It was Thursday morning, three days after her husband’s departure, and
Suzanne was sitting in the window seat of her room looking across the
green distances to where the roof of Dick Ferguson’s place, Council
Oaks, rose above the tree tops. Council Oaks adjoined Grasslands, there
was a short cut which connected them—a path through the woods. Before
Mrs. Janney bought Grasslands the path had become moss-grown, almost
obliterated. Then when she took possession the two households wore it
bare again. The servants found it shortened the walk from kitchen to
kitchen; Mr. Janney often footed its green windings; Dick Ferguson’s
father had been one of his cronies, and Dick Ferguson himself was the
most constant traveler of them all.
Council Oaks was a very old place; it had been in the Ferguson family
since the days when the British governors rolled over Long Island in
their lumbering coaches. Before that the Indians had used it for a
council ground, their tepees pitched under the shade of the four giant
oaks from which it took its name. The Fergusons had kept the farm house,
built after the Revolution, adding wings to it, till it now extended in
a long, sprawl of white buildings, with the original worn stone as a
step to its knockered front door, and the low, raftered ceilings, plank
floors, and deep-mouthed fireplaces of its early occupation.
There Dick Ferguson lived all summer, going to town at intervals to
attend to the business of the Ferguson estate, for, like the young man
in the Bible, he had great possessions. The dead and gone Fergusons had
been canny and thrifty, bought land far beyond the city limits and sat
in their offices and waited until the town grew round it. It was known
among the present owner’s intimates that he disapproved of this method
of enrichment, and that his extensive charities and endowments were an
attempt to pay back what he felt he owed. He was very silent about them,
only a few knew of the many secret channels through which the Ferguson
millions were being diverted to the relief of the people.
But none of this seriousness showed on the outside. If you didn’t know
him well Dick Ferguson was the last person you would suspect of a sense
of responsibility or a view of life that was anything but easy-going and
light-hearted. People described him as a nice chap, not a bit spoiled by
his money, just a big, jolly boy, simple and unaffected. He looked the
part with his long, lank figure, leggy as a young colt, his shock of
light brown hair that never would lie flat, his freckled, irregular face
with gray eyes that had an engaging way of closing when he laughed. He
did this a good deal and it may have been one of the reasons why so many
people liked him. And he also had a capacity for listening to
long-winded tales of trouble, which may have been another. He was
twenty-nine years old and still unmarried, and that was his own fault as
any one would tell you.
When Sam Janney married the Pittsburg widow Dick Ferguson became a
friend of the family. He fitted in very well, for he was sympathetic and
understanding and the Janneys had troubles to tell. He heard all about
Chapman’s shortcomings; a little from old Sam who was not expansive,
more from Mrs. Janney, and most from Suzanne. He was very sorry for her
and gave her good advice. "A poor little bit of bluff," he called her to
himself, and then would stroll over to Grasslands and spend an hour with
her trying to cheer her up.
He spent a good many hours this way and the time came when Suzanne began
to wait and watch for his coming.
Sitting now in the cushioned window seat she was wondering if he would
come that morning and she could get him off in the garden and tell him
that Chapman was gone. She saw herself saying it with lowered eyes and
delicately demure phrases. She would frankly admit she was glad it was
over, glad she would be free once more, for in the autumn she would go
to Reno and begin proceedings for a divorce.
At this thought she subsided against the cushions, and closed her eyes
smiling softly. Seen thus, the bright sunlight tempered by filmy
curtains, she was a pretty woman, looking very girlish for her
twenty-eight years. This was partly due to her extreme slenderness and
partly to her blonde coloring. Both had been preserved with sedulous
care: the one matter in which she exercised self-restraint was her food,
the one occasion on which she showed patience was when her maid was
washing her hair with a solution of peroxide.
Every window in the large, luxurious room was open and through them
drifted a flow of air, scented with the sea and the breath of flowers.
Then rising on the stillness came the sound of voices—a man’s and a
woman’s—from the balcony below. They were Mr. Janney’s and Miss
Maitland’s—the secretary was preparing to read the morning papers to her
employer.
