“All honor to them!” Maynard raised his hand in quick salute. “Some day, God willing, I’ll go up the line with the boys in khaki and over the top; until then——” A quick sigh completed the sentence. “I’ve taken your latch-key, Mrs. Burnham, so don’t have any one wait up for me,” and he hurried out of the house.
“Go to bed and get some rest, Evelyn,” suggested Mrs. Burnham, pausing with her hand on the electric light button. “We can talk more reasonably after a good night’s sleep. Come and see me after breakfast, and remember——”
“Yes, Mother.” Evelyn waited for her mother to lead the way up the staircase. But Mrs. Burnham did not complete her sentence until she had reached the second floor. In front of her door she turned and patted Evelyn gently on her shoulder. “Remember,” she said, “do nothing rash.”
It was not until Evelyn was in her own bedroom arranging her hair that she recollected her mother had omitted her customary good-night kiss. Evelyn’s lip quivered; her sensitive high-strung nature made her a prey to every slight, however unintentional or imaginary they were. She felt cruelly the barrier which she had been quick to see was slowly but surely separating her from her mother, a mother she had idolized up to the time of her marriage to Peter Burnham.
She had never been able to conquer her distaste for Peter Burnham and her growing fear that he might some day supplant her in her mother’s affections. She had little hope that she could win her mother’s consent to her engagement to René La Montagne, and still less that her mother would announce the engagement. But Evelyn came of a loyal courageous race and her fighting blood was up. Her lover, alone in a strange country, faced, in her opinion, unjust imprisonment for a crime he had not committed, and she was determined to offset her step-father’s charges against him by the announcement of their engagement. Let tongues wag in society and scandal be whispered; if she showed her faith in René La Montagne others would rally to his aid. There was Marian Van Ness and Dan Maynard— A tap on her door awoke her from her abstraction.
“What is it?” she called.
“It is I, Miss Evelyn,” announced Mrs. Ward, pushing the door farther open. “Your mother thought you might need my help in getting out of that dress. Let me do that for you,” and she deftly extracted a pin Evelyn had been vainly trying to reach for some moments.
“Thanks.” Evelyn submitted to being undressed with alacrity; she was utterly weary. “Aren’t you up pretty late for a woman who has been as ill as you have?”
“I am well again,” replied the housekeeper, arranging Evelyn’s clothes neatly on a chair and picking up brush and comb. “Just slip into bed, Miss Evelyn, and I’ll brush and braid your hair for you.”
With a murmur of thanks Evelyn followed her advice and partly sat and lay at ease while the experienced woman (she had graduated from lady’s maid to her position of housekeeper) deftly arranged her long silky hair, badly tangled from having worn it loose down her back in the tableau.