FullReads

“Oh, I’m so glad the Poindexters want us!” she said one night, over her letters.

“Why?” said Carey, amused by her ardor. “We can’t go.”

“I know it. But they’re such nice people, Carey. Duncan will be so pleased to have them want me!”

Her husband laughed out suddenly, but a frown followed the laugh.

“You’re very patient with the boy, Margaret. I–well, I’ve not been very patient lately, I’m afraid. He manages to exasperate me so, with these grandiose airs, that he doesn’t seem the same boy at all!”

Mrs. Coppered came over to take the arm of his chair and put her white fingers on the little furrow between his eyes.

“It breaks my heart when you hurt him, Carey! He broods over it so. And, after all, he’s only doing what they all–all the people he knows would do!”

“I thought better things of him,” said his father.

“If you go to Yucatan in February, Carey,” Margaret said, “he and I’ll be here alone, and then we’ll get on much smoother, you’ll see.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I hate to go this year; I hate to leave you.”

But he went, nevertheless, for the annual visit to his rubber plantation; and Margaret and Duncan were left alone in the big house for six weeks. Duncan took especial pains to be considerate of his stepmother in his father’s absence, and showed her that he felt her comfort to be his first care. He came and went like a polite, unresponsive shadow, spending silent evenings with her in the library, or acting as an irreproachable and unapproachable escort when escort was needed. Margaret, watching him, began to despair of ever gaining his friendship.

Late one wintry afternoon the boy came in from a concert, and was passing the open door of his step-mother’s room when she called him. He found her standing by one of the big windows, a very girlish figure in her trim walking-suit and long furs. The face she turned to him, under her wide hat, was rosy from contact with the nipping spring air.

“Duncan,” she said, “I’ve had such a nice invitation from Mrs. Gregory.”

Duncan’s face brightened.

“Mrs. Jim?” said he.

“No, indeed!” exulted Margaret, gayly. “Mrs. Clement.”

“Oh, I say!” said Duncan, smiling too. For if young Mrs. Jim Gregory’s friendship was good, old Mrs. Clement’s was much better. For the first time, he sat down informally in Margaret’s room and laid aside his crutch.

“She’s going to take General and Mrs. Wetherbee up to Snowhill for three or four days,” pursued Margaret, “and the Jim Gregorys and Mr. Fred Gregory and me. Won’t your father be pleased? Now, Duncan, what clothes do I need?”

“Oh, the best you’ve got,” said Duncan, instantly interested; and, until it was time to dress for dinner, the two were deep in absorbed consultation.

Duncan was whistling as he went upstairs to dress, and his stepmother was apparently in high spirits. But twenty minutes later, when he found her in the library, there was a complete change. Her eyes were worried, her whole manner distressed, and her voice sharp. She looked up from a telegram as he came in.

“I’ve just had a wire from an old friend in New York,” said she, “and I want you to telephone the answer for me, will you, Duncan? I’ve not a moment to spare. I shall have to leave for New York at the earliest possible minute. After you’ve telephoned the wire, will you find out about the trains from South Station? And get my ticket and reservation, will you? Or send Paul for them–whatever’s quickest.”

Duncan hardly recognized her. Her hesitation was gone, her diffidence gone. She did not even look at him as she spoke; his scowl passed entirely unnoticed. He stood coldly disapproving.

“I don’t really see how you can go,” he began. “Mrs. Gregory–“

“Yes, I know!” she agreed hastily. “I telephoned. She hadn’t come in yet, so I had to make it a message–simply that Mrs. Coppered couldn’t manage it tomorrow. She’ll be very angry, of course. Duncan, would it save any time to have Paul take this right to the telegraph station–“