Miss Lulu Bett - Chapter 6, Part 1

Miss Lulu Bett (1920) by Zona Gale is a quietly powerful portrait of a woman discovering her own worth.

For years, Lulu has lived in her sister’s bustling Midwestern household...the dependable extra pair of hands, the unmarried aunt, the woman who smooths every inconvenience and asks for nothing in return. Taken for granted and nearly invisible, she has settled into a life defined by usefulness rather than desire.

When an unexpected proposal offers her a brief escape, Lulu glimpses the possibility of a different future. What follows is not a dramatic rebellion, but something more subtle and enduring: a gradual awakening to dignity, independence and self-respect.

Tender, observant and gently ironic, Miss Lulu Bett is a story of quiet courage...and the small, steady steps by which an ordinary woman claims an extraordinary thing: possession of her own life...!

Transcript

Hello there. Thank you so much for joining me for this continued reading of Miss Lulu Bette, The charming old novel from 1920 by American author Zona Gale. We have actually reached the end of this story, Believe it or not. This is the last chapter. It is exceedingly long, Lots of twists and turns ahead in this one. If you have not yet heard the preceding parts of this book and you'd like to, You can certainly look for the playlist for Miss Lulu Bette and you'll find all of the parts there in order. But for now, Let's just take a moment here to have a nice deep exhale, Letting go of the day, Letting go of whichever baggage we might be bringing along with us into this moment. For right now, There's nowhere else we have to go, Nothing else we have to be doing. So we can just relax, Get ourselves comfortable and enjoy the final installment of Miss Lulu Bette. Chapter six, September. The office of Dwight Herbert Deacon, Dentist, Gold work, A speciality, Sick in black lettering and justice of the peace in gold, Was above a store which had been occupied by one unlucky tenant after another and had suffered long periods of vacancy when ladies' aid societies served lunches there under great white signs, Badly lettered. Some months of disuse were now broken by the news that the store had been let to a music man. A music man? What on earth was that? Warbleton inquired. The music man arrived, Installed three pianos and filled his window with sheet music, As sung by many ladies who swung in hammocks or kissed their hands on the music covers. While he was still moving in, Dwight Herbert Deacon wandered downstairs and stood informally in the door of the new store. The music man, A pleasant-faced chap of 30-odd, Was rubbing at the face of a piano. "'Hello there, ' he said. "'Can I sell you an upright? ' "'If I can take it out in pulling your teeth, You can, ' Dwight replied. "'Or, ' said he, "'I might marry you free, Either one. ' On this, Their friendship began. Thenceforth, When business was dull, The idle hours of both men were beguiled with idle gossip. "'How the dickens did you think of pianos for a line? ' Dwight asked him once. "'Now, My father was a dentist, So I came by it natural, Never entered my head to be anything else. But pianos? ' The music man, His name was Neil Cornish, Threw up his chin in a boyish fashion and said he'd be jiggered if he knew. "'All up and down the Warbolton main street, The chances are that the answer would sound the same. ' "'I'm studying law when I get the chance, ' said Cornish, As one who makes a bid to be thought of more highly. "'I see, ' said Dwight, Respectfully dwelling on the verb. Later on, Cornish confided more to Dwight. "'He was to come by a little inheritance someday? Not much, But something? Yes, It made a man feel a certain confidence. ' "'Toned it! ' said Dwight, Heartily, As if he knew. Everyone liked Cornish. He told funny stories, And he never compared Warbolton save to its advantage. So, At last, Dwight said tentatively at lunch, "'What if I brought that Neil Cornish up for supper one of these nights? ' "'Oh, Dwighty, Do! ' said Ena. "'If there's a man in town, Let's know it! ' "'What if I brought him up tonight? ' Up went Ena's eyebrows. "'Tonight! ' scalloped potatoes and meatloaf and sauce and bread and butter. Lulu contributed. Cornish came to supper. He was what is known in Warbolton as Dapper. This Ena saw, As she emerged on the veranda in response to Dwight's informal hello on his way upstairs, She herself was in white muslin, Now much too snug, And a blue ribbon. To her greeting, Their guest replied in that engaging shyness which is not awkwardness, He moved in some pleasant web of gentleness and friendliness. They asked him the usual questions, And he replied, Rocking all the time with a faint, Undulating motion of head and shoulders. Warbolton was one of the prettiest little towns that he had ever seen. He liked the people. They seemed