Mrs. Maria Dodge sifted flour over her molding board preparatory to
transferring the sticky mass of newly made dough from the big yellow
mixing bowl to the board. More flour and a skillful twirl or two of the
lump and the process of kneading was begun. It continued monotonously
for the space of two minutes; then the motions became gradually slower,
finally coming to a full stop.
“My patience!” murmured Mrs. Dodge, slapping her dough smartly. “Fanny
ought to be ready by now. They’ll be late—both of ’em.”
She hurriedly crossed the kitchen to where, through a partly open door,
an uncarpeted stair could be seen winding upward.
“Fanny!” she called sharply. “Fanny! ain’t you ready yet?”
A quick step in the passage above, a subdued whistle, and her son Jim
came clattering down the stair. He glanced at his mother, a slight
pucker between his handsome brows. She returned the look with one of
fond maternal admiration.
“How nice you do look, Jim,” said she, and smiled up at her tall son.
“I always did like you in red, and that necktie—”
Jim Dodge shrugged his shoulders with a laugh.
“Don’t know about that tie,” he said. “Kind of crude and flashy, ain’t
it, mother?”
“Flashy? No, of course it ain’t. It looks real stylish with the brown
suit.”
“Stylish,” repeated the young man. “Yes, I’m a regular swell—everything
up to date, latest Broadway cut.”
He looked down with some bitterness at his stalwart young person clad
in clothes somewhat shabby, despite a recent pressing.
Mrs. Dodge had returned to her bread which had spread in a mass of
stickiness all over the board.
“Where’s Fanny?” she asked, glancing up at the noisy little clock on
the shelf above her head. “Tell her to hurry, Jim. You’re late, now.”
Jim passed his hand thoughtfully over his clean-shaven chin.
“You might as well know, mother; Fan isn’t going.”
“Not going?” echoed Mrs. Dodge, sharp dismay in voice and eyes. “Why, I
did up her white dress a-purpose, and she’s been making up ribbon
bows.”
She extricated her fingers from the bread and again hurried across the
floor.
Her son intercepted her with a single long stride.
“No use, mother,” he said quietly. “Better let her alone.”
“You think it’s—?”
The young man slammed the door leading to the stairway with a fierce
gesture.
“If you weren’t blinder than a bat, mother, you’d know by this time
what ailed Fan,” he said angrily.
Mrs. Dodge sank into a chair by the table.
“Oh, I ain’t blind,” she denied weakly; “but I thought mebbe Fannie—I
hoped—”
“Did you think she’d refused him?” demanded Jim roughly. “Did you
suppose—? Huh! makes me mad clean through to think of it.”
Mrs. Dodge began picking the dough off her fingers and rolling it into
little balls which she laid in a row on the edge of the table.
“I’ve been awful worried about Fanny—ever since the night of the fair,”
she confessed. “He was here all that afternoon and stayed to tea; don’t
you remember? And they were just as happy together—I guess I can tell!
But he ain’t been near her since.”
She paused to wipe her eyes on a corner of her gingham apron.
“Fanny thought—at least I sort of imagined Mr. Elliot didn’t like the
way you treated him that night,” she went on piteously. “You’re kind of
short in your ways, Jim, if you don’t like anybody; don’t you know you
are?”
The young man had thrust his hands deep in his trousers’ pockets and
was glowering at the dough on the molding board.
“That’s rotten nonsense, mother,” he burst out. “Do you suppose, if a
man’s really in love with a girl, he’s going to care a cotton hat about
the way her brother treats him? You don’t know much about men if you
think so. No; you’re on the wrong track. It wasn’t my fault.”
His mother’s tragic dark eyes entreated him timidly.
“I’m awfully afraid Fanny’s let herself get all wrapped up in the
minister,” she half whispered. “And if he—”
“I’d like to thrash him!” interrupted her son in a low tense voice.
“He’s a white-livered, cowardly hypocrite, that’s my name for Wesley
Elliot!”
“But, Jim, that ain’t goin’ to help Fanny—what you think of Mr. Elliot.
