The Golden Rule Dollivers (collection)/Doing the Dollivers
IV
DOING THE DOLLIVERS
DURING the preceding May the firm which had first employed Dolliver in New York had retired from business, selling its plant and all its interests to James B. Lake & Co., and almost immediately afterward Page had begun to notice slight but fundamental changes of business policy which disturbed him and made him watchful, and he had kept in very close touch, thereafter, with all the transactions in which his department was concerned, without receiving the reassurances he sought. Under these circumstances he felt that he ought not to be away from his desk for any length of time, and he tried to persuade Marjorie to go to the mountains for a few weeks without him, which she as persistently refused to do, declaring that she also was needed in town.
Through the influence of Mrs. Cole and Mrs. Dorrance, who made of the kidnapping episode a stepping-stone to friendship with the Dollivers, she had become a member of The Home League, an association of young women who had undertaken to provide home and education and happiness for a number of otherwise friendless little girls, and into this work she had thrown herself with whole-hearted enthusiasm. In reply to her husband's repeated urging that she go away for a change of air and scene she argued that the car really brought country close to town for them both, and that, aside from the fact that she would be much happier to remain with him and share his life, it would give her real pleasure to use this opportunity to be of service in the work of the League at a time when most of the older members, who had longer sustained its burden, would be away.
In the end her persuasions prevailed, and they agreed to take no other vacation that summer than their week-end trips afforded, and the greater part of these were full of joy. Sometimes the Dollivers were themselves guests in some country-house, but oftener they took with them friends from the city. Once it was the Holdens, with whom they made a merry expedition to the Delaware Water Gap; Mrs. Cheever and one or more of her friends accompanied them in various ramblings through Connecticut and New Jersey, and sundry people not connected with this story were their guests upon many occasions.
There came a time, however, when they wearied, not of well-doing, but of the tension inseparable from constant adjustment to the presence and prejudices of other people, and at the end of a hot, humid week in August they were looking forward with unusual eagerness to the relaxation of an outing when they should have only each other to consider, and might indulge without constraint in those long, confiding silences which are one of the truest tests of real companionship. Page had studied out a particularly inviting route for this journey.
When he reached home that Saturday noon he found the packed suit-cases ready in the hall, and Marjorie dressed and waiting, and they hastened their luncheon that they might sooner be on the road. They were still at the table, however, when the telephone-bell rang, and a moment later the maid entered.
"Mrs. Cheever is down-stairs, Mrs. Dolliver, asking if you can see her."
Page and Marjorie exchanged a quick glance of dismay.
"She says she is in a great hurry and won't detain you a moment."
"Certainly. Ask her to come up," said Marjorie, after the briefest hesitation. To her husband she added, tentatively, "I think I'll put on my bonnet and dust-coat before I see her—or would that be too pointed?"
"Do, by all means," he counseled. "But it won't be of the slightest use, you know. She has chosen the strategic moment."
"Page!" protested his wife, although she laughed a little, too. "How can you, when she is so kind herself! And she's been so nice to me!"
"Granted. She's a very charming woman. She is also—chatty, I think is the word for it. And if 'Ol' Sis Fate' wanted an instrument wherewith to delay our departure, she found it to perfection in Mrs. Cheever."
"Oh!" said Marjorie. "Was that what you meant?"
"What else could I have meant?" he countered, and neither pressed the question further. "Scurry into your things, dear, and for Heaven's sake don't encourage conversation! We can't get out of this furnace too quickly! It's the hottest day yet!"
"It certainly is," said his wife. "And, anyway, we want to 'melt into the landscape, just us two by our lones,' don't we?"
"Let's hope we don't melt into the asphalt before we even smell the landscape," he amended. Mrs. Cheever's usually serene brow was flushed and damp, but her graying hair rippled no less evenly over it, her invariably gentle and winning manner had lost none of its sweetness, and every inflection of her voice was musical.
"Dear Mrs. Dolliver," she exclaimed, holding out both hands, "you will pardon my coming at this unearthly hour, won't you? I know you are just going out—I saw your car at the door—and I won't detain you one moment. Indeed, I'm in the greatest haste myself, for I heard only this morning, by wireless, that Cousin Clara Spencer is on the Transitania, which will dock in less than an hour, and I'm rushing down to meet her."
"To the docks on a day like this? Oh, you poor soul!" cried Marjorie.
