FATE AND BILLY COPELAND
When Nan left Copeland the night of the Kinney party she promised to
call him the next day. As telephoning from home was hazardous, she
made an excuse for going downtown and called from a department store.
Copeland was not in, and she repeated her call several times without
reaching him. Copeland, if she had known it, was in the directors’ room
at the Western National, discussing his affairs with the president.
She had a superstitious awe of petty frustrations of her plans
and hopes. The Celt in her was alert for signs and miraculous
interventions. It occurred to her that perhaps the angels of light or
darkness were bent upon interfering; the idea kindled her imagination.
In the street she ran into Fanny Copeland. To meet Billy’s former wife,
just when she was trying to perfect plans for marrying Billy, was
altogether dismaying.
“You dear child, I’m so glad to see you!” cried Fanny, taking both
Nan’s hands. “I was just wondering whether I had time to run up to the
house. How is Mr. Farley?”
“Papa hasn’t been quite so well,” Nan answered; “but it’s only a
slight cold. I had to come downtown on an errand,” she explained.
She experienced once more a feeling of self-consciousness, of
unreality, in meeting Fanny face to face: within a day or two she
might be another Mrs. Copeland! And yet Billy had once loved this
woman, undeniably; and she had loved him--she might, for all Nan knew,
still love him. She envied the little woman her equanimity, her poise,
her good cheer. If she were only like that, instead of the wobbly
weather-vane she knew herself to be! Why hadn’t she a firm grip on life
instead of a succession of fatuous clutches at nothing! Nan wished, as
she had wished a thousand times, that troublesome problems would not
rise up to vex her.
The Farley chauffeur had run his machine to the sidewalk to pick her up.
“I hope your father will be better soon,” said Fanny. “Give him my
love, won’t you?”
Nan’s eyes followed her as the car got under way.
When she reached home she met a special delivery messenger at the door.
Her heart jumped; it was a note from Billy, who had risked sending her
a message that might very easily have fallen under her foster-father’s
eye. She thrust it into her pocket unopened and ran upstairs.
“Well, you’re back again, are you?” Farley said harshly.
“Yes, papa; I had an errand I couldn’t put off.”
“It’s always been a mystery to me,” he grumbled, “what women find to
trot downtown for so much.”
“Pins!” she replied lightly. “We always need little things. I met Mrs.
Copeland--looking for pins, too; so you see I’m not the only one.”
“You saw _her_, did you?” he asked with a show of eagerness.
“Yes; I met her as I was coming out of Sterling’s. She was just
starting home.”
“I’d been hoping she’d stop in to see me, but she’s a busy woman.”
“She has a lot to do, of course. If you’d like to see her I’ll
telephone her to come in for luncheon to-morrow.”
He appeared to be pondering this and his hands opened and shut several
times before he answered.
“No; never mind. She’s busy and it really doesn’t matter.” He stared
vacantly at the ceiling for a moment. “I guess that’s all fixed now,”
he added musingly, apparently forgetting her.
She was anxious to be off to her room to read Billy’s note; but she
lingered, curious as to what further he might have to say about Fanny.
“You like that woman, don’t you, Nan? You and she get on--you haven’t
found any traces of ill-feeling toward you?”
His small gray eyes were bent upon her with an odd expression of
mingled hostility and kindness.
“Of course I like her, papa; and I believe she likes me. There’s no
reason why she shouldn’t like me!”
“No reason!” he caught her up contemptuously.
She knew that he was thinking of Billy. His face twitched as a wave of
anger seized him.
“That man is a scoundrel!” he blurted. “If he hadn’t been he’d never
have treated that woman as he did!”
“It doesn’t seem to worry her much!” she flashed back at him. “I don’t
know a happier woman anywhere!”
She realized instantly that the remark was unfortunate. He pointed a
shaking finger at her.
“That woman,” he said, pronouncing the words with ominous deliberation,
“ought to get down on her knees every night and thank God that she’s
rid of him! That great bully, that worthless loafer! But I’ll show him
a few things! If that blackguard thinks he can put anything over on me
he’ll find that I’m smarter than he thinks I am! You remember that!”
