While Allerton was making these reflections Steptoe was summoned to
the telephone.
"Is this you, Steptoe? I'm Miss Barbara Walbrook."
Steptoe braced himself. In conversing with Miss Barbara Walbrook he
always felt the need of inner strengthening. "Yes, Miss Walbrook?"
"Mr. Allerton tells me you've a young woman at the house."
"We 'ave a young lydy. Certainly, miss."
"And Mr. Allerton has asked me to call on her."
Steptoe's training as a servant permitted him no lapses of surprise.
"Quite so, miss. And when was it you'd be likely to call?"
"This afternoon about four-thirty. Perhaps you could arrange to have
me see her alone."
"Oh, there ain't likely to be no one 'ere, miss."
"And another thing, Steptoe. Mr. Allerton has asked me just to call as
an old friend of his. So you'll please not say to her that--well,
anything about me. I'm sure you understand."
Steptoe replied that he did understand, and having put up the receiver
he pondered.
What could it mean? What could be back of it? How would this
unsophisticated girl meet so skilful an antagonist. That Miss Walbrook
was coming as an antagonist he had no doubt. In his own occasional
meetings with her she had always been a superior, a commander, to whom
even he, 'Enery Steptoe, had been a servitor requiring no further
consideration. With so gentle an opponent as madam she would order and
be obeyed.
At the same time he could not alarm madam, or allow her to shirk the
encounter. She had that in her, he was sure, which couldn't but win
out, however much she might be at a disadvantage. His part would be to
reduce her disadvantages to a minimum, allowing her strong points to
tell. Her strong points, he reckoned, were innocence, an absence of
self-consciousness, and, to the worldly-wise, a disconcerting candor.
Steptoe analyzed in the spirit and not verbally; but he analyzed.
For Letty the morning had been feverish, chiefly because of her
uncertainty. Was it the wish of the prince that she should go, or was
it not? If it was his wish, why had he not let her? If, on the other
hand, he desired her to stay, what did he mean to do with her? He had
passed her on the way out to breakfast at the Club--she had been
standing in the hall--and he had smiled.
What was the significance of that smile? She sat down in the library
to think. She sat down in the chair she had occupied while he lay on
the couch, and reconstructed that scene which now, for all her life,
would thrill her with emotional memories. There he had lain, his head
on the very indentation which the cushion still bore, his feet here,
where she had pressed her lips to them. She had actually had her hand
on his brow, she had smoothed back his hair, and had hardly noted at
the time that such was her extraordinary privilege.
She came back to the fact that he had smiled at her. It would have
been an enchanting smile from anyone, but coming from a prince it had
all the romantic effulgence with which princes' smiles are infused.
How much of that romantic effulgence came automatically from the
prince because he was a prince, and how much of it was inspired by
herself? Was any of it inspired by herself? When all was said and done
this last was the great question.
It brought her where so many things brought her, to the dream of love
at first sight. Could it have happened to him as it had happened to
herself? It was so much in her mental order of things that she was far
from considering it impossible. Improbable, yes; she would admit as
much as that; but impossible, no! To be sure she had been in the old
gray rag; but Steptoe had informed her that there were kings who went
about falling in love with beggar-maids. She would have loved being
one of those beggar-maids; and after all, was she not?
True, there was the other girl; but Letty found it hard to see her as
a reality. Besides, she had, in appearance at least, treated him
badly. Might it not easily have come about that she, Letty, had caught
his heart in the rebound? She quite understood that if the prince
_had_ fallen in love with her at first sight, there might be
convulsion in his inner self without, as yet, a comprehension on his
part of the nature of his passion.
She had reached this point when Steptoe entered the library on one of
his endless tasks of re-arranging that which seemed to be in
sufficiently good order. Putting the big desk to rights he said over
his shoulder:
"Perhaps I'd better tell madam as she's to 'ave a caller this
afternoon."
Letty sprang up in alarm. "A--_what_?"
"A lydy what'll myke a call. Oh, madam don't need to be afryde. She's
an old friend o' Mr. Rash's, and'll want, no doubt, to be a friend o'
madam too."
