John Cabot seldom spoke with the new governess, as she took to
absenting herself during the afternoon hour which he spent with his
son. None the less she learned much about him and, through the opinion
of others, came to hold him in high regard.
Mrs. Morrison, daughter of the distinguished-looking old butler,
Bradish, had been with the Cabot family practically her lifetime and
proved an enthusiastic informant at the tea-time chats to which she
frequently invited the girl. She took a personal pride in her employer
and his career.
Mr. Cabot, she boasted, was one of the few “real” New Yorkers. His
family had lived in Manhattan since the sixteen-fifties. A red brick
house in Whitehall Street, near the Battery, had been the birthplace
of two generations of his grandfathers. There the Cabots had lived in
the days when Castle Garden was the home of Grand Opera and Jennie
Lind its Galli-Curci. The old house still stood, although its quondam
drawing-room, where once the fair and gallant had stepped the minuet,
now staged nothing more romantic than haggles over the price of
shipping stores.
The comfortable fortune awaiting the present head of the house on his
graduation from Princeton, he had increased to great wealth through
an international banking organization built up largely through his
efforts. Particularly proud was the housekeeper over the fact that not
only the Cabot dollars but the master himself had worked unceasingly
to “win the war,” that not only his own Government, but also those of
Britain and France had heaped honors upon him. In the underwriting of
the war loans of the Allies and in the direction of American Liberty
Bond flotations the services he had rendered without financial gain
were declared inestimable. For a time, indeed, the Cabot Bank--a
classic structure on Broad Street within a stone’s throw of the
homestead--had been the acknowledged center of war finance for half the
world.
By his employees--also according to Morrison--the banker was adored
for his democratic manner; was respected for the unfailing honesty of
his business code; was, at the same time, served with the diligence of
fear. In his home, his every gesture was anticipated that it might be
the more quickly obeyed. None, not even the beautiful madame, would
have dared question any of the direct wishes he so seldom expressed.
To his only son John Cabot was a fascinating mystery.
“You know, John’s a queer man,” the boy confided to Dolores, with his
elderly faculty for analysis. “He’s as quiet and kind as anybody could
be and yet he keeps everyone scared of him. Morrison says it’s because
he is ‘just.’ What is there about justice, ’Lores, that everybody’s so
scared of?”
On another occasion: “One thing I like about John, is the interest he
can take in little things. Why, he plays my Christmas games better than
I do, and the way he can keep clocks going! Sometimes when he stays
home evenings, he brings almost a dozen in here and sits on the floor
and gets them all ticking at once. That clock of my great-grandfather
Cabot’s is his pet. All the jewelers said the old works would have
to be replaced. But John says he’s going to keep it going through my
lifetime at least. He’s funny that way. He never thinks of dying.
Somehow, I don’t think anybody could make him die until he got ready.”
Once the child-man had opened up a hurt in his confidence: “I heard
my mother tell John one day that my grandmother--his own mother, you
know--might have called him ‘Jack,’ but she felt sure that nobody else
had. She said he was the uncompromising kind of man that everybody just
naturally called ‘John.’ Sometimes my mother talks as if she did not
think much of John, any more than she does of me. That’s why I can’t
think much of her. Just what kind is an uncompromising man, ’Lores?”
Even by madame herself were the peculiarities of the master of the
great house discussed with the latest comer. Dolores, yielding to
the unexpected fancy which Catherine seemed to have taken to her and
looking on her with almost worshipful eyes in her sacred capacity of
motherhood, welcomed every opportunity of showing her gratitude. One
stormy afternoon, when she had been summoned to m’lady’s quarters on
the second floor, the trend of the wife’s conversation became an urge
that the governess think well of her husband.
Fragrant from her bath, Catherine was sitting before a pier glass in
her dressing room leisurely and, it would seem regretfully, covering
her exquisite body with undergarments of rather sleazy texture. The
fresh-opened box of bon-bons which stood on a nearby tabourette she
urged upon Dolores with her comments.
“John Cabot’s character is an open book--_in cipher_,” she declared. “I
have noticed, my dear, that you appear to be just a bit in awe of him.
It seems too bad when you will be thrown so much together over Jack.
Perhaps if I give you the key to him you will feel more comfortable in
his presence. He is not nearly so cold or stern as he acts. Really, he
used to be quite ardent before---- Well, you know, before we got to
know each other so thoroughly. I used to think him the strongest man
I’d ever met.”
