Promptly at ten o’clock the Casson limousine deposited Maisie in front
of the Pritchard residence. Dan, watching for her appearance from behind
the front window curtains, observed that two young women and a fussy,
somewhat threadbare little man of undoubted Hebraic ancestry emerged
from the limousine and followed her up the stairs.
Julia opened the door and Maisie led her followers into the living room.
“Good morning, Dan,” she greeted him and gave him her hand. “I’ve
brought half a dozen evening dresses which may or may not impress your
ward; also a model to parade the dresses for Tamea’s inspection, and a
fitter to note the necessary alterations. Of course, she’ll have to have
some street clothes, so I’ve brought Rubenstein, my tailor, to take
measurements.”
“By Jupiter, Maisie, you’re a marvel! You think of everything.” He
pressed Maisie’s hand in his. “You may ask Miss Larrieau if she will be
good enough to come down to the living room, Julia,” he directed.
“I will go up with Julia,” Maisie said, and followed the maid.
The Queen of Riva sat in a small, low chair before the window. She wore
a dark silk dressing gown, which the democratic Julia had filched from
Dan Pritchard’s clothes closet, and she was gazing down into the street,
gray and wet with fog. Her elbows rested on her knees, her face reposed
in her hands, and she was weeping, silently and without a quiver. Julia
went to her, patted her wet cheek and said:
“Look up, Tammy darlin’. Here is Miss Morrison to see you. Miss Morrison
is the kind leddy that sint over the nice dhress for you last night, an’
sure she has tailors an’ cloak models and dhressmakers an’ dhresses
downshtairs waitin’ for you.”
Tamea dried her eyes, shook her wonderful hair back over her ivory brow,
rose slowly and faced Maisie with a certain cool deliberation. Her eyes
swept Maisie’s figure; she forced a smile of greeting.
“I am—happy to—meet—Miss Morrison. When one is—almost—alone and
very unhappy—kindness from a stranger is like the sun that comes to dry
the sails, following a storm.”
“Her greeting is as regal as her bearing,” was Maisie’s thought. She
favored Tamea with a courteous little nod and her bright smile—then
held out her hand. Tamea hesitated, then extended her own.
“You are Maisie?” she queried.
“Yes, I am Maisie. How did you know, Miss Larrieau?”
“I guessed,” Tamea answered simply. “You are a much nicer woman than I
had expected to meet.”
Maisie flushed, partly with pleasure, partly with embarrassment. “I
shall try to be nice to you, Miss Larrieau, always.”
“You may call me Tamea, if you please. I shall call you Maisie.”
“Will ye listen to that!” Julia declared happily. “Sure, Tammy’s no
different from the rest of us. She’s in love wit’ you at sight, Miss
Morrison, so she is.”
“I think with you, Tamea, that we should dispense with formality. I
shall be happy to be your friend and to help you to adjust your life to
new conditions.”
“I accept your friendship.” Tamea’s words came slowly, gravely. “You are
not a woman of common blood.”
Maisie stepped close to her, removed from her fingers the sodden little
ball of a handkerchief and replaced it with a fresh one of filmy lace
from her handbag. “Tell my chauffeur to go back to the house and fetch
Céleste, my maid,” she ordered Julia. “Between Céleste and me this
wonderful hair shall be done exactly right. When you come upstairs
again, Julia, bring up those boxes and the two girls in the living room.
Rubenstein shall wait.”
“Monsieur Dan Pritchard told me at breakfast that Miss Morrison would
call to help me select the clothing which it is fit that I should wear
in this country,” said Tamea when they were alone.
“You are a brunette—one of the wonderful, olive-skinned type. With
those great dark eyes and that wealth of jet-black hair you will look
amazingly chic in something red and silvery or white. May I see your
foot, Tamea?”
Tamea sat down and thrust out a brown foot. It was somewhat shorter and
broader than Maisie had expected to see, but the arch was high and the
toes perfect, with the great toe quite prehensile.
“You have gone barefoot a great deal, Tamea?”
“In Riva, always. In Tahiti I wore sandals.”
“You will have to wear shoes here, Tamea. I think a number five will do,
but we must be very particular not to spoil that foot. It is the only
natural foot I have ever seen except on a baby. How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
Maisie could scarcely believe this statement. Physically Tamea was a
fully developed woman, perhaps five feet seven inches tall, a creature
of soft curves, yet lithe and graceful and falling just a trifle short
of being slim. Her ears were delicately formed but of generous
proportions, her neck, sturdy and muscular, swept in beautiful curves to
meet a torso full-breasted and deep.
