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Title: The Proof of the Pudding

Author: Meredith Nicholson

Illustrator: C. H. Taffs

Release date: September 20, 2021 [eBook #66354]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Houghton Mifflin Company

Credits: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING ***





THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING


[Illustration:                      _Page 160_

“NOW WE’RE IN FOR IT!” SAID NAN UNCOMFORTABLY]




  THE PROOF OF THE
  PUDDING

  BY
  MEREDITH NICHOLSON

  _With Illustrations_

  [Illustration]

  BOSTON AND NEW YORK
  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
  The Riverside Press Cambridge
  1916




  COPYRIGHT, 1915 AND 1916, BY THE RED BOOK CORPORATION
  COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY MEREDITH NICHOLSON

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  _Published May 1916_


By Meredith Nicholson

  =THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING.= Illustrated.

  =THE POET.= Illustrated.

  =OTHERWISE PHYLLIS.= With frontispiece in color.

  =THE PROVINCIAL AMERICAN AND OTHER PAPERS.=

  =A HOOSIER CHRONICLE.= With illustrations.

  =THE SIEGE OF THE SEVEN SUITORS.= With illustrations.


  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
  BOSTON AND NEW YORK




  TO
  CARLETON B. McCULLOCH




CONTENTS


      I. A YOUNG LADY OF MOODS                     1

     II. THE AFFAIRS OF MRS. COPELAND             20

    III. MR. FARLEY BECOMES EXPLICIT              39

     IV. NAN AND BILLY’S WIFE                     57

      V. A COLLECTOR OF FACTS                     68

     VI. AN ERROR OF JUDGMENT                     87

    VII. WELCOME CALLERS                          99

   VIII. MRS. COPELAND’S GOOD FORTUNE            113

     IX. A NARROW ESCAPE                         124

      X. THE AMBITIONS OF MR. AMIDON             136

     XI. CANOEING                                151

    XII. LAST WILLS AND TESTAMENTS               165

   XIII. A KINNEY LARK AND ITS CONSEQUENCES      175

    XIV. BILLS PAYABLE                           194

     XV. FATE AND BILLY COPELAND                 208

    XVI. AN ABRUPT ENDING                        226

   XVII. SHADOWS                                 243

  XVIII. NAN AGAINST NAN                         256

    XIX. NOT ACCORDING TO LAW                    263

     XX. THE COPELAND-FARLEY CELLAR              275

    XXI. A SOLVENT HOUSE                         283

   XXII. NULL AND VOID                           292

  XXIII. IN TRUST                                301

   XXIV. “I NEVER STOPPED LOVING HIM!”           317

    XXV. COPELAND’S UNKNOWN BENEFACTOR           327

   XXVI. JERRY’S DARK DAYS                       337

  XXVII. “JUST HELPING; JUST BEING KIND!”        354




ILLUSTRATIONS


  “NOW WE’RE IN FOR IT!” SAID NAN UNCOMFORTABLY           _Frontispiece_

  “A VERY CHARMING PERSON--A LITTLE DEVILISH, BUT KEEN AND AMUSING”   26

  “OH, I HAD ONE GLASS; NOBODY HAD MORE, I THINK; THERE WAS SOME
    KIND OF MINERAL WATER BESIDES. IT WAS ALL VERY SIMPLE”            44

  NAN EXPERIENCED SUDDENLY A DISTURBING SENSE OF HER INFERIORITY
    TO THIS WOMAN                                                     62

  “I’M NOT LOSING ANYTHING; AND BESIDES, I’M HAVING A MIGHTY GOOD
    TIME”                                                             66

  THE FURTIVE TOUCH OF HIS HAND SEEMED TO ESTABLISH AN
    UNDERSTANDING BETWEEN THEM THAT THEY WERE SPECTATORS, NOT
    PARTICIPANTS IN THE REVEL                                        188

  THE TOUCH OF HER WET CHEEK THRILLED HIM                            372


_From drawings by C. H. Taffs_




THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING




CHAPTER I

A YOUNG LADY OF MOODS


It was three o’clock, but the luncheon the Kinneys were giving at the
Country Club had survived the passing of less leisurely patrons and now
dominated the house. The negro waiters, having served all the food and
drink prescribed, perched on the railing of the veranda outside the
dining-room, ready to offer further liquids if they should be demanded.
Such demands had not been infrequent during the two hours that had
intervened since the party sat down, as a row of empty champagne
bottles in the club pantry testified. The negroes watched with discreet
grins the antics of a girl of twenty-two who seemed to be the center
of interest. She had been entertaining the company with a variety of
impersonations of local characters, rising and moving about for the
better display of her powers of mimicry. Hand-clapping and cries of “Go
on!” followed each of these performances.

She concluded an imitation of the head waiter--a pompous individual
who had viewed this impiety with mixed emotions--and sank exhausted
into her chair amid boisterous laughter. The flush in her cheeks was
not wholly attributable to the heat of the June day, and the eagerness
with which she gulped a glass of champagne one of the men handed her
suggested a familiar acquaintance with that beverage.

“Now, Nan, give us Daddy Farley. Do old Uncle Tim cussing the
doctor--put it all in--that’s a good little Nan!”

“Go to it, Nan; we’ve got to have it!” cried Mrs. Kinney.

“I think it will kill me to hear it again,” protested Billy Copeland,
who was refilling the girl’s glass; “but I’d be glad to die laughing.
It’s the funniest stunt you ever did.”

The girl’s arms hung limp, and she sat, a crumpled, dejected figure,
glancing about frowningly with dull eyes.

“I’m all in; there’s nothing doing,” she replied tamely.

“Oh, come along, Nan. We’ll go for a spin in the country right
afterwards,” said Mrs. Kinney--who had just confided to a guest from
Pittsburg, for whom the party was given, that Nan’s imitation of Daddy
Farley abusing his doctor was the killingest thing ever, and that she
just must hear it.

Their importunities were renewed to the accompaniment of much thumping
of the table, and suddenly the girl sprang to her feet. She seemed
immediately transformed as she began a minute representation of the
gait and speech of an old man.

“You ignorant blackguard! you common, low piece of swine-meat! How dare
you come day after day to torture me with your filthy nostrums! You’ve
poured enough dope into me to float a battleship and given me pills
enough to sink it, and here I am limpin’ around like a spavined horse,
and no more chance o’gettin’ out o’ here again than I have of goin’ to
heaven! What’s that! You got the cheek to offer to give up the case!
Just like you to want to turn me over to some other pirate and keep me
movin’ till the undertaker comes along and hangs out the crape! There’s
been a dozen o’ you flutterin’ in here like hungry sparrows lookin’
for worms. You don’t see anything in my old carcass but worm-food! Hi,
you! What you up to now? Oh, Lord, don’t leave me! Come back here; come
back here, I say! Oh, my damned legs! How long you say I’d better take
that poison you sent up here yesterday? Well, all right”--meekly--“I
guess I’ll try it. Where’s that nurse gone? You better tell her again
about the treatment. She forgets it half the time; tell her to double
the dose. If I’ve got to die, I want to die full o’ poison to make it
easier for the embalmer. I guess you’re all right, doc; but you’re
slow, mighty damned slow. Hi, Nan, you grinnin’ little fool, who told
you to come in here? Oh, Lord! Oh, my poor legs! Oh, for God’s sake,
doctor, do something for me--do something for me!”

She tottered toward her chair, imaginably the bed from which the old
man had risen, and glanced at her audience indifferently, as they
broke into hilarious applause. The vulgarity of the exhibition was
mitigated somewhat by her amazing success in sinking herself in another
personality. They all knew that the man she was imitating was her
foster-father and benefactor; that he had rescued her from obscure,
hopeless poverty, educated her and given her his name; and that but
for his benevolence they never would have known or heard of her; but
this clearly was not a company that was fastidious in such matters.
The exhibition of her cleverness had been highly diverting. They waved
their napkins and demanded more.

She continued to survey them coldly, standing by her chair and absently
biting her lip. Then she turned with an air of disdain and moved among
the tables to the nearest door with languid deliberation. They watched
her dully, mystified. This possibly was a prelude to some further
contribution to the hour’s entertainment, and they craned their necks
to follow her, expecting that at any moment she would turn back.

The screen door banged harshly upon her exit. She crossed the veranda,
ran down the steps toward the canal that lay a little below the
clubhouse, and hurried away as though anxious to escape pursuit or
questioning. She came presently to the river, pressed through a tangle
of briars and threw herself down on the bank under a majestic sycamore.

A woodpecker drummed upon a dead limb of the tree, and a kingfisher
looked down at her wonderingly. She lay perfectly quiet with her face
buried in the grass. Hers was not a happy frame of mind. Torn with
contrition, she yielded herself to the luxury of self-scorn. She had
no intention of returning immediately to the clubhouse, and she was
infinitely relieved that none of her late companions had followed her.
She wished that she might never see them again. Then her mood changed
and she sat up, flung aside her hat, dipped her handkerchief in the
river and held it to her burning face.

“You little fool, you silly little fool!” she said, addressing her
reflection in the water. She spoke as though quoting, which was indeed
exactly what she was doing. It was just such endearing terms that her
foster-father applied to her in his frequent fits of anger.

Then she stretched herself at ease with her hands clasped under her
head and stared at the sky. Beneath the cloud of loosened black hair
that her various exertions had shaken free, her violet eyes were fine
and expressive. Her face was slender, with dimples near the corners of
her mouth: a sensitive face, still fresh and girlish. Her fairness was
that of her type--a type markedly Irish. The wet handkerchief that had
brought away a faint blotch of scarlet from her rather full lips had
left them still red with the sufficient color of youthful health. Lying
relaxed for half an hour, watching the lazily drifting white clouds,
she became tranquillized. Her eyes lost their restlessness as she gazed
dreamily at the heavens.

The soft splash of oars caused her to lift her head guardedly and
glance out upon the river. A young man was deftly urging a cedar
skiff toward a huge elm that had been uprooted by a spring storm and
lay with half its trunk submerged. He jumped out and tied the skiff
to a convenient limb and then, standing on the trunk, adjusted a rod
and line and began amusing himself by dropping a brilliant fly here
and there on the rippling surface. It was inconceivable that any one
should imagine that fish were to be wooed and won in this part of the
stream; even Nan knew better than that. But failures apparently did not
diminish the pleasure the fisherman found in his occupation.

He was small and compactly made and wore white flannel trousers, canvas
shoes, and a pink shirt with a four-in-hand to match. He moved about
freely on the log to give variety to his experiments; he was indeed
much nimbler with his feet than with his hands, for his whipping of the
stream lacked the sophistication of skilled fly-casting. He lighted a
cigarette without abating his efforts, and commented audibly upon his
stupidity when a too-vigorous twist of the wrist sent the fly into a
sapling, from which he extricated it with the greatest difficulty.

He was not of her world, Nan reflected, peering at him through the
fringing willows. She knew most of the young gentlemen who attended
dances or played tennis and golf at the Country Club, and he was not
of their species. Once in making a long cast his foot slipped, and
he capered wildly while regaining his balance, fell astraddle of the
log, and one shoe shipped water. He glanced about to make sure this
misfortune had not been observed, shook the water out of his shoe and
lighted a fresh cigarette.

She admired the dexterity with which he held the rod under his arm,
manipulated the “makings” and had the little cylinder burning in a
jiffy and hanging to his lip--a fashion of carrying a cigarette not
affected by the young gentlemen she knew. It was just a little rakish;
but he was, she surmised, a rather rakish young man. A gray cap tilted
over one ear exaggerated his youthful appearance; his countenance was
still round and boyish, though she judged him to be older than herself.

The patience and industry with which he plied the rod were admirable:
though there was not the slightest probability that a fish would snap
at the fly, he continued his futile casting with the utmost zeal and
good humor. His sinewy arms were white--which, being interpreted, meant
that their exposure to the sun had not been as constant as might be
expected of one who was lord of his own time and devoted to athletics.
She was wondering whether he intended to continue his exercise
indefinitely, when his efforts to extricate the fly from a tangle of
water-grass freed it unexpectedly, and the line described a semicircle
and caught a limb of the sycamore under which she was lying.

His vigorous tugs only tightened it the more, and she began speculating
as to whether she should rise and loosen it or await his own solution
of the difficulty. If it became necessary for him to leave the fallen
tree to effect a rescue, he must find her hiding-place; and her
dignity, she argued, would suffer if she allowed him to discover that
she had been watching him. He now began moving toward the bank with the
becoming air of determination that had attended his practice with the
rod. She rose quickly, jumped up and caught the bough that held the
fly, and tore it loose with a handful of leaves.

“Lordy!” he exclaimed, staring hard. “Did you buy a ticket for this
show, or did you stroll in on a rain-check?”

“Oh, I was here first; but it isn’t my river!” she replied easily.
“They don’t seem to be biting very well,” she added consolingly.

“Biting? Well, I should say not! There hasn’t been a minnow in this
river since the Indians left. I’m just practicing.”

“You’ve done a lot of it,” said Nan, looking about for her hat and
picking it up as an earnest of her immediate departure.

He dropped his rod and walked toward her guardedly and with an assumed
carelessness, his hands in his pockets.

“That’s one good thing about fly-fishing,” he observed detainingly;
“you don’t need to bother about the fish so long as there’s plenty of
water.”

He noted the handkerchief that she had spread on a bush to dry, and
eyed her with appreciation as she thrust the pins through her hat.

“Country Club?” he asked casually.

She nodded affirmatively, glancing toward the red roof of the
clubhouse, and brushed the bits of bark and earth from her skirt. If he
meant to annoy her with further conversation, it might be just as well
to make it clear that the club afforded an easily accessible refuge.

“Excuse me, but you’re Miss Farley,--yes? It’s kind o’ funny,” he
continued, still lounging toward her, “but I remember you away back
when we were both kids--my name being Amidon--Jeremiah A., late of good
old Perry County on La Belle Rivière--and I’ve seen you lots o’ times
downtown. I’m connected in a minor capacity with the well-known house
of Copeland-Farley Company, drugs, wholesale only--naturally sort o’
take an interest in the family.”

It was still wholly possible for her to walk away without replying; and
yet his slangy speech amused her, and his manner was deferential. She
remembered the Amidons from her childhood at Belleville, on the Ohio,
and she even vaguely remembered the boy this young man must have been.
Within three yards of her he paused, as though to reassure her that he
was not disposed to presume upon an acquaintance that rested flimsily
upon knowledge that might have awakened unwelcome memories; and seeing
that she hesitated, he remarked:--

“A good deal has happened since you sat in front of me in the public
school down there. I guess a good deal has happened to both of us.”

This was too intimate for immediate acceptance; but she would at least
show him that whatever changes might have taken place in their affairs,
she was not a snob.

“You are Jerry; the other Amidon boy was Obadiah. I remember him
because the name always seemed so funny.”

“You’re playing safe! Obey died when he was ten--poor little kid!
Scarlet fever. That was right after the flood you floated away on.”

She murmured her regret at the death of his brother. It was, however,
still a delicate question just how much weight should be given to these
slight ties of their common youth.

The disagreeable connotations of his introduction--the southward-looking
vista that led back to the poverty and squalor to which she was
born--were rather rosily obscured by the atmosphere of assured
blitheness he exhaled. He seemed to imply that both had put Belleville
behind them and that there was nothing surprising in this meeting under
happier conditions. He was a clean-cut, well-knit, resolute young
fellow. His brownish hair was combed back from his forehead with an
onion-skin smoothness; indeed, he imparted a general impression of
smoothness. His gray eyes expressed a juvenile innocence; his occasional
smile was a slow, reluctant grin that disclosed white, even teeth. A
self-confident young fellow, a trifle fresh, and yet with an unobtrusive
freshness that was not displeasing, Nan thought, as she continued to
observe and appraise him.

“I broke away from the home-plate when I was sixteen,” he went
on, “about four years after you pulled out; and I’ve been engaged
in commercial pursuits in this very town ever since. Arrived in a
freight-car,” he amplified cheerfully, as though she were entitled to
all the facts. “Got a job with the aforesaid well-known jobbing house.
Began by sweeping out, and now I swing a sample-case down the lower
Wabash. Oh, not vulgarly rich! but I manage to get my laundry out every
Saturday night.”

“You travel for the house, do you?” she asked with a frown of
perplexity.

“That’s calling it by a large name; but I can’t deny that your words
give me pleasure. They’re just trying me out; it’s up to me to make
good. I’ve seen you in the office now and then; but you never knew me.”

“If I ever saw you, I didn’t know you, of course,” she said with
unaffected sincerity; “if I had, I should have spoken to you.”

“Oh, I never worried about that! But of course it would be all right
if you didn’t want to remember me. I was an ugly little one-gallus
kid with a frowsy head and freckled face. I shouldn’t expect you to
remember me for my youthful beauty; but you saved me from starvation
once; I sat on your fence and watched you eat a large red apple, and
traded you my only agate--it was an imitation--for the core.”

She laughed, declaring that she could never have been so grasping,
and he decided that she was a good fellow. Her manner of ignoring the
social chasm that yawned between members of the fashionable Country
Club and the Little Ripple Club farther down the river, to which young
men who invaded the lower Wabash with sample-cases were acceptable, was
wholly in her favor. Her parents had been much poorer than his own:
his father had been a teamster; hers had been a common day laborer and
a poor stick at that. And recurring to the maternal line, her mother
had without shame added to the uncertain family income by taking in
washing. His mother, on the other hand, had canned her own fruit
and been active in the affairs of the First M.E. Church, serving on
committees with the wives of men who owned stores and were therefore
of Belleville’s aristocracy; she had even been invited to the parsonage
to supper.

If Nan Corrigan’s parents had not perished in an Ohio River flood, and
if Timothy Farley, serving on a flood sufferers’ relief committee,
had not rescued her from a shanty that was about to topple over by
the angry waters, Nan Farley would not be standing there in expensive
raiment talking to Jerry Amidon. These facts were not to be ignored and
she was conscious of no wish to ignore them.

“I’ve been fortunate, of course,” she said, as though condensing an
answer to many questions.

“I guess there’s a good deal in luck,” he replied easily. “If one of
our best tie-hoppers hadn’t got killed in a trolley smash-up, I might
never have got a chance to try the road. I’d probably have been doing
Old Masters with the marking-pot around the shipping-room to the end of
time.”

His way of putting things amused her, and her smile heightened his
admiration of her dimples.

“I suppose you’re going fishing when you learn how to manage the fly?”
she asked, willing to prolong the talk now that they had disposed of
the past.

“You never spoke truer words! It’s this way,” he continued
confidentially: “When I see a fellow doing something I don’t know how
to do, my heart-action isn’t good till I learn the trick. It used to
make me sick to have to watch ’em marking boxes at the store, and I
began getting down at six A.M. to practice, so when a chance came along
I’d be ready to handle the brush. And camping once over Sunday a few
miles down this romantic stretch of sandbars, I saw a chap hook a bass
with a hand-made fly instead of a worm, and I’ve been waiting until
returning prosperity gave me the price of a box of those toys to try it
myself. And here you’ve caught me in the act. But don’t give me away
to the sports up there.” He indicated the clubhouse with a jerk of the
head. “It might injure my credit on the street.”

“Oh, I’ll not give you away!” she replied in his own key. “But did the
man you saw catch the fish that time ever enter more fully into your
life? I should think he ought to have known how highly you approved of
him.”

“Well, I got acquainted with him after that, and he’s taken quite
a shine to me, if I may say it which shouldn’t. The name being
Eaton--John Cecil--lawyer by trade.”

Her face expressed surprise; then she laughed merrily.

“He’s never taken a shine to me; I think he disapproves of me. If he
doesn’t”--she frowned--“he ought to!”

“Oh, nothing like that!” he declared with his peculiar slangy
intonation. “He isn’t half as frosty as he looks; he’s the greatest
ever; says he believes he could have made something out of me if he’d
caught me sooner. He works at it occasionally, anyway; trying to purify
my grammar--a hard job; says my slang is picturesque and useful for
commercial purposes, but little adapted to the politer demands of the
drawing-room. You know how Cecil talks? He’s a grand talker--sort o’
guys you, and you can’t get mad.”

“I’ve noticed that,” said Nan, with a rueful smile. “You ought to be
proud that he takes an interest in you. I suppose it’s your sense of
humor; he’s strong for that.”

This compliment, ventured cautiously, clearly pleased Amidon. He
stooped, picked up a pebble and sent it skimming over the water.

“He says a sense of humor is essential to one who gropes for the
philosophy of life--his very words. I don’t know what it means, but he
says if I’m good and quit opening all my remarks with ‘Listen,’ he’ll
elucidate some day.”

Her curiosity was aroused. The social conjunction of John Cecil Eaton
and Jeremiah A. Amidon was bewildering.

“He’s not in the habit of wasting time on people he doesn’t like--me,
for example,” she remarked, lifting her handkerchief from the bush and
shaking it out. “I suppose you met him in a business way?”

“Not much! Politics! I room in his ward, and we met in the Fourth Ward
Democratic Club. He tried to smash the Machine in the primary last
spring, and I helped clean him up--some job, I can tell you! But he’s
a good loser, and he says it’s his duty to win me over to the Cause
of Righteousness. Cecil’s a thinker, all right. He says thought isn’t
regarded as highly nowadays as it used to be; says my feet are well
trained now, and I ought to begin using my head. He always wears that
solemn front, and you never know when to laugh. Just toys with his
funny whiskers and never blinks. Says he tries his jokes on me before
he springs ’em at the University Club. I just let him string me; in
fact, I’ve got to; he says I need his chastening hand. Gave me a copy
of the Bible, Christmas, and told me to learn the Ten Commandments;
said they were going out of fashion pretty fast, and he thought I could
build up a reputation for being eccentric by living up to ’em. Says if
Moses had made eleven, he couldn’t have improved on the job any. Queer
way of talking religion, but Cecil’s different, any way you look at
him.”

These revelations as to John Cecil Eaton’s admiration for the Ten
Commandments, coming from Amidon, were surprising, but not so puzzling
as the evident fact that Eaton found Copeland-Farley’s young commercial
traveler worth cultivating. Amidon was quick to see that he rose in
Nan’s estimation by reason of Eaton’s friendly interest.

“Well, I never get on with him,” she confessed, willing to sacrifice
herself that Amidon might plume himself the more upon Eaton’s
partiality.

“Lord, I don’t _understand_ him!” Amidon protested. “If I was smart
enough to do that, I wouldn’t be working for eighteen per. I guess he
just gets lonesome sometimes and looks me up to have somebody to talk
to--not that _anybody_ wouldn’t be tickled to hear him, but he says he
finds in me a certain raciness and tang of the Hoosier soil--whatever
that means. He took me over to the Art Institute last Sunday and gave
me a lecture on the pictures, and me not understanding any more than
if he’d been talking Chinese. Introduced me to a Frenchman fresh from
Paris and told him my ideals were distinctly post-impressionistic. Then
we bumped into a college professor, and he made me talk so the guy
could note the mellow flavor of my idiom. Can you beat that? Cecil says
the hostility of the social classes to each other is preposterous. Got
me to take him to a dance the freight-handlers were throwing. It was
funny, but they all warmed to him like flies to a leaky sugar-barrel.
Wore his evening clothes, white vest and all, and he was the only guy
there in an ironed shirt! I thought they’d sure kill him; but not on
your life!”

The John Cecil Eaton thus limned was not the austere person Nan knew.
Her Eaton was a sedate gentleman who made cryptic remarks to her at
parties and was known to be exceedingly conservative in social matters.
Amidon, she surmised, was far too keen to subject himself unwillingly
to Eaton’s caustic humor, nor was Eaton a man to trouble himself with
any one unless he received an adequate return.

“I must be going back,” she said, glancing at her watch. Her casual
manner of consulting the pretty trinket on her wrist charmed him. He
was pleased with himself that he had been able to carry through an
interview with so superior a person.

He had never been more at ease in his most brilliant conversations
with the prettiest stenographer in the drug house, whose sole aim in
life seemed to be to “call him down” for his freshness. Lunch-counter
girls, shop-girls, attractive motion-picture cashiers, were an alluring
target for his wit, and the more cruelly they snubbed him the more
intensely he admired them. But the stimulus of these adventures was
not comparable to the exaltation he experienced from this encounter
with Nan Farley. If she had pretended not to remember him he would
have hated her cordially; as it was, he liked her immensely. Though
she lacked the pert “come-back” of girls behind desks and counters,
he felt, nevertheless, that she would give a good account of herself
in like positions if exposed to the bold raillery of commercial
travelers. He was humble before her kindness. She turned away,
hesitated an instant, then took a step toward him and put out her
hand. There was something of appeal in the look she gave him as their
hands touched--the vaguest hint of an appeal. Her eyes narrowed for
an instant with the intentness of her gaze as she searched his face
for--sympathy, understanding, confidence. Then she withdrew her
hand quickly, aware that his admiration was expressing itself with
disconcerting frankness in his friendly gray eyes.

“It’s been nice to see you again,” she said softly. “Good luck!”

“Good luck to you, Miss Farley; I hope to meet you again sometime.”

“Thank you; I hope so too.”

She nodded brightly and moved off along the path toward the clubhouse.
He felt absently for his book of cigarette-papers as he reviewed what
she had said and what he had said.

He did not resume his whipping of the river, but restored his rod to
its case and turned slowly downstream, not neglecting to lift his eyes
to the clubhouse as he drifted by.




CHAPTER II

THE AFFAIRS OF MRS. COPELAND


In a quiet corner of the club veranda Fanny Copeland and John Cecil
Eaton had been conscious of the noisy gayety of Mrs. Kinney’s party,
and they observed Nan Farley’s hurried exit and disappearance.

“Nan doesn’t seem to be responding to encores,” Eaton remarked. “She’s
gone off to sulk--bored, probably; prefers to be alone, poor kid! It’s
outrageous the way those people use her.”

“They have to be amused,” replied Mrs. Copeland, “and I’ve heard that
Nan can be very funny.”

“There are all kinds of fun,” Eaton assented dryly. “She’s been taking
off Uncle Tim again. I don’t see that he’s getting anything for his
money--that is, assuming that she gets his money.”

“If she doesn’t,” said Mrs. Copeland quickly, “she won’t be the only
person that’s disappointed.”

Eaton lifted his eyes toward a stretch of woodland beyond the river and
regarded it fixedly. Then his gaze reverted to her.

“You think Billy wants to get back the money he paid Farley for the
drug business?” he asked, in a colorless, indifferent tone that was
habitual.

John Cecil Eaton was nearing the end of his thirties--tall, lean, with
a closely trimmed black beard. He was dressed for the links, and his
waiting caddy was guarding his bag in the distance and incidentally
experimenting at clock golf. Eaton’s long fingers were clasped round
his head in such manner as to set his cap awry. One was conscious
of the deliberate gaze of his eyes; his drawling voice and dry
humor suggested a man of leisurely habits. He specialized in patent
law--that is to say, having a small but certain income, he was able
to discriminate in his choice of cases, and he accepted only those
that particularly interested him. He had been educated as a mechanical
engineer, and the law was an afterthought. His years at Exeter and the
Tech, prolonged by his law course at Harvard, had quickened his speech
and modified its Hoosier flavor. He passed for an Eastern man with
strangers. He was the fourth of his name in the community, and it was a
name, distinguished in war and peace, that was well sprinkled through
the pages of Indiana history. Though the Eatons had rendered public
service in conspicuous instances they had never been money-makers,
and when John heard of the high prices attained by Washington Street
property in the early years of the twentieth century he reflected that
if his father and grandfather had been a little more sanguine as to the
city’s future he might have been the richest man in town.

Eaton’s interests were not all confined to his profession. He read
prodigiously in many fields; he observed politics closely and was
president of a club that debated economic and social questions; he was
the best fly-fisherman in the State. His occasional efforts to improve
the tone of local politics greatly amused his friends, who could not
see why a man who might have been pardoned for looking enviously upon
a seat in the United States Senate should subject himself to the
indignity of a defeat for the city council. To the men he lunched with
daily at the University Club his interest in municipal affairs was only
another of his eccentricities. He had never married, but was still
carried hopefully on the list of eligibles. By general consent he was
the best dinner man in town--a guest who could be relied upon to keep
the talk going and make a favorable impression on pilgrims from abroad.

Mrs. Copeland’s ironic smile at his last remark had lingered. Their
eyes met glancingly; then the gaze of both fell upon the distant
treetops. Theirs was an old friendship that rendered unnecessary the
filling in of gaps. Eaton was thinking less concretely of her reference
to Billy Copeland’s designs upon the Farley money than of the abstract
fact that a divorced woman might sit upon a club veranda and hear her
former spouse’s voice raised in joyous exclamation within, and even
revert without visible emotion to the possibility of his remarrying.

Times and standards had changed. This was no longer the sober capital
it had been, where every one went to church, and particular merit might
be acquired by attending prayer-meeting. It was a very different place
from what it had been in days well within Eaton’s recollection, before
the bobtail mule cars yielded to the trolley, or the automobile drove
out the sober-going phaëtons and station-wagons that had satisfied
the native longing for grandeur. The roster of the Country Club bore
testimony of the passing of the old order. The membership committee no
longer concerned itself with the ancestry or reputation for sobriety of
applicants, or their place of worship, or whether their grandfathers
had come to town before the burning of the Morrison Opera House, or
even the later conflagration that consumed the Academy of Music. You
might speak of late arrivals like the Kinneys with all the scorn
you pleased, but they had been recognized by everybody but a few
ultra-conservatives; and if Bob Kinney was something of a sport or his
wife’s New York clothes were a trifle daring for the local taste, such
criticisms did not weigh heavily as against the handsome villa in which
these same Kinneys had established themselves in the new residential
area on the river bluff. Curiosity is a stern foe of snobbishness; and
when Mrs. Kinney seemed so “sweet” and had given a thousand dollars
to the new Girls’ Club, besides endowing a children’s room in the
Presbyterian Hospital, many very proper and dignified matrons felt
fully justified in crossing the Rubicon (otherwise White River) for an
inspection of Mrs. Kinney’s new house. Eaton had accepted such things
in a philosophic spirit, just as he accepted Kinney’s retainer to
safeguard the patents on the devices that made Kinney’s cement the best
on the market and the only brand that would take the finish and tint of
tile or marble.

“It seems to be understood that they’re waiting for Farley to die so
they can be married comfortably,” Eaton remarked. “But Farley’s a tough
old hickory knot. He’s capable of hanging on just to spite them.”

“He was always very kind to me. I saw a good deal of him and his wife
after I came here. He was proud of the business and anxious that Billy
should carry it on and keep developing it.”

“I always liked the steamboating period of Farley’s life,” said
Eaton, ignoring this frank reference to her former husband, in which
he thought he detected a trace of wistfulness; “and he’s told me a
good deal about it at times. It was much more picturesque than his
wholesale-drugging. He never quite got over his river days--he’s always
been the second mate, bullying the roustabouts.”

“He never forgot how to swear,” Mrs. Copeland laughed. “He does it
adorably.”

“There was never anything like him when he’s well heated,” Eaton
continued. “He never means anything--it’s just his natural way of
talking. His customers rather liked it on the whole--expected him to
commit them to the fiery pit every time they came to town and dropped
in to see him. When he got stung in a trade--which wasn’t often--he’d
go into his room and lock the door and curse himself for an hour or two
and then go out and raise somebody’s wages. A character--a real person,
old Uncle Tim!”

The thought of the retired merchant seemed to give Eaton pleasure; a
smile played furtively about his lips.

“Then it must have been his wife who used to lure him to church every
Sunday morning.”

“Not a bit of it! It was the old man himself. He had a superstitious
feeling that business would go badly if he cut church. He never
swore on Sundays, but made up for it Monday mornings. He’s always
been a generous backer of foreign missionaries on the theory that by
Christianizing the heathen we’re widening the market for American
commerce. We’ve had worse men than Farley. I suppose he never told
a lie or did an underhanded thing through all the years he was in
business. And all he has to leave behind him is his half million or
more--and Nan.”

“And Nan,” Mrs. Copeland repeated with a shrug of her shoulders. “I
suppose Mr. Farley knows what’s up. He’s too shrewd not to know. Clever
as Nan is, she could hardly pull the wool over his eyes.”

“She’s much too clever not to know she can’t fool him; but he’s
immensely fond of her, just as his wife was. And we’ve got to admit
that Nan is a very charming person--a little devilish, but keen and
amusing. She’s too good for that crowd she’s running with--no doubt
of that! If Uncle Tim thought she meant to marry Billy, he would take
pains to see that she didn’t.”

“You mean he wouldn’t leave her the money?” she asked in a lower tone.
“I suppose he’d have to.”

Eaton shook his head.

“He’s under no obligation to give it all to Nan. If he thought there
was any chance of her marrying Billy--”

“She’s been led to believe that it would all be hers. The Farleys
educated her and brought her up in a way to encourage the belief. It
would be cruel to disappoint her; he wouldn’t have any right to cut her
off,” Mrs. Copeland concluded with feeling.

“It might be less cruel to cut her off than to let her have it all and
go on the way she’s started. She came about ten years too late upon the
scene. It’s only within a few years that a party like we’ve listened
to in there would have been possible in this town. If Nan had reached
her twentieth year a decade ago, she’d have been the demurest of little
girls, and there would have been no question of her marrying a man who
had divorced his wife merely to be free to appropriate her.”

[Illustration: “A VERY CHARMING PERSON--A LITTLE DEVILISH, BUT KEEN AND
AMUSING”]

Mrs. Copeland opened and closed her eyes quickly several times. No
other man of her acquaintance would have dared to speak of her personal
affairs in this blunt fashion. Eaton had referred to the divorce that
had severed her ties with Copeland quite as though she were not an
interested party to that transaction. He now went a step further, and
the color deepened in her face as he said:--

“I don’t understand why you didn’t resist his suit. I’ve never said
this to you before, and it’s too late to be proffering advice, but
you oughtn’t to have let it go as you did. Billy’s whole conduct was
perfectly contemptible.”

“There was no sense in making a fight if he wanted to quit. The law
couldn’t widen the breach; it was there anyhow, from the first moment I
knew what was in his mind.”

“He acted like a scoundrel,” persisted Eaton in his cool, even tones;
“it was base, rotten, damnable!”

“If you mean”--she hesitated and frowned--“if you mean that he let the
impression get abroad that I was at fault--that it was I who had become
interested elsewhere--it’s only just to say that I never thought Billy
did that. I don’t believe now that he did it.”

He was aware that he had ventured far toward the red lamps of danger.
This matter of her personal honor was too delicate for veranda
discussion; in fact, it was not a matter that he had any right to
refer to even remotely at any time or place.

“Of course, unpleasant things were said,” she added. “I suppose they’re
always bound to be. Manning was his friend, not mine.”

Eaton received this impassively, which was his way of receiving most
things.

“By keeping out of the way, that gentleman proved that he couldn’t have
been any friend of yours. If he’d been a gentleman or even a man--”

She broke in upon him quietly, bending toward him with tense eagerness.

“He offered to: I have never told that to any one, but I don’t want you
to be unfair even to him. My mistake was that I meekly followed Billy
when he began running with the new crowd. I knew I was boring him,
and I thought if I took up with the Kinneys and the people they were
training with, he might get tired of them after a while and we could go
on as we had begun. But I hadn’t reckoned with Nan. I allowed myself to
be put in competition with a girl of twenty--which is a foolish thing
for a woman of thirty-five to do.”

She carried lightly the thirty-five years to which she confessed, but
sometimes, in unguarded moments, a startled, pained look stole into
her brown eyes, as though at the remembrance of a blow that might
repeat itself. There was a patch of white in her hair just at one side
of her forehead. Its effect was to contribute to her natural air of
distinction. She was of medium height and her trim figure retained
its girlish lines. Her face and hands were tanned brown, and the color
was becoming. She wore to-day a blue skirt and a plain blouse, with a
soft collar opened at the throat. She had walked to the clubhouse from
her home, a mile distant, and her meeting with Eaton had been purely
incidental. After her divorce she had established herself as a dairy
farmer on twenty acres of land that she had inherited from her father,
a banker in one of the smaller county seats, who had been specially
interested in dairying and had encouraged her interest in the diversion
he made profitable. To please him she had taken a course in dairying
at the State Agricultural School and knew the business in all its
practical aspects. Copeland had first seen her at a winter resort in
Florida where she had gone with her father in his last illness, and
their common ties with Indiana had made it easily possible for him to
cultivate her better acquaintance later at home. Billy Copeland was
an attractive young fellow with good prospects; his social experience
was much ampler than hers, and the marriage seemed to her friends an
advantageous one. When after ten years she found herself free, she rose
from the ruins of her domestic happiness determined to live her life
in the way that pleased her best. She shrank from adjusting herself to
a new groove in town; the plight of the divorced woman was still, in
this community, not wholly comfortable. There was little consolation
in the sympathy of friends--though she had many; and even the general
attitude, that Copeland’s conduct was utterly indefensible, did not
help greatly. She realized perfectly that in following Copeland’s lead
unprotestingly when he caught step with the quicker social pace set by
the Kinneys,--a name that stood as a synonym for noiser functions and
heavier libations than the community had tolerated,--she had estranged
many who were affronted by the violence with which the town was
becoming kinneyized.

Two years had passed and her broken wings again beat the air with
something of their early rhythm. The pathos of her isolation was more
apparent to her old friends in town than to herself. Whether she had
dropped out of the Kinney crowd, or whether it was more properly an
ejectment, there was all the more reason why women who had regarded the
intrusions of that set with horror should manifest their confidence
in her. If she had been poor, a _divorcée_ lodged in a boarding-house
and in need of practical aid, she might have suffered from neglect;
but having an assured small income which her investment in the dairy
farm in no wise jeopardized, it was rather the thing to look in on
her occasionally. Young girls in particular thought her handsome and
interesting-looking, and risked their mothers’ displeasure by going to
see her. And there were women who sought her out merely to emphasize
their disapproval of Copeland and the scandal of his divorce, which
they felt to be an affront to the community’s dignity in a man whose
father had been of the old order of decent, law-abiding, home-keeping,
church-going citizens. They admired the courage and dignity with
which she met misfortune and addressed herself uncomplainingly to the
business of fashioning a new life.

“I’ve been keeping you from your game,” she said, rising abruptly; “and
I must be getting home.”

They walked down the veranda toward the entrance and reached the door
at a moment when Copeland, who had been keeping company with a tall
glass in the rathskeller below, waiting impatiently for Nan’s return,
lounged out.

He stopped short with a slightly challenging air. Eaton bowed and
tugged at the visor of his cap. Copeland lifted his straw hat and
muttered a good-afternoon that was intended for one or both as they
chose to take it. Mrs. Copeland glanced at him without making any sign;
she did not speak to Eaton again, but as they parted near the first
tee and she started across the links toward the highway, she nodded
quickly and smiled a forlorn little smile that haunted him for some
time afterward.

Half an hour later, standing erect after successfully negotiating a
difficult putt, he said, under his breath:--

“By George! She’s still in love with him!”

He glanced around to make sure no one had overheard him, and crossed to
the next tee with a look of deep perplexity on his face.

Nan, having returned to the clubhouse, sauntered down the veranda
toward Copeland, wearing a demure air she had practiced for his
benefit. Her indifference to his annoyance at her long absence added to
his vexation.

“Well, what have you been up to?” he demanded irritably. “The others
skipped long ago.”

“Oh, I was tired and went down to the river to rest. I’m going home
now.”

“You can’t go home; Grace expects us to stop at her house; they’ll all
be there in half an hour.”

“Sorry, but I must skip. You run along like a good boy, and I’ll hop on
the trolley. I must be home by five, and I’ll just about make it.”

“That’s not treating Grace right, to say nothing of me!” he
expostulated. “I’m getting sick of all this dodging and ducking. I’m
coming up to the house to-morrow and have it out with Farley.”

“You’re a nice boy, Billy, but you’re not going to do anything
foolish,” she replied.

He found the kindness of this--even its note of fondness--unsatisfying.
He read into it a skepticism that was not flattering.

“We’ve been fooling long enough about this; we’ve got to announce our
engagement and be done with it.”

“But, Billy, we’re not engaged! We’re just the best of friends. Why
should we stir up a big fuss by getting engaged?”

“What’s got into you, anyhow!” he exclaimed, eyeing her angrily. “This
talk about not being engaged doesn’t go! I’m getting tired of all this
nonsense--being kicked about and held off when I’ve staked everything
I’ve got on you.”

“You mean,” she said steadily, “that you divorced your wife, thinking I
would marry you; and now you’re angry because I’m not in a hurry about
it, and don’t want to trouble papa, who has been kinder to me than
anybody else ever was--”

“For God’s sake, don’t cry here! We’ve been talked about enough; I
don’t understand what’s got into you to-day.”

“I just mean to be sensible, that’s all. We’ve had some mighty fine
times, and you’ve been nice to me; but there’s no hurry about getting
married--”

“No hurry!” He stared at her, unable in his impotent rage to deal with
the situation as he thought it deserved. “Look here, Nan, I can stand a
lot of this Irish temperament of yours, but you’re playing it a little
too far.”

“My Irish temperament!” she repeated poutingly. “Well, I guess the
Irish is there all right; I don’t know about the temperamental part of
it. A good many people call it something very different.”

“When am I going to see you again?” he demanded roughly.

“How should I know! You see me now and you don’t like me. You’d better
go downtown and do some work, Billy; that’s what I should prescribe
for you. And you’ve got to cut out the drink; it’s getting too big a
hold on you. I’m going to quit, too.”

Standing near the entrance, they had been obliged to acknowledge the
greetings of a number of new arrivals. It was manifestly no place for
a prolonged serious discussion of their future. Mrs. Harrington, whose
husband’s bank, the Phœnix National, was the soundest in the State,
climbed the steps from her motor without seeing Nan and her companion.
Until Farley retired, the Copeland-Farley account was carried by the
Phœnix; when Billy Copeland took the helm he transferred it to the
Western, as likely to grant a more generous credit.

Copeland flushed angrily at the slight; Nan bit her lip.

“I’m off!” she said. “Be a good boy. I’ll see you again in a day or
two. And for Heaven’s sake, don’t call me on the telephone; papa has an
extension in his room, you know, and hears everything. Tell Grace I’m
sorry--”

“Let me run you into town; I can set you down somewhere near home. The
trolleys are hot and dusty. Besides, I want to talk to you; I’ve got a
lot to say to you.”

“Not to-day, Billy. Good-bye!”

Eaton found Nan waiting for him at the fourth green.

“I was praying for a mascot, and here you are,” he remarked affably. “I
can’t fail to turn in a good card. Glad to see you’ve taken up walking;
there’s nothing like it--particularly on a humid afternoon.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I hope to catch the four-thirty for town.
What are my chances?”

“Excellent, if you don’t waste more than ten minutes on me. You’ve
never given me more than five up to date. How is Mr. Farley?”

“He’s been very comfortable for a week; really quite like himself.
You’d better come and see him.”

“I meant to drop in often all winter, but was afraid of boring him.”

“You’re one of the few that couldn’t do that. He likes to talk to you.
You don’t bother him with questions about his health--a sure way of
pleasing him.”

“A rare man, Farley. Wiser than serpents, and stimulating. I’ve learned
a good deal from him.”

They reached his ball, that had accommodatingly effected a good lie,
and after viewing it with approval he glanced at Nan and remarked:--

“You’d better urge me to come to see you, too. It’s just occurred to me
that it might be well for us to know each other better. I may flatter
myself; but--”

“That’s the nicest thing I’ve heard to-day! Please come soon.”

“Thank you, Nan; I shall certainly do that.”

“I met a friend of yours a while ago,” she said, “who pronounced you
the greatest living man.”

“Ah! A gentleman, of course; I identify him at once; he’s the only
person alive I fool to that extent--Jeremiah A. Amidon! I can’t imagine
why he hasn’t mentioned his acquaintance with you. I shall chide him
for this.”

He viewed her in his quizzical fashion through the thick-lensed
spectacles he used for golfing. In his ordinary occupations these gave
place to eyeglasses that twinkled with a sharp, hard brightness, as
though bent upon obscuring the kindness that lay behind them.

“I hadn’t seen him lately--not since I was a child. We used to be
neighbors when we were children, and he was a very, very naughty boy.”

“I dare say he was,” Eaton remarked, with his air of thinking of
something else. “I suppose you didn’t find him at all backward in
bringing himself to your notice. Shyness isn’t his dominant trait.”

“On the other hand, he was rather diffident and wholly polite. I
thought his manners did you credit--for he said you had been coaching
him.”

“He must be chidden; his use of my name in that connection is utterly
unwarranted. He was one of Mrs. Kinney’s party, I suppose,--very
interesting. I’m glad they have taken him up!”

He was watching, with the quick eagerness that made him so
disconcerting a companion, the passing of a motor toward the clubhouse,
but she understood perfectly that this utterance had been with ironic
intent. She laughed softly.

“How funny you are! I wish I weren’t afraid of you.”

“I’ve made a careful study of the phobias, and there is nothing in
the best authorities to justify a fear of me. I’m as tame as buttered
toast.”

“Well, it’s clear Mr. Amidon isn’t afraid of you!”

“I’m relieved--infinitely; I’m in mortal terror of _him_. He’s fixed
standards of conduct for me that make me nervous. I’m afraid the
young scoundrel will catch me with my visor down some day; then smash
goes his poor idol. I’m glad you spoke of him; if he wasn’t at your
luncheon--a guess you scorned to notice--I suppose you met by chance,
the usual way.”

“It was just like that,” she laughed. “Very much so!”

“H’m! I warn you against accepting the attentions of just any young
man who strolls up the river. A girl of your years must be discreet.
Your early knowledge of Mr. Amidon in the loved spots your infancy knew
won’t save you. You’d better refer all such matters to me. Pleasant
as this is, you’re going to miss your car if you don’t rustle. And
Harrington’s bawling his head off trying to fore me away. Good-bye!”

With a neat stroke he landed his ball on the green and ran after it to
raise the blockade. When Nan had halted the car and climbed into the
vestibule, she waved her hand, a salute which he returned gallantly
with a sweep of his cap.




CHAPTER III

MR. FARLEY BECOMES EXPLICIT


The Farleys had lived for twenty years in an old-fashioned square
brick house surrounded by maples. The lower floor comprised a parlor,
sitting-room, and dining-room, with a library on the side. The
library had been Farley’s den, where he smoked his pipe and read his
newspapers. The bookcases that lined the walls had rarely been opened;
they contained the “Waverley Novels,” Dickens’s “Works” complete, and
a wide range of miscellaneous fiction, including “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,”
most of Mark Twain, Tourgée’s novel of Reconstruction, “A Fool’s
Errand,” Helen Hunt Jackson’s “Ramona,” and a number of Mrs. A. D.
T. Whitney’s stories for girls--these latter reminiscent of Nan’s
girlhood. The brown volumes of “Messages and Papers of the Presidents”
were massed on the bottom shelves invincibly with half a dozen
“Reports” of the State Geological Survey. The doors of the black-walnut
bookcases were warped so that the contents were accessible only after
patient tugging. Half the books were upside-down--and had been since
the last house-cleaning. The room presented an inhospitable front to
literature, and the other arts fared no better elsewhere in the house.
A steel engraving of the Parthenon on the dining-room wall confronted
a crude print of the JANE E. NEWCOMB, an Ohio River packet on which
Farley had been second mate--and an efficient one--in ’69-’70.

Mrs. Farley had established in her household the Southwestern custom
of abating the heat by keeping the outer shutters closed through the
middle of the day, and the negro servants who still continued in
charge had not changed her system in this or in any other important
particular. Nan had not lacked instruction in the domestic arts; in
her school vacations she had been thoroughly drilled by Mrs. Farley.
Cleanliness in its traditional relationship to godliness had been
deeply impressed upon her; and she had been taught to sew, knit, and
crochet. She knew how to cook after the plain fashion to which Mrs.
Farley’s tastes and experience limited her; she had belonged to an
embroidery class formed to give occupation to one of Mrs. Farley’s
friends who had fallen upon evil times; and Nan had been the aptest of
pupils.

But Nan had never been equal to the task of initiating changes in the
Farley household, with its regular order of sweepings, scrubbings, and
dustings; its special days for baking, its inexorable rotation in meats
and vegetables for the table. And if she had needed justification she
would have given as her excuse Farley’s long acceptance of his wife’s
domestic routine, and the fear of displeasing him by altering it. The
colored cook’s husband did the heavier indoor cleaning and maintained
the yard; and the dining-room and the upper floor were cared for by a
colored woman. Hardly any one employed a black second girl, and Nan
would have changed the color scheme in this particular and substituted
a neatly capped and aproned white girl of the type that opened the
door of her friends’ houses, but the present incumbent was a niece of
the cook and not to be eliminated without rending the entire domestic
fabric.

Nan reached home a few minutes after five. She ran upstairs and
found Farley in his room, bending over a table by the window playing
solitaire. The trained nurse who had been in the house for a year
appeared at the door and withdrew. Nan crossed the room and laid a hand
on Farley’s shoulder. He had nearly finished the game, and she remained
quietly watching his tremulous hands shifting the cards until he leaned
back with a little grunt of satisfaction at the end. He put up his hand
to hers and drew her round so that he could look at her.

“Still wearing that fool hat! Take it off and sit down here and talk to
me.”

His small, round head was thickly covered with stiff white hair, though
his square-cut beard had whitened unevenly and still showed traces of
brown. While he lay in the chair with a pathetic inertness, his eyes
moved about restlessly, and his bleached, gnarled fingers were never
wholly quiet.

“Let’s see what you’ve been up to to-day?” he asked.

“Mamie Pembroke’s; she was having a luncheon for her cousin.”

“Just girls, I suppose?” he asked indifferently. “You must have had a
lot to eat to be gone all this time.”

“Well, we went for a motor run afterward and stopped at the Country
Club on the way back.”

“More to eat, I suppose. My God! everybody seems able to eat but me!
I told that fool doctor awhile ago I was goin’ to shoot him if he
didn’t cut off this gruel he’s feedin’ me. You can lay in corn’ beef
and cabbage for to-morrow; I’m goin’ to eat a barrel of it, too. If
I can get hold of some real food for a week, I’ll get out of this.
I understand they’ve got Bill Harrington playin’ golf. My God! he’s
two years older than I am and sits on his job every day. If I’d never
knuckled under to the doctors, I’d be a well man!” The wind rustling
the maple by the nearest window attracted his attention. “Open that
blind, and let the air in. Things have come to a nice pass when a man
with my constitution can be shut up in a dark room without air enough
to keep him alive.”

It was necessary to lift the wire screen before the shutters could
be opened, and he watched her intently as she obeyed him quickly and
quietly.

“Been to luncheon, have you?” he remarked as she sat down. “Well,
eatin’ your meals outside doesn’t save me any money. Those damned
niggers cook just as much as if they had a regiment in the house.
What did they give you to eat at the Pembrokes’--the usual bird-food
rubbish?”

Before his illness he had scrupulously reserved his profanity for
business uses; and it was only when his pain grew intolerable or the
slow action of his doctor’s remedies roused him to fury that he had
recourse to strong language. He allowed her to change the position
of his footstool, which had slipped away from him, and grunted his
appreciation as he stretched his long, bony figure more comfortably.

“Well, go on and tell me what you had to eat.”

It seemed best to meet this demand in a spirit of lightness. Having
lied once, it might be well to vary her recital by resorting to the
truth, and she counted off on her fingers, with the mockery that he had
always seemed to like, the items of food that had really constituted
Mrs. Kinney’s luncheon.

“Grape-fruit, broiled chicken, asparagus, potatoes baked in their
jackets and sprinkled with red pepper, the way you like them; romaine
salad, ice-cream and cake--just plain sponge cake--coffee. Nothing so
very sumptuous about that, papa.”

It had always been “papa” and “mamma” since her adoption. When she came
home from a boarding-school near Philadelphia where she had spent two
years, her attempts to change the provincial “poppa” and “momma” to the
French pronunciation had been promptly thwarted. Farley hated anything
that seemed “high-falutin’”; and having grown used to being called
“poppa,” his heart was as flint against the impious substitution.

