THE LADY OF THE SCALES
While Phyllis was climbing the steep hill of fame by the path of her
little stories, events in her home were not at a standstill.
The pleasantest and most tangible thing that had happened was that
Jessamy had been asked by the editor of the magazine which had bought
her illustrations and Phyllis's two stories, to illustrate for him
other work besides that done by her cousin.
Jessamy was very busy and happy during these days. She was blossoming
out into fuller, more perfect beauty; her eyes were alight as with a
secret joy, her smile grew every day sweeter and more lingering; in a
word, Jessamy was leaving the last shadow of that mysterious valley of
young maidenhood, and passing into the full sunshine of womanhood. It
was two years since the trouble, which was every day less of a regret
to the Wyndhams, had come to them; or, it would be two years when May
rolled around again, and it was then March. Jessamy and Phyllis were
twenty; they had a right to enter upon their kingdom. Barbara, too, at
nineteen and engaged, was grown up. Mrs. Wyndham, with the gratitude of
a mother who had brought her children safely through the development of
character into sweet and good women, yet with the regret of a mother
in losing her little girls, realized that her three little maids were
little no longer.
It was March, and the season was forward after the heavy snows of the
winter. The song-sparrow was lilting in the park, the twigs and buds
were showing red and swelling on many trees and shrubs.
There had been, of late, mystery in the atmosphere of the little
apartment, from share in which Mrs. Wyndham felt herself excluded.
Evidently the girls were in a conspiracy of some sort; but their mother
did not give the matter much thought, knowing that when they were ready
they would confide in her, and feeling quite certain if she were not
told it was because the plan worked better for her in ignorance of it.
Robert Lane came and went frequently, and Mrs. Wyndham watched him with
the jealousy of a strong suspicion that he was finding her beautiful
elder daughter attractive. But, watch as she would, she could not
discover anything in the young lawyer which did not make her like
him better as she grew to know him well. Jessamy and he--indeed, all
three girls and he--seemed to have an understanding which Mrs. Wyndham
learned to associate with the secret in the air; but she could not
determine whether Jessamy was growing to care for Robert in the way he
was unmistakably learning to care for her. Mrs. Wyndham's watchfulness
of Jessamy was divided with Phyllis. Alan haunted the apartment, and
there was no mistaking the dumb affection for Phyllis in his eyes, as
faithful as a dog's, and less reticent of speech than his newly silent
tongue. Phyllis, happy, busy, interested to try her powers, showed no
feeling for Alan beyond the frank friendliness she gave all their young
men friends impartially, Tom, Robert, and David, and to distant Rick
Dean, whose letters grew constantly more frequent and warmer in tone.
Mrs. Wyndham began to wonder if Phyllis were the sort of girl who is so
cordially kindly to all boys that no especial one becomes important to
her. She felt sure that if, by and by, her niece could not return to
Alan all that he was pouring out on her, it would be more tragic to the
loyal-hearted and earnest young journalist than unrequited affection is
likely to be to youths of his age.
However, girls were proverbially uncertain and hard to read. Mrs.
Wyndham was too wise to worry over a contingency not yet arisen. She
saw with pleasure that David Campbell was finding little Ruth decidedly
to his liking. There could not have been a better happening for them
both. David was an earnest, honest, manly boy, and Ruth would be
the very best little housewife a man could ask. Mrs. Wyndham hoped
that nothing would divert the course of the romance dawning in that
direction.
"It is such a nice, quiet time now, mama, with Phyllis settled down
again to private life, and no especial work on hand; let's ask Aunt
Henrietta to spend the day," said Jessamy one morning in that eventful
March.
Bab groaned, and even Phyllis looked downcast. "Oh, dear, it's awful to
have a sense of duty," sighed Bab. "What does make you so dreadfully
conscientious, Jessamy?"
"It isn't such a tremendous proof of conscientiousness," Jessamy began;
but her mother said:
"It is exactly what I have been meaning to suggest for some time.
We have scarcely seen anything of aunt all winter, and we owe her
attention; she is growing old."
