A Maid and Her Money/Chapter 2

The Board of the New York Hospital for the Contagious and Infectious Diseases of Children was to meet one clear, dusty, windy morning in November at the house of one of its original members. Almost all its members were original; ten years had made but little difference in its personnel. Not only work accomplished, but some real dangers run, held it together with a coherence not usual in charities accounted fashionable. One of its greatest triumphs had been the discovery, at the beginning, of the Reverend William Watson Joyce—not then known for the wonderful preacher and organizer that he is now acclaimed. For eight years he had been their chairman.

Mrs. Orvice was a widow between forty and fifty—forty, one said, to judge by her looks; fifty, when one saw her son. She was still so lovely that no one ever thought of remarking that she had once been a beauty. She had kept her eyes and her figure, and the former, looking out from a face beginning to be lined, beneath hair beginning to turn gray, were as clear and brilliant as a little patch of blue sky on a cloudy day.

Doctor Joyce, leaning forward, was saying to the five ladies and one gentleman who had assembled:

“This meeting was called, my dear friends, for two purposes, to fill the place of the dear lady who will be such a loss to all of us, and to consider ways and means for raising money for the new building, of which we stand, as you know, in such dire need”

“Well,” interrupted a little plump lady, sitting by the door, “all I say is—not a garden-party.” She was suggestive of anything but charity. Her nodding plumes, pearl earrings, and spotted veil were plainly of this world. Her skin was smooth but coarse-grained, and her bright little eyes looked out unrelieved by eyebrows. “Shall you ever forget the way we worked for that other one? And such a rain! Every time they read about the deluge in church, I think I know how it began. And how did we come out? Ten dollars to the bad. To the good, was it?”

“I don’t think, Miss Bowles,” said Doctor Joyce gently, “that, after our unfortunate experience, any one is likely to advocate another garden-party.”

“Well, if they do, I certainly sha’n’t agree,” returned Miss Bowles. “I was thinking of a play, something clever and improper, that the authorities would not let you produce if it were not for charity.”

Doctor Joyce had come to feel some pride that he, and not Miss Bowles, should conduct the meeting, and he now said in the low but commanding voice of a man accustomed to filling great spaces:

“I believe our first business is the election of a member to this board. What suggestions have you to make? You remember we were all to give the matter some thought before we met again.”

Miss Bowles tapped the arm of her chair. “I give you my word,” she said, “that it has never crossed my mind from that day to this. However, it does not matter, for I am always pestering my friends to come on this board, but they have their own charities. People are so selfish.”

The other ladies and Mr. Peale, the treasurer, had not been so forgetful. Several names were suggested, but without conviction, and when the possibilities appeared to be exhausted, Doctor Joyce himself spoke. He was a middle-aged man with prominent brown eyes like a spaniel, and a complexion so transparent that it showed a change of color whenever he spoke. It showed a most decided change now.

“If no one else has any further suggestion,” he said, “I have a candidate to propose. I have in mind a young lady, energetic, generous, and excessively rich”

“It sounds almost too good to be true,” said Miss Bowles. “Let us elect her by all means. Who is she?”

“Her name is Carman—Miss Marie Louise Carman.” Doctor Joyce looked almost guiltily about the room, but it was evident that, with the exception of Miss Bowles, no one could connect the name with anything.

It was Miss Bowles who answered: “What, not the girl who used to drive about Newport in a white victoria all last summer?”

“Miss Carman was, I believe, at Newport last summer,” Doctor Joyce answered; and he added with an irrepressible smile: “I think it extremely likely that her equipage was white.”

“Oh,” cried Miss Bowles, “I used to feel so sorry for that girl—driving up and down the Ocean Drive in such beautiful clothes—and such horses! And not a soul knew her Well, Doctor Joyce, no one would dispute your selection, anyhow. Let’s vote.”

But to have his selection disputed was just what Doctor Joyce desired. He explained that he had met Miss Carman only once or twice—she had taken a pew at his church, and seemed very eager to do good.

