THE WHITE DOVE
THE dinner-party at the inn continued to be a merry one.
“I’m sorry it rains,” said Mrs. Bruce, looking at the dewy panes when
at last they rose from table. “I wanted you to see how pleasant the
outlook is from the verandas.”
The proprietor passed near them as they moved into the spacious
living-room of the inn.
“Why couldn’t you have a pleasant evening for us, Mr. Beebe?” asked
Mrs. Bruce.
“Sorry I couldn’t,” he returned. “I’m goin’ to make up for it the best
I can, though. I’ve got an entertainment for you if you’ll take your
friends to that other end o’ the room.”
“Music!” groaned Irving. “I feel in my bones that somebody is going to
sing. Us for the porch, Nixie.”
This party had been last to leave the dining-room, and already a large
group of guests had gathered in the living-room, and were waiting.
Irving was already taking long, quiet strides away from the scene of
danger when Robert caught him by the arm.
“Heavens, Brute!” he gasped. “Look there! _Is_ it—or isn’t it!”
Irving turned, and beheld at the other end of the room Rosalie Vincent,
dressed in white, standing quietly, looking about her and smiling a
little as if in question of her audience, and wondering what she should
do for them.
Irving’s heart gave the most acrobatic bound of its existence. He stood
fixed in his tracks.
“Do you see who that is, mother?” inquired Robert, leaning over the
ladies.
Mrs. Bruce’s busy eyes sought her lorgnette.
Helen Maynard was first to realize who it was that stood there tall
and fair in the fleecy white gown, with the golden coronet of her hair
shining as her only ornament, and her bare throat and arms, round and
slender against a dark background.
“Most extraordinary!” exclaimed Mrs. Nixon. “I never saw such a
resemblance.”
She looked over at her brother in a neighboring chair. He was smoothing
his mustache; and he nodded at her in reply.
“Why, it _is_ Hebe!” declared Robert, and his voice cracked high. “I
never saw anything so lovely in my life.”
“_How_ did it happen?” inquired Mrs. Bruce. She looked at Irving. His
face was tense and scowling. “Tell me, Irving,” she demanded in low
tones. “How in the world did she get here?”
“How should I know?” he returned; and so irefully that Mrs. Bruce
stared at him. Why in the world should it make him angry?
Irving’s heart kept on its quickened pace. So this was what Betsy meant
by saying he was likely to see her; why she had adjured him to keep
away from her. She had said—Irving’s eyes devoured the white dove; but
Rosalie began to speak, and again her voice was music.
“I scarcely know what you would like to hear this rainy evening,” she
said, “but I think I will begin by going back to first principles, and
telling you the story of Red Riding Hood.”
Mrs. Bruce’s lips would scarcely meet.
“What self-possession!” she murmured; and then for a time all
speculation ceased, for the voice of a child began to narrate the
classic in the language of a child, and Rosalie carried her audience
with her. The little unobserved details of the infantile manner, its
occasional abstractions and recalls to the subject, the catching of the
breath, and a myriad other peculiarities, were all in evidence, and
repeated laughter encouraged the story-teller.
Her big-eyed wonder and horror when she arrived at the thrilling crisis
where the wolf devoured Red Riding Hood’s grandmother, “before she
even had time to put on her spectacles to see who it was ate her up,”
brought down the house; and when the tale drew to a close the clamor of
tongues gave witness that Rosalie was a success.
“Isn’t she sweet!”—“Did you _ever_ hear anything so natural!” sped from
mouth to mouth. “What a lovely creature she is, and so unaffected!”
And Rosalie stood there looking about, unconsciously smiling, and
tingling to her finger-tips with gladness that she had not disappointed
Mr. Derwent, whom she could see sitting at the other end of the room.
Mr. Beebe came laughingly to Mrs. Bruce as a Fairport summer oracle.
“Say, ain’t she all right?” he demanded triumphantly.
“Where—” asked Mrs. Bruce, stammering in her eagerness, “how did you
happen to get her?”
“’Twas Clever Betsy’s doings. Didn’t she tell you? Seems Miss Vincent
wanted a job o’ this kind for the summer, and Betsy thought she’d work
me; and I’m mighty glad she did. The girl is onto her job. There, she’s
goin’ to give another.”
