On board the _Picardie_, steaming to New York, Mrs. Eveleth and Diane
were beginning to realize the gravity of the step they had taken. As
long as they remained in Paris, battling with the sordid details of
financial downfall, America had seemed the land of hope and
reconstruction, where the ruined would find to their hands the means
with which to begin again. The illusion had sustained them all through
the first months of living on little, and stood by them till the very
hour of departure. It faded just when they had most need of it--when the
last cliffs of France went suddenly out of sight in a thick fog-bank of
nothingness; and the cold, empty void, through which the steamer crept
cautiously, roaring from minute to minute like a leviathan in pain,
seemed all that the universe henceforth had to offer them. They would
have been astonished to know that, beyond the fog, Fate was getting the
New World ready for their reception, by creating among the rich those
misfortunes out of which not infrequently proceed the blessings of the
poor.
When that excellent aged lady, Miss Regina van Tromp, sister to the
well-known Paris banker, was felled by a stroke of apoplexy, the
personal calamity might, by a mind taking all things into account, have
been considered balanced by the circumstance that it was affording
employment to some refined woman of reduced means, capable of taking
care of the invalid. It had the further advantage that, coming suddenly
as it did, it absorbed the attention of Miss Lucilla van Tromp, the sick
lady's companion and niece, who became unable henceforth to give to the
household of her cousin, Derek Pruyn, that general supervision which a
kindly old maid can exercise in the home of a young and prosperous
widower. Were Destiny on the lookout for still another opening, she
could have found it in the fact that Miss Dorothea Pruyn, whose father's
discipline came by fits and starts, while his indulgence was continuous,
had reached a point in motherless maidenhood where, according to Miss
Lucilla, "something ought to be done." There was thus unrest, and a
straining after new conditions, in that very family toward which Mrs.
Eveleth's imagination turned from this dreary, leaden sea as to a
possible haven.
Since the wonderful morning when the banker had brought her the news of
her little inheritance her thoughts had dwelt much on Van Tromps and
Pruyns, as representatives of that old New York clan with which she
deigned to claim alliance; and she found no small comfort in going over,
again and again, the details of the interview which had brought her once
more into contact with her kin. James van Tromp, she informed Diane, as
they lay covered with rugs in their steamer-chairs, had been gruff in
manner, but kind in heart, like all the Van Tromps she had ever heard
of. He had not scrupled to dwell upon her past extravagance, but he had
tempered his remarks by commending her resolution to return to her old
home and friends. In the matter of friends, he assured her, she would
find herself with very few. She would be forgotten by some and ignored
by others; while those who still took an interest in her would resent
the fact that in the days of her prosperity she had neglected them. In
any case, she must have the meekness of the suppliant. As her means at
most would be small, she must be grateful if any of her relatives would
take her without wages, as a sort of superior lady's maid, and save her
the expense of board and lodging.
"And so you see, dear," she finished, humbly, "it's going to be all
right. George thought of me; and far more than any money, I value that.
James van Tromp said that this sum had been placed in his hands some
time ago to be specially used for me, and I couldn't help understanding
what that meant. When my boy saw the disaster coming he did his best to
protect me; and it will be my part now to show that he did enough."
If Diane listened to these familiar remarks, it was only to take a dull
satisfaction in the working of her scheme; but Mrs. Eveleth's next words
startled her into sudden attention.
"Haven't I heard you say that you knew James van Tromp's nephew, Derek
Pruyn?"
"I did know him," Diane answered, with a trace of hesitation.
"You knew him well?"
"Not exactly; it was different from--well."
"Different? How? Did you meet him often?"
"Never often; but when we did meet--"
The possibilities implied in Diane's pause induced Mrs. Eveleth to turn
in her chair and look at her.
"You've never told me about that."
"There wasn't much to tell. Don't you know what it is to have met, just
a few times in your life, some one who leaves behind a memory out of
proportion to the degree of the acquaintance? It was something like that
with this Mr. Pruyn."
"Where was it? In Paris?"
