That evening Pearl had the satisfaction of writing Mr. Wood that
Durland had stopped smoking. She gave the whole scene on the beach.
Never before in all her life had she been amused at writing a letter;
she had looked upon them as a duty to be paid to friendship. But to
this man whom she had never seen she enjoyed writing. It was like
patting Alfred--you could express your friendly emotion without fear of
rousing any response whatsoever. Almost every day she had some progress
to report--Mrs. Conway had consented to keep her jewelry in the safe
in her bedroom provided for the purpose. At first she had positively
refused, asserting that as she could never remember the combination
her jewels remained locked up until an expert was sent down from town
to open the safe; and that for her part she would as lief a thief had
them, who might get some fun out of them, as that they stayed locked up
in her safe for the rest of time. But Pearl very competently offered to
make the combination and remember it, and come every morning and get
them out at any hour Mrs. Conway chose. A rumor of burglaries in the
neighborhood induced Edna to yield.
Then before a week was over algebra became to Durland an illumined
subject, a study of mystic beauty and romantic association. He not
only mastered it in the proud determination to prove that men were not
fools but he invented clever discussions to lengthen his brief hour
into an hour and a half; while Antonia, wondering at his industry, kept
insisting that it was time to go to the public beach.
All this Pearl wrote, day by day. But she could not write the thing
which of all others she knew Mr. Wood wanted to hear--that Antonia was
dressed like a nice little girl. The best she could say was that the
child was not actually dirty. Nor could she say that she had gained
Mrs. Conway's friendship. That lady remained aloof, a little malicious,
always in the opposition, treating Pearl's triumphs as petty tyrannies
over the children's free spirits, treating Pearl's failures as
splendid triumphs in the field of human freedom.
When Pearl appealed to her with "I don't think Antonia ought to wear
that torn dress to Olive's for tea, Mrs. Conway," Edna would smile and
answer, "You know, Miss Exeter, I can't think those things a matter of
life and death the way you do. I own I should be sorry if at eleven she
thought of nothing but dress."
"Like Dolly," said Antonia.
That, Pearl discovered, was the secret of Antonia's dislike of
neatness. She was afraid of being like Dolly--Dolly, who represented
simply everything of which Antonia disapproved.
All this Pearl wrote to Anthony; long, long letters composed after the
rest of the household were in bed. "It is long after midnight, and I
should be in bed instead of writing----"
She paused. The well-known illustrator who had done her picture for
the cleaning-fluid firm had told her--and the illustrator was herself
a beautiful woman, experienced in the ways of the world--that all love
letters from unmarried girls ended with the words, "But it is after
midnight, and I ought to be in bed instead," whether they were written
at noon or at night.
Love letters! How absurd!
Letters which amuse the writer to write rarely fail to amuse the
recipient to read. Pearl's letters, arriving as they did in bunches,
amused him not only on account of their dashing style but on account of
the contrast between this style and the pale demure little person he
remembered. Anything written day by day gains a serial interest; and
Anthony, without newspapers, waited for Pearl's letters as the great
interest of life. He had never felt so intimate with his family as
through her careful description of them. His sister, though a fairly
regular correspondent, had to perfection the art of covering the paper
with sentences which by the time they reached her correspondent meant
nothing. "I did so wonder whether the preserved ginger I ordered for
you had caught your steamer of if the man had mistaken the line--he
seemed so stupid----" Pages like this, when he wanted to hear of the
contemporary life of the children.
Yet this time the first sentence of his sister's letter interested him:
She arrived the day before yesterday--your priceless
pearl--Antonia's idea of Helen of Troy. But do you think Helen
would have made a comfortable sort of governess? This young woman
is entirely untrained--turns handsprings on the beach and goes
shouting about the tennis courts in a loud Western voice that I
do hope the children won't learn to copy. Dolly, who is, as you
know, the most sensitively refined being that was ever made, is
quite shocked by her. The two younger ones like her well enough,
but I can't imagine her ever having any control over them. I
always think one must be a little disciplined oneself in order
to exercise control over others. I must confess, Anthony, that I
should pack your selection off tomorrow if I had not given you
my word to keep her. Cora quite agrees with me that Miss Exeter
would do better on the variety stage than as a governess. I don't
think there is any news. Durland has entirely given up smoking,
as I always said he would--entirely of his own accord. You don't
believe me, but a mother has a sort of psychic understanding of
her children.
