A Pasteboard Crown Part 2

And now Dorothy had John Strange Winter and The d.u.c.h.ess quite to herself evenings, while Sybil thumbed the family Shakspere--a dreadful edition of the fifties, all aflaunt with gilt edges and gilt lettering on the outside, and sprinkled through with most harrowing pictures and libellous and defamatory portraits of Forrest, Cushman, and the rest--for the steel engraver too "loveth a s.h.i.+ning mark."

Looking once at a picture of the "Merry Wives of Windsor"--a blowsy, frowsy, dreadfully decollete couple--Dorothy had deprecatingly exclaimed: "Oh, Syb, dear! You won't ever have to look like that, will you, if you become an actress?"

"Good heavens, no! Don't be such a goose, Dorrie! Can't you see these are not actresses at all? They are just imaginary pictures of Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page, drawn by some stupid, coa.r.s.e-minded man!"

And Dorrie, properly snubbed, went back to "Molly Bawn," and left Sybil to rumple her hair and grow very red-cheeked over her study of Juliet--for where is the stage-struck girl who begins with any lesser character? Then, while they brushed their hair and plaited it a la Chinoise for the night, Sybil laid before her sister some wildly impossible plan for making the immediate acquaintance of Claire Morrell, and Dorothy listened to her continual harping on that one string with a gentle patience that was wonderful in one so young. But Dorrie had a firm faith in G.o.d's promise to His people--His people being, in her eyes, those who loved Him; and from that faith came the patience that was her strength, and that often supported older members of the family through trying hours.

All being in readiness, it did not take long for the girls to dress for breakfast and for an early start cityward. So, carrying down their hats and gloves and the sunshade they had borrowed over night from Mrs.

Lawton, they came laughing into the dining-room, to find that lady trussed up in her street gown, instead of the usual breakfast jacket, and heard her sharply announce: "I, too, am going to the city this morning!"

"W--why, mamma!" faltered both girls, and then Dorothy turned her blue eyes away, that the rising tears might not be seen.

"But--but I thought everything was all settled last night?" quavered Sybil.

"I can't help last night!" snapped Mrs. Lawton. "This is to-day, and I've got to go down town. Time was when I had not to account for every movement to my own children--when my husband would have risen in his place and forbidden such a humiliating action----"

Now to be just, one must admit that, though very garrulous, Let.i.tia Lawton was not an ill-tempered woman, and this unusual sharpness of tone and word brought utter amazement into the eyes of her daughters. John Lawton's slippered feet s.h.i.+fted uneasily beneath the table: "I'm afraid your coffee will grow cold, my dear!" he murmured.

Sybil ventured to suggest that the shopping list, though long, was simple enough for a child to manage successfully, and just then both girls became aware of something unusual in their mother's appearance--of a sort of toning down--a--a lessening of color--a--not a pallor exactly, but a--why? As they turned troubled, bewildered eyes toward each other, Lena, who always left them to wait upon themselves at breakfast, while she played femme de chambre upstairs, came stumbling down, volubly defending herself in advance from some unspoken charge and holding something in her closed wet hand: "I no have done dot ting! no, I neffer make mit dot ting! No, neffer! My Miss Ladies! Vunce--youst vunce--I touch dot cork to de tongue--youst dot I see if it vas beet juice alretty, und it vasn't--und I ain't broke nottings! No, my Herr Mister--nottings!"

"In other days," groaned Mrs. Lawton, "this girl would only have known my scullery!"

"Why, Lena," said Dorothy, "nothing has been broken--so, of course, you cannot be blamed."

"Oh!" cried Lena, desperately, "der mistress's red-cheeks bottle is broked, und I don't do it!"

"Lena!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mrs. Lawton, "leave the room!"

"I show first, den I leave der rooms!" said Lena, tearfully. "See you here, my Miss Ladies," said she, opening her hand. "I find him in der slops-jar--but, I don't neffer break der lady's cheeks-bottle--neffer!-- no!"

There, on the wet palm, lay the half of a tiny bottle, whose contents had been red, and on its front still clung the legend "Rouge-Vinaigre."

The girls' eyes sank, their faces flushed red all over. This explained the unusual paleness of their mother, the sudden necessity for visiting the city, and the spoiling of their day. A painful silence, broken only by Lena's snuffle, held them for a moment; then Mr. Lawton spoke, almost sternly: "You may go, Lena--I know all about who broke the toilet bottle. Give me my coffee, Let.i.tia."

And then Sybil gave unconscious proof of an ability to act. For, conquering her shamed surprise at learning that her mother painted, she raised calm eyes, and said, in a perfectly matter-of-course way: "Oh, mamma, it's a shame not to feel more sorry for your accident, but I was always a selfish little wretch, and I know right where that lovely store is where all the imported toilet articles are on sale--and oh, dear mamma! if you will only trust me to get your 'vinaigre de toilette' I shall have a chance of seeing all those exquisite sh.e.l.l ornaments, and the Rhinestone hair-pins, and the newest models for hair dressing.

