Chapter 26

“Where’s Connie? Where’s Hat?” cried Miss Lady breathlessly, bringing her foam-flecked horse to a halt in front of the porch where Mrs. Ivy was sitting in the twilight. “Don Morley has written a book and it’s going to be published this month!”

“A book!” echoed Mrs. Ivy incredulously, then,

“Ah, my dear, do get off that vicious beast; I haven’t had a moment’s peace since Mr. Wicker sent him over!”

Miss Lady slipped to the ground and stood with her arm around Prince’s neck, laughing. The thrill of her long ride, the first one in nearly two years, still surged through her, and the news just received made her heart dance for joy. Happiness, in spite of her efforts not to expect it, was beginning to shine across the troubled waters, a dim and wavering light as yet, but drawing her toward it with irresistible fascination. It was something to steer by in times of stress and storm, something to turn to tremulously, in the lonely hours of the night, when over-taxed muscles refused to relax and her tired brain ached with the pity and sorrow of the world.

During her long ride this afternoon she had dared for the first time to give rein to thoughts that had hitherto been held in check. Surely life was more than the dreary, monotonous, loveless business of the past summer! With all its problems and perplexities, it was nevertheless a mysterious, fascinating thing. She did not approve of it, nor did she altogether trust it, but she was incorrigibly in love with it—and would be to the end.

“I suppose you know that supper is over,” said Mrs. Ivy, with veiled reproach. “Were there no letters for me?”

“Oh, dear, how stupid of me. I forgot to look through the rest of the mail. Here it is.”

Mrs. Ivy sorted out her own official-looking budget, then peered closely at the two remaining envelopes.

“As I suspected,” she said with a significant lifting of her eyebrows; “two for Constance, in the same handwriting and both postmarked from the Capitol.”

“But what of it, Mrs. Ivy?”

“My dear,” Mrs. Ivy breathed, “don’t you see they are from Mr. Morley?”

“Yes; but I have one from him, too; he’s telling us about his book.”

Mrs. Ivy smiled with sad superiority, “Ah, my dear, you are not a very sophisticated little chaperon. I have hesitated to speak to you before, but I really think this young man’s attention to Constance should be stopped. It isn’t fair to poor Gerald. You know how she has always adored my boy, ever since she was in pinafores, and I don’t mind confessing to you that I’ve encouraged her. Of course Gerald’s artistic temperament has made him susceptible to many forms of beauty, but he has really been quite devoted of late. I simply can not endure the thought of that Mr. Morley interfering with the blossoming of their childhood love.”

“But Mrs. Ivy, he—he is her cousin; he looks upon her as a child.”

“She is only a year younger than you are, my dear, and much more worldly wise. I’ve had my eyes open and I’ve seen a great deal. She is getting quite secretive, and she isn’t always gracious to Gerald. Mr. Morley’s back of it all, you ‘II see.”

“I don’t think there is any danger,” said Miss Lady critically examining the tip of Prince’s nose.

“Ah, my dear girl, you have been too engrossed for the past six months to notice. Ask Mr. Wicker; he spoke to Gerald about it last spring. Ask Gerald himself, he’s wretchedly unhappy. And now you are helping her to get ready to go up to the Capitol to visit, and he’s sure to see her every day. I must say that I think it’s wretched taste for him to pay attentions to any girl under the circumstances.”