Part 6

"I only hope you may never regret this."

"I hope so, too. By the way, I am going to drop in at Estelle's for tea at five. A lot of the girls are going there. Have you any message?"

"None, whatever; but, as you are going there, I trust that you will talk this matter over with her. You could not have a better confidante. Talk it over with her, won't you?"

"I don't think it is necessary to promise that," replied Lynn, wearily, "for she is quite certain to talk it over with me, which comes to the same thing in the end."

Mrs. Thayer compressed her lips and continued to embroider. Lynn departed to make some change in her toilet and, that being concluded, left the house. Once on the street her face changed and contracted a little, making her look curiously older.

"There are times," she said slowly, regarding the little terrier which gambolled joyfully at her side, "there are times, Bob, when I find the society of the four-legged portion of humanity infinitely more congenial than that of the two-legged. This is one of them. How I wish sometimes that Aunt Lucy were dumb or I deaf! How thankful I am that you can't talk reason with me or advise me for my good or do any other unpleasant thing of the kind, Bob. If they only knew what they were talking about! if they only knew why I can't marry Lighton or--or anyone else"--She broke off, abruptly, biting her lip as though in pain. "What's the use of thinking?" she went on, presently. "I've got to face Del and twenty other women nearly as sharp in five minutes' time and I can't show my feelings here in this horrible street, either. Oh, to get away from it all!--here, don't be a fool! You have about two minutes to pull yourself together in, you weak, whining--I'll put it out of my mind, entirely. Whom has Del asked, I wonder. If it's one of those vile functions where you're wedged tightly between layers of fat, stupid women who gabble inanely and continuously and spill ice-cream and coffee over your good clothes, I'll never forgive her. No, she said distinctly that it was just a few of the girls and she always tells the truth to me, if she doesn't to anyone else. Oh, Del, Del! I wonder if you are the right person to go by. I wonder what you would say if I were to tell you of all this miserable coil of deception and misery. Of course I know what you would say; you would say that I was a fool and so I am; that wouldn't help matters, much. What _could_ you, or anyone suggest? Nothing, nothing that would be of any use; anyway, if I were dying for advice, I am not free to obtain it. If I had an unfailing fund of common sense and a heart of stone what would I do, I wonder? God knows. Being myself I'll do what I'm doing--and God grant it can't last forever." She set her lips firmly and walked along until she reached Pine Avenue.

Pine Avenue lies at the foot of Mount Royal and, in fact, is built upon its slope. It is a broad, fine street and some of the handsomest residences in Montreal are situated upon, or, rather, directly above it. At all seasons of the year it is largely frequented and, in winter, is a favourite haunt of snowshoers and "skiers." At the present hour, however, it was practically deserted; and Lynn drew a long breath of relief as, leaving the crowded city streets behind, she sought its solitude. For some little time she walked on in silence.

The golden January sun turned Mount Royal into a mass of shining marble, flecked with skeleton-like maples and crowned with dark green pines. Beyond--behind its towering whiteness--lay the dead of Montreal. Lynn winced at the thought of them and fiercely refused to let her thought dwell on their impenetrable peace.

"I'm going to an At Home, Bob," she said, half-aloud, trying to laugh. "There will be about twenty other women there--and, in all probability, half of them are wearing veils over their faces like the minister in Hawthorne's story. 'I look around me and lo! on every visage a black veil.' Only people don't go in for black veils unless they're cowards; they go in for scarlet and gold, which makes a far better disguise and renders life more cheerful. What's the use of making a fuss? Anyway, whatever happens, whatever nasty knocks Fate may hand me, there is one thing she can't do--she can't make me whine." She threw her head back and laughed; then called the dog to her side and smiled as he licked her gloved hand.

"Del doesn't like you, old boy," she said, fondly. "But I'll hide you, somewhere, and I won't stay any longer than I can help. Ah! there's the house, already. It's just as well. I don't feel like being alone, to-day, more than I can help. I wonder why it is that things seem so much worse at some times than they do at others."

*CHAPTER IX*

*"JUST A FEW OF THE GIRLS"*

"'I must be my own Mamma,' said Becky."--_Thackeray_.

