Mary Louise At Dorfield

The Bluebird Books

Mary Louise At Dorfield

Mary Louise At Dorfield

By Edith Van Dyne

Author of “Mary Louise,” “Mary Louise in the Country,” “Mary Louise Solves a Mystery,” “Mary Louise and the Liberty Girls,” “Mary Louise Adopts a Soldier.”

Frontispiece by Maude Martin Evers

The Reilly & Lee Co. Chicago

Copyright, 1920 by The Reilly & Lee Co.

All Rights Reserved

Made in U. S. A.

Mary Louise at Dorfield

CHAPTER I THE SEWING BEE

Dorfield was trying to settle down into its prewar quiet, but no matter how conservative and sleepy a town has been, when once it is shaken up with war activities it finds it difficult to go to sleep again. It may pull the bedclothes over its head and bury its ears in the downy pillows of memories of what it used to be but the echoes of marching troops, shouting crowds, martial music, newsboys crying extras, powder mills and so forth will reach it no matter how soft the pillows or thick the bedclothes.

The girls of Dorfield found it more difficult to settle down than anybody else. Fathers had always been busy, so had mothers. The returning soldiers had dropped into their old places8 and were at work almost as though there had been no amazing interlude of A. E. F. Only the girls seemed to be left out of the scheme of things. Many of them kept on working, although before the war the idea of making a living had been undreamed. The girls who, for purely patriotic reasons, had taken positions left empty by enlisted men, were loath to go back to the old state of dependence now that the men had returned.

“I am tired of being an unproductive consumer and I don’t intend to stand it any longer,” declared Elizabeth Wright.

“What are you going to do about it?” asked Lucile Neal.

“Do! I’m going to get a good job and hold it. I did the work in the bank just as well as Price Middleton, although I got only about half as much pay for it. I can type better than he can and write a business letter all around him. When he came back from the war, I stepped out as gracefully as you please and gave up my job. Nobody seems to be much worried about my future, that is, nobody but me, but I’ve been thinking a lot about what is going to become of me, not only because of money but because I am9 simply bored to death at the prospect of having no regular occupation.”

“I feel that way too,” said Laura Hilton. “I do wish Dorfield wasn’t so poky about its girls. Father says young women ought to stay at home and preserve fruit, unless it is necessary for the family finances that they should go out and work.”

“Always for the good of the family where the girl is concerned!” exclaimed Elizabeth, “and never the good of the girl! Suppose there isn’t any fruit! Suppose there is no sugar to preserve with! Suppose the beloved family is not fond of jam! Suppose there are more girls in the household than there are paring knives! Suppose one’s mother is so capable and industrious that there is no work left for the girls to do! Suppose a million things!”

The group of girls gathered on Colonel Hathaway’s porch laughed at the vehemence of Elizabeth Wright’s harangue. Elizabeth had always been different from the rest of her family, who were old-fashioned and conservative in their ideas. She was one of five sisters. The other four were quite content to live the life of “unproductive consumers” on the not very large10 income which was derived from an estate inherited by their father. Mr. Wright’s sole occupation consisted in writing letters demanding catalogues of rare books. These he pored over from morning until night. Sometimes, enticed by the extreme rarity and desirability of a book, he would decide he must have it in his fine collection but he usually took so long to decide and put off so long writing his order that, in nine cases out of ten, the desired book was sold before he sent for it.

Mrs. Wright was one of those thoroughly practical souls who glory in their activity and efficiency. She did everything so easily that she had never seen the necessity of teaching her daughters to do anything.

“They will learn soon enough!” she always declared. “Nobody taught me! They will marry and then they will learn.”

Elizabeth always winced when her mother announced so confidently that her daughters would marry. Perhaps they would but, on the other hand, perhaps they wouldn’t. She for one was sure she would not. Certainly it was not her aim in life as it seemed to be of her sisters. Marriage was all right if it was built on true11 love, as she was sure this marriage of Mary Louise’s was to be. In her heart of hearts Elizabeth wanted to write but she thought she had not lived long enough to have anything to write about.