"I know. It is an appalling prospect, isn't it? And so totally unexpected! Of course, Cousin Clara must have written me that she was coming, but I dare say her letter is in the hold of her own ship. Anyway, here she is—and here am I, with only an hour or two in which to prepare for a guest, and you can imagine what that means in my tiny quarters, especially in this weather!" She sighed, but immediately a smile dispelled the momentary weariness of her expression, as she brightly added: "Please don't misunderstand! I'm perfectly delighted to have Cousin Clara come to me at any time. She was poor, dear mamma's favorite cousin, and I'm devoted to her. Such a sweet, fragile little old lady, my dear! But if you were anybody but your two generous selves, I could find it in my heart to envy you this delightful, airy apartment just now—not for my own sake, of course, but for hers. Oh, don't think I'm complaining," engagingly. "I'm so happy to be able to give her my poor little best, and she's far too sweet ever to make invidious comparisons."
"But your apartment is perfectly charming!" cordially protested Marjorie.
"Oh, don't dignify it by calling it an apartment," laughed the other. "Compartment conveys its dimensions so much more adequately! It's well enough, just for me, though of course when my dear husband was alive—ah, well, I mustn't think of that! I'm fortunate to possess the little I have left." Again the brave, bright smile. "And I do have good times in spite of it all."
"And you give good times to so many other people," interpolated Dolliver.
"Not as often nor to as many as I'd like," she returned, her smile grown wistful. "One of the saddest things about being poor is one's inability to do things for other people. Do you know, that's the only thing I really envy you two? You have such wonderful opportunities, with your cozy home and your little car and all, to make other people happy. Yet nobody can begrudge you these things, for you share them so royally! You do all the things that I should like to do if I had your opportunities. You ought to be very happy!"
"We are," softly said Marjorie, glancing at Page, who put his hand on her shoulder for a moment and smiled into her eyes. Then they both looked at Mrs. Cheever, whose eyes were misty and whose lips quivered ever so slightly, and Page quickly took his hand away.
"But here I am detaining you, when I promised not to!" cried their guest, with her courageous smile. "And I must be on the dock when that steamer arrives! I saw your car at the door and realized that you were probably going off for the afternoon—you lucky things!—so I ran in to catch you before you went, and to ask if you would come over to supper—very informally, of course—to-morrow night, to meet Cousin Clara. Oh, don't say you can't!"
"We'd love to if we were to be in town," Marjorie told her, "but we're just off for the week-end. We shall not be home until Monday morning."
"Oh, I'm so disappointed!" All the lines of Mrs. Cheever's face drooped. "I had so counted on Cousin Clara's meeting you—I know you'd love each other at first sight!—and she never stays in New York more than a day or two. I suppose you couldn't—ah no, it would be too much to ask you to give up your outing just to meet an old lady!"
"Can't you persuade her to stay until Tuesday at least, and both dine with us Monday night?" suggested Marjorie.
"How like you!" Mrs. Cheever affectionately patted the younger woman's hand. "But I'm afraid it's quite impossible. Cousin Clara never stays that long, and in this weather I wouldn't have the heart to urge it, even with such a pleasure in store. But I am so disappointed! She loves young people, and of all my friends I most wanted her to meet you. However," with a quick little sigh and her bright, pathetic smile, "I mustn't be selfish. You're going off together for a lovely time in the country, away from all these hot, noisy pavements, and if anybody in the world deserves it you do. There!" She held out a hand to each. "I'm really glad you're going, in spite of my own selfish disappointment. Now I must run along to the Subway, or I'll miss—"
"To the Subway! In this heat?" cried Marjorie.
"Naturally. It's the only way to get there quickly enough," was the cheery reply. "To be sure, it isn't very pleasant, but beggars can't be choosers, you know, and poor folk grow accustomed to far worse things than that. I confess I do dread bringing Cousin Clara home that way, though." She smiled rather plaintively. "Imagine passing from the sea to the Subway on a day like this! However, my poor little purse isn't equal to taxi fares, and the only alternative lies in letting Cousin Clara pay for the cab. I suppose that's what will happen, and she's quite able to do it, for she has a lot of money, but—oh, it does hurt not even to be able to bring an elderly guest home properly!" Her soft tones broke, and they caught the gleam of tears in her eyes before she smiled again, crying: "But I mustn't spoil your happy day with my sorrows! You'll forgive me, and forget all about me and my troubles and have a happy time, won't you? I must run now, or I won't be there when the steamer docks, and that would be dreadful! Good-by! Good-by!"
"See here, Mrs. Cheever," said Dolliver, still holding her hand as she would have turned away, "have you a pass?"
"A pass?" she echoed.
"You know you won't be admitted within the inclosure where the passengers land unless you have a permit from the Surveyor of the Port," he reminded her.
"Good heavens! I never thought of that!" she exclaimed. "What shall I do? There isn't time to go to the Custom-house for it now, and I must get inside that inclosure! Cousin Clara, as I have told you, is old and not very strong, and she's probably alone, and in this heat—oh, they will let me in, won't they?"