Suzanne opened her eyes and sat up, the smile dying from her lips. The
dreamy complacence left her face and was replaced by a look of brooding
irritation. It changed her so completely that she ceased to be
pretty—suddenly showed her years, and was revealed as a woman, already
fading, preyed upon by secret vexations.
She rose adjusting her dress, a marvelous creation of thin white
material with floating edges of lace. She went to the mirror, powdered
her face and touched her lips with a stick of red salve, then studied
her reflection. It should have been satisfying, delicate, fragile, a
lovely, ethereal creature, with baby blue eyes and silky, maize-colored
hair. It was not to be believed that any man could look at Esther
Maitland when she was by—and yet—and yet—! She turned from the mirror
with an angry mutter and went downstairs.
On the balcony Miss Maitland was looking over the papers with Mr. Janney
opposite waiting to be read to. Suzanne sat down near them where she
could command the place in the woods where the path from Council Oaks
struck into the lawn. With a sidelong eye she noted the Secretary’s hand
on the edge of the paper—narrow, satin-skinned, with fingers finely
tapering and pink-tipped. _Her_ fingers were short and spatulate,
showing her common blood, and all the pink on them had to be applied
with a chamois. Miss Maitland began to read—the war news first was the
rule—and her voice was a pleasure to hear, cultivated, soft, musical.
Suzanne, for all her expensive education and subsequent efforts, had
never been able to refine hers; the ugly Pittsburg burr would crop out.
A gnawing fancy that she had been fighting against for weeks rose
suddenly into jealous conviction. This girl—a penniless nobody—had a
quality, an air, a distinction, that she with all her advantages had
never been able to acquire, _could_ never acquire. It was something
innate, something you were born with, something that made you fitted for
any sphere. Immovable, apparently absorbed in the reading, Suzanne began
to think how she could induce her mother to dispense with the services
of the Social Secretary.
When the war news was finished Miss Maitland passed on to the news of
the day. On this particular morning it was varied and interesting: A
Western senator had attacked the President’s policy with unseemly vigor;
the mysterious murder of a woman in Chicago had developed a new suspect;
a California mob had nearly killed a Japanese student; and in the New
York loft district a strike of shirtwaist makers had attained the
proportions of a riot in which one of the pickets had stabbed a
policeman with a hatpin.
Mr. Janney was shocked at these horrors, but he always liked to hear
them. Miss Maitland had to stop reading and listen to a theory he had
evolved about the Chicago murder—it was the woman’s husband and he
demonstrated how this was possible. Then he took up the shirtwaist
strike with a fussy disapproval—they got nothing by violence, only set
the public against them and their cause. Miss Maitland was inclined to
argue about it; thought there was something to say for their methods and
said it.
Suzanne listened uncomprehending, unable to join in or to follow. She
had heard such arguments before and had to sit silent, feeling a fool.
The girl didn’t know her place, talked as if she were their equal,
talked to Dick that way, and Dick had been interested, giving her an
attention he never gave Suzanne. Mr. Janney was doing it now, leaning
out of his chair, voicing his hope that a speedy vengeance would
overtake the picket who had made her escape in the mêlée.
The conversation was brought to an end by the appearance of Mrs. Janney.
It was time for the mail; Otto had gone for it an hour ago. Before its
arrival Mrs. Janney wanted their answers about two dinner invitations
which had just come by telephone. One was for herself and Sam—Sunday
night at the Delavalles—and the other was from Dick Ferguson for
to-night—all of them, very informally—just himself and Ham Lorimer who
was staying there.
Mr. Janney agreed to both and in answer to her mother’s glance Suzanne
said languidly, "Yes, she’d go to-night—there was nothing else to do."
"And he wants you too, Miss Maitland," said Mrs. Janney, turning to the
Secretary. "You’ll come, won’t you?"
Miss Maitland said she would and that it was very kind of Mr. Ferguson
to ask her. Mr. and Mrs. Janney exchanged a gratified glance; they were
much attached to the Secretary and felt that their lordly circle ignored
her existence more than was necessary or kindly. Suzanne said nothing,
but the edges of her small upper teeth set close on her under lip, and
her nostrils quivered with a deep-drawn breath.