“Her form is perfect, and I believe she has a magnificent back,” thought
Maisie. “Her neck and head are Junoesque.”
They were, indeed. Tamea’s head, in shape, resembled her father’s in
that it was larger than that of most women, and of that width between
the ears which denotes brain capacity and consequently intelligence. Her
features were not small; indeed, they were almost large, but of
patrician regularity and loveliness of line. Her brow was high and wide,
her eyebrows fine, silken and thick, while her eyelashes were
extraordinarily long, giving a slightly sleepy appearance to large,
intelligent, beautiful eyes of a very dark brown shade—almost black.
Her chin was well developed, firm; from behind full, red, healthy lips
Maisie saw peeping fine, strong, white, regular teeth. Tamea’s skin was
clear to the point of near-transparency and her hands were small with
lovely tapered fingers.
“A perfect woman,” thought Maisie. “She is more than beautiful. She is
magnificent—and when she has been dressed properly——”
Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Julia and the cloak
model and fitter. Thereafter, for an hour, Tamea dwelt in paradise.
Maisie’s taste, in the matter of dress, was undoubtedly exquisite, and
when she discovered that this exotic islander could wear with dignity
raiment which, on another woman, would be regarded as flamboyant, Maisie
felt that quiet joy which comes to all women who discover beauty or help
to create it. Tamea, too, developed all of the interest of her sex in
the beautiful garments submitted for her selection; so engrossing was
that interest that by the time Rubenstein had departed Tamea’s drooping
spirits had been more than a little uplifted. She commanded Julia to
summon Dan to admire such portions of her wardrobe as she had already
selected.
“My dear, but you must wait until you are fully dressed,” Mrs. Pippy
cautioned her. Tamea was barefooted and wearing the skirt of a
ready-made tailored suit, but not the coat; neither was she wearing
waist or brassiere.
“Why?” she demanded coolly. “Why should I demand of Monsieur Dan
Pritchard that he wait upon my pleasure?”
“But you can’t receive him half dressed.”
Tamea, for answer, took from the dresser a large framed photograph of
Maisie Morrison in evening dress. “Mademoiselle Maisie was but half
dressed when she had this photograph made. Julia, call Monsieur Dan
Pritchard.”
Mrs. Pippy’s cold blue eye warned Julia that the price of obedience
might be prohibitive. Julia hesitated.
Tamea, Queen of Riva, stamped a bare foot. “Obey me!” she commanded.
“Och, sure now, Tammy, darlin’, listen to Mrs. Pippy, there’s a
dear——”
“There will be no talk. Obey!”
“Julia,” said Mrs. Pippy firmly, “in this house you take your orders
from me. When Miss Larrieau is properly dressed she may receive Mr.
Pritchard, but not before.”
“Julia is my servant. She takes orders from no one but me,” Tamea warned
Mrs. Pippy. “Dan Pritchard gave Julia to me.”
“Julia is not a slave, to be given away at will, Miss Larrieau. She must
be consulted in such transactions.”
“Did you not accept me as your mistress, Julia?” There could be no
evasion.
“I did that,” Julia confessed weakly.
“Summon Monsieur Dan Pritchard. Take no heed of this woman—this Pippy.”
“If you disobey me, Julia,” Mrs. Pippy warned, “I shall be forced to
dismiss you without a reference.”
“If you disobey _me_, Julia,” Tamea countered, “I shall dismiss you but
not until you have been beaten. In my country that is how bad servants
are treated.”
Julia appealed to Maisie. “What shall I do, Miss Morrison?”
Maisie sighed. “It is apparent, Julia,” she replied, “that Mrs. Pippy
and Tamea have not hit it off very well together. Mrs. Pippy’s position
in this house must not, she very properly feels, be questioned. Tamea,
who has doubtless never heretofore had her authority questioned, has
elected to make an issue of the seat of authority. We will seek a
compromise.” She turned to Tamea and smiled upon her kindly. “Will you
please me, Tamea, by declining to oppose Mrs. Pippy’s authority in this
house?”
“I will not, Maisie, although I am sorry not to be kind to you. I am not
one accustomed to taking orders and I will not have this Pippy thwart my
desires. As you say, I have elected to force the issue. It is better
thus. Why wait? Julia, for the last time, I order you to obey my
command.”