"She was clever, witty, brilliant and sparkling beyond most of her kind but possessed of many devils of malice and mischievousness. She could be nice, though, even to her own sex. But that is another story."--_Kipling_.

Mrs. Hadwell's home, whither her friend, Miss Thayer, was bound, contrived to be both home-like and imposing. Situated on a slope of the "mountain," as all loyal Montrealers call Mount Royal, it commanded an unsurpassed view of the city and harbour and was surrounded by a picturesque garden, unspoilt by overcultivation. In summer it assumed an appearance of fairy-like charm: and even when, as now, devoid of verdant ornament and encompassed only by the sighing branches of bare trees, it had an appearance of creature comfort, oddly at variance with the bleak, snow-crowned hills that rose behind it. Mount Royal, the pride of every Montrealer, boasts many another such home; but few combine dignity and cosiness in the measure which Mrs. Hadwell's did.

"Del's house is really awfully like her in many ways," Lynn Thayer reflected as she rang the bell. "It is so expensive and in such good taste and so comfortable and so cold--is Mrs. Hadwell in, Ella? Yes, I know she is, but see here! can you smuggle Bob somewhere where he won't be in the way of the girls? You know Mrs. Hadwell doesn't like dogs."

She divested herself of some of her wraps and crossed the hall. The perfume of roses pervaded the air and the soft strain of violins was faintly heard beneath the hubbub of voices as she made her way toward the large old-fashioned drawing-room whence the sounds of festivity proceeded. This room, hung with crimson velvet and panelled in dark oak, was almost sumptuous in its comfort. Beautifully carved Turkish lamps hung from the ceiling: a splendid wood fire burned on the hearth: great vases of dark red roses and carnations were disposed wherever opportunity offered: and, at the further end of the room, one caught a delicious glimpse of cool green ferns and various-coloured blooms. The room was filled with daintily dressed girls and young women: and behind a superlatively dainty tea table sat the hostess who hastily pushed aside a cream jug and rushed in the direction of her latest guest.

"Help yourselves, girls," she exclaimed. "I want to speak to Lynn. Why are you so late, child? and where have you been, lately? I haven't seen you for an age."

"Which, being interpreted, means four days," said Lynn, laughing and returning her hostess' kiss. "How lovely the rooms look, Del! and what a sweet frock that is! I do like you in mauve."

"I think it _is_ rather successful," said Mrs. Hadwell, contentedly: and both women laughed. In their girlhood days they had entered into a compact which had ever since been observed faithfully; namely, to tell no useless lies to one another. "Only don't let us forget to tell them to other people, Lynn," Mrs. Hadwell had remarked, solemnly. "Don't let it get us into bad habits." It had never got her into bad habits: she had lied her way successfully into public esteem, riches and an old man's heart; and, even on reaching the giddy pinnacle of social success where rudeness is frequently condoned, she had faithfully followed the policy of telling the truth only to her one intimate friend, Lynn Thayer.

"Edie, do pour Lynn some tea," she cried, now, turning to a pretty brown-eyed girl who hovered near, watching her adoringly. "And put piles and piles of cream in it and five lumps or so of sugar--that's the way she likes it, the incomprehensible creature! ... Another of those sickening debutantes," she observed in a confidential undertone, turning to Lynn and gently propelling her in the direction of a couch, "simply worships me, you know! follows me around like a dog and--that's right, dear! how sweet of you to save me the trouble! now get her an Italian cream and a nice cake, will you? like an angel!--I don't know what I shall do if it keeps up: you know I can't bear bread and butter misses and she actually asked me for a lock of my hair the other day. I felt like telling her that I paid eighty dollars for my switch in New York and that my own hair was too precious to--oh, _thank_ you, dear! Lynn, this is the sweetest girl; she saves me all sorts of trouble and her name is Miss Roland; Edie, this is my friend, Miss Thayer, of whom you have often heard me speak--oh, dear! there are all the girls coming up to speak to you, Lynn, and anyway I ought to go and pour out some more tea. When you have done the polite, do come and keep me company at the tea-table."