The speaker hurried off, while Rosalie’s sweet voice began on one of
the Riley favorites that bring tears as well as smiles.
Mrs. Bruce did not hear a word. She leaned back in her chair, a prey to
conflicting emotions. She saw Mr. Derwent rise and change his position
to one in the background of those who were closest to the speaker.
Robert Nixon stooped close to her ear. “You can’t lose the Yellowstone
party,” he said, “and aren’t you the proud lady!”
It was an innocent speech on the part of the irresponsible Nixie,
but it started the regulating of Mrs. Bruce’s confused thoughts. She
realized that he was referring to the perspicacity with which she had
recognized Rosalie’s gifts in an unpromising past, and the munificence
with which she had cultivated them; so she sat on a fence, as it were,
undecided on which side to get down.
She viewed the faces of the absorbed listeners, and considered that
she might indeed accept the part of complacent patroness of this young
heroine of the evening; might ask no questions, raise no objections,
and behave as though this were the natural and expected outcome of her
own perception and generosity; but her irritable vanity and love of
managing whispered loudly that she had been outwitted.
Who had loosed Rosalie from the engagement in the Park? Who had paid
her transportation east? Who had housed her since? Who had procured the
dainty gown in which she now stood, and doubtless a trunk-full more if
she were to live and entertain in this inn, as Mr. Beebe had plainly
stated was the case? He had also plainly stated the answer to these
various phases of one conundrum. Betsy it was, of course! For whom else
had the clever one deserted her post of duty and gone to Boston to help
a friend from the country to buy clothes? Did she really suppose that
Mrs. Bruce was too dense to see completely through this millstone?
Yes, it was plain. The savings of a lifetime had been squandered by
Betsy Foster, who must be in her dotage to have done such a thing;
squandered on this blonde girl with the appealing, darkening eyes, who
was this minute swaying her listeners to smiles and tears.
By this time Mrs. Bruce had decided on which side of the fence to get
down, and she did so with energy; and glared across it at Rosalie and
her poor dupe, the once clever Betsy.
To think of Betsy being such a traitor as not to ask her mistress’s
advice, seeing that this was Mrs. Bruce’s affair, and she would be the
best judge of what was right to do!
The offended woman glanced again at her son. Rosalie had not driven the
unconscious frown from his tense face.
“I’m sure he suspects the same thing,” she reflected. “He is so loyal
to Betsy, he will be outraged.”
Helen Maynard was another who heard as little of Rosalie’s recitation
as Mrs. Bruce. Her mental questions were the same. Whose magic wand
could have accomplished this transformation in the short time?
A cloud had descended on the heiress’s evening. She remembered the
questions Irving Bruce had put to her in the Look-Out at Old Faithful
Inn. She knew then that he was trying to probe her interest in her
unfortunate school friend, and she remembered the hard obstinacy that
at that time rose in her heart against Rosalie. Why, before she had had
time to find herself in her new situation, should she begin to take
care of and plan for another girl? Her first suspicion and her first
look when she recognized Rosalie this evening had been directed toward
Irving Bruce; but if his amazement were not unfeigned, he was more
capable in histrionics than Rosalie herself.
It was a Saturday evening, and the week-end influx of men had given
Proprietor Beebe an extra satisfaction in the presentation of a
successful novelty on this rainy night.
Irving Bruce watched the faces of the men, some of whom he knew, and
others not, and glared upon all alike because of the open admiration
in their eyes for his white dove—more and more his, with every comment
that he saw being made upon her; with every ring of applause bestowed
upon her efforts to please.
He knew what would happen when this was over. Men as well as women
would press upon the young girl to thank her, and he knew with what
modest gratitude Rosalie would accept their tributes. He could see Mr.
Beebe going about on the outskirts of the crowd, proud of her beauty
and success, and knew that he would introduce to her anybody who asked
it.
Irving drew near to Mrs. Bruce’s chair and stooped over.
“Join her when this is over, will you, Madama? I don’t believe she has
any chaperon.”
“No, I thank you,” was the clear response. “I think I never saw any one
who required it less.”
Irving bit his lip. “Don’t speak that way,” he begged. “You know
they’ll begin dancing after this. Beebe will make it possible for every
Tom, Dick, and Harry to dance with her.”
“Which will be very much to her taste, I imagine,” retorted Mrs. Bruce.
