Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  She set her teeth and stared at her glass of water.

  “What about my coming-out gown?” she asked.

  “I have written him about your début,” said Kathleen soothingly.

  “Oh! What did the old beast say?”

  “He writes,” began Kathleen pleasantly, “that he considers eighteen an unsuitable age for a young girl to make her bow to New York society.”

  “Did he say that?” exclaimed Geraldine, furious. “Very well; I shall write to Colonel Mallett and tell him I simply will not endure it any longer. I’ve had enough education; I’m suffocated with it! Besides, I dislike it. I want a dinner-gown and a ball-gown and my hair waved and dressed on top of my head instead of bunched half way! I want to have an engagement pad — I want to have places to go to — people expecting me; I want silk stockings and pretty underclothes! Doesn’t that old fool understand what a girl wants and needs?”

  She half rose from her seat at the table, pushing away the fruit which a servant offered; and, laying her hands flat on the cloth, leaned forward, eyes flashing ominously.

  “I’m getting tired of this,” she said. “If it goes on, I’ll probably run away.”

  “So will I,” said Scott, “but I’ve good reasons. They haven’t done anything to you. You’re making a terrible row about nothing.”

  “Yes, they have! They’ve suppressed me, stifled me, bottled me up, tinkered at me, overgroomed me, dressed me ridiculously, and stuffed my mind. And I’m starved all the time! O Kathleen, I’m hungry! hungry! Can’t you understand?

  “They’ve made me into something I was not. I’ve never yet had a chance to be myself. Why couldn’t they let me be it? I know — I know that when at last they set me free because they have to — I — I’ll act like a fool; I’ll not know what to do with my liberty — I’ll not know how to use it — how to understand or be understood.... Tell Mr. Tappan that! Tell him that it is all silly and wrong! Tell him that a young girl never forgets when other girls laugh at her because she never had any money, and dresses like a frump, and wears her hair like a baby!... And if he doesn’t listen to us, some day Scott and I will show him and the others how we feel about it! I can make as much trouble as Scott can; I’ll do it, too — —”

  “Geraldine!”

  “Very well. I’m boiling inside when I think of — some things. The injustice of a lot of hateful, snuffy old men deciding on what sort of underclothes a young girl shall wear!... And I will make my début! I will! I will!”

  “Dearest — —”

  “Yes, I will! I’ll write to them and complain of Mr. Tappan’s stingy, unjust treatment of us both — —”

  “Let me do the writing, dear,” said Kathleen quietly. And she rose from the table and left the dining-room, both arms around the necks of the Seagrave twins, drawing them close to her sides — closer when her sidelong glance caught the sullen bitterness on the darkening features of the boy, and when on the girl’s fair face she saw the flushed, wide-eyed, questioning stare.

  When the young, seeking reasons, gaze questioningly at nothing, it is well to divine and find the truthful answer, lest their other selves, evoked, stir in darkness, counselling folly.

  The answer to such questions Kathleen knew; who should know better than she? But it was not for her to reply. All she could do was to summon out of the vasty deep the powers that ruled her wards and herself; and these, convoked in solemn assembly because of conflict with their Trust Officer, might decide in becoming gravity such questions as what shall be the proper quality and cost of a young girl’s corsets; and whether or not real lace and silk are necessary for attire more intimate still.

  During the next two years the steadily increasing friction between Remsen Tappan and his wards began seriously to disturb the directors of the Half Moon Trust. That worthy old line company viewed with uneasiness the revolutionary tendencies of the Seagrave twins as expressed in periodical and passionate letters to Colonel Mallett. The increasing frequency of these appeals for justice and for intervention fore-shadowed the desirability of a conference. Besides, there was a graver matter to consider, which implicated Scott.

  When Kathleen wrote, suggesting a down-town conference to decide delicate questions concerning Geraldine’s undergarments and Scott’s new gun, Colonel Mallett found it more convenient to appoint the Seagrave house as rendezvous.

  And so it came to pass one pleasant Saturday afternoon in late October that, in twos and threes, a number of solemn old gentlemen, faultlessly attired, entered the red drawing-room of the Seagrave house and seated themselves in an impressive semicircle upon the damask chairs.

