The Opened Shutters: A Novel

by Clara Louise Burnham

  CHAPTER IV

  HOTEL FRISBIE

  The Frisbie being a commercial house in a crowded business centre, MissLacey was glad of Dunham's safe conduct amid clanging bells andinterlacing traffic wagons. She followed him through the dark hall ofthe hotel and into an elevator. Leaving this, they entered thedepressing stretches of a long parlor whose stiff furniture andhangings clung drearily against a harassing wall paper as dingy asthemselves. Finding the room empty, Miss Lacey began to speak excitedlyas soon _as_ they were seated and Dunham had sent the bell-boy on hiserrand.

  "Exactly the sort of a hotel my brother Sam would have come to!" shesaid. "I wondered why Sylvia chose it. Like as not he's brought herhere before."

  Then her lips snapped together, for she remembered she was not going tospeak slightingly of her brother before a stranger.

  "Too bad he was not the sort of man with whom you and Judge Trent couldhave been in sympathy," replied Dunham civilly. "It would have made thepresent situation easier."

  "Then Calvin has told you about it," returned Miss Martha, with mingledrelief and resentment, "and you understand why we can't feel anythingexcept a painful duty in this matter. If Sylvia had stayed West like areasonable being, instead of rushing on to Boston without ourpermission, we would have helped her what we could--at least the judgewould. It would have been a great deal simpler to send a little moneyto Springfield, Illinois, than to have the worry of the girl right herewith us--neither of us wanting her,--we couldn't be expected to." MissLacey's tongue was loosened now and all reserves broken down. "I'm notin a position to assume the care of anybody, and as for Judge Trent,you know how set and peculiar he is, and besides that, my brotheralways made his wife perfectly miserable"--

  "It's a lie!"

  Miss Lacey sank back in her chair and Dunham sprang to his feet as thegirlish voice rang out, and a black-clothed figure stood before them.She had been standing behind one of the heavy hangings watching thepassing in the seething street when the two entered the room, and untilnow had listened tense and motionless.

  For a silent moment the visitors faced the girl, whose crop of short,curly hair vibrated, and whose eyes sent forth sparks of blue fire asshe stood there, indignation incarnate. Her glance roved from one tothe other, and Miss Martha pinched herself to make certain that she hadnot fallen into a bad dream, while Dunham crimsoned under the burninggaze.

  "Syl--Sylvia, is that you!" exclaimed Miss Lacey unsteadily.

  The girl scorned to reply. White and accusing she stood. Miss Marthalooked up at her companion appealingly. "Mr.--Mr.--Sir Walter--Oh, Idon't know your name!"

  The young girl half closed her eyes and looked down on her aunt with astrange expression.

  "Do you," she asked slowly, "talk like that about your dead brothereven to persons whose names you haven't learned?"

  "Great Scott!" thought Dunham, whose crimson was fast becoming pricklyheat. "What have I got into!"

  "I know this gentleman--I do, Sylvia," returned Miss Martha earnestly."He is your Uncle Calvin's--yes, your Uncle Calvin's trusted friend."

  "I should judge so," returned the girl, fixing the unhappy Dunham withher gaze. "I should judge his position to be very nearly one of thefamily. Does Uncle Calvin know his name?"

  Dunham had for some years been aware that his height was six feet. Nowhe appeared to himself to be shrinking together until he was twin tohis employer. It would be a fortunate moment to present his card tothese ladies! For the first time in his life he found his hands in hisway.

  "The situation is very peculiar--very," stammered Miss Marthanervously, "and I'm very sorry, very sorry indeed that you werelistening."

  "Oh, so am I!" ejaculated the girl, the angry tenseness of her facechanging and her voice breaking as she threw up her hands in adespairing gesture. The pathos of the black figure struck throughDunham's mortification.

  "I wouldn't have hurt your feelings for anything," pursued Miss Marthaearnestly.

  "Wouldn't you?"

  "No; and I wish you would believe it and not look at me so strangely. Inever had hysterics in my life, but I feel as if I might have themright off, if you don't stop."

  The young girl had regained her self-control. "It might be the bestending to the interview," she said, "for I could leave you then to--tothe trusted friend. I don't know what to do now." She clasped her handsover her face for a second, then dropped them.

  "She's dreadfully theatrical, dreadfully," thought Miss Lacey.

