XX
Mrs. Merwent came downstairs with a headache, but after her insistent complaints elicited some sympathetic remarks from Lucy, she settled herself resignedly to mend a small hole in one of the grey silk stockings which she had worn to The Madcap Girl. It was a dull day. Lucy picked up the morning paper from the floor where John had dropped it as he went out, halted near a window and read aloud at random the few items which she thought her mother might find of interest.
“I see here that Miss Powell was one of the hostesses last night at the Ravenswood Golf Club,” said Lucy in a determinedly pleasant voice, laying the paper down.
“She has relatives with money so she can do such things,” her mother sighed, dropping the stocking into her lap and staring moodily out the window. “Little did I think I would ever be dependent on your charity,” she mourned, after a pause.
Lucy looked quickly at her mother.
“Well, I don’t envy Miss Powell. She’s too self centered to be very happy,” said Lucy.
“Like me, I suppose you mean,” complained Nannie. “I’ve ceased to expect any sympathy from you, Lucy.”
“I didn’t mean any such thing, Mamma, and you know it!” Lucy spoke with forced good nature. “You know I don’t make oblique or sarcastic comments.”
“Well, do I?” demanded her mother. “Did I ever imply that you envied Miss Powell or anyone else?”
“I didn’t mean you envied her, either,” explained Lucy. “I only said I didn’t.” She spoke over her shoulder as she left the room.
She had passed up the stairs when the tinkling of the telephone sounded from the hall and Nannie rose to answer it.
“This is John,” was the reply to her faint “hello.” “Is this Nannie speaking?”
“Yes,” she affirmed weakly, remembering her aching head.
“Well, I was mistaken about Jim’s working tonight. It’s tomorrow night. So I’m going to bring him out this evening. Tell Lucy, will you?”
“Certainly,” responded Nannie in a livelier tone.
“How’s your headache?”
“Oh, it’s ever so much better, thank you; it’s about all gone.”
“That’s good,” said John, and he hung up the receiver.
Lucy, dressed for the street, soon came downstairs.
“I’m going to do some shopping,” she informed Nannie. “I didn’t suppose you would care to go with your headache. I’ll be back by the time Dimmie comes from kindergarten and get him ready to go to Mrs. Hamilton’s. Your lunch is all fixed and in the refrigerator. There’s ice tea already made in the blue pitcher.”
“My headache’s not as bad as it was.”
“Well it’s too late now to wait for you to dress,” began Lucy.
“Oh, don’t worry, Lucy. I have no intention of going. I’ve got sense enough to know whether I’m wanted or not.”
“Mamma, please,” Lucy begged, almost in desperation.
“Well, Lucy, you started it.”
Lucy hurried toward the hall.
“Mr. Sprague is coming to dinner tonight,” Nannie called importantly.
Lucy halted an instant.
“Well, there’s plenty,” she called back enigmatically, and went out.
Nannie looked blank until the front door shut.
It was evening when Lucy returned from the city. On the train she encountered Mrs. Hamilton who had invited Dimmie to take tea with Stella. John and Jim had already arrived and were smoking in the dining room when Lucy came back from the Hamiltons’ where she had left Dimmie. Nannie, in a careful toilette with a rose in her hair, was chatting and laughing in the highest of spirits.
“Hello, Lucy!” exclaimed Jim cordially, rising and shaking hands. “How are you?”
“Oh, I’m all right,” Lucy told him, smiling.
“You’re not looking any too well,” he observed, glancing at her face.
“Well, I’m feeling fine, anyway.”
“Where’s Dimmie?” he inquired.
“He’s gone out to tea.”
“Getting to be quite a swell.” Jim smiled affectionately.
“Yes, and with a young lady, too,” she laughed.
“Mr. Sprague, I was talking to you,” interrupted Nannie, pouting.
“Beg your pardon, Mrs. Merwent,” said Jim, hastily resuming his chair.
“Oh, don’t apologize. I don’t expect to compete with Lucy,” she declared with the sweetest intonation of voice.
Jim colored.
“What were we talking about?” he asked, straightening his cravat.
“There! That shows how much attention you pay to me,” she gibed. “Come on, John! Let’s leave them together.” She rose and moved toward the living room.
“Well, dinner’s ready, so there’s no use in your taking John away,” remarked Lucy, without heat. And the four sat down at the table.
“It’s been a long time since you were here, Mr. Sprague,” began Nannie in a sprightly manner as she was serving the soup.
“Yes,” conceded Jim.
“You used to come out at least once every week before I came, so Lucy tells me, and always stayed all night, and sometimes over Sunday.”
“I have been very busy lately.” Jim’s tone was defensive and he glanced at Lucy.
“And very successful lately, I believe,” Nannie continued. “You made a fine deal yesterday, didn’t you? John told me all about it.”
“Yes—it was a good deal.”
Jim reddened again and stared at the table cloth.
Lucy’s eyes were upon him.
Shortly after dinner, Dimmie, escorted to the back gate by Mrs. Hamilton and Stella, came in through the kitchen.
“Mrs. Hamilton brought me to the back gate,” he volunteered as he entered the dining room. Then, catching sight of Jim, he yelled, “Hello, Uncle Jim!” and rushed for his idol.
“You must go to sleepy town now, dear,” suggested Lucy, a few minutes later. “Say good night.” And Dimmie obeyed reluctantly, but with a special tight hug for “Uncle Jim.”
