A look of bewilderment spread over Lisa's face.
"But I don't understand. Why did you live there? I understood that your father was fabulously wealthy. Why did you not go to a more fitting place to live?"
Dana looked at her questioningly and then shook his head.
"No, Father was never fabulously wealthy. He inherited some money when I was a small child, and he was successful in his investments, but he turned it all over to you, that is, to my sister, in trust, after you married again. He desired that you and she might never be in want. He kept only the little old house and his business. But when the Depression came his business began to fail, as his health was failing, until it was all gone, and he was unable to do anything about it. If I had not been able to get a job with a small salary as soon as I came out of college, he would have suffered actual want. As it was we had some very hard times getting along. If it had not been for Father's earnest request I would not have thought I could afford the journey to New York at this time to bring you his letter. That is the reason I was glad to get my present job temporarily. I cannot afford to risk losing it."
He held her attention with his look until he was done speaking, and she listened. Then her face took on a beautiful scorn as she tried to face him back.
"But, you see, I don't believe you!" she said haughtily. "And I shan't waste any more time talking to you. I shall have this matter investigated thoroughly by my lawyer. That's all! I don't want to talk to you anymore!" And she swept from the room, leaving him staring blankly at the doorway where she had disappeared.
Dana stood there looking after her for a full minute before he picked up his hat and went out.
There seemed to be no one around anywhere, so Dana let himself out into the hall and down the elevator to the street. No one seemed even to know he was there. He went out slowly, looking about as he went, hoping to see his sister somewhere, but there wasn't even a sound of her, and no servant around to ask. Well, he was done now surely, and he had learned one thing. Never was there the least possibility that his father had been mistaken or wrong. Such a woman was heartless and utterly wrong from the beginning. There was no mother, nor wife, in her. She was just a selfish soul who wanted everything she could lay her hands on and had no love for anybody.
He recalled how harshly she had dealt with her daughter on his last visit when she had wept. Of course, she was angry then, but even anger should not have allowed her to reprimand the girl so severely before one who was really a stranger to them both. Well, he had done his duty, surely, and there could be no reason whatever for feeling he must go back to see her again. The girl, perhaps, if the way opened, but not the mother.
He was standing at the door of the apartment house as this thought came to him, and just at that instant a man in uniform stepped up to him and touched him on the shoulder.
"Madam would like you to return," he said with the authority in his voice that some servants know how to assume.
Dana looked at him in astonishment.
"I am the butler," explained the man, "and Madam sent me down to say she wishes to see you for a moment at once."
Dana looked at the servant thoughtfully, considering. Should he go back? His natural inclination would lead him to disregard her wish. She certainly had not been pleasant to deal with. Then there came to him a verse he had read that morning before going out: "Even Christ pleased not himself," he paused. He had thought his duty to his earthly father discharged, but was there yet a higher obligation, a duty to his heavenly Father?
He turned and followed the man to the elevator and up to his mother's apartment once more.
The butler led him to another room, a small reception room just off the hall, where an open fire burned and all the chairs were stiff and formal. But he did not sit down, though Lisa waved her hand toward a straight chair she had obviously placed for him, opposite to her own, as if he were to be tried before a judge.
"I sent for you because I wish to ask you the address of your lawyer." She had a tablet and a fountain pen in her hand.
"Lawyer?" said Dana, and then he smiled. "I have never had occasion to have a lawyer."
Lisa jerked her head back impatiently.
"Well, then the name and address of the man who attends to your affairs."
"When one has nothing, there is no need for such a man. I usually attend to my own affairs, such as they are."
Lisa studied him thoughtfully for a moment.
"Very well," she said insolently. "If that is the attitude you intend to take, we shall fight you from the start. Suppose you give me the name of your bank."
Dana gave her one steady, sorrowful look, and then he answered her quietly, giving the name of his home bank, and adding: "But there is less than a hundred dollars on deposit there. I was obliged to draw out a little for carfare and board while I am here." He named the very small sum he had drawn out.
She jotted down the address and figures he had given her. Then she fixed him with her cold businesslike glance again.
"You have a safe-deposit box in that bank?"
"No," said Dana.
"Then where do you keep your valuable papers?"
He studied her gravely. Then he said: "I have no valuable papers except the deed to the little house and my college diploma, if you would call that valuable. Those I always keep with me."
She considered this contemptuously.
"You expect me to believe that?" she asked with a sneer.
"Why, I don't know that I do," said Dana. "I hadn't thought about it. I am accustomed to being believed, but you needn't do so if you find it hard. I could easily prove it. My father brought me up to tell the truth. I don't see why you should think I would want to tell a falsehood about a thing like that."
"Naturally you don't want to give up what money your father left you, but I believe I am the judge of whether you will keep it or not. Your father gave me a document a few weeks after we were married that would give me all rights in everything he left."
"Yes?" said Dana with a lifting of his brows. "Well, I'm quite sure you are welcome to the little house you once left, if you want it. But there really is nothing else. The few dollars I have left in the Western bank was my own salary, deposited there by myself. Would you have a right to that, too? The salary of a deserted child?"
