Ruth awakened to the sound of grinding brakes and opened her eyes to
look into the eyes of Terry, which seemed very near as he bent over her.
Her muscles were horribly cramped. She did not fully remember until he
spoke.
“We’ll be on our way in less than an hour, and if you want some coffee
you’d better hurry. The train was only prepared for one meal, but there
is some coffee and perhaps a piece of toast, if we get there before the
hungry mob has finished it,” he said.
“You gave me your coat,” she said, looking down at the garment that was
wrapped about her. “You shouldn’t have done that; I had my own, and you
must have frozen.”
“Not at all; I’ve slept beautifully. Did it keep you warm?”
“Yes, but—”
“That’s all that counts; come on and get some coffee.”
“Can’t I even wait to wash my face, or shall I wash it afterward, cat
fashion?”
“If it’s really necessary, you may; but you look remarkably clean and
fresh considering—a few grains of dust, perhaps—”
He looked at her with his head on one side, smiling.
She was on her feet in an instant, but discovering that one foot was
asleep, did not make such swift progress as she had expected. There were
two other women in the dressing-room. Yesterday they would have looked
at her as silently and impersonally as at the mirror or the wash basin
or the black “prop” comb that is always found in Pullman dressing-rooms
and that no one has ever been known to use, but now they were talking to
her and to each other. The stout lady who was going home from a day’s
Christmas shopping in New York was most voluble. She was worried about
her husband and children, especially her husband.
“What I’ll ever say to Henry, I don’t know. He told me that I could do
just as well in Pittsfield as in New York. They have everything there,
and such accommodating sales people—not like New York, where every one
is too busy to be polite—and I didn’t get a thing I went after—and then
this horrible experience. It’s added ten years to my life—I know it
has.”
“After all, it was only a delay,” comforted Ruth. “Suppose the train had
been wrecked. I think it was rather fun.”
“Fun! Fun!” the tall thin woman fairly shrieked at her, and the eyebrow
pencil she was using slipped and made a long mark down her nose that she
had to rub off subsequently with cold cream, producing a fine, high
polish, which in turn had to be removed with powder, so thickly applied
that Ruth thought she looked as if her nose was made of plaster of Paris
and had been fastened on after the rest of her face was finished. It was
difficult to do anything in the tiny crowded space, but she finally
completed a hasty toilet and hurried out to rejoin Terry, who, in her
absence, had secured two cups of coffee and some toast and brought them
to their seats in the Pullman.
“Where’s the Prince?” she asked suddenly, remembering his unwelcome
existence.
“In the dining-car; he got there early and managed to secure what little
food there was aboard.”
“Gloria’s train is right behind us,” he continued, “so we’ll wait for
her at the station and all go up together.”
The increasing warmth in the train was beginning to clear the frosted
windows, and Ruth could see that the snow had stopped falling. A
wonderful pink glow was resting on top of the softly rounded mountains,
and where the clouds were herded between two high crests it looked like
a rose-coloured lake with fir trees on its banks. She forgot her
uncomfortable night and felt new-born like the sun. Everything was
simple and easy. Everything would be solved; Gloria would not marry
Prince Aglipogue. She certainly would not, for he came in now, unshaved,
with bloodshot eyes and rumpled linen. He did not speak at all, but
slumped in his chair, his chins resting on his bulging shirt bosom.
“Have you seen George?” she asked Terry.
“Yes; he’s all right. I only hope the daughter of Shiva froze to death,
but I fear not.”
“Will it be long now?”
“We’ll be into North Adams in less than an hour.”
“I’m afraid you didn’t get any sleep at all,” said Ruth, observing that
his eyes looked tired.
“Do I look as badly as that?” he parried. “Never mind, wait until we
reach Fir Tree Farm and I’ve had a mug of hot Scotch.”
“What’s hot Scotch?”
“It’s something that no one would think of drinking at any time except
the Christmas holiday—and the only thing that it seems quite correct to
drink on a Christmas holiday, especially in a country house. It’s hot,
and sweet and full of Captain Kidd’s own brand of rum, and spice,
and—oh, ever so many things. You’ll see.”
“Perhaps Gloria won’t let me drink it,” said Ruth.
“Don’t ask her—from now on you must ask me—and if I say you may, it’s
all right.”
“Why?”
