“You are like your mother, boy. She spoke three languages—and could dispense with all of them. But we have gone miles from Eileen. I need your help, desperately.”
II
While the two physicians discussed a disturbing case, the one with understanding, the other blindly, a different conversation was under way in Eileen’s bedroom. Mrs. Trench had sent for Judith as soon as the coast was clear of tale-bearers.
“He—said this morning that he was going to take you and Eileen with him when he goes to New York, Thursday night. I thought we’d better lay out the details.”
It was all so bald, so matter-of-fact. The woman cringed, as from a desecration. She turned for relief to the white face on the pillow. Mercurial tears glistened in the dove-gray shadows that lurked beneath the swollen eyes, and the mouth wore the old rebellious look. Eileen was still smarting from the crass, polluting things her mother had said, after the physician’s departure. She had brought this disgraceful thing on the family, and Lavinia did not intend that she should shirk one minim of her punishment.
“For my part, I don’t see how you are going to hide it by going to New York ... where everybody knows you. All your friends will see at the first glance that Larimore and Eileen are brother and sister. They look exactly alike.”
“Thanks for the compliment!” The girl tossed aside the sheet and sat up. “We both have noses running lengthwise of our faces, and mouths that cut across. That’s all the resemblance you ever saw—when you were telling me how handsome Lary was and how ugly I was. I have it all figured out. I am going to be Lary’s cousin—young Mrs. Winthrop, whose husband was lost on that Alaska steamer that foundered two weeks ago. Ina and I worked out the situation in a play we did last winter.”
“And Ina will recognize your situation—and spread it all over town.”
“Mamma! Please credit me with a little sense. This story isn’t for home consumption. It’s for Judith’s friends—when we get to New York.”
“There will be few of them,” Mrs. Ascott interrupted. “That danger is negligible. A few acquaintances at Pelham and Larchmont. With the exception of my father and the Ramsays, who live at Rye—”