Chapter XXXIV

Chapter XXXIV

Chapter XXXVI

BLIND MICE

I

The suburban train was crowded and the stops were frequent.

Two young men, who had secured seats near the end of their car, were

occupied, one in reading an evening paper and the other in making

some calculations in a note book. The one reading stopped often to

quote a news item to his companion, or to make some remark. This was

John Winter. He was rather short and well nourished, one of the men

who indicate that in later years they will grow stout. He had very

blue eyes and fair hair and his clear skin was smoothly shaven. His

cheeks were pink and white, his lips very red. His clothing, which

was of the latest cut, was dark blue. He wore, as was his invariable

custom, a necktie the exact color of his eyes, which was for him a most

becoming combination. With this exception, however, his dress showed a

noticeable lack of care. He had a somewhat boisterous and affectionate

manner, and a rather loud voice. When excited or interested he had a

boyish way of removing his hat and running his fingers through his hair.

His friend, James Sprague, did not seem to mind John’s interruptions

and replied good naturedly. Both appeared in the best of spirits and

the good understanding between them was evident.

Sprague was tall and slender, with large hands and feet. An even color

glowed through his darkly tinted skin. He had deep set brown eyes.

The other features were large; the mouth straight. A brown moustache,

closely cut as was his dark hair, shaded his heavy upper lip. He

wore fastidiously selected clothing that displayed an exaggeratedly

quiet taste; the cravat chosen in stripes too minute for good general

effect, and the cuffs, shoes, and other details of attire immaculate

and suggestive of extreme thought for appearance. Sprague’s voice was

low pitched and subdued. He spoke slowly and smiled occasionally in an

extraordinarily attractive manner.

It was raining. At one of the stations a pretty girl entered the car,

her mackintosh and umbrella dripping. John Winter, although farthest

from the aisle, jumped quickly to his feet to offer her his place.

Sprague moved next to the window, to allow her to sit down without

passing him, and at once resumed his figuring. Winter hung to a strap

and continued the reading of his paper and his frequent remarks to

his friend, glancing now and then at the girl’s profile which was

particularly pleasing. She looked demurely at her gloves, smiling

slightly at some of John’s conspicuously uttered sallies to Jim. After

three stations were passed she arose, and, with a hasty glance at the

pleasant boyish face of the young man standing, left the car. Winter’s

gaze followed her to the door.

“Why don’t you sit down, John?” asked Sprague without lifting his eyes

from his work. Winter sat down rather suddenly. “We ought to put cement

into that cellar wall of Howland’s house,” Sprague continued. “I told

him so today and it was included in the estimates.”

“I didn’t know he came to the office,” returned Winter. “When was he

there?”

“Just before you got back from lunch,” answered his companion.

“I was looking at some designs for art tiles,” explained John, “and so

I was late. I wanted to see Howland badly. Did he say anything about my

decoration scheme for the interior?”

“I showed it to him,” responded Sprague, “but he said he couldn’t

afford it.”

“I’m sorry we ever touched his rotten house!” exclaimed Winter. “He has

no more taste than a billy goat.”

“He’s coming in again tomorrow.” Sprague smiled a little. “So you can

talk with him yourself.” Then, after a pause, “Lucy is expecting her

mother, you said. When does she get here?”

“Tomorrow,” replied John with a grimace, taking up his paper again.

Jim resumed his figuring.

“Here, wake up,” he said a few minutes later, glancing out of the

window as the train slowed down at a small station. “This is Rosedene.

Suppose we get off here.” And the two alighted from the car.

When they turned into the street where John lived the rain had ceased

falling, and they saw Mrs. Winter and Dimmie waiting at the gate in

front of the pretty yard.

Lucy Winter’s smile was of the slow but warming kind. Her child’s

was also warm, but quicker, like his father’s. As Lucy kissed John,

Dimmie (who was named for Sprague, “Jimmie” having been corrected

into “Dimmie” by the young gentleman himself at a fabulously tender

age) attacked Jim with such demonstrations of esteem as would have

disconcerted a less robust and self-contained individual.

Lucy was of medium size, with hands and feet not too small. She had a

rather generous figure, the waist large and bosom low. Her hair, fine

in texture and not abundant, was of a nondescript shade of brown, and

was arranged low over her ears. Her nose was extremely shapely, her

mouth large, but so well cut as to be beautiful. Her grey eyes had

a wonderful clarity and frankness of gaze. She could not be called

pretty, partly because the impression of her personality suggested too

much seriousness, and partly because the line from her ear to her chin

was too long. She wore a simple house dress of wash goods. The gingham

sleeve apron, which she had taken off before going to the front gate,

hung over one arm. While not over strong physically Lucy suggested an

atmosphere of wholesomeness. And she was direct, almost abrupt, in

speech.

Dimmie was a slim child of four with features and complexion like

John’s, but he had his mother’s fine grey eyes. Dressed in clean white

blouse and breeches, white shoes and socks, his yellow hair bobbed in

Dutch fashion, he made a picture of health and buoyancy.

“What a glorious rain, Lucy.” John chuckled exuberantly. “The train

went through it like a ship in a storm.”

“Did it?” She smiled, feeling his coat sleeve to see if it was damp.

“Are your feet wet, John? And you too, Jim?” shaking hands warmly with

Sprague.

“No,” they both answered. “Just like chorus girls,” John added, at

which they all laughed.

“Don’t step in the water, dear,” Lucy cautioned Dimmie as they turned

to go into the house.

* * * * *

The first thing Jim did, after hanging his hat and rain coat in the

hall, was to offer to help put the dinner on, as this was his usual

task on such occasions.

“I don’t need any help,” said Lucy briskly, leading him back into the

dining room. “You two boys fix yourselves some near cocktails while I

finish. It’ll only take me a minute. You know where the ingredients

are, Jim.”

Jim mixed the cocktails, going out in the kitchen to the refrigerator

for ice, and swearing when he could not find the shaker.

“Where is it, Lucy?” he asked.

“Why don’t you look for it?”

“I have,” he protested.

“Here it is.” She brought it from the pantry where he had just been.

“If it had been a snake it would have bitten you.”

“Say, but that soup smells good,” he exclaimed as she removed a cover

and placed a tureen on the kitchen table. “What kind of soup is it?”

“Wait and see,” she replied. “You go and fix that cocktail or the soup

will get cold--and call John.”

Jim obeyed. John came in from the living room, where he had been

playing “The Evening Star” from _Tannhäuser_ on the piano, with many

mistakes in the execution, and Lucy put the soup on.

“Sit down,” she commanded. “You know your place, Jim. Where’s Dimmie?”

“I’ll get him,” offered Jim, going out through the kitchen. “There’s

some cocktail left for you,” he called back.

Lucy took up the glass and tasted its contents gingerly. “I don’t like

it,” she objected to John, making a face.

“Oh, women usually don’t like dry cocktails,” he laughed. “That’s a

Martini. We make Manhattans for the ladies. But it’s almost as good as

a real one. Old Jim’s supply of alcohol and synthetic flavors won’t

last much longer though.”

Jim came in with Dimmie, and dinner was begun.

“I’ve been thinking a long time,” Jim looked alternately at Lucy and

John as he spoke, “that we ought to combine with some such firm as

Layard’s occasionally so that we can swing bigger things. They are

close to all the supply companies.”

“Have some more soup,” urged Lucy.

“Believe I will.” Jim handed her his soup plate. “It’s as good as I

suspected. What kind of soup is it anyway?”

“If you cant tell after eating it, I think its name would be wasted on

you,” said Lucy, laughing.

“Now that contract for the new incinerator,” Jim continued unruffled,

“might just as well have come our way. In fact it was offered to me,

but we couldn’t consider it because we weren’t in touch with people

handling the materials, and hadn’t capital to tackle it alone.”

“Do you mean going into partnership with Layard’s?” inquired Lucy,

cutting up Dimmie’s meat for him.

“Oh, no.” Jim smiled. “We’re too small fry for that. Just an

understanding, so we can have more leeway, agreeing of course to let

them supply us in our other projects.”

“I see,” Lucy nodded. “Aren’t you hungry, dear?” she asked John. “You

didn’t finish your soup.”

“Oh, I’m all right,” John assured her. “I was thinking out a color

combination for Howland’s house. I don’t like the shade of the slate

roof he wants. It doesn’t go well with Milwaukee brick.”

“Well, eat your dinner, dearie. You’ll have a headache if you don’t.”

John began to eat with appetite.

“What was that you were spouting about?” he asked Jim.

“The incinerator,” repeated his friend. “I want to get hold of such

things. Otherwise we will have to stick to small dwellings, and there’s

very little in them under present conditions, except of course on a

large scale.”

“Incinerator!” John ran his fingers through his hair. “What a dream for

an architect! I suppose you’d decorate it with conventionalized garbage

cans.”

“Well,” insisted Jim, “there’s money in such things, and that’s what

we’re after.”

“It sure is,” Lucy put in. Then, turning to Dimmie, “Don’t eat with

your knife, baby. That’s not nice. Let mother show you. Hold your fork

so. That’s right.”

“Money’s all right, but it’s not everything!” exclaimed John. “An

artist has dreams that are more than meat and raiment. But it’s some

job to achieve anything artistic in this country!”

“Or in any other country,” amended Jim.

“Well, ours is the limit,” John retorted. “That’s the reason I wanted

to go to Europe--to drink in an atmosphere. To live and study where the

almighty dollar isn’t supreme! I’ve tried to hang on to ideals, but

grubbing for bread first drags you down to designing ugly cottages for

fools and ends by offering you an incinerator. We’ll probably wind up

on packing houses and the city dump yard.”

Jim laughed.

“Let’s get hold of the money, and then you can swim in early Tuscan and

post-impressionism and dabble in water colors all you want to.”

“Yes, money means opportunity to do the things we want to--for us and

for Dimmie,” Lucy added more seriously.

“You two will have us running a contracting and jobbing concern before

long, instead of an architect’s studio.”

“I’d run a fertilizer plant if there was money in it,” declared Jim.

“Well I wouldn’t, and I don’t think my boy would want advantages

purchased at the cost of his father’s soul. Would you, son?” John

rumpled Dimmie’s hair.

“I want a balloon,” remarked Dimmie.

“Heredity,” chuckled Jim, and Lucy laughed.

“You’re all atavism,” John retorted.

“What’s atavizzen?” queried Dimmie.

“Ask your uncle Jim, son.”

Dimmie looked at Jim who said, “I’ll bring you some next time I come

out, Dimmie.”

“By the way, Lucy,” resumed John, “that reminds me. What train does

your mother come on tomorrow?”

“On the seven o’clock, I think.” Lucy rose and took a letter from a

drawer in the table by the kitchen door. “Seven ten C. and W.,” she

corrected, consulting the letter.

“Morning or evening?”

“She didn’t say.” Lucy glanced again through the letter. “We’ll have to

get a time table.”

“Now isn’t that just like a woman?” John looked at Lucy teasingly.

“It’s the morning train,” Jim informed them. “There’s no through

evening train on the C. and W. at seven ten and there is in the

morning.”

“By George, you must be taking Professor Forgetproof’s correspondence

course for strengthening the memory, Jim. You certainly do carry around

a bunch of useless facts in your head.”

“This one wasn’t,” said Lucy smiling.

“I thought it wasn’t till night.” John sighed and lighted a cigarette.

“He wanted all day to talk Howland into a Byzantine decoration scheme

for his interior,” Jim explained to Lucy, getting out his pipe

meanwhile.

“That’s right,” admitted John, blowing smoke rings and poking his

finger through them.

There was a moment’s silence. Jim’s pipe seemed to be out of order.

“I want to get down,” announced Dimmie, and a slight tension was broken.

“Let mother untie your bib first, dear. Where are you going, baby?”

“I’m goin’ to sit in Uncle Jim’s lap.”

“Why Uncle Jim hasn’t had his coffee yet, son.”

“Come on, kid,” invited Jim, moving his chair sidewise to the table. “I

can attend to coffee and you too.”

“There’s no use getting self conscious about this matter of your

mother, Lucy.” John returned to the unwelcome subject. “We’ve no desire

to keep anything from Jim.”

“Of course not,” Lucy agreed quickly.

“This is our last evening alone, Jim.” John ran his fingers through his

hair. “It’s all right for Lucy’s mother to forgive me, I suppose, but

as my chief crime seems to have been marrying her daughter, I’m not so

grateful as she probably imagines.”

“She felt unkindly toward me long before I ever met you, John,” Lucy

said seriously, looking at Dimmie.

“But more since,” John insisted.

“To be sufficient for yourselves is the greatest crime toward other

people,” remarked Jim, straightening Dimmie’s collar. “Believe it’s

begun to rain again,” he added, glancing toward the window.

“You’ll be surprised when you see mother,” averred Lucy irrelevantly.

Jim laughed.

“I shouldn’t feel much anxiety about anybody kin to Lucy.”

“Joking aside,” interrupted John, “to be blamed as I was has been a

pretty painful experience.”

Lucy smiled at him.

“I don’t think anybody was to blame,” she decided.

“You never do, Lucy,” returned Jim.

“That’s a fact,” John complained. “Now I think there are times when

it’s up to a man’s self-respect to blame the other fellow a little.”

Jim puffed at his pipe, staring at the ceiling.

“Well, John, if Lucy can overlook things you ought to be able to. She’s

the one who has been up against it. You shouldn’t kick.”

“Yes, he should, Jim,” put in Lucy hastily. “Anybody but John would

feel resentment still.”

John lighted another cigarette.

“Oh, that’s nothing, Lucy. I couldn’t very well feel hard toward anyone

who seems as cut up as your mother in--in her present situation.”

