But Dana did not come back.
The spirit of the orthodox Whipples had been outraged. Dana was himself again. And presently she heard the snorting, the chug-chugging of the motor. Dana couldn’t be going to leave her here? It wasn’t thinkable! With those unspeakable, loathsome boys!
She cast a hurried, frightened eye about on the serene, cool shadows of the green retreat that suddenly seemed so empty, so alone. Then she picked up her feet and ran in a panic. She ran until the car was in sight, and then she stopped and picked a handful of ferns, in full sight of the unseeing Dana she picked them, carefully, deliberately and emerged slowly, leisurely, as if she had been following him all the time. She presented a charming study in blues and greens, with all the air of a pretty peacock, stepping along; stately, unhurried, gorgeous, unaware of her escort’s cold fury.
All the way back to town Dana was silent, furious, haughty, his mood growing more and more unpleasant.
But Jessie Belle was apparently still unaware of his lack of sympathy. She began to sing, little trills at first, runs up and down the scale, a high note or two of an opera—which she had not been allowed to study yet because it was too difficult for her present development—a quaint little folk melody, a sad song, a bad song or two, with a sidewise, coy glance to see what effect it was having.
It only made Dana more cold and severe. His clerical Whipple profile was turned well away from her vision. As they passed the Brooke house he turned his head and searched it frowningly, forgetting, apparently, that she was along. It occurred to him that this whole trouble was Lynette’s fault anyhow—began yesterday afternoon—Lynette’s insisting he must come to her house to supper—so childish. Yes, it was all Lynette’s fault, and Lynette had got to learn! He would go right over there and attend to it, just as soon as he had safely landed this unspeakable kid that he had been fool enough to try to show a good time to. Never again! It was the last time for him! He would go over and have it out with Lynette, and when she was sufficiently humble, he would stay to dinner, and then afterward perhaps he would have a chance to tell her all about the church that wanted to hear him preach and paid such a high salary and had complimented him so on his eloquence. His pride had been suffering severely for having had to keep this news from her so long. And it was all Lynette’s fault.
Chapter 12
To Lynette’s surprise Mrs. Brooke had taken seats in the parlor car. It was an expense that they usually felt they could easily forego, for the common cars were not apt to be overcrowded at that point on the line, and it was only four hours’ ride. Why waste the money?
“But we’re going to enjoy ourselves today, Lynnie,” said her mother with a wistful smile, and Lynette felt the tears in her throat again as she saw the look in her mother’s eyes. This ride was to be all the vacation her mother would have for many a long day. She must not break down. She must not let her mother see how almost frightened she was at what she seemed to be doing. She must just take it calmly and make her mother have a happy time.
And after all, perhaps it was only a day’s pleasant trip. Perhaps tonight or tomorrow night she would come back with her mother to the hometown and the summer would go on as it had been planned. It seemed absurd, now she was really on the way, that it could be possible she was going away with so little preparation for so long, so far. Well, perhaps she wasn’t. After all she had not fully promised. She had only agreed to come down and talk it over and let them persuade her to go if they could. She had held a reservation. And that reservation was all that saved her from pulling back at the last minute as they were stepping into the train, and saying, “No, Mother, I can’t go! I simply can’t! It isn’t right, and, anyway, I won’t!”
But she could go back still, if she would. She wasn’t out of the country. The decision was yet ahead of her.
How dear Elim looked as he lounged easily on the platform waving them out of sight with a grin, so casually. Just as if they were coming back to dinner. Well, perhaps—a word, a telegram—Ah! Would Elim remember to deliver her letter at once? A frantic smothering sensation crowded in her throat. Oh, suppose he should forget! Suppose Dana didn’t find out that she was going until she was gone! The boat out on the ocean, plowing unfathomable distances between them, that days and months would have to bridge with memories, and with bitterness, till she could come back and they could talk together and it could all be explained. Why, why had she trusted to Elim? Why had she not sent for Dana and told him plainly what she was going to do and let him have a chance to stop her if he wanted to?
