Dear Mr. Ives:Amy has asked me to reply to your letter of a month ago. I scarcely need to tell you how greatly it distressed her. If you should come to the house publicly now, everything she has tried to do would be ruined. She had hoped that you would wait patiently, but as you refuse to do so, she has consented to see you.She wants to see Lily as well, and, although there is a great deal of risk in this, if you will follow my directions, I think we can manage. Telephone to the nurse with whom the child is boarding to bring her to the station at Greenwich by the train leaving New York at 7.20a.m.on Tuesday and Eddy will meet her there. You can take an early afternoon train to Stamford. Take a taxi there and go up the Post Road to Bonnifer Lane, a little past the Raven Inn. There is a new church being built on the corner. Turn down here, and stop at the first house, about half a mile from the main road. You will find the little[Pg 476]girl there, and I shall be there, waiting for you, between three and five, and we can make arrangements for you to see Amy.Remember, Mr. Ives, that Amy trusts you to do nothing until you have seen her.Respectfully yours,Amanda Jones.
Dear Mr. Ives:
Amy has asked me to reply to your letter of a month ago. I scarcely need to tell you how greatly it distressed her. If you should come to the house publicly now, everything she has tried to do would be ruined. She had hoped that you would wait patiently, but as you refuse to do so, she has consented to see you.
She wants to see Lily as well, and, although there is a great deal of risk in this, if you will follow my directions, I think we can manage. Telephone to the nurse with whom the child is boarding to bring her to the station at Greenwich by the train leaving New York at 7.20a.m.on Tuesday and Eddy will meet her there. You can take an early afternoon train to Stamford. Take a taxi there and go up the Post Road to Bonnifer Lane, a little past the Raven Inn. There is a new church being built on the corner. Turn down here, and stop at the first house, about half a mile from the main road. You will find the little[Pg 476]girl there, and I shall be there, waiting for you, between three and five, and we can make arrangements for you to see Amy.
Remember, Mr. Ives, that Amy trusts you to do nothing until you have seen her.
Respectfully yours,Amanda Jones.
Ross folded up the letter. Yes; nobody could ask for a much better clew. He took out another letter, but before opening it, he glanced out of the window. And he saw Donnelly coming back.
He put the wallet into his pocket, and went to the head of the stairs. A great lassitude had come upon him; he felt physically exhausted. His doubt—and his hope—were ended now.
Donnelly came in quietly, and advanced to the foot of the stairs. It was not possible to read his face by that dim light, but his voice was very grave.
“Come on!” he said.
“Find anything?” asked Ross.
Donnelly was silent for a moment.
“I’ve finished,” he said, at last.
“What—” began Ross.
“I’ve finished,” Donnelly repeated, almost gently. “It’s up to the police now. We’ll have that pond dragged.”
Ross, too, was silent for a moment.
“All right!” he said. “I’ll just get my hat.”
He turned back into the room; Donnelly waited for him below. In a few minutes Ross joined him, and they got into the cab.
M. Solway descended from the train and walked briskly toward his car. The new chauffeur was standing there, stiff as a poker.
“Well, Moss!” he said. “Everything all right, eh?”
“Yes, thank you, sir,” said Ross.
“That’s it!” said Mr. Solway, with his vague kindliness. He got into the car, and Ross started off through the sleet and the dark. Mr. Solway made two or three observations about the weather, but his chauffeur answered “Yes, sir,” “That’s so, sir,” rather absent-mindedly. He was, to tell the truth, very much preoccupied with his own thoughts. He was wondering how a pond was dragged, and how long such a thing might take.
He had seen no one, spoken to no one, since he had left Donnelly at the police station and gone back to the garage alone. So he had had plenty of time to think.
He stopped the car before the house, Mr. Solway got out, and Ross drove on to the garage. There would be a little more time for thinking before he was summoned to dinner. He went upstairs and sat down, stretched out in a chair, staring before him. He was still wearing the peaked cap which had belonged to Wheeler; perhaps it was not a becoming cap, for his face looked grim and harsh beneath it.
He was not impatient, now, as that James Ross had been who had landed in New York three days ago. Indeed, he seemed almost inhumanly patient, as if he were willing to sit there forever. And that was how he felt. He had done his utmost; now he could only wait.
The sleet was rattling against the windows, and a great wind blew. It must be a wild night, out in the fields, where a lonely little pond lay. A bad night to be in that little cottage. A bad night, anywhere in the world, for a child who had nobody.
From his pocket he brought out a snapshot, and looked at it for a long time; then he tore it into fragments and let them flutter to the floor. He closed his eyes, then, but he was not asleep; the knuckles of his hand grasping the arm of the chair were white.
No; he wasn’t asleep. When the telephone rang in the garage, he got up at once and went downstairs to answer it.
“Dinner’s ready!” said Gracie’s voice. “Eddy come in yet?”
“Not yet,” answered Ross. “But—wait a minute!”
For he thought he heard some one at the door. He was standing with the receiver in his hand when the door slid open and Eddy came in.
“He’s just—” he began, turning back to the telephone, when Eddy sprang forward and caught his arm, and whispered: “Shut up! Sh-h-h!”
“Just about due,” said Ross to Gracie. Then he hung up the receiver and faced Eddy.
“Don’t tell ’em I’m here!” said Eddy. “I—I don’t want—I c-can’t stand any—jabbering. I—Oh, Gawd!”
At the end of his tether, Eddy was. His lips twitched, his face was distorted with his valiant effort after self-control. And it occurred to Ross that, for all his shrewdness and his worldly air, Eddy was not very old or very wise.
“What’s up, old man?” he asked.[Pg 477]“Tell me. You’d better get your dinner now.”
“Nope!” said Eddy. “I—can’t eat. I—I don’t want to talk.”
Ross waited for some time.
“Lissen here,” said Eddy, at last. “You—you seemed to like—that kid. You—you’ll look after her, won’t you?”
“Yes,” Ross answered.
He would have been surprised, and a little incredulous, if any one had called him tactful, yet few people could have handled Eddy better. He knew what the boy wanted; knew that he needed just this cool and steady tone, this incurious patience.
“Go and get her,” Eddy pleaded. “She’s down at the barber’s—near the movie theayter. Go and get her.”
“All right. I’ll have my dinner first, though. Want me to bring you something?”
“Nope!” said Eddy. “Lissen! I guess the cops are after me already.”
“You mean they’ve—found him?”
“Yep,” said Eddy. “They’ve found him. How did you know?”
Ross did not answer the question.
“Can’t you get away?” he asked.
“Not going to try,” said Eddy. “I—I’m too d-darn tired. I—Idon’t care!” There was a hysterical rise in his voice, but he mastered it. “Let ’em come!”