“Heaven help me!” groaned Julia, and turned to open the door. Mrs.
Pippy’s cool, firm voice halted her.
“Julia!”
“I’m thinkin’, Mrs. Pippy, ye’ll have a hard time queenin’ it over a
rale queen,” said Julia. She made Mrs. Pippy a curious curtsy. “I quits
yer service, ma’am,” she announced, thereby in the language of the
sporting world beating the excellent Mrs. Pippy to the punch. The door
closed behind her.
“You are dismissed. Pack and leave at once.” Thus the Pippy edict,
shouted after the retiring maid.
Tamea smiled and watched the door until Dan Pritchard knocked on it.
“Come, Dan Pritchard,” Tamea called. She was standing in the center of
the room, on parade as it were, when he entered and permitted his amazed
glance to rest upon her. Maisie saw him recoil perceptibly, saw him as
quickly become master of the situation.
“Well, well, what a marvelous apparition!” was all he said.
“You like these garments?”
“Indeed I do, Tamea. Put the coat on, please, until I see the fit of
it. . . .” He sat down and waited until Tamea had finished. Then:
“Stunning, by Jupiter! Maisie, I’m so grateful to you for helping Tamea
and me. You’re the shadow of a rock in a weary land.”
He approached Tamea and fingered the material in her suit. “Do you think
this is quite heavy enough, Maisie?” he queried anxiously. “Our climate
is not quite so salubrious as our little queen is accustomed to.”
Tamea came close to him, grasping each lapel, gazing upward at him with
frank approval and admiration.
“You would not care to have your Tamea die?” she queried.
“Indeed, my dear, I would not.”
“You would not care to have your Tamea put out of this warm house to
suffer in the cold?”
“Certainly not.”
“You will never, never put Tamea away from you?”
“Great Scot, no! I promised your father I’d take care of you, child.
What’s worrying you?”
Tamea sighed. “I have felt the necessity to leave this house,” she
confessed, “unless assured that my orders to my servant will not be
interfered with. Pippy grows very—well, what you call—fresh!”
Dan sensed the approach of a cyclone and hastily sought the cellar. “My
dear Tamea,” he assured her, “it is conceivable that you may find _me_
growing what you call fresh if you seek to impose your will on mine.
Mrs. Pippy’s orders to the servants of this house must be obeyed by
those servants. Meanwhile, try to be nice and—er—polite to Mrs.
Pippy.”
“I think you ought to know what Tamea is driving at, Dan,” Maisie
interposed. “Tamea is in open rebellion against Mrs. Pippy and the
disaffection has spread to Julia.”
“Mr. Pritchard,” said Mrs. Pippy with great dignity, “I have found it
necessary to dismiss Julia for insubordination.”
“Julia belongs to me. Pippy cannot dismiss my Julia, can she, dear Dan
Pritchard?” Thus the unhappy man was caught between the cross-fire of
the conflicting pair. Dan looked helplessly at Maisie, who eyed him
sympathetically and humorously. “Let there be no weakness here,” Tamea
warned. “I would have my answer.”
“Why, of course, you asked me for Julia and I said you could have her,”
Dan began. At that moment Julia entered the room. “Julia,” Dan queried,
“do you desire to remain in the service of Miss Larrieau?”
“Humph! Faith, I’ve never left her ser’rvice, sir.”
“Mrs. Pippy informs me she has dismissed you.”
“The back o’ me hand to Mrs. Pippy.” Julia had started running true to
her racial instincts, which dictate a bold, offensive spirit in the face
of disaster.
“Julia remains!” cried Tamea.
“Julia goes!”
Devoutly Dan wished that an old-fashioned magician were on hand to
render him invisible.
“Dear Mrs. Pippy,” he pleaded, “I appeal to the undoubted wisdom of your
years—to your innate sense of proportion—er—to your—why, dash it
all, this difference of opinion about Julia has me in the very deuce of
a box. Surely you must realize, Mrs. Pippy, the total lack of reason, of
understanding, from our viewpoint, in this child!”
“Oh,” Tamea interrupted coldly, “you think I am a fool!” Suddenly she
commenced to cry and cast herself, sobbing, upon the Pritchard breast.
He glanced over her heaving ivory shoulders to Mrs. Pippy, then to
Maisie. “I’ve taken a big contract,” he complained.
“Julia goes,” said Mrs. Pippy firmly.
