Books: The Rich Mrs. Burgoyne
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Kathleen Norris >> The Rich Mrs. Burgoyne
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"Hetty IS here, isn't she?" he burst out suddenly, in the middle of
a meaningless conversation. Mrs. Smiley turned pale and tried to
laugh.
"Where else would she be?" she demanded, and she went back to her
interrupted dissertation upon the unpleasantness of several
specified boarders then under her roof.
"It is funny," Barry mused. "What did she say when she went out?"
"Why--" Mrs. Smiley began uncomfortably, "But, my gracious, I wish
you would ask Aunt Ide, Barry!" she interrupted herself
uncomfortably. "She'll tell you. She's the one to ask." Aunt Ide was
Mrs. Scott.
"Tell me WHAT?" he persisted. "You tell me, Lulu; that's a dear."
"Auntie 'll tell you," she repeated, adding suddenly, to the boy,
"Russy, wasn't Aunt Ide in her room when you went up? You run up and
see."
"Nome," said Russell positively; but nevertheless he went.
"Nice kid, Lulu," said Barry in his idle way, "but he looks thin."
"He's the finest little feller God ever sent a woman," the mother
answered with sudden passionate pride. Color leaped to her sallow
cheeks. "But this house is no place for him to be cooped up reading
all day," she went on in a worried tone, after a moment, "and I
can't let him run with the boys around here; it's a regular gang. I
don't know what I AM going to do with him. 'Tisn't as if he had a
father."
"He wouldn't like to come up to me, and get broken on the Mail?"
Barry queried in his interested way. "He'd get lots of fresh air,
and he could sleep at my house. I'll keep an eye on him, if you say
so."
"Go on the newspaper! I think he'd go crazy with joy," his mother
said. Tears came into her faded eyes. "Barry, you're real good-
hearted to offer it," she said gratefully. "Of all things in the
world, that's the one Russ wants to do. But won't he be in your
way?"
"He'll fit right in," Barry said. "Pack him up and send him along.
If he doesn't like it, I guess his mother'll let him come home."
"Like it!" she echoed. Then in a lower tone she added, "You don't
know what a load you're taking off my mind, Barry." She paused,
colored again, and, to his surprise, continued rapidly, with a quick
glance at the door, "Barry, I never did a thing like this before in
my life, and I can't do it now. You know how much I owe Aunt Ide:
she took me in, and did for me just as she did for Het, when I was a
baby; she made my wedding dress, and she came right to me when Gus
died, but I can't let you go back to Santa Paloma not knowing."
"Not knowing what?" Barry said, close upon the mystery at last.
"You know what Aunt Ide is," Mrs. Smiley said pleadingly. "There's
not a mite of harm in her, but she just--You know she'd been signing
Hetty's checks for a long time, Barry--" "Go on," Barry said, as
she paused distressedly.
"And she just went on--" Mrs. Smiley continued simply.
"Went on WHAT?" Barry demanded.
"After Het--went. Barry," the woman interrupted herself, "I oughtn't
be the one to tell you, but don't you see--Don't you see Het's--"
"Dead," Barry heard his own voice say heavily. The cheap little room
seemed to be closing in about him, he gripped the back of the chair
by which he was standing. Mrs. Smiley began to cry quietly. They
stood so for a long time.
After a while he sat down, and she told him about it, with that
faithfulness to inessential detail that marks her class. Barry
listened like a man in a dream. Mrs. Smiley begged him to stay to
dinner to see "Aunt Ide," but he refused, and in the gritty dusk he
found himself walking down the street, alone in silence at last. He
took a car to the ocean beach, and far into the night sat on the
rocks watching the dark play of the rolling Pacific, and listening
to the steady rush and fall of the water.
The next day he saw his wife's mother, and at the sight of her
frightened, fat little face, and the sound of the high voice he knew
so well, the last shred of his anger and disgust vanished, and he
could only pity her. He remembered how welcome she had made him to
the little cottage in Plumas, those long years ago; how she had
laughed at his youthful appreciation of her Sunday fried chicken and
cherry pie, and the honest tears she had shed when he went, with the
dimpled Hetty beside him, to tell her her daughter was won. She was
Billy's grandmother, after all, and she had at least seen that Hetty
was protected all through her misguided little career from the
breath of scandal, and that Hetty's last days were made comfortable
and serene. He assured her gruffly that it was "all right," and she
presently brightened, and told him through tears that he was a
"king," when it was finally arranged that she should go on drawing
the rents of the Mission Street property for the rest of her life.
