THE HEIRESS
WHEN Robert Nixon ran whistling into the hotel and took the stairs two
at a time up to his room, he met his mother just coming in from the
upper veranda, where she had had the interview with her brother.
“I want to see you, Robert,” she said, so solemnly that he looked
amused.
“Your tone takes me back to childhood’s unhappy hour,” he returned.
“Which is it to be, a spanking or the closet?”
“Come into my room a minute,” went on Mrs. Nixon.
“I do believe it’s the spanking. Say, mamma, forget it. The geyser’s
just going to spout.”
“I must speak to you first.”
“’Tisn’t fair,” objected the youth, “because you do spout more than
once an hour, you know.” But he followed his stately mother into her
room, for she looked more imposing than usual, and his curiosity was
roused.
As soon as she had closed the door she turned to him.
“Where is Miss Maynard?” she asked.
Her son’s eyebrows and shoulders both jerked upwards.
“You can search _me_,” he responded.
“Sit down, Robert.”
He obeyed the impressive order, and his mother seated herself opposite.
“What has that sleek, quiet little mouse been doing?” he asked. “I
haven’t seen her since we left the Riverside.”
“Robert, I want you to _think_, and I want you to be serious.”
“I’ll do my best, but I’m rusty in both lines.”
“I want you to tell me how my treatment of Miss Maynard has impressed
you.”
Robert whistled softly. “Offended, is she? Well, she ought to know that
you’re never effusive. I’ve tried to flirt with her a bit, and strike
an average.”
“Strike an average, Robert?” Mrs. Nixon spoke anxiously. “Tell me
directly what you mean. Did my behavior make you feel that to be
necessary?”
“Well,” the son puffed out his lips, “what with Uncle Henry’s
deafness, and your Vere-de-Vere repose, it has seemed to me at times
that it was rather dull for a maiden stowed there in the stage beside
you. I made a few essays, as I say, to jolly her, but—well, I can’t say
they were successful. One doesn’t care to have one’s sweet and cheery
conversation treated like the tunefulness of a string of sleigh-bells.
Miss Maynard invariably makes me feel the drifting snow when I try to
chirk her up.”
“She’ll be a success then,” responded Mrs. Nixon, with conviction;
and while her son stared at this comment, she went on: “I am glad of
all the civility you have shown her, Robert. It is not natural to me,
as you say, to be talkative or—or gushing, and yet I’ve always been
perfectly civil to Miss Maynard. I’m sure of that. You never noticed
anything else, did you?”
Robert looked as he felt, increasingly puzzled.
“No, mother. What’s up? Has Miss Maynard been complaining to Uncle
Henry?”
“No. _I_ complain of your Uncle Henry that he has not been frank
with me. When he suggested the convenience to him of taking his
stenographer on this trip, and said she could hook my gowns, he should
have told me that the very presentable, quiet girl I had so often seen
in his office was a probable heiress.”
“What?” Robert sat up and his voice broke into the high register. “You
don’t say so! I don’t blame him. There’s too many a slip about that
sort of possibility.”
“It’s settled,” said Mrs. Nixon solemnly. “It was settled to-day. She
_is_ one; and from what your uncle says, the fortune is large.”
Robert clasped his hands and lifted his eyes. “I’ve always admired her
nose. How much straighter it will be now!” he ejaculated devoutly.
“I insist, Robert,” said Mrs. Nixon, “I must insist for once on your
being serious. I’m very much pleased with you, and with what you tell
me, because— Well, my son, I do not need to remind you that a vulgar
person with money is a creature of no interest to me; but Miss Maynard
is a lady. I have always granted it; and now she will need advice and
directing. Her relatives live in the country, and are too elderly to
be available in any case. I should wish her to feel that she might
turn to me; and I hope nothing in my behavior on this trip has had a—a
tendency to estrange her.”
“Your conduct has been to a stranger,” returned Robert.
