III
“You see,” said Mark Napier, “I want to start with a clean slate, Miss Craig. You will understand.”
He was sitting on the edge of his desk, facing her, and she looked steadily back at him.
“Yes, I do see!” she said.
And it was true. He wasn’t like Mr. Brown, mild and kind and easy-going.
“I want to make a success of this thing,” he had told her before, and she had responded whole-heartedly.
He couldn’t understand her miserable anxieties, and she didn’t want him to. She wanted to help him make a success.
“But—er—if you would rather,” he said now, “we could deduct a little every week.”
His dark face had flushed, but he kept his eyes upon her with an anxious intensity. If she wanted her money, she should have it.
“Oh, no, thanks!” replied Joey politely. “It’s all right as it is, thank you.”
Her face grew scarlet. She dropped her eyes and turned away her head; and, seeing her so, he knew that he loved her.
“If there’s ever anything I can do—” he said unsteadily.
She glanced at him, and again their eyes met. She had never seen a look like that on any face.
“Th-thank you, Mr. Napier,” she stammered, and went away in haste.
She had no money for lunch, but she was not hungry. The hours went by quickly; she worked well to-day, and her heart was singing.
“See here, Miss Craig!” She looked up from her typewriter and saw Napier standing beside her. “You haven’t been out to lunch—and it’s two o’clock.”
“I just wanted to finish this last letter,” said Joey.
Again their eyes met, and he was dazzled by her loveliness. Her cheeks were[Pg 530] burning with heat and fatigue, and her eyes were brilliant.
“Look here!” he said. “You’re tired. I want you to go home and rest.”
“Oh, no, thanks!”
“You do as I tell you!” ordered Napier. Fear made him brusque. He was worried about Joey. “Come! Get your hat and go home!” he said.
“But the letters—”
“Never mind the letters,” he said. “Plenty of time on Monday morning. Look here! You will rest, won’t you?”
He was dismayed by the change that came over her. All the color suddenly left her face, and she looked terribly white and strained.
“I didn’t mean to be—abrupt,” he said hastily. “It’s only—”
“I know!” said Joey, and smiled at him.
It was a smile that he did not soon forget, steadfast and radiant.
She had just remembered that she was going home empty-handed; and she was conscious now of a sharp headache and a great weariness, as if these things had also been waiting to be remembered. As she mounted her bicycle, her knees felt weak. The sun beat down upon her, stinging her shoulders beneath her thin blouse. Her eyes hurt from the glare of the white road. Her heart ached, as well as her head. She was Captain Vincey’s niece again, burdened by a hundred disgraceful anxieties.
“He’ll find out,” she thought. “Some one will tell him about—Uncle James.”
She did not delude herself with the notion that it would make no difference. Napier was not the sort to take Captain Vincey for granted. He was not tolerant. He wanted everything just right.
She found Mrs. Vincey sitting on the veranda, darning.
“Joey! So early! What’s the matter, dear?”
“I just felt—tired,” replied Joey; “but I’ll be all right after a nice cup of tea, gran.”
“We’ve run out of tea, Joey.”
“Oh!” said Joey, and sat down on the steps.
Mrs. Vincey stood behind her, turning and turning a sock in her thin hands.
“Unless you—brought home—anything,” she said.
“There wasn’t anything coming to me this week,” said Joey.
There was a moment’s silence. Mrs. Vincey stood looking down at that little dark head.
“Would you like a glass of lemonade, Joey?” she asked.
Joey wanted nothing except to be let alone, but the anxiety in Mrs. Vincey’s voice touched her beyond endurance.
“That would be awfully nice!” she began brightly, and then suddenly burst into tears.
“Come upstairs and lie down, my deary!”
Mrs. Vincey went up with her to the neat little room, dim and cool with the blinds drawn down, fresh with the smell of the sea.
“Lie down, deary! That’s it! I’ll unbutton your slippers. Never mind, Joey, my deary—just take a little rest.”
“I’m all right now, gran.”
Better not to notice that Joey was still crying, with her head buried in the pillow. Mrs. Vincey went out of the room, quietly closing the door behind her, and stood outside in the hall, clasping her hands tight.
“I haven’t anything to give her!” she thought. “Oh, it’s too much! She’s so young!”
She thought of one little thing she could do—a very little thing. She put on her hat and went down the road a little way, to a small grocery shop.
“Good day, Mr. Spier!”
“Good day, ma’am!”
“I’d like two fresh eggs and a tin of milk and a quarter pound of Ceylon tea and a quarter pound of butter, please, Mr. Spier.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stood there while Mr. Spier put the things into a bag. Then she had to tell him that she would pay next Saturday, and to listen to Mr. Spier saying that the bill was already so large, and had run on so long, and times were so hard, that he didn’t see how he could—well, just this once, then.
A small package to carry, a small thing to do; yet Mrs. Vincey would have preferred to shut herself into the house and die for lack of food, rather than ask a favor from Mr. Spier.
When she got home, she made a nice little omelet, a cup of tea, and two slices of buttered toast, and brought them up to Joey; and Joey felt better.
Later in the afternoon a neighbor brought them a basket of tomatoes and[Pg 531] beans, and Mrs. Vincey and Joey sat out in the back garden under a cedar tree, stringing the beans, and talking a little to each other—not talking much because of the things they must not say.
“James was quite himself this morning,” thought Mrs. Vincey. “If only the—the heat doesn’t trouble him, and he can attend to business, things ought to be better next week. Sunday dinner—who wants meat in this weather? If only James can—can keep well!”
For, with all her superb courage, there were things that Mrs. Vincey would not face.
“Aren’t the roses doing well?” said Joey.
She was thinking that, after all, things couldn’t be so bad. Something would surely happen!
A carriage was coming along the road. Mrs. Vincey glanced up. Joey sat very still. Oh, no, it couldn’t be! Stopping here!
They did not move, or speak, or look at each other. The carriage had stopped. The garden gate creaked, and footsteps were coming along the path at the front of the house—heavy and uncertain steps. They could not see; they did not need to see.
At the sound of the steps mounting to the veranda, Mrs. Vincey rose and went around to the front of the house, neat, smiling, and dignified. With a civil nod for the driver who had assisted him, she took her son’s arm to lead him into the house; but he was in a bad mood.
“The damned young jackanapes!” he shouted. “Sitting there—old Brown’s place—damned young jackanapes—threw me out of office!”
“Will you—settle with the driver, Joey?” asked Mrs. Vincey, very low.
Joey did not answer. She was standing near the foot of the steps, with such a look on her face!
The driver saw that look, and walked back to his carriage. Mrs. Vincey saw it, and her face grew rigid. Captain Vincey turned to see what she was staring at, and he, too, saw it. It silenced him.