A BROKEN TEACUP
“I’ll tell her you’re here, but I’m noways sure she’ll see you.”
Mrs. Adams stood, her hand on the doorknob, as she looked doubtfully at
Emily Bates and her nephew.
“Why not?” asked Mrs. Bates, in astonishment, and Pinky echoed, “Why not,
Mrs. Adams?”
“She’s queer.” Mrs. Adams came back into the room, closed the door, and
spoke softly. “That’s what she is, Mrs. Bates, queer. I can’t make her
out. She’s been here more’n a week now, and I do say she gets queerer
every day. Won’t make friends with anybody,—won’t speak at all at the
table,—never comes and sits with us of an afternoon or evening,—just
keeps to herself. Now, that ain’t natural for a young girl.”
“How old is she?”
“Nobody knows. She looks like nineteen or twenty, but she has the ways of
a woman of forty,—as far’s having her own way’s concerned. Then again,
she’ll pet the cat or smile up at Mr. Adams like a child. I can’t make
her out at all. The boarders are all fearfully curious—that’s one reason
I take her part. They’re a snoopy lot, and I make them let her alone.”
“You like her, then?”
“You can’t help liking her,—yet she is exasperating. You ask her a
question, and she stares at you and walks off. Not really rude,—but just
as if you weren’t there! Well, I’ll tell her you’re here, anyway.”
It was only by his extraordinary powers of persuasion that Pinky Payne
had won his aunt’s consent to make this call, and, being Sunday
afternoon, the recognized at-home day in Corinth, they had gone to the
Adams house unannounced, and asked for Miss Austin.
Upstairs, Mrs. Adams tapped at the girl’s door.
It was opened slowly,—it would seem, grudgingly,—and Anita looked out
inquiringly.
“Callers for you, Miss Austin,” the landlady said, cheerily.
“For me? I know no one.”
“Oh, now, you come on down. It’s Mrs. Bates, and her nephew, Pinky Payne.
They’re our best people—”
“What makes you think I want to see your best people?”
“I don’t say you do, but they want to see you,—and—oh, pshaw, now, be a
little sociable. It won’t hurt you.”
“Please say to Mrs. Bates that I have no desire to form new
acquaintances, and I beg to be excused from appearing.”
“But do you know who she is? She’s the lady that’s going to marry Doctor
Waring, the new President. And Pinckney Payne, her cousin, is a mighty
nice boy.”
Mrs. Adams thought she detected an expression of wavering on the girl’s
face, and she followed up her advantage.
“Yes, he’s an awfully nice chap and just about your age, I should judge.”
“I’ll go down,” said Miss Austin, briefly, and Mrs. Adams indulged in a
sly smile of satisfaction.
“It’s Pinky that fetched her,” she thought to herself. “Young folks are
young folks, the world over.”
Triumphantly, Mrs. Adams ushered Anita into the small parlor.
“Mrs. Bates,” she said, “and Mr. Payne,—Miss Austin.”
Then she left them, for Esther Adams had strict notions of her duties as
a boarding-house landlady.
“Mrs. Bates?” Anita said, going to her and taking her hand.
“Yes, Miss Austin,—I am very glad to know you.”
But the words ceased suddenly as Emily Bates looked into the girl’s eyes.
Such a depth of sorrow was there, such unmistakable tragedy and a hint of
fear. What could it all mean? Surely this was a strange girl.
“We have never met before, have we?” Mrs. Bates said,—almost
involuntarily, for the girl’s gaze was too intent to be given to a
stranger.
“No,” Anita said, recovering her poise steadily but slowly,—“not that I
remember.”
“We have,” burst forth the irrepressible Pinky. “I say, Miss Austin,
please realize that I’m here as well as my more celebrated aunt! Don’t
you remember the morning I met you on the bridge,—and you were just about
to throw yourself over the parapet?”
“Oh, no, I wasn’t,” and a delightful smile lighted the dark little face.
The lips were very scarlet, but it was unmistakably Nature’s own red, and
as they parted over even and pearly teeth, the smile transformed Miss
Austin into a real beauty.
It disappeared quickly, however, and Pinky Payne thenceforward made it
his earnest endeavor to bring it back as often as possible.
“Of course you weren’t,” agreed Mrs. Bates, “don’t pay any attention to
that foolish boy.”
“I’m a very nice boy, if I am foolish,” Pinky declared, but Miss Austin
vaguely ignored him, and kept her intent gaze fixed on Emily Bates.
