Part 6

Without much having been said on either side Professor Walsh had understood for some time from Mr. Sheldon that the family would not look unkindly on the prospect of some one eventually taking Nannie off their hands.

“My advice is that you do not contest the suit,” he said, when she had finished, “but I should try to get him to agree to something for your support if I were you, Anna. This could be done amicably and out of court. It is no more than right that he should do something for you financially.”

Nannie had not noticed that he called her by her given name and broke in with, “But, Professor Walsh----”

“Call me Edward, Anna,” he interrupted, taking her hand.

She tried to withdraw her hand but he retained it.

“We are such good friends,” he continued. “Aren’t we, Anna?”

“Yes,” she admitted uncomfortably.

“Well, it is agreed then. I should refuse to talk about it to others if I were you. And anything new that may come up you will let me know at once, won’t you, dear?”

“Yes--Edward,” answered Nannie, hesitating slightly, somewhat bewildered by the new aspect which her affairs had taken.

IX

After the scene in which he announced the beginning of his divorce proceedings Arthur never entered his house again. He had established a residence in the state capital but was still compelled, in the course of various suits and details of the legal practice he was disposing of, to make frequent visits to Russellville. On such occasions he slept in his office and ate his meals at the local hotel.

Nannie, who was always panic stricken when alone, less from fear than from lack of resources within herself, went, on her own initiative and despite a grudging welcome, to live with Mrs. Lockhart at “Cousin Minnie’s.”

The divorce was granted in due time and all Russellville was agog with the news. Nannie considered it a matter of propriety that she should stay in semi-retirement for a while, and so went out very little. However, when she did leave the sanctum which “Cousin Minnie” had provided, she always managed to see Professor Walsh, to whom she came to look for advice and help in every situation.

* * * * *

It was the same season, the second of Lucy’s attendance at the Art School, that Lucy and John Winter were married. On account of Nannie’s violent reproaches at the time of the divorce Lucy had not communicated with her mother for many months, but when she decided to marry John she immediately wrote to Nannie.

“John is only beginning business and we shall have to be very economical for a while at least,” the letter said. “Miss Storms has asked us to be married at her flat, but we shall have a very simple wedding. I would be glad to have you come here but I suppose you had rather not under the circumstances. We have rented some furnished rooms that will be convenient for light housekeeping but I hope soon we can get out in the suburbs where it will be cheaper and healthier.”

Although Professor Walsh had questioned Nannie closely regarding Lucy and the girl’s attitude toward family affairs, Nannie replied to her daughter’s letter without consulting him.

“I am only your mother,” Nannie wrote, “so of course it would be preposterous to consider _me_ in regard to the step you are taking. I have suffered a great deal at the hands of your father but I have not lost my pride and self respect yet, and if there was anything more you could do to further alienate me, this was it. You forfeited all right to my affection when you deserted me in my hour of trial in order to pursue your own selfish aims, but this marriage to a man I know nothing about, who may be a nobody from Heaven knows where, is the climax. I think from now on there is not much use in our writing to one another.”

Arthur was still engaged in an important case at the capital and could not be present at the wedding.

“I am sorry I can not be there,” his letter read. “All the advice I can give you, Lucy, is don’t let your mother intrude on your happiness.”

John sent an invitation to his parents, but Dr. Winter, a clergyman, was old and in ill health, and was not able to bear the double strain of the journey and the cold weather. Mrs. Winter, a kindly sentimental lady who would never have thought of leaving her husband, sent tearful regrets, and bemoaned the fact that John and Lucy did not come to the home town and so make it possible for Dr. Winter himself to officiate at the wedding of his only son.

In the end only Jim Sprague and Miss Storms witnessed the quiet affair. These two had liked each other since the day of their first meeting. Miss Storms’ interest in Jim had risen from the fact that he was John’s business associate and intimate. Later she gave him her friendship for his own sake and often referred to him affectionately as “our Jim.” There was an unanalysable and very subtle comprehension between the two, though Miss Storms remained quite as kindly aloof from him in her manner as she did with John and Lucy; and Jim, as in all his relations, was ungiven to self-revealing speech. “Well, Jim, Lucy has good taste in friends as well as in husbands,” Miss Storms remarked, smiling at him with quizzical complaisance when the wedding ceremony was over. “I hate all the immodest fol-de-lol of church weddings,” she went on, changing the subject, “but it is a shame that anything as pretty as Lucy in those new togs should be wasted on the desert air. For you and I don’t count.”

