Whitewash/Chapter 10
CHAPTER X.
PHILIPPA was humbled in the dust, metaphorically speaking. Literally she had tried to throw herself at her aunt's feet in her despair, but Mrs. Ford, averse to theatricals for home consumption, merely remarked that "in tragedy she preferred Duse and Mrs. Fiske." This heartlessness had the effect to precipitate a Niagara of tears.
Mrs. Ford waited quietly until the paroxysm passed, to take up the thread of her remarks.
"I suppose you are aware that this disreputable affair of yours has been kept from the papers only by the greatest effort, and by the use of money and influence. That's why you are in this house instead of the jail. I'm sure I don't know why I allow you to stay here—I'm by far too soft-hearted. You will remember I told you I would have nothing to do with your miserable case if you saw fit to disobey me."
Philippa groaned and pressed her burning palms to her aching head. Ever since she had been released, and accompanied to her home by Commissioner Holes, Mr. Pendle, and her aunt, she had been in a state of frantic despair, which was not counterfeit.
"What I want to know is this," the drum-major went on, "are you going to obey me now? I shall give you this one more chance. I will take you in hand if you promise implicit obedience—implicit!—you understand!"
Philippa caught at the straw. "I will, I will—anything—everything, I promise!"
"So you have frequently said, but I have failed to note the absolute fulfilment of your vows. Now it's come to this: either you let me run this thing without question, or you are 'done for' socially. Of course, you can go to Europe with an elderly chaperone. Malta is a good place—with your good looks you ought to pick up some bored baronet with a bank account."
Philippa sat up on the lounge and pushed the tumbled hair from her eyes. There were new lines of suffering in her childish face, a naive grace, a piteous appeal, that had even softened the buckrammed, tight-buttoned heart of her aunt, and drawn from her this last offer of help.
"I give you my solemn word of honor," she said, "I'll obey you in every particular. I've been a fool, and I know it. I'm in an awful hole, and if you'll help me out, I'll—I'll—there isn't anything I won't do."
"And if I lay down a plan of action, you'll live up to it, will you?"
"I will, oh, I will!" Philippa wailed.
"It's understood, then, is it? Then let us go over the ground."
Mrs. Ford rose and made a slow tour of the room in silence; her gaze snapped from one object to another, as if this were, in fact, the ground she was going over. An amused gleam lit her cold eyes as she noted the familiar sham: the soulful "sanguines," the masterpieces of Burne-Jones, Rossetti, and Watts, that adorned the walls of the room, because its occupant felt she ought to admire them. The rows of books upon the shelves, unappreciated and unread. The one true note was self-adoration. Photographs of Philippa were scattered broadcast—Philippa standing, trailing a long-stemmed rose in a well-posed hand; Philippa sitting, with her arms draped over a huge, carved "studio" chair; Philippa in evening-dress, in walking-dress, in her riding-habit, with a bulldog, an open book, a bunch of daisies, a garden-hat, and in four kinds of fancy dress. Mrs. Ford looked them over with undisguised scorn.
"How absolutely vain you are!" she said, slowly.
It was on the tip of her listener's tongue to remark on "beams and motes," but she gulped in silence. This was no time for retaliation. Her position was too insecure.
"But," the drum-major resumed, wrapping the belaced folds of her dressing-gown about her ample person, "as I said, let us look at the situation. Two things are paramount: you must own yourself mistaken about Victoria—that will be easy; and you must do it amply and fully. In that way you will win the silence of old Morris Courncey and Fanshaw concerning your dinner episode." Her face hardened as she said the words, "If you will remember, I warned you that very afternoon to let matters drop between you and that impostor. But, to continue. You must release Morton at once. He knows too much for you to try to hold him. You must be repentant, humble. You must appeal to his chivalrous nature to save appearances for you. I think we can withdraw those wretched letters of Valdeck's from publicity. Then, to the outer world your attitude must be that of 'injured angel.' Valdeck interested you in what you thought a noble charity. You wanted to help—your interest in slum-work is well known"—Mrs. Ford sniffed as she referred to her ward's spasmodic and fashionable zeal for the water-front and the Bowery. "And now, I have the one great piece of luck to tell you of—the thing that saves you—the only thing that could have saved you. Valdeck left a confession exonerating Victoria, and incidentally you."