“What have they got against you?”
“They’ve found him—in the pond—where I put him.”
“Who’s going to know that?”
“Oh, they’ll know, all right!” said Eddy. “They got ways of finding out things. They’ll know, and they’ll think it was me that—All right! Let ’em!”
“Then you’re not going to tell?”
Eddy looked at him.
“D’you think it—wasn’t me?”
“Yes,” Ross replied. “I think it wasn’t you, Eddy.”
There was a long silence between them.
“What d’you think I’d ought to do?” asked Eddy, almost in a whisper.
“Suppose we talk it over,” said Ross.
“Yes—but—Idunno who you are.”
“Well, let’s say I’m Ives.”
Eddy sprang back as if he had been struck.
“Ives!”
“Look here!” said Ross. “I’m going to tell you what I did.”
And, very bluntly, he told. Eddy listened to him in silence; it was a strange enough thing, but he showed no surprise.
“D’you think it’ll work?” he asked, when Ross had finished.
“I hope so. Anyhow, there’s a chance. Now, you better tell me the whole thing. There’s a lot that I don’t know—and I might make a bad mistake.”
The telephone rang again. It was Gracie, annoyed by this delay.
“I’ll come as soon as I can,” said Ross, severely. “But I’m working on the car, and I can’t leave off for a few minutes.”
He turned again to Eddy.
“Go ahead!” he said.
Eddy sat down on the step of the sedan, and Ross leaned back against the wall, his arms folded, his saturnine face shadowed by the peaked cap.
“Tuesday I went and got her—the kid, y’ know, and took her to the cottage.”
“Did you know about her before?”
“Sure I did! I knew when they got married—her and Ives—four years ago. She told me herself. You know the way she tells you things—crying an’ all.”
Ross did know.
“Well, I used to see Ives hanging around. He was a nice feller—but he didn’t have a cent. He was an actor. She was too young, anyway—eighteen—same age as me. I told her I’d tell Mr. Solway, and then she told me they’d got married. I felt pretty bad—on Mr. Solway’s account. But she—well, you know how she acts. Her mother’d left her some money she’s going to get when she’s twenty-five, if she don’t get married without her stepfather’s consent. Mrs. Solway had the right idea. She knew Amy, all right. Only, it didn’t work. Amy wanted to get married and have the money, too. That’s how she is. So she told me she was going to tell Mr. Solway when she was twenty-five. I know I’d ought to have told him then, but—I didn’t.”
Ross understood that.
“Mr. Solway went over to Europe that summer, and she and Mrs. Jones went somewheres out West, and Lily was born out there. And Ives, he took the kid, and she came back here. She used to see Ives pretty often for awhile—go into the city and meet him. Then she began talking about what a risk it was. That was because she’d met this Gayle Dexter. That made me sick! I said I’d tell Mr. Solway, but she said her and Ives was going to get divorced, an’ nobody’d ever know, and that I’d ruin her life and all. And I gave in[Pg 478]—like a fool. Only, you see, I—I’ve known Amy all my life.”
“I see!” said Ross.
“Well, it seems Ives was beginning to get suspicious, when she didn’t see him no more. He kept writing; I used to get the letters for her—general delivery—an’ she kept stalling—and at last he said he was coming here to see her. Well, her and Mrs. Jones must have told him to come along. And Tuesday I met the kid and took her to that cottage. My idea, that was. I told Mrs. Jones about the place. I wish to Gawd I hadn’t.” He was silent for a moment. “Only, I thought it might—I was glad to do it, ’cause I thought maybe if Amy seen Ives and the kid, she’d—kinder change her mind. He come that afternoon, and seen Mrs. Jones. Well, I went there after work, and he told me Amy was coming to see him next morning. He was real pleased. He was—he was a—nice feller—”
Eddy’s mouth twitched again. “I wish—I’d known. Anyway, she wouldn’t go to see him. Jones tried to make her—said she’d got to have a talk with him—but Amy, she took on something fierce. Said she’d never see him again. Well, I guess he must of waited and waited, and in the afternoon he come here to the garage. I tried to argue with him and all, but it wouldn’t work. He started off for the house, and I telephoned over to Jones. An’ he went—he went out of that door—”
Eddy turned and stared at the door with an odd blank look. It was as if he saw something—which was not there.
“This very door,” he muttered. “My Gawd!”
“Yes,” said Ross, quietly. “He went to the house. And then?”
Eddy turned back with a shudder.
“I didn’t never think,” he said. “Wheeler’d left, then, so I drove the big car down to the station to meet Mr. Solway, and when I brung him home, you was there. Old Lady Jones tried to tip me off. I saw her trying to tell me something behind your back. I couldn’t make out what it was, but I knew there was something queer. I thought you was a detective Ives ’d sent to see what was going on, ’cause he’d been saying he’d do that. I didn’t know, then—But next day Jones told me that—that Ives had—died. Said he’d fell down dead from a heart attack. And she said we’d got to get rid of him on the Q. T., for Amy’s sake. I—I thought I couldn’t—but I did. Fella I know lent me his Ford. I said I wanted to take a girl out. And, while you were out there on the lawn, I—I got him—out of Jones’s room.”
“Do you mean he’d been there all that time?”
“I guess so. She told me she been sitting up all night, trying to—to see if she could—do anything for him. But he—Anyway, Jones told me what to do, and I did it. I—you don’t know what it was like—going all that way—alone—with him. And I had to put stones in his pockets.” He looked at Ross with a sort of wonder.
“I can’t believe it now!” he cried. “It don’t seem true! I don’t knowwhy—only Jones told me that if I didn’t, there’d be a inquest an’ all. And she said everyone’d think that Amy—It would all come out, she said, and Amy and Mr. Solway’d be in the newspapers and all. And she said he was dead, anyway. The pond couldn’t hurthim. I—”
He came closer to Ross, and laid a hand on his sleeve. “Lissen here!” he said. “D’you think that’s true—that he—just died?”
“There’s no use thinking about that—now,” said Ross.
Ross could feel sorry enough for Eddy, for his ghastly trip to the pond, for all the dread and misery that lay upon his soul. He was sorry for Ives, although his sufferings were at an end. He pitied Mr. Solway, in his ignorance of all this. He was sorry, in his own way, for Amy. But, above all creatures in this world, he pitied that little child.
Eddy told him about her. When Ives had gone to “Day’s End,” he had left the child with the obliging barber in town, and she had been there all that night and the next day, until Mrs. Jones had sent Eddy after her.
