for too many things happening and the times--I mean the weather--being
so bad. Perhaps it is better I did not, for everything is different now
from what we thought. Darling Larry has lost all his money, and we are
in the soup. But it is a superb soup, because we have a _chef_ the most
famous of the world. I have almost fear to tell you his name! It is the
same as yours, only that naturally he has not the "de," though he has
the grand air and is richer than we when we were rich. It will look
strange to you, this, that we should have an employe so wonderful when
we are in ruins. But he is not an employe like others. We are as his
servants. And we have him because he helps us make our house a hotel for
the high world. He is not alone in helping us, my father and me. There
is, besides, a band who helps. Not a band that plays music, you
comprehend, but a ring--a circle of people. I have made their
acquaintance on the ship, all but one who came on the _quai_ when we
arrived, and broke the truth of Larry. I did not cry, though I saw all
my happy days we have talked of so much, you and me, fly away in smoke.
I thought not of them, but of Larry, which was worse, for I had a cold
fear in my heart like the lumps of raspberry ice we sometimes swallowed
too large and fast on the fete days. I feared he might have suffered too
much and made himself die. I can speak of that now when I know he is
saved. But he did not even wish to be dead. He is brave and wonderful
and has earned some of the money back at roulette. I hoped he would earn
more like that, it was so easy, beginning only with a few dollars and
waiting till they mounted up, and he hoped so, too. But he has had to
put himself in the hands of the band who advise us, and they do not
approve the roulette. It is too often raided by the police; and then you
do not win quite always.
Larry is too much the charmer for a good man of affairs, and I do not
know what would have become of us two if it had not been for this band.
It was they who thought of the hotel. At least, it was one--a man. I
cannot tell you all about him now, it would take too long a time. And,
besides, what can you tell of a man when you know nothing of him unless
that he makes every one march as he chooses either with some word or
some look of the eyes, though he is the poorest of all and has taken
work as secretary? He is named Storm. For a man he is young, though for
you and me it would be an age--thirty or thirty-two, Mrs. Winston
thinks. Captain and Mrs. Winston are of the band. He is Captain the
Honourable. That is the way the English put their titles with the
soldier part in the front. They spell it "Honble" on letters or the
lists of passengers, but you do not call them by it at all, which is
odd; because if not, what is its use? Mrs. Shuster (that is another of
the band) says Captain Winston will be a lord some day. He is wounded
and very handsome, and his wife is a beauty and a darling. I have to
call her Molly and she has made of me a "Patsey." What do you think she
has done, when it burst out that Larry and I were poor as the mice of
churches? She paid the _douane_ for my dresses, those sweet things
Madame la Marquise, your dear mother, troubled herself to choose for me.
Then Molly bought them as I believed for herself, as we are much of the
same form, though she is grander by some centimetres in front and at the
waist. It was only on my birthday that I find they are for me! I said,
"But, dear, dear cabbage, I can never wear all these when I am keeping a
hotel!" She said: "Yes, you can, my cabbagette, for this hotel will be
different. You and Larry are high swells and it will be a favour that
people are let into your beautiful home. They will be glad of the luck
to know you and they will pay for the privilege. The better you dress
and the more proud you act the more will they be content and think they
have the money's worth. Only the richest ones can afford to come."
That is well, perhaps, because we have not enough rooms for a grand
crowd. We have twenty-five _chambres_, counting great with small, and
with haste two beds are being installed in some. Each person, if you
will believe me, is forced to pay at the least thirty dollars (a hundred
and fifty francs) a day. It is crushing! I have thought no one would
come. But they do already, though we are not yet in a state of
reception. The first day when the announcement showed in the journals of
New York and all other grand cities the rush began. That same night we
had what Molly Winston calls sholes (or is it shoals?) of telegrams. I
thought shoals were of fish only. I will copy a little of the _avis au
public_. _Le voila!_
"Monsieur Marcel Moncourt has the honour to announce that from April 1st
the historic mansion of Kidd's Pines, near Huntersford, Long Island,
will open under his direction as a hotel de luxe."
There was quite a lot more, explaining how Lafayette and Jerome
Bonaparte, and King Edward VII when Prince of Wales had been entertained
by ancestors of the present owner, Mr. Laurence Moore, who would now act
as host; and that there were baths to all but five of the bed chambers.
