In July Miss Vance returned unexpectedly. Her charges had tired of travel, and turned their backs upon India.
She dropped them in Chicago, and came to Weir for rest.
The evening of her arrival she strolled with Frances through the park, listening to the story of George's sudden wooing, and the quiet, hurried wedding.
"It had to be quiet and hurried," said Mrs. Waldeaux, "in order to keep her ignorant of her change of fortune. He took her to the Virginia mountains, so that no newspapers could reach her. They are coming to-morrow. It won't trouble her to hear that her money is gone when she is here with us all, at home. As for me," she went on excitedly, "I am beginning to advertise the summer resort. I must put my hand to the plough. I don't mean that she shall miss any comfort or luxury as George's wife."Miss Vance looked at her. "Frances, give up your planning and working. Let George work for you and his wife," she said curtly. "It is time for you to stop and rest.""And why should I stop and rest, Clara?" said Frances, amazed.
"Surely you know, dear. You are not as young as you once were. Your eyes are weak, and your hearing is a little dulled, and----"Frances threw out her hand eagerly. "You think I am growing old! It is only my eyes and ears that are wearing out. _I_ am not deaf nor blind," she said earnestly. "_I_ am not old. I find more fun and flavor in life now than I did at sixteen. If I live to be seventy, or a hundred, I shall be the same Frances Wal-deaux still."
Clara gave an annoyed shrug. "But really, _I_ make the thought of death my constant companion. And you are older than I.""`After the busy day Comes the calm sleep of night,'"she quoted, with a sententious sigh.
"Calm and sleep do not appear to me to be the highest conditions of life. No! I will not be set aside, even when I am dead, like a burned-out candle!" The indignant tears stood in her eyes. "Why, even in that other world I shall not be a barren stock, thank God! Ihave given a family to mankind. To watch a long line of your descendants at work, to see in them your own thoughts and your own soul reaching out, live powers through all eternity--I often think of it. That will be--not calm nor sleep."Miss Vance touched Mrs. Waldeaux's arm affectionately.
"What a queer idea, Frances. Well, I never argue, you know. Drop in the harness, if you choose. Let us go in now. It is chilly."The older woman looked after her, and smiled good-humoredly. After a moment she raised her hand, examining it attentively. Her hand had been very beautiful in shape, white and dimpled, and she had been vain enough to wear fine rings. Now it was yellow and wrinkled. The great emerald looked like a bit of glass upon it.
"Yes, I see," she said, with a miserable little laugh, and then stood looking out into the far distance. "But _I_ am not growing old." She spoke aloud, as if to one who stood apart with her and could understand.
"Even out in that other world I shall not be only a mother. I shall be me. ME!" touching her breast.
"After a million of years--it will still be me."There stirred within the lean body and rheumatic limbs depths of unused power, of thought, of love and passion, and, deeper than all, awful possibilities of change.
"I have it in me still to be worse than a murderer," she thought, with whitening face.
She stood a long time, alone. A strange content and light came slowly into her face. "Come what will, Ishall never be left to myself again," she said at last, speaking to a Friend whom she had found long ago.
Then she went in search of the boy. "Come, Jack," she said cheerfully, "there are busy days before us."George and Lucy that evening reached Dover, prettiest of American towns. They strolled down the shaded street out into a quiet country lane. Lucy sat down upon a fallen tree, and George threw himself upon the grass beside her.
"To-morrow we shall be at home," she said, pushing his hair back. "Do you know that your profile is absolutely Greek?" Her eyes half closed critically. "Yes, we shall be at home about eleven o'clock. I wrote to Stephen to order all the dishes that you like for luncheon. Your mother and Jack are coming. It will be such a gay, happy day!"He took her hand. He would tell her now. It would not distress her. The money weighed for nothing in her life.
He was her world; he knew that.
"Lucy!" he said.
She turned, startled at his grave tone. The color rose in her delicate little face, and there was a keen flash of intelligence in her blue eyes. It vanished, and they were only blue and innocent.
"Lucy, would you be willing to come to my house? To take it for home? To be a poor man's wife, there? God knows I'll try to make you happy in it.""No," she said gently. "That is your mother's home. She has made it. It is not fair to bring young queen bees into the old queen's hive. We will live at your house, Dunbar Place, George.""It is not mine nor yours!" George broke out. "Oh, my darling, I have hidden something from you. It is all gone. Your property, income, every thing! The Consolidated Consolidated Companies failed. Their depositors are ruined.""Yes, I know," said Lucy, brushing a fallen leaf from her gown. "But they had no control over my affairs. Iwithdrew them from their management in February."George started up. "Then you--you are a great heiress still?""No." She rose, holding out her hands, laughing. "My husband, I believe, is a rich man, and I shall have what he gives me."But he did not hear her. He walked away down the road, shaken by a dumb fury. He had been tricked! Who had tricked him?
Then he heard a miserable sob and turned. Great God!
Was any thing on earth so dear as that little woman standing there? She was crying! Had he struck her? He was a brute. What had he done?
He ran to her, and taking her outstretched hands, kissed them passionately.
"They are mine--mine!" he whispered, and knew nothing beyond.
They walked together like two happy children down the shady lane toward the golden sunset. The money was forgotten.