“Plenty of people could,” insisted Lucy.

“I guess she resented your father’s having been here,” said John,

laughing uncomfortably.

“Well, Papa has done so much for me that nothing can make me turn

against him,” declared Lucy.

John rumpled his hair again.

“Hang it all, you can’t blame me for not being crazy to have a stranger

in the house indefinitely, no matter how nice she might prove to be!”

“Especially one who neglected to seek your acquaintance until she was

in trouble,” put in Lucy with an unaccustomed approach to bitterness.

Jim knocked the ashes from his pipe.

“I don’t blame you for feeling a little sore toward your mother, Lucy,”

he remarked.

“I try not to,” said Lucy impatiently, “but----”

Jim smiled.

“If it had been anyone else but John, eh?”

“If it had been anyone else but John,” she repeated; “exactly.”

“He’s an honor to the family,” Jim declared, reaching over and pulling

John’s rebellious hair.

“He is.” Lucy was emphatic.

John arose and went around the table to Lucy.

“You’re a good kid, Lucy,” he said, leaning down and kissing her

forehead.

She stood up and smoothed his rumpled hair.

“Where’s Dimmie gone to?” she asked.

“Here I am, Mamma,” Dimmie called from the floor on the opposite side

of the table.

“Come and help Mother clear off the table, Sonny.”

“I’ll help too,” offered Jim.

“You can wipe the dishes,” she conceded.

II

It was eight o’clock in the morning.

In the dining room of the Winter home Lucy sat at the breakfast table

with Jim who had remained at Rosedene overnight. John had gone to catch

the early suburban train in order to bring Lucy’s mother from the

station. Dimmie was out under an old elm tree in the yard, swinging.

Lucy had been up since half past five, had served John’s breakfast at

six, and disposed of Dimmie’s bath and appetite, preparing a second

meal for herself and Jim. She now contemplated the disheveled table.

“I must get cleaned up before they come!” She rose and settled her

apron more precisely, then began to clear away the dishes and brush the

crumbs from the cloth.

Jim took out his pipe and filled it.

“Maybe your mother won’t have had breakfast,” he said.

Lucy shook her head.

“John is going to take her some place in town. It would make it too

late for her to wait until she got out here.”

Jim rose to help with the remaining plates.

“You go on with something else,” he insisted. “I can finish these

things in a jiffy.”

“No, you can’t!” Lucy motioned him away. “You must go on with the work

you brought in the portfolio. John said he found you hard at it when he

went after you yesterday evening.”

“All right, Lucy. Just as you say. I’m making some calculations on our

new contract.” Jim moved toward the next room.

“I won’t disturb you in there but you’d better shut Dimmie out,” Lucy

called after him.

“I’m nearly through with the estimates.” Jim turned in the doorway.

Lucy had stopped her work and was gazing out the window with an

abstraction unusual to her.

“You don’t see them?”

Lucy shook her head, her profile half averted.

“Lucy--you’re not crying?” Jim’s voice showed astonishment and more

feeling than he commonly expressed. He had never before seen Lucy in

tears.

She faced him, smiling uncertainly.

“Jim, I try so hard to be just to everybody!” she explained

irrelevantly.

“Nothing infuriates people like receiving justice, Lucy.”

She glanced at him appreciatively.

“You can put things into words, Jim. When I was a little girl I used to

think and think, trying to explain things to myself.” Her voice trailed

off. “I know Mamma’ll want me to blame Papa, Jim, and I can’t.”

An automobile horn was heard outside and the sound of a machine

stopping. Lucy started.

“Hello!” Jim turned to face Dimmie who ran into the room crying,

“They’re here! They’re here!” and scurried out again.

Lucy seemed bewildered.

“Why the train never gets to Rosedene at this hour!”

Jim smiled encouragingly.

“Don’t borrow trouble, Lucy,” he said. “John’s brought your mother out

in a machine. They can’t have made a very bad impression on each other.”

Lucy started for the hall but hesitated. There was the sound of a door

opening and of several footsteps.

“Come right in, Nannie,” John’s voice was heard saying, and then, in

direction to the chauffeur, “put the things inside.” In an instant John

and Lucy’s mother entered the dining room followed by Dimmie who was

unnoticed and looking rather rueful.

The new arrival, Mrs. Merwent, was petite, with quick undecided

gestures. While giving an impression of prettiness and studied

femininity, her features, with the exception of her eyes, were

not remarkable. These eyes were the color of Lucy’s and unusually

prominent. She was attired in a faultless traveling costume of a cut

and shade too youthful for her, and she was conscientiously powdered,

rouged, and penciled. She would have passed for thirty-odd years old

among the unobservant.

She and Lucy regarded one another a moment in silence. They appeared

not to know how to greet each other.

“Surprised you, did we?” John was almost boisterous.

Mrs. Merwent gave a tinkly nervous laugh.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me, Lucy?” she asked. Her lightness of manner

was uncertain. Her eyes strayed over Lucy’s shoulder to Jim who leaned

against the mantel shelf.

Lucy kissed her mother silently. Their lips barely brushed. In order

to conceal her agitation Mrs. Merwent gave Lucy’s hair and shoulders

meaningless pats.

“I’m glad you’ve come, Mamma.” Lucy’s voice was almost inaudible.

“Oh, dear, such a journey!” Mrs. Merwent twittered.

Lucy’s clear eyes looked at her mother steadfastly. John turned to Jim.

“Nannie, this is Jim Sprague, the best friend in the world, and the

worst enemy.”

Jim came forward and shook hands.

“Forewarned is forearmed,” she said, smiling up at him. “I hope we’ll

not be enemies.”

“No fear of it, Mrs. Merwent.” Jim smiled in reply.

“She says we must all call her Nannie, Jim,” broke in John. “That’s

what everybody calls her.”

Jim bowed and smiled again.

Mrs. Merwent glanced first at Jim and then at her daughter.

“We thought you’d gone out,” she observed to Lucy.

Lucy answered quickly.

“I started for the door, but you came in so suddenly I didn’t get there

in time. I didn’t expect you in an automobile, you know, and so didn’t

pay any attention till you actually opened the door.”

“Were you upstairs?” John inquired.

“No, I was here,” returned Lucy.

Mrs. Merwent put her hand on her son-in-law’s arm.

“It’s all right,” she murmured; then to her daughter, “Now, Lucy,

I think I’ll go up to my room, if you don’t mind, and make myself

presentable after my journey.”

“Of course,” acquiesced Lucy. “Your things are in the hall, aren’t

they? We’ll just----”

At this juncture Dimmie, who had slipped around to Lucy and hidden his

face in her dress, began to cry. Lucy stooped down.

“What’s the matter, darling?” she inquired.

“She d--d--didn’t e--e--even----,” he sobbed.

“Why of course!” put in Mrs. Merwent. “How stupid of me! Come and kiss

your Nannie now.”

Lucy pushed Dimmie forward.

“Come on.” He hung back.

“I’m afraid you’re a very sensitive little boy,” smiled Mrs. Merwent.

John frowned.

“Dimmie, kiss Nannie. What makes you act that way?”

“Don’t, John,” expostulated Mrs. Merwent. “It’s because I’m strange.

He’ll be all right bye-and-bye.” Then, to the child, “Won’t you,

Jimmie?”

Dimmie continued to cling to his mother’s hand and did not reply.

“Dimmie,” ordered John sternly, “answer Nannie.”

“Now, John,” put in Mrs. Merwent again, “let the poor child be. It’s

such a trifle.”

“I’ll show you to your room now, Mamma,” Lucy offered quietly.

Mrs. Merwent glanced questioningly at John and then followed her

daughter. Dimmie accompanied them, still holding his mother’s hand.

“You sure did it up in style,” Jim remarked as the two women mounted

the stairs.

“Yes,” admitted John. “It seemed so mean to bring her in the train

after such a long trip. You know she’s been used to all sorts of

things--comforts I mean.”

Jim relighted his pipe in silence.

The men smoked and discussed their new contract until the women

reappeared. Both avoided any further reference to the addition to

their circle. When Lucy and her mother came down, the elder woman was

tastefully arrayed in a charming house dress of some pale green sheer

material that was a miracle in its sophisticated simplicity. John

expressed his admiration and Mrs. Merwent gave a silvery laugh.

“Oh, this! It’s an old easy dress I wear around the house. Mr. Sprague

will have to get used to seeing me in such things. I hear he’s quite

one of the family.”

Jim, who had been watching Lucy as she passed to and fro from the

kitchen, answered, “I’m sure it’s very becoming, Mrs. Merwent.”

Nannie made a little _moue_ at John while Jim continued:

“We’d better get down town, John. You know Howland is coming at ten

o’clock to look over the final plans for his house and sign the papers,

and you especially wanted to talk to him about that decoration scheme

of yours.”

“Do you think my trunks are safe with that express company, John?”

interrupted Mrs. Merwent.

“Why, yes, perfectly, Nannie. They’ll probably be here before night.”

“Well, would you mind going to the express office and asking if they’ve

been sent? I’m so worried about them.”

“Sure. I’ll call them up as soon as I get to the office,” agreed John

heartily.

Nannie sighed a trifle resignedly.

* * * * *

When the two men were seated in a car of the train bound for the city

John commented enthusiastically on the incidents of Mrs. Merwent’s

arrival.

“I’m glad the strained feeling is over with. It’ll be fine for Lucy to

have her mother with her,” he said.

Jim did not answer.

“Mrs. Merwent’s all alone now,” pursued John. “She’s been very badly

treated. A woman needs a man to look after her.”

For reply Jim grunted.

III

Mrs. Merwent had watched John and Jim until they turned the corner.

When they were out of sight she came and sat by the kitchen table where

Lucy was washing the breakfast dishes.

“Let me help you, dear,” Nannie offered.

“No, thank you, Mamma. It isn’t much and it’ll be done in a minute.”

“Now you mustn’t hesitate to ask me to do anything I can,” went on the

older woman. “I don’t want to be a burden on John and you. I want you

to realize that I am willing to help and that I cherish no ill feeling

about anything that has happened.”

Lucy looked at her in surprise.

“Well, you rest up today from your journey,” she answered after a

moment. She was placing dishes in the china cupboard. “You must be

tired.”

“I never saw such a poor service on any railway,” resumed Mrs. Merwent,

having interrupted the conversation by going into the dining room and

bringing a rocking chair out into the kitchen for herself. “There were

no sterilized drinking cups and no electric lights in the berths. I

don’t think they should be allowed to run such old, out-of-date cars.”

Lucy worked a moment in silence.

“But I must say the service on the diner was good,” pursued Nannie. “I

had some fried spring chicken that was so tender and juicy it fairly

melted in your mouth.”

“I haven’t been on any but a suburban train since our wedding journey,”

Lucy observed.

“Oh, Lucy, what a terrible time that was for me!” Mrs. Merwent drew out

her handkerchief.

“I thought you said in your letter that we wouldn’t discuss what

happened, Mamma,” Lucy accused gently.

“Oh, Lucy, anyone who went through what I did can’t forget it all at

once,” Mrs. Merwent protested.

Lucy was silent again.

“But I cherish no hard feelings,” Nannie went on, “although poor Mother

never got over your going away.”

After a few moments Nannie returned to the subject of travel.

“Don’t you ever go away from the city, Lucy? I should think it would be

dull staying in one place so long.”

“We can’t afford travelling.” Lucy spoke emphatically.

“Well, I can’t either, now.” Mrs. Merwent settled herself more

comfortably in the rocking chair. “It was only the kindness of my dear

friend, Professor Walsh, that made it possible for me to have any

comfort at all on the way. He came part way with me and arranged that I

was to be looked after until the end of my journey.”

Lucy busied herself with the preparations for luncheon.

“I do wonder if my trunks are safe!” exclaimed Nannie after a short

pause. “I didn’t like the looks of the man who took the checks.”

“They’re safe,” Lucy assured her. “Don’t worry about them.”

“Have you got a cup of coffee made, Lucy?” her mother then asked,

surveying the kitchen.

“Why, I thought you and John had had breakfast,” Lucy apologised.

“We did, but it was so early and I was so excited I hardly ate a bite.

If you could let me have a cup of coffee and a tea cake or two--I’m

afraid it will give me the headache if I eat nothing until luncheon.”

“Why, of course, Mamma. It’ll only take me a minute to make coffee.”

Lucy measured the water as she spoke.

“I thought it was already fixed or I wouldn’t have asked for it,”

protested Nannie. “I don’t want to make any extra work.”

“Oh, that’s nothing.” Lucy put cup, saucer, spoon, and plate on the

kitchen table.

“Now you must let me wait on myself,” Mrs. Merwent objected as Lucy

placed the sugar bowl and cream pitcher before her.

“It’s all ready, Mamma.”

“I had no idea you’d do all this,” Nannie remarked as she resigned

herself to the consumption of coffee, cookies, and some muffins left

from breakfast.

“We’ll be all alone for luncheon. John never comes home at midday,”

Lucy informed her mother. An inviting odor rose from the range as she

raised the lid of a pot.

“Let’s have strawberries and ice cream,” suggested Nannie. “I just love

strawberries. It makes me fairly tremble with delight when they go down

my throat.”

“I don’t know whether they’re in yet,” said Lucy.

“Oh, yes, they are. I saw some in a big fruit store in the city, and

John got me some for breakfast.”

“I doubt whether we can get any out here, but I’ll send Dimmie to the

store around the corner with a note to see.”

“Now don’t let me interfere with your arrangements. It doesn’t make any

difference what I eat. I don’t want to make any bother while I’m here.”

“It’s no bother,” disclaimed Lucy.

