she said.
“Well?—Oh
Chatty,” Delia exclaimed, abruptly illuminated, “you don’t mean to say that
you’re going to let any little thing in Joe’s past—? Not that I’ve ever heard
the least hint; never. But even if there were…” She drew a deep breath, and
bravely proceeded to extremities. “Even if you’ve heard that he’s been…that
he’s had a child—of course he would have provided for it before…”
The
girl shook her head. “I know: you needn’t go on. ‘Men will be men’; but it’s
not that.”
“Tell
me what it is.”
Charlotte
Lovell looked about the sunny prosperous room as if it were the image of her
world, and that world were a prison she must break out of. She lowered her
head. “I want—to get away,” she panted.
“Get
away? From Joe?”
“From his ideas—the Ralston ideas.”
Delia
bridled—after all, she was a Ralston! “The Ralston ideas? I haven’t found them—so unbearably unpleasant to live with,” she smiled a
little tartly.
“No.
But it was different with you: they didn’t ask you to give up things.”
“What
things?” What in the world (Delia wondered) had poor Charlotte that any one would want her to give up? She
had always been in the position of taking rather than of having to surrender.
“Can’t
you explain to me, dear,” Delia urged.
“My
poor children—he says I’m to give them up,” cried the girl in a stricken
whisper.
“Give
them up? Give up helping them?”
“Seeing
them—looking after them. Give them up altogether. He got his mother to explain
to me. After—after we have children…he’s afraid…afraid our children might catch
things…He’ll give me money, of course, to pay some one…a hired person, to look
after them. He thought that handsome,” Charlotte broke out with a sob. She flung off her
bonnet and smothered her prostrate weeping in the cushions.
Delia
sat perplexed. Of all unforeseen complications this was surely the least
imaginable. And with all the acquired Ralston that was in her she could not
help seeing the force of Joe’s objection, could almost find herself agreeing with him. No one in New York had forgotten the death of the poor Henry
van der Luydens’ only child, who had caught small-pox at the circus to which an
unprincipled nurse had surreptitiously taken him. After such a warning as that,
parents felt justified in every precaution against contagion. And poor people
were so ignorant and careless, and their children, of course, so perpetually
exposed to everything catching. No, Joe Ralston was certainly right, and
Charlotte almost insanely unreasonable. But it would be useless to tell her so
now. Instinctively, Delia temporized.
“After
all,” she whispered to the prone ear, “if it’s only after you have children—you
may not have any—for some time.”
“Oh,
yes, I shall!” came back in anguish from the cushions.
Delia
smiled with matronly superiority. “Really, Chatty, I don’t quite see how you
can know. You don’t understand.”
Charlotte
Lovell lifted herself up. Her collar of Brussels lace had come undone and hung in a wisp on
her crumpled bodice, and through the disorder of her hair the white lock
glimmered haggardly. In her pale brown eyes the little green specks floated
like leaves in a trout-pool.
“Poor
girl,” Delia thought, “how old and ugly she looks! More than ever like an old
maid; and she doesn’t seem to realize in the least
that she’ll never have another chance.”
“You
must try to
“Well?—Oh
Chatty,” Delia exclaimed, abruptly illuminated, “you don’t mean to say that
you’re going to let any little thing in Joe’s past—? Not that I’ve ever heard
the least hint; never. But even if there were…” She drew a deep breath, and
bravely proceeded to extremities. “Even if you’ve heard that he’s been…that
he’s had a child—of course he would have provided for it before…”
The
girl shook her head. “I know: you needn’t go on. ‘Men will be men’; but it’s
not that.”
“Tell
me what it is.”
Charlotte
Lovell looked about the sunny prosperous room as if it were the image of her
world, and that world were a prison she must break out of. She lowered her
head. “I want—to get away,” she panted.
“Get
away? From Joe?”
“From his ideas—the Ralston ideas.”
Delia
bridled—after all, she was a Ralston! “The Ralston ideas? I haven’t found them—so unbearably unpleasant to live with,” she smiled a
little tartly.
“No.
But it was different with you: they didn’t ask you to give up things.”
“What
things?” What in the world (Delia wondered) had poor Charlotte that any one would want her to give up? She
had always been in the position of taking rather than of having to surrender.
“Can’t
you explain to me, dear,” Delia urged.
“My
poor children—he says I’m to give them up,” cried the girl in a stricken
whisper.
“Give
them up? Give up helping them?”
“Seeing
them—looking after them. Give them up altogether. He got his mother to explain
to me. After—after we have children…he’s afraid…afraid our children might catch
things…He’ll give me money, of course, to pay some one…a hired person, to look
after them. He thought that handsome,” Charlotte broke out with a sob. She flung off her
bonnet and smothered her prostrate weeping in the cushions.
Delia
sat perplexed. Of all unforeseen complications this was surely the least
imaginable. And with all the acquired Ralston that was in her she could not
help seeing the force of Joe’s objection, could almost find herself agreeing with him. No one in New York had forgotten the death of the poor Henry
van der Luydens’ only child, who had caught small-pox at the circus to which an
unprincipled nurse had surreptitiously taken him. After such a warning as that,
parents felt justified in every precaution against contagion. And poor people
were so ignorant and careless, and their children, of course, so perpetually
exposed to everything catching. No, Joe Ralston was certainly right, and
Charlotte almost insanely unreasonable. But it would be useless to tell her so
now. Instinctively, Delia temporized.
“After
all,” she whispered to the prone ear, “if it’s only after you have children—you
may not have any—for some time.”
“Oh,
yes, I shall!” came back in anguish from the cushions.
Delia
smiled with matronly superiority. “Really, Chatty, I don’t quite see how you
can know. You don’t understand.”
Charlotte
Lovell lifted herself up. Her collar of Brussels lace had come undone and hung in a wisp on
her crumpled bodice, and through the disorder of her hair the white lock
glimmered haggardly. In her pale brown eyes the little green specks floated
like leaves in a trout-pool.
“Poor
girl,” Delia thought, “how old and ugly she looks! More than ever like an old
maid; and she doesn’t seem to realize in the least
that she’ll never have another chance.”
“You
must try to
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