"Any luck?" asked Dick.
"Not much," said Johnny, when Bart did not answer, ^t^am-had gone out^f Bart. Whatever he had intended to do or say, he now hesitated.
"Well, do you give up?" Dick said impudently.
Dorothy said, as if she could hold this in no longer, "It's just incredible to me! People mustn't do that!"
"Do what?" asked Dick alertly.
"Conceal things. Make private judgments about the truth in a—in a public matter. A matter of murderl I'm sorry, but I think it's frightening."
No Bartee spoke. Nan said, "But, Dotty, when Dick's father asked for help, Dick wanted to protect him."
"You mustn't protect," cried Dorothy fiercely. "You must have the faith not to protect. I think there has been a terrible wrong done somewhere."
Dick said, "Kids, Dotty." His eyes rested on her.
"I understand," said Dorothy. "But that doesn't excuse. You can understand all you want to and all you ought to, but that doesn't mean you approve. Or that WTong is not wrong."
"She is right," said Bart firmly. "Too many people didn't tell all they knew. Mother. Nathaniel. You, Dick. Blanche."
"Oh, Bart, please," Blanche began to cry.
Dick said to Johnny with an air of anger suppressed, "Now that you've got Blanche in tears and the whole house unhappy, do you think you have proved McCauley innocent? Or me guilty?"
"No," said Johnny.
Nan raised her lashes. Her brown eyes were somber. "Johnny, you have done enough damage, really you have. Now, that you understand it all, please, will you just stop?" He didn't speak and the eyes began to glisten with tears. "Do you like making me unhappy? The past is past. I thought you . . ."
Johnny looked at her. Doubt was not for Nan. To tell her who she was would make no difference. It would only be unkind.
"I had better go," he said.
His hostess in tears, his host distracted, Dick unanswerable. Nan unhappy. And Christy McCauley dead these seventeen years. Yes, he had better go.
Dorothy went with him to the door. Johnny had nothing for her but a sad shake of his head. No proof. Nothing, in all that had come out, proved McCauley innocent. Must Nan, then, ever know who she was?
Dorothy, of course, did not know who Nan was. Dorothy said furiously, "There is too dam much that never was told straight. Johnny, what is the meaning of it? Who did kill Chi-istyr
"How do I know?" said Johnny gloomily. "How can I find out who killed Christy? It was seventeen years ago."
In the parlor, Dick said into Nan's ear, "You are right, love. Past is past. If we were only married, we could go away—go somewhere and just be happy."
"—just be happy," she echoed in a whisper.
"Let's," he breathed. "Those tests should be ready on Friday, at the latest. Maybe even on Thursday. I can put some Bartee pressure on."
"How long must we wait, then?"
"Why, not at all."
"Tomorrow is Thursday."
"Let's not wait at all. Friday?"
"I haven't anything to wear," Nan said foolishly.
"Wear red," he said. "My darling, you look so beautiful in red."
"A bride doesn't wear red, sillyl"
"Wear white," he said, "Wear blue."
"Dotty has a white dress. We could turn up the hem."
"Turn up the hem," he whispered, "love, if you love me."
Johnny said to Dorothy, by the door, "Good night. Dotty. Be kind to Nan. She needs somebody—" He went out and the night air was chilly. The fields were dark. What must I do for Nan's sake, he kept asking himself. He kept seeing Dorothy's eyes.
In the big back bedroom at the Bartee house, the cousins quarreled that night. Nan did not think Dorothy was kind.
Dorothy began it by another spirited denunciation of people who withheld information for any reason.
"But Dick didn't do anything really wrong," flamed Nan. "He just wasn't a tattler. And he helped his father. What's wrong wdth that? Everybody doesn't have to start telling all about absolutely everything he ever knew, just because somebody gets murdered." Nan was trembling. "Dick had absolutely nothing to do with the killing, no matter what anybody else ever said or did. And we are just tired. We are going to be mairied as soon as those tests are ready. Any day"
Dorothy said, "Honey, don't . . ."
"Then we are going away. We may get the license tomorrow. So Friday—"
"Oh, no!"
"Yes," said Nan. "Dick is asking Blanche about it. If she doesn't want to go to the trouble—well, then, well go to some minister's house, Dick knows about."
Dorothy was in her nightgowTi. She had begun to pull off her robe. Now she began, without thinking what she was doing, to pull it on again.
Nan said, "Dot, you are going to be at my wedding, aren't you?"
"Certainly," Dorothy said vidthout spirit. She felt stunned.
"Dot, Blanche wants it to be here . . ." Nan looked happier now. "Just a quiet ceremony with nobody but family—and that wouldn't take much getting up. If she does, could I wear your white silk?"
Dorothy said, "Wait." She sat down and they were knee to knee. "Nan, this is just not very smart. Why can't you wait?"
"I can be married in red," said Nan proudly. "Dick doesn't care. I can certainly wear my blue."
"I'm not talking about clothes. I'm talking about marrying into this family."
"I'm marrying Dick." Nan's eyes were dark and stubborn.
"Nan, don't you care that there was a murder?" said Dorothy quietly. '"That a young woman was beaten to death in this house?"
"Nothing to do with me," said Nan.
"But, there's all that about Nathaniel. Honey, he had the reputation of being a har. A coward—"
"He's dead. It's all past."
"He's going to make a swell ancestor for your kids," said Dorothy brutally. She got up and began to walk around.
Nan wa5 in tears, but sitting stiffly on the edge of her bed, not succumbing to them.
"And old Mrs. Bartee, their great-grandmother? She's cute, all right," Dorothy said. "Judge and jury. Blanche, too."
Nan said, sobbing and choking, "Why are you against me?"
"I'm far you," Dorothy said.
"No, you're not. You know I love Dick with all my heart. And he loves me. And we are going to be married. So why can't we^"
"But Nan, don't you want to see this straightened out? That poor man in prison all these years . . ."
"But he did itl" Nan said. "And he ought to be in prison and I don't see—"
"But if he didn't do it," Dorothy said slowly, "then he's in prison because somebody in this family, lied."
"You don't know that," sobbed Nan. "There's no reason to beheve that. And anyhow, I didn't kiU Christy. 1 didn't put the man in prison. I just want to marry the man I love."
"Honey," Dorothy sat down beside her and put her arm around the tense shoulders. "Just listen a minute, please. Johnny and I do care. And the one we care about the most is you. Now you know that."
i
Nan's head went down.
"Aunt Emily, too. Remember?" said Dorothy gently. "Honey, you had a wonderful dream. A wonderful man from a wonderful background came out of the blue and you fell in love. You did just exactly that. You fell. You were going to be married and live happily ever after. Now, you are fighting to keep that dream just as it was. But you shouldn't. Really, you shouldn't. There are some strange things about the Bartee family . . ."
"I don't care," sobbed Nan. "There probably are strange things about everybody's family. But people get married, when they're in love."
Dorothy said, ''True."
"I think it is too wonderful and rare!' Nan said. ''You just can't believe it."
Dorothy looked stem and sad. "I guess I'll have to tell you something."
"What now?" Nan sighed.
"Dick's awfully interested in your money."
Nan's body stiflFened. It wrenched itself from Dorothy's grasp.
"I'm going to tell you," Dorothy continued grimly, "no matter how it sounds, that if it weren't for your money, Dick would have fallen for me." -' ' ''
Nan said in a hushed voice, "You must be out of your mind! You can't say such a thing to mel"