“Do you know if she would be willing to serve, if we did elect her?” asked Miss Bowles. “It is so flat to elect people, and then to have them say”

Doctor Joyce colored again, but replied that he could only say that he believed that Miss Carman would be glad to serve on any board to which she was elected.

In the pause that followed, it was evident that Mr. Peale—Prixley Peale, the treasurer—was about to speak. He was a thin, good-looking man, who carried his forty years so well that he still looked young. One had only to look at him to know that he was a well-to-do bachelor, so wary of the wiles of the gentler sex that he could enjoy without yielding to them; the sort of man who, if he asked you to dinner, would, you know, instantly present you a much more perfect entertainment than any feminine head of a house could provide. The board felt immensely flattered by his presence, for he was a busy lawyer. He had come on, two or three years before, to replace an earnest but puzzle-headed lady, whose habit of subtracting her balance had long deceived the board as to the state of the treasury.

Mr. Peale, encouraged by a smile from Doctor Joyce, now expressed his opinion that the great strength of the board lay in its homogeneity, that it was often more of a disadvantage than an advantage to have one conspicuously rich member, as all outsiders immediately felt absolved from any further donations, and that, for his part, he believed in a conservative attitude, and, although he had never seen Miss Carman, he would advise the board to consider any such election with the greatest care.

The board had the deepest respect for the opinions of Mr. Peale, and there was a short silence, during which, quite plainly, every one was dutifully considering, when suddenly the door opened. For an instant no event followed, so that every one had time to wonder what dilatory member of the board was about to make an appearance. Then, with a great rustling, and something of the smooth motion of a train rounding a curve at full speed, Marie Louise herself entered.

No one but Doctor Joyce had the faintest notion who she was, and all were so astonished at the unexpected appearance of so much height, figure, and golden hair, that they lost even so much self-consciousness as to be aware that they were staring.

Miss Carman herself became aware of it, and stumbled in her quick approach over the front of her dress (which was indeed inordinately long in accordance with the fashion); she gasped a little, sat down, and just as the reverend doctor had so far recovered from his surprise as to be able to say: “Ladies, Mr. Peale, let me introduce Miss Carman,” she rose hastily to her feet.

“I don’t believe I ought to have come,” she said; and would have been out of the door, if Mrs. Orvice had not stopped her. It was indeed pathetic to see one, who an instant before had entered like a victorious empress, about to leave like a shy child.

The board, while feeling that some explanation was due them for so unparliamentary an incident, attempted to convey that it was from their chairman that they expected it, and tried to be civil to the unfortunate intruder. All, at least, except the culprit himself, who was endeavoring to achieve an explanation that would shift the blame from his shoulders without placing it too obviously on Marie Louise’s, and Peale, who, under an absolutely blank exterior, was debating whether or not it was possible to blackball a lady in her very presence.

The matter was settled, as usual, by Miss Bowles.

“Oh, sit down, Miss Carman; sit down,” she said, leaning forward, very erect from the waist up, and nodding encouragingly at the girl. “Most fortunate coincidence, I’m sure—you’re coming—saves me the trouble of sending you a notice of your election. I move that the secretary be empowered to cast a unanimous vote for Miss Carman, Mrs. Orvice would say ‘an unanimous,’ wouldn’t you, Anne? Now do let us get to the really serious business. It’s almost time for lunch as it is.”

During the discussion of ways and means that followed, an opportunity was afforded to the stunned board to observe its new member. She sat up very straight, turning conscientiously from one speaker to the other in punctual succession; but her eyes had a tendency to rove sideways, as if she were not unaware that she was being studied.

They were soon of one mind as to her being a beauty, noting the extraordinary contrast between her hair and her eyebrows, which ran a fine black line almost completely across her brow, giving, above her clear blue eyes, a strength and character to her face rarely seen in blondes of her coloring. She was dressed in different shades of brown and orange. Her dress brown cloth, her furs red-fox, her hat an orange-colored bird, whose creation no naturalist would ascribe to nature. Miss Bowles, under pretense of copying some of Peale’s figures, leaned over and whispered, “The slippers.” After a discreet interval, the treasurer allowed his eyes to sink until a pair of high-heeled Russia leather slippers, with buckles like a pair of copper boilers, dawned upon his view; nor did the lemon-colored silk stockings, embroidered in orange, entirely escape his attention. He would not, however, give Miss Bowles, who was watching him hopefully, the satisfaction of a change of expression. His eyes merely returned to his book, and after a moment she also gave her attention to the discussion in hand.

