This Side of Glory by Gwen Bristow Page B

blurred with what for a long time was merely an unthinking confusion. The little clock on the bedside table ticked loudly. The clock had to be there so she would know when to go to Cornelia, but its ticking worried her nerves. Slowly, her unhappiness began to turn to self-analysis. She told herself that she had merely hurt Kester without suggesting any solution of the problem, and in the fierce inner light of sleeplessness she knew that she could not endure to hurt him because she loved him with a passion that had in no way diminished. She wanted him and she would want him as long as she lived. Whatever price she had to pay for her life with him, she would not relinquish any chance to recapture what they had had together. The next step ahead of her was plain: she was going down to New Orleans and make the bankers tell her exactly the plight of Ardeith. If there was any salvation to be had she would wrest it from them with every shred of strength she possessed, because if she recognized Kester’s faults it was only with a violent desire to save him from their consequences.
    There was a faint little cry from the nursery. Eleanor sat up. It must be after four o’clock. Usually she set the alarm, but tonight she had forgotten it. Hurriedly putting on a bathrobe she went down the hall to the nursery, where Cornelia lay in her crib protesting the world’s neglect. As she felt Cornelia cuddle against her in warm helpless trust Eleanor thought how much she loved her. She was not demonstrative like Kester, but she gave her child the simple, quiet love that meant protection. Remembering the unconquerable grandmother for whom Cornelia was named she smiled to herself. Kester had the grace born of many self-assured generations, but she had something else, the pitiless strength of a race that had fought its way through the dirt and cruelty of the poor, and she liked to think Cornelia was drawing in something of this harsh vigor with her mother’s milk.
    Eleanor put the baby back into the cradle and covered her up. Out in the hall again, she hesitated, then went to Kester’s room, opening the door softly. His clothes were tossed about on the chairs and floor as usual, and he was fast asleep. Wondering resentfully if any crisis could disturb the healthy rhythm of his life, Eleanor nevertheless bent down and kissed him. He stirred slightly, but did not wake up. She left him, and went back to her room.
    But the compulsion to immediate activity still would not let her rest, so she took a coat from her armoire and drawing it around her she crept down the chilly dark stairway to the little room Kester called his study, where there was a big roller-top desk piled with ledgers. The desk drawers were so stuffed with papers that it was hard to open them. Eleanor pulled out a drawer and began to go through its contents —circulars, restaurant menus, old letters, racing forms, ticket stubs, theater programs, bills, bills, bills. With hands that were stiff with cold she went to work sorting the bills.
    Her exasperation rose in her again. Kester had evidently paid for nothing until he had to. The presents he had given her, the dresses he had bought Cornelia, were all unpaid for; and she shivered with anger when she found Bob Purcell’s bill for his attendance upon her at her delivery three months ago. Eleanor thrust that into her coat pocket. Thank heaven she had some money, her income from the Tonelli Fruit Lines. Nine hundred dollars of that lay in the bank. She had been putting it up to buy a car of her own, but that was out of the question now. She would pay this bill herself tomorrow—no, today. It was nearly dawn.
    To think that Kester had neglected such an obligation made her sick with shame. But she promised herself fiercely that nothing at Ardeith would be neglected again. Whatever her talents might or might not be, she had a good head for business. She had not majored in mathematics at Barnard for nothing.
    With grim resolution she