Here’s a small trifle of wives.—_Merchant of Venice_, ii, 2.
Lillian’s studio was peculiarly fitted for confidences. It was away up
in the top of a house which had been constructed in the time when
gingerbread formed a part of the architectural impulse of Central New
York. Still, up in the attic there had been left an unfinished
room—garret, with rafters and other things dear to the heart of those
who were born in Central New York in the middle seventies. This room the
young woman had adapted to her own uses. She had impressed the men from
the Whitfield Planing Mill and Agricultural Works, and she had directed
them to construct a ceiling of matched lumber—though she did not know
what matched lumber meant.
After it was finished she discovered that it was simply a ceiling of
boards closely fitted together, and that by no possibility could the
boards be said to match—so far as her eye for color could discover.
Still, she was satisfied, for she had covered the whole affair with a
coat of burlap, and over this she had put a coat of paint—dark green,
with splashes of gold in it—and when it was done she sat down and
thought it all out.
“They thought it was matched lumber,” she said. “I have made it match.”
That, in effect, was the attitude which Lillian Hastings, she of the
artistic temperament, held toward life.
This point of view had been questioned by Jean, but Helen understood it.
“It’s this way,” said she, as they discussed it for the thousandth time.
“Very often Lillian’s lumber doesn’t match, but she covers it up with a
bit of decorative drapery and is perfectly satisfied.”
“Yes,” said Lillian, “but the decoration, if it is of my own choosing,
pleases me so much that I forget the unmatchedness of the lumber.”
“Just in the same way, I suppose,” said Jean, “that you have forgotten
the ugliness of that picture which you have so cleverly covered with
that square of Turkish embroidery.”
“Exactly that. As it is, I forget that the ugliness is behind, and see
only the beautiful. To me the ugliness is not there.”
“No,” said Helen, “I know it. Now to me the ugliness is not only there,
but is all the more visible to me from the fact that I try to cover it
up.”
“That’s foolishness,” said Jean. “There’s no sense in seeing ugly things
because they’re covered up; but then, there’s no sense in having them
there, anyway. If a thing is ugly, why not take it away, or else go
somewhere else yourself?”
Lillian went about the work of the studio thoughtfully. “There are some
uglinesses,” she said, presently, “that one cannot get away from. If
they are there, and are put there by those who put things there for us
in the beginning—then why not either accept them or get away from them,
or—cover them up? The system is complicated. Not all can be escaped.
Not all can be accepted—but all of them can be covered up to a greater
or less degree, and the mere fact that we are conscious of them
ourselves need not make them visible to those who happen to come under
the influence of the beautiful things with which we cover the
uglinesses—Bah! the very idea of exploiting all our guilty consciences
and all our ugly little ideas before everybody that may come along! It
is disgusting. We know they are there. We know the spots on the
wall-paper, and we know that there is a worn place in the carpet, and
these mean either carelessness or something else. Whatever they mean, we
back a chair up against the spot on the wall and we put a rug over the
carpet’s shortcomings—just exactly as we put figurative chairs and rugs
over the spots on our consciences. We know they are there—but the other
people do not, maybe, and if they don’t, then they are not offended by
the sight. They haven’t got to fight the thing out. If we have—then we
can do it after they have gone away. We will have to do it alone,
anyway.”
“I am more glad than ever that I haven’t the artistic temperament,” said
Jean, “if you have to reason things out as deeply as that. I don’t see
the use of paying any attention to ugly things. It’s all I can do to
find time enough for all the beautiful things there are in the world.”
“Much you know about the world!” flung in Lillian.
“Mr. Brewster says,” remarked Helen, “that nothing is ugly, _per se_.”
“I always did wonder what _per se_ meant,” said Jean; “but it seems to
me, Helen, that Mr. Brewster’s opinions mean an awful lot to you of
late.”
“That’s because his opinions are valuable _per se_.”
“Now you see, Jean,” said Lillian, “what _per se_ means. It means to
Helen.”
“Well, if he expresses his opinions to me more than he does to you
girls, it’s because I listen with some serious attention, and you—well,
you never seem to be around when he’s talking.”
“There’s gratitude for you!” exclaimed Jean. “After we have purposely
kept out of your way and tried our best to give you opportunities for
hearing opinions—”
“And for serious attentions,” broke in Lillian.
“You needn’t have troubled yourselves,” said Helen, “for your kind
efforts were not even noticed, let alone appreciated.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Jean; “speak for Mr. Brewster too, if you
like; but I can tell you that Miss Esther understood and appreciated our
delicate little unattentions.”
Helen looked at Jean—blankly at first, and then with a slow-dawning
realization of her meaning. “Am I to understand,” she said, “that you
think Miss Esther thinks that I am trying to attract Mr. Brewster’s
attentions?”