“She said it would start people talking, if the kid stayed there, and she told me to take her back to the cottage and leave her till she made some plans. But I couldn’t do that. The way I felt last night, I didn’t care. I’d rather have seen the whole thing go to smash than leave the kid alone there all night. That’s why I brung her here. And this morning—I couldn’t stay there—in that house. It kind of gave me the creeps. So I took her back to the barber’s.” He paused.[Pg 479]
“Jones don’t care about the kid,” he added. “She don’t care about anything on earth but Amy. Lissen here! I know she’s old and all, but I think—maybe she—I just wonder if the old girl had the nerve?”
Ross had had that thought, too. But it seemed to him that, no matter who had actually done this thing, even if it were an accident—which he did not believe—the guilt still lay upon the woman who had betrayed and abandoned the man and the child. Amy was guilty, and no one else.
He straightened up, with a sigh.
“Come along!” he said. “We’ll get our dinner. No! Don’t be a fool, my lad. It’s what you need.”
Eddy was considerably relieved by his confession. He went upstairs, washed, changed his coat, and brushed his glossy hair, and when he set off toward the house, there was a trace of his old swagger about him. Only a trace, though, for he walked beneath a shadow.
As for Ross, there was precious little change to be discerned in his dour face and impassive bearing. And it was his very good fortune to be so constituted that he did not show what he felt, for he was to receive an unexpected shock.
“Sit down!” said Gracie, sharply. “I put somethin’ aside for you. Now hurry up! It puts me back with the dishes an’ all.”
“An’ thim extry people,” said the cook, who was also a little out of temper. “There’ll not be enough butter for breakfast, the way they did be eatin’, an’ me without a word of warnin’ at all.”
“It’s that Mr. Teagle,” said Gracie. “Them small men is always heavy eaters.”
“Teagle? Who’s he?” asked Eddy.
“Haven’t you heard?” cried Gracie, almost unable to believe that she was to have the bliss of imparting this amazing news. “Why, there was a body found in a lake somewheres.”
“Oh, I heard about that, down at the comp’ny!” said Eddy, scornfully.
“But lissen, Eddy! It turns out it was a cousin o’ Miss Amy’s! It seems they found some papers an’ letters an’ all near where they found him, an’ he turns out to be her cousin! This Mr. Teagle, he’s a lawyer. They sent for him, an’ he come out here to look at the poor feller, and then he come to the house, ’cause Miss Amy’s goin’ to get all his money. She took on somethin’ terrible! Mr. Solway, he telephoned to Mr. Dexter, and he come out, too. I guess it was kinder to comfort her.”
“What would she be needin’ all the comfortin’ for?” demanded the cook. “She’d never set eyes on the cousin at all, and her to be gettin’ all that money.”
“She’s kinder sensitive,” said Gracie.
“Sensitive, is it!” said the cook, with significance.
Ross went on eating his dinner. He did not appear to be interested. When he had finished, he bade them all a civil good night, and got up and went out.
“He’s a cold-blooded fish,” said Gracie.
Yet, something seemed to keep him warm—something kept him steadfast and untroubled as he walked, head down, against the storm of wind and sleet, along the lonely roads to the town. He found the barber shop to which Eddy had directed him, and when he entered, the lively little Italian barber did not think his face forbidding.
“I’ve come for the little girl,” said Ross.
“Oh, she’s all right!” cried the barber. “She’s O. K. She eata soom nica dinner—verrie O. K. She sooma kid.”
He was a happy little man, pleased with his thriving business, with his family, with his own easy fluency in the use of the American tongue. He took Ross through the brilliantly lighted white tiled shop—a sanitary barber, he was—into a back room, where were his wife and his own small children.
And among them was the little fair-haired Lily, content and quite at home as she seemed always to be. You might have thought that she knew she had nobody, and no place of her own in this world, and that she had philosophically made up her mind to be happy wherever fate might place her.
She was sitting on the floor, much in the way of the barber’s wife, who pursued her household duties among the four little children in the room with the deft unconcern of a highly skilled dancer among eggshells. The woman could speak no English, but she smiled at Ross with placid amiability. She could not understand why three different men should have brought this child here at different times; but, after all, she didn’t particularly care. A passing incident, this was, in her busy life.
As for the barber himself, he had his own ideas. He saw something suspicious in the affair; a kidnaping, perhaps; but he preferred to know nothing. It was his tradition to be wary of troubling the police.[Pg 480]He took the money Ross gave him, and he smiled. Nobody had told him anything. He knew nothing.
The barber’s wife got the little girl ready, and Ross picked her up in his arms. She turned her head, to look back at the children, and her little woolen cap brushed across his eyes; he had to stop in the doorway of the shop, to shift her on to one arm, so that he could see. And then, what he did see was Donnelly.
“Well! Well!” said Donnelly, in a tone of hearty welcome.
“Well!” said Ross. “I’m in a hurry to get back, now. To-morrow—”
“Of course you are!” said Donnelly. “I’m not going to keep you a minute. I’ve got something here I’d like the little girl to identify.”
Ross’s arm tightened about the child.
“No!” he protested. “No! She’s got nothing to do with—this.”
“Pshaw!” said Donnelly, with a laugh. “It’s only this.” And from his pocket he brought out the rabbit.
“Oh,mywabbit!” cried the little girl, with a sort of solemn ecstasy.
“Hi! Taxi!” called Donnelly, suddenly, and a cab going by slowed down, turned, skidding a little on the wet street, and drew up to the curb. Without delay, Ross put the child inside, and got in after her, but Donnelly remained standing on the curb, holding open the door. Light streamed from the shop windows, but his back was turned toward it; his face was in darkness; he stood like a statue in the downpour.
“There’s some funny things about this case—” he observed.
Ross said nothing.
“Mighty funny!” Donnelly pursued. “And, by the way—” He leaned into the cab. “I’ve seen a good deal of you to-day, but I don’t believe you’ve told me your name.”
It seemed to Ross for a moment that he could not speak. But, at last, with a great effort, he said:
“Ives.”
“Ah!” said Donnelly.
Ross waited and waited.
“If you’d like to see—my bank book and papers,” he finally suggested.
“No,” said Donnelly, soothingly. “No, never mind. And this James Ross. You never heard of him, I suppose?”
“No.”
“He landed in New York on Wednesday, went to a hotel in the city, left his bags, and came right out to Stamford—and fell in a pond. Now, that’s a queer stunt, isn’t it?”
Ross put his arm round the child’s tiny shoulders and drew her close to him.
“Very!” he agreed.
“I thought so myself. Queer! I found the man’s pocketbook in that cottage—in that very room where you waited for me. What d’you think of that? There was a letter from a lawyer in New York—name of Teagle. I telephoned to him, and he came out. He could identify the man’s handwriting and so on. But he’d never seen him. Said he didn’t think there was any one in this country who had. He has a theory, though. Like to hear it—or are you in a hurry?”
“No! Go ahead!”
