The Long Lane's Turning Part 3

Upstairs Echo opened the door of her room softly. It was hung in blue--that shade which one sees in a Gainsborough ribbon, a Romney sash or a Reynolds sky--and its furniture was of simple white, with large pink dahlias trailing over the chintz window-curtains and chair-cus.h.i.+ons. In the dim night-light the triple mirror of the dresser reflected the carven four-post bed, in one of whose pillows Nancy's dark head was already buried.

"Is that you, Echo?"

"Yes, it's I. Were you asleep already?"

"Almost," yawned Nancy. "I _shall_ be in two shakes of a lamb's tail.

Has Chilly come home yet?"

"No, not yet."

"Do you think he's really at the club, Echo?"

"Of course I do."

"Men are so queer!" sighed Nancy, drowsily. "We had such a lovely evening--all except Chilly's not being there."

Echo slipped off her gown and drew out the pins from her hair, letting it fall in a s.h.i.+mmering cloud to her waist. Then in the moon-light she drew a deep chair before the open window and began to brush out that wonderful ma.s.s of stirring gold that curled and waved about her bare, round shoulders. Below her the garden lay, a ma.s.s of olive shadows, wound in cloudy golds and misty greens, sprinkled with moon-dust and drenched with the dizzying scent of roses and honeysuckle. All was lapped in the utter quiet of the night--only the swift wing of a night-bird shook the darker clump of ivy that marked the sun-dial. A long time she sat there, the brush parting and smoothing the bronze mesh with long sweeping movements, gazing into the whisper-haunted gloom and listening to the measured breathing of the girl behind her that seemed to form a rhythmical current for her own thoughts.

All at once in the hush there came the clas.h.i.+ng of the gate at the foot of the drive and jovial "good-byes," mingled with a hilarious voice a.s.severating that its owner had had "the time of his young life."

She bit her lip. "It's Chilly!" she whispered, with a frowning look over her shoulder.

She listened intently. There was the crunch of an uncertain step on the gravel, the sound of a stumble from the porch--then the slamming of the front door.

The dulled sound reverberated through the old house. It roused Nancy and she sat upright in the drift of silken coverlets, her eyes heavy with sleep. "Is it Chilly?"

"Yes. He has just come in."

"Is he--?"

"I'm afraid so, dear."

The younger girl caught her breath. "Oh, I hope your father has gone to bed. He's so hard on him!"

Echo turned. "How can he be otherwise?" she said, sadly. "It's so often and often it happens, nowadays. Won't you try and influence him?

He cares for you, darling!"

Nancy's hands were clasped tight about her knees. She stirred uneasily. "How can I, Echo? A boy has to have a little bit of a good time once in awhile. I wouldn't want him to be a molly-coddle! He won't be any the worse for it when he gets older and settled down."

"The worse for it!" The words fell sadly. "Don't you think he is the worse for it already? He's making no progress with his law-study and he's been two years out of college, now. There's nothing to blame but his drinking--and the company he keeps. What will be the end of it?

Oh, Nancy, you have a responsibility. Every woman has with some one man. If women only wouldn't countenance it as they do!"

"But, Echo--you talk as if Chilly was--as if you thought he was doing something disgraceful. Why, he's a gentleman; he _couldn't_ be anything but that, no matter what he did!"

Echo came to the bed and sat down beside the other. In her filmy night-gown, wound in the mist of her loosened gold shadowed hair she looked like some ethereal thing in the moonlight.

"Ah, that's just what so many say! That a gentleman is a gentleman whether he is drunk or sober! It's not so with other things. Is a gentleman a gentleman whether he lies, or cheats at cards, or not?

Isn't there to be any standard, really? Don't you see that there never will be any penalty--as far as drinking is concerned--until women _make_ it? Listen, Nancy. The year I came out, I went to a dance--my first big one. There was a boy there who followed me about all over the floor. He wanted me to dance with him, and he was--he could hardly walk. At first I was frightened, but at last I grew angry. I asked a lady why he was not asked to leave the floor. She seemed quite astonished and indignant. 'But,' she said, 'don't you know who he _is_? That's the son of General Moultrie!' It was Cale Moultrie. You know what became of him, don't you?"

