Out of the Ashes Part 6

"Who is it?" questioned Aunt Lydia in a sibilant whisper.

Dorothy went on talking, carefully refraining from any mention of names.

"Yes--did you?--that's awfully kind--yes, I love violets; no, they haven't come, by messenger--how extravagant! No, I'm not going out _just_ yet--not in this get up. What color? Pink--_and_ a lace cap--a duck of a lace cap. Send the photographs around--Oh, _that's_ all right; Aunt Lydia is here--aren't you, Aunt Lydia?--Oh, oh--what a horrid word!--unsay it at once! All right, you're forgiven. I'm busy _all_ day--_all, all_ day--yes, and this evening. No, orchids won't go with my gown to-night--don't be silly--of course, gardenias go with everything, but--now, what nonsense!--I'm going to hang up--Indeed, I _will_.

Good-b--what? Now, listen to me--"

A tap at the door, and Aunt Lydia, hypnotized as she was by the telephone conversation, had presence of mind enough to open the door and receive a square box tied with purple ribbon. She dexterously untied the loose bow knot, and withdrew from its tissue wrappings, a fragrant bouquet of violets. An envelope enclosing a card fell to the floor. With suppleness hardly to be expected from one of her years, she stooped to pick it up, and in a twinkling had the donor's name before her.

Dorothy hung up the receiver and turned. "So you know who sent the flowers, and who was on the 'phone," she laughed. "Tante, you should have been a detective--you really should."

"How can you!" almost wept Mrs. Mellows. "I only opened it to save you the trouble. Of course, I knew all along that it was Teddy Mahr--I guessed--why not? Really, Dorothy, you misinterpret my interest in you, really, you do."

Dorothy laughed. "Now, now," she scolded, "don't say that. Here, I'll divide with you." She separated the fragrant bunch into its components of smaller bunches, snipped the purple ribbon in two, and neatly devised two corsage adornments. "Here," she bubbled, "one for you and one for me--and don't say such mean things about me any more. If you do, I'll tell Mother about all your flirtations the minute she gets back--I will, too!"

"That reminds me, my dear," said Mrs. Mellows, her apple-pink face becoming suddenly serious, "I don't understand why we haven't had any news from your mother, really, I don't. She might have sent us just a wireless or something."

"It _is_ odd." Dorothy's laugh broke off midway in a silvery chuckle.

"But something may have gone wrong with the telegraphic apparatus, you know. We might get the company, and find out if any other messages have been received from her."

"I never thought of that," exclaimed Mrs. Mellows. "You are quick witted, Dorothy, I will say that for you. Suppose you do find out."

Dorothy turned to the telephone and made her inquiry. "There," she said at length, "I guessed it--no messages at all; they are sure it's out of order. Well, that does relieve one's mind. It isn't because she's ill, or anything like that. Now, Aunt Lydia, that's _my_ mail."

"Why, child!" the mature Cupid protested, "_I_ wasn't going to open your letters. Indeed, I think you are positively insulting to me! Here, that's from your cousin Euphemia, I know her hand; and that's just a circular, I'm sure--and Tappe's bill. My dear, you've been perfectly foolish about hats this winter. This is a handwriting I don't know, but it's smart stationery--and, dear me, look at all these little cards. I really don't see how the postman bothers to see that they're all delivered; they're such little slippery things--more teas--and bridge."

"And how about yours?" questioned Dorothy, amused. "What did you get?"

Aunt Lydia bridled. "Oh, nothing much. Some cards, a bill or two--"

"Bill or coo, you mean," said her niece with a playful clutch at her chaperon's lap-full of missives. "If that isn't a man's letter, I'll eat my cap, ribbons and all--and that one, and that one."

Mrs. Mellows rose hastily, gathered her flowing negligee about her and beat a retreat.

She turned at the door, "You're a rude little girl, and I shan't count on you to go to Bendel's. If you want me, I'll be here from half past two to four, when I go for bridge." With the air of a Christian martyr she betook herself to the seclusion of her own rooms.