Dolores resented the insinuation. “But isn’t he still stronger, now
that he has learned to control his feelings? And perhaps he wouldn’t
wish people to be given what you call the key to him.”
But Catherine was not listening, as told by the opera air she hummed.
She had become intent over an open drawerful of lingerie, some pieces
simple, some elaborate as the sweat-shop set bought that day at Seff’s.
With the selection of a rather plain Philippine linen for that day’s
wear, her interest returned to the ever engrossing subject of herself.
“Queer, isn’t it, how one’s early habits will cling? Have you heard
that I wasn’t always rich? I haven’t a dollar except what Mr. Cabot has
settled on me. My father had plenty to start with, but he squandered
it all on ‘old masters’ that turned out to be neither masters nor old.
I try to forget the humiliations of those days, but every now and then
am reminded by little things--like, for instance, this.”
At the puzzled look with which Dolores’ eyes met the emergence of her
own from the neck scallops of the sheer envelope, she expanded:
“I never wear my best clothes on a stormy day. Isn’t that too funny,
when I don’t need to think of the weather? I’m interested in noting
my own characteristics quite as much as I would be those of another
person. Dr. Shayle says that I have the introspective faculty to a
marked degree. I appreciate the compliment from him.”
“He seems to see,” the girl remarked, “so much more than is on the
surface.”
By way of the glass, Catherine smiled at her, the short upper lip which
was a piquant flaw in otherwise perfect features lifting over her
gleaming, mouselike teeth.
“Oh, Dr. Shayle has remarkable powers! I discovered him, you know. No
wonder he admires me and feels--well----”
For once Dolores interrupted. She did not wish to be told first-hand
of the likable young osteopath’s devotion, concerning which she had
heard considerable gossip from the servants. She felt that it would not
be just loyal to Dr. Shayle. Although fearful for her temerity, she
changed the subject.
“That day you engaged me, the Marquis d’Elie spoke of other needs of
your household in which I might help. You have been very kind to me and
I want to do all I can in return. Won’t you tell me what they are--the
other needs?”
Relieved that her beautiful employer showed no resentment, she did not
try to analyze the confused look turned into the mirror.
“The need the marquis meant----” Catherine spoke readily enough after
the moment’s pause--“is mine for someone congenial to talk with in this
great barn of a house--someone refined, you know, with a mind more the
quality of my own. That’s all, really, just someone to lift the heavy
moments. D’Elie feels a deep sympathy for me.”
So pathetic did she sound and look that Dolores, too, felt sympathetic.
That the enviable Mrs. Cabot might have a secret sorrow had not
occurred to her. This time she did not check the tendency toward
confidence; waited rather in silence, lest she seem inquisitive, for
whatsoever might be entrusted to her. But before Catherine could
continue, someone entered the boudoir that opened off the dressing
room. It was the Marquis d’Elie.
That was the early afternoon when he, like the oft-mentioned “angel” of
the old saw, startled them both by an unannounced appearance. Dolores
was sitting out of his line of vision, but she could see him plainly
in the pier glass. She rose, outraged at the Frenchman’s presumption
with the wife of John Cabot; turned toward Catherine; waited for her to
reprimand him as he deserved.
Catherine, who had been in the act of tying a ribbon at her breast,
stiffened as if turned to the marble she looked and stared into the
glass at the reflection of the smiling alien. A hurried glance she
spared for the confections of silk crepe and lace in the open drawer,
then bit her lip. When at last she spoke, her voice was one of utter
exasperation.
“And me in a cotton chemise!”
“But lovely--ah--as a lily of _la belle France_!” the Marquis enthused.
“I have slip’ up for that small talk of confidence about the amount of
the dot, _mon ange_. I feel distress that you must sue for so much. But
the responsibility is on me to assure that my queen have those comfort
to which----”
“You certainly slipped up!” Sharply Catherine cut into the expression
of his “responsibility.” Hers seemed to be for Dolores and the dressing
robe which she had worn from her bath. This she donned before going
into the boudoir. “You shouldn’t have come unannounced, Henri. Never do
such a thing again. How fortunate it is that Miss Trent happened to be
with me. You remember meeting Jack’s new governess?”
His assurance was remarkable. Low he bowed before Dolores when, in
response to Catherine’s appeal, she followed.
“And how is mademoiselle enabled to do with the fiend-_enfant_?” he
enquired affably.
Dolores strove to control her contempt for him. She replied that she
found Jack no fiend, but a most lovable child. He must be awakening
from his nap about now. Would Mrs. Cabot excuse her?
