A SERIOUS LETTER
"This is my idea of the work I'd like to do for my living," said Mrs.
Harlan with a yawn, as she tilted her sun-shade a little forward and
settled herself deeper in the soft sand. "All I need now to be
perfectly happy is to have one of you read to me until I fall asleep."
"Lola looks as though she could sleep without that," said Bob,
glancing at her lazily. "You went to bed early enough last night;
couldn't you get any rest?"
"I do feel a little tired," answered Lola. "I slept some, of course,
but not for hours."
"That's queer," exclaimed Dick. "I knocked on your door when I went
upstairs about eleven, and you didn't answer. If you were awake you
must have heard me. You didn't leave your room again, did you?"
"Why should I?" She sat up rather flushed, and turned to him angrily.
"Where would I have gone? What are you talking about? Why do you
always say such absurd things?"
"Come now, Lola," broke in Mrs. Harlan soothingly. "Dick hasn't said
anything dreadful. Don't be cross, please, and spoil a day like this."
"No, don't, for pity sake don't let's have any rows," said Bob
earnestly; "nothing in the world so bad for my digestion."
"Anyone would think you had something to hide, by the way you are
jumping on me," complained Dick resentfully. "I don't see any crime in
asking you if you had stepped out of your room for a minute."
"I have told you that I did not."
"You might have run in to see Madge."
"No! No! No!" She spoke almost in a scream. "How many times do I have
to repeat it? No! No! No!"
"Come on, Madge; that's the three-alarm signal," exclaimed Bob, as he
got to his feet heavily. "Great God, Lola," he looked down at her, his
fat, good-natured face expressing his deep disgust, "why can't you
learn to keep your disposition in the ice chest? You're all right when
you are all right, but you're a wonder at kicking up a row."
"I guess Bob's playing safe," agreed Mrs. Harlan, as she took his
proffered hand and got to her feet. "We'll leave you two alone, as
usual, to fight it out. Come on, Bob; I may not be as great a social
light as Lola is getting lately, but I'm perfectly willing to sit in
the sand and let you go to sleep."
Lola made no effort to stop them, and they walked on up the beach in
search of peace and quiet, Mrs. Harlan angry and disgusted, Bob deeply
discouraged.
"There," exclaimed Dick. "You've driven them away again!"
"What of it?" Lola looked at him coldly. "Go with them if you want
to!"
"I don't, but Bob's getting tired of this sort of thing, and he's too
good a fellow to be made uncomfortable all the time."
"He's a fool--a perfect fool; you know he is, Dick Fenway. The only
thing in the world that would really please him would be to eat a good
dinner in a deaf and dumb asylum. I'm tired to death of him and of
your Mrs. Harlan, too. She's coarse, and low, and vulgar, and if you
had any respect for me at all you wouldn't force me to be with such a
person!"
"But, my dear girl, you know I can't help it!"
"Well, you ought to help it," she replied cruelly. "It puts me in a
false position, to be seen with a woman of that sort. Everyone notices
it. Mr. Bradley practically said as much to me this morning."
"And took time enough saying it, too," said Dick resentfully. "I
thought the old man had tied himself to your skirts for the day. You
kept me waiting a good half hour. What are you trying to jolly him
for; we don't want any of his money."
She made no reply to this, but threw herself back on the sand and,
shading her face with her parasol, deliberately closed her eyes.
"I say, Lola," Dick remarked after a moment's pause; "if you don't
care to make any more of an effort than this to be sociable, I think
I'll leave you here while I go back to the hotel; the mail is in by
now, and I'm almost sure to get some news from Cleveland."
"A very good idea," she answered calmly. "I'll wait right here until
you return. You are so cross to-day that I don't think you would be
very good company."
He made no reply. "What was the use of starting another battle?" he
said to himself bitterly; "all that I can do is to go away and come
back when she isn't so cranky."
They parted like this, as men and women have parted since first they
came into the world. She, perfectly serene, as sure of his return as
she was of her own unreasonableness. He, puzzled as to just what his
fault had been and not quite sure whether to be angry with her or with
himself. A man is always very sorry for the thing he is quite innocent
of having done; it is only when he has really been at fault that he
remains calmly indifferent.
Lola was very comfortable; it was a warm day, but there was a breeze
from the water, and she lay there, every muscle relaxed, shading her
face with her parasol, which she had dropped on the sand, looking
dreamily out to where a long line of black smoke on the horizon marked
the passing of some great steamer.