“We thought perhaps you would go with us over to Doctor Waring’s for
tea,” Mrs. Bates said, after an interval of aimless chat. “It would, I am
sure be a pleasant experience for you. Wouldn’t you like it?”
“Doctor Waring’s?” repeated Anita, her voice low and tense, as if the
idea was of more importance than it seemed.
“Yes; I may take you, for the Doctor is my fiance,—we are to be married
next month.”
“No!” cried the girl, with such a sharp intonation that Mrs. Bates was
startled.
“Sure they are,” put in Pinky, anxious to cover up any eccentricity on
the part of this girl in whom he took an increasing interest. “They’re as
blissful as two young turtle-doves. Come on, Miss Austin, let’s go over
there. It’s a duck of a house to go to, and jolly good people there. The
view from the study window is worth going miles to see. You’re an
artist,—yes?”
“I sketch some,” was the brief reply.
“All right; if you can find a prettier spot to sketch on this terrestrial
globe than the picture by the Waring study window, I’ll buy it for you!
Toddle up and get your hat.”
His gay good nature was infectious and Anita smiled again as she went for
her hat and coat.
The walk was but a short one, and when they entered the Waring home they
found a cheery group having tea in the pleasant living room.
Doctor Waring was not present and Mrs. Peyton was pouring tea, while
Helen and Robert Tyler served it. The capable Ito had always Sunday
afternoon for his holiday, and while Nogi, the Japanese second man, was
willing enough, his training was incomplete, and his blunders frequent.
He was a new servant, and though old Ito had hopes of educating him, Mrs.
Peyton was doubtful about it. However, she thought, soon the
responsibilities of the Waring menage would be hers no longer, and she
resolved to get along with the inexperienced Nogi while she remained.
Mrs. Peyton was very regretful at the coming change of affairs.
She had looked upon John Waring as a confirmed bachelor, and had not
expected he would ever marry. Now, she declared, he was marrying only
because he thought it wiser for a College President to have a wife as a
part of his domestic outfit.
Helen disagreed with her mother about this. She said Doctor Waring had
begun to take a personal interest in the attractive Mrs. Bates before he
had any idea of becoming President of the University.
But it didn’t matter. The wedding was imminent, and Mrs. Peyton had
received due notice that her services would be no longer needed.
It was a blow to her, and it had made her depressed and disconsolate.
Also, a little resentful, even spiteful toward Emily Bates.
The housekeeper greeted Miss Austin with a cold smile, and then
disregarded her utterly.
Helen was frankly curious, and met the newcomer with full intention of
finding out all about her.
For Helen Peyton had heard of Miss Mystery from her friend and admirer,
Robert Tyler, who, however, did not report that the girl had snubbed him
more than once.
One or two other guests were present and, having been told of Mrs. Bates’
arrival Doctor Waring and his secretary came from the study and joined
the others at tea.
With a welcoming smile, John Waring greeted his fiancee, and then Mrs.
Bates turned to the girl she had brought.
“Miss Austin,” she said, “let me present Doctor Waring. John,—Miss Anita
Austin.”
At that very moment Helen Peyton offered Waring a cup of tea, and he was
in the act of taking it from her hand when Mrs. Bates made the
introduction.
The cup and saucer fell to the floor with a crash, and those nearest saw
the Doctor’s face blanch suddenly white, and his hand clench on a nearby
chair.
But with a sudden, desperate effort he pulled himself together, and gave
a little laugh, as he directed Nogi to remove the wrecked teacup.
“Pick up the four corners, and carry it all off at once,” he ordered,
pointing to the small rug on which the cup had fallen, and Nogi, a little
clumsily, obeyed.
“Pardon the awkwardness, Miss Austin,” he said, turning to smile at the
girl, but even as he did so, his voice trembled, and he turned hastily
away.
“What is it, John?” asked Emily Bates, going to his side. “Are you ill?”
“No,—no, dear; it’s—it’s all right. That foolish teacup upset my nerves.
I’ll go off by myself for a few moments.”
Somewhat abruptly, he left the room and went back to his study.
Listening intently, Mrs. Bates heard him lock the door on the inside.
“I’m sorry,” she said, turning to Anita, “but I know you’ll forgive
Doctor Waring. He is under so much strain at present, and a foolish
accident, like the broken teacup, is enough to give him a nervous shock.”
“I know,” said the girl, sympathetically. “He must be very busy and
absorbed.”
