“The only thing is to get rid of your mother, no matter what the difficulties are,” Miss Storms resumed in a practical tone. “Oh, why doesn’t that Mr. Walsh say or do something! At all events we must get her away. And then you musn’t even forgive John. You must put the past out of your mind—never give it a thought. It must disappear as if it had never existed. Make all the responsibility yours. John must never be humiliated, never know that you have suffered.”
“But what about me?” Lucy reminded her indignantly.
Miss Storms’ smile was rather bitter as she answered.
“I know you think I am only considering the man, Lucy,” she replied. “As a rule, I do. I did in your father’s case. Women have to take the responsibility for life. Besides, the man is the potential father, and until the woman has children she worships the potential father. Afterward she worships the children. But I’m not ignoring you, dear. I am thinking of you, too. John is still the potential father, to you—of more children, I hope.”
Lucy was silent as she gazed out the window.
“You may think me hard on women, Lucy. Nature is hard on them. You may think there are other men—Jim Sprague, for instance—but there aren’t. The female is the type—the responsible one. They are the race. Men are their possessions. You chose John to be the father of your children—and you didn’t Jim.”
Lucy was still silent.
“I have no highfalutin’ ideas about the sanctity of marriage, or any such nonsense,” Miss Storms went on in the same half musing tone, “although I realize that, in spite of what is perhaps some intellectual breadth, I have an old maid’s emotional idealism. But the fact remains, dear, that sex is greater than we, just as life and death are greater, and we can escape neither its ecstasy nor its agony. We mate to suffer as well as to joy, Lucy, and you are happier than I.”
Here Miss Storms reverted abruptly to her practical mood.
“You just hold on, dear,” she advised. “Men, even the greatest of them, never grow up. I think I have a plan that will do the trick. Let me gnaw over it tonight, and I’ll see you in a day or two. Everything’s going to be all right.” Miss Storms nodded reassuringly.
Lucy hesitated a moment. Then she arose.
“Won’t you stay for luncheon, dear?”
“No. I must go.”
“Well, you will hear from me soon. But on account of John’s attitude toward Arthur and Ellen, and toward me, he must never know—more than he already knows—about my having anything to do with it. Women are always deceiving men for their own good, you know, dear.” Miss Storms jested sourly.
Lucy made no sign and Miss Storms proceeded in a businesslike tone.
“Now, Lucy, you’re strong—women have to be—and sensible. You can handle this situation, dear. You must. I’ll help. I believe my idea will work. If it fails we’ll try another.”
“I don’t think it’s any use,” Lucy confessed hopelessly.
“Oh, yes it is. Don’t lose heart.”
From the apartment Lucy went to the park, and, seeking a secluded spot, seated herself on a bench and leaned her head against her hand. She remained thus for more than an hour. Tears sometimes flowed down her cheeks, but she made no sound.
Finally she rose and turned her steps toward the office.
XXVIII
The torpor of summer was in the air, but it did not affect Jim’s industry. Coming into the office from a luncheon he had scarcely tasted, he removed his coat, and settled himself for a hard afternoon’s work. The windows were raised but not a breath came to stir the papers on his desk. The murmur of the street sounded as remote as the echo of the ocean in a shell.
The door opened and Lucy came in. Jim glanced up, startled, but did not speak.
“I want to talk to you, Jim,” Lucy said without preamble. Her face was set.
“Sit down,” he replied, looking at her keenly. The pencil in his hand trembled.
“I couldn’t say anything last night, Jim. I am in the greatest trouble of my life.” She picked up a paper weight and examined it as she spoke.
“I know, Lucy,” he said, laying down his pencil.
She shivered as though chilled by the warm summer atmosphere. Her forced calmness forsook her suddenly.
“Oh, Jim!” she sobbed, and leaning forward on the desk, hid her face in her arms.
He reached out his hand to take hers, then withdrew it, and, picking up the pencil again, began tapping the desk with it.
“What shall I do, Jim?” Lucy lifted her head. She had command of herself now.
Jim went on tapping the desk until Lucy reached over and took the pencil from him and laid it down.
“Your mother must go away,” he declared at last.
“But where can she go? She has no money. Cousin Minnie doesn’t want her. She has no other relations, and besides, John won’t hear of her going.”
“She must go anyway,” he repeated.
“I can’t put her in the street. Oh, Jim, I don’t know what to do! She’s changed John so he’s not himself any more. Everything she does is perfect in his eyes. I’m always to blame. Everything I say is wrong. She’s even turned him against Dimmie. What shall I do? What shall I do?” and Lucy wrung her hands, her eyes fixed upon Jim’s in hungry appeal.
Sprague stared at her. His own eyes widened. His self control went to the winds.
“Do, Lucy? Do! Why come to me!” he cried, seizing her hand and gripping it until she winced.
“Jim!” she gasped.
“I’ve stood all I can.” His tone grew more intense with each word, “I’ve never been too honest with myself about you, Lucy, but I knew I loved you a long time ago. I’ve resented seeing your youth slipping by, and John not noticing it. I’ve tried not to covet his wife, because I thought he wanted her. But now I’ve got to tell
