Part 6 (1/2)

ELEANORE CUYLER

Miss Eleanore Cuyler had dined alone with her mother that night, and she was now sitting in the drawing-room, near the open fire, with her gloves and fan on the divan beside her, for she was going out later to a dance.

She was reading a somewhat weighty German review, and the contrast which the smartness of her gown presented to the seriousness of her occupation made her smile slightly as she paused for a moment to cut the leaves.

And when the bell sounded in the hall she put the book away from her altogether, and wondered who it might be.

It might be young Wainwright, with the proof-sheets of the new story he had promised to let her see, or flowers for the dance from Bruce-Brice, of the English Legation at Was.h.i.+ngton, who for the time being was practising diplomatic moves in New York, or some of her working-girls with a new perplexity for her to unravel, or only one of the men from the stable to tell her how her hunter was getting on after his fall. It might be any of these and more. The possibilities were diverse and all of interest, and she acknowledged this to herself, with a little sigh of content that it was so. For she found her pleasure in doing many things, and in the fact that there were so many. She rejoiced daily that she was free, and her own mistress in everything; free to do these many things denied to other young women, and that she had the health and position and cleverness to carry them on and through to success. She did them all, and equally well and gracefully, whether it was the rejection of a too ambitious devotee who dared to want to have her all to himself, or the planning of a woman's luncheon, or the pus.h.i.+ng of a bill to provide kindergartens in the public schools. But it was rather a relief when the man opened the curtains and said, ”Mr. Wainwright,” and Wainwright walked quickly towards her, tugging at his glove.

”You are very good to see me so late,” he said, speaking as he entered, ”but I had to see you to-night, and I wasn't asked to that dance. I'm going away,” he went on, taking his place by the fire, with his arm resting on the mantel. He had a trick of standing there when he had something of interest to say, and he was tall and well-looking enough to appear best in that position, and she was used to it. He was the most frequent of her visitors.

”Going away,” she repeated, smiling up at him; ”not for long, I hope.

Where are you going now?”

”I'm going to London,” he said. ”They cabled me this morning. It seems they've taken the play, and are going to put it on at once.” He smiled, and blushed slightly at her exclamation of pleasure. ”Yes, it is rather nice. It seems 'Jilted' was a failure, and they've taken it off, and are going to put on 'School,' with the old cast, until they can get my play rehea.r.s.ed, and they want me to come over and suggest things.”

She stopped him with another little cry of delight that was very sweet to him, and full of moment.

”Oh, how glad I am!” she said. ”How proud you must be! Now, why do you pretend you are not? And I suppose Tree and the rest of them will be in the cast, and all that dreadful American colony in the stalls, and you will make a speech--and I won't be there to hear it.” She rose suddenly with a quick, graceful movement, and held out her hand to him, which he took, laughing and conscious-looking with pleasure.

She sank back on the divan, and shook her head doubtfully at him.

”When will you stop?” she said. ”Don't tell me you mean to be an Admirable Crichton. You are too fine for that.”

He looked down at the fire, and said, slowly, ”It is not as if I were trying my hand at an entirely different kind of work. No, I don't think I did wrong in dramatizing it. The papers all said, when the book first came out, that it would make a good play; and then so many men wrote to me for permission to dramatize it that I thought I might as well try to do it myself. No, I think it is in line with my other work. I don't think I am straying after strange G.o.ds.”

”You should not,” she said, softly. ”The old ones have been so kind to you. But you took me too seriously,” she added.

”I am afraid sometimes,” he answered, ”that you do not know how seriously I do take you.”

”Yes, I do,” she said, quickly. ”And when I am serious, that is all very well; but to-night I only want to laugh. I am very happy, it is such good news. And after the New York managers refusing it, too. They will _have_ to take it _now_, now that it is a London success.”

”Well, it isn't a London success yet,” he said, dryly. ”The books went well over there because the kind of Western things I wrote about met their ideas of this country--cowboys and prairies and Indian maidens and all that. And so I rather hope the play will suit them for the same reason.”

”And you will go out a great deal, I hope,” she said. ”Oh, you will have to! You will find so many people to like, almost friends already.

They were talking about you even when I was there, and I used to s.h.i.+ne in reflected glory because I knew you.”

”Yes, I can fancy it,” he said. ”But I should like to see something of them if I have time. Lowes wants me to stay with them, and I suppose I will. He would feel hurt if I didn't. He has a most absurd idea of what I did for him on the ranche when he had the fever that time, and ever since he went back to enjoy his ill-gotten gains and his t.i.tle and all that, he has kept writing to me to come out. Yes, I suppose I will stay with them. They are in town now.”

Miss Cuyler's face was still lit with pleasure at his good fortune, but her smile was less spontaneous than it had been. ”That will be very nice. I quite envy you,” she said. ”I suppose you know about his sister?”

”The Honorable Evelyn?” he asked. ”Yes; he used to have a photograph of her, and I saw some others the other day in a shop-window on Broadway.”

”She is a very nice girl,” Miss Cuyler said, thoughtfully. ”I wonder how you two will get along?” and then she added, as if with sudden compunction, ”but I am sure you will like her very much. She is very clever, besides.”

”I don't know how a professional beauty will wear if one sees her every day at breakfast,” he said. ”One always a.s.sociates them with functions and varnis.h.i.+ng days and lawn-parties. You will write to me, will you not?” he added.

”That sounds,” she said, ”as though you meant to be gone such a very long time.”

He turned one of the ornaments on the mantel with his fingers, and looked at it curiously. ”It depends,” he said, slowly--”it depends on so many things. No,” he went on, looking at her; ”it does not depend on many things; just on one.”

Miss Cuyler looked up at him questioningly, and then down again very quickly, and reached meaninglessly for the book beside her. She saw something in his face and in the rigidity of his position that made her breathe more rapidly. She had not been afraid of this from him, because she had always taken the att.i.tude towards him of a very dear friend and of one who was older, not in years, but in experience of the world, for she had lived abroad while he had gone from the university to the West, which he had made his own, in books. They were both very young.