“You must be quiet, Mr. Farley,” admonished Miss Rankin, who had
been standing by the window; “the doctor said you weren’t to excite
yourself.”
“I’m not excited,” he flared. “Doctors and lawyers make a nice mess of
this world. They don’t any of ’em know anything!”
He gave himself an impatient twitch and several documents slipped from
under his pillow. He clutched them nervously and thrust them back.
Nan was jubilant for a moment in the knowledge that she knew what those
documents contained--devices for humiliating her after he was gone. If
only he knew how little she cared! He thought of nothing but his money
and means of keeping it from her.
“Go away; I want to think,” he said gruffly.
Nan was grateful for this dismissal, and a moment later had softly
closed her door and was eagerly reading Copeland’s message. It covered
three letter-sheets and the daring of its contents caused her heart to
beat wildly.
What he proposed was immediate marriage. There was to be a military
wedding that night at the church in the next block. Nan, he assumed,
would attend. At the end of the ceremony she had merely to pass out
of the church and his machine would be waiting around the corner.
She could pack a suit-case, ostensibly filled with articles for the
cleaner’s, and he would have a messenger call for it. They would run up
to Lafayette, where he had a married cousin who would have a minister
ready to marry them; then take a train for Chicago and return the next
day and have it out with Farley.
Nan had never shared Copeland’s faith in the idea that once they were
married they might safely rely on Farley’s forgiveness. Farley’s
passionate outbreaks at the mere mention of Copeland pretty effectually
disposed of that hope. But that was not so important, for, in spite
of Farley’s unfavorable opinion of Copeland’s business capacity and
Billy’s own complaint of hard times, she had an idea that Copeland was
well off, if not rich. To outward appearances, the drug business was
as flourishing now as in the days when Farley was still active in its
affairs. It was the way of business men to “talk poor” even when they
were most prosperous; this had, at least, always been Farley’s way.
The gaunt figure in the room across the hall rose wraithlike before
her, giving her pause. Yes, the Farleys had been kind to her; they
had caught her away from the world’s rough hand and had done all that
it was in their power to do to make a decent, self-respecting woman
of her. Her advantages had been equal to those enjoyed by most of
the girls she knew. Many people--the town’s “old stock,” Farley’s
substantial neighbors--would see nothing romantic or amusing in her
flight with Copeland. They would call her the basest ingrate; she
could fancy them saying that blood will tell; that after all she was a
nobody, a girl without background or antecedents, whom the Farleys had
picked up, out of the kindness of their simple hearts, and that she had
taken the first chance to slap them in the face.
Then she remembered the will that had given her the key to Farley’s
intentions. Possibly the new will, which Thurston had brought to the
house that day, cut her expectations to an even lower figure....
It pleased her to think that she was studying the matter
dispassionately, arguing with herself both for and against Billy’s
plan. It was more honest to marry Copeland now and be done with it
than to wait and marry him after Farley’s death. This she found a
particularly satisfying argument in favor of marrying him at once. Her
histrionic sense responded to the suggestion of an elopement; it would
be a great lark, besides bringing her deliverance from the iron hand
of Farley. Yes; she would do it! Her pulses tingled as she visualized
herself as the chief figure in an event that would stir the town. It
was now four o’clock. Copeland had written that at five a messenger
would call for her suit-case, and all she had to do was to step into
his car when she came out of the church.
She was downstairs listening for the bell when the messenger rang. As
she handed him the suit-case she felt herself already launched upon a
great adventure. While she was at the door the afternoon paper arrived
and she carried it up to Farley and read him the headlines.
She had her dinner with him in his room. There was a pathos in his lean
frame, his deep-furrowed brow, in the restless, gnarled hands. She was
not so happy over her plans as she had expected to be. She kept saying
to herself that it wasn’t quite fair--not an honest return for all the
kindnesses of her foster-parents--to run away and leave this broken old
man. As she thought of it, every unkind word he had said to her had
been merited; she had lied to him, disobeyed him, and tricked him.
“What’s the matter with your appetite, Nan?” he asked suddenly. “Seems
to me you’ve looked a little peaked lately. Maybe you don’t get enough
exercise now we’ve got the machine.”
