CHAPTER X
MRS. OAKLEY
Betty, when she stepped on board the boat for Marseilles, had had nodefinite plan of action. She had been caught up and swept away by anover-mastering desire for escape that left no room in her mind forthoughts of the morrow. It was not till the train was roaring its wayacross southern France that she found herself sufficiently composed toreview her position and make plans.
She would not go back. She could not. The words she had used in herletter to Mr. Scobell were no melodramatic rhetoric. They were a plainand literal statement of the truth. Death would be infinitelypreferable to life at Mervo on her stepfather's conditions.
But, that settled, what then? What was she to do? The gods arebusinesslike. They sell; they do not give. And for what they sell theydemand a heavy price. We may buy life of them in many ways: with ourhonor, our health, our independence, our happiness, with our brains orwith our hands. But somehow or other, in whatever currency we maychoose to pay it, the price must be paid.
Betty faced the problem. What had she? What could she give? Herindependence? That, certainly. She saw now what a mockery that fanciedindependence had been. She had come and gone as she pleased, her pathsmoothed by her stepfather's money, and she had been accustomed toconsider herself free. She had learned wisdom now, and could understandthat it was only by sacrificing such artificial independence that shecould win through to freedom. The world was a market, and the onlyindependent people in it were those who had a market value.
What was her market value? What could she do? She looked back at herlife, and saw that she had dabbled. She had a little of mostthings--enough of nothing. She could sketch a little, play a little,sing a little, write a little. Also--and, as she remembered it, shefelt for the first time a tremor of hope--she could use a typewriterreasonably well. That one accomplishment stood out in the welter of herthoughts, solid and comforting, like a rock in a quicksand. It wassomething definite, something marketable, something of value for whichpersons paid.
The tremor of hope did not comfort her long. Her mood was critical, andshe saw that in this, her one accomplishment, she was, as in everythingelse, an amateur. She could not compete against professionals. Sheclosed her eyes, and had a momentary vision of those professionals,keen of face, leathern of finger, rattling out myriads of words at adizzy speed. And, at that, all her courage suddenly broke; she droopedforlornly, and, hiding her face on the cushioned arm-rest, she began tocry.
Tears are the Turkish bath of the soul. Nature never intended woman topass dry-eyed through crises of emotion. A casual stranger, meetingBetty on her way to the boat, might have thought that she looked alittle worried,--nothing more. The same stranger, if he had happened toenter the compartment at this juncture, would have set her down atsight as broken-hearted beyond recovery. Yet such is the magic of tearsthat it was at this very moment that Betty was beginning to beconscious of a distinct change for the better. Her heart still ached,and to think of John even for an instant was to feel the knife turningin the wound, but her brain was clear; the panic fear had gone, and shefaced the future resolutely once more. For she had just remembered theexistence of Mrs. Oakley.
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Only once in her life had Betty met her stepfather's celebrated aunt,and the meeting had taken place nearly twelve years ago. The figurethat remained in her memory was of a pale-eyed, grenadier-like oldlady, almost entirely surrounded by clocks. It was these clocks thathad impressed her most. She was too young to be awed by the knowledgethat the tall old woman who stared at her just like a sandy cat she hadonce possessed was one of the three richest women in the whole wideworld. She only remembered thinking that the finger which emerged fromthe plaid shawl and prodded her cheek was unpleasantly bony. But theclocks had absorbed her. It was as if all the clocks in the world hadbeen gathered together into that one room. There had been big clocks,with almost human faces; small, perky clocks; clocks of strange shape;and one dingy, medium-sized clock in particular which had made her cryout with delight. Her visit had chanced to begin shortly before elevenin the morning, and she had not been in the room ten minutes beforethere was a whirring, and the majority of the clocks began to announcethe hour, each after its own fashion--some with a slow bloom, some witha rapid, bell-like sound. But the medium-sized clock, unexpectedlybelying its appearance of being nothing of particular importance, hadperformed its task in a way quite distinct from the others. It hadsuddenly produced from its interior a shabby little gold man with atrumpet, who had blown eleven little blasts before sliding backwardinto his house and shutting the door after him. Betty had waited inrapt silence till he finished, and had then shouted eagerly for more.
Just as the beginner at golf may effect a drive surpassing that of theexpert, so may a child unconsciously eclipse the practised courtier.There was no soft side to Mrs. Oakley's character, as thousands ofsuave would-be borrowers had discovered in their time, but there was asoft spot. To general praise of her collection of clocks she wasimpervious; it was unique, and she did not require you to tell her so,but exhibit admiration for the clock with the little trumpeter, and shemelted. It was the one oasis of sentiment in the Sahara of her mentaloutlook, the grain of radium in the pitchblende. Years ago it had stoodin a little New England farmhouse, and a child had clapped her handsand shouted, even as Betty had done, when the golden man slid from hishiding-place. Much water had flowed beneath the bridge since thosedays. Many things had happened to the child. But she still kept her oldlove for the trumpeter. The world knew nothing of this. The world, ifit had known, would have been delighted to stand before the clock andadmire it volubly, by the day. But it had no inkling of the trumpeter'simportance, and, when it came to visit Mrs. Oakley, was apt to wasteits time showering compliments on the obvious beauties of the queens ofthe collection.