And anyway, it ain’t so. It’s something else. Do you—suppose, you
could—You wouldn’t like to—to speak to him, Jim—would you?”
“What! speak to that fellow about my sister? Why, mother, you must be
crazy! What could I say?—‘My sister Fanny is in love with you; and I
don’t think you’re treating her right.’ Is that your idea?”
“Hush, Jim! Don’t talk so loud. She might hear you.”
“No danger of that, mother; she was lying on her bed, her face in the
pillow, when I looked in her room ten minutes ago. Said she had a
headache and wasn’t going.”
Mrs. Dodge drew a deep, dispirited sigh.
“If there was only something a body could do,” she began. “You might
get into conversation with him, kind of careless, couldn’t you, Jim?
And then you might mention that he hadn’t been to see us for two
weeks—’course you’d put it real cautious, then perhaps he—”
A light hurried step on the stair warned them to silence; the door was
pushed open and Fanny Dodge entered the kitchen. She was wearing the
freshly ironed white dress, garnished with crisp pink ribbons; her
cheeks were brilliant with color, her pretty head poised high.
“I changed my mind,” said she, in a hard, sweet voice. “I decided I’d
go, after all. My—my head feels better.”
Mother and son exchanged stealthy glances behind the girl’s back as she
leaned toward the cracked mirror between the windows, apparently intent
upon capturing an airy tendril of hair which had escaped confinement.
“That’s real sensible, Fanny,” approved Mrs. Dodge with perfunctory
cheerfulness. “I want you should go out all you can, whilest you’re
young, an’ have a good time.”
Jim Dodge was silent; but the scowl between his eyes deepened.
Mrs. Dodge formed three words with her lips, as she shook her head at
him warningly.
Fanny burst into a sudden ringing laugh.
“Oh, I can see you in the glass, mother,” she cried. “I don’t care what
Jim says to me; he can say anything he likes.”
[Illustration] “Oh, I can see you in the glass, mother,” she cried.
Her beautiful face, half turned over her shoulder, quivered slightly.
“If you knew how I—” she began, then stopped short.
“That’s just what I was saying to Jim,” put in her mother eagerly.
The girl flung up both hands in a gesture of angry protest.
“Please don’t talk about me, mother—to Jim, or anybody. Do you hear?”
Her voice shrilled suddenly loud and harsh, like an untuned string
under the bow.
Jim Dodge flung his hat on his head with an impatient exclamation.
“Come on, Fan,” he said roughly. “Nobody’s going to bother you. Don’t
you worry.”
Mrs. Dodge had gone back to her kneading board and was thumping the
dough with regular slapping motions of her capable hands, but her thin
dark face was drawn into a myriad folds and puckers of anxiety.
Fanny stooped and brushed the lined forehead with her fresh young lips.
“Goodnight, mother,” said she. “I wish you were going.”
She drew back a little and looked down at her mother, smiling
brilliantly.
“And don’t you worry another minute about me, mother,” she said
resolutely. “I’m all right.”
“Oh, I do hope so, child,” returned her mother, sniffing back her ready
tears. “I’d hate to feel that you—”
The girl hurried to the door, where her brother stood watching her.
“Come on, Jim,” she said. “We have to stop for Ellen.”
She followed him down the narrow path to the gate, holding her crisp
white skirts well away from the dew-drenched border. As the two emerged
upon the road, lying white before them under the brilliant moonlight,
Fanny glanced up timidly at her brother’s dimly seen profile under the
downward sweep of his hat-brim.
“It’s real dusty, isn’t it?” said she, by way of breaking a silence she
found unbearable. “It’ll make my shoes look horrid.”
“Walk over on the side more,” advised Jim laconically.
“Then I’ll get in with all those weeds; they’re covered with dust and
wet, besides,” objected Fanny.... “Say, Jim!”
“Well?”
“Wouldn’t it be nice if we had an auto, then I could step in, right in
front of the house, and keep as clean as—”
The young man laughed.
“Wouldn’t you like an aëroplane better, Fan? I believe I would.”
“You could keep it in the barn; couldn’t you, Jim?”
