Part 12 (1/2)

Physically, Derek was able to go on with his breakfast and finish it, but mentally he was like a man, accustomed to action, who suddenly finds himself paralyzed. To the best of his knowledge he had never before been put in a position in which he had no idea whatever as to what to do. He had been placed in some puzzling dilemmas in private life, and had pa.s.sed through some serious crises in financial affairs, but he had always been able to take some course, even if it was a mistaken one. It had been reserved for Dorothea to checkmate him in such a way that he could not move at all.

That the feminine mind possessed resources which his own did not was a claim Derek had made it a principle to deny. The theory on which he had brought up Dorothea had been based on his belief in his own insight into his daughter's character. Though he was far from abjuring that confidence even yet, nevertheless, when the succeeding days brought no enlightenment of counsel, and the long journey to South America became more imminent, he was forced once more to turn his steps toward Gramercy Park, and seek inspiration from the great, eternal mother-spirit of mankind, as represented by his cousin.

Miss Lucilla van Tromp pa.s.sed among her friends as a sort of diffident Minerva. Though deficient in outward charms, she was considered to possess intellectual ability; and, having once been told that her profile resembled George Eliot's, she made the pursuit of learning, music, and Knickerbocker genealogy her special aims. Derek had, all his life, felt for her a special tenderness; and having neither mother, wife, nor sister, he was in the habit of coming to her with his cares.

”You're a woman,” he declared, now, in summing up his case. ”You're a woman. If you'd been married, you would probably have had children. You ought to be able to tell me exactly what to do.”

Flushes of shy rapture illumined and softened her ill-a.s.sorted features on being cited as the type of maternity and s.e.x, so that when she replied it was with an air of authority.

”I can tell you what to do, Derek; but I've done it already, and you wouldn't listen. You should send her to a good school--”

”It's too late for that. She wouldn't go.”

”Then you should have some woman to live in your house who would be wise enough to manage her.”

He jerked out the monosyllable, and began, according to his custom when puzzled or annoyed, to stride up and down the library.

”That is,” Miss Lucilla went on, ”you wouldn't like it. It would bore you to see a stranger in the house.”

”Naturally.”

”And so you would sacrifice Dorothea to your personal convenience.”

”I wouldn't, if there was a woman competent to take the place; but there isn't.”

”There is. There's Diane Eveleth.”

”Who?”

The dark flush that swept into his face made it clear to Lucilla that his question was not put for purposes of information. She had remarked in Derek during the past few weeks a manner of fighting shy of Diane at variance with his usual method with women. Safety in flight was the course he commonly adopted; but since Diane appeared on the scene, Lucilla had noticed that it was flight with a curious tendency to looking backward.

”I said Diane Eveleth,” she replied, in tactful answer to his superfluous question; ”and I a.s.sure you she's fully equal to the duties you would require of her. I suppose you've never noticed her especially--?”

”I used to know her a little,” he said, in an offhand manner. ”I've seen her here. That's all.”

”If a woman could have been made on purpose for what you want, it's she.”

”Dear me! You don't say so!”

”It's no use trying to be sarcastic about it, Derek. She's not the one to suffer by it; it's Dorothea. Though, when it comes to suffering, she has her share, poor thing.”

”I suppose no decent woman who has just lost her husband is expected to be absolutely hilarious over the event.”

”She hasn't _just_ lost him; it's getting on toward a year. And, besides, it isn't only that. As a matter of fact, I don't believe she ever loved him as she could love the man to whom she gave her heart. If grief was her only trouble, I am sure the poor thing could bear it.”

”And can't she bear it as it is?”

”The fact that she does bear it shows that she can; but it must be hard for a woman, who has lived as she has, to be brought to want.”