"She isn't growing old, Madrina; you know that. She always was old; but
she doesn't mean to admit it, nor let it increase," said Bab. "Well, I
suppose I can maintain my portion of family virtue. Write your note,
Jessamy-Griselda, the patient and heroic."
Aunt Henrietta accepted the invitation, which was for three days later,
and appeared at half-past twelve precisely, in all the dignity of a
stiff black silk, her old-fashioned heavy gold watch-chain with the
seals, and a high tortoise-shell comb which had been her mother's. She
no more held to the idea of ladies of her age wearing even so much as
a widow's cap than she did to the absurdity of arriving ten minutes
before luncheon. Half an hour, she declared, was not too long to rest
after reaching her destination before sitting down to the table. It
was ridiculous to come barely in time to lay off one's things. Hence
she arrived at her niece's apartment thirty minutes before the hour
for lunch, and before the girls had had time to get ready to greet
her. The Wyndhams believed that it was impossible for one servant to
do everything, and do it well; so when there was to be a guest in
the little home, Jessamy, Phyllis, and Bab took their share of the
preparations.
"You've been getting a new rug for your dining-room," said Aunt
Henrietta, in the tone of disapproval which she kept "for family use,"
as Bab said.
"Yes; that is Phyllis's contribution to our comfort. She bought it with
her 'Trumpet' money," replied Mrs. Wyndham, mildly. "The old one we
took for Bab's room; her carpet was worn out."
"The idea of a girl who pretends to be a lady, a Wyndham, working for
a horrible newspaper!" exclaimed Aunt Henrietta. "How do you get on
now, Emily? You seem to be branching out." The last remark being called
forth by the old lady's discovery of a picture which she had not seen
before between the dining-room windows.
"It is fortunate Violet is not an ordinary servant, and that we don't
mind her hearing these things!" thought Mrs. Wyndham, but she replied
aloud: "We have enough to live on, you know, aunt. Of course we must
look after the pennies closely; but with care we have all we absolutely
need, and the girls have added considerably to our income. Jessamy
and Phyllis have great reason to rejoice in their success with their
magazine work, especially when one considers how many are rushing into
that field."
"So Barbara is the only drone?" said Aunt Henrietta. "No, no potatoes;
my doctor forbids them. It is often the one who says most who does
least."
"Barbara is far from a drone, Aunt Henrietta," said Phyllis, seeing Bab
fold her lips with a look at once angry and hurt. "There has to be one
to help with the housekeeping. Bab is the most competent little person
you could imagine, and is so lively and cheery she keeps us all up to
the mark."
"Humph!" ejaculated Aunt Henrietta, with a world of significance in the
sound. "Take away that dreadful cat. I always detested cats! How people
can keep animals in such a limited space I can't conceive. When are you
to be married, Barbara; or will that young man you are engaged to ever
be able to support you?"
"Next fall, if Doctor Leighton has his wish," said Bab, while Phyllis
gathered up Truce, and bore him, surprised and indignant, from the
room, where, as everywhere, he was used to being considered an
acquisition. "Doctor Leighton expects to be able to support me. He
would not have asked me to marry him, otherwise." Barbara disdained
reminding her aunt that Tom was heir to a very good inheritance.
It would have been so unbearable if even Aunt Henrietta, for whose
opinion in general she had little regard, looked on her marriage from a
mercenary point of view.
"Very probably. He seems to be a very nice young man," said Aunt
Henrietta, to the surprise of Barbara, who was ready to do battle for
her lover. But Aunt Henrietta was more lenient in her judgment of boys
than of girls.
The luncheon passed off with no further passage at arms, and Aunt
Henrietta settled herself comfortably to slow knitting in the best
chair in the parlor, and to conversation with her niece-in-law. The
girls were unmistakably "fidgety," as Aunt Henrietta protestingly
remarked. A note had come for Jessamy during lunch. She had read it
with quickened breath, and conveyed it to the other two slyly, when
opportunity offered. The effect on all three had been disturbing.