"Don't be nasty. It isn't necessary. Of course, I don't want any such trifle as that. But what of your father's securities? Stocks and bonds and so on. Where did he keep those?"
Dana looked up with his rare smile.
"So far as I know, they were all in heaven," he said pleasantly. "He was penniless so far as earthly riches are concerned. But since you doubt my word, why don't you write to our old minister, and also the doctor who attended my father? Or, in fact, anybody you used to know out in our old home. The lawyer who used to take care of Father's affairs long ago has been dead a good many years. But I am quite sure any of these others will make the situation plain for you beyond a doubt."
Lisa's mouth wore a disagreeable curve as she answered.
"I fancy we shall be able to find out what I want to know without having to consult ministers and doctors, especially those who would obviously be prejudiced."
"Then is that all you wanted of me?"
"That is all at present. But when I send for you again, that is, if I find it necessary, I wish you would come when I want you. I think you will survive even if you have to quit your job for a few hours. Personally I don't see any point to your taking a job. When we unearth a few of those buried securities I fancy, you won't be so keen on jobs."
Dana looked at her with disgust. Could it be possible that a woman--just a woman, not even a wife or mother, could so far lower herself as to say such unbelievable things?
Then he turned swiftly and went out, hurrying away from the neighborhood. Not for any butler would he go back again to that presence.
Half an hour later Bruce came into their room and found him in the dark sitting by the window with his face i
n his hands, a look of utter dejection upon him.
He turned on the light and looked at him. Then he said: "Say, brother, it seems to me you are in the wrong position. You ought to be on your knees, not bold upright in despair."
Dana smiled wearily.
"Yes, I know," he said. "I was sort of knocked endwise. But at that it was no more than I expected when I came to New York."
"What's the matter? No chance of a job?"
"Oh, no, it wasn't that. I got a job and a good one. If I make good I imagine there's a chance of permanency, provided I want to stay in this part of the country. I suppose I ought to be praising God instead of being utterly dejected. The salary is twice as large as I had hoped for, too."
"Well, now, fella, what's gotcha? Thank the Lord for a good job and a good salary, and let the Lord take care of the other things that are troubling you. They'll all come out in His good time."
"I suppose so, but I can't see how."
"Do you need to see?"
"No. Of course not!" And Dana turned on his brilliant smile again. "Thanks, old man. I owe a lot to you."
"And I to you, fella. And now, do you want to tell me, or shall we forget it?"
"Oh, I'd better tell you. Probably you'll help to dispel the shadow. You know all about me, you might as well know the rest."
So Dana, in as few words as possible, related the story of his visit to his mother, feeling again keenly the half-hidden insults she had given.
"H'm!" said Bruce when the story was told. "Money-crazy is she? But that poor little girl! I feel sorry for her!"
Dana gave him a swift, surprised look.
"Do you know, I hadn't thought about her at all. I suppose that attitude has done a lot of things to my sister, hasn't it?"
"Of course," said Bruce. "She must have led a terrible life and got tremendously warped about facts. She isn't entirely to blame, you know."
"Of course not," said Dana, looking at his friend sadly. "It all seems so terribly sad, Bruce, and especially that there is nothing I can do about it."
"Yes, there is something you can do," said Bruce assuredly. "You can pray. Perhaps that is why God has let it seem so absolutely hopeless to you, that you may see that of yourself you cannot do anything about it. You are shut up to Him, and His power. Perhaps He is leading you to the place where you will be even closer in touch with Him than you are, so that He can work, where you alone are helpless."
It was very still in the room while Dana thought this over. At last he looked his friend in the eyes.
"You're right, Bruce. That's just what I needed. Shall we pray now?"
And the two young men went down upon their knees together, calling upon God, pleading His promises, claiming the shed blood for sinners. The boy was praying for his mother who had deserted him, and his friend was pleading earnestly for the girl who had deeply touched his heart because of her ignorance, and unhappiness, and her hopeless situation.
After they had prayed, there was a cheerful note in their voices, a rested look in their faces.
"Well, I feel that God is great enough to deal with this situation, and I'm here to do His will, if He has orders for me," said Dana as he brushed his hair and got ready to go out for the evening meal.
The answer his friend made was to burst out in a deep, clear voice, singing:
"My faith looks up to Thee,
Thou Lamb of Calvary,
Savior divine!"
Dana joined in with his lovely voice, and the wonderful words rolled out and drifted down through the house. More than one lodger paused, looking up, listening in wonder, and turned back to blessed memories of other days.
"Now, brother," said Bruce as they finished their song and started out, "here's where you lay down your burden and forget it until God has orders for you. He's bearing the burden now. Come on, let's go, and suppose you tell me a bit about your new job. I'm tremendously interested to hear about it."
So they went out the door and down the street to their dinner, Dana telling all about Mr. Burney, and the office, and how Valerie Shannon was Mr. Burney's private secretary.
