Back Aa

Dust Flower

<h2>Chapter XVIII</h2> On the next afternoon Allerton reported to Miss Walbrook the success of his first educational evening. “She’s very intelligent, very. You’d really be pleased with her, Barbe. Her mind is so starved that it absorbs everything you say to her, as a dry soil will drink up rain.” Regarding him with the mysterious Egyptian expression which had at times suggested the reincarnation of some ancient spirit Barbara maintained the stillness which had come upon her on the previous day. “That must be very satisfactory to you, Rash.” He agreed the more enthusiastically because of believing her at one with him in this endeavor. “You bet! The whole thing is going to work out. She’ll pick up our point of view as if she was born to it.” “And you’re not afraid of her picking up anything else?” “Anything else of what kind?” “She might fall in love with you, mightn’t she?” “With me? Nonsense! No one would fall in love with me who––” Her mysterious Egyptian smile came and went. “You can stop there, Rash. It’s no use being more uncomplimentary than you need to be. And then, too, you might fall in love with her.” “Barbe!” He cried out, as if wounded. “You’re really too absurd. She’s a good little thing, and she’s had the devil’s own luck––” “They always do have. That was one thing I learnt in Bleary Street. It was never a girl’s own fault. It was always the devil’s own luck.” “Well, isn’t it, now, when you come to think of it? You can’t take everything away from people, and expect them to have the same standards as you and me. Think of the mess that people of our sort make of things, even with every advantage.” “We’ve our own temptations, of course.” “And they’ve got theirs—without our pull in the way of carrying them off. You should hear Steptoe––” “I don’t want to hear Steptoe. I’ve heard him too much already.” “What do you mean by that?” “What can I mean by it but just what I say? I should think you’d get rid of him.” Having first looked puzzled, with a suggestion of pain, he ended with a laugh. “You might as well expect me to get rid of an old grandfather. Steptoe wouldn’t let me, if I wanted to.” “He doesn’t like me.” “Oh, that’s just your imagination, Barbe. I’ll answer for him when it comes to––” “You needn’t take the trouble to do that, because I don’t like him.” “Oh, but you will when you come to understand him.” “Possibly; but I don’t mean to come to understand him. Old servants can be an awful nuisance, Rash––” “But Steptoe isn’t exactly an old servant. He’s more like––” “Oh, I know what he’s like. He’s a habit; and habits are always dangerous, even when they’re good. But we’re not going to quarrel about Steptoe yet. I just thought I’d put you on your guard––” “Against him?” “He’s a horrid old schemer, if that’s what you want me to say; but then it may be what you like.” “Well, I do,” he laughed, “when it comes to him. He’s been a horrid old schemer as long as I remember him, but always for my good.” “For your good as he sees it.” “For my good as a kind old nurse might see it. He’s limited, of course; but then kind old nurses generally are.” To be true to her vow of keeping the peace she forced back her irritations, and smiled. “You’re an awful goose, Rash; but then you’re a lovable goose, aren’t you?” She beckoned, imperiously. “Come here.” When he was on his knees beside her chair she pressed back his face framed by her two hands. “Now tell me. Which do you love most—Steptoe or me?” He cast about him for two of her special preferences. “And you tell me; which do you love most, a saddle-horse or an opera?” “If I told you, which should I be?—the opera or the saddle-horse?” “If I told you, which would you give up?” So they talked foolishly, as lovers do in the chaffing stage, she trying to charm him into promising to get rid of Steptoe, he charmed by her willingness to charm him. Neither remembered that technically he was a married man; but then neither had ever taken his marriage to Letty as a serious breach in their relations. <hr class='tb' /> While he was thus on his knees the kindly old nurse was giving to Letty a kindly old nurse’s advice. “If madam ’ud go out and tyke a walk I think it’d do madam good.” To madam the suggestion had elements of mingled terror and attraction. “But, Steptoe, I couldn’t go out and take a walk unless I dressed up in the new outdoor suit.” “And what did madam buy it for?