One of the elderly ladies in the corner was saying:

“Every one always seems to enjoy music so much. If we could give a concert, perhaps the singers would give their services, and a manager might give the theater, and”

“And what should we make?” interrupted Miss Bowles. “We'd be lucky if we cleared a thousand dollars, to say nothing of our own bills for nervous prostration. No, if you want money nowadays you have got to ask for it. What’s two hundred thousand dollars, anyhow? If this board doesn’t know two hundred men who would give a thousand dollars apiece to such a cause, well, then all I have to say is we ought to be ashamed of being New Yorkers.”

“It is rather embarrassing to ask for money when you offer nothing in return,” said Mrs. Orvice.

“Not so embarrassing as to offer something that no one wants,” rejoined Miss Bowles. “Who cares for concerts? I hate them, and I think most people do. I have no ear for music, and I don’t want to have it brought home to me.”

Somebody asked if it were absolutely necessary to have a new building immediately, which brought out so vivid a description of the defects of the present hospital, that Marie Louise saw on the instant her opportunity to redeem the awkwardness of her entrance.

Her face lit up, and, blinking her eyes rapidly once or twice, she began eagerly:

“Oh, if you want a new building, won't you let me give it to you? It would be such a pleasure. I mean it wouldn’t be a bit of trouble.”

There was a momentary silence; then Doctor Joyce, who was probably more accustomed than any one else present to accepting or refusing gifts of two hundred thousand dollars, answered:

“My dear Miss Carman, you are most kind, most generous. But I am afraid we cannot take advantage of your offer.”

Miss Carman was surprised and hurt. She could not see why not. Doctor Joyce attempted to explain that until she had consulted with her natural guardians, her lawyer, her family

“I have no family except my mother,” said Miss Carman, and sat a moment drooping like a beautiful orphan, and then added: “Oh, I see, you think I can’t afford it. But I can, really I can.”

“We should have to insist that at least your lawyer” Doctor Joyce began, but she interrupted again.

“I haven’t even a lawyer,” she said; “at least not in this part of the world. My lawyer is Mr. Silas Mullins, of Chrystal City. Perhaps you know him?”

The board confessed its ignorance in this respect, and the meeting contrived to adjourn without accepting Marie Louise’s offer, and yet without hurting her feelings again by a more definite refusal.

Immediately the dining-room doors opened, for it was the established custom for the board to stay to lunch after the meeting, and luncheon was announced, Miss Carman made another flurried effort to depart, but Mrs. Orvice was too tender-hearted to be other than cordial.

Miss Bowles looked round the room, and asked severely:

“Isn't Jerry coming home to lunch?”

His mother shook her head. “No,” she said. “He fears this board. He says that ‘divided we're grand, but that united we pall,’ and not even the prospect of seeing you, dear Serena, could induce him to come.”

“Well, I am sorry,” said Miss Bowles. “I wanted to ask him to lunch with me on Sunday. Will you come, Miss Carman, very informally? I never give parties.”

“I am sure I shall be delighted,” returned Marie Louise, trying not to seem too eager; “at least, if I have no engagement, and I am almost sure I haven’t.” She might well be sure, for this was the first invitation she had received since she left Stonehurst, where they had not been so particularly numerous, either.

“Tell Jerry, Anne,” Miss Bowles went on, to Mrs. Orvice, “that the Bill Emmonses are coming. I suppose that will please him. Isn’t it absurd the way you have to bribe men nowadays to come to your house? I asked Jerry to dine four times last month, and he answered: ‘My dearest Miss Serena, I am going nowhere at present.’ It sounded so mysterious, but I asked his man, and he said he had not dined at home once in two weeks, There you are. I wasn’t offended. No one can be angry at Jerry.”