Dear Mary Louise Burrows! How happy she looked with her friends gathered around her on her grandfather’s piazza! That piazza was a favorite place for the girls to assemble and now that Mary Louise was so soon to marry Danny Dexter it was almost a daily occurrence for them to meet there. Irene MacFarlane was there in her wheel chair, her countenance as calm and peaceful as ever, while her busy fingers embroidered a wonderfully dainty bit of lingerie for her friend’s trousseau. Alora Jones was there, not looking much happier than she had formerly, although her three millions had been almost doubled in the last few years, thanks to the war activities that wealth had indulged in. Poor Alora found it difficult to let herself go. Her wealth made her suspicious. Because she had been imposed upon once, she was ever looking out for similar experiences. She was happier with this band of friends, tried and true, than with anybody else in the world. Certainly they12 wanted nothing from her but friendship and that her shy heart was eager to give. Her artist

father encouraged her in seeking out these wholesome, normal girls, hoping through them his daughter would begin to value life for what it was worth.

“We are cursed with money, Alora,” he would say, “but for Heaven’s sake, let’s forget it. In the meantime we must give and give!”

Pretty Laura Hilton was there, as small and bird-like as ever. By her sat Lucile Neal, who had inherited an executive ability from her father, the owner of the Neal Automobile Factory, and whose clear judgment was ever in demand when Mary Louise and her friends had any project on foot. Edna Barlow, the only poor girl in the group, was in the hammock with Jane Donovan, the daughter of Dorfield’s mayor.

All of the girls were sewing on Mary Louise’s trousseau. It was Irene’s idea that they should meet together in this way and busy themselves with this labor of love.

“To return to jobs,” said Elizabeth. “I’m going to find out what pays best and learn how to do it and then bust loose from my family. If they don’t like it, they can lump it. I want a13 latchkey and a bank account of my own. As it is, if I’m not in the house at a certain time, there is a hue and cry and father begins on what young ladies did in his day and Gertrude and Annabel look shocked and Pauline and Margaret say they would never be guilty of such unladylike behavior and they all agree that men don’t like independent girls and I’ll never get a suspicion of a beau if I don’t mend my ways—as though I wanted one if I’d have to make myself over to get him!”

“And what does your mother say?” laughed Mary Louise.

“Oh, Mother doesn’t say anything. She is always so busy she doesn’t even know I’m not there. With two servants in the house Mother still manages never to be idle one moment in the day. She is always baking and brewing, sewing and dusting, cleaning out closets or bureau drawers, airing beds, rubbing furniture, cleaning silver, doing a million and one things that the maids could do just as well as she. The truth of the matter is Mother should have had a profession outside of being a wife and mother. She has too much energy and efficiency to waste on a mere home.”

14 “But a mere home is the greatest thing in the world,” said Mary Louise, softly.

“Oh, yes, it is a good enough place, but it can be pretty uncomfortable with somebody always making you move to sweep under you. Why, my mother could run a big hotel and still have time to spare to keep the church sewing circle going.”

“She must be very unselfish,” said Laura Hilton, whose own mother was noted for being the best dressed and most frivolous woman in Dorfield, though very charming and kind-hearted withal.

“Oh, I don’t know about that!” answered Elizabeth. “She is never so happy as when she is bustling around doing for people. She would let all of us girls sleep all day and then cook breakfast herself and bring it up to us and have the time of her life doing it. I think it would be a great deal more unselfish if she would let us help and expend some of her energy on making us be a little more efficient instead of being so perfect herself.”

“Have you decided yet, Mary Louise, where and when you will be married?” asked Irene, gently changing the subject. Irene had the faculty of turning the conversation into smoother15 channels when she saw breakers ahead. Criticism of one’s mother and home was not conducive to smooth sailing for the ship of conversation.

“About decided,” blushed Mary Louise. “Danny and I think it would be nice to be married right here at home with only our intimate friends present. We haven’t any relations to speak of, neither one of us. Danny has his Uncle Jim O’Hara and I have Grandpa Jim—a Jim apiece and that is all. We have lots of intimate friends, though, when we begin to count up. Of course Danny wants to ask every man in his regiment besides all the friends he has made at the Neal Automobile Factory.”

“Father and the boys say he is the most popular man in the works in the short time he has been with them,” said Lucile.

