Lydia of the Pines Part 64

"Something to eat," exclaimed Amos. "I didn't eat any supper. I swear I haven't eaten for months with any relish. Lydia, make us some chocolate or something."

As Lydia pa.s.sed through the dining-room with her steaming tray, a little later, Lizzie called from her bed and Lydia set down the tray and went to her.

"Did they win you over, Lydia?" she asked. "I went to bed so's not to interrupt."

"Yes, they won me," said Lydia.

"Poor child! I never wished harder'n I have tonight that your mother hadn't died. But never mind! I guess it's just as well you gave in.

Kent could win the heart of a bronze image. Drat him! Run along with the supper, Lydia."

"Now," said Kent, as he sipped his chocolate, "let's lay our plans."

"Not before me," exclaimed Lydia. "My one stipulation is that you don't tell me any of the details."

"All right," said Amos, hastily. "We'll do anything she wants, now, eh, Kent?"

"You bet," replied the young man.

That night, after Kent had gone, Lydia stood long at the living-room window which gave on the front gate. The pine, its boughs powdered with snow, kept its lonely vigil over the cottage.

"Yes," whispered Lydia, finally, "your last friend has deserted you, but I guess I'm keeping faith with Kent and Dad, anyhow."

Then she went to bed.

For a day or so Lydia avoided Billy Norton. But she was restless and unhappy and found it difficult to keep her mind on her college work.

Finally, she timed her return from the dairy school, one afternoon, to coincide with Billy's home-coming from his office and she overtook him Just beyond the end of the street-car line. The sun was sinking and the wind was rising.

"Billy!" called Lydia.

He turned and waited for her with a broad smile.

"Billy," she said without preliminaries, "I gave in!"

"_Lydia_!" he gasped.

"I couldn't stand their pleading. I gave in. I hate myself, but Dad looks ten years younger!"

"You actually mean you're letting yourself get mixed up with the Whiskey Trust and that pup of a Dave Marshall?"

Lydia plodded doggedly through the snow. "Of course, Kent's tending to all that, I refuse to be told the details."

"Lydia!" cried Billy again and there was such a note of pain in his voice that she turned her face to his with the same dogged look in her eyes that had been expressed in her walk.

"Why," he said, "what am I going to do without you to look up to--to live up to? You can't mean it!"

"But I do mean it. I fought and fought and I have for years till I'm sick of it. Now, at least, there'll be no more poverty for Dad to complain of."

"'Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a ribband to wear in his coat,'"

quoted Billy bitterly. "Lydia, I can't believe it!"

"It's true," repeated Lydia. "I couldn't stand Kent and Dad both. And partly I did it for John Levine's memory. I'm not trying to justify myself Billy. I know that I'm doing something wrong, but I've definitely made up my mind to sacrifice my own ease of conscience to Dad's happiness."

"You can't do it! You aren't built that way," exclaimed Billy.

"But I _am_ doing it," reiterated Lydia.

"Look here," he cried, eagerly, "do you expect to keep my respect and yet go on with this?"

Lydia did not reply for some time. They were nearing the cottage, and she could see the pine, black against the afterglow, when she said,

"Well, I'm not keeping my own self-respect and yet, I'm glad I'm making Dad and Kent happy."

"Kent! Wait till I see him!"

"You can't change Kent, if I couldn't," replied Lydia.

"I'll not try to change him," said Billy grimly. "I'll tell him what I think of him, though."

They paused by the gate. Billy looked down at Lydia with a puzzled frown.

"How about 'Ducit Amor Patriae' now, Lydia?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know," she sighed. "Good night, Billy."

"Good-by, Lydia," said the young man heavily and he turned away, leaving her standing at the gate.

But though she had maintained a calm front with Billy, Lydia went over and over their conversation that night feverishly before she went to sleep. She tossed and turned and then long after the old livingroom clock had struck midnight, she slipped out of bed and crouched on her knees, her hands clasped across her pillow, her eyes on the quiet stars that glowed through the window.

"O G.o.d," she prayed, "O G.o.d, if You do exist, help me now! Don't let me lose Billy's respect for I don't know how I can get along without it. G.o.d! G.o.d! Make me believe in You, for I must have Some One to turn to! You have taken mother and little Patience and John Levine from me! Oh, let me keep Billy! Let me keep him, G.o.d, and make me strong enough to keep on accepting that three hundred and twenty acres.

Amen."

Shivering, but somehow quieted, she crept into bed and fell asleep.

CHAPTER XX

THE YOUNGEST SCHOLAR

"The Indians knew no home, and so they died."--_The Murmuring Pine_.

If Amos was not happy after Lydia's concession, at least she never had seen him so interested in life as he was now. Nor had Kent ever been more considerate of Lydia. They went to a number of dances and skated together frequently in spite of the fact that Kent was very busy with his real estate work.

All this, Lydia told herself, should have made her happy, and yet, she was not. Even when Professor Willis took her to a Military hop and brought her home in a hack, she was conscious of the feverish sense of loss and uncertainty that had become a part of her daily living.