THE DOUBLE BIRTHDAY
With June a renewal of life seemed to have come to the old White house. A riotous maple massed its vivid green canopy over a side door, tender young vines with small, tenacious fingers felt their way over its southern wall, an old-time peony at the corner of the porch lifted its enormous, bitter-sweet blossoms of deepest pink. A length of white matting lay on the porch, two neatly painted butter-tubs (in lieu of majolica jars) held plants, a few chairs and a table kept them company, and every wind that blew the white curtains in or out of the upper windows brought forth a ripple of laughter or a snatch of song. For the old house had received the gift of tongues, and spoke, not only with the voice of age and disappointment and regret, but with that of youth and hope and joy; and Dick's yellow throat, like a small golden ewer, poured forth trill and gurgle all day long in happy answer to all the delightful sounds about him. And two little paths were creeping through the thick-growing grass—one, leading up to the tangle of orchard and an oft-mended old hammock, had been worn by the feet of the sisters; the other, leading down to a side lane, was shorter but broader, for Lena's feet were sturdy, her step heavy, and her "mash-man's" whistle called her often to the lane in the twilight. So, with love flitting about the kitchen door and youth and beauty dreaming dreams in its ancient chambers, no wonder the White house seemed rejuvenated.
Sybil was happy—happy as she had never been before. Nothing definite had yet been decided beyond the fact that she was to begin her work in September. Mr. Thrall might let her play a small part in New York, or he might send her with a travelling company and let her have something better to start with. Meantime, he had advised her to learn several small parts, and when she had done so, swiftly and willingly, he told her it would be good practice for her to study a number of important characters, since she might be called upon to play a Jessica or a Nerissa, if not the difficult Portia, a Celia, if not a Rosalind; and it would give her an immense advantage if she were already familiar with the lines, while, if she had not to play any of them, she would herself be the richer for her knowledge and her brain would be trained to the habit of quick study.
Then Mrs. Van Camp, flattered by the popular actor's deferential attitude toward herself and his warily moderate admiration for Sybil—well he knew that any rapturous praise of her beauty would act as a danger-signal to the ancient butterfly of fashion—had not only consented to her god-daughter's going upon the stage, but for a birthday gift had lined her hungry little purse with crisp bank-notes, of modest denomination, it is true, but with power to free her from the care of things bodily and temporal for all that coming summer, and had added a note to her "very dear Letitia" earnestly requesting her "not to make a fool of herself!"
So Sybil, having passed the pocketbook over to Dorothy's management, knowing that she would get twice as much out of it, gave herself up to study and to dreams.
John Lawton's misty old eyes noted how she sweetened under this small ray of prosperity; missed the old sharpness from her tongue, the sting from her words; saw the increase in her beauty, and was tortured with shame that his child's happiness came to her from strangers. His wistful, apologetic eyes often hurt Sybil to the heart, and one morning, on her way to the orchard, play-book in hand, she saw him leaning against the grape arbor, gazing at her with such jealous pain in his face that suddenly she understood, and, throwing an arm about his neck, she exclaimed: "I am so happy, father, I just have to stop and thank you!" and she kissed him soundly.
He drew away a little, saying, incredulously: "Thank me? Your happiness does not come from me, poor little one; to my sorrow, dear—to my sorrow!"
"Not from you?" cried the girl. "Why—why, what could I have done without your consent, dada? That was the very corner-stone of my whole plan!"
His face brightened, then clouded again, as he asked, hesitatingly: "Supposing I—had—refused, daughter; would—would that have made any difference to you?"
"Oh, father!" cried Sybil, reproachfully, "you would have closed the incident with a vengeance—I could not have moved another step!" Seeing the troubled old face beginning to brighten, she laid her arm upon his shoulder, and added: "Everything depended on your word. No one wanted to help a girl who had not the backing of her own father. So, you see, all hung on your 'yes' or 'no,' dear!"
And the poor old gentleman, comforted and heartened up, kissed her and patted her back and told her, quite patronizingly, she should have had more confidence in his willingness to assist her, and, seeing she was studying Jessica that morning, he devoted himself to a careful reading of Shylock down under the monster willow. Thus Sybil, with passions and desires all sleeping, studied and dreamed, and wondered vaguely would she always be unknown, or would she, some day, some far away radiant day, be a crowned Queen of the Drama?