Mrs. Nixon lifted her head with a regal air in which there was
nevertheless anxiety.
“I suppose for the sake of making a foolish pun you would say that, and
make me uncomfortable.”
Her son laughed, and going over to where she sat, put his arms around
her unyielding form.
“Don’t worry, mother. You may be a bit cool in your methods, but you
arrive, just like a fireless cooker. How long has the heiress known of
her good fortune?”
“Just to-day. Just since noon.”
“Noon, eh? Did you see me escorting her at the Riverside show?”
“No,” replied Mrs. Nixon lugubriously. “I was too much engaged in
taking care of your Uncle Henry.”
Robert straightened up and threw his head back for a hearty laugh.
“The Yellowstone is growing exciting,” he said. “Heavers to right of
us, heiresses to left of us. Wayward brothers, and,” striking his
breast triumphantly, “wise sons!”
“Yes, Robert. You’ve done very well, I must say.”
“Miss Maynard,—you observe that I speak the name with new and due
reverence,—the heiress, I say, went to school with Hebe the heaver.”
“Is it possible?” returned Mrs. Nixon coldly. “Did—did the waitress
claim acquaintance?”
“Not a bit of it,” rejoined Robert cheerfully. “Cousin turned the
heiress down.”
“Robert, what _are_ you talking about?”
“Why, you heard Uncle Henry say we were related.”
Mrs. Nixon made an exclamation. “Why must men of all ages lose their
wits at sight of a pretty face?” she inquired of the ceiling.
“The conundrum of the ages, mamma, and I’m young yet, so I can’t tell
you; but if you hadn’t been more of a sister than a mother you’d have
watched my foresighted behavior. To tell the truth, when you glared
at Hebe there by the river, I thought she was going to cry; so when
Brute’s mother buttonholed him and you took Uncle Henry by the ear, I
sought refuge with the stenographer, though the heaver looked pretty
enough to eat. I knew Betsy would look after her.”
“They were at school together?” repeated Mrs. Nixon, wondering.
“Sure as you’re a foot high; and when the now valuable Miss Maynard
accosted Hebe at the Fountain House, the lovely heaver begged her to
forget it. There’s a story attached to her. Brute told me—”
“Yes,” interrupted Mrs. Nixon impatiently. “Mrs. Bruce told me what she
had done for her. I dare say she has found her right place. There is no
need of making a fuss over her.”
Robert shook his finger at the speaker. “Careful, careful, mother.
Supposing you should waken to-morrow morning and find that the heaver’s
uncle in India had passed to his fathers, and that Miss Vincent was
likely to require the advice of an experienced chaperon.”
Mrs. Nixon waved this nonsense aside with a gesture, and returned to
the subject in hand.
“I think the thing for me to do is to find Miss Maynard now, tell her
that Mr. Derwent has informed me of her good fortune, and congratulate
her.”
Robert rubbed his hands together with a malevolent and gleeful laugh.
“Can’t you hide me behind the screen and send for her?” he begged.
Mrs. Nixon had risen and now drew herself up.
“What, pray, do you think would be so amusing about it? Do you think
your mother would be less than dignified?”
“No, no, honey,” rejoined her irreverent son, forcibly taking her
reluctant hands. “I was only thinking of witnessing a friendly
interview between an icicle and a stalactite.” He chuckled again and
clapped the maternal hands together, totally against the maternal will.
“You may go now, Robert, and—and, go on as you have begun.” She pushed
him toward the door. “You say the geyser is playing?”
“Was playing.”
“Well, we must all see it the next time. Good-by, dear.”
Closing the door behind him, the lady returned to her mirror and gave
her hair some touches.
Then she started again to the door with intent to seek her “companion.”
As she reached it, she was met by a knock.
She opened and came face to face with the object of her thoughts.
“Come in, come in, Miss Maynard,” she said, and there was a noticeable
cordiality in her voice.
The trim girl, with her symmetrical little face and smooth brown hair,
stepped just inside the door.
