CHAPTER IX
Dolores need have felt no anxiety over what she should say. Mrs. Cabot said everything—and more.
“You philanthropists, will you ever get enough? Or aren’t there that many?”
The short-lipped, mouse-toothed, childlike smile with which she turned from her pastor to settle her hat in the mirror was reflected toward them. At the door she bowed composedly to Dolores and gave Dr. Willard her hand.
“In return for your wise counsel over my domestic troubles, dear doctor, the favor you ask is small. Trust me. I’ll steal upstairs, as if overwhelmingly attracted by the music. But remember—you have assured me that you like the quality of her singing voice only because some one else does not like the super-quality with which she speaks.”
After she had gone, Dr. Willard sank into the padded leather chair and gazed out the window. He looked disturbed; bit his lip, as if trying to control vexation; waggled his right foot as he was wont to do when nervous.
Dolores crossed the room, hesitated a moment before him, then sank upon the hassock placed conveniently in front of his chair.
“Scold me—I’d rather you would!” she exclaimed, a catch in her voice. “I shouldn’t have burst in on your conference that way, but I just couldn’t help it. I was so angry that I—I——”
“Angry? You, my child?”
So cleared of all vexation were the yellow-brown eyes bent to her imploring look, that Dolores began to stammer out the cause of her agitation. When her head dropped to her hands upon his knee, he reached out and patted her on the shoulder, very, very kindly.
“Poor orphan. Poor child,” he encouraged her. “I am indignant that such a scene could be forced upon an inexperienced girl within these walls. No matter how great may be Deacon Brill’s influence in the temporal affairs of the church, I shall bring him to book in my own time and my own way. Do not fear to tell me all.”
Dolores told him.
Shaken from her usual reticence, she also told him of her feeling of aloneness since her father had died and the positive fear that was growing in her—fear of the world and its ways.
“Perhaps,” she suggested, “the unpleasant things which have happened to me are partly my own fault.”
“Your fault? You feel you have faults?” A glint lighted the agate gaze as he questioned her.
“I lack,” she confessed, “religion. It was left out of my life. My father was, I think, embittered against it. He was very good to me, but he didn’t send me to Sunday school any more than to public school. Perhaps if he had, I’d have grown up more like other girls—more self-reliant, less afraid.”
“And less yourself,” he objected. “You have, I think, remarkable self-control.”
“You don’t know how glad I am to hear you say so, Dr. Willard. That has been my only religion—self-control. It is very strange that a person to whom I never spoke—whom I never saw but once—gave me the ambition to learn it.”
At his show of interest, Dolores recited the incident. “I was quite a small girl, eight or nine, I guess. My father had left me to wait in a railway station one day. I was worried because often he—because I was afraid we’d miss our train. There was a lady sitting near me, also waiting. I took to watching her.
“She was attractive and wore nice clothes. I became fascinated by the way she breathed, not out and in, as I had supposed all people did, but up and down. The lace jabot on her breast would move up and down, up and down. Of course, as I grew older, I realized that she breathed that way from tight lacing. But at the time it seemed to me more refined than the common way. And then I saw that she was going to sneeze. I’ve always hated to see people sneeze—they make such a fuss. But this lady prepared. She was quite calm. The jabot lifted high with the breath she took. At the vital moment she was ready.”
“And did she sneeze, my poor child?”
“Oh, yes, doctor, but so neatly. She just leaned out and did it without any fuss at all. Afterward, she didn’t sniff or even wipe her eyes. She was very wonderful. I often think of her.”
Shyly Dolores glanced up to see if the great intelligence had anticipated her point.
“The station was draughty. When my turn came, I breathed up and down and prepared. I made up my mind to sneeze the lady’s way. And I did. And afterward, the ambition to sneeze her way applied to other things—decided me to take the draughts of life neatly—to be prepared and make no fuss. I try and try, Dr. Willard. But I guess self-control is not enough. Don’t you think people would understand me better if I had your religion? Is it too late for me to learn it now?”
“Emphatically not, you fatherless child.” The doctor apparently had been touched by her conversational offering. Real feeling quivered on the face bent over hers. “And there are other comforts it is not too late for you to learn. Lean your lonely heart against mine. Let me teach you a father’s love.”
“If you would—oh, if you only would!” She seized his hands and pressed one cheek against them. “It is so easy to learn from one you absolutely trust.”
“Don’t trust anyone absolutely. I fear at times that your rating of me is too high.” Humility tore from her reverential regard the pastor’s eyes, although his hands shook with appreciation of her praise. “Remember how everything finite that goes up must come down. Only the soul can ascend and stay on high. The flowers that lift their heads to bloom must wither and die. The lightest feather in the most buoyant breeze eventually returns to the earth from which it blew.”
“But it is my soul you will exalt, dear Dr. Willard.”
