A KINNEY LARK AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
“It’s certainly good to see you again!” Mrs. Kinney exclaimed as Nan
met her by arrangement at a confectioner’s. “How much time are you
going to give me?”
“Oh, I haven’t any,” laughed Nan. “I’ve run away. Papa isn’t so well
to-day and couldn’t take his drive as usual, so I’m truanting--and very
naughty. I must be back in the house before five.”
“Well, when I got your message I telephoned Billy to come to the house
and he’ll be there as soon as we are. He’s been in the depths for
weeks. You know you had got a mighty strong hold on dear old Billy, and
when you dropped him it hurt. And we’ve all missed you!”
The Kinneys and their friends had missed her; they had missed her dash,
her antics--the Nan she had resolved to be no more. But it was pleasant
to be in Mrs. Kinney’s company again. She was a simple, friendly soul
who liked clothes and a good time; her capacity for enjoying anything
serious was wholly negligible.
“I knew, of course, that Billy was back of your invitation. I saw him
Saturday--quite accidentally, and he was bluer than indigo.”
“He spent Sunday with us and told us all about meeting you. He was
perfectly furious because you were out skylarking with one of his
clerks! But he got to laughing about it,--told us some funny stories
about your new suitor,--Jerry, is that the name?”
“Mr. Jeremiah Amidon, please,” laughed Nan. “It was killing that Billy
should find me out canoeing with him. Jerry and I were kids together,
and he’s grown to be a great consolation to me.”
“He must be a consolation to Billy, too; he says the youngster’s trying
to reform him!” Grace suddenly clasped Nan’s hand. “You ought to take
charge of Billy! He’s awfully in love with you, Nan. He’s going to urge
you to marry him--at once. That’s why--”
“No! No! I’ll never do it,” cried Nan despairingly.
It was another of her mistakes, this yielding to Copeland’s demand
for an interview that could have but one purpose. She was thoroughly
angry at herself, half angry at Mrs. Kinney for acting as Copeland’s
intermediary.
Copeland was pacing the veranda smoking a cigarette when they reached
the house.
“It’s mighty nice of you to come, Nan,” he said.
“I’ve heard, Billy, that the haughty John Eaton’s rather attentive to
the late Mrs. Copeland,” said Grace, when they had gathered about the
tea-table. “She was among those present at a little dinner he gave at
the University Club the other night in honor of that English novelist
who’s visiting here.”
“You’re bitter because he left you out,” said Copeland indifferently.
“Oh, my bitterness won’t hurt Fanny. I suppose you’ve heard that she’s
come into a nice bunch of money--something like a quarter of a million!”
Copeland’s surprise was evident.
“That sounds like a fairy story; but I hope it’s true.”
“I know it’s true,” said Nan quietly. “Mrs. Copeland told me herself.”
Mrs. Kinney had risen to leave them and Copeland had crossed the room
to open the door for her. They were arrested by Nan’s surprising
confirmation of this report that Mrs. Copeland had come into an
unexpected inheritance. Nan vouchsafed nothing more; and at a glance
from Copeland Grace left them.
“I didn’t know you and Fanny were seeing each other these days,” he
remarked as he sat down beside her. “Something new, isn’t it?”
“Well, papa always admired her and he took me out to see her a little
while ago, and then that day you saw her with us at the bank he
insisted on taking her home for luncheon. She told us then about the
money.”
Copeland smiled grimly.
“Of course, you know what it means--Farley’s sudden affection for
Fanny?”
“Oh, he used to see a good deal of her, didn’t he, when you were first
married?”
“Mrs. Farley and Fanny exchanged a few calls and we were there
for dinner once, while you were still away at school. But this is
different; he’s throwing you with her for a purpose, as you ought to
see. It does credit to the old man’s cunning. He thinks that if you
become good friends with Fanny, he can be sure you’ve dropped me.”
“Rubbish! Papa has always liked her; he likes the kind of woman who can
run a farm and make money out of it; he thinks she’s a good example for
me!”