She spoke, as she often did, in a perfunctory way, as if not interested
in what she was saying. Her glance wandered and she bit her red lower
lip, as if nervous herself. Yet she was exceedingly quiet and calm of
demeanor, and her graceful attitudes betokened only a courteous if
disinterested guest.
Gordon Lockwood immediately followed his chief and tapped at the locked
study door.
“All right, Lockwood,” Waring recognized the knock. “I don’t want you
now. I’ll reappear shortly. Go back to the tea room.”
Willingly, Lockwood went back, hoping to have a chance for conversation
with Miss Mystery.
She was chatting gayly with Helen Peyton, Pinky and Mrs. Tyler.
To Lockwood’s surprise, Miss Austin was really gay and merry and quite
held her own in the chaff and repartee.
Yet as Lockwood noted her more closely, his quick perception told him her
gayety was forced.
The secretary’s ability to read human nature was almost uncanny, and he
truly believed the girl was making merry only by reason of her firm
determination to do so.
Why? He wondered.
Gordon Lockwood was a rare type of man. He was possessed of the most
impassive face, the most immobile countenance imaginable. He never
allowed himself to show the slightest excitement or even interest. This
habit, acquired purposely at first, had grown upon him until it was
second nature. He would not admit anything could move him, could stir his
poise or disturb his equanimity. He heard the most gratifying or the most
exasperating news with equal attention and equal lack of surprise or
enthusiasm.
Yet, though this may sound unattractive, so great was Lockwood’s
personality, so responsive and receptive his real nature beneath his
outer calm, that all who really knew him liked him and trusted him.
Waring depended on him in every respect. He was more than a secretary to
his employer. He was counselor and friend as well.
And Waring appreciated this, and rated Lockwood high in his esteem and
affection.
Of course, with his insight, Gordon Lockwood could not be blind to the
fact that both Mrs. Peyton and her daughter would be pleased if he could
fall a victim to the charms of the fair Helen. Nor could he evade the
conviction that Mrs. Peyton herself had entertained hopes of becoming
mistress of the Waring home, until the advent of Emily Bates had spoiled
her chances.
But these things were merely self-evident facts, and affected in no way
the two men concerned.
The Peytons were treated with pleasant regard for both, and that ended
the matter so far as they were concerned.
The subject had never been alluded to by Waring or Lockwood, but each
understood, and when the Doctor’s marriage took place, that would
automatically end the Peytons’ incumbency.
And now, Gordon Lockwood smiled patronizingly at himself, as he was
forced to admit an unreasonable, inexplicable interest in a slip of a
girl with a dark, eerie little face and a manner grave and gay to
extremes.
For Anita was positively laughing at some foolishness of Pinky Payne’s.
Still, Lockwood concluded, watching her narrowly, yet unobserved, she was
laughing immoderately. She was laughing for some reason other than
merriment. It verged on hysterical, he decided, and wondered why.
He joined the group of young people, and in his quiet but effective way,
he said:
“You’ve had enough foolery for the moment, Miss Austin,—come and talk to
me.”
And to the girl’s amazement, he took her hand and led her to a davenport
on the other side of the room.
“There,” he said, as he arranged a pillow or two, “is that right?”
“Yes,” she said, and lapsed into silence.
She sat, looking off into vacancy, and Lockwood studied her. Then he
said, softly:
“It’s too bad, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Anita sighed, and then suddenly; “what do you mean? What’s too
bad?”
“Whatever it is that troubles you.” The deep blue eyes met her own, but
there was no sign of response or acquiescence on the girl’s face.
“Good-by,” she said, rising quickly, “I must go.”
“Oh, no,—don’t go,” cried Pinky, overhearing. “Why, you’ve only just
come.”
“Yes, I must go,” said Miss Mystery, decidedly. “Good afternoon, Mrs.
Bates, and thank you for bringing me. Good afternoon, Mrs. Peyton.”
Including all the others in a general bow of farewell, the strange girl
went to the front door, and paused for the attendant Nogi to open it.
Door-tending the assistant butler understood, and he punctiliously waited
until Miss Austin had buttoned her gloves and had given an adjusting pat
to her veil, after a fleeting glance in the hall mirror.
Then he opened the door with an obsequious air, and closed it behind her
departing figure.
But it was immediately flung open again by Pinky Payne, who ran through
it and after the girl.
“Wait a minute, Miss Austin. How fast you walk! I’m going home with you.”
“Please not,” she said, indifferently, scarcely glancing at him.
“Yep. Gotto. Getting near dusk, and you might be kidnapped. Needn’t talk
if you don’t want to.”
“I never want to talk!” was the surprising and crisply spoken retort.
