Part 46

At this moment the butler entered bearing the mail. Mrs. Bishop tore hers open rapidly, dropping the mangled envelopes at her side. The contents of one seemed to vex her.

“Oh!” she cried aloud. “That miserable Marie! She promised me to have it done to-day, and now she puts it off until Monday. It's too provoking!” She turned to Orde for sympathy. “Do you know ANYTHING more aggravating than to work and slave to the limit of endurance, and then have everything upset by the stupidity of some one else?”

Orde murmured an appropriate reply, to which Mrs. Bishop paid no attention whatever. She started suddenly up from the table.

“I must see about it!” she cried. “I plainly see I shall have to do it myself. I WILL do it myself. I promised it for Sunday.”

“You mustn't do another stitch, mother,” put in Carroll Bishop decidedly. “You know what the doctor told you. You'll have yourself down sick.”

“Well, see for yourself!” cried Mrs. Bishop. “That's what comes of leaving things to others! If I'd done it myself, it would have saved me all this bother and fuss, and it would have been done. And now I've got to do it anyway.”

“My dear,” put in the general, “perhaps Carroll can see Marie about it. In any case, there's nothing to work yourself up into such an excitement about.”

“It's very easy for you to talk, isn't it?” cried Mrs. Bishop, turning on him. “I like the way you all sit around like lumps and do nothing, and then tell me how I ought to have done it. John, have the carriage around at once.” She turned tensely to Orde. “I hope you'll excuse me,” she said very briefly; “I have something very important to attend to.”

Carroll had also risen. Orde held out his hand.

“I must be going,” said he.

“Well,” she conceded, “I suppose I'd better see if I can't help mother out. But you'll come in again. Come and dine with us this evening. Mother will be delighted.”

As Mrs. Bishop had departed from the room, Orde had to take for granted the expression of this delight. He bowed to the other occupants of the table. The general was eating nervously. Gerald's eyes were fixed amusedly on Orde.

To Orde's surprise, he was almost immediately joined on the street by young Mr. Bishop, most correctly appointed.

“Going anywhere in particular?” he inquired. “Let's go up the avenue, then. Everybody will be out.”

They turned up the great promenade, a tour of which was then, even more than now, considered obligatory on the gracefully idle. Neither said anything--Orde because he was too absorbed in the emotions this sudden revelation of Carroll's environment had aroused in him; Gerald, apparently, because he was too indifferent. Nevertheless it was the young exquisite who finally broke the silence.

“It was an altar cloth,” said he suddenly.

“What?” asked Orde, rather bewildered.

“Mother is probably the most devout woman in New York,” went on Gerald's even voice. “She is one of the hardest workers in the church. She keeps all the fast days, and attends all the services. Although she has no strength to speak of, she has just completed an elaborate embroidered altar cloth. The work she accomplished while on her knees. Often she spent five or six hours a day in that position. It was very devout, but against the doctor's orders, and she is at present much pulled down. Finally she gave way to persuasion to the extent of sending the embroidery out to be bound and corded. As a result, the altar cloth will not be done for next Sunday.”

He delivered this statement in a voice absolutely colourless, without the faintest trace discernible of either approval or disapproval, without the slightest irony, yet Orde felt vaguely uncomfortable.

“It must have been annoying to her,” he said gravely, “and I hope she will get it done in time. Perhaps Miss Bishop will be able to do it.”

“That,” said Gerald, “is Madison Square--or perhaps you know New York? My sister would, of course, be only too glad to finish the work, but I fear that my mother's peculiarly ardent temperament will now insist on her own accomplishment of the task. But perhaps you do not understand temperaments?”

“Very little, I'm afraid,” confessed Orde.

They walked on for some distance farther.

“Your father was in the Mexican War?” said Orde, to change the trend of his own thoughts.

“He was a most distinguished officer. I believe he received the Medal of Honour for a part in the affair of the Molina del Rey.”

“What command had he in the Civil War?” asked Orde. “I fooled around the outskirts of that a little myself.”

“My father resigned from the army in '54,” replied Gerald, with his cool, impersonal courtesy.

“That was too bad; just before the chance for more service,” said Orde.