“Don’t let him fool you about that!” he said petulantly. “He’s an old
Shylock and he’s about taken the last ounce out of me. Paying him that
last twenty-five thousand has put me in a bad hole. And it’s pure
vengeance. If he wasn’t afraid you were going to marry me, he would
never have driven me so hard. He thinks if he can ruin me financially
you’ll quit me for good. It was understood when I bought him out that
he’d be easy about the payments. There’s a frame-up between him and
Corbin & Eichberg to force me out of business. And he’s been calling
some of the old employees up to see him, and encouraging Amidon to
trot up there so he can worm things out of him. I don’t think he gets
anything out of Jerry,” he added, taking warning of a resentful gleam
in Nan’s eyes. “I think the boy’s loyal to me; in fact”--he grinned
ruefully--“he’s full of an ambition to make a man of me! But you must
see that it’s all a game to draw you away from me. Farley’s not the
sort of man to waste time on a youngster like Amidon for nothing, and
this throwing you in Fanny’s way is about as smooth a piece of work as
I ever knew him to do.”
“You’re exaggerating, Billy; and as far as Jerry is concerned, papa
likes him; he always takes an interest in poor boys. And the fact that
Jerry came from down there on the river where he had his own early
struggles probably makes him a little more sympathetic with him.”
“The old gentleman’s sympathies,” said Copeland, bending forward and
meeting her gaze with a significant look, “are likely to cost you a
whole lot of money, Nan.”
“Just how do you make that out, Billy?”
“All the hospitals and charitable concerns in town have been working
on Farley to do something for them in his will, and I heard yesterday
that he’s promised to do something big for the Boys’ Club people.
You’ve probably seen Trumbull at the house a good deal--he’s the kind
of fellow who’d make an impression on Farley. I got this from Kinney.
He gave them some money last year and they put him on the board of
directors. They’re all counting on something handsome from the old
man. I assume he hasn’t told you anything about it; it wouldn’t be like
him to! He means to die and let you find out just what his affection
for you comes down to in dollars.”
“Well, he has a right to do what he likes with his money,” Nan replied
slowly, repeating the phrase with which she had sought to console
herself since the will fell into her hands. “I suppose he thinks he’s
done enough for me.”
The phrases of the will danced before her eyes: Copeland’s intimations
squared with the facts as she knew them to be; she had seen tangible
proof of their accuracy.
“We have to admit that he’s been kind to you, but he hasn’t any right
to bring you up as his daughter and then cut you off. You stand in law
as his own child, and if he should die without making a will, you’d
inherit everything.”
“Well, the law hasn’t made me his own child,” said Nan bitterly.
Seeing her resentment, and feeling that he was gaining ground, he
proceeded cautiously.
“I suppose he’s likely to have a sudden call one of these days?”
“Yes; or he may live several years, so the doctor told me. But I don’t
want to think of that. And I don’t like to think of what he may do or
not do for me,” she added earnestly.
“Of course you don’t!” he assented. “But he hasn’t any right to stand
between you and your happiness. If he had the right feeling about you,
he’d want to see you married and settled before he dies. I suppose he’s
never told you what he meant to do for you?”
“No. But he’s told me what he wouldn’t do if I married you; he laid
that down in the plainest English!”
“I don’t doubt it; but no man has a right to do any such thing. Just
why he hates me so I don’t understand. It oughtn’t to be a crime to
love you, Nan.”
His hand touched hers, then clasped it tightly.
“I don’t see why we should be talking of these things at all,” he went
on. “I love you; and I believe that deep down in your heart you love
me. You’re not going to say you don’t, Nan?”
“You know I’ve always liked you a lot, Billy,” she answered evasively.
“Before Farley got the idea that I wanted to marry you for his money
and abused me and made you unhappy, you cared; you can’t deny that. And
I don’t believe his hatred of me really made any difference.”
It was the wiser course not to abuse Farley. He felt that he was
winning her to a yielding mood, and his hopes rose.
She withdrew her hand suddenly and bent her eyes upon him with
disconcerting intentness.
“Please tell me, Billy, the real truth about your trouble with Fanny?”
The abruptness of her question startled him. The color deepened in his
face and he blinked under her searching gaze. She had never before
spoken of his trouble with his former wife.
“That,” he said rallying quickly, “is all over and done. It hasn’t
anything to do with you and me.”
“Yes, Billy; I think it has! If you’re really serious in wanting to
marry me, I think I ought to know about that.”
“I don’t see how you could doubt my seriousness; you’ve been the one
serious thing in my whole life!”
“But Fanny--” she persisted, gently touching his hands that were
loosely clasped on his knee.
