In July Miss Vance returned unexpectedly. Her charges had tired of
travel, and turned their backs upon India. She dropped them in
Chicago, and came to Weir for rest. The evening of her arrival she
strolled with Frances through the park, listening to the story of
George's sudden wooing, and the quiet, hurried wedding.
"It had to be quiet and hurried," said Mrs. Waldeaux, "in order to keep
her ignorant of her change of fortune. He took her to the Virginia
mountains, so that no newspapers could reach her. They are coming
to-morrow. It won't trouble her to hear that her money is gone when
she is here with us all, at home. As for me," she went on excitedly,
"I am beginning to advertise the summer resort. I must put my hand to
the plough. I don't mean that she shall miss any comfort or luxury as
George's wife."
Miss Vance looked at her. "Frances, give up your planning and working.
Let George work for you and his wife," she said curtly. "It is time for
you to stop and rest."
"And why should I stop and rest, Clara?" said Frances, amazed.
"Surely you know, dear. You are not as young as you once were. Your
eyes are weak, and your hearing is a little dulled, and----"
Frances threw out her hand eagerly. "You think I am growing old! It
is only my eyes and ears that are wearing out. _I_ am not deaf nor
blind," she said earnestly. "_I_ am not old. I find more fun and
flavor in life now than I did at sixteen. If I live to be seventy, or
a hundred, I shall be the same Frances Waldeaux still."
Clara gave an annoyed shrug. "But really, _I_ make the thought of
death my constant companion. And you are older than I."
"'After the busy day
Comes the calm sleep of night,'"
she quoted, with a sententious sigh.
"Calm and sleep do not appear to me to be the highest conditions of
life. No! I will not be set aside, even when I am dead, like a
burned-out candle!" The indignant tears stood in her eyes. "Why, even
in that other world I shall not be a barren stock, thank God! I have
given a family to mankind. To watch a long line of your descendants at
work, to see in them your own thoughts and your own soul reaching out,
live powers through all eternity--I often think of it. That will
be--not calm nor sleep."
Miss Vance touched Mrs. Waldeaux's arm affectionately. "What a queer
idea, Frances. Well, I never argue, you know. Drop in the harness, if
you choose. Let us go in now. It is chilly."
The older woman looked after her, and smiled good-humoredly. After a
moment she raised her hand, examining it attentively. Her hand had
been very beautiful in shape, white and dimpled, and she had been vain
enough to wear fine rings. Now it was yellow and wrinkled. The great
emerald looked like a bit of glass upon it.
"Yes, I see," she said, with a miserable little laugh, and then stood
looking out into the far distance. "But _I_ am not growing old." She
spoke aloud, as if to one who stood apart with her and could
understand. "Even out in that other world I shall not be only a
mother. I shall be me. ME!" touching her breast. "After a million of
years--it will still be me."
There stirred within the lean body and rheumatic limbs depths of unused
power, of thought, of love and passion, and, deeper than all, awful
possibilities of change.
"I have it in me still to be worse than a murderer," she thought, with
whitening face.
She stood a long time, alone. A strange content and light came slowly
into her face. "Come what will, I shall never be left to myself
again," she said at last, speaking to a Friend whom she had found long
ago.
Then she went in search of the boy. "Come, Jack," she said cheerfully,
"there are busy days before us."
George and Lucy that evening reached Dover, prettiest of American
towns. They strolled down the shaded street out into a quiet country
lane. Lucy sat down upon a fallen tree, and George threw himself upon
the grass beside her.
"To-morrow we shall be at home," she said, pushing his hair back. "Do
you know that your profile is absolutely Greek?" Her eyes half closed
critically. "Yes, we shall be at home about eleven o'clock. I wrote
to Stephen to order all the dishes that you like for luncheon. Your
mother and Jack are coming. It will be such a gay, happy day!"
He took her hand. He would tell her now. It would not distress her.
The money weighed for nothing in her life. He was her world; he knew
that.
"Lucy!" he said.
She turned, startled at his grave tone. The color rose in her delicate
little face, and there was a keen flash of intelligence in her blue
eyes. It vanished, and they were only blue and innocent.
"Lucy, would you be willing to come to my house? To take it for home?
To be a poor man's wife, there? God knows I'll try to make you happy
in it."
"No," she said gently. "That is your mother's home. She has made it.
It is not fair to bring young queen bees into the old queen's hive. We
will live at your house, Dunbar Place, George."
"It is not mine nor yours!" George broke out. "Oh, my darling, I have
hidden something from you. It is all gone. Your property, income,
every thing! The Consolidated Consolidated Companies failed. Their
depositors are ruined."
"Yes, I know," said Lucy, brushing a fallen leaf from her gown. "But
they had no control over my affairs. I withdrew them from their
management in February."
George started up. "Then you--you are a great heiress still?"
"No." She rose, holding out her hands, laughing. "My husband, I
believe, is a rich man, and I shall have what he gives me."
But he did not hear her. He walked away down the road, shaken by a
dumb fury. He had been tricked! Who had tricked him?
Then he heard a miserable sob and turned. Great God! Was any thing on
earth so dear as that little woman standing there? She was crying!
Had he struck her? He was a brute. What had he done?
He ran to her, and taking her outstretched hands, kissed them
passionately.
"They are mine--mine!" he whispered, and knew nothing beyond.
They walked together like two happy children down the shady lane toward
the golden sunset. The money was forgotten.
End of Project Gutenberg's Frances Waldeaux, by Rebecca Harding Davis