Six weeks ago Mrs. Shackleton’s letter would have represented no more to her than what its words expressed. Now, she saw Bessie’s anxiety to be rid of her, to push her out of sight as a menace. How much more readily would the widow have gone to work, with what zest of alarm and energy, would she have contrived for her expulsion, had she guessed what Mariposa knew. The girl vacillated for a day, hating the thought of an interview with any member of the family whose wrongs to her beloved mother were seared scars in her brain; but finally concluding that it would be better to end her connection with them by an interview with Mrs. Shackleton, she answered the letter, stating that she would come at the appointed hour.
Two days later, at the time set in the afternoon, she stood in the small reception-room, to the left of the wide marble hall, waiting. The hushed splendor of the house would have impressed and awed her at any other time. But to-day her heart beat loud and her brain was preoccupied with its effort to keep her purpose clear, and yet not to be angered into revealing too much. The vast lower floor was loftier and more spacious than anything she had ever seen before. There were glimpses through many doors, and artificial elongations of perspective by means of mirrors. The long receding vista was touched with gleams of light on parquet flooring, reflections on the gray surfaces of mirrors, the curves of porcelain vases, the bosses of gilded frames. Over all hung the scent of flowers, that were massed here and there in Chinese bowls.
Bessie’s step, and the accompanying rustle of brushing silks, brought the girl to her feet, rigid and cold. The widow swept into the room with extended hand. She was richly and correctly garbed in lusterless black, that sent out the nervous whisperings of crushed silks and exhaled a faint perfume. It was impossible to ignore the hand, and Mariposa touched it with her own for a minute. She had seen Bessie only once before, on the evening of the opera. The change wrought in her by grief and illness was noticeable. Her fine, healthy color had faded; her eyes were darkened, and there were many deep lines on her forehead and about her mouth. Nevertheless, a casual eye would have still noticed her as a woman of vigor, mental and physical. It was easy to understand how she had stood shoulder to shoulder with her husband in his fight for fortune.
She motioned Mariposa to a chair facing the window, and studied her as she glibly accomplished the commonplaces of greeting. Her heart drew together with a renewed spasm of jealousy as she noted the girl’s superiority to her own daughter. What subtly finer qualities had Lucy had, that her child should be thus distinguished from the other children of Jake Shackleton? The indignation working against this woman gave a last touch of stateliness to poor Mariposa’s natural dignity of demeanor. She seemed to belong, by nature and birth, to these princely surroundings, which completely dwarfed Maud, and even made the adaptive Bessie look common.
“My husband,” said the elder woman, when the beginnings of the conversation were disposed of, “was very much interested in you. He knew your father, Dan Moreau, very well.”
Mariposa was becoming used to this phrase and could listen to it without the stare of surprise, or the blush of consciousness.
“So Mr. Shackleton told me,” she answered.
“Your father”—Bessie looked down at the deeply-bordered handkerchief in her hand—“was a man of great kindliness and generosity. Mr. Shackleton knew him in the Sierras, mining, a long time ago, when he”—she paused, not from embarrassment, but in order to choose her words carefully—“was very kind to my husband and others of our party. It was an obligation Mr. Shackleton never forgot.”
Mariposa could make no answer. Shackleton had never spoken to her with this daring. Bessie looked at her for a response, and saw her with her eyes on the ground, pale and slightly frowning. She wanted to sweep away any possible suspicion from the girl’s mind by making her understand that the attitude of the family toward her rose from gratitude for a past benefit.
“Mr. Shackleton,” she went on, “often talked to me about his plans for you. He wanted to have you study in Paris, under some teacher Lepine spoke to him about. I understand you’ve got a remarkable voice. I wanted, several times, to hear you, but it couldn’t seem to be managed, living in the country, and always so busy. In his sudden—passing away, all these plans came to an end. He hadn’t regularly arranged anything. There were such a lot of delays.”