Blue Ruin (13 page)

Now and then he found himself remembering the vision of Lynette as she stood in the shimmering gold of the setting sun with that sea-blue dress fluttering softly around her, and the roundness of her white arm showing through the sheer sleeve—the long, blue, modest sleeve with its little frill around the white wrist that seemed so perfectly a part of Lynette and gave her such an astonishing air of distinction. Lynette was not sophisticated of course, but there was something satisfyingly distinct about her. And she could learn! When he got her to New York he would mold her. She would make a wonderful woman, a truly beautiful woman. It gave him a distinctly pleasant thrill to think of her as she had stood there on the porch and to realize that she belonged to him, like a perfect flower ready to pick, a ripe peach only awaiting his hand stretched forth to take it to himself. He had waited long, but the time was close at hand now. Of course, though, there were things that he must teach her, and there was no time like the present to begin. The little unpleasantness was annoying, but perhaps the wisest thing for the end in view that could have happened.

With this conclusion he gave himself over to the unusual relaxation of the moment and the study of this unique and amusing child. Of course he did not approve of her, but as it was his duty to amuse her for the evening, why not get as much amusement out of it himself as possible, and also make a character study of her incidentally for the help of his future ministry?

So Jessie Belle chattered on through the romance that was flung upon the screen. Then, suddenly, the scene changed. Entered the villain with a concealed weapon, the audience, of course, being acquainted with the place of its concealment. Came on a storm, with wind and rain and hail and thunder. Lightning flashed, and the musicians helped out with plenty of noise and the roll of a drum at the critical moment.

Fire broke out in the building where the heroine had taken refuge, and she appeared at a window in terror, robed in frail garments of the night. The hero attempted rescue, fell amid smoke and blazing timbers, and was shown as one lifeless lying upon a litter. The moment was crucial.

Jessie Belle gave one great gasp and cringed to her escort’s side, gripping Dana’s arm fiercely and hiding her face on his shoulder. He could feel her lithe, warm little body quiver with each flash of lightning, each tinny roll of thunder. It was all very real to Jessie Belle. Or was it? But Dana was filled with deep pity for her pretty, helpless fright. He reached his hand and gathered hers in a close, warm grasp and felt her quick fingers answer his clasp, felt her bury her face closer against his arm and shiver once more.

Then the voice of a woman behind him smote against his consciousness. He thought he heard his own name hissed in a malicious whisper. Shades of all the theological Whipples appeared in the darkness and groped for his reputation. He drew his hand away sharply. The perfume that clung about her sickened him. What was he doing? Giving evil eyes a chance to gossip. Of course, this was only a pretty, frightened child taking comfort from his presence, but the people around him couldn’t know that. He drew himself up and shoved her gently away into an upright position.

“That’s silly, Jessie Belle,” he said, trying to make his voice sound severe. “This is only a picture.”

“I can’t help it,” she gasped, shivering. “It’s so real!” and ducked her face again into his unwilling shoulder.

Annoyed, he gave a hasty glance about. After all, there was something pleasant in being a refuge for a frightened child. He lifted her face gently and straightened her up.

“Jessie Belle,” he whispered in a tone that was intended to convey comfort, “you mustn’t feel that way! You really mustn’t! People will see us! And look! The storm is over! The fire is out! There comes the moon! And now—see, there is going to be a wedding!”

Jessie Belle sat up and wiped her eyes.

“Nobody minds what anybody else does at the movies, you know,” she informed him cheerfully.

He sat out the remainder of the picture unseeing. His face was burning with annoyance. He was painfully conscious of the two women behind him. They were whispering behind their hands.

“His grandmother …” he could hear, and “… always intended him to be …” and then a low mumble which the music covered, in the interval of which there came out another phrase:

“Yes, his grandfather was quite well known. But things ain’t what they useta be, you know. You can’t expect much even from preachers.”

All the way home he felt the hot waves of fury burning in his cheeks. Nobody had ever dared to say things against his character before. Of course, there was a possibility that they had not been talking about him this time. But it sounded very much as if this silly girl had compromised him. He was inclined to be short with her as they walked along with the multitude.