Dorothy suffered herself to be dressed as she opened her mail. Aunt Lydia had diagnosed it with almost psychic exactness, and its mystery had ceased to be interesting. Last of all she opened a plain envelope with typewritten directions. The enclosure, also typewritten, gave a first impression of an announcement of a special sale, or request for a.s.sistance from some charitable organization. Idly she glanced at it, flipped it over, and found it to be unsigned. A word or two caught her attention. She turned back, and read:

Miss DOROTHY MARTEEN:

"That the sins of the parents should be visited upon the children is, perhaps, hard. But we feel it time for you to understand thoroughly your situation, in order that you may determine what your future is to be. You have been reared all your life on stolen, or what is worse, extorted money. We hope you have not inherited the callous nature of your mother, and that this information will not leave you unashamed. Not a gown you have worn, nor a possession you have enjoyed, but has been yours through theft. That you may verify this statement, open the steel safe, back of the second panel of the library wall to the left of the fireplace. The combination is, 2.2.9.6.0. A b.u.t.ton on the inner edge on the right releases a spring, opening a second compartment, where the material of your future luxuries is stored. A look will be sufficient. I hardly think you will then care to occupy the position in the lime light to which you have been brought by such means. Obscurity is better--perhaps, even exile. Talk it over with your mother. We think she will agree with us.

The words danced before Dorothy's eyes, a sudden stopping of the heart, a hot flush, a painful dizziness that was at once physical and mental, made her clutch at the table for support. She dropped the letter, and stood staring at it, fascinated, as in a nightmare.

An anonymous letter, a cruel, hateful, wicked atrocity! Why should she receive such a thing? she, who never in her whole life, had wished anyone ill. It couldn't be so. She had misread, misunderstood. She picked up the message and looked at it again. It was surely intended for her, there could be no mistake. Then fear came upon her. The abrupt entrance of the maid, carrying her hat and veil, gave her a spasm of panic. No one must see, no one must know. The wretched sender of this hideous libel must believe it ignored--never received. She thrust the paper hastily into the bosom of her dress. Its very contact seemed to burn.

"That will do," she said. "I'm not going out just yet. I--I have some notes to write; don't bother me now."

Her voice sounded strange. She glanced quickly at the maid, fearing to surprise a look of suspicion. It seemed impossible that that cracked voice of hers would pa.s.s unnoticed. But the maid bowed, carefully placed a pair of white gloves by the hat and jacket, and went out as if nothing had happened.

Dorothy, left alone, stood still for a moment as if robbed of all volition. Then, with a suppressed cry, she dragged out the accusing doc.u.ment and carried it to the light. Who could do such a thing! Who would be such a lying coward! Her helplessness made her rage. Oh, to be able to confront this traducer, this libeler. To see him punished, to tell him to his face what she thought of him I Somewhere he was in the world, laughing to himself in the safety of his namelessness--knowing her futile anger and indignation--satisfied to have shamed and insulted her--and her mother--her great, resourceful, splendid mother, away and ill when this dastardly attack was made. Impulsively she turned to run to her aunt, and lay the matter before her, but paused and sat down on the little chair before her writing desk. Covering her eyes with her clenched hands she tried to think. Tante Lydia was worse than useless, scatterbrained, self-centered, incapable. What would she do? Lament and call all her friends in conclave; send in the police; acknowledge her fright, and give this nameless writer the satisfaction of knowing that his shaft had found its mark?

Teddy! Teddy would come to her at once. But what could he do? Sympathy was not what she wanted; it was support and guidance. With a trembling hand she smoothed the paper before her and, controlling herself, reread every word with minutest care. But this third perusal left her more at sea than before. What did this enmity mean? What could have incited it?

Why did this wretch give her such minute instructions? She knew of no safe in the library--could it be just possible that such a thing _did_ exist? Could it be possible that this liar had obtained knowledge of her mother's private affairs to such an extent that he knew of facts that had remained unknown even to her?--the daughter! A new cause for fear loomed before her. Had this venomous enemy access to the house? Was he able to come and go at will, ferreting out its secrets?

Dorothy turned about quickly, almost expecting to see some sinister shadow leering at her from the doorway, or disappearing into the wardrobe. Her terror had something in it of childish nightmare. Acting as if under a spell of compulsion, she rose and tiptoed to the door. She looked down the hall, and found it empty. The querulous voice of Mrs.

Mellows came to her, raised in complaint against hooked-behind dresses.

Like a lovely little ghost she flitted down the corridor to the library, paused for an instant with a beating heart, and, entering, closed the door with infinite precautions and shot the bolt.

She was panting as if from some painful exertion. Her hands were damp and chill, her temples throbbed. The room seemed strange, close shuttered and silent, as if it sheltered the silent, unresponsive dead.

The air was oppressive, and the light that filtered through the dim blinds was vague and uncanny.