“Haven’t I tucked you in and watched over you like a mother?” said
Terry. “That gives me the right to say yes and no about things. I shall
explain my new position just as soon as the stately Gloria steps off the
train.”
“This is North Adams; I heard a man say so—”
“Yes; we’re here. I wonder if there’s food in the station. I’m starving
already.”
There was not food at the station, but there was a huge sleigh drawn by
two powerful horses, with bells on their harness that tinkled merrily in
the sharp air, and a man from Fir Tree Farm. Inquiry revealed the fact
that Gloria’s train would be in within fifteen minutes and Terry told
the man to wait. Meantime George appeared, looking as calm and
imperturbable as if he had just stepped out of the house on Gramercy
Square. They all sat on hard benches in the railway station, or looking
through the soiled windows at other passengers driving gaily off to
their homes—and breakfast, as Terry said quite wistfully. Prince
Aglipogue paced up and down in melancholy silence. Ruth could imagine
that he was preparing dignified reproaches to hurl at the auburn head of
Gloria. Her train came in finally and she stepped off swathed in furs,
exhaling the perfume of violets, followed by respectful porters and
greeted by George, who took possession of everything, before the
vicarious servitors quite knew what was happening.
Gloria looked so fresh and beautiful, so perfectly groomed and so
rested, that they all felt shabbier than ever and more dishevelled. They
made a rush for her, and when George had stepped aside she greeted them
with bright smiles.
“Hello, people. You see I was right! What a wonderful morning! Hello,
Aggie—you look as if you’d been in a wreck, and Ruth and Terry as if
they’d been, oh, on an adventure. I actually believe you liked it. What
did you sleep on?”
“It has been a terrible experience,” Prince Aglipogue began, trying to
look reproachful, but only succeeding in looking ridiculous. He could
get no further in his speech, for Ruth and Terry were both talking.
“We did enjoy it; wish you’d been along.”
“We slept in our chairs, at least I did, but I don’t believe Terry slept
at all. You look gorgeous, Gloria—there’s a sleigh out there with bells
on.”
“Come on, then; I’m famished. Didn’t you get up in time for breakfast
even if there’d been any to get? Have you eaten?”
“No; only a cup of coffee—very bad, too.”
They followed George, all talking at once, and piled into the sleigh.
There was straw on the bottom and many fur robes, the heaviest of which
Aglipogue managed to collect for himself and Gloria, who were in the
back of the sleigh. Ruth would have loved to sit in front with the
driver, but, of course, George had to sit there.
“My word, why did you wear that?” Gloria burst into peals of laughter,
and lifted the silk hat from the head of Prince Aglipogue.
“Naturally I supposed that the millionaires, your friends, would send a
conveyance suitable—an enclosed car. How was I to know—straw, farm
horses?” He almost snorted in his disgust.
“You’re so funny, Aggie! Don’t you know there isn’t a motor built that
could drive through these mountains in winter time? We’re lucky that the
sleigh can make it.”
Ruth noted with horror that in her laughter there was a tender note as
if she were talking to an attractive, big boy. Instinctively she turned
to look at George’s straight back, and long, narrow head. It seemed to
her that his ears were visibly listening.
From somewhere Terry produced a long, knitted scarf, and this Gloria
tied around the Prince’s head, laying his hat tenderly down in the
middle of the sleigh. He looked like a huge, ugly boy with mumps, Ruth
thought, and Gloria, whose sense of humour even her Titania-like love
could not quite quench, burst into renewed peals of laughter. Perhaps
he’ll get angry and break his engagement, Ruth thought, hopefully, but
his resentment seemed to be at things in general rather than at Gloria.
They were really very comfortable in spite of the keen wind and the
country round them was magnificent, hill melting into hill in endless
procession like the waves on a limitless ocean. The sky was a vivid blue
and the rich green of the fir and hemlock trees shone warm in contrast
to the white snow. The clear ringing of the bells on the horses seemed
like fairy music leading them over the hills and far away to some
tremendous adventure. Just what that adventure would be Ruth could not
guess, but she knew that Gloria would be its heroine and George the
villain. As for Prince Aglipogue, with his fat face swathed in the
scarf, she would concede him no other rôle than that of buffoon. The
hero? Perhaps Professor Pendragon, perhaps Terry, but she would rather
save Terry for another story.
