Not far away, in an upper room, two men were facing each other across a table—the wide, heavy work-table of the Rectory "study." The "study" was a south room, and into it the May sun poured like a warm stream, to fade further the green of the "cartridge" paper on the walls and the figures of the "art-square" that covered the floor, and to bring out with cruel distinctness the quantities of dust that Dora was allowed to disturb not more frequently than once a week. For the "study" was a place sacred to the privacy of each succeeding clergyman. And here, face to face, Alan Farvel and the bridegroom-to-be were ending a long, grave conversation—a prenuptial conversation invited by the younger man.
Wallace Milo was twenty-eight, and over-tall, so that he carried himself with an almost apologetic drooping stoop, as if he were conscious of his length and sought to make it less noticeable. It was an added misfortune in his eyes that he was spare. In sharp contrast to his sister, he was pale—a paleness accentuated by his dark hair, which was thick, and slightly curly, and piled itself up in an unconquerable pompadour that added to his height. Those who saw Mrs. Milo and Sue together invariably remarked, "Isn't the devotion of mother and daughter perfectly beautiful!" Just as surely did these same people observe, when they saw brother and sister side by side, "There are two children who look as if they aren't even related."
Alan Farvel, though only a dozen years the senior of Wallace, had the look and the bearing of a man much older than forty. His face was deep lined, and his hair was well grayed. But his eyes were young; blue and smiling, they transformed his whole face. It was as if his face had registered the responsibilities and worries that his eyes had never recognized.
He was speaking. "I know exactly how you feel, Wallace. I think every decent chap feels like that the day before he marries. He wants to look back on every year, and search out every mean thought, and every unworthy action—if there is one. But"—he reached to take the other's hand—"you needn't be blaming yourself, old man. Ha-ha-a-a! Don't I know you! Why, bless the ridiculous boy, you couldn't do a downright bad thing if you wanted to! You're the very soul of honor."
Wallace got to his feet—started, rather, as if there was something which Farvel's words had all but driven him to say, but which he was striving to keep back. Resolutely he looked out of the window, swaying a little, with one hand holding to the edge of the table so tightly that his finger-ends were bloodless.
"The very soul of honor," repeated Farvel, watching the half-averted face.
Wallace sank down. "Oh, Alan," he began huskily, "I'll treat her right—tenderly and—and honorably. I love her—I can't tell you how I love her."
Farvel did not speak for a moment. Then, "Everybody loves her," he said, huskily too.
"Oh, not the right way—not her parents, I mean. They haven't ever considered her—you know that. She hasn't had a home—or happiness." He touched his eyes with the back of a hand.
"Make her happy." Farvel's voice was deep with feeling. "She's had all the things money can buy. Now—give her what is priceless."
"I will! I will!"
"Faithfulness, and unselfish love, and tenderness when she's ill, and—best of all, Wallace,—peace. Don't ever let the first quarrel——"
"Quarrel!"
"I fancy most men don't anticipate unpleasantness when they marry. But this or that turns up and marriage takes forbearance." He rose. "Now, I've been talking to you as if you were some man I know only casually—instead of the old fellow who's so near and dear to me. I know your good heart, your clean soul——"
Wallace again stood. "Oh, don't think I'm an angel," he plead."I—I——" Once more that grip on the table. He shut his jaws tight.He trembled.
"Now, this will do," said Farvel, gently. "Come! We'll go down and see how preparations are going forward. A little work won't be a bad thing for you today." He gave the younger man a playful pull around the end of the table. "You know, I find that all bridegrooms get into a very exaggerated state of self-examination and self-blame just before they marry. You're running true to form." He took Wallace's arm affectionately.
As they entered the drawing-room, Mrs. Milo uprose from the sofa, hands thrown wide in a quick warning. "Oh, don't bring him in!" she cried, looking for all the world like an excited figurine.
"It's bad luck!" chimed in Mrs. Balcome, realizing the state of affairs without turning.
The younger women at the table had also risen, and now Hattie came forward to meet the men, smiling at Farvel, and picking out the flounces of her gown to invite his approval.
"Oh, you shouldn't see it till tomorrow," complained Mrs. Milo, appealing to her son.
Farvel laughed. "How could it bring anyone bad luck?" he demanded; "—to see such a picture." He halted, one arm about Wallace's shoulder.
"Do you like it?" cried Hattie. "Do you really? Oh, I'm glad!"
Sue, puzzled, was watching Farvel, who seemed so unwontedly good-spirited, even gay. "Why, Mr. Farvel," she interposed; "I—I—never thought you noticed clothes—not—not anybody's clothes." She looked down at her own dress a little ruefully. It was of serge, dark, neat, but well worn.
"Well, I don't as a rule," he laughed. "But this creation wouldn't escape even a blind man." Hands in pockets, and head to one side, he admired the slowly circling satin-and-tulle.
Before Sue, on the table, was a morning newspaper; behind her, on the piano, the vestment which Mrs. Milo had thrown down. Quickly covering the garment with the paper, Sue caught up both and made toward the hall door.
"Susan dear!" Her mother smiled across Mrs. Balcome's trembling plumes. "Where are you going?"
"Er—some—some extra chairs," ventured Sue. "I thought—one or two——"
Mrs. Milo crossed the room leisurely. The trio absorbed in the wedding-gown were laughing and chatting together. Mrs. Balcome had rushed heavily to the bay-window in the wake of the poodle, who, from the window-seat, was barking, black nose against the glass, at some venturesome sparrows. Quietly Mrs. Milo took paper and vestment from Sue and tucked them under an arm. "We have plenty of chairs," she said sweetly.
"Yes," assented Sue, obediently; "yes, I—I suppose we have." Her eyes fell before her mother's look. Again it was as if a small child had been surprised in naughtiness.
Now from the Church sounded the voices of the choir. The burring bell had summoned to more, and still more, practice of tomorrow's music, and a score of boys, their song coming loud and clear from the near distance, were rendering the Wedding March from "Lohengrin."
A curious, and instant, change came over Farvel. His laughter stopped; he retreated, and fumbled with one hand at his hair. "Oh, that—that——" he murmured under his breath.
"Alan!" Wallace went to him.
"It's nothing," protested Farvel. "Nothing."
Sue made as if to open the library door. It was plain that, ill or troubled, Farvel was eager to get away.
"Wait," said her mother.
Wallace turned the clergyman toward the door leading to the Church."Come, old man," he urged. "Let's go right in. That's best."
