The White Lady (7 page)

Altogether, Constance took her way into the world of frivolity again, feeling that she had had a glimpse into a bit of heaven on earth. She almost dreaded the contact with the bright world lest her newly awakened faculties should be numbed. She contemplated giving up her visit but thought better of it, remembering there might be letters awaiting her and that her grandmother would be astonished if she went home without going there at all. She did not wish to arouse suspicion, so she went on. Besides, there might be more to learn before her experiment was put into actual practice.

The home into which she stepped that evening was a very different one from the quiet little white house she had left. The building was massive and showy, a great pile of masonry set in the midst of one of the most fashionable semi-suburban localities. The evidences of lavish spending of money were everywhere. There was a daring about effects and colorings that pleased Constance’s present state of mind, though she had been brought up as a conservative of the conservatives.

There was a fountain splashing in the center of the great reception hall, and wide stairs ascended at the farther end, turning at either side and going up to galleries screened from below by fine Moorish carvings and latticed casement windows. The rooms opened off on either side, making the distance seem vast and the extent of the house almost unlimited. The thick Persian rugs, the myriads of palms, the tinkling of the falling water, the faint perfume of English violets from an immense bowl of purple that stood on a pillar of the stairs, the soft lights of stained glass from a costly window on the first broad stair landing, the glimpses of great paintings and costly furnishings through the open doorways on every hand, the vista of a great library with book-lined walls and many low, soft chairs in scarlet leather, the well-kept fire behind its bright brass fender—everything bespoke ease and luxury and lack of any need for care or thought.

The young girl who was the center of all this luxury, the one daughter and child of the house, around whom, and for whom, and by the will of whom everything moved, was a sweet, bright, cheerful little thing with a voice as fresh as a schoolboy’s and eyes that had not yet grown weary of the world. Her face was like a wild rose and her ways like a wild bird of the woods. She was willful and spoiled, but charming. She did exactly as she pleased. It was a strange place to come for the purpose of studying how best to give up the world and live on the interest of five thousand dollars.

Constance looked about her and almost shrank back, for here she recognized that which she had failed to put into her own equally luxurious life—a zest for everything. Could she go through this visit with its round of excitements, which she promptly foresaw, and not come out dispirited for the future that was so surely before her?

She had little time, however, to think about it. She was seized upon by her young hostess and carried off to the most bewildering delight of rooms, scolded for not coming sooner, hugged and kissed for coming at all, and had poured upon her head a torrent of questions and a flood of plans for the days that were before them.

“There’s a theater party, and a dance and supper tomorrow night, and a luncheon and dinner dance with a dear, stupid English lord, a real artist with a name, a cross old novelist, and three handsome men with unapproachable family trees for you to choose from. Isn’t it just delightful you should be here at this time? There never were so many nice things going on at once, and all of them kind of unusual in some way, you know, not just common fun. The whole week is just full. Don’t you love to have your days full? I do.”

Constance sat and wondered at this girl who enjoyed everything in a fresh, frank, intense way. Did she never take anything seriously? What would she do if she were suddenly told that she had lost everything but five thousand dollars? And then, quickly and quite at variance with her usual impulsive self, Constance asked her.

“You are a great child, Marion, but what would you do if you were poor?”

“Dear me!” said Marion, laughing with a ripple of dimples all round her mouth. “I would cry my eyes out for half a day and then set to work to see what fun I could get out of it. Perhaps I’d learn typewriting, but I think that would be a bore. I’d rather be a clerk in a store. No, I think I wouldn’t do anything very long at a time. I’d sell ribbons for a month, and then I’d go out to do housework for another. I could be a lady’s maid or a waitress beautifully; and anyway, when they discharged me, I’d go to a hospital and be a nurse. There’d be lots of young doctors, and one could have a thrill a day. And then, after I’d earned money enough to live on for a year, I’d rent a garret somewhere and write a book about my experiences and make my fortune. Then I’d buy this dear old house back again and invite you to live with me, and we’d have a perfectly lovely time in it, just as we’re going to have now!” She clasped Constance in her arms and whirled her around the room until they were both out of breath.

“You crazy child, I believe you would. I believe you’d have a good time out of anything you did,” said Constance, smoothing back her rumpled hair and laughing.

That night Constance lay down to sleep with a perfect whirl of ideas in her head. Perhaps, after all, this pretty, flighty little girl would be a help to her. At least, she would have one more good time in the world before she went out of it into rural oblivion.

J
immy was writing a letter.

It was not his first letter; that had been brief and to the point, addressed to a trust company in Philadelphia. It read:

That letter had been comparatively easy of achievement, but this second one was another matter entirely. It was to a lady, and one, he instinctively felt, of rare attainments. He wrote and rewrote, and tore up and wrote again. His fingers and face were smeared with ink, and his blond hair had a long smear also where he had wiped his pen many times. But at last, with a dissatisfied sigh, he held the letter up, complete, and scowled at it, concluding it was the best that he could do.

Not a soul had he told of his curious transaction. He had mailed his first letter the day after Constance left, having transcribed the address laboriously on the fence by the light of a streetlamp and with one eye looking up to the
For Rent
sign, while the other kept a furtive lookout for possible white ladies walking in the grass behind the house. He was afraid if he did it in the daytime he might be caught by some of “the fellers” and asked uncomfortable questions. Then he had mailed his letter and been promptly on hand at the arrival of every mail train, not excepting one that came in an hour after his letter had started. He always put his important little freckled face before the postmaster’s vision the minute the window was opened after each distribution of mail and asked whether there was anything for James Abercrombie Watts. The postmaster got almost out of patience after the first six times and told the boy to get out of the way, that if any letter came for him he would send him word, but Jimmy, undaunted, appeared as promptly at the next mail. At last the letter came, and Jimmy retired to the sacred precincts of an old barn to read it and then went home to write to “her.”

