Dear Will:You need not have doubted that I should wait for you. You told me you would come back, and I believed you, of course. To me, loyalty is the most beautiful thing in the world.I have been able to save a little money in the past year, by giving music lessons, and I have rented a dear little cottage here and filled it with what was left of mother’s furniture. I am really doing very well, so that even if the florist shop isn’t enormously profitable at the start, we shall be able to manage nicely.
Dear Will:
You need not have doubted that I should wait for you. You told me you would come back, and I believed you, of course. To me, loyalty is the most beautiful thing in the world.
I have been able to save a little money in the past year, by giving music lessons, and I have rented a dear little cottage here and filled it with what was left of mother’s furniture. I am really doing very well, so that even if the florist shop isn’t enormously profitable at the start, we shall be able to manage nicely.
So far the letter was delightful and comforting; but it went on:
But, Will, you know how thirsty a small town is for gossip, and it has really been more unpleasant than I care to tell you. We had better be married quietly as soon as you come. I’ll arrange everything, if you will let me know when to expect you.
But, Will, you know how thirsty a small town is for gossip, and it has really been more unpleasant than I care to tell you. We had better be married quietly as soon as you come. I’ll arrange everything, if you will let me know when to expect you.
This terrified him. Of course, he loved Mildred, and admired her.
“But I’m not worthy of her!” he cried. “I never can be!” And he might truthfully have added: “I never want to be!”
Impossible to say what his conscience would have driven him to, if the landlady had not come up just then and spoken very disagreeably about his rent; so he saw that it was right for him to be a florist. He sent a telegram to announce his arrival three days later.
Mrs. Terhune wept.
“It’s a tragedy,” she said. “A wonderful girl like Mildred, and that wretched Will Mallet!”
“It’s certainly a pity,” said her husband; “but I suppose she knows what she’s doing.”
“Of course sheknows, but she doesn’t care. She’s always been like that. I remember that once, when she was a little girl, she said she was going to make a birthday cake for her father. Well, almost as soon as she began, she hurt herself with a hammer, trying to crack walnuts. Her mother told me about it. She said the child was sick and white with pain, but she would have her poor little crushed fingers tied up, and she would go on. The cake turned out not fit to eat, and the obstinate[Pg 109]little thing was suffering so much that she had to be put to bed and the doctor sent for; but all she said was: ‘Anyhow, I made it. I did what I said I’d do!’ And that’s just the way she’s been about Will Mallet. She said she would marry him, and she’s going to. She’d wait—she’d wait forever!”
“Like poorMadama Butterfly,” said her husband. “Still, you’re obliged to admire that spirit. It’s fine!”
“Fine!” said his wife. “Not a bit of it! Devilish—that’s what it is. And when she’s married that scarecrow—yes, he is a scarecrow; I don’t care how handsome he is, he’s stuffed with straw—when she’s married Will Mallet, she’ll grow worse and worse. She’ll trample on him. It’ll do him good, but it’s terribly bad for her. If she’d had a real man like Robert Dacier, she’d have got over that. He’s the best-tempered, best-hearted boy in the world, but nobody could trample onhim!”
Mr. Terhune respected his wife’s distress, and said no more. He couldn’t feel quite so strongly about weddings as she did, although he was very fond of Mildred Henaberry, and very sorry for her headstrong folly. He thought that on the whole the world was a pleasant place—especially on such a matchless day as this, the great climax of the summer.
They were speeding along smooth roads to the village where Mildred lived, and where the wedding was to take place that morning. The cloudless sky overhead was a brave, glorious blue, and the sun went up it like a conqueror. The grain stood ripe in the fields, the trees were at their best. You would think the countryside serenely quiet, unless you stopped to listen, and caught the ecstasy of sound from birds and insects all about.
None of this gave comfort to Mrs. Terhune. Her eyes were red when she alighted at the church, and she was glad, for she didn’t intend to look happy. She marched up the aisle and sat down in a front pew beside her husband. No one else was there except a rosy little girl in spectacles, and her mother.
Consulting her wrist watch, Mrs. Terhune saw that she had time to cry a little longer, and she was about to begin, when she was startled by the sight of her favorite nephew, Robert Dacier.
“You here?” she exclaimed, because she had fancied that there were reasons why he would not enjoy Mildred’s wedding.
“Yes,” he said affably, and sat down beside her.
As was mentioned before, he was good at talking, and his aunt and uncle were pleasantly beguiled, until the chiming of the clock in the belfry aroused Mr. Terhune.
“Time they were here,” he said, glancing about.
Dacier went on talking, but his aunt had grown restless. The little girl in spectacles had grown restless, too, and was wriggling.
“Fifteen minutes late!” said Mrs. Terhune. “It’s very odd, Robert! You’d better see if the clergyman is waiting.”
Dacier reported that the clergyman was waiting in the vestry, and growing a little impatient.
“It seems very strange!” said Mrs. Terhune.
Twenty minutes—twenty-five—half an hour. Then the clergyman came in, and, impressed by the appearance of Mr. Terhune, approached him.
“It’s somewhat awkward for me, as it happens,” he observed. “I have an important engagement for half past twelve. I was informed that the young man’s train arrived here shortly after ten, and that he would stop at Miss Henaberry’s house and bring her here at eleven; and my wife informed me that she saw a strange young man with two bags get off that train.”
“Shall I go and see what’s wrong?” asked Dacier. “It’s only a step.”
“Oh, please do!” said Mrs. Terhune.
Off went Robert. He pushed open the little gate, and went up the garden path to the enchanted cottage, which seemed quieter than ever under the hot sun. He rang the bell.
No answer—not a sound inside.
He rang again, and then opened the door and entered.
The sitting room was gay with flowers from the garden, and, if possible, neater and daintier than ever—but empty. Dacier went into the kitchen, and there, on the table, he saw a frosted cake that caused him a sharp pang. No one there!
He went into the little passage and listened, but heard not a sound.
“Miss Henaberry!” he called. “Please! Mildred!”
A door slammed open upstairs, and down she came like a whirlwind, such a tragic and heart-stirring figure! Her dark hair was wildly untidy, her eyes were heavy with tears, yet she had a look of such stern[Pg 110]and dauntless pride on her face that a man might well feel abashed.
“Go away!” she cried. “Why do you come here? Go away!”
“No,” said Dacier. “I’m not going away. They’re waiting for you in the church. What do you want me to tell them?”
“Nothing,” she said.
“That’s not very polite.”
“Polite!” she cried. “Do you want to make one of your schoolboy jokes about—this? Go away! I won’t listen to you! I can’t bear to see you!”
“You’ve got to face this,” said Dacier firmly. “There’s no use flying at me. Perhaps I can help you.”