While she was speaking Lucy came up. Miss Storms took her hand.

“Well, dear?”

Lucy’s eyes swam with tears. She clasped Miss Storms’ hand in both her own and squeezed it impulsively. Miss Storms kissed her forehead.

“I’m jealous, child,” the older woman declared.

“So am I,” John laughed.

“Neither of you need be.” Lucy smiled unsteadily.

“What about you, Jim?” Miss Storms turned to the other guest.

“I’ve always been jealous of John,” Jim answered, flushing a little as he spoke.

* * * * *

Arthur and Mrs. Low, for reasons best known to themselves, were not married in Chicago as expected, but at the state capital where Arthur’s new practice had begun to flourish. When the notice of the wedding was copied by the _Russellville Weekly Clarion_, another outburst of gossip occurred, but, as neither of them returned to the place after their marriage, it did not disturb them. Arthur made two visits to Chicago, and on one of these, not long after Dimmie’s birth, he spent a night at Rosedene. Here he met Jim Sprague for whom he afterward expressed a strong liking.

Nannie had no means of escape from the public attention attracted to herself and her interests, and the wounds to her vanity were keenly felt. The protest of her self-esteem was her conspicuous appearance in frequented places with Professor Walsh. Again Russellville talked, but not for long. Nannie’s persistent recklessness of opinion in this matter palled. She ceased to be a popular object of criticism. Events settled into the routine that is characteristic of small communities. The years glided by without any outward change in Nannie’s life. Of Arthur’s doings, she knew nothing except an occasional hint. Mrs. Lockhart had issued an ultimatum on Lucy’s marriage by forbidding any further relation with such an undutiful daughter, and Nannie, overawed by the old lady and more or less dependent on her, dared not disobey.

Professor Walsh was often at the “big house” and, chiefly through his universally acknowledged friendship with the Sheldons, was yearly becoming more and more a power in the community. He paid much special and flattering attention to Mrs. Lockhart, who was rapidly growing deaf and would otherwise have been lonely.

Although the professor’s interest in Nannie was tacitly recognized by the family, Mrs. Lockhart employed all the ingenuity of a jealous and neglected old woman to curb impatience on the part of her niece and nephew, while Professor Walsh, who was already receiving for nothing the benefits that Nannie represented, constantly abetted the old lady’s wiles in so subtle a manner that Nannie hardly realized her own position.

After four years of this régime Mrs. Lockhart died, and Nannie was left in “Cousin Minnie’s” house with no one upon whom she could persuade herself she had the semblance of a claim. “Cousin Minnie” herself, on whom seemed to have descended Mrs. Lockhart’s mantle of decision, soon banished any doubts that Nannie may have had regarding her status in the “big house.”

“When are you going to marry Professor Walsh?” she asked Nannie abruptly one day not long after Mrs. Lockhart’s death.

“Why--I never said I was going to marry him,” responded Nannie with a demurely girlish giggle.

“Well, everybody has been expecting you to for the last three or four years, and if you don’t intend to you will please not give people further reason to gossip about you while you are in my house. The best people have dropped you for it and I don’t care to be included.”

“Why, Cousin Minnie----” began Nannie, tearful in an instant. “Where do you get so many good clothes?” “Cousin Minnie” interrupted.

“Why--why----” Nannie faltered. But “Cousin Minnie” did not remain to discuss the matter.

This, and a number of similar happenings, led Nannie to consider her position seriously, and she made a surreptitious pilgrimage to consult her oracle, Professor Walsh, regarding her future.

“We can not marry for another year, at least, Anna,” said he didactically. Nannie’s eyes opened wide at this.

“Of course, Edward,” she acquiesced dutifully.

“Could you not visit your daughter for a while?” he suggested. “As a rule it is not best to remain too long with one relative.”

Nannie swallowed hard, as the recollection of her letter on the occasion of Lucy’s marriage came over her.

“But, Edward, I’ve told you how matters are between Lucy and me. You know how Mother took her going away and marrying a stranger afterward.”