“Oh, the trouble was that we were never suited to each other. She’s
quiet, domestic--a country-town girl, and never fitted into things
here. She wanted to sit at home every evening and sew and expected me
to wait around for her to drop a spool so I could get excitement out of
scrambling for it. And she didn’t like my friends, or doing the things
I like. Her idea of having a gay time was to go to the state fair once
a year and look at live stock! I think she hated me toward the end.”
“But that other story about her--about another man; she doesn’t look
like that sort of woman, Billy.”
He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“That wasn’t in the case at all. The divorce was given for
incompatibility. Whatever else there may have been didn’t figure. I
made it as easy for her as possible, of course. And I’ve no doubt she
was as glad to quit as I was!”
“But you didn’t think--you didn’t honestly believe--”
“Well, I thought she was interested in Manning; and we had some trouble
about that. He used to come here a good deal. He was an old friend of
mine and his business brought him to town pretty often for a couple of
years. He’s a fellow of quiet tastes--just her sort--and I hoped when
I got out of the way she’d marry him. I want you to be satisfied about
everything, Nan. I tell you everything’s over between Fanny and me.”
She rose and took a turn across the room, paused at the window, glanced
out upon the lawn and the strip of woodland beyond. He became impatient
as the minutes passed. Then she faced him suddenly.
“It’s no use, Billy,” she said.
He was eagerly protesting when Mrs. Kinney appeared at the door.
“What are you two looking so glum about? You need cheering up and I’ve
got a fine surprise for you!”
“I must go,” said Nan, relieved at the interruption.
“Not much, you’re not! Bob has just telephoned that the Burleys of
Chicago are in town and they’re coming out for dinner. And I’ve
telephoned the Liggetts and the Martins and George Pickard and Edith
Saxby and the Andrews. It will be like old times to have the old crowd
together once more!”
“Of course, Nan will stay! She’s been making me miserable lately and
that will help her square herself,” said Copeland.
“I must go, really,” Nan reiterated, suspecting that the party had been
arranged in advance.
“Please don’t!” cried Copeland. “You can telephone home that you’ve
been delayed--you can arrange it someway.”
“When I went downtown on an errand! I don’t see it!”
“Dinner’s at six; the Burleys have to go into town early,” said Mrs.
Kinney.
“Oh, let her go!” exclaimed Copeland. “Our Nan isn’t the good sport she
used to be, and she doesn’t love any of us any more. She’s gone back on
all her old friends.”
“Oh, no, she hasn’t. I never knew her to take a dare! I don’t believe
she’s going to do it now.”
Nan surveyed them defiantly and looked at her watch.
She felt that she had finally dismissed Billy, and her last word to him
had left her elated. It might be worth while to wait, at any hazard, to
ease his discomfiture, and to show the Kinneys and their friends that
she had not cut them; and, moreover, she was unwilling to have them
know how greatly her old freedom was curtailed. The time had passed
quickly and she could not reach home before seven even if she left
immediately. Miss Rankin had covered up her absences before and might
do so again.
“Let me telephone and I’ll see how things are going.”
The nurse’s report was reassuring. Farley, who had rested badly for
several nights, was sleeping. He might not waken for an hour--perhaps
not for several hours. Miss Rankin volunteered to explain Nan’s absence
if he should call for her.
“All right, Grace, you may a lay a plate for me!” she announced
cheerfully. “But I must be on my way right after dinner. You understand
that!”
* * * * *
“It’s great to see you on the good old cocktail route again, Nan!”
declared Pickard. “We heard you’d taken the veil!”
The cocktails were passed before they went to the table; there were
quarts for everybody, Grace assured them. The men had already fortified
themselves downtown against any lack of an appetizer at the house.
Mocking exclamations of surprise and alarm followed Nan’s rejection of
her glass.
“That’s not fair, Nan!” they chorused, gathering about her. “You used
to swallow six without blinking an eye.”
“She’s joined the crape-hangers for sure! I didn’t think it of our
Nan!” mourned Pickard.
“Oh, anything to stop your crying!” Nan took the glass Kinney had been
holding for her. “There! I hope you’re satisfied. It’s silly to make so
much fuss about a mere cocktail. No, thanks; not another! There’s no
point in taking the same dare twice!”
At the table the talk at once became animated. Nan had been away from
them so long that she had half forgotten their range of interests.