“I don’t want any help—from any one.”
“Where’s Mallet?”
It was a blunt enough question, but the shock of it steadied her. She turned away her head for a minute, and then faced him with something of her old composure.
“The—a boy came with a note,” she said evenly. “Mr. Mallet has been called away on business. The wedding will have to be postponed.”
Dacier came a little nearer, and looked at her with eyes as steady as her own.
“Don’t you think twice is too often?” he asked.
Her pale face grew scarlet.
“What do you mean? How can you dare—”
“I mean just what I said. I think it’s time the wedding came off now,” he answered. “The clergyman’s there, and the guests; and if you’ll take me, here’s the bridegroom.”
She smiled scornfully.
“That’s very chivalrous, Mr. Dacier, but—”
“It would please Mrs. Terhune.”
“I scarcely think you’re called upon to sacrifice yourself for Mrs. Terhune—or for me, either,” said Mildred, still scornful. “I’d rather not talk any more.”
Dacier caught her hand as she was moving away.
“There are lots of other reasons,” he said; “only there’s not time to tell them now, even if you were in the mood to listen. Anyhow, Mildred, I think you know. I’m sure you know. You must have seen, long ago, how I felt.”
“Oh, no!” she said, with a sob. “Not now! Do, please, go away, and leave me alone! You don’t know—you can’t imagine—I could die of shame and wretchedness. Do go away!”
“Darling girl!” he said. “Dear, darling girl! Come and have your wedding! Hold up your dear head again! We’ll say it was a sort of joke, and you meant me all the time. After all, I’malmostas good a fellow as Mallet, don’t you think?”
He said it in a boastful, conceited way that should have been rebuked; but Mildred did not rebuke him.
“Oh, you’re a thousand times better!” she cried, instead. “Better and dearer than any one else in the world! Only—”
It has been mentioned before that Dacier was good at talking. He needed all his skill now, for he had only a few minutes in which to overcome any number of objections, to change her tears to smiles, and to persuade her to make haste and get ready. He succeeded.
The clergyman was not surprised, because the bridegroom was unknown to him anyhow; but the little girl in spectacles, and Mr. and Mrs. Terhune!
Moreover, there were several things which startled Mildred. When they had all got back to the cottage, and the bride had gone into the kitchen for that noble cake, and Dacier had naturally followed her, she asked:
“Robert, why did you have a wedding ring in your pocket?”
“I have carried one there for some time, in case of emergencies,” he answered promptly.
“And why did you have a license with your name in it?”
“Foresight,” he replied. “I got that as soon as I saw you.”
He had come around the table and put his arm about her shoulders, and she looked up into his gay, audacious face.
“Robert,” she said sternly, “where is Will Mallet?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, “and I don’t care; but I don’t mind telling you that I found out from the moonfaced little girl when he was expected, and I met him at the railway station.”
“But—” she began indignantly—and stopped, because he was no longer smiling. He looked—she was surprised at his expression—he looked like a person pleasantly but firmly resolved not to be trampled upon; so all she did was to kiss him.[Pg 111]
MUNSEY’SMAGAZINE
SEPTEMBER, 1923Vol. LXXIXNUMBER 4
[Pg 112]
By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding
PERHAPS you remember the story of “Puss in Boots”—how the talented and resolute cat caught game in the woods and presented it to the king as the gift of his master, theMarquis of Carabas. Then the cat advised his master to bathe in the river, and, as the king’s coach rolled past, he set up a great shout that theMarquis of Carabaswas drowning, and that his fine clothes had been stolen by thieves. The king stopped, ordered new clothes for the marquis, and took him into the royal coach. While they drove on, the cat ran ahead, and bullied the workers in the fields into saying that all the land belonged toCarabas.
There is more in the story, but the chief thing is that the cat secured for his master a fine castle and estate, and the hand of a beautiful princess. And, mind you, the young man was nothing on earth but the youngest son of a poor miller, theMarquis of Carabasbeing simply an invention of the clever animal’s.
Well, there are people alive to-day who have the same ambition as that devoted cat—people who try to make aMarquis of Carabasout of some ordinary young man. Unfortunately, they do not always succeed. I know of a case in point.
There appeared one day in a certain town in Westchester a new doctor, arriving unknown and without introduction in the midst of a quite sufficient supply of well established practitioners. It was a prosperous town, but not a growing one. There seemed to be nothing for a new doctor to do, unless he set to work to create a demand for his services—a thing that doctors can’t very well do. He put out his sign, however, on his tidy little house—“Noel Hunter, M.D.”—sat down behind his sign, and waited.
Now and then he was seen out on his veranda, looking at the barometer, or strolling out to the garage, where an energetic little car ate its head off in idleness. Whoever saw him was favorably impressed, because he was a charming young fellow, slender, tall, and dark, with an honest, good-humored face and very fine black eyes. Indeed, he was almost too handsome for a doctor. It was cruel to think of his being called out at night in all weathers, of having hurried and inadequate meals and too little sleep, of losing his endearing youth in arduous and exhausting toil.
Well, to be sure, that was not happening, He had ample time for sleep, and, providing he was able to pay, there was nothing to prevent his eating all day. And that, too, was a pity and a waste, because obviously he must be longing to give his medical services, and must have studied a long time to prepare himself. The people who lived on the same street felt embarrassed and a little guilty when they caught sight of Noel Hunter, M.D., all ready to be a doctor, but wanted by no one.
One day there came to Mr. Miles, the rector of the parish, an affable little lady, dressed in a conservative style suited to her years—which were fifty-five or so—and presenting a letter from a clergyman in Brooklyn. The letter gave information that the bearer was Mrs. Edwin Carew, “whom we are more than sorry to lose, because of her tact and sympathy and her invaluable assistance in parish work.”
There was more of this, too, so that Mr. Miles blushed a little in deference to Mrs. Edwin Carew as he read it. He welcomed her very cordially. He assured her that she would find plenty of opportunities for using her tact and sympathy and for giving her invaluable assistance in parish work. He[Pg 113]was so favorably impressed by the lady that he sent at once for Mrs. Miles, and Mrs. Miles was instantly charmed.
“The Needlework Guild is meeting now,” said she. “If you would care to come in and meet some of the ladies—”
Mrs. Carew accepted graciously, was brought before this gathering of her peers, and was judged and found worthy. She seemed to be the nicest sort of little body, cheerful and kindly and gentle, and though she was far too well bred to boast, it was obvious that she was a person of some social importance. She had traveled; she knew the world; she knew what was what; she was an acquisition.
“Are you going to be here permanently, Mrs. Carew?” asked the august and resplendent Mrs. Lorrimer.