"Little Mrs. Hadwell," as her friends usually called her, fled, casting a bewitching smile at the group of girls who were clustering about Lynn. Estelle Hadwell's teeth were her strong point, a fact which she never, for an instant, lost sight of. She had no complexion worth terming such, her features were irregular and her figure decidedly angular. Yet she contrived to be considered a beauty, as any woman can who has time and money to devote to her appearance.

Lynn watched her curiously as she settled herself at the tea-table with a coquettish little flirt of her silken skirts, and marvelled anew at the unconscious dramatic instinct which enabled this tiny creature to play the role of a beauty with such unfailing success. As "Little Mrs. Hadwell" sat pouring the tea with one pretty arm gracefully raised, she was a vision for an artist. Her mauve gown fell about her petite form in folds that were almost statuesque in their grace: her beautiful hair--which looked just as beautiful as though it had not grown on an Irish housemaid's head--was arranged with such taste as to make her small head a thing of beauty: her really pretty neck and arms were set off by a fichu and falling cuffs of rich yellow lace. A cluster of violets was carelessly tucked in the front of her fichu: and a long chain of amethysts outlined her slender waist--which had hardly been so slender, had it not been for the skill and strength of her French maid. Altogether, as she sat there, Lynn recognized for the fiftieth time--and with precisely the same sense of wonder--that, in spite of Estelle's entire lack of beauty, she was the daintiest and most fascinating thing, imaginable.

Among the girls who surrounded Lynn were several whose beauty was sufficiently apparent to make them noticeable, anywhere. Edith Roland, the adoring debutante, had big, brown eyes, a pretty colour and a figure whose slenderness and grace owed nothing to artificial aid; yet, beside her diminutive hostess she sank into insignificance. Erma Reed was a beautiful girl, tall, splendidly proportioned with the features of a Greek statue and the air of a grand dame; but, after the first admiration which her almost flawless pulchritude provoked, one's eyes wandered instinctively to the sinuous figure and piquante, appealing face of Mrs. Hadwell. "Magnetism--that is the only word for it, I suppose," thought Lynn. "Yet she didn't always have it as she has it now. Can that sort of thing be cultivated, I wonder?"

"Lynn, we never see you, now," declared Joan Cadding, one of her friends. "What's the reason?"

"Old age, laziness and lots to do. At twenty-eight one can't be always gadding. Besides, a teacher must keep early hours."

"Oh, aged one, it is not so many years since a certain teacher was out every night in the week until one or two o'clock and absolutely refused even to lie down for half an hour when she left school at three. Mrs. Thayer used to say to mother, 'Really, Lynn must have the constitution of a horse; she comes home from school, skates for an hour, rushes into calling costume and drops into a dozen things before dinner: then, as soon as that is over, prepares for a dance or a tobogganing party.'"

"As you say, I was a few years younger, Joan."

"But why have you given everything up so? You can't complain of being shelved. Why, at the only dance where I've met you this winter your card was filled to overflowing before you had been in the room five minutes. You certainly can't worry about lack of attention."

"No, I have no beauty to fade and no youthful fascinations to take wing, so the people who liked me ten years ago are just as apt to like me, now."

"Then why do you slip out of things so? Even Del says she never sees you."

"Del means that I don't live here as I used to. I see her three or four times a week: any one but Del would be sick of me. But, seriously, girls, this idea of combining public school teacher and society girl isn't the best in the world. As far as I know, I am the only woman who has ever done it successfully for years and I'm getting tired of it. And that reminds me! Do you want to hear a good story? I went to a man-tea at Mrs. Dean-Everill's the other day--you see I'm not altogether a hermit yet--and I met a Mrs. Howden there--a very common woman with money. No one else wanted to talk to her and she seemed a good-natured soul and anxious to be affable, so I sacrificed myself as usual. She simply beamed on me--till, in the course of conversation, it transpired that I taught from nine to three five days out of the seven. Then she froze: suddenly and completely did she freeze: and took the earliest opportunity of sidling away from my contaminating presence. A little later on I was talking to some of the other people when Dick Ashe, who has just returned from Europe, you know, rushed up to me and said in his usual boisterous way, 'Oh, Miss Thayer, you should see the lovely pin that your cousin, Lord Haviland, has entrusted to me for you.' I caught sight of the woman's face; she looked like a devotee who had unwittingly slapped a seraph. I felt so sorry for her that I hastened to murmur, 'Oh, Harry's only my third cousin, you know!' but even that didn't seem to wipe the tortured look from her fat face. Think what it must be to a social climber to have snubbed an earl's third cousin."