different. Different? He was sure to like the place. Already liked it. Lulu came to the door in Ninian's thin black and white gown. She shook hands with the stranger, Not looking at him, And said, "'Come to supper, All. ' Monona was already in her place, Singing under breath. Mrs. Bette, After hovering in the kitchen door, Entered, But they forgot to introduce her. "'Where's Di? ' asked Ena. "'I declare, That daughter of mine is never anywhere. ' A brief silence ensued as they were seated, There being a guest. Grace was to come, And Dwight said, Unintelligibly and like lightning, A generic appeal to bless this food, Forgive all our sins, And finally save us. And there was something tremendous in this ancient form whereby all stages of men bow in some now unrecognised recognition of the ceremonial of taking food to nourish life, And more. At Amen, Di flashed in, Her offices at the mirror fresh upon her, Perfect hair, Silk dress turned up at the hem. She met Cornish, Crimsoned, Fluttered to her seat, Joggled the table, And, "'Oh dear, ' she said audibly to her mother, "'I forgot my ring! ' The talk was saved alive by a frank effort. Dwight served, Making jests about everybody coming back for more. They went on with warbleton happenings, Improvements and openings, And the runaway. Cornish tried hard to make himself agreeable, Not ingratiatingly, But good-naturedly. He wished profoundly that before coming he had looked up some more stories in the back of the musical gazettes. Lulu surreptitiously pinched off an ant that was running at large upon the cloth, And thereafter kept her eyes steadfastly on the sugar bowl, To see if it could be from that. Dwight pretended that those whom he was helping a second time were getting more than their share, And facetiously landed on Di about eating so much that she would grow up and be married, First thing she knew. At the word married, Di turned scarlet, Laughed heartily, And lifted her glass of water. "'And what instruments do you play? ' Ena asked Cornish, In an unrelated effort to lift the talk to musical levels. "'Well, Do you know, ' said the music man, "'I can't play a thing. Don't know a black note from a white one. ' "'You don't? Why? ' "'Di plays very prettily, ' said Di's mother. "'But then how can you tell what songs to order? ' Ena cried. "'Oh, By the music houses. You go by the sails. ' For the first time it occurred to Cornish that this was ridiculous. "'You know, I'm really studying law, ' he said, Shyly and proudly. "'Law! How very interesting, ' from Ena. "'Oh, But won't he bring up some songs some evening for them to try over, Her and Di? ' At this, Di laughed and said that she was out of practice and lifted her glass of water. In the presence of adults, Di made one weep. She was so slender, So young, So without defences, So intolerably sensitive to every contact, So in agony lest she be found wanting. It was amazing how unlike was this Di to the Di who had ensnared Bobby Larkin. What was one to think? Cornish paid very little attention to her. To Lulu he said kindly, "'Don't you play, Miss? ' He had not called her name. No stranger ever did catch it, But Dwight now supplied it. "'Miss Lulu Bet! ' he explained with loud emphasis, And Lulu burned her slow red. This question Lulu had usually answered by telling how a felon had interrupted her lessons and she had stopped taking. A participle sacred to music in Warbleton. This vignette had been a kind of epitome of Lulu's biography, But now Lulu was heard to say serenely, "'No, But I'm quite fond of it. I went to a lovely concert two weeks ago. ' They all listened. Strange indeed to think of Lulu as having had experiences of which they did not know. "'What? ' "'Yes, ' she said. "'It was in Savannah, Georgia. ' She flushed and lifted her eyes in a manner of faint defiance. "'Of course, ' she said. I don't know the names of all the different instruments they played, But there were a good many. ' She laughed pleasantly as a part of her sentence. "'They had some lovely tunes, ' she said. She knew that the subject was not exhausted, And she hurried on. The hall was real large, ' she super added, "'and there were quite a good many people there, And it was too warm. ' "'I see, ' said Cornish, And said what he had been waiting to say, That he too had been in Savannah, Georgia. Lulu lit with pleasure. "'Wow, ' she said, And her mind worked, And she caught at the moment before it had escaped. "'Isn't it a pretty city? ' she asked, And Cornish assented with the intense heartiness of the provincial. He too, It seemed, Had a conversational appearance to maintain by its own effort. He said that he had enjoyed being in that town, And that he was there for two hours. "'I was there for a week. ' Lulu's superiority was really pretty. "'Have good weather, ' Cornish selected next. Oh yes, And they saw all the different buildings, But