Helen Maynard heard the whispered colloquy. She knew that if, at the
close of Rosalie’s efforts, she herself should go forward and join the
girl, stand beside her, put her on a par with the guests, Irving Bruce
would never forget it of her.
She leaned back in her chair, her heart beating a little fast. By
nature she loved power. She had begun to taste it to-night. Aware of
looking her best, aware of the sunshine; of approval rained upon her
by Mrs. Nixon and Mrs. Bruce, and the frank admiration of the young
men, there was a still sweeter triumph for her in the expression of Mr.
Derwent’s eyes, which roved over her faint rose-color with an amused
kindness at first, but lingered with a surprise and admiration which
she treasured eagerly. Suddenly all was changed. There was a centre
of attraction toward which all eyes gravitated. Mr. Derwent had risen
and left their party to go nearer. Irving Bruce believed that Rosalie
needed protection from a too violent belle-ship. Should she go across
this room, and stand as a sort of maid-of-honor to this white and gold
pauper princess?
Nixie leaned over her chair. Again his random words hit the mark and
might carry the day.
“By Jove!” he whispered to Helen, “you two girls will look stunning
together. You must let me take you over there as soon as Hebe gets
through.”
Helen’s lips compressed and she did not reply.
Rosalie was about to give her last recitation. It was a tender sketch,
but with plenty of comedy.
A mother was rocking her baby and singing him to sleep, with periodic
interruptions from her other children whom she dismissed with varying
manner and replies.
It was excellently done. Rosalie’s singing was simple and natural, her
voice sympathetic, and when the lullaby finally died away, and she rose
and bent her lovely head above the baby as she laid him in an imaginary
bed, there were plenty of dim eyes among her auditors.
The absolute stillness broke as the girl rose and smiled again upon her
listeners,—the modest, deprecatory smile the Yellowstone party knew so
well.
Irving’s eyes shone. “Mrs. Nixon,” said he to that lady, “may I take
you over to speak to Miss Vincent? She is in strange surroundings and
will appreciate it.”
“Well,” replied Mrs. Nixon with a surprised and regal lift of the head,
“the girl certainly does charming work. I’m quite willing to tell her
so.”
She rose and took Irving’s offered arm, and they moved away. Mrs. Bruce
held her lip between her teeth; her face burned, her eyes filled with
tears of anger and mortification.
“Great Scott!” ejaculated Robert, still winking hard, “that girl made
my nose tingle. She has one of these silly voices, you know, that go
way in and knock on your heart, and if you try to steel yourself, it
just opens the door and walks in any way. Come on, let’s all three go
over and tell her she’s a dandy. Look at ’em crowd around her! She’s
like a drop of honey in fly-time.”
Mrs. Bruce and Helen rose undecidedly.
“Say, look at Uncle Henry!” exclaimed Robert with a joyous squeak.
“Isn’t he Johnny-on-the-spot though? Those chaps aren’t going to have
it all their own way.”
Mrs. Bruce pressed her handkerchief to her lips, for she too saw Mr.
Derwent move a little in advance of the other guests, and after holding
Rosalie’s hand a moment in congratulation, draw it within his arm and
stand beside her while the kindly, effusive crowd drew near.
Helen Maynard shrugged her shoulders. “That settles it, Mrs. Bruce,”
she said. “Mr. Derwent has evidently decided to make her a success.
Very nice for her, isn’t it? We may as well go and speak to her, I
suppose.”
Mrs. Bruce moved with them in silence. Robert glanced at her with
comprehension.
“Darn Brute,” he thought. “Why did he want to go and get mother in
wrong here!” To his simple mind it was difficult to grasp the mental
processes of his hostess; but he saw her emotion. “I’ll chance a jolly,
anyway,” he reflected.
“You must feel like a lady Columbus,” he said to Mrs. Bruce, with an
admiring air.
“Oh, no, Nixie,” she rejoined. “I feel like a cipher. Nothing more.”
In his whole life Irving had never slighted her before. For that girl’s
sake he had not hesitated to punish her. This was Betsy’s doing,—all
her doing.
So the waves of heat and hurt passed over her as she crossed the room
on Nixie’s arm, seeing, ahead of her, Irving devotedly talking to Mrs.
Nixon as they moved toward the star of the evening.