Farvel permitted himself to be half-led. But he paused part way to look back at the quartette of ladies standing, silent and watchful, at the center of the room. "It's all right," he assured them, smiling wanly at Hattie. He tried to speak casually. "Let me know when you're ready to rehearse." Wallace had reached out to draw Farvel through the door. It closed behind them.
Sue made as if to follow the two men. But once more her mother interposed. "Susan!" And then in explanation, "I wouldn't—they'll want to be alone."
Now, as if silenced by an order, the choir stopped in the middle of a bar.
"Well!" exclaimed Mrs. Balcome. "Positively tragic!" She gathered up the dog and sank upon the sofa.
"Of course, you saw what did it," observed Mrs. Milo.
"What?" asked Hattie, almost challengingly.
"The wedding-march." And when that had sunk in, "Wallace knew. Didn't you hear what he said? He wanted Mr. Farvel to—to conquer the—the—whatever it was he felt. I'll wager" (Mrs. Milo permitted herself to "wager" under the stress of excitement, never to "bet") "that he's broken his engagement, or something of that sort."
Hattie stared resentfully.
"Engagement?" repeated Sue.
Mrs. Milo's blue eyes sparkled with triumph. "Well, it wouldn't surprise me," she declared.
Sue's color deepened. "Why, of course, he isn't," she answered defensively. "He'd say so—he wouldn't keep a matter like that secret. It isn't like him—a whole year."
Her mother smiled at her fondly. "There's nothing to get excited about, my daughter."
"But, mother, it's absurd."
Mrs. Milo strolled to a chair and seated herself with elaborate care."Well, anyway," she argued, "he carries a girl's picture in his pocket."
In the pause that followed, a telephone began to ring persistently from the direction of the library. But Sue seemed not to hear it. "A picture," she said slowly. And as her mother assented, smiling, "And—and what did he say when he showed it to you?"
Mrs. Milo started. "Well,—er—the fact is," she admitted, "he didn't exactly show it to me."
"Oh." It was scarcely more than a breath.
Mrs. Milo tossed her head. "No," she added tartly, a trifle ruffled by what the low-spoken exclamation so plainly implied. "If you must know, it fell out of his bureau drawer."
Mrs. Balcome threw out a plump arm across the bending back of the sofa and touched a sleeve of the satin gown covertly. "Hm!" she coughed, with meaning.
But Hattie only moved aside irritably. Of a sudden, she was strangely pale.
Dora entered. "Miss Susan, a telephone summons," she announced.
"Yes—yes,"—absent-mindedly.
When she was gone, Mrs. Milo rose and hastened to Dora, who seemed on guard as she waited, leaned against the library door. "Who is telephoning?" she asked.
Dora's eyes narrowed—to hide their smile. "Oh, Mrs. Milo," she answered, intoning gravely, "the fourth verse, of the thirteenth chapter—or is it the ninth?—of Isaiah." With face raised, as if she were still cudgeling her brain, she crossed toward the vestibule.
"Isaiah—Isaiah," murmured Mrs. Milo. Then, as Dora seemed about to escape, "Dora!—I wouldn't speak in parables, my child, when there are others present." She smiled kindly.
"It is the soloist telephoning," explained Dora; then, so deliberately as almost to be impudent, "Agirl."
Mrs. Milo showed instant relief. "Oh, the soloist! Such a dear girl.She sang here a year or so ago. Yes,—Miss Crosby."
Dora out, Mrs. Balcome turned a look of wisdom upon her hostess. "I see," she insinuated, "that we're very much interested in the new minister."
Like that of a startled deer, up came Mrs. Milo's head. "What do you mean?" she demanded.
"If he isn't engaged already, prepare for wedding Number Two."
"Wedding?"
Mrs. Balcome tipped forward bulkily. "Sue," she nodded.
Mrs. Milo got to her feet. "Sue! What're you talking about? Why, she never even speaks of marriage."
"Well, maybe she—thinks."
"She doesn't think, either. She has her work, and—and her home."Mrs. Milo was fairly trembling.
"How do you know she doesn't think? It's perfectly natural."
"I know. And please don't bring up the subject in her presence."
"Why, my dear!" chided Mrs. Balcome, amazed at the passion flaming in the blue eyes.
"And don't tease her about Mr. Farvel." That voice so habitually well modulated became suddenly shrill.
"Don't you like him?"—soothingly.
"Not well enough to give my daughter to him."
"Well," simpered Mrs. Balcome, all elephantine playfulness, "we mustn't expect perfection in our son-in-laws. Though Wallace is wonderful—isn't he, Hattie?"
Hattie's back was turned. "I—I suppose so," she answered, low.
"You suppose so!" Mrs. Balcome was shocked. "I must say, Hattie, you're taking this whole thing very calmly—very. And right in front of the boy's mother!"
"Sue is perfectly contented,"—it was Mrs. Milo once more—"perfectly happy. And besides, she's a little older than Mr. Farvel." This with a note of satisfaction.
Mrs. Balcome stroked the dog. "What's a year or two," she urged.
"Not in a man's life. But in a woman's, a year is like five—at Sue's time of life."
"Those make the happiest kind of marriages," persisted Mrs. Balcome; "—the very happiest."
Again Mrs. Milo's voice rose stridently. "Please drop the subject," she begged.
Mrs. Balcome struggled up. "Oh, very well. But you know, my dear, that a woman finds her real happiness in marriage. Because after all is said and done, marriage——"
"Mr. John Balcome," announced Dora, appearing from the vestibule.
As if knocked breathless by a blow, Mrs. Balcome cut short her sentence, went rigid, and clutched the loose coat of the poodle so tightly that four short legs stood out stiff, and two small eyes became mere slits.
Mrs. Milo met the emergency. "Oh, yes, Dora," she said sweetly; and flashed her guest a look of warning.
"Till rehearsal," went on Dora, in a mournful sing-song, "Mr. Balcome prefers to remain on the sidewalk."
Mrs. Milo pretended not to understand. "Oh, we don't mind his cigar," she protested. "Ask him in." And as the girl trailed out, "I do hope your husband won't say anything to that child. She takes the Scriptures so—so literally."
Hattie crossed to her mother. "Shan't I carry Babette upstairs?" she asked.
"No!" Mrs. Balcome jerked rudely away.
"But she annoys father."
"Why do you think I brought her?"
"Oh!—Well, in that case, please don't let me interfere." She went out, banging a door.
"Now! Now!" pleaded Mrs. Milo, lifting entreating hands.
Balcome entered. He was a large man, curiously like his wife in type, for he had the same florid stoutness, the same rather small and pale eye. His well-worn sack suit hung on him loosely. He carried a large soft hat in one hand, and with it he continually flopped nervously at a knee. As he caught sight of the two women, he twisted his face into a scowl.