Mrs. Janney gave orders for messages of acceptance to be sent, then sank
into a chair, remarking to her husband:
"I’m glad you’ll go to the Delavalles. It’s to be a large dinner. I’ll
wear my emeralds."
To which Mr. Janney murmured:
"By all means, my dear. The Delavalles will like to see them."
Mrs. Janney’s emeralds were famous; they had once belonged to Maria
Theresa. As old Sam thought of them he smiled, for he knew why his wife
had decided to wear them. In her climbing days, before her marriage to
him had secured her position, the Delavalles had snubbed her. Now she
was going to snub them, not in any obvious, vulgar way, but finely as
was her wont, with the assistance of himself and Maria Theresa.
The motor came into view gliding up the long drive and the waiting group
roused into expectant animation. Mr. Janney rose, kicking his trouser
legs into shape, Miss Maitland gathered up the papers, and Mrs. Janney
went to the top of the steps. In the tonneau, her body encircled by
Annie’s restraining arm, Bébita stood, waving an electric torch and
caroling joyfully:
"It’s come—it’s come. It was sent to me, in a box, with my name on it."
She leaped out, rushing up the steps to display her treasure, Annie
following with the mail. There was quite a bunch of it which Mrs. Janney
distributed—several for Sam, a pile for herself, one for Suzanne and one
for Miss Maitland. They settled down to it amid a crackling of torn
envelopes, Bébita darting from one to the other.
She tried her mother first:
"Mummy, look. You just press this and the light comes out at the other
end."
Suzanne’s eyes on her letter did not lift, and Bébita laid a soft little
hand on the tinted cheek:
"Mummy, do _please_ look."
Suzanne pushed the hand away with an angry movement.
"Let me alone, Bébita," she said sharply and, getting up, thrust the
child out of her way and went into the house.
For a moment Bébita was astonished. Her mother, who was so often cross
to other people, was rarely so to her. But the torch was too enthralling
for any other subject to occupy her thoughts and she turned to her
grandfather, reading a business communication held out in front of his
nose for he had on the wrong glasses. She crowded in under his arm and
sparked the torch at him waiting to see his delighted surprise. But he
only drew her close, kissed her cheek and murmured without moving his
eyes:
"Yes, darling. It’s wonderful."
That was not what she wanted so she tried her grandmother:
"Gran, _do_ look at my torch."
Gran looked, not at the torch at all but at Bébita’s face, smiled into
it, said, "Dearest, it’s lovely and I’m so glad it’s come," and went
back to her reading.
It was all disappointing, and Bébita, as a last resource, had to try
Miss Maitland, who, if not a relation, was always sympathetic and
responsive. The Secretary was reading too, holding her letter up high,
almost in front of her face. Bébita laid a sly finger on the top of it,
drew it down and sparked the torch right at Miss Maitland.
In the shoot of brilliant light the Secretary’s face was like that of a
stranger—hard and thin, the mouth slightly open, the eyes staring
blankly at Bébita as if they had never seen her before. For a second the
child was dumb, held in a scared amazement, then backing away she
faltered:
"Why—why—how funny you look!"
The words seemed to bring Miss Maitland back to her usual, pleasant
aspect. She drew a deep breath, smiled and said:
"I was thinking, that was all—something I was reading here. The torch is
beautiful; you must let me try it, but not now, I have to go. I’ve read
the papers to Gramp and I’ve work to do in my study."
Any one who knew Miss Maitland well might have noticed a forced
sprightliness in her voice. But no one was listening; Suzanne had gone
and Mr. and Mrs. Janney were engrossed in their correspondence. She
stole a look at them, saw them unheeding and, with a farewell nod to
Bébita, rose and crossed the balcony. As she entered the house, the will
that had made her smile, maintained her voice at its clear, fresh note,
relaxed. Her face sharpened, its soft curves grew rigid, her lips closed
in a narrow line. With noiseless steps she ran through the wide foyer
hall and down a passage that led to the room, reserved for her use and
called her study. Here, locking the door, she came to a stand, her hands
clasped against her breast, her eyes fixed and tragic, a figure of
consternation.