Was it not good chance that Larry had them put in? They are not paid for
yet, and the plumber, with some others, has been very unkind, making
Larry a bankroot--no, a bankrupt. We shall soon be rich again with all
these thirties and forties and fifties and hundreds of dollars a day (we
can take forty people to say nothing of servants if some of them will
sleep _ensemble_), and then we can pay every one. _Aussi_ the
announcement spoke of the pines which have given to our place its name.
There was a pirate captain named Kidd who buried gold under these trees
or near, and though each of our generations since has dug hard whenever
it felt poor, nobody has ever found anything, so the treasure is still
there--wherever it is. Larry wanted to advertise that all might dig,
male or female. Monsieur Moncourt would not permit, however. He said his
name was enough, and further advertising would waste the money of the
_syndicat_. He is part of the _syndicat_, and has more in it than the
others. He would not come if it could not be that way, Mr. Storm told
Larry. Mr. Storm has a friend who is a friend of Monsieur Moncourt's, a
great friend he must be, because Monsieur M. will do anything to please
him. Monsieur M. takes his salary of manager in shares. Mr. Storm does
not have shares, because he, too, like us, is poor as mice who go to
church--which it seems they are allowed to do in America, though I do
not think we should let them in much in France. Mrs. Shuster, who has
Mr. Storm for her secretary, is of the _syndicat_, and so is Mr. Edward
Caspian, the man who broke the bad news for me. He is about as young as
Mr. Storm, yet looks more young on account of being small and blond,
with curly hair like Larry's. But he is not like Larry in other ways.
Molly says he looks a combination of Lord Fauntleroy and Don Juan. I
have read Lord Fauntleroy when I was a child, but not Don Juan, so I
cannot judge. Do you know, _cherie_, I think he is in love with me, and
Angele thinks the same. She says it will be a good work to marry him,
as he has one of the most gross fortunes of America, besides being
rather _beau_, and _bon garcon_. Angele was not nice for a time when we
had no servants at Kidd's Pines, and I asked her to wash a dish. She had
the air of one ready to burst. But we stayed a few days at the Winstons'
place, which has been left in a will to them, and Angele became more
happy. She says Madame la Marquise often took counsel with her and
sacrificed her to me that I might have some one of experience to advise
me in things of life greater than the dressing of hair. She has fallen
into a devotion for Larry, and it is for his sake she wishes me to say
yes if I am asked by Mr. Caspian. Well! I have not to decide till by and
by, because he has not asked. For the moment I do not like him so very
strongly, I cannot know why. Every one else seems to, except Mr. Storm,
and a darling dog we have here, a golden collie, belonging to Larry, but
like the baths, not paid for. It jumped against Mr. Caspian and
frightened him so much that he wished it to be tied in a chain. We did
not do it, though. I don't love men to have fear of dogs.
Mr. Caspian has come to live with us--in our hotel, I mean. Though he
has the shares, if you will believe me he pays three hundred and fifty
francs a day. So does Mrs. Shuster. She has a suite of bedroom and
sitting-room. A good many of our rooms are like that, with curtains
between. It was Larry's idea when Mamma and he were married and invited
many guests.
Mr. Storm would not come to stay, though Mrs. S. wished to pay for him.
She is a very rich _bourgeoise_ who drops something off herself whenever
she moves, if it is only a hairpin; but many time it is a worse thing.
And she composes tracts about peace. She asked Mr. Storm to help her
write some, but he said he knew nothing of peace, he had never had any.
So you see he does what he likes, though a secretary. He has the most
wonderful eyes ever seen. They haunt you as if they had looked deep into
strange, sad things. You think of them at night before you go to sleep,
and wonder about them, whether you have seen them long ago--and what
they mean--for everybody thinks something different of him and his past,
some good, some bad. He is not afraid of the collie, but pats it when he
passes. And he lights up when he laughs! He has taken a room in the
village near, in a little house, which he considers more suitable to him
than this. Mr. Caspian, who was a socialist once, but is not now, says
Mr. Storm dresses like an anarchist. He does not wish Mrs. Shuster to
employ Mr. Storm, and this pleases her, because she thinks Mr. Caspian
is "jealous." But figure to yourself! An old woman of forty and more!
I forgot to tell you the rest about Monsieur Moncourt. He directs the
kitchen as well as the whole house, but you would not have to be ashamed
of him even if you were _parents_. He does not come to our dining-room
to eat, but has a little one of his own. He has gray hair, a sorrowful,
dreamy face like a great artist who has lost an idea; but I suppose it
is only that he is always thinking of some marvellous new _plat_ to
invent. He spends five days a week on Long Island and two in New York,
for he has a house there of his own. I should love to go one day and see
what it is like! Perhaps I shall go, with Molly.