—with the ’at and the vyle, and everythink, just like the lyte Mrs. Allerton.” It was the argument she was hoping for. In the first place she was used to the freedom of the streets; and in the second the outdoor suit was calling her. Letty’s love of dress was more than a love of appearing at her best, though that love was part of it; it was a love of the clothes themselves, of fabrics, colors, and fashions. When her dreams were not of wandering knights who loved her at a glance—bankers, millionaires, casting directors in motion-picture studios, or, in high flights of imagination, incognito English lords—they dealt in costumes of magic tissue, of hues suited to her hair and eyes, in which the world saw and greeted her, not as the poor little waif whom Judson Flack had put out of doors, but the true Letty Gravely of romance. The Letty Gravely of romance was the real Letty Gravely, a being set free from the cruel, the ugly, the carking, the sordid, to flourish in a sunlight she knew to be shining somewhere. Oddly enough her vision had come partly true; and yet so out of focus that she couldn’t see its truth. It was like the sunlight which she knew to be shining somewhere, with a wrong refraction in its rays. The world into which she had been carried was like that in a cubist picture which someone had shown her at the studio. It bore a relation to the world she knew, but a relation in which whatever she had supposed to be perpendicular was oblique, and whatever she had supposed to be oblique was horizontal, and nothing as she had been accustomed to find it. It made her head swim. It was literally true that she was afraid to move lest she should make a misstep through an error in her sense of planes. But clothes she understood. In the swirling of her universe they formed a rock to which her intelligence could cling. They kept her sane. In a sense they kept her happy. When all outside was confusion and topsy-turvyness she could retire among Margot’s cartons, and find herself on solid ground. I should be sorry to record the hours she spent before the long mirror in the little back spare room. Here her imagination could give itself free range. She was Luciline Lynch, and Mercola Merch, and Lisabel Anstey, and any other star of whom she admired the attainments; she could play a whole series of parts from which her lack of a wardrobe had hitherto excluded her. From time to time she ventured, like Steptoe, to be Barbara Walbrook herself, though assuming the role with less intrepidity than he. It was easier, she found, to be any of the stars than Barbara Walbrook, for the reason that the latter was “the real thing.” She was living her part, not playing it. She was “letter perfect,” in Steptoe’s sense, not because a director moved her person this way, or turned her head that way, but because life had so infused her that she did what was right unconsciously. Letty, by pretending to enter at the door and come forward to the mirror as to a living presence, studied what was right by imitation. Miss Walbrook walked with a swift, easy gait which suggested the precision of certain strong birds when swooping on their prey. Between the door and the mirror Letty aimed at the same effect till she made a discovery. “I can’t do it her way; I can only do it my way.” The ways were different; yet each could be effective. That too was a discovery. Nature had no rule to which every individual was obliged to conform. The individual was, in a measure, his own rule, and got his attractiveness from being so. The minute you abandoned your own gifts to cultivate those with which Nature had blessed someone else you lost not only your identity but your charm. Letty worked this out as something like a principle. However many the hints she took it would be folly to try to be anything but herself. After all, it was what gave her value to a star, her personality. If Luciline Lynch whom Nature had endowed with the grand manner had tried to be Mercola Merch who was all vivacious wickedness—well, anyone could see! So, if Barbara Walbrook suggested an eagle on the wing and she, Letty Gravely, was only a sparrow in the street, the sparrow would be more successful as a sparrow than in trying to emulate the eagle. And yet there was a value to good models which at first she found difficult to reconcile with this truth of personal independence. This too she thought out. “It’s like a way to do your hair,” was her method of expressing it. “You do what’s in fashion, but you twist it so that it suits your own style. It isn’t the fashion that makes you look right; it’s in being true to what suits you.” There was, however, in Barbara Walbrook a something deeper than this which at first eluded her. It was in Rashleigh Allerton too. It was in Lisabel Anstey, and in a few other stars, but not in Mercola Merch, nor in Luciline Lynch. “It’s the whole business,” Letty summed up to herself, “and yet I don’t know what it is. Unless I can put my finger on it....” She was just at this point when Steptoe addressed her on the subject of going out. That she do so was part of his programme. Madam would not be madam till she felt herself free to come and go; and till madam was madam Mr. Rash would not understand who it was they had in the ’ouse. That he didn’t understand it yet was partly due to