“Of course there were no cocktails or champagne. Not at the Pembrokes’!
If all the women around here were like Mrs. Pembroke, we wouldn’t have
nice little girls like you swillin’ liquor; nor these sap-headed boys
that trot with you girls stewin’ their worthless little brains in gin.
What do you think these cigarette-smokin’ swine are goin’ to do! Do you
hear of ’em doin’ any work? Is there one of ’em that’s worth a dollar
a week? My God! between you girls runnin’ around half-naked and these
worthless young cubs plantin’ their weak, wobbly little chins against
cocktails all night, things have come to a nice pass. Well, why don’t
you go on and tell me who was at your party? Here I am, lyin’ here
waitin’ for the pallbearers to carry me out, and never hearin’ a thing,
and you sit there deaf and dumb! Who was at that party?”

“Well, poppa, there were just seven girls, counting me: Mary Waterman,
Minnie Briskett, Marian Doane, and Libby Davis, and Mamie and her
guest--a cousin from Louisville. Of course, there was nothing to drink
but claret cup, with sprigs of mint in the glasses.”

[Illustration: “OH, I HAD ONE GLASS; NOBODY HAD MORE, I THINK; THERE
WAS SOME KIND OF MINERAL WATER BESIDES. IT WAS ALL VERY SIMPLE”]

[Illustration]

“So the Pembrokes are comin’ to it, are they? They’ve got to have
something that looks like liquor--well, they’ll be passin’ the
cocktails before long. Claret cup dressed up like juleps; and how much
did you get of it?”

“Oh, I had one glass; nobody had more, I think; there was some kind of
mineral water besides. It was all very simple.”

“Just a simple little luncheon, was it? Well, I suppose it’s not too
simple to get into the newspapers. Nobody can put an extra plate on the
table now without the papers have to print it.”

He had never quizzed her like this, and his reference to the newspaper
alarmed her. His usual custom was to ask her what she had been doing
and whom she had seen and then change the subject in the midst of
her answer. If he had laid a trap for her she had gone too far to
retreat; and while she had lied to him before, she had managed it more
discreetly. She had escaped detection so long that she believed herself
immune from discovery.

He began tugging at a newspaper that had been hidden under his wrapper,
and her heart throbbed violently as he opened it and thrust it toward
her. It was the afternoon paper, folded back to the personal and
society items.

“Just read that aloud to me, will you? I may have been mistaken. Maybe
I didn’t get it straight. Go ahead, now, and read it--read it slow.”

She knew without looking what it was; the reading was exacted merely to
add to her discomfiture. The newspaper was delivered punctually at four
o’clock every afternoon, so that before she left the Country Club he
had known just where she had been and the names of her companions. She
read in a low, monotonous tone:--

“‘Mrs. Robert Smiley Kinney entertained at luncheon at the Country Club
to-day for Mrs. Ridgeley P. Farwell, of Pittsburg, who is her house
guest. The decorations were in pink. Those who enjoyed Mrs. Kinney’s
hospitality were Mr. and Mrs. Frederic Towlesley, Miss Nancy Farley,
Miss Edith Saxby, Mr. George K. Pickard, and Mr. William B. Copeland.’”

She refolded the paper and placed it on the table beside him. Instead
of the violent lashing for which she had steeled herself, he spoke her
name very kindly and gently, with even a lingering caress.

“I lied to you papa,” she faltered; “but I didn’t mean to see him
again. I--”

“Let’s be square about this,” he said, bending forward and clasping
his fingers over his knees. “You promised me a year ago that you’d not
meet or see Copeland; I didn’t ask you to drop Mrs. Kinney, for I don’t
think she’s a particularly bad woman; she’s only a fool, and we’ve got
to be charitable in dealin’ with fools. You can’t ever tell when you’re
not one yourself; that means me as well as you, Nan. Now, about that
worthless whelp, Copeland! I want the whole truth--no more little lies
or big ones. You know that piece of carrion wouldn’t dare come to this
house, and yet you sneak away and meet him and leave me to find it out
by accident! Now, I want the God’s truth; just what does all this mean?”

His quiet tone was weighted with the dignity, the simple righteousness,
that lay in him. She could have met more courageously a violent tirade
than his subdued demand. She was conscious that he had controlled
himself with difficulty; throughout the interview his wrath had flashed
like heat-lightning on far horizons, but he had kept himself well in
hand. He was outraged, but he was hurt, troubled, perplexed by her
conduct. The adoption of Nan had marked a high altitude in the married
life of the Farleys, and they had lavished upon her the pent love of
their childlessness. The very manner in which she had been flung upon
their protection made her advent in their household something of an
adventure, broadening their narrowing vistas and bringing a welcome
cheer to their monotonous existence. They had felt it to be a duty, but
one that would repay them a thousand-fold in happiness.

Farley patiently awaited her explanation--an explanation she dared not
make. She must satisfy him, if at all, by evasions and further lies.

“Mrs. Kinney made a point of my coming; she was always very nice to
me, and I haven’t been seeing her,--honestly I haven’t,--and I was
afraid she’d be offended if I refused to go. And I didn’t know Mr.
Copeland would be there. The luncheon was in the big dining-room, where
everybody could see us. I didn’t see any more of him than of anybody
else. In fact, I got tired and ran away--down to the river and was
there by myself for an hour before I came home on the trolley. When I
got back to the clubhouse, they had all gone motoring and I didn’t see
them again.”

“Left you there, did they? Well, Copeland waited for you, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” she admitted quickly. “But I saw him only a minute on the
veranda and told him I was coming home. He understands perfectly that
you don’t want me to see him.”

“H’m! I should hope he did! All that crowd understand it, don’t they?
They’ve been puttin’ you in his way, haven’t they,--tryin’ to fix up
something between you and that loafer! Look here, Nan, I’m not dead
yet! I’m goin’ to live a long time, and if these fool doctors have
been tellin’ you I’m done for, they’ve lied. And if Copeland thinks my
money’s goin’ to drop into his lap, he’s waitin’ under the wrong tree.
Never a cent! What you got to say to that?”

“I don’t think he ever thought of it; it’s only because you don’t like
him that you imagine he wants to marry me. I tell you now that I have
never had any idea of marrying him. And as for your money--it isn’t
my fault that you brought me here! You don’t have to give me a cent;
I don’t want it; I won’t take it! I was only a poor, ignorant little
nobody, anyhow, and you’ve been disappointed in me from the start.
I’ve never pleased you, no matter how hard I’ve tried. But I’ve done
the best I could, and I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you. I never told you an
untruth before,” she ran on glibly; “and I wouldn’t to-day if I hadn’t
guessed that you knew where I’d been and were trying to trick me into
lying. You don’t love me any more, papa; I know that; and I’m going
away--”

Her histrionic talents, employed so successfully in imitating him in
his fury, for the pleasure of Mrs. Kinney’s guests, were diverted now
to self-martyrization to the accompaniment of tears. She had been
closer to him than to his wife: what Mrs. Farley denied in the way of
indulgences he had usually yielded. He had liked her liveliness, her
keen wit, the amusing cajoleries with which she played upon him. The
remote Irish in his blood had been responsive to the fresher strain in
her.

“For God’s sake, stop bawlin’!” he growled. “So you admit you lied, do
you? Thought I had laid a trap for you, eh?”

It was difficult for him to realize that she was twenty-two and quite
old enough to be held accountable for her sins. Her appeal to tears
had always found him weak, but her declaration that she had suspected
a trap when he began to quiz her was a trifle too daring to pass
unchallenged. He repeated his demand that she sit up and stop crying.

“We may as well go through with this, Nan. I want to know what kind
of an arrangement you have with Copeland. Are you in love with that
fellow?”

“No!”

“Have you promised to marry him?”

“No!”

“Then why are you goin’ places where you expect to see him?”

“I’ve explained that, papa,” she replied with more assurance, finding
that he did not debate her answers. “I didn’t like to refuse Mrs.
Kinney when I’d been refusing so many of her invitations. She asked me
a while ago to come to her house to spend a week; and a little before
that she wanted me to go on a trip with them, but you were sick and I
knew you didn’t like her, anyhow, so I refused. You’ve got the wrong
idea about her, papa,” she continued ingratiatingly. “She’s really very
nice. The fact that she hasn’t been here long is against her with some
of the older women, but that’s just snobbishness. I always thought you
hated the snobbishness of some of these people who have lived here
always and are snippy to anybody else.”

He was conscious that she was eluding him, and he gripped his hands
with a sudden resolution not to be thwarted.

“I don’t care a damn about the Kinneys; I’m talkin’ about you and
Copeland,” he rasped impatiently.

“Very well, papa; I’ve told you all there is to know about that--”

“I don’t care what you say ‘about that,’” he mocked; “that worthless
scoundrel seems to have an evil fascination for you. I don’t understand
it; a decent young girl like you and a whiskey-soaked, loafin’,
gamblin’ degenerate, who shook his wife--a fine woman--to be free to
trail after you! That slimy wharf-rat has the fool idea that I took
advantage of him when I sold him my interest in the store--and just to
show you what a fool he is I’ll tell you that I sold him my interest
at a tenth less than I could have got from three other people--did it,
so help me God, out of sheer good feelin’, because he’s the son of a
father who’d given me a hand up, and I thought because he was a fool
I wouldn’t be just fair with him--I’d be generous! I did that for Sam
Copeland’s sake.

“That was four years ago, and I hadn’t much idea then that he’d make
good. He’s already cashed in everything Sam left him but the store. And
I’ve still got his notes for twenty-five thousand dollars--twenty-five
thousand, mind you!--that he’d like damned well to cancel by marryin’
you. A man nearly forty years old, who gambles and soaks himself in
cocktails and runs after a feather-head like you while the business his
father and I made the best in the State goes plumb to hell! Now, you
listen to what I’m sayin’: if you want to marry him, you do it,--you
go ahead and do it now, for if you wait for me to die, you’ll find he
won’t be so anxious; there ain’t goin’ to be anything to marry you
_for_!”

His voice that had been firm and strong at the beginning of this long
speech sank to a hoarse whisper, but he cleared his throat and uttered
his last words with sharp distinctness.

“I never meant to; I never had any idea of marrying him,” she said.
“And I’ve never thought of the money. You can do what you like with it.”

“Well, a man can’t take his money with him to the graveyard, but he can
tie a pretty long string to it; and it’s my duty to protect you as long
as I can. I’d hoped you’d be married and settled before I went. Your
mamma and I used to talk of that; you’d got a pretty tight grip on us;
it couldn’t have been stronger if you’d been our own; and I don’t want
anything to spoil this, Nan. I want you to be a good woman--not one of
these high-flyin’, drinkin’ kind, that heads for the divorce court, but
decent and steady. Now, I guess that’s about all.”

She stood beside him for a moment, smoothing his hair. Then she knelt,
as though from an accession of feeling, and took his hands.

“I’m so sorry, papa! I never mean to hurt you; but I know I do; I know
I must have troubled mamma, too, a very great deal. And you’ve both
been so good to me! And I want to show you I appreciate it. And please
don’t talk of the money any more or of my marrying anybody. I don’t
want the money; I’m not going to marry: I want us to live on just as
we have been. You’ve been cooped up too long, but you’re so much better
now you’ll soon be able to travel.”

“No; there’s no more travel for me; I’ll be glad to hang on as I am.
There’s nothing in this change idea. About a year more’s all I count
on, and then you can throw me on the scrap-heap.”

She protested that there were many more comfortable years ahead of him;
the doctors had said so. At the mention of doctors his anger flared
again, but for an instant only. It was a question whether he had been
mollified by her assurances or whether the peace that now reigned was
attributable to his satisfaction with the plans he had devised to
protect her from fortune-hunters.

She hated scenes and trouble of any kind, and peace or even a truce was
worth having at any price. She had grown so accustomed to the bright,
smooth surfaces of life as to be impatient of the rough, unburnished
edges. It was not wholly Nan’s fault that she had reached womanhood
selfish and willful. In their ignorance and anxiety to do as well by
her as their neighbors did by their daughters, there had been no bounds
to the Farleys’ indulgence.

“I’m going to have dinner up here with you,” she said cheerfully, after
an interval. “I’m tired of eating alone downstairs with Miss Rankin;
her white cap gets on my nerves.”

She satisfied herself that this plan pleased him, and ran downstairs
whistling--then was up again in her room, where he heard her quick
step, the opening and closing of drawers.

She faced him across the small table in the plainest of white frocks,
with her hair arranged in a simple fashion he had once commended. She
told stories--anecdotes she had gathered while dressing, from the back
pages of “Life.” He was himself a capital story-teller, though at the
age when a man repeats, and she listened to tales of his steamboating
days that she had heard for years and could have told better herself.

Soon a thunder-shower cooled the air, and made necessary the closing
of windows, with a resulting domestic intimacy. The atmosphere was
redolent of forgiveness on his part, of a wish to please on hers.

At nine o’clock, when she had finished reading some chapters from “Life
on the Mississippi,”--a book that he kept in his room,--and Miss Rankin
appeared to put him to bed, he begged half an hour more. He hadn’t felt
so well for a year, he declared.

“Look here, Nan,” he remarked, when the nurse had retired after a
grudging acquiescence, “I don’t want you to feel I’m hard on you. I
guess I talk pretty rough sometimes, but I don’t mean to. But I worry
about you--what’s goin’ to happen to you after I’m gone. I wish I’d
gone first, so mamma could have looked after you. You know we set a lot
by you. If I’m hard on you, I don’t mean--”

She flung herself down beside him and clasped his face in her hands.

“You dear old fraud!--there can’t be any trouble between you and me,
and as for your leaving me--why, that’s a long, long time ahead.
And you can’t tell! I might go first--I have all kinds of queer
symptoms--honestly, I do! And the doctor made me stop dancing last
winter because my heart was going jigglety. Please let’s be good
friends and cheerful as we always have been, and I’ll never, never tell
you any fibs any more!”

She saw that her nearness, the touch of her hands, her supple young
body pressed against his worn knees, were freeing the remotest springs
of affection in his tired heart.

Nan wanted to be good--“good” in the sense of the word that had
expressed the simple piety of her foster-mother. She had the conscience
of her temperament and from childhood had often been miserable over the
smallest infractions of discipline. Her last words with Copeland on
the club veranda had not left her happy. It had been in her mind for
some time that she must break with Billy. She had never been able to
convince herself that she loved him. She had liked his admiration, and
had over-valued it as coming from a man much older than herself; one
who, moreover, stood to her as a protagonist of the gay world. No one
but Billy Copeland gave suppers for visiting actors and actresses or
chartered a fleet of canoes for a thousand-dollar picnic up the river.
It was because he was different and amusing and made love to her with
an ardor her nature craved that she had so readily lent herself to the
efforts of the Kinneys to throw them together.

Being loved by Copeland, a divorced man rated “fast,” had all the more
piquancy for Nan as affording a relief from the life of the staid,
colorless household in which she had been reared. There were those who,
without being snobs, looked down just a little upon a girl who was
merely an adopted child to whom her foster-parents gave only a shadowy
background. The Farleys were substantial and respectable, but they were
not an “old family.” She was conscious of this, and the knowledge had
made her the least bit rebellious and the more ready to surrender to
the blandishments of the Kinneys, who were even more under the ban.

As she undressed and crept wearily into bed, she pondered these things,
and the thought of them did not increase her happiness.




CHAPTER IV

NAN AND BILLY’S WIFE


Farley improved as the summer gained headway. He became astonishingly
better, and his doctor prescribed an automobile in the hope that a
daily airing would exercise a beneficent effect upon his temper.
Farley detested automobiles and had told Nan frequently that they were
used only by fools and bankrupts. A neighbor who failed in business
that spring had been one of the first men in town to fall a victim to
the motor craze, and Farley had noted with grim delight that three
automobiles were named among the bankrupt’s assets.

When the idea of investing in a machine took hold of him, he went into
the subject with his characteristic thoroughness. He had Nan buy all
the magazines and cut from them the automobile advertisements and he
sent for his friends to pump them as to their knowledge of various
cars. Then he commissioned a mechanical engineer to buy him a machine
that could climb any hill in the State, and that was free of the
frailties and imperfections of which his friends complained.

Farley manifested a childlike joy in his new plaything; he declared
that he would have a negro chauffeur. It would be like old steamboat
times, he said, to go “sailin’ around with a nigger to cuss.”

Nan or the nurse went out with him daily--preferably Nan, who was
immensely relieved to find that they were now on better terms than for
several years. Life hadn’t been a gay promenade since she ceased to
share the festivities of the Kinneys and their friends. Copeland she
had dismissed finally, and the rest of them wearied of calling her on
the telephone only to be told that it was impossible for her to make
engagements. It may have been that Farley realized that she was trying
to meet his wishes; at any rate, she had no cause to complain of his
kindness.

“This would have tickled mamma,” he would say, as they rolled through
the country in the machine. “She was always afraid of horses; these
things don’t seem half as risky when you get used to ’em. If I keep on
feelin’ better, we’ll take some long trips this fall. There’s a lot o’
places I’d like to see again. I’d like to go down and take another look
at the Ohio.”

He spoke much of his wife, and at least once every week drove to the
cemetery, and watched Nan place flowers on her foster-mother’s grave.

After one of these visits he ordered the chauffeur to drive north.
He had read in the papers of the sale of a farm at what he said was
a record price for land in that neighborhood, and he wanted to take
a look at the property. After they had inspected the farm and were
running toward home, Nan suggested that they stop at the Country Club
for a cool drink.

“Let’s drive to Mrs. Copeland’s place,” he remarked casually. “I’ve
always meant to look at her farm.”

He watched her sharply, as though expecting her to object. Possibly
he had some purpose in this; or the suggestion might be due to
malevolence; but she dismissed any such idea. He was always curious
about people, and there was, to be sure, no reason why he should not
call on Mrs. Copeland.

“Certainly; I shall be very glad to go, papa,” she answered.

“Nan,” he said, laying his hand on her wrist, “there was never any
trouble between you and that woman about Copeland, was there? If it’s
goin’ to make you uncomfortable to stop at her house, why, we won’t do
it.”

“Of course not, papa. I hope she understood that I couldn’t help the
gossip. It wasn’t my fault.”

“Well, it was nasty, anyhow,” he remarked. “And as you’ve got rid of
Copeland, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to let her know it. I guess it
won’t be long before that worthless scamp goes to the dump. I’ve got a
pretty good line on him and the store. If I was ten years younger, I’d
go down there and kick him out and put the house on its feet again.”

He had frequently told her that Copeland-Farley was doing badly, but
she supposed this to be only the wail of a retired pilot who thinks
his old ship is doomed to disaster without his hand at the wheel.
No communications had passed between her and Billy since the day of
Grace Kinney’s party. She persuaded herself that she could face Billy
Copeland’s former wife with a good conscience.

“That hound,” began Farley after an interval of silence, “had the brass
to try to put her in the wrong--didn’t dare go into court with it, but
let it be whispered on the outside to save his own face! There was a
man somewhere used to visit here, a friend of his. I guess nobody took
any stock in that scandal.”

“Of course, nobody would believe it of her,” said Nan. “I hardly--”

She had begun to say that it was incredible that Billy would have done
such a thing, but she caught herself in time.

“What?” demanded Farley sharply. “Well, I guess nobody but the lowest
cur would have done it.”

Mrs. Copeland’s brown bungalow was set upon the highest point on her
farm, and from her veranda and windows she could view every part of it.
The veranda was made to be lived upon; there was a table with books and
periodicals; a work-basket lay in a swing seat as though some one had
just put it down; there were wall-pockets filled with fresh flowers.
Along the veranda rail nasturtiums bloomed luxuriantly.

As Nan waited for an answer to her ring, the lower floor of the
house lay plainly in view through the screen door: a large raftered
living-room with a broad fireplace and a dining-room beyond. Here at
least were comfort and peace. Perhaps Billy Copeland’s wife hadn’t
fared so ill after all!

The maid said Mrs. Copeland was out on the farm, and an observation
from the veranda discovered her in the barn lot.

Nan had counted on Farley’s presence to ease the shock of the meeting,
and she did not wholly relish being sent off alone to meet a woman who
might be pardoned for wishing to avoid her. Farley said he would wait
in the car, and Nan left him contentedly studying the house and its
encompassing landscape.

When Mrs. Copeland saw Nan approaching, she started across the lot
to meet her. A handsome collie trotted beside her. She had not yet
identified her visitor, and was flinging back an injunction to a
workman as she moved toward the gate. She wore a dark skirt, blue
waist, and heavy shoes, and a boy’s round felt hat. A pair of shabby
tan driving-gloves covered her hands.

“Good-afternoon!” said Nan. “Papa and I were passing, and he thought
he’d like to see your place. If you’re busy, please don’t bother.”

“Oh, I’m glad so see you, Miss Farley; I was just coming to the house.
My pump works badly and we are planning some changes. I’m glad Mr.
Farley is able to be out again.”

She set the pace with a quick, eager step. Several times she turned
smilingly toward Nan; the girl saw no trace of hostility. To all
appearances Fanny Copeland was a happy, contented woman. The tempests
might vent their spite on her, but she would still hold her head high.
Nan, little given to humility, experienced suddenly a disturbing sense
of her inferiority to this woman whose husband she had allowed to make
love to her.

“Yes, I get a great deal of fun out of the farm,” Mrs. Copeland was
saying. “I don’t have any time to be lonesome; when there’s nothing
else to do, I can fuss around the garden. And now that I’ve taken up
poultry there’s more to do than ever!”

“I believe I’d get on better with chickens than with cows,” said Nan.
“They wouldn’t scare me so much.”

“Oh, cows are adorable! Aren’t these in this pasture beauties!”

A calf thrust its head through the bars of the fence, and Fanny patted
its nose. Nan asked if they all had names and Mrs. Copeland declared
that naming the calves was the hardest part of her work.

“I think it’s a mistake for a girl to grow up without knowing how to
earn her own living, and I don’t know a thing!” said Nan impulsively.

[Illustration: NAN EXPERIENCED SUDDENLY A DISTURBING SENSE OF HER
INFERIORITY TO THIS WOMAN]

Fanny looked at her quickly. If it was in her mind that the obvious
and expected thing for Nan to do was to marry Billy Copeland, she
made no sign. Nan was amazed to find that she was anxious to appear
to advantage before this woman who had every reason for disliking
and distrusting her, and she was conscious that she had never seemed
so stupid. Her modish gown, her dainty slippers with their silver
buckles, contrasted oddly with Fanny’s simple workaday apparel. She
was self-conscious, uncomfortable. And yet Fanny was wholly at ease,
talking light-heartedly as though no shadow had ever darkened her life.

They reached the house and found that Farley had braved the steps and
established himself on the veranda. The maid had brought him a glass of
milk which he was sipping contentedly while he ran his eye over a farm
paper.

“Mrs. Copeland, what will you take for your place?” he demanded. “If
I’d moved into the country when I quit business, the doctors wouldn’t
be doggin’ me to death.”

“But Miss Farley tells me you are almost well again! It’s fine that
you’ve taken up motoring--a new world to conquer every morning.”

“I got tired o’ bein’ hitched to the bedpost; that’s all. But I want to
talk farm. It’s a great thing for a woman to run a place like this and
I want you to tell me all about it.”

He examined and cross-examined her as to the joys and sorrows of
dairying. She replied good-naturedly to most of his questions and
parried the others.

“Of course, I’m not going to tell you how much I lose a year! Please
keep it a dark secret, but I’m not losing anything; and besides, I’m
having a mighty good time.”

“Well,” he warned her, “don’t let it put you in a hole. The place may
be a leetle too fancy. You don’t want to make your butter too good;
your customers won’t appreciate it.”

“You preach what you never practiced,” laughed Nan. “Your rule at the
store was to give full measure.”

“Well, I guess I held trade when I got it,” he admitted.

“I’ve been adding another department to the farm,” said Mrs. Copeland.
“I started it early in the summer in the old farmhouse back there that
was on the place when father bought it. Real homemade canned fruit,
pickles, and so on. I’ve set up four girls who’d found life a hard
business, and they’re doing the work with a farmer’s wife to boss them.
It’s my business to sell their products. I’ve interested some of the
farmers’ daughters, and they come over and help the regulars on busy
days. We’re having a lot of fun out of it.”

Farley was immensely interested. Nan had not in a long time heard him
talk so much or so amiably; he praised and continued to praise Mrs.
Copeland’s enterprise and success; for he had satisfied himself fully
that she was successful. He clearly liked her; her quiet humor, her
grace and prettiness. In his blunt way he told her she was getting
handsomer all the time. She knew how to talk to men of his type and met
him on his own ground.

He began telling stories and referred to Old Sam Copeland half a dozen
times, quite unconscious that the sometime daughter-in-law of Old Sam
was sitting before him. Nan grew nervous, but Mrs. Copeland met the
situation with perfect composure.

Finally, when they were about to leave, Eaton appeared. He had walked
over from the Country Club merely, he protested, to refresh himself at
Mrs. Copeland’s buttermilk fountains. He addressed himself cordially
to Farley, whose liking for him was manifest in a brightening of the
old man’s eyes. It was plain that Eaton and Mrs. Copeland were on the
friendliest terms; they called each other by their first names without
mincing or sidling.

Nan suspected that Eaton had come by arrangement and that in all
likelihood he meant to stay for dinner; but already the lawyer was
saying, as he saw Farley taking out his watch:--

“I’m going to beg a lift into town from you plutocrats. I thought I
could stay me with flagons of buttermilk and catch the interurban that
gallops by at five fifty; but I made a miscalculation and have already
missed the car.”

“I can send you in,” said Mrs. Copeland, “if it isn’t perfectly
convenient for Mr. Farley.”

“Of course Eaton will go with us,” said Farley cordially. “It’s time to
move, Nan.”

While Eaton helped him down the steps, Mrs. Copeland detained Nan for
glimpses of the landscape from various points on the veranda.

“It was nice of you to stop; I think we ought to know each other
better,” said Fanny.

“Thank you!” said Nan, surprised and pleased. “It won’t be my fault if
we don’t!”

As they crossed the veranda their hands touched idly, and Mrs. Copeland
caught Nan’s fingers and held them till they reached the steps. This
trifling girlish act exercised a curious, bewildering effect upon Nan.
She might have argued from it that Mrs. Copeland didn’t _know_--didn’t
know that she was touching the hand of the woman who was accused of
stealing her husband’s affections.

“I don’t see many people,” Mrs. Copeland was saying; “and sometimes I
get lonesome. You must bring your father out again, very soon. He can
ride to the barn in his machine and see my whole plant.”

“He would like that; he’s one of your warmest admirers, you know.”

“We always did seem to understand each other,” she laughed; “probably
because I always talk back to him.”

[Illustration: “I’M NOT LOSING ANYTHING; AND BESIDES, I’M HAVING A
MIGHTY GOOD TIME”]

“He’s much gentler than he looks or talks; and he means to be kind and
just,” replied Nan, knowing in her heart that she had frequently
questioned both his kindness and his justice. “I hope you will stop
and see us, very soon. Papa’s getting too much of my company; it would
cheer him a lot to see you.”

“I never make calls, you know,” said Mrs. Copeland, smiling, “but I’m
going to accept your invitation.”

Bitterness and resentment, traces of which Nan had sought in this
cheery, alert little woman, were not apparent. Her kindness and
sweetness and tolerance, as of the fields themselves, impressed Nan
deeply.

In saying good-bye Nan impulsively put out both hands.

“I wish we could be good friends!” she exclaimed.

Her face flushed scarlet the moment she had spoken, but Fanny’s manner
betrayed no agitation.

“Let’s consider that we’re already old friends,” she responded, smiling
into the girl’s eyes.




CHAPTER V

A COLLECTOR OF FACTS


When Jerry came in “off the road” Saturday, he found a note from Eaton
asking him to call at his office that evening. To comply with this
request, Jerry was obliged to forego the delights of a dance at the
Little Ripple Club to which he had looked forward with the liveliest
anticipations all the week. But Eaton was not, in Amidon’s estimation,
a person to whom one telephoned regrets with impunity, and at eight
o’clock he knocked at Eaton’s door on the fifteenth floor of the White
River Trust Building and was admitted by the lawyer in person.

Eaton’s office always exerted a curious spell on Jerry’s imagination.
This was attributable in some measure to the presence of cabinets
filled with models of patentable and unpatentable devices--queer
contrivances with each its story of some inventor’s success or failure.
The most perfect order was everywhere apparent. Books from the ample
library were never strewn about in the manner of most law offices, and
Eaton’s flat-top desk in the last room of the suite was usually clear;
or if papers were permitted to lie upon it, they were piled evenly and
weighted with a smooth stone that was never visible unless in use.
The file-cases (of the newest and most approved type) contained not
only letters, legal papers, and receipts, but, known to no one but the
girl who cared for them, newspaper clippings and typewritten memoranda
on a thousand and one subjects that bore no apparent relation to the
practice of law.

Facts were Eaton’s passion; with facts, one might, he believed, conquer
the world; indeed, he was capable of demonstrating that all the battles
in history were lost or won by the facts carried into the contest by
the respective commanders. He had so often disturbed the office of the
Commissioner of Patents with his facts that the public servants in
charge of that department were little disposed to risk a brush with him
on points that involved facts, facts that seemed, in his use of them,
to glitter like the lenses of his eyeglasses.

He seated himself in his office chair--a leathern affair with a high
back--and bade Amidon shed his coat and be comfortable.

“Smoke?” he suggested, opening a drawer containing cigars and
cigarettes. Jerry hated ready-made cigarettes, but he was afraid to
produce the “makings” before Eaton, who had once complained that the
odor of the tobacco he affected was suggestive of burning jimson
weed. Eaton produced a glass ash-tray, and filled a pipe with the
deliberation he brought to every act.

“Business is bad, I suppose, as usual,” he remarked leadingly.

“Rotten! The shark that runs the credits has cut off one or two of my
easiest marks; but I managed to end last month with a ten-per-cent
advance over last year’s business, and that helps some.”

“You have spoken well, Amidon. I suppose you were received with joyous
acclaim by the boss, and urged to accept a raise in wages?”

“Stop kidding me! I’m sensitive about my wages. They still pretend
they’re just trying me out--not sure I’ll make good and that sort of
piffle!”

“That sort of piffle” was a phrase he had taken over bodily from
Eaton’s familiar discourse. So sensitive was he to Eaton’s influence
that he imitated, with fair success, the unruffled ease that was
second nature to the lawyer. He was also practicing Eaton’s trick of
blinking before uttering a sentence, and then letting it slip with a
casual, indifferent air. Eaton had used this in the cross-examination
of witnesses to good purpose. Amidon had exercised it so constantly
in commercial and social conversation that he had to be on guard lest
Eaton, whose discernment seemed to him to partake of the supernatural,
should catch him at it and detect its spuriousness.

“Won a case somewhat in your line the other day; defended a trade-mark
of the Pomona Velvet Complexion Cream, warranted to remove whole
constellations of freckles in one night. Seductive label, showing a
lovely maiden unfreckling herself before a mirror; bottle of Pomona in
her hand. Basely and clumsily imitated by a concern in Kansas that’s
been feloniously uttering a Romona Complexion Cream. The only original
Pomona girl held the bottle in her right hand; label on Romona nostrum
showed it clenched in her left.”

“Hard luck!” said Amidon, deeply interested. “We’ve been pushing that
Kansas beautifier--a larger discount for the jobber than the Pomona.
Reckon we’ll have to chuck it now. I suppose the judge didn’t know
Pomona removes the cuticle--hasn’t the real soothing effect of the
Romona.”

“I’ll mention that to the district attorney and he can pass it on to
the government inspectors. I’m annoyed by your revelation. Shock to my
conscience--defending a company that poisons the young and beautiful of
the republic.”

“Now that you know what a swindle you defended, I suppose you’ll turn
back your fee--if you’ve got it?”

“Retainer of a thousand dollars,” Eaton replied easily; “it would
be immoral to return it, thus increasing the dividends of such an
unscrupulous corporation. However, I’ll consider giving half of it to
the Children’s Aid Society.”

It was pleasant in any circumstances to sit in Eaton’s presence, to
enjoy his confidence; and yet nothing so far disclosed justified
Jerry’s relinquishment of the Little Ripple Club dance.

“Which of our noble streams did you follow this trip--the Pan-haunted
Wabash or the mighty Ohio, sacred to the muses nine?”

Allusions of this sort, to which Eaton was prone, were Jerry’s despair.
He felt that it would be worth subjecting one’s self to the discomforts
of a college education to be able to talk like this, easily and
naturally. But he was aware that Eaton was driving at something; and
while it was the lawyer’s way to lead conversations into blind alleys,
he always arrived somewhere and fitted a key into the lock that had
been his aim from the start.

“I shook hands with the trade along the Ohio this trip. I can tell
you it’s lonesome at night in those river burgs; the folks just sit
and wait for the spring flood--and even _it_ fails sometimes. They
turn the reel once daily in the movies, and the whole town’s asleep at
nine-thirty.”

“A virtuous and home-loving people, but crime occasionally disturbs
the peace. Murders should always occur along navigable streams, so
the victim can be sent cruising at once toward New Orleans and the
still-vexed Bermoothes.”

Amidon thought he caught a gleam; but experience had taught him the
unwisdom of anticipating the unfolding of Eaton’s purposes.

“Oh, there’s always a lot of crooks loafing along the river; they keep
their skins filled with whiskey and they fish and shoot muskrats and do
a little murdering on the side.”

“Interesting type,” said Eaton musingly. “If you were at Belleville
this week, you must have heard of a murder down there--man found
stabbed to death in a house-boat.”

Jerry grinned, pleased with his own perspicacity in having surmised the
object of the interview. Murder was not, Amidon would have said, within
the range of Mr. John Cecil Eaton’s interests; and yet this was not the
first time that the lawyer’s inquiries had touched affairs that seemed
wholly foreign to his proper orbit.

“I was there the day after they found the body. They had already
arrested the wrong man and turned him loose--as usual. They always do
that; and they’ll probably pick up some tramp who was visiting old
college friends in New York when the murder was committed and indict
him so the prosecuting attorney can show he’s on the job.”

“You shouldn’t speak in that manner of sworn officers of the law,”
Eaton admonished. “Better that forty innocent men should be hanged than
that one guilty man escape.”

Jerry fidgeted nervously as Eaton’s glasses were turned for a full
minute upon the ceiling.

“A Cincinnati paper printed an item yesterday about that murder case,
mentioning the arrest of a suspect at Henderson on the Kentucky shore.”
Eaton hesitated. “The suspect’s name was Corrigan. You have known
Corrigans, perhaps?”

There was a faint tinkle in the remote recesses of Jerry’s
consciousness as the shot, so carelessly fired, reached the target.

“The name’s common enough; I’ve known a number of Corrigans.”

“But,” the lawyer continued, “there have been instances of Corrigans
ceasing to be Corrigans and becoming something else.”

“You mean,” Amidon replied, meeting Eaton’s eyes as they were bent
suddenly upon him, “that a Corrigan might become a Farley. Am I right?”

“Quite right. I was just wondering whether you had picked up anything
about this particular case down along the river. I have no interest in
it whatever--only the idlest curiosity. I happened to recall that Miss
Farley had been a Corrigan; I have a note of that somewhere.”

He swung his chair round and surveyed the file-cases back of him. His
gaze fell upon a drawer marked _F_, as though he were reading the
contents through the label--a feat which Amidon thought not beyond
Eaton’s powers.

Jerry resented the idea that Nan Farley might still be affected by
the lawless deeds of any of her kinsfolk; he became increasingly
uncomfortable the more he reflected that the lawyer, with all his
indifference, would not be discussing this subject unless he had some
reason for doing so.

“It was stated that this particular Corrigan had wealthy
connections--that always sounds well in such news items, as though
rich relations were a mitigating circumstance likely to arouse public
sympathy. Mere snobbishness, Amidon; and snobbishness is always
detestable. If that particular Corrigan hopes to obtain help from a
sister now known as Farley, it occurred to me that I ought to possess
myself of the fact. You understand that what we’re saying to each other
is entirely _sub rosa_. We’ve never happened to speak of Miss Farley;
but having been connected with the Copeland-Farley Company before
Farley retired, you probably have heard of her. A very interesting
girl--slightly spoiled by prosperity, but really refreshingly original.
Do you mind telling me whether you have any reason for believing that
the particular Corrigan arrested down there as a suspect, and with
those wealthy connections so discreetly suggested in the newspaper, is
related in any way to Nan Farley?”

“Well, there was a Corrigan boy, considerably older than I am--probably
about thirty now, and not much to brag of. I’ve asked about him now and
then when I dropped off at Belleville, and I never heard any good of
him--just about the kind of scamp that would mix up in a cutting scrape
and get pinched.”

“And who, having been pinched,--what we may call a pinchee, one who
has been pinched,--might perhaps remember that he had a prosperous
sister somewhere and appeal to her for help? Such things have
happened; it would be very annoying for a young woman who had
emerged--risen--climbed away from her state of Corriganism, so to
speak, to have her relationship with such a person printed in the
newspapers of her own city. I merely wish to be prepared for any
emergency that may arise. Not, of course, that this is any of my
business; but it’s remarkable how other people’s affairs become in a
way our own. Somebody has remarked that life is altogether a matter of
our reciprocal obligations. There’s much truth in that, Amidon.”

Jerry did not wholly grasp this, but he confirmed it with a nod. Now
that Nan Farley had been mentioned, he hoped Eaton would drop life’s
reciprocal obligations and talk of her; and he began describing his
meeting with her, in such manner as to present his quondam schoolmate
in the most favorable light.

Eaton listened to this recital with as much interest as he ever
exhibited in anything that was said to him. He smiled at the young
fellow’s frank acknowledgment that it was in a spirit of the most
servile imitation that he had gone forth with his fly-box. The ways in
which Amidon aped him amused Eaton. He addressed him as “Amidon,” or as
“my dear Amidon,” or “my dear fellow,” and talked to him exactly as he
talked to his cronies at the University Club; for while he was looked
upon as an aristocrat,--the last of an old family that dated back to
the beginnings of the town,--at heart he was the soundest of democrats.
Jerry’s meeting with Nan on the river bank seemed to him the most
delightful of confrontations, and he sought by characteristic means to
extract every detail of it.

“Well, sir, after she had been so nice and turned to go, she swung
round and came back--actually came back to shake hands! I call that
pretty fine; and me just a little scrub that was only a bunch of
freckles and as tough a little mutt as ever lived when she used to know
me. Why, if she’d said she never heard of me, she’d have put it over
and I couldn’t have said a word!”

“She mentioned the meeting to me a little later,” observed Eaton
carelessly.

“Like thunder she did!” exploded Jerry. “So you knew all about it and
let me go ahead just to kid me! Well, I like that!”

“Merely to get as much light on the subject as possible. We stumble
too much in darkness; the truth helps a good deal, Amidon. Miss
Farley spoke of you in terms that would not have displeased you. I
assure you that she had enjoyed the interview; her description of it
was flattering to your tact, your intuitive sense of social values.
But it was all very sketchy--you’ve filled in important omissions.
For instance, the giving of her hand, as an afterthought, was not
mentioned; but I visualize it perfectly from your narrative. We may
read into that act good-fellowship, graciousness, and all that sort of
thing. She’s a graceful person, and I can quite see her extending a
perfectly gloved hand--”

“Wrong for once; she hadn’t on any gloves! But she had a handkerchief.
It was drying on a bush.”

“Ah! That is very important. Tears, perhaps? Her presence alone on the
shore rather calls for an explanation. If she had gone down there by
herself to cry, it is imaginable that life hadn’t been wholly to her
taste earlier in the afternoon.”

“She didn’t look as though she had ever cried a tear in her life, and
why should she?”

“The Irish,” replied Eaton reflectively, “are a temperamental race.
I had knowledge of her--remote but sufficient--before she sought the
cool, umbrageous shore. Her companions were the gayest, and they
doubtless bored her until a mood of introspection seized her--sorrow,
regret, a resolve to do quite differently. Very likely you were a
humble instrument of Providence to win her back to a good opinion
of herself. So she seemed quite jolly and radiant? Conceivably your
appearance caused her to think of her blessings--of her far flight from
those scenes your presence summoned from the past.”

“Well, she’s a fine girl all right,” Amidon commented to cover his
embarrassment at being unable to follow Eaton in his excursion into the
realm of psychology. “You wouldn’t have thought that girl, born in a
shack with as good-for-nothing folks as anybody ever had, would grow
up to be about the finest living girl! I guess you’d hunt pretty hard
before you’d find a girl to touch her.”

“I’ve thought of that myself, though not in quite your felicitous
phrases.”

“Don’t rub it in!” Amidon protested. “I guess the less I think about a
girl like that the better for me. And I guess there’s plenty of fellows
got their eye on her. I’ve heard some talk at the store about her and
the boss.”

“She doesn’t lack admirers, of course. When you say ‘boss,’ you refer,
I assume, to Mr. Copeland?”

Eaton looked up from the polishing of his glasses--a rite performed
with scrupulous care. The vague stare of his near-sighted eyes,
unprotected by his glasses, added to a disinterestedness expressed
otherwise by his careless tone.

“Well,” Amidon began, defensively, “Copeland is the boss, all
right,--that is, when he’s on the job at all. He’s some sport, but when
he calls me into his pen and goes over my orders, he knows whether I’m
on the right side of the average. Only he doesn’t do that with any of
the boys more than once in two months. He doesn’t quite get the habit;
just seems to think of it occasionally.”

“Capacity without application! Unfortunate, but not incurable. To be
sure, an old business like Copeland-Farley is hard to kill. Billy
Copeland’s father had the constructive genius, and Farley had the
driving power. It’s up to Billy not to let the house die on his hands.
Trouble is, the iron diminishes in the blood of a new generation: too
easy a time of it, soft-handed, loss of moral force, and that sort of
thing.”

“I guess Copeland travels a pretty lively clip, all right,” ventured
Amidon, not without a tinge of pride in his boss. “He and Kinney are
pace-setters; they’ve got plenty of gasoline in the buggy and like to
burn it. The boss may be a sport, but he’s a good fellow, anyhow. I
guess if he wants to marry Miss Farley he’s got a right to.”

He uttered this tamely, doubtful as to how his guide and mentor might
receive it, but anxious to evoke an expression.

“A trifle weak, but well-meaning,” remarked Eaton, as though he
had been searching some time for a phrase that expressed his true
appraisement of Copeland. “It’s deplorable that fellows like that--who
really have some capacity, but who are weak-sinewed morally--can’t
be protected from their own folly; saved, perhaps. Our religion,
Amidon, is deficient in its practical application. A hand on your
boss’s shoulder at the right moment, a word of friendly admonition,
might--er--save him from a too-wasteful expenditure of gasoline. If I
had the gift of literary expression, I should like to write a treatise
on man’s duty to man. It’s odd, Amidon,” he went on, refilling his
pipe, “that we must sit by--chaps like you and me--and see our brothers
skidding into the ditch and never feel any responsibility about them.
Doubtless you and I are known to many of our friends as weak mortals,
in dire need of help,--or, perhaps, only a word of warning that the
bridges are down ahead of us would suffice,--and yet how rarely do we
feel that hand on the shoulder? We should be annoyed, displeased, hot
clean through, if anybody--even an old and valued friend--should beg us
to slow down. It’s queer, Amidon, how reluctant we are to extend the
saving hand. Timidity, fear of offending and that sort of thing holds
us back. It becomes necessary to perform our Christian duty in the
dark, by the most indirect and hidden methods.”

Amidon frowned, not sure that he understood; and he hated himself when
he did not understand Eaton. Not to grasp his friend’s ideas convicted
him of stupidity and ignorance. Religion in Amidon’s experience meant
going to church and being bored. He remembered that the last time he
had visited a church he had gone to hear a girl acquaintance sing
a solo. She sang very badly, indeed, and he had been depressed by
the knowledge that she was spending for music lessons wages earned
as a clerk at the soap and perfumery counter in a department store.
Eaton’s occasional monologues on what, for a better name, he called
his friend’s religion, struck him as fantastic; he was never sure that
Eaton wasn’t kidding him; and the suspicion that you are being kidded
by a man at whose feet you sit in adoration is not agreeable. But Eaton
had become intelligible again.

“I’ve sometimes wondered whether Copeland shouldn’t be saved--a good
subject for experiment, at least. To demonstrate that we have the
courage of our convictions we must take a hard nut to crack. Queer
thing, that religious effort, as we now see it, is directed solely to
the poor and needy--the down-and-outers. Take a man of the day laborer
type, the sort that casually beats his wife for recreation: gets clear
down in the gutter, and the Salvation Army tackles his case--sets
him up again; good work! Great institution--the Army. But you take
the men who belong to clubs and eat course dinners; they don’t beat
their wives--only say unpleasant things to them when the bills run too
high; when such fellows get restless, absorb too much drink, neglect
business, begin seeing their bankers in the back room--where’s your
man, society, agency, to put the necessary hand on that particular
shoulder? What we do, Amidon, when we see such a chap turning up Monday
morning with a hang-over from Saturday night, is to remark, ‘Too bad
about Tom’--or ‘Dick’ or ‘Harry’--and then go to the club and order a
cocktail. That’s how we meet our reciprocal obligations!”

There seemed nothing that Amidon could add to this; but plainly it was
“Billy” Copeland, who was in Eaton’s mind, and no imaginary Tom, Dick,
or Harry; so he ventured to remark:--

“Well, I guess the boss hasn’t let go yet; he’ll pull up. He’s the best
man on the street to work for--when you can feel you _are_ working for
him.”

“Pleasanter to work for a boss than the boss’s creditors, of course.
And minor stockholders sometimes get anxious and cause trouble.”

These utterances were like important memoranda jotted down on the
margin of a page whose text is of little value in itself. Amidon stared
blankly.

“Well, I don’t know about that; I guess the house has always made
money. We do more business than any other drug house in the State.”

“An excellent business, of course. And we’d imagine that a man falling
heir to it would take pride in holding on to it. But if he doesn’t,
somebody else will take the job. I’ve seen the signs change on a good
many business houses in my day. Your boss has taken several little
flyers on the outside since his father died; he’s rather fascinated
with the idea of being vice-president of new concerns: minor trust
companies, doubtful manufacturing schemes, and that sort of thing.
All this is entirely in confidence; I’m using you as an incentive to
thought. Kindly consider that my reflections are all _inter nos_. That
murder business got us started--but of course, it hasn’t anything to do
with your boss. It had occurred to me, though, that both you and I may
have certain reciprocal obligations in some of these matters we have
touched on. One never can tell where the opportunity to serve--to lay
that friendly hand on a particular shoulder--may present itself!”

During a rather long silence Amidon pondered this, wholly mystified
as to just what he or John Cecil Eaton had to do with the affairs
of William B. Copeland, a gentleman whose shoulder did not, on the
instant, seem to present itself as a likely object for the laying on of
hands. But Eaton was saying:--

“Coming to the matter of outside investments, there’s Kinney’s ivory
cement. The Kinney Manufacturing Company’s a client of mine, and it
wouldn’t be proper for me to express an opinion even to you, Amidon, on
the stability of its patents.”

“Well,” said Amidon, “everybody thinks Kinney’s making all the money
there is; he’d have to, to put as much jam on his bread as he’s
spreading. I meet his road men now and then, and they sob because
they can’t fill orders. They’re not looking for new business; they’re
shaking hands with the customers they’ve already got and telling ’em to
sit at the freight house until the factory catches up with orders. And
before he hit that cement, Kinney was bookkeeper in a brickyard!”

“Have a care, Amidon! You must be careful of your facts even in social
conversation. Mr. Kinney had a small interest in a brickyard, which
is very different. By the way, your opportunities for cultivating Mr.
Copeland’s acquaintance are rather restricted? Except on those rare
occasions when he summons you to make sure your orders cover your
expense account, you don’t see much of him?”

“Oh, he used to give me a jolly occasionally before I went on the
road--ask me why our ball team was glued to the tail of the league and
things like that. Once he asked me to look up a good chauffeur for
him--and I got him a chap who’d been a professional racer. I guess that
made a hit with him.”

“An assumption not wholly unwarranted. I hope he finds the chauffeur
satisfactory?”

“I guess he does; he must like him, for he bails him out about once a
week when he gets pinched for speeding.”

“Rather unfortunate that you’re not an inside man, so you could observe
the boss more closely; not, of course, to the extent of exercising an
espionage--but it might be possible--er--”

“Well, I can have an inside job if I want it. My being on the road
was just a try-out, and I’m not so keen about hopping ties with the
sample-cases. If I’m going to tackle the reading you’ve laid out for
me, I’ll have to change my job. The head stock-man’s quitting to go
into heavy chemicals on his own hook; I guess I could get his place.”

“Don’t refuse it without full consideration. My attitude toward you
thus far has been wholly critical; I’ve refrained from compliments; but
it would interest me to--er--see what you can do with your brains. I
suggest that you learn everything there is about the business outside
and in: become indispensable, be tolerant of stupidity, forbearing
amid jealousy, and indifferent to contumely; zealous, watchful, polite,
without, let us say, sissiness. Manners, my dear boy, are appraised far
too low in our commercial life.”

The grin occasioned by these injunctions died on Amidon’s face as he
realized that the lawyer was in earnest; but he was very much at sea.
Eaton was a busy man, as his generous office space and the variety of
his paraphernalia testified; just why he had sought an interview, for
the sole reason, apparently, of extracting a little information and
giving a little advice, caused Amidon to wonder. He was still wondering
when Eaton rose and glanced at the tiniest of watches, which he carried
like a coin in his trousers pocket and always looked at as though
surprised to find he had it.

“Time for me to be off; arguing a case in Pittsburg Monday.”

He opened a bag that lay beside him on the floor, pulled a packet from
a drawer and dropped it in, and told Jerry he might, if he had nothing
better to do, accompany him to the station.




CHAPTER VI

AN ERROR OF JUDGMENT


Nan stood at her window watching a man turn out of the walk that led
from the front door to the street. Her eyes followed him until the
hedge hid him from sight, and then she sat huddled in the window-seat,
breathing hard from her run upstairs. She went to her desk and
glanced at a page of the pass-book of a trust company that showed the
withdrawal on June 29 of one thousand dollars from her savings account.
There remained a balance of sixteen hundred, and she verified the
subtraction before thrusting the book into the bottom of a drawer under
a mass of invitations she meant at some time to file in a book she kept
as a record of her social activities.

She knew that she had made a mistake, and she was considering the
chances of discovery with a wildly beating heart. The man she had just
closed the door upon had paid two calls on successive days. He had
represented himself as the attorney for her brother, held on a charge
of murder at Belleville. He had plausibly persuaded her that it was
only fair for her to help her brother in his distress; that he was the
victim of unfortunate circumstances, but that an investment of one
thousand dollars for his defense would save her the humiliation of
having one of her own flesh and blood convicted of a murder for which
he was in no wise responsible. It had been intimated in discreet terms
that her relationship to the prisoner could be hidden; it would even be
denied if necessary.

She knew now that she should not have yielded; that in all fairness
to her foster-father she should have reported this demand to him. In
secretly giving money that represented Christmas and birthday gifts
through half a dozen years, for the defense of a man she had not heard
of since the beginning of her life with the Farleys, she justified
herself with the thought that it was kinder to her foster-father, in
his invalid condition, to keep the matter from him. She experienced a
sudden revulsion of feeling the moment the money passed from her hands
in the ten one-hundred-dollar bills the man had specified.

Farley had been seeing much of his lawyer since the row over the Kinney
luncheon. While his wrath at her duplicity seemed to pass, she assumed
that he had not forgotten his threat to disinherit her if she married
Copeland.

She was unwontedly attentive, spending much time reading to him or
playing cards. She knew that he liked having young people about, and
she asked to his room some of the girls and young men who called on
her. She exercised all her arts, which were many, to keep him cheerful,
and if he realized that the change had been abrupt, and that it dated
from his outburst against Copeland, he made no sign. She mustn’t stay
in too much, he said; he didn’t want to be a burden to her.