If only she knew whether Professor Pendragon was still at Fir Tree
Lodge. It would have been easy to ask the driver, who was an inquisitive
New Englander and was making desperate attempts to talk with George,
but, of course, she dared not do that because of Gloria. After all she
was not supposed to know anything about the guests. That was Angela
Peyton-Russell’s affair.
The heavy snow rather helped than impeded their progress, but they were
all rather cold and tremendously hungry before they reached the gates of
Fir Tree Farm. Then there was a slow pull up to the top of the hill on
which it was built, a huge stone house, almost hidden in a forest of fir
trees.
Prince Aglipogue shuddered when he looked at it.
“How is it heated?” he asked in tragic tones.
“Very old-fashioned—no furnace or steam heat—just fire places like your
dear castles in Europe,” said Gloria, which was not true, but served its
purpose of making him look even more melancholy and making Gloria laugh
again. She was quite the gayest person in the party and didn’t even
complain of hunger.
Angela Peyton-Russell was not at the door to greet them, but a
maidservant and a man servant were. Angela had read some place that it
was not smart to greet one’s guests in country homes that way, so she
did what she thought was the correct thing.
“Though she’s probably watching us from some point of vantage,” Gloria
whispered to Ruth, as they followed the maid up a wide staircase, at the
top of which she separated them, leading Ruth into what looked like the
most cheerful room in the world.
“Your luggage will be up directly,” she told Ruth, “and as soon as you
can you’re to come down to breakfast. Mrs. Peyton-Russell has waited it
for you.”
She left at once, evidently going to attendance on Gloria, who any
servant could see at a glance was the more important guest of the two.
While she was waiting for her bags Ruth warmed herself before a
wonderful wood fire, in front of which a blue satin-covered day bed
tempted her to further rest. Through the wide windows the tops of the
mountains that had looked so cold when she was driving to the house
resumed the almost warm beauty that she had admired on the train. Snow
always looks thus, infinitely attractive when one is safely indoors
before a fire, but rather cold and lonely when one is travelling through
it. She had hardly had time to remove her cloak and hat when a tap at
the door announced her bags, and another maid came in to help her
unpack. Ruth let her stay because she took rather kindly to being
served, an inheritance from her mother, who came from Virginia, and
because she might, without appearing too curious, learn something of the
other guests.
“Are there many people here?” she asked. It sounded rather unsubtle
after she had said it, but the maid was evidently a country girl, not
like the one who had brought her up, who had probably come from the
Peyton-Russell town house, and she did not seem surprised, but rather
glad to talk.
“Only Mr. and Mrs. Peyton-Russell, and Miss Mayfield—but you came with
her—you’re Miss Ruth Mayfield? and the foreign prince, and Mr. Riordan
and Professor Pendragon, a poor sick man who’s been here almost a month,
and a Miss Gilchrist, a singer. Perhaps you know her?”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Ruth, almost sorry she had spoken, for the
maid seemed to consider it an invitation to talk at length.
“You’ll be surprised when you meet her, Miss; she’s that odd—not at all
like you other ladies. She sings beautiful—do you want to change for
breakfast? I wouldn’t if I were you. The breakfast’s waiting—here, let
me smooth your hair—no, I want it for practice—one day I want to be a
lady’s maid—a personal maid.”
She laid great stress on the first syllable of the word personal.
“They say some of these personal maids in big houses gets lovely
tips—not that I want tips; I’m glad to serve some people, but a working
girl’s got to take care of herself. If they was all like Miss Gilchrist
life _would_ be hard.”
She had a curious way of talking, with a rising and falling inflection,
stressing unexpected words and syllables, so that in listening to her
voice Ruth scarcely heard her words and forgot that she ought not to
encourage servant’s gossip.
“She’s terrible homely for one thing, and I think looking at herself in
the mirror has soured her disposition. She wears her hair short, and at
first I thought it was toifide fever. You should seen her glare at me
when I ast. You better run right down; I’ll finish unpacking for you.
You look too sweet; clothes ain’t everything.” With which doubtful
compliment ringing in her ears, Ruth passed out, but instead of “running
right down” she knocked at Gloria’s door. She had the feeling that if
they were to walk down and meet Professor Pendragon face to face she
wanted to be with Gloria. She had a vague fear that Gloria might faint,
and she wanted to be there to bear her up. Gloria was herself all ready
for descent, but she had changed her travelling costume for a charming
frock. Hunger had doubtless prompted speed and a theatrical woman’s
facility had aided her. She looked stunning, Ruth thought, and her heart
swelled with pride at the thought that at least her Gloria was looking
her very best for the encounter.
