Part 42 (1/2)

For a moment Mrs. Baker hesitated, but she was too much in awe of her daughter to enter uninvited.

”I have a note for you,” she announced. ”Mr. Sidwell's man Alec just brought it. He says there's to be an answer.”

But still the girl did not move. It was an unpropitious time to mention the club-man's name. The fascination of such as he fades at early morning; it demands semi-darkness or artificial light. Just now the thought of him was distinctly depressing, like the sultry breeze that wandered in at the window.

”Very well,” said Florence, at last. ”Leave it, please, and tell Alec to wait. I'll be down directly.”

In response, an envelope with a monogram in the corner was slipped in under the door, and the bearer's footsteps tapped back into silence.

Slowly the girl crawled from her bed, but she did not at once take up the note. Instead, she walked over to the dresser, and, leaning on its polished top, gazed into the mirror at the reflection of her tear-stained face, with its ma.s.s of disarranged hair. It was not a happy face that she saw; and just at this moment it looked much older than it really was. The great brown eyes inspected it critically and relentlessly.

”Florence Baker,” she said to the face in the mirror, ”you are getting to be old and haggard.” A prophetic glimpse of the future came to her suddenly. ”A few years more, and you will not be even--good-looking.”

She stood a moment longer, then, walking over to the door, she picked up the envelope and tore it open.

”Miss Baker,” ran the note, ”there is to be an informal little gathering--music, dancing, and a few things cool--at the Country Club this evening. You already know most of the people who will be there. May I call for you?--Sidwell.”

Florence read the missive slowly; then slowly returned it to its cover.

There was no need to tell her the meaning of the unwritten message she read between the lines of those few brief sentences. It is only in story-books that human beings do not even suspect the inevitable until it arrives. As well as she knew her own name, she realized that in her answer to that evening's invitation lay the choice of her future life.

She was at the turning of the ways--a turning that admitted of no reconsideration. Dividing at her feet, each equally free, were the trails of the natural and the artificial. For a time they kept side by side; but in the distance they were as separate as the two ends of the earth. By no possibility could both be followed. She must choose between them, and abide by her decision for good or for ill.

As slowly as she had read the note, Florence dressed; and even then she did not leave the room. Bathing her reddened eyes, she drew a chair in front of the window and gazed wistfully down at the handful of green gra.s.s, with the unhealthy-looking elm in its centre, which made the Baker lawn. Against her will there came to her a vision of the natural, impersonated in the form of Ben Blair as she had seen him yesterday.

Masterful, optimistic, compellingly honest, splendidly vital, with loves and hates like elemental forces of nature, he intruded upon her horizon at every crisis. Try as she would to eliminate him from her life, she could not do it. With a little catch of the breath she remembered that last night, when that man had done--what he did--it was not of what her father or Clarence Sidwell would think, if either of them knew, but of what Ben Blair would think, what he would do, that she most cared.

Reluctant as she might be to admit it even to herself, yet in her inner consciousness she knew that this prairie man had a power over her that no other human being would ever have. Still, knowing this, she was deliberately turning away from him. If she accepted that invitation for to-night, with all that it might mean, the separation from Ben would be irrevocable. Once more the brown head dropped into the waiting hands, and the shoulders rocked to and fro in indecision and perplexity.

”G.o.d help me!” she pleaded, in the first prayer she had voiced in months. ”G.o.d help me!”

Again footsteps approached her door, and a hand tapped insistently thereon.

”Florence,” said her father's voice. ”Are you up?”

The girl lifted her head. ”Yes,” she answered.

”Let me in, then.” The insistence that had been in the knock spoke in the voice. ”I wish to speak with you.”

Instantly an expression almost of repulsion flashed over the girl's brown face. Never in his life had the Englishman understood his daughter. He was a glaring example of those who cannot catch the psychological secret of human nature in a given situation. From the girl's childhood he had been complaisant when he should have been severe, had stepped in with the parental authority recognized by his race when he should have held aloof.

”Some other time, please,” replied Florence. ”I don't feel like talking to-day.”

Scotty's knuckles met the door-panel with a bang. ”But I do feel like it,” he responded; ”and the inclination is increasing every moment. You would try the patience of Job himself. Come, I'm waiting!” and he s.h.i.+fted from one foot to the other restlessly.

Within the room there was a pause, so long that the Englishman thought he was going to be refused point-blank; then an even voice said, ”Come in,” and he entered.

He had expected to find Florence defiant and aggressive at the intrusion. If he did not understand this daughter of his, he at least knew, or thought he knew, a few of her phases. But she had not even risen from her seat, and when he entered she merely turned her head until her eyes met his. Scotty felt his parental dignity vanis.h.i.+ng like smoke,--his feelings very like those of a burglar who, invading a similar boudoir, should find the rightful owner at prayer. His first instinct was to beat a retreat, and he stopped uncertainly just within the doorway.

”Well?” questioned Florence, and the pupils of her brown eyes widened.

Scotty flushed, but memory of the impa.s.sive Alec waiting below returned, and his anger arose.