“Oh, I’m perfectly well,” she replied hastily.
“Well, you’ve been cooped up here all summer. You’d better take a trip
this winter. We’ll keep a lookout for somebody that’s goin’ South and
get ’em to take you along.”
“Oh, that isn’t necessary, papa. I never felt better in my life.”
“Isn’t this the night for that Parish girl’s wedding?” he asked later.
“Yes; I thought I’d go,” she answered carelessly. “It’s at the
Congregational Church, and I can go alone.”
“All right; you be sure to go. You never saw an army wedding? I guess
’most everybody will be there.”
When he reminded her that it was time to dress she answered
indifferently that she didn’t care to go to the reception, and that the
gown she had on would be perfectly suitable.
“I’ll just watch the show from a back seat, papa; you can see a wedding
better from the rear, anyhow.”
“Well, don’t hurry back on my account.”
She had been afraid that he would raise some objection to her going
without an escort; but he made no comment.
She ran her eyes over the things in her room--photographs of girls she
had known at boarding-school, trifles for the toilet-table that had
been given her on birthdays and holidays. It was a big comfortable
room, the largest bedroom in the house, with a window-seat that had
been built specially for her when she came home from school. She
glanced over the trinkets that littered the mantel, and took from
its leathern case a medal she had won in school for excellence in
recitations. On the wall hung a photograph of herself as Rosalind, a
part she had played in an out-of-doors presentation of “As You Like
It.”...
She must leave some explanation of her absence--so she sat down at her
desk and wrote:--
_Dear Papa_:--
Please don’t be hard on me, but I’ve run away to marry Mr. Copeland.
We are going to Lafayette to his cousin’s and shall be married at
her house to-night. I hope you won’t be hard on me; I shall explain
everything to you when I see you and I think you will understand. We
shall be back very soon and I will let you know where I shall be.
She hesitated a moment and then closed with “Your loving daughter,
Nan.” She thrust this into an envelope, addressed it in a bold hand to
Timothy Farley, Esq., and placed it under a small silver box on the
mantel.
She stood a moment at the door, then closed it softly and went in to
say good-night to Farley. He took the hand on which she had half-drawn
her glove and held it while his eyes slowly surveyed her.
“I didn’t know whether you’d wear a hat to an evening wedding. I never
know about those things.”
“Oh, this is such a foolish little thing, papa; you’d hardly call it a
hat,” she laughed.
“Well, don’t let one of those army officers pick you up and carry you
off. I want to hold on to you a little longer.”
As she bent to kiss him tears sprang to her eyes. Face to face with it,
there was nothing heroic, nothing romantic in abandoning the kindest
friend she was ever likely to know, and in a fashion so shamelessly
abrupt and cruel.
“Good-night, papa!” she cried bravely and tripped downstairs, humming
to keep up her courage.
She absently took her latch-key from a bowl on the hall table and did
not remember until she had thrust it into her glove as she went down
the steps that she would have no use for it. It was the finest of
autumn nights and many were walking to the church; there was a flutter
of white raiment, and a festal gayety marked the street. She waited
for those immediately in sight to pass before leaving the yard and
then walked toward the church.
She eluded an officer resplendent in military dress who started toward
her and stole into the nearest seat. The subdued happiness that seemed
to thrill the atmosphere, the organist’s preludings, the air of
expectancy intensified her sense of detachment and remoteness.
The notes of the “Lohengrin” march roused her from her reverie and she
craned her neck for a first sight of the attendants and the bride.
Just before the benediction she left, and was soon in the side
street where Billy was to leave his car. She had expected him to
be in readiness, but he had evidently waited for the end of the
ceremony--which seemed absurd when they were so soon to have a wedding
of their own! It was inconsiderate of him to keep her waiting. The
street began to fill and she loitered, ill at ease, while the organ
trumpeted joyfully.
Then she saw the familiar white roadster, with Billy in the chauffeur’s
seat, turning into the side street where several policemen were
already directing the movements of the parked carriages and motors
toward the church entrance. His overcoat was flung open and the light
of the lamp at the intersecting streets smote upon his shirt bosom.