“Well, Teagle’s theory is that this Mr. James Ross knew he had a cousin out this way. Miss Solway, you know. It seems her mother made a match the family didn’t approve of, and they dropped her, years ago. Now, Teagle thinks this Mr. James Ross wanted to see for himself what this cousin was like, and that he came out to that cottage to stay while he sort of mooched around, getting information about her. Family feeling, see? Only—he met with an accident.”
“That sounds plausible,” said Ross.
“You’re right! Now, of course, there’ll be a coroner’s inquest to-morrow. But—” He paused. “I happened to be around when the doctor made his examination. And he says—the man was dead before he fell in the pond.”
“Oh, God!” cried Ross, in his torment. “Don’t go on!”
“Hold on a minute! Hold on! Of course that startles you, eh? You think it’s a case of murder, eh? Well, I’ll tell you now that the verdict’ll be—death from natural causes. No marks of violence. And Mr. James Ross had a very bad heart. I dare say he didn’t know it. He died of heart failure, and then he rolled down that slope.Isaw that for myself—saw bushes broken, and so on, where something had rolled or been dragged down there.”
“Then?”
“Then,” said Donnelly, “as far as I’m concerned, there’s no case. And I’ll say good-by to you. Maybe you wouldn’t mind shaking hands, Mr.—Ives?[Pg 481]”
Their hands met in a firm clasp.
“On Miss Solway’s account,” said Donnelly, “I’m mighty glad you’re Mr. Ives.Good-by!”
Ross was going away, at last. He was going as he had come, with no luggage, with no ceremony. Only, he was going to take with him a small child, and he left behind him his name, his money, and a good many illusions—and a friend. Eddy was not likely to forget him.
“You’re—you’re a white man!” he said, in a very unsteady voice. “You’re—a prince.”
“No,” Ross objected. “I’m a fool. The biggest damned fool that ever lived.”
“Have it your own way!” said Eddy. “I can think different if I like. I—” He paused a moment. “It makes me sick, you goin’ away like this. It—it—”
Ross laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Drop it!” he said. “Now, then! It’s about time for us to be off.” He turned toward the bedroom. “I’ll wake her up, while you start the car. I’ll take one of the blankets to wrap her in.”
It was a little early for the train he wanted to catch, but he was in a hurry to be gone. He might have known, though, that it was his fate never to leave this place when or how he wished.
He might have known that there was one inevitable thing still to be faced. He heard the throb of the sturdy little engine downstairs; he thought, he hoped, that the last moment had come, and, instead, he was called upon to endure a moment almost beyond endurance.
For Amy came. The sound of the engine prevented his hearing her entrance; he had just gone into the bedroom when he heard her footsteps on the stairs. In a wild storm of tears, desperate, white as a ghost, she ran in to him.
“Jimmy!” she gasped. “Oh, Jimmy! Jimmy!”
He did not speak. What had he to say to her now?
She was panting for breath, and her sobs were horrible, as if they choked her. He wanted to close the bedroom door, but she had seized him by the shoulder.
“I didn’t know!” she cried. “Not—till to-night. Oh, Jimmy, I didn’t know he was dead! He came to see me—and he died. Oh, Jimmy! Just when Nanna told him—that I didn’t want to see him ever again. It killed him, Jimmy.Ikilled him!”
“Oh, do keep quiet!” said Ross, in a sort of despair.
“I can’t! I can’t! I can’t! If I’d only seen him—just once more! Nanna begged me to—but I wouldn’t. And when Nanna told him, he—died! How can I bear that? Oh, Jimmy! I didn’t think he’d care so much! Just as I care for Gayle. Jimmy, listen to me! I’ll tell Gayle. I’ll go to him now. I can’t let you do this for me, Jimmy!”
For a moment his heart beat with a great hope.
“Do you mean that?” he asked.
“I never meant it to be like this. Never! Never! I thought Martin would let me go—let me get a divorce. And if he hadn’t, I’d have given up Gayle. I’ll give him up now, if you tell me to. Even if I die, too!”
The hope was faint now.
“You think he’d give you up, if he knew?” he asked.
“Think? I know! He’d loathe me!”
“And you’d be willing to marry him with—”
“You don’t understand!” she interrupted, violently. “You never could. You’re too good. And I’m not good—in your way. I was just a child when I met Martin. I’m not a child now. Gayle’s my whole life to me. I love him so that—”
“For God’s sake, stop!” cried Ross. “It’s—infamous! Have youforgotten?”
All the light and passion fled from her face at his tone. She looked up at him in terrified inquiry. Ross stood aside from the doorway, so that she could see the child lying asleep on the bed. She went in very softly, and stood looking down at the little creature.
“You see,” she whispered, “I’ve given up—my soul—for Gayle.”
He took her by the arm and led her out of the room, closing the door behind them.
“Very well!” he said. “On her account, it’s better like this. I’ll take her. And you’ll have to forget her. Do you understand? There’s to be no repentance, and so on. Make up your mind now.”
“No,” she said, faintly. “I can’t. I won’t! I’ll just do what you tell me.You’vegot to decide.”
“What!” he cried, appalled. “You’d try to make me?”
The child gave a little chuckle in her[Pg 482]sleep. He thought what the child’s life would be, with Amy, if Amy were denied her Gayle. He thought of Ives. He had taken Ives’s name, and with it the burden that Ives could no longer carry.
“All right!” he said. “It’s finished. I only hope to Heaven that Mr. Solway can end his days without knowing. As for Dexter—he’ll have to take his chance—like the rest of us. Good-by, Amy!”
She caught one of his hands in both of hers, and pressed it against her wet cheek.
“Can you ever, ever forgive me, Jimmy?” she asked, with a sob.
“I dare say!” said Ross, grimly.
“Left hand, please!”
Obediently, Mrs. Barron took her left hand out of the bowl of warm water, and laid it on the towel, carefully, as if it might melt. And the manicurist bent over it with her nice air of earnest attention.
All this was agreeable to Mrs. Barron. She was rather proud of her hands; she was altogether comfortable and tranquil; she had a pleasant, restful day before her.
In the afternoon she and her daughter were going to look at fur coats, which was really better than the actual buying; and, in the evening, they were all going to a play. The sun was shining, too, and the formal sitting room of her hotel suite was cheerful and warm, and filled with the perfume of the roses that stood all about.
“It’s good to be home again,” she remarked. “At my time of life traveling is not—” The telephone bell rang. “Answer that, my dear. It’s dangerous to touch a telephone with damp hands—Oh! A gentleman to see Miss Barron? What a strange time to call—ten o’clock in the morning! Ask his name, my dear. He was on the Farragut with us? But how very strange! Why doesn’t he give his name? But ask him to come up.”