“Afraid to go down alone?” Gloria asked. “You needn’t be; you’re looking
ducky. I hope she has a millionaire for you to meet, but no such luck.
That would spoil ‘our Bohemian circle.’”. She mimicked Angela’s gurgling
voice perfectly. “I dare say those hungry brutes of men are waiting
now—if they have the grace to wait, which I doubt; I could eat almost
anything myself.”
Angela, having done her conventional duty by not meeting them at the
door, now yielded to her emotions and ran halfway up the stairs to meet
them, hurling herself into Gloria’s arms and even kissing Ruth on the
cheek to make her feel that she was welcome and really belonged.
“Come on, we’re having breakfast in the sun parlour; it’s the loveliest
room in the house. Every one is waiting. I’ve only two other guests, and
I didn’t tell them who was coming. You’ll be such a welcome surprise,”
she gurgled.
“We will, indeed,” thought Ruth.
“This is the library,” she waved her hand at an enormous room with
gloomy furniture, the door of which was open. “Cosy little place, don’t
you think? But here—”
She paused dramatically before she threw open the door of the sun
parlour. She was after all such a fluffy, good-hearted child that her
pride in her possessions was no more offensive than the pride of a child
in new toys, and Ruth couldn’t blame her for being proud of the room
they entered. They all stood at the open door looking at it a moment
before entering—a long, narrow room, evidently running the full length
of the house from north to south, with two sides of glass, window after
window with drawn-back draperies of amber silk, and between each window
a bird cage, hung above a tall blue vase filled with cut flowers. At one
end of the room the breakfast table was spread and at the other, where
there were no windows, was a fireplace, round which the men were
standing—Terry, Prince Aglipogue and John Peyton-Russell. There was a
lady seated there, too, and in another big, wing chair Ruth thought she
could discern the top of Professor Pendragon’s head.
They had satisfied Angela with their admiration, and as they came in the
three standing men advanced to meet them, and the woman turned her head.
Ruth looked at her, and her brain working by a sort of double process,
she had time to compare her with the maid’s description, even while her
heart was standing still because of the imminent meeting of Gloria and
Professor Pendragon. Miss Gilchrist did have short hair, not a fluffy
mass like Dorothy Winslow’s, but lank, dank, soiled-brown locks that
framed a lank, soiled-brown countenance. Her gown also seemed to be of a
dusty black, and Ruth could easily imagine that if her manners were no
more attractive than her appearance, she would be quite as disagreeable
as the maid described her. A closer view showed an out-thrust foot in a
long, flat, soiled-brown shoe, and Ruth remembered what Dorothy had once
told her:
“Never trust a woman who wears common sense shoes—there is something
radically wrong with her.”
She was being introduced to Mr. Peyton-Russell now. She had never met
him before. He was a large man who looked as if he took his material
wealth very seriously indeed and thought he owed some reparation to the
public from which he had extracted it, but he had a heavy cordiality
that was rather charming because it was so obviously sincere.
“And now you must meet the others,” chirped Angela.
Ruth realized for the first time that Angela was like a yellow canary.
The birds, singing gaily in the sunshine, made the comparison almost
compulsory.
“You’ll have to come to them, and anyway, I always have cocktails in
front of the fireplace. After that lone, cold ride, you must need one,
though it is only ten o’clock in the morning.”
They followed her across the long room, Ruth walking a step behind
Gloria, watching her face, waiting for the moment when she should see
around the high-backed chair. They must have seen him at the same
moment, for Ruth’s heart gave a little thump and it seemed that Gloria
missed a step, her body swaying just perceptibly for a second, while one
hand flew to her throat in a gesture that Ruth had seen before. Her
colour did not change, but with the sophistication of four months in New
York Ruth knew that Gloria’s colour did not “come and go” for very good
reason. The biggest change was in her eyes. They seemed to have turned a
dark violet and to have opened wider than Ruth had ever seen them
before, in a fixed stare. They were standing before him now. In her
anxiety about Gloria she had not thought of him at all. His face was
quite white and he seemed to be nerving himself for some tremendous
ordeal.
“Pardon me for not rising,”—he indicated the crutches beside his chair.
