CHAPTER III--ANOTHER LETTER AND WHAT FOLLOWED IT
Suzanne, her letter crumpled in her hand, had gone directly to her ownroom. There she read it for the second time, its baleful import sinkingdeeper into her consciousness with every sentence. It was in typewritingand 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 Berkeleywas the hub had been the subject of paragraphs--more or lessscandalous--appearing in _The Eavesdropper_. The paper, a scurrilousweekly, had evidently some inside informer, for most of the disclosureswere true and could only have been obtained by a member of thecommunity. Suzanne, whose debts would make racy reading, had quakedevery time she opened it. So far she had been spared, and she had hopedto escape by a gradual clearing off of her obligations. But she had notbeen able to do it--unforeseen things had happened. And now the dreadedhad come to pass--she would be written up in _The Eavesdropper_.
Though her allowance had been princely she had kept on going over itever since her marriage and her mother had kept on covering the deficit.But last autumn Mrs. Janney had lost both patience and temper and puther foot down with a final stamp. Then the winter had come, a feverish,crowded winter of endless parties and endless card playing, and Suzannehad somehow gone over it again, gone over--she didn't dare to think ofwhat she owed. Tradespeople had threatened her, she was afraid to go toher mother, she told lies and made promises, and at that juncture awoman friend acquainted her with the mystery of stocks--easy money to bemade in speculation. She had tried that and made a good deal--almostcleared her score--and then in April all her stocks suddenly went down.Inquiries revealed the fact that stocks did not always stay down andreassured she set forth on a zestful orgy of renewed bridge and summeroutfitting. But the stocks never came up, they remained down, as fardown 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; theyellow papers might get it--they were always writing things against therich. Dick Ferguson would see it, and he despised people who didn't paytheir bills; she had heard him say so to Mr. Janney, remembered his toneof contempt. There would be no use lying to him for she felt bitterlycertain that Mr. Janney had told him what her mother gave her. There wasnothing for it but to go to Mrs. Janney and she quailed at the thought,for her mother, forgiving unto seventy times seven, at seventy timeseight could be resolute and relentless. But it was the one way out andshe had to take it.
When no engagements claimed her afternoons Mrs. Janney went for a driveat four. At lunch she announced her intention of going out in the opencar and asked if any of the others wanted to come. All refused: Mr.Janney was contemplating a ride, Suzanne would rest, Miss Maitland hadsome sewing to do on her dress for that evening. Both Suzanne and MissMaitland 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, agray-haired, sturdy Scotch woman, standing by the table opening packagesthat had just arrived from town. Elspeth, like most of Mrs. Janney'sservants, had been in her employ for years, entering her service in theold Pittsburg days and being promoted to the post of personal attendant.She knew a good deal about the household, more even than Dixon, admiredand respected her mistress and disliked Suzanne.
The young woman's first remark was addressed to her, and, curtlyimperious, 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 thebedroom 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 ownmanners. She was so nervous that she blundered into her subject withoutdiplomatic preliminaries, gaining no encouragement from her mother'sface, which, at first startled, gradually hardened into sternindignation.
It was a hateful scene, degenerated--anyway on Suzanne's part--into aquarrel, a bitter arraignment of her mother as unloving and ungenerous.For Mrs. Janney refused the money, put her foot down with a stamp thatcarried conviction. She was even grimmer and more determined than herdaughter had expected, the girl's anger and upbraidings ineffectual togain 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 ifshe was written up in the papers. That was _her_ affair: if she didthings that were disgraceful she must bear the disgrace. The interviewended by Suzanne rushing out of the room, a trail of loud, clamoroussobs marking her passage to her own door.
When she had gone Mrs. Janney broke down and cried a little. She hadthought the girl improved of late, less selfish, more tender. And nowshe had been so cruel; the charge of a lack in love had pierced themother's heart. Mr. Janney, returned from his ride, found her there,looking old, her eyes reddened, her voice husky. When he heard thestory, he took her hand and stroked it. His tact prevented him fromsaying 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 topay it as I always have. But I'm going to frighten her--let her think Iwon't--for a few days anyway. It's all I can do and it may have someeffect."