Jessie Belle did not mind. She pretended to be tired. She yawned, hung upon his arm, looked up into his face pertly, and called him “Mr. Theological” and “Mr. Long-Face,” and asked him if life wasn’t an awful bore to him and how he got that way.

Her cheerful little chatter eventually smoothed away his annoyance, and by the time he had reached his own door and looked off up the hill a few rods to the old Brooke house in the moonlight, as had been his custom for years to look just before entering his home, he had ceased to be annoyed with Jessie Belle. He had somehow got it arranged around in his mind that everything that had happened had been the fault of Lynette. If Lynette had been along it could not have happened. Well, perhaps he was right. It undoubtedly would not have happened just as it did if Lynette had been with them. But Lynette was not along. It was hardly thinkable that she would have been.

Jessie Belle paused on the upper step, pirouetted, plucked a spray from the syringa bush that grew by the porch, brushed it lightly over Dana’s face, and said, “Thanks, boy, for the buggy ride! I’ve had an awfully nice time, and you’re not nearly so bad as I feared. With training you wouldn’t be half bad. What are we going to do tomorrow?”

In half a minute more Dana followed her into the house committed to a ride out to the Mohawk trail the first thing in the morning.

That would lead him straight past Lynette’s door, and now that he had promised, he felt just the least bit uncomfortable. After all, perhaps he would ask Lynette to go with them. Why not? It would save gossip. And besides, he didn’t want to carry things too far. He would see how he felt about it in the morning. The Mohawk trail had always seemed to belong especially to Lynette. It was almost a breach of loyalty for him to take a stranger there without Lynette. Still—

It was late when the Whipples at last retired for the night. Jessie Belle brought down a sheaf of photographs to show to Dana. They were mostly pictures of herself in various poses. There was Jessie Belle in evening dress “at one of the monthly receptions of our music school” as she explained; Jessie Belle in sportswear snapped on a public park tennis court; Jessie Belle in a one-piece swimming suit standing tiptoe at the very end of a diving board, her arms extended, a cherubic smile on her baby face. Justine Whipple gasped and blushed and giggled, “Oh, Jessie Belle!” when she saw this.

There was Jessie Belle at Coney Island; Jessie Belle on Fifth Avenue, and Jessie Belle in Central Park feeding the squirrels. Lastly there was Jessie Belle dressed for “the Recital.” She did not state who did the reciting, the supposition being that the affair was given entirely for the purpose of bringing to the notice of an eager public the marvelous development of Jessie Belle’s voice. The fact being that Jessie Belle in all the glory of apricot silk straps, a rose, a short skirt, and shorter bodice had occupied the back row of seats assigned to the freshman class during the entire evening.

But Jessie Belle shone now in the reflected glory of the laurels of her fellow students, and Justine Whipple drank it all in, and flashed and smiled and giggled, “Oh, Jessie Belle! How
wonderful!”
Amelia in the background sniffed and watched her son jealously. Grandma Whipple twinkled wickedly, and Ella Smith cringed, wondering how she came to have such a child.

Nevertheless Jessie Belle had made her impression on them all, and on none more than Dana. Dana knew New York. He had stood many a time just where Jessie Belle’s picture showed her standing on Fifth Avenue. He could not help noting her slender, chic lines and her daring attitudes. There was something about Jessie Belle that swept him off his feet in spite of his resolve not to be interested in her. Of course, she was only a child. And Dana found himself looking interestedly at the pictures and feeling as if he had known her a long, long time.

And when the evening finally was over and Jessie Belle, about to mount the steps, made a graceful curtsy and blew him a daring little kiss, he smiled with a flattered self-satisfaction. After all, it was something to be able to interest a happy little butterfly like that. It showed he had ability. He was a “mixer.” He would be a success as a public man. He could win the masses when he set himself, without half trying.

On the whole, Dana lay down to sleep with a deep sense of satisfaction and an exalted idea of his own worth and the real honor he was doing to the profession to which he had condescended to dedicate his life. He felt that it had been good for him to come into contact with this exceedingly up-to-date young woman. It was like a strong tonic, a challenge to his manhood. What a thing it would be to win a happy butterfly like this one to settle down and do some good in the world. What a power her beauty would be if put to win people to work for the church for instance. His last waking thought was a memory of her large blue-black eyes looking deep into his, pleading to have her way. Yes, she certainly was a winner! If she chose she could get great sums of money, for instance, out of really worldly people. That would be a wonderful help to the cause of righteousness. He must present that idea to Lynette tomorrow and make her see that it was essential to win Jessie Belle and set her to work for good causes, uplift work and the like. That would be a worthy object for his summer work, and there was no denying that the prospect was not an unpleasant one.

