CHAPTER II--MISS MAITLAND GETS A LETTER
It was Thursday morning, three days after her husband's departure, andSuzanne was sitting in the window seat of her room looking across thegreen distances to where the roof of Dick Ferguson's place, CouncilOaks, rose above the tree tops. Council Oaks adjoined Grasslands, therewas a short cut which connected them--a path through the woods. BeforeMrs. Janney bought Grasslands the path had become moss-grown, almostobliterated. Then when she took possession the two households wore itbare again. The servants found it shortened the walk from kitchen tokitchen; Mr. Janney often footed its green windings; Dick Ferguson'sfather had been one of his cronies, and Dick Ferguson himself was themost constant traveler of them all.
Council Oaks was a very old place; it had been in the Ferguson familysince the days when the British governors rolled over Long Island intheir lumbering coaches. Before that the Indians had used it for acouncil ground, their tepees pitched under the shade of the four giantoaks 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 ina long, sprawl of white buildings, with the original worn stone as astep to its knockered front door, and the low, raftered ceilings, plankfloors, and deep-mouthed fireplaces of its early occupation.
There Dick Ferguson lived all summer, going to town at intervals toattend to the business of the Ferguson estate, for, like the young manin the Bible, he had great possessions. The dead and gone Fergusons hadbeen canny and thrifty, bought land far beyond the city limits and satin their offices and waited until the town grew round it. It was knownamong the present owner's intimates that he disapproved of this methodof enrichment, and that his extensive charities and endowments were anattempt 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 Fergusonmillions were being diverted to the relief of the people.
But none of this seriousness showed on the outside. If you didn't knowhim well Dick Ferguson was the last person you would suspect of a senseof responsibility or a view of life that was anything but easy-going andlight-hearted. People described him as a nice chap, not a bit spoiled byhis money, just a big, jolly boy, simple and unaffected. He looked thepart with his long, lank figure, leggy as a young colt, his shock oflight brown hair that never would lie flat, his freckled, irregular facewith gray eyes that had an engaging way of closing when he laughed. Hedid this a good deal and it may have been one of the reasons why so manypeople liked him. And he also had a capacity for listening tolong-winded tales of trouble, which may have been another. He wastwenty-nine years old and still unmarried, and that was his own fault asany one would tell you.
When Sam Janney married the Pittsburg widow Dick Ferguson became afriend of the family. He fitted in very well, for he was sympathetic andunderstanding and the Janneys had troubles to tell. He heard all aboutChapman's shortcomings; a little from old Sam who was not expansive,more from Mrs. Janney, and most from Suzanne. He was very sorry for herand gave her good advice. "A poor little bit of bluff," he called her tohimself, and then would stroll over to Grasslands and spend an hour withher trying to cheer her up.
He spent a good many hours this way and the time came when Suzanne beganto wait and watch for his coming.
Sitting now in the cushioned window seat she was wondering if he wouldcome that morning and she could get him off in the garden and tell himthat Chapman was gone. She saw herself saying it with lowered eyes anddelicately demure phrases. She would frankly admit she was glad it wasover, glad she would be free once more, for in the autumn she would goto Reno and begin proceedings for a divorce.
At this thought she subsided against the cushions, and closed her eyessmiling softly. Seen thus, the bright sunlight tempered by filmycurtains, she was a pretty woman, looking very girlish for hertwenty-eight years. This was partly due to her extreme slenderness andpartly to her blonde coloring. Both had been preserved with sedulouscare: the one matter in which she exercised self-restraint was her food,the one occasion on which she showed patience was when her maid waswashing her hair with a solution of peroxide.
Every window in the large, luxurious room was open and through themdrifted 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 awoman's--from the balcony below. They were Mr. Janney's and MissMaitland's--the secretary was preparing to read the morning papers toher employer.
Suzanne opened her eyes and sat up, the smile dying from her lips. Thedreamy complacence left her face and was replaced by a look of broodingirritation. It changed her so completely that she ceased to bepretty--suddenly showed her years, and was revealed as a woman, alreadyfading, preyed upon by secret vexations.
She rose adjusting her dress, a marvelous creation of thin whitematerial with floating edges of lace. She went to the mirror, powderedher face and touched her lips with a stick of red salve, then studiedher reflection. It should have been satisfying, delicate, fragile, alovely, ethereal creature, with baby blue eyes and silky, maize-coloredhair. It was not to be believed that any man could look at EstherMaitland when she was by--and yet--and yet--! She turned from the mirrorwith an angry mutter and went downstairs.
On the balcony Miss Maitland was looking over the papers with Mr. Janneyopposite waiting to be read to. Suzanne sat down near them where shecould command the place in the woods where the path from Council Oaksstruck into the lawn. With a sidelong eye she noted the Secretary's handon the edge of the paper--narrow, satin-skinned, with fingers finelytapering and pink-tipped. _Her_ fingers were short and spatulate,showing her common blood, and all the pink on them had to be appliedwith a chamois. Miss Maitland began to read--the war news first was therule--and her voice was a pleasure to hear, cultivated, soft, musical.Suzanne, for all her expensive education and subsequent efforts, hadnever been able to refine hers; the ugly Pittsburg burr would crop out.