  "She is broken-hearted," thought Dunham; and pulling himself togetherhe found his voice.

  "My name is Dunham, Miss Lacey," he said, meeting the blue eyes wherethe fire had burned out, showing the face so white, so young. "This isin the day's work for me, and I'm sorry. I am in Judge Trent's office,and he sent me here with your aunt to represent him."

  "My aunt saved a lot of time," rejoined the girl slowly, speaking low."She represented them both while I stood there behind the curtain." Herhands pressed together, and she looked again from one to the other.

  "There isn't anything for you to stay for now, is there?" she added,after a painful silence.

  "Why, of course there is!" exclaimed Miss Martha. "We haven't made anyplan at all."

  "What plan had you thought of making?"

  Miss Martha cleared her throat and looked up at Dunham.

  "I--we--wanted to ask what your plans were."

  "They're nothing to you, I'm sure," returned the girl.

  "Why, they're a great deal to us. You mustn't think Judge Trent and Idon't feel any responsibility of you. We _do_."

  The girl's lips quivered into something that tried to be a smile.

  "How did you intend to show it before--before you came in here thismorning?"

  "Why, we"--Miss Martha cleared her throat again, "we--feel sure, ofcourse, that--unless your father left you money you--you will want tofind something to do, and we intend to help you find it."

  Sylvia looked like a pale flower as she stood there. There rose inDunham the involuntary desire to protect that any man who saw her wouldhave felt.

  "And to pay your expenses until you do find it," he added hastily."That is Judge Trent's idea," he declared, in a recklessly encouragingtone. "To pay your expenses so long as you need it."

  The girl's quivering smile grew steadier. Her pride stiffened underthis man's regard.

  "Where?" she asked, with self-possession. "Not at the Touraine,probably."

  It was like a downward jerk on a balloon. Dunham suddenly rememberedthe memoranda and his employer's shaggy gaze.

  "At the Young Women's Christian Association," he repliedapologetically.

  The girl laughed. "I don't like the sound of it," she said. "Is it somesort of reformatory?"

  "It is not," replied Miss Martha warmly. "That is a very good idea ofyour uncle's. I hadn't heard of it. It is a very generous and properarrangement," with growing conviction. "Boston is dreadfullyovercrowded, and you'd have probably done better in Springfield,whatever it's like; but I'll stay with you now,"--Miss Martha begantaking off her gloves nervously,--"and help you pack up and take youover to the Association, and see you settled. The superintendent can nodoubt help you to find something to do, and perhaps everything will beall right, after all."

  Sylvia Lacey stretched out her hand. "Put those gloves on again, AuntMartha. Your duty to me is done. You and Mr. Dunham can go home now."

  Miss Martha's eyes snapped behind her glasses. "What do you mean? Whatare you going to do, then?"

  The girl shrugged her shoulders carelessly. "Any one of half a dozenthings. Get married, probably."

  Miss Martha stared. "Are you engaged all this time and we worryingourselves like this?"

  "No, but a man, an actor, wants me to marry him. He believes I would dowell on the stage."

  "Sylvia Lacey, you _mustn't_ marry an actor. You mustn't consider sucha thing!" The speaker sprang to her feet and took a step forward.

  "I haven't until now,"--Sylvia's white cheeks gave the lie to hern
onchalant tone,--"but father said he believed Nat would be good to me.I thought it very strange at the time, but he seemed much more certainthat Nat would be kind than that you and Uncle Calvin would."

  "Sylvia, you mustn't be willful. You're a young girl. You must let youruncle and me think for you. I am going to remain with you until I seeyou moved. You can't stay in this hotel alone, not a day." Miss Marthaglanced about as if she expected to see some of her brother'sdisreputable friends leap up from behind the stuffy old armchairs.

  "Go at once, please," returned the girl. "Won't you take her?" suddenlyturning to Dunham appealingly. "I'm very tired."

  He did not need to be convinced of it. The white face showed thenervous strain. He believed the short curls meant some recent illness.He wished himself a thousand miles away, and took a final grip on thehat he was holding.

  "We're unwilling to leave you in such uncertainty," he said lamely.

  Sylvia's eyes rested on his.

  "Tell Uncle Calvin"--she paused, for her throat filled--"no," she addedwith difficulty, "just go, please."

