Part 47 (1/2)

He lengthened his list on the margin of a newspaper.

”Well, I never paid Van Nostrand for that painting, and I've even forgotten how much he said it would be. And there's a photograph bill--a perfectly scandalous one--and another dressmaker; Mrs. Edgar; I went back to her after Meg's woman got crusty, but she never'll sue me. And the j.a.panese furniture shop and--another photographer--and here's the bill for bric-a-brac--that's sixteen. The wine account--there is one, but it ought to be Mrs. Whitney's; for entertaining. I suppose Pa and Ma would say that was a very wicked bill, now wouldn't they, Schoolmaster?”

”They would indeed, Helen 'Lizy; I'm not sure that I don't agree with them. By the way, does your father know about all this?”

”Yes, a little. I've begged him for money, but he won't mortgage the farm.

And Judge Baker knows. He wants me to come back to his house, but of course I won't do it. I guess he's sent for Father; Pa's coming East soon, on a cattle train pa.s.s.”

”A cattle train!”

John stabbed the paper viciously, then he said more gently:--

”A cattle train is cold comfort for a substantial farmer at his time of life; and I don't think we will let him mortgage.”

That young man will need discipline; but I imagine he was thinking less about my poor old father than about--well, I needn't have mentioned the Baker house, but what does he really know of how I came to leave it?

Perhaps suspicion and bitter memories made my retort more spirited than it need have been.

”We won't discuss that, please,” I said with hauteur; ”and we won't be too emphatic about what is past. It _is_ past. I'll find out what is a proper scale of expenditure for a young lawyer's wife in New York, and I shall not exceed it. I've been living very economically for the sphere that seemed open to me. Perhaps I ought not to have tried it; but I think you should blame those who lured me into extravagance and then deserted me. I've had a terrible, terrible experience! Do you know that? And I was within an ace of becoming an ornament of the British peerage. Did you know that?”

”Yes; I don't blame you for refusing, either; some girls don't seem to have the necessary strength of mind. No; I'm not blaming anybody for anything. Nelly, next week it will be a year since our first betrothal; do you remember? Haven't you, after all, loved me a little, all the time?”

He looked at me wistfully.

”At least,” I said, ”I didn't love Lord Strathay.”

I didn't think it necessary to correct him as to my refusal of the Earl.

”We'll see if Kitty won't take you in again until we can be married,” he said, jabbing the paper again and changing the subject almost brusquely.

”If you don't want to go back to your aunt, that'll be better than a boarding house, won't it? You pay the girls out of this, and I'll look after the other bills. There's a good fellow. Now, then what's No. 18?”

I fingered with an odd reluctance the little roll of bills he handed me, though it was like a life buoy to a drowning sailor.

”You'd better,” he said, with quiet decision, cutting short my hesitation.

”The girls won't need to know where it comes from, or that I know anything about it. It's ever so much nicer that way, don't you think?”

I put the money with my pride into my pocket, and continued sorting out bills from the rubbish. In all we scheduled over forty before we gave it up. Besides the Van Nostrand painting and one or two accounts that probably escaped us, I found that I owed between $4,000 and $5,000.

”That is the whole of my dowry, John,” I said.

”I would as willingly accept you as a portionless bride,” he declaimed in theatrical fas.h.i.+on; and then we both broke into hysterical laughter.

”Never mind,” he said, at last, wiping his eyes. ”I never dreamed that all this rubbish about you could cost so much; I ought to have had my eyes open. But now we aren't going to worry one little worry, are we? I'll straighten it all out in time. And now I really must go.”

And so he went away with a parting kiss, leaving me very happy. I don't know that I love him; or rather I know that I don't--but I shall be good to him and make him so happy that he'll forget all the trouble I have cost him. Dear old unselfish, patient John!

And I am more content and less torn by anxiety than I have been for many a long day. It is such a relief!