She had already planned the dessert but did not know what else to say.

When Dimmie returned from the fruiterer’s he came into the kitchen and,

with great pride, delivered the parcel to his mother.

“The man only had two boxes,” he announced, “an’ he said the money

wasn’t enough for ’em, but it was all right. It’s all wrote in the

note.”

“Thank you, darling,” said Lucy, kissing him.

“You should wipe your feet before you come into the house, Jimmie,”

remonstrated his grandmother. “See how you have brought dirt into the

kitchen. Little boys should learn to be thoughtful of others and not

make work unnecessarily. That’s not helping.”

“Oh, it’s not mud. It will sweep out easily,” explained Lucy, smiling

at Dimmie whose face had grown troubled.

“Well, I’m sure I didn’t mean to interfere, Lucy,” said Nannie. “I was

only trying to help. You’re the one who has to clean up after him, not

I. You are so different from what you used to be. We never used to have

the slightest difference of opinion.”

Lucy continued to smile.

“I don’t think I am any different,” she replied.

“Yes, you are,” insisted her mother. “Getting married has changed you.

I must say, though, I was agreeably surprised in your husband. John is

really delightful, so kind and considerate. I overlooked everything and

we became friends in no time. How much does he make?”

Lucy opened her eyes wide.

“He and Mr. Sprague are in partnership in business for themselves. Some

months they make more than others.”

“What a sweet little house you have,” went on Nannie, whose

conversation consisted mostly of beginnings. “How I long to have a home

again!”

“John and Jim and I planned it out together,” explained Lucy, ignoring

the last remark. “All those water colors in the dining room and

sitting room are John’s. I think they make the house look intimate and

homelike.”

“This Mr. Sprague seems to be quite at home here,” Nannie interrupted.

“Aren’t you afraid people will say things?”

Lucy gazed at her mother a moment without answering.

“Let me tell you about the house,” she suggested finally.

“You really must have a sideboard in your dining room, Lucy. It looks

so bare. Do you remember the rosewood sideboard that Papa bought for

Mamma when I was born? Cousin Minnie has gotten a table and chairs from

an antique store and they match it beautifully.”

Lucy’s sense of humor came to her rescue.

“When we get rich we’ll have rosewood sideboards and lots of other

things,” she said laughingly.

“Now you’re making fun of me, Lucy,” her mother complained in a

hurt tone. “I only thought you might have a little interest in the

furnishings of my old home. I didn’t mean that you could get one like

it.”

Lucy went up and put her arms around Nannie.

“No, I wasn’t making fun of you, Mamma. Come into the sitting room and

I’ll show you Dimmie’s baby pictures.” “Really I’m so tired I think

I’ll look at them later. I think I’ll lie down till luncheon is ready,

if you don’t mind. I always make it a point to rest thoroughly for a

few minutes during each day. You have no idea what a difference it

would make in your looks, Lucy. You ought to make that a rule which

nothing should interfere with. I think we owe it to others to keep

ourselves attractive.”

“I’m afraid that’s easier said than done, Mamma. But try to get your

nap. It will refresh you. I’ll call you when luncheon is ready.” Lucy

spoke with determined good humor.

“Are you sure those trunks of mine are in safe hands, Lucy?” Nannie

questioned again as she rose to go. “I have a presentiment that

something will happen to them.”

“Now please don’t worry any more about them, Mamma. John wouldn’t

employ any firm that was not perfectly reliable.”

“Well, I hope so,” sighed Nannie, moving toward the hall.

* * * * *

When, at six o’clock, the gate clicked and John’s step sounded on the

walk, Lucy was occupied in making a gravy that Nannie had suggested,

and so was unable to run with Dimmie to meet him as she usually did.

She was conscious of a queer feeling of being left out as she heard him

and Nannie come into the dining room together.

Mrs. Merwent had on a gown of lavender organdie, open at the throat,

and a net fichu was draped about her shoulders. In the less trying

light she looked more out of place in her maternal rôle than on the

occasion of her arrival in the morning.

“Where’s Lucy?” John asked. He appeared to be tired and there was

perspiration on his forehead. He smiled on Nannie’s fresh appearance.

“In the kitchen, I believe,” Nannie answered. “I’ve been busy getting

the table ready.” She held some flowers in her hand, and as she spoke

she was occupied in placing them in a vase. One half-opened rose she

laid by John’s plate.

He went into the kitchen and kissed Lucy as usual. Her muslin dress

was covered by an apron. Her face was flushed and a loose strand of

hair brushed her cheek as she bent over her cooking. She replied to his

greeting without stopping her work. Instead of sitting across the old

rush bottomed kitchen chair with his arms over the back and talking

about his experiences in the city, as was his custom, he returned at

once to the dining room.

Notwithstanding John’s water colors on the walls, it was rather a bare

little place, as Nannie had said. The twilight entered between the

muslin curtains, however, and the modest array of silver and glassware

glittered on the table. A breeze scattered the odor of the small

bouquet of flowers.

As John entered Nannie switched on the electric light.

Lucy placed the food on the dishes and Nannie carried them to the table.

“My, that smells good!” John exclaimed boyishly. “What have you got for

us?” He and Nannie had seated themselves.

“It’s a steak _en casserole_ with mushrooms,” explained Nannie, picking

a tiny bit of lint from his sleeve. “I hope you enjoy it. Poor boy, how

hungry you must be working until this hour of the day!”

“I’m hungry, too,” announced Dimmie, who had come in and seated himself

unnoticed.

Lucy now appeared, her apron removed. “Are you, dear?” She hesitated by

the table without seating herself.

“Why don’t you sit down, Lucy?” John asked.

Lucy seated herself.

“Will you hand me my napkin ring, Mamma,” she requested, at the same

time passing a folded napkin without a ring to her mother.

“Why, is this your place?” exclaimed Nannie, rising. “Come, let’s

change. I didn’t notice.”

“It makes no difference, Nannie,” put in John. “Sit down and let’s have

dinner.”

“No, it makes no difference,” acquiesced Lucy, and Mrs. Merwent

reseated herself.

“Well, as I’m here, I might as well serve the plates,” remarked Nannie.

“I want to do _something_ to help.”

During the meal John talked of art, his manner youthfully eager, and

his hair falling over his forehead from which he pushed it back with

the graceful gesture peculiar to him.

“I have to design cheap houses, Nannie,” he bewailed whimsically,

“instead of listening to the voices of the unseen that are calling to

me.”

“It’s a pity you haven’t money so you could follow your natural bent

and be an artist,” said Nannie.

“I am an artist,” John rejoined, rather warmly. “One doesn’t need to

hold oneself aloof from common life to be an artist. On the other hand

one must learn not to despise common things, but to see beauty in them.”

“I only meant I wished you didn’t have to worry about money,” she

persisted.

“Of course, I know you understand, Nannie, but one doesn’t need to

crowd his soul with small things just because he’s poor. If he will he

can see beauty that is not for the eye of his senses.” John glanced up

at his pictures.

“Lucy tells me all these beautiful water colors are yours, John.”

Nannie let her gaze travel about the room. “They’re simply exquisite.”

“Well,” John’s tone was deprecating, “if I’d had a chance I might have

done something at it.”

“It’s too bad you don’t have time to be more with artistic people,

John,” Lucy put in with an affectionate look at her husband.

“I love pretty things too, John,” Nannie said quickly. Lucy glanced at

her mother, who was regarding John.

“I’ll have to play for you after dinner,” Nannie offered a few minutes

later.

“I remember Lucy told me you played,” he answered. “We got the piano

over a year ago, but Lucy never has time to touch it, and I can’t do

anything but drum.”

“It takes a lot of will power to practice regularly,” replied Nannie,

“but then I love my music so. I never let a day go by without

practicing.”

“We’ll have to go to some concerts next winter,” John continued.

“How nice,” Nannie smiled, “but I don’t know whether I shall be here

next winter. There may be somebody else who’ll have something to say

about that.” She glanced down demurely.

“Listen to that, Lucy!”

“Of course you’ll be here next winter, Mamma.” Lucy spoke with an

effort.

“And we’ll go to the symphony concerts.” John was enthusiastic. “It’ll

be great, Nannie. Lucy and I went to some of them, but it’s hard to

drag her out of the house in cold weather. You remember, Lucy, we heard

Beethoven’s Symphony in C Minor. It was simply grand, Nannie.”

“It must have been,” Nannie agreed sweetly.

“The allegro makes me think of the human soul struggling against

its fate.” John’s gaze was rapt. “The andante is--is the doubt and

questionings of the heart--and their answer.” His face was flushed.

Dimmie, his mouth open, stared at his father with a fascinated look.

“Music makes me feel just that way, John,” Nannie confided, “but I

can’t express myself as well as you.”

“It takes me right off my feet, Nannie. There’s the scherzo of that

C Minor. There’s where the struggle gets breathless. The trio and

recapitulation sort of wonder about the struggle and tragedy. Then

there’s a little pianissimo that is near the answer. Then the finale

comes along and takes it up till it winds up in a kind of shout of

victory. It’s great, Nannie!”

Lucy watched John admiringly.

“You ought to have been a critic, John,” Nannie declared. “Music means

so much to me, too.”

“I’m nutty about it, Nannie,” John vowed boisterously. “We’ll go to all

the concerts that come along and have a general good time.”

Lucy said nothing.

“Can I have a good time, too?” asked Dimmie suddenly.

“Sure, Son,” John agreed. “Now Nannie’s here we’ll all have a good

time, won’t we?”

* * * * *

After dinner John and Nannie went into the living room where John

smoked while she played to him. The Winters had a good piano but

Lucy played indifferently and, being very busy and not strong, had

discontinued practice. They had often talked of buying a player piano,

but the amount asked by the dealer above the value of their own

instrument had put the luxury out of their reach.

Dimmie helped his mother clear the table and wash the dishes, and when

the tasks were done these two joined John and Nannie. However, Dimmie

soon grew sleepy and Lucy led him away to bed, remaining with him to

tell stories and sing lullabies until he was sound asleep.

When she returned to the living room John and her mother were talking

earnestly.

“Come here, Lucy,” John called from the lounge. “Nannie has been

telling me more about her trouble with your father. I had no idea how

badly he had treated her. It’s a real shame!”

“I can’t talk about Papa, John. I thought we weren’t going to discuss

the past, Mamma.” Lucy’s tone was strained.

“She wasn’t accusing anyone.” John drew Lucy to the lounge beside him.

“Don’t be so touchy,” and he put his arm around her and kissed her

forehead.

Lucy began to smooth back his disheveled hair.

“Cooing doves,” murmured Nannie, smiling. “I certainly hope it will

always be so with you.” She put her hand to her eyes. “My life has

turned into nothing but unhappiness--nothing but a tragedy--that is if

it had not been for the friendship and understanding of--the person

whom neither of you know----” She stopped.

“Poor Nannie!” John reached and took her hand.

“I want some affection, too,” she pleaded, pressing his hand. John drew

her from her chair and down to the lounge, so that he was between her

and Lucy.

“You will be happy here with us and forget your trouble. We must go out

more, Lucy, now that Nannie is here. It will take her mind off the past

and keep her from dwelling on it.”

Lucy gently disengaged herself from John’s embrace and rose.

“Where are you going, Lucy?” he asked.

“I forgot to count the clothes. The washerwoman is coming for them

early in the morning.”

“Poor Lucy! She don’t realize that this is your only time to relax,

John. I could easily have counted the clothes before dinner if she had

told me about it,” remarked Nannie when she and John were alone.

After some time Lucy was heard ascending the stairs and John called

out, “Why don’t you come in here, Lucy?”

“I am going to bed early,” she answered. “I’ve a lot to do tomorrow. Is

there anything I can do for you, Mamma? You know where everything is,

don’t you?”

“Why of course I do,” responded her mother, coming out into the hall.

“I can look after myself. I don’t want you to ever worry about me. Kiss

me good night.” Lucy leaned over the balustrade and kissed her.

“I hope you rest well. You’ve been working too hard. I’m glad I’m here

to help you now. I used to think when we were separated how much you

needed my care. Poor Mother often spoke of it. You must get strong

again.”

“I’ll be up in a little while,” called John.

Lucy undressed herself and lay down. The murmur of the voices of her

mother and her husband came to her faintly. She lay and thought.

When John came to bed he supposed her to be asleep, and tip-toed about

the room, undressing in silence without a light and getting into bed

with the greatest gentleness to avoid waking her. Before reclining on

his pillow he leaned over her and saw her eyes wide open.

“Why, Lucy, I thought you had gone to bye-bye,” he said, and, lying

down, took her in his arms.

She drew away from him.

“Why, Lucy, what’s the matter?” he asked in a hurt tone.

She made no answer but he could feel that she was silently sobbing. He

took her in his arms again. This time she did not resist.

“Tell me what it is, darling,” he pleaded.

“Oh, John, do you want anybody but me?” She wept.

“Of course I don’t,” he returned vehemently. “What made you think that?”

“I don’t know,” she answered evasively, vaguely comforted by his ardent

denial.

“Was that what you were crying about?” he asked.

“No.”

“Well, what was it? Won’t you tell me, sweetheart?”

“Oh, John, it wasn’t anything--except I’m--so tired.”

“I know you must be,” he whispered. “It’s been an exciting day for you.

But now that Nannie’s here she can take a lot of things off your hands.

It will make things easier for you. You poor little girl, you have had

to work so hard, and you aren’t strong.”

“I don’t think so, John.”

“Don’t think what?”

“That she will make it easier.”

He considered a minute.

“Lucy.”

“Yes?”

“Were you crying because I stayed and talked with Nannie instead of

coming upstairs with you?”