  They were Colonel Stuart Mallett, president of the institution, just returned from Paris with his entire family; Calvin McDermott, Joshua Hogg, Carl Gumble, Friedrich Gumble; the two vice-presidents, James Cray and Daniel Montross; Myndert Beekman, treasurer; Augustus Varick, secretary; the Hon. John D. Ellis; Magnelius Grandcourt 2d, and Remsen Tappan, Trust Officer.

  If the pillars of the house of Seagrave had been founded upon millions, the damask and rosewood chairs in the red drawing-room now groaned under the weight of millions. Power, authority, respectability, and legitimate affluence sat there majestically enthroned in the mansion of the late Anthony Seagrave, awaiting in serious tribunal the appearance of the last of that old New York family.

  Mrs. Severn came in first; the directors rose as one man, urbane, sprightly, and gallant. She was exceedingly pretty; they recognised it. They could afford to.

  Compositely they were a smooth, soft-stepping, soft-voiced, company. An exception or two, like Mr. Tappan, merely accented the composite impression of rosy-cheeked, neatly shaven, carefully dressed prosperity. They all were cautious of voice, moderate of speech, chary of gesture. There was always an impressive pause before a director of the Half Moon Trust answered even the most harmless question addressed to him. Some among them made it a conservative rule to swallow nothing several times before speaking at all. It was a safe habit to acquire. Aut prudens aut nullus.

  Geraldine’s starched skirts rustled on the stairway. When she came into the room the directors of the Half Moon Trust were slightly astonished. During the youth of the twins, the wives of several gentlemen present had called at intervals to inspect the growth of Anthony Seagrave’s grandchildren, particularly those worthy and acquisitive ladies who had children themselves. The far-sighted reap rewards. Some day these baby twins would be old enough to marry. It was prudent to remember such details. A position as an old family friend might one day prove of thrifty advantage in this miserably mercenary world where dog eats dog, and dividends are sometimes passed. God knows and pities the sorrows of the rich.

  Geraldine, her slim hand in Colonel Mallett’s, courtesied with old-time quaintness, then her lifted eyes swept the rosy, rotund countenances before her. To each she courtesied and spoke, offering the questioning hand of amity.

  The thing that seemed to surprise them was that she had grown since they had seen her. Time flies when hunting safe investments. The manners she retained, like her fashion of wearing her hair, and the cut and length of her apparel were clearly too childish to suit the tall, slender, prettily rounded figure — the mature oval of the face, the delicately firm modelling of the features.

  This was no child before them; here stood adorable adolescence, a hint of the awakening in the velvet-brown eyes which were long and slightly slanting at the corners; hints, too, in the vivid lips, in the finer outline of the profile, in faint bluish shadows under the eyes, edging the curved cheeks’ bloom.

  They had not seen her in two years or more, and she had grown up. They had merely stepped down-town for a hasty two years’ glance at the market, and, behind their backs, the child had turned into a woman.

  Hitherto they had addressed her as “Geraldine” and “child,” when a rare interview had been considered necessary. Now, two years later, unconsciously, it was “Miss Seagrave,” and considerable embarrassment when the subject of intimate attire could no
longer be avoided.

  But Geraldine, unconscious of such things, broached the question with all the directness characteristic of her.

  “I am sorry I was rude in my last letter,” she said gravely, turning to Mr. Tappan. “Will you please forgive me?... I am glad you came. I do not think you understand that I am no longer a little girl, and that things necessary for a woman are necessary for me. I want a quarterly allowance. I need what a young woman needs. Will you give these things to me, Mr. Tappan?”

  Mr. Tappan’s dry lips cracked apart; he swallowed grimly several times, then his long bony fingers sought the meagre ends of his black string tie:

  “In the cultiwation of the indiwidool,” he began harshly, and checked himself, when Geraldine flushed to her ear tips and stamped her foot. Self-control had gone at last.