at her wee, She flushed and was silenced. She was colouring and breathing quickly. This was the first bit of conversation of this sort of Lulu's life. After supper, Ina inevitably proposed croquet. Dwight pretended to try to escape, And with his irrepressible mien, Talked about Ina, Elaborate in his insistence on the third person. "'She loves it. We have to humour her. You know how it is, Or no, You don't know, But you will, ' and more of the same sort. Everybody laughing heartily, Save Lulu, Who looked uncomfortable and wished that Dwight wouldn't. And Mrs Baird, Who paid no attention to anybody that night, Not because she had not been introduced, An omission which she had not even noticed, But merely as another form of tantrum, A self-indulgence. They emerged for croquet. And there on the porch sat Jenny Plough and Bobby, Waiting for Di to keep an old engagement, Which Di pretended to have forgotten and to be frightfully annoyed to have to keep. She met the objections of her parents with all the batteries of her croquetry set for both Bobby and Cornish, And, Bold in the presence of company, At last went laughing away. And in the minute areas of her consciousness, She said to herself that Bobby would be more in love with her than ever because she had risked all to go with him, And that Cornish ought to be distinctly attracted to her because she had not stayed. She was as primitive as pollen. Ina was vexed. She said so, Pouting, In a fashion which she should have outgrown with white muslin and blue ribbons. And she had outgrown none of these things. That just spoils croquet, She said. I'm vexed. Now we can't have a real game. From the side door, Where she must have been lingering among the waterproofs, Lulu stepped forth. I'll play a game, She said. When Cornish actually proposed to bring some music to the deacons, Ina turned toward Dwight Herbert all the facets of her responsibility. And Ina's sense of responsibility toward Di was enormous, Oppressive, Primitive, Amounting, In fact, Toward this daughter of Dwight Herbert's late wife to an ability to compress the offices of stepmotherhood into the functions of the lecture platform. Ina was a fountain of admonition. Her idea of a daughter, Step or not, Was that of a manufactured product, Strictly, Which you constantly pinched and molded. She thought that a moral preceptor had the right to secrete precepts. Di got them all. But, Of course, The crest of Ina's responsibility was to marry Di. This verb should be transitive only when lovers are speaking of each other, Or the minister or magistrate is speaking of lovers. It should never be transitive when predicated of parents or any other third party. But it is. Ina was quite agitated agitated by its transitiveness as she took to her husband her incredible responsibility. You know, Herbert, Said Ina, If this Mr Cornish comes here very much, What we may expect? What may we expect, Demanded Dwight Herbert crisply. Ina always played his games, Answered what he expected her to answer, Pretended to be intuitive when she was not so, Said I know when she didn't know at all. Dwight Herbert, On the other hand, Did not even play her games when he knew perfectly what she meant, But pretended not to understand, Made her repeat, Made her explain. It was as if Ina had to please him for, Say, A living. But as for that dentist, He had to please nobody. In the conversations of Dwight and Ina, You saw the historical home forming in clots in the fluid wash of the community. He'll fall in love with Di, Said Ina. And what of that? Little daughter will have many a man fall in love with her, I should say. Yes, But Dwight, What do you think of him? What do I think of him? My dear Ina, I have other things to think of, But we don't know anything about him, Dwight. A stranger, So. On the other hand, Said Dwight with dignity, I know a good deal about him. With a great air of having done the fatherly and found out about this stranger before bringing him into the home, Dwight now related a number of stray circumstances dropped by Cornish in their chance talks. He has a little inheritance coming to him shortly, Dwight wound up. An inheritance? Really? How much, Dwight? Now, Isn't that like a woman? Isn't it? I thought he was from a good family, Said Ina. My mercenary little pussy. Well, She said with a sigh, I shouldn't be surprised if Di did really accept him. A young girl is awfully flattered when a good looking older man pays her attention. Haven't you noticed that? Dwight informed her with an air of immense abstraction. That he left all such matters to her. Being married to Dwight was like a perpetual rehearsal with Dwight's self importance for audience. A few evenings later, Cornish brought up the music. There was something overpowering in this brown haired chap against the background of his negligible little shop, His whole capital