"I'm afraid not, unless—perhaps, if I—" He hesitated, looking inquiringly at Marjorie, who nodded eagerly. "I may be able to arrange it for you," he resumed. "Have you the wireless message with you?"
"No, I didn't bring it."
"Well, we'll just jump in the car and run over to your house for it, and then we'll go to the dock. I think if I show them that, explaining the situation, and give them my business card, they may let us in. Then perhaps I can help your cousin with her luggage, and we'll bring you both home."
"You're perfect angels, but I ought not to let you do it," she demurred, albeit with acceptance in her tone. "I'm afraid it will spoil all your lovely afternoon."
"No, it won't," said Dolliver, easily. "It will simply mean starting an hour or two later. That is, I—er—I suppose your cousin won't have a great deal of luggage to be examined?"
"I'm sure she will not. Cousin Clara is quite a modish little person, but she never takes a lot of trunks about with her. Oh, I feel that I have no right to let you do this, much as I want Cousin Clara to know you—but it would be such a relief!"
"We shall love to do it," Marjorie assured her; and Page added cordially, though with a little humorous tightening of the corners of his mouth that caused his wife to regard him attentively for a moment, "You can't stop us now, dear lady. It's so obviously the only thing to do, and it will give us great pleasure. Now, as we have no time to spare, I suggest that we stand not upon the order of our going."
Accordingly, they all went down to the car, and hummed around to Mrs. Cheever's apartment, where she armed herself with her cousin's message, after which Page made all possible speed to the docks, Mrs. Cheever happily dilating the while on the extraordinary kindnesses of her many friends, the Dollivers in particular. She said, and reiterated in varying phrase, that she had never understood why people should so constantly be doing lovely things for her, who could do so little for any one in return, but she supposed they recognized in her the spirit of love, and perceived that her greatest pleasure would have been in helping others had she not unfortunately been denied the means wherewith to carry out her desires. But after all, she reminded them, the important thing is to keep alive the loving spirit, and surely no one could cherish it more tenderly than she did. To all of which Page listened with the same shadowy, quizzical, but entirely good-natured smile that Marjorie had noticed before.
They arrived at the dock just before the steamer was sighted down the river, and after the necessary explanations to the officer in charge of the customs and the presentation of Dolliver's card he and Mrs. Cheever were admitted to the inclosure, Marjorie having remained in the car. The heat in the shed was intense, the heavy, humid air was further burdened by all the strange odors of the water-front, and again Mrs. Cheever reiterated her regret that the young people should have subjected themselves for her sake to this discomfort, and her gratitude that they had not left her to meet the situation alone.
Mrs. Spencer proved to be a soft-voiced, frail-looking little woman, with a gentle, humorless smile and mild brown eyes, and she seemed touchingly relieved to find Page willing to conduct the various formalities necessary before her luggage could be inspected. She said that she had made out her declaration with great care, and was sure there would be no trouble about it, but that she had nevertheless dreaded the ordeal of undertaking alone the business of entry into the United States, lest she should fail to understand and observe some important detail, thus rendering herself liable to the suspicion of trying to evade the customs laws, of the strict and unreasonable enforcement of which one heard such terrifying things.
"But I'm sure you know just what to do, Mr. Dolliver," she said, "and I shall be so grateful if you will take charge of my things—and of me—until it is over."
So Page found a porter, assembled Mrs. Spencer's luggage, of which there was gratifyingly little, accompanied her to the desk, and secured the services of an inspector. As they walked back through the stifling shed toward Section S, the perspiring officer at Page's side, scanning the declaration in his hands, ejaculated:
"Suffering Mike! Madam, what on earth did you do this for?"
"What?" asked Dolliver.
Isn't it right?" anxiously queried Mrs. Spencer. "I kept very careful account of every single thing I bought, and took such pains with all the computations."
"I should say you had! Look at it!" The paper was thrust into Dolliver's hands. "Just cast your eye over that, will you?"
Glancing through the long lists, which at first sight gave him a shock of apprehension, as they seemed to threaten careful appraisal and heavy duties, Page read, among more important items, details like this:
- 1 veil
$.52 - 2 hdkfs
.91 - 1 box hairpins
.09 - 1 box face-powder
.61 - 12 postal cards
.24 - 1 pc. white tape
.06 - 2 yds. Val. lace
.18
and so on, ad infinitum.
"Do you realize, madam, that since you have listed these things I've got to examine every one of 'em?" demanded the exasperated inspector.
"But isn't that the right way? Isn't it the law?" timidly urged Mrs. Spencer. "What should I have done?"
"I think it's customary to combine most of these small purchases under one comprehensive head," suggested Dolliver. "As, for example, 'toilet articles, ten dollars.'"