“No,” derided Jim, “the barn isn’t what you’d call up-to-date. I
require a hangar—or whatever you call ’em.”
The girl smothered a sigh.
“If we weren’t so poor—” she began.
“Well?”
“Oh—lots of things.... They say that Orr girl has heaps of money.”
“Who says so?” demanded her brother roughly.
“Why, everybody. Joyce Fulsom told me her father said so; and he ought
to know. Do you suppose—?”
“Do I suppose what?”
Jim’s tone was almost savage.
“What’s the matter with you, Jim?”
Fanny’s sweet voice conveyed impatience, almost reproach. It was as if
she had said to her brother, “You know how I must feel, and yet you are
cross with me.”
Jim glanced down at her, sudden relenting in his heart.
“I was just thinking it’s pretty hard lines for both of us,” said he.
“If we were rich and could come speeding into town in a snappy auto,
our clothes in the latest style, I guess things would be different.
There’s no use talking, Fan; there’s mighty little chance for our sort.
And if there’s one thing I hate more than another it’s what folks call
sympathy.”
“So do I!” cried Fanny. “I simply can’t bear it to know that people are
saying behind my back, ‘There’s _poor_ Fanny Dodge; I wonder—’ Then
they squeeze your hand, and gaze at you and sigh. Even mother—I want
you to tell mother I’m not—that it isn’t true—I can’t talk to her,
Jim.”
“I’ll put her wise,” said Jim gruffly.
After a pause, during which both walked faster than before, he said
hurriedly, as if the words broke loose:
“Don’t you give that fellow another thought, Fan. He isn’t worth it!”
The girl started like a blooded horse under the whip. She did not
pretend to misunderstand.
“I know you never liked him, Jim,” she said after a short silence.
“You bet I didn’t! Forget him, Fan. That’s all I have to say.”
“But—if I only knew what it was—I must have done something—said
something— I keep wondering and wondering. I can’t help it, Jim.”
There was an irrepressible sob in the girl’s voice.
“Come, Fan, pull yourself together,” he urged. “Here’s Ellen waiting
for us by the gate. Don’t for heaven’s sake give yourself away. Keep a
stiff upper lip, old girl!”
“Well, I thought you two were never coming!” Ellen’s full rich voice
floated out to them, as they came abreast of the Dix homestead nestled
back among tall locust trees.
The girl herself daintily picked her way toward them among the weeds by
the roadside. She uttered a little cry of dismay as a stray branch
caught in her muslin skirts.
“That’s the sign of a beau, Ellen,” laughed Fanny, with extravagant
gayety. “The bigger the stick the handsomer and richer the beau.”
“What made you so late?” inquired Ellen, as all three proceeded on
their way, the two girls linked affectionately arm in arm; Jim Dodge
striding in the middle of the road a little apart from his companions.
“Oh, I don’t know,” fibbed Fanny. “I guess I was slow starting to
dress. The days are so long now I didn’t realize how late it was
getting.”
Ellen glanced sympathizingly at her friend.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t want to come, Fanny,” she murmured, “Seeing
the social is at Mrs. Solomon Black’s house.”
“Why shouldn’t I want to come?” demanded Fanny aggressively.
“Well, I didn’t know,” replied Ellen.
After a pause she said:
“That Orr girl has really bought the Bolton house; I suppose you heard?
It’s all settled; and she’s going to begin fixing up the place right
off. Don’t you think it’s funny for a girl like her to want a house all
to herself. I should think she’d rather board, as long as she’s
single.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Jim Dodge coolly.
“You folks’ll get money out of it; so shall we,” Ellen went on.
“Everybody’s so excited! I went down for the mail this afternoon and
seemed to me ’most everybody was out in the street talking it over. My!
I’d hate to be her tonight.”
“Why?” asked Fanny shortly.
“Oh, I don’t know. Everybody will be crowding around, asking questions
and saying things.... Do you think she’s pretty, Jim?”
“Pretty?” echoed the young man.
He shot a keen glance at Ellen Dix from under half-closed lids. The
girl’s big, black eyes were fixed full upon him; she was leaning
forward, a suggestion of timid defiance in the poise of her head.