She had almost turned back to the platform at this thought, with some wild idea of still going back, perhaps waiting till a later train and sending for Dana even yet; and then the vision of his riding out to the Mohawk trail with that hateful little blue flapper by his side froze her suddenly into sense. No, she must go on! She must let Dana see what it would be to have her gone. Surely, when he knew, he would realize how hurt she had been by what he had said about her being foolish not to go. How it had stung her for him to take that other girl to the movies and refuse to come to her party, the party that had been planned two long years before. And then he would call her up. Or he would telegraph her frantically to return. It might be that even now the wires that ran between those telegraph posts were alive with a message for her, and it would be there before she reached her uncle’s home.
But no! That could not be either! It was not half an hour since she had passed Dana’s house. Elim could hardly have delivered the message. Why, she had not yet sat down in the train! How long it seemed since she mounted those steps from the platform!
It was just at that moment that she looked around her and realized that they were in the parlor car and that her mother had dropped into a chair and was motioning her to take the next one, and she came back to the surface and smiled, and roused herself to a semblance of happiness. Well, of course, but Dana would do something about it when he got the message. It wasn’t like Dana not to. Why worry? He would come down to New York at once. He would, of course. And they would talk it all out, and—she would likely come back with him to a happy summer. And then sometime he and she would save up and take this trip together. It would be that way, of course.
And she talked brightly to her mother and pointed out things in the landscape and grew almost garrulous.
But would he? Would Dana come? An undertone of uneasiness kept urging while she was telling her mother some anecdote of college last days that she had not had time to write. Would this new Dana with his self-sufficiency and his wholesale advice and his high-handed scorn of her college, would he come after her? Would he perhaps rather expect her to return to him and accept a hearty scolding when she got there? As she thought back over the years, she wondered if perhaps that had not been her attitude ever since they had been friends; he the one to condemn, she the one to apologize and return to where he had waited, indifferent. Well, perhaps it was good that she was going. Yes, she had made a wise decision. At least she would be able to test him. People always ought to be sure of one another before they were married.
But she had thought she was sure. Well, of course she was. This was only an act in the play of life. The curtain would soon rise on the next, and Dana would be taking her back home again.
But would he?
So the undertone of reasoning went on, mile after mile, while she talked and smiled and made the way bright, as she thought, for her mother.
But mothers are not easily deceived.
Mrs. Brooke watched the beloved eyes with the deep look of pain in them behind the smiles her daughter was forcing there, and at last she suddenly swung her chair about until their heads were quite near together, and then she said, “Lynnie, dear, is it so very bad? If it is I don’t think I am doing right to urge you to go.”
Lynette stopped in the middle of a sentence about the college play on class day and looked at her mother like a sorrowful child.
“Oh, Mother! Have I been so glum as all that?” she said in dismay.
“I wanted to make this a happy time.”
“Yes, dear child, and so do I,” answered the mother, “but there are some things that must be cleared out of the way first or the hurt will last all the time you are gone. Tell me, dear, is it Dana you are grieved about?”
Lynette had turned her head quickly away from her mother’s earnest gaze until only the sweet curve of cheek and chin were visible, white as chiseled marble. It was not like Lynette to be so white. The stab must have gone deep. The mother’s eyes hungered over the sweet drooping figure in the chair next to her, and a wordless prayer went up from her heart. Oh, how had she done wrong to let this thing go on so long! If it was really Dana—and it must be—what had he done? Would Lynnie tell her? Her heart was sad for her child. Perhaps after all she ought to go back home and work out her problem on the spot. Perhaps it was wrong to let her go away with this wound in her heart and expect her to forget. Perhaps—Oh, perhaps—! For hadn’t they really been separated for nearly four years? And been together only a day again? Wasn’t she trying to meddle again with the ways of Providence? Or was she? Hadn’t God perhaps put this into her heart to urge her daughter to go away? Hadn’t He sent the invitation for just this time of need? Who, who was to show her what was right?