"But I haven't ten dollars' worth," she objected. "And, besides, the law says the declaration must be itemized, doesn't it? Isn't that the law?" She turned anxiously to the frowning inspector. "Doesn't it mean what it says?"
"It may be the letter of the law, but it isn't usually interpreted quite so literally as all this," he replied, dryly. "You haven't got anything here, anyway, according to your declaration. The whole thing only comes to eighty-seven dollars and sixty-two cents. Listen to that, will you?" He turned to Dolliver, a shade of amusement creeping into his eyes. "Eighty-seven dollars and sixty-two cents—and that list! Must be two hundred items!"
"It doesn't exceed the hundred dollars allowed by law, you see," complacently returned the little lady. "I thought it would, but it doesn't. So I sha'n't have to pay any duties, shall I? But I thought I ought to put everything in."
"No dresses?" asked the inspector, running a damp forefinger down the lists.
"Oh no, I never bother with dressmaking abroad," she earnestly assured him. "I have such a good woman at home."
"Nor hats?"
"No, indeed! It would hurt my milliner's feelings terribly if I should buy hats in Europe. She'd think it was a reflection on her. Besides, I'm a good American, and I believe in patronizing home industries."
"H'm!" commented the inspector, mopping his streaming face. "Well, we've got to go through with this thing now. Let's go to it."
Dolliver suggested that, inasmuch as the inspection would probably take some time under the circumstances, Mrs. Cheever should join Marjorie in the car, where she would find a more comfortable seat than the surrounding piles of luggage afforded, and at the same time he asked her to explain to his wife the reason for the delay. To this arrangement Mrs. Cheever immediately acquiesced.
"Poor Mr. Dolliver!" she murmured, with a deprecating little laugh. "I hope I needn't tell you I had no idea of this! But you see how it is? Dear Cousin Clara!"
"Oh, it's quite all right," he pleasantly assured her. "I'm sorry that you ladies will have to suffer this heat a little longer, but our inspector seems a very reasonable chap, and I dare say he'll hurry it all he can without neglecting his duty."
This the inspector did, glancing as rapidly as possible through the assortment of small purchases which formed the greater part of Mrs. Spencer's imposing list. Presently he came upon one item which gave him pause.
"What's this?" he asked. "'Ladle, seven dollars and twenty-seven cents.' What kind of a ladle?"
"It's just a little old silver punch-ladle," she returned, burrowing in her trunk. "I got it at a shop in Wardour Street. Here it is."
"Oh, it's an antique," he assumed.
"N-no, I don't think it could be called an antique," she deliberated. "It's hardly old enough for that. It's just—just a ladle."
"But you bought it as a curio," he persisted.
"Oh no, I bought it to use. I needed a punch-ladle."
"Then it comes under the head of household articles, and you'll have to pay duty on it," the man wearily informed her. "As an antique or a curio it would have come in free, but since you say it is neither I shall have to assess you accordingly."
"How much will it be?' she asked.
"I don't know, but it won't be much. Not enough to bother with," he added, under his breath.
"Well, I couldn't conscientiously call it an antique," she decided.
"We have some queer experiences in this business," the inspector quietly confided to Dolliver, "but this is a sort that gets on my nerves, especially on a day like this. Say, what would you do if you had to carry a needle's-eye conscience like that around with you all the time?"
Nothing else dutiable was found, but even after the inspection was finished there was some further delay incident to the payment of the trifling duty on the ladle. Mrs. Spencer endured it all very patiently, making no complaint, although she was very pale and was evidently suffering from the heat, but she complied very readily with Page's suggestion that she should sit upon a convenient pile of luggage while he arranged for the delivery of her trunks.
When she arose as he rejoined her, a noisy, jostling group of young people was passing them, together with three or four porters wheeling heavily laden trucks, and amid the resulting confusion of sound and movement neither Mrs. Spencer nor Dolliver heard the sharp rending of silk, as her taffeta skirt caught on a point of broken metal protruding from the trunk upon which she had been seated, leaving a triangular hole in the left side of her skirt. She seemed so tired that he took her arm to steady her as they passed through the shed, and it chanced that he walked upon her left, thus unconsciously screening from observation the tear in her gown, until they reached the street.
Here, standing in the open entrance to the dock, they found Marjorie and Mrs. Cheever, who explained that they had sought the one spot in the neighborhood where a draught could even be imagined, and they all stood for a moment chatting before Page went to bring up the car. Mrs. Cheever engaged her cousin in the discussion of some personal topic, and Marjorie seized the opportunity to whisper to her husband:
"You poor boy! Are you melted?"
"Just about," he admitted, "but on the whole it was worth it. Did you hear about that declaration of hers?"
"Wasn't that delicious?" She chuckled delightedly. "I wish I might have seen it. She's a treasure, isn't she?"
