CHAPTER XIX
NOT MADE IN HEAVEN
“Women are like tricks by sleight of hand
Which to admire we should not understand.”
—CONGREVE.
At The Trumpet office the next morning Essex found a letter awaiting him. It was from Mrs. Shackleton, asking him to dinner on a certain evening that week—“very informally, Mr. Essex would understand, as the family was in such deep mourning.”
Essex turned the letter over, smiling to himself. It was an admirable testimony to Bessie’s capability. Her monogram, gilded richly, adorned the top of the sheet of cream-laid paper, and beneath it, in a fine running hand, were the few carefully-worded sentences, and then the signature—Bessie A. Shackleton. It was a remarkable letter, considering all things; wonderful testimony to that adaptive cleverness which is the birth-right of Bessie’s countrywomen. In her case this care of externals had not been a haphazard acquirement. She was not the woman to be slipshod or trust to the tutoring of experience. When her husband’s star had begun to rise with such dazzling effulgence she had hired teachers for herself, as well as those for Maud, and there were many books of etiquette on the shelves in her boudoir.
The letter contained more for Essex than a simple invitation to dinner. It was the first move of the Shackleton faction in the direction he desired to see them take. Bessie had evidently heard something that had made her realize he, too, might be more than a pawn in the game. He answered the note with a sentence of acceptance and a well-turned phrase, expressing his pleasure at the thought of meeting her again.
He was not in an agreeable frame of mind. His interview with Mariposa had roused the sleeping devil within him, which, of late, had only been drowsy. His worst side—ugly traits inherited from his rascally father—was developing with overmastering force. Lessons learned in those obscure and unchronicled years when he had swung between London and Paris were beginning to bear fruit. At the blow from Mariposa a crop of red-veined passions had burst into life and grown with the speed of Jack’s beanstalk. His face burned with the memory of that blow. When he recalled its stinging impact, he did not know whether he loved or hated Mariposa most. But his determination to force her to marry him strengthened with her openly expressed abhorrence. The memory of her face as she struck at him was constantly before his mental vision, and his fury seethed to the point of a still, level-brimming tensity, when he recalled the fear and hatred in it.
The dinner at Mrs. Shackleton’s was a small and informal one. The company of six—for, besides himself, the only guests were the Count de Lamolle and Pussy Thurston—looked an exceedingly meager array in the vast drawing-room, whose stately proportions were rendered even larger by mirrors which rose from the floor to the cornice, elongating the room by many shadowy reflections. A small fire burned at each end, under mantels of Mexican onyx, and these two little palpitating hearts of heat were the brightest spots in the spacious apartment where even Miss Thurston’s dress of pale-blue gauze seemed to melt into the effacing shadows.
The Count de Lamolle gave Essex a quick glance, and, as they stood together in front of one of the fires—the two girls and Win having moved away to look at a painting of Bouguereau’s on an easel—addressed a casual remark to him in French. The count had already met the newspaper man, and set him down, without illusion or hesitation, as a clever adventurer. He overcame his surprise at meeting him in the house of the bonanza widow, by the reflection that this was the United States where all men are equal, and women with money free to be wooed by any of them.
The count was in an uncertain and almost uncomfortable state of mind. The letter he had received from Mrs. Shackleton, bidding him to the feast, was the second from her since Maud’s rejection of him. The first had been of a consolatory and encouraging nature. Mrs. Shackleton told him that Maud was young, and that many women said no, when they meant yes. The count knew both these things as well as Mrs. Shackleton; the latter, even better. But it seemed to him that Maud, young though she was, had not meant yes, and the handsome Frenchman was not the man to force his attentions on any woman. He watched her without appearing to notice her. She had been greatly embarrassed at sight of him, and only for the briefest moment let her cold fingers touch his palm. Under the flood of light from the dining-room chandelier she looked plainer than ever; her lack of color and stolid absence of animation being even more noticeable than usual in contrast with the brilliant pink and white prettiness of Pussy Thurston, who chattered gaily with everybody, and attempted a little French with De Lamolle.
Maud sat beside Essex, and even that easily fluent gentleman found her difficult to interest. She appeared dull and unresponsive. Looking at her with slightly narrowed eyes, he wondered how the count, of whose name and exploits he had often heard in Paris, could contemplate so brave an act as marrying her.
The count, who, having more heart, could see deeper, asked himself if the girl was really unhappy. As he listened to Miss Thurston’s marvelous French he wondered, with a little expanding heat of irritation, if the mother was trying to force the marriage against the daughter’s wish. He had broken hearts in his day, but it was not a pastime he found agreeable. He was too gallant a gentleman to woo where his courtship was unwelcome.