She dried her hands and arose, majestic even in her frivolous negligee.
“Very strange!” she murmured.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in!” she said.
The door opened—and it was Mr. Ross! She took a step forward, with a welcoming smile; then she stopped short.
“Mr. Ross!” she cried. “But—Mr. Ross!”
He did not fail to notice the change in her tone, the vanishing of her smile. It did not surprise him. He stood in the doorway, hat in one hand, the little girl clinging to the other, and he felt that, to her piercing glance, he was a sorry enough figure. He felt shabby, as if he had been long battered by wind and rain; he felt that somehow the emptiness of his pockets was obvious to any one.
“I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “I’m afraid I’ve disturbed you. I thought perhaps I could see Miss Barron, just for a moment.”
“Come in!” said Mrs. Barron, and, turning to the manicurist, “Later, my dear!” she said.
Ross came in, and the manicurist, gathering her things together on her tray, made haste to escape. She went out, closing the door behind her.
“Mr. Ross!” said Mrs. Barron, in the same tone of stern wonder.
“I’m sorry,” he said, again. “I’m afraid I’ve dis—”
“But, my dear boy, what has happened?” she cried.
He was absolutely astounded by her voice, by the kindly anxiety in her face.
“I just thought—” he began.
“Sit down!” said she. “Here! On the sofa. Youdolook so tired!”
“I—I am,” he admitted.
“And such a dear little girl!” said Mrs. Barron. “Such a dear little mite.”
She had sat down on the sofa beside the child, and was stroking her fair mane, while her eyes were fixed upon Ross with genuine solicitude. She looked so kind, so honest, so sensible—he marveled that he had ever thought her formidable.
“You wanted to see Phyllis?” she went on. “She’s out, just now; but you must wait.”
“By George!” cried Ross.
For he had an inspiration. With all his stubborn soul he had been dreading to meet Phyllis in his present condition. He was penniless, and, what was worse, he could not rid himself of an unreasonable conviction of guilt. And now that he found Mrs. Barron so kind—
“Mrs. Barron!” he said. “It’s really you I ought to speak to. It’s about this child. She’s a—sort of cousin of mine, and she’s”—he paused a moment—“alone.”
Mrs. Barron was looking down at the child, very thoughtfully.
“I don’t know any one in this country,” he went on, “so I thought if you’d advise me. I want to find a home for her. A[Pg 483]—a real home, you know, with people who’ll—be fond of her. Just for a few months; later on I’ll take her myself. But, just now—” His dark face flushed.
“I’m a bit hard up just now,” he said; “but I’ll find a job right away, and I’ll be able to pay for her board and so on.”
Mrs. Barron continued to look thoughtful, and it occurred to him that his request must seem odd to her—very odd. The flush on his face deepened.
“I’m sorry,” he said, coldly; “but there are a good many things I can’t explain—”
“Yes, you can!” Mrs. Barron declared, in her old manner. “And that’s just what you’re going to do. As soon as I set eyes on you, on board that ship, I knew what you were. And I amneverdeceived about character. Never, Mr. Ross! I knew at once that you were to be trusted. I said to Phyllis: ‘That young man has force of character!’ I knew it. Now you’ve gone and got yourself into trouble of some sort, and you’ve come to me—very properly—and you’re going to tell me the whole thing.”
“I can’t!” Ross protested.
“Oh, yes, you can! Here you come and tell me you haven’t a penny, and don’t know a soul in this country, and here’s this poor little child who’s been foisted upon you—Don’t look surprised! I know it very well! She’s been foisted upon you by selfish, heartless, unscrupulous people, and you can’t deny it! Now, tell me what’s happened.”
He did. And what is more, he was glad to tell her.
There were a good many details that he left out, and he mentioned no names at all, but the main facts of his amazing story he gave to her. Especially was he emphatic in pointing out that he had now no name and no money, and he thought that would be enough for her.
But when he carefully pointed this out, she said:
“Nonsense! You’ve got your own name, and you can go right on using it. As for money, you’re never going to let that horrible, wicked woman rob you like that—”
“Look here, Mrs. Barron!” said Ross. “I am. I give you my word, I’ll never reopen that case again. It’s finished. I’m going to make a fresh start in the world and forget all about it.”
“I shan’t argue with you now,” said Mrs. Barron, firmly. “You’re too tired. And if you want a position—for awhile—Mr. Barron will find you one. The little girl will stay here with us, of course. Now, take off your coat and make yourself comfortable until lunch time.”
“No!” said Ross. “No! I—don’t you see for yourself? I don’t want to see—anybody.”
“Mr. Ross!” said Mrs. Barron. “I’m not young any longer. I’ve lived a good many years in the world, and I’ve learned a few things. And one of them is—that character is the one thing that counts. Not money, Mr. Ross; not intellect, or appearance, or manners; but character. What you’ve done is very, very foolish, but—” She leaned across the child, and laid her hand on his shoulder. “But it was very splendid, my dear boy.”
Ross grew redder than ever.
“Just the same, I’d rather go,” he muttered, obstinately.
“Here’s Phyllis now!” cried Mrs. Barron, in triumph.
So he had to get up and face her—the girl he had run away from when he had had so much to offer her. He had to face her, empty-handed, now; heartsick and weary after his bitter adventure.
And she seemed to him so wonderful, with that dear friendly smile.
“Mr. Ross!” she said.
She held out her hand, and he had to take it. He had to look at her—and then he could not stop. They forgot, for a moment; they stood there, hands clasped, looking at each other.
“Didn’t Iknowhe’d come!” cried Mrs. Barron.
THE END[Pg 484]
MUNSEY’SMAGAZINE
OCTOBER, 1926Vol. LXXXIXNUMBER 1
[Pg 485]
By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding
WILDER sprang off the train, jostled his way through the crowd on the platform, and dashed up the steps to the street, scowling with impatience; and yet, when he got there, he stopped short.
The trolley car that met the train was waiting in front of him, and there was a rush of commuters toward it. He had meant to get on that car, but he could not. He was too tired, too mortally sick and tired of his fellow creatures. He could not and would not be crowded in there. He wanted miles of uninhabited space about him. He felt that it was impossible to endure the sight of a human face or the sound of a human voice.
Then, just behind him, some one called out cheerily:
“Hello, Wilder!”
He pretended not to hear, and set off down the street, with that headlong gait of his.
“Let mealone!” he said to himself. “Oh, Lord! I’m so tired!”
All he asked was to be let alone, but he never was. At this moment Marian was waiting for him.
“Let her wait!” he thought.
But, just the same, he hurried home to her.
“I’m a slave!” he thought. “I’m a fool, an ass, an idiot, an imbecile!”