Philippa gasped and sat up. "He's escaped then, has he?" Involuntarily her face shone with relief.
"He committed suicide. It was in all the papers yesterday." Mrs. Ford's back was turned toward Philippa. She did not see the ghastly pallor that spread over the girl's face. When she turned, her charge's head was buried in the pillows of the sofa, and she went on with her information. "You are the luckiest creature I ever heard of. To think of his having the decency to put himself out of the way. He turned on the gas after carefully blocking up all the chinks of his room, and, I suppose because he was afraid his nerve would fail him, he chloroformed himself when he lay down to die. It seems it happened in some cheap little French hotel over on Twenty-sixth Street, and it wasn't found out till early next morning, when the woman who had occupied the adjoining room left the house because she claimed the smell of gas was unendurable.
"After she'd paid her bill and gone, the waiter went up-stairs and found the halls positively asphyxiating. He located the fumes, broke in the door—and there was Valdeck—dead!"
Philippa gasped.
"Dead!" went on Mrs. Ford. "And in his pocket was found a slip of paper on which, written in pencil, was a statement that his accusations made to you against Victoria were unfounded and merely made for the purpose of discrediting the Auray story. It was really superfluous, for her statement has been fully substantiated, but I suppose he grew sentimental over his impending death, or the whiskey, for he had been drinking heavily during the evening; a bottle nearly three-quarters empty was found by his bed. Now, you see, with Valdeck dead, the principal reason for pursuing the affair has been removed. Of course, the State will have its case against the woman for complicity, but as she confessed on hearing of her accomplice's suicide, and they are in a fair way to recover all the jewels stolen from New Orleans, there won't be much of an examination. Your appearance will be quite nominal—and those letters once returned, there is plenty of proof forthcoming that you were merely a tool."
Philippa winced in spite of her prostration. Then there flashed through her throbbing brain another thought. His last care had been to exonerate Victoria—no thought of her. But perhaps he did not wish to drag her name with his to a dishonored grave. In a tumult of sensations, she wavered back and forth, now filled with hatred of Valdeck and his deceptions, now crushed and broken-hearted over his death. Her will was in abeyance, and her many-sided mind, uncontrolled, followed with exaggerated vision the myriad suggestions that in normal conditions float half-formed in the consciousness. She was only vaguely aware of the drone of her aunt's voice, as she continued to pour wisdom upon the unheeding air.
The maid entered presently, with a note for Philippa. Aroused and brought back to vivid consciousness, she glanced at the address in Morton's clean-cut, characteristic hand.
It was a request, couched in formal terms, for an interview some time during the day.
Dismissing the maid with a nod, she handed the missive to her aunt, who glanced over it.
"Well," she demanded, "when will you see him?"
Philippa looked up wearily. "Don't you think you could manage this better?" she suggested. "Tell him I'm too ill to see him. You can say I'm so heart-broken over the unintentional wrong I did Victoria, you know."
The drum-major nodded. "I think so," she mused, "I think so. You had better stay in bed for the next few days, then we'll admit a few of your friends, and you can tell them that you must set Victoria right, that it's the only thing you are living for—that you are really too miserable to see any one, but you must undo the wrong you have done. Then, of course, I will deplore your trustfulness, and declaim against the creature's infamous use of your charitable nature." The drum-major positively smiled. The old war-horse of social diplomacy cried ha! ha! afar off, scenting battle. With a sweep of the ornate dressing-gown, the lady settled herself before Philippa's spindle-legged writing-desk, and drew out a sheet of becrested note-paper. The arms, crest, and motto "Fidelitas" were simply embossed in the heavy, white paper, and also adorned the flap of the envelope. From the recess where the creamy piles lay spread, arose a faint perfume of violets.
With strong, scratching gestures, Mrs. Ford penned her little note:
"Mr. Morton Conway,
"University Club.
"My dear Mr. Conway:—Philippa is, I fear, very ill. The doctors tell me that unless she gets some rest she may develop brain-fever. It is, therefore, impossible for her to answer your note or receive you in person. For the present I must be her proxy. If you will call at once, I should be pleased to tell you the particulars of her condition and her wishes for the future."