"But what does she know about me?"
"Mr. Rash must 'a told 'er. She spoke to me just now on the telephone,
and seemed to know everything. She said she'd be 'ere this afternoon
about four-thirty, if madam'd be so good as to give 'er a cup o'
tea."
"Me?"
Having invented the cup of tea for his own purpose Steptoe went on to
explain further. "It's what the 'igh lydies mostly gives each other
about 'alf past four or five o'clock, and madam couldn't homit it
without seemin' as if she didn't know what's what. It'll be very
important for madam to tyke 'er position from the start. If the lydy
is comin' friendly like she'd be 'urt if madam wasn't friendly too."
Letty had seen the giving and taking of tea in more than one scene in
the movies, and had also, from a discreet corner, witnessed the
enacting of it right in the "set" on the studio lot. She remembered
one time in particular when Luciline Lynch, the star in _Our Crimson
Sins_, had driven Frank Redgar, the director, almost out of his senses
by her inability to get the right turn of the wrist. Letty, too, had
been almost out of her senses with the longing to be in Luciline
Lynch's place, to do the thing in what was obviously the way. But now
that she was confronted with the opportunity in real life she saw the
situation otherwise.
"And I won't be able to talk right," was the difficulty she raised
next.
"That'll be a chance for madam to listen and ketch on. She's horfly
quick, madam is, and by listenin' to Miss Walbrook, that's the lydy's
nyme, and listenin' to 'erself--" He broke off to emphasize this line
of suggestion--"it's listenin' to 'erself that'll 'elp madam most.
It's a thing as 'ardly no one does. If they did they'd be 'orrified at
their squawky voices and bad pernounciation. If I didn't listen to
myself, why, I'd talk as bad as anyone, but--Well, as I sye, this'll
give madam a chance. All the time what Miss Walbrook is speakin' madam
can be listenin' to 'er and listenin' to 'erself too, and if she mykes
mistykes this time she'll myke fewer the next."
Letty was pondering these hints as he continued.
"Now if madam wouldn't think me steppin' out of my plyce I'd suggest
that me and 'er 'as a little tea of our own like--right now--in the
drorin' room--and I'll be Miss Walbrook--and William'll be
William--and madam'll be madam--and we'll get it letter-perfect before
'and, just as with Mary Ann Courage and Jyne."
No sooner said than done. Letty was already wearing the white filmy
thing with the copper-sash, buried with solemn rites on the previous
night, but disinterred that morning, which did very well as a
tea-gown. Steptoe placed her in the corner of the sofa which the lyte
Mrs. Allerton had generally occupied when "receivin' company", and
William brought in the tea-equipage on a gorgeous silver tray.
Before he did this it had been necessary to school William to his
part, which, to do him justice, he carried out with becoming gravity.
Any reserves he might have felt were expressed to Golightly by a wink
behind Steptoe's back before he left the kitchen. The wink was the
more expressive owing to the fact that Golightly and William had
already summed up the old fellow as "balmy on the bean," while their
part was to humor him. Plain as a bursting shell seemed to William
Miss Gravely's position in the household, and Steptoe's chivalry
toward her an eccentricity which a sense of humor could enjoy.
Otherwise they justified his reading of the fundamental non-morality
of men, in bringing no condemnation to bear on anyone concerned. Being
themselves two almost incapacitated heroes, with jobs likely to prove
"soft," it was wise, they felt, to enter into Steptoe's comedy. At
half past ten in the morning, therefore, Golightly prepared tea and
buttered toast, while William arranged the tea-tray with those
over-magnificent appointments which had been "the lyte Mrs. Allerton's
tyste."
From her corner of the sofa Letty heard the butler announce, in a
voice stately but not stentorian: "Miss Barbara Walbrook."
He was so near the door that to step out and step in again was the
work of a second. In stepping in again he trod daintily, wriggling the
back part of his person, better to simulate the feminine. In order
that Letty should nowhere be caught unaware he put out his hand
languidly, back upward, as princesses do when they expect it to be
kissed.
