LYDIA'S NEW MOTTO
Lydia's two or three big receptions, of which her mother had spoken with
so casual a confidence, came off, while not exactly with nonchalant
ease, still, on the whole, creditably. It is true that Dr. Melton had
stormed at Lydia one sunny day in spring, finding her bent over her
desk, addressing invitations.
"It's April, child!" he cried, "April! The crocuses are out and the
violets are almost here--and, what is more important, your day of trial
gets closer with every tick of the clock. Come outdoors and take a walk
with me."
"Oh, I can't!" Lydia was aghast at the idea, looking at a mountain of
envelopes before her.
"Here! I'll help you finish those, and then we'll--"
"No, no, _no_!" In Lydia's negation was a touch of the irritation that
was often during these days in her attitude toward her godfather. "I
can't! Please don't tease me to! The curtains to the spare room have to
be put up, and the bed draperies somehow fixed. A stray dog got in there
when he was wet and muddy and went to sleep on my best lace bedspread."
Dr. Melton had not practiced for years among Endbury ladies without
having some knowledge of them and a corresponding readiness of mind in
meeting the difficulties they declared insurmountable. "I'll buy you a
white marseilles bedspread on our way back from the walk," he offered
gravely.
"Oh, I've got plenty of plain white ones," she admitted incautiously,
"but they don't go with the scheme of the room--and the first
reception's only two days off."
Dr. Melton fixed her with an ironical and melancholy smile: "Now,
Lydia, I did think you had it in you to realize that your health and the
strength of your child are worth more than--"
Lydia sprang up and confronted him with an apparent anger of face and
accent that was contradicted by her trembling chin and suffused eyes.
"Oh, go away!" she commanded him, shaking her head and motioning him
off. "Don't talk so to me! I can't help it--what I do! Everything's a
part of the whole system, and I'm in that up to my neck--you know I am.
If that's right, why, everything's all right, just the way everybody
thinks it is. And if it's wrong--" She caught her breath, and turned
back to her desk. "If it's wrong, what good would be done by little
dribbling compromises of an occasional walk." She sat down wearily, and
leaned her head on her hand. "I just wish you wouldn't keep me so
stirred up--when I'm trying so _hard_ to settle down!"
Dr. Melton seemed to divine perfectly the significance of this
incoherent outbreak. He thrust out his lips in his old grimace that
denoted emotion, and observed the speaker in a frowning silence. When
she finished, he nodded: "You are right, Lydia, I do no good." He
twirled his hat about between his fingers, looking absently into the
crown, and added, "But you must forgive me, I love you very dearly."
Lydia ran over to him, conscience-stricken. He took her embrace and
remorseful kiss quietly. "Don't be sorry, Lydia dear. You have just
shown me, as in a flash of lightning, how much more powerful a grasp on
reality you have than I."
Lydia recoiled from him with an outcry of exasperation. "I! Why, I'm
almost an idiot! I haven't a grasp on anything! I can't see an inch
before my nose. I'm in a perfect nightmare of perplexity all the time
because I can't make out what I'm driving at--or ought to--"
She went on more quietly, with a reasoning air: "Only look here,
Godfather, it came over me the other night, when I couldn't sleep, that
perhaps what's the trouble with me is that I'm _lazy_! I believe that's
it! I don't want to work the way Marietta does, and Mother does, and
even Madeleine does over her dresses and parties and things. It must be
I'm a shirk, and expect to have an easier time than most people. That
_must_ be it. What else can it be?"
The doctor made no protest against this theory, taking himself off in a
silence most unusual with him. Lydia did not notice this; nor did she in
the next two or three months remark that her godfather took quite
literally and obeyed scrupulously her exhortation to leave her in peace.
She was in the grasp of this new idea. It seemed to her that in phrasing
it she had hit upon the explanation of her situation which she had been
so long seeking, and it was with a resolve to scourge this weakness out
of her life that she now faced the future.
She found a satisfaction in the sweeping manner in which this new maxim
could be applied to all the hesitations that had confused her. All her
meditations heretofore had brought her nothing but uncertainty, but this
new catchword of incessant activity drove her forward too resistlessly
to allow any reflections as to whether she were going in the right
direction. She yielded herself absolutely to that ideal of conduct which
had been urged upon her all her life, and she found, as so many others
find, oblivion to the problems of the spirit in this resolute refusal to
recognize the spirit. It was perhaps during these next months of her
life that she most nearly approximated the Endbury notion of what she
should be.