Eaton had called shortly after his talk with her on the golf links, but
on a night when Farley was receiving the attentions of his masseur. He
had spent the evening and had been at pains to make himself agreeable.
Now that Copeland had been thrust into the background, it occurred to
her that Eaton was worth cultivating. We all maintain more or less
consciously a mental list of people on whom we feel that we may rely in
difficulties; it had occurred to Nan that in a pinch Eaton would be a
friend worth having.

While it was wholly unlikely that Farley would ever learn of her
transaction with the stranger, it was nevertheless a possibility that
would hang over her as long as he lived. She sought comfort in the
reflection that the amount was small, and that Farley had never stinted
her; moreover, that it was her own money, subject to her personal
check; but there was little consolation to be had from such reasoning.
She must talk to some one, and before dinner she telephoned Eaton and
asked him to come up.

Farley had spent two hours with his lawyer that day, and from the
fact that two of his old friends had arrived hurriedly in answer to
telephonic summons, she judged that he had been making a new will and
that these men had been called to witness it.

He ate his prescribed supper, grumbling at its slightness, and watched
her consume her ampler meal with his usual expressions of envy at her
appetite.

“If I could eat like that, I’d be well in a week; it’s all rubbish,
this infernal diet!”

“But we tried disobeying the doctor the other night when the nurse was
out, and you didn’t sleep a wink. You’ll have to be good until the
doctor discharges you!”

“Don’t be silly!” he snapped. “They know mighty well they can’t cure
me; they’re just hangin’ on to me as long as they can for what they get
out of it. But I may fool ’em yet! My grandfather lived to be ninety
and died then from bein’ kicked by a horse; and my own father got up to
seventy-eight, and that gives me eight years more,” he ended defiantly.

“But you worked harder than they did, papa; you never used to come home
to dinner until seven.”

“Of course I didn’t!” he flared. “These young fellows that think four
hours make a day’s work are fools; you won’t see them gettin’ very far
in the world, spendin’ their time flyin’ around in automobiles and
playin’ golf all day!”

“Well, of course, some of the young men don’t amount to much,” she
admitted conciliatingly; “but there are others who work like nailers.
I suppose Mr. Eaton works as hard as any man in town; and he doesn’t
need to.”

“Doesn’t need to?” Farley caught her up. “Every honest man works; a
man who doesn’t work’s a loafer and very likely a blackguard. John
Eaton works because he has the brains to work with! He’s a rare man,
John Eaton. There ain’t many men like John, brought up as he was, with
everything easy; but he’s bucklin’ down to hard work just the same,
like the man he is. You say he’s comin’ up? Well, we’ll let him do the
talkin’. Maybe he can get a laugh out o’ me; he says some mighty funny
things--and they’re mostly true.”

He began feeling about for the evening paper that he had dropped at his
side when his tray was brought in.

“Just find the market page and read through the local stock-list. I
noticed they’ve put a new figure on White River Trust; I used to be a
director in that company. What’s that? Two hundred eighty-five? Let me
see, that’s fifteen dollars more than it was last January when I bought
fifty shares at two-seventy. She’ll go three hundred in five years.
It’s the safest buy in town.”

His long conference with his lawyer had left him tired and irritable.
His doctor had repeatedly counseled Nan and the nurse to keep him
quiet. As they seemed to be on perfectly safe ground, she began reading
the financial comment preceding the general stock and bond list, and
finding that he was interested, she followed it with the letter of a
firm of brokers that buoyantly prophesied a strong upward movement in
the immediate future. She thought he was listening attentively when he
began murmuring half to himself:--

“Two-eighty-five; she’s bound to go to three hundred. Hey? What’s that
rubbish you’re readin’? Wall Street letter? What do I care what a lot
of infernal gamblers say about a better tone in the market! Those
fellows down there don’t produce anything; it’s the boys out here that
grow the corn and feed the pigs that put value in the paper those
fellows down there gamble in! Put that paper down; I want to talk a
little business. How much money you got?”

The question was like a blow in the face. Her wits danced nimbly in her
effort to find an answer, to decide just how to meet the issue.

“Do you mean the housekeeping money?” she asked faintly.

Since Mrs. Farley’s death she had paid the household bills from a
sum deposited to her credit the first of every month. Beyond asking
occasionally how the bills were running, Farley had never questioned
her as to her expenditures. There was a special allowance and a
generous one for her clothing, and when she asked for additions to
the household money to renew linen or pay for repairs, it was always
readily forthcoming.

“No, no!” he ejaculated impatiently. “I don’t mean the house money.
How much you got in the trust company--the savings you’ve been gettin’
three per cent on? You must have over two thousand dollars there. I
been meanin’ to ask you about that; you’ve got too much to keep at
three per cent, and we ought to put it into securities of some kind.
Run along and get your pass-book. If you haven’t got enough to buy ten
shares of White River Trust stock, I’ll bring it up a little so you can
have an even number.”

He was absorbed in mental calculations and did not notice the
reluctance with which she rose and walked toward her room. The trust
company required that books be presented when withdrawals were made,
and she remembered the appearance of the teller’s notation. Farley
had never looked at her pass-book since the day she brought it home
and proudly displayed it. It was the unkindest fate that had turned
his mind upon it at this juncture, and she canvassed all possible
explanations: necessary expenditures in excess of her household and
personal accounts; unusual repairs which she might pretend she had not
wanted to trouble him with in his illness; or benevolences--the latter,
she fancied, more likely to appease than the others in view of his own
generosity to causes that appealed to him. She decided that a frank
confession followed by an appeal to sentiment was the likeliest means
of staying his anger.

She waited twisting her hands nervously, while he examined the book.

“What’s this? What’s this mean, Nan? You took out a thousand dollars in
one lump--to-day! My God, what does this mean? What kind of investments
you makin’, Nan? Yesterday you had with interest--lemme see--twenty-six
hundred dollars, and now you’ve cut it down to sixteen hundred! What
you spendin’ that money for, girl?”

“Well, papa,” she began with the best air of frankness she could
summon, “something very strange and sad has happened. I meant to tell
you all about it just as soon as you were stronger, but I’m glad to
tell you now, for I know you will understand and sympathize--as you’ve
always done whenever I’ve had my little troubles--”

He seemed to be taking this in good part until “troubles” caused him to
sniff.

“Troubles! What troubles you ever had? I guess there ain’t a girl in
town that’s had less trouble than you have!”

“Of course, I didn’t mean it that way, papa; I mean only the little
things, little mistakes and slips I’ve made that you and mamma have
always been kind about. No girl was ever treated as kindly as you have
treated me. And I mean always to be perfectly frank with you; and I’m
going to be now.”

“Well,” he said impatiently.

She felt that her contemplated explanation had been well chosen, but
she must be adroit, risking no word that might spoil the effect of her
disclosure.

She knelt beside him and began in a tone that was eloquent of humility,
yet with a confidence that she hoped would not be lost upon him.

“You see, papa, when you brought me home with you, and you and mamma
began caring for me, I was just a poor little waif, ready for an orphan
asylum. My father and mother would never have been able to do anything
for me if they had lived; and if it hadn’t been for you and mamma, I’d
never have known any of the things I’ve learned through you. I might
have been a dining-room girl right now in some cheap hotel if you
hadn’t opened your doors and your hearts to me. And that has made me
appreciate my blessings--all the comforts and luxuries you have given
me. And it has made me feel, more than you may imagine, for people not
so lucky as I am--the under dog that gets kicked by everybody. And even
when people are wicked and do evil things, I think we ought to think
kindly of them and help them when we can. I know you and mamma always
practiced that. And I’ve tried to; I really have!”

She lifted her eyes and there were tears in them, that seemed to be
born of a deep compassion, a yearning toward all the poor and erring
among mankind. Farley was not unmoved by this demonstration; he shifted
his legs uneasily under the light pressure of her arms. Her spell upon
him had never been more complete; she felt that she might risk much in
the mood to which she had brought him.

“And you know, papa, I have thought a great deal about my brother--who
drifted away with the flood. I haven’t seen him since father and mother
died. Tom is much older than I am, and the poor boy never had any
chance. I hadn’t even heard of him since you brought me away until the
other day. And he’s in trouble, very deep, serious trouble, papa; he’s
been arrested--I’m sure not for anything he really did; but being poor
and without friends it was perfectly natural for him to ask me to help
him. I think you will agree to that. And he sent his lawyer to ask me
for money to use in defending him. I meant to tell you all about it
when you were well; I felt sure I was doing right and that you’d be
glad to have me help him; and it’s all so horrible--”

She felt his form grow rigid, felt his hands roughly push her away, as
he blurted hoarsely:--

“Blackmail! My God, it’s blackmail--or else you’re lyin’ to me!”

She rose and faced him tearfully.

“It’s the truth!” she declared. “He’s my brother--the only one of my
family that’s left. You wouldn’t have me refuse to help--”

“Help him! Turn a thousand dollars of your savings over to a worthless
whelp that’s got into jail! How do you know he’s your brother?--a man
that waits all these years before he shows himself and then plumps down
on you for a thousand dollars! I tell you it’s blackmail, blackmail!
And you hide all this from me just as though I hadn’t any right to know
what kind o’ trouble you get mixed up in! Ain’t you got sense enough
to know you’re touchin’ bottom when you give up money that way? What’s
he threatened you with? You tell me everything there is to know about
this, and I’ll find out mighty quick whether a contemptible scoundrel
can come to my house and carry away a thousand dollars!”

Farley glared at her unpityingly while she told her story, which seemed
preposterously weak when reduced to plain terms. She sobbingly admitted
her fear of newspaper notoriety, her wish to shield him from the shame
of her connection with a man awaiting trial for murder. There was no
mercy in his eyes; he was outraged that she had again deceived him.

“Afraid o’ havin’ your name in the papers, were you? Just as though
blackmailers didn’t always use that club on the fools they rob! And how
many times do you think a man like that will come back, now he knows
you’re easy--now you’ve gone into business with him?”

The maid knocked at the door and announced Eaton, but Farley gave no
heed.

“Payin’ blackmail! You’ve got yourself into a nice mess! And after all
I’ve done to protect you and make a decent woman of you, you’re scared
to death of havin’ some of your relations go to jail--just as though
you hadn’t turned your back on the whole set when we brought you here
and gave you our name. That _ought_ to have made you respectable, if
it didn’t! Afraid of newspapers, afraid of jackleg lawyers! It’s the
rottenest case of blackmail I ever heard! And here I’ve been proud to
think that we’d pulled you out of the river mud and made a high-minded
woman of you, that could stand up with any girl anywhere!”

She waited listening to his deep breaths, watching his tremulous hands;
and then without attempting to answer his indictment, she said meekly:--

“Of course, it was a mistake, papa. I ought to have told you about it;
but it’s my trouble--you must remember that! The shame of the exposure
would be something I’d have to bear alone; that was the way I looked at
it; and I didn’t want you to have the worry of it when you were just
beginning to get well.”

His thoughts had wandered away from her, playing about her offense in
its practical and legal aspects. When she ventured to remind him of
Eaton’s presence in the house, he made no reply. The silence became
intolerable and she stole from the room.




CHAPTER VII

WELCOME CALLERS


Nan decided to explain to Eaton that Farley’s illness had taken a turn
for the worse and that he had been abusing her as a relief from his
suffering. She was surprised to find two men in the parlor, the second
of whom she did not at once recognize as Jerry.

“I’ve taken the liberty,” Eaton began, “of bringing Mr. Amidon along.
Thought you wouldn’t mind, particularly as I couldn’t have come myself
without him. He dropped in just as I was leaving and seemed greatly
depressed; I hadn’t the heart to leave him. Depression is his normal
state--no serenity, no hope, no vision!”

Amidon grinned during this explanation, realizing that its lack
of veracity was, in the circumstances, peculiarly Eatonesque and
attributable to his friend’s wish to relieve Nan of embarrassment. They
had been uncomfortable from the moment the maid admitted them and they
became conscious of the discord above. Words and phrases of Farley’s
furious arraignment had reached them and there was no escaping the
conclusion that she had been the object of the castigation. Jerry,
acting on his own impulses, would have grabbed his hat and bolted. It
was only the demeanor of his idol, placidly staring at the wall, that
held him back. The call had been suggested by Eaton as a gay social
adventure, but it was disconcerting to find a girl whose good fortune
had seemed so enviable with tears in her eyes, nervously fingering
a moist handkerchief, and Jerry’s wits were severely taxed by his
efforts to meet a situation without precedent in his experience. Once
he had called on a girl whose father came home drunk and manifested
an ambition to destroy the furniture and use the pieces in the
chastisement of his daughter, and Amidon had enjoyed a brief, decisive
engagement with the inebriated parent and had then put him to bed. But
there was nothing in that incident that bore in the slightest degree
upon the difficulties of people who lived in the best street in town,
where, he had always assumed, the prosperous householders dwelt in
peace and harmony with their fortunate families.

“I’m glad to see you, both of you,” she said, with all the assurance
she could muster. “Papa’s been having a bad time; you must have heard
him talking. He’s very angry. I wish you’d go up, Mr. Eaton, and see if
you can’t talk him into a better humor.”

“If you think it’s all right--” Eaton began dubiously; but he was
amused at Nan’s cheerful willingness to turn her angry foster-parent
over to him for pacification. It was like Nan!

“Oh, he’d been looking forward to seeing you,” she answered quite
honestly. “These spells don’t last long; the very sight of you will
cheer him.”

She did not, however, offer to accompany him to Farley’s room, but
discreetly left him to test the atmosphere for himself.

“Well,” Jerry remarked, when he was alone with Nan, “Pittsburg put it
over on New York to-day. Three to nothing!”

He gave the score with a jubilant turn to the “nothing,” as though
Pittsburg’s success called for universal rejoicing.

Nan, intent upon catching some hint of the nature of Eaton’s reception,
merely murmured her mild pleasure in this news. She was satisfied, from
the calm that reigned above, that Eaton had begun well, and that under
the spell of his presence Farley would soon be restored to tranquillity.

“Sorry Mr. Farley is having a bad time,” Jerry went on, thinking the
invalid’s outbreak required at least a passing reference. “You know
down at the store the boys still talk about him. Somebody’s always
telling how he used to do things, and the funny things he used to say.
When I first struck the plant, he used to scare me to death, sticking
his nose in the shipping-room without notice and catching the boys
larking. Once I had gone to the mat with a plumber that was looking
for a gas-leak, and the boss came in and got us both by the collar
and threw us down the stairs like a pair of old shoes. I thought I
was a goner for sure when he sent for me to come to the office that
night and asked me who started the trouble. I told him the plumber
said whenever he found gas-leaks in jobbing houses he always reckoned
somebody was getting ready to collect the insurance. Uncle Tim--that’s
what the boys call him--asked me if I’d hit him hard, and I told him I
guess he’d have considerable business with the dentist, all right. Just
for that he raised my wages a dollar a week! Say, can you beat it!”

He snapped his fingers and shook his head impatiently.

“Isn’t that rank--just after Cecil lectured me all the way up here
about cutting out slang! I promised him solemnly before we started that
I wouldn’t say _say_; and here I’ve already done it! How do you learn
to talk like white folks, anyhow? I suppose you got to be born to it;
it must be like swimming or rowing a boat, that you learn once and
always catch the stroke right.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that,” replied Nan consolingly. “I use a
good deal of slang myself; and at school my English teacher said it
wasn’t such a sin if we used it as though we were quoting--we girls
held up two fingers--so!”

“That sounds reasonable, all right; I must tell my noble knight about
that. It seems sometimes as though I just couldn’t get a ball over the
plate--there I go again! And Cecil warned me specially against talking
like a bleacher hoodlum when we got here.”

“Oh, that’s not worth bothering about. I’m so glad to see you that I
could cry for joy. If you hadn’t come when you did, I don’t know what
might have happened.”

He had been trying to direct the talk into other channels, and her
remark puzzled him. That this wholly charming, delightful Nan could
have given her benefactor cause for the objurgations he had heard
poured out upon her was unbelievable. Still, it was rather pleasant
than otherwise to find that she was human, capable of tears, and it was
not less than flattering that she should invite his sympathy.

“Well,” he began cautiously, “I guess we all have our troubles. Life
ain’t such an easy game. You think you’re sailing along all right,
and suddenly something goes wrong and you’ve got to climb out and
study astronomy through the bottom of the machine. Why,” he continued
expansively, finding that he had her attention, “when I first went on
the road I used to get hot when I struck some mutt who pulled lower
prices on me or said he was over-stocked. But you don’t sell any
goods by getting mad. I picked up one of these ‘Keep Smiling’ cards
somewhere, and when I got blue I used to take a sneaking look at it and
put on a grin and tell the stony-hearted merchant the funniest story
I could think of and prove that our figures f.o.b. Peanutville were
cheaper, when you figured in the freight, than Chicago or Cincinnati
prices. I’ve made a study of freight tariffs; I can tell you the
freight on white elephants all the way from Siam to Keokuk and back to
Bangkok. I’ve heard the old boys down at the store talk about Farley
till I know all his curves. Farley’s all right; there’s nothing the
matter with Uncle Tim; only--you don’t want to shift gears on him too
quick. You’ve got to do it gentle-like.”

Nan smiled forlornly, but Amidon was glad that he could evoke any sort
of smile from her.

“It was all my fault,” she said. And then with a frankness that
surprised her she added: “I had deceived him about something and he
caught me at it. He gave me a big blowing-up, and I deserved it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say _that_; but, of course, playing the game straight
was always a big card with him. I guess Cecil will smooth him down.”

She was surprised to find herself talking to him so freely; his
eagerness to take her mind away from the unpleasant episode with
Farley gave her a comforting sense of his native kindliness. Her heart
warmed with liking for him as she reappraised his good looks, his
well-scrubbed appearance of a boy turned out for his first party by
a doting mother; his general air of wholesomeness and good humor. He
had known hard knocks, she did not question, but the bruises were well
hidden. With all his slanginess and volubility there was a certain
high-mindedness about him to which, in her hunger for sympathy, she
gave fullest value.

He was afraid of her further confidences; afraid that she would
disclose something she would regret later, and this he foresaw might
embarrass their subsequent relations. She had been humiliated by
Farley’s abuse, and it was not fair, he argued, to take advantage of
her present state of mind by allowing her to tell more of the trouble.
But he was not able at once to change the current of her thoughts.

“You know,” she said, sitting up straight and folding her hands on her
knees, “I’ve been thinking a lot of things since I saw you out there
by the river--about old times, and wondering whether it was good or
bad luck that took me away from Belleville and brought me up here.
I’d have been better off if I’d stayed there. I’d probably have been
washing dishes in the Belleville hotel if the Farleys hadn’t picked me
up, a dirty little beggar, and tried to make something decent out of
me! I’m saying that to you because you know all about me. You’ve made
your own way, and you’re a lot happier than I am, and you’re not under
obligations to anybody; and here I am trying to climb a ladder my feet
weren’t made for!”

“Cut all that out!” he expostulated. “Just because Uncle Tim’s been a
little fretful, you needn’t think everything’s gone to the bow-wows.
And as for staying in Belleville, why, the thought of it gives me
shivers! There ain’t any use talking about that.”

Her face expressed relief at the vigor with which he sprang to her
defense, and he plunged ahead.

“Say, speaking of dining-room girls, there was a girl at that
Belleville hotel that was some girl for sure. She was fruit to the
passing eye, and a mutt carrying samples for a confectionery house
called her Gladys one day, her real name being Sarah, and asked her
how she’d like going to the movies with him after she got the dishes
washed; and she landed one order of poached cold-storage eggs on his
bosom the neatest you ever saw. Some men never learn how to size up
character, and any fool could ’a’ told that that girl wasn’t open to a
jolly from a sweet-goods peddler who’d never passed that way before.
Sarah’s mother owns the hotel, and Sarah only helps in the dining-room
Saturday nights to let the regular crockery-smasher off to punch the
ivories for the Methodist choir practice. I was sitting next that chap
and he thought he’d show me what a winner he was. I’m not justifying
Sarah’s conduct, and about a half-portion of the golden side of that
order caught me on the ear. I merely mention it to show you that you
had better not think much of the life of the dining-room girl, which
ain’t all the handbills make out.”

“I hope,” remarked Nan, “that she didn’t break the plate!”

“No more,” he came back promptly, “than you could break a ten-dollar
bill at a charity fair. That’s another thing I learned from Cecil.
He got me to take a stroll with him through a charity bazaar last
winter--just to protect him from the snares of the huntress, he said.
He started in with ten tens and had to borrow five I was hiding from
my creditors before we got back to the door. And all we carried out of
the place was a pink party-bag Cecil handed a tramp we found freezing
to death outside and hoping a little charity would ooze through the
windows.”

“I was at the fancy-work counter at the fair,” said Nan, “and I
remember that Mr. Eaton bought something. I didn’t see you, though.”

“I noticed that you didn’t; I was plumb scared you might! There I go
again! _Plumb scared!_ Oh, Cecil, if you had heard me then!”

He was wondering just how he happened to be sitting in a parlor on a
fashionable street, talking to the only girl he had ever known whose
name figured in the society columns, quite as jauntily as he talked
with any of the stenographers or salesgirls he knew. He was confident
that parlor conversation among the favored of heaven was not of the
sort he had, in his own phrase, been “handing out.” This thought gave
him pause. He shook his cuffs from under the sleeves of his blue serge
coat with a gesture he had caught from Eaton, and felt nervously of the
knot of his four-in-hand.

Nan was asking herself whether the fact that a young fellow of Amidon’s
deficiencies could interest and amuse her wasn’t pretty substantial
proof that he was the kind of young man the gods had designed for her
companions. A year ago she would have resented his appearance in the
house; to-night she had a feeling that his right to be there was as
sound as her own. A different fling of the dice, and it might have been
he whom the Farleys rescued from poverty and obscurity.

In spite of his absurdities, she was conscious of definite manly
qualities in him. Several times she caught him scrutinizing her
sharply, as though something about her puzzled him and gave him
concern. His manners were very good--thanks, perhaps, to his adored
Eaton; and she liked his clean, fresh look and good humor. After her
talk with Eaton on the golf links, she had wondered whether the lawyer
wasn’t making a butt of him; but she dismissed this now as unjust to
Eaton, and as appraising Amidon’s intelligence at too low a figure.
During this reverie he waited patiently for her to speak, imagining
that her mind was still upon her troubles, and when the silence became
prolonged he rallied for a fresh attack.

“If you’d rather read,” he remarked, “we’ll hang up the silence sign
the way they have it in the library reading-room and I’ll say prayers
till Cecil comes down.”

“Oh, pardon me!” she laughed contritely. “You see I am treating you as
an old friend. Why don’t you go on and talk. You’ve had ever so many
interesting adventures, and I need to be amused. Please don’t think I’m
always like this; I hope you’ll see me some time when I’m not in the
dumps.”

“I should be afraid to,” he retorted boldly; and then feeling that
Eaton would have spurned such banality, ejaculated: “Oh, rot! Let me
scratch that out and say something decent. Just for instance,”--and his
face sobered,--“I think you’re nice! You were perfectly grand to me
that day down on the river. I told Cecil about that, and I could see it
made a hit with him; it set me up with him--that a girl like you would
be polite to a scrub like me.”

“Don’t be foolish,” she said. “I’m not proud of myself: I’m a failure,
a pretty sad fizzle, at that.”

She ignored his rapid phrases of protest and asked him how much time he
spent in town.

“Well, I’m likely to spend a good deal, from now on. The boss has been
shaking things up again, and he called me in by telephone yesterday and
changed my job. That’s the way with him; he won’t show up sometimes
for six weeks, and then he gets down early some morning and scares
everybody to death.

“I thought I was settled on the road for the rest of my life, and
now he’s made a job for me to help the credit man--who doesn’t want
me--and take country customers out to lunch. A new job made just for
my benefit. And all because of a necktie Cecil gave me. The boss saw
me sporting it one day and asked me where I got it. I had to make a
show-down, and he thought I was kidding him. You see Cecil’s about
the last man he’d ever think of giving me presents. If I’d laid that
necktie on any other living human being, it wouldn’t have cut a bit of
ice; but when I said, as fresh as paint, ‘John Cecil Eaton picked that
up in New York for me,’ he laughed right out loud. ‘What’s the joke?’
I asked him; and he says, ‘Oh, Eaton never gave me any haberdashery,
and I’ve known him all my life.’ And like the silly young zebra I
am, I came back with, ‘Well, maybe that’s the reason!’ You’d have
thought he’d fire me for that; but it seemed to sort o’ make us better
acquainted. He’s the prince, all right!”

She had been trying, more or less honestly, to put Copeland out of her
mind. Her knowledge of him as a business man had been the haziest; one
never thought of Billy Copeland as a person preoccupied with business.
She was startled when Amidon asked abruptly:--

“Of course, you know the boss?”

It was possible that Amidon had heard the gossip that connected her
name with his employer’s, and she answered carelessly:--

“Oh, yes; I know Mr. Copeland.”

“I guess everybody knows William B.,” said Amidon. “He’s got the
pep--unadulterated cayenne; he isn’t one of these corpses that are
holding the town back. He’s a live wire, all right.”

Then, realizing that he had ventured upon thin ice in mentioning
Copeland, he came back to shore at once.

“Cecil said that this being my first call, about thirty minutes would
do for me, so I guess it’s time for me to skid. He must be handing out
a pretty good line of talk on the upper deck.”

She begged him not to leave her alone, saying that Farley lived by
rules fixed by his doctor and that the nurse was likely to interrupt
the call at any minute. As he stood uncertain whether to go or wait for
Eaton, they heard the lawyer saying good-bye, and in a moment he came
down.

Nan looked at him quickly, but was able to read nothing in his
impassive face.

“I hope you two have been getting better acquainted,” Eaton remarked.
“Mr. Farley and I have had a splendid talk; I never found him more
amusing. One of the most interesting men I ever knew! What have you
been talking about? The silence down here has been ominously painful!”

“Mr. Amidon has been telling me of the egg-throwing habits of the
waitresses in my native town. Life here in the city is nothing to what
it is down on the river. He’s almost made me homesick!”

“My dear Amidon,” said Eaton severely, “have you been telling that
story--in a private house? I thought when I brought you here you’d be
on your good behavior. I’m sorry, Nan; I apologize for him. Of course,
he mustn’t come back; I’ll see to it that he doesn’t.”

“Don’t be cruel!” laughed Nan. “We got on beautifully!”

They heard Farley’s groans and mutterings as the nurse put him to bed,
and it seemed necessary to refer to him again before the men left.

“You won’t mind, Nan,” said Eaton, “if I say that Mr. Farley told me
the cause of your little difficulty; I know the whole story. I think he
probably won’t mention it to you again. I asked him not to. Just go on
as though nothing had happened. It was unfortunate, of course; but I’ve
persuaded him that your conduct is pardonable--really quite admirable
from your standpoint. If anything further arises in regard to it, I
wish you’d communicate with me, immediately.”

Ignoring her murmurs of gratitude, he turned to Jerry.

“Amidon, at this point we shake hands and move rapidly up the
street. And, Nan, you needn’t be troubled because Mr. Amidon heard
the last echoes of your difficulty. He’s perfectly safe,--discreet,
wise,--though you’d never guess it. You may safely assume that he heard
nothing. We must have some golf, you and I. My game’s coming up!”

She went with them to the street door, where Amidon, in executing a
final bow, nearly fell backward down the steps.




CHAPTER VIII

MRS. COPELAND’S GOOD FORTUNE


Now that they had the car, Farley insisted that Nan should go to
market. His wife, like all the thrifty housewives of the capital, had
always gone to market, and he thought the discipline would be good for
Nan. He liked to accompany her and watch the crowd while she was doing
her errands.

One Saturday, as Nan returned to the machine, with the chauffeur
following with the basket, she found Fanny Copeland seated in the car
beside Farley.

“Look here, Nan; I’ve picked up a surprise for you! We’re goin’ to take
Mrs. Copeland home to lunch.”

“I don’t know whether you are or not,” said Mrs. Copeland. “This is my
busiest day and I’ve got to catch the twelve-o’clock interurban for the
farm.”

“Don’t worry about that; we’ll send you home all right,” said Farley.

“Then I’m not going to have anything to say about it at all!” laughed
Mrs. Copeland. “All right; if my cows die of thirst, I’ll send you the
bill.”

“You do that, and it will be paid,” Farley assented cheerfully.

“But I’ve got to stop at the bank a moment--”

“I suppose,” said Nan, “you want to get rid of the money I just paid
at your stand for two yellow-legged chickens--you can see the legs
sticking out of the basket.”

Mrs. Copeland had failed to act upon Nan’s invitation to call upon
her--a delinquency to which she referred now.

“I really meant to come, but I’ve been unusually busy. I carry on just
enough general farming to be a nuisance; and dairying requires eternal
vigilance.”

“That’s because you’ve got a standard,” said Farley, with his blunt
praise. “You’ve got the best dairy in Indiana. The state inspectors
have put it strong.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Copeland lightly, “they gave me a better report than I
deserve just for being a poor, lone woman!”

Farley’s admiration for Mrs. Copeland was perfectly transparent.
It was Fanny’s efficiency, her general competence, Nan reflected,
quite as much as her good looks and cheerfulness, that attracted her
foster-father. Several times lately he had quoted what Bill Harrington,
the banker, had said of her--that she was the best business man in
town. And there was also Farley’s contempt for Copeland, which clearly
accentuated his liking for Billy’s former wife.

At the bank door Farley remembered that he had a check to cash and
asked Nan to attend to it for him. As Mrs. Copeland and Nan mounted
the bank steps together, they ran into Billy Copeland emerging in deep
preoccupation. The juxtaposition of the two women plainly startled him.
He took off his hat, mumbled something, and stood staring after them.
Then his gaze fell upon Farley, bending forward in the touring-car and
watching him with his small, sharp eyes. He instantly put on his hat
and crossed the walk.

“Good-morning, Mr. Farley,” he said cordially, offering his hand. “I’m
glad to see you out again.”

“Oh, I’m not dead yet,” growled Farley. “I’ve decided to hang on till
spring anyhow.”

His tone did not encourage conversation. His face was twisted into a
disagreeable smile that Copeland remembered of old, and there was a
hard, ironic glitter in the gray eyes. Farley had witnessed the meeting
on the bank steps with relish, and was glad of this opportunity to
prolong his enjoyment of his former associate’s discomfiture.

“I’m sure you’ll see many more springs, Mr. Farley. That’s a good
machine you’ve got there. The fact that you’ve taken up motoring has
given a real boost to the auto business. The agents are saying that if
you’ve got in line there’s no reason for anybody to hold back.”

The old man grunted.

“I had to have air; I knew all the time that was what I needed; these
damned doctors only keep people in bed so they can bulldoze ’em
easier.”

Copeland was attempting to be friendly, but Farley was in no humor to
meet his advances.

“That last payment on the sale of my stock is due September first. I
won’t renew it,” he said sharply.

“I hadn’t asked for an extension,” Copeland replied coldly.

“All right, then; that will be the end of _that_.”

Farley’s tone implied that there might be other matters between them
that this final payment would still leave open.

Copeland’s ready promise that the twenty-five thousand would be paid
irritated Farley, who saw one excuse for his animosity vanishing. He
leaned forward and pointed his finger at Copeland, who was backing
away, anxious to be gone before his former wife reappeared.

“You’re ruinin’ the house! You’re lettin’ it go to hell--the business
your father and I made the best jobbin’ house in this State! You’re a
drunkard and a gambler, but, damn your fool soul, there’s one thing
you can’t do--you can’t marry that little girl o’ mine! If you’ve got
that up your sleeve, be sure there’s no money goes with her for you to
squander! Remember that!”

It was the busiest hour of the day and the street was thronged.
Pedestrians turned and stared curiously. Copeland raged inwardly at his
stupidity in giving Farley a chance to abuse him publicly.

“You’re very unjust to me,” he said hotly. “I’ve known Nan ever since
she was a child and never had any but a friendly feeling for her. I
haven’t seen her for weeks. Now that I know how you feel toward me, I
have no intention of seeing her.”

“I guess you won’t see her!” Farley snorted. “Not unless you mean to
make her pay for it!”

Mrs. Copeland and Nan appeared at the bank entrance at this moment and
witnessed the end of the colloquy. Copeland lifted his hat to Farley
and walked rapidly away without glancing at them.

Farley became cheerful immediately, as he usually did after an
explosion. This opportunity for laying the lash across Billy Copeland’s
shoulders had afforded him a welcome diversion; and the fact that
Copeland had seen his former wife in Nan’s company tickled his sardonic
humor. He made no reference to Copeland, but began speaking of a new
office building farther down the street. It was apparent that neither
Nan nor Fanny shared his joy in the encounter and they attacked the
architecture of the new building to hide their discomfort.

Nan appeared the more self-conscious. She was thinking of Billy. He
had turned away from the machine with a crestfallen air which told her
quite plainly that Farley had been giving him a piece of his mind. And
Nan resented this; Farley had no right to abuse Billy on her account.

When they reached the house she took Fanny upstairs. If the glimpse of
Copeland on the bank steps had troubled Mrs. Copeland she made no sign.
Her deft touches with the comb and brush, as she glanced in the mirror,
her despairing comments upon the state of her complexion, which, she
averred, the summer suns had ruined; her enthusiasm over Nan’s silk
waist, which was just the thing she had sought without avail in all the
shops in town,--all served to stamp her as wholly human.

“But clothes! I hardly have time to think of them; they’re an enormous
bother. And I wear the shoes of a peasant woman when I come to town,
for I have to cut across the fields when I leave the interurban and I
can’t do that in pumps! You see--”

The shoes really were very neat ones, though a trifle heavy for
indoors. Nan instantly brought her shiniest pumps, dropped upon the
floor and substituted them for Fanny’s walking-shoes. It flashed
through her mind that Fanny Copeland inspired just such acts.

“You have the slim foot of the aristocrat,” observed Fanny. And then
with a wistful smile she leaned toward the girl and asked, “Do you mind
if I call you Nan?”

Nan was touched by the tone and manner of her request. Of course there
was no objection!

“I always knew I should like you,” said Fanny. “Of course, I haven’t
seen much of you lately, but I hear of you from a very ardent admirer:
John Eaton talks of you eloquently, and to interest John Eaton is a
real achievement! I’m afraid I bore him to death!”

“I can’t believe it; he never lets himself be bored; but like everybody
else, I’m never quite sure I understand him.”

“Oh, I tell him that’s one of his poses--baffling people. He surrounds
himself with mystery, but pretends that he doesn’t. If he were a gossip
he’d be horrible, for he knows everything about everybody--and knows it
first!”

“He’s the kindest of mortals,” Nan observed. “He’s always doing nice
things for people, but he has to do them in his own peculiar way.”

“Oh, John has the spirit of the true philanthropist; his right hand
never knows, you know--”

“He’s a puzzle to the people he’s kindest to, sometimes, I imagine,”
said Nan.

She laughed as she thought of Amidon, and Fanny appealed for
illumination as to what amused her.

“Oh, I was thinking of his protégé--a young man named Amidon. He and
I were kids together, back in my prehistoric days. He never had any
advantages--if you can say that of a boy who’s born with a keen wit and
a sense of humor. He does something at the Copeland-Farley store--went
in as errand boy before papa left. They had him on the road for a
while, but he’s in the office now. Mr. Eaton has taken a great shine
to him and Jerry imitates him killingly. That fine abstracted air
of Mr. Eaton’s he’s got nearly perfect; and he does the mysterious
pretty well, too. But he’s most delicious when he forgets to Eatonize
himself and is just natural. He’s quite short--which makes him all the
funnier--and he wears tall, white-wing collars _à la_ Eaton.”

“Tell me more!” said Fanny. “How old is the paragon?”

“About twenty-five, I should say, figuring with my own age as a
basis. He looked like a big boy to me in my river days. Mr. Eaton
has undertaken his social and mental rehabilitation and the effects
are amazing. They came to the house together to call, and I’ve
rarely been more entertained than by Jerry while his good angel was
upstairs talking to papa. He’s trying to avoid any show of emotion
just like his noble example, but once in a while he forgets himself
and grins deliciously. After a round of high-brow talk, he drops into
reminiscence and tells the most killing stories of the odd characters
he’s met in his travels with the sample-case. It can’t be possible that
Mr. Eaton hasn’t introduced him to you?”

“He hasn’t, and I’m going to complain about it bitterly,” said Mrs.
Copeland, amused by Nan’s enthusiasm.

“You should, for Jerry is a nice boy, and very wise and kind.”

“The only one of his benefactions he ever confided to me was the case
of a girl--the daughter of an old friend who had fallen on evil times.
He wanted to send her to college, and I became the visible instrument,
so he needn’t appear in the matter himself. The girl graduated last
year and, like a fraud, I had to go down to Vassar and pose as her good
angel. She’s a great success and is to teach somewhere, I think. But--I
shouldn’t be telling you this!”

“Oh, it’s quite safe! I value his friendship too much to do anything to
displease him.”

“Well, things like that ought to be told,” remarked Fanny reflectively;
“particularly when some people think John Eaton cold and selfish.”

Luncheon interrupted these confidences. Farley had not been to the
dining-room for several months and he made much of the occasion.

“This is a celebration for me, too,” said Fanny. “I’ve just had a piece
of good fortune. Nobody knows of it yet; you’re the first people I’ve
told! You know I haven’t many friends to confide in. An aunt of mine
has just died and left me some money. In fact, there’s a great deal of
it; I’m richer than I ever expected to be.”

“Good! Good!” Farley ejaculated, interested and pleased.

“It’s fine,” said Nan; “and it’s nice of you to tell us about it.”

Nan was afraid that Farley would demand the amount of the legacy, but
evidently Fanny knew he would be curious as to all the details, and
she went on to explain that it was her mother’s sister, the last of the
family, who had died recently in Ohio and left her all her property.

“I have visited her every year or two since I was a child and knew her
very well, but I never had any idea she meant to do this. It will take
some time to settle it up, but there’s as much as two hundred thousand
dollars in sight--maybe fifty more. She was a dear old woman; I’m so
ashamed of myself that I wasn’t kinder to her, but she was difficult to
handle--hadn’t left home for years, though she used to write to me two
or three times a year. So there! That’s why I’m running into the bank
these days, to ask Mr. Harrington about investments.”

“If you take his advice,” said Farley emphatically, “you’ll never lose
any of that money!”

“Then what’s to become of the farm?” asked Nan.

“Oh, I shall run it just the same. I’d rather lose that legacy than
give it up. An unattached woman like me must have something to amuse
herself with.”

“That’s a lot o’ money; a whole lot o’ money,” said Farley; “and I’m
mighty glad you’ve got it.”

Nan saw a gleam in his eye and a covert smile playing about his lips.
He chuckled softly.

“Two hundred; two hundred fifty; that’s a whole lot o’ money; and you
don’t want to let any of these sharks around here get it away from
you; they’ll be after you all right. But I guess you’ll know how to
handle ’em,” he added with satisfaction.

When Fanny was ready to go he called for his car and he and Nan drove
home with her.

That night, after the nurse had put him to bed, Nan heard an unusual
sound from his room. She crossed the hall and stood in the doorway a
moment. He was muttering to himself and chuckling.

“Picked up two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, just like findin’
it! Turned her out; got rid of her! Well, that’s a hell of a joke on
you, Billy Copeland!”




CHAPTER IX

A NARROW ESCAPE


On a rainy evening in mid-September, a salesman for an Eastern
chemical firm invited Amidon to join him in a game of billiards at the
Whitcomb House. As Russell Kirby was one of the stars of the traveling
fraternity, Jerry was greatly honored by this attention. Moreover, when
he hung up his coat in the billiard room and rolled up the sleeves of
his silk shirt, the traveler’s arms proved to be thoroughly tanned--and
this impressed Jerry as indicating that Kirby indulged in the
aristocratic game of golf and did not allow the cares of business to
interfere with his lawful amusements. Kirby played very good billiards,
and did not twist his cigar into the corner of his mouth when he made
his shots, as most of Jerry’s friends did.

“The lid’s on a little looser in your town than it was last winter,”
remarked the envied one, sipping a ricky. “I suppose by following our
noses we could strike a pretty stiff game without going out into the
wet.”

“Oh, there’s always more or less poker around here,” replied Jerry,
unwilling to appear ignorant of the moral conditions of his own city.

He chalked his cue and watched Kirby achieve a difficult shot.
Billiards afforded Jerry a fine exercise for his philosophic temper,
steady hand, and calculating eye. He had developed a high degree of
proficiency with the cue in the Criterion Billiard Parlors. It was a
grief to him that in trying to live up to Eaton he had felt called upon
to desert the Criterion, where the admiration of lesser lights had been
dear to his soul.

“Big Rodney Sykes is here,” Kirby remarked carelessly. “They chased him
out of Chicago that last time they had a moral upheaval.”

Jerry was chagrined that he knew nothing of Big Rodney Sykes,
presumably a gambler of established reputation. To be a high-salaried
traveler, with a flexible expense account, was to be in touch with
the inner life of all great cities. Jerry’s envy deepened; it availed
nothing that he could beat this sophisticated being at billiards.

“Rather tough about that boss of yours,” Kirby continued. “It’s fellows
of his size that Big Rodney goes after. A gentleman’s game and no
stopping payment of checks the next morning.”

“Oh, the boss is no squab; I guess he’s sat in with as keen sharps as
Sykes and got out with carfare home,” replied Jerry.

“Of course; but on a hot night like this many a good man feels the
need of a little relaxation. It just happened”--he prolonged the
deliberation of his aim to intensify Jerry’s curiosity--“happened I saw
Copeland wandering toward Sykes’s room as I was coming down.”

“I guess the boss knows a thing or two,” replied Jerry easily, in a
tone that implied unlimited confidence in Copeland.

He was consumed with indignation that Kirby should be able to tell him
anything about Copeland. It had been done, too, with a neatness of
insinuation that was galling.

“Well, I guess,” persisted Kirby, “you miss old Uncle Tim at the store.
I used to have many a jolly row with Uncle Tim; he was one man it
never paid to fool with; but he was all right--just about as clean-cut
and straight a man as I ever fought discounts with. Uncle Tim was a
merchant,” he ended impressively as he bent over the table.

In calling Farley a merchant with this air of finality he implied very
clearly that William B. Copeland was something quite different, and
Jerry resented this imputation as a slur upon his house. Much as he
admired Kirby’s clothes and metropolitan ways, he hated him cordially
for thus speaking of Copeland, who was one of Kirby’s important
customers. Mere defeat was no adequate punishment for Kirby; Jerry
proceeded to make a “run” that attracted the admiring attention of
players at neighboring tables and precluded further discussion of
Copeland.

At midnight Kirby said he had had all the billiards he wanted and
invited Jerry to his room.

“I always like to tell people about their own town and I’ll show you
where they’re piling up the chips,” he remarked.

His room was opposite the elevator on the seventh floor, and having
unlocked his door he piloted Jerry round a corner and indicated three
rooms which he said were given over to gambling.

“If you give the right number of taps that first door will open,” said
Kirby, “but as an old friend I warn you to keep out.”

As they were turning away a telephone tinkled faintly in one of the
rooms and they heard voices raised excitedly, accompanied by the bang
of over-turned furniture.

“They’ve got a tip the cops are coming or there’s a fight,” said Kirby.
“Here’s where we fade!”

He led the way quickly back to his room, dragged Jerry in, and shut the
door.

While the sounds of hasty flight continued, the elevator discharged
half a dozen men and they heard the hotel manager protesting to the
police that it was an outrage; that the rooms they were raiding had
been taken by strangers, and that if there was anything wrong he wasn’t
responsible.

A few minutes later the return of the prisoners to the elevator
announced the success of the raid. Several of them were protesting
loudly against riding to the police station in a patrol wagon; others
were taking the whole matter as a joke. Above the confusion Copeland’s
voice rose drunkenly in denunciation of his arrest.

Kirby, anxious not to be identified even remotely with the sinners who
had been caught in their transgressions, had taken off his coat and was
lighting a cigar.

“Try one of these, Amidon. We’d better sit tight until the cops get out
of the building. Nice town this! Gambling in respectable hotels. No
doubt all those fellows are leading citizens, including--”

At this instant the electric lights were extinguished. The darkness
continued and Jerry opened the door and stuck his head out. Half the
prisoners had been sent down and the remainder were waiting for the
elevator to return. They growled dismally and somebody said it was a
good chance to give the cops the slip.

One of the policemen struck a match and held it up to light the
entrance to the car. Jerry’s eyes ran quickly over the group facing
the shaft, but he recognized none of the men. As the match died out a
prolonged, weary sigh near at hand caused him to start. Some one was
leaning against the wall close beside him. He reached out, caught the
man by the arm, drew him into the room and softly closed the door.

Kirby demanded to know what Amidon had done, and during the whispered
explanation the globes began to brighten. Jerry jumped for the switch
and snapped off the lights. He climbed on a chair and surveyed the hall
through the transom. The last officer was stepping into the elevator,
and some one demanded to know what had become of Billy Copeland.

“Oh, he went down in the first load,” replied another voice.

Then the door clanged and the hall was quiet.

“Turn on the lights,” commanded Kirby.

Copeland sat on the bed, staring at them foolishly.

“Wherenell am I?” he asked blinking. “Thiss jail or somebody’s parlor?”

“Your nerve, young man,” Kirby remarked to Jerry, “leaves nothing to be
desired. I suppose it didn’t occur to you that this is my room?”

“Oh, that will be all right. If the cops ain’t back here in ten
minutes, they’ll probably think he’s skipped; and they won’t waste time
looking for him; they know they can pick him up to-morrow, easy enough.”

“Zhat you, Kirby, good old boy; right off Broadway! Kind of you, ’m
sure. Good boy, Amidon; wouldn’t let your boss get hauled off in patrol
wagon. Raise wages for that; ’preciate it; mos’ grateful!”

“All right; but please stop talking,” Jerry admonished. “We’ll all get
pinched if the cops find out you’re here.”

“Los’ five thous; five thou-sand dollars; hons’ to God I did!”

Copeland’s face was aflame from drink and the heat, and unable to
comprehend what had happened to him he tumbled over on the bed. Kirby
eyed him contemptuously and turned upon Amidon angrily.

“This is a nice mess of cats! Would you mind telling me what you’re
going to do with our fallen brother? Please remember that reputation’s
my only asset, and if I get arrested my house might not pass it off as
a little joke!”

“Oh, cheer up and be a good sport! I know the boys at the desk
downstairs and I’m going to tell ’em you’ve cleared out to make way for
an old comrade of the Army of the Potomac. I’ll have you moved, and
then I’ll put the boss to bed.”

“Anything to please you,” said Kirby ironically, as Copeland began
to snore. “Your boss is lying on my coat and I hope you’ll have the
decency to pay for pressing it!”...

At ten the next morning Amidon called at the Whitcomb and found
Copeland half dressed. He had telephoned to his house for toilet
articles and clean linen and presented the fresh and chastened
appearance with which he always emerged from his sprees.

“I thought I’d drop in,” said Jerry, seating himself in the window.

“Been to the store?” asked Copeland from before the mirror where he was
sticking a gold safety pin through the ends of a silk collar.

“Yes; I took a look in.”

“Any genial policeman lying in wait for me?”

“Nothing doing! Everything’s all fixed.”

“Fixed? How fixed?”

“Oh, I know the way around the pump at the police court, and I had a
bum lawyer who hangs out there make the right sign to the judge. You
owe me forty-seven dollars--that includes ten for the lawyer.”

“Cheap at the price,” remarked Copeland. He had taken a check book from
the table and was frowningly inspecting the last stub.

“I didn’t come to collect,” said Jerry. “Any old time will do.”

“How did the rest of the boys come out?” asked Copeland, throwing the
book down impatiently.

“Oh, the big sneeze from Chicago got a heavy soaking. The judge took
it out on him for the rest of you. Wouldn’t do, of course, to send
prominent business men to the work-house. All fined under assumed
names.”

“Rather expensive evening for me. Much obliged to you just the same for
saving me a ride in the wagon.”

“Oh, that was easy,” said Jerry. “By the way, I guess we’d better slip
my lawyer friend another ten. He dug this up for you--no questions, no
fuss; all on the dead quiet.”

He drew from his trousers pocket a crumpled bit of paper and handed it
to Copeland.

Jerry was not without his sense of the dramatic. He rolled a cigarette
and watched Copeland out of the corner of his eye.

“See here, Jerry,” said Copeland quickly, “I don’t know about this. If
I gave that check, and I know I did, I’ve got to stand by it. It’s not
square--”

“Oh, I wouldn’t burst out crying about that!” remarked Jerry easily.
“Five thousand is some money, and the Chicago shark was glad enough to
have the check disappear from the police safe. You were stewed when you
wrote the check; and besides, it was a crooked game. Forget it; that’s
all!” He stretched himself and yawned. “Can I do anything for you?”

“It seems to me,” said Copeland, “that you’ve done about enough for
me for one day,--kept me out of jail and then saved me five thousand
dollars!”

“We do what we can,” replied Jerry. “Keep us posted and when in doubt
make the high sign. You’d better keep mum about the check. The deputy
prosecutor’s a friend of mine and I don’t want to get him into trouble.”

“It makes me feel a little better about that check to know that it
wasn’t good when I gave it,” remarked Copeland dryly. “I’ve only got
about a hundred in bank according to my stubs.”

“I was just thinking,” said Jerry, playing with the curtain cord, “as
I came down from the police court, that five thousand per night swells
the overhead considerable. This isn’t a kick; I just mention it.”

Copeland paused in the act of drawing on his coat to bestow a
searching glance upon his employee. He shook himself into the coat and
rested his hand on the brass bedpost.

“What’s the odds?” he asked harshly. “I’m undoubtedly going to hell and
a thousand or two, here and there--”

“Why are you going?” asked Jerry, tying a loop in the curtain cord.

Copeland was not prepared for this; he didn’t at once correlate
Amidon’s question with his own remark that had inspired it.

“Oh, the devil!” he ejaculated impatiently; and then he smiled ruefully
as he realized that there was a certain appositeness in his rejoinder.

The relations of employer and employee had been modified by the
incidents of the night and morning. Copeland imagined that he was
something of a hero to his employees, and that Jerry probably viewed
the night’s escapade as one of the privileges enjoyed by the more
favored social class. Possibly in his own way Amidon was guilty of
reprehensible dissipations and therefore disposed to be tolerant of
other men’s shortcomings. At any rate, the young fellow had got him
out of a bad scrape, and he meant to do something for him to show his
gratitude.

“Well, a man’s got to let loose occasionally,” he said, as he began
collecting his toilet articles.

“I suppose he has,” Amidon admitted without enthusiasm.

“I guess I ought to cut out these midnight parties and get down to
business,” said Copeland, as though recent history called for some such
declaration of his intentions.

“Well, it’s up to you,” Jerry replied. “You can let ’er slide if you
want to.”

“You mean that the house is sliding already?” Copeland asked.

“It’s almost worse than a slide, if you want to know. But I didn’t come
here to talk about that. There’s plenty of others can tell you more
about the business than I can.”

“But they don’t,” said Copeland, frowning; “I suppose--I suppose maybe
they’re afraid to.”

“I guess that’s right, too,” Jerry affirmed.

“Well, you’re in a position to learn what’s going on. I want to push
you ahead. I hope you understand that.”

“Oh, you treat me all right,” said Jerry, but in a tone that Copeland
didn’t find cheering.

“I mean to treat everybody right at the store,” declared Copeland
virtuously. “If any of the boys have a kick I want them to come
straight to me with it.”

Jerry laid his hand on the door ready for flight and regarded Copeland
soberly.

“The only kick’s on you, if you can bear to hear it. Everybody around
the place knows you’re not on the job; every drayman in the district
knows you’re out with a paintbrush every night, and the solid men
around town are saying it’s only a matter of time till you go broke.
And the men down at the store are sore about it; it means that one of
these mornings there’ll be a new shift and they’re likely to be out of
a job. Some of them have been there a long time, and they don’t like to
see the old business breaking down. And some of them, I guess, sort o’
like you and hate to see you slipping over the edge.”

During this speech Copeland stood with his cigarette-case half opened
in his hand, looking hard at the top button on Amidon’s coat.

“Well,” he said, thrusting a cigarette into his mouth and tilting it
upwards with his lips while he felt for a match, “go on and hand me the
rest of it.”