How could he help being on the other side? Yet the letter gave him
something to think about. Helen of Troy--that pale, thin girl! Well,
he should never understand women's estimates of other women's looks.
He laughed aloud over the note about Durland's smoking, Edna and her
psychic understanding!
But thinking of psychic things--and far away in the folds of that
bare Mexican valley Anthony had time to think--something psychic came
from Miss Exeter's letters which he had not felt in her personality.
He could not call it exactly conceit, but it was like a conviction of
beauty. He did not know how to describe it, but it made him think of
an essay by a novelist which he had read, when or where he could not
remember--was it by Stevenson?--in which the writer had spoken of the
uncontrollable way in which heroines whom you constantly described
as lovely kept turning plain and uninteresting on your hands; and
the other way round--how heroines, with just a few words of friendly
description, suddenly walked through your pages as tremendous beauties,
with no assistance from you. Clara Middleton, in the Egoist, had been
cited as one of the latter class. Well, it seemed to him that this
girl was like that. He had seen her--a nice-looking young woman, but
her letters were the letters of a beauty. Probably it was the profound
subconscious egotism of the woman coming out. The point was that she
was getting away with it. He wrote and asked Durland to send him a
photograph of her. But it did not need much diplomacy on the part of
Pearl to prevent its ever being dispatched.
As a matter of fact, she did not dread discovery very much. It seemed
to her it would be nothing more than an awkward moment--after all,
he already knew her better than he had ever known Augusta--only
before he came back she must have worked all the desired miracles.
Far from dreading his return, she looked forward to it with veiled
excitement--great fun, like taking off your masks at a fancy ball.
She had been with the Conway family almost a month when she witnessed
the first trial of strength between the hostile factions--Dolly against
Antonia. There was only one spare room in the cottage since the
governess had come. Dolly announced at luncheon, very casually, that
she had invited Allen Williams to spend the following Sunday with them.
Antonia broke out at once with the passionate sense of defeat that
betrays the young. She had invited her best, indeed her only, friend
Olive, who was to be abandoned by her family, for the coming Sunday.
"You said I could ask her, mother. I did ask her--you let me ask her.
I asked her first--before Dolly asked Allen--you said I could"--over
and over again; but Dolly's flashing silence was more impressive.
Pearl knew that it was not so much a question of justice as of trial
by torture. Mrs. Conway would yield to whichever of her children could
inflict the most pain upon her, and that, of course, was Dolly. Dolly
did not reiterate her position like Antonia. Now and then she dropped
a frigid sentence that revealed her argument. Her mother had always
told her she might ask anyone she liked for week ends. She had asked
Allen and he had accepted. As for Olive, she lived in Southampton--why
shouldn't she stay in her own house? It was just as an excuse for
little girls to sit up talking all night and steal food out of the
pantry and get the whole household upset.
This was shrewd. The last time Olive had come to stay it had resulted
in the loss of a cook. Mrs. Conway remembered this as Dolly spoke.
Her position was painful. She had promised Antonia she could have her
friend this Sunday, when Olive's parents were away. But then on the
other hand she had also encouraged Dolly to ask anyone she liked to
the house. Yet she disliked young Williams and feared Dolly's growing
devotion to him. Somebody had already said to her that it was a pity
for Dolly to make herself so conspicuous with him--he was no good, that
young man. But part of her tragedy as a mother was that she sympathized
with her children when thwarted in something in which she knew they
ought to be thwarted. She knew now that Dolly's hold on young William's
interest was of the slightest; she knew that the girl had obtained this
promise of a week end visit with difficulty--perhaps even it was mere
convenience--he wanted to go to some party, or to see some other woman.
Mrs. Conway knew that if she decided in favor of Antonia, as perhaps
strict justice would demand, there never would be any other week end
for Williams. Dolly would lose him; and though this was exactly what
she desired, she could not be so cruel as to bring it about. So she
decided in favor of her elder daughter, and managed as usual to anger
both of them.
"I'm afraid, my dear," she said to Antonia, as if she were being
particularly impartial, "that this is one of those terrible occasions
on which you are called upon to be unselfish and noble and all that. I
own I don't care for this young man who says bur-r-rud and wor-ruld,
and seems to me to be quite the dullest person I ever met; but Dolly
is older than you, you know, and must be allowed to have her playmates
first. When you are a big girl and want to have beautiful young morons
to stay----"
"I hope I shan't ride roughshod over other people's rights," said
Antonia with snapping eyes.