“No--not that alone. I----”

He caught her tightly to him.

“You dear, sweet, foolish, jealous little thing,” he whispered,

laughing. “The idea! Why you precious darling, I was only trying to be

nice to your mother on her first day for your sake. Lucy, don’t you

ever, ever dream for a second that any one could take _your_ place

for a tiny instant. Why, sweetheart, I _love_ you. I only like other

people.”

Lucy kissed him.

Soon they were asleep in each other’s arms.

IV

Mrs. Merwent’s maiden name was Anna Lockhart. She was born in a

southern state, of a family that was considered to be aristocratic

and distinguished. None of its members had ever accomplished anything

noteworthy, but they had lived a long time in Russellville, there were

a large number of them, and they had usually raised sugar and cotton

instead of corn and tobacco.

Her earliest memories were of a large, square, white house with a front

porch supported by Corinthian pillars, a long drive-way lined with

great trees on either side, and much display of lavish hospitality.

From early childhood her whims were gratified and it never occurred to

her that the numerous things given to her, the clothes, the pony, the

negress who nursed her, the rings and brooches, were not a part of her

own charm and importance.

Her first pleasure was to attract attention; whether by doing things

that earned her the name of “Tomboy,” by being able to show dresses and

ribbons finer than her playmates, or by any other device her ingenuity

could discover.

She liked negroes because they were obsequious, and she was saucy to

white children supposed not to be her social equals whom, in imitation

of her elders, she designated as “trash.”

Anna, or Nannie as she was called, delighted in showing her power, and

was relentless in exacting notice and recognition of her position. She

stuck pins into the arms of Aunt Martha, her nurse, while the old

negress was dressing her; she stepped on the bare toes of the small

black children on her father’s place, and invented punishments for the

dogs, cats, and other domestic animals that happened to be at her mercy.

Especially she enjoyed her tyranny over Troupe, as the large family dog

was named. It pleased her to see him grovel before her when she scolded

him. She often played a game that she called “circus.” She would tie

the dog with a rope that had a loop which she could slip over a stake

driven into the ground, and with a buggy whip she would make him run

round and round. He would look back at her with pleading eyes, his tail

clamped to his body, but she did not pity him. When he was completely

exhausted he would lie down, his tongue lolling and the saliva dripping

from his mottled black gums. After she untied him he would run about,

crazy with joy, barking and licking at her hands and ankles. She paid

no attention to these demonstrations.

Nannie was called stingy, as she seldom divided her sweetmeats or other

good things with her playmates, and would not allow them to touch her

toys. But occasionally, when glory could be gotten out of giving, she

would bestow some old or broken plaything, always demanding profuse

expressions of gratitude, however, from the recipient.

No attempt was made to teach Nannie any useful occupation, and, as she

cared neither for stories nor for books, the task of amusing her became

no sinecure.

As she grew older she loved to go shopping with her mother in the

little town. They always went in the family carriage and Mrs. Lockhart,

who considered that she could insult salespeople with impunity,

invariably asked for the best in a haughty voice and inquired the price

after she had decided on the article.

Nannie’s desire to attract notice increased with the years. She was

fond of having her picture taken in fancy dress in imitation of various

popular actresses. One, in which she was represented as Iphigenia, was

most flattering and was displayed for some months in the windows of the

establishment of the local photographer.

She begged a riding horse from her father, and she liked to be seen in

elegant riding habits, and at parties in sumptuous gowns too old for

her. She adopted a pertness and flippancy of speech that was described

as “smart” and assumed a domineering manner toward the servants which

was, it is true, less marked as regarded the “house boy” who was a

handsome young mulatto.

She also picked out for condescending notice an admiring girl friend

at the private school which they both attended and made a chum of her.

This girl, Roberta White, was far from pretty, and could be patronized,

but was not unintelligent, and possessed considerable personality.

Unfortunately Nannie’s first boy admirer soon transferred his callow

devotion to “Bob White,” as Nannie had dubbed Roberta. There was a

curious scene in which Bob White was forever disowned, and Nannie ever

after, in referring to it, spoke of Roberta’s “ingratitude.”

Nannie was eighteen years old when she left school. It was a disastrous

year for her father. He had inherited money which he invested and spent

with equal display and absence of judgment, but he awoke one day to

find that creditors were impervious both to the dignity of the Lockhart

name and the impressiveness of the ancestral mansion. Mrs. Lockhart was

an efficient person, however, and brought to bear upon the situation

many of the practical qualities in which her husband was lacking. The

same could not be said of Nannie, who had absorbed from those around

her what seemed a tacit recognition of divine right as regarded the

members of her family. If she had been subject to her father alone

it is probable that only the jolt of an absolute downfall would have

aroused her to an appreciation of financial values, but fortunately

Mrs. Lockhart exercised her authority as decisively as was her custom

and gave Nannie to understand that, for the time being at least, she

might enjoy few dresses and fewer parties.

Not to be cut out of the gaieties in which the once envious Bob White

was participating, Nannie astonished no one more than her mother by

displaying considerable taste and talent in the improvization of

very effective frocks with the simplest means. Nannie was not a good

seamstress. The hastily devised costumes were never neatly made and

were often in actual danger of falling apart, but a ribbon here or a

flower there was applied with a discrimination that Russellville was

not too provincial to recognize as “chic.”

Though such haphazard dressmaking was her only contribution to the

household economy, it had a value that was more than apparent, and Mrs.

Lockhart recognized it. She had determined that Nannie should find

salvation for the family by attracting a husband whose pretensions to

that distinction should rest on a solid financial basis.

* * * * *

It seemed almost a divine intervention to insure the Lockharts’ future

when Arthur Merwent, a young lawyer from the north, came to the home

town.

Young Merwent rented an office and bought some furniture. He purchased

steel engravings of famous jurists to decorate his walls, unpacked his

law books, and had a sign painted and hung over his door.

Mrs. Lockhart knew, by hearsay at least, that Merwent held expectations

of inheriting some money, and, as the young man was attractive and a

stranger, it was soon arranged that Arthur should live at the Lockhart

home. He insisted on paying for his board and, after some perfunctory

objections which embarrassed Nannie and Mr. Lockhart but did not

disturb the mother, this was agreed to.

Arthur was agreeable but uncommunicative. His reserve pleased Nannie’s

father, who was pompous of manner and weak of purpose, but invariably

inclined to be enthusiastic about a new acquaintance.

“That young man can keep his mouth shut. He’ll rise,” Mr. Lockhart

often said.

From the beginning Nannie assumed a light and jesting attitude toward

Arthur. She was saucy and capricious, demanding services and attentions

calculated to convince him of her superior birth and position, and

suggesting with unconscious skill potentialities that she neither

possessed nor appreciated. He said little, as was his wont, but Nannie

was clever enough to perceive the favorable impression she was making.

Thrown into a continuous semi-intimacy the two young people reacted

as might have been expected and soon the imperturbable Arthur gravely

declared himself. Mrs. Lockhart preserved a grim neutrality in the

affair. True, his financial prospects were inclined to soften her,

but with all that he was a Yankee and there existed a grave doubt as

to the aristocracy of his connections. Her husband, who had visited

the Merwents and had been considerably impressed by the prosperity

evinced in their domestic establishment, was, however, positive in

his approbation. This did not alter his wife’s opinion or change

her attitude, for she was not accustomed to take his point of view

seriously; but when a friend made a self imposed pilgrimage to the

Merwent home and returned with enthusiastic corroboration of Mr.

Lockhart’s report, Mrs. Lockhart relented and her negative aloofness

became encouragement.

Nannie, who shared the common conviction that Arthur was a rising young

lawyer and a desirable catch, consented to become engaged.

This did not hinder her from indulging in coquettish tricks of a number

and variety that her fiancé found disconcerting.

Finally he brought things to an issue, refusing to be played with

longer, and, after exhausting her ingenuity in the endeavor to gain

more delay, she fixed the wedding day for a date four months ahead.

Twice in the midst of the work on the extensive trousseau, Nannie and

Arthur quarrelled, and on each occasion she returned his ring. But the

misunderstandings were adjusted and the wedding morning finally arrived.

Nannie had shown much interest in the more obvious preparations for

the ceremony, insisting that her gowns must be of such and such a

price, that her bridesmaids outnumber those of her previously married

friends, and that the affair as a whole be conducted with an _éclat_

which strained the resources of the Lockharts’ reduced finances to the

uttermost.

Nevertheless, on the day before the wedding she showed herself to the

household in a state of extraordinary depression, wandering listlessly

from room to room, striking discordant notes on the piano, and finally,

having fled from Arthur’s presence, she was discovered face downwards

on an old horsehair sofa in a violent paroxysm of weeping.

Mrs. Lockhart, who had gone to seek her, was unable to elicit any

explanation of her distress and called Merwent. But it was a mistake.

Nannie turned on him with a storm of accusations.

“You’ve wrecked my life! I don’t know what’s to become of me!” she

wailed.

“It’s not too late yet, Nannie,” Arthur answered. His voice was

slightly unsteady and his eyes shone dangerously, but his manner was

quiet.

“Oh! Oh! How dare you! I was never so insulted in my life! You don’t

care how much disgrace and humiliation you heap on me! It doesn’t make

any difference to _you_ what they say about me!”

Arthur was left alone. He sat on the sofa Nannie had quitted and held

his head in his hands. After a few moments he rose and lighted a cigar.

He was smoking when Mrs. Lockhart came in search of him a quarter of an

hour later. She brought with her a glass of hot eggnog which she had

made to comfort him.

“It’s all the perfectly natural result of her high strung state,”

remarked Mrs. Lockhart emphatically. “You must remember this is the

last day of her girlhood,” she added in a significant manner.

Arthur drank the eggnog and said nothing.

* * * * *

The next day, however, Nannie was radiant. Her mother and her cousin,

Mrs. Sheldon, had helped to dress her. The wedding gown bore the mark

of an expensive Louisville house, the bouquet was of white orchids, and

the diamond pendant which Arthur had given her, though modestly small

and fragile, glittered becomingly on her plump throat.

Arthur entered the church gravely, his head bent, and even as Nannie

came toward him at the chancel rail he did not lift his eyes. It was

only as they stood side by side that he glanced at her face. Every

trace of depression had vanished. She held her head high with the

slightly insolent air that she had so often been told was aristocratic,

and she really looked prettier than he had ever seen her.

The recessional was played. As the bridal couple emerged from the

church he turned slightly toward her.

“Well, Nannie,” he whispered, smiling a little.

They were close to the carriage steps. Arthur moved back to assist her.

By some chance awkwardness his heel caught in a loop of satin. There

was a tearing sound and Nannie flung herself from his grasp.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

An impassioned but enigmatic “Ah!” was her only reply, and until the

house was reached she sat far away from him on the carriage cushions,

replying in monosyllables until Arthur relapsed into moody silence.

When they arrived at their destination Nannie left the carriage

hurriedly and unassisted.

A supper had been planned but the hour of the departure of the train

they were to take prevented their presence. There was, however, no

way to escape the brief reception. At this function Nannie, who had

looked almost defiantly spirited during the ceremony, assumed a sudden

appearance of disconcerting melancholy. The pair stood under an arch

of smilax, and Nannie could see herself quite plainly in the long pier

glass opposite and appreciated how large and dark her eyes seemed in

the shadows that fell on her face.

The affair as a whole was not gay. Mrs. Lockhart shed a few impressive

tears, glancing somewhat apprehensively from time to time at her

daughter’s unresponsive features. Bob White had come to the reception,

being herself engaged. Nannie greeted her with effusive sadness and

clasped her in an embrace that was like a despairing renewal of

devotion. The two girls talked in low tones, and Arthur was conscious

of being ignored. A few moments later Nannie went off to prepare for

travel and he was able to excuse himself.

* * * * *

It was half past eleven at night. The Pullman was dimly lighted.

Merwent had avoided a stateroom and every appearance that might

indicate that he and Nannie were a bridal couple, but he felt that

the fresh modishness of Nannie’s costume betrayed them. They sat down

in a vacant seat while the beds were being made up. Arthur kept an

unresponsive profile turned to his wife. He had resolved not to make

any more advances.

The two swayed stiffly with the motion of the car. The woodwork

creaked. Long shadows moved up and down at the end of the passage.

Snoring from a curtained berth was audible.

Nannie touched Arthur’s arm lightly. He looked down at her in surprise.

She was regarding him with a new and softened expression.

“Arthur!” Her voice shook slightly.

His face cleared.

“Nannie!” They kissed stealthily.

When the conductor came down the aisle they were sitting consciously

far apart and Arthur’s face was flushed.

V

Lucy was born about a year after the Merwent wedding.

Although everything was normal and the baby a fine healthy child,

Nannie persistently vowed that she had gone through an experience never

before equalled and that she could never have another child.

Toward the end of their wedding journey, over some slight

misunderstanding at a hotel, Nannie had given way to a hysterical fit

of passion that amazed and dismayed her husband, but this was nothing

compared with the scene when she discovered that she was pregnant.

Tears, screams, striking Arthur in the face, with threats of killing

herself, him, and the child were only the beginnings of the drama.

However, Arthur had by this time begun to perfect his attitude of

non-reaction to the stimuli she employed, and went to his office

unworried.

Nannie afterward in a thousand ways suggested that the coming of the

child was in the nature of a crime and a calamity, and that Arthur was

to blame for it. Nannie’s father died a month before her confinement

and she even implied that Arthur was responsible for this coincidence.

