II
It was a superb September morning, warm and still. The windows of the dining room were open as they sat at breakfast, and Cousin Winnie saw white butterflies out in the neat little garden. Most lovely perfumes drifted in, fresh-cut grass and pine needles, and the very last roses; and from the kitchen came another current, warmer, like a Gulf Stream, and less romantic, but beautiful, made of the aromas of pancakes, maple sirup, bacon, and coffee.
The sun shone in; everything was good, and right, and Cousin Winnie was happy. Her mail, too, was satisfactory. She had a letter from a jealous and spiteful cousin in California, who insinuated that Cousin Ronald was growing old, and falling prey to certain unscrupulous relatives.
The injustice of this really flattered Cousin Winnie. Nobody could have been less designing than she. The arrangement was entirely of Cousin Ronald’s making; he had sought them out, in their cozy little flat in New York, where they had managed well enough with the aid of Lucy’s salary as an assistant librarian.
They had been glad to come, but it was nothing like so dazzling a situation as the spiteful cousin in California imagined. The financial compensation was very modest. Very! Cousin Ronald was no spendthrift.
And there was a great deal of work to be done in this cottage which was so charmingly old fashioned. Still, Cousin Winnie was glad she had come, because, for all Cousin Ronald’s distinction, his literary attainments, she thought he was pathetic. She glanced up from the spiteful cousin’s letter, to enjoy the heart-warming spectacle of the poor man eating buckwheat cakes.
But he was not eating at all. He was staring before him with unseeing eyes.
“Is anything the matter, Cousin Ronald?” she asked, anxiously.
“Er—no, no,” he answered. “That is—nothing wrong with this most excellent breakfast, my dear Winnie. But—er—but—er—”
“Did you say ‘butter,’ Ronald?”
“No, no, thank you. I have received a letter. I fear I must ask you to excuse me, Winnie.” He arose. “I—I am perturbed!” he added. “I must be alone for a time.”
He gathered together his letters, most of which he had not yet opened, and went out of the dining room, into his study. He locked the door, and sat down before his desk.
“Merciful Powers!” he murmured.
The blow had fallen. Mme. Van Der Dokjen was most hideously threatened.
Again he read the fatal letter.
Dear Mr. Phillips:
Having heard of your interest in Colonial history, and particularly in Mme. Van Der Dokjen, I feel sure you will be pleased to learn that I have discovered a letter written by her to an ancestor of mine—a certain Ephraim Ordway, captain in General Washington’s army.
Apparently Mme. V. took a pretty lively interest in Captain Ordway, and the letter may provide an amusing sidelight upon the lady’s history.
If you would care to see it, I shall be glad to bring it to you some day.
Very truly yours,
Stephen Ordway.
“This,” said Cousin Ronald to himself, “is blackmail. ‘An amusing sidelight—!’ Merciful Powers!”
On a shelf before him stood a copy of “Mme. Van Der Dokjen and Her Milieu,” chastely bound in gray and gold. As frontispiece there was a portrait of her, smiling; but how dignified, how superb! “An amusing sidelight!”
“Of course I shall write to this fellow, and bid him bring his letter,” thought Cousin Ronald. “But I’ll have to pay. Heaven knows what I shall have to pay!”
It was a truly horrible situation, for it combined the two greatest fears of his soul; the fear of injury to Mme. Van Der Dokjen, and the fear of spending much money. Because, as was mentioned before, Cousin Ronald was no spendthrift.
It was with the object of obtaining temporary relief from these painful matters that he opened his other letters. But instead of relief, here were more blows. It was the beginning of the month, and all the other envelopes contained bills—for groceries, for meat, for vegetables, for laundry. He added them together, and was appalled. He knew what it had cost Mme. Van Der Dokjen to run this house; this was five times as much.
For a moment, a sort of desperation seized upon him. He saw his hard earned—by his father—money being squandered and dissipated upon all sides. He saw himself paying these bills, and buying the com[Pg 422]promising letter, and being left a ruined man.
“Merciful Powers!” he cried, with a groan.
Then he arose, and went to Cousin Winnie, and told her that he was a ruined man.
In that chapter on Mme. Van Der Dokjen “During the War,” he had written with a certain eloquence about her benevolence, and about womanly sympathy in general; he had praised it, but not before had he encountered it. And he found it even sweeter than he had believed.
He and Cousin Winnie had a long talk. He assured her that he was confiding in her. To tell the truth, he told her nothing, but he spoke of his “troubles” in a large, vague fashion, he begged her to help him to economize. And she pitied him.
Lucy pitied him, too. But she was of a somewhat more practical nature.
“If he’s ruined,” she said, “it seems to me that we’d better go back to the city, and I’ll get another job. And at least we’ll have hot baths, and electric lights, and enough to eat.”
“I could not leave your Cousin Ronald now,” her mother declared, solemnly. “He says that any day now he will know. And then we can decide.”
“Know what?” asked Lucy.
“Know the worst,” her mother replied.
“Nothing,” said Lucy, “could be worse than this.”
Indeed, matters were bad, very bad. A black shadow lay over the household. Every morning Cousin Ronald came to the breakfast table, with a stern, set face, opened his letters, looked at Cousin Winnie, and said “Nothing!” She knew not what fateful news he expected, but she dreaded it, and yet wished it would come, that the blow would fall, the suspense be ended.
In the meantime, she did her utmost to aid the stricken man. Her economies were heroic. No need to detail them here. She grew thinner and paler, but she did not falter. Cousin Ronald told her frequently that he did not know what he could do without her coöperation, and that was a spur to the willing horse.
She did not like her child to endure all this, though. Again and again she urged Lucy to go back to the city, but Lucy refused. She would not leave her mother, and she, too, was sorry for Cousin Ronald; quite as sorry as her mother, though in a different way. In her eyes he was not the distinguished and admirable figure Cousin Winnie thought him; he was simply a “poor, funny old darling.” So, she remained, also waiting for the blow.
But no one suffered as did Cousin Ronald. He had written at once to this Stephen Ordway, requesting him to bring the letter at his “earliest convenience.” No answer came; days went by, and Cousin Ronald wrote again. He waited and waited, in growing anguish. What, he asked himself, could be the reason for this silence? Awful fancies came to him.
His publishers wrote, asking if they might expect the manuscript of his new book in time for their spring list. He knew not how to reply. He dared not publish anything further about Mme. Van Der Dokjen while that letter was at large.
One night he had a dream. He dreamed that he went into Brentano’s, to look at his book—“A Historic Cottage”—which had just been published, in gray and gold, like the former volume. He was, in his dream, examining this volume with justifiable pleasure, when his eye fell upon another book beside it—a slim little book in a scarlet jacket—“The Lady and the Soldier—An Amusing Sidelight Upon Mme. Van Der Dokjen.”
It was a frightful dream, from which he awoke, cold and trembling.
“Whatever he asks, I’ll pay it!” he thought. “But—Merciful Powers! It may be a sum beyond the very bounds of reason.”
Still, he would pay. He would not see this noble woman held up to the world’s ridicule. Whatever the cost, he would pay.
And, until he knew the cost, every cent must be saved. Very well; every cent was saved. Cousin Winnie assisted him in this. He waited. They all waited.