“Professor Pendragon’s not a bit like a real invalid—one forgets it the
moment one talks to him,” apologized Angela, rather tactlessly. “He and
John are such good friends that I used to be jealous of him, and when I
heard he was ill I insisted that John make him come, and do you know, he
wanted to run away before, but I told him what clever people were coming
and made him stay—aren’t you glad now that you’ve met Gloria Mayfield,
and Ruth?”
“Miss Ruth Mayfield and I have met before,” he said.
She was almost afraid to look at him. There was in his eyes a look of
questioning, almost of reproach. He had grown thinner and she wondered
how Gloria could be so heartless. Still it wasn’t all Gloria’s fault.
Ruth had seen her dark eyes melt with pity at sight of the crutches—pity
and a sort of bewildered fright, but when he spoke as if he had never
seen her before, the soft look faded and her eyes changed from violet to
the coldest grey imaginable, and her mouth set in a cold line, quite
unlike its natural form.
“I’m sure you’ll like our little Bohemian circle,” she said.
Ruth wondered how she dared make fun of Angela that way in her own
house. Somehow or other they had all been presented to Miss Gilchrist,
too, but she proved to be one of those persons one habitually forgets,
and who is perpetually trying to call back the wandering attention of
others, like a friendless pup rubbing his nose in the hands of
strangers, hoping some place to find a master. Of course Miss Gilchrist
hadn’t that kind of nose, but there was a pitiful look in her
dust-coloured brown eyes that simply plead for attention. Evidently
Terry saw it, for he was talking to her now, or perhaps he was only
trying to relieve what was an awkward moment for him as well as for
Ruth.
The cocktails came and though Ruth had never seen Gloria drink anything
stronger than coffee before four o’clock in the afternoon, she took this
one in the way that Ruth had sometimes seen men drink, almost pouring it
down. They all moved off to the breakfast table then, Gloria with John
Peyton-Russell, Angela beside Prince Aglipogue, and Terry with Miss
Gilchrist. Ruth waited while Professor Pendragon picked up his crutches.
Evidently he could get about very well by himself.
“I want to see you after breakfast—as soon as possible,” she whispered
to him.
“The enclosed veranda at five o’clock,” he whispered back.
She wanted to ask him what and where the enclosed veranda was, but there
was no chance. Every one was talking at once, it seemed; that is, every
one except Professor Pendragon and herself. She tried to catch Terry’s
eyes, but when she did, he only lifted one eyebrow as who should say:
“You see, your anxiety was needless; they are sophisticated New Yorkers
and didn’t mind a bit.”
But they did mind; she knew that. If they had recognized each other—that
would have been the sophisticated thing to do. Instead they had taken
the romantic course and met as strangers, though unlike strangers they
did not talk to each other. All around her she could hear snatches of
conversation. Terry seemed to have quite won the formidable Miss
Gilchrist.
“Yes; I sing,” she could hear her saying; “but I prefer poetry to any of
the arts.”
“Really?” said Terry politely.
“Yes; I say that poetry is my chief métier. I have a poem this month in
_Zaneslie’s_.”
“I must read it,” murmured Terry.
“You should hear me recite to really appreciate; don’t you think that
one is always the best interpreter of one’s own work?”
Terry nodded understandingly, and then in a voice that amused Ruth even
while she thought it rather cruel of him to laugh at the serious Miss
Gilchrist:
“Do you write rhymed poetry or do you prefer free verse?” he asked.
Miss Gilchrist deserted her grape fruit and gave him her undivided
attention.
“You know, Mr. Riordan, for years I have written rhymed poetry, but
recently, quite recently, I have felt a definite urge toward the free
medium. I have not relinquished the rhyme, but I am expressing myself in
both forms. The free medium—”
Her voice went on, and on, but Ruth could not hear her now because
Gloria’s voice, clear and high like the sleigh bells, rose above
everything else for the moment.
“No; I can’t work in Terry’s play; I’ve decided never to go back to the
stage. I want to travel—South America, perhaps.”
“But you’re going there on a concert tour, aren’t you, Prince?” said
Angela. “Perhaps—if you have a secret from me, Gloria, I don’t know what
I shall do to you.”
For a moment Ruth’s eyes met those of Professor Pendragon. She saw a
strange light flash into them, like a sword half withdrawn from its
sheath and then replaced, as he dropped his eyes.