"Of course, I do," said Nan. Her face kept the wondering glow. "I felt it, anyhow. I could tell that I belonged here."
Bart said briskly, "Now, you are sm:e of this, Sims? You aren't inventing?"
"I am not inventing," Johnny said wearily. "Ask Charles
Copeland, in San Francisco. Emily's lawyer. Or ask Clinton McCauley, who is alive, who is suffering . . ,"
Nan's face had not changed. It did not change now. (She is lost, thought Johnny with a terrible pang. Lost to Emily, who trusted me. Lost to McCauley who trusted me, too.)
The old lady said, "Christy's little girl? Why then, she is my daughter's daughter's daughter 1" She began to beam, pleased as punch. "Why, my dearie!"
"Great-grandmama?" said Nan shyly. "And I suppose my uncle Bart?"
Bart said, "Dick, how long have you known this?''
"I guessed it, this afternoon," Dick said.
Nan leaned back against him. "Now we understand . . .''
"Understand what?" said Dorothy bluntly.
"Why it was that we fell in love, so suddenly, so—so deeply." Nan looked shyly aglow. "It was because we had known each other already—years ago. Dick knew me when I was only three and I—I adored him. There was an old groove in our hearts." (Johnny felt sick!) "We aren't related at all," said Nan, "but we belong! And we sensed that."
Dick's arm came around her waist.
Johnny felt sick, heart and soul. He knew now that he had been fighting with the wrong weapons. He had been using time to track down trifles—alibis and pins. Evidence, he had been after. Reasonable proof. But Dick Bartee had used his time to deal with more potent things. Dick had got into Nan's heart and mind—and got there first. Dick had seen to the climate there. Dick had taken the edge off this news. Transformed it. Put it inside the dream.
Stupid, stupid, Johnny accused himself. The very idea that Dick was a killer—Dick had taken all the sting out of that. Nan had been soothed and satisfied. And a tenuous collection of wispy facts—Dick's car rumored to have been on the Upper Road, Dick fooling a girl in tlie dark, a man reading a book with his hghts on. Nothing there with any power.
God help me, thought Johnny, if I am relying on reason.
But he must reach her. "Your own living father thinks Dick killed your mother," he said flatly. "Your father is alive, Nan. Won't you go to see him?"
"Of course," she said. "Some day."
^'Some dayl" Dorothy exploded. "What's the matter with you?"
"But I'm being married tomorrow," Nan said patiently.
Johnny said, "You can't be married tomorrow, Nan. Listen to me. Your father has loved you, all the years of your life ..." ^
"I don't remember him," she said. "I've never seen him, since I can remember . . ."
"—loved you enough, never to see you since you can remember. Sacrificed . . ."
"But Dick didn't kill Christy," Nan said earnestly. "And 1 didn't know my father was in prison. It's not my fault that I never knew, is it? I don't know^ whether he killed my mother. He says he didn't. I'm—I'm sorry. But I do know that Dick didn't do it and Dick loves me—whatever, wherever my father is."
"Your father is sick over you," cried Johnny. "In anguish. Nan."
Her dark eyes looked into his. They were honest, according to her lights. "But he doesn't need to be in such anguish," she explained. "Don't you see? I'm sorry he has made himself sick and for what he thinks, but that isn't Dick's or my fault.
The whole r©om was listening, except possibly, the old lady who was staring at' Nan and moving her Ups, soundlessly.
Finally, Dorothy said, "Nan, don't you care?"
"I only care for the truth," Naij said, flinging up her head.
"The truth is," said Johnny calmly, "your father is right."
Now Dick put Nan to one side and rose from the chair. "Say that once more."
"Gladly," said Johimy. "McCauley is right. You killed Christy."
Dick's muscles prepared to deUver a blow.
Bart said, "Just a minute. None of that." He was between them. "Why," he demanded of Johnny, "do you say so?"
"For one thing," said Johnny, "he faked the alibi with Blanche. I can prove that. He wasn't with her at midnight."
"So I must have been here, murdering Christy?" said Dick, sounding dangerous. "Because you would hke to think so?" Dick loomed.
Nan jumped up. "Dick, pleasel Johnny, please!" She
clasped her hands together. ^'Johnny, if you will just listen and believe me. No matter what happens, ever—I would never, never marry you."