in his few pianos. But he looked hopefully ahead, Woke with plans, Regarded the children in the street as if conceivably children might come within the confines of his life as he imagined it. A preposterous little man and a preposterous store. Empty, Echoing, Bare of wall, The three pianos near the front, The remainder of the floor stretching away like the corridors of the lost. He was going to get a dark curtain, He explained, And furnish the back part of the store as his own room. What dignity in phrasing, But how mean that little room would look. Cot bed, Washbowl and pitcher, And little mirror, Almost certainly a mirror with a wavy surface. Almost certainly that. And then, You know, He always added, I'm reading lore. The plows had been asked in that evening. Bobby was there. They were, Dwight Herbert said, Going to have a sing. Di was to play. And Di was now embarked on the most difficult feat of her emotional life. The feat of remaining to Bobby Larkin the lure, The beloved lure. The while, To Cornish, She instinctively played the role of womanly little girl. Up by the festive lamp, Everybody, Dwight Herbert cried. As they gathered about the upright piano, That startled, Dwightish instrument standing in its attitude of unrest, Lulu came in with another lamp. Do you need this? She asked. They did not need it. There was, In fact, No place to set it. And this Lulu must have known. But Dwight found a place. He swept Ninian's photograph from the marble shelf of the mirror. And when Lulu had placed the lamp there, Dwight thrust the photograph into her hands. You take care of that, He said, With a droop of lid discernible only to those who presumably loved him. His old attitude toward Lulu had shown a terrible sharpening in these 10 days since her return. She stood uncertainly in the thin black and white gown which Ninian had bought for her and held Ninian's photograph and looked helplessly about. She was moving toward the door when Cornish called, See here, Aren't you going to sing? What? Dwight used the falsetto. Lulu, Sing. Lulu. She stood awkwardly. She had a piteous recrudescence of her old agony at being spoken to in the presence of others. But Di had opened the album of old favourites which Cornish had elected to bring, And now she struck the opening chords of Bonnie Eloise. Lulu stood still, Looking rather piteously at Cornish. Dwight offered his arm, Absurdly crooked. The plows and Ena and Di began to sing. Lulu moved forward and stood a little away from them and sang, Too. She was still holding Ninian's picture. Dwight did not sing. He lifted his shoulders and his eyebrows and watched Lulu. When they had finished, Lulu, The mockingbird, Dwight cried. He said, Bird? Fine, Cried Cornish. Why, Miss Lulu, You have a good voice. Miss Lulubet, The mockingbird, Dwight insisted. Lulu was excited. And in some accession of faint power, She turned to him now, Quietly and with a look of appraisal. Lulu, The dove, She then surprisingly said, To put up with you. It was her first bit of conscious repartee to her brother-in-law. Cornish was bending over Di. What next, You say, He asked. She lifted her eyes, Met his own, Held them. There's such a lovely, Lovely sacred song here, She suggested and looked down. You like sacred music? She turned to him, Her pure profile, Her eyelids fluttering up, And said, I love it. That's it. So do I. Nothing like a nice sacred piece, Cornish declared. Bobby Larkin, At the end of the piano, Looked directly into Di's face. Give me ragtime, He said now, With the effect of bursting out of somewhere. Don't you like ragtime? He put it to her directly. Di's eyes danced into his. They sparkled for him. Her smile was a smile for him alone. All their store of common memories was in their look. Let's try My Rock, My Refuge, Cornish suggested. That's got up real attracted. Di's profile again, And her pleased voice saying that this was the very one she had been hoping to hear him sing. They gathered for My Rock, My Refuge. Oh, Cried Ina at the conclusion of this number. I'm having such a perfectly beautiful time. Isn't everybody? Everybody's hostess, Put it. Lulu is, Said Dwight, And added softly to Lulu, She don't have to hear herself sing. It was incredible. He was like a bad boy with a frog. About that photograph of Ninian, He found a dozen ways to torture her. Called attention to it, Showed it to Cornish, Set it on the piano facing them all. Everybody must have understood, Excepting the plows. These two gentle souls sang placidly through the album of old favourites, And at the melodies smiled happily upon each other with an air from another world. Always, It was as if the plows walked some fair, Interpenetrating plane from which they looked out, As do other things not quite of earth, Say flowers and fire and music. Strolling home that night, The plows were overtaken by someone who