“I hope so,” she answered, smiling. “I’m beginning to be quite fond of your pretty little town; but it all depends on my nephew. You see, he’s used to life in a large city, and I’m afraid—Still, I hope he’ll like it.”
“Oh! Your nephew?” said Mrs. Lorrimer encouragingly.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Carew. “Perhaps I did wrong in persuading him to leave the city and come here, where it’s so—so much quieter; but I feel sure that after he’s used to it, it will really do him good. He had so many friends in the city, and so many, many engagements, that it interfered with his work; and though I know we must make allowances for young people, still I can’t bear the idea of his talent being wasted.”
“Oh! His talent?” said Mrs. Lorrimer.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Carew. “He’s a physician. I think he has already ‘hung out his shingle,’ as they say—Noel Hunter. Of course, he doesn’t expect to do much practicing yet. I want him to rest first, and to get accustomed to the place.”
As if by magic, Dr. Hunter was transformed by those words from an object of pity into a very interesting young man. Professionally his life was not altered, but the very next week he was invited to a little dance; and every one who saw him there was irresistibly urged to invite him to something else. Ladies came to call upon Mrs. Carew, to sing the praises of her charming nephew. He was forever going out, or getting ready to go out, and he seemed to be very happy about it.
From the window Mrs. Carew would watch him drive off in his little closed coupé, so useful for a doctor, who must be abroad in all weathers. Much as she admired his resplendent appearance, and rejoiced in his popularity, she did wish that now and then he might be summoned to something less cheerful than a party.
That never happened. The more he was danced with and flirted with, the more did it seem tactless and ill-bred to mention one’s sordid ailments to him. It was unthinkable to call in one’s dancing partner and confess to a bilious headache from too much pastry. No one could see him as a doctor.
He seemed not at all downcast by this. Indeed, Mrs. Carew sometimes imagined that he had forgotten all about being a doctor.
“Don’t you think you ought to read your medical books now and then, Noel?” she suggested. “Just to—to keep up?”
“Oh, no!” he replied cheerfully. “I’m not likely to forget all that stuff that was so much trouble to learn. Don’t worry!”
“But you mustn’t lose interest, Noel,” she persisted.
He flushed a little, for he had at the moment two preoccupations which were nearer to his heart than the theory and practice of medicine. The first of these was Nesta Lorrimer, and the second was her brother’s hydroplane. They merged very well, because Nesta was frequently in the vicinity of the hydroplane, so that they could both be studied together.
It was unfortunate that Noel did not mention this to his aunt, because she would have approved heartily of one of those interests; but he knew that aunts were extremely likely to worry about flying. He was very fond of her, and didn’t want to worry her; so the poor lady knew nothing.
Mrs. Lorrimer knew, however.
“Alan,” she said to her son, “don’t you think you encourage that young Dr. Hunter a little too much?”
She spoke moderately, because she had a great respect for her son. He was a level-headed, intelligent young fellow, who used such things as hydroplanes only for diversion, and never neglected his business. He was not handsome, like his sister, but he didn’t need to be. He was a remarkably successful lawyer for his twenty-seven years, and he was a good-humored, quick-witted, tolerant fellow whom every one was obliged to like.[Pg 114]
“Encourage him?” he repeated, with a smile. “That’s a queer way to put it. I’d like to think I encouraged any one. But why? What’s wrong with him?”
“He doesn’t seem to get on very well,” said Mrs. Lorrimer.
“He’s mistaken his métier,” her son replied casually. “But I like him very much. Plenty of nerve and grit. As a pilot—”
“Ah!” Mrs. Lorrimer interrupted. “I dare say; but as a brother-in-law?”
Alan was astounded, as brothers always are.
“What?” he exclaimed. “You don’t mean that Nesta—impossible!”
“I’m afraid she’s growing fond of him, Alan.”
He reflected in silence for some time, and then he said:
“Well, after all, she might do worse.”
“That’s not the question,” replied his mother, a little indignant. “Ithink she might do very much better.”
“I don’t know. He’s a very decent fellow. Personally—”
“Oh, every one likes him!” she interrupted impatiently; “and every one seems to have forgotten that we don’t know anything at all about him. Mrs. Carew is very nice, of course; but after all, they’ve only been here a few months. They don’t seem at all well off, and yet he doesn’t appear to be worried about not having the least sign of a practice. I can’t help thinking—”
She paused significantly.
“What can’t you help thinking?” inquired her son, with a smile. “That poor Hunter has some sinister secret in his past?”
“No,” said she. “No, not that. I don’t like to say it, but I’ve sometimes thought he might be nothing but an adventurer, who came here to find a wife with money.”
“Mother!” exclaimed Alan, quite shocked. “That’s not like you!”
But his trained and disciplined brain refused to remain shocked. He was obliged to admit that the qualities for which he admired Hunter—courage and daring and steady nerves—did not always signify moral excellence. An adventurer might very well possess them; and about Hunter’s former life, about his home life, he knew absolutely nothing.
“Very well!” he said to himself. “In justice to Nesta, and in justice to Hunter as well, it’s my business to find out.”
The thing was to take him by surprise, to see him at home, off his guard.
Alan felt unpleasantly like a spy as he drew near the house that evening. He would have preferred putting Hunter on the stand and cross-examining him. After all, he was a lawyer, not a detective, and to go to a friend’s house for the purpose of observing and judging him seemed an unworthy thing to do.
“Still, if he hasn’t anything to be ashamed of, he won’t care,” he reflected. “If he has, I’d better know it. I’ll have to study him carefully for some time.”
He rang the bell, and was amazed at the confusion the sound apparently caused. He had to wait outside for a long time, while furniture was being pushed about, footsteps hurried to and fro, and doors were closed. Then, at last, the door was opened, and he was still more amazed.
No one had ever heard mention of any other members of the household but Mrs. Carew and Hunter. Who, then, was this lovely girl, dark and serious, a little flushed and ruffled, as if from haste, but with the high-held head, the level, unabashed glance, the dignity of a young princess?
Having come expressly to observe, Alan did observe, and he thought this was the most intelligent and charming face he had seen in many a day. The girl was obliged to repeat her question.
“Who is it you want, sir?”
“Sir”—impossible! She didn’t speak like a servant, or dress like one, or look like one.
“The doctor in?” he asked.
“No, sir—not at present. If you care to wait—”
He asked for Mrs. Carew, and gave her his name, and she left him in the little sitting room, where he began to walk up and down, very much perplexed. A pretty room, furnished in a very good taste, but shabby. Through the half-open folding doors he could see a dining room of very much the same sort, with the table still laid, as if the diners had just risen. And—the table was laid for three!
“For three!” he said to himself. “And yet there’s no guest here. Mrs. Carew and Hunter—and who else?”
