I think it is – and he has gone to collect them at Cape Horn. She bears his absence surprisingly well, doesn’t she? Old Mrs. Minthrop’s son married the sister, and she begged me to be civil to them. I forget who she said they were, but Mayflower people, you know.”
In this way Deena was passed on, stamped with the hall-mark of the Mayflower. Mrs. Shelton had contributed very generously to her daughter’s outfit for the season in New York. The black velvet picture dress was only one of several found suitable for her use in the trunk of finery belonging to the Chicago cousin, and the jewels that had come into the Shelton family from the same source were worthy of Deena’s beauty. Her clothes were good, and she wore them like a princess.
One evening late in January, Deena and Ben were dining with a gay young matron, who, without any especial personal charm herself, had the faculty of drawing to her house the best element society had to offer. The engagement had been made for them by Polly, much against her husband’s wishes, and his anxiety at leaving her alone could hardly be concealed during dinner. As soon as the ladies left the table he excused himself to his host, and, following the little hostess into the drawing room, he whispered a few words in her ear, nodded to Deena and disappeared.
“Your brother-in-law has gone home to his wife, Mrs. Ponsonby,” said the hostess. “I have never seen such devotion.” She laughed a trifle enviously; her own infelicities were the talk of the town.
Deena started forward in alarm.
“Was he sent for? Is my sister ill?” she inquired, nervously, and then sank back in her chair, smiling, when she found it was only a phase of young Minthropism.
While her own daylight hours were given to her sister, she was always pleased to be out of the way in the evening – it left the lovers to themselves – though she could not quite free herself from a sense of responsibility to the elder Mrs. Minthrop.
Mrs. Star, who was beside Deena, gave a sniff – if so fine a lady could be suspected of such a plebeian way of marking her disapprobation.
“My dear,” she said, “why should your charming sister be treated as a prisoner over whom somebody must perpetually keep watch? I have had six children – they were all healthy and had their full complement of legs and arms – except Bob, who lost an arm in the Spanish war, but that doesn’t count – and I never was shut up in my room before I had to be – nor put on a milk diet – nor forbidden reasonable exercise – and I think the modern doctors are full of fads and greed. Their bills! I don’t know who is rich enough to be ill nowadays!” Here she shut her eyes and trembled to think of the portion of her own great fortune that might have transferred itself to the doctor’s pockets if her nursery had not antedated the present school. “It may not seem very expensive to young Mrs. Minthrop to lie on her sofa and drink milk – but just wait till she comes to pay for it!”
“I don’t believe anyone will care about the bill, Mrs. Star,” said Deena, “so long as Polly keeps well.”
“It is bad enough to have food and exercise taken away from the young mothers,” continued Mrs. Star, who was evidently mounted on a hobby, “but when helpless infants are deprived of their natural sustenance and fed from bottles filled in a laboratory and stuffed with cotton, it is time for the Gerry Society to interfere. Cruelty to children is practiced far more by the rich than by the poor, in my opinion, and if you want to see cases of inanition and feeble spines, I’ll show you where to look for them, and it won’t be in the tenements!”
Deena wanted to laugh, but didn’t dare to; the old lady proclaimed her fierce sentiments with such earnest gravity. She managed, however, to say politely:
“You think that science has not improved upon nature in rearing the race, but you must remember that it finds the higher classes existing under unnatural conditions.”
“The conditions would do very well if we could banish the doctors,” said the old lady, testily. “I am out of patience with their incubators and their weighing machines and their charts and their thermometers – yes, and their baby nurses! What do you suppose I heard a mother say to her own servant the other day: ‘Please, nurse, may I take the baby up? He is crying fearfully,’ and the nurse, who had reluctantly put down the morning paper, said: ‘No, m’am, when he cries in that angry way, he must learn that it is useless!’ His age was six weeks.”
Deena burst into a hearty laugh.
“My dear Mrs. Star,” she said, “I am a convert.”
Mrs. Star wagged her head in approbation.
“Just tell your sister what I have said, will you?” she pursued, afraid that so much wisdom might be lost. “And, my dear, since your brother-in-law has gone home, suppose you come along to the opera with me. I sent some tickets to a few stray men, and I must look in before the last act.”
At this point they were joined by the gentlemen, and as soon as decency would permit, Mrs. Star made her adieux, followed by Deena. The Minthrop brougham was dismissed, and the ladies whirled away in Mrs. Star’s electric carriage. She at once took up her parable, but this time the topic was not the care of infants.
“I think a great deal of the scenic effect of an opera box,” she said. “I always dress with respect to the hangings, and I never take a discordant color beside me if I can help it. You happen to please me very much this evening; I like the simplicity of the white dress. Still, it wouldn’t be anything if you didn’t have such a neck – it gives an air to any low gown.”
“It was my wedding dress,” said Deena, frankly, “and my sister’s maid rearranged it for me. I am glad you like it.”
“Your wedding dress,” said Mrs. Star, reflectively. “I think I heard you had married a naturalist – prehistoric bones, is it not? Very interesting subject – so inspiring. Milliken” – to the footman, who opened the door on their arrival at the opera house – “you may keep the carriage here. I shall not be more than half an hour.”
Half an hour for the enjoyment of a pleasure that cost her, yearly, a moderate fortune!
On their way through the foyer to the box, Deena ventured to disclaim for her husband a peculiar interest in fossils.
“My husband is a botanist,” she began, and then desisted when she saw her companion’s attention was barely held by a desire to be civil.
“Ah, indeed!” Mrs. Star vaguely responded. “Delightful topic. I went into it myself quite extensively when I was a girl.”
Deena was not often malicious, but she couldn’t help wishing Simeon could have stood by to hear this announcement of a girlish mastery of his life’s work. She tried to think in what dry words he would have rebuked the levity, but before she could arrange a phrase quite in character, they were in the front of the box, and in the obscurity some one took her hand, and Stephen French’s voice murmured:
“What a piece of luck that I should see you to-night! I have only been in town a few hours, and obeyed my aunt’s summons to the opera as a means of keeping myself from Ben’s house till the morning. You can’t think how eager I have been to see you again, Mrs. Ponsonby.”
There was a strange break in his voice, as if he were trying to restrain the rush of happiness.
All the six mighty artists who made the opera the marvel it was were combining their voices in the closing sextet of the fourth act, and Deena, thrilled by the loveliness of the music and, perhaps, by the surprise of French’s presence, felt she was trembling with excitement.
“Fancy
