The White Lady (24 page)

Morris Thayer was always sure of his own opinions. Since he had sent his card to Constance, he had thought out this neat little explanation of the whole matter and held it in abeyance until Constance should come to prove or disprove it. Had she entered the room at once in her waitress’s garb, he would not have been so sure, but the change in her appearance, made so quickly, settled the matter for him. No girl who had just been helping ten men to roast beef, mashed potatoes, and gravy could possibly change her appearance so utterly and enter the room in so short a space of time, looking so cool and unflustered, as Constance had done. So, with mind untroubled, he seated himself and proceeded to get to the point at once.

He had long intended that the next opportunity he had of talking with Constance should be improved immediately by asking her to marry him. He would be put off no longer; she must face the question. Of course she did not intend to refuse in the end, and she only wished to tantalize him a little while or possibly to wait until she had had enough of her freedom. But he was tired of waiting, tired of being held at arm’s length, frozen one day and smiled upon the next. He would bring her to terms now, and before she had any chance to answer him or grow distant again.

Constance stood still as she heard his remarkable explanation, her heart seeming to stop for an instant and then to go thudding on in wild little leaps. The color came and went in her cheeks. She felt like laughing and crying all at once, and she could not command her voice to tell him how mistaken he was. A sudden weakness had come over her, and she felt she could not stand up. She hastily closed the door and sank down upon the low divan, trying to collect her wits and speak.

But what did that young man do but drop down upon the divan beside the astonished girl and reach boldly out to take the white hands that lay weakly in her lap.

“Constance,” he said, and his voice was low and musical, “I have had a long search for you. Why did you run away from me? But now that I have found you, I am going to tell you that I love you, and I wish to make you my wife.”

His voice was alluring, and his eyes spoke volumes. He had practiced these sentences over and over to himself as he rode along in the train, and now he was pleased with himself that at last he had actually said them to her and had not been put off. He felt that his suit was won, and he took the shrinking hands into his own smooth ones confidently, dreaming not of further rebuff.

But his touch seemed to bring her to her senses, and with a start she sprang back and drew her hands away from his.

“Wait! Don’t!” she said in a pained voice. “You do not understand.” And she moved to a chair opposite to him.

He was a trifle annoyed that she still held him off, but he settled down affably to hear her explanation, feeling sure that her distance would be but temporary. Of course she would not refuse him. He knew what his name and standing were. There were a number of other girls as well placed as was Constance who would have been glad to have his attentions. She had never shown any dislike for him and had often encouraged him with her smiles. He was not shaken in his confidence by her sudden action. On the whole, he decided he liked her the better for it. She would be the more wholly his when she had finally surrendered.

“Morris,” said Constance, trying to steady her voice and becoming conscious all at once that she was a different girl from the Constance Wetherill who had last talked with him, “I ought to have explained to you long ago. But I had a foolish idea of trying to run away and hide. Well, I have learned in the past few months that I have nothing to hide—”

The young man looked at her perplexed, and wondered why she seemed so excited. Constance caught her breath and then went on earnestly.

“So please, Morris, forget what you have just said! Let it be as if you had not said it, and listen to what I have to tell you.”

W
hen the minister had finished his supper, which he had not dared take at the Cedars lest he should have to give account to Mrs. Bartlett, he thought of Mrs. Wetherill and his promise to drop in and see her, if possible, before prayer meeting. If he went at once, he would have time for a few minutes there, and then he might just for once walk with Constance to the church. He dreaded to think of her going alone even early in the evening, there were so many loungers around the drugstore, and he hated to think of the evil face and more evil words of Silas Barton.

But when he reached the old house, Norah informed him sorrowfully that Miss Constance had company from the city and would probably not be able to go to meeting that night. She told it to him with sympathy in her eyes, as if she would break the news gently, and he half understood her tone and smiled gratefully, but there was a load of nameless unrest upon him as he went up the stairs to Mrs. Wetherill’s room, where it was by no means lightened.

The old lady was restless. She greeted him eagerly, as if she had been watching for him, and she waited not at all to relieve her mind of its burden.

“I do not think I could do without you,” she said in her gracious, motherly way that somehow comforted his lonely heart, “and I want you to promise me something.”

“Assuredly I will, if it is in my power,” he said kindly.

“Well then,” she said almost childishly, “promise me that if we ever have to go away from here, back to the city to live, that you will accept a call to a church there and come and be near us.”

John Endicott’s heart gave a mighty foreboding of evil. He felt his strength leaping from his fingertips, but he put forth his self-control and stayed it.

“Are you, then, thinking of going away?” he asked, and his voice sounded strange, even to himself. Miss Stokes noted that his lips were white.

“Oh, I suppose we’ll have to, now,” she said sadly. “And just as I was so happy to stay, too, but I wouldn’t have Constance know how I feel for anything. But, if you will go along, I shall not mind. That dear child would give up anything for my sake, but I do not mean she shall. You see it is this way. She and Morris Thayer have been as good as engaged for two years, and he is of a fine old family, and a very commendable young man, of course, just the one for her. But they had some little misunderstanding, and she came off here. I never knew what it was, because she did not seem to care to talk about it, but I knew all the time that she came here because of it. I was surprised that he did not follow sooner, for he has been very devoted; but perhaps it was her fault. She is very proud. But now he has come, and they are downstairs together. I think they will probably be married very soon, and of course we shall have to go home for the wedding. But we have friends in your denomination in New York, and I am sure we could get you a better church there than you have here, and then we should have you near us. You will do that for me, will you not? You have helped me so very much.”