"I met him first in Ireland. He was staying with some friends of ours
the last year mamma and I lived at Kilrowan. What I remember about him
was that he seemed so young to be a widower--scarcely more than a boy."
"Is that all?"
"It's very nearly all; but there _is_ something more. He said one day
when we were talking intimately--we always seemed to talk intimately
when we were together--that if ever I was in trouble, I was to remember
him."
"How extraordinary!"
"Yes, it was. I reminded him of it when we met again. That was the year
I was going out with Marie de Nohant, just before George and I were
married."
"And what did he say then?"
"That he repeated the request."
"Extraordinary!" Mrs. Eveleth commented again. "Are you going to do
anything about it?"
"I've thought of it," Diane admitted, "but I don't believe I can."
"Wouldn't it be a pity to neglect so good an opportunity?"
"It might rather be a pity to avail one's self of it. There are things
in life too pleasant to put to the test."
"He might like you to do it. After all, he's a connection."
Not caring to continue the subject, Diane murmured something about
feeling cold, and rose for a little exercise. Having advanced as far
forward as she could go, she turned her back upon her fellow-passengers,
stretched in mute misery in their chairs or huddled in cheerful groups
behind sheltering projections, and stood watching the dip and rise of
the steamer's bow as it drove onward into the mist. Whither was she
going, and to what? With a desperate sense of her ignorance and
impotence, she strained her eyes into the white, dimly translucent bank,
from which stray drops repeatedly lashed her face, as though its
vaporous wall alone stood between her and the knowledge of her future.
* * * * *
If she could have seen beyond the fog and carried her vision over the
intervening leagues of ocean, so as to look into a large, old-fashioned
New York house in Gramercy Park, she would have found Derek Pruyn and
Lucilla van Tromp discussing one of the cardinal points on which that
future was to turn.
That it was not an amusing conversation would have been clear from the
agitation of Derek's manner as he strode up and down the room, as well
as from the rigidity with which his cousin, usually a limp person, held
herself erect, in the attitude of a woman who has no intention of
retiring from the stand she has taken.
"You force me to speak more plainly than I like, Derek," she was saying,
"because you make yourself so obtuse. You seem to forget that years have
a way of passing, and that Dorothea is no longer a very little girl."
"She's barely seventeen--no more than a child."
"But a motherless child, and one who has been allowed a great deal of
liberty."
"Is there any reason why a girl shouldn't be a free creature?"
"Only the reason why a boy shouldn't be one."
"That's different. A boy would be getting into mischief."
"Even a girl isn't proof against that possibility. It mayn't be a boy's
kind of mischief, but it's a kind of her own."
Unwilling to credit this statement, and yet unable to contradict it,
Pruyn continued his march for a minute or two in silence, while Miss
Lucilla waited nervously for him to speak again. It was one of the few
points in the round of daily existence on which she was prepared to give
him battle. It was part of the ridiculous irony of life that Derek, with
the domestic incompetency natural to a banker and a club-man, should
have a daughter to train, while she whose instinct was so passionately
maternal must be doomed to spinsterhood. She had never made any secret
of the fact that to watch Derek bringing up Dorothea made her as fidgety
as if she had seen him trimming hats, though she recognized the futility
of trying to snatch the task from his hands in order to do it properly.
The utmost she had been able to accomplish was to be allowed to plod
daily from Gramercy Park to Fifth Avenue, in the hope of keeping bad
from becoming worse; and even this insufficient oversight must be
discontinued now, since Aunt Regina would monopolize her care. If she
took the matter to heart, it was no more, she thought, than she had a
right to do, seeing that Derek was almost like a younger brother, and,
with the exception of Uncle James in Paris, and Aunt Regina in New York,
her nearest relative in the world.