“Well, didn’t I say you needn’t! Don’t get wrathy—don’t ’ee, don’t
’ee—now,—as my old Scotch nurse used to say.”
But Miss Mystery gave him no look, although she allowed him to fall into
step beside her, and the two walked rapidly along.
“How’d you like the looks of the Doctor?” Pinky asked, hoping to induce
conversation.
“I scarcely saw him.”
“Oh, you saw him,—though you had small chance to get to know him. Perfect
old brick, but a little on edge of late. Approaching matrimony, I
suppose. Did you notice his ruby stickpin?”
“Yes; it didn’t seem to suit him at all.”
“No; he’s a conservative dresser. But that pin,—it’s a famous gem,—was
given him by his own class,—I mean his graduating class, but long after
they graduated, and he had to promise to wear it once a week, so he
usually gets into it on Sundays. It’s a corking stone!”
“Yes,” said Miss Austin.
On reaching the Adams house, the girl said a quick good-by, and Pinky
Payne found himself at liberty to go in and see the other members of the
household, or to go home, for Miss Austin disappeared into the hall and
up the staircase with the rapidity of a dissolving view.
Young Payne turned away and strolled slowly back to the Waring home,
wondering what it was about the disagreeable young woman that made him
pay any attention to her at all.
He found her the topic of discussion when he arrived.
“Of all rude people,” Mrs. Peyton declared, “she was certainly the
worst!”
“She was!” Helen agreed. “I couldn’t make her out at all. And I don’t
call her pretty, either.”
“I do,” observed Emily Bates. “I call her very pretty,—and possessed of
great charm.”
“Charm!” scoffed Helen; “I can’t see it.”
“She isn’t rude,” Pinky defended the absent. “I’m sure, Mrs. Peyton, she
made her adieux most politely. Why should she have stayed longer? She
didn’t know any of us,—and, perhaps she doesn’t like any of us.”
“That’s it,” Gordon Lockwood stated. “She doesn’t like us,—I’m sure of
that. Well, why should she, if she doesn’t want to?”
“Why shouldn’t she?” countered Tyler. “She’s so terribly superior,—I
can’t bear her. She acts as if she owned the earth, yet nobody knows who
she is, or anything about her.”
“Are we entitled to?” asked Lockwood. “Why should we inquire into her
identity or history further than she chooses to enlighten us?”
“Where is Miss Austin?” asked Doctor Waring, returning, quite composed
and calm.
“She went home,” informed Mrs. Bates. “Are you all right, John?”
“Oh, yes, dear. I wasn’t ill, or anything like that. The awkward accident
touched my nerves, and I wanted to run away and hide.”
He smiled whimsically, looking like a naughty schoolboy, and Emily Bates
took his hand and drew him down to a seat beside her.
“What made you drop it, John?” she said, with a direct look into his
eyes.
He hesitated a moment, and his own glance wandered, then he said, “I
don’t know, Emily; I suppose it was a sudden physical contraction of the
muscles of my hand—and I couldn’t control it.”
Mrs. Bates didn’t look satisfied, but she did not pursue the subject.
Then the discussion of Anita was resumed.
“How did you like her looks, Doctor Waring?” Helen Peyton asked.
“I scarcely saw her,” was the quiet reply. “Did you all admire her?”
“Some of us did.” Mrs. Bates answered; “I do, for one. Did you ever see
her before, John?”
Doctor Waring stared at the question.
“Never,” he declared. “How could I have done so?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” Mrs. Bates laughed. “I just had a sort of an
impression—”
“No, dear, I never saw the girl before in my life,” Waring reasserted.
“And you need never want to see her again,” Robert Tyler informed him.
“She’s sulky, silly and supercilious. She’s a mystery, they say, but I
say she merely wants to be thought a mystery to make a little sensation.
I can’t abide that sort.”
Helen Peyton heard this with undisguised satisfaction, for she had quite
enough girls in her life to be jealous and envious of, without adding
another to the list. Also, she especially wanted to retain the admiration
of Robert Tyler, and was glad to know it was not newly endangered.
“Miss Austin is very beautiful,” Gordon Lockwood declared, in his usual
way of summing up a discussion and announcing his own opinion as final.
“Also, she is a mystery. I live in the same boarding house—”
“So do I,” put in Tyler, “and she snubs us both.”
“She hasn’t snubbed me,” said Lockwood, simply.
“Never mind, Oscar, she will!” returned Tyler, and then laughed
immoderately at his own would-be wit.