She put out her delicate twisted hand, and it groped helplessly for his strong one. He took it in a gentle grasp as if she had been his own grandmother, and said gravely, “Dear friend, I will do what I can for you. I will go where God sends me.”

She looked at him a moment questioningly and then seemed to be satisfied, and he knelt to pray, but his voice was strained and full of sudden dread.

So it was that he did not wait for Constance Wetherill to go to prayer meeting that evening but went alone through the starlight, his head bowed and his whole being saddened with sudden loss.

It was Jennie who met him at the chapel door and looked beyond him questioningly.

“Ain’t she coming?” she asked. “Then it’s true. Si said her beau came this afternoon from New York, but I didn’t believe him. Si always says ugly things about her because she won’t be nice to him. He just hates her, too, because she runs a tearoom. Say did you see him?”

“See whom?” The minister’s tone was actually cold.

“Why, her beau. Si says he was here all the afternoon and went back to supper there. Si said some horrid things about him. If they’re true, she ought to be told.”

“Jennie,” said the minister in his pulpit tone, “it is growing late, and Miss Wetherill has been detained. Do you think you could play for us this evening?”

And Jennie, much pleased with the honor, fluttered to the organ and wondered why the minister had seemed not to hear what she said about Miss Wetherill. Was he jealous?

Meantime, in his inner office, back of the drugstore, Silas Barton sat intent upon his evil work. He was writing anonymous letters, and the serpent of his wrath lay coiled at his elbow, hissing into his ear more evil plots than his own revenge had dared dream. His eyes gleamed triumph, and his breath came thick as his pen wrote on, almost as if it were drunk with the thought it was conveying. He paid no heed to the noises that came from the outer room, though there were oaths and curses and a sound of loud dispute. It was Holly’s voice. Holly was drunk, and Holly was angry.

The gentle clock on the bookcase in the inner room at the Cedars had ticked out another whole minute before Constance spoke.

“Morris, you are mistaken about this place. It is mine. I have rented it and moved here. The tearoom is my enterprise, and it was I who waited upon the table in there a little while ago.” She paused to gather strength and see just what there was left to tell, but her listener leaned forward on the divan with distress in his face and voice. This was going to be troublesome and annoying, he feared. When girls took up fads, they were hard to manage. And girls were doing a lot of unconventional things these days. But to think of Constance Wetherill admitting that she had waited upon a table of men by her own consent! It was impossible!

“But, my dear Constance,” he said deprecatingly, “what in the world do you mean? What have you done all this for? Do you not know that all your friends will be amazed and will think you have taken leave of your senses? It may be interesting to you to play at such things, but it is unseemly for one of your rank and station to so demean herself, even for amusement. May I ask why you have done this most extraordinary thing?” He spoke sternly, as if he had the right to arraign her.

Constance answered almost haughtily.

“I have done it to earn my own living.”

“To earn your living!” cried the young man in astonishment.

“Yes, to earn my living, and Grandmother’s.”

“And why, pray, do you wish to do such an extraordinary thing as that? With your fortune and position, it is simply insane to go in for a thing of this sort. I know girls are trying to get in the public eye nowadays by doing wild things—running off to Europe alone in airplanes and going into interior decorating and that sort of thing, but I never thought it of you. I wonder your grandmother allows it! With all your money, Constance, it is disgraceful—ridiculous—”

His voice was still stern. He put on his eyeglass and looked at her as if that would help him to understand this unusual state of things.

Constance suddenly felt that she had to laugh. He seemed so utterly horrified over what to her had come to be an accepted fact, and one that did not grieve her seriously anymore. But she conquered her amusement and explained gravely.

“Morris, we haven’t any money anymore. It is all lost.”

She said it as coolly as if she were telling him she had torn her dress.

Thayer looked at her, aghast. “Lost your money!” he said sharply. “That is nonsense, of course. It would be impossible! Of course your father left his estate well invested! Why didn’t you come to me? I would have had my lawyer look into things for you! Of course you have been misinformed—”

But just at that instant the door leading to the front room burst open, and Jimmy’s head stuck in between the curtains.

His round face was red and excited, and his hair stuck up straight all over his head. The words burst from his lips explosively.

“The stores are on fire, an’ the church’s catchin’ fire, too. The minister’s up on the church roof. You better come out.”

“You young scoundrel, don’t you know any better than to come frightening a lady in this manner?” cried Morris Thayer, facing Jimmy, who bristled up at him like a small bantam cock with ruffled feathers facing a large mastiff.

“Constance—I beg you will sit down and not be annoyed. There is doubtless no danger. I will step out and see. Sit down and remain where you are, and let me look after things for you.”

“I must go to my grandmother,” said Constance, breathless, brushing past the young man before half his words were out. With a grimace of triumph, Jimmy followed.

Morris Thayer, left to himself, wandered out on the front veranda, saw that there was no danger of fire reaching in the direction of the Cedars, watched the flames idly for a few minutes, and then sauntered in once more to try to understand the new state of things.

Constance, having visited her grandmother’s room and found her peacefully sleeping, closed all the windows and doors to secure her from any danger of hearing the noises that were going on in the street, and rushed down the back stairs and out into the night. The sentence that had caught her ear and made her heart rise with terror was,
“The minister’s up on the church roof.”