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INSTEAD OF THE THORN
A Novel
by
CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM
[Illustration]
Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin Company
The Riverside Press Cambridge
Copyright, 1916, by Clara Louise Burnham
All Rights Reserved
Published April 1916
TO
C.T.R.
WITH LOVING AND GRATEFUL MEMORIES
OF JOCKEY HILL
_Contents_
I. AT THE SOUTH SHORE 1
II. HOT TEA 10
III. COLD WATER 25
IV. THE JUNE NIGHT 44
V. THE CAPE 57
VI. THE SHINGLED COTTAGE 73
VII. THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED 94
VIII. A BUSINESS INTERVIEW 109
IX. CORRESPONDENCE 122
X. THE SPELL BREAKS 134
XI. EASTWARD HO! 145
XII. EN ROUTE 160
XIII. HOME-COMING 174
XIV. BLANCHE AURORA 189
XV. THE HARBOR 201
XVI. THE VOICE OF TRUTH 218
XVII. THE RAINBOW 231
XVIII. THE PINK DRESS 247
XIX. THE WILD ROSE 261
XX. BEHIND THE BIRCHES 278
XXI. REVELATION 293
XXII. THE PENITENT 306
XXIII. A GOOD NEIGHBOR 321
XXIV. WHITCOMB'S CONFESSION 335
XXV. THE MAN AND THE MAID 350
XXVI. A DIPLOMATIST 366
XXVII. THE FULL MOON 379
INSTEAD OF THE THORN
_Instead of the Thorn_
CHAPTER I
AT THE SOUTH SHORE
On a June evening, Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe were entertaining their
New York friends the Lindsays at dinner at the South Shore Club. The
dining-room, with its spacious semicircle of glass, is a place where
Chicago may entertain New York with complacence, for the windows give
upon Lake Michigan, whose billows break so close to the border of
velvety grass that the effect is of dining on a yacht.
The Lindsays were enamored of the great marine view, lovely in the long
June evening, and with many an admiring comment watched the white gulls
hover and wheel above the sunset water.
Mrs. Radcliffe was a stout, white-haired woman, costumed with disregard
of expense, and she habitually wore an expression of countenance which
betokened general optimism.
Mrs. Lindsay, of about her friend's age, was spare and lined of face,
offering a contrast to the hostess's plump smoothness. She again raised
a jeweled lorgnette to watch the wheeling gulls.
"Oh, Chicago wouldn't be anything without the lake," remarked Mrs.
Radcliffe complacently.
"And this clubhouse is such a perfect place to watch it," returned her
friend.
"We have a very charming ballroom here," said Mrs. Radcliffe. "I'm
sorry it isn't a formal dance night."
The orchestra was playing a Hesitation Waltz, which reminded her.
For the Hesitation had not yet been driven from the field by troops
who cantered, and those strains were always sufficient to people the
spacious ballroom until it was alive with dancers, old and young.
Indeed, as one comic paper had it that season, "He who does not
hesitate is lost." Just when or why silver threads among the gold
ceased to relegate advancing years to a shelf above the dancers, it
would be hard to say; but certain it is that the rosy walls behind the
pure white columns in the popular ballroom threw their diffused and
becoming light that season upon sometimes agile but always determined
middle age, as well as upon slender youth.
There is a point, however, where Terpsichore stands inexorably and
says, "Thus far and no farther": a point where the wistful dancer
realizes that all is Hesitation, and the Waltz balks. This is reached
in the matron at the weight of two hundred pounds, and Mrs. Radcliffe
had arrived there; so, like the spinster of the story, who settled down
to contentment with her lot when she had "stopped strugglin'," Mrs.
Radcliffe enjoyed peacefully her visits to the club, and invaded the
ballroom only as a spectator.
She looked up now at her friend. "Have you and Mr. Lindsay joined the
one-stepping legion?" she asked.
"No, we have not. We have children and rheumatism. You know that does
make a difference." Mrs. Lindsay's bright, nervous eyes snapped, and
she showed a set of artistic teeth.
Mrs. Radcliffe shrugged a comfortable shoulder. "Well, I have one
child, but that wouldn't stop me. He has a child of his own. Let him
attend to his own affairs. I haven't the rheumatism, but neither have
I any breath to spare. You look at me and you see that."
The two ladies laughed and sipped their coffee. Their husbands, with
chairs moved sidewise, were talking in low tones over their cigarettes.
"We have such a charming ballroom!" repeated the hostess. "It makes me
hate my flesh to go in there; but Mr. Radcliffe says it's the terror
of his life that I may lose an ounce and want to dance, and he is
always urging delicious salads on me." The plump speaker shook again,
till the diamonds on her ample breast scintillated. "He's the laziest
man in Chicago. I suppose I ought to be thankful that he doesn't
improve his slimness and the shining hour by coming and dancing with
these buds. Lots of other gray heads do, and the buds can't help
themselves, poor little things. Isn't that an attractive nosegay over
there?" The speaker indicated the spot where twenty-four young girls
and men were gayly dining at a round table, whose roses, violets, and
lilies-of-the-valley strove with the material feast.
