A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill
the hours, and ticking along so monotonously between times that one
almost forgot he was there.
If the Friday evening game was to him merely a habit, to Mr. Gooch it
was an occasion. Having once seated himself, and glanced around to
make sure his hand was not reflected in a mirror, he spread his cards
gingerly in his palm with only the corners visible, squared his jaw and
proceeded with solemnity to observe the full rigor of the game. There
was no trifling with points, or replaying of tricks. The marriage of
kings and queens was solemnized without rejoicing, and even the parade
of a royal sequence brought no flush of triumph to his cheek, but moved
him only to chronicle it in small, precise figures in a red morocco
note-book which he always brought with him for the purpose.
When Miss Lady came up to the study, after giving Bertie two encores to
“Jack the Giant Killer,” she found the men silently absorbed in their
game. Sitting on a hassock at the Doctor's side, she tried to follow the
detailed explanation that he gave during each deal. But the jargon
of “declarations,” and “sequences,” and “common marriages” soon grew
wearisome, and she found herself idly studying the Doctor's fine,
serious face, and listening for his low, flexible voice which
unconsciously softened when he spoke to her.
In spite of the fact that the study was very warm these sultry September
evenings, and the Doctor's mental strides much too long for her to keep
pace, she nevertheless looked eagerly forward to the hours spent there.
If at times she failed to follow his elucidations, or grew sleepy
reading aloud from some well-thumbed classic, it was not because her
admiration and respect for her husband were lessening. In fact, he was
always at his best at this time, surrounded by the books he knew and
loved, and expanding under the approbation of his one appreciative
listener. Here he reigned, a feudal lord, safe guarded in his castle of
books against that strange and formidable enemy, the World.
“Four aces, and pinocle,” announced Mr. Gooch with grim satisfaction.
Miss Lady rose restlessly and went to the window in the alcove. From
the parlor below came the strains of a waltz and snatches of laughter;
overhead the stars loomed big and white in the summer night. She thought
how strange and lonesome it must be out at Thornwood with the lights all
out and the windows nailed up. The little night things were singing in
the garden by this time, and the cool breezes were beginning to stir
the treetops. She wondered how Mike was getting along without her, and
a lump rose in her throat. She swallowed resolutely, and smiled
confidently up at the stars. Her married life was not in the least what
she had expected, but it would all work out for the best. To be sure,
nobody seemed to need her, nothing was required of her, but she would
make a place for herself, she _must_ make a place for herself. Perhaps
if she had something to do besides playing with Connie and her friends
all day, she would get over this feeling of uselessness, and this
haunting homesickness for the hills and valleys, for her horses and
dogs, and the old brick house among the trees.
Suddenly she caught her breath and listened:
“He's coming home,” Mr. Gooch was saying in the room behind her. “At
least, they've sent for him. Young Decker, who has just gotten back,
says Morley will come on a stretcher rather than have people believe
that he shot a man, then ran away. They had never heard a word of the
indictment.”
“As I expected,” the Doctor said, shuffling the cards. “When does he
return?”
“When he's able to travel, I suppose. Decker left him down with a fever
in a hospital in Singapore. He's done for himself, I am afraid.”
“Very probably,” said the Doctor. “Poor Donald! It's your lead.”
Miss Lady slipped behind the curtain, and steadied herself by the window
sill. Why had her heart almost stopped beating? Why was it beating now
as if it would strangle her? Why did the thought of Donald Morley lying
ill and friendless in a foreign hospital rouse every desire in her to go
to him at once at any cost? Waves of surprise and shame surged over her.
She heard nothing, saw nothing, save the fact that something she thought
was dead had come to life. She was wakening from a long numb sleep, and
the wakening was terrifying. What irremediable catastrophe had happened
between now and that supreme moment when she had stood under the lilacs
in the twilight with Donald Morley's arms about her, his breath on her
cheek, and his passionate plea: “Oh, if you only knew how I need you!
I'll be anything under heaven for your sake if you'll only stand by me!”
“My game,” said the Doctor. “Fortune has favored me. What became of
Miss Lady? The call of the young people down-stairs grew too strong, I
presume.”
Mr. Gooch, in a very bad humor over the loss of the last game, sullenly
packed his deck of cards in the case with the red morocco note-book and
made ready to take his departure. The Doctor automatically placed the
card table against the wall, arranged the chairs at their prefer angles,
straightened a book on his desk, and turned out the lights, leaving
a slim white figure with trembling hands and terror-stricken eyes,
cowering in the starlight behind the swaying curtains.
CHAPTER XIII
It was always an occasion of significance when Mr. and Mrs. Basil Sequin
found time in their busy lives to discuss a family matter. There was
no particular lack of interest on either side, it was simply that their
hours did not happen to fit. When he was not at his club, she was at
hers; when she was dining at home, he was detained at a directors'
meeting; when he went North to a Bankers' Convention, she went South to
attend a bridge tournament. So it was small wonder the butler, removing
the breakfast things, should have looked puzzled when Mr. and Mrs.
Sequin remained at table in earnest conversation.
