It was nearly eight o’clock, and Hughes was suffering acutely from
hunger. He walked up and down, and up and down, the library, smoking his
pipe, and raging inwardly.
“Please don’t bother!” he had urged Mrs. Dexter.
And she had said: “Oh, but it’s no bother at all! Mimi and I really
enjoy getting up a dainty little dinner!”
They were in the kitchen now. He could hear the egg-beater whirring,
and, at intervals, their light, agreeable voices, always so
good-tempered and affectionate toward each other. They had been at it
for hours; they must be exhausted. Every fifteen minutes or so he had
appeared in the kitchen doorway, to suggest, to plead, almost
desperately:
“Look here! I _wish_ you wouldn’t! I wish you’d come out of there!
Anything will do, you know, any little simple thing--”
But they would not come out. They only laughed at him.
“I wish I could make her see how wasteful and foolish it is to give all
this time and effort to a meal!” he thought. “This idea that everything
must be so elaborate and ‘dainty.’ Why, good Lord! I’d rather have bread
and cheese--”
Bread and cheese! He thought of a slice of homemade bread with a piece
of Swiss cheese lying upon it. He had had nothing to eat since twelve
o’clock. Bread and cheese! How he longed for that! And how he
appreciated the plain and simple life which provided meals of no matter
what sort at reasonable hours!
It came into his mind that he would go upstairs and see his Aunt Kate
again. Just see her. He didn’t want to talk to her; simply, it was a
comfort to know that she was there, his ally. She felt as he did; their
ideals were the same. Plain, sensible people.
He went out of the library and began to mount the stairs. A miserable
little jet of gas burned in the lower hall, and another one on the
landing, and they both sang a sad little piping tune. The house seemed
vast, this evening, a place of black shadows and chilly silence, and
many closed, menacing doors.
He thought of Mrs. Dexter’s flat, with its homemade furniture and its
pathetic brightness. This was, of course, a fine, solid old house, and
the flat was a cheap and paltry thing. A girl would be glad, wouldn’t
she, to leave such a place, to leave the noise and dust of the city, and
come here?
Of course there was this unaccountable malady which had attacked first
himself and now Mrs. Boles. But it had left him overnight, and she, too,
would no doubt be quite recovered in the morning. An odd sort of cold,
that was all it was.
He knocked upon the door, and Mrs. Boles called “Come in!” and in he
went. The gas was turned low, and by the dim light the room looked
remarkably cheerless. Mrs. Boles lay flat on her back, her gray hair in
two braids, like an Indian, her gaunt, weather-beaten face immobile, her
eyes staring straight before her.
“Desborough!” she said, without turning her head.
He waited, thinking she was going to go on, but she said nothing
further.
“How are you feeling now?” he asked.
She didn’t trouble to answer that.
“Desborough!” she exclaimed. “It’s malaria. I thought so yesterday, and
now I know it. You’ve got to get out of here. It’s a nasty, unwholesome
place.”
“But perhaps--” said her nephew, terribly crestfallen.
“There’s no ‘perhaps’ about it,” she declared sharply. “I know all about
malaria.” She was silent for a moment; then her brows drew together in a
severe frown.
“That girl!” she remarked. “Just look at that!”
He looked where she pointed, and there, on the chair, he saw a tray. The
antique china, the lace handkerchiefs--A great pain seized his heart.
“Mi--Miss Dexter--” he began.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Boles. “She brought me some tea. And just look how she
fixed up that tray!”
Anger arose in him. He wouldn’t listen to a word against Mimi.
“It seems to me Miss Dexter has--” he began again, but once more Mrs.
Boles interrupted him.
“I never in my life had any one take so much trouble for me,” she
announced. “Bread--cut out star-shaped. Her own little handkerchiefs.
No, I never.”
She paused, and across her grim face came a smile the like of which he
had not seen there before.
“The bonnie wee thing!” she said.
“What!” cried Hughes. “What! I mean--why did you say--that?”
“It suits her,” said Mrs. Boles. “Her mother was talking to me to-day.
She told me that there was an old professor--a Mr. MacAllister--”
“MacAndrews,” Hughes explained.
“You’ve heard about him, then. Well, it seems to me--” Once more she
paused. “As soon as I told Mrs. Dexter that this was malaria, and we
ought to leave here, they both invited me to visit them. Both of
them--without an instant’s hesitation. She told me about their flat in
the city--and their life. They’re not at all well off, but they’re
happy.
“They know how to live!” Mrs. Boles continued. “Kind, gracious people.
They know how to live. Any one could see that. They make every
detail--this tray, for instance. Desborough, it’s been a revelation to
me!”
“Er--yes--” her nephew said absently. “Well, I’d better go downstairs,
now, and--and see if I can help them. What? What did you say?”
“I said--you’d better get them to help you!” Mrs. Boles explained.
V
He went out of the room, and closed the door behind him, but he did not
go downstairs; he stood there in the dim and drafty hall, thinking. He
had been going to show Mimi the right way to live, had he? He had
brought her here, to this house, to these malarial mosquitoes, to this
“nasty, unwholesome place.” He had made her eat her breakfast from a red
and white checked cloth; he had deprived her of doilies and frilled
curtains.
He had been the most heartless, the most presumptuous, priggish,
despicable ass who had ever lived. Even his aunt had known better. His
“plan”! It had served one purpose, though; it had shown him to Mimi as
he really was, a blind, obstinate, humorless, cheerless--
She was coming up the stairs now; he knew her light, quick step. So he
pretended that he was coming down, and in the middle of the flight they
met.
“I was looking for you!” she announced cheerfully. “Dinner’s ready!”
He stood before her in silence for a few moments, his head bent; then
suddenly he said:
“Mimi!”
Such a miserable voice!
“Oh, what’s the matter?” she cried, anxiously.
“I haven’t appreciated you!”
His tone was very contrite.
“Heavens!” said Mimi. “I don’t care such an awful lot about being
appreciated, Mr. Hughes!”
“But I do love you!” he declared. “I always have loved you. Only--I
didn’t appreciate you. I thought--if you came here--”
“Well,” she said, “you were right! You knew perfectly well that if I
came here, and saw you in this awful house--and such an awful, dismal
life--You knew! It wasn’t fair!”
“I never thought of such a thing!” he protested, indignantly. “My plan
was--”
“Anyhow, it’s too late now,” she pointed out. “The harm’s done.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, with a sinking heart.
“I mean,” she replied sternly, “that you’ve simply got to have somebody
to take care of you!”
He looked down at her. The size of her! The age of her!
“But--do you mean--that _you_ are going to do that?” he demanded.
“Yes!” she cried. “That’s _my_ plan!”
He came down onto the step where she was standing. And she had really
very little trouble in convincing him of the merits of her plan.
MUNSEY’S
MAGAZINE
JUNE, 1926
Vol. LXXXVIII NUMBER 1