"Yes." Nancy's voice was m.u.f.fled. "But Chilly--"

"Oh, my dear, there was a time when Cale drank no more than the others, and everybody liked him--as they do Chilly. It's coming to be the same with him, I'm afraid. There's no penalty for him yet because he's Chisholm Allen--because he's father's son!"

She stopped, caught by the sound of a sob. In another moment her arms were around the frail little body and the flower-like face was pressed hard against her breast.

"I don't care if he _is_ d-d-dissipated," said Nancy pa.s.sionately.

"I'd rather have him come to me d-d-drunk than any other man sober!

He's just Ch-Ch-Chilly, all the same!"

CHAPTER V

THE UNLAID GHOST

On the ground floor of the old house all was silent save in the dining-room, where a single electric bulb threw into garish relief the dismantled table with a bowl of fern glowing like a fountain of emeralds against the dark wood. It lighted the Chippendale sideboard, before which Chisholm Allen confronted old Nelson, the butler. A cut-gla.s.s decanter of sherry was in one hand; the other was alternately fumbling uncertainly with the stopper and pus.h.i.+ng back the persuasive fingers of the aged negro. His straw hat was tipped awry, his face was flushed and his eyes unnaturally bright. He was laughing immoderately.

"You old black stick-in-the-mud!" he said. "What's the matter with you? Think _you_ own that decanter, eh? Well, you don't, not by a long shot. _I_ do--Chris'mas present from the d.u.c.h.ess. Hope to die if it wasn't. Leggo, you virtuous old chicken-thief, and give me a tumbler!"

"Now, Ma.r.s.e Chilly!" The low voice was deprecating and appealing, and there was love in it too--the deep, changeless affection of the old-time negro for his white master. "Yo' _knows_ yo' don' want no mo'

dat ar. Yo' done had er plenty at dat ole club down town. Ef yo' tuck away any mo' now, yo' gwine have er haid lak er rainbar'l on yo'

shouldahs in dee mawnin'! Yo' _knows_ yo' is!"

Chilly's hand dragged at the black detaining fingers. "What do _you_ know about heads? Take your fool hands away, I tell you! I'm only going to take a couple of swallows."

"_Ah_ knows dem ar swallers," pleaded the old man. "Yo' go erlong tuh baid. Hit's long pas' midnight. Ma.r.s.e Bev-ly's in dee lib'ry."

"Oh bother!" said Chilly irreverently. "He's gone to bye-bye long ago.

Shut your face or you'll wake him up."

"Fo' dee _Lawd_, Ma.r.s.e Chilly!" stuttered the old man. "Ah heahs him comin' _now_! Ah sho' does!"

"You can't bamboozle me!" laughed Chilly. "Old Huckleberry's been snoozing this hour! If he does come, you and I'll drink his health.

Eh? Wonder what he'd say!"

He was not to be left in doubt, for at the moment the hall-door opened.

His father stood on the threshold. He was dressed and the green eyeshade was on his forehead.

"We will dispense," he said in a tone of quiet hardness, "with a ceremony which, however filial, is somewhat ill-timed. Nelson, I think you needn't wait up any longer."

"Yas, Ma.r.s.e Bev'ly. Yas, suh." The old man went to the door, hesitated and came back. "Is yo' sho' yo' don' want nothin' else, Ma.r.s.e Bev'ly?"

"Nothing further, Nelson."

"Yas, suh. Good night, Ma.r.s.e Bev'ly. Good night, Ma.r.s.e Chilly." This time he went out, closing the door behind him with exaggerated caution.

"Come now, Judge," said his son, still mirthfully. "There's no masonic funeral going on in the bungalow, is there? Can't one have a harmless night-cap without being excommunicated?"