Somehow the thought of a ship at sea brought Dr. Crossett to her mind.
She often thought of him, more often than of her father or of John.
The Doctor had loved her; she knew that; not as a father loves,
through instinct, or as a lover, from desire, but because he had put
her in the place of the one woman who had represented the idea of love
in his life. He was a rich man, Dr. Crossett; what fun they could have
together in Paris! If anything ever went wrong with her, she was going
to him; she had quite made up her mind to that, but, after all, what
could go wrong? Dick would always give her what she wanted, and if not
Dick, there were plenty of others. The only trouble was that if they
had money they were either stupid, like poor Dick or old, like Mr.
Bradley; if they were strong and handsome, like that splendid young
life-guard, they were hopelessly poor. On the whole, however, she was
satisfied with life. She had done well enough so far, and she very
strongly intended to do better. She was very tired, very sleepy; the
little waves breaking over the smooth sand soothed her; the wind swept
softly over her like a caress; she laughed happily to herself as she
thought of Dick's anger. How silly he was. What would he do if he knew
where she had really been, as he stood outside her door, the night
before. How had she dared to do it? She blushed red at the thoughts
that came crowding into her head, and thrilling, trembling with a new
knowledge of life, she fell asleep.
She stirred uneasily after a time, and sitting up suddenly, conscious
as one sometimes is of being the object of another's thoughts, she met
the eyes of Mr. Miller, the old gentleman of the night before, fixed
earnestly upon her. "How long had he stood there, looking at her?" she
thought angrily to herself. "How dared he smile at her like that, as
though his wise old eyes could read her mind."
"I beg your pardon, Miss Barnhelm." He spoke in the gentle, kindly
voice she had so resented the night before. "I am afraid that I have
disturbed you."
"Why were you looking at me?" she demanded bluntly.
"It was very rude, very unfair," he admitted, "but you looked so
comfortable and, if I may say so, so absurdly young, that it did not
at the time seem a serious offence."
"You were studying me," she exclaimed hotly, "trying to read my mind,
as I lay here asleep. Using me for a subject to dissect for one of
your stupid books. Well--what have you discovered?"
"Nothing! You are so frank with me that I will be honest in my turn.
It is my habit to study those about me. I am sorry; I hope you are
fully aware that in my interest there was nothing that could in any
way offend you."
"You mean, I suppose, that you would have looked just as closely at a
toad or a potato-bug! I am quite aware of that. I am not even angry
any more, only curious. What can you tell me about myself?"
"Nothing, my dear young lady, only that you have, in common with the
rest of the world, two natures, warring against one another, in your
heart. I will confess that in your case I thought I saw a flash of
something deeper, more tragic, than one usually finds in the face of a
young girl, just a bad dream perhaps, or perhaps a real trouble. If
the last, I would gladly do my best to help you."
"Why?"
"Because I have worked very hard for fifty years, and sometimes I am
discouraged at the little real good my knowledge has ever done. I have
more than my share of money, and time, and influence; any or all of
these are at your disposal."
"You were a Professor, they told me, and a writer of books?"
"Yes. I am, if I am anything, a Psychologist."
"My father was that," remarked Lola a trifle bitterly, "although to me
it was never anything but a name."
"It is merely a name for a very simple thing: the art of keeping one's
eyes open. Psychology is the study of mental phenomena; I believe that
is as good a definition as it is possible to give, and it means only
the study of our fellow creatures, in the hope that in the end the
psychologist may do for the mind what the physician now does for the
body."
"And to do this, to learn this new trade of yours, you hesitate no
more about robbing me of my mind and dissecting it than a country
medical student would hesitate to rob a grave."
"Not any more certainly," he replied, evidently still much amused at
her indignation, "but as I have perceived nothing but a well-deserved
rebuke, perhaps you will forgive me. I am on duty to-day, as you see;
after many years of careful study I am considered worthy of a very
sacred trust. I am granted the privilege of playing nurse to a child
and a dog."
He pointed along the beach to where his granddaughter was playing with
her absurd little poodle, and as his eyes rested upon them his smile
lost its queer, impersonal look and became very commonplace indeed,
just the smile of a good man, whose heart goes out in thankfulness to
God for the joy of seeing a little child of his own blood safe and
well.
"You are," said Lola gravely, "the very queerest person I have ever
met. If you are anxious to study mental phenomena you might buy
yourself a looking-glass. I must confess that I can't understand you
at all."