There was a light, quick step on the stairs. Turning, he saw the inexplicable girl descending. This was an excellent op[Pg 115]portunity to study her, which Alan did not miss. A remarkable girl! Mere prettiness was not a thing that particularly appealed to this young man. He had met dozens of pretty girls without losing his heart. What interested him now was not the fine regularity of her features, but her air of candid and unassuming dignity, and the thoughtful intelligence of her face.
She entered the room to tell him that Mrs. Carew would be down directly.
“Thank you!” said he, and sought desperately for something to say that would keep her there.
Before he could do so, she had gone—only into the dining room, however, where he could still watch her as she cleared off the table. The more he watched, the more impressed and the more puzzled he became. When he caught sight of her hands—strong and beautiful hands, exquisitely tended—he very nearly exclaimed aloud. Three places at the table, and a girl with hands like that playing the servant!
“It’s a good thing I came,” he reflected grimly. “There’s something here that needs explaining.”
Well, he didn’t get much out of Mrs. Carew when she came down. He brought the talk around to the topic of servants. She said thatshenever had any trouble with them.
“You’re fortunate,” he observed.
“Indeed I am!” she replied brightly. “How charming the country is beginning to look now!”
After this, he couldn’t very well go on with the subject; but he felt no hesitation in approaching Hunter in a more direct fashion when they were alone.
“That’s a very remarkable young woman who opened the door for me,” he said. His eyes were on the other man’s face, and he saw him turn red.
“Yes,” said Hunter. “She—she is.”
But Alan’s eyes were still on him, and he was obliged to continue.
“She’s—not exactly a servant, you know,” he said. “In fact, she’s a sort of—relation. Helps my aunt, you know. She—she is remarkable, Lorrimer, very.”
Alan gave serious attention to this problem. His legal training did not make him disposed to believe everything he heard, though he was too intelligent to go to the other extreme and believe nothing.
What was the explanation? Had Hunter made a misalliance, which he was ashamed of, and wanted to conceal? No—marriage with that girl wouldn’t be a misalliance for any one, and she wasn’t the sort who would consent to being concealed.
His sister? There was no possible reason for keeping a sister like that hidden. If it was the case that she really was a poor relation kept as a servant to help Mrs. Carew, then it was a very bad case, and the aunt and the nephew might well be ashamed of themselves. Alan believed that they were ashamed, too.
Hunter had mentioned that he was going to take Mrs. Carew to the moving pictures that evening, and Alan decided then and there that he would use that time for further investigations.
“Because, if they’re capable of making a drudge of a girl like that,” he said to himself, “Nesta’s going to be told. It’s the most beastly piece of snobbishness I’ve ever come across! Evidently she eats with them. No doubt she’s one of the family until an outsider appears, and then she’s nobody.”
He was a little surprised at the vigor of his indignation. As a rule, he didn’t easily become indignant.
“But she’s such a remarkable girl,” he explained to himself. “I’ve never seen any one like her.”
This time, when he returned to the house, Alan did not feel in the least guilty, although he was now coming deliberately in Hunter’s absence, and to collect evidence against him. On the contrary, he felt like a knight sallying forth to rescue a lady from duress.
He rang the bell without hesitation, and the girl opened the door. He had a plan. He explained to her that the doctor had invited him to make use of his medical library whenever he wished—which was true—and that he needed to look up fractures for a plaintiff in a damage suit—which was not true. He made his explanation long and markedly polite, and he was pleased to notice that she forgot all that nonsense about saying “sir.” Instead, she preceded him into the library as if it were her own, lighted a lamp, and, going to the bookshelves, brought out two volumes.
“These are on fractures,” she said.
This did not surprise him. She looked like a girl who would know all sorts of things.[Pg 116]
“I’ll sit here and make a few notes, if you don’t mind,” Alan said, for this was part of his plan.
He waited until he heard a door close after her somewhere. He waited a little longer; then he rose. He intended to be awkward, and to pull down a lot of books, making a great deal of noise. Then she would come back and help him to pick them up, and it would be easy enough, in such circumstances, to start a conversation. But—well, if his intention was to make a noise, he did that, certainly, and the girl did come back, in great haste; but it is not possible to believe that it was part of his plan to pull the bookcase over entirely, or that a bronze bust should fall and hit him on the side of the face.
“I’m very sorry,” he said earnestly. “I don’t know how I came to be so clumsy. I—really I’m very sorry.”
“So am I,” said she. “Let’s see!”
To his amazement, she took his chin in fingers surprisingly strong, and turned his face toward the light.
“You’d better come into the office,” she said.
“It’s nothing, thanks,” he began, but she had already vanished through the door, and he felt obliged to follow.
He said nothing at all while she washed and dressed the trifling wound, but he watched her moving about the bright, glittering little room, he noted her precision, her deftness, her familiarity—and he tried to draw conclusions.
“You’re a trained nurse!” he suddenly exclaimed.
She turned toward him, and for the first time he saw her smile.
“No, Mr. Lorrimer, I’m not,” she said. “Now I think you’ll do very nicely.”
It was a tone of polite dismissal, but he did not intend to go.
“I’ll help you first to repair the damage I did,” he said.
She replied that he needn’t.
He said that he wanted to, and must; and because he was just the sort of young man he was, and because she had the intelligence to see it, she admitted him then and there to a sort of friendship. After the bookcase was set upright again, and all the books restored to order, they sat down, one on either side of the library table, in the most natural way in the world.
“You’d make a wonderfully good nurse,” he observed.
“I’m afraid not,” she answered, smiling again. “I shouldn’t like it at all!”
“But you seem to know a good deal about that sort of thing,” he went on. “It must interest you.”
She made no reply, and for a moment he feared she had thought him unduly curious—impertinent, perhaps; but there was no sign of displeasure in her face. She was looking thoughtfully before her, grave, serene, almost as if she had not heard him. Suddenly he fancied he understood.
“Of course!” he said to himself. “She’s in love with Hunter, and naturally she takes an interest in his work. That’s why she’s here, filling a servant’s place, simply so that she can be near him!”
There was no reason why this should make him indignant, yet, instead of being touched by the idea of such devotion, he was angry and disappointed.
“I wonder what Mrs. Carew thinks of it!” he pursued. “She probably thinks that this girl isn’t good enough for her precious Noel. She would object to such a marriage; or perhaps she doesn’t know what the girl is. Perhaps he doesn’t know, either. I may be the only one who has guessed her secret.”
Then it occurred to him that he was drawing conclusions from very insubstantial premises, also that he was forgetting the object for which he had come, and that his silence might not be impressing her favorably. Looking at her again, he was forced to the unwelcome conclusion that she didn’t care whether he spoke or not. It was presumptuous nonsense to feel sorry for a girl like this. Whatever she did, she intended to do; there was no helplessness or futility in those fine features.