ran badly, And as if she were unaccustomed to running, Miss Plow, Miss Plow, This one called, And Lulu stood beside them. Say, She said, Do you know of any job that I could get me? I mean, That I'd know how to do a job for money. I mean, A job. She burst into passionate crying. They drew her home with them. Lying awake sometime after midnight, Lulu heard the telephone ring. She heard Dwight's concerned, Is that so? And his cheerful, Be right there, Grandma Gates was sick, She heard him tell Ina. In a few moments he ran down the stairs. Next day they told how Dwight had sat for hours that night holding Grandma Gates so that her back would rest easily and she could fight for her faint breath. The kind fellow had only about two hours of sleep the whole night long. Next day there came a message from that woman who had brought up Dwight, Made him what he was often complacently accused her. It was a note on a postal card. She had often written a few lines on a postal card to say that she had sent the maple sugar or could Ina get her some samples. Now she wrote a few lines on a postal card to say that she was going to die with cancer. Could Dwight and Ina come to her while she was still able to visit if he was not too busy? Nobody saw the pity and the terror of that postal card. They stuck it up by the kitchen clock to read over from time to time, And before they left Dwight lifted the griddle of the cooking stove and burned the postal card. And before they left Lulu said, Dwight you can't tell how long you'll be gone? Of course not. How should I tell? No. And that letter might come while you're away? Conceivably. Letters do come while a man's away. Dwight, I thought if you wouldn't mind if I opened it. Opened it? Yes. You see it'll be about me mostly. I should have said that it'll be about my brother mostly. But you know what I mean. You wouldn't mind if I did open it. But you say you know what'll be in it. So I did know till you. . . I've got to see that letter, Dwight. And so you shall, But not till I show it to you. My dear Lulu, You know how I hate having my mail interfered with. She might have said small souls always make a point of that. She said nothing. She watched them set off and kept her mind on Ina's thousand injunctions. Don't let Di see much of Bobby Larkin. And Lulu, If it occurs to her to have Mr. Cornish come up to sing, Of course you ask him. You might ask him to supper. And don't let mother overdo. And Lulu, Now do watch Melona's handkerchief. The child will never take a clean one if I'm not here to tell her. She breathed injunctions to the very step of the bus. In the bus, Dwight leaned forward. See that you play post office squarely, Lulu, He called. And threw back his head and lifted his eyebrows. In the train, He turned tragic eyes to his wife. Ina, He said, It's Ma and she's going to die. It can't be, Ina said, But you're going to help her, Dwight. Just being there with her. It was true that the mere presence of the man would bring a kind of fresh life to that worn frame. Tact and wisdom and love would speak through him and minister. Toward the end of their week's absence, The letter from Ninian came. Lulu took it from the post office when she went for the mail that evening, Dressed in her dark red gown. There was no other letter and she carried that one letter in her hand, All through the streets. She passed those who were surmising what her story might be, Who were telling one another what they had heard. But she knew hardly more than they. She passed Cornish in the doorway of his little music shop and spoke with him. And there was the letter. It was so that Dwight's foster mother's postal card might have looked on its way to be mailed. Cornish stepped down and overtook her. Oh, Miss Lulu, I've got a new song or two. She said abstractedly. Do. Any night. Tomorrow night. Could you? It was as if Lulu were too preoccupied to remember to be ill at ease. Cornish, Flushed with pleasure, Said that he could indeed come for supper, Lulu said. Oh, Could he? Wouldn't that be? Well, Say. Such was his acceptance. He came for supper and Di was not at home. She had gone off in the country with Jenny and Bobby and they merely did not return. Mrs. Bette and Lulu and Cornish and Monona supped alone. All were at ease now that they were alone. Especially Mrs. Bette was at ease. It became one of her young nights, Her alive and lucid nights. She was there. She sat in Dwight's chair and Lulu sat in Ena's chair. Lulu had picked flowers for the table, A task coveted by her but usually performed by Ena. Lulu had now picked sweet william and had filled a vase of silver gilt taken from the parlour. Also, Lulu had made ice cream. I don't see what Di can be thinking of, Lulu said. It seems like asking you underfalls. She was afraid of pretenses and ended without it. Cornish savoured his steaming beef pie with