Brentwood (Romance Classic). Grace Livingston Hill

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      Marjorie found she was too excited to sleep when she laid her head on her pillow. But strangely enough it was not on the eager protests of love that her mind dwelt most during that night's vigil, but more on his insistence that she should not search out her people. And the more she thought of it, the less she thought of Evan.

      Still, she knew that was not fair either. If Evan really loved her as he said he did, it might be natural, if not noble, at least for her sake, to wish to protect her against anything that might annoy or embarrass her. And yet the more she faced the possibility that her family might be embarrassing, the more she felt it her duty to search them out and know the truth.

      After all, even if she wanted to accept the love that had been offered her—and she wasn't at all sure that she did—it was all so new and unexpected, and her reaction to it was tempered by his utter distaste for having her people in her background. Could she honestly marry any man without knowing the truth about her family?

      And of course she could not get away from the fact that they were her parents, and had a right to a place in her life, whether she or her friends or anybody else wanted them there or not. What that place was to be must be decided before she went on another step in life. No other questions of life or love or future happiness could be settled until she dealt with that. And she would have to deal with it alone. No one else could settle it for her.

      She awoke in the morning with the definite purpose in her heart to get the matter over with at once. She would start right away before anything else could possibly delay her. If any more people came in and tried to turn her from her purpose she would become bewildered again.

      She dressed hastily and sat down at her desk at once, determined to burn all bridges behind her. She wrote charming little notes declining all her invitations, and then wrote to Evan Brower:

      "Dear Evan:

      I have kept my promise and thought over carefully the matter of which we were speaking last evening, and have decided that I must visit my family at once. When I come back I hope to be able to talk about the question more intelligently.

      Please don't think I do not appreciate your kind thought for me, but I feel that this is a question I must investigate and decide for myself, and I must settle it before I do anything else.

      I have written your mother, thanking her for her kind invitation, and telling her how sorry I am that it doesn't seem possible for me to visit her just now.

      I shall probably return sometime after New Year's Day, or perhaps sooner if I get homesick. But I will let you know when I get back.

      Thanking you for all your kindness, and trusting that you will try to understand,

      Most gratefully,

      Marjorie."

      She felt better when the notes were written. It seemed as if she were already started on her journey. But she decided not to mail them until just as she was leaving. She did not want anybody coming in to try and hinder her. Evan would not be able to get away from his office before evening, and if anyone else came she would merely say she was about to visit relatives for the holidays.

      She called up the station and made her reservations on a train that left the city a little after six that night. Then she went down to the kitchen and gave the house servants a vacation for the holidays, all except the chauffeur and his wife who lived over the garage and would care for the house.

      After all it was very simple. The servants were delighted, and did not ask her plans. She told them she would be visiting relatives. The house became a hive of industry for the next few hours. Though there wasn't much to be done toward closing up as the chauffeur's wife would look after all that. Marjorie went at her packing. It didn't take long. She took some of her prettiest sport dresses—the Wetherills had never approved of wearing mourning—and two of three plain little house dresses in case she found her relatives in poor circumstances. She must remember not to remind them that she had been brought up to plenty.

      She took her check book and plenty of money, carefully stowed as she had been taught to do when traveling. She left no address with anybody. She did not want anyone coming after her to try and hinder her in whatever she should decide to do.

      At the last she almost turned back, her heart failing her at what might be before her, for she was gifted with a strong imagination, and had in the night visioned a number of situations that might arise which would make her greatly regret this step she was taking. But the servants were gone now, and it was too late to turn back. The taxi was at the door to take her to the station.

      She waited long enough to telephone her lawyer that she would be out of the city for a few days, perhaps till after Christmas, and would let him know her address later. Then she locked the door and went down the walk to the taxi, winking back the tears, feeling as if she were bidding good-bye to her former lovely life and stepping off into the great unknown. What a fool she was, she told herself, she didn't have to stay if she didn't want to. She could come right back the day she got there if she chose.

      And so at last she was on her way, quite worn out with the tumult of her decision and her preparations.

      The next morning she arrived in the strange city and went to a hotel. After attempting a sketchy breakfast she took a taxi and drove to the address that had been given in the letter.

      She had meant to do a great deal of thinking before she went to sleep in her berth, but the day of excitement had wearied her more than she knew and she had dropped to sleep at once and had not wakened until the porter called her in the morning. So now, as she rode along in her taxi she suddenly felt unprepared for the ordeal that was before her. She had intended to plan just how she would open the interview, always supposing she found anybody to have an interview with, but now it seemed too absurd to plan anything for so vague a scene as she was about to stage. She found herself shrinking inexpressibly from the whole thing. If she had it to decide all over again this morning she would certainly have turned it down as an utterly preposterous proposition. Certain words and phrases of Evan Brower's came to her mind, a tiny reflection of his sneer when he had told her it might be embarrassing for her to hunt up her relatives.

      Then her own honest loyal nature came to the front and declared to her that whoever or whatever they were they were hers, something God had put her into the world with as her own, and nobody, not even themselves had a right to put them asunder. They were her birthright, and something she must not disown.

      Now and then it came to her that her foster mother should have faced this problem with her long ago, when it wouldn't have hurt her so much, but instantly her love defended the only mother she had ever known, and her heart owned that it would have been very hard for Mrs. Wetherill. On the whole it was just as well that she should decide this thing for herself and act as she chose. And it was generous of course of Mrs. Wetherill to give her a free hand to do what she chose for her people.

      So her thoughts battled back and forth as she rode along through the strange city, looking out but not seeing the new sights, not taking in a thing but the breathless fact that she was on her way unannounced, to meet the people to whom she had been born, and she was frightened.

      It seemed a very long drive, out through a scrubby part of the city, and then into a sordid street of little cheap houses all alike, brick houses with wooden porches in an endless row, block after block, with untidy vacant lots across the street, ending in unpleasant ash heaps. It was before the last house in the row that the taxi stopped, on the far out-skirts of the city, with a desolate stretch of city dump beyond. Marjorie's heart almost stopped beating, and she nearly told the driver to turn about and take her back to the hotel. Could it be that her people lived in a house like this? A little two-story, seven-by-nine affair, with not even a pavement in front, just a hard clay path worn by the feet of many children playing?

      The driver handed her her check, opened the door, and she got out her purse.

      "I think perhaps you had better wait for me a minute or two until I make sure this is the right place," she