WHAT MOLLY OVERHEARD.
It had grown quite dark. The passengers were evidently still at dinner.
A man loomed up close to her and then stopped, evidently unaware of her
presence. Leaning over the rail and gazing into the black depths of
water, he emitted a sigh that seemed to come from his soul. Suddenly a
woman joined him. Molly was still half asleep, thinking of the orchard
at Chatsworth and of what Professor Green's bungalow would look like
among the apple trees. Her thoughts came back to the ship with a bounce
when she heard the woman say:
"Tom, why do you avoid me? Can't you let bygones be bygones?"
"That is exactly what I am doing, Mrs. Huntington: letting bygones be
bygones. It seems a useless thing for us to rake up the past."
"'Mrs. Huntington' sounds very cold and formal coming from your lips."
"Well, I gathered you did not think much of the name of Lizzie since you
have changed your daughter's to Elise."
"Oh, Tom, you are cruel!"
"Now see here, Mrs. Huntington, I do not want to be rude to you. I have
lived in total ignorance of you and your affairs for twenty-five years,
and since by chance we meet on a steamer, you cannot make me feel that
what I do or say is of the slightest importance to you. You made the
young Tom Kinsella about as miserable as a man could be, but the old Tom
is immune from misery, thank God, and there is no use in trying to get a
flame from the dead ashes of the past. I am very glad to see you again
and especially glad to make the acquaintance of the daughter of my old
friend, George O'Brien."
"You forgive George but do not forgive me."
"I have nothing to forgive George, and you know it. He was the soul of
honor and had no idea of there being an engagement between us, when he
married you. I am as sure of this as though George himself had told me.
In those good old days in Paris when we were all of us art students,
George and I were great chums. I could read him like a book and there
never lived a more honest fellow.
"When my father died and his foundry at Newark seemed in a fair way to
be on its last legs for want of management and the family income was in
danger of being decidedly lessened, you persuaded me, in fact, you put
it up to me, to give you up or give up art and go to work and pull the
foundry out of the hole.
"Art meant a lot to me, but at the time you meant a lot more. You
remember you would not let me announce our engagement to our friends,
not even to George.
"I went back to America and piled into a work, entirely uncongenial, but
determined to win out. Things were in an awful mess because of my
father's long inability to attend to business. My brother Pierce was
still in college and could be of no assistance to me. I had to master
the business from the beginning, learning every detail before I could
put it on the efficiency basis that I knew it must attain before I could
be satisfied.
"I wrote you rather discouraged letters, I will admit, but I felt I
could pour out my soul to you and you alone. I knew it would be two or
three years before it would be expedient for us to marry, but my faith
in you was supreme and it never entered my head you would not wait for
me.
"When the goal was in sight, you may imagine the shock it gave me when a
casual acquaintance, recently returned from Paris, spoke of having had
such a gay time at your wedding breakfast, given in old George's studio
(the one I used to share with him) by his fellow students.
"Not a word from you; later on a letter from George, full of happiness
and your charms and explaining to me how it came about he could marry.
He had been one of the poorest among a lot of fellows, where poverty was
the rule and not the exception; but his uncle, the Brooklyn politician,
had died and left him a hundred thousand dollars. That seemed immense
wealth to the Latin Quarter, and there was rejoicing in all of the
atéliers where George O'Brien was a general favorite and Lizzie Peck was
known as the prettiest American girl in the Quarter.
"The shock was so great I was like a dead man for weeks, but I never
told a soul of my pitiful love affair. I got over the loss of you as
soon as I could pull myself together enough to think that if you were
the kind who could do as you did, I was well out of it; and George had
my pity and not my envy. But my Art--my Art--nothing can ever make up to
me for giving it up. I could not go back to it, as I had plunged too
deeply into the foundry affairs to pull out, and one cannot serve
business and Art at the same time. Art is too jealous a mistress to
share her lover's time with anything else. I went on with the work and
came out very well.
"This is the first real holiday I have had for many years, but I am
determined to have a good time and am not going to let regret prey upon
me."
