I.
THERE used to be at one time a good deal of speculation as to Marie Louise’s first sensation when she heard she had inherited a fortune. Prixley Peale always declared that she had formed the notion instantly of modeling herself upon the Queen of Sheba; whereas little Miss Whitney, the trained nurse, insisted that she had intended from the start to devote herself to the welfare of others—witness the children’s hospital.
Marie Louise’s first conscious thought had been: Now, when I travel, I shall always go in the parlor-car.
It is hard to see why hitherto a parlor-car had represented to her an offensive class distinction, for she did not seem to suffer at all from her total neglect by the upper circles of Stonehurst society; and it need not be supposed, because the town’s population comprised only some fourteen thousand souls, that social strata were less differentiated than elsewhere.
The aristocrats, for the most part, lived on Park Slope. Here literary clubs met, here carriages rolled in a long procession whenever a distinguished visitor was to be entertained, here euchre-parties had always taken place, and of late, for Stonehurst was nothing if not modern, bridge had begun to be studied; and the great shop at the corner of Mohawk and Broad Streets kept a whole window filled with hitherto unsalable articles, now invitingly labeled, “Bridge Prizes.”
But all these forms of activity took no account of Marie Louise. Now and then, when the young men of the Institute gave a dance—a hop, it was generally called—one of them would invite Marie Louise, and she would to all appearances mingle with those who felt themselves her superiors. It was only an appearance. She had no claim on their attention. She was not pretty enough to be universally championed by brothers; and her habit of hanging all day long over her own front gate, combined with her occasional disregard of the rules of grammar, caused mothers to avoid her and to describe her as a “lazy,” and, I am afraid, “common little piece.”
Then, also, at the Institute hops her dresses were very much against her. All the best taste of Stonehurst was in favor of white muslin; and when the daughter of the president of the Institute added a salmon-pink sash, it was felt that she had gone as far as could be approved. On one occasion Marie Louise’s flame-colored muslin, and on another her black and white, would only have been excused if their perfection of detail had atoned for their violence; but, as she constructed them herself, this perfection was exactly what they lacked. Then her clear, cheerful laugh, and her enthusiastic manner of dancing, rendered her so conspicuous that the rumors soon began to creep about that she was very flirtatious. The deduction which was made by the chaperons was that there is only one reason why a female desires to attract attention. This desire was plainly present in Marie Louise.
Yet, to be just, she cared as little for men as she did for society. The thing she enjoyed was her idea of herself. Her greatest pleasure was in looking at herself from an outsider’s point of view, and admiring, almost envying. She liked, now and then, to imagine herself a spoiled beauty, going from partner to partner, surrounded by men, tossing a word here, a smile there; bestowing life or death by a glance given or withheld. At the moment she was willing to sacrifice anything to fill in this picture. The clear laugh and the cherry-colored dress helped her, and were no more designed for the delight of the students than for the chaperons, or for any of the rest of the background. The next day she hardly took the trouble to bow to her partners when she met them in the street, or when they passed her as she stood with her elbows on the gate.
The house was set back from the street—a wooden structure built of scalloped shingles, painted a deep slate color. The plot before the house had had two flower-beds in it during the days when Mr. Carman had cared to reside with his family. Now even the grass had faded away in patches under the maple-trees that stood on each side of the gate,
Here in summer, it must be admitted, that Marie Louise was too apt to be found, though quite as often she was flying along upon her bicycle (on which she was wonderfully proficient), her hands holding on a large flapping hat, and her lips pursed up for a whistle, which the wind of her rapid progress kept carrying away.
In the winter, when her mother was occupied with the dressmaker, who was also a friend, Marie Louise read. She read nothing but fiction, and was acknowledged a connoisseur. A book recommended by her was certain to contain a measure of that unsettling and haunting thrill, which some say is the object of true romance. There were several girls not so well-versed in current novels who habitually asked at the free-library for the book that Marie Louise had last returned.
One of these followers, more acute than the others, once observed that Marie Louise recommended only those books in which the heroines were like herself, but was promptly snubbed. Where could any resemblance be found between these princesses in distress and Marie Louise? The girl was told she spoke foolishly.