madam ’erself who didn’t understand it on ’er side. To cultivate this understanding in madam was Steptoe’s immediate aim, in which Beppo, the little cocker spaniel, unexpectedly came to his assistance. As the two stood conversing at the foot of the stairs Beppo lilted down, with that air of having no one to love which he had worn during all the eighteen months since his mistress had died. The cocker spaniel’s heart, as everyone knows, is imbued with the principle of one life, one love. It has no room for two loves; it has still less room for that general amiability to which most dogs are born. Among the human race it singles out one; and to that one it is faithful. In separation it seeks no substitute; in bereavement it rarely forms a second tie. To everyone but Beppo the removal of Mrs. Allerton had made the world brighter. He alone had mourned that presence with a grief which sought neither comfort nor mitigation. He had followed his routine; he had eaten and slept; he had gone out when he was taken out and come in when he was brought in; but he had lived shut up within himself, aloof in his sorrow. For the first time in all those eighteen months he had come out of this proud gloom when Rashleigh’s key had turned in the door that night, and Letty had entered the house. The secret call which Beppo had heard can never be understood by men till men have developed more of their latent faculties. As he lay in his basket something reached him which he recognized as a summons to a new phase of usefulness. Out of the lethargy of mourning he had jumped with an obedient leap that took him through the obscurity of the house to where a frightened girl had need of a little dog’s sympathy. Of that sympathy he had been lavish; and now that there was new discussion in the air he came with his contribution. In words Steptoe had to be his interpreter. “That, poor little dog as ’as growed so fond of madam don’t get ’alf the exercise he ought to be give. If madam was to tyke ’im out like for a little stroll up the Havenue....” Thus it happened that in less than half an hour Letty found herself out in the October sunlight, dressed in her blue-green costume, with all the details to “correspond,” and leading Beppo on the leash. To lead Beppo on the leash, as Steptoe had perceived, gave a reason for an excursion which would otherwise have seemed motiveless. But she was out. She was out in conditions in which even Judson Flack, had he met her, could hardly have detected her. Gorgeously arrayed as she seemed to herself she was dressed with the simplicity which stamps the French taste. There was nothing to make her remarked, especially in a double procession of women so many of whom were remarkable. Had you looked at her twice you would have noted that while skill counted for much in her gentle, well-bred appearance, a subtle, unobtrusive, native distinction counted for most; but you would have been obliged to look at her twice before noting anything about her. She was a neatly dressed girl, with an air; but on that bright afternoon in Fifth Avenue neatly dressed girls with an air were as buttercups in June. Seizing this fact Letty felt more at her ease. No one was thinking her conspicuous. She was passing in the crowd. She was not being “spotted” as the girl who a short time before had had nothing but the old gray rag to appear in. She could enjoy the walk—and forget herself. Then it came to her suddenly that this was the secret of which she was in search, the power to forget herself. She must learn to do things so easily that she would have no self-consciousness in doing them. In big things Barbara Walbrook might think of herself; but in all little things, in the way she spoke and walked and bore herself toward others, she acted as she breathed. It seemed wonderful to Letty, this assurance that you were right in all the fundamentals. It was precisely in the fundamentals that she was so likely to be wrong. It was where girls of her sort suffered most; in the lack of the elementary. One could bluff the advanced, or make a shot at it; but the elementary couldn’t be bluffed, and no shot at it would tell. It betrayed you at once. You must have it. You must have it as you had the circulation of your blood, as something so basic that you didn’t need to consider it. That was her next discovery, as with Beppo tugging at the end of his tether she walked onward. She was used to walking; she walked strongly, and with a trudging sturdiness, not without its grace. She came to the part of Fifth Avenue where the great houses begin to thin out, and vacant lots, as if ashamed of their vacancy, shrink behind boardings vivid with the news of picture-plays. It was the year when they were advertising the screen-masterpiece, Passion Aflame; and here was depicted Luciline Lynch, a torch in her hand, her hair in maenadic