Chapter 14

The red lamps were all lighted in Mrs. Ivy’s small parlor, and the disordered tea-table and general confusion of the overcrowded room, gave evidence that one of her frequent “at homes” had been brought to an end.

It might have been inferred that the hostess had also been brought to an end, to judge from her closed eyes and clasped hands, and the effort with which she inhaled her breath and the violence with which she exhaled it. The maid, clearing away the tea things, viewed her with apprehension.

“Excuse me, ma’m, but will you be havin’ the hot-water bag?” she asked when she could endure the strain no longer.

Mrs. Ivy opened one reluctant eye and condescended to recall her spirit to the material world.

“Norah, how could you?” she asked plaintively. “Haven’t I begged you never to disturb my meditation?”

“Yis, ma’m, but this, you might say, was worse than usual. Me mother’s twin sister died of the asthmy.”

“Never speak to me when you see me entering into the silence. I was denying fatigue; now I shall have to begin all over!”

It was evidently difficult for Mrs. Ivy to again tranquilize her spirit. Her eyes roved fondly about the room, resting first upon one cherished object then upon another. Autographed photographs lined the walls, autographed volumes littered the tables. Above her head two small bronze censers sent wreaths of incense curling about a vast testimonial, acknowledging her valiant service in behalf of the anti-tobacco crusade. Flanking this were badges of divers shape and size, representing societies to which she belonged. In the cabinet at her left were still more disturbing treasures such as Gerald’s first pair of shoes, and the gavel that the last president of the Federated Sisterhood had used before she had, as Mrs. Ivy was fond of saying, “been called upon to hand in her resignation by the Board of Death.”

Before the error of fatigue had been entirely erased from her mental state, her eyes fell upon a pamphlet, and she immediately became absorbed in its contents. It set forth the need for a Home for Crippled Animals, and by the time she reached the second page she was framing a motion to be presented to her club on the morrow. Mrs. Ivy was greatly addicted to motions; in fact, it was one of her missions in life continually to move that things should be other than they were, without in any way supplying the motive power to change them.

While thus engaged she was interrupted by a belated caller. He was a short, heavy-set young man, with a square prominent jaw, and a twinkle in his eye.

“Mister Decker!” exclaimed Mrs. Ivy, swimming toward him. “After all these months in those wonderful Eastern lands! I can almost catch the odor of sandalwood about you!”

“It’s dope,” said Decker, with an easy laugh. “Chinese dope. I’ve had these clothes cleaned twice, and I can’t get rid of it. Had them on one night in an opium den in Hankow. Funny how that smell stays with you.”

“An opium den?” repeated Mrs. Ivy, lifting a protesting hand. “And is no effort being made to stamp out such iniquities in China? Might not some concerted action on the part of the women’s clubs in all the Christian countries create a public sentiment against them?”

Decker bit his lip as he stooped to pick up the leaflet she had dropped.

“Gerald’s here I suppose?”

“Of course! How thoughtless of me not to explain that I always insist upon the dear lad resting between four and five. He inherits delicate lungs from his father, and an emotional, artistic temperament from me. Then both of his maternal grandparents had heart trouble.”

“Still hammers away at his music, I suppose?” Decker asked, minutely inspecting the photograph of a meek-looking female who appeared totally unable to live up to the bold, aggressive signature with which she had signed herself.

“Dear Miss Snell,” Mrs. Ivy explained, “corresponding secretary of the A. T. L. A. If you had only come sooner you could have met her. What were you asking? Oh, yes! about Gerald’s music. Why, you could no more imagine Gerald without music, than you could think of a bird without wings. He would simply perish without a piano. When we are abroad we rent one if we are only going to be in a place ten days. His Papa can’t understand this, but then Mr. Ivy is not musical, poor dear; he really doesn’t know a fugue from a fantasie.”

“Neither do I,” said Decker. “Do the Queeringtons still live next door?”

“Yes. You know our beloved Doctor has married again.”

“What! Good old Syllogism Queerington! you don’t mean it! I wonder if he knows her first name? He taught me four years up at the University and never could remember mine.”

“Oh! here’s my boy! Are you feeling better, dear?” Mrs. Ivy turned expectant eyes to the door where a lean, loosely put together young man was just entering. He had the slouching gait that indicates relaxed ambitions as well as relaxed muscles, and his hands were deep in his pockets as if they were at home there.

“Hello, Decker, glad to see you,” he drawled languidly. “Wish you’d stir the fire, Mater dear; it’s beastly cold in here.”

“I’ll do it,” said Decker shortly.

Gerald Ivy dropped gracefully on the sofa, and became absorbed in examining his nails. He was rather a handsome if anemic youth, with the general air of one who has weighed the world and found it wanting. His eyes, large and brown and effective, swept the room restlessly. They were accomplished eyes, being capable of expressing more emotions in a moment than Gerald had felt in a lifetime.

As he idly turned the leaves of a magazine, he asked Decker how long he had been back in America.

“A couple of months, but I’ve only been in town two weeks. Sorry to hear you are under the weather.”

“Oh! I’m a ruin,” said Gerald; “a dilapidated, romantic ruin. Something’s gone wrong in the belfry to-day. Is my face swollen, Mater?”

Mrs. Ivy bent over him in instant solicitude.

“I do believe it is swollen, darling; just here. Look, Mr. Decker, doesn’t it seem a trifle fuller than the other side?”

Cropsie Decker’s eye, not being trained by years of maternal solicitude, failed to distinguish any difference.

“No matter,” said Gerald gloomily; “if it isn’t then it’s something else. What’s the news, Decker?”

“The only news for me is this idiotic talk that has been allowed to go the rounds about Don Morley. That is what I came to see you about. What does Dillingham have to say about it?”

“Oh, you know Dill; he side-steps. The whole thing has blown over here months ago; the subject is as extinct as the dodo.”

“Well, it won’t be extinct long! I’ve cabled Don to come home, and I bet he’ll stir things up. There’s nothing to hold him now that Margery Sequin’s broken her engagement.”