“I guess that’s about all from me,” replied Jerry, “except if you want
to bounce me right now, go ahead, only--let’s don’t have any hard
feeling.”

Copeland made no reply, and Jerry went out and closed the door. Then
in a moment he opened it, saw Copeland staring out across the roofs in
deep preoccupation, and remarked, deferentially:--

“I’ll carry your bag down, sir. Shall I order a taxi?”

“Never mind,” said Copeland, with affected carelessness; “I’ll attend
to it. I’m going to the store.”




CHAPTER X

THE AMBITIONS OF MR. AMIDON


No other branch of commerce is as fascinating as the wholesale drug
business. A drug stock embraces ten thousand small items, and the
remote fastnesses of the earth are raked to supply its necessities.
The warehouses are redolent of countless scents that pique a healthy
curiosity; poppy and mandragora and all the drowsy sirups of the world
are enlisted in its catalogue. How superior to the handling of the
grosser commodities of the wholesale grocery line! How infinitely more
delightful than distributing clanging hardware or scattering broadcast
the unresponsive units of the dry-goods trade!

Such, at least, were Jerry Amidon’s opinions. Jerry knew his way around
the store--literally. He could find the asafœtida without sniffing his
way to it. He had acquired a working knowledge of the pharmacopœia, and
under Eaton’s guidance he purchased a Latin grammar and a dictionary,
over which he labored diligently in the midnight hours. His curiosity
was insatiable; he wanted to know things!

“Assistant to the President” was the title bestowed upon him by
his fellow employees. By imperceptible degrees he had grown into
a confidential relationship with Copeland that puzzled the whole
establishment. The latest shifts had been unusually productive of
friction, and Amidon had found his new position under the credit man
wholly uncomfortable. Having asserted his authority, Copeland gave no
heed to the results. The credit man was an old employee, very jealous
of his prerogatives, and he had told Jerry in blunt terms that he had
nothing for him to do. The auditor thereupon pounced upon him and set
him to work checking invoices.

Jerry wrote a good hand and proved apt, and as a result of this contact
with the office he absorbed a vast amount of information pertaining
to the business to which, strictly speaking, he was not entitled.
Copeland, seeing him perched on a stool in the counting-room, asked
him what he was doing there, and when Jerry replied that he was just
helping out for a day or two, Copeland remarked ironically that he
guessed he’d better stay there; that he’d been thinking for some time
that fresh blood was needed in that department.

No one else entered Copeland’s office with so much assurance. If Jerry
hadn’t been so amiable, so willing to help any one who called for his
assistance, he would have been cordially hated; but Jerry was a likable
fellow. He prided himself on keeping cheerful on blue Mondays when
everybody else about the place was in the doldrums.

The auditor sent him to the bank frequently, and he experienced a
pleasurable sensation in walking briskly across the lobby of the
Western National. He knew many of the clerks he saw immured in the
cages; some of them were members of the Little Ripple Club, and he made
a point of finding out just what they did, and incidentally the amount
of their salaries, which seemed disgracefully inadequate; he was doing
quite as well himself. He liked to linger in the bank lobby and talk to
people. He had hit on the happy expedient of speaking to men whether
he knew them or not; he argued that in time they would ask who he was,
which was a surer way of impressing himself upon them than through
formal introductions.

Ambition stirred in the bosom of Jeremiah A. Amidon. He lavished his
admiration upon the “big” men of the “street”--in the main they were
hard workers, and he was pretty well persuaded of the virtue and reward
of industry.

Nearly all the leading manufacturers and merchants were stockholders
in banks. The fact that Copeland enjoyed no such distinction troubled
Jerry. He studied the stock-list, hoping to see something some day that
he could buy.

The local stock exchange consisted of three gentlemen calling
themselves brokers. Whenever they met by chance on the steps of the
Western National or in a trolley going home, the exchange was in
session. The “list” must be kept active, and when there were no
transfers the brokers could trade a few shares with one another to
establish a price. These agitations of the local bourse would be duly
reported on the market page of the newspapers--all but the number of
shares changing hands! “A better tone prevailing”; “brisk demand for
tractions”; “lively trading in industrials” would soberly greet the eye
of students of local financial conditions.

Foreman, one of the brokers, who had been haunting the store for
several days looking for Copeland, accosted Jerry in the bank one
afternoon.

“Your boss doesn’t sit on his job much,” Foreman remarked. “I’m getting
tired chasing him.”

“He’s off motoring with Kinney--they’re looking for a place to start
another cement mill. Why don’t you call for me when you honor the
house?”

“Oh, my business with Copeland is too trifling to trouble you about,”
the broker remarked ironically. “You haven’t any money, have you?”

Jerry bent his ear to catch the jingle of coin inside the cages.

“Oh, if you want to borrow, Copeland-Farley ain’t a pawnshop.”

“I guess C-F doesn’t _lend_ much; it’s the biggest borrower on the
street,” said Foreman.

“Every big jobber is a heavy borrower. It’s a part of the game,” Jerry
replied. Foreman’s anxiety to find Copeland had piqued his curiosity.
“Of course, if your business with the boss can wait--”

“It’s a trifling matter, that will probably annoy him when I mention
it. I’ve got twenty shares of Copeland-Farley for sale. I thought he
might want to pick ’em up.”

“Must be a mistake,” replied Jerry indifferently; “there’s never any of
our stock for sale.”

“No; I suppose you’ve got most of it yourself downstairs in the safety
vault!”

“Come through and pour the dope!” said Jerry, grinning cheerfully.

“Well, I’ve got ’em all right. An old party named Reynolds up at Fort
Wayne had twenty shares and his executors wrote me that Copeland ought
to have a chance to buy ’em. I’ve worn myself out trying to find your
boss. I don’t know who’d buy if he didn’t. The things you hear about
your house are a little bit scary: trade falling off; head of the
company drinking, gambling, monkeying with outside things, like Kinney
cement--”

“Well, well!” Jerry chirruped; “you’re just chuck full of sad tidings.”

“Of course, you know it all; but maybe you don’t know that Corbin &
Eichberg are cutting into your business. There will be an involuntary
consolidation one of these days and Copeland-Farley will be painted off
the sign.”

“You’re the best little booster I’ve heard sing this week! What’ll you
take for the stock?”

“Par.”

“Sold! Bring your papers here to-morrow at two and I’ll give you the
money.”

Jerry had heard some one say that it was what you can do without money
that proves your mettle in business. He had one thousand dollars, that
represented the savings of his lifetime. The second thousand necessary
to complete the purchase he borrowed of Eaton--who made the advance not
without much questioning.

“Very careless on Copeland’s part, but to be expected of a man who
takes only a fitful interest in his business. You have about one
thousand dollars! All right; I’ll lend you what you need to buy the
stock. But keep this to yourself; don’t turn in the old certificate for
a new one--not at present. Wait and see what happens. Copeland needs
discipline, and he will probably get it. Kinney and Copeland seeing
much of each other?”

“Well, they’re off on a business trip together.”

“I mean social affairs. They haven’t been driving peaceful citizens
away from the Country Club by their cork-popping quite so much, have
they? I thought not; that’s good. The general reform wave may hit them
yet.”

“On the dead, I think Copeland’s trying to cut out the early morning
parties,” said Jerry earnestly. “He’s taken a brace.”

“If he doesn’t want to die in the poorhouse at the early age of fifty,
he’d better!” Eaton brushed an imaginary speck off his cuff as he
asked, “How much did your boss give you of the five thousand you got
back for him out of that poker game?”

Amidon fidgeted and colored deeply.

“Just another of these fairy stories!”

“Your attempt to feign ignorance is laudable, Amidon. But my
information is exact. Rather neat, particularly lifting him right out
of the patrol wagon, so to speak. And recovering the check; creditable
to your tact--highly so!”

Jerry grinned.

“Oh, it was dead easy! You see, after helping the gang lick you in the
primaries last May, they couldn’t go back on me.”

“If you turned your influence to nobler use, this would be a very
different world! Let us go back to that Corrigan matter--you remember?”
asked Eaton, filling his pipe. “You probably noticed that the gentleman
who was arrested for murder down there was duly convicted. His lawyer
didn’t do him much good. No wonder! I never saw a case more miserably
handled--stupid beyond words.”

“You wasn’t down there!” exclaimed Jerry, sitting up straight.

“_Were_, not _was_, Amidon! I should think you’d know I’d been in the
wilderness from my emaciated appearance. Believe I did say I was going
to Pittsburg, but I took the wrong train. Met some nice chaps while I
was down there,--one or two friends of yours, road agents, pirates,
commercial travelers, drummers,--I beg your pardon!”

Jerry was moved to despair. He would never be able to surround himself
with the mystery or practice the secrecy that he found so fascinating
in Eaton. He had not imagined that the lawyer would bother himself
further about Corrigan. He had read of the conviction without emotion,
but it would never have occurred to him that a man so busy as Eaton or
so devoted to the comforts of life would spend three days in Belleville
merely to watch the trial of a man in whom he had only the remotest
interest.

“They soaked him for manslaughter. I guess he got off easy!”

“He did, indeed,” replied Eaton. “When did you see Nan last?”

“I’ve been there once since you took me, and the old man sent down word
he wanted to see me. He was feeling good and lit into me about the
store. Wanted to know about everything. Some of the fellows Copeland
has kicked out have been up crying on Farley’s doorstep and he asked
me how the boss came to let them go. He sent Nan out of the room so he
could cuss better. He’s sure some cusser!”

“Amidon!” Eaton beat his knuckles on the desk sharply, “remember you
are speaking English!”

“You’d better give me up,” moaned Jerry, crestfallen.

“You are doing well. With patience and care you will improve the
quality of your diction. No reference to the Corrigan matter, I
suppose,--either by Farley or Nan?”

“Not a word. It was the night I read about the end of the trial, but
nothing was said about it.”

“She needn’t have worried,” Eaton remarked. “She was a very foolish
little girl to have drawn her money out of the bank to hand over to a
crooked lawyer.”

“I suppose you coaxed the money back--”

“Certainly not! It might have been amusing to gather Harlowe in for
blackmail; but you can see that it would have involved no end of
newspaper notoriety; most disagreeable. I had the best opportunities
for observing that fellow in his conduct of the case; in fact, I had
a letter to the judge and he asked me to sit with him on the bench.
There’s little in the life or public services of Jason E. Harlowe that
I don’t know.” He lifted his eyes to the solid wall of file-boxes.
“H-66 is filled with data. Jason E. Harlowe,” he repeated musingly. “If
I should die to-night, kindly direct my executor to observe that box
particularly.”

“I’ve heard of him; he ran for the legislature last year and got
licked.”

“By two hundred and sixteen votes,” added Eaton.

“What’s your guess about that thousand bucks? Corrigan must have put
Harlowe up to it.”

“He did not,” replied Eaton, peering for a moment into the bowl of his
pipe. “It was Mr. Harlowe’s idea--strictly so. And I’m ready for him
in case he shows his hand again. Farley has some relations down that
way, a couple of cousins at Lawrenceburg. Do you follow me? Harlowe
may have something bigger up his sleeve. He ranges the whole Indiana
shore of the Ohio; business mostly criminal. The more I’ve thought of
that thousand-dollar episode, the less I’ve liked it. I take a good
deal of interest in Nan, you know. She’s a little brash and needs a
helping hand occasionally. Not that I’m called upon to stand _in loco
parentis_, but there’s something mighty appealing in her. For fear you
may misunderstand me, I assure you that I am not in love with her, or
in danger of being; but her position is difficult and made the more
so by her impulsive, warm-hearted nature. And it has told against
her a little that the Farleys were never quite admitted to the inner
circle here. This is a peculiar town, you know, Amidon, and there’s a
good deal of caste feeling--deplorable but true! You and I are sturdy
democrats and above such prejudices, but there are a few people amongst
us who never forget what you may call their position. Unfortunate, but
it’s here and to be reckoned with.”

“Well, I guess Nan’s as good as any of them,” said Amidon doggedly.

“She is! But it’s the elemental strain in her that makes her
interesting. She’s of the race that believes in fairies; we have to
take that into account.”

Amidon nodded soberly. He had seen nothing in Nan to support this
proposition that she believed in fairies, but the idea pleased him.

Eaton’s way of speaking of women was another thing that impressed
Jerry. It was always with profound respect, and this was unfamiliar
enough in Jerry’s previous existence; but combined with this
reverential attitude was a chivalrous anxiety to serve or protect them.
The girls Jerry had known, or the ones he particularly admired, were
those endowed with a special genius for taking care of themselves.

“Nan,” Eaton was saying, “needs plenty of air. She has suffered from
claustrophobia in her life with the Farleys. Oh, yes; claustrophobia--”

He paused to explain the meaning of the word, which Jerry scribbled
on an envelope that he might remember it and use it somewhere when
opportunity offered.

“I’m glad Farley talked to you. You will find that he will ask to see
you again, but be careful what you say to him about the store. He’ll be
anxious to worm information out of you, but he’s the sort to distrust
you if you seemed anxious to talk against the house or the head of it,
much as he may dislike him.”

“I guess that’s right,” said Jerry. “He asked about the customers on
the route I worked last year and seemed to know them all--even to the
number of children in the family.”

“You’ve been back once since we called together? Anybody else
around--any signs that Nan is receiving social attentions?”

“I didn’t see any. She’d been reading ‘Huck Finn’ to the old gent when
I dropped in.”

“Isolated life; not wholesome. A girl like that needs to have people
about her.”

“Well,” Jerry ejaculated, “she doesn’t need a scrub like me! I felt
ashamed of myself for going; and had to walk around the block about
seven times before I got my nerve up to go in. It’s awful, going into a
house like that, and waiting for the coon to go off to see whether the
folks want to see you or not.”

“The trepidation you indicate is creditable to you, Amidon. Your social
instincts are crude but sound. Should you say, as a student of mankind
and an observer of life, that Nan is pining away with a broken heart?”

“Well, hardly; she was a lot cheerfuler than she was that first time,
when you went with me.”

“Thanks for the compliment! Of course, you get on better without me.
’Twas always thus! Well, that first time was hardly a fair example of
my effect upon womankind. The air was surcharged with electricity; Nan
had made a trifling error of judgment and had been brought promptly to
book. I’ve always rather admired people who follow their impulses;
it’s my disposition to examine my own under the microscope. Don’t check
yourself too much: I find your spontaneity refreshing, particularly
now that your verbs and nouns are more nearly in agreement. You say
Copeland and Kinney are off motoring, to look at a new factory?” He
lifted his eyes to one of the file-boxes absently. “I wish they’d wait
till we get rid of that suit over Kinney’s patents before they spread
out. The case ought to be decided soon and there are times--”

He rose quickly, walked to the shelves and drew down a volume in
which he instantly became absorbed. Then he went back to his desk and
refilled his pipe deliberately.

“I think,” he remarked, “that we shall win the case; but you never can
tell. By the way, what is your impartial judgment of the merits of
Corbin & Eichberg--rather wide-awake fellows, aren’t they?”

As Jerry began to express scorn by a contemptuous curl of the lip and
an outward gesture of his stiffened palm, Eaton reprimanded him sharply.

“Speak judicially; no bluster; none of this whang about their handling
inferior goods. The fact is they are almost offensively prosperous and
carry more traveling men after ten years’ business than Copeland-Farley
with thirty years behind them.”

“Well,” Jerry replied meekly, “I guess they are cutting in a little;
Eichberg had made a lot of money before he went into drugs and they’ve
got more capital than C-F.”

“That increases the danger of the competition. Eichberg is a pretty
solid citizen. For example, he’s a director in the Western National.”

“I guess that won’t help him sell any drugs,” said Amidon, who resented
this indirect praise of Corbin & Eichberg.

“Not directly; no.” And Eaton dropped the subject with a finality Jerry
felt bound to accept.

Foreman had intimated that in due course Copeland-Farley would
be absorbed by Corbin & Eichberg; possibly the same calamity was
foreshadowed in Eaton’s speculations.

Before he returned to his boarding-house Jerry strolled into the
jobbing district and stood for some time on the sidewalk opposite
Copeland-Farley’s store. His twenty shares of stock gave him an exalted
sense of proprietorship. He was making progress; he was a stockholder
in a corporation. But it was a corporation that was undoubtedly going
to the bad.

It was quite true that Corbin & Eichberg were making heavy inroads
upon Copeland-Farley trade. They were broadening the field of their
operations and developing territory beyond the farthest limits to which
Copeland-Farley had extended local drug jobbing. It was not a debatable
matter that if Copeland persisted in his evil courses the business
would go by the board.

Copeland hadn’t been brought up to work; that was his trouble, Jerry
philosophized. And yet Copeland was doing better. As Jerry thought of
him his attitude became paternal. He grinned as he became conscious of
his dreams of attempting--he, Jeremiah Amidon--to pull Billy Copeland
back from the pit for which he seemed destined, and save the house of
Copeland-Farley from ruin.

He crossed the street, found the private watchman sitting in the open
door half asleep, roused him, and gave him a cigar he had purchased for
the purpose.

Then he walked away whistling cheerfully and beating the walk with his
stick.




CHAPTER XI

CANOEING


Life began to move more briskly for Nan. She was not aware that certain
invitations that reached her were due to a few words carefully spoken
in safe quarters by Eaton.

One of the first large functions of the dawning season was a tea given
by Mrs. Harrington for a visitor. Mrs. Harrington not only asked Nan
to assist, but she extended the invitation personally in the Farley
parlor, much to Nan’s astonishment.

One or two young gentlemen who had paid Nan attentions when she first
came home from school looked her up again. John Cecil Eaton was highly
regarded by the younger men he met at the University Club, and was
not without influence. A reference to Nan as an unusual person; some
saying of hers, quoted carelessly at the round table, was instrumental
in directing attention anew to her as a girl worth knowing. If any
one said, “How’s her affair with Copeland going?” Eaton would retort,
icily, that it wasn’t going; that there never had been anything in it
but shameless gossip.

Jerry now reserved his Thursday evenings for Nan: not for any
particular reason except that Eaton had taken him to the Farleys on a
Thursday and from sentimental considerations he consecrated the day
to repetitions of the visit. Nan was immensely kind to him; it was
incredible that a girl so separated from him by immeasurable distances
should be so cordial, so responsive to his overtures of friendship.
Once she sent him a note--the frankest, friendliest imaginable note--to
say that on a particular Thursday evening she could not see him. His
disappointment was as nothing when weighed against his joy that she
recognized his claim upon that particular evening and took the trouble
to explain that the nurse would be out and that she would be too busy
with Farley to see him. He replied with flowers--which brought him
another note.

He had laid before her all his plans for self-improvement and her
encouragement was even more stimulating than Eaton’s. She fell at times
into a maternal attitude toward him, scolding and lecturing him, and he
was meek under her criticism.

Nan felt more at home with him than with any other young man who
called on her. With some of these, whose mothers and sisters had been
treating her coldly, she felt herself to be playing a part--trying to
assume a dignity that was not naturally hers in order that they might
give a good account of her at home. With Jerry she could be herself
without dissimulation. When it came to mothers, he remembered her
mother perfectly and she remembered his. In a sense she and Jerry were
allies, engaged in accommodating themselves to a somewhat questioning
if not hostile atmosphere. In all her acquaintance he was the one
person who could make the necessary allowances for her, who was able to
give her full credit for her good intentions.

On his seventh call he summoned courage to ask her to join him on a
Saturday afternoon excursion on the river.

“The foliage is unusually beautiful this year,” he suggested with his
air of quoting, “and it’ll be too cold for canoeing pretty soon.”

“I’m afraid--” Nan began.

“I knew you’d say that; but you’re as safe in my boat as in your own
rocking-chair.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” laughed Nan. “I was going to say that I
was afraid you wouldn’t enjoy the foliage so much if I were along.”

He saw that she was laughing at him. Nan and Eaton were the only
persons whose mirth he suffered without resentment.

“I’ll have to ask papa about it; or maybe you’ll ask him.”

“I’ve already asked him.”

“When did you ask him?”

“About ten minutes ago, just before I came downstairs. I told him two
good stories and then shot it in quick. He said he thought it would do
you good!”

“I like your nerve! Why didn’t you ask me first?”

“Because it was much more proper for me to open negotiations with the
man higher up. I hope you appreciate my delicacy,” he added, in Eaton’s
familiar, half-mocking tone, which he had caught perfectly.

“You’re so thoughtful I suppose you’ve also arranged for a chaperone?”

“The canoe,” he replied, “is more comfortable for two.”

“Two have been in it rather often, I suppose.”

“Yes; but that was last summer. I’ve seen everything different this
season. I practiced casting on a day in June and met with an experience
that has changed the whole current of my life.”

“I hope it changed your luck with the rod! You got snagged on
everything that would hold a hook, but I must say that you bore your
troubles in a sweet spirit.”

“I learned that early in the game. Even if you refused my invitation
I’d try to bear up under it.”

“I think I’ll decline, then, just to see how you take it.”

“Well, it’s only polite to say it would be a blow. I have a pocketful
of strychnine and it might be unpleasant to have me die on the
doorstep.”

“I could stand that probably better than the neighbors could. You’d
better try a poison that’s warranted not to kill on the premises.”

Jerry tortured himself with speculations as to whether he should hire
a taxi to transport them to the Little Ripple Club, but finally
decided against it as an unwarranted extravagance, calculated to arouse
suspicion in the mind of Farley. However, when he reached the house at
two o’clock on Saturday, Nan announced that the nurse was taking her
place as Farley’s companion for his regular drive and that they would
carry them to the club. This arrangement caused his breast to swell.

“That will give my credit a big boost; you’ll see a lot of the boys
drop dead when we roll up with Uncle Tim.”

Farley alighted to inspect the clubhouse and the fleet of canoes that
bobbed at the landing. It was a great day for Jerry.

“There’s something nice about a river,” said Nan, as Jerry sent his
maroon-colored craft far out into the stream. “Ever since I came away
I’ve missed the old river at Belleville.”

This was one of the things he liked about Nan. She referred often to
her childhood, and it even seemed that she spoke of it with a certain
wistfulness.

“The last girl I had out here,” Jerry said as he plied his blade, “was
Katie McCarthy, who works in the County Treasurer’s office--mighty
responsible job. I used to know Katie when she stenogged at four per
for a punk lawyer, but I knew she was better than that, so I pulled a
few wires and got her into the court-house. Katie could be cashier in
a bank--she’s that smart! No; not much to look at. I studied Katie’s
case a good deal, and she’d never make any headway in offices where
they’d rather have a yellow-haired girl who overdresses the part and is
always slipping out for a retouch with the chamois. It’s hard to find a
job for girls like Katie; their only chance is some place where they’ve
got to have a girl with brains. These perfumed office darlings, that’s
just got to go to vaudeville every Monday night so they can talk about
it the rest of the week, never get anywhere.”

“My heart warms to Katie. I wonder,” murmured Nan lazily, as Jerry
neatly negotiated a shallow passage between two sandbars, “if I had to
do it--I wonder how much I could earn a week.”

“Oh, I guess you’d make good all right. You’ve got brains and I’ve
never caught you touching up your complexion.”

“Which isn’t any sign I don’t,” she laughed. “I’ve all the necessary
articles right here in my sweater pocket.”

“Well, somebody has to use the talcum; we handle it in carload lots.
It’s one of the Copeland-Farley specialties I used to brag about
easiest when I bore the weighty sample-case down the line. It was a
good stunt to ask the druggist to introduce me to some of the girls
that’s always loafing round the soda-counter in country-town drug
stores, and I’d hand ’em out a box and ask ’em to try it on right
there. It cheered up the druggist and the girls would help me pull a
bigger order than I’d get on my own hook. A party like that on a sleepy
afternoon in a pill-shop would lift the sky-line considerable.”

“Well, if you saw me in a drug store wrestling with a chocolate sundae
and had your sample-case open and were trying to coax an order out of a
druggist, just how would you approach me?”

“I wouldn’t!” he responded readily. “I’d get your number on the quiet
and walk past your house when your mother was sitting on the porch all
alone, darning socks, and I’d beg her pardon and say that, having heard
that her daughter was the most beautiful girl in town, Copeland-Farley
had sent me all the way from the capital to ask her please to accept,
with the house’s compliments, a gross of our Faultless Talcum. If
mother didn’t ask me to supper, it would be a sign that I hadn’t put it
over.”

“But if father appeared with a shotgun--”

“I’d tell him it was the closed season for drummers, and invite him
down to the hotel for a game of billiards.”

“You think you always have the answer, don’t you?” she taunted.

“I don’t think it; I’ve got to know it!”

“Well, I haven’t seen you miss fire yet. My trouble is,” she
deliberated, touching the water lightly with her hand, “that I don’t
have the answer most of the time.”

“I’ve noticed it sometimes,” replied Jerry, looking at her quickly.

It was unseasonably warm, and he drove the canoe on to a sandy shore
in the shade of the bank. He had confessed to himself that at times,
even in their juvenile badgering, Nan baffled him. From the beginning
of their acquaintance he had noted abrupt changes of mood that puzzled
him. Occasionally, in the midst of the aimless banter in which they
engaged, she would cease to respond and a far-away look would come into
her violet eyes. One of these moods was upon her now.

“Do you remember the shanty-boat people down along the river? I used
to think it would be fun to live like that. I still feel that way
sometimes.”

“Oh,” he answered indulgently, “I guess everybody has a spell of that
now and then, when you just want to sort of loaf along, and fish a
little when you’re hungry, and trust to luck for a handout at some back
door when you’re too lazy to bait the hook. That feeling gets hold
of me lots of times; but I shake it off pretty soon. You don’t get
anywhere loafing; the people that get along have got to hustle. Cecil
says we can’t just mark time in this world. We either go ahead or slide
back.”

“Well, I’m a slider--if you can slide without ever getting up very far!”

“Look here,” he said, drawing in the paddle and fixing his eyes upon
her intently, “you said something like that the first night Cecil
took me up to see you, and you’ve got a touch of it again; but it’s
the wrong talk. I’m going to hand it to you straight, because I guess
I’ve got more nerve than anybody else you know: you haven’t got a
kick coming, and you want to cut all that talk. Uncle Tim gets cross
sometimes, but you don’t want to worry about that too much. He used to
be meaner than fleas at the store sometimes, but the boys never worried
about it. He’s all sound inside, and if he riles you the best thing to
do is to forget it. You can’t please him all the time, but you can most
of the time, and it’s up to you to do it. Now, tell me to jump in the
river if you want to, but it was in my system and I had to get it out.”

“Oh, I know I ought to be grateful; but I’m wrong some way.”

“You’re all right,” he declared. “Your trouble is you don’t have enough
to do. You ought to get interested in something--something that would
keep you busy and whistling all the time.”

“I _don’t_ have enough to do; I know that,” she assented.

“Well, you ought to go in good and strong for something; that’s the
only ticket. Let’s get out and climb the bank and walk awhile.”

She had lost her bearings on the river, but when they had clambered to
the top of the bank she found that they were near the Kinneys’. The
road was a much-frequented highway, and she was sorry now that they had
left the canoe; but Jerry, leading the way along a rough path that
clung close to the river, continued to philosophize, wholly unconscious
of the neighborhood’s associations for Nan.

Where the margin between the river and the road widened they sat on a
log while Jerry amplified his views of life, with discreet applications
to Nan’s case as he understood it. He was a cheery and hopeful soul,
and in the light of her knowledge of him she marveled at his clear
understanding of things. He confided to her that he meant to get on; he
wanted to be somebody. She was wholly sympathetic and told him that he
had already done a great deal; he had done a lot better than she had;
and it counted for more because no one had helped him.

As they passed the Kinneys’ on their way back to the canoe, a roadster
whizzed out of the gate and turned toward town. They both recognized
Copeland. As he passed, his eyes fell upon them carelessly; then he
glanced back and slowed down.

“Now we’re in for it!” said Nan uncomfortably.

“I guess I’m the one that’s in for it,” returned Jerry ruefully.

Copeland left his car at the roadside and walked rapidly toward them.
He nodded affably to Jerry and extended his hand eagerly to Nan.

“This is great good luck! Grace is at home; why didn’t you come in?”

“Oh, Mr. Amidon is showing me the river; we just left the canoe to
come up for a view from the bank.”

“Why not come back to Kinneys’; I want to see you; and this is a fine
chance to have a talk.”

Jerry walked away and began throwing pebbles into the river.

“I can’t do that. And I can’t talk to you here. Papa drove me out and
he’s likely to come back this way.”

“You seem to be pretty chummy with that clerk of mine,” Copeland
remarked.

“I am; it began about sixteen years ago,” she answered, with a laugh.
“We rose from the same ash-dump.”

He frowned, not comprehending. She was about to turn away when he began
speaking rapidly:--

“You’ve got to hear me, Nan! I haven’t bothered you for a long time;
you’ve treated me pretty shabbily after all there’s been between us;
but you can square all that now. I’m in the deepest kind of trouble.
Farley deliberately planned to ruin me and he’s about done it! I’ve
paid him off, but I had to pledge half my stock in the store with the
Western National to raise the money, and now my notes are due there and
they’re going to pinch me. Eichberg is a director in the bank and he
means to buy in that stock--you can see the game. Corbin & Eichberg are
scheming to wipe me out and combine the two houses. And Farley’s put
them up to it!”

His face twisted nervously as he talked. He was thinner than when
she saw him last, but he bore no marks of hard living. His story was
plausible; Farley had told her a month ago that he had got his money
out of Copeland, but it hadn’t occurred to her that the loan might have
been paid with money borrowed elsewhere.

“Of course, you won’t lose the business, Billy. It wouldn’t be square
to treat you that way.”

“Square! I tell you it was all framed up, and I’ve reason to know that
Farley stands in with them. It’s a fine revenge he’s taking on me for
daring to love you!”

She shook her head and drew further away from him.

“Now, Billy, none of that! That’s all over.”

“No; it isn’t over! You know it isn’t, Nan! I’ve missed you; it cut
me deep when you dropped me. You let Farley tell you I was all bad
and going to the dogs and you didn’t even give me a chance to defend
myself. I tell you I’ve suffered hell’s torments since I saw you last.
But now I want you to tell me you do care. Please, dear--”

His voice broke plaintively. She shook her head.

“Of course we were good friends, Billy; but you knew we had to quit. It
was wrong all the time--you knew that as well as I do.”

“I don’t see what was wrong about it! It can’t be wrong for a man
to love a woman as I love you! If you hadn’t cared, it would be a
different story, but you did, Nan! And you’re not the girl I know you
to be if you’ve changed in these few weeks. I’ve got a big fight on and
I want you to stand by me. Kinney’s in all kinds of trouble with the
cement business. If he goes down, I’m ruined. But even at that you can
help me make a new start. It will mean everything to have your love and
help.”

He saw that his appeal had touched her. She was silent a moment.

“This won’t do, Billy; I can’t stand here talking to you; but I’m sorry
for your troubles. I can’t believe you’re right about papa trying to
injure you; he’s too fond of the old business for that. But we were
good pals--you and I. I’ll try to think of some way to help.”

He caught her hands roughly.

“I need you; you know I love you! Farley’s told you I want to marry you
for his money; but you can’t tell anything about him. Very likely he’ll
cut you out, anyhow; he’s likely to do that very thing.”

She lifted her head and defiance shone for an instant in her eyes.

“I’ll let you hear from me within a week; I must have time-- But keep
up your spirits, Billy!”

The distant honking of a motor caused her to turn away quickly. Amidon
had settled himself halfway down the bank and she called to him and
began the descent....

If Jerry had expressed his feelings he would have said that Copeland’s
appearance had given him a hard jar. It was annoying, just when
you have reached the highest aim of your life, to have your feet
knocked from under you. To have your boss spoil your afternoon with
the prettiest girl in town was not only disagreeable, but it roused
countless apprehensions.

For the afternoon _was_ spoiled. Nan’s efforts to act as though
nothing had happened were badly simulated, and finding that she lapsed
frequently into long reveries, Jerry paddled doggedly back to the
clubhouse.




CHAPTER XII

LAST WILLS AND TESTAMENTS


From the beginning of his infirmities Farley’s experiments in
will-writing had taxed the patience of Thurston, his lawyer. Within
two years he had made a dozen wills, and he kept them for comparison
in a secret drawer of Mrs. Farley’s old sewing-table in his room.
He penciled cryptic marks on the various envelopes for ease of
identification, and he was influenced often by the most trivial
circumstances in his revisions. If Nan irritated him, he cut down her
legacy; when things went happily, he increased it. He was importuned
to make bequests to great numbers of institutions, by men and women he
knew well, and his attitude toward these changed frequently. There was
hardly a phase of the laws of descent that Thurston had not explained
to him.

A few days after her river excursion, the colored man-of-all-work
handed Nan an envelope that had dropped from Farley’s dressing-gown as
it hung on a clothes-line in the backyard for its periodical sunning.
The envelope was unsealed. In the upper left-hand corner was the name
and address of Thurston and in the center were four small crosses in
pencil. Nan thrust it into a bureau drawer, intending to restore it
to the dressing-gown pocket when she could do so without attracting
Farley’s attention.

Her eyes fell upon it that night as she was preparing for bed. She laid
it on her dressing-table and studied the queer little crosses as she
brushed her hair.

Copeland had complained of Farley’s hardness, and if Billy had told
the truth about the plight to which he had been reduced by Farley’s
refusal to renew the last notes for the purchase money, the complaint
was just. She crouched on a low stool before the table and gazed into
the reflection of her eyes.

She played idly with the envelope, resisting an impulse to open it
for a glance at the paper that crinkled in her fingers. She had been
very “good” lately, and to pry into affairs that Farley had sedulously
kept from her was repugnant to her better nature.... Farley’s abuse
of her on the day of the luncheon, and his rage over her payment of
the thousand dollars for the defense of her brother came back to her
vividly. He had threatened to make it impossible for Billy to profit by
marrying her.... She had a right to know what provision Farley meant
to make for her. If in the end he intended to throw her upon her own
resources or to provide for her in ways that curtailed her liberty,
there was every reason why she should prepare to meet the situation.

The paper slipped from the envelope and she pressed it open.

  I, Timothy Farley, being of sound mind,--

She had never seen a will before, and the unfamiliar phraseology
fascinated her.

  ... in trust for my daughter, Nancy Corrigan Farley, for a period
  of twenty years from my decease, or until the death of said Nancy
  Corrigan Farley, should said death occur prior to the expiration
  of said twenty years, the sum of one hundred thousand dollars. The
  income from said sum shall be paid to the said Nancy Corrigan Farley
  on the first day of each calendar month....

Two hundred thousand dollars he gave outright to the Boys’ Club
Association; fifty thousand to the Children’s Hospital; and ten
thousand each to five other charitable organizations....

One hundred thousand dollars in trust! An income of five or six
thousand--less than half the cost of maintaining the Farley
establishment, exclusive of her personal allowance for clothes! And
this was Farley’s idea of providing for her. She had always heard that
the act of adoption conferred all the rights inherent in a child of
the blood; it was inconceivable that Farley would deal in so miserly a
fashion with his own daughter.

The will was dated June 17, a week after the row over Copeland. She had
heard that Farley’s property approximated a million, and on that basis
she was to pay dearly for that day at the Country Club!

The trusteeship,--in itself an insult, an advertisement of Farley’s
lack of confidence in her,--was to continue for what might be all
the years of her life, restricting her freedom, fastening hateful
bonds upon her. In case she married and died leaving children, the
trusteeship was continued until they attained their majority. A paltry
hundred thousand, and Farley’s lean hand clutched even that!

Two hundred thousand for the Boys’ Club--just twice what he gave
her--and without restrictions! The Farleys’ love for her was now
reduced to exact figures. Her foster-father meant to humiliate her
in the eyes of the world by a niggardly bequest. And he had been
protesting his love for her and permitting her to sacrifice herself for
him!

The revelations of the will reinforced Copeland’s arraignment of Farley
as a harsh and vindictive man, who drove hard bargains and delighted in
vengeance.

She lay awake for hours, torturing herself into the belief that she was
the most abused of beings. Then her better nature asserted itself. She
reviewed the generosity and kindness of her foster-parents, who had
given her a place in the world to which she felt, humbly, that she was
not entitled. A hundred thousand dollars was more money than she had
any right to expect; and the trusteeship was only a part of Farley’s
kindness--a device for safeguarding and protecting her.

Then she flew to the other extreme. He had brought her up as his own
child, encouraging a belief that she would inherit his whole fortune,
and now he was cutting her off with something like a tenth and
contemptuously bidding her beg for alms at the door of a trust company!

She stared into the dark until the light crept through her blinds. Then
she slept until the nurse called her at eight.

“Mr. Farley’s waiting for you to have breakfast with him; how soon can
you be ready?”

“Isn’t he so well?” Nan asked quickly.

“Nothing unusual; but he seemed tired after his ride yesterday and had
a bad night.”

Nan, sitting up in bed, thrust her hand under her pillow and touched
the will guiltily.

“I suppose,” she said, as the nurse crossed to the windows and threw
up the shades, “that he may have a relapse at any time. The doctor
prepared me for that. Please order breakfast sent up and tell papa I’ll
be ready in five minutes.”

In her broodings of the night she had dramatized herself as confronting
him in all manner of situations, but she was reluctant to face him
now. She jumped out of bed, fortified herself for the day with a cold
shower, and presented herself to him in a flowered kimono as the maid
was laying the cloth on the stand by his bed.

“Well, Nan,” he said wearily, “I hope you had a better night than I
did.”

“Oh, I don’t need much sleep,” she answered. “Edison says we all sleep
too much, anyhow.”

“That’s a fool idea. The doctor’s got to give me the dope again if I
have another such night. I guess there wasn’t anything I didn’t think
of. Lyin’ awake is about as near hell as I care to go.”

The querulousness manifest in the worst period of his illness had
returned. He grumbled at the nurse’s arrangement of his pillows and
asked for a tray in bed, saying he didn’t feel equal to sitting at the
table.

“You sit there where I can look at you, Nan.”

She was aglow from her bath and showed no trace of her sleepless night.
It was pathetically evident that her presence brought him pleasure and
relief. He had been very happy of late, accepting fully her assurance
that everything was over between her and Copeland. Her recent social
activities and the fact that some of the “nice people” were showing a
renewed interest in her added to his satisfaction. He bade her talk as
he nibbled his toast and sipped his milk.

“I read the newspaper an hour ago clear through the births and deaths
and didn’t see anything very cheerful. You been followin’ that Reid
will case up at Cleveland? I guess you don’t read the papers much.
You never did; but you ought to keep posted. Well, that’s a mighty
interestin’ case. I guess the lawyers are goin’ to get all the money.
I knew old Reid, and he was as sane a man as ever lived. There ain’t
much use in a man tryin’ to make a will when they’re sure to tear it to
pieces.”

Nan looked at him quickly. It was possible that he had missed the will
and was speaking of wills in general as a prelude to pouncing upon her
with a question as to whether she had seen it. But he was not in a
belligerent humor. He went on to explain the legal points involved in
the Reid case.

“If a lot o’ rascally lawyers get hold o’ my property, I won’t just
turn over in my grave; I’ll keep revolvin’! Reid tried to fix things so
his children wouldn’t squander his money. His daughters married fools
and he wanted to try and protect ’em. And just for that they’ve had the
will set aside on the ground that Reid was crazy.”

Nan acquiesced in his view of this as an outrage. And she really
believed that it was, as Farley spoke of it.

“I sometimes wonder whether it ain’t better just to let things go,” he
continued. “I been over this will business with Thurston a thousand
times, and I’m never sure he knows what he’s talkin’ about. Wills made
by the best lawyers in the country seem to break down; there ain’t
nothin’ sure about it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about that, papa. Mr. Thurston ought to know
about those things if anybody does.”

Ordinarily he would have combated this, as he combated most emphatic
statements; but his willingness to let it pass unchallenged convinced
her that there had been a sharp change for the worse in his condition.

It was the way of her contradictory nature to be moved to pity for him
in his weakness, and a wave of tenderness swept her. After all, if he
wished to cut her off with a hundred thousand dollars and give the rest
to charity he had a right to do it.

She took the tray from the bed, smoothed the covers and passed her cool
hand over his hot forehead.

“Please, papa,” she said, “don’t bother about business to-day. Miss
Rankin says it’s only a cold, but she’ll have to report it to the
doctor. I’m going to telephone him to drop in this morning.”

He demurred, but not with his usual venomous tirade against the whole
breed of doctors.

“All right, Nan,” he said, clinging to her hand. “And I wish you’d tell
Thurston to come in this afternoon. I want to talk to him about some
matters.”

“Well, we’ll see the doctor first, papa. We can have Mr. Thurston in
any time.”

She knelt impulsively beside the bed.

“I want you to know, papa, about wills and things like that, that
I don’t want you to bother about me. I hope we’re going to live on
together for long, long years. And anything you mean to do for me is
all right.”

She hardly knew herself as she said this. It was an involuntary
utterance; something she could not have imagined herself saying a few
hours earlier as she lay in bed hating him for his meanness.

“Well, dear, I want to do the right thing by you. It’s worried me a
lot, tryin’ to decide the best way. I don’t want to leave any trouble
behind me for you to settle. And I don’t want to do anything that’ll
make you think hard o’ me. I want to be sure you never come to want:
that’s what’s worried me. I want you to be happy and comfortable,
little girl.”

“I know you do, papa,” she replied. “But don’t bother about those
things now.”

The nurse came in to take his temperature. Nan went to her room for
the will and, feigning to be straightening some of the things in his
closet, she thrust the paper into the dressing-gown pocket.

An hour later the Kinney’s chauffeur left a note from Grace:--

  Come out this afternoon at any hour you can. Telephone me where
  to meet you downtown and I’ll bring you out in the car. I needn’t
  explain why, but after Saturday you’ll understand.

The doctor found nothing alarming in Farley’s condition, but ordered
him to remain in bed for a few days. He said he must have sleep and
prescribed an opiate.

At three o’clock Nan left the house.




CHAPTER XIII

A KINNEY LARK AND ITS CONSEQUENCES


“It’s certainly good to see you again!” Mrs. Kinney exclaimed as Nan
met her by arrangement at a confectioner’s. “How much time are you
going to give me?”

“Oh, I haven’t any,” laughed Nan. “I’ve run away. Papa isn’t so well
to-day and couldn’t take his drive as usual, so I’m truanting--and very
naughty. I must be back in the house before five.”

“Well, when I got your message I telephoned Billy to come to the house
and he’ll be there as soon as we are. He’s been in the depths for
weeks. You know you had got a mighty strong hold on dear old Billy, and
when you dropped him it hurt. And we’ve all missed you!”

The Kinneys and their friends had missed her; they had missed her dash,
her antics--the Nan she had resolved to be no more. But it was pleasant
to be in Mrs. Kinney’s company again. She was a simple, friendly soul
who liked clothes and a good time; her capacity for enjoying anything
serious was wholly negligible.

“I knew, of course, that Billy was back of your invitation. I saw him
Saturday--quite accidentally, and he was bluer than indigo.”

“He spent Sunday with us and told us all about meeting you. He was
perfectly furious because you were out skylarking with one of his
clerks! But he got to laughing about it,--told us some funny stories
about your new suitor,--Jerry, is that the name?”

“Mr. Jeremiah Amidon, please,” laughed Nan. “It was killing that Billy
should find me out canoeing with him. Jerry and I were kids together,
and he’s grown to be a great consolation to me.”

“He must be a consolation to Billy, too; he says the youngster’s trying
to reform him!” Grace suddenly clasped Nan’s hand. “You ought to take
charge of Billy! He’s awfully in love with you, Nan. He’s going to urge
you to marry him--at once. That’s why--”

“No! No! I’ll never do it,” cried Nan despairingly.

It was another of her mistakes, this yielding to Copeland’s demand
for an interview that could have but one purpose. She was thoroughly
angry at herself, half angry at Mrs. Kinney for acting as Copeland’s
intermediary.

Copeland was pacing the veranda smoking a cigarette when they reached
the house.

“It’s mighty nice of you to come, Nan,” he said.

“I’ve heard, Billy, that the haughty John Eaton’s rather attentive to
the late Mrs. Copeland,” said Grace, when they had gathered about the
tea-table. “She was among those present at a little dinner he gave at
the University Club the other night in honor of that English novelist
who’s visiting here.”

“You’re bitter because he left you out,” said Copeland indifferently.

“Oh, my bitterness won’t hurt Fanny. I suppose you’ve heard that she’s
come into a nice bunch of money--something like a quarter of a million!”

Copeland’s surprise was evident.

“That sounds like a fairy story; but I hope it’s true.”

“I know it’s true,” said Nan quietly. “Mrs. Copeland told me herself.”

Mrs. Kinney had risen to leave them and Copeland had crossed the room
to open the door for her. They were arrested by Nan’s surprising
confirmation of this report that Mrs. Copeland had come into an
unexpected inheritance. Nan vouchsafed nothing more; and at a glance
from Copeland Grace left them.

“I didn’t know you and Fanny were seeing each other these days,” he
remarked as he sat down beside her. “Something new, isn’t it?”

“Well, papa always admired her and he took me out to see her a little
while ago, and then that day you saw her with us at the bank he
insisted on taking her home for luncheon. She told us then about the
money.”

Copeland smiled grimly.

“Of course, you know what it means--Farley’s sudden affection for
Fanny?”

“Oh, he used to see a good deal of her, didn’t he, when you were first
married?”

“Mrs. Farley and Fanny exchanged a few calls and we were there
for dinner once, while you were still away at school. But this is
different; he’s throwing you with her for a purpose, as you ought to
see. It does credit to the old man’s cunning. He thinks that if you
become good friends with Fanny, he can be sure you’ve dropped me.”

“Rubbish! Papa has always liked her; he likes the kind of woman who can
run a farm and make money out of it; he thinks she’s a good example for
me!”

“Don’t let him fool you about that!” he said petulantly. “He’s an old
Shylock and he’s about taken the last ounce out of me. Paying him that
last twenty-five thousand has put me in a bad hole. And it’s pure
vengeance. If he wasn’t afraid you were going to marry me, he would
never have driven me so hard. He thinks if he can ruin me financially
you’ll quit me for good. It was understood when I bought him out that
he’d be easy about the payments. There’s a frame-up between him and
Corbin & Eichberg to force me out of business. And he’s been calling
some of the old employees up to see him, and encouraging Amidon to
trot up there so he can worm things out of him. I don’t think he gets
anything out of Jerry,” he added, taking warning of a resentful gleam
in Nan’s eyes. “I think the boy’s loyal to me; in fact”--he grinned
ruefully--“he’s full of an ambition to make a man of me! But you must
see that it’s all a game to draw you away from me. Farley’s not the
sort of man to waste time on a youngster like Amidon for nothing, and
this throwing you in Fanny’s way is about as smooth a piece of work as
I ever knew him to do.”

“You’re exaggerating, Billy; and as far as Jerry is concerned, papa
likes him; he always takes an interest in poor boys. And the fact that
Jerry came from down there on the river where he had his own early
struggles probably makes him a little more sympathetic with him.”

“The old gentleman’s sympathies,” said Copeland, bending forward and
meeting her gaze with a significant look, “are likely to cost you a
whole lot of money, Nan.”

“Just how do you make that out, Billy?”

“All the hospitals and charitable concerns in town have been working
on Farley to do something for them in his will, and I heard yesterday
that he’s promised to do something big for the Boys’ Club people.
You’ve probably seen Trumbull at the house a good deal--he’s the kind
of fellow who’d make an impression on Farley. I got this from Kinney.
He gave them some money last year and they put him on the board of
directors. They’re all counting on something handsome from the old
man. I assume he hasn’t told you anything about it; it wouldn’t be like
him to! He means to die and let you find out just what his affection
for you comes down to in dollars.”

“Well, he has a right to do what he likes with his money,” Nan replied
slowly, repeating the phrase with which she had sought to console
herself since the will fell into her hands. “I suppose he thinks he’s
done enough for me.”

The phrases of the will danced before her eyes: Copeland’s intimations
squared with the facts as she knew them to be; she had seen tangible
proof of their accuracy.

“We have to admit that he’s been kind to you, but he hasn’t any right
to bring you up as his daughter and then cut you off. You stand in law
as his own child, and if he should die without making a will, you’d
inherit everything.”

“Well, the law hasn’t made me his own child,” said Nan bitterly.

Seeing her resentment, and feeling that he was gaining ground, he
proceeded cautiously.

“I suppose he’s likely to have a sudden call one of these days?”

“Yes; or he may live several years, so the doctor told me. But I don’t
want to think of that. And I don’t like to think of what he may do or
not do for me,” she added earnestly.

“Of course you don’t!” he assented. “But he hasn’t any right to stand
between you and your happiness. If he had the right feeling about you,
he’d want to see you married and settled before he dies. I suppose he’s
never told you what he meant to do for you?”

“No. But he’s told me what he wouldn’t do if I married you; he laid
that down in the plainest English!”

“I don’t doubt it; but no man has a right to do any such thing. Just
why he hates me so I don’t understand. It oughtn’t to be a crime to
love you, Nan.”

His hand touched hers, then clasped it tightly.

“I don’t see why we should be talking of these things at all,” he went
on. “I love you; and I believe that deep down in your heart you love
me. You’re not going to say you don’t, Nan?”

“You know I’ve always liked you a lot, Billy,” she answered evasively.

“Before Farley got the idea that I wanted to marry you for his money
and abused me and made you unhappy, you cared; you can’t deny that. And
I don’t believe his hatred of me really made any difference.”

It was the wiser course not to abuse Farley. He felt that he was
winning her to a yielding mood, and his hopes rose.

She withdrew her hand suddenly and bent her eyes upon him with
disconcerting intentness.

“Please tell me, Billy, the real truth about your trouble with Fanny?”

The abruptness of her question startled him. The color deepened in his
face and he blinked under her searching gaze. She had never before
spoken of his trouble with his former wife.

“That,” he said rallying quickly, “is all over and done. It hasn’t
anything to do with you and me.”

“Yes, Billy; I think it has! If you’re really serious in wanting to
marry me, I think I ought to know about that.”

“I don’t see how you could doubt my seriousness; you’ve been the one
serious thing in my whole life!”

“But Fanny--” she persisted, gently touching his hands that were
loosely clasped on his knee.

“Oh, the trouble was that we were never suited to each other. She’s
quiet, domestic--a country-town girl, and never fitted into things
here. She wanted to sit at home every evening and sew and expected me
to wait around for her to drop a spool so I could get excitement out of
scrambling for it. And she didn’t like my friends, or doing the things
I like. Her idea of having a gay time was to go to the state fair once
a year and look at live stock! I think she hated me toward the end.”

“But that other story about her--about another man; she doesn’t look
like that sort of woman, Billy.”

He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

“That wasn’t in the case at all. The divorce was given for
incompatibility. Whatever else there may have been didn’t figure. I
made it as easy for her as possible, of course. And I’ve no doubt she
was as glad to quit as I was!”

“But you didn’t think--you didn’t honestly believe--”

“Well, I thought she was interested in Manning; and we had some trouble
about that. He used to come here a good deal. He was an old friend of
mine and his business brought him to town pretty often for a couple of
years. He’s a fellow of quiet tastes--just her sort--and I hoped when
I got out of the way she’d marry him. I want you to be satisfied about
everything, Nan. I tell you everything’s over between Fanny and me.”

She rose and took a turn across the room, paused at the window, glanced
out upon the lawn and the strip of woodland beyond. He became impatient
as the minutes passed. Then she faced him suddenly.

“It’s no use, Billy,” she said.

He was eagerly protesting when Mrs. Kinney appeared at the door.

“What are you two looking so glum about? You need cheering up and I’ve
got a fine surprise for you!”

“I must go,” said Nan, relieved at the interruption.

“Not much, you’re not! Bob has just telephoned that the Burleys of
Chicago are in town and they’re coming out for dinner. And I’ve
telephoned the Liggetts and the Martins and George Pickard and Edith
Saxby and the Andrews. It will be like old times to have the old crowd
together once more!”

“Of course, Nan will stay! She’s been making me miserable lately and
that will help her square herself,” said Copeland.

“I must go, really,” Nan reiterated, suspecting that the party had been
arranged in advance.

