"Maybe she is," returned Maud. Then she glanced at Wollaston, who was looking away, and whispered in Maria's ear: "They talk like fury about her, and her mother, too."

"I don't care," Maria said, stoutly. "She was down at the station and told me how Evelyn was lost, and then she went in with me."

Maud laughed her aggravating laugh again.

"Well, maybe it was just as well she did," she said, "or else they would have said you and Wollaston had eloped, sure."

Maria began to speak, but her voice was drowned by the rumble of the New York train on the other track. The Wardway train was late.

Usually the two trains met at the station.

However, the New York train had only just pulled out of sight before the Wardway train came in. As Maria climbed on the train she felt a paper thrust forcibly into her hand, which closed over it instinctively. She sat with Maud, and had no opportunity to look at it all the way to Wardway. She slipped it slyly into her Algebra.

Maud's eyes were sharp. "What's that you are putting in your Algebra?" she asked.

"A marker," replied Maria. She felt that Maud's curiosity was such that it justified a white lie.

She had no chance to read the paper which Wollaston had slipped into her hand until she was fairly in school. Then she read it under cover of a book. It was very short, and quite manly, although manifestly written under great perturbation of spirit.

Wollaston wrote: "Shall I tell your folks to-night?"

Wollaston was not in Maria's cla.s.ses. He was older, and had entered in advance. She had not a chance to reply until noon. Going into the restaurant, she in her turn slipped a paper forcibly into his hand.

"Good land! look out!" said Maud Page. "Why, Maria Edgham, you b.u.t.ted right into Wollaston Lee and nearly knocked him over."

What Maria had written was also short, but desperate. She wrote:

"If you ever tell your folks or my folks, or anybody, I will drown myself in Fisher's Pond."

A look of relief spread over the boy's face. Maria glanced at him where he sat at a distant table with some boys, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod of rea.s.surance at her. Maria understood that he had not told, and would not, unless she bade him.

On the train going home that night he found a chance to speak to her.

He occupied the seat behind her, and waited until a woman who sat with Maria got off the train at a station, and also a man who had occupied the seat with him. Then he leaned over and said, ostentatiously, so he could be heard half the length of the car, "It is a beautiful day, isn't it?"

Maria did not turn around at all, but her face was deadly white as she replied, "Yes, lovely."

Then the boy whispered, and the whisper seemed to reach her inmost soul. "Look here, I want to do what is right, and--honorable, you know, but hang me if I know what is. It is an awful pickle."

Maria nodded, still with her face straight ahead.

"I don't know how it happened, for my part," the boy whispered.

Maria nodded again.

"I didn't say anything to my folks, because I didn't know how you would feel about it. I thought I ought to ask you first. But I am not afraid to tell, you needn't think that, and I mean to be honorable.

If you say so, I will go right home with you and tell your folks, and then I will tell mine, and we will see what we can do."

Maria made no answer. She was in agony. It seemed to her that the whisper was deafening her.

"I will leave school, and go to work right away," said the boy, and his voice was a little louder, and full of pathetic manliness; "and I guess in a year's time I could get so I could earn enough to support you. I mean to do what is right. All is I want to do what you want me to do. I didn't know how you felt about it."

Then Maria turned slightly. He leaned closer.

"I told you how I felt," she whispered back.

"You mean what you wrote?"

"Yes, what I wrote."

"You don't want me to tell at all?"

"Never, as long as you live."

"How about her?"

"Gladys?"

"Yes, confound her!"

"She won't tell. She won't dare to."

Wollaston was silent for a moment, then he whispered again. "Well,"

he said, "I want to do what you want me to and what is honorable. Of course, we are both young, and I haven't any money except what father gives me, but I am willing to quit school to-morrow and go to work.

You needn't think I mean to back out and show the white feather. I am not that kind. We have got into this, and I am ready and willing to do all I can."

"I meant what I wrote," whispered Maria again. "I never want you to tell, and--"

"And what?"