“Just a minute, Anna. Don’t become so excited. Remember what I have told you so often, that ‘stillness of form and steadiness of feature are signal marks of good breeding.’ I was just about to say that now your mother is dead, it is a good time to write your daughter and renew your old relations with her. She will be most useful to us, and besides, a mother and daughter should not be separated.”

“I’m sure I have no hard feelings toward Lucy,” admitted Nannie, somewhat uneasily.

“Quite so, quite so. A letter properly written would in all probability readjust matters satisfactorily to all. You might advert to the fact that your mother persisted in a hostile attitude and that you were dependent on her. Also you had best adopt a generous tone.”

“Very well, Edward,” agreed Nannie.

“Good. Now that is settled. You had better write at once, my dear. And you might let me see the letter before sending it.”

Nannie wrote that night.

The letter began vaguely. Mrs. Lockhart’s memory was invoked. Forgiveness was offered, though for what was not specified, a reconciliation was taken for granted, and a visit to Lucy proposed in terms that were difficult to ignore or refuse.

Nannie pathetically reminded Lucy that Arthur paid no alimony, and recounted indignantly the heartlessness of the Sheldons. The letter contained no mention of Professor Walsh. “I am thrown on the world,” concluded the epistle. “Your father has deserted me and my own relatives have threatened to put me in the street.”

In a few days came Lucy’s reply. It was an invitation to pass an indefinite time at Rosedene.

X

Nearly a week had passed since Mrs. Merwent’s arrival at Rosedene and Jim had not visited the Winter home. This was an unprecedented length of time for him to stay away.

“How is Mr. Sprague, your partner?” Nannie queried one evening at dinner.

“Oh, he’s all right,” responded John, and then added, “Why he’s not been out since the day you came! I’ll ask him out to dinner tomorrow night. He’s no extra trouble.”

Lucy was silent.

“I’d like to get acquainted with him,” pursued Mrs. Merwent. “Of course if it’s too much work for Lucy----”

“Why no,” answered John. “Lucy never has anything extra for Jim. Do you, Lucy? I want you to know him, Nannie. You’ll like him fine.”

“Lucy hasn’t said anything,” persisted Nannie. “I think she’d rather not have anybody.”

“No, it’s all right,” agreed Lucy. “Jim’s no extra trouble, ever.”

The next morning John told Jim.

“Nannie and Lucy want you for dinner,” John said. “You didn’t use to have to be asked. Why didn’t you come out before?”

“I’ve been going over the books,” explained Jim. “We must raise our prices on those small houses. We don’t make anything on them at present figures.”

That evening they took the train out to Rosedene together.

When they arrived Lucy was in the kitchen and Mrs. Merwent met them at the door.

“Are you tired?” she murmured solicitously as she kissed John’s cheek, then, smiling and extending her hand to Jim, “How do you do, Mr. Sprague? You’re quite a stranger. Lucy thought you had deserted us.” “No, I’ve been busy,” he replied, taking her hand and smiling in turn.

When the three entered the dining room, Mrs. Merwent picked up two _boutonnières_ from the table and pinned first one on Jim’s coat lapel, and then the other on John’s.

“Thank you, Mrs. Merwent,” said Jim.

John patted her shoulder.

“Why, how sweet of you, Nannie!” he exclaimed.

At this juncture Dimmie rushed in and, throwing himself headlong into Jim’s outstretched arms, yelled delightedly, “Uncle Jim, Uncle Jim, the cat’s got kittens!”

“Why how boisterous you are, Jimmie.” Mrs. Merwent spoke reprovingly. (She never called him “Dimmie.”)

“Yes,” said John. “You make too much noise, Dimmie.”

“He’s all right. I’m used to him,” put in Jim. He realized as he spoke that never before had he interfered in the child’s training.

“Well, if you like it.” Mrs. Merwent smiled. “I’m afraid you spoil him, Mr. Sprague,” she added.

Jim lifted Dimmie to his shoulder and went off to inspect the kittens. On the way they passed through the kitchen.

“Hello, Lucy.” Jim held out his hand. “Heard you thought I’d deserted you.”

“I can’t shake hands with you. My hands are all over flour,” she explained. “You know I never thought any such thing!”

“Yes, I know,” he answered.

Dimmie grew impatient.

“It’ll get dark and you can’t see the kittens,” he complained.

After Jim and Dimmie had left the dining room, Nannie, who was standing by the table, began to look about as if in search of something.

