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Updated: June 4, 2025
"Then you haven't met him since he left me?" "No, my love. Is he out? I haven't met him." Lizzie sat down with a confused sense of relief, which welled up to her throat and made speech difficult. Suddenly light came to Andora. "I understand, dearest. Youdon't feel able to see him yourself. You want me to go to him for you." She looked about her, scenting the battle. "You're right, darling.
I don't think it could hurt him to lick that." Miss Macy, bag in hand, rose from her knees, and stumbled through the slough of frayed garments and old studio properties. Before the group of mother and son she fell into a raptured attitude. "Do look at him reach for it, the tyrant! Isn't he just like the young Napoleon?" Lizzie laughed and swung her son in air. "Dangle it before him, Andora.
Clopin's pension, she had addressed a similar behest to Andora Macy. Andora had lifted a look of startled conjecture. "Why, thisone's never been opened! Do you suppose that awful woman could have kept it from him?" Lizzie laughed. Andora's imaginings were really puerile. "What awful woman? His landlady? Don't be such a goose, Andora.
Andora threw out on a rising note; but Lizzie, stooping over, stretched out her hand. "Give them to me, please." "Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie " Andora, still on her knees, continued to hold back the packet, her pale face paler with anger and compassion. "Lizzie, they're the letters I used to post for you the letters he never answered! Look!" "Give them back to me, please."
Miss Macy looked at her with swimming eyes. "It's warm fromyour heart!" she breathed, reluctantly yielding up the missive. Lizzie laughed, for she knew better: she knew it was the letter that had warmed her heart. Poor Andora Macy! She would never know. Her bleak bosom would never take fire from such a contact. Lizzie looked at her with kind eyes, secretly chafing at the injustice of fate.
She would go away, of course; and meanwhile, in order not to see him, she would feign a headache, and remain in her room till after luncheon. Then she and Andora would pack a few things, and fly with the child while he was dawdling about up-stairs in the studio. When one's house fell, one fled from the ruins: nothing could be simpler, more inevitable.
"It's frightful, the way you've got used to it," Andora Macyhad wailed in the first days of her friend's transfigured fortune, when Lizzie West had waked one morning to find herself among the heirs of an old and miserly cousin whose testamentary dispositions had formed, since her earliest childhood, the subject of pleasantry and conjecture in her own improvident family.
It was past twelve o'clock, their usual luncheon hour, and he was scrupulously punctual at meals, and gently reproachful if shekept him waiting. Only some unwonted event could have caused himto leave the house at such an hour and with such marks of haste. Well, perhaps it was better that Andora should have spoken. She mistrusted her own courage; she almost hoped the deed had been done for her.
Parents "kept things" from children protected them from all the dark secrets of pain and evil. And was any life livable unless it were thus protected? Could any one look in the Medusa's face and live? But why should she leave the house, since it was hers? Here, with her boy and Andora, she could still make for herself the semblance of a life.
Lizzie, bowed in anxious scrutiny above the shirts, broke into an unruffled laugh. "Really, Andora, really six, seven, nine; no, there isn't even a dozen. There isn't a whole dozen of anything. I don't see how men live alone!" Andora broodingly pursued her theme. "Do you mean to tell me it doesn't make you jealous to handle these things of his that other women may have given him?"
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