Lester Tracy was alone in the house, technically speaking. To be sure,
there were four servants drawing the breath of life on the premises, but
even they would have admitted unanimously that Mr. Lester was alone. He
was dressing to go out, moving about in his room, and whistling
cheerfully.
He was a lean, blond young fellow, his face already marked by
dissipation; yet it was not a coarse or an evil face, only a frivolous
one. He was little more than a tragic buffoon, and sometimes the poor
devil was aware of it. Not now, however. Now he was happy, with his
unfailing infantile zest for facile pleasures. He stopped whistling for
a moment, to examine his closely shaved jaw; and then he heard a
stealthy footstep in the hall.
Because nothing had ever happened to him, he was afraid of nothing. He
had a vague belief that his person was sacred, that any evildoer would
fall back abashed before Lester Tracy. He hoped it was a burglar; that
would be something to tell his friends. He turned out the light and
pushed open his door without a sound, very much excited.
But it was only Maisie, stock still, with her hand at her heart, and a
white face. She wore a scanty rain coat over her tawdry, bespangled
frock, and one of the big, floppy hats that she fancied. She had somehow
the look of a masquerader, in clothes that didn’t belong to her, and she
certainly did not belong there in the Tracys’ hall.
A very unpleasant emotion came over Lester at the sight of that little
figure. He had grown accustomed to thinking of Maisie--when he thought
of her at all--as one of his follies of which some one else was
disposing. He had forgotten that she was real; but now that he saw her,
she seemed more real than any one he had ever seen or imagined.
She was pale and motionless, and yet she seemed as startling as a blaze
of light. Her forlorn and betrayed loneliness was like a halo about her
young head.
Recovering from her momentary alarm, she went on toward the nursery.
Lester was miserably irresolute. He wanted to go out and tell her to go
boldly to her baby, to go arrogantly, proudly. He couldn’t endure her
furtiveness.
“After all, it’s her baby,” he thought. “My God, what an awful thing
we’ve done!”
He imagined her in the dimly lit nursery, standing beside the crib, and
looking into that chubby little face. It suddenly occurred to him that
the nurse might be about, and might send Maisie away. He decided to stop
that.
He had come out into the hall on that errand when Maisie, too, came out
from the other room. She had the baby in her arms, huddled in a blanket.
They faced each other for the first time since their honeymoon. In spite
of all that they had forgotten, in spite of the gulf of injustice and
suffering between them, some little spark of honest and beautiful good
will was in their hearts. It was not love--that had been murdered--but
loyalty to their past love.
“Maisie!” he said. “Oh, Maisie! I’m sorry!”
She bent her head in an attitude of sublime and humble resignation.
“Just let me have my baby!” she entreated softly.
V
Mrs. Tracy turned the world upside down. Not a soul in that house could
sleep, could rest, could eat, during her reign of terror. It was not
only her personal grief at the loss of the child that distracted her,
but the monstrous affront to her pride.
She was informed that Maisie had called to see her, and had been told to
wait in the hall until she returned from the theater.
“And the treacherous, wicked creature must have crept up the stairs and
_stolen_ the child!” she cried. “She must have taken the poor, helpless
little thing while it slept! Didn’t you hear a _sound_, Lester?”
“Not a sound,” said he.
“If there is a law in the land, she shall be punished!” said Mrs. Tracy.
If she could have had her way, she would have made it a criminal offense
for any one to harbor the treacherous Maisie, to give her a morsel of
food or a roof to shelter her. Her haughty spirit brooded over the
insult until she was ill from it. The lawyer dreaded the sight of her
haggard face.
“It’s very difficult to trace so obscure and ordinary a person,” he
protested.
“My grandchild is neither obscure nor ordinary,” she said. “Set your
wits to work. The child _must_ be found!”
As Mrs. Tracy had large resources and Maisie none at all, this was
accomplished. The girl was discovered acting as general servant in a
lonely country house--a wretched, ill paid position, with work beyond
her young strength; but she could have her baby with her, and she
fancied herself safe. From the kitchen window she could see her small
idol staggering about in the grass. She could lie at night in her attic
room with the child in her arms. They had food to eat, clean air to
breathe, and a roof overhead.
Mrs. Tracy’s idea was to go out there by motor and simply take the child
away, but the lawyer dissuaded her.
“No,” said he. “I shouldn’t like that done again. It’s apt to create
prejudice against you if the case comes to court.”
“I fancy I should only need to inform the judge how the child is
living--sleeping in a servant’s room--”
He shook his head.
“No,” he said. “You never can tell how those things will go. I advise
you to compromise with her--to leave the child in her custody six
months--”
“With a servant? When she can have every possible advantage with her
father? I will not do it. Let the case go to court. I fancy--”
“But you see,” he explained, “after all, the mother is supporting the
child more or less decently; and as far as I can ascertain, there’s
nothing against her character--no evidence to prove her an unfit
guardian.”
“Something _could_ be found,” said Mrs. Tracy.
The lawyer understood her very well, but he did not care to go so far.
That sort of thing was done, of course, but not by him.
“I’m going to save the child,” said she. “If you don’t care to help me,
I’ll do it alone!”
He quite believed that she would, and he felt a small twinge of pity for
Maisie.