It was ridiculous for him to have put on evening clothes and a silk
hat when he had a long drive before him! The policemen bawled to him
not to interfere with the traffic. Ignoring their signals he drove
his car forward. Nan watched with mounting anger the disturbance he
was creating. The crowd that had assembled in the hope of catching a
glimpse of the bride now found Copeland and his altercation with the
police much more diverting.
“Billy Copeland’s drunk again,” some one behind Nan remarked
contemptuously.
The white car suddenly darted forward and crashed into a motor that
was advancing in line toward the corner, causing a stampede among the
waiting vehicles.
While the police were separating the two cars, Nan caught sight of
Eaton, who seemed to be trying to persuade the policemen of Copeland’s
good intentions. Billy’s voice was perfectly audible to the spectators
as he demanded to be let alone.
“They haven’t got any right to block this street; it’s against the law
to shut up a street that way!”
The policemen dragged him from the seat and a chauffeur from one of
the waiting cars jumped in and backed the machine out of the way. Nan
waited uncertainly to see what disposition the police were making of
Billy; but having lifted the blockade they left him to his own devices.
He had been drinking; that was the only imaginable explanation of his
conduct, and her newly established confidence in him was gone. However,
it would be best to wait and attempt to speak to him, as he might
mingle in the crowd and make inquiries for her that would publish the
fact that they had planned flight.
Suddenly she heard her name spoken, and turned to find Eaton beside her.
“Too bad about Copeland,” he remarked in his usual careless fashion;
“but one of those policemen promised to see that he went home.”
She was bewildered by his sudden appearance. Eaton never missed
anything; he would certainly make note of her gown and hat as not
proper for occasions of highest ceremony. Nor was it likely that he had
overlooked the two suitcases strapped to the rear of Billy’s car.
“Looked for you all over the church, and had given you up,” Eaton was
saying. “You can’t say no--simply got to have you! Stupid to be pulling
off a wedding the night we’re dedicating the new swimming-pool at
the Wright Settlement House. Programme all shot to pieces, but Mamie
Pembroke’s going to sing and you’ve got to do a recitation. Favor
to an old friend! They dumped the full responsibility on me at six
o’clock--six, mind you!”
Nan bewildered, uncertain, suffered him to pilot her round the corner,
wondering how much he knew, and trying to adjust herself to this new
situation. A car that she recognized as the Pembrokes’ stood at the
curb.
“Oh, come right along, Nan; there’s no use saying you won’t!” cried
Mamie Pembroke.
The Pembrokes were among those who had dropped her after she became
identified with the Kinneys, and her rage at Copeland was mitigated by
their cordiality.
“Hello, Mamie! What on earth do you want with me!”
“Oh, it’s a lark; one of this crazy Eaton man’s ideas.”
Nan knew that she had been recognized by many people, and that even if
Copeland had not made a fool of himself the elopement was now out of
the question. She felt giddy and leaned heavily on Eaton’s arm as he
helped her into the car.
“You were alone, weren’t you, Nan?” Eaton asked as the machine started.
“Yes,” she faltered, settling back into a seat beside Mrs. Pembroke.
“Then we’d better stop at your house so Mr. Farley won’t be troubled
about you.”
As she had not meant to return at all, it seemed absurd to go back now
to say that she was going to a settlement house entertainment and would
be home in an hour or so. The telltale letter could hardly have been
found yet and she must dispose of it immediately. The car whirled round
to the Farleys’ and Nan let herself in with her key.
Farley was awake, reading a magazine article on “The Ohio in the Civil
War.”
“Back already! Getting married doesn’t take long, does it?--not as long
as getting out of it!”
“Oh, the wedding was stunning!” she cried breathlessly. “I never saw so
much gold braid in my life. I’m going with the Pembrokes and Mr. Eaton
down to dedicate a swimming-pool at the Wright Settlement House. I just
stopped to tell you, so you wouldn’t worry.”
“Tom Pembroke going down there?” he growled. “I thought that tank was
for poor boys. What’s Eaton got to do with it?”
