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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/1716-0.txt b/1716-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bdf86f8 --- /dev/null +++ b/1716-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9827 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Copy-Cat and Other Stories, by +Mary E. Wilkins Freeman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Copy-Cat and Other Stories + +Author: Mary E. Wilkins Freeman + +Release Date: April, 1999 [Etext #1716] +Posting Date: November 20, 2009 +Last Updated: March 15, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COPY-CAT AND OTHER STORIES *** + + + + +Produced by Judy Boss + + + + + +THE COPY-CAT + +AND OTHER STORIES + +By Mary E. Wilkins Freeman + + + +CONTENTS + + THE COPY-CAT + + THE COCK OF THE WALK + + JOHNNY-IN-THE-WOODS + + DANIEL AND LITTLE DAN'L + + BIG SISTER SOLLY + + LITTLE LUCY ROSE + + NOBLESSE + + CORONATION + + THE AMETHYST COMB + + THE UMBRELLA MAN + + THE BALKING OF CHRISTOPHER + + DEAR ANNIE + + + + +THE COPY-CAT + +THAT affair of Jim Simmons's cats never became known. Two little boys +and a little girl can keep a secret--that is, sometimes. The two little +boys had the advantage of the little girl because they could talk over +the affair together, and the little girl, Lily Jennings, had no intimate +girl friend to tempt her to confidence. She had only little Amelia +Wheeler, commonly called by the pupils of Madame's school “The +Copy-Cat.” + +Amelia was an odd little girl--that is, everybody called her odd. She +was that rather unusual creature, a child with a definite ideal; and +that ideal was Lily Jennings. However, nobody knew that. If Amelia's +mother, who was a woman of strong character, had suspected, she would +have taken strenuous measures to prevent such a peculiar state of +affairs; the more so because she herself did not in the least approve of +Lily Jennings. Mrs. Diantha Wheeler (Amelia's father had died when she +was a baby) often remarked to her own mother, Mrs. Stark, and to her +mother-in-law, Mrs. Samuel Wheeler, that she did not feel that Mrs. +Jennings was bringing up Lily exactly as she should. “That child thinks +entirely too much of her looks,” said Mrs. Diantha. “When she walks past +here she switches those ridiculous frilled frocks of hers as if she were +entering a ballroom, and she tosses her head and looks about to see if +anybody is watching her. If I were to see Amelia doing such things I +should be very firm with her.” + +“Lily Jennings is a very pretty child,” said Mother-in-law Wheeler, with +an under-meaning, and Mrs. Diantha flushed. Amelia did not in the least +resemble the Wheelers, who were a handsome set. She looked remarkably +like her mother, who was a plain woman, only little Amelia did not have +a square chin. Her chin was pretty and round, with a little dimple in +it. In fact, Amelia's chin was the prettiest feature she had. Her hair +was phenomenally straight. It would not even yield to hot curling-irons, +which her grandmother Wheeler had tried surreptitiously several times +when there was a little girls' party. “I never saw such hair as that +poor child has in all my life,” she told the other grandmother, Mrs. +Stark. “Have the Starks always had such very straight hair?” + +Mrs. Stark stiffened her chin. Her own hair was very straight. “I don't +know,” said she, “that the Starks have had any straighter hair than +other people. If Amelia does not have anything worse to contend with +than straight hair I rather think she will get along in the world as +well as most people.” + +“It's thin, too,” said Grandmother Wheeler, with a sigh, “and it hasn't +a mite of color. Oh, well, Amelia is a good child, and beauty isn't +everything.” Grandmother Wheeler said that as if beauty were a great +deal, and Grandmother Stark arose and shook out her black silk skirts. +She had money, and loved to dress in rich black silks and laces. + +“It is very little, very little indeed,” said she, and she eyed +Grandmother Wheeler's lovely old face, like a wrinkled old rose as to +color, faultless as to feature, and swept about by the loveliest waves +of shining silver hair. + +Then she went out of the room, and Grandmother Wheeler, left alone, +smiled. She knew the worth of beauty for those who possess it and those +who do not. She had never been quite reconciled to her son's marrying +such a plain girl as Diantha Stark, although she had money. She +considered beauty on the whole as a more valuable asset than mere gold. +She regretted always that poor little Amelia, her only grandchild, was +so very plain-looking. She always knew that Amelia was very plain, and +yet sometimes the child puzzled her. She seemed to see reflections +of beauty, if not beauty itself, in the little colorless face, in the +figure, with its too-large joints and utter absence of curves. She +sometimes even wondered privately if some subtle resemblance to the +handsome Wheelers might not be in the child and yet appear. But she was +mistaken. What she saw was pure mimicry of a beautiful ideal. + +Little Amelia tried to stand like Lily Jennings; she tried to walk like +her; she tried to smile like her; she made endeavors, very often +futile, to dress like her. Mrs. Wheeler did not in the least approve +of furbelows for children. Poor little Amelia went clad in severe +simplicity; durable woolen frocks in winter, and washable, unfadable, +and non-soil-showing frocks in summer. She, although her mother had +perhaps more money wherewith to dress her than had any of the other +mothers, was the plainest-clad little girl in school. Amelia, moreover, +never tore a frock, and, as she did not grow rapidly, one lasted several +seasons. Lily Jennings was destructive, although dainty. Her pretty +clothes were renewed every year. Amelia was helpless before that +problem. For a little girl burning with aspirations to be and look like +another little girl who was beautiful and wore beautiful clothes, to be +obliged to set forth for Madame's on a lovely spring morning, when thin +attire was in evidence, dressed in dark-blue-andwhite-checked gingham, +which she had worn for three summers, and with sleeves which, even to +childish eyes, were anachronisms, was a trial. Then to see Lily flutter +in a frock like a perfectly new white flower was torture; not because +of jealousy--Amelia was not jealous; but she so admired the other little +girl, and so loved her, and so wanted to be like her. + +As for Lily, she hardly ever noticed Amelia. She was not aware that +she herself was an object of adoration; for she was a little girl who +searched for admiration in the eyes of little boys rather than little +girls, although very innocently. She always glanced slyly at Johnny +Trumbull when she wore a pretty new frock, to see if he noticed. He +never did, and she was sharp enough to know it. She was also child +enough not to care a bit, but to take a queer pleasure in the sensation +of scorn which she felt in consequence. She would eye Johnny from head +to foot, his boy's clothing somewhat spotted, his bulging pockets, his +always dusty shoes, and when he twisted uneasily, not understanding why, +she had a thrill of purely feminine delight. It was on one such occasion +that she first noticed Amelia Wheeler particularly. + +It was a lovely warm morning in May, and Lily was a darling to +behold--in a big hat with a wreath of blue flowers, her hair tied +with enormous blue silk bows, her short skirts frilled with eyelet +embroidery, her slender silk legs, her little white sandals. Madame's +maid had not yet struck the Japanese gong, and all the pupils were out +on the lawn, Amelia, in her clean, ugly gingham and her serviceable +brown sailor hat, hovering near Lily, as usual, like a common, very +plain butterfly near a particularly resplendent blossom. Lily really +noticed her. She spoke to her confidentially; she recognized her fully +as another of her own sex, and presumably of similar opinions. + +“Ain't boys ugly, anyway?” inquired Lily of Amelia, and a wonderful +change came over Amelia. Her sallow cheeks bloomed; her eyes showed blue +glitters; her little skinny figure became instinct with nervous life. +She smiled charmingly, with such eagerness that it smote with pathos and +bewitched. + +“Oh yes, oh yes,” she agreed, in a voice like a quick flute obbligato. +“Boys are ugly.” + +“Such clothes!” said Lily. + +“Yes, such clothes!” said Amelia. + +“Always spotted,” said Lily. + +“Always covered all over with spots,” said Amelia. + +“And their pockets always full of horrid things,” said Lily. + +“Yes,” said Amelia. + +Amelia glanced openly at Johnny Trumbull; Lily with a sidewise effect. + +Johnny had heard every word. Suddenly he arose to action and knocked +down Lee Westminster, and sat on him. + +“Lemme up!” said Lee. + +Johnny had no quarrel whatever with Lee. He grinned, but he sat still. +Lee, the sat-upon, was a sharp little boy. “Showing off before the +gals!” he said, in a thin whisper. + +“Hush up!” returned Johnny. + +“Will you give me a writing-pad--I lost mine, and mother said I couldn't +have another for a week if I did--if I don't holler?” inquired Lee. + +“Yes. Hush up!” + +Lee lay still, and Johnny continued to sit upon his prostrate form. +Both were out of sight of Madame's windows, behind a clump of the cedars +which graced her lawn. + +“Always fighting,” said Lily, with a fine crescendo of scorn. She lifted +her chin high, and also her nose. + +“Always fighting,” said Amelia, and also lifted her chin and nose. +Amelia was a born mimic. She actually looked like Lily, and she spoke +like her. + +Then Lily did a wonderful thing. She doubled her soft little arm into an +inviting loop for Amelia's little claw of a hand. + +“Come along, Amelia Wheeler,” said she. “We don't want to stay near +horrid, fighting boys. We will go by ourselves.” + +And they went. Madame had a headache that morning, and the Japanese +gong did not ring for fifteen minutes longer. During that time Lily and +Amelia sat together on a little rustic bench under a twinkling poplar, +and they talked, and a sort of miniature sun-and-satellite relation was +established between them, although neither was aware of it. Lily, being +on the whole a very normal little girl, and not disposed to even a full +estimate of herself as compared with others of her own sex, did not +dream of Amelia's adoration, and Amelia, being rarely destitute of +self-consciousness, did not understand the whole scope of her own +sentiments. It was quite sufficient that she was seated close to this +wonderful Lily, and agreeing with her to the verge of immolation. + +“Of course,” said Lily, “girls are pretty, and boys are just as ugly as +they can be.” + +“Oh yes,” said Amelia, fervently. + +“But,” said Lily, thoughtfully, “it is queer how Johnny Trumbull always +comes out ahead in a fight, and he is not so very large, either.” + +“Yes,” said Amelia, but she realized a pang of jealousy. “Girls could +fight, I suppose,” said she. + +“Oh yes, and get their clothes all torn and messy,” said Lily. + +“I shouldn't care,” said Amelia. Then she added, with a little toss, “I +almost know I could fight.” The thought even floated through her wicked +little mind that fighting might be a method of wearing out obnoxious and +durable clothes. + +“You!” said Lily, and the scorn in her voice wilted Amelia. + +“Maybe I couldn't,” said she. + +“Of course you couldn't, and if you could, what a sight you'd be. Of +course it wouldn't hurt your clothes as much as some, because your +mother dresses you in strong things, but you'd be sure to get black and +blue, and what would be the use, anyway? You couldn't be a boy, if you +did fight.” + +“No. I know I couldn't.” + +“Then what is the use? We are a good deal prettier than boys, and +cleaner, and have nicer manners, and we must be satisfied.” + +“You are prettier,” said Amelia, with a look of worshipful admiration at +Lily's sweet little face. + +“You are prettier,” said Lily. Then she added, equivocally, “Even the +very homeliest girl is prettier than a boy.” + +Poor Amelia, it was a good deal for her to be called prettier than a +very dusty boy in a fight. She fairly dimpled with delight, and again +she smiled charmingly. Lily eyed her critically. + +“You aren't so very homely, after all, Amelia,” she said. “You needn't +think you are.” + +Amelia smiled again. + +“When you look like you do now you are real pretty,” said Lily, not +knowing or even suspecting the truth, that she was regarding in the face +of this little ardent soul her own, as in a mirror. + +However, it was after that episode that Amelia Wheeler was called +“Copy-Cat.” The two little girls entered Madame's select school arm in +arm, when the musical gong sounded, and behind them came Lee Westminster +and Johnny Trumbull, surreptitiously dusting their garments, and ever +after the fact of Amelia's adoration and imitation of Lily Jennings was +evident to all. Even Madame became aware of it, and held conferences +with two of the under teachers. + +“It is not at all healthy for one child to model herself so entirely +upon the pattern of another,” said Miss Parmalee. + +“Most certainly it is not,” agreed Miss Acton, the music-teacher. + +“Why, that poor little Amelia Wheeler had the rudiments of a fairly good +contralto. I had begun to wonder if the poor child might not be able at +least to sing a little, and so make up for--other things; and now she +tries to sing high like Lily Jennings, and I simply cannot prevent it. +She has heard Lily play, too, and has lost her own touch, and now it is +neither one thing nor the other.” + +“I might speak to her mother,” said Madame, thoughtfully. Madame was +American born, but she married a French gentleman, long since deceased, +and his name sounded well on her circulars. She and her two under +teachers were drinking tea in her library. + +Miss Parmalee, who was a true lover of her pupils, gasped at Madame's +proposition. “Whatever you do, please do not tell that poor child's +mother,” said she. + +“I do not think it would be quite wise, if I may venture to express an +opinion,” said Miss Acton, who was a timid soul, and always inclined to +shy at her own ideas. + +“But why?” asked Madame. + +“Her mother,” said Miss Parmalee, “is a quite remarkable woman, with +great strength of character, but she would utterly fail to grasp the +situation.” + +“I must confess,” said Madame, sipping her tea, “that I fail to +understand it. Why any child not an absolute idiot should so lose her +own identity in another's absolutely bewilders me. I never heard of such +a case.” + +Miss Parmalee, who had a sense of humor, laughed a little. “It is +bewildering,” she admitted. “And now the other children see how it is, +and call her 'Copy-Cat' to her face, but she does not mind. I doubt if +she understands, and neither does Lily, for that matter. Lily Jennings +is full of mischief, but she moves in straight lines; she is not +conceited or self-conscious, and she really likes Amelia, without +knowing why.” + +“I fear Lily will lead Amelia into mischief,” said Madame, “and Amelia +has always been such a good child.” + +“Lily will never MEAN to lead Amelia into mischief,” said loyal Miss +Parmalee. + +“But she will,” said Madame. + +“If Lily goes, I cannot answer for Amelia's not following,” admitted +Miss Parmalee. + +“I regret it all very much indeed,” sighed Madame, “but it does seem to +me still that Amelia's mother--” + +“Amelia's mother would not even believe it, in the first place,” said +Miss Parmalee. + +“Well, there is something in that,” admitted Madame. “I myself could not +even imagine such a situation. I would not know of it now, if you and +Miss Acton had not told me.” + +“There is not the slightest use in telling Amelia not to imitate +Lily, because she does not know that she is imitating her,” said Miss +Parmalee. “If she were to be punished for it, she could never comprehend +the reason.” + +“That is true,” said Miss Acton. “I realize that when the poor child +squeaks instead of singing. All I could think of this morning was a +little mouse caught in a trap which she could not see. She does actually +squeak!--and some of her low notes, although, of course, she is only a +child, and has never attempted much, promised to be very good.” + +“She will have to squeak, for all I can see,” said Miss Parmalee. “It +looks to me like one of those situations that no human being can change +for better or worse.” + +“I suppose you are right,” said Madame, “but it is most unfortunate, and +Mrs. Wheeler is such a superior woman, and Amelia is her only child, +and this is such a very subtle and regrettable affair. Well, we have to +leave a great deal to Providence.” + +“If,” said Miss Parmalee, “she could only get angry when she is called +'Copy-Cat.'” Miss Parmalee laughed, and so did Miss Acton. Then all the +ladies had their cups refilled, and left Providence to look out for poor +little Amelia Wheeler, in her mad pursuit of her ideal in the shape of +another little girl possessed of the exterior graces which she had not. + +Meantime the little “Copy-Cat” had never been so happy. She began to +improve in her looks also. Her grandmother Wheeler noticed it first, and +spoke of it to Grandmother Stark. “That child may not be so plain, +after all,” said she. “I looked at her this morning when she started +for school, and I thought for the first time that there was a little +resemblance to the Wheelers.” + +Grandmother Stark sniffed, but she looked gratified. “I have been +noticing it for some time,” said she, “but as for looking like the +Wheelers, I thought this morning for a minute that I actually saw my +poor dear husband looking at me out of that blessed child's eyes.” + +Grandmother Wheeler smiled her little, aggravating, curved, pink smile. + +But even Mrs. Diantha began to notice the change for the better in +Amelia. She, however, attributed it to an increase of appetite and a +system of deep breathing which she had herself taken up and enjoined +Amelia to follow. Amelia was following Lily Jennings instead, but that +her mother did not know. Still, she was gratified to see Amelia's little +sallow cheeks taking on pretty curves and a soft bloom, and she was more +inclined to listen when Grandmother Wheeler ventured to approach the +subject of Amelia's attire. + +“Amelia would not be so bad-looking if she were better dressed, +Diantha,” said she. + +Diantha lifted her chin, but she paid heed. “Why, does not Amelia dress +perfectly well, mother?” she inquired. + +“She dresses well enough, but she needs more ribbons and ruffles.” + +“I do not approve of so many ribbons and ruffles,” said Mrs. Diantha. +“Amelia has perfectly neat, fresh black or brown ribbons for her hair, +and ruffles are not sanitary.” + +“Ruffles are pretty,” said Grandmother Wheeler, “and blue and pink are +pretty colors. Now, that Jennings girl looks like a little picture.” + +But that last speech of Grandmother Wheeler's undid all the previous +good. Mrs. Diantha had an unacknowledged--even to herself--disapproval +of Mrs. Jennings which dated far back in the past, for a reason which +was quite unworthy of her and of her strong mind. When she and Lily's +mother had been girls, she had seen Mrs. Jennings look like a picture, +and had been perfectly well aware that she herself fell far short of +an artist's ideal. Perhaps if Mrs. Stark had believed in ruffles and +ribbons, her daughter might have had a different mind when Grandmother +Wheeler had finished her little speech. + +As it was, Mrs. Diantha surveyed her small, pretty mother-in-law with +dignified serenity, which savored only delicately of a snub. “I do not +myself approve of the way in which Mrs. Jennings dresses her daughter,” + said she, “and I do not consider that the child presents to a practical +observer as good an appearance as my Amelia.” + +Grandmother Wheeler had a temper. It was a childish temper and soon +over--still, a temper. “Lord,” said she, “if you mean to say that +you think your poor little snipe of a daughter, dressed like a little +maid-of-all-work, can compare with that lovely little Lily Jennings, who +is dressed like a doll!--” + +“I do not wish that my daughter should be dressed like a doll,” said +Mrs. Diantha, coolly. + +“Well, she certainly isn't,” said Grandmother Wheeler. “Nobody would +ever take her for a doll as far as looks or dress are concerned. She may +be GOOD enough. I don't deny that Amelia is a good little girl, but her +looks could be improved on.” + +“Looks matter very little,” said Mrs. Diantha. + +“They matter very much,” said Grandmother Wheeler, pugnaciously, her +blue eyes taking on a peculiar opaque glint, as always when she lost +her temper, “very much indeed. But looks can't be helped. If poor little +Amelia wasn't born with pretty looks, she wasn't. But she wasn't born +with such ugly clothes. She might be better dressed.” + +“I dress my daughter as I consider best,” said Mrs. Diantha. Then she +left the room. + +Grandmother Wheeler sat for a few minutes, her blue eyes opaque, her +little pink lips a straight line; then suddenly her eyes lit, and she +smiled. “Poor Diantha,” said she, “I remember how Henry used to like +Lily Jennings's mother before he married Diantha. Sour grapes hang +high.” But Grandmother Wheeler's beautiful old face was quite soft and +gentle. From her heart she pitied the reacher after those high-hanging +sour grapes, for Mrs. Diantha had been very good to her. + +Then Grandmother Wheeler, who had a mild persistency not evident to a +casual observer, began to make plans and lay plots. She was resolved, +Diantha or not, that her granddaughter, her son's child, should have +some fine feathers. The little conference had taken place in her own +room, a large, sunny one, with a little storeroom opening from it. +Presently Grandmother Wheeler rose, entered the storeroom, and began +rummaging in some old trunks. Then followed days of secret work. +Grandmother Wheeler had been noted as a fine needlewoman, and her +hand had not yet lost its cunning. She had one of Amelia's ugly little +ginghams, purloined from a closet, for size, and she worked two or +three dainty wonders. She took Grandmother Stark into her confidence. +Sometimes the two ladies, by reason of their age, found it possible to +combine with good results. + +“Your daughter Diantha is one woman in a thousand,” said Grandmother +Wheeler, diplomatically, one day, “but she never did care much for +clothes.” + +“Diantha,” returned Grandmother Stark, with a suspicious glance, “always +realized that clothes were not the things that mattered.” + +“And, of course, she is right,” said Grandmother Wheeler, piously. +“Your Diantha is one woman in a thousand. If she cared as much for fine +clothes as some women, I don't know where we should all be. It would +spoil poor little Amelia.” + +“Yes, it would,” assented Grandmother Stark. “Nothing spoils a little +girl more than always to be thinking about her clothes.” + +“Yes, I was looking at Amelia the other day, and thinking how much more +sensible she appeared in her plain gingham than Lily Jennings in all her +ruffles and ribbons. Even if people were all noticing Lily, and praising +her, thinks I to myself, 'How little difference such things really make. +Even if our dear Amelia does stand to one side, and nobody notices her, +what real matter is it?'” Grandmother Wheeler was inwardly chuckling as +she spoke. + +Grandmother Stark was at once alert. “Do you mean to say that Amelia is +really not taken so much notice of because she dresses plainly?” said +she. + +“You don't mean that you don't know it, as observant as you are?” + replied Grandmother Wheeler. + +“Diantha ought not to let it go as far as that,” said Grandmother Stark. +Grandmother Wheeler looked at her queerly. “Why do you look at me like +that?” + +“Well, I did something I feared I ought not to have done. And I didn't +know what to do, but your speaking so makes me wonder--” + +“Wonder what?” + +Then Grandmother Wheeler went to her little storeroom and emerged +bearing a box. She displayed the contents--three charming little white +frocks fluffy with lace and embroidery. + +“Did you make them?” + +“Yes, I did. I couldn't help it. I thought if the dear child never wore +them, it would be some comfort to know they were in the house.” + +“That one needs a broad blue sash,” said Grandmother Stark. + +Grandmother Wheeler laughed. She took her impecuniosity easily. “I had +to use what I had,” said she. + +“I will get a blue sash for that one,” said Grandmother Stark, “and a +pink sash for that, and a flowered one for that.” + +“Of course they will make all the difference,” said Grandmother Wheeler. +“Those beautiful sashes will really make the dresses.” + +“I will get them,” said Grandmother Stark, with decision. “I will go +right down to Mann Brothers' store now and get them.” + +“Then I will make the bows, and sew them on,” replied Grandmother +Wheeler, happily. + +It thus happened that little Amelia Wheeler was possessed of three +beautiful dresses, although she did not know it. + +For a long time neither of the two conspiring grandmothers dared divulge +the secret. Mrs. Diantha was a very determined woman, and even her own +mother stood somewhat in awe of her. Therefore, little Amelia went to +school during the spring term soberly clad as ever, and even on the +festive last day wore nothing better than a new blue gingham, made +too long, to allow for shrinkage, and new blue hair-ribbons. The two +grandmothers almost wept in secret conclave over the lovely frocks which +were not worn. + +“I respect Diantha,” said Grandmother Wheeler. “You know that. She is +one woman in a thousand, but I do hate to have that poor child go to +school to-day with so many to look at her, and she dressed so unlike all +the other little girls.” + +“Diantha has got so much sense, it makes her blind and deaf,” declared +Grandmother Stark. “I call it a shame, if she is my daughter.” + +“Then you don't venture--” + +Grandmother Stark reddened. She did not like to own to awe of her +daughter. “I VENTURE, if that is all,” said she, tartly. “You don't +suppose I am afraid of Diantha?--but she would not let Amelia wear one +of the dresses, anyway, and I don't want the child made any unhappier +than she is.” + +“Well, I will admit,” replied Grandmother Wheeler, “if poor Amelia knew +she had these beautiful dresses and could not wear them she might feel +worse about wearing that homely gingham.” + +“Gingham!” fairly snorted Grandmother Stark. “I cannot see why Diantha +thinks so much of gingham. It shrinks, anyway.” + +Poor little Amelia did undoubtedly suffer on that last day, when she sat +among the others gaily clad, and looked down at her own common little +skirts. She was very glad, however, that she had not been chosen to do +any of the special things which would have necessitated her appearance +upon the little flower-decorated platform. She did not know of the +conversation between Madame and her two assistants. + +“I would have Amelia recite a little verse or two,” said Madame, “but +how can I?” Madame adored dress, and had a lovely new one of sheer +dull-blue stuff, with touches of silver, for the last day. + +“Yes,” agreed Miss Parmalee, “that poor child is sensitive, and for her +to stand on the platform in one of those plain ginghams would be too +cruel.” + +“Then, too,” said Miss Acton, “she would recite her verses exactly like +Lily Jennings. She can make her voice exactly like Lily's now. Then +everybody would laugh, and Amelia would not know why. She would think +they were laughing at her dress, and that would be dreadful.” + +If Amelia's mother could have heard that conversation everything would +have been different, although it is puzzling to decide in what way. + +It was the last of the summer vacation in early September, just before +school began, that a climax came to Amelia's idolatry and imitation of +Lily. The Jenningses had not gone away that summer, so the two little +girls had been thrown together a good deal. Mrs. Diantha never went away +during a summer. She considered it her duty to remain at home, and she +was quite pitiless to herself when it came to a matter of duty. + +However, as a result she was quite ill during the last of August and the +first of September. The season had been unusually hot, and Mrs. Diantha +had not spared herself from her duty on account of the heat. She +would have scorned herself if she had done so. But she could not, +strong-minded as she was, avert something like a heat prostration after +a long walk under a burning sun, nor weeks of confinement and idleness +in her room afterward. + +When September came, and a night or two of comparative coolness, she +felt stronger; still she was compelled by most unusual weakness to +refrain from her energetic trot in her duty-path; and then it was that +something happened. + +One afternoon Lily fluttered over to Amelia's, and Amelia, ever on the +watch, spied her. + +“May I go out and see Lily?” she asked Grandmother Stark. + +“Yes, but don't talk under the windows; your mother is asleep.” + +Amelia ran out. + +“I declare,” said Grandmother Stark to Grandmother Wheeler, “I was half +a mind to tell that child to wait a minute and slip on one of those +pretty dresses. I hate to have her go on the street in that old gingham, +with that Jennings girl dressed up like a wax doll.” + +“I know it.” + +“And now poor Diantha is so weak--and asleep--it would not have annoyed +her.” + +“I know it.” + +Grandmother Stark looked at Grandmother Wheeler. Of the two she +possessed a greater share of original sin compared with the size of +her soul. Moreover, she felt herself at liberty to circumvent her +own daughter. Whispering, she unfolded a daring scheme to the other +grandmother, who stared at her aghast a second out of her lovely blue +eyes, then laughed softly. + +“Very well,” said she, “if you dare.” + +“I rather think I dare!” said Grandmother Stark. “Isn't Diantha Wheeler +my own daughter?” Grandmother Stark had grown much bolder since Mrs. +Diantha had been ill. + +Meantime Lily and Amelia walked down the street until they came to a +certain vacant lot intersected by a foot-path between tall, feathery +grasses and goldenrod and asters and milkweed. They entered the +foot-path, and swarms of little butterflies rose around them, and once +in a while a protesting bumblebee. + +“I am afraid we will be stung by the bees,” said Amelia. + +“Bumblebees never sting,” said Lily; and Amelia believed her. + +When the foot-path ended, there was the riverbank. The two little girls +sat down under a clump of brook willows and talked, while the river, +full of green and blue and golden lights, slipped past them and never +stopped. + +Then Lily proceeded to unfold a plan, which was not philosophical, +but naughtily ingenious. By this time Lily knew very well that Amelia +admired her, and imitated her as successfully as possible, considering +the drawback of dress and looks. + +When she had finished Amelia was quite pale. “I am afraid, I am afraid, +Lily,” said she. + +“What of?” + +“My mother will find out; besides, I am afraid it isn't right.” + +“Who ever told you it was wrong?” + +“Nobody ever did,” admitted Amelia. + +“Well, then you haven't any reason to think it is,” said Lily, +triumphantly. “And how is your mother ever going to find it out?” + +“I don't know.” + +“Isn't she ill in her room? And does she ever come to kiss you good +night, the way my mother does, when she is well?” + +“No,” admitted Amelia. + +“And neither of your grandmothers?” + +“Grandmother Stark would think it was silly, like mother, and +Grandmother Wheeler can't go up and down stairs very well.” + +“I can't see but you are perfectly safe. I am the only one that runs any +risk at all. I run a great deal of risk, but I am willing to take it,” + said Lily with a virtuous air. Lily had a small but rather involved +scheme simply for her own ends, which did not seem to call for much +virtue, but rather the contrary. + +Lily had overheard Arnold Carruth and Johnny Trumbull and Lee +Westminster and another boy, Jim Patterson, planning a most delightful +affair, which even in the cases of the boys was fraught with danger, +secrecy, and doubtful rectitude. Not one of the four boys had had a +vacation from the village that summer, and their young minds had become +charged, as it were, with the seeds of revolution and rebellion. Jim +Patterson, the son of the rector, and of them all the most venturesome, +had planned to take--he called it “take”; he meant to pay for it, +anyway, he said, as soon as he could shake enough money out of his +nickel savings-bank--one of his father's Plymouth Rock chickens and have +a chickenroast in the woods back of Dr. Trumbull's. He had planned for +Johnny to take some ears of corn suitable for roasting from his father's +garden; for Lee to take some cookies out of a stone jar in his mother's +pantry; and for Arnold to take some potatoes. Then they four would steal +forth under cover of night, build a camp-fire, roast their spoils, and +feast. + +Lily had resolved to be of the party. She resorted to no open methods; +the stones of the fighting suffragettes were not for her, little +honey-sweet, curled, and ruffled darling; rather the time-worn, if not +time-sanctified, weapons of her sex, little instruments of wiles, and +tiny dodges, and tiny subterfuges, which would serve her best. + +“You know,” she said to Amelia, “you don't look like me. Of course you +know that, and that can't be helped; but you do walk like me, and talk +like me, you know that, because they call you 'CopyCat.'” + +“Yes, I know,” said poor Amelia. + +“I don't mind if they do call you 'Copy-Cat,'” said Lily, magnanimously. +“I don't mind a bit. But, you see, my mother always comes up-stairs to +kiss me good night after I have gone to bed, and tomorrow night she has +a dinner-party, and she will surely be a little late, and I can't manage +unless you help me. I will get one of my white dresses for you, and all +you have to do is to climb out of your window into that cedar-tree--you +know you can climb down that, because you are so afraid of burglars +climbing up--and you can slip on my dress; you had better throw it out +of the window and not try to climb in it, because my dresses tear awful +easy, and we might get caught that way. Then you just sneak down to our +house, and I shall be outdoors; and when you go up-stairs, if the doors +should be open, and anybody should call, you can answer just like me; +and I have found that light curly wig Aunt Laura wore when she had her +head shaved after she had a fever, and you just put that on and go to +bed, and mother will never know when she kisses you good night. Then +after the roast I will go to your house, and climb up that tree, and +go to bed in your room. And I will have one of your gingham dresses to +wear, and very early in the morning I will get up, and you get up, and +we both of us can get down the back stairs without being seen, and run +home.” + +Amelia was almost weeping. It was her worshiped Lily's plan, but she was +horribly scared. “I don't know,” she faltered. + +“Don't know! You've got to! You don't love me one single bit or you +wouldn't stop to think about whether you didn't know.” It was the +world-old argument which floors love. Amelia succumbed. + +The next evening a frightened little girl clad in one of Lily Jennings's +white embroidered frocks was racing to the Jenningses' house, and +another little girl, not at all frightened, but enjoying the stimulus of +mischief and unwontedness, was racing to the wood behind Dr. Trumbull's +house, and that little girl was clad in one of Amelia Wheeler's +ginghams. But the plan went all awry. + +Lily waited, snuggled up behind an alder-bush, and the boys came, one by +one, and she heard this whispered, although there was no necessity for +whispering, “Jim Patterson, where's that hen?” + +“Couldn't get her. Grabbed her, and all her tail-feathers came out in a +bunch right in my hand, and she squawked so, father heard. He was in his +study writing his sermon, and he came out, and if I hadn't hid behind +the chicken-coop and then run I couldn't have got here. But I can't see +as you've got any corn, Johnny Trumbull.” + +“Couldn't. Every single ear was cooked for dinner.” + +“I couldn't bring any cookies, either,” said Lee Westminster; “there +weren't any cookies in the jar.” + +“And I couldn't bring the potatoes, because the outside cellar door was +locked,” said Arnold Carruth. “I had to go down the back stairs and out +the south door, and the inside cellar door opens out of our dining-room, +and I daren't go in there.” + +“Then we might as well go home,” said Johnny Trumbull. “If I had +been you, Jim Patterson, I would have brought that old hen if her +tail-feathers had come out. Seems to me you scare awful easy.” + +“Guess if you had heard her squawk!” said Jim, resentfully. “If you want +to try to lick me, come on, Johnny Trumbull. Guess you don't darse call +me scared again.” + +Johnny eyed him standing there in the gloom. Jim was not large, but +very wiry, and the ground was not suited for combat. Johnny, although a +victor, would probably go home considerably the worse in appearance; and +he could anticipate the consequences were his father to encounter him. + +“Shucks!” said Johnny Trumbull, of the fine old Trumbull family and +Madame's exclusive school. “Shucks! who wants your old hen? We had +chicken for dinner, anyway.” + +“So did we,” said Arnold Carruth. + +“We did, and corn,” said Lee. + +“We did,” said Jim. + +Lily stepped forth from the alder-bush. “If,” said she, “I were a +boy, and had started to have a chicken-roast, I would have HAD a +chicken-roast.” + +But every boy, even the valiant Johnny Trumbull, was gone in a mad +scutter. This sudden apparition of a girl was too much for their nerves. +They never even knew who the girl was, although little Arnold Carruth +said she had looked to him like “Copy-Cat,” but the others scouted the +idea. + +Lily Jennings made the best of her way out of the wood across lots to +the road. She was not in a particularly enviable case. Amelia Wheeler +was presumably in her bed, and she saw nothing for it but to take the +difficult way to Amelia's. + +Lily tore a great rent in the gingham going up the cedar-tree, but that +was nothing to what followed. She entered through Amelia's window, her +prim little room, to find herself confronted by Amelia's mother in a +wrapper, and her two grandmothers. Grandmother Stark had over her arm +a beautiful white embroidered dress. The two old ladies had entered the +room in order to lay the white dress on a chair and take away Amelia's +gingham, and there was no Amelia. Mrs. Diantha had heard the commotion, +and had risen, thrown on her wrapper, and come. Her mother had turned +upon her. + +“It is all your fault, Diantha,” she had declared. + +“My fault?” echoed Mrs. Diantha, bewildered. “Where is Amelia?” + +“We don't know,” said Grandmother Stark, “but you have probably driven +her away from home by your cruelty.” + +“Cruelty?” + +“Yes, cruelty. What right had you to make that poor child look like a +fright, so people laughed at her? We have made her some dresses that +look decent, and had come here to leave them, and to take away those +old gingham things that look as if she lived in the almshouse, and leave +these, so she would either have to wear them or go without, when we +found she had gone.” + +It was at that crucial moment that Lily entered by way of the window. + +“Here she is now,” shrieked Grandmother Stark. “Amelia, where--” Then +she stopped short. + +Everybody stared at Lily's beautiful face suddenly gone white. For once +Lily was frightened. She lost all self-control. She began to sob. She +could scarcely tell the absurd story for sobs, but she told, every word. + +Then, with a sudden boldness, she too turned on Mrs. Diantha. “They call +poor Amelia 'CopyCat,'” said she, “and I don't believe she would ever +have tried so hard to look like me only my mother dresses me so I look +nice, and you send Amelia to school looking awfully.” Then Lily sobbed +again. + +“My Amelia is at your house, as I understand?” said Mrs. Diantha, in an +awful voice. + +“Ye-es, ma-am.” + +“Let me go,” said Mrs. Diantha, violently, to Grandmother Stark, who +tried to restrain her. Mrs. Diantha dressed herself and marched down the +street, dragging Lily after her. The little girl had to trot to keep up +with the tall woman's strides, and all the way she wept. + +It was to Lily's mother's everlasting discredit, in Mrs. Diantha's +opinion, but to Lily's wonderful relief, that when she heard the story, +standing in the hall in her lovely dinner dress, with the strains of +music floating from the drawing-room, and cigar smoke floating from the +dining-room, she laughed. When Lily said, “And there wasn't even any +chickenroast, mother,” she nearly had hysterics. + +“If you think this is a laughing matter, Mrs. Jennings, I do not,” said +Mrs. Diantha, and again her dislike and sorrow at the sight of that +sweet, mirthful face was over her. It was a face to be loved, and hers +was not. + +“Why, I went up-stairs and kissed the child good night, and never +suspected,” laughed Lily's mother. + +“I got Aunt Laura's curly, light wig for her,” explained Lily, and Mrs. +Jennings laughed again. + +It was not long before Amelia, in her gingham, went home, led by her +mother--her mother, who was trembling with weakness now. Mrs. Diantha +did not scold. She did not speak, but Amelia felt with wonder her little +hand held very tenderly by her mother's long fingers. + +When at last she was undressed and in bed, Mrs. Diantha, looking very +pale, kissed her, and so did both grandmothers. + +Amelia, being very young and very tired, went to sleep. She did not know +that that night was to mark a sharp turn in her whole life. Thereafter +she went to school “dressed like the best,” and her mother petted her as +nobody had ever known her mother could pet. + +It was not so very long afterward that Amelia, out of her own +improvement in appearance, developed a little stamp of individuality. + +One day Lily wore a white frock with blue ribbons, and Amelia wore one +with coral pink. It was a particular day in school; there was company, +and tea was served. + +“I told you I was going to wear blue ribbons,” Lily whispered to Amelia. +Amelia smiled lovingly back at her. + +“Yes, I know, but I thought I would wear pink.” + + + + +THE COCK OF THE WALK + +DOWN the road, kicking up the dust until he marched, soldier-wise, in a +cloud of it, that rose and grimed his moist face and added to the heavy, +brown powder upon the wayside weeds and flowers, whistling a queer, +tuneless thing, which yet contained definite sequences--the whistle of +a bird rather than a boy--approached Johnny Trumbull, aged ten, small of +his age, but accounted by his mates mighty. + +Johnny came of the best and oldest family in the village, but it was +in some respects an undesirable family for a boy. In it survived, as +fossils survive in ancient nooks and crannies of the earth, old traits +of race, unchanged by time and environment. Living in a house lighted +by electricity, the mental conception of it was to the Trumbulls as the +conception of candles; with telephones at hand, they unconsciously still +conceived of messages delivered with the old saying, “Ride, ride,” + etc., and relays of post-horses. They locked their doors, but still had +latch-strings in mind. Johnny's father was a physician, adopting modern +methods of surgery and prescription, yet his mind harked back to cupping +and calomel, and now and then he swerved aside from his path across the +field of the present into the future and plunged headlong, as if for +fresh air, into the traditional past, and often with brilliant results. + +Johnny's mother was a college graduate. She was the president of the +woman's club. She read papers savoring of such feminine leaps ahead that +they were like gymnastics, but she walked homeward with the gait of her +great-grandmother, and inwardly regarded her husband as her lord and +master. She minced genteelly, lifting her quite fashionable skirts high +above very slender ankles, which were hereditary. Not a woman of her +race had ever gone home on thick ankles, and they had all gone home. +They had all been at home, even if abroad--at home in the truest sense. +At the club, reading her inflammatory paper, Cora Trumbull's real +self remained at home intent upon her mending, her dusting, her house +economics. It was something remarkably like her astral body which +presided at the club. + +As for her unmarried sister Janet, who was older and had graduated from +a young ladies' seminary instead of a college, whose early fancy had +been guided into the lady-like ways of antimacassars and pincushions +and wax flowers under glass shades, she was a straighter proposition. No +astral pretensions had Janet. She stayed, body and soul together, in +the old ways, and did not even project her shadow out of them. There is +seldom room enough for one's shadow in one's earliest way of life, but +there was plenty for Janet's. There had been a Janet unmarried in every +Trumbull family for generations. That in some subtle fashion accounted +for her remaining single. There had also been an unmarried Jonathan +Trumbull, and that accounted for Johnny's old bachelor uncle Jonathan. +Jonathan was a retired clergyman. He had retired before he had preached +long, because of doctrinal doubts, which were hereditary. He had +a little, dark study in Johnny's father's house, which was the old +Trumbull homestead, and he passed much of his time there, debating +within himself that matter of doctrines. + +Presently Johnny, assiduously kicking up dust, met his uncle Jonathan, +who passed without the slightest notice. Johnny did not mind at all. He +was used to it. Presently his own father appeared, driving along in +his buggy the bay mare at a steady jog, with the next professional call +quite clearly upon her equine mind. And Johnny's father did not see him. +Johnny did not mind that, either. He expected nothing different. + +Then Johnny saw his mother approaching. She was coming from the club +meeting. She held up her silk skirts high, as usual, and carried a +nice little parcel of papers tied with ribbon. She also did not notice +Johnny, who, however, out of sweet respect for his mother's nice silk +dress, stopped kicking up dust. Mrs. Trumbull on the village street was +really at home preparing a shortcake for supper. + +Johnny eyed his mother's faded but rather beautiful face under the +rose-trimmed bonnet with admiration and entire absence of resentment. +Then he walked on and kicked up the dust again. He loved to kick up the +dust in summer, the fallen leaves in autumn, and the snow in winter. +Johnny was not a typical Trumbull. None of them had ever cared for +simple amusements like that. Looking back for generations on his +father's and mother's side (both had been Trumbulls, but very distantly +related), none could be discovered who in the least resembled Johnny. No +dim blue eye of retrospection and reflection had Johnny; no tendency to +tall slenderness which would later bow beneath the greater weight of the +soul. Johnny was small, but wiry of build, and looked able to bear any +amount of mental development without a lasting bend of his physical +shoulders. Johnny had, at the early age of ten, whopped nearly every +boy in school, but that was a secret of honor. It was well known in the +school that, once the Trumbulls heard of it, Johnny could never whop +again. “You fellows know,” Johnny had declared once, standing over his +prostrate and whimpering foe, “that I don't mind getting whopped at +home, but they might send me away to another school, and then I could +never whop any of you fellows.” + +Johnny Trumbull kicking up the dust, himself dust-covered, his shoes, +his little queerly fitting dun suit, his cropped head, all thickly +powdered, loved it. He sniffed in that dust like a grateful incense. He +did not stop dust-kicking when he saw his aunt Janet coming, for, as he +considered, her old black gown was not worth the sacrifice. It was true +that she might see him. She sometimes did, if she were not reading a +book as she walked. It had always been a habit with the Janet Trumbulls +to read improving books when they walked abroad. To-day Johnny saw, with +a quick glance of those sharp, black eyes, so unlike the Trumbulls', +that his aunt Janet was reading. He therefore expected her to pass him +without recognition, and marched on kicking up the dust. But suddenly, +as he grew nearer the spry little figure, he was aware of a pair of gray +eyes, before which waved protectingly a hand clad in a black silk +glove with dangling finger-tips, because it was too long, and it dawned +swiftly upon him that Aunt Janet was trying to shield her face from the +moving column of brown motes. He stopped kicking, but it was too late. +Aunt Janet had him by the collar and was vigorously shaking him with +nervous strength. + +“You are a very naughty little boy,” declared Aunt Janet. “You should +know better than to walk along the street raising so much dust. No +well-brought-up child ever does such things. Who are your parents, little +boy?” + +Johnny perceived that Aunt Janet did not recognize him, which was easily +explained. She wore her reading-spectacles and not her far-seeing ones; +besides, her reading spectacles were obscured by dust and her nephew's +face was nearly obliterated. Also as she shook him his face was not much +in evidence. Johnny disliked, naturally, to tell his aunt Janet that her +own sister and brother-in-law were the parents of such a wicked little +boy. He therefore kept quiet and submitted to the shaking, making +himself as limp as a rag. This, however, exasperated Aunt Janet, who +found herself encumbered by a dead weight of a little boy to be shaken, +and suddenly Johnny Trumbull, the fighting champion of the town, the +cock of the walk of the school, found himself being ignominiously +spanked. That was too much. Johnny's fighting blood was up. He lost all +consideration for circumstances, he forgot that Aunt Janet was not a +boy, that she was quite near being an old lady. She had overstepped the +bounds of privilege of age and sex, and an alarming state of equality +ensued. Quickly the tables were turned. The boy became far from limp. He +stiffened, then bounded and rebounded like wire. He butted, he parried, +he observed all his famous tactics of battle, and poor Aunt Janet sat +down in the dust, black dress, bonnet, glasses (but the glasses were +off and lost), little improving book, black silk gloves, and all; and +Johnny, hopeless, awful, irreverent, sat upon his Aunt Janet's plunging +knees, which seemed the most lively part of her. He kept his face +twisted away from her, but it was not from cowardice. Johnny was afraid +lest Aunt Janet should be too much overcome by the discovery of his +identity. He felt that it was his duty to spare her that. So he sat +still, triumphant but inwardly aghast. + +It was fast dawning upon him that his aunt was not a little boy. He was +not afraid of any punishment which might be meted out to him, but he was +simply horrified. He himself had violated all the honorable conditions +of warfare. He felt a little dizzy and ill, and he felt worse when +he ventured a hurried glance at Aunt Janet's face. She was very pale +through the dust, and her eyes were closed. Johnny thought then that he +had killed her. + +He got up--the nervous knees were no longer plunging; then he heard a +voice, a little-girl voice, always shrill, but now high pitched to a +squeak with terror. It was the voice of Lily Jennings. She stood near +and yet aloof, a lovely little flower of a girl, all white-scalloped +frills and ribbons, with a big white-frilled hat shading a pale little +face and covering the top of a head decorated with wonderful yellow +curls. She stood behind a big baby-carriage with a pink-lined muslin +canopy and containing a nest of pink and white, but an empty nest. +Lily's little brother's carriage had a spring broken, and she had been +to borrow her aunt's baby-carriage, so that nurse could wheel little +brother up and down the veranda. Nurse had a headache, and the +maids were busy, and Lily, who was a kind little soul and, moreover, +imaginative, and who liked the idea of pushing an empty baby-carriage, +had volunteered to go for it. All the way she had been dreaming of what +was not in the carriage. She had come directly out of a dream of doll +twins when she chanced upon the tragedy in the road. + +“What have you been doing now, Johnny Trumbull?” said she. She was +tremulous, white with horror, but she stood her ground. It was curious, +but Johnny Trumbull, with all his bravery, was always cowed before Lily. +Once she had turned and stared at him when he had emerged triumphant +but with bleeding nose from a fight; then she had sniffed delicately and +gone her way. It had only taken a second, but in that second the victor +had met moral defeat. + +He looked now at her pale, really scared face, and his own was as pale. +He stood and kicked the dust until the swirling column of it reached his +head. + +“That's right,” said Lily; “stand and kick up dust all over me. WHAT +have you been doing?” + +Johnny was trembling so he could hardly stand. He stopped kicking dust. + +“Have you killed your aunt?” demanded Lily. It was monstrous, but she +had a very dramatic imagination, and there was a faint hint of enjoyment +in her tragic voice. + +“Guess she's just choked by dust,” volunteered Johnny, hoarsely. He +kicked the dust again. + +“That's right,” said Lily. “If she's choked to death by dust, stand +there and choke her some more. You are a murderer, Johnny Trumbull, and +my mamma will never allow me to speak to you again, and Madame will not +allow you to come to school. AND--I see your papa driving up the street, +and there is the chief policeman's buggy just behind.” Lily acquiesced +entirely in the extraordinary coincidence of the father and the chief of +police appearing upon the scene. The unlikely seemed to her the likely. +“NOW,” said she, cheerfully, “you will be put in state prison and locked +up, and then you will be put to death by a very strong telephone.” + +Johnny's father was leaning out of his buggy, looking back at the chief +of police in his, and the mare was jogging very slowly in a perfect reek +of dust. Lily, who was, in spite of her terrific imagination, human and +a girl, rose suddenly to heights of pity and succor. “They shall never +take you, Johnny Trumbull,” said she. “I will save you.” + +Johnny by this time was utterly forgetful of his high status as champion +(behind her back) of Madame's very select school for select children of +a somewhat select village. He was forgetful of the fact that a champion +never cries. He cried; he blubbered; tears rolled over his dusty cheeks, +making furrows like plowshares of grief. He feared lest he might have +killed his aunt Janet. Women, and not very young women, might presumably +be unable to survive such rough usage as very tough and at the same time +very limber little boys, and he loved his poor aunt Janet. He +grieved because of his aunt, his parents, his uncle, and rather more +particularly because of himself. He was quite sure that the policeman +was coming for him. Logic had no place in his frenzied conclusions. He +did not consider how the tragedy had taken place entirely out of sight +of a house, that Lily Jennings was the only person who had any knowledge +of it. He looked at the masterful, fair-haired little girl like a baby. +“How?” sniffed he. + +For answer, Lily pointed to the empty baby-carriage. “Get right in,” she +ordered. + +Even in this dire extremity Johnny hesitated. “Can't.” + +“Yes, you can. It is extra large. Aunt Laura's baby was a twin when +he first came; now he's just an ordinary baby, but his carriage is big +enough for two. There's plenty of room. Besides, you're a very small +boy, very small of your age, even if you do knock all the other boys +down and have murdered your aunt. Get in. In a minute they will see +you.” + +There was in reality no time to lose. Johnny did get in. In spite of the +provisions for twins, there was none too much room. + +Lily covered him up with the fluffy pink-and-lace things, and scowled. +“You hump up awfully,” she muttered. Then she reached beneath him and +snatched out the pillow on which he lay, the baby's little bed. She gave +it a swift toss over the fringe of wayside bushes into a field. “Aunt +Laura's nice embroidered pillow,” said she. “Make yourself just as flat +as you can, Johnny Trumbull.” + +Johnny obeyed, but he was obliged to double himself up like a +jack-knife. However, there was no sign of him visible when the two +buggies drew up. There stood a pale and frightened little girl, with a +baby-carriage canopied with rose and lace and heaped up with rosy and +lacy coverlets, presumably sheltering a sleeping infant. Lily was a very +keen little girl. She had sense enough not to run. The two men, at the +sight of Aunt Janet prostrate in the road, leaped out of their buggies. +The doctor's horse stood still; the policeman's trotted away, to Lily's +great relief. She could not imagine Johnny's own father haling him away +to state prison and the stern Arm of Justice. She stood the fire of +bewildered questions in the best and safest fashion. She wept bitterly, +and her tears were not assumed. Poor little Lily was all of a sudden +crushed under the weight of facts. There was Aunt Janet, she had no +doubt, killed by her own nephew, and she was hiding the guilty murderer. +She had visions of state prison for herself. She watched fearfully +while the two men bent over the prostrate woman, who very soon began to +sputter and gasp and try to sit up. + +“What on earth is the matter, Janet?” inquired Dr. Trumbull, who was +paler than his sister-inlaw. In fact, she was unable to look very pale +on account of dust. + +“Ow!” sputtered Aunt Janet, coughing violently, “get me up out of this +dust, John. Ow!” + +“What was the matter?” + +“Yes, what has happened, madam?” demanded the chief of police, sternly. + +“Nothing,” replied Aunt Janet, to Lily's and Johnny's amazement. “What +do you think has happened? I fell down in all this nasty dust. Ow!” + +“What did you eat for luncheon, Janet?” inquired Dr. Trumbull, as he +assisted his sister-inlaw to her feet. + +“What I was a fool to eat,” replied Janet Trumbull, promptly. “Cucumber +salad and lemon jelly with whipped cream.” + +“Enough to make anybody have indigestion,” said Dr. Trumbull. “You have +had one of these attacks before, too, Janet. You remember the time you +ate strawberry shortcake and ice-cream?” + +Janet nodded meekly. Then she coughed again. “Ow, this dust!” gasped +she. “For goodness' sake, John, get me home where I can get some water +and take off these dusty clothes or I shall choke to death.” + +“How does your stomach feel?” inquired Dr. Trumbull. + +“Stomach is all right now, but I am just choking to death with the +dust.” Janet turned sharply toward the policeman. “You have sense enough +to keep still, I hope,” said she. “I don't want the whole town ringing +with my being such an idiot as to eat cucumbers and cream together and +being found this way.” Janet looked like an animated creation of dust as +she faced the chief of police. + +“Yes, ma'am,” he replied, bowing and scraping one foot and raising more +dust. + +He and Dr. Trumbull assisted Aunt Janet into the buggy, and they drove +off. Then the chief of police discovered that his own horse had gone. +“Did you see which way he went, sis?” he inquired of Lily, and she +pointed down the road, and sobbed as she did so. + +The policeman said something bad under his breath, then advised Lily to +run home to her ma, and started down the road. + +When he was out of sight, Lily drew back the pink-and-white things from +Johnny's face. “Well, you didn't kill her this time,” said she. + +“Why do you s'pose she didn't tell all about it?” said Johnny, gaping at +her. + +“How do I know? I suppose she was ashamed to tell how she had been +fighting, maybe.” + +“No, that was not why,” said Johnny in a deep voice. + +“Why was it, then?” + +“SHE KNEW.” + +Johnny began to climb out of the baby-carriage. + +“What will she do next, then?” asked Lily. + +“I don't know,” Johnny replied, gloomily. + +He was out of the carriage then, and Lily was readjusting the pillows +and things. “Get that nice embroidered pillow I threw over the bushes,” + she ordered, crossly. Johnny obeyed. When she had finished putting the +baby-carriage to rights she turned upon poor little Johnny Trumbull, and +her face wore the expression of a queen of tragedy. “Well,” said Lily +Jennings, “I suppose I shall have to marry you when I am grown up, after +all this.” + +Johnny gasped. He thought Lily the most beautiful girl he knew, but to +be confronted with murder and marriage within a few minutes was almost +too much. He flushed a burning red. He laughed foolishly. He said +nothing. + +“It will be very hard on me,” stated Lily, “to marry a boy who tried to +murder his nice aunt.” + +Johnny revived a bit under this feminine disdain. “I didn't try to +murder her,” he said in a weak voice. + +“You might have, throwing her down in all that awful dust, a nice, clean +lady. Ladies are not like boys. It might kill them very quickly to be +knocked down on a dusty road.” + +“I didn't mean to kill her.” + +“You might have.” + +“Well, I didn't, and--she--” + +“What?” + +“She spanked me.” + +“Pooh! That doesn't amount to anything,” sniffed Lily. + +“It does if you are a boy.” + +“I don't see why.” + +“Well, I can't help it if you don't. It does.” + +“Why shouldn't a boy be spanked when he's naughty, just as well as a +girl, I would like to know?” + +“Because he's a boy.” + +Lily looked at Johnny Trumbull. The great fact did remain. He had been +spanked, he had thrown his own aunt down in the dust. He had taken +advantage of her little-girl protection, but he was a boy. Lily did not +understand his why at all, but she bowed before it. However, that she +would not admit. She made a rapid change of base. “What,” said she, “are +you going to do next?” + +Johnny stared at her. It was a puzzle. + +“If,” said Lily, distinctly, “you are afraid to go home, if you think +your aunt will tell, I will let you get into Aunt Laura's baby-carriage +again, and I will wheel you a little way.” + +Johnny would have liked at that moment to knock Lily down, as he had his +aunt Janet. Lily looked at him shrewdly. “Oh yes,” said she, “you can +knock me down in the dust there if you want to, and spoil my nice clean +dress. You will be a boy, just the same.” + +“I will never marry you, anyway,” declared Johnny. + +“Aren't you afraid I'll tell on you and get you another spanking if you +don't?” + +“Tell if you want to. I'd enough sight rather be spanked than marry +you.” + +A gleam of respect came into the little girl's wisely regarding blue +eyes. She, with the swiftness of her sex, recognized in forlorn little +Johnny the making of a man. “Oh, well,” said she, loftily, “I never +was a telltale, and, anyway, we are not grown up, and there will be my +trousseau to get, and a lot of other things to do first. I shall go to +Europe before I am married, too, and I might meet a boy much nicer than +you on the steamer.” + +“Meet him if you want to.” + +Lily looked at Johnny Trumbull with more than respect--with +admiration--but she kept guard over her little tongue. “Well, you can +leave that for the future,” said she with a grown-up air. + +“I ain't going to leave it. It's settled for good and all now,” growled +Johnny. + +To his immense surprise, Lily curved her white embroidered sleeve over +her face and began to weep. + +“What's the matter now?” asked Johnny, sulkily, after a minute. + +“I think you are a real horrid boy,” sobbed Lily. + +Lily looked like nothing but a very frilly, sweet, white flower. +Johnny could not see her face. There was nothing to be seen except +that delicate fluff of white, supported on dainty white-socked, +white-slippered limbs. + +“Say,” said Johnny. + +“You are real cruel, when I--I saved your--li-fe,” wailed Lily. + +“Say,” said Johnny, “maybe if I don't see any other girl I like better +I will marry you when I am grown up, but I won't if you don't stop that +howling.” + +Lily stopped immediately. She peeped at him, a blue peep from under the +flopping, embroidered brim of her hat. “Are you in earnest?” She +smiled faintly. Her blue eyes, wet with tears, were lovely; so was her +hesitating smile. + +“Yes, if you don't act silly,” said Johnny. “Now you had better run +home, or your mother will wonder where that baby-carriage is.” + +Lily walked away, smiling over her shoulder, the smile of the happily +subjugated. “I won't tell anybody, Johnny,” she called back in her +flute-like voice. + +“Don't care if you do,” returned Johnny, looking at her with chin in the +air and shoulders square, and Lily wondered at his bravery. + +But Johnny was not so brave and he did care. He knew that his best +course was an immediate return home, but he did not know what he might +have to face. He could not in the least understand why his aunt Janet +had not told at once. He was sure that she knew. Then he thought of a +possible reason for her silence; she might have feared his arrest at the +hands of the chief of police. Johnny quailed. He knew his aunt Janet +to be rather a brave sort of woman. If she had fears, she must have had +reason for them. He might even now be arrested. Suppose Lily did +tell. He had a theory that girls usually told. He began to speculate +concerning the horrors of prison. Of course he would not be executed, +since his aunt was obviously very far from being killed, but he might be +imprisoned for a long term. + +Johnny went home. He did not kick the dust any more. He walked very +steadily and staidly. When he came in sight of the old Colonial mansion, +with its massive veranda pillars, he felt chilly. However, he went on. +He passed around to the south door and entered and smelled shortcake. +It would have smelled delicious had he not had so much on his mind. He +looked through the hall, and had a glimpse of his uncle Jonathan in the +study, writing. At the right of the door was his father's office. The +door of that was open, and Johnny saw his father pouring things from +bottles. He did not look at Johnny. His mother crossed the hall. She +had on a long white apron, which she wore when making her famous cream +shortcakes. She saw Johnny, but merely observed, “Go and wash your face +and hands, Johnny; it is nearly supper-time.” + +Johnny went up-stairs. At the upper landing he found his aunt Janet +waiting for him. “Come here,” she whispered, and Johnny followed her, +trembling, into her own room. It was a large room, rather crowded with +heavy, old-fashioned furniture. Aunt Janet had freed herself from dust +and was arrayed in a purple silk gown. Her hair was looped loosely on +either side of her long face. She was a handsome woman, after a certain +type. + +“Stand here, Johnny,” said she. She had closed the door, and Johnny +was stationed before her. She did not seem in the least injured nor the +worse for her experience. On the contrary, there was a bright-red flush +on her cheeks, and her eyes shone as Johnny had never seen them. She +looked eagerly at Johnny. + +“Why did you do that?” she said, but there was no anger in her voice. + +“I forgot,” began Johnny. + +“Forgot what?” Her voice was strained with eagerness. + +“That you were not another boy,” said Johnny. + +“Tell me,” said Aunt Janet. “No, you need not tell me, because if you +did it might be my duty to inform your parents. I know there is no need +of your telling. You MUST be in the habit of fighting with the other +boys.” + +“Except the little ones,” admitted Johnny. + +To Johnny's wild astonishment, Aunt Janet seized him by the shoulders +and looked him in the eyes with a look of adoration and immense +approval. “Thank goodness,” said she, “at last there is going to be a +fighter in the Trumbull family. Your uncle would never fight, and your +father would not. Your grandfather would. Your uncle and your father are +good men, though; you must try to be like them, Johnny.” + +“Yes, ma'am,” replied Johnny, bewildered. + +“I think they would be called better men than your grandfather and my +father,” said Aunt Janet. + +“Yes, ma'am.” + +“I think it is time for you to have your grandfather's watch,” said Aunt +Janet. “I think you are man enough to take care of it.” Aunt Janet had +all the time been holding a black leather case. Now she opened it, and +Johnny saw the great gold watch which he had seen many times before and +had always understood was to be his some day, when he was a man. “Here,” + said Aunt Janet. “Take good care of it. You must try to be as good as +your uncle and father, but you must remember one thing--you will wear a +watch which belonged to a man who never allowed other men to crowd him +out of the way he elected to go.” + +“Yes, ma'am,” said Johnny. He took the watch. + +“What do you say?” inquired his aunt, sharply. + +“Thank you.” + +“That's right. I thought you had forgotten your manners. Your +grandfather never did.” + +“I am sorry. Aunt Janet,” muttered Johnny, “that I--” + +“You need never say anything about that,” his aunt returned, quickly. +“I did not see who you were at first. You are too old to be spanked by a +woman, but you ought to be whipped by a man, and I wish your grandfather +were alive to do it.” + +“Yes, ma'am,” said Johnny. He looked at her bravely. “He could if he +wanted to,” said he. + +Aunt Janet smiled at him proudly. “Of course,” said she, “a boy like you +never gets the worst of it fighting with other boys.” + +“No, ma'am,” said Johnny. + +Aunt Janet smiled again. “Now run and wash your face and hands,” said +she; “you must not keep supper waiting. Your mother has a paper to write +for her club, and I have promised to help her.” + +“Yes, ma'am,” said Johnny. He walked out, carrying the great gold +timepiece, bewildered, embarrassed, modest beneath his honors, but +little cock of the walk, whether he would or no, for reasons entirely +and forever beyond his ken. + + + + +JOHNNY-IN-THE-WOODS + +JOHNNY TRUMBULL, he who had demonstrated his claim to be Cock of the +Walk by a most impious hand-to-hand fight with his own aunt, Miss Janet +Trumbull, in which he had been decisively victorious, and won his spurs, +consisting of his late grandfather's immense, solemnly ticking watch, +was to take a new path of action. Johnny suddenly developed the +prominent Trumbull trait, but in his case it was inverted. Johnny, as +became a boy of his race, took an excursion into the past, but instead +of applying the present to the past, as was the tendency of the other +Trumbulls, he forcibly applied the past to the present. He fairly +plastered the past over the exigencies of his day and generation like a +penetrating poultice of mustard, and the results were peculiar. + +Johnny, being bidden of a rainy day during the midsummer vacation to +remain in the house, to keep quiet, read a book, and be a good boy, +obeyed, but his obedience was of a doubtful measure of wisdom. + +Johnny got a book out of his uncle Jonathan Trumbull's dark little +library while Jonathan was walking sedately to the post-office, holding +his dripping umbrella at a wonderful slant of exactness, without regard +to the wind, thereby getting the soft drive of the rain full in his +face, which became, as it were, bedewed with tears, entirely outside any +cause of his own emotions. + +Johnny probably got the only book of an antiorthodox trend in his +uncle's library. He found tucked away in a snug corner an ancient +collection of Border Ballads, and he read therein of many unmoral +romances and pretty fancies, which, since he was a small boy, held +little meaning for him, or charm, beyond a delight in the swing of the +rhythm, for Johnny had a feeling for music. It was when he read of Robin +Hood, the bold Robin Hood, with his dubious ethics but his certain and +unquenchable interest, that Johnny Trumbull became intent. He had the +volume in his own room, being somewhat doubtful as to whether it might +be of the sort included in the good-boy role. He sat beside a rainwashed +window, which commanded a view of the wide field between the Trumbull +mansion and Jim Simmons's house, and he read about Robin Hood and his +Greenwood adventures, his forcible setting the wrong right; and for the +first time his imagination awoke, and his ambition. Johnny Trumbull, +hitherto hero of nothing except little material fistfights, wished now +to become a hero of true romance. + +In fact, Johnny considered seriously the possibility of reincarnating, +in his own person, Robin Hood. He eyed the wide green field dreamily +through his rain-blurred window. It was a pretty field, waving with +feathery grasses and starred with daisies and buttercups, and it was +very fortunate that it happened to be so wide. Jim Simmons's house was +not a desirable feature of the landscape, and looked much better several +acres away. It was a neglected, squalid structure, and considered a +disgrace to the whole village. Jim was also a disgrace, and an unsolved +problem. He owned that house, and somehow contrived to pay the taxes +thereon. He also lived and throve in bodily health in spite of evil +ways, and his children were many. There seemed no way to dispose finally +of Jim Simmons and his house except by murder and arson, and the village +was a peaceful one, and such measures were entirely too strenuous. + +Presently Johnny, staring dreamily out of his window, saw approaching a +rusty-black umbrella held at precisely the wrong angle in respect of the +storm, but held with the unvarying stiffness with which a soldier might +hold a bayonet, and knew it for his uncle Jonathan's umbrella. Soon he +beheld also his uncle's serious, rain-drenched face and his long ambling +body and legs. Jonathan was coming home from the post-office, whither +he repaired every morning. He never got a letter, never anything except +religious newspapers, but the visit to the post-office was part of his +daily routine. Rain or shine, Jonathan Trumbull went for the morning +mail, and gained thereby a queer negative enjoyment of a perfectly +useless duty performed. Johnny watched his uncle draw near to the house, +and cruelly reflected how unlike Robin Hood he must be. He even +wondered if his uncle could possibly have read Robin Hood and still show +absolutely no result in his own personal appearance. He knew that +he, Johnny, could not walk to the post-office and back, even with the +drawback of a dripping old umbrella instead of a bow and arrow, without +looking a bit like Robin Hood, especially when fresh from reading about +him. + +Then suddenly something distracted his thoughts from Uncle Jonathan. The +long, feathery grass in the field moved with a motion distinct from +that caused by the wind and rain. Johnny saw a tiger-striped back emerge, +covering long leaps of terror. Johnny knew the creature for a cat afraid +of Uncle Jonathan. Then he saw the grass move behind the first leaping, +striped back, and he knew there were more cats afraid of Uncle Jonathan. +There were even motions caused by unseen things, and he reasoned, +“Kittens afraid of Uncle Jonathan.” Then Johnny reflected with a great +glow of indignation that the Simmonses kept an outrageous number of +half-starved cats and kittens, besides a quota of children popularly +supposed to be none too well nourished, let alone properly clothed. Then +it was that Johnny Trumbull's active, firm imagination slapped the past +of old romance like a most thorough mustard poultice over the present. +There could be no Lincoln Green, no following of brave outlaws (that +is, in the strictest sense), no bows and arrows, no sojourning under +greenwood trees and the rest, but something he could, and would, do and +be. That rainy day when Johnny Trumbull was a good boy, and stayed in +the house, and read a book, marked an epoch. + +That night when Johnny went into his aunt Janet's room she looked +curiously at his face, which seemed a little strange to her. Johnny, +since he had come into possession of his grandfather's watch, went every +night, on his way to bed, to his aunt's room for the purpose of winding +up that ancient timepiece, Janet having a firm impression that it might +not be done properly unless under her supervision. Johnny stood before +his aunt and wound up the watch with its ponderous key, and she watched +him. + +“What have you been doing all day, John?” said she. + +“Stayed in the house and--read.” + +“What did you read, John?” + +“A book.” + +“Do you mean to be impertinent, John?” + +“No, ma'am,” replied Johnny, and with perfect truth. He had not the +slightest idea of the title of the book. + +“What was the book?” + +“A poetry book.” + +“Where did you find it?” + +“In Uncle Jonathan's library.” + +“Poetry In Uncle Jonathan's library?” said Janet, in a mystified way. +She had a general impression of Jonathan's library as of century-old +preserves, altogether dried up and quite indistinguishable one from the +other except by labels. Poetry she could not imagine as being there +at all. Finally she thought of the early Victorians, and Spenser and +Chaucer. The library might include them, but she had an idea that +Spenser and Chaucer were not fit reading for a little boy. However, +as she remembered Spenser and Chaucer, she doubted if Johnny could +understand much of them. Probably he had gotten hold of an early +Victorian, and she looked rather contemptuous. + +“I don't think much of a boy like you reading poetry,” said Janet. +“Couldn't you find anything else to read?” + +“No, ma'am.” That also was truth. Johnny, before exploring his uncle's +theological library, had peered at his father's old medical books +and his mother's bookcases, which contained quite terrifying uniform +editions of standard things written by women. + +“I don't suppose there ARE many books written for boys,” said Aunt +Janet, reflectively. + +“No, ma'am,” said Johnny. He finished winding the watch, and gave, as +was the custom, the key to Aunt Janet, lest he lose it. + +“I will see if I cannot find some books of travels for you, John,” said +Janet. “I think travels would be good reading for a boy. Good night, +John.” + +“Good night. Aunt Janet,” replied Johnny. His aunt never kissed him good +night, which was one reason why he liked her. + +On his way to bed he had to pass his mother's room, whose door stood +open. She was busy writing at her desk. She glanced at Johnny. + +“Are you going to bed?” said she. + +“Yes, ma'am.” + +Johnny entered the room and let his mother kiss his forehead, parting +his curly hair to do so. He loved his mother, but did not care at all to +have her kiss him. He did not object, because he thought she liked to +do it, and she was a woman, and it was a very little thing in which he +could oblige her. + +“Were you a good boy, and did you find a good book to read?” asked she. + +“Yes, ma'am.” + +“What was the book?” Cora Trumbull inquired, absently, writing as she +spoke. + +“Poetry.” + +Cora laughed. “Poetry is odd for a boy,” said she. “You should have +read a book of travels or history. Good night, Johnny.” + +“Good night, mother.” + +Then Johnny met his father, smelling strongly of medicines, coming up +from his study. But his father did not see him. And Johnny went to bed, +having imbibed from that old tale of Robin Hood more of history and more +knowledge of excursions into realms of old romance than his elders had +ever known during much longer lives than his. + +Johnny confided in nobody at first. His feeling nearly led him astray +in the matter of Lily Jennings; he thought of her, for one sentimental +minute, as Robin Hood's Maid Marion. Then he dismissed the idea +peremptorily. Lily Jennings would simply laugh. He knew her. Moreover, +she was a girl, and not to be trusted. Johnny felt the need of another +boy who would be a kindred spirit; he wished for more than one boy. +He wished for a following of heroic and lawless souls, even as Robin +Hood's. But he could think of nobody, after considerable study, except +one boy, younger than himself. He was a beautiful little boy, whose +mother had never allowed him to have his golden curls cut, although +he had been in trousers for quite a while. However, the trousers were +foolish, being knickerbockers, and accompanied by low socks, which +revealed pretty, dimpled, babyish legs. The boy's name was Arnold +Carruth, and that was against him, as being long, and his mother firm +about allowing no nickname. Nicknames in any case were not allowed in +the very exclusive private school which Johnny attended. + +Arnold Carruth, in spite of his being such a beautiful little boy, +would have had no standing at all in the school as far as popularity was +concerned had it not been for a strain of mischief which triumphed over +curls, socks, and pink cheeks and a much-kissed rosebud of a mouth. +Arnold Carruth, as one of the teachers permitted herself to state when +relaxed in the bosom of her own family, was “as choke-full of mischief +as a pod of peas. And the worst of it all is,” quoth the teacher, Miss +Agnes Rector, who was a pretty young girl, with a hidden sympathy for +mischief herself--“the worst of it is, that child looks so like a cherub +on a rosy cloud that even if he should be caught nobody would believe +it. They would be much more likely to accuse poor little Andrew Jackson +Green, because he has a snub nose and is a bit cross-eyed, and I never +knew that poor child to do anything except obey rules and learn his +lessons. He is almost too good. And another worst of it is, nobody +can help loving that little imp of a Carruth boy, mischief and all. I +believe the scamp knows it and takes advantage of it.” + +It is quite possible that Arnold Carruth did profit unworthily by his +beauty and engagingness, albeit without calculation. He was so young, +it was monstrous to believe him capable of calculation, of deliberate +trading upon his assets of birth and beauty and fascination. However, +Johnny Trumbull, who was wide awake and a year older, was alive to the +situation. He told Arnold Carruth, and Arnold Carruth only, about Robin +Hood and his great scheme. + +“You can help,” said this wise Johnny; “you can be in it, because nobody +thinks you can be in anything, on account of your wearing curls.” + +Arnold Carruth flushed and gave an angry tug at one golden curl which +the wind blew over a shoulder. The two boys were in a secluded corner +of Madame's lawn, behind a clump of Japanese cedars, during an +intermission. + +“I can't help it because I wear curls,” declared Arnold with angry +shame. + +“Who said you could? No need of getting mad.” + +“Mamma and Aunt Flora and grandmamma won't let me have these old curls +cut off,” said Arnold. “You needn't think I want to have curls like a +girl, Johnny Trumbull.” + +“Who said you did? And I know you don't like to wear those short +stockings, either.” + +“Like to!” Arnold gave a spiteful kick, first of one half-bared, dimpled +leg, then of the other. + +“First thing you know I'll steal mamma's or Aunt Flora's stockings and +throw these in the furnace-I will. Do you s'pose a feller wants to wear +these baby things? I guess not. Women are awful queer, Johnny Trumbull. +My mamma and my aunt Flora are awful nice, but they are queer about some +things.” + +“Most women are queer,” agreed Johnny, “but my aunt Janet isn't as queer +as some. Rather guess if she saw me with curls like a little girl she'd +cut 'em off herself.” + +“Wish she was my aunt,” said Arnold Carruth with a sigh. “A feller needs +a woman like that till he's grown up. Do you s'pose she'd cut off my +curls if I was to go to your house, Johnny?” + +“I'm afraid she wouldn't think it was right unless your mother said she +might. She has to be real careful about doing right, because my uncle +Jonathan used to preach, you know.” + +Arnold Carruth grinned savagely, as if he endured pain. “Well, I s'pose +I'll have to stand the curls and little baby stockings awhile longer,” + said he. “What was it you were going to tell me, Johnny?” + +“I am going to tell you because I know you aren't too good, if you do +wear curls and little stockings.” + +“No, I ain't too good,” declared Arnold Carruth, proudly; “I +ain't--HONEST, Johnny.” + +“That's why I'm going to tell you. But if you tell any of the other +boys--or girls--” + +“Tell girls!” sniffed Arnold. + +“If you tell anybody, I'll lick you.” + +“Guess I ain't afraid.” + +“Guess you'd be afraid to go home after you'd been licked.” + +“Guess my mamma would give it to you.” + +“Run home and tell mamma you'd been whopped, would you, then?” + +Little Arnold, beautiful baby boy, straightened himself with a quick +remembrance that he was born a man. “You know I wouldn't tell, Johnny +Trumbull.” + +“Guess you wouldn't. Well, here it is--” Johnny spoke in emphatic +whispers, Arnold's curly head close to his mouth: “There are a good many +things in this town have got to be set right,” said Johnny. + +Little Arnold stared at him. Then fire shone in his lovely blue eyes +under the golden shadow of his curls, a fire which had shone in the +eyes of some ancestors of his, for there was good fighting blood in +the Carruth family, as well as in the Trumbull, although this small +descendant did go about curled and kissed and barelegged. + +“How'll we begin?” said Arnold, in a strenuous whisper. + +“We've got to begin right away with Jim Simmons's cats and kittens.” + +“With Jim Simmons's cats and kittens?” repeated Arnold. + +“That was what I said, exactly. We've got to begin right there. It is an +awful little beginning, but I can't think of anything else. If you can, +I'm willing to listen.” + +“I guess I can't,” admitted Arnold, helplessly. + +“Of course we can't go around taking away money from rich people and +giving it to poor folks. One reason is, most of the poor folks in this +town are lazy, and don't get money because they don't want to work for +it. And when they are not lazy, they drink. If we gave rich people's +money to poor folks like that, we shouldn't do a mite of good. The rich +folks would be poor, and the poor folks wouldn't stay rich; they would +be lazier, and get more drink. I don't see any sense in doing things +like that in this town. There are a few poor folks I have been thinking +we might take some money for and do good, but not many.” + +“Who?” inquired Arnold Carruth, in awed tones. + +“Well, there is poor old Mrs. Sam Little. She's awful poor. Folks help +her, I know, but she can't be real pleased being helped. She'd rather +have the money herself. I have been wondering if we couldn't get some of +your father's money away and give it to her, for one.” + +“Get away papa's money!” + +“You don't mean to tell me you are as stingy as that, Arnold Carruth?” + +“I guess papa wouldn't like it.” + +“Of course he wouldn't. But that is not the point. It is not what your +father would like; it is what that poor old lady would like.” + +It was too much for Arnold. He gaped at Johnny. + +“If you are going to be mean and stingy, we may as well stop before we +begin,” said Johnny. + +Then Arnold Carruth recovered himself. “Old Mr. Webster Payne is awful +poor,” said he. “We might take some of your father's money and give it +to him.” + +Johnny snorted, fairly snorted. “If,” said he, “you think my father +keeps his money where we can get it, you are mistaken, Arnold Carruth. +My father's money is all in papers that are not worth much now and that +he has to keep in the bank till they are.” + +Arnold smiled hopefully. “Guess that's the way my papa keeps HIS money.” + +“It's the way most rich people are mean enough to,” said Johnny, +severely. “I don't care if it's your father or mine, it's mean. And +that's why we've got to begin with Jim Simmons's cats and kittens.” + +“Are you going to give old Mrs. Sam Little cats?” inquired Arnold. + +Johnny sniffed. “Don't be silly,” said he. “Though I do think a nice +cat with a few kittens might cheer her up a little, and we could steal +enough milk, by getting up early and tagging after the milkman, to feed +them. But I wasn't thinking of giving her or old Mr. Payne cats and +kittens. I wasn't thinking of folks; I was thinking of all those poor +cats and kittens that Mr. Jim Simmons has and doesn't half feed, and +that have to go hunting around folks' back doors in the rain, when cats +hate water, too, and pick things up that must be bad for their stomachs, +when they ought to have their milk regularly in nice, clean saucers. +No, Arnold Carruth, what we have got to do is to steal Mr. Jim Simmons's +cats and get them in nice homes where they can earn their living +catching mice and be well cared for.” + +“Steal cats?” said Arnold. + +“Yes, steal cats, in order to do right,” said Johnny Trumbull, and his +expression was heroic, even exalted. + +It was then that a sweet treble, faltering yet exultant, rang in their +ears. + +“If,” said the treble voice, “you are going to steal dear little kitty +cats and get nice homes for them, I'm going to help.” + +The voice belonged to Lily Jennings, who had stood on the other side of +the Japanese cedars and heard every word. + +Both boys started in righteous wrath, but Arnold Carruth was the angrier +of the two. “Mean little cat yourself, listening,” said he. His curls +seemed to rise like a crest of rage. + +Johnny, remembering some things, was not so outspoken. “You hadn't any +right to listen, Lily Jennings,” he said, with masculine severity. + +“I didn't start to listen,” said Lily. “I was looking for cones on these +trees. Miss Parmalee wanted us to bring some object of nature into the +class, and I wondered whether I could find a queer Japanese cone on one +of these trees, and then I heard you boys talking, and I couldn't help +listening. You spoke very loud, and I couldn't give up looking for that +cone. I couldn't find any, and I heard all about the Simmonses' cats, +and I know lots of other cats that haven't got good homes, and--I am +going to be in it.” + +“You AIN'T,” declared Arnold Carruth. + +“We can't have girls in it,” said Johnny the mindful, more politely. + +“You've got to have me. You had better have me, Johnny Trumbull,” she +added with meaning. + +Johnny flinched. It was a species of blackmail, but what could he do? +Suppose Lily told how she had hidden him--him, Johnny Trumbull, the +champion of the school--in that empty baby-carriage! He would have more +to contend against than Arnold Carruth with socks and curls. He did not +think Lily would tell. Somehow Lily, although a little, befrilled girl, +gave an impression of having a knowledge of a square deal almost as much +as a boy would; but what boy could tell with a certainty what such an +uncertain creature as a girl might or might not do? Moreover, Johnny +had a weakness, a hidden, Spartanly hidden, weakness for Lily. He rather +wished to have her act as partner in his great enterprise. He therefore +gruffly assented. + +“All right,” he said, “you can be in it. But just you look out. You'll +see what happens if you tell.” + +“She can't be in it; she's nothing but a girl,” said Arnold Carruth, +fiercely. + +Lily Jennings lifted her chin and surveyed him with queenly scorn. “And +what are you?” said she. “A little boy with curls and baby socks.” + +Arnold colored with shame and fury, and subsided. “Mind you don't tell,” + he said, taking Johnny's cue. + +“I sha'n't tell,” replied Lily, with majesty. “But you'll tell +yourselves if you talk one side of trees without looking on the other.” + +There was then only a few moments before Madame's musical Japanese +gong which announced the close of intermission should sound, but three +determined souls in conspiracy can accomplish much in a few moments. The +first move was planned in detail before that gong sounded, and the two +boys raced to the house, and Lily followed, carrying a toadstool, which +she had hurriedly caught up from the lawn for her object of nature to be +taken into class. + +It was a poisonous toadstool, and Lily was quite a heroine in the class. +That fact doubtless gave her a more dauntless air when, after school, +the two boys caught up with her walking gracefully down the road, +flirting her skirts and now and then giving her head a toss, which made +her fluff of hair fly into a golden foam under her daisy-trimmed straw +hat. + +“To-night,” Johnny whispered, as he sped past. + +“At half past nine, between your house and the Simmonses',” replied +Lily, without even looking at him. She was a past-mistress of +dissimulation. + +Lily's mother had guests at dinner that night, and the guests remarked +sometimes, within the little girl's hearing, what a darling she was. + +“She never gives me a second's anxiety,” Lily's mother whispered to a +lady beside her. “You cannot imagine what a perfectly good, dependable +child she is.” + +“Now my Christina is a good child in the grain,” said the lady, “but she +is full of mischief. I never can tell what Christina will do next.” + +“I can always tell,” said Lily's mother, in a voice of maternal triumph. + +“Now only the other night, when I thought Christina was in bed, that +absurd child got up and dressed and ran over to see her aunt Bella. Tom +came home with her, and of course there was nothing very bad about it. +Christina was very bright; she said, 'Mother, you never told me I must +not get up and go to see Aunt Bella,' which was, of course, true. I +could not gainsay that.” + +“I cannot,” said Lily's mother, “imagine my Lily's doing such a thing.” + +If Lily had heard that last speech of her mother's, whom she dearly +loved, she might have wavered. That pathetic trust in herself might have +caused her to justify it. But she had finished her dinner and had been +excused, and was undressing for bed, with the firm determination to rise +betimes and dress and join Johnny Trumbull and Arnold Carruth. Johnny +had the easiest time of them all. He simply had to bid his aunt Janet +good night and have the watch wound, and take a fleeting glimpse of his +mother at her desk and his father in his office, and go whistling to his +room, and sit in the summer darkness and wait until the time came. + +Arnold Carruth had the hardest struggle. His mother had an old school +friend visiting her, and Arnold, very much dressed up, with his curls +falling in a shining fleece upon a real lace collar, had to be shown off +and show off. He had to play one little piece which he had learned upon +the piano. He had to recite a little poem. He had to be asked how old he +was, and if he liked to go to school, and how many teachers he had, and +if he loved them, and if he loved his little mates, and which of them he +loved best; and he had to be asked if he loved his aunt Dorothy, who was +the school friend and not his aunt at all, and would he not like to come +and live with her, because she had not any dear little boy; and he was +obliged to submit to having his curls twisted around feminine fingers, +and to being kissed and hugged, and a whole chapter of ordeals, before +he was finally in bed, with his mother's kiss moist upon his lips, and +free to assert himself. + +That night Arnold Carruth realized himself as having an actual horror of +his helpless state of pampered childhood. The man stirred in the soul of +the boy, and it was a little rebel with sulky pout of lips and frown of +childish brows who stole out of bed, got into some queer clothes, and +crept down the back stairs. He heard his aunt Dorothy, who was not +his aunt, singing an Italian song in the parlor, he heard the clink of +silver and china from the butler's pantry, where the maids were washing +the dinner dishes. He smelt his father's cigar, and he gave a little +leap of joy on the grass of the lawn. At last he was out at night alone, +and--he wore long stockings! That noon he had secreted a pair of his +mother's toward that end. When he came home to luncheon he pulled them +out of the darning-bag, which he had spied through a closet door that +had been left ajar. One of the stockings was green silk, and the other +was black, and both had holes in them, but all that mattered was the +length. Arnold wore also his father's riding-breeches, which came over +his shoes and which were enormously large, and one of his father's silk +shirts. He had resolved to dress consistently for such a great occasion. +His clothes hampered him, but he felt happy as he sped clumsily down the +road. + +However, both Johnny Trumbull and Lily Jennings, who were waiting for +him at the rendezvous, were startled by his appearance. Both began to +run, Johnny pulling Lily after him by the hand, but Arnold's cautious +hallo arrested them. Johnny and Lily returned slowly, peering through +the darkness. + +“It's me,” said Arnold, with gay disregard of grammar. + +“You looked,” said Lily, “like a real fat old man. What HAVE you got on, +Arnold Carruth?” + +Arnold slouched before his companions, ridiculous but triumphant. He +hitched up a leg of the riding-breeches and displayed a long, green silk +stocking. Both Johnny and Lily doubled up with laughter. + +“What you laughing at?” inquired Arnold, crossly. + +“Oh, nothing at all,” said Lily. “Only you do look like a scarecrow +broken loose. Doesn't he, Johnny?” + +“I am going home,” stated Arnold with dignity. He turned, but Johnny +caught him in his little iron grip. + +“Oh, shucks, Arnold Carruth!” said he. “Don't be a baby. Come on.” And +Arnold Carruth with difficulty came on. + +People in the village, as a rule, retired early. Many lights were out +when the affair began, many went out while it was in progress. All three +of the band steered as clear of lighted houses as possible, and dodged +behind trees and hedges when shadowy figures appeared on the road or +carriage-wheels were heard in the distance. At their special destination +they were sure to be entirely safe. Old Mr. Peter Van Ness always +retired very early. To be sure, he did not go to sleep until late, and +read in bed, but his room was in the rear of the house on the second +floor, and all the windows, besides, were dark. Mr. Peter Van Ness was +a very wealthy elderly gentleman, very benevolent. He had given the +village a beautiful stone church with memorial windows, a soldiers' +monument, a park, and a home for aged couples, called “The Van Ness +Home.” Mr. Van Ness lived alone with the exception of a housekeeper and +a number of old, very well-disciplined servants. The servants always +retired early, and Mr. Van Ness required the house to be quiet for his +late reading. He was a very studious old gentleman. + +To the Van Ness house, set back from the street in the midst of a +well-kept lawn, the three repaired, but not as noiselessly as they could +have wished. In fact, a light flared in an up-stairs window, which was +wide open, and one woman's voice was heard in conclave with another. + +“I should think,” said the first, “that the lawn was full of cats. Did +you ever hear such a mewing, Jane?” + +That was the housekeeper's voice. The three, each of whom carried a +squirming burlap potato-bag from the Trumbull cellar, stood close to a +clump of stately pines full of windy songs, and trembled. + +“It do sound like cats, ma'am,” said another voice, which was Jane's, +the maid, who had brought Mrs. Meeks, the housekeeper, a cup of hot +water and peppermint, because her dinner had disagreed with her. + +“Just listen,” said Mrs. Meeks. + +“Yes, ma'am, I should think there was hundreds of cats and little +kittens.” + +“I am so afraid Mr. Van Ness will be disturbed.” + +“Yes, ma'am.” + +“You might go out and look, Jane.” + +“Oh, ma'am, they might be burglars!” + +“How can they be burglars when they are cats?” demanded Mrs. Meeks, +testily. + +Arnold Carruth snickered, and Johnny on one side, and Lily on the other, +prodded him with an elbow. They were close under the window. + +“Burglars is up to all sorts of queer tricks, ma'am,” said Jane. “They +may mew like cats to tell one another what door to go in.” + +“Jane, you talk like an idiot,” said Mrs. Meeks. “Burglars talking like +cats! Who ever heard of such a thing? It sounds right under that window. +Open my closet door and get those heavy old shoes and throw them out.” + +It was an awful moment. The three dared not move. The cats and kittens +in the bags--not so many, after all--seemed to have turned into +multiplication-tables. They were positively alarming in their +determination to get out, their wrath with one another, and their +vociferous discontent with the whole situation. + +“I can't hold my bag much longer,” said poor little Arnold Carruth. + +“Hush up, cry-baby!” whispered Lily, fiercely, in spite of a clawing paw +emerging from her own bag and threatening her bare arm. + +Then came the shoes. One struck Arnold squarely on the shoulder, nearly +knocking him down and making him lose hold of his bag. The other struck +Lily's bag, and conditions became worse; but she held on despite a +scratch. Lily had pluck. + +Then Jane's voice sounded very near, as she leaned out of the window. “I +guess they have went, ma'am,” said she. “I seen something run.” + +“I can hear them,” said Mrs. Meeks, querulously. + +“I seen them run,” persisted Jane, who was tired and wished to be gone. + +“Well, close that window, anyway, for I know I hear them, even if they +have gone,” said Mrs. Meeks. The three heard with relief the window +slammed down. + +The light flashed out, and simultaneously Lily Jennings and Johnny +Trumbull turned indignantly upon Arnold Carruth. + +“There, you have gone and let all those poor cats go,” said Johnny. + +“And spoilt everything,” said Lily. + +Arnold rubbed his shoulder. “You would have let go if you had been hit +right on the shoulder by a great shoe,” said he, rather loudly. + +“Hush up!” said Lily. “I wouldn't have let my cats go if I had been +killed by a shoe; so there.” + +“Serves us right for taking a boy with curls,” said Johnny Trumbull. + +But he spoke unadvisedly. Arnold Carruth was no match whatever for +Johnny Trumbull, and had never been allowed the honor of a combat with +him; but surprise takes even a great champion at a disadvantage. Arnold +turned upon Johnny like a flash, out shot a little white fist, up struck +a dimpled leg clad in cloth and leather, and down sat Johnny Trumbull; +and, worse, open flew his bag, and there was a yowling exodus. + +“There go your cats, too, Johnny Trumbull,” said Lily, in a perfectly +calm whisper. At that moment both boys, victor and vanquished, felt a +simultaneous throb of masculine wrath at Lily. Who was she to gloat +over the misfortunes of men? But retribution came swiftly to Lily. That +viciously clawing little paw shot out farther, and there was a limit to +Spartanism in a little girl born so far from that heroic land. Lily let +go of her bag and with difficulty stifled a shriek of pain. + +“Whose cats are gone now?” demanded Johnny, rising. + +“Yes, whose cats are gone now?” said Arnold. + +Then Johnny promptly turned upon him and knocked him down and sat on +him. + +Lily looked at them, standing, a stately little figure in the darkness. +“I am going home,” said she. “My mother does not allow me to go with +fighting boys.” + +Johnny rose, and so did Arnold, whimpering slightly. His shoulder ached +considerably. + +“He knocked me down,” said Johnny. + +Even as he whimpered and as he suffered, Arnold felt a thrill of +triumph. “Always knew I could if I had a chance,” said he. + +“You couldn't if I had been expecting it,” said Johnny. + +“Folks get knocked down when they ain't expecting it most of the time,” + declared Arnold, with more philosophy than he realized. + +“I don't think it makes much difference about the knocking down,” said +Lily. “All those poor cats and kittens that we were going to give a good +home, where they wouldn't be starved, have got away, and they will run +straight back to Mr. Jim Simmons's.” + +“If they haven't any more sense than to run back to a place where they +don't get enough to eat and are kicked about by a lot of children, let +them run,” said Johnny. + +“That's so,” said Arnold. “I never did see what we were doing such a +thing for, anyway--stealing Mr. Simmons's cats and giving them to Mr. +Van Ness.” + +It was the girl alone who stood by her guns of righteousness. “I saw and +I see,” she declared, with dangerously loud emphasis. “It was only our +duty to try to rescue poor helpless animals who don't know any better +than to stay where they are badly treated. And Mr. Van Ness has so +much money he doesn't know what to do with it; he would have been real +pleased to give those cats a home and buy milk and liver for them. But +it's all spoiled now. I will never undertake to do good again, with a +lot of boys in the way, as long as I live; so there!” Lily turned about. + +“Going to tell your mother!” said Johnny, with scorn which veiled +anxiety. + +“No, I'm NOT. I don't tell tales.” + +Lily marched off, and in her wake went Johnny and Arnold, two poor +little disillusioned would-be knights of old romance in a wretchedly +commonplace future, not far enough from their horizons for any glamour. + +They went home, and of the three Johnny Trumbull was the only one +who was discovered. For him his aunt Janet lay in wait and forced a +confession. She listened grimly, but her eyes twinkled. + +“You have learned to fight, John Trumbull,” said she, when he had +finished. “Now the very next thing you have to learn, and make yourself +worthy of your grandfather Trumbull, is not to be a fool.” + +“Yes, Aunt Janet,” said Johnny. + +The next noon, when he came home from school, old Maria, who had been +with the family ever since he could remember and long before, called him +into the kitchen. There, greedily lapping milk from a saucer, were two +very lean, tall kittens. + +“See those nice little tommy-cats,” said Maria, beaming upon Johnny, +whom she loved and whom she sometimes fancied deprived of boyish joys. +“Your aunt Janet sent me over to the Simmonses' for them this morning. +They are overrun with cats--such poor, shiftless folks always be--and +you can have them. We shall have to watch for a little while till they +get wonted, so they won't run home.” + +Johnny gazed at the kittens, fast distending with the new milk, and +felt presumably much as dear Robin Hood may have felt after one of his +successful raids in the fair, poetic past. + +“Pretty, ain't they?” said Maria. “They have drank up a whole saucer of +milk. 'Most starved. I s'pose.” + +Johnny gathered up the two forlorn kittens and sat down in a kitchen +chair, with one on each shoulder, hard, boyish cheeks pressed against +furry, purring sides, and the little fighting Cock of the Walk felt his +heart glad and tender with the love of the strong for the weak. + + + + +DANIEL AND LITTLE DAN'L + +THE Wise homestead dated back more than a century, yet it had nothing +imposing about it except its site. It was a simple, glaringly white +cottage. There was a center front door with two windows on each side; +there was a low slant of roof, pierced by unpicturesque dormers. On +the left of the house was an ell, which had formerly been used as a +shoemaker's shop, but now served as a kitchen. In the low attic of the +ell was stored the shoemaker's bench, whereon David Wise's grandfather +had sat for nearly eighty years of working days; after him his eldest +son, Daniel's father, had occupied the same hollow seat of patient toil. +Daniel had sat there for twenty-odd years, then had suddenly realized +both the lack of necessity and the lack of customers, since the +great shoe-plant had been built down in the village. Then Daniel had +retired--although he did not use that expression. Daniel said to his +friends and his niece Dora that he had “quit work.” But he told himself, +without the least bitterness, that work had quit him. + +After Daniel had retired, his one physiological peculiarity assumed +enormous proportions. It had always been with him, but steady work had +held it, to a great extent, at bay. Daniel was a moral coward before +physical conditions. He was as one who suffers, not so much from agony +of the flesh as from agony of the mind induced thereby. Daniel was a +coward before one of the simplest, most inevitable happenings of earthly +life. He was a coward before summer heat. All winter he dreaded summer. +Summer poisoned the spring for him. Only during the autumn did he +experience anything of peace. Summer was then over, and between him and +another summer stretched the blessed perspective of winter. Then Daniel +Wise drew a long breath and looked about him, and spelled out the beauty +of the earth in his simple primer of understanding. Daniel had in his +garden behind the house a prolific grape-vine. He ate the grapes, full +of the savor of the dead summer, with the gusto of a poet who can at +last enjoy triumph over his enemy. + +Possibly it was the vein of poetry in Daniel which made him a +coward--which made him so vulnerable. During the autumn he reveled in +the tints of the landscape which his sitting-room windows commanded. +There were many maples and oaks. Day by day the roofs of the houses in +the village became more evident, as the maples shed their crimson and +gold and purple rags of summer. The oaks remained, great shaggy masses +of dark gold and burning russet; later they took on soft hues, making +clearer the blue firmament between the boughs. Daniel watched the autumn +trees with pure delight. “He will go to-day,” he said of a flaming maple +after a night of frost which had crisped the white arches of the grass +in his dooryard. All day he sat and watched the maple cast its glory, +and did not bother much with his simple meals. The Wise house was +erected on three terraces. Always through the dry summer the grass was +burned to an ugly negation of color. Later, when rain came, the grass +was a brilliant green, patched with rosy sorrel and golden stars of +arnica. Then later still came the diamond brilliance of the frost. So +dry were the terraces in summer-time that no flowers would flourish. +When Daniel's mother had come to the house as a bride she had planted +under a window a blush-rose bush, but always the blush-roses were few +and covered with insects. It was not until the autumn, when it was time +for the flowers to die, that the sorrel blessing of waste lands flushed +rosily and the arnica showed its stars of slender threads of gold, and +there might even be a slight glimpse of purple aster and a dusty spray +or two of goldenrod. Then Daniel did not shrink from the sight of the +terraces. In summer-time the awful negative glare of them under the +afternoon sun maddened him. + +In winter he often visited his brother John in the village. He was very +fond of John, and John's wife, and their only daughter, Dora. When John +died, and later his wife, he would have gone to live with Dora, but +she married. Then her husband also died, and Dora took up dressmaking, +supporting herself and her delicate little girl-baby. Daniel adored this +child. She had been named for him, although her mother had been aghast +before the proposition. “Name a girl Daniel, uncle!” she had cried. + +“She is going to have what I own after I have done with it, anyway,” + declared Daniel, gazing with awe and rapture at the tiny flannel bundle +in his niece's arms. “That won't make any difference, but I do wish you +could make up your mind to call her after me, Dora.” + +Dora Lee was soft-hearted. She named her girl-baby Daniel, and called +her Danny, which was not, after all, so bad, and her old uncle loved the +child as if she had been his own. Little Daniel--he always called her +Daniel, or, rather, “Dan'l”--was the only reason for his descending into +the village on summer days when the weather was hot. Daniel, when he +visited the village in summer-time, wore always a green leaf inside his +hat and carried an umbrella and a palm-leaf fan. This caused the village +boys to shout, “Hullo, grandma!” after him. Daniel, being a little hard +of hearing, was oblivious, but he would have been in any case. His +whole mind was concentrated in getting along that dusty glare of street, +stopping at the store for a paper bag of candy, and finally ending in +Dora's little dark parlor, holding his beloved namesake on his knee, +watching her blissfully suck a barley stick while he waved his palmleaf +fan. Dora would be fitting gowns in the next room. He would hear the +hum of feminine chatter over strictly feminine topics. He felt very much +aloof, even while holding the little girl on his knee. Daniel had never +married--had never even h ad a sweetheart. The marriageable women he +had seen had not been of the type to attract a dreamer like Daniel Wise. +Many of those women thought him “a little off.” + +Dora Lee, his niece, privately wondered if her uncle had his full +allotment of understanding. He seemed much more at home with her little +daughter than with herself, and Dora considered herself a very good +business woman, with possibly an unusual endowment of common sense. She +was such a good business woman that when she died suddenly she left her +child with quite a sum in the bank, besides the house. Daniel did not +hesitate for a moment. He engaged Miss Sarah Dean for a housekeeper, and +took the little girl (hardly more than a baby) to his own home. Dora +had left a will, in which she appointed Daniel guardian in spite of her +doubt concerning his measure of understanding. There was much comment in +the village when Daniel took his little namesake to live in his lonely +house on the terrace. “A man and an old maid to bring up that poor +child!” they said. But Daniel called Dr. Trumbull to his support. “It +is much better for that delicate child to be out of this village, which +drains the south hill,” Dr. Trumbull declared. “That child needs pure +air. It is hot enough in summer all around here, and hot enough at +Daniel's, but the air is pure there.” + +There was no gossip about Daniel and Miss Sarah Dean. Gossip would have +seemed about as foolish concerning him and a dry blade of field-grass. +Sarah Dean looked like that. She wore rusty black gowns, and her +gray-blond hair was swept curtainwise over her ears on either side +of her very thin, mildly severe wedge of a face. Sarah was a notable +housekeeper and a good cook. She could make an endless variety of cakes +and puddings and pies, and her biscuits were marvels. Daniel had long +catered for himself, and a rasher of bacon, with an egg, suited him much +better for supper than hot biscuits, preserves, and five kinds of cake. +Still, he did not complain, and did not understand that Sarah's fare was +not suitable for the child, until Dr. Trumbull told him so. + +“Don't you let that child live on that kind of food if you want her to +live at all,” said Dr. Trumbull. “Lord! what are the women made of, and +the men they feed, for that matter? Why, Daniel, there are many people +in this place, and hard-working people, too, who eat a quantity of food, +yet don't get enough nourishment for a litter of kittens.” + +“What shall I do?” asked Daniel in a puzzled way. + +“Do? You can cook a beefsteak yourself, can't you? Sarah Dean would fry +one as hard as soleleather.” + +“Yes, I can cook a beefsteak real nice,” said Daniel. + +“Do it, then; and cook some chops, too, and plenty of eggs.” + +“I don't exactly hanker after quite so much sweet stuff,” said Daniel. +“I wonder if Sarah's feelings will be hurt.” + +“It is much better for feelings to be hurt than stomachs,” declared Dr. +Trumbull, “but Sarah's feelings will not be hurt. I know her. She is +a wiry woman. Give her a knock and she springs back into place. Don't +worry about her, Daniel.” + +When Daniel went home that night he carried a juicy steak, and he cooked +it, and he and little Dan'l had a square meal. Sarah refused the steak +with a slight air of hauteur, but she behaved very well. When she +set away her untasted layer-cakes and pies and cookies, she eyed them +somewhat anxiously. Her standard of values seemed toppling before her +mental vision. “They will starve to death if they live on such victuals +as beefsteak, instead of good nourishing hot biscuits and cake,” she +thought. After the supper dishes were cleared away she went into the +sitting-room where Daniel Wise sat beside a window, waiting in a sort of +stern patience for a whiff of air. It was a very close evening. The sun +was red in the low west, but a heaving sea of mist was rising over the +lowlands. + +Sarah sat down opposite Daniel. “Close, ain't it?” said she. She began +knitting her lace edging. + +“Pretty close,” replied Daniel. He spoke with an effect of forced +politeness. Although he had such a horror of extreme heat, he was always +chary of boldly expressing his mind concerning it, for he had a feeling +that he might be guilty of blasphemy, since he regarded the weather as +being due to an Almighty mandate. Therefore, although he suffered, he +was extremely polite. + +“It is awful up-stairs in little Dan'l's room,” said Sarah. “I have got +all the windows open except the one that's right on the bed, and I told +her she needn't keep more than the sheet and one comfortable over her.” + +Daniel looked anxious. “Children ain't ever overcome when they are in +bed, in the house, are they?” + +“Land, no! I never heard of such a thing. And, anyway, little Dan'l's so +thin it ain't likely she feels the heat as much as some.” + +“I hope she don't.” + +Daniel continued to sit hunched up on himself, gazing with a sort of +mournful irritation out of the window upon the landscape over which the +misty shadows vaguely wavered. + +Sarah knitted. She could knit in the dark. After a while she rose and +said she guessed she would go to bed, as to-morrow was her sweeping-day. + +Sarah went, and Daniel sat alone. + +Presently a little pale figure stole to him through the dusk--the child, +in her straight white nightgown, padding softly on tiny naked feet. + +“Is that you, Dan'l?” + +“Yes, Uncle Dan'l.” + +“Is it too hot to sleep up in your room?” + +“I didn't feel so very hot, Uncle Dan'l, but skeeters were biting me, +and a great big black thing just flew in my window!” + +“A bat, most likely.” + +“A bat!” Little Dan'l shuddered. She began a little stifled wail. “I'm +afeard of bats,” she lamented. + +Daniel gathered the tiny creature up. “You can jest set here with Uncle +Dan'l,” said he. “It is jest a little cooler here, I guess. Once in a +while there comes a little whiff of wind.” + +“Won't any bats come?” + +“Lord, no! Your Uncle Dan'l won't let any bats come within a gun-shot.” + +The little creature settled down contentedly in the old man's lap. Her +fair, thin locks fell over his shirt-sleeved arm, her upturned profile +was sweetly pure and clear even in the dusk. She was so delicately small +that he might have been holding a fairy, from the slight roundness of +the childish limbs and figure. Poor little girl!--Dan'l was much too +small and thin. Old man Daniel gazed down at her anxiously. + +“Jest as soon as the nice fall weather comes,” said he, “uncle is going +to take you down to the village real often, and you can get acquainted +with some other nice little girls and play with them, and that will do +uncle's little Dan'l good.” + +“I saw little Lucy Rose,” piped the child, “and she looked at me real +pleasant, and Lily Jennings wore a pretty dress. Would they play with +me, uncle?” + +“Of course they would. You don't feel quite so hot, here, do you?” + +“I wasn't so hot, anyway; I was afeard of bats.” + +“There ain't any bats here.” + +“And skeeters.” + +“Uncle don't believe there's any skeeters, neither.” + +“I don't hear any sing,” agreed little Dan'l in a weak voice. Very soon +she was fast asleep. The old man sat holding her, and loving her with +a simple crystalline intensity which was fairly heavenly. He himself +almost disregarded the heat, being raised above it by sheer exaltation +of spirit. All the love which had lain latent in his heart leaped +to life before the helplessness of this little child in his arms. He +realized himself as much greater and of more importance upon the face +of the earth than he had ever been before. He became paternity incarnate +and superblessed. It was a long time before he carried the little child +back to her room and laid her, still as inert with sleep as a lily, +upon her bed. He bent over her with a curious waving motion of his old +shoulders as if they bore wings of love and protection; then he crept +back down-stairs. + +On nights like that he did not go to bed. All the bedrooms were under +the slant of the roof and were hot. He preferred to sit until dawn +beside his open window, and doze when he could, and wait with despairing +patience for the infrequent puffs of cool air breathing blessedly of wet +swamp places, which, even when the burning sun arose, would only show +dewy eyes of cool reflection. Daniel Wise, as he sat there through the +sultry night, even prayed for courage, as a devout sentinel might have +prayed at his post. The imagination of the deserter was not in the man. +He never even dreamed of appropriating to his own needs any portion +of his savings, and going for a brief respite to the deep shadows of +mountainous places, or to a cool coast, where the great waves broke in +foam upon the sand, breathing out the mighty saving breath of the sea. +It never occurred to him that he could do anything but remain at his +post and suffer in body and soul and mind, and not complain. + +The next morning was terrible. The summer had been one of unusually +fervid heat, but that one day was its climax. David went panting +up-stairs to his room at dawn. He did not wish Sarah Dean to know that +he had sat up all night. He opened his bed, tidily, as was his wont. +Through living alone he had acquired many of the habits of an orderly +housewife. He went down-stairs, and Sarah was in the kitchen. + +“It is a dreadful hot day,” said she as Daniel approached the sink to +wash his face and hands. + +“It does seem a little warm,” admitted Daniel, with his studied air of +politeness with respect to the weather as an ordinance of God. + +“Warm!” echoed Sarah Dean. Her thin face blazed a scarlet wedge between +the sleek curtains of her dank hair; perspiration stood on her triangle +of forehead. “It is the hottest day I ever knew!” she said, defiantly, +and there was open rebellion in her tone. + +“It IS sort of warmish, I rather guess,” said Daniel. + +After breakfast, old Daniel announced his intention of taking little +Dan'l out for a walk. + +At that Sarah Dean fairly exploded. “Be you gone clean daft, Dan'l?” + said she. “Don't you know that it actually ain't safe to take out such a +delicate little thing as that on such a day?” + +“Dr. Trumbull said to take her outdoors for a walk every day, rain or +shine,” returned Daniel, obstinately. + +“But Dr. Trumbull didn't say to take her out if it rained fire and +brimstone, I suppose,” said Sarah Dean, viciously. + +Daniel looked at her with mild astonishment. + +“It is as much as that child's life is worth to take her out such a day +as this,” declared Sarah, viciously. + +“Dr. Trumbull said to take no account of the weather,” said Daniel with +stubborn patience, “and we will walk on the shady side of the road, and +go to Bradley's Brook. It's always a little cool there.” + +“If she faints away before you get there, you bring her right home,” + said Sarah. She was almost ferocious. “Just because YOU don't feel the +heat, to take out that little pindlin' girl such a day!” she exclaimed. + +“Dr. Trumbull said to,” persisted Daniel, although he looked a little +troubled. Sarah Dean did not dream that, for himself, Daniel Wise would +have preferred facing an army with banners to going out under that +terrible fusillade of sun-rays. She did not dream of the actual heroism +which actuated him when he set out with little Dan'l, holding his big +umbrella over her little sunbonneted head and waving in his other hand a +palm-leaf fan. + +Little Dan'l danced with glee as she went out of the yard. The small, +anemic creature did not feel the heat except as a stimulant. Daniel had +to keep charging her to walk slowly. “Don't go so fast, little Dan'l, +or you'll get overhet, and then what will Mis' Dean say?” he continually +repeated. + +Little Dan'l's thin, pretty face peeped up at him from between the sides +of her green sunbonnet. She pointed one dainty finger at a cloud of pale +yellow butterflies in the field beside which they were walking. “Want to +chase flutterbies,” she chirped. Little Dan'l had a fascinating way of +misplacing her consonants in long words. + +“No; you'll get overhet. You just walk along slow with Uncle Dan'l, and +pretty soon we'll come to the pretty brook,” said Daniel. + +“Where the lagon-dries live?” asked little Dan'l, meaning dragon-flies. + +“Yes,” said Daniel. He was conscious, as he spoke, of increasing waves +of thready black floating before his eyes. They had floated since dawn, +but now they were increasing. Some of the time he could hardly see the +narrow sidewalk path between the dusty meadowsweet and hardhack bushes, +since those floating black threads wove together into a veritable veil +before him. At such times he walked unsteadily, and little Dan'l eyed +him curiously. + +“Why don't you walk the way you always do?” she queried. + +“Uncle Dan'l can't see jest straight, somehow,” replied the old man; +“guess it's because it's rather warm.” + +It was in truth a day of terror because of the heat. It was one of +those days which break records, which live in men's memories as great +catastrophes, which furnish head-lines for newspapers, and are alluded +to with shudders at past sufferings. It was one of those days which seem +to forecast the Dreadful Day of Revelation wherein no shelter may be +found from the judgment of the fiery firmament. On that day men fell in +their tracks and died, or were rushed to hospitals to be succored as by +a miracle. And on that day the poor old man who had all his life feared +and dreaded the heat as the most loathly happening of earth, walked +afield for love of the little child. As Daniel went on the heat seemed +to become palpable--something which could actually be seen. There was +now a thin, gaseous horror over the blazing sky, which did not temper +the heat, but increased it, giving it the added torment of steam. The +clogging moisture seemed to brood over the accursed earth, like some +foul bird with deadly menace in wings and beak. + +Daniel walked more and more unsteadily. Once he might have fallen had +not the child thrown one little arm around a bending knee. “You 'most +tumbled down. Uncle Dan'l,” said she. Her little voice had a surprised +and frightened note in it. + +“Don't you be scared,” gasped Daniel; “we have got 'most to the brook; +then we'll be all right. Don't you be scared, and--you walk real slow +and not get overhet.” + +The brook was near, and it was time. Daniel staggered under the trees +beside which the little stream trickled over its bed of stones. It was +not much of a brook at best, and the drought had caused it to lose +much of its life. However, it was still there, and there were delicious +little hollows of coolness between the stones over which it flowed, and +large trees stood about with their feet rooted in the blessed damp. Then +Daniel sank down. He tried to reach a hand to the water, but could not. +The black veil had woven a compact mass before his eyes. There was a +terrible throbbing in his head, but his arms were numb. + +Little Dan'l stood looking at him, and her lip quivered. With a mighty +effort Daniel cleared away the veil and saw the piteous baby face. +“Take--Uncle Dan'l's hat and--fetch him--some water,” he gasped. “Don't +go too--close and--tumble in.” + +The child obeyed. Daniel tried to take the dripping hat, but failed. +Little Dan'l was wise enough to pour the water over the old man's head, +but she commenced to weep, the pitiful, despairing wail of a child who +sees failing that upon which she has leaned for support. + +Daniel rallied again. The water on his head gave him momentary relief, +but more than anything else his love for the child nerved him to effort. + +“Listen, little Dan'l,” he said, and his voice sounded in his own +ears like a small voice of a soul thousands of miles away. “You take +the--umbrella, and--you take the fan, and you go real slow, so you don't +get overhet, and you tell Mis' Dean, and--” + +Then old Daniel's tremendous nerve, that he had summoned for the sake of +love, failed him, and he sank back. He was quite unconscious--his face, +staring blindly up at the terrible sky between the trees, was to little +Dan'l like the face of a stranger. She gave one cry, more like the +yelp of a trodden animal than a child's voice. Then she took the open +umbrella and sped away. The umbrella bobbed wildly--nothing could be +seen of poor little Dan'l but her small, speeding feet. She wailed +loudly all the way. + +She was half-way home when, plodding along in a cloud of brown dust, a +horse appeared in the road. The horse wore a straw bonnet and advanced +very slowly. He drew a buggy, and in the buggy were Dr. Trumbull and +Johnny, his son. He had called at Daniel's to see the little girl, and, +on being told that they had gone to walk, had said something under his +breath and turned his horse's head down the road. + +“When we meet them, you must get out, Johnny,” he said, “and I will take +in that poor old man and that baby. I wish I could put common sense in +every bottle of medicine. A day like this!” + +Dr. Trumbull exclaimed when he saw the great bobbing black umbrella and +heard the wails. The straw-bonneted horse stopped abruptly. Dr. Trumbull +leaned out of the buggy. “Who are you?” he demanded. + +“Uncle Dan'l is gone,” shrieked the child. + +“Gone where? What do you mean?” + +“He--tumbled right down, and then he was-somebody else. He ain't there.” + +“Where is 'there'? Speak up quick!” + +“The brook--Uncle Dan'l went away at the brook.” + +Dr. Trumbull acted swiftly. He gave Johnny a push. “Get out,” he said. +“Take that baby into Jim Mann's house there, and tell Mrs. Mann to keep +her in the shade and look out for her, and you tell Jim, if he hasn't +got his horse in his farm-wagon, to look lively and harness her in and +put all the ice they've got in the house in the wagon. Hurry!” + +Johnny was over the wheel before his father had finished speaking, and +Jim Mann just then drew up alongside in his farm-wagon. + +“What's to pay?” he inquired, breathless. He was a thin, sinewy man, +scantily clad in cotton trousers and a shirt wide open at the breast. +Green leaves protruded from under the brim of his tilted straw hat. + +“Old Daniel Wise is overcome by the heat,” answered Dr. Trumbull. “Put +all the ice you have in the house in your wagon, and come along. I'll +leave my horse and buggy here. Your horse is faster.” + +Presently the farm-wagon clattered down the road, dust-hidden behind a +galloping horse. Mrs. Jim Mann, who was a loving mother of children, +was soothing little Dan'l. Johnny Trumbull watched at the gate. When the +wagon returned he ran out and hung on behind, while the strong, ungainly +farm-horse galloped to the house set high on the sun-baked terraces. + +When old Daniel revived he found himself in the best parlor, with ice +all about him. Thunder was rolling overhead and hail clattered on the +windows. A sudden storm, the heat-breaker, had come up and the dreadful +day was vanquished. Daniel looked up and smiled a vague smile of +astonishment at Dr. Trumbull and Sarah Dean; then his eyes wandered +anxiously about. + +“The child is all right,” said Dr. Trumbull; “don't you worry, Daniel. +Mrs. Jim Mann is taking care of her. Don't you try to talk. You didn't +exactly have a sunstroke, but the heat was too much for you.” + +But Daniel spoke, in spite of the doctor's mandate. “The heat,” said +he, in a curiously clear voice, “ain't never goin' to be too much for me +again.” + +“Don't you talk, Daniel,” repeated Dr. Trumbull. “You've always been +nervous about the heat. Maybe you won't be again, but keep still. When +I told you to take that child out every day I didn't mean when the world +was like Sodom and Gomorrah. Thank God, it will be cooler now.” + +Sarah Dean stood beside the doctor. She looked pale and severe, but +adequate. She did not even state that she had urged old Daniel not to go +out. There was true character in Sarah Dean. + +The weather that summer was an unexpected quantity. Instead of the day +after the storm being cool, it was hot. However, old Daniel, after +his recovery, insisted on going out of doors with little Dan'l after +breakfast. The only concession which he would make to Sarah Dean, who +was fairly frantic with anxiety, was that he would merely go down the +road as far as the big elm-tree, that he would sit down there, and let +the child play about within sight. + +“You'll be brought home agin, sure as preachin',” said Sarah Dean, “and +if you're brought home ag'in, you won't get up ag'in.” + +Old Daniel laughed. “Now don't you worry, Sarah,” said he. “I'll set +down under that big ellum and keep cool.” + +Old Daniel, at Sarah's earnest entreaties, took a palm-leaf fan. But he +did not use it. He sat peacefully under the cool trail of the great elm +all the forenoon, while little Dan'l played with her doll. The child was +rather languid after her shock of the day before, and not disposed to +run about. Also, she had a great sense of responsibility about the old +man. Sarah Dean had privately charged her not to let Uncle Daniel get +“overhet.” She continually glanced up at him with loving, anxious, baby +eyes. + +“Be you overhet. Uncle Dan'l?” she would ask. + +“No, little Dan'l, uncle ain't a mite overhet,” the old man would assure +her. Now and then little Dan'l left her doll, climbed into the old man's +lap, and waved the palm-leaf fan before his face. + +Old Daniel Wise loved her so that he seemed, to himself, fairly alight +with happiness. He made up his mind that he would find some little girl +in the village to come now and then and play with little Dan'l. In the +cool of that evening he stole out of the back door, covertly, lest +Sarah Dean discover him, and walked slowly to the rector's house in the +village. The rector's wife was sitting on her cool, vine-shaded veranda. +She was alone, and Daniel was glad. He asked her if the little girl +who had come to live with her, Content Adams, could not come the next +afternoon and see little Dan'l. “Little Dan'l had ought to see other +children once in a while, and Sarah Dean makes real nice cookies,” he +stated, pleadingly. + +Sally Patterson laughed good-naturedly. “Of course she can, Mr. Wise,” + she said. + +The next afternoon Sally herself drove the rector's horse, and brought +Content to pay a call on little Dan'l. Sally and Sarah Dean visited in +the sitting-room, and left the little girls alone in the parlor with +a plate of cookies, to get acquainted. They sat in solemn silence and +stared at each other. Neither spoke. Neither ate a cooky. When Sally +took her leave, she asked little Dan'l if she had had a nice time with +Content, and little Dan'l said, “Yes, ma'am.” + +Sarah insisted upon Content's carrying the cookies home in the dish with +a napkin over it. + +“When can I go again to see that other little girl?” asked Content as +she and Sally were jogging home. + +“Oh, almost any time. I will drive you over-because it is rather a +lonesome walk for you. Did you like the little girl? She is younger than +you.” + +“Yes'm.” + +Also little Dan'l inquired of old Daniel when the other little girl was +coming again, and nodded emphatically when asked if she had had a nice +time. Evidently both had enjoyed, after the inscrutable fashion of +childhood, their silent session with each other. Content came generally +once a week, and old Daniel was invited to take little Dan'l to the +rector's. On that occasion Lucy Rose was present, and Lily Jennings. The +four little girls had tea together at a little table set on the porch, +and only Lily Jennings talked. The rector drove old Daniel and the child +home, and after they had arrived the child's tongue was loosened and she +chattered. She had seen everything there was to be seen at the rector's. +She told of it in her little silver pipe of a voice. She had to be +checked and put to bed, lest she be tired out. + +“I never knew that child could talk so much,” Sarah said to Daniel, +after the little girl had gone up-stairs. + +“She talks quite some when she's alone with me.” + +“And she seems to see everything.” + +“Ain't much that child don't see,” said Daniel, proudly. + +The summer continued unusually hot, but Daniel never again succumbed. +When autumn came, for the first time in his old life old Daniel Wise was +sorrowful. He dreaded the effect of the frost and the winter upon his +precious little Dan'l, whom he put before himself as fondly as any +father could have done, and as the season progressed his dread seemed +justified. Poor little Dan'l had cold after cold. Content Adams and Lucy +Rose came to see her. The rector's wife and the doctor's sent dainties. +But the child coughed and pined, and old Daniel began to look forward +to spring and summer--the seasons which had been his bugaboos through +life--as if they were angels. When the February thaw came, he told +little Dan'l, “Jest look at the snow meltin' and the drops hangin' on +the trees; that is a sign of summer.” + +Old Daniel watched for the first green light along the fences and the +meadow hollows. When the trees began to cast slightly blurred shadows, +because of budding leaves, and the robins hopped over the terraces, +and now and then the air was cleft with blue wings, he became jubilant. +“Spring is jest about here, and then uncle's little Dan'l will stop +coughin', and run out of doors and pick flowers,” he told the child +beside the window. + +Spring came that year with a riotous rush. Blossoms, leaves, birds, +and flowers--all arrived pellmell, fairly smothering the world with +sweetness and music. In May, about the first of the month, there was an +intensely hot day. It was as hot as midsummer. Old Daniel with +little Dan'l went afield. It was, to both, as if they fairly saw the +carnival-arrival of flowers, of green garlands upon treebranches, of +birds and butterflies. “Spring is right here!” said old Daniel. “Summer +is right here! Pick them vilets in that holler, little Dan'l.” The +old man sat on a stone in the meadowland, and watched the child in the +blue-gleaming hollow gather up violets in her little hands as if +they were jewels. The sun beat upon his head, the air was heavy with +fragrance, laden with moisture. Old Daniel wiped his forehead. He was +heated, but so happy that he was not aware of it. He saw wonderful new +lights over everything. He had wielded love, the one invincible weapon +of the whole earth, and had conquered his intangible and dreadful enemy. +When, for the sake of that little beloved life, his own life had become +as nothing, old Daniel found himself superior to it. He sat there in the +tumultuous heat of the May day, watching the child picking violets and +gathering strength with every breath of the young air of the year, and +he realized that the fear of his whole life was overcome for ever. +He realized that never again, though they might bring suffering, even +death, would he dread the summers with their torrid winds and their +burning lights, since, through love, he had become under-lord of all the +conditions of his life upon earth. + + + + +BIG SISTER SOLLY + +IT did seem strange that Sally Patterson, who, according to her own +self-estimation, was the least adapted of any woman in the village, +should have been the one chosen by a theoretically selective providence +to deal with a psychological problem. + +It was conceded that little Content Adams was a psychological problem. +She was the orphan child of very distant relatives of the rector. +When her parents died she had been cared for by a widowed aunt on her +mother's side, and this aunt had also borne the reputation of being a +creature apart. When the aunt died, in a small village in the indefinite +“Out West,” the presiding clergyman had notified Edward Patterson of +little Content's lonely and helpless estate. The aunt had subsisted +upon an annuity which had died with her. The child had inherited nothing +except personal property. The aunt's house had been bequeathed to the +church over which the clergyman presided, and after her aunt's death he +took her to his own home until she could be sent to her relatives, and +he and his wife were exceedingly punctilious about every jot and tittle +of the aunt's personal belongings. They even purchased two extra trunks +for them, which they charged to the rector. + +Little Content, traveling in the care of a lady who had known her aunt +and happened to be coming East, had six large trunks, besides a hat-box +and two suit-cases and a nailed-up wooden box containing odds and ends. +Content made quite a sensation when she arrived and her baggage was +piled on the station platform. + +Poor Sally Patterson unpacked little Content's trunks. She had sent the +little girl to school within a few days after her arrival. Lily Jennings +and Amelia Wheeler called for her, and aided her down the street between +them, arms interlocked. Content, although Sally had done her best with a +pretty ready-made dress and a new hat, was undeniably a peculiar-looking +child. In the first place, she had an expression so old that it was +fairly uncanny. + +“That child has downward curves beside her mouth already, and lines +between her eyes, and what she will look like a few years hence is +beyond me,” Sally told her husband after she had seen the little girl go +out of sight between Lily's curls and ruffles and ribbons and Amelia's +smooth skirts. + +“She doesn't look like a happy child,” agreed the rector. “Poor little +thing! Her aunt Eudora must have been a queer woman to train a child.” + +“She is certainly trained,” said Sally, ruefully; “too much so. Content +acts as if she were afraid to move or speak or even breathe unless +somebody signals permission. I pity her.” + +She was in the storeroom, in the midst of Content's baggage. The rector +sat on an old chair, smoking. He had a conviction that it behooved him +as a man to stand by his wife during what might prove an ordeal. He +had known Content's deceased aunt years before. He had also known the +clergyman who had taken charge of her personal property and sent it on +with Content. + +“Be prepared for finding almost anything. Sally,” he observed. “Mr. +Zenock Shanksbury, as I remember him, was so conscientious that it +amounted to mania. I am sure he has sent simply unspeakable things +rather than incur the reproach of that conscience of his with regard to +defrauding Content of one jot or tittle of that personal property.” + +Sally shook out a long, black silk dress, with jet dangling here and +there. “Now here is this dress,” said she. “I suppose I really must keep +this, but when that child is grown up the silk will probably be cracked +and entirely worthless.” + +“You had better take the two trunks and pack them with such things, and +take your chances.” + +“Oh, I suppose so. I suppose I must take chances with everything except +furs and wools, which will collect moths. Oh, goodness!” Sally held up +an old-fashioned fitch fur tippet. Little vague winged things came from +it like dust. “Moths!” said she, tragically. “Moths now. It is full +of them. Edward, you need not tell me that clergyman's wife was +conscientious. No conscientious woman would have sent an old fur tippet +all eaten with moths into another woman's house. She could not.” + +Sally took flying leaps across the storeroom. She flung open the window +and tossed out the mangy tippet. “This is simply awful!” she declared, +as she returned. “Edward, don't you think we are justified in having +Thomas take all these things out in the back yard and making a bonfire +of the whole lot?” + +“No, my dear.” + +“But, Edward, nobody can tell what will come next. If Content's aunt had +died of a contagious disease, nothing could induce me to touch another +thing.” + +“Well, dear, you know that she died from the shock of a carriage +accident, because she had a weak heart.” + +“I know it, and of course there is nothing contagious about that.” Sally +took up an ancient bandbox and opened it. She displayed its contents: a +very frivolous bonnet dating back in style a halfcentury, gay with +roses and lace and green strings, and another with a heavy crape veil +dependent. + +“You certainly do not advise me to keep these?” asked Sally, +despondently. + +Edward Patterson looked puzzled. “Use your own judgment,” he said, +finally. + +Sally summarily marched across the room and flung the gay bonnet and the +mournful one out of the window. Then she took out a bundle of very old +underwear which had turned a saffron yellow with age. “People are always +coming to me for old linen in case of burns,” she said, succinctly. +“After these are washed I can supply an auto da fe.” + +Poor Sally worked all that day and several days afterward. The rector +deserted her, and she relied upon her own good sense in the disposition +of little Content's legacy. When all was over she told her husband. + +“Well, Edward,” said she, “there is exactly one trunk half full of +things which the child may live to use, but it is highly improbable. We +have had six bonfires, and I have given away three suits of old clothes +to Thomas's father. The clothes were very large.” + +“Must have belonged to Eudora's first husband. He was a stout man,” said +Edward. + +“And I have given two small suits of men's clothes to the Aid Society +for the next out-West barrel.” + +“Eudora's second husband's.” + +“And I gave the washerwoman enough old baking-dishes to last her +lifetime, and some cracked dishes. Most of the dishes were broken, but a +few were only cracked; and I have given Silas Thomas's wife ten old wool +dresses and a shawl and three old cloaks. All the other things which did +not go into the bonfires went to the Aid Society. They will go back +out West.” Sally laughed, a girlish peal, and her husband joined. But +suddenly her smooth forehead contracted. “Edward,” said she. + +“Well, dear?” + +“I am terribly puzzled about one thing.” The two were sitting in the +study. Content had gone to bed. Nobody could hear easily, but Sally +Patterson lowered her voice, and her honest, clear blue eyes had a +frightened expression. + +“What is it, dear?” + +“You will think me very silly and cowardly, and I think I have never +been cowardly, but this is really very strange. Come with me. I am such +a goose, I don't dare go alone to that storeroom.” + +The rector rose. Sally switched on the lights as they went up-stairs to +the storeroom. + +“Tread very softly,” she whispered. “Content is probably asleep.” + +The two tiptoed up the stairs and entered the storeroom. Sally +approached one of the two new trunks which had come with Content from +out West. She opened it. She took out a parcel nicely folded in a large +towel. + +“See here, Edward Patterson.” + +The rector stared as Sally shook out a dress-a gay, up-to-date dress, a +young girl's dress, a very tall young girl's, for the skirts trailed on +the floor as Sally held it as high as she could. It was made of a fine +white muslin. There was white lace on the bodice, and there were knots +of blue ribbon scattered over the whole, knots of blue ribbon confining +tiny bunches of rosebuds and daisies. These knots of blue ribbon and the +little flowers made it undeniably a young girl's costume. Even in the +days of all ages wearing the costumes of all ages, an older woman +would have been abashed before those exceedingly youthful knots of blue +ribbons and flowers. + +The rector looked approvingly at it. “That is very pretty, it seems to +me,” he said. “That must be worth keeping, Sally.” + +“Worth keeping! Well, Edward Patterson, just wait. You are a man, and +of course you cannot understand how very strange it is about the dress.” + The rector looked inquiringly. + +“I want to know,” said Sally, “if Content's aunt Eudora had any young +relative besides Content. I mean had she a grown-up young girl relative +who would wear a dress like this?” + +“I don't know of anybody. There might have been some relative of +Eudora's first husband. No, he was an only child. I don't think it +possible that Eudora had any young girl relative.” + +“If she had,” said Sally, firmly, “she would have kept this dress. You +are sure there was nobody else living with Content's aunt at the time +she died?” + +“Nobody except the servants, and they were an old man and his wife.” + +“Then whose dress was this?” + +“I don't know, Sally.” + +“You don't know, and I don't. It is very strange.” + +“I suppose,” said Edward Patterson, helpless before the feminine +problem, “that--Eudora got it in some way.” + +“In some way,” repeated Sally. “That is always a man's way out of a +mystery when there is a mystery. There is a mystery. There is a mystery +which worries me. I have not told you all yet, Edward.” + +“What more is there, dear?” + +“I--asked Content whose dress this was, and she said--Oh, Edward, I do +so despise mysteries.” + +“What did she say, Sally?” + +“She said it was her big sister Solly's dress.” + +“Her what?” + +“Her big sister Solly's dress. Edward, has Content ever had a sister? +Has she a sister now?” + +“No, she never had a sister, and she has none now,” declared the rector, +emphatically. “I knew all her family. What in the world ails the child?” + +“She said her big sister Solly, Edward, and the very name is so inane. +If she hasn't any big sister Solly, what are we going to do?” + +“Why, the child must simply lie,” said the rector. + +“But, Edward, I don't think she knows she lies. You may laugh, but I +think she is quite sure that she has a big sister Solly, and that this +is her dress. I have not told you the whole. After she came home from +school to-day she went up to her room, and she left the door open, and +pretty soon I heard her talking. At first I thought perhaps Lily or +Amelia was up there, although I had not seen either of them come in +with Content. Then after a while, when I had occasion to go up-stairs, +I looked in her room, and she was quite alone, although I had heard her +talking as I went up-stairs. Then I said: 'Content, I thought somebody +was in your room. I heard you talking.' + +“And she said, looking right into my eyes: 'Yes, ma'am, I was talking.' + +“'But there is nobody here,' I said. + +“'Yes, ma'am,' she said. 'There isn't anybody here now, but my big +sister Solly was here, and she is gone. You heard me talking to my big +sister Solly.' I felt faint, Edward, and you know it takes a good deal +to overcome me. I just sat down in Content's wicker rocking-chair. I +looked at her and she looked at me. Her eyes were just as clear and +blue, and her forehead looked like truth itself. She is not exactly a +pretty child, and she has a peculiar appearance, but she does certainly +look truthful and good, and she looked so then. She had tried to fluff +her hair over her forehead a little as I had told her, and not pull it +back so tight, and she wore her new dress, and her face and hands were +as clean, and she stood straight. You know she is a little inclined to +stoop, and I have talked to her about it. She stood straight, and looked +at me with those blue eyes, and I did feel fairly dizzy.” + +“What did you say?” + +“Well, after a bit I pulled myself together and I said: 'My dear little +girl, what is this? What do you mean about your big sister Sarah?' +Edward, I could not bring myself to say that idiotic Solly. In fact, I +did think I must be mistaken and had not heard correctly. But Content +just looked at me as if she thought me very stupid. 'Solly,' said she. +'My sister's name is Solly.' + +“'But, my dear,' I said, 'I understand that you had no sister.' + +“'Yes,' said she, 'I have my big sister Solly.' + +“'But where has she been all the time?' said I. + +“Then Content looked at me and smiled, and it was quite a wonderful +smile, Edward. She smiled as if she knew so much more than I could ever +know, and quite pitied me.” + +“She did not answer your question?” + +“No, only by that smile which seemed to tell whole volumes about that +awful Solly's whereabouts, only I was too ignorant to read them. + +“'Where is she now, dear?' I said, after a little. + +“'She is gone now,' said Content. + +“'Gone where?' said I. + +“And then the child smiled at me again. Edward, what are we going to do? +Is she untruthful, or has she too much imagination? I have heard of such +a thing as too much imagination, and children telling lies which were +not really lies.” + +“So have I,” agreed the rector, dryly, “but I never believed in it.” The +rector started to leave the room. + +“What are you going to do?” inquired Sally. + +“I am going to endeavor to discriminate between lies and imagination,” + replied the rector. + +Sally plucked at his coat-sleeve as they went down-stairs. “My dear,” + she whispered, “I think she is asleep.” + +“She will have to wake up.” + +“But, my dear, she may be nervous. Would it not be better to wait until +to-morrow?” + +“I think not,” said Edward Patterson. Usually an easy-going man, when +he was aroused he was determined to extremes. Into Content's room +he marched, Sally following. Neither of them saw their small son +Jim peeking around his door. He had heard--he could not help it--the +conversation earlier in the day between Content and his mother. He had +also heard other things. He now felt entirely justified in listening, +although he had a good code of honor. He considered himself in a way +responsible, knowing what he knew, for the peace of mind of his parents. +Therefore he listened, peeking around the doorway of his dark room. + +The electric light flashed out from Content's room, and the little +interior was revealed. It was charmingly pretty. Sally had done her best +to make this not altogether welcome little stranger's room attractive. +There were garlands of rosebuds swung from the top of the white +satin-papered walls. There were dainty toilet things, a little +dressing-table decked with ivory, a case of books, chairs cushioned with +rosebud chintz, windows curtained with the same. + +In the little white bed, with a rose-sprinkled coverlid over her, lay +Content. She was not asleep. Directly, when the light flashed out, she +looked at the rector and his wife with her clear blue eyes. Her fair +hair, braided neatly and tied with pink ribbons, lay in two tails on +either side of her small, certainly very good face. Her forehead was +beautiful, very white and full, giving her an expression of candor which +was even noble. Content, little lonely girl among strangers in a strange +place, mutely beseeching love and pity, from her whole attitude toward +life and the world, looked up at Edward Patterson and Sally, and the +rector realized that his determination was giving way. He began to +believe in imagination, even to the extent of a sister Solly. He had +never had a daughter, and sometimes the thought of one had made his +heart tender. His voice was very kind when he spoke. + +“Well, little girl,” he said, “what is this I hear?” + +Sally stared at her husband and stifled a chuckle. + +As for Content, she looked at the rector and said nothing. It was +obvious that she did not know what he had heard. The rector explained. + +“My dear little girl,” he said, “your aunt Sally”--they had agreed upon +the relationship of uncle and aunt to Content--“tells me that you have +been telling her about your--big sister Solly.” The rector half gasped +as he said Solly. He seemed to himself to be on the driveling verge of +idiocy before the pronunciation of that absurdly inane name. + +Content's responding voice came from the pink-and-white nest in which she +was snuggled, like the fluting pipe of a canary. + +“Yes, sir,” said she. + +“My dear child,” said the rector, “you know perfectly well that you have +no big sister--Solly.” Every time the rector said Solly he swallowed +hard. + +Content smiled as Sally had described her smiling. She said nothing. +The rector felt reproved and looked down upon from enormous heights of +innocence and childhood and the wisdom thereof. However, he persisted. + +“Content,” he said, “what did you mean by telling your aunt Sally what +you did?” + +“I was talking with my big sister Solly,” replied Content, with the +calmness of one stating a fundamental truth of nature. + +The rector's face grew stern. “Content,” he said, “look at me.” + +Content looked. Looking seemed to be the instinctive action which +distinguished her as an individual. + +“Have you a big sister--Solly?” asked the rector. His face was stern, +but his voice faltered. + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Then--tell me so.” + +“I have a big sister Solly,” said Content. Now she spoke rather wearily, +although still sweetly, as if puzzled why she had been disturbed in +sleep to be asked such an obvious question. + +“Where has she been all the time, that we have known nothing about her?” + demanded the rector. + +Content smiled. However, she spoke. “Home,” said she. + +“When did she come here?” + +“This morning.” + +“Where is she now?” + +Content smiled and was silent. The rector cast a helpless look at his +wife. He now did not care if she did see that he was completely at a +loss. How could a great, robust man and a clergyman be harsh to a tender +little girl child in a pink-andwhite nest of innocent dreams? + +Sally pitied him. She spoke more harshly than her husband. “Content +Adams,” said she, “you know perfectly well that you have no big sister +Solly. Now tell me the truth. Tell me you have no big sister Solly.” + +“I have a big sister Solly,” said Content. + +“Come, Edward,” said Sally. “There is no use in staying and talking +to this obstinate little girl any longer.” Then she spoke to Content. +“Before you go to sleep,” said she, “you must say your prayers, if you +have not already done so.” + +“I have said my prayers,” replied Content, and her blue eyes were full +of horrified astonishment at the suspicion. + +“Then,” said Sally, “you had better say them over and add something. +Pray that you may always tell the truth.” + +“Yes, ma'am,” said Content, in her little canary pipe. + +The rector and his wife went out. Sally switched off the light with a +snap as she passed. Out in the hall she stopped and held her husband's +arms hard. “Hush!” she whispered. They both listened. They heard this, +in the faintest plaint of a voice: + +“They don't believe you are here, Sister Solly, but I do.” + +Sally dashed back into the rosebud room and switched on the light. She +stared around. She opened a closet door. Then she turned off the light +and joined her husband. + +“There was nobody there?” he whispered. + +“Of course not.” + +When they were back in the study the rector and his wife looked at each +other. + +“We will do the best we can,” said Sally. “Don't worry, Edward, for you +have to write your sermon to-morrow. We will manage some way. I will +admit that I rather wish Content had had some other distant relative +besides you who could have taken charge of her.” + +“You poor child!” said the rector. “It is hard on you, Sally, for she is +no kith nor kin of yours.” + +“Indeed I don't mind,” said Sally Patterson, “if only I can succeed in +bringing her up.” + +Meantime Jim Patterson, up-stairs, sitting over his next day's algebra +lesson, was even more perplexed than were his parents in the study. +He paid little attention to his book. “I can manage little Lucy,” he +reflected, “but if the others have got hold of it, I don't know.” + +Presently he rose and stole very softly through the hall to Content's +door. She was timid, and always left it open so she could see the hall +light until she fell asleep. “Content,” whispered Jim. + +There came the faintest “What?” in response. + +“Don't you,” said Jim, in a theatrical whisper, “say another word at +school to anybody about your big sister Solly. If you do, I'll whop you, +if you are a girl.” + +“Don't care!” was sighed forth from the room. + +“And I'll whop your old big sister Solly, too.” + +There was a tiny sob. + +“I will,” declared Jim. “Now you mind!” + +The next day Jim cornered little Lucy Rose under a cedar-tree before +school began. He paid no attention to Bubby Harvey and Tom Simmons, +who were openly sniggering at him. Little Lucy gazed up at Jim, and the +blue-green shade of the cedar seemed to bring out only more clearly the +white-rose softness of her dear little face. Jim bent over her. + +“Want you to do something for me,” he whispered. + +Little Lucy nodded gravely. + +“If my new cousin Content ever says anything to you again--I heard her +yesterday--about her big sister Solly, don't you ever say a word about +it to anybody else. You will promise me, won't you, little Lucy?” + +A troubled expression came into little Lucy's kind eyes. “But she told +Lily, and Lily told Amelia, and Amelia told her grandmother Wheeler, +and her grandmother Wheeler told Miss Parmalee when she met her on the +street after school, and Miss Parmalee called on my aunt Martha and told +her,” said little Lucy. + +“Oh, shucks!” said Jim. + +“And my aunt Martha told my father that she thought perhaps she ought +to ask for her when she called on your mother. She said Arnold Carruth's +aunt Flora was going to call, and his aunt Dorothy. I heard Miss Acton +tell Miss Parmalee that she thought they ought to ask for her when they +called on your mother, too.” + +“Little Lucy,” he said, and lowered his voice, “you must promise me +never, as long as you live, to tell what I am going to tell you.” + +Little Lucy looked frightened. + +“Promise!” insisted Jim. + +“I promise,” said little Lucy, in a weak voice. + +“Never, as long as you live, to tell anybody. Promise!” + +“I promise.” + +“Now, you know if you break your promise and tell, you will be guilty of +a dreadful lie and be very wicked.” + +Little Lucy shivered. “I never will.” + +“Well, my new cousin Content Adams--tells lies.” + +Little Lucy gasped. + +“Yes, she does. She says she has a big sister Solly, and she hasn't got +any big sister Solly. She never did have, and she never will have. She +makes believe.” + +“Makes believe?” said little Lucy, in a hopeful voice. + +“Making believe is just a real mean way of lying. Now I made Content +promise last night never to say one word in school about her big sister +Solly, and I am going to tell you this, so you can tell Lily and the +others and not lie. Of course, I don't want to lie myself, because my +father is rector, and, besides, mother doesn't approve of it; but if +anybody is going to lie, I am the one. Now, you mind, little Lucy. +Content's big sister Solly has gone away, and she is never coming back. +If you tell Lily and the others I said so, I can't see how you will be +lying.” + +Little Lucy gazed at the boy. She looked like truth incarnate. “But,” + said she, in her adorable stupidity of innocence, “I don't see how she +could go away if she was never here, Jim.” + +“Oh, of course she couldn't. But all you have to do is to say that you +heard me say she had gone. Don't you understand?” + +“I don't understand how Content's big sister Solly could possibly go +away if she was never here.” + +“Little Lucy, I wouldn't ask you to tell a lie for the world, but if you +were just to say that you heard me say--” + +“I think it would be a lie,” said little Lucy, “because how can I help +knowing if she was never here she couldn't--” + +“Oh, well, little Lucy,” cried Jim, in despair, still with +tenderness--how could he be anything but tender with little Lucy?