Mrs. Crosby stood on the pavement, gazing after the car as it moved
off. She had not her brother's simplicity nor his optimism. Her
married years had taken her away from the environment which had
enabled him to live his busy, uncomplicated life; where, the only
medical man in a growing community, he had learned to form his own
sturdy decisions and then to abide by them.
Black and white, right and wrong, the proper course and the improper
course - he lived in a sort of two-dimensional ethical world. But
to Lucy Crosby, between black and white there was a gray no-man's
land of doubt and indecision; a half-way house of compromise, and
sometimes David frightened her. He was so sure.
She passed the open door into the waiting-room, where sat two or
three patient and silent figures, and went back to the kitchen.
Minnie, the elderly servant, sat by the table reading, amid the odor
of roasting chicken; outside the door on the kitchen porch was the
freezer containing the dinner ice-cream. An orderly Sunday peace
was in the air, a gesture of homely comfort, order and security.
Minnie got up.
"I'll unpin your veil for you," she offered, obligingly. "You've
got time to lie down about ten minutes. Mrs. Morgan said she's got
to have her ears treated."
"I hope she doesn't sit and talk for an hour."
"She'll talk, all right," Minnie observed, her mouth full of pins.
"She'd be talking to me yet if I'd stood there. She's got her nerve,
too, that woman."
"I don't like to hear you speak so of the patients who come to the
"Well, I don't like their asking me questions about the family
either," said Minnie, truculently. "She wanted to know who was
Doctor Dick's mother. Said she had had a woman here from Wyoming,
and she thought she'd known his people."
Mrs. Crosby stood very still.
"I think she should bring her questions to the family," she said,
after a silence. "Thank you, Minnie."
Bonnet in hand, she moved toward the stairs, climbed them and went
into her room. Recently life had been growing increasingly calm
and less beset with doubts. For the first time, with Dick's coming
to live with them ten years before, a boy of twenty-two, she had
found a vicarious maternity and gloried in it. Recently she had
been very happy. The war was over and he was safely back; again
she could sew on his buttons and darn his socks, and turn down his
bed at night. He filled the old house with cheer and with vitality.
And, as David gave up more and more of the work, he took it on his
broad shoulders, efficient, tireless, and increasingly popular.
She put her bonnet away in its box, and suddenly there rose in her
frail old body a fierce and unexpected resentment against David.
He had chosen a course and abided by it. He had even now no doubt
or falterings. Just as in the first anxious days there had been
no doubt in him as to the essential rightness of what he was doing.
And now - This was what came of taking a life and moulding it in
accordance with a predetermined plan. That was for God to do, not
She sat down near her window and rocked slowly, to calm herself.
Outside the Sunday movement of the little suburban town went by:
the older Wheeler girl, Nina, who had recently married Leslie Ward,
in her smart little car; Harrison Miller, the cynical bachelor who
lived next door, on his way to the station news stand for the New
York papers; young couples taking small babies for the air in a
perambulator; younger couples, their eyes on each other and on the
That, too, she reflected bitterly! Dick was in love. She had not
watched him for that very thing for so long without being fairly
sure now. She had caught, as simple David with his celibate heart
could never have caught, the tone in Dick's voice when he mentioned
the Wheelers. She had watched him for the past few months in
church on Sunday mornings, and she knew that as she watched him,
so he looked at Elizabeth.
And David was so sure! So sure.
The office door closed and Mrs. Morgan went out, a knitted scarf
wrapping her ears against the wind, and following her exit came the
slow ascent of David as he climbed the stairs to wash for dinner.
She stopped rocking.
"David!" she called sharply.
He opened the door and came in, a bulky figure, still faintly
aromatic of drugs, cheerful and serene.
"D'you call me?" he inquired.
"Yes. Shut the door and come in. I want to talk to you." He
closed the door and went to the hearth-rug. There was a photograph
of Dick on the mantel, taken in his uniform, and he looked at it
for a moment. Then he turned. "All right, my dear. Let's have it."
"Did Mrs. Morgan have anything to say?" He stared at her.
"She usually has," he said. "I never knew you considered it worth
repeating. No. Nothing in particular."
The very fact that Mrs. Morgan had limited her inquiry to Minnie
confirmed her suspicions. But somehow, face to face with David,
she could not see his contentment turned to anxiety.
"I want to talk to you about Dick."
"I think he's in love, David."
David's heavy body straightened, but his face remained serene.
"We had to expect that, Lucy. Is it Elizabeth Wheeler, do you
For a moment there was silence. The canary in its cage hopped
about, a beady inquisitive eye now on one, now on the other of them.
