Fanny Dodge sat by the pleasant west window of the kitchen, engaged in
reading those aimless shreds of local information which usually make up
the outside pages of the weekly newspaper. She could not possibly feel
the slightest interest in the fact that Mr. and Mrs. James M. Snider of
West Schofield were entertaining a daughter, whose net weight was
reported to be nine and three quarters pounds; or that Miss Elizabeth
Wardwell of Eltingville had just issued beautifully engraved
invitations to her wedding, which was to take place on the seventeenth
day of October—yet she went on reading. Everybody read the paper.
Sometimes they talked about what they read. Anyway, her work was over
for the day—all except tea, which was negligible; so she went on,
somewhat drearily suppressing a yawn, to a description of the new
water-works, which were being speedily brought to completion in “our
neighboring enterprising town of Brookville.”
Fanny already knew all there was to tell concerning the concrete
reservoir on the mountain, the big conduit leading to the village and
the smaller pipes laid wherever there were householders desiring water.
These were surprisingly few, considering the fact that there would be
no annual charge for the water, beyond the insignificant sum required
for its up-keep. People said their wells were good enough for them; and
that spring water wasn’t as good as cistern water, when it came to
washing. Some were of the opinion that Lydia Orr was in a fool’s hurry
to get rid of her money; others that she couldn’t stand it to be out of
the limelight; and still other sagacious individuals felt confident
there was something in it for “that girl.” Fanny had heard these
various views of Miss Orr’s conduct. She was still striving with
indifferent success to rise above her jealousy, and to this end she
never failed to champion Lydia’s cause against all comers. Curiously
enough, this course had finally brought her tranquillity of a sort and
an utter unprotesting acquiescence.
Mrs. Whittle had been overheard saying to Mrs. Fulsom that she guessed,
after all, Fanny Dodge didn’t care so much about the minister.
Fanny, deep once more in the absorbing consideration of the question
which had once been too poignant to consider calmly, and the answer to
which she was never to know, permitted the paper to slide off her knee
to the floor: Why had Wesley Elliot so suddenly deserted her? Surely,
he could not have fallen in love with another woman; she was sure he
had been in love with her. However, to kiss and forget might be one of
the inscrutable ways of men. She was really afraid it was. But Wesley
Elliot had never kissed her; had never even held her hand for more than
a minute at a time. But those minutes loomed large in retrospect.
The clock struck five and Fanny, roused from her reverie by the sudden
sound, glanced out of the window. At the gate she saw Elliot. He stood
there, gazing at the house as if uncertain whether to enter or not.
Fanny put up a tremulous hand to her hair, which was pinned fast in its
accustomed crisp coils; then she glanced down at her blue gown.... Yes;
he was coming in! The bell hanging over the passage door jangled
shrilly. Fanny stood stock-still in the middle of the floor, staring at
it. There was no fire in the parlor. She would be forced to bring him
out to the kitchen. She thought of the wide, luxuriously furnished
rooms of Bolton house and unconsciously her face hardened. She might
pretend she did not hear the bell. She might allow him to go away,
thinking none of the family were at home. She pictured him, standing
there on the doorstep facing the closed door; and a perverse spirit
held her silent, while the clock ticked resoundingly. Then all at once
with a smothered cry she hurried through the hall, letting the door
fall to behind her with a loud slam.
He was waiting patiently on the doorstep, as she had pictured him; and
before a single word had passed between them she knew that the stone
had been rolled away. His eyes met hers, not indeed with the old look,
but with another, incomprehensible, yet wonderfully soul-satisfying.
“I wanted to tell you about it, before it came to you from the
outside,” he said, when they had settled themselves in the warm, silent
kitchen.
His words startled Fanny. Was he going to tell her of his approaching
marriage to Lydia? Her color faded, and a look of almost piteous
resignation drooped the corners of her mouth. She strove to collect her
scattered wits, to frame words of congratulation with which to meet the
dreaded avowal.
He appeared in no hurry to begin; but bent forward, his eyes upon her
changing face.
“Perhaps you know, already,” he reflected. “She may have told your
brother.”
“Are you speaking of Miss Orr?”
Her voice sounded strange in her own ears.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “But I suppose one should give her her rightful
name, from now on.”
“I—I hadn’t heard,” said Fanny, feeling her hard-won courage slipping
from her. “Jim didn’t tell me. But of course I am not—surprised.”
He evidently experienced something of the emotion she had just denied.
“No one seemed to have guessed it,” he said. “But now everything is
plain. Poor girl!”
He fell into a fit of musing, which he finally broke to say:
“I thought you would go to see her. She sorely needs friends.”
“She has—you,” said Fanny in a smothered voice.
For the life of her she could not withhold that one lightning flash out
of her enveloping cloud.
He disclaimed her words with a swift gesture.
“I’m not worthy to claim her friendship, nor yours,” he said humbly;
“but I hope you—sometime you may be able to forgive me, Fanny.”
“I don’t think I understand what you have come to tell me,” she said
with difficulty.
“The village is ringing with the news. She wanted every one to know;
her father has come home.”
“Her father!”
“Ah, you didn’t guess, after all. I think we were all blind. Andrew
Bolton has come back to Brookville, a miserable, broken man.”
“But you said—her father. Do you mean that Lydia Orr—”
“It wasn’t a deliberate deception on her part,” he interrupted quickly.
“She has always been known as Lydia Orr. It was her mother’s name.”
Fanny despised herself for the unreasoning tumult of joy which surged
up within her. He could not possibly marry Andrew Bolton’s daughter!
He was watching her closely.
“I thought perhaps, if she consented, I would marry Lydia Orr,” he
forced himself to tell her. “I want you to know this from me, now. I
decided that her money and her position would help me.... I admired
her; I even thought at one time I—loved her. I tried to love her.... I
am not quite so base as to marry without love.... But she knew. She
tried to save me.... Then her father—that wretched, ruined man came to
me. He told me everything.... Fanny, that girl is a saint!”
His eyes were inscrutable under their somber brows. The girl sitting
stiffly erect, every particle of color drained from her young face,
watched him with something like terror. Why was he telling her
this?—Why? Why?
His next words answered her:
“I can conceive of no worse punishment than having you think ill of
me.” ... And after a pause: “I deserve everything you may be telling
yourself.”
But coherent thought had become impossible for Fanny.
“Why don’t you marry her?” she asked clearly.
“Oh, I asked her. I knew I had been a cad to both of you. I asked her
all right.”
Fanny’s fingers, locked rigidly in her lap, did not quiver. Her blue
eyes were wide and strange, but she tried to smile.
His voice, harsh and hesitating, went on: “She refused me, of course.
She had known all along what I was. She said she did not love me; that
I did not love her—which was God’s truth. I wanted to atone. You see
that, don’t you?”
He looked at Fanny and started.
“My God, Fanny!” he cried. “I have made you suffer too!”
“Never mind me.”
“Fanny, can you love me and be my wife after all this?”
“I am a woman,” said Fanny. Her eyes blazed angrily at him. Then she
laughed and put up her mouth to be kissed.
“Men will make fools of women till the Day of Judgment,” said she, and
laughed again.