  “I won’t listen to that!” she said, breathless; “I’ve listened to it for ten years — as long as I can remember. Answer me honestly, Mr. Tappan! Can I have what other women have — silk underwear and stockings — real lace on my night dresses — and plenty of it? Can I have suitable gowns and furs, and have my hair dressed properly? I want you to answer; can I make my début this winter and have the gowns I require — and the liberty that girls of my age have?” She turned on Colonel Mallett: “The liberty that Naïda has had is all I want; the sort of things you let her have all I ask for.” And appealing to Magnelius Grandcourt, who stood pursing his thick lips, puffed out like a surprised pouter pigeon: “Your daughter Catherine has more than I ask; why do you let her have what you consider bad for me? Why?”

  Mr. Grandcourt swallowed several times, and spoke in an undertone to Joshua Hogg. But he did not reply to Geraldine.

  Remsen Tappan turned his iron visage toward Colonel Mallett — ignoring Geraldine’s questions.

  “In the cultiwation of the indiwidool,” he began again dauntlessly ——

  “Isn’t there anybody to answer me?” asked Geraldine, turning from one to another.

  “Concerning the cultiwation — —”

  “Answer me!” she flashed back. There were tears in her voice, but her eyes blazed.

  “Miss Seagrave,” interposed old Mr. Montross gravely, “I beg of you to remember — —”

  “Let him answer me first! I asked him a perfectly plain question. It — it is silly to ignore me as though I were a foolish child — as though I didn’t know my mind.”

  “I think, Mr. Tappan, perhaps if you could give Miss Seagrave a qualified answer to her questions — make some preliminary statement—” began Mr. Cray cautiously.

  “Concerning what?” snapped Tappan with a grim stare.

  “Concerning my stockings and my underwear,” said Geraldine fiercely. “I’m tired of dressing like a servant!”

  Mr. Tappan’s rugged jaw opened and shut with another snap.

  “I’m opposed to any such innowation,” he said.

  “And — my coming out this winter? And my quarterly allowance? Answer me!”

  “Time enough when you turn twenty-one, Miss Seagrave. Cultiwation of mind concerns you now, not cultiwation of raiment.”

  “That — that—” stammered Geraldine, “is s-su-premely s-silly.” The tears reached her eyes; she brushed them away angrily.

  Mallett coughed and glanced at Myndert Beekman, then past the secretary, Mr. Varick, directly at Mr. Tappan.

  “If you could see your way to — ah — accede to some — a number — perhaps, in a measure, to all of Miss Seagrave’s not unreasonable requests, Mr. Tappan — —”

  “‘Can I have what other women have — silk underwear and stockings?’”

  He hesitated, looked dubiously at Mr. Montross, who nodded. Mr. Cray, also, made an almost imperceptible sign of concurrence. Magnelius Grandcourt, the sixty-year enfant terrible of the company, dreaded for his impulsive outbursts — though the effect of these outbursts was always very carefully considered before-hand — stepped jauntily across the floor, and lifting Geraldine’s hand to his rather purplish lips, saluted it with a flourish.

  “Oh, I say, Tappan, let Miss Seagrave have what she wants!” he exclaimed with a hearty disregard of caution, which outwardly disturbed but inwardly deceived nobody except Geraldine and Mrs. Severn.

  Colonel Mallett thought: “The acquisitive beast is striking attitudes on his fool of a son’s account.”

  Mr. Tappan’s small iron-gray eyes bored two holes through the inward motives of Mr. Grandcourt, and his mouth tightened till the seamed lips were merely a line.

  “I think, Magnelius,” said Colonel Mallett coldly, “that it is, perhaps, the sense of our committee that the time has practically arrived for some change — perhaps radical change — in the — in the — ah — the hitherto exceedingly wise regulations — —”

  “May I have real lace?” cried Geraldine— “Oh, I beg your pardon, Colonel Mallett, for interrupting, but I was perfectly crazy to know what you were going to say.”

  Other people have been crazier and endured more to learn what hope the verdict of ponderous authority might hold for them.

  Colonel Mallett, a trifle ruffled at the interruption, swallowed several times and then continued without haste to rid himself of a weighty opinion concerning the début and the petticoats of the Half Moon’s ward. He might have made the child happy in one word. It took him twenty minutes.

