Suzanne, her letter crumpled in her hand, had gone directly to her own
room. There she read it for the second time, its baleful import sinking
deeper into her consciousness with every sentence. It was in typewriting
and bore the Berkeley postmark:
"_Dear Mrs. Price_:
"This is just a line to give your memory and your conscience a
jog. Your bridge debts are accumulating. Also, I hear, there are
dressmakers and milliners in town who are growing restive. If
there was insufficient means I wouldn’t bother you, but any one
who dresses and spends as you do hasn’t that excuse. Perhaps you
don’t know what is being said and _felt_. Believe me you
wouldn’t like it; neither would Mrs. Janney. It is for her sake
that I am warning you. I don’t want to see her hurt and
humiliated as she would be if this comes out in _The
Eavesdropper_, and it will unless you act quickly. ’There’s a
chiel among you takin’ notes’ and that chiel’s had a line on you
for some time. So take these words to heart and as the boys say,
’Come across.’
"_A Friend._"
Ever since the opening of the season the summer colony of which Berkeley
was the hub had been the subject of paragraphs—more or less
scandalous—appearing in _The Eavesdropper_. The paper, a scurrilous
weekly, had evidently some inside informer, for most of the disclosures
were true and could only have been obtained by a member of the
community. Suzanne, whose debts would make racy reading, had quaked
every time she opened it. So far she had been spared, and she had hoped
to escape by a gradual clearing off of her obligations. But she had not
been able to do it—unforeseen things had happened. And now the dreaded
had come to pass—she would be written up in _The Eavesdropper_.
Though her allowance had been princely she had kept on going over it
ever since her marriage and her mother had kept on covering the deficit.
But last autumn Mrs. Janney had lost both patience and temper and put
her foot down with a final stamp. Then the winter had come, a feverish,
crowded winter of endless parties and endless card playing, and Suzanne
had somehow gone over it again, gone over—she didn’t dare to think of
what she owed. Tradespeople had threatened her, she was afraid to go to
her mother, she told lies and made promises, and at that juncture a
woman friend acquainted her with the mystery of stocks—easy money to be
made in speculation. She had tried that and made a good deal—almost
cleared her score—and then in April all her stocks suddenly went down.
Inquiries revealed the fact that stocks did not always stay down and
reassured she set forth on a zestful orgy of renewed bridge and summer
outfitting. But the stocks never came up, they remained down, as far
down as they could get, against the bottom.
She felt as if she was there herself as she reviewed her position.
She couldn’t let it be known. She would be ruined, called dishonest; the
yellow papers might get it—they were always writing things against the
rich. Dick Ferguson would see it, and he despised people who didn’t pay
their bills; she had heard him say so to Mr. Janney, remembered his tone
of contempt. There would be no use lying to him for she felt bitterly
certain that Mr. Janney had told him what her mother gave her. There was
nothing for it but to go to Mrs. Janney and she quailed at the thought,
for her mother, forgiving unto seventy times seven, at seventy times
eight could be resolute and relentless. But it was the one way out and
she had to take it.
When no engagements claimed her afternoons Mrs. Janney went for a drive
at four. At lunch she announced her intention of going out in the open
car and asked if any of the others wanted to come. All refused: Mr.
Janney was contemplating a ride, Suzanne would rest, Miss Maitland had
some sewing to do on her dress for that evening. Both Suzanne and Miss
Maitland were very quiet and appeared to suffer from a loss of appetite.
After the meal the Secretary went upstairs and Suzanne followed.
She waited until Mr. Janney was safely started on his ride, then,
feeling sick and wan, crossed the hall to her mother’s boudoir. Mrs.
Janney was at her desk writing letters, with Elspeth, her maid, a
gray-haired, sturdy Scotch woman, standing by the table opening packages
that had just arrived from town. Elspeth, like most of Mrs. Janney’s
servants, had been in her employ for years, entering her service in the
old Pittsburg days and being promoted to the post of personal attendant.
