Nannie, however, resented Lucy’s growing self-sufficiency as the girl became graver of manner and expressed herself positively on all sorts of subjects.
Arthur’s law practice did not increase and, as there were no more expectations from his father’s estate, it was decided to discharge Aunt Martha. After the old woman had gone Nannie made a few halfhearted experiments at cooking, but soon relegated this undertaking to her daughter, who at sixteen was virtually the head of the domestic establishment.
But, though Lucy was responsible under this arrangement for the selection and quantity of food bought for the family, Mrs. Merwent reserved for herself the prerogative of giving orders to the groceryman. The young solicitor, who always made a punctual appearance, had soft brown eyes and a beautiful complexion. Nannie never opened the back door to him without first looking into the mirror.
“Are you sure your eggs are fresh today?” she would ask coquettishly. She tapped him on the arm with the pencil she held as she objected to the exorbitant price of bacon.
Lucy, who was annoyed by his habit of staring, expressed her dislike.
“Well, you don’t have to give the orders to him!” was her mother’s pettish answer.
Lucy worked too hard and, as a result, became ill. Arthur was away at the time. Nannie called the family physician and annoyed the girl with useless attentions. The doctor telegraphed Merwent that his daughter’s condition was serious. Arthur returned on the first train and, arriving at the house, found Nannie walking the floor with senseless gestures. He went into the sick room and seated himself beside Lucy’s bed. His quiet, emotionless manner seemed to drive Nannie to distraction. Her chief resentment, however, seemed to arise from the fact that he did not comfort her but only concerned himself with Lucy.
“Are you going to eat your dinner, or sit there all night?” she asked, her voice trembling with vindictiveness.
Arthur went into the dining room without answering. Nannie shut the door between them. She would not eat because she did not want to leave Arthur and Lucy alone together, and the doctor was obliged to order her to begin her meal. When she did go, however, her appetite was as hearty as usual.
After a few critical days Lucy’s condition improved and on the fourth morning, when the crisis was passed, she smiled at Arthur. Nannie, in the room at the time, bent over the bed.
“Why don’t you smile at Nannie?” she asked accusingly, and Lucy smiled at her mother too.
Arthur, as was his wont when he saw the approach of a useless scene, left the room.
During the convalescence Nannie invented a thousand meaningless attentions with which she endeavored to fix upon herself the regard of the invalid, but as Lucy grew stronger and began to walk about Nannie forgot to flutter around her and their life together resumed its former course.
VI
Even after reaching the age when young girls begin to notice the opposite sex, Lucy preferred girls to men. She also delighted in caring for younger children and babies. Nannie laughed at Lucy for not having beaux.
“I had dozens at your age,” she would say.
The most common cause of misunderstanding between the mother and daughter was Nannie’s trick of regarding every remark about other people, or about human nature in general, as a covert slur on herself. Each mention of an ignoble quality brought forth, “That’s just like me,” from Nannie, while any reference to an admirable characteristic was greeted with, “I haven’t got that.”
“I wish Mamma wasn’t that way,” Lucy confided to her father one night, after a number of irritating experiences with this mania. “It makes things so unpleasant.” The evening had ended in a quarrel and Nannie had gone upstairs to cry.
“Your mother has every defect of character that can be mentioned,” Arthur replied, “so I suppose she shouldn’t be blamed for being sensitive.”
Lucy was surprised by the bitter feeling in the tone of her usually silent and impassive father, and remembered his remark.
Nannie spent a great deal of time in beauty culture. She tried all sorts of exercises and devices for preserving her figure and warding off wrinkles. Every recipe she saw in the women’s columns of the newspapers she tested carefully. Each day a large part of the morning was devoted to a faithful observance of these rites, and she never neglected to take her “beauty nap” during the afternoon. Often she would gaze with envy at Lucy’s charming color and clear eyes.
“I don’t want to grow old and ugly, Lucy,” she would say. “I’m so afraid of growing old! Do you think I am beginning to show my age?”
“Why, Mamma, what nonsense! You look like a girl,” Lucy would reply, for Nannie’s efforts were not without a certain kind of effect.
“Do you really think so?” she would ask happily. “Don’t tell anybody I use rouge, will you?”
“I won’t,” Lucy always promised.
After taking up her residence with “Cousin Minnie Sheldon” Mrs. Lockhart seldom visited her daughter.
One summer afternoon, however, a carriage stopped before the Merwents’ gate.
“Why, I believe that’s Mamma coming here,” Nannie whispered excitedly, as the carriage door was opened. “There’s a young man with her!” she added. “Who in the world can it be? You stay here to receive them, Lucy. Tell Mamma I’ll be down in a minute,” and she ran upstairs to change her dress and improve her complexion.
“Well, well, is this my grandbaby?” Mrs. Lockhart ejaculated as she entered the hall and offered her cheek for Lucy to kiss. “You’re a young lady already,” and she