Molly had been a forced listener to this long speech, but she could not
fool herself into thinking she had been an unwilling one. She was
thrilled to the soul by Mr. Kinsella's history. No wonder he was so sad
looking and occasionally so bitter! She was glad he had not truckled to
the spoiled Mrs. Huntington, but had let her know exactly where he
stood. It was not so very chivalrous of him, but she needed a good
mental and moral slap and Mr. Kinsella had administered it as gently as
possible, no doubt.
What was Molly to do now? To let them know she was there would make it
horribly embarrassing for all concerned, and still she felt she had
already heard more than she had any business to know.
"I'll have to pretend I am asleep and never divulge to a soul, (except
Mother, of course,) that I have overheard this tremendously interesting
conversation."
Mrs. Huntington was silenced for a few moments by Mr. Kinsella's
harangue, but finally spoke:
"Tom, you are hard on me. I was very young at the time and had always
been so poor."
"That is so, Lizzie. It was hard on you to be so poor; but you were not
so very young. You must have been about the age your daughter is now,
and I fancy you would not excuse much in her because of her youth. You
were two years older than I was in those days."
"Brute!"
"Mind you, I said 'in those days.' I do not mean you are still two years
older than I am."
Molly was sorry that Mr. Kinsella was pushing the poor lady so far. She
made a quick calculation from the evidence in hand and realized that
Mrs. Huntington must be about forty-nine. "Almost as old as Mother! And
just look at her hair and clothes! She looks much younger, and I know it
is hard on her to give up her youth. I do wish Mr. Kinsella had not said
that to her about being two years older than he is! It was not very
kind, even if she did jilt him. It seems a small revenge to me. I wish I
could have made my presence known and then I should not have heard Mr.
Kinsella belittle himself, which I certainly think he did."
Poor Mrs. Huntington swallowed her resentment as best she could and
continued the conversation: "There is one thing I should like to ask of
you as a favor, Tom, and that is: please do not tell Elise that her
father and I ever studied art. Not that I ever studied very hard, but
George was certainly much interested and it took a deal of managing to
persuade him to give it up and go into politics. You see, his uncle's
influence was still hot and there were many plums waiting for him. I was
too ignorant in those days to know that it did not necessarily follow
that political jobs brought social success.
"George was very successful and doubled his inheritance, but we had no
position at all. He changed a great deal. You would hardly have known
him in his last years. You remember how gay and light-hearted and
good-tempered he always was. Well, he lost it all and became morose and
bitter. Elise was the only person who had any influence on him at all.
We had to live in Brooklyn and how I did hate it!"
"How long has George been dead?"
"Oh, ten years or so. Elise was a mere child and George never spoke to
her of having wished to become an artist. It seemed best to me for her
to live in ignorance of the fact as she is already ridiculously fond of
trying to paint; and if she knew there were any hereditary reasons for
it, there is no telling what stand she would take. I hate the Bohemian
life that artists lead, and now that I have made so many sacrifices for
her to place her in the best society, I have no idea of allowing her to
drop out.
"We are received in the most exclusive houses in New York and Newport,
and while our means do not permit us to entertain very largely, our
at-homes are most popular with the Four Hundred.
"Elise is very stubborn. She has had several excellent offers but
refuses to consider anyone whom she does not love. George O'Brien was
very sentimental and she has inherited that from him, along with her
love for dabbling."
Mr. Kinsella had maintained a grim silence during this heartless speech;
but he now asked: "What sacrifice have you made for your daughter's
welfare, you poor put-upon lady?"
"Why, I married Ponsonby Huntington! He had not a _sou_ to his name but
he had the _entrée_ into all the fashionable homes in the East. He was a
great expense, but it fully repaid me, as he lived long enough to
establish Elise and me in that society for which we are eminently
fitted. I am deeply grateful to him and his family and do not begrudge
the money, now that he is dead.
"I was keen enough not to let him go into my principal very largely. I
am an excellent business woman, Tom, and have managed my affairs
wonderfully well."