As she glanced up at him from time to time she reflected, with some
pride, that no one could have taken him for anything but what he was--a
rising young New York banker of some hereditary line. As in certain
English portraits there is an inborn aptitude for statesmanship, so in
Derek Pruyn there was that air, almost inseparable from the Van Tromp
kinship, of one accustomed to possess money, to make money, to spend
money, and to support moneyed responsibilities. The face, slightly stern
by nature, slightly grave by habit, and tanned by outdoor exercise, was
that of a man who wields his special kind of power with a due sense of
its importance, and yet wields it easily. Nature having endowed the Van
Tromps with every excellence but that of good looks, it was Miss
Lucilla's tendency to depreciate beauty; but she was too much a woman
not to be sensible of the charms of six feet two, with proportionate
width of shoulder, and a way of standing straight and looking straight,
incompatible with anything but "acting straight," that was full of a
fine dominance. That he should be carefully dressed was but a detail in
the exactitude which was the main element in his character; while his
daily custom of wearing in his button-hole a dark-red carnation, a token
of some never-explained memory of his dead wife, indicated a capacity
for sober romance which she did not find displeasing.
"Then what would you do about it?" he asked, at last, pausing abruptly
in his walk and confronting her.
"There isn't much choice, Derek. Human society is so constituted as to
leave us very little opportunity for striking into original paths. Aunt
Regina has told you many a time what was possible, and you didn't like
it; but I'll repeat it if you wish. You could send her to a good
boarding-school--"
Never!
"Or you could have a lady to chaperon her properly."
"Rubbish!"
"Well, there you are, Derek. You refuse the only means that could help
you in your situation; and so you leave Dorothea a prey to a woman like
Mrs. Wappinger. You'll excuse me for mentioning it; but--"
"I'd excuse you for mentioning anything; but even Mrs. Wappinger ought
to have justice. You know as well as I do that Uncle James wanted to
marry her, and that it was only her own common-sense that saved us from
having her as an aunt. You may not admire her type, but you can't deny
that it's one which has a legitimate place in American civilization.
Ours isn't a society that can afford to exclude the self-made man, or
his widow."
"That may be quite true, Derek; only in that case you have also to
reckon with--his son."
Derek bounded away once more, making manifest efforts to control himself
before he spoke again.
"You know this subject is most distasteful to me, Lucilla," he said,
severely.
"I know it is; and it's equally so to me. But I see what's going on, and
you don't--there's the difference. What should a young man like you know
about bringing up a school-girl? To see you intrusted with her at all
makes me very nearly doubt the wisdom of the ends of Providence. She's a
good little girl by nature, but your indulgence would spoil an angel."
"I don't indulge her. I've forbidden her to do lots of things."
"Exactly; you come down on the poor thing when she's not doing any harm,
and you put no restrictions on the things in which she's wilful. If
there's a girl on earth who is being brought up backward, it's Dorothea
Pruyn."
"She's my child. I presume I've got a right to do what I like with her."
"You'll find that you've done what you don't like with her, when you've
allowed her to get into a ridiculous, unmaidenly flirtation with the
young man Wappinger."
"I shouldn't let that distress me if I were you. As far as Dorothea is
concerned, your young man Wappinger doesn't exist."
"That's as it may be," Miss Lucilla sniffed, now on the brink of tears.
"That's as it is," he insisted, picking up his hat.
"It's to be regretted," he added, with dignity, as he took his leave,
"that on this subject you and I cannot see alike; but I think you may
trust me not to endanger the happiness of my child."
* * * * *
Even if Diane could have transcended space to assist at this brief
interview, she would probably have missed its bearing on herself; but
had she transported her spirit at the same instant to still another
scene, the effect would have been more enlightening. While she still
stood watching the rise and dip of the steamer's bow, Mrs. Wappinger, in
a larger and more elaborate mansion than the old-fashioned house in
Gramercy Park, was reading to her son such portions of a letter from
James van Tromp as she considered it discreet for him to hear. A stout,
florid lady, in jovial middle age, her appearance as an agent in her
affairs would certainly have surprised Diane, had the vision been
vouchsafed to her.
Passing over those sentences in which the old man admitted the wisdom of
her decision in rejecting his proposals, on the ground that he saw now
that the married state would not have suited him, Mrs. Wappinger came to
what was of common interest.