To add to her sense of disappointment and injury Mr. Merwent senior,

who had been ill for some time, died also, leaving an involved estate,

and the hope that Nannie had secretly treasured of inheriting his

money died with him. Arthur’s future, from the Lockhart standpoint,

had ceased to be. Mrs. Lockhart, calling to ascertain the truth of the

rumor already circulated by gossiping neighbors, met Nannie’s tearful

announcement with, “I always thought so!” and when Arthur entered the

house a few moments later, she greeted him with marked coldness. After

her mother’s departure Nannie turned on him with fresh reproaches.

“Now we are penniless and you don’t seem to care!” she exclaimed.

Arthur did not reply. “I seem to be the only one who ever thinks about

the baby’s future. You haven’t opened your mouth since we got the

letter!”

Arthur took out a cigar and lighted it.

“O--oh! _Why_ don’t you say something? I’ll go crazy!” she almost

screamed.

“I don’t see just what there is to say,” Arthur answered quietly, and

left the room.

Nannie’s bitterness was accentuated by the fact that Arthur could not

afford to buy the Lockhart residence which had to be sold to clear

her own father’s estate, and she was forced to see the property pass

into the hands of “Cousin Minnie Sheldon” whom she cordially hated.

The spirit of rivalry between Nannie and her cousin, the fruit of

a childhood antipathy, had reached its climax in a contest for the

affections of the well-to-do young business man who afterward became

Minnie’s husband, and when he and his wife took formal possession of

Nannie’s ancestral home she felt it as the cruel affirmation of her

first defeat.

Mrs. Lockhart, who on previous occasions had not hesitated to express

her own disapproval of “Cousin Minnie,” after feeble and unconvincing

protestations to the effect that she did not wish to inconvenience her

prosperous relatives, accepted a grudging offer which allowed her to

remain in the old place on the bounty of its new owner.

Little Lucy was weaned soon after she was born, for Nannie declared

that she could not nurse a baby. By great good fortune, however,

sterilized cow’s milk agreed with the child and she thrived, thanks to

the devoted care of old Martha who came to live with Nannie and Arthur

and “bring up” their baby. Nannie continually quarreled with the old

negress but Aunt Martha stayed on, partly from a habit of allegiance to

the family and partly from real devotion to little Lucy.

Nannie gave scant attention to her baby until other people began

to notice and praise the child, when she promptly asserted her

proprietorship, pointing out with great pride the little thing’s

remarkable feats and insisting that Lucy be given to her whenever

visitors were present. Nevertheless, the child preferred Aunt Martha

and even Arthur, as the latter often held his daughter during the

evenings and sang lullabies to her. Nannie resented this deeply, and it

made her secretly furious to see Lucy toddle toward him as he came into

the room. She often said things to drive Arthur out of the house so

that he need not divide the child’s affections.

Lucy did not begin to go to school until she was eight years old. Even

then her mother objected to the separation, and in the little girl’s

absence wandered restlessly about the house. Lucy, on her return, was

covered with kisses. Acquaintances remarked on the unusual affection

between the two, although Nannie spoke crossly and often cruelly to

the child when they were alone, and not infrequently struck her. In

attitude she placed herself on an equality with Lucy and at times

depended on the little girl’s judgment and ideas.

Nannie could never help Lucy with her lessons at night, saying that

the figures in the book made her head ache, and if Arthur attempted to

offer any assistance a situation was usually precipitated that resulted

in driving him from the house. Left alone with the little girl, Nannie

played and sang, or produced candy from some hiding place, while she

persuaded the child to talk to her about teachers and schoolmates. She

enjoyed giving her piano lessons because Arthur knew nothing of music.

However, she never wanted Lucy to try to sing and always insisted that

her daughter had no voice for singing.

Nannie, however, resented Lucy’s growing self-sufficiency as the girl

became graver of manner and expressed herself positively on all sorts

of subjects.

Arthur’s law practice did not increase and, as there were no more

expectations from his father’s estate, it was decided to discharge Aunt

Martha. After the old woman had gone Nannie made a few half-hearted

experiments at cooking, but soon relegated this undertaking to her

daughter, who at sixteen was virtually the head of the domestic

establishment.

But, though Lucy was responsible under this arrangement for the

selection and quantity of food bought for the family, Mrs. Merwent

reserved for herself the prerogative of giving orders to the

groceryman. The young solicitor, who always made a punctual appearance,

had soft brown eyes and a beautiful complexion. Nannie never opened the

back door to him without first looking into the mirror.

“Are you sure your eggs are fresh today?” she would ask coquettishly.

She tapped him on the arm with the pencil she held as she objected to

the exorbitant price of bacon.

Lucy, who was annoyed by his habit of staring, expressed her dislike.

“Well, _you_ don’t have to give the orders to him!” was her mother’s

pettish answer.

Lucy worked too hard and, as a result, became ill. Arthur was away at

the time. Nannie called the family physician and annoyed the girl with

useless attentions. The doctor telegraphed Merwent that his daughter’s

condition was serious. Arthur returned on the first train and, arriving

at the house, found Nannie walking the floor with senseless gestures.

He went into the sick room and seated himself beside Lucy’s bed. His

quiet, emotionless manner seemed to drive Nannie to distraction. Her

chief resentment, however, seemed to arise from the fact that he did

not comfort her but only concerned himself with Lucy.

“Are you going to eat your dinner, or sit there all night?” she asked,

her voice trembling with vindictiveness.

Arthur went into the dining room without answering. Nannie shut the

door between them. She would not eat because she did not want to leave

Arthur and Lucy alone together, and the doctor was obliged to order her

to begin her meal. When she did go, however, her appetite was as hearty

as usual.

After a few critical days Lucy’s condition improved and on the fourth

morning, when the crisis was passed, she smiled at Arthur. Nannie, in

the room at the time, bent over the bed.

“Why don’t you smile at Nannie?” she asked accusingly, and Lucy smiled

at her mother too.

Arthur, as was his wont when he saw the approach of a useless scene,

left the room.

During the convalescence Nannie invented a thousand meaningless

attentions with which she endeavored to fix upon herself the regard of

the invalid, but as Lucy grew stronger and began to walk about Nannie

forgot to flutter around her and their life together resumed its former

course.

VI

Even after reaching the age when young girls begin to notice the

opposite sex, Lucy preferred girls to men. She also delighted in caring

for younger children and babies. Nannie laughed at Lucy for not having

beaux.

“I had dozens at your age,” she would say.

The most common cause of misunderstanding between the mother and

daughter was Nannie’s trick of regarding every remark about other

people, or about human nature in general, as a covert slur on herself.

Each mention of an ignoble quality brought forth, “That’s just like

me,” from Nannie, while any reference to an admirable characteristic

was greeted with, “I haven’t got that.”

“I wish Mamma wasn’t that way,” Lucy confided to her father one night,

after a number of irritating experiences with this mania. “It makes

things so unpleasant.” The evening had ended in a quarrel and Nannie

had gone upstairs to cry.

“Your mother has every defect of character that can be mentioned,”

Arthur replied, “so I suppose she shouldn’t be blamed for being

sensitive.”

Lucy was surprised by the bitter feeling in the tone of her usually

silent and impassive father, and remembered his remark.

Nannie spent a great deal of time in beauty culture. She tried all

sorts of exercises and devices for preserving her figure and warding

off wrinkles. Every recipe she saw in the women’s columns of the

newspapers she tested carefully. Each day a large part of the morning

was devoted to a faithful observance of these rites, and she never

neglected to take her “beauty nap” during the afternoon. Often she

would gaze with envy at Lucy’s charming color and clear eyes.

“I don’t want to grow old and ugly, Lucy,” she would say. “I’m so

afraid of growing old! Do you think I am beginning to show my age?”

“Why, Mamma, what nonsense! You look like a girl,” Lucy would reply,

for Nannie’s efforts were not without a certain kind of effect.

“Do you really think so?” she would ask happily. “Don’t tell anybody I

use rouge, will you?”

“I won’t,” Lucy always promised.

After taking up her residence with “Cousin Minnie Sheldon” Mrs.

Lockhart seldom visited her daughter.

One summer afternoon, however, a carriage stopped before the Merwents’

gate.

“Why, I believe that’s Mamma coming here,” Nannie whispered excitedly,

as the carriage door was opened. “There’s a young man with her!” she

added. “Who in the world can it be? You stay here to receive them,

Lucy. Tell Mamma I’ll be down in a minute,” and she ran upstairs to

change her dress and improve her complexion.

“Well, well, is this my grandbaby?” Mrs. Lockhart ejaculated as she

entered the hall and offered her cheek for Lucy to kiss. “You’re a

young lady already,” and she surveyed Lucy’s reddened cheeks and well

developed figure with approval.

The young man remained in the background, ill at ease.

“This is Kingsley Dodd,” Mrs. Lockhart announced, waving him forward.

“He saw you at your father’s office and has given me no peace till I

brought him over to call on you.”

Young Dodd, red to his hair, bowed and shook hands awkwardly.

“Where’s Nannie?” Mrs. Lockhart asked, entering the parlor and seating

herself. “Sit down, Kingsley,” she commanded her follower.

“Mamma will be down in a minute,” explained Lucy.

Nannie delayed many minutes, and Lucy became more and more

self-conscious under the influence of her grandmother’s continued

scrutiny and the confusion of the new acquaintance, answering briefly

his timid observations and Mrs. Lockhart’s peremptory questions.

At last Nannie appeared on the stairs in her best afternoon frock.

“Why, Mamma,” she exclaimed, “how nice of you! I’m so glad to see you.”

“You kept us waiting long enough if you _are_ glad.”

“I was in my bath,” lied Nannie, “and couldn’t come sooner.”

Lucy looked at her mother.

“Well, I’m glad you still take baths,” remarked Mrs. Lockhart as Nannie

kissed her.

Nannie laughed.

“We’re not that poor,” she tittered.

“This is Mr. Kingsley Dodd.” Mrs. Lockhart motioned her companion

forward again. “Judge Dodd’s only son. You remember Judge Dodd, Nannie.”

“Yes indeed!” Nannie smiled her sweetest and shook hands with Kingsley.

“We’re delighted to know you, too,” she declared as she beamed on the

youth.

“Nannie, I want to see that old dresser your father gave you. We’re

furnishing a guest room in antiques and maybe it will just fit in.

If it does, I’ll give you another,” said Mrs. Lockhart after a brief

conversation.

“But, Mamma----” Nannie began.

Mrs. Lockhart frowned at her meaningly.

“All right,” Nannie acquiesced hastily, and the two women ascended the

stairs.

“Young Kingsley is greatly taken with Lucy,” explained Mrs. Lockhart,

coming to the point at once as soon as they were out of hearing of Lucy

and her guest. “You know all Judge Dodd’s money will go to Kingsley.

It’s Lucy’s great chance. I don’t know how she did it. He’s just come

back from college and all the girls in town have set their caps for

him. Now I am going to look to you to see that Lucy doesn’t do anything

foolish.”

Nannie nodded obediently.

“I’ll do all I can,” she agreed, “but Lucy is hard to manage. She----”.

“Nonsense!” interrupted Mrs. Lockhart. “If you will only use sense and

firmness she will do anything you want her to. You made a mess of your

own marriage. If you marry your daughter to the heir of Judge Dodd it

isn’t too late to get back where you ought to be.”

“I will,” put in Nannie enthusiastically.

“Well, let’s go down again,” ordered her mother, after a few minutes

further consultation. “We shouldn’t make things too marked the first

visit.”

“We must go, Kingsley.” Mrs. Lockhart spoke imperatively as she

reëntered the room where the two young people were seated.

The docile youth rose.

“You must come again.” Nannie smiled invitingly.

“Thank you,” he replied, glancing first at her and then at Lucy. “I’ve

had a mighty nice time. What evening can I come?” He glanced at Lucy

again.

“You haven’t anything for Thursday evening, have you, Lucy?” inquired

Nannie, assisting him.

“No,” returned Lucy, who indeed had no engagements for any evening.

“Thanks,” Dodd said quickly, “then I’ll come Thursday.”

“Come early and have tea with us,” urged Nannie in response to a nod

from her mother.

“Thanks,” he repeated, “I will. Good-bye,” shaking hands with Lucy.

Then, “Good-bye, Mrs. Merwent. Thank you so much.”

“Oh, the pleasure will be ours,” Nannie declared.

Mrs. Lockhart kissed Nannie and Lucy, pinching the latter’s cheek.

“We’ll have to give a little party for my grandbaby. She’s the picture

of her grandpapa,” the old lady declared, smiling.

“Did you hear what she said, Lucy?” Nannie asked delightedly as soon as

their callers were gone.

“Yes,” answered Lucy.

“Isn’t it just grand?” continued Nannie with enthusiasm.

“What? The party?”

“Why, no--yes--the party and everything.”

“I don’t think so, Mamma. As for the party, I won’t have it. So far as

the rest goes, you already have been invited to Cousin Minnie’s and I

don’t want to be invited, so I don’t see what you have gained.”

“I!” exclaimed Nannie indignantly. “Why, Lucy, I wasn’t thinking of

myself at all. It’s you I’m glad for.”

“But I don’t see what I have to do with it, Mamma. Cousin Minnie and

Grandmamma have never paid any attention to me before and I wouldn’t

thank them for their attention now.”

“But, Lucy----”

“What, Mamma?”

“Lucy, it isn’t only Mamma and Cousin Minnie. It means that--it

means----” Lucy’s steady eyes were upon Nannie, “It means that

others--that we will be----”

“If you mean that you want me to go around with Kingsley Dodd so as

to be taken up by the people who dropped us when Papa failed to make

money, I won’t do it, that’s all.”

“Why, Lucy!”

“Our own relatives have treated Papa like dirt and the others have

followed them, so I, for one, don’t want anything to do with them.”