I forgot _aussi_ to tell you of the automobile you said you so much
envied me. Captain Winston attended to the _douane_, and it is settled
for us to keep the car as an "investment." I do not quite know who
arranged this, because it was like the baths and the collie, not paid.
But some one did arrange, and will be paid of course when we are making
profits. I know it was Mr. Storm who said, in the _conseil de guerre_ we
had about the hotel, that there must be _at least_ one motor to take
guests on tour, and the smarter the car the better. But he could not
have been the one to pay as he is the poorest of us all. Oh, I am so
glad it is my _duty_ to keep this darling car which was to have been my
birthday present from Larry! I shall learn to drive it myself. Captain
Winston will teach me. He knows how to drive all cars of every breed.
Molly calls him her "Lightning Conductor." I could not wait till the
chauffeur arrives.
By the way, we have a Russian count and his wife, an Austrian count and
his, already all old, here. Mrs. Shuster is thrilled, and says their
titles are a "draw." The trouble is the counts quarrel on politics and
make snorty sounds at each other, so they have to be kept from
colliding. It is I who must do this the most often, and it tears my
nerves.
My pigeon, I will write again one of these days soon, when I have
settled. Now I am still on my head!
Your upside down friend,
PATRICE.
P. S. Larry has read this letter and says it is very bad
English--shocking! But I cannot write it all over again. You will see, I
shall do better next time.
V
PETER STORM TO JAMES STRICKLAND, A NEW YORK LAWYER CELEBRATED FOR HIS
BRILLIANT DEFENCE OF CERTAIN FAMOUS CRIMINALS
_Huntersford, Long Island_,
_April Something or Other._
(Why be a slave to dates?)
DEAR STRICKLAND:
Yours full of reproaches for changing my plans and upsetting yours is
"duly to hand," as you'd probably phrase it yourself. What are you
_for_, my dear man, except to take trouble off the shoulders of others
on to your own? I ask you that! You like it. You thrive on it. With your
uncanny talent for character reading, you should never have expected
anything of me but the unexpected. And the whole embroglio is your
fault, if you come to look at it between the eyes. I ought never to have
come back from Siberia four years ago. You hauled me back. What did I do
in the West and in the South? You know only too well. Yet here I am
again, at your call.
You'll say you didn't call me to do what I'm doing now, but something
widely different. I meant to answer the call in your way, it's true (if
at all), but for reasons which have cropped up I prefer to do it in my
own. You ought to be pleased at this, because I've now _definitely
determined to answer the call_. I hadn't at first. I'd made up my mind
no farther than to come and look into the matter you spoke of. I'm
looking into it all right where I am, I assure you, though from a
different angle than that proposed by you.
I don't know why you "deduce" that there's a woman in the case, for
there never has been one before. There were sometimes several, I admit.
But never One. Trust you to see the distinction! Have you been pumping
Marcel? You may as well admit it if you have, for I shall ask him when I
see him next at one of our secret meetings, and he will confess. There's
nothing he can refuse me, as you have cause to know--and you know why.
I inquire as to this more from curiosity than anxiety, because I should
rather like to know what is in Marcel's mind about me. I never knew he
had the qualities of a detective among his many gifts. He has plenty of
others! But what does it matter what he thinks, or you screw out of him?
I don't mind telling you frankly that your suspicions are justified--to
a certain extent. It's not a woman who is in the case. It's a girl. Is
that worse or better, think you?
I'm not in love with her, but Edward Caspian is, and I am dog in the
manger enough not to want him to get her. My future fate--as I expect it
to be--lies thousands of hard miles away from this exquisite American
child, just unfolded from the pink cotton of a French convent. I am
human, however. I'm not a stone, but a man. I saw the girl on the ship,
and before I heard her name something stirred in my memory. You know
already what the name is, if you know anything from Marcel, or if
you've put two and two together--a favourite occupation of yours, and
then skilfully demonstrating that they're five!
She didn't remember me--how could she?--though she did once say
something about my eyes "looking familiar." Naturally I was interested
in her. And though I thoroughly enjoyed the patronage of Mrs. Shuster
and some others who condescended to visit us third-class animals, I
could but appreciate the delicate discrimination of Miss Moore and her
friend Mrs. Winston.