"So delighted to find you at 'ome, Mrs. Allerton. It's such a very
fine dye I was sure as you'd be out."
Rising from her corner Letty shook the relaxed hand as she might have
shaken a dog's tail. "Very pleased to meet you."
From the histrionic Steptoe lapsed at once into the critical. "I think
if madam was to sye, 'So glad to be _at_ 'ome, Miss Walbrook; do let
me ring for tea,' it'd be more like the lyte Mrs. Allerton."
Obediently Letty repeated this formula, had the bell pointed out to
her, and rang. The ladies having seated themselves, Miss Walbrook
continued to improvise on the subject of the weather.
"Some o' these October dyes'll be just like summer time! and then
agyne there'll be a nip in the wind as'll fairly freeze you. A good
time o' year to get out your furs, and I'm sure I 'ope as 'ow the
moths 'aven't gone and got at 'em. Horfly nasty things them moths.
They sye as everything in the world 'as a use; but I'm sure I don't
see what use there is for moths, eatin' 'oles in the seats of
gentlemen's trousers, no matter what you do to keep the coat-closet
aired--and everything like that. What do you sye, Mrs. Allerton?"
Letty was relieved of the necessity of answering by the entrance of
William with the tray, after which her task became easier. Used to
making "a good cup of tea" in an ordinary way, the doing it with this
formal ceremoniousness was only a matter of revision. As if it was
yesterday she recalled the instructions given to Luciline Lynch,
"Lemon?--cream?--one lump?--two lumps?" so that Miss Walbrook was
startled by her readiness. She, Miss Walbrook, was betrayed, in fact,
into some confusion of personality, stating that she would have cream
and no sugar, and that furthermore Englishmen like herself 'ardly ever
took lemon in their tea, and in her opinion no one ever did to whom
the tea-drinking 'abit was 'abitual.
"It's a question of tyste," Miss Walbrook continued, sipping with a
soft siffling noise in the way he considered to be ladylike. "Them
that 'as drunk tea with their mother's milk, as you might sye, 'll
tyke cream and sugar, one or both; but them that 'as picked up the
'abit in lyter life 'll often condescend to lemon."
What the rehearsal did for Letty was to make the mechanical task
familiar, while she concentrated her attention on Miss Walbrook.
It has to be admitted that to Barbara Walbrook Letty was a shock.
Having worked for two years in the Bleary Street Settlement she had
her preconceived ideas of what she was to find, and she found
something so different that her first consciousness was that of being
"sold."
Steptoe had received her at the door, and having ushered her into the
drawing-room announced, "Miss Barbara Walbrook," as if she had been
calling on a duchess. From the semi-obscurity of the back drawing-room
a small lithe figure came forward a step or two. The small lithe
figure was wearing a tea-gown of which so practiced an eye as Miss
Walbrook's could not but estimate the provenance and value, while a
sweet voice said:
"I'm so glad to be at home, Miss Walbrook. Do let me ring for tea."
Before a protest could be voiced the bell had been rung, so that Miss
Walbrook found herself sitting in the chair Steptoe had used in the
morning, and listening to her hostess as you listen to people in a
dream.
"Beautiful weather for October, isn't it? Some of these October
days'll be just like summer time. And then again there'll be a nip in
the wind that'll fairly freeze you. A good time of year to get out
your furs, isn't it? and I'm sure I hope the moths ain't--haven't--got
at them. Awfully nasty things moths----"
Letty's further efforts were interrupted by William bearing the tray
as he had borne it in the morning, and in the minutes of silence while
he placed it Miss Walbrook could go through the mental process known
as pulling oneself together.
