After several trials Miss Esther succeeded in obtaining a maid who,
while she was not another Tekla, seemed capable of following in her
footsteps. In most respects the new maid was competent and satisfactory,
but in the matter of afternoon tea Miss Esther had found some difficulty
in having her instructions rightly carried out. Afternoon tea was rather
unusual in Whitfield, except as a special function. It was only at the
Adams house that tea was served every afternoon at five o’clock, whether
guests were present or not, but the custom appealed to Miss Esther
because in the English novels she had read it had been such an
attractive feature. Consequently tea was served every day at five
o’clock—in winter in the library, and in summer on the veranda.
The mistress of the house was punctilious as to the appointments of her
tea service, and Tekla, who was after all but a reflection of Miss
Adams, had found no difficulty in pleasing her. But Nora, the new maid,
had not yet learned to appreciate the vital importance of synchronizing
the time and the tea.
As a consequence of this, Miss Esther had sometimes to arrange or
rearrange her own tea-table. And so when Jean Richards came flying
across the lawn one warm afternoon, she found Miss Esther fussing over
her alcohol lamp with her usual calm a little bit ruffled.
“Tea ready?” she called out.
“No, it is not. That good sister in the kitchen is making a bondmaid and
a slave of me. She hasn’t toasted the muffins.”
“Let me take them out and toast them.”
“No, you can’t. They’re already buttered.”
“Oh, well, never mind. We’ll eat them as they are. What are you playing
to-day, Miss Esther?”
“To-day I am Katherine. Nora is enough to make a shrew of anybody.”
“Well, I’m sure you’re Bonny Kate, and not Kate the Curst. May I take
this chair or is Petruchio sitting in it?”
“He has already risen, that you may have it. Sit down.”
Jean sat down suddenly, as she always did everything, and took her cup
of tea from Miss Esther.
“This is the very nicest part of the day’s work,” she said, “drinking
tea here with you. I wonder if the other girls are coming.”
“I hope so,” said Miss Esther; “I haven’t seen Helen for a week.”
“Helen’s got the blues,” said Jean. “She’s had ’em for three days.”
“What’s the matter this time?” asked Miss Esther; “or is she just having
the blues from a sense of duty?”
“That’s it,” said Jean, cheerfully. “It’s her make-up, you know. She has
to have the blues about once in so often to live up to that temperament
of hers. I’m glad I haven’t any.”
“Yes. It is a fearful thing to have to entertain a temperament. Don’t
ever acquire one, Jeanie.”
“No, ma’am,” said Jean, submissively; “I wouldn’t have one of the
ridiculous things. People don’t like people with temperaments.”
“Nonsense,” replied Miss Esther; “everybody likes Helen.”
“Not as much as they like me,” said Jean, comfortably sipping her tea.
“Well, if they don’t,” said Miss Esther, stoutly, “it is Helen’s own
fault. She likes so few people.”
“That’s just what I said; and that’s the fault of her everlasting
temperament.”
Jean leaned back in her chair and happily munched her untoasted muffin.
“Now just look at the two of them,” she said, as two girls came in at
the gate. “Couldn’t you tell at a glance which one has the blues? Helen
looks as though she owned all the indigo mines in India, or wherever it
comes from. Anybody could see, though, that Lillian hasn’t a blue to her
name.”
But if Helen Fairbanks had the blues they were certainly rather becoming
to her than otherwise. As she approached the house, trailing her parasol
listlessly along the walk, she was apparently paying no attention to her
companion, who was pointing enthusiastically toward the distant
landscape.
Helen Fairbanks’s sponsors in baptism had disagreed as to the child’s
name. Her father had insisted on Pearl, but her mother had finally
carried the day, and had given to her daughter the only name which
absolutely fitted her. Tall, fair, graceful, statuesque, Helen
Fairbanks’s beauty was of that classic perfection which is inevitably
associated with the name of Helen. Her large, calm, gray eyes which had
never yet lived up to the possibilities of their dark lashes, her golden
hair which she wore a bit too smooth, her mouth which showed all too
seldom the little curves at its corners, were trustworthy indexes of her
beautiful but cold nature. Miss Esther had said of Helen that she
reminded her of Cassius:
“Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,
As if he mock’d himself, and scorn’d his spirit
That could be mov’d to smile at any thing.”