“Not so much that,” remarked Lillian, “but that Miss Esther is trying to
attract them for you.”
“Indeed,” said Helen; “do you imagine for a minute that I—”
“Oh, Helen,” interrupted Jean, “take off that haughty Princess air. Have
you ever seen anywhere one who fitted the rôle of Prince for your castle
better than this same man whose opinions you have been quoting?”
“Oh, if you are going to be serious about the matter,” said Helen, “I am
quite willing to admit that Mr. Brewster comes nearer to my ideal than
any other man I have ever met.”
“He ought to appreciate that compliment,” said Lillian; “that is, if he
knows what your ideals are.”
“He does know,” said Helen, slowly. “I have told him.”
“Wasn’t he scared, then?” asked Jean.
“Of course he was,” replied Helen. “He was so scared that he ran away
and I haven’t seen him since.”
“You can see him right away, if you like,” cried Jean, who was sitting
on the broad window-seat. “Mr. Brewster!” she called loudly.
The automobile stopped. Brewster got out and came toward the house,
smiling up at Jean.
The machine, with Miss Esther and Lincoln Dodd as the only occupants,
went puffing on along the country road.
“I am glad of this opportunity to talk to you alone, Lincoln,” began
Miss Esther.
“Well, you said you wanted to talk to me about something; that’s why I
brought you out this afternoon. I thought we’d manage to drop Brewster
somewhere.”
“Do you know, I was perfectly astounded when you told me the other day
that you were not in love with Lillian Hastings!”
“I told you only the truth. I was not, I am not, and I am positive that
I shall not be. But I have no reason to think that if I were, it would
particularly please Miss Hastings.”
“That does not make any difference,” said Miss Esther, impatiently. “It
would please me.”
“You know, Miss Esther,” said Lincoln, “I would do anything in the world
to please you, and if you are sure that Miss Hastings—”
“Oh, will you, really? I do want you to fall in love with Lillian, and I
want you to be married by the middle of August and then take her abroad
to study art.”
“Well, that is certainly a delightful programme you have mapped out for
us.”
“I’m so glad you think so. I knew that when you came to understand them
fully, you would agree to my plans.”
“Have you many plans of this sort?”
“Three,” said Miss Esther, very seriously. “But the other two are all
right. It was only you that I was worried about. I am very much obliged
to you.”
“Look here, Miss Esther, what in the world are you talking about? You
surely are not in earnest?”
“I believe I’ll tell you all about it.”
“If I’m to be married in August, I think it’s about time that I knew
something definite.”
With an enthusiasm born of her deep interest in the cause, supplemented
by her success with Lincoln Dodd, Miss Esther detailed to him the plans
of her Matrimonial Bureau. She told him of the inception of the plan,
and how happy Tekla was in her Nebraska home. She told him, too, of the
dearth of suitable material for her protégées in Whitfield, and she told
it all with a quaintness of argument that carried conviction. She
enumerated instances which proved conclusively that Lieutenant Adams was
interested in Jean; she confessed that the affair between Helen and
Brewster was not progressing quite as rapidly as she desired, but looked
forward with a cheerful confidence to what she hoped was inevitable.
“And now,” she said, “that I feel assured of your regard for Lillian, I
cannot help flattering myself that perhaps my seemingly unusual methods
have not been employed altogether in vain.”
“But, my dear Miss Esther,” cried Dodd, “now that I grasp your meaning
as one having inside information, let me hasten to tell you that
although I must refuse to be a candidate, even for the hand of any one
of your charming protégées, I shall be more than glad to remain upon the
executive committee, and I promise to help you in every way that I
possibly can.”
Miss Esther was of a buoyant nature; she was persevering, even
persistent, and it took a pretty hard blow to daunt her, and now the
blow had fallen. A week before Lincoln Dodd had discouraged her. He had
refused to fall in with her plans. But to-day she had thought he was
more tractable, even to the point of acquiescence; and to have her hopes
ruthlessly crushed to earth, even though sure they would rise again,
made her feel for the moment absolutely discouraged. “I don’t see,” she
said, “how you can help me in any other way.”
“Oh, there are lots of other ways, my dear Miss Esther. For one thing, I
might provide a substitute. I know a man who I am sure would admire your
Lillian Hastings. He is a most kind and estimable gentleman, admirably
fitted for the rôle of loving fairy godfather. He is intensely
interested in art and would enjoy nothing better than a honeymoon trip
to Europe on the fifteenth of August. Is that a sailing-day? I never can
be sure of what day a steamer sails.”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Miss Esther; “who is the man?”
“He is my father,” said Dodd.