Dolores need have felt no anxiety over what she should say. Mrs. Cabot
said everything--and more.
“You philanthropists, will you ever get enough? Or aren’t there that
many?”
The short-lipped, mouse-toothed, childlike smile with which she turned
from her pastor to settle her hat in the mirror was reflected toward
them. At the door she bowed composedly to Dolores and gave Dr. Willard
her hand.
“In return for your wise counsel over my domestic troubles, dear
doctor, the favor you ask is small. Trust me. I’ll steal upstairs,
as if overwhelmingly attracted by the music. But remember--you have
assured me that you like the quality of her singing voice only because
some one else does _not_ like the super-quality with which she speaks.”
After she had gone, Dr. Willard sank into the padded leather chair and
gazed out the window. He looked disturbed; bit his lip, as if trying
to control vexation; waggled his right foot as he was wont to do when
nervous.
Dolores crossed the room, hesitated a moment before him, then sank upon
the hassock placed conveniently in front of his chair.
“Scold me--I’d rather you would!” she exclaimed, a catch in her voice.
“I shouldn’t have burst in on your conference that way, but I just
couldn’t help it. I was so angry that I--I----”
“Angry? _You_, my child?”
So cleared of all vexation were the yellow-brown eyes bent to her
imploring look, that Dolores began to stammer out the cause of her
agitation. When her head dropped to her hands upon his knee, he
reached out and patted her on the shoulder, very, very kindly.
“Poor orphan. Poor child,” he encouraged her. “I am indignant that such
a scene could be forced upon an inexperienced girl within these walls.
No matter how great may be Deacon Brill’s influence in the temporal
affairs of the church, I shall bring him to book in my own time and my
own way. Do not fear to tell me all.”
Dolores told him.
Shaken from her usual reticence, she also told him of her feeling of
aloneness since her father had died and the positive fear that was
growing in her--fear of the world and its ways.
“Perhaps,” she suggested, “the unpleasant things which have happened to
me are partly my own fault.”
“Your fault? You feel you have faults?” A glint lighted the agate gaze
as he questioned her.
“I lack,” she confessed, “religion. It was left out of my life. My
father was, I think, embittered against it. He was very good to me,
but he didn’t send me to Sunday school any more than to public school.
Perhaps if he had, I’d have grown up more like other girls--more
self-reliant, less afraid.”
“And less yourself,” he objected. “You have, I think, remarkable
self-control.”
“You don’t know how glad I am to hear you say so, Dr. Willard. That has
been my only religion--self-control. It is very strange that a person
to whom I never spoke--whom I never saw but once--gave me the ambition
to learn it.”
At his show of interest, Dolores recited the incident. “I was quite a
small girl, eight or nine, I guess. My father had left me to wait in
a railway station one day. I was worried because often he--because I
was afraid we’d miss our train. There was a lady sitting near me, also
waiting. I took to watching her.
“She was attractive and wore nice clothes. I became fascinated by
the way she breathed, not out and in, as I had supposed all people
did, but up and down. The lace jabot on her breast would move up and
down, up and down. Of course, as I grew older, I realized that she
breathed that way from tight lacing. But at the time it seemed to me
more refined than the common way. And then I saw that she was going to
sneeze. I’ve always hated to see people sneeze--they make such a fuss.
But this lady prepared. She was quite calm. The jabot lifted high with
the breath she took. At the vital moment she was ready.”
“And did she sneeze, my poor child?”
“Oh, yes, doctor, but so neatly. She just leaned out and did it without
any fuss at all. Afterward, she didn’t sniff or even wipe her eyes. She
was very wonderful. I often think of her.”
Shyly Dolores glanced up to see if the great intelligence had
anticipated her point.
“The station was draughty. When my turn came, I breathed up and down
and prepared. I made up my mind to sneeze the lady’s way. And I
did. And afterward, the ambition to sneeze her way applied to other
things--decided me to take the draughts of life neatly--to be prepared
and make no fuss. I try and try, Dr. Willard. But I guess self-control
is not enough. Don’t you think people would understand me better if I
had your religion? Is it too late for me to learn it now?”