“Why, Lucy must have forgotten to order it,” she observed, as if to herself. Then she turned to her son-in-law, placing her hand on his arm.

“John,” she asked, smiling, “would you do Nannie a favor?”

“Sure,” he consented. “What is it?”

“I wish you would get me a little fruit to keep in my room. I like to eat a little before going to bed.” “Of course. I’ll have some sent around in the morning.”

“I meant tonight--if you didn’t mind.”

“All right. Jim and I’ll go and get it after dinner.”

“You cruel boy! You want to advertise my weakness to the world. I didn’t want anybody to know.”

“Good. I’ll just pop out and get it right away. How’s that?”

“You’re a dear boy. I’m afraid Lucy wouldn’t approve of spoiling me this way.” Mrs. Merwent walked into the hall where John followed her.

“Well, we won’t tell anybody,” declared John. He took his hat from the rack and went out the front door, closing it gently after him.

Jim and Dimmie came back from the kitten inspecting expedition and, entering the living room, found Mrs. Merwent alone.

“Mother was asking for you a minute ago, Jimmie,” she told the little boy.

Dimmie ran to the kitchen.

Jim sat down by the fire place.

“Everybody has left me to amuse myself, Mr. Sprague.” Nannie looked up at him challengingly from the depths of the Morris chair in which she was reclining.

“Why where’s John?” he asked.

“He’s gone out some place for a few minutes. I don’t know where,” she said. “Wouldn’t you like to smoke?” She rose. “I’ll get some of John’s cigarettes.”

“No, thank you. I don’t smoke cigarettes. I’ll fill my pipe if you don’t mind.”

“I smoke cigarettes sometimes, when I’m quite alone,” she confided, laughing slightly.

“Yes?”

“I suppose you don’t approve of ladies smoking, do you?” she insisted.

“If they want to.”

“Does Lucy smoke?”

“No.”

Mrs. Merwent laughed again.

“I didn’t know,” she declared. Jim gazed at her steadily. The front door clicked and she started.

“Was that John?” she asked.

Jim rose and glanced through the window.

“No,” he responded. “It was Dimmie. He threw his ball into the street. Did you want anything, Mrs. Merwent?”

“Oh, no,” she assured him. “I just wondered. He said he was coming right back. Well, we don’t need a chaperone, do we?”

“Hardly,” replied Jim.

Mrs. Merwent dropped a marquise ring she had been pulling on and off her finger. Jim picked it up and handed it to her.

“Thank you. I shouldn’t be wearing rings with this old gown. I just put it on from force of habit.”

“Which?” asked Jim, smiling.

“The ring, of course, you sarcastic thing,” she retorted, striking his knee with the lace handkerchief in her hand.

“The dress is charming, Mrs. Merwent.”

“Oh, thank you. You’re going to be nice after all. Well, I was quite prepared to find you so. Lucy and John can’t say enough good things about you.”

“I’m much obliged to them,” he remarked, smiling again. “I can say the same of them.”

“How lovely! I do think real friendship is the grandest thing--and so rare.”

“No doubt about that, Mrs. Merwent.” Jim smiled once more.

“Now I believe you’re making fun of me, Mr. Sprague.”

“I can assure you I’m not, Mrs. Merwent.”

“I envy them, you know. I’ve been so lonely since my--trouble.”

“I can quite imagine,” said Jim sympathetically. “But now you are with your children and----”

“Yes,” she interrupted hastily, “and isn’t John just the dearest fellow! I do so regret our misunderstanding. Though I was not to blame for it,” she added.

“John’s a good sort,” Jim agreed. “And Lucy,” Mrs. Merwent now smiled. “You haven’t said anything about Lucy.”

“We weren’t talking about her.”

“Well, she’s a dear girl, although--why I’ve burnt my slipper!” she broke off. “Do you know, Mr. Sprague, that I have the hardest time to get shoes narrow enough. It seems that most women, especially here in the North, have big feet. Lucy takes after her father. He was a Northern man.”

Jim seemed amused, and Mrs. Merwent concluded hastily.

“But here I am chattering on about _me_,” she said, “and you haven’t told me anything about yourself.”

“There isn’t much to tell, Mrs. Merwent.”

“Well, if you could hear Lucy and John talk about you you wouldn’t be so modest.”

“Neither of them has much critical acumen in matters of friendship.”