Downstairs in the parlor bedroom Amelia was helping Grandma Whipple to bed. Her lips were set, her brow was furrowed, and her large face was damp with perspiration and weariness.

“Amelia,” said Grandma grimly, as she let herself be eased down into the featherbed, “I think there’s a snake in the grass. Do you know it?”

“Yes,” snapped Amelia bitterly, “there is! And I didn’t let it in either!”

“No!” cackled the old lady amusedly. “But you brought up your boy, and if you didn’t teach him to look out for snakes and know them when he saw them, is that my fault? Snakes are snakes wherever you meet them, at home or abroad. All I’m saying is, watch out it doesn’t sting you. If Dana can’t look out for himself by this time he deserves to be stung, and he better find out what kind of a man he is before he puts on his great-grandfather Whipple’s mantle. Stolen mantles may cover a multitude of sins but they don’t always fit, and everybody isn’t ever deceived. I’m telling you.”

“What’s the use of telling me!” blazed the weary Amelia. “You let her come here! You and Justine! I’ll have to bear the consequences as I always do.”

“Well,” said Grandma with a kind of grim relish of her daughter-in-law’s evident discomfort, “maybe it won’t be so bad after all. Maybe you’ll like her. I don’t know what kind of a girl you do like, anyway. You never liked Lynette Brooke. You’ve got a chance to look over the other kind now.”

Amelia turned a quick suspicious glance at her tyrant. Was it possible that Grandma had a threefold reason for allowing this invasion of the household?

“Mother, did you know that girl was grown up when you let her come here?” she blazed again.

“Well, I kind of wondered,” said the old lady amusedly. “I remember when Justine announced the birth of a girl child some years back. But that’s neither here nor there, Amelia. How long have you known that girl was grown up?”

“Only since yesterday,” said Amelia with a kind of rasp in her voice that sounded like a hidden sob. “But what difference does it make? She’s here and you brought her. I hope you enjoy it. Do you want the east window open or shut?”

“Shut!” said Grandma. “I feel a draft. And Amelia, you don’t need to bother to have hotcakes for breakfast. I heard Justine tell you to. But it isn’t necessary. That girl’s a pig and doesn’t need any encouragement to eat. If I was you, I’d invite Lynette Brooke over to dinner tomorrow night and have a birthday cake. It was Lynette’s birthday today, though nobody seems to have remembered it. But you can do as you like. It’s nothing to me. Perhaps you’ll think it’s too much work. Draw up that blanket a little higher, won’t you? My lame shoulder’s cold. Did you wind the clock and put the cat out? Well, you can do as you like about Lynette, that’s all.” And the old lady turned over and closed her eyes. Amelia gave her a keen, dismayed glance and departed.

So it was Lynette’s birthday and Dana had not gone! Strange they forgot it. Did that cat of Justine remember it? Of course she did! Justine always knew dates and festivals. Justine had the meanest little ways of digging her velvet claws into people. Did Dana know? What was the matter with the whole universe? What was the use of trying to live? Day after day, and each one worse than the last. Thorn in the flesh and fly in the ointment! Vanity of vanities! What profited it for a man to give his life to preaching the Gospel anyway to a lot of sinful, headstrong people? Nobody would do as he preached. Why was the earth made, and why were men and women born to suffer in it? The old question since the beginning of the world that every suffering, disappointed sinner has asked himself again and again.

Amelia Whipple fell into a heavy sleep the minute her head touched the pillow, even while her burdened mind and her prayerless heart were propounding such questions to her hopeless self.

Justine Whipple, in her little room, which faced up toward the Brooke house, turned out her light and knelt for her smug, bleak prayer. Then she drew up the shade and opened the window, casting a catty glance of triumph in the dark to Lynette’s window, which she could see through the branches of the elm tree, still lighted up.