Indeed, Dorrie and I might pick up some very useful ideas there."

Mrs. Lawton hesitated. Sybil's manner of accepting the mortifying discovery as a mere matter of course was certainly comforting, but she "did not think it proper," she said, "for young girls to go into a store and buy r--r--that is, vinaigre de toilette."

"But," urged Sybil, who knew her mother, enjoying perfect health, dearly loved to be treated as an invalid, "the day is going to be a warm one, and the first heat is very trying to one inclined to be delicate."

Mrs. Lawton sighed, and unconsciously drooped a little. Sybil continued: "And bonnet and gloves and corset and walking-boots and all the harness a well-dressed woman has to carry are so fatiguing. And the car-ride after the shopping--you will be used up, mamma!"

And in a burst of self-pity mamma concluded she would best serve the family by conserving her own poor strength. And Dorrie, meantime, under cover of following the flight of an oriole past the window, had dried the shamed tears from her eyes, and her father, cup in hand, discoursing upon the superiority of the Baltimore over the orchard oriole, had screened her from the other two, and had left a pitying kiss on the crown of her bonnie head. And so at last they started for what Sybil called their day of "ninety-nine-and-a-half-cent" shopping.

CHAPTER IV

AN ACQUAINTANCE RENEWED

As they came out of the Forty-second Street station they rushed, after the true American fas.h.i.+on, for a Fourth Avenue car. Another followed in two minutes, and had they been German or English they would in leisurely comfort have taken that, but being American they quite needlessly made a breathless rush for the first car, and at its step collided violently with a rotund and florid old male--"gla.s.s-of-fas.h.i.+on and mould-of-form."

Three "beg pardons" rose simultaneously into the air. Each party drew back deferentially. The conductor, with murder in his eye, yelled fiercely: "Step lively there, will youse!" With beautiful obedience they all sprang forward to a--second collision. Puffing like a porpoise, the old man, hat in hand, gasped apologies to the now helplessly confused girls, until the conductor, with a contemptuous: "Ah--what's the matter wid youse--eider get on or take de nex'," began hauling the girls roughly up the steps with one hand, while with the other he savagely jerked the starting-bell, leaving the man to decide for himself whether to risk his elderly limbs boarding a moving car or to wait for "de nex'"

The decision was swiftly made, for, firmly grasping the platform railing, he ran a few steps by the car and then swung himself safely up, in quite a jaunty fas.h.i.+on--for this rakish old beau had determined to keep the girlish young beauties in sight.

Coming from the station, and each carrying, as he noticed, a small black silk bag, he correctly concluded that, all unattended, they were undertaking a shopping expedition, and he drew himself up with an air and began to twirl his gray mustache, for, relying on their innocence, his own impressive manner, and the recent contretemps for a.s.sistance, he hoped to force an acquaintance--one of those chance acquaintances that, dreaded by all parents, are the absolute bete noir of those mothers who have not been able to teach their young daughters to distinguish between a very courteous reserve and an almost "hail fellow" freedom of speech with amiable strangers. So, it was not long before Sybil, earnestly discussing at what point on their list they should begin, and whether they should leave the car at Twenty-third or at Fourteenth Street, discovered that the overdressed old man opposite was ogling Dorrie outrageously, and her dark eyes flashed indignant glances at him, while she did her best to hold her sister's attention, that she might not be annoyed and shamed by his conduct. This comedy of glances finally caught the attention of a grave-faced young man sitting next to Sybil. He followed the direction of the old man's bold glances, and Dorothy's sweet face held him like a magnet. The rounded cheek, the soft, clear coloring, the sunny, brown hair, the innocent, widely open blue eyes, and the slight lift of the brows, that all unconsciously gave her the pathetic, pleading look that made people ever eager to serve her, moved him instantly to a feeling of positive grat.i.tude for the other girl who was trying to protect her.

The car had filled rapidly, and people, mechanically hanging themselves each by one hand from the overhead straps, swayed back and forth and trampled alike upon the feet of the just and the unjust, forming a solidly opaque screen between tormentor and tormented. Suddenly the whirr of the wheels and the demoniacal voice of the conductor crying: "Move up there--move up! There's room enough up front, if you'se'll step up to the end!" became faint and far off to the hearing of the grave-faced young man, whose gray eyes had discovered a little knot of wild violets snuggled into one of their own round green leaves and drawn through the b.u.t.ton-hole of Dorothy's jacket. Through one dim moment he saw a boy's stumpy brown fist holding out a bunch of "vi'lets" to a sick white hand all netted over with distended blue veins, and heard a thin whispering voice saying: "And mother would have loved them quite as well if her boy had called them 'violets' instead of 'vi'lets,'" and the little blossoms became but a purple blur as he thought with a pang how long that dear admonis.h.i.+ng voice had been silent.

