CHAPTER VIII
MRS. COPELAND’S GOOD FORTUNE
NOW that they had the car, Farley insisted that Nan should go to market. His wife, like all the thrifty housewives of the capital, had always gone to market, and he thought the discipline would be good for Nan. He liked to accompany her and watch the crowd while she was doing her errands.
One Saturday, as Nan returned to the machine, with the chauffeur following with the basket, she found Fanny Copeland seated in the car beside Farley.
“Look here, Nan; I’ve picked up a surprise for you! We’re goin’ to take Mrs. Copeland home to lunch.”
“I don’t know whether you are or not,” said Mrs. Copeland. “This is my busiest day and I’ve got to catch the twelve-o’clock interurban for the farm.”
“Don’t worry about that; we’ll send you home all right,” said Farley.
“Then I’m not going to have anything to say about it at all!” laughed Mrs. Copeland. “All right; if my cows die of thirst, I’ll send you the bill.”
“You do that, and it will be paid,” Farley assented cheerfully.
“But I’ve got to stop at the bank a moment—”
“I suppose,” said Nan, “you want to get rid of the money I just paid at your stand for two yellow-legged chickens—you can see the legs sticking out of the basket.”
Mrs. Copeland had failed to act upon Nan’s invitation to call upon her—a delinquency to which she referred now.
“I really meant to come, but I’ve been unusually busy. I carry on just enough general farming to be a nuisance; and dairying requires eternal vigilance.”
“That’s because you’ve got a standard,” said Farley, with his blunt praise. “You’ve got the best dairy in Indiana. The state inspectors have put it strong.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Copeland lightly, “they gave me a better report than I deserve just for being a poor, lone woman!”
Farley’s admiration for Mrs. Copeland was perfectly transparent. It was Fanny’s efficiency, her general competence, Nan reflected, quite as much as her good looks and cheerfulness, that attracted her foster-father. Several times lately he had quoted what Bill Harrington, the banker, had said of her—that she was the best business man in town. And there was also Farley’s contempt for Copeland, which clearly accentuated his liking for Billy’s former wife.
At the bank door Farley remembered that he had a check to cash and asked Nan to attend to it for him. As Mrs. Copeland and Nan mounted the bank steps together, they ran into Billy Copeland emerging in deep preoccupation. The juxtaposition of the two women plainly startled him. He took off his hat, mumbled something, and stood staring after them. Then his gaze fell upon Farley, bending forward in the touring-car and watching him with his small, sharp eyes. He instantly put on his hat and crossed the walk.
“Good-morning, Mr. Farley,” he said cordially, offering his hand. “I’m glad to see you out again.”
“Oh, I’m not dead yet,” growled Farley. “I’ve decided to hang on till spring anyhow.”
His tone did not encourage conversation. His face was twisted into a disagreeable smile that Copeland remembered of old, and there was a hard, ironic glitter in the gray eyes. Farley had witnessed the meeting on the bank steps with relish, and was glad of this opportunity to prolong his enjoyment of his former associate’s discomfiture.
“I’m sure you’ll see many more springs, Mr. Farley. That’s a good machine you’ve got there. The fact that you’ve taken up motoring has given a real boost to the auto business. The agents are saying that if you’ve got in line there’s no reason for anybody to hold back.”
The old man grunted.
“I had to have air; I knew all the time that was what I needed; these damned doctors only keep people in bed so they can bulldoze ’em easier.”
Copeland was attempting to be friendly, but Farley was in no humor to meet his advances.
“That last payment on the sale of my stock is due September first. I won’t renew it,” he said sharply.
“I hadn’t asked for an extension,” Copeland replied coldly.
“All right, then; that will be the end of that.”
Farley’s tone implied that there might be other matters between them that this final payment would still leave open.
Copeland’s ready promise that the twenty-five thousand would be paid irritated Farley, who saw one excuse for his animosity vanishing. He leaned forward and pointed his finger at Copeland, who was backing away, anxious to be gone before his former wife reappeared.