And to Dorothy—the patient, practical Dorothy, who knew to the hour how long a pound of tea would last; who knew to a spoonful how much sugar, salt, or baking-powder there was in the house—there had come a habit of musing, a trick of sudden and utter abstraction at the most improbable moments, when her hands would drop idly at her sides, and, gazing into space, she would wonder vaguely why all her anxieties, worries, and annoyances could be so swiftly drowned in the depths of a pair of gray eyes, whose steely look always darkened and softened when their owner spoke to her. For so swift is the blossoming of love when once the magic hour has struck, that already Leslie Galt, the friend of three weeks' standing, was her reliance and her ever-quoted authority.
Sybil quite understood the situation, and when she jibed gently at the girl's fits of abstraction, Dorothy would answer nothing, save with smile and blush and dimple, and surely they were eloquent enough.
John Lawton, considering his daughters as mere well-grown babes, saw nothing but a liking for himself in young Galt's visits, and Letitia's usually quick eyes were so dazzled by a certain jack-o'-lantern of her own discovery that she saw in the young man only a patient listener, whom she believed she was training to fetch and carry quite nicely.
The discordant note in all this melody of love was William Henry Bulkley. The overbearing, consequential manner, the fine raiment, and the red face and neck of the elderly beau aroused the imagination of Lena, and she named him "Dat Herr Gobbler-mans," and it was with ill-suppressed laughter and but half-hearted severity that Miss Dorothy called her to account for her disrespect; and Lena, somewhat sullenly, made answer that "she guessed she had youst as much respect for der Herr Bulkley as der Herr Bulkley has for himself. For her mash-mans, he knowed some tings about——"
"Lena!" interrupted Dorothy, warningly. "Lena!" And Lena, catching the laughing eyes of Sybil, grinned broadly back at her while in the very act of making her apologetic peasant bob to Dorothy, and murmuring: "Oxcuse me! I don't make mit der Herr Gobbler name, nein! no more!"
She retired to the kitchen, while the laughing Sybil inquired of Dorothy how much she thought she had gained by her lecture on propriety to the sharp little German girl.
'Twas well for all of them that Mrs. Lawton had not heard of the "Herr Gobbler" episode, for she alone approved of William Henry Bulkley, she alone greeted him warmly, effusively, and urged him to repeat his patronizing visits. She passed much of her time in trying to appraise at its exact value that long gloating look of admiration he had bestowed upon the fair Dorothy that day of his first visit to them, back in May. Like a very small cat in waiting for a very large mouse, she sat with unwinking eyes, with sharply alert ears, with every strained nerve ready, like a sensitive whisker, to warn her back from a dangerously tight place, and watched tensely, patiently watched, ready to spring upon the silky-coated, cheese-fed big mouse and drag him in triumph to the feet of her little white kitten, whom she would instruct to pat him judiciously, with velvet paw, or tear punitively, with sharp curved claws, just as pussy-mamma should think fit. Nothing in all Letitia Lawton's silly, superficial life had betrayed so completely her absolute selfishness as did this eager desire to secure a son-in-law in the person of William Henry Bulkley. Her knowledge of the man in the past, and the piteous picture her memory held of Mrs. Bulkley's pale, fast-thinning face, when, bravely hiding her wounded pride and slain affection, she received her sympathetically prying neighbors with uncomplaining chill courtesy, but such woful eyes, that they had withdrawn without daring to speak one word of condemnation against the man of whom a certain splendid infamy had but recently caused it to be said: "Why, his conduct brings a blush of shame to the cheek of impropriety's self!"