“Well, that depends,” he said slowly. “No, I don’t think she’s
_pretty_.”
Ellen burst into a sudden trill of laughter.
“Well, I never!” she exclaimed. “I supposed all the men—”
“But I do think she’s beautiful,” he finished calmly. “There’s a
difference, you know.”
Ellen Dix tossed her head.
“Oh, is there?” she said airily. “Well, I don’t even think she’s
pretty; do you, Fan?—with all that light hair, drawn back plain from
her forehead, and those big, solemn eyes. But I guess she _thinks_
she’s pretty, all right.”
“She doesn’t think anything about herself,” said Jim doggedly. “She
isn’t that kind of a girl.”
Ellen Dix bit a vexed exclamation short.
“I don’t believe any of us know her very well,” she said, after a
pause. “You know what a gossip Lois Daggett is? Well, I met her and
Mrs. Fulsom and Mrs. Whittle coming out of the Daggetts’ house. They’d
been talking it over; when they saw me they stopped me to ask if I’d
been to see Miss Orr, and when I said no, not yet, but I was going,
Lois Daggett said, ‘Well, I do hope she won’t be quite so close-mouthed
with you girls. When I asked her, real sympathizing, who she was
wearing black for, she said she had lost a dear friend and never even
told who it was!’”
Jim Dodge threw back his head and burst into a laugh.
“Served her right,” he said.
“You mean Lois?”
“You didn’t suppose I meant Miss Orr; did you?”
Jim’s voice held a disdainful note which brought the hot color to
Ellen’s cheeks.
“I’m not so stupid as you seem to think, Jim Dodge,” she said, with
spirit.
“I never thought you were stupid, Ellen,” he returned quickly. “Don’t
make a mistake and be so now.”
Ellen gazed at him in hurt silence. She guessed at his meaning and it
humiliated her girlish pride.
It was Fanny who said somewhat impatiently: “I’m sure I can’t think
what you mean, Jim.”
“Well, in my humble opinion, it would be downright stupid for you two
girls to fool yourselves into disliking Lydia Orr. She’d like to be
friends with everybody; why not give her a chance?”
Again Ellen did not reply; and again it was Fanny who spoke the words
that rose to her friend’s lips unuttered:
“I can’t see how you should know so much about Miss Orr, Jim.”
“I don’t myself,” he returned good-humoredly. “But sometimes a man can
see through a woman better—or at least more fair-mindedly than another
woman. You see,” he added, “there’s no sex jealousy in the way.”
Both girls cried out in protest against this.
It wasn’t so, they declared. He ought to be ashamed of himself! As for
being _jealous_ of any one—Fanny haughtily disclaimed the suggestion,
with a bitterness which astonished her friend.
It was something of a relief to all three when the brilliantly
illuminated house and grounds belonging to Mrs. Solomon Black came in
view. Japanese lanterns in lavish abundance had been strung from tree
to tree and outlined the piazza and the walk leading to the house.
“Doesn’t it look lovely!” cried Ellen, scattering her vexation to the
winds. “I never saw anything so pretty!”
Inside the house further surprises awaited them; the music of harp and
violins stole pleasantly through the flower-scented rooms, which were
softly lighted with shaded lamps the like of which Brookville had never
seen before.
Mrs. Solomon Black, arrayed in a crisp blue taffeta, came bustling to
meet them. But not before Fanny’s swift gaze had penetrated the
assembled guests. Yes! there was Wesley Elliot’s tall figure. He was
talking to Mrs. Henry Daggett at the far end of the double parlors.
“Go right up stairs and lay off your things,” urged their hostess
hospitably. “Ladies to the right; gents to the left. I’m so glad you
came, Fanny. I’d begun to wonder—”
The girl’s lip curled haughtily. The slight emphasis on the personal
pronoun and the fervid squeeze of Mrs. Black’s fat hand hurt her sore
heart. But she smiled brilliantly.
“Thank you, Mrs. Black, I wouldn’t have missed it for worlds!” she said
coldly.