minutes and help him select this gift for
his friend. You will find he will be very much annoyed about this if
he finds out you have sent it to me. I brought it right back so that
you might call him up and ask him at once to give you the address over
again. I would not care to have him know it had been sent to my house.”
The Madame smiled again that aggravating smile.
“Mademoiselle had better call him up herself, and then she will
discover that what I have told her is true.”
“I do not wish to call him up,” said Bessie haughtily, “and I decline
to have anything further to do with the matter!” She turned toward the
door.
Madame took one step toward her.
“One moment, Mademoiselle! Does Mademoiselle realize that if she leaves
the goods here the gentleman will never know but that she has received
them? The goods are paid for, and my responsibility is at an end.”
“Your responsibility is not over until you have let him know that the
purchase was not accepted at the address to which you sent it.”
Bessie looked steadily at her adversary, and spoke in a controlled
voice. She was almost on the verge of tears, and she felt herself
trembling from head to foot, but she managed to open the door and walk
steadily out and down the street.
She felt degraded. To think that that woman had dared to place her on
a footing with those women of another world than hers, who lived like
parasites on what they could get out of their various lovers! It was
maddening that she could not succeed in convincing the woman that she
had made a mistake. The worst of it was, though, that she was almost
convinced herself that it was not a mistake. Back in her heart had
crept a wild fear that it was true that Murray had sent those things
as a gift to herself. That he had dared to insult her that way! To set
her down as one of the cheap little butterflies with whom rumor said
he played around continually. He had thought he could take her a ride
and toss her a costly gift and have her at his feet whenever he wanted
her! He had not remembered the days of their childhood, when they
played and read together, and respected the fine things of life. He had
professed to love her mother, and to feel a warm comradely friendship
for her, and here now he had shown that he did not even respect her. He
thought because she lived in a small two-story house at the back of his
father’s grand mansion that he could treat her as he pleased!
Well, if he had dared to do this thing of course it had been easy for
him to run away from her in the hospital after he had been the means
of her getting all shaken up that way! Her heart felt like lead as she
walked along slowly in the sunshine of the bright November morning. She
realized that she had been struggling against all evidence to excuse
Murray for not having brought her home, or come to tell her mother
about the accident, or even calling up on the telephone this morning to
find out if she was all right. She could not understand it. Murray! Her
old friend, turned yellow like this! Disgusting! Terrible! Why believe
in anybody any more? But then she ought to have known better than to
expect anything from a spoiled boy who had had no bringing up and too
much money all his life. It was just what was to be expected every time
with a mother like that beautiful doll-faced Mrs. Van Rensselaer. After
all, she had known for years that Murray would never be anything to
her, not even a friend. Why mourn this way, just because for a brief
hour he had chosen to revive old acquaintance, amuse himself with his
former playmate and then vanish?
So reasoning she went toward home, but her mind was by no means at
rest. Another spirit kept continually whispering to her:
“But suppose that Murray was hurt himself! Suppose he is lying now in
a hospital, unconscious perhaps, while you are enraged at him? This
is not a Christian way to look at the matter. And besides, somehow
you have got to let him know that you did not keep those dresses. If
he really did try to present them to you, he has got to be made to
understand that you are not that kind of girl.”
When she reached home it was all to be argued over again with her
mother, who was as disturbed as she about the matter. That anybody
should dare to misunderstand her dear girl! That was more than the
mother could bear. For Murray Van Rensselaer the boy she had always had
a tender place in her heart, but for Murray Van Rensselaer the young
man who had apparently forgotten his old friends for years, and now
that he had chanced upon them again for an hour, had insulted them, she
had little charity. It was the way of his world, of course, but she
resented it. She did not covet his friendship for her girl, for well
she knew how far apart they would have grown, and well she knew the
follies and temptations of the life which he with his money and his
fast friends had in all probability lived. No, if she had known of
his proximity she would have hidden her girl, if it had been possible,
rather than have had her come into contact with him again, rather than
run the risk of Bessie’s heart being touched by one who could never be
anything more than an acquaintance to her.
But now that they had met, and he had essayed to open the friendship
once more by asking her to ride with him, the mother resented hotly
both the way in which he had left her alone in the hospital and also
the gift that he had presumed to send her. For that he had intended it
for Bessie she was now well convinced. Did he think to bind her to him
by costly gifts, yet toss her aside whenever the fancy took him? Did he
count her so low that he might pay off an obligation of courtesy by one
of money? Having decided in her heart that he probably was worse than
good for nothing, she proceeded to cast him out of her love, although
she had really loved him when he was a little boy. He had seemed so
lonesome, so interesting, so manly withal, and he had taken so kindly
to her petting. Well, that was past, and she must protect her precious
girl at all costs. He was a child of luxury now. He was spoiled, and
that was all there was of it. If he had been differently born, or his
parents had lost their money and their prestige when he was small there
might have been some hope for him, but of course it was a foregone
conclusion that he would be spoiled, and only a worldling. What could
one expect?
They argued ways and means for a long time, and finally Bessie sat
down and wrote a freezing little note:
“My Dear Mr. Van Rensselaer:
“I feel that you ought to know that the purchases you made at Grevet’s
yesterday were by some strange mistake sent to my address. The
delivery man insisted upon leaving them here with my mother before
I reached home, though she told him they were not ours. I took them
back this morning, and the woman was very disagreeable about it, and
declared you had given no other address. I advised her to communicate
with you at once. I hope your friend has suffered no inconvenience
from the delay.
“Sincerely,
“ELIZABETH CHAPPARELLE.”