"'... You will remember, my good friend,'" she read, with a strong
Western accent, "'that both at the time of, and since, your husband's
death I have been helpful to you in your business affairs, and laid you
under some obligation to me. I have, therefore, no scruple in asking you
to fulfil a few wishes of mine, in token of such gratitude as I conceive
you to feel. There will arrive in your city by the steamer _Picardie_,
on the twenty-eighth day of this month, two foolish women, answering to
the name of Eveleth--mother-in-law and daughter-in-law--both widows--and
presenting the sorry spectacle of Naomi and Ruth returning to the Land
of Promise, after a ruinous sojourn in a foreign country--with whose
history you are familiar from your reading of the Scriptures.'"
"Is there a Bible in the house, mother?" Carli Wappinger asked, swinging
himself on the piano-stool.
"I think there must be--somewhere. There used to be one. But, hush! Let
me go on. 'They will descend,'" she continued to read, "'at a modest
French hostelry in University Place, to which I have commended them, as
being within their means. I desire, first, that you will make their
acquaintance at your earliest possible convenience. I desire, next, that
you will invite them to your house on some occasion, presumably in the
afternoon, when you can also ask my nephew, Derek Pruyn, and Lucilla van
Tromp, my niece, to meet them. I desire, furthermore, that though you
may use my name to the Mesdames Eveleth, as a passport to their
presence, you will in no wise speak of me to my relatives in question,
or give them to understand that I have inspired the invitation you will
accord them....'"
Mrs. Wappinger threw down the letter with the emphasis of gesture which
was one of her characteristics.
"There!" she exclaimed, in a loud, hearty voice, not without a note of
triumph; "that's what I call a chance."
"Chance for what, mother?"
"Chance for a good many things--and first of all for bearding Lucilla
van Tromp right in her own den."
"I don't see--"
"No; but I do. We're on to a big thing. I've got to go right there; and
she's got to come right here. She's held off, and she's kept me off; but
now the ice'll be broken with a regular thaw."
"Still, I don't see. It's one thing to invite her, to oblige old man Van
Tromp; but it's another thing to get her to come."
"She'll come fast enough--this time; she'll come as if she was shot here
by a secret spring. There is a secret spring, you may take my word for
it. I don't know what it is, and I don't care; it's enough for me to
know that it's in good working order--which it is, if James van Tromp
has got his hand on it. James van Tromp may look like a fool and talk
like a fool, but he isn't a fool--No, sir!"
It is commonly believed that a woman never thinks otherwise than gently
of the man who has wanted to marry her; and if this be the rule, Mrs.
Wappinger was no exception to it. As she sat on the sofa in her son's
room, the mere mention of the old man's name, attended by the kindly
opinion she had just expressed, sent her off into sudden reverie. While
it was quite true that, in her own phrase, she "would no more have
married him than she would have married a mole," it was none the less
flattering to have been desired. The onlooker, like Lucilla van Tromp or
Derek Pruyn, might wonder what were those hidden forces of affinity
which led a man to single Mrs. Wappinger out of all the women in the
world; but to Mrs. Wappinger herself the circumstance could not be
otherwise than pleasing.
Seeing her pensive, Carli swung himself back to the keyboard again,
pounding out a few bars of the dance music in Strauss' _Salome_, of
which the score lay open before him. He was a good-looking young man of
twenty-two, of whom any mother, not too exacting, might be proud. Very
blond--with well-chiselled features and waving hair--not so tall as to
make his excessive slimness seem disproportionate--there was something
in the perfection with which he was "turned out" that gave him the air
of a "creation." Mrs. Wappinger's joy in him was the more satisfying
because of the fact that, relative to herself, he was in the line of
progress. He was the blossom of culture, travel, and sport, borne by her
own strenuous generation of successful material effort. To the things to
which he had attained she felt that in a certain sense she had attained
herself, on the principle of _facit per alium, facit per se._ In the
social position she had reached it was a pleasure to know that Harvard,
Europe, and money had given Carli a refinement that made up in some
measure for her own deficiencies.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" he asked, breaking off in the
midst of the cruel ecstasy of the daughter of Herodias, and swinging
himself back, so as to confront her.