  "Sylvia, I beg of you," Miss Lacey came forward, face and voiceperturbed, and attempted to take her niece's hand.

  Sylvia fell back a step. "You said everything a few minutes ago, AuntMartha. Nothing could make any difference now. Good-by. Go, or else Imust."

  "Why, it's impossible, it's unheard of!" Tears sprang to Miss Martha'seyes, but Dunham took her arm and led her to the door, and while a sobof anxiety struggled in her breast he hurried her to the elevator andout upon the street, and at once hailed an approaching car.

  "Do you wish to go right to the station, or to do errands?" he asked.

  "Oh, _errands_!" exclaimed Miss Lacey wildly. "Who could think oferrands!"

  "Well, this car will take you to the station. I have some business toattend to, but shall probably catch the same train you do."

  The car stopped. Dunham helped his bewildered companion to enter, andstepping back to the sidewalk, walked half a block in the oppositedirection with business-like haste. Then he turned on his heel,observed that no stoppage in the street had detained Miss Martha'snoisy conveyance, and striding back to the hotel, he reentered thedingy elevator.

  He knew that there could scarcely be a more deserted, isolated spot atthis hour of the day than the parlor of the old hotel; and it was as hehoped. The girl had not left it. He descried the slender black figureat once. She was clinging hopelessly with both hands to one of thesodden hangings and sobbing into its heavy folds.

  He went up to her. "Pardon me. I've come back. Please don't do that."

  She lifted her swollen eyes in surprise for a moment and then hid them.

  "What right have you!" she murmured.

  "None, but I couldn't do anything else, of course. You can see that.Come over here and sit down, please. Somebody might come in."

  The girl controlled her sobs; but kept her face hidden. "I don't wantto talk to you," she gasped.

  "I know you don't. It makes it rather awkward. Is there any one else inBoston--any one I could go and bring to you?"

  She rubbed her soft little curls into the aged hangings in a hopelessnegative.

  "Say!" said Dunham, in acute protest, "would you mind taking your headout of that curtain? Why, it might give you typhoid fever."

  "I've just had it," replied the girl chokingly. "That's why I'm so weakand--and--Oh, if I could just telegraph to Nat!"

  "If you'll come out of the curtain I'll wire Nat," responded Dunhameagerly,--"that is, if it's the best thing," he added doubtfully.

  "You can't wire him. He's one-nighting. I don't know where to catchhim, and he couldn't come anyway."

  John continued to regard her as she left her hold on the curtain andpressed a wet handkerchief to her eyes. "Come over here and sit downone minute, please. I won't stay long."

  She followed reluctantly to the chair he placed. "You shouldn't stay atall," she returned. "I don't wish to trouble a perfect stranger with mywoes, and except for Uncle Calvin you have no reason to be here,and--and I haven't any uncle any more."

  It was pitiful to see her effort to control the pretty, grieving lips.Her soul was smarting with the shock of her discovery, and themortification of this stranger's knowledge of it. She wished to sendhim out of her sight at once; but her voice failed.

  "Now, I'm neither Aunt Martha nor Uncle Calvin," said John, "and Irefuse to be treated as if I were. If you haven't any friends in BostonI'm sure you can make one of me for five minutes. The situation isawkward enough, and you might feel for me a bit, eh?"

  "No, not if you have come to try to persuade me to do anything.Nat--Mr. Forsyth, says he is sure I could get a chance on the stage,and--and he says it would make everything easier if I married him; butmy friends at home urged me so much, and said the stage was a dog'slife, and persuaded me that my own people were the ones to help me now.My own people!" the speaker pressed the handkerchief to her unsteadylips again, and her eyes swam afresh.

  Dunham regarded her. Of course she could get a position on the stage.Any creature so pretty always could. He pictured her in some chorus,these quivering lips reddened and the swimming eyes laughing in theshade of an outrageous hat.

  "I should say the stage last myself," he returned. "Your own people_are_ the ones. Your Uncle Calvin"--

  "I haven't any."

  "Well, Judge Trent, then, is what is popularly described as a dried-upold bachelor. It never occurred to him that happiness might be--that hemight find a daughter in you; but he wants to do his duty byyou--indeed he does," for the girl's face was discouraging, "and, byGeorge, you ought to let him do it."