She had yielded to Paul on the subject of the cook not only because of
her timid distrust of her own inexperienced judgment but because of her
intense reaction from the usual Endbury motto of "Husbands, hands off!"
She had wanted Paul to be interested in the details of the house as she
hoped to know and be interested in what concerned him, and when he
showed his interest in a request she could not refuse it. She hoped that
she had made a good beginning for the habit of taking counsel with each
other on all matters. But she thought and hoped and reflected very
little during these days. She was enormously, incredibly busy, and on
the whole, she hoped, successfully so. The receptions, at least, went
off very well, everybody said.
Dr. Melton did not see his goddaughter again until he came with Mrs.
Sandworth to the last of these events. She was looking singularly
handsome at that time, her color high, her eyes very large and dark,
almost black, so dilated were the pupils. With the nicety of observation
of a man who has lived much among women, the doctor noticed that her
costume, while effective, was not adjusted with the exquisite feeling
for finish that always pervaded the toilets of her mother and sister.
Lydia was trying with all her might to make herself over, but with the
best will in the world she could not attain the prayerful concentration
on the process of attiring herself, characteristic of the other women of
her family.
"She forgot to put the barrette in her back hair," murmured Mrs.
Sandworth mournfully, as she and her brother emerged from the hand-shake
of the last of the ladies assisting in receiving, "and there are two
hooks of her cuff unfastened, and her collar's crooked. But I don't dare
breathe a word to her about it. Since that time before her marriage when
she--"
"Yes, yes, yes," her brother cut her short; "don't bring up that tragic
episode again. I'd succeeded in forgetting it."
"You can call it tragic if you like," commented Mrs. Sandworth, looking
about for an escape from the stranded isolation of guests who have just
been passed along from the receiving line; "but what it was all about
was more than I ever could--" Her eyes fell again on Lydia, and she lost
herself in a sweet passion of admiration and pride. "Oh, isn't she the
loveliest thing that ever drew the breath of life! Was there ever
anybody else that could look so as though--as though they still had dew
on them!"
She went on, with her bold inconsequence: "There is a queer streak in
her. Sometimes I think she doesn't care--" She stopped to gaze at a
striking costume just entering the room.
"What doesn't she care about?" asked the doctor.
Mrs. Sandworth was concentrating on sartorial details as much of her
mind as was ever under control at one time, and, called upon for a
development of her theory, was even more vague than usual. "Oh, I don't
know--about what everybody cares about."
"She's likely to learn, if it's at all catching," conjectured the doctor
grimly, looking around the large, handsome room. An impalpable effluvium
was in the air, composed of the scent of flowers, the odor of delicate
food, the sounds of a discreetly small orchestra behind palms in the
hallway, the rustling of silks, and the pleasurable excitement of the
crowd of prosperous-looking women, pleasantly elated by the opportunity
for exhibiting their best toilets.
"To think of its being our little Lydia who's the center of all this!"
murmured Mrs. Sandworth, her loving eyes glistening with affectionate
pride. "It really is a splendid scene, isn't it, Marius?"
"If they were all gagged, it might be. Lord! how they yell!"
"Oh, at a _reception_!" Mrs. Sandworth's accent denoted that the word
was an explanation. "People have to, to make themselves heard."
"And why should they be so eager to accomplish that?" inquired the
doctor. "Listen!"
Standing as they were, tightly pressed in between a number of different
groups, their ears were assaulted by a disjointed mass of stentorian
conversation that gave a singular illusion as if it all came from one
inconceivably voluble source, the individuality of the voices being lost
in the screaming enunciation which, as Mrs. Sandworth had pointed out,
was a prerequisite of self-expression under the circumstances.
