Part 44 (1/2)

”Good-by, then, and good riddance!” cried Aurora violently, almost pettishly. ”I don't really like them, anyhow. It's too easy just to write your name on a check. At first I thought I was living in a fairy-tale; but once you've got used to it, it doesn't compare with the fun you get the old-fas.h.i.+oned way, working hard for a thing, and planning, and going to price it, and saving, and finally getting it, and that proud! People who haven't been poor simply don't know. Why, that one poor little silver bangle I had when I was fifteen did more to give me pure joy than any of the beautiful things I've bought this whole last year. I'm sorry if it seems ungrateful to my bloated bank-account, but it's true. Another thing, Tom. I was brought up to work. I won't say I liked it. I don't think many people who've got to work do like it. But since I gave it up, nothing I've found has really filled its place to give me an appet.i.te and the feeling I'd a right to a good time. To sit back and let others work while you fan your face--I can't help it, I feel a sort of disgrace in it. I know better, it's just the way I _feel_. I know all the while that's the way the world was planned, some to be rich and some to be poor--Think how rich King Solomon was!

And your dear father!--some to work and some not, with changes round about once in a while, like in my case, and crosses and trials and temptations belonging to every state, and the love of G.o.d and a quiet heart possible in every state. And I've always had such respect for moneyed people and their refined ways.... But if you want me to start in now and do differently from what I've been doing, I tell you truly, I don't know how I'm going to do it, Tom. I'd rather not have the money at all.”

”You won't have it, Nell, dear. You've only to keep on, and you won't have it.”

”All right. Then I'll go back to work and never happier in my life. I'm strong and able, I've got years of work in me. And if you think I've grown so devoted to all these frills that I couldn't give them up, you'll see!”

”Of course I haven't the faintest right to control your use of your money--”

”But of course you have, Tom,”--her tone changed at once, and was eagerly humble,--”every right. You can take it away from me any moment you please. Who has a right, I should like to know, if not you?”

”Well, then, Nell, I'm going to make a suggestion. What you have said shows me that simple advice would be of no use in this case. Don't think, girl, that I don't get at your way of seeing the matter. If I appear cold toward it, if I don't seem to sympathize, it's because the logical results would land you in a hole from which I'd feel a call by and by to try to pull you out. See?--As a promise to keep inside of your income would apparently embitter life to you, I won't ask for it, merely suggesting the fitness of trying to observe such a restriction. Even as regards your power to throw it away, there'll be a lot more of it to throw if you respect your capital. However, the money is yours, to do exactly what you please with, but this I ask: empower me to turn some part of it into an annuity, unalienable and modestly sufficient.”

”An annuity? What's that?”

”A sum of money so fixed that you receive the interest as long as you live and have no power over the sum itself. It's not yours to use, to transfer or yet to bequeath. In your case the one safe investment, the single way I see to keep you out of the poorhouse.”

”Do you say so! All right, Tom; do what you think best. But see here.

Whatever you arrange for me that way, you've got to arrange for Hattie, too, or it wouldn't be fair. I won't think of it unless you'll do the same for both. If I hadn't a penny left in the world, you know the Carvers would take me in in a minute. Then if you do it, don't you see,”

she brought in slyly, ”when I've spent my money, there'll always be Hattie's for me to fall back on. Don't let her know you're doing it, Tom, but fix it.”

”All right. Two comfortable little annuities, enough to be independent on, and be taken care of if you're sick.”

”That's it, Tom. Then everybody's mind will be set at rest. And this I promise: I'll try to be a good girl.”

That subject being dropped, there was silence for a minute or two, while Tom thoughtfully smoked.

Aurora's face was a living rose with the excitement of their discussion.

She put her hands to her cheeks to feel how they burned, then turned to Tom to laugh with him over it. The pink of her face enhanced the blueness of her eyes. It was not unusual for persons sitting near Aurora, women as well as men, to feel a sudden desire to squeeze her in their arms and tell her how sweet she was. Tom found himself saying a thing he had taken a solemn engagement with himself not to say.

”I had hoped”--his utterance was slow and heavy--”to find a different solution to the difficulty.”

Her face questioned him, and at once looked troubled.

”I was going to try to take over all your difficulties and bundle them up with my own; but,” he continued, after a moment, with force, ”I'm not going to do it.”

”That's right, Tom,” she came out eagerly, without pretending not to understand. ”If I know what you mean--don't do it! Oh, I'm so grateful, I can't tell you, that you've made up your mind that way. Because, dear Tom, whatever you wanted me to do, seems to me I'd have to do it. I don't see how I could say no to anything you asked me. It would break my heart, I guess, if I had to hold out against a real wish of yours. I couldn't do it. All the same, I know we wouldn't make just the happiest kind of couple--'cause why, we're too like brother and sister, Tom. It would be unnatural. I feel toward you, Tom, just like an own, own sister--not those mean old things, Idell and Cora, who are your sisters--but I feel toward you as I would to my own brother Charlie.

There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. But if I had to marry you, there'd be something about it--well, I don't know. I can't explain.

Haven't you seen how there are things that are perfect for one use and no good at all for another? I'm a pretty good nurse, ain't I, Tom? But what would I be as a bareback circus-rider?”

”We aren't going to talk about it, Nell. I told you I had given it up.

But,” he went on after a heavy moment, unable entirely to subjugate his humanity--”but I wish now I had asked you before you left home.”

She was too oppressed with misery to speak at once, so he amplified.

”But it seemed rather more--I don't want to call it by any such big word as chivalrous,--it seemed rather whiter not to urge it, when circ.u.mstances might have seemed to lay a compulsion on you. Then it seemed better to let all the talk, the unpleasantness, in Denver die down first. Then, too, I wanted you to see the world; I liked the thought of you having your fling. But,” he reiterated, ”I can't help wis.h.i.+ng I had followed my instinct and asked you before I let you go.

Tell the truth, Nell. Wouldn't you have had me then?”