Mrs. Milo, all smiles, and with outstretched hands, floated toward him in her most graceful manner. "Ah, Brother Balcome!" she cried warmly.
Balcome halted, seized her left hand, gave it a single shake, dropped it, and stalked across the drawing-room head in air. "Don't call me brother," he said crossly.
Dora, going libraryward, stopped to view him in mingled reproval and sorrow.
"Well, what's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Eh? Eh?"
She shook her head, put her finger-tips together, and directed her gaze upon the ceiling. "'For ye have need of patience,'" she quoted.
"Well, of all the impudent——" began Balcome, giving his knee a loud "whop" with the hat.
"Hebrews," interrupted Dora; "—Hebrews, tenth chapter, and thirty-sixth verse."
Balcome nodded. "I guess you're right," he confided. "Patience. That's it." And to Mrs. Milo, "Say, when do we rehearse this tragedy?"—Whereat Dora cupped one hand over her mouth and fled the room.
Mrs. Balcome was stung to action. "Hear that!" she cried, appealing toMrs. Milo. "A father, of his daughter's wedding!"
"Oh, sh!" cautioned Mrs. Milo.
Balcome glared. "Let me tell you this," he went on, as if to the room in general, "if Hattie's going to act like her mother, she'd better stop the whole business today." He sat down.
"Now, Brother Balcome,"—this pleadingly.
"Don't call mebrother!" shouted Mr. Balcome.
That shout, like a shot, brought Mrs. Balcome down. She plumped upon the sofa. "Oh, now you see what I have to bear!" she wailed. "Now, you understand! Oh! Oh!" She buried her face in the coat of the convenient Babette.
Mrs. Milo hastened to her, soothing, imploring. And Balcome rose, to pace the floor, flapping at his knee with each step.
"Now, you see whatIhave to bear," he mocked. "My only daughter marries, and her mother brings that hunk of hydrophobia to rehearsal."
At this critical juncture, with Mrs. Balcome's weeping gaining in volume, a gay voice sounded from the library—"Toot-toot-toot-toot-toot-toot-toot!" The library door opened, disclosing Sue. She let the doorway frame her, and waited, inviting attention. She was no longer in her simple work-dress. Silk and net and lace—this was her bridesmaid's gown.
Balcome's face widened in a grin. "By Jove, you look fine!"
"Thanks to you!"
"Shush! Shush!" He shook hands. "Not married yet?"
Mrs. Milo, busily engaged in quieting Mrs. Balcome, lifted her head, but without turning.
"I?" laughed Sue.
"Understand there's a good-looking parson here."
A quick smile—toward the door leading to the Church. Sue fell to arranging her dress. "Mm, yes," she answered, a little absent-mindedly; "yes, there is—one here."
"Oh, marry! Marry! Marry!" scolded Mrs. Milo. "I think people are marry crazy."
Balcome laughed. "I believe you!—Sue, why don't you capture that parson?"
Mrs. Milo rose, taking a peep at the tiny watch hidden under the frill at a wrist. "Susan," she said sweetly, "will you see what the florist is doing?"
"Oh, he's all right, mother dear. He——"
"Do you want your mother to do it?"
"Oh, no, mother. No." All gauze and sheen, like a mammoth butterfly,Sue hurried across the room.
"I must save my strength for tomorrow," explained Mrs. Milo, and turned with that benevolent smile. The next moment she flung up her hands. "Susan!"
Sue halted. "Ah-ha-a-a-a!" she cried triumphantly. "I thought it'd surprise you, mother! Isn't it lovely? Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it an improvement over that old gray satin of mine?" She came back to stroll to and fro, parading. "As Ikey says, 'Ain't it peaches?'"
"Tum-tum-tee-tum," hummed Balcome, in an attempt at the wedding-march.
"Susan! Stop!" ordered Mrs. Milo. "Where, if you please, have you come by such a dress?"
Even Mrs. Balcome was listening, having forgotten her own troubles in the double interest of the promised quarrel and the attractive costume.
Sue arraigned Mr. Balcome with a finger. "Well, this nice person toldHattie to order it for me from her dressmaker."
"To land that parson," added Balcome, wickedly.
"He gave me two," went on Sue, turning a chin over one shoulder in a vain attempt to get a glimpse of her back. "The other one is wonderful! I'm—I'm keeping the other one."
"'Keeping the other one'?" repeated her mother.
Sue tried the other shoulder. "Well, I—I might need it for something special," she explained.
"Will you please stop that performance?" demanded her mother. "My daughter, the dress is ridiculous!"
Sue stared. "Ridiculous?"
"Showy—loud."
"But—but it's my bridesmaid's dress."
"I tell you, it's unsuited—a woman of forty-five! Please go and change."
"Oh, come now," put in Balcome, a little sharply. "You never think of Sue as being forty-five." Then with a large wave of the hand in Sue's direction, "What do you want to make her feel older than she is for?"
"I hadnosuch intention," retorted Mrs. Milo, coldly—and righteously. "On the contrary, I think Susan is well preserved."
"Preserved!" gasped Sue, both hands to her head.
"Preserved grandmother!" scoffed Balcome. "Sue looks like a bride herself. Sue, when that parson gets his eye on you——"
Mrs. Milo saw herself outdone. Her safety lay in harassing him. "Speaking of eyes, Mr. Balcome," she said sweetly, "it strikes me that yours look as if you'd been up all night."
Mrs. Balcome rose to the stimulus. "Susan!" she summoned.
"Yes, dear lady?"
"You will kindly ask my husband——"
"Go ahead, Mrs. Balcome," invited Sue, resignedly. And, turning an imaginary handle, "Ting-a-ling-ling!"
Mrs. Milo, beaming with satisfaction, made her way daintily to the passage door. "I think I'll call the choir," she observed, and disappeared.
Like a war steed pawing the earth with impatient hoof, Mrs. Balcome tapped the carpet. Her eye was set, her mouth was pursed. Though her dress was of some soft material, she seemed fairly to bristle. "How long has Hattie's father been in town?" she demanded.
"But you don't care," reminded Sue.
"How long?" persisted the other.
With comical gravity, Sue turned upon Balcome. "How long has Hattie's father been in town?" she echoed. And as he held up all the fingers of one hand, "Oh, two—or three—or four"—a cautious testing of Mrs. Balcome's temper.
That lady's ample bosom rose and fell tempestuously. "And I've had everything to do!" she complained; "—everything! Why haven't we seen him before?"
"Mister Man," questioned Sue, "why haven't we seen you before?"