Bab flitted about from room to room, finding it impossible to keep
still. And, while Phyllis had greater nervous control of herself, her
answers to remarks addressed to her were so wide of the mark that Aunt
Henrietta commented on it severely, and her Aunt Wyndham kindly let her
alone.
As to Jessamy, her cheeks were burning, her eyes so bright that Aunt
Henrietta, looking at her attentively, prescribed: "Six drops of number
three aconite in a half-glass of water, and take one teaspoonful every
hour. You are certainly feverish, child," she added. Jessamy's beauty
had made her Aunt Henrietta's favorite from her childhood.
At half-past four, just after Aunt Henrietta had rolled up her
work preparatory to taking her afternoon tea before setting out
homeward--"You live at such an unearthly distance from civilization,"
she said, as though the Wyndhams were selfishly inconsiderate of
everything but their own pleasure in living so far up-town and seeking
low rent--just at half-past four the bell rang, and Mrs. Wyndham met at
the door Robert Lane, looking so excited, entering with such a quick
step, and with such flashing eyes, that he hardly seemed to be himself,
and brought with him instantly an electric atmosphere.
"What has happened to you, Mr. Lane?" asked Mrs. Wyndham. "You know my
aunt, Mrs. Hewlett? You look as though some one had made you heir to a
fortune."
"Not a bad guess, Mrs. Wyndham," said Robert, taking the extended hand.
"I have as good news as that to tell you. I honestly believe I like it
better than a fortune for myself."
"Then it is all right? He came to terms?" cried Bab, while Jessamy and
Phyllis, knowing the answer before it was given, dropped, quite pale
with joy, on the sofa, their arms holding each other tight.
"All right, little lady. The check is here," cried Robert, jubilantly,
slapping himself on the breast.
Mrs. Wyndham turned pale. Even Aunt Henrietta began to tremble. "May
we know what you are talking about, young man?" she said sternly.
"Evidently the girls have the advantage of us."
"My dear Mrs. Wyndham," Robert began, "it is a rather long story;
the beginning dates back to the winter before last, when I was first
graduated from the law school, and had a desk in one of Mr. Abbott's
offices."
[Illustration: A BEARER OF GOOD TIDINGS.]
At the mention of that fateful name Mrs. Wyndham sat erect, clasping
tight the arms of her chair. "Mr. Abbott?" she whispered.
"Precisely; the Abbott who robbed you," said Robert, nodding
emphatically. "At the time I was frequently asked to witness his
signature to papers; among others were three deeds of transfer. I
caught a glimpse of their contents, not reading them in detail, of
course, but I saw enough to know they were transfer deeds for certain
property held by Mr. Abbott in his own name. He made it over to his
wife. The dates of those deeds I remembered--I have a good memory for
dates, always had. The first was signed on my own birthday, December
seventh; the second, on January third, the day on which a chum of
mine, whose birthday I have always kept by dining with him, was born;
the third was signed the day before Washington's birthday, and I had
to witness it with my coat on, ready to start out of town for the
holiday--so I was prepared to swear to all three dates with absolute
certainty. At the time there were many things which led me to suspect
that Mr. Abbott was not all one's fancy paints an honest man, but I
was not called upon to meddle in his affairs, merely renting desk-room
of him as I did. But the following spring, when I heard of the failure
of the Wyndham Corporation, and that your family had lost everything,
practically, while Abbott was still prosperous, I began to think
seriously. A year ago I met Miss Jessamy, and I--I thought such a--I
thought--why, it seemed a shame, don't you know, that she should be
deprived of anything, when nothing was good--" Robert broke off, much
embarrassed.
"And you tried to help us?" suggested Mrs. Wyndham; while Aunt
Henrietta looked sharply from blushing Jessamy to the no less crimson
young lawyer.
"Yes, yes," said Robert, gratefully. "I went to Mr. Hurd and told him
what I knew about that rascal having put his property out of his hands
when the company was already involved and he could not legally do so.