She and Mrs. Smiley persuaded him to dine with them, and he thought
it quite characteristic of "Aunt Ide" to make a little occasion of
it, and take them to a certain favored little French restaurant for
the meal. But Mrs. Smiley was tremulous with gratitude and relief,
Russell's face was radiant, his adoring eyes all for Barry, and
Barry, always willing to accept a situation gracefully, really
enjoyed his dinner.
He stayed in San Francisco another day and went to Hetty's grave,
high up in the Piedmont Hills, and took a long lonely tramp above
the college town afterward. Early the next morning he started for
home, fresh from a bath and a good breakfast, and feeling now, for
the first time, that he was free, and that it was good to be free--
free to work and to plan his life, and free, his innermost
consciousness exulted to realize, to go to her some day, the Lady of
his Heart's Desire, and take her, with all the fragrance and beauty
that were part of her, into his arms. And oh, the happy years ahead;
he seemed to feel the sweetness of spring winds blowing across them,
and the glow of winter fires making them bright! What of her
fabulous wealth, after all, if he could support her as she chose to
live, a simple country gentle-woman, in a little country town?
Barry stared out at the morning fields and hills, where fog and
sunshine were holding their daily battle, and his heart sang within
him.
Fog held the field at Santa Paloma when he reached it, the station
building dripped somberly. Main Street was but a line of vague
shapes in the mist. No grown person was in sight, but Barry was not
ten feet from the train before a screaming horde of small boys was
upon him, with shouted news in which he recognized the one word,
over and over: "Fire!"
It took him a few minutes to get the sense of what they said. He
stared at them dully. But when he first repeated it to himself
aloud, it seemed already old news; he felt as if he had known it for
a very long time: "The MAIL office caught fire yesterday, and the
whole thing is burned to the ground."
"Caught fire yesterday, and the whole thing is burned to the ground:
yes, of course," Barry said. He was not conscious of starting for
the scene, he was simply there. A fringe of idle watchers, obscured
in the fog, stood about the sunken ruins of what had been the MAIL
building. Barry joined them.
He did not answer when a dozen sympathetic murmurs addressed him,
because he was not conscious of hearing a single voice. He stood
silently, looking down at the twisted great knots of metal that had
been the new presses, the great wave of soaked and half-burned
newspapers that had been the last issue of the MAIL. The fire had
been twenty-four hours ago, but the ruins were still smoking.
Lengths of charred woodwork, giving forth a sickening odor, dripped
water still; here and there brave little spurts of flame still
sucked noisily. A twisted typewriter stood erect in steaming ashes;
a lunch-basket, with a red, fringed napkin in it, had somehow
escaped with only a wetting. Barry noticed that the walls of the
German bakery next door were badly singed, that one show-window was
cracked across, and that the frosted wedding-cake inside stood in a
pool of dirty water.
He was presently aware that someone was telling him that nobody was
to blame. Details were volunteered, and he listened quietly, like a
dispassionate onlooker. "Hits you pretty hard, Barry," sympathetic
voices said.
"Ruins me," he answered briefly.
And it dawned upon him sickly and certainly that it was true. He was
ruined now. All his hopes had been rooted here, in what was now this
mass of wet ashes steaming up into the fog. Here had been his chance
for a livelihood, and a name; his chance to stand before the
community for what was good, and strong, and helpful. He had been
proud because his editorials were beginning to be quoted here and
there; he had been keenly ambitious for Sidney's plans, her hopes
for Old Paloma. How vain it all was now, and how preposterous it
seemed that only an hour ago he had let his thoughts of the future
include her--always so far above him, and now so infinitely removed!
She would be sympathetic, he knew; she would be all kindness and
generosity. And perhaps, six months ago, he would have accepted more
generosity from her; but Barry had found himself now, and he knew
that she had done for him all he would let her do.
He smiled suddenly and grimly as he remembered another bridge, just
burned behind him. If he had not promised Hetty's mother that her
income should go on uninterruptedly, he might have pulled something
out of this wreckage, after all. For a moment he speculated: he
COULD sell the Mission Street property now; he might even revive the
MAIL, after a while--
But no, what was promised was promised, after all, and poor little
Mrs. Scott must be left to what peace and pleasure the certainty of
an income gave her. And he must begin again, somehow, somewhere,
burdened with a debt, burdened with a heartache, burdened with--His
heart turned with sudden warmth to the thought of Billy; Billy at
least, staunch little partner of so many dark days, and bright,
should not be counted a burden.
