# The Blue Window/Chapter 27

WHEN Hildegarde woke, after a night of dreamless sleep, she found the sun streaming in and Delia standing by the bed. "Yo' Daddy lef' a note for you, honey," she said, and delivered it.
Hildegarde sat up and opened the envelope. Delia went on to light the fire and draw the water for her mistress' bath. When she came back, Hildegarde was at the window, looking out.
"How 'ull you have yo' aigs, honey?"
"I don't want any eggs. I don't want any breakfast, Delia."
The colored woman's quick ear caught a note of distress. "Somepin happened?" she demanded.
"Yes."
"Is it yo' Daddy?"
"It's everything. . . ."
Her tone was final. Delia retiring discreetly to the threshold urged, "Won't you have jes' a leetle cup o' choc'lit?"
"Nothing now," as she turned she showed her troubled face, her tear-wet eyes, "I'll let you know."
Delia, entering the kitchen a few moments later, expressed herself tumultuously to Sampson. "You ​needn' tell me. I tole you yistiddy things was queer. Miss Sally goin' off in a rush in the mornin' and Miss Ethel goin' off in a rush in the evenin'. And Mistuh Neale givin' orders we ain' to say where he is, effen anybody 'phones."
Sampson agreed. "An' nobody havin' breakfus' this mornin' ceptin' Miss Anne. And she never eats nothin' but orange juice, lessen she git fat."
Delia came close to him. "Mis' Ethel's at the bottom of it. You lissen to me. . . . I calls her a snake, wormin' herself in. That's what I calls her."
Sampson was gloomy. "Effen Mistuh Louis marries Mis' Ethel, I goes."
"An' you won't go alone. I packs my trunk and shakes the dus' f'om my feet. Miss Ethel kaint give me no orders."
For once however in her life, Delia's intuitions had failed her. The note to Hildegarde was not about Ethel Hulburt. It was about Bobby.
Carew had written: "I've been thinking it all out, Hildegarde, and it looks as if our hope is in Bobby Gresham. You like him, don't you? And he's a gentleman. He loves you, and with him as your husband we could laugh at Neale. It is hard for you to understand what Neale can do to me. I am utterly in his power financially, and I am not used to poverty. But Bobby would be the solution. Think about it, Hildegarde, and let me know. I'll see you in the morning. You are my dear child, and I want you to be happy. It would be intolerable for me to see you suffer. And this seems to be the way out. Let's try it."
​Hildegarde having read the note, had crushed it in her hand. So much for a dream! Shattered. She had thought last night there was full understanding between herself and her father.
And now he offered her—Bobby!
Bobby was a clown—Pierrot, Harlequin, almost fantastically funny. A man to play around with, but not to marry. Why, all the world knew Bobby's inconstancies. One did not want a husband like that, swearing love on his knees at one moment, and at the next swearing devotion at other slippered feet.
Last night she had felt so safe. She had thought she and her father stood shoulder to shoulder in their defiance of Winslow, their acceptance of the future. And now. . . ? Never with her mother had she had these devastating experiences with a weathercock mind. Her mother had faced things strongly. She would not have dreamed of Gresham as a husband for her daughter. She would not have been afraid of Neale. But her father was afraid. And he was weak. It was weakness which had kept him in Winslow's power; and which had made possible his dalliance with Ethel when he really didn't want her.
Or did he want her? Might he not even at this moment be changing his mind? There was nothing stable in him. He was blown by the wind. . . .
After Delia left her, she dressed slowly. She would go down and have a moment with her father before Winslow came. She didn't quite know what she would say to him. She only knew that she was going to tell him what she thought of him. He deserved it. After ​that she would go away. Back to the farm. As her mother had done. . . .
When at last she was ready, she opened her door. Delia was in the hall ostensibly busy, but with an eye to interesting developments.
"Yo' Daddy's gone a-huntin'," she said, as Hildegarde appeared, "with Mr. Neale."
"Not this morning," incredulously.
"Yes, honey."
"When did they go?"
"Befo' sun-up."
In Hildegarde's state of mind this seemed the final affront—that he could go off with their enemy, while destinies hung in the balance!