Balcome rubbed his hands together, chuckling. "Yes, why? Why?"
"Business, Mrs. Balcome," parried Sue; "—press of business."
"Business!" cried the elder woman, scornfully. "Huh!—and where is he staying?"
"But you said yourself, 'Where he is, or what he does'——" Then as Mrs. Balcome rotated to stare at her resentfully, "Where is 'he' staying, Mr. Balcome?"
"Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!" bellowed Balcome. Leaning, he imparted something to Sue in a whisper.
"Where?" persisted his wife.
"He's at the Astor," declared Sue, and was swept with Balcome into a gale of mirth.
"Don't treat this as a joke, my dear Susan," warned Mrs. Balcome.
"Oh, joke, Sue! Joke!" cried Balcome, flapping at Sue with his hat."If there's one thing I like to see in a woman it's a sense of humor."
"Your husband appreciates your sense of humor," chanted Sue, returning to her telephoning.
"If there's one thing I like to see in a man," returned Mrs. Balcome, "it's a sense of decency."
"Your wife admires your sense of decency," continued the transmitter.
"She talks about decency"—Balcome spoke confidentially—"and she brings a pup to rehearsal."
"She brings a darling doggie to rehearsal," translated Sue.
By now, Mrs. Balcome was serenity itself. "A pup at rehearsal," she observed, "is more acceptable than one man I could name."
"Aw," began Balcome, reaching, as it were, for a suitable retort.
Sue put up imploring hands. Hattie had just entered, having changed from her wedding-dress. "Now, wait! This line is busy," she declared. And to Hattie, "Oh, my dear, why didn't you arrange for two ceremonies!"
"Do you mean bigamy?" inquired the girl, dryly, aware of the atmosphere of trouble.
"I mean one ceremony for father, and one for mother," answered Sue.
Both belligerents advanced upon her. "Now, Susan," began Mrs. Balcome.And "Look-a here!" exclaimed Balcome.
The sad voice of Dora interrupted. From the vestibule she shook a mournful head in a warning. "Someone is calling," she whispered. "It's Miss Crosby."
Like two combatants who have fought a round, the Balcomes parted, retiring to opposite corners of the room. Dora, having satisfied herself that quiet reigned, went out.
Hattie stifled a yawn. "What is Miss Crosby going to sing, Sue?" she asked indifferently.
"'O Perfect Love.'"
Balcome wheeled with a resounding flop of the hat. "O Perfect What?" he demanded.
"Love, Mr. Balcome,—L-O-V-E."
"Ha-a-a!" cried Balcome. "I haven't heard that word in years!"
Mrs. Balcome, stung again to action, swept forward to a renewed attack. "He hasn't heard the word in years!" she scolded. And Balcome, scolding in concert with her, "I don't think I'd recognize it if I saw it."—"Through whose fault, I'd like to know?"—her voice topped her husband's.
"Please!" A changed Sue was speaking now, not playfully or facetiously, or even patiently: her face was grave, her eyes were angry. "Mrs. Balcome, kindly take your place in the Close, to the left of the big door. Mr. Balcome, you will follow the choir." She waved them out, and they went, both unaccountably meek. Those who knew Sue Milo seldom saw this phase of her personality. Sue, the yielding, the loving, the childlike, could, on occasions, shed all her softer qualities and become, of a sudden, justly vengeful, full of wrath, and unbending. Even her mother had, at rare intervals, seen this phenomenon, and felt respect for it.
Just now, having opened the passage door for the choir, Mrs. Milo had scented something wrong, and was cautioning the boys in a whisper. They came by twos across the room, curving their line a little to pass near to Sue, and looking toward her with troubled eyes. This indeed was a different Sue, in that strange dress, standing so tensely, with averted face.
When the last white gown was gone, Hattie laid her hand on Sue's arm."It's all right," she said gently. "Don't you care."
Sue did not speak or move.
"Dear Sue," pleaded the girl.
Sue turned. In her look was pity for all that Hattie had borne of bitterness and wrangling. And as a mother gathers a stricken child to her breast, so she drew the other to her. "Oh, Hattie!" she murmured huskily. "Go—go far. Put it all behind you forever! From now on, Hattie, they can't hurt you any more—can't torture you any longer. From now on, happiness, Hattie, happiness!" She dropped her head to Hattie's shoulder.
"There! There!" soothed the younger woman, tenderly. Someone was entering—a girl with a music-roll under an arm. Nodding to the newcomer, she covered the situation by ostentatiously tidying Sue's hair.
"Dear Miss Crosby, I'm so glad to see you again!"
Mrs. Milo came hurrying across the drawing-room to greet the soloist.
Miss Crosby shook hands heartily. She was smartly dressed in a wine-colored velveteen, the over-short skirt of which barely reached to the tops of her freshly whitened spats. Her wide hat was tipped to a rakish angle. She was young (twenty-eight or thirty at most, but she looked less) and distinctly pretty. Her features were regular, her face oval, if too thin—with the thinness of one who is underfed. And this appearance of being poorly nourished showed in her skin, which was pallid, except where she had touched it on cheeks and chin with rouge. A neck a trifle too long and too lean was accentuated by a wide boyish collar of some starched material. But her eyes were fine—not large, but dark and lustrous under their black brows and heavy lashes. Worn in waves that testified to the use of the curling-iron, her yellow hair was in striking contrast to them. But this bright tint was plainly the result of bleaching. And both hair and rouge served to emphasize lines in her face that had not been made by time—lines of want, and struggle, and suffering; lines of experience. These showed mostly about her mouth, a thin mouth made more pronounced by the cautious use of the lip-stick.
"My dear," beamed Mrs. Milo, "are you singing away as hard as ever?"
"Oh, I have a great many weddings," declared the other, with a note that was somewhat bragging.
Mrs. Milo looked down at the long, slender, ungloved hand still held in one of hers. "Ah," she went on, playfully teasing, "but I see you're not always going to sing at other girls' weddings."
Miss Crosby pulled her hand free, and thrust it behind her among the folds of her skirt. "Well,—I—I——" She gave a sudden frightened look around, as if seeking some way of escape.
Sue was quick to her rescue. "Don't you want to wait with the choir?" she asked, waving a hand. "—You, too, Hattie."
Mrs. Milo seemed not to notice the singer's confusion. And when the latter disappeared with Hattie, she appealed to Sue, beaming with excitement. "Did you notice?" she asked. "A solitaire! She's engaged to be married!"
"Married!" echoed Sue, and shook her head.
"Oh, yes. You're thinking of the Balconies. Well, now you see whyI've never felt too badly about your not taking the step."