They heard: "--_For over a month and the sleeves were too see you again
at Mrs. Elliott's I'm pouring there from four I've got to dismiss one
with little plum-colored bows all along five dollars a week and the
washing out, and still impossible! I was there myself all the time and
they neither of thirty-five cents a pound for the most ordinary ferns
and red carnations was all they had, and we thought it rather skimpy
under the brought up in one big braid and caught down with at the
Peterson's they were pink and white with_--"
"_Oh, no, Madeleine! that was at the Burlingame's_." Mrs. Sandworth took
a running jump into the din and sank from her brother's sight,
vociferating: "_The Petersons had them of old-gold, don't you remember,
with little_--"
The doctor, worming his way desperately through the masses of
femininity, and resisting all attempts to engage him in the vocal fray,
emerged at length into the darkened hall where the air was, as he told
himself in a frenzied flight of the imagination, less like a combination
of a menagerie and a perfume shop. Here, in a quiet corner, sat Lydia's
father, alone. He held in one hand a large platter piled high with
wafer-like sandwiches, which he was consuming at a Gargantuan rate, and
as he ate he smiled to himself.
"Well, Mr. Ogre," said the doctor, sitting down beside him with a gasp
of relief; "let a wave-worn mariner into your den, will you?"
Provided with an auditor, Judge Emery's smile broke into an open laugh.
He waved the platter toward the uproar in the next rooms: "A boiler
factory ain't in it with woman, lovely woman, is it?" he put it to his
old friend.
"Gracious powers! There's nothing to laugh at in that exhibition!" the
doctor reproved him, with an acrimonious savagery. "I don't know which
makes me sicker; to stay in there and listen to them, or come out here
and find you thinking they're _funny_!"
"They _are_ funny!" insisted the Judge tranquilly. "I stood by the door
and listened to the scraps of talk I could catch, till I thought I
should have a fit. I never heard anything funnier on the stage."
"Look-y here, Nat," the doctor stared up at him angrily, "they're not
monkeys in a zoo, to be looked at only on holidays and then laughed at!
They're the other half of a whole that we're half of, and don't you
forget it! Why in the world should you think it funny for them to do
this tomfool trick all winter and have nervous prostration all summer to
pay for it? You'd lock up a _man_ as a dangerous lunatic if he spent his
life so. What they're like, and what they do with their time and
strength concerns us enough sight more than what the tariff is, let me
tell you!"
"I admit that what your wife is like concerns you a whole lot!" The
Judge laughed good-naturedly in the face of the little old bachelor.
"Don't commence jumping on the American woman now! I won't stand it!
She's the noblest of her sex!"
"Do you know why I am bald?" said Dr. Melton, rubbing his hand over his
shining dome.
"If I did, I wouldn't admit it," the Judge put up a cautious guard,
"because I foresee that whatever I say will be used as evidence against
me."
"I've torn out all my hair in desperation at hearing such men as you
claim to admire and respect and wish to advance the American woman. You
don't give enough thought to her--real thought--from one year's end to
another to know whether you think she has an immortal soul or not!"
"Oh, you can't get anywhere, trying to reason about those sort of
things. You have to take souls for granted. Besides, I give her as fair
a deal in that respect as I give myself," protested Lydia's father
reasonably, smiling and eating.
"There's something in _that_, now!" cried his interlocutor, with an odd
Celtic lilt which sometimes invaded his speech; "but she _has_ an
immortal soul, and I'm by no means sure that yours is still inside you."
The Judge stood up, brushed the crumbs of his stolen feast from his
well-fitting broadcloth, and smiled down indulgently at the unquiet
little doctor. "She's all right, Melton, the American woman, and you're
an unconscionably tiresome old fanatic. That's what _you_ are! Come
along and have a glass of punch with me. Lydia's cook has a genius for
punch--and for sandwiches!" he added reflectively, setting down the
empty platter.
Dr. Melton apparently was off on another tangent of excitability. "Did
you ever see her?" he demanded with a fiercely significant accent.
The Judge made a humorous wry mouth. "Yes, I have; but what concern is a
cook's moral character to her employer any more than an engineer's to
the railroad--"
"Well, it mightn't hurt the railroad any if it took more cognizance of
its engineers' morals--" began the doctor dryly.
The Judge cut him short with a great laugh. "Oh, Melton! Melton! You
bilious sophomore! Take a vacation from finding everything so damn
tragic. Take a drink on me. You're all right! Everybody's all right!"
The doctor nodded. "And the reception is the success of the season," he
said.