dishevelment, leading on a mob to set fire to a town. Letty herself having been in that mob paused in search of her face among the horde of the great star’s followers. It was a blob of scarlet and green from which she dropped her eyes, only to have them encounter a friend of long standing. At the foot of the boarding, and all in a row, was a straggling band of dust-flowers. It was late in the season, yet not too late for their bit of blue heaven to press in among the ways of men. She was not surprised to find them there. Ever since the crazy woman had pointed out the mission of this humble little helper of the human race she had noted its persistency in haunting the spots which beauty had deserted. You found it in the fields, it was true; but you found it rarely, sparsely, raggedly, blooming, you might say, with but little heart for its bloom. Where other flowers had been frightened away; where the poor crowded; where factories flared; where junk-heaps rusted; where backyards baked; where smoke defiled; where wretchedness stalked; where crime brooded; where the land was unkempt; where the human spirit was sodden—there the celestial thing multiplied its celestial growths, blessing the eyes and making the heart leap. It mattered little that so few gave it a thought or regarded it as other than a weed; there were always those few, who knew that it spelled beauty, who knew that it spelled something more. Letty was of those few. She was of those few for old sake’s sake, but also for the sake of a new yearning. Slipping off a glove she picked a few of the dusty stalks, even though she knew that once taken from their task of glorifying the dishonored the blue stars would shut almost instantly. “They’ll wither in a few days now,” she said, in self-excuse; “and anyhow I’ll leave most of them.” Having shaken off the dust she fastened them in her corsage, blue against her blue-green. They were her symbol for happiness springing up in the face of despair, and from a soil where you would expect it to be choked. She herself was happy to-day as she could not remember ever to have been happy in her life. For the first time she was passing among decent people decently; and then—it was the great hope beyond which she didn’t look—the prince might read with her again that evening. But as she turned from Fifth Avenue into East Sixty-seventh Street the prince was approaching his door from the other direction. Even she was aware that it was contrary to his habits to appear at home by five in the afternoon. She didn’t know, of course, that Barbara had so stimulated his enthusiasm for the educational course that he had come on the chance of taking it up at the tea hour. He could not remember that Barbara had ever before been so sympathetic to one of his ideas. The fact encouraged his feeble belief in himself, and made him love her with richer tenderness. In the gentle girl of quietly distinguished mien he saw nothing but a stranger till Beppo strained at his leash and barked. Even then it took him half a minute to get his powers of recognition into play. He stopped at the foot of his steps, watching her approach. By doing so he made the approach more difficult for her. The heart seemed to stop in her body. She could scarcely breathe. Each step was like walking on blades, yet like walking on blades with a kind of ecstasy. Luckily Beppo pranced and pulled in such a way that she was forced to give him some attention. The prince’s first words were also a distraction from terrors and enchantments which made her feel faint. “Where did you get the poor man’s coffee?” The question by puzzling her gave her some relief. Pointing at the sprays in her corsage he went on: “That’s what the country people often call the chicory weed in France.” She was able to gasp feebly: “Oh, does it grow there?” “I think it grows pretty nearly everywhere. It’s one of the most classic wild flowers we know anything about. The ancient Egyptians dried its leaves to give flavor to their salad, and I remember being told at Luxor that the modern Copts and Arabs do the same. You see it’s quite a friendly little beast to man.” It eased her other feelings to tell him about the crazy woman in Canada, and her reading of the dust-flower’s significance. “That’s a good idea too,” Allerton agreed, smiling down into her eyes. “There are people like that—little dust-flowers cheering up the wayside for the rest of us poor brutes.” She said, wistfully: “I suppose you’ve known a lot of them.” <div class='figcenter'> <ANTIMG src='images/illus-230.jpg' alt='' title='' style='width: 371px; height: 428px;' /> THE PRINCE’S FIRST WORDS WERE ALSO A DISTRACTION FROM TERRORS, AND ENCHANTMENTS WHICH MADE HER FEEL FAINT </div> As he laughed his eyes rested on a man sauntering toward them from the direction of Fifth Avenue. “I’ve known about two—” his eyes came back to