"I'm sorry my friends must be insulted, mother, just because I have
ventured to invite them to your house. Believe me, if I had a house of
my own I would not trouble you either with my friends or myself."
Tears rose to Mrs. Conway's eyes. She was so deeply hurt she could not
even pretend that she wasn't; so hurt that she spoke naturally to the
governess when for a second after luncheon, owing to the withdrawal in
opposite directions of her two daughters, she found herself alone with
the interloper.
"Young people are so cruel," she said. "What more could I do for
Dolly? I sacrifice poor little Antonia, I make the house hers--and she
tells me practically she only stays with me because she has to."
As Pearl went upstairs Dolly called her into her room--the first time
she had ever done such a thing. But after all the woman with all her
faults had the virtue of not being a member of the family.
"You see what I mean, Miss Exeter," she said, looking up from polishing
her nails with a feverish rapidity. "Everything in this house is done
for Antonia--or would be if I did not fight for my rights. Nobody likes
to make a scene, but to ask a man like Mr. Williams--you don't know,
but women--older women--married women--like Mrs. Temple--so silly--it
just bores Allen; but he feels he ought to go there, and when he said
he would come here instead, fancy my having to put him off because
Antonia wanted that fat Olive to come, when Olive lives here anyhow."
Pearl's limpid gray eyes gazed at her sympathetically. It was her
nature to be sympathetic, and presently Dolly was telling her how she
had first met Allen, how he had danced and how wonderfully their
steps went together. It seemed as if she had remembered every syllable
that had ever fallen from his lips, and loved to repeat them, though
they were of a conspicuously commonplace character. Then she confided a
secret--he had asked himself. She would never have dared to ask him.
"Dared!" said Pearl, every inch the feminist.
"Oh, well," Dolly retreated rapidly, "this house is so full of
uninteresting children like Antonia and Durland--under your feet all
day long; but when Allen said himself, telling how he didn't want to go
to the Temples, 'Why don't you ask me?'----"
Her voice softened over the remembered tones; of course she had asked
him.
Pearl's heart sank at this news. She wondered if she were vain to
attach a dread significance to his initiative. She remembered that
peculiar fierce stare from those pale eyes. Well, she wouldn't speak to
him--that was all there was to that.
Presently she left Dolly and went to knock on Antonia's door, which was
suspiciously shut; usually Antonia lived and dressed open to corridors.
Yes, as Pearl feared, Antonia was lying on her bed, crumpled as to
clothes and damp about the cheeks. Miss Exeter could see now, she said;
she was treated like a step-child. Her mother didn't love her as she
loved Dolly, and how could anyone love Dolly?--that's what she couldn't
understand.
Pearl had not thought it worth while to try to argue Antonia's
case with Dolly, but the child was so clear-minded she did try to
put Dolly's side of the case to her. Antonia admitted it all, but
impatiently.
"And why is he willing to come," she said--"a man like him? He's just
making a convenience of Dolly, or something. He doesn't think anything
about her at all."
It was exactly Pearl's own impression. Then why was he coming?
He came on Friday afternoon by the fast train, and Dolly in her new
pink hat and her white motoring coat--just back from the cleaner and
smelling a little bit of gasoline, but so much more becoming than her
gray one--went to meet him. She and Allen and Mrs. Conway were all
dining out that evening, and Pearl had organized a picnic for herself
and Antonia and Durland, far up the beach, with the moon and a fire
of driftwood and a great deal of excellent food. They did not see the
house guest that evening.
The next morning at half past nine Pearl was obliged to go to the
garage to find Antonia; she was studying the oiling system of the green
car. There was nothing unfriendly in her attitude to study; she was
perfectly willing to learn, if she could only manage to remember that
lesson time had come.
They had lessons on the piazza. Pearl, looking out over the dazzling
sea and thinking how pleasant a swim was going to be, had said "How
do you spell 'separate,' Antonia?" and Antonia, twining her bare toes
about the calf of the other leg, had got as far as "Well, I know it's
an _e_ where you expect an _a_ or just the other way," when Williams,
bending his head slightly under the curtains, stepped from the dining
room upon the piazza.
He looked extremely polished and soaped. He had on white trousers, a
gray coat, a blue tie. Antonia, who had never seen him so near before,
stared at him, forgetting even to say good morning. He bowed rather
formally to the governess, but to Antonia he said, "Where were you
last evening? I was watching for you and you didn't appear."