When the gentlemen entered the drawing-room from their after-dinner wine and cigars, they found the ladies seated by one of the fires below the Mexican onyx mantels. Bessie rose as they approached and, turning to Essex, asked him if he had seen the Bouguereau on the easel, and steered him toward it.
“It was one of Mr. Shackleton’s last purchases,” she said; “he was very anxious to have a fine collection. He had great taste.”
Her companion, looking at the plump, pearly-skinned nymph and her attendant cupids, thought of Harney’s description of Shackleton in the days when he had first entered California, and said, with conviction:
“What a remarkably versatile man your husband was! I had no idea he was interested in art.”
“Oh, he loved it,” said Bessie, “and knew a great deal about it. We were in Europe two years ago for six months, and Mr. Shackleton and I visited a great many studios. That is a Meissonier over there, and that one we bought from Rosa Bonheur. She’s an interesting woman, looked just like a man. Then in the Moorish room there’s a Gérôme. Would you like to see it? It’s considered a very fine example.”
He expressed his desire to see the Gérôme, and followed Bessie’s rustling wake into the Moorish room. The little room was warm, with its handful of fire, and softly lit with chased and perforated lanterns of bronze and brass. The heat had drawn the perfume from the bowls full of roses and violets that stood about and the air was impregnated with their sweetness. The Gérôme, a scene in the interior of a harem, with a woman dancing, stood on an easel in one corner.
“That’s it,” said Bessie, drawing to one side that he might see it better. “One on the same sort of subject was in the studio when we first went there, but Mr. Shackleton thought it was too small, and this was painted to order.”
“Superb,” murmured Essex; “Gérôme at his best.”
“We hoped,” continued Bessie, sinking into a seat, “to have a fine collection, and build a gallery for them out in the garden. There was plenty of room, and they would have shown off better all together that way, rather than scattered about like this. But I’ve no ambition to do it now, and they’ll stay as they are.”
“Why don’t you go on with the collection?” said the young man, taking a seat on a square stool of carved teak wood. “It would be a most interesting thing to do, and you could go abroad every year or two, and go to the studios and buy direct from the artists. It’s much the best way.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” she said, with a little shrug; “I don’t know enough about it. I only know what I like, and I generally like the wrong thing. I’m not versatile like my husband. When I first came to California I didn’t know a chromo from an oil painting. In fact,” she said, looking at him frankly and laughing a little, “I don’t think I’d ever seen an oil painting.”
Essex returned the laugh and murmured a word or two of complimentary disbelief. He was wondering when she would get to the real subject of conversation which had led them to the Gérôme and the Moorish room. She was nearer than he thought.
“It would be a temptation to go to Paris every year or two,” she said. “That’s the most delightful place in the world. It’s your home, isn’t it? So, of course, you agree with me.”
“Yes, I was born there, and have lived there off and on ever since. To me, there is only one Paris.”
“And can you fancy any one having the chance to go there, and live and study, with no trouble about money, refusing?”
Essex looked into the fire, and responded in a tone that suggested polite indifference:
“No, that’s quite beyond my powers of imagination.”
“I have a sort of—I think you call it protégée—isn’t that the word?—yes”—in answer to his nod—“whom I want to send to Paris. She’s a young girl with a fine voice. Mr. Shackleton was very much interested in her. He knew her father in the mining days of the early fifties and wanted to pay off some old scores by helping the daughter. And now the daughter seems to dislike being helped.”
“There are such people,” said Essex in the same tone. “Does she dislike the idea of going to Paris, too?”
“That seems to be it. We both wanted to send her there, have her voice trained, and put her in the way of becoming a singer. Lepine, when he was here, heard her and thought she had the making of a prima donna. But,” she suddenly looked at him with a half-puzzled expression of inquiry, “I think you know her—Miss Moreau?”
Essex looked back at her for a moment with bafflingly expressionless eyes.
“Yes, I know her. She’s a friend of Mrs. Willers’, one of the Sunday edition people on The Trumpet. A very handsome and charming girl.”
“That’s the girl,” said Bessie, mentally admiring his perfect aplomb. “She’s a very fine girl, and, as you say, handsome. But I don’t think she’s got much common sense. Girls don’t, as a rule, have more than enough to get along on. But when they’re poor, and so alone in the world, they ought to pick up a little.
“Certainly, to refuse an offer such as you speak of, argues a lack of something. Have you any idea of her reason for refusing?”
He looked at Bessie as he propounded the question, his eyelids lowered slightly. She, in her turn, let her keen gray glance rest on him. The thought flashed through her mind that it was only another evidence of Mariposa’s peculiarity of disposition that she should have refused so handsome and attractive a man.
“No—” she said with unruffled placidity, “I don’t understand it. She’s a proud girl and objects to being under obligations. But then this wouldn’t be an obligation. Apart from everything else, there’s no question about obligations where singers and artists and people like that are concerned. It’s all a matter of art.”