A gnawing fancy that she had been fighting against for weeks rosesuddenly into jealous conviction. This girl--a penniless nobody--had aquality, an air, a distinction, that she with all her advantages hadnever been able to acquire, _could_ never acquire. It was somethinginnate, something you were born with, something that made you fitted forany sphere. Immovable, apparently absorbed in the reading, Suzanne beganto think how she could induce her mother to dispense with the servicesof the Social Secretary.
When the war news was finished Miss Maitland passed on to the news ofthe day. On this particular morning it was varied and interesting: AWestern 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 NewYork loft district a strike of shirtwaist makers had attained theproportions of a riot in which one of the pickets had stabbed apoliceman with a hatpin.
Mr. Janney was shocked at these horrors, but he always liked to hearthem. Miss Maitland had to stop reading and listen to a theory he hadevolved about the Chicago murder--it was the woman's husband and hedemonstrated how this was possible. Then he took up the shirtwaiststrike with a fussy disapproval--they got nothing by violence, only setthe public against them and their cause. Miss Maitland was inclined toargue about it; thought there was something to say for their methods andsaid it.
Suzanne listened uncomprehending, unable to join in or to follow. Shehad 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 anattention he never gave Suzanne. Mr. Janney was doing it now, leaningout of his chair, voicing his hope that a speedy vengeance wouldovertake the picket who had made her escape in the melee.
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 itsarrival Mrs. Janney wanted their answers about two dinner invitationswhich had just come by telephone. One was for herself and Sa
m--Sundaynight at the Delavalles--and the other was from Dick Ferguson forto-night--all of them, very informally--just himself and Ham Lorimer whowas staying there.
Mr. Janney agreed to both and in answer to her mother's glance Suzannesaid 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 theSecretary. "You'll come, won't you?"
Miss Maitland said she would and that it was very kind of Mr. Fergusonto ask her. Mr. and Mrs. Janney exchanged a gratified glance; they weremuch attached to the Secretary and felt that their lordly circle ignoredher existence more than was necessary or kindly. Suzanne said nothing,but the edges of her small upper teeth set close on her under lip, andher nostrils quivered with a deep-drawn breath.
Mrs. Janney gave orders for messages of acceptance to be sent, then sankinto a chair, remarking to her husband:
"I'm glad you'll go to the Delavalles. It's to be a large dinner. I'llwear 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 MariaTheresa. As old Sam thought of them he smiled, for he knew why his wifehad decided to wear them. In her climbing days, before her marriage tohim had secured her position, the Delavalles had snubbed her. Now shewas going to snub them, not in any obvious, vulgar way, but finely aswas her wont, with the assistance of himself and Maria Theresa.
The motor came into view gliding up the long drive and the waiting grouproused into expectant animation. Mr. Janney rose, kicking his trouserlegs into shape, Miss Maitland gathered up the papers, and Mrs. Janneywent to the top of the steps. In the tonneau, her body encircled byAnnie's restraining arm, Bebita stood, waving an electric torch andcaroling 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, Anniefollowing with the mail. There was quite a bunch of it which Mrs. Janneydistributed--several for Sam, a pile for herself, one for Suzanne andone for Miss Maitland. They settled down to it amid a crackling of tornenvelopes, Bebita darting from one to the other.
She tried her mother first:
"Mummy, look. You just press this and the light comes out at the otherend."
Suzanne's eyes on her letter did not lift, and Bebita laid a soft littlehand on the tinted cheek:
"Mummy, do _please_ look."
Suzanne pushed the hand away with an angry movement.
"Let me alone, Bebita," she said sharply and, getting up, thrust thechild out of her way and went into the house.
For a moment Bebita was astonished. Her mother, who was so often crossto other people, was rarely so to her. But the torch was too enthrallingfor any other subject to occupy her thoughts and she turned to hergrandfather, reading a business communication held out in front of hisnose for he had on the wrong glasses. She crowded in under his arm andsparked the torch at him waiting to see his delighted surprise. But heonly drew her close, kissed her cheek and murmured without moving hiseyes:
"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 Bebita's face, smiled intoit, said, "Dearest, it's lovely and I'm so glad it's come," and wentback to her reading.
It was all disappointing, and Bebita, as a last resource, had to tryMiss Maitland, who, if not a relation, was always sympathetic andresponsive. The Secretary was reading too, holding her letter up high,almost in front of her face. Bebita 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 astranger--hard and thin, the mouth slightly open, the eyes staringblankly at Bebita as if they had never seen her before. For a second thechild was dumb, held in a scared amazement, then backing away shefaltered:
"Why--why--how funny you look!"
The words seemed to bring Miss Maitland back to her usual, pleasantaspect. She drew a deep breath, smiled and said:
"I was thinking, that was all--something I was reading here. The torchis beautiful; you must let me try it, but not now, I have to go. I'veread the papers to Gramp and I've work to do in my study."
Any one who knew Miss Maitland well might have noticed a forcedsprightliness in her voice. But no one was listening; Suzanne had goneand Mr. and Mrs. Janney were engrossed in their correspondence. Shestole a look at them, saw them unheeding and, with a farewell nod toBebita, rose and crossed the balcony. As she entered the house, the willthat had made her smile, maintained her voice at its clear, fresh note,relaxed. Her face sharpened, its soft curves grew rigid, her lips closedin a narrow line. With noiseless steps she ran through the wide foyerhall and down a passage that led to the room, reserved for her use andcalled her study. Here, locking the door, she came to a stand, her handsclasped against her breast, her eyes fixed and tragic, a figure ofconsternation.