The crowd had increased, and Sybil, in bobbing her head this way and that in an effort to see just where they were, became conscious of a young woman standing before her. She was very pale, and great drops of perspiration stood on her hollow temples. She carried a heavy-looking baby in her arms, and, having no strap to hold to, she reeled and staggered and pitched with every sudden start or jerking stop of the car. Sybil, with a pitying exclamation, rose and gave her place to the poor, sick-looking creature, who, sinking into the seat, raised grateful, tear-filled eyes to the dark, glowing face above her, saying: "It's the baby--he's that heavy, or I wouldn't take it from you, ma'am."

Then up sprang the old beau, and offered his place to Sybil, who coldly thanked him, but preferred to stand by her sister. But that was just what he proposed to do himself--to stand by her, and quite naturally to address a few words to that fair sister, and he so far forgot himself as to put his hand on Sybil's arm and try to force her into his seat, when suddenly the grave young man rose, touched the woman with the baby on the shoulder, and said: "Move into my place, please, and allow this young lady to resume her seat." The thing had been done so quickly that there was no time for thought, and the two quick "thank yous" of the girls were followed by a grateful smile and an upward glance of Dorrie's blue eyes straight into the face of the young man, who felt his hand tremble as he lifted his hat and silently made his way through the crowd to the rear platform.

The elderly ogler, meantime, very red as to face and neck, looked out of the window nearest him. The girls, who had been consulting their lists, rose suddenly while he was so occupied, and with several other pa.s.sengers left the car. The moment he missed them he started to his feet, but as he moved he saw a card fallen on the matting, and stooping picked it up. It was one of Mrs. Lawton's visiting cards, and on its back was scribbled yards and pounds of various articles, evidently a shopping list. As he turned it over and read "Mrs. John W. Lawton," with a former address crossed off and "Woodsedge" written beneath it, he exclaimed: "The devil! Lawton's girls grown up, and I didn't recognize them? By thunder! I must find them again! Hi! conductor!" He plunged toward the platform, brus.h.i.+ng against open papers and stepping on toes without apology, and, dropping off the car, he returned to the corner of the street where the girls had disappeared.

"Lawton's girls!" he muttered. "Woodsedge--where the devil is Woodsedge, I'd like to know! But that blondest girl's a beauty, and no mistake! The dark one glared at me like a cat. Let's see, now, what did they call those youngsters when they were over in the Oranges?" And hunting through his wicked old memory for the names he had forgotten, he placed himself on guard in front of a certain great store, on the chance of seeing Sybil and Dorothy come out. A most undignified occupation for Mr.

William Henry Bulkley, aged fifty-five years, worth some eight hundred thousand dollars, but rated as a millionaire. Yet there were certain people in the city who would have expressed no surprise had they seen him so engaged, since they knew the occupation was neither new nor strange to him. He had long retired from business, and now relied princ.i.p.ally upon the devil to provide work for his idle hands to do, and it is but fair to admit that he was seldom without a job. That he was looked upon and spoken of as a millionaire filled him with pride unspeakable. There is not a doubt that from the two hundred thousand dollars with which the world mistakenly accredited him he drew greater satisfaction and delight than from the eight hundred thousand dollars he really owned. So much pleasanter it is to be over, rather than correctly, estimated.

A big man was Mr. Bulkley--whose employees used to call "Old Hulkey"--a heavily breathing man, who had lost his waist-line years ago, to his great chagrin. He had long yellow teeth, his own beyond a doubt, since no dentist on earth would have risked his reputation by making such an atrocious set. His cheeks sagged, and were of a brick red, netted over with tiny purplish veins. He had pale, impudent blue eyes, and his occasional trick of leering from under half-drooped lids made them offensively ugly. He dressed in the fas.h.i.+on of--to-morrow. No novelty escaped him, and his jewelry was really the best thing about him, since it was genuine and modest.

In the days when he had been a neighbor of the Lawtons, over in the picturesque Orange Mountains, he had had a wife, or, to be more exact, there had been a Mrs. Bulkley, since for many years she had been nothing more to him than an unsalaried housekeeper. His contemptuous indifference as to her knowledge of his infamies deprived her even of the cloak of pretended ignorance with which many a betrayed wife hides her wounded pride and self-respect. So, from a rosy, cheery, happy wife, she had been changed into a pale and silent housekeeper. Sometimes a certain alleviating friends.h.i.+p exists between a wife and her disloyal husband, but not in this case; for without sympathy there can be no friends.h.i.+p, and there was not a particle of sympathy between the dutiful, pure-minded, humiliated Anna Bulkley and the lax, self-loving, and carnal William H. Bulkley.