Nannie assumed a maternal and authoritative tone.

“Lucy, you don’t realize what you are saying. I won’t allow you to ruin

your chances in any such manner. You told Kingsley Dodd that he could

come Thursday night and----”

“You mean you invited him, Mamma.”

“Well, you agreed and it’s the same thing.”

“I’ll see him when he comes Thursday,” Lucy conceded, “but I won’t

again, and I won’t go to the party, so you had better tell Grandmamma

not to count on it.”

“What in the world have you got against Kingsley?” Nannie demanded, now

on the defensive.

“I don’t like him, and if I did I wouldn’t have anything to do with him

under the circumstances.”

Nannie lost her temper.

“You shan’t act this way!” she almost screamed.

Lucy’s gaze did not waver. “Yes, I shall,” she said steadily.

Nannie burst into tears. Lucy hesitated a moment before she continued.

“I’m sorry, Mamma, but I can’t help feeling this way,” she said at last.

Nannie made no reply and went on sobbing. Looking rather miserable,

Lucy left her and went to the kitchen to prepare supper.

* * * * *

The day after Kingsley Dodd’s presentation Nannie paid a visit to her

mother.

“Lucy, your grandmother wants you to go over and see her in the

morning,” Nannie announced on her return.

“All right, Mamma,” Lucy acceded without hesitation.

The following morning Lucy made her appearance at the Sheldon home with

her customary punctuality.

“Well, well, it’s a long time since my grandbaby came to see me,” began

Mrs. Lockhart kindly as Lucy entered the library where she sat tatting.

“It’s been a long time since I was asked,” Lucy answered simply.

“Yes, of course,” agreed her grandmother hastily. “I haven’t a home of

my own, as you know, Lucy, and can’t always do as I would like to.”

Lucy did not reply to this but continued to regard her grandmother

expectantly.

“You remember what I said yesterday?” resumed Mrs. Lockhart briskly.

“Well, we’ve begun to make the arrangements for a little dance in your

honor. It’s high time you were introduced to society.”

“I don’t know whom you want to introduce me to, Grandmamma. Everybody

in town knows me already.”

“Oh, you know what I mean, Lucy. You ought to take your place as a

young lady, and this is the nicest way to do it.”

“Thank you, Grandmamma, but I’d rather not have the dance.”

“Stuff and nonsense! I never saw a young girl yet who didn’t love

parties and attentions. We’ll consider it all settled then.”

“No, we won’t, Grandmamma. I am not going to have a party of any kind.”

“Lucy, you’re crazy, my child. Why people will think you’re queer. I’ve

already told several people of our plans.” “I don’t dance, Grandmamma.”

“What? Well, Nannie must have paid lots of attention to your education!

I’ll have a little talk with her. The idea of a young lady who can’t

dance! Well, we’ll have a little bridge party then.”

“I don’t play bridge, either.”

“Don’t play bridge!” Mrs. Lockhart eyed her granddaughter quizzically.

“Then we’ll have just an old fashioned party,” she said at length.

“Thank you, Grandmamma, but I don’t want the party,” reiterated Lucy.

“I really believe you don’t,” admitted Mrs. Lockhart with a grim smile,

“but we’ll have it anyway. What night next week shall we decide on?”

“I don’t want to seem ungrateful, Grandmamma, but I’m not coming to any

party.”

Mrs. Lockhart stared at Lucy only to encounter a gaze as firm as her

own.

“Very well, Lucy,” she said at last in an icy tone. “I had intended

to do a great many things for you, but if you want to throw away your

chances like this I can do nothing. You evidently don’t want either

friends or relations. You must excuse me now as I’m going out.” And

Mrs. Lockhart rose and left the room.

Lucy made her way through the hall alone and went into the street.

* * * * *

Thursday evening came and Kingsley Dodd appeared very promptly. The

day had been rainy and the remaining clouds were tinged crimson by

the setting sun. The windows of the Merwents’ house were open and as

the visitor went up the walk he saw Lucy lighting the gas jets in the

parlor. She was the only one ready to receive him, for Nannie had not

yet completed her careful toilette and Arthur was away from home, being

engaged on a legal case out of town.

Nannie soon descended the stairs, however, and the three sat down to

supper. During the meal she and young Dodd became such friends that

it was with an obvious effort that she excused herself, when they had

risen from the table, and returned to her bedroom, leaving the young

people together.

“We’re going to have an all-day picnic out at Dad’s country place next

Saturday,” Dodd observed, after some ordinary conversation, “and I want

you to come. Your grandmother and Colonel and Mrs. Mainter and Dad and

Aunt Sally are going to be the chaperones, and we’ll have a great time.

I’ll come around with a single buggy and my bays and drive you out. The

rest are going in surreys and on horseback. We better start early so as

to----”

“Thank you, Mr. Dodd,” Lucy stopped him, “but I shan’t be able to go.”

“Why, have you got something on for Saturday?” he asked. “Well, I’ll

have the thing put off till next week.”

“No, it’s not another engagement but I can’t go because----”

“Because you don’t like picnics,” he laughed. “All right. We’ll get up

something at the house here in town. What shall it be?”

Lucy opened her lips to speak, but hesitated. At the same instant a

gust of wind blew through the room and one of the window curtains

fluttered out and threatened to overturn some ornaments on a nearby

table. She hastened to secure the drapery.

“Let me fix it!” he offered, starting toward her. Lucy turned to face

him as he reached her side.

“It’s fixed, thank you,” she began, then hesitated, flushing painfully.

“Mr. Dodd,” she met his eyes steadily, “I know you mean to be nice in

giving me the picnic, and coming here to see me, and all that. We are

glad to have you and I hope we shall always be friends, but Grandmamma

is trying to throw us at each other’s heads, and I won’t have it!”

Kingsley stared at her a moment. His glance fell.

“I couldn’t help it,” she resumed, finally. “I had to say it. I hope we

will be friends, but if you are angry I can’t help that either.”

“I guess I’d better go.” Kingsley’s face was a dull brick red. Lucy

stood in the same place while he took his hat from the hall tree, and

she did not move until the front door had closed behind him.

“Lucy! Lucy!” Nannie called almost instantly, as she leaned over the

stair rail in the upper hall, “Are you and Mr. Dodd going out?”

“He’s gone,” Lucy announced, coming out of the parlor and looking up

into her mother’s anxious face.

“Why, what in the world’s the matter?” Nannie asked agitatedly,

descending the stairs as she spoke.

“Nothing’s the matter, Mamma, except that I don’t intend to let you and

Grandmamma dispose of me as though I were an animal.”

“Did you say such an awful thing to Kingsley?” gasped Nannie, wringing

her hands.

“Not exactly,” replied Lucy, almost smiling in spite of herself. “I

told him we were being thrown at each other and I wouldn’t permit it.”

“Why, how could you say such a thing as that!” she protested. “Was he

mad?” Then, before Lucy could answer, “Why couldn’t you have waited

till you saw whether you liked him or not?”

“I don’t need to wait, Mamma.”

“But, Lucy, there are other things to be considered.”

“No, there aren’t, Mamma.”

Nannie’s tone changed.

“Well, I think you might consider me a little at any rate!”

Lucy eyed her mother squarely.

“I don’t, Mamma--not in this matter. I’m willing to work for you.”

“You are certainly an ungrateful child, Lucy!” Lucy winced. “Nobody

knows what I sacrificed when I married your father. He has done nothing

and nobody pays any attention to him. His father died with everything

in a muddle and he’s never made anything for himself. All the society

or notice I get is through my own people, and now when they are

disposed to take you up, and give us a chance to be somebody, you won’t

even look at one of their friends! I should think you would be glad of

the chance to help your family. You would if you had any feelings at

all!”

Lucy was white. Without answering she walked past her mother and went

upstairs to her room.

VII

Late on the night of Kingsley Dodd’s visit Arthur returned from his

trip, and the next morning he had only time for a hasty greeting to his

family before leaving to keep an early appointment with the out-of-town

client who engaged his services at the moment. An hour after his

departure Lucy appeared in the hall with her hat on and her gloves and

sun-shade in her hand.

“Where are you going, Lucy?” Nannie demanded.

“I’m going to Papa’s office,” replied Lucy as she passed out the door.

When Lucy reached her father’s place of business she found Mr. Merwent

alone. As his daughter entered he was reading a letter. He put it into

a drawer in his desk and turned the lock.

“Well, Lucy?” He leaned back in his chair and smiled his slow smile as

he spoke.

She gazed around on the dingy furniture, the old books, the discolored

steel engravings, the dusty floor, and other signals of her father’s

run-down law practice. Her heart almost failed her, but the memory of

the preceding day rushed back upon her.

“Papa,” she began, “I want to earn my own living.”

Her father scrutinized her face kindly.

“I don’t blame you, speaking in general,” he observed, “but why have

you so suddenly decided it?”

“Mamma and Grandmamma are trying to marry me to Kingsley Dodd in spite

of myself, and Mamma thinks I am ungrateful because I object. I don’t

think I ought to be dependent on any one any longer.”

“You seem to have all the self respect in the family, Lucy,” Mr.

Merwent commented, “but what can you do?”

“I can learn book binding,” she responded without hesitation. “The pay

for fine tooled hand binding is good. Mamie Willis, who used to be in

my class at high school, has been to Chicago Art School to learn it. I

think I should like to go there. I want to go right away.”

“Let me think, Daughter,” he said meditatively. “I have a friend I

should like to consult about it. It is very possible that it may be the

best thing. We’ll talk it over again tomorrow. Come down here about

this time and we’ll decide.”

Lucy kissed her father, amazed at his complaisance.

“I wonder who the friend he spoke of is,” she said to herself as she

went back to the house. “Papa’ll probably have to borrow money of him

to send me away.”

* * * * *

The following day Mrs. Merwent preserved an air of gentle sadness and

grief, replying softly to her daughter’s remarks but avoiding any

reference to what had happened. When Lucy went out a little before the

hour appointed for the conference at the office, Nannie did not ask her

errand, but returned the girl’s kiss and volunteered a statement that

she would not be gone long, with a look of patient melancholy.

“Well, it is all arranged,” were Arthur’s first words, as he greeted

Lucy. “You are to go to Chicago where I have planned for you to stay

with the relative of a friend. We agree--that is, I agree that you

couldn’t do better than go to the Art School, as it is a recognized

institution and the courses are reliable.”

“Oh, Papa, thank you so much!”

“The thanks are due to someone else, Lucy, and I hope some day you can

thank the friend who has made it possible.”

“Who is it, Papa? Is it someone I know?”

Mr. Merwent looked at her a moment before replying.

“It’s a woman friend, Lucy, Mrs. Ellen Low.”

He continued to regard his daughter. Lucy’s face turned pink.

“I didn’t know you knew her, Papa,” she said.

Mr. Merwent, though he did not take his eyes from the young girl’s,

seemed, in his turn, somewhat embarrassed.

“Yes, I’ve known her quite a while. When her husband died I was

retained with Mr. Blair to settle up the estate,” he answered.

“Oh!” Lucy relapsed into thoughtful silence.

She knew Mrs. Low by sight and in spite of herself rather liked the

pleasant homely face with its strongly marked features, though she had,

almost against her will, absorbed some of the prejudiced tone in which

she had heard her mother and grandmother make occasional references to

the woman.

Mrs. Low was the widow of a handsome man, who had been very fond of

the ladies, and she had not lived happily with him. She appeared, in

a whimsical way, to hold men in little awe. The unpopularity of her

outspoken manner, which voiced a point of view that Russellville found

unbecoming in a lady, had sent her to seek a more congenial atmosphere

with relatives in Chicago. However, she continued to spend several

months of each year in her native town.

“I expect you have accepted the family’s hostility to Mrs. Low, Lucy,”

Arthur went on after a minute.

“I’ve hardly ever heard Mamma speak of her,” Lucy returned, her glance

drooping before the bitter, slightly amused expression that crept into

her father’s face.

“Mrs. Low is too big a woman for her environment. She’s got too much

self respect to be understood by the people in this place. It’s because

she’s too big-hearted to be prudent, she’s let herself be unpleasantly

criticised!” Mr. Merwent’s manner was warm.

Lucy, surprised at her father’s outburst, stared at him in silence,

her lips slightly parted. He rose from his chair and walked over to

the open window. He stood there for a moment with his back turned, and

when he finally reseated himself he appeared as self-contained and

emotionless as usual.

“Are--are the people you want me to stay with Mrs. Low’s friends?” Lucy

paused, once more embarrassed by her father’s calm scrutiny.

“Her cousin, Miss Storms,” he explained. “She is very well known in

Chicago and could do a lot for you, we think.” This time he used the

plural pronoun without hesitation. “You haven’t told your mother

anything about this yet?”

“No, Papa, I’m afraid Mamma won’t like it.”

“So am I, Daughter. We’ll have to talk it over with her tonight.”

Lucy looked troubled.

“I’m afraid she won’t consent.”

“Yes, she will. You go on back now, and we’ll see after supper.”

Lucy was very thoughtful as she walked home. She had been much

astonished to learn that Mrs. Low and her father were acquainted.

“Lucy is going to Chicago to school,” Mr. Merwent announced that night

without preamble, toward the end of the evening meal.

Nannie looked up from her plate with a startled expression.

“What in the world are you talking about, Arthur?”

“About Lucy going away to school, as my words implied,” returned Mr.

Merwent.

“But who said Lucy was going away?” insisted Nannie.

“I did,” responded her husband shortly.

“Lucy, what is all this about?” asked Nannie, appealing to her daughter.