“Emphatically not, you fatherless child.” The doctor apparently had
been touched by her conversational offering. Real feeling quivered on
the face bent over hers. “And there are other comforts it is not too
late for you to learn. Lean your lonely heart against mine. Let me
teach you a father’s love.”
“If you would--oh, if you only would!” She seized his hands and pressed
one cheek against them. “It is so easy to learn from one you absolutely
trust.”
“Don’t trust anyone absolutely. I fear at times that your rating of me
is too high.” Humility tore from her reverential regard the pastor’s
eyes, although his hands shook with appreciation of her praise.
“Remember how everything finite that goes up must come down. Only the
soul can ascend and stay on high. The flowers that lift their heads to
bloom must wither and die. The lightest feather in the most buoyant
breeze eventually returns to the earth from which it blew.”
“But it is my soul you will exalt, dear Dr. Willard.”
At her reminder, one of his hands moved to where its palm fitted over
the ball of her shoulder.
“Let me be a father to you. Yes, let me be a father to you,” he kept
repeating. The while, his palm pressed her shoulder, began to move
around and around.
“And you’ll teach me your religion?”
Dolores’ head threw back in exhilarating hope. As one performs small
acts in the largest moments, she plucked a long, silver-gold hair off
the black cloth of his coat. In the same motion, despite her boasted
control of impulse, her hand continued around his neck.
“_My_ religion, child? I’ll gladly teach if you--if you care to learn,”
he responded, drawing her to him in a close and closer embrace.
“It means safety to me--everything. You won’t find me dull. I believe I
shall learn readily from you.”
“I believe--you could.” The palm over the ball of her shoulder pressed
harder; moved faster. “But, dear daughter, don’t place me or any man
upon too high a pedestal, lest we fall--lest we fall.”
“I am sure----” To avoid contradicting her mentor, the pupil altered
the form of her statement. “I _hope_ that you never will fall.”
“And I hope--you don’t get--that hope!”
With the hoarse exclamation, Dr. Willard rose to his feet, drew the
girl after him and clutched her with a vehemence that made them stand
as one. Before she could draw away her face or realize that suddenly
she was again afraid, she felt his mustache against her cheek.
“We’ll seal the bargain, my child. Just the kiss of a father--the kiss
of a father,” he rasped close to her ear.
The insult crushed upon her mouth was not, however, fatherly. The
unequal struggle started by it was of no spiritual excitation. How she
wrenched herself away from him; how he headed off her rush toward the
door; how she eluded his clutching pursuit in and out among the other
young animals he had trapped; how she escaped from their stumble over
the couchant lynx, left him panting on the floor, ran screaming like
the hunted thing he had made of her into the corridor and up the first
flight of stairs----
The full horror of what had happened did not come to her until she
stood before the astonished music committee. Her hair dishevelled, her
waist torn open down the front, her discretion in shreds, she flamed
upon them.
“When even a minister of the gospel can’t be trusted, where--_where_ am
I to go?”
That Mrs. Cabot still was with them further unnerved her. Collapsing
into a chair, struggling with hysteria, she sobbed out her
denunciation. When able to look among the faces of the group gathered
about her, she saw that all were grave excepting two. Mrs. Cabot looked
entertained, Mr. Brill triumphant.
The manner that befits an occasion gave the deacon greater weight as he
turned to address his colleagues.
“Brothers, I have long suspected that the feet of the god set up by
this congregation are of clay. I hesitated to voice so distressing a
thought, lest I err. None of you, however, can doubt the testimony
just heard and seen. The hardest-hearted of you can have only pity for
the courageous young woman who has exposed this aide of the Evil One.
Dumbfounded though you may be, I ask you to act with me now--_at once_.