Mr. Sequin was a thin, stooped man, prematurely old at fifty. The
harassed, driven expression that was so habitual to his face had plowed
furrows that no lighter mood could now erase. His present mood, however,
was not a light one. He sat with his hand shading his eyes, and scowled
gloomily at the tablecloth.
“I told you a month ago,” he was saying, “that you'd have to cut some of
the expenses on the new house. We've already gone twenty thousand over
the original estimate. There isn't a month now that our accounts are
not overdrawn. Nothing has been said directly, but it is known on the
street. Nothing will be said, as long as it is understood that I am to
have the management of the Dillingham estate at the general's death,
but if this estrangement should continue between Margery and Lee
Dillingham--”
“Now, Basil!” Mrs. Sequin cried dramatically, “don't for mercy's sake
take a nervous-prostration patient seriously. Margery is nothing but a
bunch of notions, and Cropsie Decker has gotten her all stirred up about
the injustice that has been done to Don. I won't even let her talk to
me about it, it's all so silly. What possible difference can it make who
did the shooting? The boys are well out of the scrape and it's almost
forgotten by this time. Young people who are engaged have to have
something to quarrel over; this won't amount to a row of pins. I am
going right on making preparations for an early spring wedding. By the
way, you know the bow window in the drawing-room? Well, I am having it
made four feet wider so they can be married there facing the loggia,
like this!”
Mrs. Sequin's two plump fingers did duty for the bride and groom, but
Mr. Sequin was not interested.
“I should not be surprised if Decker cabled Donald to come home. He's
in a great state of indignation over the fact that the blame was put on
Don. You see, it is all a fresh issue with them.”
“I'd be perfectly furious with Don,” declared Mrs. Sequin, “if he came
back and got into a quarrel with Lee. Margery will be sure to take his
part; she's always so silly about Don. If she were well enough I'd
be tempted to rush the wedding through before Christmas. But then, we
couldn't have it in the new house, and I have practically built that
first floor for the wedding. Everything depends on our having it there.”
“Everything depends on our having it somewhere!” said Mr. Sequin grimly.
“Mrs. Queerington's cook, madam, wishes to speak to you,” announced the
butler at the pantry door.
“Tell her to wait,” said Mrs. Sequin without turning her head. “What did
you decide about the decorator's estimates, Basil?”
“Decide? What time have I to be considering decorations? Why can't you
attend to it?”
“Why, indeed? I only have to attend to the alterations on the bow
window, look at the new sketches for the garage, have a shampoo and
massage, lunch at the Weldems', take Fanchonette to the veterinary, be
fitted at three, and go to the Bartrums' at five. By all means, I'll
attend to it. I'll give the order to Lefferan; he handles the most
exclusive designs.”
“That's what we want,” said Mr. Sequin, rising; “the most exclusive and
the most expensive. Our credit is good for a few months yet. Have the
small car at the bank at 6:30. I will not be home for dinner.”
Mrs. Sequin sighed as he slammed the front door. There was no use
denying the fact that men were trying, even the best of them. Hadn't
Cousin John Queerington, that paragon of perfection, toppled on his
pedestal at the smile of an unsophisticated little country girl? And
there was Basil, recognized as a veritable wizard of finance, waiting
until the new house was almost completed, then getting panicky about the
cost. And now Donald, whom she thought safely anchored on the other side
of the world, threatening to come home at the most inopportune time and
create no end of trouble!
“Excuse me, madam,” said the butler, “but she says she ain't going to
wait another minute.”
“Jenkins!” Mrs. Sequin raised her brows disapprovingly. “Send that
odious woman up to Miss Margery's room; I will see her there.”
The room above the dining-room was one of those pink-and-white jumbles
that convention prescribes for debutantes. Garlands of pink roses
festooned the paper, tied at intervals by enormous pink bows. Pink bows
and ruffles smothered the dresser and sewing table, and pink and white
cushions filled the window seat. Cotillion favors, old dance cards,
theater programs, were pinned to the heavy pink and white curtains that
shut out the sunlight. Among the lace pillows of the brass bed lay a
languid, pale-faced girl, who stared up at the rose-entwined ceiling, as
a prisoner might stare at her bars.
“Close the door, Myrtella,” Mrs. Sequin said as they entered. “I am
mortally afraid of drafts. Good morning, Margery. Where is your blue
hat? I told Miss Lady to send up for it, because I am going to take her
to the Bartrums' this afternoon and I simply could not have her appear
in that ridiculous little hat she wears all the time.”
The girl in the bed turned a fretful face toward her mother:
“Why, Miss Lady promised to spend the afternoon with me. I've been
looking forward to it for days.”
“Yes, I know, dear, but I told her you weren't quite so well, and that
she could come to-morrow. You see, she really can't afford to miss the
Bartrums' tea; it's the first entertainment this fall and everybody will
be there. I know you think Mrs. Bartrum a little gay, but you can't deny
she runs that younger set.”
Margery Sequin clasped her thin white hands tensely, and resumed her
study of the vine-covered ceiling.
“Here's the hat,” said Mrs. Sequin, handing a large hat box to Myrtella,
then noting her offended expression she added by way of propitiation: “I
don't know how they would get along without you at the Doctor's. I hear