"I'm going to give a little tea," Mrs. Wappinger answered, with
decision; "a _tay antime,_ as the French say. I shall have these two
Eveleths--or whatever their name is--Lucilla van Tromp, and Derek and
Dorothea Pruyn."
"You may accomplish the first and the last. You'll find it difficult to
fill in the middle. To say nothing of the old girl, Derek Pruyn is too
busy for teas--_intime_, or otherwise."
"I'm going to have him," she stated, with energy.
"You go round and tell Dorothea she's got to bring him--she's just got
to, that's all. He'll come--I know he will. There are forces at work
here that you and I don't see, and if something doesn't happen, my name
isn't Clara Wappinger."
With this mysterious saying she rose, to leave Carli to his music.
"How very occult!" he laughed.
"Nobody knows James van Tromp better than I do," she declared, with
pride, turning on the threshold, "and he doesn't write that way unless
he has a plan in mind. You tell Dorothea what I say. Let me see! To-day
is Tuesday; the _Picardie_ will get in on Saturday; you'll see Dorothea
on Sunday; and we'll have the tea on Thursday next."
With her habitual air of triumphant decision Mrs. Wappinger departed,
and the incident closed.
V
It must be admitted that Diane Eveleth found her entry into the Land of
Promise rather disappointing. To outward things she paid comparatively
little heed. The general aspect of New York was what she had seen in
pictures and expected. That habits and customs should be strange to her
she took as a matter of course; and she was too eager for a welcome to
be critical. As a Frenchwoman, she was neither curious nor analytical
regarding that which lay outside her immediate sphere of interest, and
she instituted no comparisons between Broadway and the boulevards, or
any of the tall buildings and Notre Dame. It may be confessed that her
thoughts went scarcely beyond the human element, with its possible
bearing on her fortunes.
In this respect she made the discovery that Mrs. Eveleth was not to be
taken as an authority. She had given Diane to understand that the return
of Naomi de Ruyter to New York would be a matter of civic interest,
"especially among the old families," and that they would scarcely have
landed before finding themselves amid people whom she knew. But forty
years had made a difference, and Mrs. Eveleth recognized no familiar
faces in the crowd congregated on the dock. When it became further
evident that not only was Naomi de Ruyter forgotten in the city of her
birth, but that the very landmarks she remembered had been swept away,
there was a moment of disillusion, not free from tears.
To Diane the discovery meant only that, more than she had supposed, she
would have to depend upon herself. This, to her, was the appalling fact
that dwarfed all other considerations. To be alone, while the crowds
surged hurriedly by her, was one thing; to be obliged to press in among
them and make room for herself was another. As she walked aimlessly
about the streets during the few days following her arrival she had the
forlorn conviction that in these serried ranks there could be no place
for one so insignificant as she. The knowledge that she must make such a
place, or go without food and shelter, only served to paralyze her
energies and reduce her to a state of nerveless inefficiency.
She had gone forth one day with the letters of introduction she hoped
would help her, only to find that none of the persons to whom they were
addressed had returned to town for the winter. Tired and discouraged,
she was endeavoring on her return to cheer Mrs. Eveleth with such bits
of forced humor as she could squeeze out of the commonplace happenings
of the day, when cards were brought in, bearing the unknown name of Mrs.
Wappinger.
That in this huge, overwhelming town any one could desire to make their
acquaintance was in itself a surprise; but in the interview that
followed Diane felt as though she had been caught up in a whirlwind and
carried away. Mrs. Wappinger's autocratic breeziness was so novel in
character that she had no more thought of resisting it than of resisting
a summer storm. She could only let it blow over her and bear her whither
it listed. In the end she felt like some wayfarer in the _Arabian
Nights_, who has been wafted by kindly _jinn_ across unknown miles of
space, and set down again many leagues farther on in his career.
Never in her life did Diane receive in the same amount of time so much
personal information as Mrs. Wappinger conveyed in the thirty minutes
her visit lasted. She began by explaining that she was a friend of James
van Tromp's--a very great friend. In fact, her husband had been at one
time a partner in the Van Tromp banking-house; but it was an old
business, and what they call conservative, while Mr. Wappinger was from
the West. The West was a long way ahead of New York, though Mrs.