At her reminder, one of his hands moved to where its palm fitted over the ball of her shoulder.
“Let me be a father to you. Yes, let me be a father to you,” he kept repeating. The while, his palm pressed her shoulder, began to move around and around.
“And you’ll teach me your religion?”
Dolores’ head threw back in exhilarating hope. As one performs small acts in the largest moments, she plucked a long, silver-gold hair off the black cloth of his coat. In the same motion, despite her boasted control of impulse, her hand continued around his neck.
“My religion, child? I’ll gladly teach if you—if you care to learn,” he responded, drawing her to him in a close and closer embrace.
“It means safety to me—everything. You won’t find me dull. I believe I shall learn readily from you.”
“I believe—you could.” The palm over the ball of her shoulder pressed harder; moved faster. “But, dear daughter, don’t place me or any man upon too high a pedestal, lest we fall—lest we fall.”
“I am sure——” To avoid contradicting her mentor, the pupil altered the form of her statement. “I hope that you never will fall.”
“And I hope—you don’t get—that hope!”
With the hoarse exclamation, Dr. Willard rose to his feet, drew the girl after him and clutched her with a vehemence that made them stand as one. Before she could draw away her face or realize that suddenly she was again afraid, she felt his mustache against her cheek.
“We’ll seal the bargain, my child. Just the kiss of a father—the kiss of a father,” he rasped close to her ear.
The insult crushed upon her mouth was not, however, fatherly. The unequal struggle started by it was of no spiritual excitation. How she wrenched herself away from him; how he headed off her rush toward the door; how she eluded his clutching pursuit in and out among the other young animals he had trapped; how she escaped from their stumble over the couchant lynx, left him panting on the floor, ran screaming like the hunted thing he had made of her into the corridor and up the first flight of stairs——
The full horror of what had happened did not come to her until she stood before the astonished music committee. Her hair dishevelled, her waist torn open down the front, her discretion in shreds, she flamed upon them.
“When even a minister of the gospel can’t be trusted, where—where am I to go?”
That Mrs. Cabot still was with them further unnerved her. Collapsing into a chair, struggling with hysteria, she sobbed out her denunciation. When able to look among the faces of the group gathered about her, she saw that all were grave excepting two. Mrs. Cabot looked entertained, Mr. Brill triumphant.
The manner that befits an occasion gave the deacon greater weight as he turned to address his colleagues.
“Brothers, I have long suspected that the feet of the god set up by this congregation are of clay. I hesitated to voice so distressing a thought, lest I err. None of you, however, can doubt the testimony just heard and seen. The hardest-hearted of you can have only pity for the courageous young woman who has exposed this aide of the Evil One. Dumbfounded though you may be, I ask you to act with me now—at once. There is not space within these hallowed walls to house both him and me. Five minutes should give him time to choose between a church trial or immediate resignation. In either case, it is important that we give the news to Park Row at once, before he who is so fond of sensation has time to discredit us. Brothers, shall we wait upon the pastor in the sanctum which he has so disgraced?”
While the honest laymen of All Mankind discussed this drastic proposal, Brill addressed himself to the girl.
“A man can scarcely be expected to understand the outraged state of your feelings, Miss Trent. But at least I realize that you must shrink from the idea of facing that wolf in sheep’s clothing again. I’ll send your wraps up here. Also, it seems to me inadvisable for your own sake that you remain in the employ of the church. In this envelope I have sealed the equivalent of a month’s wages.... Oh, do not hesitate to take it! Notice or money is due a dismissed employee.”
Glancing over-shoulder and seeing that the committee had congregated near the door in animated argument, he made his considerable figure the silencer of a low-voiced apology.
“Sorry I teased you about the cigarette, little girl. I had an object which you did not at the time suspect—to discover, through you, more about that scoundrel. I was trying you out, just as the soprano was being tried out upstairs, to see whether he had got you into the bad habit of smoking. Didn’t blame you at all when you scratched and bit, so you mustn’t hold it against me. You appear to be a young woman of sterling character—a mighty good little girl.”
Bending and beaming, he patted her on the head. The eyes wontedly so nondescript above the billowy face and cascade of chins, squinted through their double lenses benevolently.
“You’ll be wanting other employment,” he added in still lower tones, as if not wishing his right hand to know. “Now, I advise something of a—well, you know, of a little more secular nature. Take this card, my dear. See that you arrive at the address on it about ten to-morrow morning. Perhaps I’ll be able to find you a berth where I can keep a friendly eye on you. You’ll come?”
As he waddled out in the wake of his peers, Dolores heard him continue: “About that matter of the soprano, brothers, I withdraw my objection. Trouble often brings a change of heart and I feel that we should stand together now in all things. Especially since Sister Cabot is so decided in her agreement with you, I’ll try to enjoy the young lady’s voice, although I still think her too old for that churchly, newly-awakened-soul effect. I always hold myself open to conviction.”
