But he avoided Graham"s eyes even as he did Betty"s. He could not meet the pitiful look of the former, any more than that stare of hostility and defiance in the latter.
"It"s good of you, my boy," Graham quavered. "I--but I"m afraid it won"t----"
"Now don"t say that!" Duncan interposed firmly. "And don"t let me keep you. I think you said you were going out on business? And I"ll be busy enough right here."
And without exactly knowing how it had come about, Graham found himself in the street, stumbling downtown, toward the bank.
When he had gone, Duncan would have returned to the shelves for a final redding-up. He desired least of all things an encounter with Betty in her present frame of mind, and he tried his level best to seem as one who had heard nothing, who was only concerned with his occupation of the moment. But from the instant that she had been made aware of his presence Betty had been watching him with smouldering eyes, wondering how much he had heard and what he was thinking of her. The keen repentance that gnawed at her heart, allied with shame that an alien should have been private to her exhibition, half maddened the child.
With a sudden movement she threw herself in front of Duncan, thrusting her white, drawn face before his, her gaze searching his half in anger, half in morose distrust.
"So you were listening!"
"I"m sorry," he said uncomfortably.
She drew a pace away, holding herself very straight while she threw him a level glance of unqualified contempt.
"I didn"t mean to hear anything," he argued plaintively. "I was in the room before I understood, and by the time I did, it was too late-- you had finished."
"Oh, don"t try to explain. I--I hate you!"
He held her eyes inquiringly. "Yes," he said in the tone of one who solves a puzzling problem, "I believe you do."
She looked away, shaking with pa.s.sion. "You just better believe it."
"But," he went on quietly, "you don"t hate your father, too, do you, Miss Graham?"
She swung back to meet his stare with one that flamed with indignation.
"What do you mean by that, Mr. Duncan?"
"I mean," he said, faltering in where one wiser would have feared to venture--"I"m going to give you a bit of advice. Don"t you talk to your father again the way you did just now."
"What business is that of yours?"
"None," he admitted fairly. "But just the same I wouldn"t, if I were you."
"Well, you ain"t me!" she cried savagely. "You ain"t me! Understand that? When I want advice from you, I"ll ask for it. Until I do, you let me alone."
"Very well," he replied, so calmly that she lost her bearings for a moment. And inevitably this, emphasising as it did all that she resented most in him--his education, wit, address, his advantages of every sort--only served further to infuriate the child.
"Oh, I know why you talk that way," she said, rubbing her poor little hands together.
"Do you?" he asked in wonder.
"Yes, I do--you!..."
Suddenly she found words--poverty-stricken words, it"s true, but the best she had wherewith to express herself. And for a little they flowed from her lips, a scalding, scathing torrent. "It"s because you go to church all the time and try to look like a saint and--and try to make out you"re too religious for anything, and like to hear yourself givin"
Christian advice to poor miserable sinners--like me. You think that"s just too lovely of you. That"s why you said it, if you want to know.
... Folks wonder what you"re doing here, don"t they? Guess you know that--and like it, too. It makes "em look at you and talk about you, and that"s what you like. _I_ could tell "em. You"re only here to show off your good clothes and your finger-nails and the way you part your hair and--and all the other things you do that n.o.body in Noo York would pay any attention to!"
He faced her soberly, attentively. She was a little fool, he knew, and making a ridiculous figure of herself. But--his innate honesty told him --she was right, in a way; she had hit upon his weakest point. He was in Radville to "show off," as she would have said, to make an impression and ... to reap the reward thereof. The way she spoke was ludicrous, but what she said was mostly plain truth. He nodded submissively.
"A pretty good guess at that," he acknowledged candidly.
"Yes, it is, and I know it, and you know it. ... Oh, it"s easy enough to give advice when you"ve got plenty of money and fine clothes and ...
but..."
"I understand," he said when she paused to get a grip upon herself and find again the words she needed. "You needn"t say any more. The only reason I said what I did was because I"m strong for your father and ...
well, I wanted to do you a good turn, too."
"I don"t want any of your good turns!"
"Then I apologise."
"And I don"t want your apologies, neither!"
"All right, only ... think over what I said, some time."
"I had a good reason for saying what I did."
"I know you had."
"You know I had!" She looked at him askance. She had been on the point of relenting a little, of calming, of being a bit ashamed of herself.
But his quiet acquiescence rekindled her resentment. "How do you know?
You!" she said bitterly.
"Because I"m not what you think I am, altogether."
"I guess you"re not," she observed acidly.
"But I don"t mean what you mean. I mean you think I"m conceited and rich and don"t know what trouble is. Well, you"re mistaken. I"ve been up against it the worst way for five years, and I know just how it feels to see other people getting up in the world when you"re at the bottom of the heap with no chance of squirming out--to know that they have things you haven"t got any chance of getting. I"ve been through the mill myself. Why, I"ve kept out of the way for days and days rather than let my prosperous friends see how shabby I was. Many"s the time I"ve dodged round corners to avoid meeting men I knew would invite me to have dinner or luncheon or a drink--of soda--or something, for fear they"d find out that I couldn"t treat in return. Many a time I"ve gone hungry for days and weeks and slept on park benches ... until an old friend found me and took me home with him."
The ring of sincerity in his manner and tone silenced the girl, impressed her with the conviction of his absolute sincerity. The tumult in her mind quieted. She eyed him with attention, even with interest temporarily untinged with resentment. And seeing that he had succeeded in gaining this much ground in her regard, Duncan dared further, pushing his advantage to its limits.
"But it"s your father I wanted to talk about," he hurried on. "I"d bet a lot he knows more than any other man in this town; and besides, he"s a fine, square, good-hearted old gentleman. Anybody can see that.
Only, he"s got one terrible fault: he doesn"t know how to make money.
And that"s mighty tough on you--though it"s just as tough on him. But when you roast him for it, like you did just now ... you only make him feel as miserable as a yellow dog ... and that doesn"t help matters a little bit. He can"t change into a sharp business crook now; ... he"s too old a man. ... Before long he ... he won"t be with you at all and ... when he"s gone you"ll be sore on yourself ... sure! ... if you keep on throwing it into him the way I heard you. ... And that"s on the level."
He paused in confusion; the role of preacher sat upon him awkwardly, a sadly misfit garment. He felt self-conscious and ill at ease, yet with a trace of gratulation through it all. For he felt he"d carried his point. He could see no longer any animus in the pale, wistful little face that looked up into his--only sympathy, understanding, repentance and (this troubled him a bit) a faint flush of dawning admiration.
Presently she grew conscious of herself again, and looked aside, humbled and distressed.
"I--I won"t do it again," she faltered, twisting her hands together.
"Bully for you!" he cried, and with an abrupt if artificial resumption of his business-like air turned away to a show-case--to spare her the embarra.s.sment of his regard.
"I didn"t think," said the voice behind him; "I didn"t mean to-- something happened that almost drove me wild and..."
"I know," he said gently.