She knew a good deal about the household, more even than Dixon, admired
and respected her mistress and disliked Suzanne.
The young woman’s first remark was addressed to her, and, curtly
imperious, was of a kind that fed the dislike:
"Go. I want to talk to Mrs. Janney."
"That’ll do, Elspeth," said Mrs. Janney quietly. "Thank you very much.
I’ll finish the others myself." Then as the woman withdrew into the
bedroom beyond, "I wish you wouldn’t speak to Elspeth that way, Suzanne.
It’s bad taste and bad manners."
Suzanne was in no state to consider Elspeth’s feelings or her own
manners. She was so nervous that she blundered into her subject without
diplomatic preliminaries, gaining no encouragement from her mother’s
face, which, at first startled, gradually hardened into stern
indignation.
It was a hateful scene, degenerated—anyway on Suzanne’s part—into a
quarrel, a bitter arraignment of her mother as unloving and ungenerous.
For Mrs. Janney refused the money, put her foot down with a stamp that
carried conviction. She was even grimmer and more determined than her
daughter had expected, the girl’s anger and upbraidings ineffectual to
gain their purpose as spray to soften a rock. Her decision was ruthless;
Suzanne must pay her own debts, out of her own allowance. Yes, even if
she was written up in the papers. That was _her_ affair: if she did
things that were disgraceful she must bear the disgrace. The interview
ended by Suzanne rushing out of the room, a trail of loud, clamorous
sobs marking her passage to her own door.
When she had gone Mrs. Janney broke down and cried a little. She had
thought the girl improved of late, less selfish, more tender. And now
she had been so cruel; the charge of a lack in love had pierced the
mother’s heart. Mr. Janney, returned from his ride, found her there,
looking old, her eyes reddened, her voice husky. When he heard the
story, he took her hand and stroked it. His tact prevented him from
saying what he felt; what he did say was:
"That bridge money’ll have to be paid."
"It will _all_ have to be paid," Mrs. Janney sighed, "and I’ll have to
pay it as I always have. But I’m going to frighten her—let her think I
won’t—for a few days anyway. It’s all I can do and it may have some
effect."
Her husband agreed that it might but his thoughts were not hopeful.
There always had to be a crumpled rose leaf and Suzanne was theirs.
He accompanied his wife on her drive and was so understanding, so
unobtrusively soothing and sympathetic, that when they returned she was
once more her masterful, competent self. Noting a bank of storm clouds
rising from the east, she told Otto to bring the limousine when he came
for them at a quarter to eight. Inside the house she summoned Dixon and
said as the family would be out "the help"—it was part of her beneficent
policy to call her retinue by this name when speaking to any of its
members—could go out that night if they so willed. Dixon admitted that
they had already planned a general sortie on "the movies" in the
village. All but Hannah, the cook, who had "something like shooting
pains in her feet, and Delia, the second housemaid, who’d got an insect
in her eyes, Madam. But it wasn’t the hurt of it that kept her in, only
the look which she didn’t want seen."
At seven the storm drove up, black and lowering, and the rain fell in a
torrent. It was still falling when Mr. and Mrs. Janney descended the
stairs, a little in advance of the time set, for, while dressing, Mrs.
Janney had decided that her costume needed a brightening touch, which
would be suitably imparted by her opal necklace. This, being rarely
worn, was kept with the more valuable jewels in the safe of which
Elspeth did not know the combination. Of course Mrs. Janney did, and at
the foot of the stairs she turned into a passage which led from the
foyer hall into the kitchen wing. It was a short connecting artery of
the great house, lit by two windows that gave on rear lawns, and at
present encumbered by a chair standing near the first window. Mrs.
Janney recognized the chair as one from her sitting room which had been
broken and which Isaac, the footman, had said he could repair. She gave
it a proprietor’s inspecting glance, touched the wounded spot, and
encountering wet varnish, warned Mr. Janney away.