"I wish you would go and sit somewhere else, and not speak to me again. I hate the very sight of you."

"All right," said the boy. There was a slight echo of rancor in his own voice, still it was patient, with the patience of a man with a woman and her unreason. All his temper of the night before had disappeared. He was quite honest in saying that he wished to do what was right and honorable. He was really much more of a man than he had been the day before. He was conscious of not loving Maria--his budding boy-love for her had been shocked out of life. He was even repelled by her, but he had a strong sense of his duty towards her, and he was full of pity for her. He saw how pale and nervous and frightened she was. He got up to change his seat, but before he went, he leaned over her and whispered again: "You need not be a mite afraid, Maria. All I want is what will please you and what is right.

I will never tell, unless you ask me to. You need not worry. You had better put it all out of your mind."

Maria nodded. She felt very dizzy. She was glad when Wollaston not only left his seat, but the car, going into the smoker. She heard the door slam after him with a sense of relief. She felt a great relief at his a.s.surance that he would keep their secret. Wollaston Lee was a boy whose promises had weight. She looked out of the window and a little of her old-time peace seemed to descend upon her. She saw how lovely the landscape was in the waning light. She saw the new moon with a great star attendant, and reflected that it was over her right shoulder. After all, youth is hard to down, and hope finds a rich soil in it. Then, too, a temporization to one who is young means eternity. If Wollaston did not tell, and Gladys did not tell, and she did not tell, it might all come right somehow in the end.

She looked at the crescent of the moon, and the great depth of light of the star, and her own affairs seemed to quiet her with their very littleness. What was little Maria Edgham and her ridiculous and tragic matrimonial tangle compared with the eternal light of those strange celestial things yonder? She would pa.s.s, and they would remain. She became comforted. She even reflected that she was hungry.

She had not obeyed her father's injunction, and had eaten very little luncheon. She thought with pleasure of the good dinner which would be awaiting her. Then suddenly she remembered how she had talked to Her.

How would she be treated? But she remembered that Ida could not have said anything against her to her father, or, if she had done so, it had made no difference to him. She considered Ida's character, and it seemed to her quite probable that she would make no further reference to the subject. Ida was averse even to pursuing enmities, because of the inconvenience which they might cause her. It was infinitely less trouble to allow birds which had pecked at her to fly away than to pursue them; then, too, she always remained unshaken in her belief in herself. Maria's tirade would not in the least have disturbed her self-love, and it is only a wound in self-love which can affect some people. Maria was inclined to think that Ida would receive her with the same coldly radiant smile as usual, and she was right. That night, when she entered the bright parlor, glowing with soft lights under art-shades, Ida, in her pretty house-gown--scarlet cashmere trimmed with medallions of cream lace--greeted her in the same fashion as she had always done. Evelyn ran forward with those squeals of love which only a baby can accomplish. Maria, hugging her little sister, saw that Ida's countenance was quite unchanged.

"So you have got home?" said she. "Is it very cold?"

"Not very," replied Maria.

"I have not been out, and I did not know," Ida said, in her usual fashion of making commonplaces appear like brilliances.

"There may be a frost, I don't know," Maria said. She was actually confused before this impenetrability. Remembering the awful things she had said to Her, she was suddenly conscience-stricken as she saw Ida's calm radiance of demeanor. She began to wonder if she had not been mistaken, if Ida was not really much better than she herself.

She knew that is she had had such things said to her she could not have appeared so forgiving. Such absolute self-love, and self-belief, was incomprehensible to her. She had accused Ida of more than she could herself actually comprehend. She began to think Ida had a forgiving heart, and that she herself had been the wicked one, not She. She responded to everything which Ida said with a conciliatory air. Presently Harry came in. He was late. He looked very worn and tired. Ida sent Josephine up-stairs to get his smoking-jacket and slippers, and Maria thought She was very kind to her father. Evelyn climbed into his arms, but he greeted even her rather wearily. Ida noticed it.