"She's a good girl, Lucy."
"That's not the point, is it?"
"Do you think she cares for him?"
"I don't know. There's some talk of Wallie Sayre. He's there a
"Wallie Sayre!" snorted David. "He's never done a day's work in
his life and never will." He reflected on that with growing
indignation. "He doesn't hold a candle to Dick. Of course, if
the girl's a fool - "
Hands thrust deep into his pockets David took a turn about the room.
Lucy watched him. At last:
"You're evading the real issue, David, aren't you?" "Perhaps I am,"
he admitted. "I'd better talk to him. I think he's got an idea he
shouldn't marry. That's nonsense."
"I don't mean that, exactly," Lucy persisted. "I mean, won't he
want a good many things cleared up before he marries? Isn't he
likely to want to go back to Norada?"
Some of the ruddy color left David's face. He stood still, staring
at her and silent.
"You know he meant to go three years ago, but the war came, and - "
Her voice trailed off. She could not even now easily recall those
days when Dick was drilling on the golf links, and that later
period of separation.
"If he does go back - "
"Donaldson is dead," David broke in, almost roughly.
"Maggie Donaldson is still living."
"What if she is? She's loyal to the core, in the first place. In
the second, she's criminally liable. As liable as I am."
"There is one thing, David, I ought to know. What has become of
the Carlysle girl?"
"She left the stage. There was a sort of general conviction she
was implicated and - I don't know, Lucy. Sometimes I think she was."
He sighed. "I read something about her coming back, some months ago,
in 'The Valley.' That was the thing she was playing the spring
before it happened." He turned on her. "Don't get that in your
head with the rest."
"I wonder, sometimes."
"I know it."
Outside the slamming of an automobile door announced Dick's return,
and almost immediately Minnie rang the old fashioned gong which
hung in the lower hall. Mrs. Crosby got up and placed a leaf of
lettuce between the bars of the bird cage.
"Dinner time, Caruso," she said absently. Caruso was the name Dick
had given the bird. And to David: "She must be in her thirties now."
"Probably." Then his anger and anxiety burst out. "What difference
can it make about her? About Donaldson's wife? About any hang-over
from that rotten time? They're gone, all of them. He's here. He's
safe and happy. He's strong and fine. That's gone."
In the lower hall Dick was taking off his overcoat.
"Smell's like chicken, Minnie," he said, into the dining room.
"Chicken and biscuits, Mr. Dick."
"Hi, up there!" ho called lustily. "Come and feed a starving man.
I'm going to muffle the door-bell !"
He stood smiling up at them, very tidy in his Sunday suit, very
boyish, for all his thirty-two years. His face, smilingly tender
as he watched them, was strong rather than handsome, quietly
dependable and faintly humorous.
"In the language of our great ally," he said, "Madame et Monsieur,
le diner est servi."
In his eyes there was not only tenderness but a somewhat emphasized
affection, as though he meant to demonstrate, not only to them but
to himself, that this new thing that had come to him did not touch
their old relationship. For the new thing had come. He was still
slightly dazed with the knowledge of it, and considerably anxious.
Because he had just taken a glance at himself in the mirror of the
walnut hat-rack, and had seen nothing there particularly to inspire
- well, to inspire what he wanted to inspire.
At the foot of the stairs he drew Lucy's arm through his, and held
her hand. She seemed very small and frail beside him.
"Some day," he said, "a strong wind will come along and carry off
Mrs. Lucy Crosby, and the Doctors Livingstone will be obliged
hurriedly to rent aeroplanes, and to search for her at various
David sat down and picked up the old fashioned carving knife.
"Get the clubs?" he inquired.
Dick looked almost stricken.
"I forgot them, David," he said guiltily. "Jim Wheeler went out
to look them up, and I - I'll go back after dinner."
It was sometime later in the meal that Dick looked up from his plate
"I'd like to cut office hours on Wednesday night, David. I've asked
Elizabeth Wheeler to go into town to the theater."
"What about the baby at the Homer place?"
"Not due until Sunday. I'll leave my seat number at the box office,
"What are you going to see, Dick?" Mrs. Crosby asked. "Will you
have some dumplings?"
"I will, but David shouldn't. Too much starch. Why, it's 'The
Valley,' I think. An actress named Carlysle, Beverly Carlysle, is
starring in it."
He ate on, his mind not on his food, but back in the white house
on Palmer Lane, and a girl. Lucy Crosby, fork in air, stared at
him, and then glanced at David.
But David did not look up from his plate.