She remembered how carefully, how almost awesomely she had turned from her book, with real reluctance, promising herself to return soon to this greatest mystery story she had ever read. She laid Betty Lou’s little silken marker between the leaves before she gave attention to her friend.
“What on earth do you find so interesting?” demanded Carol lazily as Jane laid the handsomely bound volume on the table. “The Bible! Why, Jane Arleth! You don’t mean to tell me you have turned saint!”
As Jane, with her head back and her eyes closed, thought all these things over, a slow color stole into her cheeks, and a feeling akin to shame came over her. Had there been a tinge of sarcasm in Carol’s voice as she said that about being a saint, a curl of mockery on the lovely lips? Had that been the reason she had hidden her Bible away that morning in her trunk and forgotten to bring it out thereafter to read? She had told herself that she was putting it away from unsympathetic eyes, but wasn’t it really herself and not the Bible she had been trying to protect? The Bible needed no apology, of course. It had withstood the mocking and sarcasm of the ages, but she, she could not stand against a sneer, for—and now she began to see several things more clearly—she had not been living up to her professions as a Christian! She had been doing a number of things that she had always disapproved, things that her father and mother disapproved strongly, and that she had come to feel were not things in which a Christian should have a part. She had decidedly gone against her conscience in a number of ways. True, she had not accepted liquor on the occasions when it had been brought along for some of their picnics and festivities; and she had not learned to smoke, though there had been more than one attempt to make her. But even Carol did not smoke and seldom took a cocktail. She was not alone in that.
But conscience was waking up with a vengeance now. It brought back vividly to mind the memory of last evening in the hotel when Lew Lauderdale had drawn her into the dance. She wasn’t a dancing girl. Her father and mother disapproved of it. They felt it gave opportunity for too great familiarity. An old-fashioned view, of course, Jane realized, but one in which she had acquiesced up until now as something a Christian had better let alone. It had taken Llewellyn Lauderdale’s fine eyes looking into hers, the touch of his magnetic hand upon her arm, the sound of his delightful voice telling her how much he desired to dance with her, how well he knew she would be able to dance, how he would guide her so that she would have no difficulty even though the dance was unfamiliar to her, to break down her defenses. With the jealous eyes of Gayle Gilder and Sally Loomis upon her, it had not seemed so disloyal to her former principles to let herself be whirled into the moving throng, to surrender her body to the subtle rhythm of the music, to the intoxication of strong arms about her and fine eyes looking into her own, to the excitement of knowing that there were at least a dozen other girls who would have delighted to be where she was. Now, in her calmer moments, it was not so much the fact that she had allowed herself to be drawn into something she did not approve that troubled her, but the memory of how close that strong arm and that intimate embrace had become. In the light of her present feeling about the wonder of that arm, she began to see what it was that Father and Mother disapproved of in dancing. If Llewellyn Lauderdale never became anything more to her, she would always be a little ashamed of those few moments she had danced with him. It seemed to sully just a little the fineness of herself. Oh, she knew that the world, the great world with which she had been playing for three weeks, would think nothing of it. It was a common thing with them. Carol would have laughed at her scruples. But nevertheless, it was not in accord with what she felt sure was the Bible standard for a Christian.
And then having got down to what seemed to her the very depth of humiliation she was frank enough to look farther into her own heart and ask a few more questions. What was she feeling so utterly wretched about this morning anyway? Was it because she had done a lot of things of which she was ashamed and been disloyal to her Lord, or because she was disappointed in Lauderdale?