Even as he thought of his son, a small warm hand slid into his with
a reassuring pressure, and lie looked down to see the little figure
beside him. Moment after moment went by, timid shafts of gold
sunshine were beginning to conquer the mist now, and still father
and son stood silent, hand in hand.
CHAPTER XVII
The mischief was done; no use to stand there by the smoking ruins of
what had been his one real hope for himself and his life. After a
while Barry roused himself. There seemed to be nothing to do at the
moment, no more to be said. He and Billy walked up River Street to
their own gate, but when they reached it, Barry, obeying an
irresistible impulse, merely left his coat and suit-case there, and
went on through the Hall gateway, and up to the house.
The sun was coming out bravely now, and already he felt its warmth
in the garden. Everywhere the fog was rising, was fading against the
green of the trees. He followed a delicious odor of wood smoke and
the sound of voices, to the barnyard, and here found the lady of the
house, with her inevitable accompaniment of interested children.
Sidney was managing an immense brush fire with a long pole; her
gingham skirt pinned back trimly over a striped petticoat, her
cheeks flushed, her hair riotous under a gipsy hat.
At Barry's first word she dropped her pole, her whole face grew
radiant, and she came toward him holding out both her hands.
"Barry!" she said eagerly, her eyes trying to read his face, "how
glad I am you've come! We didn't know how to reach you. You've
heard, of course--! You've seen--?"
"The poor old MAIL? Yes, I'm just from there," he said soberly. "Can
we talk?"
"As long as you like," she answered briskly. And after some
directions to the children, she led him to the little garden seat
below the side porch, and they sat down. "Barry, you look tired,"
she said then. "Do you know, I don't know where you've been all
these days, or what you went for? Was it to San Francisco?"
"San Francisco, yes," he assented, "I didn't dream I'd be there so
long." He rubbed his forehead with a weary hand. "I'll tell you all
about it presently," he said. "I had a letter from my wife's mother
that worried me, and I started off at half-cock, I got worrying--but
of course I should have written you--"
"Don't bother about that now, if it distresses you," she said
quickly and sympathetically. "Any time will do for that. I--I knew
it was something serious," she went on, relief in her voice, "or you
wouldn't have simply disappeared that way! I--I said so. Barry, are
you hungry?"
He tried to laugh at the maternal attitude that was never long
absent in her, but the tears came into his eyes instead. After all
the strain and sleeplessness and despondency, it was too poignantly
sweet to find her so simply cheering and trustful, in her gipsy
dress, with the brightening sunlight and the sweet old garden about
her. Barry could have dropped on his knees to bury his face in her
skirts, and feel the motherly hands on his hair, but instead he
admitted honestly to hunger and fatigue.
Sidney vanished at once, and presently came back followed by her
black cook, both carrying a breakfast that Barry was to enjoy at
once under the rose vines. Sidney poured his coffee, and sat
contentedly nibbling toast while he fell upon the cold chicken and
blackberries.
"Now," said her heartening voice, "we'll talk! What is to be done
first about the MAIL?"
"No insurance, you know," he began at once. "We never did carry any
in the old days and I suppose that's why I didn't. So that makes it
a dead loss. Worse than that--for I wasn't clear yet, you know. The
safe they carried out; so the books are all right, I suppose,
although they say we had better not open it for a few days. Then I
can settle everything up as far as possible. And after that--well,
I've been thinking that perhaps Barker, of the San Francisco
TELEGRAM might give me a start of some sort--" He rumpled his hair
with a desperate gesture. "The thing's come on me like such a
thunderbolt that I really haven't thought it out!" he ended
apologetically.
"The thing's come on you like such a thunderbolt," she echoed
cheerfully, "that you aren't taking it like yourself at all! The
question, is if we work like Trojans from now on, can we get an
issue of the MAIL out tomorrow?"
"Get an issue out tomorrow!" he repeated, staring at her.
"Certainly. I would have done what I could about it," said Sidney
briskly, "but not knowing where you were, or when you were coming
back, my hands were absolutely tied. Now, Barry, LISTEN!" she broke
off, not reassured by his expression, "and don't jump at the
conclusion that it's impossible. What would it mean?"
"To get an issue of the MAIL out tomorrow? Why, great Scott, Sid,
you don't seem to realize that there's not a stick left standing!"
"I do realize. I was there until the fire was out," she said calmly.