“Please don’t!” cried Copeland. “You can telephone home that you’ve
been delayed--you can arrange it someway.”

“When I went downtown on an errand! I don’t see it!”

“Dinner’s at six; the Burleys have to go into town early,” said Mrs.
Kinney.

“Oh, let her go!” exclaimed Copeland. “Our Nan isn’t the good sport she
used to be, and she doesn’t love any of us any more. She’s gone back on
all her old friends.”

“Oh, no, she hasn’t. I never knew her to take a dare! I don’t believe
she’s going to do it now.”

Nan surveyed them defiantly and looked at her watch.

She felt that she had finally dismissed Billy, and her last word to him
had left her elated. It might be worth while to wait, at any hazard, to
ease his discomfiture, and to show the Kinneys and their friends that
she had not cut them; and, moreover, she was unwilling to have them
know how greatly her old freedom was curtailed. The time had passed
quickly and she could not reach home before seven even if she left
immediately. Miss Rankin had covered up her absences before and might
do so again.

“Let me telephone and I’ll see how things are going.”

The nurse’s report was reassuring. Farley, who had rested badly for
several nights, was sleeping. He might not waken for an hour--perhaps
not for several hours. Miss Rankin volunteered to explain Nan’s absence
if he should call for her.

“All right, Grace, you may a lay a plate for me!” she announced
cheerfully. “But I must be on my way right after dinner. You understand
that!”

       *       *       *       *       *

“It’s great to see you on the good old cocktail route again, Nan!”
declared Pickard. “We heard you’d taken the veil!”

The cocktails were passed before they went to the table; there were
quarts for everybody, Grace assured them. The men had already fortified
themselves downtown against any lack of an appetizer at the house.
Mocking exclamations of surprise and alarm followed Nan’s rejection of
her glass.

“That’s not fair, Nan!” they chorused, gathering about her. “You used
to swallow six without blinking an eye.”

“She’s joined the crape-hangers for sure! I didn’t think it of our
Nan!” mourned Pickard.

“Oh, anything to stop your crying!” Nan took the glass Kinney had been
holding for her. “There! I hope you’re satisfied. It’s silly to make so
much fuss about a mere cocktail. No, thanks; not another! There’s no
point in taking the same dare twice!”

At the table the talk at once became animated. Nan had been away from
them so long that she had half forgotten their range of interests.
Burley’s expensive new machine, in which he had motored down from
Chicago; “shows” they had seen; a business scheme--biggest thing
afoot, Burley threw in parenthetically, with a promise to tell Kinney
more about it later; George Pickard’s attentions to the soubrette in
a musical comedy, and references to flirtations which the married men
present had been engaging in--these things were flung upon the table to
be pecked at and dismissed.

“You people are the only real sports in this dismal swamp of a town! I
don’t know how you live here among so many dead ones!” said Burley.

Kinney declared that he intended to move to New York as soon as he got
rid of his patent suits; he was tired of living in a one-horse town.
This suggested a discussion of the merits of New York hotels--a subject
which the Kinneys everywhere west of Manhattan Island find endlessly
exciting.

When champagne was served, Burley rose with elaborate dignity and
invited the other men to join in a toast to the ladies; they were the
best girls in America; he defied anybody to gainsay him. He wished they
might all travel about together all the time hitting only the high
places; and he extended a general invitation to the company to meet him
at Palm Beach the next winter for what he promised should be a grand
time.

“He’d make it Japan if he’d only had a few more drinks,” his wife
remarked to Nan.

By the time salad was served George Pickard thought it well to justify
his reputation as a “cut-up.” His father, a successful lawyer, had left
him a comfortable fortune which George was rapidly distributing. George
had rebelled against the tame social life of the town in which he was
born; he was bored by respectability, and found the freedom of the
Kinneys’ establishment wholly to his liking. He went to the living-room
for the victrola and wheeled it in, playing the newest tango, to a
point just behind Nan’s chair.

“Got to have music; got the habit and can’t eat without music!”

This was accepted as a joke until Copeland protested that he couldn’t
stand the noise and began struggling with Pickard, who bitterly
resented his effort to push the machine out of the room. The music was
hushed presently and Pickard resumed his seat with the understanding
that he might play all he pleased after dinner.

“And we’ll have a dance--I haven’t danced a step in ages!” cried Nan,
entering into the spirit of the occasion.

She had always excused their vulgarity on the ground that they were at
least cheerful, and that probably they were just as good as the people
who frowned upon them. Their admiration was evident from the frequency
with which they invited her opinion on the questions under discussion;
and it was a relief to escape from the invalid air of home and from
what she had convinced herself was Farley’s hostility.

Several times her fingers touched the stem of her wineglass, only to be
withdrawn quickly. Copeland, sitting beside her, noticed her indecision
and drew the glass toward her.

“Just one, for old times’ sake, Nan?”

“All right, Billy!”

She emptied her glass, and then, turning to Copeland, laid her fingers
lightly across the rim.

“That’s all; not another drop!” she said in a low tone.

He laughed and held up his glass for inspection; he had barely touched
his lips to it.

“I had only one cocktail and I haven’t taken any of this stuff,” he
said with a glance that invited approval. “I can do it; you see I can
do it! I can do anything for you, Nan!”

The furtive touch of his hand seemed to establish an understanding
between them that they were spectators, not participants in the revel.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: THE FURTIVE TOUCH OF HIS HAND SEEMED TO ESTABLISH AN
UNDERSTANDING BETWEEN THEM THAT THEY WERE SPECTATORS, NOT PARTICIPANTS
IN THE REVEL]

“I know you can, and you must, Billy.”

The noise and confusion increased. Edith Saxby had begun to cry--Nan
remembered that Edith usually cried when she was tipsy. She was
bewailing the loss of her salted almonds which she charged Andrews with
appropriating. Andrews thereupon went to the sideboard and brought the
serving-dish of almonds and poured the contents upon the girl’s head.

Pickard leaned across the table to wipe away her tears with his napkin.
In attempting this feat he upset the wine-glasses of his immediate
neighbors, causing a wild scamper to escape the resulting deluge.
Liggett and Burley retaliated by pushing him upon the table, where he
crowned himself with the floral centerpiece. Boisterous expressions of
delight greeted this masterstroke.

“This is getting too rotten!” shouted Copeland.

He seized Pickard and dragged him from the table amid general protests.

“Biggest joke of all,” cried Kinney, pointing at Copeland, “that
Billy’s sober. Everybody else drunk, but Billy sober’s a judge!”

Mrs. Liggett, a stout blonde, shrilly resenting this as an imputation
upon her character, attempted to retaliate by slapping Kinney, who
began running round the table to escape her. This continued with the
others cheering them on until she tripped and fell headlong amid
screams of consternation from the women and roars of delight from the
men.

“This is what I call a real ball!” declared Burley.

After Mrs. Liggett had been carried to a divan in the hall to
recuperate, they decided that the possibilities of the table had been
exhausted and returned to the living-room where the victrola was again
set going.

Nan, lingering in the hall, found Andrews beside her.

“Always meant to tell you I loved you, Nan; now’s a good time,” he
blurted. “No girl like you, Nancy!”

His wife appeared suddenly at the door and screamed at him to behave
himself, while the others laughed loudly.

“Rules all suspended to-night; nobody going to be jealous!” cried
Burley encouragingly.

“Got to kiss me, Nan,” Andrews resumed; “kiss everybody else but you
never--”

She pushed him away in disgust. Kinney entertainments, viewed soberly,
clearly lacked the zest she had found in them when exhilarated. She
looked at her watch. She must leave immediately. Copeland beckoned to
her and she turned to him with relief.

“It’s half-past eight, Nan; how soon must you go?”

“At once; I shouldn’t have stayed in the first place.”

“Well, I’ll be glad enough to shake this bunch! Get your things and
I’ll go for the car.”

He had been a very different Billy to-night. It was clear that he meant
to be kind and considerate. The butler passed them bearing a jingling
tray to answer a demand for high-balls from the living-room. Billy was
the only sober man in the company, and she gave him full credit for his
abstemiousness. They were calling her insistently to come and do some
of the “stunts” that she had always contributed to their parties.

She walked to the open door and laughed at them mockingly.

“I’m all in, dead tired! Billy’s going to take me home!”

The sight of them, flushed, rumpled, maudlin, increased her desire to
escape as quickly as possible. She bade them good-night amid their loud
reproaches, went for her hat and coat, and was soon in Copeland’s white
roadster spinning toward town.

“Well, Nan, this is fine. We can go on with our talk now.”

“But we finished that, Billy. We can’t go back to it again!”

“Oh, yes, we can; there’s only one way to end it! That sort of
thing”--he jerked his head toward the Kinneys’--“isn’t for you and me.
I’ve cut it out; passed it up for good. I’m going to live straight and
try to get back all I’ve lost: I know everybody’s down on me--waiting
to see me take the count. But with you everything will be different.
You know that; you understand it, Nan!”

Nan’s thoughts were sober ones. She did like Billy; his good conduct
at the party was encouraging; he could be a man if he would. He was a
boy--a big, foolish boy, kind of heart, and generous, with a substratum
of real character. The actual difference in years did not matter
greatly; he was as slim and trim as a youngster just out of college.
From the beginning of their acquaintance they had got on amazingly
well together. And he loved her; she was honestly convinced of this.
Like many young girls she had found the adoration of an older man
flattering. A Farley had been cruelly unjust to her; there was always
that justification. Even after she had given him her solemn assurances
that she would not marry Billy, he had deliberately planned to give the
bulk of his fortune to charity.

After the scenes at the Kinneys’ she found infinite relief and comfort
in the rush of the cool night air, and in the bright shield of stars
above. Billy was the only person in all the world who cared, who
understood! In her anxiety to be just, she gave to his good conduct
during the evening an exaggerated importance and assured herself that
there was a manliness in him that she had never appreciated.

“Dear old Billy!” she said softly, and laid her hand lightly on his arm.

“Oh, Nan!”

With a happy laugh he brought the machine to an abrupt stop.

“Dear little girl! Dear little Nan!” he murmured, his arms clasping
her. “You belong to me now; nobody’s ever going to take you away from
me. I love you; you’re dearer to me than all the world; and I’m so
happy and proud!”

They talked for a time in subdued tones of the future. Yes; she had
made the great decision. It seemed, now that she had given her word,
that it had been inevitable from the beginning. There would be no more
uncertainty, no more unhappiness. His arms were a happy refuge. No one
had ever been as kind to her as he had been. She no longer questioned
his good faith, or doubted his love.

“Oh, Billy, we must hurry! I’m in for a bad time, if I’m caught.”

When she reached the house the nurse let her in. Farley had wakened
once and asked for her, Miss Rankin said, but he had been satisfied
with an explanation that Nan had gone early to bed.




CHAPTER XIV

BILLS PAYABLE


At six o’clock every morning Mr. Jeremiah Amidon’s alarm-clock sent
him trotting down the hall of his boarding-house to the bathroom for
an immersion in cold water. When he had carefully dressed himself, he
pulled weights for ten minutes, and thus refreshed and strengthened was
able to wring a smile from the saddest boarder at the breakfast table.

He now opened the office mail. No one knew who had conferred this
responsibility upon him; all that any one knew about the matter was
that Jerry got down first and had the job done usually by eight
o’clock. He did it well; there was no denying that. It was the only
way, he told Copeland, that you could keep track of the business.
He assumed also the task of replying to complaints of protesting
customers, and carried the replies to Copeland to sign. The errors,
omissions, and delays complained of became, under Jerry’s hand,
a matter of chagrin and personal grief to the head of the house.
These literary performances were in a key of cheerful raillery, made
possible by his knowledge of the domestic affairs or social habits of
the kicking customer. Where there was real ground for complaint and
the patron was a valued one, Jerry telegraphed an apology. Copeland
demurred at this.

“What if that fellow does get a damaged shipment occasionally?” said
Copeland, frowning over one of these messages; “he’s one of the slowest
customers on our list. It wouldn’t be any great calamity if we lost
him.”

“He’s slow all right,” Jerry admitted, “but he’s dead sure; and he has
an old uncle who owns about a section of the fattest bottom land on the
Wabash. When the old gent dies, Sam’s going to put up a building for
himself and build a drug store that will be more beautiful than Solomon
in full evening dress.”

“These old uncles never die,” observed Copeland dryly, handing back the
telegram.

“Sam’s will. He’s mostly paralyzed now and it won’t be long till we get
an order for a new stock. Sam was in town last week and talked over the
fittings for his new store. You’ll find seven dollars in my expense
account that covers victuals and drink I threw into Samuel; but I paid
for the tickets to the Creole Queens Burlesque out of my own pocket
so’s to bring down my average.”

“All right; let ’er go,” laughed Copeland.

No one else in the establishment ever joked with Copeland. His father
had been a melancholy dyspeptic; and the tradition of Farley’s bad
temper and profanity still caused the old employees to walk softly.
Copeland found Jerry’s freshness and cheek diverting. Jerry, by
imperceptible degrees, was infusing snap into the organization. And
Copeland knew that the house needed snap.

“About telegrams: I guess we do more telegraphing than any house on
the street!” Jerry informed him. “You can send a jolly by lightning
anywhere in Indiana for a quarter; and nothing tickles one of these
country fellows like getting a telegram.”

“You’ve got to consider the dignity of the house just a little bit; try
to remember that.”

“Our game,” replied Jerry confidently, “is to hold the business
we’ve got and get more. The old system’s played out. This isn’t the
only house that feels it,” he added consolingly. “Everybody’s got to
rustle these days. We’re conservative, of course, and deliver the
goods straight every time, but we must keep shooting pep into the
organization.”

Jerry had gone to the private office with one of his sugar letters, as
he called his propitiatory masterpieces, on the day after Copeland’s
meeting with Nan at the Kinneys’.

“By the way, Jerry,” said Copeland, as Amidon turned to go, “what’s
this joke you’ve put over in the Bigger Business Club? I didn’t tell
anybody I wanted to be president. I was never in the club-rooms but
once and that was to look at that billiard table I gave the boys.”

Jerry ran his finger round the inside of his collar and blinked
innocently.

“It was just an uprising of the people, Mr. Copeland. The boys had
to have you. You got two hundred votes, and Sears, of the Thornwood
Furniture Company, was the next man with only sixty-two.”

“You did that, you young scoundrel,” said Copeland good humoredly, “and
I suppose you gave ‘The News’ my picture to print in their account of
the hotly contested election!”

“No, sir; I only told the reporter where I thought he would find one.”

The Bigger Business Club was an organization of clerks and traveling
men, that offered luncheon and billiards and trade journals in a suite
of rooms in the Board of Trade Building. It took itself very seriously,
and was highly resolved to exercise its best endeavors in widening the
city’s markets. Incidentally the luncheon served at thirty cents was
the cheapest in town, and every other Saturday night during the winter
there was a smoker where such subjects as “Selling Propositions,” “The
Square Deal” and “Efficiency” were debated.

“Well, now that you’ve wished it on me, what am I going to do about it?”

“Your election scores one for the house and, of course, you’re going
to take the job. The directors meet once a month, and you’ll have to
attend some of the meetings; and you ought to turn out at a few of
the smokers, anyhow. It will help the boys a lot to have you show an
interest.”

Copeland’s face became serious. He swung round in his chair and stared
at the wall for a moment.

“You think I might do those young fellows some good, do you?” he
demanded bitterly. “Well, you seem to have a better opinion of me than
most people. I’m much obliged to you, Jerry. If you’re going up there
for lunch to-day I’ll go along.”

Copeland had ceased to be amused by Jerry’s personal devotion; there
was something the least bit pathetic in it. If any one else had taken
the trouble to make him president of a club of clerks and drummers he
would have scorned it,--but no one else would have taken the trouble!
He was satisfied of that.

Copeland was at last thoroughly sobered by his financial situation. For
two years the drug business had been losing steadily. Farley’s strong
hand was missed; in spite of his animosity toward Farley, Copeland
realized that his father’s old partner had been the real genius of the
business.

His original subscription of fifty thousand dollars for Kinney’s
cement stock had been increased from time to time in response to the
importunities of the sanguine and pushing Kinney until he now had three
hundred thousand dollars invested. The bank had declined to accept
his cement stock as collateral for the loan he was obliged to ask to
take up Farley’s notes and had insisted that he put up Copeland-Farley
stock, a demand with which he had reluctantly complied.

One hundred thousand dollars of paper in the Western National matured
on the 1st of November, only five days distant. Copeland was pondering
a formidable list of maturing obligations that afternoon when Eaton
appeared at the door of his private office. Copeland had never had
any business with Eaton. Though Eaton was defending Kinney’s patents,
Copeland had never attended any of their conferences and the lawyer’s
attenuated figure and serious countenance gave him a distinct shock.

It was possible, if not likely, that Farley had got wind of Nan’s
interview with him and had sent the lawyer with a warning that
Nan must be let alone. Eaton would be a likely choice for such an
errand--likelier than Thurston. Copeland had always found Eaton’s
gravity disconcerting; and to-day the lawyer seemed unusually sedate.

“Hope I haven’t chosen an unfortunate hour for my visit? I don’t have
much business down this way and I’m never sure when you men on the
street are busy.”

“Glad to see you at any time,” Copeland replied with a cordiality he
did not feel.

“We don’t seem to meet very often,” remarked Eaton. “I used to see you
at the University Club in old times, but you’ve been cutting us out
lately.”

“I don’t get there very often. The Hamilton is nearer the store and
it’s a little more convenient place to meet anybody you want to see.”

“I shall have to quit the University myself if the members don’t
stop napping in the library after luncheon,” remarked Eaton musingly.
“Rather a dim room, you remember? Only a few afternoons ago a fellow
was sprawled out on a divan sleeping sweetly and I sat down on
him--very annoying. The idea of gorging yourself so in the middle of
the day that you’ve got to sleep it off is depressing. I suppose we can
be undisturbed here for a few minutes?”

“Yes; we’re all right here,” Copeland assented with misgivings. He
thrust the list of accounts payable into a drawer, and waited for Eaton
to unfold himself.

“I come on a delicate matter, Copeland; business that is rather out of
my line.”

“I hoped you’d come to tell me we’d got a decision in the cement case.
It would cheer us a good deal to know that Kinney’s patents have been
sustained.”

“I’m sorry we haven’t got a decision yet. But I’m reasonably sure of
success there. If I hadn’t had faith in Kinney’s patents I shouldn’t
have undertaken to defend them. We ought to have a decision now very
shortly; any day, in fact.”

“Well, Kinney isn’t worrying; he’s been going ahead just as though his
rights were founded on rock.”

“I think they are. It might have been better policy not to extend the
business until we had clearance papers from the highest court, but
Kinney thought he ought to push on while the going’s good. He’s an
ambitious fellow, and the stuff he makes is in demand; but you know
more about that than I do.”

“To be frank about it, I’d be glad to clear out of it,” said Copeland.
“But I can’t desert him while his patents are in question--the stock’s
unsalable now, of course.”

“There was a time when we might have compromised those suits on fairly
good terms; but I advised Kinney against it. The responsibility of
making the fight is mine. And,” Eaton added with one of his rare
smiles, “I shall owe you all an apology if I get whipped.”

Copeland shrugged his shoulders. His uncertainty as to the nature of
Eaton’s errand caused him to fidget nervously.

“As I said before,” Eaton resumed, “my purpose in coming to see you
is wholly out of my line. In fact, I shan’t be surprised if you call
it sheer impudence; but I wish to assure you that I come in the best
spirit in the world. I hope you will understand that.”

Copeland was confident now that Eaton brought some message from Farley.
There was no other imaginable explanation of the visit. He was thinking
hard, and to gain time he opened his top drawer and extended a box of
cigars.

“No, thanks,” said Eaton, staring absently at the cigars. “To repeat,
Copeland, my errand isn’t an agreeable one, and I apologize for my
presumption in undertaking it.”

Copeland chose a cigar carefully and slammed the drawer on the box.
Perhaps Farley had chosen Eaton as a proper person to marry Nan; she
liked him; Eaton had always had an unaccountable fascination for women.
He became impatient for the lawyer to continue; but Eaton had never
been more maddeningly deliberate.

“May I assume, for a moment, Copeland, that you have obligations
outstanding that cause you, we will say, temporary embarrassment?
Just a moment, please!” Copeland had moved forward suddenly in his
chair with resentment burning hot in his face. “The assumption may be
unwarranted,” Eaton continued; “if so, I apologize.”

Copeland thrust his cigar into his mouth and bit it savagely. Farley
had undoubtedly taken over the maturing notes at the Western National
and had sent Eaton to taunt him with the change of ownership.
Eaton removed his eyeglasses and polished them with the whitest of
handkerchiefs. His eyes, unobscured by the thick lenses, told Copeland
nothing.

“I may have misled you into thinking that my errand is purely social.
I shall touch upon business; but I am not personally concerned in it
in any way whatever. You might naturally conclude that I represent
some corporation, bank, or trust company. I assure you that I do not.
It may occur to you that Mr. Farley sent me, but he has not mentioned
you to me in this, or in any other connection remotely bearing upon my
errand. You may possibly suspect that some one near you--some one in
your office, for example--has been telling tales out of school. I will
say explicitly that young Amidon, while a friend of mine, and a boy I
particularly like, has given me no hint--not even the remotest idea--of
any such state of things. I hope you are satisfied on those points?”

Many persons at different times in John Cecil Eaton’s life, enraged by
his cool, unruffled demeanor, had been moved to tell him to go to the
devil; but no one had ever done so. Copeland did not do so now, though
he was strongly impelled to violent speech.

“I will go the length of saying that you are in considerable danger
right now,” Eaton went on as Copeland continued to watch him
impassively. “If the Western National should foreclose on your stock,
you would be pretty nearly wiped out of this old concern, that was
founded and conducted for years by your father and is still identified
with his name. I am in a position to pay those notes and carry
them--carry renewals until you can take them up. I will say frankly
that I don’t consider them a good investment, and I have said so to the
person I represent; but to repeat again, I am not here as a lawyer or
business man. My purpose is wholly friendly, and quite disinterested.
I should merely go to the bank and take up the notes--thus destroying
the hopes of certain gentlemen--your competitors in business--who
entertain the cheerful idea of buying in your stock and putting you
out of business. That would be a calamity--for you; and it would be
deplorable to have an old house like Copeland-Farley lose its identity.”

Copeland was still silent. He had caught at one motive for this
visit after another, but Eaton had disposed of all of them. Eaton’s
reputation as a man of strict--of rather quixotic--honor did not
encourage the belief that he would deliberately lie. But there was a
trap concealed somewhere, Copeland reflected; he resolved not to be
caught. If he effected an immediate marriage with Nan, Farley would,
he believed, do something handsome for her. He would storm and bluster
in his usual way; but he would hardly dare go the length of cutting
her off entirely. It was conceivable that he might advance money to
save Copeland-Farley from catastrophe. There was a vein of sentiment
in Timothy Farley; brought face to face with the idea of having the
business he had done so much to establish eliminated, it was wholly
possible that he would come down handsomely if Nan were introduced into
the situation as a factor.

Copeland was irritated by Eaton’s cocksure manner--a manner well
calculated to cause irritation. Men did not make such offers from
purely philanthropic motives. Eaton, moreover, was no friend of
his; they hardly spoke the same language. Nan, he still suspected,
was somehow the object and aim of these overtures. His mind worked
quickly. He meant to marry Nan at once, within a few days if his plans
succeeded, and he was not to be frustrated by any scheme for placing
himself at the mercy of a new and concealed creditor.

“I’m much obliged to you, Eaton,” he answered steadily; “but I’m not
quite all in yet. I can’t imagine where you got that idea. If I didn’t
know you were a gentleman I should be pretty hot. Things have been a
little tight with me, I confess; but that’s largely due to cutting down
my capital in the drug business to back up what I had invested with
Kinney. I’m working out satisfactorily and don’t need help; but I’m
obliged to you just the same.”

Eaton nodded reflectively; his face betrayed no surprise.

“It might be possible, of course, for me to buy those maturing notes
without your knowledge or consent. But I thought it would look
better--help your credit, in other words--if you took them up yourself.
You can see that.”

Copeland had already thought of this; the idea did not add to his
comfort. The mystery that enveloped Eaton enraged him; business was not
done in this way. If anybody wanted to put one hundred thousand dollars
into the drug house, there were direct businesslike ways of suggesting
it. He tipped himself back in his chair and pointed the unlighted cigar
he had been fumbling at a calendar that hung on the wall over his desk.

“My paper in the Western National isn’t due for five days: I dare
them to sell it--to you or anybody else! As you know perfectly well,
it would be bad banking ethics for a bank to sell the paper of an
old customer. It isn’t done! I’ve about made up my mind to quit the
Western, anyhow. Those fellows over there think they’ve got the right
to sweat every customer they’ve got. They’re not bankers; they’ve got
the souls of pawnbrokers and ought to be making loans on household
goods at forty per cent a month.”

“That,” replied Eaton calmly, “has nothing to do with the matter in
hand. I understand that you decline my offer, which is to take up the
Western’s notes.”

“You’re right, mighty right! You wouldn’t accept such an offer
yourself, Eaton. If I were to come to you with a mysterious offer to
advance you money, you’d turn me out of your office.”

“Very likely,” Eaton assented. “And I don’t undertake to defend the
idea; I confess that it’s indefensible. As I understand you, you’ve
passed on the matter finally.”

“I have,” replied Copeland sharply.

Eaton rose. He bent his gaze with an absent air upon the calendar, as
though surprised to find it there. Then, seeming to recall that he had
finished his errand, he walked to the door.

“Thank you very much, Copeland,” he said; and passed out.

Jerry Amidon paused in the act of shaking hands with a country customer
to stare at the departing figure, but Eaton stalked austerely into the
street quite unmindful of him.




CHAPTER XV

FATE AND BILLY COPELAND


When Nan left Copeland the night of the Kinney party she promised to
call him the next day. As telephoning from home was hazardous, she
made an excuse for going downtown and called from a department store.
Copeland was not in, and she repeated her call several times without
reaching him. Copeland, if she had known it, was in the directors’ room
at the Western National, discussing his affairs with the president.

She had a superstitious awe of petty frustrations of her plans
and hopes. The Celt in her was alert for signs and miraculous
interventions. It occurred to her that perhaps the angels of light or
darkness were bent upon interfering; the idea kindled her imagination.

In the street she ran into Fanny Copeland. To meet Billy’s former wife,
just when she was trying to perfect plans for marrying Billy, was
altogether dismaying.

“You dear child, I’m so glad to see you!” cried Fanny, taking both
Nan’s hands. “I was just wondering whether I had time to run up to the
house. How is Mr. Farley?”

“Papa hasn’t been quite so well,” Nan answered; “but it’s only a
slight cold. I had to come downtown on an errand,” she explained.

She experienced once more a feeling of self-consciousness, of
unreality, in meeting Fanny face to face: within a day or two she
might be another Mrs. Copeland! And yet Billy had once loved this
woman, undeniably; and she had loved him--she might, for all Nan knew,
still love him. She envied the little woman her equanimity, her poise,
her good cheer. If she were only like that, instead of the wobbly
weather-vane she knew herself to be! Why hadn’t she a firm grip on life
instead of a succession of fatuous clutches at nothing! Nan wished, as
she had wished a thousand times, that troublesome problems would not
rise up to vex her.

The Farley chauffeur had run his machine to the sidewalk to pick her up.

“I hope your father will be better soon,” said Fanny. “Give him my
love, won’t you?”

Nan’s eyes followed her as the car got under way.

When she reached home she met a special delivery messenger at the door.
Her heart jumped; it was a note from Billy, who had risked sending her
a message that might very easily have fallen under her foster-father’s
eye. She thrust it into her pocket unopened and ran upstairs.

“Well, you’re back again, are you?” Farley said harshly.

“Yes, papa; I had an errand I couldn’t put off.”

“It’s always been a mystery to me,” he grumbled, “what women find to
trot downtown for so much.”

“Pins!” she replied lightly. “We always need little things. I met Mrs.
Copeland--looking for pins, too; so you see I’m not the only one.”

“You saw _her_, did you?” he asked with a show of eagerness.

“Yes; I met her as I was coming out of Sterling’s. She was just
starting home.”

“I’d been hoping she’d stop in to see me, but she’s a busy woman.”

“She has a lot to do, of course. If you’d like to see her I’ll
telephone her to come in for luncheon to-morrow.”

He appeared to be pondering this and his hands opened and shut several
times before he answered.

“No; never mind. She’s busy and it really doesn’t matter.” He stared
vacantly at the ceiling for a moment. “I guess that’s all fixed now,”
he added musingly, apparently forgetting her.

She was anxious to be off to her room to read Billy’s note; but she
lingered, curious as to what further he might have to say about Fanny.

“You like that woman, don’t you, Nan? You and she get on--you haven’t
found any traces of ill-feeling toward you?”

His small gray eyes were bent upon her with an odd expression of
mingled hostility and kindness.

“Of course I like her, papa; and I believe she likes me. There’s no
reason why she shouldn’t like me!”

“No reason!” he caught her up contemptuously.

She knew that he was thinking of Billy. His face twitched as a wave of
anger seized him.

“That man is a scoundrel!” he blurted. “If he hadn’t been he’d never
have treated that woman as he did!”

“It doesn’t seem to worry her much!” she flashed back at him. “I don’t
know a happier woman anywhere!”

She realized instantly that the remark was unfortunate. He pointed a
shaking finger at her.

“That woman,” he said, pronouncing the words with ominous deliberation,
“ought to get down on her knees every night and thank God that she’s
rid of him! That great bully, that worthless loafer! But I’ll show him
a few things! If that blackguard thinks he can put anything over on me
he’ll find that I’m smarter than he thinks I am! You remember that!”

“You must be quiet, Mr. Farley,” admonished Miss Rankin, who had
been standing by the window; “the doctor said you weren’t to excite
yourself.”

“I’m not excited,” he flared. “Doctors and lawyers make a nice mess of
this world. They don’t any of ’em know anything!”

He gave himself an impatient twitch and several documents slipped from
under his pillow. He clutched them nervously and thrust them back.

Nan was jubilant for a moment in the knowledge that she knew what those
documents contained--devices for humiliating her after he was gone. If
only he knew how little she cared! He thought of nothing but his money
and means of keeping it from her.

“Go away; I want to think,” he said gruffly.

Nan was grateful for this dismissal, and a moment later had softly
closed her door and was eagerly reading Copeland’s message. It covered
three letter-sheets and the daring of its contents caused her heart to
beat wildly.

What he proposed was immediate marriage. There was to be a military
wedding that night at the church in the next block. Nan, he assumed,
would attend. At the end of the ceremony she had merely to pass out
of the church and his machine would be waiting around the corner.
She could pack a suit-case, ostensibly filled with articles for the
cleaner’s, and he would have a messenger call for it. They would run up
to Lafayette, where he had a married cousin who would have a minister
ready to marry them; then take a train for Chicago and return the next
day and have it out with Farley.

Nan had never shared Copeland’s faith in the idea that once they were
married they might safely rely on Farley’s forgiveness. Farley’s
passionate outbreaks at the mere mention of Copeland pretty effectually
disposed of that hope. But that was not so important, for, in spite
of Farley’s unfavorable opinion of Copeland’s business capacity and
Billy’s own complaint of hard times, she had an idea that Copeland was
well off, if not rich. To outward appearances, the drug business was
as flourishing now as in the days when Farley was still active in its
affairs. It was the way of business men to “talk poor” even when they
were most prosperous; this had, at least, always been Farley’s way.

The gaunt figure in the room across the hall rose wraithlike before
her, giving her pause. Yes, the Farleys had been kind to her; they
had caught her away from the world’s rough hand and had done all that
it was in their power to do to make a decent, self-respecting woman
of her. Her advantages had been equal to those enjoyed by most of
the girls she knew. Many people--the town’s “old stock,” Farley’s
substantial neighbors--would see nothing romantic or amusing in her
flight with Copeland. They would call her the basest ingrate; she
could fancy them saying that blood will tell; that after all she was a
nobody, a girl without background or antecedents, whom the Farleys had
picked up, out of the kindness of their simple hearts, and that she had
taken the first chance to slap them in the face.

Then she remembered the will that had given her the key to Farley’s
intentions. Possibly the new will, which Thurston had brought to the
house that day, cut her expectations to an even lower figure....

It pleased her to think that she was studying the matter
dispassionately, arguing with herself both for and against Billy’s
plan. It was more honest to marry Copeland now and be done with it
than to wait and marry him after Farley’s death. This she found a
particularly satisfying argument in favor of marrying him at once. Her
histrionic sense responded to the suggestion of an elopement; it would
be a great lark, besides bringing her deliverance from the iron hand
of Farley. Yes; she would do it! Her pulses tingled as she visualized
herself as the chief figure in an event that would stir the town. It
was now four o’clock. Copeland had written that at five a messenger
would call for her suit-case, and all she had to do was to step into
his car when she came out of the church.

She was downstairs listening for the bell when the messenger rang. As
she handed him the suit-case she felt herself already launched upon a
great adventure. While she was at the door the afternoon paper arrived
and she carried it up to Farley and read him the headlines.

She had her dinner with him in his room. There was a pathos in his lean
frame, his deep-furrowed brow, in the restless, gnarled hands. She was
not so happy over her plans as she had expected to be. She kept saying
to herself that it wasn’t quite fair--not an honest return for all the
kindnesses of her foster-parents--to run away and leave this broken old
man. As she thought of it, every unkind word he had said to her had
been merited; she had lied to him, disobeyed him, and tricked him.

“What’s the matter with your appetite, Nan?” he asked suddenly. “Seems
to me you’ve looked a little peaked lately. Maybe you don’t get enough
exercise now we’ve got the machine.”

“Oh, I’m perfectly well,” she replied hastily.

“Well, you’ve been cooped up here all summer. You’d better take a trip
this winter. We’ll keep a lookout for somebody that’s goin’ South and
get ’em to take you along.”

“Oh, that isn’t necessary, papa. I never felt better in my life.”

“Isn’t this the night for that Parish girl’s wedding?” he asked later.

“Yes; I thought I’d go,” she answered carelessly. “It’s at the
Congregational Church, and I can go alone.”

“All right; you be sure to go. You never saw an army wedding? I guess
’most everybody will be there.”

When he reminded her that it was time to dress she answered
indifferently that she didn’t care to go to the reception, and that the
gown she had on would be perfectly suitable.

“I’ll just watch the show from a back seat, papa; you can see a wedding
better from the rear, anyhow.”

“Well, don’t hurry back on my account.”

She had been afraid that he would raise some objection to her going
without an escort; but he made no comment.

She ran her eyes over the things in her room--photographs of girls she
had known at boarding-school, trifles for the toilet-table that had
been given her on birthdays and holidays. It was a big comfortable
room, the largest bedroom in the house, with a window-seat that had
been built specially for her when she came home from school. She
glanced over the trinkets that littered the mantel, and took from
its leathern case a medal she had won in school for excellence in
recitations. On the wall hung a photograph of herself as Rosalind, a
part she had played in an out-of-doors presentation of “As You Like
It.”...

She must leave some explanation of her absence--so she sat down at her
desk and wrote:--

  _Dear Papa_:--

  Please don’t be hard on me, but I’ve run away to marry Mr. Copeland.
  We are going to Lafayette to his cousin’s and shall be married at
  her house to-night. I hope you won’t be hard on me; I shall explain
  everything to you when I see you and I think you will understand. We
  shall be back very soon and I will let you know where I shall be.

She hesitated a moment and then closed with “Your loving daughter,
Nan.” She thrust this into an envelope, addressed it in a bold hand to
Timothy Farley, Esq., and placed it under a small silver box on the
mantel.

She stood a moment at the door, then closed it softly and went in to
say good-night to Farley. He took the hand on which she had half-drawn
her glove and held it while his eyes slowly surveyed her.

“I didn’t know whether you’d wear a hat to an evening wedding. I never
know about those things.”

“Oh, this is such a foolish little thing, papa; you’d hardly call it a
hat,” she laughed.

“Well, don’t let one of those army officers pick you up and carry you
off. I want to hold on to you a little longer.”

As she bent to kiss him tears sprang to her eyes. Face to face with it,
there was nothing heroic, nothing romantic in abandoning the kindest
friend she was ever likely to know, and in a fashion so shamelessly
abrupt and cruel.

“Good-night, papa!” she cried bravely and tripped downstairs, humming
to keep up her courage.

She absently took her latch-key from a bowl on the hall table and did
not remember until she had thrust it into her glove as she went down
the steps that she would have no use for it. It was the finest of
autumn nights and many were walking to the church; there was a flutter
of white raiment, and a festal gayety marked the street. She waited
for those immediately in sight to pass before leaving the yard and
then walked toward the church.

She eluded an officer resplendent in military dress who started toward
her and stole into the nearest seat. The subdued happiness that seemed
to thrill the atmosphere, the organist’s preludings, the air of
expectancy intensified her sense of detachment and remoteness.

The notes of the “Lohengrin” march roused her from her reverie and she
craned her neck for a first sight of the attendants and the bride.

Just before the benediction she left, and was soon in the side
street where Billy was to leave his car. She had expected him to
be in readiness, but he had evidently waited for the end of the
ceremony--which seemed absurd when they were so soon to have a wedding
of their own! It was inconsiderate of him to keep her waiting. The
street began to fill and she loitered, ill at ease, while the organ
trumpeted joyfully.

Then she saw the familiar white roadster, with Billy in the chauffeur’s
seat, turning into the side street where several policemen were
already directing the movements of the parked carriages and motors
toward the church entrance. His overcoat was flung open and the light
of the lamp at the intersecting streets smote upon his shirt bosom.
It was ridiculous for him to have put on evening clothes and a silk
hat when he had a long drive before him! The policemen bawled to him
not to interfere with the traffic. Ignoring their signals he drove
his car forward. Nan watched with mounting anger the disturbance he
was creating. The crowd that had assembled in the hope of catching a
glimpse of the bride now found Copeland and his altercation with the
police much more diverting.

“Billy Copeland’s drunk again,” some one behind Nan remarked
contemptuously.

The white car suddenly darted forward and crashed into a motor that
was advancing in line toward the corner, causing a stampede among the
waiting vehicles.

While the police were separating the two cars, Nan caught sight of
Eaton, who seemed to be trying to persuade the policemen of Copeland’s
good intentions. Billy’s voice was perfectly audible to the spectators
as he demanded to be let alone.

“They haven’t got any right to block this street; it’s against the law
to shut up a street that way!”

The policemen dragged him from the seat and a chauffeur from one of
the waiting cars jumped in and backed the machine out of the way. Nan
waited uncertainly to see what disposition the police were making of
Billy; but having lifted the blockade they left him to his own devices.
He had been drinking; that was the only imaginable explanation of his
conduct, and her newly established confidence in him was gone. However,
it would be best to wait and attempt to speak to him, as he might
mingle in the crowd and make inquiries for her that would publish the
fact that they had planned flight.

Suddenly she heard her name spoken, and turned to find Eaton beside her.

“Too bad about Copeland,” he remarked in his usual careless fashion;
“but one of those policemen promised to see that he went home.”

She was bewildered by his sudden appearance. Eaton never missed
anything; he would certainly make note of her gown and hat as not
proper for occasions of highest ceremony. Nor was it likely that he had
overlooked the two suitcases strapped to the rear of Billy’s car.

“Looked for you all over the church, and had given you up,” Eaton was
saying. “You can’t say no--simply got to have you! Stupid to be pulling
off a wedding the night we’re dedicating the new swimming-pool at
the Wright Settlement House. Programme all shot to pieces, but Mamie
Pembroke’s going to sing and you’ve got to do a recitation. Favor
to an old friend! They dumped the full responsibility on me at six
o’clock--six, mind you!”

Nan bewildered, uncertain, suffered him to pilot her round the corner,
wondering how much he knew, and trying to adjust herself to this new
situation. A car that she recognized as the Pembrokes’ stood at the
curb.

“Oh, come right along, Nan; there’s no use saying you won’t!” cried
Mamie Pembroke.

The Pembrokes were among those who had dropped her after she became
identified with the Kinneys, and her rage at Copeland was mitigated by
their cordiality.

“Hello, Mamie! What on earth do you want with me!”

“Oh, it’s a lark; one of this crazy Eaton man’s ideas.”

Nan knew that she had been recognized by many people, and that even if
Copeland had not made a fool of himself the elopement was now out of
the question. She felt giddy and leaned heavily on Eaton’s arm as he
helped her into the car.

“You were alone, weren’t you, Nan?” Eaton asked as the machine started.

“Yes,” she faltered, settling back into a seat beside Mrs. Pembroke.

“Then we’d better stop at your house so Mr. Farley won’t be troubled
about you.”

As she had not meant to return at all, it seemed absurd to go back now
to say that she was going to a settlement house entertainment and would
be home in an hour or so. The telltale letter could hardly have been
found yet and she must dispose of it immediately. The car whirled round
to the Farleys’ and Nan let herself in with her key.

Farley was awake, reading a magazine article on “The Ohio in the Civil
War.”

“Back already! Getting married doesn’t take long, does it?--not as long
as getting out of it!”

“Oh, the wedding was stunning!” she cried breathlessly. “I never saw so
much gold braid in my life. I’m going with the Pembrokes and Mr. Eaton
down to dedicate a swimming-pool at the Wright Settlement House. I just
stopped to tell you, so you wouldn’t worry.”

“Tom Pembroke going down there?” he growled. “I thought that tank was
for poor boys. What’s Eaton got to do with it?”

She explained that Eaton was substituting for the president of the
Settlement House Association, who had been called from town, and that
he had asked her to recite something.

“Well, ‘The Ole Swimmin’ Hole’ will come in handy. I always like the
way you do that. Run along now!”

She darted into her room and found the letter just as she had left
it on the mantel. She tore it into strips and threw them into
her beribboned waste-paper basket. Her revulsion of feeling was
complete. It was like waking from a nightmare to find herself secure
amid familiar surroundings. She turned to Farley’s room again and
impulsively bent and kissed him.

“Ain’t you gone yet?” he demanded, with the gruffness that often
concealed his pleasure.

“I’m off for sure this time,” she called back. “Thanks for suggesting
‘The Ole Swimmin’ Hole’--that’s just the thing!”

They found the hall packed with an impatient crowd. Eaton led the
way to the platform and opened the exercises without formality. The
superintendent of the house dealt in statistics as to the service
rendered by the Settlement. Mamie Pembroke sang “The Rosary” and
responded to an encore.

Nan had not faced so large an audience since her appearance as Rosalind
at school. She drew off her gloves before her name was announced, and
as she stood up put aside her hat. At least half a dozen nationalities
were represented in the auditorium; and she resolved to try first
a sketch in which an Irishman, an Italian and a German debated in
brisk dialogue the ownership of a sum of money. She had heard it done
in vaudeville by a comedian of reputation and had mastered it for
dinner-table uses. She had added to it, recast, and improved it, and
she now gave it with all the spirit and nice differentiation of which
she was capable. Eaton, who had heard her several times before, was
surprised at her success; she had taken pains; and how often Eaton, in
thinking of Nan, had wished she would take pains!

There was no ignoring the demand for more, and she gave another comic
piece and added “The Ole Swimmin’ Hole” for good measure. She received
her applause graciously and sat down wondering at her own happiness.
Mrs. Pembroke patted her hand; she heard somebody saying, “Yes,
Farley’s daughter,--adopted her when she was a child!”

Eaton was announcing the close of the programme. It was his pleasant
office, he said, to deliver the natatorium that had been added to the
Settlement House into the keeping of the people of the neighborhood.

“Many lives go to the making of a city like this. Most of you know
little of the men who have built this city, but you profit by their
care and labor as much as though you and your fathers had been born
here. It is the hope of all of us who come here to meet you and to help
you, if we can, that you may be builders yourselves, adding to the
dignity and honor and prosperity of the community.

“Now, only one man besides myself knows who gave the money for the
building of the swimming-pool. The other man is the donor himself. He
is one of the old merchants of this city, a man known for his honesty
and fair dealing. He told me not to mention his name; and I’m not going
to do it. But I think that if some one who is very dear to him--the
person who is the dearest of all in the world to him--should hand the
keys to the superintendent, I should not be telling--and yet, you would
understand who this kind friend is.”

He crossed the platform and handed Nan a bunch of keys.

“I’m sure,” he said, turning to the interested spectators, “that you
will be glad to know that the keys to the bathhouse have come to you
through Miss Farley.”

Tears sprang to Nan’s eyes as she rose and handed the keys to the
superintendent amid cheers and applause. She was profoundly moved by
the demonstration. They did not know--those simple foreign folk who
lifted their faces in gratitude and admiration--that an hour earlier
it had been in her heart to commit an act of grossest ingratitude
against their benefactor. She turned away with infinite relief that the
exercises were over, and followed the rest of the visitors to inspect
the house. It was like Farley not to tell any one of his gift; and she
felt like a fraud and a cheat to stand in his place, receiving praise
that was intended for him.

On the way home she was very quiet. The many emotions of the day had so
wearied her that she had no spirit to project herself into the future.
And it seemed futile to attempt to forecast a day’s events, when she
had, apparently, so little control of her own destiny.

“Hope Mr. Farley won’t abuse me for giving him away?” Eaton
remarked, as he left her at the door. “But the temptation was too
strong--couldn’t resist putting you into the picture. Your recitations
made a big hit; and those people are real critics!”

She lay in the window-seat till daybreak, dreaming, staring at the
stars.




CHAPTER XVI

AN ABRUPT ENDING


Nan sang as she dressed the next morning. The gods had ordained
that she shouldn’t marry Billy, and after her uncertainties on that
point she was relieved to find that the higher powers had taken the
troublesome business out of her hands. She was surprised at her
light-hearted acceptance of the situation. She hadn’t married Billy and
she sang in the joy of her freedom.

Just as she was ready to leave her room the maid brought up a special
delivery letter from Copeland. It had been posted at six o’clock. She
tore open the envelope and read frowningly:--

  _Dear Nan_:--

  Sorry about the row at the church last night. Never occurred to me
  that there’d be such a jam. I hung around the neighborhood as long as
  I could, hoping to find you. But it will be nicer, after all, to make
  the run by daylight. Telephone me where we can meet this morning, say
  at ten. I shall be at the office early and shall expect to hear from
  you by nine-thirty. For God’s sake, don’t fail me, Nan!

This was scrawled in pencil on Hamilton Club paper. She propped it
against her dressing-table mirror and stared at it wonderingly. It
did not seem possible that she had ever contemplated running away with
Billy. The remembrance of him as he sat in his car, quarreling with the
police, with the eyes of a hundred people upon him, sickened her.

  Either you love me, Nan, or you don’t; you either have been fooling
  me all along or you mean to stand by me now and make me the happiest
  man alive....

She smiled at Billy’s efforts to be pathetic--a quizzical little smile.
The paper smelt odiously of tobacco smoke. She tore the note to pieces
and let them slip slowly from her hand into her waste-basket. No; she
did not love Billy. Only a few hours earlier she had been ready to run
away with him; but that was all over now. She was sorry for Billy,
but she did not love him. How could she have ever been foolish enough
to think she did! But why, she wondered, was she forever yielding to
impulses from which a kind fate might not always protect her? “You
little fool!” she ejaculated. A moment later she stood smiling in
Farley’s door.

“Nan, look here what they say about you in the paper!” he said,
glancing at her over his spectacles. “I told Eaton not to blab about
that swimmin’-tank business and here they’ve got us all in the paper!”

“Oh, if only you could have been there, papa!”

She saw that he was pleased. He bade her ring for the maid to bring
up their breakfast; he wanted to know all about the exercises at the
Settlement House.

“I guess you made a hit all right,” he said proudly, after making her
read the account aloud. “I never liked your sayin’ pieces in public;
but I guess if you can tickle a crowd like that I ain’t got any right
to kick.”

The reporter had built his story around her; and had done full justice
to her part in the surprise of the evening. Her recitations were
praised extravagantly as worthy of a professional; “it is unfortunate,”
ran the article, “that Miss Farley’s elocutionary talents are so rarely
displayed in public.”

It was compensation for much greater catastrophes than the loss of
Billy Copeland to find Farley so pleased.

“It’s kind o’ nice to do things like that--to do things for people,”
Farley remarked wistfully, after subjecting Nan to a prolonged
cross-examination. “I’m sorry now I didn’t tell you about that swimmin’
pool. You’ve got a mighty kind heart, Nan. I used to think I wouldn’t
make any will, but let what I’ve got go to you, and leave it to you to
help some of these schemes for the poor. You know you’ve worried me
sometimes--we won’t talk about that any more; I guess it’s all over
now.”

The questioning look he bent upon her gave her conscience a twinge.
If Billy hadn’t become embroiled with the police she would not be
listening to Farley’s praise!

“Yes, papa; it’s all over,” she replied softly, and bent down and
kissed him.

When later she called Copeland on the telephone it was to laugh at
their misadventure--it seemed safer to make light of it.

“Please forget all about it, Billy. It wasn’t my fault or yours either;
it was all wrong any way. No--”

He was talking from his desk at the store and as he began to argue she
dismissed him firmly.

“Please don’t be cross, Billy. You ought to be as glad as I am that we
didn’t do it. No; never again! Cheer up; that’s a nice boy!”

She hung up on his angry reply.

Nan spent all day at home virtuously addressing herself to household
affairs, much to the surprise of the cook and maid.

Mamie Pembroke stopped to leave a huge bunch of chrysanthemums for Mr.
Farley. He sent for her to come to his room and asked her all about
the evening at the Settlement House. Mamie’s appearance added to his
happiness. He had been deeply grieved when Mamie and the Harrington
girls dropped Nan; it was a good sign that they were beginning to
evince a renewed interest in her. He attributed the change in their
attitude to Nan’s abandonment of Copeland and the Kinneys, never
dreaming in his innocence of the quiet missionary work that Eaton had
been doing with the cautious mothers of these young women.

“You’d better give Nan some work to do on some of your charity schemes,
Mamie. She’s been shut up here with me so much she hasn’t got around
with the rest of you girls as I want her to.”

“Oh, don’t think I do so much! Mamma does it for the whole family. I’m
sure Nan does as much as any of the girls.”

“Thanks for your kind words, Mamie; you know perfectly well they
dropped me from the Kindergarten Board for cutting all the meetings.
But I think we all ought to help in these things. It certainly opened
my eyes to see that crowd down there last night; I had no idea the
Settlement had grown so big.”

“I wish you and Mamie would go down and look at the Boys’ Club
sometime. They’ve only got a tumble-down house, but they’re talkin’ of
doin’ something better. A poor boy has a mighty hard time. When I was a
boy down on the Ohio--”

The story was a familiar one to Nan, and as he talked her thoughts
reverted to the will in which his provisions for the Boys’ Club had so
angered her.

All day she marveled at her happiness, her newly-awakened
unselfishness. In her gratitude for what she sincerely believed to have
been a providential deliverance from Copeland she voluntarily gave the
nurse the night off.

Her good cheer had communicated itself to Farley. The nurse was a
nuisance, he said, and he would soon be well enough to dispense with
her altogether. Over the supper they ate together in his room she
exerted herself to amuse him and he proved unusually amiable. The
afternoon paper’s account of his gift of the swimming-pool revived this
as a topic of conversation.

“I haven’t done as much as I ought to for the poor and unlucky. I
expect they’ve called me a pretty hard specimen; and I’ve turned down
lots of these people that’s always chasin’ round with subscription
papers. But I always had an idea I’d like to do something that would
count. I’m sorry now I didn’t give those Boys’ Club folks a boost while
I could see the money spent myself. I’ve tried makin’ wills and ain’t
sure about any of ’em. I got a good mind to burn ’em all, Nan, and
leave it up to you to give away what you think’s right. Only I wouldn’t
want you to feel bound to do it. These things don’t count for much
unless you feel in your heart you want to do ’em.”

She tried to divert his thoughts to other channels, but he persisted
in discussing ways and means of helping the poor and unfortunate.
She was surprised at his intimate knowledge of local philanthropic
organizations; for a number of them he expressed the greatest contempt,
as impractical and likely to do harm. Others he commended warmly and
urged her to acquaint herself with their methods and needs.