"My daughter-in-law, Harriet, is giving that dinner for her sister,
who has just graduated from our University. If you want to see a
spoiled child of fortune, look at Linda Barry now. That is she, holding
up the glass of grape-juice. Aren't her dimples wonderful? Look at
those brown eyes sparkle. Doesn't her very hair look as if electricity
were running through the locks? I tell you she's a handful! I've always
been so thankful that Henry chose her sister Harriet. Such a quiet,
sensible young woman, Harriet is. She wouldn't let them have any wine,
you see. She says it sounds like Fourth of July all the year around at
this club, and she's terribly particular about Henry. That's Harriet,
sitting with her back to us: the one with the velvet around her throat.
I admire my daughter-in-law, but I always feel she thinks I'm too
frivolous, and spend too much time playing cards."
The speaker's husband caught a part of what she was saying.
"Yes, Lindsay," he said. "You knew one of Barry's daughters married my
boy, didn't you? That's the other one facing us."
Mr. Lindsay turned his iron-gray head until he could observe the
smiling girl, offering a grape-juice toast. The family of the head of
the firm of Barry & Co. was of interest to him.
Some one had stuck a spray of leaves in the thick, bright waves of her
hair.
"Make a corking study of a Bacchante, if some one should paint her just
as she is," remarked the New York man.
"Shades of my daughter-in-law--if she should hear you! She'd say that
Linda had outwitted her after all." Mr. Radcliffe smiled across at his
wife. "Harriet is the modern progressive woman,--goes in for Suffrage
and Eugenics and all that; but with the reserve and quiet of a Puritan.
She can't understand Linda, who is athletic, a comrade of boys, the
idol of her father, and a law unto herself."
Mr. Lindsay was regarding the girl, who was smiling confidently and
making a speech inaudible from the distant corner. "She looks as if she
had the world by the tail," he remarked.
"That about describes her state of mind," responded the other. "Life
has been a triumphal progress for her, so far. She hasn't had a mother
for ten years, and her father couldn't spare her to go away to school,
so here she has been educated, right in our burg, though she's a
millionaire's daughter. You've been in that old-fashioned stone pile of
a house of Barry's up there on Michigan Avenue? I should think Barry'd
be sick of keeping a boarding-house for servants, and I've told him so."
"He's sick of something," returned Mr. Lindsay quietly, "or so it
seemed to my wife and me. We dined there last night."
"Oh, you did?"
"Yes. The daughter wasn't there. Her father said she was away at one of
her graduation festivities. What's the matter with Barry?"
The speaker's eyes left the dimpling girl with the dancing eyes and
came back to his friend as he asked the quiet question.
"Why, nothing that I know of," replied the other, surprised. "Cares of
state, I suppose."
"No rumors on the street?" The slow question was put in a still lower
tone.
"Haven't heard any," was the quick reply.
The other nodded. "Good," he said.
"Why, have you?"
"There's some talk in the East about the Antlers project. Probably
nothing but gossip."
"Nothing else, I'm sure. All these big irrigation deals have something
of a black eye just now, but Barry & Co. know what they're about. They
never buy a pig in a poke."
"What are you saying about pigs, Cyrus?" asked Mrs. Radcliffe smartly.
"You know it's a tabooed subject in our best families."
Mr. Radcliffe paid no attention to her in his disturbance. "You know my
nephew, Bertram King? He came straight out of college into that bank,
and has been there nearly ten years. Barry likes him, and he's had
good luck, and I think another year'll see him in the firm. Everybody
believes that Barry doesn't go into any big deal unless King approves.
I see Bertram quite often. He's over there in that dinner party now:
sitting on Harriet's right. You've met my daughter-in-law?"
"Oh, yes, and King, too. He dined with us last night. Seemed to be a
brainy chap."
"Oh, he's sedate as they make 'em. I often think he's the one that
ought to have married Harriet. See Henry sitting between those pink and
blue girls, and keeping 'em in a roar? He gets his frivolity from his
mother."
Mrs. Radcliffe drew down the corners of her lips. "Frivolity that
captured Harriet Barry, you'll notice. There they go," she added, as
the gay young people at the round table pushed back their chairs;
"there they go to their dance. Happy young things!" Mrs. Radcliffe
sighed. "With all their troubles before them," she added, and the
perfunctoriness of the addition made Mr. Lindsay smile.
"I hope they all weather it as well as you have, Mrs. Radcliffe," he
said.
The host smiled too as they rose from the table.
"So say we all of us," he remarked. "Let's go and have a game. Do you
play nullos, Mrs. Lindsay?"
"I play everything I can get my hands on," she returned promptly.