“You’re ruinin’ the house! You’re lettin’ it go to hell—the business your father and I made the best jobbin’ house in this State! You’re a drunkard and a gambler, but, damn your fool soul, there’s one thing you can’t do—you can’t marry that little girl o’ mine! If you’ve got that up your sleeve, be sure there’s no money goes with her for you to squander! Remember that!”
It was the busiest hour of the day and the street was thronged. Pedestrians turned and stared curiously. Copeland raged inwardly at his stupidity in giving Farley a chance to abuse him publicly.
“You’re very unjust to me,” he said hotly. “I’ve known Nan ever since she was a child and never had any but a friendly feeling for her. I haven’t seen her for weeks. Now that I know how you feel toward me, I have no intention of seeing her.”
“I guess you won’t see her!” Farley snorted. “Not unless you mean to make her pay for it!”
Mrs. Copeland and Nan appeared at the bank entrance at this moment and witnessed the end of the colloquy. Copeland lifted his hat to Farley and walked rapidly away without glancing at them.
Farley became cheerful immediately, as he usually did after an explosion. This opportunity for laying the lash across Billy Copeland’s shoulders had afforded him a welcome diversion; and the fact that Copeland had seen his former wife in Nan’s company tickled his sardonic humor. He made no reference to Copeland, but began speaking of a new office building farther down the street. It was apparent that neither Nan nor Fanny shared his joy in the encounter and they attacked the architecture of the new building to hide their discomfort.
Nan appeared the more self-conscious. She was thinking of Billy. He had turned away from the machine with a crestfallen air which told her quite plainly that Farley had been giving him a piece of his mind. And Nan resented this; Farley had no right to abuse Billy on her account.
When they reached the house she took Fanny upstairs. If the glimpse of Copeland on the bank steps had troubled Mrs. Copeland she made no sign. Her deft touches with the comb and brush, as she glanced in the mirror, her despairing comments upon the state of her complexion, which, she averred, the summer suns had ruined; her enthusiasm over Nan’s silk waist, which was just the thing she had sought without avail in all the shops in town,—all served to stamp her as wholly human.
“But clothes! I hardly have time to think of them; they’re an enormous bother. And I wear the shoes of a peasant woman when I come to town, for I have to cut across the fields when I leave the interurban and I can’t do that in pumps! You see—”
The shoes really were very neat ones, though a trifle heavy for indoors. Nan instantly brought her shiniest pumps, dropped upon the floor and substituted them for Fanny’s walking-shoes. It flashed through her mind that Fanny Copeland inspired just such acts.
“You have the slim foot of the aristocrat,” observed Fanny. And then with a wistful smile she leaned toward the girl and asked, “Do you mind if I call you Nan?”
Nan was touched by the tone and manner of her request. Of course there was no objection!
“I always knew I should like you,” said Fanny. “Of course, I haven’t seen much of you lately, but I hear of you from a very ardent admirer: John Eaton talks of you eloquently, and to interest John Eaton is a real achievement! I’m afraid I bore him to death!”
“I can’t believe it; he never lets himself be bored; but like everybody else, I’m never quite sure I understand him.”
“Oh, I tell him that’s one of his poses—baffling people. He surrounds himself with mystery, but pretends that he doesn’t. If he were a gossip he’d be horrible, for he knows everything about everybody—and knows it first!”
“He’s the kindest of mortals,” Nan observed. “He’s always doing nice things for people, but he has to do them in his own peculiar way.”
“Oh, John has the spirit of the true philanthropist; his right hand never knows, you know—”
“He’s a puzzle to the people he’s kindest to, sometimes, I imagine,” said Nan.
She laughed as she thought of Amidon, and Fanny appealed for illumination as to what amused her.
“Oh, I was thinking of his protégé—a young man named Amidon. He and I were kids together, back in my prehistoric days. He never had any advantages—if you can say that of a boy who’s born with a keen wit and a sense of humor. He does something at the Copeland-Farley store—went in as errand boy before papa left. They had him on the road for a while, but he’s in the office now. Mr. Eaton has taken a great shine to him and Jerry imitates him killingly. That fine abstracted air of Mr. Eaton’s he’s got nearly perfect; and he does the mysterious pretty well, too. But he’s most delicious when he forgets to Eatonize himself and is just natural. He’s quite short—which makes him all the funnier—and he wears tall, white-wing collars à la Eaton.”