These memories should have filled her mother's heart with sick repulsion, but, instead, it was filled with fallacies. His conduct had not been quite what it should have been, perhaps, but then, no one knew—perhaps his wife had not been entirely faultless. She may not have been a suitable companion for so jovial and high-spirited a man. She had probably not known how to manage him. Now she herself had had no such trouble with her husband, though, of course, she had been a much prettier woman than had been the late Mrs. Bulkley. Then he had been a very wealthy man (Letitia's eyes gleamed at the thought), and much was to be forgiven to the wealthy, they were more tried and tempted than other men, and—and—oh, well! someone had said that a man had to break the heart of one wife before he learned how to care properly for a second one. Dorothy, too, was so young and unsuspicious that he would probably justify her sweet confidence in him, while she, Letitia, would keep her eyes very wide open. Not that she would ever interfere between husband and wife—not she! But still there could be no harm in keeping a mother's eye upon what was going on. And then, her very soul hungered after the unforgotten flesh-pots. She calculated to a nicety what William Henry would in common decency have to do for the parents of his bride. They could not be left in that shackly old White house, that was sure; and, of course, she would pay very long visits to her daughter, and—and assist her in guiding her household. Almost she felt the caressing touch of rich furs about her; in imagination she ordered "the brougham," and closely inspected the liveries of the men on the box; and, in fact, was so dazzled with the gleam of Mr. Bulkley's money, so a-hungered for the flesh-pots in his keeping, that she was almost blinded to the sin and shame and degradation that covered his moral character like a leprosy. Yet, not quite—surely not quite! Else why was she so silent as to her wild hopes? A secret she had never kept in all her life before! For years she had crowded the portals of John Lawton's unwilling ears with not only her own secrets but all those she could come by of other people's. Why, then, did she often catch herself up, in that expansive and confidential chat or monologue, peculiar to the marital chamber?
Why did she press her thin, rouge-tinted lips so closely and stop so suddenly every time she started to speak of a "splendid chance"? Whose "chance" was she thinking of, and why did she not complete her sentence?
John, slow John, began to wonder to himself. It was odd. All her married life Letitia had exalted herself—had proclaimed herself; her superiority, mentally and spiritually, had usurped the husband's authority; yet now it was that helpless, broken gentleman, whose pathetic eyes she shrank from meeting, into whose ears she dared not pour her shameful secret wish: to marry little Dorothy to William Henry Bulkley.
Slow and uncertain, foolishly trustful, weak as he had been in business matters, there was a certain austerity in John Lawton's moral character. His life had been singularly clean and wholesome. He had known how to resist the temptations that many men consider it rather "goody-goody" or "middle-class" to resist. The "high-roller" and the gambler he classed together, but the immoral married man was, to his old-fashioned belief, the man unspeakable! And that was why Letitia was learning to keep a secret! She, the tyrant, was afraid of her slave! So John Lawton was the only person in that house who was not dreaming dreams or weaving plans for the future! He was like a mossy stone, immovable, in the middle of a gentle stream. The water does not rush over it, but parts and races about it with touches of white caressing foam, then joins again below it and continues on in one united stream.
But this June day was a special one in the Lawton family, since on it fell the birthdays of both Mrs. Lawton and Sybil; a fact sufficiently unusual to justify the mentioning of it, according to Mrs. Lawton's ideas, though her doing so to such mere acquaintances as Mr. Galt and Mr. Bulkley covered the girls with mortification. "Poor Sybil!" said Dorothy, sympathetically, when the mother had mentioned the interesting coincidence to the second gentleman, "but don't mind, dear! Anyone can see you are innocent of—of——"
"Of giving a disgracefully broad hint! Oh, what is coming to mamma! Her pride—where is it? Poor papa simply tries to hide his needs, as mamma did formerly, at least from strangers. She would always demand help from any relative, but of late—oh, nothing is so humiliating as the hint direct! There's no use denying it, mamma reminds me of one of those creamy-white, fine silky sponges——"
"Oh, don't!" almost whispered Dorothy. "For truly, I'd a great deal rather hear her say boldly: 'Stand and deliver!'" At which both girls had broken into laughter.