“We ought to do those things ourselves, while we’re alive. You can’t
tell what they’ll do with your money after you’re dead,” he kept
repeating.

She wondered whether he regretted now having made the will that
had caused her so much anguish. Perhaps.... But her resentment had
vanished. His solicitude for friendless boys, based upon his own
forlorn youth, impressed her deeply. It was out of the same spirit
that he had lifted her from poverty--she had even greater cause for
gratitude and generosity than he, and she said so in terms that touched
him.

“You mustn’t think of those things any more, papa,” she said finally.
“If you have a bad night, Miss Rankin will give me a scolding. I’m
going to read you something.”

“All right,” he acquiesced. “To-morrow I’ll talk to you some more about
my will. It’s worried me a whole lot; I want to do the right thing,
Nan; I want you to know that.”

“Of course I know that, papa; I’d be a mighty stupid girl if I didn’t;
so don’t waste your strength arguing with me. You’ve been talking too
much; what shall I read?”

“Don’t read me any of this new-fangled stuff. Take down ‘Huck Finn’ and
read that chapter about the two crooks Huck meets on the river. You
ain’t read me that lately.”

He lay very quiet until she had finished the chapter.

“Much obliged,” he said absently. “You run along now. I’ll be all
right.”

In the hall she met the maid coming to announce a caller.

Jerry, chastely attired in a new fall suit, greeted her with the
ambassadorial dignity that he assumed for social occasions, with
apologies to J. C. E. He could bow and shake hands like his idol and
mentor, and though his manner of speech was still his own, he had
greatly subdued its original violences. The area of collar and cuff
that could be sustained on a salary lately increased to eighty dollars
a month might provoke smiles; but Jerry was not troubled. By discreetly
soliciting custom for a tailor who made a twenty-five dollar suit
which only the most sophisticated sartorial critic could distinguish
from a sixty-dollar creation, he got his clothes at a discount. While
he had not yet acquired a dress-suit or a silk hat, he boasted a
dinner-coat and a cutaway. He had dedicated the latter by wearing it
boldly to Christ Church, where he was ushered to the third pew from
the chancel and placed beside a lady whose kneelings and risings he
imitated sedulously. This was Eaton’s church, and while that gentleman
was not present on that particular morning, a tablet commemorating
his father’s virtues (twenty years warden and vestry-man) gave Jerry
a thrill of pride and a sense of perspective. His mother had been a
Campbellite, and a vested clergy and choir, sprung upon him suddenly,
had awed him to a mood of humility.

“I’d been wondering as I came up what I’d do if you were out: I
couldn’t decide whether to jump in the river or lie down in the middle
of the street and be killed by a large, fat auto. Nan,”--he held her
hand and gazed into her face with tragic intensity,--“Nan, you have
saved my life!”

She met him promptly on his own ground.

“I should have worn mourning for you, Jerry; you may be sure of that.”

“The thought seems to give you pleasure. But I like you best in
blue--that suit you had on the day we paddled up the river still haunts
me.”

“Oh, that was a last year’s bird-nest. I have a lot better clothes than
that, but I don’t wear them to picnics.”

“You’d be dazzling in anything; I’m dead sure of that!”

He ran on in his usual key for some time, and then rose abruptly and
walked toward her.

“Are we quite alone?” he whispered tragically.

“We are,” she replied, imitating his tone. “I hope you don’t mean to
rob the house.”

“No,” he replied; “I didn’t come to steal; I’ve brought you a large
beautiful present.”

This she assumed to be the preliminary to a joke of some kind.

“I left it behind that big rosebush in the yard and I’ll bring it
in--nobody likely to come--no?”

“No; the nurse is out and I just now heard the maid climbing the back
stairs to her room.”

A smothered “Oh!” greeted him as he reappeared bearing the suit-case
she had entrusted to Copeland’s messenger the day before. He placed it
quietly by the door, a little shame-facedly, in spite of his efforts to
pass the matter off lightly. Nan flushed, staring at him defiantly.

“I saw this down at the works and I just thought I’d bring it up.
Maybe,” he said reflectively, “it ain’t yours; but I thought I’d take a
chance.”

“N. F.” neatly printed on the end of the bag advertised its ownership
to any observant eye.

“You and I are good friends, I hope,” she said uneasily.

“Don’t be silly, Nan; if we’re not, what are we?”

This was not a question she cared to debate; the immediate matter was
the narrowness of her escape from a marriage with Copeland and just
what she should tell Jerry about it.

“If you know about--_that_--”

“I make it my business never to know anything! I don’t want to know
anything about that bag. So we’ll just forget it.”

Seeing that her eyes rested nervously on the suit-case, he carried it
into the hall out of range of any chance caller’s eyes.

“Thank you,” she said absently as he came back. He began speaking
volubly of the delights of “Ivanhoe” which Eaton had lately given him
to read.

“How many people know about--_that_?” she demanded, breaking in sharply
upon his praise of Scott.

“Oh, the bag? Not a soul; I told you not to worry about that. I found
it behind the door in his private office. Purely accidental--honest,
it was! He wasn’t feeling well to-day,” he added. “He hung around the
store all morning looking pretty glum and didn’t show up at all this
afternoon. I went to the club and fished him out about six o’clock and
took him home in a taxi. That’s all.”

Reduced to terms, Billy had characteristically celebrated the failure
of the elopement by continuing the drunk he had begun the night before.
Her good luck had not deserted her if no one but Jerry knew that her
suit-case, packed for flight, had stood all day in Copeland’s office.
Jerry’s intuitions were too keen for her to attempt dissimulation. It
would be better to confess and assure herself of his secrecy.

“You don’t need to worry about that little matter, Nan,” Jerry
continued reassuringly. “Nobody’s going to know anything about it.
Nobody _does_ know anything about it--”

“Mr. Eaton?” she suggested faintly.

“I haven’t seen Cecil for two days. I’ve told you all there is to
tell. I don’t know any more and I don’t want to know. Now, forget it!
Only”--he deliberated a moment and then added brokenly--“only, for
God’s sake, don’t ever try it again!”

It flashed upon her suddenly that the presence of her suit-case in
Copeland’s office was susceptible of grave misconstruction.

“I’m going to tell you the whole story, Jerry; I think I’ll feel
happier if I do.”

“Well, you don’t have to tell me anything; remember that!”

“Maybe not, Jerry. But I feel that having known me away back in the old
times, you’ll understand better than anybody else.”

There was an appeal in this that filled his heart with pride. He was
struck with humility that a girl like Nan should confide in him. He had
not yet recovered from his surprise that she tolerated him at all.

“Please don’t think I was going to do anything wrong, Jerry,” she said
pleadingly; “we were to have been married last night; it wasn’t--it
wasn’t anything worse!” she faltered.

“Nan!” he gasped; “don’t say things like _that_! I wouldn’t think it--I
hadn’t thought it of him! And you--!”

“Well, you might have thought it,” she said, with a despairing note;
“but you didn’t because you’re my good friend and a gentleman.”

He was so astounded by her unsparing self-condemnation that he almost
missed this heart-warming praise. She hurried on with the story, tears
filling her eyes. It was an undreamed-of thing that he should see his
divinity weep. For the first time in his life he felt that he, too, was
capable of tears. But he must restore her equanimity, and before she
concluded he had decided to pass the whole thing off as a joke.

“Forget it, Nan! You never really meant to do it, anyhow. If Cecil
hadn’t turned up, it’s a safe bet you’d have weakened before you got
into the boss’s machine. It was a good joke--on the boss; that’s all
I see in it. Come on, now, and give a merry ha-ha. The only sad thing
about it is that it put the boss on the blink all day. If he’d been a
real sport he wouldn’t have let you escape so easy; looks as though he
wasn’t exactly crazy about it himself!”

“Oh, you think he wasn’t!” she flared.

“I thought I’d get a rise out of you with that! Take it from me, if I’d
framed up a thing like that I’d ’ve pulled up large shade trees and
upset tall buildings putting it over. But all you’ve got to do is to
charge it up to profit and loss. Hereafter you’d better not make any
engagements without seeing me,” he concluded daringly.

“There may be something in that,” she laughed. “I’m glad I told you,
Jerry. It helps a lot to tell your troubles to some one--and you don’t
think much worse of me?”

“Oh, too much sympathy wouldn’t be good for you!” he said, looking at
her fixedly. “Your trouble is, Nan, if you will take it from an old
friend, that you’ve had too soft a time. You need a jar or two to make
you watch the corners. So do I; so does everybody! When things come
easy for me I get nervous. I’ve got to have something to fight; but I
don’t mean punching heads; not any more. Cecil says his great aim in
life is to teach me to fight with my brains instead of my fists and
feet. But it’s hard work, considering the number of heads there are
that need punching.”

She was touched by his anxiety to serve her, to see her always in
the best possible light. He was a comforting person, this Jerry. His
philosophy was much sounder than her own; he was infinitely wiser. He
had done much better with his life than she had with hers, and the
advantages had been so immensely in her favor! There was no one else
in the world, she reflected, to whom she could confide as in him. She
marveled that she trusted him so implicitly--and he knew how little she
merited trust! A sudden impulse carried her across the room to where he
stood fingering a book.

“You are very good to me, Jerry!” she said with deep feeling.

Her hand touched his--a light, caressing stroke; then she sprang away
from him, abashed. The color mounted to his face, and he thrust the
hand awkwardly into his pocket. The touch of her hand had thrilled him;
a wave of tenderness swept him.

“I want to be good to you; I want to help you if I can,” he said simply.

But he was afraid of Nan in tears, and there were tears in the eyes
with which she now regarded him. She turned away, slipping her
handkerchief from her sleeve. This would never do. He waited a moment,
then began talking, as though nothing had happened, of old times on the
river, of steamboat men and their ways, in the hope of restoring her
tranquillity.

“I guess I had my share of fun down there; if I could be a kid again
I’d want to be born right down there on the old Ohio. I remember once--”

A muffled crash in the room above sent her flying into the hall and
upstairs.

“Papa!” she called, standing in the doorway of Farley’s room and
fumbling for the electric button.

As the ceiling lights flooded the room she called loudly to Jerry.

Farley lay on the floor in a crumpled heap. The crash that had
accompanied his collapse had been due to the overturning of the
electric table lamp, at which he had caught as he felt himself falling.

Jerry was already on his knees beside the prone figure.

Nan snatched the receiver of the telephone from its bracket and called
the regular physician; and then, remembering another doctor who lived
just around the corner, she summoned him also. Amidon lifted Farley and
placed him on the bed. While waiting for her numbers she told him where
to find a restorative the doctor had provided for emergencies, and
before she finished telephoning he had tried vainly to force a spoonful
of the liquid between Farley’s lips.

“It’s no use,” said Jerry, placing his hand over the stricken man’s
heart.

“No! No! It can’t be possible!” Nan moaned. “He’d been so well to-day!”

In a few minutes both physicians were in the room. They made a hurried
examination, asked a few questions, and said there was nothing to be
done.

The indomitable spirit of Timothy Farley had escaped from its
prison-house; what was mortal of him remained strangely white and
still. Nan, kneeling beside the bed, wept softly. Her foster-mother had
died after a brief illness and she had experienced no such shock as
now numbed her. She had, after all, been closer to Farley than to his
wife. Mrs. Farley, with all her gentleness and sweetness, had lacked
the positive traits that made Timothy Farley an interesting, masterful
character.

“There will be things to do,” Amidon was saying gently. “Do you mind
if I tell Mr. Eaton? He’d want to know.”

“No; I should like him to come,” she replied.

Jerry went below with the physicians and called Eaton on the telephone
in the lower hall.

Nan rose and began straightening the room. Farley had evidently drawn
on his dressing-gown with a view to remaining up some time, and had
walked to the quaint little table that had so long stood near the
window. Nan saw now what had escaped her when she rushed into the room.
The oblong top of the table had been so turned that it disclosed a
compartment back of the trio of drawers in which Mrs. Farley had kept
her sewing articles. Four long envelopes lay on the lid; two others had
fallen to the floor and lay among the debris of the lamp. At a glance
she saw that these were similar to the ones she had seen Farley hiding
on several occasions, and the counterpart of the envelope containing
the will she had read with so much concern. One of the envelopes was
torn twice across, as though he had intended disposing of it finally.
The others were intact.

She gathered them all together and thrust them back into the table;
then ran her fingers along the underside of the lid until she found a
tiny catch. Noting the position of this, she drew the top into place,
satisfied herself that the spring had caught, and rose just as Jerry
came back.




CHAPTER XVII

SHADOWS


Nan lay on her bed, fully dressed, on the evening of the day of the
funeral, listening to the sounds of the street with an uncomfortable
sense of strangeness and isolation. The faint tinkle of the bell roused
her and the maid came up bearing Eaton’s card. She had told the girl to
excuse her to callers, but Eaton sent word that he wished particularly
to see her. She appeared before him startlingly wan and white in her
black gown.

“I knew you wanted to be alone, Nan, but there’s a matter I must speak
to you about, and I thought it best to do it at once. I shan’t bother
you long. I left a dinner at the Lawyers’ Club to run up for a minute;
in about an hour I shall be making a speech; so you needn’t prepare for
a long visit!”

“I’m glad you came. It’s much harder than I thought it would be. I’m
sorry I didn’t keep Mrs. Copeland or one of the girls with me.”

“Of course, you’re bound to feel it. It came as a great shock to all of
us. A man like your father can’t pass out of the world without being
missed--very deeply missed. He was a real person; a vivid personality.
It has done me good to hear the fine things said of him; the crowd here
at the services showed that he had been held in very deep affection by
all sorts of people.”

There was a moment’s silence. The tears had come into her eyes and he
waited for her to control herself.

“I shouldn’t be troubling you if I hadn’t felt that my business--if it
can be called business--was urgent. I’m taking the liberty of an old
friend--of yours and of Mr. Farley’s.”

“Oh, there can’t be any question of liberty!” she protested. “You’re
always so thoughtful, so kind!”

“My purpose is in no sense professional,” he continued. “Mr. Thurston
was Mr. Farley’s lawyer and he will no doubt confer with you at once
on business matters. He’s an excellent man; wholly trustworthy. No one
stands higher at our bar.”

“Yes; I know papa had every confidence in him,” Nan replied, wondering
what Eaton, who looked very distinguished in his evening clothes, could
have to say to her.

“It’s in relation to that little difficulty--an unfortunate but wholly
pardonable mistake you made--you see I speak frankly--in reference to a
man named Harlowe, a lawyer from the south part of the State, in regard
to a demand he made on you some time ago. Mr. Farley explained about
it--all that he knew.”

Nan clenched her hands tightly and drew a deep breath. It was
inconceivable that that specter could reappear to trouble her.

“Yes,” she whispered faintly; “I remember. I was so grateful to you
for your help that night. I don’t know what would have happened if you
hadn’t come just then. Papa was very bitter about what I did, and of
course it was cowardly of me; and very stupid, not to have advised with
some one.”

“You did what seemed perfectly justifiable at the moment; Mr. Farley
saw it that way afterward.”

“He never spoke to me about it again; I have you to thank for that.”

“No; it was Mr. Farley’s aim to be just. Now, about this Harlowe: I
don’t want to alarm you, but I have found it best to be prepared for
difficulties even where there’s only a remote chance of having to
confront them. I merely want you to know that if that man turns up
again I’m ready for him. I have, in fact, accumulated a considerable
amount of data that can be used against him if he makes another move.
He’s an unscrupulous blackguard, a disgrace to the profession.”

“But that case against my brother is all over now. He couldn’t ask for
more money?”

“Not in that particular way,” Eaton replied slowly; “but having
succeeded once in frightening money out of you, he might try it again.
I suppose Mr. Farley never told you what I discovered--established
with documentary proof that I have safely put away in my office--that
the Corrigan this Harlowe pretended to represent was not in fact your
brother.”

He went on quickly, ignoring the astonishment and bewilderment written
on her face.

“That man was no more your brother than he is mine--you need have no
doubts about it. Harlowe’s client went to the penitentiary--quite
properly, no doubt. The poor fellow never knew how he had been
used--never heard of that money! I take off my hat to Brother
Harlowe--a shrewd scoundrel. It’s because I respect his talents that
I’ve taken so much pains to look him up! Possibly you won’t hear from
him at all; then again, you may. I’ve given some study to the peculiar
moral nature of persons like Harlowe, and I won’t deny that it would
please me to have a chance at him--though, of course, Mr. Thurston
would be quite as competent to deal with the case as I am. My aim would
be to get rid of him quietly, perhaps by methods that wouldn’t appeal
to Mr. Thurston. Please listen to him carefully, if he should come to
you. Concede nothing, but let him go as far as he will. That’s all, I
think. Pardon me if I look at my watch.”

“It’s very kind of you to warn me,” she said, with feeling. “It’s
horrible to know there are people plotting against you in the dark. I
was ashamed of myself for yielding as I did when that man came to me; I
knew right away that I had made a mistake.”

“Well, as our friend Mr. Amidon would remark, forget it! forget it! We
all make mistakes. I wish I had never made a worse one than that little
slip of yours,” he added kindly.

She had always been amused by Eaton’s oddities, his mysteriousness;
but in this hour of dejection his sympathy and friendliness warmed her
heart. She rose and stood before him, her hands clenched at her sides,
and demanded passionately:--

“Why am I always doing the wrong thing? Why do I escape so often when I
have every intention of doing what I know to be wrong? I suppose if I’d
waited another day I shouldn’t have sneaked my money out of the trust
company and turned it over to that man! But I’ve had escapes I don’t
understand; something gets in the way and I don’t--I _can’t_--do things
I fully mean to do! And I look back and shudder. Why is that--can you
tell me?”

He lifted his arm with one of his familiar gestures and inspected his
cuff-links absently.

“You’re seeing things a little black now, that’s all, Nan. When you
gave up that money you thought it was the right thing to do. You saw
the mistake yourself the moment after it was done. That’s just our
human frailty. It’s our frailties that make life the grand fight it is!”

“That’s not very consoling,” she replied, with a rueful smile. “I
suppose we never know how much we count in other people’s lives. Oh, I
don’t mean that I do--except to do harm; I was thinking of you!”

His eyeglasses gleamed as he bent her a swift glance.

“I--I’d be very happy to think I’d been of use to somebody.”

“Oh, you saved me once from going clear over the brink! You didn’t know
that, did you?” she cried earnestly.

“I most certainly did not!”

“If you don’t know,” she said gravely, “I shall never tell you. Are you
really sure you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“My dear Nan, why do you ask me if I guess things--when facts are the
consuming passion of my life! If I was ever of the slightest service to
you it was unconscious good fortune on my part. And I hope there may
be many such occasions! But, Nan,”--he waited until he was quite sure
of her attention,--“Nan, we can’t rely too much on the man on shore in
emergencies. He won’t always reach us in time. We’ve got to mind the
thin ice ourselves--skate away as soon as we hear it cracking! We can’t
trust to chance. Luck supports sound judgment--mainly. And we’ve got to
fight our own battles.”

“But if you’re a worthless, wobbly person like me, what are you going
to do?” she demanded.

“Cease wobbling! Good-night!”

Eaton had not been gone more than five minutes when a light knock on
the glass panel of the front door startled her. The clocks through
the house had just struck ten and she had dismissed the maid for the
night. The rap was repeated more loudly, and stealing to the door she
drew back a corner of the curtain and peered out. Copeland stood in the
entry, plainly revealed by the overhead light; his hand was lifted for
another knock.

Her heart throbbed with fear and anger. Billy had no right to come at
this hour in this furtive fashion--and on this day, of all days, to the
house of the man who had so cordially hated him. She waited a moment
hoping he would go away, but he began beating upon the glass.

This clearly would not do, and she drew back the bolt and opened the
door a few inches.

“Please go away! You have no right to come here at this time of night!”

He seized the door as she was about to close it and forced his way past
her.

“I’ve got to see you a minute--just a minute,” he said eagerly. “It’s
a matter of importance or I shouldn’t have come to-night. I thought it
best not to wait. It’s really a serious matter, Nan!”

“You have no right to come at all,” she replied angrily. “What if the
neighbors saw you! they know I’m alone. You know this won’t do; please
go, Billy!” she pleaded.

“I suppose,” he said, walking toward the parlor, “that it’s all right
for John Eaton to come when he pleases, but not for me.”

“That was very different; he rang the bell and the maid let him in! And
he came on a business matter. You can’t stay, Billy; you understand
that. You must go at once!”

“Well, I came earlier, but saw Eaton’s silk hat bobbing in and I’ve
been hanging around waiting for him to go. I didn’t care to meet
him here; and as far as business is concerned, maybe mine’s just as
important as his. You’ll have to take my word for that.”

His manner and tone were amiable. There clearly was nothing to be
gained by debating the question of his right to be there, but she
remained resolutely in the parlor door, trying to devise some means of
getting rid of him.

“You’ll have to be quick, then,” she said, without relaxing her
severity.

“Yes; I understand that, Nan,” he agreed readily. “It’s about
the property--no--don’t stop me!” he exclaimed as she cried out
impatiently. “You have certain rights and it’s the business of your
friends to see that you get them. Another day and it will be too late.”

“I’m to see Mr. Thurston to-morrow; everything’s in his hands; you have
nothing to do with it!”

He took a step toward her and his voice sank to a whisper.

“That’s just it! Everything is not in his hands. That’s what I want to
tell you.”

She stared at him blankly. His excited manner aroused her curiosity as
to what he might have to say, but it was unlikely that he knew anything
of importance about Farley’s affairs.

“They’re saying downtown that Farley was a crank about will-making; he
made a lot of wills and kept them hid. Thurston’s let that out himself.
If you know this, we can drop that part of it.”

She made no reply, and her silence encouraged him to go on.

“The fact is, as we all know,” he began ingratiatingly, “that
Farley wasn’t himself at all times. He probably made wills that he
destroyed--or meant to destroy. It’s wholly possible that he vented
his wrath on you at times by cutting down what he meant to give you,
and the next day he’d be sorry for it. That would be like him. In old
times at the store he used to blow up with fury one minute and be
as tame as a lamb the next. But there’s no reason--there’s not the
slightest reason why you should suffer if he died leaving a will lying
around that might rob you of your just inheritance--that didn’t really
express his normal attitude toward you. He never meant to be mean to
you; I’m satisfied of that; but if there are some of those wills here
in the house--you would have a right, considering his condition and all
that--you would have a right--you see--”

He had been watching her narrowly for some sign of interest or
encouragement, but finding neither he broke off without saying just
what it might be right for her to do. However, while he waited a quick
flutter of her lids indicated that she comprehended. Their eyes met
in a long gaze. Her face grew white and her lips opened several times
before any sound came from them. He had drawn closer, but he stepped
back as he saw horror and repugnance clearly written in her face.

“You have no right to talk to me like this! It’s too shameful, too
terrible!” she gasped.

“Please, Nan, don’t take it that way,” he begged.

“How else can I take it! To think that you should believe me capable of
that, Billy!”

“If I hadn’t known that he had treated you like a brute and that he
always carried his vindictiveness to the limit, I shouldn’t be here.
I don’t want to see you cut off with little or nothing when the whole
estate ought to be yours--_will_ be yours if you don’t make a fool of
yourself! He had no right to bring you up as his daughter and then
leave you with nothing. Thurston isn’t going to protect your interests;
he merely did from time to time what Farley told him to do, and you
won’t get any help out of him. If there are different wills hidden
about--you may know where he hid them--”

He threw out his arms with a gesture meant to demonstrate the ease with
which matters might be taken into her own hands. In the sobering hours
that had followed Farley’s death only his great kindness and generosity
had been in her thoughts. The enormity of what Copeland proposed grew
upon her. She bestirred herself suddenly. She must not let him think
that she was tolerating his suggestion for an instant.

“I’m sorry you thought that kind of thing would appeal to me! That’s
your idea of me, is it?”

“I’m appealing to your good sense, Nan; in a few hours it will be too
late, and if you know where he kept his papers, you can easily look
them over and satisfy yourself as to just what he meant to do; and then
you can do as you like. His last will would stand; maybe you don’t know
that; and if it’s in the house, why shouldn’t you, at least, have a
look at it?”

“I wouldn’t--I _couldn’t_ do such a thing!” she cried.

“If there shouldn’t be any will at all,” he resumed, with his eyes
fixed upon her intently, “then you would inherit everything! The
adoption made you his child in law; there wouldn’t be any way of
escaping that. It’s these wills that you’ve got to fear--the whims, the
sudden vindictive anger of an old man who really meant to do the right
thing by you. Neither he nor his wife had any near kin; there would be
nobody to share with you in case there proves to be no will at all!”

“You make it perfectly plain what it would be possible for me to
do!” she replied with quivering lips. “That seems to be all you have
to say--and it’s enough! I want you to leave this house, and be quick
about it!”

“But, Nan, you are taking this all wrong! It’s not as though you were
robbing other people: you certainly have a better right to the money
than anybody else. Suppose that in one of his mental lapses he had
willed the greater part of his fortune to some silly charity; all the
rest of your days you’d be sorry you hadn’t done what you could to
protect yourself.”

“Please go,” she urged in a plaintive whisper, “so I can forget that
you’ve been here!”

“Of course I’ll go,” he assented. “If I hadn’t felt that you looked to
me at least as a friend, I shouldn’t have come. And if there’s anything
to be done it must be done quickly--that’s as plain as daylight.”

He advanced this in a crisp, businesslike tone, as though there were
nothing remarkable in his suggestions. She was already wondering, as he
meant she should, whether, after all, there was anything so enormous in
the idea. Fear stole into her heart; it would be unsafe to listen to
anything further lest he persuade her of the justice of his plan. But
he dropped the matter instantly, wisely calculating that he had said
enough.

“You know, Nan, that nobody is as interested in your happiness as I am.
If I didn’t care so much--if I didn’t hope that you cared, I shouldn’t
have come here to-night; I shouldn’t have dared!”

She made no response, but stared at him with widely distended eyes. Her
silence made him uneasy. Her black gown had strangely transformed her.
She was not the Nan who had promised to marry him--who would now, but
for his folly, be his wife. He walked to the door and then said in the
low tone he had employed from the beginning,--

“There are other things I want to speak of, but I know this is not
the time. I shall hope to see you again soon, and please try to think
better of me, Nan!”

She remained where she had stood throughout the interview until she
heard the iron gate click behind him.

She put out the lights and climbed the stairs slowly. The loneliness
that had stifled her before Eaton’s appearance had deepened. She passed
through the silent upper hall and locked herself in her room, resolved
not to leave it until the world woke to life again.

“No! No! No!” she moaned aloud to fortify her resolution....

At one o’clock she was still awake, questioning, debating with herself,
while strange shadow-shapes danced in the surrounding blackness.




CHAPTER XVIII

NAN AGAINST NAN


Was Billy right, after all?

The question haunted her insistently. She lighted the lamp by her bed
and tried to read, but the words were a confused jumble. She threw down
her book impatiently. If only she had kept Fanny Copeland in the house
or had given the papers hidden away in the old table to Eaton to carry
away, she would have escaped this struggle.

Her thoughts were fixed upon Eaton for a time. He had enjoined her to
take a firmer hold of herself. She readily imagined what his abhorrence
would be of the evil thing Copeland had proposed....

But, after all, Farley had meant to treat her generously, as Copeland
had said, and if in some angry mood he had rewritten his will to reduce
his provision for her, there was no reason why she shouldn’t seize an
opportunity to right a wrong he never really intended....

She rose, drew on her kimono, snapped on all the lights and found that
it was only half-past one. She assured herself that she would not open
the door of Farley’s room; and yet, the thought kept recurring that no
one would ever know if she read those wills and destroyed them. The
fear that she might yield chilled her. She became frantic for something
to do and set herself the task of putting the drawers of her desk in
order. Some letters that Mrs. Farley had written her while she was at
boarding-school caught her eye.

Yes, the Farleys had been kind, even foolishly indulgent. She read in
her foster-mother’s even, old-fashioned hand:--

  Don’t worry about your money, dear. I suppose when you go into town
  you see a lot of little things that it’s nice for a girl to have.
  We want you to appear well before the other girls. I’m slipping a
  twenty-dollar bill into this letter just for odds and ends. Don’t say
  anything to papa about it, as I would rather he didn’t know I send
  you money.

A little later she turned up a letter of Farley’s in which he had
enclosed a fifty-dollar bill as an addition to her regular allowance.
In a characteristic postscript he enjoined her not “to tell mamma. She
thinks you have enough money and it might make her jealous!”

She closed the drawer, leaving it in worse confusion than before.
Comforts and luxuries were dear to her. She had enjoyed hugely her
years at boarding-school. To be set adrift with a small income while
the greater part of Farley’s money went to philanthropy--maybe Billy
was right, after all!...

Two o’clock. She was in Farley’s room, crouched in a low rocker with
her arms flung across the table in which the papers were hidden. Her
heart beat furiously, and her breath came in quick gasps. She had
decided now to read the wills; it would do no harm to have a look at
them. If everything was to be taken away from her, she might as well
know the worst and prepare for it.

Her fingers sought the catch that released the spring; the top turned
easily. The papers lay as she had left them the night Farley died. She
folded the open ones and thrust them into their envelopes. She counted
them deliberately; there were six, including the one that had fallen
from the dressing-gown, which she identified by the crosses on the
envelope....

If there should be no will, Copeland had said, all the property would
go to her as the only heir. There was a grate in the room with the fuel
all ready for lighting. It would be a simple matter to destroy all
the wills. She could explain the burnt-out fire to the maid by saying
that the house had grown cold in the night and that she had gone into
Farley’s room to warm herself. She was surprised to find how readily
explanations covering every point occurred to her. The very ease with
which she thought of them appalled her. No doubt it was in this fashion
that hardened criminals planned their defense....

She struck a match and touched it to the paper under the kindling.
The fire blazed brightly. She was really chilled and the warmth was
grateful. As she held her hands to the flames she surveyed the trifles
on the mantel and her gaze wandered to a portrait of Mrs. Farley which
had been done from photographs by a local artist after her death. The
memory of her foster-mother’s simple kindliness and gentleness gave her
a pang. She turned slowly until her eyes rested upon the bed in which
Farley had suffered so long. She went back to the beginning and argued
the whole matter over again.

As at other times, in moods of depression, she thought of the squalor
of her childhood; of her father, Dan Corrigan, trapper, fisherman,
loafer, brutal drunkard. She gazed at her white, slim fingers and
recalled her mother’s swollen, red hands as she had bent for hours
every day over the wash-tub. Her mother had been at least an honest
woman, who had addressed herself uncomplainingly to the business of
maintaining a home for her children.

All that the Farleys had done in changing her environment to one of
comfort and decency and educating her in a fashionable school with the
daughters of gentlefolk had not affected the blood in her. She had not
been worthy of their pity, their generosity, their confidence. Yet it
had meant much to these people in their childlessness to take her into
their hearts and give her their name. Farley’s ideas of honor had been
the strictest; the newspapers in their accounts of his career had laid
stress on this. And how he would hate an act such as she meditated,
that would prove her low origin, stamp her as the daughter of a
degenerate!...

Still, there was no reason why she shouldn’t read the wills. She
returned to the table, drew one of them out, played with it for a
moment uncertainly, then thrust it back.

It was Nan against Nan through the dark watches of the night. If she
yielded now she would never tread firm ground again. Once this trial
was over, she would be a different woman--better or worse; and she must
reach a decision unaided. She buried her face in her arms to shut out
the light and wept bitterly in despair of her weakness....

Four o’clock. A sparrow cheeped sleepily in the vines on the wall
outside the window. Farley had liked the sparrows and refused to have
them molested. They were “company,” he said, and he used to keep crumbs
of bread and cake for them....

She lifted her head, and confidence stole into her heart. She had not
done the evil thing; she had not even looked at the sheets of paper
that recorded Farley’s wavering, shifting faith in her.

“Why don’t you do it? You are a coward; you are afraid!”

Her voice sank to a whisper as she kept repeating these taunts. Then
she was silent for a time, sitting with arms folded, her eyes bent
unseeingly upon the envelopes before her. There could be no happiness
in store for her if she yielded. She saw herself carrying through life
the memory of a lawless act dictated by selfishness and greed. Suddenly
she rose and walked to the bed; and her voice rang out with a note of
triumph, there in the room where Farley had died:--

“I have not done it; I will not do it!”

The sound of her voice alarmed her, and she glanced nervously over her
shoulder. Then she laughed, struck by the thought that if Farley’s
spirit lurked there expecting to see her yield, it was a disappointed
ghost!

“You silly little fool,” he had often said to her in his anger. Well,
she was not so wicked as he had believed; but she thought of him now
without bitterness.

Wings fluttered; the sparrows began a persistent twitter.

Light was creeping in under the shades. She returned to the table,
stared at it, frowning, drew away quickly, ran to the door, and glanced
back breathlessly. She walked back slowly, turned the papers over,
peered into the drawer to make sure that she had overlooked nothing.

She took up the wills that recorded Timothy Farley’s doubts and
uncertainties and wavering generosities, dropped them into the little
well in the table and drew the top into place.

A feeling of exaltation possessed her as she heard the click of the
spring. This, perhaps, was the reward of righteousness. “We’re all
happier,” the simple-hearted Mrs. Farley used to say, “when we’re
good!”

She stood very still for a minute, stifling her last regret. Then she
turned to the window and opened it, unfastened the shutters, and thrust
her hands out into the gray light. A farmer’s wagon, bound for market,
passed slowly by, the driver asleep with a lighted lantern on the seat
beside him.

She remained there for a quarter of an hour listening to the first
tentative sounds of the new day. The newspaper carrier threw the
morning paper against the door beneath the window, unconscious that
she saw him. She closed the window, crept back to her room and threw
herself exhausted on her bed....

Outside Farley’s windows the sparrows chirruped impatiently for crumbs
from the hand that would feed them no more.




CHAPTER XIX

NOT ACCORDING TO LAW


Nan was reading the newspaper report of Eaton’s speech over her coffee
when at nine o’clock he called her on the telephone.

“Your speech sounds fine, though I don’t understand all the jokes,” she
said. “But I’m sure you made a hit.”

“Not so sure of it myself, Nan. But please listen to me carefully. Our
friend from the southern part of the State is here. I have him marked
at his hotel. He has probably come to see you. Let him say all he has
on his mind, then report to me. You will probably hear from Thurston,
too, during the day. He’s trying a case this morning. But our brother
from the South comes first. Don’t let him frighten you; just listen and
encourage him if necessary to show what he’s up to this time.”

“Very well,” she replied, though the thought of facing Harlowe alone
filled her with misgivings.

Mrs. Copeland was on the wire immediately afterward, to ask if she
could be of any service. Then Thurston’s clerk called her to make an
appointment for three o’clock.

The night’s vigil had left its marks upon her. She was nervously alert
for the day’s developments, but nothing could be worse than the long
struggle against temptation. She had, she fancied, considered every
possibility as to the future and she was prepared for anything that
might befall her. She was happy in the thought that she faced the world
with a clean conscience; never in her life had she been on so good
terms with herself.

She was standing at the parlor window when at eleven a familiar figure
entered the gate. Harlowe, tall, slightly stooped, advanced to the
door. She called to the maid not to trouble to answer the ring and let
the man in herself.

He began with formal condolences on what he called “her irreparable
loss.”

“Much as we may be prepared for the death of a loved one, it always
comes with a shock. I sympathize with you very deeply, Miss Farley.”

She murmured her thanks and bade him be seated. She wished she had
asked Eaton to be present at the interview, which he had forecast with
a prescience that justified all her faith in his unusual powers.

“I came as quickly as possible after hearing of Mr. Farley’s death, in
the hope of being of some service to you--of avoiding any difficulties
that might possibly arise with reference to the settlement of Mr.
Farley’s affairs.”

She nodded, and remembering Eaton’s injunction, gave him strict
attention.

“I hope,” he went on, “that my handling of the very distressing and
delicate matter that brought me here last June won your confidence to
such an extent--”

He paused, watching her narrowly for any sign of dissent.

“I appreciated that, Mr. Harlowe; it was very considerate of you to
come to me as you did.”

“I didn’t report on that case further, feeling that it might embarrass
you, assuming that the whole matter was strictly between ourselves.”

“Quite so,” she agreed.

“I was distressed that after all our interest, and your own generosity,
we could not save your unfortunate brother. Still, it’s something that
we were able to secure what was a light sentence--taking everything
into consideration. Only circumstantial evidence, to be sure, but it
pointed very strongly to his guilt. You doubtless read the result in
the papers?”

“Yes, I followed the case,” she answered. “And I’m sure you did the
best you could.”

His solemnity would have been amusing at any other time. He clearly had
no idea that she had learned of his duplicity in taking money from her
for the defense of a Corrigan who was in no manner related to her.

“I assume,” he said, “that no steps have yet been taken to offer for
probate any will Mr. Farley may have left. I had hoped to see you
first; this accounts for my visit to-day. I thought it best to see you
before going to Mr. Thurston. Mr. Joseph C. Thurston was, I believe,
Mr. Farley’s attorney?”

“Yes. He was one of papa’s best friends and he had charge of his
affairs as far back as I can remember.”

“An excellent man. There’s no better lawyer in the State,” Harlowe
responded heartily. “But I occasionally find it best to deal directly
with a client. We lawyers, you know, are sometimes unwisely obstinate,
and lead our clients into unnecessary trouble. As you are the person
chiefly concerned in this matter, I came directly to you. I did this
because in that former matter you were so quick to see the justice of
my--er--request.”

Her amazement at his effrontery almost equalled her curiosity as to
what lay behind his deliberate approaches.

“It is generally known that Mr. Farley was a man of violent temper,”
he went on. “Some of his old friends on the river remember him well,
and you may never have known--and I am sorry to be obliged to mention
so unpleasant a fact--that his mother died insane. That is a matter of
record, of course. The malady from which Mr. Farley suffered for many
years is one that frequently affects the mind. No doubt living with him
here, as you did, you noticed at times that he behaved oddly--didn’t
conduct himself quite normally?”

Remembering Eaton’s instructions she acquiesced without offering any
comment. His designs, she now assumed, were not personal to herself,
but directed against Farley’s estate.

“I represent two cousins of Mr. Farley’s who live in my county. Very
worthy men they are; you may have heard Mr. Farley speak of them.”

“Yes; I knew about them. I sent them telegrams advising them of his
death.”

“That was very thoughtful on your part, Miss Farley, and they
appreciate it. But by reason of their poverty they were unable to
attend the funeral. They asked me to thank you for thinking of them.
Several times during the past twenty years Mr. Farley had advanced them
small sums of money--an indication of his kindly feeling toward them.”

“I didn’t know of that; but it was like papa.”

“In case Mr. Farley left a will, it is my duty to inform you, that
you may have time for reflection before taking up the matter with
Mr. Thurston, that we are prepared to attack it on the ground of Mr.
Farley’s mental unsoundness. I assume, of course, that Mr. Farley made
a handsome provision for you, but quite possibly he overlooked the
natural expectations of his own kinsfolk.”

She merely nodded, thinking it unnecessary to impart information while
he continued to show his hand so openly.

“You have probably understood, Miss Farley, that in case your
foster-father died intestate, that is to say, without leaving a will in
proper form, you would, as his heir, be entitled to the whole of his
property.”

“Yes; I think I have heard that,” she answered uneasily.

The cold-blooded fashion in which he had stated his purpose to contest
the will on the ground of Farley’s insanity had shocked her. Copeland
had suggested the same thing, but it was a preposterous pretension
that Timothy Farley’s mind had been affected by his long illness. Even
the assertion that his mother had been a victim of mental disorder,
plausibly as he had stated it, would hardly stand against the fact that
Farley’s faculties to the very end had been unusually clear and alert.

“In case there should be no will,” Harlowe continued, “your rights
would rest, of course, upon your adoption. It would have to be proved
that it was done in accordance with law. The statutes are specific as
to the requirements. I’m sorry, very sorry indeed, my dear Miss Farley,
that in your case the law was not strictly complied with.”

“I don’t know what you mean; I don’t understand you!” she faltered.

“Please don’t be alarmed,” he went on, with a reassuring smile. “I’m
sure that everything can be arranged satisfactorily; I am not here to
threaten you--please remember that; I merely want you to understand my
case.”

“But my father never dreamed of anything of that kind,” she gasped;
“it’s impossible--why, he would never have made a mistake in so
serious a matter.”

“Unfortunately, we are all liable to err, Miss Farley,” he answered,
with a grotesque affectation of benevolence. “And I regret to say that
in this case the error is undeniable. What Mr. Farley’s intentions
were is one thing; what was actually done to make you his child in law
is another. We need not go into that. It is a legal question that Mr.
Thurston will understand readily; the more so, perhaps,” he added with
faint irony, “because he was not himself guilty of the error, not being
Mr. Farley’s attorney at the time the adoption was attempted.”

The room swayed and she grasped the arms of her chair to steady
herself. The man’s story was plausible, and he spoke with an easy
confidence. All Farley’s deliberation about the disposal of his
property would go for naught; her victory over the temptation to
destroy his wills had been futile!

“Please don’t misunderstand me, Miss Farley,” the man was saying.
“My clients have no wish to deprive you wholly of participation in
the estate. And we should deplore litigation. In coming to you now,
I merely wish to prepare you, so that you may consider the case in
all its aspects before taking it up with your lawyer. No doubt a
satisfactory settlement can be arranged, without going into court. I
believe that is all. Henceforth I can’t with propriety deal directly
with you, but must meet your counsel. I assume, however, that he
will not wholly ignore your natural wish to--er--arrange a settlement
satisfactory to all parties.”...

The door had hardly closed upon him before she was at the telephone
calling Eaton, and in half an hour he was at the house. Harlowe’s words
had so bitten into her memory that she was able to repeat them almost
_verbatim_. Eaton listened with his usual composure. It might have
seemed from his manner that he was more interested in Nan herself than
in her recital. She betrayed no excitement, but described the interview
colorlessly as though speaking of matters that did not wholly concern
her. When she concluded Eaton chuckled softly.

“You’re taking it nobly,” were his first words; “I’m proud of you! You
see, I had expected something of the sort--prepared for it, in fact,
right after this fellow got that thousand dollars out of you. He’s
crafty, shrewd, unscrupulous. But you have nothing to worry over. He
came to you first and at the earliest possible moment in the hope of
frightening you as he did before, hoping that you’d persuade Thurston
to settle with him. As for Farley’s incompetence to make a will, that’s
all rubbish! His mother suffered from senile dementia--no symptoms
until she was nearly ninety. Every business man in town would laugh at
the idea that Tim Farley wasn’t sane. He was just a little bit saner
than most men. His occasional fits of anger were only the expression of
his vigorous personality; wholly characteristic; nothing in that for
Harlowe to hang a case on.

“But this point about the adoption is more serious. When I was down
there watching Harlowe defend the man he pretended to you--but to
nobody else--was your brother, I looked up those adoption proceedings,
out of sheer vulgar curiosity. The law provides that adoption
proceedings shall be brought in the county where the child resides, and
that the parents appear in court and consent. Your parents were dead,
and Mr. Farley’s petition was filed in this county after you had been a
member of his household for fully two years.

“I seriously debated mentioning these points to Thurston, after my
visit down there, but on reflection decided against it. Contrary to
the common assumption the law is not an ass--not altogether! I can’t
imagine the courts countenancing an effort to set aside this adoption
on so flimsy a pretext. Mr. Farley not only complied with the law to
the best of his belief, but let the world in general understand that he
looked on you as his child and heir.”

“That’s what every one believed, of course,” Nan murmured.

“I dare say there’s a will,” Eaton continued. “Thurston may have
to defend that--but you may rely on him. I have already made an
appointment to meet him at luncheon to turn over to him all my data.
I’ll say to you in all sincerity that I don’t see the slightest cause
for uneasiness. If there’s a valid will, that settles the adoption line
of attack, though this man may go the length of trying to annul it on
the insanity plea, merely to tie up the estate until you pay something
to these cousins to get rid of him.”

“There is a will; there are a number of them, I think,” said Nan
soberly.

“Mr. Farley told you about them--let you know what he was doing?”

“No; he never spoke of them, except in general terms. I used to see him
hiding them; once one dropped out of his dressing-gown.” She hesitated;
then added quickly: “I read that one before putting it back. I know
I shouldn’t have done it, but I did--as I’ve done a good many things
these last two years I shouldn’t!”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself! It was quite natural for you to look at
it.”

“The night he died,” she went on breathlessly, “he had been looking at
a number of wills he kept hidden in mamma’s old sewing-table. I put
them back in the drawer. I suppose Mr. Thurston will ask for them when
he comes.”

“Yes; he should see all such papers. You must tell him everything you
know that relates to them.”

“I almost burnt them all up last night,” she exclaimed in a strange,
hard tone. “That one I read made me angry. I thought it niggardly
and unjust. And--some one told me”--in her eagerness to make her
confession complete she nearly blurted out Copeland’s name--“that if
there should be no will I’d inherit everything. And last night I fought
that out. And it was a hard fight; it was horrible! But for once in
my life I got a grip on myself. You may remember saying to me, ‘Don’t
wobble.’ Well, I wobbled till I was dizzy--but I wobbled right! And now
that that’s over, I believe--though I’m afraid to say it aloud--that
I’m a different sort of a girl some way. I hope so; I mean to be very,
very different.”

“You poor, dear, little Nan,” he said softly. “I’m proud of you--but
not very much surprised!”

“But you see it doesn’t count, anyhow,” she said, smiling, pleased and
touched by his praise. “If there’s a will, it’s bad; if there isn’t,
I’m not to be considered!”

“Don’t belittle your victory by measuring it against mere money. As for
those purely business matters, they’ll be attended to. You’re not going
to be thrown out on the world just yet.”

“I shouldn’t cry--not now--if it came to that! Now that I know what
they mean, I think I rather like these little wars that go on inside
of us. But I tell you it was good to see the daylight this morning and
know I could pass a mirror and not be afraid of my own face!”

“It is rather nicer that way; much nicer,” he said, with his rare
smile. “I’m glad you told me this. I see that I don’t need to worry
about you any more.”

“You haven’t really been doing that?”

“At times, at times, my dear Nan,” he said, looking at her quizzically,
“you’ve brought me to the verge of insomnia!”




CHAPTER XX

THE COPELAND-FARLEY CELLAR


At twelve o’clock on the night of Nan’s prolonged struggle, Jerry,
having walked to the station with a traveling man of his acquaintance,
paused at the door of Copeland-Farley, hesitated a moment, and then let
himself in. He whistled a warning to the watchman, as was his habit
when making night visits to the establishment. Hearing no response, he
assumed that the man was off on his rounds and would reach the lower
floor shortly.

He opened his desk and busied himself with some memoranda he had made
from the books that afternoon. There was no denying that the house
was in a bad way; the one hundred thousand dollars of notes carried
by the Western National matured the next day, and in addition to
these obligations the Company was seriously behind in its merchandise
accounts.

A quarter of an hour passed, and the watchman made no sign. Jerry
closed his desk, walked back to the elevator-shaft, and shouted the
man’s name. From the dark recesses of the cellar came sounds as of some
one running, followed by a stumble and fall. He called again, more
loudly, but receiving no response, he ran to the stairway, flashed on
the lights, and hurried down.

His suspicions were aroused at once by a heap of refuse, surmounted
by half a dozen empty boxes, piled about the wooden framework of the
elevator-shaft.

The room where oils, paints, ethers, acids and other highly inflammable
or explosive stock was stored was shut off from the remainder of the
cellar by an iron door that had been pushed open. As he darted in
and turned on the lights, he heard some one stealthily moving in the
farther end of the room.

Seizing a fire-extinguisher he bawled the watchman’s name again and
plunged in among the barrels. A trail of straw indicated that the same
hand that had piled the combustibles against the shaft had carried
similar materials into the dangerous precincts of the oil room. In a
moment he came upon a barrel of benzine surrounded with kindling.

He decided against calling for help. No harm had yet been done, and
it was best to capture the guilty person and deal with him quietly if
possible. He kicked the litter away from the barrel and waited. In a
moment a slight noise attracted his attention, and at the same instant
a shadow vanished behind an upright cask. He waited for the shadow to
reappear, advancing cautiously down the aisle with his eyes on the
cask.

“Come out o’ that!” he called.

A foot scraped on the cement floor and definitely marked the cask as
the incendiary’s hiding-place. He jumped upon a barrel, leaped from it
to the cask, and flung himself upon a man crouched behind it. They went
down together with Jerry’s hand clutching the captive’s throat.

“Good God!” he gasped, as he found himself gazing into Copeland’s eyes.

The breath had been knocked out of Billy and he lay still, panting
hard. His right hand clenched a revolver.

“Give me that thing!”

Jerry wrenched it from Copeland’s convulsive clutch, thrust it into his
coat pocket, and stood erect.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” he said.

“Damn’ near shootin’ you, Jerry,” drawled Copeland, sitting up and
passing his hand slowly across his face; “damn’ near! Gimme your hand.”

Jerry drew him to his feet. Copeland rested heavily on the cask and
looked his employee over with a slow, bewildered stare.

“Might ’a’ known I couldn’t pull ’er off! Always some damn’ fool like
you buttin’ into my blizness. ’S _my_ blizness! Goin’ do what I damn’
please with _my_ blizness. Burn whole damn’ thing down ’f want to. I’m
incenjy--what you call ’m?--incenjyary,--what you call ’m--pyromaniac.
Go to jail and pen’tenshary firs’ thing I know.”

“Not this time,” said Jerry sternly. “I’m going to take you home.”

“Home? Whersh that?” asked Copeland, grinning foolishly.

“Well, I guess a Turkish bath would be better. Where’s Galloway?”

“Gall’way’s good fellow; reli’ble watchman. Wife’s sick; sent him home
with my comp’ments. Told ’im I’d take full reshponshibility.”

“You didn’t expect to collect the insurance on that story, did you? You
must have a low opinion of the adjusters. I’ll fire Galloway to-morrow
for leaving you here in this shape.”

“Not on yer life y’ won’t! Silly old man didn’t know I wuz loaded.
Came on me sud’ly--very sud’ly. Only had slix slocktails--no; thass
wrong; thass all wrong. You know what I mean. Effect unusual--mos’
unusual. Just a few small drinks at club. Guess I can’t carry liquor’s
graceful-ly as I used to. Billy Copeland’s no good any more. Want lie
down. Good place on floor. Nice bed right here, Jerry. Lemme go t’
sleep.”

He grasped the edge of the cask more firmly and bent his head to look
down at the heap of straw he had been planting round it when Amidon
interrupted him.

“Not much I won’t! But before we skip I’ve got to clean up this trash.
Steady, now; come along!”

He seized Copeland’s arm and forced him to the stairway, where he left
him huddled on the bottom step.

“No respec’ for head of house; no respec’ whatever,” Copeland muttered.

Jerry bade him remain quiet, and began carrying the straw and boxes
back to the packing-room. He swept the floor clean, and when he was
satisfied that no telltale trace remained he got Copeland to the
counting-room and telephoned for a taxi.

“Goin’ to be busted to-morrow; clean smash. You made awful mistake,
Jeremiah, in not lessing--no, not lesting me burn ’er up. Insurance’d
help out consid’ble. Need new building, anyhow.”

“I guess we don’t need it that bad,” remarked Jerry, rolling a
cigarette. He called the police station and asked for the loan of an
officer to do watchman duty for the remainder of the night; and this
accomplished he considered his further duty to his befuddled employer.

Now that the calamity had been averted, his anger abated. Copeland’s
condition mitigated somewhat the hideousness of the crime he was about
to commit. Only his desperate financial situation could have prompted
him to attempt to fire the building. Jerry’s silence and unusual
gravity seemed to trouble Copeland.

“Guess you’re dis’pointed in your boss, Jeremiah. Don’ blame you.
Drunken fool--damn’ fool--incenjy-ary; no end bad lot.”

“Put your hat on straight and forget it,” remarked Jerry.