Yet, in a measure, she was right. Marie Louise’s imagination saw magnificent glimpses of herself in these romances. She considered herself far from good-looking, but was always hoping that some day she would discover a style of dress that would gather her beauties and defects into one tremendous, decided effect. She had passed through the period of large, flapping black hats, for they concealed her greatest advantage, her hair. More recently a Byronic manner had attracted her—parted hair and low collars and flowing ties. This, at least, had the merit of showing her round young throat.
From her father, who was of Welsh descent, she had inherited her hair—a splendid golden, streaked with red and silver. Unfortunately, nature had selected the paler shade for her eyebrows. They were almost indistinguishable. It was her greatest sorrow. The rest of her face did well enough, fair-skinned and softly modeled, but lacking in all distinction and character owing to these unfortunate brows. Once, in the privacy of her own room, she had blackened them well with a burnt match, and had been almost startled to see her eyes on the instant grow dark and colored like sapphires.
For her own part, she admired dark, sinister coloring, and would have yielded herself even more ecstatically to life if she had been a mysterious-looking brunette. Her confidence in brown women might have been shaken by the experience of her mother—a dark, plump person—who had not succeeded in holding the affection of her Welsh husband. She was daughter of the cashier of the Stonehurst Bank, and it had been thought an astonishingly good match for Carman when he had come there an utter stranger, for she was not only well-connected, but known to be a conscientious and competent housekeeper.
Perhaps Carman had no true strain of domesticity in him. He appeared to be fond of his little daughter, whenever he was at home with a free mind, but these occasions were rare. His money difficulties began to press upon him. Marie Louise was only five years old when he left home by night, and never returned.
She did not remember him at. all. She had the common infantile trick of leading her own complete and absorbing existence—as busy as a little ant’s—far below the lives of the two grown-ups, whom she dutifully called parents while hardly aware of their presence.
She did not remember him, but afterward, when she was about thirteen, hearing a rumor that was creeping about the town to the effect that her father was ruined, she was moved to write him a letter of condolence. Her soft heart was touched. She did not know what ruin was, but it sounded terrible. She and her mother were poor enough on the little allowance the cashier afforded them, but to be actually in want
She never received any answer to her letter, unless seven years later the terms of his will could be considered as such.
She and her mother had heard some weeks before of his death. Certainly Marie Louise never thought of its profiting her in any way. Her mother said nothing, if the idea had occurred to her,
The morning that the girl received the communication that made her an heiress was just like any other. Marie Louise herself received the letters, and soon noticed that there was one in a typewritten envelope for her. It was dated from a law-office in the town where her father had lived.
At first she could take in nothing but the fact that her father had made a fortune, and left it unreservedly to her. Afterward she had time to consider that the letter itself was a very kind one. It was signed Silas Mullins, and told her that the writer was not only her father’s lawyer, but his old friend. It expressed a desire to be of service to her, and a readiness either to continue to look after her interests, or to turn them over to any one she might designate.
Needless to say, Marie Louise had no wish to improve on her father’s arrangements. From this time on, “Mr. Mullins, my father’s lawyer,” figured not a little in her conversation.
On the whole, the news excited her no more than it excited the town at large. To Marie Louise her fortune was more a contribution to her romantic personality than anything else. Instead of saying to herself: “If I were rich, I should” she now said: “Some day I will” but the prophecies were almost as far away as ever.
It was Mrs. Carman who first suggested that they might build a house. Marie Louise had responded warmly with all the feminine instinct for material creation; and began at once to dream of a palace with columns, which, erected on Park Slope, would make the Institute look like a country schoolhouse.
Leaning over the gate, she received the congratulations of her friends. The street was a well-trodden one.
First came Bobby Peters—the nearest approach to a lover that Marie Louise had ever had. With him on summer evenings she was accustomed to sweep the country on her bicycle. He was a serious-minded young man, interested in questions of the day and apt to lend her books, whose names she afterward saw quoted in the papers. She invariably returned them unread, too lazy even to pretend to an acquaintance with them—a frivolity which at first alienated him, until her profound femininity again won upon him and forced him to the conclusion that nature had not intended women to think.