Burley’s expensive new machine, in which he had motored down from
Chicago; “shows” they had seen; a business scheme--biggest thing
afoot, Burley threw in parenthetically, with a promise to tell Kinney
more about it later; George Pickard’s attentions to the soubrette in
a musical comedy, and references to flirtations which the married men
present had been engaging in--these things were flung upon the table to
be pecked at and dismissed.
“You people are the only real sports in this dismal swamp of a town! I
don’t know how you live here among so many dead ones!” said Burley.
Kinney declared that he intended to move to New York as soon as he got
rid of his patent suits; he was tired of living in a one-horse town.
This suggested a discussion of the merits of New York hotels--a subject
which the Kinneys everywhere west of Manhattan Island find endlessly
exciting.
When champagne was served, Burley rose with elaborate dignity and
invited the other men to join in a toast to the ladies; they were the
best girls in America; he defied anybody to gainsay him. He wished they
might all travel about together all the time hitting only the high
places; and he extended a general invitation to the company to meet him
at Palm Beach the next winter for what he promised should be a grand
time.
“He’d make it Japan if he’d only had a few more drinks,” his wife
remarked to Nan.
By the time salad was served George Pickard thought it well to justify
his reputation as a “cut-up.” His father, a successful lawyer, had left
him a comfortable fortune which George was rapidly distributing. George
had rebelled against the tame social life of the town in which he was
born; he was bored by respectability, and found the freedom of the
Kinneys’ establishment wholly to his liking. He went to the living-room
for the victrola and wheeled it in, playing the newest tango, to a
point just behind Nan’s chair.
“Got to have music; got the habit and can’t eat without music!”
This was accepted as a joke until Copeland protested that he couldn’t
stand the noise and began struggling with Pickard, who bitterly
resented his effort to push the machine out of the room. The music was
hushed presently and Pickard resumed his seat with the understanding
that he might play all he pleased after dinner.
“And we’ll have a dance--I haven’t danced a step in ages!” cried Nan,
entering into the spirit of the occasion.
She had always excused their vulgarity on the ground that they were at
least cheerful, and that probably they were just as good as the people
who frowned upon them. Their admiration was evident from the frequency
with which they invited her opinion on the questions under discussion;
and it was a relief to escape from the invalid air of home and from
what she had convinced herself was Farley’s hostility.
Several times her fingers touched the stem of her wineglass, only to be
withdrawn quickly. Copeland, sitting beside her, noticed her indecision
and drew the glass toward her.
“Just one, for old times’ sake, Nan?”
“All right, Billy!”
She emptied her glass, and then, turning to Copeland, laid her fingers
lightly across the rim.
“That’s all; not another drop!” she said in a low tone.
He laughed and held up his glass for inspection; he had barely touched
his lips to it.
“I had only one cocktail and I haven’t taken any of this stuff,” he
said with a glance that invited approval. “I can do it; you see I can
do it! I can do anything for you, Nan!”
The furtive touch of his hand seemed to establish an understanding
between them that they were spectators, not participants in the revel.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE FURTIVE TOUCH OF HIS HAND SEEMED TO ESTABLISH AN
UNDERSTANDING BETWEEN THEM THAT THEY WERE SPECTATORS, NOT PARTICIPANTS
IN THE REVEL]
“I know you can, and you must, Billy.”
The noise and confusion increased. Edith Saxby had begun to cry--Nan
remembered that Edith usually cried when she was tipsy. She was
bewailing the loss of her salted almonds which she charged Andrews with
appropriating. Andrews thereupon went to the sideboard and brought the
serving-dish of almonds and poured the contents upon the girl’s head.
Pickard leaned across the table to wipe away her tears with his napkin.
In attempting this feat he upset the wine-glasses of his immediate
neighbors, causing a wild scamper to escape the resulting deluge.
Liggett and Burley retaliated by pushing him upon the table, where he
crowned himself with the floral centerpiece. Boisterous expressions of
delight greeted this masterstroke.
“This is getting too rotten!” shouted Copeland.
He seized Pickard and dragged him from the table amid general protests.
“Biggest joke of all,” cried Kinney, pointing at Copeland, “that
Billy’s sober. Everybody else drunk, but Billy sober’s a judge!”