Alan felt ashamed of himself for trying to find out about her in any indirect way. She deserved to be treated with absolute honesty and candor. He knew she would not misunderstand anything else.
“I came back here to see you,” he said bluntly.
She accepted that tranquilly.
“As soon as I saw you, I felt a very great interest in you,” he went on. “I don’t mean that as an impertinence, or as a compliment. It’s simply the truth. There are some human beings who make that sort of impression on others, and it seems to me a foolish and a wrong thing to stifle that interest because it doesn’t happen to be conventional.[Pg 117]”
“As a human being, I welcome your interest,” said she, with her quiet smile. “I’ve heard of you from Noel, and I’m sure I should enjoy talking to you.”
“Of course I knew at once that you weren’t what you—you pretended to be,” he went on rather clumsily.
She stopped him.
“It wasn’t pretending, Mr. Lorrimer. I am here as a servant.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“It suits me. After all, there’s nothing better in life than really serving the people who need you, is there?”
“Sometimes there is,” he answered promptly. “It may mean the sacrifice of a fine life to a much less valuable one.”
A faint color rose in her cheeks.
“Well, you see,” she said, “I don’t feel wise and perfect enough to judge which lives are the most valuable.”
He was silent, because he could not well say that her life was a hundred times more valuable than all the Mrs. Carews and Dr. Hunters ever born—that in her grave youth, and her fine and dignified simplicity, she seemed to him absolutely invaluable.
“I dare say you’re right,” he answered seriously. “I’m sure your way is a good way. If you think you really would care to talk to me, when may I come again?”
“I have Sunday afternoons off,” she answered, and he believed there was a hint of a laugh in her voice.
“Then I’ll come at—”
“Oh, no! That’s not the way it’s done. I’ll meet you somewhere and we’ll take a walk,” she said, and this time she could not suppress a smile.
Alan refused to smile, however. He didn’t care if she came in an apron. He was willing to sit on the back steps, or in the kitchen, so long as he could be with her. It wasn’t a joke—it was serious, the most serious thing he had ever known.
He proposed a convenient meeting place, and she agreed to it.
“But I’d rather you didn’t mention me to any one, please,” she added. “I like a—a very quiet life, just now.”
This day was going to be the day. Nothing was going to put him off—not the fact that the mirror showed him a face he hated to think was his own, not the inner voice which warned him that it might be better to remain in doubt and still have hope. He didn’t want hope, if it was a false one.
He went downstairs, aware of all sorts of new defects in himself. He felt that he was the most commonplace, uninteresting fellow imaginable, and that there was nothing about him that could possibly please or interest any one.
Mrs. Lorrimer and a group of friends were on the veranda. He saluted them with a strange sort of severity, and went off down the road, in an odd state of despair and determination.
“Yes,” said his mother proudly. “It’s very unusual to see a man as serious as Alan is, athisage!”
She was wrong. She had herself seen any number of young fellows of twenty-seven overtaken by exactly the same sort of seriousness, only, in the case of her son, she didn’t recognize it. Alan himself, however, had known what it was for weeks—it was Judith.
She had told him to call her Judith, and he did, hundreds of times, but not once in her hearing. Indeed, there was an astounding difference between the things he said to her when she was not there and the words she actually heard from him. If she could only have heard those other things, or guessed them! He knew that what he was going to say would be so inferior to what he felt and thought.
He turned into the lane where they always met, and sat upon the stone wall to wait. He was thinking about her, in a curious way, half wretched, half blissful. He didn’t care two straws about her very humble position, nor did she. Hehadsat on the back steps and talked to her when the others were out, hehadseen her in an apron, peeling potatoes, and she was more than ever exalted in his eyes by her quiet acceptance of such things. There was to him a sort of nobility in everything she did, in all her words and gestures, in her smile, even in her little transient moments of gayety.
Nor did he care two straws for the mystery that surrounded her. Wherever she came from, whatever her name or her history or her reason for living as she did, he knew that she was right, and could never be anything else.
No—the things that troubled him were those things which so often trouble people in his condition—all sorts of doubts and alarms and hopes and determinations mixed[Pg 118]together. He wasn’t good enough, but he was obliged to convince her that he was. She couldn’t care for him, and yet she must.
At last he saw her coming, and went forward to meet her. She was walking unusually fast, as if, he thought with a fast beating heart, she were hurrying to him. Whatever joy he had felt in that thought vanished at the sight of her face.
“Judith!” he said. “Tell me, what has happened?”
She had all her usual fine composure, but she was very pale, and, in some subtle way apparent more to his heart than to his eyes, there was grief upon her face. She did not answer him, but she held out her hand, and he fancied that she clung to him.
“Let’s walk a little,” she said, after a moment.
They went on side by side along the lane, thick with cool, white dust under the old trees. So dense was the foliage on the branches meeting overhead that the light came through it greenish and wavering, like water. The dust might have been the sandy floor of the sea, and the church bells that rang seemed mournful and distant, as they must sound to the mermaids.
A painful sense of unreality oppressed Alan. He didn’t know her; she was terribly remote, a stranger, indifferent to him. Not once in all the time they had spent together had she talked freely about herself, about her life. She might have any number of anxieties and griefs of which he had no suspicion. She had been friendly, but in such an impersonal, untroubled way!
At last they reached the fence at the foot of the lane, where the fields began, and she spoke.
“Noel has gone,” she said.
“Gone?” he echoed.
“He left a letter,” she continued. “Perhaps I had better read you a part of it.” She took a letter out of her pocket, and turned as he noticed, past the first page to the second. She read:
“So I’ve taken this job in the airplane factory. It’s a remarkably good job, and I expect to do rather more than well. I’m sorry, my dearest girl, to disappoint you so after all you’ve done for me, but, to be frank, Ican’tbe a doctor. I always hated the whole thing. I’d never have been any good at it. Now I’ve found the one thing I am good at. I think you know how I felt about Nesta Lorrimer, and now I see some faint chance of being able to speak to her some day.“Try to forgive me, Judith. It is really the best and kindest thing I can do for you—to clear out and leave you free.
“So I’ve taken this job in the airplane factory. It’s a remarkably good job, and I expect to do rather more than well. I’m sorry, my dearest girl, to disappoint you so after all you’ve done for me, but, to be frank, Ican’tbe a doctor. I always hated the whole thing. I’d never have been any good at it. Now I’ve found the one thing I am good at. I think you know how I felt about Nesta Lorrimer, and now I see some faint chance of being able to speak to her some day.
“Try to forgive me, Judith. It is really the best and kindest thing I can do for you—to clear out and leave you free.