“Art levels all things,” said the young man glibly.
“That’s what I always thought. But Miss Moreau doesn’t seem to agree with me. The most curious part of it all is that she was willing to go in the beginning. That was before her mother died; then she suddenly changed her mind, wouldn’t hear of it, and said she’d prefer staying here in San Francisco, teaching music at fifty cents a lesson. I must say I was annoyed. I had her here and talked to her quite severely, but it didn’t seem to make any impression. I was puzzled to death to understand it. But after thinking for a while, and wondering what could make a girl prefer San Francisco and teaching music at fifty cents a lesson, to Paris and being a prima donna, I came to the conclusion there was only one thing could influence a woman to that extent—there was a man in the case.”
She saw Essex, whose eyes were on the fire, raise his brows by way of a polite commentary on her words.
“That sounds a very plausible solution of the problem,” he said. “Love’s a deadly enemy to common sense.”
“That’s the way it seemed to me. She had fallen in love, and evidently the man had not enough money to marry on, or was in a poor position, or something. When I thought of that I was certain I’d found the clue. The silly girl was going to give up everything for love. I suppose I ought to have felt touched. But I really felt sort of mad with her at first. Afterward, thinking it over, I decided it was not so foolish, and now I’ve veered round so far that I’m inclined to encourage it.”
“On general principles you think domesticity is better for a woman than the glare of the footlights?”
“No, not that way. I think a gift like Mariposa Moreau’s should be cultivated and given to the public. I never had any sympathy with that man in the Bible who buried his talent in the ground. I think talents were made to be used. What I thought, was, why shouldn’t Mariposa marry the man she cared for and go with him to Paris. It would be a much better arrangement all round. She isn’t very smart or capable, and she’s young and childish for her years. Don’t you think she is, Mr. Essex?”
Essex again raised his eyebrows and looked into the fire.
“Yes,” he said in a dubious tone. “Yes, I suppose she is. She is certainly not a sophisticated or worldly person.”
“That’s just it. She’s green—green about everything. Some way or other I didn’t like the thought of sending her off there by herself, where she didn’t know a soul. And then she’s so handsome. If she was ugly it wouldn’t matter so much. But she’s very good-looking, and when you add that to her being so inexperienced and green about everything you begin to realize the responsibility of sending her alone to a strange country, especially Paris.”
“Paris is not a city,” commented her companion, “where young, beautiful and unprotected females are objects of public protection and solicitude.”
“That’s the reason why I want, now, to encourage this marriage. With a husband that she loves to take care of her, everything would be smooth sailing. She’d be happy and not homesick or strange. He’d be there with her, to watch over her and probably help her with her studies. Perhaps he could get some position, just to occupy his time. Because, so far as money went, I’d see to it that they were well provided for during the time she was preparing. Lepine said that he thought two or three years would be sufficient for her to study. Well, I’d give them fifteen thousand dollars to start on. And if that wasn’t enough, or she was not ready to appear at the expected time, there would be more. There’d be no question about means of living, anyway. They could just put that out of their heads.”
“I have always heard that Mrs. Shackleton was generous,” said Essex, looking at her with a slight smile.
“Oh, generous!” she said, with a little movement of impatience, which was genuine. “This is no question of generosity; I want the girl to go and be a singer, and I don’t want her to go alone. Now, I’ve found out a way for her to go that will be agreeable to her and to me, and, I take for granted, to the man.”
She looked at Essex with a smile that almost said she knew him to be that favored person.
“Of course,” she continued, “it would be better for him to get some work. It’s bad for man or woman to be idle. If he knows how to write, it would be an easy matter to make him Paris correspondent of The Trumpet. It was my husband’s intention to have a correspondent, and he had some idea of offering it to Mrs. Willers. But it’s not the work for her, nor she the woman for it. It ought to be a man, and a man that’s conversant with the country and the language. There’ll be a good salary to go with it. Win was talking about it only the other evening.”
“What a showering of good fortune on one person,” said Essex—“a position ready-made, a small fortune and a beautiful wife! He must be a favorite of the gods.”
“You can call it what you like, Mr. Essex,” said Bessie. “It’s been my experience that the gods take for their favorites men and women who’ve got some hustle. Everybody has a chance some time or other. Miss Moreau and her young man have theirs now.”
She rose to her feet, for at that moment, Pussy Thurston appeared in the doorway to say good night.
The pretty creature had cast more than one covertly admiring look at Essex, during the dinner, and now, as she held out her hand to him in farewell, she said after the informal Western fashion:
“Won’t you come to see me, Mr. Essex? I’m always at home on Sunday afternoon. If you’re bashful, Win will bring you. He comes sometimes when he’s got nowhere else in the world to go to.”