And for a few minutes they talked of the fire. Then she said
abruptly: "Would Ferguson let you use the old STAR PRESS for a few
weeks, do you think?"
"I don't see why he should," Barry said perversely.
"I don't see why he shouldn't. I'll tell you something you don't
know. Night before last, Barry, while I was down in the office, old
Ferguson himself came in, and poked about, and asked various
questions. Finally he asked me what I thought the chances were of
your wanting to buy out the Star. What do you think at THAT?"
"He's sick of it, is he?" Barry said, with kindling eyes. "Well,
we've seen that coming, haven't we? I will be darned!" He shook his
head regretfully. "That would have been a big thing for the MAIL" he
said, "but it's all up now!"
"Not necessarily," the lady undauntedly rejoined. "I've been
thinking, Barry," she went on, "if you reordered the presses, they'd
give you plenty of time to pay for them, wouldn't they? Might even
take something off the price, under the circumstances?"
"I suppose they might." He made an impatient gesture. "But that's
just one--"
"One item, I know. But it's the main item. Then you could rent the
office and loft over the old station, couldn't you? And move the old
Star press in there this afternoon."
"This afternoon," said Barry calmly.
"Well, we don't gain anything by waiting. You can write a manly and
affecting editorial,"--her always irrepressible laughter broke out,
"full of allusions to the phoenix, you know! And my regular Saturday
column is all done, and Miss Porter can send in something, and
there's any amount of stuff about the Folsom lawsuit. And Young,
Mason and Company ought to take at least a page to advertise their
premium day to-morrow. I'll come down as soon as you've moved--"
Barry reached for his hat.
"The thing can't be done," he announced firmly, "but, by George,
Sid, you would give a field mouse courage! And what a grandstand
play, if we COULD put it through! There's not a second to be lost,
though. But look here," and with sudden gravity he took both her
hands, "it'll take some more money, you know."
"I have some more money," she answered serenely.
"Well, I'll GET some!" he declared emphatically. "It won't be so
much, either, once we get started. And so old Ferguson wanted to
sell, did he?"
"He did. And we'll buy the STAR yet." They were on the path now.
"Telephone me when you can," she said, "and don't lose a minute now!
Good luck!"
And Barry's great stride had taken him half-way down River Street,
his hands in his pockets, his mind awhirl with plans, before it
occurred to him that he had not told her the news of Hetty, after
all.
CHAPTER XVIII
On that same afternoon, several of the most influential members of
the Santa Paloma Woman's Club met informally at Mrs. Carew's house.
Some of the directors were there, Miss Pratt, Mrs. Lloyd and Mrs.
Adams, and of course Mrs. White, who had indeed been instrumental in
arranging the meeting. They had met to discuss Mrs. Burgoyne's plan
of using the clubhouse as a meeting place for the Old Paloma factory
girls. All these ladies were quite aware that their verdict, however
unofficial, would influence the rest of the club, and that what this
group of a dozen or fifteen decided upon to-day would practically
settle the matter.
Mrs. Willard White, hitherto serenely supreme in this little world,
was curiously upset about the whole thing, openly opposed to Mrs.
Burgoyne's suggestion, and surprised that her mere wish in the
matter was not sufficient to carry a negative vote. Her contention
was that the clubhouse had been built for very different purposes
than those Mrs. Burgoyne proposed, and that charity to the Old
Paloma girls had no part in the club's original reasons for being.
She meant, in the course of the argument, to hint that while so many
of the actual necessities of decent living were lacking in the
factory settlement homes, mere dancing and moving-pictures did not
appeal to her as reasonable or right; and although uneasily aware
that she supported the unpopular argument, still she was confident
of an eventual triumph.
But despite the usual laughter, and the pleasantries and
compliments, there was an air of deadly earnestness about the
gathered club-women today that bespoke a deeper interest than was
common in the matter up for discussion. The President's color rose
and deepened steadily, as the afternoon wore on, and one voice after
another declared for the new plan, and her arguments became a little
less impersonal and a little more sharp. This was especially
noticeable when, as was inevitable, the name of Mrs. Burgoyne was
introduced.