"What time are they coming back, Delia?"
"Mistuh Neale he tole Sampson they'd git here by nine. They's been a lot of men calling up, but Mistuh Neale gave orders we wasn't to ax no questions or answer none."
Reporters, probably, on the track of Sally's jilted suitor. The telephone rang again and Delia went to answer it. Hildegarde following the maid down the stairs moved automatically. She was beyond sensation. Numb.
She came to the first landing, and stopped. The lattices of the great window were flung wide, framing an expanse of deep unbroken blue. Hildegarde stared, fascinated. Back of her was her father's house, haunted by shadows, darkened by the dreadfulness of strife and misunderstanding—ahead of her was that cloudless azure curtain, hiding what one felt must be ineffable light.
​She leaned on the sill and looked out—blue sky, blue bay, a fresh breeze blowing. The peace of it entered into her soul. She seemed to hear her lover's voice. "I think if you called I should hear you."
Her heart called to him now, "Crispin, Crispin." In this crisis she felt the need of his strength and sanity. . . . "Crispin, Crispin."
For the first time since she had read her father's letter her mind worked clearly. It was working, indeed, clearly, for the first time since the night of Winslow's ball. She had been proud to be called "Carew's daughter." Had fashioned herself after his pattern. Had preened herself when she had heard other people say: "She's like him."
Yet it was her mother after whom she should have patterned. And it was the daughter of Elizabeth Musgrove who must act in this emergency. Her mother had said so many times, "Our souls are lamps to guide us." Hildegarde reflected that the light within her own soul was a flickering taper. Would it serve to show the way?
She had no other guide. There was, of course, Aunt Anne. But Aunt Anne must not be brought into this. She loved her brother, blamed him, forgave him. Hildegarde must settle this thing herself.
And settling it meant going away!
To the farm!
Well, why not? The old aunts seemed like rocks of steadfastness in this sea of change. And there was the steadfastness of Crispin. And, above all, the memory of the serenity and steadfastness of her mother.
Oh, she belonged to all that—not to this life of ​greed and shallowness. And she would tell them so—Neale and her father. She hated the thought of it. But the thing had to be done. In a few minutes she would be facing them in the library, and their arguments would swing back and forth. But nothing they could say would alter her decision. The spirit which had sustained her mother would sustain her now. There was no bondage like that of being chained to weakness. The only freedom was in the strength of one's soul.
How often her mother had said these things to her in their candle-lighted room, and they had meant little because life had not taught her their truth. But now the truth of them seemed to blaze down on her from those blue heavens. As if again her mother spoke.
She turned from the window and went upstairs again. She packed a small bag, put on a straight dark frock, and laid her hat and coat beside the bag. Then she made her way to the library.
The minutes passed. The clock in the hall chimed the hour. Nine thin notes that left a silvery echo. She rose restlessly, and went to the window which overlooked the front drive. Two automobiles were parked by the side of the road, and on the steps of the house between the white pillars a half dozen newspaper men were waiting.
When at last Winslow drove up, Hildegarde saw him stop and parley with the men. Her father came on, hurrying a bit.
"Here we are at last," he said, as he entered the library. "You and I will have to talk fast, Hildegarde. ​Neale's right at my heels. I had hoped to have a little time alone with you to discuss my letter. You got it?"
"Yes."
"And we are both for Bobby?"
"No."
She saw his frown, his impatience. "Surely we are going to stand together, Hildegarde."
"I thought we stood together last night."
"Too impractical. I knew that as soon as I left you. Neither one of us could live in poverty and be happy. Hildegarde, do you know what you'll be letting me in for if you refuse to marry Gresham? For years Neale has been my old man of the sea. I've carried him on my back. And now that you have a chance to save me, you say coolly that you won't. I didn't dream you'd take this attitude. I thought it was settled. If I hadn't, I'd have stayed at home this morning, to try to make you see it."
"You can never make me see it."
There was no time for further argument. Winslow's voice sounded in the hall. "Give me a half-hour, gentlemen, and I'll have something to tell you."
He came in and shut the door. "They are like hounds at a kill," he said, with bitterness. Then, "Sorry we're late, Hildegarde. But we had tire trouble."
