A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill
“You're right, Myrtella,” said Miss Lady, her face grown suddenly grave.
“I don't wonder you are ashamed of me. Perhaps some good hard work will
brush the cobwebs out of my brain. When shall I take charge of things,
to-morrow?”
“As you say,” said Myrtella meekly; then with a sudden flare, “though it
does look like I might be trusted one more day to finish up the general
cleaning and git after the ashman for not emptyin' them barrels.”
“Friday, then?”
“Friday,” said Myrtella as one who signed her own death warrant, and the
young mistress gazing absently out of the window little guessed that a
powerful usurper was voluntarily abdicating a throne in order that the
rightful owner might come into her own.
CHAPTER XIV
The red lamps were all lighted in Mrs. Ivy's small parlor, and the
disordered tea-table and general confusion of the overcrowded room, gave
evidence that one of her frequent “at homes” had been brought to an end.
It might have been inferred that the hostess had also been brought to
an end, to judge from her closed eyes and clasped hands, and the effort
with which she inhaled her breath and the violence with which she
exhaled it. The maid, clearing away the tea things, viewed her with
apprehension.
“Excuse me, ma'm, but will you be havin' the hot-water bag?” she asked
when she could endure the strain no longer.
Mrs. Ivy opened one reluctant eye and condescended to recall her spirit
to the material world.
“Norah, how could you?” she asked plaintively. “Haven't I begged you
never to disturb my meditation?”
“Yis, ma'm, but this, you might say, was worse than usual. Me mother's
twin sister died of the asthmy.”
“Never speak to me when you see me entering into the silence. I was
denying fatigue; now I shall have to begin all over!”
It was evidently difficult for Mrs. Ivy to again tranquilize her spirit.
Her eyes roved fondly about the room, resting first upon one cherished
object then upon another. Autographed photographs lined the walls,
autographed volumes littered the tables. Above her head two small
bronze censers sent wreaths of incense curling about a vast testimonial,
acknowledging her valiant service in behalf of the anti-tobacco crusade.
Flanking this were badges of divers shape and size, representing
societies to which she belonged. In the cabinet at her left were still
more disturbing treasures such as Gerald's first pair of shoes, and
the gavel that the last president of the Federated Sisterhood had used
before she had, as Mrs. Ivy was fond of saying, “been called upon to
hand in her resignation by the Board of Death.”
Before the error of fatigue had been entirely erased from her mental
state, her eyes fell upon a pamphlet, and she immediately became
absorbed in its contents. It set forth the need for a Home for Crippled
Animals, and by the time she reached the second page she was framing a
motion to be presented to her club on the morrow. Mrs. Ivy was greatly
addicted to motions; in fact, it was one of her missions in life
continually to move that things should be other than they were, without
in any way supplying the motive power to change them.
While thus engaged she was interrupted by a belated caller. He was a
short, heavy-set young man, with a square prominent jaw, and a twinkle
in his eye.
“_Mister_ Decker!” exclaimed Mrs. Ivy, swimming toward him. “After all
these months in those wonderful Eastern lands! I can almost catch the
odor of sandalwood about you!”
“It's dope,” said Decker, with an easy laugh. “Chinese dope. I've had
these clothes cleaned twice, and I can't get rid of it. Had them on one
night in an opium den in Hankow. Funny how that smell stays with you.”
“An opium den?” repeated Mrs. Ivy, lifting a protesting hand. “And is no
effort being made to stamp out such iniquities in China? Might not some
concerted action on the part of the women's clubs in all the Christian
countries create a public sentiment against them?”
Decker bit his lip as he stooped to pick up the leaflet she had dropped.
“Gerald's here I suppose?”
“Of course! How thoughtless of me not to explain that I always insist
upon the dear lad resting between four and five. He inherits delicate
lungs from his father, and an emotional, artistic temperament from me.
Then both of his maternal grandparents had heart trouble.”
“Still hammers away at his music, I suppose?” Decker asked, minutely
inspecting the photograph of a meek-looking female who appeared totally
unable to live up to the bold, aggressive signature with which she had
signed herself.
“Dear Miss Snell,” Mrs. Ivy explained, “corresponding secretary of the
A. T. L. A. If you had _only_ come sooner you could have met her. What
were you asking? Oh, yes! about Gerald's music. Why, you could no more
imagine Gerald without music, than you could think of a bird without
wings. He would simply perish without a piano. When we are abroad we
rent one if we are only going to be in a place ten days. His Papa can't
understand this, but then Mr. Ivy is not musical, poor dear; he really
doesn't know a fugue from a fantasie.”
“Neither do I,” said Decker. “Do the Queeringtons still live next door?”
“Yes. You know our beloved Doctor has married again.”
“What! Good old Syllogism Queerington! you don't mean it! I wonder if he
knows her first name? He taught me four years up at the University and
never could remember mine.”
“Oh! here's my boy! Are you feeling better, dear?” Mrs. Ivy turned
expectant eyes to the door where a lean, loosely put together young
man was just entering. He had the slouching gait that indicates relaxed
ambitions as well as relaxed muscles, and his hands were deep in his
pockets as if they were at home there.
“Hello, Decker, glad to see you,” he drawled languidly. “Wish you'd stir
the fire, Mater dear; it's beastly cold in here.”
“I'll do it,” said Decker shortly.
