Part 11 (1/2)

”A little,” I confessed.

”Well, _will_ you then?”

”Why, yes, if you want me to.” And I went over and sat down before the familiar keys.

It was at that moment that I knew at last why I had taken lessons for so many years; why so much money had been put into expensive instruction, and so many hours devoted to daily practise. It was for this--for this particular night--for this particular man. I saw it in a flash. I sang a song in English. ”In a Garden,” it was called. Softly I played the opening phrases, and then raised my chin a little and began. My voice isn't strong, but it can't help but behave nicely. It can't help but take its high notes truly, like a child who has been taught pretty manners ever since he could walk.

After I had finished Mr. Jennings said nothing for an instant. Then, ”Sing something else,” he murmured, and afterward he exclaimed, ”I didn't know! I had no idea! Your sister never told me _this_!” Then, ”I have come to a very lovely part in the beautiful book I discovered,” he said to me. ”It makes me want never to finish the book. Sing something else.” His eyes admired; his voice caressed; his tenderness placed me high in the sacred precincts of his soul.

”Listen, please,” I said impulsively. ”You mustn't go on thinking well of me. It isn't right. I shall not let you. I'm not what you think.

Listen. When I first met you, I had just broken my engagement--just barely. I never said a word about it. I let you go on thinking that I--you see it was this way--my pride was hurt more than my heart. I'm that sort of girl. His mother is Mrs. F. Rockridge Sewall. They have a summer place in Hilton, and--and----”

”Don't bother to go into that. I've known it all from the beginning,”

Mr. Jennings interrupted gently.

”Oh, have you? You've known then, all along, that I'm just a frivolous society girl who can't do anything but perform a few parlor tricks--and things like that? I was afraid--I was so afraid I had misled you.”

”You've misled only yourself,” he smiled, and suddenly he put his hand over mine as it rested beside the music rack. I met his steady eyes.

Just for an instant. Abruptly he took his hand away, went over to the fireplace, and began poking the logs. When he spoke next he did not turn around.

”This is an evening of confessions,” he said. ”There are some things about me you might as well know, too. I am an instructor, with a salary of two thousand five hundred dollars a year. I hope to make a lawyer out of myself some day, I don't know when. I've hoped to for a long while.

Circ.u.mstances made it necessary after I graduated from college to find something to do that was immediately remunerative. I discovered that my mother was entirely dependent upon me. My ambitions had to be postponed for a while. I had tutored enough during my college course to make it evident that I could teach, and I grasped this opportunity as a fortunate one. There are hours each day when I can read law. There are even opportunities to attend lectures. It's a long way around to my goal, I know that, and a steep way. Everything that I can save is laid aside for the time when, finally admitted to the bar, I dare throw off the security of a salary. My mother is quite alone. I must always look out for her. I am all she has. I shall inherit little or nothing. If there is any one who has allowed a possible delusion to continue about himself it is I--not you, Miss Vars. h.e.l.lo,” he interrupted himself, ”it's getting late. Quarter of twelve! I ought to be shot.” He turned about and came over toward me. ”Your sister will be turning me out next,” he said glibly. He was quite formal now. We might have been just introduced.

His manner forbade me to speak. He gave me no opportunity to tell him that his circ.u.mstances made no difference. Salary or no salary I did not care--nothing made any difference now. He simply wanted me to keep still. He eagerly desired it.

”Good night,” he said cheerfully. In matter-of-fact fas.h.i.+on we shook hands. ”Forgive me for the disgraceful hour. Good night.”

CHAPTER XIII

LUCY TAKES UP THE NARRATIVE

It was an afternoon in late February. A feeling of spring had been in the air all day. In the living-room a lingering sun cast a path of light upon the mahogany surface of a grand piano. In _my_ living-room, I should say. For I am Mrs. Maynard, wife of Doctor William Ford Maynard of international guinea-pig fame; sister of Ruth Chenery Vars; one-time confidante of Robert Hopkinson Jennings. I haven't any ident.i.ty of my own. I'm simply one of the audience, an onlooker--an anxious and worried one, just at present, who wishes somebody would a.s.sure me that the play has a happy ending. I don't like sad plays. I don't like being harrowed for nothing. I've taken to paper simply because I'm all of a tremble for fear the play I've been watching for the last month or two won't come out right. Sometimes I feel as if I'd like to dash across the footlights and tell the actors what to say.

Ruth is engaged to be married to Robert Jennings. At first it seemed to me too good to be true. After the sort of bringing up my sister has had, culminating in that miserable affair of hers with Breckenridge Sewall, I was afraid that happiness would slip by her altogether.

Robert Jennings is the salt of the earth. I believe I was as happy as Ruth the first four weeks of her engagement, and then these clouds began to gather. The first time I was conscious of them was the afternoon I have just referred to, in late February.

I went into my living-room that day just to see that it was in order in case of callers. It is difficult to keep a living-room in order when your spoiled young society-sister is visiting you. Today in the middle of one of the large cus.h.i.+ons on the sofa appeared an indentation. From beneath one corner of the cus.h.i.+on escaped the edge of a crushed handkerchief. Open, face down, upon the floor lay an abandoned book. I straightened the pillow and then picked up the book.

”Oh!” I exclaimed, actually out loud as my eyes fell on the t.i.tle.

”This!”

It was a modern novel much under discussion, an unpleasant book, reviewers p.r.o.nounced it, and unnecessarily bold. I opened it. Certain pa.s.sages were marked with wriggling lines made with a soft pencil. I read a marked paragraph or two, standing just where I was in the middle of the room.

Suddenly the door-bell rang, twice, sharply, and almost immediately afterward I heard some one shove open the front door.

I slipped the book behind the pillow which I had just straightened, walked over to a geranium in the window, and nonchalantly snipped off a leaf.

”h.e.l.lo!” a man's cheerful voice called out. ”Any one at home?”