Part 15 (1/2)

”Margaret, I'll not have you talk in this strange way. You owe me respect if not obedience,” said Mrs. Maynard, her voice trembling.

”Oh, well, I won't say any more,” replied Margaret, ”But can't you spare me? Couldn't we live within our means?”

”After all these years--to skimp along! I couldn't endure it.”

”Whom have you in mind for me to--to marry?” asked the girl, coldly curious.

”Mr. Swann has asked your hand in marriage for his son Richard. He wants Richard to settle down. Richard is wild, like all these young men. And I have--well, I encouraged the plan.”

”_Mother!_” cried Margaret, springing up.

”Margaret, you will see”

”I despise d.i.c.k Swann.”

”Why?” asked her mother.

”I just do. I never liked him in school. He used to do such mean things. He's selfish. He let Holt and Daren suffer for his tricks.”

”Margaret, you talk like a child.”

”Listen, mother.” She threw her arms round Mrs. Maynard and kissed her and spoke pleadingly. ”Oh, don't make me hate myself. It seems I've grown so much older in the last year or so--and lately since this marriage talk came up. I've thought of things as never before because I've--I've learned about them. I see so differently. I can't--can't love d.i.c.k Swann. I can't bear to have him touch me. He's rude. He takes liberties.... He's too free with his hands! Why, it'd be wrong to marry him. What difference can a marriage service make in a girl's feelings.... Mother, let me say no.”

”Lord spare me from bringing up another girl!” exclaimed Mrs. Maynard.

”Margaret, I can't make you marry Richard Swann. I'm simply trying to tell you what any sensible girl would see she had to do. You think it over--both sides of the question--before you absolutely decide.”

Mrs. Maynard was glad to end the discussion and to get away. In Margaret's appeal she heard a yielding, a final obedience to her wish.

And she thought she had better let well enough alone. The look in Margaret's clear blue eyes made her shrink; it would haunt her. But she felt no remorse. Any mother would have done the same. There was always the danger of that old love affair; there was new danger in these strange wild fancies of modern girls; there was never any telling what Margaret might do. But once married she would be safe and her position a.s.sured.

CHAPTER VII

Daren Lane left Riverside Park, and walked in the meadows until he came to a boulder under a huge chestnut tree. Here he sat down. He could not walk far these days. Many a time in the Indian summers long past he had gathered chestnuts there with Dal, with Mel Iden, with Helen. He would never do it again.

The April day had been warm and fresh with the opening of a late spring. The sun was now gold--r.i.m.m.i.n.g the low hills in the west; the sky was pale blue; the spring flowers whitened the meadow. Twilight began to deepen; the evening star twinkled out of the sky; the hush of the gloaming hour stole over the land.

”Four weeks home--and nothing done. So little time left!” he muttered.

Two weeks of that period he had been unable to leave his bed. The rest of the time he had dragged himself around, trying to live up to his resolve, to get at the meaning of the present, to turn his sister Lorna from the path of dalliance. And he had failed in all.

His sister presented the problem that most distressed Lane. She had her good qualities, and through them could be reached. But she was thoughtless, vacillating, and wilful. She had made him promises only to break them. Lane had caught her in falsehoods. And upon being called to account she had told him that if he didn't like it he could ”lump” it. Of late she had grown away from what affection she had shown at first. She could not bear interference with her pleasures, and seemed uncontrollable. Lane felt baffled. This thing was a Juggernaut impossible to stop.

Lane had sc.r.a.ped acquaintance with Harry Hale, one of Lorna's admirers, a boy of eighteen, who lived with his widowed mother on the edge of the town. He appeared to be an industrious, intelligent, quiet fellow, not much given to the prevailing habits of the young people.

In his humble wors.h.i.+p of Lorna he was like a dog. Lorna went to the motion pictures with him occasionally, when she had no other opportunity for excitement. Lane gathered that Lorna really liked this boy, and when with him seemed more natural, more what a fifteen-year-old girl used to be. And somehow it was upon this boy that Lane placed a forlorn hope.

No more automobiles honked in front of the home to call Lorna out. She met her friends away from the house, and returning at night she walked the last few blocks. It was this fact that awoke Lane's serious suspicions.

Another problem lay upon Lane's heart; if not so distressing as Lorna's, still one that added to his sorrow and his perplexity. He had gone once to call on Mel Iden. Mel Iden was all soul. Whatever had been the facts of her downfall--and reflection on that hurt Lane so strangely he could not bear it--it had not been on her part a matter of s.e.x. She was far above wantonness.