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<h2>Chapter XIX</h2> By the end of twenty-four hours the possibility of this great career quickened Barbara’s zeal for taking a hand in Letty’s education. Not only did that impulse of furious jealousy, by which she meant at first to leave it wholly to Rash, begin to seem dangerous, but there was a world to consider and throw off the scent. Now that Augusta Chancellor knew that the girl was beneath Rash’s roof all their acquaintances would sooner or later be in possession of the fact. It was Barbara’s part, therefore, to play the game in such a way that a bit of quixotism would be the most foolish thing of which Rash would be suspected. That she would be playing a game she knew in advance. She must hide her suspicions; she must control her sufferings. She must pretend to have confidence in Rash, when at heart she cried against him as an infant and a fool. Never was woman in such a ridiculous situation as that into which she had been thrust; never was heart so wild to ease itself by invective and denunciation; and never was the padlock fixed so firmly on the lips. Hour by hour the man she loved was being weaned and won away from her; and she must stand by with grimacing smiles, instead of throwing up her arms in dramatic gestures and calling on her gods to smite and smash and annihilate. Since, however, she had a game to play, a game she would play, though she did it quivering with protest and repulsion. “Do you mind if I take the car this afternoon, Aunt Marion, since you’re not going to use it.” “Take it of course; but where are you going?” “I thought I would ask that protégée of Rash Allerton’s, of whom we were speaking yesterday, to come for a drive with me. But if you’d rather I didn’t––” “I’ve nothing to do with it. It’s entirely for you to say. The car is yours, of course.” The invitation being transmitted by telephone Steptoe urged Letty to accept it. “It’ll be all in the wye of madam’s gettin’ used to things—a bit at a time like.” “But I don’t think she likes me.” “If madam won’t stop to think whether people likes ’er or not I think madam ’d get for’arder. Besides madam’ll pretty generally always find as love-call wykes love-echo, as the syin’ goes.” Which, as a matter of fact, was what Letty did find. She found it from the minute of entering the car and taking her seat, when Miss Walbrook exclaimed heartily: “What a lovely dress! And the hat’s too sweet! Suits you exactly, doesn’t it? My dear, I’ve the greatest bother ever to find a hat that doesn’t make me look like a scarecrow.” From the naturalness of the tone there was no suspecting the cost of these words to the speaker, and the subject was one in which Letty was at home. In turn she could compliment Miss Walbrook’s appearance, duly admiring the toque of prune-colored velvet, with a little bunch of roses artfully disposed, and the coat of prune-colored Harris tweed. In further discussing the length of the new skirts and the chances of the tight corset coming back they found topics of common interest. The fact that they were the topics which came readiest to the lips of both made it possible to maintain the conversation at its normal give-and-take, while each could pursue the line of her own summing up of the other. To Letty Miss Walbrook seemed friendlier than she had expected, only spasmodically so. Her kindly moods came in spurts of which the inspiration soon gave out. “I think she’s sad,” was Letty’s comment to herself. Sadness, in Letty’s use of words, covered all the emotions not distinctly cheerful or hilarious. She knew nothing about Miss Walbrook, except that it appeared from this conversation that she lived with an aunt, whose car they were using. That she was a friend of the prince’s had been several times repeated, but all information ended there. To Letty she seemed old—between thirty and forty. Had she known her actual age she would still have seemed old from her knowledge of the world and general sophistication. Letty’s own lack of sophistication kept her a child when she was nearly twenty-three. That Miss Walbrook was the girl to whom the prince was engaged had not yet crossed her thought. At the same time, since she knew that girl she brought her to the forefront of Letty’s consciousness. She was never far from the forefront of her consciousness, and of late speculation concerning her had become more active. If she approached the subject with the prince he reddened and grew ill at ease. The present seemed, therefore, an opportunity to be utilized. They were deep in the northerly avenues of the Park, when apropos of the dress topic, Letty said, suddenly: “I suppose she’s awfully stylish—the girl he’s engaged to.” The response was laconic: “She’s said to be.” “Is she pretty?” “I don’t think you could say that.” “Then what does he see in her?” “Whatever people do see in those they’re in love with. I’m afraid I’m not able to define it.” Dropping back into her corner Letty sighed. She knew this mystery existed, the mystery of falling in love for reasons no one was able to explain. It was the ground on which she hoped that at first sight someone would fall in love with her. If he didn’t do it for reasons beyond explanation he would, of course, not do it at all. It was some minutes before another question trembled to her lips. “Does she—does she know about me?” “Oh, naturally.” “And did she—did she feel very bad?” Barbara’s long eyes slid round in Letty’s direction, though the head was not turned. “How should you feel yourself, if it had happened to you?” “It’d kill me.” “Well, then?” She let Letty draw her own conclusions