These weaknesses were not obvious in Leonard Wilder’s appearance. A big fellow, well set up, lean and vigorous, he looked like one abundantly able to take care of himself. His face, with its big, bold nose, its keen gray eyes, and that out-thrust underlip, looked like a clever face. He was by no means handsome, but there was something about him that pleased the eye. People were inclined to stare at him. People who knew him detested and loved him at the same time. He was impossible to get on with; yet, once you got used to him, it was hard to get on without him.
He was an architect; but he said that if he could choose again, he would be a house wrecker. There was, he said, no room on earth for an architect until ninety-five per cent of all buildings now standing had been razed to the ground. Feeling as he did, he nevertheless helped in the erection of more monstrosities. The owners of a “development park” employed him to design houses.
“Regular little love nests!” said Connolly, the senior partner.
“Why d’you call these things ‘nests’?” asked Wilder. “Haven’t you everseena nest? Don’t you realize the fundamentaldecencyof birds? Why, man, birdshidetheir nests! ‘Love nests,’ eh? Sheep pens, you mean!”
Connolly laughed; but he always arranged to keep his architect and his clients as far apart as possible. When this could not be done, he took care to explain in advance that Wilder was a genius. Connolly believed this. He believed that only a genius could be so outrageous; that only a genius would do such good work for so little money. He liked geniuses.
Leonard’s own opinion of himself was less flattering. He called himself a fool. For instance, here he was, hurrying home, when he so violently did not want to go home, simply because it would upset Marian if he were late. He always hurried home, and not out of good will. He felt no good will toward anybody on earth. He was the complete cynic. He did not love his fellow man. If he caught trains,[Pg 486]it was only through a very contemptible weakness.
The sun had gone, but it was not yet dusk. As he reached his own corner, the street lamps suddenly came alive, glowing with a faint, luminous violet against the pallor of the sky. He was startled and enchanted by the effect. He stopped, to stare up at them, to watch the delicate changes in the sky.
“Extraordinary thing!” he thought. “I spend my life looking for the beautiful line—the clean, strong, inevitable line; and here is beauty without line, almost without form or color—half tints, shadows—of nothing. Why is this beautiful to me?”
He wanted a formula, and could find none. He lit a cigarette, and leaned back against the lamp-post, meditating. Marian saw this from the window. She saw her brother-in-law standing on the street corner, smoking a cigarette and staring at the sky, when he knew very well that dinner was ready. Let him! She made up her mind that she would not say one word. She put everything into the oven to keep hot, went out on the veranda, and sat down there.
When, at last, Wilder came down the street, and saw her, he knew by her face that she was not saying a word. Instead of admiring this forbearance, a fierce exasperation rose in him. He wanted her to say a word, so that he could reply in other words. He desired a barrage of peppery words. He had stopped, just to look at the sky—and she begrudged him that!
“Good evening, Leonard,” she said, quite politely.
“Oh! Good evening!” said he, as if surprised. “You here?”
Then he sat down on the top step and lit another cigarette.
“And here I sit until you do say something!” he thought.
“I will not be drawn into a dispute with Leonard,” thought Marian. “He’s simply looking for a chance to be nasty; but I shan’t say a word.”
From inside the house came a sound of hammering. It was Evan Wilder, doing some little carpentering job; and this—this creditable and helpful thing—filled Leonard with still greater exasperation.
He was weary and hot. He wanted peace. He wanted a dim and lofty dining room, a silent and highly competent manservant, and a rare sort of dinner; and when he thought of what he was actually going to get—
He had meant not to speak, but that hammering was too much.
“Peter Pan, the Boy Scout who never grew up,” he observed. “What good turn is he doing now?”
Marian still said nothing, but the effort she made to hold her tongue vibrated through the air.
“He is misguided,” Leonard went on. “If he were to follow our example, Marian! Here we sit, developing serenity of soul in contemplation. I’m happy to see you contemplative, Marian. Don’t you feel strengthened by it?”
“Leonard,” she replied, in a voice unsteady from many suppressed emotions, “if, instead of sneering at Evan—”
“Shan’t I put dinner on the table?” interrupted a voice.
It was the voice of Marian’s young sister, Violet. Leonard rose.
“Why didn’t you tell me she was here?” he asked sternly.
“Why should I?” returned Marian. “I didn’t want to disturb you in your soulful contemplations.”
She, too, had risen. He admitted that she was a nice looking girl, but it exasperated him to see that she was tired. It made him feel that every one in the world was tired. He thought of Marian working all day in this detestable little house. He thought of Evan sitting in his office, waiting for the patients who did not come. Everything was awful!
Violet disturbed him. He was sorry for her, just entering upon life in all its awfulness; and she was so unsuspicious. She did not look either tired or discouraged. She was a designer, working in a fashion studio, and she did not seem to mind it.
There she stood in the doorway. The light behind her shone on her bright hair, making it glitter like gold wire. She had a nice color in her cheeks, and across her nose was a band of freckles that seemed to Wilder funny and very touching. She had serious blue eyes. She was a serious girl altogether, but he always felt that the seriousness was not quite honest. He strongly suspected that there were moments when she laughed.
She glanced at Leonard as he came in, and smiled seriously. He would have said that he was sorry he was late, only that Marian would have heard, and it would[Pg 487]have been mean to be sorry to Violet and not to her.
As he went upstairs to wash, he met his brother Evan coming down, with a clean collar, and his dark hair still damp. He looked neat and subdued, yet cheerful. Evan was always cheerful. His valiant smile did not soothe the cynic, who came downstairs worse than ever.
They all sat down at the table.
“Ah! Tomato soup!” said Evan, bravely and brightly.
“Tomatoes have gone up awfully,” observed Marian.
“Listen!” said Violet. “That taxi—isn’t it stopping here?”
“Good Lord!” cried Evan, springing up. “A patient!”
“Probably an accident who can’t afford to pay,” said Marian.
Evan retired, so that he might be mysteriously invisible to any patient, and Marian went to open the door.
From the dining room, Leonard and Violet could see who stood outside—a large figure in a plumed hat and billowing cloak, like a cavalier. It was no cavalier, however, but a lady.
“Dr. Wilder’s house?” the stranger asked.
“Yes,” said Marian. “If you’ll step into the waiting room, I’ll see if the doctor’s disengaged.”
“Deary,” said the visitor, “tell him it’s his Aunt Jean!”
At this Evan stepped forward.
“I am Dr. Wilder,” he announced sternly—sternly, because he had no Aunt Jean.
“No!” cried she. “You don’t say! You must be one of the boys; but it’s old Dr. Wilder I’m looking for.”
