The White Lady (8 page)

Constance had grown fond of Marion also, and it was with regret that she bade her good-bye, in spite of her impatience to be again alone and perfect her plans for the future. She would have enjoyed telling all to this girl and was sometimes tempted to do so; then, looking about on the luxurious apartments, she would remember that Marion was part of the world she was leaving now, and not a soul of that world must know where she had gone or what had happened. For it might be that Marion, too, was influenced by wealth and station, unlikely as it seemed, and it would be better not to know it if Marion were likely to turn away from her when her money was gone.

As she left the beautiful mansion where she had spent two delightful weeks, Constance gave one glance about the lovely rooms. It was to her a farewell to all the pleasant, costly things that seem to make life one long picnic. She was going into a world of work and thought and perplexity. She went willingly enough, but she could not help a regret or two for the things of the life she was leaving.

Constance did some serious planning on the journey home. She could feel a great change in herself. The old life began to seem far away. Henceforth, her sphere would be a humble one.

It was that same night after dinner that she began to set her plans in motion.

Grandmother was always in a good humor just after dinner, and nothing pleased her more than a nice long talk with Constance. She wanted to know all about Chicago, and Constance told her of the magnificence and the kindness and the largeness of everything. The old lady listened and exclaimed, and approved of some things but thought that others showed far too much display to be in good taste, and finally Constance got around to the point toward which she had been aiming.

“Grandmother,” she said in her most wheedling tone, “I want you to do something for me. I want it very much. Will you do it?”

“Why, of course, Connie, what is it?” said her grandmother, pleased as love always is to be wanted. “I always do what you ask, my dear. Do I not?”

“Of course you do, Grandmother, and I know you’re going to do this. Well, I’ll tell you about it. I want to close up this house and go traveling! Does that sound very dreadful?”

“Why, no, child, not the traveling part. I suppose that could be arranged all right. There are plenty of people who would be glad to have you with them, and you could go as well as not. But why close up the house, child? I’ll stay right here as I always do. That’ll be the best way.”

“No, Grandmother, that’s not what I mean. I want you to go along. I don’t want to be bundled off on anybody else. I want you and me to start out and have a good time together and go just where we please without anything to hinder. Wouldn’t you please go, Grandmother? We could go easily, so that you wouldn’t need to get tired, and I think you would enjoy it.”

“Oh child! I, go traveling again at my time of life? I couldn’t,” said the grandmother, startled out of her usual calm decorum.

It took an hour and a half of eager argument and reasoning to convince Mrs. Wetherill that it would be good for her health to move out of her great elegant rooms, where peaceful regularity moved on money-oiled wheels. Constance almost despaired of winning the day without revealing the whole story, but at last the grandmother succumbed.

“Well, dear child, perhaps you’re right. I suppose I should enjoy it some, though I’ve never felt any desire to go traipsing over the earth the way some people do. But I suppose you’ll enjoy it, and it’s very nice that you want me with you. Yes, I’ll go. And now, where is it you want me to go? Abroad, of course. It’s a number of years since I crossed the ocean. I’m not very fond of the water.” Constance could see her wavering again. She flew to her side and knelt down before her.

“No, indeed, you dear grandmother. I’m not going to drag you across the ocean. Europe’s much too public for me. What I want is to find a lovely little quiet village, where, after we have traveled around some, we can take a house for a while and get away from all this rush of city life. It doesn’t amount to a row of pins. I want to get rested and find out what life means.”

“Dear child,” said her grandmother, taking the girl’s face between her fine, wrinkled hands with their rich fall of rare laces in the wrists. “Dear child”—her eyes searched Constance’s face—“has something gone wrong with your heart? Has someone disappointed you? Isn’t Morris Thayer—hasn’t he—I thought he was devotion itself. He kept calling me after you left, and I’m sure I forwarded a letter or two in his handwriting. You haven’t quarreled, have you?”

Constance was surprised that her quiet, unobserving grandmother had taken so much notice of her affairs. She had always been reticent about them, and her grandmother had never questioned nor seemed to notice. She flushed up guiltily but laughed in answer.

“No, Grandmother,” she said, “that’s not the matter. Morris Thayer and I do not quarrel, but yet—I don’t know but I am a little disappointed in him, though it doesn’t matter much, I’m sure. I want to get away from him and them all. I’m tired of the everlasting sameness of it. I want to do a lot of nice unconventional things that you can do when you’re away from home. You know, Grandmother?”

The grandmother thought she understood that there had been a disagreement of some kind between the girl and her beau and, deciding that perhaps the young man needed the lesson of a separation for a while, acquiesced without further comment.

At last Constance went to her room, satisfied that her grandmother suspected nothing and that she would make her no further trouble.

There was a large pile of correspondence awaiting her attention. She looked at it wearily. She had no taste now for all that had made her life heretofore. She wondered at herself that so soon she could be interested in other things. Just a month before all her care had been to which dance she should go and whom she would invite. Now she was entering with eagerness into a plan to get rid of it all. Would she be sorry by and by, when it was too late and she could not come back to it?

For an instant she longed for the old, safe, easy life of ease, with plenty of money to spend and no fear of ignominy in the future. But that could not be. She must go forward to a future with five thousand dollars as capital, and that would be intolerable here. The precise, respectable little cousin who had stayed with her grandmother while she was away was a sample of what that would be. All her life this cousin had been hampered by too much respectability to save her from a monotony to which custom, her family, and a lack of funds had condemned her. Now, at fifty, she wore made-over dresses, and scrimped, and stayed with relatives to keep her hands as white and useless as those of a member of her highborn family should be. “Poor Cousin Kate, of course she must be invited, she has so little pleasure,” was what everybody said. Constance’s pride never could endure a like humiliation. Her conquering courage swelled up to her aid once more, and she determined to make a new life with none to pity and none to make ashamed. She had yet to learn that there are worse things than pity, and deeper humiliations than mere lost prestige can give.