Johnny looked at her. She was so young. If she was just a tinge pleased, he would try to forgive her. "I know that," he said solemnly.
Dick used both hands to put Nan gently back upon the leather stool. Bart had paid no attention to her. "Anything else, that makes you think Dick killed Christy?"
"The fact that he would have liked to see me blown up this morning," said Johnny.
Dick Bartee said, "And been blown up, too? You don't seem to understand what is going on at all, Sims. I'm being married tomorrow. I then, take my bride on our honeymoon. I've got more important things to do than argue with you about an old story, seventeen years behind us." He loomed, big, dangerous, clever. "Do you really think we will put ofiF our wedding?" he scoffed. "Because you keep insisting that I am some kind of villain? I am one kind of villain in your eyes, Sims. I stole your girl! And that is the bottom and the essence of what ails you."
"Oh, Johnny, you mustn't be so wicked!" wailed Nan. She believed it.
The old lady stirred. "Blanche, go, please get Christy's picture?"
Blanche got up, dazed, "Mother, hadn't I better take you away . . . ?"
"No, no," said the old lady, "not a bit of it. I want the child to see her mother's picture."
"Oh yes, please," breathed Nan. "Great-grandmother?"
Bart had his hand on Johnny's sleeve. He said, "I don't see that you've proved anything, Sims."
"There's been enough trouble," Blanche said pathetically. She went out into the hall.
Dorothy had her arms crossed, hands on her own shoulders, head bent.
Dick Bartee said, "One more word about that kilhng, Sims, and I will throw you out bodily. In fact, I tliink we would all like it very much if you would go."
Johnny said rapidly, "Old Mr. Bartee sent Emily five thousand dolliirs, every year, for the baby." He saw Bart's
face react. "It was put into a fund by Mr. Copeland. The money you have, Nan, is Bartee money."
Nan's eyes went to Dick and she smiled.
"Listen to me," pleaded Johnny. "Dick knew you were an heiress. He needed money to buy into this place. He wants this place."
"Of course, he wants to buy in and be Bart's partner. It's all family," Nan said. "It's wonderfull"
Bart's eyes were narrow. "Nan's money came from my father?"
"That is so," said Johnny. "Check it. Ask Copeland. And tell me this. Why would Dick take a letter to San Francisco by hand?"
"Because I was asked to," said Dick, "and I don't think you heard what I said . . ."
Bart moved between them again. Blanche came hurrying back with a small canvas, about a foot square. A painting of a woman's h^ad. "This is Christy," she said. "Nathaniel Bartee did this." She looked at their faces nervously.
Dorothy rose slowly and looked at it from one side. Johnny looked from the other. A young face, laughing. The cheek bones a trifle high. Hair a hght brown, curling away from the fair brow. Eyes a brilhant blue. Dehcate brows. (Johnny swallowed. He liad not questioned the climate of opinion about Natlianiel Bartee apd his painting. But the man had been talented. He had been among PhiUstines.)
"Give it to me," commanded the old lady. "Now, child, come see your mother. Wasn't she a pretty httle dear?"
Nan moved.
Johnny said hoarsely, "She was beaten to death where you are standing, Nan."
Nan said, with the quick tears of old sparking from her eyes, "Johnny, don't be horrible I Go awayl" She
dropped to her knees beside the old lady. "She was pretty . . ."
"Dick wants the money. Nan," Johnny said loudly. He felt as if he were shouting from a far, far place. She knelt, her back to him. She did not even turn her head.
Dick said, "Get out of the way, Bart."
"You are not going to hit anyone in my house," Bart said. "Sims, I think you'd better go."
"It doesn't matter, Johnny," he heard Dorothy say. He
looked at her. "They are going to be manied tomorrow," she went on calmly. "There is nothing we can do about it."
So Johnny turned and walked out of the study and along the red carpet of the hall, Bart was walking close behind him. Bart reached ahead and opened a leaf of the front door. "Sorry," Bart said.
"What about?" said Johnny bitterly. "That he gets away with murder?" Their eyes met and Bart's were troubled. Johnny said, "Good-bye."
"Good-night." The door closed.
Johnny stood on the porch. Had no car. He plunged into the drive, emerged from the trees. The landscape, carpeted with the low gieen, was yet as desolate as the moon.