Mr. Hurd jumped at the information. 'Young man,' he said, 'you may
be the very witness we needed to establish what we were all morally
certain of, yet could never prove.' Then I spoke to Mrs. Van Alyn--no,
I had already spoken to her before I met Miss Jessamy. I forgot--I had
seen Jessamy when I began to act, but had not met her. Mrs. Van Alyn
said you ought not to be told until we were certain, because you were
too delicate to be upset on a possibly false clue. So Mrs. Van Alyn
asked Jessamy--Miss Wyndham--to meet me at her house, and she gave me
all the information necessary to proceed on. We have been at work ever
since, more or less. You were not told, for it proved unnecessary; Mr.
Hurd having power of attorney for you. Abbott is a sly cur; we couldn't
establish illegal transfers beyond the deeds I witnessed, though it is
absolutely certain he made others. However, those amounted to forty
thousand dollars. Mr. Hurd and I proved to him that we could--and
there wasn't much doubt Mr. Hurd would--sue him for that amount, and
not only get it, but a pretty tidy sum would be out of his pocket for
costs. The old rascal hated to disgorge, but he wanted to economize
on his restitution, and handing over forty thousand to Mr. Hurd was
cheaper than meeting the suit. So Mr. Hurd got his check for that
amount--it's certified--and he let me bring it up to you, and tell you
the story, like the trump he is, because he is good enough to say the
recovery came through me. Mrs. Wyndham, here is forty thousand dollars,
and if you are as glad as I am about it you are a pretty happy woman."
So saying, and with a decided choke in his voice, Robert laid a
certified check on Mrs. Wyndham's knee, and dropped silently back in
his chair.
Not a sound broke the stillness of the room for a few moments, then
Aunt Henrietta electrified the company. Without a word, she arose
to her full stately height, walked slowly over to where Robert sat,
put both arms around him, and kissed him soundly, with a kiss that
resounded. "You are a second Daniel Webster," she said, and solemnly
resumed her seat.
Nothing better could have happened. Aunt Henrietta had relieved
the tension of a moment that was in danger of becoming hysterical.
Following her aunt-in-law's example, though with a difference, Mrs.
Wyndham took both of Robert's hands, the tears of joy running down her
cheeks. "I can't thank you, my dear," she said simply. "I doubt your
wanting me to; but I shall never, never forget that we owe it to you
that even this portion of our lost property is restored. And to us,
who have been taught the lesson of economy so sharply, forty thousand
dollars will be a large sum."
Jessamy, Phyllis, and Bab were crying softly, but their faces were
flushed with joy and bright with smiles. "Oh, here's Tom!" cried Bab,
as she always did when she heard Tom's peculiar ring, and ran to the
door to bring him in.
"Hallo, Bob, old man! I see you've got it!" cried Tom, the instant he
entered and saw the April faces. "Well, talk about special providences;
wasn't it about the neatest bit of good fortune you ever knew that you
should have witnessed those deeds, and had your desk in old Abbott's
office? And I believe you'll get your reward, too," he added for
Robert's ear alone. "Leave it to me, and I'll manage the others--give
you a chance. I tell you, Mother Wyndham, I'm tremendously glad.
Now it's over, and you know the whole story, I'll tell you that my
engagement to Bab depended on the recovery of this money. If it hadn't
been captured I should have broken it off--I wouldn't marry a girl
without a little fortune."
"She hasn't married you yet, sir, that girl-with-a-fortune, so you'd
better not be too sure of her. I may use my share of the forty thousand
to go off to fashionable watering-places this summer, and invest in
a little French title attached to a little French man," said Bab,
saucily, so saucily that Aunt Henrietta said severely:
"Barbara, such jests are not seemly."
"Now, Mother Wyndham," continued Tom, "aren't you going to treat on
the joyful occasion? In default of champagne and grouse, I propose a
Welsh rabbit in the chafing-dish, and anything else to be found; and,
as Jessamy is the chief conspirator of the family, the one who got into
the plot first, I think she ought to make it. Go out to the kitchen,
Princess, please, and make us a rabbit."
"Violet is out," began Mrs. Wyndham, hesitating.
"Splendid!" said Tom the artful, who had remembered this fact when he
spoke. "Violet is no good at rabbits. Please be nice, Jessamy, and make
it."