It was some moments before she felt herself under sufficient control to cross by the big Jacobean table, and face the hooded fireplace--"to the left, the second panel." She stared at it. To all appearances it was rea.s.suringly the same as all the others. Gently she pushed it right and left, then up and down, but her pressure was so slight and nervous that it did not stir the heavy wood. She breathed a great sigh of relief, and beginning now to believe herself the victim of some cruel hoax, she dared a firmer pressure. The panel responded--moved--slid slowly behind its fellow--revealing the steel muzzle of a safe let into the solid masonry. It seemed the result of some evil witchcraft; her blood chilled. Yet, with renewed eagerness, she turned the combination. She did not need to refer to the letter, she knew it by heart--the numbers were seared there. The heavy door swung outward. Within she saw well-remembered cases of velvet and morocco. This contained her mother's diamond collar; that her lavalliere; the emerald pendant was in the box of ivory velvet; the earrings and the antique diamond rings in the little round-topped casket, embossed and inlaid. Sliding her finger along the inner frame of the safe, she felt a k.n.o.b, and pressed it. One side of the receptacle clicked open, revealing an inner compartment.

Then panic seized her. She could never recall shutting the safe door and replacing the panel, the movements were automatic. She was out of the library and running down the corridor before she realized it. Once more in the sanctuary of her own room, she threw herself upon the bed, buried her face in the tumbled pillow and gasped for breath.

"What shall I do!--what shall I do!" she moaned aloud. "I'm afraid--Oh, I'm afraid!" like a little child crying in the night in the awful isolation of an empty house. Suddenly she sat up. The tears dried upon her curved lashes. Of course, of course--Mr. Gard, her friend, her mother's friend. The very thought of him steadied her. The terrified child of her untried self, vanished before the coming of a new and active womanhood. She thought quickly and clearly. "He would be at his office," she reasoned. "He had mentioned an important meeting. She would go there at once--cancelling her luncheon engagement on the ground of some simple ailment. Tante Lydia must not know. Once let Gard, with his master grip, control the situation, and she would feel safe as in a walled castle strongly defended. A tower of strength--a tower of strength." She repeated the words to herself as if they were a talisman.

She felt as if, from afar, her mother had counseled her. She would go to him. It was the right thing, the only thing to do.

VII

The morning of the fifth day since Mrs. Marteen's departure found Gard in early consultation in the directors' room of his Wall Street office, facing a board of directors with but one opinion--he must go at once to Was.h.i.+ngton. Strangely enough, the plan met with stubborn resistance from his inner self. There was every reason for his going, but he did not want to go. His advisers and fellow directors looked in amazement as they saw him hesitate, and for once the Great Man was at a loss to explain. He knew, and they knew, that there was nothing that should detain him, nothing that could by any twist be construed into a valid excuse for refusal. He amazed himself and them by abruptly rising from his seat, bunching the muscles of his jaw in evident antagonism and hurling at them his ultimatum in a voice of defiance.

"Of course, gentlemen, it is evident that I must go, and I will. The situation requires it. But I ask you to name someone else--the vice-president, and you, Corrighan--in case something arises to prevent my leaving the city."

Langley, the lawyer, rose protesting.

"But, Mr. Gard, no one _can_ take your place. It's the penalty, perhaps, of being what and who you are, but the honor of your responsibilities demands it. There is more at stake than your own interests, or the interest of your friends. There's the public, your stockholders. You owe it to them and to yourself to shoulder this responsibility without any 'ifs,' 'ands' or 'buts.'"

Gard turned as if to rend him. "I have told you I'll go, haven't I?

But--and there _is_ a but--gentlemen, you must select another delegate, or delegation, in case circ.u.mstances arise--"

Denning's voice interrupted from the end of the table. "Gard, what excuse is the only excuse for not returning one's partner's lead? Sudden death."

"Or when you _must_ have the lead yourself," snapped Gard. "I cannot go into this matter with you, gentlemen. The contingency I speak of is very remote--if it is a contingency at all. But I must be frank. I cannot have you take my enforced absence, if such should be necessary, as defalcation or a s.h.i.+rking of my duty--so I warn you."

"The chance is remote," Denning replied in quiet tones that palliated.

"Let us decide, then, who, in case this vague possibility should shape itself, will act as delegates. I do not think we can improve on the president's suggestion, but," and he turned to Gard sternly, "I trust the contingency is _so_ remote that we may consider it an impossibility for all our sakes, and your own."

Gard did not answer. In silence he heard the motion carried, and silently and without his usual affability he turned and left the room.

The others eyed each other with open discomfiture.