Before she willed it, she was telling him:
"He didn't. He didn't leave me," she cried with passion. "He had another
wife." Incredibly it was as if she were defending both him and herself.
"Lord sakes!" said Cornish.
She poured it out, in her passion to tell some one, to share her news of
her state where there would be neither hardness nor censure.
"We were in Savannah, Georgia," she said. "We were going to leave for
Oregon--going to go through California. We were in the hotel, and he was
going out to get the tickets. He started to go. Then he came back. I was
sitting the same as there. He opened the door again--the same as here. I
saw he looked different--and he said quick: 'There's something you'd
ought to know before we go.' And of course I said, 'What?' And he said
it right out--how he was married eighteen years ago and in two years she
ran away and she must be dead but he wasn't sure. He hadn't the proofs.
So of course I came home. But it wasn't him left me."
"No, no. Of course he didn't," Cornish said earnestly. "But Lord
sakes--" he said again. He rose to walk about, found it impracticable
and sat down.
"That's what Dwight don't want me to tell--he thinks it isn't true. He
thinks--he didn't have any other wife. He thinks he wanted--" Lulu
looked up at him.
"You see," she said, "Dwight thinks he didn't want me."
"But why don't you make your--husband--I mean, why doesn't he write to
Mr. Deacon here, and tell him the truth--" Cornish burst out.
Under this implied belief, she relaxed and into her face came its rare
sweetness.
"He has written," she said. "The letter's there."
He followed her look, scowled at the two letters.
"What'd he say?"
"Dwight don't like me to touch his mail. I'll have to wait till he
comes back."
"Lord sakes!" said Cornish.
This time he did rise and walk about. He wanted to say something, wanted
it with passion. He paused beside Lulu and stammered: "You--you--you're
too nice a girl to get a deal like this. Darned if you aren't."
To her own complete surprise Lulu's eyes filled with tears, and she
could not speak. She was by no means above self-sympathy.
"And there ain't," said Cornish sorrowfully, "there ain't a thing I can
do."
And yet he was doing much. He was gentle, he was listening, and on his
face a frown of concern. His face continually surprised her, it was so
fine and alive and near, by comparison with Ninian's loose-lipped,
ruddy, impersonal look and Dwight's thin, high-boned hardness. All the
time Cornish gave her something, instead of drawing upon her. Above all,
he was there, and she could talk to him.
"It's--it's funny," Lulu said. "I'd be awful glad if I just _could_
know for sure that the other woman was alive--if I couldn't know she's
dead."
This surprising admission Cornish seemed to understand.
"Sure you would," he said briefly.
"Cora Waters," Lulu said. "Cora Waters, of San Diego, California. And
she never heard of me."
"No," Cornish admitted. They stared at each other as across some abyss.
In the doorway Mrs. Bett appeared.
"I scraped up everything," she remarked, "and left the dishes set."
"That's right, mamma," Lulu said. "Come and sit down."
Mrs. Bett entered with a leisurely air of doing the thing next expected
of her.
"I don't hear any more playin' and singin'," she remarked. "It sounded
real nice."
"We--we sung all I knew how to play, I guess, mamma."
"I use' to play on the melodeon," Mrs. Bett volunteered, and spread and
examined her right hand.
"Well!" said Cornish.
She now told them about her log-house in a New England clearing, when
she was a bride. All her store of drama and life came from her. She
rehearsed it with far eyes. She laughed at old delights, drooped at old
fears. She told about her little daughter who had died at sixteen--a
tragedy such as once would have been renewed in a vital ballad. At the
end she yawned frankly as if, in some terrible sophistication, she had
been telling the story of some one else.
"Give us one more piece," she said.
"Can we?" Cornish asked.
"I can play 'I Think When I Read That Sweet Story of Old,'" Lulu said.
"That's the ticket!" cried Cornish.
They sang it, to Lulu's right hand.
"That's the one you picked out when you was a little girl, Lulie,"
cried, Mrs. Bett.
Lulu had played it now as she must have played it then.
Half after nine and Di had not returned. But nobody thought of Di.
Cornish rose to go.
"What's them?" Mrs. Bett demanded.
"Dwight's letters, mamma. You mustn't touch them!" Lulu's voice was
sharp.
"Say!" Cornish, at the door, dropped his voice. "If there was anything I
could do at any time, you'd let me know, wouldn't you?"
That past tense, those subjunctives, unconsciously called upon her to
feel no intrusion.
"Oh, thank you," she said. "You don't know how good it is to feel--"
"Of course it is," said Cornish heartily.
They stood for a moment on the porch. The night was one of low clamour
from the grass, tiny voices, insisting.
"Of course," said Lulu, "of course you won't--you wouldn't--"
"Say anything?" he divined. "Not for dollars. Not," he repeated, "for
dollars."
"But I knew you wouldn't," she told him.
He took her hand. "Good-night," he said. "I've had an awful nice time
singing and listening to you talk--well, of course--I mean," he cried,
"the supper was just fine. And so was the music."
"Oh, no," she said.
Mrs. Bett came into the hall.
"Lulie," she said, "I guess you didn't notice--this one's from Ninian."
"Mother--"
"I opened it--why, of course I did. It's from Ninian."
Mrs. Bett held out the opened envelope, the unfolded letter, and a
yellowed newspaper clipping.
"See," said the old woman, "says, 'Corie Waters, music hall
singer--married last night to Ninian Deacon--' Say, Lulie, that must be
her...."
Lulu threw out her hands.
"There!" she cried triumphantly. "He _was_ married to her, just like he
said!"
* * * * *
The Plows were at breakfast next morning when Lulu came in casually at
the side-door. Yes, she said, she had had breakfast. She merely wanted
to see them about something. Then she said nothing, but sat looking with
a troubled frown at Jenny. Jenny's hair was about her neck, like the
hair of a little girl, a south window poured light upon her, the fruit
and honey upon the table seemed her only possible food.
"You look troubled, Lulu," Mrs. Plow said. "Is it about getting work?"
"No," said Lulu, "no. I've been places to ask--quite a lot of places. I
guess the bakery is going to let me make cake."
"I knew it would come to you," Mrs. Plow said, and Lulu thought that
this was a strange way to speak, when she herself had gone after the
cakes. But she kept on looking about the room. It was so bright and
quiet. As she came in, Mr. Plow had been reading from a book. Dwight
never read from a book at table.
"I wish----" said Lulu, as she looked at them. But she did not know what
she wished. Certainly it was for no moral excellence, for she perceived
none.
"What is it, Lulu?" Mr. Plow asked, and he was bright and quiet too,
Lulu thought.
"Well," said Lulu, "it's not much. But I wanted Jenny to tell me about
last night."
"Last night?"
"Yes. Would you----" Hesitation was her only way of apology. "Where did
you go?" She turned to Jenny.
Jenny looked up in her clear and ardent fashion: "We went across the
river and carried supper and then we came home."
"What time did you get home?"
"Oh, it was still light. Long before eight, it was."
Lulu hesitated and flushed, asked how long Di and Bobby had stayed there
at Jenny's; whereupon she heard that Di had to be home early on account
of Mr. Cornish, so that she and Bobby had not stayed at all. To which
Lulu said an "of course," but first she stared at Jenny and so impaired
the strength of her assent. Almost at once she rose to go.
"Nothing else?" said Mrs. Plow, catching that look of hers.
Lulu wanted to say: "My husband _was_ married before, just as he said he
was." But she said nothing more, and went home. There she put it to Di,
and with her terrible bluntness reviewed to Di the testimony.
"You were not with Jenny after eight o'clock. Where were you?" Lulu
spoke formally and her rehearsals were evident.