Mary Louise blushed again. She was frankly delighted at the praise bestowed upon her fiancé. Danny’s popularity was very delightful to the girl and indeed it spoke very well for Danny Dexter that Dorfield was receiving him with open arms. He had come to the town unknown, poor, friendless except for the men in his regiment who one and all pronounced him a trump. All of his worldly possessions he could get in his16 army kit. But on his battle scarred face was a smile that was worth more than silver and gold and when he had won, right under the noses of a host of admirers, the love of the prettiest and most attractive girl in town, the rejected and dejected suitors of Mary Louise Burrows bore him no grudge but were willing to come dance at his wedding.

“Here comes Mrs. Markle!” exclaimed Mary Louise. “She has been so kind to me and Mr. Markle is perfectly dear to Danny. Both of them are so charming that we appreciate their seeing anything in us worth knowing.”

“Pooh!” cried Elizabeth Wright. “Everybody thinks you and Danny are worth knowing. The Markles aren’t so much of a muchness.”

“Oh, but they are lovely! Don’t you think so, Irene?” asked Mary Louise.

“I don’t know them very well,” responded Irene. “If you like them so much they must be worth knowing, however.”

Mary Louise looked at her friend, astonishment expressed in her countenance. That did not sound like Irene MacFarlane. What faint praise she gave the Markles! And her voice sounded so cold. What could be the matter?17 Could she be jealous of these new friends? Hardly that! Of course, Irene had been her first and only friend when Mary Louise came to Dorfield and stayed with Irene’s uncle, Mr. Peter Conant and his wife, dear Aunt Hannah. But since then she, Mary Louise, had made acquaintance with almost everybody in town and it would take all her fingers and toes to count her intimate girl friends. Irene had never shown jealousy before but had been as eager to enlarge her acquaintance as Mary Louise herself. Poor Irene was lame and had spent the whole of her life either on her back or in the wheel chair. She had an intense interest in humanity in general and girls in particular. Her friendship with Mary Louise had opened up a new life for the poor girl, bringing her more and more in touch with the outside world. But why this coldness where the Markles were concerned?

Nobody could deny that the Markles were a delightful couple. Mrs. Markle was a woman of about thirty, while her husband was nearer fifty but he seemed to be as fond of young people as his wife. They were strangers in Dorfield, having settled there since the war, but already they had taken a place in the society of the town and18 were looked upon as agreeable additions to the four hundred of Dorfield. Mr. Markle was engaged in the real estate business, which seemed to be thriving. To be sure, they lived in a small apartment, but it was in one of the best houses in town and, while they were not classed with the reckless spenders, they entertained frequently and in lavish style. The soft Persian rugs and exquisite paintings and etchings filled their apartment with harmony and beauty. There were cabinets of rare and wonderful curios, bookcases of first editions and carved furniture that looked as though it belonged in museums, so wonderful was it in design and finish.

CHAPTER II A ROSE AND A SONG

As Mrs. Markle tripped up the steps of Colonel Hathaway’s porch, where the girls were holding their sewing bee, one could but wonder why Irene MacFarlane should have been chary of her praise of anyone so altogether charming. She was perfect from the tips of her tiny grey suede shoes to the hat which shaded the piquant face at just the right angle. Nature had not only endowed Hortense Markle with a rare and glowing beauty but hers also was the gift of knowing exactly how to clothe that beauty. Every portion of her costume was as carefully thought out and planned by the little artist as had been the rarest of her rugs by some Hindu weaver or the most choice of her pictures by some famous painter. She delighted in soft greys and pastel shades which set off to perfection her rich, almost oriental, beauty.

“She knows perfectly well if she wore brilliant colors they would be becoming but would20 coarsen her,” Irene said to herself as she watched the charming little lady mount the steps, her arm around Mary Louise, who had hurried down the walk to meet her new friend.

“Oh, why didn’t you girls let me know you were here sewing? I have been so lonely sitting up in my stuffy little apartment all alone. Only think, I might have been here all morning having such a pleasant time with all of you! I believe you think I am too old for you.”

This she said so gaily, giving such a ringing laugh at the thought of anybody’s thinking she was too old, that all the girls joined in, even Irene. Irene had wondered at herself as much as Mary Louise had. For the life of her she could not account for a feeling of antipathy that she felt for both Mr. and Mrs. Markle. It was not like her to take unaccountable dislikes, or even accountable ones. Her theory of life was to live and let live and her sympathy embraced all mankind, good and bad alike. Why could she not find room in her heart for this charming, beautiful young woman whose manner to her had always been gracious and kind?

