“I NEVER STOPPED LOVING HIM!”
While they were still at dinner, Mrs. Copeland was called to the
telephone. The instrument was in the living-room and Nan could not
avoid hearing Fanny’s share in the conversation.
“That’s fine--quite splendid!” And then, “I’m so glad! I never can
thank you! Well, of course, no one knows. You’re quite sure? That’s
good; I might have known you’d manage it just right.”
There was a moment’s silence after she returned to the table. She
dropped a lump of sugar into her coffee and watched the bubbles rise.
Then she lifted her head with a smile.
“I suppose, Nancy Farley, that God has made better men than J. C.
Eaton--kinder and more helpful men--but I’ve never known them!”
Her lips twitched and there were tears in her eyes.
“I suppose it’s his nature to be kind and helpful,” Nan replied. “I’ve
never known any one like him.”
“The nice thing about him is that he does you a favor quite as though
it were a favor to him. He’s just done something for me that no one
else could have done; there’s no one else I could have asked to do it!”
She lapsed into reverie, and Nan’s thoughts ranged far. If Fanny and
Eaton loved each other, how perfect it would be! Their telephonic
communications had been frequent of late; nearly every evening Eaton
called her, as though by arrangement, at the dinner hour. From the
character of Fanny’s responses he seemed to be reporting upon some
matter, the nature of which was not apparent, but Fanny always came
from these conferences in good spirits.
While Fanny was studying the produce market in the afternoon newspaper,
Nan went upstairs to get the will. She had set herself a disagreeable
task, but she did not falter in her determination to go through with
it. She glanced through the will again, rehearsed the story as she
meant to tell it, and returned to the living-room, where Fanny began
reading the day’s quotations from the sheet before her.
“Nan, if eggs go much higher, we’ll be rich by spring. I’m going to
double the poultry department next summer. They told me I couldn’t make
it pay, and now it’s the best thing I’ve got!”
Nan liked these quiet evenings. Sometimes the young women from the
farmhouse came in for an hour of music, and Nan occasionally gave some
of her recitations, much to their delight. At other times Fanny retired
to her den to write letters or post her books, leaving Nan to her own
devices.
To-night Fanny produced some sewing and bade Nan tell her of her day’s
experiences.
“I hope the long winter evenings out here are not going to bore you,
Nancy,” she remarked, noting the serious look on Nan’s face. “Gracious!
What’s that you have there? It has an official look; we’re not being
sued, are we?”
“There’s something I have to tell you, Fanny. It’s not a pleasant
subject, and you’ll see in a moment how hard it is for me to tell you.
And you’ll listen, won’t you; you’ll let me tell you everything I have
to say about it?”
“Of course, Nancy!” said Fanny as Nan knelt beside her. “I should
be sorry if you couldn’t come to me with anything! I hope nothing
disagreeable has happened.”
“Well, it isn’t pleasant. And to think I have to spoil one of our
evenings by talking of it! We’ve had such good times here. It may be
that you won’t let me stay any longer after you know. I should hate
that; but I should understand it.”
She touched with a light caress a fold of Mrs. Copeland’s gown, then
withdrew her hand quickly, and began fingering the will nervously.
“The sooner we get through with it the better, Nancy,” said Fanny
kindly.
“Well, when I went to the house this afternoon I found that other will,
the last one Mr. Thurston wrote for papa. It was stuck behind mamma’s
picture where he must have put it when he began destroying the other
wills. It isn’t signed, but, of course, I shall have to give it to Mr.
Thurston. Perhaps I shouldn’t have read it, but I did, and I knew right
away that I ought to show it to you. I thought about it all the way out
on the car, and I’m sure it’s the best thing to do.”
“You poor child! I should think you’d had enough of wills, without new
ones popping out from behind picture frames. If you’re sure you want me
to see it, I’m ready. Let me have it.”
Nan passed it to her grudgingly and rose and left the room. She waited
in the dark dining-room, watching the headlight of a trolley car as
it neared and passed in the highway below. The time seemed endless.
She heard the rustle of paper as Fanny turned the pages. She was
reading carefully, and as time passed without any sign from her, Nan
knew that she was pondering deeply what she read. Nan remained at the
window, pressing her forehead against the cold pane. Deep dejection
settled upon her; she had made a mistake; it had not been necessary
to make this revelation, which could only cause her dearest friend
unhappiness....
She felt suddenly the pressure of a warm cheek against her face.
“Come, Nancy! Come back to the fire and let us talk about it,” said
Fanny in her usual cheery tone. “Of course, I never knew of this;
never dreamed of any such thing. It’s a strange idea; I didn’t know
such a will could be made; but if it was done with Mr. Thurston’s
counsel, it must be all right. I should have thought, though, that they
would have asked me about it. The responsibility is very great--too
great--for any one to take. But, of course, as the will isn’t signed,
that’s the end of it.”
Nan turned wonderingly, doubtful whether Fanny had grasped the full
significance of those phrases that touched so nearly her own life.
“It doesn’t say anything about my giving a bond; I might have
stolen the money!” Fanny continued lightly. “And if I didn’t like
your suitors, I might have played the rôle of the cruel father for
twenty-five years! My! but you’ve had a narrow escape!”
“Oh, you don’t understand; you don’t understand!” Nan moaned. “Don’t
you see; don’t you _know_ what it all means?”
“Yes; I think I do, Nancy. But we don’t need to talk of that. It’s only
so much paper, anyhow, and we needn’t bother. The best thing to do is
to forget all about it.”
“But I can’t let it go this way! You are far too kind! I must tell you
the rest of it--I must tell you what made papa think of this!”