“Oh, guide me aright!” she prayed. “Guide my child!”
Then Lynette turned about, her clear, troubled eyes looking straight into her mother’s.
“I suppose it is, Mother, although I feel bad about leaving you all again, too; and when I had just got back. But I’m really worried—well, about Dana. I don’t know what to think.”
The mother watched her daughter guardedly and did not answer at once. Finally, quite quietly, she asked, “In what way, Lynnie? Do you mean that you think he does not care anymore, as he did?”
The answer came deliberately.
“Oh, no! At least—No. I’m sure he cares!” and a flood of color stole slowly into her white cheeks and receded again, leaving them seemingly whiter than before, as she recalled Dana’s almost fierce embrace on the mountainside.
“That is—!” she began lamely.
Mrs. Brooke waited, watching the dear face hungrily, yearningly.
“Well, Mother,” said Lynette looking up again with a little dismayed smile, “I don’t seem to be getting on very well, do I? But it is kind of intangible. I don’t know just what it is that troubles me.”
The mother smiled a warm understanding and asked, “Is it that girl, Lynnie?”
“Oh, no!” said Lynette quickly. “At least—” She hesitated again.
“You mean,” said her mother, “that if everything else had been right you wouldn’t have thought anything about Dana’s bringing another girl up to go with you? You mean that circumstances might arise anywhere that would make such a happening necessary. She was a guest in his mother’s home. You mean that if Dana hadn’t been so seemingly indifferent to your birthday dinner and so careless about your wishes you would have thought nothing of it?”
“Perhaps,” said the girl, her eyes downcast now.
“But you know dear, there was excuse for him. You know how unpleasant his Aunt Justine can make it for him if he doesn’t accede to her wishes. He perhaps erred in being impatient when you tried to urge him, but he might not have fully understood the importance of it to you.”
Lynette flashed her mother a look of gratitude, but the cloud of doubt settled again into her eyes the instant it had passed.
“Yes, he did, Mother. He understood perfectly before we left the woods. And—it was my birthday. He has always remembered my birthday.” Her lips showed the least tendency to tremble.
“But men do forget, Lynnie. They do—I guess they’re made that way, most of them—all but your father, he never did. But you mustn’t lay it up too much against him. They do forget.”
Mrs. Brooke was looking down into her own lap now, fumbling with the button of her glove, trying to hide the indignation that came into her eyes at sight of the hurt her daughter had received.
“Yes,” said Lynette slowly. “I know. I guess there aren’t any like Father—not nowadays. Only Elim. I hope he’ll not be like the rest of them.”
“I hope not,” echoed the mother fervently. “We must see that he isn’t. We must not spoil him. I guess that’s the matter sometimes. The mothers and grandmothers and sisters spoil them.”
Lynette’s face was tender.
“Elim is a darling,” she said tenderly. “I wish so much I could go back and do yesterday over. I should have gone fishing with Elim in the morning and stayed with you and Grandmother in the afternoon. If I had only known how quickly I was to go away again I certainly would.”
The mother was watching her intently now, anxiously.
“You—didn’t have a happy time yesterday, Lynnie?”
“Oh, yes!” she answered half sorrowfully. “Yes, and no. I don’t really know what to think. That’s why I wanted so to have Dana come last night to wipe away some of the impressions I’m afraid I imagined. Dana seemed somehow changed. I’m not sure—Oh, I don’t know what I think! He did seem changed in some ways.”
“In what ways, dear?” The voice was quiet, restful, not in the least prying. It was the mother-tone that had always invited confidence. Lynette put her head back on the seat and prepared to bare her soul. She drew a breath of relief as if she was glad to share her burden with her mother.
“Well, I’m not sure, Mother. Perhaps I’m crazy. Perhaps I only imagine it. When I try to think of telling it, it seems so small in me.”
“Well, better talk about it then and that may dispel the imaginings. Do you mean that Dana wants to withdraw from the sort of semiengagement that existed between you?”