As she faced the two men they seemed to Hildegarde more than ever formidable. She was aware, suddenly, of the weakness of her defenses. Slight, unshielded, she was alone in this clash of arms.
Yet was she alone? Back of her was all the courage of the men and women of her mother's blood. For ​them there had been no white flag. Fearlessness. It was to them that she must look for help in this tense moment, not to the red-coated grandfather above the fireplace.
Spiritual strength! The sword and buckler of her belief in herself! She had an almost physical sense of contest and of clamour, although until Winslow spoke there was not a sound.
"Well?" that was all. Just that sinister mono-syllable without a trace of emotion.
"I can't marry you, Neale."
His face did not change. "Have you considered the advantages?"
"I can't see any advantages."
"I am offering you everything."
"You are offering me your—pocketbook."
It seemed to her that the words went off with a sharp report like a gun, hitting the walls and reverberating up to the ceiling. She had a sense of exhilaration, hot blood was in her cheeks, her eyes held leaping fires.
She was a gallant little figure. Fighting. With her back to the wall. Winslow, even in the midst of his exasperation, was keenly aware of her warmth and ardor. What a fool he had been from the first not to choose Hildegarde. The child was enchanting!
His voice was persuasive. "I am offering you more than my pocketbook."
"Yet if I married you it would be because of your money. You know that, Neale."
He did know it, and raged because of the truth of it. Was there nothing in him that would win what he ​wanted? Would youth and beauty turn always from him?
He demanded savagely of Carew. "Are you with Hildegarde in this?"
"No."
"You want her to marry me?"
Louis said with sullenness, "I can see the advantages."
"And you have advised her to do it?"
"I haven't advised her."
"Why not?"
"Because she prefers not to take my advice."
Winslow looked at Hildegarde. "You are willing if you refuse to marry me that your father shall pay the price."
Her breath was quick: "Why shouldn't he pay it as well as I?"
"You mean that marriage with me would be worse for you than financial ruin for your father?"
"I mean that for a woman, marriage without love is the greatest price she can pay."
"Which is, of course, nonsense."
"No," she leaned forward, speaking in a passion of earnestness, "marriage doesn't mean to me what you two make of it. It isn't a thing of barter and sale. It is a sacred thing—so sacred that when I go to my husband, I shall go with a flame in my heart . . . like the fire . . . on an altar. And . . . I shall pray that all my life the flame may burn clear and bright. . . ."
She stopped and they sat there, staring at her with a touch of terror. It was as if in her high defense of her dreams she had shown them an Eden where they ​too, once had dwelt, but from which they were now eternally shut out.
She rose, "That's all, I think. I am going away from Round Hill. It was a mistake for me to come. I am not a Carew. I belong to my mother's kind and class. And I shall be happier among them."
Winslow, also on his feet, gave a last rapier-thrust: "If you go, you know what will happen. Louis will marry Ethel."
Hildegarde said, steadily, "He must do as he thinks best."
Her father was standing beside the lacquered cabinet, his frowning gaze bent upon the floor. "So you are going to desert me—as your mother did?"
"What else could she do?"
"She might have given me—another chance. But she was hard, as you are. She didn't understand me. You don't."
Once upon a time that break in his voice would have brought her to his feet. But not now. "I am not hard. I am simply trying to hold on to my self-respect."
"I thought you loved me."
"Love doesn't mean being weak because others ask it. It means being hard because one is right."
He flung up his head, "It means nothing of the kind. It means that you have made up your mind to leave me because you want to marry that clodhopper—Crispin."
Dead silence. Then Hildegarde blazed: "I am going back to do as I please. You can marry Ethel if you want to, and Neale can keep his mansion and his ​money. I've got to live my own life. I'm going to be free. I'm done with this—forever."
Before they could stop her, she had left them. Out in the hall, she caught a glimpse through the open door of the newspaper men still waiting. She sped up the stairs. The light from the Blue Window streamed down on her. Oh, heavenly light, help me now. . . . Oh, Blue Window shine upon my way. . . . I am never coming back. . . . I am never coming back. . . . I am never coming back. . . ."