--“all +I ask is never to say anything about it.” + +“If they ask me?” + +“Anyway, you can hold your tongue. You know it isn't wicked to hold your +tongue.” + +Little Lucy absurdly stuck out the pointed tip of her little red tongue. +Then she shook her head slowly. + +“Well,” she said, “I will hold my tongue.” + +This encounter with innocence and logic had left him worsted. Jim could +see no way out of the fact that his father, the rector, his mother, +the rector's wife, and he, the rector's son, were disgraced by their +relationship to such an unsanctified little soul as this queer Content +Adams. + +And yet he looked at the poor lonely little girl, who was trying very +hard to learn her lessons, who suggested in her very pose and movement +a little, scared rabbit ready to leap the road for some bush of +hiding, and while he was angry with her he pitied her. He had no doubts +concerning Content's keeping her promise. He was quite sure that he +would now say nothing whatever about that big sister Solly to the +others, but he was not prepared for what happened that very afternoon. + +When he went home from school his heart stood still to see Miss Martha +Rose, and Arnold Carruth's aunt Flora, and his aunt who was not his +aunt, Miss Dorothy Vernon, who was visiting her, all walking along in +state with their lace-trimmed parasols, their white gloves, and their +nice card-cases. Jim jumped a fence and raced across lots home, and +gained on them. He burst in on his mother, sitting on the porch, which +was inclosed by wire netting overgrown with a budding vine. It was the +first warm day of the season. + +“Mother,” cried Jim Patterson--“mother, they are coming!” + +“Who, for goodness' sake, Jim?” + +“Why, Arnold's aunt Flora and his aunt Dorothy and little Lucy's aunt +Martha. They are coming to call.” + +Involuntarily Sally's hand went up to smooth her pretty hair. “Well, +what of it, Jim?” said she. + +“Mother, they will ask for--big sister Solly!” + +Sally Patterson turned pale. “How do you know?” + +“Mother, Content has been talking at school. A lot know. You will see +they will ask for--” + +“Run right in and tell Content to stay in her room,” whispered Sally, +hastily, for the callers, their white-kidded hands holding their +card-cases genteelly, were coming up the walk. + +Sally advanced, smiling. She put a brave face on the matter, but she +realized that she, Sally Patterson, who had never been a coward, was +positively afraid before this absurdity. The callers sat with her on the +pleasant porch, with the young vine-shadows making networks over their +best gowns. Tea was served presently by the maid, and, much to Sally's +relief, before the maid appeared came the inquiry. Miss Martha Rose made +it. + +“We would be pleased to see Miss Solly Adams also,” said Miss Martha. + +Flora Carruth echoed her. “I was so glad to hear another nice girl had +come to the village,” said she with enthusiasm. Miss Dorothy Vernon said +something indefinite to the same effect. + +“I am sorry,” replied Sally, with an effort, “but there is no Miss +Solly Adams here now.” She spoke the truth as nearly as she could manage +without unraveling the whole ridiculous affair. The callers sighed with +regret, tea was served with little cakes, and they fluttered down the +walk, holding their card-cases, and that ordeal was over. + +But Sally sought the rector in his study, and she was trembling. +“Edward,” she cried out, regardless of her husband's sermon, “something +must be done now.” + +“Why, what is the matter, Sally?” + +“People are--calling on her.” + +“Calling on whom?” + +“Big sister--Solly!” Sally explained. + +“Well, don't worry, dear,” said the rector. “Of course we will do +something, but we must think it over. Where is the child now?” + +“She and Jim are out in the garden. I saw them pass the window just +now. Jim is such a dear boy, he tries hard to be nice to her. Edward +Patterson, we ought not to wait.” + +“My dear, we must.” + +Meantime Jim and Content Adams were out in the garden. Jim had gone to +Content's door and tapped and called out, rather rudely: “Content, +I say, put on your hat and come along out in the garden. I've got +something to tell you.” + +“Don't want to,” protested Content's little voice, faintly. + +“You come right along.” + +And Content came along. She was an obedient child, and she liked Jim, +although she stood much in awe of him. She followed him into the garden +back of the rectory, and they sat down on the bench beneath the weeping +willow. The minute they were seated Jim began to talk. + +“Now,” said he, “I want to know.” + +Content glanced up at him, then looked down and turned pale. + +“I want to know, honest Injun,” said Jim, “what you are telling such +awful whoppers about your old big sister Solly for?” + +Content was silent. This time she did not smile, a tear trickled out of +her right eye and ran over the pale cheek. + +“Because you know,” said Jim, observant of the tear, but ruthless, “that +you haven't any big sister Solly, and never did have. You are getting us +all in an awful mess over it, and father is rector here, and mother is +his wife, and I am his son, and you are his niece, and it is downright +mean. Why do you tell such whoppers? Out with it!” + +Content was trembling violently. “I lived with Aunt Eudora,” she +whispered. + +“Well, what of that? Other folks have lived with their aunts and not +told whoppers.” + +“They haven't lived with Aunt Eudora.” + +“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Content Adams, and you the +rector's niece, talking that way about dead folks.” + +“I don't mean to talk about poor Aunt Eudora,” fairly sobbed Content. +“Aunt Eudora was a real good aunt, but she was grown up. She was a good +deal more grown up than your mother; she really was, and when I +first went to live with her I was 'most a little baby; I couldn't +speak--plain, and I had to go to bed real early, and slept 'way off from +everybody, and I used to be afraid--all alone, and so--” + +“Well, go on,” said Jim, but his voice was softer. It WAS hard lines for +a little kid, especially if she was a girl. + +“And so,” went on the little, plaintive voice, “I got to thinking how +nice it would be if I only had a big sister, and I used to cry and say +to myself--I couldn't speak plain, you know, I was so little-'Big sister +would be real solly.' And then first thing I knew--she came.” + +“Who came?” + +“Big sister Solly.” + +“What rot! She didn't come. Content Adams, you know she didn't come.” + +“She must have come,” persisted the little girl, in a frightened +whisper. “She must have. Oh, Jim, you don't know. Big sister Solly must +have come, or I would have died like my father and mother.” + +Jim's arm, which was near her, twitched convulsively, but he did not put +it around her. + +“She did--co-me,” sobbed Content. “Big sister Solly did come.” + +“Well, have it so,” said Jim, suddenly. “No use going over that any +longer. Have it she came, but she ain't here now, anyway. Content Adams, +you can't look me in the face and tell me that.” + +Content looked at Jim, and her little face was almost terrible, so full +of bewilderment and fear it was. “Jim,” whispered Content, “I can't +have big sister Solly not be here. I can't send her away. What would she +think?” + +Jim stared. “Think? Why, she isn't alive to think, anyhow!” + +“I can't make her--dead,” sobbed Content. “She came when I wanted her, +and now when I don't so much, when I've got Uncle Edward and Aunt Sally +and you, and don't feel so dreadful lonesome, I can't be so bad as to +make her dead.” + +Jim whistled. Then his face brightened up. He looked at Content with a +shrewd and cheerful grin. “See here, kid, you say your sister Solly is +big, grown up, don't you?” he inquired. + +Content nodded pitifully. + +“Then why, if she is grown up and pretty, don't she have a beau?” + +Content stopped sobbing and gave him a quick glance. + +“Then--why doesn't she get married, and go out West to live?” + +Jim chuckled. Instead of a sob, a faint echo of his chuckle came from +Content. + +Jim laughed merrily. “I say, Content,” he cried, “let's have it she's +married now, and gone?” + +“Well,” said Content. + +Jim put his arm around her very nicely and protectingly. “It's all +right, then,” said he, “as all right as it can be for a girl. Say, +Content, ain't it a shame you aren't a boy?” + +“I can't help it,” said Content, meekly. + +“You see,” said Jim, thoughtfully, “I don't, as a rule, care much about +girls, but if you could coast down-hill and skate, and do a few things +like that, you would be almost as good as a boy.” + +Content surveyed him, and her pessimistic little face assumed upward +curves. “I will,” said she. “I will do anything, Jim. I will fight if +you want me to, just like a boy.” + +“I don't believe you could lick any of us fellers unless you get a good +deal harder in the muscles,” said Jim, eying her thoughtfully; “but +we'll play ball, and maybe by and by you can begin with Arnold Carruth.” + +“Could lick him now,” said Content. + +But Jim's face sobered before her readiness. “Oh no, you mustn't go to +fighting right away,” said he. “It wouldn't do. You really are a girl, +you know, and father is rector.” + +“Then I won't,” said Content; “but I COULD knock down that little boy +with curls; I know I could.” + +“Well, you needn't. I'll like you just as well. You see, Content”--Jim's +voice faltered, for he was a boy, and on the verge of sentiment before +which he was shamed--“you see, Content, now your big sister Solly is +married and gone out West, why, you can have me for your brother, and of +course a brother is a good deal better than a sister.” + +“Yes,” said Content, eagerly. + +“I am going,” said Jim, “to marry Lucy Rose when I grow up, but I +haven't got any sister, and I'd like you first rate for one. So I'll be +your big brother instead of your cousin.” + +“Big brother Solly?” + +“Say, Content, that is an awful name, but I don't care. You're only +a girl. You can call me anything you want to, but you mustn't call me +Solly when there is anybody within hearing.” + +“I won't.” + +“Because it wouldn't do,” said Jim with weight. + +“I never will, honest,” said Content. + +Presently they went into the house. Dr. Trumbull was there; he had +been talking seriously to the rector and his wife. He had come over on +purpose. + +“It is a perfect absurdity,” he said, “but I made ten calls this +morning, and everywhere I was asked about that little Adams girl's big +sister--why you keep her hidden. They have a theory that she is either +an idiot or dreadfully disfigured. I had to tell them I know nothing +about it.” + +“There isn't any girl,” said the rector, wearily. “Sally, do explain.” + +Dr. Trumbull listened. “I have known such cases,” he said when Sally had +finished. + +“What did you do for them?” Sally asked, anxiously. + +“Nothing. Such cases have to be cured by time. Children get over these +fancies when they grow up.” + +“Do you mean to say that we have to put up with big sister Solly until +Content is grown up?” asked Sally, in a desperate tone. And then Jim +came in. Content had run up-stairs. + +“It is all right, mother,” said Jim. + +Sally caught him by the shoulders. “Oh, Jim, has she told you?” + +Jim gave briefly, and with many omissions, an account of his +conversation with Content. + +“Did she say anything about that dress, Jim?” asked his mother. + +“She said her aunt had meant it for that out-West rector's daughter Alice +to graduate in, but Content wanted it for her big sister Solly, and told +the rector's wife it was hers. Content says she knows she was a naughty +girl, but after she had said it she was afraid to say it wasn't so. +Mother, I think that poor little thing is scared 'most to death.” + +“Nobody is going to hurt her,” said Sally. “Goodness! that rector's wife +was so conscientious that she even let that dress go. Well, I can send +it right back, and the girl will have it in time for her graduation, +after all. Jim dear, call the poor child down. Tell her nobody is going +to scold her.” Sally's voice was very tender. + +Jim returned with Content. She had on a little ruffled pink gown +which seemed to reflect color on her cheeks. She wore an inscrutable +expression, at once child-like and charming. She looked shy, furtively +amused, yet happy. Sally realized that the pessimistic downward lines +had disappeared, that Content was really a pretty little girl. + +Sally put an arm around the small, pink figure. “So you and Jim have +been talking, dear?” she said. + +“Yes, ma'am,” replied little Content. “Jim is my big brother--” She just +caught herself before she said Solly. + +“And your sister Solly is married and living out West?” + +“Yes,” said Content, with a long breath. “My sister Solly is married.” + Smiles broke all over her little face. She hid it in Sally's skirts, and +a little peal of laughter like a bird-trill came from the soft muslin +folds. + + + + +LITTLE LUCY ROSE + +BACK of the rectory there was a splendid, long hill. The ground receded +until the rectory garden was reached, and the hill was guarded on either +flank by a thick growth of pines and cedars, and, being a part of the +land appertaining to the rectory, was never invaded by the village +children. This was considered very fortunate by Mrs. Patterson, Jim's +mother, and for an odd reason. The rector's wife was very fond of +coasting, as she was of most out-of-door sports, but her dignified +position prevented her from enjoying them to the utmost. In many +localities the clergyman's wife might have played golf and tennis, have +rode and swum and coasted and skated, and nobody thought the worse of +her; but in The Village it was different. + +Sally had therefore rejoiced at the discovery of that splendid, isolated +hill behind the house. It could not have been improved upon for a long, +perfectly glorious coast, winding up on the pool of ice in the garden +and bumping thrillingly between dry vegetables. Mrs. Patterson steered +and Jim made the running pushes, and slid flat on his chest behind his +mother. Jim was very proud of his mother. He often wished that he felt +at liberty to tell of her feats. He had never been told not to tell, but +realized, being rather a sharp boy, that silence was wiser. Jim's mother +confided in him, and he respected her confidence. “Oh, Jim dear,” she +would often say, “there is a mothers' meeting this afternoon, and I +would so much rather go coasting with you.” Or, “There's a Guild meeting +about a fair, and the ice in the garden is really quite smooth.” + +It was perhaps unbecoming a rector's wife, but Jim loved his mother +better because she expressed a preference for the sports he loved, and +considered that no other boy had a mother who was quite equal to his. +Sally Patterson was small and wiry, with a bright face, and very thick, +brown hair, which had a boyish crest over her forehead, and she could +run as fast as Jim. Jim's father was much older than his mother, and +very dignified, although he had a keen sense of humor. He used to laugh +when his wife and son came in after their coasting expeditions. + +“Well, boys,” he would say, “had a good time?” + +Jim was perfectly satisfied and convinced that his mother was the very +best and most beautiful person in the village, even in the whole world, +until Mr. Cyril Rose came to fill a vacancy of cashier in the bank, and +his daughter, little Lucy Rose, as a matter of course, came with him. +Little Lucy had no mother. Mr. Cyril's cousin, Martha Rose, kept his +house, and there was a colored maid with a bad temper, who was said, +however, to be invaluable “help.” + +Little Lucy attended Madame's school. She came the next Monday after Jim +and his friends had planned to have a chicken roast and failed. After +Jim saw little Lucy he thought no more of the chicken roast. It +seemed to him that he thought no more of anything. He could not by any +possibility have learned his lessons had it not been for the desire +to appear a good scholar before little Lucy. Jim had never been a +self-conscious boy, but that day he was so keenly worried about her +opinion of him that his usual easy swing broke into a strut when he +crossed the room. He need not have been so troubled, because little Lucy +was not looking at him. She was not looking at any boy or girl. She +was only trying to learn her lesson. Little Lucy was that rather rare +creature, a very gentle, obedient child, with a single eye for her duty. +She was so charming that it was sad to think how much her mother had +missed, as far as this world was concerned. + +The minute Madame saw her a singular light came into her eyes--the light +of love of a childless woman for a child. Similar lights were in the +eyes of Miss Parmalee and Miss Acton. They looked at one another with +a sort of sweet confidence when they were drinking tea together after +school in Madame's study. + +“Did you ever see such a darling?” said Madame. Miss Parmalee said she +never had, and Miss Acton echoed her. + +“She is a little angel,” said Madame. + +“She worked so hard over her geography lesson,” said Miss Parmalee, “and +she got the Amazon River in New England and the Connecticut in South +America, after all; but she was so sweet about it, she made me want to +change the map of the world. Dear little soul, it did seem as if she +ought to have rivers and everything else just where she chose.” + +“And she tried so hard to reach an octave, and her little finger is too +short,” said Miss Acton; “and she hasn't a bit of an ear for music, but +her little voice is so sweet it does not matter.” + +“I have seen prettier children,” said Madame, “but never one quite such +a darling.” + +Miss Parmalee and Miss Acton agreed with Madame, and so did everybody +else. Lily Jennings's beauty was quite eclipsed by little Lucy, but +Lily did not care; she was herself one of little Lucy's most fervent +admirers. She was really Jim Patterson's most formidable rival in the +school. “You don't care about great, horrid boys, do you, dear?” Lily +said to Lucy, entirely within hearing of Jim and Lee Westminster and +Johnny Trumbull and Arnold Carruth and Bubby Harvey and Frank Ellis, and +a number of others who glowered at her. + +Dear little Lucy hesitated. She did not wish to hurt the feelings of +boys, and the question had been loudly put. Finally she said she didn't +know. Lack of definite knowledge was little Lucy's rock of refuge in +time of need. She would look adorable, and say in her timid little fluty +voice, “I don't--know.” The last word came always with a sort of gasp +which was alluring. All the listening boys were convinced that little +Lucy loved them all individually and generally, because of her “I +don't--know.” + +Everybody was convinced of little Lucy's affection for everybody, which +was one reason for her charm. She flattered without knowing that she did +so. It was impossible for her to look at any living thing except with +soft eyes of love. It was impossible for her to speak without every tone +conveying the sweetest deference and admiration. The whole atmosphere +of Madame's school changed with the advent of the little girl. Everybody +tried to live up to little Lucy's supposed ideal, but in reality she had +no ideal. Lucy was the simplest of little girls, only intent upon being +good, doing as she was told, and winning her father's approval, also her +cousin Martha's. + +Martha Rose was quite elderly, although still good-looking. She was not +popular, because she was very silent. She dressed becomingly, received +calls and returned them, but hardly spoke a word. People rather dreaded +her coming. Miss Martha Rose would sit composedly in a proffered chair, +her gloved hands crossed over her nice, gold-bound card-case, her chin +tilted at an angle which never varied, her mouth in a set smile which +never wavered, her slender feet in their best shoes toeing out precisely +under the smooth sweep of her gray silk skirt. Miss Martha Rose dressed +always in gray, a fashion which the village people grudgingly admired. +It was undoubtedly becoming and distinguished, but savored ever so +slightly of ostentation, as did her custom of always dressing little +Lucy in blue. There were different shades and fabrics, but blue it +always was. It was the best color for the child, as it revealed the fact +that her big, dark eyes were blue. Shaded as they were by heavy, curly +lashes, they would have been called black or brown, but the blue in +them leaped to vision above the blue of blue frocks. Little Lucy had the +finest, most delicate features, a mist of soft, dark hair, which curled +slightly, as mist curls, over sweet, round temples. She was a small, +daintily clad child, and she spoke and moved daintily and softly; +and when her blue eyes were fixed upon anybody's face, that person +straightway saw love and obedience and trust in them, and love met love +half-way. Even Miss Martha Rose looked another woman when little Lucy's +innocent blue eyes were fixed upon her rather handsome but colorless +face between the folds of her silvery hair; Miss Martha's hair had +turned prematurely gray. Light would come into Martha Rose's face, light +and animation, although she never talked much even to Lucy. She never +talked much to her cousin Cyril, but he was rather glad of it. He had +a keen mind, but it was easily diverted, and he was engrossed in his +business, and concerned lest he be disturbed by such things as feminine +chatter, of which he certainly had none in his own home, if he kept +aloof from Jenny, the colored maid. Hers was the only female voice ever +heard to the point of annoyance in the Rose house. + +It was rather wonderful how a child like little Lucy and Miss Martha +lived with so little conversation. Martha talked no more at home than +abroad; moreover, at home she had not the attitude of waiting for some +one to talk to her, which people outside considered trying. Martha did +not expect her cousin to talk to her. She seldom asked a question. She +almost never volunteered a perfectly useless observation. She made no +remarks upon self-evident topics. If the sun shone, she never mentioned +it. If there was a heavy rain, she never mentioned that. Miss Martha +suited her cousin exactly, and for that reason, aside from the fact that +he had been devoted to little Lucy's mother, it never occurred to him +to marry again. Little Lucy talked no more than Miss Martha, and nobody +dreamed that she sometimes wanted somebody to talk to her. Nobody +dreamed that the dear little girl, studying her lessons, learning +needlework, trying very futilely to play the piano, was lonely; but she +was without knowing it herself. Martha was so kind and so still; and her +father was so kind and so still, engrossed in his papers or books, +often sitting by himself in his own study. Little Lucy in this peace and +stillness was not having her share of childhood. When other little +girls came to play with her. Miss Martha enjoined quiet, and even Lily +Jennings's bird-like chattering became subdued. It was only at school +that Lucy got her chance for the irresponsible delight which was the +simple right of her childhood, and there her zeal for her lessons +prevented. She was happy at school, however, for there she lived in +an atmosphere of demonstrative affection. The teachers were given +to seizing her in fond arms and caressing her, and so were her girl +companions; while the boys, especially Jim Patterson, looked wistfully +on. + +Jim Patterson was in love, a charming little poetical boy-love; but it +was love. Everything which he did in those days was with the thought of +little Lucy for incentive. He stood better in school than he had ever +done before, but it was all for the sake of little Lucy. Jim Patterson +had one talent, rather rudimentary, still a talent. He could play by +ear. His father owned an old violin. He had been inclined to music in +early youth, and Jim got permission to practise on it, and he went by +himself in the hot attic and practised. Jim's mother did not care for +music, and her son's preliminary scraping tortured her. Jim tucked the +old fiddle under one round boy-cheek and played in the hot attic, with +wasps buzzing around him; and he spent his pennies for catgut, and +he learned to mend fiddle-strings; and finally came a proud Wednesday +afternoon when there were visitors in Madame's school, and he stood on +the platform, with Miss Acton playing an accompaniment on the baby grand +piano, and he managed a feeble but true tune on his violin. It was +all for little Lucy, but little Lucy cared no more for music than his +mother; and while Jim was playing she was rehearsing in the depths +of her mind the little poem which later she was to recite; for this +adorable little Lucy was, as a matter of course, to figure in the +entertainment. It therefore happened that she heard not one note of Jim +Patterson's painfully executed piece, for she was saying to herself in +mental singsong a foolish little poem, beginning: + + There was one little flower that bloomed + Beside a cottage door. + +When she went forward, little darling blue-clad figure, there was a +murmur of admiration; and when she made mistakes straight through the +poem, saying, + + There was a little flower that fell + On my aunt Martha's floor, + +for beginning, there was a roar of tender laughter and a clapping of +tender, maternal hands, and everybody wanted to catch hold of little +Lucy and kiss her. It was one of the irresistible charms of this child +that people loved her the more for her mistakes, and she made many, +although she tried so very hard to avoid them. Little Lucy was not in +the least brilliant, but she held love like a precious vase, and it gave +out perfume better than mere knowledge. + +Jim Patterson was so deeply in love with her when he went home that +night that he confessed to his mother. Mrs. Patterson had led up to the +subject by alluding to little Lucy while at the dinner-table. + +“Edward,” she said to her husband--both she and the rector had +been present at Madame's school entertainment and the tea-drinking +afterward--“did you ever see in all your life such a darling little girl +as the new cashier's daughter? She quite makes up for Miss Martha, who +sat here one solid hour, holding her card-case, waiting for me to talk +to her. That child is simply delicious, and I was so glad she made +mistakes.” + +“Yes, she is a charming child,” assented the rector, “despite the fact +that she is not a beauty, hardly even pretty.” + +“I know it,” said Mrs. Patterson, “but she has the worth of beauty.” + +Jim was quite pale while his father and mother were talking. He +swallowed the hot soup so fast that it burnt his tongue. Then he turned +very red, but nobody noticed him. When his mother came up-stairs to kiss +him good night he told her. + +“Mother,” said he, “I have something to tell you.” + +“All right, Jim,” replied Sally Patterson, with her boyish air. + +“It is very important,” said Jim. + +Mrs. Patterson did not laugh; she did not even smile. She sat down +beside Jim's bed and looked seriously at his eager, rapt, shamed little +boy-face on the pillow. “Well?” said she, after a minute which seemed +difficult to him. + +Jim coughed. Then he spoke with a blurt. “Mother,” said Jim, “by and by, +of course not quite yet, but by and by, will you have any objection to +Miss Lucy Rose as a daughter?” + +Even then Sally Patterson did not laugh or even smile. “Are you thinking +of marrying her, Jim?” asked she, quite as if her son had been a man. + +“Yes, mother,” replied Jim. Then he flung up his little arms in pink +pajama sleeves, and Sally Patterson took his face between her two hands +and kissed him warmly. + +“She is a darling, and your choice does you credit, Jim,” said she. “Of +course you have said nothing to her yet?” + +“I thought it was rather too soon.” + +“I really think you are very wise, Jim,” said his mother. “It is too +soon to put such ideas into the poor child's head. She is younger than +you, isn't she, Jim?” + +“She is just six months and three days younger,” replied Jim, with +majesty. + +“I thought so. Well, you know, Jim, it would just wear her all out, +as young as that, to be obliged to think about her trousseau and +housekeeping and going to school, too.” + +“I know it,” said Jim, with a pleased air. “I thought I was right, +mother.” + +“Entirely right; and you, too, really ought to finish school, and take +up a profession or a business, before you say anything definite. You +would want a nice home for the dear little thing, you know that, Jim.” + +Jim stared at his mother out of his white pillow. “I thought I would +stay with you, and she would stay with her father until we were both +very much older,” said he. “She has a nice home now, you know, mother.” + +Sally Patterson's mouth twitched a little, but she spoke quite gravely +and reasonably. “Yes, that is very true,” said she; “still, I do think +you are wise to wait, Jim.” + +When Sally Patterson had left Jim, she looked in on the rector in his +study. “Our son is thinking seriously of marrying, Edward,” said she. + +The rector stared at her. She had shut the door, and she laughed. + +“He is very discreet. He has consulted me as to my approval of her as +daughter and announced his intention to wait a little while.” + +The rector laughed; then he wrinkled his forehead uneasily. “I don't +like the little chap getting such ideas,” said he. + +“Don't worry, Edward; he hasn't got them,” said Sally Patterson. + +“I hope not.” + +“He has made a very wise choice. She is that perfect darling of a Rose +girl who couldn't speak her piece, and thought we all loved her when we +laughed.” + +“Well, don't let him get foolish ideas; that is all, my dear,” said the +rector. + +“Don't worry, Edward. I can manage him,” said Sally. + +But she was mistaken. The very next day Jim proposed in due form +to little Lucy. He could not help it. It was during the morning +intermission, and he came upon her seated all alone under a hawthorn +hedge, studying her arithmetic anxiously. She was in blue, as usual, and +a very perky blue bow sat on her soft, dark hair, like a bluebird. She +glanced up at Jim from under her long lashes. + +“Do two and seven make eight or ten? If you please, will you tell me?” + said she. + +“Say, Lucy,” said Jim, “will you marry me by and by?” + +Lucy stared at him uncomprehendingly. + +“Will you?” + +“Will I what?” + +“Marry me by and by?” + +Lucy took refuge in her little harbor of ignorance. “I don't know,” said +she. + +“But you like me, don't you, Lucy?” + +“I don't know.” + +“Don't you like me better than you like Johnny Trumbull?” + +“I don't know.” + +“You like me better than you like Arnold Carruth, don't you? He has +curls and wears socks.” + +“I don't know.” + +“When do you think you can be sure?” + +“I don't know.” + +Jim stared helplessly at little Lucy. She stared back sweetly. + +“Please tell me whether two and seven make six or eleven, Jim,” said +she. + +“They make nine,” said Jim. + +“I have been counting my fingers and I got it eleven, but I suppose +I must have counted one finger twice,” said little Lucy. She gazed +reflectively at her little baby-hands. A tiny ring with a blue stone +shone on one finger. + +“I will give you a ring, you know,” Jim said, coaxingly. + +“I have got a ring my father gave me. Did you say it was ten, please, +Jim?” + +“Nine,” gasped Jim. + +“All the way I can remember,” said little Lucy, “is for you to pick just +so many leaves off the hedge, and I will tie them in my handkerchief, +and just before I have to say my lesson I will count those leaves.” + +Jim obediently picked nine leaves from the hawthorn hedge, and little +Lucy tied them into her handkerchief, and then the Japanese gong sounded +and they went back to school. + +That night after dinner, just before Lucy went to bed, she spoke of her +own accord to her father and Miss Martha, a thing which she seldom did. +“Jim Patterson asked me to marry him when I asked him what seven and two +made in my arithmetic lesson,” said she. She looked with the loveliest +round eyes of innocence first at her father, then at Miss Martha. Cyril +Rose gasped and laid down his newspaper. + +“What did you say, little Lucy?” he asked. + +“Jim Patterson asked me to marry him when I asked him to tell me how +much seven and two made in my arithmetic lesson.” + +Cyril Rose and his cousin Martha looked at each other. + +“Arnold Carruth asked me, too, when a great big wasp flew on my arm and +frightened me.” + +Cyril and Martha continued to look. The little, sweet, uncertain voice +went on. + +“And Johnny Trumbull asked me when I 'most fell down on the sidewalk; +and Lee Westminster asked me when I wasn't doing anything, and so did +Bubby Harvey.” + +“What did you tell them?” asked Miss Martha, in a faint voice. + +“I told them I didn't know.” + +“You had better have the child go to bed now,” said Cyril. “Good night, +little Lucy. Always tell father everything.” + +“Yes, father,” said little Lucy, and was kissed, and went away with +Martha. + +When Martha returned, her cousin looked at her severely. He was a fair, +gentle-looking man, and severity was impressive when he assumed it. + +“Really, Martha,” said he, “don't you think you had better have a little +closer outlook over that baby?” + +“Oh, Cyril, I never dreamed of such a thing,” cried Miss Martha. + +“You really must speak to Madame,” said Cyril. “I cannot have such +things put into the child's head.” + +“Oh, Cyril, how can I?” + +“I think it is your duty.” + +“Cyril, could not--you?” + +Cyril grinned. “Do you think,” said he, “that I am going to that elegant +widow schoolma'am and say, 'Madame, my young daughter has had four +proposals of marriage in one day, and I must beg you to put a stop to +such proceedings'? No, Martha; it is a woman's place to do such a thing +as that. The whole thing is too absurd, indignant as I am about it. Poor +little soul!” + +So it happened that Miss Martha Rose, the next day being Saturday, +called on Madame, but, not being asked any leading question, found +herself absolutely unable to deliver herself of her errand, and went +away with it unfulfilled. + +“Well, I must say,” said Madame to Miss Parmalee, as Miss Martha tripped +wearily down the front walk--“I must say, of all the educated women who +have really been in the world, she is the strangest. You and I have done +nothing but ask inane questions, and she has sat waiting for them, and +chirped back like a canary. I am simply worn out.” + +“So am I,” sighed Miss Parmalee. + +But neither of them was so worn out as poor Miss Martha, anticipating +her cousin's reproaches. However, her wonted silence and reticence stood +her in good stead, for he merely asked, after little Lucy had gone to +bed: + +“Well, what did Madame say about Lucy's proposals?” + +“She did not say anything,” replied Martha. + +“Did she promise it would not occur again?” + +“She did not promise, but I don't think it will.” + +The financial page was unusually thrilling that night, and Cyril +Rose, who had come to think rather lightly of the affair, remarked, +absent-mindedly; “Well, I hope it does not occur again. I cannot have +such ridiculous ideas put into the child's head. If it does, we get a +governess for her and take her away from Madame's.” Then he resumed his +reading, and Martha, guilty but relieved, went on with her knitting. + +It was late spring then, and little Lucy had attended Madame's school +several months, and her popularity had never waned. A picnic was planned +to Dover's Grove, and the romantic little girls had insisted upon a May +queen, and Lucy was unanimously elected. The pupils of Madame's school +went to the picnic in the manner known as a “strawride.” Miss Parmalee +sat with them, her feet uncomfortably tucked under her. She was the +youngest of the teachers, and could not evade the duty. Madame and Miss +Acton headed the procession, sitting comfortably in a victoria driven +by the colored man Sam, who was employed about the school. Dover's Grove +was six miles from the village, and a favorite spot for picnics. The +victoria rolled on ahead; Madame carried a black parasol, for the sun +was on her side and the day very warm. Both ladies wore thin, dark +gowns, and both felt the languor of spring. + +The straw-wagon, laden with children seated upon the golden trusses of +straw, looked like a wagonload of blossoms. Fair and dark heads, rosy +faces looked forth in charming clusters. They sang, they chattered. It +made no difference to them that it was not the season for a straw-ride, +that the trusses were musty. They inhaled the fragrance of blooming +boughs under which they rode, and were quite oblivious to all discomfort +and unpleasantness. Poor Miss Parmalee, with her feet going to sleep, +sneezing from time to time from the odor of the old straw, did not +obtain the full beauty of the spring day. She had protested against the +straw-ride. + +“The children really ought to wait until the season for such things,” + she had told Madame, quite boldly; and Madame had replied that she was +well aware of it, but the children wanted something of the sort, and the +hay was not cut, and straw, as it happened, was more easily procured. + +“It may not be so very musty,” said Madame; “and you know, my dear, +straw is clean, and I am sorry, but you do seem to be the one to ride +with the children on the straw, because”--Madame dropped her voice--“you +are really younger, you know, than either Miss Acton or I.” + +Poor Miss Parmalee could almost have dispensed with her few years +of superior youth to have gotten rid of that straw-ride. She had no +parasol, and the sun beat upon her head, and the noise of the children +got horribly on her nerves. Little Lucy was her one alleviation. Little +Lucy sat in the midst of the boisterous throng, perfectly still, crowned +with her garland of leaves and flowers, her sweet, pale little face +calmly observant. She was the high light of Madame's school, the effect +which made the whole. All the others looked at little Lucy, they talked +to her, they talked at her; but she remained herself unmoved, as a high +light should be. “Dear little soul,” Miss Parmalee thought. She also +thought that it was a pity that little Lucy could not have worn a white +frock in her character as Queen of the May, but there she was mistaken. +The blue was of a peculiar shade, of a very soft material, and nothing +could have been prettier. Jim Patterson did not often look away from +little Lucy; neither did Arnold Carruth; neither did Bubby Harvey; +neither did Johnny Trumbull; neither did Lily Jennings; neither did many +others. + +Amelia Wheeler, however, felt a little jealous as she watched Lily. She +thought Lily ought to have been queen; and she, while she did not dream +of competing with incomparable little Lucy, wished Lily would not always +look at Lucy with such worshipful admiration. Amelia was inconsistent. +She knew that she herself could not aspire to being an object of +worship, but the state of being a nonentity for Lily was depressing. +“Wonder if I jumped out of this old wagon and got killed if she would +mind one bit?” she thought, tragically. But Amelia did not jump. She +had tragic impulses, or rather imaginations of tragic impulses, but she +never carried them out. It was left for little Lucy, flower-crowned and +calmly sweet and gentle under honors, to be guilty of a tragedy of which +she never dreamed. For that was the day when little Lucy was lost. + +When the picnic was over, when the children were climbing into the +straw-wagon and Madame and Miss Acton were genteelly disposed in the +victoria, a lamentable cry arose. Sam drew his reins tight and rolled +his inquiring eyes around; Madame and Miss Acton leaned far out on +either side of the victoria. + +“Oh, what is it?” said Madame. “My dear Miss Acton, do pray get out and +see what the trouble is. I begin to feel a little faint.” + +In fact, Madame got her cut-glass smelling-bottle out of her bag and +began to sniff vigorously. Sam gazed backward and paid no attention to +her. Madame always felt faint when anything unexpected occurred, and +smelled at the pretty bottle, but she never fainted. + +Miss Acton got out, lifting her nice skirts clear of the dusty wheel, +and she scuttled back to the uproarious straw-wagon, showing her slender +ankles and trimly shod feet. Miss Acton was a very wiry, dainty woman, +full of nervous energy. When she reached the straw-wagon Miss Parmalee +was climbing out, assisted by the driver. Miss Parmalee was very pale +and visibly tremulous. The children were all shrieking in dissonance, +so it was quite impossible to tell what the burden of their tale of woe +was; but obviously something of a tragic nature had happened. + +“What is the matter?” asked Miss Acton, teetering like a humming-bird +with excitement. + +“Little Lucy--” gasped Miss Parmalee. + +“What about her?” + +“She isn't here.” + +“Where is she?” + +“We don't know. We just missed her.” + +Then the cry of the children for little Lucy Rose, although sadly +wrangled, became intelligible. Madame came, holding up her silk skirt +and sniffing at her smelling-bottle, and everybody asked questions +of everybody else, and nobody knew any satisfactory answers. Johnny +Trumbull was confident that he was the last one to see little Lucy, and +so were Lily Jennings and Amelia Wheeler, and so were Jim Patterson and +Bubby Harvey and Arnold Carruth and Lee Westminster and many others; but +when pinned down to the actual moment everybody disagreed, and only one +thing was certain--little Lucy Rose was missing. + +“What shall I say to her father?” moaned Madame. + +“Of course, we shall find her before we say anything,” returned Miss +Parmalee, who was sure to rise to an emergency. Madame sank helpless +before one. “You had better go and sit under that tree (Sam, take a +cushion out of the carriage for Madame) and keep quiet; then Sam must +drive to the village and give the alarm, and the strawwagon had better +go, too; and the rest of us will hunt by threes, three always keeping +together. Remember, children, three of you keep together, and, whatever +you do, be sure and do not separate. We cannot have another lost.” + +It seemed very sound advice. Madame, pale and frightened, sat on the +cushion under the tree and sniffed at her smelling-bottle, and the rest +scattered and searched the grove and surrounding underbrush thoroughly. +But it was sunset when the groups returned to Madame under her tree, +and the strawwagon with excited people was back, and the victoria with +Lucy's father and the rector and his wife, and Dr. Trumbull in his +buggy, and other carriages fast arriving. Poor Miss Martha Rose had been +out calling when she heard the news, and she was walking to the scene of +action. The victoria in which her cousin was seated left her in a +cloud of dust. Cyril Rose had not noticed the mincing figure with the +card-case and the parasol. + +The village searched for little Lucy Rose, but it was Jim Patterson who +found her, and in the most unlikely of places. A forlorn pair with a +multiplicity of forlorn children lived in a tumble-down house about half +a mile from the grove. The man's name was Silas Thomas, and his wife's +was Sarah. Poor Sarah had lost a large part of the small wit she had +originally owned several years before, when her youngest daughter, aged +four, died. All the babies that had arrived since had not consoled her +for the death of that little lamb, by name Viola May, nor restored her +full measure of under-wit. Poor Sarah Thomas had spied adorable little +Lucy separated from her mates by chance for a few minutes, picking wild +flowers, and had seized her in forcible but loving arms and carried her +home. Had Lucy not been such a silent, docile child, it could never +have happened; but she was a mere little limp thing in the grasp of the +over-loving, deprived mother who thought she had gotten back her own +beloved Viola May. + +When Jim Patterson, big-eyed and pale, looked in at the Thomas door, +there sat Sarah Thomas, a large, unkempt, wild-visaged, but gentle +creature, holding little Lucy and cuddling her, while Lucy, shrinking +away as far as she was able, kept her big, dark eyes of wonder and +fear upon the woman's face. And all around were clustered the Thomas +children, unkempt as their mother, a gentle but degenerate brood, all +of them believing what their mother said. Viola May had come home again. +Silas Thomas was not there; he was trudging slowly homeward from a job +of wood-cutting. Jim saw only the mother, little Lucy, and that poor +little flock of children gazing in wonder and awe. Jim rushed in and +faced Sarah Thomas. “Give me little Lucy!” said he, as fiercely as any +man. But he reckoned without the unreasoning love of a mother. Sarah +only held little Lucy faster, and the poor little girl rolled appealing +eyes at him over that brawny, grasping arm of affection. + +Jim raced for help, and it was not long before it came. Little Lucy rode +home in the victoria, seated in Sally Patterson's lap. “Mother, you take +her,” Jim had pleaded; and Sally, in the face and eyes of Madame, had +gathered the little trembling creature into her arms. In her heart she +had not much of an opinion of any woman who had allowed such a darling +little girl out of her sight for a moment. Madame accepted a seat in +another carriage and rode home, explaining and sniffing and inwardly +resolving never again to have a straw-ride. + +Jim stood on the step of the victoria all the way home. They passed poor +Miss Martha Rose, still faring toward the grove, and nobody noticed her, +for the second time. She did not turn back until the straw-wagon, which +formed the tail of the little procession, reached her. That she halted +with mad waves of her parasol, and, when told that little Lucy was +found, refused a seat on the straw because she did not wish to rumple +her best gown and turned about and fared home again. + +The rectory was reached before Cyril Rose's house, and Cyril yielded +gratefully to Sally Patterson's proposition that she take the little +girl with her, give her dinner, see that she was washed and brushed +and freed from possible contamination from the Thomases, who were not a +cleanly lot, and later brought home in the rector's carriage. However, +little Lucy stayed all night at the rectory. She had a bath; her lovely, +misty hair was brushed; she was fed and petted; and finally Sally +Patterson telephoned for permission to keep her overnight. By that time +poor Martha had reached home and was busily brushing her best dress. + +After dinner, little Lucy, very happy and quite restored, sat in Sally +Patterson's lap on the veranda, while Jim hovered near. His innocent +boy-love made him feel as if he had wings. But his wings only bore him +to failure, before an earlier and mightier force of love than his young +heart could yet compass for even such a darling as little Lucy. He sat +on the veranda step and gazed eagerly and rapturously at little Lucy on +his mother's lap, and the desire to have her away from other loves came +over him. He saw the fireflies dancing in swarms on the lawn, and a +favorite sport of the children of the village occurred to him. + +“Say, little Lucy,” said Jim. + +Little Lucy looked up with big, dark eyes under her mist of hair, as she +nestled against Sally Patterson's shoulder. + +“Say, let's chase fireflies, little Lucy.” + +“Do you want to chase fireflies with Jim, darling?” asked Sally. + +Little Lucy nestled closer. “I would rather stay with you,” said she in +her meek flute of a voice, and she gazed up at Sally with the look which +she might have given the mother she had lost. + +Sally kissed her and laughed. Then she reached down a fond hand and +patted her boy's head. “Never mind, Jim,” said Sally. “Mothers have to +come first.” + + + + +NOBLESSE + +MARGARET LEE encountered in her late middle age the rather singular +strait of being entirely alone in the world. She was unmarried, and as +far as relatives were concerned, she had none except those connected +with her by ties not of blood, but by marriage. + +Margaret had not married when her flesh had been comparative; later, +when it had become superlative, she had no opportunities to marry. Life +would have been hard enough for Margaret under any circumstances, but it +was especially hard, living, as she did, with her father's stepdaughter +and that daughter's husband. + +Margaret's stepmother had been a child in spite of her two marriages, +and a very silly, although pretty child. The daughter, Camille, was like +her, although not so pretty, and the man whom Camille had married +was what Margaret had been taught to regard as “common.” His business +pursuits were irregular and partook of mystery. He always smoked +cigarettes and chewed gum. He wore loud shirts and a diamond scarf-pin +which had upon him the appearance of stolen goods. The gem had belonged +to Margaret's own mother, but when Camille expressed a desire to present +it to Jack Desmond, Margaret had yielded with no outward hesitation, but +afterward she wept miserably over its loss when alone in her room. The +spirit had gone out of Margaret, the little which she had possessed. She +had always been a gentle, sensitive creature, and was almost helpless +before the wishes of others. + +After all, it had been a long time since Margaret had been able to +force the ring even upon her little finger, but she had derived a small +pleasure from the reflection that she owned it in its faded velvet box, +hidden under laces in her top bureau drawer. She did not like to see +it blazing forth from the tie of this very ordinary young man who had +married Camille. Margaret had a gentle, high-bred contempt for Jack +Desmond, but at the same time a vague fear of him. Jack had a measure of +unscrupulous business shrewdness, which spared nothing and nobody, and +that in spite of the fact that he had not succeeded. + +Margaret owned the old Lee place, which had been magnificent, but of +late years the expenditures had been reduced and it had deteriorated. +The conservatories had been closed. There was only one horse in +the stable. Jack had bought him. He was a wornout trotter with legs +carefully bandaged. Jack drove him at reckless speed, not considering +those slender, braceleted legs. Jack had a racing-gig, and when in it, +with striped coat, cap on one side, cigarette in mouth, lines held taut, +skimming along the roads in clouds of dust, he thought himself the man +and true sportsman which he was not. Some of the old Lee silver had paid +for that waning trotter. + +Camille adored Jack, and cared for no associations, no society, for +which he was not suited. Before the trotter was bought she told Margaret +that the kind of dinners which she was able to give in Fairhill were +awfully slow. “If we could afford to have some men out from the city, +some nice fellers that Jack knows, it would be worth while,” said she, +“but we have grown so hard up we can't do a thing to make it worth their +while. Those men haven't got any use for a back-number old place like +this. We can't take them round in autos, nor give them a chance at +cards, for Jack couldn't pay if he lost, and Jack is awful honorable. We +can't have the right kind of folks here for any fun. I don't propose +to ask the rector and his wife, and old Mr. Harvey, or people like the +Leaches.” + +“The Leaches are a very good old family,” said Margaret, feebly. + +“I don't care for good old families when they are so slow,” retorted +Camille. “The fellers we could have here, if we were rich enough, come +from fine families, but they are up-to-date. It's no use hanging on to +old silver dishes we never use and that I don't intend to spoil my +hands shining. Poor Jack don't have much fun, anyway. If he wants that +trotter--he says it's going dirt cheap--I think it's mean he can't have +it, instead of your hanging on to a lot of out-of-style old silver; so +there.” + +Two generations ago there had been French blood in Camille's family. She +put on her clothes beautifully; she had a dark, rather fine-featured, +alert little face, which gave a wrong impression, for she was +essentially vulgar. Sometimes poor Margaret Lee wished that Camille had +been definitely vicious, if only she might be possessed of more of the +characteristics of breeding. Camille so irritated Margaret in those +somewhat abstruse traits called sensibilities that she felt as if she +were living with a sort of spiritual nutmeg-grater. Seldom did Camille +speak that she did not jar Margaret, although unconsciously. Camille +meant to be kind to the stout woman, whom she pitied as far as she was +capable of pitying without understanding. She realized that it must +be horrible to be no longer young, and so stout that one was fairly +monstrous, but how horrible she could not with her mentality conceive. +Jack also meant to be kind. He was not of the brutal--that is, +intentionally brutal--type, but he had a shrewd eye to the betterment of +himself, and no realization of the torture he inflicted upon those who +opposed that betterment. + +For a long time matters had been worse than usual financially in the Lee +house. The sisters had been left in charge of the sadly dwindled estate, +and had depended upon the judgment, or lack of judgment, of Jack. He +approved of taking your chances and striking for larger income. The few +good old grandfather securities had been sold, and wild ones from the +very jungle of commerce had been substituted. Jack, like most of his +type, while shrewd, was as credulous as a child. He lied himself, and +expected all men to tell him the truth. Camille at his bidding mortgaged +the old place, and Margaret dared not oppose. Taxes were not paid; +interest was not paid; credit was exhausted. Then the house was put up +at public auction, and brought little more than sufficient to pay the +creditors. Jack took the balance and staked it in a few games of chance, +and of course lost. The weary trotter stumbled one day and had to be +shot. Jack became desperate. He frightened Camille. He was suddenly +morose. He bade Camille pack, and Margaret also, and they obeyed. +Camille stowed away her crumpled finery in the bulging old trunks, and +Margaret folded daintily her few remnants of past treasures. She had an +old silk gown or two, which resisted with their rich honesty the inroads +of time, and a few pieces of old lace, which Camille understood no +better than she understood their owner. + +Then Margaret and the Desmonds went to the city and lived in a horrible, +tawdry little flat in a tawdry locality. Jack roared with bitter mirth +when he saw poor Margaret forced to enter her tiny room sidewise; +Camille laughed also, although she chided Jack gently. “Mean of you to +make fun of poor Margaret, Jacky dear,” she said. + +For a few weeks Margaret's life in that flat was horrible; then it +became still worse. Margaret nearly filled with her weary, ridiculous +bulk her little room, and she remained there most of the time, although +it was sunny and noisy, its one window giving on a courtyard strung with +clothes-lines and teeming with boisterous life. Camille and Jack +went trolley-riding, and made shift to entertain a little, merry but +questionable people, who gave them passes to vaudeville and entertained +in their turn until the small hours. Unquestionably these people +suggested to Jack Desmond the scheme which spelled tragedy to Margaret. + +She always remembered one little dark man with keen eyes who had seen +her disappearing through her door of a Sunday night when all these gay, +bedraggled birds were at liberty and the fun ran high. “Great Scott!” + the man had said, and Margaret had heard him demand of Jack that she be +recalled. She obeyed, and the man was introduced, also the other members +of the party. Margaret Lee stood in the midst of this throng and heard +their repressed titters of mirth at her appearance. Everybody there was +in good humor with the exception of Jack, who was still nursing his bad +luck, and the little dark man, whom Jack owed. The eyes of Jack and the +little dark man made Margaret cold with a terror of something, she +knew not what. Before that terror the shame and mortification of her +exhibition to that merry company was of no import. + +She stood among them, silent, immense, clad in her dark purple silk gown +spread over a great hoopskirt. A real lace collar lay softly over her +enormous, billowing shoulders; real lace ruffles lay over her great, +shapeless hands. Her face, the delicacy of whose features was veiled +with flesh, flushed and paled. Not even flesh could subdue the sad +brilliancy of her dark-blue eyes, fixed inward upon her own sad state, +unregardful of the company. She made an indefinite murmur of response +to the salutations given her, and then retreated. She heard the roar of +laughter after she had squeezed through the door of her room. Then she +heard eager conversation, of which she did not catch the real import, +but which terrified her with chance expressions. She was quite sure that +she was the subject of that eager discussion. She was quite sure that it +boded her no good. + +In a few days she knew the worst; and the worst was beyond her utmost +imaginings. This was before the days of moving-picture shows; it was +the day of humiliating spectacles of deformities, when inventions +of amusements for the people had not progressed. It was the day of +exhibitions of sad freaks of nature, calculated to provoke tears rather +than laughter in the healthy-minded, and poor Margaret Lee was a chosen +victim. Camille informed her in a few words of her fate. Camille was +sorry for her, although not in the least understanding why she was +sorry. She realized dimly that Margaret would be distressed, but she +was unable from her narrow point of view to comprehend fully the whole +tragedy. + +“Jack has gone broke,” stated Camille. “He owes Bill Stark a pile, and +he can't pay a cent of it; and Jack's sense of honor about a poker debt +is about the biggest thing in his character. Jack has got to pay. And +Bill has a little circus, going to travel all summer, and he's offered +big money for you. Jack can pay Bill what he owes him, and we'll have +enough to live on, and have lots of fun going around. You hadn't ought +to make a fuss about it.” + +Margaret, pale as death, stared at the girl, pertly slim, and common and +pretty, who stared back laughingly, although still with the glimmer of +uncomprehending pity in her black eyes. + +“What does--he--want--me--for?” gasped Margaret. + +“For a show, because you are so big,” replied Camille. “You will make us +all rich, Margaret. Ain't it nice?” + +Then Camille screamed, the shrill raucous scream of the women of her +type, for Margaret had fallen back in a dead faint, her immense bulk +inert in her chair. Jack came running in alarm. Margaret had suddenly +gained value in his shrewd eyes. He was as pale as she. + +Finally Margaret raised her head, opened her miserable eyes, and +regained her consciousness of herself and what lay before her. There was +no course open but submission. She knew that from the first. All three +faced destitution; she was the one financial asset, she and her poor +flesh. She had to face it, and with what dignity she could muster. + +Margaret had great piety. She kept constantly before her mental vision +the fact in which she believed, that the world which she found so hard, +and which put her to unspeakable torture, was not all. + +A week elapsed before the wretched little show of which she was to be a +member went on the road, and night after night she prayed. She besieged +her God for strength. She never prayed for respite. Her realization +of the situation and her lofty resolution prevented that. The awful, +ridiculous combat was before her; there was no evasion; she prayed only +for the strength which leads to victory. + +However, when the time came, it was all worse than she had imagined. How +could a woman gently born and bred conceive of the horrible ignominy +of such a life? She was dragged hither and yon, to this and that little +town. She traveled through sweltering heat on jolting trains; she slept +in tents; she lived--she, Margaret Lee--on terms of equality with the +common and the vulgar. Daily her absurd unwieldiness was exhibited to +crowds screaming with laughter. Even her faith wavered. It seemed to her +that there was nothing for evermore beyond those staring, jeering faces +of silly mirth and delight at sight of her, seated in two chairs, clad +in a pink spangled dress, her vast shoulders bare and sparkling with a +tawdry necklace, her great, bare arms covered with brass bracelets, her +hands incased in short, white kid gloves, over the fingers of which she +wore a number of rings--stage properties. + +Margaret became a horror to herself. At times it seemed to her that she +was in the way of fairly losing her own identity. It mattered little +that Camille and Jack were very kind to her, that they showed her the +nice things which her terrible earnings had enabled them to have. +She sat in her two chairs--the two chairs proved a most successful +advertisement--with her two kid-cushiony hands clenched in her pink +spangled lap, and she suffered agony of soul, which made her inner self +stern and terrible, behind that great pink mask of face. And nobody +realized until one sultry day when the show opened at a village in a +pocket of green hills--indeed, its name was Greenhill--and Sydney Lord +went to see it. + +Margaret, who had schooled herself to look upon her audience as if they +were not, suddenly comprehended among them another soul who understood +her own. She met the eyes of the man, and a wonderful comfort, as of a +cool breeze blowing over the face of clear water, came to her. She knew +that the man understood. She knew that she had his fullest sympathy. She +saw also a comrade in the toils of comic tragedy, for Sydney Lord was in +the same case. He was a mountain of flesh. As a matter of fact, had +he not been known in Greenhill and respected as a man of weight of +character as well as of body, and of an old family, he would have +rivaled Margaret. Beside him sat an elderly woman, sweet-faced, slightly +bent as to her slender shoulders, as if with a chronic attitude of +submission. She was Sydney's widowed sister, Ellen Waters. She lived +with her brother and kept his house, and had no will other than his. + +Sydney Lord and his sister remained when the rest of the audience had +drifted out, after the privileged hand-shakes with the queen of +the show. Every time a coarse, rustic hand reached familiarly after +Margaret's, Sydney shrank. + +He motioned his sister to remain seated when he approached the stage. +Jack Desmond, who had been exploiting Margaret, gazed at him with +admiring curiosity. Sydney waved him away with a commanding gesture. “I +wish to speak to her a moment. Pray leave the tent,” he said, and Jack +obeyed. People always obeyed Sydney Lord. + +Sydney stood before Margaret, and he saw the clear crystal, which was +herself, within all the flesh, clad in tawdry raiment, and she knew that +he saw it. + +“Good God!” said Sydney, “you are a lady!” + +He continued to gaze at her, and his eyes, large and brown, became +blurred; at the same time his mouth tightened. + +“How came you to be in such a place as this?” demanded Sydney. He spoke +almost as if he were angry with her. + +Margaret explained briefly. + +“It is an outrage,” declared Sydney. He said it, however, rather +absently. He was reflecting. “Where do you live?” he asked. + +“Here.” + +“You mean--?” + +“They make up a bed for me here, after the people have gone.” + +“And I suppose you had--before this--a comfortable house.” + +“The house which my grandfather Lee owned, the old Lee mansion-house, +before we went to the city. It was a very fine old Colonial house,” + explained Margaret, in her finely modulated voice. + +“And you had a good room?” + +“The southeast chamber had always been mine. It was very large, and the +furniture was old Spanish mahogany.” + +“And now--” said Sydney. + +“Yes,” said Margaret. She looked at him, and her serious blue eyes +seemed to see past him. “It will not last,” she said. + +“What do you mean?” + +“I try to learn a lesson. I am a child in the school of God. My lesson +is one that always ends in peace.” + +“Good God!” said Sydney. + +He motioned to his sister, and Ellen approached in a frightened fashion. +Her brother could do no wrong, but this was the unusual, and alarmed +her. + +“This lady--” began Sydney. + +“Miss Lee,” said Margaret. “I was never married. I am Miss Margaret +Lee.” + +“This,” said Sydney, “is my sister Ellen, Mrs. Waters. Ellen, I wish you +to meet Miss Lee.” + +Ellen took into her own Margaret's hand, and said feebly that it was a +beautiful day and she hoped Miss Lee found Greenhill a pleasant place +to--visit. + +Sydney moved slowly out of the tent and found Jack Desmond. He was +standing near with Camille, who looked her best in a pale-blue summer +silk and a black hat trimmed with roses. Jack and Camille never really +knew how the great man had managed, but presently Margaret had gone away +with him and his sister. + +Jack and Camille looked at each other. + +“Oh, Jack, ought you to have let her go?” said Camille. + +“What made you let her go?” asked Jack. + +“I--don't know. I couldn't say anything. That man has a tremendous way +with him. Goodness!” + +“He is all right here in the place, anyhow,” said Jack. “They look up to +him. He is a big-bug here. Comes of a family like Margaret's, though he +hasn't got much money. Some chaps were braggin' that they had a bigger +show than her right here, and I found out.” + +“Suppose,” said Camille, “Margaret does not come back?” + +“He could not keep her without bein' arrested,” declared Jack, but he +looked uneasy. He had, however, looked uneasy for some time. The fact +was, Margaret had been very gradually losing weight. Moreover, she was +not well. That very night, after the show was over, Bill Stark, the +little dark man, had a talk with the Desmonds about it. + +“Truth is, before long, if you don't look out, you'll have to pad her,” + said Bill; “and giants don't amount to a row of pins after that begins.” + +Camille looked worried and sulky. “She ain't very well, anyhow,” said +she. “I ain't going to kill Margaret.” + +“It's a good thing she's got a chance to have a night's rest in a +house,” said Bill Stark. + +“The fat man has asked her to stay with him and his sister while the +show is here,” said Jack. + +“The sister invited her,” said Camille, with a little stiffness. She was +common, but she had lived with Lees, and her mother had married a Lee. +She knew what was due Margaret, and also due herself. + +“The truth is,” said Camille, “this is an awful sort of life for a woman +like Margaret. She and her folks were never used to anything like it.” + +“Why didn't you make your beauty husband hustle and take care of her and +you, then?” demanded Bill, who admired Camille, and disliked her because +she had no eyes for him. + +“My husband has been unfortunate. He has done the best he could,” + responded Camille. “Come, Jack; no use talking about it any longer. +Guess Margaret will pick up. Come along. I'm tired out.” + +That night Margaret Lee slept in a sweet chamber with muslin curtains +at the windows, in a massive old mahogany bed, much like hers which had +been sacrificed at an auction sale. The bed-linen was linen, and smelled +of lavender. Margaret was too happy to sleep. She lay in the cool, +fragrant sheets and was happy, and convinced of the presence of the God +to whom she had prayed. All night Sydney Lord sat down-stairs in his +book-walled sanctum and studied over the situation. It was a crucial +one. The great psychological moment of Sydney Lord's life for +knight-errantry had arrived. He studied the thing from every point of +view. There was no romance about it. These were hard, sordid, tragic, +ludicrous facts with which he had to deal. He knew to a nicety the +agonies which Margaret suffered. He knew, because of his own capacity +for sufferings of like stress. “And she is a woman and a lady,” he said, +aloud. + +If Sydney had been rich enough, the matter would have been simple. He +could have paid Jack and Camille enough to quiet them, and Margaret +could have lived with him and his sister and their two old servants. But +he was not rich; he was even poor. The price to be paid for Margaret's +liberty was a bitter one, but it was that or nothing. Sydney faced it. +He looked about the room. To him the walls lined with the dull gleams of +old books were lovely. There was an oil portrait of his mother over +the mantel-shelf. The weather was warm now, and there was no need for a +hearth fire, but how exquisitely home-like and dear that room could +be when the snow drove outside and there was the leap of flame on the +hearth! Sydney was a scholar and a gentleman. He had led a gentle and +sequestered life. Here in his native village there were none to gibe and +sneer. The contrast of the traveling show would be as great for him as +it had been for Margaret, but he was the male of the species, and she +the female. Chivalry, racial, harking back to the beginning of nobility +in the human, to its earliest dawn, fired Sydney. The pale daylight +invaded the study. Sydney, as truly as any knight of old, had girded +himself, and with no hope, no thought of reward, for the battle in the +eternal service of the strong for the weak, which makes the true worth +of the strong. + +There was only one way. Sydney Lord took it. His sister was spared the +knowledge of the truth for a long while. When she knew, she did not +lament; since Sydney had taken the course, it must be right. As for +Margaret, not knowing the truth, she yielded. She was really on the +verge of illness. Her spirit was of too fine a strain to enable her body +to endure long. When she was told that she was to remain with Sydney's +sister while Sydney went away on business, she made no objection. A +wonderful sense of relief, as of wings of healing being spread under her +despair, was upon her. Camille came to bid her good-by. + +“I hope you have a nice visit in this lovely house,” said Camille, and +kissed her. Camille was astute, and to be trusted. She did not betray +Sydney's confidence. Sydney used a disguise--a dark wig over his +partially bald head and a little make-up-and he traveled about with the +show and sat on three chairs, and shook hands with the gaping crowd, +and was curiously happy. It was discomfort; it was ignominy; it was +maddening to support by the exhibition of his physical deformity a +perfectly worthless young couple like Jack and Camille Desmond, but it +was all superbly ennobling for the man himself. + +Always as he sat on his three chairs, immense, grotesque--the more +grotesque for his splendid dignity of bearing--there was in his soul +of a gallant gentleman the consciousness of that other, whom he was +shielding from a similar ordeal. Compassion and generosity, so great +that they comprehended love itself and excelled its highest type, +irradiated the whole being of the fat man exposed to the gaze of his +inferiors. Chivalry, which rendered him almost god-like, strengthened +him for his task. Sydney thought always of Margaret as distinct from her +physical self, a sort of crystalline, angelic soul, with no encumbrance +of earth. He achieved a purely spiritual conception of her. And +Margaret, living again her gentle lady life, was likewise ennobled by a +gratitude which transformed her. Always a clear and beautiful soul, she +gave out new lights of character like a jewel in the sun. And she also +thought of Sydney as distinct from his physical self. The consciousness +of the two human beings, one of the other, was a consciousness as of two +wonderful lines of good and beauty, moving for ever parallel, separate, +and inseparable in an eternal harmony of spirit. + + + + +CORONATION + +JIM BENNET had never married. He had passed middle life, and possessed +considerable property. Susan Adkins kept house for him. She was a +widow and a very distant relative. Jim had two nieces, his brother's +daughters. One, Alma Beecher, was married; the other, Amanda, was not. +The nieces had naively grasping views concerning their uncle and his +property. They stated freely that they considered him unable to care for +it; that a guardian should be appointed and the property be theirs at +once. They consulted Lawyer Thomas Hopkinson with regard to it; they +discoursed at length upon what they claimed to be an idiosyncrasy of +Jim's, denoting failing mental powers. + +“He keeps a perfect slew of cats, and has a coal fire for them in the +woodshed all winter,” said Amanda. + +“Why in thunder shouldn't he keep a fire in the woodshed if he wants +to?” demanded Hopkinson. “I know of no law against it. And there isn't a +law in the country regulating the number of cats a man can keep.” Thomas +Hopkinson, who was an old friend of Jim's, gave his prominent chin an +upward jerk as he sat in his office arm-chair before his clients. + +“There is something besides cats,” said Alma + +“What?” + +“He talks to himself.” + +“What in creation do you expect the poor man to do? He can't talk to +Susan Adkins about a blessed thing except tidies and pincushions. That +woman hasn't a thought in her mind outside her soul's salvation and +fancy-work. Jim has to talk once in a while to keep himself a man. What +if he does talk to himself? I talk to myself. Next thing you will want +to be appointed guardian over me, Amanda.” + +Hopkinson was a bachelor, and Amanda flushed angrily. + +“He wasn't what I call even gentlemanly,” she told Alma, when the two +were on their way home. + +“I suppose Tom Hopkinson thought you were setting your cap at him,” + retorted Alma. She relished the dignity of her married state, and +enjoyed giving her spinster sister little claws when occasion called. +However, Amanda had a temper of her own, and she could claw back. + +“YOU needn't talk,” said she. “You only took Joe Beecher when you had +given up getting anybody better. You wanted Tom Hopkinson yourself. I +haven't forgotten that blue silk dress you got and wore to meeting. You +needn't talk. You know you got that dress just to make Tom look at you, +and he didn't. You needn't talk.” + +“I wouldn't have married Tom Hopkinson if he had been the only man on +the face of the earth,” declared Alma with dignity; but she colored +hotly. + +Amanda sniffed. “Well, as near as I can find out Uncle Jim can go on +talking to himself and keeping cats, and we can't do anything,” said +she. + +When the two women were home, they told Alma's husband, Joe Beecher, +about their lack of success. They were quite heated with their walk and +excitement. “I call it a shame,” said Alma. “Anybody knows that poor +Uncle Jim would be better off with a guardian.” + +“Of course,” said Amanda. “What man that had a grain of horse sense +would do such a crazy thing as to keep a coal fire in a woodshed?” + +“For such a slew of cats, too,” said Alma, nodding fiercely. + +Alma's husband, Joe Beecher, spoke timidly and undecidedly in the +defense. “You know,” he said, “that Mrs. Adkins wouldn't have those cats +in the house, and cats mostly like to sit round where it's warm.” + +His wife regarded him. Her nose wrinkled. “I suppose next thing YOU'LL +be wanting to have a cat round where it's warm, right under my feet, +with all I have to do,” said she. Her voice had an actual acidity of +sound. + +Joe gasped. He was a large man with a constant expression of wondering +inquiry. It was the expression of his babyhood; he had never lost it, +and it was an expression which revealed truly the state of his mind. +Always had Joe Beecher wondered, first of all at finding himself in the +world at all, then at the various happenings of existence. He probably +wondered more about the fact of his marriage with Alma Bennet than +anything else, although he never betrayed his wonder. He was always +painfully anxious to please his wife, of whom he stood in awe. Now he +hastened to reply: “Why, no, Alma; of course I won't.” + +“Because,” said Alma, “I haven't come to my time of life, through all +the trials I've had, to be taking any chances of breaking my bones over +any miserable, furry, four-footed animal that wouldn't catch a mouse if +one run right under her nose.” + +“I don't want any cat,” repeated Joe, miserably. His fear and awe of the +two women increased. When his sister-in-law turned upon him he fairly +cringed. + +“Cats!” said Amanda. Then she sniffed. The sniff was worse than speech. + +Joe repeated in a mumble that he didn't want any cats, and went out, +closing the door softly after him, as he had been taught. However, he +was entirely sure, in the depths of his subjugated masculine mind, that +his wife and her sister had no legal authority whatever to interfere +with their uncle's right to keep a hundred coal fires in his woodshed, +for a thousand cats. He always had an inner sense of glee when he heard +the two women talk over the matter. Once Amanda had declared that she +did not believe that Tom Hopkinson knew much about law, anyway. + +“He seems to stand pretty high,” Joe ventured with the utmost mildness. + +“Yes, he does,” admitted Alma, grudgingly. + +“It does not follow he knows law,” persisted Amanda, “and it MAY follow +that he likes cats. There was that great Maltese tommy brushing round +all the time we were in his office, but I didn't dare shoo him off for +fear it might be against the law.” Amanda laughed, a very disagreeable +little laugh. Joe said nothing, but inwardly he chuckled. It was +the cause of man with man. He realized a great, even affectionate, +understanding of Jim. + +The day after his nieces had visited the lawyer's office, Jim was +preparing to call on his friend Edward Hayward, the minister. Before +leaving he looked carefully after the fire in the woodshed. The +stove was large. Jim piled on the coal, regardless outwardly that the +housekeeper, Susan Adkins, had slammed the kitchen door to indicate her +contempt. Inwardly Jim felt hurt, but he had felt hurt so long from the +same cause that the sensation had become chronic, and was borne with a +gentle patience. Moreover, there was something which troubled him more +and was the reason for his contemplated call on his friend. He evened +the coals on the fire with great care, and replenished from the pail in +the icebox the cats' saucers. There was a circle of clean white saucers +around the stove. Jim owned many cats; counting the kittens, there were +probably over twenty. Mrs. Adkins counted them in the sixties. “Those +sixty-seven cats,” she said. + +Jim often gave away cats when he was confident of securing good homes, +but supply exceeded the demand. Now and then tragedies took place +in that woodshed. Susan Adkins came bravely to the front upon these +occasions. Quite convinced was Susan Adkins that she had a good home, +and it behooved her to keep it, and she did not in the least object +to drowning, now and then, a few very young kittens. She did this with +neatness and despatch while Jim walked to the store on an errand and was +supposed to know nothing about it. There was simply not enough room in +his woodshed for the accumulation of cats, although his heart could have +held all. + +That day, as he poured out the milk, cats of all ages and sizes and +colors purred in a softly padding multitude around his feet, and +he regarded them with love. There were tiger cats, Maltese cats, +black-and-white cats, black cats and white cats, tommies and females, +and his heart leaped to meet the pleading mews of all. The saucers were +surrounded. Little pink tongues lapped. “Pretty pussy! pretty pussy!” + cooed Jim, addressing them in general. He put on his overcoat and hat, +which he kept on a peg behind the door. Jim had an arm-chair in the +woodshed. He always sat there when he smoked; Susan Adkins demurred at +his smoking in the house, which she kept so nice, and Jim did not dream +of rebellion. He never questioned the right of a woman to bar tobacco +smoke from a house. Before leaving he refilled some of the saucers. +He was not sure that all of the cats were there; some might be afield, +hunting, and he wished them to find refreshment when they returned. He +stroked the splendid striped back of a great tiger tommy which filled +his armchair. This cat was his special pet. He fastened the outer shed +door with a bit of rope in order that it might not blow entirely open, +and yet allow his feline friends to pass, should they choose. Then he +went out. + +The day was clear, with a sharp breath of frost. The fields gleamed with +frost, offering to the eye a fine shimmer as of diamond-dust under the +brilliant blue sky, overspread in places with a dapple of little white +clouds. + +“White frost and mackerel sky; going to be falling weather,” Jim said, +aloud, as he went out of the yard, crunching the crisp grass under heel. + +Susan Adkins at a window saw his lips moving. His talking to himself +made her nervous, although it did not render her distrustful of his +sanity. It was fortunate that Susan had not told Jim that she disliked +his habit. In that case he would have deprived himself of that slight +solace; he would not have dreamed of opposing Susan's wishes. Jim had a +great pity for the nervous whims, as he regarded them, of women--a +pity so intense and tender that it verged on respect and veneration. +He passed his nieces' house on the way to the minister's, and both were +looking out of windows and saw his lips moving. + +“There he goes, talking to himself like a crazy loon,” said Amanda. + +Alma nodded. + +Jim went on, blissfully unconscious. He talked in a quiet monotone; only +now and then his voice rose; only now and then there were accompanying +gestures. Jim had a straight mile down the broad village street to walk +before he reached the church and the parsonage beside it. + +Jim and the minister had been friends since boyhood. They were graduates +and classmates of the same college. Jim had had unusual educational +advantages for a man coming from a simple family. The front door of the +parsonage flew open when Jim entered the gate, and the minister stood +there smiling. He was a tall, thin man with a wide mouth, which either +smiled charmingly or was set with severity. He was as brown and dry as a +wayside weed which winter had subdued as to bloom but could not entirely +prostrate with all its icy storms and compelling blasts. Jim, advancing +eagerly toward the warm welcome in the door, was a small man, and bent +at that, but he had a handsome old face, with the rose of youth on the +cheeks and the light of youth in the blue eyes, and the quick changes of +youth, before emotions, about the mouth. + +“Hullo, Jim!” cried Dr. Edward Hayward. Hayward, for a doctor of +divinity, was considered somewhat lacking in dignity at times; still, +he was Dr. Hayward, and the failing was condoned. Moreover, he was +a Hayward, and the Haywards had been, from the memory of the oldest +inhabitant, the great people of the village. Dr. Hayward's house was +presided over by his widowed cousin, a lady of enough dignity to make up +for any lack of it in the minister. There were three servants, besides +the old butler who had been Hayward's attendant when he had been a young +man in college. Village people were proud of their minister, with his +degree and what they considered an imposing household retinue. + +Hayward led, and Jim followed, to the least pretentious room in +the house--not the study proper, which was lofty, book-lined, and +leather-furnished, curtained with broad sweeps of crimson damask, but a +little shabby place back of it, accessible by a narrow door. The little +room was lined with shelves; they held few books, but a collection of +queer and dusty things--strange weapons, minerals, odds and ends--which +the minister loved and with which his lady cousin never interfered. + +“Louisa,” Hayward had told his cousin when she entered upon her post, +“do as you like with the whole house, but let my little study alone. +Let it look as if it had been stirred up with a garden-rake--that little +room is my territory, and no disgrace to you, my dear, if the dust rises +in clouds at every step.” + +Jim was as fond of the little room as his friend. He entered, and sighed +a great sigh of satisfaction as he sank into the shabby, dusty hollow +of a large chair before the hearth fire. Immediately a black cat leaped +into his lap, gazed at him with greenjewel eyes, worked her paws, +purred, settled into a coil, and slept. Jim lit his pipe and threw the +match blissfully on the floor. Dr. Hayward set an electric coffee-urn at +its work, for the little room was a curious mixture of the comfortable +old and the comfortable modern. + +“Sam shall serve our luncheon in here,” he said, with a staid glee. + +Jim nodded happily. + +“Louisa will not mind,” said Hayward. “She is precise, but she has +a fine regard for the rights of the individual, which is most +commendable.” He seated himself in a companion chair to Jim's, lit +his own pipe, and threw the match on the floor. Occasionally, when the +minister was out, Sam, without orders so to do, cleared the floor of +matches. + +Hayward smoked and regarded his friend, who looked troubled despite his +comfort. “What is it, Jim?” asked the minister at last. + +“I don't know how to do what is right for me to do,” replied the little +man, and his face, turned toward his friend, had the puzzled earnestness +of a child. + +Hayward laughed. It was easily seen that his was the keener mind. In +natural endowments there had never been equality, although there was +great similarity of tastes. Jim, despite his education, often lapsed +into the homely vernacular of which he heard so much. An involuntarily +imitative man in externals was Jim, but essentially an original. Jim +proceeded. + +“You know, Edward, I have never been one to complain,” he said, with an +almost boyish note of apology. + +“Never complained half enough; that's the trouble,” returned the other. + +“Well, I overheard something Mis' Adkins said to Mis' Amos Trimmer the +other afternoon. Mis' Trimmer was calling on Mis' Adkins. I couldn't +help overhearing unless I went outdoors, and it was snowing and I had a +cold. I wasn't listening.” + +“Had a right to listen if you wanted to,” declared Hayward, irascibly. + +“Well, I couldn't help it unless I went outdoors. Mis' Adkins she was in +the kitchen making lightbread for supper, and Mis' Trimmer had sat right +down there with her. Mis' Adkins's kitchen is as clean as a parlor, +anyway. Mis' Adkins said to Mis' Trimmer, speaking of me--because Mis' +Trimmer had just asked where I was and Mis' Adkins had said I was out in +the woodshed sitting with the cats and smoking--Mis' Adkins said, 'He's +just a doormat, that's what he is.' Then Mis' Trimmer says, 'The way he +lets folks ride over him beats me.' Then Mis' Adkins says again: 'He's +nothing but a door-mat. He lets everybody that wants to just trample +on him and grind their dust into him, and he acts real pleased and +grateful.'” + +Hayward's face flushed. “Did Mrs. Adkins mention that she was one of the +people who used you for a door-mat?” he demanded. + +Jim threw back his head and laughed like a child, with the sweetest +sense of unresentful humor. “Lord bless my soul, Edward,” replied Jim, +“I don't believe she ever thought of that.” + +“And at that very minute you, with a hard cold, were sitting out in that +draughty shed smoking because she wouldn't allow you to smoke in your +own house!” + +“I don't mind that, Edward,” said Jim, and laughed again. + +“Could you see to read your paper out there, with only that little shed +window? And don't you like to read your paper while you smoke?” + +“Oh yes,” admitted Jim; “but my! I don't mind little things like that! +Mis' Adkins is only a poor widow woman, and keeping my house nice and +not having it smell of tobacco is all she's got. They can talk about +women's rights--I feel as if they ought to have them fast enough, if +they want them, poor things; a woman has a hard row to hoe, and will +have, if she gets all the rights in creation. But I guess the rights +they'd find it hardest to give up would be the rights to have men look +after them just a little more than they look after other men, just +because they are women. When I think of Annie Berry--the girl I was +going to marry, you know, if she hadn't died--I feel as if I couldn't do +enough for another woman. Lord! I'm glad to sit out in the woodshed and +smoke. Mis' Adkins is pretty good-natured to stand all the cats.” + +Then the coffee boiled, and Hayward poured out some for Jim and himself. +He had a little silver service at hand, and willow-ware cups and +saucers. Presently Sam appeared, and Hayward gave orders concerning +luncheon. + +“Tell Miss Louisa we are to have it served here,” said he, “and mind, +Sam, the chops are to be thick and cooked the way we like them; and +don't forget the East India chutney, Sam.” + +“It does seem rather a pity that you cannot have chutney at home with +your chops, when you are so fond of it,” remarked Hayward when Sam had +gone. + +“Mis' Adkins says it will give me liver trouble, and she isn't strong +enough to nurse.” + +“So you have to eat her ketchup?” + +“Well, she doesn't put seasoning in it,” admitted Jim. “But Mis' Adkins +doesn't like seasoning herself, and I don't mind.” + +“And I know the chops are never cut thick, the way we like them.” + +“Mis' Adkins likes her meat well done, and she can't get such thick +chops well done. I suppose our chops are rather thin, but I don't mind.” + +“Beefsteak and chops, both cut thin, and fried up like sole-leather. +I know!” said Dr. Hayward, and he stamped his foot with unregenerate +force. + +“I don't mind a bit, Edward.” + +“You ought to mind, when it is your own house, and you buy the food and +pay your housekeeper. It is an outrage!” + +“I don't mind, really, Edward.” + +Dr. Hayward regarded Jim with a curious expression compounded of love, +anger, and contempt. “Any more talk of legal proceedings?” he asked, +brusquely. + +Jim flushed. “Tom ought not to tell of that.” + +“Yes, he ought; he ought to tell it all over town. He doesn't, but he +ought. It is an outrage! Here you have been all these years supporting +your nieces, and they are working away like field-mice, burrowing under +your generosity, trying to get a chance to take action and appropriate +your property and have you put under a guardian.” + +“I don't mind a bit,” said Jim; “but--” + +The other man looked inquiringly at him, and, seeing a pitiful working +of his friend's face, he jumped up and got a little jar from a shelf. +“We will drop the whole thing until we have had our chops and chutney,” + said he. “You are right; it is not worth minding. Here is a new brand of +tobacco I want you to try. I don't half like it, myself, but you may.” + +Jim, with a pleased smile, reached out for the tobacco, and the two +men smoked until Sam brought the luncheon. It was well cooked and well +served on an antique table. Jim was thoroughly happy. It was not +until the luncheon was over and another pipe smoked that the troubled, +perplexed expression returned to his face. + +“Now,” said Hayward, “out with it!” + +“It is only the old affair about Alma and Amanda, but now it has taken +on a sort of new aspect.” + +“What do you mean by a new aspect?” + +“It seems,” said Jim, slowly, “as if they were making it so I couldn't +do for them.” + +Hayward stamped his foot. “That does sound new,” he said, dryly. “I +never thought Alma Beecher or Amanda Bennet ever objected to have you do +for them.” + +“Well,” said Jim, “perhaps they don't now, but they want me to do it +in their own way. They don't want to feel as if I was giving and they +taking; they want it to seem the other way round. You see, if I were to +deed over my property to them, and then they allowance me, they would +feel as if they were doing the giving.” + +“Jim, you wouldn't be such a fool as that?” + +“No, I wouldn't,” replied Jim, simply. “They wouldn't know how to take +care of it, and Mis' Adkins would be left to shift for herself. Joe +Beecher is real good-hearted, but he always lost every dollar he +touched. No, there wouldn't be any sense in that. I don't mean to give +in, but I do feel pretty well worked up over it.” + +“What have they said to you?” + +Jim hesitated. + +“Out with it, now. One thing you may be sure of: nothing that you can +tell me will alter my opinion of your two nieces for the worse. As for +poor Joe Beecher, there is no opinion, one way or the other. What did +they say?” + +Jim regarded his friend with a curiously sweet, far-off expression. +“Edward,” he said, “sometimes I believe that the greatest thing a man's +friends can do for him is to drive him into a corner with God; to be so +unjust to him that they make him understand that God is all that mortal +man is meant to have, and that is why he finds out that most people, +especially the ones he does for, don't care for him.” + +Hayward looked solemnly and tenderly at the other's almost rapt face. +“You are right, I suppose, old man,” said he; “but what did they do?” + +“They called me in there about a week ago and gave me an awful talking +to.” + +“About what?” + +Jim looked at his friend with dignity. “They were two women talking, +and they went into little matters not worth repeating,” said he. “All +is-they seemed to blame me for everything I had ever done for them, +and for everything I had ever done, anyway. They seemed to blame me for +being born and living, and, most of all, for doing anything for them.” + +“It is an outrage!” declared Hayward. “Can't you see it?” + +“I can't seem to see anything plain about it,” returned Jim, in a +bewildered way. “I always supposed a man had to do something bad to +be given a talking to; but it isn't so much that, and I don't bear any +malice against them. They are only two women, and they are nervous. +What worries me is, they do need things, and they can't get on and be +comfortable unless I do for them; but if they are going to feel that +way about it, it seems to cut me off from doing, and that does worry me, +Edward.” + +The other man stamped. “Jim Bennet,” he said, “they have talked, and now +I am going to.” + +“You, Edward?” + +“Yes, I am. It is entirely true what those two women, Susan Adkins and +Mrs. Trimmer, said about you. You ARE a door-mat, and you ought to be +ashamed of yourself for it. A man should be a man, and not a door-mat. +It is the worst thing in the world for people to walk over him and +trample him. It does them much more harm than it does him. In the end +the trampler is much worse off than the trampled upon. Jim Bennet, your +being a doormat may cost other people their souls' salvation. You are +selfish in the grain to be a door-mat.” + +Jim turned pale. His child-like face looked suddenly old with his mental +effort to grasp the other's meaning. In fact, he was a child--one of +the little ones of the world--although he had lived the span of a man's +life. Now one of the hardest problems of the elders of the world was +presented to him. “You mean--” he said, faintly. + +“I mean, Jim, that for the sake of other people, if not for your own +sake, you ought to stop being a door-mat and be a man in this world of +men.” + +“What do you want me to do?” + +“I want you to go straight to those nieces of yours and tell them the +truth. You know what your wrongs are as well as I do. You know what +those two women are as well as I do. They keep the letter of the Ten +Commandments--that is right. They attend my church--that is right. They +scour the outside of the platter until it is bright enough to blind +those people who don't understand them; but inwardly they are petty, +ravening wolves of greed and ingratitude. Go and tell them; they don't +know themselves. Show them what they are. It is your Christian duty.” + +“You don't mean for me to stop doing for them?” + +“I certainly do mean just that--for a while, anyway.” + +“They can't possibly get along, Edward; they will suffer.” + +“They have a little money, haven't they?” + +“Only a little in savings-bank. The interest pays their taxes.” + +“And you gave them that?” + +Jim colored. + +“Very well, their taxes are paid for this year; let them use that money. +They will not suffer, except in their feelings, and that is where they +ought to suffer. Man, you would spoil all the work of the Lord by your +selfish tenderness toward sinners!” + +“They aren't sinners.” + +“Yes, they are--spiritual sinners, the worst kind in the world. Now--” + +“You don't mean for me to go now?” + +“Yes, I do--now. If you don't go now you never will. Then, afterward, I +want you to go home and sit in your best parlor and smoke, and have all +your cats in there, too.” + +Jim gasped. “But, Edward! Mis' Adkins--” + +“I don't care about Mrs. Adkins. She isn't as bad as the rest, but she +needs her little lesson, too.” + +“Edward, the way that poor woman works to keep the house nice--and she +don't like the smell of tobacco smoke.” + +“Never mind whether she likes it or not. You smoke.” + +“And she don't like cats.” + +“Never mind. Now you go.” + +Jim stood up. There was a curious change in his rosy, child-like face. +There was a species of quickening. He looked at once older and more +alert. His friend's words had charged him as with electricity. When he +went down the street he looked taller. + +Amanda Bennet and Alma Beecher, sitting sewing at their street windows, +made this mistake. + +“That isn't Uncle Jim,” said Amanda. “That man is a head taller, but he +looks a little like him.” + +“It can't be Uncle Jim,” agreed Alma. Then both started. + +“It is Uncle Jim, and he is coming here,” said Amanda. + +Jim entered. Nobody except himself, his nieces, and Joe Beecher ever +knew exactly what happened, what was the aspect of the door-mat erected +to human life, of the worm turned to menace. It must have savored of +horror, as do all meek and downtrodden things when they gain, driven to +bay, the strength to do battle. It must have savored of the god-like, +when the man who had borne with patience, dignity, and sorrow for them +the stings of lesser things because they were lesser things, at last +arose and revealed himself superior, with a great height of the spirit, +with the power to crush. + +When Jim stopped talking and went home, two pale, shocked faces of women +gazed after him from the windows. Joe Beecher was sobbing like a child. +Finally his wife turned her frightened face upon him, glad to have still +some one to intimidate. + +“For goodness' sake, Joe Beecher, stop crying like a baby,” said she, +but she spoke in a queer whisper, for her lips were stiff. + +Joe stood up and made for the door. + +“Where are you going?” asked his wife. + +“Going to get a job somewhere,” replied Joe, and went. Soon the women +saw him driving a neighbor's cart up the street. + +“He's going to cart gravel for John Leach's new sidewalk!” gasped Alma. + +“Why don't you stop him?” cried her sister. “You can't have your husband +driving a tip-cart for John Leach. Stop him, Alma!” + +“I can't stop him,” moaned Alma. “I don't feel as if I could stop +anything.” + +Her sister gazed at her, and the same expression was on both faces, +making them more than sisters of the flesh. Both saw before them a stern +boundary wall against which they might press in vain for the rest of +their lives, and both saw the same sins of their hearts. + +Meantime Jim Bennet was seated in his best parlor and Susan Adkins was +whispering to Mrs. Trimmer out in the kitchen. + +“I don't know whether he's gone stark, staring mad or not,” whispered +Susan, “but he's in the parlor smoking his worst old pipe, and that big +tiger tommy is sitting in his lap, and he's let in all the other cats, +and they're nosing round, and I don't dare drive 'em out. I took up the +broom, then I put it away again. I never knew Mr. Bennet to act so. I +can't think what's got into him.” + +“Did he say anything?” + +“No, he didn't say much of anything, but he said it in a way that made +my flesh fairly creep. Says he, 'As long as this is my house and my +furniture and my cats, Mis' Adkins, I think I'll sit down in the parlor, +where I can see to read my paper and smoke at the same time.' Then he +holds the kitchen door open, and he calls, 'Kitty, kitty, kitty!' and +that great tiger tommy comes in with his tail up, rubbing round his +legs, and all the other cats followed after. I shut the door before +these last ones got into the parlor.” Susan Adkins regarded malevolently +the three tortoise-shell cats of three generations and various stages +of growth, one Maltese settled in a purring round of comfort with four +kittens, and one perfectly black cat, which sat glaring at her with +beryl-colored eyes. + +“That black cat looks evil,” said Mrs. Trimmer. + +“Yes, he does. I don't know why I didn't drown him when he was a +kitten.” + +“Why didn't you drown all those Malty kittens?” + +“The old cat hid them away until they were too big. Then he wouldn't let +me. What do you suppose has come to him? Just smell that awful pipe!” + +“Men do take queer streaks every now and then,” said Mrs. Trimmer. “My +husband used to, and he was as good as they make 'em, poor man. He would +eat sugar on his beefsteak, for one thing. The first time I saw him do +it I was scared. I thought he was plum crazy, but afterward I found out +it was just because he was a man, and his ma hadn't wanted him to eat +sugar when he was a boy. Mr. Bennet will get over it.” + +“He don't act as if he would.” + +“Oh yes, he will. Jim Bennet never stuck to anything but being Jim +Bennet for very long in his life, and this ain't being Jim Bennet.” + +“He is a very good man,” said Susan with a somewhat apologetic tone. + +“He's too good.” + +“He's too good to cats.” + +“Seems to me he's too good to 'most everybody. Think what he has done +for Amanda and Alma, and how they act!” + +“Yes, they are ungrateful and real mean to him; and I feel sometimes +as if I would like to tell them just what I think of them,” said Susan +Adkins. “Poor man, there he is, studying all the time what he can do for +people, and he don't get very much himself.” + +Mrs. Trimmer arose to take leave. She had a long, sallow face, capable +of a sarcastic smile. “Then,” said she, “if I were you I wouldn't +begrudge him a chair in the parlor and a chance to read and smoke and +hold a pussy-cat.” + +“Who said I was begrudging it? I can air out the parlor when he's got +over the notion.” + +“Well, he will, so you needn't worry,” said Mrs. Trimmer. As she went +down the street she could see Jim's profile beside the parlor window, +and she smiled her sarcastic smile, which was not altogether unpleasant. +“He's stopped smoking, and he ain't reading,” she told herself. “It +won't be very long before he's Jim Bennet again.” + +But it was longer than she anticipated, for Jim's will was propped by +Edward Hayward's. Edward kept Jim to his standpoint for weeks, until a +few days before Christmas. Then came self-assertion, that self-assertion +of negation which was all that Jim possessed in such a crisis. He called +upon Dr. Hayward; the two were together in the little study for nearly +an hour, and talk ran high, then Jim prevailed. + +“It's no use, Edward,” he said; “a man can't be made over when he's cut +and dried in one fashion, the way I am. Maybe I'm doing wrong, but to +me it looks like doing right, and there's something in the Bible about +every man having his own right and wrong. If what you say is true, and +I am hindering the Lord Almighty in His work, then it is for Him to stop +me. He can do it. But meantime I've got to go on doing the way I always +have. Joe has been trying to drive that tip-cart, and the horse ran away +with him twice. Then he let the cart fall on his foot and mash one of +his toes, and he can hardly get round, and Amanda and Alma don't dare +touch that money in the bank for fear of not having enough to pay the +taxes next year in case I don't help them. They only had a little money +on hand when I gave them that talking to, and Christmas is 'most here, +and they haven't got things they really need. Amanda's coat that she +wore to meeting last Sunday didn't look very warm to me, and poor Alma +had her furs chewed up by the Leach dog, and she's going without any. +They need lots of things. And poor Mis' Adkins is 'most sick with +tobacco smoke. I can see it, though she doesn't say anything, and the +nice parlor curtains are full of it, and cat hairs are all over things. +I can't hold out any longer, Edward. Maybe I am a door-mat; and if I am, +and it is wicked, may the Lord forgive me, for I've got to keep right on +being a door-mat.” + +Hayward sighed and lighted his pipe. However, he had given up and +connived with Jim. + +On Christmas eve the two men were in hiding behind a clump of cedars +in the front yard of Jim's nieces' house. They watched the expressman +deliver a great load of boxes and packages. Jim drew a breath of joyous +relief. + +“They are taking them in,” he whispered--“they are taking them in, +Edward!” + +Hayward looked down at the dim face of the man beside him, and something +akin to fear entered his heart. He saw the face of a lifelong friend, +but he saw something in it which he had never recognized before. He saw +the face of one of the children of heaven, giving only for the sake of +the need of others, and glorifying the gifts with the love and pity of +an angel. + +“I was afraid they wouldn't take them!” whispered Jim, and his watching +face was beautiful, although it was only the face of a little, old man +of a little village, with no great gift of intellect. There was a full +moon riding high; the ground was covered with a glistening snow-level, +over which wavered wonderful shadows, as of wings. One great star +prevailed despite the silver might of the moon. To Hayward Jim's face +seemed to prevail, as that star, among all the faces of humanity. + +Jim crept noiselessly toward a window, Hayward at his heels. The two +could see the lighted interior plainly. + +“See poor Alma trying on her furs,” whispered Jim, in a rapture. “See +Amanda with her coat. They have found the money. See Joe heft the +turkey.” Suddenly he caught Hayward's arm, and the two crept away. +Out on the road, Jim fairly sobbed with pure delight. “Oh, Edward,” + he said, “I am so thankful they took the things! I was so afraid they +wouldn't, and they needed them! Oh, Edward, I am so thankful!” Edward +pressed his friend's arm. + +When they reached Jim's house a great tiger-cat leaped to Jim's shoulder +with the silence and swiftness of a shadow. “He's always watching for +me,” said Jim, proudly. “Pussy! Pussy!” The cat began to purr loudly, +and rubbed his splendid head against the man's cheek. + +“I suppose,” said Hayward, with something of awe in his tone, “that you +won't smoke in the parlor to-night?” + +“Edward, I really can't. Poor woman, she's got it all aired and +beautifully cleaned, and she's so happy over it. There's a good fire in +the shed, and I will sit there with the pussy-cats until I go to bed. +Oh, Edward, I am so thankful that they took the things!” + +“Good night, Jim.” + +“Good night. You don't blame me, Edward?” + +“Who am I to blame you, Jim? Good night.” + +Hayward watched the little man pass along the path to the shed door. +Jim's back was slightly bent, but to his friend it seemed bent beneath +a holy burden of love and pity for all humanity, and the inheritance +of the meek seemed to crown that drooping old head. The door-mat, again +spread freely for the trampling feet of all who got comfort thereby, +became a blessed thing. The humble creature, despised and held in +contempt like One greater than he, giving for the sake of the needs of +others, went along the narrow foot-path through the snow. The minister +took off his hat and stood watching until the door was opened and closed +and the little window gleamed with golden light. + + + + +THE AMETHYST COMB + +MISS JANE CAREW was at the railroad station waiting for the New York +train. She was about to visit her friend, Mrs. Viola Longstreet. With +Miss Carew was her maid, Margaret, a middleaged New England woman, +attired in the stiffest and most correct of maid-uniforms. She carried +an old, large sole-leather bag, and also a rather large sole-leather +jewel-case. The jewel-case, carried openly, was rather an unusual +sight at a New England railroad station, but few knew what it was. They +concluded it to be Margaret's special handbag. Margaret was a very tall, +thin woman, unbending as to carriage and expression. The one thing out +of absolute plumb about Margaret was her little black bonnet. That was +askew. Time had bereft the woman of so much hair that she could fasten +no head-gear with security, especially when the wind blew, and that +morning there was a stiff gale. Margaret's bonnet was cocked over one +eye. Miss Carew noticed it. + +“Margaret, your bonnet is crooked,” she said. + +Margaret straightened her bonnet, but immediately the bonnet veered +again to the side, weighted by a stiff jet aigrette. Miss Carew observed +the careen of the bonnet, realized that it was inevitable, and did not +mention it again. Inwardly she resolved upon the removal of the jet +aigrette later on. Miss Carew was slightly older than Margaret, and +dressed in a style somewhat beyond her age. Jane Carew had been alert +upon the situation of departing youth. She had eschewed gay colors and +extreme cuts, and had her bonnets made to order, because there were no +longer anything but hats in the millinery shop. The milliner in Wheaton, +where Miss Carew lived, had objected, for Jane Carew inspired reverence. + +“A bonnet is too old for you. Miss Carew,” she said. “Women much older +than you wear hats.” + +“I trust that I know what is becoming to a woman of my years, thank you. +Miss Waters,” Jane had replied, and the milliner had meekly taken her +order. + +After Miss Carew had left, the milliner told her girls that she had +never seen a woman so perfectly crazy to look her age as Miss Carew. +“And she a pretty woman, too,” said the milliner; “as straight as an +arrer, and slim, and with all that hair, scarcely turned at all.” + +Miss Carew, with all her haste to assume years, remained a pretty +woman, softly slim, with an abundance of dark hair, showing little gray. +Sometimes Jane reflected, uneasily, that it ought at her time of life to +be entirely gray. She hoped nobody would suspect her of dyeing it. She +wore it parted in the middle, folded back smoothly, and braided in +a compact mass on the top of her head. The style of her clothes was +slightly behind the fashion, just enough to suggest conservatism and +age. She carried a little silver-bound bag in one nicely gloved hand; +with the other she held daintily out of the dust of the platform her +dress-skirt. A glimpse of a silk frilled petticoat, of slender feet, and +ankles delicately slim, was visible before the onslaught of the wind. +Jane Carew made no futile effort to keep her skirts down before the +wind-gusts. She was so much of the gentlewoman that she could be gravely +oblivious to the exposure of her ankles. She looked as if she had never +heard of ankles when her black silk skirts lashed about them. She rose +superbly above the situation. For some abstruse reason Margaret's +skirts were not affected by the wind. They might have been weighted with +buckram, although it was no longer in general use. She stood, except for +her veering bonnet, as stiffly immovable as a wooden doll. + +Miss Carew seldom left Wheaton. This visit to New York was an +innovation. Quite a crowd gathered about Jane's sole-leather trunk when +it was dumped on the platform by the local expressman. “Miss Carew is +going to New York,” one said to another, with much the same tone as +if he had said, “The great elm on the common is going to move into Dr. +Jones's front yard.” + +When the train arrived, Miss Carew, followed by Margaret, stepped +aboard with a majestic disregard of ankles. She sat beside a window, and +Margaret placed the bag on the floor and held the jewel-case in her lap. +The case contained the Carew jewels. They were not especially valuable, +although they were rather numerous. There were cameos in brooches and +heavy gold bracelets; corals which Miss Carew had not worn since her +young girlhood. There were a set of garnets, some badly cut diamonds in +ear-rings and rings, some seed-pearl ornaments, and a really beautiful +set of amethysts. There were a necklace, two brooches--a bar and a +circle--earrings, a ring, and a comb. Each piece was charming, set in +filigree gold with seed-pearls, but perhaps of them all the comb was +the best. It was a very large comb. There was one great amethyst in the +center of the top; on either side was an intricate pattern of plums in +small amethysts, and seed-pearl grapes, with leaves and stems of gold. +Margaret in charge of the jewel-case was imposing. When they arrived in +New York she confronted everybody whom she met with a stony stare, +which was almost accusative and convictive of guilt, in spite of entire +innocence on the part of the person stared at. It was inconceivable that +any mortal would have dared lay violent hands upon that jewel-case +under that stare. It would have seemed to partake of the nature of grand +larceny from Providence. + +When the two reached the up-town residence of Viola Longstreet, Viola +gave a little scream at the sight of the case. + +“My dear Jane Carew, here you are with Margaret carrying that jewel-case +out in plain sight. How dare you do such a thing? I really wonder you +have not been held up a dozen times.” + +Miss Carew smiled her gentle but almost stern smile--the Carew smile, +which consisted in a widening and slightly upward curving of tightly +closed lips. + +“I do not think,” said she, “that anybody would be apt to interfere with +Margaret.” + +Viola Longstreet laughed, the ringing peal of a child, although she was +as old as Miss Carew. “I think you are right, Jane,” said she. “I don't +believe a crook in New York would dare face that maid of yours. He +would as soon encounter Plymouth Rock. I am glad you have brought your +delightful old jewels, although you never wear anything except those +lovely old pearl sprays and dull diamonds.” + +“Now,” stated Jane, with a little toss of pride, “I have Aunt Felicia's +amethysts.” + +“Oh, sure enough! I remember you did write me last summer that she had +died and you had the amethysts at last. She must have been very old.” + +“Ninety-one.” + +“She might have given you the amethysts before. You, of course, will +wear them; and I--am going to borrow the corals!” + +Jane Carew gasped. + +“You do not object, do you, dear? I have a new dinner-gown which clamors +for corals, and my bank-account is strained, and I could buy none equal +to those of yours, anyway.” + +“Oh, I do not object,” said Jane Carew; still she looked aghast. + +Viola Longstreet shrieked with laughter. “Oh, I know. You think the +corals too young for me. You have not worn them since you left off +dotted muslin. My dear, you insisted upon growing old--I insisted +upon remaining young. I had two new dotted muslins last summer. As for +corals, I would wear them in the face of an opposing army! Do not judge +me by yourself, dear. You laid hold of Age and held him, although +you had your complexion and your shape and hair. As for me, I had my +complexion and kept it. I also had my hair and kept it. My shape has +been a struggle, but it was worth while. I, my dear, have held Youth +so tight that he has almost choked to death, but held him I have. You +cannot deny it. Look at me, Jane Carew, and tell me if, judging by my +looks, you can reasonably state that I have no longer the right to wear +corals.” + +Jane Carew looked. She smiled the Carew smile. “You DO look very young, +Viola,” said Jane, “but you are not.” + +“Jane Carew,” said Viola, “I am young. May I wear your corals at my +dinner to-morrow night?” + +“Why, of course, if you think--” + +“If I think them suitable. My dear, if there were on this earth +ornaments more suitable to extreme youth than corals, I would borrow +them if you owned them, but, failing that, the corals will answer. Wait +until you see me in that taupe dinner-gown and the corals!” + +Jane waited. She visited with Viola, whom she loved, although they had +little in common, partly because of leading widely different lives, +partly because of constitutional variations. She was dressed for dinner +fully an hour before it was necessary, and she sat in the library +reading when Viola swept in. + +Viola was really entrancing. It was a pity that Jane Carew had such an +unswerving eye for the essential truth that it could not be appeased by +actual effect. Viola had doubtless, as she had said, struggled to keep +her slim shape, but she had kept it, and, what was more, kept it without +evidence of struggle. If she was in the least hampered by tight lacing +and length of undergarment, she gave no evidence of it as she curled +herself up in a big chair and (Jane wondered how she could bring herself +to do it) crossed her legs, revealing one delicate foot and ankle, +silk-stockinged with taupe, and shod with a coral satin slipper with a +silver heel and a great silver buckle. On Viola's fair round neck the +Carew corals lay bloomingly; her beautiful arms were clasped with them; +a great coral brooch with wonderful carving confined a graceful fold +of the taupe over one hip, a coral comb surmounted the shining waves of +Viola's hair. Viola was an ash-blonde, her complexion was as roses, and +the corals were ideal for her. As Jane regarded her friend's beauty, +however, the fact that Viola was not young, that she was as old as +herself, hid it and overshadowed it. + +“Well, Jane, don't you think I look well in the corals, after all?” + asked Viola, and there was something pitiful in her voice. + +When a man or a woman holds fast to youth, even if successfully, +there is something of the pitiful and the tragic involved. It is the +everlasting struggle of the soul to retain the joy of earth, whose +fleeting distinguishes it from heaven, and whose retention is not +accomplished without an inner knowledge of its futility. + +“I suppose you do, Viola,” replied Jane Carew, with the inflexibility +of fate, “but I really think that only very young girls ought to wear +corals.” + +Viola laughed, but the laugh had a minor cadence. “But I AM a young +girl, Jane,” she said. “I MUST be a young girl. I never had any girlhood +when I should have had. You know that.” + +Viola had married, when very young, a man old enough to be her father, +and her wedded life had been a sad affair, to which, however, she seldom +alluded. Viola had much pride with regard to the inevitable past. + +“Yes,” agreed Jane. Then she added, feeling that more might be +expected, “Of course I suppose that marrying so very young does make a +difference.” + +“Yes,” said Viola, “it does. In fact, it makes of one's girlhood an +anti-climax, of which many dispute the wisdom, as you do. But have it I +will. Jane, your amethysts are beautiful.” + +Jane regarded the clear purple gleam of a stone on her arm. “Yes,” + she agreed, “Aunt Felicia's amethysts have always been considered very +beautiful.” + +“And such a full set,” said Viola. + +“Yes,” said Jane. She colored a little, but Viola did not know why. At +the last moment Jane had decided not to wear the amethyst comb, because +it seemed to her altogether too decorative for a woman of her age, and +she was afraid to mention it to Viola. She was sure that Viola would +laugh at her and insist upon her wearing it. + +“The ear-rings are lovely,” said Viola. “My dear, I don't see how you +ever consented to have your ears pierced.” + +“I was very young, and my mother wished me to,” replied Jane, blushing. + +The door-bell rang. Viola had been covertly listening for it all the +time. Soon a very beautiful young man came with a curious dancing step +into the room. Harold Lind always gave the effect of dancing when he +walked. He always, moreover, gave the effect of extreme youth and of +the utmost joy and mirth in life itself. He regarded everything +and everybody with a smile as of humorous appreciation, and yet the +appreciation was so goodnatured that it offended nobody. + +“Look at me--I am absurd and happy; look at yourself, also absurd +and happy; look at everybody else likewise; look at life--a jest so +delicious that it is quite worth one's while dying to be made acquainted +with it.” That is what Harold Lind seemed to say. Viola Longstreet +became even more youthful under his gaze; even Jane Carew regretted that +she had not worn her amethyst comb and began to doubt its unsuitability. +Viola very soon called the young man's attention to Jane's amethysts, +and Jane always wondered why she did not then mention the comb. She +removed a brooch and a bracelet for him to inspect. + +“They are really wonderful,” he declared. “I have never seen greater +depth of color in amethysts.” + +“Mr. Lind is an authority on jewels,” declared Viola. The young man shot +a curious glance at her, which Jane remembered long afterward. It was +one of those glances which are as keystones to situations. + +Harold looked at the purple stones with the expression of a child with +a toy. There was much of the child in the young man's whole appearance, +but of a mischievous and beautiful child, of whom his mother might +observe, with adoration and illconcealed boastfulness, “I can never tell +what that child will do next!” + +Harold returned the bracelet and brooch to Jane, and smiled at her as +if amethysts were a lovely purple joke between her and himself, uniting +them by a peculiar bond of fine understanding. “Exquisite, Miss Carew,” + he said. Then he looked at Viola. “Those corals suit you wonderfully, +Mrs. Longstreet,” he observed, “but amethysts would also suit you.” + +“Not with this gown,” replied Viola, rather pitifully. There was +something in the young man's gaze and tone which she did not understand, +but which she vaguely quivered before. + +Harold certainly thought the corals were too young for Viola. Jane +understood, and felt an unworthy triumph. Harold, who was young enough +in actual years to be Viola's son, and was younger still by reason of +his disposition, was amused by the sight of her in corals, although he +did not intend to betray his amusement. He considered Viola in corals +as too rude a jest to share with her. Had poor Viola once grasped Harold +Lind's estimation of her she would have as soon gazed upon herself in +her coffin. Harold's comprehension of the essentials was beyond Jane +Carew's. It was fairly ghastly, partaking of the nature of X-rays, +but it never disturbed Harold Lind. He went along his dance-track +undisturbed, his blue eyes never losing their high lights of glee, his +lips never losing their inscrutable smile at some happy understanding +between life and himself. Harold had fair hair, which was very smooth +and glossy. His skin was like a girl's. He was so beautiful that he +showed cleverness in an affectation of carelessness in dress. He did +not like to wear evening clothes, because they had necessarily to be +immaculate. That evening Jane regarded him with an inward criticism that +he was too handsome for a man. She told Viola so when the dinner was +over and he and the other guests had gone. + +“He is very handsome,” she said, “but I never like to see a man quite so +handsome.” + +“You will change your mind when you see him in tweeds,” returned Viola. +“He loathes evening clothes.” + +Jane regarded her anxiously. There was something in Viola's tone which +disturbed and shocked her. It was inconceivable that Viola should be +in love with that youth, and yet--“He looks very young,” said Jane in a +prim voice. + +“He IS young,” admitted Viola; “still, not quite so young as he looks. +Sometimes I tell him he will look like a boy if he lives to be eighty.” + +“Well, he must be very young,” persisted Jane. + +“Yes,” said Viola, but she did not say how young. Viola herself, now +that the excitement was over, did not look so young as at the beginning +of the evening. She removed the corals, and Jane considered that she +looked much better without them. + +“Thank you for your corals, dear,” said Viola. “Where Is Margaret?” + +Margaret answered for herself by a tap on the door. She and Viola's +maid, Louisa, had been sitting on an upper landing, out of sight, +watching the guests down-stairs. Margaret took the corals and placed +them in their nest in the jewel-case, also the amethysts, after +Viola had gone. The jewel-case was a curious old affair with many +compartments. The amethysts required two. The comb was so large that it +had one for itself. That was the reason why Margaret did not discover +that evening that it was gone. Nobody discovered it for three days, when +Viola had a little card-party. There was a whist-table for Jane, who had +never given up the reserved and stately game. There were six tables in +Viola's pretty living-room, with a little conservatory at one end and +a leaping hearth fire at the other. Jane's partner was a stout old +gentleman whose wife was shrieking with merriment at an auction-bridge +table. The other whist-players were a stupid, very small young man who +was aimlessly willing to play anything, and an amiable young woman who +believed in self-denial. Jane played conscientiously. She returned trump +leads, and played second hand low, and third high, and it was not until +the third rubber was over that she saw. It had been in full evidence +from the first. Jane would have seen it before the guests arrived, but +Viola had not put it in her hair until the last moment. Viola was wild +with delight, yet shamefaced and a trifle uneasy. In a soft, white gown, +with violets at her waist, she was playing with Harold Lind, and in her +ash-blond hair was Jane Carew's amethyst comb. Jane gasped and paled. +The amiable young woman who was her opponent stared at her. Finally she +spoke in a low voice. + +“Aren't you well. Miss Carew?” she asked. + +The men, in their turn, stared. The stout one rose fussily. “Let me get +a glass of water,” he said. The stupid small man stood up and waved his +hands with nervousness. + +“Aren't you well?” asked the amiable young lady again. + +Then Jane Carew recovered her poise. It was seldom that she lost it. +“I am quite well, thank you, Miss Murdock,” she replied. “I believe +diamonds are trumps.” + +They all settled again to the play, but the young lady and the two +men continued glancing at Miss Carew. She had recovered her dignity of +manner, but not her color. Moreover, she had a bewildered expression. +Resolutely she abstained from glancing again at her amethyst comb +in Viola Longstreet's ash-blond hair, and gradually, by a course of +subconscious reasoning as she carefully played her cards, she arrived +at a conclusion which caused her color to return and the bewildered +expression to disappear. When refreshments were served, the amiable +young lady said, kindly: + +“You look quite yourself, now, dear Miss Carew, but at one time while we +were playing I was really alarmed. You were very pale.” + +“I did not feel in the least ill,” replied Jane Carew. She smiled her +Carew smile at the young lady. Jane had settled it with herself that +of course Viola had borrowed that amethyst comb, appealing to Margaret. +Viola ought not to have done that; she should have asked her, Miss +Carew; and Jane wondered, because Viola was very well bred; but of +course that was what had happened. Jane had come down before Viola, +leaving Margaret in her room, and Viola had asked her. Jane did not then +remember that Viola had not even been told that there was an amethyst +comb in existence. She remembered when Margaret, whose face was as pale +and bewildered as her own, mentioned it, when she was brushing her hair. + +“I saw it, first thing. Miss Jane,” said Margaret. “Louisa and I were +on the landing, and I looked down and saw your amethyst comb in Mrs. +Longstreet's hair.” + +“She had asked you for it, because I had gone down-stairs?” asked Jane, +feebly. + +“No, Miss Jane. I had not seen her. I went out right after you did. +Louisa had finished Mrs. Longstreet, and she and I went down to the +mailbox to post a letter, and then we sat on the landing, and--I saw +your comb.” + +“Have you,” asked Jane, “looked in the jewelcase?” + +“Yes, Miss Jane.” + +“And it is not there?” + +“It is not there. Miss Jane.” Margaret spoke with a sort of solemn +intoning. She recognized what the situation implied, and she, who +fitted squarely and entirely into her humble state, was aghast before a +hitherto unimagined occurrence. She could not, even with the evidence +of her senses against a lady and her mistress's old friend, believe in +them. Had Jane told her firmly that she had not seen that comb in that +ash-blond hair she might have been hypnotized into agreement. But Jane +simply stared at her, and the Carew dignity was more shaken than she had +ever seen it. + +“Bring the jewel-case here, Margaret,” ordered Jane in a gasp. + +Margaret brought the jewel-case, and everything was taken out; all the +compartments were opened, but the amethyst comb was not there. Jane +could not sleep that night. At dawn she herself doubted the evidence of +her senses. The jewel-case was thoroughly overlooked again, and still +Jane was incredulous that she would ever see her comb in Viola's hair +again. But that evening, although there were no guests except Harold +Lind, who dined at the house, Viola appeared in a pink-tinted gown, with +a knot of violets at her waist, and--she wore the amethyst comb. She +said not one word concerning it; nobody did. Harold Lind was in wild +spirits. The conviction grew upon Jane that the irresponsible, beautiful +youth was covertly amusing himself at her, at Viola's, at everybody's +expense. Perhaps he included himself. He talked incessantly, not in +reality brilliantly, but with an effect of sparkling effervescence which +was fairly dazzling. Viola's servants restrained with difficulty their +laughter at his sallies. Viola regarded Harold with ill-concealed +tenderness and admiration. She herself looked even younger than usual, +as if the innate youth in her leaped to meet this charming comrade. + +Jane felt sickened by it all. She could not understand her friend. Not +for one minute did she dream that there could be any serious outcome of +the situation; that Viola, would marry this mad youth, who, she knew, +was making such covert fun at her expense; but she was bewildered and +indignant. She wished that she had not come. That evening when she went +to her room she directed Margaret to pack, as she intended to return +home the next day. Margaret began folding gowns with alacrity. She was +as conservative as her mistress and she severely disapproved of many +things. However, the matter of the amethyst comb was uppermost in her +mind. She was wild with curiosity. She hardly dared inquire, but finally +she did. + +“About the amethyst comb, ma'am?” she said, with a delicate cough. + +“What about it, Margaret?” returned Jane, severely. + +“I thought perhaps Mrs. Longstreet had told you how she happened to have +it.” + +Poor Jane Carew had nobody in whom to confide. For once she spoke her +mind to her maid. “She has not said one word. And, oh, Margaret, I don't +know what to think of it.” + +Margaret pursed her lips. + +“What do YOU think, Margaret?” + +“I don't know. Miss Jane.” + +“I don't.” + +“I did not mention it to Louisa,” said Margaret. + +“Oh, I hope not!” cried Jane. + +“But she did to me,” said Margaret. “She asked had I seen Miss Viola's +new comb, and then she laughed, and I thought from the way she acted +that--” Margaret hesitated. + +“That what?” + +“That she meant Mr. Lind had given Miss Viola the comb.” + +Jane started violently. “Absolutely impossible!” she cried. “That, +of course, is nonsense. There must be some explanation. Probably Mrs. +Longstreet will explain before we go.” + +Mrs. Longstreet did not explain. She wondered and expostulated when Jane +announced her firm determination to leave, but she seemed utterly at a +loss for the reason. She did not mention the comb. + +When Jane Carew took leave of her old friend she was entirely sure in +her own mind that she would never visit her again--might never even see +her again. + +Jane was unutterably thankful to be back in her own peaceful home, over +which no shadow of absurd mystery brooded; only a calm afternoon light +of life, which disclosed gently but did not conceal or betray. Jane +settled back into her pleasant life, and the days passed, and the weeks, +and the months, and the years. She heard nothing whatever from or about +Viola Longstreet for three years. Then, one day, Margaret returned from +the city, and she had met Viola's old maid Louisa in a department store, +and she had news. Jane wished for strength to refuse to listen, but she +could not muster it. She listened while Margaret brushed her hair. + +“Louisa has not been with Miss Viola for a long time,” said Margaret. +“She is living with somebody else. Miss Viola lost her money, and had to +give up her house and her servants, and Louisa said she cried when she +said good-by.” + +Jane made an effort. “What became of--” she began. + +Margaret answered the unfinished sentence. She was excited by gossip +as by a stimulant. Her thin cheeks burned, her eyes blazed. “Mr. Lind,” + said Margaret, “Louisa told me, had turned out to be real bad. He got +into some money trouble, and then”--Margaret lowered her voice--“he was +arrested for taking a lot of money which didn't belong to him. Louisa +said he had been in some business where he handled a lot of other folks' +money, and he cheated the men who were in the business with him, and +he was tried, and Miss Viola, Louisa thinks, hid away somewhere so they +wouldn't call her to testify, and then he had to go to prison; but--” + Margaret hesitated. + +“What is it?” asked Jane. + +“Louisa thinks he died about a year and a half ago. She heard the lady +where she lives now talking about it. The lady used to know Miss Viola, +and she heard the lady say Mr. Lind had died in prison, that he couldn't +stand the hard life, and that Miss Viola had lost all her money through +him, and then”--Margaret hesitated again, and her mistress prodded +sharply--“Louisa said that she heard the lady say that she had thought +Miss Viola would marry him, but she hadn't, and she had more sense than +she had thought.” + +“Mrs. Longstreet would never for one moment have entertained the thought +of marrying Mr. Lind; he was young enough to be her grandson,” said +Jane, severely. + +“Yes, ma'am,” said Margaret. + +It so happened that Jane went to New York that day week, and at a +jewelry counter in one of the shops she discovered the amethyst comb. +There were on sale a number of bits of antique jewelry, the precious +flotsam and jetsam of old and wealthy families which had drifted, nobody +knew before what currents of adversity, into that harbor of sale for +all the world to see. Jane made no inquiries; the saleswoman volunteered +simply the information that the comb was a real antique, and the stones +were real amethysts and pearls, and the setting was solid gold, and +the price was thirty dollars; and Jane bought it. She carried her old +amethyst comb home, but she did not show it to anybody. She replaced it +in its old compartment in her jewelcase and thought of it with wonder, +with a hint of joy at regaining it, and with much sadness. She was still +fond of Viola Longstreet. Jane did not easily part with her loves. She +did not know where Viola was. Margaret had inquired of Louisa, who did +not know. Poor Viola had probably drifted into some obscure harbor of +life wherein she was hiding until life was over. + +And then Jane met Viola one spring day on Fifth Avenue. + +“It is a very long time since I have seen you,” said Jane with a +reproachful accent, but her eyes were tenderly inquiring. + +“Yes,” agreed Viola. Then she added, “I have seen nobody. Do you know +what a change has come in my life?” she asked. + +“Yes, dear,” replied Jane, gently. “My Margaret met Louisa once and she +told her.” + +“Oh yes--Louisa,” said Viola. “I had to discharge her. My money is about +gone. I have only just enough to keep the wolf from entering the door +of a hall bedroom in a respectable boarding-house. However, I often +hear him howl, but I do not mind at all. In fact, the howling has become +company for me. I rather like it. It is queer what things one can learn +to like. There are a few left yet, like the awful heat in summer, and +the food, which I do not fancy, but that is simply a matter of time.” + +Viola's laugh was like a bird's song--a part of her--and nothing except +death could silence it for long. + +“Then,” said Jane, “you stay in New York all summer?” + +Viola laughed again. “My dear,” she replied, “of course. It is all very +simple. If I left New York, and paid board anywhere, I would never have +enough money to buy my return fare, and certainly not to keep that wolf +from my hall-bedroom door.” + +“Then,” said Jane, “you are going home with me.” + +“I cannot consent to accept charity, Jane,” said Viola. “Don't ask me.” + +Then, for the first time in her life, Viola Longstreet saw Jane Carew's +eyes blaze with anger. “You dare to call it charity coming from me to +you?” she said, and Viola gave in. + +When Jane saw the little room where Viola lived, she marveled, with the +exceedingly great marveling of a woman to whom love of a man has never +come, at a woman who could give so much and with no return. + +Little enough to pack had Viola. Jane understood with a shudder of +horror that it was almost destitution, not poverty, to which her old +friend was reduced. + +“You shall have that northeast room which you always liked,” she told +Viola when they were on the train. + +“The one with the old-fashioned peacock paper, and the pine-tree growing +close to one window?” said Viola, happily. + +Jane and Viola settled down to life together, and Viola, despite the +tragedy which she had known, realized a peace and happiness beyond her +imagination. In reality, although she still looked so youthful, she was +old enough to enjoy the pleasures of later life. Enjoy them she did to +the utmost. She and Jane made calls together, entertained friends at +small and stately dinners, and gave little teas. They drove about in the +old Carew carriage. Viola had some new clothes. She played very well on +Jane's old piano. She embroidered, she gardened. She lived the sweet, +placid life of an older lady in a little village, and loved it. She +never mentioned Harold Lind. + +Not among the vicious of the earth was poor Harold Lind; rather among +those of such beauty and charm that the earth spoils them, making +them, in their own estimation, free guests at all its tables of bounty. +Moreover, the young man had, deeply rooted in his character, the traits +of a mischievous child, rejoicing in his mischief more from a sense of +humor so keen that it verged on cruelty than from any intention to +harm others. Over that affair of the amethyst comb, for instance, his +irresponsible, selfish, childish soul had fairly reveled in glee. He had +not been fond of Viola, but he liked her fondness for himself. He had +made sport of her, but only for his own entertainment--never for the +entertainment of others. He was a beautiful creature, seeking out paths +of pleasure and folly for himself alone, which ended as do all paths of +earthly pleasure and folly. Harold had admired Viola, but from the same +point of view as Jane Carew's. Viola had, when she looked her youngest +and best, always seemed so old as to be venerable to him. He had at +times compunctions, as if he were making a jest of his grandmother. +Viola never knew the truth about the amethyst comb. He had considered +that one of the best frolics of his life. He had simply purloined it and +presented it to Viola, and merrily left matters to settle themselves. + +Viola and Jane had lived together a month before the comb was mentioned. +Then one day Viola was in Jane's room and the jewel-case was out, and +she began examining its contents. When she found the amethyst comb she +gave a little cry. Jane, who had been seated at her desk and had not +seen what was going on, turned around. + +Viola stood holding the comb, and her cheeks were burning. She fondled +the trinket as if it had been a baby. Jane watched her. She began to +understand the bare facts of the mystery of the disappearance of her +amethyst comb, but the subtlety of it was forever beyond her. Had the +other woman explained what was in her mind, in her heart--how that +reckless young man whom she had loved had given her the treasure because +he had heard her admire Jane's amethysts, and she, all unconscious +of any wrong-doing, had ever regarded it as the one evidence of his +thoughtful tenderness, it being the one gift she had ever received from +him; how she parted with it, as she had parted with her other jewels, +in order to obtain money to purchase comforts for him while he was in +prison--Jane could not have understood. The fact of an older woman being +fond of a young man, almost a boy, was beyond her mental grasp. She had +no imagination with which to comprehend that innocent, pathetic, almost +terrible love of one who has trodden the earth long for one who has just +set dancing feet upon it. It was noble of Jane Carew that, lacking all +such imagination, she acted as she did: that, although she did not, +could not, formulate it to herself, she would no more have deprived the +other woman and the dead man of that one little unscathed bond of tender +goodness than she would have robbed his grave of flowers. + +Viola looked at her. “I cannot tell you all about it; you would laugh at +me,” she whispered; “but this was mine once.” + +“It is yours now, dear,” said Jane. + + + + +THE UMBRELLA MAN + +IT was an insolent day. There are days which, to imaginative minds, at +least, possess strangely human qualities. Their atmospheres predispose +people to crime or virtue, to the calm of good will, to sneaking vice, +or fierce, unprovoked aggression. The day was of the last description. +A beast, or a human being in whose veins coursed undisciplined blood, +might, as involuntarily as the boughs of trees lash before storms, +perform wild and wicked deeds after inhaling that hot air, evil with the +sweat of sinevoked toil, with nitrogen stored from festering sores of +nature and the loathsome emanations of suffering life. + +It had not rained for weeks, but the humidity was great. The clouds of +dust which arose beneath the man's feet had a horrible damp stickiness. +His face and hands were grimy, as were his shoes, his cheap, ready-made +suit, and his straw hat. However, the man felt a pride in his clothes, +for they were at least the garb of freedom. He had come out of prison +the day before, and had scorned the suit proffered him by the officials. +He had given it away, and bought a new one with a goodly part of his +small stock of money. This suit was of a small-checked pattern. Nobody +could tell from it that the wearer had just left jail. He had been there +for several years for one of the minor offenses against the law. His +term would probably have been shorter, but the judge had been careless, +and he had no friends. Stebbins had never been the sort to make many +friends, although he had never cherished animosity toward any human +being. Even some injustice in his sentence had not caused him to feel +any rancor. + +During his stay in the prison he had not been really unhappy. He had +accepted the inevitable-the yoke of the strong for the weak--with a +patience which brought almost a sense of enjoyment. But, now that he +was free, he had suddenly become alert, watchful of chances for his +betterment. From being a mere kenneled creature he had become as a +hound on the scent, the keenest on earth--that of self-interest. He was +changed, while yet living, from a being outside the world to one with +the world before him. He felt young, although he was a middle-aged, +almost elderly man. He had in his pocket only a few dollars. He might +have had more had he not purchased the checked suit and had he not given +much away. There was another man whose term would be up in a week, and +he had a sickly wife and several children. Stebbins, partly from native +kindness and generosity, partly from a sentiment which almost amounted +to superstition, had given him of his slender store. He had been +deprived of his freedom because of money; he said to himself that his +return to it should be heralded by the music of it scattered abroad for +the good of another. + +Now and then as he walked Stebbins removed his new straw hat, wiped his +forehead with a stiff new handkerchief, looked with some concern at the +grime left upon it, then felt anxiously of his short crop of grizzled +hair. He would be glad when it grew only a little, for it was at present +a telltale to observant eyes. Also now and then he took from another +pocket a small mirror which he had just purchased, and scrutinized his +face. Every time he did so he rubbed his cheeks violently, then viewed +with satisfaction the hard glow which replaced the yellow prison pallor. +Every now and then, too, he remembered to throw his shoulders back, hold +his chin high, and swing out his right leg more freely. At such times +he almost swaggered, he became fairly insolent with his new sense of +freedom. He felt himself the equal if not the peer of all creation. +Whenever a carriage or a motor-car passed him on the country road he +assumed, with the skill of an actor, the air of a business man hastening +to an important engagement. However, always his mind was working over a +hard problem. He knew that his store of money was scanty, that it would +not last long even with the strictest economy; he had no friends; a +prison record is sure to leak out when a man seeks a job. He was facing +the problem of bare existence. + +Although the day was so hot, it was late summer; soon would come the +frost and the winter. He wished to live to enjoy his freedom, and all he +had for assets was that freedom; which was paradoxical, for it did not +signify the ability to obtain work, which was the power of life. +Outside the stone wall of the prison he was now inclosed by a subtle, +intangible, yet infinitely more unyielding one--the prejudice of his +kind against the released prisoner. He was to all intents and purposes +a prisoner still, for all his spurts of swagger and the youthful leap +of his pulses, and while he did not admit that to himself, yet always, +since he had the hard sense of the land of his birth--New England--he +pondered that problem of existence. He felt instinctively that it +would be a useless proceeding for him to approach any human being for +employment. He knew that even the freedom, which he realized through all +his senses like an essential perfume, could not yet overpower the reek +of the prison. As he walked through the clogging dust he thought of one +after another whom he had known before he had gone out of the world of +free men and had bent his back under the hand of the law. There were, of +course, people in his little native village, people who had been friends +and neighbors, but there were none who had ever loved him sufficiently +for him to conquer his resolve to never ask aid of them. He had no +relatives except cousins more or less removed, and they would have +nothing to do with him. + +There had been a woman whom he had meant to marry, and he had been sure +that she would marry him; but after he had been a year in prison the +news had come to him in a roundabout fashion that she had married +another suitor. Even had she remained single he could not have +approached her, least of all for aid. Then, too, through all his term +she had made no sign, there had been no letter, no message; and he had +received at first letters and flowers and messages from sentimental +women. There had been nothing from her. He had accepted nothing, with +the curious patience, carrying an odd pleasure with it, which had come +to him when the prison door first closed upon him. He had not forgotten +her, but he had not consciously mourned her. His loss, his ruin, had +been so tremendous that she had been swallowed up in it. When one's +whole system needs to be steeled to trouble and pain, single pricks lose +importance. He thought of her that day without any sense of sadness. +He imagined her in a pretty, well-ordered home with her husband and +children. Perhaps she had grown stout. She had been a slender woman. He +tried idly to imagine how she would look stout, then by the sequence +of self-preservation the imagination of stoutness in another led to the +problem of keeping the covering of flesh and fatness upon his own bones. +The question now was not of the woman; she had passed out of his +life. The question was of the keeping that life itself, the life which +involved everything else, in a hard world, which would remorselessly as +a steel trap grudge him life and snap upon him, now he was become its +prey. + +He walked and walked, and it was high noon, and he was hungry. He had in +his pocket a small loaf of bread and two frankfurters, and he heard the +splashing ripple of a brook. At that juncture the road was bordered +by thick woodland. He followed, pushing his way through the trees and +undergrowth, the sound of the brook, and sat down in a cool, green +solitude with a sigh of relief. He bent over the clear run, made a cup +of his hand, and drank, then he fell to eating. Close beside him grew +some wintergreen, and when he had finished his bread and frankfurters +he began plucking the glossy, aromatic leaves and chewing them +automatically. The savor reached his palate, and his memory awakened +before it as before a pleasant tingling of a spur. As a boy how he +had loved this little green low-growing plant! It had been one of the +luxuries of his youth. Now, as he tasted it, joy and pathos stirred in +his very soul. What a wonder youth had been, what a splendor, what an +immensity to be rejoiced over and regretted! The man lounging beside the +brook, chewing wintergreen leaves, seemed to realize antipodes. He +lived for the moment in the past, and the immutable future, which might +contain the past in the revolution of time. He smiled, and his face fell +into boyish, almost childish, contours. He plucked another glossy leaf +with his hard, veinous old hands. His hands would not change to suit his +mood, but his limbs relaxed like those of a boy. He stared at the brook +gurgling past in brown ripples, shot with dim prismatic lights, showing +here clear green water lines, here inky depths, and he thought of the +possibility of trout. He wished for fishing-tackle. + +Then suddenly out of a mass of green looked two girls, with wide, +startled eyes, and rounded mouths of terror which gave vent to screams. +There was a scuttling, then silence. The man wondered why the girls were +so silly, why they ran. He did not dream of the possibility of their +terror of him. He ate another wintergreen leaf, and thought of the woman +he had expected to marry when he was arrested and imprisoned. She did +not go back to his childish memories. He had met her when first youth +had passed, and yet, somehow, the savor of the wintergreen leaves +brought her face before him. It is strange how the excitement of one +sense will sometimes act as stimulant for the awakening of another. Now +the sense of taste brought into full activity that of sight. He saw the +woman just as she had looked when he had last seen her. She had not +been pretty, but she was exceedingly dainty, and possessed of a certain +elegance of carriage which attracted. He saw quite distinctly her small, +irregular face and the satin-smooth coils of dark hair around her head; +he saw her slender, dusky hands with the well-cared-for nails and the +too prominent veins; he saw the gleam of the diamond which he had given +her. She had sent it to him just after his arrest, and he had returned +it. He wondered idly whether she still owned it and wore it, and what +her husband thought of it. He speculated childishly-somehow imprisonment +had encouraged the return of childish speculations--as to whether the +woman's husband had given her a larger and costlier diamond than his, +and he felt a pang of jealousy. He refused to see another diamond than +his own upon that slender, dark hand. He saw her in a black silk gown +which had been her best. There had been some red about it, and a glitter +of jet. He had thought it a magnificent gown, and the woman in it like +a princess. He could see her leaning back, in her long slim grace, in a +corner of a sofa, and the soft dark folds starry with jet sweeping over +her knees and just allowing a glimpse of one little foot. Her feet had +been charming, very small and highly arched. Then he remembered that +that evening they had been to a concert in the town hall, and that +afterward they had partaken of an oyster stew in a little restaurant. +Then back his mind traveled to the problem of his own existence, his +food and shelter and clothes. He dismissed the woman from his thought. +He was concerned now with the primal conditions of life itself. How was +he to eat when his little stock of money was gone? He sat staring at the +brook; he chewed wintergreen leaves no longer. Instead he drew from +his pocket an old pipe and a paper of tobacco. He filled his pipe with +care--tobacco was precious; then he began to smoke, but his face now +looked old and brooding through the rank blue vapor. Winter was coming, +and he had not a shelter. He had not money enough to keep him long from +starvation. He knew not how to obtain employment. He thought vaguely of +wood-piles, of cutting winter fuel for people. His mind traveled in a +trite strain of reasoning. Somehow wood-piles seemed the only available +tasks for men of his sort. + +Presently he finished his filled pipe, and arose with an air of +decision. He went at a brisk pace out of the wood and was upon the road +again. He progressed like a man with definite business in view until he +reached a house. It was a large white farm-house with many outbuildings. +It looked most promising. He approached the side door, and a dog sprang +from around a corner and barked, but he spoke, and the dog's tail became +eloquent. He was patting the dog, when the door opened and a man stood +looking at him. Immediately the taint of the prison became evident. He +had not cringed before the dog, but he did cringe before the man who +lived in that fine white house, and who had never known what it was to +be deprived of liberty. He hung his head, he mumbled. The house-owner, +who was older than he, was slightly deaf. He looked him over curtly. +The end of it was he was ordered off the premises, and went; but the dog +trailed, wagging at his heels, and had to be roughly called back. The +thought of the dog comforted Stebbins as he went on his way. He had +always liked animals. It was something, now he was past a hand-shake, to +have the friendly wag of a dog's tail. + +The next house was an ornate little cottage with bay-windows, through +which could be seen the flower patterns of lace draperies; the Virginia +creeper which grew over the house walls was turning crimson in places. +Stebbins went around to the back door and knocked, but nobody came. He +waited a long time, for he had spied a great pile of uncut wood. Finally +he slunk around to the front door. As he went he suddenly reflected upon +his state of mind in days gone by; if he could have known that the time +would come when he, Joseph Stebbins, would feel culpable at approaching +any front door! He touched the electric bell and stood close to the +door, so that he might not be discovered from the windows. Presently the +door opened the length of a chain, and a fair girlish head appeared. +She was one of the girls who had been terrified by him in the woods, but +that he did not know. Now again her eyes dilated and her pretty mouth +rounded! She gave a little cry and slammed the door in his face, and he +heard excited voices. Then he saw two pale, pretty faces, the faces of +the two girls who had come upon him in the wood, peering at him around +a corner of the lace in the bay-window, and he understood what it +meant--that he was an object of terror to them. Directly he experienced +such a sense of mortal insult as he had never known, not even when the +law had taken hold of him. He held his head high and went away, his very +soul boiling with a sort of shamed rage. “Those two girls are afraid of +me,” he kept saying to himself. His knees shook with the horror of it. +This terror of him seemed the hardest thing to bear in a hard life. +He returned to his green nook beside the brook and sat down again. He +thought for the moment no more of woodpiles, of his life. He thought +about those two young girls who had been afraid of him. He had never +had an impulse to harm any living thing. A curious hatred toward these +living things who had accused him of such an impulse came over him. He +laughed sardonically. He wished that they would again come and peer +at him through the bushes; he would make a threatening motion for the +pleasure of seeing the silly things scuttle away. + +After a while he put it all out of mind, and again returned to his +problem. He lay beside the brook and pondered, and finally fell asleep +in the hot air, which increased in venom, until the rattle of +thunder awoke him. It was very dark--a strange, livid darkness. +“A thunder-storm,” he muttered, and then he thought of his new +clothes--what a misfortune it would be to have them soaked. He arose and +pushed through the thicket around him into a cart path, and it was then +that he saw the thing which proved to be the stepping-stone toward his +humble fortunes. It was only a small silk umbrella with a handle tipped +with pearl. He seized upon it with joy, for it meant the salvation of +his precious clothes. He opened it and held it over his head, although +the rain had not yet begun. One rib of the umbrella was broken, but it +was still serviceable. He hastened along the cart path; he did not know +why, only the need for motion, to reach protection from the storm, was +upon him; and yet what protection could be ahead of him in that woodland +path? Afterward he grew to think of it as a blind instinct which led him +on. + +He had not gone far, not more than half a mile, when he saw something +unexpected--a small untenanted house. He gave vent to a little cry of +joy, which had in it something child-like and pathetic, and pushed open +the door and entered. It was nothing but a tiny, unfinished shack, with +one room and a small one opening from it. There was no ceiling; overhead +was the tent-like slant of the roof, but it was tight. The dusty floor +was quite dry. There was one rickety chair. Stebbins, after looking into +the other room to make sure that the place was empty, sat down, and a +wonderful wave of content and self-respect came over him. The poor human +snail had found his shell; he had a