She signed with a decided upward tilt, and added the date and address—reread the epistle first to herself, then to Philippa, and rang for the maid. "And now, my dear," she added, rising and standing before the dressing-table, "I must dress to see him."
She contemplated her florid reflection with dignified satisfaction, picked up the artless Philippa's powder-puff, and discreetly subdued the violet-veined tone of her large, well-modelled Roman nose. She gently rubbed a tinge of mascaro upon her already heavy brows, and with a moistened finger removed the particles of powder from about her blue, incisive eyes, turning her head from side to side in contemplation of the "undulations" of the elaborate coiffure now protected by a net to retain its precision till the dowager should sally forth to an admiring public.
Philippa watched her aunt with disguised disgust. "Great, ugly thing! She thinks she's a beauty," she commented, inwardly, for Philippa loathed vanity in others. She turned her head, gasped with the pain the movement caused her aching eyeballs, arose, and walked gingerly to the violet-hung bed.
"I'm going to lie down," she said. "I do feel so ill—tell Marie to come to me. I want my lavender-water, and the shades pulled down. I wonder if I shall die!"
"You've got a nervous headache—you won't die," said Mrs. Ford, scornfully. "Well, I'll leave you to your favorite contemplation of yourself—much joy may you get out of it this time!"
With her silken gown flying about her like waving banners, the drum-major marched to the door, which she closed with a bang that made Philippa start with pain, and proceeded down the hallway to her own apartments. In its seclusion she was pushed and packed into her precise tailor costume, the net removed from her hair, her finger-nails duly polished, and her fingers loaded with a choice assortment of rings. Then, with a last glance at her image in the pier-glass, she descended to the drawing-room to await the coming of her ex-nephew-to-be. She moved about, busily readjusting Sèvres, Dresden figures, and Dutch-silver toys. She rearranged her collection of miniatures in the glass-topped show-table, and wound up the gilt and enamel clock on the mantel shelf. Mrs. Ford was always busy with some superfluity when she was not engaged in her favorite pursuit of advancing her social importance.
The butler passed through from the dining-room to answer the electric ring of the door-bell.
"If that is Mr. Conway, Charles," she said, "show him in here, and remember I am at home to no one else for the present."
The butler bowed, and went on.
A moment later Morton was introduced into the discreet twilight of the drawing-room and the presence of Mrs. Ford, whose face had suddenly become clouded and grave. She held out her hand frankly, but forbore to smile.
"First, let me tell you, that we hope Philippa may escape the consequences of her collapse. She has at last fallen asleep, under the influence of opiates, it is true."
Morton nodded. "I am glad to hear it," he said, coldly.
"She is in a very desperate state of mind," the aunt went on. "She raves about the wrong she has unwittingly done Victoria, and fairly implores and begs to have her friends admitted that she may tell them of her fearful mistake. I really did not suspect Philippa of so much conscience. She is frantic now that she realizes that she was so completely misled."
Morton's face relaxed a trifle.
"The whole thing has been a frightful shock to her. She put absolute confidence in Valdeck, and he was clever enough to convince her he was terribly in love with her. Of course, she was a fool to listen to him, or permit him to speak at all, but she was flattered, as, indeed, what girl would not be? She told me from time to time of his unfortunate passion for her, and deplored it. She hoped by assisting him in what she thought was a charitable enterprise, she would be helping him to a readier acceptance of his hopeless position—aiding him to fix his mind, as it were, on a laudable aim and end of life. What that aim was, we all know."
Morton bowed.
"He enjoined her to absolute secrecy when he entrusted her with the treasure he could no longer safely keep himself, and allayed all her questionings by this story of a watch being kept upon his movements. If you could see how broken and distressed she is, you would, I am sure, forgive her."
Morton smiled grimly. He was not to be taken in with the half-truth now. But the picture of the distressed Philippa brought up affectionate images. He remembered her innocent eyes, her trick of blushing, her childlike manner—and his anger slipped away from him. He knew her for what she was, yet felt sorry for her in her trouble.
"Of course, Mrs. Ford," he said, directly and simply, "there can be no question of an engagement between us now. That was the matter I most particularly wished to set before you. As it was never made public, there will be no comment. But this matter of Valdeck has awakened me from my dream, and I must, in duty to my self and to Philippa, relieve her—" He broke off, hesitating.