“He—” Evan began, and hesitated. “My father—”
“No!” said she, all sympathy. “Gone? That’s just terrible! I looked in the telephone book, and I saw ‘Dr. Wilder,’ and I came here. My! That’s sad! And you’re a doctor, too? Deary, you’ve got agrandpresence!”
Evan was considerably taken aback.
“Deary,” said she, “I’ll explain—”
Just then she caught sight of Leonard, who had come into the hall, urged by sheer curiosity. He wished to hear the preposterous tale this woman would surely tell. It was almost pathetic, to think of her coming before him, the cynic, the merciless detector of human weakness, with her ridiculous yarn.
“You’re the one to remember!” she said. “Your eyes—so kind o’ piercing looking, and all! You remember your Auntie Jean, I bet!”
“No,” said Leonard, “I can’t say that I do.”
Indeed, he felt that if he had ever set eyes on her before, he would have remembered. She was not one easy to forget. Stout and tall, she carried herself with majesty. In her face, powdered white as a clown’s, her lips were a vivid scarlet. Sticky dark lashes surrounded her eyes, and crowning all was a bushy halo of blond hair, dry and unreal as a doll’s wig. No, Leonard did not remember her.
Nevertheless, looking at her, a queer sympathy stirred in him. There was something honest in her. Even the paint and powder and dyed hair were honest. They showed no intention to deceive, but merely an artless desire to make the best of what nature had provided.
“Deary,” she said, “I’m your Uncle Lambert’s second.”
There really had been an Uncle Lambert, a black sheep brother of their father’s, and Leonard thought he could remember some talk about a dreadful marriage. He was almost ready to believe that this lady might be a relation—by marriage; but that did not exclude the possibility of her being also a swindler.
“I remember,” said she, “as plain as plain. Your mother was the only one in the family that ever had a kind word for me—a sweet, lovely woman, she was. Well do I remember her saying to me: ‘Jean,’ she said, and those were her words—‘Jean,’ she said, ‘come and see the children.’ Then she took me up through that rich, elegant house, and the taste there was in those lace curtains I shall remember to my dying day, and the carpet on the stairs as thick as fur, and there you were in the nursery, the two of you, in little black velvet pants and white silk shirts, as sweet and clean as two little lambs.” She sobbed. “Two little lambs!” she insisted. “And Evan, he sat on my lap and played with my locket, and well I remember he broke it off the chain and tried to swallow it, and you stood in a corner, saying, ‘Go ‘way! Go ‘way!’ Two l-little l-lambs!”
Leonard believed her. He could not[Pg 488]recollect the incident, but he believed it had been as she said.
“Sit down, Aunt Jean,” he said firmly.
“Aunt!” said she. “Deary, I willnotforget this sweetness!”
Still in tears, she sat down, and so did Leonard, but the others remained standing.
“Boys!” she said. “I’m all kind of fluttery.” She paused. “Boys!” she said solemnly. “How are things with you?”
“Bad,” replied Leonard, promptly.
“Oh, no!” Evan chivalrously declared. “I’m married—”
“A sweet, lovely woman!” said Aunt Jean, looking at Marian. “I can see that; but—” She glanced about the neat, quiet little room. “Boys!” she said. “I know!”
There was something so portentous, so mysterious in her manner that Evan glanced behind him, as if a specter had thrown a shadow.
“This is not what you’ve been accustomed to,” she went on. “This is not what you ought to have. No, sir! Servants to wait on you hand and foot, and a fine house and all—that’s what you ought to have; and that’s what you’re going to have! That’s just what I came for!”
She was gratified to see that they were astonished.
“Yes, sir!” she continued. “As soon as ever I heard the news, I came right here. You’ve heard of Darcy Rose, of course?”
To her surprise, they had not.
“A grand man!” she said. “Him and I—he and me—were partners years ago. A novelty act, it was—Rose and La Reine. He did mind reading and mesmerizing, and I was Jean La Reine, the galvanic girl. I used to be galvanized, you know, stiff as a board, lying in the air, all dressed in white, and my hair down. It was a real pretty act, if I do say it myself; but it kind of went out of style. Darcy, he went in for private mind readings—séances and all, and he made a lot of money.”
“Won’t you join us at dinner?” asked Evan, because he saw Marian looking so patient.
“Deary, I will!” said she. “And sweet it is of you to ask me!”
She flung off the voluminous cape with a fine gesture, and stood before them in a low-necked black satin dress, with a rope of pearls reaching to what might be called her waist. Combined with the plumed hat and the high-heeled velvet slippers, the effect was remarkable—especially if one did not notice how worn and dusty the slippers were, how shabby the dress, how bedraggled the feather.
“Darcy Rose is doomed,” she said. “A grander spirit I never saw. One week ago this very night he sent for me. ‘J.,’ he said, ‘I’m going,’ he said.” She wiped her eyes. “‘And I’m ready,’ he said. ‘I haven’t one of my own kin left,’ he said, ‘and me with a million dollars! J.,’ he said, ‘you and me were partners;’ and the way he talked about old times would have wrenched tears out of a stone. He wanted to know what I was doing, and I told him the solemn truth. ‘Darcy,’ I said, ‘I won’t tell you I’m resting, for the truth is, I’ve given up the profession. I may look all right to you,’ I said, ‘and there are many who admire a stately figger; but it’s not the style just now, and on the stage I do not look so young. I will not hide from you, Darcy, that I am demonstrating French Cream Balm of Lettuce in the stores.’ Tears came into the man’s eyes.” She turned to Marian. “He made a last will and testament,” she said, “leaving all to me.”
“I see!” said Marian.
“And I wish to share it with the boys,” said Aunt Jean. “Darcy Rose isn’t the only one can be grateful. Their mother was an angel to me, when the rest of the family were—werenot; and I’ve come to set things right.”
“That’s mighty kind of you,” said Evan.
“Do have another slice of ham!” said Marian.
“And wouldn’t you like a nice cup of tea?” asked Violet.
Leonard said nothing. Although he had long ago lost all illusions about human nature, he felt a queer sort of pain at seeing them all so very kind and attentive—to a million dollars. It sickened him. He was not going to join the crowd of flatterers. Let them truckle as they liked to the poor old soul; he would be rudely honest.
He was.
It was an unseasonably hot June that year, and Wilder suffered from it. He was tired to the bottom of his soul. A competition for a model house was organized by a popular magazine, and he had been working in the evenings on a set of plans, and had sent them in.[Pg 489]
He knew he would not win, for his house was much too good. Nobody would appreciate that roof line, that staircase. He had done it to please himself, as a relief from the love nests, and to divert his mind from the sickening state of affairs at home, where Aunt Jean was now installed in the house, an honored guest.
The hot weather had brought on a boom in love nests. His firm advertised that “every house will be built according to your ideas. The home we build for you will be your Home o’ Dreams;” and clients came in with all sorts of queer ideas.
