Dorothy had her arms crossed, hands on her own shoulders, head bent.
Dick Bartee said, "One more word about that kilhng, Sims, and I will throw you out bodily. In fact, I tliink we would all like it very much if you would go."
Johnny said rapidly, "Old Mr. Bartee sent Emily five thousand dolliirs, every year, for the baby." He saw Bart's
face react. "It was put into a fund by Mr. Copeland. The money you have, Nan, is Bartee money."
Nan's eyes went to Dick and she smiled.
"Listen to me," pleaded Johnny. "Dick knew you were an heiress. He needed money to buy into this place. He wants this place."
"Of course, he wants to buy in and be Bart's partner. It's all family," Nan said. "It's wonderfull"
Bart's eyes were narrow. "Nan's money came from my father?"
"That is so," said Johnny. "Check it. Ask Copeland. And tell me this. Why would Dick take a letter to San Francisco by hand?"
"Because I was asked to," said Dick, "and I don't think you heard what I said . . ."
Bart moved between them again. Blanche came hurrying back with a small canvas, about a foot square. A painting of a woman's h^ad. "This is Christy," she said. "Nathaniel Bartee did this." She looked at their faces nervously.
Dorothy rose slowly and looked at it from one side. Johnny looked from the other. A young face, laughing. The cheek bones a trifle high. Hair a hght brown, curling away from the fair brow. Eyes a brilhant blue. Dehcate brows. (Johnny swallowed. He liad not questioned the climate of opinion about Natlianiel Bartee apd his painting. But the man had been talented. He had been among PhiUstines.)
"Give it to me," commanded the old lady. "Now, child, come see your mother. Wasn't she a pretty httle dear?"
Nan moved.
Johnny said hoarsely, "She was beaten to death where you are standing, Nan."
Nan said, with the quick tears of old sparking from her eyes, "Johnny, don't be horrible I Go awayl" She dropped to her knees beside the old lady. "She was pretty . . ."
"Dick wants the money. Nan," Johnny said loudly. He felt as if he were shouting from a far, far place. She knelt, her back to him. She did not even turn her head.
Dick said, "Get out of the way, Bart."
"You are not going to hit anyone in my house," Bart said. "Sims, I think you'd better go."
"It doesn't matter, Johnny," he heard Dorothy say. He
looked at her. "They are going to be manied tomorrow," she went on calmly. "There is nothing we can do about it."
So Johnny turned and walked out of the study and along the red carpet of the hall, Bart was walking close behind him. Bart reached ahead and opened a leaf of the front door. "Sorry," Bart said.
"What about?" said Johnny bitterly. "That he gets away with murder?" Their eyes met and Bart's were troubled. Johnny said, "Good-bye."
"Good-night." The door closed.
Johnny stood on the porch. Had no car. He plunged into the drive, emerged from the trees. The landscape, carpeted with the low gieen, was yet as desolate as the moon.
CHAPTER 19
The phone rang in Johnny's room about half past nine in the morning. Friday.
Nan's voice. Hope jumped.
''Johnny, I'm sorry for anything I said last night or if I sounded mean."
". . . all right."
"I will go to see my father, of course. Dick and I will do all we can to make liim feel—all right about us. So everythmg is going to work out."
He got out the necessary word, ". . . glad."
"But, Johnny, I don't want you and me to be fighting. And on my wedding day."
Now, he felt very cold. "I'll stay away," he promised quickly. "Don't worry about that."
"But, Johnny, that isn't ... I wish you'd understand. These are my mother's people. But I don't mean to ... I wouldn't offend you or Aunt Barbara ..."
"You're not asking me to be there, Nan?"
"Well . . ."
"Did Dorothy talk you into this?"
"No, she didn't. We didn't even stay in the same room last night. Everybody thought . . . Well, I wanted to be alone. But she's going to stand up with me. So I should think . . ."
"You want me to—?"
"Oh, not to stand up or . . . You see, Uncle Bart is my very own uncle and he ought to be the one to give me away." Nan's voice was gayer; it was losing its trouble. This was her wedding day. "Only Blanche and Bart think we should be at peace, Johnny, or—it's not lucky."
"What about Dick?"
"Oh, Dick says that if you promise not to talk the way you've been . . . Dick says he hasn't anything against you. Just if you'd stop, oh—busybodying." Her voice trailed off. It came back, coaxing. "So, Johnny? Won't you come to my wedding and wish me happiness?"
He didn't know whether he could. He couldn't speak.
"For Aunt Emily's sake, then?"
The flash of rage that had been ready and waiting, went through him now. But he said quietly, "All right. Nan."
"About a quarter of eleven? It won't take long. And afterwards, I suppose, you'll be driving Dotty home."
"All right, Nai^" he said, keeping control.
Grimes had told him that Copeland was coming down. But Copeland hadn't come, nor had Johnny's call to Roderick Grimes, this morning, been completed, when the hour was upon him and he must go to Nan's wedding.
The maid let him in. Four or five strange people were standing in the parlor. Flowers everywhere. A Httle lectern before the mantel. The old lady, with a soft pink shawl around her shoulders, held coiurt. A man said, "I'm Dr. Jenson. We are groom's. You must be bride's, I guess."
Johnny didn't say which he was. More names were given. Hands shaken. He nodded toward but did not go near the old lady.
Bart came in through the doors from the dining room.
"Morning."
Bart looked him over with deliberate care. "You haven't changed your mind," he pronounced quietly.
"I am a symbol of something," Johmiy's face felt as if it were splitting and tearing, as he grinned. Bart said, "Nan has one of the pins now." Johnny pressed his hps very tightly closed. "The one supposed to be Chiisty's," Bart said. "The one from McCauleys' pocket. Kate's pin." Johnny's hps opened.
"I don't know what can be done," said Bart quickly. "You have no proof."
"What makes you change your mind?"
"I believe Dick sounded out the chance of a loan on Nan's prospects too soon. I can't prove it."
"You lend your house for this wedding? You give the bride away?" Johnny felt sick.
Bait said, "How will it help if they elope?" He was stiff, proud, helpless. "To make a scene?"
They stared at each other sadly for a moment. Then Bart said, "Miss Dorothy is in the dining room. Go on in."
Dorothy was wearing a pink dress and a pink and white corsage. She was standing very straight beside one of the ; heax'y old carved chairs. "Oh, Johnny," she said warmly. "You didn't have to comel You don't have to watch this, feeling the way you do. You go away! She can't have every- ,j thing."
"I don't know how I feel, Dot," Johnny said heavily. "Are you all right?"
"I'm O.K." She seemed surprised. "'Wondering who I am, of course."
"Who you are?"
"Nan is Mary McCauley. Am I Dorothy O'Hara, I wonder?" "O'Hara?" he said absently. "Dot, did you know Bart be-heves me now?"
"I believe you, too," she said. "But Nan has been told and told—and if she beUeves in Dick, instead . . ." "It's going to be a tragedy."
"You mean, you will prove it, sooner or later? And then?''
"Then Nan will have a husband in prison for murder."
Dorothy said, "Johnny, maybe she will. But that's not the
tragedy." He stared. Her blue eyes were clear and steady.
"The tragedy happened when she fell in love with a monster."
"Yes, that's right," he said. "The dream. That's how he's
beaten me all along the line. Do you beheve a rough tough
fifteen-year-old boy ever looked twice at a three-year-old baby girl?"
Dorothy moved her head sadly.
"Grooves in their hearts." Johnny clenched his teeth, in a bitter grimace. "But she believes it! If we ever could have broken the spell, made her believe—"