Tamea heard the edict and her round, wonderful arms clasped Dan
Pritchard a trifle tighter—it seemed that her heart was just one notch
closer to disintegration.
“Julia stays,” she sobbed. “You gave Julia to your Tamea—yes, you
did—you did—_you did_!”
Suddenly, impelled by what cosmic force he knew not, Dan Pritchard made
his decision and with it precipitated upon his defenseless head a swarm
of troubles. “Excuse me, dear Mrs. Pippy,” he said gently. “I am sorry
to have to veto your decision, which I trust is not an unalterable one.
Julia—confound her Celtic skin—stays!”
Mrs. Pippy bowed her silvery head with the utmost composure and swept
magnificently from the room; Tamea raised her tear-stained face from
Dan’s breast, took a Pritchard ear in each hand, drew his face down to
hers and rewarded him for his fearless stand with a somewhat moist and
fervent kiss. Maisie, watching the tableau composedly, felt a sharp,
sudden stab of resentment against Tamea—or was it jealousy?
“Well, that’s settled,” she remarked dryly, and Dan sensed the sting.
He looked at his watch. “Got to be going down to the office,” he
mumbled, presenting the first excuse for escape that came to his mind.
His anxious glance searched Maisie’s blue eyes in vain for that humorous
glint that had marked them when he first entered the room. “Please help
me, Maisie,” he murmured appealingly. “I’ve got my hands full.”
Maisie nodded. “I’ll try to undo the mischief, Dan. By the way, Uncle
John told me something this morning that you ought to know. He’s up to
his silly eyebrows in the rice market.”
“The double-crossing old idiot! I had begun to suspect he was up to some
skull-duggery. I was on his trail and would have smoked him out in a day
or two.”
“I imagine that is why he told Auntie and me about it. He wanted me to
break the news to you, I think.”
Dan’s head hung low on his breast—the sad Abraham Lincoln look was in
his face and in his troubled eyes. Tamea, looking up at him very soberly
now, read the distress which, momentarily, he could not conceal; in a
sudden burst of sympathy her arm started to curve around his neck.
“Oh, stop it, stop it, Tamea!” Maisie cried sharply. “Mr. Pritchard is
not accustomed to such intimate personal attentions from comparative
strangers.”
Tamea drew away from Dan quickly.
“Dress yourself!” Maisie commanded. “Julia, help her. Dan, run along and
try not to worry.”
Tamea’s eyes flashed, but nevertheless she sat down and when Julia
handed her a pair of black silken hose she commenced dutifully to draw
them on.
“Much obliged for the tip, Maisie. I’ll start a riot in Casson and
Pritchard’s office this very day. By the way, I think Mrs. Pippy is on
her high horse. Please try to wheedle her down.”
“Mrs. Pippy has resigned, Dan.”
“The deuce she has; how do you know?”
“Why, any woman of spirit would.”
He pondered this.
“Oh, well, let her go if she wants to. She’s scarcely human at times.
Well, if she insists upon leaving I’ll give her a year’s salary in
advance. . . . Damnation. . . . Good morning, Maisie, dear. Please try
to reason with—the sundry females about this house. . . . Tamea, I go
to my office. Be a good girl.”
“You are my father and my mother,” she replied humbly. “I will kiss you
farewell.” And she did it.
“This primitive young witch has been in this house less than twenty-four
hours and already she has kissed that defenseless man twice in my
presence. I have known Dan all my life—and I have kissed him but once,”
Maisie thought.
The stab of resentment, of jealousy, perhaps, was more poignant this
time; in addition Maisie was just a little bit peeved at the ease with
which Tamea had achieved her victory.
Maisie had sufficient imagination to understand why Tamea, daughter of a
thousand despots, with the instinct to rule complicated by the desire,
must be excused for precipitating the clash with Mrs. Pippy. But what
Maisie could also understand very clearly, since she too was a woman,
was that Tamea, by the grace of her sex and her shameless effrontery in
using every wile of that sex, was likely to become absolute master of
Dan Pritchard’s establishment. The man was helpless before her. Maisie
permitted a challenging gleam in the glance which she now bent upon
Tamea.
Tamea intercepted that glance and interpreted it correctly. It was as if
Maisie had heliographed to her: “Young lady, you’ve got a fight on your
hands.” Without an instant’s hesitation Tamea’s smoky orbs acknowledged
the message and flashed back the reply: “Very well. I accept the
challenge.”
Then Maisie smiled, and Tamea, with hot resentment in her heart, smiled
back.