But she couldn't pull herself together without a sense of outrage. She
had expected to feel shame, vicariously for Rash; she had not expected
to be asked to take part in a horrible bit of play-acting. This
dressing-up; this mock hospitality; this desecration of the things
which "dear Mrs. Allerton" had used; this mingling of ignorance and
pretentiousness, inspired a rage prompting her to fling the back of
her hand at the ridiculous creature's face. She couldn't do that, of
course. She couldn't even express herself as she felt. She had come on
a mission, and she must carry out that mission; and to carry out the
mission she must be as suave as her indignation would allow of. _She_
was morally the mistress of this house. Rash and all Rash owned
belonged to _her_. To see this strumpet sitting in her place....
It did nothing to calm her that while she was pressing Rash's ring
into her flesh, beneath her glove, this vile thing was wearing a plain
gold band, just as if she was married. She could understand that if
they had absurdly walked through an absurd ceremony the absurd
minister who performed it might have insisted on this absurd symbol;
but it should have been snatched from the creature's hand the minute
the business was ended. They owed that to _her_. _Hers_ was the only
claim Rash had to consider, and to allow this farce to be enacted
beneath his roof....
But she remembered that Letty didn't know who she was, or why she had
come, or the degree to which she, Barbara Walbrook, saw through this
foolery.
Letty repeated her little formula: "Lemon?--cream?--one lump?--two
lumps?" though before she reached the end of it her voice began to
fail. Catching the hostility in the other woman's bearing, she felt it
the more acutely because in style, dress, and carriage this was the
model she would have chosen for herself.
Miss Walbrook waved hospitality aside. "Thank you, no; nothing in the
way of tea." She nodded over her shoulder towards William's retreating
form. "Who's that man?"
Her tone was that of a person with the right to inquire. Letty didn't
question that right, knowing the extent to which she herself was an
usurper. "His name is William."
"How did he come here?"
"I--I don't know."
"Where are Nettie and Jane?"
"They've--they've left."
"Left? Why?"
"I--I don't know."
"And has Mrs. Courage left too?"
Letty nodded, the damask flush flooding her cheeks darkly.
"When? Since--since you came?"
Letty nodded again. She knew now that this was the bar of social
judgment of which she had been afraid.
The social judge continued. "That must be very hard on Mr. Allerton."
Letty bowed her head. "I suppose it is."
"He's not used to new people about him, and it's not good for him. I
don't know whether you've seen enough of him to know that he's
something of an invalid."
"I know--" she touched her forehead--"that he's sick up here."
"Oh, do you? Then I shouldn't have thought that you'd have--" but she
dropped this line to take up another. "Yes, he's always been so. When
he was a boy they were afraid he might be epileptic; and though he
never was as bad as that he's always needed to be taken care of. He
can do very wild and foolish things as--as you've discovered for
yourself."
Letty felt herself now a little shameful lump of misery. This woman
was so experienced, so right. She spoke with a decision and an
authority which made love at first sight a fancy to blush at. Letty
could say nothing because there was nothing to say, and meanwhile the
determined voice went on.
"It's terrible for a man like him to make such a mistake, because
being what he is he can't grapple with it as a stronger or a coarser
man would do."
But here Letty saw something that might be faintly pleaded in her own
defence. "He says he wouldn't ha' made the mistake if that--that other
girl hadn't been crazy."
Barbara drew herself up. "Did he--did he say that?"
"He said something like it. He said she went off the hooks, just like
he did himself." She raised her eyes. "Do you know her, Miss
Walbrook?"
"Yes, I know her."
"She must be an awful fool."
Barbara prayed for patience. "What--what makes you say so?"
"Oh, just what _he's_ said."
"And what has he said? Has he talked about her to _you_?"
"He hasn't talked about her. He's just--just let things out."
"What sort of things?"
"Only that sort." She added, as if to herself: "I don't believe he
thinks much of her."
Barbara's self-control was miraculous. "I've understood that he was
very much in love with her."
"Well, perhaps he is." Letty's little movement of the shoulders hinted
that an expert wouldn't be of this opinion. "He may think he is,
anyhow."
"But if he thinks he is----"
Letty's eyes rested on her visitor with their compelling candor. "I
don't believe men know much about love, do you, Miss Walbrook?"