Jimmy would have chuckled over his shrewdness, could he have looked into the Philadelphia office when his own letter was read.

“Here’s somebody wants to rent that old house in Rushville,” said one partner, tossing the letter over to the other. “Better let ’em have it cheap. It’s some poor illiterate person, but if you can get anybody to live there for a while till that fool notion about the house being haunted can be overcome, it may be sold to advantage. It’s not worth keeping now.”

The other man read the letter and tossed it back.

“All right, tell ’em they can have it for ten dollars a month if they pay in advance for a year. That’ll keep ’em there, I guess. ’Tisn’t likely they’ll keep it after they find out the story about it, but anyhow, that’ll pay the taxes. Tell them they’ll have to make their own repairs, though, if they want any.”

And so the answer had come.

To Jimmy, ten dollars a month seemed a large sum. His mother, he knew, paid seven for the tiny place she lived in, and had hard work to get that paid, but that wasn’t “haunted.” He felt a little dubious as to whether his lady would think this cheap enough, considering the great drawback to the house, but there seemed to be nothing left to do but to report back to her. Accordingly he went to work, and in due time the letter was finished and posted, and Jimmy began once more his daily pilgrimages to the post office. Not that he was sure of getting another letter, for his lady had not promised to write, only asked him to do so. It might be she would never answer. It might be she had gone into the vast world again and he would never see her, but he hoped not, for he had boasted great things of her to the boys, and they had not believed. He wanted her to return and verify his statements. He wanted her, too, to come back for her own self, for there had been something about her that made him want to see her again. He did not understand it, but he felt it. He had a Sunday school teacher once when he was a little fellow who made him feel that way, but she had died. Maybe this one would, too. Jimmy did not know, but he liked her.

So it was that one morning among other mail, Constance received a funny little scrawled letter in a cheap blue envelope. It had gone to New York and had been forwarded to Chicago with others. Wonderingly, she opened it. She had almost forgotten Jimmy, though she had by no means forgotten the old house among the cedars. But there had been so much to do since she reached Chicago, that her plans had been put aside for a little. Now they all came back, and she felt that everything was being shaped for her just as she would like it.

Over this letter Constance laughed and laughed till the tears came to her eyes. It took her some time to decipher it all, but during the reading of it the hour she had spent about the old house came back to her with renewed charm, and she felt that Jimmy had done her a service. She had found that the old house was possible even on a capital of five thousand dollars. Why, five years would only cost a few hundred dollars. Surely by that time she would have learned to earn her own living in some respectable way, and at least it was a good place in which to hide for the present. New York could not search her out, no, not even with the office of the agent who leased her the house in the heart of its business center. For the city trust knew no name save James Abercrombie Watts, and the idea had struck her that Jimmy should take out the lease and do all her business. There was no need that her name should be in it at all. Jimmy should be her real estate agent, as it were. Her eyes were bright with laughter and tears when Marion tapped at her door and entered.

“All the girls have fads,” said Marion, fluttering a lot of letters before Constance’s face. “Here’s one girl who is bound and determined that we shall help her in private theatricals for her college-settlement work, and another wants me to make her a pillow for their fair, and another is bound I shall join her club. Marie Curtis goes in for golf, and there are two or three who rave over music and art, and talk a lot of stuff about the old masters that they don’t understand themselves, I’m sure. Everyone has a fad, except little me. What’s yours, Constance?”

“Tearooms!” responded Constance promptly, her eyes far away for the moment.

“Tearooms!” said Marion, puzzled. “How funny! How do you do it? Are you collecting spoons or napkins from them, or what?”

“Why, I’m rather new at it,” said Constance, enigmas in her eyes, “but I guess you just go around and see them, find good ones, you know.”

“Oh, I understand. You find all the little quaint ones and write down a description of them. I shouldn’t think there would be much in it in this country. Over in Europe, now, there are plenty of them. But it’s something new, at least. We’ve a whole afternoon to ourselves; suppose we try it. I’ll order the car, and we’ll go on a tour of investigation.”

The idea struck Constance as a good one, and without further explanation, though with laughing eyes, she acquiesced. Thereafter it became known among Marion Eastlake’s friends that Constance was making a study of Chicago tearooms, and amid much laughter, many pleasant little excursions were organized into various places where food was offered for sale in one form or another. Some of the girls were in danger of becoming sick from the number of fancy cakes, sandwiches, and sundaes they sampled for Constance’s benefit.

Through it all Constance was keeping her eyes open and really learning a few things.

But Chicago with all its attractions was no longer so full of interest for Constance as it had been. Her mind was teeming with plans, and the arrival of Jimmy’s letter brought it all back again in full force that she was no longer a part of this world of fashion. So, in spite of Marion’s pleadings, in spite of dinners and parties and engagements without number, Constance decided to go home.

When she had decided, it did not take her long to put her plans into operation. As suddenly as she had come, she departed, leaving Marion lonely and disappointed. She was wonderfully fascinated by Constance and had formed something more than an ordinary friendship for her. Moreover, she felt instinctively that there was something more to her than a mere society girl, and she longed to enter into the inner recesses of this choice spirit and share the fun, for fun Marion felt it would be. She was always looking out for fun. The beautiful part of it was that she generally made some fun out of everything she undertook, even though it was not planned for that purpose.