In the wall opposite the windows the safe door rose black and
uncompromising as a prison entrance. It was large and old fashioned—put
in by the former owner of Grasslands. Mrs. Janney talked of having a
more modern one substituted but hadn’t "got round to it," and anyway Mr.
Janney thought it was all right—burglaries were rare in Berkeley. The
silver had already been stored for the night, the bosses of great bowls,
flowered rims, and filagree edgings shining from darkling recesses. The
electric light across the hallway did not penetrate to the side shelves
and Mr. Janney had to assist with matches while his wife felt round
among the jewel cases, opening several in her search. Finally they
emerged, Mrs. Janney with the opals which after some straining she
clasped round her neck, while Sam closed the door.
As they reëntered the main hall Suzanne came down the stairs, tripping
daintily with small pointed feet. She was very splendid, her slenderness
accentuated by the length of satin swathed about her, from which her
shoulders emerged, girlishly fragile. She was also very much made up, of
a pink and white too dazzlingly pure. With her blushing delicacy of
tint, her angry eyes and sulkily drooping mouth, Mr. Janney thought she
looked exactly like a crumpled rose leaf.
"Where’s Miss Maitland?" she said to him, ostentatiously ignoring her
mother.
Before he could answer Esther’s voice came from the hall above:
"Coming—coming. I hope I haven’t kept you," and she appeared at the
stair-head.
The dress she wore, green trimmed with a design of small, pink chiffon
rosebuds and leaves, was the realized dream of a great Parisian
_faiseur_. It had been Mrs. Janney’s who, considering it too youthful,
had given it to her Secretary. Its vivid hue was singularly becoming,
lending a warm whiteness to the girl’s pale skin, bringing out the rich
darkness of her burnished hair. Her bare neck was as smooth as curds,
not a bone rippled its gracious contours; the little rosebuds and leaves
that edged the corsage looked like a garland painted on ivory.
It was a good dinner, but it was not as jolly as Dick Ferguson’s dinners
usually were. Before it was over the rain stopped and a full moon shone
through the dining room windows. Suzanne had hoped she and Dick could
saunter off into the rose garden and have that talk about Chapman, but
he showed no desire to do so. They sat about in long chairs on the
balcony and she had to listen to Ham Lorimer’s opinions on the war.
As soon as the motor came she wanted to go—she was tired, she had a
headache. It was early, only a quarter past ten, and the night was now
superb, the sky a clear, starless blue with the great moon queening it
alone. Mr. Janney would have liked to linger—he always enjoyed an
evening with Dick—but she was petulantly perverse, and they moved to the
waiting car with Ferguson in attendance.
Mrs. Janney settled herself in the back seat, Suzanne, lifting
shimmering skirts, prepared to follow, while Miss Maitland waited humbly
to take what room was left among their assembled knees. She was close to
Ferguson who was helping Suzanne in, and looking up at the sky murmured
low to herself:
"What a glorious night!"
Ferguson heard her and dropped Suzanne’s arm.
"Isn’t it? Too good to waste. Does any one want to walk back to
Grasslands?"
Suzanne, one foot on the step, stopped and turned to him. Her lips
opened to speak, and then she saw the back of his head and heard him
address Esther:
"How about it, Miss Maitland? You’re a walker, and it’s only a step by
the wood path. We can be there almost as soon as the car."
"You’ll get wet," said Mrs. Janney, "the woods will be dripping."
Mr. Janney remembered his youth and egged them on:
"Only underfoot and they can change their shoes. Dick’s right—it’s too
good to waste. I’d go myself but I’m afraid of my rheumatism. Hurry up,
Suzanne, and get in. They want to start."
Miss Maitland said she wasn’t afraid of the wet and that it would not
hurt her slippers. Suzanne entered the car and sunk into her corner. As
it rolled away Mr. and Mrs. Janney looked back at the two figures in the
moonlight and waved good-byes. Suzanne sat motionless; all the way home
she said nothing.