Now Sybil, who had read his signs of love aright from the first, was greatly admired and honestly liked by young Galt, and he was quick to turn to her when he needed a friend at court. Sybil had noted the swift disappointment clouding his face when he learned that it was not Dorothy who shared the honors of the twenty-fifth of June with Mrs. Lawton. More, with swift intuition she had even guessed the exact gift he wished to offer her young sister; for, being very short of fans, Mrs. Lawton, when on dress parade, nearly always took Dorrie's little fan from her, with "Just for a moment, my dear," which moment generally reached to her final withdrawal, while the owner meantime crimped up a sheet of newspaper with which to fan her flushed cheeks or defend herself from the persistent fly. And Galt's brows would knit and his lips twitch nervously as he helplessly noted the need of his Violet Girl. So it was easy to guess, when Mrs. Lawton had, with joyous abandon, confided to him the date of the double birthday, that a fan for his adored was the first thought that sprang into his mind, and lo! the name of Sybil dashed all his hopes to flinders.
Though she laughed at his disappointed face, she felt sorry for him too, and determined to help him to his wish if possible, for she argued: "He simply can't help himself; he is forced to accept that coy hint—not more than a yard broad—of mamma's offering, but I think he is a gentleman sufficiently well-bred not to humiliate us with extravagant offerings, and he ought to have the pleasure of remembering Dorrie." So: "Mr. Galt!" she cried, "will you help me fasten up a bit of vine on the side of the house? It's just above my reach." And, as he obediently followed her, she continued: "Now, you may weep unobserved."
He looked frowningly at her, and she went on: "You are not going to deny your vexed disappointment, are you?"
A wry smile twisted his lips as he murmured: "I beg your pardon— I did not mean— I was not aware——"
"No, I suppose not," she laughed; "but you must better control your features or wear a good heavy veil, to hide them, after this."
"Good Lord! What an idiot you must think me," he said. "But honesty is the best policy, and I admit I want awfully to offer a certain trifle to Dor—to Miss Dorothy, and I fancied the opportunity had arrived, and—and——"
"And it hadn't!" laughed Sybil. "But see here, now, you don't know much about our family—you are a stranger to us."
"Oh! Miss Sybil!" gasped Leslie Galt. "That's downright cruel. You said the other day——"
"Do be still!" snapped Sybil, "and attend to what I am saying. You are—or you ought to be—a stranger yet to the Lawton family history. You have learned of a double birthday, and you wish to mark the occasion with some small remembrances; but, for the life of you, being a stranger, you can't remember which girl it is who shares the day with Mrs. Lawton, therefore——"
But Galt, with a whoop, had both her hands in his, crying, rapturously: "Oh, you angel! You angel! Of course I am uncertain, and so I have taken the liberty! Oh, what a blessed little brick you are!" and on that hint he acted.
So, on this twenty-fifth of June, many kisses had been exchanged, some piteously small gifts offered and joyously accepted. A few mixed roses, with very plenteous greens, were presented by the tremulous hand of John Lawton to his Letitia, but he had laid aside all the deep red ones, then made them into a knot, with thorns all carefully removed, and, as he kissed his first-born daughter on lip and brow and from his soul wished happy returns of the day, he laid them against her rounded throat, and said: "Because they are so like you, dear!"
Later in the day Leslie Galt drove up in the dusty old station hack, carrying in one hand his mandolin and in the other a basket of the choicest, rarest fruits, prettily decorated with vines and blossoms. These being accepted, he next brought forth two slim parcels in white wrappers—but standing before Mrs. Lawton, and suddenly conscious that Sybil's laughing eyes were upon him, he blushed and stammered and lied his lie, so redly, so confusedly, that anyone would have sworn he told the truth, and did not know which girl to congratulate. And Mrs. Lawton clapped her hands in juvenile delight, and gave consent to Dorothy's acceptance of the gift. "She really had no right to, naughty thing!"