smile again down into hers—“or one.” He started as a man starts who receives a new suggestion. “I say! Let’s go in and look up chicory and succory in the encyclopedia. Then we’ll know all about it. It seems to me, too,” he went on, reminiscently, “that I read a little poem about this very blue flower—by Margaret Deland, I think it was—only a few weeks ago. I believe I could put my hand on it. Come along.” As he sprang up the steps the pearly gates were opening again before Letty when the man whom Allerton had seen sauntering toward them actually passed by. Passing he lifted his hat politely, smiled, and said, “Good afternoon, Miss Gravely,” like any other gentleman. He was a good-looking slippery young man, with a cast in his left eye. Because she was a woman before she was a lady, as she understood the word lady, Letty responded with, “Good afternoon,” and a little inclination of the head. He was several doors off before she bethought herself sufficiently to take alarm. “Who’s that?” Allerton demanded, looking down from the third or fourth step. “I’m sure I haven’t an idea. I think he must be some camera-man who’s seen me when they’ve been shooting the pitch—” she made the correction almost in time—“who’s seen me when they’ve been shooting the pick-tures. I can’t think of anything else.” They watched the retreating form till, without a backward glance, it turned into Madison Avenue. “Come along in,” Allerton called then, in a tone intended to disperse misgiving, “and let’s begin.” Ten minutes later he was reading in the library, from a big volume open on his knees, how for over a century the chicory root had been dried and ground in France, and used to strengthen the cheaper grades of coffee, when Letty broke in, as if she had not been following him: “I don’t think that fella could have been a camera-man after all. No camera-man would ha’ noticed me in the great big bunch I was always in.” “Oh, well, he can’t do you any harm anyhow,” Allerton assured her. “I’ll just finish this, and then I’ll look for the poem by Mrs. Deland.” With her veil and gloves in her lap Letty sat thoughtful while he passed from shelf to shelf in search of the smaller volume. Of her real suspicion, that the man was a friend of Judson Flack’s, she decided not to speak. Seated once more in front of her, and bending slightly toward her, Allerton read: <table style='margin: auto' summary=''><tr><td> “Oh, not in ladies’ gardens, My peasant posy! Smile thy dear blue eyes, Nor only—nearer to the skies— In upland pastures, dim and sweet— But by the dusty road Where tired feet Toil to and fro; Where flaunting Sin May see thy heavenly hue, Or weary Sorrow look from thee Toward a more tender blue.” </td></tr></table> Allerton glanced up from the book. “Pretty, isn’t it?” She admitted that it was, and then added: “And yet there was the times when the castin’ director put me right in the front, to register what the crowd behind me was thinkin’ about. He might ha’ noticed me then.” “Yes, of course; that must have been it. Now wouldn’t you like me to read that again? You must always read a poem a second or third time to really know what it’s about.” <hr class='tb' /> Meanwhile a poem of another sort was being read to Miss Barbara Walbrook by her aunt, who had entered the drawing-room within five minutes after Allerton had left it. During those five minutes Barbara had remained seated, plunged into reverie. The problem with which she had to deal was the degree to which she was right or wrong in permitting Rashleigh to go on in his crazy course. That this outcast girl was twining herself round his heart was a fact growing too obtrusive to be ignored. Had Rashleigh been as other men decisive action would have been imperative. But he was not as other men, and there lay the possibilities she found difficult. If the aunt couldn’t help the niece to solve the difficult question she at least could compel her to take a stand. As she entered the drawing-room she came from out of doors, a slender, unfleshly figure, all intellect and idea. Her vices being wholly of the spirit were not recognized as vices, so that she passed as the highest type of the good woman which the continent of America knows anything about. Being the highest type of the good woman she had, moreover, the privilege which American usage accords to all good women of being good aggressively. No other good woman in the world enjoys this right to the same degree, a fact to which we can point with pride. The good English woman, the good French woman, the good Italian woman, are obliged by the customs of their countries to direct their goodness into channels in which it is relatively curbed. The good American woman, on the other hand, is never so much at home as when she is on the warpath. Her goodness being the only standard of goodness which the country accepts she has