"I personally feel," said Mrs. White finally, "that perhaps we Santa
Paloma women are just a little bit undignified when we allow a
perfect stranger to come in among us, and influence our lives so
materially, JUST because she happens to be a multi-millionaire. Are
we so swayed by mere money? I hope not. I hope we all live our lives
as suits US best, not to please--or shall I say flatter, and perhaps
win favor with?--a rich woman. We--some of us, that is!"--her smile
was all lenience--"have suddenly decided we can dress more simply,
have suddenly decided to put our girls into gingham rompers, and
instead of giving them little dancing parties, let them play about
like boys! We wonder why we need spend our money on imported hats
and nice dinners and hand-embroidered underwear, and Oriental rugs,
although we thought these things very well worth having a few months
ago--and why? Just because we are easily led, I'm afraid, and not
quite conscious enough of our own dignity!"
There had been a decided heightening of color among the listening
women during this little speech, and, as the President finished,
more than one pair of eyes rested upon her with a slightly resentful
steadiness. There was a short silence, in which several women were
gathering their thoughts for speech, but Mrs. Brown, always popular
in Santa Paloma, from the days of her short braids and short
dresses, and quite the youngest among them to-day, was the first to
speak.
"I daresay that is quite true, Mrs. White," said Mrs. Brown, with
dignity, "except that I don't think Mrs. Burgoyne's money influences
me, or any of us! I admit that she herself, quite apart from her
great fortune, has influenced me tremendously in lots of ways, but I
don't think she ever tried to do it, or realizes that she has. And
as far as copying goes, don't we women always copy somebody, anyway?
Aren't we always imitating the San Francisco women, and don't they
copy New York, and doesn't New York copy London or Paris? We read
what feathers are in, and how skirts are cut, and how coffee and
salads are served, and we all do it, or try to. And when Mrs.
Burgoyne came to the Hall, and never took one particle of interest
in that sort of thing, I just thought it over and wondered why I
should attempt to impress a woman who could buy this whole town and
not miss the money?"
Laughter interrupted her, and some sympathetic clapping, but she
presently went on seriously:
"I took all the boys' white socks one day, and dyed them dark brown.
And I dyed all their white suits dark blue. I've gotten myself some
galatea dresses that nothing tears or spoils, and that come home
fresh and sweet from the wash every week. And, as a result, I
actually have some time to spare, for the first time since I was
married. We are going to try some educational experiments on the
children this winter, and, if that leaves any leisure, I am heart
and soul for this new plan. Doctor Brown feels as I do. Of course,
he's a doctor," said the loyal little wife, "and he KNOWS! And he
says that all those Old Paloma girls want is a little mothering, and
that when there are mothers enough to go round, there won't be any
charity or legislation needed in this world."
"I think you've said it all, for all of us, Mary!" Mrs. Carew said,
when some affectionate applause had subsided. "I think things were
probably different, a few generations ago," she went on, "but
nowadays when fashions are so arbitrary, and change so fast, really
and honestly, some of us, whose incomes are limited, will have to
stop somewhere. Why, the very children expect box-parties, and
motor-trips, and caterers' suppers, in these days. And one wouldn't
mind, if it left time for home life, and reading, and family
intercourse, but it doesn't. We don't know what our children are
studying, what they're thinking about, or what life means to them at
all, because we are too busy answering the telephone, and planning
clothes, and writing formal notes, and going to places we feel we
ought to be seen in. I'm having more fun than I had in years,
helping our children plan some abridged plays from Shakespeare, with
the Burgoyne girls, for this winter, and I'm perfectly astonished,
even though I'm their mother, at their enjoyment of it, and at my
own. Mr. Carew himself, who NEVER takes much interest in that sort
of thing, asked me why they couldn't give them for the Old Paloma
Girls' Club, if they get a club room. I didn't know he even knew
anything about our club plans. I said, 'George, are you willing to
have Jeannette get interested in that crowd?' and he said, 'Finest
thing in the world for her!' and I don't know," finished Mrs. Carew,
thoughtfully, "but what he's right."
"I'm all for it," said breezy Mrs. Lloyd, "I don't imagine I'd be
any good at actually talking to them, but I would go to the dances,
and introduce people, and trot partners up to the wallflowers--"
There was more laughter, and then Mrs. Adams said briskly:
"Well, let's take an informal vote!"
"I don't think that's necessary, Sue," said Mrs. White, generously,
"I think I am the only one of us who believes in preserving the
tradition of the dear old club, and I must bow to the majority, of
course. Perhaps it will be a little hard to see strangers there; our
pretty floors ruined, and our pretty walls spotted, but--" an
eloquent shrug, and a gesture of her pretty hands finished the
sentence with the words, "isn't that the law?"
And upon whole-hearted applause for Mrs. White, Mrs. Carew tactfully
introduced the subject of tea.
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