"It depends. All men haven't had as much experience of it as I suppose
you've had----"
"Oh, I haven't had any." The candor of the eyes was now in the whole
of the truthful face. "Nobody was ever in love with me--never. I never
had a fella--nor nothing."
In spite of herself Barbara believed this. She couldn't help herself.
She could hear Rash saying that whatever else was wrong in the
ridiculous business the girl herself was straight. All the same the
discussion was beneath her. It was beneath her to listen to opinions
of herself coming from such a source. If Rash didn't "think much of
her" there was something to "have out" with him, not with this little
street-waif dressed up with this ludicrous mummery. The sooner she
ended the business on which she had come the sooner she would get a
legitimate outlet for the passion of jealousy and rage consuming her.
"But we're wandering away from my errand. I won't pretend that I've
come of my own accord. I'm a very old friend of Mr. Allerton's, and
he's asked me--or practically asked me--to come and find out----"
For what she was to come and find out she lacked for a minute the
right word, and so held up the sentence.
"What I'd take to let him off?"
The form of expression was so crude that once more Barbara was
startled. "Well, that's what it would come to."
"But I've told him already that--that I want to let him off anyhow."
"Yes? And on what terms?"
"I don't want any terms."
"Oh, but there must be _terms_. He couldn't let you do it----"
"He could let me do it for _him_, couldn't he? I'd go through fire, if
it'd make him a bit more comfortable than he is."
Barbara could not believe her ears. "Do you want me to understand
that----?"
"That I'll do whatever will make him happy just to _make_ him happy?
Yes. That's it. He didn't need to send no one--to send anyone--to ask
me, because I've told him so already. He wants me to get out. Well,
I'm ready to get out. He wants me to go to the bad. Well, I'm
ready----"
"Yes; he understands all that. But, don't you see? a man in his
position couldn't take such a sacrifice from a girl in yours----"
"Unless he pays me for it in cash."
"That's putting it in a nutshell. If you owned a house, for instance,
and I wanted it, I'd buy it from you and pay you for it; but I
couldn't take it as a gift, no matter how liberal you were nor how
much I needed it."
"I can see that about a house; but your own self is different. I could
sell a house when I couldn't sell--myself."
"Oh, but would you call that selling yourself?"
"It'd be selling myself--the way I look at it. When I'm so ready to do
what he wants I can't see why he don't let me." She added, tearfully:
"Did he tell you about this morning?"
She nodded. "Yes, he told me about that."
"Well, I would have gone then if--if I'd known how to work the door."
"Oh, that's easy enough."
"Do you know?"
"Why, yes."
"Will you show me?"
Miss Walbrook rose. "It's so simple." She continued, as they went
toward the door: "You see, Mr. Allerton's mother always kept a lot of
valuable jewelry in the house, and she was afraid of burglars. She had
the most wonderful pearls. I suppose Mr. Allerton has them still,
locked away in some bank. Burglars would never come in by the front
door, my aunt used to tell her, but--" They reached the door itself.
"Now, you see, there's a common lock, a bolt, and a chain----"
Letty explained that she had discovered them already.
"But, you see these two little brass knobs over here? That's the
trick. You push this one this way, and that one that way, and the door
is locked with an extra double lock, which hardly anyone would
suspect. See?"
She shook the door which resisted as it had resisted Letty in the
morning.
"Now! You push that one this way, and this one that way--and there you
are!"
She opened the door to show how easily the thing could be done; and
the door being open she passed out. She had not intended to go in
this way; but, after all, was not her mission accomplished? It was
nothing to her whether this girl accepted money, or whether she did
not. The one thing essential was that she should take herself away;
and if she was sincere in what she said she had now the means of doing
it. Without troubling herself to take her leave Miss Walbrook went
down the steps.
Before turning toward Fifth Avenue she glanced back. Letty was
standing in the open doorway, her flaming eyes wide, her expression
puzzled and wounded. "It's nothing to me," Barbara repeated to herself
firmly; but because she was a lady, as she understood the word lady,
almost before she was a woman, she smiled faintly, with a distant, and
yet not discourteous, inclination of the head.