Gerald Ivy dropped gracefully on the sofa, and became absorbed in
examining his nails. He was rather a handsome if anemic youth, with the
general air of one who has weighed the world and found it wanting. His
eyes, large and brown and effective, swept the room restlessly. They
were accomplished eyes, being capable of expressing more emotions in a
moment than Gerald had felt in a lifetime.
As he idly turned the leaves of a magazine, he asked Decker how long he
had been back in America.
“A couple of months, but I've only been in town two weeks. Sorry to hear
you are under the weather.”
“Oh! I'm a ruin,” said Gerald; “a dilapidated, romantic ruin.
Something's gone wrong in the belfry to-day. Is my face swollen, Mater?”
Mrs. Ivy bent over him in instant solicitude.
“I do believe it _is_ swollen, darling; just here. Look, Mr. Decker,
doesn't it seem a trifle fuller than the other side?”
Cropsie Decker's eye, not being trained by years of maternal solicitude,
failed to distinguish any difference.
“No matter,” said Gerald gloomily; “if it isn't then it's something
else. What's the news, Decker?”
“The only news for me is this idiotic talk that has been allowed to go
the rounds about Don Morley. That is what I came to see you about. What
does Dillingham have to say about it?”
“Oh, you know Dill; he side-steps. The whole thing has blown over here
months ago; the subject is as extinct as the dodo.”
“Well, it won't be extinct long! I've cabled Don to come home, and I
bet he'll stir things up. There's nothing to hold him now that Margery
Sequin's broken her engagement.”
“So sad!” murmured Mrs. Ivy. “I hope young Mr. Dillingham won't do
anything desperate. To think of his cup of happiness being dashed from
his lips--”
The two young men looked at each other and laughed.
“Don't worry about Dill, Mater. He has more than one cup to fall back
on. It is old man Sequin that may do something desperate. I hear they
have made no end of a row, but Margery holds her own.”
“They say on the street,” said Decker, “that Mr. Sequin has been
counting on the Dillinghams' money to reinforce the bank. He's been
going it pretty heavy the last two years.”
“One cannot live by bread alone,” quoted Mrs. Ivy; “our friends have
been living the material life, they have forgotten that they are but
stewards, and as stewards will be held accountable for the way they
use their wealth. Mrs. Sequin makes absolutely no effort to advance
the progress of the world. She has refused from the first to join the
A.T.L.A. and she is not even a member of the Woman's Club.”
“Well, I hope Mr. Sequin hasn't been playing with Don Morley's money,”
said Decker, resuming the subject from which Mrs. Ivy had flown off at
a tangent. “Donald has always left everything to him, and doesn't know
anything more about his investments than I do. All he is concerned with
is spending his income, and that keeps him busy.”
At this moment Norah appeared with fresh tea and cakes, making her way
with some difficulty through the labyrinth of red lamps, small tables,
foot-stools and marble-crowned pedestals that crowded the room.
“Ah!” cried Mrs. Ivy, “here are some of the little cakes, Gerald,
that you love. You will try one, won't you? We have the greatest time
tempting his appetite, Mr. Decker. He can only eat what he likes. I have
always contended with his father that there was some physical cause for
his craving sweets. I never refused them to him when he was a child.
But from the time he was born he has never really lived on food, he has
lived on music.”
Gerald, at the moment regaling himself with his second cake, gave
evidence that he did not rely solely on the sustaining power of music.
“And now, will you excuse me, dear Mr. Decker?” asked Mrs. Ivy,
gathering her lavender skirts about her. “I am a very, very busy woman,
and my desk claims much of my time. You will come to us again, won't
you? Gerald's friends, you know, are my friends. _Good_-by.” And with a
tender pressure of the hand, and a lingering look she was gone.
Gerald waited until the door was closed, then produced cigarettes which
he proffered to Decker.
“Mater's last hobby is tobacco,” he smiled indulgently. “She is going
to abolish it from the universe. Do you remember how Doctor Queerington
used to hold forth on the subject at the university?”
“By the way, your mother tells me he has married again. I don't know
why, but that tickles me. Was she a widow?”
Gerald with his elbows on the arms of his chair and holding his teacup
with both hands just below the level of his eyes, looked suddenly
gloomy.
“No,” he said. “I wish to Heaven she was one!”
“What's the matter with Old Syllogism? I always thought he was a rather
good sort.”
“I'm not thinking about him!” Gerald said impatiently. “I am thinking of
the girl. She can't be much older than I am and the most exquisite thing
you ever beheld. Her coloring is absolutely luminous. She ought to be
painted by Besnard or La Touche or some of those French chaps that make
a specialty of light. She positively radiates!”
“How did she ever happen to marry the Doctor?”
“Heaven knows! He captured her in the woods somewhere. I don't suppose
she had ever seen a man before. Jove! You ought to see her play tennis,
and to hear her laugh. She's a perfect wonder, as free and easy as one
of the boys, but straight as a die. Doesn't give a flip for money or
clothes, or society. Did you ever hear of a really pretty girl being
like that?”
“I hope Doctor Queerington likes her as well as you do.”
“Heavens, man! everybody likes her; you can't help it. But nobody
understands her. You see they look on her as a child; they haven't the
faintest conception of what she is going through.”
“And you think you have?”
“I know it. She's trying to adjust herself, and she can't. She's finding