habitation, a roof of shelter. The +little dim place immediately assumed an aspect of home. The rain +came down in torrents, the thunder crashed, the place was filled with +blinding blue lights. Stebbins filled his pipe more lavishly this time, +tilted his chair against the wall, smoked, and gazed about him with +pitiful content. It was really so little, but to him it was so much. +He nodded with satisfaction at the discovery of a fireplace and a rusty +cooking-stove. + +He sat and smoked until the storm passed over. The rainfall had been +very heavy, there had been hail, but the poor little house had not +failed of perfect shelter. A fairly cold wind from the northwest blew +through the door. The hail had brought about a change of atmosphere. The +burning heat was gone. The night would be cool, even chilly. + +Stebbins got up and examined the stove and the pipe. They were rusty, +but appeared trustworthy. He went out and presently returned with some +fuel which he had found unwet in a thick growth of wood. He laid a +fire handily and lit it. The little stove burned well, with no smoke. +Stebbins looked at it, and was perfectly happy. He had found other +treasures outside--a small vegetable-garden in which were potatoes and +some corn. A man had squatted in this little shack for years, and had +raised his own garden-truck. He had died only a few weeks ago, and +his furniture had been pre-empted with the exception of the stove, the +chair, a tilting lounge in the small room, and a few old iron pots and +fryingpans. Stebbins gathered corn, dug potatoes, and put them on the +stove to cook, then he hurried out to the village store and bought a few +slices of bacon, half a dozen eggs, a quarter of a pound of cheap tea, +and some salt. When he re-entered the house he looked as he had not for +years. He was beaming. “Come, this is a palace,” he said to himself, +and chuckled with pure joy. He had come out of the awful empty spaces of +homeless life into home. He was a man who had naturally strong domestic +instincts. If he had spent the best years of his life in a home instead +of a prison, the finest in him would have been developed. As it was, +this was not even now too late. When he had cooked his bacon and eggs +and brewed his tea, when the vegetables were done and he was seated upon +the rickety chair, with his supper spread before him on an old board +propped on sticks, he was supremely happy. He ate with a relish which +seemed to reach his soul. He was at home, and eating, literally, at his +own board. As he ate he glanced from time to time at the two windows, +with broken panes of glass and curtainless. He was not afraid--that +was nonsense; he had never been a cowardly man, but he felt the need of +curtains or something before his windows to shut out the broad vast face +of nature, or perhaps prying human eyes. Somebody might espy the light +in the house and wonder. He had a candle stuck in an old bottle by +way of illumination. Still, although he would have preferred to have +curtains before those windows full of the blank stare of night, he WAS +supremely happy. + +After he had finished his supper he looked longingly at his pipe. He +hesitated for a second, for he realized the necessity of saving his +precious tobacco; then he became reckless: such enormous good fortune +as a home must mean more to follow; it must be the first of a series of +happy things. He filled his pipe and smoked. Then he went to bed on the +old couch in the other room, and slept like a child until the sun shone +through the trees in flickering lines. Then he rose, went out to the +brook which ran near the house, splashed himself with water, returned +to the house, cooked the remnant of the eggs and bacon, and ate his +breakfast with the same exultant peace with which he had eaten his +supper the night before. Then he sat down in the doorway upon the sunken +sill and fell again to considering his main problem. He did not smoke. +His tobacco was nearly exhausted and he was no longer reckless. His head +was not turned now by the feeling that he was at home. He considered +soberly as to the probable owner of the house and whether he would be +allowed to remain its tenant. Very soon, however, his doubt concerning +that was set at rest. He saw a disturbance of the shadows cast by the +thick boughs over the cart path by a long outreach of darker shadow +which he knew at once for that of a man. He sat upright, and his face +at first assumed a defiant, then a pleading expression, like that of +a child who desires to retain possession of some dear thing. His heart +beat hard as he watched the advance of the shadow. It was slow, as +if cast by an old man. The man was old and very stout, supporting +one lopping side by a stick, who presently followed the herald of his +shadow. He looked like a farmer. Stebbins rose as he approached; the two +men stood staring at each other. + +“Who be you, neighbor?” inquired the newcomer. + +The voice essayed a roughness, but only achieved a tentative +friendliness. Stebbins hesitated for a second; a suspicious look came +into the farmer's misty blue eyes. Then Stebbins, mindful of his prison +record and fiercely covetous of his new home, gave another name. The +name of his maternal grandfather seemed suddenly to loom up in printed +characters before his eyes, and he gave it glibly. “David Anderson,” he +said, and he did not realize a lie. Suddenly the name seemed his own. +Surely old David Anderson, who had been a good man, would not grudge the +gift of his unstained name to replace the stained one of his grandson. +“David Anderson,” he replied, and looked the other man in the face +unflinchingly. + +“Where do ye hail from?” inquired the farmer; and the new David Anderson +gave unhesitatingly the name of the old David Anderson's birth and life +and death place--that of a little village in New Hampshire. + +“What do you do for your living?” was the next question, and the new +David Anderson had an inspiration. His eyes had lit upon the umbrella +which he had found the night before. + +“Umbrellas,” he replied, laconically, and the other man nodded. Men +with sheaves of umbrellas, mended or in need of mending, had always been +familiar features for him. + +Then David assumed the initiative; possessed of an honorable business +as well as home, he grew bold. “Any objection to my staying here?” he +asked. + +The other man eyed him sharply. “Smoke much?” he inquired. + +“Smoke a pipe sometimes.” + +“Careful with your matches?” + +David nodded. + +“That's all I think about,” said the farmer. “These woods is apt to +catch fire jest when I'm about ready to cut. The man that squatted here +before--he died about a month ago--didn't smoke. He was careful, he +was.” + +“I'll be real careful,” said David, humbly and anxiously. + +“I dun'no' as I have any objections to your staying, then,” said the +farmer. “Somebody has always squat here. A man built this shack about +twenty year ago, and he lived here till he died. Then t'other feller +he came along. Reckon he must have had a little money; didn't work at +nothin'! Raised some garden-truck and kept a few chickens. I took them +home after he died. You can have them now if you want to take care of +them. He rigged up that little chicken-coop back there.” + +“I'll take care of them,” answered David, fervently. + +“Well, you can come over by and by and get 'em. There's nine hens and a +rooster. They lay pretty well. I ain't no use for 'em. I've got all the +hens of my own I want to bother with.” + +“All right,” said David. He looked blissful. + +The farmer stared past him into the house. He spied the solitary +umbrella. He grew facetious. “Guess the umbrellas was all mended up +where you come from if you've got down to one,” said he. + +David nodded. It was tragically true, that guess. + +“Well, our umbrella got turned last week,” said the farmer. “I'll give +you a job to start on. You can stay here as long as you want if you're +careful about your matches.” Again he looked into the house. “Guess +some boys have been helpin' themselves to the furniture, most of it,” he +observed. “Guess my wife can spare ye another chair, and there's an old +table out in the corn-house better than that one you've rigged up, and I +guess she'll give ye some old bedding so you can be comfortable. + +“Got any money?” + +“A little.” + +“I don't want any pay for things, and my wife won't; didn't mean that; +was wonderin' whether ye had anything to buy vittles with.” + +“Reckon I can manage till I get some work,” replied David, a trifle +stiffly. He was a man who had never lived at another than the state's +expense. + +“Don't want ye to be too short, that's all,” said the other, a little +apologetically. + +“I shall be all right. There are corn and potatoes in the garden, +anyway.” + +“So there be, and one of them hens had better be eat. She don't lay. +She'll need a good deal of b'ilin'. You can have all the wood you want +to pick up, but I don't want any cut. You mind that or there'll be +trouble.” + +“I won't cut a stick.” + +“Mind ye don't. Folks call me an easy mark, and I guess myself I am easy +up to a certain point, and cuttin' my wood is one of them points. Roof +didn't leak in that shower last night, did it?” + +“Not a bit.” + +“Didn't s'pose it would. The other feller was handy, and he kept +tinkerin' all the time. Well, I'll be goin'; you can stay here and +welcome if you're careful about matches and don't cut my wood. Come over +for them hens any time you want to. I'll let my hired man drive you back +in the wagon.” + +“Much obliged,” said David, with an inflection that was almost tearful. + +“You're welcome,” said the other, and ambled away. + +The new David Anderson, the good old grandfather revived in his +unfortunate, perhaps graceless grandson, reseated himself on the +door-step and watched the bulky, receding figure of his visitor through +a pleasant blur of tears, which made the broad, rounded shoulders +and the halting columns of legs dance. This David Anderson had almost +forgotten that there was unpaid kindness in the whole world, and it +seemed to him as if he had seen angels walking up and down. He sat for a +while doing nothing except realizing happiness of the present and of +the future. He gazed at the green spread of forest boughs, and saw in +pleased anticipation their red and gold tints of autumn; also in pleased +anticipation their snowy and icy mail of winter, and himself, the +unmailed, defenseless human creature, housed and sheltered, sitting +before his own fire. This last happy outlook aroused him. If all this +was to be, he must be up and doing. He got up, entered the house, and +examined the broken umbrella which was his sole stock in trade. David +was a handy man. He at once knew that he was capable of putting it in +perfect repair. Strangely enough, for his sense of right and wrong was +not blunted, he had no compunction whatever in keeping this umbrella, +although he was reasonably certain that it belonged to one of the two +young girls who had been so terrified by him. He had a conviction that +this monstrous terror of theirs, which had hurt him more than many +apparently crueler things, made them quits. + +After he had washed his dishes in the brook, and left them in the sun +to dry, he went to the village store and purchased a few simple things +necessary for umbrella-mending. Both on his way to the store and back he +kept his eyes open. He realized that his capital depended largely upon +chance and good luck. He considered that he had extraordinary good +luck when he returned with three more umbrellas. He had discovered one +propped against the counter of the store, turned inside out. He had +inquired to whom it belonged, and had been answered to anybody who +wanted it. David had seized upon it with secret glee. Then, unheard-of +good fortune, he had found two more umbrellas on his way home; one was +in an ash-can, the other blowing along like a belated bat beside the +trolley track. It began to seem to David as if the earth might be +strewn with abandoned umbrellas. Before he began his work he went to +the farmer's and returned in triumph, driven in the farm-wagon, with +his cackling hens and quite a load of household furniture, besides some +bread and pies. The farmer's wife was one of those who are able to give, +and make receiving greater than giving. She had looked at David, who +was older than she, with the eyes of a mother, and his pride had melted +away, and he had held out his hands for her benefits, like a child who +has no compunctions about receiving gifts because he knows that they are +his right of childhood. + +Henceforth David prospered--in a humble way, it is true, still he +prospered. He journeyed about the country, umbrellas over his shoulder, +little bag of tools in hand, and reaped an income more than sufficient +for his simple wants. His hair had grown, and also his beard. Nobody +suspected his history. He met the young girls whom he had terrified +on the road often, and they did not know him. He did not, during the +winter, travel very far afield. Night always found him at home, warm, +well fed, content, and at peace. Sometimes the old farmer on whose land +he lived dropped in of an evening and they had a game of checkers. The +old man was a checker expert. He played with unusual skill, but David +made for himself a little code of honor. He would never beat the old +man, even if he were able, oftener than once out of three evenings. He +made coffee on these convivial occasions. He made very good coffee, and +they sipped as they moved the men and kings, and the old man chuckled, +and David beamed with peaceful happiness. + +But the next spring, when he began to realize that he had mended for a +while all the umbrellas in the vicinity and that his trade was flagging, +he set his precious little home in order, barricaded door and windows, +and set forth for farther fields. He was lucky, as he had been from the +start. He found plenty of employment, and slept comfortably enough in +barns, and now and then in the open. He had traveled by slow stages for +several weeks before he entered a village whose familiar look gave him +a shock. It was not his native village, but near it. In his younger life +he had often journeyed there. It was a little shopping emporium, almost +a city. He recognized building after building. Now and then he thought +he saw a face which he had once known, and he was thankful that there +was hardly any possibility of any one recognizing him. He had grown +gaunt and thin since those far-off days; he wore a beard, grizzled, as +was his hair. In those days he had not been an umbrella man. Sometimes +the humor of the situation struck him. What would he have said, he the +spruce, plump, head-in-the-air young man, if anybody had told him that +it would come to pass that he would be an umbrella man lurking humbly in +search of a job around the back doors of houses? He would laugh softly +to himself as he trudged along, and the laugh would be without the +slightest bitterness. His lot had been so infinitely worse, and he had +such a happy nature, yielding sweetly to the inevitable, that he saw now +only cause for amusement. + +He had been in that vicinity about three weeks when one day he met the +woman. He knew her at once, although she was greatly changed. She had +grown stout, although, poor soul! it seemed as if there had been no +reason for it. She was not unwieldy, but she was stout, and all the +contours of earlier life had disappeared beneath layers of flesh. Her +hair was not gray, but the bright brown had faded, and she wore it +tightly strained back from her seamed forehead, although it was thin. +One had only to look at her hair to realize that she was a woman who +had given up, who no longer cared. She was humbly clad in a blue-cotton +wrapper, she wore a dingy black hat, and she carried a tin pail half +full of raspberries. When the man and woman met they stopped with a sort +of shock, and each changed face grew like the other in its pallor. She +recognized him and he her, but along with that recognition was awakened +a fierce desire to keep it secret. His prison record loomed up before +the man, the woman's past loomed up before her. She had possibly not +been guilty of much, but her life was nothing to waken pride in her. +She felt shamed before this man whom she had loved, and who felt shamed +before her. However, after a second the silence was broken. The man +recovered his self-possession first. + +He spoke casually. + +“Nice day,” said he. + +The woman nodded. + +“Been berrying?” inquired David. The woman nodded again. + +David looked scrutinizingly at her pail. “I saw better berries real +thick a piece back,” said he. + +The woman murmured something. In spite of herself, a tear trickled over +her fat, weather-beaten cheek. David saw the tear, and something warm +and glorious like sunlight seemed to waken within him. He felt such +tenderness and pity for this poor feminine thing who had not the +strength to keep the tears back, and was so pitiably shorn of youth and +grace, that he himself expanded. He had heard in the town something of +her history. She had made a dreadful marriage, tragedy and suspicion had +entered her life, and the direst poverty. However, he had not known that +she was in the vicinity. Somebody had told him she was out West. + +“Living here?” he inquired. + +“Working for my board at a house back there,” she muttered. She did not +tell him that she had come as a female “hobo” in a freight-car from the +Western town where she had been finally stranded. “Mrs. White sent me +out for berries,” she added. “She keeps boarders, and there were no +berries in the market this morning.” + +“Come back with me and I will show you where I saw the berries real +thick,” said David. + +He turned himself about, and she followed a little behind, the female +failure in the dust cast by the male. Neither spoke until David stopped +and pointed to some bushes where the fruit hung thick on bending, +slender branches. + +“Here,” said David. Both fell to work. David picked handfuls of berries +and cast them gaily into the pail. “What is your name?” he asked, in an +undertone. + +“Jane Waters,” she replied, readily. Her husband's name had been Waters, +or the man who had called himself her husband, and her own middle name +was Jane. The first was Sara. David remembered at once. “She is taking +her own middle name and the name of the man she married,” he thought. +Then he asked, plucking berries, with his eyes averted: + +“Married?” + +“No,” said the woman, flushing deeply. + +David's next question betrayed him. “Husband dead?” + +“I haven't any husband,” she replied, like the Samaritan woman. + +She had married a man already provided with another wife, although +she had not known it. The man was not dead, but she spoke the entire +miserable truth when she replied as she did. David assumed that he was +dead. He felt a throb of relief, of which he was ashamed, but he +could not down it. He did not know what it was that was so alive and +triumphant within him: love, or pity, or the natural instinct of the +decent male to shelter and protect. Whatever it was, it was dominant. + +“Do you have to work hard?” he asked. + +“Pretty hard, I guess. I expect to.” + +“And you don't get any pay?” + +“That's all right; I don't expect to get any,” said she, and there was +bitterness in her voice. + +In spite of her stoutness she was not as strong as the man. She was not +at all strong, and, moreover, the constant presence of a sense of injury +at the hands of life filled her very soul with a subtle poison, to her +weakening vitality. She was a child hurt and worried and bewildered, +although she was to the average eye a stout, able-bodied, middle-aged +woman; but David had not the average eye, and he saw her as she really +was, not as she seemed. There had always been about her a little +weakness and dependency which had appealed to him. Now they seemed +fairly to cry out to him like the despairing voices of the children whom +he had never had, and he knew he loved her as he had never loved her +before, with a love which had budded and flowered and fruited and +survived absence and starvation. He spoke abruptly. + +“I've about got my business done in these parts,” said he. “I've got +quite a little money, and I've got a little house, not much, but mighty +snug, back where I come from. There's a garden. It's in the woods. Not +much passing nor going on.” + +The woman was looking at him with incredulous, pitiful eyes like a +dog's. “I hate much goin' on,” she whispered. + +“Suppose,” said David, “you take those berries home and pack up your +things. Got much?” + +“All I've got will go in my bag.” + +“Well, pack up; tell the madam where you live that you're sorry, but +you're worn out--” + +“God knows I am,” cried the woman, with sudden force, “worn out!” + +“Well, you tell her that, and say you've got another chance, and--” + +“What do you mean?” cried the woman, and she hung upon his words like a +drowning thing. + +“Mean? Why, what I mean is this. You pack your bag and come to the +parson's back there, that white house.” + +“I know--” + +“In the mean time I'll see about getting a license, and--” + +Suddenly the woman set her pail down and clutched him by both hands. +“Say you are not married,” she demanded; “say it, swear it!” + +“Yes, I do swear it,” said David. “You are the only woman I ever asked +to marry me. I can support you. We sha'n't be rolling in riches, but we +can be comfortable, and--I rather guess I can make you happy.” + +“You didn't say what your name was,” said the woman. + +“David Anderson.” + +The woman looked at him with a strange expression, the expression of +one who loves and respects, even reveres, the isolation and secrecy +of another soul. She understood, down to the depths of her being she +understood. She had lived a hard life, she had her faults, but she was +fine enough to comprehend and hold sacred another personality. She was +very pale, but she smiled. Then she turned to go. + +“How long will it take you?” asked David. + +“About an hour.” + +“All right. I will meet you in front of the parson's house in an hour. +We will go back by train. I have money enough.” + +“I'd just as soon walk.” The woman spoke with the utmost humility of +love and trust. She had not even asked where the man lived. All her life +she had followed him with her soul, and it would go hard if her poor +feet could not keep pace with her soul. + +“No, it is too far; we will take the train. One goes at half past four.” + +At half past four the couple, made man and wife, were on the train +speeding toward the little home in the woods. The woman had frizzled her +thin hair pathetically and ridiculously over her temples; on her left +hand gleamed a white diamond. She had kept it hidden; she had almost +starved rather than part with it. She gazed out of the window at the +flying landscape, and her thin lips were curved in a charming smile. The +man sat beside her, staring straight ahead as if at happy visions. + +They lived together afterward in the little house in the woods, and were +happy with a strange crystallized happiness at which they would have +mocked in their youth, but which they now recognized as the essential of +all happiness upon earth. And always the woman knew what she knew about +her husband, and the man knew about his wife, and each recognized the +other as old lover and sweetheart come together at last, but always +each kept the knowledge from the other with an infinite tenderness +of delicacy which was as a perfumed garment veiling the innermost +sacredness of love. + + + + +THE BALKING OF CHRISTOPHER + +THE spring was early that year. It was only the last of March, but the +trees were filmed with green and paling with promise of bloom; the front +yards were showing new grass pricking through the old. It was high +time to plow the south field and the garden, but Christopher sat in his +rocking-chair beside the kitchen window and gazed out, and did absolutely +nothing about it. + +Myrtle Dodd, Christopher's wife, washed the breakfast dishes, and later +kneaded the bread, all the time glancing furtively at her husband. She +had a most old-fashioned deference with regard to Christopher. She was +always a little afraid of him. Sometimes Christopher's mother, Mrs. +Cyrus Dodd, and his sister Abby, who had never married, reproached her +for this attitude of mind. “You are entirely too much cowed down by +Christopher,” Mrs. Dodd said. + +“I would never be under the thumb of any man,” Abby said. + +“Have you ever seen Christopher in one of his spells?” Myrtle would ask. + +Then Mrs. Cyrus Dodd and Abby would look at each other. “It is all your +fault, mother,” Abby would say. “You really ought not to have allowed +your son to have his own head so much.” + +“You know perfectly well, Abby, what I had to contend against,” replied +Mrs. Dodd, and Abby became speechless. Cyrus Dodd, now deceased some +twenty years, had never during his whole life yielded to anything but +birth and death. Before those two primary facts even his terrible will +was powerless. He had come into the world without his consent being +obtained; he had passed in like manner from it. But during his life +he had ruled, a petty monarch, but a most thorough one. He had spoiled +Christopher, and his wife, although a woman of high spirit, knew of no +appealing. + +“I could never go against your father, you know that,” said Mrs. Dodd, +following up her advantage. + +“Then,” said Abby, “you ought to have warned poor Myrtle. It was a shame +to let her marry a man as spoiled as Christopher.” + +“I would have married him, anyway,” declared Myrtle with sudden +defiance; and her mother-inlaw regarded her approvingly. + +“There are worse men than Christopher, and Myrtle knows it,” said she. + +“Yes, I do, mother,” agreed Myrtle. “Christopher hasn't one bad habit.” + +“I don't know what you call a bad habit,” retorted Abby. “I call having +your own way in spite of the world, the flesh, and the devil rather a +bad habit. Christopher tramples on everything in his path, and he always +has. He tramples on poor Myrtle.” + +At that Myrtle laughed. “I don't think I look trampled on,” said she; +and she certainly did not. Pink and white and plump was Myrtle, although +she had, to a discerning eye, an expression which denoted extreme +nervousness. + +This morning of spring, when her husband sat doing nothing, she wore +this nervous expression. Her blue eyes looked dark and keen; her +forehead was wrinkled; her rosy mouth was set. Myrtle and Christopher +were not young people; they were a little past middle age, still far +from old in look or ability. + +Myrtle had kneaded the bread to rise for the last time before it was put +into the oven, and had put on the meat to boil for dinner, before she +dared address that silent figure which had about it something tragic. +Then she spoke in a small voice. “Christopher,” said she. + +Christopher made no reply. + +“It is a good morning to plow, ain't it?” said Myrtle. + +Christopher was silent. + +“Jim Mason got over real early; I suppose he thought you'd want to get +at the south field. He's been sitting there at the barn door for 'most +two hours.” + +Then Christopher rose. Myrtle's anxious face lightened. But to her +wonder her husband went into the front entry and got his best hat. “He +ain't going to wear his best hat to plow,” thought Myrtle. For an awful +moment it occurred to her that something had suddenly gone wrong with +her husband's mind. Christopher brushed the hat carefully, adjusted it +at the little looking-glass in the kitchen, and went out. + +“Be you going to plow the south field?” Myrtle said, faintly. + +“No, I ain't.” + +“Will you be back to dinner?” + +“I don't know--you needn't worry if I'm not.” Suddenly Christopher did +an unusual thing for him. He and Myrtle had lived together for years, +and outward manifestations of affection were rare between them. He put +his arm around her and kissed her. + +After he had gone, Myrtle watched him out of sight down the road; then +she sat down and wept. Jim Mason came slouching around from his station +at the barn door. He surveyed Myrtle uneasily. + +“Mr. Dodd sick?” said he at length. + +“Not that I know of,” said Myrtle, in a weak quaver. She rose and, +keeping her tear-stained face aloof, lifted the lid off the kettle on +the stove. + +“D'ye know am he going to plow to-day?” + +“He said he wasn't.” + +Jim grunted, shifted his quid, and slouched out of the yard. + +Meantime Christopher Dodd went straight down the road to the minister's, +the Rev. Stephen Wheaton. When he came to the south field, which he was +neglecting, he glanced at it turning emerald upon the gentle slopes. He +set his face harder. Christopher Dodd's face was in any case hard-set. +Now it was tragic, to be pitied, but warily, lest it turn fiercely upon +the one who pitied. Christopher was a handsome man, and his face had an +almost classic turn of feature. His forehead was noble; his eyes full of +keen light. He was only a farmer, but in spite of his rude clothing he +had the face of a man who followed one of the professions. He was in +sore trouble of spirit, and he was going to consult the minister and ask +him for advice. Christopher had never done this before. He had a sort +of incredulity now that he was about to do it. He had always associated +that sort of thing with womankind, and not with men like himself. +And, moreover, Stephen Wheaton was a younger man than himself. He was +unmarried, and had only been settled in the village for about a year. +“He can't think I'm coming to set my cap at him, anyway,” Christopher +reflected, with a sort of grim humor, as he drew near the parsonage. The +minister was haunted by marriageable ladies of the village. + +“Guess you are glad to see a man coming, instead of a woman who has +doubts about some doctrine,” was the first thing Christopher said to the +minister when he had been admitted to his study. The study was a small +room, lined with books, and only one picture hung over the fireplace, +the portrait of the minister's mother--Stephen was so like her that a +question concerning it was futile. + +Stephen colored a little angrily at Christopher's remark--he was a +hot-tempered man, although a clergyman; then he asked him to be seated. + +Christopher sat down opposite the minister. “I oughtn't to have spoken +so,” he apologized, “but what I am doing ain't like me.” + +“That's all right,” said Stephen. He was a short, athletic man, with an +extraordinary width of shoulders and a strong-featured and ugly face, +still indicative of goodness and a strange power of sympathy. Three +little mongrel dogs were sprawled about the study. One, small and alert, +came and rested his head on Christopher's knee. Animals all liked him. +Christopher mechanically patted him. Patting an appealing animal was as +unconscious with the man as drawing his breath. But he did not even look +at the little dog while he stroked it after the fashion which pleased it +best. He kept his large, keen, melancholy eyes fixed upon the minister; +at length he spoke. He did not speak with as much eagerness as he did +with force, bringing the whole power of his soul into his words, which +were the words of a man in rebellion against the greatest odds on earth +and in all creation--the odds of fate itself. + +“I have come to say a good deal, Mr. Wheaton,” he began. + +“Then say it, Mr. Dodd,” replied Stephen, without a smile. + +Christopher spoke. “I am going back to the very beginning of things,” + said he, “and maybe you will think it blasphemy, but I don't mean it for +that. I mean it for the truth, and the truth which is too much for my +comprehension.” + +“I have heard men swear when it did not seem blasphemy to me,” said +Stephen. + +“Thank the Lord, you ain't so deep in your rut you can't see the stars!” + said Christopher. “But I guess you see them in a pretty black sky +sometimes. In the beginning, why did I have to come into the world +without any choice?” + +“You must not ask a question of me which can only be answered by the +Lord,” said Stephen. + +“I am asking the Lord,” said Christopher, with his sad, forceful voice. +“I am asking the Lord, and I ask why?” + +“You have no right to expect your question to be answered in your time,” + said Stephen. + +“But here am I,” said Christopher, “and I was a question to the Lord +from the first, and fifty years and more I have been on the earth.” + +“Fifty years and more are nothing for the answer to such a question,” + said Stephen. + +Christopher looked at him with mournful dissent; there was no anger +about him. “There was time before time,” said he, “before the fifty +years and more began. I don't mean to blaspheme, Mr. Wheaton, but it is +the truth. I came into the world whether I would or not; I was forced, +and then I was told I was a free agent. I am no free agent. For fifty +years and more I have thought about it, and I have found out that, at +least. I am a slave--a slave of life.” + +“For that matter,” said Stephen, looking curiously at him, “so am I. So +are we all.” + +“That makes it worse,” agreed Christopher--“a whole world of slaves. I +know I ain't talking in exactly what you might call an orthodox strain. +I have got to a point when it seems to me I shall go mad if I don't talk +to somebody. I know there is that awful why, and you can't answer it; +and no man living can. I'm willing to admit that sometime, in another +world, that why will get an answer, but meantime it's an awful thing to +live in this world without it if a man has had the kind of life I have. +My life has been harder for me than a harder life might be for another +man who was different. That much I know. There is one thing I've got +to be thankful for. I haven't been the means of sending any more slaves +into this world. I am glad my wife and I haven't any children to ask +'why?' + +“Now, I've begun at the beginning; I'm going on. I have never had +what men call luck. My folks were poor; father and mother were good, +hardworking people, but they had nothing but trouble, sickness, and +death, and losses by fire and flood. We lived near the river, and one +spring our house went, and every stick we owned, and much as ever we +all got out alive. Then lightning struck father's new house, and the +insurance company had failed, and we never got a dollar of insurance. +Then my oldest brother died, just when he was getting started in +business, and his widow and two little children came on father to +support. Then father got rheumatism, and was all twisted, and wasn't +good for much afterward; and my sister Sarah, who had been expecting to +get married, had to give it up and take in sewing and stay at home and +take care of the rest. There was father and George's widow--she was +never good for much at work--and mother and Abby. She was my youngest +sister. As for me, I had a liking for books and wanted to get an +education; might just as well have wanted to get a seat on a throne. I +went to work in the grist-mill of the place where we used to live when I +was only a boy. Then, before I was twenty, I saw that Sarah wasn't going +to hold out. She had grieved a good deal, poor thing, and worked too +hard, so we sold out and came here and bought my farm, with the mortgage +hitching it, and I went to work for dear life. Then Sarah died, and then +father. Along about then there was a girl I wanted to marry, but, Lord, +how could I even ask her? My farm started in as a failure, and it has +kept it up ever since. When there wasn't a drought there was so much +rain everything mildewed; there was a hail-storm that cut everything to +pieces, and there was the caterpillar year. I just managed to pay the +interest on the mortgage; as for paying the principal, I might as well +have tried to pay the national debt. + +“Well, to go back to that girl. She is married and don't live here, and +you ain't like ever to see her, but she was a beauty and something more. +I don't suppose she ever looked twice at me, but losing what you've +never had sometimes is worse than losing everything you've got. When she +got married I guess I knew a little about what the martyrs went through. + +“Just after that George's widow got married again and went away to +live. It took a burden off the rest of us, but I had got attached to the +children. The little girl, Ellen, seemed 'most like my own. Then poor +Myrtle came here to live. She did dressmaking and boarded with our +folks, and I begun to see that she was one of the nervous sort of women +who are pretty bad off alone in the world, and I told her about the +other girl, and she said she didn't mind, and we got married. By that +time mother's brother John--he had never got married-died and left her +a little money, so she and my sister Abby could screw along. They bought +the little house they live in and left the farm, for Abby was always +hard to get along with, though she is a good woman. Mother, though +she is a smart woman, is one of the sort who don't feel called upon to +interfere much with men-folks. I guess she didn't interfere any too +much for my good, or father's, either. Father was a set man. I guess if +mother had been a little harsh with me I might not have asked that awful +'why?' I guess I might have taken my bitter pills and held my tongue, +but I won't blame myself on poor mother. + +“Myrtle and I get on well enough. She seems contented--she has never +said a word to make me think she wasn't. She isn't one of the kind of +women who want much besides decent treatment and a home. Myrtle is +a good woman. I am sorry for her that she got married to me, for she +deserved somebody who could make her a better husband. All the time, +every waking minute, I've been growing more and more rebellious. + +“You see, Mr. Wheaton, never in this world have I had what I wanted, +and more than wanted-needed, and needed far more than happiness. I have +never been able to think of work as anything but a way to get money, +and it wasn't right, not for a man like me, with the feelings I was born +with. And everything has gone wrong even about the work for the money. +I have been hampered and hindered, I don't know whether by Providence +or the Evil One. I have saved just six hundred and forty dollars, and +I have only paid the interest on the mortgage. I knew I ought to have a +little ahead in case Myrtle or I got sick, so I haven't tried to pay +the mortgage, but put a few dollars at a time in the savings-bank, which +will come in handy now.” + +The minister regarded him uneasily. “What,” he asked, “do you mean to +do?” + +“I mean,” replied Christopher, “to stop trying to do what I am hindered +in doing, and do just once in my life what I want to do. Myrtle asked +me this morning if I wasn't going to plow the south field. Well, I ain't +going to plow the south field. I ain't going to make a garden. I ain't +going to try for hay in the ten-acre lot. I have stopped. I have worked +for nothing except just enough to keep soul and body together. I have +had bad luck. But that isn't the real reason why I have stopped. Look +at here, Mr. Wheaton, spring is coming. I have never in my life had a +chance at the spring nor the summer. This year I'm going to have the +spring and the summer, and the fall, too, if I want it. My apples may +fall and rot if they want to. I am going to get as much good of the +season as they do.” + +“What are you going to do?” asked Stephen. + +“Well, I will tell you. I ain't a man to make mystery if I am doing +right, and I think I am. You know, I've got a little shack up on Silver +Mountain in the little sugar-orchard I own there; never got enough sugar +to say so, but I put up the shack one year when I was fool enough to +think I might get something. Well, I'm going up there, and I'm going +to live there awhile, and I'm going to sense the things I have had to +hustle by for the sake of a few dollars and cents.” + +“But what will your wife do?” + +“She can have the money I've saved, all except enough to buy me a few +provisions. I sha'n't need much. I want a little corn meal, and I will +have a few chickens, and there is a barrel of winter apples left over +that she can't use, and a few potatoes. There is a spring right near the +shack, and there are trout-pools, and by and by there will be berries, +and there's plenty of fire-wood, and there's an old bed and a stove and +a few things in the shack. Now, I'm going to the store and buy what +I want, and I'm going to fix it so Myrtle can draw the money when she +wants it, and then I am going to the shack, and”--Christopher's voice +took on a solemn tone--“I will tell you in just a few words the gist of +what I am going for. I have never in my life had enough of the bread +of life to keep my soul nourished. I have tried to do my duties, but I +believe sometimes duties act on the soul like weeds on a flower. They +crowd it out. I am going up on Silver Mountain to get once, on this +earth, my fill of the bread of life.” + +Stephen Wheaton gasped. “But your wife, she will be alone, she will +worry.” + +“I want you to go and tell her,” said Christopher, “and I've got my +bank-book here; I'm going to write some checks that she can get cashed +when she needs money. I want you to tell her. Myrtle won't make a fuss. +She ain't the kind. Maybe she will be a little lonely, but if she is, +she can go and visit somewhere.” Christopher rose. “Can you let me have +a pen and ink?” said he, “and I will write those checks. You can tell +Myrtle how to use them. She won't know how.” + +Stephen Wheaton, an hour later, sat in his study, the checks in his +hand, striving to rally his courage. Christopher had gone; he had seen +him from his window, laden with parcels, starting upon the ascent of +Silver Mountain. Christopher had made out many checks for small amounts, +and Stephen held the sheaf in his hand, and gradually his courage to +arise and go and tell Christopher's wife gained strength. At last he +went. + +Myrtle was looking out of the window, and she came quickly to the door. +She looked at him, her round, pretty face gone pale, her plump hands +twitching at her apron. + +“What is it?” said she. + +“Nothing to be alarmed about,” replied Stephen. + +Then the two entered the house. Stephen found his task unexpectedly +easy. Myrtle Dodd was an unusual woman in a usual place. + +“It is all right for my husband to do as he pleases,” she said with an +odd dignity, as if she were defending him. + +“Mr. Dodd is a strange man. He ought to have been educated and led a +different life,” Stephen said, lamely, for he reflected that the words +might be hard for the woman to hear, since she seemed obviously quite +fitted to her life, and her life to her. + +But Myrtle did not take it hardly, seemingly rather with pride. “Yes,” + said she, “Christopher ought to have gone to college. He had the head +for it. Instead of that he has just stayed round here and dogged round +the farm, and everything has gone wrong lately. He hasn't had any luck +even with that.” Then poor Myrtle Dodd said an unexpectedly wise thing. +“But maybe,” said Myrtle, “his bad luck may turn out the best thing for +him in the end.” + +Stephen was silent. Then he began explaining about the checks. + +“I sha'n't use any more of his savings than I can help,” said Myrtle, +and for the first time her voice quavered. “He must have some clothes +up there,” said she. “There ain't bed-coverings, and it is cold nights, +late as it is in the spring. I wonder how I can get the bedclothes and +other things to him. I can't drive, myself, and I don't like to hire +anybody; aside from its being an expense, it would make talk. Mother +Dodd and Abby won't make talk outside the family, but I suppose it will +have to be known.” + +“Mr. Dodd didn't want any mystery made over it,” Stephen Wheaton said. + +“There ain't going to be any mystery. Christopher has got a right to +live awhile on Silver Mountain if he wants to,” returned Myrtle with her +odd, defiant air. + +“But I will take the things up there to him, if you will let me have a +horse and wagon,” said Stephen. + +“I will, and be glad. When will you go?” + +“To-morrow.” + +“I'll have them ready,” said Myrtle. + +After the minister had gone she went into her own bedroom and cried a +little and made the moan of a loving woman sadly bewildered by the ways +of man, but loyal as a soldier. Then she dried her tears and began to +pack a load for the wagon. + +The next morning early, before the dew was off the young grass, Stephen +Wheaton started with the wagon-load, driving the great gray farm-horse +up the side of Silver Mountain. The road was fairly good, making many +winds in order to avoid steep ascents, and Stephen drove slowly. The +gray farmhorse was sagacious. He knew that an unaccustomed hand held +the lines; he knew that of a right he should be treading the plowshares +instead of climbing a mountain on a beautiful spring morning. + +But as for the man driving, his face was radiant, his eyes of young +manhood lit with the light of the morning. He had not owned it, but he +himself had sometimes chafed under the dull necessity of his life, but +here was excitement, here was exhilaration. He drew the sweet air into +his lungs, and the deeper meaning of the spring morning into his soul. +Christopher Dodd interested him to the point of enthusiasm. Not even the +uneasy consideration of the lonely, mystified woman in Dodd's deserted +home could deprive him of admiration for the man's flight into the +spiritual open. He felt that these rights of the man were of the +highest, and that other rights, even human and pitiful ones, should give +them the right of way. + +It was not a long drive. When he reached the shack--merely a one-roomed +hut, with a stovepipe chimney, two windows, and a door--Christopher +stood at the entrance and seemed to illuminate it. Stephen for a minute +doubted his identity. Christopher had lost middle age in a day's time. +He had the look of a triumphant youth. Blue smoke was curling from the +chimney. Stephen smelled bacon frying, and coffee. + +Christopher greeted him with the joyousness of a child. “Lord!” said +he, “did Myrtle send you up with all those things? Well, she is a good +woman. Guess I would have been cold last night if I hadn't been so +happy. How is Myrtle?” + +“She seemed to take it very sensibly when I told her.” + +Christopher nodded happily and lovingly. “She would. She can understand +not understanding, and that is more than most women can. It was mighty +good of you to bring the things. You are in time for breakfast. Lord! +Mr. Wheaton, smell the trees, and there are blooms hidden somewhere that +smell sweet. Think of having the common food of man sweetened this way! +First time I fully sensed I was something more than just a man. Lord, I +am paid already. It won't be so very long before I get my fill, at this +rate, and then I can go back. To think I needn't plow to-day! To think +all I have to do is to have the spring! See the light under those +trees!” + +Christopher spoke like a man in ecstasy. He tied the gray horse to a +tree and brought a pail of water for him from the spring near by. + +Then he said to Stephen: “Come right in. The bacon's done, and the +coffee and the corn-cake and the eggs won't take a minute.” + +The two men entered the shack. There was nothing there except the little +cooking-stove, a few kitchen utensils hung on pegs on the walls, an old +table with a few dishes, two chairs, and a lounge over which was spread +an ancient buffalo-skin. + +Stephen sat down, and Christopher fried the eggs. Then he bade the +minister draw up, and the two men breakfasted. + +“Ain't it great, Mr. Wheaton?” said Christopher. + +“You are a famous cook, Mr. Dodd,” laughed Stephen. He was thoroughly +enjoying himself, and the breakfast was excellent. + +“It ain't that,” declared Christopher in his exalted voice. “It ain't +that, young man. It's because the food is blessed.” + +Stephen stayed all day on Silver Mountain. He and Christopher went +fishing, and had fried trout for dinner. He took some of the trout home +to Myrtle. + +Myrtle received them with a sort of state which defied the imputation of +sadness. “Did he seem comfortable?” she asked. + +“Comfortable, Mrs. Dodd? I believe it will mean a new lease of life to +your husband. He is an uncommon man.” + +“Yes, Christopher is uncommon; he always was,” assented Myrtle. + +“You have everything you want? You were not timid last night alone?” + asked the minister. + +“Yes, I was timid. I heard queer noises,” said Myrtle, “but I sha'n't +be alone any more. Christopher's niece wrote me she was coming to make +a visit. She has been teaching school, and she lost her school. I rather +guess Ellen is as uncommon for a girl as Christopher is for a man. +Anyway, she's lost her school, and her brother's married, and she don't +want to go there. Besides, they live in Boston, and Ellen, she says +she can't bear the city in spring and summer. She wrote she'd saved a +little, and she'd pay her board, but I sha'n't touch a dollar of her +little savings, and neither would Christopher want me to. He's always +thought a sight of Ellen, though he's never seen much of her. As for me, +I was so glad when her letter came I didn't know what to do. Christopher +will be glad. I suppose you'll be going up there to see him off and on.” + Myrtle spoke a bit wistfully, and Stephen did not tell her he had been +urged to come often. + +“Yes, off and on,” he replied. + +“If you will just let me know when you are going, I will see that you +have something to take to him--some bread and pies.” + +“He has some chickens there,” said Stephen. + +“Has he got a coop for them?” + +“Yes, he had one rigged up. He will have plenty of eggs, and he carried +up bacon and corn meal and tea and coffee.” + +“I am glad of that,” said Myrtle. She spoke with a quiet dignity, but +her face never lost its expression of bewilderment and resignation. + +The next week Stephen Wheaton carried Myrtle's bread and pies to +Christopher on his mountainside. He drove Christopher's gray horse +harnessed in his old buggy, and realized that he himself was getting +much pleasure out of the other man's idiosyncrasy. The morning was +beautiful, and Stephen carried in his mind a peculiar new beauty, +besides. Ellen, Christopher's niece, had arrived the night before, and, +early as it was, she had been astir when he reached the Dodd house. She +had opened the door for him, and she was a goodly sight: a tall girl, +shaped like a boy, with a fearless face of great beauty crowned with +compact gold braids and lit by unswerving blue eyes. Ellen had a square, +determined chin and a brow of high resolve. + +“Good morning,” said she, and as she spoke she evidently rated Stephen +and approved, for she smiled genially. “I am Mr. Dodd's niece,” said +she. “You are the minister?” + +“Yes.” + +“And you have come for the things aunt is to send him?” + +“Yes.” + +“Aunt said you were to drive uncle's horse and take the buggy,” said +Ellen. “It is very kind of you. While you are harnessing, aunt and I +will pack the basket.” + +Stephen, harnessing the gray horse, had a sense of shock; whether +pleasant or otherwise, he could not determine. He had never seen a girl +in the least like Ellen. Girls had never impressed him. She did. + +When he drove around to the kitchen door she and Myrtle were both there, +and he drank a cup of coffee before starting, and Myrtle introduced him. +“Only think, Mr. Wheaton,” said she, “Ellen says she knows a great deal +about farming, and we are going to hire Jim Mason and go right ahead.” + Myrtle looked adoringly at Ellen. + +Stephen spoke eagerly. “Don't hire anybody,” he said. “I used to work on +a farm to pay my way through college. I need the exercise. Let me help.” + +“You may do that,” said Ellen, “on shares. Neither aunt nor I can think +of letting you work without any recompense.” + +“Well, we will settle that,” Stephen replied. When he drove away, his +usually calm mind was in a tumult. + +“Your niece has come,” he told Christopher, when the two men were +breakfasting together on Silver Mountain. + +“I am glad of that,” said Christopher. “All that troubled me about being +here was that Myrtle might wake up in the night and hear noises.” + +Christopher had grown even more radiant. He was effulgent with pure +happiness. + +“You aren't going to tap your sugar-maples?” said Stephen, looking up +at the great symmetrical efflorescence of rose and green which towered +about them. + +Christopher laughed. “No, bless 'em,” said he, “the trees shall keep +their sugar this season. This week is the first time I've had a chance +to get acquainted with them and sort of enter into their feelings. Good +Lord! I've seen how I can love those trees, Mr. Wheaton! See the pink on +their young leaves! They know more than you and I. They know how to grow +young every spring.” + +Stephen did not tell Christopher how Ellen and Myrtle were to work the +farm with his aid. The two women had bade him not. Christopher seemed to +have no care whatever about it. He was simply happy. When Stephen left, +he looked at him and said, with the smile of a child, “Do you think I am +crazy?” + +“Crazy? No,” replied Stephen. + +“Well, I ain't. I'm just getting fed. I was starving to death. Glad +you don't think I'm crazy, because I couldn't help matters by saying I +wasn't. Myrtle don't think I am, I know. As for Ellen, I haven't seen +her since she was a little girl. I don't believe she can be much like +Myrtle; but I guess if she is what she promised to turn out she wouldn't +think anybody ought to go just her way to have it the right way.” + +“I rather think she is like that, although I saw her for the first time +this morning,” said Stephen. + +“I begin to feel that I may not need to stay here much longer,” + Christopher called after him. “I begin to feel that I am getting what I +came for so fast that I can go back pretty soon.” + +But it was the last day of July before he came. He chose the cool of +the evening after a burning day, and descended the mountain in the full +light of the moon. He had gone up the mountain like an old man; he came +down like a young one. + +When he came at last in sight of his own home, he paused and stared. +Across the grass-land a heavily laden wagon was moving toward his barn. +Upon this wagon heaped with hay, full of silver lights from the moon, +sat a tall figure all in white, which seemed to shine above all things. +Christopher did not see the man on the other side of the wagon leading +the horses; he saw only this wonderful white figure. He hurried forward +and Myrtle came down the road to meet him. She had been watching for +him, as she had watched every night. + +“Who is it on the load of hay?” asked Christopher. + +“Ellen,” replied Myrtle. + +“Oh!” said Christopher. “She looked like an angel of the Lord, come to +take up the burden I had dropped while I went to learn of Him.” + +“Be you feeling pretty well, Christopher?” asked Myrtle. She thought +that what her husband had said was odd, but he looked well, and he might +have said it simply because he was a man. + +Christopher put his arm around Myrtle. “I am better than I ever was in +my whole life, Myrtle, and I've got more courage to work now than I had +when I was young. I had to go away and get rested, but I've got rested +for all my life. We shall get along all right as long as we live.” + +“Ellen and the minister are going to get married come Christmas,” said +Myrtle. + +“She is lucky. He is a man that can see with the eyes of other people,” + said Christopher. + +It was after the hay had been unloaded and Christopher had been shown +the garden full of lusty vegetables, and told of the great crop with no +drawback, that he and the minister had a few minutes alone together at +the gate. + +“I want to tell you, Mr. Wheaton, that I am settled in my mind now. I +shall never complain again, no matter what happens. I have found that +all the good things and all the bad things that come to a man who tries +to do right are just to prove to him that he is on the right path. They +are just the flowers and sunbeams, and the rocks and snakes, too, that +mark the way. And--I have found out more than that. I have found out the +answer to my 'why?'” + +“What is it?” asked Stephen, gazing at him curiously from the +wonder-height of his own special happiness. + +“I have found out that the only way to heaven for the children of men is +through the earth,” said Christopher. + + + + +DEAR ANNIE + +ANNIE HEMPSTEAD lived on a large family canvas, being the eldest of six +children. There was only one boy. The mother was long since dead. If +one can imagine the Hempstead family, the head of which was the Reverend +Silas, pastor of the Orthodox Church in Lynn Corners, as being the +subject of a mild study in village history, the high light would +probably fall upon Imogen, the youngest daughter. As for Annie, she +would apparently supply only a part of the background. + +This afternoon in late July, Annie was out in the front yard of the +parsonage, assisting her brother Benny to rake hay. Benny had not cut +it. Annie had hired a man, although the Hempsteads could not afford to +hire a man, but she had said to Benny, “Benny, you can rake the hay and +get it into the barn if Jim Mullins cuts it, can't you?” And Benny had +smiled and nodded acquiescence. Benny Hempstead always smiled and nodded +acquiescence, but there was in him the strange persistency of a willow +bough, the persistency of pliability, which is the most unconquerable +of all. Benny swayed gracefully in response to all the wishes of others, +but always he remained in his own inadequate attitude toward life. + +Now he was raking to as little purpose as he could and rake at all. The +clover-tops, the timothy grass, and the buttercups moved before his rake +in a faint foam of gold and green and rose, but his sister Annie raised +whirlwinds with hers. The Hempstead yard was large and deep, and had two +great squares given over to wild growths on either side of the gravel +walk, which was bordered with shrubs, flowering in their turn, like a +class of children at school saying their lessons. The spring shrubs had +all spelled out their floral recitations, of course, but great clumps +of peonies were spreading wide skirts of gigantic bloom, like dancers +courtesying low on the stage of summer, and shafts of green-white Yucca +lilies and Japan lilies and clove-pinks still remained in their school +of bloom. + +Benny often stood still, wiped his forehead, leaned on his rake, and +inhaled the bouquet of sweet scents, but Annie raked with never-ceasing +energy. Annie was small and slender and wiry, and moved with angular +grace, her thin, peaked elbows showing beneath the sleeves of her pink +gingham dress, her thin knees outlining beneath the scanty folds of the +skirt. Her neck was long, her shoulder-blades troubled the back of +her blouse at every movement. She was a creature full of ostentatious +joints, but the joints were delicate and rhythmical and charming. Annie +had a charming face, too. It was thin and sunburnt, but still charming, +with a sweet, eager, intent-to-please outlook upon life. This last was +the real attitude of Annie's mind; it was, in fact, Annie. She was +intent to please from her toes to the crown of her brown head. She +radiated good will and loving-kindness as fervently as a lily in the +border radiated perfume. + +It was very warm, and the northwest sky had a threatening mountain +of clouds. Occasionally Annie glanced at it and raked the faster, and +thought complacently of the water-proof covers in the little barn. This +hay was valuable for the Reverend Silas's horse. + +Two of the front windows of the house were filled with girls' heads, and +the regular swaying movement of white-clad arms sewing. The girls sat in +the house because it was so sunny on the piazza in the afternoon. There +were four girls in the sittingroom, all making finery for themselves. +On the other side of the front door one of the two windows was blank; in +the other was visible a nodding gray head, that of Annie's father taking +his afternoon nap. + +Everything was still except the girls' tongues, an occasional burst of +laughter, and the crackling shrill of locusts. Nothing had passed on the +dusty road since Benny and Annie had begun their work. Lynn Corners was +nothing more than a hamlet. It was even seldom that an automobile got +astray there, being diverted from the little city of Anderson, six miles +away, by turning to the left instead of the right. + +Benny stopped again and wiped his forehead, all pink and beaded with +sweat. He was a pretty young man--as pretty as a girl, although large. +He glanced furtively at Annie, then he went with a soft, padding glide, +like a big cat, to the piazza and settled down. He leaned his head +against a post, closed his eyes, and inhaled the sweetness of flowers +alive and dying, of new-mown hay. Annie glanced at him and an angelic +look came over her face. At that moment the sweetness of her nature +seemed actually visible. + +“He is tired, poor boy!” she thought. She also thought that probably +Benny felt the heat more because he was stout. Then she raked faster +and faster. She fairly flew over the yard, raking the severed grass +and flowers into heaps. The air grew more sultry. The sun was not yet +clouded, but the northwest was darker and rumbled ominously. + +The girls in the sitting-room continued to chatter and sew. One of them +might have come out to help this little sister toiling alone, but Annie +did not think of that. She raked with the uncomplaining sweetness of an +angel until the storm burst. The rain came down in solid drops, and the +sky was a sheet of clamoring flame. Annie made one motion toward the +barn, but there was no use. The hay was not half cocked. There was no +sense in running for covers. Benny was up and lumbering into the house, +and her sisters were shutting windows and crying out to her. Annie +deserted her post and fled before the wind, her pink skirts lashing her +heels, her hair dripping. + +When she entered the sitting-room her sisters, Imogen, Eliza, Jane, and +Susan, were all there; also her father, Silas, tall and gaunt and gray. +To the Hempsteads a thunder-storm partook of the nature of a religious +ceremony. The family gathered together, and it was understood that they +were all offering prayer and recognizing God as present on the wings of +the tempest. In reality they were all very nervous in thunder-storms, +with the exception of Annie. She always sent up a little silent petition +that her sisters and brother and father, and the horse and dog and cat, +might escape danger, although she had never been quite sure that she was +not wicked in including the dog and cat. She was surer about the horse +because he was the means by which her father made pastoral calls upon +his distant sheep. Then afterward she just sat with the others and +waited until the storm was over and it was time to open windows and see +if the roof had leaked. Today, however, she was intent upon the hay. In +a lull of the tempest she spoke. + +“It is a pity,” she said, “that I was not able to get the hay cocked and +the covers on.” + +Then Imogen turned large, sarcastic blue eyes upon her. Imogen was +considered a beauty, pink and white, golden-haired, and dimpled, with +a curious calculating hardness of character and a sharp tongue, so at +variance with her appearance that people doubted the evidence of their +senses. + +“If,” said Imogen, “you had only made Benny work instead of encouraging +him to dawdle and finally to stop altogether, and if you had gone +out directly after dinner, the hay would have been all raked up and +covered.” + +Nothing could have exceeded the calm and instructive superiority of +Imogen's tone. A mass of soft white fabric lay upon her lap, although +she had removed scissors and needle and thimble to a safe distance. She +tilted her chin with a royal air. When the storm lulled she had stopped +praying. + +Imogen's sisters echoed her and joined in the attack upon Annie. + +“Yes,” said Jane, “if you had only started earlier, Annie. I told Eliza +when you went out in the yard that it looked like a shower.” + +Eliza nodded energetically. + +“It was foolish to start so late,” said Susan, with a calm air of wisdom +only a shade less exasperating than Imogen's. + +“And you always encourage Benny so in being lazy,” said Eliza. + +Then the Reverend Silas joined in. “You should have more sense of +responsibility toward your brother, your only brother, Annie,” he said, +in his deep pulpit voice. + +“It was after two o'clock when you went out,” said Imogen. + +“And all you had to do was the dinner-dishes, and there were very few +to-day,” said Jane. + +Then Annie turned with a quick, cat-like motion. Her eyes blazed under +her brown toss of hair. She gesticulated with her little, nervous hands. +Her voice was as sweet and intense as a reed, and withal piercing with +anger. + +“It was not half past one when I went out,” said she, “and there was a +whole sinkful of dishes.” + +“It was after two. I looked at the clock,” said Imogen. + +“It was not.” + +“And there were very few dishes,” said Jane. + +“A whole sinkful,” said Annie, tense with wrath. + +“You always are rather late about starting,” said Susan. + +“I am not! I was not! I washed the dishes, and swept the kitchen, and +blacked the stove, and cleaned the silver.” + +“I swept the kitchen,” said Imogen, severely. “Annie, I am surprised at +you.” + +“And you know I cleaned the silver yesterday,” said Jane. + +Annie gave a gasp and looked from one to the other. + +“You know you did not sweep the kitchen,” said Imogen. + +Annie's father gazed at her severely. “My dear,” he said, “how long must +I try to correct you of this habit of making false statements?” + +“Dear Annie does not realize that they are false statements, father,” + said Jane. Jane was not pretty, but she gave the effect of a long, +sweet stanza of some fine poetess. She was very tall and slender and +large-eyed, and wore always a serious smile. She was attired in a purple +muslin gown, cut V-shaped at the throat, and, as always, a black velvet +ribbon with a little gold locket attached. The locket contained a coil +of hair. Jane had been engaged to a young minister, now dead three +years, and he had given her the locket. + +Jane no doubt had mourned for her lover, but she had a covert pleasure +in the romance of her situation. She was a year younger than Annie, and +she had loved and lost, and so had achieved a sentimental distinction. +Imogen always had admirers. Eliza had been courted at intervals +half-heartedly by a widower, and Susan had had a few fleeting chances. +But Jane was the only one who had been really definite in her heart +affairs. As for Annie, nobody ever thought of her in such a connection. +It was supposed that Annie had no thought of marriage, that she was +foreordained to remain unwed and keep house for her father and Benny. + +When Jane said that dear Annie did not realize that she made false +statements, she voiced an opinion of the family before which Annie was +always absolutely helpless. Defense meant counter-accusation. Annie +could not accuse her family. She glanced from one to the other. In her +blue eyes were still sparks of wrath, but she said nothing. She felt, as +always, speechless, when affairs reached such a juncture. She began, +in spite of her good sense, to feel guiltily responsible for +everything--for the spoiling of the hay, even for the thunder-storm. +What was more, she even wished to feel guiltily responsible. Anything +was better than to be sure her sisters were not speaking the truth, that +her father was blaming her unjustly. + +Benny, who sat hunched upon himself with the effect of one set of bones +and muscles leaning upon others for support, was the only one who spoke +for her, and even he spoke to little purpose. + +“One of you other girls,” said he, in a thick, sweet voice, “might have +come out and helped Annie; then she could have got the hay in.” + +They all turned on him. + +“It is all very well for you to talk,” said Imogen. “I saw you myself +quit raking hay and sit down on the piazza.” + +“Yes,” assented Jane, nodding violently, “I saw you, too.” + +“You have no sense of your responsibility, Benjamin, and your sister +Annie abets you in evading it,” said Silas Hempstead with dignity. + +“Benny feels the heat,” said Annie. + +“Father is entirely right,” said Eliza. “Benjamin has no sense of +responsibility, and it is mainly owing to Annie.” + +“But dear Annie does not realize it,” said Jane. + +Benny got up lumberingly and left the room. He loved his sister Annie, +but he hated the mild simmer of feminine rancor to which even his +father's presence failed to add a masculine flavor. Benny was always +leaving the room and allowing his sisters “to fight it out.” + +Just after he left there was a tremendous peal of thunder and a blue +flash, and they all prayed again, except Annie; who was occupied with +her own perplexities of life, and not at all afraid. She wondered, as +she had wondered many times before, if she could possibly be in the +wrong, if she were spoiling Benny, if she said and did things without +knowing that she did so, or the contrary. Then suddenly she tightened +her mouth. She knew. This sweet-tempered, anxious-to-please Annie was +entirely sane, she had unusual self-poise. She KNEW that she knew +what she did and said, and what she did not do or say, and a strange +comprehension of her family overwhelmed her. Her sisters were truthful; +she would not admit anything else, even to herself; but they confused +desires and impulses with accomplishment. They had done so all their +lives, some of them from intense egotism, some possibly from slight +twists in their mental organisms. As for her father, he had simply +rather a weak character, and was swayed by the majority. Annie, as she +sat there among the praying group, made the same excuse for her sisters +that they made for her. “They don't realize it,” she said to herself. + +When the storm finally ceased she hurried upstairs and opened the +windows, letting in the rain-fresh air. Then she got supper, while her +sisters resumed their needlework. A curious conviction seized her, as +she was hurrying about the kitchen, that in all probability some, if +not all, of her sisters considered that they were getting the supper. +Possibly Jane had reflected that she ought to get supper, then she +had taken another stitch in her work and had not known fairly that her +impulse of duty had not been carried out. Imogen, presumably, was sewing +with the serene consciousness that, since she was herself, it followed +as a matter of course that she was performing all the tasks of the +house. + +While Annie was making an omelet Benny came out into the kitchen and +stood regarding her, hands in pockets, making, as usual, one set of +muscles rest upon another. His face was full of the utmost good nature, +but it also convicted him of too much sloth to obey its commands. + +“Say, Annie, what on earth makes them all pick on you so?” he observed. + +“Hush, Benny! They don't mean to. They don't know it.” + +“But say, Annie, you must know that they tell whoppers. You DID sweep +the kitchen.” + +“Hush, Benny! Imogen really thinks she swept it.” + +“Imogen always thinks she has done everything she ought to do, whether +she has done it or not,” said Benny, with unusual astuteness. “Why don't +you up and tell her she lies, Annie?” + +“She doesn't really lie,” said Annie. + +“She does lie, even if she doesn't know it,” said Benny; “and what is +more, she ought to be made to know it. Say, Annie, it strikes me that +you are doing the same by the girls that they accuse you of doing by me. +Aren't you encouraging them in evil ways?” + +Annie started, and turned and stared at him. + +Benny nodded. “I can't see any difference,” he said. “There isn't a day +but one of the girls thinks she has done something you have done, or +hasn't done something you ought to have done, and they blame you all the +time, when you don't deserve it, and you let them, and they don't know +it, and I don't think myself that they know they tell whoppers; but they +ought to know. Strikes me you are just spoiling the whole lot, father +thrown in, Annie. You are a dear, just as they say, but you are too much +of a dear to be good for them.” + +Annie stared. + +“You are letting that omelet burn,” said Benny. “Say, Annie, I will go +out and turn that hay in the morning. I know I don't amount to much, but +I ain't a girl, anyhow, and I haven't got a cross-eyed soul. That's +what ails a lot of girls. They mean all right, but their souls have been +cross-eyed ever since they came into the world, and it's just such +girls as you who ought to get them straightened out. You know what has +happened to-day. Well, here's what happened yesterday. I don't tell +tales, but you ought to know this, for I believe Tom Reed has his eye +on you, in spite of Imogen's being such a beauty, and Susan's having +manners like silk, and Eliza's giving everybody the impression that she +is too good for this earth, and Jane's trying to make everybody think +she is a sweet martyr, without a thought for mortal man, when that is +only her way of trying to catch one. You know Tom Reed was here last +evening?” + +Annie nodded. Her face turned scarlet, then pathetically pale. She bent +over her omelet, carefully lifting it around the edges. + +“Well,” Benny went on, “I know he came to see you, and Imogen went to +the door and ushered him into the parlor, and I was out on the piazza, +and she didn't know it, but I heard her tell him that she thought you +had gone out. She hinted, too, that George Wells had taken you to the +concert in the town hall. He did ask you, didn't he?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, Imogen spoke in this way.” Benny lowered his voice and imitated +Imogen to the life. “'Yes, we are all well, thank you. Father is busy, +of course; Jane has run over to Mrs. Jacobs's for a pattern; Eliza is +writing letters; and Susan is somewhere about the house. Annie--well, +Annie-George Wells asked her to go to the concert--I rather--' Then,” + said Benny, in his natural voice, “Imogen stopped, and she could say +truthfully that she didn't lie, but anybody would have thought from what +she said that you had gone to the concert with George Wells.” + +“Did Tom inquire for me?” asked Annie, in a low voice. + +“Didn't have a chance. Imogen got ahead of him.” + +“Oh, well, then it doesn't matter. I dare say he did come to see +Imogen.” + +“He didn't,” said Benny, stoutly. “And that isn't all. Say, Annie--” + +“What?” + +“Are you going to marry George Wells? It is none of my business, but are +you?” + +Annie laughed a little, although her face was still pale. She had folded +the omelet and was carefully watching it. + +“You need not worry about that, Benny dear,” she said. + +“Then what right have the girls to tell so many people the nice things +they hear you say about him?” + +Annie removed the omelet skilfully from the pan to a hot plate, which +she set on the range shelf, and turned to her brother. + +“What nice things do they hear me say?” + +“That he is so handsome; that he has such a good position; that he is +the very best young man in the place; that you should think every girl +would be head over heels in love with him; that every word he speaks is +so bright and clever.” + +Annie looked at her brother. + +“I don't believe you ever said one of those things,” remarked Benny. + +Annie continued to look at him. + +“Did you?” + +“Benny dear, I am not going to tell you.” + +“You won't say you never did, because that would be putting your sisters +in the wrong and admitting that they tell lies. Annie, you are a dear, +but I do think you are doing wrong and spoiling them as much as they say +you are spoiling me.” + +“Perhaps I am,” said Annie. There was a strange, tragic expression +on her keen, pretty little face. She looked as if her mind was +contemplating strenuous action which was changing her very features. She +had covered the finished omelet and was now cooking another. + +“I wish you would see if everybody is in the house and ready, Benny,” + said she. “When this omelet is done they must come right away, or +nothing will be fit to eat. And, Benny dear, if you don't mind, please +get the butter and the cream-pitcher out of the ice-chest. I have +everything else on the table.” + +“There is another thing,” said Benny. “I don't go about telling tales, +but I do think it is time you knew. The girls tell everybody that you +like to do the housework so much that they don't dare interfere. And +it isn't so. They may have taught themselves to think it is so, but it +isn't. You would like a little time for fancy-work and reading as well +as they do.” + +“Please get the cream and butter, and see if they are all in the house,” + said Annie. She spoke as usual, but the strange expression remained in +her face. It was still there when the family were all gathered at the +table and she was serving the puffy omelet. Jane noticed it first. + +“What makes you look so odd, Annie?” said she. + +“I don't know how I look odd,” replied Annie. + +They all gazed at her then, her father with some anxiety. “You don't +look yourself,” he said. “You are feeling well, aren't you, Annie?” + +“Quite well, thank you, father.” + +But after the omelet was served and the tea poured Annie rose. + +“Where are you going, Annie?” asked Imogen, in her sarcastic voice. + +“To my room, or perhaps out in the orchard.” + +“It will be sopping wet out there after the shower,” said Eliza. “Are +you crazy, Annie?” + +“I have on my black skirt, and I will wear rubbers,” said Annie, +quietly. “I want some fresh air.” + +“I should think you had enough fresh air. You were outdoors all the +afternoon, while we were cooped up in the house,” said Jane. + +“Don't you feel well, Annie?” her father asked again, a golden bit of +omelet poised on his fork, as she was leaving the room. + +“Quite well, father dear.” + +“But you are eating no supper.” + +“I have always heard that people who cook don't need so much to eat,” + said Imogen. “They say the essence of the food soaks in through the +pores.” + +“I am quite well,” Annie repeated, and the door closed behind her. + +“Dear Annie! She is always doing odd things like this,” remarked Jane. + +“Yes, she is, things that one cannot account for, but Annie is a dear,” + said Susan. + +“I hope she is well,” said Annie's father. + +“Oh, she is well enough. Don't worry, father,” said Imogen. “Dear Annie +is always doing the unexpected. She looks very well.” + +“Yes, dear Annie is quite stout, for her,” said Jane. + +“I think she is thinner than I have ever seen her, and the rest of you +look like stuffed geese,” said Benny, rudely. + +Imogen turned upon him in dignified wrath. “Benny, you insult your +sisters,” said she. “Father, you should really tell Benny that he should +bridle his tongue a little.” + +“You ought to bridle yours, every one of you,” retorted Benny. “You +girls nag poor Annie every single minute. You let her do all the work, +then you pick at her for it.” + +There was a chorus of treble voices. “We nag dear Annie! We pick at dear +Annie! We make her do everything! Father, you should remonstrate with +Benjamin. You know how we all love dear Annie!” + +“Benjamin,” began Silas Hempstead, but Benny, with a smothered +exclamation, was up and out of the room. + +Benny quite frankly disliked his sisters, with the exception of Annie. +For his father he had a sort of respectful tolerance. He could not see +why he should have anything else. His father had never done anything +for him except to admonish him. His scanty revenue for his support and +college expenses came from his maternal grandmother, who had been a +woman of parts and who had openly scorned her son-in-law. + +Grandmother Loomis had left a will which occasioned much comment. By its +terms she had provided sparsely but adequately for Benjamin's education +and living until he should graduate; and her house, with all her +personal property, and the bulk of the sum from which she had derived +her own income, fell to her granddaughter Annie. Annie had always +been her grandmother's favorite. There had been covert dismay when the +contents of the will were made known, then one and all had congratulated +the beneficiary, and said abroad that they were glad dear Annie was so +well provided for. It was intimated by Imogen and Eliza that probably +dear Annie would not marry, and in that case Grandmother Loomis's +bequest was so fortunate. She had probably taken that into +consideration. Grandmother Loomis had now been dead four years, and her +deserted home had been for rent, furnished, but it had remained vacant. + +Annie soon came back from the orchard, and after she had cleared +away the supper-table and washed the dishes she went up to her room, +carefully rearranged her hair, and changed her dress. Then she sat down +beside a window and waited and watched, her pointed chin in a cup of one +little thin hand, her soft muslin skirts circling around her, and +the scent of queer old sachet emanating from a flowered ribbon of her +grandmother's which she had tied around her waist. The ancient scent +always clung to the ribbon, suggesting faintly as a dream the musk and +roses and violets of some old summer-time. + +Annie sat there and gazed out on the front yard, which was silvered over +with moonlight. Annie's four sisters all sat out there. They had spread +a rug over the damp grass and brought out chairs. There were five +chairs, although there were only four girls. Annie gazed over the yard +and down the street. She heard the chatter of the girls, which was +inconsequent and absent, as if their minds were on other things than +their conversation. Then suddenly she saw a small red gleam far down the +street, evidently that of a cigar, and also a dark, moving figure. Then +there ensued a subdued wrangle in the yard. Imogen insisted that her +sisters should go into the house. They all resisted, Eliza the most +vehemently. Imogen was arrogant and compelling. Finally she drove them +all into the house except Eliza, who wavered upon the threshold of +yielding. Imogen was obliged to speak very softly lest the approaching +man hear, but Annie, in the window above her, heard every word. + +“You know he is coming to see me,” said Imogen, passionately. “You +know--you know, Eliza, and yet every single time he comes, here are you +girls, spying and listening.” + +“He comes to see Annie, I believe,” said Eliza, in her stubborn voice, +which yet had indecision in it. + +“He never asks for her.” + +“He never has a chance. We all tell him, the minute he comes in, that +she is out. But now I am going to stay, anyway.” + +“Stay if you want to. You are all a jealous lot. If you girls can't have +a beau yourselves, you begrudge one to me. I never saw such a house as +this for a man to come courting in.” + +“I will stay,” said Eliza, and this time her voice was wholly firm. +“There is no use in my going, anyway, for the others are coming back.” + +It was true. Back flitted Jane and Susan, and by that time Tom Reed had +reached the gate, and his cigar was going out in a shower of sparks on +the gravel walk, and all four sisters were greeting him and urging upon +his acceptance the fifth chair. Annie, watching, saw that the young man +seemed to hesitate. Then her heart leaped and she heard him speak +quite plainly, with a note of defiance and irritation, albeit with +embarrassment. + +“Is Miss Annie in?” asked Tom Reed. + +Imogen answered first, and her harsh voice was honey-sweet. + +“I fear dear Annie is out,” she said. “She will be so sorry to miss +you.” + +Annie, at her window, made a sudden passionate motion, then she sat +still and listened. She argued fiercely that she was right in so doing. +She felt that the time had come when she must know, for the sake of her +own individuality, just what she had to deal with in the natures of her +own kith and kin. Dear Annie had turned in her groove of sweetness and +gentle yielding, as all must turn who have any strength of character +underneath the sweetness and gentleness. Therefore Annie, at her window +above, listened. + +At first she heard little that bore upon herself, for the conversation +was desultory, about the weather and general village topics. Then Annie +heard her own name. She was “dear Annie,” as usual. She listened, fairly +faint with amazement. What she heard from that quartette of treble +voices down there in the moonlight seemed almost like a fairy-tale. +The sisters did not violently incriminate her. They were too astute for +that. They told half-truths. They told truths which were as shadows of +the real facts, and yet not to be contradicted. They built up between +them a story marvelously consistent, unless prearranged, and that Annie +did not think possible. George Wells figured in the tale, and there were +various hints and pauses concerning herself and her own character in +daily life, and not one item could be flatly denied, even if the girl +could have gone down there and, standing in the midst of that moonlit +group, given her sisters the lie. + +Everything which they told, the whole structure of falsehood, had beams +and rafters of truth. Annie felt helpless before it all. To her fancy, +her sisters and Tom Reed seemed actually sitting in a fairy building +whose substance was utter falsehood, and yet which could not be utterly +denied. An awful sense of isolation possessed her. So these were her +own sisters, the sisters whom she had loved as a matter of the simplest +nature, whom she had admired, whom she had served. + +She made no allowance, since she herself was perfectly normal, for the +motive which underlay it all. She could not comprehend the strife of the +women over the one man. Tom Reed was in reality the one desirable match +in the village. Annie knew, or thought she knew, that Tom Reed had it +in mind to love her, and she innocently had it in mind to love him. She +thought of a home of her own and his with delight. She thought of it as +she thought of the roses coming into bloom in June, and she thought of +it as she thought of the every-day happenings of life--cooking, setting +rooms in order, washing dishes. However, there was something else +to reckon with, and that Annie instinctively knew. She had been +long-suffering, and her long-suffering was now regarded as endless. She +had cast her pearls, and they had been trampled. She had turned her +other cheek, and it had been promptly slapped. It was entirely true +that Annie's sisters were not quite worthy of her, that they had taken +advantage of her kindness and gentleness, and had mistaken them for +weakness, to be despised. She did not understand them, nor they her. +They were, on the whole, better than she thought, but with her there was +a stern limit of endurance. Something whiter and hotter than mere wrath +was in the girl's soul as she sat there and listened to the building of +that structure of essential falsehood about herself. + +She waited until Tom Reed had gone. He did not stay long. Then she went +down-stairs with flying feet, and stood among them in the moonlight. Her +father had come out of the study, and Benny had just been entering the +gate as Tom Reed left. Then dear Annie spoke. She really spoke for the +first time in her life, and there was something dreadful about it all. +A sweet nature is always rather dreadful when it turns and strikes, +and Annie struck with the whole force of a nature with a foundation of +steel. She left nothing unsaid. She defended herself and she accused her +sisters as if before a judge. Then came her ultimatum. + +“To-morrow morning I am going over to Grandmother Loomis's house, and +I am going to live there a whole year,” she declared, in a slow, steady +voice. “As you know, I have enough to live on, and--in order that no +word of mine can be garbled and twisted as it has been to-night, I speak +not at all. Everything which I have to communicate shall be written in +black and white, and signed with my own name, and black and white cannot +lie.” + +It was Jane who spoke first. “What will people say?” she whimpered, +feebly. + +“From what I have heard you all say to-night, whatever you make them,” + retorted Annie--the Annie who had turned. + +Jane gasped. Silas Hempstead stood staring, quite dumb before the +sudden problem. Imogen alone seemed to have any command whatever of the +situation. + +“May I inquire what the butcher and grocer are going to think, no +matter what your own sisters think and say, when you give your orders +in writing?” she inquired, achieving a jolt from tragedy to the +commonplace. + +“That is my concern,” replied Annie, yet she recognized the difficulty +of that phase of the situation. It is just such trifling matters which +detract from the dignity of extreme attitudes toward existence. Annie +had taken an extreme attitude, yet here were the butcher and the grocer +to reckon with. How could she communicate with them in writing without +appearing absurd to the verge of insanity? Yet even that difficulty had +a solution. + +Annie thought it out after she had gone to bed that night. She had been +imperturbable with her sisters, who had finally come in a body to +make entreaties, although not apologies or retractions. There was +a stiff-necked strain in the Hempstead family, and apologies and +retractions were bitterer cuds for them to chew than for most. She had +been imperturbable with her father, who had quoted Scripture and prayed +at her during family worship. She had been imperturbable even with +Benny, who had whispered to her: “Say, Annie, I don't blame you, but it +will be a hell of a time without you. Can't you stick it out?” + +But she had had a struggle before her own vision of the butcher and the +grocer, and their amazement when she ceased to speak to them. Then she +settled that with a sudden leap of inspiration. It sounded too apropos +to be life, but there was a little deaf-anddumb girl, a far-away +relative of the Hempsteads, who lived with her aunt Felicia in +Anderson. She was a great trial to her aunt Felicia, who was a widow +and well-to-do, and liked the elegancies and normalities of life. This +unfortunate little Effie Hempstead could not be placed in a charitable +institution on account of the name she bore. Aunt Felicia considered it +her worldly duty to care for her, but it was a trial. + +Annie would take Effie off Aunt Felicia's hands, and no comment would +be excited by a deaf-anddumb girl carrying written messages to the +tradesmen, since she obviously could not give them orally. The only +comment would be on Annie's conduct in holding herself aloof from her +family and the village people generally. + +The next morning, when Annie went away, there was an excited conclave +among the sisters. + +“She means to do it,” said Susan, and she wept. + +Imogen's handsome face looked hard and set. “Let her, if she wants to,” + said she. + +“Only think what people will say!” wailed Jane. + +Imogen tossed her head. “I shall have something to say myself,” she +returned. “I shall say how much we all regret that dear Annie has such +a difficult disposition that she felt she could not live with her own +family and must be alone.” + +“But,” said Jane, blunt in her distress, “will they believe it?” + +“Why will they not believe it, pray?” + +“Why, I am afraid people have the impression that dear Annie has--” Jane +hesitated. + +“What?” asked Imogen, coldly. She looked very handsome that morning. Not +a waved golden hair was out of place on her carefully brushed head. She +wore the neatest of blue linen skirts and blouses, with a linen collar +and white tie. There was something hard but compelling about her blond +beauty. + +“I am afraid,” said Jane, “that people have a sort of general impression +that dear Annie has perhaps as sweet a disposition as any of us, perhaps +sweeter.” + +“Nobody says that dear Annie has not a sweet disposition,” said Imogen, +taking a careful stitch in her embroidery. “But a sweet disposition is +very often extremely difficult for other people. It constantly puts them +in the wrong. I am well aware of the fact that dear Annie does a great +deal for all of us, but it is sometimes irritating. Of course it is +quite certain that she must have a feeling of superiority because of it, +and she should not have it.” + +Sometimes Eliza made illuminating speeches. “I suppose it follows, +then,” said she, with slight irony, “that only an angel can have a very +sweet disposition without offending others.” + +But Imogen was not in the least nonplussed. She finished her line of +thought. “And with all her sweet disposition,” said she, “nobody can +deny that dear Annie is peculiar, and peculiarity always makes people +difficult for other people. Of course it is horribly peculiar what she +is proposing to do now. That in itself will be enough to convince people +that dear Annie must be difficult. Only a difficult person could do such +a strange thing.” + +“Who is going to get up and get breakfast in the morning, and wash the +dishes?” inquired Jane, irrelevantly. + +“All I ever want for breakfast is a bit of fruit, a roll, and an egg, +besides my coffee,” said Imogen, with her imperious air. + +“Somebody has to prepare it.” + +“That is a mere nothing,” said Imogen, and she took another stitch. + +After a little, Jane and Eliza went by themselves and discussed the +problem. + +“It is quite evident that Imogen means to do nothing,” said Jane. + +“And also that she will justify herself by the theory that there is +nothing to be done,” said Eliza. + +“Oh, well,” said Jane, “I will get up and get breakfast, of course. I +once contemplated the prospect of doing it the rest of my life.” + +Eliza assented. “I can understand that it will not be so hard for you,” + she said, “and although I myself always aspired to higher things than +preparing breakfasts, still, you did not, and it is true that you would +probably have had it to do if poor Henry had lived, for he was not one +to ever have a very large salary.” + +“There are better things than large salaries,” said Jane, and her face +looked sadly reminiscent. After all, the distinction of being the only +one who had been on the brink of preparing matrimonial breakfasts was +much. She felt that it would make early rising and early work endurable +to her, although she was not an active young woman. + +“I will get a dish-mop and wash the dishes,” said Eliza. “I can manage +to have an instructive book propped open on the kitchen table, and keep +my mind upon higher things as I do such menial tasks.” + +Then Susan stood in the doorway, a tall figure gracefully swaying +sidewise, long-throated and prominent-eyed. She was the least +attractive-looking of any of the sisters, but her manners were so +charming, and she was so perfectly the lady, that it made up for any +lack of beauty. + +“I will dust,” said Susan, in a lovely voice, and as she spoke she +involuntarily bent and swirled her limp muslins in such a way that she +fairly suggested a moral duster. There was the making of an actress in +Susan. Nobody had ever been able to decide what her true individual self +was. Quite unconsciously, like a chameleon, she took upon herself the +characteristics of even inanimate things. Just now she was a duster, and +a wonderfully creditable duster. + +“Who,” said Jane, “is going to sweep? Dear Annie has always done that.” + +“I am not strong enough to sweep. I am very sorry,” said Susan, who +remained a duster, and did not become a broom. + +“If we have system,” said Eliza, vaguely, “the work ought not to be so +very hard.” + +“Of course not,” said Imogen. She had come in and seated herself. Her +three sisters eyed her, but she embroidered imperturbably. The same +thought was in the minds of all. Obviously Imogen was the very one to +take the task of sweeping upon herself. That hard, compact, young body +of hers suggested strenuous household work. Embroidery did not seem to +be her role at all. + +But Imogen had no intention of sweeping. Indeed, the very imagining of +such tasks in connection with herself was beyond her. She did not even +dream that her sisters expected it of her. + +“I suppose,” said Jane, “that we might be able to engage Mrs. Moss to +come in once a week and do the sweeping.” + +“It would cost considerable,” said Susan. + +“But it has to be done.” + +“I should think it might be managed, with system, if you did not hire +anybody,” said Imogen, calmly. + +“You talk of system as if it were a suction cleaner,” said Eliza, with +a dash of asperity. Sometimes she reflected how she would have hated +Imogen had she not been her sister. + +“System is invaluable,” said Imogen. She looked away from her embroidery +to the white stretch of country road, arched over with elms, and +her beautiful eyes had an expression as if they sighted system, the +justified settler of all problems. + +Meantime, Annie Hempstead was traveling to Anderson in the jolting +trolley-car, and trying to settle her emotions and her outlook upon +life, which jolted worse than the car upon a strange new track. She +had not the slightest intention of giving up her plan, but she realized +within herself the sensations of a revolutionist. Who in her family, +for generations and generations, had ever taken the course which she was +taking? She was not exactly frightened--Annie had splendid courage when +once her blood was up--but she was conscious of a tumult and grind of +adjustment to a new level which made her nervous. + +She reached the end of the car line, then walked about half a mile to +her Aunt Felicia Hempstead's house. It was a handsome house, after the +standard of nearly half a century ago. It had an opulent air, with +its swelling breasts of bay windows, through which showed fine lace +curtains; its dormer-windows, each with its carefully draped curtains; +its black-walnut front door, whose side-lights were screened with +medallioned lace. The house sat high on three terraces of velvet-like +grass, and was surmounted by stone steps in three instalments, each of +which was flanked by stone lions. + +Annie mounted the three tiers of steps between the stone lions and rang +the front-door bell, which was polished so brightly that it winked +at her like a brazen eye. Almost directly the door was opened by an +immaculate, white-capped and white-aproned maid, and Annie was ushered +into the parlor. When Annie had been a little thing she had been +enamoured of and impressed by the splendor of this parlor. Now she had +doubts of it, in spite of the long, magnificent sweep of lace curtains, +the sheen of carefully kept upholstery, the gleam of alabaster +statuettes, and the even piles of gilt-edged books upon the polished +tables. + +Soon Mrs. Felicia Hempstead entered, a tall, well-set-up woman, with +a handsome face and keen eyes. She wore her usual morning costume--a +breakfast sacque of black silk profusely trimmed with lace, and a black +silk skirt. She kissed Annie, with a slight peck of closely set lips, +for she liked her. Then she sat down opposite her and regarded her with +as much of a smile as her sternly set mouth could manage, and inquired +politely regarding her health and that of the family. When Annie +broached the subject of her call, the set calm of her face relaxed, and +she nodded. + +“I know what your sisters are. You need not explain to me,” she said. + +“But,” returned Annie, “I do not think they realize. It is only because +I--” + +“Of course,” said Felicia Hempstead. “It is because they need a dose +of bitter medicine, and you hope they will be the better for it. I +understand you, my dear. You have spirit enough, but you don't get it +up often. That is where they make their mistake. Often the meek are meek +from choice, and they are the ones to beware of. I don't blame you for +trying it. And you can have Effie and welcome. I warn you that she is a +little wearing. Of course she can't help her affliction, poor child, but +it is dreadful. I have had her taught. She can read and write very +well now, poor child, and she is not lacking, and I have kept her well +dressed. I take her out to drive with me every day, and am not ashamed +to have her seen with me. If she had all her faculties she would not be +a bad-looking little girl. Now, of course, she has something of a vacant +expression. That comes, I suppose, from her not being able to hear. She +has learned to speak a few words, but I don't encourage her doing that +before people. It is too evident that there is something wrong. She +never gets off one tone. But I will let her speak to you. She will be +glad to go with you. She likes you, and I dare say you can put up with +her. A woman when she is alone will make a companion of a brazen image. +You can manage all right for everything except her clothes and lessons. +I will pay for them.” + +“Can't I give her lessons?” + +“Well, you can try, but I am afraid you will need to have Mr. Freer come +over once a week. It seems to me to be quite a knack to teach the deaf +and dumb. You can see. I will have Effie come in and tell her about +the plan. I wanted to go to Europe this summer, and did not know how to +manage about Effie. It will be a godsend to me, this arrangement, and of +course after the year is up she can come back.” + +With that Felicia touched a bell, the maid appeared with automatic +readiness, and presently a tall little girl entered. She was very well +dressed. Her linen frock was hand-embroidered, and her shoes were ultra. +Her pretty shock of fair hair was tied with French ribbon in a fetching +bow, and she made a courtesy which would have befitted a little +princess. Poor Effie's courtesy was the one feature in which Felicia +Hempstead took pride. After making it the child always glanced at her +for approval, and her face lighted up with pleasure at the faint smile +which her little performance evoked. Effie would have been a pretty +little girl had it not been for that vacant, bewildered expression of +which Felicia had spoken. It was the expression of one shut up with +the darkest silence of life, that of her own self, and beauty was +incompatible with it. + +Felicia placed her stiff forefinger upon her own lips and nodded, and +the child's face became transfigured. She spoke in a level, awful voice, +utterly devoid of inflection, and full of fright. Her voice was as the +first attempt of a skater upon ice. However, it was intelligible. + +“Good morning,” said she. “I hope you are well.” Then she courtesied +again. That little speech and one other, “Thank you, I am very well,” + were all she had mastered. Effie's instruction had begun rather late, +and her teacher was not remarkably skilful. + +When Annie's lips moved in response, Effie's face fairly glowed with +delight and affection. The little girl loved Annie. Then her questioning +eyes sought Felicia, who beckoned, and drew from the pocket of her +rustling silk skirt a tiny pad and pencil. Effie crossed the room and +stood at attention while Felicia wrote. When she had read the words on +the pad she gave one look at Annie, then another at Felicia, who nodded. + +Effie courtesied before Annie like a fairy dancer. “Good morning. I hope +you are well,” she said. Then she courtesied again and said, “Thank you, +I am very well.” Her pretty little face was quite eager with love and +pleasure, and yet there was an effect as of a veil before the happy +emotion in it. The contrast between the awful, level voice and the grace +of motion and evident delight at once shocked and compelled pity. Annie +put her arms around Effie and kissed her. + +“You dear little thing,” she said, quite forgetting that Effie could not +hear. + +Felicia Hempstead got speedily to work, and soon Effie's effects were +packed and ready for transportation upon the first express to Lynn +Corners, and Annie and the little girl had boarded the trolley thither. + +Annie Hempstead had the sensation of one who takes a cold plunge--half +pain and fright, half exhilaration and triumph--when she had fairly +taken possession of her grandmother's house. There was genuine girlish +pleasure in looking over the stock of old china and linen and ancient +mahoganies, in starting a fire in the kitchen stove, and preparing a +meal, the written order for which Effie had taken to the grocer and +butcher. There was genuine delight in sitting down with Effie at her +very own table, spread with her grandmother's old damask and pretty +dishes, and eating, without hearing a word of unfavorable comment upon +the cookery. But there was a certain pain and terror in trampling upon +that which it was difficult to define, either her conscience or sense of +the divine right of the conventional. + +But that night after Effie had gone to bed, and the house was set to +rights, and she in her cool muslin was sitting on the front-door step, +under the hooded trellis covered with wistaria, she was conscious of +entire emancipation. She fairly gloated over her new estate. + +“To-night one of the others will really have to get the supper, and wash +the dishes, and not be able to say she did it and I didn't, when I +did,” Annie thought with unholy joy. She knew perfectly well that her +viewpoint was not sanctified, but she felt that she must allow her +soul to have its little witch-caper or she could not answer for the +consequences. There might result spiritual atrophy, which would be much +more disastrous than sin and repentance. It was either the continuance +of her old life in her father's house, which was the ignominious and +harmful one of the scapegoat, or this. She at last reveled in this. Here +she was mistress. Here what she did, she did, and what she did not do +remained undone. Here her silence was her invincible weapon. Here she +was free. + +The soft summer night enveloped her. The air was sweet with flowers +and the grass which lay still unraked in her father's yard. A momentary +feeling of impatience seized her; then she dismissed it, and peace came. +What had she to do with that hay? Her father would be obliged to buy hay +if it were not raked over and dried, but what of that? She had nothing +to do with it. + +She heard voices and soft laughter. A dark shadow passed along the +street. Her heart quickened its beat. The shadow turned in at her +father's gate. There was a babel of welcoming voices, of which Annie +could not distinguish one articulate word. She sat leaning forward, her +eyes intent upon the road. Then she heard the click of her father's gate +and the dark, shadowy figure reappeared in the road. Annie knew who it +was; she knew that Tom Reed was coming to see her. For a second, rapture +seized her, then dismay. How well she knew her sisters-how very well! +Not one of them would have given him the slightest inkling of the true +situation. They would have told him, by the sweetest of insinuations, +rather than by straight statements, that she had left her father's roof +and come over here, but not one word would have been told him concerning +her vow of silence. They would leave that for him to discover, to his +amazement and anger. + +Annie rose and fled. She closed the door, turned the key softly, and ran +up-stairs in the dark. Kneeling before a window on the farther side from +her old home, she watched with eager eyes the young man open the gate +and come up the path between the old-fashioned shrubs. The clove-like +fragrance of the pinks in the border came in her face. Annie watched +Tom Reed disappear beneath the trellised hood of the door; then the bell +tinkled through the house. It seemed to Annie that she heard it as she +had never heard anything before. Every nerve in her body seemed urging +her to rise and go down-stairs and admit this young man whom she loved. +But her will, turned upon itself, kept her back. She could not rise +and go down; something stronger than her own wish restrained her. She +suffered horribly, but she remained. The bell tinkled again. There was a +pause, then it sounded for the third time. + +Annie leaned against the window, faint and trembling. It was rather +horrible to continue such a fight between will and inclination, but she +held out. She would not have been herself had she not done so. Then she +saw Tom Reed's figure emerge from under the shadow of the door, pass +down the path between the sweet-flowering shrubs, seeming to stir up +the odor of the pinks as he did so. He started to go down the road; +then Annie heard a loud, silvery call, with a harsh inflection, from her +father's house. “Imogen is calling him back,” she thought. + +Annie was out of the room, and, slipping softly down-stairs and out into +the yard, crouched close to the fence overgrown with sweetbrier, its +foundation hidden in the mallow, and there she listened. She wanted to +know what Imogen and her other sisters were about to say to Tom Reed, +and she meant to know. She heard every word. The distance was not great, +and her sisters' voices carried far, in spite of their honeyed tones +and efforts toward secrecy. By the time Tom had reached the gate of +the parsonage they had all crowded down there, a fluttering assembly in +their snowy summer muslins, like white doves. Annie heard Imogen first. +Imogen was always the ringleader. + +“Couldn't you find her?” asked Imogen. + +“No. Rang three times,” replied Tom. He had a boyish voice, and his +chagrin showed plainly in it. Annie knew just how he looked, how dear +and big and foolish, with his handsome, bewildered face, blurting out to +her sisters his disappointment, with innocent faith in their sympathy. + +Then Annie heard Eliza speak in a small, sweet voice, which yet, to one +who understood her, carried in it a sting of malice. “How very strange!” + said Eliza. + +Jane spoke next. She echoed Eliza, but her voice was more emphatic and +seemed multiple, as echoes do. “Yes, very strange indeed,” said Jane. + +“Dear Annie is really very singular lately. It has distressed us all, +especially father,” said Susan, but deprecatingly. + +Then Imogen spoke, and to the point. “Annie must be in that house,” said +she. “She went in there, and she could not have gone out without our +seeing her.” + +Annie could fairly see the toss of Imogen's head as she spoke. + +“What in thunder do you all mean?” asked Tom Reed, and there was a +bluntness, almost a brutality, in his voice which was refreshing. + +“I do not think such forcible language is becoming, especially at the +parsonage,” said Jane. + +Annie distinctly heard Tom Reed snort. “Hang it if I care whether it is +becoming or not,” said he. + +“You seem to forget that you are addressing ladies, sir,” said Jane. + +“Don't forget it for a blessed minute,” returned Tom Reed. “Wish I +could. You make it too evident that you are--ladies, with every word you +speak, and all your beating about the bush. A man would blurt it out, +and then I would know where I am at. Hang it if I know now. You all say +that your sister is singular and that she distresses your father, and +you”--addressing Imogen--“say that she must be in that house. You are +the only one who does make a dab at speaking out; I will say that much +for you. Now, if she is in that house, what in thunder is the matter?” + +“I really cannot stay here and listen to such profane language,” said +Jane, and she flitted up the path to the house like an enraged white +moth. She had a fleecy white shawl over her head, and her pale outline +was triangular. + +“If she calls that profane, I pity her,” said Tom Reed. He had known the +girls since they were children, and had never liked Jane. He continued, +still addressing Imogen. “For Heaven's sake, if she is in that house, +what is the matter?” said he. “Doesn't the bell ring? Yes, it does ring, +though it is as cracked as the devil. I heard it. Has Annie gone deaf? +Is she sick? Is she asleep? It is only eight o'clock. I don't believe +she is asleep. Doesn't she want to see me? Is that the trouble? What +have I done? Is she angry with me?” + +Eliza spoke, smoothly and sweetly. “Dear Annie is singular,” said she. + +“What the dickens do you mean by singular? I have known Annie ever since +she was that high. It never struck me that she was any more singular +than other girls, except she stood an awful lot of nagging without +making a kick. Here you all say she is singular, as if you meant she +was”--Tom hesitated a second--“crazy,” said he. “Now, I know that Annie +is saner than any girl around here, and that simply does not go down. +What do you all mean by singular?” + +“Dear Annie may not be singular, but her actions are sometimes +singular,” said Susan. “We all feel badly about this.” + +“You mean her going over to her grandmother's house to live? I don't +know whether I think that is anything but horse-sense. I have eyes in my +head, and I have used them. Annie has worked like a dog here; I suppose +she needed a rest.” + +“We all do our share of the work,” said Eliza, calmly, “but we do it in +a different way from dear Annie. She makes very hard work of work. +She has not as much system as we could wish. She tires herself +unnecessarily.” + +“Yes, that is quite true,” assented Imogen. “Dear Annie gets very tired +over the slightest tasks, whereas if she went a little more slowly +and used more system the work would be accomplished well and with no +fatigue. There are five of us to do the work here, and the house is very +convenient.” + +There was a silence. Tom Reed was bewildered. “But--doesn't she want to +see me?” he asked, finally. + +“Dear Annie takes very singular notions sometimes,” said Eliza, softly. + +“If she took a notion not to go to the door when she heard the bell +ring, she simply wouldn't,” said Imogen, whose bluntness of speech was, +after all, a relief. + +“Then you mean that you think she took a notion not to go to the door?” + asked Tom, in a desperate tone. + +“Dear Annie is very singular,” said Eliza, with such softness and +deliberation that it was like a minor chord of music. + +“Do you know of anything she has against me?” asked Tom of Imogen; but +Eliza answered for her. + +“Dear Annie is not in the habit of making confidantes of her sisters,” + said she, “but we do know that she sometimes takes unwarranted +dislikes.” + +“Which time generally cures,” said Susan. + +“Oh yes,” assented Eliza, “which time generally cures. She can have no +reason whatever for avoiding you. You have always treated her well.” + +“I have always meant to,” said Tom, so miserably and helplessly that +Annie, listening, felt her heart go out to this young man, badgered by +females, and she formed a sudden resolution. + +“You have not seen very much of her, anyway,” said Imogen. + +“I have always asked for her, but I understood she was busy,” said Tom, +“and that was the reason why I saw her so seldom.” + +“Oh,” said Eliza, “busy!” She said it with an indescribable tone. + +“If,” supplemented Imogen, “there was system, there would be no need of +any one of us being too busy to see our friends.” + +“Then she has not been busy? She has not wanted to see me?” said Tom. “I +think I understand at last. I have been a fool not to before. You girls +have broken it to me as well as you could. Much obliged, I am sure. Good +night.” + +“Won't you come in?” asked Imogen. + +“We might have some music,” said Eliza. + +“And there is an orange cake, and I will make coffee,” said Susan. + +Annie reflected rapidly how she herself had made that orange cake, and +what queer coffee Susan would be apt to concoct. + +“No, thank you,” said Tom Reed, briskly. “I will drop in another +evening. Think I must go home now. I have some important letters. Good +night, all.” + +Annie made a soft rush to the gate, crouching low that her sisters might +not see her. They flocked into the house with irascible murmurings, like +scolding birds, while Annie stole across the grass, which had begun to +glisten with silver wheels of dew. She held her skirts closely wrapped +around her, and stepped through a gap in the shrubs beside the walk, +then sped swiftly to the gate. She reached it just as Tom Reed was +passing with a quick stride. + +“Tom,” said Annie, and the young man stopped short. + +He looked in her direction, but she stood close to a great +snowball-bush, and her dress was green muslin, and he did not see her. +Thinking that he had been mistaken, he started on, when she called +again, and this time she stepped apart from the bush and her voice +sounded clear as a flute. + +“Tom,” she said. “Stop a minute, please.” + +Tom stopped and came close to her. In the dim light she could see that +his face was all aglow, like a child's, with delight and surprise. + +“Is that you, Annie?” he said. + +“Yes. I want to speak to you, please.” + +“I have been here before, and I rang the bell three times. Then you were +out, although your sisters thought not.” + +“No, I was in the house.” + +“You did not hear the bell?” + +“Yes, I heard it every time.” + +“Then why--?” + +“Come into the house with me and I will tell you; at least I will tell +you all I can.” + +Annie led the way and the young man followed. He stood in the dark entry +while Annie lit the parlor lamp. The room was on the farther side of the +house from the parsonage. + +“Come in and sit down,” said Annie. Then the young man stepped into +a room which was pretty in spite of itself. There was an old Brussels +carpet with an enormous rose pattern. The haircloth furniture gave out +gleams like black diamonds under the light of the lamp. In a corner +stood a what-not piled with branches of white coral and shells. Annie's +grandfather had been a sea-captain, and many of his spoils were in the +house. Possibly Annie's own occupation of it was due to an adventurous +strain inherited from him. Perhaps the same impulse which led him to +voyage to foreign shores had led her to voyage across a green yard to +the next house. + +Tom Reed sat down on the sofa. Annie sat in a rocking-chair near by. At +her side was a Chinese teapoy, a nest of lacquer tables, and on it stood +a small, squat idol. Annie's grandmother had been taken to task by her +son-in-law, the Reverend Silas, for harboring a heathen idol, but she +had only laughed, + +“Guess as long as I don't keep heathen to bow down before him, he can't +do much harm,” she had said. + +Now the grotesque face of the thing seemed to stare at the two +Occidental lovers with the strange, calm sarcasm of the Orient, but they +had no eyes or thought for it. + +“Why didn't you come to the door if you heard the bell ring?” asked Tom +Reed, gazing at Annie, slender as a blade of grass in her clinging green +gown. + +“Because I was not able to break my will then. I had to break it to go +out in the yard and ask you to come in, but when the bell rang I hadn't +got to the point where I could break it.” + +“What on earth do you mean, Annie?” + +Annie laughed. “I don't wonder you ask,” she said, “and the worst of +it is I can't half answer you. I wonder how much, or rather how little +explanation will content you?” + +Tom Reed gazed at her with the eyes of a man who might love a woman and +have infinite patience with her, relegating his lack of understanding of +her woman's nature to the background, as a thing of no consequence. + +“Mighty little will do for me,” he said, “mighty little, Annie dear, if +you will only tell a fellow you love him.” + +Annie looked at him, and her thin, sweet face seemed to have a luminous +quality, like a crescent moon. Her look was enough. + +“Then you do?” said Tom Reed. + +“You have never needed to ask,” said Annie. “You knew.” + +“I haven't been so sure as you think,” said Tom. “Suppose you come over +here and sit beside me. You look miles away.” + +Annie laughed and blushed, but she obeyed. She sat beside Tom and +let him put his arm around her. She sat up straight, by force of her +instinctive maidenliness, but she kissed him back when he kissed her. + +“I haven't been so sure,” repeated Tom. “Annie darling, why have I been +unable to see more of you? I have fairly haunted your house, and seen +the whole lot of your sisters, especially Imogen, but somehow or other +you have been as slippery as an eel. I have always asked for you, but +you were always out or busy.” + +“I have been very busy,” said Annie, evasively. She loved this young man +with all her heart, but she had an enduring loyalty to her own flesh and +blood. + +Tom was very literal. “Say, Annie,” he blurted out, “I begin to think +you have had to do most of the work over there. Now, haven't you? Own +up.” + +Annie laughed sweetly. She was so happy that no sense of injury could +possibly rankle within her. “Oh, well,” she said, lightly. “Perhaps. I +don't know. I guess housekeeping comes rather easier to me than to the +others. I like it, you know, and work is always easier when one likes +it. The other girls don't take to it so naturally, and they get very +tired, and it has seemed often that I was the one who could hurry the +work through and not mind.” + +“I wonder if you will stick up for me the way you do for your sisters +when you are my wife?” said Tom, with a burst of love and admiration. +Then he added: “Of course you are going to be my wife, Annie? You know +what this means?” + +“If you think I will make you as good a wife as you can find,” said +Annie. + +“As good a wife! Annie, do you really know what you are?” + +“Just an ordinary girl, with no special talent for anything.” + +“You are the most wonderful girl that ever walked the earth,” exclaimed +Tom. “And as for talent, you have the best talent in the whole world; +you can love people who are not worthy to tie your shoestrings, and +think you are looking up when in reality you are looking down. That is +what I call the best talent in the whole world for a woman.” Tom Reed +was becoming almost subtle. + +Annie only laughed happily again. “Well, you will have to wait and find +out,” said she. + +“I suppose,” said Tom, “that you came over here because you were tired +out, this hot weather. I think you were sensible, but I don't think you +ought to be here alone.” + +“I am not alone,” replied Annie. “I have poor little Effie Hempstead +with me.” + +“That deaf-and-dumb child? I should think this heathen god would be +about as much company.” + +“Why, Tom, she is human, if she is deaf and dumb.” + +Tom eyed her shrewdly. “What did you mean when you said you had broken +your will?” he inquired. + +“My will not to speak for a while,” said Annie, faintly. + +“Not to speak--to any one?” + +Annie nodded. + +“Then you have broken your resolution by speaking to me?” + +Annie nodded again. + +“But why shouldn't you speak? I don't understand.” + +“I wondered how little I could say, and have you satisfied,” Annie +replied, sadly. + +Tom tightened his arm around her. “You precious little soul,” he said. +“I am satisfied. I know you have some good reason for not wanting to +speak, but I am plaguey glad you spoke to me, for I should have been +pretty well cast down if you hadn't, and to-morrow I have to go away.” + +Annie leaned toward him. “Go away!” + +“Yes; I have to go to California about that confounded Ames will case. +And I don't know exactly where, on the Pacific coast, the parties I have +to interview may be, and I may have to be away weeks, possibly months. +Annie darling, it did seem to me a cruel state of things to have to go +so far, and leave you here, living in such a queer fashion, and not +know how you felt. Lord! but I'm glad you had sense enough to call me, +Annie.” + +“I couldn't let you go by, when it came to it, and Tom--” + +“What, dear?” + +“I did an awful mean thing: something I never was guilty of before. +I--listened.” + +“Well, I don't see what harm it did. You didn't hear much to your or +your sisters' disadvantage, that I can remember. They kept calling you +'dear.'” + +“Yes,” said Annie, quickly. Again, such was her love and thankfulness +that a great wave of love and forgiveness for her sisters swept over +her. Annie had a nature compounded of depths of sweetness; nobody +could be mistaken with regard to that. What they did mistake was the +possibility of even sweetness being at bay at times, and remaining +there. + +“You don't mean to speak to anybody else?” asked Tom. + +“Not for a year, if I can avoid it without making comment which might +hurt father.” + +“Why, dear?” + +“That is what I cannot tell you,” replied Annie, looking into his face +with a troubled smile. + +Tom looked at her in a puzzled way, then he kissed her. + +“Oh, well, dear,” he said, “it is all right. I know perfectly well you +would do nothing in which you were not justified, and you have spoken to +me, anyway, and that is the main thing. I think if I had been obliged +to start to-morrow without a word from you I shouldn't have cared a hang +whether I ever came back or not. You are the only soul to hold me here; +you know that, darling.” + +“Yes,” replied Annie. + +“You are the only one,” repeated Tom, “but it seems to me this minute as +if you were a whole host, you dear little soul. But I don't quite like +to leave you here living alone, except for Effie.” + +“Oh, I am within a stone's-throw of father's,” said Annie, lightly. + +“I admit that. Still, you are alone. Annie, when are you going to marry +me?” + +Annie regarded him with a clear, innocent look. She had lived such a +busy life that her mind was unfilmed by dreams. “Whenever you like, +after you come home,” said she. + +“It can't be too soon for me. I want my wife and I want my home. What +will you do while I am gone, dear?” + +Annie laughed. “Oh, I shall do what I have seen other girls do--get +ready to be married.” + +“That means sewing, lots of hemming and tucking and stitching, doesn't +it?” + +“Of course.” + +“Girls are so funny,” said Tom. “Now imagine a man sitting right down +and sewing like mad on his collars and neckties and shirts the minute a +girl said she'd marry him!” + +“Girls like it.” + +“Well, I suppose they do,” said Tom, and he looked down at Annie from +a tender height of masculinity, and at the same time seemed to look up +from the valley of one who cannot understand the subtle and poetical +details in a woman's soul. + +He did not stay long after that, for it was late. As he passed through +the gate, after a tender farewell, Annie watched him with shining eyes. +She was now to be all alone, but two things she had, her freedom and her +love, and they would suffice. + +The next morning Silas Hempstead, urged by his daughters, walked +solemnly over to the next house, but he derived little satisfaction. +Annie did not absolutely refuse to speak. She had begun to realize that +carrying out her resolution to the extreme letter was impossible. But +she said as little as she could. + +“I have come over here to live for the present. I am of age, and have a +right to consult my own wishes. My decision is unalterable.” Having said +this much, Annie closed her mouth and said no more. Silas argued and +pleaded. Annie sat placidly sewing beside one front window of the sunny +sittingroom. Effie, with a bit of fancy-work, sat at another. Finally +Silas went home defeated, with a last word, half condemnatory, half +placative. Silas was not the sort to stand firm against such feminine +strength as his daughter Annie's. However, he secretly held her dearer +than all his other children. + +After her father had gone, Annie sat taking even stitch after even +stitch, but a few tears ran over her cheeks and fell upon the soft mass +of muslin. Effie watched with shrewd, speculative silence, like a pet +cat. Then suddenly she rose and went close to Annie, with her little +arms around her neck, and the poor dumb mouth repeating her little +speeches: “Thank you, I am very well, thank you, I am very well,” over +and over. + +Annie kissed her fondly, and was aware of a sense of comfort and of love +for this poor little Effie. Still, after being nearly two months with +the child, she was relieved when Felicia Hempstead came, the first of +September, and wished to take Effie home with her. She had not gone to +Europe, after all, but to the mountains, and upon her return had missed +the little girl. + +Effie went willingly enough, but Annie discovered that she too missed +her. Now loneliness had her fairly in its grip. She had a telephone +installed, and gave her orders over that. Sometimes the sound of a +human voice made her emotional to tears. Besides the voices over the +telephone, Annie had nobody, for Benny returned to college soon after +Effie left. Benny had been in the habit of coming in to see Annie, and +she had not had the heart to check him. She talked to him very little, +and knew that he was no telltale as far as she was concerned, although +he waxed most communicative with regard to the others. A few days before +he left he came over and begged her to return. + +“I know the girls have nagged you till you are fairly worn out,” he +said. “I know they don't tell things straight, but I don't believe they +know it, and I don't see why you can't come home, and insist upon your +rights, and not work so hard.” + +“If I come home now it will be as it was before,” said Annie. + +“Can't you stand up for yourself and not have it the same?” + +Annie shook her head. + +“Seems as if you could,” said Benny. “I always thought a girl knew how +to manage other girls. It is rather awful the way things go now over +there. Father must be uncomfortable enough trying to eat the stuff they +set before him and living in such a dirty house.” + +Annie winced. “Is it so very dirty?” + +Benny whistled. + +“Is the food so bad?” + +Benny whistled again. + +“You advised me--or it amounted to the same thing--to take this stand,” + said Annie. + +“I know I did, but I didn't know how bad it would be. Guess I didn't +half appreciate you myself, Annie. Well, you must do as you think best, +but if you could look in over there your heart would ache.” + +“My heart aches as it is,” said Annie, sadly. + +Benny put an arm around her. “Poor girl!” he said. “It is a shame, but +you are going to marry Tom. You ought not to have the heartache.” + +“Marriage isn't everything,” said Annie, “and my heart does ache, but--I +can't go back there, unless--I can't make it clear to you, Benny, but +it seems to me as if I couldn't go back there until the year is up, or +I shouldn't be myself, and it seems, too, as if I should not be doing +right by the girls. There are things more important even than doing +work for others. I have got it through my head that I can be dreadfully +selfish being unselfish.” + +“Well, I suppose you are right,” admitted Benny with a sigh. + +Then he kissed Annie and went away, and the blackness of loneliness +settled down upon her. She had wondered at first that none of the +village people came to see her, although she did not wish to talk to +them; then she no longer wondered. She heard, without hearing, just what +her sisters had said about her. + +That was a long winter for Annie Hempstead. Letters did not come very +regularly from Tom Reed, for it was a season of heavy snowfalls and the +mails were often delayed. The letters were all that she had for comfort +and company. She had bought a canary-bird, adopted a stray kitten, and +filled her sunny windows with plants. She sat beside them and sewed, and +tried to be happy and content, but all the time there was a frightful +uncertainty deep down within her heart as to whether or not she was +doing right. She knew that her sisters were unworthy, and yet her love +and longing for them waxed greater and greater. As for her father, she +loved him as she had never loved him before. The struggle grew terrible. +Many a time she dressed herself in outdoor array and started to go +home, but something always held her back. It was a strange conflict +that endured through the winter months, the conflict of a loving, +self-effacing heart with its own instincts. + +Toward the last of February her father came over at dusk. Annie ran to +the door, and he entered. He looked unkempt and dejected. He did not +say much, but sat down and looked about him with a half-angry, +half-discouraged air. Annie went out into the kitchen and broiled some +beefsteak, and creamed some potatoes, and made tea and toast. Then she +called him into the sitting-room, and he ate like one famished. + +“Your sister Susan does the best she can,” he said, when he had +finished, “and lately Jane has been trying, but they don't seem to have +the knack. I don't want to urge you, Annie, but--” + +“You know when I am married you will have to get on without me,” Annie +said, in a low voice. + +“Yes, but in the mean time you might, if you were home, show Susan and +Jane.” + +“Father,” said Annie, “you know if I came home now it would be just +the same as it was before. You know if I give in and break my word with +myself to stay away a year what they will think and do.” + +“I suppose they might take advantage,” admitted Silas, heavily. “I fear +you have always given in to them too much for their own good.” + +“Then I shall not give in now,” said Annie, and she shut her mouth +tightly. + +There came a peal of the cracked door-bell, and Silas started with a +curious, guilty look. Annie regarded him sharply. “Who is it, father?” + +“Well, I heard Imogen say to Eliza that she thought it was very foolish +for them all to stay over there and have the extra care and expense, +when you were here.” + +“You mean that the girls--?” + +“I think they did have a little idea that they might come here and make +you a little visit--” + +Annie was at the front door with a bound. The key turned in the lock and +a bolt shot into place. Then she returned to her father, and her face +was very white. + +“You did not lock your door against your own sisters?” he gasped. + +“God forgive me, I did.” + +The bell pealed again. Annie stood still, her mouth quivering in a +strange, rigid fashion. The curtains in the dining-room windows were +not drawn. Suddenly one window showed full of her sisters' faces. It was +Susan who spoke. + +“Annie, you can't mean to lock us out?” Susan's face looked strange and +wild, peering in out of the dark. Imogen's handsome face towered over +her shoulder. + +“We think it advisable to close our house and make you a visit,” she +said, quite distinctly through the glass. + +Then Jane said, with an inaudible sob, “Dear Annie, you can't mean to +keep us out!” + +Annie looked at them and said not a word. Their half-commanding, +half-imploring voices continued a while. Then the faces disappeared. + +Annie turned to her father. “God knows if I have done right,” she said, +“but I am doing what you have taken me to account for not doing.” + +“Yes, I know,” said Silas. He sat for a while silent. Then he rose, +kissed Annie--something he had seldom done--and went home. After he had +gone Annie sat down and cried. She did not go to bed that night. The cat +jumped up in her lap, and she was glad of that soft, purring comfort. It +seemed to her as if she had committed a great crime, and as if she +had suffered martyrdom. She loved her father and her sisters with such +intensity that her heart groaned with the weight of pure love. For the +time it seemed to her that she loved them more than the man whom she was +to marry. She sat there and held herself, as with chains of agony, from +rushing out into the night, home to them all, and breaking her vow. + +It was never quite so bad after that night, for Annie compromised. She +baked bread and cake and pies, and carried them over after nightfall +and left them at her father's door. She even, later on, made a pot of +coffee, and hurried over with it in the dawn-light, always watching +behind a corner of a curtain until she saw an arm reached out for it. +All this comforted Annie, and, moreover, the time was drawing near when +she could go home. + +Tom Reed had been delayed much longer than he expected. He would not be +home before early fall. They would not be married until November, and +she would have several months at home first. + +At last the day came. Out in Silas Hempstead's front yard the grass +waved tall, dotted with disks of clover. Benny was home, and he had been +over to see Annie every day since his return. That morning when Annie +looked out of her window the first thing she saw was Benny waving a +scythe in awkward sweep among the grass and clover. An immense pity +seized her at the sight. She realized that he was doing this for her, +conquering his indolence. She almost sobbed. + +“Dear, dear boy, he will cut himself,” she thought. Then she conquered +her own love and pity, even as her brother was conquering his sloth. She +understood clearly that it was better for Benny to go on with his task +even if he did cut himself. + +The grass was laid low when she went home, and Benny stood, a conqueror +in a battle-field of summer, leaning on his scythe. + +“Only look, Annie,” he cried out, like a child. “I have cut all the +grass.” + +Annie wanted to hug him. Instead she laughed. “It was time to cut it,” + she said. Her tone was cool, but her eyes were adoring. + +Benny laid down his scythe, took her by the arm, and led her into the +house. Silas and his other daughters were in the sitting-room, and the +room was so orderly it was painful. The ornaments on the mantel-shelf +stood as regularly as soldiers on parade, and it was the same with the +chairs. Even the cushions on the sofa were arranged with one corner +overlapping another. The curtains were drawn at exactly the same height +from the sill. The carpet looked as if swept threadbare. + +Annie's first feeling was of worried astonishment; then her eye caught +a glimpse of Susan's kitchen apron tucked under a sofa pillow, and of +layers of dust on the table, and she felt relieved. After all, what she +had done had not completely changed the sisters, whom she loved, faults +and all. Annie realized how horrible it would have been to find her +loved ones completely changed, even for the better. They would have +seemed like strange, aloof angels to her. + +They all welcomed her with a slight stiffness, yet with cordiality. Then +Silas made a little speech. + +“Your father and your sisters are glad to welcome you home, dear Annie,” + he said, “and your sisters wish me to say for them that they realize +that possibly they may have underestimated your tasks and overestimated +their own. In short, they may not have been--” + +Silas hesitated, and Benny finished. “What the girls want you to know, +Annie, is that they have found out they have been a parcel of pigs.” + +“We fear we have been selfish without realizing it,” said Jane, and she +kissed Annie, as did Susan and Eliza. Imogen, looking very handsome +in her blue linen, with her embroidery in her hands, did not kiss her +sister. She was not given to demonstrations, but she smiled complacently +at her. + +“We are all very glad to have dear Annie back, I am sure,” said she, +“and now that it is all over, we all feel that it has been for the best, +although it has seemed very singular, and made, I fear, considerable +talk. But, of course, when one person in a family insists upon taking +everything upon herself, it must result in making the others selfish.” + +Annie did not hear one word that Imogen said. She was crying on Susan's +shoulder. + +“Oh, I am so glad to be home,” she sobbed. + +And they all stood gathered about her, rejoicing and fond of her, but +she was the one lover among them all who had been capable of hurting +them and hurting herself for love's sake. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Copy-Cat and Other Stories, by +Mary E. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/1716-0.zip b/1716-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..90ac56b --- /dev/null +++ b/1716-0.zip diff --git a/1716-h.zip b/1716-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ab701c5 --- /dev/null +++ b/1716-h.zip diff --git a/1716-h/1716-h.htm b/1716-h/1716-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ddee09a --- /dev/null +++ b/1716-h/1716-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11763 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Copy-Cat, by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Copy-Cat and Other Stories, by +Mary E. Wilkins Freeman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Copy-Cat and Other Stories + +Author: Mary E. Wilkins Freeman + +Release Date: November 20, 2009 [EBook #1716] +Last Updated: March 15, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COPY-CAT AND OTHER STORIES *** + + + + +Produced by Judy Boss, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE COPY-CAT <br /><br /> AND OTHER STORIES + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Mary E. Wilkins Freeman + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THE COPY-CAT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THE COCK OF THE WALK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> JOHNNY-IN-THE-WOODS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> DANIEL AND LITTLE DAN'L </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> BIG SISTER SOLLY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> LITTLE LUCY ROSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> NOBLESSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> CORONATION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THE AMETHYST COMB </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> THE UMBRELLA MAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> THE BALKING OF CHRISTOPHER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> DEAR ANNIE </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + THE COPY-CAT + </h2> + <p> + THAT affair of Jim Simmons's cats never became known. Two little boys and + a little girl can keep a secret—that is, sometimes. The two little + boys had the advantage of the little girl because they could talk over the + affair together, and the little girl, Lily Jennings, had no intimate girl + friend to tempt her to confidence. She had only little Amelia Wheeler, + commonly called by the pupils of Madame's school “The Copy-Cat.” + </p> + <p> + Amelia was an odd little girl—that is, everybody called her odd. She + was that rather unusual creature, a child with a definite ideal; and that + ideal was Lily Jennings. However, nobody knew that. If Amelia's mother, + who was a woman of strong character, had suspected, she would have taken + strenuous measures to prevent such a peculiar state of affairs; the more + so because she herself did not in the least approve of Lily Jennings. Mrs. + Diantha Wheeler (Amelia's father had died when she was a baby) often + remarked to her own mother, Mrs. Stark, and to her mother-in-law, Mrs. + Samuel Wheeler, that she did not feel that Mrs. Jennings was bringing up + Lily exactly as she should. “That child thinks entirely too much of her + looks,” said Mrs. Diantha. “When she walks past here she switches those + ridiculous frilled frocks of hers as if she were entering a ballroom, and + she tosses her head and looks about to see if anybody is watching her. If + I were to see Amelia doing such things I should be very firm with her.” + </p> + <p> + “Lily Jennings is a very pretty child,” said Mother-in-law Wheeler, with + an under-meaning, and Mrs. Diantha flushed. Amelia did not in the least + resemble the Wheelers, who were a handsome set. She looked remarkably like + her mother, who was a plain woman, only little Amelia did not have a + square chin. Her chin was pretty and round, with a little dimple in it. In + fact, Amelia's chin was the prettiest feature she had. Her hair was + phenomenally straight. It would not even yield to hot curling-irons, which + her grandmother Wheeler had tried surreptitiously several times when there + was a little girls' party. “I never saw such hair as that poor child has + in all my life,” she told the other grandmother, Mrs. Stark. “Have the + Starks always had such very straight hair?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Stark stiffened her chin. Her own hair was very straight. “I don't + know,” said she, “that the Starks have had any straighter hair than other + people. If Amelia does not have anything worse to contend with than + straight hair I rather think she will get along in the world as well as + most people.” + </p> + <p> + “It's thin, too,” said Grandmother Wheeler, with a sigh, “and it hasn't a + mite of color. Oh, well, Amelia is a good child, and beauty isn't + everything.” Grandmother Wheeler said that as if beauty were a great deal, + and Grandmother Stark arose and shook out her black silk skirts. She had + money, and loved to dress in rich black silks and laces. + </p> + <p> + “It is very little, very little indeed,” said she, and she eyed + Grandmother Wheeler's lovely old face, like a wrinkled old rose as to + color, faultless as to feature, and swept about by the loveliest waves of + shining silver hair. + </p> + <p> + Then she went out of the room, and Grandmother Wheeler, left alone, + smiled. She knew the worth of beauty for those who possess it and those + who do not. She had never been quite reconciled to her son's marrying such + a plain girl as Diantha Stark, although she had money. She considered + beauty on the whole as a more valuable asset than mere gold. She regretted + always that poor little Amelia, her only grandchild, was so very + plain-looking. She always knew that Amelia was very plain, and yet + sometimes the child puzzled her. She seemed to see reflections of beauty, + if not beauty itself, in the little colorless face, in the figure, with + its too-large joints and utter absence of curves. She sometimes even + wondered privately if some subtle resemblance to the handsome Wheelers + might not be in the child and yet appear. But she was mistaken. What she + saw was pure mimicry of a beautiful ideal. + </p> + <p> + Little Amelia tried to stand like Lily Jennings; she tried to walk like + her; she tried to smile like her; she made endeavors, very often futile, + to dress like her. Mrs. Wheeler did not in the least approve of furbelows + for children. Poor little Amelia went clad in severe simplicity; durable + woolen frocks in winter, and washable, unfadable, and non-soil-showing + frocks in summer. She, although her mother had perhaps more money + wherewith to dress her than had any of the other mothers, was the + plainest-clad little girl in school. Amelia, moreover, never tore a frock, + and, as she did not grow rapidly, one lasted several seasons. Lily + Jennings was destructive, although dainty. Her pretty clothes were renewed + every year. Amelia was helpless before that problem. For a little girl + burning with aspirations to be and look like another little girl who was + beautiful and wore beautiful clothes, to be obliged to set forth for + Madame's on a lovely spring morning, when thin attire was in evidence, + dressed in dark-blue-andwhite-checked gingham, which she had worn for + three summers, and with sleeves which, even to childish eyes, were + anachronisms, was a trial. Then to see Lily flutter in a frock like a + perfectly new white flower was torture; not because of jealousy—Amelia + was not jealous; but she so admired the other little girl, and so loved + her, and so wanted to be like her. + </p> + <p> + As for Lily, she hardly ever noticed Amelia. She was not aware that she + herself was an object of adoration; for she was a little girl who searched + for admiration in the eyes of little boys rather than little girls, + although very innocently. She always glanced slyly at Johnny Trumbull when + she wore a pretty new frock, to see if he noticed. He never did, and she + was sharp enough to know it. She was also child enough not to care a bit, + but to take a queer pleasure in the sensation of scorn which she felt in + consequence. She would eye Johnny from head to foot, his boy's clothing + somewhat spotted, his bulging pockets, his always dusty shoes, and when he + twisted uneasily, not understanding why, she had a thrill of purely + feminine delight. It was on one such occasion that she first noticed + Amelia Wheeler particularly. + </p> + <p> + It was a lovely warm morning in May, and Lily was a darling to behold—in + a big hat with a wreath of blue flowers, her hair tied with enormous blue + silk bows, her short skirts frilled with eyelet embroidery, her slender + silk legs, her little white sandals. Madame's maid had not yet struck the + Japanese gong, and all the pupils were out on the lawn, Amelia, in her + clean, ugly gingham and her serviceable brown sailor hat, hovering near + Lily, as usual, like a common, very plain butterfly near a particularly + resplendent blossom. Lily really noticed her. She spoke to her + confidentially; she recognized her fully as another of her own sex, and + presumably of similar opinions. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't boys ugly, anyway?” inquired Lily of Amelia, and a wonderful change + came over Amelia. Her sallow cheeks bloomed; her eyes showed blue + glitters; her little skinny figure became instinct with nervous life. She + smiled charmingly, with such eagerness that it smote with pathos and + bewitched. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, oh yes,” she agreed, in a voice like a quick flute obbligato. + “Boys are ugly.” + </p> + <p> + “Such clothes!” said Lily. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, such clothes!” said Amelia. + </p> + <p> + “Always spotted,” said Lily. + </p> + <p> + “Always covered all over with spots,” said Amelia. + </p> + <p> + “And their pockets always full of horrid things,” said Lily. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Amelia. + </p> + <p> + Amelia glanced openly at Johnny Trumbull; Lily with a sidewise effect. + </p> + <p> + Johnny had heard every word. Suddenly he arose to action and knocked down + Lee Westminster, and sat on him. + </p> + <p> + “Lemme up!” said Lee. + </p> + <p> + Johnny had no quarrel whatever with Lee. He grinned, but he sat still. + Lee, the sat-upon, was a sharp little boy. “Showing off before the gals!” + he said, in a thin whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Hush up!” returned Johnny. + </p> + <p> + “Will you give me a writing-pad—I lost mine, and mother said I + couldn't have another for a week if I did—if I don't holler?” + inquired Lee. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Hush up!” + </p> + <p> + Lee lay still, and Johnny continued to sit upon his prostrate form. Both + were out of sight of Madame's windows, behind a clump of the cedars which + graced her lawn. + </p> + <p> + “Always fighting,” said Lily, with a fine crescendo of scorn. She lifted + her chin high, and also her nose. + </p> + <p> + “Always fighting,” said Amelia, and also lifted her chin and nose. Amelia + was a born mimic. She actually looked like Lily, and she spoke like her. + </p> + <p> + Then Lily did a wonderful thing. She doubled her soft little arm into an + inviting loop for Amelia's little claw of a hand. + </p> + <p> + “Come along, Amelia Wheeler,” said she. “We don't want to stay near + horrid, fighting boys. We will go by ourselves.” + </p> + <p> + And they went. Madame had a headache that morning, and the Japanese gong + did not ring for fifteen minutes longer. During that time Lily and Amelia + sat together on a little rustic bench under a twinkling poplar, and they + talked, and a sort of miniature sun-and-satellite relation was established + between them, although neither was aware of it. Lily, being on the whole a + very normal little girl, and not disposed to even a full estimate of + herself as compared with others of her own sex, did not dream of Amelia's + adoration, and Amelia, being rarely destitute of self-consciousness, did + not understand the whole scope of her own sentiments. It was quite + sufficient that she was seated close to this wonderful Lily, and agreeing + with her to the verge of immolation. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Lily, “girls are pretty, and boys are just as ugly as + they can be.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes,” said Amelia, fervently. + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Lily, thoughtfully, “it is queer how Johnny Trumbull always + comes out ahead in a fight, and he is not so very large, either.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Amelia, but she realized a pang of jealousy. “Girls could + fight, I suppose,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, and get their clothes all torn and messy,” said Lily. + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn't care,” said Amelia. Then she added, with a little toss, “I + almost know I could fight.” The thought even floated through her wicked + little mind that fighting might be a method of wearing out obnoxious and + durable clothes. + </p> + <p> + “You!” said Lily, and the scorn in her voice wilted Amelia. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe I couldn't,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you couldn't, and if you could, what a sight you'd be. Of + course it wouldn't hurt your clothes as much as some, because your mother + dresses you in strong things, but you'd be sure to get black and blue, and + what would be the use, anyway? You couldn't be a boy, if you did fight.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I know I couldn't.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what is the use? We are a good deal prettier than boys, and cleaner, + and have nicer manners, and we must be satisfied.” + </p> + <p> + “You are prettier,” said Amelia, with a look of worshipful admiration at + Lily's sweet little face. + </p> + <p> + “You are prettier,” said Lily. Then she added, equivocally, “Even the very + homeliest girl is prettier than a boy.” + </p> + <p> + Poor Amelia, it was a good deal for her to be called prettier than a very + dusty boy in a fight. She fairly dimpled with delight, and again she + smiled charmingly. Lily eyed her critically. + </p> + <p> + “You aren't so very homely, after all, Amelia,” she said. “You needn't + think you are.” + </p> + <p> + Amelia smiled again. + </p> + <p> + “When you look like you do now you are real pretty,” said Lily, not + knowing or even suspecting the truth, that she was regarding in the face + of this little ardent soul her own, as in a mirror. + </p> + <p> + However, it was after that episode that Amelia Wheeler was called + “Copy-Cat.” The two little girls entered Madame's select school arm in + arm, when the musical gong sounded, and behind them came Lee Westminster + and Johnny Trumbull, surreptitiously dusting their garments, and ever + after the fact of Amelia's adoration and imitation of Lily Jennings was + evident to all. Even Madame became aware of it, and held conferences with + two of the under teachers. + </p> + <p> + “It is not at all healthy for one child to model herself so entirely upon + the pattern of another,” said Miss Parmalee. + </p> + <p> + “Most certainly it is not,” agreed Miss Acton, the music-teacher. + </p> + <p> + “Why, that poor little Amelia Wheeler had the rudiments of a fairly good + contralto. I had begun to wonder if the poor child might not be able at + least to sing a little, and so make up for—other things; and now she + tries to sing high like Lily Jennings, and I simply cannot prevent it. She + has heard Lily play, too, and has lost her own touch, and now it is + neither one thing nor the other.” + </p> + <p> + “I might speak to her mother,” said Madame, thoughtfully. Madame was + American born, but she married a French gentleman, long since deceased, + and his name sounded well on her circulars. She and her two under teachers + were drinking tea in her library. + </p> + <p> + Miss Parmalee, who was a true lover of her pupils, gasped at Madame's + proposition. “Whatever you do, please do not tell that poor child's + mother,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “I do not think it would be quite wise, if I may venture to express an + opinion,” said Miss Acton, who was a timid soul, and always inclined to + shy at her own ideas. + </p> + <p> + “But why?” asked Madame. + </p> + <p> + “Her mother,” said Miss Parmalee, “is a quite remarkable woman, with great + strength of character, but she would utterly fail to grasp the situation.” + </p> + <p> + “I must confess,” said Madame, sipping her tea, “that I fail to understand + it. Why any child not an absolute idiot should so lose her own identity in + another's absolutely bewilders me. I never heard of such a case.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Parmalee, who had a sense of humor, laughed a little. “It is + bewildering,” she admitted. “And now the other children see how it is, and + call her 'Copy-Cat' to her face, but she does not mind. I doubt if she + understands, and neither does Lily, for that matter. Lily Jennings is full + of mischief, but she moves in straight lines; she is not conceited or + self-conscious, and she really likes Amelia, without knowing why.” + </p> + <p> + “I fear Lily will lead Amelia into mischief,” said Madame, “and Amelia has + always been such a good child.” + </p> + <p> + “Lily will never MEAN to lead Amelia into mischief,” said loyal Miss + Parmalee. + </p> + <p> + “But she will,” said Madame. + </p> + <p> + “If Lily goes, I cannot answer for Amelia's not following,” admitted Miss + Parmalee. + </p> + <p> + “I regret it all very much indeed,” sighed Madame, “but it does seem to me + still that Amelia's mother—” + </p> + <p> + “Amelia's mother would not even believe it, in the first place,” said Miss + Parmalee. + </p> + <p> + “Well, there is something in that,” admitted Madame. “I myself could not + even imagine such a situation. I would not know of it now, if you and Miss + Acton had not told me.” + </p> + <p> + “There is not the slightest use in telling Amelia not to imitate Lily, + because she does not know that she is imitating her,” said Miss Parmalee. + “If she were to be punished for it, she could never comprehend the + reason.” + </p> + <p> + “That is true,” said Miss Acton. “I realize that when the poor child + squeaks instead of singing. All I could think of this morning was a little + mouse caught in a trap which she could not see. She does actually squeak!—and + some of her low notes, although, of course, she is only a child, and has + never attempted much, promised to be very good.” + </p> + <p> + “She will have to squeak, for all I can see,” said Miss Parmalee. “It + looks to me like one of those situations that no human being can change + for better or worse.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you are right,” said Madame, “but it is most unfortunate, and + Mrs. Wheeler is such a superior woman, and Amelia is her only child, and + this is such a very subtle and regrettable affair. Well, we have to leave + a great deal to Providence.” + </p> + <p> + “If,” said Miss Parmalee, “she could only get angry when she is called + 'Copy-Cat.'” Miss Parmalee laughed, and so did Miss Acton. Then all the + ladies had their cups refilled, and left Providence to look out for poor + little Amelia Wheeler, in her mad pursuit of her ideal in the shape of + another little girl possessed of the exterior graces which she had not. + </p> + <p> + Meantime the little “Copy-Cat” had never been so happy. She began to + improve in her looks also. Her grandmother Wheeler noticed it first, and + spoke of it to Grandmother Stark. “That child may not be so plain, after + all,” said she. “I looked at her this morning when she started for school, + and I thought for the first time that there was a little resemblance to + the Wheelers.” + </p> + <p> + Grandmother Stark sniffed, but she looked gratified. “I have been noticing + it for some time,” said she, “but as for looking like the Wheelers, I + thought this morning for a minute that I actually saw my poor dear husband + looking at me out of that blessed child's eyes.” + </p> + <p> + Grandmother Wheeler smiled her little, aggravating, curved, pink smile. + </p> + <p> + But even Mrs. Diantha began to notice the change for the better in Amelia. + She, however, attributed it to an increase of appetite and a system of + deep breathing which she had herself taken up and enjoined Amelia to + follow. Amelia was following Lily Jennings instead, but that her mother + did not know. Still, she was gratified to see Amelia's little sallow + cheeks taking on pretty curves and a soft bloom, and she was more inclined + to listen when Grandmother Wheeler ventured to approach the subject of + Amelia's attire. + </p> + <p> + “Amelia would not be so bad-looking if she were better dressed, Diantha,” + said she. + </p> + <p> + Diantha lifted her chin, but she paid heed. “Why, does not Amelia dress + perfectly well, mother?” she inquired. + </p> + <p> + “She dresses well enough, but she needs more ribbons and ruffles.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not approve of so many ribbons and ruffles,” said Mrs. Diantha. + “Amelia has perfectly neat, fresh black or brown ribbons for her hair, and + ruffles are not sanitary.” + </p> + <p> + “Ruffles are pretty,” said Grandmother Wheeler, “and blue and pink are + pretty colors. Now, that Jennings girl looks like a little picture.” + </p> + <p> + But that last speech of Grandmother Wheeler's undid all the previous good. + Mrs. Diantha had an unacknowledged—even to herself—disapproval + of Mrs. Jennings which dated far back in the past, for a reason which was + quite unworthy of her and of her strong mind. When she and Lily's mother + had been girls, she had seen Mrs. Jennings look like a picture, and had + been perfectly well aware that she herself fell far short of an artist's + ideal. Perhaps if Mrs. Stark had believed in ruffles and ribbons, her + daughter might have had a different mind when Grandmother Wheeler had + finished her little speech. + </p> + <p> + As it was, Mrs. Diantha surveyed her small, pretty mother-in-law with + dignified serenity, which savored only delicately of a snub. “I do not + myself approve of the way in which Mrs. Jennings dresses her daughter,” + said she, “and I do not consider that the child presents to a practical + observer as good an appearance as my Amelia.” + </p> + <p> + Grandmother Wheeler had a temper. It was a childish temper and soon over—still, + a temper. “Lord,” said she, “if you mean to say that you think your poor + little snipe of a daughter, dressed like a little maid-of-all-work, can + compare with that lovely little Lily Jennings, who is dressed like a doll!