“That’s all that matters,” she ended. “So you see—”
Her look amazed and angered him terribly. She seemed so sure that he would understand and sympathize. She wasn’t a child, she was very far from slow-witted, and she must have seen how it was with him. And now this!
Try to forgive me, Judith. It is the best and kindest thing I can do for you—to clear out and leave you free.
Try to forgive me, Judith. It is the best and kindest thing I can do for you—to clear out and leave you free.
Such bitterness and pain overwhelmed him that he could scarcely speak.
“I’d rather—go now,” he said. “Another time—I can’t—”
“But—” she began.
“Not now!” he said vehemently. “It was cruel of you to do this. Why didn’t you tell me before that you weren’t free? Why did you let me go on? I trusted you so! And all this time you’ve been thinking of him! No, please don’t speak to me! Let me go!”
She was looking at him with a curious sort of inquiry, her dark brows drawn together in a faint frown.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “I thought you had guessed long ago. I didn’t think you’d have—gone on like this, if you hadn’t guessed!”
She was not by nature impulsive, but it was impulse alone that moved her now. She came nearer to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, and looked into his face, with bright tears in her eyes.
“Oh, Alan!” she cried. “It was a beautiful thing to do—to accept me on faith, like that! Not to know, or to care! Oh, Alan, my dear!”
“Judith!” he said. “Don’t you see what you’ve done? Nothing else could have mattered to me, except your caring for him—”
“For Noel?” she asked. “I’m afraid I cared for him a little too much—more than was good for him. But, you see, he’s my only brother.”
“Brother!” shouted Alan. “Then why—”
“Walk home with me, and I’ll explain,” said she. “I thought you had found out long ago.”
Alan went on by her side, willing to wait forever for any further explanation. There[Pg 119]were a few questions he wanted to ask, and Judith answered them to his satisfaction, but they had nothing to do with Noel.
“Now look!” said she.
He did look, but he saw nothing but the front of Dr. Hunter’s neat little house.
“I don’t see anything,” he said.
She opened the gate, and he followed her along the path and up on the veranda.
“Look atthat!” she said.
It was nothing but the usual sign in the window. “Noel”—but it wasn’t! In blue letters on a white ground was printed:
JUDITH HUNTER, M.D.
“You see,” she said, a little later, when they were in the library, “Noel and I were left orphans when we were very young, and Aunt Katherine Carew took care of us. I couldn’t begin to tell you all she did, all the sacrifices she made. Naturally, it was Noel, the boy, that she hoped and expected most from. I wanted to study medicine, and poor Noel couldn’t make up his mind exactly what he wanted to do; so he chose that, too, and we studied together. It was a terrible strain for Aunt Katherine. It took almost all she had, and after we’d both left the hospital, she couldn’t possibly set up two young doctors. We talked it over, and it was my idea to give him his chance first. He’s two years older, and—well, I thought I could wait. Poor Aunt Katherine couldn’t manage everything herself, and we couldn’t afford a servant, and yet she felt that it was very important to keep up appearances; so I decided that I would be the servant. I intended to be invisible until I was ready to appear as a full-fledged M.D. myself.” She paused, and smiled a little. “We both worked very hard to make a doctor of Noel,” she went on. “I think now that we tried a little too hard. If he hadn’t felt that so much was expected of him, he might have gone through with it.”
“He may do better where he is,” said Alan.
“I can’t think that,” said she, “even if he makes a great deal of money; because, for me, our profession is by far the noblest one in the world. There’s nothing else so fine and so—”
“Absolutely nothing else?” asked Alan. “Nothing to compare with it?”
He thought that the slight confusion she betrayed was infinitely more becoming to her than her usual composure.
“Well, of course,” said she, “there’s—there’syou![Pg 120]”
MUNSEY’SMAGAZINE
OCTOBER, 1923Vol. LXXXNUMBER 1
[Pg 121]
By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding
WHEN you learn that this story begins with the heroine setting off through the woods to visit her grandmother, who was ill, you may guess that it is the familiar tale ofLittle Red Riding Hood. I must admit that that is what it is, and I warn you that you may count upon a very artless little heroine and a wolf of insinuating manners and glib tongue; butthisgrandmother will not be eaten up.
Nor did Ethel carry a basket containing a little pat of butter and a cake. She had, instead, a large and luxurious box of candied fruit under her arm; and instead of singing through the woods, she wore a sulky and miserable expression. Unfortunately red hoods are not in vogue, for such a thing would have been notably becoming to her little gypsy face. However, she was young enough and lovely enough to look well in anything, even a sulky expression.
She was not without some excuse for her discontented air. Ethel was one of those unfortunate little bones of contention so often to be found in divided families, and she had been so much disputed over and argued about, and so rarely consulted or even questioned, that she had grown to think of herself as a helpless pawn in an incomprehensible game, where she could never win anything.
The disputes had begun long before she was born. Her father’s family had that pride of newly acquired wealth beside which pride of ancestry shrinks to nothing. Indeed, to spring from splendid ancestors may often make one feel a little humble, but to feel that one is vastly more important than any of one’s forbears makes for arrogance.
The Taylors had objected very much to the marriage of their only son. Even when the marriage was made, and there was no earthly use in objecting, they kept on, in a very unpleasant way. All the misfortunes which the young man brought upon his wife and child by his recklessness and folly only increased their anger against the victims; and when he died, they all came forward with helpful suggestions as to what he should have done when he was alive.
Ethel had been a small girl of nine then, and not yet looked upon as guilty; but when she refused to leave her mother and take advantage of the offers made by several of the Taylors, she lost their sympathy. Her mother, with criminal selfishness, hadn’t made the least attempt to persuade her child to leave her. On the contrary, she had gone back to her own people, and had lived with them in quiet contentment.
It was to these people of hers that the Taylors so strongly objected. She herself was a quiet and inoffensive creature who gave little trouble, but her parents were Italians, and poor, and not ashamed of either of the two things.
Dr. Mazetti had been professor of romance languages in a small Western college, but he had become so absorbed in the enormous commentary upon Dante which he was writing that he found his teaching very much in the way; so he gave up his chair. Mrs. Taylor, the paternal grandmother, had spoken about this.
“Of course,” she had said, not very pleasantly, “it’s a good thing to have faith in your husband’s work; but suppose it’snota financial success?”
“We don’t expect it to be,” replied Mrs. Mazetti, in her excellent English. “Such work as that is not undertaken for money.”
“Do you mean to say that you’ll permit your husband to give up his—” began Mrs. Taylor, but the other interrupted her.[Pg 122]
“Amandoes not ask the permission of others to do what he thinks best,” she said quietly. “I should be ashamed of myself if I were even to suggest that he should sacrifice his life’s work on my account.”