After the note was despatched Bessie felt better. Surely Murray could
not misconstrue such a letter into an invitation to open the friendship
again. If he tried that she could easily show him that she wanted
nothing of him. But she had done her duty toward the beautiful clothes,
and now she could perhaps adjust her mind to think better of him. If
possible, she wanted to think well of him because as an old friend he
had figured largely in her childhood days, and she did not like to
have anything haloed by her schooldays turn out to be common clay. He
might go his way and forget her forever if he would only let her think
well of him. She wanted to respect him with all her heart, but she did
not see exactly how she was ever going to do it again. Supposing even
that he had not meant to insult her with a costly gift without asking
permission--and such a gift--a gift of clothing! There was still the
fact that he had deserted her after getting her into a smash-up. She
would not have supposed even a spoiled heartless flirt would do a thing
like that to an old friend. Yet he seemed to have done it.
The hours went by and she lay on the couch in the kitchen and pretended
to read, but in reality she was listening for a ring at the door, or
the telephone. Yet none came. She stayed on the couch for two reasons.
First, to satisfy her mother, who persisted in being anxious about her
on account of the accident, and second, because she really felt quite
weak and shaken up. Tomorrow her employer would be back in the office,
and she must go to work again. The precious two days’ holiday was going
fast, and had all been spoiled. She felt almost bitter about it, there
had been so much joy in its anticipation, but she did not want her
mother to realize that. Mother was happy in just having her home with
her.
So the letter was mailed and Bessie waited, thinking surely when he got
it he would call up or come around with a belated apology. She could
not fully rest until she knew he understood that she was not the kind
of girl to whom he could send such presents.
Days passed. A week. Two weeks. Three. Nothing was heard of Murray.
Bessie and her mother began to wonder whether after all they ought not
to have taken the boxes around to the Van Rensselaer house. Finally
Bessie settled down to the belief that Murray was angry that she had
not received his presents, and had decided to drop her. Well, so she
was content. She wanted no friendship with a man like that. She was
glad if he felt that way. She was glad he knew he could not treat her
the way he evidently treated other girls.
She settled back into the pleasant routine of her life, with the big
ambition ahead to put her mother into more comfort, with opportunity
for rest, and she succeeded pretty well in forgetting the one bright
day with her old friend that had ended so disastrously. Only far back
in her mind was a little crisp disappointment that her only old friend,
whom she had so long idealized, had turned out to be such a hopeless
failure; and sometimes in the dark at night when she was trying to go
to sleep her cheeks burned at the thought that she had accepted him so
readily and jumped into his car at the first bidding. How she would
like to go back to that bright twenty-first birthday afternoon, and
haughtily decline that invitation to ride! Sometimes her pride fairly
cried out for the chance.
Poor Murray!
Then, one morning Mrs. Chapparelle, scanning the paper as was her wont
for bits of news to give her child while she ate her breakfast before
going to the office, came upon a little item tucked down in the society
columns.
“It is beginning to be an interesting question, ‘What has become of
Murray Van Rensselaer?’ He isn’t at his home, and he hasn’t gone
abroad, at least not according to any of the recent sailing lists of
vessels. He is not registered at his club, and he has not been seen
at any of the popular southern resorts. His family decline to talk.
Polo season is coming on, and Murray Van Rensselaer has disappeared!
Everybody is asking what are we going to do without Murray? Perhaps a
certain lively Countess could give information! Who knows?”
Bessie looked up, startled, indignant.
“That’s disgusting!” she said darkly. “No matter what he is, they
haven’t a right to meddle in people’s private affairs that way and
print it all out before the public!”
She did not eat any more breakfast. She began hurriedly to prepare for
the office. Her mother watched her anxiously. Could it be possible that
Bessie was still thinking about Murray? If so, she was glad she had
happened on the item. She ought to understand fully just what he was.
That item about the Countess, of course, might not be anything but a
bit of venom from a jealous rival. But she was glad she had read it.
“Bessie,” she began anxiously, as the girl went to the hall closet
for her rubbers, “are you sure you are warmly enough dressed for this
stormy day?”
“Mother,” said the girl crisply, “don’t you think it would be a good
thing if you began to call me Elizabeth now?”
There was a grown-up pucker on the white brow as if the child were
feeling her years. The wise mother looked up quickly and smiled,
sensing the feeling of annoyance that had come upon her since the
reading of this item about her old friend. How her mother heart
understood and sympathized. Another mother might have felt hurt, but
not this one, who had companioned with her child all the way, and
understood every lifting of a lash, every glint in the deep blue of
her eyes, every shade of expression on the dear face.
“Well, maybe,” she agreed pleasantly, “I used to wonder whether we
wouldn’t be sorry we had nicknamed you. I don’t know if I ever could
get used to Elizabeth now. Bessie was a sweet little name when we
called you that. It just fitted you!” There was a wistfulness in her
voice that reached through the clouds on her daughter’s spirit.
“You dear little mother, you needn’t ever try. So it is a sweet little
name, and I don’t ever want to change it. I wouldn’t like you to say
‘Elizabeth’ anyway. It would sound as if you were scolding. Now, I’m
not cross any more. Good-bye, mother dearie, and don’t you even dare to
_think_ Elizabeth while I’m gone.”
She kissed her mother tenderly and was gone, but all day the mother
turned it over in her mind. Had it been wrong that she took that little
lonely boy in years ago and let him be her daughter’s playmate for a
while? Was it going to make a blight on her bright spirit after all
this time? No. Surely it was only a bit of pride that was hurt, not her
sweet, strong spirit!
But the girl thought about it all day long. Could not get away from
that bit of news in the society column. Was Murray really missing? What
had become of him? Didn’t they really know where he was? Could he be in
a hospital unconscious somewhere? Oughtn’t she perhaps to do something
about it? What could she do? By night she had fully decided that she
would do something.