And the boxes being opened revealed two little Empire fans: one a bit of scarlet gauze, gold flecked in sandal frame, and the other of cream-tinted silk, which some true artist's hand had showered thick with violets so heavenly blue, so mauve, so white, so real that involuntarily one bent to catch the perfume. No apportionment had been made at all, yet with a single blue gleam of an upward glancing eye, a swirl of color in a peachy cheek, Dorothy put out her hand unhesitatingly and claimed her own, thus proving that she knew herself to be the Violet Girl, and Sybil, fluttering her gay fan above her head, said, aside to Galt: "I suppose then, I am a sort of dahlia-girl or a—a—hibiscus-girl?" And he, being merry and light of heart because of that sweet, comprehending blue-eyed glance, caught up the mandolin and sang in answer: "My love is like the red, red rose!" At this Mrs. Lawton, speaking against a rather large portion of fruit which gave her words a somewhat muffled sound, remarked that "that used to be a very popular air in her own blooming days. She had been serenaded by it once; that is, those who serenaded her sang it; and a public singer—oh, mercy goodness!" coughed and choked the fruit-eater. Then, the unexpected pit having been ejected from her throat, she proceeded, with quite watery eyes—"A public singer, of no breeding at all, no offence meant to you, Sybil, though of course you will not be a singer—but she was stopping a few days next door, and if you'll believe me, that creature came to her window and bowed and smiled, when my serenaders sang: 'Red, red rose!' Her name, by the way, was Roze—with a z, you understand, not an s. Did you ever hear of anything more incredibly impertinent? Well, I was a very pretty woman in those days! Sybil, here, is almost my exact image—not quite so rich in coloring, perhaps, even now. You may have noticed my color is good for a poor buried-alive creature who knew only luxury in the past and knows only penury in the present. I'm sorry I ate the last of those strange Japanese plums; I meant to save one to show to John. Yes, that's right, practice a little, my dears—as much as you like—but—but if that is what you are going to do I won't urge this fruit upon you—it's fatal to the voice."
And thus it was that Sybil took her place at the piano—which she hated—and played accompaniments stumblingly but cheerfully, because she knew that, to the pair behind her, singing together thus unobserved by others was as the joy of Paradise.
And finally it was upon the picture of Leslie Galt, bending over and half encircling Dorothy with his arm, as he tenderly placed her unaccustomed little hands in position to hold the mandolin correctly, that William Henry Bulkley stumbled, and stood and glared and mentally swore. Loaded with gifts whose expense made their acceptance a humiliation, he had, without hesitation, included Dorothy in his list of recipients, and oddly enough he too presented a fan—a gorgeous affair of white ostrich plumes mounted on sticks of carved white pearl; and when Mrs. Lawton had rather sharply commanded its acceptance by the reluctant girl, Sybil remarked, sweetly: "It is so beautiful, and will be so useful when you attend balls or the opera, my dear! I suppose you will hardly care to carry it with a white linen gown to church, will you?" And truly Mr. Bulkley could have strangled her. The men understood each other in an instant, and each measured the other swiftly and savagely. Leslie Galt, who was supposed to be a very poor young lawyer, yielded not one inch before the old friend-of-the-family air of the wealthy visitor, and held his place by his Violet Girl's side as long as it was possible. He was quick to recognize Mrs. Lawton's efforts to throw Dorothy and Bulkley together, and he was filled with a sick rage as he saw the blasé old eyes greedily devouring the innocent loveliness of the girl he adored.
This undercurrent of concealed hatred made itself so plainly felt that no one was sorry when the little party broke up. Mr. Bulkley, after using a heavy gold-handled pocket knife in cutting some cord from his parcels, had left it on the piano. As he was leaving he remembered it and thought to secure a few moments alone with Dorothy, so he paused at the porch-step and with amazing ill-breeding called familiarly to Dorothy to bring his knife to him. But Leslie Galt, black-browed, took the knife from her a moment, and, going to Mr. Bulkley, said, as he extended it to him: "Permit me to be your servant, sir, for this occasion!"
For a moment they glared at each other, then Bulkley went his way, saying to himself: "The impudent young upstart!" while Galt turned back, muttering, with curling lip: "Gross old animal!"
And when Mrs. Lawton had moaned several times that she "did not know—no, she was sure she did not know—what was the matter with dear Mr. Bulkley that day," Sybil, on mischief bent, whispered to Galt: "Do you know what is the matter with him, by any chance?"
And the young man's eyes were very hard and bright as he replied, slowly: "Yes, I know what is the matter with him," and then, with a grim smile, he added, "just as well as he knows what is the matter with me!"