“It’s about Lucy going away to school. Do you think you can manage to

understand or shall I repeat it a few more times?” interrupted Arthur

almost menacingly.

Nannie studied the face of her long silent husband and read in it

something that experience taught her to be the signal of an occasion

when tears, arguments, and tantrums would avail nothing. She rose

suddenly and left the table and not long after they heard the front

door close as she went out.

“A council of war,” remarked Arthur with a wry smile.

Lucy shut herself in her room and cried.

About nine o’clock Nannie returned from the “big house” as the Sheldon

home was called, where she had received neither comfort nor suggestion.

“Don’t ask me to take over the management of your husband too, Nannie!”

Mrs. Lockhart had exclaimed with asperity. “Any effort to help you is

wasted because you make no attempt to coöperate.” And Nannie had left

in tears.

When it became apparent that both Arthur and her daughter must be taken

at their word, curiosity got the better of the secret resolve Nannie

had made to show no interest in the matter of Lucy’s future.

“Of course it’s none of my business, Lucy, but I should think you and

your father would at least tell me where you are going to stay when you

get to Chicago. You don’t know a soul there and you’ve never been away

from home in your life.”

“I told you I was going to stay with Miss Storms,” replied Lucy,

repeating information she had previously offered, to which Nannie,

being in a temper at the time, had refused to listen. “She is the

friend of somebody Papa knows,” Lucy hesitated and flushed, “and he

wrote and asked her if she’d take me.”

“I don’t know what your father is thinking about to let you go off like

this to people he knows nothing of. She may be as common as dirt for

all we know. I’d like to find out who the mutual friend is. I notice he

don’t mention his name,” Nannie finished with a sneering intonation.

Lucy, her cheeks still scarlet, glanced away but said nothing.

* * * * *

During the days in which Lucy was preparing for departure Nannie

relapsed into tearful silence and repelled her daughter’s advances and

demonstrations until the girl, still not much more than a child in

experience, was almost ill and about to relinquish her plan.

At this point a note came from Mrs. Lockhart which spurred Nannie to

more decisive speech.

“I want to tell you something,” she announced, calling Lucy to her.

“You had better think carefully before you leave home for if you go you

can’t come back here! It will be final.”

“But, Mamma, Papa----” Lucy began.

“This is my final decision,” interrupted Nannie in a manner almost

ludicrously like Mrs. Lockhart’s.

“Very well, Mamma,” replied Lucy, hardly able to keep back the tears,

and choking with a sense of injustice.

Arthur came in at this juncture.

“What’s this, Anna?” he inquired peremptorily.

Nannie was silent and avoided his gaze. He turned to Lucy who told him

what had taken place.

“My child shall come to my home as often and as long as she pleases,”

he declared. “Lucy, come upstairs. I want to talk with you.”

The father and daughter left the room together.

Aunt Martha had been called in to help with the arrangements for Lucy’s

departure. Nannie heard the old negress’s voice, then the voices of

Arthur and Lucy, and the sound of a trunk being moved. Shut in her own

room she was conscious of the feet that hurried past her door and the

general bustle of packing for a journey. When there was no one about

she stepped into the hall and listened. She convinced herself that Lucy

would not really take this step but that the appearance of unusual

preparation was arranged to deceive and punish her.

After a time, the father and daughter went out, Lucy locking her

door. Aunt Martha went home at the same time. Nannie, from a window,

watched them until they were out of sight and, notwithstanding her

determination to discredit all evidences of Lucy’s decision, began to

feel very forlorn.

She prepared herself some luncheon, eating as heartily as usual, but

she was convinced that she was heartbroken. She was indeed bothered by

the uncertainty and, most of all, by the fact that her daughter and

husband were together.

Late in the afternoon Lucy and her father returned with a number of

packages.

“Where did he get the money to buy all those things? I wonder what they

are?” Nannie said to herself.

She could hear the murmur of their voices in Lucy’s room as they opened

the packages and arranged the contents of the trunk and valises. When

Lucy descended to the kitchen to prepare supper Nannie tip-toed to

the open door of the bedroom and peered in at the still scattered

belongings of her daughter. She saw a pair of new shoes and an

unfamiliar hat which were a concrete affirmation of all that she had

tried to deny.

“Lucy leaves in the morning on the nine fifteen,” volunteered Arthur

when the three were seated at their evening meal.

Nannie was speechless. She gave him one scathing look and fled to her

room.

Lucy followed her and knocked but Nannie would not open the door. She

could be heard sobbing. What disturbed the girl was that the supper she

carried up on a tray and left outside her mother’s door was not eaten.

At bed time Nannie had not appeared. Lucy kissed her father good night,

but when she lay down she could not sleep.

* * * * *

When Arthur and Lucy were eating breakfast the next morning an

expressman came for the trunk. Nannie had not yet descended to the

dining room and still refused to open her door though Lucy had been to

her several times and asked for admittance. When Mrs. Merwent saw the

baggage carried away, however, her tragic resolution was broken, and,

after hesitating at the head of the stairs, she composed her face to

what seemed an appropriate expression of her state of mind and went

down.

It was a beautiful late summer morning. The lawn was visible through

the half open front door. The grass was parched, and the vines on

the porch were beginning to turn yellow. There was a tinge of autumn

crispness in the air, but the sunshine that flooded the hall was golden.

Lucy came out of the dining room and laid her gloves, coat, and a

little hand bag on the hat stand. She had on the new hat, which was

very becoming, and wore a new blue serge frock. She was excited by the

unusual prospect of a journey and looked exceptionally pretty.

“Lucy!” Nannie began in an ominous voice. The girl, a little startled,

turned to face her mother.

Mrs. Merwent wore a soiled lace négligée. Her hair hung down her back,

loose and uncombed. Her habitual precautions to ward off wrinkles and

retain her good looks had been neglected. She seemed much older than on

the previous day when Lucy had seen her carefully dressed, rouged and

with well ordered hair.

“You wicked, selfish, cruel girl!” continued Nannie in high pitched

strident tones. “You mean, hard hearted, wretched beast!” She suddenly

advanced toward Lucy who retreated in frightened astonishment.

Arthur appeared in the hall doorway.

“That is enough!” he said sternly.

Nannie suddenly lost all self control.

“Get out of my house!” she screamed. “You stinking----!” and a stream

of awful invectives that seemed from a brothel poured from her lips.

She picked up Lucy’s belongings from the hat stand and threw them

against the front door where they fell on the threshold.

“Anna!” Arthur spoke calmly, but he only succeeded in evoking another

paroxysm of screams and vile words directed at himself.

“Put your things on, Lucy,” he said, and in a moment the two fairly

fled into the street, leaving Nannie in a state of hysteria bordering

on madness.

“I can’t go on this way, Papa!” exclaimed Lucy, looking back at the

house after they had walked half a block.

“All right. Do as you wish,” he responded without emotion.

“Yes, it’s better that I should go,” she decided as if to herself, and

they did not speak again until they reached the station.

As they stood waiting for the train Lucy studied Arthur’s set face

furtively.

“I don’t want my going to make more trouble between you and Mamma,” she

ventured at last, timidly.

Arthur’s eyes sought hers slowly.

“Don’t worry,” he replied heavily in his deep voice. “What you saw

today is only a fair sample of what I’ve enjoyed for years. In the

beginning I used to hold a quarter of an hour’s argument to get two

minutes’ peace. Then I quit that and she tried to punish me with long

periods of curdled gloom. Finally I took to staying away from the house

in self defense. Long before you grew up things were as bad as they

could be, so don’t blame yourself, Daughter. You have had nothing to do

with it.”

Lucy was surprised by this unprecedentedly long speech.

“Don’t you think that maybe when I’m gone you and Mamma----” she did

not know how to proceed.

“I wouldn’t ask her for a drink of water if I were dying,” Arthur

answered. Lucy had never heard such suppressed hatred and vehemence in

his tone. “There’s the train,” he added in his ordinary manner, and

they moved toward the platform.

“Here are your tickets, and here is your money,” explained Arthur as

they entered the Pullman. “Miss Storms will meet you. She will wear a

bunch of white carnations. Here is a white carnation for you to wear.

Miss Storms knows all about your plans.” He removed a flower that was

in his button hole and Lucy fastened it on her jacket. They kissed. The

train began to move.

“Good-bye, Daughter. Write often. I will try to get up there to see you

soon,” he called.

The journey began.

* * * * *

It was late at night and rain was falling when Lucy arrived in Chicago.

Leaving the train she was bewildered by the people, noises, and bustle

about her. As she stood looking around the thronged platform misted by

the radiance of many lights, a very tall woman, dressed in a grey linen

tailored suit with a grey hat, and holding some white carnations in her

hand, came up and spoke.

“I think you are Lucy.”

“Are you Miss Storms?”

“I am. Where are your baggage checks, dear?”

Lucy handed over her single check and pointed out her smaller baggage

which Miss Storms entrusted to a leather coated chauffeur. In a few

minutes Lucy found herself in a luxurious limousine gliding through the

crowded streets of the city.

* * * * *

A few evenings later, at a small dinner to which Miss Storms had

invited some young people of her acquaintance, Lucy found herself

between a red haired girl and a fresh faced young man, both from the

Art School.

“Lucy, this is Nora Stimpson,” began Miss Storms, and Lucy bowed to the

red haired girl. “Your right hand partner is John Winter,” continued

Miss Storms.

Lucy, following Miss Storms’ direction, looked into the smiling blue

eyes of John. He rose and reached out his hand to take hers.

Lucy’s romance had begun.

VIII

After Lucy’s departure the Merwent home went from bad to worse. In

times past her presence had often sufficed to prevent the more sordid

expressions of the disgust and contempt which Arthur felt for Nannie,

and of Nannie’s feeling of fear and distrust toward him. He now avoided

being at home alone with his wife until he became almost a stranger in

the house.

The scandal loving people of Russellville, like the inhabitants of all

small towns when similar opportunity is afforded, began to talk, and

Arthur’s name was linked with that of Mrs. Low. This, in time, came to

Nannie’s ears.

Arthur’s law practice, now that he was put to extra expense for Lucy’s

maintenance and education, barely supported the family, and Nannie

began to feel the pinch of poverty more keenly, especially in the

matter of her wardrobe. Mrs. Lockhart was bitter toward her daughter

and made no effort toward consolation. In short, Nannie felt herself

hardly used by the world.

She exerted all her ingenuity, however, in making an appearance that

belied her pocket book, and achieved a certain amount of success.

“You could turn a good many pennies dressmaking, if you only had horse

sense, Anna. Minnie could get you work among her friends. She could put

it to them that it was a kind of favor, and if you’d keep your mouth

shut nobody would be the worse for it,” remarked Mrs. Lockhart one day,

eyeing one of Nannie’s costumes with reluctant approval.

But Nannie was very much hurt by such a suggestion. She had no desire

to use her arts to teach other and more prosperous women to dress

becomingly.

It was evident, nevertheless, that something must be done to supplement

Arthur’s earnings. She still attended social events at the “big house”

as often as she could squeeze an invitation from “Cousin Minnie,” and

it was to “Cousin Minnie’s” influence, rather languidly exerted in her

behalf, that she applied for a solution of her problem.

It came in the shape of a position in a small private school in

Russellville.

The school, which had existed precariously for several generations, was

usually referred to as “The Academy.” A short while previously it had

appeared to be almost moribund, but it had lately been taken over by

one Mr. Walsh, called “Professor Walsh,” though he held no degree or

official position; and it had, for the time being at least, awakened to

unwonted patronage.

Though Professor Walsh was from a nearby town, no one seemed to

know much of his antecedents. He was a large slow-spoken man with a

low-pitched pleasant voice. He had fat features and was rather pale.

His hair, parted in the middle, was wetly and thinly combed over

a glistening scalp. He had thick curveless lips. His eyes were a

nondescript blue and he wore nose glasses which glittered inscrutably.

He had an air of decorum and responsibility, and his smile, which

displayed double rows of perfect teeth, was full of warmth and

condescension. He was peculiarly apt as a listener, showed a subdued

but flattering appreciation of the broad talk of men, and was earnestly

sympathetic, though somewhat noncommittal, when he gave ear to the

ladies.

His personality was such that he impressed one, in his genial

restraint, as being responsible for the group.

He was enough of an enigma to overawe people and acquired the

reputation of being learned. The teachers in the school were afraid

of him. By patronizing some and snubbing others, and by frequent

vague allusions to distinguished acquaintances and remote but exalted

relations, the Professor forced the first families of Russellville, so

styled by themselves, into receiving him. At the institution over which

he presided Nannie gave piano lessons to the younger pupils. She rather

enjoyed than disliked her task, for her position allowed her to remind

Arthur that he could not support her, and besides Professor Walsh soon

became interested in her and was, as she told herself, exceedingly kind

and sympathetic.

She also found it pleasant to meet the grown boys, or “young

gentlemen,” as they were called, who attended some of the higher

classes. Professor Walsh left her little opportunity to talk with these

youths but their presence lent a piquancy to his attentions.

She was rather afraid of him, but the envy with which the teachers

looked on such signal favor as she received from this august person

reconciled her to those things in his make-up which she found

incomprehensible. She was further led to encourage his attentions

by the fact that there was no one to contest with him the rôle of

exclusive admirer.

Professor Walsh, being of ambiguous antecedents, realized fully the

advantages of a connection with some family which exemplified the

southern tradition. He easily perceived that Nannie Merwent was

susceptible to influence, and he hoped through her to cement an

alliance with the Sheldons, the most prosperous and dictatory citizens

of Russellville.

Professor Walsh’s plans were not laid in a day; but, without her

realizing it, he considered each circumstance of Nannie’s life as she

presented it to him, and decided on its possible relation to his own

future.