"Since we seem to have met upon a rather unusual attitude of
frankness," he responded mildly, "I am going to return the compliment.
Our impressions seem to have been identical." He turned as if to
leave, but after a slight hesitation he faced her, and said in a more
serious tone, "My offer of assistance was sincere; should you be in
need of anything that is in my power to grant you, surely my age
should make it easy for you to come to me." He bowed rather stiffly,
like a man to whom social conventions are a habit rather than a
pleasure, and left her there, sitting on the sand, looking after him a
little anxiously. "He was a queer old man," she thought; "there could
be no doubt of that," and she wondered just what he had meant when he
confessed that he could not understand her. She watched him as he
joined the child, and until they and the little dog disappeared
together around a rocky point she sat there, thinking of the strange
look of speculation she had seen on his face.
"Miss Barnhelm!" She looked up quickly at the sound of the voice and
saw the young life-guard standing beside her.
"Why did you follow me?" she demanded angrily. "I might have known I
couldn't trust you."
"I saw that you were alone," he stammered, very much upset by her
tone. "I--I had to see you."
"Why?"
"Why!" He looked at her amazed. "Why? Do you think a man can
forget--just in a few hours--forget you? I never knew that there were
women like you in the world. I--I wouldn't have dared to raise my eyes
to you--but--but you came to me--yourself!"
"The woman tempted me, and I did fall," she sneered. "I suppose that
is what you mean?"
"I mean, Miss Barnhelm, that I love you! I am not fool enough to dream
that you could care enough for a man like me to let me make any
difference in your life, but I can't let you go away from me like
this!"
"My poor boy," she spoke kindly, and looked at him with something very
like sadness in her eyes, "you are making a mistake. We met yesterday
in your boat. We walked together for a moment in the evening; that is
all."
"And--and last night?"
"Was a dream."
"No!"
"Just a dream, and dreams don't last. You must go now, quickly,
please, because I see Mr. Fenway coming."
"Go and leave you to him!"
"Yes."
He did not answer, but he had not the least idea of going; she saw
that in the same glance that showed her that Dick had seen them
together and had quickened his pace. She must not let these two men
meet; there was danger in that; this young man must be made to go, and
in less than a minute. She looked up at him, flashing one look
straight into his eyes.
"Go now," she said, almost in a whisper, "and wait for me--to-night."
"I will." As he spoke he turned and walked on up the beach. She sighed
as her eyes followed his free, powerful movements and noticed his
easy, graceful figure and broad shoulders; then she turned to meet
Dick.
"That was that Blake, the life-guard," Dick spluttered, his sallow
face whiter than ever now with anger. "You must think I'm a damned
fool to stand for a thing like this!"
"I think that you are forgetting, Dick, that you are not speaking to
one of your chorus-girl friends."
"Do you? Well, let me tell you something; even one of what you are
pleased to call my chorus-girl friends would have the decency to play
the game straight while she played it at all. There's another name for
a woman who takes one man's money and when his back is turned lets
another fellow----"
"You would be wise to stop right there!" She sprang up and faced him,
white with rage, and with a look that, angry as he was, he dared not
face. "I have taken your money; yes, this is not the first time you
have chosen to remind me of it, but it is the very last. You won't
have another chance! I won't take another dollar from you until we are
married; after that, if you ever dare to repeat a thing like that, I
will leave you! Now you go, get that divorce you talk so much about
before you let me see your face again, and get it soon, if you expect
me to wait for you!"
"Lola, forgive me. I--I was wrong, but I am worried sick, or I
wouldn't have made such a fool of myself! Don't be hard, Lola; I've
troubles enough without that. I--I'm in a devil of a mess."
"What mess?" she questioned quickly. "More trouble with your father?"
"Yes, another letter. He's sore because I've been away from New York
so long, neglecting my business, he says, and spending too much money.
He will come around all right; he always does, but to tell you the
truth he refused to send me the check I asked for."
"He never did that before, did he?"
"No, but it's sure to be all right. I sent him a 'day letter,' and
he'll come around, but it rattled me, and my lawyers wrote that my
confounded wife sticks out for fifty thousand!"
"Well?"
"I wired them to offer forty cash. I know the old man will pay that.
He's tired of having her around Cleveland, calling herself Mrs.
Fenway. Forty thousand is an awful hold-up, but I can't wait. The
whole thing may be settled to-day."