Wappinger had "lived East" so long that she had dropped into walking
pace like the rest. She traced her rise from a comparatively obscure
position in Indiana to her present eminence, and gave details as to Mr.
Wappinger's courtship and the number of children she had lost. Left now
with one, she had spent a good deal of money on him, and was happy to
say that he showed it. While she preferred not to name names, she made
no secret of the fact that Carli was in love; though for her own part a
feeling of wounded pride induced her to hope that he would never enter a
family where he wasn't wanted. The transition of topic having thus
become easy, the invitation to tea was given, and its acceptance taken
as a matter of course.
"It'll only be a _tay antime_," she declared, in answer to Diane's faint
protests, "so you needn't be afraid to come; and as I never do things by
halves, I shall send one of my automobiles for the old lady and you at a
little after four to-morrow." With these words and a hearty shake of the
hand, she bustled away as suddenly as she had come, leaving Diane with a
bewildering sense of having beheld an apparition.
* * * * *
It was not less surprising to Diane to find herself, on the following
afternoon, face to face with Derek Pruyn. Though she had expected, in so
far as she thought of him at all, that chance would one day throw them
together, she had not supposed that the event would occur so soon. The
lack of preparation, the change in her fortunes, and the necessity to
explain, combined to bring about one of those rare moments in which she
found herself at a loss.
On his side, Pruyn had come to the house with a very special purpose. In
spite of the stoutness of his protest when young Wappinger's name was
coupled with his child's, he was not without some inward misgivings,
which he resolved to allay once and for all. He would dispel them by
seeing with his own eyes that they had no force, while he would convict
Miss Lucilla of groundless alarm by ocular demonstration. It would be
enough, he was sure, to watch the young people together to prove beyond
cavil that Dorothea was aware of the gulf between the son of Mrs.
Wappinger, worthy woman though she might be, and a daughter of the
Pruyns. He had, therefore, astonished every one not only by accepting
the invitation himself, but by insisting that Miss Lucilla should do the
same, forcing her thus to become a witness to the vindication of his
wisdom.
Arrived on the spot, however, it vexed him to find that instead of being
a mere spectator, permitted to take notes at his ease, he was passed
from lady to lady--Mrs. Wappinger, Miss Lucilla, Mrs. Eveleth, in
turn--only to find himself settled down at last with a strange young
woman in widow's weeds, in a dim corner of the drawing-room. The meeting
was the more abrupt owing to the circumstance that Diane, unaware of his
arrival, had just emerged from the adjoining ball-room, which was
decorated for a dance. Mrs. Wappinger, coming forward at that minute
with a cup of tea for her, pronounced their names with hurried
indistinctness, and left them together.
With her quick eye for small social indications, Diane saw that, owing
to the dimness of the room and the nature of her dress, he did not know
her, while he resented the necessity for talking to one person, when he
was obviously looking about for another. With her tea-cup in her hand
she slipped into a chair, so that he had no choice but to sit down
beside her.
He was not what is called a lady's man, and in the most fluent of moods
his supply of easy conversation was small. On the present occasion he
felt the urgency of speech without inspiration to meet the need. With a
furtive flutter of the eyelids, while she sipped her tea, she took in
the salient changes the last five years had produced in him, noting in
particular that though slightly older he had improved in looks, and that
the dark-red carnation still held its place in his buttonhole.
"Very unseasonable weather for the time of year," he managed to stammer,
at last.
"Is it? I hadn't noticed."
His manner took on a shade of dignity still more severe, as he wondered
whether this reply was a snub or a mere ineptitude.
"You don't worry about such trifles as the weather," he struggled on.
"Not often."
"May I ask how you escape the necessity?"