"So it seems," muttered Mr. Kinsella. "You have evidently satisfied all
your ideals. I am glad to tell you that I have already divulged to Elise
that her father might have become a very good painter, and was
astonished that she was ignorant of the fact that he had ever drawn a
line in his life. I say that I am glad, as I want to talk to George's
daughter about her father, and I cannot think of my old friend, George
O'Brien, as anything but the gay, care-free art student, always ready to
go on a lark and to share his last penny, of which he had very few, with
any needy fellow-student. Don't you ever feel like painting yourself?"
"No! I hate the sight of a paint brush, and as for adding in any way to
the ever-increasing flood of poorly painted pictures,--I can at least
claim my innocence of that crime."
"Perhaps you are right, but you used to be so clever at catching a
likeness."
"Elise has the same power, but I hate to see it in her and never
encourage her by the least praise. Of course you can't understand this
feeling, but I know the girl would fly off at the slightest chance and
live in that shabby Latin Quarter. There, no doubt, she would marry some
down-at-the-heel artist, who would live on her money and go on painting
bad pictures to the end of time; and she would aid and abet him and
paint worse ones herself!"
"Elise has money, then?"
"The money is all hers except my pitiful third that the law allows me,
and I had to go into that a little to keep Ponsonby Huntington in a good
humor. However, Elise cannot get control of her money until she is
twenty-five and I have several years yet. She is quite equal to throwing
me over in spite of all I have done for her." Mrs. Huntington spoke with
a rancor that was really astounding to Molly, whose own mother was so
different that the girl had an idea that all mothers must have some of
Mrs. Brown's qualities.
"Oh, I am sure you are mistaken in judging your daughter thus severely!
She must have inherited from George some other traits along with the
artistic talent."
"That is just it. She inherited from him this very tendency to be hard
on me. Was it kind or right for George to leave all the money to her;
and to me, his devoted and long-suffering wife, nothing more than the
law exacted? My only hope is that she may marry a man rich enough to
make a handsome settlement on me. One who will have money enough not to
regard Elise's fortune at all, except, perhaps, to realize the necessity
of turning it over to me. Now tell me: do you think the Latin Quarter a
likely place for a girl to find such a husband?"
"Oh, I don't know. You did pretty well there, and if you had waited for
me, you might have done even better from a financial standpoint, as I
have been very successful as the world takes it. Perhaps poor little
Elise might have equal luck. Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie, how changed you are!
You have spoken only of money and position and society; never once of
love and humanity. I can't bear to see you this way. When I think of you
as a girl with your soft, sweet manner and no more worldliness than a
kitten, I can hardly bear to contemplate this change in you."
"Oh la, la, Tom, you and I know that a kitten only takes a year to grow
into a horrid cat, and as you so brutally and frankly put it, I have had
about twenty-five years to grow and sharpen my claws. You struck this
note first in our conversation. I was prepared to be as nice as you once
thought me, but I saw how cynical you had grown and I knew there was no
use in putting on; so I have rather enjoyed showing you my true self.
Anyhow, you are grateful to me for throwing you over, now that you see
what I am. Is it not so?"
Mr. Kinsella did not answer for a moment, but finally said, changing the
subject: "There is one thing I am going to ask of you for auld lang syne
and I think maybe you will grant it: let Elise put in this winter in a
good studio in Paris. She is hungry for a long period of uninterrupted
work and I know it will soften her toward you instead of hardening her;
and I feel sure that when the dreaded twenty-fifth birthday arrives, she
will want to settle half of the fortune on you. Do this for me, Lizzie.
I guarantee it will come out well for you."
Mrs. Huntington hesitated for a moment and then by a quick calculation
came to the conclusion that it would be a good thing, after all, and
would leave her free to go where she chose. She well knew how cheaply a
girl could board in Paris when she was at work in a studio, and, as Tom
said, there was every chance of her picking up a rich husband among the
students. There were always some young men who were rolling in wealth,
but still had the artistic bee in their bonnets.
"I'll do it, Tom, but if it turns out badly I'll have you to thank."
"Lizzie, now you are more like your old self and I am grateful to you
for this concession. Come, let us find Elise and tell her the good
news."