Basically, the love nests were strangely alike, but it was Wilder’s task to give each one a mendacious air of individuality.
“Seems to me that sort o’ cupola effect isn’t so artistic as the others,” said Connolly, the senior partner.
“Oh, yes, it is!” said Wilder. “More so, if possible. That cupola is the most arty thing I’ve ever done. It makes the love nest a perfect little hencoop.”
Connolly glanced at his genius with a shade of anxiety.
“Wilder,” he said, “you’re all wore out.”
“No,” said Wilder, “I’m a man of iron.” He took off his eye shade and got up. “And now,” he said, “peace and rest at length have come, all the day’s long toil is past.” He stopped to light his pipe. “And now,” he continued, “each heart is whispering ‘Home—home at last!’”
“I’ll say you got the right idea,” said Connolly.
“Just think of that to-night, as you’re going uptown in the subway,” said Wilder. “Try to realize that all the hearts crammed in there with you are whispering, ‘Home—home at last!’ Good night!”
He took his hat and stepped out of the office; and there, in the arcade of the big building, he saw Violet. She was looking at the window where small models of the love nests were displayed.
He had not seen Violet for some weeks, and it seemed to him that she had improved during that time. He had seen her wearing the same hat and dress before; but she had not looked like this in them. No—formerly she had appeared serious and competent, and now she looked a gentle, an appealing figure. You could imagine her waiting for a man, and glancing up when he came, with a charming blush.
“Hello, Violet!” he said.
She glanced up, but she did not blush. On the contrary, the hot weather had made her unusually pale.
“Hello, Leonard!” she replied in her usual serious and friendly way.
But he was not quite as usual. He could not help thinking that if she had been waiting for him, it would be a curiously agreeable thing.
“I haven’t seen you for a long time,” he said.
“I’ve been to the house for dinner two or three times,” said Violet; “but you weren’t home, and I can’t stay overnight any more, on account of Aunt Jean having the spare room.”
Violet lived in a furnished room on West Twelfth Street, and she had been in the habit of spending the week-ends with her sister; but not any more. She had been sacrificed. Compared with Aunt Jean’s million, all Violet’s kindnesses, her loyal assistance in family crises, didn’t count at all. She looked pale and jaded, and she had grown so extraordinarily pretty in these last weeks! Leonard had been missing her—that was what was the matter with him.
Over her shoulder, he looked at the model love nests in the window. One of them was lighted now; there were curtains in its tiny windows, through which shone a mellow pink glow. Wilder knew that there was nothing inside except an electric bulb with a crape paper shade, and yet—
Somewhere there was a real house just like it, softly lighted in the summer dusk, with flowers in a little garden. He could imagine that a tired man, coming home to a house like that—to a smile, a kiss, to quiet and tenderness—might find even one of Connolly’s love nests not without beauty.
“Vi!” he said.
This time she did blush, and glanced away.
“Theyaresweet little houses!” she said defiantly.
“Vi, let’s have dinner together! I’ll telephone to Marian.”
“Well—” said Violet. “I should like it awfully. I get so lonely, sometimes!”
She had never talked like this before. She had never looked like this before.
“I’ll get a taxi,” said Leonard, “and we’ll go up to Claremont. I only ask you not to come across with the usual family line about its being an extravagance.”
“I wasn’t going to,” said Violet. They[Pg 490]had come out into the street now, where a wan daylight lingered. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot—about being extravagant. I’ve been—just afraid. I could do ever so many things; but I’ve been afraid to get the thing I want to-day, because then I might not be able to get something else to-morrow.”
“That’s thrift, my dear girl—keeping your cake until you haven’t any teeth to eat it with.”
“Well, I—there’s a cab, Leonard.”
He hailed it, and the driver slid up to the curb. Wilder opened the door and took Violet’s arm, to help her in. Somehow it was such a young sort of arm, firm and sturdy enough, but very slender—too slender. She herself was altogether too slender and too young. It worried him.
“I’m going to stop being afraid,” she said. “I’m going to trust life.”
Wilder was silent. They were going up Broadway in an endless procession of cabs and cars. Out of every building more and more people were pouring, going home. Perhaps, for some of them, home was not a joke.
Trust life? Just go ahead, and take the things that belong to youth? Not to be so bitterly afraid of being disillusioned and disappointed, but to trust life—and trust this girl? Didn’t he know by this time how faithful, honest, and kind she was?
“Could you rent one of those love nests?” she asked.
His heart stood still for a moment.
“I could buy one, on easy terms,” he said.
“I mean could any one—could I rent one?”
“You?”
“Yes,” she said. “You see, Leonard, I’ve been thinking. I’d like a little house.”
He reached out for her hand, and took it, and she did not draw it away.
“Vi!” he said.
“I want to get a house for the summer, where I can take Aunt Jean,” she said. “I think I can afford it. She’s nearly sixty, Leonard. Don’t you think she’s—pathetic?”
“Pathetic?” said Leonard.
The most pathetic thing, he thought, was a man’s unconquerable longing for the sort of girl who didn’t exist—a gentle young thing who waited for him, who would be happy with him, in one of Connolly’s houses.
Violet was a practical girl. She was perfectly willing to be sacrificed for Aunt Jean’s million. She was sensible, and he was a fool.
He could not very well push the girl’s hand away, but his clasp became so limp that she withdrew it. She looked at him, but he did not look at her. She tried to talk to him, but he answered with marked indifference.
“If you can’t be a little more agreeable,” said Vi, a trifle unsteadily, “I don’t see much use in our having dinner together.”
“It wasn’t intended as a useful thing,” said Leonard. “Simply a diversion.”
“Well, I’m not diverted,” said Vi. “You’re being very—trying, Leonard!”
“I’m sorry,” said he; “but I didn’t think you’d be able to stand me very long.”
“If you’d try—”
“Didn’t you say I was trying?”
“I think—” said Violet. “Please stop the cab! I’ll take a bus home.”
Very well, he was not going to argue with her. He stopped the cab, and they both got out. He put Violet on a bus, and then he walked uptown along the Drive. There were lights in almost every window, now, and across the river other lights shone out—from homes.
“She was crying,” Leonard mused.
Was he to be held responsible for that? Hardly. He had been on the point of offering her all he had, but he had discovered in time that she was after bigger game. Life in a love nest—with Aunt Jean and her million, not with him! It was funny, in a way.
And in another way it was not so very funny. He knew all about human nature, but for a long time he had thought that Violet was different. Well, she wasn’t. She had reproached him for being disagreeable. All right! He reproached her, in his heart, for something a good deal worse than that.
It hurt—he would admit it. It hurt like the devil!