CHAPTER 19
The phone rang in Johnny's room about half past nine in the morning. Friday.
Nan's voice. Hope jumped.
''Johnny, I'm sorry for anything I said last night or if I sounded mean."
". . . all right."
"I will go to see my father, of course. Dick and I will do all we can to make liim feel—all right about us. So everythmg is going to work out."
He got out the necessary word, ". . . glad."
"But, Johnny, I don't want you and me to be fighting. And on my wedding day."
Now, he felt very cold. "I'll stay away," he promised quickly. "Don't worry about that."
"But, Johnny, that isn't ... I wish you'd understand. These are my mother's people. But I don't mean to ... I wouldn't offend you or Aunt Barbara ..."
"You're not asking me to be there, Nan?"
"Well . . ."
"Did Dorothy talk you into this?"
"No, she didn't. We didn't even stay in the same room last night. Everybody thought . . . Well, I wanted to be alone. But she's going to stand up with me. So I should think . . ."
"You want me to—?"
"Oh, not to stand up or . . . You see, Uncle Bart is my very own uncle and he ought to be the one to give me away." Nan's voice was gayer; it was losing its trouble. This was her wedding day. "Only Blanche and Bart think we should be at peace, Johnny, or—it's not lucky."
"What about Dick?"
"Oh, Dick says that if you promise not to talk the way you've been . . . Dick says he hasn't anything against you. Just if you'd stop, oh—busybodying." Her voice trailed off. It came back, coaxing. "So, Johnny? Won't you come to my wedding and wish me happiness?"
He didn't know whether he could. He couldn't speak.
"For Aunt Emily's sake, then?"
The flash of rage that had been ready and waiting, went through him now. But he said quietly, "All right. Nan."
"About a quarter of eleven? It won't take long. And afterwards, I suppose, you'll be driving Dotty home."
"All right, Nai^" he said, keeping control.
Grimes had told him that Copeland was coming down. But Copeland hadn't come, nor had Johnny's call to Roderick Grimes, this morning, been completed, when the hour was upon him and he must go to Nan's wedding.
The maid let him in. Four or five strange people were standing in the parlor. Flowers everywhere. A Httle lectern before the mantel. The old lady, with a soft pink shawl around her shoulders, held coiurt. A man said, "I'm Dr. Jenson. We are groom's. You must be bride's, I guess."
Johnny didn't say which he was. More names were given. Hands shaken. He nodded toward but did not go near the old lady.
Bart came in through the doors from the dining room.
"Morning."
Bart looked him over with deliberate care. "You haven't changed your mind," he pronounced quietly.
"I am a symbol of something," Johmiy's face felt as if it were splitting and tearing, as he grinned. Bart said, "Nan has one of the pins now." Johnny pressed his hps very tightly closed. "The one supposed to be Chiisty's," Bart said. "The one from McCauleys' pocket. Kate's pin." Johnny's hps opened.
"I don't know what can be done," said Bart quickly. "You have no proof."
"What makes you change your mind?"
"I believe Dick sounded out the chance of a loan on Nan's prospects too soon. I can't prove it."
"You lend your house for this wedding? You give the bride away?" Johnny felt sick.
Bait said, "How will it help if they elope?" He was stiff, proud, helpless. "To make a scene?"
They stared at each other sadly for a moment. Then Bart said, "Miss Dorothy is in the dining room. Go on in."
Dorothy was wearing a pink dress and a pink and white corsage. She was standing very straight beside one of the ; heax'y old carved chairs. "Oh, Johnny," she said warmly. "You didn't have to comel You don't have to watch this, feeling the way you do. You go away! She can't have every- ,j thing."
"I don't know how I feel, Dot," Johnny said heavily. "Are you all right?"
"I'm O.K." She seemed surprised. "'Wondering who I am, of course."
"Who you are?"
"Nan is Mary McCauley. Am I Dorothy O'Hara, I wonder?" "O'Hara?" he said absently. "Dot, did you know Bart be-heves me now?"
"I believe you, too," she said. "But Nan has been told and told—and if she beUeves in Dick, instead . . ." "It's going to be a tragedy."
"You mean, you will prove it, sooner or later? And then?''
"Then Nan will have a husband in prison for murder."