As for Lillian Hastings, she was as unlike Helen as Helen was unlike
Jean. But the three were united in their friendship for each other and
their admiration of Miss Esther, which amounted almost to adoration.
Lillian was an artist; that is, she was by every implication of her
being, by every wish and desire of her soul, and by every intent of her
strong and somewhat stubborn character. The mere fact that owing to
limited opportunities she had not as yet achieved much on canvas, in no
way contradicts the statement that she was an artist. She had spent two
blessed weeks one summer at Shinnecock, and there fallen under the
direction of Chase and his associates. There the impulse had its
beginnings—possibly from the inspiration of the instructors, possibly
because of the fact that she met there other girls who, so they had told
her, could paint no better than she did when they began, but who now,
after three years of work, had had the distinction of really selling a
picture. So her ambition formed itself into an absolute mania for
definite accomplishment.
During those two weeks a great artist had asked her to pose for him, and
he had painted her portrait. “Gad!” he had said to his friends,
afterward, “she’s built like a greyhound. Her figure is the figure of a
girl of eight—grown up. Her hair is Burne-Jones’s ladies’ hair, and her
complexion—well, I tried to paint it here, but I haven’t got the
transparency of it yet.”
“Who is this paragon?” his friends had asked him.
“By George!” he exclaimed, “I forgot to ask her name. She was just a
painter girl, working with the others down there on Peconic Bay.”
And so Lillian had kept on painting. She had a studio which was an
honest workroom, without draperies, plaster casts, or cosy corners, and
here she worked doggedly, perseveringly, and without a moment’s doubt as
to her ultimate success. She understood herself. She had no false or
flattering opinions of her own ability, but she was sure that
intelligent effort, properly directed, would lead her eventually to the
Roman Road.
“Confide in us, Helen, dear,” cried Jean as the two came up the steps.
“Why so blue and wan, fair lady? Is it your doll or tea-set that’s
broken to-day?”
“Neither,” said Helen, briefly.
“Perhaps it’s her heart,” suggested Lillian.
“Not Helen’s,” returned Jean; “she hasn’t any heart.”
Helen sat down on the wicker settee beside Miss Esther, with a look of
patient exasperation.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, “only another proposal; that’s all.”
“It’s a perfect shame,” said Miss Esther, “the way those men bother
you.”
“It is,” said Jean. “Why don’t you hang out a sign, ‘No Others Need
Apply’?”
“I think it’s awfully hard on Helen,” said Lillian, sympathetically;
“she’s so kind-hearted, she hates to say ‘no’ to a goose.”
“And yet they keep her saying it most of the time,” said Jean.
“Who is it this time?” asked Miss Esther.
“Mr. Walker,” said Helen.
“The young man who is staying at Bradstreet’s?”
“Yes, that pretty boy with the glasses,” said Jean. “He came here for
health, and he found Helen, and now he wants to take them both back to
New York.”
“But you’ve always said you’d like to live in New York, Helen.”
“Yes, Miss Esther, but I didn’t mean with Mr. Walker.”
“Why not?” asked Miss Esther, straight-forwardly. “Why don’t you like
Mr. Walker?”
“Because there’s nothing to like about him. He has no more to recommend
him than—than—”
“Than any of the Whitfield men who have asked you to marry them?”
queried Jean.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean, Jeanie, as nobody knows better than
you do.”
“Yes,” said Jean, with an exaggerated sigh. “I, too, have my troubles.
It’s a fearful thing, girls, to be belles of society, with no society to
be belles of.”
“And who are you, my girl,” asked Miss Esther, “that you scorn Whitfield
society? Pray what sort of people would you like, if given your choice?”
“Oh, a lot of gay people,” said Jean, “at some kind of a summery place,
with lovely clothes, and hops, and bathing-suits. And beautiful men in
white flannels, and automobiles, and—and—everything!”
“Modest child! With such easily gratified tastes, it’s a pity they
cannot be realized.”
“Oh, they will be, sometime,” said Jean. “What would you choose,
Lillian?”
“Oh, I don’t care for a lot of people, but if I just had one—”
“A nearer one still, and a dearer one?” asked Jean.
“No, what I mean is some fairy godmother or grandmother or
great-grandmother who would take me abroad and let me see pictures—and
paint them.”