He took off his small felt hat with mock ceremony.
“I come to salute the heiress,” he said. “She will not remain long with us, I apprehend. New York, I fear”
“What nonsense, Bobby,” returned Marie Louise. “I never thought of going to New York.” But she entirely lost his reply in excitement at the mere suggestion. After all, why not New York? Was not the metropolis the proper place for her? Her mother could not again rouse her interest in the house on Park Slope.
Oddly enough, however, her vividest realization came to her when her clergyman—a Methodist—failed to pass her by with the faint, tolerant smile of greeting which was her due as his parishioner. Her relation to her church had been the slimmest. Once, some years before, she had helped to give out ice-cream at a picnic, and had been the greatest success with the small boys. She had hardly, with this exception, exchanged two words with her spiritual master when he came, as he often did, to see her mother.
Now he stopped and began to talk frankly about his charities. He told her simply a tragic enough case. He needed fifty dollars for immediate relief. It occurred to him that she might find particular happiness in giving just at this minute.
She found particular happiness in the sense of importance that came to her in being asked. She had always respected and feared old Mr. Alden, and yet here he was talking to her on as serious a subject as if she had been old Miss Cotes, who was the pivot of all feminine organizations in Stonehurst. Perhaps not even Miss Cotes would be asked so lightly for fifty dollars—as if it were a quarter.
Not only Christian pity moved her. She lifted her elbows from the gate and stood erect with bent head. Many Ladies-Bountiful might have studied her manner with advantage as she answered that as yet her bank-account stood at the ten dollars from which it had not varied since she was born. As soon as she received her inheritance he might count on her.
Never perhaps in all her subsequent career did she feel more regal.
With this mood still upon her, she presently banged the gate behind her and darted down the street to the house of her dearest friend. Miss Glynn was confined in bed with a severe cold, but undaunted by this intelligence, Marie Louise rushed from the front door to her friend’s bedside. They embraced with little groans and squeaks of excitement, followed by more articulate expressions: “My dear,” “Only think,” “Oh, Dodo,” “Oh, Mamie Lulu,” and the like.
“Oh,” cried Dora, “I know I shall soon see you in the Star. “Last evening Miss Carman entertained a large party at dinner. The president of the Institute and Mrs. Hicks, Miss Cotes”
“Indeed, I won’t have Mrs. Hicks,” said Marie Louise; “she said I dressed like a nigger minstrel.”
“Shall you move to Park Slope?” asked Dora, with round-eyed wonder at the magnificence of the mere idea. “Or perhaps we are not grand enough for you at all in Stonehurst, and you will want to live in Pitney.”
“Pitney!” said Marie Louise, with vast contempt, although hitherto the hall-mark of the nearest large town had been quite sufficient to hallow any article in her eyes. “Hardly! If I moved away from here I certainly should not go to Pitney.”
“You don’t mean New York!” shrieked Dora. “Oh, Mamie, I could not bear to have you become a horrid, stuck-up New Yorker.”
Marie Louise did not stop to assure her friend that whatever happened she would not become stuck-up, but she was not offended at the suggestion. She smiled.
“I don’t think I see mommer in New York, somehow,” she returned.
“Shall you have an automobile?”
“Of course,” said the other, though she had never even considered the subject before. “Are they very expensive? Of course they are, but it does not matter. That is so funny. That it does not matter what anything costs. We'll take it out every evening. I'll run it myself, and we'll take you and Gus and Bobby when he isn’t too dull. But that is not what I came to say, Dolly dear. I want to give you a dress. Any kind you like.” She waved a comprehensive circle. “Just lie here and think of the most beautiful one you can; white satin with stars, or green with water-lilies. Anything. I can’t bear to think of your having to use up all those ugly remnants your grandmother is always buying. I like you in pink best.”
“Oh, Polly Lulu,” cried Dora, giggling in an excitement that was better than thanks; and she added, after a solemn moment of reflection: “To think that you can do anything in the world you want to!”
Marie Louise nodded. She saw nothing in the statement that required qualification.