"By having more pressing things to think about." With the finality of
this reply the brief conversation dropped, though the perception on
Derek's part that it was not from her inability to carry it on stirred
him to an unusual feeling of pique. Most of the women he met were ready
to entertain him without putting him to any exertion whatever. They even
went so far as to manifest a disposition to be agreeable, before which
he often found it necessary to retire. Without being fatuous on the
point, he could not be unaware of the general conviction that a wealthy
widower, who could still call himself young, must be in want of a wife;
and as long as he was unconscious of the need himself, he judged it wise
to be as little as possible in feminine society. On the rare occasions
when he ventured therein he was not able to complain of a lack of
welcome; nor could he remember an instance in which his hesitating,
somewhat scornful, advances had not been cordially met, until to-day.
The immediate effect was to cause him to look at Diane with a closer, if
somewhat haughty, attention, their eyes meeting as he did so. Her voice,
with its blending of French and Irish elements, had already made its
appeal to his memory, so that the minute was one in which the
presentiment of recognition came before the recognition itself. In his
surprise he half arose from his chair, resuming his seat as he
exclaimed:
"It's Mademoiselle de la Ferronaise!"
His astonished tone and awe-struck manner called to Diane's lips a
little smile.
"It used to be," she said, trying to speak naturally; "it's Mrs. Eveleth
now."
"Yes," he responded, with the absent air of a man getting his wits
together; "I remember; that was the name."
"You knew, then, that I'd been married?"
"Yes; but I didn't know--"
His glance at her dress finished the sentence, and she hastened to
reply.
"No; of course not. My husband died at the beginning of last summer--six
months ago. I hoped some one would have told you before we met. But we
have not many common acquaintances, have we?"
"I hope we may have more now--if you're making a visit to New York."
"I'm making more than a visit; I expect to stay."
"Oh! Do you think you'll like that?"
"It isn't a question of liking; it's a question of living. I may as well
tell you at once that since my husband's death I have my own bread to
earn."
To no Frenchwoman of her rank in life could this statement have been an
easy one, but by making it with a certain quiet outspokenness she hoped
to cover up her foolish sense of shame. The moment was not made less
difficult for her by the astonishment, mingled with embarrassment, with
which he took her remark.
"You!" he cried. "You!"
"It isn't anything very unusual, is it?" she smiled.
"I'm not the first person in the world to make the attempt."
"And may I ask if you're succeeding?"
"I haven't begun yet. I only arrived a few days ago.
"Oh, I see. You've come here--"
"In the hope of finding employment--just like the rest of the
disinherited of the earth. I hope to give French lessons, and--"
"There's always an opening to any one who can," he interrupted,
encouragingly. "I'm not without influence in one or two good schools
that my daughter has attended--"
"Is that your daughter?" she asked, glad to escape from her subject, now
that it was stated plainly--"the very pretty girl in red?"
The question gave Pruyn the excuse he wanted or looking about him.
"I believe she's in red--but I don't see her."
He searched the dimly lighted room, where Mrs. Wappinger sat, silent and
satisfied, behind her tea-table, while Mrs. Eveleth was conversing with
Lucilla on Knickerbocker genealogy; but neither of the young people was
to be seen. His look of anxiety did not escape Diane, who responded to
it with her usual straightforward promptness.
"I fancy she's still in the ball-room with young Mr. Wappinger," she
explained. "We were all there a few minutes ago, looking at the
decorations for the dance Mrs. Wappinger is giving to-night. It was
before you came."
The shadow that shot across his face was a thing to be noticed only by
one accustomed to read the most trivial signs in the social sky. In an
instant she took in the main points of the case as accurately as if Mrs.
Wappinger had named those names over which she had shown such laudable
reserve.
"Wouldn't you like to see them?--the decorations? They're very pretty.
It's just in here."
She rose as she spoke, with a gesture of the hand toward the ball-room.
He followed, because she led the way, but without seeing the meaning of
the move until they were actually on the polished dancing-floor. Owing
to the darkness of the December afternoon, the large empty room was lit
up as brilliantly as at night. For a minute they stood on the threshold,
looking absently at the palms grouped in the corners and the garlands
festooning the walls. It was only then that Pruyn saw the motive of her
coming; and for an instant he forgot his worry in the perception that
this woman had divined his thought.
"There's no one here," he said, at last, in a tone of relief, which
betrayed him once more.