She also overheard his throaty chortles over the taunt of Mrs. Cabot: “To younger and prettier convictions, you mean, Deacon?”
Alone, Dolores stared dazedly down at the envelope and card she held. Things happened so suddenly, once they began, she thought. Only this morning she had chided herself for discontent with her settled state. Now everything was unsettled again. As she had cried out to the committee, what manner of man dared she trust?
One of them had answered. The card——
Up to the light she held it. Upon it was engraved the name and downtown business address of Deacon Brill himself.
“You’ll come?” he had asked, voice, eyes, billows exuding loving kindness.
Even more urgently she asked herself: “Shall I go?”
Next morning Dolores bought all the papers, determined to learn the worst. Several of the more conservative merely mentioned that the Rev. Dr. Alexander Willard had resigned the pastorate of the Church of All Mankind. One suggested significant detail behind the surprising act. Still another stated that the Eminent Divine would demand an ecclesiastical trial and introduced the name of the young secretary whom he, disregarding a certain premonishing contretemps, had sheltered within his church home.
The most sensational journal of all uncovered a photograph of the young lady in the case and reviewed the lingerie-shop scandal referred to by the discredited clergyman. This was featured beneath the heading:
TOO STRONG FOR
DR. NIMROD’S SPORTING BLOOD
Would the denomination he had served allow his reputation to be charred by the brand he had tried so conscientiously to pluck from the burning? So Rev. Willard was quoted as having demanded in an exclusive interview. Would any fair-minded congregation take, against his, the word of an adventuress who so lately had been the example for a reform movement instituted by one of their most prominent parishioners, Mr. John Cabot? Was he to be blamed that he had assumed the sincerity of All Mankind’s ideals and had sought to make his charity wide as its word? To save himself for sake of future good that he might do, he would reveal, if forced, the overtures toward him of this unholy creature. As a sacred duty he would show his world which of the two was more sinned against than sinning.
“A menace to men”—as such Dolores Trent was pointed out by the reprimanding finger of the press.
Deacon Brill’s threat of Park Row had swerved from the sheep-clothed wolf to her. Whether or not Dr. Willard lost his pulpit, the harm to his secretary already was done.
In the little room found for her by her quandam benefactor, a room in whose chintz-hung cosiness she had delighted, Dolores decided upon her immediate course. There were young daughters in the family of the poor parishioner. For their sakes, she would “fold her tents” before asked to do so and, silently as she might, steal away. Thanks to savings from her salary and that final payment in lieu of “notice,” she was more affluent than ever before in her life. She would go, then. But where?
Opening her purse, she took out a business card and considered it as well as its kind-spoken donor. She would come? That had been Deacon Brill’s last question. In the absence of alternative——
With sudden decision, she tore the card into bits and flung them into the waste basket. Probably she didn’t understand men—that had been her thought. But she did understand and did believe in the up-floating purity of the voice of that soprano who had gone to dinner with the music committee’s over-fleshed chairman—the young lady who wouldn’t do.
No alternative?
The moment she cast aside what had seemed her only chance, she found another in her fingers. Almost had she forgotten the address given her by Patrolman Donovan O’Shay and tucked away in her purse. For weeks she had not thought of his “near-French” friend, Madame Marie Sheehan. Discounted by distance was her reason for postponing a visit to the employment office. Since her own judgment seemed always wrong, she would try the policeman’s. She would check herself in her “satchel” until the fates, “née Mary Shinn,” should see fit to provide.
“Madame’s” French certainly was bad. There were advantages, however, in the long lapses between the selection of one word and her advance to the next. Dolores had ample time to translate the high-voiced utterances overheard from the inside room.
“Ah, but no! I fit the applicant to the position, not the position to the applicant. So long you have been lacking the employment. So quite joyful should you be for anything. The call for companions is rare, very. One, two, three applicants have I booked before that you come. This position I so kindly extend——”
“I tell you, nothing doing!” the interruption came in emphatic, current American. “I was a governess two days once. I tell you I’d rather try the streets. Children ain’t human beings. They’re devils, say I.”
“The devil? Ah, but no, no! More unto an angel is this exquisite child. Could you once see those curls of gold, those turquoise eyes! The parents are from money made and them I have promised a governess to-day.”
“Well, you redeem your promise at the expense of somebody else. I’ll be back to-morrow for my job. Good day to you, Madame Shinn!”
If the sneer of this would-be companion, thought Dolores, was a sample of her companionableness, small wonder that she was out of a position.
No hesitation held the girl in waiting. Ignorant of the rules of such offices, unmindful of the dour-visaged hope-lorn awaiting their turn on the benches of the outer room, she brushed past the departing aspirant into madame’s presence.