sage. Oh, Well, He said contentedly. Kind of a relief, I think, To have her gone, Said Mrs. Bette. From the fullness of something or other. Mother, Lulu said, Twisting her smile. Why, My land, I love her, Mrs. Bette explained, But she wiggles and chitters. Cornish never made the slightest effort at any time to keep a straight face. The honest fellow now laughed loudly. Well, Lulu thought, He can't be so very much in love. And again, She thought, He doesn't know anything about the letter. He thinks Ninian got tired of me. Deep in her heart, There abode her certainty that this was not so. By some etiquette of consent, Mrs. Bette cleared the table and Lulu and Cornish went into the parlour. There lay the letter on the drop-leaf side table among the shelves. Lulu had carried it there, Where she need not see it at her work. The letter looked no more than the advertisement of dental office furniture beneath it. Monona stood indifferently fingering both. Monona, Lulu said sharply, Leave them be. Cornish was displaying his music. Got up quite attractive, He said. It was his formula of praise for his music. But we can't try it over, Lulu said, If die doesn't come. Well, Say, Said Cornish slyly, You know, I left that album of old favourites here. Some of them we know by heart. Lulu looked. I'll tell you something, She said. There's some of these I can play with one hand, By ear, Maybe. Why, Sure, Said Cornish. Lulu sat at the piano. She had on the wool challey, Long sacred to the nights when she must combine her servant's estate with the quality of being Ina's sister. She wore her coral beads and her cameo cross. In her absence, She had caught the trick of dressing her hair so that it looked even more abundant. But she had not dared to try it so until tonight, When Dwight was gone. Her long wrist was curved high, Her thin hand pressed and fingered awkwardly. And at her mistakes, Her head dipped and strove to make all right. Her foot continuously touched the loud pedal. The blurred sound seemed to accomplish more. So she played How Can I Leave Thee? And they managed to sing it. So she played Long, Long Ago and Little Nell of Narragansett Bay. Beyond open doors, Mrs. Bette listened, Sang, It may be, With them. For when the singers ceased, Her voice might be heard still humming a loud closing bar. Well, Cornish cried to Lulu, And then in the formal village phrase, You're quite a musician. Oh, No, Lulu disclaimed it. She looked up, Flushed, Smiling. I've never done this in front of anybody, She owned. I don't know what Dwight and Enid say. She drooped. They rested, And miraculously, The air of the place had stirred and quickened, As if the crippled, Halting melody had some power of its own and poured this forth, Even thus trampled. I guess you could do most anything you set your hand to, Said Cornish. Oh, No, Lulu said again. Sing and play and cook. But I can't earn anything. I'd like to earn something. But this she had not meant to say. She stopped, Rather frightened. You would? Why, You have it fine here, I thought. Oh, Fine, Yes. Dwight gives me what I have, And I do their work. I see, Said Cornish. I never thought of that, He added. She caught his speculative look. He had heard a tale or two concerning her return, As who in Wobbleton had not heard. You're wondering why I didn't stay with him, Lulu said recklessly. This was no less than rung from her, But its utterance occasioned in her an unspeakable relief. Oh, No, Cornish disclaimed. And coloured and rocked. Yes, You are, She swept on. The whole town's wondering. Well, I'd like him to know, But Dwight won't let me tell. Cornish frowned, Trying to understand. Won't let you, He repeated. I should say that was your own affair? No, Not when Dwight gives me all I have. Oh, That, Said Cornish, That's not right. No, But there it is. It puts me. . . You see what it does to me. They think, They all think my husband left me. It was curious to hear her bring out that word tentatively, Deprecatingly, Like someone daring a foreign phrase without warrant. Cornish said feebly, Oh, Well, Before she willed it, She was telling him, He didn't. He didn't leave me, She cried with passion. He had another wife. Incredibly, It was as if she were defending both him and herself. Lord's sakes, Said Cornish. She poured it out in her passion to tell someone to share her news of her state, Where there would be neither hardness nor censure. We were in Savannah, Georgia, She said. We were going to leave for Oregon, Going to go through California. We were in the hotel and he was going out to get the ticket. He started to go, Then he came back. I was sitting the same as there. He opened the door again, Same as here. I saw he looked different. And he said, Quick, There's something you ought to know before we go. And of course, I said, What? And he said it right out, How he was married 18 years