"No," Diane replied, half turning round. "Perhaps we had better go back
to the drawing-room. My mother-in-law will be getting tired."
"Wait," he said, imperiously. "Isn't that--?"
He was again conscious of having admitted her into a sort of confidence;
but he had scarcely time to regret it before there was a flash of red
between the tall potted shrubs that screened an alcove. Dorothea
sauntered into view, with Carli Wappinger, bending slightly over her,
walking by her side. They were too deep in conversation to know
themselves observed; but the earnestness with which the young man spoke
became evident when he put out his hand and laid it gently on the muff
Dorothea held before her. In the act, from which Dorothea did not draw
back, there was nothing beyond the admission of a certain degree of
intimacy; but Diane felt, through all her highly trained subconscious
sensibilities, the shock it produced in Derek's mind.
The situation belonged too entirely to the classic repertoire of life to
present any difficulties to a woman who knew that catastrophe is often
averted by keeping close to the commonplace.
"Isn't she pretty!" she exclaimed, in a tone of polite enthusiasm.
"Mayn't I speak to her? I haven't met her yet."
Before she had finished the concluding words, or Wappinger had withdrawn
his hand from Dorothea's muff, she had glided across the floor, and
disturbed the young people from their absorption in each other.
"Mr. Wappinger," Derek heard her say, as he approached, "I want you to
introduce me to Miss Pruyn. I'm Mrs. Eveleth, Miss Pruyn," she
continued, without waiting for Carli's intermediary offices. "I couldn't
go away without saying just a word to you."
If she supposed she was coming to Dorothea's rescue in a moment which
might be one of embarrassment, she found herself mistaken. No
experienced dowager could have been more amiable to a nice governess
than Dorothea Pruyn to a lady in reduced circumstances. A facility in
adapting herself to other people's manners enabled Diane to accept her
cue; and presently all four were on their way back to the drawing-room,
where farewells were spoken.
[Illustration: DRAWN BY FRANK CRAIG
PRESENTLY ALL FOUR WERE ON THEIR WAY BACK TO THE DRAWING-ROOM]
While Miss Lucilla was making Mrs. Eveleth renew her promise to come and
see her, and "bring young Mrs. Eveleth with her," Pruyn found an
opportunity for another word with Diane.
"You must understand," he said, in a tone which he tried to make
one of explanation for her enlightenment rather than of apology for
Dorothea--"you must understand that girls have a good deal of liberty in
America."
"They have everywhere," she rejoined. "Even in France, where they've
been kept so strictly, the old law of Purdah has been more or less
relaxed."
"If you take up teaching as a work, you'll naturally be thrown among our
young people; and you may see things to which it will be difficult to
adjust your mind."
"I've had a good deal of practice in adjusting my mind. It often seems
to me as movable as if it was on a pivot. I'm rather ashamed of it."
"You needn't be. On the contrary, you'll find it especially useful in
this country, where foreigners are often eager to convert us to their
customs, while we are tenacious of our own."
"Thank you," she said, in the spirit of meekness his didactic attitude
seemed to require. "I'll try to remember that, and not fall into the
mistake."
"And if I can do anything for you," he went on, awkwardly, "in the way
of schools--or--or--recommendations--you know I promised long ago that
if you ever needed any one--"
"Thank you once more," she said, hurriedly, before he had time to go on.
"I know I can count on your help; and if I require a good word, I shall
not hesitate to ask you for it."
As she slipped away, Pruyn was left with the uncomfortable sense of
having appeared to a disadvantage. He had been stilted and patronizing,
when he had meant to be cordial and kind. On the other hand, he resented
the quickness with which she had read his thoughts, as well as her
perception that he had ground for uneasiness regarding his child. That
she should penetrate the inner shrine of reserve he kept closed against
those who stood nearest to him in the world gave him a sense of injury;
and he turned this feeling to account during the next few hours in
trying to deaden the echo of the French voice with the Irish intonation
that haunted his inner hearing, as well as to banish the memory of the
plaintive smile in which, as he feared, meekness was blended with
amusement at his expense.