Mrs. Liggett, a stout blonde, shrilly resenting this as an imputation
upon her character, attempted to retaliate by slapping Kinney, who
began running round the table to escape her. This continued with the
others cheering them on until she tripped and fell headlong amid
screams of consternation from the women and roars of delight from the
men.
“This is what I call a real ball!” declared Burley.
After Mrs. Liggett had been carried to a divan in the hall to
recuperate, they decided that the possibilities of the table had been
exhausted and returned to the living-room where the victrola was again
set going.
Nan, lingering in the hall, found Andrews beside her.
“Always meant to tell you I loved you, Nan; now’s a good time,” he
blurted. “No girl like you, Nancy!”
His wife appeared suddenly at the door and screamed at him to behave
himself, while the others laughed loudly.
“Rules all suspended to-night; nobody going to be jealous!” cried
Burley encouragingly.
“Got to kiss me, Nan,” Andrews resumed; “kiss everybody else but you
never--”
She pushed him away in disgust. Kinney entertainments, viewed soberly,
clearly lacked the zest she had found in them when exhilarated. She
looked at her watch. She must leave immediately. Copeland beckoned to
her and she turned to him with relief.
“It’s half-past eight, Nan; how soon must you go?”
“At once; I shouldn’t have stayed in the first place.”
“Well, I’ll be glad enough to shake this bunch! Get your things and
I’ll go for the car.”
He had been a very different Billy to-night. It was clear that he meant
to be kind and considerate. The butler passed them bearing a jingling
tray to answer a demand for high-balls from the living-room. Billy was
the only sober man in the company, and she gave him full credit for his
abstemiousness. They were calling her insistently to come and do some
of the “stunts” that she had always contributed to their parties.
She walked to the open door and laughed at them mockingly.
“I’m all in, dead tired! Billy’s going to take me home!”
The sight of them, flushed, rumpled, maudlin, increased her desire to
escape as quickly as possible. She bade them good-night amid their loud
reproaches, went for her hat and coat, and was soon in Copeland’s white
roadster spinning toward town.
“Well, Nan, this is fine. We can go on with our talk now.”
“But we finished that, Billy. We can’t go back to it again!”
“Oh, yes, we can; there’s only one way to end it! That sort of
thing”--he jerked his head toward the Kinneys’--“isn’t for you and me.
I’ve cut it out; passed it up for good. I’m going to live straight and
try to get back all I’ve lost: I know everybody’s down on me--waiting
to see me take the count. But with you everything will be different.
You know that; you understand it, Nan!”
Nan’s thoughts were sober ones. She did like Billy; his good conduct
at the party was encouraging; he could be a man if he would. He was a
boy--a big, foolish boy, kind of heart, and generous, with a substratum
of real character. The actual difference in years did not matter
greatly; he was as slim and trim as a youngster just out of college.
From the beginning of their acquaintance they had got on amazingly
well together. And he loved her; she was honestly convinced of this.
Like many young girls she had found the adoration of an older man
flattering. A Farley had been cruelly unjust to her; there was always
that justification. Even after she had given him her solemn assurances
that she would not marry Billy, he had deliberately planned to give the
bulk of his fortune to charity.
After the scenes at the Kinneys’ she found infinite relief and comfort
in the rush of the cool night air, and in the bright shield of stars
above. Billy was the only person in all the world who cared, who
understood! In her anxiety to be just, she gave to his good conduct
during the evening an exaggerated importance and assured herself that
there was a manliness in him that she had never appreciated.
“Dear old Billy!” she said softly, and laid her hand lightly on his arm.
“Oh, Nan!”
With a happy laugh he brought the machine to an abrupt stop.
“Dear little girl! Dear little Nan!” he murmured, his arms clasping
her. “You belong to me now; nobody’s ever going to take you away from
me. I love you; you’re dearer to me than all the world; and I’m so
happy and proud!”
They talked for a time in subdued tones of the future. Yes; she had
made the great decision. It seemed, now that she had given her word,
that it had been inevitable from the beginning. There would be no more
uncertainty, no more unhappiness. His arms were a happy refuge. No one
had ever been as kind to her as he had been. She no longer questioned
his good faith, or doubted his love.
“Oh, Billy, we must hurry! I’m in for a bad time, if I’m caught.”
When she reached the house the nurse let her in. Farley had wakened
once and asked for her, Miss Rankin said, but he had been satisfied
with an explanation that Nan had gone early to bed.