“No, Mother,” said Lynette quickly. “No, he talked continually about what we are going to do together and what he wants me to be and do, only—there is a difference. It seems almost conceited of me, and perhaps it is only my pride that is hurt, but somehow he doesn’t seem to treat me with the same—I hardly know what word to use. I would say ‘reverence’ only that does not seem a word for a mortal to use about herself. But it really fits. You know, he used almost to frighten me he was so reverential toward me, used to lift the hem of my dress and kiss it and all that. Of course I laughed at him and called him romantic, but somehow yesterday he seemed so much the opposite way—I guess I’m just a baby and haven’t grown up yet.”
“No!” said Mrs. Brooke sharply. “No. Never get that idea in your head. You’re beautifully and sweetly grown up. Your mother knows. Put that out of the question entirely. But tell me, Lynnie, what do you mean by saying he acted in the opposite way?”
“Why, he seemed so critical of me.”
“Critical! Of you? What can you mean? How?” She could scarcely believe it possible. Dana had always been so worshipful of her girl.
“Well, of my hair for one thing. He said when we went to a big city church I would have to bob my hair. Mother, he thinks I’m unsophisticated.”
“I should hope you were!” said the mother haughtily, settling back in her chair with an indignant look about her firm lips. “With the present-day meaning of sophistication, I should hope you were! Thank God you are, my little girl!”
“He said I ought to go to Europe to learn poise. He seems to think that is more important than any other quality in a minister’s wife. He blames my lack of poise to my college. Mother, he said horrid things about the college; he laughed at it several times. And he talked strangely about the Bible, too, and about things that he used to think exactly the opposite about. Oh, Mother! I don’t know. Perhaps I was just excited and got things all twisted up. Perhaps I ought to go back and talk it out with him and let him see what he has made me feel.”
“But I don’t understand dear; haven’t you made it clear that you chose that college because of its Christian standing? Because your father thought highly of it and wished you to go there, and because there were certain advantages there which could not be had in any other place t
hat we knew of? Haven’t you ever explained about it to Dana?”
“Oh, yes, Mother, I told him all about it several years ago. He knew. And he thought it was fine then. I tell you he has different ideas now, and I’m afraid has acquired a set of new ideals.”
Mrs. Brooke was gravely silent for a moment and Lynette went on.
“I had a feeling that he would sneer at whatever I told him. Why some of the simplest things I said seemed to bring a look of scorn on his face.”
“But didn’t you tell him what you had been studying there? How you have been taking up the Greek and Hebrew in order to fit yourself to be more a perfect helper for him?”
“No, Mother,” said Lynette sadly. “I couldn’t tell him. I was afraid he would be angry. He said so decidedly that he did not intend that I was to be a minister’s wife. That it wasn’t the fashion anymore for the minister’s wife to feel that she was hired along with her husband. That he wanted his wife to have social duties and devote herself to him and not to the congregation, that they had deaconesses for such things now, and a minister’s wife nowadays was just as free as any other woman to go into society and attend plays and hear good music and have a good time. She was the minister’s wife, not the minister. And he intimated that I would need poise more than anything else in the world to occupy a position like that.”
“Lynnie! You don’t mean that Dana said things like that!”
“Yes, Mother, he did, although he didn’t say it very disagreeably, you know. He was nice and pleasant about it; that is, if I didn’t take issue with him. And then when I did he blamed it on my poor training in a little backwoods college. I couldn’t tell him anything about the college. Of course, he showed he hadn’t the least idea what a really wonderful place it is. And anyway, I had no chance to talk much. He was full of all the wonderful things that have happened to him. Mother, he has really taken high rank in scholarship and brought himself to the notice of his professors in an unusual way. I couldn’t help but be proud of him for that of course. They say he is very eloquent—he showed me some letters from his professors—they say wonderful things about his attainments and his promise; he has preached in some very prominent pulpits and been asked to consider coming back to them. And he seems so full of what he had done and so determined to have a big city charge right off at the start that it troubles me terribly.”
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