before adding: “It’s nearly killed her.” Letty cowered. She had never thought of this. That she herself suffered she knew; that the prince suffered she also knew; but that this unknown girl, whatever her folly, lay smitten to the heart brought a new complication into her ideas. “Even if he ever did come to—” she held up her unspoken sentence there—“I’d ha’ stolen him from her.” There was little more conversation after that. Each had her motives for reflections and silences. They were nearing the end of the drive when Letty said again: “What would you do if you was—if you were—me?” “I’d do whatever I felt to be highest.” To Letty this was a beautiful reply, and proof of a beautiful nature. Moreover, it was indirectly a compliment to herself, in that she could be credited with doing what she felt to be highest as well as anyone else. In her life hitherto she had been figuratively kicked and beaten into doing what she couldn’t resist. Now she was considered capable of acting worthily of her own accord. It inspired a new sentiment toward Miss Walbrook. She thought, too, that Miss Walbrook liked her a little better. Perhaps it was the fulfillment of Steptoe’s adage, love-call wakes love-echo. She was sure that somehow this call had gone out from her to Miss Walbrook, and that it hadn’t gone out in vain. It hadn’t gone out in vain, in that Miss Walbrook was able to say to herself, with some conviction, “That’s the way it will have to be done.” It was a way of which her experiences in Bleary Street had made her skeptical. Among those whom she called the lower orders innocence, ingenuousness, and integrity were qualities for which she had ceased to look. She didn’t look for them anywhere with much confidence; but she had long ago come to the conclusion that the poor were schemers, and were obliged to be schemers because they were poor. Something in Letty impressed her otherwise. “That’s the way,” she continued to nod to herself. “It’s no use trusting to Rash. I’ll get her; and she’ll get him; and so we shall work it.” Arrived in East Sixty-seventh Street she went in with Letty and had tea. But it was she who sat in dear Mrs. Allerton’s corner of the sofa, and when William brought in the tray she said, “Put it here, William,” as one who speaks with authority. Of this usurpation of the right to dispense hospitality Letty did not see the significance, being glad to have it taken off her hands. Not so, however, with Steptoe who came in with a covered dish of muffins. Having placed it before Miss Walbrook he turned to Letty. “Madam ain’t feelin’ well?” Letty’s tone expressed her surprise. “Why, yes.” “Madam’ll excuse me. As madam ain’t presidin’ at ’er own tyble I was afryde––” It being unnecessary to say more he tiptoed out, leaving behind him a declaration of war, which Miss Walbrook, without saying anything in words, was not slow to pick up. “Insufferable,” was her comment to herself. Of the hostile forces against her this, she knew, was the most powerful. Neither did Rash perceive the significance of Barbara’s place at the tea-table when he entered about five o’clock, though she was quick to perceive the significance of his arrival. It was not, however, a point to note outwardly, so that she lifted her hand above the tea-kettle, letting him bend over it, as she exclaimed: “Welcome to our city! Do sit down and make yourself at home. Letty and I have been for a drive, and are all ready to enjoy a little male society.” The easy tone helped Allerton over his embarrassment, first in finding the two women face to face, then in coming so unexpectedly face to face with them, and lastly in being caught by Barbara coming home at this unexpected hour. Knowing what the situation must mean to her he admired her the more for her sangfroid and social flexibility. She took all the difficulties on herself. “Letty and I have been making friends, and are going to know each other awfully well, aren’t we?” A smile at Letty drew forth Letty’s smile, to Rashleigh’s satisfaction, and somewhat to his bewilderment. But Barbara, handing him a cup of tea, addressed him directly. “Who do you think is engaged? Guess.” He guessed, and guessed wrong. He guessed a second time, and guessed wrong. There followed a conversation about people they knew, with regard to which Letty was altogether an outsider. Now and then she recognized great names which she had read in the papers, tossed back and forth without prefixes of Mr. or Miss, and often with pet diminutives. The whole represented a closed corporation of intimacies into which she could no more force her way than a worm into a billiard ball. Rash who was at first beguiled by the interchange of personalities began to experience a sense of discomfort that Letty should be so discourteously left out; but Barbara knew that it was best for both to force the lesson home. Rash must be given to understand how lost he would be with any outsider as his companion; and Letty must be made to realize how hopelessly an outsider she would always be. But no lesson should be urged to the quick at a single sitting, so that Barbara broke off suddenly to ask why he had come home. In the same way as she had given the order to William she spoke with the authority of one at liberty to ask the question. Not to give the real reason he said that it was to write a letter and change his clothes. “And you’re going back to the Club?” He replied that he was going to dine with a bachelor friend at his apartment. “Then I’ll wait and drop you at the Club. You can go on from there afterwards. I’ve got the time.” This too was said with an authority against which he felt himself