Rose had left a lamp burning in her own sitting room, as a beacon for
Nina, and all the time she was busy in the Morgan’s kitchen, she was
listening for that footstep. And for all her pleasure and excitement in
this surprise she had prepared for the Morgans, a vague anxiety lay in
the back of her mind, because Nina was so long in coming. She had
expected her for lunch, and the whole afternoon had gone by without her.
She wished Nina could have seen Margie set out, in that Paris dress--the
loveliest, happiest creature! And she wished Nina were here now, to lend
her moral support in this wildly audacious plan, for, now that the thing
was done, she felt a little frightened. Margie and Gilbert were little
more than children; she could manage them; she could really help them.
But it seemed to her that the shadow of Bill lay over the house; he
himself might be hundreds of miles away, but she couldn’t forget that
this was his house, and that she was defying him. The thought caused her
an odd sort of pain; you might dislike Bill, she thought, and vigorously
resent his domineering ways, but it was impossible not to respect him.
It was even impossible not to like him just a little when you thought
how honestly he tried to take care of his unruly household, and when you
remembered all those little kindnesses. Well, the sensible thing was,
not to remember.
She had a natural talent for cooking, and with the aid of a cookbook,
she had managed an excellent dinner. That part of the plan caused her no
worry. But the rest--She opened the oven door for one more look at the
pair of chickens sizzling richly in there, and then with a sigh, went
again to the dining room door.
An amazing change was there! The round table was covered with a fine
damask cloth, and set out with gay, old-fashioned china, frail
glassware, sturdy old plate, all gleaming in the light of the shaded
lamp. On the walls hung two or three framed pictures, not masterpieces
by any means, but somehow lovable and friendly.
“She’d like me to do this,” thought Rose. “For her children.”
Because, as she had unpacked these things from the boxes and barrels,
such a strange feeling had come over her; she had felt that she
understood that mother. Standing here now, surrounded by the perishable
and infinitely touching belongings of that beloved woman, dead, but so
tenderly remembered by all her children, she thought she knew how she
had felt toward them all, how she had managed each one of them, wisely
and patiently; how she had loved them for the qualities which were so
splendid in them, and the faults that were only pitiful. And she wanted
them to remember their mother, not in bitterness and grief, but happily,
as if always conscious of her dear spirit.
A sound startled her; a noise like little feet running over the tarred
paper on the roof. At first she thought, with no great comfort, that it
was rats, but then the pattering came upon the windowpanes, against the
door. It was rain.
“Nina!” she thought. “What can be keeping her so late!”
She went into the kitchen and opened the back door; the summer rain was
driving down with steady violence, drumming loud on the roof now,
spattering up from the path. Such a dark, strange world for Nina to be
out in alone! Moved by a sudden impulse, she ran out into the rain and
entered their own house; the lamp still burned clear and steady in the
neat little room. The clock struck six.
“Oh, Nina!” she cried, aloud, in an unreasoning panic of fear. “Nina,
darling!”
And then, above all the noise of the rain, she heard a familiar sound,
the slam of a door by which all the Morgans announced their home coming.
She hurried back there, her courage, her generous hopes, all gone now.
“I’m an officious busybody!” she thought. “Why didn’t I stay at home and
mind my own affairs? Oh, I wish I’d let the Morgans alone! I wish--”
She stopped short in the kitchen doorway, staring at Gilbert. He was
wearing a dinner jacket, and it was soaked through with rain; his collar
was wilted, his tie askew, his fair hair plastered across his forehead,
his blue eyes very brilliant. And his face, his clear-featured, handsome
young face, so white, so strained, so lamentably changed! The momentary
disgust she had felt turned to a painful compassion.
“Gilbert!” she said, in a pleasant, matter-of-fact voice. “Get on dry
clothes. Your dinner’s ready for you.”
She spoke to him as she thought his mother might have spoken; she
thought she felt a little as his mother might have felt to see the boy
like this.
“No!” he said, in an unsteady voice. “Let me alone! What are you doing
here?”
“I’m so glad I am here!” she thought. “So glad! Poor little Margie! If
she brings her Paul here now--” And aloud: “Gilbert!” she said, with
quiet authority. “Please do as I ask you--at once. Change your clothes.”
“I won’t!” he said. “No, I won’t! You don’t know. You can’t understand.
Only Bill. Bill knew. Bill was right. I wish I was dead!”
The same childish passion and unreason that Margie had shown. He sank
into a chair by the table and buried his face in his hands.
“I wish I was dead!” he said again.
And Rose, always listening for Nina’s step, had also to listen to this
boy’s sorry little tale. He had gone to visit his father’s cousin,
Lucille Winter.
“Bill told me they were no good,” he said, “but I wouldn’t believe him.
