“That woman,” he said, pronouncing the words with ominous deliberation, “ought to get down on her knees every night and thank God that she’s rid of him! That great bully, that worthless loafer! But I’ll show him a few things! If that blackguard thinks he can put anything over on me he’ll find that I’m smarter than he thinks I am! You remember that!”
“You must be quiet, Mr. Farley,” admonished Miss Rankin, who had been standing by the window; “the doctor said you weren’t to excite yourself.”
“I’m not excited,” he flared. “Doctors and lawyers make a nice mess of this world. They don’t any of ’em know anything!”
He gave himself an impatient twitch and several documents slipped from under his pillow. He clutched them nervously and thrust them back.
Nan was jubilant for a moment in the knowledge that she knew what those documents contained—devices for humiliating her after he was gone. If only he knew how little she cared! He thought of nothing but his money and means of keeping it from her.
“Go away; I want to think,” he said gruffly.
Nan was grateful for this dismissal, and a moment later had softly closed her door and was eagerly reading Copeland’s message. It covered three letter-sheets and the daring of its contents caused her heart to beat wildly.
What he proposed was immediate marriage. There was to be a military wedding that night at the church in the next block. Nan, he assumed, would attend. At the end of the ceremony she had merely to pass out of the church and his machine would be waiting around the corner. She could pack a suit-case, ostensibly filled with articles for the cleaner’s, and he would have a messenger call for it. They would run up to Lafayette, where he had a married cousin who would have a minister ready to marry them; then take a train for Chicago and return the next day and have it out with Farley.
Nan had never shared Copeland’s faith in the idea that once they were married they might safely rely on Farley’s forgiveness. Farley’s passionate outbreaks at the mere mention of Copeland pretty effectually disposed of that hope. But that was not so important, for, in spite of Farley’s unfavorable opinion of Copeland’s business capacity and Billy’s own complaint of hard times, she had an idea that Copeland was well off, if not rich. To outward appearances, the drug business was as flourishing now as in the days when Farley was still active in its affairs. It was the way of business men to “talk poor” even when they were most prosperous; this had, at least, always been Farley’s way.
The gaunt figure in the room across the hall rose wraithlike before her, giving her pause. Yes, the Farleys had been kind to her; they had caught her away from the world’s rough hand and had done all that it was in their power to do to make a decent, self-respecting woman of her. Her advantages had been equal to those enjoyed by most of the girls she knew. Many people—the town’s “old stock,” Farley’s substantial neighbors—would see nothing romantic or amusing in her flight with Copeland. They would call her the basest ingrate; she could fancy them saying that blood will tell; that after all she was a nobody, a girl without background or antecedents, whom the Farleys had picked up, out of the kindness of their simple hearts, and that she had taken the first chance to slap them in the face.