He sat down and drew her toward him with an immaculate brown hand.
Pearl had never seen Antonia embarrassed before. The child kept
glancing up at Williams as if fascinated, and glancing quickly away
again as if dazzled. Then she turned both knees inward, seemed to dig
her toes into the boards and answered in a low, husky voice that they
had been out on a picnic.
"I think you might have asked me," said Williams.
He spoke in that tone of false comedy--as if anything you said to a
child must be ridiculous--that was peculiarly annoying to Pearl.
Antonia bent her head and muttered that she had not thought he would
have enjoyed it.
"I should have enjoyed it," he said, and drew Antonia closer, so that
over her head he could give Pearl a hard, significant look.
Pearl rose to her feet. This was a situation she understood thoroughly.
She was not going to lose another job on account of a man--a boy
rather, younger than herself. In spite of Williams' protests and
teasing efforts to retain the child, she swept her up to her bedroom
to finish her lessons. But she no longer had Antonia's full attention.
When asked again to spell "separate," Antonia answered, "He is
handsome, isn't he?"
"Not to my mind," Pearl answered firmly. "He's clean and healthy
looking."
"He's beautifully clean," said Antonia. "Think of going about with
someone like that!" The measure of her collapse might be taken when a
few minutes later she dashed to the window to watch him drive away with
her sister, and turning back she exclaimed sadly, "Gee, I never thought
I'd wish I was Dolly!"
Pearl thought to herself that there was no great difficulty in seeing
through this young man's plans. He wasn't the kind who wept on the desk
like the third vice president of the Encyclopedia company. No, he was
going to use Antonia's open admiration as an avenue to the governess.
Well, the situation could not prolong itself. This was Saturday, and he
would be going early Monday morning. There oughtn't to be much trouble
in keeping out of his way. She could count on Dolly's coöperation. She
sighed, wishing that Mrs. Conway were more friendly. Dolly would keep
him playing golf as late as possible; they would not meet again until
luncheon, and that was perfectly safe.
She miscalculated. Williams' will was stronger than Dolly's. It was a
day of long, regular waves, high but without force, turned back from
the shore by a northerly wind. Antonia was standing near shore diving
them, wave after wave, and shaking her short hair out of her eyes after
each one passed over her head. Pearl had swum out beyond the line of
breakers and was sitting on a barrel, enjoying the sensation of being
pulled gently in and out as each swell rolled past her. Suddenly on the
shore she saw Williams and Dolly appear in their bathing things. She
understood it all. Dolly had been lured to the beach at this early hour
by the idea of an undisturbed tête-à-tête. The girl sat down, as if
confident that Williams was going to do the same, but he stood gazing
out to sea. Pearl felt his eyes reach her, and then he dived into one
of the great crested billows and she saw that he was making straight
for her barrel. He was coming fast, but he was coming under water. When
he reached the barrel Pearl was not there. Looking back, he saw her
almost at the shore.
He was, however, the kind of man in whom opposition rouses a sort of
malignant persistence. All through luncheon she kept catching his pale
eye. She thought Durland noticed it, and hoped that Dolly didn't.
Antonia hardly moved her eyes from his face.
After lunch, when they were all in the sitting room, Antonia ran away
to get him a match before anyone else had noticed he needed one. Dolly
smiled.
"What's this, Allen?" she said. "Is Antonia another of your victims?"
Williams frowned, not because he was in the least annoyed but to
indicate that he was a man impervious to flattery. Pearl had one of her
inspirations.
"If it's true," she said, "Mr. Williams has it in his power to do us
all a great favor. Do ask him, Dolly, to say to Antonia that he likes
to see a little girl neatly dressed like other little girls."
"That would, indeed, be a miracle," said Dolly, not wanting anything
Allen might accomplish to be underestimated.
"Certainly, if I can," said Allen, looking at the governess.
Pearl was standing turning over the papers on the table, ready for
flight, although with Durland and Dolly both in the room she felt
perfectly secure. She was delighted with her idea.
"It would be a great help in my life," she said, "if you would." And
she looked straight at him and smiled as if she saw before her a
combination of a god and a saint. It was a look that went straight to
his rather stupid head, through which all sorts of ideas began to dance
brightly.
"And what do I get out of it?" he asked.