So she had folded her lips closely to hide their tendency to tremble, and had borne her lot silently, growing a little paler, a little thinner, a little more retiring year by year, until there came that hottest morning of a long, hot stretch of weather when she failed to descend to breakfast, and her husband had angrily rapped upon her door, declaring that because he wished to go to the city early that day he supposed she meant to sleep forever, and was surprised to find his supposition was an absolutely correct one, for she slept forever. "Heart failure," said the hastily summoned doctor, and doubtless he accurately stated the immediate cause of death, but there were certain women among these lovely country homes who felt sure that the fatal weakness was neither recent nor caused by the summer heat; who believed the poor wife's heart failure dated from the time her husband abandoned home for harem, and by the publicity of his infidelities had made her an object of contemptuous pity. Therefore cold and unfriendly were the glances they cast upon the black-clothed, crepe-bound widower in their midst.

Now, looking back to that time, he recalled his dead wife's fondness for the little ones of her neighbor's--the bon-bons she always kept at hand, the swing she had put up for her childish visitors' amus.e.m.e.nt, and the accident, one day, when the rope broke, and--yes, these very children of Lawton's were the ones that fell; and then quite suddenly he seemed to hear his wife's voice, crying: "Oh, Dorrie, Sibbie, are you hurt?"

With a triumphant laugh he struck his hands together, exclaiming: "I've found them! I've got their names at last! Now, if I can find the girls again in this confounded crowd, I'll have fair sailing!"

But it happened that the girls saw him first, and cleverly avoided him by whipping through a side street over to Sixth Avenue, where, with a sigh for the salads and strawberries of Broadway, they lunched upon coffee and buns in a clean little bakery; for, by so doing and by walking and saving cross-town fares both ways, they were able each to buy a bit of bright ribbon for Lena to turn into the awful bows with which she loved to plaster her honest German breast.

"Poor thing!" sighed Dorothy; "I wish we could get her something worth while!"

"So do I," answered Sybil; "for positively she is the staff of our family at present, and to think that papa should have found her! I believe the one dollar he paid to the intelligence office that day was the only lucky investment of his life!"

"Poor thing!" repeated Dorothy; "I'm afraid she will not walk a primrose path to-day!"

"No!" answered Sybil, "it will not be easy for mamma to forgive that 'cheeks bottle' speech, and Lena will probably hear a good many allusions to sculleries in consequence, or mamma may crush her into speechless awe by suddenly and apropos of nothing telling her that she--the mistress--once danced in the same room with the Prince of Wales!" And they laughed a little over the old boast as they hastened back to Broadway to secure the new bottle of rouge-vinaigre.

Meantime Mr. Bulkley, who, like most vain men, had a corn or two, had grown weary of watching from the sidewalk, and, swearing a little to himself, had gone to a fas.h.i.+onable restaurant, much favored by women; and, little dreaming that the place was far beyond the means of the girls he sought, he secured a seat near the door, where he sat, and, like a fat old spider, watched for his pretty flies. But they came not, and when he could decently sit there no longer, he cursed just under his breath with an ease and fluency that showed long and earnest practice; then, red and hot with wine and anger, he paid his bill and went out, quite forgetting that truthful old saying, "The devil takes care of his own," until his infernal majesty did it in his case by suddenly bringing into view the two girlish figures he had so long been searching for.

Having mamma's new "cheeks-bottle" concealed in a non-committal box of white pasteboard, Sybil came forth, followed slowly by Dorothy, who had not completed her study of the coiffure worn by one of the waxy beauties with inch-long eyelashes and b.u.t.ton-hole mouth, who lived in the window and turned about slowly and steadily all the time the public eye was upon her.

"Just wait, Sybil," said Dorothy, "until her back comes this way again.

I'm sure that jug-handle knot is not tied, and yet how can you make a knot of back hair stand up firmly like that without tying it, I should like to know?"

"Why," replied Sybil, "I believe it's done by extremely tight twisting.

Haven't you noticed how a tightly twisted cord will double itself back in just that shape, and----"

She got no farther. A cough, "I beg your pardon!" interrupted her. Both girls turned, to face the smiling, bowing William Henry Bulkley, who, ignoring their frowns, hastened to say, with a sort of bluff and fatherly cordiality: "My dear Miss Lawton--Miss Dorothy--I hesitated to recall myself to your memory at our first meeting this morning, as I saw with regret you had quite forgotten me. [This is the sort of thing that keeps Truth at the bottom of her well.] But this second accidental meeting seems so like a Providence restoring a valued friends.h.i.+p that I venture to address you with messages to my old-time friend and neighbor, John Lawton!"