A CONFESSION
It was obvious to Joan that it was no more than fair and right that
her mother should know what she had undertaken, and yet, secure as she
was in her own mind, it was both a difficult and unpleasant thing to
talk about with her. The latter was sure to misunderstand—possibly to
misinterpret. In either case she would object and that meant acting
against her wishes.
She did not want to do that. It was against her instincts. All her life
she had been so obedient that even to-day she felt in her mother’s
presence like the school-girl with braided hair. It was so, she was
convinced, her mother saw her. That was the trouble. That explained
the gulf that during these last few years had widened between them.
Her mother expected her still to think and act like a school-girl—like
a grown-up school-girl, to be sure, but nevertheless as one not yet
entitled to decide for herself. That privilege would not be granted
until after marriage, and then only to a limited degree. After being
a dutiful daughter she must be a dutiful wife. It seems that her duty
must always lie to some one else rather than herself.
In the present instance, then, she was proposing to act from a purely
selfish motive. That was the logical deduction. In undertaking to
give her time and thought to the Devons Manufacturing Company she was
actuated, then, by no other desire than to develop her own soul by
enlarging her life through service? It was a fair question and she put
it to herself. But it turned out to be rather a confusing question.
Certainly her original idea had been nothing more than this. Here was
a fellow human being struggling alone, and she had stepped in and in
her limited way had done what she could to help him. That help was
still needed and the joy of the enterprise lay in that fact. Her joy
lay in that fact. To that extent she was selfish. But somehow that
did not account for all her emotions. The way she disposed of these,
however, was merely to hold her head a little higher and challenge
her conscience, or whatever it was, to explain why she was under any
obligation to account for them at all. She had some rights of her own.
It was in this spirit that Joan went to her mother as soon as the
latter came in from an afternoon of bridge. Mrs. Fairburne furnished
her the opportunity by inquiring:
“You lunched with Mr. Burnett to-day?”
“No,” Joan replied without equivocation, “I lunched with Mr. Devons.”
“Devons?”
The eyebrows went up and the mouth became set.
“Yes, Mother. He—he has been ill. I took Henriette and went down there
with some proper food for him.”
“Down where?”
“To Mullen Court.”
“I am not familiar with Mullen Court,” answered Mrs. Fairburne in a
tone that suggested this was something to be thankful for.
“No, Mother, dear,” Joan replied steadily. “It is not far from
Washington Square.”
“One of those artist places?” she asked suspiciously.
“I—I don’t know.”
“Yet you—”
“Please, Mother,” broke in Joan, “will you let me tell you in my own
way?”
Mrs. Fairburne sank into a chair.
“Go on,” she submitted resignedly.
“A friend of his, Mr. Arkwright, wrote me he was ill, so I had Charles
drive us down. I found him in a little room—oh, a pitiful little room
at the top of the house. He was ill for lack of food. I had Pierre pack
a basket and I took it to him.”
“But did that necessitate your stopping for lunch?”
Joan crimsoned.
“I stopped because I wished to.”
“Joan!”
“Because I had business with him.”
Mrs. Fairburne started from her chair.
“Please—just a minute, Mother. I want to tell you everything. It is
your right to know what I’ve done and what I’m going to do. I told you
once how he needed money to start in business.”
Mrs. Fairburne admitted this with an expression of annoyance.
“I asked you to help and you did not approve.”
“Certainly not.”
“So I told Dicky and he gave me the money.”
“You asked Mr. Burnett for money?”
“He was very nice,” nodded Joan. “He gave me five thousand dollars.”
“Joan—are you losing your mind!”
“I wanted to take it as a loan, but he would not consent to that. So
he came into the business with us as a silent partner. Now we are all
ready to start. And,” she concluded rather hurriedly, “I’m going to
keep the books.”
Mrs. Fairburne had difficulty for a second or two in catching her
breath. It was while she was in this helpless condition that Joan moved
swiftly to her side and put an arm around her.
“Mother, dear,” she pleaded. “I know how strange this all sounds to
you. But I’m in earnest. I want something to do and here is my chance.
I’ve wanted something to do ever since I came home from college. If
you had known Mildred and heard all she did—”
The mother looked up.
“You are such a child,” she murmured.
Joan met her mother’s eyes.
“Not any longer,” she answered. “That is the trouble, isn’t it? You
forget I have grown up.”
There was something about the girl’s mouth that told her this was the
truth. But it frightened her. She roused herself.
“Joan, dear, what you propose is impossible. It would break your
father’s heart if he heard. You must put the whole Quixotic plan out of
your head. We—we will take a little trip to the South or Bermuda—”
“No, Mother,” she put in gently. “As for Dad—is there any reason why he
should know if it is going to disturb him?”
“He would never forgive you—never forgive me.”
“Why should he feel like that?”
“The whole idea is so unusual.”
“With thousands of girls working for their living?”
“But they—they are not Fairburnes.”
“No—they are not Fairburnes. But I don’t like to think they are better
than Fairburnes, Mother.”
“Joan—I really think I should call Dr. Nichols!”
“Nonsense. Now you come up to your room and get ready for dinner. I’m
sure that by to-morrow you will look at it differently.”
“Will you call Louise?”
“Let me help you—please.”
Mrs. Fairburne took her daughter’s arm and allowed herself to be helped
to her room. And once there Joan was still reluctant to summon Louise.
“Let me do your hair to-night,” she pleaded.
So she unfastened her mother’s hair and let it down over her shoulders
and combed out the fine strands that were beginning to show silver.
“It is beautiful!” exclaimed Joan.