In the burst of laughter and talk which followed this, only Mrs. Hadwell noticed that Lynn had made a definite effort to turn the course of conversation from discussion of herself.

"Well," said Agatha Ladilaw in her flute-like voice, "I don't see what is amusing you all so. It couldn't have been very pleasant for Mrs. What's-her-name to think that she had been rude to an earl's third cousin: and, on the other hand, if Lynn were an ordinary teacher you couldn't expect her to be treated in the same way."

"Why not?" asked some one. Lynn merely laughed and looked at the first speaker with covert yet kindly mirth.

"I don't see why you laugh," said Agatha, with soft stubbornness.

"Why, you see, Agatha," said Lynn, looking at her thoughtfully, "this Mrs. Howden liked me till she found I was a teacher. Then she couldn't endure my society till it transpired that I was related to an earl. Then she loved me once more."

"And why shouldn't she?" asked Agatha, lifting her lovely lashes. "Earls are not so common."

"Not so common as snobs, no. Still having an earl for a cousin is no reason why people should like one."

"But you see, Lynn, it is a reason. You say, yourself, that she liked you as soon as she found it out."

Lynn abandoned argument.

"She liked me in the first place, too," she said, laughing.

"Oh, but then she didn't know you were a teacher," Agatha explained, very sensibly.

"She liked me until I was found out, in other words."

"Exactly," said Agatha, pleased to find that her logic had penetrated. "It often happens so. Look at that young Italian with the lovely eyes who wrote the magnificent poetry that you weren't allowed to read! and had to smuggle into the dormitory at night after the lights were out! Now everybody raved about him until they found that he took opium and drank."

"And then they promptly dropped him: just as this Mrs. Howden did Lynn, when she found that she taught. It's an exactly parallel case," agreed Mrs. Hadwell, looking straight at Lynn with a perfectly innocent face and inwardly wondering how her friend could preserve such a stony impenetrability of countenance.

"Certainly it is," said Agatha, triumphantly, "except that of course it's wicked to drink and it's quite respectable to teach. But it comes to the same thing in the end."

"So many things do," said Lynn with a little laugh. "Still, Agatha, it's not necessarily wickedness that makes people drink. Some people drink in the same way that they breathe--because to stop would be to die or to go mad."

"What unpleasant people," said Agatha, virtuously. "I'm glad I'm not like that. Still, even if I were I'm sure that I could stop it--I can't understand people being so weak. And, speaking of that Ricossia--whatever became of him? He was so wicked and he did look so nice in evening clothes. I used to be awfully gone on him and so were all the girls in the Sixth. It wasn't because he was wicked, you know," she added hastily.

"No, indeed; the wickedness of Beelzebub would have availed him nothing if he hadn't also been decorative in evening clothes. Agatha, don't you want this little chocolate cake with the nut in the top?"

Agatha did: and she also wanted some information on the subject of Ricossia.

"Why are you so determined not to talk about him? He was your protege from the start. You took him up--you and Mr. Amherst--I don't believe he would ever have been so popular and run after if you hadn't started it."

"Yes, what has become of that boy?" queried Mrs. Hadwell with sudden interest. "Of course he has gone to the dogs, we all know that: but what particular dogs and where?"

"I am not his keeper," answered Lynn, lightly. "Do you know that it's about time I left, Del?"

"Oh, no!" cried Mrs. Hadwell, starting up. "You mustn't. Why, you don't even know why I asked you to come here, this afternoon: you simply must stay long enough to hear that."

