FullReads

She had to go to a party at the Vicarage in the afternoon. Harry would be sure to be there, and, with a conflict of feeling finding expression in her acts, she protected herself by taking all the children, while she inconsistently dressed herself in her most youthful and coquettish costume. She found herself almost grudging Johnnie his rapidly increasing inches, even while she relied on him for an assertion of her position as a matron. For the folly of last night was to be over and done with, and her acquaintance with Harry Sterling to return to its only possible sane basis; that she was resolved on, but she wanted Harry honestly–even keenly–to regret her determination.

He was talking to Maudie Sinclair when she arrived; he took off his hat, but did not allow his eyes to meet hers. She gathered her children round her, and sat down among the chaperons. Mrs. Sterling came and talked to her; divining a sympathy, the good mother had much to say of her son, of her hopes and her fears for him; so many dangers beset young men, especially if they were attractive, like Harry; there were debts, idleness, fast men, and–worst of all–there were designing women, ready to impose on and ruin the innocence of youth.

“He’s been such a good boy till now,” said Mrs. Sterling, “but, of course, his father and I feel anxious. If we could only keep him here, out of harm’s way, under our own eyes!”

Mrs. Mortimer murmured consolation.

“How kind of you! And your influence is so good for him. He thinks such a lot of you, Hilda.”

Mrs. Mortimer, tried too hard, rose and strolled away. Harry’s set seemed to end almost directly, and a moment later he was shaking hands with her, still keeping his eyes away from hers. She made her grasp cold and inanimate, and he divined the displeasure she meant to indicate.

“You must go and play again,” she said, “or talk to the girls. You mustn’t come and talk to me.”

“Why not! How can I help it–now?”

The laughing at her and himself had evidently not come, but, bad as that would have been to bear, his tone threatened something worse.

“Don’t,” she answered sharply. “I’m very angry. You were very unkind and–and ungentlemanly last night.”

He flushed crimson.

“Didn’t you like it?” he asked, with the terrible simplicity of his youth.

For all her trouble, she had to bite her lip to hide a smile. What a question to ask–just in so many words!

“It was very, very wicked, and, of course, I didn’t like it,” she answered. “Oh, Harry! don’t you know how wicked it was?”

“Oh, yes! I know that, of course,” said he, picking at the straw of his hat, which he was carrying in his hand.

“Well, then!” she said.

“I couldn’t help it.”

“You must help it. Oh, don’t you know–oh, it’s absurd! I’m years older than you.”

“You looked so–so awfully pretty.”

“I can’t stand talking to you. They’ll all see.”

“Oh, it’s all right. You’re a friend of mother’s, you know. I say, when shall I be able to see you again–alone, you know?”

Mrs. Mortimer was within an ace of a burst of tears. He seemed not to know that he made her faint with shame, and mad with exultation, and bewildered with terror all in a moment. His new manhood took no heed, save of itself. Was this being out of harm’s way, under the eyes of those poor blind parents?

“If–if you care the least for me–for what I wish, go away, Harry,” she whispered.

He looked at her in wonder, but, with a frown on his face, did as he was told. Five minutes later he was playing again; she heard him shout “Thirty–love,” as he served, a note of triumphant battle in his voice. She believed that she was altogether out of his thoughts.

Her husband was to dine in town that night, and, for sheer protection, she made Maudie Sinclair come and share her evening meal. The children were put to bed, and they sat down alone together, talking over the party. Maudie was pleased to relax a little of her severity toward Harry Sterling; she admitted that he had been very useful in arranging the sets, and very pleasant to everyone.