"You mean that most marriages——?"
"It's a lottery—a lottery." Mrs. Milo sighed.
"But your marriage—yours and father's——"
"My marriage was a great exception—a very great exception."
"And there's Hattie and Wallace," went on Sue. "Oh, it would be too terrible——"
"There are few men as good as my son," said Mrs. Milo, proudly; "—you darling boy!" For Wallace had entered the room.
He came to them quickly. His pale face was unwontedly anxious.
"Is anything wrong?" questioned Sue.
"No," he declared. But his whole manner belied his words. "Only—only there'll be a change tomorrow—an outside minister."
"What?" exclaimed Mrs. Milo. And to Sue, "Didn't I tell you!"
"But if Mr. Farvel doesn't wish to officiate," she argued.
Her brother caught at the suggestion. "Exactly," he said. "He doesn't wish."
"What's the matter with him?" demanded Mrs. Milo, harshly.
"He has a reason," explained Wallace, in a tone that was meant to cut off further inquiry.
"A reason? Indeed! And what is it? Isn't dear Hattie to be consulted?"
Wallace put out his hands imploringly. "Hattie won't care," he argued."And, oh, mother, let's not worry her about it!"
Mrs. Milo smiled wisely. "I've always said," she reminded, turning to Sue, "that there's something about Mr. Farvel that—well——" She shrugged.
Wallace's hands were opening and shutting almost convulsively."Mother," he begged, "can I see Sue alone?"
Mrs. Milo's eyes softened with understanding. "My baby, of course." She kissed him fondly and hurried out to join Mrs. Balcome. His request was a familiar one. He called upon his sister not infrequently for financial help, and to his mother it was a point greatly in his favor that he shrank from asking for money in the presence of any third person.
His mother gone, Wallace turned to Sue. She had the same thought concerning the nature of what was troubling him; for he looked harassed—worn and pathetically helpless. He was more stooped than usual. The sight of him touched Sue's heart.
"Well, old brother," she said tenderly, putting a hand on his arm. "Is the bridegroom short of cash? Now that would never do. And you know I'm always ready——"
"Not that," he answered; "—not this time. I'm all right. It's—Alan."
"He's not happy!"
"No." Wallace glanced away. "But it's—it's an old story."
"Can I help him?"
He shook his head. "Nobody can do anything. We'll just change ministers."
She struggled against the next question. "It's about a—a girl?"
As if startled, he stared at her. "What makes you say that?"
"Well, I—I don't know." She laughed a little, embarrassed. "But most men at his age——"
"Well, it is about a girl," he admitted. "She disappeared—oh, nine or ten years ago."
"I—see."
"But don't say anything to Hattie about it. She likes Farvel.And—and she isn't any too enthusiastic about marrying me."
A smile came back into Sue's gray eyes. "My dear brother!" she exclaimed.
"Oh, I'm not blind."
Sue addressed the room. "Our young mining-engineer," she observed with mock gravity, "'he is jealousy'."
Wallace was trembling. "I love her," he said half-brokenly; "I love her better than anything else in the world! But—but did you see her look at him? when she had her wedding-dress on, and he and I came in?"
"Wallace!"—pity and reproval mingled in Sue's tone. Again she laid a hand on his sleeve. "Oh, don't let doubt or—or anything enter your heart now—at this wonderful hour of your life—oh, Wallace, when you're just beginning all your years with her! Your marriage must be happy! Marriages can be happy—I know it! They're not all like her mother's. But don't start wrong! Oh, don't start wrong!" There were tears in her eyes.
Farvel came in from the Church. He was himself again, and slammed the door quite cheerily.
Wallace turned almost as if to intercept him. "I've fixed everything, old man," he said quickly. "It's all right."
"But I can officiate as well as not," urged Farvel, passing the younger man by and coming to Sue. "I don't want you to think I'm notional."
"She won't," declared Wallace, before Sue could speak. "I've explained."
"Ah." Farvel nodded, satisfied. "You—you know, then. Well, I've always wanted you to know."
She tried to smile back at him, to find an answer.
Her brother was urging Farvel to go. "You'll find someone to marry us, won't you?" he begged. "Right away, Alan?"
"Oh, I understand," said Farvel. "I'd be a damper, wouldn't I?"
"Oh, no! Not that!"
Farvel laid a hand on Wallace's shoulder. "He feels as bad about it asI do, dear old fellow!" he said.
The other moved away a step, and as if to take Farvel with him. "Yes,Alan. Yes. But don't talk about it today. Not today."
Farvel crossed to the sofa and sat down. "I know," he admitted. "But today—this wedding—I don't—I can't seem to get her out of my mind." Then as if moved by a poignant thought, he bent his head and covered his face with both hands.
Sue was beside him at once. And dropped to a knee. "Oh, I wish I could help you," she said comfortingly.
Farvel did not look up. He began to speak in a muffled voice. "What did I do to deserve it?" he asked brokenly. "That's what I ask myself. What did I do?"
"Nothing!" she answered. "Nothing! Oh, don't blame yourself." Her hand went up to touch one of his.
He uncovered his face and looked at her. He seemed to have aged all at once. "Oh, forgive me," he pleaded. "I don't want to worry you."
A gasping cry came from a door across the room. Mrs. Milo had entered, and was standing staring at the two in amazement and anger. "Susan Milo!" she cried.
"Oh!" Without rising, Sue began to pick up bits of smilax dropped from the florist's basket. "Yes, mother?" she replied inquiringly.
Mrs. Milo hurried forward. "Whatareyou doing on your knees?"
"Mother dear," returned Sue, "did you ever see anything like smilax to get all over the place?" Her voice trembled like the voice of a child caught in wrongdoing. "One little bit here—one little bit there——"
"Get up," ordered her mother, curtly. And as Sue rose, "What's the matter with you, Mr. Farvel? Are you sick?"
"Mother!"—it was a low appeal.
Farvel rose, a trifle wearily. "No," he answered, meeting the angry look of the elder woman calmly. "I am not sick."
Mrs. Milo turned to vent her wrath upon Sue. "I declare I don't know what to think of you," she scolded. "Down on the carpet, making an exhibition of yourself!"
Sue's look beseeched Farvel. "Don't stay for rehearsal," she said."Find another clergyman."
"That's best," he answered; "yes."
Mrs. Milo broke in upon them, not able to control herself. "Where's your dignity?" she demanded of Sue. "Acting like a romantic schoolgirl—a great, overgrown woman."
