I
In the morning the mistress of Vine Cottage went out to inspect the
havoc the storm had wrought. Dutton was down on his knees, righting
the vivid green corn stalks and banking them in with the soft
soil. Theodora stood on the gravel walk, watching him with elfin
curiosity--his shins protected by huge pads of faded brussels carpet,
his fingers so packed with mud that they resembled a sculptor’s model
in the rough. When she caught sight of Mrs. Ascott she crossed the
intervening lawn on dainty toes, like a kitten afraid of the wet.
“We didn’t have any trouble about Eileen,” she began in a whisper
pregnant with meaning. “I fixed it.”
“You were a good little angel. Have you a kiss for me this morning?”
“A million of them ... but only one, now.” She pursed her lips with
strigine solemnity. The kiss was a rite--not to be taken frivolously.
“I have to tell you about it. I don’t think it was half bad--for a kid
like me. It didn’t look as if it would work, when I started in. But if
you are in as tight a pinch as that, you have to jump where there looks
like an opening. Then I had to see it through. There wasn’t any chance
to back out.” The sentence was somewhat chaotic, but the meaning was
plain.
“When we started in the house, I let mamma and Lary get clear inside
the hall. Then I pulled papa back and whispered in his ear--that Eileen
was over at Mrs. Nims’ and for him not to let on that he missed her.
He asked me why, and I told him that if he was any sport at all, he’d
do as I said, _and not ask any questions_. And what do you think, Lady
Judith ... he was game! Mamma threw out one hook after another, to
make him ask where Eileen was. And every time he turned and looked at
me--and I gave him the most awful glances, behind my napkin. The only
thing he could think of, right quick, was getting made treasurer of the
college trustees. And I don’t know why mamma didn’t smell something,
because it isn’t the least bit like my daddy to boast.”
“And then the storm may have helped.”
“Yes, papa said that was sent by Divine Providence. It gave me a chance
to explain to him--while mamma was chasing all over the house, putting
down windows, and screaming at Drusilla as if the house was on fire. I
told him that mamma was mad as a wet hen--and just bound and determined
to start something, with him ... and he _mustn’t_ fall for it. Lady
Judith, I wish my daddy had more sand. He choked up--like he was about
to cry--and said he didn’t know what was wrong with mamma. He tried
every way to please her and make her happy. He asked me if I knew why
she was so cross all the time ... and I fibbed an awful fib. I told
him Dr. Schubert said she had rocks in her liver and that would make a
saint cross.”
Her eyes danced with roguish mirth, then fell. When she raised them
again to the woman’s face, they were full of obstinate purpose.
“I guess it was a sin and God will punish me. Well, let Him ... if
He feels that way about it. I’d take a whipping any day, to keep my
daddy from getting one. If your soul is so nice that you can’t fib
once in a while, to help a fellow out of trouble--” She battled with
the futility of language to convey the situation as she perceived it.
“Still, I wouldn’t want you to think it was wrong ... telling a story,
to keep some one out of a scolding--some one that never did a mean
thing in his whole life. Do you--do you think it is?”
“You darling!” Aching arms encircled her. “I don’t know how to answer
you. We both know that it is wrong, in the abstract, to tell lies.”
“Yes, but I never tell them in the abstract. It’s only when there isn’t
any other way.” The explanation threatened to assume the solemnity of
a lecture on pragmatism. “I have wanted to tell you--ever since Lary
said I was a conscienceless fibber. It’s one thing I can’t make him
understand, and he knows everything else without being told. When you
want a thing to be a certain way, and it isn’t that way at all, you
can’t use the facts. _They don’t fit._ And what good does it do--to
keep saying a thing over, the way you don’t want it to be?”
“A popular religion was founded on that premise, dearie.”
“What I’m talking about hasn’t got anything to do with religion. Bob
used to say, ‘A lie is an abomination in the sight of the Lord, and a
very present help in time of trouble.’ But I would never fib to keep
myself out of trouble. You have to save them ... till there’s something
important. If I hadn’t told Lary you didn’t like the apricot lamp
shade, he wouldn’t have thought of going over to call on you--till Syd
Schubert or some other man fell in love with you.”
Lavinia Trench’s strident voice rasped the sweet morning air. Theo was
having altogether too pleasant a time, over there in Mrs. Ascott’s
garden. That which she had related would have stung her mother to
madness. But Theo’s afterthought was a little outcropping of Lavinia
herself. In Dutton’s phrase: “That woman’ll have something stickin’ in
her craw for years--and she’ll have to fetch it out, in spite of the
devil. If you ever make her sore, or do her a bad turn--you might think
she forgot it--but the time’ll come when she lets you hear about it.”