ago. And in two years, She ran away and must be dead. But he wasn't sure. He hadn't the proof. So, Of course, I came home. But it wasn't him left me. No, No, Of course he didn't, Cornish said earnestly. But Lord's sakes, He said again. He rose to walk about, Found it impracticable. And sat down. That's what Dwight don't want me to tell. He thinks it isn't true. He thinks he didn't have any other wife. He thinks he wanted. . . Lulu looked up at him. You see, She said, Dwight thinks he didn't want me. But why don't you make your husband? I mean, Why doesn't he write to Mr. Deacon here and tell him the truth? Cornish burst out. Under this implied belief, She relaxed. And into her face came its rare sweetness. He has written, She said, The letters there. He followed her look, Scowled at the two letters. What did he say? Dwight don't like me to touch his mail. I'll have to wait till he comes back. Lord's sakes, Said Cornish. This time, He did rise and walk about. He wanted to say something. Wanted it with passion. He paused beside Lulu and stammered. You. . . You. . . You're too nice a girl to get a deal like this. Darned if you aren't. To her own complete surprise, Lulu's eyes filled with tears and she could not speak. She was by no means above self-sympathy. And there ain't, Said Cornish sorrowfully, There ain't a thing I can do. And yet, He was doing much. He was gentle. He was listening. And on his face, A frown of concern. His face continually surprised her. It was so fine and alive and near. Near by comparison with Ninian's loose-lipped, Ruddy, Impersonal look. And Dwight's thin, High-boned hardness. All the time, Cornish gave her something instead of drawing upon her. Above all, He was there and she could talk to him. It's. . . It's funny, Lulu said. I'd be awful glad if I just could know for sure that the other woman was alive. If I couldn't know she's dead. Despite this surprising admission, Cornish seemed to understand. Sure you would, He said briefly. Cora Waters, Lulu said. Cora Waters of San Diego, California. And she never heard of me. No, Cornish admitted. They stared at each other as across some abyss. In the doorway, Mrs. Bett appeared. I scraped up everything, She remarked, And left the dishes set. Hmm, That's right, Mama, Lulu said. Come and sit down. Mrs. Bett entered with a leisurely air of doing the thing next expected of her. I don't hear any more playing and singing, She remarked. It sounded real nice. We. . . We sung all I knew how to play, I guess, Mama. I used to play on the Melodian. Mrs. Bett volunteered and spread and examined her right hand. Well, Said Cornish. She now told them about her log house in a New England clearing when she was a bride. All her store of drama and life came from her. She rehearsed it with far eyes. She laughed at old delights, Drooped at old fears. She told about her little daughter who had died at 16. A tragedy such as once would have been renewed in a vital ballad. At the end, She yawned, Frankly, As if in some terrible sophistication she had been telling the story of someone else. Give us one more piece, She said. Can we? Cornish asked. I can play, I think, When I read that sweet story of old, Lulu said. That's the ticket, Cried Cornish. They sang it to Lulu's right hand. That's the one you picked out when you was a little girl, Lulu, Cried Mrs. Bett. Lulu had played it now as she must have played it then. Half after nine, And Di had not returned. But nobody thought of Di. Cornish rose to go. What then? Mrs. Bett demanded. Dwight's letters, Mama. You mustn't touch them. Lulu's voice was sharp. Say, Cornish at the door dropped his voice. If there was anything I could do at any time, You'd let me know, Wouldn't you? That past tense, Those subjunctives, Unconsciously called upon her to feel no intrusion. Oh, Thank you, She said. You don't know how good it is to feel, Of course it is, Said Cornish heartily. They stood for a moment on the porch. The night was one of low clamour from the grass, Tiny voices insisting. Of course, Said Lulu, Of course, You won't, You wouldn't say anything, He divined, Not for dollars. Not, He repeated, For dollars. But I knew you wouldn't, She told him. He took her hand. Good night, He said. I've had an awful nice time, Singing and listening to you talk. Well, Of course, I mean, He cried, The supper was just fine, And so was the music. Oh, No, She said. Mrs Bett came into the hall. Lulu, She said, I guess you didn't notice, This one's from Ninian. Mother, I opened it. Why, Of course I did. It's from Ninian. Mrs Bett held out the opened envelope, The unfolded letter, And a yellowed newspaper clipping. See, Said the old woman, Says Corey Waters, Musical singer, Married last night to Ninian Deacon. Say, Lulu, That must be her. Lulu threw out her hands. There, She cried triumphantly, He was married to her, Just like he said.