"If your father, who has refused you ten thousand, agrees to give you
fifty, and if this woman, who has stood out for fifty thousand, agrees
to take forty, if all this happens you will be a free man, but these
things have not happened yet, and if they do you will have to prove to
me that there will be no more of this talk about the money you have
spent on me, and the obligation I am supposed to be under to you,
before I will agree to tie myself to you. Favors! Look at me! If I am
not worth the few thousand I have cost you, go back to Broadway; you
can buy more for your money there!"
"Don't, Lola. Don't talk that way! I never thought a thing like that.
I don't deserve to have to hear you say it. When have I denied you
anything, when have I asked anything in return, but just that you
would care for me? I was wrong to lose my head, of course; you can't
help it if that cad of a life-guard has the nerve to hang around you.
Can't you let it go at that? Can't you see that I am worried enough,
without your turning against me?"
"I see," she answered coldly, "that Bob and Mrs. Harlan are coming,
and it is hardly necessary to take them into our confidence. Mrs.
Harlan has quite enough knowledge of our affairs; I think it is about
time we saw the last of her. If you had less to do with women of that
class, you might be able to remember that you can't talk to me as
though I were one of them."
Mrs. Harlan, as they all walked back to the hotel together, could not
make up her mind as to just how matters stood. Dick was nervous, that
was plain enough, but Lola's mood puzzled her; she was very quiet,
very thoughtful, and from time to time, when she looked at Dick, she
seemed to be trying to make up her mind.
"I don't like it," Mrs. Harlan confided to Bob as they followed the
others up the beach. "She's up to something, or I miss my guess. She's
dangerous enough when she's in one of her tantrums, but when she's
quiet, like she is now--look out. What do you suppose is the matter
with her now?"
"I don't know," replied Bob thoughtfully, "unless she's hungry."
This could hardly have been the explanation, however, for she refused
to go in to lunch with the others, and sat at the far end of the
veranda, still seemingly in deep thought, until, hearing some one
approaching, she looked up and saw Mr. Bradley.
Her smile, as she welcomed him, however, had no trace of anything but
girlish pleasure, and shrewd as he was, he could not but be flattered
by the soft blush on her cheek, and the gladness in her eyes, as she
rose to meet him.
"Miss Barnhelm," he began quickly, "I am anxious to speak with you, in
confidence, before your friends or my daughter come from the
dining-room."
"Yes, Mr. Bradley."
"I have a letter here." As he spoke he drew the letter from his
pocket. "I have decided to let you read it, although, as you will see,
it is a breach of confidence on my part to do so. It is from
Cleveland, from Dick Fenway's father; it may perhaps offend you, but
it may be a big help for you to know just how things stand. Here it
is."
Lola took the letter calmly enough, and read it through without a
word. It was dated from Cleveland two days before, and read as
follows:
"MY DEAR BRADLEY:
"My son Dick has wired me to address him at the Hotel where
you and Alice are staying. I am worried about the boy and want
you to do me a favor. He has always been a great trouble to
me, as you know, but he is all I have, and I am fool enough to
love him. Will you have a talk with him, and tell him for me
that he has come to the end of his rope. He has a wife whom I
am willing to buy off on one condition. He is to return to New
York at once and go to work, and he is to convince you, as my
agent, that from now on he gives up, absolutely and forever,
any connection or acquaintance with a girl by the name of Lola
Barnhelm, with whom he has been travelling for the last six
weeks. Tell him that my information as to this young woman is
complete. I have had them followed, and am in receipt of a
daily report as to their movements. The efforts he has been
making to secure a speedy divorce seem to point to an
intention on his part to marry this person. If he does, please
make it plain to him that he will support her himself, without
help from me. Try to make him understand that I am not quite
the fool he thinks me. I don't like what I have heard about
this Barnhelm girl, and I am serious when I say that if he
marries her he will not support her on the money I have earned
by hard work. You may be able to make him see his real
position. Thank you in advance, old friend, for the help I
know you will not refuse me. Give my love to your daughter.
What a happy man I would be if my boy had brains enough to
love a girl like her, and character enough to be worthy of her
love.
"Yours always,
"RICHARD FENWAY."
Lola finished the letter and, folding it carefully, handed it back to
him.
"Well?" she inquired calmly.
"I--I thought," he answered, very much embarrassed, "that you would
want to know how you stood."
"Yes, I am very much obliged, but I am afraid I don't. Are you acting
now as Mr. Fenway's agent, or as my friend?"