When she lay down to rest that night, her brain was swarming with plans, and there lay upon her desk a careful memorandum of things to be attended to at once. The well-ordered household slept calmly, all unknowing that the morrow was to be their undoing.

S
he told them all in the morning, and there was deep sadness in the midst of the faithful servants, for they loved their young mistress, and most of them had been in the family a number of years. There was no danger but that they could secure the best of positions elsewhere at wages they desired, but there had come to be something more in their services than a mere exchange of work for wages. Norah, the cook, felt it most deeply. By night, her eyes were swollen and her nose was red with weeping.

Constance was up at an early hour that morning, giving orders and writing notes. To all invitations she gave the same reply, to the effect that it would be impossible for her to accept, as she and her grandmother were going away for an extended trip. She went about the reception room, parlor, and library, pointing out pictures, bric-a-brac, and rugs to be packed, and giving directions about little details in each room that she thought the butler could look after. She had thought these things out carefully on her journey home from Chicago, else she would not have accomplished so much in one day. An experienced mover would have looked upon her planning with admiration. She directed the maid to set about packing Mrs. Wetherill’s things at once, and the old lady got into a flutter of actual pleasure at the thought of going away.

Thomas was willing and handy in many ways. He was adept at packing, as she had discovered more than once when she sent off Christmas boxes, which always arrived in good shape, so now she put him to work and saved the publicity of having professional packers. It had been difficult to explain everything to the servants so that they could help her properly without telling them too much, but she had said that her grandmother and she might be away longer than they knew, and it might be considered advisable to let the house, in which case they should send their goods to storage. In any event, it was as well to have valuables carefully packed. Thomas tried to argue that they would be as safe unpacked and the house would thus be ready for occupancy in case they suddenly decided to return, but he remembered he was overstepping his bounds and, sadly closing his mouth, obeyed his mistress, his heart heavy that she was going away.

Having set the ball rolling, Constance proceeded to call upon the old lawyer. She told him briefly that she and her grandmother had decided to leave the city almost immediately. He gathered the impression from something she mentioned about an aunt, from whose home she had just returned, that they were to go on a visit. She asked him kindly to say nothing to any who might inquire, except that they were traveling. She mentioned that she thought her grandmother would be better for a change of air and scene, and requested that he breathe not a word of their change of fortune, either to her grandmother or to any of their friends, as it was quite unnecessary. He thought he understood that she had other resources for money and wished to keep this loss quiet, so he readily promised to do as she asked, feeling thankful that this was not a case where he must have his heart wrung with pity.

Constance arranged with him to dispose of the house, what furniture she was leaving, and several other small effects she wished to sell, and to put two thousand dollars in the bank to her account, investing the remainder of her small fortune to the best advantage he could. Then, giving Aunt Susan’s address as headquarters for the near future, she bade him good morning, thanked him graciously, and departed. A great load was off her mind. He had not asked her what she was going to do, and of all the people who might find out her schemes and try to stop her, she dreaded most the old lawyer who had been her father’s firm friend and was therefore not to be put aside easily.

It is marvelous what a difference a few hours’ work can make in a home. When Constance returned from her ride, which had included a number of business calls—most of them to cancel orders that had been previously given—she was surprised to find that the atmosphere of the home had departed and that in its place was a bare expectancy of what would happen next. It made her heart sick, and she longed to put everything back in its place again. She was only deterred by the knowledge that it could not be for long in any event, as five thousand dollars could carry on that establishment only a very short time.

She noticed a furtive, frightened look on her grandmother’s face all the time she was eating her dinner. The familiar pictures were gone from the dining room walls, and the sideboard was bare of the handsome silver that usually stood there. The curtains had been taken down, and only inside blinds kept out the world. Constance resolved to urge her grandmother to remain in her own room for meals and to keep that apartment nearly like its natural self for her as long as possible. She saw that it was hard on her grandmother, and she wished with all her soul that there might be some other way.

It was not to be expected that a girl of Constance’s standing could slip out of the world in a moment, unobserved. So soon as her notes had reached their destinations, there began a flood of regrets. Some came in the mail, protesting against this sudden decision before the season was entirely over. Others were made in person, and the street in front of the fine old brownstone mansion was hardly ever without a car standing there. There was much mourning among her intimate friends at her departure from their midst, and the genuine interest manifested roused in Constance a doubt as to whether she had been altogether right in supposing more of her friends would have deserted her or relegated her to the place in their affections belonging to cast-off articles that had been prized in their time but were out of date. It was quite possible that a few of them would have retained the same feeling for her, although she knew that, with their standards, that feeling must of necessity be mingled somewhat with pity, and from pity she recoiled as from a serpent. It is only the meek spirit that has been through chastening that can receive pity graciously.

She felt it a fortunate thing that just at this time Morris Thayer should have accompanied his mother and sister to Palm Beach for a few games of spring golf in the balmy atmosphere of the South. It is quite possible that if he had not been made to understand that Constance intended remaining in Chicago for at least a fortnight longer, he would not have taken himself so far away from New York. But, interrupted in his courtship, he was doing his best to pass the time until her return, feeling sure that he would have even better chances when he came back. He had begun to feel that he had shown his deep interest in Constance altogether too soon, and it would be as well for her to see less of him and to feel that she was not so sure of him. She would then, he argued, be wondering where he was and be glad to see him when he came.