—” + </p> + <p> + “I do not wish that my daughter should be dressed like a doll,” said Mrs. + Diantha, coolly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, she certainly isn't,” said Grandmother Wheeler. “Nobody would ever + take her for a doll as far as looks or dress are concerned. She may be + GOOD enough. I don't deny that Amelia is a good little girl, but her looks + could be improved on.” + </p> + <p> + “Looks matter very little,” said Mrs. Diantha. + </p> + <p> + “They matter very much,” said Grandmother Wheeler, pugnaciously, her blue + eyes taking on a peculiar opaque glint, as always when she lost her + temper, “very much indeed. But looks can't be helped. If poor little + Amelia wasn't born with pretty looks, she wasn't. But she wasn't born with + such ugly clothes. She might be better dressed.” + </p> + <p> + “I dress my daughter as I consider best,” said Mrs. Diantha. Then she left + the room. + </p> + <p> + Grandmother Wheeler sat for a few minutes, her blue eyes opaque, her + little pink lips a straight line; then suddenly her eyes lit, and she + smiled. “Poor Diantha,” said she, “I remember how Henry used to like Lily + Jennings's mother before he married Diantha. Sour grapes hang high.” But + Grandmother Wheeler's beautiful old face was quite soft and gentle. From + her heart she pitied the reacher after those high-hanging sour grapes, for + Mrs. Diantha had been very good to her. + </p> + <p> + Then Grandmother Wheeler, who had a mild persistency not evident to a + casual observer, began to make plans and lay plots. She was resolved, + Diantha or not, that her granddaughter, her son's child, should have some + fine feathers. The little conference had taken place in her own room, a + large, sunny one, with a little storeroom opening from it. Presently + Grandmother Wheeler rose, entered the storeroom, and began rummaging in + some old trunks. Then followed days of secret work. Grandmother Wheeler + had been noted as a fine needlewoman, and her hand had not yet lost its + cunning. She had one of Amelia's ugly little ginghams, purloined from a + closet, for size, and she worked two or three dainty wonders. She took + Grandmother Stark into her confidence. Sometimes the two ladies, by reason + of their age, found it possible to combine with good results. + </p> + <p> + “Your daughter Diantha is one woman in a thousand,” said Grandmother + Wheeler, diplomatically, one day, “but she never did care much for + clothes.” + </p> + <p> + “Diantha,” returned Grandmother Stark, with a suspicious glance, “always + realized that clothes were not the things that mattered.” + </p> + <p> + “And, of course, she is right,” said Grandmother Wheeler, piously. “Your + Diantha is one woman in a thousand. If she cared as much for fine clothes + as some women, I don't know where we should all be. It would spoil poor + little Amelia.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it would,” assented Grandmother Stark. “Nothing spoils a little girl + more than always to be thinking about her clothes.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I was looking at Amelia the other day, and thinking how much more + sensible she appeared in her plain gingham than Lily Jennings in all her + ruffles and ribbons. Even if people were all noticing Lily, and praising + her, thinks I to myself, 'How little difference such things really make. + Even if our dear Amelia does stand to one side, and nobody notices her, + what real matter is it?'” Grandmother Wheeler was inwardly chuckling as + she spoke. + </p> + <p> + Grandmother Stark was at once alert. “Do you mean to say that Amelia is + really not taken so much notice of because she dresses plainly?” said she. + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean that you don't know it, as observant as you are?” replied + Grandmother Wheeler. + </p> + <p> + “Diantha ought not to let it go as far as that,” said Grandmother Stark. + Grandmother Wheeler looked at her queerly. “Why do you look at me like + that?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I did something I feared I ought not to have done. And I didn't + know what to do, but your speaking so makes me wonder—” + </p> + <p> + “Wonder what?” + </p> + <p> + Then Grandmother Wheeler went to her little storeroom and emerged bearing + a box. She displayed the contents—three charming little white frocks + fluffy with lace and embroidery. + </p> + <p> + “Did you make them?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I did. I couldn't help it. I thought if the dear child never wore + them, it would be some comfort to know they were in the house.” + </p> + <p> + “That one needs a broad blue sash,” said Grandmother Stark. + </p> + <p> + Grandmother Wheeler laughed. She took her impecuniosity easily. “I had to + use what I had,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “I will get a blue sash for that one,” said Grandmother Stark, “and a pink + sash for that, and a flowered one for that.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course they will make all the difference,” said Grandmother Wheeler. + “Those beautiful sashes will really make the dresses.” + </p> + <p> + “I will get them,” said Grandmother Stark, with decision. “I will go right + down to Mann Brothers' store now and get them.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I will make the bows, and sew them on,” replied Grandmother Wheeler, + happily. + </p> + <p> + It thus happened that little Amelia Wheeler was possessed of three + beautiful dresses, although she did not know it. + </p> + <p> + For a long time neither of the two conspiring grandmothers dared divulge + the secret. Mrs. Diantha was a very determined woman, and even her own + mother stood somewhat in awe of her. Therefore, little Amelia went to + school during the spring term soberly clad as ever, and even on the + festive last day wore nothing better than a new blue gingham, made too + long, to allow for shrinkage, and new blue hair-ribbons. The two + grandmothers almost wept in secret conclave over the lovely frocks which + were not worn. + </p> + <p> + “I respect Diantha,” said Grandmother Wheeler. “You know that. She is one + woman in a thousand, but I do hate to have that poor child go to school + to-day with so many to look at her, and she dressed so unlike all the + other little girls.” + </p> + <p> + “Diantha has got so much sense, it makes her blind and deaf,” declared + Grandmother Stark. “I call it a shame, if she is my daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you don't venture—” + </p> + <p> + Grandmother Stark reddened. She did not like to own to awe of her + daughter. “I VENTURE, if that is all,” said she, tartly. “You don't + suppose I am afraid of Diantha?—but she would not let Amelia wear + one of the dresses, anyway, and I don't want the child made any unhappier + than she is.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I will admit,” replied Grandmother Wheeler, “if poor Amelia knew + she had these beautiful dresses and could not wear them she might feel + worse about wearing that homely gingham.” + </p> + <p> + “Gingham!” fairly snorted Grandmother Stark. “I cannot see why Diantha + thinks so much of gingham. It shrinks, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + Poor little Amelia did undoubtedly suffer on that last day, when she sat + among the others gaily clad, and looked down at her own common little + skirts. She was very glad, however, that she had not been chosen to do any + of the special things which would have necessitated her appearance upon + the little flower-decorated platform. She did not know of the conversation + between Madame and her two assistants. + </p> + <p> + “I would have Amelia recite a little verse or two,” said Madame, “but how + can I?” Madame adored dress, and had a lovely new one of sheer dull-blue + stuff, with touches of silver, for the last day. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” agreed Miss Parmalee, “that poor child is sensitive, and for her to + stand on the platform in one of those plain ginghams would be too cruel.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, too,” said Miss Acton, “she would recite her verses exactly like + Lily Jennings. She can make her voice exactly like Lily's now. Then + everybody would laugh, and Amelia would not know why. She would think they + were laughing at her dress, and that would be dreadful.” + </p> + <p> + If Amelia's mother could have heard that conversation everything would + have been different, although it is puzzling to decide in what way. + </p> + <p> + It was the last of the summer vacation in early September, just before + school began, that a climax came to Amelia's idolatry and imitation of + Lily. The Jenningses had not gone away that summer, so the two little + girls had been thrown together a good deal. Mrs. Diantha never went away + during a summer. She considered it her duty to remain at home, and she was + quite pitiless to herself when it came to a matter of duty. + </p> + <p> + However, as a result she was quite ill during the last of August and the + first of September. The season had been unusually hot, and Mrs. Diantha + had not spared herself from her duty on account of the heat. She would + have scorned herself if she had done so. But she could not, strong-minded + as she was, avert something like a heat prostration after a long walk + under a burning sun, nor weeks of confinement and idleness in her room + afterward. + </p> + <p> + When September came, and a night or two of comparative coolness, she felt + stronger; still she was compelled by most unusual weakness to refrain from + her energetic trot in her duty-path; and then it was that something + happened. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon Lily fluttered over to Amelia's, and Amelia, ever on the + watch, spied her. + </p> + <p> + “May I go out and see Lily?” she asked Grandmother Stark. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but don't talk under the windows; your mother is asleep.” + </p> + <p> + Amelia ran out. + </p> + <p> + “I declare,” said Grandmother Stark to Grandmother Wheeler, “I was half a + mind to tell that child to wait a minute and slip on one of those pretty + dresses. I hate to have her go on the street in that old gingham, with + that Jennings girl dressed up like a wax doll.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it.” + </p> + <p> + “And now poor Diantha is so weak—and asleep—it would not have + annoyed her.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it.” + </p> + <p> + Grandmother Stark looked at Grandmother Wheeler. Of the two she possessed + a greater share of original sin compared with the size of her soul. + Moreover, she felt herself at liberty to circumvent her own daughter. + Whispering, she unfolded a daring scheme to the other grandmother, who + stared at her aghast a second out of her lovely blue eyes, then laughed + softly. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” said she, “if you dare.” + </p> + <p> + “I rather think I dare!” said Grandmother Stark. “Isn't Diantha Wheeler my + own daughter?” Grandmother Stark had grown much bolder since Mrs. Diantha + had been ill. + </p> + <p> + Meantime Lily and Amelia walked down the street until they came to a + certain vacant lot intersected by a foot-path between tall, feathery + grasses and goldenrod and asters and milkweed. They entered the foot-path, + and swarms of little butterflies rose around them, and once in a while a + protesting bumblebee. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid we will be stung by the bees,” said Amelia. + </p> + <p> + “Bumblebees never sting,” said Lily; and Amelia believed her. + </p> + <p> + When the foot-path ended, there was the riverbank. The two little girls + sat down under a clump of brook willows and talked, while the river, full + of green and blue and golden lights, slipped past them and never stopped. + </p> + <p> + Then Lily proceeded to unfold a plan, which was not philosophical, but + naughtily ingenious. By this time Lily knew very well that Amelia admired + her, and imitated her as successfully as possible, considering the + drawback of dress and looks. + </p> + <p> + When she had finished Amelia was quite pale. “I am afraid, I am afraid, + Lily,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “What of?” + </p> + <p> + “My mother will find out; besides, I am afraid it isn't right.” + </p> + <p> + “Who ever told you it was wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody ever did,” admitted Amelia. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then you haven't any reason to think it is,” said Lily, + triumphantly. “And how is your mother ever going to find it out?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn't she ill in her room? And does she ever come to kiss you good night, + the way my mother does, when she is well?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” admitted Amelia. + </p> + <p> + “And neither of your grandmothers?” + </p> + <p> + “Grandmother Stark would think it was silly, like mother, and Grandmother + Wheeler can't go up and down stairs very well.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't see but you are perfectly safe. I am the only one that runs any + risk at all. I run a great deal of risk, but I am willing to take it,” + said Lily with a virtuous air. Lily had a small but rather involved scheme + simply for her own ends, which did not seem to call for much virtue, but + rather the contrary. + </p> + <p> + Lily had overheard Arnold Carruth and Johnny Trumbull and Lee Westminster + and another boy, Jim Patterson, planning a most delightful affair, which + even in the cases of the boys was fraught with danger, secrecy, and + doubtful rectitude. Not one of the four boys had had a vacation from the + village that summer, and their young minds had become charged, as it were, + with the seeds of revolution and rebellion. Jim Patterson, the son of the + rector, and of them all the most venturesome, had planned to take—he + called it “take”; he meant to pay for it, anyway, he said, as soon as he + could shake enough money out of his nickel savings-bank—one of his + father's Plymouth Rock chickens and have a chickenroast in the woods back + of Dr. Trumbull's. He had planned for Johnny to take some ears of corn + suitable for roasting from his father's garden; for Lee to take some + cookies out of a stone jar in his mother's pantry; and for Arnold to take + some potatoes. Then they four would steal forth under cover of night, + build a camp-fire, roast their spoils, and feast. + </p> + <p> + Lily had resolved to be of the party. She resorted to no open methods; the + stones of the fighting suffragettes were not for her, little honey-sweet, + curled, and ruffled darling; rather the time-worn, if not time-sanctified, + weapons of her sex, little instruments of wiles, and tiny dodges, and tiny + subterfuges, which would serve her best. + </p> + <p> + “You know,” she said to Amelia, “you don't look like me. Of course you + know that, and that can't be helped; but you do walk like me, and talk + like me, you know that, because they call you 'CopyCat.'” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” said poor Amelia. + </p> + <p> + “I don't mind if they do call you 'Copy-Cat,'” said Lily, magnanimously. + “I don't mind a bit. But, you see, my mother always comes up-stairs to + kiss me good night after I have gone to bed, and tomorrow night she has a + dinner-party, and she will surely be a little late, and I can't manage + unless you help me. I will get one of my white dresses for you, and all + you have to do is to climb out of your window into that cedar-tree—you + know you can climb down that, because you are so afraid of burglars + climbing up—and you can slip on my dress; you had better throw it + out of the window and not try to climb in it, because my dresses tear + awful easy, and we might get caught that way. Then you just sneak down to + our house, and I shall be outdoors; and when you go up-stairs, if the + doors should be open, and anybody should call, you can answer just like + me; and I have found that light curly wig Aunt Laura wore when she had her + head shaved after she had a fever, and you just put that on and go to bed, + and mother will never know when she kisses you good night. Then after the + roast I will go to your house, and climb up that tree, and go to bed in + your room. And I will have one of your gingham dresses to wear, and very + early in the morning I will get up, and you get up, and we both of us can + get down the back stairs without being seen, and run home.” + </p> + <p> + Amelia was almost weeping. It was her worshiped Lily's plan, but she was + horribly scared. “I don't know,” she faltered. + </p> + <p> + “Don't know! You've got to! You don't love me one single bit or you + wouldn't stop to think about whether you didn't know.” It was the + world-old argument which floors love. Amelia succumbed. + </p> + <p> + The next evening a frightened little girl clad in one of Lily Jennings's + white embroidered frocks was racing to the Jenningses' house, and another + little girl, not at all frightened, but enjoying the stimulus of mischief + and unwontedness, was racing to the wood behind Dr. Trumbull's house, and + that little girl was clad in one of Amelia Wheeler's ginghams. But the + plan went all awry. + </p> + <p> + Lily waited, snuggled up behind an alder-bush, and the boys came, one by + one, and she heard this whispered, although there was no necessity for + whispering, “Jim Patterson, where's that hen?” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn't get her. Grabbed her, and all her tail-feathers came out in a + bunch right in my hand, and she squawked so, father heard. He was in his + study writing his sermon, and he came out, and if I hadn't hid behind the + chicken-coop and then run I couldn't have got here. But I can't see as + you've got any corn, Johnny Trumbull.” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn't. Every single ear was cooked for dinner.” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn't bring any cookies, either,” said Lee Westminster; “there + weren't any cookies in the jar.” + </p> + <p> + “And I couldn't bring the potatoes, because the outside cellar door was + locked,” said Arnold Carruth. “I had to go down the back stairs and out + the south door, and the inside cellar door opens out of our dining-room, + and I daren't go in there.” + </p> + <p> + “Then we might as well go home,” said Johnny Trumbull. “If I had been you, + Jim Patterson, I would have brought that old hen if her tail-feathers had + come out. Seems to me you scare awful easy.” + </p> + <p> + “Guess if you had heard her squawk!” said Jim, resentfully. “If you want + to try to lick me, come on, Johnny Trumbull. Guess you don't darse call me + scared again.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny eyed him standing there in the gloom. Jim was not large, but very + wiry, and the ground was not suited for combat. Johnny, although a victor, + would probably go home considerably the worse in appearance; and he could + anticipate the consequences were his father to encounter him. + </p> + <p> + “Shucks!” said Johnny Trumbull, of the fine old Trumbull family and + Madame's exclusive school. “Shucks! who wants your old hen? We had chicken + for dinner, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “So did we,” said Arnold Carruth. + </p> + <p> + “We did, and corn,” said Lee. + </p> + <p> + “We did,” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + Lily stepped forth from the alder-bush. “If,” said she, “I were a boy, and + had started to have a chicken-roast, I would have HAD a chicken-roast.” + </p> + <p> + But every boy, even the valiant Johnny Trumbull, was gone in a mad + scutter. This sudden apparition of a girl was too much for their nerves. + They never even knew who the girl was, although little Arnold Carruth said + she had looked to him like “Copy-Cat,” but the others scouted the idea. + </p> + <p> + Lily Jennings made the best of her way out of the wood across lots to the + road. She was not in a particularly enviable case. Amelia Wheeler was + presumably in her bed, and she saw nothing for it but to take the + difficult way to Amelia's. + </p> + <p> + Lily tore a great rent in the gingham going up the cedar-tree, but that + was nothing to what followed. She entered through Amelia's window, her + prim little room, to find herself confronted by Amelia's mother in a + wrapper, and her two grandmothers. Grandmother Stark had over her arm a + beautiful white embroidered dress. The two old ladies had entered the room + in order to lay the white dress on a chair and take away Amelia's gingham, + and there was no Amelia. Mrs. Diantha had heard the commotion, and had + risen, thrown on her wrapper, and come. Her mother had turned upon her. + </p> + <p> + “It is all your fault, Diantha,” she had declared. + </p> + <p> + “My fault?” echoed Mrs. Diantha, bewildered. “Where is Amelia?” + </p> + <p> + “We don't know,” said Grandmother Stark, “but you have probably driven her + away from home by your cruelty.” + </p> + <p> + “Cruelty?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, cruelty. What right had you to make that poor child look like a + fright, so people laughed at her? We have made her some dresses that look + decent, and had come here to leave them, and to take away those old + gingham things that look as if she lived in the almshouse, and leave + these, so she would either have to wear them or go without, when we found + she had gone.” + </p> + <p> + It was at that crucial moment that Lily entered by way of the window. + </p> + <p> + “Here she is now,” shrieked Grandmother Stark. “Amelia, where—” Then + she stopped short. + </p> + <p> + Everybody stared at Lily's beautiful face suddenly gone white. For once + Lily was frightened. She lost all self-control. She began to sob. She + could scarcely tell the absurd story for sobs, but she told, every word. + </p> + <p> + Then, with a sudden boldness, she too turned on Mrs. Diantha. “They call + poor Amelia 'CopyCat,'” said she, “and I don't believe she would ever have + tried so hard to look like me only my mother dresses me so I look nice, + and you send Amelia to school looking awfully.” Then Lily sobbed again. + </p> + <p> + “My Amelia is at your house, as I understand?” said Mrs. Diantha, in an + awful voice. + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es, ma-am.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me go,” said Mrs. Diantha, violently, to Grandmother Stark, who tried + to restrain her. Mrs. Diantha dressed herself and marched down the street, + dragging Lily after her. The little girl had to trot to keep up with the + tall woman's strides, and all the way she wept. + </p> + <p> + It was to Lily's mother's everlasting discredit, in Mrs. Diantha's + opinion, but to Lily's wonderful relief, that when she heard the story, + standing in the hall in her lovely dinner dress, with the strains of music + floating from the drawing-room, and cigar smoke floating from the + dining-room, she laughed. When Lily said, “And there wasn't even any + chickenroast, mother,” she nearly had hysterics. + </p> + <p> + “If you think this is a laughing matter, Mrs. Jennings, I do not,” said + Mrs. Diantha, and again her dislike and sorrow at the sight of that sweet, + mirthful face was over her. It was a face to be loved, and hers was not. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I went up-stairs and kissed the child good night, and never + suspected,” laughed Lily's mother. + </p> + <p> + “I got Aunt Laura's curly, light wig for her,” explained Lily, and Mrs. + Jennings laughed again. + </p> + <p> + It was not long before Amelia, in her gingham, went home, led by her + mother—her mother, who was trembling with weakness now. Mrs. Diantha + did not scold. She did not speak, but Amelia felt with wonder her little + hand held very tenderly by her mother's long fingers. + </p> + <p> + When at last she was undressed and in bed, Mrs. Diantha, looking very + pale, kissed her, and so did both grandmothers. + </p> + <p> + Amelia, being very young and very tired, went to sleep. She did not know + that that night was to mark a sharp turn in her whole life. Thereafter she + went to school “dressed like the best,” and her mother petted her as + nobody had ever known her mother could pet. + </p> + <p> + It was not so very long afterward that Amelia, out of her own improvement + in appearance, developed a little stamp of individuality. + </p> + <p> + One day Lily wore a white frock with blue ribbons, and Amelia wore one + with coral pink. It was a particular day in school; there was company, and + tea was served. + </p> + <p> + “I told you I was going to wear blue ribbons,” Lily whispered to Amelia. + Amelia smiled lovingly back at her. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know, but I thought I would wear pink.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE COCK OF THE WALK + </h2> + <p> + DOWN the road, kicking up the dust until he marched, soldier-wise, in a + cloud of it, that rose and grimed his moist face and added to the heavy, + brown powder upon the wayside weeds and flowers, whistling a queer, + tuneless thing, which yet contained definite sequences—the whistle + of a bird rather than a boy—approached Johnny Trumbull, aged ten, + small of his age, but accounted by his mates mighty. + </p> + <p> + Johnny came of the best and oldest family in the village, but it was in + some respects an undesirable family for a boy. In it survived, as fossils + survive in ancient nooks and crannies of the earth, old traits of race, + unchanged by time and environment. Living in a house lighted by + electricity, the mental conception of it was to the Trumbulls as the + conception of candles; with telephones at hand, they unconsciously still + conceived of messages delivered with the old saying, “Ride, ride,” etc., + and relays of post-horses. They locked their doors, but still had + latch-strings in mind. Johnny's father was a physician, adopting modern + methods of surgery and prescription, yet his mind harked back to cupping + and calomel, and now and then he swerved aside from his path across the + field of the present into the future and plunged headlong, as if for fresh + air, into the traditional past, and often with brilliant results. + </p> + <p> + Johnny's mother was a college graduate. She was the president of the + woman's club. She read papers savoring of such feminine leaps ahead that + they were like gymnastics, but she walked homeward with the gait of her + great-grandmother, and inwardly regarded her husband as her lord and + master. She minced genteelly, lifting her quite fashionable skirts high + above very slender ankles, which were hereditary. Not a woman of her race + had ever gone home on thick ankles, and they had all gone home. They had + all been at home, even if abroad—at home in the truest sense. At the + club, reading her inflammatory paper, Cora Trumbull's real self remained + at home intent upon her mending, her dusting, her house economics. It was + something remarkably like her astral body which presided at the club. + </p> + <p> + As for her unmarried sister Janet, who was older and had graduated from a + young ladies' seminary instead of a college, whose early fancy had been + guided into the lady-like ways of antimacassars and pincushions and wax + flowers under glass shades, she was a straighter proposition. No astral + pretensions had Janet. She stayed, body and soul together, in the old + ways, and did not even project her shadow out of them. There is seldom + room enough for one's shadow in one's earliest way of life, but there was + plenty for Janet's. There had been a Janet unmarried in every Trumbull + family for generations. That in some subtle fashion accounted for her + remaining single. There had also been an unmarried Jonathan Trumbull, and + that accounted for Johnny's old bachelor uncle Jonathan. Jonathan was a + retired clergyman. He had retired before he had preached long, because of + doctrinal doubts, which were hereditary. He had a little, dark study in + Johnny's father's house, which was the old Trumbull homestead, and he + passed much of his time there, debating within himself that matter of + doctrines. + </p> + <p> + Presently Johnny, assiduously kicking up dust, met his uncle Jonathan, who + passed without the slightest notice. Johnny did not mind at all. He was + used to it. Presently his own father appeared, driving along in his buggy + the bay mare at a steady jog, with the next professional call quite + clearly upon her equine mind. And Johnny's father did not see him. Johnny + did not mind that, either. He expected nothing different. + </p> + <p> + Then Johnny saw his mother approaching. She was coming from the club + meeting. She held up her silk skirts high, as usual, and carried a nice + little parcel of papers tied with ribbon. She also did not notice Johnny, + who, however, out of sweet respect for his mother's nice silk dress, + stopped kicking up dust. Mrs. Trumbull on the village street was really at + home preparing a shortcake for supper. + </p> + <p> + Johnny eyed his mother's faded but rather beautiful face under the + rose-trimmed bonnet with admiration and entire absence of resentment. Then + he walked on and kicked up the dust again. He loved to kick up the dust in + summer, the fallen leaves in autumn, and the snow in winter. Johnny was + not a typical Trumbull. None of them had ever cared for simple amusements + like that. Looking back for generations on his father's and mother's side + (both had been Trumbulls, but very distantly related), none could be + discovered who in the least resembled Johnny. No dim blue eye of + retrospection and reflection had Johnny; no tendency to tall slenderness + which would later bow beneath the greater weight of the soul. Johnny was + small, but wiry of build, and looked able to bear any amount of mental + development without a lasting bend of his physical shoulders. Johnny had, + at the early age of ten, whopped nearly every boy in school, but that was + a secret of honor. It was well known in the school that, once the + Trumbulls heard of it, Johnny could never whop again. “You fellows know,” + Johnny had declared once, standing over his prostrate and whimpering foe, + “that I don't mind getting whopped at home, but they might send me away to + another school, and then I could never whop any of you fellows.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny Trumbull kicking up the dust, himself dust-covered, his shoes, his + little queerly fitting dun suit, his cropped head, all thickly powdered, + loved it. He sniffed in that dust like a grateful incense. He did not stop + dust-kicking when he saw his aunt Janet coming, for, as he considered, her + old black gown was not worth the sacrifice. It was true that she might see + him. She sometimes did, if she were not reading a book as she walked. It + had always been a habit with the Janet Trumbulls to read improving books + when they walked abroad. To-day Johnny saw, with a quick glance of those + sharp, black eyes, so unlike the Trumbulls', that his aunt Janet was + reading. He therefore expected her to pass him without recognition, and + marched on kicking up the dust. But suddenly, as he grew nearer the spry + little figure, he was aware of a pair of gray eyes, before which waved + protectingly a hand clad in a black silk glove with dangling finger-tips, + because it was too long, and it dawned swiftly upon him that Aunt Janet + was trying to shield her face from the moving column of brown motes. He + stopped kicking, but it was too late. Aunt Janet had him by the collar and + was vigorously shaking him with nervous strength. + </p> + <p> + “You are a very naughty little boy,” declared Aunt Janet. “You should know + better than to walk along the street raising so much dust. No + well-brought-up child ever does such things. Who are your parents, little + boy?” + </p> + <p> + Johnny perceived that Aunt Janet did not recognize him, which was easily + explained. She wore her reading-spectacles and not her far-seeing ones; + besides, her reading spectacles were obscured by dust and her nephew's + face was nearly obliterated. Also as she shook him his face was not much + in evidence. Johnny disliked, naturally, to tell his aunt Janet that her + own sister and brother-in-law were the parents of such a wicked little + boy. He therefore kept quiet and submitted to the shaking, making himself + as limp as a rag. This, however, exasperated Aunt Janet, who found herself + encumbered by a dead weight of a little boy to be shaken, and suddenly + Johnny Trumbull, the fighting champion of the town, the cock of the walk + of the school, found himself being ignominiously spanked. That was too + much. Johnny's fighting blood was up. He lost all consideration for + circumstances, he forgot that Aunt Janet was not a boy, that she was quite + near being an old lady. She had overstepped the bounds of privilege of age + and sex, and an alarming state of equality ensued. Quickly the tables were + turned. The boy became far from limp. He stiffened, then bounded and + rebounded like wire. He butted, he parried, he observed all his famous + tactics of battle, and poor Aunt Janet sat down in the dust, black dress, + bonnet, glasses (but the glasses were off and lost), little improving + book, black silk gloves, and all; and Johnny, hopeless, awful, irreverent, + sat upon his Aunt Janet's plunging knees, which seemed the most lively + part of her. He kept his face twisted away from her, but it was not from + cowardice. Johnny was afraid lest Aunt Janet should be too much overcome + by the discovery of his identity. He felt that it was his duty to spare + her that. So he sat still, triumphant but inwardly aghast. + </p> + <p> + It was fast dawning upon him that his aunt was not a little boy. He was + not afraid of any punishment which might be meted out to him, but he was + simply horrified. He himself had violated all the honorable conditions of + warfare. He felt a little dizzy and ill, and he felt worse when he + ventured a hurried glance at Aunt Janet's face. She was very pale through + the dust, and her eyes were closed. Johnny thought then that he had killed + her. + </p> + <p> + He got up—the nervous knees were no longer plunging; then he heard a + voice, a little-girl voice, always shrill, but now high pitched to a + squeak with terror. It was the voice of Lily Jennings. She stood near and + yet aloof, a lovely little flower of a girl, all white-scalloped frills + and ribbons, with a big white-frilled hat shading a pale little face and + covering the top of a head decorated with wonderful yellow curls. She + stood behind a big baby-carriage with a pink-lined muslin canopy and + containing a nest of pink and white, but an empty nest. Lily's little + brother's carriage had a spring broken, and she had been to borrow her + aunt's baby-carriage, so that nurse could wheel little brother up and down + the veranda. Nurse had a headache, and the maids were busy, and Lily, who + was a kind little soul and, moreover, imaginative, and who liked the idea + of pushing an empty baby-carriage, had volunteered to go for it. All the + way she had been dreaming of what was not in the carriage. She had come + directly out of a dream of doll twins when she chanced upon the tragedy in + the road. + </p> + <p> + “What have you been doing now, Johnny Trumbull?” said she. She was + tremulous, white with horror, but she stood her ground. It was curious, + but Johnny Trumbull, with all his bravery, was always cowed before Lily. + Once she had turned and stared at him when he had emerged triumphant but + with bleeding nose from a fight; then she had sniffed delicately and gone + her way. It had only taken a second, but in that second the victor had met + moral defeat. + </p> + <p> + He looked now at her pale, really scared face, and his own was as pale. He + stood and kicked the dust until the swirling column of it reached his + head. + </p> + <p> + “That's right,” said Lily; “stand and kick up dust all over me. WHAT have + you been doing?” + </p> + <p> + Johnny was trembling so he could hardly stand. He stopped kicking dust. + </p> + <p> + “Have you killed your aunt?” demanded Lily. It was monstrous, but she had + a very dramatic imagination, and there was a faint hint of enjoyment in + her tragic voice. + </p> + <p> + “Guess she's just choked by dust,” volunteered Johnny, hoarsely. He kicked + the dust again. + </p> + <p> + “That's right,” said Lily. “If she's choked to death by dust, stand there + and choke her some more. You are a murderer, Johnny Trumbull, and my mamma + will never allow me to speak to you again, and Madame will not allow you + to come to school. AND—I see your papa driving up the street, and + there is the chief policeman's buggy just behind.” Lily acquiesced + entirely in the extraordinary coincidence of the father and the chief of + police appearing upon the scene. The unlikely seemed to her the likely. + “NOW,” said she, cheerfully, “you will be put in state prison and locked + up, and then you will be put to death by a very strong telephone.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny's father was leaning out of his buggy, looking back at the chief of + police in his, and the mare was jogging very slowly in a perfect reek of + dust. Lily, who was, in spite of her terrific imagination, human and a + girl, rose suddenly to heights of pity and succor. “They shall never take + you, Johnny Trumbull,” said she. “I will save you.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny by this time was utterly forgetful of his high status as champion + (behind her back) of Madame's very select school for select children of a + somewhat select village. He was forgetful of the fact that a champion + never cries. He cried; he blubbered; tears rolled over his dusty cheeks, + making furrows like plowshares of grief. He feared lest he might have + killed his aunt Janet. Women, and not very young women, might presumably + be unable to survive such rough usage as very tough and at the same time + very limber little boys, and he loved his poor aunt Janet. He grieved + because of his aunt, his parents, his uncle, and rather more particularly + because of himself. He was quite sure that the policeman was coming for + him. Logic had no place in his frenzied conclusions. He did not consider + how the tragedy had taken place entirely out of sight of a house, that + Lily Jennings was the only person who had any knowledge of it. He looked + at the masterful, fair-haired little girl like a baby. “How?” sniffed he. + </p> + <p> + For answer, Lily pointed to the empty baby-carriage. “Get right in,” she + ordered. + </p> + <p> + Even in this dire extremity Johnny hesitated. “Can't.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you can. It is extra large. Aunt Laura's baby was a twin when he + first came; now he's just an ordinary baby, but his carriage is big enough + for two. There's plenty of room. Besides, you're a very small boy, very + small of your age, even if you do knock all the other boys down and have + murdered your aunt. Get in. In a minute they will see you.” + </p> + <p> + There was in reality no time to lose. Johnny did get in. In spite of the + provisions for twins, there was none too much room. + </p> + <p> + Lily covered him up with the fluffy pink-and-lace things, and scowled. + “You hump up awfully,” she muttered. Then she reached beneath him and + snatched out the pillow on which he lay, the baby's little bed. She gave + it a swift toss over the fringe of wayside bushes into a field. “Aunt + Laura's nice embroidered pillow,” said she. “Make yourself just as flat as + you can, Johnny Trumbull.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny obeyed, but he was obliged to double himself up like a jack-knife. + However, there was no sign of him visible when the two buggies drew up. + There stood a pale and frightened little girl, with a baby-carriage + canopied with rose and lace and heaped up with rosy and lacy coverlets, + presumably sheltering a sleeping infant. Lily was a very keen little girl. + She had sense enough not to run. The two men, at the sight of Aunt Janet + prostrate in the road, leaped out of their buggies. The doctor's horse + stood still; the policeman's trotted away, to Lily's great relief. She + could not imagine Johnny's own father haling him away to state prison and + the stern Arm of Justice. She stood the fire of bewildered questions in + the best and safest fashion. She wept bitterly, and her tears were not + assumed. Poor little Lily was all of a sudden crushed under the weight of + facts. There was Aunt Janet, she had no doubt, killed by her own nephew, + and she was hiding the guilty murderer. She had visions of state prison + for herself. She watched fearfully while the two men bent over the + prostrate woman, who very soon began to sputter and gasp and try to sit + up. + </p> + <p> + “What on earth is the matter, Janet?” inquired Dr. Trumbull, who was paler + than his sister-inlaw. In fact, she was unable to look very pale on + account of dust. + </p> + <p> + “Ow!” sputtered Aunt Janet, coughing violently, “get me up out of this + dust, John. Ow!” + </p> + <p> + “What was the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, what has happened, madam?” demanded the chief of police, sternly. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” replied Aunt Janet, to Lily's and Johnny's amazement. “What do + you think has happened? I fell down in all this nasty dust. Ow!” + </p> + <p> + “What did you eat for luncheon, Janet?” inquired Dr. Trumbull, as he + assisted his sister-inlaw to her feet. + </p> + <p> + “What I was a fool to eat,” replied Janet Trumbull, promptly. “Cucumber + salad and lemon jelly with whipped cream.” + </p> + <p> + “Enough to make anybody have indigestion,” said Dr. Trumbull. “You have + had one of these attacks before, too, Janet. You remember the time you ate + strawberry shortcake and ice-cream?” + </p> + <p> + Janet nodded meekly. Then she coughed again. “Ow, this dust!” gasped she. + “For goodness' sake, John, get me home where I can get some water and take + off these dusty clothes or I shall choke to death.” + </p> + <p> + “How does your stomach feel?” inquired Dr. Trumbull. + </p> + <p> + “Stomach is all right now, but I am just choking to death with the dust.” + Janet turned sharply toward the policeman. “You have sense enough to keep + still, I hope,” said she. “I don't want the whole town ringing with my + being such an idiot as to eat cucumbers and cream together and being found + this way.” Janet looked like an animated creation of dust as she faced the + chief of police. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am,” he replied, bowing and scraping one foot and raising more + dust. + </p> + <p> + He and Dr. Trumbull assisted Aunt Janet into the buggy, and they drove + off. Then the chief of police discovered that his own horse had gone. “Did + you see which way he went, sis?” he inquired of Lily, and she pointed down + the road, and sobbed as she did so. + </p> + <p> + The policeman said something bad under his breath, then advised Lily to + run home to her ma, and started down the road. + </p> + <p> + When he was out of sight, Lily drew back the pink-and-white things from + Johnny's face. “Well, you didn't kill her this time,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you s'pose she didn't tell all about it?” said Johnny, gaping at + her. + </p> + <p> + “How do I know? I suppose she was ashamed to tell how she had been + fighting, maybe.” + </p> + <p> + “No, that was not why,” said Johnny in a deep voice. + </p> + <p> + “Why was it, then?” + </p> + <p> + “SHE KNEW.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny began to climb out of the baby-carriage. + </p> + <p> + “What will she do next, then?” asked Lily. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” Johnny replied, gloomily. + </p> + <p> + He was out of the carriage then, and Lily was readjusting the pillows and + things. “Get that nice embroidered pillow I threw over the bushes,” she + ordered, crossly. Johnny obeyed. When she had finished putting the + baby-carriage to rights she turned upon poor little Johnny Trumbull, and + her face wore the expression of a queen of tragedy. “Well,” said Lily + Jennings, “I suppose I shall have to marry you when I am grown up, after + all this.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny gasped. He thought Lily the most beautiful girl he knew, but to be + confronted with murder and marriage within a few minutes was almost too + much. He flushed a burning red. He laughed foolishly. He said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “It will be very hard on me,” stated Lily, “to marry a boy who tried to + murder his nice aunt.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny revived a bit under this feminine disdain. “I didn't try to murder + her,” he said in a weak voice. + </p> + <p> + “You might have, throwing her down in all that awful dust, a nice, clean + lady. Ladies are not like boys. It might kill them very quickly to be + knocked down on a dusty road.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't mean to kill her.” + </p> + <p> + “You might have.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I didn't, and—she—” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “She spanked me.” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh! That doesn't amount to anything,” sniffed Lily. + </p> + <p> + “It does if you are a boy.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't see why.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I can't help it if you don't. It does.” + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn't a boy be spanked when he's naughty, just as well as a girl, + I would like to know?” + </p> + <p> + “Because he's a boy.” + </p> + <p> + Lily looked at Johnny Trumbull. The great fact did remain. He had been + spanked, he had thrown his own aunt down in the dust. He had taken + advantage of her little-girl protection, but he was a boy. Lily did not + understand his why at all, but she bowed before it. However, that she + would not admit. She made a rapid change of base. “What,” said she, “are + you going to do next?” + </p> + <p> + Johnny stared at her. It was a puzzle. + </p> + <p> + “If,” said Lily, distinctly, “you are afraid to go home, if you think your + aunt will tell, I will let you get into Aunt Laura's baby-carriage again, + and I will wheel you a little way.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny would have liked at that moment to knock Lily down, as he had his + aunt Janet. Lily looked at him shrewdly. “Oh yes,” said she, “you can + knock me down in the dust there if you want to, and spoil my nice clean + dress. You will be a boy, just the same.” + </p> + <p> + “I will never marry you, anyway,” declared Johnny. + </p> + <p> + “Aren't you afraid I'll tell on you and get you another spanking if you + don't?” + </p> + <p> + “Tell if you want to. I'd enough sight rather be spanked than marry you.” + </p> + <p> + A gleam of respect came into the little girl's wisely regarding blue eyes. + She, with the swiftness of her sex, recognized in forlorn little Johnny + the making of a man. “Oh, well,” said she, loftily, “I never was a + telltale, and, anyway, we are not grown up, and there will be my trousseau + to get, and a lot of other things to do first. I shall go to Europe before + I am married, too, and I might meet a boy much nicer than you on the + steamer.” + </p> + <p> + “Meet him if you want to.” + </p> + <p> + Lily looked at Johnny Trumbull with more than respect—with + admiration—but she kept guard over her little tongue. “Well, you can + leave that for the future,” said she with a grown-up air. + </p> + <p> + “I ain't going to leave it. It's settled for good and all now,” growled + Johnny. + </p> + <p> + To his immense surprise, Lily curved her white embroidered sleeve over her + face and began to weep. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter now?” asked Johnny, sulkily, after a minute. + </p> + <p> + “I think you are a real horrid boy,” sobbed Lily. + </p> + <p> + Lily looked like nothing but a very frilly, sweet, white flower. Johnny + could not see her face. There was nothing to be seen except that delicate + fluff of white, supported on dainty white-socked, white-slippered limbs. + </p> + <p> + “Say,” said Johnny. + </p> + <p> + “You are real cruel, when I—I saved your—li-fe,” wailed Lily. + </p> + <p> + “Say,” said Johnny, “maybe if I don't see any other girl I like better I + will marry you when I am grown up, but I won't if you don't stop that + howling.” + </p> + <p> + Lily stopped immediately. She peeped at him, a blue peep from under the + flopping, embroidered brim of her hat. “Are you in earnest?” She smiled + faintly. Her blue eyes, wet with tears, were lovely; so was her hesitating + smile. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if you don't act silly,” said Johnny. “Now you had better run home, + or your mother will wonder where that baby-carriage is.” + </p> + <p> + Lily walked away, smiling over her shoulder, the smile of the happily + subjugated. “I won't tell anybody, Johnny,” she called back in her + flute-like voice. + </p> + <p> + “Don't care if you do,” returned Johnny, looking at her with chin in the + air and shoulders square, and Lily wondered at his bravery. + </p> + <p> + But Johnny was not so brave and he did care. He knew that his best course + was an immediate return home, but he did not know what he might have to + face. He could not in the least understand why his aunt Janet had not told + at once. He was sure that she knew. Then he thought of a possible reason + for her silence; she might have feared his arrest at the hands of the + chief of police. Johnny quailed. He knew his aunt Janet to be rather a + brave sort of woman. If she had fears, she must have had reason for them. + He might even now be arrested. Suppose Lily did tell. He had a theory that + girls usually told. He began to speculate concerning the horrors of + prison. Of course he would not be executed, since his aunt was obviously + very far from being killed, but he might be imprisoned for a long term. + </p> + <p> + Johnny went home. He did not kick the dust any more. He walked very + steadily and staidly. When he came in sight of the old Colonial mansion, + with its massive veranda pillars, he felt chilly. However, he went on. He + passed around to the south door and entered and smelled shortcake. It + would have smelled delicious had he not had so much on his mind. He looked + through the hall, and had a glimpse of his uncle Jonathan in the study, + writing. At the right of the door was his father's office. The door of + that was open, and Johnny saw his father pouring things from bottles. He + did not look at Johnny. His mother crossed the hall. She had on a long + white apron, which she wore when making her famous cream shortcakes. She + saw Johnny, but merely observed, “Go and wash your face and hands, Johnny; + it is nearly supper-time.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny went up-stairs. At the upper landing he found his aunt Janet + waiting for him. “Come here,” she whispered, and Johnny followed her, + trembling, into her own room. It was a large room, rather crowded with + heavy, old-fashioned furniture. Aunt Janet had freed herself from dust and + was arrayed in a purple silk gown. Her hair was looped loosely on either + side of her long face. She was a handsome woman, after a certain type. + </p> + <p> + “Stand here, Johnny,” said she. She had closed the door, and Johnny was + stationed before her. She did not seem in the least injured nor the worse + for her experience. On the contrary, there was a bright-red flush on her + cheeks, and her eyes shone as Johnny had never seen them. She looked + eagerly at Johnny. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you do that?” she said, but there was no anger in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “I forgot,” began Johnny. + </p> + <p> + “Forgot what?” Her voice was strained with eagerness. + </p> + <p> + “That you were not another boy,” said Johnny. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” said Aunt Janet. “No, you need not tell me, because if you did + it might be my duty to inform your parents. I know there is no need of + your telling. You MUST be in the habit of fighting with the other boys.” + </p> + <p> + “Except the little ones,” admitted Johnny. + </p> + <p> + To Johnny's wild astonishment, Aunt Janet seized him by the shoulders and + looked him in the eyes with a look of adoration and immense approval. + “Thank goodness,” said she, “at last there is going to be a fighter in the + Trumbull family. Your uncle would never fight, and your father would not. + Your grandfather would. Your uncle and your father are good men, though; + you must try to be like them, Johnny.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am,” replied Johnny, bewildered. + </p> + <p> + “I think they would be called better men than your grandfather and my + father,” said Aunt Janet. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am.” + </p> + <p> + “I think it is time for you to have your grandfather's watch,” said Aunt + Janet. “I think you are man enough to take care of it.” Aunt Janet had all + the time been holding a black leather case. Now she opened it, and Johnny + saw the great gold watch which he had seen many times before and had + always understood was to be his some day, when he was a man. “Here,” said + Aunt Janet. “Take good care of it. You must try to be as good as your + uncle and father, but you must remember one thing—you will wear a + watch which belonged to a man who never allowed other men to crowd him out + of the way he elected to go.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am,” said Johnny. He took the watch. + </p> + <p> + “What do you say?” inquired his aunt, sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “That's right. I thought you had forgotten your manners. Your grandfather + never did.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry. Aunt Janet,” muttered Johnny, “that I—” + </p> + <p> + “You need never say anything about that,” his aunt returned, quickly. “I + did not see who you were at first. You are too old to be spanked by a + woman, but you ought to be whipped by a man, and I wish your grandfather + were alive to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am,” said Johnny. He looked at her bravely. “He could if he + wanted to,” said he. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Janet smiled at him proudly. “Of course,” said she, “a boy like you + never gets the worst of it fighting with other boys.” + </p> + <p> + “No, ma'am,” said Johnny. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Janet smiled again. “Now run and wash your face and hands,” said she; + “you must not keep supper waiting. Your mother has a paper to write for + her club, and I have promised to help her.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am,” said Johnny. He walked out, carrying the great gold + timepiece, bewildered, embarrassed, modest beneath his honors, but little + cock of the walk, whether he would or no, for reasons entirely and forever + beyond his ken. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JOHNNY-IN-THE-WOODS + </h2> + <p> + JOHNNY TRUMBULL, he who had demonstrated his claim to be Cock of the Walk + by a most impious hand-to-hand fight with his own aunt, Miss Janet + Trumbull, in which he had been decisively victorious, and won his spurs, + consisting of his late grandfather's immense, solemnly ticking watch, was + to take a new path of action. Johnny suddenly developed the prominent + Trumbull trait, but in his case it was inverted. Johnny, as became a boy + of his race, took an excursion into the past, but instead of applying the + present to the past, as was the tendency of the other Trumbulls, he + forcibly applied the past to the present. He fairly plastered the past + over the exigencies of his day and generation like a penetrating poultice + of mustard, and the results were peculiar. + </p> + <p> + Johnny, being bidden of a rainy day during the midsummer vacation to + remain in the house, to keep quiet, read a book, and be a good boy, + obeyed, but his obedience was of a doubtful measure of wisdom. + </p> + <p> + Johnny got a book out of his uncle Jonathan Trumbull's dark little library + while Jonathan was walking sedately to the post-office, holding his + dripping umbrella at a wonderful slant of exactness, without regard to the + wind, thereby getting the soft drive of the rain full in his face, which + became, as it were, bedewed with tears, entirely outside any cause of his + own emotions. + </p> + <p> + Johnny probably got the only book of an antiorthodox trend in his uncle's + library. He found tucked away in a snug corner an ancient collection of + Border Ballads, and he read therein of many unmoral romances and pretty + fancies, which, since he was a small boy, held little meaning for him, or + charm, beyond a delight in the swing of the rhythm, for Johnny had a + feeling for music. It was when he read of Robin Hood, the bold Robin Hood, + with his dubious ethics but his certain and unquenchable interest, that + Johnny Trumbull became intent. He had the volume in his own room, being + somewhat doubtful as to whether it might be of the sort included in the + good-boy role. He sat beside a rainwashed window, which commanded a view + of the wide field between the Trumbull mansion and Jim Simmons's house, + and he read about Robin Hood and his Greenwood adventures, his forcible + setting the wrong right; and for the first time his imagination awoke, and + his ambition. Johnny Trumbull, hitherto hero of nothing except little + material fistfights, wished now to become a hero of true romance. + </p> + <p> + In fact, Johnny considered seriously the possibility of reincarnating, in + his own person, Robin Hood. He eyed the wide green field dreamily through + his rain-blurred window. It was a pretty field, waving with feathery + grasses and starred with daisies and buttercups, and it was very fortunate + that it happened to be so wide. Jim Simmons's house was not a desirable + feature of the landscape, and looked much better several acres away. It + was a neglected, squalid structure, and considered a disgrace to the whole + village. Jim was also a disgrace, and an unsolved problem. He owned that + house, and somehow contrived to pay the taxes thereon. He also lived and + throve in bodily health in spite of evil ways, and his children were many. + There seemed no way to dispose finally of Jim Simmons and his house except + by murder and arson, and the village was a peaceful one, and such measures + were entirely too strenuous. + </p> + <p> + Presently Johnny, staring dreamily out of his window, saw approaching a + rusty-black umbrella held at precisely the wrong angle in respect of the + storm, but held with the unvarying stiffness with which a soldier might + hold a bayonet, and knew it for his uncle Jonathan's umbrella. Soon he + beheld also his uncle's serious, rain-drenched face and his long ambling + body and legs. Jonathan was coming home from the post-office, whither he + repaired every morning. He never got a letter, never anything except + religious newspapers, but the visit to the post-office was part of his + daily routine. Rain or shine, Jonathan Trumbull went for the morning mail, + and gained thereby a queer negative enjoyment of a perfectly useless duty + performed. Johnny watched his uncle draw near to the house, and cruelly + reflected how unlike Robin Hood he must be. He even wondered if his uncle + could possibly have read Robin Hood and still show absolutely no result in + his own personal appearance. He knew that he, Johnny, could not walk to + the post-office and back, even with the drawback of a dripping old + umbrella instead of a bow and arrow, without looking a bit like Robin + Hood, especially when fresh from reading about him. + </p> + <p> + Then suddenly something distracted his thoughts from Uncle Jonathan. The + long, feathery grass in the field moved with a motion distinct from that + caused by the wind and rain. Johnny saw a tiger-striped back emerge, + covering long leaps of terror. Johnny knew the creature for a cat afraid + of Uncle Jonathan. Then he saw the grass move behind the first leaping, + striped back, and he knew there were more cats afraid of Uncle Jonathan. + There were even motions caused by unseen things, and he reasoned, “Kittens + afraid of Uncle Jonathan.” Then Johnny reflected with a great glow of + indignation that the Simmonses kept an outrageous number of half-starved + cats and kittens, besides a quota of children popularly supposed to be + none too well nourished, let alone properly clothed. Then it was that + Johnny Trumbull's active, firm imagination slapped the past of old romance + like a most thorough mustard poultice over the present. There could be no + Lincoln Green, no following of brave outlaws (that is, in the strictest + sense), no bows and arrows, no sojourning under greenwood trees and the + rest, but something he could, and would, do and be. That rainy day when + Johnny Trumbull was a good boy, and stayed in the house, and read a book, + marked an epoch. + </p> + <p> + That night when Johnny went into his aunt Janet's room she looked + curiously at his face, which seemed a little strange to her. Johnny, since + he had come into possession of his grandfather's watch, went every night, + on his way to bed, to his aunt's room for the purpose of winding up that + ancient timepiece, Janet having a firm impression that it might not be + done properly unless under her supervision. Johnny stood before his aunt + and wound up the watch with its ponderous key, and she watched him. + </p> + <p> + “What have you been doing all day, John?” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Stayed in the house and—read.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you read, John?” + </p> + <p> + “A book.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to be impertinent, John?” + </p> + <p> + “No, ma'am,” replied Johnny, and with perfect truth. He had not the + slightest idea of the title of the book. + </p> + <p> + “What was the book?” + </p> + <p> + “A poetry book.” + </p> + <p> + “Where did you find it?” + </p> + <p> + “In Uncle Jonathan's library.” + </p> + <p> + “Poetry In Uncle Jonathan's library?” said Janet, in a mystified way. She + had a general impression of Jonathan's library as of century-old + preserves, altogether dried up and quite indistinguishable one from the + other except by labels. Poetry she could not imagine as being there at + all. Finally she thought of the early Victorians, and Spenser and Chaucer. + The library might include them, but she had an idea that Spenser and + Chaucer were not fit reading for a little boy. However, as she remembered + Spenser and Chaucer, she doubted if Johnny could understand much of them. + Probably he had gotten hold of an early Victorian, and she looked rather + contemptuous. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think much of a boy like you reading poetry,” said Janet. + “Couldn't you find anything else to read?” + </p> + <p> + “No, ma'am.” That also was truth. Johnny, before exploring his uncle's + theological library, had peered at his father's old medical books and his + mother's bookcases, which contained quite terrifying uniform editions of + standard things written by women. + </p> + <p> + “I don't suppose there ARE many books written for boys,” said Aunt Janet, + reflectively. + </p> + <p> + “No, ma'am,” said Johnny. He finished winding the watch, and gave, as was + the custom, the key to Aunt Janet, lest he lose it. + </p> + <p> + “I will see if I cannot find some books of travels for you, John,” said + Janet. “I think travels would be good reading for a boy. Good night, + John.” + </p> + <p> + “Good night. Aunt Janet,” replied Johnny. His aunt never kissed him good + night, which was one reason why he liked her. + </p> + <p> + On his way to bed he had to pass his mother's room, whose door stood open. + She was busy writing at her desk. She glanced at Johnny. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to bed?” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny entered the room and let his mother kiss his forehead, parting his + curly hair to do so. He loved his mother, but did not care at all to have + her kiss him. He did not object, because he thought she liked to do it, + and she was a woman, and it was a very little thing in which he could + oblige her. + </p> + <p> + “Were you a good boy, and did you find a good book to read?” asked she. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am.” + </p> + <p> + “What was the book?” Cora Trumbull inquired, absently, writing as she + spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Poetry.” + </p> + <p> + Cora laughed. “Poetry is odd for a boy,” said she. “You should have read a + book of travels or history. Good night, Johnny.” + </p> + <p> + “Good night, mother.” + </p> + <p> + Then Johnny met his father, smelling strongly of medicines, coming up from + his study. But his father did not see him. And Johnny went to bed, having + imbibed from that old tale of Robin Hood more of history and more + knowledge of excursions into realms of old romance than his elders had + ever known during much longer lives than his. + </p> + <p> + Johnny confided in nobody at first. His feeling nearly led him astray in + the matter of Lily Jennings; he thought of her, for one sentimental + minute, as Robin Hood's Maid Marion. Then he dismissed the idea + peremptorily. Lily Jennings would simply laugh. He knew her. Moreover, she + was a girl, and not to be trusted. Johnny felt the need of another boy who + would be a kindred spirit; he wished for more than one boy. He wished for + a following of heroic and lawless souls, even as Robin Hood's. But he + could think of nobody, after considerable study, except one boy, younger + than himself. He was a beautiful little boy, whose mother had never + allowed him to have his golden curls cut, although he had been in trousers + for quite a while. However, the trousers were foolish, being + knickerbockers, and accompanied by low socks, which revealed pretty, + dimpled, babyish legs. The boy's name was Arnold Carruth, and that was + against him, as being long, and his mother firm about allowing no + nickname. Nicknames in any case were not allowed in the very exclusive + private school which Johnny attended. + </p> + <p> + Arnold Carruth, in spite of his being such a beautiful little boy, would + have had no standing at all in the school as far as popularity was + concerned had it not been for a strain of mischief which triumphed over + curls, socks, and pink cheeks and a much-kissed rosebud of a mouth. Arnold + Carruth, as one of the teachers permitted herself to state when relaxed in + the bosom of her own family, was “as choke-full of mischief as a pod of + peas. And the worst of it all is,” quoth the teacher, Miss Agnes Rector, + who was a pretty young girl, with a hidden sympathy for mischief herself—“the + worst of it is, that child looks so like a cherub on a rosy cloud that + even if he should be caught nobody would believe it. They would be much + more likely to accuse poor little Andrew Jackson Green, because he has a + snub nose and is a bit cross-eyed, and I never knew that poor child to do + anything except obey rules and learn his lessons. He is almost too good. + And another worst of it is, nobody can help loving that little imp of a + Carruth boy, mischief and all. I believe the scamp knows it and takes + advantage of it.” + </p> + <p> + It is quite possible that Arnold Carruth did profit unworthily by his + beauty and engagingness, albeit without calculation. He was so young, it + was monstrous to believe him capable of calculation, of deliberate trading + upon his assets of birth and beauty and fascination. However, Johnny + Trumbull, who was wide awake and a year older, was alive to the situation. + He told Arnold Carruth, and Arnold Carruth only, about Robin Hood and his + great scheme. + </p> + <p> + “You can help,” said this wise Johnny; “you can be in it, because nobody + thinks you can be in anything, on account of your wearing curls.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold Carruth flushed and gave an angry tug at one golden curl which the + wind blew over a shoulder. The two boys were in a secluded corner of + Madame's lawn, behind a clump of Japanese cedars, during an intermission. + </p> + <p> + “I can't help it because I wear curls,” declared Arnold with angry shame. + </p> + <p> + “Who said you could? No need of getting mad.” + </p> + <p> + “Mamma and Aunt Flora and grandmamma won't let me have these old curls cut + off,” said Arnold. “You needn't think I want to have curls like a girl, + Johnny Trumbull.” + </p> + <p> + “Who said you did? And I know you don't like to wear those short + stockings, either.” + </p> + <p> + “Like to!” Arnold gave a spiteful kick, first of one half-bared, dimpled + leg, then of the other. + </p> + <p> + “First thing you know I'll steal mamma's or Aunt Flora's stockings and + throw these in the furnace-I will. Do you s'pose a feller wants to wear + these baby things? I guess not. Women are awful queer, Johnny Trumbull. My + mamma and my aunt Flora are awful nice, but they are queer about some + things.” + </p> + <p> + “Most women are queer,” agreed Johnny, “but my aunt Janet isn't as queer + as some. Rather guess if she saw me with curls like a little girl she'd + cut 'em off herself.” + </p> + <p> + “Wish she was my aunt,” said Arnold Carruth with a sigh. “A feller needs a + woman like that till he's grown up. Do you s'pose she'd cut off my curls + if I was to go to your house, Johnny?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid she wouldn't think it was right unless your mother said she + might. She has to be real careful about doing right, because my uncle + Jonathan used to preach, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold Carruth grinned savagely, as if he endured pain. “Well, I s'pose + I'll have to stand the curls and little baby stockings awhile longer,” + said he. “What was it you were going to tell me, Johnny?” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to tell you because I know you aren't too good, if you do wear + curls and little stockings.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I ain't too good,” declared Arnold Carruth, proudly; “I ain't—HONEST, + Johnny.” + </p> + <p> + “That's why I'm going to tell you. But if you tell any of the other boys—or + girls—” + </p> + <p> + “Tell girls!” sniffed Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “If you tell anybody, I'll lick you.” + </p> + <p> + “Guess I ain't afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “Guess you'd be afraid to go home after you'd been licked.” + </p> + <p> + “Guess my mamma would give it to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Run home and tell mamma you'd been whopped, would you, then?” + </p> + <p> + Little Arnold, beautiful baby boy, straightened himself with a quick + remembrance that he was born a man. “You know I wouldn't tell, Johnny + Trumbull.” + </p> + <p> + “Guess you wouldn't. Well, here it is—” Johnny spoke in emphatic + whispers, Arnold's curly head close to his mouth: “There are a good many + things in this town have got to be set right,” said Johnny. + </p> + <p> + Little Arnold stared at him. Then fire shone in his lovely blue eyes under + the golden shadow of his curls, a fire which had shone in the eyes of some + ancestors of his, for there was good fighting blood in the Carruth family, + as well as in the Trumbull, although this small descendant did go about + curled and kissed and barelegged. + </p> + <p> + “How'll we begin?” said Arnold, in a strenuous whisper. + </p> + <p> + “We've got to begin right away with Jim Simmons's cats and kittens.” + </p> + <p> + “With Jim Simmons's cats and kittens?” repeated Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “That was what I said, exactly. We've got to begin right there. It is an + awful little beginning, but I can't think of anything else. If you can, + I'm willing to listen.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess I can't,” admitted Arnold, helplessly. + </p> + <p> + “Of course we can't go around taking away money from rich people and + giving it to poor folks. One reason is, most of the poor folks in this + town are lazy, and don't get money because they don't want to work for it. + And when they are not lazy, they drink. If we gave rich people's money to + poor folks like that, we shouldn't do a mite of good. The rich folks would + be poor, and the poor folks wouldn't stay rich; they would be lazier, and + get more drink. I don't see any sense in doing things like that in this + town. There are a few poor folks I have been thinking we might take some + money for and do good, but not many.” + </p> + <p> + “Who?” inquired Arnold Carruth, in awed tones. + </p> + <p> + “Well, there is poor old Mrs. Sam Little. She's awful poor. Folks help + her, I know, but she can't be real pleased being helped. She'd rather have + the money herself. I have been wondering if we couldn't get some of your + father's money away and give it to her, for one.” + </p> + <p> + “Get away papa's money!” + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean to tell me you are as stingy as that, Arnold Carruth?” + </p> + <p> + “I guess papa wouldn't like it.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course he wouldn't. But that is not the point. It is not what your + father would like; it is what that poor old lady would like.” + </p> + <p> + It was too much for Arnold. He gaped at Johnny. + </p> + <p> + “If you are going to be mean and stingy, we may as well stop before we + begin,” said Johnny. + </p> + <p> + Then Arnold Carruth recovered himself. “Old Mr. Webster Payne is awful + poor,” said he. “We might take some of your father's money and give it to + him.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny snorted, fairly snorted. “If,” said he, “you think my father keeps + his money where we can get it, you are mistaken, Arnold Carruth. My + father's money is all in papers that are not worth much now and that he + has to keep in the bank till they are.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold smiled hopefully. “Guess that's the way my papa keeps HIS money.” + </p> + <p> + “It's the way most rich people are mean enough to,” said Johnny, severely. + “I don't care if it's your father or mine, it's mean. And that's why we've + got to begin with Jim Simmons's cats and kittens.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to give old Mrs. Sam Little cats?” inquired Arnold. + </p> + <p> + Johnny sniffed. “Don't be silly,” said he. “Though I do think a nice cat + with a few kittens might cheer her up a little, and we could steal enough + milk, by getting up early and tagging after the milkman, to feed them. But + I wasn't thinking of giving her or old Mr. Payne cats and kittens. I + wasn't thinking of folks; I was thinking of all those poor cats and + kittens that Mr. Jim Simmons has and doesn't half feed, and that have to + go hunting around folks' back doors in the rain, when cats hate water, + too, and pick things up that must be bad for their stomachs, when they + ought to have their milk regularly in nice, clean saucers. No, Arnold + Carruth, what we have got to do is to steal Mr. Jim Simmons's cats and get + them in nice homes where they can earn their living catching mice and be + well cared for.” + </p> + <p> + “Steal cats?” said Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, steal cats, in order to do right,” said Johnny Trumbull, and his + expression was heroic, even exalted. + </p> + <p> + It was then that a sweet treble, faltering yet exultant, rang in their + ears. + </p> + <p> + “If,” said the treble voice, “you are going to steal dear little kitty + cats and get nice homes for them, I'm going to help.” + </p> + <p> + The voice belonged to Lily Jennings, who had stood on the other side of + the Japanese cedars and heard every word. + </p> + <p> + Both boys started in righteous wrath, but Arnold Carruth was the angrier + of the two. “Mean little cat yourself, listening,” said he. His curls + seemed to rise like a crest of rage. + </p> + <p> + Johnny, remembering some things, was not so outspoken. “You hadn't any + right to listen, Lily Jennings,” he said, with masculine severity. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't start to listen,” said Lily. “I was looking for cones on these + trees. Miss Parmalee wanted us to bring some object of nature into the + class, and I wondered whether I could find a queer Japanese cone on one of + these trees, and then I heard you boys talking, and I couldn't help + listening. You spoke very loud, and I couldn't give up looking for that + cone. I couldn't find any, and I heard all about the Simmonses' cats, and + I know lots of other cats that haven't got good homes, and—I am + going to be in it.” + </p> + <p> + “You AIN'T,” declared Arnold Carruth. + </p> + <p> + “We can't have girls in it,” said Johnny the mindful, more politely. + </p> + <p> + “You've got to have me. You had better have me, Johnny Trumbull,” she + added with meaning. + </p> + <p> + Johnny flinched. It was a species of blackmail, but what could he do? + Suppose Lily told how she had hidden him—him, Johnny Trumbull, the + champion of the school—in that empty baby-carriage! He would have + more to contend against than Arnold Carruth with socks and curls. He did + not think Lily would tell. Somehow Lily, although a little, befrilled + girl, gave an impression of having a knowledge of a square deal almost as + much as a boy would; but what boy could tell with a certainty what such an + uncertain creature as a girl might or might not do? Moreover, Johnny had a + weakness, a hidden, Spartanly hidden, weakness for Lily. He rather wished + to have her act as partner in his great enterprise. He therefore gruffly + assented. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he said, “you can be in it. But just you look out. You'll see + what happens if you tell.” + </p> + <p> + “She can't be in it; she's nothing but a girl,” said Arnold Carruth, + fiercely. + </p> + <p> + Lily Jennings lifted her chin and surveyed him with queenly scorn. “And + what are you?” said she. “A little boy with curls and baby socks.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold colored with shame and fury, and subsided. “Mind you don't tell,” + he said, taking Johnny's cue. + </p> + <p> + “I sha'n't tell,” replied Lily, with majesty. “But you'll tell yourselves + if you talk one side of trees without looking on the other.” + </p> + <p> + There was then only a few moments before Madame's musical Japanese gong + which announced the close of intermission should sound, but three + determined souls in conspiracy can accomplish much in a few moments. The + first move was planned in detail before that gong sounded, and the two + boys raced to the house, and Lily followed, carrying a toadstool, which + she had hurriedly caught up from the lawn for her object of nature to be + taken into class. + </p> + <p> + It was a poisonous toadstool, and Lily was quite a heroine in the class. + That fact doubtless gave her a more dauntless air when, after school, the + two boys caught up with her walking gracefully down the road, flirting her + skirts and now and then giving her head a toss, which made her fluff of + hair fly into a golden foam under her daisy-trimmed straw hat. + </p> + <p> + “To-night,” Johnny whispered, as he sped past. + </p> + <p> + “At half past nine, between your house and the Simmonses',” replied Lily, + without even looking at him. She was a past-mistress of dissimulation. + </p> + <p> + Lily's mother had guests at dinner that night, and the guests remarked + sometimes, within the little girl's hearing, what a darling she was. + </p> + <p> + “She never gives me a second's anxiety,” Lily's mother whispered to a lady + beside her. “You cannot imagine what a perfectly good, dependable child + she is.” + </p> + <p> + “Now my Christina is a good child in the grain,” said the lady, “but she + is full of mischief. I never can tell what Christina will do next.” + </p> + <p> + “I can always tell,” said Lily's mother, in a voice of maternal triumph. + </p> + <p> + “Now only the other night, when I thought Christina was in bed, that + absurd child got up and dressed and ran over to see her aunt Bella. Tom + came home with her, and of course there was nothing very bad about it. + Christina was very bright; she said, 'Mother, you never told me I must not + get up and go to see Aunt Bella,' which was, of course, true. I could not + gainsay that.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot,” said Lily's mother, “imagine my Lily's doing such a thing.” + </p> + <p> + If Lily had heard that last speech of her mother's, whom she dearly loved, + she might have wavered. That pathetic trust in herself might have caused + her to justify it. But she had finished her dinner and had been excused, + and was undressing for bed, with the firm determination to rise betimes + and dress and join Johnny Trumbull and Arnold Carruth. Johnny had the + easiest time of them all. He simply had to bid his aunt Janet good night + and have the watch wound, and take a fleeting glimpse of his mother at her + desk and his father in his office, and go whistling to his room, and sit + in the summer darkness and wait until the time came. + </p> + <p> + Arnold Carruth had the hardest struggle. His mother had an old school + friend visiting her, and Arnold, very much dressed up, with his curls + falling in a shining fleece upon a real lace collar, had to be shown off + and show off. He had to play one little piece which he had learned upon + the piano. He had to recite a little poem. He had to be asked how old he + was, and if he liked to go to school, and how many teachers he had, and if + he loved them, and if he loved his little mates, and which of them he + loved best; and he had to be asked if he loved his aunt Dorothy, who was + the school friend and not his aunt at all, and would he not like to come + and live with her, because she had not any dear little boy; and he was + obliged to submit to having his curls twisted around feminine fingers, and + to being kissed and hugged, and a whole chapter of ordeals, before he was + finally in bed, with his mother's kiss moist upon his lips, and free to + assert himself. + </p> + <p> + That night Arnold Carruth realized himself as having an actual horror of + his helpless state of pampered childhood. The man stirred in the soul of + the boy, and it was a little rebel with sulky pout of lips and frown of + childish brows who stole out of bed, got into some queer clothes, and + crept down the back stairs. He heard his aunt Dorothy, who was not his + aunt, singing an Italian song in the parlor, he heard the clink of silver + and china from the butler's pantry, where the maids were washing the + dinner dishes. He smelt his father's cigar, and he gave a little leap of + joy on the grass of the lawn. At last he was out at night alone, and—he + wore long stockings! That noon he had secreted a pair of his mother's + toward that end. When he came home to luncheon he pulled them out of the + darning-bag, which he had spied through a closet door that had been left + ajar. One of the stockings was green silk, and the other was black, and + both had holes in them, but all that mattered was the length. Arnold wore + also his father's riding-breeches, which came over his shoes and which + were enormously large, and one of his father's silk shirts. He had + resolved to dress consistently for such a great occasion. His clothes + hampered him, but he felt happy as he sped clumsily down the road. + </p> + <p> + However, both Johnny Trumbull and Lily Jennings, who were waiting for him + at the rendezvous, were startled by his appearance. Both began to run, + Johnny pulling Lily after him by the hand, but Arnold's cautious hallo + arrested them. Johnny and Lily returned slowly, peering through the + darkness. + </p> + <p> + “It's me,” said Arnold, with gay disregard of grammar. + </p> + <p> + “You looked,” said Lily, “like a real fat old man. What HAVE you got on, + Arnold Carruth?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold slouched before his companions, ridiculous but triumphant. He + hitched up a leg of the riding-breeches and displayed a long, green silk + stocking. Both Johnny and Lily doubled up with laughter. + </p> + <p> + “What you laughing at?” inquired Arnold, crossly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing at all,” said Lily. “Only you do look like a scarecrow broken + loose. Doesn't he, Johnny?” + </p> + <p> + “I am going home,” stated Arnold with dignity. He turned, but Johnny + caught him in his little iron grip. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, shucks, Arnold Carruth!” said he. “Don't be a baby. Come on.” And + Arnold Carruth with difficulty came on. + </p> + <p> + People in the village, as a rule, retired early. Many lights were out when + the affair began, many went out while it was in progress. All three of the + band steered as clear of lighted houses as possible, and dodged behind + trees and hedges when shadowy figures appeared on the road or + carriage-wheels were heard in the distance. At their special destination + they were sure to be entirely safe. Old Mr. Peter Van Ness always retired + very early. To be sure, he did not go to sleep until late, and read in + bed, but his room was in the rear of the house on the second floor, and + all the windows, besides, were dark. Mr. Peter Van Ness was a very wealthy + elderly gentleman, very benevolent. He had given the village a beautiful + stone church with memorial windows, a soldiers' monument, a park, and a + home for aged couples, called “The Van Ness Home.” Mr. Van Ness lived + alone with the exception of a housekeeper and a number of old, very + well-disciplined servants. The servants always retired early, and Mr. Van + Ness required the house to be quiet for his late reading. He was a very + studious old gentleman. + </p> + <p> + To the Van Ness house, set back from the street in the midst of a + well-kept lawn, the three repaired, but not as noiselessly as they could + have wished. In fact, a light flared in an up-stairs window, which was + wide open, and one woman's voice was heard in conclave with another. + </p> + <p> + “I should think,” said the first, “that the lawn was full of cats. Did you + ever hear such a mewing, Jane?” + </p> + <p> + That was the housekeeper's voice. The three, each of whom carried a + squirming burlap potato-bag from the Trumbull cellar, stood close to a + clump of stately pines full of windy songs, and trembled. + </p> + <p> + “It do sound like cats, ma'am,” said another voice, which was Jane's, the + maid, who had brought Mrs. Meeks, the housekeeper, a cup of hot water and + peppermint, because her dinner had disagreed with her. + </p> + <p> + “Just listen,” said Mrs. Meeks. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am, I should think there was hundreds of cats and little + kittens.” + </p> + <p> + “I am so afraid Mr. Van Ness will be disturbed.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am.” + </p> + <p> + “You might go out and look, Jane.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, ma'am, they might be burglars!” + </p> + <p> + “How can they be burglars when they are cats?” demanded Mrs. Meeks, + testily. + </p> + <p> + Arnold Carruth snickered, and Johnny on one side, and Lily on the other, + prodded him with an elbow. They were close under the window. + </p> + <p> + “Burglars is up to all sorts of queer tricks, ma'am,” said Jane. “They may + mew like cats to tell one another what door to go in.” + </p> + <p> + “Jane, you talk like an idiot,” said Mrs. Meeks. “Burglars talking like + cats! Who ever heard of such a thing? It sounds right under that window. + Open my closet door and get those heavy old shoes and throw them out.” + </p> + <p> + It was an awful moment. The three dared not move. The cats and kittens in + the bags—not so many, after all—seemed to have turned into + multiplication-tables. They were positively alarming in their + determination to get out, their wrath with one another, and their + vociferous discontent with the whole situation. + </p> + <p> + “I can't hold my bag much longer,” said poor little Arnold Carruth. + </p> + <p> + “Hush up, cry-baby!” whispered Lily, fiercely, in spite of a clawing paw + emerging from her own bag and threatening her bare arm. + </p> + <p> + Then came the shoes. One struck Arnold squarely on the shoulder, nearly + knocking him down and making him lose hold of his bag. The other struck + Lily's bag, and conditions became worse; but she held on despite a + scratch. Lily had pluck. + </p> + <p> + Then Jane's voice sounded very near, as she leaned out of the window. “I + guess they have went, ma'am,” said she. “I seen something run.” + </p> + <p> + “I can hear them,” said Mrs. Meeks, querulously. + </p> + <p> + “I seen them run,” persisted Jane, who was tired and wished to be gone. + </p> + <p> + “Well, close that window, anyway, for I know I hear them, even if they + have gone,” said Mrs. Meeks. The three heard with relief the window + slammed down. + </p> + <p> + The light flashed out, and simultaneously Lily Jennings and Johnny + Trumbull turned indignantly upon Arnold Carruth. + </p> + <p> + “There, you have gone and let all those poor cats go,” said Johnny. + </p> + <p> + “And spoilt everything,” said Lily. + </p> + <p> + Arnold rubbed his shoulder. “You would have let go if you had been hit + right on the shoulder by a great shoe,” said he, rather loudly. + </p> + <p> + “Hush up!” said Lily. “I wouldn't have let my cats go if I had been killed + by a shoe; so there.” + </p> + <p> + “Serves us right for taking a boy with curls,” said Johnny Trumbull. + </p> + <p> + But he spoke unadvisedly. Arnold Carruth was no match whatever for Johnny + Trumbull, and had never been allowed the honor of a combat with him; but + surprise takes even a great champion at a disadvantage. Arnold turned upon + Johnny like a flash, out shot a little white fist, up struck a dimpled leg + clad in cloth and leather, and down sat Johnny Trumbull; and, worse, open + flew his bag, and there was a yowling exodus. + </p> + <p> + “There go your cats, too, Johnny Trumbull,” said Lily, in a perfectly calm + whisper. At that moment both boys, victor and vanquished, felt a + simultaneous throb of masculine wrath at Lily. Who was she to gloat over + the misfortunes of men? But retribution came swiftly to Lily. That + viciously clawing little paw shot out farther, and there was a limit to + Spartanism in a little girl born so far from that heroic land. Lily let go + of her bag and with difficulty stifled a shriek of pain. + </p> + <p> + “Whose cats are gone now?” demanded Johnny, rising. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, whose cats are gone now?” said Arnold. + </p> + <p> + Then Johnny promptly turned upon him and knocked him down and sat on him. + </p> + <p> + Lily looked at them, standing, a stately little figure in the darkness. “I + am going home,” said she. “My mother does not allow me to go with fighting + boys.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny rose, and so did Arnold, whimpering slightly. His shoulder ached + considerably. + </p> + <p> + “He knocked me down,” said Johnny. + </p> + <p> + Even as he whimpered and as he suffered, Arnold felt a thrill of triumph. + “Always knew I could if I had a chance,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “You couldn't if I had been expecting it,” said Johnny. + </p> + <p> + “Folks get knocked down when they ain't expecting it most of the time,” + declared Arnold, with more philosophy than he realized. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think it makes much difference about the knocking down,” said + Lily. “All those poor cats and kittens that we were going to give a good + home, where they wouldn't be starved, have got away, and they will run + straight back to Mr. Jim Simmons's.” + </p> + <p> + “If they haven't any more sense than to run back to a place where they + don't get enough to eat and are kicked about by a lot of children, let + them run,” said Johnny. + </p> + <p> + “That's so,” said Arnold. “I never did see what we were doing such a thing + for, anyway—stealing Mr. Simmons's cats and giving them to Mr. Van + Ness.” + </p> + <p> + It was the girl alone who stood by her guns of righteousness. “I saw and I + see,” she declared, with dangerously loud emphasis. “It was only our duty + to try to rescue poor helpless animals who don't know any better than to + stay where they are badly treated. And Mr. Van Ness has so much money he + doesn't know what to do with it; he would have been real pleased to give + those cats a home and buy milk and liver for them. But it's all spoiled + now. I will never undertake to do good again, with a lot of boys in the + way, as long as I live; so there!” Lily turned about. + </p> + <p> + “Going to tell your mother!” said Johnny, with scorn which veiled anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “No, I'm NOT. I don't tell tales.” + </p> + <p> + Lily marched off, and in her wake went Johnny and Arnold, two poor little + disillusioned would-be knights of old romance in a wretchedly commonplace + future, not far enough from their horizons for any glamour. + </p> + <p> + They went home, and of the three Johnny Trumbull was the only one who was + discovered. For him his aunt Janet lay in wait and forced a confession. + She listened grimly, but her eyes twinkled. + </p> + <p> + “You have learned to fight, John Trumbull,” said she, when he had + finished. “Now the very next thing you have to learn, and make yourself + worthy of your grandfather Trumbull, is not to be a fool.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Aunt Janet,” said Johnny. + </p> + <p> + The next noon, when he came home from school, old Maria, who had been with + the family ever since he could remember and long before, called him into + the kitchen. There, greedily lapping milk from a saucer, were two very + lean, tall kittens. + </p> + <p> + “See those nice little tommy-cats,” said Maria, beaming upon Johnny, whom + she loved and whom she sometimes fancied deprived of boyish joys. “Your + aunt Janet sent me over to the Simmonses' for them this morning. They are + overrun with cats—such poor, shiftless folks always be—and you + can have them. We shall have to watch for a little while till they get + wonted, so they won't run home.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny gazed at the kittens, fast distending with the new milk, and felt + presumably much as dear Robin Hood may have felt after one of his + successful raids in the fair, poetic past. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty, ain't they?” said Maria. “They have drank up a whole saucer of + milk. 'Most starved. I s'pose.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny gathered up the two forlorn kittens and sat down in a kitchen + chair, with one on each shoulder, hard, boyish cheeks pressed against + furry, purring sides, and the little fighting Cock of the Walk felt his + heart glad and tender with the love of the strong for the weak. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DANIEL AND LITTLE DAN'L + </h2> + <p> + THE Wise homestead dated back more than a century, yet it had nothing + imposing about it except its site. It was a simple, glaringly white + cottage. There was a center front door with two windows on each side; + there was a low slant of roof, pierced by unpicturesque dormers. On the + left of the house was an ell, which had formerly been used as a + shoemaker's shop, but now served as a kitchen. In the low attic of the ell + was stored the shoemaker's bench, whereon David Wise's grandfather had sat + for nearly eighty years of working days; after him his eldest son, + Daniel's father, had occupied the same hollow seat of patient toil. Daniel + had sat there for twenty-odd years, then had suddenly realized both the + lack of necessity and the lack of customers, since the great shoe-plant + had been built down in the village. Then Daniel had retired—although + he did not use that expression. Daniel said to his friends and his niece + Dora that he had “quit work.” But he told himself, without the least + bitterness, that work had quit him. + </p> + <p> + After Daniel had retired, his one physiological peculiarity assumed + enormous proportions. It had always been with him, but steady work had + held it, to a great extent, at bay. Daniel was a moral coward before + physical conditions. He was as one who suffers, not so much from agony of + the flesh as from agony of the mind induced thereby. Daniel was a coward + before one of the simplest, most inevitable happenings of earthly life. He + was a coward before summer heat. All winter he dreaded summer. Summer + poisoned the spring for him. Only during the autumn did he experience + anything of peace. Summer was then over, and between him and another + summer stretched the blessed perspective of winter. Then Daniel Wise drew + a long breath and looked about him, and spelled out the beauty of the + earth in his simple primer of understanding. Daniel had in his garden + behind the house a prolific grape-vine. He ate the grapes, full of the + savor of the dead summer, with the gusto of a poet who can at last enjoy + triumph over his enemy. + </p> + <p> + Possibly it was the vein of poetry in Daniel which made him a coward—which + made him so vulnerable. During the autumn he reveled in the tints of the + landscape which his sitting-room windows commanded. There were many maples + and oaks. Day by day the roofs of the houses in the village became more + evident, as the maples shed their crimson and gold and purple rags of + summer. The oaks remained, great shaggy masses of dark gold and burning + russet; later they took on soft hues, making clearer the blue firmament + between the boughs. Daniel watched the autumn trees with pure delight. “He + will go to-day,” he said of a flaming maple after a night of frost which + had crisped the white arches of the grass in his dooryard. All day he sat + and watched the maple cast its glory, and did not bother much with his + simple meals. The Wise house was erected on three terraces. Always through + the dry summer the grass was burned to an ugly negation of color. Later, + when rain came, the grass was a brilliant green, patched with rosy sorrel + and golden stars of arnica. Then later still came the diamond brilliance + of the frost. So dry were the terraces in summer-time that no flowers + would flourish. When Daniel's mother had come to the house as a bride she + had planted under a window a blush-rose bush, but always the blush-roses + were few and covered with insects. It was not until the autumn, when it + was time for the flowers to die, that the sorrel blessing of waste lands + flushed rosily and the arnica showed its stars of slender threads of gold, + and there might even be a slight glimpse of purple aster and a dusty spray + or two of goldenrod. Then Daniel did not shrink from the sight of the + terraces. In summer-time the awful negative glare of them under the + afternoon sun maddened him. + </p> + <p> + In winter he often visited his brother John in the village. He was very + fond of John, and John's wife, and their only daughter, Dora. When John + died, and later his wife, he would have gone to live with Dora, but she + married. Then her husband also died, and Dora took up dressmaking, + supporting herself and her delicate little girl-baby. Daniel adored this + child. She had been named for him, although her mother had been aghast + before the proposition. “Name a girl Daniel, uncle!” she had cried. + </p> + <p> + “She is going to have what I own after I have done with it, anyway,” + declared Daniel, gazing with awe and rapture at the tiny flannel bundle in + his niece's arms. “That won't make any difference, but I do wish you could + make up your mind to call her after me, Dora.” + </p> + <p> + Dora Lee was soft-hearted. She named her girl-baby Daniel, and called her + Danny, which was not, after all, so bad, and her old uncle loved the child + as if she had been his own. Little Daniel—he always called her + Daniel, or, rather, “Dan'l”—was the only reason for his descending + into the village on summer days when the weather was hot. Daniel, when he + visited the village in summer-time, wore always a green leaf inside his + hat and carried an umbrella and a palm-leaf fan. This caused the village + boys to shout, “Hullo, grandma!” after him. Daniel, being a little hard of + hearing, was oblivious, but he would have been in any case. His whole mind + was concentrated in getting along that dusty glare of street, stopping at + the store for a paper bag of candy, and finally ending in Dora's little + dark parlor, holding his beloved namesake on his knee, watching her + blissfully suck a barley stick while he waved his palmleaf fan. Dora would + be fitting gowns in the next room. He would hear the hum of feminine + chatter over strictly feminine topics. He felt very much aloof, even while + holding the little girl on his knee. Daniel had never married—had + never even h ad a sweetheart. The marriageable women he had seen had not + been of the type to attract a dreamer like Daniel Wise. Many of those + women thought him “a little off.” + </p> + <p> + Dora Lee, his niece, privately wondered if her uncle had his full + allotment of understanding. He seemed much more at home with her little + daughter than with herself, and Dora considered herself a very good + business woman, with possibly an unusual endowment of common sense. She + was such a good business woman that when she died suddenly she left her + child with quite a sum in the bank, besides the house. Daniel did not + hesitate for a moment. He engaged Miss Sarah Dean for a housekeeper, and + took the little girl (hardly more than a baby) to his own home. Dora had + left a will, in which she appointed Daniel guardian in spite of her doubt + concerning his measure of understanding. There was much comment in the + village when Daniel took his little namesake to live in his lonely house + on the terrace. “A man and an old maid to bring up that poor child!” they + said. But Daniel called Dr. Trumbull to his support. “It is much better + for that delicate child to be out of this village, which drains the south + hill,” Dr. Trumbull declared. “That child needs pure air. It is hot enough + in summer all around here, and hot enough at Daniel's, but the air is pure + there.” + </p> + <p> + There was no gossip about Daniel and Miss Sarah Dean. Gossip would have + seemed about as foolish concerning him and a dry blade of field-grass. + Sarah Dean looked like that. She wore rusty black gowns, and her + gray-blond hair was swept curtainwise over her ears on either side of her + very thin, mildly severe wedge of a face. Sarah was a notable housekeeper + and a good cook. She could make an endless variety of cakes and puddings + and pies, and her biscuits were marvels. Daniel had long catered for + himself, and a rasher of bacon, with an egg, suited him much better for + supper than hot biscuits, preserves, and five kinds of cake. Still, he did + not complain, and did not understand that Sarah's fare was not suitable + for the child, until Dr. Trumbull told him so. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you let that child live on that kind of food if you want her to + live at all,” said Dr. Trumbull. “Lord! what are the women made of, and + the men they feed, for that matter? Why, Daniel, there are many people in + this place, and hard-working people, too, who eat a quantity of food, yet + don't get enough nourishment for a litter of kittens.” + </p> + <p> + “What shall I do?” asked Daniel in a puzzled way. + </p> + <p> + “Do? You can cook a beefsteak yourself, can't you? Sarah Dean would fry + one as hard as soleleather.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I can cook a beefsteak real nice,” said Daniel. + </p> + <p> + “Do it, then; and cook some chops, too, and plenty of eggs.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't exactly hanker after quite so much sweet stuff,” said Daniel. “I + wonder if Sarah's feelings will be hurt.” + </p> + <p> + “It is much better for feelings to be hurt than stomachs,” declared Dr. + Trumbull, “but Sarah's feelings will not be hurt. I know her. She is a + wiry woman. Give her a knock and she springs back into place. Don't worry + about her, Daniel.” + </p> + <p> + When Daniel went home that night he carried a juicy steak, and he cooked + it, and he and little Dan'l had a square meal. Sarah refused the steak + with a slight air of hauteur, but she behaved very well. When she set away + her untasted layer-cakes and pies and cookies, she eyed them somewhat + anxiously. Her standard of values seemed toppling before her mental + vision. “They will starve to death if they live on such victuals as + beefsteak, instead of good nourishing hot biscuits and cake,” she thought. + After the supper dishes were cleared away she went into the sitting-room + where Daniel Wise sat beside a window, waiting in a sort of stern patience + for a whiff of air. It was a very close evening. The sun was red in the + low west, but a heaving sea of mist was rising over the lowlands. + </p> + <p> + Sarah sat down opposite Daniel. “Close, ain't it?” said she. She began + knitting her lace edging. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty close,” replied Daniel. He spoke with an effect of forced + politeness. Although he had such a horror of extreme heat, he was always + chary of boldly expressing his mind concerning it, for he had a feeling + that he might be guilty of blasphemy, since he regarded the weather as + being due to an Almighty mandate. Therefore, although he suffered, he was + extremely polite. + </p> + <p> + “It is awful up-stairs in little Dan'l's room,” said Sarah. “I have got + all the windows open except the one that's right on the bed, and I told + her she needn't keep more than the sheet and one comfortable over her.” + </p> + <p> + Daniel looked anxious. “Children ain't ever overcome when they are in bed, + in the house, are they?” + </p> + <p> + “Land, no! I never heard of such a thing. And, anyway, little Dan'l's so + thin it ain't likely she feels the heat as much as some.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope she don't.” + </p> + <p> + Daniel continued to sit hunched up on himself, gazing with a sort of + mournful irritation out of the window upon the landscape over which the + misty shadows vaguely wavered. + </p> + <p> + Sarah knitted. She could knit in the dark. After a while she rose and said + she guessed she would go to bed, as to-morrow was her sweeping-day. + </p> + <p> + Sarah went, and Daniel sat alone. + </p> + <p> + Presently a little pale figure stole to him through the dusk—the + child, in her straight white nightgown, padding softly on tiny naked feet. + </p> + <p> + “Is that you, Dan'l?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Uncle Dan'l.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it too hot to sleep up in your room?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't feel so very hot, Uncle Dan'l, but skeeters were biting me, and + a great big black thing just flew in my window!” + </p> + <p> + “A bat, most likely.” + </p> + <p> + “A bat!” Little Dan'l shuddered. She began a little stifled wail. “I'm + afeard of bats,” she lamented. + </p> + <p> + Daniel gathered the tiny creature up. “You can jest set here with Uncle + Dan'l,” said he. “It is jest a little cooler here, I guess. Once in a + while there comes a little whiff of wind.” + </p> + <p> + “Won't any bats come?” + </p> + <p> + “Lord, no! Your Uncle Dan'l won't let any bats come within a gun-shot.” + </p> + <p> + The little creature settled down contentedly in the old man's lap. Her + fair, thin locks fell over his shirt-sleeved arm, her upturned profile was + sweetly pure and clear even in the dusk. She was so delicately small that + he might have been holding a fairy, from the slight roundness of the + childish limbs and figure. Poor little girl!—Dan'l was much too + small and thin. Old man Daniel gazed down at her anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Jest as soon as the nice fall weather comes,” said he, “uncle is going to + take you down to the village real often, and you can get acquainted with + some other nice little girls and play with them, and that will do uncle's + little Dan'l good.” + </p> + <p> + “I saw little Lucy Rose,” piped the child, “and she looked at me real + pleasant, and Lily Jennings wore a pretty dress. Would they play with me, + uncle?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course they would. You don't feel quite so hot, here, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “I wasn't so hot, anyway; I was afeard of bats.” + </p> + <p> + “There ain't any bats here.” + </p> + <p> + “And skeeters.” + </p> + <p> + “Uncle don't believe there's any skeeters, neither.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't hear any sing,” agreed little Dan'l in a weak voice. Very soon + she was fast asleep. The old man sat holding her, and loving her with a + simple crystalline intensity which was fairly heavenly. He himself almost + disregarded the heat, being raised above it by sheer exaltation of spirit. + All the love which had lain latent in his heart leaped to life before the + helplessness of this little child in his arms. He realized himself as much + greater and of more importance upon the face of the earth than he had ever + been before. He became paternity incarnate and superblessed. It was a long + time before he carried the little child back to her room and laid her, + still as inert with sleep as a lily, upon her bed. He bent over her with a + curious waving motion of his old shoulders as if they bore wings of love + and protection; then he crept back down-stairs. + </p> + <p> + On nights like that he did not go to bed. All the bedrooms were under the + slant of the roof and were hot. He preferred to sit until dawn beside his + open window, and doze when he could, and wait with despairing patience for + the infrequent puffs of cool air breathing blessedly of wet swamp places, + which, even when the burning sun arose, would only show dewy eyes of cool + reflection. Daniel Wise, as he sat there through the sultry night, even + prayed for courage, as a devout sentinel might have prayed at his post. + The imagination of the deserter was not in the man. He never even dreamed + of appropriating to his own needs any portion of his savings, and going + for a brief respite to the deep shadows of mountainous places, or to a + cool coast, where the great waves broke in foam upon the sand, breathing + out the mighty saving breath of the sea. It never occurred to him that he + could do anything but remain at his post and suffer in body and soul and + mind, and not complain. + </p> + <p> + The next morning was terrible. The summer had been one of unusually fervid + heat, but that one day was its climax. David went panting up-stairs to his + room at dawn. He did not wish Sarah Dean to know that he had sat up all + night. He opened his bed, tidily, as was his wont. Through living alone he + had acquired many of the habits of an orderly housewife. He went + down-stairs, and Sarah was in the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + “It is a dreadful hot day,” said she as Daniel approached the sink to wash + his face and hands. + </p> + <p> + “It does seem a little warm,” admitted Daniel, with his studied air of + politeness with respect to the weather as an ordinance of God. + </p> + <p> + “Warm!” echoed Sarah Dean. Her thin face blazed a scarlet wedge between + the sleek curtains of her dank hair; perspiration stood on her triangle of + forehead. “It is the hottest day I ever knew!” she said, defiantly, and + there was open rebellion in her tone. + </p> + <p> + “It IS sort of warmish, I rather guess,” said Daniel. + </p> + <p> + After breakfast, old Daniel announced his intention of taking little Dan'l + out for a walk. + </p> + <p> + At that Sarah Dean fairly exploded. “Be you gone clean daft, Dan'l?” said + she. “Don't you know that it actually ain't safe to take out such a + delicate little thing as that on such a day?” + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Trumbull said to take her outdoors for a walk every day, rain or + shine,” returned Daniel, obstinately. + </p> + <p> + “But Dr. Trumbull didn't say to take her out if it rained fire and + brimstone, I suppose,” said Sarah Dean, viciously. + </p> + <p> + Daniel looked at her with mild astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “It is as much as that child's life is worth to take her out such a day as + this,” declared Sarah, viciously. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Trumbull said to take no account of the weather,” said Daniel with + stubborn patience, “and we will walk on the shady side of the road, and go + to Bradley's Brook. It's always a little cool there.” + </p> + <p> + “If she faints away before you get there, you bring her right home,” said + Sarah. She was almost ferocious. “Just because YOU don't feel the heat, to + take out that little pindlin' girl such a day!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Trumbull said to,” persisted Daniel, although he looked a little + troubled. Sarah Dean did not dream that, for himself, Daniel Wise would + have preferred facing an army with banners to going out under that + terrible fusillade of sun-rays. She did not dream of the actual heroism + which actuated him when he set out with little Dan'l, holding his big + umbrella over her little sunbonneted head and waving in his other hand a + palm-leaf fan. + </p> + <p> + Little Dan'l danced with glee as she went out of the yard. The small, + anemic creature did not feel the heat except as a stimulant. Daniel had to + keep charging her to walk slowly. “Don't go so fast, little Dan'l, or + you'll get overhet, and then what will Mis' Dean say?” he continually + repeated. + </p> + <p> + Little Dan'l's thin, pretty face peeped up at him from between the sides + of her green sunbonnet. She pointed one dainty finger at a cloud of pale + yellow butterflies in the field beside which they were walking. “Want to + chase flutterbies,” she chirped. Little Dan'l had a fascinating way of + misplacing her consonants in long words. + </p> + <p> + “No; you'll get overhet. You just walk along slow with Uncle Dan'l, and + pretty soon we'll come to the pretty brook,” said Daniel. + </p> + <p> + “Where the lagon-dries live?” asked little Dan'l, meaning dragon-flies. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Daniel. He was conscious, as he spoke, of increasing waves of + thready black floating before his eyes. They had floated since dawn, but + now they were increasing. Some of the time he could hardly see the narrow + sidewalk path between the dusty meadowsweet and hardhack bushes, since + those floating black threads wove together into a veritable veil before + him. At such times he walked unsteadily, and little Dan'l eyed him + curiously. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you walk the way you always do?” she queried. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle Dan'l can't see jest straight, somehow,” replied the old man; + “guess it's because it's rather warm.” + </p> + <p> + It was in truth a day of terror because of the heat. It was one of those + days which break records, which live in men's memories as great + catastrophes, which furnish head-lines for newspapers, and are alluded to + with shudders at past sufferings. It was one of those days which seem to + forecast the Dreadful Day of Revelation wherein no shelter may be found + from the judgment of the fiery firmament. On that day men fell in their + tracks and died, or were rushed to hospitals to be succored as by a + miracle. And on that day the poor old man who had all his life feared and + dreaded the heat as the most loathly happening of earth, walked afield for + love of the little child. As Daniel went on the heat seemed to become + palpable—something which could actually be seen. There was now a + thin, gaseous horror over the blazing sky, which did not temper the heat, + but increased it, giving it the added torment of steam. The clogging + moisture seemed to brood over the accursed earth, like some foul bird with + deadly menace in wings and beak. + </p> + <p> + Daniel walked more and more unsteadily. Once he might have fallen had not + the child thrown one little arm around a bending knee. “You 'most tumbled + down. Uncle Dan'l,” said she. Her little voice had a surprised and + frightened note in it. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you be scared,” gasped Daniel; “we have got 'most to the brook; + then we'll be all right. Don't you be scared, and—you walk real slow + and not get overhet.” + </p> + <p> + The brook was near, and it was time. Daniel staggered under the trees + beside which the little stream trickled over its bed of stones. It was not + much of a brook at best, and the drought had caused it to lose much of its + life. However, it was still there, and there were delicious little hollows + of coolness between the stones over which it flowed, and large trees stood + about with their feet rooted in the blessed damp. Then Daniel sank down. + He tried to reach a hand to the water, but could not. The black veil had + woven a compact mass before his eyes. There was a terrible throbbing in + his head, but his arms were numb. + </p> + <p> + Little Dan'l stood looking at him, and her lip quivered. With a mighty + effort Daniel cleared away the veil and saw the piteous baby face. “Take—Uncle + Dan'l's hat and—fetch him—some water,” he gasped. “Don't go + too—close and—tumble in.” + </p> + <p> + The child obeyed. Daniel tried to take the dripping hat, but failed. + Little Dan'l was wise enough to pour the water over the old man's head, + but she commenced to weep, the pitiful, despairing wail of a child who + sees failing that upon which she has leaned for support. + </p> + <p> + Daniel rallied again. The water on his head gave him momentary relief, but + more than anything else his love for the child nerved him to effort. + </p> + <p> + “Listen, little Dan'l,” he said, and his voice sounded in his own ears + like a small voice of a soul thousands of miles away. “You take the—umbrella, + and—you take the fan, and you go real slow, so you don't get + overhet, and you tell Mis' Dean, and—” + </p> + <p> + Then old Daniel's tremendous nerve, that he had summoned for the sake of + love, failed him, and he sank back. He was quite unconscious—his + face, staring blindly up at the terrible sky between the trees, was to + little Dan'l like the face of a stranger. She gave one cry, more like the + yelp of a trodden animal than a child's voice. Then she took the open + umbrella and sped away. The umbrella bobbed wildly—nothing could be + seen of poor little Dan'l but her small, speeding feet. She wailed loudly + all the way. + </p> + <p> + She was half-way home when, plodding along in a cloud of brown dust, a + horse appeared in the road. The horse wore a straw bonnet and advanced + very slowly. He drew a buggy, and in the buggy were Dr. Trumbull and + Johnny, his son. He had called at Daniel's to see the little girl, and, on + being told that they had gone to walk, had said something under his breath + and turned his horse's head down the road. + </p> + <p> + “When we meet them, you must get out, Johnny,” he said, “and I will take + in that poor old man and that baby. I wish I could put common sense in + every bottle of medicine. A day like this!” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Trumbull exclaimed when he saw the great bobbing black umbrella and + heard the wails. The straw-bonneted horse stopped abruptly. Dr. Trumbull + leaned out of the buggy. “Who are you?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle Dan'l is gone,” shrieked the child. + </p> + <p> + “Gone where? What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “He—tumbled right down, and then he was-somebody else. He ain't + there.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is 'there'? Speak up quick!” + </p> + <p> + “The brook—Uncle Dan'l went away at the brook.” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Trumbull acted swiftly. He gave Johnny a push. “Get out,” he said. + “Take that baby into Jim Mann's house there, and tell Mrs. Mann to keep + her in the shade and look out for her, and you tell Jim, if he hasn't got + his horse in his farm-wagon, to look lively and harness her in and put all + the ice they've got in the house in the wagon. Hurry!” + </p> + <p> + Johnny was over the wheel before his father had finished speaking, and Jim + Mann just then drew up alongside in his farm-wagon. + </p> + <p> + “What's to pay?” he inquired, breathless. He was a thin, sinewy man, + scantily clad in cotton trousers and a shirt wide open at the breast. + Green leaves protruded from under the brim of his tilted straw hat. + </p> + <p> + “Old Daniel Wise is overcome by the heat,” answered Dr. Trumbull. “Put all + the ice you have in the house in your wagon, and come along. I'll leave my + horse and buggy here. Your horse is faster.” + </p> + <p> + Presently the farm-wagon clattered down the road, dust-hidden behind a + galloping horse. Mrs. Jim Mann, who was a loving mother of children, was + soothing little Dan'l. Johnny Trumbull watched at the gate. When the wagon + returned he ran out and hung on behind, while the strong, ungainly + farm-horse galloped to the house set high on the sun-baked terraces. + </p> + <p> + When old Daniel revived he found himself in the best parlor, with ice all + about him. Thunder was rolling overhead and hail clattered on the windows. + A sudden storm, the heat-breaker, had come up and the dreadful day was + vanquished. Daniel looked up and smiled a vague smile of astonishment at + Dr. Trumbull and Sarah Dean; then his eyes wandered anxiously about. + </p> + <p> + “The child is all right,” said Dr. Trumbull; “don't you worry, Daniel. + Mrs. Jim Mann is taking care of her. Don't you try to talk. You didn't + exactly have a sunstroke, but the heat was too much for you.” + </p> + <p> + But Daniel spoke, in spite of the doctor's mandate. “The heat,” said he, + in a curiously clear voice, “ain't never goin' to be too much for me + again.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you talk, Daniel,” repeated Dr. Trumbull. “You've always been + nervous about the heat. Maybe you won't be again, but keep still. When I + told you to take that child out every day I didn't mean when the world was + like Sodom and Gomorrah. Thank God, it will be cooler now.” + </p> + <p> + Sarah Dean stood beside the doctor. She looked pale and severe, but + adequate. She did not even state that she had urged old Daniel not to go + out. There was true character in Sarah Dean. + </p> + <p> + The weather that summer was an unexpected quantity. Instead of the day + after the storm being cool, it was hot. However, old Daniel, after his + recovery, insisted on going out of doors with little Dan'l after + breakfast. The only concession which he would make to Sarah Dean, who was + fairly frantic with anxiety, was that he would merely go down the road as + far as the big elm-tree, that he would sit down there, and let the child + play about within sight. + </p> + <p> + “You'll be brought home agin, sure as preachin',” said Sarah Dean, “and if + you're brought home ag'in, you won't get up ag'in.” + </p> + <p> + Old Daniel laughed. “Now don't you worry, Sarah,” said he. “I'll set down + under that big ellum and keep cool.” + </p> + <p> + Old Daniel, at Sarah's earnest entreaties, took a palm-leaf fan. But he + did not use it. He sat peacefully under the cool trail of the great elm + all the forenoon, while little Dan'l played with her doll. The child was + rather languid after her shock of the day before, and not disposed to run + about. Also, she had a great sense of responsibility about the old man. + Sarah Dean had privately charged her not to let Uncle Daniel get + “overhet.” She continually glanced up at him with loving, anxious, baby + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Be you overhet. Uncle Dan'l?” she would ask. + </p> + <p> + “No, little Dan'l, uncle ain't a mite overhet,” the old man would assure + her. Now and then little Dan'l left her doll, climbed into the old man's + lap, and waved the palm-leaf fan before his face. + </p> + <p> + Old Daniel Wise loved her so that he seemed, to himself, fairly alight + with happiness. He made up his mind that he would find some little girl in + the village to come now and then and play with little Dan'l. In the cool + of that evening he stole out of the back door, covertly, lest Sarah Dean + discover him, and walked slowly to the rector's house in the village. The + rector's wife was sitting on her cool, vine-shaded veranda. She was alone, + and Daniel was glad. He asked her if the little girl who had come to live + with her, Content Adams, could not come the next afternoon and see little + Dan'l. “Little Dan'l had ought to see other children once in a while, and + Sarah Dean makes real nice cookies,” he stated, pleadingly. + </p> + <p> + Sally Patterson laughed good-naturedly. “Of course she can, Mr. Wise,” she + said. + </p> + <p> + The next afternoon Sally herself drove the rector's horse, and brought + Content to pay a call on little Dan'l. Sally and Sarah Dean visited in the + sitting-room, and left the little girls alone in the parlor with a plate + of cookies, to get acquainted. They sat in solemn silence and stared at + each other. Neither spoke. Neither ate a cooky. When Sally took her leave, + she asked little Dan'l if she had had a nice time with Content, and little + Dan'l said, “Yes, ma'am.” + </p> + <p> + Sarah insisted upon Content's carrying the cookies home in the dish with a + napkin over it. + </p> + <p> + “When can I go again to see that other little girl?” asked Content as she + and Sally were jogging home. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, almost any time. I will drive you over-because it is rather a + lonesome walk for you. Did you like the little girl? She is younger than + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes'm.” + </p> + <p> + Also little Dan'l inquired of old Daniel when the other little girl was + coming again, and nodded emphatically when asked if she had had a nice + time. Evidently both had enjoyed, after the inscrutable fashion of + childhood, their silent session with each other. Content came generally + once a week, and old Daniel was invited to take little Dan'l to the + rector's. On that occasion Lucy Rose was present, and Lily Jennings. The + four little girls had tea together at a little table set on the porch, and + only Lily Jennings talked. The rector drove old Daniel and the child home, + and after they had arrived the child's tongue was loosened and she + chattered. She had seen everything there was to be seen at the rector's. + She told of it in her little silver pipe of a voice. She had to be checked + and put to bed, lest she be tired out. + </p> + <p> + “I never knew that child could talk so much,” Sarah said to Daniel, after + the little girl had gone up-stairs. + </p> + <p> + “She talks quite some when she's alone with me.” + </p> + <p> + “And she seems to see everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Ain't much that child don't see,” said Daniel, proudly. + </p> + <p> + The summer continued unusually hot, but Daniel never again succumbed. When + autumn came, for the first time in his old life old Daniel Wise was + sorrowful. He dreaded the effect of the frost and the winter upon his + precious little Dan'l, whom he put before himself as fondly as any father + could have done, and as the season progressed his dread seemed justified. + Poor little Dan'l had cold after cold. Content Adams and Lucy Rose came to + see her. The rector's wife and the doctor's sent dainties. But the child + coughed and pined, and old Daniel began to look forward to spring and + summer—the seasons which had been his bugaboos through life—as + if they were angels. When the February thaw came, he told little Dan'l, + “Jest look at the snow meltin' and the drops hangin' on the trees; that is + a sign of summer.” + </p> + <p> + Old Daniel watched for the first green light along the fences and the + meadow hollows. When the trees began to cast slightly blurred shadows, + because of budding leaves, and the robins hopped over the terraces, and + now and then the air was cleft with blue wings, he became jubilant. + “Spring is jest about here, and then uncle's little Dan'l will stop + coughin', and run out of doors and pick flowers,” he told the child beside + the window. + </p> + <p> + Spring came that year with a riotous rush. Blossoms, leaves, birds, and + flowers—all arrived pellmell, fairly smothering the world with + sweetness and music. In May, about the first of the month, there was an + intensely hot day. It was as hot as midsummer. Old Daniel with little + Dan'l went afield. It was, to both, as if they fairly saw the + carnival-arrival of flowers, of green garlands upon treebranches, of birds + and butterflies. “Spring is right here!” said old Daniel. “Summer is right + here! Pick them vilets in that holler, little Dan'l.” The old man sat on a + stone in the meadowland, and watched the child in the blue-gleaming hollow + gather up violets in her little hands as if they were jewels. The sun beat + upon his head, the air was heavy with fragrance, laden with moisture. Old + Daniel wiped his forehead. He was heated, but so happy that he was not + aware of it. He saw wonderful new lights over everything. He had wielded + love, the one invincible weapon of the whole earth, and had conquered his + intangible and dreadful enemy. When, for the sake of that little beloved + life, his own life had become as nothing, old Daniel found himself + superior to it. He sat there in the tumultuous heat of the May day, + watching the child picking violets and gathering strength with every + breath of the young air of the year, and he realized that the fear of his + whole life was overcome for ever. He realized that never again, though + they might bring suffering, even death, would he dread the summers with + their torrid winds and their burning lights, since, through love, he had + become under-lord of all the conditions of his life upon earth. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BIG SISTER SOLLY + </h2> + <p> + IT did seem strange that Sally Patterson, who, according to her own + self-estimation, was the least adapted of any woman in the village, should + have been the one chosen by a theoretically selective providence to deal + with a psychological problem. + </p> + <p> + It was conceded that little Content Adams was a psychological problem. She + was the orphan child of very distant relatives of the rector. When her + parents died she had been cared for by a widowed aunt on her mother's + side, and this aunt had also borne the reputation of being a creature + apart. When the aunt died, in a small village in the indefinite “Out + West,” the presiding clergyman had notified Edward Patterson of little + Content's lonely and helpless estate. The aunt had subsisted upon an + annuity which had died with her. The child had inherited nothing except + personal property. The aunt's house had been bequeathed to the church over + which the clergyman presided, and after her aunt's death he took her to + his own home until she could be sent to her relatives, and he and his wife + were exceedingly punctilious about every jot and tittle of the aunt's + personal belongings. They even purchased two extra trunks for them, which + they charged to the rector. + </p> + <p> + Little Content, traveling in the care of a lady who had known her aunt and + happened to be coming East, had six large trunks, besides a hat-box and + two suit-cases and a nailed-up wooden box containing odds and ends. + Content made quite a sensation when she arrived and her baggage was piled + on the station platform. + </p> + <p> + Poor Sally Patterson unpacked little Content's trunks. She had sent the + little girl to school within a few days after her arrival. Lily Jennings + and Amelia Wheeler called for her, and aided her down the street between + them, arms interlocked. Content, although Sally had done her best with a + pretty ready-made dress and a new hat, was undeniably a peculiar-looking + child. In the first place, she had an expression so old that it was fairly + uncanny. + </p> + <p> + “That child has downward curves beside her mouth already, and lines + between her eyes, and what she will look like a few years hence is beyond + me,” Sally told her husband after she had seen the little girl go out of + sight between Lily's curls and ruffles and ribbons and Amelia's smooth + skirts. + </p> + <p> + “She doesn't look like a happy child,” agreed the rector. “Poor little + thing! Her aunt Eudora must have been a queer woman to train a child.” + </p> + <p> + “She is certainly trained,” said Sally, ruefully; “too much so. Content + acts as if she were afraid to move or speak or even breathe unless + somebody signals permission. I pity her.” + </p> + <p> + She was in the storeroom, in the midst of Content's baggage. The rector + sat on an old chair, smoking. He had a conviction that it behooved him as + a man to stand by his wife during what might prove an ordeal. He had known + Content's deceased aunt years before. He had also known the clergyman who + had taken charge of her personal property and sent it on with Content. + </p> + <p> + “Be prepared for finding almost anything. Sally,” he observed. “Mr. Zenock + Shanksbury, as I remember him, was so conscientious that it amounted to + mania. I am sure he has sent simply unspeakable things rather than incur + the reproach of that conscience of his with regard to defrauding Content + of one jot or tittle of that personal property.” + </p> + <p> + Sally shook out a long, black silk dress, with jet dangling here and + there. “Now here is this dress,” said she. “I suppose I really must keep + this, but when that child is grown up the silk will probably be cracked + and entirely worthless.” + </p> + <p> + “You had better take the two trunks and pack them with such things, and + take your chances.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I suppose so. I suppose I must take chances with everything except + furs and wools, which will collect moths. Oh, goodness!” Sally held up an + old-fashioned fitch fur tippet. Little vague winged things came from it + like dust. “Moths!” said she, tragically. “Moths now. It is full of them. + Edward, you need not tell me that clergyman's wife was conscientious. No + conscientious woman would have sent an old fur tippet all eaten with moths + into another woman's house. She could not.” + </p> + <p> + Sally took flying leaps across the storeroom. She flung open the window + and tossed out the mangy tippet. “This is simply awful!” she declared, as + she returned. “Edward, don't you think we are justified in having Thomas + take all these things out in the back yard and making a bonfire of the + whole lot?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Edward, nobody can tell what will come next. If Content's aunt had + died of a contagious disease, nothing could induce me to touch another + thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear, you know that she died from the shock of a carriage accident, + because she had a weak heart.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it, and of course there is nothing contagious about that.” Sally + took up an ancient bandbox and opened it. She displayed its contents: a + very frivolous bonnet dating back in style a halfcentury, gay with roses + and lace and green strings, and another with a heavy crape veil dependent. + </p> + <p> + “You certainly do not advise me to keep these?” asked Sally, despondently. + </p> + <p> + Edward Patterson looked puzzled. “Use your own judgment,” he said, + finally. + </p> + <p> + Sally summarily marched across the room and flung the gay bonnet and the + mournful one out of the window. Then she took out a bundle of very old + underwear which had turned a saffron yellow with age. “People are always + coming to me for old linen in case of burns,” she said, succinctly. “After + these are washed I can supply an auto da fe.” + </p> + <p> + Poor Sally worked all that day and several days afterward. The rector + deserted her, and she relied upon her own good sense in the disposition of + little Content's legacy. When all was over she told her husband. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Edward,” said she, “there is exactly one trunk half full of things + which the child may live to use, but it is highly improbable. We have had + six bonfires, and I have given away three suits of old clothes to Thomas's + father. The clothes were very large.” + </p> + <p> + “Must have belonged to Eudora's first husband. He was a stout man,” said + Edward. + </p> + <p> + “And I have given two small suits of men's clothes to the Aid Society for + the next out-West barrel.” + </p> + <p> + “Eudora's second husband's.” + </p> + <p> + “And I gave the washerwoman enough old baking-dishes to last her lifetime, + and some cracked dishes. Most of the dishes were broken, but a few were + only cracked; and I have given Silas Thomas's wife ten old wool dresses + and a shawl and three old cloaks. All the other things which did not go + into the bonfires went to the Aid Society. They will go back out West.” + Sally laughed, a girlish peal, and her husband joined. But suddenly her + smooth forehead contracted. “Edward,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “I am terribly puzzled about one thing.” The two were sitting in the + study. Content had gone to bed. Nobody could hear easily, but Sally + Patterson lowered her voice, and her honest, clear blue eyes had a + frightened expression. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “You will think me very silly and cowardly, and I think I have never been + cowardly, but this is really very strange. Come with me. I am such a + goose, I don't dare go alone to that storeroom.” + </p> + <p> + The rector rose. Sally switched on the lights as they went up-stairs to + the storeroom. + </p> + <p> + “Tread very softly,” she whispered. “Content is probably asleep.” + </p> + <p> + The two tiptoed up the stairs and entered the storeroom. Sally approached + one of the two new trunks which had come with Content from out West. She + opened it. She took out a parcel nicely folded in a large towel. + </p> + <p> + “See here, Edward Patterson.” + </p> + <p> + The rector stared as Sally shook out a dress-a gay, up-to-date dress, a + young girl's dress, a very tall young girl's, for the skirts trailed on + the floor as Sally held it as high as she could. It was made of a fine + white muslin. There was white lace on the bodice, and there were knots of + blue ribbon scattered over the whole, knots of blue ribbon confining tiny + bunches of rosebuds and daisies. These knots of blue ribbon and the little + flowers made it undeniably a young girl's costume. Even in the days of all + ages wearing the costumes of all ages, an older woman would have been + abashed before those exceedingly youthful knots of blue ribbons and + flowers. + </p> + <p> + The rector looked approvingly at it. “That is very pretty, it seems to + me,” he said. “That must be worth keeping, Sally.” + </p> + <p> + “Worth keeping! Well, Edward Patterson, just wait. You are a man, and of + course you cannot understand how very strange it is about the dress.” The + rector looked inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + “I want to know,” said Sally, “if Content's aunt Eudora had any young + relative besides Content. I mean had she a grown-up young girl relative + who would wear a dress like this?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know of anybody. There might have been some relative of Eudora's + first husband. No, he was an only child. I don't think it possible that + Eudora had any young girl relative.” + </p> + <p> + “If she had,” said Sally, firmly, “she would have kept this dress. You are + sure there was nobody else living with Content's aunt at the time she + died?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody except the servants, and they were an old man and his wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Then whose dress was this?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, Sally.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't know, and I don't. It is very strange.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” said Edward Patterson, helpless before the feminine problem, + “that—Eudora got it in some way.” + </p> + <p> + “In some way,” repeated Sally. “That is always a man's way out of a + mystery when there is a mystery. There is a mystery. There is a mystery + which worries me. I have not told you all yet, Edward.” + </p> + <p> + “What more is there, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “I—asked Content whose dress this was, and she said—Oh, + Edward, I do so despise mysteries.” + </p> + <p> + “What did she say, Sally?” + </p> + <p> + “She said it was her big sister Solly's dress.” + </p> + <p> + “Her what?” + </p> + <p> + “Her big sister Solly's dress. Edward, has Content ever had a sister? Has + she a sister now?” + </p> + <p> + “No, she never had a sister, and she has none now,” declared the rector, + emphatically. “I knew all her family. What in the world ails the child?” + </p> + <p> + “She said her big sister Solly, Edward, and the very name is so inane. If + she hasn't any big sister Solly, what are we going to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, the child must simply lie,” said the rector. + </p> + <p> + “But, Edward, I don't think she knows she lies. You may laugh, but I think + she is quite sure that she has a big sister Solly, and that this is her + dress. I have not told you the whole. After she came home from school + to-day she went up to her room, and she left the door open, and pretty + soon I heard her talking. At first I thought perhaps Lily or Amelia was up + there, although I had not seen either of them come in with Content. Then + after a while, when I had occasion to go up-stairs, I looked in her room, + and she was quite alone, although I had heard her talking as I went + up-stairs. Then I said: 'Content, I thought somebody was in your room. I + heard you talking.' + </p> + <p> + “And she said, looking right into my eyes: 'Yes, ma'am, I was talking.' + </p> + <p> + “'But there is nobody here,' I said. + </p> + <p> + “'Yes, ma'am,' she said. 'There isn't anybody here now, but my big sister + Solly was here, and she is gone. You heard me talking to my big sister + Solly.' I felt faint, Edward, and you know it takes a good deal to + overcome me. I just sat down in Content's wicker rocking-chair. I looked + at her and she looked at me. Her eyes were just as clear and blue, and her + forehead looked like truth itself. She is not exactly a pretty child, and + she has a peculiar appearance, but she does certainly look truthful and + good, and she looked so then. She had tried to fluff her hair over her + forehead a little as I had told her, and not pull it back so tight, and + she wore her new dress, and her face and hands were as clean, and she + stood straight. You know she is a little inclined to stoop, and I have + talked to her about it. She stood straight, and looked at me with those + blue eyes, and I did feel fairly dizzy.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you say?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, after a bit I pulled myself together and I said: 'My dear little + girl, what is this? What do you mean about your big sister Sarah?' Edward, + I could not bring myself to say that idiotic Solly. In fact, I did think I + must be mistaken and had not heard correctly. But Content just looked at + me as if she thought me very stupid. 'Solly,' said she. 'My sister's name + is Solly.' + </p> + <p> + “'But, my dear,' I said, 'I understand that you had no sister.' + </p> + <p> + “'Yes,' said she, 'I have my big sister Solly.' + </p> + <p> + “'But where has she been all the time?' said I. + </p> + <p> + “Then Content looked at me and smiled, and it was quite a wonderful smile, + Edward. She smiled as if she knew so much more than I could ever know, and + quite pitied me.” + </p> + <p> + “She did not answer your question?” + </p> + <p> + “No, only by that smile which seemed to tell whole volumes about that + awful Solly's whereabouts, only I was too ignorant to read them. + </p> + <p> + “'Where is she now, dear?' I said, after a little. + </p> + <p> + “'She is gone now,' said Content. + </p> + <p> + “'Gone where?' said I. + </p> + <p> + “And then the child smiled at me again. Edward, what are we going to do? + Is she untruthful, or has she too much imagination? I have heard of such a + thing as too much imagination, and children telling lies which were not + really lies.” + </p> + <p> + “So have I,” agreed the rector, dryly, “but I never believed in it.” The + rector started to leave the room. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do?” inquired Sally. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to endeavor to discriminate between lies and imagination,” + replied the rector. + </p> + <p> + Sally plucked at his coat-sleeve as they went down-stairs. “My dear,” she + whispered, “I think she is asleep.” + </p> + <p> + “She will have to wake up.” + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear, she may be nervous. Would it not be better to wait until + to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “I think not,” said Edward Patterson. Usually an easy-going man, when he + was aroused he was determined to extremes. Into Content's room he marched, + Sally following. Neither of them saw their small son Jim peeking around + his door. He had heard—he could not help it—the conversation + earlier in the day between Content and his mother. He had also heard other + things. He now felt entirely justified in listening, although he had a + good code of honor. He considered himself in a way responsible, knowing + what he knew, for the peace of mind of his parents. Therefore he listened, + peeking around the doorway of his dark room. + </p> + <p> + The electric light flashed out from Content's room, and the little + interior was revealed. It was charmingly pretty. Sally had done her best + to make this not altogether welcome little stranger's room attractive. + There were garlands of rosebuds swung from the top of the white + satin-papered walls. There were dainty toilet things, a little + dressing-table decked with ivory, a case of books, chairs cushioned with + rosebud chintz, windows curtained with the same. + </p> + <p> + In the little white bed, with a rose-sprinkled coverlid over her, lay + Content. She was not asleep. Directly, when the light flashed out, she + looked at the rector and his wife with her clear blue eyes. Her fair hair, + braided neatly and tied with pink ribbons, lay in two tails on either side + of her small, certainly very good face. Her forehead was beautiful, very + white and full, giving her an expression of candor which was even noble. + Content, little lonely girl among strangers in a strange place, mutely + beseeching love and pity, from her whole attitude toward life and the + world, looked up at Edward Patterson and Sally, and the rector realized + that his determination was giving way. He began to believe in imagination, + even to the extent of a sister Solly. He had never had a daughter, and + sometimes the thought of one had made his heart tender. His voice was very + kind when he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Well, little girl,” he said, “what is this I hear?” + </p> + <p> + Sally stared at her husband and stifled a chuckle. + </p> + <p> + As for Content, she looked at the rector and said nothing. It was obvious + that she did not know what he had heard. The rector explained. + </p> + <p> + “My dear little girl,” he said, “your aunt Sally”—they had agreed + upon the relationship of uncle and aunt to Content—“tells me that + you have been telling her about your—big sister Solly.” The rector + half gasped as he said Solly. He seemed to himself to be on the driveling + verge of idiocy before the pronunciation of that absurdly inane name. + </p> + <p> + Content's responding voice came from the pink-and-white nest in which she + was snuggled, like the fluting pipe of a canary. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “My dear child,” said the rector, “you know perfectly well that you have + no big sister—Solly.” Every time the rector said Solly he swallowed + hard. + </p> + <p> + Content smiled as Sally had described her smiling. She said nothing. The + rector felt reproved and looked down upon from enormous heights of + innocence and childhood and the wisdom thereof. However, he persisted. + </p> + <p> + “Content,” he said, “what did you mean by telling your aunt Sally what you + did?” + </p> + <p> + “I was talking with my big sister Solly,” replied Content, with the + calmness of one stating a fundamental truth of nature. + </p> + <p> + The rector's face grew stern. “Content,” he said, “look at me.” + </p> + <p> + Content looked. Looking seemed to be the instinctive action which + distinguished her as an individual. + </p> + <p> + “Have you a big sister—Solly?” asked the rector. His face was stern, + but his voice faltered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Then—tell me so.” + </p> + <p> + “I have a big sister Solly,” said Content. Now she spoke rather wearily, + although still sweetly, as if puzzled why she had been disturbed in sleep + to be asked such an obvious question. + </p> + <p> + “Where has she been all the time, that we have known nothing about her?” + demanded the rector. + </p> + <p> + Content smiled. However, she spoke. “Home,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “When did she come here?” + </p> + <p> + “This morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is she now?” + </p> + <p> + Content smiled and was silent. The rector cast a helpless look at his + wife. He now did not care if she did see that he was completely at a loss. + How could a great, robust man and a clergyman be harsh to a tender little + girl child in a pink-andwhite nest of innocent dreams? + </p> + <p> + Sally pitied him. She spoke more harshly than her husband. “Content + Adams,” said she, “you know perfectly well that you have no big sister + Solly. Now tell me the truth. Tell me you have no big sister Solly.” + </p> + <p> + “I have a big sister Solly,” said Content. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Edward,” said Sally. “There is no use in staying and talking to + this obstinate little girl any longer.” Then she spoke to Content. “Before + you go to sleep,” said she, “you must say your prayers, if you have not + already done so.” + </p> + <p> + “I have said my prayers,” replied Content, and her blue eyes were full of + horrified astonishment at the suspicion. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said Sally, “you had better say them over and add something. Pray + that you may always tell the truth.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am,” said Content, in her little canary pipe. + </p> + <p> + The rector and his wife went out. Sally switched off the light with a snap + as she passed. Out in the hall she stopped and held her husband's arms + hard. “Hush!” she whispered. They both listened. They heard this, in the + faintest plaint of a voice: + </p> + <p> + “They don't believe you are here, Sister Solly, but I do.” + </p> + <p> + Sally dashed back into the rosebud room and switched on the light. She + stared around. She opened a closet door. Then she turned off the light and + joined her husband. + </p> + <p> + “There was nobody there?” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Of course not.” + </p> + <p> + When they were back in the study the rector and his wife looked at each + other. + </p> + <p> + “We will do the best we can,” said Sally. “Don't worry, Edward, for you + have to write your sermon to-morrow. We will manage some way. I will admit + that I rather wish Content had had some other distant relative besides you + who could have taken charge of her.” + </p> + <p> + “You poor child!” said the rector. “It is hard on you, Sally, for she is + no kith nor kin of yours.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I don't mind,” said Sally Patterson, “if only I can succeed in + bringing her up.” + </p> + <p> + Meantime Jim Patterson, up-stairs, sitting over his next day's algebra + lesson, was even more perplexed than were his parents in the study. He + paid little attention to his book. “I can manage little Lucy,” he + reflected, “but if the others have got hold of it, I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + Presently he rose and stole very softly through the hall to Content's + door. She was timid, and always left it open so she could see the hall + light until she fell asleep. “Content,” whispered Jim. + </p> + <p> + There came the faintest “What?” in response. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you,” said Jim, in a theatrical whisper, “say another word at + school to anybody about your big sister Solly. If you do, I'll whop you, + if you are a girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't care!” was sighed forth from the room. + </p> + <p> + “And I'll whop your old big sister Solly, too.” + </p> + <p> + There was a tiny sob. + </p> + <p> + “I will,” declared Jim. “Now you mind!” + </p> + <p> + The next day Jim cornered little Lucy Rose under a cedar-tree before + school began. He paid no attention to Bubby Harvey and Tom Simmons, who + were openly sniggering at him. Little Lucy gazed up at Jim, and the + blue-green shade of the cedar seemed to bring out only more clearly the + white-rose softness of her dear little face. Jim bent over her. + </p> + <p> + “Want you to do something for me,” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + Little Lucy nodded gravely. + </p> + <p> + “If my new cousin Content ever says anything to you again—I heard + her yesterday—about her big sister Solly, don't you ever say a word + about it to anybody else. You will promise me, won't you, little Lucy?” + </p> + <p> + A troubled expression came into little Lucy's kind eyes. “But she told + Lily, and Lily told Amelia, and Amelia told her grandmother Wheeler, and + her grandmother Wheeler told Miss Parmalee when she met her on the street + after school, and Miss Parmalee called on my aunt Martha and told her,” + said little Lucy. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, shucks!” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “And my aunt Martha told my father that she thought perhaps she ought to + ask for her when she called on your mother. She said Arnold Carruth's aunt + Flora was going to call, and his aunt Dorothy. I heard Miss Acton tell + Miss Parmalee that she thought they ought to ask for her when they called + on your mother, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Little Lucy,” he said, and lowered his voice, “you must promise me never, + as long as you live, to tell what I am going to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + Little Lucy looked frightened. + </p> + <p> + “Promise!” insisted Jim. + </p> + <p> + “I promise,” said little Lucy, in a weak voice. + </p> + <p> + “Never, as long as you live, to tell anybody. Promise!” + </p> + <p> + “I promise.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, you know if you break your promise and tell, you will be guilty of a + dreadful lie and be very wicked.” + </p> + <p> + Little Lucy shivered. “I never will.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, my new cousin Content Adams—tells lies.” + </p> + <p> + Little Lucy gasped. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she does. She says she has a big sister Solly, and she hasn't got + any big sister Solly. She never did have, and she never will have. She + makes believe.” + </p> + <p> + “Makes believe?” said little Lucy, in a hopeful voice. + </p> + <p> + “Making believe is just a real mean way of lying. Now I made Content + promise last night never to say one word in school about her big sister + Solly, and I am going to tell you this, so you can tell Lily and the + others and not lie. Of course, I don't want to lie myself, because my + father is rector, and, besides, mother doesn't approve of it; but if + anybody is going to lie, I am the one. Now, you mind, little Lucy. + Content's big sister Solly has gone away, and she is never coming back. If + you tell Lily and the others I said so, I can't see how you will be + lying.” + </p> + <p> + Little Lucy gazed at the boy. She looked like truth incarnate. “But,” said + she, in her adorable stupidity of innocence, “I don't see how she could go + away if she was never here, Jim.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, of course she couldn't. But all you have to do is to say that you + heard me say she had gone. Don't you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't understand how Content's big sister Solly could possibly go away + if she was never here.” + </p> + <p> + “Little Lucy, I wouldn't ask you to tell a lie for the world, but if you + were just to say that you heard me say—” + </p> + <p> + “I think it would be a lie,” said little Lucy, “because how can I help + knowing if she was never here she couldn't—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, little Lucy,” cried Jim, in despair, still with tenderness—how + could he be anything but tender with little Lucy?—“all I ask is + never to say anything about it.” + </p> + <p> + “If they ask me?” + </p> + <p> + “Anyway, you can hold your tongue. You know it isn't wicked to hold your + tongue.” + </p> + <p> + Little Lucy absurdly stuck out the pointed tip of her little red tongue. + Then she shook her head slowly. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she said, “I will hold my tongue.” + </p> + <p> + This encounter with innocence and logic had left him worsted. Jim could + see no way out of the fact that his father, the rector, his mother, the + rector's wife, and he, the rector's son, were disgraced by their + relationship to such an unsanctified little soul as this queer Content + Adams. + </p> + <p> + And yet he looked at the poor lonely little girl, who was trying very hard + to learn her lessons, who suggested in her very pose and movement a + little, scared rabbit ready to leap the road for some bush of hiding, and + while he was angry with her he pitied her. He had no doubts concerning + Content's keeping her promise. He was quite sure that he would now say + nothing whatever about that big sister Solly to the others, but he was not + prepared for what happened that very afternoon. + </p> + <p> + When he went home from school his heart stood still to see Miss Martha + Rose, and Arnold Carruth's aunt Flora, and his aunt who was not his aunt, + Miss Dorothy Vernon, who was visiting her, all walking along in state with + their lace-trimmed parasols, their white gloves, and their nice + card-cases. Jim jumped a fence and raced across lots home, and gained on + them. He burst in on his mother, sitting on the porch, which was inclosed + by wire netting overgrown with a budding vine. It was the first warm day + of the season. + </p> + <p> + “Mother,” cried Jim Patterson—“mother, they are coming!” + </p> + <p> + “Who, for goodness' sake, Jim?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Arnold's aunt Flora and his aunt Dorothy and little Lucy's aunt + Martha. They are coming to call.” + </p> + <p> + Involuntarily Sally's hand went up to smooth her pretty hair. “Well, what + of it, Jim?” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Mother, they will ask for—big sister Solly!” + </p> + <p> + Sally Patterson turned pale. “How do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Mother, Content has been talking at school. A lot know. You will see they + will ask for—” + </p> + <p> + “Run right in and tell Content to stay in her room,” whispered Sally, + hastily, for the callers, their white-kidded hands holding their + card-cases genteelly, were coming up the walk. + </p> + <p> + Sally advanced, smiling. She put a brave face on the matter, but she + realized that she, Sally Patterson, who had never been a coward, was + positively afraid before this absurdity. The callers sat with her on the + pleasant porch, with the young vine-shadows making networks over their + best gowns. Tea was served presently by the maid, and, much to Sally's + relief, before the maid appeared came the inquiry. Miss Martha Rose made + it. + </p> + <p> + “We would be pleased to see Miss Solly Adams also,” said Miss Martha. + </p> + <p> + Flora Carruth echoed her. “I was so glad to hear another nice girl had + come to the village,” said she with enthusiasm. Miss Dorothy Vernon said + something indefinite to the same effect. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry,” replied Sally, with an effort, “but there is no Miss Solly + Adams here now.” She spoke the truth as nearly as she could manage without + unraveling the whole ridiculous affair. The callers sighed with regret, + tea was served with little cakes, and they fluttered down the walk, + holding their card-cases, and that ordeal was over. + </p> + <p> + But Sally sought the rector in his study, and she was trembling. “Edward,” + she cried out, regardless of her husband's sermon, “something must be done + now.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what is the matter, Sally?” + </p> + <p> + “People are—calling on her.” + </p> + <p> + “Calling on whom?” + </p> + <p> + “Big sister—Solly!” Sally explained. + </p> + <p> + “Well, don't worry, dear,” said the rector. “Of course we will do + something, but we must think it over. Where is the child now?” + </p> + <p> + “She and Jim are out in the garden. I saw them pass the window just now. + Jim is such a dear boy, he tries hard to be nice to her. Edward Patterson, + we ought not to wait.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, we must.” + </p> + <p> + Meantime Jim and Content Adams were out in the garden. Jim had gone to + Content's door and tapped and called out, rather rudely: “Content, I say, + put on your hat and come along out in the garden. I've got something to + tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't want to,” protested Content's little voice, faintly. + </p> + <p> + “You come right along.” + </p> + <p> + And Content came along. She was an obedient child, and she liked Jim, + although she stood much in awe of him. She followed him into the garden + back of the rectory, and they sat down on the bench beneath the weeping + willow. The minute they were seated Jim began to talk. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said he, “I want to know.” + </p> + <p> + Content glanced up at him, then looked down and turned pale. + </p> + <p> + “I want to know, honest Injun,” said Jim, “what you are telling such awful + whoppers about your old big sister Solly for?” + </p> + <p> + Content was silent. This time she did not smile, a tear trickled out of + her right eye and ran over the pale cheek. + </p> + <p> + “Because you know,” said Jim, observant of the tear, but ruthless, “that + you haven't any big sister Solly, and never did have. You are getting us + all in an awful mess over it, and father is rector here, and mother is his + wife, and I am his son, and you are his niece, and it is downright mean. + Why do you tell such whoppers? Out with it!” + </p> + <p> + Content was trembling violently. “I lived with Aunt Eudora,” she + whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what of that? Other folks have lived with their aunts and not told + whoppers.” + </p> + <p> + “They haven't lived with Aunt Eudora.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Content Adams, and you the rector's + niece, talking that way about dead folks.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't mean to talk about poor Aunt Eudora,” fairly sobbed Content. + “Aunt Eudora was a real good aunt, but she was grown up. She was a good + deal more grown up than your mother; she really was, and when I first went + to live with her I was 'most a little baby; I couldn't speak—plain, + and I had to go to bed real early, and slept 'way off from everybody, and + I used to be afraid—all alone, and so—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, go on,” said Jim, but his voice was softer. It WAS hard lines for a + little kid, especially if she was a girl. + </p> + <p> + “And so,” went on the little, plaintive voice, “I got to thinking how nice + it would be if I only had a big sister, and I used to cry and say to + myself—I couldn't speak plain, you know, I was so little-'Big sister + would be real solly.' And then first thing I knew—she came.” + </p> + <p> + “Who came?” + </p> + <p> + “Big sister Solly.” + </p> + <p> + “What rot! She didn't come. Content Adams, you know she didn't come.” + </p> + <p> + “She must have come,” persisted the little girl, in a frightened whisper. + “She must have. Oh, Jim, you don't know. Big sister Solly must have come, + or I would have died like my father and mother.” + </p> + <p> + Jim's arm, which was near her, twitched convulsively, but he did not put + it around her. + </p> + <p> + “She did—co-me,” sobbed Content. “Big sister Solly did come.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, have it so,” said Jim, suddenly. “No use going over that any + longer. Have it she came, but she ain't here now, anyway. Content Adams, + you can't look me in the face and tell me that.” + </p> + <p> + Content looked at Jim, and her little face was almost terrible, so full of + bewilderment and fear it was. “Jim,” whispered Content, “I can't have big + sister Solly not be here. I can't send her away. What would she think?” + </p> + <p> + Jim stared. “Think? Why, she isn't alive to think, anyhow!” + </p> + <p> + “I can't make her—dead,” sobbed Content. “She came when I wanted + her, and now when I don't so much, when I've got Uncle Edward and Aunt + Sally and you, and don't feel so dreadful lonesome, I can't be so bad as + to make her dead.” + </p> + <p> + Jim whistled. Then his face brightened up. He looked at Content with a + shrewd and cheerful grin. “See here, kid, you say your sister Solly is + big, grown up, don't you?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + Content nodded pitifully. + </p> + <p> + “Then why, if she is grown up and pretty, don't she have a beau?” + </p> + <p> + Content stopped sobbing and gave him a quick glance. + </p> + <p> + “Then—why doesn't she get married, and go out West to live?” + </p> + <p> + Jim chuckled. Instead of a sob, a faint echo of his chuckle came from + Content. + </p> + <p> + Jim laughed merrily. “I say, Content,” he cried, “let's have it she's + married now, and gone?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Content. + </p> + <p> + Jim put his arm around her very nicely and protectingly. “It's all right, + then,” said he, “as all right as it can be for a girl. Say, Content, ain't + it a shame you aren't a boy?” + </p> + <p> + “I can't help it,” said Content, meekly. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” said Jim, thoughtfully, “I don't, as a rule, care much about + girls, but if you could coast down-hill and skate, and do a few things + like that, you would be almost as good as a boy.” + </p> + <p> + Content surveyed him, and her pessimistic little face assumed upward + curves. “I will,” said she. “I will do anything, Jim. I will fight if you + want me to, just like a boy.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe you could lick any of us fellers unless you get a good + deal harder in the muscles,” said Jim, eying her thoughtfully; “but we'll + play ball, and maybe by and by you can begin with Arnold Carruth.” + </p> + <p> + “Could lick him now,” said Content. + </p> + <p> + But Jim's face sobered before her readiness. “Oh no, you mustn't go to + fighting right away,” said he. “It wouldn't do. You really are a girl, you + know, and father is rector.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I won't,” said Content; “but I COULD knock down that little boy with + curls; I know I could.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you needn't. I'll like you just as well. You see, Content”—Jim's + voice faltered, for he was a boy, and on the verge of sentiment before + which he was shamed—“you see, Content, now your big sister Solly is + married and gone out West, why, you can have me for your brother, and of + course a brother is a good deal better than a sister.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Content, eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “I am going,” said Jim, “to marry Lucy Rose when I grow up, but I haven't + got any sister, and I'd like you first rate for one. So I'll be your big + brother instead of your cousin.” + </p> + <p> + “Big brother Solly?” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Content, that is an awful name, but I don't care. You're only a + girl. You can call me anything you want to, but you mustn't call me Solly + when there is anybody within hearing.” + </p> + <p> + “I won't.” + </p> + <p> + “Because it wouldn't do,” said Jim with weight. + </p> + <p> + “I never will, honest,” said Content. + </p> + <p> + Presently they went into the house. Dr. Trumbull was there; he had been + talking seriously to the rector and his wife. He had come over on purpose. + </p> + <p> + “It is a perfect absurdity,” he said, “but I made ten calls this morning, + and everywhere I was asked about that little Adams girl's big sister—why + you keep her hidden. They have a theory that she is either an idiot or + dreadfully disfigured. I had to tell them I know nothing about it.” + </p> + <p> + “There isn't any girl,” said the rector, wearily. “Sally, do explain.” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Trumbull listened. “I have known such cases,” he said when Sally had + finished. + </p> + <p> + “What did you do for them?” Sally asked, anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. Such cases have to be cured by time. Children get over these + fancies when they grow up.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say that we have to put up with big sister Solly until + Content is grown up?” asked Sally, in a desperate tone. And then Jim came + in. Content had run up-stairs. + </p> + <p> + “It is all right, mother,” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + Sally caught him by the shoulders. “Oh, Jim, has she told you?” + </p> + <p> + Jim gave briefly, and with many omissions, an account of his conversation + with Content. + </p> + <p> + “Did she say anything about that dress, Jim?” asked his mother. + </p> + <p> + “She said her aunt had meant it for that out-West rector's daughter Alice + to graduate in, but Content wanted it for her big sister Solly, and told + the rector's wife it was hers. Content says she knows she was a naughty + girl, but after she had said it she was afraid to say it wasn't so. + Mother, I think that poor little thing is scared 'most to death.” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody is going to hurt her,” said Sally. “Goodness! that rector's wife + was so conscientious that she even let that dress go. Well, I can send it + right back, and the girl will have it in time for her graduation, after + all. Jim dear, call the poor child down. Tell her nobody is going to scold + her.” Sally's voice was very tender. + </p> + <p> + Jim returned with Content. She had on a little ruffled pink gown which + seemed to reflect color on her cheeks. She wore an inscrutable expression, + at once child-like and charming. She looked shy, furtively amused, yet + happy. Sally realized that the pessimistic downward lines had disappeared, + that Content was really a pretty little girl. + </p> + <p> + Sally put an arm around the small, pink figure. “So you and Jim have been + talking, dear?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am,” replied little Content. “Jim is my big brother—” She + just caught herself before she said Solly. + </p> + <p> + “And your sister Solly is married and living out West?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Content, with a long breath. “My sister Solly is married.” + Smiles broke all over her little face. She hid it in Sally's skirts, and a + little peal of laughter like a bird-trill came from the soft muslin folds. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LITTLE LUCY ROSE + </h2> + <p> + BACK of the rectory there was a splendid, long hill. The ground receded + until the rectory garden was reached, and the hill was guarded on either + flank by a thick growth of pines and cedars, and, being a part of the land + appertaining to the rectory, was never invaded by the village children. + This was considered very fortunate by Mrs. Patterson, Jim's mother, and + for an odd reason. The rector's wife was very fond of coasting, as she was + of most out-of-door sports, but her dignified position prevented her from + enjoying them to the utmost. In many localities the clergyman's wife might + have played golf and tennis, have rode and swum and coasted and skated, + and nobody thought the worse of her; but in The Village it was different. + </p> + <p> + Sally had therefore rejoiced at the discovery of that splendid, isolated + hill behind the house. It could not have been improved upon for a long, + perfectly glorious coast, winding up on the pool of ice in the garden and + bumping thrillingly between dry vegetables. Mrs. Patterson steered and Jim + made the running pushes, and slid flat on his chest behind his mother. Jim + was very proud of his mother. He often wished that he felt at liberty to + tell of her feats. He had never been told not to tell, but realized, being + rather a sharp boy, that silence was wiser. Jim's mother confided in him, + and he respected her confidence. “Oh, Jim dear,” she would often say, + “there is a mothers' meeting this afternoon, and I would so much rather go + coasting with you.” Or, “There's a Guild meeting about a fair, and the ice + in the garden is really quite smooth.” + </p> + <p> + It was perhaps unbecoming a rector's wife, but Jim loved his mother better + because she expressed a preference for the sports he loved, and considered + that no other boy had a mother who was quite equal to his. Sally Patterson + was small and wiry, with a bright face, and very thick, brown hair, which + had a boyish crest over her forehead, and she could run as fast as Jim. + Jim's father was much older than his mother, and very dignified, although + he had a keen sense of humor. He used to laugh when his wife and son came + in after their coasting expeditions. + </p> + <p> + “Well, boys,” he would say, “had a good time?” + </p> + <p> + Jim was perfectly satisfied and convinced that his mother was the very + best and most beautiful person in the village, even in the whole world, + until Mr. Cyril Rose came to fill a vacancy of cashier in the bank, and + his daughter, little Lucy Rose, as a matter of course, came with him. + Little Lucy had no mother. Mr. Cyril's cousin, Martha Rose, kept his + house, and there was a colored maid with a bad temper, who was said, + however, to be invaluable “help.” + </p> + <p> + Little Lucy attended Madame's school. She came the next Monday after Jim + and his friends had planned to have a chicken roast and failed. After Jim + saw little Lucy he thought no more of the chicken roast. It seemed to him + that he thought no more of anything. He could not by any possibility have + learned his lessons had it not been for the desire to appear a good + scholar before little Lucy. Jim had never been a self-conscious boy, but + that day he was so keenly worried about her opinion of him that his usual + easy swing broke into a strut when he crossed the room. He need not have + been so troubled, because little Lucy was not looking at him. She was not + looking at any boy or girl. She was only trying to learn her lesson. + Little Lucy was that rather rare creature, a very gentle, obedient child, + with a single eye for her duty. She was so charming that it was sad to + think how much her mother had missed, as far as this world was concerned. + </p> + <p> + The minute Madame saw her a singular light came into her eyes—the + light of love of a childless woman for a child. Similar lights were in the + eyes of Miss Parmalee and Miss Acton. They looked at one another with a + sort of sweet confidence when they were drinking tea together after school + in Madame's study. + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever see such a darling?” said Madame. Miss Parmalee said she + never had, and Miss Acton echoed her. + </p> + <p> + “She is a little angel,” said Madame. + </p> + <p> + “She worked so hard over her geography lesson,” said Miss Parmalee, “and + she got the Amazon River in New England and the Connecticut in South + America, after all; but she was so sweet about it, she made me want to + change the map of the world. Dear little soul, it did seem as if she ought + to have rivers and everything else just where she chose.” + </p> + <p> + “And she tried so hard to reach an octave, and her little finger is too + short,” said Miss Acton; “and she hasn't a bit of an ear for music, but + her little voice is so sweet it does not matter.” + </p> + <p> + “I have seen prettier children,” said Madame, “but never one quite such a + darling.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Parmalee and Miss Acton agreed with Madame, and so did everybody + else. Lily Jennings's beauty was quite eclipsed by little Lucy, but Lily + did not care; she was herself one of little Lucy's most fervent admirers. + She was really Jim Patterson's most formidable rival in the school. “You + don't care about great, horrid boys, do you, dear?” Lily said to Lucy, + entirely within hearing of Jim and Lee Westminster and Johnny Trumbull and + Arnold Carruth and Bubby Harvey and Frank Ellis, and a number of others + who glowered at her. + </p> + <p> + Dear little Lucy hesitated. She did not wish to hurt the feelings of boys, + and the question had been loudly put. Finally she said she didn't know. + Lack of definite knowledge was little Lucy's rock of refuge in time of + need. She would look adorable, and say in her timid little fluty voice, “I + don't—know.” The last word came always with a sort of gasp which was + alluring. All the listening boys were convinced that little Lucy loved + them all individually and generally, because of her “I don't—know.” + </p> + <p> + Everybody was convinced of little Lucy's affection for everybody, which + was one reason for her charm. She flattered without knowing that she did + so. It was impossible for her to look at any living thing except with soft + eyes of love. It was impossible for her to speak without every tone + conveying the sweetest deference and admiration. The whole atmosphere of + Madame's school changed with the advent of the little girl. Everybody + tried to live up to little Lucy's supposed ideal, but in reality she had + no ideal. Lucy was the simplest of little girls, only intent upon being + good, doing as she was told, and winning her father's approval, also her + cousin Martha's. + </p> + <p> + Martha Rose was quite elderly, although still good-looking. She was not + popular, because she was very silent. She dressed becomingly, received + calls and returned them, but hardly spoke a word. People rather dreaded + her coming. Miss Martha Rose would sit composedly in a proffered chair, + her gloved hands crossed over her nice, gold-bound card-case, her chin + tilted at an angle which never varied, her mouth in a set smile which + never wavered, her slender feet in their best shoes toeing out precisely + under the smooth sweep of her gray silk skirt. Miss Martha Rose dressed + always in gray, a fashion which the village people grudgingly admired. It + was undoubtedly becoming and distinguished, but savored ever so slightly + of ostentation, as did her custom of always dressing little Lucy in blue. + There were different shades and fabrics, but blue it always was. It was + the best color for the child, as it revealed the fact that her big, dark + eyes were blue. Shaded as they were by heavy, curly lashes, they would + have been called black or brown, but the blue in them leaped to vision + above the blue of blue frocks. Little Lucy had the finest, most delicate + features, a mist of soft, dark hair, which curled slightly, as mist curls, + over sweet, round temples. She was a small, daintily clad child, and she + spoke and moved daintily and softly; and when her blue eyes were fixed + upon anybody's face, that person straightway saw love and obedience and + trust in them, and love met love half-way. Even Miss Martha Rose looked + another woman when little Lucy's innocent blue eyes were fixed upon her + rather handsome but colorless face between the folds of her silvery hair; + Miss Martha's hair had turned prematurely gray. Light would come into + Martha Rose's face, light and animation, although she never talked much + even to Lucy. She never talked much to her cousin Cyril, but he was rather + glad of it. He had a keen mind, but it was easily diverted, and he was + engrossed in his business, and concerned lest he be disturbed by such + things as feminine chatter, of which he certainly had none in his own + home, if he kept aloof from Jenny, the colored maid. Hers was the only + female voice ever heard to the point of annoyance in the Rose house. + </p> + <p> + It was rather wonderful how a child like little Lucy and Miss Martha lived + with so little conversation. Martha talked no more at home than abroad; + moreover, at home she had not the attitude of waiting for some one to talk + to her, which people outside considered trying. Martha did not expect her + cousin to talk to her. She seldom asked a question. She almost never + volunteered a perfectly useless observation. She made no remarks upon + self-evident topics. If the sun shone, she never mentioned it. If there + was a heavy rain, she never mentioned that. Miss Martha suited her cousin + exactly, and for that reason, aside from the fact that he had been devoted + to little Lucy's mother, it never occurred to him to marry again. Little + Lucy talked no more than Miss Martha, and nobody dreamed that she + sometimes wanted somebody to talk to her. Nobody dreamed that the dear + little girl, studying her lessons, learning needlework, trying very + futilely to play the piano, was lonely; but she was without knowing it + herself. Martha was so kind and so still; and her father was so kind and + so still, engrossed in his papers or books, often sitting by himself in + his own study. Little Lucy in this peace and stillness was not having her + share of childhood. When other little girls came to play with her. Miss + Martha enjoined quiet, and even Lily Jennings's bird-like chattering + became subdued. It was only at school that Lucy got her chance for the + irresponsible delight which was the simple right of her childhood, and + there her zeal for her lessons prevented. She was happy at school, + however, for there she lived in an atmosphere of demonstrative affection. + The teachers were given to seizing her in fond arms and caressing her, and + so were her girl companions; while the boys, especially Jim Patterson, + looked wistfully on. + </p> + <p> + Jim Patterson was in love, a charming little poetical boy-love; but it was + love. Everything which he did in those days was with the thought of little + Lucy for incentive. He stood better in school than he had ever done + before, but it was all for the sake of little Lucy. Jim Patterson had one + talent, rather rudimentary, still a talent. He could play by ear. His + father owned an old violin. He had been inclined to music in early youth, + and Jim got permission to practise on it, and he went by himself in the + hot attic and practised. Jim's mother did not care for music, and her + son's preliminary scraping tortured her. Jim tucked the old fiddle under + one round boy-cheek and played in the hot attic, with wasps buzzing around + him; and he spent his pennies for catgut, and he learned to mend + fiddle-strings; and finally came a proud Wednesday afternoon when there + were visitors in Madame's school, and he stood on the platform, with Miss + Acton playing an accompaniment on the baby grand piano, and he managed a + feeble but true tune on his violin. It was all for little Lucy, but little + Lucy cared no more for music than his mother; and while Jim was playing + she was rehearsing in the depths of her mind the little poem which later + she was to recite; for this adorable little Lucy was, as a matter of + course, to figure in the entertainment. It therefore happened that she + heard not one note of Jim Patterson's painfully executed piece, for she + was saying to herself in mental singsong a foolish little poem, beginning: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There was one little flower that bloomed + Beside a cottage door. +</pre> + <p> + When she went forward, little darling blue-clad figure, there was a murmur + of admiration; and when she made mistakes straight through the poem, + saying, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There was a little flower that fell + On my aunt Martha's floor, +</pre> + <p> + for beginning, there was a roar of tender laughter and a clapping of + tender, maternal hands, and everybody wanted to catch hold of little Lucy + and kiss her. It was one of the irresistible charms of this child that + people loved her the more for her mistakes, and she made many, although + she tried so very hard to avoid them. Little Lucy was not in the least + brilliant, but she held love like a precious vase, and it gave out perfume + better than mere knowledge. + </p> + <p> + Jim Patterson was so deeply in love with her when he went home that night + that he confessed to his mother. Mrs. Patterson had led up to the subject + by alluding to little Lucy while at the dinner-table. + </p> + <p> + “Edward,” she said to her husband—both she and the rector had been + present at Madame's school entertainment and the tea-drinking afterward—“did + you ever see in all your life such a darling little girl as the new + cashier's daughter? She quite makes up for Miss Martha, who sat here one + solid hour, holding her card-case, waiting for me to talk to her. That + child is simply delicious, and I was so glad she made mistakes.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she is a charming child,” assented the rector, “despite the fact + that she is not a beauty, hardly even pretty.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it,” said Mrs. Patterson, “but she has the worth of beauty.” + </p> + <p> + Jim was quite pale while his father and mother were talking. He swallowed + the hot soup so fast that it burnt his tongue. Then he turned very red, + but nobody noticed him. When his mother came up-stairs to kiss him good + night he told her. + </p> + <p> + “Mother,” said he, “I have something to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Jim,” replied Sally Patterson, with her boyish air. + </p> + <p> + “It is very important,” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Patterson did not laugh; she did not even smile. She sat down beside + Jim's bed and looked seriously at his eager, rapt, shamed little boy-face + on the pillow. “Well?” said she, after a minute which seemed difficult to + him. + </p> + <p> + Jim coughed. Then he spoke with a blurt. “Mother,” said Jim, “by and by, + of course not quite yet, but by and by, will you have any objection to + Miss Lucy Rose as a daughter?” + </p> + <p> + Even then Sally Patterson did not laugh or even smile. “Are you thinking + of marrying her, Jim?” asked she, quite as if her son had been a man. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, mother,” replied Jim. Then he flung up his little arms in pink + pajama sleeves, and Sally Patterson took his face between her two hands + and kissed him warmly. + </p> + <p> + “She is a darling, and your choice does you credit, Jim,” said she. “Of + course you have said nothing to her yet?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought it was rather too soon.” + </p> + <p> + “I really think you are very wise, Jim,” said his mother. “It is too soon + to put such ideas into the poor child's head. She is younger than you, + isn't she, Jim?” + </p> + <p> + “She is just six months and three days younger,” replied Jim, with + majesty. + </p> + <p> + “I thought so. Well, you know, Jim, it would just wear her all out, as + young as that, to be obliged to think about her trousseau and housekeeping + and going to school, too.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it,” said Jim, with a pleased air. “I thought I was right, + mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Entirely right; and you, too, really ought to finish school, and take up + a profession or a business, before you say anything definite. You would + want a nice home for the dear little thing, you know that, Jim.” + </p> + <p> + Jim stared at his mother out of his white pillow. “I thought I would stay + with you, and she would stay with her father until we were both very much + older,” said he. “She has a nice home now, you know, mother.” + </p> + <p> + Sally Patterson's mouth twitched a little, but she spoke quite gravely and + reasonably. “Yes, that is very true,” said she; “still, I do think you are + wise to wait, Jim.” + </p> + <p> + When Sally Patterson had left Jim, she looked in on the rector in his + study. “Our son is thinking seriously of marrying, Edward,” said she. + </p> + <p> + The rector stared at her. She had shut the door, and she laughed. + </p> + <p> + “He is very discreet. He has consulted me as to my approval of her as + daughter and announced his intention to wait a little while.” + </p> + <p> + The rector laughed; then he wrinkled his forehead uneasily. “I don't like + the little chap getting such ideas,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Don't worry, Edward; he hasn't got them,” said Sally Patterson. + </p> + <p> + “I hope not.” + </p> + <p> + “He has made a very wise choice. She is that perfect darling of a Rose + girl who couldn't speak her piece, and thought we all loved her when we + laughed.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, don't let him get foolish ideas; that is all, my dear,” said the + rector. + </p> + <p> + “Don't worry, Edward. I can manage him,” said Sally. + </p> + <p> + But she was mistaken. The very next day Jim proposed in due form to little + Lucy. He could not help it. It was during the morning intermission, and he + came upon her seated all alone under a hawthorn hedge, studying her + arithmetic anxiously. She was in blue, as usual, and a very perky blue bow + sat on her soft, dark hair, like a bluebird. She glanced up at Jim from + under her long lashes. + </p> + <p> + “Do two and seven make eight or ten? If you please, will you tell me?” + said she. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Lucy,” said Jim, “will you marry me by and by?” + </p> + <p> + Lucy stared at him uncomprehendingly. + </p> + <p> + “Will you?” + </p> + <p> + “Will I what?” + </p> + <p> + “Marry me by and by?” + </p> + <p> + Lucy took refuge in her little harbor of ignorance. “I don't know,” said + she. + </p> + <p> + “But you like me, don't you, Lucy?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you like me better than you like Johnny Trumbull?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + “You like me better than you like Arnold Carruth, don't you? He has curls + and wears socks.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + “When do you think you can be sure?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + Jim stared helplessly at little Lucy. She stared back sweetly. + </p> + <p> + “Please tell me whether two and seven make six or eleven, Jim,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “They make nine,” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “I have been counting my fingers and I got it eleven, but I suppose I must + have counted one finger twice,” said little Lucy. She gazed reflectively + at her little baby-hands. A tiny ring with a blue stone shone on one + finger. + </p> + <p> + “I will give you a ring, you know,” Jim said, coaxingly. + </p> + <p> + “I have got a ring my father gave me. Did you say it was ten, please, + Jim?” + </p> + <p> + “Nine,” gasped Jim. + </p> + <p> + “All the way I can remember,” said little Lucy, “is for you to pick just + so many leaves off the hedge, and I will tie them in my handkerchief, and + just before I have to say my lesson I will count those leaves.” + </p> + <p> + Jim obediently picked nine leaves from the hawthorn hedge, and little Lucy + tied them into her handkerchief, and then the Japanese gong sounded and + they went back to school. + </p> + <p> + That night after dinner, just before Lucy went to bed, she spoke of her + own accord to her father and Miss Martha, a thing which she seldom did. + “Jim Patterson asked me to marry him when I asked him what seven and two + made in my arithmetic lesson,” said she. She looked with the loveliest + round eyes of innocence first at her father, then at Miss Martha. Cyril + Rose gasped and laid down his newspaper. + </p> + <p> + “What did you say, little Lucy?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Jim Patterson asked me to marry him when I asked him to tell me how much + seven and two made in my arithmetic lesson.” + </p> + <p> + Cyril Rose and his cousin Martha looked at each other. + </p> + <p> + “Arnold Carruth asked me, too, when a great big wasp flew on my arm and + frightened me.” + </p> + <p> + Cyril and Martha continued to look. The little, sweet, uncertain voice + went on. + </p> + <p> + “And Johnny Trumbull asked me when I 'most fell down on the sidewalk; and + Lee Westminster asked me when I wasn't doing anything, and so did Bubby + Harvey.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you tell them?” asked Miss Martha, in a faint voice. + </p> + <p> + “I told them I didn't know.” + </p> + <p> + “You had better have the child go to bed now,” said Cyril. “Good night, + little Lucy. Always tell father everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, father,” said little Lucy, and was kissed, and went away with + Martha. + </p> + <p> + When Martha returned, her cousin looked at her severely. He was a fair, + gentle-looking man, and severity was impressive when he assumed it. + </p> + <p> + “Really, Martha,” said he, “don't you think you had better have a little + closer outlook over that baby?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Cyril, I never dreamed of such a thing,” cried Miss Martha. + </p> + <p> + “You really must speak to Madame,” said Cyril. “I cannot have such things + put into the child's head.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Cyril, how can I?” + </p> + <p> + “I think it is your duty.” + </p> + <p> + “Cyril, could not—you?” + </p> + <p> + Cyril grinned. “Do you think,” said he, “that I am going to that elegant + widow schoolma'am and say, 'Madame, my young daughter has had four + proposals of marriage in one day, and I must beg you to put a stop to such + proceedings'? No, Martha; it is a woman's place to do such a thing as + that. The whole thing is too absurd, indignant as I am about it. Poor + little soul!” + </p> + <p> + So it happened that Miss Martha Rose, the next day being Saturday, called + on Madame, but, not being asked any leading question, found herself + absolutely unable to deliver herself of her errand, and went away with it + unfulfilled. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I must say,” said Madame to Miss Parmalee, as Miss Martha tripped + wearily down the front walk—“I must say, of all the educated women + who have really been in the world, she is the strangest. You and I have + done nothing but ask inane questions, and she has sat waiting for them, + and chirped back like a canary. I am simply worn out.” + </p> + <p> + “So am I,” sighed Miss Parmalee. + </p> + <p> + But neither of them was so worn out as poor Miss Martha, anticipating her + cousin's reproaches. However, her wonted silence and reticence stood her + in good stead, for he merely asked, after little Lucy had gone to bed: + </p> + <p> + “Well, what did Madame say about Lucy's proposals?” + </p> + <p> + “She did not say anything,” replied Martha. + </p> + <p> + “Did she promise it would not occur again?” + </p> + <p> + “She did not promise, but I don't think it will.” + </p> + <p> + The financial page was unusually thrilling that night, and Cyril Rose, who + had come to think rather lightly of the affair, remarked, absent-mindedly; + “Well, I hope it does not occur again. I cannot have such ridiculous ideas + put into the child's head. If it does, we get a governess for her and take + her away from Madame's.” Then he resumed his reading, and Martha, guilty + but relieved, went on with her knitting. + </p> + <p> + It was late spring then, and little Lucy had attended Madame's school + several months, and her popularity had never waned. A picnic was planned + to Dover's Grove, and the romantic little girls had insisted upon a May + queen, and Lucy was unanimously elected. The pupils of Madame's school + went to the picnic in the manner known as a “strawride.” Miss Parmalee sat + with them, her feet uncomfortably tucked under her. She was the youngest + of the teachers, and could not evade the duty. Madame and Miss Acton + headed the procession, sitting comfortably in a victoria driven by the + colored man Sam, who was employed about the school. Dover's Grove was six + miles from the village, and a favorite spot for picnics. The victoria + rolled on ahead; Madame carried a black parasol, for the sun was on her + side and the day very warm. Both ladies wore thin, dark gowns, and both + felt the languor of spring. + </p> + <p> + The straw-wagon, laden with children seated upon the golden trusses of + straw, looked like a wagonload of blossoms. Fair and dark heads, rosy + faces looked forth in charming clusters. They sang, they chattered. It + made no difference to them that it was not the season for a straw-ride, + that the trusses were musty. They inhaled the fragrance of blooming boughs + under which they rode, and were quite oblivious to all discomfort and + unpleasantness. Poor Miss Parmalee, with her feet going to sleep, sneezing + from time to time from the odor of the old straw, did not obtain the full + beauty of the spring day. She had protested against the straw-ride. + </p> + <p> + “The children really ought to wait until the season for such things,” she + had told Madame, quite boldly; and Madame had replied that she was well + aware of it, but the children wanted something of the sort, and the hay + was not cut, and straw, as it happened, was more easily procured. + </p> + <p> + “It may not be so very musty,” said Madame; “and you know, my dear, straw + is clean, and I am sorry, but you do seem to be the one to ride with the + children on the straw, because”—Madame dropped her voice—“you + are really younger, you know, than either Miss Acton or I.” + </p> + <p> + Poor Miss Parmalee could almost have dispensed with her few years of + superior youth to have gotten rid of that straw-ride. She had no parasol, + and the sun beat upon her head, and the noise of the children got horribly + on her nerves. Little Lucy was her one alleviation. Little Lucy sat in the + midst of the boisterous throng, perfectly still, crowned with her garland + of leaves and flowers, her sweet, pale little face calmly observant. She + was the high light of Madame's school, the effect which made the whole. + All the others looked at little Lucy, they talked to her, they talked at + her; but she remained herself unmoved, as a high light should be. “Dear + little soul,” Miss Parmalee thought. She also thought that it was a pity + that little Lucy could not have worn a white frock in her character as + Queen of the May, but there she was mistaken. The blue was of a peculiar + shade, of a very soft material, and nothing could have been prettier. Jim + Patterson did not often look away from little Lucy; neither did Arnold + Carruth; neither did Bubby Harvey; neither did Johnny Trumbull; neither + did Lily Jennings; neither did many others. + </p> + <p> + Amelia Wheeler, however, felt a little jealous as she watched Lily. She + thought Lily ought to have been queen; and she, while she did not dream of + competing with incomparable little Lucy, wished Lily would not always look + at Lucy with such worshipful admiration. Amelia was inconsistent. She knew + that she herself could not aspire to being an object of worship, but the + state of being a nonentity for Lily was depressing. “Wonder if I jumped + out of this old wagon and got killed if she would mind one bit?” she + thought, tragically. But Amelia did not jump. She had tragic impulses, or + rather imaginations of tragic impulses, but she never carried them out. It + was left for little Lucy, flower-crowned and calmly sweet and gentle under + honors, to be guilty of a tragedy of which she never dreamed. For that was + the day when little Lucy was lost. + </p> + <p> + When the picnic was over, when the children were climbing into the + straw-wagon and Madame and Miss Acton were genteelly disposed in the + victoria, a lamentable cry arose. Sam drew his reins tight and rolled his + inquiring eyes around; Madame and Miss Acton leaned far out on either side + of the victoria. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what is it?” said Madame. “My dear Miss Acton, do pray get out and + see what the trouble is. I begin to feel a little faint.” + </p> + <p> + In fact, Madame got her cut-glass smelling-bottle out of her bag and began + to sniff vigorously. Sam gazed backward and paid no attention to her. + Madame always felt faint when anything unexpected occurred, and smelled at + the pretty bottle, but she never fainted. + </p> + <p> + Miss Acton got out, lifting her nice skirts clear of the dusty wheel, and + she scuttled back to the uproarious straw-wagon, showing her slender + ankles and trimly shod feet. Miss Acton was a very wiry, dainty woman, + full of nervous energy. When she reached the straw-wagon Miss Parmalee was + climbing out, assisted by the driver. Miss Parmalee was very pale and + visibly tremulous. The children were all shrieking in dissonance, so it + was quite impossible to tell what the burden of their tale of woe was; but + obviously something of a tragic nature had happened. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter?” asked Miss Acton, teetering like a humming-bird with + excitement. + </p> + <p> + “Little Lucy—” gasped Miss Parmalee. + </p> + <p> + “What about her?” + </p> + <p> + “She isn't here.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is she?” + </p> + <p> + “We don't know. We just missed her.” + </p> + <p> + Then the cry of the children for little Lucy Rose, although sadly + wrangled, became intelligible. Madame came, holding up her silk skirt and + sniffing at her smelling-bottle, and everybody asked questions of + everybody else, and nobody knew any satisfactory answers. Johnny Trumbull + was confident that he was the last one to see little Lucy, and so were + Lily Jennings and Amelia Wheeler, and so were Jim Patterson and Bubby + Harvey and Arnold Carruth and Lee Westminster and many others; but when + pinned down to the actual moment everybody disagreed, and only one thing + was certain—little Lucy Rose was missing. + </p> + <p> + “What shall I say to her father?” moaned Madame. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, we shall find her before we say anything,” returned Miss + Parmalee, who was sure to rise to an emergency. Madame sank helpless + before one. “You had better go and sit under that tree (Sam, take a + cushion out of the carriage for Madame) and keep quiet; then Sam must + drive to the village and give the alarm, and the strawwagon had better go, + too; and the rest of us will hunt by threes, three always keeping + together. Remember, children, three of you keep together, and, whatever + you do, be sure and do not separate. We cannot have another lost.” + </p> + <p> + It seemed very sound advice. Madame, pale and frightened, sat on the + cushion under the tree and sniffed at her smelling-bottle, and the rest + scattered and searched the grove and surrounding underbrush thoroughly. + But it was sunset when the groups returned to Madame under her tree, and + the strawwagon with excited people was back, and the victoria with Lucy's + father and the rector and his wife, and Dr. Trumbull in his buggy, and + other carriages fast arriving. Poor Miss Martha Rose had been out calling + when she heard the news, and she was walking to the scene of action. The + victoria in which her cousin was seated left her in a cloud of dust. Cyril + Rose had not noticed the mincing figure with the card-case and the + parasol. + </p> + <p> + The village searched for little Lucy Rose, but it was Jim Patterson who + found her, and in the most unlikely of places. A forlorn pair with a + multiplicity of forlorn children lived in a tumble-down house about half a + mile from the grove. The man's name was Silas Thomas, and his wife's was + Sarah. Poor Sarah had lost a large part of the small wit she had + originally owned several years before, when her youngest daughter, aged + four, died. All the babies that had arrived since had not consoled her for + the death of that little lamb, by name Viola May, nor restored her full + measure of under-wit. Poor Sarah Thomas had spied adorable little Lucy + separated from her mates by chance for a few minutes, picking wild + flowers, and had seized her in forcible but loving arms and carried her + home. Had Lucy not been such a silent, docile child, it could never have + happened; but she was a mere little limp thing in the grasp of the + over-loving, deprived mother who thought she had gotten back her own + beloved Viola May. + </p> + <p> + When Jim Patterson, big-eyed and pale, looked in at the Thomas door, there + sat Sarah Thomas, a large, unkempt, wild-visaged, but gentle creature, + holding little Lucy and cuddling her, while Lucy, shrinking away as far as + she was able, kept her big, dark eyes of wonder and fear upon the woman's + face. And all around were clustered the Thomas children, unkempt as their + mother, a gentle but degenerate brood, all of them believing what their + mother said. Viola May had come home again. Silas Thomas was not there; he + was trudging slowly homeward from a job of wood-cutting. Jim saw only the + mother, little Lucy, and that poor little flock of children gazing in + wonder and awe. Jim rushed in and faced Sarah Thomas. “Give me little + Lucy!” said he, as fiercely as any man. But he reckoned without the + unreasoning love of a mother. Sarah only held little Lucy faster, and the + poor little girl rolled appealing eyes at him over that brawny, grasping + arm of affection. + </p> + <p> + Jim raced for help, and it was not long before it came. Little Lucy rode + home in the victoria, seated in Sally Patterson's lap. “Mother, you take + her,” Jim had pleaded; and Sally, in the face and eyes of Madame, had + gathered the little trembling creature into her arms. In her heart she had + not much of an opinion of any woman who had allowed such a darling little + girl out of her sight for a moment. Madame accepted a seat in another + carriage and rode home, explaining and sniffing and inwardly resolving + never again to have a straw-ride. + </p> + <p> + Jim stood on the step of the victoria all the way home. They passed poor + Miss Martha Rose, still faring toward the grove, and nobody noticed her, + for the second time. She did not turn back until the straw-wagon, which + formed the tail of the little procession, reached her. That she halted + with mad waves of her parasol, and, when told that little Lucy was found, + refused a seat on the straw because she did not wish to rumple her best + gown and turned about and fared home again. + </p> + <p> + The rectory was reached before Cyril Rose's house, and Cyril yielded + gratefully to Sally Patterson's proposition that she take the little girl + with her, give her dinner, see that she was washed and brushed and freed + from possible contamination from the Thomases, who were not a cleanly lot, + and later brought home in the rector's carriage. However, little Lucy + stayed all night at the rectory. She had a bath; her lovely, misty hair + was brushed; she was fed and petted; and finally Sally Patterson + telephoned for permission to keep her overnight. By that time poor Martha + had reached home and was busily brushing her best dress. + </p> + <p> + After dinner, little Lucy, very happy and quite restored, sat in Sally + Patterson's lap on the veranda, while Jim hovered near. His innocent + boy-love made him feel as if he had wings. But his wings only bore him to + failure, before an earlier and mightier force of love than his young heart + could yet compass for even such a darling as little Lucy. He sat on the + veranda step and gazed eagerly and rapturously at little Lucy on his + mother's lap, and the desire to have her away from other loves came over + him. He saw the fireflies dancing in swarms on the lawn, and a favorite + sport of the children of the village occurred to him. + </p> + <p> + “Say, little Lucy,” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + Little Lucy looked up with big, dark eyes under her mist of hair, as she + nestled against Sally Patterson's shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Say, let's chase fireflies, little Lucy.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want to chase fireflies with Jim, darling?” asked Sally. + </p> + <p> + Little Lucy nestled closer. “I would rather stay with you,” said she in + her meek flute of a voice, and she gazed up at Sally with the look which + she might have given the mother she had lost. + </p> + <p> + Sally kissed her and laughed. Then she reached down a fond hand and patted + her boy's head. “Never mind, Jim,” said Sally. “Mothers have to come + first.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NOBLESSE + </h2> + <p> + MARGARET LEE encountered in her late middle age the rather singular strait + of being entirely alone in the world. She was unmarried, and as far as + relatives were concerned, she had none except those connected with her by + ties not of blood, but by marriage. + </p> + <p> + Margaret had not married when her flesh had been comparative; later, when + it had become superlative, she had no opportunities to marry. Life would + have been hard enough for Margaret under any circumstances, but it was + especially hard, living, as she did, with her father's stepdaughter and + that daughter's husband. + </p> + <p> + Margaret's stepmother had been a child in spite of her two marriages, and + a very silly, although pretty child. The daughter, Camille, was like her, + although not so pretty, and the man whom Camille had married was what + Margaret had been taught to regard as “common.” His business pursuits were + irregular and partook of mystery. He always smoked cigarettes and chewed + gum. He wore loud shirts and a diamond scarf-pin which had upon him the + appearance of stolen goods. The gem had belonged to Margaret's own mother, + but when Camille expressed a desire to present it to Jack Desmond, + Margaret had yielded with no outward hesitation, but afterward she wept + miserably over its loss when alone in her room. The spirit had gone out of + Margaret, the little which she had possessed. She had always been a + gentle, sensitive creature, and was almost helpless before the wishes of + others. + </p> + <p> + After all, it had been a long time since Margaret had been able to force + the ring even upon her little finger, but she had derived a small pleasure + from the reflection that she owned it in its faded velvet box, hidden + under laces in her top bureau drawer. She did not like to see it blazing + forth from the tie of this very ordinary young man who had married + Camille. Margaret had a gentle, high-bred contempt for Jack Desmond, but + at the same time a vague fear of him. Jack had a measure of unscrupulous + business shrewdness, which spared nothing and nobody, and that in spite of + the fact that he had not succeeded. + </p> + <p> + Margaret owned the old Lee place, which had been magnificent, but of late + years the expenditures had been reduced and it had deteriorated. The + conservatories had been closed. There was only one horse in the stable. + Jack had bought him. He was a wornout trotter with legs carefully + bandaged. Jack drove him at reckless speed, not considering those slender, + braceleted legs. Jack had a racing-gig, and when in it, with striped coat, + cap on one side, cigarette in mouth, lines held taut, skimming along the + roads in clouds of dust, he thought himself the man and true sportsman + which he was not. Some of the old Lee silver had paid for that waning + trotter. + </p> + <p> + Camille adored Jack, and cared for no associations, no society, for which + he was not suited. Before the trotter was bought she told Margaret that + the kind of dinners which she was able to give in Fairhill were awfully + slow. “If we could afford to have some men out from the city, some nice + fellers that Jack knows, it would be worth while,” said she, “but we have + grown so hard up we can't do a thing to make it worth their while. Those + men haven't got any use for a back-number old place like this. We can't + take them round in autos, nor give them a chance at cards, for Jack + couldn't pay if he lost, and Jack is awful honorable. We can't have the + right kind of folks here for any fun. I don't propose to ask the rector + and his wife, and old Mr. Harvey, or people like the Leaches.” + </p> + <p> + “The Leaches are a very good old family,” said Margaret, feebly. + </p> + <p> + “I don't care for good old families when they are so slow,” retorted + Camille. “The fellers we could have here, if we were rich enough, come + from fine families, but they are up-to-date. It's no use hanging on to old + silver dishes we never use and that I don't intend to spoil my hands + shining. Poor Jack don't have much fun, anyway. If he wants that trotter—he + says it's going dirt cheap—I think it's mean he can't have it, + instead of your hanging on to a lot of out-of-style old silver; so there.” + </p> + <p> + Two generations ago there had been French blood in Camille's family. She + put on her clothes beautifully; she had a dark, rather fine-featured, + alert little face, which gave a wrong impression, for she was essentially + vulgar. Sometimes poor Margaret Lee wished that Camille had been + definitely vicious, if only she might be possessed of more of the + characteristics of breeding. Camille so irritated Margaret in those + somewhat abstruse traits called sensibilities that she felt as if she were + living with a sort of spiritual nutmeg-grater. Seldom did Camille speak + that she did not jar Margaret, although unconsciously. Camille meant to be + kind to the stout woman, whom she pitied as far as she was capable of + pitying without understanding. She realized that it must be horrible to be + no longer young, and so stout that one was fairly monstrous, but how + horrible she could not with her mentality conceive. Jack also meant to be + kind. He was not of the brutal—that is, intentionally brutal—type, + but he had a shrewd eye to the betterment of himself, and no realization + of the torture he inflicted upon those who opposed that betterment. + </p> + <p> + For a long time matters had been worse than usual financially in the Lee + house. The sisters had been left in charge of the sadly dwindled estate, + and had depended upon the judgment, or lack of judgment, of Jack. He + approved of taking your chances and striking for larger income. The few + good old grandfather securities had been sold, and wild ones from the very + jungle of commerce had been substituted. Jack, like most of his type, + while shrewd, was as credulous as a child. He lied himself, and expected + all men to tell him the truth. Camille at his bidding mortgaged the old + place, and Margaret dared not oppose. Taxes were not paid; interest was + not paid; credit was exhausted. Then the house was put up at public + auction, and brought little more than sufficient to pay the creditors. + Jack took the balance and staked it in a few games of chance, and of + course lost. The weary trotter stumbled one day and had to be shot. Jack + became desperate. He frightened Camille. He was suddenly morose. He bade + Camille pack, and Margaret also, and they obeyed. Camille stowed away her + crumpled finery in the bulging old trunks, and Margaret folded daintily + her few remnants of past treasures. She had an old silk gown or two, which + resisted with their rich honesty the inroads of time, and a few pieces of + old lace, which Camille understood no better than she understood their + owner. + </p> + <p> + Then Margaret and the Desmonds went to the city and lived in a horrible, + tawdry little flat in a tawdry locality. Jack roared with bitter mirth + when he saw poor Margaret forced to enter her tiny room sidewise; Camille + laughed also, although she chided Jack gently. “Mean of you to make fun of + poor Margaret, Jacky dear,” she said. + </p> + <p> + For a few weeks Margaret's life in that flat was horrible; then it became + still worse. Margaret nearly filled with her weary, ridiculous bulk her + little room, and she remained there most of the time, although it was + sunny and noisy, its one window giving on a courtyard strung with + clothes-lines and teeming with boisterous life. Camille and Jack went + trolley-riding, and made shift to entertain a little, merry but + questionable people, who gave them passes to vaudeville and entertained in + their turn until the small hours. Unquestionably these people suggested to + Jack Desmond the scheme which spelled tragedy to Margaret. + </p> + <p> + She always remembered one little dark man with keen eyes who had seen her + disappearing through her door of a Sunday night when all these gay, + bedraggled birds were at liberty and the fun ran high. “Great Scott!” the + man had said, and Margaret had heard him demand of Jack that she be + recalled. She obeyed, and the man was introduced, also the other members + of the party. Margaret Lee stood in the midst of this throng and heard + their repressed titters of mirth at her appearance. Everybody there was in + good humor with the exception of Jack, who was still nursing his bad luck, + and the little dark man, whom Jack owed. The eyes of Jack and the little + dark man made Margaret cold with a terror of something, she knew not what. + Before that terror the shame and mortification of her exhibition to that + merry company was of no import. + </p> + <p> + She stood among them, silent, immense, clad in her dark purple silk gown + spread over a great hoopskirt. A real lace collar lay softly over her + enormous, billowing shoulders; real lace ruffles lay over her great, + shapeless hands. Her face, the delicacy of whose features was veiled with + flesh, flushed and paled. Not even flesh could subdue the sad brilliancy + of her dark-blue eyes, fixed inward upon her own sad state, unregardful of + the company. She made an indefinite murmur of response to the salutations + given her, and then retreated. She heard the roar of laughter after she + had squeezed through the door of her room. Then she heard eager + conversation, of which she did not catch the real import, but which + terrified her with chance expressions. She was quite sure that she was the + subject of that eager discussion. She was quite sure that it boded her no + good. + </p> + <p> + In a few days she knew the worst; and the worst was beyond her utmost + imaginings. This was before the days of moving-picture shows; it was the + day of humiliating spectacles of deformities, when inventions of + amusements for the people had not progressed. It was the day of + exhibitions of sad freaks of nature, calculated to provoke tears rather + than laughter in the healthy-minded, and poor Margaret Lee was a chosen + victim. Camille informed her in a few words of her fate. Camille was sorry + for her, although not in the least understanding why she was sorry. She + realized dimly that Margaret would be distressed, but she was unable from + her narrow point of view to comprehend fully the whole tragedy. + </p> + <p> + “Jack has gone broke,” stated Camille. “He owes Bill Stark a pile, and he + can't pay a cent of it; and Jack's sense of honor about a poker debt is + about the biggest thing in his character. Jack has got to pay. And Bill + has a little circus, going to travel all summer, and he's offered big + money for you. Jack can pay Bill what he owes him, and we'll have enough + to live on, and have lots of fun going around. You hadn't ought to make a + fuss about it.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret, pale as death, stared at the girl, pertly slim, and common and + pretty, who stared back laughingly, although still with the glimmer of + uncomprehending pity in her black eyes. + </p> + <p> + “What does—he—want—me—for?” gasped Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “For a show, because you are so big,” replied Camille. “You will make us + all rich, Margaret. Ain't it nice?” + </p> + <p> + Then Camille screamed, the shrill raucous scream of the women of her type, + for Margaret had fallen back in a dead faint, her immense bulk inert in + her chair. Jack came running in alarm. Margaret had suddenly gained value + in his shrewd eyes. He was as pale as she. + </p> + <p> + Finally Margaret raised her head, opened her miserable eyes, and regained + her consciousness of herself and what lay before her. There was no course + open but submission. She knew that from the first. All three faced + destitution; she was the one financial asset, she and her poor flesh. She + had to face it, and with what dignity she could muster. + </p> + <p> + Margaret had great piety. She kept constantly before her mental vision the + fact in which she believed, that the world which she found so hard, and + which put her to unspeakable torture, was not all. + </p> + <p> + A week elapsed before the wretched little show of which she was to be a + member went on the road, and night after night she prayed. She besieged + her God for strength. She never prayed for respite. Her realization of the + situation and her lofty resolution prevented that. The awful, ridiculous + combat was before her; there was no evasion; she prayed only for the + strength which leads to victory. + </p> + <p> + However, when the time came, it was all worse than she had imagined. How + could a woman gently born and bred conceive of the horrible ignominy of + such a life? She was dragged hither and yon, to this and that little town. + She traveled through sweltering heat on jolting trains; she slept in + tents; she lived—she, Margaret Lee—on terms of equality with + the common and the vulgar. Daily her absurd unwieldiness was exhibited to + crowds screaming with laughter. Even her faith wavered. It seemed to her + that there was nothing for evermore beyond those staring, jeering faces of + silly mirth and delight at sight of her, seated in two chairs, clad in a + pink spangled dress, her vast shoulders bare and sparkling with a tawdry + necklace, her great, bare arms covered with brass bracelets, her hands + incased in short, white kid gloves, over the fingers of which she wore a + number of rings—stage properties. + </p> + <p> + Margaret became a horror to herself. At times it seemed to her that she + was in the way of fairly losing her own identity. It mattered little that + Camille and Jack were very kind to her, that they showed her the nice + things which her terrible earnings had enabled them to have. She sat in + her two chairs—the two chairs proved a most successful advertisement—with + her two kid-cushiony hands clenched in her pink spangled lap, and she + suffered agony of soul, which made her inner self stern and terrible, + behind that great pink mask of face. And nobody realized until one sultry + day when the show opened at a village in a pocket of green hills—indeed, + its name was Greenhill—and Sydney Lord went to see it. + </p> + <p> + Margaret, who had schooled herself to look upon her audience as if they + were not, suddenly comprehended among them another soul who understood her + own. She met the eyes of the man, and a wonderful comfort, as of a cool + breeze blowing over the face of clear water, came to her. She knew that + the man understood. She knew that she had his fullest sympathy. She saw + also a comrade in the toils of comic tragedy, for Sydney Lord was in the + same case. He was a mountain of flesh. As a matter of fact, had he not + been known in Greenhill and respected as a man of weight of character as + well as of body, and of an old family, he would have rivaled Margaret. + Beside him sat an elderly woman, sweet-faced, slightly bent as to her + slender shoulders, as if with a chronic attitude of submission. She was + Sydney's widowed sister, Ellen Waters. She lived with her brother and kept + his house, and had no will other than his. + </p> + <p> + Sydney Lord and his sister remained when the rest of the audience had + drifted out, after the privileged hand-shakes with the queen of the show. + Every time a coarse, rustic hand reached familiarly after Margaret's, + Sydney shrank. + </p> + <p> + He motioned his sister to remain seated when he approached the stage. Jack + Desmond, who had been exploiting Margaret, gazed at him with admiring + curiosity. Sydney waved him away with a commanding gesture. “I wish to + speak to her a moment. Pray leave the tent,” he said, and Jack obeyed. + People always obeyed Sydney Lord. + </p> + <p> + Sydney stood before Margaret, and he saw the clear crystal, which was + herself, within all the flesh, clad in tawdry raiment, and she knew that + he saw it. + </p> + <p> + “Good God!” said Sydney, “you are a lady!” + </p> + <p> + He continued to gaze at her, and his eyes, large and brown, became + blurred; at the same time his mouth tightened. + </p> + <p> + “How came you to be in such a place as this?” demanded Sydney. He spoke + almost as if he were angry with her. + </p> + <p> + Margaret explained briefly. + </p> + <p> + “It is an outrage,” declared Sydney. He said it, however, rather absently. + He was reflecting. “Where do you live?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Here.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean—?” + </p> + <p> + “They make up a bed for me here, after the people have gone.” + </p> + <p> + “And I suppose you had—before this—a comfortable house.” + </p> + <p> + “The house which my grandfather Lee owned, the old Lee mansion-house, + before we went to the city. It was a very fine old Colonial house,” + explained Margaret, in her finely modulated voice. + </p> + <p> + “And you had a good room?” + </p> + <p> + “The southeast chamber had always been mine. It was very large, and the + furniture was old Spanish mahogany.” + </p> + <p> + “And now—” said Sydney. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Margaret. She looked at him, and her serious blue eyes seemed + to see past him. “It will not last,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I try to learn a lesson. I am a child in the school of God. My lesson is + one that always ends in peace.” + </p> + <p> + “Good God!” said Sydney. + </p> + <p> + He motioned to his sister, and Ellen approached in a frightened fashion. + Her brother could do no wrong, but this was the unusual, and alarmed her. + </p> + <p> + “This lady—” began Sydney. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Lee,” said Margaret. “I was never married. I am Miss Margaret Lee.” + </p> + <p> + “This,” said Sydney, “is my sister Ellen, Mrs. Waters. Ellen, I wish you + to meet Miss Lee.” + </p> + <p> + Ellen took into her own Margaret's hand, and said feebly that it was a + beautiful day and she hoped Miss Lee found Greenhill a pleasant place to—visit. + </p> + <p> + Sydney moved slowly out of the tent and found Jack Desmond. He was + standing near with Camille, who looked her best in a pale-blue summer silk + and a black hat trimmed with roses. Jack and Camille never really knew how + the great man had managed, but presently Margaret had gone away with him + and his sister. + </p> + <p> + Jack and Camille looked at each other. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Jack, ought you to have let her go?” said Camille. + </p> + <p> + “What made you let her go?” asked Jack. + </p> + <p> + “I—don't know. I couldn't say anything. That man has a tremendous + way with him. Goodness!” + </p> + <p> + “He is all right here in the place, anyhow,” said Jack. “They look up to + him. He is a big-bug here. Comes of a family like Margaret's, though he + hasn't got much money. Some chaps were braggin' that they had a bigger + show than her right here, and I found out.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose,” said Camille, “Margaret does not come back?” + </p> + <p> + “He could not keep her without bein' arrested,” declared Jack, but he + looked uneasy. He had, however, looked uneasy for some time. The fact was, + Margaret had been very gradually losing weight. Moreover, she was not + well. That very night, after the show was over, Bill Stark, the little + dark man, had a talk with the Desmonds about it. + </p> + <p> + “Truth is, before long, if you don't look out, you'll have to pad her,” + said Bill; “and giants don't amount to a row of pins after that begins.” + </p> + <p> + Camille looked worried and sulky. “She ain't very well, anyhow,” said she. + “I ain't going to kill Margaret.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a good thing she's got a chance to have a night's rest in a house,” + said Bill Stark. + </p> + <p> + “The fat man has asked her to stay with him and his sister while the show + is here,” said Jack. + </p> + <p> + “The sister invited her,” said Camille, with a little stiffness. She was + common, but she had lived with Lees, and her mother had married a Lee. She + knew what was due Margaret, and also due herself. + </p> + <p> + “The truth is,” said Camille, “this is an awful sort of life for a woman + like Margaret. She and her folks were never used to anything like it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn't you make your beauty husband hustle and take care of her and + you, then?” demanded Bill, who admired Camille, and disliked her because + she had no eyes for him. + </p> + <p> + “My husband has been unfortunate. He has done the best he could,” + responded Camille. “Come, Jack; no use talking about it any longer. Guess + Margaret will pick up. Come along. I'm tired out.” + </p> + <p> + That night Margaret Lee slept in a sweet chamber with muslin curtains at + the windows, in a massive old mahogany bed, much like hers which had been + sacrificed at an auction sale. The bed-linen was linen, and smelled of + lavender. Margaret was too happy to sleep. She lay in the cool, fragrant + sheets and was happy, and convinced of the presence of the God to whom she + had prayed. All night Sydney Lord sat down-stairs in his book-walled + sanctum and studied over the situation. It was a crucial one. The great + psychological moment of Sydney Lord's life for knight-errantry had + arrived. He studied the thing from every point of view. There was no + romance about it. These were hard, sordid, tragic, ludicrous facts with + which he had to deal. He knew to a nicety the agonies which Margaret + suffered. He knew, because of his own capacity for sufferings of like + stress. “And she is a woman and a lady,” he said, aloud. + </p> + <p> + If Sydney had been rich enough, the matter would have been simple. He + could have paid Jack and Camille enough to quiet them, and Margaret could + have lived with him and his sister and their two old servants. But he was + not rich; he was even poor. The price to be paid for Margaret's liberty + was a bitter one, but it was that or nothing. Sydney faced it. He looked + about the room. To him the walls lined with the dull gleams of old books + were lovely. There was an oil portrait of his mother over the + mantel-shelf. The weather was warm now, and there was no need for a hearth + fire, but how exquisitely home-like and dear that room could be when the + snow drove outside and there was the leap of flame on the hearth! Sydney + was a scholar and a gentleman. He had led a gentle and sequestered life. + Here in his native village there were none to gibe and sneer. The contrast + of the traveling show would be as great for him as it had been for + Margaret, but he was the male of the species, and she the female. + Chivalry, racial, harking back to the beginning of nobility in the human, + to its earliest dawn, fired Sydney. The pale daylight invaded the study. + Sydney, as truly as any knight of old, had girded himself, and with no + hope, no thought of reward, for the battle in the eternal service of the + strong for the weak, which makes the true worth of the strong. + </p> + <p> + There was only one way. Sydney Lord took it. His sister was spared the + knowledge of the truth for a long while. When she knew, she did not + lament; since Sydney had taken the course, it must be right. As for + Margaret, not knowing the truth, she yielded. She was really on the verge + of illness. Her spirit was of too fine a strain to enable her body to + endure long. When she was told that she was to remain with Sydney's sister + while Sydney went away on business, she made no objection. A wonderful + sense of relief, as of wings of healing being spread under her despair, + was upon her. Camille came to bid her good-by. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you have a nice visit in this lovely house,” said Camille, and + kissed her. Camille was astute, and to be trusted. She did not betray + Sydney's confidence. Sydney used a disguise—a dark wig over his + partially bald head and a little make-up-and he traveled about with the + show and sat on three chairs, and shook hands with the gaping crowd, and + was curiously happy. It was discomfort; it was ignominy; it was maddening + to support by the exhibition of his physical deformity a perfectly + worthless young couple like Jack and Camille Desmond, but it was all + superbly ennobling for the man himself. + </p> + <p> + Always as he sat on his three chairs, immense, grotesque—the more + grotesque for his splendid dignity of bearing—there was in his soul + of a gallant gentleman the consciousness of that other, whom he was + shielding from a similar ordeal. Compassion and generosity, so great that + they comprehended love itself and excelled its highest type, irradiated + the whole being of the fat man exposed to the gaze of his inferiors. + Chivalry, which rendered him almost god-like, strengthened him for his + task. Sydney thought always of Margaret as distinct from her physical + self, a sort of crystalline, angelic soul, with no encumbrance of earth. + He achieved a purely spiritual conception of her. And Margaret, living + again her gentle lady life, was likewise ennobled by a gratitude which + transformed her. Always a clear and beautiful soul, she gave out new + lights of character like a jewel in the sun. And she also thought of + Sydney as distinct from his physical self. The consciousness of the two + human beings, one of the other, was a consciousness as of two wonderful + lines of good and beauty, moving for ever parallel, separate, and + inseparable in an eternal harmony of spirit. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CORONATION + </h2> + <p> + JIM BENNET had never married. He had passed middle life, and possessed + considerable property. Susan Adkins kept house for him. She was a widow + and a very distant relative. Jim had two nieces, his brother's daughters. + One, Alma Beecher, was married; the other, Amanda, was not. The nieces had + naively grasping views concerning their uncle and his property. They + stated freely that they considered him unable to care for it; that a + guardian should be appointed and the property be theirs at once. They + consulted Lawyer Thomas Hopkinson with regard to it; they discoursed at + length upon what they claimed to be an idiosyncrasy of Jim's, denoting + failing mental powers. + </p> + <p> + “He keeps a perfect slew of cats, and has a coal fire for them in the + woodshed all winter,” said Amanda. + </p> + <p> + “Why in thunder shouldn't he keep a fire in the woodshed if he wants to?” + demanded Hopkinson. “I know of no law against it. And there isn't a law in + the country regulating the number of cats a man can keep.” Thomas + Hopkinson, who was an old friend of Jim's, gave his prominent chin an + upward jerk as he sat in his office arm-chair before his clients. + </p> + <p> + “There is something besides cats,” said Alma + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “He talks to himself.” + </p> + <p> + “What in creation do you expect the poor man to do? He can't talk to Susan + Adkins about a blessed thing except tidies and pincushions. That woman + hasn't a thought in her mind outside her soul's salvation and fancy-work. + Jim has to talk once in a while to keep himself a man. What if he does + talk to himself? I talk to myself. Next thing you will want to be + appointed guardian over me, Amanda.” + </p> + <p> + Hopkinson was a bachelor, and Amanda flushed angrily. + </p> + <p> + “He wasn't what I call even gentlemanly,” she told Alma, when the two were + on their way home. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose Tom Hopkinson thought you were setting your cap at him,” + retorted Alma. She relished the dignity of her married state, and enjoyed + giving her spinster sister little claws when occasion called. However, + Amanda had a temper of her own, and she could claw back. + </p> + <p> + “YOU needn't talk,” said she. “You only took Joe Beecher when you had + given up getting anybody better. You wanted Tom Hopkinson yourself. I + haven't forgotten that blue silk dress you got and wore to meeting. You + needn't talk. You know you got that dress just to make Tom look at you, + and he didn't. You needn't talk.” + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn't have married Tom Hopkinson if he had been the only man on the + face of the earth,” declared Alma with dignity; but she colored hotly. + </p> + <p> + Amanda sniffed. “Well, as near as I can find out Uncle Jim can go on + talking to himself and keeping cats, and we can't do anything,” said she. + </p> + <p> + When the two women were home, they told Alma's husband, Joe Beecher, about + their lack of success. They were quite heated with their walk and + excitement. “I call it a shame,” said Alma. “Anybody knows that poor Uncle + Jim would be better off with a guardian.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Amanda. “What man that had a grain of horse sense would + do such a crazy thing as to keep a coal fire in a woodshed?” + </p> + <p> + “For such a slew of cats, too,” said Alma, nodding fiercely. + </p> + <p> + Alma's husband, Joe Beecher, spoke timidly and undecidedly in the defense. + “You know,” he said, “that Mrs. Adkins wouldn't have those cats in the + house, and cats mostly like to sit round where it's warm.” + </p> + <p> + His wife regarded him. Her nose wrinkled. “I suppose next thing YOU'LL be + wanting to have a cat round where it's warm, right under my feet, with all + I have to do,” said she. Her voice had an actual acidity of sound. + </p> + <p> + Joe gasped. He was a large man with a constant expression of wondering + inquiry. It was the expression of his babyhood; he had never lost it, and + it was an expression which revealed truly the state of his mind. Always + had Joe Beecher wondered, first of all at finding himself in the world at + all, then at the various happenings of existence. He probably wondered + more about the fact of his marriage with Alma Bennet than anything else, + although he never betrayed his wonder. He was always painfully anxious to + please his wife, of whom he stood in awe. Now he hastened to reply: “Why, + no, Alma; of course I won't.” + </p> + <p> + “Because,” said Alma, “I haven't come to my time of life, through all the + trials I've had, to be taking any chances of breaking my bones over any + miserable, furry, four-footed animal that wouldn't catch a mouse if one + run right under her nose.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want any cat,” repeated Joe, miserably. His fear and awe of the + two women increased. When his sister-in-law turned upon him he fairly + cringed. + </p> + <p> + “Cats!” said Amanda. Then she sniffed. The sniff was worse than speech. + </p> + <p> + Joe repeated in a mumble that he didn't want any cats, and went out, + closing the door softly after him, as he had been taught. However, he was + entirely sure, in the depths of his subjugated masculine mind, that his + wife and her sister had no legal authority whatever to interfere with + their uncle's right to keep a hundred coal fires in his woodshed, for a + thousand cats. He always had an inner sense of glee when he heard the two + women talk over the matter. Once Amanda had declared that she did not + believe that Tom Hopkinson knew much about law, anyway. + </p> + <p> + “He seems to stand pretty high,” Joe ventured with the utmost mildness. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he does,” admitted Alma, grudgingly. + </p> + <p> + “It does not follow he knows law,” persisted Amanda, “and it MAY follow + that he likes cats. There was that great Maltese tommy brushing round all + the time we were in his office, but I didn't dare shoo him off for fear it + might be against the law.” Amanda laughed, a very disagreeable little + laugh. Joe said nothing, but inwardly he chuckled. It was the cause of man + with man. He realized a great, even affectionate, understanding of Jim. + </p> + <p> + The day after his nieces had visited the lawyer's office, Jim was + preparing to call on his friend Edward Hayward, the minister. Before + leaving he looked carefully after the fire in the woodshed. The stove was + large. Jim piled on the coal, regardless outwardly that the housekeeper, + Susan Adkins, had slammed the kitchen door to indicate her contempt. + Inwardly Jim felt hurt, but he had felt hurt so long from the same cause + that the sensation had become chronic, and was borne with a gentle + patience. Moreover, there was something which troubled him more and was + the reason for his contemplated call on his friend. He evened the coals on + the fire with great care, and replenished from the pail in the icebox the + cats' saucers. There was a circle of clean white saucers around the stove. + Jim owned many cats; counting the kittens, there were probably over + twenty. Mrs. Adkins counted them in the sixties. “Those sixty-seven cats,” + she said. + </p> + <p> + Jim often gave away cats when he was confident of securing good homes, but + supply exceeded the demand. Now and then tragedies took place in that + woodshed. Susan Adkins came bravely to the front upon these occasions. + Quite convinced was Susan Adkins that she had a good home, and it behooved + her to keep it, and she did not in the least object to drowning, now and + then, a few very young kittens. She did this with neatness and despatch + while Jim walked to the store on an errand and was supposed to know + nothing about it. There was simply not enough room in his woodshed for the + accumulation of cats, although his heart could have held all. + </p> + <p> + That day, as he poured out the milk, cats of all ages and sizes and colors + purred in a softly padding multitude around his feet, and he regarded them + with love. There were tiger cats, Maltese cats, black-and-white cats, + black cats and white cats, tommies and females, and his heart leaped to + meet the pleading mews of all. The saucers were surrounded. Little pink + tongues lapped. “Pretty pussy! pretty pussy!” cooed Jim, addressing them + in general. He put on his overcoat and hat, which he kept on a peg behind + the door. Jim had an arm-chair in the woodshed. He always sat there when + he smoked; Susan Adkins demurred at his smoking in the house, which she + kept so nice, and Jim did not dream of rebellion. He never questioned the + right of a woman to bar tobacco smoke from a house. Before leaving he + refilled some of the saucers. He was not sure that all of the cats were + there; some might be afield, hunting, and he wished them to find + refreshment when they returned. He stroked the splendid striped back of a + great tiger tommy which filled his armchair. This cat was his special pet. + He fastened the outer shed door with a bit of rope in order that it might + not blow entirely open, and yet allow his feline friends to pass, should + they choose. Then he went out. + </p> + <p> + The day was clear, with a sharp breath of frost. The fields gleamed with + frost, offering to the eye a fine shimmer as of diamond-dust under the + brilliant blue sky, overspread in places with a dapple of little white + clouds. + </p> + <p> + “White frost and mackerel sky; going to be falling weather,” Jim said, + aloud, as he went out of the yard, crunching the crisp grass under heel. + </p> + <p> + Susan Adkins at a window saw his lips moving. His talking to himself made + her nervous, although it did not render her distrustful of his sanity. It + was fortunate that Susan had not told Jim that she disliked his habit. In + that case he would have deprived himself of that slight solace; he would + not have dreamed of opposing Susan's wishes. Jim had a great pity for the + nervous whims, as he regarded them, of women—a pity so intense and + tender that it verged on respect and veneration. He passed his nieces' + house on the way to the minister's, and both were looking out of windows + and saw his lips moving. + </p> + <p> + “There he goes, talking to himself like a crazy loon,” said Amanda. + </p> + <p> + Alma nodded. + </p> + <p> + Jim went on, blissfully unconscious. He talked in a quiet monotone; only + now and then his voice rose; only now and then there were accompanying + gestures. Jim had a straight mile down the broad village street to walk + before he reached the church and the parsonage beside it. + </p> + <p> + Jim and the minister had been friends since boyhood. They were graduates + and classmates of the same college. Jim had had unusual educational + advantages for a man coming from a simple family. The front door of the + parsonage flew open when Jim entered the gate, and the minister stood + there smiling. He was a tall, thin man with a wide mouth, which either + smiled charmingly or was set with severity. He was as brown and dry as a + wayside weed which winter had subdued as to bloom but could not entirely + prostrate with all its icy storms and compelling blasts. Jim, advancing + eagerly toward the warm welcome in the door, was a small man, and bent at + that, but he had a handsome old face, with the rose of youth on the cheeks + and the light of youth in the blue eyes, and the quick changes of youth, + before emotions, about the mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo, Jim!” cried Dr. Edward Hayward. Hayward, for a doctor of divinity, + was considered somewhat lacking in dignity at times; still, he was Dr. + Hayward, and the failing was condoned. Moreover, he was a Hayward, and the + Haywards had been, from the memory of the oldest inhabitant, the great + people of the village. Dr. Hayward's house was presided over by his + widowed cousin, a lady of enough dignity to make up for any lack of it in + the minister. There were three servants, besides the old butler who had + been Hayward's attendant when he had been a young man in college. Village + people were proud of their minister, with his degree and what they + considered an imposing household retinue. + </p> + <p> + Hayward led, and Jim followed, to the least pretentious room in the house—not + the study proper, which was lofty, book-lined, and leather-furnished, + curtained with broad sweeps of crimson damask, but a little shabby place + back of it, accessible by a narrow door. The little room was lined with + shelves; they held few books, but a collection of queer and dusty things—strange + weapons, minerals, odds and ends—which the minister loved and with + which his lady cousin never interfered. + </p> + <p> + “Louisa,” Hayward had told his cousin when she entered upon her post, “do + as you like with the whole house, but let my little study alone. Let it + look as if it had been stirred up with a garden-rake—that little + room is my territory, and no disgrace to you, my dear, if the dust rises + in clouds at every step.” + </p> + <p> + Jim was as fond of the little room as his friend. He entered, and sighed a + great sigh of satisfaction as he sank into the shabby, dusty hollow of a + large chair before the hearth fire. Immediately a black cat leaped into + his lap, gazed at him with greenjewel eyes, worked her paws, purred, + settled into a coil, and slept. Jim lit his pipe and threw the match + blissfully on the floor. Dr. Hayward set an electric coffee-urn at its + work, for the little room was a curious mixture of the comfortable old and + the comfortable modern. + </p> + <p> + “Sam shall serve our luncheon in here,” he said, with a staid glee. + </p> + <p> + Jim nodded happily. + </p> + <p> + “Louisa will not mind,” said Hayward. “She is precise, but she has a fine + regard for the rights of the individual, which is most commendable.” He + seated himself in a companion chair to Jim's, lit his own pipe, and threw + the match on the floor. Occasionally, when the minister was out, Sam, + without orders so to do, cleared the floor of matches. + </p> + <p> + Hayward smoked and regarded his friend, who looked troubled despite his + comfort. “What is it, Jim?” asked the minister at last. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know how to do what is right for me to do,” replied the little + man, and his face, turned toward his friend, had the puzzled earnestness + of a child. + </p> + <p> + Hayward laughed. It was easily seen that his was the keener mind. In + natural endowments there had never been equality, although there was great + similarity of tastes. Jim, despite his education, often lapsed into the + homely vernacular of which he heard so much. An involuntarily imitative + man in externals was Jim, but essentially an original. Jim proceeded. + </p> + <p> + “You know, Edward, I have never been one to complain,” he said, with an + almost boyish note of apology. + </p> + <p> + “Never complained half enough; that's the trouble,” returned the other. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I overheard something Mis' Adkins said to Mis' Amos Trimmer the + other afternoon. Mis' Trimmer was calling on Mis' Adkins. I couldn't help + overhearing unless I went outdoors, and it was snowing and I had a cold. I + wasn't listening.” + </p> + <p> + “Had a right to listen if you wanted to,” declared Hayward, irascibly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I couldn't help it unless I went outdoors. Mis' Adkins she was in + the kitchen making lightbread for supper, and Mis' Trimmer had sat right + down there with her. Mis' Adkins's kitchen is as clean as a parlor, + anyway. Mis' Adkins said to Mis' Trimmer, speaking of me—because + Mis' Trimmer had just asked where I was and Mis' Adkins had said I was out + in the woodshed sitting with the cats and smoking—Mis' Adkins said, + 'He's just a doormat, that's what he is.' Then Mis' Trimmer says, 'The way + he lets folks ride over him beats me.' Then Mis' Adkins says again: 'He's + nothing but a door-mat. He lets everybody that wants to just trample on + him and grind their dust into him, and he acts real pleased and + grateful.'” + </p> + <p> + Hayward's face flushed. “Did Mrs. Adkins mention that she was one of the + people who used you for a door-mat?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + Jim threw back his head and laughed like a child, with the sweetest sense + of unresentful humor. “Lord bless my soul, Edward,” replied Jim, “I don't + believe she ever thought of that.” + </p> + <p> + “And at that very minute you, with a hard cold, were sitting out in that + draughty shed smoking because she wouldn't allow you to smoke in your own + house!” + </p> + <p> + “I don't mind that, Edward,” said Jim, and laughed again. + </p> + <p> + “Could you see to read your paper out there, with only that little shed + window? And don't you like to read your paper while you smoke?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes,” admitted Jim; “but my! I don't mind little things like that! + Mis' Adkins is only a poor widow woman, and keeping my house nice and not + having it smell of tobacco is all she's got. They can talk about women's + rights—I feel as if they ought to have them fast enough, if they + want them, poor things; a woman has a hard row to hoe, and will have, if + she gets all the rights in creation. But I guess the rights they'd find it + hardest to give up would be the rights to have men look after them just a + little more than they look after other men, just because they are women. + When I think of Annie Berry—the girl I was going to marry, you know, + if she hadn't died—I feel as if I couldn't do enough for another + woman. Lord! I'm glad to sit out in the woodshed and smoke. Mis' Adkins is + pretty good-natured to stand all the cats.” + </p> + <p> + Then the coffee boiled, and Hayward poured out some for Jim and himself. + He had a little silver service at hand, and willow-ware cups and saucers. + Presently Sam appeared, and Hayward gave orders concerning luncheon. + </p> + <p> + “Tell Miss Louisa we are to have it served here,” said he, “and mind, Sam, + the chops are to be thick and cooked the way we like them; and don't + forget the East India chutney, Sam.” + </p> + <p> + “It does seem rather a pity that you cannot have chutney at home with your + chops, when you are so fond of it,” remarked Hayward when Sam had gone. + </p> + <p> + “Mis' Adkins says it will give me liver trouble, and she isn't strong + enough to nurse.” + </p> + <p> + “So you have to eat her ketchup?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she doesn't put seasoning in it,” admitted Jim. “But Mis' Adkins + doesn't like seasoning herself, and I don't mind.” + </p> + <p> + “And I know the chops are never cut thick, the way we like them.” + </p> + <p> + “Mis' Adkins likes her meat well done, and she can't get such thick chops + well done. I suppose our chops are rather thin, but I don't mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Beefsteak and chops, both cut thin, and fried up like sole-leather. I + know!” said Dr. Hayward, and he stamped his foot with unregenerate force. + </p> + <p> + “I don't mind a bit, Edward.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought to mind, when it is your own house, and you buy the food and + pay your housekeeper. It is an outrage!” + </p> + <p> + “I don't mind, really, Edward.” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Hayward regarded Jim with a curious expression compounded of love, + anger, and contempt. “Any more talk of legal proceedings?” he asked, + brusquely. + </p> + <p> + Jim flushed. “Tom ought not to tell of that.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he ought; he ought to tell it all over town. He doesn't, but he + ought. It is an outrage! Here you have been all these years supporting + your nieces, and they are working away like field-mice, burrowing under + your generosity, trying to get a chance to take action and appropriate + your property and have you put under a guardian.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't mind a bit,” said Jim; “but—” + </p> + <p> + The other man looked inquiringly at him, and, seeing a pitiful working of + his friend's face, he jumped up and got a little jar from a shelf. “We + will drop the whole thing until we have had our chops and chutney,” said + he. “You are right; it is not worth minding. Here is a new brand of + tobacco I want you to try. I don't half like it, myself, but you may.” + </p> + <p> + Jim, with a pleased smile, reached out for the tobacco, and the two men + smoked until Sam brought the luncheon. It was well cooked and well served + on an antique table. Jim was thoroughly happy. It was not until the + luncheon was over and another pipe smoked that the troubled, perplexed + expression returned to his face. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said Hayward, “out with it!” + </p> + <p> + “It is only the old affair about Alma and Amanda, but now it has taken on + a sort of new aspect.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by a new aspect?” + </p> + <p> + “It seems,” said Jim, slowly, “as if they were making it so I couldn't do + for them.” + </p> + <p> + Hayward stamped his foot. “That does sound new,” he said, dryly. “I never + thought Alma Beecher or Amanda Bennet ever objected to have you do for + them.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Jim, “perhaps they don't now, but they want me to do it in + their own way. They don't want to feel as if I was giving and they taking; + they want it to seem the other way round. You see, if I were to deed over + my property to them, and then they allowance me, they would feel as if + they were doing the giving.” + </p> + <p> + “Jim, you wouldn't be such a fool as that?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I wouldn't,” replied Jim, simply. “They wouldn't know how to take + care of it, and Mis' Adkins would be left to shift for herself. Joe + Beecher is real good-hearted, but he always lost every dollar he touched. + No, there wouldn't be any sense in that. I don't mean to give in, but I do + feel pretty well worked up over it.” + </p> + <p> + “What have they said to you?” + </p> + <p> + Jim hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Out with it, now. One thing you may be sure of: nothing that you can tell + me will alter my opinion of your two nieces for the worse. As for poor Joe + Beecher, there is no opinion, one way or the other. What did they say?” + </p> + <p> + Jim regarded his friend with a curiously sweet, far-off expression. + “Edward,” he said, “sometimes I believe that the greatest thing a man's + friends can do for him is to drive him into a corner with God; to be so + unjust to him that they make him understand that God is all that mortal + man is meant to have, and that is why he finds out that most people, + especially the ones he does for, don't care for him.” + </p> + <p> + Hayward looked solemnly and tenderly at the other's almost rapt face. “You + are right, I suppose, old man,” said he; “but what did they do?” + </p> + <p> + “They called me in there about a week ago and gave me an awful talking + to.” + </p> + <p> + “About what?” + </p> + <p> + Jim looked at his friend with dignity. “They were two women talking, and + they went into little matters not worth repeating,” said he. “All is-they + seemed to blame me for everything I had ever done for them, and for + everything I had ever done, anyway. They seemed to blame me for being born + and living, and, most of all, for doing anything for them.” + </p> + <p> + “It is an outrage!” declared Hayward. “Can't you see it?” + </p> + <p> + “I can't seem to see anything plain about it,” returned Jim, in a + bewildered way. “I always supposed a man had to do something bad to be + given a talking to; but it isn't so much that, and I don't bear any malice + against them. They are only two women, and they are nervous. What worries + me is, they do need things, and they can't get on and be comfortable + unless I do for them; but if they are going to feel that way about it, it + seems to cut me off from doing, and that does worry me, Edward.” + </p> + <p> + The other man stamped. “Jim Bennet,” he said, “they have talked, and now I + am going to.” + </p> + <p> + “You, Edward?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am. It is entirely true what those two women, Susan Adkins and + Mrs. Trimmer, said about you. You ARE a door-mat, and you ought to be + ashamed of yourself for it. A man should be a man, and not a door-mat. It + is the worst thing in the world for people to walk over him and trample + him. It does them much more harm than it does him. In the end the trampler + is much worse off than the trampled upon. Jim Bennet, your being a doormat + may cost other people their souls' salvation. You are selfish in the grain + to be a door-mat.” + </p> + <p> + Jim turned pale. His child-like face looked suddenly old with his mental + effort to grasp the other's meaning. In fact, he was a child—one of + the little ones of the world—although he had lived the span of a + man's life. Now one of the hardest problems of the elders of the world was + presented to him. “You mean—” he said, faintly. + </p> + <p> + “I mean, Jim, that for the sake of other people, if not for your own sake, + you ought to stop being a door-mat and be a man in this world of men.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want me to do?” + </p> + <p> + “I want you to go straight to those nieces of yours and tell them the + truth. You know what your wrongs are as well as I do. You know what those + two women are as well as I do. They keep the letter of the Ten + Commandments—that is right. They attend my church—that is + right. They scour the outside of the platter until it is bright enough to + blind those people who don't understand them; but inwardly they are petty, + ravening wolves of greed and ingratitude. Go and tell them; they don't + know themselves. Show them what they are. It is your Christian duty.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean for me to stop doing for them?” + </p> + <p> + “I certainly do mean just that—for a while, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “They can't possibly get along, Edward; they will suffer.” + </p> + <p> + “They have a little money, haven't they?” + </p> + <p> + “Only a little in savings-bank. The interest pays their taxes.” + </p> + <p> + “And you gave them that?” + </p> + <p> + Jim colored. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, their taxes are paid for this year; let them use that money. + They will not suffer, except in their feelings, and that is where they + ought to suffer. Man, you would spoil all the work of the Lord by your + selfish tenderness toward sinners!” + </p> + <p> + “They aren't sinners.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, they are—spiritual sinners, the worst kind in the world. Now—” + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean for me to go now?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do—now. If you don't go now you never will. Then, afterward, + I want you to go home and sit in your best parlor and smoke, and have all + your cats in there, too.” + </p> + <p> + Jim gasped. “But, Edward! Mis' Adkins—” + </p> + <p> + “I don't care about Mrs. Adkins. She isn't as bad as the rest, but she + needs her little lesson, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Edward, the way that poor woman works to keep the house nice—and + she don't like the smell of tobacco smoke.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind whether she likes it or not. You smoke.” + </p> + <p> + “And she don't like cats.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind. Now you go.” + </p> + <p> + Jim stood up. There was a curious change in his rosy, child-like face. + There was a species of quickening. He looked at once older and more alert. + His friend's words had charged him as with electricity. When he went down + the street he looked taller. + </p> + <p> + Amanda Bennet and Alma Beecher, sitting sewing at their street windows, + made this mistake. + </p> + <p> + “That isn't Uncle Jim,” said Amanda. “That man is a head taller, but he + looks a little like him.” + </p> + <p> + “It can't be Uncle Jim,” agreed Alma. Then both started. + </p> + <p> + “It is Uncle Jim, and he is coming here,” said Amanda. + </p> + <p> + Jim entered. Nobody except himself, his nieces, and Joe Beecher ever knew + exactly what happened, what was the aspect of the door-mat erected to + human life, of the worm turned to menace. It must have savored of horror, + as do all meek and downtrodden things when they gain, driven to bay, the + strength to do battle. It must have savored of the god-like, when the man + who had borne with patience, dignity, and sorrow for them the stings of + lesser things because they were lesser things, at last arose and revealed + himself superior, with a great height of the spirit, with the power to + crush. + </p> + <p> + When Jim stopped talking and went home, two pale, shocked faces of women + gazed after him from the windows. Joe Beecher was sobbing like a child. + Finally his wife turned her frightened face upon him, glad to have still + some one to intimidate. + </p> + <p> + “For goodness' sake, Joe Beecher, stop crying like a baby,” said she, but + she spoke in a queer whisper, for her lips were stiff. + </p> + <p> + Joe stood up and made for the door. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” asked his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Going to get a job somewhere,” replied Joe, and went. Soon the women saw + him driving a neighbor's cart up the street. + </p> + <p> + “He's going to cart gravel for John Leach's new sidewalk!” gasped Alma. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you stop him?” cried her sister. “You can't have your husband + driving a tip-cart for John Leach. Stop him, Alma!” + </p> + <p> + “I can't stop him,” moaned Alma. “I don't feel as if I could stop + anything.” + </p> + <p> + Her sister gazed at her, and the same expression was on both faces, making + them more than sisters of the flesh. Both saw before them a stern boundary + wall against which they might press in vain for the rest of their lives, + and both saw the same sins of their hearts. + </p> + <p> + Meantime Jim Bennet was seated in his best parlor and Susan Adkins was + whispering to Mrs. Trimmer out in the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know whether he's gone stark, staring mad or not,” whispered + Susan, “but he's in the parlor smoking his worst old pipe, and that big + tiger tommy is sitting in his lap, and he's let in all the other cats, and + they're nosing round, and I don't dare drive 'em out. I took up the broom, + then I put it away again. I never knew Mr. Bennet to act so. I can't think + what's got into him.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he say anything?” + </p> + <p> + “No, he didn't say much of anything, but he said it in a way that made my + flesh fairly creep. Says he, 'As long as this is my house and my furniture + and my cats, Mis' Adkins, I think I'll sit down in the parlor, where I can + see to read my paper and smoke at the same time.' Then he holds the + kitchen door open, and he calls, 'Kitty, kitty, kitty!' and that great + tiger tommy comes in with his tail up, rubbing round his legs, and all the + other cats followed after. I shut the door before these last ones got into + the parlor.” Susan Adkins regarded malevolently the three tortoise-shell + cats of three generations and various stages of growth, one Maltese + settled in a purring round of comfort with four kittens, and one perfectly + black cat, which sat glaring at her with beryl-colored eyes. + </p> + <p> + “That black cat looks evil,” said Mrs. Trimmer. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he does. I don't know why I didn't drown him when he was a kitten.” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn't you drown all those Malty kittens?” + </p> + <p> + “The old cat hid them away until they were too big. Then he wouldn't let + me. What do you suppose has come to him? Just smell that awful pipe!” + </p> + <p> + “Men do take queer streaks every now and then,” said Mrs. Trimmer. “My + husband used to, and he was as good as they make 'em, poor man. He would + eat sugar on his beefsteak, for one thing. The first time I saw him do it + I was scared. I thought he was plum crazy, but afterward I found out it + was just because he was a man, and his ma hadn't wanted him to eat sugar + when he was a boy. Mr. Bennet will get over it.” + </p> + <p> + “He don't act as if he would.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, he will. Jim Bennet never stuck to anything but being Jim Bennet + for very long in his life, and this ain't being Jim Bennet.” + </p> + <p> + “He is a very good man,” said Susan with a somewhat apologetic tone. + </p> + <p> + “He's too good.” + </p> + <p> + “He's too good to cats.” + </p> + <p> + “Seems to me he's too good to 'most everybody. Think what he has done for + Amanda and Alma, and how they act!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, they are ungrateful and real mean to him; and I feel sometimes as if + I would like to tell them just what I think of them,” said Susan Adkins. + “Poor man, there he is, studying all the time what he can do for people, + and he don't get very much himself.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Trimmer arose to take leave. She had a long, sallow face, capable of + a sarcastic smile. “Then,” said she, “if I were you I wouldn't begrudge + him a chair in the parlor and a chance to read and smoke and hold a + pussy-cat.” + </p> + <p> + “Who said I was begrudging it? I can air out the parlor when he's got over + the notion.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he will, so you needn't worry,” said Mrs. Trimmer. As she went down + the street she could see Jim's profile beside the parlor window, and she + smiled her sarcastic smile, which was not altogether unpleasant. “He's + stopped smoking, and he ain't reading,” she told herself. “It won't be + very long before he's Jim Bennet again.” + </p> + <p> + But it was longer than she anticipated, for Jim's will was propped by + Edward Hayward's. Edward kept Jim to his standpoint for weeks, until a few + days before Christmas. Then came self-assertion, that self-assertion of + negation which was all that Jim possessed in such a crisis. He called upon + Dr. Hayward; the two were together in the little study for nearly an hour, + and talk ran high, then Jim prevailed. + </p> + <p> + “It's no use, Edward,” he said; “a man can't be made over when he's cut + and dried in one fashion, the way I am. Maybe I'm doing wrong, but to me + it looks like doing right, and there's something in the Bible about every + man having his own right and wrong. If what you say is true, and I am + hindering the Lord Almighty in His work, then it is for Him to stop me. He + can do it. But meantime I've got to go on doing the way I always have. Joe + has been trying to drive that tip-cart, and the horse ran away with him + twice. Then he let the cart fall on his foot and mash one of his toes, and + he can hardly get round, and Amanda and Alma don't dare touch that money + in the bank for fear of not having enough to pay the taxes next year in + case I don't help them. They only had a little money on hand when I gave + them that talking to, and Christmas is 'most here, and they haven't got + things they really need. Amanda's coat that she wore to meeting last + Sunday didn't look very warm to me, and poor Alma had her furs chewed up + by the Leach dog, and she's going without any. They need lots of things. + And poor Mis' Adkins is 'most sick with tobacco smoke. I can see it, + though she doesn't say anything, and the nice parlor curtains are full of + it, and cat hairs are all over things. I can't hold out any longer, + Edward. Maybe I am a door-mat; and if I am, and it is wicked, may the Lord + forgive me, for I've got to keep right on being a door-mat.” + </p> + <p> + Hayward sighed and lighted his pipe. However, he had given up and connived + with Jim. + </p> + <p> + On Christmas eve the two men were in hiding behind a clump of cedars in + the front yard of Jim's nieces' house. They watched the expressman deliver + a great load of boxes and packages. Jim drew a breath of joyous relief. + </p> + <p> + “They are taking them in,” he whispered—“they are taking them in, + Edward!” + </p> + <p> + Hayward looked down at the dim face of the man beside him, and something + akin to fear entered his heart. He saw the face of a lifelong friend, but + he saw something in it which he had never recognized before. He saw the + face of one of the children of heaven, giving only for the sake of the + need of others, and glorifying the gifts with the love and pity of an + angel. + </p> + <p> + “I was afraid they wouldn't take them!” whispered Jim, and his watching + face was beautiful, although it was only the face of a little, old man of + a little village, with no great gift of intellect. There was a full moon + riding high; the ground was covered with a glistening snow-level, over + which wavered wonderful shadows, as of wings. One great star prevailed + despite the silver might of the moon. To Hayward Jim's face seemed to + prevail, as that star, among all the faces of humanity. + </p> + <p> + Jim crept noiselessly toward a window, Hayward at his heels. The two could + see the lighted interior plainly. + </p> + <p> + “See poor Alma trying on her furs,” whispered Jim, in a rapture. “See + Amanda with her coat. They have found the money. See Joe heft the turkey.” + Suddenly he caught Hayward's arm, and the two crept away. Out on the road, + Jim fairly sobbed with pure delight. “Oh, Edward,” he said, “I am so + thankful they took the things! I was so afraid they wouldn't, and they + needed them! Oh, Edward, I am so thankful!” Edward pressed his friend's + arm. + </p> + <p> + When they reached Jim's house a great tiger-cat leaped to Jim's shoulder + with the silence and swiftness of a shadow. “He's always watching for me,” + said Jim, proudly. “Pussy! Pussy!” The cat began to purr loudly, and + rubbed his splendid head against the man's cheek. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” said Hayward, with something of awe in his tone, “that you + won't smoke in the parlor to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “Edward, I really can't. Poor woman, she's got it all aired and + beautifully cleaned, and she's so happy over it. There's a good fire in + the shed, and I will sit there with the pussy-cats until I go to bed. Oh, + Edward, I am so thankful that they took the things!” + </p> + <p> + “Good night, Jim.” + </p> + <p> + “Good night. You don't blame me, Edward?” + </p> + <p> + “Who am I to blame you, Jim? Good night.” + </p> + <p> + Hayward watched the little man pass along the path to the shed door. Jim's + back was slightly bent, but to his friend it seemed bent beneath a holy + burden of love and pity for all humanity, and the inheritance of the meek + seemed to crown that drooping old head. The door-mat, again spread freely + for the trampling feet of all who got comfort thereby, became a blessed + thing. The humble creature, despised and held in contempt like One greater + than he, giving for the sake of the needs of others, went along the narrow + foot-path through the snow. The minister took off his hat and stood + watching until the door was opened and closed and the little window + gleamed with golden light. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE AMETHYST COMB + </h2> + <p> + MISS JANE CAREW was at the railroad station waiting for the New York + train. She was about to visit her friend, Mrs. Viola Longstreet. With Miss + Carew was her maid, Margaret, a middleaged New England woman, attired in + the stiffest and most correct of maid-uniforms. She carried an old, large + sole-leather bag, and also a rather large sole-leather jewel-case. The + jewel-case, carried openly, was rather an unusual sight at a New England + railroad station, but few knew what it was. They concluded it to be + Margaret's special handbag. Margaret was a very tall, thin woman, + unbending as to carriage and expression. The one thing out of absolute + plumb about Margaret was her little black bonnet. That was askew. Time had + bereft the woman of so much hair that she could fasten no head-gear with + security, especially when the wind blew, and that morning there was a + stiff gale. Margaret's bonnet was cocked over one eye. Miss Carew noticed + it. + </p> + <p> + “Margaret, your bonnet is crooked,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Margaret straightened her bonnet, but immediately the bonnet veered again + to the side, weighted by a stiff jet aigrette. Miss Carew observed the + careen of the bonnet, realized that it was inevitable, and did not mention + it again. Inwardly she resolved upon the removal of the jet aigrette later + on. Miss Carew was slightly older than Margaret, and dressed in a style + somewhat beyond her age. Jane Carew had been alert upon the situation of + departing youth. She had eschewed gay colors and extreme cuts, and had her + bonnets made to order, because there were no longer anything but hats in + the millinery shop. The milliner in Wheaton, where Miss Carew lived, had + objected, for Jane Carew inspired reverence. + </p> + <p> + “A bonnet is too old for you. Miss Carew,” she said. “Women much older + than you wear hats.” + </p> + <p> + “I trust that I know what is becoming to a woman of my years, thank you. + Miss Waters,” Jane had replied, and the milliner had meekly taken her + order. + </p> + <p> + After Miss Carew had left, the milliner told her girls that she had never + seen a woman so perfectly crazy to look her age as Miss Carew. “And she a + pretty woman, too,” said the milliner; “as straight as an arrer, and slim, + and with all that hair, scarcely turned at all.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Carew, with all her haste to assume years, remained a pretty woman, + softly slim, with an abundance of dark hair, showing little gray. + Sometimes Jane reflected, uneasily, that it ought at her time of life to + be entirely gray. She hoped nobody would suspect her of dyeing it. She + wore it parted in the middle, folded back smoothly, and braided in a + compact mass on the top of her head. The style of her clothes was slightly + behind the fashion, just enough to suggest conservatism and age. She + carried a little silver-bound bag in one nicely gloved hand; with the + other she held daintily out of the dust of the platform her dress-skirt. A + glimpse of a silk frilled petticoat, of slender feet, and ankles + delicately slim, was visible before the onslaught of the wind. Jane Carew + made no futile effort to keep her skirts down before the wind-gusts. She + was so much of the gentlewoman that she could be gravely oblivious to the + exposure of her ankles. She looked as if she had never heard of ankles + when her black silk skirts lashed about them. She rose superbly above the + situation. For some abstruse reason Margaret's skirts were not affected by + the wind. They might have been weighted with buckram, although it was no + longer in general use. She stood, except for her veering bonnet, as + stiffly immovable as a wooden doll. + </p> + <p> + Miss Carew seldom left Wheaton. This visit to New York was an innovation. + Quite a crowd gathered about Jane's sole-leather trunk when it was dumped + on the platform by the local expressman. “Miss Carew is going to New + York,” one said to another, with much the same tone as if he had said, + “The great elm on the common is going to move into Dr. Jones's front + yard.” + </p> + <p> + When the train arrived, Miss Carew, followed by Margaret, stepped aboard + with a majestic disregard of ankles. She sat beside a window, and Margaret + placed the bag on the floor and held the jewel-case in her lap. The case + contained the Carew jewels. They were not especially valuable, although + they were rather numerous. There were cameos in brooches and heavy gold + bracelets; corals which Miss Carew had not worn since her young girlhood. + There were a set of garnets, some badly cut diamonds in ear-rings and + rings, some seed-pearl ornaments, and a really beautiful set of amethysts. + There were a necklace, two brooches—a bar and a circle—earrings, + a ring, and a comb. Each piece was charming, set in filigree gold with + seed-pearls, but perhaps of them all the comb was the best. It was a very + large comb. There was one great amethyst in the center of the top; on + either side was an intricate pattern of plums in small amethysts, and + seed-pearl grapes, with leaves and stems of gold. Margaret in charge of + the jewel-case was imposing. When they arrived in New York she confronted + everybody whom she met with a stony stare, which was almost accusative and + convictive of guilt, in spite of entire innocence on the part of the + person stared at. It was inconceivable that any mortal would have dared + lay violent hands upon that jewel-case under that stare. It would have + seemed to partake of the nature of grand larceny from Providence. + </p> + <p> + When the two reached the up-town residence of Viola Longstreet, Viola gave + a little scream at the sight of the case. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Jane Carew, here you are with Margaret carrying that jewel-case + out in plain sight. How dare you do such a thing? I really wonder you have + not been held up a dozen times.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Carew smiled her gentle but almost stern smile—the Carew smile, + which consisted in a widening and slightly upward curving of tightly + closed lips. + </p> + <p> + “I do not think,” said she, “that anybody would be apt to interfere with + Margaret.” + </p> + <p> + Viola Longstreet laughed, the ringing peal of a child, although she was as + old as Miss Carew. “I think you are right, Jane,” said she. “I don't + believe a crook in New York would dare face that maid of yours. He would + as soon encounter Plymouth Rock. I am glad you have brought your + delightful old jewels, although you never wear anything except those + lovely old pearl sprays and dull diamonds.” + </p> + <p> + “Now,” stated Jane, with a little toss of pride, “I have Aunt Felicia's + amethysts.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sure enough! I remember you did write me last summer that she had + died and you had the amethysts at last. She must have been very old.” + </p> + <p> + “Ninety-one.” + </p> + <p> + “She might have given you the amethysts before. You, of course, will wear + them; and I—am going to borrow the corals!” + </p> + <p> + Jane Carew gasped. + </p> + <p> + “You do not object, do you, dear? I have a new dinner-gown which clamors + for corals, and my bank-account is strained, and I could buy none equal to + those of yours, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I do not object,” said Jane Carew; still she looked aghast. + </p> + <p> + Viola Longstreet shrieked with laughter. “Oh, I know. You think the corals + too young for me. You have not worn them since you left off dotted muslin. + My dear, you insisted upon growing old—I insisted upon remaining + young. I had two new dotted muslins last summer. As for corals, I would + wear them in the face of an opposing army! Do not judge me by yourself, + dear. You laid hold of Age and held him, although you had your complexion + and your shape and hair. As for me, I had my complexion and kept it. I + also had my hair and kept it. My shape has been a struggle, but it was + worth while. I, my dear, have held Youth so tight that he has almost + choked to death, but held him I have. You cannot deny it. Look at me, Jane + Carew, and tell me if, judging by my looks, you can reasonably state that + I have no longer the right to wear corals.” + </p> + <p> + Jane Carew looked. She smiled the Carew smile. “You DO look very young, + Viola,” said Jane, “but you are not.” + </p> + <p> + “Jane Carew,” said Viola, “I am young. May I wear your corals at my dinner + to-morrow night?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course, if you think—” + </p> + <p> + “If I think them suitable. My dear, if there were on this earth ornaments + more suitable to extreme youth than corals, I would borrow them if you + owned them, but, failing that, the corals will answer. Wait until you see + me in that taupe dinner-gown and the corals!” + </p> + <p> + Jane waited. She visited with Viola, whom she loved, although they had + little in common, partly because of leading widely different lives, partly + because of constitutional variations. She was dressed for dinner fully an + hour before it was necessary, and she sat in the library reading when + Viola swept in. + </p> + <p> + Viola was really entrancing. It was a pity that Jane Carew had such an + unswerving eye for the essential truth that it could not be appeased by + actual effect. Viola had doubtless, as she had said, struggled to keep her + slim shape, but she had kept it, and, what was more, kept it without + evidence of struggle. If she was in the least hampered by tight lacing and + length of undergarment, she gave no evidence of it as she curled herself + up in a big chair and (Jane wondered how she could bring herself to do it) + crossed her legs, revealing one delicate foot and ankle, silk-stockinged + with taupe, and shod with a coral satin slipper with a silver heel and a + great silver buckle. On Viola's fair round neck the Carew corals lay + bloomingly; her beautiful arms were clasped with them; a great coral + brooch with wonderful carving confined a graceful fold of the taupe over + one hip, a coral comb surmounted the shining waves of Viola's hair. Viola + was an ash-blonde, her complexion was as roses, and the corals were ideal + for her. As Jane regarded her friend's beauty, however, the fact that + Viola was not young, that she was as old as herself, hid it and + overshadowed it. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Jane, don't you think I look well in the corals, after all?” asked + Viola, and there was something pitiful in her voice. + </p> + <p> + When a man or a woman holds fast to youth, even if successfully, there is + something of the pitiful and the tragic involved. It is the everlasting + struggle of the soul to retain the joy of earth, whose fleeting + distinguishes it from heaven, and whose retention is not accomplished + without an inner knowledge of its futility. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you do, Viola,” replied Jane Carew, with the inflexibility of + fate, “but I really think that only very young girls ought to wear + corals.” + </p> + <p> + Viola laughed, but the laugh had a minor cadence. “But I AM a young girl, + Jane,” she said. “I MUST be a young girl. I never had any girlhood when I + should have had. You know that.” + </p> + <p> + Viola had married, when very young, a man old enough to be her father, and + her wedded life had been a sad affair, to which, however, she seldom + alluded. Viola had much pride with regard to the inevitable past. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” agreed Jane. Then she added, feeling that more might be expected, + “Of course I suppose that marrying so very young does make a difference.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Viola, “it does. In fact, it makes of one's girlhood an + anti-climax, of which many dispute the wisdom, as you do. But have it I + will. Jane, your amethysts are beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + Jane regarded the clear purple gleam of a stone on her arm. “Yes,” she + agreed, “Aunt Felicia's amethysts have always been considered very + beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + “And such a full set,” said Viola. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jane. She colored a little, but Viola did not know why. At the + last moment Jane had decided not to wear the amethyst comb, because it + seemed to her altogether too decorative for a woman of her age, and she + was afraid to mention it to Viola. She was sure that Viola would laugh at + her and insist upon her wearing it. + </p> + <p> + “The ear-rings are lovely,” said Viola. “My dear, I don't see how you ever + consented to have your ears pierced.” + </p> + <p> + “I was very young, and my mother wished me to,” replied Jane, blushing. + </p> + <p> + The door-bell rang. Viola had been covertly listening for it all the time. + Soon a very beautiful young man came with a curious dancing step into the + room. Harold Lind always gave the effect of dancing when he walked. He + always, moreover, gave the effect of extreme youth and of the utmost joy + and mirth in life itself. He regarded everything and everybody with a + smile as of humorous appreciation, and yet the appreciation was so + goodnatured that it offended nobody. + </p> + <p> + “Look at me—I am absurd and happy; look at yourself, also absurd and + happy; look at everybody else likewise; look at life—a jest so + delicious that it is quite worth one's while dying to be made acquainted + with it.” That is what Harold Lind seemed to say. Viola Longstreet became + even more youthful under his gaze; even Jane Carew regretted that she had + not worn her amethyst comb and began to doubt its unsuitability. Viola + very soon called the young man's attention to Jane's amethysts, and Jane + always wondered why she did not then mention the comb. She removed a + brooch and a bracelet for him to inspect. + </p> + <p> + “They are really wonderful,” he declared. “I have never seen greater depth + of color in amethysts.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Lind is an authority on jewels,” declared Viola. The young man shot a + curious glance at her, which Jane remembered long afterward. It was one of + those glances which are as keystones to situations. + </p> + <p> + Harold looked at the purple stones with the expression of a child with a + toy. There was much of the child in the young man's whole appearance, but + of a mischievous and beautiful child, of whom his mother might observe, + with adoration and illconcealed boastfulness, “I can never tell what that + child will do next!” + </p> + <p> + Harold returned the bracelet and brooch to Jane, and smiled at her as if + amethysts were a lovely purple joke between her and himself, uniting them + by a peculiar bond of fine understanding. “Exquisite, Miss Carew,” he + said. Then he looked at Viola. “Those corals suit you wonderfully, Mrs. + Longstreet,” he observed, “but amethysts would also suit you.” + </p> + <p> + “Not with this gown,” replied Viola, rather pitifully. There was something + in the young man's gaze and tone which she did not understand, but which + she vaguely quivered before. + </p> + <p> + Harold certainly thought the corals were too young for Viola. Jane + understood, and felt an unworthy triumph. Harold, who was young enough in + actual years to be Viola's son, and was younger still by reason of his + disposition, was amused by the sight of her in corals, although he did not + intend to betray his amusement. He considered Viola in corals as too rude + a jest to share with her. Had poor Viola once grasped Harold Lind's + estimation of her she would have as soon gazed upon herself in her coffin. + Harold's comprehension of the essentials was beyond Jane Carew's. It was + fairly ghastly, partaking of the nature of X-rays, but it never disturbed + Harold Lind. He went along his dance-track undisturbed, his blue eyes + never losing their high lights of glee, his lips never losing their + inscrutable smile at some happy understanding between life and himself. + Harold had fair hair, which was very smooth and glossy. His skin was like + a girl's. He was so beautiful that he showed cleverness in an affectation + of carelessness in dress. He did not like to wear evening clothes, because + they had necessarily to be immaculate. That evening Jane regarded him with + an inward criticism that he was too handsome for a man. She told Viola so + when the dinner was over and he and the other guests had gone. + </p> + <p> + “He is very handsome,” she said, “but I never like to see a man quite so + handsome.” + </p> + <p> + “You will change your mind when you see him in tweeds,” returned Viola. + “He loathes evening clothes.” + </p> + <p> + Jane regarded her anxiously. There was something in Viola's tone which + disturbed and shocked her. It was inconceivable that Viola should be in + love with that youth, and yet—“He looks very young,” said Jane in a + prim voice. + </p> + <p> + “He IS young,” admitted Viola; “still, not quite so young as he looks. + Sometimes I tell him he will look like a boy if he lives to be eighty.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he must be very young,” persisted Jane. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Viola, but she did not say how young. Viola herself, now that + the excitement was over, did not look so young as at the beginning of the + evening. She removed the corals, and Jane considered that she looked much + better without them. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for your corals, dear,” said Viola. “Where Is Margaret?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret answered for herself by a tap on the door. She and Viola's maid, + Louisa, had been sitting on an upper landing, out of sight, watching the + guests down-stairs. Margaret took the corals and placed them in their nest + in the jewel-case, also the amethysts, after Viola had gone. The + jewel-case was a curious old affair with many compartments. The amethysts + required two. The comb was so large that it had one for itself. That was + the reason why Margaret did not discover that evening that it was gone. + Nobody discovered it for three days, when Viola had a little card-party. + There was a whist-table for Jane, who had never given up the reserved and + stately game. There were six tables in Viola's pretty living-room, with a + little conservatory at one end and a leaping hearth fire at the other. + Jane's partner was a stout old gentleman whose wife was shrieking with + merriment at an auction-bridge table. The other whist-players were a + stupid, very small young man who was aimlessly willing to play anything, + and an amiable young woman who believed in self-denial. Jane played + conscientiously. She returned trump leads, and played second hand low, and + third high, and it was not until the third rubber was over that she saw. + It had been in full evidence from the first. Jane would have seen it + before the guests arrived, but Viola had not put it in her hair until the + last moment. Viola was wild with delight, yet shamefaced and a trifle + uneasy. In a soft, white gown, with violets at her waist, she was playing + with Harold Lind, and in her ash-blond hair was Jane Carew's amethyst + comb. Jane gasped and paled. The amiable young woman who was her opponent + stared at her. Finally she spoke in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “Aren't you well. Miss Carew?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + The men, in their turn, stared. The stout one rose fussily. “Let me get a + glass of water,” he said. The stupid small man stood up and waved his + hands with nervousness. + </p> + <p> + “Aren't you well?” asked the amiable young lady again. + </p> + <p> + Then Jane Carew recovered her poise. It was seldom that she lost it. “I am + quite well, thank you, Miss Murdock,” she replied. “I believe diamonds are + trumps.” + </p> + <p> + They all settled again to the play, but the young lady and the two men + continued glancing at Miss Carew. She had recovered her dignity of manner, + but not her color. Moreover, she had a bewildered expression. Resolutely + she abstained from glancing again at her amethyst comb in Viola + Longstreet's ash-blond hair, and gradually, by a course of subconscious + reasoning as she carefully played her cards, she arrived at a conclusion + which caused her color to return and the bewildered expression to + disappear. When refreshments were served, the amiable young lady said, + kindly: + </p> + <p> + “You look quite yourself, now, dear Miss Carew, but at one time while we + were playing I was really alarmed. You were very pale.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not feel in the least ill,” replied Jane Carew. She smiled her + Carew smile at the young lady. Jane had settled it with herself that of + course Viola had borrowed that amethyst comb, appealing to Margaret. Viola + ought not to have done that; she should have asked her, Miss Carew; and + Jane wondered, because Viola was very well bred; but of course that was + what had happened. Jane had come down before Viola, leaving Margaret in + her room, and Viola had asked her. Jane did not then remember that Viola + had not even been told that there was an amethyst comb in existence. She + remembered when Margaret, whose face was as pale and bewildered as her + own, mentioned it, when she was brushing her hair. + </p> + <p> + “I saw it, first thing. Miss Jane,” said Margaret. “Louisa and I were on + the landing, and I looked down and saw your amethyst comb in Mrs. + Longstreet's hair.” + </p> + <p> + “She had asked you for it, because I had gone down-stairs?” asked Jane, + feebly. + </p> + <p> + “No, Miss Jane. I had not seen her. I went out right after you did. Louisa + had finished Mrs. Longstreet, and she and I went down to the mailbox to + post a letter, and then we sat on the landing, and—I saw your comb.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you,” asked Jane, “looked in the jewelcase?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Miss Jane.” + </p> + <p> + “And it is not there?” + </p> + <p> + “It is not there. Miss Jane.” Margaret spoke with a sort of solemn + intoning. She recognized what the situation implied, and she, who fitted + squarely and entirely into her humble state, was aghast before a hitherto + unimagined occurrence. She could not, even with the evidence of her senses + against a lady and her mistress's old friend, believe in them. Had Jane + told her firmly that she had not seen that comb in that ash-blond hair she + might have been hypnotized into agreement. But Jane simply stared at her, + and the Carew dignity was more shaken than she had ever seen it. + </p> + <p> + “Bring the jewel-case here, Margaret,” ordered Jane in a gasp. + </p> + <p> + Margaret brought the jewel-case, and everything was taken out; all the + compartments were opened, but the amethyst comb was not there. Jane could + not sleep that night. At dawn she herself doubted the evidence of her + senses. The jewel-case was thoroughly overlooked again, and still Jane was + incredulous that she would ever see her comb in Viola's hair again. But + that evening, although there were no guests except Harold Lind, who dined + at the house, Viola appeared in a pink-tinted gown, with a knot of violets + at her waist, and—she wore the amethyst comb. She said not one word + concerning it; nobody did. Harold Lind was in wild spirits. The conviction + grew upon Jane that the irresponsible, beautiful youth was covertly + amusing himself at her, at Viola's, at everybody's expense. Perhaps he + included himself. He talked incessantly, not in reality brilliantly, but + with an effect of sparkling effervescence which was fairly dazzling. + Viola's servants restrained with difficulty their laughter at his sallies. + Viola regarded Harold with ill-concealed tenderness and admiration. She + herself looked even younger than usual, as if the innate youth in her + leaped to meet this charming comrade. + </p> + <p> + Jane felt sickened by it all. She could not understand her friend. Not for + one minute did she dream that there could be any serious outcome of the + situation; that Viola, would marry this mad youth, who, she knew, was + making such covert fun at her expense; but she was bewildered and + indignant. She wished that she had not come. That evening when she went to + her room she directed Margaret to pack, as she intended to return home the + next day. Margaret began folding gowns with alacrity. She was as + conservative as her mistress and she severely disapproved of many things. + However, the matter of the amethyst comb was uppermost in her mind. She + was wild with curiosity. She hardly dared inquire, but finally she did. + </p> + <p> + “About the amethyst comb, ma'am?” she said, with a delicate cough. + </p> + <p> + “What about it, Margaret?” returned Jane, severely. + </p> + <p> + “I thought perhaps Mrs. Longstreet had told you how she happened to have + it.” + </p> + <p> + Poor Jane Carew had nobody in whom to confide. For once she spoke her mind + to her maid. “She has not said one word. And, oh, Margaret, I don't know + what to think of it.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret pursed her lips. + </p> + <p> + “What do YOU think, Margaret?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. Miss Jane.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not mention it to Louisa,” said Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I hope not!” cried Jane. + </p> + <p> + “But she did to me,” said Margaret. “She asked had I seen Miss Viola's new + comb, and then she laughed, and I thought from the way she acted that—” + Margaret hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “That what?” + </p> + <p> + “That she meant Mr. Lind had given Miss Viola the comb.” + </p> + <p> + Jane started violently. “Absolutely impossible!” she cried. “That, of + course, is nonsense. There must be some explanation. Probably Mrs. + Longstreet will explain before we go.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Longstreet did not explain. She wondered and expostulated when Jane + announced her firm determination to leave, but she seemed utterly at a + loss for the reason. She did not mention the comb. + </p> + <p> + When Jane Carew took leave of her old friend she was entirely sure in her + own mind that she would never visit her again—might never even see + her again. + </p> + <p> + Jane was unutterably thankful to be back in her own peaceful home, over + which no shadow of absurd mystery brooded; only a calm afternoon light of + life, which disclosed gently but did not conceal or betray. Jane settled + back into her pleasant life, and the days passed, and the weeks, and the + months, and the years. She heard nothing whatever from or about Viola + Longstreet for three years. Then, one day, Margaret returned from the + city, and she had met Viola's old maid Louisa in a department store, and + she had news. Jane wished for strength to refuse to listen, but she could + not muster it. She listened while Margaret brushed her hair. + </p> + <p> + “Louisa has not been with Miss Viola for a long time,” said Margaret. “She + is living with somebody else. Miss Viola lost her money, and had to give + up her house and her servants, and Louisa said she cried when she said + good-by.” + </p> + <p> + Jane made an effort. “What became of—” she began. + </p> + <p> + Margaret answered the unfinished sentence. She was excited by gossip as by + a stimulant. Her thin cheeks burned, her eyes blazed. “Mr. Lind,” said + Margaret, “Louisa told me, had turned out to be real bad. He got into some + money trouble, and then”—Margaret lowered her voice—“he was + arrested for taking a lot of money which didn't belong to him. Louisa said + he had been in some business where he handled a lot of other folks' money, + and he cheated the men who were in the business with him, and he was + tried, and Miss Viola, Louisa thinks, hid away somewhere so they wouldn't + call her to testify, and then he had to go to prison; but—” Margaret + hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” asked Jane. + </p> + <p> + “Louisa thinks he died about a year and a half ago. She heard the lady + where she lives now talking about it. The lady used to know Miss Viola, + and she heard the lady say Mr. Lind had died in prison, that he couldn't + stand the hard life, and that Miss Viola had lost all her money through + him, and then”—Margaret hesitated again, and her mistress prodded + sharply—“Louisa said that she heard the lady say that she had + thought Miss Viola would marry him, but she hadn't, and she had more sense + than she had thought.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Longstreet would never for one moment have entertained the thought + of marrying Mr. Lind; he was young enough to be her grandson,” said Jane, + severely. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am,” said Margaret. + </p> + <p> + It so happened that Jane went to New York that day week, and at a jewelry + counter in one of the shops she discovered the amethyst comb. There were + on sale a number of bits of antique jewelry, the precious flotsam and + jetsam of old and wealthy families which had drifted, nobody knew before + what currents of adversity, into that harbor of sale for all the world to + see. Jane made no inquiries; the saleswoman volunteered simply the + information that the comb was a real antique, and the stones were real + amethysts and pearls, and the setting was solid gold, and the price was + thirty dollars; and Jane bought it. She carried her old amethyst comb + home, but she did not show it to anybody. She replaced it in its old + compartment in her jewelcase and thought of it with wonder, with a hint of + joy at regaining it, and with much sadness. She was still fond of Viola + Longstreet. Jane did not easily part with her loves. She did not know + where Viola was. Margaret had inquired of Louisa, who did not know. Poor + Viola had probably drifted into some obscure harbor of life wherein she + was hiding until life was over. + </p> + <p> + And then Jane met Viola one spring day on Fifth Avenue. + </p> + <p> + “It is a very long time since I have seen you,” said Jane with a + reproachful accent, but her eyes were tenderly inquiring. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” agreed Viola. Then she added, “I have seen nobody. Do you know what + a change has come in my life?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear,” replied Jane, gently. “My Margaret met Louisa once and she + told her.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes—Louisa,” said Viola. “I had to discharge her. My money is + about gone. I have only just enough to keep the wolf from entering the + door of a hall bedroom in a respectable boarding-house. However, I often + hear him howl, but I do not mind at all. In fact, the howling has become + company for me. I rather like it. It is queer what things one can learn to + like. There are a few left yet, like the awful heat in summer, and the + food, which I do not fancy, but that is simply a matter of time.” + </p> + <p> + Viola's laugh was like a bird's song—a part of her—and nothing + except death could silence it for long. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said Jane, “you stay in New York all summer?” + </p> + <p> + Viola laughed again. “My dear,” she replied, “of course. It is all very + simple. If I left New York, and paid board anywhere, I would never have + enough money to buy my return fare, and certainly not to keep that wolf + from my hall-bedroom door.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said Jane, “you are going home with me.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot consent to accept charity, Jane,” said Viola. “Don't ask me.” + </p> + <p> + Then, for the first time in her life, Viola Longstreet saw Jane Carew's + eyes blaze with anger. “You dare to call it charity coming from me to + you?” she said, and Viola gave in. + </p> + <p> + When Jane saw the little room where Viola lived, she marveled, with the + exceedingly great marveling of a woman to whom love of a man has never + come, at a woman who could give so much and with no return. + </p> + <p> + Little enough to pack had Viola. Jane understood with a shudder of horror + that it was almost destitution, not poverty, to which her old friend was + reduced. + </p> + <p> + “You shall have that northeast room which you always liked,” she told + Viola when they were on the train. + </p> + <p> + “The one with the old-fashioned peacock paper, and the pine-tree growing + close to one window?” said Viola, happily. + </p> + <p> + Jane and Viola settled down to life together, and Viola, despite the + tragedy which she had known, realized a peace and happiness beyond her + imagination. In reality, although she still looked so youthful, she was + old enough to enjoy the pleasures of later life. Enjoy them she did to the + utmost. She and Jane made calls together, entertained friends at small and + stately dinners, and gave little teas. They drove about in the old Carew + carriage. Viola had some new clothes. She played very well on Jane's old + piano. She embroidered, she gardened. She lived the sweet, placid life of + an older lady in a little village, and loved it. She never mentioned + Harold Lind. + </p> + <p> + Not among the vicious of the earth was poor Harold Lind; rather among + those of such beauty and charm that the earth spoils them, making them, in + their own estimation, free guests at all its tables of bounty. Moreover, + the young man had, deeply rooted in his character, the traits of a + mischievous child, rejoicing in his mischief more from a sense of humor so + keen that it verged on cruelty than from any intention to harm others. + Over that affair of the amethyst comb, for instance, his irresponsible, + selfish, childish soul had fairly reveled in glee. He had not been fond of + Viola, but he liked her fondness for himself. He had made sport of her, + but only for his own entertainment—never for the entertainment of + others. He was a beautiful creature, seeking out paths of pleasure and + folly for himself alone, which ended as do all paths of earthly pleasure + and folly. Harold had admired Viola, but from the same point of view as + Jane Carew's. Viola had, when she looked her youngest and best, always + seemed so old as to be venerable to him. He had at times compunctions, as + if he were making a jest of his grandmother. Viola never knew the truth + about the amethyst comb. He had considered that one of the best frolics of + his life. He had simply purloined it and presented it to Viola, and + merrily left matters to settle themselves. + </p> + <p> + Viola and Jane had lived together a month before the comb was mentioned. + Then one day Viola was in Jane's room and the jewel-case was out, and she + began examining its contents. When she found the amethyst comb she gave a + little cry. Jane, who had been seated at her desk and had not seen what + was going on, turned around. + </p> + <p> + Viola stood holding the comb, and her cheeks were burning. She fondled the + trinket as if it had been a baby. Jane watched her. She began to + understand the bare facts of the mystery of the disappearance of her + amethyst comb, but the subtlety of it was forever beyond her. Had the + other woman explained what was in her mind, in her heart—how that + reckless young man whom she had loved had given her the treasure because + he had heard her admire Jane's amethysts, and she, all unconscious of any + wrong-doing, had ever regarded it as the one evidence of his thoughtful + tenderness, it being the one gift she had ever received from him; how she + parted with it, as she had parted with her other jewels, in order to + obtain money to purchase comforts for him while he was in prison—Jane + could not have understood. The fact of an older woman being fond of a + young man, almost a boy, was beyond her mental grasp. She had no + imagination with which to comprehend that innocent, pathetic, almost + terrible love of one who has trodden the earth long for one who has just + set dancing feet upon it. It was noble of Jane Carew that, lacking all + such imagination, she acted as she did: that, although she did not, could + not, formulate it to herself, she would no more have deprived the other + woman and the dead man of that one little unscathed bond of tender + goodness than she would have robbed his grave of flowers. + </p> + <p> + Viola looked at her. “I cannot tell you all about it; you would laugh at + me,” she whispered; “but this was mine once.” + </p> + <p> + “It is yours now, dear,” said Jane. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE UMBRELLA MAN + </h2> + <p> + IT was an insolent day. There are days which, to imaginative minds, at + least, possess strangely human qualities. Their atmospheres predispose + people to crime or virtue, to the calm of good will, to sneaking vice, or + fierce, unprovoked aggression. The day was of the last description. A + beast, or a human being in whose veins coursed undisciplined blood, might, + as involuntarily as the boughs of trees lash before storms, perform wild + and wicked deeds after inhaling that hot air, evil with the sweat of + sinevoked toil, with nitrogen stored from festering sores of nature and + the loathsome emanations of suffering life. + </p> + <p> + It had not rained for weeks, but the humidity was great. The clouds of + dust which arose beneath the man's feet had a horrible damp stickiness. + His face and hands were grimy, as were his shoes, his cheap, ready-made + suit, and his straw hat. However, the man felt a pride in his clothes, for + they were at least the garb of freedom. He had come out of prison the day + before, and had scorned the suit proffered him by the officials. He had + given it away, and bought a new one with a goodly part of his small stock + of money. This suit was of a small-checked pattern. Nobody could tell from + it that the wearer had just left jail. He had been there for several years + for one of the minor offenses against the law. His term would probably + have been shorter, but the judge had been careless, and he had no friends. + Stebbins had never been the sort to make many friends, although he had + never cherished animosity toward any human being. Even some injustice in + his sentence had not caused him to feel any rancor. + </p> + <p> + During his stay in the prison he had not been really unhappy. He had + accepted the inevitable-the yoke of the strong for the weak—with a + patience which brought almost a sense of enjoyment. But, now that he was + free, he had suddenly become alert, watchful of chances for his + betterment. From being a mere kenneled creature he had become as a hound + on the scent, the keenest on earth—that of self-interest. He was + changed, while yet living, from a being outside the world to one with the + world before him. He felt young, although he was a middle-aged, almost + elderly man. He had in his pocket only a few dollars. He might have had + more had he not purchased the checked suit and had he not given much away. + There was another man whose term would be up in a week, and he had a + sickly wife and several children. Stebbins, partly from native kindness + and generosity, partly from a sentiment which almost amounted to + superstition, had given him of his slender store. He had been deprived of + his freedom because of money; he said to himself that his return to it + should be heralded by the music of it scattered abroad for the good of + another. + </p> + <p> + Now and then as he walked Stebbins removed his new straw hat, wiped his + forehead with a stiff new handkerchief, looked with some concern at the + grime left upon it, then felt anxiously of his short crop of grizzled + hair. He would be glad when it grew only a little, for it was at present a + telltale to observant eyes. Also now and then he took from another pocket + a small mirror which he had just purchased, and scrutinized his face. + Every time he did so he rubbed his cheeks violently, then viewed with + satisfaction the hard glow which replaced the yellow prison pallor. Every + now and then, too, he remembered to throw his shoulders back, hold his + chin high, and swing out his right leg more freely. At such times he + almost swaggered, he became fairly insolent with his new sense of freedom. + He felt himself the equal if not the peer of all creation. Whenever a + carriage or a motor-car passed him on the country road he assumed, with + the skill of an actor, the air of a business man hastening to an important + engagement. However, always his mind was working over a hard problem. He + knew that his store of money was scanty, that it would not last long even + with the strictest economy; he had no friends; a prison record is sure to + leak out when a man seeks a job. He was facing the problem of bare + existence. + </p> + <p> + Although the day was so hot, it was late summer; soon would come the frost + and the winter. He wished to live to enjoy his freedom, and all he had for + assets was that freedom; which was paradoxical, for it did not signify the + ability to obtain work, which was the power of life. Outside the stone + wall of the prison he was now inclosed by a subtle, intangible, yet + infinitely more unyielding one—the prejudice of his kind against the + released prisoner. He was to all intents and purposes a prisoner still, + for all his spurts of swagger and the youthful leap of his pulses, and + while he did not admit that to himself, yet always, since he had the hard + sense of the land of his birth—New England—he pondered that + problem of existence. He felt instinctively that it would be a useless + proceeding for him to approach any human being for employment. He knew + that even the freedom, which he realized through all his senses like an + essential perfume, could not yet overpower the reek of the prison. As he + walked through the clogging dust he thought of one after another whom he + had known before he had gone out of the world of free men and had bent his + back under the hand of the law. There were, of course, people in his + little native village, people who had been friends and neighbors, but + there were none who had ever loved him sufficiently for him to conquer his + resolve to never ask aid of them. He had no relatives except cousins more + or less removed, and they would have nothing to do with him. + </p> + <p> + There had been a woman whom he had meant to marry, and he had been sure + that she would marry him; but after he had been a year in prison the news + had come to him in a roundabout fashion that she had married another + suitor. Even had she remained single he could not have approached her, + least of all for aid. Then, too, through all his term she had made no + sign, there had been no letter, no message; and he had received at first + letters and flowers and messages from sentimental women. There had been + nothing from her. He had accepted nothing, with the curious patience, + carrying an odd pleasure with it, which had come to him when the prison + door first closed upon him. He had not forgotten her, but he had not + consciously mourned her. His loss, his ruin, had been so tremendous that + she had been swallowed up in it. When one's whole system needs to be + steeled to trouble and pain, single pricks lose importance. He thought of + her that day without any sense of sadness. He imagined her in a pretty, + well-ordered home with her husband and children. Perhaps she had grown + stout. She had been a slender woman. He tried idly to imagine how she + would look stout, then by the sequence of self-preservation the + imagination of stoutness in another led to the problem of keeping the + covering of flesh and fatness upon his own bones. The question now was not + of the woman; she had passed out of his life. The question was of the + keeping that life itself, the life which involved everything else, in a + hard world, which would remorselessly as a steel trap grudge him life and + snap upon him, now he was become its prey. + </p> + <p> + He walked and walked, and it was high noon, and he was hungry. He had in + his pocket a small loaf of bread and two frankfurters, and he heard the + splashing ripple of a brook. At that juncture the road was bordered by + thick woodland. He followed, pushing his way through the trees and + undergrowth, the sound of the brook, and sat down in a cool, green + solitude with a sigh of relief. He bent over the clear run, made a cup of + his hand, and drank, then he fell to eating. Close beside him grew some + wintergreen, and when he had finished his bread and frankfurters he began + plucking the glossy, aromatic leaves and chewing them automatically. The + savor reached his palate, and his memory awakened before it as before a + pleasant tingling of a spur. As a boy how he had loved this little green + low-growing plant! It had been one of the luxuries of his youth. Now, as + he tasted it, joy and pathos stirred in his very soul. What a wonder youth + had been, what a splendor, what an immensity to be rejoiced over and + regretted! The man lounging beside the brook, chewing wintergreen leaves, + seemed to realize antipodes. He lived for the moment in the past, and the + immutable future, which might contain the past in the revolution of time. + He smiled, and his face fell into boyish, almost childish, contours. He + plucked another glossy leaf with his hard, veinous old hands. His hands + would not change to suit his mood, but his limbs relaxed like those of a + boy. He stared at the brook gurgling past in brown ripples, shot with dim + prismatic lights, showing here clear green water lines, here inky depths, + and he thought of the possibility of trout. He wished for fishing-tackle. + </p> + <p> + Then suddenly out of a mass of green looked two girls, with wide, startled + eyes, and rounded mouths of terror which gave vent to screams. There was a + scuttling, then silence. The man wondered why the girls were so silly, why + they ran. He did not dream of the possibility of their terror of him. He + ate another wintergreen leaf, and thought of the woman he had expected to + marry when he was arrested and imprisoned. She did not go back to his + childish memories. He had met her when first youth had passed, and yet, + somehow, the savor of the wintergreen leaves brought her face before him. + It is strange how the excitement of one sense will sometimes act as + stimulant for the awakening of another. Now the sense of taste brought + into full activity that of sight. He saw the woman just as she had looked + when he had last seen her. She had not been pretty, but she was + exceedingly dainty, and possessed of a certain elegance of carriage which + attracted. He saw quite distinctly her small, irregular face and the + satin-smooth coils of dark hair around her head; he saw her slender, dusky + hands with the well-cared-for nails and the too prominent veins; he saw + the gleam of the diamond which he had given her. She had sent it to him + just after his arrest, and he had returned it. He wondered idly whether + she still owned it and wore it, and what her husband thought of it. He + speculated childishly-somehow imprisonment had encouraged the return of + childish speculations—as to whether the woman's husband had given + her a larger and costlier diamond than his, and he felt a pang of + jealousy. He refused to see another diamond than his own upon that + slender, dark hand. He saw her in a black silk gown which had been her + best. There had been some red about it, and a glitter of jet. He had + thought it a magnificent gown, and the woman in it like a princess. He + could see her leaning back, in her long slim grace, in a corner of a sofa, + and the soft dark folds starry with jet sweeping over her knees and just + allowing a glimpse of one little foot. Her feet had been charming, very + small and highly arched. Then he remembered that that evening they had + been to a concert in the town hall, and that afterward they had partaken + of an oyster stew in a little restaurant. Then back his mind traveled to + the problem of his own existence, his food and shelter and clothes. He + dismissed the woman from his thought. He was concerned now with the primal + conditions of life itself. How was he to eat when his little stock of + money was gone? He sat staring at the brook; he chewed wintergreen leaves + no longer. Instead he drew from his pocket an old pipe and a paper of + tobacco. He filled his pipe with care—tobacco was precious; then he + began to smoke, but his face now looked old and brooding through the rank + blue vapor. Winter was coming, and he had not a shelter. He had not money + enough to keep him long from starvation. He knew not how to obtain + employment. He thought vaguely of wood-piles, of cutting winter fuel for + people. His mind traveled in a trite strain of reasoning. Somehow + wood-piles seemed the only available tasks for men of his sort. + </p> + <p> + Presently he finished his filled pipe, and arose with an air of decision. + He went at a brisk pace out of the wood and was upon the road again. He + progressed like a man with definite business in view until he reached a + house. It was a large white farm-house with many outbuildings. It looked + most promising. He approached the side door, and a dog sprang from around + a corner and barked, but he spoke, and the dog's tail became eloquent. He + was patting the dog, when the door opened and a man stood looking at him. + Immediately the taint of the prison became evident. He had not cringed + before the dog, but he did cringe before the man who lived in that fine + white house, and who had never known what it was to be deprived of + liberty. He hung his head, he mumbled. The house-owner, who was older than + he, was slightly deaf. He looked him over curtly. The end of it was he was + ordered off the premises, and went; but the dog trailed, wagging at his + heels, and had to be roughly called back. The thought of the dog comforted + Stebbins as he went on his way. He had always liked animals. It was + something, now he was past a hand-shake, to have the friendly wag of a + dog's tail. + </p> + <p> + The next house was an ornate little cottage with bay-windows, through + which could be seen the flower patterns of lace draperies; the Virginia + creeper which grew over the house walls was turning crimson in places. + Stebbins went around to the back door and knocked, but nobody came. He + waited a long time, for he had spied a great pile of uncut wood. Finally + he slunk around to the front door. As he went he suddenly reflected upon + his state of mind in days gone by; if he could have known that the time + would come when he, Joseph Stebbins, would feel culpable at approaching + any front door! He touched the electric bell and stood close to the door, + so that he might not be discovered from the windows. Presently the door + opened the length of a chain, and a fair girlish head appeared. She was + one of the girls who had been terrified by him in the woods, but that he + did not know. Now again her eyes dilated and her pretty mouth rounded! She + gave a little cry and slammed the door in his face, and he heard excited + voices. Then he saw two pale, pretty faces, the faces of the two girls who + had come upon him in the wood, peering at him around a corner of the lace + in the bay-window, and he understood what it meant—that he was an + object of terror to them. Directly he experienced such a sense of mortal + insult as he had never known, not even when the law had taken hold of him. + He held his head high and went away, his very soul boiling with a sort of + shamed rage. “Those two girls are afraid of me,” he kept saying to + himself. His knees shook with the horror of it. This terror of him seemed + the hardest thing to bear in a hard life. He returned to his green nook + beside the brook and sat down again. He thought for the moment no more of + woodpiles, of his life. He thought about those two young girls who had + been afraid of him. He had never had an impulse to harm any living thing. + A curious hatred toward these living things who had accused him of such an + impulse came over him. He laughed sardonically. He wished that they would + again come and peer at him through the bushes; he would make a threatening + motion for the pleasure of seeing the silly things scuttle away. + </p> + <p> + After a while he put it all out of mind, and again returned to his + problem. He lay beside the brook and pondered, and finally fell asleep in + the hot air, which increased in venom, until the rattle of thunder awoke + him. It was very dark—a strange, livid darkness. “A thunder-storm,” + he muttered, and then he thought of his new clothes—what a + misfortune it would be to have them soaked. He arose and pushed through + the thicket around him into a cart path, and it was then that he saw the + thing which proved to be the stepping-stone toward his humble fortunes. It + was only a small silk umbrella with a handle tipped with pearl. He seized + upon it with joy, for it meant the salvation of his precious clothes. He + opened it and held it over his head, although the rain had not yet begun. + One rib of the umbrella was broken, but it was still serviceable. He + hastened along the cart path; he did not know why, only the need for + motion, to reach protection from the storm, was upon him; and yet what + protection could be ahead of him in that woodland path? Afterward he grew + to think of it as a blind instinct which led him on. + </p> + <p> + He had not gone far, not more than half a mile, when he saw something + unexpected—a small untenanted house. He gave vent to a little cry of + joy, which had in it something child-like and pathetic, and pushed open + the door and entered. It was nothing but a tiny, unfinished shack, with + one room and a small one opening from it. There was no ceiling; overhead + was the tent-like slant of the roof, but it was tight. The dusty floor was + quite dry. There was one rickety chair. Stebbins, after looking into the + other room to make sure that the place was empty, sat down, and a + wonderful wave of content and self-respect came over him. The poor human + snail had found his shell; he had a habitation, a roof of shelter. The + little dim place immediately assumed an aspect of home. The rain came down + in torrents, the thunder crashed, the place was filled with blinding blue + lights. Stebbins filled his pipe more lavishly this time, tilted his chair + against the wall, smoked, and gazed about him with pitiful content. It was + really so little, but to him it was so much. He nodded with satisfaction + at the discovery of a fireplace and a rusty cooking-stove. + </p> + <p> + He sat and smoked until the storm passed over. The rainfall had been very + heavy, there had been hail, but the poor little house had not failed of + perfect shelter. A fairly cold wind from the northwest blew through the + door. The hail had brought about a change of atmosphere. The burning heat + was gone. The night would be cool, even chilly. + </p> + <p> + Stebbins got up and examined the stove and the pipe. They were rusty, but + appeared trustworthy. He went out and presently returned with some fuel + which he had found unwet in a thick growth of wood. He laid a fire handily + and lit it. The little stove burned well, with no smoke. Stebbins looked + at it, and was perfectly happy. He had found other treasures outside—a + small vegetable-garden in which were potatoes and some corn. A man had + squatted in this little shack for years, and had raised his own + garden-truck. He had died only a few weeks ago, and his furniture had been + pre-empted with the exception of the stove, the chair, a tilting lounge in + the small room, and a few old iron pots and fryingpans. Stebbins gathered + corn, dug potatoes, and put them on the stove to cook, then he hurried out + to the village store and bought a few slices of bacon, half a dozen eggs, + a quarter of a pound of cheap tea, and some salt. When he re-entered the + house he looked as he had not for years. He was beaming. “Come, this is a + palace,” he said to himself, and chuckled with pure joy. He had come out + of the awful empty spaces of homeless life into home. He was a man who had + naturally strong domestic instincts. If he had spent the best years of his + life in a home instead of a prison, the finest in him would have been + developed. As it was, this was not even now too late. When he had cooked + his bacon and eggs and brewed his tea, when the vegetables were done and + he was seated upon the rickety chair, with his supper spread before him on + an old board propped on sticks, he was supremely happy. He ate with a + relish which seemed to reach his soul. He was at home, and eating, + literally, at his own board. As he ate he glanced from time to time at the + two windows, with broken panes of glass and curtainless. He was not afraid—that + was nonsense; he had never been a cowardly man, but he felt the need of + curtains or something before his windows to shut out the broad vast face + of nature, or perhaps prying human eyes. Somebody might espy the light in + the house and wonder. He had a candle stuck in an old bottle by way of + illumination. Still, although he would have preferred to have curtains + before those windows full of the blank stare of night, he WAS supremely + happy. + </p> + <p> + After he had finished his supper he looked longingly at his pipe. He + hesitated for a second, for he realized the necessity of saving his + precious tobacco; then he became reckless: such enormous good fortune as a + home must mean more to follow; it must be the first of a series of happy + things. He filled his pipe and smoked. Then he went to bed on the old + couch in the other room, and slept like a child until the sun shone + through the trees in flickering lines. Then he rose, went out to the brook + which ran near the house, splashed himself with water, returned to the + house, cooked the remnant of the eggs and bacon, and ate his breakfast + with the same exultant peace with which he had eaten his supper the night + before. Then he sat down in the doorway upon the sunken sill and fell + again to considering his main problem. He did not smoke. His tobacco was + nearly exhausted and he was no longer reckless. His head was not turned + now by the feeling that he was at home. He considered soberly as to the + probable owner of the house and whether he would be allowed to remain its + tenant. Very soon, however, his doubt concerning that was set at rest. He + saw a disturbance of the shadows cast by the thick boughs over the cart + path by a long outreach of darker shadow which he knew at once for that of + a man. He sat upright, and his face at first assumed a defiant, then a + pleading expression, like that of a child who desires to retain possession + of some dear thing. His heart beat hard as he watched the advance of the + shadow. It was slow, as if cast by an old man. The man was old and very + stout, supporting one lopping side by a stick, who presently followed the + herald of his shadow. He looked like a farmer. Stebbins rose as he + approached; the two men stood staring at each other. + </p> + <p> + “Who be you, neighbor?” inquired the newcomer. + </p> + <p> + The voice essayed a roughness, but only achieved a tentative friendliness. + Stebbins hesitated for a second; a suspicious look came into the farmer's + misty blue eyes. Then Stebbins, mindful of his prison record and fiercely + covetous of his new home, gave another name. The name of his maternal + grandfather seemed suddenly to loom up in printed characters before his + eyes, and he gave it glibly. “David Anderson,” he said, and he did not + realize a lie. Suddenly the name seemed his own. Surely old David + Anderson, who had been a good man, would not grudge the gift of his + unstained name to replace the stained one of his grandson. “David + Anderson,” he replied, and looked the other man in the face unflinchingly. + </p> + <p> + “Where do ye hail from?” inquired the farmer; and the new David Anderson + gave unhesitatingly the name of the old David Anderson's birth and life + and death place—that of a little village in New Hampshire. + </p> + <p> + “What do you do for your living?” was the next question, and the new David + Anderson had an inspiration. His eyes had lit upon the umbrella which he + had found the night before. + </p> + <p> + “Umbrellas,” he replied, laconically, and the other man nodded. Men with + sheaves of umbrellas, mended or in need of mending, had always been + familiar features for him. + </p> + <p> + Then David assumed the initiative; possessed of an honorable business as + well as home, he grew bold. “Any objection to my staying here?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The other man eyed him sharply. “Smoke much?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Smoke a pipe sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + “Careful with your matches?” + </p> + <p> + David nodded. + </p> + <p> + “That's all I think about,” said the farmer. “These woods is apt to catch + fire jest when I'm about ready to cut. The man that squatted here before—he + died about a month ago—didn't smoke. He was careful, he was.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll be real careful,” said David, humbly and anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “I dun'no' as I have any objections to your staying, then,” said the + farmer. “Somebody has always squat here. A man built this shack about + twenty year ago, and he lived here till he died. Then t'other feller he + came along. Reckon he must have had a little money; didn't work at + nothin'! Raised some garden-truck and kept a few chickens. I took them + home after he died. You can have them now if you want to take care of + them. He rigged up that little chicken-coop back there.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll take care of them,” answered David, fervently. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you can come over by and by and get 'em. There's nine hens and a + rooster. They lay pretty well. I ain't no use for 'em. I've got all the + hens of my own I want to bother with.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said David. He looked blissful. + </p> + <p> + The farmer stared past him into the house. He spied the solitary umbrella. + He grew facetious. “Guess the umbrellas was all mended up where you come + from if you've got down to one,” said he. + </p> + <p> + David nodded. It was tragically true, that guess. + </p> + <p> + “Well, our umbrella got turned last week,” said the farmer. “I'll give you + a job to start on. You can stay here as long as you want if you're careful + about your matches.” Again he looked into the house. “Guess some boys have + been helpin' themselves to the furniture, most of it,” he observed. “Guess + my wife can spare ye another chair, and there's an old table out in the + corn-house better than that one you've rigged up, and I guess she'll give + ye some old bedding so you can be comfortable. + </p> + <p> + “Got any money?” + </p> + <p> + “A little.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want any pay for things, and my wife won't; didn't mean that; was + wonderin' whether ye had anything to buy vittles with.” + </p> + <p> + “Reckon I can manage till I get some work,” replied David, a trifle + stiffly. He was a man who had never lived at another than the state's + expense. + </p> + <p> + “Don't want ye to be too short, that's all,” said the other, a little + apologetically. + </p> + <p> + “I shall be all right. There are corn and potatoes in the garden, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “So there be, and one of them hens had better be eat. She don't lay. + She'll need a good deal of b'ilin'. You can have all the wood you want to + pick up, but I don't want any cut. You mind that or there'll be trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “I won't cut a stick.” + </p> + <p> + “Mind ye don't. Folks call me an easy mark, and I guess myself I am easy + up to a certain point, and cuttin' my wood is one of them points. Roof + didn't leak in that shower last night, did it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn't s'pose it would. The other feller was handy, and he kept tinkerin' + all the time. Well, I'll be goin'; you can stay here and welcome if you're + careful about matches and don't cut my wood. Come over for them hens any + time you want to. I'll let my hired man drive you back in the wagon.” + </p> + <p> + “Much obliged,” said David, with an inflection that was almost tearful. + </p> + <p> + “You're welcome,” said the other, and ambled away. + </p> + <p> + The new David Anderson, the good old grandfather revived in his + unfortunate, perhaps graceless grandson, reseated himself on the door-step + and watched the bulky, receding figure of his visitor through a pleasant + blur of tears, which made the broad, rounded shoulders and the halting + columns of legs dance. This David Anderson had almost forgotten that there + was unpaid kindness in the whole world, and it seemed to him as if he had + seen angels walking up and down. He sat for a while doing nothing except + realizing happiness of the present and of the future. He gazed at the + green spread of forest boughs, and saw in pleased anticipation their red + and gold tints of autumn; also in pleased anticipation their snowy and icy + mail of winter, and himself, the unmailed, defenseless human creature, + housed and sheltered, sitting before his own fire. This last happy outlook + aroused him. If all this was to be, he must be up and doing. He got up, + entered the house, and examined the broken umbrella which was his sole + stock in trade. David was a handy man. He at once knew that he was capable + of putting it in perfect repair. Strangely enough, for his sense of right + and wrong was not blunted, he had no compunction whatever in keeping this + umbrella, although he was reasonably certain that it belonged to one of + the two young girls who had been so terrified by him. He had a conviction + that this monstrous terror of theirs, which had hurt him more than many + apparently crueler things, made them quits. + </p> + <p> + After he had washed his dishes in the brook, and left them in the sun to + dry, he went to the village store and purchased a few simple things + necessary for umbrella-mending. Both on his way to the store and back he + kept his eyes open. He realized that his capital depended largely upon + chance and good luck. He considered that he had extraordinary good luck + when he returned with three more umbrellas. He had discovered one propped + against the counter of the store, turned inside out. He had inquired to + whom it belonged, and had been answered to anybody who wanted it. David + had seized upon it with secret glee. Then, unheard-of good fortune, he had + found two more umbrellas on his way home; one was in an ash-can, the other + blowing along like a belated bat beside the trolley track. It began to + seem to David as if the earth might be strewn with abandoned umbrellas. + Before he began his work he went to the farmer's and returned in triumph, + driven in the farm-wagon, with his cackling hens and quite a load of + household furniture, besides some bread and pies. The farmer's wife was + one of those who are able to give, and make receiving greater than giving. + She had looked at David, who was older than she, with the eyes of a + mother, and his pride had melted away, and he had held out his hands for + her benefits, like a child who has no compunctions about receiving gifts + because he knows that they are his right of childhood. + </p> + <p> + Henceforth David prospered—in a humble way, it is true, still he + prospered. He journeyed about the country, umbrellas over his shoulder, + little bag of tools in hand, and reaped an income more than sufficient for + his simple wants. His hair had grown, and also his beard. Nobody suspected + his history. He met the young girls whom he had terrified on the road + often, and they did not know him. He did not, during the winter, travel + very far afield. Night always found him at home, warm, well fed, content, + and at peace. Sometimes the old farmer on whose land he lived dropped in + of an evening and they had a game of checkers. The old man was a checker + expert. He played with unusual skill, but David made for himself a little + code of honor. He would never beat the old man, even if he were able, + oftener than once out of three evenings. He made coffee on these convivial + occasions. He made very good coffee, and they sipped as they moved the men + and kings, and the old man chuckled, and David beamed with peaceful + happiness. + </p> + <p> + But the next spring, when he began to realize that he had mended for a + while all the umbrellas in the vicinity and that his trade was flagging, + he set his precious little home in order, barricaded door and windows, and + set forth for farther fields. He was lucky, as he had been from the start. + He found plenty of employment, and slept comfortably enough in barns, and + now and then in the open. He had traveled by slow stages for several weeks + before he entered a village whose familiar look gave him a shock. It was + not his native village, but near it. In his younger life he had often + journeyed there. It was a little shopping emporium, almost a city. He + recognized building after building. Now and then he thought he saw a face + which he had once known, and he was thankful that there was hardly any + possibility of any one recognizing him. He had grown gaunt and thin since + those far-off days; he wore a beard, grizzled, as was his hair. In those + days he had not been an umbrella man. Sometimes the humor of the situation + struck him. What would he have said, he the spruce, plump, head-in-the-air + young man, if anybody had told him that it would come to pass that he + would be an umbrella man lurking humbly in search of a job around the back + doors of houses? He would laugh softly to himself as he trudged along, and + the laugh would be without the slightest bitterness. His lot had been so + infinitely worse, and he had such a happy nature, yielding sweetly to the + inevitable, that he saw now only cause for amusement. + </p> + <p> + He had been in that vicinity about three weeks when one day he met the + woman. He knew her at once, although she was greatly changed. She had + grown stout, although, poor soul! it seemed as if there had been no reason + for it. She was not unwieldy, but she was stout, and all the contours of + earlier life had disappeared beneath layers of flesh. Her hair was not + gray, but the bright brown had faded, and she wore it tightly strained + back from her seamed forehead, although it was thin. One had only to look + at her hair to realize that she was a woman who had given up, who no + longer cared. She was humbly clad in a blue-cotton wrapper, she wore a + dingy black hat, and she carried a tin pail half full of raspberries. When + the man and woman met they stopped with a sort of shock, and each changed + face grew like the other in its pallor. She recognized him and he her, but + along with that recognition was awakened a fierce desire to keep it + secret. His prison record loomed up before the man, the woman's past + loomed up before her. She had possibly not been guilty of much, but her + life was nothing to waken pride in her. She felt shamed before this man + whom she had loved, and who felt shamed before her. However, after a + second the silence was broken. The man recovered his self-possession + first. + </p> + <p> + He spoke casually. + </p> + <p> + “Nice day,” said he. + </p> + <p> + The woman nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Been berrying?” inquired David. The woman nodded again. + </p> + <p> + David looked scrutinizingly at her pail. “I saw better berries real thick + a piece back,” said he. + </p> + <p> + The woman murmured something. In spite of herself, a tear trickled over + her fat, weather-beaten cheek. David saw the tear, and something warm and + glorious like sunlight seemed to waken within him. He felt such tenderness + and pity for this poor feminine thing who had not the strength to keep the + tears back, and was so pitiably shorn of youth and grace, that he himself + expanded. He had heard in the town something of her history. She had made + a dreadful marriage, tragedy and suspicion had entered her life, and the + direst poverty. However, he had not known that she was in the vicinity. + Somebody had told him she was out West. + </p> + <p> + “Living here?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Working for my board at a house back there,” she muttered. She did not + tell him that she had come as a female “hobo” in a freight-car from the + Western town where she had been finally stranded. “Mrs. White sent me out + for berries,” she added. “She keeps boarders, and there were no berries in + the market this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Come back with me and I will show you where I saw the berries real + thick,” said David. + </p> + <p> + He turned himself about, and she followed a little behind, the female + failure in the dust cast by the male. Neither spoke until David stopped + and pointed to some bushes where the fruit hung thick on bending, slender + branches. + </p> + <p> + “Here,” said David. Both fell to work. David picked handfuls of berries + and cast them gaily into the pail. “What is your name?” he asked, in an + undertone. + </p> + <p> + “Jane Waters,” she replied, readily. Her husband's name had been Waters, + or the man who had called himself her husband, and her own middle name was + Jane. The first was Sara. David remembered at once. “She is taking her own + middle name and the name of the man she married,” he thought. Then he + asked, plucking berries, with his eyes averted: + </p> + <p> + “Married?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said the woman, flushing deeply. + </p> + <p> + David's next question betrayed him. “Husband dead?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't any husband,” she replied, like the Samaritan woman. + </p> + <p> + She had married a man already provided with another wife, although she had + not known it. The man was not dead, but she spoke the entire miserable + truth when she replied as she did. David assumed that he was dead. He felt + a throb of relief, of which he was ashamed, but he could not down it. He + did not know what it was that was so alive and triumphant within him: + love, or pity, or the natural instinct of the decent male to shelter and + protect. Whatever it was, it was dominant. + </p> + <p> + “Do you have to work hard?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty hard, I guess. I expect to.” + </p> + <p> + “And you don't get any pay?” + </p> + <p> + “That's all right; I don't expect to get any,” said she, and there was + bitterness in her voice. + </p> + <p> + In spite of her stoutness she was not as strong as the man. She was not at + all strong, and, moreover, the constant presence of a sense of injury at + the hands of life filled her very soul with a subtle poison, to her + weakening vitality. She was a child hurt and worried and bewildered, + although she was to the average eye a stout, able-bodied, middle-aged + woman; but David had not the average eye, and he saw her as she really + was, not as she seemed. There had always been about her a little weakness + and dependency which had appealed to him. Now they seemed fairly to cry + out to him like the despairing voices of the children whom he had never + had, and he knew he loved her as he had never loved her before, with a + love which had budded and flowered and fruited and survived absence and + starvation. He spoke abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “I've about got my business done in these parts,” said he. “I've got quite + a little money, and I've got a little house, not much, but mighty snug, + back where I come from. There's a garden. It's in the woods. Not much + passing nor going on.” + </p> + <p> + The woman was looking at him with incredulous, pitiful eyes like a dog's. + “I hate much goin' on,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose,” said David, “you take those berries home and pack up your + things. Got much?” + </p> + <p> + “All I've got will go in my bag.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, pack up; tell the madam where you live that you're sorry, but + you're worn out—” + </p> + <p> + “God knows I am,” cried the woman, with sudden force, “worn out!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you tell her that, and say you've got another chance, and—” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” cried the woman, and she hung upon his words like a + drowning thing. + </p> + <p> + “Mean? Why, what I mean is this. You pack your bag and come to the + parson's back there, that white house.” + </p> + <p> + “I know—” + </p> + <p> + “In the mean time I'll see about getting a license, and—” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the woman set her pail down and clutched him by both hands. “Say + you are not married,” she demanded; “say it, swear it!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do swear it,” said David. “You are the only woman I ever asked to + marry me. I can support you. We sha'n't be rolling in riches, but we can + be comfortable, and—I rather guess I can make you happy.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn't say what your name was,” said the woman. + </p> + <p> + “David Anderson.” + </p> + <p> + The woman looked at him with a strange expression, the expression of one + who loves and respects, even reveres, the isolation and secrecy of another + soul. She understood, down to the depths of her being she understood. She + had lived a hard life, she had her faults, but she was fine enough to + comprehend and hold sacred another personality. She was very pale, but she + smiled. Then she turned to go. + </p> + <p> + “How long will it take you?” asked David. + </p> + <p> + “About an hour.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. I will meet you in front of the parson's house in an hour. We + will go back by train. I have money enough.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd just as soon walk.” The woman spoke with the utmost humility of love + and trust. She had not even asked where the man lived. All her life she + had followed him with her soul, and it would go hard if her poor feet + could not keep pace with her soul. + </p> + <p> + “No, it is too far; we will take the train. One goes at half past four.” + </p> + <p> + At half past four the couple, made man and wife, were on the train + speeding toward the little home in the woods. The woman had frizzled her + thin hair pathetically and ridiculously over her temples; on her left hand + gleamed a white diamond. She had kept it hidden; she had almost starved + rather than part with it. She gazed out of the window at the flying + landscape, and her thin lips were curved in a charming smile. The man sat + beside her, staring straight ahead as if at happy visions. + </p> + <p> + They lived together afterward in the little house in the woods, and were + happy with a strange crystallized happiness at which they would have + mocked in their youth, but which they now recognized as the essential of + all happiness upon earth. And always the woman knew what she knew about + her husband, and the man knew about his wife, and each recognized the + other as old lover and sweetheart come together at last, but always each + kept the knowledge from the other with an infinite tenderness of delicacy + which was as a perfumed garment veiling the innermost sacredness of love. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BALKING OF CHRISTOPHER + </h2> + <p> + THE spring was early that year. It was only the last of March, but the + trees were filmed with green and paling with promise of bloom; the front + yards were showing new grass pricking through the old. It was high time to + plow the south field and the garden, but Christopher sat in his + rocking-chair beside the kitchen window and gazed out, and did absolutely + nothing about it. + </p> + <p> + Myrtle Dodd, Christopher's wife, washed the breakfast dishes, and later + kneaded the bread, all the time glancing furtively at her husband. She had + a most old-fashioned deference with regard to Christopher. She was always + a little afraid of him. Sometimes Christopher's mother, Mrs. Cyrus Dodd, + and his sister Abby, who had never married, reproached her for this + attitude of mind. “You are entirely too much cowed down by Christopher,” + Mrs. Dodd said. + </p> + <p> + “I would never be under the thumb of any man,” Abby said. + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever seen Christopher in one of his spells?” Myrtle would ask. + </p> + <p> + Then Mrs. Cyrus Dodd and Abby would look at each other. “It is all your + fault, mother,” Abby would say. “You really ought not to have allowed your + son to have his own head so much.” + </p> + <p> + “You know perfectly well, Abby, what I had to contend against,” replied + Mrs. Dodd, and Abby became speechless. Cyrus Dodd, now deceased some + twenty years, had never during his whole life yielded to anything but + birth and death. Before those two primary facts even his terrible will was + powerless. He had come into the world without his consent being obtained; + he had passed in like manner from it. But during his life he had ruled, a + petty monarch, but a most thorough one. He had spoiled Christopher, and + his wife, although a woman of high spirit, knew of no appealing. + </p> + <p> + “I could never go against your father, you know that,” said Mrs. Dodd, + following up her advantage. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said Abby, “you ought to have warned poor Myrtle. It was a shame + to let her marry a man as spoiled as Christopher.” + </p> + <p> + “I would have married him, anyway,” declared Myrtle with sudden defiance; + and her mother-inlaw regarded her approvingly. + </p> + <p> + “There are worse men than Christopher, and Myrtle knows it,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do, mother,” agreed Myrtle. “Christopher hasn't one bad habit.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know what you call a bad habit,” retorted Abby. “I call having + your own way in spite of the world, the flesh, and the devil rather a bad + habit. Christopher tramples on everything in his path, and he always has. + He tramples on poor Myrtle.” + </p> + <p> + At that Myrtle laughed. “I don't think I look trampled on,” said she; and + she certainly did not. Pink and white and plump was Myrtle, although she + had, to a discerning eye, an expression which denoted extreme nervousness. + </p> + <p> + This morning of spring, when her husband sat doing nothing, she wore this + nervous expression. Her blue eyes looked dark and keen; her forehead was + wrinkled; her rosy mouth was set. Myrtle and Christopher were not young + people; they were a little past middle age, still far from old in look or + ability. + </p> + <p> + Myrtle had kneaded the bread to rise for the last time before it was put + into the oven, and had put on the meat to boil for dinner, before she + dared address that silent figure which had about it something tragic. Then + she spoke in a small voice. “Christopher,” said she. + </p> + <p> + Christopher made no reply. + </p> + <p> + “It is a good morning to plow, ain't it?” said Myrtle. + </p> + <p> + Christopher was silent. + </p> + <p> + “Jim Mason got over real early; I suppose he thought you'd want to get at + the south field. He's been sitting there at the barn door for 'most two + hours.” + </p> + <p> + Then Christopher rose. Myrtle's anxious face lightened. But to her wonder + her husband went into the front entry and got his best hat. “He ain't + going to wear his best hat to plow,” thought Myrtle. For an awful moment + it occurred to her that something had suddenly gone wrong with her + husband's mind. Christopher brushed the hat carefully, adjusted it at the + little looking-glass in the kitchen, and went out. + </p> + <p> + “Be you going to plow the south field?” Myrtle said, faintly. + </p> + <p> + “No, I ain't.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you be back to dinner?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know—you needn't worry if I'm not.” Suddenly Christopher + did an unusual thing for him. He and Myrtle had lived together for years, + and outward manifestations of affection were rare between them. He put his + arm around her and kissed her. + </p> + <p> + After he had gone, Myrtle watched him out of sight down the road; then she + sat down and wept. Jim Mason came slouching around from his station at the + barn door. He surveyed Myrtle uneasily. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Dodd sick?” said he at length. + </p> + <p> + “Not that I know of,” said Myrtle, in a weak quaver. She rose and, keeping + her tear-stained face aloof, lifted the lid off the kettle on the stove. + </p> + <p> + “D'ye know am he going to plow to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “He said he wasn't.” + </p> + <p> + Jim grunted, shifted his quid, and slouched out of the yard. + </p> + <p> + Meantime Christopher Dodd went straight down the road to the minister's, + the Rev. Stephen Wheaton. When he came to the south field, which he was + neglecting, he glanced at it turning emerald upon the gentle slopes. He + set his face harder. Christopher Dodd's face was in any case hard-set. Now + it was tragic, to be pitied, but warily, lest it turn fiercely upon the + one who pitied. Christopher was a handsome man, and his face had an almost + classic turn of feature. His forehead was noble; his eyes full of keen + light. He was only a farmer, but in spite of his rude clothing he had the + face of a man who followed one of the professions. He was in sore trouble + of spirit, and he was going to consult the minister and ask him for + advice. Christopher had never done this before. He had a sort of + incredulity now that he was about to do it. He had always associated that + sort of thing with womankind, and not with men like himself. And, + moreover, Stephen Wheaton was a younger man than himself. He was + unmarried, and had only been settled in the village for about a year. “He + can't think I'm coming to set my cap at him, anyway,” Christopher + reflected, with a sort of grim humor, as he drew near the parsonage. The + minister was haunted by marriageable ladies of the village. + </p> + <p> + “Guess you are glad to see a man coming, instead of a woman who has doubts + about some doctrine,” was the first thing Christopher said to the minister + when he had been admitted to his study. The study was a small room, lined + with books, and only one picture hung over the fireplace, the portrait of + the minister's mother—Stephen was so like her that a question + concerning it was futile. + </p> + <p> + Stephen colored a little angrily at Christopher's remark—he was a + hot-tempered man, although a clergyman; then he asked him to be seated. + </p> + <p> + Christopher sat down opposite the minister. “I oughtn't to have spoken + so,” he apologized, “but what I am doing ain't like me.” + </p> + <p> + “That's all right,” said Stephen. He was a short, athletic man, with an + extraordinary width of shoulders and a strong-featured and ugly face, + still indicative of goodness and a strange power of sympathy. Three little + mongrel dogs were sprawled about the study. One, small and alert, came and + rested his head on Christopher's knee. Animals all liked him. Christopher + mechanically patted him. Patting an appealing animal was as unconscious + with the man as drawing his breath. But he did not even look at the little + dog while he stroked it after the fashion which pleased it best. He kept + his large, keen, melancholy eyes fixed upon the minister; at length he + spoke. He did not speak with as much eagerness as he did with force, + bringing the whole power of his soul into his words, which were the words + of a man in rebellion against the greatest odds on earth and in all + creation—the odds of fate itself. + </p> + <p> + “I have come to say a good deal, Mr. Wheaton,” he began. + </p> + <p> + “Then say it, Mr. Dodd,” replied Stephen, without a smile. + </p> + <p> + Christopher spoke. “I am going back to the very beginning of things,” said + he, “and maybe you will think it blasphemy, but I don't mean it for that. + I mean it for the truth, and the truth which is too much for my + comprehension.” + </p> + <p> + “I have heard men swear when it did not seem blasphemy to me,” said + Stephen. + </p> + <p> + “Thank the Lord, you ain't so deep in your rut you can't see the stars!” + said Christopher. “But I guess you see them in a pretty black sky + sometimes. In the beginning, why did I have to come into the world without + any choice?” + </p> + <p> + “You must not ask a question of me which can only be answered by the + Lord,” said Stephen. + </p> + <p> + “I am asking the Lord,” said Christopher, with his sad, forceful voice. “I + am asking the Lord, and I ask why?” + </p> + <p> + “You have no right to expect your question to be answered in your time,” + said Stephen. + </p> + <p> + “But here am I,” said Christopher, “and I was a question to the Lord from + the first, and fifty years and more I have been on the earth.” + </p> + <p> + “Fifty years and more are nothing for the answer to such a question,” said + Stephen. + </p> + <p> + Christopher looked at him with mournful dissent; there was no anger about + him. “There was time before time,” said he, “before the fifty years and + more began. I don't mean to blaspheme, Mr. Wheaton, but it is the truth. I + came into the world whether I would or not; I was forced, and then I was + told I was a free agent. I am no free agent. For fifty years and more I + have thought about it, and I have found out that, at least. I am a slave—a + slave of life.” + </p> + <p> + “For that matter,” said Stephen, looking curiously at him, “so am I. So + are we all.” + </p> + <p> + “That makes it worse,” agreed Christopher—“a whole world of slaves. + I know I ain't talking in exactly what you might call an orthodox strain. + I have got to a point when it seems to me I shall go mad if I don't talk + to somebody. I know there is that awful why, and you can't answer it; and + no man living can. I'm willing to admit that sometime, in another world, + that why will get an answer, but meantime it's an awful thing to live in + this world without it if a man has had the kind of life I have. My life + has been harder for me than a harder life might be for another man who was + different. That much I know. There is one thing I've got to be thankful + for. I haven't been the means of sending any more slaves into this world. + I am glad my wife and I haven't any children to ask 'why?' + </p> + <p> + “Now, I've begun at the beginning; I'm going on. I have never had what men + call luck. My folks were poor; father and mother were good, hardworking + people, but they had nothing but trouble, sickness, and death, and losses + by fire and flood. We lived near the river, and one spring our house went, + and every stick we owned, and much as ever we all got out alive. Then + lightning struck father's new house, and the insurance company had failed, + and we never got a dollar of insurance. Then my oldest brother died, just + when he was getting started in business, and his widow and two little + children came on father to support. Then father got rheumatism, and was + all twisted, and wasn't good for much afterward; and my sister Sarah, who + had been expecting to get married, had to give it up and take in sewing + and stay at home and take care of the rest. There was father and George's + widow—she was never good for much at work—and mother and Abby. + She was my youngest sister. As for me, I had a liking for books and wanted + to get an education; might just as well have wanted to get a seat on a + throne. I went to work in the grist-mill of the place where we used to + live when I was only a boy. Then, before I was twenty, I saw that Sarah + wasn't going to hold out. She had grieved a good deal, poor thing, and + worked too hard, so we sold out and came here and bought my farm, with the + mortgage hitching it, and I went to work for dear life. Then Sarah died, + and then father. Along about then there was a girl I wanted to marry, but, + Lord, how could I even ask her? My farm started in as a failure, and it + has kept it up ever since. When there wasn't a drought there was so much + rain everything mildewed; there was a hail-storm that cut everything to + pieces, and there was the caterpillar year. I just managed to pay the + interest on the mortgage; as for paying the principal, I might as well + have tried to pay the national debt. + </p> + <p> + “Well, to go back to that girl. She is married and don't live here, and + you ain't like ever to see her, but she was a beauty and something more. I + don't suppose she ever looked twice at me, but losing what you've never + had sometimes is worse than losing everything you've got. When she got + married I guess I knew a little about what the martyrs went through. + </p> + <p> + “Just after that George's widow got married again and went away to live. + It took a burden off the rest of us, but I had got attached to the + children. The little girl, Ellen, seemed 'most like my own. Then poor + Myrtle came here to live. She did dressmaking and boarded with our folks, + and I begun to see that she was one of the nervous sort of women who are + pretty bad off alone in the world, and I told her about the other girl, + and she said she didn't mind, and we got married. By that time mother's + brother John—he had never got married-died and left her a little + money, so she and my sister Abby could screw along. They bought the little + house they live in and left the farm, for Abby was always hard to get + along with, though she is a good woman. Mother, though she is a smart + woman, is one of the sort who don't feel called upon to interfere much + with men-folks. I guess she didn't interfere any too much for my good, or + father's, either. Father was a set man. I guess if mother had been a + little harsh with me I might not have asked that awful 'why?' I guess I + might have taken my bitter pills and held my tongue, but I won't blame + myself on poor mother. + </p> + <p> + “Myrtle and I get on well enough. She seems contented—she has never + said a word to make me think she wasn't. She isn't one of the kind of + women who want much besides decent treatment and a home. Myrtle is a good + woman. I am sorry for her that she got married to me, for she deserved + somebody who could make her a better husband. All the time, every waking + minute, I've been growing more and more rebellious. + </p> + <p> + “You see, Mr. Wheaton, never in this world have I had what I wanted, and + more than wanted-needed, and needed far more than happiness. I have never + been able to think of work as anything but a way to get money, and it + wasn't right, not for a man like me, with the feelings I was born with. + And everything has gone wrong even about the work for the money. I have + been hampered and hindered, I don't know whether by Providence or the Evil + One. I have saved just six hundred and forty dollars, and I have only paid + the interest on the mortgage. I knew I ought to have a little ahead in + case Myrtle or I got sick, so I haven't tried to pay the mortgage, but put + a few dollars at a time in the savings-bank, which will come in handy + now.” + </p> + <p> + The minister regarded him uneasily. “What,” he asked, “do you mean to do?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean,” replied Christopher, “to stop trying to do what I am hindered in + doing, and do just once in my life what I want to do. Myrtle asked me this + morning if I wasn't going to plow the south field. Well, I ain't going to + plow the south field. I ain't going to make a garden. I ain't going to try + for hay in the ten-acre lot. I have stopped. I have worked for nothing + except just enough to keep soul and body together. I have had bad luck. + But that isn't the real reason why I have stopped. Look at here, Mr. + Wheaton, spring is coming. I have never in my life had a chance at the + spring nor the summer. This year I'm going to have the spring and the + summer, and the fall, too, if I want it. My apples may fall and rot if + they want to. I am going to get as much good of the season as they do.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do?” asked Stephen. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I will tell you. I ain't a man to make mystery if I am doing right, + and I think I am. You know, I've got a little shack up on Silver Mountain + in the little sugar-orchard I own there; never got enough sugar to say so, + but I put up the shack one year when I was fool enough to think I might + get something. Well, I'm going up there, and I'm going to live there + awhile, and I'm going to sense the things I have had to hustle by for the + sake of a few dollars and cents.” + </p> + <p> + “But what will your wife do?” + </p> + <p> + “She can have the money I've saved, all except enough to buy me a few + provisions. I sha'n't need much. I want a little corn meal, and I will + have a few chickens, and there is a barrel of winter apples left over that + she can't use, and a few potatoes. There is a spring right near the shack, + and there are trout-pools, and by and by there will be berries, and + there's plenty of fire-wood, and there's an old bed and a stove and a few + things in the shack. Now, I'm going to the store and buy what I want, and + I'm going to fix it so Myrtle can draw the money when she wants it, and + then I am going to the shack, and”—Christopher's voice took on a + solemn tone—“I will tell you in just a few words the gist of what I + am going for. I have never in my life had enough of the bread of life to + keep my soul nourished. I have tried to do my duties, but I believe + sometimes duties act on the soul like weeds on a flower. They crowd it + out. I am going up on Silver Mountain to get once, on this earth, my fill + of the bread of life.” + </p> + <p> + Stephen Wheaton gasped. “But your wife, she will be alone, she will + worry.” + </p> + <p> + “I want you to go and tell her,” said Christopher, “and I've got my + bank-book here; I'm going to write some checks that she can get cashed + when she needs money. I want you to tell her. Myrtle won't make a fuss. + She ain't the kind. Maybe she will be a little lonely, but if she is, she + can go and visit somewhere.” Christopher rose. “Can you let me have a pen + and ink?” said he, “and I will write those checks. You can tell Myrtle how + to use them. She won't know how.” + </p> + <p> + Stephen Wheaton, an hour later, sat in his study, the checks in his hand, + striving to rally his courage. Christopher had gone; he had seen him from + his window, laden with parcels, starting upon the ascent of Silver + Mountain. Christopher had made out many checks for small amounts, and + Stephen held the sheaf in his hand, and gradually his courage to arise and + go and tell Christopher's wife gained strength. At last he went. + </p> + <p> + Myrtle was looking out of the window, and she came quickly to the door. + She looked at him, her round, pretty face gone pale, her plump hands + twitching at her apron. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing to be alarmed about,” replied Stephen. + </p> + <p> + Then the two entered the house. Stephen found his task unexpectedly easy. + Myrtle Dodd was an unusual woman in a usual place. + </p> + <p> + “It is all right for my husband to do as he pleases,” she said with an odd + dignity, as if she were defending him. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Dodd is a strange man. He ought to have been educated and led a + different life,” Stephen said, lamely, for he reflected that the words + might be hard for the woman to hear, since she seemed obviously quite + fitted to her life, and her life to her. + </p> + <p> + But Myrtle did not take it hardly, seemingly rather with pride. “Yes,” + said she, “Christopher ought to have gone to college. He had the head for + it. Instead of that he has just stayed round here and dogged round the + farm, and everything has gone wrong lately. He hasn't had any luck even + with that.” Then poor Myrtle Dodd said an unexpectedly wise thing. “But + maybe,” said Myrtle, “his bad luck may turn out the best thing for him in + the end.” + </p> + <p> + Stephen was silent. Then he began explaining about the checks. + </p> + <p> + “I sha'n't use any more of his savings than I can help,” said Myrtle, and + for the first time her voice quavered. “He must have some clothes up + there,” said she. “There ain't bed-coverings, and it is cold nights, late + as it is in the spring. I wonder how I can get the bedclothes and other + things to him. I can't drive, myself, and I don't like to hire anybody; + aside from its being an expense, it would make talk. Mother Dodd and Abby + won't make talk outside the family, but I suppose it will have to be + known.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Dodd didn't want any mystery made over it,” Stephen Wheaton said. + </p> + <p> + “There ain't going to be any mystery. Christopher has got a right to live + awhile on Silver Mountain if he wants to,” returned Myrtle with her odd, + defiant air. + </p> + <p> + “But I will take the things up there to him, if you will let me have a + horse and wagon,” said Stephen. + </p> + <p> + “I will, and be glad. When will you go?” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll have them ready,” said Myrtle. + </p> + <p> + After the minister had gone she went into her own bedroom and cried a + little and made the moan of a loving woman sadly bewildered by the ways of + man, but loyal as a soldier. Then she dried her tears and began to pack a + load for the wagon. + </p> + <p> + The next morning early, before the dew was off the young grass, Stephen + Wheaton started with the wagon-load, driving the great gray farm-horse up + the side of Silver Mountain. The road was fairly good, making many winds + in order to avoid steep ascents, and Stephen drove slowly. The gray + farmhorse was sagacious. He knew that an unaccustomed hand held the lines; + he knew that of a right he should be treading the plowshares instead of + climbing a mountain on a beautiful spring morning. + </p> + <p> + But as for the man driving, his face was radiant, his eyes of young + manhood lit with the light of the morning. He had not owned it, but he + himself had sometimes chafed under the dull necessity of his life, but + here was excitement, here was exhilaration. He drew the sweet air into his + lungs, and the deeper meaning of the spring morning into his soul. + Christopher Dodd interested him to the point of enthusiasm. Not even the + uneasy consideration of the lonely, mystified woman in Dodd's deserted + home could deprive him of admiration for the man's flight into the + spiritual open. He felt that these rights of the man were of the highest, + and that other rights, even human and pitiful ones, should give them the + right of way. + </p> + <p> + It was not a long drive. When he reached the shack—merely a + one-roomed hut, with a stovepipe chimney, two windows, and a door—Christopher + stood at the entrance and seemed to illuminate it. Stephen for a minute + doubted his identity. Christopher had lost middle age in a day's time. He + had the look of a triumphant youth. Blue smoke was curling from the + chimney. Stephen smelled bacon frying, and coffee. + </p> + <p> + Christopher greeted him with the joyousness of a child. “Lord!” said he, + “did Myrtle send you up with all those things? Well, she is a good woman. + Guess I would have been cold last night if I hadn't been so happy. How is + Myrtle?” + </p> + <p> + “She seemed to take it very sensibly when I told her.” + </p> + <p> + Christopher nodded happily and lovingly. “She would. She can understand + not understanding, and that is more than most women can. It was mighty + good of you to bring the things. You are in time for breakfast. Lord! Mr. + Wheaton, smell the trees, and there are blooms hidden somewhere that smell + sweet. Think of having the common food of man sweetened this way! First + time I fully sensed I was something more than just a man. Lord, I am paid + already. It won't be so very long before I get my fill, at this rate, and + then I can go back. To think I needn't plow to-day! To think all I have to + do is to have the spring! See the light under those trees!” + </p> + <p> + Christopher spoke like a man in ecstasy. He tied the gray horse to a tree + and brought a pail of water for him from the spring near by. + </p> + <p> + Then he said to Stephen: “Come right in. The bacon's done, and the coffee + and the corn-cake and the eggs won't take a minute.” + </p> + <p> + The two men entered the shack. There was nothing there except the little + cooking-stove, a few kitchen utensils hung on pegs on the walls, an old + table with a few dishes, two chairs, and a lounge over which was spread an + ancient buffalo-skin. + </p> + <p> + Stephen sat down, and Christopher fried the eggs. Then he bade the + minister draw up, and the two men breakfasted. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't it great, Mr. Wheaton?” said Christopher. + </p> + <p> + “You are a famous cook, Mr. Dodd,” laughed Stephen. He was thoroughly + enjoying himself, and the breakfast was excellent. + </p> + <p> + “It ain't that,” declared Christopher in his exalted voice. “It ain't + that, young man. It's because the food is blessed.” + </p> + <p> + Stephen stayed all day on Silver Mountain. He and Christopher went + fishing, and had fried trout for dinner. He took some of the trout home to + Myrtle. + </p> + <p> + Myrtle received them with a sort of state which defied the imputation of + sadness. “Did he seem comfortable?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Comfortable, Mrs. Dodd? I believe it will mean a new lease of life to + your husband. He is an uncommon man.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Christopher is uncommon; he always was,” assented Myrtle. + </p> + <p> + “You have everything you want? You were not timid last night alone?” asked + the minister. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I was timid. I heard queer noises,” said Myrtle, “but I sha'n't be + alone any more. Christopher's niece wrote me she was coming to make a + visit. She has been teaching school, and she lost her school. I rather + guess Ellen is as uncommon for a girl as Christopher is for a man. Anyway, + she's lost her school, and her brother's married, and she don't want to go + there. Besides, they live in Boston, and Ellen, she says she can't bear + the city in spring and summer. She wrote she'd saved a little, and she'd + pay her board, but I sha'n't touch a dollar of her little savings, and + neither would Christopher want me to. He's always thought a sight of + Ellen, though he's never seen much of her. As for me, I was so glad when + her letter came I didn't know what to do. Christopher will be glad. I + suppose you'll be going up there to see him off and on.” Myrtle spoke a + bit wistfully, and Stephen did not tell her he had been urged to come + often. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, off and on,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + “If you will just let me know when you are going, I will see that you have + something to take to him—some bread and pies.” + </p> + <p> + “He has some chickens there,” said Stephen. + </p> + <p> + “Has he got a coop for them?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he had one rigged up. He will have plenty of eggs, and he carried up + bacon and corn meal and tea and coffee.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad of that,” said Myrtle. She spoke with a quiet dignity, but her + face never lost its expression of bewilderment and resignation. + </p> + <p> + The next week Stephen Wheaton carried Myrtle's bread and pies to + Christopher on his mountainside. He drove Christopher's gray horse + harnessed in his old buggy, and realized that he himself was getting much + pleasure out of the other man's idiosyncrasy. The morning was beautiful, + and Stephen carried in his mind a peculiar new beauty, besides. Ellen, + Christopher's niece, had arrived the night before, and, early as it was, + she had been astir when he reached the Dodd house. She had opened the door + for him, and she was a goodly sight: a tall girl, shaped like a boy, with + a fearless face of great beauty crowned with compact gold braids and lit + by unswerving blue eyes. Ellen had a square, determined chin and a brow of + high resolve. + </p> + <p> + “Good morning,” said she, and as she spoke she evidently rated Stephen and + approved, for she smiled genially. “I am Mr. Dodd's niece,” said she. “You + are the minister?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And you have come for the things aunt is to send him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Aunt said you were to drive uncle's horse and take the buggy,” said + Ellen. “It is very kind of you. While you are harnessing, aunt and I will + pack the basket.” + </p> + <p> + Stephen, harnessing the gray horse, had a sense of shock; whether pleasant + or otherwise, he could not determine. He had never seen a girl in the + least like Ellen. Girls had never impressed him. She did. + </p> + <p> + When he drove around to the kitchen door she and Myrtle were both there, + and he drank a cup of coffee before starting, and Myrtle introduced him. + “Only think, Mr. Wheaton,” said she, “Ellen says she knows a great deal + about farming, and we are going to hire Jim Mason and go right ahead.” + Myrtle looked adoringly at Ellen. + </p> + <p> + Stephen spoke eagerly. “Don't hire anybody,” he said. “I used to work on a + farm to pay my way through college. I need the exercise. Let me help.” + </p> + <p> + “You may do that,” said Ellen, “on shares. Neither aunt nor I can think of + letting you work without any recompense.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we will settle that,” Stephen replied. When he drove away, his + usually calm mind was in a tumult. + </p> + <p> + “Your niece has come,” he told Christopher, when the two men were + breakfasting together on Silver Mountain. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad of that,” said Christopher. “All that troubled me about being + here was that Myrtle might wake up in the night and hear noises.” + </p> + <p> + Christopher had grown even more radiant. He was effulgent with pure + happiness. + </p> + <p> + “You aren't going to tap your sugar-maples?” said Stephen, looking up at + the great symmetrical efflorescence of rose and green which towered about + them. + </p> + <p> + Christopher laughed. “No, bless 'em,” said he, “the trees shall keep their + sugar this season. This week is the first time I've had a chance to get + acquainted with them and sort of enter into their feelings. Good Lord! + I've seen how I can love those trees, Mr. Wheaton! See the pink on their + young leaves! They know more than you and I. They know how to grow young + every spring.” + </p> + <p> + Stephen did not tell Christopher how Ellen and Myrtle were to work the + farm with his aid. The two women had bade him not. Christopher seemed to + have no care whatever about it. He was simply happy. When Stephen left, he + looked at him and said, with the smile of a child, “Do you think I am + crazy?” + </p> + <p> + “Crazy? No,” replied Stephen. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I ain't. I'm just getting fed. I was starving to death. Glad you + don't think I'm crazy, because I couldn't help matters by saying I wasn't. + Myrtle don't think I am, I know. As for Ellen, I haven't seen her since + she was a little girl. I don't believe she can be much like Myrtle; but I + guess if she is what she promised to turn out she wouldn't think anybody + ought to go just her way to have it the right way.” + </p> + <p> + “I rather think she is like that, although I saw her for the first time + this morning,” said Stephen. + </p> + <p> + “I begin to feel that I may not need to stay here much longer,” + Christopher called after him. “I begin to feel that I am getting what I + came for so fast that I can go back pretty soon.” + </p> + <p> + But it was the last day of July before he came. He chose the cool of the + evening after a burning day, and descended the mountain in the full light + of the moon. He had gone up the mountain like an old man; he came down + like a young one. + </p> + <p> + When he came at last in sight of his own home, he paused and stared. + Across the grass-land a heavily laden wagon was moving toward his barn. + Upon this wagon heaped with hay, full of silver lights from the moon, sat + a tall figure all in white, which seemed to shine above all things. + Christopher did not see the man on the other side of the wagon leading the + horses; he saw only this wonderful white figure. He hurried forward and + Myrtle came down the road to meet him. She had been watching for him, as + she had watched every night. + </p> + <p> + “Who is it on the load of hay?” asked Christopher. + </p> + <p> + “Ellen,” replied Myrtle. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Christopher. “She looked like an angel of the Lord, come to + take up the burden I had dropped while I went to learn of Him.” + </p> + <p> + “Be you feeling pretty well, Christopher?” asked Myrtle. She thought that + what her husband had said was odd, but he looked well, and he might have + said it simply because he was a man. + </p> + <p> + Christopher put his arm around Myrtle. “I am better than I ever was in my + whole life, Myrtle, and I've got more courage to work now than I had when + I was young. I had to go away and get rested, but I've got rested for all + my life. We shall get along all right as long as we live.” + </p> + <p> + “Ellen and the minister are going to get married come Christmas,” said + Myrtle. + </p> + <p> + “She is lucky. He is a man that can see with the eyes of other people,” + said Christopher. + </p> + <p> + It was after the hay had been unloaded and Christopher had been shown the + garden full of lusty vegetables, and told of the great crop with no + drawback, that he and the minister had a few minutes alone together at the + gate. + </p> + <p> + “I want to tell you, Mr. Wheaton, that I am settled in my mind now. I + shall never complain again, no matter what happens. I have found that all + the good things and all the bad things that come to a man who tries to do + right are just to prove to him that he is on the right path. They are just + the flowers and sunbeams, and the rocks and snakes, too, that mark the + way. And—I have found out more than that. I have found out the + answer to my 'why?'” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” asked Stephen, gazing at him curiously from the + wonder-height of his own special happiness. + </p> + <p> + “I have found out that the only way to heaven for the children of men is + through the earth,” said Christopher. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DEAR ANNIE + </h2> + <p> + ANNIE HEMPSTEAD lived on a large family canvas, being the eldest of six + children. There was only one boy. The mother was long since dead. If one + can imagine the Hempstead family, the head of which was the Reverend + Silas, pastor of the Orthodox Church in Lynn Corners, as being the subject + of a mild study in village history, the high light would probably fall + upon Imogen, the youngest daughter. As for Annie, she would apparently + supply only a part of the background. + </p> + <p> + This afternoon in late July, Annie was out in the front yard of the + parsonage, assisting her brother Benny to rake hay. Benny had not cut it. + Annie had hired a man, although the Hempsteads could not afford to hire a + man, but she had said to Benny, “Benny, you can rake the hay and get it + into the barn if Jim Mullins cuts it, can't you?” And Benny had smiled and + nodded acquiescence. Benny Hempstead always smiled and nodded + acquiescence, but there was in him the strange persistency of a willow + bough, the persistency of pliability, which is the most unconquerable of + all. Benny swayed gracefully in response to all the wishes of others, but + always he remained in his own inadequate attitude toward life. + </p> + <p> + Now he was raking to as little purpose as he could and rake at all. The + clover-tops, the timothy grass, and the buttercups moved before his rake + in a faint foam of gold and green and rose, but his sister Annie raised + whirlwinds with hers. The Hempstead yard was large and deep, and had two + great squares given over to wild growths on either side of the gravel + walk, which was bordered with shrubs, flowering in their turn, like a + class of children at school saying their lessons. The spring shrubs had + all spelled out their floral recitations, of course, but great clumps of + peonies were spreading wide skirts of gigantic bloom, like dancers + courtesying low on the stage of summer, and shafts of green-white Yucca + lilies and Japan lilies and clove-pinks still remained in their school of + bloom. + </p> + <p> + Benny often stood still, wiped his forehead, leaned on his rake, and + inhaled the bouquet of sweet scents, but Annie raked with never-ceasing + energy. Annie was small and slender and wiry, and moved with angular + grace, her thin, peaked elbows showing beneath the sleeves of her pink + gingham dress, her thin knees outlining beneath the scanty folds of the + skirt. Her neck was long, her shoulder-blades troubled the back of her + blouse at every movement. She was a creature full of ostentatious joints, + but the joints were delicate and rhythmical and charming. Annie had a + charming face, too. It was thin and sunburnt, but still charming, with a + sweet, eager, intent-to-please outlook upon life. This last was the real + attitude of Annie's mind; it was, in fact, Annie. She was intent to please + from her toes to the crown of her brown head. She radiated good will and + loving-kindness as fervently as a lily in the border radiated perfume. + </p> + <p> + It was very warm, and the northwest sky had a threatening mountain of + clouds. Occasionally Annie glanced at it and raked the faster, and thought + complacently of the water-proof covers in the little barn. This hay was + valuable for the Reverend Silas's horse. + </p> + <p> + Two of the front windows of the house were filled with girls' heads, and + the regular swaying movement of white-clad arms sewing. The girls sat in + the house because it was so sunny on the piazza in the afternoon. There + were four girls in the sittingroom, all making finery for themselves. On + the other side of the front door one of the two windows was blank; in the + other was visible a nodding gray head, that of Annie's father taking his + afternoon nap. + </p> + <p> + Everything was still except the girls' tongues, an occasional burst of + laughter, and the crackling shrill of locusts. Nothing had passed on the + dusty road since Benny and Annie had begun their work. Lynn Corners was + nothing more than a hamlet. It was even seldom that an automobile got + astray there, being diverted from the little city of Anderson, six miles + away, by turning to the left instead of the right. + </p> + <p> + Benny stopped again and wiped his forehead, all pink and beaded with + sweat. He was a pretty young man—as pretty as a girl, although + large. He glanced furtively at Annie, then he went with a soft, padding + glide, like a big cat, to the piazza and settled down. He leaned his head + against a post, closed his eyes, and inhaled the sweetness of flowers + alive and dying, of new-mown hay. Annie glanced at him and an angelic look + came over her face. At that moment the sweetness of her nature seemed + actually visible. + </p> + <p> + “He is tired, poor boy!” she thought. She also thought that probably Benny + felt the heat more because he was stout. Then she raked faster and faster. + She fairly flew over the yard, raking the severed grass and flowers into + heaps. The air grew more sultry. The sun was not yet clouded, but the + northwest was darker and rumbled ominously. + </p> + <p> + The girls in the sitting-room continued to chatter and sew. One of them + might have come out to help this little sister toiling alone, but Annie + did not think of that. She raked with the uncomplaining sweetness of an + angel until the storm burst. The rain came down in solid drops, and the + sky was a sheet of clamoring flame. Annie made one motion toward the barn, + but there was no use. The hay was not half cocked. There was no sense in + running for covers. Benny was up and lumbering into the house, and her + sisters were shutting windows and crying out to her. Annie deserted her + post and fled before the wind, her pink skirts lashing her heels, her hair + dripping. + </p> + <p> + When she entered the sitting-room her sisters, Imogen, Eliza, Jane, and + Susan, were all there; also her father, Silas, tall and gaunt and gray. To + the Hempsteads a thunder-storm partook of the nature of a religious + ceremony. The family gathered together, and it was understood that they + were all offering prayer and recognizing God as present on the wings of + the tempest. In reality they were all very nervous in thunder-storms, with + the exception of Annie. She always sent up a little silent petition that + her sisters and brother and father, and the horse and dog and cat, might + escape danger, although she had never been quite sure that she was not + wicked in including the dog and cat. She was surer about the horse because + he was the means by which her father made pastoral calls upon his distant + sheep. Then afterward she just sat with the others and waited until the + storm was over and it was time to open windows and see if the roof had + leaked. Today, however, she was intent upon the hay. In a lull of the + tempest she spoke. + </p> + <p> + “It is a pity,” she said, “that I was not able to get the hay cocked and + the covers on.” + </p> + <p> + Then Imogen turned large, sarcastic blue eyes upon her. Imogen was + considered a beauty, pink and white, golden-haired, and dimpled, with a + curious calculating hardness of character and a sharp tongue, so at + variance with her appearance that people doubted the evidence of their + senses. + </p> + <p> + “If,” said Imogen, “you had only made Benny work instead of encouraging + him to dawdle and finally to stop altogether, and if you had gone out + directly after dinner, the hay would have been all raked up and covered.” + </p> + <p> + Nothing could have exceeded the calm and instructive superiority of + Imogen's tone. A mass of soft white fabric lay upon her lap, although she + had removed scissors and needle and thimble to a safe distance. She tilted + her chin with a royal air. When the storm lulled she had stopped praying. + </p> + <p> + Imogen's sisters echoed her and joined in the attack upon Annie. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jane, “if you had only started earlier, Annie. I told Eliza + when you went out in the yard that it looked like a shower.” + </p> + <p> + Eliza nodded energetically. + </p> + <p> + “It was foolish to start so late,” said Susan, with a calm air of wisdom + only a shade less exasperating than Imogen's. + </p> + <p> + “And you always encourage Benny so in being lazy,” said Eliza. + </p> + <p> + Then the Reverend Silas joined in. “You should have more sense of + responsibility toward your brother, your only brother, Annie,” he said, in + his deep pulpit voice. + </p> + <p> + “It was after two o'clock when you went out,” said Imogen. + </p> + <p> + “And all you had to do was the dinner-dishes, and there were very few + to-day,” said Jane. + </p> + <p> + Then Annie turned with a quick, cat-like motion. Her eyes blazed under her + brown toss of hair. She gesticulated with her little, nervous hands. Her + voice was as sweet and intense as a reed, and withal piercing with anger. + </p> + <p> + “It was not half past one when I went out,” said she, “and there was a + whole sinkful of dishes.” + </p> + <p> + “It was after two. I looked at the clock,” said Imogen. + </p> + <p> + “It was not.” + </p> + <p> + “And there were very few dishes,” said Jane. + </p> + <p> + “A whole sinkful,” said Annie, tense with wrath. + </p> + <p> + “You always are rather late about starting,” said Susan. + </p> + <p> + “I am not! I was not! I washed the dishes, and swept the kitchen, and + blacked the stove, and cleaned the silver.” + </p> + <p> + “I swept the kitchen,” said Imogen, severely. “Annie, I am surprised at + you.” + </p> + <p> + “And you know I cleaned the silver yesterday,” said Jane. + </p> + <p> + Annie gave a gasp and looked from one to the other. + </p> + <p> + “You know you did not sweep the kitchen,” said Imogen. + </p> + <p> + Annie's father gazed at her severely. “My dear,” he said, “how long must I + try to correct you of this habit of making false statements?” + </p> + <p> + “Dear Annie does not realize that they are false statements, father,” said + Jane. Jane was not pretty, but she gave the effect of a long, sweet stanza + of some fine poetess. She was very tall and slender and large-eyed, and + wore always a serious smile. She was attired in a purple muslin gown, cut + V-shaped at the throat, and, as always, a black velvet ribbon with a + little gold locket attached. The locket contained a coil of hair. Jane had + been engaged to a young minister, now dead three years, and he had given + her the locket. + </p> + <p> + Jane no doubt had mourned for her lover, but she had a covert pleasure in + the romance of her situation. She was a year younger than Annie, and she + had loved and lost, and so had achieved a sentimental distinction. Imogen + always had admirers. Eliza had been courted at intervals half-heartedly by + a widower, and Susan had had a few fleeting chances. But Jane was the only + one who had been really definite in her heart affairs. As for Annie, + nobody ever thought of her in such a connection. It was supposed that + Annie had no thought of marriage, that she was foreordained to remain + unwed and keep house for her father and Benny. + </p> + <p> + When Jane said that dear Annie did not realize that she made false + statements, she voiced an opinion of the family before which Annie was + always absolutely helpless. Defense meant counter-accusation. Annie could + not accuse her family. She glanced from one to the other. In her blue eyes + were still sparks of wrath, but she said nothing. She felt, as always, + speechless, when affairs reached such a juncture. She began, in spite of + her good sense, to feel guiltily responsible for everything—for the + spoiling of the hay, even for the thunder-storm. What was more, she even + wished to feel guiltily responsible. Anything was better than to be sure + her sisters were not speaking the truth, that her father was blaming her + unjustly. + </p> + <p> + Benny, who sat hunched upon himself with the effect of one set of bones + and muscles leaning upon others for support, was the only one who spoke + for her, and even he spoke to little purpose. + </p> + <p> + “One of you other girls,” said he, in a thick, sweet voice, “might have + come out and helped Annie; then she could have got the hay in.” + </p> + <p> + They all turned on him. + </p> + <p> + “It is all very well for you to talk,” said Imogen. “I saw you myself quit + raking hay and sit down on the piazza.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” assented Jane, nodding violently, “I saw you, too.” + </p> + <p> + “You have no sense of your responsibility, Benjamin, and your sister Annie + abets you in evading it,” said Silas Hempstead with dignity. + </p> + <p> + “Benny feels the heat,” said Annie. + </p> + <p> + “Father is entirely right,” said Eliza. “Benjamin has no sense of + responsibility, and it is mainly owing to Annie.” + </p> + <p> + “But dear Annie does not realize it,” said Jane. + </p> + <p> + Benny got up lumberingly and left the room. He loved his sister Annie, but + he hated the mild simmer of feminine rancor to which even his father's + presence failed to add a masculine flavor. Benny was always leaving the + room and allowing his sisters “to fight it out.” + </p> + <p> + Just after he left there was a tremendous peal of thunder and a blue + flash, and they all prayed again, except Annie; who was occupied with her + own perplexities of life, and not at all afraid. She wondered, as she had + wondered many times before, if she could possibly be in the wrong, if she + were spoiling Benny, if she said and did things without knowing that she + did so, or the contrary. Then suddenly she tightened her mouth. She knew. + This sweet-tempered, anxious-to-please Annie was entirely sane, she had + unusual self-poise. She KNEW that she knew what she did and said, and what + she did not do or say, and a strange comprehension of her family + overwhelmed her. Her sisters were truthful; she would not admit anything + else, even to herself; but they confused desires and impulses with + accomplishment. They had done so all their lives, some of them from + intense egotism, some possibly from slight twists in their mental + organisms. As for her father, he had simply rather a weak character, and + was swayed by the majority. Annie, as she sat there among the praying + group, made the same excuse for her sisters that they made for her. “They + don't realize it,” she said to herself. + </p> + <p> + When the storm finally ceased she hurried upstairs and opened the windows, + letting in the rain-fresh air. Then she got supper, while her sisters + resumed their needlework. A curious conviction seized her, as she was + hurrying about the kitchen, that in all probability some, if not all, of + her sisters considered that they were getting the supper. Possibly Jane + had reflected that she ought to get supper, then she had taken another + stitch in her work and had not known fairly that her impulse of duty had + not been carried out. Imogen, presumably, was sewing with the serene + consciousness that, since she was herself, it followed as a matter of + course that she was performing all the tasks of the house. + </p> + <p> + While Annie was making an omelet Benny came out into the kitchen and stood + regarding her, hands in pockets, making, as usual, one set of muscles rest + upon another. His face was full of the utmost good nature, but it also + convicted him of too much sloth to obey its commands. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Annie, what on earth makes them all pick on you so?” he observed. + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Benny! They don't mean to. They don't know it.” + </p> + <p> + “But say, Annie, you must know that they tell whoppers. You DID sweep the + kitchen.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Benny! Imogen really thinks she swept it.” + </p> + <p> + “Imogen always thinks she has done everything she ought to do, whether she + has done it or not,” said Benny, with unusual astuteness. “Why don't you + up and tell her she lies, Annie?” + </p> + <p> + “She doesn't really lie,” said Annie. + </p> + <p> + “She does lie, even if she doesn't know it,” said Benny; “and what is + more, she ought to be made to know it. Say, Annie, it strikes me that you + are doing the same by the girls that they accuse you of doing by me. + Aren't you encouraging them in evil ways?” + </p> + <p> + Annie started, and turned and stared at him. + </p> + <p> + Benny nodded. “I can't see any difference,” he said. “There isn't a day + but one of the girls thinks she has done something you have done, or + hasn't done something you ought to have done, and they blame you all the + time, when you don't deserve it, and you let them, and they don't know it, + and I don't think myself that they know they tell whoppers; but they ought + to know. Strikes me you are just spoiling the whole lot, father thrown in, + Annie. You are a dear, just as they say, but you are too much of a dear to + be good for them.” + </p> + <p> + Annie stared. + </p> + <p> + “You are letting that omelet burn,” said Benny. “Say, Annie, I will go out + and turn that hay in the morning. I know I don't amount to much, but I + ain't a girl, anyhow, and I haven't got a cross-eyed soul. That's what + ails a lot of girls. They mean all right, but their souls have been + cross-eyed ever since they came into the world, and it's just such girls + as you who ought to get them straightened out. You know what has happened + to-day. Well, here's what happened yesterday. I don't tell tales, but you + ought to know this, for I believe Tom Reed has his eye on you, in spite of + Imogen's being such a beauty, and Susan's having manners like silk, and + Eliza's giving everybody the impression that she is too good for this + earth, and Jane's trying to make everybody think she is a sweet martyr, + without a thought for mortal man, when that is only her way of trying to + catch one. You know Tom Reed was here last evening?” + </p> + <p> + Annie nodded. Her face turned scarlet, then pathetically pale. She bent + over her omelet, carefully lifting it around the edges. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” Benny went on, “I know he came to see you, and Imogen went to the + door and ushered him into the parlor, and I was out on the piazza, and she + didn't know it, but I heard her tell him that she thought you had gone + out. She hinted, too, that George Wells had taken you to the concert in + the town hall. He did ask you, didn't he?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Imogen spoke in this way.” Benny lowered his voice and imitated + Imogen to the life. “'Yes, we are all well, thank you. Father is busy, of + course; Jane has run over to Mrs. Jacobs's for a pattern; Eliza is writing + letters; and Susan is somewhere about the house. Annie—well, + Annie-George Wells asked her to go to the concert—I rather—' + Then,” said Benny, in his natural voice, “Imogen stopped, and she could + say truthfully that she didn't lie, but anybody would have thought from + what she said that you had gone to the concert with George Wells.” + </p> + <p> + “Did Tom inquire for me?” asked Annie, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't have a chance. Imogen got ahead of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, then it doesn't matter. I dare say he did come to see Imogen.” + </p> + <p> + “He didn't,” said Benny, stoutly. “And that isn't all. Say, Annie—” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to marry George Wells? It is none of my business, but are + you?” + </p> + <p> + Annie laughed a little, although her face was still pale. She had folded + the omelet and was carefully watching it. + </p> + <p> + “You need not worry about that, Benny dear,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Then what right have the girls to tell so many people the nice things + they hear you say about him?” + </p> + <p> + Annie removed the omelet skilfully from the pan to a hot plate, which she + set on the range shelf, and turned to her brother. + </p> + <p> + “What nice things do they hear me say?” + </p> + <p> + “That he is so handsome; that he has such a good position; that he is the + very best young man in the place; that you should think every girl would + be head over heels in love with him; that every word he speaks is so + bright and clever.” + </p> + <p> + Annie looked at her brother. + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe you ever said one of those things,” remarked Benny. + </p> + <p> + Annie continued to look at him. + </p> + <p> + “Did you?” + </p> + <p> + “Benny dear, I am not going to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “You won't say you never did, because that would be putting your sisters + in the wrong and admitting that they tell lies. Annie, you are a dear, but + I do think you are doing wrong and spoiling them as much as they say you + are spoiling me.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I am,” said Annie. There was a strange, tragic expression on her + keen, pretty little face. She looked as if her mind was contemplating + strenuous action which was changing her very features. She had covered the + finished omelet and was now cooking another. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would see if everybody is in the house and ready, Benny,” said + she. “When this omelet is done they must come right away, or nothing will + be fit to eat. And, Benny dear, if you don't mind, please get the butter + and the cream-pitcher out of the ice-chest. I have everything else on the + table.” + </p> + <p> + “There is another thing,” said Benny. “I don't go about telling tales, but + I do think it is time you knew. The girls tell everybody that you like to + do the housework so much that they don't dare interfere. And it isn't so. + They may have taught themselves to think it is so, but it isn't. You would + like a little time for fancy-work and reading as well as they do.” + </p> + <p> + “Please get the cream and butter, and see if they are all in the house,” + said Annie. She spoke as usual, but the strange expression remained in her + face. It was still there when the family were all gathered at the table + and she was serving the puffy omelet. Jane noticed it first. + </p> + <p> + “What makes you look so odd, Annie?” said she. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know how I look odd,” replied Annie. + </p> + <p> + They all gazed at her then, her father with some anxiety. “You don't look + yourself,” he said. “You are feeling well, aren't you, Annie?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite well, thank you, father.” + </p> + <p> + But after the omelet was served and the tea poured Annie rose. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going, Annie?” asked Imogen, in her sarcastic voice. + </p> + <p> + “To my room, or perhaps out in the orchard.” + </p> + <p> + “It will be sopping wet out there after the shower,” said Eliza. “Are you + crazy, Annie?” + </p> + <p> + “I have on my black skirt, and I will wear rubbers,” said Annie, quietly. + “I want some fresh air.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think you had enough fresh air. You were outdoors all the + afternoon, while we were cooped up in the house,” said Jane. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you feel well, Annie?” her father asked again, a golden bit of + omelet poised on his fork, as she was leaving the room. + </p> + <p> + “Quite well, father dear.” + </p> + <p> + “But you are eating no supper.” + </p> + <p> + “I have always heard that people who cook don't need so much to eat,” said + Imogen. “They say the essence of the food soaks in through the pores.” + </p> + <p> + “I am quite well,” Annie repeated, and the door closed behind her. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Annie! She is always doing odd things like this,” remarked Jane. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she is, things that one cannot account for, but Annie is a dear,” + said Susan. + </p> + <p> + “I hope she is well,” said Annie's father. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she is well enough. Don't worry, father,” said Imogen. “Dear Annie is + always doing the unexpected. She looks very well.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear Annie is quite stout, for her,” said Jane. + </p> + <p> + “I think she is thinner than I have ever seen her, and the rest of you + look like stuffed geese,” said Benny, rudely. + </p> + <p> + Imogen turned upon him in dignified wrath. “Benny, you insult your + sisters,” said she. “Father, you should really tell Benny that he should + bridle his tongue a little.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought to bridle yours, every one of you,” retorted Benny. “You girls + nag poor Annie every single minute. You let her do all the work, then you + pick at her for it.” + </p> + <p> + There was a chorus of treble voices. “We nag dear Annie! We pick at dear + Annie! We make her do everything! Father, you should remonstrate with + Benjamin. You know how we all love dear Annie!” + </p> + <p> + “Benjamin,” began Silas Hempstead, but Benny, with a smothered + exclamation, was up and out of the room. + </p> + <p> + Benny quite frankly disliked his sisters, with the exception of Annie. For + his father he had a sort of respectful tolerance. He could not see why he + should have anything else. His father had never done anything for him + except to admonish him. His scanty revenue for his support and college + expenses came from his maternal grandmother, who had been a woman of parts + and who had openly scorned her son-in-law. + </p> + <p> + Grandmother Loomis had left a will which occasioned much comment. By its + terms she had provided sparsely but adequately for Benjamin's education + and living until he should graduate; and her house, with all her personal + property, and the bulk of the sum from which she had derived her own + income, fell to her granddaughter Annie. Annie had always been her + grandmother's favorite. There had been covert dismay when the contents of + the will were made known, then one and all had congratulated the + beneficiary, and said abroad that they were glad dear Annie was so well + provided for. It was intimated by Imogen and Eliza that probably dear + Annie would not marry, and in that case Grandmother Loomis's bequest was + so fortunate. She had probably taken that into consideration. Grandmother + Loomis had now been dead four years, and her deserted home had been for + rent, furnished, but it had remained vacant. + </p> + <p> + Annie soon came back from the orchard, and after she had cleared away the + supper-table and washed the dishes she went up to her room, carefully + rearranged her hair, and changed her dress. Then she sat down beside a + window and waited and watched, her pointed chin in a cup of one little + thin hand, her soft muslin skirts circling around her, and the scent of + queer old sachet emanating from a flowered ribbon of her grandmother's + which she had tied around her waist. The ancient scent always clung to the + ribbon, suggesting faintly as a dream the musk and roses and violets of + some old summer-time. + </p> + <p> + Annie sat there and gazed out on the front yard, which was silvered over + with moonlight. Annie's four sisters all sat out there. They had spread a + rug over the damp grass and brought out chairs. There were five chairs, + although there were only four girls. Annie gazed over the yard and down + the street. She heard the chatter of the girls, which was inconsequent and + absent, as if their minds were on other things than their conversation. + Then suddenly she saw a small red gleam far down the street, evidently + that of a cigar, and also a dark, moving figure. Then there ensued a + subdued wrangle in the yard. Imogen insisted that her sisters should go + into the house. They all resisted, Eliza the most vehemently. Imogen was + arrogant and compelling. Finally she drove them all into the house except + Eliza, who wavered upon the threshold of yielding. Imogen was obliged to + speak very softly lest the approaching man hear, but Annie, in the window + above her, heard every word. + </p> + <p> + “You know he is coming to see me,” said Imogen, passionately. “You know—you + know, Eliza, and yet every single time he comes, here are you girls, + spying and listening.” + </p> + <p> + “He comes to see Annie, I believe,” said Eliza, in her stubborn voice, + which yet had indecision in it. + </p> + <p> + “He never asks for her.” + </p> + <p> + “He never has a chance. We all tell him, the minute he comes in, that she + is out. But now I am going to stay, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “Stay if you want to. You are all a jealous lot. If you girls can't have a + beau yourselves, you begrudge one to me. I never saw such a house as this + for a man to come courting in.” + </p> + <p> + “I will stay,” said Eliza, and this time her voice was wholly firm. “There + is no use in my going, anyway, for the others are coming back.” + </p> + <p> + It was true. Back flitted Jane and Susan, and by that time Tom Reed had + reached the gate, and his cigar was going out in a shower of sparks on the + gravel walk, and all four sisters were greeting him and urging upon his + acceptance the fifth chair. Annie, watching, saw that the young man seemed + to hesitate. Then her heart leaped and she heard him speak quite plainly, + with a note of defiance and irritation, albeit with embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + “Is Miss Annie in?” asked Tom Reed. + </p> + <p> + Imogen answered first, and her harsh voice was honey-sweet. + </p> + <p> + “I fear dear Annie is out,” she said. “She will be so sorry to miss you.” + </p> + <p> + Annie, at her window, made a sudden passionate motion, then she sat still + and listened. She argued fiercely that she was right in so doing. She felt + that the time had come when she must know, for the sake of her own + individuality, just what she had to deal with in the natures of her own + kith and kin. Dear Annie had turned in her groove of sweetness and gentle + yielding, as all must turn who have any strength of character underneath + the sweetness and gentleness. Therefore Annie, at her window above, + listened. + </p> + <p> + At first she heard little that bore upon herself, for the conversation was + desultory, about the weather and general village topics. Then Annie heard + her own name. She was “dear Annie,” as usual. She listened, fairly faint + with amazement. What she heard from that quartette of treble voices down + there in the moonlight seemed almost like a fairy-tale. The sisters did + not violently incriminate her. They were too astute for that. They told + half-truths. They told truths which were as shadows of the real facts, and + yet not to be contradicted. They built up between them a story marvelously + consistent, unless prearranged, and that Annie did not think possible. + George Wells figured in the tale, and there were various hints and pauses + concerning herself and her own character in daily life, and not one item + could be flatly denied, even if the girl could have gone down there and, + standing in the midst of that moonlit group, given her sisters the lie. + </p> + <p> + Everything which they told, the whole structure of falsehood, had beams + and rafters of truth. Annie felt helpless before it all. To her fancy, her + sisters and Tom Reed seemed actually sitting in a fairy building whose + substance was utter falsehood, and yet which could not be utterly denied. + An awful sense of isolation possessed her. So these were her own sisters, + the sisters whom she had loved as a matter of the simplest nature, whom + she had admired, whom she had served. + </p> + <p> + She made no allowance, since she herself was perfectly normal, for the + motive which underlay it all. She could not comprehend the strife of the + women over the one man. Tom Reed was in reality the one desirable match in + the village. Annie knew, or thought she knew, that Tom Reed had it in mind + to love her, and she innocently had it in mind to love him. She thought of + a home of her own and his with delight. She thought of it as she thought + of the roses coming into bloom in June, and she thought of it as she + thought of the every-day happenings of life—cooking, setting rooms + in order, washing dishes. However, there was something else to reckon + with, and that Annie instinctively knew. She had been long-suffering, and + her long-suffering was now regarded as endless. She had cast her pearls, + and they had been trampled. She had turned her other cheek, and it had + been promptly slapped. It was entirely true that Annie's sisters were not + quite worthy of her, that they had taken advantage of her kindness and + gentleness, and had mistaken them for weakness, to be despised. She did + not understand them, nor they her. They were, on the whole, better than + she thought, but with her there was a stern limit of endurance. Something + whiter and hotter than mere wrath was in the girl's soul as she sat there + and listened to the building of that structure of essential falsehood + about herself. + </p> + <p> + She waited until Tom Reed had gone. He did not stay long. Then she went + down-stairs with flying feet, and stood among them in the moonlight. Her + father had come out of the study, and Benny had just been entering the + gate as Tom Reed left. Then dear Annie spoke. She really spoke for the + first time in her life, and there was something dreadful about it all. A + sweet nature is always rather dreadful when it turns and strikes, and + Annie struck with the whole force of a nature with a foundation of steel. + She left nothing unsaid. She defended herself and she accused her sisters + as if before a judge. Then came her ultimatum. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow morning I am going over to Grandmother Loomis's house, and I am + going to live there a whole year,” she declared, in a slow, steady voice. + “As you know, I have enough to live on, and—in order that no word of + mine can be garbled and twisted as it has been to-night, I speak not at + all. Everything which I have to communicate shall be written in black and + white, and signed with my own name, and black and white cannot lie.” + </p> + <p> + It was Jane who spoke first. “What will people say?” she whimpered, + feebly. + </p> + <p> + “From what I have heard you all say to-night, whatever you make them,” + retorted Annie—the Annie who had turned. + </p> + <p> + Jane gasped. Silas Hempstead stood staring, quite dumb before the sudden + problem. Imogen alone seemed to have any command whatever of the + situation. + </p> + <p> + “May I inquire what the butcher and grocer are going to think, no matter + what your own sisters think and say, when you give your orders in + writing?” she inquired, achieving a jolt from tragedy to the commonplace. + </p> + <p> + “That is my concern,” replied Annie, yet she recognized the difficulty of + that phase of the situation. It is just such trifling matters which + detract from the dignity of extreme attitudes toward existence. Annie had + taken an extreme attitude, yet here were the butcher and the grocer to + reckon with. How could she communicate with them in writing without + appearing absurd to the verge of insanity? Yet even that difficulty had a + solution. + </p> + <p> + Annie thought it out after she had gone to bed that night. She had been + imperturbable with her sisters, who had finally come in a body to make + entreaties, although not apologies or retractions. There was a + stiff-necked strain in the Hempstead family, and apologies and retractions + were bitterer cuds for them to chew than for most. She had been + imperturbable with her father, who had quoted Scripture and prayed at her + during family worship. She had been imperturbable even with Benny, who had + whispered to her: “Say, Annie, I don't blame you, but it will be a hell of + a time without you. Can't you stick it out?” + </p> + <p> + But she had had a struggle before her own vision of the butcher and the + grocer, and their amazement when she ceased to speak to them. Then she + settled that with a sudden leap of inspiration. It sounded too apropos to + be life, but there was a little deaf-anddumb girl, a far-away relative of + the Hempsteads, who lived with her aunt Felicia in Anderson. She was a + great trial to her aunt Felicia, who was a widow and well-to-do, and liked + the elegancies and normalities of life. This unfortunate little Effie + Hempstead could not be placed in a charitable institution on account of + the name she bore. Aunt Felicia considered it her worldly duty to care for + her, but it was a trial. + </p> + <p> + Annie would take Effie off Aunt Felicia's hands, and no comment would be + excited by a deaf-anddumb girl carrying written messages to the tradesmen, + since she obviously could not give them orally. The only comment would be + on Annie's conduct in holding herself aloof from her family and the + village people generally. + </p> + <p> + The next morning, when Annie went away, there was an excited conclave + among the sisters. + </p> + <p> + “She means to do it,” said Susan, and she wept. + </p> + <p> + Imogen's handsome face looked hard and set. “Let her, if she wants to,” + said she. + </p> + <p> + “Only think what people will say!” wailed Jane. + </p> + <p> + Imogen tossed her head. “I shall have something to say myself,” she + returned. “I shall say how much we all regret that dear Annie has such a + difficult disposition that she felt she could not live with her own family + and must be alone.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Jane, blunt in her distress, “will they believe it?” + </p> + <p> + “Why will they not believe it, pray?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I am afraid people have the impression that dear Annie has—” + Jane hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “What?” asked Imogen, coldly. She looked very handsome that morning. Not a + waved golden hair was out of place on her carefully brushed head. She wore + the neatest of blue linen skirts and blouses, with a linen collar and + white tie. There was something hard but compelling about her blond beauty. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid,” said Jane, “that people have a sort of general impression + that dear Annie has perhaps as sweet a disposition as any of us, perhaps + sweeter.” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody says that dear Annie has not a sweet disposition,” said Imogen, + taking a careful stitch in her embroidery. “But a sweet disposition is + very often extremely difficult for other people. It constantly puts them + in the wrong. I am well aware of the fact that dear Annie does a great + deal for all of us, but it is sometimes irritating. Of course it is quite + certain that she must have a feeling of superiority because of it, and she + should not have it.” + </p> + <p> + Sometimes Eliza made illuminating speeches. “I suppose it follows, then,” + said she, with slight irony, “that only an angel can have a very sweet + disposition without offending others.” + </p> + <p> + But Imogen was not in the least nonplussed. She finished her line of + thought. “And with all her sweet disposition,” said she, “nobody can deny + that dear Annie is peculiar, and peculiarity always makes people difficult + for other people. Of course it is horribly peculiar what she is proposing + to do now. That in itself will be enough to convince people that dear + Annie must be difficult. Only a difficult person could do such a strange + thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is going to get up and get breakfast in the morning, and wash the + dishes?” inquired Jane, irrelevantly. + </p> + <p> + “All I ever want for breakfast is a bit of fruit, a roll, and an egg, + besides my coffee,” said Imogen, with her imperious air. + </p> + <p> + “Somebody has to prepare it.” + </p> + <p> + “That is a mere nothing,” said Imogen, and she took another stitch. + </p> + <p> + After a little, Jane and Eliza went by themselves and discussed the + problem. + </p> + <p> + “It is quite evident that Imogen means to do nothing,” said Jane. + </p> + <p> + “And also that she will justify herself by the theory that there is + nothing to be done,” said Eliza. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well,” said Jane, “I will get up and get breakfast, of course. I once + contemplated the prospect of doing it the rest of my life.” + </p> + <p> + Eliza assented. “I can understand that it will not be so hard for you,” + she said, “and although I myself always aspired to higher things than + preparing breakfasts, still, you did not, and it is true that you would + probably have had it to do if poor Henry had lived, for he was not one to + ever have a very large salary.” + </p> + <p> + “There are better things than large salaries,” said Jane, and her face + looked sadly reminiscent. After all, the distinction of being the only one + who had been on the brink of preparing matrimonial breakfasts was much. + She felt that it would make early rising and early work endurable to her, + although she was not an active young woman. + </p> + <p> + “I will get a dish-mop and wash the dishes,” said Eliza. “I can manage to + have an instructive book propped open on the kitchen table, and keep my + mind upon higher things as I do such menial tasks.” + </p> + <p> + Then Susan stood in the doorway, a tall figure gracefully swaying + sidewise, long-throated and prominent-eyed. She was the least + attractive-looking of any of the sisters, but her manners were so + charming, and she was so perfectly the lady, that it made up for any lack + of beauty. + </p> + <p> + “I will dust,” said Susan, in a lovely voice, and as she spoke she + involuntarily bent and swirled her limp muslins in such a way that she + fairly suggested a moral duster. There was the making of an actress in + Susan. Nobody had ever been able to decide what her true individual self + was. Quite unconsciously, like a chameleon, she took upon herself the + characteristics of even inanimate things. Just now she was a duster, and a + wonderfully creditable duster. + </p> + <p> + “Who,” said Jane, “is going to sweep? Dear Annie has always done that.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not strong enough to sweep. I am very sorry,” said Susan, who + remained a duster, and did not become a broom. + </p> + <p> + “If we have system,” said Eliza, vaguely, “the work ought not to be so + very hard.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not,” said Imogen. She had come in and seated herself. Her + three sisters eyed her, but she embroidered imperturbably. The same + thought was in the minds of all. Obviously Imogen was the very one to take + the task of sweeping upon herself. That hard, compact, young body of hers + suggested strenuous household work. Embroidery did not seem to be her role + at all. + </p> + <p> + But Imogen had no intention of sweeping. Indeed, the very imagining of + such tasks in connection with herself was beyond her. She did not even + dream that her sisters expected it of her. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” said Jane, “that we might be able to engage Mrs. Moss to come + in once a week and do the sweeping.” + </p> + <p> + “It would cost considerable,” said Susan. + </p> + <p> + “But it has to be done.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think it might be managed, with system, if you did not hire + anybody,” said Imogen, calmly. + </p> + <p> + “You talk of system as if it were a suction cleaner,” said Eliza, with a + dash of asperity. Sometimes she reflected how she would have hated Imogen + had she not been her sister. + </p> + <p> + “System is invaluable,” said Imogen. She looked away from her embroidery + to the white stretch of country road, arched over with elms, and her + beautiful eyes had an expression as if they sighted system, the justified + settler of all problems. + </p> + <p> + Meantime, Annie Hempstead was traveling to Anderson in the jolting + trolley-car, and trying to settle her emotions and her outlook upon life, + which jolted worse than the car upon a strange new track. She had not the + slightest intention of giving up her plan, but she realized within herself + the sensations of a revolutionist. Who in her family, for generations and + generations, had ever taken the course which she was taking? She was not + exactly frightened—Annie had splendid courage when once her blood + was up—but she was conscious of a tumult and grind of adjustment to + a new level which made her nervous. + </p> + <p> + She reached the end of the car line, then walked about half a mile to her + Aunt Felicia Hempstead's house. It was a handsome house, after the + standard of nearly half a century ago. It had an opulent air, with its + swelling breasts of bay windows, through which showed fine lace curtains; + its dormer-windows, each with its carefully draped curtains; its + black-walnut front door, whose side-lights were screened with medallioned + lace. The house sat high on three terraces of velvet-like grass, and was + surmounted by stone steps in three instalments, each of which was flanked + by stone lions. + </p> + <p> + Annie mounted the three tiers of steps between the stone lions and rang + the front-door bell, which was polished so brightly that it winked at her + like a brazen eye. Almost directly the door was opened by an immaculate, + white-capped and white-aproned maid, and Annie was ushered into the + parlor. When Annie had been a little thing she had been enamoured of and + impressed by the splendor of this parlor. Now she had doubts of it, in + spite of the long, magnificent sweep of lace curtains, the sheen of + carefully kept upholstery, the gleam of alabaster statuettes, and the even + piles of gilt-edged books upon the polished tables. + </p> + <p> + Soon Mrs. Felicia Hempstead entered, a tall, well-set-up woman, with a + handsome face and keen eyes. She wore her usual morning costume—a + breakfast sacque of black silk profusely trimmed with lace, and a black + silk skirt. She kissed Annie, with a slight peck of closely set lips, for + she liked her. Then she sat down opposite her and regarded her with as + much of a smile as her sternly set mouth could manage, and inquired + politely regarding her health and that of the family. When Annie broached + the subject of her call, the set calm of her face relaxed, and she nodded. + </p> + <p> + “I know what your sisters are. You need not explain to me,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “But,” returned Annie, “I do not think they realize. It is only because I—” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Felicia Hempstead. “It is because they need a dose of + bitter medicine, and you hope they will be the better for it. I understand + you, my dear. You have spirit enough, but you don't get it up often. That + is where they make their mistake. Often the meek are meek from choice, and + they are the ones to beware of. I don't blame you for trying it. And you + can have Effie and welcome. I warn you that she is a little wearing. Of + course she can't help her affliction, poor child, but it is dreadful. I + have had her taught. She can read and write very well now, poor child, and + she is not lacking, and I have kept her well dressed. I take her out to + drive with me every day, and am not ashamed to have her seen with me. If + she had all her faculties she would not be a bad-looking little girl. Now, + of course, she has something of a vacant expression. That comes, I + suppose, from her not being able to hear. She has learned to speak a few + words, but I don't encourage her doing that before people. It is too + evident that there is something wrong. She never gets off one tone. But I + will let her speak to you. She will be glad to go with you. She likes you, + and I dare say you can put up with her. A woman when she is alone will + make a companion of a brazen image. You can manage all right for + everything except her clothes and lessons. I will pay for them.” + </p> + <p> + “Can't I give her lessons?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you can try, but I am afraid you will need to have Mr. Freer come + over once a week. It seems to me to be quite a knack to teach the deaf and + dumb. You can see. I will have Effie come in and tell her about the plan. + I wanted to go to Europe this summer, and did not know how to manage about + Effie. It will be a godsend to me, this arrangement, and of course after + the year is up she can come back.” + </p> + <p> + With that Felicia touched a bell, the maid appeared with automatic + readiness, and presently a tall little girl entered. She was very well + dressed. Her linen frock was hand-embroidered, and her shoes were ultra. + Her pretty shock of fair hair was tied with French ribbon in a fetching + bow, and she made a courtesy which would have befitted a little princess. + Poor Effie's courtesy was the one feature in which Felicia Hempstead took + pride. After making it the child always glanced at her for approval, and + her face lighted up with pleasure at the faint smile which her little + performance evoked. Effie would have been a pretty little girl had it not + been for that vacant, bewildered expression of which Felicia had spoken. + It was the expression of one shut up with the darkest silence of life, + that of her own self, and beauty was incompatible with it. + </p> + <p> + Felicia placed her stiff forefinger upon her own lips and nodded, and the + child's face became transfigured. She spoke in a level, awful voice, + utterly devoid of inflection, and full of fright. Her voice was as the + first attempt of a skater upon ice. However, it was intelligible. + </p> + <p> + “Good morning,” said she. “I hope you are well.” Then she courtesied + again. That little speech and one other, “Thank you, I am very well,” were + all she had mastered. Effie's instruction had begun rather late, and her + teacher was not remarkably skilful. + </p> + <p> + When Annie's lips moved in response, Effie's face fairly glowed with + delight and affection. The little girl loved Annie. Then her questioning + eyes sought Felicia, who beckoned, and drew from the pocket of her + rustling silk skirt a tiny pad and pencil. Effie crossed the room and + stood at attention while Felicia wrote. When she had read the words on the + pad she gave one look at Annie, then another at Felicia, who nodded. + </p> + <p> + Effie courtesied before Annie like a fairy dancer. “Good morning. I hope + you are well,” she said. Then she courtesied again and said, “Thank you, I + am very well.” Her pretty little face was quite eager with love and + pleasure, and yet there was an effect as of a veil before the happy + emotion in it. The contrast between the awful, level voice and the grace + of motion and evident delight at once shocked and compelled pity. Annie + put her arms around Effie and kissed her. + </p> + <p> + “You dear little thing,” she said, quite forgetting that Effie could not + hear. + </p> + <p> + Felicia Hempstead got speedily to work, and soon Effie's effects were + packed and ready for transportation upon the first express to Lynn + Corners, and Annie and the little girl had boarded the trolley thither. + </p> + <p> + Annie Hempstead had the sensation of one who takes a cold plunge—half + pain and fright, half exhilaration and triumph—when she had fairly + taken possession of her grandmother's house. There was genuine girlish + pleasure in looking over the stock of old china and linen and ancient + mahoganies, in starting a fire in the kitchen stove, and preparing a meal, + the written order for which Effie had taken to the grocer and butcher. + There was genuine delight in sitting down with Effie at her very own + table, spread with her grandmother's old damask and pretty dishes, and + eating, without hearing a word of unfavorable comment upon the cookery. + But there was a certain pain and terror in trampling upon that which it + was difficult to define, either her conscience or sense of the divine + right of the conventional. + </p> + <p> + But that night after Effie had gone to bed, and the house was set to + rights, and she in her cool muslin was sitting on the front-door step, + under the hooded trellis covered with wistaria, she was conscious of + entire emancipation. She fairly gloated over her new estate. + </p> + <p> + “To-night one of the others will really have to get the supper, and wash + the dishes, and not be able to say she did it and I didn't, when I did,” + Annie thought with unholy joy. She knew perfectly well that her viewpoint + was not sanctified, but she felt that she must allow her soul to have its + little witch-caper or she could not answer for the consequences. There + might result spiritual atrophy, which would be much more disastrous than + sin and repentance. It was either the continuance of her old life in her + father's house, which was the ignominious and harmful one of the + scapegoat, or this. She at last reveled in this. Here she was mistress. + Here what she did, she did, and what she did not do remained undone. Here + her silence was her invincible weapon. Here she was free. + </p> + <p> + The soft summer night enveloped her. The air was sweet with flowers and + the grass which lay still unraked in her father's yard. A momentary + feeling of impatience seized her; then she dismissed it, and peace came. + What had she to do with that hay? Her father would be obliged to buy hay + if it were not raked over and dried, but what of that? She had nothing to + do with it. + </p> + <p> + She heard voices and soft laughter. A dark shadow passed along the street. + Her heart quickened its beat. The shadow turned in at her father's gate. + There was a babel of welcoming voices, of which Annie could not + distinguish one articulate word. She sat leaning forward, her eyes intent + upon the road. Then she heard the click of her father's gate and the dark, + shadowy figure reappeared in the road. Annie knew who it was; she knew + that Tom Reed was coming to see her. For a second, rapture seized her, + then dismay. How well she knew her sisters-how very well! Not one of them + would have given him the slightest inkling of the true situation. They + would have told him, by the sweetest of insinuations, rather than by + straight statements, that she had left her father's roof and come over + here, but not one word would have been told him concerning her vow of + silence. They would leave that for him to discover, to his amazement and + anger. + </p> + <p> + Annie rose and fled. She closed the door, turned the key softly, and ran + up-stairs in the dark. Kneeling before a window on the farther side from + her old home, she watched with eager eyes the young man open the gate and + come up the path between the old-fashioned shrubs. The clove-like + fragrance of the pinks in the border came in her face. Annie watched Tom + Reed disappear beneath the trellised hood of the door; then the bell + tinkled through the house. It seemed to Annie that she heard it as she had + never heard anything before. Every nerve in her body seemed urging her to + rise and go down-stairs and admit this young man whom she loved. But her + will, turned upon itself, kept her back. She could not rise and go down; + something stronger than her own wish restrained her. She suffered + horribly, but she remained. The bell tinkled again. There was a pause, + then it sounded for the third time. + </p> + <p> + Annie leaned against the window, faint and trembling. It was rather + horrible to continue such a fight between will and inclination, but she + held out. She would not have been herself had she not done so. Then she + saw Tom Reed's figure emerge from under the shadow of the door, pass down + the path between the sweet-flowering shrubs, seeming to stir up the odor + of the pinks as he did so. He started to go down the road; then Annie + heard a loud, silvery call, with a harsh inflection, from her father's + house. “Imogen is calling him back,” she thought. + </p> + <p> + Annie was out of the room, and, slipping softly down-stairs and out into + the yard, crouched close to the fence overgrown with sweetbrier, its + foundation hidden in the mallow, and there she listened. She wanted to + know what Imogen and her other sisters were about to say to Tom Reed, and + she meant to know. She heard every word. The distance was not great, and + her sisters' voices carried far, in spite of their honeyed tones and + efforts toward secrecy. By the time Tom had reached the gate of the + parsonage they had all crowded down there, a fluttering assembly in their + snowy summer muslins, like white doves. Annie heard Imogen first. Imogen + was always the ringleader. + </p> + <p> + “Couldn't you find her?” asked Imogen. + </p> + <p> + “No. Rang three times,” replied Tom. He had a boyish voice, and his + chagrin showed plainly in it. Annie knew just how he looked, how dear and + big and foolish, with his handsome, bewildered face, blurting out to her + sisters his disappointment, with innocent faith in their sympathy. + </p> + <p> + Then Annie heard Eliza speak in a small, sweet voice, which yet, to one + who understood her, carried in it a sting of malice. “How very strange!” + said Eliza. + </p> + <p> + Jane spoke next. She echoed Eliza, but her voice was more emphatic and + seemed multiple, as echoes do. “Yes, very strange indeed,” said Jane. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Annie is really very singular lately. It has distressed us all, + especially father,” said Susan, but deprecatingly. + </p> + <p> + Then Imogen spoke, and to the point. “Annie must be in that house,” said + she. “She went in there, and she could not have gone out without our + seeing her.” + </p> + <p> + Annie could fairly see the toss of Imogen's head as she spoke. + </p> + <p> + “What in thunder do you all mean?” asked Tom Reed, and there was a + bluntness, almost a brutality, in his voice which was refreshing. + </p> + <p> + “I do not think such forcible language is becoming, especially at the + parsonage,” said Jane. + </p> + <p> + Annie distinctly heard Tom Reed snort. “Hang it if I care whether it is + becoming or not,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “You seem to forget that you are addressing ladies, sir,” said Jane. + </p> + <p> + “Don't forget it for a blessed minute,” returned Tom Reed. “Wish I could. + You make it too evident that you are—ladies, with every word you + speak, and all your beating about the bush. A man would blurt it out, and + then I would know where I am at. Hang it if I know now. You all say that + your sister is singular and that she distresses your father, and you”—addressing + Imogen—“say that she must be in that house. You are the only one who + does make a dab at speaking out; I will say that much for you. Now, if she + is in that house, what in thunder is the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “I really cannot stay here and listen to such profane language,” said + Jane, and she flitted up the path to the house like an enraged white moth. + She had a fleecy white shawl over her head, and her pale outline was + triangular. + </p> + <p> + “If she calls that profane, I pity her,” said Tom Reed. He had known the + girls since they were children, and had never liked Jane. He continued, + still addressing Imogen. “For Heaven's sake, if she is in that house, what + is the matter?” said he. “Doesn't the bell ring? Yes, it does ring, though + it is as cracked as the devil. I heard it. Has Annie gone deaf? Is she + sick? Is she asleep? It is only eight o'clock. I don't believe she is + asleep. Doesn't she want to see me? Is that the trouble? What have I done? + Is she angry with me?” + </p> + <p> + Eliza spoke, smoothly and sweetly. “Dear Annie is singular,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “What the dickens do you mean by singular? I have known Annie ever since + she was that high. It never struck me that she was any more singular than + other girls, except she stood an awful lot of nagging without making a + kick. Here you all say she is singular, as if you meant she was”—Tom + hesitated a second—“crazy,” said he. “Now, I know that Annie is + saner than any girl around here, and that simply does not go down. What do + you all mean by singular?” + </p> + <p> + “Dear Annie may not be singular, but her actions are sometimes singular,” + said Susan. “We all feel badly about this.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean her going over to her grandmother's house to live? I don't know + whether I think that is anything but horse-sense. I have eyes in my head, + and I have used them. Annie has worked like a dog here; I suppose she + needed a rest.” + </p> + <p> + “We all do our share of the work,” said Eliza, calmly, “but we do it in a + different way from dear Annie. She makes very hard work of work. She has + not as much system as we could wish. She tires herself unnecessarily.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that is quite true,” assented Imogen. “Dear Annie gets very tired + over the slightest tasks, whereas if she went a little more slowly and + used more system the work would be accomplished well and with no fatigue. + There are five of us to do the work here, and the house is very + convenient.” + </p> + <p> + There was a silence. Tom Reed was bewildered. “But—doesn't she want + to see me?” he asked, finally. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Annie takes very singular notions sometimes,” said Eliza, softly. + </p> + <p> + “If she took a notion not to go to the door when she heard the bell ring, + she simply wouldn't,” said Imogen, whose bluntness of speech was, after + all, a relief. + </p> + <p> + “Then you mean that you think she took a notion not to go to the door?” + asked Tom, in a desperate tone. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Annie is very singular,” said Eliza, with such softness and + deliberation that it was like a minor chord of music. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know of anything she has against me?” asked Tom of Imogen; but + Eliza answered for her. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Annie is not in the habit of making confidantes of her sisters,” + said she, “but we do know that she sometimes takes unwarranted dislikes.” + </p> + <p> + “Which time generally cures,” said Susan. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes,” assented Eliza, “which time generally cures. She can have no + reason whatever for avoiding you. You have always treated her well.” + </p> + <p> + “I have always meant to,” said Tom, so miserably and helplessly that + Annie, listening, felt her heart go out to this young man, badgered by + females, and she formed a sudden resolution. + </p> + <p> + “You have not seen very much of her, anyway,” said Imogen. + </p> + <p> + “I have always asked for her, but I understood she was busy,” said Tom, + “and that was the reason why I saw her so seldom.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Eliza, “busy!” She said it with an indescribable tone. + </p> + <p> + “If,” supplemented Imogen, “there was system, there would be no need of + any one of us being too busy to see our friends.” + </p> + <p> + “Then she has not been busy? She has not wanted to see me?” said Tom. “I + think I understand at last. I have been a fool not to before. You girls + have broken it to me as well as you could. Much obliged, I am sure. Good + night.” + </p> + <p> + “Won't you come in?” asked Imogen. + </p> + <p> + “We might have some music,” said Eliza. + </p> + <p> + “And there is an orange cake, and I will make coffee,” said Susan. + </p> + <p> + Annie reflected rapidly how she herself had made that orange cake, and + what queer coffee Susan would be apt to concoct. + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you,” said Tom Reed, briskly. “I will drop in another evening. + Think I must go home now. I have some important letters. Good night, all.” + </p> + <p> + Annie made a soft rush to the gate, crouching low that her sisters might + not see her. They flocked into the house with irascible murmurings, like + scolding birds, while Annie stole across the grass, which had begun to + glisten with silver wheels of dew. She held her skirts closely wrapped + around her, and stepped through a gap in the shrubs beside the walk, then + sped swiftly to the gate. She reached it just as Tom Reed was passing with + a quick stride. + </p> + <p> + “Tom,” said Annie, and the young man stopped short. + </p> + <p> + He looked in her direction, but she stood close to a great snowball-bush, + and her dress was green muslin, and he did not see her. Thinking that he + had been mistaken, he started on, when she called again, and this time she + stepped apart from the bush and her voice sounded clear as a flute. + </p> + <p> + “Tom,” she said. “Stop a minute, please.” + </p> + <p> + Tom stopped and came close to her. In the dim light she could see that his + face was all aglow, like a child's, with delight and surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Is that you, Annie?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I want to speak to you, please.” + </p> + <p> + “I have been here before, and I rang the bell three times. Then you were + out, although your sisters thought not.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I was in the house.” + </p> + <p> + “You did not hear the bell?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I heard it every time.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why—?” + </p> + <p> + “Come into the house with me and I will tell you; at least I will tell you + all I can.” + </p> + <p> + Annie led the way and the young man followed. He stood in the dark entry + while Annie lit the parlor lamp. The room was on the farther side of the + house from the parsonage. + </p> + <p> + “Come in and sit down,” said Annie. Then the young man stepped into a room + which was pretty in spite of itself. There was an old Brussels carpet with + an enormous rose pattern. The haircloth furniture gave out gleams like + black diamonds under the light of the lamp. In a corner stood a what-not + piled with branches of white coral and shells. Annie's grandfather had + been a sea-captain, and many of his spoils were in the house. Possibly + Annie's own occupation of it was due to an adventurous strain inherited + from him. Perhaps the same impulse which led him to voyage to foreign + shores had led her to voyage across a green yard to the next house. + </p> + <p> + Tom Reed sat down on the sofa. Annie sat in a rocking-chair near by. At + her side was a Chinese teapoy, a nest of lacquer tables, and on it stood a + small, squat idol. Annie's grandmother had been taken to task by her + son-in-law, the Reverend Silas, for harboring a heathen idol, but she had + only laughed, + </p> + <p> + “Guess as long as I don't keep heathen to bow down before him, he can't do + much harm,” she had said. + </p> + <p> + Now the grotesque face of the thing seemed to stare at the two Occidental + lovers with the strange, calm sarcasm of the Orient, but they had no eyes + or thought for it. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn't you come to the door if you heard the bell ring?” asked Tom + Reed, gazing at Annie, slender as a blade of grass in her clinging green + gown. + </p> + <p> + “Because I was not able to break my will then. I had to break it to go out + in the yard and ask you to come in, but when the bell rang I hadn't got to + the point where I could break it.” + </p> + <p> + “What on earth do you mean, Annie?” + </p> + <p> + Annie laughed. “I don't wonder you ask,” she said, “and the worst of it is + I can't half answer you. I wonder how much, or rather how little + explanation will content you?” + </p> + <p> + Tom Reed gazed at her with the eyes of a man who might love a woman and + have infinite patience with her, relegating his lack of understanding of + her woman's nature to the background, as a thing of no consequence. + </p> + <p> + “Mighty little will do for me,” he said, “mighty little, Annie dear, if + you will only tell a fellow you love him.” + </p> + <p> + Annie looked at him, and her thin, sweet face seemed to have a luminous + quality, like a crescent moon. Her look was enough. + </p> + <p> + “Then you do?” said Tom Reed. + </p> + <p> + “You have never needed to ask,” said Annie. “You knew.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't been so sure as you think,” said Tom. “Suppose you come over + here and sit beside me. You look miles away.” + </p> + <p> + Annie laughed and blushed, but she obeyed. She sat beside Tom and let him + put his arm around her. She sat up straight, by force of her instinctive + maidenliness, but she kissed him back when he kissed her. + </p> + <p> + “I haven't been so sure,” repeated Tom. “Annie darling, why have I been + unable to see more of you? I have fairly haunted your house, and seen the + whole lot of your sisters, especially Imogen, but somehow or other you + have been as slippery as an eel. I have always asked for you, but you were + always out or busy.” + </p> + <p> + “I have been very busy,” said Annie, evasively. She loved this young man + with all her heart, but she had an enduring loyalty to her own flesh and + blood. + </p> + <p> + Tom was very literal. “Say, Annie,” he blurted out, “I begin to think you + have had to do most of the work over there. Now, haven't you? Own up.” + </p> + <p> + Annie laughed sweetly. She was so happy that no sense of injury could + possibly rankle within her. “Oh, well,” she said, lightly. “Perhaps. I + don't know. I guess housekeeping comes rather easier to me than to the + others. I like it, you know, and work is always easier when one likes it. + The other girls don't take to it so naturally, and they get very tired, + and it has seemed often that I was the one who could hurry the work + through and not mind.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if you will stick up for me the way you do for your sisters when + you are my wife?” said Tom, with a burst of love and admiration. Then he + added: “Of course you are going to be my wife, Annie? You know what this + means?” + </p> + <p> + “If you think I will make you as good a wife as you can find,” said Annie. + </p> + <p> + “As good a wife! Annie, do you really know what you are?” + </p> + <p> + “Just an ordinary girl, with no special talent for anything.” + </p> + <p> + “You are the most wonderful girl that ever walked the earth,” exclaimed + Tom. “And as for talent, you have the best talent in the whole world; you + can love people who are not worthy to tie your shoestrings, and think you + are looking up when in reality you are looking down. That is what I call + the best talent in the whole world for a woman.” Tom Reed was becoming + almost subtle. + </p> + <p> + Annie only laughed happily again. “Well, you will have to wait and find + out,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” said Tom, “that you came over here because you were tired + out, this hot weather. I think you were sensible, but I don't think you + ought to be here alone.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not alone,” replied Annie. “I have poor little Effie Hempstead with + me.” + </p> + <p> + “That deaf-and-dumb child? I should think this heathen god would be about + as much company.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Tom, she is human, if she is deaf and dumb.” + </p> + <p> + Tom eyed her shrewdly. “What did you mean when you said you had broken + your will?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “My will not to speak for a while,” said Annie, faintly. + </p> + <p> + “Not to speak—to any one?” + </p> + <p> + Annie nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Then you have broken your resolution by speaking to me?” + </p> + <p> + Annie nodded again. + </p> + <p> + “But why shouldn't you speak? I don't understand.” + </p> + <p> + “I wondered how little I could say, and have you satisfied,” Annie + replied, sadly. + </p> + <p> + Tom tightened his arm around her. “You precious little soul,” he said. “I + am satisfied. I know you have some good reason for not wanting to speak, + but I am plaguey glad you spoke to me, for I should have been pretty well + cast down if you hadn't, and to-morrow I have to go away.” + </p> + <p> + Annie leaned toward him. “Go away!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I have to go to California about that confounded Ames will case. And + I don't know exactly where, on the Pacific coast, the parties I have to + interview may be, and I may have to be away weeks, possibly months. Annie + darling, it did seem to me a cruel state of things to have to go so far, + and leave you here, living in such a queer fashion, and not know how you + felt. Lord! but I'm glad you had sense enough to call me, Annie.” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn't let you go by, when it came to it, and Tom—” + </p> + <p> + “What, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “I did an awful mean thing: something I never was guilty of before. I—listened.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don't see what harm it did. You didn't hear much to your or your + sisters' disadvantage, that I can remember. They kept calling you 'dear.'” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Annie, quickly. Again, such was her love and thankfulness that + a great wave of love and forgiveness for her sisters swept over her. Annie + had a nature compounded of depths of sweetness; nobody could be mistaken + with regard to that. What they did mistake was the possibility of even + sweetness being at bay at times, and remaining there. + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean to speak to anybody else?” asked Tom. + </p> + <p> + “Not for a year, if I can avoid it without making comment which might hurt + father.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “That is what I cannot tell you,” replied Annie, looking into his face + with a troubled smile. + </p> + <p> + Tom looked at her in a puzzled way, then he kissed her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, dear,” he said, “it is all right. I know perfectly well you + would do nothing in which you were not justified, and you have spoken to + me, anyway, and that is the main thing. I think if I had been obliged to + start to-morrow without a word from you I shouldn't have cared a hang + whether I ever came back or not. You are the only soul to hold me here; + you know that, darling.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied Annie. + </p> + <p> + “You are the only one,” repeated Tom, “but it seems to me this minute as + if you were a whole host, you dear little soul. But I don't quite like to + leave you here living alone, except for Effie.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I am within a stone's-throw of father's,” said Annie, lightly. + </p> + <p> + “I admit that. Still, you are alone. Annie, when are you going to marry + me?” + </p> + <p> + Annie regarded him with a clear, innocent look. She had lived such a busy + life that her mind was unfilmed by dreams. “Whenever you like, after you + come home,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “It can't be too soon for me. I want my wife and I want my home. What will + you do while I am gone, dear?” + </p> + <p> + Annie laughed. “Oh, I shall do what I have seen other girls do—get + ready to be married.” + </p> + <p> + “That means sewing, lots of hemming and tucking and stitching, doesn't + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Girls are so funny,” said Tom. “Now imagine a man sitting right down and + sewing like mad on his collars and neckties and shirts the minute a girl + said she'd marry him!” + </p> + <p> + “Girls like it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I suppose they do,” said Tom, and he looked down at Annie from a + tender height of masculinity, and at the same time seemed to look up from + the valley of one who cannot understand the subtle and poetical details in + a woman's soul. + </p> + <p> + He did not stay long after that, for it was late. As he passed through the + gate, after a tender farewell, Annie watched him with shining eyes. She + was now to be all alone, but two things she had, her freedom and her love, + and they would suffice. + </p> + <p> + The next morning Silas Hempstead, urged by his daughters, walked solemnly + over to the next house, but he derived little satisfaction. Annie did not + absolutely refuse to speak. She had begun to realize that carrying out her + resolution to the extreme letter was impossible. But she said as little as + she could. + </p> + <p> + “I have come over here to live for the present. I am of age, and have a + right to consult my own wishes. My decision is unalterable.” Having said + this much, Annie closed her mouth and said no more. Silas argued and + pleaded. Annie sat placidly sewing beside one front window of the sunny + sittingroom. Effie, with a bit of fancy-work, sat at another. Finally + Silas went home defeated, with a last word, half condemnatory, half + placative. Silas was not the sort to stand firm against such feminine + strength as his daughter Annie's. However, he secretly held her dearer + than all his other children. + </p> + <p> + After her father had gone, Annie sat taking even stitch after even stitch, + but a few tears ran over her cheeks and fell upon the soft mass of muslin. + Effie watched with shrewd, speculative silence, like a pet cat. Then + suddenly she rose and went close to Annie, with her little arms around her + neck, and the poor dumb mouth repeating her little speeches: “Thank you, I + am very well, thank you, I am very well,” over and over. + </p> + <p> + Annie kissed her fondly, and was aware of a sense of comfort and of love + for this poor little Effie. Still, after being nearly two months with the + child, she was relieved when Felicia Hempstead came, the first of + September, and wished to take Effie home with her. She had not gone to + Europe, after all, but to the mountains, and upon her return had missed + the little girl. + </p> + <p> + Effie went willingly enough, but Annie discovered that she too missed her. + Now loneliness had her fairly in its grip. She had a telephone installed, + and gave her orders over that. Sometimes the sound of a human voice made + her emotional to tears. Besides the voices over the telephone, Annie had + nobody, for Benny returned to college soon after Effie left. Benny had + been in the habit of coming in to see Annie, and she had not had the heart + to check him. She talked to him very little, and knew that he was no + telltale as far as she was concerned, although he waxed most communicative + with regard to the others. A few days before he left he came over and + begged her to return. + </p> + <p> + “I know the girls have nagged you till you are fairly worn out,” he said. + “I know they don't tell things straight, but I don't believe they know it, + and I don't see why you can't come home, and insist upon your rights, and + not work so hard.” + </p> + <p> + “If I come home now it will be as it was before,” said Annie. + </p> + <p> + “Can't you stand up for yourself and not have it the same?” + </p> + <p> + Annie shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Seems as if you could,” said Benny. “I always thought a girl knew how to + manage other girls. It is rather awful the way things go now over there. + Father must be uncomfortable enough trying to eat the stuff they set + before him and living in such a dirty house.” + </p> + <p> + Annie winced. “Is it so very dirty?” + </p> + <p> + Benny whistled. + </p> + <p> + “Is the food so bad?” + </p> + <p> + Benny whistled again. + </p> + <p> + “You advised me—or it amounted to the same thing—to take this + stand,” said Annie. + </p> + <p> + “I know I did, but I didn't know how bad it would be. Guess I didn't half + appreciate you myself, Annie. Well, you must do as you think best, but if + you could look in over there your heart would ache.” + </p> + <p> + “My heart aches as it is,” said Annie, sadly. + </p> + <p> + Benny put an arm around her. “Poor girl!” he said. “It is a shame, but you + are going to marry Tom. You ought not to have the heartache.” + </p> + <p> + “Marriage isn't everything,” said Annie, “and my heart does ache, but—I + can't go back there, unless—I can't make it clear to you, Benny, but + it seems to me as if I couldn't go back there until the year is up, or I + shouldn't be myself, and it seems, too, as if I should not be doing right + by the girls. There are things more important even than doing work for + others. I have got it through my head that I can be dreadfully selfish + being unselfish.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I suppose you are right,” admitted Benny with a sigh. + </p> + <p> + Then he kissed Annie and went away, and the blackness of loneliness + settled down upon her. She had wondered at first that none of the village + people came to see her, although she did not wish to talk to them; then + she no longer wondered. She heard, without hearing, just what her sisters + had said about her. + </p> + <p> + That was a long winter for Annie Hempstead. Letters did not come very + regularly from Tom Reed, for it was a season of heavy snowfalls and the + mails were often delayed. The letters were all that she had for comfort + and company. She had bought a canary-bird, adopted a stray kitten, and + filled her sunny windows with plants. She sat beside them and sewed, and + tried to be happy and content, but all the time there was a frightful + uncertainty deep down within her heart as to whether or not she was doing + right. She knew that her sisters were unworthy, and yet her love and + longing for them waxed greater and greater. As for her father, she loved + him as she had never loved him before. The struggle grew terrible. Many a + time she dressed herself in outdoor array and started to go home, but + something always held her back. It was a strange conflict that endured + through the winter months, the conflict of a loving, self-effacing heart + with its own instincts. + </p> + <p> + Toward the last of February her father came over at dusk. Annie ran to the + door, and he entered. He looked unkempt and dejected. He did not say much, + but sat down and looked about him with a half-angry, half-discouraged air. + Annie went out into the kitchen and broiled some beefsteak, and creamed + some potatoes, and made tea and toast. Then she called him into the + sitting-room, and he ate like one famished. + </p> + <p> + “Your sister Susan does the best she can,” he said, when he had finished, + “and lately Jane has been trying, but they don't seem to have the knack. I + don't want to urge you, Annie, but—” + </p> + <p> + “You know when I am married you will have to get on without me,” Annie + said, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but in the mean time you might, if you were home, show Susan and + Jane.” + </p> + <p> + “Father,” said Annie, “you know if I came home now it would be just the + same as it was before. You know if I give in and break my word with myself + to stay away a year what they will think and do.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose they might take advantage,” admitted Silas, heavily. “I fear + you have always given in to them too much for their own good.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I shall not give in now,” said Annie, and she shut her mouth + tightly. + </p> + <p> + There came a peal of the cracked door-bell, and Silas started with a + curious, guilty look. Annie regarded him sharply. “Who is it, father?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I heard Imogen say to Eliza that she thought it was very foolish + for them all to stay over there and have the extra care and expense, when + you were here.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean that the girls—?” + </p> + <p> + “I think they did have a little idea that they might come here and make + you a little visit—” + </p> + <p> + Annie was at the front door with a bound. The key turned in the lock and a + bolt shot into place. Then she returned to her father, and her face was + very white. + </p> + <p> + “You did not lock your door against your own sisters?” he gasped. + </p> + <p> + “God forgive me, I did.” + </p> + <p> + The bell pealed again. Annie stood still, her mouth quivering in a + strange, rigid fashion. The curtains in the dining-room windows were not + drawn. Suddenly one window showed full of her sisters' faces. It was Susan + who spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Annie, you can't mean to lock us out?” Susan's face looked strange and + wild, peering in out of the dark. Imogen's handsome face towered over her + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “We think it advisable to close our house and make you a visit,” she said, + quite distinctly through the glass. + </p> + <p> + Then Jane said, with an inaudible sob, “Dear Annie, you can't mean to keep + us out!” + </p> + <p> + Annie looked at them and said not a word. Their half-commanding, + half-imploring voices continued a while. Then the faces disappeared. + </p> + <p> + Annie turned to her father. “God knows if I have done right,” she said, + “but I am doing what you have taken me to account for not doing.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” said Silas. He sat for a while silent. Then he rose, kissed + Annie—something he had seldom done—and went home. After he had + gone Annie sat down and cried. She did not go to bed that night. The cat + jumped up in her lap, and she was glad of that soft, purring comfort. It + seemed to her as if she had committed a great crime, and as if she had + suffered martyrdom. She loved her father and her sisters with such + intensity that her heart groaned with the weight of pure love. For the + time it seemed to her that she loved them more than the man whom she was + to marry. She sat there and held herself, as with chains of agony, from + rushing out into the night, home to them all, and breaking her vow. + </p> + <p> + It was never quite so bad after that night, for Annie compromised. She + baked bread and cake and pies, and carried them over after nightfall and + left them at her father's door. She even, later on, made a pot of coffee, + and hurried over with it in the dawn-light, always watching behind a + corner of a curtain until she saw an arm reached out for it. All this + comforted Annie, and, moreover, the time was drawing near when she could + go home. + </p> + <p> + Tom Reed had been delayed much longer than he expected. He would not be + home before early fall. They would not be married until November, and she + would have several months at home first. + </p> + <p> + At last the day came. Out in Silas Hempstead's front yard the grass waved + tall, dotted with disks of clover. Benny was home, and he had been over to + see Annie every day since his return. That morning when Annie looked out + of her window the first thing she saw was Benny waving a scythe in awkward + sweep among the grass and clover. An immense pity seized her at the sight. + She realized that he was doing this for her, conquering his indolence. She + almost sobbed. + </p> + <p> + “Dear, dear boy, he will cut himself,” she thought. Then she conquered her + own love and pity, even as her brother was conquering his sloth. She + understood clearly that it was better for Benny to go on with his task + even if he did cut himself. + </p> + <p> + The grass was laid low when she went home, and Benny stood, a conqueror in + a battle-field of summer, leaning on his scythe. + </p> + <p> + “Only look, Annie,” he cried out, like a child. “I have cut all the + grass.” + </p> + <p> + Annie wanted to hug him. Instead she laughed. “It was time to cut it,” she + said. Her tone was cool, but her eyes were adoring. + </p> + <p> + Benny laid down his scythe, took her by the arm, and led her into the + house. Silas and his other daughters were in the sitting-room, and the + room was so orderly it was painful. The ornaments on the mantel-shelf + stood as regularly as soldiers on parade, and it was the same with the + chairs. Even the cushions on the sofa were arranged with one corner + overlapping another. The curtains were drawn at exactly the same height + from the sill. The carpet looked as if swept threadbare. + </p> + <p> + Annie's first feeling was of worried astonishment; then her eye caught a + glimpse of Susan's kitchen apron tucked under a sofa pillow, and of layers + of dust on the table, and she felt relieved. After all, what she had done + had not completely changed the sisters, whom she loved, faults and all. + Annie realized how horrible it would have been to find her loved ones + completely changed, even for the better. They would have seemed like + strange, aloof angels to her. + </p> + <p> + They all welcomed her with a slight stiffness, yet with cordiality. Then + Silas made a little speech. + </p> + <p> + “Your father and your sisters are glad to welcome you home, dear Annie,” + he said, “and your sisters wish me to say for them that they realize that + possibly they may have underestimated your tasks and overestimated their + own. In short, they may not have been—” + </p> + <p> + Silas hesitated, and Benny finished. “What the girls want you to know, + Annie, is that they have found out they have been a parcel of pigs.” + </p> + <p> + “We fear we have been selfish without realizing it,” said Jane, and she + kissed Annie, as did Susan and Eliza. Imogen, looking very handsome in her + blue linen, with her embroidery in her hands, did not kiss her sister. She + was not given to demonstrations, but she smiled complacently at her. + </p> + <p> + “We are all very glad to have dear Annie back, I am sure,” said she, “and + now that it is all over, we all feel that it has been for the best, + although it has seemed very singular, and made, I fear, considerable talk. + But, of course, when one person in a family insists upon taking everything + upon herself, it must result in making the others selfish.” + </p> + <p> + Annie did not hear one word that Imogen said. She was crying on Susan's + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I am so glad to be home,” she sobbed. + </p> + <p> + And they all stood gathered about her, rejoicing and fond of her, but she + was the one lover among them all who had been capable of hurting them and + hurting herself for love's sake. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Copy-Cat and Other Stories, by +Mary E. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Copy-Cat and Other Stories + +Author: Mary E. Wilkins Freeman + +Release Date: April, 1999 [Etext #1716] +Posting Date: November 20, 2009 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COPY-CAT AND OTHER STORIES *** + + + + +Produced by Judy Boss + + + + + +THE COPY-CAT + +AND OTHER STORIES + +By Mary E. Wilkins Freeman + + + +CONTENTS + + THE COPY-CAT + + THE COCK OF THE WALK + + JOHNNY-IN-THE-WOODS + + DANIEL AND LITTLE DAN'L + + BIG SISTER SOLLY + + LITTLE LUCY ROSE + + NOBLESSE + + CORONATION + + THE AMETHYST COMB + + THE UMBRELLA MAN + + THE BALKING OF CHRISTOPHER + + DEAR ANNIE + + + + +THE COPY-CAT + +THAT affair of Jim Simmons's cats never became known. Two little boys +and a little girl can keep a secret--that is, sometimes. The two little +boys had the advantage of the little girl because they could talk over +the affair together, and the little girl, Lily Jennings, had no intimate +girl friend to tempt her to confidence. She had only little Amelia +Wheeler, commonly called by the pupils of Madame's school "The +Copy-Cat." + +Amelia was an odd little girl--that is, everybody called her odd. She +was that rather unusual creature, a child with a definite ideal; and +that ideal was Lily Jennings. However, nobody knew that. If Amelia's +mother, who was a woman of strong character, had suspected, she would +have taken strenuous measures to prevent such a peculiar state of +affairs; the more so because she herself did not in the least approve of +Lily Jennings. Mrs. Diantha Wheeler (Amelia's father had died when she +was a baby) often remarked to her own mother, Mrs. Stark, and to her +mother-in-law, Mrs. Samuel Wheeler, that she did not feel that Mrs. +Jennings was bringing up Lily exactly as she should. "That child thinks +entirely too much of her looks," said Mrs. Diantha. "When she walks past +here she switches those ridiculous frilled frocks of hers as if she were +entering a ballroom, and she tosses her head and looks about to see if +anybody is watching her. If I were to see Amelia doing such things I +should be very firm with her." + +"Lily Jennings is a very pretty child," said Mother-in-law Wheeler, with +an under-meaning, and Mrs. Diantha flushed. Amelia did not in the least +resemble the Wheelers, who were a handsome set. She looked remarkably +like her mother, who was a plain woman, only little Amelia did not have +a square chin. Her chin was pretty and round, with a little dimple in +it. In fact, Amelia's chin was the prettiest feature she had. Her hair +was phenomenally straight. It would not even yield to hot curling-irons, +which her grandmother Wheeler had tried surreptitiously several times +when there was a little girls' party. "I never saw such hair as that +poor child has in all my life," she told the other grandmother, Mrs. +Stark. "Have the Starks always had such very straight hair?" + +Mrs. Stark stiffened her chin. Her own hair was very straight. "I don't +know," said she, "that the Starks have had any straighter hair than +other people. If Amelia does not have anything worse to contend with +than straight hair I rather think she will get along in the world as +well as most people." + +"It's thin, too," said Grandmother Wheeler, with a sigh, "and it hasn't +a mite of color. Oh, well, Amelia is a good child, and beauty isn't +everything." Grandmother Wheeler said that as if beauty were a great +deal, and Grandmother Stark arose and shook out her black silk skirts. +She had money, and loved to dress in rich black silks and laces. + +"It is very little, very little indeed," said she, and she eyed +Grandmother Wheeler's lovely old face, like a wrinkled old rose as to +color, faultless as to feature, and swept about by the loveliest waves +of shining silver hair. + +Then she went out of the room, and Grandmother Wheeler, left alone, +smiled. She knew the worth of beauty for those who possess it and those +who do not. She had never been quite reconciled to her son's marrying +such a plain girl as Diantha Stark, although she had money. She +considered beauty on the whole as a more valuable asset than mere gold. +She regretted always that poor little Amelia, her only grandchild, was +so very plain-looking. She always knew that Amelia was very plain, and +yet sometimes the child puzzled her. She seemed to see reflections +of beauty, if not beauty itself, in the little colorless face, in the +figure, with its too-large joints and utter absence of curves. She +sometimes even wondered privately if some subtle resemblance to the +handsome Wheelers might not be in the child and yet appear. But she was +mistaken. What she saw was pure mimicry of a beautiful ideal. + +Little Amelia tried to stand like Lily Jennings; she tried to walk like +her; she tried to smile like her; she made endeavors, very often +futile, to dress like her. Mrs. Wheeler did not in the least approve +of furbelows for children. Poor little Amelia went clad in severe +simplicity; durable woolen frocks in winter, and washable, unfadable, +and non-soil-showing frocks in summer. She, although her mother had +perhaps more money wherewith to dress her than had any of the other +mothers, was the plainest-clad little girl in school. Amelia, moreover, +never tore a frock, and, as she did not grow rapidly, one lasted several +seasons. Lily Jennings was destructive, although dainty. Her pretty +clothes were renewed every year. Amelia was helpless before that +problem. For a little girl burning with aspirations to be and look like +another little girl who was beautiful and wore beautiful clothes, to be +obliged to set forth for Madame's on a lovely spring morning, when thin +attire was in evidence, dressed in dark-blue-andwhite-checked gingham, +which she had worn for three summers, and with sleeves which, even to +childish eyes, were anachronisms, was a trial. Then to see Lily flutter +in a frock like a perfectly new white flower was torture; not because +of jealousy--Amelia was not jealous; but she so admired the other little +girl, and so loved her, and so wanted to be like her. + +As for Lily, she hardly ever noticed Amelia. She was not aware that +she herself was an object of adoration; for she was a little girl who +searched for admiration in the eyes of little boys rather than little +girls, although very innocently. She always glanced slyly at Johnny +Trumbull when she wore a pretty new frock, to see if he noticed. He +never did, and she was sharp enough to know it. She was also child +enough not to care a bit, but to take a queer pleasure in the sensation +of scorn which she felt in consequence. She would eye Johnny from head +to foot, his boy's clothing somewhat spotted, his bulging pockets, his +always dusty shoes, and when he twisted uneasily, not understanding why, +she had a thrill of purely feminine delight. It was on one such occasion +that she first noticed Amelia Wheeler particularly. + +It was a lovely warm morning in May, and Lily was a darling to +behold--in a big hat with a wreath of blue flowers, her hair tied +with enormous blue silk bows, her short skirts frilled with eyelet +embroidery, her slender silk legs, her little white sandals. Madame's +maid had not yet struck the Japanese gong, and all the pupils were out +on the lawn, Amelia, in her clean, ugly gingham and her serviceable +brown sailor hat, hovering near Lily, as usual, like a common, very +plain butterfly near a particularly resplendent blossom. Lily really +noticed her. She spoke to her confidentially; she recognized her fully +as another of her own sex, and presumably of similar opinions. + +"Ain't boys ugly, anyway?" inquired Lily of Amelia, and a wonderful +change came over Amelia. Her sallow cheeks bloomed; her eyes showed blue +glitters; her little skinny figure became instinct with nervous life. +She smiled charmingly, with such eagerness that it smote with pathos and +bewitched. + +"Oh yes, oh yes," she agreed, in a voice like a quick flute obbligato. +"Boys are ugly." + +"Such clothes!" said Lily. + +"Yes, such clothes!" said Amelia. + +"Always spotted," said Lily. + +"Always covered all over with spots," said Amelia. + +"And their pockets always full of horrid things," said Lily. + +"Yes," said Amelia. + +Amelia glanced openly at Johnny Trumbull; Lily with a sidewise effect. + +Johnny had heard every word. Suddenly he arose to action and knocked +down Lee Westminster, and sat on him. + +"Lemme up!" said Lee. + +Johnny had no quarrel whatever with Lee. He grinned, but he sat still. +Lee, the sat-upon, was a sharp little boy. "Showing off before the +gals!" he said, in a thin whisper. + +"Hush up!" returned Johnny. + +"Will you give me a writing-pad--I lost mine, and mother said I couldn't +have another for a week if I did--if I don't holler?" inquired Lee. + +"Yes. Hush up!" + +Lee lay still, and Johnny continued to sit upon his prostrate form. +Both were out of sight of Madame's windows, behind a clump of the cedars +which graced her lawn. + +"Always fighting," said Lily, with a fine crescendo of scorn. She lifted +her chin high, and also her nose. + +"Always fighting," said Amelia, and also lifted her chin and nose. +Amelia was a born mimic. She actually looked like Lily, and she spoke +like her. + +Then Lily did a wonderful thing. She doubled her soft little arm into an +inviting loop for Amelia's little claw of a hand. + +"Come along, Amelia Wheeler," said she. "We don't want to stay near +horrid, fighting boys. We will go by ourselves." + +And they went. Madame had a headache that morning, and the Japanese +gong did not ring for fifteen minutes longer. During that time Lily and +Amelia sat together on a little rustic bench under a twinkling poplar, +and they talked, and a sort of miniature sun-and-satellite relation was +established between them, although neither was aware of it. Lily, being +on the whole a very normal little girl, and not disposed to even a full +estimate of herself as compared with others of her own sex, did not +dream of Amelia's adoration, and Amelia, being rarely destitute of +self-consciousness, did not understand the whole scope of her own +sentiments. It was quite sufficient that she was seated close to this +wonderful Lily, and agreeing with her to the verge of immolation. + +"Of course," said Lily, "girls are pretty, and boys are just as ugly as +they can be." + +"Oh yes," said Amelia, fervently. + +"But," said Lily, thoughtfully, "it is queer how Johnny Trumbull always +comes out ahead in a fight, and he is not so very large, either." + +"Yes," said Amelia, but she realized a pang of jealousy. "Girls could +fight, I suppose," said she. + +"Oh yes, and get their clothes all torn and messy," said Lily. + +"I shouldn't care," said Amelia. Then she added, with a little toss, "I +almost know I could fight." The thought even floated through her wicked +little mind that fighting might be a method of wearing out obnoxious and +durable clothes. + +"You!" said Lily, and the scorn in her voice wilted Amelia. + +"Maybe I couldn't," said she. + +"Of course you couldn't, and if you could, what a sight you'd be. Of +course it wouldn't hurt your clothes as much as some, because your +mother dresses you in strong things, but you'd be sure to get black and +blue, and what would be the use, anyway? You couldn't be a boy, if you +did fight." + +"No. I know I couldn't." + +"Then what is the use? We are a good deal prettier than boys, and +cleaner, and have nicer manners, and we must be satisfied." + +"You are prettier," said Amelia, with a look of worshipful admiration at +Lily's sweet little face. + +"You are prettier," said Lily. Then she added, equivocally, "Even the +very homeliest girl is prettier than a boy." + +Poor Amelia, it was a good deal for her to be called prettier than a +very dusty boy in a fight. She fairly dimpled with delight, and again +she smiled charmingly. Lily eyed her critically. + +"You aren't so very homely, after all, Amelia," she said. "You needn't +think you are." + +Amelia smiled again. + +"When you look like you do now you are real pretty," said Lily, not +knowing or even suspecting the truth, that she was regarding in the face +of this little ardent soul her own, as in a mirror. + +However, it was after that episode that Amelia Wheeler was called +"Copy-Cat." The two little girls entered Madame's select school arm in +arm, when the musical gong sounded, and behind them came Lee Westminster +and Johnny Trumbull, surreptitiously dusting their garments, and ever +after the fact of Amelia's adoration and imitation of Lily Jennings was +evident to all. Even Madame became aware of it, and held conferences +with two of the under teachers. + +"It is not at all healthy for one child to model herself so entirely +upon the pattern of another," said Miss Parmalee. + +"Most certainly it is not," agreed Miss Acton, the music-teacher. + +"Why, that poor little Amelia Wheeler had the rudiments of a fairly good +contralto. I had begun to wonder if the poor child might not be able at +least to sing a little, and so make up for--other things; and now she +tries to sing high like Lily Jennings, and I simply cannot prevent it. +She has heard Lily play, too, and has lost her own touch, and now it is +neither one thing nor the other." + +"I might speak to her mother," said Madame, thoughtfully. Madame was +American born, but she married a French gentleman, long since deceased, +and his name sounded well on her circulars. She and her two under +teachers were drinking tea in her library. + +Miss Parmalee, who was a true lover of her pupils, gasped at Madame's +proposition. "Whatever you do, please do not tell that poor child's +mother," said she. + +"I do not think it would be quite wise, if I may venture to express an +opinion," said Miss Acton, who was a timid soul, and always inclined to +shy at her own ideas. + +"But why?" asked Madame. + +"Her mother," said Miss Parmalee, "is a quite remarkable woman, with +great strength of character, but she would utterly fail to grasp the +situation." + +"I must confess," said Madame, sipping her tea, "that I fail to +understand it. Why any child not an absolute idiot should so lose her +own identity in another's absolutely bewilders me. I never heard of such +a case." + +Miss Parmalee, who had a sense of humor, laughed a little. "It is +bewildering," she admitted. "And now the other children see how it is, +and call her 'Copy-Cat' to her face, but she does not mind. I doubt if +she understands, and neither does Lily, for that matter. Lily Jennings +is full of mischief, but she moves in straight lines; she is not +conceited or self-conscious, and she really likes Amelia, without +knowing why." + +"I fear Lily will lead Amelia into mischief," said Madame, "and Amelia +has always been such a good child." + +"Lily will never MEAN to lead Amelia into mischief," said loyal Miss +Parmalee. + +"But she will," said Madame. + +"If Lily goes, I cannot answer for Amelia's not following," admitted +Miss Parmalee. + +"I regret it all very much indeed," sighed Madame, "but it does seem to +me still that Amelia's mother--" + +"Amelia's mother would not even believe it, in the first place," said +Miss Parmalee. + +"Well, there is something in that," admitted Madame. "I myself could not +even imagine such a situation. I would not know of it now, if you and +Miss Acton had not told me." + +"There is not the slightest use in telling Amelia not to imitate +Lily, because she does not know that she is imitating her," said Miss +Parmalee. "If she were to be punished for it, she could never comprehend +the reason." + +"That is true," said Miss Acton. "I realize that when the poor child +squeaks instead of singing. All I could think of this morning was a +little mouse caught in a trap which she could not see. She does actually +squeak!--and some of her low notes, although, of course, she is only a +child, and has never attempted much, promised to be very good." + +"She will have to squeak, for all I can see," said Miss Parmalee. "It +looks to me like one of those situations that no human being can change +for better or worse." + +"I suppose you are right," said Madame, "but it is most unfortunate, and +Mrs. Wheeler is such a superior woman, and Amelia is her only child, +and this is such a very subtle and regrettable affair. Well, we have to +leave a great deal to Providence." + +"If," said Miss Parmalee, "she could only get angry when she is called +'Copy-Cat.'" Miss Parmalee laughed, and so did Miss Acton. Then all the +ladies had their cups refilled, and left Providence to look out for poor +little Amelia Wheeler, in her mad pursuit of her ideal in the shape of +another little girl possessed of the exterior graces which she had not. + +Meantime the little "Copy-Cat" had never been so happy. She began to +improve in her looks also. Her grandmother Wheeler noticed it first, and +spoke of it to Grandmother Stark. "That child may not be so plain, +after all," said she. "I looked at her this morning when she started +for school, and I thought for the first time that there was a little +resemblance to the Wheelers." + +Grandmother Stark sniffed, but she looked gratified. "I have been +noticing it for some time," said she, "but as for looking like the +Wheelers, I thought this morning for a minute that I actually saw my +poor dear husband looking at me out of that blessed child's eyes." + +Grandmother Wheeler smiled her little, aggravating, curved, pink smile. + +But even Mrs. Diantha began to notice the change for the better in +Amelia. She, however, attributed it to an increase of appetite and a +system of deep breathing which she had herself taken up and enjoined +Amelia to follow. Amelia was following Lily Jennings instead, but that +her mother did not know. Still, she was gratified to see Amelia's little +sallow cheeks taking on pretty curves and a soft bloom, and she was more +inclined to listen when Grandmother Wheeler ventured to approach the +subject of Amelia's attire. + +"Amelia would not be so bad-looking if she were better dressed, +Diantha," said she. + +Diantha lifted her chin, but she paid heed. "Why, does not Amelia dress +perfectly well, mother?" she inquired. + +"She dresses well enough, but she needs more ribbons and ruffles." + +"I do not approve of so many ribbons and ruffles," said Mrs. Diantha. +"Amelia has perfectly neat, fresh black or brown ribbons for her hair, +and ruffles are not sanitary." + +"Ruffles are pretty," said Grandmother Wheeler, "and blue and pink are +pretty colors. Now, that Jennings girl looks like a little picture." + +But that last speech of Grandmother Wheeler's undid all the previous +good. Mrs. Diantha had an unacknowledged--even to herself--disapproval +of Mrs. Jennings which dated far back in the past, for a reason which +was quite unworthy of her and of her strong mind. When she and Lily's +mother had been girls, she had seen Mrs. Jennings look like a picture, +and had been perfectly well aware that she herself fell far short of +an artist's ideal. Perhaps if Mrs. Stark had believed in ruffles and +ribbons, her daughter might have had a different mind when Grandmother +Wheeler had finished her little speech. + +As it was, Mrs. Diantha surveyed her small, pretty mother-in-law with +dignified serenity, which savored only delicately of a snub. "I do not +myself approve of the way in which Mrs. Jennings dresses her daughter," +said she, "and I do not consider that the child presents to a practical +observer as good an appearance as my Amelia." + +Grandmother Wheeler had a temper. It was a childish temper and soon +over--still, a temper. "Lord," said she, "if you mean to say that +you think your poor little snipe of a daughter, dressed like a little +maid-of-all-work, can compare with that lovely little Lily Jennings, who +is dressed like a doll!--" + +"I do not wish that my daughter should be dressed like a doll," said +Mrs. Diantha, coolly. + +"Well, she certainly isn't," said Grandmother Wheeler. "Nobody would +ever take her for a doll as far as looks or dress are concerned. She may +be GOOD enough. I don't deny that Amelia is a good little girl, but her +looks could be improved on." + +"Looks matter very little," said Mrs. Diantha. + +"They matter very much," said Grandmother Wheeler, pugnaciously, her +blue eyes taking on a peculiar opaque glint, as always when she lost +her temper, "very much indeed. But looks can't be helped. If poor little +Amelia wasn't born with pretty looks, she wasn't. But she wasn't born +with such ugly clothes. She might be better dressed." + +"I dress my daughter as I consider best," said Mrs. Diantha. Then she +left the room. + +Grandmother Wheeler sat for a few minutes, her blue eyes opaque, her +little pink lips a straight line; then suddenly her eyes lit, and she +smiled. "Poor Diantha," said she, "I remember how Henry used to like +Lily Jennings's mother before he married Diantha. Sour grapes hang +high." But Grandmother Wheeler's beautiful old face was quite soft and +gentle. From her heart she pitied the reacher after those high-hanging +sour grapes, for Mrs. Diantha had been very good to her. + +Then Grandmother Wheeler, who had a mild persistency not evident to a +casual observer, began to make plans and lay plots. She was resolved, +Diantha or not, that her granddaughter, her son's child, should have +some fine feathers. The little conference had taken place in her own +room, a large, sunny one, with a little storeroom opening from it. +Presently Grandmother Wheeler rose, entered the storeroom, and began +rummaging in some old trunks. Then followed days of secret work. +Grandmother Wheeler had been noted as a fine needlewoman, and her +hand had not yet lost its cunning. She had one of Amelia's ugly little +ginghams, purloined from a closet, for size, and she worked two or +three dainty wonders. She took Grandmother Stark into her confidence. +Sometimes the two ladies, by reason of their age, found it possible to +combine with good results. + +"Your daughter Diantha is one woman in a thousand," said Grandmother +Wheeler, diplomatically, one day, "but she never did care much for +clothes." + +"Diantha," returned Grandmother Stark, with a suspicious glance, "always +realized that clothes were not the things that mattered." + +"And, of course, she is right," said Grandmother Wheeler, piously. +"Your Diantha is one woman in a thousand. If she cared as much for fine +clothes as some women, I don't know where we should all be. It would +spoil poor little Amelia." + +"Yes, it would," assented Grandmother Stark. "Nothing spoils a little +girl more than always to be thinking about her clothes." + +"Yes, I was looking at Amelia the other day, and thinking how much more +sensible she appeared in her plain gingham than Lily Jennings in all her +ruffles and ribbons. Even if people were all noticing Lily, and praising +her, thinks I to myself, 'How little difference such things really make. +Even if our dear Amelia does stand to one side, and nobody notices her, +what real matter is it?'" Grandmother Wheeler was inwardly chuckling as +she spoke. + +Grandmother Stark was at once alert. "Do you mean to say that Amelia is +really not taken so much notice of because she dresses plainly?" said +she. + +"You don't mean that you don't know it, as observant as you are?" +replied Grandmother Wheeler. + +"Diantha ought not to let it go as far as that," said Grandmother Stark. +Grandmother Wheeler looked at her queerly. "Why do you look at me like +that?" + +"Well, I did something I feared I ought not to have done. And I didn't +know what to do, but your speaking so makes me wonder--" + +"Wonder what?" + +Then Grandmother Wheeler went to her little storeroom and emerged +bearing a box. She displayed the contents--three charming little white +frocks fluffy with lace and embroidery. + +"Did you make them?" + +"Yes, I did. I couldn't help it. I thought if the dear child never wore +them, it would be some comfort to know they were in the house." + +"That one needs a broad blue sash," said Grandmother Stark. + +Grandmother Wheeler laughed. She took her impecuniosity easily. "I had +to use what I had," said she. + +"I will get a blue sash for that one," said Grandmother Stark, "and a +pink sash for that, and a flowered one for that." + +"Of course they will make all the difference," said Grandmother Wheeler. +"Those beautiful sashes will really make the dresses." + +"I will get them," said Grandmother Stark, with decision. "I will go +right down to Mann Brothers' store now and get them." + +"Then I will make the bows, and sew them on," replied Grandmother +Wheeler, happily. + +It thus happened that little Amelia Wheeler was possessed of three +beautiful dresses, although she did not know it. + +For a long time neither of the two conspiring grandmothers dared divulge +the secret. Mrs. Diantha was a very determined woman, and even her own +mother stood somewhat in awe of her. Therefore, little Amelia went to +school during the spring term soberly clad as ever, and even on the +festive last day wore nothing better than a new blue gingham, made +too long, to allow for shrinkage, and new blue hair-ribbons. The two +grandmothers almost wept in secret conclave over the lovely frocks which +were not worn. + +"I respect Diantha," said Grandmother Wheeler. "You know that. She is +one woman in a thousand, but I do hate to have that poor child go to +school to-day with so many to look at her, and she dressed so unlike all +the other little girls." + +"Diantha has got so much sense, it makes her blind and deaf," declared +Grandmother Stark. "I call it a shame, if she is my daughter." + +"Then you don't venture--" + +Grandmother Stark reddened. She did not like to own to awe of her +daughter. "I VENTURE, if that is all," said she, tartly. "You don't +suppose I am afraid of Diantha?--but she would not let Amelia wear one +of the dresses, anyway, and I don't want the child made any unhappier +than she is." + +"Well, I will admit," replied Grandmother Wheeler, "if poor Amelia knew +she had these beautiful dresses and could not wear them she might feel +worse about wearing that homely gingham." + +"Gingham!" fairly snorted Grandmother Stark. "I cannot see why Diantha +thinks so much of gingham. It shrinks, anyway." + +Poor little Amelia did undoubtedly suffer on that last day, when she sat +among the others gaily clad, and looked down at her own common little +skirts. She was very glad, however, that she had not been chosen to do +any of the special things which would have necessitated her appearance +upon the little flower-decorated platform. She did not know of the +conversation between Madame and her two assistants. + +"I would have Amelia recite a little verse or two," said Madame, "but +how can I?" Madame adored dress, and had a lovely new one of sheer +dull-blue stuff, with touches of silver, for the last day. + +"Yes," agreed Miss Parmalee, "that poor child is sensitive, and for her +to stand on the platform in one of those plain ginghams would be too +cruel." + +"Then, too," said Miss Acton, "she would recite her verses exactly like +Lily Jennings. She can make her voice exactly like Lily's now. Then +everybody would laugh, and Amelia would not know why. She would think +they were laughing at her dress, and that would be dreadful." + +If Amelia's mother could have heard that conversation everything would +have been different, although it is puzzling to decide in what way. + +It was the last of the summer vacation in early September, just before +school began, that a climax came to Amelia's idolatry and imitation of +Lily. The Jenningses had not gone away that summer, so the two little +girls had been thrown together a good deal. Mrs. Diantha never went away +during a summer. She considered it her duty to remain at home, and she +was quite pitiless to herself when it came to a matter of duty. + +However, as a result she was quite ill during the last of August and the +first of September. The season had been unusually hot, and Mrs. Diantha +had not spared herself from her duty on account of the heat. She +would have scorned herself if she had done so. But she could not, +strong-minded as she was, avert something like a heat prostration after +a long walk under a burning sun, nor weeks of confinement and idleness +in her room afterward. + +When September came, and a night or two of comparative coolness, she +felt stronger; still she was compelled by most unusual weakness to +refrain from her energetic trot in her duty-path; and then it was that +something happened. + +One afternoon Lily fluttered over to Amelia's, and Amelia, ever on the +watch, spied her. + +"May I go out and see Lily?" she asked Grandmother Stark. + +"Yes, but don't talk under the windows; your mother is asleep." + +Amelia ran out. + +"I declare," said Grandmother Stark to Grandmother Wheeler, "I was half +a mind to tell that child to wait a minute and slip on one of those +pretty dresses. I hate to have her go on the street in that old gingham, +with that Jennings girl dressed up like a wax doll." + +"I know it." + +"And now poor Diantha is so weak--and asleep--it would not have annoyed +her." + +"I know it." + +Grandmother Stark looked at Grandmother Wheeler. Of the two she +possessed a greater share of original sin compared with the size of +her soul. Moreover, she felt herself at liberty to circumvent her +own daughter. Whispering, she unfolded a daring scheme to the other +grandmother, who stared at her aghast a second out of her lovely blue +eyes, then laughed softly. + +"Very well," said she, "if you dare." + +"I rather think I dare!" said Grandmother Stark. "Isn't Diantha Wheeler +my own daughter?" Grandmother Stark had grown much bolder since Mrs. +Diantha had been ill. + +Meantime Lily and Amelia walked down the street until they came to a +certain vacant lot intersected by a foot-path between tall, feathery +grasses and goldenrod and asters and milkweed. They entered the +foot-path, and swarms of little butterflies rose around them, and once +in a while a protesting bumblebee. + +"I am afraid we will be stung by the bees," said Amelia. + +"Bumblebees never sting," said Lily; and Amelia believed her. + +When the foot-path ended, there was the riverbank. The two little girls +sat down under a clump of brook willows and talked, while the river, +full of green and blue and golden lights, slipped past them and never +stopped. + +Then Lily proceeded to unfold a plan, which was not philosophical, +but naughtily ingenious. By this time Lily knew very well that Amelia +admired her, and imitated her as successfully as possible, considering +the drawback of dress and looks. + +When she had finished Amelia was quite pale. "I am afraid, I am afraid, +Lily," said she. + +"What of?" + +"My mother will find out; besides, I am afraid it isn't right." + +"Who ever told you it was wrong?" + +"Nobody ever did," admitted Amelia. + +"Well, then you haven't any reason to think it is," said Lily, +triumphantly. "And how is your mother ever going to find it out?" + +"I don't know." + +"Isn't she ill in her room? And does she ever come to kiss you good +night, the way my mother does, when she is well?" + +"No," admitted Amelia. + +"And neither of your grandmothers?" + +"Grandmother Stark would think it was silly, like mother, and +Grandmother Wheeler can't go up and down stairs very well." + +"I can't see but you are perfectly safe. I am the only one that runs any +risk at all. I run a great deal of risk, but I am willing to take it," +said Lily with a virtuous air. Lily had a small but rather involved +scheme simply for her own ends, which did not seem to call for much +virtue, but rather the contrary. + +Lily had overheard Arnold Carruth and Johnny Trumbull and Lee +Westminster and another boy, Jim Patterson, planning a most delightful +affair, which even in the cases of the boys was fraught with danger, +secrecy, and doubtful rectitude. Not one of the four boys had had a +vacation from the village that summer, and their young minds had become +charged, as it were, with the seeds of revolution and rebellion. Jim +Patterson, the son of the rector, and of them all the most venturesome, +had planned to take--he called it "take"; he meant to pay for it, +anyway, he said, as soon as he could shake enough money out of his +nickel savings-bank--one of his father's Plymouth Rock chickens and have +a chickenroast in the woods back of Dr. Trumbull's. He had planned for +Johnny to take some ears of corn suitable for roasting from his father's +garden; for Lee to take some cookies out of a stone jar in his mother's +pantry; and for Arnold to take some potatoes. Then they four would steal +forth under cover of night, build a camp-fire, roast their spoils, and +feast. + +Lily had resolved to be of the party. She resorted to no open methods; +the stones of the fighting suffragettes were not for her, little +honey-sweet, curled, and ruffled darling; rather the time-worn, if not +time-sanctified, weapons of her sex, little instruments of wiles, and +tiny dodges, and tiny subterfuges, which would serve her best. + +"You know," she said to Amelia, "you don't look like me. Of course you +know that, and that can't be helped; but you do walk like me, and talk +like me, you know that, because they call you 'CopyCat.'" + +"Yes, I know," said poor Amelia. + +"I don't mind if they do call you 'Copy-Cat,'" said Lily, magnanimously. +"I don't mind a bit. But, you see, my mother always comes up-stairs to +kiss me good night after I have gone to bed, and tomorrow night she has +a dinner-party, and she will surely be a little late, and I can't manage +unless you help me. I will get one of my white dresses for you, and all +you have to do is to climb out of your window into that cedar-tree--you +know you can climb down that, because you are so afraid of burglars +climbing up--and you can slip on my dress; you had better throw it out +of the window and not try to climb in it, because my dresses tear awful +easy, and we might get caught that way. Then you just sneak down to our +house, and I shall be outdoors; and when you go up-stairs, if the doors +should be open, and anybody should call, you can answer just like me; +and I have found that light curly wig Aunt Laura wore when she had her +head shaved after she had a fever, and you just put that on and go to +bed, and mother will never know when she kisses you good night. Then +after the roast I will go to your house, and climb up that tree, and +go to bed in your room. And I will have one of your gingham dresses to +wear, and very early in the morning I will get up, and you get up, and +we both of us can get down the back stairs without being seen, and run +home." + +Amelia was almost weeping. It was her worshiped Lily's plan, but she was +horribly scared. "I don't know," she faltered. + +"Don't know! You've got to! You don't love me one single bit or you +wouldn't stop to think about whether you didn't know." It was the +world-old argument which floors love. Amelia succumbed. + +The next evening a frightened little girl clad in one of Lily Jennings's +white embroidered frocks was racing to the Jenningses' house, and +another little girl, not at all frightened, but enjoying the stimulus of +mischief and unwontedness, was racing to the wood behind Dr. Trumbull's +house, and that little girl was clad in one of Amelia Wheeler's +ginghams. But the plan went all awry. + +Lily waited, snuggled up behind an alder-bush, and the boys came, one by +one, and she heard this whispered, although there was no necessity for +whispering, "Jim Patterson, where's that hen?" + +"Couldn't get her. Grabbed her, and all her tail-feathers came out in a +bunch right in my hand, and she squawked so, father heard. He was in his +study writing his sermon, and he came out, and if I hadn't hid behind +the chicken-coop and then run I couldn't have got here. But I can't see +as you've got any corn, Johnny Trumbull." + +"Couldn't. Every single ear was cooked for dinner." + +"I couldn't bring any cookies, either," said Lee Westminster; "there +weren't any cookies in the jar." + +"And I couldn't bring the potatoes, because the outside cellar door was +locked," said Arnold Carruth. "I had to go down the back stairs and out +the south door, and the inside cellar door opens out of our dining-room, +and I daren't go in there." + +"Then we might as well go home," said Johnny Trumbull. "If I had +been you, Jim Patterson, I would have brought that old hen if her +tail-feathers had come out. Seems to me you scare awful easy." + +"Guess if you had heard her squawk!" said Jim, resentfully. "If you want +to try to lick me, come on, Johnny Trumbull. Guess you don't darse call +me scared again." + +Johnny eyed him standing there in the gloom. Jim was not large, but +very wiry, and the ground was not suited for combat. Johnny, although a +victor, would probably go home considerably the worse in appearance; and +he could anticipate the consequences were his father to encounter him. + +"Shucks!" said Johnny Trumbull, of the fine old Trumbull family and +Madame's exclusive school. "Shucks! who wants your old hen? We had +chicken for dinner, anyway." + +"So did we," said Arnold Carruth. + +"We did, and corn," said Lee. + +"We did," said Jim. + +Lily stepped forth from the alder-bush. "If," said she, "I were a +boy, and had started to have a chicken-roast, I would have HAD a +chicken-roast." + +But every boy, even the valiant Johnny Trumbull, was gone in a mad +scutter. This sudden apparition of a girl was too much for their nerves. +They never even knew who the girl was, although little Arnold Carruth +said she had looked to him like "Copy-Cat," but the others scouted the +idea. + +Lily Jennings made the best of her way out of the wood across lots to +the road. She was not in a particularly enviable case. Amelia Wheeler +was presumably in her bed, and she saw nothing for it but to take the +difficult way to Amelia's. + +Lily tore a great rent in the gingham going up the cedar-tree, but that +was nothing to what followed. She entered through Amelia's window, her +prim little room, to find herself confronted by Amelia's mother in a +wrapper, and her two grandmothers. Grandmother Stark had over her arm +a beautiful white embroidered dress. The two old ladies had entered the +room in order to lay the white dress on a chair and take away Amelia's +gingham, and there was no Amelia. Mrs. Diantha had heard the commotion, +and had risen, thrown on her wrapper, and come. Her mother had turned +upon her. + +"It is all your fault, Diantha," she had declared. + +"My fault?" echoed Mrs. Diantha, bewildered. "Where is Amelia?" + +"We don't know," said Grandmother Stark, "but you have probably driven +her away from home by your cruelty." + +"Cruelty?" + +"Yes, cruelty. What right had you to make that poor child look like a +fright, so people laughed at her? We have made her some dresses that +look decent, and had come here to leave them, and to take away those +old gingham things that look as if she lived in the almshouse, and leave +these, so she would either have to wear them or go without, when we +found she had gone." + +It was at that crucial moment that Lily entered by way of the window. + +"Here she is now," shrieked Grandmother Stark. "Amelia, where--" Then +she stopped short. + +Everybody stared at Lily's beautiful face suddenly gone white. For once +Lily was frightened. She lost all self-control. She began to sob. She +could scarcely tell the absurd story for sobs, but she told, every word. + +Then, with a sudden boldness, she too turned on Mrs. Diantha. "They call +poor Amelia 'CopyCat,'" said she, "and I don't believe she would ever +have tried so hard to look like me only my mother dresses me so I look +nice, and you send Amelia to school looking awfully." Then Lily sobbed +again. + +"My Amelia is at your house, as I understand?" said Mrs. Diantha, in an +awful voice. + +"Ye-es, ma-am." + +"Let me go," said Mrs. Diantha, violently, to Grandmother Stark, who +tried to restrain her. Mrs. Diantha dressed herself and marched down the +street, dragging Lily after her. The little girl had to trot to keep up +with the tall woman's strides, and all the way she wept. + +It was to Lily's mother's everlasting discredit, in Mrs. Diantha's +opinion, but to Lily's wonderful relief, that when she heard the story, +standing in the hall in her lovely dinner dress, with the strains of +music floating from the drawing-room, and cigar smoke floating from the +dining-room, she laughed. When Lily said, "And there wasn't even any +chickenroast, mother," she nearly had hysterics. + +"If you think this is a laughing matter, Mrs. Jennings, I do not," said +Mrs. Diantha, and again her dislike and sorrow at the sight of that +sweet, mirthful face was over her. It was a face to be loved, and hers +was not. + +"Why, I went up-stairs and kissed the child good night, and never +suspected," laughed Lily's mother. + +"I got Aunt Laura's curly, light wig for her," explained Lily, and Mrs. +Jennings laughed again. + +It was not long before Amelia, in her gingham, went home, led by her +mother--her mother, who was trembling with weakness now. Mrs. Diantha +did not scold. She did not speak, but Amelia felt with wonder her little +hand held very tenderly by her mother's long fingers. + +When at last she was undressed and in bed, Mrs. Diantha, looking very +pale, kissed her, and so did both grandmothers. + +Amelia, being very young and very tired, went to sleep. She did not know +that that night was to mark a sharp turn in her whole life. Thereafter +she went to school "dressed like the best," and her mother petted her as +nobody had ever known her mother could pet. + +It was not so very long afterward that Amelia, out of her own +improvement in appearance, developed a little stamp of individuality. + +One day Lily wore a white frock with blue ribbons, and Amelia wore one +with coral pink. It was a particular day in school; there was company, +and tea was served. + +"I told you I was going to wear blue ribbons," Lily whispered to Amelia. +Amelia smiled lovingly back at her. + +"Yes, I know, but I thought I would wear pink." + + + + +THE COCK OF THE WALK + +DOWN the road, kicking up the dust until he marched, soldier-wise, in a +cloud of it, that rose and grimed his moist face and added to the heavy, +brown powder upon the wayside weeds and flowers, whistling a queer, +tuneless thing, which yet contained definite sequences--the whistle of +a bird rather than a boy--approached Johnny Trumbull, aged ten, small of +his age, but accounted by his mates mighty. + +Johnny came of the best and oldest family in the village, but it was +in some respects an undesirable family for a boy. In it survived, as +fossils survive in ancient nooks and crannies of the earth, old traits +of race, unchanged by time and environment. Living in a house lighted +by electricity, the mental conception of it was to the Trumbulls as the +conception of candles; with telephones at hand, they unconsciously still +conceived of messages delivered with the old saying, "Ride, ride," +etc., and relays of post-horses. They locked their doors, but still had +latch-strings in mind. Johnny's father was a physician, adopting modern +methods of surgery and prescription, yet his mind harked back to cupping +and calomel, and now and then he swerved aside from his path across the +field of the present into the future and plunged headlong, as if for +fresh air, into the traditional past, and often with brilliant results. + +Johnny's mother was a college graduate. She was the president of the +woman's club. She read papers savoring of such feminine leaps ahead that +they were like gymnastics, but she walked homeward with the gait of her +great-grandmother, and inwardly regarded her husband as her lord and +master. She minced genteelly, lifting her quite fashionable skirts high +above very slender ankles, which were hereditary. Not a woman of her +race had ever gone home on thick ankles, and they had all gone home. +They had all been at home, even if abroad--at home in the truest sense. +At the club, reading her inflammatory paper, Cora Trumbull's real +self remained at home intent upon her mending, her dusting, her house +economics. It was something remarkably like her astral body which +presided at the club. + +As for her unmarried sister Janet, who was older and had graduated from +a young ladies' seminary instead of a college, whose early fancy had +been guided into the lady-like ways of antimacassars and pincushions +and wax flowers under glass shades, she was a straighter proposition. No +astral pretensions had Janet. She stayed, body and soul together, in +the old ways, and did not even project her shadow out of them. There is +seldom room enough for one's shadow in one's earliest way of life, but +there was plenty for Janet's. There had been a Janet unmarried in every +Trumbull family for generations. That in some subtle fashion accounted +for her remaining single. There had also been an unmarried Jonathan +Trumbull, and that accounted for Johnny's old bachelor uncle Jonathan. +Jonathan was a retired clergyman. He had retired before he had preached +long, because of doctrinal doubts, which were hereditary. He had +a little, dark study in Johnny's father's house, which was the old +Trumbull homestead, and he passed much of his time there, debating +within himself that matter of doctrines. + +Presently Johnny, assiduously kicking up dust, met his uncle Jonathan, +who passed without the slightest notice. Johnny did not mind at all. He +was used to it. Presently his own father appeared, driving along in +his buggy the bay mare at a steady jog, with the next professional call +quite clearly upon her equine mind. And Johnny's father did not see him. +Johnny did not mind that, either. He expected nothing different. + +Then Johnny saw his mother approaching. She was coming from the club +meeting. She held up her silk skirts high, as usual, and carried a +nice little parcel of papers tied with ribbon. She also did not notice +Johnny, who, however, out of sweet respect for his mother's nice silk +dress, stopped kicking up dust. Mrs. Trumbull on the village street was +really at home preparing a shortcake for supper. + +Johnny eyed his mother's faded but rather beautiful face under the +rose-trimmed bonnet with admiration and entire absence of resentment. +Then he walked on and kicked up the dust again. He loved to kick up the +dust in summer, the fallen leaves in autumn, and the snow in winter. +Johnny was not a typical Trumbull. None of them had ever cared for +simple amusements like that. Looking back for generations on his +father's and mother's side (both had been Trumbulls, but very distantly +related), none could be discovered who in the least resembled Johnny. No +dim blue eye of retrospection and reflection had Johnny; no tendency to +tall slenderness which would later bow beneath the greater weight of the +soul. Johnny was small, but wiry of build, and looked able to bear any +amount of mental development without a lasting bend of his physical +shoulders. Johnny had, at the early age of ten, whopped nearly every +boy in school, but that was a secret of honor. It was well known in the +school that, once the Trumbulls heard of it, Johnny could never whop +again. "You fellows know," Johnny had declared once, standing over his +prostrate and whimpering foe, "that I don't mind getting whopped at +home, but they might send me away to another school, and then I could +never whop any of you fellows." + +Johnny Trumbull kicking up the dust, himself dust-covered, his shoes, +his little queerly fitting dun suit, his cropped head, all thickly +powdered, loved it. He sniffed in that dust like a grateful incense. He +did not stop dust-kicking when he saw his aunt Janet coming, for, as he +considered, her old black gown was not worth the sacrifice. It was true +that she might see him. She sometimes did, if she were not reading a +book as she walked. It had always been a habit with the Janet Trumbulls +to read improving books when they walked abroad. To-day Johnny saw, with +a quick glance of those sharp, black eyes, so unlike the Trumbulls', +that his aunt Janet was reading. He therefore expected her to pass him +without recognition, and marched on kicking up the dust. But suddenly, +as he grew nearer the spry little figure, he was aware of a pair of gray +eyes, before which waved protectingly a hand clad in a black silk +glove with dangling finger-tips, because it was too long, and it dawned +swiftly upon him that Aunt Janet was trying to shield her face from the +moving column of brown motes. He stopped kicking, but it was too late. +Aunt Janet had him by the collar and was vigorously shaking him with +nervous strength. + +"You are a very naughty little boy," declared Aunt Janet. "You should +know better than to walk along the street raising so much dust. No +well-brought-up child ever does such things. Who are your parents, little +boy?" + +Johnny perceived that Aunt Janet did not recognize him, which was easily +explained. She wore her reading-spectacles and not her far-seeing ones; +besides, her reading spectacles were obscured by dust and her nephew's +face was nearly obliterated. Also as she shook him his face was not much +in evidence. Johnny disliked, naturally, to tell his aunt Janet that her +own sister and brother-in-law were the parents of such a wicked little +boy. He therefore kept quiet and submitted to the shaking, making +himself as limp as a rag. This, however, exasperated Aunt Janet, who +found herself encumbered by a dead weight of a little boy to be shaken, +and suddenly Johnny Trumbull, the fighting champion of the town, the +cock of the walk of the school, found himself being ignominiously +spanked. That was too much. Johnny's fighting blood was up. He lost all +consideration for circumstances, he forgot that Aunt Janet was not a +boy, that she was quite near being an old lady. She had overstepped the +bounds of privilege of age and sex, and an alarming state of equality +ensued. Quickly the tables were turned. The boy became far from limp. He +stiffened, then bounded and rebounded like wire. He butted, he parried, +he observed all his famous tactics of battle, and poor Aunt Janet sat +down in the dust, black dress, bonnet, glasses (but the glasses were +off and lost), little improving book, black silk gloves, and all; and +Johnny, hopeless, awful, irreverent, sat upon his Aunt Janet's plunging +knees, which seemed the most lively part of her. He kept his face +twisted away from her, but it was not from cowardice. Johnny was afraid +lest Aunt Janet should be too much overcome by the discovery of his +identity. He felt that it was his duty to spare her that. So he sat +still, triumphant but inwardly aghast. + +It was fast dawning upon him that his aunt was not a little boy. He was +not afraid of any punishment which might be meted out to him, but he was +simply horrified. He himself had violated all the honorable conditions +of warfare. He felt a little dizzy and ill, and he felt worse when +he ventured a hurried glance at Aunt Janet's face. She was very pale +through the dust, and her eyes were closed. Johnny thought then that he +had killed her. + +He got up--the nervous knees were no longer plunging; then he heard a +voice, a little-girl voice, always shrill, but now high pitched to a +squeak with terror. It was the voice of Lily Jennings. She stood near +and yet aloof, a lovely little flower of a girl, all white-scalloped +frills and ribbons, with a big white-frilled hat shading a pale little +face and covering the top of a head decorated with wonderful yellow +curls. She stood behind a big baby-carriage with a pink-lined muslin +canopy and containing a nest of pink and white, but an empty nest. +Lily's little brother's carriage had a spring broken, and she had been +to borrow her aunt's baby-carriage, so that nurse could wheel little +brother up and down the veranda. Nurse had a headache, and the +maids were busy, and Lily, who was a kind little soul and, moreover, +imaginative, and who liked the idea of pushing an empty baby-carriage, +had volunteered to go for it. All the way she had been dreaming of what +was not in the carriage. She had come directly out of a dream of doll +twins when she chanced upon the tragedy in the road. + +"What have you been doing now, Johnny Trumbull?" said she. She was +tremulous, white with horror, but she stood her ground. It was curious, +but Johnny Trumbull, with all his bravery, was always cowed before Lily. +Once she had turned and stared at him when he had emerged triumphant +but with bleeding nose from a fight; then she had sniffed delicately and +gone her way. It had only taken a second, but in that second the victor +had met moral defeat. + +He looked now at her pale, really scared face, and his own was as pale. +He stood and kicked the dust until the swirling column of it reached his +head. + +"That's right," said Lily; "stand and kick up dust all over me. WHAT +have you been doing?" + +Johnny was trembling so he could hardly stand. He stopped kicking dust. + +"Have you killed your aunt?" demanded Lily. It was monstrous, but she +had a very dramatic imagination, and there was a faint hint of enjoyment +in her tragic voice. + +"Guess she's just choked by dust," volunteered Johnny, hoarsely. He +kicked the dust again. + +"That's right," said Lily. "If she's choked to death by dust, stand +there and choke her some more. You are a murderer, Johnny Trumbull, and +my mamma will never allow me to speak to you again, and Madame will not +allow you to come to school. AND--I see your papa driving up the street, +and there is the chief policeman's buggy just behind." Lily acquiesced +entirely in the extraordinary coincidence of the father and the chief of +police appearing upon the scene. The unlikely seemed to her the likely. +"NOW," said she, cheerfully, "you will be put in state prison and locked +up, and then you will be put to death by a very strong telephone." + +Johnny's father was leaning out of his buggy, looking back at the chief +of police in his, and the mare was jogging very slowly in a perfect reek +of dust. Lily, who was, in spite of her terrific imagination, human and +a girl, rose suddenly to heights of pity and succor. "They shall never +take you, Johnny Trumbull," said she. "I will save you." + +Johnny by this time was utterly forgetful of his high status as champion +(behind her back) of Madame's very select school for select children of +a somewhat select village. He was forgetful of the fact that a champion +never cries. He cried; he blubbered; tears rolled over his dusty cheeks, +making furrows like plowshares of grief. He feared lest he might have +killed his aunt Janet. Women, and not very young women, might presumably +be unable to survive such rough usage as very tough and at the same time +very limber little boys, and he loved his poor aunt Janet. He +grieved because of his aunt, his parents, his uncle, and rather more +particularly because of himself. He was quite sure that the policeman +was coming for him. Logic had no place in his frenzied conclusions. He +did not consider how the tragedy had taken place entirely out of sight +of a house, that Lily Jennings was the only person who had any knowledge +of it. He looked at the masterful, fair-haired little girl like a baby. +"How?" sniffed he. + +For answer, Lily pointed to the empty baby-carriage. "Get right in," she +ordered. + +Even in this dire extremity Johnny hesitated. "Can't." + +"Yes, you can. It is extra large. Aunt Laura's baby was a twin when +he first came; now he's just an ordinary baby, but his carriage is big +enough for two. There's plenty of room. Besides, you're a very small +boy, very small of your age, even if you do knock all the other boys +down and have murdered your aunt. Get in. In a minute they will see +you." + +There was in reality no time to lose. Johnny did get in. In spite of the +provisions for twins, there was none too much room. + +Lily covered him up with the fluffy pink-and-lace things, and scowled. +"You hump up awfully," she muttered. Then she reached beneath him and +snatched out the pillow on which he lay, the baby's little bed. She gave +it a swift toss over the fringe of wayside bushes into a field. "Aunt +Laura's nice embroidered pillow," said she. "Make yourself just as flat +as you can, Johnny Trumbull." + +Johnny obeyed, but he was obliged to double himself up like a +jack-knife. However, there was no sign of him visible when the two +buggies drew up. There stood a pale and frightened little girl, with a +baby-carriage canopied with rose and lace and heaped up with rosy and +lacy coverlets, presumably sheltering a sleeping infant. Lily was a very +keen little girl. She had sense enough not to run. The two men, at the +sight of Aunt Janet prostrate in the road, leaped out of their buggies. +The doctor's horse stood still; the policeman's trotted away, to Lily's +great relief. She could not imagine Johnny's own father haling him away +to state prison and the stern Arm of Justice. She stood the fire of +bewildered questions in the best and safest fashion. She wept bitterly, +and her tears were not assumed. Poor little Lily was all of a sudden +crushed under the weight of facts. There was Aunt Janet, she had no +doubt, killed by her own nephew, and she was hiding the guilty murderer. +She had visions of state prison for herself. She watched fearfully +while the two men bent over the prostrate woman, who very soon began to +sputter and gasp and try to sit up. + +"What on earth is the matter, Janet?" inquired Dr. Trumbull, who was +paler than his sister-inlaw. In fact, she was unable to look very pale +on account of dust. + +"Ow!" sputtered Aunt Janet, coughing violently, "get me up out of this +dust, John. Ow!" + +"What was the matter?" + +"Yes, what has happened, madam?" demanded the chief of police, sternly. + +"Nothing," replied Aunt Janet, to Lily's and Johnny's amazement. "What +do you think has happened? I fell down in all this nasty dust. Ow!" + +"What did you eat for luncheon, Janet?" inquired Dr. Trumbull, as he +assisted his sister-inlaw to her feet. + +"What I was a fool to eat," replied Janet Trumbull, promptly. "Cucumber +salad and lemon jelly with whipped cream." + +"Enough to make anybody have indigestion," said Dr. Trumbull. "You have +had one of these attacks before, too, Janet. You remember the time you +ate strawberry shortcake and ice-cream?" + +Janet nodded meekly. Then she coughed again. "Ow, this dust!" gasped +she. "For goodness' sake, John, get me home where I can get some water +and take off these dusty clothes or I shall choke to death." + +"How does your stomach feel?" inquired Dr. Trumbull. + +"Stomach is all right now, but I am just choking to death with the +dust." Janet turned sharply toward the policeman. "You have sense enough +to keep still, I hope," said she. "I don't want the whole town ringing +with my being such an idiot as to eat cucumbers and cream together and +being found this way." Janet looked like an animated creation of dust as +she faced the chief of police. + +"Yes, ma'am," he replied, bowing and scraping one foot and raising more +dust. + +He and Dr. Trumbull assisted Aunt Janet into the buggy, and they drove +off. Then the chief of police discovered that his own horse had gone. +"Did you see which way he went, sis?" he inquired of Lily, and she +pointed down the road, and sobbed as she did so. + +The policeman said something bad under his breath, then advised Lily to +run home to her ma, and started down the road. + +When he was out of sight, Lily drew back the pink-and-white things from +Johnny's face. "Well, you didn't kill her this time," said she. + +"Why do you s'pose she didn't tell all about it?" said Johnny, gaping at +her. + +"How do I know? I suppose she was ashamed to tell how she had been +fighting, maybe." + +"No, that was not why," said Johnny in a deep voice. + +"Why was it, then?" + +"SHE KNEW." + +Johnny began to climb out of the baby-carriage. + +"What will she do next, then?" asked Lily. + +"I don't know," Johnny replied, gloomily. + +He was out of the carriage then, and Lily was readjusting the pillows +and things. "Get that nice embroidered pillow I threw over the bushes," +she ordered, crossly. Johnny obeyed. When she had finished putting the +baby-carriage to rights she turned upon poor little Johnny Trumbull, and +her face wore the expression of a queen of tragedy. "Well," said Lily +Jennings, "I suppose I shall have to marry you when I am grown up, after +all this." + +Johnny gasped. He thought Lily the most beautiful girl he knew, but to +be confronted with murder and marriage within a few minutes was almost +too much. He flushed a burning red. He laughed foolishly. He said +nothing. + +"It will be very hard on me," stated Lily, "to marry a boy who tried to +murder his nice aunt." + +Johnny revived a bit under this feminine disdain. "I didn't try to +murder her," he said in a weak voice. + +"You might have, throwing her down in all that awful dust, a nice, clean +lady. Ladies are not like boys. It might kill them very quickly to be +knocked down on a dusty road." + +"I didn't mean to kill her." + +"You might have." + +"Well, I didn't, and--she--" + +"What?" + +"She spanked me." + +"Pooh! That doesn't amount to anything," sniffed Lily. + +"It does if you are a boy." + +"I don't see why." + +"Well, I can't help it if you don't. It does." + +"Why shouldn't a boy be spanked when he's naughty, just as well as a +girl, I would like to know?" + +"Because he's a boy." + +Lily looked at Johnny Trumbull. The great fact did remain. He had been +spanked, he had thrown his own aunt down in the dust. He had taken +advantage of her little-girl protection, but he was a boy. Lily did not +understand his why at all, but she bowed before it. However, that she +would not admit. She made a rapid change of base. "What," said she, "are +you going to do next?" + +Johnny stared at her. It was a puzzle. + +"If," said Lily, distinctly, "you are afraid to go home, if you think +your aunt will tell, I will let you get into Aunt Laura's baby-carriage +again, and I will wheel you a little way." + +Johnny would have liked at that moment to knock Lily down, as he had his +aunt Janet. Lily looked at him shrewdly. "Oh yes," said she, "you can +knock me down in the dust there if you want to, and spoil my nice clean +dress. You will be a boy, just the same." + +"I will never marry you, anyway," declared Johnny. + +"Aren't you afraid I'll tell on you and get you another spanking if you +don't?" + +"Tell if you want to. I'd enough sight rather be spanked than marry +you." + +A gleam of respect came into the little girl's wisely regarding blue +eyes. She, with the swiftness of her sex, recognized in forlorn little +Johnny the making of a man. "Oh, well," said she, loftily, "I never +was a telltale, and, anyway, we are not grown up, and there will be my +trousseau to get, and a lot of other things to do first. I shall go to +Europe before I am married, too, and I might meet a boy much nicer than +you on the steamer." + +"Meet him if you want to." + +Lily looked at Johnny Trumbull with more than respect--with +admiration--but she kept guard over her little tongue. "Well, you can +leave that for the future," said she with a grown-up air. + +"I ain't going to leave it. It's settled for good and all now," growled +Johnny. + +To his immense surprise, Lily curved her white embroidered sleeve over +her face and began to weep. + +"What's the matter now?" asked Johnny, sulkily, after a minute. + +"I think you are a real horrid boy," sobbed Lily. + +Lily looked like nothing but a very frilly, sweet, white flower. +Johnny could not see her face. There was nothing to be seen except +that delicate fluff of white, supported on dainty white-socked, +white-slippered limbs. + +"Say," said Johnny. + +"You are real cruel, when I--I saved your--li-fe," wailed Lily. + +"Say," said Johnny, "maybe if I don't see any other girl I like better +I will marry you when I am grown up, but I won't if you don't stop that +howling." + +Lily stopped immediately. She peeped at him, a blue peep from under the +flopping, embroidered brim of her hat. "Are you in earnest?" She +smiled faintly. Her blue eyes, wet with tears, were lovely; so was her +hesitating smile. + +"Yes, if you don't act silly," said Johnny. "Now you had better run +home, or your mother will wonder where that baby-carriage is." + +Lily walked away, smiling over her shoulder, the smile of the happily +subjugated. "I won't tell anybody, Johnny," she called back in her +flute-like voice. + +"Don't care if you do," returned Johnny, looking at her with chin in the +air and shoulders square, and Lily wondered at his bravery. + +But Johnny was not so brave and he did care. He knew that his best +course was an immediate return home, but he did not know what he might +have to face. He could not in the least understand why his aunt Janet +had not told at once. He was sure that she knew. Then he thought of a +possible reason for her silence; she might have feared his arrest at the +hands of the chief of police. Johnny quailed. He knew his aunt Janet +to be rather a brave sort of woman. If she had fears, she must have had +reason for them. He might even now be arrested. Suppose Lily did +tell. He had a theory that girls usually told. He began to speculate +concerning the horrors of prison. Of course he would not be executed, +since his aunt was obviously very far from being killed, but he might be +imprisoned for a long term. + +Johnny went home. He did not kick the dust any more. He walked very +steadily and staidly. When he came in sight of the old Colonial mansion, +with its massive veranda pillars, he felt chilly. However, he went on. +He passed around to the south door and entered and smelled shortcake. +It would have smelled delicious had he not had so much on his mind. He +looked through the hall, and had a glimpse of his uncle Jonathan in the +study, writing. At the right of the door was his father's office. The +door of that was open, and Johnny saw his father pouring things from +bottles. He did not look at Johnny. His mother crossed the hall. She +had on a long white apron, which she wore when making her famous cream +shortcakes. She saw Johnny, but merely observed, "Go and wash your face +and hands, Johnny; it is nearly supper-time." + +Johnny went up-stairs. At the upper landing he found his aunt Janet +waiting for him. "Come here," she whispered, and Johnny followed her, +trembling, into her own room. It was a large room, rather crowded with +heavy, old-fashioned furniture. Aunt Janet had freed herself from dust +and was arrayed in a purple silk gown. Her hair was looped loosely on +either side of her long face. She was a handsome woman, after a certain +type. + +"Stand here, Johnny," said she. She had closed the door, and Johnny +was stationed before her. She did not seem in the least injured nor the +worse for her experience. On the contrary, there was a bright-red flush +on her cheeks, and her eyes shone as Johnny had never seen them. She +looked eagerly at Johnny. + +"Why did you do that?" she said, but there was no anger in her voice. + +"I forgot," began Johnny. + +"Forgot what?" Her voice was strained with eagerness. + +"That you were not another boy," said Johnny. + +"Tell me," said Aunt Janet. "No, you need not tell me, because if you +did it might be my duty to inform your parents. I know there is no need +of your telling. You MUST be in the habit of fighting with the other +boys." + +"Except the little ones," admitted Johnny. + +To Johnny's wild astonishment, Aunt Janet seized him by the shoulders +and looked him in the eyes with a look of adoration and immense +approval. "Thank goodness," said she, "at last there is going to be a +fighter in the Trumbull family. Your uncle would never fight, and your +father would not. Your grandfather would. Your uncle and your father are +good men, though; you must try to be like them, Johnny." + +"Yes, ma'am," replied Johnny, bewildered. + +"I think they would be called better men than your grandfather and my +father," said Aunt Janet. + +"Yes, ma'am." + +"I think it is time for you to have your grandfather's watch," said Aunt +Janet. "I think you are man enough to take care of it." Aunt Janet had +all the time been holding a black leather case. Now she opened it, and +Johnny saw the great gold watch which he had seen many times before and +had always understood was to be his some day, when he was a man. "Here," +said Aunt Janet. "Take good care of it. You must try to be as good as +your uncle and father, but you must remember one thing--you will wear a +watch which belonged to a man who never allowed other men to crowd him +out of the way he elected to go." + +"Yes, ma'am," said Johnny. He took the watch. + +"What do you say?" inquired his aunt, sharply. + +"Thank you." + +"That's right. I thought you had forgotten your manners. Your +grandfather never did." + +"I am sorry. Aunt Janet," muttered Johnny, "that I--" + +"You need never say anything about that," his aunt returned, quickly. +"I did not see who you were at first. You are too old to be spanked by a +woman, but you ought to be whipped by a man, and I wish your grandfather +were alive to do it." + +"Yes, ma'am," said Johnny. He looked at her bravely. "He could if he +wanted to," said he. + +Aunt Janet smiled at him proudly. "Of course," said she, "a boy like you +never gets the worst of it fighting with other boys." + +"No, ma'am," said Johnny. + +Aunt Janet smiled again. "Now run and wash your face and hands," said +she; "you must not keep supper waiting. Your mother has a paper to write +for her club, and I have promised to help her." + +"Yes, ma'am," said Johnny. He walked out, carrying the great gold +timepiece, bewildered, embarrassed, modest beneath his honors, but +little cock of the walk, whether he would or no, for reasons entirely +and forever beyond his ken. + + + + +JOHNNY-IN-THE-WOODS + +JOHNNY TRUMBULL, he who had demonstrated his claim to be Cock of the +Walk by a most impious hand-to-hand fight with his own aunt, Miss Janet +Trumbull, in which he had been decisively victorious, and won his spurs, +consisting of his late grandfather's immense, solemnly ticking watch, +was to take a new path of action. Johnny suddenly developed the +prominent Trumbull trait, but in his case it was inverted. Johnny, as +became a boy of his race, took an excursion into the past, but instead +of applying the present to the past, as was the tendency of the other +Trumbulls, he forcibly applied the past to the present. He fairly +plastered the past over the exigencies of his day and generation like a +penetrating poultice of mustard, and the results were peculiar. + +Johnny, being bidden of a rainy day during the midsummer vacation to +remain in the house, to keep quiet, read a book, and be a good boy, +obeyed, but his obedience was of a doubtful measure of wisdom. + +Johnny got a book out of his uncle Jonathan Trumbull's dark little +library while Jonathan was walking sedately to the post-office, holding +his dripping umbrella at a wonderful slant of exactness, without regard +to the wind, thereby getting the soft drive of the rain full in his +face, which became, as it were, bedewed with tears, entirely outside any +cause of his own emotions. + +Johnny probably got the only book of an antiorthodox trend in his +uncle's library. He found tucked away in a snug corner an ancient +collection of Border Ballads, and he read therein of many unmoral +romances and pretty fancies, which, since he was a small boy, held +little meaning for him, or charm, beyond a delight in the swing of the +rhythm, for Johnny had a feeling for music. It was when he read of Robin +Hood, the bold Robin Hood, with his dubious ethics but his certain and +unquenchable interest, that Johnny Trumbull became intent. He had the +volume in his own room, being somewhat doubtful as to whether it might +be of the sort included in the good-boy role. He sat beside a rainwashed +window, which commanded a view of the wide field between the Trumbull +mansion and Jim Simmons's house, and he read about Robin Hood and his +Greenwood adventures, his forcible setting the wrong right; and for the +first time his imagination awoke, and his ambition. Johnny Trumbull, +hitherto hero of nothing except little material fistfights, wished now +to become a hero of true romance. + +In fact, Johnny considered seriously the possibility of reincarnating, +in his own person, Robin Hood. He eyed the wide green field dreamily +through his rain-blurred window. It was a pretty field, waving with +feathery grasses and starred with daisies and buttercups, and it was +very fortunate that it happened to be so wide. Jim Simmons's house was +not a desirable feature of the landscape, and looked much better several +acres away. It was a neglected, squalid structure, and considered a +disgrace to the whole village. Jim was also a disgrace, and an unsolved +problem. He owned that house, and somehow contrived to pay the taxes +thereon. He also lived and throve in bodily health in spite of evil +ways, and his children were many. There seemed no way to dispose finally +of Jim Simmons and his house except by murder and arson, and the village +was a peaceful one, and such measures were entirely too strenuous. + +Presently Johnny, staring dreamily out of his window, saw approaching a +rusty-black umbrella held at precisely the wrong angle in respect of the +storm, but held with the unvarying stiffness with which a soldier might +hold a bayonet, and knew it for his uncle Jonathan's umbrella. Soon he +beheld also his uncle's serious, rain-drenched face and his long ambling +body and legs. Jonathan was coming home from the post-office, whither +he repaired every morning. He never got a letter, never anything except +religious newspapers, but the visit to the post-office was part of his +daily routine. Rain or shine, Jonathan Trumbull went for the morning +mail, and gained thereby a queer negative enjoyment of a perfectly +useless duty performed. Johnny watched his uncle draw near to the house, +and cruelly reflected how unlike Robin Hood he must be. He even +wondered if his uncle could possibly have read Robin Hood and still show +absolutely no result in his own personal appearance. He knew that +he, Johnny, could not walk to the post-office and back, even with the +drawback of a dripping old umbrella instead of a bow and arrow, without +looking a bit like Robin Hood, especially when fresh from reading about +him. + +Then suddenly something distracted his thoughts from Uncle Jonathan. The +long, feathery grass in the field moved with a motion distinct from +that caused by the wind and rain. Johnny saw a tiger-striped back emerge, +covering long leaps of terror. Johnny knew the creature for a cat afraid +of Uncle Jonathan. Then he saw the grass move behind the first leaping, +striped back, and he knew there were more cats afraid of Uncle Jonathan. +There were even motions caused by unseen things, and he reasoned, +"Kittens afraid of Uncle Jonathan." Then Johnny reflected with a great +glow of indignation that the Simmonses kept an outrageous number of +half-starved cats and kittens, besides a quota of children popularly +supposed to be none too well nourished, let alone properly clothed. Then +it was that Johnny Trumbull's active, firm imagination slapped the past +of old romance like a most thorough mustard poultice over the present. +There could be no Lincoln Green, no following of brave outlaws (that +is, in the strictest sense), no bows and arrows, no sojourning under +greenwood trees and the rest, but something he could, and would, do and +be. That rainy day when Johnny Trumbull was a good boy, and stayed in +the house, and read a book, marked an epoch. + +That night when Johnny went into his aunt Janet's room she looked +curiously at his face, which seemed a little strange to her. Johnny, +since he had come into possession of his grandfather's watch, went every +night, on his way to bed, to his aunt's room for the purpose of winding +up that ancient timepiece, Janet having a firm impression that it might +not be done properly unless under her supervision. Johnny stood before +his aunt and wound up the watch with its ponderous key, and she watched +him. + +"What have you been doing all day, John?" said she. + +"Stayed in the house and--read." + +"What did you read, John?" + +"A book." + +"Do you mean to be impertinent, John?" + +"No, ma'am," replied Johnny, and with perfect truth. He had not the +slightest idea of the title of the book. + +"What was the book?" + +"A poetry book." + +"Where did you find it?" + +"In Uncle Jonathan's library." + +"Poetry In Uncle Jonathan's library?" said Janet, in a mystified way. +She had a general impression of Jonathan's library as of century-old +preserves, altogether dried up and quite indistinguishable one from the +other except by labels. Poetry she could not imagine as being there +at all. Finally she thought of the early Victorians, and Spenser and +Chaucer. The library might include them, but she had an idea that +Spenser and Chaucer were not fit reading for a little boy. However, +as she remembered Spenser and Chaucer, she doubted if Johnny could +understand much of them. Probably he had gotten hold of an early +Victorian, and she looked rather contemptuous. + +"I don't think much of a boy like you reading poetry," said Janet. +"Couldn't you find anything else to read?" + +"No, ma'am." That also was truth. Johnny, before exploring his uncle's +theological library, had peered at his father's old medical books +and his mother's bookcases, which contained quite terrifying uniform +editions of standard things written by women. + +"I don't suppose there ARE many books written for boys," said Aunt +Janet, reflectively. + +"No, ma'am," said Johnny. He finished winding the watch, and gave, as +was the custom, the key to Aunt Janet, lest he lose it. + +"I will see if I cannot find some books of travels for you, John," said +Janet. "I think travels would be good reading for a boy. Good night, +John." + +"Good night. Aunt Janet," replied Johnny. His aunt never kissed him good +night, which was one reason why he liked her. + +On his way to bed he had to pass his mother's room, whose door stood +open. She was busy writing at her desk. She glanced at Johnny. + +"Are you going to bed?" said she. + +"Yes, ma'am." + +Johnny entered the room and let his mother kiss his forehead, parting +his curly hair to do so. He loved his mother, but did not care at all to +have her kiss him. He did not object, because he thought she liked to +do it, and she was a woman, and it was a very little thing in which he +could oblige her. + +"Were you a good boy, and did you find a good book to read?" asked she. + +"Yes, ma'am." + +"What was the book?" Cora Trumbull inquired, absently, writing as she +spoke. + +"Poetry." + +Cora laughed. "Poetry is odd for a boy," said she. "You should have +read a book of travels or history. Good night, Johnny." + +"Good night, mother." + +Then Johnny met his father, smelling strongly of medicines, coming up +from his study. But his father did not see him. And Johnny went to bed, +having imbibed from that old tale of Robin Hood more of history and more +knowledge of excursions into realms of old romance than his elders had +ever known during much longer lives than his. + +Johnny confided in nobody at first. His feeling nearly led him astray +in the matter of Lily Jennings; he thought of her, for one sentimental +minute, as Robin Hood's Maid Marion. Then he dismissed the idea +peremptorily. Lily Jennings would simply laugh. He knew her. Moreover, +she was a girl, and not to be trusted. Johnny felt the need of another +boy who would be a kindred spirit; he wished for more than one boy. +He wished for a following of heroic and lawless souls, even as Robin +Hood's. But he could think of nobody, after considerable study, except +one boy, younger than himself. He was a beautiful little boy, whose +mother had never allowed him to have his golden curls cut, although +he had been in trousers for quite a while. However, the trousers were +foolish, being knickerbockers, and accompanied by low socks, which +revealed pretty, dimpled, babyish legs. The boy's name was Arnold +Carruth, and that was against him, as being long, and his mother firm +about allowing no nickname. Nicknames in any case were not allowed in +the very exclusive private school which Johnny attended. + +Arnold Carruth, in spite of his being such a beautiful little boy, +would have had no standing at all in the school as far as popularity was +concerned had it not been for a strain of mischief which triumphed over +curls, socks, and pink cheeks and a much-kissed rosebud of a mouth. +Arnold Carruth, as one of the teachers permitted herself to state when +relaxed in the bosom of her own family, was "as choke-full of mischief +as a pod of peas. And the worst of it all is," quoth the teacher, Miss +Agnes Rector, who was a pretty young girl, with a hidden sympathy for +mischief herself--"the worst of it is, that child looks so like a cherub +on a rosy cloud that even if he should be caught nobody would believe +it. They would be much more likely to accuse poor little Andrew Jackson +Green, because he has a snub nose and is a bit cross-eyed, and I never +knew that poor child to do anything except obey rules and learn his +lessons. He is almost too good. And another worst of it is, nobody +can help loving that little imp of a Carruth boy, mischief and all. I +believe the scamp knows it and takes advantage of it." + +It is quite possible that Arnold Carruth did profit unworthily by his +beauty and engagingness, albeit without calculation. He was so young, +it was monstrous to believe him capable of calculation, of deliberate +trading upon his assets of birth and beauty and fascination. However, +Johnny Trumbull, who was wide awake and a year older, was alive to the +situation. He told Arnold Carruth, and Arnold Carruth only, about Robin +Hood and his great scheme. + +"You can help," said this wise Johnny; "you can be in it, because nobody +thinks you can be in anything, on account of your wearing curls." + +Arnold Carruth flushed and gave an angry tug at one golden curl which +the wind blew over a shoulder. The two boys were in a secluded corner +of Madame's lawn, behind a clump of Japanese cedars, during an +intermission. + +"I can't help it because I wear curls," declared Arnold with angry +shame. + +"Who said you could? No need of getting mad." + +"Mamma and Aunt Flora and grandmamma won't let me have these old curls +cut off," said Arnold. "You needn't think I want to have curls like a +girl, Johnny Trumbull." + +"Who said you did? And I know you don't like to wear those short +stockings, either." + +"Like to!" Arnold gave a spiteful kick, first of one half-bared, dimpled +leg, then of the other. + +"First thing you know I'll steal mamma's or Aunt Flora's stockings and +throw these in the furnace-I will. Do you s'pose a feller wants to wear +these baby things? I guess not. Women are awful queer, Johnny Trumbull. +My mamma and my aunt Flora are awful nice, but they are queer about some +things." + +"Most women are queer," agreed Johnny, "but my aunt Janet isn't as queer +as some. Rather guess if she saw me with curls like a little girl she'd +cut 'em off herself." + +"Wish she was my aunt," said Arnold Carruth with a sigh. "A feller needs +a woman like that till he's grown up. Do you s'pose she'd cut off my +curls if I was to go to your house, Johnny?" + +"I'm afraid she wouldn't think it was right unless your mother said she +might. She has to be real careful about doing right, because my uncle +Jonathan used to preach, you know." + +Arnold Carruth grinned savagely, as if he endured pain. "Well, I s'pose +I'll have to stand the curls and little baby stockings awhile longer," +said he. "What was it you were going to tell me, Johnny?" + +"I am going to tell you because I know you aren't too good, if you do +wear curls and little stockings." + +"No, I ain't too good," declared Arnold Carruth, proudly; "I +ain't--HONEST, Johnny." + +"That's why I'm going to tell you. But if you tell any of the other +boys--or girls--" + +"Tell girls!" sniffed Arnold. + +"If you tell anybody, I'll lick you." + +"Guess I ain't afraid." + +"Guess you'd be afraid to go home after you'd been licked." + +"Guess my mamma would give it to you." + +"Run home and tell mamma you'd been whopped, would you, then?" + +Little Arnold, beautiful baby boy, straightened himself with a quick +remembrance that he was born a man. "You know I wouldn't tell, Johnny +Trumbull." + +"Guess you wouldn't. Well, here it is--" Johnny spoke in emphatic +whispers, Arnold's curly head close to his mouth: "There are a good many +things in this town have got to be set right," said Johnny. + +Little Arnold stared at him. Then fire shone in his lovely blue eyes +under the golden shadow of his curls, a fire which had shone in the +eyes of some ancestors of his, for there was good fighting blood in +the Carruth family, as well as in the Trumbull, although this small +descendant did go about curled and kissed and barelegged. + +"How'll we begin?" said Arnold, in a strenuous whisper. + +"We've got to begin right away with Jim Simmons's cats and kittens." + +"With Jim Simmons's cats and kittens?" repeated Arnold. + +"That was what I said, exactly. We've got to begin right there. It is an +awful little beginning, but I can't think of anything else. If you can, +I'm willing to listen." + +"I guess I can't," admitted Arnold, helplessly. + +"Of course we can't go around taking away money from rich people and +giving it to poor folks. One reason is, most of the poor folks in this +town are lazy, and don't get money because they don't want to work for +it. And when they are not lazy, they drink. If we gave rich people's +money to poor folks like that, we shouldn't do a mite of good. The rich +folks would be poor, and the poor folks wouldn't stay rich; they would +be lazier, and get more drink. I don't see any sense in doing things +like that in this town. There are a few poor folks I have been thinking +we might take some money for and do good, but not many." + +"Who?" inquired Arnold Carruth, in awed tones. + +"Well, there is poor old Mrs. Sam Little. She's awful poor. Folks help +her, I know, but she can't be real pleased being helped. She'd rather +have the money herself. I have been wondering if we couldn't get some of +your father's money away and give it to her, for one." + +"Get away papa's money!" + +"You don't mean to tell me you are as stingy as that, Arnold Carruth?" + +"I guess papa wouldn't like it." + +"Of course he wouldn't. But that is not the point. It is not what your +father would like; it is what that poor old lady would like." + +It was too much for Arnold. He gaped at Johnny. + +"If you are going to be mean and stingy, we may as well stop before we +begin," said Johnny. + +Then Arnold Carruth recovered himself. "Old Mr. Webster Payne is awful +poor," said he. "We might take some of your father's money and give it +to him." + +Johnny snorted, fairly snorted. "If," said he, "you think my father +keeps his money where we can get it, you are mistaken, Arnold Carruth. +My father's money is all in papers that are not worth much now and that +he has to keep in the bank till they are." + +Arnold smiled hopefully. "Guess that's the way my papa keeps HIS money." + +"It's the way most rich people are mean enough to," said Johnny, +severely. "I don't care if it's your father or mine, it's mean. And +that's why we've got to begin with Jim Simmons's cats and kittens." + +"Are you going to give old Mrs. Sam Little cats?" inquired Arnold. + +Johnny sniffed. "Don't be silly," said he. "Though I do think a nice +cat with a few kittens might cheer her up a little, and we could steal +enough milk, by getting up early and tagging after the milkman, to feed +them. But I wasn't thinking of giving her or old Mr. Payne cats and +kittens. I wasn't thinking of folks; I was thinking of all those poor +cats and kittens that Mr. Jim Simmons has and doesn't half feed, and +that have to go hunting around folks' back doors in the rain, when cats +hate water, too, and pick things up that must be bad for their stomachs, +when they ought to have their milk regularly in nice, clean saucers. +No, Arnold Carruth, what we have got to do is to steal Mr. Jim Simmons's +cats and get them in nice homes where they can earn their living +catching mice and be well cared for." + +"Steal cats?" said Arnold. + +"Yes, steal cats, in order to do right," said Johnny Trumbull, and his +expression was heroic, even exalted. + +It was then that a sweet treble, faltering yet exultant, rang in their +ears. + +"If," said the treble voice, "you are going to steal dear little kitty +cats and get nice homes for them, I'm going to help." + +The voice belonged to Lily Jennings, who had stood on the other side of +the Japanese cedars and heard every word. + +Both boys started in righteous wrath, but Arnold Carruth was the angrier +of the two. "Mean little cat yourself, listening," said he. His curls +seemed to rise like a crest of rage. + +Johnny, remembering some things, was not so outspoken. "You hadn't any +right to listen, Lily Jennings," he said, with masculine severity. + +"I didn't start to listen," said Lily. "I was looking for cones on these +trees. Miss Parmalee wanted us to bring some object of nature into the +class, and I wondered whether I could find a queer Japanese cone on one +of these trees, and then I heard you boys talking, and I couldn't help +listening. You spoke very loud, and I couldn't give up looking for that +cone. I couldn't find any, and I heard all about the Simmonses' cats, +and I know lots of other cats that haven't got good homes, and--I am +going to be in it." + +"You AIN'T," declared Arnold Carruth. + +"We can't have girls in it," said Johnny the mindful, more politely. + +"You've got to have me. You had better have me, Johnny Trumbull," she +added with meaning. + +Johnny flinched. It was a species of blackmail, but what could he do? +Suppose Lily told how she had hidden him--him, Johnny Trumbull, the +champion of the school--in that empty baby-carriage! He would have more +to contend against than Arnold Carruth with socks and curls. He did not +think Lily would tell. Somehow Lily, although a little, befrilled girl, +gave an impression of having a knowledge of a square deal almost as much +as a boy would; but what boy could tell with a certainty what such an +uncertain creature as a girl might or might not do? Moreover, Johnny +had a weakness, a hidden, Spartanly hidden, weakness for Lily. He rather +wished to have her act as partner in his great enterprise. He therefore +gruffly assented. + +"All right," he said, "you can be in it. But just you look out. You'll +see what happens if you tell." + +"She can't be in it; she's nothing but a girl," said Arnold Carruth, +fiercely. + +Lily Jennings lifted her chin and surveyed him with queenly scorn. "And +what are you?" said she. "A little boy with curls and baby socks." + +Arnold colored with shame and fury, and subsided. "Mind you don't tell," +he said, taking Johnny's cue. + +"I sha'n't tell," replied Lily, with majesty. "But you'll tell +yourselves if you talk one side of trees without looking on the other." + +There was then only a few moments before Madame's musical Japanese +gong which announced the close of intermission should sound, but three +determined souls in conspiracy can accomplish much in a few moments. The +first move was planned in detail before that gong sounded, and the two +boys raced to the house, and Lily followed, carrying a toadstool, which +she had hurriedly caught up from the lawn for her object of nature to be +taken into class. + +It was a poisonous toadstool, and Lily was quite a heroine in the class. +That fact doubtless gave her a more dauntless air when, after school, +the two boys caught up with her walking gracefully down the road, +flirting her skirts and now and then giving her head a toss, which made +her fluff of hair fly into a golden foam under her daisy-trimmed straw +hat. + +"To-night," Johnny whispered, as he sped past. + +"At half past nine, between your house and the Simmonses'," replied +Lily, without even looking at him. She was a past-mistress of +dissimulation. + +Lily's mother had guests at dinner that night, and the guests remarked +sometimes, within the little girl's hearing, what a darling she was. + +"She never gives me a second's anxiety," Lily's mother whispered to a +lady beside her. "You cannot imagine what a perfectly good, dependable +child she is." + +"Now my Christina is a good child in the grain," said the lady, "but she +is full of mischief. I never can tell what Christina will do next." + +"I can always tell," said Lily's mother, in a voice of maternal triumph. + +"Now only the other night, when I thought Christina was in bed, that +absurd child got up and dressed and ran over to see her aunt Bella. Tom +came home with her, and of course there was nothing very bad about it. +Christina was very bright; she said, 'Mother, you never told me I must +not get up and go to see Aunt Bella,' which was, of course, true. I +could not gainsay that." + +"I cannot," said Lily's mother, "imagine my Lily's doing such a thing." + +If Lily had heard that last speech of her mother's, whom she dearly +loved, she might have wavered. That pathetic trust in herself might have +caused her to justify it. But she had finished her dinner and had been +excused, and was undressing for bed, with the firm determination to rise +betimes and dress and join Johnny Trumbull and Arnold Carruth. Johnny +had the easiest time of them all. He simply had to bid his aunt Janet +good night and have the watch wound, and take a fleeting glimpse of his +mother at her desk and his father in his office, and go whistling to his +room, and sit in the summer darkness and wait until the time came. + +Arnold Carruth had the hardest struggle. His mother had an old school +friend visiting her, and Arnold, very much dressed up, with his curls +falling in a shining fleece upon a real lace collar, had to be shown off +and show off. He had to play one little piece which he had learned upon +the piano. He had to recite a little poem. He had to be asked how old he +was, and if he liked to go to school, and how many teachers he had, and +if he loved them, and if he loved his little mates, and which of them he +loved best; and he had to be asked if he loved his aunt Dorothy, who was +the school friend and not his aunt at all, and would he not like to come +and live with her, because she had not any dear little boy; and he was +obliged to submit to having his curls twisted around feminine fingers, +and to being kissed and hugged, and a whole chapter of ordeals, before +he was finally in bed, with his mother's kiss moist upon his lips, and +free to assert himself. + +That night Arnold Carruth realized himself as having an actual horror of +his helpless state of pampered childhood. The man stirred in the soul of +the boy, and it was a little rebel with sulky pout of lips and frown of +childish brows who stole out of bed, got into some queer clothes, and +crept down the back stairs. He heard his aunt Dorothy, who was not +his aunt, singing an Italian song in the parlor, he heard the clink of +silver and china from the butler's pantry, where the maids were washing +the dinner dishes. He smelt his father's cigar, and he gave a little +leap of joy on the grass of the lawn. At last he was out at night alone, +and--he wore long stockings! That noon he had secreted a pair of his +mother's toward that end. When he came home to luncheon he pulled them +out of the darning-bag, which he had spied through a closet door that +had been left ajar. One of the stockings was green silk, and the other +was black, and both had holes in them, but all that mattered was the +length. Arnold wore also his father's riding-breeches, which came over +his shoes and which were enormously large, and one of his father's silk +shirts. He had resolved to dress consistently for such a great occasion. +His clothes hampered him, but he felt happy as he sped clumsily down the +road. + +However, both Johnny Trumbull and Lily Jennings, who were waiting for +him at the rendezvous, were startled by his appearance. Both began to +run, Johnny pulling Lily after him by the hand, but Arnold's cautious +hallo arrested them. Johnny and Lily returned slowly, peering through +the darkness. + +"It's me," said Arnold, with gay disregard of grammar. + +"You looked," said Lily, "like a real fat old man. What HAVE you got on, +Arnold Carruth?" + +Arnold slouched before his companions, ridiculous but triumphant. He +hitched up a leg of the riding-breeches and displayed a long, green silk +stocking. Both Johnny and Lily doubled up with laughter. + +"What you laughing at?" inquired Arnold, crossly. + +"Oh, nothing at all," said Lily. "Only you do look like a scarecrow +broken loose. Doesn't he, Johnny?" + +"I am going home," stated Arnold with dignity. He turned, but Johnny +caught him in his little iron grip. + +"Oh, shucks, Arnold Carruth!" said he. "Don't be a baby. Come on." And +Arnold Carruth with difficulty came on. + +People in the village, as a rule, retired early. Many lights were out +when the affair began, many went out while it was in progress. All three +of the band steered as clear of lighted houses as possible, and dodged +behind trees and hedges when shadowy figures appeared on the road or +carriage-wheels were heard in the distance. At their special destination +they were sure to be entirely safe. Old Mr. Peter Van Ness always +retired very early. To be sure, he did not go to sleep until late, and +read in bed, but his room was in the rear of the house on the second +floor, and all the windows, besides, were dark. Mr. Peter Van Ness was +a very wealthy elderly gentleman, very benevolent. He had given the +village a beautiful stone church with memorial windows, a soldiers' +monument, a park, and a home for aged couples, called "The Van Ness +Home." Mr. Van Ness lived alone with the exception of a housekeeper and +a number of old, very well-disciplined servants. The servants always +retired early, and Mr. Van Ness required the house to be quiet for his +late reading. He was a very studious old gentleman. + +To the Van Ness house, set back from the street in the midst of a +well-kept lawn, the three repaired, but not as noiselessly as they could +have wished. In fact, a light flared in an up-stairs window, which was +wide open, and one woman's voice was heard in conclave with another. + +"I should think," said the first, "that the lawn was full of cats. Did +you ever hear such a mewing, Jane?" + +That was the housekeeper's voice. The three, each of whom carried a +squirming burlap potato-bag from the Trumbull cellar, stood close to a +clump of stately pines full of windy songs, and trembled. + +"It do sound like cats, ma'am," said another voice, which was Jane's, +the maid, who had brought Mrs. Meeks, the housekeeper, a cup of hot +water and peppermint, because her dinner had disagreed with her. + +"Just listen," said Mrs. Meeks. + +"Yes, ma'am, I should think there was hundreds of cats and little +kittens." + +"I am so afraid Mr. Van Ness will be disturbed." + +"Yes, ma'am." + +"You might go out and look, Jane." + +"Oh, ma'am, they might be burglars!" + +"How can they be burglars when they are cats?" demanded Mrs. Meeks, +testily. + +Arnold Carruth snickered, and Johnny on one side, and Lily on the other, +prodded him with an elbow. They were close under the window. + +"Burglars is up to all sorts of queer tricks, ma'am," said Jane. "They +may mew like cats to tell one another what door to go in." + +"Jane, you talk like an idiot," said Mrs. Meeks. "Burglars talking like +cats! Who ever heard of such a thing? It sounds right under that window. +Open my closet door and get those heavy old shoes and throw them out." + +It was an awful moment. The three dared not move. The cats and kittens +in the bags--not so many, after all--seemed to have turned into +multiplication-tables. They were positively alarming in their +determination to get out, their wrath with one another, and their +vociferous discontent with the whole situation. + +"I can't hold my bag much longer," said poor little Arnold Carruth. + +"Hush up, cry-baby!" whispered Lily, fiercely, in spite of a clawing paw +emerging from her own bag and threatening her bare arm. + +Then came the shoes. One struck Arnold squarely on the shoulder, nearly +knocking him down and making him lose hold of his bag. The other struck +Lily's bag, and conditions became worse; but she held on despite a +scratch. Lily had pluck. + +Then Jane's voice sounded very near, as she leaned out of the window. "I +guess they have went, ma'am," said she. "I seen something run." + +"I can hear them," said Mrs. Meeks, querulously. + +"I seen them run," persisted Jane, who was tired and wished to be gone. + +"Well, close that window, anyway, for I know I hear them, even if they +have gone," said Mrs. Meeks. The three heard with relief the window +slammed down. + +The light flashed out, and simultaneously Lily Jennings and Johnny +Trumbull turned indignantly upon Arnold Carruth. + +"There, you have gone and let all those poor cats go," said Johnny. + +"And spoilt everything," said Lily. + +Arnold rubbed his shoulder. "You would have let go if you had been hit +right on the shoulder by a great shoe," said he, rather loudly. + +"Hush up!" said Lily. "I wouldn't have let my cats go if I had been +killed by a shoe; so there." + +"Serves us right for taking a boy with curls," said Johnny Trumbull. + +But he spoke unadvisedly. Arnold Carruth was no match whatever for +Johnny Trumbull, and had never been allowed the honor of a combat with +him; but surprise takes even a great champion at a disadvantage. Arnold +turned upon Johnny like a flash, out shot a little white fist, up struck +a dimpled leg clad in cloth and leather, and down sat Johnny Trumbull; +and, worse, open flew his bag, and there was a yowling exodus. + +"There go your cats, too, Johnny Trumbull," said Lily, in a perfectly +calm whisper. At that moment both boys, victor and vanquished, felt a +simultaneous throb of masculine wrath at Lily. Who was she to gloat +over the misfortunes of men? But retribution came swiftly to Lily. That +viciously clawing little paw shot out farther, and there was a limit to +Spartanism in a little girl born so far from that heroic land. Lily let +go of her bag and with difficulty stifled a shriek of pain. + +"Whose cats are gone now?" demanded Johnny, rising. + +"Yes, whose cats are gone now?" said Arnold. + +Then Johnny promptly turned upon him and knocked him down and sat on +him. + +Lily looked at them, standing, a stately little figure in the darkness. +"I am going home," said she. "My mother does not allow me to go with +fighting boys." + +Johnny rose, and so did Arnold, whimpering slightly. His shoulder ached +considerably. + +"He knocked me down," said Johnny. + +Even as he whimpered and as he suffered, Arnold felt a thrill of +triumph. "Always knew I could if I had a chance," said he. + +"You couldn't if I had been expecting it," said Johnny. + +"Folks get knocked down when they ain't expecting it most of the time," +declared Arnold, with more philosophy than he realized. + +"I don't think it makes much difference about the knocking down," said +Lily. "All those poor cats and kittens that we were going to give a good +home, where they wouldn't be starved, have got away, and they will run +straight back to Mr. Jim Simmons's." + +"If they haven't any more sense than to run back to a place where they +don't get enough to eat and are kicked about by a lot of children, let +them run," said Johnny. + +"That's so," said Arnold. "I never did see what we were doing such a +thing for, anyway--stealing Mr. Simmons's cats and giving them to Mr. +Van Ness." + +It was the girl alone who stood by her guns of righteousness. "I saw and +I see," she declared, with dangerously loud emphasis. "It was only our +duty to try to rescue poor helpless animals who don't know any better +than to stay where they are badly treated. And Mr. Van Ness has so +much money he doesn't know what to do with it; he would have been real +pleased to give those cats a home and buy milk and liver for them. But +it's all spoiled now. I will never undertake to do good again, with a +lot of boys in the way, as long as I live; so there!" Lily turned about. + +"Going to tell your mother!" said Johnny, with scorn which veiled +anxiety. + +"No, I'm NOT. I don't tell tales." + +Lily marched off, and in her wake went Johnny and Arnold, two poor +little disillusioned would-be knights of old romance in a wretchedly +commonplace future, not far enough from their horizons for any glamour. + +They went home, and of the three Johnny Trumbull was the only one +who was discovered. For him his aunt Janet lay in wait and forced a +confession. She listened grimly, but her eyes twinkled. + +"You have learned to fight, John Trumbull," said she, when he had +finished. "Now the very next thing you have to learn, and make yourself +worthy of your grandfather Trumbull, is not to be a fool." + +"Yes, Aunt Janet," said Johnny. + +The next noon, when he came home from school, old Maria, who had been +with the family ever since he could remember and long before, called him +into the kitchen. There, greedily lapping milk from a saucer, were two +very lean, tall kittens. + +"See those nice little tommy-cats," said Maria, beaming upon Johnny, +whom she loved and whom she sometimes fancied deprived of boyish joys. +"Your aunt Janet sent me over to the Simmonses' for them this morning. +They are overrun with cats--such poor, shiftless folks always be--and +you can have them. We shall have to watch for a little while till they +get wonted, so they won't run home." + +Johnny gazed at the kittens, fast distending with the new milk, and +felt presumably much as dear Robin Hood may have felt after one of his +successful raids in the fair, poetic past. + +"Pretty, ain't they?" said Maria. "They have drank up a whole saucer of +milk. 'Most starved. I s'pose." + +Johnny gathered up the two forlorn kittens and sat down in a kitchen +chair, with one on each shoulder, hard, boyish cheeks pressed against +furry, purring sides, and the little fighting Cock of the Walk felt his +heart glad and tender with the love of the strong for the weak. + + + + +DANIEL AND LITTLE DAN'L + +THE Wise homestead dated back more than a century, yet it had nothing +imposing about it except its site. It was a simple, glaringly white +cottage. There was a center front door with two windows on each side; +there was a low slant of roof, pierced by unpicturesque dormers. On +the left of the house was an ell, which had formerly been used as a +shoemaker's shop, but now served as a kitchen. In the low attic of the +ell was stored the shoemaker's bench, whereon David Wise's grandfather +had sat for nearly eighty years of working days; after him his eldest +son, Daniel's father, had occupied the same hollow seat of patient toil. +Daniel had sat there for twenty-odd years, then had suddenly realized +both the lack of necessity and the lack of customers, since the +great shoe-plant had been built down in the village. Then Daniel had +retired--although he did not use that expression. Daniel said to his +friends and his niece Dora that he had "quit work." But he told himself, +without the least bitterness, that work had quit him. + +After Daniel had retired, his one physiological peculiarity assumed +enormous proportions. It had always been with him, but steady work had +held it, to a great extent, at bay. Daniel was a moral coward before +physical conditions. He was as one who suffers, not so much from agony +of the flesh as from agony of the mind induced thereby. Daniel was a +coward before one of the simplest, most inevitable happenings of earthly +life. He was a coward before summer heat. All winter he dreaded summer. +Summer poisoned the spring for him. Only during the autumn did he +experience anything of peace. Summer was then over, and between him and +another summer stretched the blessed perspective of winter. Then Daniel +Wise drew a long breath and looked about him, and spelled out the beauty +of the earth in his simple primer of understanding. Daniel had in his +garden behind the house a prolific grape-vine. He ate the grapes, full +of the savor of the dead summer, with the gusto of a poet who can at +last enjoy triumph over his enemy. + +Possibly it was the vein of poetry in Daniel which made him a +coward--which made him so vulnerable. During the autumn he reveled in +the tints of the landscape which his sitting-room windows commanded. +There were many maples and oaks. Day by day the roofs of the houses in +the village became more evident, as the maples shed their crimson and +gold and purple rags of summer. The oaks remained, great shaggy masses +of dark gold and burning russet; later they took on soft hues, making +clearer the blue firmament between the boughs. Daniel watched the autumn +trees with pure delight. "He will go to-day," he said of a flaming maple +after a night of frost which had crisped the white arches of the grass +in his dooryard. All day he sat and watched the maple cast its glory, +and did not bother much with his simple meals. The Wise house was +erected on three terraces. Always through the dry summer the grass was +burned to an ugly negation of color. Later, when rain came, the grass +was a brilliant green, patched with rosy sorrel and golden stars of +arnica. Then later still came the diamond brilliance of the frost. So +dry were the terraces in summer-time that no flowers would flourish. +When Daniel's mother had come to the house as a bride she had planted +under a window a blush-rose bush, but always the blush-roses were few +and covered with insects. It was not until the autumn, when it was time +for the flowers to die, that the sorrel blessing of waste lands flushed +rosily and the arnica showed its stars of slender threads of gold, and +there might even be a slight glimpse of purple aster and a dusty spray +or two of goldenrod. Then Daniel did not shrink from the sight of the +terraces. In summer-time the awful negative glare of them under the +afternoon sun maddened him. + +In winter he often visited his brother John in the village. He was very +fond of John, and John's wife, and their only daughter, Dora. When John +died, and later his wife, he would have gone to live with Dora, but +she married. Then her husband also died, and Dora took up dressmaking, +supporting herself and her delicate little girl-baby. Daniel adored this +child. She had been named for him, although her mother had been aghast +before the proposition. "Name a girl Daniel, uncle!" she had cried. + +"She is going to have what I own after I have done with it, anyway," +declared Daniel, gazing with awe and rapture at the tiny flannel bundle +in his niece's arms. "That won't make any difference, but I do wish you +could make up your mind to call her after me, Dora." + +Dora Lee was soft-hearted. She named her girl-baby Daniel, and called +her Danny, which was not, after all, so bad, and her old uncle loved the +child as if she had been his own. Little Daniel--he always called her +Daniel, or, rather, "Dan'l"--was the only reason for his descending into +the village on summer days when the weather was hot. Daniel, when he +visited the village in summer-time, wore always a green leaf inside his +hat and carried an umbrella and a palm-leaf fan. This caused the village +boys to shout, "Hullo, grandma!" after him. Daniel, being a little hard +of hearing, was oblivious, but he would have been in any case. His +whole mind was concentrated in getting along that dusty glare of street, +stopping at the store for a paper bag of candy, and finally ending in +Dora's little dark parlor, holding his beloved namesake on his knee, +watching her blissfully suck a barley stick while he waved his palmleaf +fan. Dora would be fitting gowns in the next room. He would hear the +hum of feminine chatter over strictly feminine topics. He felt very much +aloof, even while holding the little girl on his knee. Daniel had never +married--had never even h ad a sweetheart. The marriageable women he +had seen had not been of the type to attract a dreamer like Daniel Wise. +Many of those women thought him "a little off." + +Dora Lee, his niece, privately wondered if her uncle had his full +allotment of understanding. He seemed much more at home with her little +daughter than with herself, and Dora considered herself a very good +business woman, with possibly an unusual endowment of common sense. She +was such a good business woman that when she died suddenly she left her +child with quite a sum in the bank, besides the house. Daniel did not +hesitate for a moment. He engaged Miss Sarah Dean for a housekeeper, and +took the little girl (hardly more than a baby) to his own home. Dora +had left a will, in which she appointed Daniel guardian in spite of her +doubt concerning his measure of understanding. There was much comment in +the village when Daniel took his little namesake to live in his lonely +house on the terrace. "A man and an old maid to bring up that poor +child!" they said. But Daniel called Dr. Trumbull to his support. "It +is much better for that delicate child to be out of this village, which +drains the south hill," Dr. Trumbull declared. "That child needs pure +air. It is hot enough in summer all around here, and hot enough at +Daniel's, but the air is pure there." + +There was no gossip about Daniel and Miss Sarah Dean. Gossip would have +seemed about as foolish concerning him and a dry blade of field-grass. +Sarah Dean looked like that. She wore rusty black gowns, and her +gray-blond hair was swept curtainwise over her ears on either side +of her very thin, mildly severe wedge of a face. Sarah was a notable +housekeeper and a good cook. She could make an endless variety of cakes +and puddings and pies, and her biscuits were marvels. Daniel had long +catered for himself, and a rasher of bacon, with an egg, suited him much +better for supper than hot biscuits, preserves, and five kinds of cake. +Still, he did not complain, and did not understand that Sarah's fare was +not suitable for the child, until Dr. Trumbull told him so. + +"Don't you let that child live on that kind of food if you want her to +live at all," said Dr. Trumbull. "Lord! what are the women made of, and +the men they feed, for that matter? Why, Daniel, there are many people +in this place, and hard-working people, too, who eat a quantity of food, +yet don't get enough nourishment for a litter of kittens." + +"What shall I do?" asked Daniel in a puzzled way. + +"Do? You can cook a beefsteak yourself, can't you? Sarah Dean would fry +one as hard as soleleather." + +"Yes, I can cook a beefsteak real nice," said Daniel. + +"Do it, then; and cook some chops, too, and plenty of eggs." + +"I don't exactly hanker after quite so much sweet stuff," said Daniel. +"I wonder if Sarah's feelings will be hurt." + +"It is much better for feelings to be hurt than stomachs," declared Dr. +Trumbull, "but Sarah's feelings will not be hurt. I know her. She is +a wiry woman. Give her a knock and she springs back into place. Don't +worry about her, Daniel." + +When Daniel went home that night he carried a juicy steak, and he cooked +it, and he and little Dan'l had a square meal. Sarah refused the steak +with a slight air of hauteur, but she behaved very well. When she +set away her untasted layer-cakes and pies and cookies, she eyed them +somewhat anxiously. Her standard of values seemed toppling before her +mental vision. "They will starve to death if they live on such victuals +as beefsteak, instead of good nourishing hot biscuits and cake," she +thought. After the supper dishes were cleared away she went into the +sitting-room where Daniel Wise sat beside a window, waiting in a sort of +stern patience for a whiff of air. It was a very close evening. The sun +was red in the low west, but a heaving sea of mist was rising over the +lowlands. + +Sarah sat down opposite Daniel. "Close, ain't it?" said she. She began +knitting her lace edging. + +"Pretty close," replied Daniel. He spoke with an effect of forced +politeness. Although he had such a horror of extreme heat, he was always +chary of boldly expressing his mind concerning it, for he had a feeling +that he might be guilty of blasphemy, since he regarded the weather as +being due to an Almighty mandate. Therefore, although he suffered, he +was extremely polite. + +"It is awful up-stairs in little Dan'l's room," said Sarah. "I have got +all the windows open except the one that's right on the bed, and I told +her she needn't keep more than the sheet and one comfortable over her." + +Daniel looked anxious. "Children ain't ever overcome when they are in +bed, in the house, are they?" + +"Land, no! I never heard of such a thing. And, anyway, little Dan'l's so +thin it ain't likely she feels the heat as much as some." + +"I hope she don't." + +Daniel continued to sit hunched up on himself, gazing with a sort of +mournful irritation out of the window upon the landscape over which the +misty shadows vaguely wavered. + +Sarah knitted. She could knit in the dark. After a while she rose and +said she guessed she would go to bed, as to-morrow was her sweeping-day. + +Sarah went, and Daniel sat alone. + +Presently a little pale figure stole to him through the dusk--the child, +in her straight white nightgown, padding softly on tiny naked feet. + +"Is that you, Dan'l?" + +"Yes, Uncle Dan'l." + +"Is it too hot to sleep up in your room?" + +"I didn't feel so very hot, Uncle Dan'l, but skeeters were biting me, +and a great big black thing just flew in my window!" + +"A bat, most likely." + +"A bat!" Little Dan'l shuddered. She began a little stifled wail. "I'm +afeard of bats," she lamented. + +Daniel gathered the tiny creature up. "You can jest set here with Uncle +Dan'l," said he. "It is jest a little cooler here, I guess. Once in a +while there comes a little whiff of wind." + +"Won't any bats come?" + +"Lord, no! Your Uncle Dan'l won't let any bats come within a gun-shot." + +The little creature settled down contentedly in the old man's lap. Her +fair, thin locks fell over his shirt-sleeved arm, her upturned profile +was sweetly pure and clear even in the dusk. She was so delicately small +that he might have been holding a fairy, from the slight roundness of +the childish limbs and figure. Poor little girl!--Dan'l was much too +small and thin. Old man Daniel gazed down at her anxiously. + +"Jest as soon as the nice fall weather comes," said he, "uncle is going +to take you down to the village real often, and you can get acquainted +with some other nice little girls and play with them, and that will do +uncle's little Dan'l good." + +"I saw little Lucy Rose," piped the child, "and she looked at me real +pleasant, and Lily Jennings wore a pretty dress. Would they play with +me, uncle?" + +"Of course they would. You don't feel quite so hot, here, do you?" + +"I wasn't so hot, anyway; I was afeard of bats." + +"There ain't any bats here." + +"And skeeters." + +"Uncle don't believe there's any skeeters, neither." + +"I don't hear any sing," agreed little Dan'l in a weak voice. Very soon +she was fast asleep. The old man sat holding her, and loving her with +a simple crystalline intensity which was fairly heavenly. He himself +almost disregarded the heat, being raised above it by sheer exaltation +of spirit. All the love which had lain latent in his heart leaped +to life before the helplessness of this little child in his arms. He +realized himself as much greater and of more importance upon the face +of the earth than he had ever been before. He became paternity incarnate +and superblessed. It was a long time before he carried the little child +back to her room and laid her, still as inert with sleep as a lily, +upon her bed. He bent over her with a curious waving motion of his old +shoulders as if they bore wings of love and protection; then he crept +back down-stairs. + +On nights like that he did not go to bed. All the bedrooms were under +the slant of the roof and were hot. He preferred to sit until dawn +beside his open window, and doze when he could, and wait with despairing +patience for the infrequent puffs of cool air breathing blessedly of wet +swamp places, which, even when the burning sun arose, would only show +dewy eyes of cool reflection. Daniel Wise, as he sat there through the +sultry night, even prayed for courage, as a devout sentinel might have +prayed at his post. The imagination of the deserter was not in the man. +He never even dreamed of appropriating to his own needs any portion +of his savings, and going for a brief respite to the deep shadows of +mountainous places, or to a cool coast, where the great waves broke in +foam upon the sand, breathing out the mighty saving breath of the sea. +It never occurred to him that he could do anything but remain at his +post and suffer in body and soul and mind, and not complain. + +The next morning was terrible. The summer had been one of unusually +fervid heat, but that one day was its climax. David went panting +up-stairs to his room at dawn. He did not wish Sarah Dean to know that +he had sat up all night. He opened his bed, tidily, as was his wont. +Through living alone he had acquired many of the habits of an orderly +housewife. He went down-stairs, and Sarah was in the kitchen. + +"It is a dreadful hot day," said she as Daniel approached the sink to +wash his face and hands. + +"It does seem a little warm," admitted Daniel, with his studied air of +politeness with respect to the weather as an ordinance of God. + +"Warm!" echoed Sarah Dean. Her thin face blazed a scarlet wedge between +the sleek curtains of her dank hair; perspiration stood on her triangle +of forehead. "It is the hottest day I ever knew!" she said, defiantly, +and there was open rebellion in her tone. + +"It IS sort of warmish, I rather guess," said Daniel. + +After breakfast, old Daniel announced his intention of taking little +Dan'l out for a walk. + +At that Sarah Dean fairly exploded. "Be you gone clean daft, Dan'l?" +said she. "Don't you know that it actually ain't safe to take out such a +delicate little thing as that on such a day?" + +"Dr. Trumbull said to take her outdoors for a walk every day, rain or +shine," returned Daniel, obstinately. + +"But Dr. Trumbull didn't say to take her out if it rained fire and +brimstone, I suppose," said Sarah Dean, viciously. + +Daniel looked at her with mild astonishment. + +"It is as much as that child's life is worth to take her out such a day +as this," declared Sarah, viciously. + +"Dr. Trumbull said to take no account of the weather," said Daniel with +stubborn patience, "and we will walk on the shady side of the road, and +go to Bradley's Brook. It's always a little cool there." + +"If she faints away before you get there, you bring her right home," +said Sarah. She was almost ferocious. "Just because YOU don't feel the +heat, to take out that little pindlin' girl such a day!" she exclaimed. + +"Dr. Trumbull said to," persisted Daniel, although he looked a little +troubled. Sarah Dean did not dream that, for himself, Daniel Wise would +have preferred facing an army with banners to going out under that +terrible fusillade of sun-rays. She did not dream of the actual heroism +which actuated him when he set out with little Dan'l, holding his big +umbrella over her little sunbonneted head and waving in his other hand a +palm-leaf fan. + +Little Dan'l danced with glee as she went out of the yard. The small, +anemic creature did not feel the heat except as a stimulant. Daniel had +to keep charging her to walk slowly. "Don't go so fast, little Dan'l, +or you'll get overhet, and then what will Mis' Dean say?" he continually +repeated. + +Little Dan'l's thin, pretty face peeped up at him from between the sides +of her green sunbonnet. She pointed one dainty finger at a cloud of pale +yellow butterflies in the field beside which they were walking. "Want to +chase flutterbies," she chirped. Little Dan'l had a fascinating way of +misplacing her consonants in long words. + +"No; you'll get overhet. You just walk along slow with Uncle Dan'l, and +pretty soon we'll come to the pretty brook," said Daniel. + +"Where the lagon-dries live?" asked little Dan'l, meaning dragon-flies. + +"Yes," said Daniel. He was conscious, as he spoke, of increasing waves +of thready black floating before his eyes. They had floated since dawn, +but now they were increasing. Some of the time he could hardly see the +narrow sidewalk path between the dusty meadowsweet and hardhack bushes, +since those floating black threads wove together into a veritable veil +before him. At such times he walked unsteadily, and little Dan'l eyed +him curiously. + +"Why don't you walk the way you always do?" she queried. + +"Uncle Dan'l can't see jest straight, somehow," replied the old man; +"guess it's because it's rather warm." + +It was in truth a day of terror because of the heat. It was one of +those days which break records, which live in men's memories as great +catastrophes, which furnish head-lines for newspapers, and are alluded +to with shudders at past sufferings. It was one of those days which seem +to forecast the Dreadful Day of Revelation wherein no shelter may be +found from the judgment of the fiery firmament. On that day men fell in +their tracks and died, or were rushed to hospitals to be succored as by +a miracle. And on that day the poor old man who had all his life feared +and dreaded the heat as the most loathly happening of earth, walked +afield for love of the little child. As Daniel went on the heat seemed +to become palpable--something which could actually be seen. There was +now a thin, gaseous horror over the blazing sky, which did not temper +the heat, but increased it, giving it the added torment of steam. The +clogging moisture seemed to brood over the accursed earth, like some +foul bird with deadly menace in wings and beak. + +Daniel walked more and more unsteadily. Once he might have fallen had +not the child thrown one little arm around a bending knee. "You 'most +tumbled down. Uncle Dan'l," said she. Her little voice had a surprised +and frightened note in it. + +"Don't you be scared," gasped Daniel; "we have got 'most to the brook; +then we'll be all right. Don't you be scared, and--you walk real slow +and not get overhet." + +The brook was near, and it was time. Daniel staggered under the trees +beside which the little stream trickled over its bed of stones. It was +not much of a brook at best, and the drought had caused it to lose +much of its life. However, it was still there, and there were delicious +little hollows of coolness between the stones over which it flowed, and +large trees stood about with their feet rooted in the blessed damp. Then +Daniel sank down. He tried to reach a hand to the water, but could not. +The black veil had woven a compact mass before his eyes. There was a +terrible throbbing in his head, but his arms were numb. + +Little Dan'l stood looking at him, and her lip quivered. With a mighty +effort Daniel cleared away the veil and saw the piteous baby face. +"Take--Uncle Dan'l's hat and--fetch him--some water," he gasped. "Don't +go too--close and--tumble in." + +The child obeyed. Daniel tried to take the dripping hat, but failed. +Little Dan'l was wise enough to pour the water over the old man's head, +but she commenced to weep, the pitiful, despairing wail of a child who +sees failing that upon which she has leaned for support. + +Daniel rallied again. The water on his head gave him momentary relief, +but more than anything else his love for the child nerved him to effort. + +"Listen, little Dan'l," he said, and his voice sounded in his own +ears like a small voice of a soul thousands of miles away. "You take +the--umbrella, and--you take the fan, and you go real slow, so you don't +get overhet, and you tell Mis' Dean, and--" + +Then old Daniel's tremendous nerve, that he had summoned for the sake of +love, failed him, and he sank back. He was quite unconscious--his face, +staring blindly up at the terrible sky between the trees, was to little +Dan'l like the face of a stranger. She gave one cry, more like the +yelp of a trodden animal than a child's voice. Then she took the open +umbrella and sped away. The umbrella bobbed wildly--nothing could be +seen of poor little Dan'l but her small, speeding feet. She wailed +loudly all the way. + +She was half-way home when, plodding along in a cloud of brown dust, a +horse appeared in the road. The horse wore a straw bonnet and advanced +very slowly. He drew a buggy, and in the buggy were Dr. Trumbull and +Johnny, his son. He had called at Daniel's to see the little girl, and, +on being told that they had gone to walk, had said something under his +breath and turned his horse's head down the road. + +"When we meet them, you must get out, Johnny," he said, "and I will take +in that poor old man and that baby. I wish I could put common sense in +every bottle of medicine. A day like this!" + +Dr. Trumbull exclaimed when he saw the great bobbing black umbrella and +heard the wails. The straw-bonneted horse stopped abruptly. Dr. Trumbull +leaned out of the buggy. "Who are you?" he demanded. + +"Uncle Dan'l is gone," shrieked the child. + +"Gone where? What do you mean?" + +"He--tumbled right down, and then he was-somebody else. He ain't there." + +"Where is 'there'? Speak up quick!" + +"The brook--Uncle Dan'l went away at the brook." + +Dr. Trumbull acted swiftly. He gave Johnny a push. "Get out," he said. +"Take that baby into Jim Mann's house there, and tell Mrs. Mann to keep +her in the shade and look out for her, and you tell Jim, if he hasn't +got his horse in his farm-wagon, to look lively and harness her in and +put all the ice they've got in the house in the wagon. Hurry!" + +Johnny was over the wheel before his father had finished speaking, and +Jim Mann just then drew up alongside in his farm-wagon. + +"What's to pay?" he inquired, breathless. He was a thin, sinewy man, +scantily clad in cotton trousers and a shirt wide open at the breast. +Green leaves protruded from under the brim of his tilted straw hat. + +"Old Daniel Wise is overcome by the heat," answered Dr. Trumbull. "Put +all the ice you have in the house in your wagon, and come along. I'll +leave my horse and buggy here. Your horse is faster." + +Presently the farm-wagon clattered down the road, dust-hidden behind a +galloping horse. Mrs. Jim Mann, who was a loving mother of children, +was soothing little Dan'l. Johnny Trumbull watched at the gate. When the +wagon returned he ran out and hung on behind, while the strong, ungainly +farm-horse galloped to the house set high on the sun-baked terraces. + +When old Daniel revived he found himself in the best parlor, with ice +all about him. Thunder was rolling overhead and hail clattered on the +windows. A sudden storm, the heat-breaker, had come up and the dreadful +day was vanquished. Daniel looked up and smiled a vague smile of +astonishment at Dr. Trumbull and Sarah Dean; then his eyes wandered +anxiously about. + +"The child is all right," said Dr. Trumbull; "don't you worry, Daniel. +Mrs. Jim Mann is taking care of her. Don't you try to talk. You didn't +exactly have a sunstroke, but the heat was too much for you." + +But Daniel spoke, in spite of the doctor's mandate. "The heat," said +he, in a curiously clear voice, "ain't never goin' to be too much for me +again." + +"Don't you talk, Daniel," repeated Dr. Trumbull. "You've always been +nervous about the heat. Maybe you won't be again, but keep still. When +I told you to take that child out every day I didn't mean when the world +was like Sodom and Gomorrah. Thank God, it will be cooler now." + +Sarah Dean stood beside the doctor. She looked pale and severe, but +adequate. She did not even state that she had urged old Daniel not to go +out. There was true character in Sarah Dean. + +The weather that summer was an unexpected quantity. Instead of the day +after the storm being cool, it was hot. However, old Daniel, after +his recovery, insisted on going out of doors with little Dan'l after +breakfast. The only concession which he would make to Sarah Dean, who +was fairly frantic with anxiety, was that he would merely go down the +road as far as the big elm-tree, that he would sit down there, and let +the child play about within sight. + +"You'll be brought home agin, sure as preachin'," said Sarah Dean, "and +if you're brought home ag'in, you won't get up ag'in." + +Old Daniel laughed. "Now don't you worry, Sarah," said he. "I'll set +down under that big ellum and keep cool." + +Old Daniel, at Sarah's earnest entreaties, took a palm-leaf fan. But he +did not use it. He sat peacefully under the cool trail of the great elm +all the forenoon, while little Dan'l played with her doll. The child was +rather languid after her shock of the day before, and not disposed to +run about. Also, she had a great sense of responsibility about the old +man. Sarah Dean had privately charged her not to let Uncle Daniel get +"overhet." She continually glanced up at him with loving, anxious, baby +eyes. + +"Be you overhet. Uncle Dan'l?" she would ask. + +"No, little Dan'l, uncle ain't a mite overhet," the old man would assure +her. Now and then little Dan'l left her doll, climbed into the old man's +lap, and waved the palm-leaf fan before his face. + +Old Daniel Wise loved her so that he seemed, to himself, fairly alight +with happiness. He made up his mind that he would find some little girl +in the village to come now and then and play with little Dan'l. In the +cool of that evening he stole out of the back door, covertly, lest +Sarah Dean discover him, and walked slowly to the rector's house in the +village. The rector's wife was sitting on her cool, vine-shaded veranda. +She was alone, and Daniel was glad. He asked her if the little girl +who had come to live with her, Content Adams, could not come the next +afternoon and see little Dan'l. "Little Dan'l had ought to see other +children once in a while, and Sarah Dean makes real nice cookies," he +stated, pleadingly. + +Sally Patterson laughed good-naturedly. "Of course she can, Mr. Wise," +she said. + +The next afternoon Sally herself drove the rector's horse, and brought +Content to pay a call on little Dan'l. Sally and Sarah Dean visited in +the sitting-room, and left the little girls alone in the parlor with +a plate of cookies, to get acquainted. They sat in solemn silence and +stared at each other. Neither spoke. Neither ate a cooky. When Sally +took her leave, she asked little Dan'l if she had had a nice time with +Content, and little Dan'l said, "Yes, ma'am." + +Sarah insisted upon Content's carrying the cookies home in the dish with +a napkin over it. + +"When can I go again to see that other little girl?" asked Content as +she and Sally were jogging home. + +"Oh, almost any time. I will drive you over-because it is rather a +lonesome walk for you. Did you like the little girl? She is younger than +you." + +"Yes'm." + +Also little Dan'l inquired of old Daniel when the other little girl was +coming again, and nodded emphatically when asked if she had had a nice +time. Evidently both had enjoyed, after the inscrutable fashion of +childhood, their silent session with each other. Content came generally +once a week, and old Daniel was invited to take little Dan'l to the +rector's. On that occasion Lucy Rose was present, and Lily Jennings. The +four little girls had tea together at a little table set on the porch, +and only Lily Jennings talked. The rector drove old Daniel and the child +home, and after they had arrived the child's tongue was loosened and she +chattered. She had seen everything there was to be seen at the rector's. +She told of it in her little silver pipe of a voice. She had to be +checked and put to bed, lest she be tired out. + +"I never knew that child could talk so much," Sarah said to Daniel, +after the little girl had gone up-stairs. + +"She talks quite some when she's alone with me." + +"And she seems to see everything." + +"Ain't much that child don't see," said Daniel, proudly. + +The summer continued unusually hot, but Daniel never again succumbed. +When autumn came, for the first time in his old life old Daniel Wise was +sorrowful. He dreaded the effect of the frost and the winter upon his +precious little Dan'l, whom he put before himself as fondly as any +father could have done, and as the season progressed his dread seemed +justified. Poor little Dan'l had cold after cold. Content Adams and Lucy +Rose came to see her. The rector's wife and the doctor's sent dainties. +But the child coughed and pined, and old Daniel began to look forward +to spring and summer--the seasons which had been his bugaboos through +life--as if they were angels. When the February thaw came, he told +little Dan'l, "Jest look at the snow meltin' and the drops hangin' on +the trees; that is a sign of summer." + +Old Daniel watched for the first green light along the fences and the +meadow hollows. When the trees began to cast slightly blurred shadows, +because of budding leaves, and the robins hopped over the terraces, +and now and then the air was cleft with blue wings, he became jubilant. +"Spring is jest about here, and then uncle's little Dan'l will stop +coughin', and run out of doors and pick flowers," he told the child +beside the window. + +Spring came that year with a riotous rush. Blossoms, leaves, birds, +and flowers--all arrived pellmell, fairly smothering the world with +sweetness and music. In May, about the first of the month, there was an +intensely hot day. It was as hot as midsummer. Old Daniel with +little Dan'l went afield. It was, to both, as if they fairly saw the +carnival-arrival of flowers, of green garlands upon treebranches, of +birds and butterflies. "Spring is right here!" said old Daniel. "Summer +is right here! Pick them vilets in that holler, little Dan'l." The +old man sat on a stone in the meadowland, and watched the child in the +blue-gleaming hollow gather up violets in her little hands as if +they were jewels. The sun beat upon his head, the air was heavy with +fragrance, laden with moisture. Old Daniel wiped his forehead. He was +heated, but so happy that he was not aware of it. He saw wonderful new +lights over everything. He had wielded love, the one invincible weapon +of the whole earth, and had conquered his intangible and dreadful enemy. +When, for the sake of that little beloved life, his own life had become +as nothing, old Daniel found himself superior to it. He sat there in the +tumultuous heat of the May day, watching the child picking violets and +gathering strength with every breath of the young air of the year, and +he realized that the fear of his whole life was overcome for ever. +He realized that never again, though they might bring suffering, even +death, would he dread the summers with their torrid winds and their +burning lights, since, through love, he had become under-lord of all the +conditions of his life upon earth. + + + + +BIG SISTER SOLLY + +IT did seem strange that Sally Patterson, who, according to her own +self-estimation, was the least adapted of any woman in the village, +should have been the one chosen by a theoretically selective providence +to deal with a psychological problem. + +It was conceded that little Content Adams was a psychological problem. +She was the orphan child of very distant relatives of the rector. +When her parents died she had been cared for by a widowed aunt on her +mother's side, and this aunt had also borne the reputation of being a +creature apart. When the aunt died, in a small village in the indefinite +"Out West," the presiding clergyman had notified Edward Patterson of +little Content's lonely and helpless estate. The aunt had subsisted +upon an annuity which had died with her. The child had inherited nothing +except personal property. The aunt's house had been bequeathed to the +church over which the clergyman presided, and after her aunt's death he +took her to his own home until she could be sent to her relatives, and +he and his wife were exceedingly punctilious about every jot and tittle +of the aunt's personal belongings. They even purchased two extra trunks +for them, which they charged to the rector. + +Little Content, traveling in the care of a lady who had known her aunt +and happened to be coming East, had six large trunks, besides a hat-box +and two suit-cases and a nailed-up wooden box containing odds and ends. +Content made quite a sensation when she arrived and her baggage was +piled on the station platform. + +Poor Sally Patterson unpacked little Content's trunks. She had sent the +little girl to school within a few days after her arrival. Lily Jennings +and Amelia Wheeler called for her, and aided her down the street between +them, arms interlocked. Content, although Sally had done her best with a +pretty ready-made dress and a new hat, was undeniably a peculiar-looking +child. In the first place, she had an expression so old that it was +fairly uncanny. + +"That child has downward curves beside her mouth already, and lines +between her eyes, and what she will look like a few years hence is +beyond me," Sally told her husband after she had seen the little girl go +out of sight between Lily's curls and ruffles and ribbons and Amelia's +smooth skirts. + +"She doesn't look like a happy child," agreed the rector. "Poor little +thing! Her aunt Eudora must have been a queer woman to train a child." + +"She is certainly trained," said Sally, ruefully; "too much so. Content +acts as if she were afraid to move or speak or even breathe unless +somebody signals permission. I pity her." + +She was in the storeroom, in the midst of Content's baggage. The rector +sat on an old chair, smoking. He had a conviction that it behooved him +as a man to stand by his wife during what might prove an ordeal. He +had known Content's deceased aunt years before. He had also known the +clergyman who had taken charge of her personal property and sent it on +with Content. + +"Be prepared for finding almost anything. Sally," he observed. "Mr. +Zenock Shanksbury, as I remember him, was so conscientious that it +amounted to mania. I am sure he has sent simply unspeakable things +rather than incur the reproach of that conscience of his with regard to +defrauding Content of one jot or tittle of that personal property." + +Sally shook out a long, black silk dress, with jet dangling here and +there. "Now here is this dress," said she. "I suppose I really must keep +this, but when that child is grown up the silk will probably be cracked +and entirely worthless." + +"You had better take the two trunks and pack them with such things, and +take your chances." + +"Oh, I suppose so. I suppose I must take chances with everything except +furs and wools, which will collect moths. Oh, goodness!" Sally held up +an old-fashioned fitch fur tippet. Little vague winged things came from +it like dust. "Moths!" said she, tragically. "Moths now. It is full +of them. Edward, you need not tell me that clergyman's wife was +conscientious. No conscientious woman would have sent an old fur tippet +all eaten with moths into another woman's house. She could not." + +Sally took flying leaps across the storeroom. She flung open the window +and tossed out the mangy tippet. "This is simply awful!" she declared, +as she returned. "Edward, don't you think we are justified in having +Thomas take all these things out in the back yard and making a bonfire +of the whole lot?" + +"No, my dear." + +"But, Edward, nobody can tell what will come next. If Content's aunt had +died of a contagious disease, nothing could induce me to touch another +thing." + +"Well, dear, you know that she died from the shock of a carriage +accident, because she had a weak heart." + +"I know it, and of course there is nothing contagious about that." Sally +took up an ancient bandbox and opened it. She displayed its contents: a +very frivolous bonnet dating back in style a halfcentury, gay with +roses and lace and green strings, and another with a heavy crape veil +dependent. + +"You certainly do not advise me to keep these?" asked Sally, +despondently. + +Edward Patterson looked puzzled. "Use your own judgment," he said, +finally. + +Sally summarily marched across the room and flung the gay bonnet and the +mournful one out of the window. Then she took out a bundle of very old +underwear which had turned a saffron yellow with age. "People are always +coming to me for old linen in case of burns," she said, succinctly. +"After these are washed I can supply an auto da fe." + +Poor Sally worked all that day and several days afterward. The rector +deserted her, and she relied upon her own good sense in the disposition +of little Content's legacy. When all was over she told her husband. + +"Well, Edward," said she, "there is exactly one trunk half full of +things which the child may live to use, but it is highly improbable. We +have had six bonfires, and I have given away three suits of old clothes +to Thomas's father. The clothes were very large." + +"Must have belonged to Eudora's first husband. He was a stout man," said +Edward. + +"And I have given two small suits of men's clothes to the Aid Society +for the next out-West barrel." + +"Eudora's second husband's." + +"And I gave the washerwoman enough old baking-dishes to last her +lifetime, and some cracked dishes. Most of the dishes were broken, but a +few were only cracked; and I have given Silas Thomas's wife ten old wool +dresses and a shawl and three old cloaks. All the other things which did +not go into the bonfires went to the Aid Society. They will go back +out West." Sally laughed, a girlish peal, and her husband joined. But +suddenly her smooth forehead contracted. "Edward," said she. + +"Well, dear?" + +"I am terribly puzzled about one thing." The two were sitting in the +study. Content had gone to bed. Nobody could hear easily, but Sally +Patterson lowered her voice, and her honest, clear blue eyes had a +frightened expression. + +"What is it, dear?" + +"You will think me very silly and cowardly, and I think I have never +been cowardly, but this is really very strange. Come with me. I am such +a goose, I don't dare go alone to that storeroom." + +The rector rose. Sally switched on the lights as they went up-stairs to +the storeroom. + +"Tread very softly," she whispered. "Content is probably asleep." + +The two tiptoed up the stairs and entered the storeroom. Sally +approached one of the two new trunks which had come with Content from +out West. She opened it. She took out a parcel nicely folded in a large +towel. + +"See here, Edward Patterson." + +The rector stared as Sally shook out a dress-a gay, up-to-date dress, a +young girl's dress, a very tall young girl's, for the skirts trailed on +the floor as Sally held it as high as she could. It was made of a fine +white muslin. There was white lace on the bodice, and there were knots +of blue ribbon scattered over the whole, knots of blue ribbon confining +tiny bunches of rosebuds and daisies. These knots of blue ribbon and the +little flowers made it undeniably a young girl's costume. Even in the +days of all ages wearing the costumes of all ages, an older woman +would have been abashed before those exceedingly youthful knots of blue +ribbons and flowers. + +The rector looked approvingly at it. "That is very pretty, it seems to +me," he said. "That must be worth keeping, Sally." + +"Worth keeping! Well, Edward Patterson, just wait. You are a man, and +of course you cannot understand how very strange it is about the dress." +The rector looked inquiringly. + +"I want to know," said Sally, "if Content's aunt Eudora had any young +relative besides Content. I mean had she a grown-up young girl relative +who would wear a dress like this?" + +"I don't know of anybody. There might have been some relative of +Eudora's first husband. No, he was an only child. I don't think it +possible that Eudora had any young girl relative." + +"If she had," said Sally, firmly, "she would have kept this dress. You +are sure there was nobody else living with Content's aunt at the time +she died?" + +"Nobody except the servants, and they were an old man and his wife." + +"Then whose dress was this?" + +"I don't know, Sally." + +"You don't know, and I don't. It is very strange." + +"I suppose," said Edward Patterson, helpless before the feminine +problem, "that--Eudora got it in some way." + +"In some way," repeated Sally. "That is always a man's way out of a +mystery when there is a mystery. There is a mystery. There is a mystery +which worries me. I have not told you all yet, Edward." + +"What more is there, dear?" + +"I--asked Content whose dress this was, and she said--Oh, Edward, I do +so despise mysteries." + +"What did she say, Sally?" + +"She said it was her big sister Solly's dress." + +"Her what?" + +"Her big sister Solly's dress. Edward, has Content ever had a sister? +Has she a sister now?" + +"No, she never had a sister, and she has none now," declared the rector, +emphatically. "I knew all her family. What in the world ails the child?" + +"She said her big sister Solly, Edward, and the very name is so inane. +If she hasn't any big sister Solly, what are we going to do?" + +"Why, the child must simply lie," said the rector. + +"But, Edward, I don't think she knows she lies. You may laugh, but I +think she is quite sure that she has a big sister Solly, and that this +is her dress. I have not told you the whole. After she came home from +school to-day she went up to her room, and she left the door open, and +pretty soon I heard her talking. At first I thought perhaps Lily or +Amelia was up there, although I had not seen either of them come in +with Content. Then after a while, when I had occasion to go up-stairs, +I looked in her room, and she was quite alone, although I had heard her +talking as I went up-stairs. Then I said: 'Content, I thought somebody +was in your room. I heard you talking.' + +"And she said, looking right into my eyes: 'Yes, ma'am, I was talking.' + +"'But there is nobody here,' I said. + +"'Yes, ma'am,' she said. 'There isn't anybody here now, but my big +sister Solly was here, and she is gone. You heard me talking to my big +sister Solly.' I felt faint, Edward, and you know it takes a good deal +to overcome me. I just sat down in Content's wicker rocking-chair. I +looked at her and she looked at me. Her eyes were just as clear and +blue, and her forehead looked like truth itself. She is not exactly a +pretty child, and she has a peculiar appearance, but she does certainly +look truthful and good, and she looked so then. She had tried to fluff +her hair over her forehead a little as I had told her, and not pull it +back so tight, and she wore her new dress, and her face and hands were +as clean, and she stood straight. You know she is a little inclined to +stoop, and I have talked to her about it. She stood straight, and looked +at me with those blue eyes, and I did feel fairly dizzy." + +"What did you say?" + +"Well, after a bit I pulled myself together and I said: 'My dear little +girl, what is this? What do you mean about your big sister Sarah?' +Edward, I could not bring myself to say that idiotic Solly. In fact, I +did think I must be mistaken and had not heard correctly. But Content +just looked at me as if she thought me very stupid. 'Solly,' said she. +'My sister's name is Solly.' + +"'But, my dear,' I said, 'I understand that you had no sister.' + +"'Yes,' said she, 'I have my big sister Solly.' + +"'But where has she been all the time?' said I. + +"Then Content looked at me and smiled, and it was quite a wonderful +smile, Edward. She smiled as if she knew so much more than I could ever +know, and quite pitied me." + +"She did not answer your question?" + +"No, only by that smile which seemed to tell whole volumes about that +awful Solly's whereabouts, only I was too ignorant to read them. + +"'Where is she now, dear?' I said, after a little. + +"'She is gone now,' said Content. + +"'Gone where?' said I. + +"And then the child smiled at me again. Edward, what are we going to do? +Is she untruthful, or has she too much imagination? I have heard of such +a thing as too much imagination, and children telling lies which were +not really lies." + +"So have I," agreed the rector, dryly, "but I never believed in it." The +rector started to leave the room. + +"What are you going to do?" inquired Sally. + +"I am going to endeavor to discriminate between lies and imagination," +replied the rector. + +Sally plucked at his coat-sleeve as they went down-stairs. "My dear," +she whispered, "I think she is asleep." + +"She will have to wake up." + +"But, my dear, she may be nervous. Would it not be better to wait until +to-morrow?" + +"I think not," said Edward Patterson. Usually an easy-going man, when +he was aroused he was determined to extremes. Into Content's room +he marched, Sally following. Neither of them saw their small son +Jim peeking around his door. He had heard--he could not help it--the +conversation earlier in the day between Content and his mother. He had +also heard other things. He now felt entirely justified in listening, +although he had a good code of honor. He considered himself in a way +responsible, knowing what he knew, for the peace of mind of his parents. +Therefore he listened, peeking around the doorway of his dark room. + +The electric light flashed out from Content's room, and the little +interior was revealed. It was charmingly pretty. Sally had done her best +to make this not altogether welcome little stranger's room attractive. +There were garlands of rosebuds swung from the top of the white +satin-papered walls. There were dainty toilet things, a little +dressing-table decked with ivory, a case of books, chairs cushioned with +rosebud chintz, windows curtained with the same. + +In the little white bed, with a rose-sprinkled coverlid over her, lay +Content. She was not asleep. Directly, when the light flashed out, she +looked at the rector and his wife with her clear blue eyes. Her fair +hair, braided neatly and tied with pink ribbons, lay in two tails on +either side of her small, certainly very good face. Her forehead was +beautiful, very white and full, giving her an expression of candor which +was even noble. Content, little lonely girl among strangers in a strange +place, mutely beseeching love and pity, from her whole attitude toward +life and the world, looked up at Edward Patterson and Sally, and the +rector realized that his determination was giving way. He began to +believe in imagination, even to the extent of a sister Solly. He had +never had a daughter, and sometimes the thought of one had made his +heart tender. His voice was very kind when he spoke. + +"Well, little girl," he said, "what is this I hear?" + +Sally stared at her husband and stifled a chuckle. + +As for Content, she looked at the rector and said nothing. It was +obvious that she did not know what he had heard. The rector explained. + +"My dear little girl," he said, "your aunt Sally"--they had agreed upon +the relationship of uncle and aunt to Content--"tells me that you have +been telling her about your--big sister Solly." The rector half gasped +as he said Solly. He seemed to himself to be on the driveling verge of +idiocy before the pronunciation of that absurdly inane name. + +Content's responding voice came from the pink-and-white nest in which she +was snuggled, like the fluting pipe of a canary. + +"Yes, sir," said she. + +"My dear child," said the rector, "you know perfectly well that you have +no big sister--Solly." Every time the rector said Solly he swallowed +hard. + +Content smiled as Sally had described her smiling. She said nothing. +The rector felt reproved and looked down upon from enormous heights of +innocence and childhood and the wisdom thereof. However, he persisted. + +"Content," he said, "what did you mean by telling your aunt Sally what +you did?" + +"I was talking with my big sister Solly," replied Content, with the +calmness of one stating a fundamental truth of nature. + +The rector's face grew stern. "Content," he said, "look at me." + +Content looked. Looking seemed to be the instinctive action which +distinguished her as an individual. + +"Have you a big sister--Solly?" asked the rector. His face was stern, +but his voice faltered. + +"Yes, sir." + +"Then--tell me so." + +"I have a big sister Solly," said Content. Now she spoke rather wearily, +although still sweetly, as if puzzled why she had been disturbed in +sleep to be asked such an obvious question. + +"Where has she been all the time, that we have known nothing about her?" +demanded the rector. + +Content smiled. However, she spoke. "Home," said she. + +"When did she come here?" + +"This morning." + +"Where is she now?" + +Content smiled and was silent. The rector cast a helpless look at his +wife. He now did not care if she did see that he was completely at a +loss. How could a great, robust man and a clergyman be harsh to a tender +little girl child in a pink-andwhite nest of innocent dreams? + +Sally pitied him. She spoke more harshly than her husband. "Content +Adams," said she, "you know perfectly well that you have no big sister +Solly. Now tell me the truth. Tell me you have no big sister Solly." + +"I have a big sister Solly," said Content. + +"Come, Edward," said Sally. "There is no use in staying and talking +to this obstinate little girl any longer." Then she spoke to Content. +"Before you go to sleep," said she, "you must say your prayers, if you +have not already done so." + +"I have said my prayers," replied Content, and her blue eyes were full +of horrified astonishment at the suspicion. + +"Then," said Sally, "you had better say them over and add something. +Pray that you may always tell the truth." + +"Yes, ma'am," said Content, in her little canary pipe. + +The rector and his wife went out. Sally switched off the light with a +snap as she passed. Out in the hall she stopped and held her husband's +arms hard. "Hush!" she whispered. They both listened. They heard this, +in the faintest plaint of a voice: + +"They don't believe you are here, Sister Solly, but I do." + +Sally dashed back into the rosebud room and switched on the light. She +stared around. She opened a closet door. Then she turned off the light +and joined her husband. + +"There was nobody there?" he whispered. + +"Of course not." + +When they were back in the study the rector and his wife looked at each +other. + +"We will do the best we can," said Sally. "Don't worry, Edward, for you +have to write your sermon to-morrow. We will manage some way. I will +admit that I rather wish Content had had some other distant relative +besides you who could have taken charge of her." + +"You poor child!" said the rector. "It is hard on you, Sally, for she is +no kith nor kin of yours." + +"Indeed I don't mind," said Sally Patterson, "if only I can succeed in +bringing her up." + +Meantime Jim Patterson, up-stairs, sitting over his next day's algebra +lesson, was even more perplexed than were his parents in the study. +He paid little attention to his book. "I can manage little Lucy," he +reflected, "but if the others have got hold of it, I don't know." + +Presently he rose and stole very softly through the hall to Content's +door. She was timid, and always left it open so she could see the hall +light until she fell asleep. "Content," whispered Jim. + +There came the faintest "What?" in response. + +"Don't you," said Jim, in a theatrical whisper, "say another word at +school to anybody about your big sister Solly. If you do, I'll whop you, +if you are a girl." + +"Don't care!" was sighed forth from the room. + +"And I'll whop your old big sister Solly, too." + +There was a tiny sob. + +"I will," declared Jim. "Now you mind!" + +The next day Jim cornered little Lucy Rose under a cedar-tree before +school began. He paid no attention to Bubby Harvey and Tom Simmons, +who were openly sniggering at him. Little Lucy gazed up at Jim, and the +blue-green shade of the cedar seemed to bring out only more clearly the +white-rose softness of her dear little face. Jim bent over her. + +"Want you to do something for me," he whispered. + +Little Lucy nodded gravely. + +"If my new cousin Content ever says anything to you again--I heard her +yesterday--about her big sister Solly, don't you ever say a word about +it to anybody else. You will promise me, won't you, little Lucy?" + +A troubled expression came into little Lucy's kind eyes. "But she told +Lily, and Lily told Amelia, and Amelia told her grandmother Wheeler, +and her grandmother Wheeler told Miss Parmalee when she met her on the +street after school, and Miss Parmalee called on my aunt Martha and told +her," said little Lucy. + +"Oh, shucks!" said Jim. + +"And my aunt Martha told my father that she thought perhaps she ought +to ask for her when she called on your mother. She said Arnold Carruth's +aunt Flora was going to call, and his aunt Dorothy. I heard Miss Acton +tell Miss Parmalee that she thought they ought to ask for her when they +called on your mother, too." + +"Little Lucy," he said, and lowered his voice, "you must promise me +never, as long as you live, to tell what I am going to tell you." + +Little Lucy looked frightened. + +"Promise!" insisted Jim. + +"I promise," said little Lucy, in a weak voice. + +"Never, as long as you live, to tell anybody. Promise!" + +"I promise." + +"Now, you know if you break your promise and tell, you will be guilty of +a dreadful lie and be very wicked." + +Little Lucy shivered. "I never will." + +"Well, my new cousin Content Adams--tells lies." + +Little Lucy gasped. + +"Yes, she does. She says she has a big sister Solly, and she hasn't got +any big sister Solly. She never did have, and she never will have. She +makes believe." + +"Makes believe?" said little Lucy, in a hopeful voice. + +"Making believe is just a real mean way of lying. Now I made Content +promise last night never to say one word in school about her big sister +Solly, and I am going to tell you this, so you can tell Lily and the +others and not lie. Of course, I don't want to lie myself, because my +father is rector, and, besides, mother doesn't approve of it; but if +anybody is going to lie, I am the one. Now, you mind, little Lucy. +Content's big sister Solly has gone away, and she is never coming back. +If you tell Lily and the others I said so, I can't see how you will be +lying." + +Little Lucy gazed at the boy. She looked like truth incarnate. "But," +said she, in her adorable stupidity of innocence, "I don't see how she +could go away if she was never here, Jim." + +"Oh, of course she couldn't. But all you have to do is to say that you +heard me say she had gone. Don't you understand?" + +"I don't understand how Content's big sister Solly could possibly go +away if she was never here." + +"Little Lucy, I wouldn't ask you to tell a lie for the world, but if you +were just to say that you heard me say--" + +"I think it would be a lie," said little Lucy, "because how can I help +knowing if she was never here she couldn't--" + +"Oh, well, little Lucy," cried Jim, in despair, still with +tenderness--how could he be anything but tender with little Lucy?