Arising, he offered her his arm with extreme politeness and escorted her from the sight of the boy. Once the door was closed after them, he gripped her arm until his fingers cut into it cruelly. He rushed her down the hall faster than she could comfortably walk and thrust her into her room so roughly and forcibly that she fell upon her bed. Standing over her, he said to her: “If you can’t manage to be anything better than a sickly idiot, you keep out of men’s affairs altogether.” And then, on a wave evoked by the nausea on her face, he added: “He’ll be all right in the morning, I tell you!”
In the morning, when Mrs. Moreland lifted strained and sleepless eyes to the doorway, she was shocked until she shrank back in her chair. Junior was standing there, laughing at her. She could not see any trace of the dissipation of the night before upon his face or person. He had bathed and carefully dressed. He came across to her laughingly, and standing behind her chair, he tipped her head back against him and kissed her. He scolded her for the loss of sleep evident on her face. He assured her that he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself and that she never again was to worry in case he drank a little more than he should. He didn’t care anything about the stuff; he simply drank it with the other boys when they wanted to have a celebration. He pointed out the fact that his father never had become intoxicated to a degree that in the slightest interfered with his business or with his social position in the community, yet he always had a drink whenever he wanted it. He really succeeded in reassuring her to such an extent that she went to her room and lay down to secure the sleep that she had lost.
CHAPTER XI
“The Driver of the Chariot”
When Mahala left Junior, she immediately hurried to her mother, forgetful of everything except that she wanted to be where she would not be subjected to further annoyance. She had forgotten, for the minute, what was in store for her the first time her mother found her alone. She was not allowed to forget very long. Instantly Mrs. Spellman had whispered in Mahala’s ear: “Where did those lilies and roses come from?”
Mahala had taken time for mental preparation.
“I hunted all I dared on the platform,” she said, “and I couldn’t find the card. I told Jemima, when she took my flowers home, to watch especially for it and to save it if she found one.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know where such a thing as that came from?” demanded Elizabeth Spellman abruptly. She was trying to face Mahala down with deeply penetrant eyes. Mahala objected to having her good time spoiled by the ordeal she had known she was destined to undergo when the exquisite sheaf had been stood at her knees. She showed not the slightest inclination to avoid her mother’s eyes. She seemed capable of looking into them with the utmost frankness.
“No, Mama,” she said quietly, “I haven’t any intention of telling you anything. If there’s a card that belongs to the flowers, Jemima will have found it by the time we reach home. If there isn’t, we will just have to make up our minds that somebody cares enough about me to make me a lovely gift, won’t we?”
It was Elizabeth Spellman’s proud boast that she had never struck her daughter. The chances are very large, that for the second time that evening, if she had been in seclusion, she might have been provoked to what her fingers were itching to do, but the one thing Elizabeth was forced to remember above everything else in time of crisis was that she was a lady. She could not very well slap her daughter’s face at a Commencement dance.