Chapter XXII
From the start Dorothy and Mary Blaine got along well together. Dorothy liked her big, blustery, over-dressed, over-painted aunt. There was something dependable about her. Her breast was big enough to mother half the world and her eyes were beautiful. There were bits of snuff like dust clinging to her nostrils. Fortunately Dorothy didn't notice them. And Mary Blaine breathed a sigh of relief. Impulsively Dorothy threw her arms about Mary's neck and kissed her.
"I'm awfully glad you've come," she said. "I've been lonesome, and I know you will be a comfortable person to have about."
"I have many bad habits," laughed Mary. "I like to sit and doze in chimney corners. I like to drink my coffee from a saucer and I snore outrageously. You may as well know the worst at once else you may be disillusioned."
"You can warn me all you like," declared Dorothy, "without ever succeeding in persuading me that you are anything tut a lovable grumbler. I know I'm going to like you. My only fear is that you won't like me."
She was in a gayer mood than she had been at any moment since her father's death. She had heeded his repeated request. She was not making of herself a dreary person by constant sobbing, mourning and wearing black. Of course she missed him and there was a great void in her life. Still she would go on, even as her father had desired. She would not be afraid.
"And why shouldn't I like you?" asked Mary Blaine.
"For one thing," said Dorothy lightly, "I split infinitives."
"That doesn't mean anything to me," said Mary drolly. "They're like gold-fish and I never kept them in my life."
"Speaking of fish," said Dorothy, "before long I intend to introduce you to Jimmy Whale who is a particular friend of mine. I hope you like him."
"Never fear," commented Mary. "Anybody built on my gentle lines is sure to like a Whale."
"I hope you will."
"May I ask if there is anything serious between you?" asked Mary wickedly.
"Many things," was the quick reply. "Our minds are made up. He has decided that being poor he will never marry me because I'm rich. And I have decided that being rich I will never marry him because he is poor."
Mary puckered up her mouth and winked one eye.
"I see," she mused, "and now there is nothing left to do but set the day."
"To set what day?"
"To set the day when you won't be married."
Mary glanced around as Timothy, the butler, entered. He was tall and straight, dignified and bald. Dorothy often said that to her he looked like Lord Helpus.
"He always makes me feel lowly," she had complained, "when he enters a room, I feel like bowing to him and fetching tea. It is hell to have a jigger in your employ who makes you feel like a servant."
Old Timothy had been in the employ of the family for more than twenty years. Templeton Blaine had liked him. Dorothy kept him on now for her father's sake. Nothing in the house must be changed. Still in the whole course of her life she had never seen Timothy smile.
"Someday," she reflected, "I'll put a pin in his chair and see if the result carries with it a change of expression."
"Timothy," informed Dorothy, "this is my aunt, Mary Blaine, who will be the new mistress."
"Not very new," Mary broke in crisply. "More like an old one made over."
Dorothy grinned. Timothy's eyes bulged and he swallowed several times, his Adam's apple visibly going up and down like an elevator. Timothy had a long neck and despite his immaculate winged collar there was ample room for the said apple to play about.
He finally succeeded in controlling his emotions though he was feebly trying to decide what manner of a woman this one was. She was so tremendous she might easily have used a baby elephant for a lap-dog.
"Shall I show Madame to her room?" he asked gravely.
"I wish you would," said Mary. "I want to change my shoes. I bought these in a store that made a specialty of shoes with perfect arches. There's nothing the matter with the arches, I admit, but they forgot the toes entirely. They're so tight I believe my little toe is off completely. In a few moments Terese will be here with my bags. She stopped to check my trunks while I went on to Mr. Clive Reardon's office. I wanted to see whether your attorney would approve of me. Had he turned thumbs down I would have returned to the wheatlands from whence I came. Fortunately he seemed amiable. At least he survived the shock of my appearance and willingly put his visa on my passport. So here I am. I told Terese that she needn't hurry. I didn't, however, mean that she could take the night boat to Albany."
Timothy's expression registered a complete blank. The woman must be drunk. As he led the way upstairs, he mentally prayed that she wouldn't fall down. He would never be able to pick up such an enormous woman and still retain his dignity.
To Timothy's relief, Mary Blaine's feet held out, although the stairs screeched in anguish at her ponderous weight. The one defect in that house was the squeaky stairs. When Templeton had decided to have them fixed Dorothy had protested. At the time she was only ten years old.
"Please don't spoil the stairs, Daddy," she pleaded. "That's the voice of the house. It makes it seem alive. I like the way the stairs shout back at you. They are very saucy stairs."
Templeton Blaine had laughed heartily. Such queer ideas pleased him. After that of course the stairs simply could not be altered, not even when Dorothy grew older.
Mary's room was large and spacious. It had two large windows that faced upon the Avenue. Two smaller ones faced upon a court. In the center of the room was a table with a lamp upon it. On one side was a rocking-chair upholstered in flowered cretonne. On the other side was a boudoir chair of the same material. The walls were panelled, tinted cream-color, and decorated with two etchings, one of Westminster Abbey, the other of Trinity Church.
"I'll toss up a penny," Mary muttered, "to see which I'll attend."
Then her eye lighted upon the bed. It was a stupendous affair, a genuine antique for which Templeton had paid a great deal of money.
"Bluebeard and his seven wives must have slept in this bed," she chuckled, "before he commenced killing them off to make more room. That is a bed that fulfills its lot in life. If I sleep in it I'll turn into a regular Rip Van Winkle."
Then Terese appeared upon the scene. She was all apologies.
"I'm sorry I'm late," she said. "I never dreamed you'd be here so soon. I thought you'd have a lot of legal formalities to go through with at Mr. Reardon's office."
"No," Mary Blaine told her, "he was very nice. He told me we could go over the details of the estate at my convenience when I wasn't all tired out and we had more time. All he did was to telephone Dorothy that I was on the way up. He couldn't have been more unassuming. If I had been twenty years younger, I'd have tried to arouse his interest. All of which while interesting, camouflages the fact that you are the culprit. You make it appear as though I'm at fault. Pm giving the explanations. Where have you been, you worthless girl?"
Terese put her tongue in her cheek, before she answered softly, "I knew I was worthless, so I didn't hurry."
Abruptly, Mary emitted an unearthly groan. "Quick," she cried, "help me off with my corset, I've got a steel that is cutting me like hell."
Dorothy strolled into the room, unannounced. She hated formality.
"What's all the rumpus about?" she drawled.
"My corset," explained Mary, "is cutting my rumble seat."
"I don't wear any," said Dorothy simply.
"You don't wear what—a corset or a rumble seat?" asked Mary.
"I mean I don't wear any corset," was the reply. "They're old-fashiened as night-gowns."
"Suppose the place was raided," Mary complained.
"Why worry," said Dorothy airily. "Just don't give your right name."