Dorothy said, "Johnny, maybe she will. But that's not the
tragedy." He stared. Her blue eyes were clear and steady.
"The tragedy happened when she fell in love with a monster."
"Yes, that's right," he said. "The dream. That's how he's
beaten me all along the line. Do you beheve a rough tough
fifteen-year-old boy ever looked twice at a three-year-old baby girl?"
Dorothy moved her head sadly.
"Grooves in their hearts." Johnny clenched his teeth, in a bitter grimace. "But she believes it! If we ever could have broken the spell, made her believe—"
"That he wants the money?" Dorothy understood at once. "I tried to tell her that."
"You know that? How come you are convinced?"
"I am convinced because the first time we met him, there was some reason—a reason for his choosing Nan. Oh, Johnny, I could tell. I had caught his eye. He just deliberately . . . The truth is, I ^ill attract him and I've told Nan so."
"People keep saying . . ." Johnny looked at this plum. This Dorothy. "Dotty, you know when a man is attracted, don't you?"
"And when he isn't," she said, blinking her tears. "Of course, I do."
"Then why doesn't Nan know that he isn't?"
"Because she was always built up," said Dorothy, ''arti-ficially. She's been told and told to assume she'll have romance, as if it's automatically her due. But that's not so, Johnny. Don't^ou know. Aunt Emily and your dear mother, too, they gave her you^. Johnny, for a gift? For free. So she never scuffled for a boy's attention. She never had any practice. She never learned that it is not absolutely inevitable for a girl to be loved or even popular. That you have to achieve tliis. You have to think how. You don't get attention for nothing—or aflFection, either. You have to deserve it. You have to pay attention to what other people hke. But Nan was protected. She was too easy for Dick to deceive. Oh, what am I saying?"
She spoke to his stricken face. "What good is it to blame old times? I'm sorry, I don't mean to blame you as much as I sound. I blame myself, too. Everybody ought to stop and think before he makes a sacrifice. Please, Johnny, don't feel bad. If you spoiled her, it's because you're kind and responsible."
"Don't spoil your face," he said, to her tears that would spill any moment. "I guess people ought to stop and think-"
(People ought to stop and think before they proudly keep a stupid promise, Johnny mused.)
"I hope there are no ghosts," Dorothy shivered, turning away. "I don't want Christy's ghost to watch this wedding." She turned back. "Oh, what can we do? I wish we could kidnap herl Do something smashing and yet—" Dorothy looked and sounded so very humanly confused that Johnny's sore heart warmed.
"And yet, Nan is choosing," he said, "/ can't think what to do, Dot. I'm no detective, no psychologist. I teach biology. I don't know anything to do."
"There's nothing!" Dorothy's hands fell. "I'd better go. They were almost ready. Do you know what tlie 'something old' is, Johnny?" Dorothy was fierce again. "It's that pin I The old lady got it out and gave it to her. Nan has it pinned on!"
"Something old?"
"Oh, they were all ready except for that superstitious rhyme. "Something old, something new.' Blanche loaned her a brand new hanky, so they are counting it for 'something borrowed,' too. They are running around up there looking for '.' If they've found it, she is ready."
She looked up into his face yearningly.
Johnny looked down. "?"
(I am a biology teacher, he thought, suddenly.)
"You know, the silly old rhyme," Dorothy closed her eyes despairingly. "It's too late. I laiow. We'll have to let her go. It will serve her right," said Dorothy woefully, "and I won't like it at all."
"I want to see Nan," said Johnny. "Right now.''
"Johnny, they won't let you see the bride."
"Yes, they will." He caught her by the hand and pulled her through the door to the hall. (It's not Nan, he thought. I could let her go. It's not Emily, either. Emily is dead. But I am not going to let this happen to Clinton McCauley!)
"Johnny, what . . . ?"
"Follow me. Listen to me. Believe me, Dotty."
He started up the stairs, dragging her. There was nobody below the stairs to stop them but Blanche stood at the top.
"Dorothy, dear? We are ready. Mr. Sims, please . . ."
"I've got to see Nan."
"But you can't."
"Yes, I can," said Johnny loudly. "I am bringing her a wedding present."
"Not now, Mr. Sims." Blanche was propriety outraged. "Please go downstairs at once."
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