“I came to see if you wished to change your gown before tea.”
“I am not going to change it to-day. Come in. I wished to see you.
Mr. Derwent has been telling me of your good fortune. I wish to
congratulate you.”
There was no elation or change of manner in the quiet girl as she
replied:—
“Thank you. Mr. Derwent has done fine work for me. You don’t wish my
help, then?”
Mrs. Nixon hesitated. She knew that yesterday she would have said no,
and closed the door, and she knew that Helen Maynard knew it; so though
she desired to beg her to be seated for a chat, she indulged in no such
stupidity.
“Did you see the geyser play?” she asked. “The Old Faithful?”
“No.” Helen Maynard had indeed been in her own room, careless of
scenery, absorbed in the considerations that had held her captive since
Mr. Derwent had shown his telegram.
“My son says it has just played. Let us not miss the next show.”
“Do you wish me to come for you?”
The question was put in precisely the same tone and manner that Helen
would have used yesterday, and Mrs. Nixon admired her poise.
“Thank you. I am going down into the office. I shall be glad to see the
geyser with you when the time comes.”
Helen Maynard turned away, and a cynical little smile grew on her lips.
Mrs. Nixon had tried nobly to keep her usual manner unchanged; but
despite herself there was a warmth there unknown before, and Helen was
alert to perceive it.
The girl hummed an air from “Faust” as she ran down the stairs of the
gigantic log-cabin. It was the “Calf of Gold” that she sang.
She was, as Mr. Derwent had said, a very level-headed young woman,
and under the present circumstances kept her joyous excitement under
control; but she was alive in every fibre to the change in her life
which these six figures to her credit were about to make.
She had faced all that failure would mean; faced the prospect of a
narrow life on the farm, or a struggling life in the city. In either
case a life of early-to-bed and early-to-rise routine, against which
all her tastes rebelled.
With the relaxation from strain had come a certain intoxication;
but pride kept the girl externally calm. The patronizing Mrs. Bruce
would scrutinize her now through those eye-glasses. She should never
have a chance to say, “Set a beggar on horseback!” Irving Bruce
would, perhaps, become aware of her existence. She exulted in the
steadiness with which she had held Robert Nixon at a distance with
his amiable raillery. She had done this from politic motives, knowing
that if she were to remain in Mrs. Nixon’s good graces, only so could
it be accomplished; but now it increased her satisfaction in the
consideration of the subtle change in that lady’s manner toward her.
What a gulf now between herself and her acquaintance of Lambeth days!
Mr. Derwent’s interest in Rosalie had merely served to get her into
trouble.
Years ago on the farm Miss Maynard’s grandmother had said to her
husband:—
“Helen’s dreadfully high-headed. I don’t know whatever’ll become of her
if she gets all that money.”
More than a slight mixture of contempt pervaded her thoughts of Rosalie
now. No combination of circumstances would ever have forced _her_ to
wait on tourists in the Yellowstone. It did not raise the poor young
waitress in Miss Maynard’s regard that Mr. Derwent had been attracted
by her, and even claimed relationship. In that particular she shared
Mrs. Nixon’s annoyance. Helen thought she might herself do something
for Rosalie some day if the girl were really helpless, or had some sad
reason for not desiring recognition.
In a few short hours Miss Maynard had floated up from the stratum
occupied by the under-dog to the vantage-ground of the powerful, and
her heart exulted.
As soon as she saw the Bruces she knew that they had heard the news.
Mrs. Bruce approached her with an alert manner.
“I’m delighted to hear of your good fortune, Miss Maynard,” she said
briskly; and Helen thanked her demurely.
“Do you hurry back to Boston?” added the lady.
“Oh, no,” returned Helen quietly. “Mr. Derwent needs his stenographer
as much as ever. I am not his only client.”
“I suppose not. Ha, ha, pretty good! Well, my dear Miss Maynard, I wish
you all prosperity. I’ve always been attracted to you.”
