Page:Stella Dallas, a novel (IA stelladallasnove00prou).pdf/273

Rh "But, Laurel—"

"Oh, don't let's argue about it, father. It won't do the least bit of good."

"Why, this is absurd, impossible. I cannot allow—"

"Just a minute, Stephen," Helen interrupted. There were bright spots in the center of Stephen's cheeks, too. "Laurel, dear," she said, reaching for Laurel's hand, drawing her down on the sofa again. "Listen. Let me explain. It is your mother's wish. It's all your mother's planning. This—all this"—with a wave of her hand she included the whole house and all it stood for in way of happiness for Laurel—"is her gift to you." (The truth was best, Helen concluded.) "She came and saw me about it last summer. We talked it all over in detail, together."

"When last summer?" Laurel exclaimed.

"Last July."

(Oh, then, it flashed across Laurel, her mother had heard! She hadn't been asleep that night on the train! She hadn't been to Milhampton the next day to see Effie McDavitt. She had been to New York to give her Mrs. Morrison!)

"Well, I shan't take her gift," said Laurel. (Her mother! Her wonderful mother! And they had called her "That woman!" "That awful creature!" "That dame!")