And--you don’t know what it was like. I lost over a hundred dollars at
bridge. And I drank. I didn’t mean to, but every one else did, and I’ve
come home to my sister like this. If I’d had a penny left, I’d never
have come home again--never! It’s--you don’t know--it’s all so beastly,
and I thought I’d like that sort of life, but--I couldn’t get out fast
enough. I’ve found out now that old Bill was right--but it’s too late.”
“It is not!” Rose declared, firmly.
“I can’t pay that hundred,” he said. “And I’ve got to pay it to-morrow.
I--you can’t understand.”
“And if you weren’t so honest and sound at heart you couldn’t feel so
sorry!” thought Rose. But she did not intend to give him too much
consolation; his shame and remorse were of inestimable value to him. “If
you’ll wash and change your wet clothes, and eat your nice hot dinner,
you’ll feel better,” she insisted.
“I’ll--I’ll never feel better!” said he.
“I’ll give you a cup of coffee now,” she began, when that sound, welcome
beyond all others, reached her ears--Nina’s step on the veranda.
“Wait, Gilbert!” she cried, and ran back into her own house. Nina was
standing in the front room, drawing off her gloves.
“Rose,” she said, in a strange, flat voice. “It’s all gone--every cent!”
Rose helped her off with her wet jacket, took off her hat, pushed her
gently into a chair, and kneeling, began to unfasten her shoes, such
absurd little shoes, and soaked through.
“Never mind, Nina!” she said. “We’re together, and that’s all that
matters.”
Nina’s hands and feet were cold as ice, and her cheeks flushed.
“Even the check we gave for this rent was no good,” she explained. “The
house belongs to Mr. Morgan, and I suppose he didn’t like to tell us. I
tried to borrow--just a little--this afternoon--from friends--I thought
they were friends--”
“Hush, darling! Who cares? You’ll get straight into bed, with a
hot-water bottle at your poor cold feet, and I’ll make you a cup of
beautiful coffee.”
She stopped short.
Margie, bringing back Paul, to find Gilbert like that. And she had told
Margie to bring him. It was all her fault.
She looked at the clock; half past six. Margie was to be expected any
minute now. Gilbert was sitting there in the kitchen in his wet clothes.
He didn’t look very strong. And Nina! Nina was telling her about Mr.
Doyle, and she pretended to pay attention, but she was listening for
Margie’s home-coming now with as much anxiety as she had listened for
Nina’s. This might spoil Margie’s poor little romance forever--and it
was _her_ fault. Gilbert would be ill.
She had just got Nina into bed when the screen door slammed in the next
house.
“One instant, Nina!” she cried, and rushed out, down the steps, through
the sodden little garden in the driving rain, and back into the Morgans’
kitchen. Gilbert still sat just as she had left him, his head on his
arm.
“I’ll--lock him in!” she thought, desperately. “But I’ll have to tell
Margie.”
She went into the little passage, closing the kitchen door behind her,
and on into the sitting room. No one there. So she went toward the
dining room. The doorway was blocked by a tremendous figure, standing
there hat in hand, his back toward her.
“Oh, _Bill_!” she cried, in her immeasurable relief.
He turned; he saw her there, with her soft hair wet and disordered, her
face so white; he had seen his dining table set out with his mother’s
sacred possessions--and he showed no surprise. She thought that nothing
would surprise him, nothing would shock him, that he would meet anything
in his life coolly, honestly, and steadily--like a man.
“Gilbert’s been to a week-end party at Lucille Winter’s,” she said.
“He’s--he’s in the kitchen. You’ve got to be very careful with him. He’s
only a child.”
“All right!” Bill agreed, with the shadow of a smile. “I’ll take Gilbert
back into the fold. But this--” His smile vanished as he glanced toward
the dining room again. “This--”
“I’m sorry,” said Rose. “But--poor little Margie’s bringing Paul--a
friend of hers, home to dinner to-night, and--” She paused a moment,
then she looked resolutely up at Bill. “I thought she would like it,”
she went on. “For her children--so that they’d remember--the things
they’ve forgotten. I’m sorry, but--” A sob choked her.
“Please,” she begged, “be very kind to Margie--and Gilbert--and Paul.
I’ve got to go. I meant to stay, but--my Nina’s sick.”
She turned to go, but tears blinded her; she stumbled against the
lintel. Bill’s hand touched her arm, the lightest touch, to guide her.
“I promise you,” he said, “that everything shall be just as you want
it.”
She brushed her hand across her eyes and looked at him. And she thought
she had never in her life seen anything like that look on his face.
“I want to help you,” he announced. “That’s what I’ve always wanted,
since the first moment I saw you.”
Neither of them had another word to say, to spoil that moment. She ran
back again to Nina, through the rain, and she thought she must sing, for
joy and relief.
Everything was all right now, for Bill had come. She was so happy--so
happy--just because Bill had come.
MUNSEY’S
MAGAZINE
MAY, 1926
Vol. LXXXVII NUMBER 4