the right to impose it by any means she can harness to her purposes. She is the inspiration of our churches, and the terror of our constituencies. She is behind state legislatures and federal congresses and presidential cabinets. They may elude her lofty purposes, falsify her trust, and for a time hoodwink her with male chicaneries; but they are always afraid of her, and in the end they do as she commands. Among the coarsely, stupidly, viciously masculine countries of the world the American Republic is the single and conspicuous matriarchate, ruled by its good women. Of these rulers Miss Marion Walbrook was as representative a type as could be found, high, pure, zealous, intolerant of men’s weaknesses, and with only spiritual immoralities of her own. Seated in one of her slender upright armchairs she had the impressiveness of goodness fully conscious of itself. A document she held in her hand gave her the judicial air of one entitled to pass sentence. “I’m sorry, Barbara; but I’ve some disagreeable news for you.” Barbara woke. “Indeed?” “I’ve just come from Augusta Chancellor’s. She talked about—that man.” “What did she say?” “She said two or three things. One was that she’d met him one day in the Park when he decidedly wasn’t himself.” “Oh, it’s hard to say when he’s himself and when he isn’t. He’s what the French would call un original.” “Oh, I don’t know about that. The originality of men is commonplace as it’s most novel. This man is on a par with the rest, if you call it original for him to have a woman in the house.” Barbara feigned languidness. “Well, it is—the way he has her there.” “The way he has her there? What do you mean by that?” “I mean what I say. There’s no one else in the world who would take a girl under his roof in the way Rash has taken this girl.” “How, may I ask, did he take her?” Having foreseen that one day she should be in this position Barbara had made up her mind as to how much she should say. “He found her.” “Oh, they all do that. They generally find them in the Park.” “Exactly; it’s just what he did.” “I guessed—it was only guessing mind you—that he also tried to find Augusta Chancellor.” “Oh, possibly. He’d go as far as that, if he saw her doing anything he thought not respectable.” “Barbara, please! You’re talking about a friend of mine, one of my colleagues. Let’s return to—I hope you won’t find the French phrase invidious—to our mutton.” “Oh, very well! Rash found the girl homeless—penniless—with no friends. Her stepfather had turned her out. Another man would have left her there, or turned her over to the police. Rash took her to his own house, and since then we’ve both been helping her to—to get on her feet.” “Helping her to get on her feet in a way that’s driven from the house the good old women who’ve been there for nearly thirty years.” “Oh, you know that too, do you?” “Why, certainly. Jane, that was the parlor maid, is very intimate with Augusta Chancellor’s cook; and she says—Jane does—that he’s actually married the creature.” Barbara shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t help what the servants say, Aunt Marion. I’m trying to be a friend to the girl, and help her to pull herself together. Of course I recognize the fact that Rash has been foolish—quixotic—or whatever you like to call it; but he hasn’t kept anything from me.” “And you’re still engaged to him?” “Of course I’m still engaged to him.” She held out her left hand. “Look at his ring.” “Then why don’t you get married?” “Are you in such a hurry to get rid of me?” The question being a pleasantry Miss Walbrook took it with a gentle smile. When she resumed it was with a slight flourish of the document in her hand and another turn to the conversation. “I went to the bank this morning. I’ve brought home my will. I’m thinking of making some changes in it.” Barbara looked non-committal, as if the subject had nothing to do with herself. “The question I have to decide,” Miss Walbrook pursued, “is whether to leave everything to you, in the hope that you’ll carry on my work––” “I shouldn’t know how.” “Or whether to establish a trust––” “I should do that decidedly.” “And let it fall into the hands of a pack of men.” “It will fall into the hands of a pack of men, whatever you do with it.” “And yet if you had it in charge––” “Some man would get hold of it, Aunt Marion.” “Which is what I’m debating. I’m not so very sure––” “That I shall marry in the end?” “Well, you’re not married yet ... and if you were to change your mind ... the world has such a need of consecrated women with men so unscrupulous and irresponsible ... we must break their power some day ... and now that we’ve got the opportunity ... all I want you to understand is that if you shouldn’t marry there’d be a great career in store for you....” <hr class='major' /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.