“It’s your turn next, Helen,” said Miss Esther.
“I,” said Helen, slowly, “want nothing more nor less than a castle in
Spain, but it must be the largest and handsomest castle there is in
Spain, and it must be my own.”
“Anybody there with you?” asked Jean.
“Yes, I think so; one of Miss Esther’s best Galahads or Romeos.”
“I hope you’ll find your castle,” said Miss Esther, looking at Helen
with keen appreciation. “You would make an admirable châtelaine.”
V
Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift,
As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift.
—_Two Gentlemen of Verona._
In her library that evening Miss Esther’s thoughts came back to Helen
and her castle in Spain.
“She ought to have one,” she thought. “She’s just the girl for a castle
in Spain,—no, not exactly in Spain,—a Joyous Gard would suit her
better. There should be a maze and a pleasaunce, and a mailed knight
should come on his charger to beg for her glove, that he might joust for
it in the Field of the Cloth of Gold. She would have made a wonderful
Iseult, with a touch of Morgan le Fay. She is wonderful enough as it is,
and it is a shame that there are no available Apollos or Abelards or
Aucassins who want châtelaines for their castles.”
It is clearly to be seen that Miss Esther fully appreciated the fact
that the ultimate ambition of the eternal feminine is the individual
interpretation of that ubiquitous architectural structure known as a
castle in Spain. This is distinctly opposed to the masculine attitude of
mind which looks only for the Princess at the Window.
Though not definitely conscious of this differentiation, Miss Esther was
building in her imagination various castles for Helen, when it suddenly
occurred to her that the Prince would provide the castle, could she but
find the Prince.
“Tekla found her Prince for herself,” thought Miss Esther, smiling as
she remembered the big brunette Thor; “but one could scarcely imagine
Helen applying to a matrimonial agency. I might apply for her, select a
suitable Prince, and deposit him on her doorstep the way that Adolf man
was dropped here.”
The whimsical idea pleased Miss Esther’s fancy, and she went into it in
detail. “While I’m about it,” she thought, “I may as well select Princes
for Jean and Lillian, too. This thing is not without precedent.
Petruchio was brought and dropped at Katherine’s feet by outside
influences. If I can help Helen, I’m going to do it. If she wants a
castle, she’s going to have it, and if, as Tekla’s experience seems to
prove, a matrimonial bureau is a necessary factor in the case—I’ll _be_
one!”
The beauty of the plan grew upon Miss Esther. The possibilities widened
as she thought about it, and she grew so excited that she found herself
walking about the library, peering into the bookcases and making quick,
explosive remarks to her friends:
“You, Henry the Eighth, you ought to appreciate what I’m doing! You were
nothing but a matrimonial bureau yourself!” and she shook her fist at
the worn, leather-backed volume. “And you, Don Quixote, if you had
applied to a matrimonial bureau, you would have found your old Dulcinea
without any trouble, and you wouldn’t have had to fight those ridiculous
windmills.”
“Yes, I’ll be a matrimonial bureau—a first-class one, and I’ll apply to
myself for Princes for those three girls—and I’ll get them, too!”
“Dr. Isaiah Bushnell,” announced Nora, appearing at the library door;
“do you want to see him?”
“Of course she does,” said the Reverend Doctor Bushnell, affably, as,
rubbing his hands, he walked past Nora into the room.
“How do you do, Dr. Bushnell. Pray be seated. You find me very busy
to-night.”
“Ah, yes, my dear Miss Adams, ’tis a busy world; but work is a blessing;
as one of our poets has it, ‘’Tis better to have—better to have—’ but
there, I have no doubt you know the quotation. You are so familiar with
the flowers of poesy.”
“I fear I cannot place the quotation you refer to,” replied Miss Esther,
a little coldly.
“Ah, well, ’tis no matter, ’tis no matter. How often our memory fails us
just as we need it most. It was only yesterday that I intended to
approach you in reference to a most unfortunate affair which has been
brought recently to my attention. But, ah, that fickle memory again. The
little errand entirely escaped my mind, but to-night, as I was passing
your beautiful home, and remembered that here dwelt the most charitable
of women, I said to myself, ‘I will ask her!’ That, my dear Miss Adams,
is my errand.”