Win, who was just behind her, expressed his willingness to act as escort, and laughing and jesting, the party passed through the doorway into the drawing-room. The little fires were burning low. By the light of one, Maud and Count de Lamolle were looking at a book of photographs of Swiss views. The count’s expression was enigmatic, and as Bessie approached them she heard Maud say:
“Oh, that’s a mountain. What’s the name of it, now? I can’t remember. It’s very high and pointed, and people are always climbing it and falling into holes.”
“The Matterhorn, perhaps,” suggested the count, politely.
To which Maud gave a relieved assent. Her words were commonplace enough, but there was a quality of light-heartedness, of suppressed elation, in her voice, that her mother’s quick ear instantly caught. As the girl looked up at their approaching figures her face showed the same newly-acquired sparkle that was almost joyous.
It had, in fact, been a critical evening for Maud, and so miserable did she feel her situation to be, that she had taken her courage in both hands and struck one desperate blow for freedom.
When her mother and Essex had begun their pictorial migrations she had felt the cold dread of a tête-à-tête with the count creeping over her heart. For a space she had tried to remain attached to Win and Pussy Thornton, but neither Win nor Pussy, who were old friends and had many subjects of mutual interest to discuss, encouraged her society. Maud was not the person to develop diplomatic genius under the most favorable circumstances. Half an hour after the men had entered the drawing-room, she found herself alone with the count, in front of the fire, Win and Pussy having strayed away to the Bouguereau.
The count had tried various subjects of conversation, but they had drooped and died after a few minutes of languishing existence. He stood with his back to the mantelpiece, looking curiously at Maud, who sat on the edge of an armchair just within reach of the fluctuating light. Her hands were clasped on her knee and she was looking down so that he could not see her face.
Suddenly she rose to her feet and faced him. She was pale and her eyes looked miserable and terrified.
“Count de Lamolle,” she breathed in a tremulous voice.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, moving toward her, very much surprised by her appearance.
“I’ve got to say something to you. It may sound queer, but I’ve got to say it.”
“Dear Miss,” said the Frenchman, really concerned by her tragic demeanor, “say whatever pleases you. I am only here to listen.”
“You don’t really care for me. Oh, if you’d only tell the truth!”
“That is a strange remark,” he said, completely taken by surprise, and wondering what this extraordinary girl was going to say next.
“If I thought you really cared it would be different. Perhaps I couldn’t say it. I hate making people miserable, and yet so many people make me miserable.”
“Who makes you miserable, dear young lady?” he said, honestly touched.
“You,” she almost whispered. “You do. You don’t mean to, I know, for I think you’re kinder than lots of other men. But—but— Oh please, don’t keep on asking me to marry you. Don’t do it any more; that makes me miserable. Because I can’t do it. Truly, I can’t.”
Count de Lamolle became very grave. He drew himself up with an odd, stiff air, like a soldier.
“If a lady speaks this way to a man,” he said, “the man can only obey.”
Maud hung on his words. When she grasped their import, she suddenly moved toward him. There was something pathetic in her eagerness of gratitude.
“Oh, thanks! thanks! I knew you’d do it. It’s not you I object to. I like you better than any of the others. But”—she glanced over her shoulder into the lantern-lit brilliance of the Moorish room and dropped her voice—“there’s some one I like more.”
“Oh,” said the count, and his dark eyes turned from her face, which had become very red.
“He’s going to marry me some day. He’s just Jack Latimer, the stenographer in the office. But I like him, and that’s all there is to it. But mommer’s terribly set on you. And she’s so determined. Oh, Count de Lamolle, it’s very hard to make determined people see things differently to what they want. So please, don’t want to marry me any more, for if you don’t want to, that will have to end it.”
She stopped, her lips trembling. The count took her hand, cold and clammy, and lifting it pressed his lips lightly on the back. Then, dropping it, he said, quietly:
“All is understood. You have honored me highly, Mademoiselle, by giving me your confidence.”
They stood silent for a moment. The kiss on her hand, the something friendly and kind—so different from the cold looks of unadmiring criticism she was accustomed to—in the man’s eyes brought her uncomfortably close to tears. Few people had been kind to Maud Shackleton in the midst of her riches and splendor.
The count saw her emotion and turned toward the fire. He felt more drawn to her than he had ever been during his courtship. From the tail of his eye he saw her little handkerchief whisk out and then into her pocket. As it disappeared he said:
“I see, Miss Shackleton, that you have some albums of views on the table. Might we not look at them together?”
Thus it was that Bessie and Essex found them. They had worked through two volumes of Northern Italy, and were in Switzerland. And over the stiffened pages with their photographs, not one-half of which Maud could remember though she had been to all the places on her trip abroad, they had come nearer being friends than ever before.