Soon the sound of Lucy’s voice as she sat upstairs singing Dimmie to sleep was heard by the trio in the dining room.
“I’ve often wondered why Lucy never sang before people,” declared Jim, lighting his pipe. “She certainly has a beautiful voice.”
“I gave her piano lessons for years,” answered Nannie quickly, “but she hasn’t kept it up. The reason I didn’t have her voice trained is that her ear is not true.”
“I never noticed that and I have overheard her singing a number of times,” persisted Jim. “Now take that thing from Butterfly she is singing now, for instance. She places the difficult intervals with absolute precision. And Puccini’s music is tricky.”
“Oh, I never knew you understood music, Mr. Sprague. You never seemed particularly interested in it.”
“Why, I have listened to your singing with much pleasure, Mrs. Merwent.”
“You couldn’t get away from it,” Nannie laughed. “Come on, John. Shall I sing for you? Mr. Sprague can shut the door if he doesn’t like it!” Nannie passed into the living room, followed by John.
Lucy came downstairs.
“Well, Jim, are you deserted?” was her question, as she opened the dining room door and saw him there alone.
He nodded his head without speaking.
“Let’s go in and hear Mamma sing,” she suggested.
He hesitated an instant as if about to make some comment, and then followed her.
Mrs. Merwent ceased singing and swung around on the piano stool as they entered.
“Go on, Mamma. Don’t stop,” Lucy urged, seating herself and indicating a chair to Jim.
“Mr. Sprague had rather hear you,” said Nannie.
“Nonsense, Mamma. You know I never sing,” protested Lucy, looking embarrassed. “What were you singing?”
“It’s a little thing called ‘Juliet at the Window.’ ”
“There’s to be a revival of Romeo and Juliet at the Standard Theatre next week,” observed John.
“Yes. I saw by the papers that that little Hilda Knowlton is going to play Juliet. She’s much too young for the part,” said Nannie.
“I don’t see how she well could be,” objected Jim.
“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Sprague,” began Nannie. “I’ve seen Mary Anderson, and Adelaide Neilson, and Julia Arthur, and Eleanor Robson, and Julia Marlowe, all in the part, and they weren’t young girls in their teens.”
“Well, according to the play a young girl in her teens would be exactly suited to the role,” answered Jim tenaciously.
“I’m sure that’s the first time I ever heard anyone say such a thing,” retorted Nannie.
“I’m not the only one who said so.” Jim was smiling but obstinate.
“For instance?” demanded Nannie sneeringly.
“Shakespeare,” replied Jim.
“Nonsense!” Nannie exclaimed irritably.
Jim walked to the bookcase and took down a volume of Shakespeare’s plays.
“ ‘Act one, scene three,’ ” he read. “ ‘She’s not fourteen. Come Lammas-eve at night, she shall be fourteen.’ ”
“Well, I’ve always thought she was older anyway,” insisted Nannie, “and I’m sure almost everybody thinks so. I’ve never seen a young chit of a girl take the part, and it would generally be considered ridiculous.”
“Perhaps Shakespeare didn’t know,” said Jim.
“Oh, well, if you want to be sarcastic and nasty about it, we better not discuss it. I suppose you feel very superior and triumphant over having gotten the best of me. I’m sure it makes no difference to me how old Juliet is supposed to be. Of course you never make any mistakes, Mr. Sprague.”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Merwent, for having ventured to offer an opinion on the subject,” apologized Jim coldly.
“Here! You two people will be pulling hair in a minute,” interrupted John, breezily. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“With pleasure,” agreed Jim in the same frigid tone.
Mrs. Merwent rose without a word and made her way to the dining room.
“Where are you, Nannie?” John called after a few minutes. Receiving no reply, he stepped to the door.
“What are you sitting out here alone for?” he began. Then, in response to a sign from her, he entered the room.
“You and Jim don’t seem to get on very well tonight.” He spoke in a lowered voice as he seated himself by her side.
“Well, I’m amazed that you do,” she responded cryptically.
“What do you mean, Nannie?”
Mrs. Merwent raised her eyebrows significantly.
“You watch him,” she advised, almost in a whisper.
“Watch him?” John repeated in surprise. “Why, what for?”
“Remember what I say!” she whispered. “You watch his attitude toward Lucy. Didn’t you notice how anxious she was to defend him last night?”
An expression of understanding came into John’s eyes.
“Why, Nannie, you don’t mean—” He paused.
“I don’t mean anything.” She paused. “But it’s as I said the other night,” she added; “you’re too good and trusting, John.”
In the other room Jim had risen to take his departure.
“It’s early yet,” Lucy was saying.
“I must get back,” he insisted.
“Well, thank you for coming, anyway.”
“I’m afraid I’ve done no good,” he answered, discouragedly.
“You’ve certainly done no harm, Jim.”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head.
They went into the hall and he took up his hat.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Merwent. Good night, John,” he said formally, stepping to the dining room door.
“Good night,” returned John absently.
“Goodbye, Mr. Sprague,” Nannie responded in her usual silvery tones.
As he was leaving, Jim grasped Lucy’s hand warmly.
After he had gone, Lucy came to the dining room door and glanced in at Nannie and John. Then she turned away and ascended the stairs. Neither of them had noticed her.