“First, my dear, won’t you ring for Annette?” Catherine made proviso.
“And how,” the marquis persisted in the wait, “is the so-famed siren
enabled to do with Meester Cabot?”
Grateful for the support of madame’s frown, Dolores answered, steadily
as she might: “So far Mr. Cabot has made no complaint of my methods
with his son.”
“She has done wonderfully--_with Jack_.” Catherine smiled at Dolores
her innocent smile. “I, for one, am most grateful to Miss Trent, even
if John hasn’t shown his appreciation.”
“Perhaps he has not--_as yet_--have the opportunity.” The foreigner,
too, contributed an encouraging beam.
“Just what I’ve been telling her!” Catherine approved. “Miss Trent is
so very self-effacing that I fear John thinks----”
Just which of the wife’s fancies was about to be attributed to the
great brain of John Cabot, Dolores never knew. She felt a sudden and
vehement disinclination to hear his possible thoughts discussed before
such an audience. She crossed to the gallery door.
“I hear Annette coming. I--I’d like to go, Mrs. Cabot. Jack may be
looking for me.”
She did not wait for the elevator, but hurried up the wide marble steps
that led from gallery to gallery to the top of the house. Fast as she
took them, however, distressing questions pursued her.
What was she to think--how conduct herself?
Looking into Jack’s living-room, she saw that the door into his bedroom
still was closed. The calm-faced clock announced that it was not really
time for him to have awakened. As she went toward her own chamber to
wait, she heard the click of the elevator letting someone off at the
third gallery, but did not glance up to see who it was. She wished to
be alone--to think.
Once her own door was closed, however, she shrank from thinking. Rather
than force herself to any immediate conclusion regarding the surprising
developments of the last several minutes, she allowed her mind to rest,
as it were, upon the thought of young Jack.
During the days which had accumulated into weeks since her entry into
the Cabot home, her influence upon the boy had continued to be poured
into the mold of their first hour. The household agreed that none of
the many who had undertaken him had approached her success. Rather than
the problem which he was said to have been to earlier governesses, he
had become a revelation to her.
Although they continued to play “Turn-About” at times, she had ceased
to rely upon games for the establishment of understanding between them.
So long as Jack did what he knew to be right and fair, he and she might
share enjoyment, even happiness. When he ceased, her disappointment in
him spoiled their day. They consulted upon every item of their daily
program subject to change. From play to text-books had been a gradual
but sure transition. What at first had caused ruction, became a medium
of pleasant companionship. Lessons learned under a “pal” instead of a
task-mistress didn’t seem like lessons at all.
Dolores’ service was but what she would have given unrequited to the
stunted human plant. Love had bloomed as her reward. The lad’s devotion
to her had become a by-word in the house.
Only last evening, when she had slipped into his room to tell him
good-night after the maid had left, he had overcome his prejudice
against any show of affection sufficiently to lift his over-long arms
about her neck.
“’Lores,” he had whispered half-ashamedly, “I have made up a nice name
for you. I don’t wish to tell even you what it is. I’m afraid you’d
make fun of it. It is just a little name for you that I save to think
about when I’m trying to go to sleep.”
With the poignant memory, the girl felt comforted. Life, which hitherto
had seemed indifferent when not actually cruel toward her, had grown
kind. Surely no malice of Jade Fate could be behind the gift of a
child’s adoration.
And in what luxury did she live--she, whose sole capital so recently
had been a ripening nectarine! No opportunity was given her to think of
her needs. They were fore-attended. Beside her own beautiful room, the
young heir’s kingdom was shared with her. And more than her needs were
remembered. Mrs. Cabot’s gratitude and affection took the practical
form of tickets to theater and opera matinees, of the free use of
Jack’s car, and twice of invitations downstairs to dine _en famille_.
In a partial expenditure of her salary, she had acquired, by way of
being more worthy her surroundings, some unpretentious, but pretty
clothes. The black worn for Trevor Trent she had laid away for the
gayer colors liked by Jack, just as she was trying to lay away sorrow
for good cheer.
To-day, where was that good cheer?
Here she had shut herself in her room in a panic of foreboding. Was she
so used to trouble that she would attract by expecting it? Despite the
general kindness toward her, she felt afraid.
There was Dr. Clarke Shayle. At first his show of interest in her had
been confined to the period of Jack’s daily treatment, when he would
chat with the two of them in the set phrases to which he was given,
leaving an impression of impartial friendliness. But a few days before
he had returned during the boy’s nap hour to add a detail to his
instructions. Even Jack had pierced the pretense and taken occasion,
through some instinct or reason over which he grew quite sullen, to
acquaint his mother with the fact.