"She's all that! And she's game, too. The heat in there was terrific, but it was all in the day's work for her, and she stood it like a soldier. She wouldn't countenance any evasions on technical grounds, either, and kept us in that oven twenty minutes longer than we should otherwise have been, because she insisted on paying duty on an old—" He stopped short and looked fixedly at the skirt of Mrs. Spencer's gown before asking: "What's the matter with her dress? Torn it, hasn't she?"
"DO YOU SEE WHAT'S UNDER IT? THAT'S LACE—SHE'S SMUGGLING IT!"
"Oh, what a shame!" mourned Marjorie. "Such a horrid—" Then she, too, stopped short, stared at the large, three-cornered rent in the black silk skirt, and lifted a startled glance to meet her husband's.
"Page!" she gasped. "Do you see what's under it? That's lace! Exquisite lace!"
"You don't mean—?" Again he broke off, and they looked into each other's eyes. "Impossible—it's trimming, isn't it?—on her underskirt, I mean."
"My dear," said his wife, "ordinary people don't flounce their petticoats with Venetian point. She— Page, she's smuggling it!"
"Good Lord!" ejaculated Dolliver. "And these docks alive with detectives! Go and stand beside her—close beside her—and keep that spot covered until we can get her into the car!"
So Marjorie hugged the left side of her serene and smiling elderly guest, casting nervous glances about to make sure they were still undetected, until Dolliver, grim-visaged, brought the automobile to a stop as near them as possible, when with great solicitude she helped Mrs. Spencer and Mrs. Cheever into the tonneau and tucked a dust-robe about them. Then she took a long breath and stepped into the seat beside her husband, and a moment later they were making their tortuous way through crowded streets, presently turning north into one of the broader avenues. The cousins had fallen at once into lively chat, but Page and Marjorie were silent until they had passed through the thickest of the flood of traffic and into less congested ways. Then Marjorie's indignation broke its bounds, and she demanded with hushed intensity:
"Page, would you have believed it of her? She looks like a lady!"
"Wanting something for nothing seems to be a trait common to members of that family," he dryly returned.
To this Marjorie made no reply, but she looked a little startled and glanced penetratingly at him. Her cheeks were flushed and her expression changed with the surge of her resentful thought, but his face was set in stern lines, and his steady eyes looked straight ahead. Presently he said: "This places us in a delightful position, doesn't it?"
"Is there nothing one could do?" she asked.
"Oh yes, there are several courses open to us, such as they are. We might report the case to the customs authorities, for example."
"That's out of the question," swiftly decided his wife.
"We might accuse her privately of wilfully defrauding the government, and force her to make restitution."
"We couldn't do that, either. She's Mrs. Cheever's cousin, and—nominally, at least—our guest."
"Precisely. And the only other alternative is to continue in our present equivocal position and become party to her fraud."
"We're not!" she protested, to which he retorted: "Why aren't we? We know she's smuggling, don't we? We knew it before we left the dock, and we helped her to conceal the fact."
"What else could we have done, under the circumstances?"
"That's the deuce of it," he assented. "There's nothing one can do in such a case—except to drop the lady."
"But why," hotly whispered Marjorie—why should we permit a perfectly strange woman to force a situation like this upon us? It's abominable!"
Dolliver shrugged his shoulders and compressed his lips.
"And to think," she went on, "that it wouldn't have happened at all if you hadn't been so unselfish in offering to help Mrs. Cheever meet this woman. You were perfectly dear about that, Page."
"My angel," he demurred, "there again, what else could one do? She left us no alternative. She told us how happy and generous and fortunate we were, and how sad her simple lot, until we should have felt like brute beasts to go off to the country without first doing a little thing like this for her."
"Oh!" breathed Marjorie. "Oh, Page, dear, have you felt that, too? I have, sometimes, and I was so afraid you'd find it out and be ashamed of me! I thought I must be a low-minded wretch to suspect her of such a thing, when she was always so plucky and sweet about it."
"Sure she is!" he said, laughing a little. "That's her trump card, and nine times out of ten it takes the trick. She knows exactly how to get what she wants when she wants it. In her hands grafting is a fine art, and it's a privilege to watch her operate."
"But she has done lots of nice things for us, too," she conscientiously reminded him. "Some of the most delightful people we know here we have met through her, you know."
"To be sure. And do you remember when this social solicitude for us began?" he asked, smiling at her, the old, amused twinkle again in his eye.
"Oh, has it seemed like that to you, too? You mean—you mean the car? I hated myself for thinking that had anything to do with it!"
"That was when it began, anyhow," he affirmed. "Just about a week after we bought the car, wasn't it?"