At one of the few receptions which Arthur had felt bound to attend in

Russellville, he met Professor Walsh.

“I am honoured to know you, Mr. Merwent,” remarked the educator

affably, when they were introduced. “I have the deepest admiration for

your profession. A--ah--distant connection of mine--though our names

are not spelt the same--James K. Walshe of Chicago. You may have heard

of him?”

“Every lawyer knows the reputation of your relative, Mr. Walsh,”

replied Arthur. “In criminal cases he has few equals.”

“In case you ever go to Chicago I shall be most happy to give you a

letter of introduction to him,” offered the Professor.

“Thank you,” returned Arthur, “I hardly think----” Then he appeared to

reconsider. “It is true that I shall probably go to Chicago in the near

future, and I should be very glad to go to see your relative.”

“Well, sir, you shalt have the letter.” The Professor compressed

his lips, put the tips of his fingers together and regarded Arthur

curiously. “Without fail. I will send it to your office tomorrow,” he

added.

“Thank you,” repeated Arthur. And the two separated.

* * * * *

Nannie, on one of the rare occasions when Arthur was at home,

sneeringly alluded to his attentions to Mrs. Low.

“You will kindly not interfere with the conduct of my personal affairs

while you are so careless of your own,” he requested in a tone that

closed the conversation.

A few days later the gossips of Russellville were informing their

friends that Mrs. Low had gone to Chicago for an indefinite stay.

Nannie at once wrote furiously to Lucy accusing her of plotting with

deliberate intent to wreck her mother’s life.

Nannie’s accusations were so obviously ill founded that the only

recourse left for Lucy’s wounded pride was silence, and she made no

reply to a succession of violently worded letters.

Arthur appreciated in part the difficult situation in which his

daughter was placed, and did his best to prevent her being drawn into

this conflict. It was not long after Mrs. Low’s arrival in Chicago that

Lucy learned that her father was spending most of his time in the state

capital, where he was making important legal affiliations. In this

way Nannie, left almost entirely to herself, began to depend more and

more on the benevolent Professor, who showed a reserved but unfailing

interest in her affairs.

He had a way of regarding her enigmatically through his twinkling

glasses that made her always a little afraid of him, but he was also

always able to impress other people, and her cautious instincts

prompted her to lean toward his poise and aplomb while her vanity still

further urged her to his conquest. Nannie was not unaware of the fact

that the town had begun to comment on her association with him but her

terror of being alone was greater than her habit of caution.

One evening after leaving school, a note from the Professor was

delivered to her, in which he suggested that she come to the school

building that night, as he had heard some rumors of Arthur’s doings

which he thought she should know.

Nannie dressed herself and went out without hesitation, but she was

careful to find her way along obscure streets and hoped fervently that

neither “Cousin Minnie” nor her other relatives would hear of the visit.

The Academy was a large old fashioned red brick building with

many additions and one wing which had a private entrance in a

little-frequented lane where the Professor’s office was situated.

As Nannie came up the walk she could see his large shadow as he bent

over his desk between the window and the light. She rang the bell

at the side door and he himself admitted her. For some reason which

she could not explain she felt at first an unusual discomfort in his

presence, and, when he leaned forward and took her hand in a kind but

casual manner, her heart gave a sudden leap and she glanced up at him

suspiciously. However, he patted her shoulder comfortingly, and, as he

repeated to her in a low tone some incidents of gossip about Arthur

which had lately come to his ears, she was completely reassured. She

was certain that he admired her tremendously, and she was determining

in her heart that she would use his devotion as a weapon of defense

against the continual disapprobation of “Cousin Minnie.”

Professor Walsh talked so long and so comfortingly that Nannie was

startled when she looked at a clock on his book shelf and realized that

she had allowed herself to remain until an hour which Russellville

would consider scandalous. When Professor Walsh offered to escort her

home she protested vehemently. If he were seen walking with her at such

a time it might rob her of the position of an injured party which was

what she desired the world to permit her in view of Arthur’s neglect.

It was a terrible moment for Nannie when she had told the Professor

good night and walked into the street, only to find herself confronted

at the very gate by a strange man who stepped up to her with an air of

quiet determination and inquired if she were Mrs. Merwent.

“Y--yes,” stammered Nannie doubtfully, terror clutching her throat,

though she was unable to conceive of what was about to happen.

“Why yes, this is Mrs. Merwent,” affirmed a brisk masculine voice as,

from the deep shadow thrown by the Academy walls, Mr. Blair, Arthur’s

colleague in several law cases, stepped out, followed by Arthur himself

and another strange man.

Nannie, though technically guiltless of wrongdoing, was almost in

a state of collapse and, scarcely knowing what she did, agreed to

coöperate in the arrangements Arthur desired for a divorce.

Only once during the conversation, which was carefully listened to by

all of Arthur’s companions, did she weakly demur; whereupon he coldly

declared he would bring suit on a graver charge, would not shrink from

publicity and would use the incident of the night to prove his case, as

the two men unknown to her were reputable witnesses.

Nannie was conquered.

* * * * *

After a few days of reflection, however, Mrs. Merwent persuaded herself

that her husband could never bring himself to the point of taking the

step he contemplated.

The scene which followed the actual filing of Arthur’s suit for

divorce, therefore, was no worse than numerous other scenes to which

she had treated her husband at frequent intervals throughout their

married life, many of them precipitated by trifles.

When she perceived that rage, abuse, and sarcasms all failed to

affect Arthur’s calm, she grew really frightened and began to weep

hysterically.

Arthur gazed at her still unmoved.

As a last resort she referred pathetically to their life together.

“You can’t mean that you will carry this thing through, Arthur!” she

moaned. “For Lucy’s sake you can’t do such awful things.”

His sudden cold fury was terrible.

“For Lucy’s sake,” he repeated slowly and gratingly, “after you have

driven her out of the house and poisoned her youth! Yes, it would be

highly appropriate for us to stay together for Lucy’s sake.”

“Arthur, I can’t believe that you hate me that much!” Nannie pleaded.

“You don’t hate me, do you?” “I can’t put my feelings into words,” he

answered mercilessly. “You poison the air. I wonder the flowers don’t

die as you pass by.” His tone was coldly implacable and he did not

raise his voice.

She gazed at him an instant with silent and helpless animosity.

“You cruel monster!” she shrieked, springing suddenly from her chair.

Arthur turned on his heel and went out.

Nannie’s first act following this interview with her husband was to

see Professor Walsh. Since Lucy’s rebellion she had grown afraid of

Mrs. Lockhart’s comments on family difficulties. Nannie felt that the

Professor’s accidental rôle in her embarrassment constituted a sort of

obligation on his part.

Their meetings of late had been slightly constrained. But once in his

private office he listened gravely and kindly to her agitated story.

Without much having been said on either side Professor Walsh had

understood for some time from Mr. Sheldon that the family would not

look unkindly on the prospect of some one eventually taking Nannie off

their hands.

“My advice is that you do not contest the suit,” he said, when she had

finished, “but I should try to get him to agree to something for your

support if I were you, Anna. This could be done amicably and out of

court. It is no more than right that he should do something for you

financially.”

Nannie had not noticed that he called her by her given name and broke

in with, “But, Professor Walsh----”

“Call me Edward, Anna,” he interrupted, taking her hand.

She tried to withdraw her hand but he retained it.

“We are such good friends,” he continued. “Aren’t we, Anna?”

“Yes,” she admitted uncomfortably.

“Well, it is agreed then. I should refuse to talk about it to others if

I were you. And anything new that may come up you will let me know at

once, won’t you, dear?”

“Yes--Edward,” answered Nannie, hesitating slightly, somewhat

bewildered by the new aspect which her affairs had taken.

IX

After the scene in which he announced the beginning of his divorce

proceedings Arthur never entered his house again. He had established a

residence in the state capital but was still compelled, in the course

of various suits and details of the legal practice he was disposing of,

to make frequent visits to Russellville. On such occasions he slept in

his office and ate his meals at the local hotel.

Nannie, who was always panic stricken when alone, less from fear than

from lack of resources within herself, went, on her own initiative

and despite a grudging welcome, to live with Mrs. Lockhart at “Cousin

Minnie’s.”

The divorce was granted in due time and all Russellville was agog with

the news. Nannie considered it a matter of propriety that she should

stay in semi-retirement for a while, and so went out very little.

However, when she did leave the sanctum which “Cousin Minnie” had

provided, she always managed to see Professor Walsh, to whom she came

to look for advice and help in every situation.

* * * * *

It was the same season, the second of Lucy’s attendance at the Art

School, that Lucy and John Winter were married. On account of Nannie’s

violent reproaches at the time of the divorce Lucy had not communicated

with her mother for many months, but when she decided to marry John she

immediately wrote to Nannie.

“John is only beginning business and we shall have to be very

economical for a while at least,” the letter said. “Miss Storms has

asked us to be married at her flat, but we shall have a very simple

wedding. I would be glad to have you come here but I suppose you had

rather not under the circumstances. We have rented some furnished rooms

that will be convenient for light housekeeping but I hope soon we can

get out in the suburbs where it will be cheaper and healthier.”

Although Professor Walsh had questioned Nannie closely regarding Lucy

and the girl’s attitude toward family affairs, Nannie replied to her

daughter’s letter without consulting him.

“I am only your mother,” Nannie wrote, “so of course it would be

preposterous to consider _me_ in regard to the step you are taking. I

have suffered a great deal at the hands of your father but I have not

lost my pride and self respect yet, and if there was anything more you

could do to further alienate me, this was it. You forfeited all right

to my affection when you deserted me in my hour of trial in order to

pursue your own selfish aims, but this marriage to a man I know nothing

about, who may be a nobody from Heaven knows where, is the climax. I

think from now on there is not much use in our writing to one another.”

Arthur was still engaged in an important case at the capital and could

not be present at the wedding.

“I am sorry I can not be there,” his letter read. “All the advice I can

give you, Lucy, is don’t let your mother intrude on your happiness.”

John sent an invitation to his parents, but Dr. Winter, a clergyman,

was old and in ill health, and was not able to bear the double strain

of the journey and the cold weather. Mrs. Winter, a kindly sentimental

lady who would never have thought of leaving her husband, sent tearful

regrets, and bemoaned the fact that John and Lucy did not come to the

home town and so make it possible for Dr. Winter himself to officiate

at the wedding of his only son.

In the end only Jim Sprague and Miss Storms witnessed the quiet affair.

These two had liked each other since the day of their first meeting.

Miss Storms’ interest in Jim had risen from the fact that he was John’s

business associate and intimate. Later she gave him her friendship for

his own sake and often referred to him affectionately as “our Jim.”

There was an unanalysable and very subtle comprehension between the

two, though Miss Storms remained quite as kindly aloof from him in her

manner as she did with John and Lucy; and Jim, as in all his relations,

was ungiven to self-revealing speech. “Well, Jim, Lucy has good taste

in friends as well as in husbands,” Miss Storms remarked, smiling at

him with quizzical complaisance when the wedding ceremony was over.

“I hate all the immodest fol-de-lol of church weddings,” she went on,

changing the subject, “but it is a shame that anything as pretty as

Lucy in those new togs should be wasted on the desert air. For you and

I don’t count.”

While she was speaking Lucy came up. Miss Storms took her hand.

“Well, dear?”

Lucy’s eyes swam with tears. She clasped Miss Storms’ hand in both her

own and squeezed it impulsively. Miss Storms kissed her forehead.

“I’m jealous, child,” the older woman declared.

“So am I,” John laughed.

“Neither of you need be.” Lucy smiled unsteadily.

“What about you, Jim?” Miss Storms turned to the other guest.

“I’ve always been jealous of John,” Jim answered, flushing a little as

he spoke.

* * * * *

Arthur and Mrs. Low, for reasons best known to themselves, were not

married in Chicago as expected, but at the state capital where Arthur’s

new practice had begun to flourish. When the notice of the wedding was

copied by the _Russellville Weekly Clarion_, another outburst of gossip

occurred, but, as neither of them returned to the place after their

marriage, it did not disturb them. Arthur made two visits to Chicago,

and on one of these, not long after Dimmie’s birth, he spent a night

at Rosedene. Here he met Jim Sprague for whom he afterward expressed a

strong liking.

Nannie had no means of escape from the public attention attracted to

herself and her interests, and the wounds to her vanity were keenly

felt. The protest of her self-esteem was her conspicuous appearance

in frequented places with Professor Walsh. Again Russellville talked,

but not for long. Nannie’s persistent recklessness of opinion in this

matter palled. She ceased to be a popular object of criticism. Events

settled into the routine that is characteristic of small communities.

The years glided by without any outward change in Nannie’s life. Of

Arthur’s doings, she knew nothing except an occasional hint. Mrs.

Lockhart had issued an ultimatum on Lucy’s marriage by forbidding any

further relation with such an undutiful daughter, and Nannie, overawed

by the old lady and more or less dependent on her, dared not disobey.

Professor Walsh was often at the “big house” and, chiefly through his

universally acknowledged friendship with the Sheldons, was yearly

becoming more and more a power in the community. He paid much special

and flattering attention to Mrs. Lockhart, who was rapidly growing deaf

and would otherwise have been lonely.

Although the professor’s interest in Nannie was tacitly recognized by

the family, Mrs. Lockhart employed all the ingenuity of a jealous and

neglected old woman to curb impatience on the part of her niece and

nephew, while Professor Walsh, who was already receiving for nothing

the benefits that Nannie represented, constantly abetted the old

lady’s wiles in so subtle a manner that Nannie hardly realized her own

position.