"It all sounds good to me," said Bruce. "If you ask me, I'd say the Lord has indeed been working on your behalf today, and it is evident He wants you to stay here in New York, at least for the present."
"I guess that must be true," said Dana. "And really, I suppose my state of depression over the afternoon's experience was brought on by the hurt to my own pride. You know, it was anything but easy to have one's mother talk that way about money, as if I were trying to cheat her."
"Well, of course that was tough. But she never has had the natural feelings of a mother, and you can't expect them. Besides, you are no worse off than you were. And you're much better off than that poor little sister of yours, for you had a father, a wonderful father, and she has never had either a mother or father."
"That's true. I wish I could do something for her to make up for what she has lost."
"You will, Dana. And I'd be glad to help, too."
"That's great of you, Bruce. I know she's not the kind of girl you naturally would pick out to be interested in, even distantly, and I know you can't enjoy even an occasional evening, or hour, in such uncongenial company."
"That's all right with me, Dana," said Bruce. "I'll be thinking how my Father loves her. And at least there's this, I haven't any other girl to object to my taking a little interest in her. But, do you realize we're making plans without her consent? She may already have had enough of us. In which case you and I will be shut up to prayer entirely in the matter, and maybe that's what God intends."
"Yes, I know," said Dana. "We'll just have to wait."
Chapter 12
Meantime, Coralie had departed from the city to a house party at a beautiful estate on Long Island. She was fed up with quarreling with Lisa. She was determined not to see the obnoxious Errol again and could not brook the thought of Ivor Kavanaugh. He seemed to be underfoot almost any hour of the day or evening. She could not see how Lisa could have him around. So she had accepted this invitation that in itself was not especially attractive to her, just to get out of the house and away from all that was going on there.
She had taken the precaution before she left the city, of going to the trust company that held her own fortune in its care, and making a request that no more money should be given to Lisa or anyone else except herself.
Their answer was to show her the signed requests from herself for all monies that had been paid out since she had reached the age when the money was to be in her own care. There they were, in writing that very strongly resembled her own! What could she do? Perhaps Lisa was expecting to pay it all back when she married her reputedly wealthy Ivor, but Lisa was most casual with money, and Coralie was pretty sure that when it was gone it was gone. There was nothing for it but to protect herself now. Of course, Lisa could not touch any portion of the capital, nor could she herself, but Lisa must be stopped from pilfering these amounts from her account, which the interest replenished quarterly. Lisa had a little of her own, enough to live simply. So she looked up from the papers and spoke boldly.
"Mr. Brewer, I didn't sign these papers. This is my mother's signature. She hasn't got used to the idea yet that I am anything but a child, and she thinks she ought to control my expenditures. But isn't it true that I was to have the interest on my money to use at my own discretion when I was eighteen?"
"Oh, yes, of course," said Mr. Brewer. "I told them I could not let this money go out without your signed warrant for it, and so your mother brought these papers every time. It certainly looks like your signature, though of course it did not seem necessary to have an expert examine it."
"Yes," said Coralie sadly, "of course, it wouldn't. But I shall have to ask you to take some steps so that you will not cash any more checks to which she has signed my name. I simply won't be tied down this way without my rightful money."
"Well, I'm very sorry that this has occurred," said Mr. Brewer. "I won't let it hap
pen again. I will see that there will be no further mistakes."
"I'm going to change my signature anyway," said Coralie. "And I'm not going to tell my family I'm doing it. I've been signing my checks Corinne Collette. After this I shall always sign my name Coralie Barron. That is my real name anyway. Please don't give any more of my money to anyone else but myself. I simply will not be managed this way."
As Coralie left the bank she reflected that Lisa had done this thing sometimes without any further comment than, "Darling, I just stopped in to the bank to get money to pay the store for those clothes you bought last month. I knew it would save you trouble!" knowing that Coralie would pay no further attention to the matter. Perhaps if Ivor Kavanaugh had not appeared on the scene Coralie would have gone on oblivious to what was happening. But her lack of belief in him and her horror of having him for a second stepfather made her see through her mother's present desire for money. It did not occur to her that it was a rather dreadful charge she was bringing against her mother in stating that she had forged her signature and taken possession of her rightful money. Coralie had never been educated in things ethical, and that phase of the matter did not disturb her as it would have disturbed a girl with the traditions of Valerie Shannon, for instance. The whole thing was a matter of fighting Ivor Kavanaugh, and money was the only weapon she knew.
So she was not disturbed about what she had done as she wended her way to her house party. It had seemed to her the only thing she could do. Of course, there would be a tremendous battle with Lisa when she found out that her daughter had told Mr. Brewer not to let her have any more of her money. But what was a battle more or less?
So she entered into the merriment determinedly. She danced with the rest and tried to put away all serious thoughts. This was life. This was happiness, of course. So she had been brought up to believe, and she would believe it. Persistently she put away the gnawing thought that this was not real happiness, that she had lived all her life this way and it had never made her glad like the people in that meeting.
The Seventh Hour Page 12