Farvel bowed to Sue with formality, ignoring her mother. "You're very kind," he said. "I'm grateful." With Wallace following, he went out by the door leading to the Church.
Instantly Mrs. Milo grew more calm. She seated herself with something of a judicial air. "Now, what's this all about?" she asked. "You know that I don't like a mystery."
Sue came to stand before her mother. And again her attitude was not that of one woman talking to another, but that of a child, anxious to excuse a fault. "Well,—well," she began haltingly, "someone he cared for—disappeared."
"Cared for," repeated Mrs. Milo, instant relief showing in her tone."Ah, indeed! A girl, I suppose?"
"Y-y-yes."
Still more pleased, her mother leaned back, smiling. "And she disappeared, did she? Well, I don't wonder he's so secret about it. Ha! ha!"—that well-bred, rippling laugh.
Sue stared down at her. "You mean——" she asked; "you mean——"
Mrs. Milo lifted her eyebrows. "My daughter," she answered, "don't you know that there's only one reason why a girl drops out of sight?"
In amazement Sue fell back a step. "Mother!" she cried. Then turned abruptly, and went out into the Close.
Mrs. Milo stood up, on her face conscious guilt for her suspicion and her lack of charity. But she was appalled—almost stunned. Never in all her life before had her daughter left her in such a way. "I declare!" burst forth the elder woman. "I declare!" Then following Sue a few steps, and calling after her through the open door, "Well, what fills that basket out there? And what fills our Orphanage?" And more weakly, but still in an effort to justify herself, "What—what other reason can you suggest, I'd like to know! And—and it's just plain, common sense!" She came back to stand alone, staring before her. Then she sank to a chair.
Wallace returned. "Where's Sue, mother?" he asked.
"What?—Oh, it's you, darling? She—she stepped out."
"Out?"
"Into the Close."
"Oh." He hurried across the room.
Mrs. Milo fluttered to her feet. "I—I can't have that choir in the library any longer," she declared decisively. And left the room.
Sue entered in answer to her brother's call, and came straight to him.She had forgotten her anger by now; her look was anxious.
"Sue, let's go ahead with the rehearsal," he begged.
"Wallace,"—she gripped both of his wrists, as if she were determined to hold him until she had the answers she sought—"you knew her—that girl?"
He averted his eyes. "Why, yes."
She spoke very low. "Was she—sweet?"
"Yes; sweet,"—with a note of impatience.
"Light—or dark?"
"Rather dark." Again he showed irritation.
"Was she—was she pretty?"
"She was beautiful."
Her hands fell. She turned away. "And she dropped right out of his life," she said, as if to herself. Then coming about suddenly, "Why, Wallace? You don't know?"
"I—do—not—know." He dragged at his hair with a nervous hand.
She lowered her voice again. "Wallace,—she—she didn't have to go?"
Her brother made a gesture of angry impatience. "Oh, I'm disappointed in you!" he cried. "I thought you were different from other women. But you're just as quick to think wrong!"
She brought her hands together; and a look, wistful and appealing, gave to her face that curiously childlike expression. "Well, influence of the basket," she admitted ruefully, and hung her head.
He thrust his hands into his pockets sulkily, and turned his back.
Mrs. Balcome came puffing in. "Say, you know dear Babette is getting very tired," she announced pettishly. "And I wish——"
As if in answer to her complaining, there came a burst of song. The library door swung wide. And forward, with serene and uplifted faces, came the choir, singing the wedding-march. Each cotta swayed in time.
Balcome and Hattie followed the procession, the former scolding. "Well, are we rehearsing at last, or what are we doing?" he demanded as he passed Sue.
Mrs. Balcome shook with laughter. "Fancy anybody being such a dolt as to rehearse without a minister!" she scoffed.
The choir filed out, and their song came floating back from the Close. Miss Crosby entered and went to Sue. "Miss Milo, don't I sing before the ceremony?" she asked.
Sue roused herself with a shake of the head and a helpless laugh. "Well, you see how muchIknow about weddings," she answered. "Now, I'm going to introduce the bridegroom." Wallace was beside Hattie, leaning over her with anxious devotion, and whispering. Sue pulled at his sleeve. "Wallace," she said, "you haven't met Miss Crosby." And to Miss Crosby as he turned, a little annoyed at being interrupted, "This is the lucky man."
Miss Crosby's expression was one of polite interest. Wallace, trying to smile, bowed. Then their eyes met——
"A-a-a-aw!" It was a strange, strangling cry—like the terrified cry of some dumb thing, suddenly cornered. Miss Crosby's mouth opened wide, her eyes bulged. Upon her dead white face in startling contrast stood out the three spots of rouge.
"Laura!" gasped Wallace.
For a moment they stood thus, facing each other. Then with a rush the girl went, her arms thrown out as if to fend off any who might seek to detain her. She pulled the door to the vestibule against herself as if she were half-blinded, stumbled around it, slammed it shut behind her, and was gone.
With Clare Crosby's sudden departure, the group in the Rectory drawing-room stood in complete silence for a moment, astonished and staring. Wallace, with his hands to his face, was like a man half-stunned.
Outside in the Close, the choir, having come to a halt, was rendering the Wedding March with great gusto—proof positive that the choirmaster, at least, made an audience for the twelve. Above the chorus of young voices pealed that one most perfect—the bird-sweet voice of Ikey Einstein, devoid of its accent by some queer miracle of song. It dipped and soared with the melody, as sure and strong and true as a bugle.
"Well!" It was Mrs. Milo who spoke first—Mrs. Milo, who could put so much meaning into a single word. Now she expressed disapproval and amazement; more: that one exclamatory syllable, as successfully as if it had been an extended utterance, not only hinted, but openly avowed her belief in the moral turpitude of the young woman who had just reeled so blindly through the door.
"Wallace!" Sue went to her brother.
"Now, what's the row!" demanded Balcome, irritably, looking around for his hat, which Hattie had taken from him in order to make him more presentable for the rehearsal.
"I supposeI'vedone something," ventured Mrs. Balcome, plaintively.
Mrs. Milo hastened to the door leading to the lawn, spied the choirmaster, waved a wigwag at him with her handkerchief, and shut the door. The singing stopped.
She came fluttering back. Always, when something unforeseen and unpleasant happened, it was Mrs. Milo's habit to accept the occurrence as aimed purposely at her and her happiness. So now her attitude was one of patient forbearance. "I told you, Hattie," she reminded; "—bad luck if Wallace saw you in your wedding-dress today."