  "Never! And I always bade his picture good-night. Mother loved him so,and she taught me." The last word was inaudible.

  Dunham leaned forward with his hands on his knees. "Now would you mindtelling me, since you haven't any one else to tell, how much money youhave?"

  A little determined shake of the curls. "I shouldn't think of tellingyou."

  "Then you're a very foolish girl. You ought to have more head and notso much heart in this affair. Judge Trent is a man whom any one mightbe proud to claim, and if you won't behave childishly we can bring himaround all right."

  "Do you think I'd stoop to bring him around?" she asked, with a moistflash of the eyes.

  "You wouldn't be the first who stooped to conquer. If you were cleveryou would."

  "Father thought I was clever, and so does Nat," she said, with feebleresentment.

  "They wouldn't if they knew what you are doing now. Just because a busyold bachelor of a lawyer, immersed in hard-headed affairs, doesn'tthrow all aside and come here to welcome you and behave like a familyman, you repudiate him altogether."

  "She said they didn't either of them want me." The voice was a wail.

  "But you weren't anything to them but a name."

  "I'm their own flesh and blood."

  "Yes, and see that you don't forget it. You have a claim upon them. Nowat best it must be some days before you can communicate withyour--friend, perhaps I ought to say your lover."

  "Oh, no, don't," with faint dissent. "He's father's friend, really, andhe's--poor thing, he's so fat I don't think he'd call himself anybody'slover; but he's so kind. He was so good to father."

  This time the speaker did not vanish into the handkerchief, but caughther lip between her little teeth, and looking away, struggled forcomposure in a way that drew on John's heartstrings.

  This slender creature, not yet strong from the illness that had crownedher head with those silky tendrils, and with no supporting arm savethat of a barn-storming actor, mediocre in his middle age, what wasJudge Trent's representative to do or say to prevent her from takingsome foolish and desperate course!

  "Now you simply must have money to tide you over," he announced. "Let'snot have any nonsense. You can't knock about this hotel. Judge Trentknew what he was doing when he said the Young Women's ChristianAssociation. He wanted you guarded, and he wasn't--he didn't--hecouldn't very well g
uard you himself." Dunham stammered, but collectedhimself with praiseworthy dignity. He had recalled his six feet ofheight, and rising, began to make the most of the last inch, and to trythe effect of a frown down on the flower face whose eyes, looking alittle startled, encouraged him. He frowned more heavily as he took abill book from his pocket and counted out five five-dollar bills.

  "Now take that money and put it away in some safe place," he saidbriefly. "I'll take you over to the Association myself. No, indeed, I'mnot Aunt Martha, and you're going with me."

  The girl let the bills drop into her lap while she drew her hands awayfrom them.

  "I'd rather go and jump into the water!" she began passionately.

  "Don't--be--_silly_!" returned Dunham, in a biting, big-brother tonewhich seemed to have an effect.

  "Is this Uncle Calvin's money?"

  "Of course it is. What would your mother say if she were here? Ofcourse I understand you're not going to be dependent upon Judge Trent.You've made up your mind to that, and I'm not going to try to shakeyou; but I suppose you're not so childish as to refuse a small giftfrom your mother's brother, just because you're disappointed in him, orangry with him--or whatever you choose to call it. I'm rather pressedfor time," continued John, after a short pause, assuming the tone hereserved for a book agent on his busy day, and taking out his watch hegave it a sweeping glance. "It would oblige me very much if you couldhurry a little. You can't stay here, you know, and I'll have a carriageready."

  Sylvia rose undecidedly. "You take a great deal for granted," she said."I--there's only one condition on which I'll go, and that is that youdon't tell either my uncle or my aunt where I am. I will not see them.I'll have no more of their sense of duty! I won't have Aunt Martha comeback there."

  "Oh, very well," Dunham gave a hasty and rather bored nod.

  "But do you promise?" The blue eyes began to dry and to sparkle again.

  "Well, yes, of course. I promise."

  She left the room; and the various shades of dignity, sarcasm, andboredom gradually vanished from the young man's countenance. He smiledand shrugged his big shoulders with the gesture of a ten-year-oldschoolboy, and moving over to a hoary mirror with a freckled giltframe, he executed a brief and silent clog before it.

  "I'm not so bad," he commented to his reflection. "Nat isn't the onlystar in the profession."