“Who looks after her when you’re at the office?” his grandmother asked.
“Well—the hired girl goes up every now and then. And Mrs. Hubbard—that’s our landlady—has been very nice to her … until just lately. …”
“Just lately?”
He reddened. “Well, I’ve been behindhand about paying—I suppose that’s the reason.”
“Vanny, you must take that child away from here.”
He gave an impatient laugh. “Take her away? Where to? To begin with, she wouldn’t go anywhere without me. …”
She looked at him gravely. “You must go with her then. Young eyes don’t recognize sickness the way old ones do. … No, dear, I don’t want to frighten you; she’ll get well; she just wants nursing and feeding—and comforting, I guess. Isn’t she fretting about you and your affairs? Maybe thinking she’s a burden to you? Poor child—I thought so. … Well, Vanny, all that’s got to stop. It must stop!” She stood up with sudden resolution. “I’ll send for that ‘Storecraft’ man—I could see they were anxious to get me; he was fairly scared that I’d fall into the hands of another manager. I’ll see him tonight, Vanny; I’ll get a good big advance out of him. … Saidie Toler’ll manage that for me … you’ll see!”
She stood beaming on him with such ample reassurance that his resolution wavered. Wasn’t she right, after all? What business was it of his if (in perfect good faith, he was sure) she chose to sell her hazy rhetoric to audiences more ignorant than herself? After all, it was probable that her teaching could do only good … why try it by standards of intellectual integrity that none of her hearers would think of applying? He was frightened by her tone in speaking of Laura Lou; he knew that, unless he could raise a little money at once, he and his wife could not stay on at Mrs. Hubbard’s; and to his grandmother’s question as to where he intended to take Laura Lou he could find no answer.
“See here, Vanny, don’t you look so discouraged. You’ll see, I’ll pull it off in the big towns upstate. And then—”
“No, no,” he broke out uncontrollably. “You don’t understand me; you must listen. I can’t take your money—no matter how much of it you make. I want you to give up lecturing; to give it up at once. I want you to go back home now—tomorrow. Don’t you see, Granny, we can’t either of us live on money that isn’t honestly got?”
Mrs. Scrimser stood listening with a face of gentle bewilderment. He felt the uselessness of his words; no argument of that sort could penetrate through the close armour of her conviction. Under her genuine personal humility there was a spiritual pride, the sense of a “call,” of the direct mandate of the Unseen. The word “honestly” had not even caught her attention, and she evidently attributed Vance’s scruples to the pride of a young man unwilling to be helped out of money difficulties by an old woman. He did not know what to say next; and for a minute or two they stood and faced each other in an embarrassed silence. Then he saw a tremor cross her face, followed by a look of painful enlightenment.
“Vanny,” she said, laying her hand on his shoulder, “perhaps, as you say, I haven’t understood what you meant. But you’ve got to tell me. Is it because you’re afraid I’ll hurt your reputation—a foolish old woman going about telling people about things she doesn’t half understand? I know that’s the way it struck you and your fashionable friends last night—and maybe you don’t want them to go round saying: ‘Who’d ever have thought that old evangelist woman with her Salvation Army talk was Vance Weston’s grandmother—the novelist’s grandmother?’ ” She paused, and let her eyes rest on his. “That it, Vanny? You see I’m not so stupid, after all.” She smiled a little, and drew him closer. “If you do feel that, sonny, I guess I’ll have to give up after all.”
Vance could find no reply. The words choked in his throat. “It’s not that—how could you … ?” he mumbled, answering her embrace. She groped in a big silk bag, drew out a crumpled handkerchief, and wiped her spectacles. When she had put them back, she plunged again into the deeper recesses of her reticule, and finally produced a hundred-dollar bill. She smoothed it out and pressed it into her grandson’s hand. “No, it’s not for you—it’s for Laura Lou. And you can let her take it, Vanny”—a whimsical twinkle crept into her eyes—“because I didn’t earn a dollar of it lecturing. I made every cent baking gingerbread for charity sales last winter—and see here, Vanny, it’s twice the work it is coaxing folks back to Jesus. …”
XXXIX
Vance had not seen Lewis Tarrant for a long time. Tarrant was at the office less often than formerly; the practical administration of the New Hour was entrusted to Eric Rauch, who ran it according to his own ideas save when his chief, unexpectedly turning up, upset existing arrangements and substituted new plans of his own. This state of things did not escape the notice of the small staff. It was rumoured that Tarrant was losing interest—then again that he was absorbed in the writing of a novel; it was agreed that, in any case, something was wrong with his nerves. Handling Tarrant had always been a gingerly business; Rauch was the only man supple enough to restore his good-humour without yielding to him; and even Rauch (as he told Vance) never knew beforehand whether he was going to pull it off or not. “The trouble is, he’s got enough ideas to run a dozen reviews; and he wants to apply them all to this one poor rag.” The result was that the rag was drooping; and as soon as an enterprise gave the least sign of failure it was Tarrant’s instinct to disclaim all responsibility for it.
His