But Betty, ignoring these, jumped up and down before the dingy clock,demanding further trumpetings, and, turning to Mrs. Oakley, as onepossessing influence, she was aware of a curious, intent look in theold lady's eyes.
"Do you like that clock, my dear?" said Mrs. Oakley.
"Yes! Oh, yes!"
"Perhaps you shall have it some day, honey."
Betty was probably the only person who had been admitted to that roomwho would not, on the strength of this remark, have steered theconversation gently to the subject of a small loan. Instead, she ran tothe old lady, and kissed her. And, as to what had happened after that,memory was vague. There had been some talk, she remembered, of a dollarto buy candy, but it had come to nothing, and now that she had grownolder and had read the frequent paragraphs and anecdotes that appearedin the papers about her stepfather's aunt, she could understand why.She knew now what everybody knew of Mrs. Oakley--her history, hereccentricities, and the miserliness of which the papers spoke with asatirical lightness that seemed somehow but a thin disguise for whatwas almost admiration.
Mrs. Oakley was one of two children, a son and a daughter, of a Vermontfarmer. Of her early life no records remain. Her public history beginswhen she was twenty-two and came to New York. After two years'struggling, she found a position in the firm of one Redgrave. Those whoknew her then speak of her as a tall, handsome girl, hard and intenselyambitious. From contemporary accounts she seems to have out-NietzschedNietzsche. Nietzsche's vision stopped short at the superman. JaneScobell was a superwoman. She had all the titanic selfishness andindifference to the comfort of others which marks the superman, and, inaddition, undeniable good looks and a knowledge of the weaknesses ofmen. Poor Mr. Redgrave had not had a chance from the start. She marriedhim within a year. Two years later, catching the bulls in an unguardedmoment, Mr. Redgrave despoiled them of a trifle over three milliondollars, and died the same day of an apoplectic stroke caused by theexcitement of victory. His widow, after a tour in Europe, returned tothe United States and visited Pittsburg. Any sociologist will supportthe statement that it is difficult, almost impossible, for anattractive widow, visiting Pittsburg, not to marry a milliona
ire, evenif she is not particularly anxious to do so. If such an act is theprimary object of her visit, the thing becomes a certainty. Gropingthrough the smoke, Jane Redgrave seized and carried off no less aquarry than Alexander Baynes Oakley, a widower, whose income was one ofthe seven wonders of the world. In the fullness of time he, too, died,and Jane Oakley was left with the sole control of two vast fortunes.
She did not marry again, though it was rumored that it took threesecretaries, working nine hours a day, to cope with the writtenproposals, and that butler after butler contracted clergyman's sorethroat through denying admittance to amorous callers. In the ten yearsafter Alexander Baynes' death, every impecunious aristocrat in thecivilized world must have made his dash for the matrimonial pole. Buther pale eyes looked them over, and dismissed them.
During those early years she was tempted once or twice to speculation.A failure in a cotton deal not only cured her of this taste, but seemsto have marked the point in her career when her thoughts began to turnto parsimony. Until then she had lived in some state, but now,gradually at first, then swiftly, she began to cut down her expenses.Now we find her in an apartment in West Central Park, next in aWashington Square hotel, then in a Harlem flat, and finally--her last,fixed abiding-place--in a small cottage on Staten Island.
It was a curious life that she led, this woman who could have boughtkingdoms if she had willed it. A Swedish maid-of-all-work was her onlycompanion. By day she would walk in her little garden, or dust, arrangeand wind up her clocks. At night, she would knit, or read one of thefrequent reports that arrived at the cottage from charity workers onthe East Side. Those were her two hobbies, and her onlyextravagances--clocks and charity.
Her charity had its limitations. In actual money she expended little.She was a theoretical philanthropist. She lent her influence, her time,and her advice, but seldom her bank balance. Arrange an entertainmentfor the delectation of the poor, and you would find her on theplatform, but her name would not be on the list of subscribers to thefunds. She would deliver a lecture on thrift to an audience of factorygirls, and she would give them a practical example of what shepreached.
Yet, with all its limitations, her charity was partly genuine. Her mindwas like a country in the grip of civil war. One-half of her sincerelypitied the poor, burned at any story of oppression, and cried "Give!"but the other cried "Halt!" and held her back, and between the two shefell.
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It was to this somewhat unpromising haven of refuge that Betty's mindnow turned in her trouble. She did not expect great things. She couldnot have said exactly what she did expect. But, at least, the cottageon Staten Island offered a resting-place on her journey, even if itcould not be the journey's end. Her mad dash from Mervo ceased to beobjectless. It led somewhere.
The Prince and Betty Page 10