“What about yourself? Aren’t you sacrificing—”
“I sacrifice nothing,” said Mrs. Mazetti. “I am very, very happy and proud.”
And so she was, and so was her only child until she married young Taylor; and so she was again when she came home with the little Ethel, to live with those simple, gentle people once more. Not for long, however, for she died some two years later.
Then the arguments and disputes began again, and this time the Taylors won. Children of eleven are pitifully easy to bribe, and while Ethel was still dazed and stricken after the loss of her mother, all these relations competed for her favor. She was petted and pampered as she had never been before in her life.
It is regrettable to admit that she liked all this, liked the toys and the pretty clothes and the indulgence better than the benign and quiet régime of her grandfather Mazetti, who believed that children should be literally “brought up” to the level of the wiser and more experienced adults about them, instead of bringing a whole household down to childish standards. He was always very patient and gentle, but he was too fond of talking about Dante, and of relating anecdotes about an Italian poet who insisted upon being tied into his chair, so that he couldn’t run away from his studies.
Moreover, old Dr. Mazetti had no money to spend upon toys and clothes. The Taylors took no interest in Dante or any other poet, but they took Ethel to the circus; so she said she wanted to live with Aunt Amy, her father’s sister.
She wasn’t aware, at the time, how terribly she had hurt the Mazettis. They said very little. Indeed, they discussed it in private, and decided that it was their duty to say very little. Aunt Amy could give Ethel material benefits which they could not give; and if the child preferred that sort of thing, it was, after all, neither unnatural nor unexpected.
“Each must find his own,” said Dr. Mazetti. “What is joy for one is a burden for another.”
So they let her go, and they did it beautifully, without saddening her little heart with reproaches or tears. She came back to visit them once a month or so, but somehow, in her new existence, this quiet old couple had begun to seem very foreign, very unreal.
She was abroad with her aunt when Dr. Mazetti died. Though she grieved for him honestly, she was too young and too busy to nourish any sorrow long.
When Ethel Taylor came home, at nineteen, her grandmother seemed like a little ghost from the past, utterly unconnected with her present life. She still went to visit the old lady, and sat in the familiar room in her little cottage, where the bronze bust of Dante appeared to impose a dignified calm; but these visits were nothing but interludes to real life, and real life, just now, was a miserable thing.
The trouble was that Aunt Amy kept on being Aunt Amy, while the childish Ethel and the nineteen-year-old one were entirely different persons. Aunt Amy wanted her to come out, and to be a nice, happy débutante like other girls; but something in Ethel’s blood rebelled against that. She called it a “modern spirit,” and never realized that instead of being modern, it was the old Mazetti strain, come down to her from people who for generations had not lived by bread alone.
She told her aunt that she wanted to be a singer.
“That’s a charming accomplishment,” said Aunt Amy affably.
“I mean I want really to study—for years and years!”
“Certainly, dear, if you can find the time.”
“Time!” said Ethel. “What else do I ever do but waste time?”
“Naturally you can’t neglect your social duties—”
“Duties!”
“Please don’t repeat my words in that odd way,” said Aunt Amy, a little hurt. “If you want to study singing, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t, so long as you’re not excessive about it.”
“But I want to be excessive! I want to give all my time to it! I want to be a professional singer!”
Aunt Amy laughed, not in order to be irritating, but because she really thought it was funny. Not being a woman of much penetration, she told some of her friends[Pg 123]about that absurd little Ethel’s fantastic idea.
As a result, the girl was teased about it. Ethel couldn’t endure being teased. She had that queer lack of self-confidence, combined with tremendous resolution and a little vanity, that belong to young artists, and she felt that she was absurd, although she really knew that she wasn’t. She was ashamed to practice now, and at the same time she exulted in her clear, strong, flexible voice. When she was asked to sing, she refused; yet sometimes, when she knew there were people in the drawing-room, she would go up the stairs or through the hall, singing her loudest and sweetest, half terrified, half delighted, at the glorious flood of melody that rose from her heart.
She didn’t want anything else. She couldn’t and wouldn’t be bothered with “social duties.” She wanted to work hard, all day and every day, until she was mistress of this great gift of hers, until she could sing in reality as she did in imagination. She had fits of black depression, when the sounds that came from her throat seemed a mockery of what she intended. At other moments she was in wild spirits, because she was sure she had made a little progress.
Her changing humors were so marked that Aunt Amy was gravely perturbed. She felt that Ethel was becoming “eccentric,” which was the worst thing any one could be, and she attributed it all to this annoying obsession with singing. In all good faith, she did what she thought best for the girl—she stopped her lessons.
Ethel wept and stormed and entreated and argued until she was almost ill, but without moving Aunt Amy.
“No!” that lady said firmly. “If you’ll put all that nonsense out of your head, and lead a normal, sensible life like other girls, I’ll let you take up singing again in a year.”
She hoped and believed that within a year’s time such a pretty and delightful girl would surely find something better to think about.
Ethel was helpless. She was exquisitely dressed, and she lived in great comfort and luxury, but she hadn’t a penny of her own to pay for lessons.
Artists, however—even young and undeveloped ones—are very hard to deal with, because they will not give up and be sensible. Instead of resigning herself to doing without what she wanted, Ethel did nothing but think how she could get at least a part of it. Being nineteen, and rash, and terribly in earnest, she was dallying with a singularly unsuitable idea.
“Hello, Lad!” she said, not at all surprised, and apparently not very much pleased, at the sudden appearance of a young man on that quiet path through the woods.
“Hello, Ethel!” he returned, and fell into step beside her.
She didn’t trouble to glance at her companion. She knew exactly how he looked, anyhow. He was slender and supple and dark, and handsome in his way—which was not her way.
There were times when the sleekness of his hair and the brightness of his smile and the extreme fastidiousness of his clothes exasperated her. There were other times when his talk about music made her see in him the one sympathetic, understanding person on earth. He had learned to read the signs, and to tell which sort of time it was; and he fancied that this was a favorable moment.
“Have you been thinking—” he began softly.
“Naturally,” said she. “I suppose every one does, once in a while.”
Young Ladislaw Metz was not easily discouraged. He, too, was an artist.
“Do you mind my walking with you, Ethel?” he asked patiently. “I came all the way out from the city on the chance of meeting you here, because I had something special to tell you.”
She thought she knew what he meant, and frowned; but when he began to speak, the frown vanished, and she sat down on the grass to listen.
Old Mrs. Mazetti was waiting and waiting in her chair by the window. All the bright spring afternoon had passed. The sky was blue no more, but faint and mournful as the sun went down. Outside, the light lingered, but in the room it was dark—very dark, very quiet. Ethel had written to say that she would come early, and for hours the old lady had been watching the road along which her granddaughter must come. It always made her uneasy to think of a girl as young and pretty as Ethel traveling alone.
