"Bill or coo, you mean," said her niece with a playful clutch at her
chaperon's lap-full of missives. "If that isn't a man's letter, I'll eat
my cap, ribbons and all--and that one, and that one."
Mrs. Mellows rose hastily, gathered her flowing negligee about her and
beat a retreat.
She turned at the door, "You're a rude little girl, and I shan't count
on you to go to Bendel's. If you want me, I'll be here from half past
two to four, when I go for bridge." With the air of a Christian martyr
she betook herself to the seclusion of her own rooms.
Dorothy suffered herself to be dressed as she opened her mail. Aunt
Lydia had diagnosed it with almost psychic exactness, and its mystery
had ceased to be interesting. Last of all she opened a plain envelope
with typewritten directions. The enclosure, also typewritten, gave a
first impression of an announcement of a special sale, or request for
assistance from some charitable organization. Idly she glanced at it,
flipped it over, and found it to be unsigned. A word or two caught her
attention. She turned back, and read:
Miss DOROTHY MARTEEN:
"That the sins of the parents should be visited upon
the children is, perhaps, hard. But we feel it time for
you to understand thoroughly your situation, in order
that you may determine what your future is to be. You
have been reared all your life on stolen, or what is worse,
extorted money. We hope you have not inherited the
callous nature of your mother, and that this information
will not leave you unashamed. Not a gown you have
worn, nor a possession you have enjoyed, but has been
yours through theft. That you may verify this statement,
open the steel safe, back of the second panel of the
library wall to the left of the fireplace. The combination
is, 2.2.9.6.0. A button on the inner edge on the
right releases a spring, opening a second compartment,
where the material of your future luxuries is stored. A
look will be sufficient. I hardly think you will then
care to occupy the position in the lime light to which
you have been brought by such means. Obscurity is
better--perhaps,
even exile. Talk it over with your
mother. We think she will agree with us.
The words danced before Dorothy's eyes, a sudden stopping of the heart,
a hot flush, a painful dizziness that was at once physical and mental,
made her clutch at the table for support. She dropped the letter, and
stood staring at it, fascinated, as in a nightmare.
An anonymous letter, a cruel, hateful, wicked atrocity! Why should she
receive such a thing? she, who never in her whole life, had wished
anyone ill. It couldn't be so. She had misread, misunderstood. She
picked up the message and looked at it again. It was surely intended for
her, there could be no mistake. Then fear came upon her. The abrupt
entrance of the maid, carrying her hat and veil, gave her a spasm of
panic. No one must see, no one must know. The wretched sender of this
hideous libel must believe it ignored--never received. She thrust the
paper hastily into the bosom of her dress. Its very contact seemed to
burn.
"That will do," she said. "I'm not going out just yet. I--I have some
notes to write; don't bother me now."
Her voice sounded strange. She glanced quickly at the maid, fearing to
surprise a look of suspicion. It seemed impossible that that cracked
voice of hers would pass unnoticed. But the maid bowed, carefully placed
a pair of white gloves by the hat and jacket, and went out as if nothing
had happened.
Dorothy, left alone, stood still for a moment as if robbed of all
volition. Then, with a suppressed cry, she dragged out the accusing
document and carried it to the light. Who could do such a thing! Who
would be such a lying coward! Her helplessness made her rage. Oh, to be
able to confront this traducer, this libeler. To see him punished, to
tell him to his face what she thought of him I Somewhere he was in the
world, laughing to himself in the safety of his namelessness--knowing
her futile anger and indignation--satisfied to have shamed and insulted
her--and her mother--her great, resourceful, splendid mother, away and
ill when this dastardly attack was made. Impulsively she turned to run
to her aunt, and lay the matter before her, but paused and sat down on
the little chair before her writing desk. Covering her eyes with her
clenched hands she tried to think. Tante Lydia was worse than useless,
scatterbrained, self-centered, incapable. What would she do? Lament and
call all her friends in conclave; send in the police; acknowledge her
fright, and give this nameless writer the satisfaction of knowing that
his shaft had found its mark?