  Concurring opinions were then solemnly delivered by every director in turn except Mr. Tappan, who spoke for half an hour, doggedly dissenting on every point.

  But the days of the old régime were evidently numbered. He understood it. He looked across at the crackled portrait of his old friend Anthony Seagrave; the faded, painted features were obliterated in a bar of slanting sunlight.

  So, concluding his dissenting opinion, and having done his duty, he sat down, drawing the skirts of his frock-coat close around his bony thighs. He had done his best; his reward was this child’s hatred — which she already forgot in the confused delight of her sudden liberation.

  Dazed with happiness, to one after another Geraldine courtesied and extended the narrow childlike hand of amity — even to him. Then, as though treading on invisible pink clouds, she floated out and away up-stairs, scarcely conscious of passing her brother on the stairway, who was now descending for his turn before the altar of authority.

  When Scott returned he appeared to be unusually red in the face. Geraldine seized him ecstatically:

  “Oh, Scott! I am to come out, after all — and I’m to have my quarterly, and gowns, and everything. I could have hugged Mr. Grandcourt — the dear! I was so frightened — frightened into rudeness — and then that beast of a Tappan scared me terribly. But it is all right now — and what did they promise you, poor dear?”

  Scott’s face still remained flushed as he stood, hands in his pockets, head slightly bent, tracing with the toe of his shoe the carpet pattern.

  “You want to know what they promised me?” he asked, looking up at his sister with an unpleasant laugh. She poured a few drops of cologne onto a lump of sugar, placed it between her lips, and nodded:

  “They did promise you something — didn’t they?”

  “Oh, certainly. They promised to make it hot for me if I ever again borrowed money on notes.”

  “Scott! did you do that?”

  “Give my note? Certainly. I needed money — I’ve told old tabby Tappan so again and again. In a year I’ll have all the money I need — so what’s the harm if I borrow a little and promise to pay when I’m of age?”

  Geraldine considered a moment: “It’s curious,” she reflected, “but do you know, Scott, I never thought of doing that. It never occurred to me to do it! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because,” said her brother with an embarrassed laugh, “it’s not exactly a proper thing to do, I believe. Anyway, they raised a terrible row about it. Probably that’s why they have at last given me a decent quarterly allowance; they think it’s safer, I suppose — and they’re right. The stingy old fossils.”


  The boyish boast, the veiled hint of revolt and reprisal vaguely disturbed Geraldine’s sense of justice.

  “After all,” she said, “they have meant to be kind. They didn’t know how, that’s all. And, Scott, do let us try to be better now. I’m ashamed of my rudeness to them. And I’m going to be very, very good to Kathleen and not do one single thing to make her unhappy or even to bother Mr. Tappan.... And, oh, Scott! my silks and laces! my darling clothes! All is coming true! Do you hear? And, Scott! Naïda and Duane are back and I’m dying to see them. Duane is twenty-three, think of it!”

  She seized him and spun him around.

  “If you don’t hug me and tell me you’re fond of me, I shall go mad. Tell me you’re fond of me, Scott! You do love me, don’t you?”

  He kissed his sister with preoccupied toleration: “Whew!” he said, “your breath reeks of cologne!

  “As for me,” he added, half sullenly, “I’m going to have a few things I want, now.... And do a few things, too.”

  But what these things were he did not specify. Nor did Geraldine have time to speculate, so occupied was she now with preparations for the wonderful winter which was to come true at last — which was already beginning to come true with exciting visits to that magic country of brilliant show-windows which, like an enchanted city by itself, sparkles from Madison Square to the Plaza between Fourth Avenue and Broadway.

  Into this sparkling metropolitan zone she hastened with Kathleen; all day long, week after week, she flitted from shop to shop, never satisfied, always eager to see, to explore. Yet two things Kathleen noticed: Geraldine seemed perfectly happy and contented to view the glitter of vanity fair without thought of acquiring its treasures for herself; and, when reminded that she was there to buy, she appeared to be utterly ignorant of the value of money, though a childhood without it was supposed to have taught her its rarity and preciousness.