She explained that Eaton was substituting for the president of the
Settlement House Association, who had been called from town, and that
he had asked her to recite something.
“Well, ‘The Ole Swimmin’ Hole’ will come in handy. I always like the
way you do that. Run along now!”
She darted into her room and found the letter just as she had left
it on the mantel. She tore it into strips and threw them into
her beribboned waste-paper basket. Her revulsion of feeling was
complete. It was like waking from a nightmare to find herself secure
amid familiar surroundings. She turned to Farley’s room again and
impulsively bent and kissed him.
“Ain’t you gone yet?” he demanded, with the gruffness that often
concealed his pleasure.
“I’m off for sure this time,” she called back. “Thanks for suggesting
‘The Ole Swimmin’ Hole’--that’s just the thing!”
They found the hall packed with an impatient crowd. Eaton led the
way to the platform and opened the exercises without formality. The
superintendent of the house dealt in statistics as to the service
rendered by the Settlement. Mamie Pembroke sang “The Rosary” and
responded to an encore.
Nan had not faced so large an audience since her appearance as Rosalind
at school. She drew off her gloves before her name was announced, and
as she stood up put aside her hat. At least half a dozen nationalities
were represented in the auditorium; and she resolved to try first
a sketch in which an Irishman, an Italian and a German debated in
brisk dialogue the ownership of a sum of money. She had heard it done
in vaudeville by a comedian of reputation and had mastered it for
dinner-table uses. She had added to it, recast, and improved it, and
she now gave it with all the spirit and nice differentiation of which
she was capable. Eaton, who had heard her several times before, was
surprised at her success; she had taken pains; and how often Eaton, in
thinking of Nan, had wished she would take pains!
There was no ignoring the demand for more, and she gave another comic
piece and added “The Ole Swimmin’ Hole” for good measure. She received
her applause graciously and sat down wondering at her own happiness.
Mrs. Pembroke patted her hand; she heard somebody saying, “Yes,
Farley’s daughter,--adopted her when she was a child!”
Eaton was announcing the close of the programme. It was his pleasant
office, he said, to deliver the natatorium that had been added to the
Settlement House into the keeping of the people of the neighborhood.
“Many lives go to the making of a city like this. Most of you know
little of the men who have built this city, but you profit by their
care and labor as much as though you and your fathers had been born
here. It is the hope of all of us who come here to meet you and to help
you, if we can, that you may be builders yourselves, adding to the
dignity and honor and prosperity of the community.
“Now, only one man besides myself knows who gave the money for the
building of the swimming-pool. The other man is the donor himself. He
is one of the old merchants of this city, a man known for his honesty
and fair dealing. He told me not to mention his name; and I’m not going
to do it. But I think that if some one who is very dear to him--the
person who is the dearest of all in the world to him--should hand the
keys to the superintendent, I should not be telling--and yet, you would
understand who this kind friend is.”
He crossed the platform and handed Nan a bunch of keys.
“I’m sure,” he said, turning to the interested spectators, “that you
will be glad to know that the keys to the bathhouse have come to you
through Miss Farley.”
Tears sprang to Nan’s eyes as she rose and handed the keys to the
superintendent amid cheers and applause. She was profoundly moved by
the demonstration. They did not know--those simple foreign folk who
lifted their faces in gratitude and admiration--that an hour earlier
it had been in her heart to commit an act of grossest ingratitude
against their benefactor. She turned away with infinite relief that the
exercises were over, and followed the rest of the visitors to inspect
the house. It was like Farley not to tell any one of his gift; and she
felt like a fraud and a cheat to stand in his place, receiving praise
that was intended for him.
On the way home she was very quiet. The many emotions of the day had so
wearied her that she had no spirit to project herself into the future.
And it seemed futile to attempt to forecast a day’s events, when she
had, apparently, so little control of her own destiny.
“Hope Mr. Farley won’t abuse me for giving him away?” Eaton
remarked, as he left her at the door. “But the temptation was too
strong--couldn’t resist putting you into the picture. Your recitations
made a big hit; and those people are real critics!”
She lay in the window-seat till daybreak, dreaming, staring at the
stars.