Wallace had slipped to a seat on the sofa, leaning his head on a hand, and shaking like a man with a chill. Now, at mention of Hattie's name, he sprang up, went to her, getting between her and his mother, and putting an arm about the girl as if to protect her. "It has nothing to do with Hattie," he declared, his eyes blazing. "Nothing, I tell you! And you're trying to make trouble!"
"If you please," interrupted Sue, quietly, "you're speaking to your mother."
But Mrs. Milo was amply able to take care of herself—by the usual method of putting any opponent instantly on the defensive. "So it has nothing to do with Hattie?" she returned. "Well, perhaps it has something to do withyou."
Wallace's tall figure stiffened, as if from an electric shock. His lips drew back from his clenched teeth in something that was like a grin.
Hattie took a long step, freeing herself from his arm.
"Or perhaps"—Mrs. Milo's glance had traveled to Sue—"perhaps it has something to do with Mr. Farvel."
"I won't discuss Alan behind his back," retorted Wallace, hotly.
"A-a-a-ah!"—this with a gratified nod. She felt that she had forced the knowledge she wanted, namely that the going of the soloist had something to do with the clergyman. "Well,"—smiling—"I think I have an idea." With a beckon to Mrs. Balcome, she made toward the hall.
Mrs. Balcome came rolling after, the dog worn high against the crêpe cascade. "Perhaps it's just as well that Miss Crosby went," she observed from the door. "Of course, we could screen her with palms. But I think she'd take away from Hattie tomorrow. She'smuchtoo pretty—much."
"Puh!" snorted Balcome. He went to slam the door after her.
Now, Hattie turned upon Wallace with sudden intensity. "What has MissCrosby to do with Mr. Farvel?" she demanded.
"But does it make any difference, Hattie?" put in Sue, quickly; "—as long as it isn't your Wallace. It doesn't, of course. Mr. Farvel has his own personal affairs, and they're no business of ours—none whatever. Are they? No. And Miss Crosby is charming, and pretty, and—and sweet." Now she in turn faced round upon her brother. "But—but whathasMiss Crosby to do with Mr. Farvel?"
"Does it make, any difference to you?" countered Hattie.
"Of course not, Hattie!—Foolish question nine million and nine!—Wallace, she's—she's not—the girl? You know."
He reddened angrily. "She is not!" he exploded. But as Sue, showing plain distrust in his answer, turned toward the passage as if to go in search of Farvel, he caught at her arm almost fiercely—and fearfully. "Oh, no! Not yet!" he begged. "Please, Sue!"
"I believe he ought to know," she declared.
"Do you want him to give up this Church?" he cried. And as she came back slowly, "Oh, trust me, Sue! It's something I can't tell you. But I'm right about it.—Sh!" For Mrs. Milo had re-entered, on her countenance unmistakable signs of triumphant pleasure.
"Ah-ha!" exclaimed that lady, as she hurried forward. "I thought there was something queer about that Crosby girl!"
"Why, mother dear!" expostulated Sue. "I've heard you say she was such a lady—so refined——"
"Please don't contradict me!"
"I beg your pardon."
Mrs. Milo glanced from one to another of the little group, saving her news, preparing for a good effect. "Mrs. Balcome and I have just solved the Farvel mystery," she announced. "We looked at that photograph in the bureau again, and—it's Miss Crosby's picture."
"Haw-haw!" roared Balcome, with a scornful flop of the hat.
Sue went close to her brother. "Then she is the girl who disappeared," she said under her breath.
"Well—yes."
"And she'll go again! She'll be lost!" She started toward the hall.
"Susan!" cried her mother, peremptorily. And as Sue halted, "We want nothing to do with that girl. Come back."
"What harm could come of my going?" argued Sue.
"That is not the question."
"Mother, I don't like to oppose you, but in this case——"
"I shall not allow it," said her mother, decisively.
"Then I must go against your wishes." Sue opened the door.
"I forbid it, I tell you!" That note of shrillness now appeared inMrs. Milo's voice.
"Oh, mother!" Sue came back a little way. "Don't treat me like a child!"
Now Mrs. Milo became all gentleness once more. She put a hand on Sue's arm. "Your mother is the best judge of your actions," she reminded. "And she wants you to stay."
Sue backed. "No; I'm sorry," she answered. "In all my life I can't remember disobeying you once. But today I must." Again she started.
"My daughter!" Mrs. Milo's voice broke pathetically. "You—you mean you won't respect my wishes?"
Checked by that sign of tears so near, again Sue halted, but without turning. "I want to help her," she urged, a little doggedly.
"But your mother," went on Mrs. Milo, "—my feelings—my love—are you going to trample them under foot?"
"Oh, not that!"
Mrs. Milo fell to weeping. "Oh, what do you care for my peace of mind!" she mourned. "For my heartache!"
It brought Sue to her mother's side. "Why! Why!" She put an arm about the elder woman tenderly.
Mrs. Milo dropped to a chair. "This is the child I bore!" she sobbed. "I've devoted my whole life to her! And now—oh, if your dear father knew! If he could only see——" Words failed her. She buried her face in her handkerchief.
Sue knelt at her side. "Oh, mother! Mother!" she comforted. "Hush, dear! Hush!"
"I'm going to be ill," wept Mrs. Milo. "I know I am! My nerves can't stand it! But it's just as well"—mournfully. "I'm in your way. I can see that. And it's t-t-t-time that I died!" She shook convulsively.
Commands, arguments, appeals, tears—how often Mrs. Milo and her daughter went through the several steps of just such a scene as this. Exactly that often, Sue capitulated, as she capitulated now, with eyes brimming.
"Ah, don't say that, mother," she pleaded. "You'll break my heart! You're my whole life—with Wallace away, why I've got nobody else in the whole world!" And looking up, "Wallace, you go."
Instantly Mrs. Milo's weeping quieted.
"Today?" asked her brother, impatiently.
"Yes, now! Right away!" Sue got to her feet.
"Oh, Sue, there's no rush!"
Mrs. Milo, suddenly dry-eyed, came to her son's rescue. "And why should Wallace go?" she asked. "Mr. Farvel is the one."
"No! No!" he cried, scowling at her. "I won't have Alan worried."
"Mm!" commented Mrs. Milo, ruffled at having her good offices so little appreciated. "You're very considerate."
"I understand the matter better than anyone else," he explained, trying to speak more politely. "Alan can't even bear to talk about it. So—I'll go."
Sue turned to Balcome. "And you go with him," she suggested.
"But why?"—again it was a nervous, frightened protest.
Sue nodded toward Hattie, standing so slim and still beside her father."So my little sister will feel all right about it," she explained."Because nothing, Wallace, must worry her. It's her happiness we wantto think of, isn't it?—dear Hattie's."
