CHAPTER LII
Wherein Yankee Doodle is bugled—with a Strong Foreign Accent
Hearingher name called, Betty roused; and, crossing the room, went to the balcony. Looking down into the court she saw the Five Foolish Virgins standing there below with faces upraised. The big fellow, Dick Davenant, called up that his cousin Molly wanted Betty to go to her straight away—wanted her along—before her guests arrived—she was giving a “tea”—they would meet later—when they had gotten the cakes and looked up “the boys.” All this bawled at the top of his jolly lungs’ strength.
Betty called down that she would go.
The young fellows waved their hats and marched out of the courtyard, chattering.
Betty wrote upon a half-sheet of paper that she was off to Moll Davenant’s, and pinned it on the wall where Noll must see it on entering the room; and, quickly dressing for the street, she let herself out of her room.
Moll Davenant was sitting on the side of her bed, seized with a harsh attack of coughing—sitting there, clutching the bedclothes with her long thin fingers. The perspiration came out in a heavy dew upon her white skin. The struggle for breath was terrible, pathetic.
When she took her handkerchief from her mouth it was stained with blood.
She passed long slender hands over her damp brow and with deft fingers made a weary effort to get order into the bedraggled disorder of her mouse-coloured hair.
She moaned miserably, and her eyes roamed heavily over the littered room before her—“I shall never get this place tidy,” she said.
There was a sharp brisk knock.
The door opened and Betty stepped into the room:
“Gracious, Moll!” cried she, glancing at the litter of the untidy place, “we must be quick!”
She had shut the door behind her when she entered; she now went back and locked it.
Moll Davenant rose from the bed with the sudden and feverishenergy of a consumptive, and ran to Betty—the shadow of death gone from her haggard face—the hunted look departed from her great glowing eyes—a flush of delight painting the pallid features. She flung her arms about Betty:
“Thank Heaven, you are come, Betty—I was at my wits’ end.”
Betty gently unlocked the girl’s embrace:
“Come, Molly,” said she, taking off her gloves and jacket—“there’s no time to lose—they’ll be here in an hour. Gracious! What confusion!”
She laughed gaily.
Moll Davenant looked about her helplessly.
Betty kissed her:
“Come along, Molly—where are the fineries? We’ll start with the sommier.”
She tidied the bed coverings, and before the other, languidly sighing, had brought some faded silks and embroideries from a box, Betty had made smooth the wondrous bed of the Latin Quarter to its intention of many-coloured lounge by day. Betty’s quick fingers were soon hiding all signs of bed under silk and satin. She arose, flushed from the tuckings-in, and the smoothings-out; and, taking an edge of battered silk pillow-case in her teeth, she slipped a pillow into it, shook it into place, and buttoned it down.
As the pillow disappeared into its crumpled once-gorgeous covering, the last sign of bed-hood passed out of the bed, and the sommier took on the splendour of an Eastern ottoman.
Betty laughed; sat down on the edge of the ottoman, and ran her eyes over the room.
Moll Davenant went to her, flung herself on the floor at her feet, and burst into tears.
Betty stroked her shoulder:
“Come, come, Molly,” said she—“we must get on. Don’t be stupid——”
The girl made a pitiful effort to stop her sobs.
Betty stood up; raised the poor girl to her feet; and led her to the stove:
“Come, Moll—we’ll talk as soon as the room is in order....”
Wherever Betty went, order resulted. The easel was swung into position and a sketch placed upon it—sketches were set out on a ledge that ran along the wall. Chairs were slewed into position. And soon there was but a little pile of stray impossible things in the middle of the room that had no ordered place therein. Betty completed the pile with a pair of dingy slippers.
“I think,” said she—“it is time to bury the refuse.” And the two of them, laughing, soon had the litter thrust under the bed. A silk hanging descended over it, and it was gone. Order was everywhere.
“I’ll finish the coffee,” said Betty—“you go and tidy yourself, Moll.”
Betty made herself tidy, and, flushed with the exertion, sat down on the lounge:
“Heigho!” sighed she.
Moll Davenant came to her, and nestled on the rug at her knee.