Teddy! Teddy would come to her at once. But what could he do? Sympathy
was not what she wanted; it was support and guidance. With a trembling
hand she smoothed the paper before her and, controlling herself, reread
every word with minutest care. But this third perusal left her more at
sea than before. What did this enmity mean? What could have incited it?
Why did this wretch give her such minute instructions? She knew of no
safe in the library--could it be just possible that such a thing _did_
exist? Could it be possible that this liar had obtained knowledge of her
mother's private affairs to such an extent that he knew of facts that
had remained unknown even to her?--the daughter! A new cause for fear
loomed before her. Had this venomous enemy access to the house? Was he
able to come and go at will, ferreting out its secrets?
Dorothy turned about quickly, almost expecting to see some sinister
shadow leering at her from the doorway, or disappearing into the
wardrobe. Her terror had something in it of childish nightmare. Acting
as if under a spell of compulsion, she rose and tiptoed to the door. She
looked down the hall, and found it empty. The querulous voice of Mrs.
Mellows came to her, raised in complaint against hooked-behind dresses.
Like a lovely little ghost she flitted down the corridor to the library,
paused for an instant with a beating heart, and, entering, closed the
door with infinite precautions and shot the bolt.
She was panting as if from some painful exertion. Her hands were damp
and chill, her temples throbbed. The room seemed strange, close
shuttered and silent, as if it sheltered the silent, unresponsive dead.
The air was oppressive, and the light that filtered through the dim
blinds was vague and uncanny.
It was some moments before she felt herself under sufficient control to
cross by the big Jacobean table, and face the hooded fireplace--"to the
left, the second panel." She stared at it. To all appearances it was
reassuringly the same as all the others. Gently she pushed it right and
left, then up and down, but her pressure was so slight and nervous that
it did not stir the heavy wood. She breathed a great sigh of relief, and
beginning now to believe herself the victim of some cruel hoax, she
dared a firmer pressure. The panel responded--moved--slid slowly behind
its fellow--revealing the steel muzzle of a safe let into the solid
masonry. It seemed the result of some evil witchcraft; her blood
chilled. Yet, with renewed eagerness, she turned the combination. She
did not need to refer to the letter, she knew it by heart--the numbers
were seared there. The heavy door swung outward. Within she saw
well-remembered cases of velvet and morocco. This contained her mother's
diamond collar; that her lavallière; the emerald pendant was in the box
of ivory velvet; the earrings and the antique diamond rings in the
little round-topped casket, embossed and inlaid. Sliding her finger
along the inner frame of the safe, she felt a knob, and pressed it. One
side of the receptacle clicked open, revealing an inner compartment.
Then panic seized her. She could never recall shutting the safe door and
replacing the panel, the movements were automatic. She was out of the
library and running down the corridor before she realized it. Once more
in the sanctuary of her own room, she threw herself upon the bed, buried
her face in the tumbled pillow and gasped for breath.
"What shall I do!--what shall I do!" she moaned aloud. "I'm afraid--Oh,
I'm afraid!" like a little child crying in the night in the awful
isolation of an empty house. Suddenly she sat up. The tears dried upon
her curved lashes. Of course, of course--Mr. Gard, her friend, her
mother's friend. The very thought of him steadied her. The terrified
child of her untried self, vanished before the coming of a new and
active womanhood. She thought quickly and clearly. "He would be at his
office," she reasoned. "He had mentioned an important meeting. She would
go there at once--cancelling her luncheon engagement on the ground of
some simple ailment. Tante Lydia must not know. Once let Gard, with his
master grip, control the situation, and she would feel safe as in a
walled castle strongly defended. A tower of strength--a tower of
strength." She repeated the words to herself as if they were a talisman.
She felt as if, from afar, her mother had counseled her. She would go to
him. It was the right thing, the only thing to do.
* * * * *