unable to appeal. Having written a note and changed to his dinner jacket he rejoined them in the drawing-room. Barbara held out her hand to Letty, with a briskness indicating relief. “So glad we had our drive. I shall come soon again. I wish it could be to-morrow, but my aunt will be using the car.” “There’s my car,” Allerton suggested. “Oh, so there is.” Barbara took this proposal as a matter of course. “Then we’ll say to-morrow. I’ll call up Eugene and tell him when to come for me.” With Allerton beside her, and driving down Fifth Avenue, she said: “I see how to do it, Rash. You must leave it to me.” He replied in the tone of a child threatened with the loss of his rôle in a game. “I can’t leave it to you altogether.” “Then leave it to me as much as you can. I see what to do and you don’t. Furthermore, I know just how to do it.” “You’re wonderful, Barbe,” he said, humbly. “I’m wonderful so long as you don’t interfere with me.” “Oh, well, I shan’t do that.” She turned to him sharply. “Is that a promise?” “Why do you want a promise?” he asked, in some wonder. “Because I do.” “That is, you can’t trust me.” “My dear Rash, who could trust you after what––?” “Oh, well, then, I promise.” “Then that’s understood. And if anything happens, you won’t go hedging and saying you didn’t mean it in that way?” “It seems to me you’re very suspicious.” “One’s obliged to foresee everything with you, Rash. It isn’t as if one was dealing with an ordinary man.” “You mean that I’m to give you carte blanche, and have no will of my own at all.” “I mean that when I’m so reasonable, you must try to be reasonable on your side.” “Well, I will.” As they drew up in front of the New Netherlands Club, he escaped without committing himself further. If he dined with a bachelor friend that night he must have cut the evening short, for at half past nine he re-entered the back drawing-room where Letty was sitting before the fire, her red book in her lap. She sat as a lover stands at a tryst as to which there is no positive engagement. To fortify herself against disappointment she had been trying to persuade herself that he wouldn’t come, and that she didn’t expect him. He came, but he came as a man who has something on his mind. Almost without greeting he sat down, took the book from her lap and proceeded to look up the place at which he had left off. “Miss Walbrook’s lovely, isn’t she?” she said, before he had found the page. “She’s a very fine woman,” he assented. “Do you remember where we stopped?” “It was at, ‘So let it be, said the little mermaid, turning pale as death.’ You know her very well, don’t you?” “Oh, very well indeed. I think we begin here: ‘But you will have to pay me also––’” “Have you known her very long?” “All my life, more or less.” “She says she knows the girl you’re engaged to.” “Yes, of course. We all know each other in our little set. Now, if you’re ready, I’ll begin to read.” “‘But you will have to pay me also,’ said the witch; ‘and it is not a little that I ask. Yours is the loveliest voice in the world, and you trust to that, I dare say, to charm your love. But you must give it to me. For my costly drink I claim the best thing you possess. I shall give you my own blood, so that my draught may be as sharp as a two-edged sword.’ ‘But if you take my voice from me, what have I left?’ asked the little mermaid, piteously. ‘Your loveliness, your graceful movements, your speaking eyes. Those are enough to win a man’s heart. Well, is your courage gone? Stretch out your little tongue, that I may cut it off, and you shall have my magic potion.’ ‘I consent,’ said the little mermaid.” Letty cried out: “So that when she’d be with him she’d understand everything, and not be able to tell him anything.” “I’m afraid,” he smiled, “that that’s what’s ahead of her, poor thing.” “Oh, but that—” she could hardly utter her distress—“Oh, but that’s worse than anything in the world.” He looked up at her curiously. “Would you rather I didn’t go on?” “No, no; please. I—I want to hear it all.” <hr class='tb' /> At The Hindoo Lantern Mr. Gorry Larrabin and Mr. Judson Flack found themselves elbow to elbow outside the rooms where their respective ladies were putting the final touches to their hats and hair before entering the grand circle. It was an opportunity especially on Gorry’s part, to seal the peace which had been signed so recently. “Hello, Judson. What’s the prospects in oil?” Judson’s tone was pessimistic. “Not a thing doin’, Gorry. Awful slow bunch, that lump of nuts I’m in with on this. Mentioned your name to one or two of ’em; but no enterprise. Boneheads that wouldn’t know a white man from a crane.” That he understood what Gorry understood became clear as he continued: “Friend o’ mine at the Excelsior passes me the tip that they’ve held up that play they were goin’ to put my girl into. Can’t get anyone else that would swing the part. Waitin’ for her to turn up again. I suppose you haven’t heard anything, Gorry?” Gorry looked him in the eyes as straight as was possible for a man with a cast in the left one. “Not a thing, Judson; not a thing.” The accent was so truthful that Judson gave his friend a long comprehending look. He was sure that Gorry would never speak with such sincerity if he was sincere. “Well, I’m on the job, Gorry,” he assured him, “and one of these days you’ll hear from me.” “I’m on the job too, Judson; and one of these days––” But as Mademoiselle Coucoul emerged from the dressing-room and shed radiance, Gorry was obliged to go forward. <hr class='major' /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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