There is not space within these hallowed walls to house both him and
me. Five minutes should give him time to choose between a church trial
or immediate resignation. In either case, it is important that we give
the news to Park Row at once, before he who is so fond of sensation
has time to discredit us. Brothers, shall we wait upon the pastor in
the sanctum which he has so disgraced?”
While the honest laymen of All Mankind discussed this drastic proposal,
Brill addressed himself to the girl.
“A man can scarcely be expected to understand the outraged state of
your feelings, Miss Trent. But at least I realize that you must shrink
from the idea of facing that wolf in sheep’s clothing again. I’ll send
your wraps up here. Also, it seems to me inadvisable for your own sake
that you remain in the employ of the church. In this envelope I have
sealed the equivalent of a month’s wages.... Oh, do not hesitate to
take it! Notice or money is due a dismissed employee.”
Glancing over-shoulder and seeing that the committee had congregated
near the door in animated argument, he made his considerable figure the
silencer of a low-voiced apology.
“Sorry I teased you about the cigarette, little girl. I had an object
which you did not at the time suspect--to discover, through you, more
about that scoundrel. I was trying you out, just as the soprano was
being tried out upstairs, to see whether he had got you into the bad
habit of smoking. Didn’t blame you at all when you scratched and bit,
so you mustn’t hold it against me. You appear to be a young woman of
sterling character--a mighty good little girl.”
Bending and beaming, he patted her on the head. The eyes wontedly so
nondescript above the billowy face and cascade of chins, squinted
through their double lenses benevolently.
“You’ll be wanting other employment,” he added in still lower tones,
as if not wishing his right hand to know. “Now, I advise something of
a--well, you know, of a little more secular nature. Take this card,
my dear. See that you arrive at the address on it about ten to-morrow
morning. Perhaps I’ll be able to find you a berth where I can keep a
friendly eye on you. You’ll come?”
As he waddled out in the wake of his peers, Dolores heard him
continue: “About that matter of the soprano, brothers, I withdraw my
objection. Trouble often brings a change of heart and I feel that we
should stand together now in all things. Especially since Sister Cabot
is so decided in her agreement with you, I’ll try to enjoy the young
lady’s voice, although I still think her too old for that churchly,
newly-awakened-soul effect. I always hold myself open to conviction.”
She also overheard his throaty chortles over the taunt of Mrs. Cabot:
“To younger and prettier convictions, you mean, Deacon?”
Alone, Dolores stared dazedly down at the envelope and card she held.
Things happened so suddenly, once they began, she thought. Only this
morning she had chided herself for discontent with her settled state.
Now everything was unsettled again. As she had cried out to the
committee, what manner of man dared she trust?
One of them had answered. The card----
Up to the light she held it. Upon it was engraved the name and downtown
business address of Deacon Brill himself.
“You’ll come?” he had asked, voice, eyes, billows exuding loving
kindness.
Even more urgently she asked herself: “Shall I go?”
Next morning Dolores bought all the papers, determined to learn the
worst. Several of the more conservative merely mentioned that the Rev.
Dr. Alexander Willard had resigned the pastorate of the Church of
All Mankind. One suggested significant detail behind the surprising
act. Still another stated that the Eminent Divine would demand an
ecclesiastical trial and introduced the name of the young secretary
whom he, disregarding a certain premonishing contretemps, had sheltered
within his church home.
The most sensational journal of all uncovered a photograph of the young
lady in the case and reviewed the lingerie-shop scandal referred to by
the discredited clergyman. This was featured beneath the heading:
TOO STRONG FOR
DR. NIMROD’S SPORTING BLOOD
Would the denomination he had served allow his reputation to be
charred by the brand he had tried so conscientiously to pluck from the
burning? So Rev. Willard was quoted as having demanded in an exclusive
interview. Would any fair-minded congregation take, against his, the
word of an adventuress who so lately had been the example for a reform
movement instituted by one of their most prominent parishioners, Mr.
John Cabot? Was he to be blamed that he had assumed the sincerity
of All Mankind’s ideals and had sought to make his charity wide as
its word? To save himself for sake of future good that he might do,
he would reveal, if forced, the overtures toward him of this unholy
creature. As a sacred duty he would show his world which of the two was
more sinned against than sinning.