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, sounobtrusively soothing and sympathetic, that when they returned she wasonce more her masterful, competent self. Noting a bank of storm cloudsrising from the east, she told Otto to bring the limousine when he camefor them at a quarter to eight. Inside the house she summoned Dixon andsaid as the family would be out "the help"--it was part of herbeneficent policy to call her retinue by this name when speaking to anyof its members--could go out that night if they so willed. Dixonadmitted that they had already planned a general sortie on "the movies"in the village. All but Hannah, the cook, who had "something likeshooting pains in her feet, and Delia, the second housemaid, who'd gotan insect in her eyes, Madam. But it wasn't the hurt of it that kept herin, only the look which she didn't want seen."
At seven the storm drove up, black and lowering, and the rain fell in atorrent. It was still falling when Mr. and Mrs. Janney descended thestairs, a little in advance of the time set, for, while dressing, Mrs.Janney had decided that her costume needed a brightening touch, whichwould be suitably imparted by her opal necklace. This, being rarelyworn, was kept with the more valuable jewels in the safe of whichElspeth did not know the combination. Of course Mrs. Janney did, and atthe foot of the stairs she turned into a passage which led from thefoyer hall into the kitchen wing. It was a short connecting artery ofthe great house, lit by two windows that gave on rear lawns, and atpresent encumbered by a chair standing near the first window. Mrs.Janney recognized the chair as one from her sitting room which had beenbroke
n and which Isaac, the footman, had said he could repair. She gaveit a proprietor's inspecting glance, touched the wounded spot, andencountering wet varnish, warned Mr. Janney away.
In the wall opposite the windows the safe door rose black anduncompromising as a prison entrance. It was large and old fashioned--putin by the former owner of Grasslands. Mrs. Janney talked of having amore modern one substituted but hadn't "got round to it," and anyway Mr.Janney thought it was all right--burglaries were rare in Berkeley. Thesilver had already been stored for the night, the bosses of great bowls,flowered rims, and filagree edgings shining from darkling recesses. Theelectric light across the hallway did not penetrate to the side shelvesand Mr. Janney had to assist with matches while his wife felt roundamong the jewel cases, opening several in her search. Finally theyemerged, Mrs. Janney with the opals which after some straining sheclasped round her neck, while Sam closed the door.
As they reentered the main hall Suzanne came down the stairs, trippingdaintily with small pointed feet. She was very splendid, her slendernessaccentuated by the length of satin swathed about her, from which hershoulders emerged, girlishly fragile. She was also very much made up, ofa pink and white too dazzlingly pure. With her blushing delicacy oftint, her angry eyes and sulkily drooping mouth, Mr. Janney thought shelooked exactly like a crumpled rose leaf.
"Where's Miss Maitland?" she said to him, ostentatiously ignoring hermother.
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 thestair-head.
The dress she wore, green trimmed with a design of small, pink chiffonrosebuds 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 richdarkness of her burnished hair. Her bare neck was as smooth as curds,not a bone rippled its gracious contours; the little rosebuds and leavesthat 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 dinnersusually were. Before it was over the rain stopped and a full moon shonethrough the dining room windows. Suzanne had hoped she and Dick couldsaunter off into the rose garden and have that talk about Chapman, buthe showed no desire to do so. They sat about in long chairs on thebalcony 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 aheadache. It was early, only a quarter past ten, and the night was nowsuperb, the sky a clear, starless blue with the great moon queening italone. Mr. Janney would have liked to linger--he always enjoyed anevening with Dick--but she was petulantly perverse, and they moved tothe waiting car with Ferguson in attendance.
Mrs. Janney settled herself in the back seat, Suzanne, liftingshimmering skirts, prepared to follow, while Miss Maitland waited humblyto take what room was left among their assembled knees. She was close toFerguson who was helping Suzanne in, and looking up at the sky murmuredlow 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 toGrasslands?"
Suzanne, one foot on the step, stopped and turned to him. Her lipsopened to speak, and then she saw the back of his head and heard himaddress Esther:
"How about it, Miss Maitland? You're a walker, and it's only a step bythe 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 toogood 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 nothurt her slippers. Suzanne entered the car and sunk into her corner. Asit rolled away Mr. and Mrs. Janney looked back at the two figures in themoonlight and waved good-byes. Suzanne sat motionless; all the way homeshe said nothing.