Mrs. Ford nodded. "I quite understand, though in the matter of that unfortunate dinner, I believe her quite innocent, except for following a foolish girl's impulse. He induced her to go there, that he might, so he said, in perfect security, tell her certain secrets concerning this 'Polish Educational League.' I fancy he wished her to be compromised by appearances, that he might obtain a hold over her in case she should discover the real nature of the 'society.' As to Gagano's, of course Philippa had never even heard of the place, and hadn't the remotest notion of its reputation. She trusted to Valdeck not to take her to any objectionable resort. I am greatly incensed against her myself, Mr. Conway, for this, but I try to do the girl justice."
Morton bethought him of sundry allusions of Philippa's, and doubted her complete ignorance of the name and nature of the infamous little restaurant, but he said nothing.
"For the sake of old times," Mrs. Ford went bravely on, "I want you to help me save the child's reputation. Do what you can to prevent this miserable story from getting into circulation. People who do not know Philippa's character as we do, might misjudge her in the matter of the dinner if it should become known. I hope we may be able to prevent the letters she gave in evidence from being made public. She has, I find, other notes written to her before he made his dastardly profession of love for her, which show identically the same thing—his use of his victim's interest in charity to induce her to assist him. We will substitute these earlier letters, which cover the same ground, for the later ones she so unwisely permitted to be read. It was her very innocence that made her careless. She never dreamed that any one would imagine that she returned his devotion."
Morton smiled inwardly. The farce of it began to appeal to him. But after all, why not protect Philippa? She was a woman—and he had loved her once—how long ago, and absurd it seemed.
"Of course," he said, "nothing shall become known through me, and my uncle, Mr. Courncey, assured me that if Victoria were fully cleared, nothing should be learned from him or Mr. Fanshaw. If the substitution of the letters can be made, I see no reason why anything but sympathy should be attached to your niece."
Mrs. Ford drew a long breath. She was accomplishing her work most skilfully. Never again would there be such a perfectly successful coat of whitewash.
"And Victoria Qaudel?" she asked, tentatively. "She has been the injured party, you know—and women are so hard upon each other." This last remark completed the irony of the situation.
Morton smiled. "Victoria never harmed a fly in all her life. She's too much of a man to strike a fallen enemy, and, besides, once her own character is cleared, she'll never think about the matter again—she has too many things of more importance to employ her mind,—she's too busy."
The lady looked incredulous. "I hardly think," she said, sententiously, "that you understand women, Mr. Conway."
Morton rose. "I don't pretend to, Mrs. Ford, I assure you. But Victoria is particularly a tomboy, and I think I can answer for her mental progressions. I assure you that you will really be quite annoyed by the very little importance she'll attach to it all, once the clouds have blown over. I think we quite understand each other now, Mrs. Ford. I thank you for receiving me, and the way you have permitted me to explain my very unpleasant and delicate mission."
The drum-major rose with stately and studied grace. "I am sure, Mr. Conway, my niece ought to be very grateful to you for your assurances of good-will. Of course, she knows nothing of my intervention on her behalf. She is too ill to have painful subjects broached at all. And I promise you in her name and my own, that Miss Claudel shall have thorough and complete vindication."
They shook hands warmly. Mrs. Ford very much as if she were conferring a cross of honor upon a valorous warrior. Morton, with an amused delight at the comedy. He bowed himself out, and in the hall passed Ethel Tracy, who nodded sweetly and inquired with an air of arch knowledge for the latest news of Philippa. Morton's amusement deepened as he foresaw the scene to follow between the artless curiosity of the girl and the wily generalship of the drum-major.
"You had better see Mrs. Ford, she will tell you all the particulars, Miss Tracy," he said. "She is in the drawing-room—go right in. I know she will wish to see you."
"Is that you, Ethel, dear?" Mrs. Ford's voice sounded mellow through the portiėres. "Come in; poor Philippa is very ill to-day, but I fancy she will insist on seeing you."
The slim figure of the girl disappeared between the curtains, and Morton heard the hostess's resounding kiss, as she drew the fly into her parlor, and began diligently spinning the web of poor Philippa's innocent heart-break about her willing listener.