Suddenly she set her lips firmly and sat up straight, staring into the hot afternoon through the fine wire cinder-protection of the car window, and seeing nothing but Lew Lauderdale’s eyes as he had told her how beautiful she was, out there in the nook of the rocks, with the far mountains, and the lake in the distance, and his hand on hers. How much had he meant when he had said those things? He had almost told her he loved her, not quite, and she had been breathless, waiting—for something—which did not come. Instead, he had said those ugly things about her family—people he didn’t know, of course—but he had said them, and it had been like a shower of ice on her heart. He had talked about her taking an apartment! Well, that put him in another class from hers. The young men of her class, her family and friends, would not think an apartment for a young woman alone was quite respectable. Of course, it was being done and all that, but she had shared her mother’s feeling, always, that girls who did those things had overstepped a fine line of good breeding. Oh, of course there were unfortunate girls who had no homes, girls who were forced by circumstances to leave their homes to support their family or themselves, but the right thing for them to do was seek some respectable boarding place or go together with some older woman who could afford a semblance at least of home and shelter. But for a girl who had a home and dear family, to leave them to get along without her as best they could, and go away for a fuller freedom and a selfish life of her own, seemed to Jane nothing short of contemptible. For this young man to have dared suggest such a thing for her seemed somehow to place her in an unsavory position in his eyes and took away amazingly from the ideal of him which she had up to that time held.
And, now, what was she unhappy about? Was she expecting him to run after her and somehow dispel the impression he had given of himself? What a fool she had been to run away, angry, disappointed in him! She should have stayed her time out and been sure. Perhaps she had misjudged him! At this hour they would all be out on the lake, or—And he would probably have asked her— But why torture herself this way! She had cut all that out. She could not go back now! It was too late! She was almost home. In less than an hour now she would be getting out at the city station and deciding whether to take a taxi to the house or go in the subway as usual.
Well, it was a bad dream, the whole thing! It was going to be rather terrible winding up her wonderful vacation in this way, a week before its time, with nothing but a blurred ending. How was she to paint it all to her dear eager family who would want to know every day and hour and minute in its finest details? As it seemed now she could not tell them a thing. She wanted to fling herself on her bed with her face in the pillow like a sick child and cry!
How hot it was. The heat seemed to shimmer up from the outside and come in great sickening waves at her as the train swept into the outskirts of the city. Had she known cool mountain breezes only that morning? Was it possible that there was all this difference between the city and the resort where she had been?
A sharp pang of compunction went through her at the thought of her mother suffering with the heat, and her father ill.
As familiar sights began to come into view, the home people came more and more into the foreground and the mountain hotel began to recede. Better so, she thought. She could not adjust herself to everyday living again with such bitter thoughts as had been with her all day. Forget them! If there was anything worth liking in Lauderdale he would somehow prove it. If he really thought as much of her as he had seemed to think when he held her hand last night so long on the pine-sheltered end of the long verandah, with the moonlight making weird pictures between the trees, he would come and find her. He knew where she lived. And even if he didn’t know Flora Street, he could find it if he wanted to. Let it rest at that. Only—how she wished she had not let him hold her hand so long—and that kiss he gave her before they went in—it had seemed to mean so much—and yet now—it somehow seemed to mean so little! She was not altogether sure she wished it to mean anything. It had co
me so unexpectedly, and she had not repelled it! It seemed to commit her to something of which she was not quite sure, to somehow sully her own ideal of herself.
She got out her handkerchief and rubbed her lips hard till they were as red as if they were painted, yet she wished she could wipe off the memory of that kiss.
Yes, she was an old-fashioned girl. And because she was old- fashioned she was most unhappy, as she neared home, about the way she had spent that long-anticipated vacation.
The porter was coming through the car now, brushing shoes, gathering up baggage. He smiled and knelt before Jane to give her shoes a little service for the generous tip she had bestowed when she entered the car.
She swung around in her chair and submitted her pretty shoes to his hands, her eyes far away out the window—disturbed, troubled eyes. The man across the aisle wondered what was the matter. He liked this closer view of the firm pretty mouth and chin, the trim little foot on the velvet cushion being polished, the well-groomed hand on the arm of the chair, the pleasant impersonal smile with which she acknowledged the service given her. He noticed that the texture of her garments was fine, with a tailored trimness of line that meant they were of the best quality. Everything about her, the soft sacque gloves that lay in her lap, the exquisite suede handbag with its small jeweled clasp, the correct baggage, placed her in a class of wealth and culture, and yet there was about her a look of strength, self-reliance, and sweet character that was rare. He could not take his eyes from her face.