“A menace to men”--as such Dolores Trent was pointed out by the
reprimanding finger of the press.
Deacon Brill’s threat of Park Row had swerved from the sheep-clothed
wolf to her. Whether or not Dr. Willard lost his pulpit, the harm to
his secretary already was done.
In the little room found for her by her quandam benefactor, a room in
whose chintz-hung cosiness she had delighted, Dolores decided upon her
immediate course. There were young daughters in the family of the poor
parishioner. For their sakes, she would “fold her tents” before asked
to do so and, silently as she might, steal away. Thanks to savings from
her salary and that final payment in lieu of “notice,” she was more
affluent than ever before in her life. She would go, then. But where?
Opening her purse, she took out a business card and considered it as
well as its kind-spoken donor. She would come? That had been Deacon
Brill’s last question. In the absence of alternative----
With sudden decision, she tore the card into bits and flung them
into the waste basket. Probably she didn’t understand men--that had
been her thought. But she _did_ understand and _did_ believe in the
up-floating purity of the voice of that soprano who had gone to dinner
with the music committee’s over-fleshed chairman--the young lady who
wouldn’t do.
No alternative?
The moment she cast aside what had seemed her only chance, she found
another in her fingers. Almost had she forgotten the address given her
by Patrolman Donovan O’Shay and tucked away in her purse. For weeks
she had not thought of his “near-French” friend, Madame Marie Sheehan.
Discounted by distance was her reason for postponing a visit to the
employment office. Since her own judgment seemed always wrong, she
would try the policeman’s. She would check herself in her “satchel”
until the fates, “née Mary Shinn,” should see fit to provide.
“Madame’s” French certainly was bad. There were advantages, however,
in the long lapses between the selection of one word and her advance
to the next. Dolores had ample time to translate the high-voiced
utterances overheard from the inside room.
“Ah, but no! I fit the applicant to the position, not the position to
the applicant. So long you have been lacking the employment. So quite
joyful should you be for anything. The call for companions is rare,
very. One, two, three applicants have I booked before that you come.
This position I so kindly extend----”
“I tell you, nothing doing!” the interruption came in emphatic, current
American. “I was a governess two days once. I tell you I’d rather try
the streets. Children ain’t human beings. They’re devils, say I.”
“The devil? Ah, but no, _no_! More unto an angel is this exquisite
child. Could you once see those curls of gold, those turquoise eyes!
The parents are from money made and them I have promised a governess
to-day.”
“Well, you redeem your promise at the expense of somebody else. I’ll be
back to-morrow for my job. Good day to you, _Madame_ Shinn!”
If the sneer of this would-be companion, thought Dolores, was a sample
of her companionableness, small wonder that she was out of a position.
No hesitation held the girl in waiting. Ignorant of the rules of such
offices, unmindful of the dour-visaged hope-lorn awaiting their turn on
the benches of the outer room, she brushed past the departing aspirant
into madame’s presence.
“Won’t you let me have that position?” she asked in lieu of
introduction. “I love children. I know I’d suit. I don’t care so much
about the pay or----”
“So too fast you go!” interrupted née Shinn. “You look but the infant
yourself. And the qualifications----”
“Of course you couldn’t be expected to know it yet, dear madame, but
I am qualified. As for education--Listen, I shall speak in three
languages!” Under impetus of the unwonted initiative ruling her,
Dolores switched from English to French, then to Italian as she urged:
“I am young, yes, but that is why I need a home. And what companionship
would be safer for me than that of a child such as this golden-haired
little girl you describe? Once madame was as young as I. Was she ever,
perchance, alone in the world?”
“Mademoiselle is marvelously a linguist,” admitted Mrs. Shinn, although
confusion from more than the foreign words sat upon her broad features.
“Have you also the excellent references?”
Momentarily the girl’s new-found assurance stumbled. Then again was she
inspired.
