I
She turned off the hall light at the switch at the head of the stairs
and gained her room unchallenged. Usually her mother waited up for
her, and Grace breathed a sigh of relief to find her door closed. She
quickly undressed, hiding the new suit in the closet and throwing out
another to wear to work in the morning.
She lay for nearly an hour thinking over the events of the night but
slept at last the sleep of weary youth and was only roused by the
importunate alarm clock at six thirty. On her way to the bathroom
for a shower--the shower had been a concession to her and Roy--she
passed Ethel whose good morning she thought a little constrained. As
she dressed she rehearsed the story she meant to tell to account for
her late home-coming. Something would be said about it and she went
downstairs whistling to fortify herself for the ordeal. Her father
was reading the morning paper by the window in the living room and
in response to her inquiry as to whether there was any news muttered
absently that there was nothing in particular, the remark he always
made when interrupted in the reading of his paper.
She found her mother and sister in the kitchen.
“Good morning, Grace,” said Mrs. Durland pleasantly. “We’re a little
late, so you might set the table. Ethel and I have started breakfast.”
Mrs. Durland usually made a point of setting the breakfast table
herself and Grace wondered whether this delegation of the task might
not mean that her mother and Ethel wished to be alone to discuss just
what should be said about her arrival at midnight when they had every
reason to expect her home from her French lesson by half-past nine.
When they were established at the table Ethel praised the clear bright
morning. It was her habit to say something hopeful and cheering at the
breakfast table, illuminated at times by an appropriate quotation. Mrs.
Durland encouraged this practice and if Ethel did not at once volunteer
her contribution to the felicity of the matutinal meal, would ask:
“Ethel, haven’t you some _word_ for us this morning?”
Ethel had offered a quotation from Emerson and Grace had correctly
guessed that it was from the essay on “Compensation” when Mrs. Durland,
having filled and passed the coffee cups, glanced at Grace.
“What kept you so late last night, dear?” she asked in the kindest of
tones. “I waited up till eleven. I didn’t hear you come in. You must
have been very late.”
“Oh, I didn’t get in until twelve. After the lesson I went home with
Irene and there were some people there and we just talked and played
cards. I didn’t know the time was passing till it was after eleven.”
“That’s rather strange, dear. They didn’t _know_ at the Kirby’s that
you were at their house.”
“Why didn’t they know?” Grace demanded.
“Because we called up!” her mother answered. “John Moore’s in town and
telephoned about eight o’clock to know if he could come out. Ethel
talked to him.”
“He’s such a fine fellow,” said Ethel. “You know mother and I met him
when we went down to see you at the University last spring. He’s such a
splendid type!”
“The kind of high-minded, self-respecting young man we like to have you
know, Grace,” remarked Mrs. Durland.
“John’s a dear,” said Grace warmly. “And you told him to go to
Professor Duroy’s, and of course he didn’t find me there.”
“No; and he called a second time, thinking he had misunderstood. He was
very anxious to get you to go with him to the football game tomorrow
and was afraid you might make some other engagement. It was just a
_little_ embarrassing that we couldn’t tell him where you were.”
“You might have told him to come to the store in the morning,” Grace
replied. “Well, I guess I may as well make a clean breast of it! I
played hooky! Irene and I went to a supper party.”
“So you told me an untruth!” exclaimed Mrs. Durland, staring wide-eyed
at the culprit. “Grace, this isn’t like you. You should have told me
you were not going to Professor Duroy’s. You might have saved me my
worry last night when you were so late and the Kirbys said Irene had
not been home and that she told her family she was spending the night
with a friend.”
“Yes, mamma: I shouldn’t have told you a fib. I’m sorry. It was a
dreadful sin!”
She looked from one to the other smiling, hoping to dispel the gloom
that seemed to hang above the table. It was not however in her sister’s
mind to suffer the deception to pass unrebuked.
“You’ll tell us, I suppose, _whom_ you had supper with besides Irene?”
Her sister’s question angered Grace the more by reason of the tone of
forbearance in which it was uttered. She would tell them nothing. A
crisis had risen in her relations with her family and she resolved to
meet it boldly.
“I’ll not answer your question,” she said, addressing herself directly
to Ethel. “It’s none of your business where I go or what I do. Ever
since I came home I’ve been staying in at night except when I’ve gone
to a movie with father. I’m working hard every day to help keep things
going here at home. And I mean to keep on doing it; but I’m not a child
and I’m not going to be checked up for every hour I’m out of your
sight.”