“I do think, Irving,” said Mrs. Bruce to her son as they sat at supper,
“it’s the strangest thing in the world to see so young a person
absolutely stoical at such a time. If it had happened to me at her age
I should have called upon everybody to rejoice with me!”
“Probably she is to the manner born,” returned Irving absent-mindedly.
His thoughts were with the fair-haired girl whose round slender arms
were bearing a tray across the dining-room.
“That is no work for Miss Vincent,” he observed tentatively.
“I don’t think we know,” returned Mrs. Bruce coolly.
“You said once,” remarked Betsy quietly, “that Rosalie was an artist;
that you always knew ’em when you saw ’em. It does seem queer work for
an artist.”
Mrs. Bruce stared at her companion in surprise.
“Well, whose fault is it, I should like to know. She did have some
talent. I tried to have it cultivated, but evidently she was too
superficial. People find their level. You can’t help it.”
Betsy gave Irving such a repressive look that he swallowed some remark
which had reached the end of his tongue. Then, again opening his lips,
he gave Mrs. Bruce a _résumé_ of what had happened to her protégée
since her befriending of the girl.
“Well, why shouldn’t she have married Mrs. Pogram’s brother?” she
returned carelessly.
“He is a cad, I tell you,” returned Irving, manfully repressing his
rising wrath.
“Well,” Mrs. Bruce shrugged her shoulders, “the girl is a beggar. She
can’t choose.”
The light that suddenly sparkled in Irving’s eyes made Betsy hasten to
speak.
“You said when we were talkin’ about it that time, that it was a pity
for girls who had those talents to get married. I guess Rosalie feels
herself she has some talent.”
“Yes,” returned Mrs. Bruce, busily eating, and unconscious of the
storm brewing beside her, “a talent for,” she laughed,—“heaving. She’s
just a pretty doll, and it is amazing what fools a pretty face will
make of men of all types and ages.” Mrs. Bruce laughed gleefully. “I
shan’t forget Mrs. Nixon’s eyes when she saw her brother sitting on the
grass and apparently making love to the girl. Now, take Miss Maynard,
there’s strength and poise in the very lift of her head.” Mrs. Bruce
looked across at the Nixon table approvingly. “I do hope, Irving, you
will take a little pains to become acquainted with Miss Maynard. I
understand the girl’s reserve now and her abstraction. I asked Robert
if he and his mother had known about it, and he said they had not; but
I’m not so sure about _him_;”—the speaker shook her head astutely;—“he
has been very civil to the girl ever since we started.”
“Heavens! is that a sign?” exclaimed Irving testily.
Mrs. Bruce looked around at him and raised her eyebrows. “Why not,
cross-patch? He is his mother’s son, and she has nearly refrigerated
her poor companion. I’ve been quite nice to her.” Mrs. Bruce returned
to her omelet complacently. “It will make things pleasant now.
Everybody is looking forward so to seeing the colored lights thrown on
the geyser to-night. I think it would be nice of you, Irving, to take
Miss Maynard out to see it. There’s a moon, too.”
“It would be very nice of me,” returned the young man savagely.
“Colored lights on the geyser! I wonder if they paint lilies out here!”
He pushed his chair back from the table. “Will you and Betsy excuse me,
Madama;” and without further apology Irving left the table and went out
to the office, where on four sides of the great chimney were blazing
generous open fires, that could roast an ox.
Mrs. Bruce turned to her companion.
“What has put Mr. Irving out of sorts?” she asked.
Betsy ate very busily. “’Tain’t best to notice his moods, Mrs. Bruce.
You know that was always the best way to treat him.”
Mrs. Bruce looked across again at the Nixon table and laughed
maliciously. “This isn’t Mrs. Nixon’s lucky day,” she said. “First her
brother has to be lured from a siren, and then she has the shock of
discovering that she has been entertaining an heiress unawares! Poor
Mrs. Nixon! It will be sport to watch her now.”