I've never thought of myself as a chivalrous person. On the contrary,
I'm what my life has made of me, something of the brute. But such dregs
of chivalry as had settled at the bottom of my soul's cup were stirred
by the news of Laurence Moore's trouble and its immediate effect upon
his daughter. I heard on the dock, and the child heard on the dock--from
Caspian, who had come to meet my present employer, Mrs. Shuster. It was
easy to see (knowing what we know of him now) that Caspian had decided
at first sight to go for the girl, who has grown astonishingly pretty
and attractive. I'm here to block his game. That's why I took on this
idiotic job with Madam Shuster. It's enough to make a Libyan lion laugh!
But I saw no other way of keeping near, to do the watchdog act--not
being a gentleman or a millionaire like Caspian, able to live at leisure
anywhere preferred.
This blooming hotel business was started to prevent Caspian getting his
entering wedge into the crack of the family fortunes. He was all
generosity. Wanted to lend money on a mortgage, just the sort of thing a
lazy, happy-go-lucky chap like Moore would snap at. And the child
couldn't be expected to look farther ahead than her father looked.
Marcel was my next inspiration--a bait to decide Moore that I was not to
be despised as an adviser. Now, I am the power behind the throne--very
_much_ behind, it's true, not in the palace of the king at all, but
prodding at the throne with a thin stick through an all but invisible
hole in the wall. If it's visible to any one, that one is Caspian
himself, who probably realized in the hour of battle between us that I'd
guessed what he was up to.
I am a type he would dislike and distrust in any case, as I think small
men are apt to dislike bigger ones capable of reducing them by superior
brute force if necessary. As it is, he hates me. I suppose he thinks I
have designs on Miss Moore myself: "the pauper adventurer who has
already taken advantage of his influence over an older woman to gain
access to the heroine." Sounds like a moving picture "cut in," doesn't
it? Not only does he (the self-cast hero of the picture) intend to
punish the villain's impudent interference with him, but to unmask the
wretch in order to thwart his designs upon the heroine. To do this, the
said hero has put a detective agency on to me.
I can hear you ask sharply, "How do you know this?"
The answer is, "I _don't_ know. I feel it." And the life I've led has
taught me to trust my feelings. I have been like a stag in the forest
who scents the unseen hunters when still very far off. If the villain,
Peter Storm, is "unmasked"--well, so much the worse for him, but others
will fall with his fall, we know. And the danger for me (it is a danger,
I admit) only adds to the--fun.
Probably you'll mention the word "damn" or some other analogous one when
you read that. "_Fun!_" you'll sneer. But my dear fellow, it expresses
my point of view. I _am_ having fun. I'm having the time of my life.
Afterward--"let come what come may, I shall have had my day." And I'm
going to fight it out on these lines if it takes all summer--unless
Caspian undermines me and blows up my trenches.
The latter, by the way, are of a homely character. I lurk in lodgings at
the village dressmaker's. I have one room at the back of the house, its
dormer window looking over a grass plot and a chicken coop. Fortunately
the cock is as morose and reserved an individual as I am myself, without
my sense of humour--or else he's henpecked. He never opens his head till
it's necessary to salute the sunrise; and the hens consider it bad form
to boast loudly because a mere egg has been given to the world. For this
accommodation I pay four dollars a week, and ten cents a day for having
a rubber bath filled. Breakfast of bread, butter, and coffee is brought
to my room by a timid fawn of a dressmaker's daughter who does me the
honour of fearing and admiring me, I surmise. I pay twenty cents for her
attendance and admiration. Mine is the simple life, but luxurious
compared with many of my experiences. As to clothes, I am always Hyde,
never Jekyll. It's safer. My hat is the worst thing in hats you ever
beheld, though I have at times surpassed it.
You would think I ought to have plenty of leisure on my hands for the
work I brought from Siberia, but I confess the girl has got between me
and it. Don't waste a smile. No girl born could tempt me to what I
should have to give up for her. Besides, there are a thousand other
obstacles between me and love. If she wastes a few thoughts on me--as
perhaps she does sometimes--it's only curiosity concerning the "Ship's
Mystery." That's what they all called me on board, I heard. But there is
the past, a faded yet beautiful background of early youth--one of the
few really beautiful things in my life. And there is the girl, a radiant
figure in the foreground.