“Indeed I can,” said his mother; “and very often am.”

“I couldn’t ever be angry at any one so extraordinarily good-looking. Have you ever seen him?” She had turned to Miss Carman. “I'll just fetch a picture of him.” She returned to the drawing-room and came back with a photograph in her hand, and gave it with a gesture of eloquence to Marie Louise.

Perhaps the mischief was done then and there. Marie Louise had never conversed with any more alluring specimen of the opposite sex than Bobby Peters. The photograph was not a professional effort. It represented a young man in riding-clothes, sitting on a bench in a wood, with a pipe in his mouth, Her first idea was that he was not at all handsome, and that it must be entirely her own individual discovery that he had the most attractive of faces. There had always been to her something glossy and pertaining to the frock coat in any acknowledged type of masculine beauty. She had long kept a picture, cut from a magazine, of a certain disturbingly beautiful and well-dressed actor. She had sometimes imagined what would be her sensations if she suddenly found him (she had never seen him,even upon the stage) in the midst of addressing her in phrases of passionate affection. Short of this, however—and this did not really seem very likely to happen—she felt no particular interest in him. Whereas, Orvice’s picture suggested that it would be very pleasant just to meet him, and talk to him. And Sunday she was going to meet him! The fact gave her the keenest pleasure; keener even than the prospect of seeing the Emmonses, though a minute before that had seemed almost the summit of human bliss.

The Emmonses were a young couple whom she, as well as some thousand other newspaper readers, knew very well by name. Marie Louise had great faith in the social items in the papers, and when she had supplemented them by the opinions of her manicure, who was exact, conscientious, and possessed of a good memory and an excellent clientele, she felt that she understood not a little of the distinctions of the society she longed to enter. She often regretted that its background was a democracy. She wished, with singular simplicity, that it could be regularly organized, like English society, where one must be able to detect distinctions so easily as soon as one had mastered the order of titles. Of course, a duke must be just so much smarter than an earl, and an earl than a viscount. She tried sometimes to measure positions by such a standard here. There was Miss Bowles, who wouldn’t have any title at all; and Mrs. Orvice, who would certainly be an earl’s daughter, the Lady Anne Orvice, and the Emmonses, who would be equivalent, she thought, to a smart young duke and duchess, just succeeded to the title.

The invitation gave just the fillip to her self-esteem that she needed in order to enjoy herself. She was soon supporting the greater part of the conversation, in spite of Miss Bowles. Even Peale, whose attention to her had been very languid, found himself drawn into the whirlpool of her talk.

Yet everything has its reaction, and the joy of holding an audience entranced will not always bear the scrutiny of the next morning. Marie Louise could have written eloquently on the pleasures of the imagination, for perhaps her greatest delight in life was to imagine an attitude on the part of her hearers and then to live up to it. Now, she flattered herself that they were finding her a brilliant, amusing, original intruder into their well-ordered, but somewhat dull, little hierarchy; and she responded freely to the notion. But, alas! she had hardly reached her own door before she began to suspect that she had seemed merely “a vulgar, talkative little piece.” Of course they had all laughed, but was it with, or at, her? She groaned aloud and wrung her hands. “Why had she told them how she asked the conductor on the train where, if he could choose, he would buy a house in New York? Why had she told that, when he had selected Murray Hill, she had never heard of it? It was well enough to ignore it from a fashionable point of view, but she ought to have known the historic story of the retreat of the American troops. The newspaper controversy that had sprung up from her desire to know its precise boundaries was repeatable, was even amusing, but why, oh, why had she talked unrestrainedly about herself from the middle of lunch until she took her departure? How much she had told them, and what did she know in return? Absolutely nothing of them. She resolved never again to mention her own doings and sayings in public.

And, as if to test her resolution, she found a young woman waiting for her in the drawing-room; admitted, at what provocation we shall never know, by her highly recommended butler—Miss Wales, of the New York Watch-Dog.

For the first time in her life she was about to be interviewed.