“Tell me more!” said Fanny. “How old is the paragon?”
“About twenty-five, I should say, figuring with my own age as a basis. He looked like a big boy to me in my river days. Mr. Eaton has undertaken his social and mental rehabilitation and the effects are amazing. They came to the house together to call, and I’ve rarely been more entertained than by Jerry while his good angel was upstairs talking to papa. He’s trying to avoid any show of emotion just like his noble example, but once in a while he forgets himself and grins deliciously. After a round of high-brow talk, he drops into reminiscence and tells the most killing stories of the odd characters he’s met in his travels with the sample-case. It can’t be possible that Mr. Eaton hasn’t introduced him to you?”
“He hasn’t, and I’m going to complain about it bitterly,” said Mrs. Copeland, amused by Nan’s enthusiasm.
“You should, for Jerry is a nice boy, and very wise and kind.”
“The only one of his benefactions he ever confided to me was the case of a girl—the daughter of an old friend who had fallen on evil times. He wanted to send her to college, and I became the visible instrument, so he needn’t appear in the matter himself. The girl graduated last year and, like a fraud, I had to go down to Vassar and pose as her good angel. She’s a great success and is to teach somewhere, I think. But—I shouldn’t be telling you this!”
“Oh, it’s quite safe! I value his friendship too much to do anything to displease him.”
“Well, things like that ought to be told,” remarked Fanny reflectively; “particularly when some people think John Eaton cold and selfish.”
Luncheon interrupted these confidences. Farley had not been to the dining-room for several months and he made much of the occasion.
“This is a celebration for me, too,” said Fanny. “I’ve just had a piece of good fortune. Nobody knows of it yet; you’re the first people I’ve told! You know I haven’t many friends to confide in. An aunt of mine has just died and left me some money. In fact, there’s a great deal of it; I’m richer than I ever expected to be.”
“Good! Good!” Farley ejaculated, interested and pleased.
“It’s fine,” said Nan; “and it’s nice of you to tell us about it.”
Nan was afraid that Farley would demand the amount of the legacy, but evidently Fanny knew he would be curious as to all the details, and she went on to explain that it was her mother’s sister, the last of the family, who had died recently in Ohio and left her all her property.
“I have visited her every year or two since I was a child and knew her very well, but I never had any idea she meant to do this. It will take some time to settle it up, but there’s as much as two hundred thousand dollars in sight—maybe fifty more. She was a dear old woman; I’m so ashamed of myself that I wasn’t kinder to her, but she was difficult to handle—hadn’t left home for years, though she used to write to me two or three times a year. So there! That’s why I’m running into the bank these days, to ask Mr. Harrington about investments.”
“If you take his advice,” said Farley emphatically, “you’ll never lose any of that money!”
“Then what’s to become of the farm?” asked Nan.
“Oh, I shall run it just the same. I’d rather lose that legacy than give it up. An unattached woman like me must have something to amuse herself with.”
“That’s a lot o’ money; a whole lot o’ money,” said Farley; “and I’m mighty glad you’ve got it.”
Nan saw a gleam in his eye and a covert smile playing about his lips. He chuckled softly.
“Two hundred; two hundred fifty; that’s a whole lot o’ money; and you don’t want to let any of these sharks around here get it away from you; they’ll be after you all right. But I guess you’ll know how to handle ’em,” he added with satisfaction.
When Fanny was ready to go he called for his car and he and Nan drove home with her.
That night, after the nurse had put him to bed, Nan heard an unusual sound from his room. She crossed the hall and stood in the doorway a moment. He was muttering to himself and chuckling.
“Picked up two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, just like findin’ it! Turned her out; got rid of her! Well, that’s a hell of a joke on you, Billy Copeland!”