“Won’t you let me have that position?” she asked in lieu of introduction. “I love children. I know I’d suit. I don’t care so much about the pay or——”
“So too fast you go!” interrupted née Shinn. “You look but the infant yourself. And the qualifications——”
“Of course you couldn’t be expected to know it yet, dear madame, but I am qualified. As for education—Listen, I shall speak in three languages!” Under impetus of the unwonted initiative ruling her, Dolores switched from English to French, then to Italian as she urged: “I am young, yes, but that is why I need a home. And what companionship would be safer for me than that of a child such as this golden-haired little girl you describe? Once madame was as young as I. Was she ever, perchance, alone in the world?”
“Mademoiselle is marvelously a linguist,” admitted Mrs. Shinn, although confusion from more than the foreign words sat upon her broad features. “Have you also the excellent references?”
Momentarily the girl’s new-found assurance stumbled. Then again was she inspired.
“I have, indeed, a par-excellent one.”
Her Spanish—a creditable attempt at a fourth language—may not have been comprehensible to the agency woman, but Donovan O’Shay’s scribble was. A good-natured smile waved in like a flag her native tongue.
“A friend of Don’s are you, then, my chérie? Sure, if you’re as good as that boy’s heart, you’re O. K.!”
Motherly instructions and penciled directions followed Dolores’ payment of the fee. If she’d just “speak up,” now, to Mrs. M. P. Morrison of No. —— Fifth Avenue as she had to madame herself, she stood a chance of overcoming natural objections to her youth and inexperience.
The glow of anticipated victory did not leave Dolores’ face at first sight of Mrs. Morrison’s mansion, although it was something of a shock. Nothing should frighten her now. She had made one friend—a woman friend. She might—she must make another.
Briskly as though prepared for the block-front display of lawn, unusual even on this avenue of extravagance, she turned in through the center gateway. Under the bare trees which she knew to be so costly a luxury, she hurried, as if fearful that some late-clinging leaf might mistake her importance and honor her head. Past clumps of drying hydrangeas, past a fountain which still defied the freeze of winter with rainbow spray, past a marble dryad of a cynical smirk afterwards acutely remembered, she found herself confronted by a well-balanced marble pile. Without a pause, lest trepidation weaken her, she descended the steps to the ground-floor entrance and pressed the bell.
An elderly gentleman, of such distinguished appearance that she felt he must be the master of the house himself, opened the door. After inspection of Madame Sheehan’s card, he escorted her across a galleried entrance hall of a luxury and loftiness well-nigh incredible. At the rear, he threw open the door of a small parlor, cheerful from its window-boxed blooming geraniums. Mrs. Morrison would be down, he told her.
Dolores’ wait was not long. The tap-tap of high heels upon the marble foyer outside brought her to her feet. She “spoke up” according to instructions and tried to recall the assurance which had carried her past the rules—and the French—of née Shinn. She stressed her education and the “way” she was said to have with children, especially with little girls.
The more she talked, however, the more serious looked the woman whom she hoped to make her friend.
“I am afraid,” said Mrs. Morrison, “that the case has been misrepresented. Strange, when I explained to Madame Sheehan myself, on my trip among the agencies this morning! The child for whom I need a governess is not a girl and has anything but the amiable disposition accredited to him.”
“Madame’s French must have misled me.” Dolores chose to ignore the particulars of “those curls of gold, those turquoise eyes,” evidently mere chimera of a Hibernian imagination. At the suggestion of failure she all the more craved success. “It does not especially matter that he is not a girl. He is a child, isn’t he?”
Mrs. Morrison glanced rather suspiciously at her. “I don’t know. The last governess called him a fiend. You are different from the sort we have had and expected again. I scarcely know what to say. You look a sweet-dispositioned girl, but are very young. Perhaps I’d better leave the decision to——”
Laughter and spirited repartee in the voices of a man and a woman sounded pleasantly from the hall. They seemed to decide her. She arose; crossed to the door; paused briefly to say: “His mother has just come in from her ride. Perhaps she will speak with you.”
“His mother? But—I thought—that you——”
Dolores, again alone, began to understand. Of course Mrs. Morrison was the housekeeper. That explained the first-floor parlor, the neat black taffeta of her dress and her subdued manner. A third application for the coveted position must be made.
When, next moment, the door was pushed wide, she did not rise. She had not the strength. A woman in a smart habit of black velvet coat and white cloth breeches had clattered in, crop in hand.
“Master Jack’s mother will speak with you, Miss Trent,” introduced the housekeeper.
Still Dolores found her limbs weaker than her will. She clung to both arms of the chair and waited for the real sponsor for the “fiend-child” to speak.
She—the mother—was Mrs. Cabot.