“I went from here to Providence to live with a large family of cousins. Their name was Ayer, and I was so often called Ayer that finally I took the name.” Susannah paused, and then with a sudden impulse toward confidence, she went on. “I grew up with my cousins. I was the youngest of them all. The two oldest girls married, one a Californian, the other a Canadian. I haven’t seen them for years. The three boys are scattered all over everywhere, by the war. My uncle died first; then my aunt. She left me the five hundred dollars with which I got my business training.”
The look of one who is absorbing passionately all that is being said to him was on Lindsay’s face. But a little perplexity troubled it. “Glorious Lutie?” he repeated interrogatively.
“Oh, of course,” Susannah murmured. “I always called her Glorious Lutie. She always called me Glorious Susie—that is when she didn’t call me Cherie. And we had a game—the Abracadabra game. When she was telling me a story—her stories were marvels; they went on for days and days—and she got tired, she could always stop it by saying, Abracadabra! If I didn’t reply instantly with Abracadabra, the story stopped. Of course she always caught my little wits napping—I was so absorbed in the story that I could only stutter and pant, trying to remember that long word.”
“That’s a Peter Ibbetson trick,” Lindsay commented.
The talk, thus begun, lasted for the three hours which elapsed before Miss Stockbridge’s return. Two narratives ran through their talk; Lindsay’s, which dealt with superficial matters, began with his return to America from France; Susannah’s, which began with that sad day, fifteen years ago, when she saw Blue Meadows for the last time. But neither narrative went straight. They zig-zagged; they curved, they circled. Those deviations were the result of racing up squirrel tracks of opinion and theory; of little excursions into the allied experiences of youth; even of talks on books. Once it was interrupted by the noiseless entry of Mrs. Spash, who deposited a tray which contained a glass of milk, a pair of dropped eggs, a little mound of buttered toast. Susannah suddenly found herself hungry. She drained her glass, ate both eggs, devoured the last crumb of toast.
After this, she felt so vigorous that she fell in with Lindsay’s suggestion that she walk to the door. There she stood on the door-stone for a preoccupied, half-joyful, half-melancholy interval studying the garden. Then, leaning on his arm, she ventured as far as the seat under the copper-beech. Later, even, she went to the barn and the Dew Pond. Before she could get tired, Lindsay brought her back, reestablishing her in the chair. Then—and not till then—and following another impulse to confide in Lindsay, Susannah told him the whole story of the Carbonado Mining Company. Perhaps his point of view on that matter gave her her second accession of vitality. He paced up and down the room during her narrative; his hands, fists. But he laughed their threats to scorn. “Now don’t give another thought to that gang of crooks!” he adjured her. “I know a man in New York—a lawyer. I’ll have him look up that crowd and put the fear of God into them. They’ll probably be flown by that time, however. Undoubtedly they were making ready for their getaway. Don’t think of it again. They can’t hurt you half as much as that bee that’s trying to get in the door.” He was silent for a moment, staring fixedly down at his own manuscript on the table. “By God!” he burst out suddenly, “I’ve half a mind to beat it on to New York. I’d like to be present. I’d have some things to say—and do.”
Somewhere toward the end of this long talk, “I’ve not said a word yet, Mr. Lindsay,” Susannah interpolated timidly, “of how grateful I am to you—and your cousin. But it’s mainly because I’ve not had the strength yet. I don’t know how I’m going to repay you. I don’t know how I’m even going to tell you. What I owe you—just in money—let alone eternal gratitude.”
“Now, that’s all arranged,” Lindsay said smoothly. “You don’t know what a find you were. You’re an angel from heaven. You’re a Christmas present in July. For a long time I’ve realized that I needed a secretary. Somebody’s got to help me on Lutetia’s life or I’ll never get it done. Who better qualified than Lutetia’s own niece? In fact you will not only be secretary but collaborator. As soon as you’re well enough, we’ll go to work every morning and we’ll work together until it’s done.”
Susannah leaned back, snuggled into the soft recess of the comfortable chair. She dropped her lids over the dazzling brilliancy of her eyes. “I suppose I ought to say no. I suppose I ought to have some proper pride about accepting so much kindness. I suppose I ought to show some firmness of mind, pawn all my possessions and get back to work in New York or Boston. Girls in novels always do those things. But I know I shall do none of them. I shall say yes. For I haven’t been so happy since Glorious Lutie died.”
“Oh,” Lindsay exclaimed quickly as though glad to reduce this dangerous emotional excitement. “There comes the lost Anna Sophia Stockbridge. She’s a dandy. I think you’ll like her. It’s awfully hard not to.”