I'm in the house at Kidd's Pines often enough, doing my secretarial work
(a howl of laughter here, please!), to see pretty well all that goes on,
and the demoniac joy I feel in acting as _deus ex machina_ I can't
express to you, because I don't entirely understand it myself. But I
wouldn't be out of this for anything.
Miss Moore has been learning to drive her car. (You know about that
car!) Captain Winston began to give her lessons, but cracked up, as his
wounds aren't thoroughly mended yet. I had half a mind to offer my
services, but thought it would add too much fuel to the fire of
curiosity, so held my peace until--well, several things happened first.
Among them was the coming of Castnet, the chauffeur engaged by Marcel
himself--a Frenchman, too young to be mobilized, but supposed to
understand a Grayles-Grice. He looked a smart fellow, and a lesson or
two went off well, according to what I heard in Mrs. Shuster's room.
Miss Moore sometimes comes in when I am there, with news from the front,
so to speak: what new guests have arrived, what they are like, how they
get on together--or don't get on; for Kidd's Pines as a hotel is already
a going concern.
Three days after Castnet's arrival Miss Moore gave up having her lesson
in order to give Count von Falm and his wife a spin. They happened to be
the only guests--except my boss--without a car of their own, and von
Falm pointedly alluded to an advertisement promising an automobile for
the service of visitors. Thereupon the bomb exploded. Young Castnet,
like a sprat defying a sturgeon, refused to drive an enemy of his
country. The sturgeon demanded the sprat's discharge. Miss Moore sought
her father. "Larry" was teaching the Russian Countess tennis, and gaily
gave his daughter _carte blanche_. She, overwhelmed by responsibility,
temporized. France, you see, is her second home! The Austrian was in no
mood to stand half measures, and gave notice of departure. Meanwhile,
Castnet departed without this ceremony, unaware that Providence was at
work in his behalf. Behold Kidd's Pines with its best room empty and
minus a chauffeur! But Miss Moore was undaunted. At any moment somebody
else might clamour for the car. She determined to be her own chauffeur,
and on the strength of her half-dozen lessons, set out alone to
experiment with the forty horsepower Grayles-Grice.
That was when I met her on her second excursion, I think. I was taking a
walk, and she was stranded in the middle of the "king's highway," about
two miles from Huntersford. Another car equally large and powerful was
drawn up almost nose to nose with the Grayles-Grice, and the road was
becoming congested with vehicles of various sorts. The Grayles-Grice
blocked the way. It was impossible for anything else wider than a
bicycle or a skeleton to proceed in either direction; consequently you
would have supposed that a big reception or an automobile race was
taking place in the neighbourhood.
You can imagine what language would ordinarily, in such circumstances,
have belched from the serried ranks of fiery Pierce Arrows, dashing
Cadillacs, and even from peace-loving Fords; but what should you say was
happening in the present instance? If you refuse to commit yourself to
an opinion, it's only because you've never seen Miss Patricia Moore.
I will tell you what was happening!
All the men were out of all the cars, either helping, advising, or
trying to get near enough to do one or both. The chauffeuse herself was
sitting behind her wheel with the manner of a youthful queen on a throne
receiving homage from courtiers. The Grayles-Grice is gray, and she was
dressed in gray to match, a light pearl gray I should say it would be
called. She has a complexion also like pearl, but not gray pearl.
Excitement had given her a bright rosy colour. Her black hair--I don't
know whether excitement makes a girl's hair curl--but anyhow hers was
doing it, in little rings and spirals which fluttered in the breeze and
blew across her cheeks and eyes. By the way, she has the bluest eyes I
ever saw in human head. She was thanking her courtiers charmingly
whenever they came within speaking distance, rolling her "r's" in a
fascinating French fashion she has, and whenever a heated red man would
lift his head from the open bonnet or pop up from under the car she
would remark how _kind_ he was, or how sad she felt that he should be
having all this trouble for _her_! Then other men for whom there was not
room at the bonnet or under the capacious Grayles-Grice envied the hot
red ones, and intimated (in order to get hot and red and awake sympathy
themselves) that they and they alone could find out what was the matter.
I should estimate that at least a dozen men had enlisted under the
voluntary system, while others on the outer ring only waited their turn.
As for the stranded autos (whose number increased as the minutes went
on), ladies young and old who sat desiring the return of their cavaliers
looked as pleased as the wives of Circe's admirers must have looked
while their male belongings were transformed into beasts.