He telephoned to Gaylord, an athletic trainer who conducted a Turkish
bath, and told him to prepare for a customer. He knew Gaylord well,
and when they reached his place Jerry bade him stew the gin out of
Copeland and be sure to have him ready for business in the morning.
While Copeland was in the bath, Jerry tried all the apparatus in the
gymnasium and relieved his feelings by putting on the gloves with
Gaylord’s assistant. After all the arts of the establishment had been
exercised upon Copeland and he was disposed of for the night, Jerry
went to bed....

In the morning Gaylord put the finishing touches on his patient and
turned him out as good as new. It had occurred to Amidon that Copeland
might decide to avoid the store that day. He was relieved when he
announced, after they had shared Gaylord’s breakfast, that he would
walk to the office with him.

“Guess I’ll give the boys a jar by showing up early,” he remarked.

It was a clear, bracing morning, and Copeland set a brisk pace. He was
stubbornly silent and made no reference to the night’s affair until
they reached the heart of the city. Then he stopped suddenly and laid
his hand on Jerry’s arm.

“Jerry, I never meant to do that; for God’s sake, don’t believe I
did!” he broke out hoarsely. “I was troubled about the business, and
some other things had worried me lately. I took too many drinks--and
I’d never meant to drink again! I wouldn’t have tried that sober--I
wouldn’t have had the nerve!”

“It was the drink, of course,” Jerry assented. “It’s all over now.
You’d better forget it; I’m going to!”

“I wish to God I could forget it!”

Copeland shrugged his shoulders impatiently, then drew himself erect
and walked on more quickly. Jerry cheerfully changed the subject, and
when they were near the store dived into an alley that led to the
rear door of Copeland-Farley to avoid appearing before the clerks in
Copeland’s company.

Copeland remained in his room all morning, summoning the auditor from
time to time to ask for various data. He called Jerry once and bade him
make every effort to find Kinney by telephone. Kinney was in New York;
had been there for a week. Copeland smiled sardonically at this news.

“All right. I knew he’d been away, but the fool said he’d be back
to-day,” he said spitefully. “That’s all!”

At two o’clock he put a bundle of papers into his pocket and walked
toward the Western National. The bookkeepers exchanged meaningful
glances and Jerry imagined that even the truckmen loading freight
appeared depressed. Copeland’s desperation had been expressed vividly
enough in his drunken attempt to burn the store. And now, if the
Western National refused to extend his loans, Copeland-Farley might
cease to exist. Jerry’s usual nonchalance left him. He failed to seize
a chance to “land” on a drummer from a New York perfumery house who was
teasing him for the latest news of Main Street....

At three o’clock Eaton called Jerry on the telephone.

“I want to see Copeland; please call me the minute he comes in,” said
the lawyer.

Shortly before four Copeland came back and walked directly to his
office. There was another exchange of glances along the accountants’
desks, where the clerks bent with affected diligence over their books.

The auditor was summoned again, carried a book into Copeland’s room,
and reappeared instantly. The air was tense. It was a source of relief
to Jerry to hear Eaton’s voice as he reported Copeland’s return.

“Watch him,” said the lawyer, with his usual calmness; “and don’t let
him leave the store.”

As Jerry nervously watched the door for Eaton’s appearance, Louis M.
Eichberg, of Corbin & Eichberg, entered and asked for Copeland. The
bookkeepers exchanged glances again and bent over their ledgers with
renewed zeal. The door of the private office closed upon Eichberg. It
snapped shut sharply--ominously, Jerry thought.




CHAPTER XXI

A SOLVENT HOUSE


“I’ve bought in your stock,” Eichberg was saying to Copeland. “You put
up fourteen hundred and eighty-five shares with the Western National
and I’ve bought ’em in at private sale under your collateral agreement.
As I understand it there are fifteen shares held by employees to
qualify as directors. I guess there won’t be any trouble about them,
and we’ll let ’em stand for the present.”

“Those men paid for their stock and you have no right to touch it,”
said Copeland. “The stock in this company has an actual value of two
hundred dollars a share--”

“Rubbish! Your capital’s shrunk till you can’t see it any more.”

“Don’t you believe it! The house was never as sound as it is to-day.
I hope you don’t think I’m going to stand by and let the Western sell
me out on a small loan in this high-handed fashion! It’s a frame-up, a
conspiracy to clean me out. I’ve still got a majority of the stock, and
I’ll give you a run for your money before you get through with me!”

“Keep your temper, Copeland! I don’t like doing this, but it’s better
for me to have the business than to let it peter out, the way it’s
doing. I’ll even say that after we consolidate I’ll be glad to make a
place for you in the house.”

“Oh, you needn’t trouble!” returned Copeland hotly. “You’re not going
to get rid of me so easy!”

“All right! Just how much stock do you think you’ve got?” asked
Eichberg with a faint ironic smile.

“I’ve got fifteen hundred shares; the bank understood that when I
refused their demand for a majority,” Copeland replied, frowning over
the stock-ledger.

“That shows how much you know about your own business! There’s twenty
shares out of your half that I’ve been trying to lay my hands on for
two months. It was a deal Farley made the last year he was down here
with a Fort Wayne jobber named Reynolds that he bought out after your
father died. I know because we tried to buy up Reynolds ourselves, but
old Uncle Tim went us one better. There wasn’t much to the business,
but the good-will was worth something and Farley let Reynolds have
twenty shares just to beat us out of the sale. Farley had sense! When
Reynolds died his executor sold the stock to somebody here. Foreman
handled it, but he won’t tell me who he sold to. I know you didn’t get
it! Foreman says he spent a month last summer lookin’ for you to give
you a chance to buy the stock, but he couldn’t get hold of you. You
were always off sportin’ with Kinney!”

Copeland had forgotten about the Reynolds shares. He mentally cursed
Farley for not reminding him of them; Farley had never dealt squarely
with him! Very likely he had personally told Eichberg and the Western
National of the Reynolds shares. It was galling to be obliged to learn
from Eichberg things he should have known himself. He had flattered
himself that in persuading the bank to accept fourteen hundred and
eighty-five shares as collateral instead of the majority for which
demand had been made at first, he had shown his business sagacity; but
evidently Eichberg had known of the Reynolds shares all along.

“I don’t intend that what’s left of this business shall go to the bad,”
said Eichberg. “Either you come to terms, and let ’em know outside that
we’ve arranged a merger in a friendly way, or I’ll call up my lawyer
and tell him to apply for a receiver.”

Outside, the interested and anxious clerks and stenographers, cold
with excitement, watched their associate, Mr. Jeremiah Amidon, who was
inviting the wrath of the gods by knocking upon Copeland’s door. When
he entered in response to an angry bellow, they expected to see him
reappear instantly, possibly at the end of William B. Copeland’s foot.
To their chagrin Amidon remained in the private office for some time;
and they judged from the sudden quiet that followed his disappearance
that he was exerting a calming influence upon Copeland and his
visitor....

“I beg your pardon,” Jerry remarked while Copeland and Eichberg glared
at him.

To Copeland the sight of Jerry was an unwelcome reminder of the
previous night. His remorse over his effort to burn the store
vanished; if it hadn’t been for this meddlesome cub he wouldn’t now be
entertaining Eichberg in his office!

“Well, what does the boy want?” demanded Eichberg, when Copeland found
it impossible to express his wrath at Jerry’s intrusion.

Eichberg knew Jerry perfectly well; everybody in the street knew Jerry!
And it was the basest insult to refer to him as the boy.

“Excuse me, Mr. Eichberg! I just wanted to hand a memorandum to Mr.
Copeland.”

He drew from his pocket the certificate he had purchased from Foreman,
and handed it to Copeland, who snatched it from him with an angry snarl.

“Where did you get this?” he asked faintly after a glance at the paper.

“Oh, it just blew in my way early in the fall. I never bothered to get
a new certificate, but I’ll turn it in right now.”

He pulled out a fountain pen, removed the cap deliberately, and wrote
his name in the blank space above the executor’s endorsement. This
done, he brushed an imaginary speck from his cuff, as he had seen Eaton
do, and went out, closing the door softly.

“Well, here’s the answer, Eichberg,” said Copeland, with affected
nonchalance; “here are those Reynolds shares.”

“How did that damn’ little fool get this?” demanded Eichberg, after a
careful scrutiny of the certificate and endorsements.

“Oh, he’s a useful little damn’ fool! He’s always picking up
something,” replied Copeland coolly.

“I suppose it was all set up,” Eichberg sneered. “Why didn’t you come
right out and say you had that stock, and save my time? It’s worth
something if yours ain’t! You’ll either sell me that stock or I’ll have
the court throw you out. It’s up to you!”

“I told you the truth about these shares,” said Copeland, whose good
humor was returning. “I’m ashamed to say I’d clean forgotten them; but
you see stock never figured much in our corporation; it’s always been
a sort of family affair. I have no idea where Amidon got Reynolds’s
shares--that’s straight! He’s always doing something he isn’t paid for.
And you see it isn’t quite so easy to clean me out. But I take off my
hat to you; you’re a business man!”

Hope had risen in him. In spite of his futile efforts to tide over
the crisis there was still the remote chance that Kinney, who always
seemed able to borrow all he wanted for his own purposes, might extend
a helping hand. His change of manner had its effect on Eichberg.

“The stock doesn’t cut any ice,” he fumed. “I’m not goin’ to have a
hundred thousand dollars in a concern that’s losin’ money like this
one! That statement you showed the bank was rotten! You ain’t got any
credit; and you know mighty well you can’t go on here. You’ll either
come to terms or I’ll get a receiver to-morrow. That’s all there is of
that!”

He clapped on his hat and turned to the door just as it opened upon
Eaton.

“I’ll look in again in the morning, Copeland,” said Eichberg in a loud
tone. “You just think over that matter, and I guess you’ll see it my
way.”

“Never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day,” remarked Eaton,
projecting himself into the office. “I’ll close the door if you don’t
mind, Copeland. And, Mr. Eichberg, please wait a moment.”

“If you’re his lawyer, you don’t want me here. I’ve said all I’ve got
to say to Copeland,” Eichberg answered. But he waited, glowering at
Eaton, who removed his overcoat, placed it carefully on a chair, and
began drawing off his gloves.

“Mr. Eichberg, they told me a moment ago at the Western National that
certain stock held as collateral for maturing Copeland-Farley notes had
been bought by you. Is that true?”

“That’s correct! I guess it was all regular,” Eichberg snapped.

“We’ll come to that presently. You have now in your possession through
that purchase fourteen hundred and eighty-five shares of stock?”

“Right!” ejaculated Eichberg loudly.

Eaton raised his hand, glanced intently at the palm, and then, with one
of his familiar tricks, bent his gaze directly upon Eichberg.

“Being a competitor of Copeland-Farley and a director of the bank, you
have naturally--quite naturally--thought it would be a good investment
to own a large block of the stock? And it undoubtedly occurred to you
that a combination of Copeland-Farley with Corbin & Eichberg would
be highly advantageous? In fact, you thought you had more stock than
Copeland owns, and that you could come in here and discharge him like a
drayman!”

“That’s my business! You haven’t explained yet how you come to be
buttin’ in here.”

“Presently--presently!” replied Eaton soothingly.

His calm demeanor and refusal to lift his voice further infuriated
Eichberg, who breathed hard for a moment, then pointed a stubby
forefinger at the lawyer as his wrath found utterance.

“Copeland-Farley’s ruined--busted! If you’ll take a look at their last
statement you’ll see they can’t pull out!”

“You anticipate me,” replied Eaton gently. “The fact is I had meant to
buy that stock myself, but the bank’s haste to turn it over to you has
spoiled that. I was annoyed--greatly annoyed--when I found awhile ago
that the stock had been sold--sold, in violation of the stipulation--on
the bank’s usual form--that three days’ grace were to be given to the
debtor to release his collateral. I don’t believe the Comptroller would
like that. I shall consider seriously bringing it to his attention.”

“What good would three days have done him?” cried Eichberg. “The sooner
he’s put out the better. His accounts payable are goin’ to bring his
general creditors down on him in a few days! Don’t you suppose I know?
Haven’t they been telegraphin’ me from all over the country for months
askin’ about this house?”

“And, of course,” said Eaton softly, “you did all you could to
protect your competitor--neighborly feeling, and that sort of thing.
Well, it will be a great relief to you to know that those accounts
will be paid to-morrow--just as soon as the exchange window of your
piratical bank is opened. There’s a hundred thousand dollars to the
credit of Copeland-Farley over there right now. I know, because I
went in a quarter of an hour ago and made the deposit. This house is
solvent--absolutely solvent. Moreover, Copeland’s stock in the Kinney
Ivory Cement Company is now marketable. I take some pride in that fact
myself--immodestly, I dare say, and yet--I am only human!”

He drew a telegram from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to Copeland.

“That patent case was decided to-day--in favor of Kinney. Copeland, I
congratulate you!”

Copeland read the message, and looked dully from Eaton to Eichberg.
He was roused by Eichberg, who had no difficulty in expressing his
emotions.

“You fool,” he shouted, shaking his fist in Eaton’s face. “If you’re
tellin’ the truth, what do you mean to do about my stock?”

Eaton was drawing on his gloves without haste. His face expressed the
mildest surprise at Eichberg’s perturbation.

“My dear Mr. Eichberg, you were in such a rush to buy the Western’s
collateral that I’m surprised that you should trouble me--a casual
acquaintance--with such a question.”

“It’s a cheat; it’s a swindle! If there’s any law for this--”

He flung out of the office and tramped heavily to the front door, while
the clerks, worn with the many agitations of the day, stared after him
mutely.

“In the morning,” Eaton was saying to Copeland, “I’ll have fuller
details of the decision, but there’s no doubt about it--we’ve won on
every point. Allow me to congratulate you!”

Copeland half rose to take his proffered hand; then with a groan he
sank back and buried his face in his hands.




CHAPTER XXII

NULL AND VOID


“Those documents have a familiar look,” remarked Thurston with a smile
as Nan placed the packet of wills on the table beside him in the Farley
parlor. “Mr. Farley was hard to please; I’ve learned a lot about
will-writing just from studying the different schemes he proposed from
time to time.”

Nan described the manner in which she had found the wills on the night
of Farley’s death.

“He was evidently troubled about them and got out of bed to look them
over. This one, that I found lying open on the table, is torn across as
though he had begun to destroy it when the end came.”

“Very likely that was his intention,” Thurston replied. “I had just
written a new will for him, but it wasn’t signed--not unless he
executed it that same afternoon. Perhaps you know about that?”

“No one was here, I’m sure,” said Nan, after a moment’s consideration.
“The nurse was off duty; she left for the evening at four o’clock, and
I’m sure the servants weren’t in his room. I carried up his dinner tray
myself.”

“It’s hardly possible he had signed that last will. I was always
present on such occasions and I got the witnesses. When I called now
and then with a couple of his friends, or telephoned for them, there
was a will to be signed. You probably understood that.”

He began opening the papers, glancing quickly at the last sheet of
each will, and turning them face down on the table. The torn one he
scrutinized more carefully, and returned to it for further examination
when he had disposed of the others. Nan watched him nervously. He was
a small, slight man of sixty, with a stiff gray mustache and a sharp,
rasping voice. It would not have been easy to deceive Thurston if she
had destroyed the wills; she could never have gone through with it!

She felt that she had touched with her finger-tips the far horizons
and knew at last something of the meaning of life. She had subjected
herself to pitiless self-analysis and stood convicted in her own
conscience of vanity, selfishness, and hardness. The recollection of
her gay adventures with the Kinneys and her affair with Copeland had
become a hideous nightmare. Not only was she ashamed of her dallying
with Billy, but she accused herself of having exerted a baneful
influence upon him. In all likelihood he would never have sunk so low
as to propose the destruction of Farley’s will but for his infatuation
for her.

Farley’s death had in itself exercised a chastening effect upon her.
She was conscious of trying to see herself with his eyes and fortify
herself with something of the stern righteousness that made him, in the
retrospect, a noble and inspiring figure. The upturned faces at the
Settlement haunted her; there was a work for her to do in the world
if only she could lay her hands upon it! In this new mood the life of
ease which money would secure weighed little against self-dependence
and service. Money had ceased to be an important integer in her
calculations.

Having concluded his examination of the papers, the lawyer lifted his
head with an impatient jerk, then sighed, and began smoothing the open
sheets into a neat pile.

“Those wills are worthless, Miss Farley,--not one of them can be
probated. The testator’s signatures and the names of the witnesses have
been scratched out!”

In proof of his statement he extended one of the wills, pointing to the
heavy cross-crosses at the bottom of the sheet.

“You have no idea when he did this--you weren’t present, I suppose?”

“No; he used to do his writing at the table where he hid the wills. He
occasionally wrote a letter or a check there; but I never saw him open
the table. I never knew of that inner compartment till the night he
died.”

“Oh, I know that table very well; he had shown me the hidden drawer and
explained how to open it. But this is most unfortunate, deplorable! I
kept in touch with his doctor about his condition and feared something
like this might happen. And he dreaded it himself--was afraid he might
die some time without leaving just the will he had determined to make.
I account for all the wills I wrote for him but the last. The last time
I was here I brought a new will, which I don’t find among these. Are
you sure you haven’t overlooked it?”

She was quite sure of it, but after she had described in minute detail
the events of the last afternoon of Farley’s life, to confirm her
statement that no one who could have acted as witness had visited
Farley, she took the lawyer upstairs to examine the table for himself.
They broadened the scope of the search, but without success.

“For the present I think it best for you not to read those wills,”
he said, when they had returned to the parlor. “They represent Mr.
Farley’s changes of feeling in regard to many things--including
yourself. A little later I shall be glad to submit them to you. The
important thing just now is the threat of this man Harlowe to attack
your rights under the adoption. Mr. Eaton and I have already discussed
that. Now that we’re pretty sure there’s no will, this may give us some
trouble, but with characteristic thoroughness Mr. Eaton has prepared
for just this emergency. His reasons for not telling me earlier about
these things are sound enough--his fear of disturbing Mr. Farley
unnecessarily. He would undoubtedly have wanted a proceeding brought to
correct the adoption, but that could only have advertised the error,
and Mr. Farley might have died before we finished it. Still, if I
had known I should have taken care that he didn’t die intestate. But
from what Mr. Eaton tells me, this man is all primed to attack any
will that might have been left, on the ground of Mr. Farley’s mental
incapacity--which is ludicrous, of course. There was never a saner man;
and yet his eccentricities might be magnified before a jury--you never
can tell. On the whole, Mr. Eaton’s silence was justified. But our next
step must be carefully considered. In the mean time--”

He paced the floor, considering means of relieving her anxiety.

“Of course, while these things are pending we shall arrange for your
maintenance, on the old basis, in this house. No one can pretend that
Mr. Farley didn’t have every intention of providing for you generously.
It’s only fair to tell you this, that even when he seemed to waver at
times he never cut your legacy below a hundred thousand dollars; and
I know he regretted the comparative meagerness of that--tripled the
amount in the very next will he made! You need have no fears, Miss
Farley,” he went on reassuringly. “But you are entitled to your own
counsel; it’s only right that I should say this to you immediately;
and I suggest that you ask Mr. Eaton to represent you. I hope you will
confer with him at once.”

He bowed with old-fashioned formality. He was more troubled than he
cared to have Nan know, and her silence disconcerted him. But her face
expressed neither disappointment nor alarm. She stood erect by the
table, an intent look in her eyes. Not wishing to leave her weighed
down by the uncertainties of her future, he said briskly:--

“You mustn’t bother yourself about these matters, Miss Farley. In the
end you will find yourself a rich woman. So--”

He waved his hand as the preliminary to a quick exit, but she called
him back. He did not like being called back; now, he thought, there
would be the tears he dreaded.

“You don’t understand,” she said quietly. “I ought to have made it
clear in the first place, but I didn’t know just how--or when--to say
it. I can’t--I will not take any of Mr. Farley’s money--not even if the
law should give it to me.”

He looked at her with the mute appeal of the deaf when they fail to
catch a meaning.

“Really, Miss Farley--”

“I won’t take one cent of Mr. Farley’s money,” Nan repeated firmly.

“I can’t blame you for being disappointed--for resenting what may
appear to be a lack of consideration on his part for your comfort--”

“Oh, it isn’t that! I wouldn’t have you think _that_! I’m sure he
meant to do what was right--what was generous! You don’t know how glad
I am that our last day together was a happy one--we had never been on
better terms. It’s not that I have any unkind feeling toward papa; it’s
all myself. The Farleys were only too kind to me. I went my own way and
it made me selfish--and pretty hard, too, I’m afraid. Papa knew it; and
you know yourself how little he trusted me. And he was right about me:
I didn’t deserve his confidence. But I’m going to begin all over again,
as I couldn’t if I began fighting for this money. I can see now that
money can’t make me happy. I’m going to work; I’m going to stop living,
as I always have, just for myself: I’m going--I’m going to think about
the rest of the folks a lot!”

“The folks?” repeated Thurston feebly. “What folks?”

“Oh, everybody! The down-and-outers--girls like me who get a bad start
or make mistakes!”

Thurston’s brows worked convulsively. He had been prepared for anything
but this.

“Do I--do I understand you to mean that, even if this estate could be
turned over to you to-morrow, you’d decline to receive it? It can’t be
possible--”

“Yes; that’s what I mean!” she cried eagerly. “I’ve thought it all out
and have made up my mind about it. I don’t want to be considered in
anything that has to do with papa’s property.”

“But, my dear child, you can’t--you _can’t_ abandon your claims in any
such fashion! It’s my duty--I owe it to my friend and client to see
that his wishes are fulfilled. Why--”

“Well,” she persisted, “between all those wills you can’t tell what
he wanted--only that I was a great problem to him. I caused him a
great deal of unnecessary worry and heartache. I hope this isn’t going
to cause you any trouble--” And she smiled in spite of herself at
his consternation, as indicated by the twitching of his brows. And
there _was_, she realized, something absurd to her cool statement to
a hard-headed lawyer that she renounced claims whose validity he was
in duty bound to support. The situation was too much for him; he must
escape as quickly as possible from this young woman who brushed away a
fairly tangible fortune as a waiter clears away bread crumbs.

“Really, Miss Farley--” he began; but, thinking of nothing further to
say, he backed awkwardly into the hall.

She helped him into his coat and opened the street door. He hurried off
without saying good-bye, clasping Timothy Farley’s wills tightly under
his arm.

A light snow was falling; Nan stood on the steps and lifted her hot
face to the fluttering flakes. She watched Thurston until he turned the
corner and then went to the telephone.

In a moment she was connected with Mrs. Copeland at the farm. “I want
a job,” she was saying in a cheerful tone; “yes, that’s it--a chance to
work. You told me the other day you needed some one to look after your
business at the market-house. I’m applying for the job. Oh, no! I’m not
fooling; I want that place! Well, I want to see you, too; I’ll be out
early in the morning!”




CHAPTER XXIII

IN TRUST


“Copeland Farm Products” in blue letters against a white background
swung over Nan’s head on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday mornings in
the city market-house. On those days she left Mrs. Copeland’s farm at
five o’clock with the day’s offerings and by six the stand was in order.

An endless, jostling throng surged by, and every sale she effected,
every negotiation for the future delivery of an order, had all the
joy of an adventure. Her immediate neighbors were a big-fisted
German gardener and a black-eyed Italian girl who sold fruits and
vegetables. When business lagged, the German chaffed her about her
wares or condoled with her when some frugal marketer priced her butter,
sniffed, and departed. Nan commanded a meager knowledge of Italian and
flung a phrase at her dark-eyed neighbor now and then in the spirit
of comradeship which the place encouraged. She liked her “job.” She
assured herself that she had never had so much fun in all her life, and
that never again would she eat the bread of idleness.

But it had not proved so easy as she imagined it would be to slip out
of her old life into the new. If she had left the Farley house preceded
by a brass band and had marched round the monument and the length of
Washington Street before taking her place in the market, her flight
could hardly have attracted more attention.

The town buzzed. The newspapers neglected no phase of Nan’s affairs,
nor did they overlook her as she stood behind the counter dispensing
“Copeland Farm Products.” She was surprised and vexed by her sudden
notoriety. A newspaper photographer snapped her, in her white sweater
and blue-and-white tam o’shanter, passing eggs over the counter. The
portrait bore the caption, “Miss Nancy Farley in a New Rôle,” and was
supplemented by text adorned with such sub-headings as “Renounces her
Fortune” and “Throws Away a Million Dollars.” To be thus heralded was
preposterous; she had merely gone to work for reasons that were, in any
view of the matter, her own private affair. But public sentiment was
astonishingly friendly; even those who had looked askance at her high
flights with the Kinney crowd said it was an outrage that Farley had
failed to provide for her decently.

Fanny, thinking at first it was only a joke, a flare of temperament
(references to her temperament had begun to pall upon Nan!), had
welcomed Nan to her house and given her charge of the market-stand; but
it was not without difficulty that she persuaded the girl to occupy her
guest-room and share her meals.

“You’d better scold me when I make mistakes, for if I find I don’t suit
I’ll fire myself,” Nan declared. “And if I have to leave you, I’ll go
to clerking in a department store. I just mention this so you won’t be
too polite. This isn’t any grandstand play, you see; I’m serious for
the first time in my life!”

It was certain, at any rate, that Copeland Farm Products were sold with
amazing ease. When it became known that Nan Farley had become Mrs.
Copeland’s representative “on market,” there was lively competition for
the privilege of purchasing those same “products.” Fanny complained
ruefully that the jellies, jams, and pickles created by the young
women in her industrial house would be exhausted before Christmas and
that nothing would remain to sell but butter and eggs. Nan suggested
orange marmalade and a cake-baking department to keep the girls at work
during the winter, and on the off days she set herself to planning the
preparation of these “specialties.” Mrs. Farley’s cooking lessons had
not gone for naught; Nan could bake a cake in which there was no trace
of “sadness,” and after some experiments with jumbles and sand-tarts
she sold her first output in an hour and opened a waiting list.

Mrs. Copeland told Eaton at the end of the second week that she had
never known the real Nan till now. There was no questioning the girl’s
sincerity; she had cut loose from her old life, relinquished all hope
of participating in Farley’s fortune, and addressed herself zealously
to the business of supporting herself. She became immediately the
idol of the half-dozen young women in the old farmhouse, who thought
her an immensely “romantic” figure and marveled at her industry and
resourcefulness.

“Splendid! Give her all the room she wants,” Eaton urged Mrs. Copeland.
“She’s only finding herself; we’ll have the Nan she was meant to be the
first thing we know.”

“I didn’t know all these nice church-going people would come to condole
with me, or I’d have left town,” Nan confided to Fanny. “These women
who wouldn’t let their daughters associate with me a year ago can’t
buy enough eggs now to show how much they sympathize with me. If they
don’t keep away, I’m going to raise the price of their eggs, and that
will break their hearts--and the eggs! But do you know,” she went
on gravely, “I’ve never been so happy in my life as I am now! And I
wouldn’t have anybody think it was out of pique, or with any unkind
feeling toward papa,”--tears shone in her eyes as the word slipped
from her tongue,--“but I tell you nobody ever could have made a nice,
polite girl out of me. I was bound to get into scrapes as long as I
hadn’t anything really to do but fill in time between manicuring and
hair-washing dates. There’s a whole lot in that old saying about making
a silk purse out of a sow’s ear: it can’t be did!”

“If you talk that way,” Fanny laughed, “I shall turn you out of my
house. I don’t want you to think I approve of what you’re doing. I’m
letting you do it because I’m scared not to!”

“You’d better be--for if you hadn’t taken me in, I should have gone
on the stage,--honestly, I should,--in vaudeville, most likely, doing
monologues right between the jugglers and the trained seals.”...

On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays Mr. Jeremiah A. Amidon found it
convenient to visit the market-house as early as seven-thirty (in spite
of pressing duties at the store), to make sure, he said, that Nan, and
the farmhand who drove her in and helped arrange the stock, had safely
passed all the railroad crossings on the way to town. Jerry was a
consoling person and unobtrusively thoughtful and helpful. And in his
way he was almost as keen as Eaton. Jerry did not require explanations,
and nothing is so wholly satisfactory as a friend who understands
without being told.

“Little girl, if your eggs are guaranteed under the Pure Food Act, I’ll
take one--the large size.”

“You’ll find the hard-boiled eggs at the lunch counter in the next
aisle, little boy,” Nan answered. “How is John Cecil?”

“Working himself to death. You’ve driven him to it!”

“I hope you two are not abusing me; how about it?”

“No; not vocally. Cecil’s shut up in his office every night, getting
ready to clean up those cousins of Farley’s down on the river, but he
doesn’t say anything. Look here, Nan, we’ve got a line of cold cream
and other toilet marvels--stuff you could handle here as a side line.
Let us send you up a bunch to put next to that pink jelly. It’s high
grade and we’ll make it to you at the right price.”

“Not on your life, Jerry. Drugs and hand-made country butter can’t
associate. You’d better run down to your own little shop now and go to
work.”

After his morning inspection he was likely to reappear at lunch time,
to see her for a moment before she left for the farm; and he assisted
in balancing her cash when she confessed that it wouldn’t “gee.” His
pride in her was enormous; he was satisfied that there was no other
girl to compare with her.

Jerry’s admiration was so obviously genuine and supported by so deep
an awe and reverence that no girl could have helped liking it. And
Jerry was unfailingly amusing; his airs and graces, his attempts to
wear a little learning lightly, were wholly transparent and invited
the chaff he welcomed. Nan’s feeling, dating from the beginning of
their acquaintance, that their common origin in the back streets of
Belleville established a tie between them had grown steadily. In all
her late perplexities and self-questioning she had found herself
wondering constantly what Jerry would say, and he had supported her
warmly in her rejection of the estate.

He had from the first confided his ambitions to her and they were
worthy ones. He not only meant to get on, but he meant to overcome as
far as possible his lack of early advantages. He steadfastly spent
an hour at his Latin every night before he went to bed, with only an
occasional lift from the busy Eaton. “As long as I’ve tackled it, I
might as well keep it up,” he remarked apologetically. “Cecil says my
English is so bad, I’d better learn a few foreign languages to make me
respectable!”

One noon Nan was munching an apple while waiting for Mrs. Copeland’s
man to carry out the empty crates and boxes, when Jerry appeared,
looking unusually solemn.

“What’s wrong with the world? You’re not out of work, are you?” she
demanded.

“I hoped you’d ask me,” he replied, with mock dejection. “The boss has
been making a few changes at the store and I’ve got a new job.”

“Better or worse?” she asked, with feigned carelessness.

This was the first time he had referred to Copeland since her removal
to the farm; and there were still vast areas of ignorance and
uncertainty in his mind as to her feeling toward Copeland.

“Better for me; I don’t know about the house,” he answered. “Hasn’t
anybody told you everything that’s happened down our way?” He
seated himself on the counter and clasped one knee with his gloved
hands. “Well, we’ve reorganized; just about everything’s changed
except the sign. Boss steady as a rock; things rather coming his way
now. You heard about Kinney Cement? There was never any doubt about
Cecil winning the patent cases; and now the boss has sold out his
interest--quit cement for good and all; concentrating on drugs. I guess
he got a good price for his cement stock, too.”

He waited to see how she was affected by these confidences.

“The drug business was in a bad way, wasn’t it?” she asked carelessly.

“Um, well; it did look for a few minutes as though we mightn’t pull
through.”

She laughed at his lightly emphasized “we.”

“What are you doing now?--counting money or running the elevator?”

“Tease me some more! Say, Nan, I’m not kidding you. The boss made a new
job for me; I’m sales manager--going to start out with a suit-case next
week and shake hands with all our customers, just to get in touch. Not
to interfere with our regular salesmen; oh, no! Just asking about the
babies down the line and making the lowly retailer feel that we live
only to please him. Do you get me?”

“A gleam or two. So Mr. Copeland got out of his troubles, did he?
Well, I’m glad to hear it. He’s too good a fellow to go to the bad.”

This was spoken carelessly, but with a note of sincerity. Her world had
turned upside-down since her last meeting with Billy. She waited for
Jerry to enlighten her further.

“He’s all right now; you can bet on that; he’s not going to fool with
his luck any more. It’s funny”--he was finding it difficult to conceal
his embarrassment in speaking of Copeland to Nan--“but the boss and
Cecil are getting chummy. When the pinch came, Cecil was right there;
walked on to the scaffold and saved him after the black cap had been
pulled on and tied under his chin. This is marked private--I don’t
_know_ anything--not a thing!”

Nan nodded. She did not see very clearly what he was driving at, but
she refused to ask questions.

“The boss and Cecil are lunching together every day now, and they spend
an hour together. That tickles me,” he ended softly. “I always wished
they’d hit it off together.”

He glanced at her for her approval of this new combination, which
was hardly more surprising than his own manifestation of feeling.
He evidently derived the deepest satisfaction from the new intimacy
between Eaton and Copeland. The fleeting tenderness and wistfulness in
his candid, humorous eyes touched her.

“Well!” he exclaimed cheerily, as the driver announced that the
wagon was ready, “do you fly back to the farm, or will you join me in
refreshments at a one-arm sandwichorium? I’ve only got twenty minutes.”

“I’ll fool you by accepting,” she laughed. “I have some errands to do
and can just about catch the three o’clock interurban.”

They walked to a lunch room, where he found seats and brought her the
sandwich and coffee she insisted was all she wanted. He was observing
her narrowly for signs of discontent, but she had never seemed happier.
He understood perfectly that she wished her new activities to be taken
as a matter of course, and he carefully refrained from expressing his
great pride in her. As long as she continued to countenance him, he was
satisfied, and she had shown in countless ways that she liked him and
believed in him.

He introduced her to a bank clerk who paused in his hurried exit to
speak to him and incidentally to have a closer look at Nan. A girl
nodded to him across the room; he explained that she was one of the
smartest girls in town--“the whole show in an insurance office; the
members of the firm don’t turn round unless she says so.”

“Just think,” Nan remarked, “I might have died without knowing how it
feels to be a poor working girl.”

“Well, don’t die now that you’ve found it out! It would be mighty
lonesome on earth without you. Have a chocolate eclair,” he added
hastily,--“‘business girl’s special.’”

“No, thanks. If I don’t turn up to-night with an appetite for dinner
Mrs. Copeland will be scared and send for the doctor.”

“By the way, I wish you’d casually mention me to that gifted lady; I’d
like to hop off at Stop 3 some evening without being consumed by the
dog. How about it?”

“Oh, she’ll stand for it! She’ll stand for ’most anybody who shows up
with a clean face and a kind heart. She’s an angel, Jerry. She’s the
finest woman that ever lived!”

“I’d sort o’ figured that out for myself, just passing her on the
boulevards. I thought I’d try for a rise out of Cecil the other night
and just mentioned her with a gentle o. k. I’d gone up to his office
to see if I could shine his shoes or do any little thing like that for
him, and he looked at me so long I nearly had nervous prostration,
and then he said: ‘My dear boy, the poverty of your vocabulary is a
constant grief to me!’--just like that. I guess he likes her all right.”

“She has a good many admirers,” Nan replied noncommittally, as she
crumpled her paper napkin. “She can’t help it.”

“Well, anything Cecil wants he ought to have.”

“Well, I hope--I should hate to think he couldn’t get anything he
wanted in this world,” said Nan.

Jerry had been deeply troubled at times by the fear that his adored
Cecil might be interested in Nan, and the smile that accompanied her
last remark was the least bit ambiguous. With all his assurance he
was at heart a humble person, and he never ceased to marvel at Nan’s
tolerance of him. It was not for him to question the ordinances of
Heaven. If Cecil and Nan--

Nan began drawing on her gloves. When they reached the street she
explained that she was going to the Farley house to gather up some
of her traps that she had left behind. Fully conscious of his sudden
soberness and perhaps surmising the cause of it, she lightened his
burdened spirit by asking him to come out soon to see her, and boarded
a street car....

This was her first visit “home” since she had left the house to go to
Fanny Copeland’s. In her hurried flight she had taken only a trunk
and a suit-case, but her summer gowns and a number of odds and ends
remained to be packed and moved.

The colored maid, who had only vaguely grasped the meaning of Nan’s
sudden departure, admitted her with joyous exclamations.

“About time yo’ ’s comin’ back, Miss Nan. Mistah Thu’ston came up heah
and tole me and Joshua to stay right along. I guess Mistah Fa’ley’s
been turnin’ ovah in his grave ’bout yo’ runnin’ away. He was mighty
ca’less not to fix his will the way it ought t’ been. Yo’ ’ll find yo’
room just the way yo’ left it. Mistah Thu’ston said fo’ me to keep
things shined up just the way they always was.”

Nan explained that she had merely come to pack her remaining things
and asked Joshua to bring up a trunk from the cellar. She filled
the trunk and added to the summer frocks articles from her desk and
other personal belongings that she wished to keep for their various
associations.

When she had finished, she crossed the hall to Farley’s room, rather
from force of habit than by intention. She ran her hand across the
shelves that represented his steadfast literary preferences that had
never been altered in her recollection: “Pickwick,” Artemus Ward; a
volume of Petroleum V. Nasby’s writings; Franklin’s “Autobiography”;
Grant’s “Memoirs”; Mark Twain, in well-worn original first editions,
including the bulky “Innocents Abroad” and “Roughing It.” She resolved
to take the “Life on the Mississippi,” from which she had so often
read to him in his last year. She rummaged in the closet for an album
containing crude old-fashioned likenesses of Mr. and Mrs. Farley and
a series of photographs of herself that marked the swift-moving years
from the time she became a member of their household.

In a last slow survey of the room her eyes fell upon the portrait of
Mrs. Farley that had arrested her with its kind motherly glance on
the night of her temptation. She reflected that her right to remove
anything from the house was questionable, but she meant to ask Thurston
to give her the portrait when the house was finally disposed of.

As she lifted the frame and shook the wire loose from the hook, a paper
that had been thrust behind the picture slipped over the mantel-edge
with a soft rustling and fell at her feet. She laid the portrait on the
bed and picked up the paper.

A glance sufficed to tell her that she had found another of Farley’s
wills--possibly the last, for which Thurston had inquired so
particularly.

She opened it hurriedly and glanced at the last sheet. The spaces
for the signatures of testator and witnesses were blank. It was
only worthless paper, of no value to any one. It seemed a plausible
assumption that Farley, having decided finally that he would have
no use for the earlier wills, had begun to destroy them after first
placing the last one behind the picture to avoid the chance of
confusing it with the others.

As Nan folded it, a name caught her attention and she began to read.

  I hereby give and bequeath to Frances Hillard Copeland, as trustee,
  the sum of five hundred thousand dollars, the same to be held by
  said Frances Hillard Copeland, as such trustee, with the following
  powers and for the following purposes: ... To pay to my said daughter
  upon her marriage the principal of said fund, together with all
  accretions thereto; provided, however, that the marriage of my said
  daughter shall be with the approval and express consent of said
  Frances Hillard Copeland....

The room swayed as the meaning of this proviso sank into her whirling
senses. Farley had interposed Fanny between her and Billy--Fanny,
Billy’s former wife! The old man’s hatred of Copeland, his warm
admiration for Fanny, had thus combined to fashion a device that was
almost malevolent in its cunning. She followed Farley’s reasoning
clearly. He had assumed that his own feeling toward Copeland was shared
by Fanny, and that she would never consent to a marriage which, in
the vague prospect, had given him so much concern. He had presumably
promoted the friendly relations between Fanny and her with this end in
view.

As the first shock of the revelation passed, Nan laughed bitterly.

“Poor papa!” she murmured.

He little knew how near she had come to marrying Billy! She gasped as
it occurred to her that Farley might have discussed the matter with
Fanny and persuaded her to accept the trust; but she quickly decided
against this. It was unlikely that Farley had ever spoken to her about
it; and it was inconceivable that Fanny would have consented, when the
purpose was so clearly to make use of her, as Billy’s divorced wife,
to stand between Billy and Farley’s money....

She told the servants she would send for her trunk and instructed them
to wrap up Mrs. Farley’s portrait and hold it until she could ask
Thurston’s permission to remove it. She hurried to the car, carrying
the will with her. She must, of course, show it to Thurston, but that
could wait a day....

First she would tell Fanny! It was only fair that Mrs. Copeland
should know. Copeland had never been mentioned in their intercourse,
but she would now confess everything that had ever passed between
her and Billy. She would not spare herself. She should have done it
earlier--before Fanny threw the mantle of her kindness and generosity
about her.

For a month she had been happy in the thought that she had escaped
from all her troubles, and that she was free of the wreckage of her
old life. Now it was necessary to readjust herself to new conditions,
and she resented the necessity that compelled it. Her resolution to
tell Fanny of this last will and of all that lay back of it remained
unshaken as the car bore her homeward. It was the only “square” thing
to do, she repeated to herself over and over again, as she looked out
of the car window upon the gray winter landscape.




CHAPTER XXIV

“I NEVER STOPPED LOVING HIM!”


While they were still at dinner, Mrs. Copeland was called to the
telephone. The instrument was in the living-room and Nan could not
avoid hearing Fanny’s share in the conversation.

“That’s fine--quite splendid!” And then, “I’m so glad! I never can
thank you! Well, of course, no one knows. You’re quite sure? That’s
good; I might have known you’d manage it just right.”

There was a moment’s silence after she returned to the table. She
dropped a lump of sugar into her coffee and watched the bubbles rise.
Then she lifted her head with a smile.

“I suppose, Nancy Farley, that God has made better men than J. C.
Eaton--kinder and more helpful men--but I’ve never known them!”

Her lips twitched and there were tears in her eyes.

“I suppose it’s his nature to be kind and helpful,” Nan replied. “I’ve
never known any one like him.”

“The nice thing about him is that he does you a favor quite as though
it were a favor to him. He’s just done something for me that no one
else could have done; there’s no one else I could have asked to do it!”

She lapsed into reverie, and Nan’s thoughts ranged far. If Fanny and
Eaton loved each other, how perfect it would be! Their telephonic
communications had been frequent of late; nearly every evening Eaton
called her, as though by arrangement, at the dinner hour. From the
character of Fanny’s responses he seemed to be reporting upon some
matter, the nature of which was not apparent, but Fanny always came
from these conferences in good spirits.

While Fanny was studying the produce market in the afternoon newspaper,
Nan went upstairs to get the will. She had set herself a disagreeable
task, but she did not falter in her determination to go through with
it. She glanced through the will again, rehearsed the story as she
meant to tell it, and returned to the living-room, where Fanny began
reading the day’s quotations from the sheet before her.

“Nan, if eggs go much higher, we’ll be rich by spring. I’m going to
double the poultry department next summer. They told me I couldn’t make
it pay, and now it’s the best thing I’ve got!”

Nan liked these quiet evenings. Sometimes the young women from the
farmhouse came in for an hour of music, and Nan occasionally gave some
of her recitations, much to their delight. At other times Fanny retired
to her den to write letters or post her books, leaving Nan to her own
devices.

To-night Fanny produced some sewing and bade Nan tell her of her day’s
experiences.

“I hope the long winter evenings out here are not going to bore you,
Nancy,” she remarked, noting the serious look on Nan’s face. “Gracious!
What’s that you have there? It has an official look; we’re not being
sued, are we?”

“There’s something I have to tell you, Fanny. It’s not a pleasant
subject, and you’ll see in a moment how hard it is for me to tell you.
And you’ll listen, won’t you; you’ll let me tell you everything I have
to say about it?”

“Of course, Nancy!” said Fanny as Nan knelt beside her. “I should
be sorry if you couldn’t come to me with anything! I hope nothing
disagreeable has happened.”

“Well, it isn’t pleasant. And to think I have to spoil one of our
evenings by talking of it! We’ve had such good times here. It may be
that you won’t let me stay any longer after you know. I should hate
that; but I should understand it.”

She touched with a light caress a fold of Mrs. Copeland’s gown, then
withdrew her hand quickly, and began fingering the will nervously.

“The sooner we get through with it the better, Nancy,” said Fanny
kindly.

“Well, when I went to the house this afternoon I found that other will,
the last one Mr. Thurston wrote for papa. It was stuck behind mamma’s
picture where he must have put it when he began destroying the other
wills. It isn’t signed, but, of course, I shall have to give it to Mr.
Thurston. Perhaps I shouldn’t have read it, but I did, and I knew right
away that I ought to show it to you. I thought about it all the way out
on the car, and I’m sure it’s the best thing to do.”

“You poor child! I should think you’d had enough of wills, without new
ones popping out from behind picture frames. If you’re sure you want me
to see it, I’m ready. Let me have it.”

Nan passed it to her grudgingly and rose and left the room. She waited
in the dark dining-room, watching the headlight of a trolley car as
it neared and passed in the highway below. The time seemed endless.
She heard the rustle of paper as Fanny turned the pages. She was
reading carefully, and as time passed without any sign from her, Nan
knew that she was pondering deeply what she read. Nan remained at the
window, pressing her forehead against the cold pane. Deep dejection
settled upon her; she had made a mistake; it had not been necessary
to make this revelation, which could only cause her dearest friend
unhappiness....

She felt suddenly the pressure of a warm cheek against her face.

“Come, Nancy! Come back to the fire and let us talk about it,” said
Fanny in her usual cheery tone. “Of course, I never knew of this;
never dreamed of any such thing. It’s a strange idea; I didn’t know
such a will could be made; but if it was done with Mr. Thurston’s
counsel, it must be all right. I should have thought, though, that they
would have asked me about it. The responsibility is very great--too
great--for any one to take. But, of course, as the will isn’t signed,
that’s the end of it.”

Nan turned wonderingly, doubtful whether Fanny had grasped the full
significance of those phrases that touched so nearly her own life.

“It doesn’t say anything about my giving a bond; I might have
stolen the money!” Fanny continued lightly. “And if I didn’t like
your suitors, I might have played the rôle of the cruel father for
twenty-five years! My! but you’ve had a narrow escape!”

“Oh, you don’t understand; you don’t understand!” Nan moaned. “Don’t
you see; don’t you _know_ what it all means?”

“Yes; I think I do, Nancy. But we don’t need to talk of that. It’s only
so much paper, anyhow, and we needn’t bother. The best thing to do is
to forget all about it.”

“But I can’t let it go this way! You are far too kind! I must tell you
the rest of it--I must tell you what made papa think of this!”

“But why should we talk of it, Nancy? It’s plain enough, I suppose,
what was in Mr. Farley’s mind; but it’s all over now. It was just a
freak--a grim bit of irony; no doubt, if he had lived, he would have
changed his mind about it. It would have been just as well if you
hadn’t told me; it really wasn’t necessary! I’m sorry you thought it
might make any difference.”

“Oh, but I had to tell you; I could never have looked you in the face
again if I hadn’t! He was afraid--he had been afraid for more than a
year that--that--”

She could not say it; she could not bring herself to the point of
putting into words the intent of Timothy Farley’s last will, that was
to make it impossible for her to marry this woman’s divorced husband!
The shame of it smothered her; she wondered that she had ever had the
effrontery to eat Fanny Copeland’s bread and share her fireside. The
very calmness with which Fanny had received the news added to her
discomfort.

Fanny began moving about the room with her light, graceful step,
touching a book, unconsciously straightening the flowers in a vase
on the table. Then she walked to the fire, where Nan crouched mutely
watching her.

“Nan, dear, do you want to marry Billy?” she asked, bending down and
resting her hands lightly on Nan’s shoulders.

No one would have known that this was the first time her former husband
had been mentioned between them.

“No, no! That’s what makes this so hard--so unjust!”

“Were you ever--did you ever think you could?” Fanny asked in the same
calm tone, in which there was no hint of accusation.

“Yes; there was a time, there were times--”

Fanny was about to resume her idle wandering about the room when Nan
clasped her knees.

“That’s what I want to tell you; I want to tell you everything from the
very beginning. Please let me! I ought to have told you before I came
here; but I was so eager to come I didn’t think of it; it didn’t occur
to me at all! You see, if I don’t,--if you won’t listen,--I must go
away; I can’t spend another night here. You must see that!”

“It is like you--it is generous and kind, Nancy, to want to tell me.
But you don’t need to; it’s all right; it’s not a thing that I should
ever have asked; you know that.”

She drew up a chair and clasped Nan’s hands.

Nan told the story; told it in all its details, from the beginning of
her acquaintance with Copeland. She took pains to fix dates, showing
that she and Copeland were launched upon a lively flirtation and were
meeting, usually at the Kinneys’, before there had been any hint of a
possible divorce. It had been her fault, her most grievous sin, that
she encouraged Billy’s attentions. They had tickled her vanity. She had
admired “Billy”; he had been a new type of man to her. She described
her deception of Farley as to their clandestine meetings; told of
his wrath when he learned of her disobedience; and, coming to the
frustrated elopement, she made it clear that it was through no fault of
hers that she had not run away with Copeland and married him.

“But it’s all over; even if it hadn’t been for this--this idea of
papa’s to put you between us--I should never marry Billy. No, no!” she
moaned. “I had decided that before papa died. You know, don’t you,” she
pleaded, with the tears streaming down her cheeks, “that I wouldn’t
have come here, I couldn’t have pretended to be your friend, if I’d
ever meant to do that!”

“You poor Nancy; you poor, dear, little girl!” Fanny murmured.

There was a far-away look in her eyes as she slowly stroked the girl’s
hair, but a smile played about her lips. She did not speak again until
Nan’s grief had spent itself. Then she bent to the tear-wet face and
pressed her cheek against it, whispering,--

“You poor little dear; you dear little Nancy!”

“You will let me stay--you will let me stay, after all that?” faltered
Nan.

“It was fine of you to tell me; you don’t know how grateful I am--and
glad. Of course, you will stay; it would break my heart to lose you
now!”

Nan drew away and looked long into the steady, tranquil eyes. She had
not been prepared for this. It was beyond comprehension that her story
could be received with so much magnanimity, that forgiveness could be
so easily won. She caught the hands that clasped her face and kissed
them.

“Oh, you don’t know!” she cried fearfully. “I haven’t made you
understand!”

“Yes, I understand it all, Nancy; I’d guessed most of it without your
telling me. And it does make a difference; yes, it makes a very great
difference.” And then, feeling Nan’s hands relax their tight hold,
and seeing the fear in her face, she smiled and added, “But not the
difference you think!”

“Oh, if only you don’t send me away! It was brazen of me ever to come;
I don’t know how you came to take me without a question, when I’d done
you the greatest wrong one woman can do another.”

“But maybe you didn’t!” said Fanny quickly, with a wistful little
smile. “I’m going to ask you one question, Nancy,--just to be sure. But
you needn’t answer; you won’t feel you must, will you?”

“Anything--anything!” Nan faltered.

Fanny turned her head, as though doubting, questioning, and her eyes
were very grave.

“Then, Nancy, tell me this--and please be very honest, and don’t
trouble about what I may think or feel about your answer--do you--do
you love Billy--now?”

“No; no! It was never love; it was never really that! His attentions
turned my head, and I hadn’t the sense to keep away from him. It was
all my fault. I’m ashamed to tell you that I was very lonely after I
came home from school--it is ungrateful to be saying it; but I have
always felt uneasy--self-conscious among the people here. I have never
got away from the feeling that whenever they saw me they were saying,
‘That’s the girl the Farleys raked out of the river and did everything
for--and just look at her!’ I couldn’t help that--the feeling that they
knew I was just a waif, a nobody. It made me rebellious and defiant.
Oh, I know it was unjustified and that it’s unkind to speak of it even
to you. And that’s why--one reason, at least--I’ve enjoyed knowing
Jerry so much. Jerry _knows_, and he doesn’t care! He knows every
little tiny thing about me and my people, and how poor and wretched
we were! But Billy--I haven’t any feeling about him now except--just
friendliness--and pity!”

“Then I’ll tell you something that will show you how very dear you are
to me,” said Fanny,--speaking slowly. “I think it was this that drew
me to you--made me want to be friends with you when Mr. Farley first
brought us together. Oh, Nan,”--her voice sank to a whisper,--“I still
love Billy! I never stopped loving him!”




CHAPTER XXV

COPELAND’S UNKNOWN BENEFACTOR


Eaton tore March from his office calendar, crumpled it in his hand, and
glanced out of the window as though expecting to see April’s heralds
dancing over the roofs below. It was nearing five o’clock and his big
desk was swept clear of the day’s encumbrances. He paced the floor
slowly, his gaze ranging the walls with their ranks of file-cases. A
particular box in the “C” section seemed to exert a spell upon him. He
glanced at it several times, then opened a drawer in his desk, peered
in, and absently closed it. He was waiting for Copeland, and as usual,
when he expected a visitor, was planning the interview to its minutest
details.