Jane reached over to pick up the unread magazine that she had let slip down between her chair and the next, and as she did so her handbag and gloves slid from her lap in the other direction across the aisle, the handbag landing impertinently at the young man’s feet.
Jane swung around and reached for them just as the man grasped the bag, and their fingers came in light contact as he handed her possession over with a bow.
“Oh, thank you,” said Jane, her cheeks glowing with sudden embarrassment. “How awkward of me!” and her eyes met the stranger’s gray ones in one quick pleasant look. Then she swung back with her chair half-turned toward the window. She had caught a fleeting impression of a nice strong face, keen young eyes, and an interesting smile, but her thoughts were back on the mountain again like a flash, thinking of the young people she had known there.
She had one other look from him as they got up to leave the car, a nice pleasant grave twinkle, with just a hint of a sketchy motion toward his hat, from a hand that so little wished to presume upon the recent incident that she was left in doubt as to whether he had really intended it or not.
A moment more and they were out on the hot platform bright with the last rays of the torrid afternoon sun, and she was pointing out her bags to the red-capped porter. When she turned to go, the young man with the gray eyes was nowhere in sight, and she presently forgot his existence.
The heat was really unbearable! Why had she left the city at all if it was going to be so bad to get back to it? Her heroic idea of riding home in the trolley vanished quickly. She couldn’t think of carrying her heavy coat and two bags all the way up the hill from the trolley to Flora Street. Even now with only the exertion of getting out of the train, she felt the perspiration rolling down from her forehead into one eye, and her sleeves seemed glued to her arms. Poor Mother! How had she stood it?
All the way home as the taxi threaded its way through traffic, Jane looked out on the breathless dusty streets and wondered why she had been such a fool as to come home before she had to. She would not be helping her mother to bear the heat by being there. She should have stayed. She should have gathered coolness like a commodity to strengthen her for her winter’s work. More and more as the taxi wormed its way through the familiar thoroughfares, Jane wanted to turn around and run back. If it hadn’t been for having to explain her extraordinary conduct to Carol and her friends perhaps even yet she would have done it. She had still enough of her vacation money left to pay her fare back and pay her board another week. Why hadn’t she stopped to think longer before she ran off in this impulsive way?
Even after the taxi had climbed the hill and turned into Flora Street, she felt that panic upon her to turn back and run away from it all for just her other little week’s reprieve. Mrs. Bagley’s drooping pink and white cosmos, over the smart picket fence at the corner, seemed to emphasize the heat and drought that brooded over the cheap little street. The Turners’ pansy beds that had bloomed so gallantly in the spring and were flaunting their purple and gold valiantly even when she left for the mountains, were dry and yellow now, with scarcely a bloom in sight, the ground all parched and hard around the withered stems. The Boughtons’ little dog that usually barked his head off every time a car went by was curled up forlornly in a deep dusty hole he had dug under the shadowed end of the porch lattice; and even the brave marigolds in the Tyson yard were bowing dusty heads over crisp brown stems and dried yellow foliage. Oh, it was hot, hot, hot, and the Elmores’ Victrola was playing the same old tune “Is I blue? Is I blue? Is I blueooo-?” as the taxi drew up at home. There, too, was the Smith baby out on the Smith porch, as usual yelling itself black in the face—while its mother gesticulated wildly and told, in loud tones to the neighbor across the fence, the ills her child had suffered. With a heavy heart Jane paid her fare and turned in at the home gate.