"Yes, it was at Mrs. King's tea. I didn't know anybody but the hostess and Mrs. Cheever, and I had only met her twice, but she was perfectly sweet to me, and introduced me to so many charming women, and said we lived on opposite sides of the same block and I must run in and be neighborly; and then, when you came for me with the car, we took her home."
"And we've been taking her out, and taking her home, and entertaining her friends, and doing her errands ever since," he finished for her.
"Page! You don't know how you comfort me! I thought I was getting horridly cynical. Do you remember the day we met her down-town and she made us take a girl home, away out near Pelham somewhere, when we were headed for Staten Island and she knew it? And the next week the girl gave a box-party for her!"
"And another time," he supplemented, "when we offered to take her home from a matinée—we were going out to dinner—and she did three errands and made a call, and kept us waiting half an hour in the rain, before we finally got her home."
"But we offered to do all those things, Page. We wanted to!"
"Of course we wanted to! And we enjoyed doing them. That's where her fine art comes in. When I was a youngster there was a popular music-hall song, with a refrain that went like this." He leaned toward her and lightly sang:
"Do, do, my huckleberry, do;
They'd do you if they could;
So when you do your neighbor do
Be sure to do him good!"
"Now, that's the way our friend has occupied herself of late, Marjoricums. She has indulged freely in the gentle pastime of 'doing' the Dollivers, and it must be acknowledged that we lend ourselves rather readily to that sort of thing, you and I."
"I suppose we do," she admitted, with a rueful little grimace.
"And I'm glad we do," he maintained. "I'm perfectly willing, within reasonable limits, to let a charming lady like the one in question 'do' us occasionally, though it does hurt my feelings when she so persistently assumes that we don't know what's happening to us. That's a reflection on our intelligence. But this time she and her cousin, between them, have somewhat exceeded the limit. In the elegant words of the song, they have done us good! And the beauty of it is that we are perfectly helpless, trussed and tied in our own traditions."
"I'm not so sure about that," thoughtfully said Marjorie. "There's one way of reaching her that you haven't mentioned. We might be modern and try suggestion."
He shook his head. "It wouldn't work. Women like that are impervious."
"Still, it can't do any harm to try," she ruminated. Then, with a little vindictive gleam: "I'm going to stick in a few pins, anyway!"
For a moment she sat in silence, smiling wickedly to herself, and then turned toward their companions in the tonneau. Before she could speak, however, Mrs. Cheever leaned forward, exclaiming in soft dismay:
"Oh, dear Mrs. Dolliver, I've just had the most awful thought! I've been telling Cousin Clara what heavenly times you two have, running off to the country for the week-ends, and how angelically generous you are in sharing all your outings, and it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps you were to take some one with you to-day—some one whom we have kept waiting all this time! I do hope not!"
"No," tranquilly answered Marjorie, "no one is waiting."
"Oh, then we needn't feel quite so guilty. What we should have done without you I can't imagine, but if I had had any idea, when you offered to come, that you would lose so much of your lovely afternoon in the country, I should never have permitted it, never! However, you'll soon be off among green fields now, and I suppose you'll sleep to-night in some adorable, cool little country inn."
"I suppose we shall," admitted Mrs. Dolliver, with the same serene, impersonal smile. Then, turning to their other guest, she said: "I hope you didn't get overheated on the dock, Mrs. Spencer. Mrs. Cheever told me some of the delay was caused by your carefully itemized declaration. That seems a high price to pay for such careful attention to the letter of the law, doesn't it?"
"Yes, but—I thought I ought to put down everything," was the reply. "They said it must be itemized."
"Dear Cousin Clara's always so conscientious—so punctilious," murmured Mrs. Cheever.
"Evidently the inspectors don't often meet just that sort of thing," Marjorie went on, conversationally. "I suppose people usually err the other way. Isn't it a pity that Americans generally have so little conscience about smuggling? Especially women. I suppose most of them don't realize that it really is smuggling when they 'bring in a few little things for themselves.' They probably assume that their little things don't count, without ever stopping to think of the aggregate of all these small sums."
"I suppose so," vaguely assented Mrs. Spencer.
To most people petty smuggling seems to be a sort of game, like 'I spy' or 'hide-and-seek,'" cheerfully pursued Mrs. Dolliver, "and I like to think that the lamentable frequency of it in this country is due to our essential youthfulness as a people, rather than to any fundamental dishonesty in us. Don't you think that may be the reason?" She appealed to Mrs. Spencer, who replied somewhat hesitatingly:
"Why—I don't know—I never thought— Of course, I'm very careful myself, as you know, but still, would you call it—dishonest—just to bring in a few little things for yourself—or your family?"
"Well, it certainly isn't very honest, is it?" lightly returned Marjorie, laughing a little. "One is given a blank and asked to make an honest declaration, and the only really honest thing is to do it, isn't it?"