Molly was indeed glad to have the interview over. It was against her
whole honest nature to eavesdrop, but she felt it best for all concerned
for her to remain quiet. As soon as Mr. Kinsella and Mrs. Huntington had
disappeared, Molly beat a hasty retreat to her stateroom where her
mother was looking for her, not being able to find her on deck.
"Oh, Mother, I am so excited!" And she told Mrs. Brown all about her
forced concealment during the intimate conversation between the old
lovers.
"It is very interesting, certainly, and I hardly know how you could help
being a listener. Since it will go no farther, as of course neither of
us will ever mention the matter to a soul, it will do no harm. I wish
you had not had to hear it, however, as I hate for my Molly to realize
that such women as Mrs. Huntington exist, so cold and selfish and
worldly. I am glad poor Elise is to be allowed to stay in Paris all
winter and work. Perhaps we can make up to her some for her mother's
heartlessness."
So mother and daughter kissed and went to bed; Molly waked the next
morning with no trace of seasickness, ready and eager to enjoy the rest
of the voyage.
The trip was delightful to both mother and daughter. They made many
acquaintances on board, but Elise O'Brien and the two Kinsellas they
counted among their real friends. So closely were the five thrown
together on the voyage, that they often said it seemed as though they
had known one another all their lives. Mrs. Huntington kept to herself
much of the time. She seemed to realize that it was policy to let Elise
have as good a time as she could with her father's old friend and his
nephew; and since the Browns seemed to have influential and wealthy
friends, they could, at least, do her daughter no harm, and might even
prove useful during the girl's sojourn in Paris.
Elise bloomed in this congenial atmosphere and did not look like the
same girl. She had a ready wit, was quick at repartee, and after a while
her tongue lost its bitterness and her sarcastic humor became much more
genial.
Mr. Kinsella would often say: "That is like your father. He had the
kindest humor in the world and was truly Irish in his wit." But when she
was too critical or inclined to let her wit run away with her heart, he
would shake his head and look sad; and the girl began to care what her
father's friend thought of her, and tried to please him.
She had liked Molly from the minute they clasped hands when Pierce
introduced them, and this liking grew to enthusiastic love. She had had
few intimates and this friendship was wonderful to her. Mr. Kinsella
realized the importance of this wholesome influence on his charge, (he
had made Elise his charge ever since he wrung from her mother the
promise to let her continue her studies in art), and he did everything
to throw the girls together and give them opportunities to talk their
eager girls' talk.
"I hate to think of the journey coming to an end," said Molly. "It has
been splendid; but if the trip is nearly over, our friendship has just
begun! And what times we can have in Paris! Isn't it great that you and
Judy know each other and that the three of us are so congenial?"
Elise looked sad. "Yes, it is fine, but I know you and Judy will want me
out of the way. You are such old friends, and I shall always feel like
an interloper."
"Oh, Elise, Elise! You must not feel that way for an instant. Judy and I
love each other a whole lot, but we are not a bit inclined to pair off
and not make new friends. Judy is more than likely already to have begun
a big affair of friendship with somebody. She will get so thick with
that one that she will have no time for anyone else; and then she will
find out the person is not the paragon she had imagined and come weeping
back to me," said Molly, throwing her arm around Elise and giving her a
warm hug.
"Well, let's enjoy the few hours left to us. It seems hardly possible
that this is the same, stupid old boat that we boarded a little over
a week ago. I hated it, our stuffy stateroom, the crowded table;
and then I always dread a long voyage with Mamma. She gets so cross
and overbearing when she is cut off from society and amusements
and----" Elise stopped suddenly. She felt Molly's friendly arm growing
slack around her waist and she realized that her new friends, the Browns,
could not tolerate her impertinent remarks to and about her mother. "Oh,
Molly, please excuse me. I am trying to be nicer about Mamma. It is
awfully ill-bred of me to speak of her in that way, no matter how I
feel."
"Elise, why don't you try to feel differently and then it would be
impossible for you to speak so?"
"Oh, Molly, I will try." And it shows she was already trying, for she
did not add what was in her heart to say, "If you only knew my mother
you would not ask that of me."