“I have, indeed, a par-excellent one.”
Her Spanish--a creditable attempt at a fourth language--may not have
been comprehensible to the agency woman, but Donovan O’Shay’s scribble
was. A good-natured smile waved in like a flag her native tongue.
“A friend of Don’s are you, then, my _chérie_? Sure, if you’re as good
as that boy’s heart, you’re O. K.!”
Motherly instructions and penciled directions followed Dolores’ payment
of the fee. If she’d just “speak up,” now, to Mrs. M. P. Morrison of
No. ---- Fifth Avenue as she had to madame herself, she stood a chance of
overcoming natural objections to her youth and inexperience.
The glow of anticipated victory did not leave Dolores’ face at first
sight of Mrs. Morrison’s mansion, although it was something of a shock.
Nothing should frighten her now. She had made one friend--a woman
friend. She might--she _must_ make another.
Briskly as though prepared for the block-front display of lawn, unusual
even on this avenue of extravagance, she turned in through the center
gateway. Under the bare trees which she knew to be so costly a luxury,
she hurried, as if fearful that some late-clinging leaf might mistake
her importance and honor her head. Past clumps of drying hydrangeas,
past a fountain which still defied the freeze of winter with rainbow
spray, past a marble dryad of a cynical smirk afterwards acutely
remembered, she found herself confronted by a well-balanced marble
pile. Without a pause, lest trepidation weaken her, she descended the
steps to the ground-floor entrance and pressed the bell.
An elderly gentleman, of such distinguished appearance that she felt
he must be the master of the house himself, opened the door. After
inspection of Madame Sheehan’s card, he escorted her across a galleried
entrance hall of a luxury and loftiness well-nigh incredible. At the
rear, he threw open the door of a small parlor, cheerful from its
window-boxed blooming geraniums. Mrs. Morrison would be down, he told
her.
Dolores’ wait was not long. The tap-tap of high heels upon the marble
foyer outside brought her to her feet. She “spoke up” according to
instructions and tried to recall the assurance which had carried her
past the rules--_and_ the French--of née Shinn. She stressed her
education and the “way” she was said to have with children, especially
with little girls.
The more she talked, however, the more serious looked the woman whom
she hoped to make her friend.
“I am afraid,” said Mrs. Morrison, “that the case has been
misrepresented. Strange, when I explained to Madame Sheehan myself, on
my trip among the agencies this morning! The child for whom I need a
governess is not a girl and has anything but the amiable disposition
accredited to him.”
“Madame’s French must have misled me.” Dolores chose to ignore the
particulars of “those curls of gold, those turquoise eyes,” evidently
mere chimera of a Hibernian imagination. At the suggestion of failure
she all the more craved success. “It does not especially matter that he
is not a girl. He is a child, isn’t he?”
Mrs. Morrison glanced rather suspiciously at her. “I don’t know. The
last governess called him a fiend. You are different from the sort we
have had and expected again. I scarcely know what to say. You look a
sweet-dispositioned girl, but are very young. Perhaps I’d better leave
the decision to----”
Laughter and spirited repartee in the voices of a man and a woman
sounded pleasantly from the hall. They seemed to decide her. She arose;
crossed to the door; paused briefly to say: “His mother has just come
in from her ride. Perhaps she will speak with you.”
“His mother? But--I thought--that you----”
Dolores, again alone, began to understand. Of course Mrs. Morrison was
the housekeeper. That explained the first-floor parlor, the neat black
taffeta of her dress and her subdued manner. A third application for
the coveted position must be made.
When, next moment, the door was pushed wide, she did not rise. She had
not the strength. A woman in a smart habit of black velvet coat and
white cloth breeches had clattered in, crop in hand.
“Master Jack’s mother will speak with you, Miss Trent,” introduced the
housekeeper.
Still Dolores found her limbs weaker than her will. She clung to both
arms of the chair and waited for the real sponsor for the “fiend-child”
to speak.
She--the mother--was Mrs. Cabot.