ST. PETER had come in late from an afternoon lecture, and had just
lighted his kerosene lamp to go to work, when he heard a light foot
ascending the stairs. In a moment Kathleen’s voice called: “May I
interrupt for a moment, Papa?”
He opened the door and drew her in.
“Kitty, do you remember the time you sat out there with your bee-sting
and your bottle? Nobody ever showed me more consideration than that, not
even your mother.”
Kathleen threw her hat and jacket into the sewing-chair and walked
about, touching things to see how dusty they were. “I’ve been wondering
if you didn’t need me to come in and clean house for you, but it’s not
so bad as they report it. This is the first time I’ve called on you
since you’ve been here alone. I’ve turned in from the walk more than
once, but I’ve always run away again.” She paused to warm her hands at
the little stove. “I’m silly, you know; such queer things make me blue.
And you still have Augusta’s old forms. I don’t think anything ever
happened to her that amused her so much. And now, you know, she’s quite
sentimental about their being here. It’s about Augusta that I came,
Papa. Did you know that she had lost some of her savings in the Kinkoo
Copper Company?”
“Augusta? Are you sure? What a shame!”
“Yes. She was sewing for me last week. I noticed that she seemed
depressed and hadn’t much appetite for lunch--which, you know, is
unusual for Augusta. She was ashamed to tell any of us about it, because
it seems she’d asked Louie’s advice, and he told her not to invest in
that company. But a lot of the people in her church were putting money
into it, and of course that made it seem all right to her. She lost five
hundred dollars, a fortune for her, and Scott says she’ll never get a
cent of it back.”
“Five hundred dollars,” murmured St. Peter. “Let me see, at three
dollars a day that means one hundred and sixty-six days. Now what can we
do about it?”
“Of course we must do something. I knew you’d feel that way, Father.”
“Certainly. Among us, we must cover it. I’ll speak to Rosamond
to-night.”
“You needn’t, dear.” Kathleen tossed her head. “I have been to her. She
refuses.”
“Refuses? She can’t refuse, my dear. I’ll have a word to say.” The
firmness of his tone, and the quick rush of claret colour under his
skin, were a gratification to his daughter.
“She says that Louie took the trouble to speak to his banker and to
several copper men before he advised Augusta; and that if she doesn’t
learn her lesson this time, she will do the same thing over again.
Rosamond said they would do something for Augusta later, but she didn’t
say what.”
“Leave Rosamond to me. I’ll convince her.”
“Even if you can do anything with her, she’s determined to make Augusta
admit her folly, and it can’t be done that way. Augusta is terribly
proud. When I told her customers ought to make it up to her, she was
very haughty and said she wasn’t that kind of a sewing-woman; that she
gave her ladies good measure for their money. Scott thought we could buy
stock in some good company and tell her we had used our influence and
got an exchange, but that she must keep quiet about it. We could manage
some such little fib, she knows so little about business. I know I can
get the Dudleys and the Browns to help. We needn’t go to the
Marselluses.”
“Wait a few days. It’s a disgrace to us as a family not to make it up
ourselves. On her own account, we oughtn’t to let Rosamond out. She’s
altogether too blind to responsibilities of that kind. In a world full
of blunderers, why should Augusta have to pay scrupulously for her
mistakes? It’s very petty of Rosie, really!”
Kathleen started to speak, stopped and turned away. “Scott will give a
hundred dollars,” she said a moment later.
“That’s very generous of him. I’ll give another, and Rosie shall make up
the rest. If she doesn’t, I’ll speak to Louie. He’s an absolutely
generous chap. I’ve never known him to refuse to give either time or
money.”
Kathleen’s eyes suddenly brightened. “Why, Daddy, you have Tom’s Mexican
blanket! I never knew he gave it to you. I’ve often wondered what became
of it.” She picked up from the foot of the box-couch a purple blanket,
faded in streaks to amethyst, with a pale yellow stripe at either end.
“Oh, yes, I often get chilly when I lie down, especially if I turn the
stove out, which your mother says I ought always to do. Nothing could
part me from that blanket.”
“He wouldn’t have given it to anybody but you. It was like his skin. Do
you remember how horsey it smelled when he first brought it over and
showed it to us?”
“Just like a livery stable! It had been strapped behind the saddle on so
many sweating cow-ponies. In damp weather that smell is still
perceptible.”
Kathleen stroked it thoughtfully. “Roddy brought it up from Old Mexico,
you know. He gave it to Tom that winter he had pneumonia. Tom ought to
have taken it to France with him. He used to say that Rodney Blake might
turn up in the Foreign Legion. If he had taken this, it might have been
like the wooden cups that were always revealing _Amis_ and _Amile_ to
each other.”
St. Peter smiled and patted her hand on the blanket. “Do you know,
Kitty, I sometimes think I ought to go out and look for Blake myself.
He’s on my conscience. If that country down there weren’t so
everlastingly big----”
“Oh, Father! That was my romantic dream when I was little, finding
Roddy! I used to think about it for hours when I was supposed to be
taking my nap. I used to swim rivers and climb mountains and wander
about with Navajos, and rescue Roddy at the most critical moments, when
he was being stabbed in the back, or drugged in a gambling-house, and
bring him back to Tom. You know Tom told us about him long before he
ever told you.”
“You children used to live in his stories. You cared more about them
than about all your adventure books.”
“I still do,” said Kathleen, rising. “Now that Rosamond has Outland, I
consider Tom’s mesa entirely my own.”
St. Peter put down the cigarette he had just lighted with anticipation.
“Can’t you stay awhile, Kitty? I almost never see anyone who remembers
that side of Tom. It was nice, all those years when he was in and out
of the house like an older brother. Always very different from the
other college boys, wasn’t he? Always had something in his voice, in
his eyes ... One seemed to catch glimpses of an unusual background
behind his shoulders when he came into the room.”
Kathleen smiled wanly. “Yes, and now he’s all turned out chemicals and
dollars and cents, hasn’t he? But not for you and me! Our Tom is much
nicer than theirs.” She put on her jacket and went out of the study and
quickly down the stairs. Her father, on the landing, looked after her
until she disappeared. When she was gone he still stood there,
motionless, as if he were listening intently, or trying to fasten upon
some fugitive idea.