"Of course I will," said Jessamy, rising.
"Maybe some one will help you," continued Tom, a hand on Phyllis's
and Bab's arm warning them not to offer. "I would, only I am not
proficient."
"I know how to make a rabbit, at least to toast the bread," said
Robert. "I'll help."
Mrs. Wyndham looked anxiously after the pair disappearing down the
hall. It was not hard to see through Tom's Machiavelism, and she longed
to follow Jessamy.
In the kitchen, empty save for Truce still hopefully waiting for mice,
Jessamy lost her usual dignified grace.
She cut the bread for the toast on the bias, and lighted the top of
the gas-range instead of the broiler to toast it, dropped the cheese
in the sink, and at last burned her fingers so badly with a match that
Robert had to come to the rescue.
"Let me see them," he said, getting possession of her hands.
There must have been something in his voice not quite suited to the
simple words, for Jessamy trembled violently, and would not raise her
eyes to look at him.
Taking the little burnt hand in his, Robert forgot why he held it.
"Jessamy," he said, "I don't want to take advantage of any little
gratitude you may feel toward me; indeed, you ought not to be grateful,
for it was chance that enabled me to be a witness for you, and any one
would have done what I did for mere justice's sake. But you know that I
did it for you with joy, because I was doing it for the girl I loved,
and will still love if she doesn't care a bit for me. But do you care
for me, just a little, Jessamy?"
"No," said Jessamy.
"What!" cried poor Robert. "Jessamy, you can't mean that! You knew I
was caring for you, and you are not a heartless flirt! Jessamy, don't
you care for me?"
"Not a little, Robert," whispered Jessamy, and raised her eyes at last
to look at him. Beautiful eyes Jessamy had at all times; now they
were wonderful, lighted with the best and most precious thing in the
world--a pure, unselfish, self-forgetting love.
Robert read it, and stood a moment abashed and awed, as a true man
should be. Before he had time to recover, and accept the great joy
and the priceless gift which were his, Tom's voice was heard talking
volubly as feet drew near, quite as though he suspected the situation,
and was giving Robert and Jessamy warning.
"Not ready yet?" he cried, entering. "Why, you haven't set the table,
nor toasted the bread, by Jove!"
Jessamy stood motionless a moment, then she looked at her mother. There
was no use for her to try to speak of lesser things, her heart was too
full. With a swift motion she turned to her mother, who, seeing what
had happened, gathered her in her arms.
"Will you let Rob have me, mama--for forty thousand dollars, you know?"
Jessamy whispered.
"Three cheers for Judge Lane and his bride," cried Tom. "Give you joy,
old man! Except Bab and Phyllis, she's the best girl in all the world,
and I can't say more for you than that you deserve her." The two young
men wrung each other's hand with that hearty good will that means so
much, and Phyllis and Bab kissed Jessamy with smiles and tears. Then
every one rallied to make the occasion worthy of itself. Supper was
served, not only the belated rabbit, but lots of other good cheer; and
the health of Rob and Jessamy was drunk in coffee of the future bride's
making, which may not have been as festive as champagne, but was very
delicious.
Aunt Henrietta departed in such an amiable frame of mind that her
nieces almost hated to have her go. Alan dropped in that evening, and
David, who, when he came, was despatched to bring Ruth to hear the
double tidings of good and congratulate the happy pair.
"But the best part of the whole wonderful afternoon," said Bab, as she
bade Tom good-night, helping him on with his greatcoat in the hall, to
do which she had to stand on a chair, owing to her five feet and Tom's
generous inches, "the best part of it all is that our princess should
have become engaged in the kitchen. It is so funny!"
"Oh, I don't know," said Tom. "'The queen was in the kitchen, eating
bread and honey'--sweet, too, you see."
"Oh, Tom, you goose! No, she wasn't. The queen was in the _parlor_,"
cried Bab.
"Well, you never can tell about versions of Mother Goose, nor where
love will get you; it may have been the kitchen," said Tom, the wise.