“It is just a case of Dr. Fell,” Irene said to herself.

She determined, however, to keep her unreasonable sentiments to herself and at least to be as cordial and polite to Mary Louise’s guest as she could manage to be.

“We sew here almost every morning,” said Irene. “We are helping to make Mary Louise’s trousseau.”

“How charming! Please let me help. Sewing is my one accomplishment.”

A thimble was found to fit the tapering finger and Mrs. Markle was soon as busy as the others in their task of love.

“I wish I could sew better,” exclaimed Elizabeth Wright. “I am going to have to pick out this foolish little flower that I have been trying so hard to make look as though it were growing on Mary Louise’s camisole. There now! I’ve cut a hole in it! Oh, what a stupid I am! Right in the middle of the garment and this crepe de chine costs ’steen dollars a yard! Oh me, oh my! I told you girls I ought to go into business and not try to be so girlie.”

22 “Let me see if I can’t set you right,” said Mrs. Markle. “I am past mistress at patching.” She took the garment from the unresisting hands of Elizabeth, quickly ripped out the crooked flower that poor Elizabeth had been vainly endeavoring to embroider on it and then, with deft sure fingers and a needle so fine one could hardly see it, she inserted an invisible patch where the cruel scissors had slipped. This needle she took from the lining of her velvet hand bag. It was much smaller than any found in the work boxes of the girls. Irene remarked on it.

“I never can get such tiny needles as that,” she said. “Perhaps if I could manage to shop for myself I might find one.”

“Oh, I’ll be delighted to give you some!” cried the older woman. “I am like you: I simply cannot sew with a spike.”

“That will be very kind of you,” said Irene, wishing she could be as pleasant to Mrs. Markle as Mrs. Markle was to her and hoping that her sentiments were not voiced in her words. She was trying hard to get over her feeling of dislike and distrust for the beautiful little lady but, even though she should give her a thousand fairy needles, she knew that she could not like her.23 She watched the process of putting in the invisible patch. It was the most perfect piece of needlework she had ever seen and Irene herself did all but perfect work.

“How on earth do you do it?” she exclaimed. “Why, one cannot tell where the patch is!”

The girls crowded around to see the little patch. If Irene did not know how to do it it must be wonderful indeed.

“It is quite easy when once you learn,” laughed Mrs. Markle. “I learned at the convent in Paris. First be sure and match the warp and woof of your material. It takes sharp eyes, but one thread out of place is fatal. Then use a bit of raveled crepe de chine for your thread and the rest is all plain sailing. Practice makes perfect. Now shall I embroider a rose over the place?”

“Oh, do!” cried Elizabeth, “and please somebody give me some plain basting to do on gingham aprons if the bride is to have such things.”

“Don’t you have to have a pattern for your rose?” asked Irene, reaching for her workbag. “I have some patterns here, very pretty ones, and some tracing paper.”

24 “No, thank you! I just make up as I go along—”

“Like the wonderful rug weavers of India,” cried Alora. “Do you sing a song as you go and weave the music into your work as they do, Mrs. Markle?”

“Why, yes, sometimes! But please don’t call me Mrs. Markle. I’m not so terribly old and you don’t know how I long to have someone call me by my own name, Hortense.”

“Doesn’t Mr. Markle?”

“He calls me Pet. Awfully silly, but he always has. I think it would be so pleasant if all of you girls would just call me Hortense. Won’t you?” She smiled so brightly on the ring of girls grouped around her that they succumbed to her charms. Even Irene melted a bit and decided that perhaps she did like the little lady a tiny bit after all. Anyone who could put in an invisible patch must be a desirable acquaintance.

“You see it has been many years since I have been with my own people and so few ever call me anything but Mrs. Markle. It is very lonesome to have persons so formal.”

As she talked she had been deftly outlining a25 rose on the front of the camisole, drawing it with needle and thread with strokes as sure as those of a great flower painter. Then choosing her silk from Irene’s basket she began to embroider. Irene was spellbound in her attention. The first petal took form under the flying fingers as though by magic.