"But don't you think most people do?" easily assumed Mrs. Cheever.
"No, I'm afraid most people don't," came the prompt reply. "That is indicated, at least, by the large sums of money—'conscience money,' they call it—anonymously sent to the Treasury every year by people who have evaded the customs laws, and it's not supposable that anything like a majority of these lawbreakers make restitution. I'm afraid most of them never feel any qualms at all. People who scrupulously observe the rules of bridge seem to think it's perfectly justifiable to cheat the government. For instance, I have friends who rarely go over without bringing in undeclared clothing or jewelry or lace. Especially lace. It's so easy to conceal."
"Well, I never could see why the duty on lace should be so high," declared Mrs. Spencer, whose face had flushed a little. "I am a good American, and I believe in patronizing and protecting home industries, but we don't make any fine laces in this country, and I don't think we ought to be forced to pay duty on what we buy abroad."
"Dear lady," contributed Dolliver, "the mission of our tariff is not wholly to protect infant industries. It is also a source of large revenue to the government, and, unlike some other countries, we place highest taxes on the luxuries of the few rather than on the necessities of the many. You may prefer other methods of securing the necessary revenues—I do myself—but that's not the point. The point is that this is the method provided by our present laws, and therefore the tax on dutiable articles imported ought to be as scrupulously and cheerfully met as the bill for running any other organization to which one belongs—club dues, for example, or pew rent. It is one's share of the burden prescribed by law for the sake of the common good, and evasion of it is cowardice as well as fraud. If one doesn't wish to pay the bill, one should not incur the obligation. In other words, no one is compelled to belong to any club, or to go to church, or to buy things abroad. Thus endeth the first lesson," he added, laughing. "I seem to be getting rather didactic, but this happens to be one of my hobbies. I feel very strongly on this question of petty smuggling. Besides, on general principles, I believe in playing the game straight."
"And of course you're quite right about it, Mr. Dolliver," acknowledged Mrs. Cheever, prettily. "It is so helpful to get a man's point of view. A woman alone misses it so!" She sighed, and then smiled at Marjorie, adding: "And you're a lucky girl to have such a splendid, upright young husband—but I know how well you know that! These two have the best times!" Here she turned to her cousin. "They're just like two happy, generous children playing together and wanting to share their happiness with the whole world. It's beautiful to be with them. Ah"—with a shadowing of her tone as the car swung into her street—"here we are, almost at home. Dear Cousin Clara, I hope you won't stifle in my tiny place! It's a cozy box, isn't it?" smiling at Marjorie. "But it is hot. If it hadn't been for these blessed Dollivers and the delightful breath they've given us—my dears, how am I ever going to thank you!"
A few moments later, as they drove away, having taken final leave of Mrs. Spencer, who said she should be gone when they returned, Page looked at his wife with a cheerful grin.
"Well," he observed, "your psychological game didn't work, but the day's not wholly wasted, anyhow, and there's no loss without some gain. Do you know, on my way down to the dock I was seriously turning over in my mind the advisability of suggesting to you that we invite those ladies to take this trip with us?"
"So was I," she admitted. "And the silly part of it is that, in spite of it all, that woman can still make me feel that we ought to ask them to go."
"Not on your life!" remarked Dolliver. "We're through playing fish to her Simon Peter, and we've done enough rescue work for one day, anyhow. It's us for the Back of Beyond and each other until Monday morning."
They were obliged to return to their apartment for their suit-cases, however, and they were still there when the telephone-bell rang, and Mrs. Cheever's beautiful voice said:
"Oh, Mr. Dolliver! I'm so fortunate to catch you! Could you—would it be too much to ask you to stop at my house a moment on your way out of town?"
"Why—we're already somewhat behind our schedule, you know," he replied, pleasantly, "but if it's anything important, of course—"
"Oh yes, it is! Really important!" she assured him. "Cousin Clara has just made a most disconcerting discovery, and she begs you to let her consult you as to what she'd better do about it. I'm so sorry to trouble you, but if you would come it would be such a boon to us."
"Very well. We'll come—at once," he replied, and hung up the receiver.
"Page!" cried Marjorie, when he told her. "Do you suppose—?" She paused, with shining eyes, watching him.
"Give it up," he said, "but probably not. I suspect that it's merely another hook, with a new kind of bait, calculated to land a week-end tour in the country. However, we can't refuse her the chance."
When they entered Mrs. Cheever's little sitting-room they found the ladies awaiting them in an atmosphere that somehow felt electric. Their hostess still smiled caressingly, and her voice held all its musical intonations, but there was about her an indefinable suggestion of wariness and tension, and beneath her velvet a sense of steel. It was evident that Mrs. Spencer had been weeping, and in a trembling hand she held a roll of something soft, loosely wrapped in white tissue-paper. The rent in her gown was concealed by the end of a chiffon scarf, skilfully arranged.