The house seemed very quiet and she knew a sudden feeling of disappointment that no one had spied her. Betty Lou was apt to burst forth upon her every evening when she arrived from the office and smother her with kisses. Where was Betty Lou? The silence impressed her. A vague anxiety flitted across her heart. Yet there was the house just as she had left it, Betty Lou’s Little Women lying open, facedown in her little rocker, the old palm leaf on the floor; the hole in the screen door mended carefully with coarse black thread; the mended board in the doorstep, newer than the rest; and through into the kitchen she could see hot red sun shining through the western window leaving its last fierceness in the hot little kitchen where Mother had to work. Oh, she was back home all right! And why had she come? Of all silly fools!
She was just about to pull open the screen door and enter when she heard the tinkle of the telephone, and then Tom’s voice, followed by those nasal tones twanging out so loud it almost seemed as if the neighbors must hear, except that Mrs. Smith and her baby held the stage at that moment to the exclusion of all others.
Jane heard the whole uncouth message, clanged out like a gong, and shuddered all by herself on the little hot porch while she waited in horror. At once she remembered Betty Lou’s letter about the girl with the painted lips! Poor Mother! Tom’s angry tones and sharp negative did not altogether reassure her. She sensed that he would not want the family to hear that girl talk. With a new pain in her heart, she opened the screen noiselessly and stepped within, just as her brother hung up the receiver, the burden of home and unknown perplexities settling down upon her young heart like a great load.
“Jane!” cried Betty Lou, the first to see her standing there amid her luggage, her tone halfway between ecstatic and horrified.
“Oh, Jane! You didn’t think I meant for you to come, did you?” cried Betty Lou, her tears brimming over with her relief. “Oh, Jinny, I’m so glad to see you!” and fell upon her sister with kisses and tears.
“Gee, Jane! Are you home?” exclaimed Tom, emerging from his embarrassment. “Good work, old girl! The sight of you is good for sore eyes. Say, we’ve got a heck of a mess here! You came just in time.”
But it was to her mother that Jane came swiftly, as soon as her eyes were adjusted to the dimness of the room out of the brightness of the setting sun outside. She went down on her silken knees by the old couch and gathered her mother softly, tenderly, into her arms.
“Mother, Mother dear! What has happened? Are you worse?”
Mrs. Arleth opened her eyes with a sudden light of joy, but her voice protested weakly, “Oh, Janey, your wonderful vacation! And you’ve thrown a whole week of it away—!”
“No, no, Mother dear!” said Jane eagerly, her tears falling on her mother’s face. “I—wanted to come home! I’m going to have the best part of my vacation now, at home with you all! Oh, how could I have been so selfish as to go away and leave you all here in the heat?”
“There! There! Little girlie, Mother’s own girl!” soothed the mother, lapsing into ancient nursery days. “We wanted you to have a beautiful time. It was what we all wanted—” Then with sudden memory, “But I must get up now and go to Father—!” She looked wildly around and tried to rise.
“Not yet, Mums!” put in Tom’s voice with a note of command. “Not till the doctor comes. I’m telephoning to the hospital right now!” and he took up the receiver again.
“Father?” said Jane, rising in quick alarm. “Where is Father? What is the matter?”
“Father was taken sick at the office,” explained Betty Lou in a frightened little grown-up voice, reverting to her original troubles. “We don’t know yet. It was what made Mother worse again. She fell while they were giving her the message.”
“Oh,” said Jane frantically, “I’m so glad I came home! I see now why I had to come at once! Betty dear, run up and bring Mother’s pillow down, and her sheets. I’m going to make a bed for her right here on the couch. No, Mother dear. Don’t you worry. I’ll look after Dad. You are going to lie still and rest awhile. And, Tom, isn’t there some place not far away where we could get an electric fan? I’ll pay for it. Mother’s going to get cooled off.”
Jane tossed off her lovely little hat, a copy of a Paris model, upon which she had spent an exasperating number of her hard- earned dollars, throwing it on the piano as if it had been an old rag, and went to work making her mother comfortable in spite of protests.
“But I must go to your father, Jane!” said the mother feebly.
“I’ll go, Mumsie, as soon as I get you fixed. You know Dad will be glad to see me.”
Happiness Hill Page 4