This was one of the very few ideas that[Pg 124]Aunt Amy shared with Mrs. Mazetti. Aunt Amy wanted Ethel to go properly in a motor car, but her niece was so obstinately set on going by train that she had yielded. After all, it was such a trifling matter—an hour’s journey to a suburb, to visit a grandmother. The good lady never so much as imagined the existence of Ladislaw Metz, or any one like him.
But old Mrs. Mazetti did. Not that she knew anything of this particular young man, but she had had opportunity, in her long life, to observe that in such cases there generally was a young man. When Ethel began taking more and more time between the station and the house, the old lady grew more and more sure, and more distressed.
She said nothing, however, because her grandchild showed no disposition to confide in her, and she knew that more harm than good would result from asking questions. She couldn’t get near to Ethel. She had tried time after time, with all her quiet subtlety, to bring about a greater intimacy, to show how steadfast and profound was her sympathy; but Ethel never saw.
In fact, Ethel didn’t know that she needed sympathy. She thought that all she wanted was to be let alone. Without in the least meaning to be unkind, she ignored the invaluable love that would so greatly have helped her.
For the third time the servant came in to light the lamp, and this time Mrs. Mazetti permitted it. She had given up expecting Ethel for that day.
“She has forgotten,” she thought.
In spite of her bitter disappointment, she could still smile a little over the girl’s careless youth. The sun had vanished now, and a strange yellow twilight lay over the earth like a sulphurous mist. It was a melancholy hour. The brightness of the little room made the outside world more forlorn and dim by contrast.
Mrs. Mazetti was about to turn away from the window with a sigh, when she caught sight of Ethel hurrying along the road—with a young man. The girl’s companion left her when they were still some distance from the house. If the old lady hadn’t had remarkably sharp eyes, she would never have seen him.
Ethel came in alone.
“Grandmother!” she said. “I’m awfully ashamed of myself for being so late!”
She really was ashamed and sorry, but it was not her nature to invent excuses, and she had no intention of explaining. Mrs. Mazetti saw all this perfectly, and did not fail to note something defiant in her grandchild’s expression. Nevertheless, she meant to come to the point this time.
“You were with a friend?” she asked mildly.
“Yes, grandmother.”
“Your Aunt Amy knows this friend?”
Ethel tried to imitate that tranquil, affectionate tone.
“No, grandmother, she doesn’t. He’s just a boy I met at the studio where I used to take singing lessons.”
“And you think she would not care for him?”
“I know she wouldn’t,” Ethel answered candidly. “I don’t care for him so very much myself; but we’re interested in the same things, and nobody else is.”
“In music?”
“Yes. He’s—” Ethel began, but she stopped.
What was the use of going on, and being told again how absurd she was? Mrs. Mazetti was silent, too, but not because she felt discouraged. She was thinking, trying to understand.
“You are still always thinking of the singing?” she asked softly.
Ethel’s face flushed, and her young mouth set in a harsh line.
“I’m not going to listen to any more lectures,” she thought. “No one understands. No one ever will!”
“This young man is a musician?” her grandmother asked.
“Yes, in a way,” said Ethel. “Isn’t the country pretty at this time of the year, grandmother?”
The old lady looked out of the window at the rapidly darkening sky, against which the trees stood out as black as ink. It seemed to her not at all pretty now, but vast and terrible.
“My little Ethel!” she thought. “My little bird, who longs to sing! What is this going on now, poor foolish little one? What am I to do?”
She missed her husband acutely. She missed him always, but more than ever at this instant. Ethel would have listened to him, for every one did. Quiet and tranquil as he was, there had been an air of authority about him that she had never seen disregarded.
Ethel was very still. The lamp threw a[Pg 125]clear light on her warm, vivid young face, downcast and plainly unhappy.
“If I spoke to your Aunt Amy about those lessons?” suggested the old lady.
“It wouldn’t do the least bit of good, grandmother. I’ve said everything there is to be said; and—anyhow, I don’t care now.”
“Why not, Ethel? Why not now?”
“Oh, I don’t know!” Ethel replied airily. “Let’s not talk about it, grandmother. I’ve brought some candied fruit. You like that, don’t you?”
The old lady untied the flamboyant package with fingers that were not very steady. While she was doing so, the clock struck six.
“I’ll have to go,” said Ethel quickly. “I’m sorry I came so late and had such a tiny visit, grandmother, but—”
“Wait, my little Ethel. Gianetta will order a taxi.”
“Oh, no, thanks!” said Ethel. “I like the walk.”
“Not now, in the dark, my dear.”
“I don’t mind the dark. It’s really not at all late. I’ll—”
“No!” said the old lady with unexpected firmness. “There must be a taxi, and Gianetta will go with you to the train.”
Ethel answered politely, but with equal firmness, that she didn’t want that.
“Come here, my little Ethel!” said her grandmother. When the girl stood before her, she took both of her hands. “This friend—this young man—is waiting for you?”
Ethel flushed, but she answered with the fine honesty that had been hers all her life.
“Yes!” she said, in just the sturdy, defiant tone she used to confess a piece of childish mischief years and years ago.
“You see me here,” said Mrs. Mazetti, “unable even to rise from my chair. I could do nothing to stop you, if I wished. I do not wish, because I trust you; only I ask you to tell me a little.”
Ethel was more moved than she wished to be. She bent to kiss the soft white hair.
“I’d rather not, please!” she said.
“If you will remember, my little Ethel, that your mother always came to me, always told me what troubled her! I am very old. I have learned very much, seen very much. I could help you.”
“But you wouldn’t, grandmother. You wouldn’t like my—plan.”
“Then perhaps I could make a better one.”
Mrs. Mazetti felt the girl’s warm hands tremble, and saw her lip quiver. She waited, terribly anxious.
“You see,” said Ethel, “all I care about is being able to sing. Nobody believes that. No one understands except Ladislaw!”
“That is the young man?”
“Yes—Ladislaw Metz,” said Ethel, a little impatient at this interest in the least important part of her story. “He knows what it means to me.”
“What is he? He sings?”
“He’s a barytone. He’s going to be a wonderful singer some day.”
“But now? What is he now?”
“Well, you see, he’s poor, and he can’t afford to go on studying just now. So—I don’t like to tell you, because you’ll think he’s not really a musician—he’s on the stage.”
“Ah!” said the old lady, with perfect composure. “The theater? An operetta?”
“Well, no—it’s vaudeville. He’s been singing awful, cheap, popular songs, just to keep himself alive. Now he wants a partner for a better sort of turn—an act, you know. We should sing—”
“We?”
“He’s going to give me a chance,” said Ethel quietly. The old lady was silent for a moment.