The annoyance shown by Mrs. Cabot brought memory back to the more
recent annoyance of this early afternoon. What had given the Marquis
d’Elie the right of way to madame’s boudoir? She decided to force the
question from her mind as beyond her scope. General hints about the
impecunious foreigner had been emphasized by Annette after the style of
the French paper-backs which formed her ideas of high-life lived low.
Vicariously the maid had thrilled over d’Elie’s infatuation for her
beautiful mistress; deplored the fact that m’lady, being, alas, already
wedded, might not acquire the right to the proud title of Marquise
of France; grieved over the misfortune that her heroine, having no
personal fortune, might not with financial safety free herself. Oh, not
that madame had any more real feeling for her suitor than for her own
husband! Her heart’s love, as Annette had reason to know, was given to
another. That complication, however, was according to form, as written
in French originals.
All this was peace-poison, Dolores decided, and for such there was no
antidote. One thing only must she remember. “M’lady” was John Cabot’s
wife. The fact stared from her dressing-table mirror each time, as now,
she smoothed her hair and compared its blackness with Catherine’s glory
of fine silk and pale gold. Of it she was reminded each time her heart
expanded over lonely Jack or her eyes caught the gleam of the limp
diamond-and-platinum circlet which was his mother’s latest acquired and
much admired “wedding” ring.
She herself had been judged unjustly by appearances. She must not--she
would not judge. Married women, she had been told, outgrew the
prudishness which mothers taught their daughters. And titled foreigners
were said to be more careless of conventions than the great, clean
men of America. Every melioration she must consider. Perhaps even the
much-discussed pair’s recent suggestions to her, at which she had felt
such offense, had been conceived as they were worded, in kindness.
Catherine was the wife of the king of the Cabots and the mother of
Prince Jack. The queen-mother could do no wrong.
Her decision reached, Dolores realized an unwonted physical fatigue.
She lay down on the bed for a moment that she might take a fresh face
and mind to Jack. A glance at the ivory clock on her bedside table told
her that it was fifteen minutes to three. She closed her eyes with the
intention of allowing herself the quarter hour. For several minutes she
continued in full consciousness of the trustful thoughts upon which she
had decided as a policy. Then soon, although daytime napping was not
her habit, she fell into a doze.
Her eyes flashed open before she was fairly awake, as if at a call.
For a moment she gave up to an exquisite sensation which had come to
her. She felt relaxed, flushed, very much at peace. In a sort of dream,
someone with strong arms who cared for her had rocked her as she often
had longed to rock Jack. Repeatedly a tender, infusing voice had said
to her: “Rest, little girl.... Everything’s all right.... Rest....
Rest.”
And she had rested. How long? A glance at the clock brought her to her
feet. It was fifteen minutes after three!
Near the head of the stairway, beneath a boxed catalpa tree, stood a
decorative carved stone seat. Upon it sat Dr. Clarke Shayle. As, with
a nod, Dolores was about to hurry past him and into Jack’s room, he
caught her hand and drew her to a seat beside him.
“You can spare a moment for the human headache powder,” he said. “Tell
me, how did you like it?”
“_It?_” She stared at him.
“The powder. But never mind. You don’t need to answer. You certainly
look some better at the present moment than when you ran away from me
into your room.”
“You can’t mean that--that you----”
The yellowish fleck in his eye twinkled, although his face was
unusually serious as he glanced down at the watch which, oddly enough,
lay face up in his palm.
“At eight minutes of three I volunteered a first-aid treatment. I
coddled you mentally the way I’d like to do really. You are an easy
subject, you poor, scared little chump. But it’s a hard life waiting
on a stone bench. At fifteen after three I was selfish enough to give
you the wake-up ring. Come, how _did_ you like it?”
“I--I do feel refreshed. What is it about you--what is it?”
“I’ve wanted to explain that and a lot of things to you for days, but
you’ll never give me an opportunity. I want to explain myself to you
before someone does it for me--to tell you to look out for me. I am
what you might consider a ‘dangerous’ man. Oh, it’s not inherited--it’s
a gift.”
This rueful repetition of one of the several set phrases with which he
punctuated his most serious utterances was accompanied by the quick,
cheerful laugh which was his greatest charm. Then the laugh’s smile
stiffened into an expression of utter misery.