“Is it?” said Miss Esther; “and how much money do you want?”
“Please do not be so abrupt, dear lady. Let me state the case. Let me
tell you of the destitution—”
“Never mind the destitution, Dr. Bushnell, I will contribute to your
cause, but as I said, I am extremely busy this evening.”
“Ah, yes indeed, yes indeed! and can I not help you? The benefit of my
wider experience is yours for the asking. Let me advise and assist.”
“Do,” said Miss Esther, with sudden cordiality. “I should be glad of
your help. Does your wide experience embrace the organization of a
matrimonial agency?”
“Ah, you jest,” said Dr. Bushnell, a little stiffly; “surely you cannot
mean to resort to such methods. You, who are destined to fill so nobly
the niche in which Providence has placed you!”
The matter being presented to her in this light, Miss Esther perceived a
certain humor in the situation that had not appealed to her before.
“Oh, if you advise against it, I will drop all thought of such a thing.”
“I do, my dear Miss Adams,” said Dr. Bushnell, earnestly. “Trust to my
maturer judgment. It would be a mistake to take any such step, I do
assure you. As I was reading yesterday, in my collection of famous
poetry, ‘’Twas ever thus—’ ah, again the flowing numbers have escaped
me. But you know—doubtless you know the lines. Now, as you were saying,
my dear Miss Adams, every little counts, and your contribution will be
gladly welcomed not only by myself, but by the worthy people whom we are
endeavoring to assist. If you will pardon my abrupt departure, I will,
upon the receipt of your beneficence, take my leave.”
Once again by herself, Miss Esther’s mind returned to her daring scheme.
“Let me see,” she thought, “young Putnam Adams must be about thirty now,
and the Adamses are good enough Princes for anybody. I wonder how he
would do for Helen. But no. A lieutenant in the regular army would never
be able to provide the kind of a castle that ambitious girl insists
upon. He would suit Jean better. She loves uniforms and a gay life; her
happy disposition would be a fair match for his. In fact, the more I
think of it, the more appropriate it seems. But I haven’t seen Putnam of
late. The last time I saw him was when he was graduated at West Point,
and that was six years ago. Since then he has been stationed in Manila,
and goodness knows where else. Now all this may have made a man of him,
and then, again, it may not, but he is an Adams, and he has won his
shoulder-straps since he went away, so I think the boy must be all
right. At any rate, I will invite him up here. I wonder if he will
come.”
Having satisfactorily settled Jean’s future, Miss Esther turned her
attention to the next name on the records of her matrimonial agency.
“Lillian,” she thought, “is so different from Jean. She takes everything
so seriously—even that ridiculous art of hers. Well, perhaps ridiculous
isn’t the word, for Lillian is not the sort that paints calla-lilies on
a black background. She goes only so far, but every step she takes is
just right; the trouble is that’s as far as she goes, and she never will
get far enough to know that she can’t go any farther. A woman has no
business with art, anyway. There never was one that did anything really
worth while. I’m glad nobody’s here to say George Eliot at me, or Rosa
Bonheur, or Chaminade. Sporadic instances count for nothing except to
prove the rule. And I think that Lillian would be much happier married
to some good, kind fairy godfather than going to Europe with some fairy
godmother.
“But Putnam Adams would never do for Lillian—no, he is better for Jean.
Lillian should have an older man—I don’t know why, for Lillian is no
older than Jean, and yet it seems to me that the man who would be just
the one for Lillian Hastings would be a kind, wise, staid sort of
man—who would guide, counsel, and befriend her, and then if he thought
she ought to go on with her art work, I’m sure I’d be perfectly willing.
Then the responsibility of that girl would be off my mind. Now all I’ve
got to do is to find that man. I wish there had been one in Whitfield,
but as there isn’t, I must get him somewhere else. It’s positively
maddening to think that there are probably hundreds of them in the
world, if I only knew their addresses.”
Miss Esther possessed an absurd but absolutely unshakable belief in the
way-pointing possibilities of the nearest available piece of printed
matter.
She calmly picked up the morning paper with the certainty that she would
find in it some indicating arrow pointing toward the material
manifestation of the man whose image she had so clearly in her mind. It
was part of her method to accept the first hint that could by any
possibility be made available for her use as an accomplished fact.
“This will do nicely,” she said:—