Since the reorganization of the Copeland-Farley Company he had
been seeing much of Copeland. The winter had wrought changes in
Billy--changes that at first provoked cynical comment from persons
who had no faith in his reformation. But people were now beginning to
say that they always knew Billy had the right stuff in him. Even the
fact--which was pretty generally known--that Billy had narrowly escaped
disaster didn’t matter particularly. Such fellows were always lucky. If
the decision in the Kinney patent case hadn’t come just when it did,
he would have been down and out; but it _had_ come. Yes; he was a lucky
devil.

Eaton was breathing easier now, as days passed and Copeland seemed to
have settled into a sober and industrious routine. He was even giving
time to broadening the scope and effectiveness of the Bigger Business
Club, and had accepted a place on the municipal reform committee of
the Chamber of Commerce. Mr. Jeremiah A. Amidon pointed to his boss
with pride. Jerry had risen to the dignity of a standing invitation to
Sunday evening tea at Mrs. Copeland’s and was the proudest and happiest
of Jerries.

Three slight snarls of a desk buzzer, marked, to the attentive ear,
by an interval between the second and third, spelled Copeland in the
office code. Eaton raised his arm and pressed a button attached to a
swinging cord over his desk. By this system acceptable visitors could
be announced by the girl in the reception room and disposed of at long
range. If Eaton didn’t want to be bothered, he made no response. This
was only one of his many devices for safeguarding his time. When he
was studying a case, he ignored the presence of his most remunerative
clients on the theory that they were unlikely to have anything of
importance to impart. It was a fair assumption that before he undertook
any case he extracted from the client’s head and stored in a file-box
all the information of which that particular client was possessed.
Clients resented this treatment, but as Eaton was admittedly the best
patent lawyer in three States, they were obliged to humor him.

Copeland entered with a quick, springy step. Jerry had persuaded him to
spend an hour three times a week at Gaylord’s, and as a result Copeland
was in prime condition. He nodded to Eaton and sat down in the chair
the lawyer pushed toward him.

“The state of your desk fills me with envy; I never get mine as clean
as that. If I turn my back, somebody throws something on it.”

“Oh, my system has its disadvantages; strangers coming in think I
haven’t any business. You wanted to speak about those notes?”

“Yes; they’re due to-morrow and I’m ready to take them up. Our
merchandise bills are cleaned up, and my personal obligations are all
taken care of. Our credit’s A 1. The White River National is taking
good care of us and they’re not as fussy as the Western was.”

“The Western isn’t a bank,” remarked Eaton; “it’s a pawnshop with
a third-degree attachment. About the notes,” he continued, tipping
himself back in his chair and crossing his slender legs, “you don’t
have to pay them to-morrow. They can be carried longer--indefinitely.
It’s just as you say, however. It might be best to accept an extension
of three or six months.”

“No, thanks! I’ve got the money to pay, and you may be dead sure it’s
a comfortable feeling to know I’ve got it! I hope I’ll never have to
sweat as I did for a year or two.” He frowned, and slapped his gloves
together. “Look here, Eaton, you’re the hardest man to thank I ever
saw, but for God’s sake, don’t ever think I don’t appreciate all you’ve
done for me! You saved me--hauled me out when I was going down for the
last time! I don’t know why you did it; there was no reason why you or
anybody else should have done it.”

“It’s not I you have to thank; it’s an enlightened judiciary that
upheld Kinney’s patents on Ivory Cement machinery.”

“There may be something in that,” Copeland admitted, “but there are
other things I want to speak of. I insist on speaking of all of them.
In picking up that Reynolds stock as you did--”

“Please stick to facts! It was our blithe gazelle Amidon who did that.
I honestly didn’t know it was in existence till he came to me about it.
Thank Jerry!”

“Thank him! I’m going to fire him if he doesn’t quit working me so
hard,” laughed Copeland. “But you backed him, and advanced him the
money. The way that boy strolled in with that certificate just as
Eichberg was jamming me into a corner is the last thing I’ll think of
when I die.”

“Strong sense of the dramatic, that Jerry!” observed Eaton musingly.
“Great loss to the stage, his devotion to commerce.”

“He can sell goods, and he knows how to hypnotize other fellows into
doing it. I’m giving him all the rope he wants. He’s the smartest
youngster on the street, and I’m proud of him. There’s more than that;
I’m going to tell you, because you’ve been mighty good to me and I want
you to know just how desperate I was last November. I want you to know
how near bottom I’d gone. Eaton, I tried to burn the store the night
before the Western notes came due--and I’d have done it--I’d have done
it if Jerry hadn’t stopped me!--God!” he groaned. His frame shook with
repulsion and abhorrence and he turned his head to avoid Eaton’s eyes.

“It’s a good thing, Copeland,” said the lawyer quietly, “that we’re
not allowed to be as bad as we want to be in this world. No man is
ever that! That, for a lack of a better word, is my religion. Let’s go
back to the notes. You say you prefer to pay them; but that’s wholly
optional. It had occurred to me that you might want to keep the money
in the business, and if you do it’s yours, quite indefinitely.”

Copeland shook his head and drew out a check.

“I made a big clean-up on my Cement stock and now that I’m out of it
I’m never going to monkey on the outside again. Here you are, with
interest!”

Eaton read the check, mentally verified the interest and opened the top
drawer of his desk.

“There are four notes of twenty-five thousand each,” he remarked,
as he bent over his desk and wrote “Paid” across the four slips of
paper. “They were made to me--you remember? As I told you at the
time, I wasn’t making the advance myself, and I deserve no thanks for
negotiating the loan--none whatever. You’re entitled to the canceled
notes, of course; but perhaps you’ll be satisfied to let me destroy
them here in your presence. The reason for that is that I endorsed the
notes to the person who made the advance, to protect your creditor in
case of my death. That person is very anxious not to be known in the
matter.”

“I think I ought to know,” Copeland replied. “A debt like that can’t
just be passed over. I’d be more comfortable if I knew.”

“Perhaps--” began Eaton.

Copeland shook his head and put out his hand.

Eaton bent a quick, penetrating glance upon him, then gave him the
notes. Copeland’s face went white as he read the endorsements.

“Fanny!” he gasped chokingly. He bent forward and grasped Eaton’s arm.
“This is a trick; a ghastly joke! She never would have done it; no
human being would have done this after--after--”

“No human being--no!” replied Eaton, swinging round in his chair so
that he did not face Copeland for a moment.

Copeland’s hand shook as he looked again at the endorsements.

“But, Eaton, you had no right to do it! You knew I wouldn’t have taken
her help--not--after--”

“No, I knew you wouldn’t. And she knew you wouldn’t. That, of course,
is why she did it in the way she did.”

The intentness of Copeland’s thought showed in his face; he continued
to turn over the notes in his shaking hands.

“But you will tell her how beyond any thanks this is--beyond anything
I can do or say!” He bent his head and went on brokenly. “It would be
cruel, Eaton, if it weren’t so kind, so generous, so merciful!”

“I think you have done enough already to show your appreciation,”
replied Eaton. “I’ll say to you that you’ve done what she expected--and
what, to be frank about it, I did not expect. At least, I wasn’t very
sanguine. You’d gone pretty far--farther than men go and come back
again. You’ve proved your mettle. If you go on as you are, you are
safe. And I’m glad--happier about it than I’ve been about anything in a
mighty long time.”

“I can’t understand it. I was worse than ever you imagine. I treated
her as a man doesn’t treat his dog!”

“Yes,” Eaton acquiesced, “it was all that.”

“And you can see how it leaves me,” Copeland moaned, crumpling the
notes in his hand,--“with a debt these things don’t express; a debt
that can’t be discharged!”

“There’s something you can do, Copeland, if you will. She hasn’t asked
it; I have no reason to think it has even occurred to her. It’s my own
idea--absolutely--I want you to be sure of that. It strikes me as being
only decent, only just.”

“Yes, yes!” Copeland eagerly assented.

“I’m going to speak plainly, Copeland. It’s about Manning. You let
the impression get abroad that your wife had given you cause to doubt
her loyalty. Yes; I know all about it. Manning was your friend,
not hers. The injury was not only to her; it was to that man, too.
Your use of him, to cast suspicion on the woman you had sworn to
shield and protect, was infamous, dastardly! Manning, I have reason
to believe,”--his eyes ranged the file-cases,--“is a gentleman, a
high-minded fellow, who admired your wife only as any friend might be
expected to admire her; but you used him--made him an excuse to hide
your own infamy. You hadn’t the courage to bring him into court; you
merely let some of your new-found friends whisper insinuations that
were more damning than a direct charge of infidelity. Manning cut your
acquaintance, I believe, when he found what you had done. You owe him
an apology, at least. And if you want to act the part of a man, you
will go to Mrs. Copeland and tell her the truth.”

Eaton’s feelings had for once got the better of him; several times his
voice betrayed deep emotion. He turned toward his desk as the buzzer
sounded a cryptic message. He telegraphed a reply, and a moment later
the sound of steps in the corridor was followed by the closing of a
door.

“I will do it--I will do it,” said Copeland. “As I began to get my
bearings again, that thing troubled me; it has been in my mind to speak
to you about it. God knows, I want to make reparation for all the evil
I’ve done. I was a brute, a coarse beast. And you’re right that Manning
is a gentleman, and a mighty fine fellow--he never was anything else!
I’ll go to him and be glad to do it. But to see Fanny--that is not so
easy! You can understand that, Eaton. I must have time to think it
over.”

“I think it best for you to see Mrs. Copeland first,” replied Eaton,
“then Manning.”

Copeland, pondering with knit brows, nodded a reluctant acquiescence.

“Well, I will do as you say; but what if she’d refuse to see me? It’s
going to be mighty hard,” he pleaded.

“It’s conceivable that she’d refuse, of course. She never meant for you
to know of her help, and I’ve broken faith in telling you; but I’ll
take the responsibility of sending you to see her. And I made this
other suggestion--about Manning--with a feeling that sooner or later it
would occur to you. I’m glad you’ve met me in this spirit. It confirms
my impression of you--it satisfies me that I was right in assuming that
once you got back in the straight road you would keep to it.”

“I’m not going to disappoint you, Eaton. I don’t intend to be pointed
to as a failure in this community. The mistakes I’ve made have been
bad ones--the very worst! God knows, I’m humble enough when I think
of Fanny. It was like her to want to save me. That’s what makes it so
hard--that it was like her to do it!”

“Yes,” said Eaton gravely; “it was like her.”

He took his overcoat from a closet and drew it on, mused a moment,
apparently absorbed in contemplation of the interior of his hat.

“Mrs. Copeland is here, waiting to see me. She came a moment ago and is
in the next room. She had no idea, of course, that you were likely to
be here--rest assured of that. My business with her is not so important
as yours. Come!”

Copeland, startled, irresolute, followed him to the door of a smaller
room used for consultations. Eaton opened it and stepped back.

“I shall be dining at the club later, if you care to see me,” he said,
and vanished.




CHAPTER XXVI

JERRY’S DARK DAYS


Jerry, who had never been ill in his life, was now experiencing
disquieting sensations which he was convinced pointed to an early
and probably a painful death. He went about his work listlessly, and
from being the cheerfulest person in Copeland-Farley, he became so
melancholy that his fellow employees wondered greatly and speculated
in private as to the cause of the change. Jerry encouraged the thought
of death and blithely visualized the funeral at which Eaton’s pastor
(chastely surpliced and reinforced by a boy choir) would officiate.
He chose the rector of Christ Church because that gentleman had not
been unmindful of his occasional attendance upon services (Jerry had
courageously repeated his first timid visit), and had even made a
memorandum of Jerry’s name and address, with a view to calling upon
him. This attention clearly pointed to the rector as the minister
predestined from the beginning of things to officiate at his funeral,
a function about which he meditated much in a spirit of loftiest
detachment.

A few people would be sorry when he died, but only a few. The boys
at the store would contribute a wreath; they had done that for a
drayman who had succumbed to pneumonia a short time before; and the
people at his boarding-house would probably grace the last rites
with their presence. Copeland would probably attend; he might even
add dignity to the occasion by acting as pallbearer. One of the girl
stenographers, whose lachrymose facilities had occasionally aroused
his ire, would doubtless weep; she had cried when the drayman died,
though her acquaintance with that person had been the most casual. Nan
might attend the funeral, but he hoped to time his passing so that
the funeral could be held on a market morning, thus giving her a good
excuse for absenting herself. It would be a sad, pitiful funeral, with
only a handful of mourners, as his only living relative was a cousin
in Oklahoma whose exact address he had forgotten. The brief list of
mourners included the billiard-marker at the Whitcomb. Jerry had once
lent him five dollars, which was still carried as an open account and
probably a permanent one; he meant to leave a memorandum of general
forgiveness, including a release of the billiard-marker from any
obligation to pay the five dollars. And he would bequeath him his best
cuff-buttons to show that he had died with no hard feelings against
him. The thought of the meager attendance and of the general gloom
of the affair gave him the keenest satisfaction. No one would care
particularly.

Jerry’s malady was one of the oldest that afflicts the human race.
Jerry was in love; he was in love with Nan, though he would have
stormed indignantly at any hint of this bewildering circumstance, this
blighting, crushing fact. His first realization that this was the cause
of his trouble fell upon him as he sat one evening in the hotel at
Madison listlessly talking to a dry-goods drummer. Jerry was taking
a run over Copeland-Farley territory to “jolly” the trade, carrying
no samples and soliciting no orders, but presenting himself as the
personal representative of the house, bent upon strengthening social
ties only, and only casually glancing over the shelves to see how much
Copeland-Farley’s competitors were selling. The dry-goods man, noting
Jerry’s unwonted gloom, frankly attributed it to a love affair; and to
find that his condition was perceptible even to the eye of a dry-goods
drummer, for whose powers of discernment he had only the mildest
respect, added considerably to Jerry’s melancholy.

Nan was not for him; he knew this; there had never been any doubt in
his mind that Eaton and Nan would marry ultimately. Any speculations as
to his own part in Nan’s life, beyond the boy-and-girl comradeship he
had been enjoying, were vain and foolish; they were even disloyal to
Eaton; they were an insult to Nan. Nan had intimated several times that
Eaton was in love with Mrs. Copeland, but now that the black clouds had
risen on his own horizon, Jerry knew the absurdity of this. Eaton had
appeared unusually absent-minded of late, and this marked his friend
as a man in the toils of love. Jerry knew the symptoms! Except for a
passing attachment for a stenographer in a hardware house, who had
jilted him for a red-haired bookkeeper, Jerry had never been in love.
He had grieved over the hardware girl’s perfidy for two, perhaps three,
days. But this was the real thing and a very different matter; he meant
to win the martyr’s wreath by going to his death so heroically that no
one would ever know how he had suffered.

Returning to town Saturday evening he checked his grip at a hotel
and went to the theater, not for pleasure, but to lose himself among
strangers and enjoy his misery. As he moodily surveyed the assembling
audience a cold hand gripped his heart. Eaton, followed by Mrs.
Copeland, Nan, and a lady he did not know, filed down to the second row
where Eaton always sat.

Since Farley’s death Nan had attended no entertainments of any kind;
she had refused to accompany Jerry to a concert only a fortnight
earlier. Her presence at the theater with Eaton confirmed his worst
suspicions. Their engagement would doubtless be announced in a day
or two; he must steel himself against this and prepare to offer his
congratulations. The comedy presented was one of the hits of the
season, but its best lines and most amusing situations failed to evoke
a smile from Jerry, who clutched his programme and stared at the back
of Nan’s head. Nan was enjoying herself; from his seat on the back row
he was satisfied of that, and he assured himself that he was glad of
her happiness. At the end of the second act, he left and went to his
room to spend a wretched night.

Jerry found on his desk Monday morning a note from Eaton, written
several days earlier, asking him to join his theater party and go to
the club later for supper. His sister had come down from Cleveland to
make him a visit, Eaton explained, and he wanted Jerry to meet her. For
an instant the world was the pleasant, cheerful place it had been in
the old days before love darkened his life. Eaton was still his friend;
but only for a moment was the veil lifted. The clouds settled upon
him again, as he grasped the motive behind Eaton’s friendly note--as
though at any time in their intercourse there had been the ghost of a
motive back of anything John Cecil Eaton had ever done for him except
a perfectly transparent, generous wish to be kind to him! But the
coming of the sister (who had never, so far as Jerry knew, visited
Eaton before) could only mean that Eaton wished to introduce Nan to her
as a prospective member of the family. And, proud of his logic, Jerry
reasoned that he was to have been given an opportunity to offer his own
congratulations.

For a week Jerry kept away from the market-house; Nan knew he had
been out of town, and, failing to see him, would assume that he was
still away. He could not face her; it would be a merciful thing if
he never saw her again. Eaton he would avoid; his friend must never
know of his hopeless passion. Nan and Eaton must begin their married
life wholly ignorant that he had ever looked upon Nan as anything more
than a good friend. Phrases out of novels he had read assisted him in
the definition of his attitude toward her and Eaton. “Unworthy of the
woman he loved,” and “climbed slowly, painfully, to the sublime heights
of a great renunciation.” He _was_ unworthy; he had known that all
along; and he would give her up to his best friend with a beautiful
magnanimity. The fiction with which he was familiar had not lacked in
noble examples of just such splendid sacrifice. If death failed to
end his misery, he would live on, sadly, but manfully, and on every
anniversary of their meeting on the river bank, he would send her a
rose--a single beautiful rose--always exactly the same, and it would
puzzle her greatly and make her wonder; but she would never guess that
it was from one who had loved her in the long ago.

He had made no sign to Eaton, not even to acknowledge the theater
invitation; and when one day he ran into the lawyer in the bank lobby
he was about to pass him hurriedly when the familiar “Ah, Jerry!”
arrested him. He swallowed hard; it was not easy to meet his friend
with the air of sweet resignation and submission to inexorable fate
that he had been cultivating.

“An overdraft?” Eaton suggested in his usual tone. “Nothing else could
account for your woeful countenance! I didn’t know you were in town.
Just in, I suppose, from a flight into the remoter recesses of the
Commonwealth.”

“Well, I’ve been back a few days,” Jerry confessed reluctantly; “but
I’ve been too busy to come around. I meant to call you up about that
invitation; I didn’t get it until after the show.”

“We missed you; I had wanted you to meet my sister. In fact, I’d rather
prepared her for the meeting--led up to it, warned her of your native
flavor. She’s still with me. You’re working yourself to death; it’s in
your eye. Can’t you come up Tuesday night and dine with us? I’ll see
if we can’t get Mrs. Copeland and Nan to come in. They’ve been seeing
something of Florence. You’ve seen Nan--”

“No; I haven’t seen her,” Jerry replied, a little resentfully, as
though Eaton ought to know why Nan had become invisible so far as
Jeremiah Amidon was concerned.

“She’s another victim of overwork,” Eaton remarked carelessly, but
behind his glasses there was a gleam of humor. “Not quarreling, I
hope? I confess that at times Nan is a trifle provoking, but she means
nothing by it. You must give the benefit of all doubts to a girl who is
just emerging from a severe ordeal--settling herself into a new manner
of life. It’s wonderful; really amazing how she’s coming on. We shall
be dining at seven. Please don’t make it necessary for me to explain a
second scorning of my hospitality to my sister. She’d begin to think
you a myth, like Jupiter and the rest of the immortals.”

“Thanks; I’ll be there,” Jerry answered solemnly. Then he watched
Eaton’s retreating figure shame-facedly. He was acting abominably
toward Eaton.

The Pembrokes had gone to Florida for the spring months, and Eaton
had taken their house that he might indulge in a round of dinners and
a ball that proved to be the season’s smartest event. These social
activities Jerry had taken as another sign of Eaton’s approaching
marriage. And Jerry had resented, as an attack upon his personal
rights, Eaton’s transfer from the rooms where he had always been so
accessible, to the big house where visitors were received by the
Pembrokes’ butler--a formidable person who, he fancied, regarded him
with a hostile eye.

Jerry presented himself at the hour appointed, wearing the crown of
his martyrdom, which, if he had known it, was highly unbecoming. As he
had walked around the block twice to prepare himself for the ordeal,
he was late, and stood uncomfortably in the drawing-room door, quite
unnoticed, while the sister (whose back he distrusted) finished a
story she had been telling. But spying him, Eaton rose and greeted him
cordially.

“Florence, Mr. Amidon; my sister, Mrs. Torrington, Jerry.”

Mrs. Torrington, a tall, dark woman in her early thirties, graciously
assured him that she had delayed her departure from town until he could
be produced for her edification.

“I guess you wouldn’t ’a’ missed much,” said Jerry, hating himself
at once for that unnecessary a, from which he had honestly believed
himself permanently emancipated. He shook hands with Mrs. Copeland and
then with Nan--without looking at her. The butler announced dinner, and
he found himself moving toward the dining-room beside Mrs. Torrington.
In her ignorance of the darkness in which he had immersed himself,
she treated him quite as though they were in the habit of meeting
at dinners. It was to his credit that he saw at once that she was
a superior person, though he did not know until later that, as the
wife of a distinguished engineer, she was known in many capitals as a
brilliant conversationalist, with a reputation for meeting difficult
situations. On the way down the hall she spoke of Russia--she had
been telling a Russian story at the moment of his appearance--and her
manner expressed a flattering assumption that he, of course, was quite
familiar with the social life of the Russian capital.

It was the most informal of dinners; Jerry found himself placed between
Mrs. Torrington and Mrs. Copeland, which left Nan at Eaton’s right.
This arrangement had not been premeditated, but he saw only the darkest
significance in Nan’s juxtaposition to Eaton. She seemed unwontedly
subdued, and averted her eyes when their gaze met.

“This is the nicest party you’ve had for me, Cecil,” Mrs. Torrington
was saying,--“cozy and comfortable so everybody can talk.”

Jerry hoped they would talk! (He was watching Mrs. Torrington guardedly
to see which fork she chose for her caviar.) Eaton was unusually grave;
Mrs. Copeland seemed preoccupied; Jerry’s heart ached at the near
presence of Nan. But at a hint from Fanny, Mrs. Torrington returned
to her experiences abroad, and soon had them all interested and
amused. Jerry quickly fell victim to her charm; he had never before
met a woman of her distinction and poise. Even her way of speaking
was different from anything he had been accustomed to--crisp, fluent,
musical. Her good humor was infectious and she quickly won them all
to self-forgetfulness. Mrs. Copeland described an encounter she had
witnessed between a Russian and a Frenchman in a Roman _pension_ where
she had once spent a winter--an incident that culminated in a hasty
exchange of wine-glasses across the table.

“Ah, Jerry,” remarked Eaton casually; “that leads us naturally to your
pleasing adventures down the road. Florence, if you urge Mr. Amidon he
will tell you of most amazing experiences he has had right here at home
in the pursuit of food.”

Mrs. Torrington’s fine eyes emphasized her appeal. They would all tell
of the worst food they had ever eaten, she said; she had spent years
collecting information.

“You may lapse into the vernacular, Jerry,” Eaton added encouragingly;
“we will all understand that you are falling into it merely in a spirit
of realism.”

“This is tough,” said Jerry, turning to Mrs. Torrington. “Your brother
has told me a hundred times to cut out those stories.”

“That was only after he had heard them all! And he has been boasting
that he could persuade you to tell them to me. Please! I want to add
them to my collection.”

“Well, you understand this isn’t my fault--” he began....

They were still demanding more stories after the dessert plates had
been removed. He had so far yielded to their friendliness that he
appealed occasionally to Nan, and finally asked her to tell one of
Farley’s stories about the river, which he said he had forgotten. They
remained at table for their coffee to avoid disturbing the good cheer
that now prevailed.

“Mr. Amidon is up to my highest expectations,” Mrs. Torrington remarked
when they rose. “I’ll stay another week if you’ll give just this same
party again!”

“We’ve missed you at the farm,” said Mrs. Copeland, as Jerry seated
himself beside her in the library. “And I was just beginning to feel
that we were acquainted! But, of course, you’ve been away. I heard that
from Mr. Copeland.”

As she mentioned Copeland, she smiled gravely.

“Well, I have been away, and we’re busier than usual just now,” he
replied, realizing that something had happened in her relations with
Copeland to make possible this careless reference to him. “I guess Mr.
Copeland is working harder than any of us,” he added warmly.

“Oh, we’re all happier when we’re busy,” she said lightly.

“Not smoking, Jerry?” asked Eaton, proffering cigars.

“I’ve quit,” Jerry replied, remembering that he had given up smoking in
his general abandonment of the joys of life.

Mrs. Copeland left him, making it necessary for him to join Nan, who
had moved a little away from the circle they had formed before the
fireplace.

“It’s too bad you don’t tell your friends about your troubles,” she
remarked after a moment’s silence. “So many things have happened that
you ought to be very cheerful.”

“I haven’t been feeling very well,” he answered doggedly.

“You do look utterly fagged out,” she retorted. “But if I were you I
wouldn’t cut all my friends.”

“I haven’t cut anybody,” he replied. “I guess I know when to drop
out. I want everybody to be happy,” he said plaintively, feeling his
martyr’s crown pinching his brow.

“That’s very sweet of you, Jerry. The policeman at the market asked
Saturday what had become of you. Your absence seems to have occasioned
remark, though I hadn’t noticed it myself.”

“I didn’t suppose you would,” he said, with an effort at bitterness
that was so tame that she laughed.

“Of course, if you’ve lost interest, it’s all right. I never meant
to bore you. And I’m not complaining. But you haven’t been kind to
Mr. Eaton. I suppose it never occurred to you that he’s taken a good
deal of pains to be nice to you. And just now, just now,”--she added,
lowering her voice,--“we should all be as good to him as we can.”

He frowned at this. If she and Eaton were in love with each other, he
saw no good reason why he should be sorry for either of them.

“If I had a chance I could tell you some things,” Nan continued, “but I
suppose it’s just as well to let you read about them in the papers.”

His spirits sank; he had been scanning the society columns daily
expecting to see the announcement of her engagement.

“When I’m an old, old woman and living all alone with my chickens
somewhere, I suppose you may come to see me again and tell me about
your troubles.”

“I won’t,” he replied with a smile he meant to be grim, “because I’ll
be dead.”

She regarded him with knit brows, puzzled, slightly disdainful.

“Just when things were a little hard for me, and I have been much
troubled because one of the kindest friends either of us ever had or
could have--”

She shrugged her shoulders impatiently, and rebuke and indignation were
mingled in the glance she bent upon him.

“I guess we’re not talking about the same thing,” he said huskily. “You
know I mean to do the square thing, Nan.”

He was so pathetic that she changed her tone, sorry that she had been
so hard on him.

“I think you do--usually, Jerry.”

“And I’ll be out to-morrow night if you’re going to be at home,” he
suggested timidly, her reproach still upon him.

“Well, if you’re not too tired, or ill, or anything, and can’t think of
anything else to do, come along,” she said.

Mrs. Copeland called to Nan that it was time to go. They had come in on
the interurban, but Eaton announced his intention of taking them home
in the Pembroke car.

“There’s no use of my living in all this borrowed splendor unless I use
it. Jerry, please keep the fire burning till I get back.”

Nan’s smile as she gave him her hand conveyed an apology for her
harshness and sent his spirits soaring.

“I hope,” remarked Mrs. Torrington, as they heard the car leave the
door, “that you know how fond my brother is of you. You’ve been a great
resource to him; he’s mentioned you often in his letters. You know
Cecil and I are very close, unusually so; and it breaks my heart to see
him--” She waved her hand with a gesture that expressed the futility of
explanations.

She was taking him for granted as her brother’s friend, not a mere
beneficiary of his big-heartedness. He was aware of something spacious
in her nature; she would brush little things away with a sweep of her
eloquent hands. A wonderful woman was John Cecil’s sister. She was
addressing him as though he were a gentleman, a man of her own world,
instead of the miserable ingrate he knew himself to be.

“She’s lovely, quite adorable,” Mrs. Torrington continued, as though
speaking of matters they had often discussed before. “I’ll say quite
frankly that I’d been afraid to meet her after what he had written.”

Jerry sat silent, wondering. Nan had left him mystified. He did not
know what Eaton’s sister was talking about unless it was his love for
Nan.

“I shall be leaving in a few days; my husband’s business calls him
to China. I want you to keep an eye on Cecil; don’t let him be alone
too much,” she went on. “A man with a sorrow like that in his heart
oughtn’t to be alone. I came here on purpose to see just how the land
lay; I suppose you understand that.”

He muttered incoherently, touched by her assumption of his sympathy,
her direct, intimate appeal.

“I felt that I could speak to you quite frankly,” Mrs. Torrington
continued. “No one else seemed quite so accessible, no one really quite
so close to him.”

“Of course, he has a lot of friends,” said Jerry humbly, and anxious
to respond to the demand this fascinating woman was making upon his
generosity.

“She’s going back to her husband; of course you know that.”

There was a degree of indignation in her tone, as though the person of
whom she spoke was doing an unpardonable thing.

Jerry felt himself shrinking; his hands clutched the arms of his chair
as it dawned upon him that it was Mrs. Copeland--not Nan--of whom
Eaton’s sister was speaking. He was struck with fear lest she should
read his thoughts as he realized how dull, how utterly selfish and
contemptible, had been his apprehensions.

“I suppose,” said Mrs. Torrington, “that a man as fine as Cecil is
doomed to just this kind of calamity.”

“I thought maybe it would be Nan,” he faltered. “I know he likes Nan,
and he’s done a lot for her.”

Mrs. Torrington had been staring musingly into the fire. She turned
toward him absently, and then, catching his meaning, her eyes widened
with surprise.

“Nan,” she repeated slowly; and then, in her usual brisk tone, “A man
like Cecil can’t be passed on from one affair to another so easily.
And, besides,”--she smiled her charming, irresistible smile,--“that
child is in love with you, you silly boy! It’s in her eyes! That’s the
one hopeful thing about the situation--that together you two will take
good care of him!”




CHAPTER XXVII

“JUST HELPING; JUST BEING KIND!”


Nan crossed a pasture, whistling. The Holsteins, nibbling the young
grass, lifted their heads and bent their slow, meditative gaze upon
her. She paused to pat one of them on the nose. Nan was growing wise
in dairy lore and knew at sight the heaviest producers of the herd.
She resumed her whistling and went on toward the house, with a pair of
robins hopping before her. June had come and summer sounds and scents
filled the air.

As she neared the bungalow a motor swept into the driveway and
discharged Eaton and Thurston.

“A child of the pastures! The daughter of Cincinnatus tripping in from
the fields!” observed Eaton, as he shook hands.

“Just been tinkering an incubator, if you want the facts--counting
chickens before they’re hatched,” laughed Nan, brushing a straw from
her skirt.

“We have a small business matter to discuss with you, Nan. We’ll fall
upon it at once if you’re agreeable.”

“Business!” Nan mocked. “I hoped you’d come to look at the dairy.”

This was a very different Nan, Eaton reflected, from the Nan of a year
ago. Exposure to wind and sun had already given her a becoming tan. Her
old listlessness, the defiant air she had sometimes worn, had vanished;
she had become alert, self-reliant, resolute. Within the bounds of her
self-respect she meant that the world should like her. A democratic
young person--this new Nan, on good terms with truck farmers, humble
drivers of grocers’ wagons, motormen, and market-house policemen. In
her short skirt and plain blue blouse, she looked less than her years
to-day.

“We can sit on the veranda if you gentlemen are not afraid of the
country air.”

“I wouldn’t dare go in after that,” remarked Thurston dryly; “Eaton
already refers to me as his learned senior.”

“Mr. Eaton is the youngest and the oldest man in the world!” Nan
declared.

“Well, Miss Farley,” Thurston began, as they gathered about a wicker
table and he drew a formidable bundle of papers from a leathern pouch,
“as we telephoned you yesterday, the opposition of Mr. Farley’s
relatives has been disposed of and your adoption was upheld by the
court. To prevent an appeal, and get rid of them for good, we’ve agreed
on your behalf to pay the two cousins ten thousand dollars apiece. Mr.
Eaton would have preferred to fight it clear through, but I prevailed
on him not to make Brother Harlowe work too hard. You may not know it,
but Eaton is a remarkably belligerent person. There’s no compromise in
him. He’d fight to the last ditch.”

He looked from Eaton to Nan over his glasses with a twinkle in his eyes.

“I never saw a fellow I wanted to smash as badly as I do Harlowe,”
Eaton remarked. “He’s the smoothest rascal I’ve ever known.”

“I don’t see that you’ve been very generous,” said Nan. “How much will
he get as a fee?”

“About nine tenths of the twenty thousand,” replied Thurston grimly.

“Rather less than that,” said Eaton, with one of his elusive smiles. “I
started the secretary of the White River Trust Company down to see the
esteemed cousins before we signed the agreement; told him to persuade
them to confide their ill-gotten gains to the company and advised them
to cut off Harlowe with a niggardly ten per cent for his services. I
was afraid to tell you that, Thurston. I knew you would scold me.”

“Eaton, for combined ingenuity and malevolence, you haven’t an equal!”
declared Thurston, chuckling.

“I don’t believe it,” cried Nan, glad that the interview was
progressing so cheerfully.

“Now, Miss Farley,” Thurston resumed, “if there’s anything a lawyer
doesn’t like, it’s an ungrateful client. Mr. Eaton and I have a
sneaking feeling that we’ve done pretty well with this case. The
credit is chiefly his--and I take off my hat to him. We’ve come here
in the hope that we shan’t have to argue with you, but just tell you.
Your scruples against accepting any share in Mr. Farley’s estate,
expressed after his death, did you credit--in a way. But now it’s all
yours; there’s no escape. A considerable amount of income has already
accumulated, and we can arrange payments necessary for your support
to begin at once, though the estate can’t be closed till the year of
administration is up. So far as your ability to earn your own living is
concerned, you have demonstrated that. You have shown a plucky spirit,
and I admire it. I will go further, and say that the community has
supported you strongly, and that your attitude has made many friends
for you. But now--now, we must have no more of this nonsense!”

He waved his hand to indicate the fields, and glanced meaningfully at
Nan’s heavy walking-shoes, which were disgracefully muddy.

“But that was settled--once and for all!” Nan replied firmly. “You
mustn’t think me ungrateful for what you’ve done; but I thought that
all out before I came here, and I haven’t had a single regret. If it
isn’t impolite, I’ll say that all I want is to be let alone!”

“Thurston and I are not sentimentalists,” said Eaton. “We’ve given you
free rein to indulge your whims; but now we’ve come to a point where
we’ve got to take a hand.”

“But you can’t make me, if I won’t!” laughed Nan. “Just think how
humiliating it would be to back down now after I said I wouldn’t! Worse
than that, think of the effect on these girls we have at work here;
they’d lose their respect for me if they found I wasn’t really as poor
as they are! And there are other reasons, too,” she went on soberly. “I
don’t like to go over this again, but I never deserved anything of the
Farleys. I’ve got my conscience to live with, and I could never get on
with it if I allowed myself to take money which papa knew it was best
for me not to have. I’m serious about this. He knew me better than I
knew myself. You understand what I mean--”

“I don’t understand it in the way you mean, Nan,” Eaton answered; “but
let’s not argue it. Let’s be practical. Has it occurred to you that
something has to be done with this property? The lawful heir can’t just
walk off and leave an estate like this. It will be confiscated by the
State--thrown into the treasury and spent by a lot of politicians if
you refuse it. Take the money and buy a lot of farms with it or spend
it on working girls as much as you like--but please don’t talk any more
about refusing it.”

Eaton had spoken lightly, but she saw that he was very much in earnest.
The contingency he suggested had not, in fact, occurred to her. She had
assumed from the beginning that the adoption would be nullified and
that Farley’s money would be divided among the obscure and shadowy
cousins; and this abrupt termination of the case brought her face to
face with an unforeseen situation. Thurston was quick to take advantage
of her silence.

“You have to consider, Miss Farley, what your foster-father’s feelings
would be. He was a just man, and all the wills he considered from
time to time prove that he never had the slightest intention of
disinheriting you. Even in the last will creating the trusteeship,
he made you his sole heir; it was really the most generous of all!
Oh, yes,” he exclaimed hastily, as Nan colored deeply, “there was, I
suppose, a certain bitterness behind that. I want to say to you again
that I did my best to dissuade him from that step. I was confident
he would change his mind about it, as he had about so many other
things in his varying moods and tempers; and that he would realize
its unkindness. We have no right to assume that when he hid that will
behind his wife’s picture, he had any intention of executing it. It’s
an open question and it’s only fair to give him the benefit of the
doubt.”

“That’s true enough,” Nan assented; “but when I read that will and
found how bitter he had been, I knew I had done the right thing in
refusing to take anything!”

“I don’t agree with you,” Thurston continued patiently. “You must
be just; you must remember that that was the act of a man near his
death--nearer than any of us imagined. He didn’t have a chance to
change his mind again. It’s unjust to his memory to leave him in the
wrong utterly, as you will if you persist. There has already been a
great deal of talk about this attack on the adoption--people have been
blaming him for not guarding against the possibility of any such thing.
You see public sentiment is behind you! And in spite of anything you
may say, your act would have the appearance of pique; it would be like
slapping a dead man in the face!”

“Mr. Thurston is right, Nan,” said Eaton. “There is not only Mr.
Farley’s memory as a kind and just man to protect, but you must guard
yourself against even the appearance of resentment. The only thing you
have to consider is Mr. Farley’s conscientious desire to provide for
you, which was manifest at all times. As Mr. Thurston says, that last
will gave you absolutely everything, cutting out all the bequests he
had made at other times to benevolence and charity. My dear Nan, your
scruples are absurd! You haven’t any case at all! The idea of letting
the property Timothy Farley spent a laborious lifetime accumulating go
to the State is horrible. I can readily imagine what his feelings would
be! Why, my dear Nan, rather than let that happen, Thurston and I will
steal the whole thing ourselves!”

She received this with a grudging smile. What they said about the
injustice to Farley of a refusal impressed her, but her resolution was
still unshaken. And there was a stubborn strain in her of which she had
only lately been aware.

She reached for a pencil, and Eaton pushed a pad of paper toward
her. She began jotting down Farley’s various bequests to charity, as
provided in the series of wills, pausing now and then to refer to
Thurston for items she only imperfectly remembered.

The total was three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. She tapped the
paper reflectively.

“Of course,” remarked Thurston anxiously, as he saw what was in her
mind, “you are not bound by any of the legacies in those unsigned
wills. Not one of the wills contained all those bequests, so your total
doesn’t represent what he meant to dispose of in that way. And his last
will is evidence that he had wholly changed his mind about them.”

“We are bound to accept that last will as convincing proof of his very
great confidence in Miss Farley,” said Eaton quickly, “rather than as
an expression of distrust.”

“We all know perfectly well what he meant by that,” Nan replied. “But I
don’t want you to think I have any feeling about it.”

They nodded gravely as she glanced at them appealingly.

“I can see,” she went on hurriedly, “that my refusal to accept anything
at all might look like resentment; that it would be in a way unjust to
him.” She turned for a glance over the fields, as though seeking their
counsel. “Papa really wanted to help people who hadn’t a chance; he was
only hard on the idle and shiftless. If he hadn’t been big-hearted and
generous, he never would have taken me up as he did. And mamma was like
him. I feel strongly that even if he did change his mind sometimes, his
wish to help these things--the Boys’ Club, the Home for Aged Women, and
all the rest--should be respected.”

“That can’t be done unless you take the whole,” said Eaton quickly.
“But you needn’t decide about it now.”

“Yes; you should wait a few years at least!” added Thurston, crossing
his legs nervously.

“And since I’ve been out here and have learned about the girls Mrs.
Copeland is training to take care of themselves, I’ve thought of some
other things that might be done,” said Nan, ignoring their manifest
unwillingness to acquiesce in the recognition of Farley’s vacillating
benefactions. “There ought to be, in a town like this, a home and
training school for girls who start the wrong way, or make mistakes. We
haven’t anything that quite fills that need, and there are a good many
such girls. A hundred thousand dollars would provide such a place, and
it ought to have another hundred thousand for endowment. Mrs. Copeland
and I have talked of the need for such a school. It would be fine to
start something like that! And you know,” she added, “I might have
been just such a girl myself!”

Thurston turned to Eaton helplessly.

“It’s as plain as daylight,” Eaton remarked, amused by the despair in
his associate’s face, “that you will soon pauperize yourself at this
rate. It’s only fair to tell you that the estate shrank on a rigid
appraisement of Mr. Farley’s property. The million the newspapers
mentioned has dwindled to about eight hundred thousand. If you give
away all that’s mentioned in those wills and start this girls’ home,
you won’t be able to keep more than three automobiles for yourself.”

“Oh, the proof of the pudding is in the eating--and I know it’s good!”
Nan laughed. “I stuffed myself so long without thinking about my hungry
neighbors that it won’t hurt me to pass the plate down the table!”

“Well, the main thing,” said Thurston, “is to get your assurance that
you’ll accept the estate under your rights as Mr. Farley’s adopted
daughter. I suppose we can’t prevent your giving it away without having
you declared insane!”

“I dare you to try it!” Then, more serious than at any time during the
interview, she said: “You’ll have to let me reason it out my own way.
It was only a piece of luck that I wasn’t thrown into an orphan asylum
or left to die on the river bank when the Farleys gave me a home. I
shall never forget that--never _again_,” she added with deep feeling.
“The least I can do is to pass my good luck on. I’ve thought all that
out, so please don’t make me talk of it any more!”

Then, as the men rose to leave, Fanny appeared, and urged them to
remain to dinner. Thurston pleaded an engagement in town; Eaton said he
would stay.

“You’ve broken that man’s heart, Nan,” Eaton remarked, as Thurston
rolled away in his machine.

“What did you do to him, Nancy?” asked Fanny.

“She scared him to death! He’s convinced that she’s headed for an
insane asylum--that’s all,” chuckled Eaton. “Mere altruism doesn’t
interest Thurston; he thinks it just a sign of weak character--worse
than a weak chin.”

“I’ve always thought,” said Fanny, as her arm stole around Nan, “that
Nancy has a very nice chin.”

“I might go further,” Eaton remarked daringly, “and say that the face
in its entirety is pleasant and inspiring to look at!”

“Stop teasing me!” cried Nan, “or I’ll run out to the barn and cry.”

They were still talking in this strain when Copeland’s machine appeared
in the driveway.

“I didn’t tell you that we’re having a party to-night,” said Fanny.
“Unless I’m mistaken, Mr. Amidon is driving that machine.”

She walked to the veranda rail and looked expectantly toward the
approaching car. Though Billy had lately paid a visit to the farm, Nan
had not met him. Fanny, with her usual frankness, had warned Nan of the
expected visit, and Nan had carefully kept out of the way. She had not
seen Billy since the night he proposed the destruction of Farley’s will.

Copeland jumped from the machine and ran up the steps, while Jerry
disposed of the car. He shook hands with Fanny, and then turned toward
Nan inquiringly.

She was already walking toward him.

“I’m glad to see you, Billy.”

“I’m glad to see you, Nan,” he said, and added in a slightly lower
tone, “I’m glad to see you _here_.”

“And I’m glad to see you--here!”

Both knew what was in the other’s thoughts. Copeland bowed slightly,
and crossed to Eaton, who was gazing fixedly at the gathering glories
of the sunset.

Jerry, in a gray suit, and the very tallest collar he could buy, now
added himself to the group. He bent over Mrs. Copeland’s hand with his
best imitation of Eaton’s manner, and then, as he raised his head,
looked around furtively to see whether his mentor was watching him.

The laughter that greeted this had the effect of putting them all at
ease.

“I knew Jerry could do it,” said Nan, “but I didn’t suppose he would
dare try it in his Cecil’s presence.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” remarked Eaton, feigning
indignation at their treatment of his protégé. “If you’re not satisfied
with Jeremiah’s manners, we’ll both go home.”

Nan ran away to change her clothes and reappeared just as dinner was
announced.

“Please sit wherever you happen to be,” said Fanny, as they reached the
dining-room; and then, as they sat down, she bit her lip and colored,
finding that it fell to Copeland’s lot to sit opposite her. Eaton,
noticing her embarrassment, immediately charged Copeland Farms with
responsibility for the high cost of living.

“You must watch Nan carefully, Mrs. Copeland. She’s grinding the face
of the poor. I heard Mrs. Harrington complaining bitterly last night
about the price she has to pay for such trifling necessities as eggs
and butter. You’re going to bring a French Revolution on this country
if you’re not careful. And there will be eggs thrown that don’t bear
the Copeland Farm’s stamp.”

“I refuse to have this suit spoiled with any other kind,” Jerry
protested. “Speaking of eggs--”

“No, you don’t!” Nan interrupted. “You can’t tell any of your
country-hotel egg stories here. I refuse to hear them.”

“All right, then; we’ll drop the eggs. I was shaking hands with old
friends on the lower Wabash last week and struck three slabs of
cocoanut pie in three days. I’m going to make a map of the pie habits
of the Hoosiers and send it out as a Copeland-Farley advertisement.
I’ve been all over the State lately, and I’ve never found cocoanut pie
north of Logansport, and you never find it east of Seymour going south.
Down along the Ohio you can stand on hotel porches in the peach season
and see thousands of acres of peaches spoiling on the trees, and you go
inside and find dried-peach pie on the programme. And you have to eat
it or take sliced bananas or hard chunks of canned pineapple. No wonder
traveling men go wrong! I wonder at times at my own pure life!”

It was evident that they liked Jerry. They encouraged him to talk, and
he passed lightly from Praxiteles, whom he had just discovered in a
magazine article, to the sinfulness of the cut-price drug store, which
he pronounced the greatest of commercial iniquities.

After coffee on the veranda, Eaton quietly disappeared. Then Jerry and
Nan went off for a stroll, leaving Copeland and Fanny together.

“I guess that’s coming out all right,” remarked Jerry, indicating the
veranda with a wave of his straw hat. “But it’s tough on Cecil. I’ve
been wondering whether _she_ knows how it’s going to hit him.”

“Oh, I hope not! But that’s something we’ll never know.”

“Of course, Cecil needn’t have done all the things he did to bring them
together again. He might have let the boss go by the board. It wasn’t
just money that saved the boss! it was John Cecil’s strong right arm!”

“And yours, too, Jerry! Oh, yes; I know more about it than you think I
do. You helped--you did a lot to save him.”

“Well, if I did,” he admitted grudgingly, “that was Cecil, too. I’d
been busy rustling for myself--never caring a hang for the other
fellow--till Cecil got hold of me. I’ve wondered a good deal how he did
it--a scrub like me!”

“Don’t be foolish, Jerry; it had to be in you first. But he does make
people want to be different. He’s certainly affected me that way.”

“Oh, you!” he exclaimed disdainfully.

“Well, don’t you ever think I’m proud of myself, Jeremiah Amidon!” She
paused abruptly at the edge of a brook that tinkled musically on its
way to the river. “I’m only just beginning to try to be self-respecting
and decent and useful; I think it’s going to be a lot of fun if I ever
get started.”

“Well, I hope to see you on the cars sometimes. I’ve got the same
ticket, but I’m not sure it’s good on the limited. I’m likely to be
chucked at the first tank.”

They jumped the brook and followed a cow path across a broad pasture,
talking of old times on the Ohio, and of Farley, of whom Jerry always
spoke in highest reverence, and then of his own prospects.

Both were subdued by the influences of the night. The stars hung near;
it seemed to Jerry that they had stolen closer to earth to enfold Nan
in their soft radiance. A new idea had possessed him of late. His heart
throbbed with it to-night.

“In a place like this,” he began slowly, “you think a lot of things
that wouldn’t strike you anywhere else.”

“It’s just the dear country lonesomeness. I come out here often in the
evenings; used to in the winter, when the snow was deepest. I love all
this--” She stretched out her arms with a quick gesture comprehensive
of the star-hung fields.

Jerry’s dejection increased. The more he saw of Nan the less he seemed
to count in her affairs. A Nan who tramped snowy fields and took
counsel of the heavens was beyond his reach--immeasurably beyond.

“I don’t take hold of things the way you do, Nan. Being out here just
makes me lonesome, that’s all. I’ve got to be where I can see electric
signs spelling words on tall buildings. Just hearing that trolley
tooting away over there helps some; must be because it’s going toward
the lights.”

“If you feel so terribly, maybe we’d better go back!” she said
tauntingly and took a step downward.

“Don’t do that again! If you leave me here in the dark I’ll be scared
to death.”

“That _would_ be a blow to the human race,” she mocked.

“Well, I’ve had blows enough!”

“You hide the scars well--I can say that!” she flung back.

“Listen, Nan--”

“I thought John Cecil had broken you of the ‘listen’ habit.”

“Forget it! You know perfectly well what I want to tell you!”

“Then, why do we linger? We really must go!”

“My business is selling goods and it’s a rule of the game never to let
a customer turn his back on you.”

“All right; you go first!”

“Nan”--he drew nearer and planted himself in her path--“you can’t
go--not till I’ve promised to marry you!”

This reversal of the established formula evoked a gay laugh; but she
did not attempt to pass him.

“I never meant to ask you; I was afraid you’d marry me for my money and
I want to be loved for myself alone! And don’t think I’d be mentioning
it now if I wasn’t so lonesome I could cry! If you’re going to take
that money, it’s all off, anyhow. I can’t afford to have anybody
questioning my motives. As far as loving you’s concerned, I started
full time that first day we met on the river bank, when you pulled my
fly out of the tree. I might just as well have told you then--and I
wish I had!”

“Well, you needn’t scold me about it now!”

“I’m not scolding. I’m just telling you what you missed!”

“Why don’t you give me another chance? I know I’m only a poor working
girl--”

“Nan, I wish you were that!” he cried earnestly. “But all that money’s
coming to you now. I wouldn’t have the nerve--”

“It would be the first time your nerve ever failed!” Then, fearing she
had wounded him, she added quickly, “Of course, I didn’t mean that.”

“Nan!”

“Well, don’t cry, little boy!”

“Nan!”

“Yes, Jerry.”

“I love you, Nan!” he said gently. “I wish you cared even a little bit.”

“It’s a good deal more than that, Jerry.”

He took her hands and kissed them. There was a great awe in his heart.

“Nan, this doesn’t seem right, you being you; and you know what I am!”

“I think I know what you are, Jerry,--you’re fine and loyal and good!”

“I’m going to try to be,” he said humbly.

“And you’ve helped me more than I could make you understand, from that
very first day we met, when I hated myself so! You brought back the
old days; everything that has happened since has made me think of you.
You were the only person around here who really knew all about me--just
what I came from, and all that. And it helped me to see how bravely you
were fighting your own way up. I had the chance forced on me that you
made for yourself. And I made a mess of everything! Oh, Jerry!”

She clung to him, crying. As he kissed away her tears, the touch of her
wet cheek thrilled him....

“We mustn’t be so happy we can’t remember other people,” she said as
they loitered hand in hand toward the house.

“I guess that’s the only way, Nan. That’s what Cecil’s always saying.
And I guess he’s about right about everything.”

Eaton passed them, unconscious of their nearness. He walked with head
erect, as one who has fought and won a good fight. A sense of all his
victory had cost him was in both their hearts. There was an infinite
pathos in his figure as he strode through the dusk, returning to the
woman he loved and to the man he had saved and given back to her.

“It’s tough on Cecil,” said Jerry chokingly. “It doesn’t seem quite
square, some way--I mean the Copelands hitting it off again.”

“Well, we may be sure he doesn’t feel that way,” Nan answered. “It’s
all come out the way he wanted it to. He brought them together.”

[Illustration: THE TOUCH OF HER WET CHEEK THRILLED HIM]

“It’s funny, Nan; but I’m never dead sure I catch Cecil’s drift--the
scheme or whatever it is he works by. I can’t find it in the books he
gives me to read.”

“It isn’t in books, Jerry; it’s in his heart--just helping; just being
kind!”


THE END




The Riverside Press

CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS

U . S . A




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