So shocked was Dolores that she forgot her hurry to go.
He turned from the sight of her sympathy; forced himself to continue.
“I am not an honest osteopath, Miss Trent. My success is founded on the
fact that I am magnetic. You felt that the first day you met me. You
remember? See how strangely I can make you feel with a touch.”
“Yes, I remember. Oh, don’t--please don’t do that again!”
Even in freeing her wrist from the slim pulsant fingers which had
clasped it, she realized that her sensations justified his boast.
Fearing his touch, she liked it.
“Never mind, I won’t. I don’t want to attract you that way. You can
trust me. I won’t touch you again--that is, not until you wish me to.
Try to get what I’m telling you. It may kill me with you, but there’s
no other way than to make a clean breast of it. I’ve built up my
practice on nothing more or less than animal magnetism. Excites through
the touch system. Gives sensations instead of curing them. Lord help
me, she doesn’t see when I tell her how low I am!”
He paused as if in hope of help from her. But Dolores could not speak.
She was trying to believe that she had misunderstood.
“Lately I find that I’m getting psychic control,” he continued. “A nice
little lot of harm I could do in the world if I wanted to.” His voice
was husky. In the moment before he dropped his face into his hands his
clean smile showed again. “But I don’t want to. I hate this life. I
hate my success. I hate being called in the profession ‘The Ladies’
Pet.’ Did you know I was called ‘The Ladies’ Pet’?”
“I know,” said Dolores, “that Mrs. Cabot thinks you are a remarkable
man.”
“_She_ should. She made me what I am to-day and to-morrow--handed me
over to her social set. She’s satisfied, if I’m not. She knows and I
know that she can unmake me just as easily.”
“Why should she unmake you? She seems to take a pride in you and in
your admiration for her.”
“My _what_?”
“Only this afternoon, Dr. Shayle, she was telling me what you had said
about her powers of introspection and concentration.”
“Her powers of---- You little chump!” He glanced toward the stairway;
controlled his incipient laugh; added guardedly: “She hasn’t enough
concentration to write a postal card.”
“Then why do you flatter her so?”
“Ladies’ pets are trained to meet the demands for flattery of their
petters. Catherine has a certain surface shrewdness, yes. But you can’t
‘reach’ her. Don’t worry about her. Worry about me, Dolores. Tut, don’t
scold me! You wouldn’t if you knew how long I’ve wanted to call you
Dolores to your face. I am doing what is awfully hard for me, not to
have you point out my weaknesses, but in the hope that you’ll encourage
me to----”
With a smothered imprecation, he stopped. From his slumped position he
had seen before Dolores that Mrs. Cabot was ascending the stairs. At
the top of the climb she stopped and saw them. She was dressed in a
negligee of yellow satin and lace and looked exceedingly angry.
“I thought I heard voices and wondered if this could be possible.” Her
upper lip whitened over the mouse teeth as she directly addressed Dr.
Shayle. “Don’t you know that I am waiting for my treatment?”
The color of the young man’s hair blended into his forehead and cheeks.
He got to his feet.
“Miss Trent and I have had quite a talk.” Although obviously nervous,
he forced his coaxing smile. “We’ve discussed most of the important
questions of the day. Not that we’ve got anything settled at the
present moment. But we’ve exercised our minds and so have made
progress, even if the world----”
“If you _only_ wouldn’t say ‘at the present moment’!” Catherine snapped.
With not a second glance at the governess, but a peremptory gesture to
her physician, she turned back to the stairs.
Shayle, his athletic shoulders squaring, followed her.
“You needn’t take it out on me because I’m not a clever talker,”
Dolores heard him say to Catherine as, his hand at her elbow, he
assisted her in the descent “My stupidity ain’t inherited. It’s a gift.”
At a sound Dolores turned to see Jack looking on from his door. His
eyes were wide and grave--in expression much like his father’s. His
head slanted exactly as the elder John held his. With his laboriously
acquired, makeshift walk, he crossed the balcony to a stop before her.
“Something said to me----” he began; paused to think; continued: “I
guess I mean that myself said to myself I’d best come out and ’tend to
you. Maybe I’m foolish to worry about you,’Lores, and yet----”
“And yet,” she supplied, serious as he, “maybe you’re not. Look after
me, Jack. I need you to, for you are my safest friend.”
She took comfort in his elderly assurances; tried to throw off the
prescience that weighed on her at thought of Catherine’s outraged look.
But she was afraid.
Look high, look low, she was afraid.