"Oh, yes! Yes!"
"The address—I'll write it down." She bent over the desk.
Wallace went to Hattie. "Good-by," he said, tremulously. "I'll be right back." He leaned to kiss her, but she turned her face away. His lips brushed only her cheek.
Sue thrust the address into his hand. "Here. And, oh, Wallace, be very kind to her!"
"Of course. Yes. I'll do what I can." But he seemed scarcely to know what he was saying. He fingered the card Sue had given him, and watched Hattie.
Urging him toward the vestibule, Sue glanced down at her bridesmaid's dress, then searchingly about the room—for a hat, a wrap. "And bring them together—won't you?" she went on, taking Balcome's arm. At the door, she crowded in front of him.
"Susan," challenged her mother.
"Yes, mother,"—coming short, with a whimsically comical look that acknowledged discovery and defeat.
"They can find their way out. Come back."
Sue came. "But I could go with them, and not see Miss Crosby." Once more that note of childlike pleading. "I could just wait near by."
"Wait here, Susan.—Oh, I realize that you could be there and back before I'd know it."
Sue laughed. "Oh, she's a smart little mother!" she said fondly."Yes, she is!"
"She knows your tricks," retorted Mrs. Milo, wisely. "You'd even trapse out in that get-up.—Please don't fidget while I'm talking."
Seeing that it was impossible for her to get away, Sue sat down resignedly. "Well, as Ikey says," she observed, "'sometimes t'ings go awful fine, und sometimes she don't.'"
Now, Farvel came breezing in. "I've found a minister, Miss Milo," he announced. Then realizing that something untoward had happened, "Why,—where's Wallace?"
"He has followed Miss Crosby," answered Mrs. Milo, speaking the name with exaggerated distinctness.
"Miss Crosby?" Farvel was puzzled.
"Miss—Clare—Crosby."
He turned to Sue, and she rose and came to him—smiling, and with a certain confidential air that was calculated either to rescue him from a catechism or to result in her own banishment from the room. "Do you know that you haven't dictated this morning's letters?" she asked. And touching him on the arm, "Shan't we go into the library now?"
"Susan," purred Mrs. Milo.
"Yes, mother." But Sue, halting beside Farvel, continued to talk to him animatedly, in an undertone.
"Will you kindly see that Dora understands about dinner preparations?"
"Hattie, do you mind ringing?"
Mrs. Milo held up a slender hand to check Hattie. "Susan," she went on, patiently, "do you want your mother to do the trotting after the servants?"
"No, mother. But Mr. Farvel's letters——"
Now that quick, mechanical smile, and Mrs. Milo tipped her head to one side as she regarded the clergyman in pretty concern. "Mr. Farvel is in no mood for dictation," she declared gently; "and—I am quite exhausted, as you know." But as Sue hurried away, not lifting her eyes, lest she betray how glad she was to be dismissed, her mother rose—and there was no appearance of the complained-of exhaustion. Her eyes shone with eagerness. They fastened themselves on Farvel's face. "That Miss Crosby," she began; "—she came, recognized Wallace, gave a cry—and ran."
Farvel listened politely. Mrs. Milo was so prone to be dramatic. There was scarcely a day that some warning of Wolf! Wolf! did not ring through the Rectory. "Well, what seemed to be the matter?" he asked.
"I thought you might know,"—with just a trace of emphasis on the You.
"I don't," he assured her, quietly.
"Then why not go yourself—and get the facts?"
"Wallace didn't ask me."
There was something in the tone of his reply that brought the blood to her cheeks. She replied to it by making her own tone a little chiding. "But as my boy's oldest friend," she reminded.
Farvel laughed. "Friend?" he repeated. "He's more like a younger brother to me. But that doesn't warrant my intruding on him, does it?"
Mrs. Milo lifted her eyebrows. "I hope," she commented, with something of that same sorrowful intonation which characterized the speech of Dora, "—I hope there's no reason why you shouldn't meet this Crosby girl."
Farvel stared at her. "I?" he demanded, too astonished by her daring to be angry. "Why—why——"
At this juncture the library door opened and Dora entered, to set the room to rights apparently, for she gave a critical look about, arranged the writing-desk, and put a chair in place.
"Dora," said Mrs. Milo, "you saw Miss Susan?"
Dora lifted pale eyes. "Oh, yes," she answered, "but only a fleeting glimpse."
"Glimpse?" repeated Mrs. Milo, startled.
"From the rear portal"—with an indefinite wave of the hand—"she turned that way."
"Oh! She went! To that Crosby girl! And I forbade her!—Mr. Farvel, come!"
"But I'm not wanted," urged the clergyman.
"Why do you hold back? Don't I want you?"
Farvel pondered a moment, his look on Hattie, standing in the bay-window, now, alert but motionless. "Well, I'll come," he said at last.
"Dora!" cried Mrs. Milo, as she fluttered hallward; "my bonnet!"
Dora had gone by the same door through which she had come. Hattie and Farvel were alone. She turned and came to stand beside him. "Why do you suppose——" she commenced; and then, more bluntly, "What was the matter with Miss Crosby?"
Farvel studied her face for a moment, his own full of anxious sympathy. "I can't imagine," he said, finally; "but whatever it is you may be sure of one thing—Wallace isn't to blame."
Hattie's look met his. "It's queer, isn't it?" she said; "but that—well, that doesn't seem to be troubling me at all." Then for no reason whatever, she put out her hand. He took it, instantly touched. Her eyes were glistening with tears. She turned and went out into the Close.
Farvel stood for a moment gazing after her. Then remembering his promise to Mrs. Milo, he hastened in the direction of his study.
As the hall door shut after him, the library door swung wide, and Dora came bouncing in, waving an arm joyously. "Your path is clear!" she announced.
At her back was Sue, looking properly guilty, and scrambling into a coat that would hide the bridesmaid's dress. "Just what did you tell mother?" she inquired.
"I said you went that way,"—with a jerk of the head that set the tight braids to bobbing.
"Oh, what did you tell her that for!" mourned Sue. "It's the way I must go!"
"It is the truth," said Dora, solemnly, "and, oh, MissSusan,"—chanting—"'a lying tongue is but for a moment.'"
"I know," answered Sue, exasperated; "'a lying tongue is but for a moment,' and 'deceitful men shall not live out half their days,' but, Dora, this is a desperate case. So you find my mother and tell her that—that I'm probably downstairs in the basement,—er—er—well, I might be setting the mouse-trap." And giving Dora an encouraging push in the direction of the hall, Sue disappeared on swift foot into the vestibule.