“But you are their only intimate friend.”

Jim laughed.

“That’s just it,” he asserted.

“You cynical thing!” she reproved banteringly. “I know you men with no illusions. I declare I’m afraid of you.”

“Not dangerous--believe me, Mrs. Merwent.”

“No. You despise us women too much to take us seriously.”

“Some of the biggest individuals I have met have been women,” Jim answered gravely.

“Lucy, for instance.”

“Yes, Lucy,” agreed Jim.

“Well, I’m not much like her. Do you think so?”

“Our acquaintance is pretty brief to justify a fundamental judgment of that sort.”

“Oh, I’m not at all intellectual or deep. I can’t talk about Bergson and books like _Jean Christophe_ that Lucy reads. I’m afraid you won’t like poor little me much.”

“There are lots of people I don’t like who talk about philosophy and musical novels.” His tone was pleasant.

“Well, I have a feeling already that you don’t like me very well.” “I don’t think I could help liking Lucy’s mother,” Jim answered without conviction.

“Thanks! I don’t know that I care to be liked because I’m Lucy’s mother,” she replied, laughing nervously. “Your liking seems to be confined to Lucy and things belonging to her. That’s not very complimentary to the rest of us.”

Jim, who had been staring at the empty grate, glanced up and met Mrs. Merwent’s eyes. Her gaze dropped.

“Yes, I do like Lucy, and the people she likes,” he acknowledged frankly, “and if anybody liked me on the same recommendation I should feel honored. She is a person any man or woman must feel it a great privilege to know.”

Mrs. Merwent arched her brows.

“Of course I think just as you do about Lucy, Mr. Sprague, but if I were John I might” (she smiled again) “object the tiniest bit to your--enthusiasm.”

“Object?” Jim looked blank.

“Maybe that is the wrong word.” Nannie’s smile grew more meaning. “It isn’t every man who enjoys having his wife admired _too_ much.”

“If John objects he only needs to say so. I don’t think you quite understand the atmosphere of this household yet, Mrs. Merwent.”

“This household?”

“Your daughter then.”

“Well, I certainly think I ought to know her.”

“You ought, but the most charitable thing is to believe you don’t.” There was decided asperity in Jim’s tone.

Mrs. Merwent’s manner changed. She rose haughtily.

“What do you mean by that, Mr. Sprague!” she exclaimed.

Jim rose also, and the two scrutinized each other in silence for a moment.

“No offense intended,” he protested, turning and knocking his pipe out on the mantel shelf.

Nannie was still injured.

“I don’t see how such innocent remarks can be so misinterpreted,” she insisted, crumpling her handkerchief.

Jim did not answer at once. When he spoke his manner was authoritative. “Don’t you think it would be wise to drop this topic, Mrs. Merwent?”

She preserved her air of dignity, but her uneasiness was obvious.

“I don’t understand you, Mr. Sprague. I certainly will not be stopped from doing my duty in protecting Lucy no matter if you do misunderstand me.”

“Protecting Lucy?” Jim’s eyes hardened.

Mrs. Merwent twisted her handkerchief nervously.

“Do you think Lucy needs to be protected from me, Mrs. Merwent?” he went on inexorably.

Lucy’s voice was heard calling Dimmie. Nannie backed toward the hallway.

Jim heard Lucy too.

“I think Lucy needs protecting from her own ignorance and inexperience,” explained Nannie defensively. “I’ve suffered enough from public opinion even though I was innocent, Mr. Sprague, and I can’t be expected to welcome the same thing for her.”

Jim seemed nonplussed.

“I confess you have the best of me, Mrs. Merwent.”

Nannie was mollified by seeing how disturbed he looked.

“I knew you would consider Lucy’s welfare just as I do.” Then she seemed to dismiss the discussion. “There she is now. She does spoil Jimmie so!”

“It has begun to rain, Dimmie. You mustn’t stay out in the rain. Where’s Papa?” Lucy was heard saying.

“Dear me! It _is_ raining. I left a coat suit airing in the window. I’m packing away my winter things. You will excuse me while I go and take it in, Mr. Sprague?” Mrs. Merwent was smiling now, though she continued to regard Jim with apprehension.

Jim turned to face her suddenly.

“Hold on, Mrs. Merwent!” he began in an odd tone, his voice not quite under his control.