“But why should we talk of it, Nancy? It’s plain enough, I suppose,
what was in Mr. Farley’s mind; but it’s all over now. It was just a
freak--a grim bit of irony; no doubt, if he had lived, he would have
changed his mind about it. It would have been just as well if you
hadn’t told me; it really wasn’t necessary! I’m sorry you thought it
might make any difference.”
“Oh, but I had to tell you; I could never have looked you in the face
again if I hadn’t! He was afraid--he had been afraid for more than a
year that--that--”
She could not say it; she could not bring herself to the point of
putting into words the intent of Timothy Farley’s last will, that was
to make it impossible for her to marry this woman’s divorced husband!
The shame of it smothered her; she wondered that she had ever had the
effrontery to eat Fanny Copeland’s bread and share her fireside. The
very calmness with which Fanny had received the news added to her
discomfort.
Fanny began moving about the room with her light, graceful step,
touching a book, unconsciously straightening the flowers in a vase
on the table. Then she walked to the fire, where Nan crouched mutely
watching her.
“Nan, dear, do you want to marry Billy?” she asked, bending down and
resting her hands lightly on Nan’s shoulders.
No one would have known that this was the first time her former husband
had been mentioned between them.
“No, no! That’s what makes this so hard--so unjust!”
“Were you ever--did you ever think you could?” Fanny asked in the same
calm tone, in which there was no hint of accusation.
“Yes; there was a time, there were times--”
Fanny was about to resume her idle wandering about the room when Nan
clasped her knees.
“That’s what I want to tell you; I want to tell you everything from the
very beginning. Please let me! I ought to have told you before I came
here; but I was so eager to come I didn’t think of it; it didn’t occur
to me at all! You see, if I don’t,--if you won’t listen,--I must go
away; I can’t spend another night here. You must see that!”
“It is like you--it is generous and kind, Nancy, to want to tell me.
But you don’t need to; it’s all right; it’s not a thing that I should
ever have asked; you know that.”
She drew up a chair and clasped Nan’s hands.
Nan told the story; told it in all its details, from the beginning of
her acquaintance with Copeland. She took pains to fix dates, showing
that she and Copeland were launched upon a lively flirtation and were
meeting, usually at the Kinneys’, before there had been any hint of a
possible divorce. It had been her fault, her most grievous sin, that
she encouraged Billy’s attentions. They had tickled her vanity. She had
admired “Billy”; he had been a new type of man to her. She described
her deception of Farley as to their clandestine meetings; told of
his wrath when he learned of her disobedience; and, coming to the
frustrated elopement, she made it clear that it was through no fault of
hers that she had not run away with Copeland and married him.
“But it’s all over; even if it hadn’t been for this--this idea of
papa’s to put you between us--I should never marry Billy. No, no!” she
moaned. “I had decided that before papa died. You know, don’t you,” she
pleaded, with the tears streaming down her cheeks, “that I wouldn’t
have come here, I couldn’t have pretended to be your friend, if I’d
ever meant to do that!”
“You poor Nancy; you poor, dear, little girl!” Fanny murmured.
There was a far-away look in her eyes as she slowly stroked the girl’s
hair, but a smile played about her lips. She did not speak again until
Nan’s grief had spent itself. Then she bent to the tear-wet face and
pressed her cheek against it, whispering,--
“You poor little dear; you dear little Nancy!”
“You will let me stay--you will let me stay, after all that?” faltered
Nan.
“It was fine of you to tell me; you don’t know how grateful I am--and
glad. Of course, you will stay; it would break my heart to lose you
now!”
Nan drew away and looked long into the steady, tranquil eyes. She had
not been prepared for this. It was beyond comprehension that her story
could be received with so much magnanimity, that forgiveness could be
so easily won. She caught the hands that clasped her face and kissed
them.
“Oh, you don’t know!” she cried fearfully. “I haven’t made you
understand!”
“Yes, I understand it all, Nancy; I’d guessed most of it without your
telling me. And it does make a difference; yes, it makes a very great
difference.” And then, feeling Nan’s hands relax their tight hold,
and seeing the fear in her face, she smiled and added, “But not the
difference you think!”
“Oh, if only you don’t send me away! It was brazen of me ever to come;
I don’t know how you came to take me without a question, when I’d done
you the greatest wrong one woman can do another.”
“But maybe you didn’t!” said Fanny quickly, with a wistful little
smile. “I’m going to ask you one question, Nancy,--just to be sure. But
you needn’t answer; you won’t feel you must, will you?”
“Anything--anything!” Nan faltered.
Fanny turned her head, as though doubting, questioning, and her eyes
were very grave.
“Then, Nancy, tell me this--and please be very honest, and don’t
trouble about what I may think or feel about your answer--do you--do
you love Billy--now?”
“No; no! It was never love; it was never really that! His attentions
turned my head, and I hadn’t the sense to keep away from him. It was
all my fault. I’m ashamed to tell you that I was very lonely after I
came home from school--it is ungrateful to be saying it; but I have
always felt uneasy--self-conscious among the people here. I have never
got away from the feeling that whenever they saw me they were saying,
‘That’s the girl the Farleys raked out of the river and did everything
for--and just look at her!’ I couldn’t help that--the feeling that they
knew I was just a waif, a nobody. It made me rebellious and defiant.
Oh, I know it was unjustified and that it’s unkind to speak of it even
to you. And that’s why--one reason, at least--I’ve enjoyed knowing
Jerry so much. Jerry _knows_, and he doesn’t care! He knows every
little tiny thing about me and my people, and how poor and wretched
we were! But Billy--I haven’t any feeling about him now except--just
friendliness--and pity!”
“Then I’ll tell you something that will show you how very dear you are
to me,” said Fanny,--speaking slowly. “I think it was this that drew
me to you--made me want to be friends with you when Mr. Farley first
brought us together. Oh, Nan,”--her voice sank to a whisper,--“I still
love Billy! I never stopped loving him!”