“Now, Moll, what is it? But we had better unlock the door—all’s clear.”
She rose to go to the door.
Moll drew her down by the skirt:
“No, Betty—not yet.”
Betty sat down and drew the dainty head into her lap:
“What is it, Molly?”
“Betty”—she hesitated, and added miserably—“I ought never to have come to Paris.”
“Why?”
“Because—because there is no one to look after father—and—he never said a word to prevent me coming to Paris—he said he thought it would be just splendid for me—but—I know now how lonely he is—he’s such aman—he never said a word to hinder me leaving him all alone—never said a word that hinted of the lonely home I left behind me—but—well, it was the night before I left, I was lonely and got out of bed and crept downstairs, and he was sitting at a table, a lighted candle beside him, and he was looking at a little pair of shoes—they were the first little shoes I ever wore——”
She fell a-sobbing:
“And now I know—I know—I know.”
Betty laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder:
“But, Moll—you are going home to America within the year!”
She shook her head sadly:
“I ought never to have come here—we are so poor—I have crippled their means—I have crippled father—I am crippling dear old Dick—and I am only a mediocrity after all. And now I am doomed.”
“Hush, Moll! You mustn’t say these things.”
The girl was seized with a violent attack of coughing.
“Betty—I just wanted to be a genius—to be talked about. At heart I only wanted to be an artist in order to make a name. It was the name. Now—I have awaked to find—I am a woman. I—have—only a little while—a little, little life. I know it. Why fear it? Don’t shake your head, Betty, dear heart—the doctors broke it to me this morning.... But—I would just like to have—played—with a child——”
Betty laughed softly:
“Oho! mistress Molly,” said she—“so there’s a man—at last!”
Betty turned up the girl’s face between her hands:
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Eustace Lovegood.”
Betty bent down and kissed her:
“You happy thing!” she said. “And how on earth did you come across Eustace Lovegood?”
“We were a whole month in London before we came on here—Eustace and my cousin Dick took to each other—and—so—everything came about.... We knew nobody and were lonely—butEustace made the sun shine—he helped us to Paris—he said we could live so much cheaper here——”
“But, Moll—what became of Eustace—and—the sunshine?”
“He’s in Paris. Has been in Paris for nearly a week.”
“Oho! and you’ve been keeping the sunshine all to yourself, Moll! Tut tut!”
Moll burst into tears.
Betty stroked her cheek:
“No, no, Moll; this will never do. Where’s the sunshine?”
“He’s gone,” she sobbed.
“Gone?”
Moll nodded through her tears:
“One of the girls at the studio said he was making me ridiculous. And—I told Eustace. And—yesterday morning he wrote to tell me the girl was right—and—and——”
She was seized with a violent fit of coughing.
Betty’s brows were knit:
“What did you do, Moll?”
“Nothing.”
Betty drew the dainty head within her lap:
“Thou fool!” she said in French—it seemed less harsh, whilst just as true; and, after a while, she added in English:
“Thou poor mad fool, Moll!”
Moll was sobbing miserably.
Betty sat and soothed her, running her healing hand over the sobbing girl’s hair, and thinking:
“Fancy!” she said at last—“fancy! Eustace Lovegood!” And she looked down at the fragile figure at her knees. She saw that the slender frame was grown more sadly slender—the thin hands more sadly transparent—the fire of the strange and awful disease was eating her blood. The girl was torn with the feverish energy of the devil of consumption, that whispered urgingly at her elbow to live her moment at the topmost pitch of energy or she would be too late.
Betty was roused from her brooding by the shuffle of footsteps that ascended the stairs outside—and the sound of light-hearted laughter.
“Moll, quick! here they come!”
She bent down and kissed the girl:
“Let me think it out,” she said—“we must do something. I’ll do it. I know Eustace Lovegood well.... Now you are hostess—stand up—and take command of yourself.... That’s right.” She sprang to the door, unlocked it, and skipped back to the other.
There was a loud knock.
The Five Foolish Virgins trooped in, headed by Gaston Latour, playing on the French horn what was soon discovered to be “Yankee Doodle”—with a strong French accent.