And Nancy, quite unguarded, told her as much as she dared of what Otto himself had told her in confession, of how he had been carried away by the German dream of world empire, of how his vanity had led him in the first years of the war to aid the plotters in America, of how he had come to his senses when he saw that violence against life and property, as well as the spreading of German ideas (which he had considered legitimate), was intended, of his break with Max, of his determination to win back the confidence of Sabinsport, and of his plea that Nancy, whom he had always loved, the one woman whom he had ever thought to make his wife, should help him.
“I could not do it, Patsy,” she said, with tears; “but it has almost broken my heart not to stand by him as a friend in his hard, uphill fight. I understand perfectly how Otto was deluded. I know his vanity; and he has done a noble thing and the day will come when Sabinsport will understand, after the war is over. But it hurts me, oh, you don’t know how it hurts me, not to be able to help. But what can I do? I do not love him. I shall never love him.”
And Patsy, the case quite clear in her mind, went back to Young Ralph, satisfied that she had done a good afternoon’s work.
It was a couple of hours later that Dick walked in on Nancy. Possibly, he said to himself, she had not heard of the sermon of the day before, for she came running down the steps to greet him, saying, “You are late. I hoped you would come.” It even seemed to him she was warmer in her greetings than usual.
They were hardly in before Reuben Cowder’s car drew up, and he came into the drawing room. His greeting to Dick was curt and stern. He neither delayed nor hesitated about expressing his disapproval.
“What is this I hear about that sermon of yours yesterday, Ingraham? They tell me you talked some kind of twaddle about a peaceful entrance into Berlin, that you don’t want the Huns punished, that you don’t want any disturbance of their lands, that you propose to leave these brigands and murderers untouched, their spoils in their hands, to let them get away with their infamous atrocities. If that’s the way you feel, I don’t want you in my house.”
There was a sudden little stir on one side of the room. Dick thought of it afterwards as something exactly like a bird fluttering out of its nest, and flying to his side. And there was Nancy, standing straight and looking into her father’s eye—Cowder look for Cowder look.
“Stop that, Father,” she said. “I know what Dick said. I know exactly what he meant. No revenge could be so great as what he planned.” Her hand was laid protectingly on Dick’s arm. She stood, his defender, blazing with understanding and sympathy. She had said “Dick”—it was the first time in all their acquaintance.
And Reuben Cowder had a great light. For a “hard business man,” it was quite extraordinary that he could divine that this was possibly the great hour in the lives of these two young people, that possibly it was not Otto, after all; and, with a gruff, “I beg your pardon, Ingraham,” he left the room.
The girl did not stir from where she stood. She did not take her hand from his arm. She only turned a very white face straight up to him.