"As your friend," he replied earnestly.
"Do you believe the insinuations this man has dared to make? That I am
not a proper wife for his son?"
"Well, I--I--only want you to know that if you marry the boy, his
father will not give him another dollar."
"Do you believe what he believes of me?"
"I think that you are too pretty to----"
"Do you believe these things?"
"What were you doing out of the hotel until three o'clock this
morning?"
"I--I----"
"I could not sleep, because I was thinking of you! I was at my window,
and I saw you when you returned, and I saw the young fellow who left
you at the steps."
"Oh!" She looked at him for a moment; then a slow smile formed itself
on her lips. "Then you, I suppose, do not care to count yourself any
longer as my friend?"
"Why not?" He looked at her with a new boldness. "I am a man of the
world. Dick can't do anything more for you, but is there any reason
why you and I should not be good friends?"
"I think you are making a mistake," she answered quietly. "Dick fully
intends to marry me. I am not the sort of girl you seem to think."
"And last night?"
"Was my own affair."
"Very well," he rose reluctantly, "I suppose there isn't anything more
to say. So you will marry Dick?"
"Yes."
"And starve with him?"
"Perhaps."
"I can't figure this out." He looked at her, doing his best to read
her real intentions in her face. "You can't love him, or why this
other fellow? I suppose you count on his father's forgiveness, but
that, if it comes at all, won't come for years. You can't wait years;
don't you see that? Your youth is your capital; you would be a fool to
squander it, and you don't look to me like a fool."
"No, I am not a fool," she said quietly. "I have certain plans,
certain intentions, that mean everything to me. Dick, nor his father,
nor you can't come between me and the life I want. You might help me,
any one of you, but you can't hold me back. I should like to tell you
just what it is I do want, but not here, not now. Are you afraid to
trust yourself alone with me?"
"Are you laughing at me?"
"Perhaps."
"What is it that you want me to do?"
"Meet me in half an hour on the shore road, just above the place where
we met yesterday; do you remember?"
"Yes."
"Get out of your head, before you meet me, the thought that I am the
sort of woman who can be bought by any man. Until last night no man,
in all my life, ever had the right to say that he had been anything to
me. Do you believe that?"
"Yes. I can't doubt it, when you look at me as you look now."
"And you will be there, in half an hour?"
"Yes. Your friends are coming. I will go now; I will be waiting for
you."
He passed Dick, and Bob, and Mrs. Harlan, and as he was about to
descend the steps to the road, his daughter's voice stopped him.
"Father." Alice stepped out of the house with a letter in her hand.
"Look! Here is a letter from Aunt Helen; she is coming on the late
train to-night."
"That's fine," he answered heartily. "I am delighted! Good-bye, dear;
I'm off for a little walk. I won't be long."
"Take care of yourself," she called after him gayly, "and don't be
late." She turned away, joining Mr. Miller and Molly, and they all
walked along the veranda, followed by the little dog, until they
stopped at the group that now were gathered about Lola. Mr. Miller
noticed, as he took the chair one of the young men offered him, that
Lola was not making more than a half-hearted effort to join in the
general conversation, and he was watching the unmistakable signs of
repressed emotion on her sensitive face, when she looked up and saw
him. He expected to see a blaze of anger in her eyes, but for some
reason she seemed anxious to avoid his scrutiny, and bent over, rather
obviously to escape his glance, and patted the little dog, who was
sitting sedately beside his mistress, only a foot or two away. At the
first touch of her hand the tiny creature gave a snarl and, turning,
buried his little teeth in her wrist. Molly cried out and sprang
forward, but Lola threw her aside and, catching up a tennis racquet
from the arm of one of the chairs, struck the dog with all her
strength. Molly screamed as she saw the little figure fall back
motionless, and all the others rose quickly and stepped forward with
cries of indignation, but Lola did not hear them; again and again she
struck, although her first blow had done its work; and as she struck
she screamed, like the snarling scream of an angry wolf; for a moment
no one moved, but at last Bob threw her aside as he would have thrown
a man, and Molly dropped down, sobbing bitterly by the side of her
little friend. No one spoke; Lola shuddered and, turning her head,
looked about her from one to another. No eyes met hers; they all stood
there, sick with horror. After a moment of silence, broken only by the
sobbing of the child, she gave a short, contemptuous laugh and,
dropping the blood-stained racquet, walked down the veranda to the
door.