“Calm yourself, Grace. Don’t say anything you’ll be sorry for!”
admonished Mrs. Durland.
“After I’d warned you about the Kirby girl--” began Ethel with the
serene patience due an erring child who may yet be saved from further
misdemeanors.
“Oh, you warned me all right enough!” Grace interrupted. “You’ve done
a lot to make things pleasant for me since I came home! When I asked
those girls here to the house you made everything as disagreeable as
possible. You shied from a harmless ouija board! And now if I go out
for an evening you’re terribly shocked because I lie about it and
refuse to tell you exactly where I’ve been! But I do refuse! I’m never
going to tell you anything! The sooner you understand that, Ethel
Durland, the sooner we’ll have peace in this house.”
Her eyes were bright with tears but she held her head high. In so far
as she reasoned at all in her anger she was satisfied that justice was
on her side. She was of age, she was self-supporting, she was bearing
her full share of the family expenses, and she meant to establish once
and for all her right to freedom.
“I hadn’t expected you to take the matter in this spirit,” said Mrs.
Durland. “It isn’t like you, Grace. We want the very best for you. We
want you to have your friends and to enjoy yourself. And be sure we all
appreciate the fine way you met your disappointment at being obliged to
give up college. But you know we owe it to you, dear, to protect you in
every way possible. There are so many perils these days.”
“Not only here, but everywhere through the country, the moral
conditions are terrible,” said Ethel plaintively. “A young girl can’t
be too careful.”
“Well, if I’m wicked your goodness more than makes up for it,” Grace
flashed back; and then, her anger mounting, “Why do you assume that
I’ve been wicked? Are you going to take my character away from me right
here at home? If I’ve got to live here in an atmosphere of suspicion
I’ll leave. I can easily find another boarding place where I won’t be
pecked at all the time.”
“You wouldn’t think of doing that!” cried her mother aghast. “This is
your home, dear; it will always be your home. We should be so grateful
that we’ve been able to keep the dear old place.”
“Well, you’re making me think of it! If I go you’ll be driving me out!”
“No one has any intention of driving you from home,” said Ethel. “We
want to guard you with our faith and love.”
“Your faith!” Grace laughed ironically.
“Of course we have all the faith in the world in you!” declared Mrs.
Durland.
Stephen Durland, who had remained silent during this discussion, was
now folding his napkin. He cleared his throat, glanced from his wife to
his daughters and back to his wife.
“Seems to me this has gone far enough, Alicia. There’s no use acting as
though Grace had done anything wrong.”
“Of course we didn’t mean that, Stephen,” said Mrs. Durland quickly.
“It was _only_----”
The fact that Durland so rarely expressed an opinion on any matter
pertaining to family affairs had so surprised her that she found
herself unequal to the task of completing her sentence.
“I guess it’s a good place to let the matter drop,” he said. “The way
to show Grace we trust her is to trust her. Twelve o’clock is not late.
I heard Grace when she came in. I don’t blame her for not answering
questions when she’s jumped on. Don’t nag Grace. Grace is all right.”
This was the longest speech Stephen Durland had delivered in a family
council for years. He rose, paused to drain the glass of water at his
plate and left the room. A moment later the front door closed very
softly. The gentleness with which it closed had curiously the effect of
an emphasis upon his last words. They waited to give him time to reach
the gate. Having broken one precedent he might break another; he might
come back. He had even addressed his wife as Alicia instead of the
familiar Allie--a radical and disconcerting departure.
“We may as well clear the table,” said Mrs. Durland, when a full minute
had passed. Grace assisted in the clearing up. All the processes of
this labor were executed in silence save for an occasional deep sigh
from Mrs. Durland. When the dishes had been washed and put away in the
pantry Grace hung up her apron and went to her room. She made her bed
and straightened up her dressing table and had put on her hat and coat
when Ethel appeared in the door.
“Grace, I want you to know how sorry I am if I said anything to hurt
you. You know that not for worlds would I be unkind or unjust to my own
sister.”
“Oh, that’s all right, Ethel; just forget it,” Grace replied
indifferently.
She bade her mother good-bye with all the cheer she could muster.
“Good-bye, Grace,” called Mrs. Durland from the window where she was
scanning the newspaper. “I hope you’ll have a good day.”
“Thank you, mother.”