"Well, I'll stay five minutes"--

"Very well, five minutes!" returned Mrs. Hadwell, who knew quite well how long a period of time five minutes can cover. "Now, girls, attend! You knew that Henry's brother Carl settled in the States and that he has a grown-up family. Well, the third child is twins--I mean the third children are twins--well, never mind! what's the use of explaining when you all know what I mean, anyway. The point is that I've invited them one and all to visit me, every year: but they've consistently refused because the brother is indignant at Henry's marrying a young wife, just when they had quite come to count on getting his money. These twins, however, seem to have a mind between them--they're only nineteen, too, I believe--very young to have a mind, even if it is only half a one--and they have written with gusto, accepting my invitation and telling me that they're dying to see something of the Canadian sports. Now, as you know, I've no taste for sports and I thought some of you might help me out. They are only going to be here for a week or so, as they both go to college, and I want to give them what our American friends call 'a real good time.' I have thought of several of the ordinary things--a tea for the girls and a bridge the night after they arrive: and a little later on, I am going to give a fancy dress ball--yes, consider yourselves all invited--but I thought it would be nice if I got a few of you girls together and organized some parties for tobogganing and ice-boating and so on."

"Don't forget the Conquerors-Wales hockey match."

"No, detestable thing! they'll want to see that, I suppose. I can't stand hockey. Lynn, you're not going?"

"I must. It's getting very late."

"Oh, nonsense!" cried Mrs. Hadwell, piteously: and at that moment, the clang of the doorbell, followed by the advent of a fresh visitor, seemed to give the lie to Miss Thayer's assertion.

"Mrs. Langham-Greene! Lynn, forgive me. I swear I didn't ask her," murmured the hostess: then glided forward eagerly.

"So glad to see you. What good genius prompted you to drop in this particular afternoon? _All_ the girls have done the same. (And if that doesn't pacify her," reflected the ingenuous hostess, "nothing will.")

The newcomer laughed, a pretty, soft, disagreeable laugh, and glanced about her.

"So I see," she rejoined, smoothly. "We old married women will have to entertain one another. These young girls," her glance wandered from Lynn Thayer to two or three others and she smiled thoughtfully, "these young girls have their own topics of conversation."

"Now that," said Mrs. Hadwell to herself with unwilling admiration, "is neat, distinctly neat. Insult to me, insult to my best friend and insult to half a dozen of my guests and all in one short breath. Lynn, you're not going?" she added, aloud.

"I am indeed. Bob will be wondering what's become of me."

"_Bob_! You didn't bring him here?"

"I did, Del. You know I'm away all day and Aunt Lucy never takes him out. Poor little fellow! it's pathetic, the way he greets me when I get home."

"Miss Thayer is such an attractive person, isn't she?" murmured Mrs. Langham-Greene with a peculiar gleam in her lazy cat-like eyes. "She has such a fascination--for dogs and cats."

"You, Mrs. Langham-Greene," returned Lynn with equal sweetness, "can have _no_ idea how nice it is to be able to fascinate something."

With that, she left. Mrs. Hadwell was delighted with the Parthian shot and indignant at Mrs. Langham-Greene's impudence in classing herself with her hostess under the title of "old married women." She therefore launched forth into a eulogy of her absent friend which, judging from appearances, went far to spoil the elegant widow's enjoyment of her cup of tea.

"Lynn is such a favourite with men, too," she concluded.

"Really," rejoined the green-eyed siren, carelessly. "But girls who teach do age so rapidly, don't you think so, Mrs. Hadwell? and they are apt to become soured and to mistake rudeness for repartee."

"A mistake that is frequently made," said Mrs. Hadwell, inwardly furious. "But, when one has such a clever tongue as Lynn, don't you think one is apt to take advantage of duller people than one's self?" Agatha broke in.

"Isn't it funny, Mrs. Hadwell, how Lynn never will talk about Mr. Ricossia? She used to like him so much. And I am sure she must know what has become of him."

"Dreadful creature!" purred Mrs. Langham-Greene, arching her delicate eyebrows. "Your friend wasn't really infatuated with him, was she, Mrs. Hadwell? People do talk so."

"Don't they?" assented Mrs. Hadwell, looking grieved. "I daresay even you and I don't escape. Poor Lynn presumed on her twenty-eight years and her plain face to take a sisterly interest in an eccentric genius, little more than a child in years; and people immediately assume that she must be in love with him. So absurd! As if a girl who--oh, they are all going! what a shame! How I wish you had dropped in a little sooner, Mrs. Langham-Greene. We've had a delightful chat but such a short one!"

*CHAPTER X*

*"A FIN-DE-SIECLE PAIR"*