"So sweet of you to come, and we won't detain you five minutes, truly," was Mrs. Cheever's greeting. "But poor Cousin Clara has made the most appalling discovery, and—tell them, Cousin Clara."
"Well, I—you see, I—I thought I had put down everything on the list—"
"Declaration, you mean," prompted her cousin.
"Declaration, I mean," echoed the other. "But I—you remember, I said I thought it ought to be more than it was—I thought it ought to go over a hundred dollars—"
"Yes, I remember," gently said Dolliver, pitying her confusion. "And you have found—"
"Yes, that's it!" She caught eagerly at the thread he tossed her. "I've found some more things—a little lace—"
"Some rather expensive lace," suavely interpolated Mrs. Cheever.
"Yes—in fact, some quite expensive lace" faltered Mrs. Spencer, her miserable eyes wandering from Dolliver's direct glance.
"I see," he said, still gently. "And you want to declare it now?"
"Cousin Clara doesn't know—she can't understand how she came to overlook so important a purchase," explained the velvet voice.
"No, I—I don't know how I could have overlooked it—"
"That doesn't matter now, does it?" Marjorie came to the rescue. "The important thing is that you have found it, and I suppose you want to pay—?" She paused inquiringly, and Mrs. Spencer completed the sentence.
"The duty. Yes, of course, I want to pay the duty. But I—I don't want them to think—I don't want anybody to think that—that I—" She stopped.
"Cousin Clara is afraid that if she declares these laces now there may be some misunderstanding—some trouble—about it, and as it is rather important that she should not be delayed here, we thought—we hoped—perhaps—"
"You said people sometimes sent the money—anonymously?" tremulously suggested the culprit.
"Oh yes," said Page, calmly, as if the matter were of the most ordinary occurrence. "It's often done. That would be quite the best course in this case."
"But the government—I mean, nobody needs to know who pays the duty—as long as it's paid?" faltered Cousin Clara. "Do they?"
"Not in the least," he assured her. "You have only to decide on the amount you owe—the duty on lace is seventy per cent. of its value, I believe—and send the money to—"
"But I haven't that much with me," interrupted the traveler, in new alarm. "And I couldn't send a check! That would mean my name!"
"If you care to give me your check for the amount you owe the government, Mrs. Spencer, I will cash it on Monday and see that the currency reaches the proper fund without delay, and without involving you in any way," he offered.
"Oh, will you? Thank you! That is what I—that will be so very kind of you! I'll draw the check at once!" She fluttered into an adjoining room.
"Poor, dear Cousin Clara was so distressed when she found what had happened, especially after that careful declaration of hers. But of course you understand how it was?" Mrs. Cheever's smiling glance was as keen as her words were non-committal. "You know elderly people sometimes forget—?"
"Oh yes, yes, of course," hastily assented Marjorie. "We quite understand, I assure you."
Mrs. Spencer returned with her check-book, and asked Dolliver how to make out the check. She also offered to show him the laces, but he drew back distastefully, protesting that he knew nothing of their value and that she must know what she had paid for them and what she now owed the government in duty. A few moments later he and Marjorie again said good-by to Mrs, Spencer and her cousin, and drove away in silence.
As they turned out of the street in which she lived, Dolliver said, "Exit Mrs. Cheever." A little later, after a long breath, he said: "Well, we've done something for our Uncle Samuel to-day, anyway. It was quite a lump she owed the old boy." After another pause: "I'd like to know just exactly why she paid it, though! Was it because her conscience really smote her after your little preachment? Or because, when she found that hole in her skirt with the lace showing through, she was afraid we had seen and understood it? Or did Mrs. Cheever make the old lady tell, to clear her own skirts, realizing that her goose was cooked if we had caught 'dear Cousin Clara' smuggling? I rather incline to that theory; don't you?"
Then for the first time since leaving Mrs. Cheever's apartment his wife turned her troubled glance to meet his.
"Page," she said, "is that it? Or is it—us? Is it possible that we are getting suspicious and blasé and cynical?"
For a moment he regarded her quizzically, and then his glance softened.
"Bless your heart, I couldn't be cynical for more than ten minutes at a time to save my life," he said, "for one very excellent reason."
"What is it?"
"You, dear love."
"That's so!" Marjorie's face was instantly flooded with tenderness. "We never can be really cynical as long as we have each other, can we?"
"Never!" promptly replied her husband. "But, on the other hand," he added, "it doesn't necessarily follow, you know, that because we are both turtle-doves there are no English sparrows left in the world."