--"all +I ask is never to say anything about it." + +"If they ask me?" + +"Anyway, you can hold your tongue. You know it isn't wicked to hold your +tongue." + +Little Lucy absurdly stuck out the pointed tip of her little red tongue. +Then she shook her head slowly. + +"Well," she said, "I will hold my tongue." + +This encounter with innocence and logic had left him worsted. Jim could +see no way out of the fact that his father, the rector, his mother, +the rector's wife, and he, the rector's son, were disgraced by their +relationship to such an unsanctified little soul as this queer Content +Adams. + +And yet he looked at the poor lonely little girl, who was trying very +hard to learn her lessons, who suggested in her very pose and movement +a little, scared rabbit ready to leap the road for some bush of +hiding, and while he was angry with her he pitied her. He had no doubts +concerning Content's keeping her promise. He was quite sure that he +would now say nothing whatever about that big sister Solly to the +others, but he was not prepared for what happened that very afternoon. + +When he went home from school his heart stood still to see Miss Martha +Rose, and Arnold Carruth's aunt Flora, and his aunt who was not his +aunt, Miss Dorothy Vernon, who was visiting her, all walking along in +state with their lace-trimmed parasols, their white gloves, and their +nice card-cases. Jim jumped a fence and raced across lots home, and +gained on them. He burst in on his mother, sitting on the porch, which +was inclosed by wire netting overgrown with a budding vine. It was the +first warm day of the season. + +"Mother," cried Jim Patterson--"mother, they are coming!" + +"Who, for goodness' sake, Jim?" + +"Why, Arnold's aunt Flora and his aunt Dorothy and little Lucy's aunt +Martha. They are coming to call." + +Involuntarily Sally's hand went up to smooth her pretty hair. "Well, +what of it, Jim?" said she. + +"Mother, they will ask for--big sister Solly!" + +Sally Patterson turned pale. "How do you know?" + +"Mother, Content has been talking at school. A lot know. You will see +they will ask for--" + +"Run right in and tell Content to stay in her room," whispered Sally, +hastily, for the callers, their white-kidded hands holding their +card-cases genteelly, were coming up the walk. + +Sally advanced, smiling. She put a brave face on the matter, but she +realized that she, Sally Patterson, who had never been a coward, was +positively afraid before this absurdity. The callers sat with her on the +pleasant porch, with the young vine-shadows making networks over their +best gowns. Tea was served presently by the maid, and, much to Sally's +relief, before the maid appeared came the inquiry. Miss Martha Rose made +it. + +"We would be pleased to see Miss Solly Adams also," said Miss Martha. + +Flora Carruth echoed her. "I was so glad to hear another nice girl had +come to the village," said she with enthusiasm. Miss Dorothy Vernon said +something indefinite to the same effect. + +"I am sorry," replied Sally, with an effort, "but there is no Miss +Solly Adams here now." She spoke the truth as nearly as she could manage +without unraveling the whole ridiculous affair. The callers sighed with +regret, tea was served with little cakes, and they fluttered down the +walk, holding their card-cases, and that ordeal was over. + +But Sally sought the rector in his study, and she was trembling. +"Edward," she cried out, regardless of her husband's sermon, "something +must be done now." + +"Why, what is the matter, Sally?" + +"People are--calling on her." + +"Calling on whom?" + +"Big sister--Solly!" Sally explained. + +"Well, don't worry, dear," said the rector. "Of course we will do +something, but we must think it over. Where is the child now?" + +"She and Jim are out in the garden. I saw them pass the window just +now. Jim is such a dear boy, he tries hard to be nice to her. Edward +Patterson, we ought not to wait." + +"My dear, we must." + +Meantime Jim and Content Adams were out in the garden. Jim had gone to +Content's door and tapped and called out, rather rudely: "Content, +I say, put on your hat and come along out in the garden. I've got +something to tell you." + +"Don't want to," protested Content's little voice, faintly. + +"You come right along." + +And Content came along. She was an obedient child, and she liked Jim, +although she stood much in awe of him. She followed him into the garden +back of the rectory, and they sat down on the bench beneath the weeping +willow. The minute they were seated Jim began to talk. + +"Now," said he, "I want to know." + +Content glanced up at him, then looked down and turned pale. + +"I want to know, honest Injun," said Jim, "what you are telling such +awful whoppers about your old big sister Solly for?" + +Content was silent. This time she did not smile, a tear trickled out of +her right eye and ran over the pale cheek. + +"Because you know," said Jim, observant of the tear, but ruthless, "that +you haven't any big sister Solly, and never did have. You are getting us +all in an awful mess over it, and father is rector here, and mother is +his wife, and I am his son, and you are his niece, and it is downright +mean. Why do you tell such whoppers? Out with it!" + +Content was trembling violently. "I lived with Aunt Eudora," she +whispered. + +"Well, what of that? Other folks have lived with their aunts and not +told whoppers." + +"They haven't lived with Aunt Eudora." + +"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Content Adams, and you the +rector's niece, talking that way about dead folks." + +"I don't mean to talk about poor Aunt Eudora," fairly sobbed Content. +"Aunt Eudora was a real good aunt, but she was grown up. She was a good +deal more grown up than your mother; she really was, and when I +first went to live with her I was 'most a little baby; I couldn't +speak--plain, and I had to go to bed real early, and slept 'way off from +everybody, and I used to be afraid--all alone, and so--" + +"Well, go on," said Jim, but his voice was softer. It WAS hard lines for +a little kid, especially if she was a girl. + +"And so," went on the little, plaintive voice, "I got to thinking how +nice it would be if I only had a big sister, and I used to cry and say +to myself--I couldn't speak plain, you know, I was so little-'Big sister +would be real solly.' And then first thing I knew--she came." + +"Who came?" + +"Big sister Solly." + +"What rot! She didn't come. Content Adams, you know she didn't come." + +"She must have come," persisted the little girl, in a frightened +whisper. "She must have. Oh, Jim, you don't know. Big sister Solly must +have come, or I would have died like my father and mother." + +Jim's arm, which was near her, twitched convulsively, but he did not put +it around her. + +"She did--co-me," sobbed Content. "Big sister Solly did come." + +"Well, have it so," said Jim, suddenly. "No use going over that any +longer. Have it she came, but she ain't here now, anyway. Content Adams, +you can't look me in the face and tell me that." + +Content looked at Jim, and her little face was almost terrible, so full +of bewilderment and fear it was. "Jim," whispered Content, "I can't +have big sister Solly not be here. I can't send her away. What would she +think?" + +Jim stared. "Think? Why, she isn't alive to think, anyhow!" + +"I can't make her--dead," sobbed Content. "She came when I wanted her, +and now when I don't so much, when I've got Uncle Edward and Aunt Sally +and you, and don't feel so dreadful lonesome, I can't be so bad as to +make her dead." + +Jim whistled. Then his face brightened up. He looked at Content with a +shrewd and cheerful grin. "See here, kid, you say your sister Solly is +big, grown up, don't you?" he inquired. + +Content nodded pitifully. + +"Then why, if she is grown up and pretty, don't she have a beau?" + +Content stopped sobbing and gave him a quick glance. + +"Then--why doesn't she get married, and go out West to live?" + +Jim chuckled. Instead of a sob, a faint echo of his chuckle came from +Content. + +Jim laughed merrily. "I say, Content," he cried, "let's have it she's +married now, and gone?" + +"Well," said Content. + +Jim put his arm around her very nicely and protectingly. "It's all +right, then," said he, "as all right as it can be for a girl. Say, +Content, ain't it a shame you aren't a boy?" + +"I can't help it," said Content, meekly. + +"You see," said Jim, thoughtfully, "I don't, as a rule, care much about +girls, but if you could coast down-hill and skate, and do a few things +like that, you would be almost as good as a boy." + +Content surveyed him, and her pessimistic little face assumed upward +curves. "I will," said she. "I will do anything, Jim. I will fight if +you want me to, just like a boy." + +"I don't believe you could lick any of us fellers unless you get a good +deal harder in the muscles," said Jim, eying her thoughtfully; "but +we'll play ball, and maybe by and by you can begin with Arnold Carruth." + +"Could lick him now," said Content. + +But Jim's face sobered before her readiness. "Oh no, you mustn't go to +fighting right away," said he. "It wouldn't do. You really are a girl, +you know, and father is rector." + +"Then I won't," said Content; "but I COULD knock down that little boy +with curls; I know I could." + +"Well, you needn't. I'll like you just as well. You see, Content"--Jim's +voice faltered, for he was a boy, and on the verge of sentiment before +which he was shamed--"you see, Content, now your big sister Solly is +married and gone out West, why, you can have me for your brother, and of +course a brother is a good deal better than a sister." + +"Yes," said Content, eagerly. + +"I am going," said Jim, "to marry Lucy Rose when I grow up, but I +haven't got any sister, and I'd like you first rate for one. So I'll be +your big brother instead of your cousin." + +"Big brother Solly?" + +"Say, Content, that is an awful name, but I don't care. You're only +a girl. You can call me anything you want to, but you mustn't call me +Solly when there is anybody within hearing." + +"I won't." + +"Because it wouldn't do," said Jim with weight. + +"I never will, honest," said Content. + +Presently they went into the house. Dr. Trumbull was there; he had +been talking seriously to the rector and his wife. He had come over on +purpose. + +"It is a perfect absurdity," he said, "but I made ten calls this +morning, and everywhere I was asked about that little Adams girl's big +sister--why you keep her hidden. They have a theory that she is either +an idiot or dreadfully disfigured. I had to tell them I know nothing +about it." + +"There isn't any girl," said the rector, wearily. "Sally, do explain." + +Dr. Trumbull listened. "I have known such cases," he said when Sally had +finished. + +"What did you do for them?" Sally asked, anxiously. + +"Nothing. Such cases have to be cured by time. Children get over these +fancies when they grow up." + +"Do you mean to say that we have to put up with big sister Solly until +Content is grown up?" asked Sally, in a desperate tone. And then Jim +came in. Content had run up-stairs. + +"It is all right, mother," said Jim. + +Sally caught him by the shoulders. "Oh, Jim, has she told you?" + +Jim gave briefly, and with many omissions, an account of his +conversation with Content. + +"Did she say anything about that dress, Jim?" asked his mother. + +"She said her aunt had meant it for that out-West rector's daughter Alice +to graduate in, but Content wanted it for her big sister Solly, and told +the rector's wife it was hers. Content says she knows she was a naughty +girl, but after she had said it she was afraid to say it wasn't so. +Mother, I think that poor little thing is scared 'most to death." + +"Nobody is going to hurt her," said Sally. "Goodness! that rector's wife +was so conscientious that she even let that dress go. Well, I can send +it right back, and the girl will have it in time for her graduation, +after all. Jim dear, call the poor child down. Tell her nobody is going +to scold her." Sally's voice was very tender. + +Jim returned with Content. She had on a little ruffled pink gown +which seemed to reflect color on her cheeks. She wore an inscrutable +expression, at once child-like and charming. She looked shy, furtively +amused, yet happy. Sally realized that the pessimistic downward lines +had disappeared, that Content was really a pretty little girl. + +Sally put an arm around the small, pink figure. "So you and Jim have +been talking, dear?" she said. + +"Yes, ma'am," replied little Content. "Jim is my big brother--" She just +caught herself before she said Solly. + +"And your sister Solly is married and living out West?" + +"Yes," said Content, with a long breath. "My sister Solly is married." +Smiles broke all over her little face. She hid it in Sally's skirts, and +a little peal of laughter like a bird-trill came from the soft muslin +folds. + + + + +LITTLE LUCY ROSE + +BACK of the rectory there was a splendid, long hill. The ground receded +until the rectory garden was reached, and the hill was guarded on either +flank by a thick growth of pines and cedars, and, being a part of the +land appertaining to the rectory, was never invaded by the village +children. This was considered very fortunate by Mrs. Patterson, Jim's +mother, and for an odd reason. The rector's wife was very fond of +coasting, as she was of most out-of-door sports, but her dignified +position prevented her from enjoying them to the utmost. In many +localities the clergyman's wife might have played golf and tennis, have +rode and swum and coasted and skated, and nobody thought the worse of +her; but in The Village it was different. + +Sally had therefore rejoiced at the discovery of that splendid, isolated +hill behind the house. It could not have been improved upon for a long, +perfectly glorious coast, winding up on the pool of ice in the garden +and bumping thrillingly between dry vegetables. Mrs. Patterson steered +and Jim made the running pushes, and slid flat on his chest behind his +mother. Jim was very proud of his mother. He often wished that he felt +at liberty to tell of her feats. He had never been told not to tell, but +realized, being rather a sharp boy, that silence was wiser. Jim's mother +confided in him, and he respected her confidence. "Oh, Jim dear," she +would often say, "there is a mothers' meeting this afternoon, and I +would so much rather go coasting with you." Or, "There's a Guild meeting +about a fair, and the ice in the garden is really quite smooth." + +It was perhaps unbecoming a rector's wife, but Jim loved his mother +better because she expressed a preference for the sports he loved, and +considered that no other boy had a mother who was quite equal to his. +Sally Patterson was small and wiry, with a bright face, and very thick, +brown hair, which had a boyish crest over her forehead, and she could +run as fast as Jim. Jim's father was much older than his mother, and +very dignified, although he had a keen sense of humor. He used to laugh +when his wife and son came in after their coasting expeditions. + +"Well, boys," he would say, "had a good time?" + +Jim was perfectly satisfied and convinced that his mother was the very +best and most beautiful person in the village, even in the whole world, +until Mr. Cyril Rose came to fill a vacancy of cashier in the bank, and +his daughter, little Lucy Rose, as a matter of course, came with him. +Little Lucy had no mother. Mr. Cyril's cousin, Martha Rose, kept his +house, and there was a colored maid with a bad temper, who was said, +however, to be invaluable "help." + +Little Lucy attended Madame's school. She came the next Monday after Jim +and his friends had planned to have a chicken roast and failed. After +Jim saw little Lucy he thought no more of the chicken roast. It +seemed to him that he thought no more of anything. He could not by any +possibility have learned his lessons had it not been for the desire +to appear a good scholar before little Lucy. Jim had never been a +self-conscious boy, but that day he was so keenly worried about her +opinion of him that his usual easy swing broke into a strut when he +crossed the room. He need not have been so troubled, because little Lucy +was not looking at him. She was not looking at any boy or girl. She +was only trying to learn her lesson. Little Lucy was that rather rare +creature, a very gentle, obedient child, with a single eye for her duty. +She was so charming that it was sad to think how much her mother had +missed, as far as this world was concerned. + +The minute Madame saw her a singular light came into her eyes--the light +of love of a childless woman for a child. Similar lights were in the +eyes of Miss Parmalee and Miss Acton. They looked at one another with +a sort of sweet confidence when they were drinking tea together after +school in Madame's study. + +"Did you ever see such a darling?" said Madame. Miss Parmalee said she +never had, and Miss Acton echoed her. + +"She is a little angel," said Madame. + +"She worked so hard over her geography lesson," said Miss Parmalee, "and +she got the Amazon River in New England and the Connecticut in South +America, after all; but she was so sweet about it, she made me want to +change the map of the world. Dear little soul, it did seem as if she +ought to have rivers and everything else just where she chose." + +"And she tried so hard to reach an octave, and her little finger is too +short," said Miss Acton; "and she hasn't a bit of an ear for music, but +her little voice is so sweet it does not matter." + +"I have seen prettier children," said Madame, "but never one quite such +a darling." + +Miss Parmalee and Miss Acton agreed with Madame, and so did everybody +else. Lily Jennings's beauty was quite eclipsed by little Lucy, but +Lily did not care; she was herself one of little Lucy's most fervent +admirers. She was really Jim Patterson's most formidable rival in the +school. "You don't care about great, horrid boys, do you, dear?" Lily +said to Lucy, entirely within hearing of Jim and Lee Westminster and +Johnny Trumbull and Arnold Carruth and Bubby Harvey and Frank Ellis, and +a number of others who glowered at her. + +Dear little Lucy hesitated. She did not wish to hurt the feelings of +boys, and the question had been loudly put. Finally she said she didn't +know. Lack of definite knowledge was little Lucy's rock of refuge in +time of need. She would look adorable, and say in her timid little fluty +voice, "I don't--know." The last word came always with a sort of gasp +which was alluring. All the listening boys were convinced that little +Lucy loved them all individually and generally, because of her "I +don't--know." + +Everybody was convinced of little Lucy's affection for everybody, which +was one reason for her charm. She flattered without knowing that she did +so. It was impossible for her to look at any living thing except with +soft eyes of love. It was impossible for her to speak without every tone +conveying the sweetest deference and admiration. The whole atmosphere +of Madame's school changed with the advent of the little girl. Everybody +tried to live up to little Lucy's supposed ideal, but in reality she had +no ideal. Lucy was the simplest of little girls, only intent upon being +good, doing as she was told, and winning her father's approval, also her +cousin Martha's. + +Martha Rose was quite elderly, although still good-looking. She was not +popular, because she was very silent. She dressed becomingly, received +calls and returned them, but hardly spoke a word. People rather dreaded +her coming. Miss Martha Rose would sit composedly in a proffered chair, +her gloved hands crossed over her nice, gold-bound card-case, her chin +tilted at an angle which never varied, her mouth in a set smile which +never wavered, her slender feet in their best shoes toeing out precisely +under the smooth sweep of her gray silk skirt. Miss Martha Rose dressed +always in gray, a fashion which the village people grudgingly admired. +It was undoubtedly becoming and distinguished, but savored ever so +slightly of ostentation, as did her custom of always dressing little +Lucy in blue. There were different shades and fabrics, but blue it +always was. It was the best color for the child, as it revealed the fact +that her big, dark eyes were blue. Shaded as they were by heavy, curly +lashes, they would have been called black or brown, but the blue in +them leaped to vision above the blue of blue frocks. Little Lucy had the +finest, most delicate features, a mist of soft, dark hair, which curled +slightly, as mist curls, over sweet, round temples. She was a small, +daintily clad child, and she spoke and moved daintily and softly; +and when her blue eyes were fixed upon anybody's face, that person +straightway saw love and obedience and trust in them, and love met love +half-way. Even Miss Martha Rose looked another woman when little Lucy's +innocent blue eyes were fixed upon her rather handsome but colorless +face between the folds of her silvery hair; Miss Martha's hair had +turned prematurely gray. Light would come into Martha Rose's face, light +and animation, although she never talked much even to Lucy. She never +talked much to her cousin Cyril, but he was rather glad of it. He had +a keen mind, but it was easily diverted, and he was engrossed in his +business, and concerned lest he be disturbed by such things as feminine +chatter, of which he certainly had none in his own home, if he kept +aloof from Jenny, the colored maid. Hers was the only female voice ever +heard to the point of annoyance in the Rose house. + +It was rather wonderful how a child like little Lucy and Miss Martha +lived with so little conversation. Martha talked no more at home than +abroad; moreover, at home she had not the attitude of waiting for some +one to talk to her, which people outside considered trying. Martha did +not expect her cousin to talk to her. She seldom asked a question. She +almost never volunteered a perfectly useless observation. She made no +remarks upon self-evident topics. If the sun shone, she never mentioned +it. If there was a heavy rain, she never mentioned that. Miss Martha +suited her cousin exactly, and for that reason, aside from the fact that +he had been devoted to little Lucy's mother, it never occurred to him +to marry again. Little Lucy talked no more than Miss Martha, and nobody +dreamed that she sometimes wanted somebody to talk to her. Nobody +dreamed that the dear little girl, studying her lessons, learning +needlework, trying very futilely to play the piano, was lonely; but she +was without knowing it herself. Martha was so kind and so still; and her +father was so kind and so still, engrossed in his papers or books, +often sitting by himself in his own study. Little Lucy in this peace and +stillness was not having her share of childhood. When other little +girls came to play with her. Miss Martha enjoined quiet, and even Lily +Jennings's bird-like chattering became subdued. It was only at school +that Lucy got her chance for the irresponsible delight which was the +simple right of her childhood, and there her zeal for her lessons +prevented. She was happy at school, however, for there she lived in +an atmosphere of demonstrative affection. The teachers were given +to seizing her in fond arms and caressing her, and so were her girl +companions; while the boys, especially Jim Patterson, looked wistfully +on. + +Jim Patterson was in love, a charming little poetical boy-love; but it +was love. Everything which he did in those days was with the thought of +little Lucy for incentive. He stood better in school than he had ever +done before, but it was all for the sake of little Lucy. Jim Patterson +had one talent, rather rudimentary, still a talent. He could play by +ear. His father owned an old violin. He had been inclined to music in +early youth, and Jim got permission to practise on it, and he went by +himself in the hot attic and practised. Jim's mother did not care for +music, and her son's preliminary scraping tortured her. Jim tucked the +old fiddle under one round boy-cheek and played in the hot attic, with +wasps buzzing around him; and he spent his pennies for catgut, and +he learned to mend fiddle-strings; and finally came a proud Wednesday +afternoon when there were visitors in Madame's school, and he stood on +the platform, with Miss Acton playing an accompaniment on the baby grand +piano, and he managed a feeble but true tune on his violin. It was +all for little Lucy, but little Lucy cared no more for music than his +mother; and while Jim was playing she was rehearsing in the depths +of her mind the little poem which later she was to recite; for this +adorable little Lucy was, as a matter of course, to figure in the +entertainment. It therefore happened that she heard not one note of Jim +Patterson's painfully executed piece, for she was saying to herself in +mental singsong a foolish little poem, beginning: + + There was one little flower that bloomed + Beside a cottage door. + +When she went forward, little darling blue-clad figure, there was a +murmur of admiration; and when she made mistakes straight through the +poem, saying, + + There was a little flower that fell + On my aunt Martha's floor, + +for beginning, there was a roar of tender laughter and a clapping of +tender, maternal hands, and everybody wanted to catch hold of little +Lucy and kiss her. It was one of the irresistible charms of this child +that people loved her the more for her mistakes, and she made many, +although she tried so very hard to avoid them. Little Lucy was not in +the least brilliant, but she held love like a precious vase, and it gave +out perfume better than mere knowledge. + +Jim Patterson was so deeply in love with her when he went home that +night that he confessed to his mother. Mrs. Patterson had led up to the +subject by alluding to little Lucy while at the dinner-table. + +"Edward," she said to her husband--both she and the rector had +been present at Madame's school entertainment and the tea-drinking +afterward--"did you ever see in all your life such a darling little girl +as the new cashier's daughter? She quite makes up for Miss Martha, who +sat here one solid hour, holding her card-case, waiting for me to talk +to her. That child is simply delicious, and I was so glad she made +mistakes." + +"Yes, she is a charming child," assented the rector, "despite the fact +that she is not a beauty, hardly even pretty." + +"I know it," said Mrs. Patterson, "but she has the worth of beauty." + +Jim was quite pale while his father and mother were talking. He +swallowed the hot soup so fast that it burnt his tongue. Then he turned +very red, but nobody noticed him. When his mother came up-stairs to kiss +him good night he told her. + +"Mother," said he, "I have something to tell you." + +"All right, Jim," replied Sally Patterson, with her boyish air. + +"It is very important," said Jim. + +Mrs. Patterson did not laugh; she did not even smile. She sat down +beside Jim's bed and looked seriously at his eager, rapt, shamed little +boy-face on the pillow. "Well?" said she, after a minute which seemed +difficult to him. + +Jim coughed. Then he spoke with a blurt. "Mother," said Jim, "by and by, +of course not quite yet, but by and by, will you have any objection to +Miss Lucy Rose as a daughter?" + +Even then Sally Patterson did not laugh or even smile. "Are you thinking +of marrying her, Jim?" asked she, quite as if her son had been a man. + +"Yes, mother," replied Jim. Then he flung up his little arms in pink +pajama sleeves, and Sally Patterson took his face between her two hands +and kissed him warmly. + +"She is a darling, and your choice does you credit, Jim," said she. "Of +course you have said nothing to her yet?" + +"I thought it was rather too soon." + +"I really think you are very wise, Jim," said his mother. "It is too +soon to put such ideas into the poor child's head. She is younger than +you, isn't she, Jim?" + +"She is just six months and three days younger," replied Jim, with +majesty. + +"I thought so. Well, you know, Jim, it would just wear her all out, +as young as that, to be obliged to think about her trousseau and +housekeeping and going to school, too." + +"I know it," said Jim, with a pleased air. "I thought I was right, +mother." + +"Entirely right; and you, too, really ought to finish school, and take +up a profession or a business, before you say anything definite. You +would want a nice home for the dear little thing, you know that, Jim." + +Jim stared at his mother out of his white pillow. "I thought I would +stay with you, and she would stay with her father until we were both +very much older," said he. "She has a nice home now, you know, mother." + +Sally Patterson's mouth twitched a little, but she spoke quite gravely +and reasonably. "Yes, that is very true," said she; "still, I do think +you are wise to wait, Jim." + +When Sally Patterson had left Jim, she looked in on the rector in his +study. "Our son is thinking seriously of marrying, Edward," said she. + +The rector stared at her. She had shut the door, and she laughed. + +"He is very discreet. He has consulted me as to my approval of her as +daughter and announced his intention to wait a little while." + +The rector laughed; then he wrinkled his forehead uneasily. "I don't +like the little chap getting such ideas," said he. + +"Don't worry, Edward; he hasn't got them," said Sally Patterson. + +"I hope not." + +"He has made a very wise choice. She is that perfect darling of a Rose +girl who couldn't speak her piece, and thought we all loved her when we +laughed." + +"Well, don't let him get foolish ideas; that is all, my dear," said the +rector. + +"Don't worry, Edward. I can manage him," said Sally. + +But she was mistaken. The very next day Jim proposed in due form +to little Lucy. He could not help it. It was during the morning +intermission, and he came upon her seated all alone under a hawthorn +hedge, studying her arithmetic anxiously. She was in blue, as usual, and +a very perky blue bow sat on her soft, dark hair, like a bluebird. She +glanced up at Jim from under her long lashes. + +"Do two and seven make eight or ten? If you please, will you tell me?" +said she. + +"Say, Lucy," said Jim, "will you marry me by and by?" + +Lucy stared at him uncomprehendingly. + +"Will you?" + +"Will I what?" + +"Marry me by and by?" + +Lucy took refuge in her little harbor of ignorance. "I don't know," said +she. + +"But you like me, don't you, Lucy?" + +"I don't know." + +"Don't you like me better than you like Johnny Trumbull?" + +"I don't know." + +"You like me better than you like Arnold Carruth, don't you? He has +curls and wears socks." + +"I don't know." + +"When do you think you can be sure?" + +"I don't know." + +Jim stared helplessly at little Lucy. She stared back sweetly. + +"Please tell me whether two and seven make six or eleven, Jim," said +she. + +"They make nine," said Jim. + +"I have been counting my fingers and I got it eleven, but I suppose +I must have counted one finger twice," said little Lucy. She gazed +reflectively at her little baby-hands. A tiny ring with a blue stone +shone on one finger. + +"I will give you a ring, you know," Jim said, coaxingly. + +"I have got a ring my father gave me. Did you say it was ten, please, +Jim?" + +"Nine," gasped Jim. + +"All the way I can remember," said little Lucy, "is for you to pick just +so many leaves off the hedge, and I will tie them in my handkerchief, +and just before I have to say my lesson I will count those leaves." + +Jim obediently picked nine leaves from the hawthorn hedge, and little +Lucy tied them into her handkerchief, and then the Japanese gong sounded +and they went back to school. + +That night after dinner, just before Lucy went to bed, she spoke of her +own accord to her father and Miss Martha, a thing which she seldom did. +"Jim Patterson asked me to marry him when I asked him what seven and two +made in my arithmetic lesson," said she. She looked with the loveliest +round eyes of innocence first at her father, then at Miss Martha. Cyril +Rose gasped and laid down his newspaper. + +"What did you say, little Lucy?" he asked. + +"Jim Patterson asked me to marry him when I asked him to tell me how +much seven and two made in my arithmetic lesson." + +Cyril Rose and his cousin Martha looked at each other. + +"Arnold Carruth asked me, too, when a great big wasp flew on my arm and +frightened me." + +Cyril and Martha continued to look. The little, sweet, uncertain voice +went on. + +"And Johnny Trumbull asked me when I 'most fell down on the sidewalk; +and Lee Westminster asked me when I wasn't doing anything, and so did +Bubby Harvey." + +"What did you tell them?" asked Miss Martha, in a faint voice. + +"I told them I didn't know." + +"You had better have the child go to bed now," said Cyril. "Good night, +little Lucy. Always tell father everything." + +"Yes, father," said little Lucy, and was kissed, and went away with +Martha. + +When Martha returned, her cousin looked at her severely. He was a fair, +gentle-looking man, and severity was impressive when he assumed it. + +"Really, Martha," said he, "don't you think you had better have a little +closer outlook over that baby?" + +"Oh, Cyril, I never dreamed of such a thing," cried Miss Martha. + +"You really must speak to Madame," said Cyril. "I cannot have such +things put into the child's head." + +"Oh, Cyril, how can I?" + +"I think it is your duty." + +"Cyril, could not--you?" + +Cyril grinned. "Do you think," said he, "that I am going to that elegant +widow schoolma'am and say, 'Madame, my young daughter has had four +proposals of marriage in one day, and I must beg you to put a stop to +such proceedings'? No, Martha; it is a woman's place to do such a thing +as that. The whole thing is too absurd, indignant as I am about it. Poor +little soul!" + +So it happened that Miss Martha Rose, the next day being Saturday, +called on Madame, but, not being asked any leading question, found +herself absolutely unable to deliver herself of her errand, and went +away with it unfulfilled. + +"Well, I must say," said Madame to Miss Parmalee, as Miss Martha tripped +wearily down the front walk--"I must say, of all the educated women who +have really been in the world, she is the strangest. You and I have done +nothing but ask inane questions, and she has sat waiting for them, and +chirped back like a canary. I am simply worn out." + +"So am I," sighed Miss Parmalee. + +But neither of them was so worn out as poor Miss Martha, anticipating +her cousin's reproaches. However, her wonted silence and reticence stood +her in good stead, for he merely asked, after little Lucy had gone to +bed: + +"Well, what did Madame say about Lucy's proposals?" + +"She did not say anything," replied Martha. + +"Did she promise it would not occur again?" + +"She did not promise, but I don't think it will." + +The financial page was unusually thrilling that night, and Cyril +Rose, who had come to think rather lightly of the affair, remarked, +absent-mindedly; "Well, I hope it does not occur again. I cannot have +such ridiculous ideas put into the child's head. If it does, we get a +governess for her and take her away from Madame's." Then he resumed his +reading, and Martha, guilty but relieved, went on with her knitting. + +It was late spring then, and little Lucy had attended Madame's school +several months, and her popularity had never waned. A picnic was planned +to Dover's Grove, and the romantic little girls had insisted upon a May +queen, and Lucy was unanimously elected. The pupils of Madame's school +went to the picnic in the manner known as a "strawride." Miss Parmalee +sat with them, her feet uncomfortably tucked under her. She was the +youngest of the teachers, and could not evade the duty. Madame and Miss +Acton headed the procession, sitting comfortably in a victoria driven +by the colored man Sam, who was employed about the school. Dover's Grove +was six miles from the village, and a favorite spot for picnics. The +victoria rolled on ahead; Madame carried a black parasol, for the sun +was on her side and the day very warm. Both ladies wore thin, dark +gowns, and both felt the languor of spring. + +The straw-wagon, laden with children seated upon the golden trusses of +straw, looked like a wagonload of blossoms. Fair and dark heads, rosy +faces looked forth in charming clusters. They sang, they chattered. It +made no difference to them that it was not the season for a straw-ride, +that the trusses were musty. They inhaled the fragrance of blooming +boughs under which they rode, and were quite oblivious to all discomfort +and unpleasantness. Poor Miss Parmalee, with her feet going to sleep, +sneezing from time to time from the odor of the old straw, did not +obtain the full beauty of the spring day. She had protested against the +straw-ride. + +"The children really ought to wait until the season for such things," +she had told Madame, quite boldly; and Madame had replied that she was +well aware of it, but the children wanted something of the sort, and the +hay was not cut, and straw, as it happened, was more easily procured. + +"It may not be so very musty," said Madame; "and you know, my dear, +straw is clean, and I am sorry, but you do seem to be the one to ride +with the children on the straw, because"--Madame dropped her voice--"you +are really younger, you know, than either Miss Acton or I." + +Poor Miss Parmalee could almost have dispensed with her few years +of superior youth to have gotten rid of that straw-ride. She had no +parasol, and the sun beat upon her head, and the noise of the children +got horribly on her nerves. Little Lucy was her one alleviation. Little +Lucy sat in the midst of the boisterous throng, perfectly still, crowned +with her garland of leaves and flowers, her sweet, pale little face +calmly observant. She was the high light of Madame's school, the effect +which made the whole. All the others looked at little Lucy, they talked +to her, they talked at her; but she remained herself unmoved, as a high +light should be. "Dear little soul," Miss Parmalee thought. She also +thought that it was a pity that little Lucy could not have worn a white +frock in her character as Queen of the May, but there she was mistaken. +The blue was of a peculiar shade, of a very soft material, and nothing +could have been prettier. Jim Patterson did not often look away from +little Lucy; neither did Arnold Carruth; neither did Bubby Harvey; +neither did Johnny Trumbull; neither did Lily Jennings; neither did many +others. + +Amelia Wheeler, however, felt a little jealous as she watched Lily. She +thought Lily ought to have been queen; and she, while she did not dream +of competing with incomparable little Lucy, wished Lily would not always +look at Lucy with such worshipful admiration. Amelia was inconsistent. +She knew that she herself could not aspire to being an object of +worship, but the state of being a nonentity for Lily was depressing. +"Wonder if I jumped out of this old wagon and got killed if she would +mind one bit?" she thought, tragically. But Amelia did not jump. She +had tragic impulses, or rather imaginations of tragic impulses, but she +never carried them out. It was left for little Lucy, flower-crowned and +calmly sweet and gentle under honors, to be guilty of a tragedy of which +she never dreamed. For that was the day when little Lucy was lost. + +When the picnic was over, when the children were climbing into the +straw-wagon and Madame and Miss Acton were genteelly disposed in the +victoria, a lamentable cry arose. Sam drew his reins tight and rolled +his inquiring eyes around; Madame and Miss Acton leaned far out on +either side of the victoria. + +"Oh, what is it?" said Madame. "My dear Miss Acton, do pray get out and +see what the trouble is. I begin to feel a little faint." + +In fact, Madame got her cut-glass smelling-bottle out of her bag and +began to sniff vigorously. Sam gazed backward and paid no attention to +her. Madame always felt faint when anything unexpected occurred, and +smelled at the pretty bottle, but she never fainted. + +Miss Acton got out, lifting her nice skirts clear of the dusty wheel, +and she scuttled back to the uproarious straw-wagon, showing her slender +ankles and trimly shod feet. Miss Acton was a very wiry, dainty woman, +full of nervous energy. When she reached the straw-wagon Miss Parmalee +was climbing out, assisted by the driver. Miss Parmalee was very pale +and visibly tremulous. The children were all shrieking in dissonance, +so it was quite impossible to tell what the burden of their tale of woe +was; but obviously something of a tragic nature had happened. + +"What is the matter?" asked Miss Acton, teetering like a humming-bird +with excitement. + +"Little Lucy--" gasped Miss Parmalee. + +"What about her?" + +"She isn't here." + +"Where is she?" + +"We don't know. We just missed her." + +Then the cry of the children for little Lucy Rose, although sadly +wrangled, became intelligible. Madame came, holding up her silk skirt +and sniffing at her smelling-bottle, and everybody asked questions +of everybody else, and nobody knew any satisfactory answers. Johnny +Trumbull was confident that he was the last one to see little Lucy, and +so were Lily Jennings and Amelia Wheeler, and so were Jim Patterson and +Bubby Harvey and Arnold Carruth and Lee Westminster and many others; but +when pinned down to the actual moment everybody disagreed, and only one +thing was certain--little Lucy Rose was missing. + +"What shall I say to her father?" moaned Madame. + +"Of course, we shall find her before we say anything," returned Miss +Parmalee, who was sure to rise to an emergency. Madame sank helpless +before one. "You had better go and sit under that tree (Sam, take a +cushion out of the carriage for Madame) and keep quiet; then Sam must +drive to the village and give the alarm, and the strawwagon had better +go, too; and the rest of us will hunt by threes, three always keeping +together. Remember, children, three of you keep together, and, whatever +you do, be sure and do not separate. We cannot have another lost." + +It seemed very sound advice. Madame, pale and frightened, sat on the +cushion under the tree and sniffed at her smelling-bottle, and the rest +scattered and searched the grove and surrounding underbrush thoroughly. +But it was sunset when the groups returned to Madame under her tree, +and the strawwagon with excited people was back, and the victoria with +Lucy's father and the rector and his wife, and Dr. Trumbull in his +buggy, and other carriages fast arriving. Poor Miss Martha Rose had been +out calling when she heard the news, and she was walking to the scene of +action. The victoria in which her cousin was seated left her in a +cloud of dust. Cyril Rose had not noticed the mincing figure with the +card-case and the parasol. + +The village searched for little Lucy Rose, but it was Jim Patterson who +found her, and in the most unlikely of places. A forlorn pair with a +multiplicity of forlorn children lived in a tumble-down house about half +a mile from the grove. The man's name was Silas Thomas, and his wife's +was Sarah. Poor Sarah had lost a large part of the small wit she had +originally owned several years before, when her youngest daughter, aged +four, died. All the babies that had arrived since had not consoled her +for the death of that little lamb, by name Viola May, nor restored her +full measure of under-wit. Poor Sarah Thomas had spied adorable little +Lucy separated from her mates by chance for a few minutes, picking wild +flowers, and had seized her in forcible but loving arms and carried her +home. Had Lucy not been such a silent, docile child, it could never +have happened; but she was a mere little limp thing in the grasp of the +over-loving, deprived mother who thought she had gotten back her own +beloved Viola May. + +When Jim Patterson, big-eyed and pale, looked in at the Thomas door, +there sat Sarah Thomas, a large, unkempt, wild-visaged, but gentle +creature, holding little Lucy and cuddling her, while Lucy, shrinking +away as far as she was able, kept her big, dark eyes of wonder and +fear upon the woman's face. And all around were clustered the Thomas +children, unkempt as their mother, a gentle but degenerate brood, all +of them believing what their mother said. Viola May had come home again. +Silas Thomas was not there; he was trudging slowly homeward from a job +of wood-cutting. Jim saw only the mother, little Lucy, and that poor +little flock of children gazing in wonder and awe. Jim rushed in and +faced Sarah Thomas. "Give me little Lucy!" said he, as fiercely as any +man. But he reckoned without the unreasoning love of a mother. Sarah +only held little Lucy faster, and the poor little girl rolled appealing +eyes at him over that brawny, grasping arm of affection. + +Jim raced for help, and it was not long before it came. Little Lucy rode +home in the victoria, seated in Sally Patterson's lap. "Mother, you take +her," Jim had pleaded; and Sally, in the face and eyes of Madame, had +gathered the little trembling creature into her arms. In her heart she +had not much of an opinion of any woman who had allowed such a darling +little girl out of her sight for a moment. Madame accepted a seat in +another carriage and rode home, explaining and sniffing and inwardly +resolving never again to have a straw-ride. + +Jim stood on the step of the victoria all the way home. They passed poor +Miss Martha Rose, still faring toward the grove, and nobody noticed her, +for the second time. She did not turn back until the straw-wagon, which +formed the tail of the little procession, reached her. That she halted +with mad waves of her parasol, and, when told that little Lucy was +found, refused a seat on the straw because she did not wish to rumple +her best gown and turned about and fared home again. + +The rectory was reached before Cyril Rose's house, and Cyril yielded +gratefully to Sally Patterson's proposition that she take the little +girl with her, give her dinner, see that she was washed and brushed +and freed from possible contamination from the Thomases, who were not a +cleanly lot, and later brought home in the rector's carriage. However, +little Lucy stayed all night at the rectory. She had a bath; her lovely, +misty hair was brushed; she was fed and petted; and finally Sally +Patterson telephoned for permission to keep her overnight. By that time +poor Martha had reached home and was busily brushing her best dress. + +After dinner, little Lucy, very happy and quite restored, sat in Sally +Patterson's lap on the veranda, while Jim hovered near. His innocent +boy-love made him feel as if he had wings. But his wings only bore him +to failure, before an earlier and mightier force of love than his young +heart could yet compass for even such a darling as little Lucy. He sat +on the veranda step and gazed eagerly and rapturously at little Lucy on +his mother's lap, and the desire to have her away from other loves came +over him. He saw the fireflies dancing in swarms on the lawn, and a +favorite sport of the children of the village occurred to him. + +"Say, little Lucy," said Jim. + +Little Lucy looked up with big, dark eyes under her mist of hair, as she +nestled against Sally Patterson's shoulder. + +"Say, let's chase fireflies, little Lucy." + +"Do you want to chase fireflies with Jim, darling?" asked Sally. + +Little Lucy nestled closer. "I would rather stay with you," said she in +her meek flute of a voice, and she gazed up at Sally with the look which +she might have given the mother she had lost. + +Sally kissed her and laughed. Then she reached down a fond hand and +patted her boy's head. "Never mind, Jim," said Sally. "Mothers have to +come first." + + + + +NOBLESSE + +MARGARET LEE encountered in her late middle age the rather singular +strait of being entirely alone in the world. She was unmarried, and as +far as relatives were concerned, she had none except those connected +with her by ties not of blood, but by marriage. + +Margaret had not married when her flesh had been comparative; later, +when it had become superlative, she had no opportunities to marry. Life +would have been hard enough for Margaret under any circumstances, but it +was especially hard, living, as she did, with her father's stepdaughter +and that daughter's husband. + +Margaret's stepmother had been a child in spite of her two marriages, +and a very silly, although pretty child. The daughter, Camille, was like +her, although not so pretty, and the man whom Camille had married +was what Margaret had been taught to regard as "common." His business +pursuits were irregular and partook of mystery. He always smoked +cigarettes and chewed gum. He wore loud shirts and a diamond scarf-pin +which had upon him the appearance of stolen goods. The gem had belonged +to Margaret's own mother, but when Camille expressed a desire to present +it to Jack Desmond, Margaret had yielded with no outward hesitation, but +afterward she wept miserably over its loss when alone in her room. The +spirit had gone out of Margaret, the little which she had possessed. She +had always been a gentle, sensitive creature, and was almost helpless +before the wishes of others. + +After all, it had been a long time since Margaret had been able to +force the ring even upon her little finger, but she had derived a small +pleasure from the reflection that she owned it in its faded velvet box, +hidden under laces in her top bureau drawer. She did not like to see +it blazing forth from the tie of this very ordinary young man who had +married Camille. Margaret had a gentle, high-bred contempt for Jack +Desmond, but at the same time a vague fear of him. Jack had a measure of +unscrupulous business shrewdness, which spared nothing and nobody, and +that in spite of the fact that he had not succeeded. + +Margaret owned the old Lee place, which had been magnificent, but of +late years the expenditures had been reduced and it had deteriorated. +The conservatories had been closed. There was only one horse in +the stable. Jack had bought him. He was a wornout trotter with legs +carefully bandaged. Jack drove him at reckless speed, not considering +those slender, braceleted legs. Jack had a racing-gig, and when in it, +with striped coat, cap on one side, cigarette in mouth, lines held taut, +skimming along the roads in clouds of dust, he thought himself the man +and true sportsman which he was not. Some of the old Lee silver had paid +for that waning trotter. + +Camille adored Jack, and cared for no associations, no society, for +which he was not suited. Before the trotter was bought she told Margaret +that the kind of dinners which she was able to give in Fairhill were +awfully slow. "If we could afford to have some men out from the city, +some nice fellers that Jack knows, it would be worth while," said she, +"but we have grown so hard up we can't do a thing to make it worth their +while. Those men haven't got any use for a back-number old place like +this. We can't take them round in autos, nor give them a chance at +cards, for Jack couldn't pay if he lost, and Jack is awful honorable. We +can't have the right kind of folks here for any fun. I don't propose +to ask the rector and his wife, and old Mr. Harvey, or people like the +Leaches." + +"The Leaches are a very good old family," said Margaret, feebly. + +"I don't care for good old families when they are so slow," retorted +Camille. "The fellers we could have here, if we were rich enough, come +from fine families, but they are up-to-date. It's no use hanging on to +old silver dishes we never use and that I don't intend to spoil my +hands shining. Poor Jack don't have much fun, anyway. If he wants that +trotter--he says it's going dirt cheap--I think it's mean he can't have +it, instead of your hanging on to a lot of out-of-style old silver; so +there." + +Two generations ago there had been French blood in Camille's family. She +put on her clothes beautifully; she had a dark, rather fine-featured, +alert little face, which gave a wrong impression, for she was +essentially vulgar. Sometimes poor Margaret Lee wished that Camille had +been definitely vicious, if only she might be possessed of more of the +characteristics of breeding. Camille so irritated Margaret in those +somewhat abstruse traits called sensibilities that she felt as if she +were living with a sort of spiritual nutmeg-grater. Seldom did Camille +speak that she did not jar Margaret, although unconsciously. Camille +meant to be kind to the stout woman, whom she pitied as far as she was +capable of pitying without understanding. She realized that it must +be horrible to be no longer young, and so stout that one was fairly +monstrous, but how horrible she could not with her mentality conceive. +Jack also meant to be kind. He was not of the brutal--that is, +intentionally brutal--type, but he had a shrewd eye to the betterment of +himself, and no realization of the torture he inflicted upon those who +opposed that betterment. + +For a long time matters had been worse than usual financially in the Lee +house. The sisters had been left in charge of the sadly dwindled estate, +and had depended upon the judgment, or lack of judgment, of Jack. He +approved of taking your chances and striking for larger income. The few +good old grandfather securities had been sold, and wild ones from the +very jungle of commerce had been substituted. Jack, like most of his +type, while shrewd, was as credulous as a child. He lied himself, and +expected all men to tell him the truth. Camille at his bidding mortgaged +the old place, and Margaret dared not oppose. Taxes were not paid; +interest was not paid; credit was exhausted. Then the house was put up +at public auction, and brought little more than sufficient to pay the +creditors. Jack took the balance and staked it in a few games of chance, +and of course lost. The weary trotter stumbled one day and had to be +shot. Jack became desperate. He frightened Camille. He was suddenly +morose. He bade Camille pack, and Margaret also, and they obeyed. +Camille stowed away her crumpled finery in the bulging old trunks, and +Margaret folded daintily her few remnants of past treasures. She had an +old silk gown or two, which resisted with their rich honesty the inroads +of time, and a few pieces of old lace, which Camille understood no +better than she understood their owner. + +Then Margaret and the Desmonds went to the city and lived in a horrible, +tawdry little flat in a tawdry locality. Jack roared with bitter mirth +when he saw poor Margaret forced to enter her tiny room sidewise; +Camille laughed also, although she chided Jack gently. "Mean of you to +make fun of poor Margaret, Jacky dear," she said. + +For a few weeks Margaret's life in that flat was horrible; then it +became still worse. Margaret nearly filled with her weary, ridiculous +bulk her little room, and she remained there most of the time, although +it was sunny and noisy, its one window giving on a courtyard strung with +clothes-lines and teeming with boisterous life. Camille and Jack +went trolley-riding, and made shift to entertain a little, merry but +questionable people, who gave them passes to vaudeville and entertained +in their turn until the small hours. Unquestionably these people +suggested to Jack Desmond the scheme which spelled tragedy to Margaret. + +She always remembered one little dark man with keen eyes who had seen +her disappearing through her door of a Sunday night when all these gay, +bedraggled birds were at liberty and the fun ran high. "Great Scott!" +the man had said, and Margaret had heard him demand of Jack that she be +recalled. She obeyed, and the man was introduced, also the other members +of the party. Margaret Lee stood in the midst of this throng and heard +their repressed titters of mirth at her appearance. Everybody there was +in good humor with the exception of Jack, who was still nursing his bad +luck, and the little dark man, whom Jack owed. The eyes of Jack and the +little dark man made Margaret cold with a terror of something, she +knew not what. Before that terror the shame and mortification of her +exhibition to that merry company was of no import. + +She stood among them, silent, immense, clad in her dark purple silk gown +spread over a great hoopskirt. A real lace collar lay softly over her +enormous, billowing shoulders; real lace ruffles lay over her great, +shapeless hands. Her face, the delicacy of whose features was veiled +with flesh, flushed and paled. Not even flesh could subdue the sad +brilliancy of her dark-blue eyes, fixed inward upon her own sad state, +unregardful of the company. She made an indefinite murmur of response +to the salutations given her, and then retreated. She heard the roar of +laughter after she had squeezed through the door of her room. Then she +heard eager conversation, of which she did not catch the real import, +but which terrified her with chance expressions. She was quite sure that +she was the subject of that eager discussion. She was quite sure that it +boded her no good. + +In a few days she knew the worst; and the worst was beyond her utmost +imaginings. This was before the days of moving-picture shows; it was +the day of humiliating spectacles of deformities, when inventions +of amusements for the people had not progressed. It was the day of +exhibitions of sad freaks of nature, calculated to provoke tears rather +than laughter in the healthy-minded, and poor Margaret Lee was a chosen +victim. Camille informed her in a few words of her fate. Camille was +sorry for her, although not in the least understanding why she was +sorry. She realized dimly that Margaret would be distressed, but she +was unable from her narrow point of view to comprehend fully the whole +tragedy. + +"Jack has gone broke," stated Camille. "He owes Bill Stark a pile, and +he can't pay a cent of it; and Jack's sense of honor about a poker debt +is about the biggest thing in his character. Jack has got to pay. And +Bill has a little circus, going to travel all summer, and he's offered +big money for you. Jack can pay Bill what he owes him, and we'll have +enough to live on, and have lots of fun going around. You hadn't ought +to make a fuss about it." + +Margaret, pale as death, stared at the girl, pertly slim, and common and +pretty, who stared back laughingly, although still with the glimmer of +uncomprehending pity in her black eyes. + +"What does--he--want--me--for?" gasped Margaret. + +"For a show, because you are so big," replied Camille. "You will make us +all rich, Margaret. Ain't it nice?" + +Then Camille screamed, the shrill raucous scream of the women of her +type, for Margaret had fallen back in a dead faint, her immense bulk +inert in her chair. Jack came running in alarm. Margaret had suddenly +gained value in his shrewd eyes. He was as pale as she. + +Finally Margaret raised her head, opened her miserable eyes, and +regained her consciousness of herself and what lay before her. There was +no course open but submission. She knew that from the first. All three +faced destitution; she was the one financial asset, she and her poor +flesh. She had to face it, and with what dignity she could muster. + +Margaret had great piety. She kept constantly before her mental vision +the fact in which she believed, that the world which she found so hard, +and which put her to unspeakable torture, was not all. + +A week elapsed before the wretched little show of which she was to be a +member went on the road, and night after night she prayed. She besieged +her God for strength. She never prayed for respite. Her realization +of the situation and her lofty resolution prevented that. The awful, +ridiculous combat was before her; there was no evasion; she prayed only +for the strength which leads to victory. + +However, when the time came, it was all worse than she had imagined. How +could a woman gently born and bred conceive of the horrible ignominy +of such a life? She was dragged hither and yon, to this and that little +town. She traveled through sweltering heat on jolting trains; she slept +in tents; she lived--she, Margaret Lee--on terms of equality with the +common and the vulgar. Daily her absurd unwieldiness was exhibited to +crowds screaming with laughter. Even her faith wavered. It seemed to her +that there was nothing for evermore beyond those staring, jeering faces +of silly mirth and delight at sight of her, seated in two chairs, clad +in a pink spangled dress, her vast shoulders bare and sparkling with a +tawdry necklace, her great, bare arms covered with brass bracelets, her +hands incased in short, white kid gloves, over the fingers of which she +wore a number of rings--stage properties. + +Margaret became a horror to herself. At times it seemed to her that she +was in the way of fairly losing her own identity. It mattered little +that Camille and Jack were very kind to her, that they showed her the +nice things which her terrible earnings had enabled them to have. +She sat in her two chairs--the two chairs proved a most successful +advertisement--with her two kid-cushiony hands clenched in her pink +spangled lap, and she suffered agony of soul, which made her inner self +stern and terrible, behind that great pink mask of face. And nobody +realized until one sultry day when the show opened at a village in a +pocket of green hills--indeed, its name was Greenhill--and Sydney Lord +went to see it. + +Margaret, who had schooled herself to look upon her audience as if they +were not, suddenly comprehended among them another soul who understood +her own. She met the eyes of the man, and a wonderful comfort, as of a +cool breeze blowing over the face of clear water, came to her. She knew +that the man understood. She knew that she had his fullest sympathy. She +saw also a comrade in the toils of comic tragedy, for Sydney Lord was in +the same case. He was a mountain of flesh. As a matter of fact, had +he not been known in Greenhill and respected as a man of weight of +character as well as of body, and of an old family, he would have +rivaled Margaret. Beside him sat an elderly woman, sweet-faced, slightly +bent as to her slender shoulders, as if with a chronic attitude of +submission. She was Sydney's widowed sister, Ellen Waters. She lived +with her brother and kept his house, and had no will other than his. + +Sydney Lord and his sister remained when the rest of the audience had +drifted out, after the privileged hand-shakes with the queen of +the show. Every time a coarse, rustic hand reached familiarly after +Margaret's, Sydney shrank. + +He motioned his sister to remain seated when he approached the stage. +Jack Desmond, who had been exploiting Margaret, gazed at him with +admiring curiosity. Sydney waved him away with a commanding gesture. "I +wish to speak to her a moment. Pray leave the tent," he said, and Jack +obeyed. People always obeyed Sydney Lord. + +Sydney stood before Margaret, and he saw the clear crystal, which was +herself, within all the flesh, clad in tawdry raiment, and she knew that +he saw it. + +"Good God!" said Sydney, "you are a lady!" + +He continued to gaze at her, and his eyes, large and brown, became +blurred; at the same time his mouth tightened. + +"How came you to be in such a place as this?" demanded Sydney. He spoke +almost as if he were angry with her. + +Margaret explained briefly. + +"It is an outrage," declared Sydney. He said it, however, rather +absently. He was reflecting. "Where do you live?" he asked. + +"Here." + +"You mean--?" + +"They make up a bed for me here, after the people have gone." + +"And I suppose you had--before this--a comfortable house." + +"The house which my grandfather Lee owned, the old Lee mansion-house, +before we went to the city. It was a very fine old Colonial house," +explained Margaret, in her finely modulated voice. + +"And you had a good room?" + +"The southeast chamber had always been mine. It was very large, and the +furniture was old Spanish mahogany." + +"And now--" said Sydney. + +"Yes," said Margaret. She looked at him, and her serious blue eyes +seemed to see past him. "It will not last," she said. + +"What do you mean?" + +"I try to learn a lesson. I am a child in the school of God. My lesson +is one that always ends in peace." + +"Good God!" said Sydney. + +He motioned to his sister, and Ellen approached in a frightened fashion. +Her brother could do no wrong, but this was the unusual, and alarmed +her. + +"This lady--" began Sydney. + +"Miss Lee," said Margaret. "I was never married. I am Miss Margaret +Lee." + +"This," said Sydney, "is my sister Ellen, Mrs. Waters. Ellen, I wish you +to meet Miss Lee." + +Ellen took into her own Margaret's hand, and said feebly that it was a +beautiful day and she hoped Miss Lee found Greenhill a pleasant place +to--visit. + +Sydney moved slowly out of the tent and found Jack Desmond. He was +standing near with Camille, who looked her best in a pale-blue summer +silk and a black hat trimmed with roses. Jack and Camille never really +knew how the great man had managed, but presently Margaret had gone away +with him and his sister. + +Jack and Camille looked at each other. + +"Oh, Jack, ought you to have let her go?" said Camille. + +"What made you let her go?" asked Jack. + +"I--don't know. I couldn't say anything. That man has a tremendous way +with him. Goodness!" + +"He is all right here in the place, anyhow," said Jack. "They look up to +him. He is a big-bug here. Comes of a family like Margaret's, though he +hasn't got much money. Some chaps were braggin' that they had a bigger +show than her right here, and I found out." + +"Suppose," said Camille, "Margaret does not come back?" + +"He could not keep her without bein' arrested," declared Jack, but he +looked uneasy. He had, however, looked uneasy for some time. The fact +was, Margaret had been very gradually losing weight. Moreover, she was +not well. That very night, after the show was over, Bill Stark, the +little dark man, had a talk with the Desmonds about it. + +"Truth is, before long, if you don't look out, you'll have to pad her," +said Bill; "and giants don't amount to a row of pins after that begins." + +Camille looked worried and sulky. "She ain't very well, anyhow," said +she. "I ain't going to kill Margaret." + +"It's a good thing she's got a chance to have a night's rest in a +house," said Bill Stark. + +"The fat man has asked her to stay with him and his sister while the +show is here," said Jack. + +"The sister invited her," said Camille, with a little stiffness. She was +common, but she had lived with Lees, and her mother had married a Lee. +She knew what was due Margaret, and also due herself. + +"The truth is," said Camille, "this is an awful sort of life for a woman +like Margaret. She and her folks were never used to anything like it." + +"Why didn't you make your beauty husband hustle and take care of her and +you, then?" demanded Bill, who admired Camille, and disliked her because +she had no eyes for him. + +"My husband has been unfortunate. He has done the best he could," +responded Camille. "Come, Jack; no use talking about it any longer. +Guess Margaret will pick up. Come along. I'm tired out." + +That night Margaret Lee slept in a sweet chamber with muslin curtains +at the windows, in a massive old mahogany bed, much like hers which had +been sacrificed at an auction sale. The bed-linen was linen, and smelled +of lavender. Margaret was too happy to sleep. She lay in the cool, +fragrant sheets and was happy, and convinced of the presence of the God +to whom she had prayed. All night Sydney Lord sat down-stairs in his +book-walled sanctum and studied over the situation. It was a crucial +one. The great psychological moment of Sydney Lord's life for +knight-errantry had arrived. He studied the thing from every point of +view. There was no romance about it. These were hard, sordid, tragic, +ludicrous facts with which he had to deal. He knew to a nicety the +agonies which Margaret suffered. He knew, because of his own capacity +for sufferings of like stress. "And she is a woman and a lady," he said, +aloud. + +If Sydney had been rich enough, the matter would have been simple. He +could have paid Jack and Camille enough to quiet them, and Margaret +could have lived with him and his sister and their two old servants. But +he was not rich; he was even poor. The price to be paid for Margaret's +liberty was a bitter one, but it was that or nothing. Sydney faced it. +He looked about the room. To him the walls lined with the dull gleams of +old books were lovely. There was an oil portrait of his mother over +the mantel-shelf. The weather was warm now, and there was no need for a +hearth fire, but how exquisitely home-like and dear that room could +be when the snow drove outside and there was the leap of flame on the +hearth! Sydney was a scholar and a gentleman. He had led a gentle and +sequestered life. Here in his native village there were none to gibe and +sneer. The contrast of the traveling show would be as great for him as +it had been for Margaret, but he was the male of the species, and she +the female. Chivalry, racial, harking back to the beginning of nobility +in the human, to its earliest dawn, fired Sydney. The pale daylight +invaded the study. Sydney, as truly as any knight of old, had girded +himself, and with no hope, no thought of reward, for the battle in the +eternal service of the strong for the weak, which makes the true worth +of the strong. + +There was only one way. Sydney Lord took it. His sister was spared the +knowledge of the truth for a long while. When she knew, she did not +lament; since Sydney had taken the course, it must be right. As for +Margaret, not knowing the truth, she yielded. She was really on the +verge of illness. Her spirit was of too fine a strain to enable her body +to endure long. When she was told that she was to remain with Sydney's +sister while Sydney went away on business, she made no objection. A +wonderful sense of relief, as of wings of healing being spread under her +despair, was upon her. Camille came to bid her good-by. + +"I hope you have a nice visit in this lovely house," said Camille, and +kissed her. Camille was astute, and to be trusted. She did not betray +Sydney's confidence. Sydney used a disguise--a dark wig over his +partially bald head and a little make-up-and he traveled about with the +show and sat on three chairs, and shook hands with the gaping crowd, +and was curiously happy. It was discomfort; it was ignominy; it was +maddening to support by the exhibition of his physical deformity a +perfectly worthless young couple like Jack and Camille Desmond, but it +was all superbly ennobling for the man himself. + +Always as he sat on his three chairs, immense, grotesque--the more +grotesque for his splendid dignity of bearing--there was in his soul +of a gallant gentleman the consciousness of that other, whom he was +shielding from a similar ordeal. Compassion and generosity, so great +that they comprehended love itself and excelled its highest type, +irradiated the whole being of the fat man exposed to the gaze of his +inferiors. Chivalry, which rendered him almost god-like, strengthened +him for his task. Sydney thought always of Margaret as distinct from her +physical self, a sort of crystalline, angelic soul, with no encumbrance +of earth. He achieved a purely spiritual conception of her. And +Margaret, living again her gentle lady life, was likewise ennobled by a +gratitude which transformed her. Always a clear and beautiful soul, she +gave out new lights of character like a jewel in the sun. And she also +thought of Sydney as distinct from his physical self. The consciousness +of the two human beings, one of the other, was a consciousness as of two +wonderful lines of good and beauty, moving for ever parallel, separate, +and inseparable in an eternal harmony of spirit. + + + + +CORONATION + +JIM BENNET had never married. He had passed middle life, and possessed +considerable property. Susan Adkins kept house for him. She was a +widow and a very distant relative. Jim had two nieces, his brother's +daughters. One, Alma Beecher, was married; the other, Amanda, was not. +The nieces had naively grasping views concerning their uncle and his +property. They stated freely that they considered him unable to care for +it; that a guardian should be appointed and the property be theirs at +once. They consulted Lawyer Thomas Hopkinson with regard to it; they +discoursed at length upon what they claimed to be an idiosyncrasy of +Jim's, denoting failing mental powers. + +"He keeps a perfect slew of cats, and has a coal fire for them in the +woodshed all winter," said Amanda. + +"Why in thunder shouldn't he keep a fire in the woodshed if he wants +to?" demanded Hopkinson. "I know of no law against it. And there isn't a +law in the country regulating the number of cats a man can keep." Thomas +Hopkinson, who was an old friend of Jim's, gave his prominent chin an +upward jerk as he sat in his office arm-chair before his clients. + +"There is something besides cats," said Alma + +"What?" + +"He talks to himself." + +"What in creation do you expect the poor man to do? He can't talk to +Susan Adkins about a blessed thing except tidies and pincushions. That +woman hasn't a thought in her mind outside her soul's salvation and +fancy-work. Jim has to talk once in a while to keep himself a man. What +if he does talk to himself? I talk to myself. Next thing you will want +to be appointed guardian over me, Amanda." + +Hopkinson was a bachelor, and Amanda flushed angrily. + +"He wasn't what I call even gentlemanly," she told Alma, when the two +were on their way home. + +"I suppose Tom Hopkinson thought you were setting your cap at him," +retorted Alma. She relished the dignity of her married state, and +enjoyed giving her spinster sister little claws when occasion called. +However, Amanda had a temper of her own, and she could claw back. + +"YOU needn't talk," said she. "You only took Joe Beecher when you had +given up getting anybody better. You wanted Tom Hopkinson yourself. I +haven't forgotten that blue silk dress you got and wore to meeting. You +needn't talk. You know you got that dress just to make Tom look at you, +and he didn't. You needn't talk." + +"I wouldn't have married Tom Hopkinson if he had been the only man on +the face of the earth," declared Alma with dignity; but she colored +hotly. + +Amanda sniffed. "Well, as near as I can find out Uncle Jim can go on +talking to himself and keeping cats, and we can't do anything," said +she. + +When the two women were home, they told Alma's husband, Joe Beecher, +about their lack of success. They were quite heated with their walk and +excitement. "I call it a shame," said Alma. "Anybody knows that poor +Uncle Jim would be better off with a guardian." + +"Of course," said Amanda. "What man that had a grain of horse sense +would do such a crazy thing as to keep a coal fire in a woodshed?" + +"For such a slew of cats, too," said Alma, nodding fiercely. + +Alma's husband, Joe Beecher, spoke timidly and undecidedly in the +defense. "You know," he said, "that Mrs. Adkins wouldn't have those cats +in the house, and cats mostly like to sit round where it's warm." + +His wife regarded him. Her nose wrinkled. "I suppose next thing YOU'LL +be wanting to have a cat round where it's warm, right under my feet, +with all I have to do," said she. Her voice had an actual acidity of +sound. + +Joe gasped. He was a large man with a constant expression of wondering +inquiry. It was the expression of his babyhood; he had never lost it, +and it was an expression which revealed truly the state of his mind. +Always had Joe Beecher wondered, first of all at finding himself in the +world at all, then at the various happenings of existence. He probably +wondered more about the fact of his marriage with Alma Bennet than +anything else, although he never betrayed his wonder. He was always +painfully anxious to please his wife, of whom he stood in awe. Now he +hastened to reply: "Why, no, Alma; of course I won't." + +"Because," said Alma, "I haven't come to my time of life, through all +the trials I've had, to be taking any chances of breaking my bones over +any miserable, furry, four-footed animal that wouldn't catch a mouse if +one run right under her nose." + +"I don't want any cat," repeated Joe, miserably. His fear and awe of the +two women increased. When his sister-in-law turned upon him he fairly +cringed. + +"Cats!" said Amanda. Then she sniffed. The sniff was worse than speech. + +Joe repeated in a mumble that he didn't want any cats, and went out, +closing the door softly after him, as he had been taught. However, he +was entirely sure, in the depths of his subjugated masculine mind, that +his wife and her sister had no legal authority whatever to interfere +with their uncle's right to keep a hundred coal fires in his woodshed, +for a thousand cats. He always had an inner sense of glee when he heard +the two women talk over the matter. Once Amanda had declared that she +did not believe that Tom Hopkinson knew much about law, anyway. + +"He seems to stand pretty high," Joe ventured with the utmost mildness. + +"Yes, he does," admitted Alma, grudgingly. + +"It does not follow he knows law," persisted Amanda, "and it MAY follow +that he likes cats. There was that great Maltese tommy brushing round +all the time we were in his office, but I didn't dare shoo him off for +fear it might be against the law." Amanda laughed, a very disagreeable +little laugh. Joe said nothing, but inwardly he chuckled. It was +the cause of man with man. He realized a great, even affectionate, +understanding of Jim. + +The day after his nieces had visited the lawyer's office, Jim was +preparing to call on his friend Edward Hayward, the minister. Before +leaving he looked carefully after the fire in the woodshed. The +stove was large. Jim piled on the coal, regardless outwardly that the +housekeeper, Susan Adkins, had slammed the kitchen door to indicate her +contempt. Inwardly Jim felt hurt, but he had felt hurt so long from the +same cause that the sensation had become chronic, and was borne with a +gentle patience. Moreover, there was something which troubled him more +and was the reason for his contemplated call on his friend. He evened +the coals on the fire with great care, and replenished from the pail in +the icebox the cats' saucers. There was a circle of clean white saucers +around the stove. Jim owned many cats; counting the kittens, there were +probably over twenty. Mrs. Adkins counted them in the sixties. "Those +sixty-seven cats," she said. + +Jim often gave away cats when he was confident of securing good homes, +but supply exceeded the demand. Now and then tragedies took place +in that woodshed. Susan Adkins came bravely to the front upon these +occasions. Quite convinced was Susan Adkins that she had a good home, +and it behooved her to keep it, and she did not in the least object +to drowning, now and then, a few very young kittens. She did this with +neatness and despatch while Jim walked to the store on an errand and was +supposed to know nothing about it. There was simply not enough room in +his woodshed for the accumulation of cats, although his heart could have +held all. + +That day, as he poured out the milk, cats of all ages and sizes and +colors purred in a softly padding multitude around his feet, and +he regarded them with love. There were tiger cats, Maltese cats, +black-and-white cats, black cats and white cats, tommies and females, +and his heart leaped to meet the pleading mews of all. The saucers were +surrounded. Little pink tongues lapped. "Pretty pussy! pretty pussy!" +cooed Jim, addressing them in general. He put on his overcoat and hat, +which he kept on a peg behind the door. Jim had an arm-chair in the +woodshed. He always sat there when he smoked; Susan Adkins demurred at +his smoking in the house, which she kept so nice, and Jim did not dream +of rebellion. He never questioned the right of a woman to bar tobacco +smoke from a house. Before leaving he refilled some of the saucers. +He was not sure that all of the cats were there; some might be afield, +hunting, and he wished them to find refreshment when they returned. He +stroked the splendid striped back of a great tiger tommy which filled +his armchair. This cat was his special pet. He fastened the outer shed +door with a bit of rope in order that it might not blow entirely open, +and yet allow his feline friends to pass, should they choose. Then he +went out. + +The day was clear, with a sharp breath of frost. The fields gleamed with +frost, offering to the eye a fine shimmer as of diamond-dust under the +brilliant blue sky, overspread in places with a dapple of little white +clouds. + +"White frost and mackerel sky; going to be falling weather," Jim said, +aloud, as he went out of the yard, crunching the crisp grass under heel. + +Susan Adkins at a window saw his lips moving. His talking to himself +made her nervous, although it did not render her distrustful of his +sanity. It was fortunate that Susan had not told Jim that she disliked +his habit. In that case he would have deprived himself of that slight +solace; he would not have dreamed of opposing Susan's wishes. Jim had a +great pity for the nervous whims, as he regarded them, of women--a +pity so intense and tender that it verged on respect and veneration. +He passed his nieces' house on the way to the minister's, and both were +looking out of windows and saw his lips moving. + +"There he goes, talking to himself like a crazy loon," said Amanda. + +Alma nodded. + +Jim went on, blissfully unconscious. He talked in a quiet monotone; only +now and then his voice rose; only now and then there were accompanying +gestures. Jim had a straight mile down the broad village street to walk +before he reached the church and the parsonage beside it. + +Jim and the minister had been friends since boyhood. They were graduates +and classmates of the same college. Jim had had unusual educational +advantages for a man coming from a simple family. The front door of the +parsonage flew open when Jim entered the gate, and the minister stood +there smiling. He was a tall, thin man with a wide mouth, which either +smiled charmingly or was set with severity. He was as brown and dry as a +wayside weed which winter had subdued as to bloom but could not entirely +prostrate with all its icy storms and compelling blasts. Jim, advancing +eagerly toward the warm welcome in the door, was a small man, and bent +at that, but he had a handsome old face, with the rose of youth on the +cheeks and the light of youth in the blue eyes, and the quick changes of +youth, before emotions, about the mouth. + +"Hullo, Jim!" cried Dr. Edward Hayward. Hayward, for a doctor of +divinity, was considered somewhat lacking in dignity at times; still, +he was Dr. Hayward, and the failing was condoned. Moreover, he was +a Hayward, and the Haywards had been, from the memory of the oldest +inhabitant, the great people of the village. Dr. Hayward's house was +presided over by his widowed cousin, a lady of enough dignity to make up +for any lack of it in the minister. There were three servants, besides +the old butler who had been Hayward's attendant when he had been a young +man in college. Village people were proud of their minister, with his +degree and what they considered an imposing household retinue. + +Hayward led, and Jim followed, to the least pretentious room in +the house--not the study proper, which was lofty, book-lined, and +leather-furnished, curtained with broad sweeps of crimson damask, but a +little shabby place back of it, accessible by a narrow door. The little +room was lined with shelves; they held few books, but a collection of +queer and dusty things--strange weapons, minerals, odds and ends--which +the minister loved and with which his lady cousin never interfered. + +"Louisa," Hayward had told his cousin when she entered upon her post, +"do as you like with the whole house, but let my little study alone. +Let it look as if it had been stirred up with a garden-rake--that little +room is my territory, and no disgrace to you, my dear, if the dust rises +in clouds at every step." + +Jim was as fond of the little room as his friend. He entered, and sighed +a great sigh of satisfaction as he sank into the shabby, dusty hollow +of a large chair before the hearth fire. Immediately a black cat leaped +into his lap, gazed at him with greenjewel eyes, worked her paws, +purred, settled into a coil, and slept. Jim lit his pipe and threw the +match blissfully on the floor. Dr. Hayward set an electric coffee-urn at +its work, for the little room was a curious mixture of the comfortable +old and the comfortable modern. + +"Sam shall serve our luncheon in here," he said, with a staid glee. + +Jim nodded happily. + +"Louisa will not mind," said Hayward. "She is precise, but she has +a fine regard for the rights of the individual, which is most +commendable." He seated himself in a companion chair to Jim's, lit +his own pipe, and threw the match on the floor. Occasionally, when the +minister was out, Sam, without orders so to do, cleared the floor of +matches. + +Hayward smoked and regarded his friend, who looked troubled despite his +comfort. "What is it, Jim?" asked the minister at last. + +"I don't know how to do what is right for me to do," replied the little +man, and his face, turned toward his friend, had the puzzled earnestness +of a child. + +Hayward laughed. It was easily seen that his was the keener mind. In +natural endowments there had never been equality, although there was +great similarity of tastes. Jim, despite his education, often lapsed +into the homely vernacular of which he heard so much. An involuntarily +imitative man in externals was Jim, but essentially an original. Jim +proceeded. + +"You know, Edward, I have never been one to complain," he said, with an +almost boyish note of apology. + +"Never complained half enough; that's the trouble," returned the other. + +"Well, I overheard something Mis' Adkins said to Mis' Amos Trimmer the +other afternoon. Mis' Trimmer was calling on Mis' Adkins. I couldn't +help overhearing unless I went outdoors, and it was snowing and I had a +cold. I wasn't listening." + +"Had a right to listen if you wanted to," declared Hayward, irascibly. + +"Well, I couldn't help it unless I went outdoors. Mis' Adkins she was in +the kitchen making lightbread for supper, and Mis' Trimmer had sat right +down there with her. Mis' Adkins's kitchen is as clean as a parlor, +anyway. Mis' Adkins said to Mis' Trimmer, speaking of me--because Mis' +Trimmer had just asked where I was and Mis' Adkins had said I was out in +the woodshed sitting with the cats and smoking--Mis' Adkins said, 'He's +just a doormat, that's what he is.' Then Mis' Trimmer says, 'The way he +lets folks ride over him beats me.' Then Mis' Adkins says again: 'He's +nothing but a door-mat. He lets everybody that wants to just trample +on him and grind their dust into him, and he acts real pleased and +grateful.'" + +Hayward's face flushed. "Did Mrs. Adkins mention that she was one of the +people who used you for a door-mat?" he demanded. + +Jim threw back his head and laughed like a child, with the sweetest +sense of unresentful humor. "Lord bless my soul, Edward," replied Jim, +"I don't believe she ever thought of that." + +"And at that very minute you, with a hard cold, were sitting out in that +draughty shed smoking because she wouldn't allow you to smoke in your +own house!" + +"I don't mind that, Edward," said Jim, and laughed again. + +"Could you see to read your paper out there, with only that little shed +window? And don't you like to read your paper while you smoke?" + +"Oh yes," admitted Jim; "but my! I don't mind little things like that! +Mis' Adkins is only a poor widow woman, and keeping my house nice and +not having it smell of tobacco is all she's got. They can talk about +women's rights--I feel as if they ought to have them fast enough, if +they want them, poor things; a woman has a hard row to hoe, and will +have, if she gets all the rights in creation. But I guess the rights +they'd find it hardest to give up would be the rights to have men look +after them just a little more than they look after other men, just +because they are women. When I think of Annie Berry--the girl I was +going to marry, you know, if she hadn't died--I feel as if I couldn't do +enough for another woman. Lord! I'm glad to sit out in the woodshed and +smoke. Mis' Adkins is pretty good-natured to stand all the cats." + +Then the coffee boiled, and Hayward poured out some for Jim and himself. +He had a little silver service at hand, and willow-ware cups and +saucers. Presently Sam appeared, and Hayward gave orders concerning +luncheon. + +"Tell Miss Louisa we are to have it served here," said he, "and mind, +Sam, the chops are to be thick and cooked the way we like them; and +don't forget the East India chutney, Sam." + +"It does seem rather a pity that you cannot have chutney at home with +your chops, when you are so fond of it," remarked Hayward when Sam had +gone. + +"Mis' Adkins says it will give me liver trouble, and she isn't strong +enough to nurse." + +"So you have to eat her ketchup?" + +"Well, she doesn't put seasoning in it," admitted Jim. "But Mis' Adkins +doesn't like seasoning herself, and I don't mind." + +"And I know the chops are never cut thick, the way we like them." + +"Mis' Adkins likes her meat well done, and she can't get such thick +chops well done. I suppose our chops are rather thin, but I don't mind." + +"Beefsteak and chops, both cut thin, and fried up like sole-leather. +I know!" said Dr. Hayward, and he stamped his foot with unregenerate +force. + +"I don't mind a bit, Edward." + +"You ought to mind, when it is your own house, and you buy the food and +pay your housekeeper. It is an outrage!" + +"I don't mind, really, Edward." + +Dr. Hayward regarded Jim with a curious expression compounded of love, +anger, and contempt. "Any more talk of legal proceedings?" he asked, +brusquely. + +Jim flushed. "Tom ought not to tell of that." + +"Yes, he ought; he ought to tell it all over town. He doesn't, but he +ought. It is an outrage! Here you have been all these years supporting +your nieces, and they are working away like field-mice, burrowing under +your generosity, trying to get a chance to take action and appropriate +your property and have you put under a guardian." + +"I don't mind a bit," said Jim; "but--" + +The other man looked inquiringly at him, and, seeing a pitiful working +of his friend's face, he jumped up and got a little jar from a shelf. +"We will drop the whole thing until we have had our chops and chutney," +said he. "You are right; it is not worth minding. Here is a new brand of +tobacco I want you to try. I don't half like it, myself, but you may." + +Jim, with a pleased smile, reached out for the tobacco, and the two +men smoked until Sam brought the luncheon. It was well cooked and well +served on an antique table. Jim was thoroughly happy. It was not +until the luncheon was over and another pipe smoked that the troubled, +perplexed expression returned to his face. + +"Now," said Hayward, "out with it!" + +"It is only the old affair about Alma and Amanda, but now it has taken +on a sort of new aspect." + +"What do you mean by a new aspect?" + +"It seems," said Jim, slowly, "as if they were making it so I couldn't +do for them." + +Hayward stamped his foot. "That does sound new," he said, dryly. "I +never thought Alma Beecher or Amanda Bennet ever objected to have you do +for them." + +"Well," said Jim, "perhaps they don't now, but they want me to do it +in their own way. They don't want to feel as if I was giving and they +taking; they want it to seem the other way round. You see, if I were to +deed over my property to them, and then they allowance me, they would +feel as if they were doing the giving." + +"Jim, you wouldn't be such a fool as that?" + +"No, I wouldn't," replied Jim, simply. "They wouldn't know how to take +care of it, and Mis' Adkins would be left to shift for herself. Joe +Beecher is real good-hearted, but he always lost every dollar he +touched. No, there wouldn't be any sense in that. I don't mean to give +in, but I do feel pretty well worked up over it." + +"What have they said to you?" + +Jim hesitated. + +"Out with it, now. One thing you may be sure of: nothing that you can +tell me will alter my opinion of your two nieces for the worse. As for +poor Joe Beecher, there is no opinion, one way or the other. What did +they say?" + +Jim regarded his friend with a curiously sweet, far-off expression. +"Edward," he said, "sometimes I believe that the greatest thing a man's +friends can do for him is to drive him into a corner with God; to be so +unjust to him that they make him understand that God is all that mortal +man is meant to have, and that is why he finds out that most people, +especially the ones he does for, don't care for him." + +Hayward looked solemnly and tenderly at the other's almost rapt face. +"You are right, I suppose, old man," said he; "but what did they do?" + +"They called me in there about a week ago and gave me an awful talking +to." + +"About what?" + +Jim looked at his friend with dignity. "They were two women talking, +and they went into little matters not worth repeating," said he. "All +is-they seemed to blame me for everything I had ever done for them, +and for everything I had ever done, anyway. They seemed to blame me for +being born and living, and, most of all, for doing anything for them." + +"It is an outrage!" declared Hayward. "Can't you see it?" + +"I can't seem to see anything plain about it," returned Jim, in a +bewildered way. "I always supposed a man had to do something bad to +be given a talking to; but it isn't so much that, and I don't bear any +malice against them. They are only two women, and they are nervous. +What worries me is, they do need things, and they can't get on and be +comfortable unless I do for them; but if they are going to feel that +way about it, it seems to cut me off from doing, and that does worry me, +Edward." + +The other man stamped. "Jim Bennet," he said, "they have talked, and now +I am going to." + +"You, Edward?" + +"Yes, I am. It is entirely true what those two women, Susan Adkins and +Mrs. Trimmer, said about you. You ARE a door-mat, and you ought to be +ashamed of yourself for it. A man should be a man, and not a door-mat. +It is the worst thing in the world for people to walk over him and +trample him. It does them much more harm than it does him. In the end +the trampler is much worse off than the trampled upon. Jim Bennet, your +being a doormat may cost other people their souls' salvation. You are +selfish in the grain to be a door-mat." + +Jim turned pale. His child-like face looked suddenly old with his mental +effort to grasp the other's meaning. In fact, he was a child--one of +the little ones of the world--although he had lived the span of a man's +life. Now one of the hardest problems of the elders of the world was +presented to him. "You mean--" he said, faintly. + +"I mean, Jim, that for the sake of other people, if not for your own +sake, you ought to stop being a door-mat and be a man in this world of +men." + +"What do you want me to do?" + +"I want you to go straight to those nieces of yours and tell them the +truth. You know what your wrongs are as well as I do. You know what +those two women are as well as I do. They keep the letter of the Ten +Commandments--that is right. They attend my church--that is right. They +scour the outside of the platter until it is bright enough to blind +those people who don't understand them; but inwardly they are petty, +ravening wolves of greed and ingratitude. Go and tell them; they don't +know themselves. Show them what they are. It is your Christian duty." + +"You don't mean for me to stop doing for them?" + +"I certainly do mean just that--for a while, anyway." + +"They can't possibly get along, Edward; they will suffer." + +"They have a little money, haven't they?" + +"Only a little in savings-bank. The interest pays their taxes." + +"And you gave them that?" + +Jim colored. + +"Very well, their taxes are paid for this year; let them use that money. +They will not suffer, except in their feelings, and that is where they +ought to suffer. Man, you would spoil all the work of the Lord by your +selfish tenderness toward sinners!" + +"They aren't sinners." + +"Yes, they are--spiritual sinners, the worst kind in the world. Now--" + +"You don't mean for me to go now?" + +"Yes, I do--now. If you don't go now you never will. Then, afterward, I +want you to go home and sit in your best parlor and smoke, and have all +your cats in there, too." + +Jim gasped. "But, Edward! Mis' Adkins--" + +"I don't care about Mrs. Adkins. She isn't as bad as the rest, but she +needs her little lesson, too." + +"Edward, the way that poor woman works to keep the house nice--and she +don't like the smell of tobacco smoke." + +"Never mind whether she likes it or not. You smoke." + +"And she don't like cats." + +"Never mind. Now you go." + +Jim stood up. There was a curious change in his rosy, child-like face. +There was a species of quickening. He looked at once older and more +alert. His friend's words had charged him as with electricity. When he +went down the street he looked taller. + +Amanda Bennet and Alma Beecher, sitting sewing at their street windows, +made this mistake. + +"That isn't Uncle Jim," said Amanda. "That man is a head taller, but he +looks a little like him." + +"It can't be Uncle Jim," agreed Alma. Then both started. + +"It is Uncle Jim, and he is coming here," said Amanda. + +Jim entered. Nobody except himself, his nieces, and Joe Beecher ever +knew exactly what happened, what was the aspect of the door-mat erected +to human life, of the worm turned to menace. It must have savored of +horror, as do all meek and downtrodden things when they gain, driven to +bay, the strength to do battle. It must have savored of the god-like, +when the man who had borne with patience, dignity, and sorrow for them +the stings of lesser things because they were lesser things, at last +arose and revealed himself superior, with a great height of the spirit, +with the power to crush. + +When Jim stopped talking and went home, two pale, shocked faces of women +gazed after him from the windows. Joe Beecher was sobbing like a child. +Finally his wife turned her frightened face upon him, glad to have still +some one to intimidate. + +"For goodness' sake, Joe Beecher, stop crying like a baby," said she, +but she spoke in a queer whisper, for her lips were stiff. + +Joe stood up and made for the door. + +"Where are you going?" asked his wife. + +"Going to get a job somewhere," replied Joe, and went. Soon the women +saw him driving a neighbor's cart up the street. + +"He's going to cart gravel for John Leach's new sidewalk!" gasped Alma. + +"Why don't you stop him?" cried her sister. "You can't have your husband +driving a tip-cart for John Leach. Stop him, Alma!" + +"I can't stop him," moaned Alma. "I don't feel as if I could stop +anything." + +Her sister gazed at her, and the same expression was on both faces, +making them more than sisters of the flesh. Both saw before them a stern +boundary wall against which they might press in vain for the rest of +their lives, and both saw the same sins of their hearts. + +Meantime Jim Bennet was seated in his best parlor and Susan Adkins was +whispering to Mrs. Trimmer out in the kitchen. + +"I don't know whether he's gone stark, staring mad or not," whispered +Susan, "but he's in the parlor smoking his worst old pipe, and that big +tiger tommy is sitting in his lap, and he's let in all the other cats, +and they're nosing round, and I don't dare drive 'em out. I took up the +broom, then I put it away again. I never knew Mr. Bennet to act so. I +can't think what's got into him." + +"Did he say anything?" + +"No, he didn't say much of anything, but he said it in a way that made +my flesh fairly creep. Says he, 'As long as this is my house and my +furniture and my cats, Mis' Adkins, I think I'll sit down in the parlor, +where I can see to read my paper and smoke at the same time.' Then he +holds the kitchen door open, and he calls, 'Kitty, kitty, kitty!' and +that great tiger tommy comes in with his tail up, rubbing round his +legs, and all the other cats followed after. I shut the door before +these last ones got into the parlor." Susan Adkins regarded malevolently +the three tortoise-shell cats of three generations and various stages +of growth, one Maltese settled in a purring round of comfort with four +kittens, and one perfectly black cat, which sat glaring at her with +beryl-colored eyes. + +"That black cat looks evil," said Mrs. Trimmer. + +"Yes, he does. I don't know why I didn't drown him when he was a +kitten." + +"Why didn't you drown all those Malty kittens?" + +"The old cat hid them away until they were too big. Then he wouldn't let +me. What do you suppose has come to him? Just smell that awful pipe!" + +"Men do take queer streaks every now and then," said Mrs. Trimmer. "My +husband used to, and he was as good as they make 'em, poor man. He would +eat sugar on his beefsteak, for one thing. The first time I saw him do +it I was scared. I thought he was plum crazy, but afterward I found out +it was just because he was a man, and his ma hadn't wanted him to eat +sugar when he was a boy. Mr. Bennet will get over it." + +"He don't act as if he would." + +"Oh yes, he will. Jim Bennet never stuck to anything but being Jim +Bennet for very long in his life, and this ain't being Jim Bennet." + +"He is a very good man," said Susan with a somewhat apologetic tone. + +"He's too good." + +"He's too good to cats." + +"Seems to me he's too good to 'most everybody. Think what he has done +for Amanda and Alma, and how they act!" + +"Yes, they are ungrateful and real mean to him; and I feel sometimes +as if I would like to tell them just what I think of them," said Susan +Adkins. "Poor man, there he is, studying all the time what he can do for +people, and he don't get very much himself." + +Mrs. Trimmer arose to take leave. She had a long, sallow face, capable +of a sarcastic smile. "Then," said she, "if I were you I wouldn't +begrudge him a chair in the parlor and a chance to read and smoke and +hold a pussy-cat." + +"Who said I was begrudging it? I can air out the parlor when he's got +over the notion." + +"Well, he will, so you needn't worry," said Mrs. Trimmer. As she went +down the street she could see Jim's profile beside the parlor window, +and she smiled her sarcastic smile, which was not altogether unpleasant. +"He's stopped smoking, and he ain't reading," she told herself. "It +won't be very long before he's Jim Bennet again." + +But it was longer than she anticipated, for Jim's will was propped by +Edward Hayward's. Edward kept Jim to his standpoint for weeks, until a +few days before Christmas. Then came self-assertion, that self-assertion +of negation which was all that Jim possessed in such a crisis. He called +upon Dr. Hayward; the two were together in the little study for nearly +an hour, and talk ran high, then Jim prevailed. + +"It's no use, Edward," he said; "a man can't be made over when he's cut +and dried in one fashion, the way I am. Maybe I'm doing wrong, but to +me it looks like doing right, and there's something in the Bible about +every man having his own right and wrong. If what you say is true, and +I am hindering the Lord Almighty in His work, then it is for Him to stop +me. He can do it. But meantime I've got to go on doing the way I always +have. Joe has been trying to drive that tip-cart, and the horse ran away +with him twice. Then he let the cart fall on his foot and mash one of +his toes, and he can hardly get round, and Amanda and Alma don't dare +touch that money in the bank for fear of not having enough to pay the +taxes next year in case I don't help them. They only had a little money +on hand when I gave them that talking to, and Christmas is 'most here, +and they haven't got things they really need. Amanda's coat that she +wore to meeting last Sunday didn't look very warm to me, and poor Alma +had her furs chewed up by the Leach dog, and she's going without any. +They need lots of things. And poor Mis' Adkins is 'most sick with +tobacco smoke. I can see it, though she doesn't say anything, and the +nice parlor curtains are full of it, and cat hairs are all over things. +I can't hold out any longer, Edward. Maybe I am a door-mat; and if I am, +and it is wicked, may the Lord forgive me, for I've got to keep right on +being a door-mat." + +Hayward sighed and lighted his pipe. However, he had given up and +connived with Jim. + +On Christmas eve the two men were in hiding behind a clump of cedars +in the front yard of Jim's nieces' house. They watched the expressman +deliver a great load of boxes and packages. Jim drew a breath of joyous +relief. + +"They are taking them in," he whispered--"they are taking them in, +Edward!" + +Hayward looked down at the dim face of the man beside him, and something +akin to fear entered his heart. He saw the face of a lifelong friend, +but he saw something in it which he had never recognized before. He saw +the face of one of the children of heaven, giving only for the sake of +the need of others, and glorifying the gifts with the love and pity of +an angel. + +"I was afraid they wouldn't take them!" whispered Jim, and his watching +face was beautiful, although it was only the face of a little, old man +of a little village, with no great gift of intellect. There was a full +moon riding high; the ground was covered with a glistening snow-level, +over which wavered wonderful shadows, as of wings. One great star +prevailed despite the silver might of the moon. To Hayward Jim's face +seemed to prevail, as that star, among all the faces of humanity. + +Jim crept noiselessly toward a window, Hayward at his heels. The two +could see the lighted interior plainly. + +"See poor Alma trying on her furs," whispered Jim, in a rapture. "See +Amanda with her coat. They have found the money. See Joe heft the +turkey." Suddenly he caught Hayward's arm, and the two crept away. +Out on the road, Jim fairly sobbed with pure delight. "Oh, Edward," +he said, "I am so thankful they took the things! I was so afraid they +wouldn't, and they needed them! Oh, Edward, I am so thankful!" Edward +pressed his friend's arm. + +When they reached Jim's house a great tiger-cat leaped to Jim's shoulder +with the silence and swiftness of a shadow. "He's always watching for +me," said Jim, proudly. "Pussy! Pussy!" The cat began to purr loudly, +and rubbed his splendid head against the man's cheek. + +"I suppose," said Hayward, with something of awe in his tone, "that you +won't smoke in the parlor to-night?" + +"Edward, I really can't. Poor woman, she's got it all aired and +beautifully cleaned, and she's so happy over it. There's a good fire in +the shed, and I will sit there with the pussy-cats until I go to bed. +Oh, Edward, I am so thankful that they took the things!" + +"Good night, Jim." + +"Good night. You don't blame me, Edward?" + +"Who am I to blame you, Jim? Good night." + +Hayward watched the little man pass along the path to the shed door. +Jim's back was slightly bent, but to his friend it seemed bent beneath +a holy burden of love and pity for all humanity, and the inheritance +of the meek seemed to crown that drooping old head. The door-mat, again +spread freely for the trampling feet of all who got comfort thereby, +became a blessed thing. The humble creature, despised and held in +contempt like One greater than he, giving for the sake of the needs of +others, went along the narrow foot-path through the snow. The minister +took off his hat and stood watching until the door was opened and closed +and the little window gleamed with golden light. + + + + +THE AMETHYST COMB + +MISS JANE CAREW was at the railroad station waiting for the New York +train. She was about to visit her friend, Mrs. Viola Longstreet. With +Miss Carew was her maid, Margaret, a middleaged New England woman, +attired in the stiffest and most correct of maid-uniforms. She carried +an old, large sole-leather bag, and also a rather large sole-leather +jewel-case. The jewel-case, carried openly, was rather an unusual +sight at a New England railroad station, but few knew what it was. They +concluded it to be Margaret's special handbag. Margaret was a very tall, +thin woman, unbending as to carriage and expression. The one thing out +of absolute plumb about Margaret was her little black bonnet. That was +askew. Time had bereft the woman of so much hair that she could fasten +no head-gear with security, especially when the wind blew, and that +morning there was a stiff gale. Margaret's bonnet was cocked over one +eye. Miss Carew noticed it. + +"Margaret, your bonnet is crooked," she said. + +Margaret straightened her bonnet, but immediately the bonnet veered +again to the side, weighted by a stiff jet aigrette. Miss Carew observed +the careen of the bonnet, realized that it was inevitable, and did not +mention it again. Inwardly she resolved upon the removal of the jet +aigrette later on. Miss Carew was slightly older than Margaret, and +dressed in a style somewhat beyond her age. Jane Carew had been alert +upon the situation of departing youth. She had eschewed gay colors and +extreme cuts, and had her bonnets made to order, because there were no +longer anything but hats in the millinery shop. The milliner in Wheaton, +where Miss Carew lived, had objected, for Jane Carew inspired reverence. + +"A bonnet is too old for you. Miss Carew," she said. "Women much older +than you wear hats." + +"I trust that I know what is becoming to a woman of my years, thank you. +Miss Waters," Jane had replied, and the milliner had meekly taken her +order. + +After Miss Carew had left, the milliner told her girls that she had +never seen a woman so perfectly crazy to look her age as Miss Carew. +"And she a pretty woman, too," said the milliner; "as straight as an +arrer, and slim, and with all that hair, scarcely turned at all." + +Miss Carew, with all her haste to assume years, remained a pretty +woman, softly slim, with an abundance of dark hair, showing little gray. +Sometimes Jane reflected, uneasily, that it ought at her time of life to +be entirely gray. She hoped nobody would suspect her of dyeing it. She +wore it parted in the middle, folded back smoothly, and braided in +a compact mass on the top of her head. The style of her clothes was +slightly behind the fashion, just enough to suggest conservatism and +age. She carried a little silver-bound bag in one nicely gloved hand; +with the other she held daintily out of the dust of the platform her +dress-skirt. A glimpse of a silk frilled petticoat, of slender feet, and +ankles delicately slim, was visible before the onslaught of the wind. +Jane Carew made no futile effort to keep her skirts down before the +wind-gusts. She was so much of the gentlewoman that she could be gravely +oblivious to the exposure of her ankles. She looked as if she had never +heard of ankles when her black silk skirts lashed about them. She rose +superbly above the situation. For some abstruse reason Margaret's +skirts were not affected by the wind. They might have been weighted with +buckram, although it was no longer in general use. She stood, except for +her veering bonnet, as stiffly immovable as a wooden doll. + +Miss Carew seldom left Wheaton. This visit to New York was an +innovation. Quite a crowd gathered about Jane's sole-leather trunk when +it was dumped on the platform by the local expressman. "Miss Carew is +going to New York," one said to another, with much the same tone as +if he had said, "The great elm on the common is going to move into Dr. +Jones's front yard." + +When the train arrived, Miss Carew, followed by Margaret, stepped +aboard with a majestic disregard of ankles. She sat beside a window, and +Margaret placed the bag on the floor and held the jewel-case in her lap. +The case contained the Carew jewels. They were not especially valuable, +although they were rather numerous. There were cameos in brooches and +heavy gold bracelets; corals which Miss Carew had not worn since her +young girlhood. There were a set of garnets, some badly cut diamonds in +ear-rings and rings, some seed-pearl ornaments, and a really beautiful +set of amethysts. There were a necklace, two brooches--a bar and a +circle--earrings, a ring, and a comb. Each piece was charming, set in +filigree gold with seed-pearls, but perhaps of them all the comb was +the best. It was a very large comb. There was one great amethyst in the +center of the top; on either side was an intricate pattern of plums in +small amethysts, and seed-pearl grapes, with leaves and stems of gold. +Margaret in charge of the jewel-case was imposing. When they arrived in +New York she confronted everybody whom she met with a stony stare, +which was almost accusative and convictive of guilt, in spite of entire +innocence on the part of the person stared at. It was inconceivable that +any mortal would have dared lay violent hands upon that jewel-case +under that stare. It would have seemed to partake of the nature of grand +larceny from Providence. + +When the two reached the up-town residence of Viola Longstreet, Viola +gave a little scream at the sight of the case. + +"My dear Jane Carew, here you are with Margaret carrying that jewel-case +out in plain sight. How dare you do such a thing? I really wonder you +have not been held up a dozen times." + +Miss Carew smiled her gentle but almost stern smile--the Carew smile, +which consisted in a widening and slightly upward curving of tightly +closed lips. + +"I do not think," said she, "that anybody would be apt to interfere with +Margaret." + +Viola Longstreet laughed, the ringing peal of a child, although she was +as old as Miss Carew. "I think you are right, Jane," said she. "I don't +believe a crook in New York would dare face that maid of yours. He +would as soon encounter Plymouth Rock. I am glad you have brought your +delightful old jewels, although you never wear anything except those +lovely old pearl sprays and dull diamonds." + +"Now," stated Jane, with a little toss of pride, "I have Aunt Felicia's +amethysts." + +"Oh, sure enough! I remember you did write me last summer that she had +died and you had the amethysts at last. She must have been very old." + +"Ninety-one." + +"She might have given you the amethysts before. You, of course, will +wear them; and I--am going to borrow the corals!" + +Jane Carew gasped. + +"You do not object, do you, dear? I have a new dinner-gown which clamors +for corals, and my bank-account is strained, and I could buy none equal +to those of yours, anyway." + +"Oh, I do not object," said Jane Carew; still she looked aghast. + +Viola Longstreet shrieked with laughter. "Oh, I know. You think the +corals too young for me. You have not worn them since you left off +dotted muslin. My dear, you insisted upon growing old--I insisted +upon remaining young. I had two new dotted muslins last summer. As for +corals, I would wear them in the face of an opposing army! Do not judge +me by yourself, dear. You laid hold of Age and held him, although +you had your complexion and your shape and hair. As for me, I had my +complexion and kept it. I also had my hair and kept it. My shape has +been a struggle, but it was worth while. I, my dear, have held Youth +so tight that he has almost choked to death, but held him I have. You +cannot deny it. Look at me, Jane Carew, and tell me if, judging by my +looks, you can reasonably state that I have no longer the right to wear +corals." + +Jane Carew looked. She smiled the Carew smile. "You DO look very young, +Viola," said Jane, "but you are not." + +"Jane Carew," said Viola, "I am young. May I wear your corals at my +dinner to-morrow night?" + +"Why, of course, if you think--" + +"If I think them suitable. My dear, if there were on this earth +ornaments more suitable to extreme youth than corals, I would borrow +them if you owned them, but, failing that, the corals will answer. Wait +until you see me in that taupe dinner-gown and the corals!" + +Jane waited. She visited with Viola, whom she loved, although they had +little in common, partly because of leading widely different lives, +partly because of constitutional variations. She was dressed for dinner +fully an hour before it was necessary, and she sat in the library +reading when Viola swept in. + +Viola was really entrancing. It was a pity that Jane Carew had such an +unswerving eye for the essential truth that it could not be appeased by +actual effect. Viola had doubtless, as she had said, struggled to keep +her slim shape, but she had kept it, and, what was more, kept it without +evidence of struggle. If she was in the least hampered by tight lacing +and length of undergarment, she gave no evidence of it as she curled +herself up in a big chair and (Jane wondered how she could bring herself +to do it) crossed her legs, revealing one delicate foot and ankle, +silk-stockinged with taupe, and shod with a coral satin slipper with a +silver heel and a great silver buckle. On Viola's fair round neck the +Carew corals lay bloomingly; her beautiful arms were clasped with them; +a great coral brooch with wonderful carving confined a graceful fold +of the taupe over one hip, a coral comb surmounted the shining waves of +Viola's hair. Viola was an ash-blonde, her complexion was as roses, and +the corals were ideal for her. As Jane regarded her friend's beauty, +however, the fact that Viola was not young, that she was as old as +herself, hid it and overshadowed it. + +"Well, Jane, don't you think I look well in the corals, after all?" +asked Viola, and there was something pitiful in her voice. + +When a man or a woman holds fast to youth, even if successfully, +there is something of the pitiful and the tragic involved. It is the +everlasting struggle of the soul to retain the joy of earth, whose +fleeting distinguishes it from heaven, and whose retention is not +accomplished without an inner knowledge of its futility. + +"I suppose you do, Viola," replied Jane Carew, with the inflexibility +of fate, "but I really think that only very young girls ought to wear +corals." + +Viola laughed, but the laugh had a minor cadence. "But I AM a young +girl, Jane," she said. "I MUST be a young girl. I never had any girlhood +when I should have had. You know that." + +Viola had married, when very young, a man old enough to be her father, +and her wedded life had been a sad affair, to which, however, she seldom +alluded. Viola had much pride with regard to the inevitable past. + +"Yes," agreed Jane. Then she added, feeling that more might be +expected, "Of course I suppose that marrying so very young does make a +difference." + +"Yes," said Viola, "it does. In fact, it makes of one's girlhood an +anti-climax, of which many dispute the wisdom, as you do. But have it I +will. Jane, your amethysts are beautiful." + +Jane regarded the clear purple gleam of a stone on her arm. "Yes," +she agreed, "Aunt Felicia's amethysts have always been considered very +beautiful." + +"And such a full set," said Viola. + +"Yes," said Jane. She colored a little, but Viola did not know why. At +the last moment Jane had decided not to wear the amethyst comb, because +it seemed to her altogether too decorative for a woman of her age, and +she was afraid to mention it to Viola. She was sure that Viola would +laugh at her and insist upon her wearing it. + +"The ear-rings are lovely," said Viola. "My dear, I don't see how you +ever consented to have your ears pierced." + +"I was very young, and my mother wished me to," replied Jane, blushing. + +The door-bell rang. Viola had been covertly listening for it all the +time. Soon a very beautiful young man came with a curious dancing step +into the room. Harold Lind always gave the effect of dancing when he +walked. He always, moreover, gave the effect of extreme youth and of +the utmost joy and mirth in life itself. He regarded everything +and everybody with a smile as of humorous appreciation, and yet the +appreciation was so goodnatured that it offended nobody. + +"Look at me--I am absurd and happy; look at yourself, also absurd +and happy; look at everybody else likewise; look at life--a jest so +delicious that it is quite worth one's while dying to be made acquainted +with it." That is what Harold Lind seemed to say. Viola Longstreet +became even more youthful under his gaze; even Jane Carew regretted that +she had not worn her amethyst comb and began to doubt its unsuitability. +Viola very soon called the young man's attention to Jane's amethysts, +and Jane always wondered why she did not then mention the comb. She +removed a brooch and a bracelet for him to inspect. + +"They are really wonderful," he declared. "I have never seen greater +depth of color in amethysts." + +"Mr. Lind is an authority on jewels," declared Viola. The young man shot +a curious glance at her, which Jane remembered long afterward. It was +one of those glances which are as keystones to situations. + +Harold looked at the purple stones with the expression of a child with +a toy. There was much of the child in the young man's whole appearance, +but of a mischievous and beautiful child, of whom his mother might +observe, with adoration and illconcealed boastfulness, "I can never tell +what that child will do next!" + +Harold returned the bracelet and brooch to Jane, and smiled at her as +if amethysts were a lovely purple joke between her and himself, uniting +them by a peculiar bond of fine understanding. "Exquisite, Miss Carew," +he said. Then he looked at Viola. "Those corals suit you wonderfully, +Mrs. Longstreet," he observed, "but amethysts would also suit you." + +"Not with this gown," replied Viola, rather pitifully. There was +something in the young man's gaze and tone which she did not understand, +but which she vaguely quivered before. + +Harold certainly thought the corals were too young for Viola. Jane +understood, and felt an unworthy triumph. Harold, who was young enough +in actual years to be Viola's son, and was younger still by reason of +his disposition, was amused by the sight of her in corals, although he +did not intend to betray his amusement. He considered Viola in corals +as too rude a jest to share with her. Had poor Viola once grasped Harold +Lind's estimation of her she would have as soon gazed upon herself in +her coffin. Harold's comprehension of the essentials was beyond Jane +Carew's. It was fairly ghastly, partaking of the nature of X-rays, +but it never disturbed Harold Lind. He went along his dance-track +undisturbed, his blue eyes never losing their high lights of glee, his +lips never losing their inscrutable smile at some happy understanding +between life and himself. Harold had fair hair, which was very smooth +and glossy. His skin was like a girl's. He was so beautiful that he +showed cleverness in an affectation of carelessness in dress. He did +not like to wear evening clothes, because they had necessarily to be +immaculate. That evening Jane regarded him with an inward criticism that +he was too handsome for a man. She told Viola so when the dinner was +over and he and the other guests had gone. + +"He is very handsome," she said, "but I never like to see a man quite so +handsome." + +"You will change your mind when you see him in tweeds," returned Viola. +"He loathes evening clothes." + +Jane regarded her anxiously. There was something in Viola's tone which +disturbed and shocked her. It was inconceivable that Viola should be +in love with that youth, and yet--"He looks very young," said Jane in a +prim voice. + +"He IS young," admitted Viola; "still, not quite so young as he looks. +Sometimes I tell him he will look like a boy if he lives to be eighty." + +"Well, he must be very young," persisted Jane. + +"Yes," said Viola, but she did not say how young. Viola herself, now +that the excitement was over, did not look so young as at the beginning +of the evening. She removed the corals, and Jane considered that she +looked much better without them. + +"Thank you for your corals, dear," said Viola. "Where Is Margaret?" + +Margaret answered for herself by a tap on the door. She and Viola's +maid, Louisa, had been sitting on an upper landing, out of sight, +watching the guests down-stairs. Margaret took the corals and placed +them in their nest in the jewel-case, also the amethysts, after +Viola had gone. The jewel-case was a curious old affair with many +compartments. The amethysts required two. The comb was so large that it +had one for itself. That was the reason why Margaret did not discover +that evening that it was gone. Nobody discovered it for three days, when +Viola had a little card-party. There was a whist-table for Jane, who had +never given up the reserved and stately game. There were six tables in +Viola's pretty living-room, with a little conservatory at one end and +a leaping hearth fire at the other. Jane's partner was a stout old +gentleman whose wife was shrieking with merriment at an auction-bridge +table. The other whist-players were a stupid, very small young man who +was aimlessly willing to play anything, and an amiable young woman who +believed in self-denial. Jane played conscientiously. She returned trump +leads, and played second hand low, and third high, and it was not until +the third rubber was over that she saw. It had been in full evidence +from the first. Jane would have seen it before the guests arrived, but +Viola had not put it in her hair until the last moment. Viola was wild +with delight, yet shamefaced and a trifle uneasy. In a soft, white gown, +with violets at her waist, she was playing with Harold Lind, and in her +ash-blond hair was Jane Carew's amethyst comb. Jane gasped and paled. +The amiable young woman who was her opponent stared at her. Finally she +spoke in a low voice. + +"Aren't you well. Miss Carew?" she asked. + +The men, in their turn, stared. The stout one rose fussily. "Let me get +a glass of water," he said. The stupid small man stood up and waved his +hands with nervousness. + +"Aren't you well?" asked the amiable young lady again. + +Then Jane Carew recovered her poise. It was seldom that she lost it. +"I am quite well, thank you, Miss Murdock," she replied. "I believe +diamonds are trumps." + +They all settled again to the play, but the young lady and the two +men continued glancing at Miss Carew. She had recovered her dignity of +manner, but not her color. Moreover, she had a bewildered expression. +Resolutely she abstained from glancing again at her amethyst comb +in Viola Longstreet's ash-blond hair, and gradually, by a course of +subconscious reasoning as she carefully played her cards, she arrived +at a conclusion which caused her color to return and the bewildered +expression to disappear. When refreshments were served, the amiable +young lady said, kindly: + +"You look quite yourself, now, dear Miss Carew, but at one time while we +were playing I was really alarmed. You were very pale." + +"I did not feel in the least ill," replied Jane Carew. She smiled her +Carew smile at the young lady. Jane had settled it with herself that +of course Viola had borrowed that amethyst comb, appealing to Margaret. +Viola ought not to have done that; she should have asked her, Miss +Carew; and Jane wondered, because Viola was very well bred; but of +course that was what had happened. Jane had come down before Viola, +leaving Margaret in her room, and Viola had asked her. Jane did not then +remember that Viola had not even been told that there was an amethyst +comb in existence. She remembered when Margaret, whose face was as pale +and bewildered as her own, mentioned it, when she was brushing her hair. + +"I saw it, first thing. Miss Jane," said Margaret. "Louisa and I were +on the landing, and I looked down and saw your amethyst comb in Mrs. +Longstreet's hair." + +"She had asked you for it, because I had gone down-stairs?" asked Jane, +feebly. + +"No, Miss Jane. I had not seen her. I went out right after you did. +Louisa had finished Mrs. Longstreet, and she and I went down to the +mailbox to post a letter, and then we sat on the landing, and--I saw +your comb." + +"Have you," asked Jane, "looked in the jewelcase?" + +"Yes, Miss Jane." + +"And it is not there?" + +"It is not there. Miss Jane." Margaret spoke with a sort of solemn +intoning. She recognized what the situation implied, and she, who +fitted squarely and entirely into her humble state, was aghast before a +hitherto unimagined occurrence. She could not, even with the evidence +of her senses against a lady and her mistress's old friend, believe in +them. Had Jane told her firmly that she had not seen that comb in that +ash-blond hair she might have been hypnotized into agreement. But Jane +simply stared at her, and the Carew dignity was more shaken than she had +ever seen it. + +"Bring the jewel-case here, Margaret," ordered Jane in a gasp. + +Margaret brought the jewel-case, and everything was taken out; all the +compartments were opened, but the amethyst comb was not there. Jane +could not sleep that night. At dawn she herself doubted the evidence of +her senses. The jewel-case was thoroughly overlooked again, and still +Jane was incredulous that she would ever see her comb in Viola's hair +again. But that evening, although there were no guests except Harold +Lind, who dined at the house, Viola appeared in a pink-tinted gown, with +a knot of violets at her waist, and--she wore the amethyst comb. She +said not one word concerning it; nobody did. Harold Lind was in wild +spirits. The conviction grew upon Jane that the irresponsible, beautiful +youth was covertly amusing himself at her, at Viola's, at everybody's +expense. Perhaps he included himself. He talked incessantly, not in +reality brilliantly, but with an effect of sparkling effervescence which +was fairly dazzling. Viola's servants restrained with difficulty their +laughter at his sallies. Viola regarded Harold with ill-concealed +tenderness and admiration. She herself looked even younger than usual, +as if the innate youth in her leaped to meet this charming comrade. + +Jane felt sickened by it all. She could not understand her friend. Not +for one minute did she dream that there could be any serious outcome of +the situation; that Viola, would marry this mad youth, who, she knew, +was making such covert fun at her expense; but she was bewildered and +indignant. She wished that she had not come. That evening when she went +to her room she directed Margaret to pack, as she intended to return +home the next day. Margaret began folding gowns with alacrity. She was +as conservative as her mistress and she severely disapproved of many +things. However, the matter of the amethyst comb was uppermost in her +mind. She was wild with curiosity. She hardly dared inquire, but finally +she did. + +"About the amethyst comb, ma'am?" she said, with a delicate cough. + +"What about it, Margaret?" returned Jane, severely. + +"I thought perhaps Mrs. Longstreet had told you how she happened to have +it." + +Poor Jane Carew had nobody in whom to confide. For once she spoke her +mind to her maid. "She has not said one word. And, oh, Margaret, I don't +know what to think of it." + +Margaret pursed her lips. + +"What do YOU think, Margaret?" + +"I don't know. Miss Jane." + +"I don't." + +"I did not mention it to Louisa," said Margaret. + +"Oh, I hope not!" cried Jane. + +"But she did to me," said Margaret. "She asked had I seen Miss Viola's +new comb, and then she laughed, and I thought from the way she acted +that--" Margaret hesitated. + +"That what?" + +"That she meant Mr. Lind had given Miss Viola the comb." + +Jane started violently. "Absolutely impossible!" she cried. "That, +of course, is nonsense. There must be some explanation. Probably Mrs. +Longstreet will explain before we go." + +Mrs. Longstreet did not explain. She wondered and expostulated when Jane +announced her firm determination to leave, but she seemed utterly at a +loss for the reason. She did not mention the comb. + +When Jane Carew took leave of her old friend she was entirely sure in +her own mind that she would never visit her again--might never even see +her again. + +Jane was unutterably thankful to be back in her own peaceful home, over +which no shadow of absurd mystery brooded; only a calm afternoon light +of life, which disclosed gently but did not conceal or betray. Jane +settled back into her pleasant life, and the days passed, and the weeks, +and the months, and the years. She heard nothing whatever from or about +Viola Longstreet for three years. Then, one day, Margaret returned from +the city, and she had met Viola's old maid Louisa in a department store, +and she had news. Jane wished for strength to refuse to listen, but she +could not muster it. She listened while Margaret brushed her hair. + +"Louisa has not been with Miss Viola for a long time," said Margaret. +"She is living with somebody else. Miss Viola lost her money, and had to +give up her house and her servants, and Louisa said she cried when she +said good-by." + +Jane made an effort. "What became of--" she began. + +Margaret answered the unfinished sentence. She was excited by gossip +as by a stimulant. Her thin cheeks burned, her eyes blazed. "Mr. Lind," +said Margaret, "Louisa told me, had turned out to be real bad. He got +into some money trouble, and then"--Margaret lowered her voice--"he was +arrested for taking a lot of money which didn't belong to him. Louisa +said he had been in some business where he handled a lot of other folks' +money, and he cheated the men who were in the business with him, and +he was tried, and Miss Viola, Louisa thinks, hid away somewhere so they +wouldn't call her to testify, and then he had to go to prison; but--" +Margaret hesitated. + +"What is it?" asked Jane. + +"Louisa thinks he died about a year and a half ago. She heard the lady +where she lives now talking about it. The lady used to know Miss Viola, +and she heard the lady say Mr. Lind had died in prison, that he couldn't +stand the hard life, and that Miss Viola had lost all her money through +him, and then"--Margaret hesitated again, and her mistress prodded +sharply--"Louisa said that she heard the lady say that she had thought +Miss Viola would marry him, but she hadn't, and she had more sense than +she had thought." + +"Mrs. Longstreet would never for one moment have entertained the thought +of marrying Mr. Lind; he was young enough to be her grandson," said +Jane, severely. + +"Yes, ma'am," said Margaret. + +It so happened that Jane went to New York that day week, and at a +jewelry counter in one of the shops she discovered the amethyst comb. +There were on sale a number of bits of antique jewelry, the precious +flotsam and jetsam of old and wealthy families which had drifted, nobody +knew before what currents of adversity, into that harbor of sale for +all the world to see. Jane made no inquiries; the saleswoman volunteered +simply the information that the comb was a real antique, and the stones +were real amethysts and pearls, and the setting was solid gold, and +the price was thirty dollars; and Jane bought it. She carried her old +amethyst comb home, but she did not show it to anybody. She replaced it +in its old compartment in her jewelcase and thought of it with wonder, +with a hint of joy at regaining it, and with much sadness. She was still +fond of Viola Longstreet. Jane did not easily part with her loves. She +did not know where Viola was. Margaret had inquired of Louisa, who did +not know. Poor Viola had probably drifted into some obscure harbor of +life wherein she was hiding until life was over. + +And then Jane met Viola one spring day on Fifth Avenue. + +"It is a very long time since I have seen you," said Jane with a +reproachful accent, but her eyes were tenderly inquiring. + +"Yes," agreed Viola. Then she added, "I have seen nobody. Do you know +what a change has come in my life?" she asked. + +"Yes, dear," replied Jane, gently. "My Margaret met Louisa once and she +told her." + +"Oh yes--Louisa," said Viola. "I had to discharge her. My money is about +gone. I have only just enough to keep the wolf from entering the door +of a hall bedroom in a respectable boarding-house. However, I often +hear him howl, but I do not mind at all. In fact, the howling has become +company for me. I rather like it. It is queer what things one can learn +to like. There are a few left yet, like the awful heat in summer, and +the food, which I do not fancy, but that is simply a matter of time." + +Viola's laugh was like a bird's song--a part of her--and nothing except +death could silence it for long. + +"Then," said Jane, "you stay in New York all summer?" + +Viola laughed again. "My dear," she replied, "of course. It is all very +simple. If I left New York, and paid board anywhere, I would never have +enough money to buy my return fare, and certainly not to keep that wolf +from my hall-bedroom door." + +"Then," said Jane, "you are going home with me." + +"I cannot consent to accept charity, Jane," said Viola. "Don't ask me." + +Then, for the first time in her life, Viola Longstreet saw Jane Carew's +eyes blaze with anger. "You dare to call it charity coming from me to +you?" she said, and Viola gave in. + +When Jane saw the little room where Viola lived, she marveled, with the +exceedingly great marveling of a woman to whom love of a man has never +come, at a woman who could give so much and with no return. + +Little enough to pack had Viola. Jane understood with a shudder of +horror that it was almost destitution, not poverty, to which her old +friend was reduced. + +"You shall have that northeast room which you always liked," she told +Viola when they were on the train. + +"The one with the old-fashioned peacock paper, and the pine-tree growing +close to one window?" said Viola, happily. + +Jane and Viola settled down to life together, and Viola, despite the +tragedy which she had known, realized a peace and happiness beyond her +imagination. In reality, although she still looked so youthful, she was +old enough to enjoy the pleasures of later life. Enjoy them she did to +the utmost. She and Jane made calls together, entertained friends at +small and stately dinners, and gave little teas. They drove about in the +old Carew carriage. Viola had some new clothes. She played very well on +Jane's old piano. She embroidered, she gardened. She lived the sweet, +placid life of an older lady in a little village, and loved it. She +never mentioned Harold Lind. + +Not among the vicious of the earth was poor Harold Lind; rather among +those of such beauty and charm that the earth spoils them, making +them, in their own estimation, free guests at all its tables of bounty. +Moreover, the young man had, deeply rooted in his character, the traits +of a mischievous child, rejoicing in his mischief more from a sense of +humor so keen that it verged on cruelty than from any intention to +harm others. Over that affair of the amethyst comb, for instance, his +irresponsible, selfish, childish soul had fairly reveled in glee. He had +not been fond of Viola, but he liked her fondness for himself. He had +made sport of her, but only for his own entertainment--never for the +entertainment of others. He was a beautiful creature, seeking out paths +of pleasure and folly for himself alone, which ended as do all paths of +earthly pleasure and folly. Harold had admired Viola, but from the same +point of view as Jane Carew's. Viola had, when she looked her youngest +and best, always seemed so old as to be venerable to him. He had at +times compunctions, as if he were making a jest of his grandmother. +Viola never knew the truth about the amethyst comb. He had considered +that one of the best frolics of his life. He had simply purloined it and +presented it to Viola, and merrily left matters to settle themselves. + +Viola and Jane had lived together a month before the comb was mentioned. +Then one day Viola was in Jane's room and the jewel-case was out, and +she began examining its contents. When she found the amethyst comb she +gave a little cry. Jane, who had been seated at her desk and had not +seen what was going on, turned around. + +Viola stood holding the comb, and her cheeks were burning. She fondled +the trinket as if it had been a baby. Jane watched her. She began to +understand the bare facts of the mystery of the disappearance of her +amethyst comb, but the subtlety of it was forever beyond her. Had the +other woman explained what was in her mind, in her heart--how that +reckless young man whom she had loved had given her the treasure because +he had heard her admire Jane's amethysts, and she, all unconscious +of any wrong-doing, had ever regarded it as the one evidence of his +thoughtful tenderness, it being the one gift she had ever received from +him; how she parted with it, as she had parted with her other jewels, +in order to obtain money to purchase comforts for him while he was in +prison--Jane could not have understood. The fact of an older woman being +fond of a young man, almost a boy, was beyond her mental grasp. She had +no imagination with which to comprehend that innocent, pathetic, almost +terrible love of one who has trodden the earth long for one who has just +set dancing feet upon it. It was noble of Jane Carew that, lacking all +such imagination, she acted as she did: that, although she did not, +could not, formulate it to herself, she would no more have deprived the +other woman and the dead man of that one little unscathed bond of tender +goodness than she would have robbed his grave of flowers. + +Viola looked at her. "I cannot tell you all about it; you would laugh at +me," she whispered; "but this was mine once." + +"It is yours now, dear," said Jane. + + + + +THE UMBRELLA MAN + +IT was an insolent day. There are days which, to imaginative minds, at +least, possess strangely human qualities. Their atmospheres predispose +people to crime or virtue, to the calm of good will, to sneaking vice, +or fierce, unprovoked aggression. The day was of the last description. +A beast, or a human being in whose veins coursed undisciplined blood, +might, as involuntarily as the boughs of trees lash before storms, +perform wild and wicked deeds after inhaling that hot air, evil with the +sweat of sinevoked toil, with nitrogen stored from festering sores of +nature and the loathsome emanations of suffering life. + +It had not rained for weeks, but the humidity was great. The clouds of +dust which arose beneath the man's feet had a horrible damp stickiness. +His face and hands were grimy, as were his shoes, his cheap, ready-made +suit, and his straw hat. However, the man felt a pride in his clothes, +for they were at least the garb of freedom. He had come out of prison +the day before, and had scorned the suit proffered him by the officials. +He had given it away, and bought a new one with a goodly part of his +small stock of money. This suit was of a small-checked pattern. Nobody +could tell from it that the wearer had just left jail. He had been there +for several years for one of the minor offenses against the law. His +term would probably have been shorter, but the judge had been careless, +and he had no friends. Stebbins had never been the sort to make many +friends, although he had never cherished animosity toward any human +being. Even some injustice in his sentence had not caused him to feel +any rancor. + +During his stay in the prison he had not been really unhappy. He had +accepted the inevitable-the yoke of the strong for the weak--with a +patience which brought almost a sense of enjoyment. But, now that he +was free, he had suddenly become alert, watchful of chances for his +betterment. From being a mere kenneled creature he had become as a +hound on the scent, the keenest on earth--that of self-interest. He was +changed, while yet living, from a being outside the world to one with +the world before him. He felt young, although he was a middle-aged, +almost elderly man. He had in his pocket only a few dollars. He might +have had more had he not purchased the checked suit and had he not given +much away. There was another man whose term would be up in a week, and +he had a sickly wife and several children. Stebbins, partly from native +kindness and generosity, partly from a sentiment which almost amounted +to superstition, had given him of his slender store. He had been +deprived of his freedom because of money; he said to himself that his +return to it should be heralded by the music of it scattered abroad for +the good of another. + +Now and then as he walked Stebbins removed his new straw hat, wiped his +forehead with a stiff new handkerchief, looked with some concern at the +grime left upon it, then felt anxiously of his short crop of grizzled +hair. He would be glad when it grew only a little, for it was at present +a telltale to observant eyes. Also now and then he took from another +pocket a small mirror which he had just purchased, and scrutinized his +face. Every time he did so he rubbed his cheeks violently, then viewed +with satisfaction the hard glow which replaced the yellow prison pallor. +Every now and then, too, he remembered to throw his shoulders back, hold +his chin high, and swing out his right leg more freely. At such times +he almost swaggered, he became fairly insolent with his new sense of +freedom. He felt himself the equal if not the peer of all creation. +Whenever a carriage or a motor-car passed him on the country road he +assumed, with the skill of an actor, the air of a business man hastening +to an important engagement. However, always his mind was working over a +hard problem. He knew that his store of money was scanty, that it would +not last long even with the strictest economy; he had no friends; a +prison record is sure to leak out when a man seeks a job. He was facing +the problem of bare existence. + +Although the day was so hot, it was late summer; soon would come the +frost and the winter. He wished to live to enjoy his freedom, and all he +had for assets was that freedom; which was paradoxical, for it did not +signify the ability to obtain work, which was the power of life. +Outside the stone wall of the prison he was now inclosed by a subtle, +intangible, yet infinitely more unyielding one--the prejudice of his +kind against the released prisoner. He was to all intents and purposes +a prisoner still, for all his spurts of swagger and the youthful leap +of his pulses, and while he did not admit that to himself, yet always, +since he had the hard sense of the land of his birth--New England--he +pondered that problem of existence. He felt instinctively that it +would be a useless proceeding for him to approach any human being for +employment. He knew that even the freedom, which he realized through all +his senses like an essential perfume, could not yet overpower the reek +of the prison. As he walked through the clogging dust he thought of one +after another whom he had known before he had gone out of the world of +free men and had bent his back under the hand of the law. There were, of +course, people in his little native village, people who had been friends +and neighbors, but there were none who had ever loved him sufficiently +for him to conquer his resolve to never ask aid of them. He had no +relatives except cousins more or less removed, and they would have +nothing to do with him. + +There had been a woman whom he had meant to marry, and he had been sure +that she would marry him; but after he had been a year in prison the +news had come to him in a roundabout fashion that she had married +another suitor. Even had she remained single he could not have +approached her, least of all for aid. Then, too, through all his term +she had made no sign, there had been no letter, no message; and he had +received at first letters and flowers and messages from sentimental +women. There had been nothing from her. He had accepted nothing, with +the curious patience, carrying an odd pleasure with it, which had come +to him when the prison door first closed upon him. He had not forgotten +her, but he had not consciously mourned her. His loss, his ruin, had +been so tremendous that she had been swallowed up in it. When one's +whole system needs to be steeled to trouble and pain, single pricks lose +importance. He thought of her that day without any sense of sadness. +He imagined her in a pretty, well-ordered home with her husband and +children. Perhaps she had grown stout. She had been a slender woman. He +tried idly to imagine how she would look stout, then by the sequence +of self-preservation the imagination of stoutness in another led to the +problem of keeping the covering of flesh and fatness upon his own bones. +The question now was not of the woman; she had passed out of his +life. The question was of the keeping that life itself, the life which +involved everything else, in a hard world, which would remorselessly as +a steel trap grudge him life and snap upon him, now he was become its +prey. + +He walked and walked, and it was high noon, and he was hungry. He had in +his pocket a small loaf of bread and two frankfurters, and he heard the +splashing ripple of a brook. At that juncture the road was bordered +by thick woodland. He followed, pushing his way through the trees and +undergrowth, the sound of the brook, and sat down in a cool, green +solitude with a sigh of relief. He bent over the clear run, made a cup +of his hand, and drank, then he fell to eating. Close beside him grew +some wintergreen, and when he had finished his bread and frankfurters +he began plucking the glossy, aromatic leaves and chewing them +automatically. The savor reached his palate, and his memory awakened +before it as before a pleasant tingling of a spur. As a boy how he +had loved this little green low-growing plant! It had been one of the +luxuries of his youth. Now, as he tasted it, joy and pathos stirred in +his very soul. What a wonder youth had been, what a splendor, what an +immensity to be rejoiced over and regretted! The man lounging beside the +brook, chewing wintergreen leaves, seemed to realize antipodes. He +lived for the moment in the past, and the immutable future, which might +contain the past in the revolution of time. He smiled, and his face fell +into boyish, almost childish, contours. He plucked another glossy leaf +with his hard, veinous old hands. His hands would not change to suit his +mood, but his limbs relaxed like those of a boy. He stared at the brook +gurgling past in brown ripples, shot with dim prismatic lights, showing +here clear green water lines, here inky depths, and he thought of the +possibility of trout. He wished for fishing-tackle. + +Then suddenly out of a mass of green looked two girls, with wide, +startled eyes, and rounded mouths of terror which gave vent to screams. +There was a scuttling, then silence. The man wondered why the girls were +so silly, why they ran. He did not dream of the possibility of their +terror of him. He ate another wintergreen leaf, and thought of the woman +he had expected to marry when he was arrested and imprisoned. She did +not go back to his childish memories. He had met her when first youth +had passed, and yet, somehow, the savor of the wintergreen leaves +brought her face before him. It is strange how the excitement of one +sense will sometimes act as stimulant for the awakening of another. Now +the sense of taste brought into full activity that of sight. He saw the +woman just as she had looked when he had last seen her. She had not +been pretty, but she was exceedingly dainty, and possessed of a certain +elegance of carriage which attracted. He saw quite distinctly her small, +irregular face and the satin-smooth coils of dark hair around her head; +he saw her slender, dusky hands with the well-cared-for nails and the +too prominent veins; he saw the gleam of the diamond which he had given +her. She had sent it to him just after his arrest, and he had returned +it. He wondered idly whether she still owned it and wore it, and what +her husband thought of it. He speculated childishly-somehow imprisonment +had encouraged the return of childish speculations--as to whether the +woman's husband had given her a larger and costlier diamond than his, +and he felt a pang of jealousy. He refused to see another diamond than +his own upon that slender, dark hand. He saw her in a black silk gown +which had been her best. There had been some red about it, and a glitter +of jet. He had thought it a magnificent gown, and the woman in it like +a princess. He could see her leaning back, in her long slim grace, in a +corner of a sofa, and the soft dark folds starry with jet sweeping over +her knees and just allowing a glimpse of one little foot. Her feet had +been charming, very small and highly arched. Then he remembered that +that evening they had been to a concert in the town hall, and that +afterward they had partaken of an oyster stew in a little restaurant. +Then back his mind traveled to the problem of his own existence, his +food and shelter and clothes. He dismissed the woman from his thought. +He was concerned now with the primal conditions of life itself. How was +he to eat when his little stock of money was gone? He sat staring at the +brook; he chewed wintergreen leaves no longer. Instead he drew from +his pocket an old pipe and a paper of tobacco. He filled his pipe with +care--tobacco was precious; then he began to smoke, but his face now +looked old and brooding through the rank blue vapor. Winter was coming, +and he had not a shelter. He had not money enough to keep him long from +starvation. He knew not how to obtain employment. He thought vaguely of +wood-piles, of cutting winter fuel for people. His mind traveled in a +trite strain of reasoning. Somehow wood-piles seemed the only available +tasks for men of his sort. + +Presently he finished his filled pipe, and arose with an air of +decision. He went at a brisk pace out of the wood and was upon the road +again. He progressed like a man with definite business in view until he +reached a house. It was a large white farm-house with many outbuildings. +It looked most promising. He approached the side door, and a dog sprang +from around a corner and barked, but he spoke, and the dog's tail became +eloquent. He was patting the dog, when the door opened and a man stood +looking at him. Immediately the taint of the prison became evident. He +had not cringed before the dog, but he did cringe before the man who +lived in that fine white house, and who had never known what it was to +be deprived of liberty. He hung his head, he mumbled. The house-owner, +who was older than he, was slightly deaf. He looked him over curtly. +The end of it was he was ordered off the premises, and went; but the dog +trailed, wagging at his heels, and had to be roughly called back. The +thought of the dog comforted Stebbins as he went on his way. He had +always liked animals. It was something, now he was past a hand-shake, to +have the friendly wag of a dog's tail. + +The next house was an ornate little cottage with bay-windows, through +which could be seen the flower patterns of lace draperies; the Virginia +creeper which grew over the house walls was turning crimson in places. +Stebbins went around to the back door and knocked, but nobody came. He +waited a long time, for he had spied a great pile of uncut wood. Finally +he slunk around to the front door. As he went he suddenly reflected upon +his state of mind in days gone by; if he could have known that the time +would come when he, Joseph Stebbins, would feel culpable at approaching +any front door! He touched the electric bell and stood close to the +door, so that he might not be discovered from the windows. Presently the +door opened the length of a chain, and a fair girlish head appeared. +She was one of the girls who had been terrified by him in the woods, but +that he did not know. Now again her eyes dilated and her pretty mouth +rounded! She gave a little cry and slammed the door in his face, and he +heard excited voices. Then he saw two pale, pretty faces, the faces of +the two girls who had come upon him in the wood, peering at him around +a corner of the lace in the bay-window, and he understood what it +meant--that he was an object of terror to them. Directly he experienced +such a sense of mortal insult as he had never known, not even when the +law had taken hold of him. He held his head high and went away, his very +soul boiling with a sort of shamed rage. "Those two girls are afraid of +me," he kept saying to himself. His knees shook with the horror of it. +This terror of him seemed the hardest thing to bear in a hard life. +He returned to his green nook beside the brook and sat down again. He +thought for the moment no more of woodpiles, of his life. He thought +about those two young girls who had been afraid of him. He had never +had an impulse to harm any living thing. A curious hatred toward these +living things who had accused him of such an impulse came over him. He +laughed sardonically. He wished that they would again come and peer +at him through the bushes; he would make a threatening motion for the +pleasure of seeing the silly things scuttle away. + +After a while he put it all out of mind, and again returned to his +problem. He lay beside the brook and pondered, and finally fell asleep +in the hot air, which increased in venom, until the rattle of +thunder awoke him. It was very dark--a strange, livid darkness. +"A thunder-storm," he muttered, and then he thought of his new +clothes--what a misfortune it would be to have them soaked. He arose and +pushed through the thicket around him into a cart path, and it was then +that he saw the thing which proved to be the stepping-stone toward his +humble fortunes. It was only a small silk umbrella with a handle tipped +with pearl. He seized upon it with joy, for it meant the salvation of +his precious clothes. He opened it and held it over his head, although +the rain had not yet begun. One rib of the umbrella was broken, but it +was still serviceable. He hastened along the cart path; he did not know +why, only the need for motion, to reach protection from the storm, was +upon him; and yet what protection could be ahead of him in that woodland +path? Afterward he grew to think of it as a blind instinct which led him +on. + +He had not gone far, not more than half a mile, when he saw something +unexpected--a small untenanted house. He gave vent to a little cry of +joy, which had in it something child-like and pathetic, and pushed open +the door and entered. It was nothing but a tiny, unfinished shack, with +one room and a small one opening from it. There was no ceiling; overhead +was the tent-like slant of the roof, but it was tight. The dusty floor +was quite dry. There was one rickety chair. Stebbins, after looking into +the other room to make sure that the place was empty, sat down, and a +wonderful wave of content and self-respect came over him. The poor human +snail had found his shell; he had a habitation, a roof of shelter. The +little dim place immediately assumed an aspect of home. The rain +came down in torrents, the thunder crashed, the place was filled with +blinding blue lights. Stebbins filled his pipe more lavishly this time, +tilted his chair against the wall, smoked, and gazed about him with +pitiful content. It was really so little, but to him it was so much. +He nodded with satisfaction at the discovery of a fireplace and a rusty +cooking-stove. + +He sat and smoked until the storm passed over. The rainfall had been +very heavy, there had been hail, but the poor little house had not +failed of perfect shelter. A fairly cold wind from the northwest blew +through the door. The hail had brought about a change of atmosphere. The +burning heat was gone. The night would be cool, even chilly. + +Stebbins got up and examined the stove and the pipe. They were rusty, +but appeared trustworthy. He went out and presently returned with some +fuel which he had found unwet in a thick growth of wood. He laid a +fire handily and lit it. The little stove burned well, with no smoke. +Stebbins looked at it, and was perfectly happy. He had found other +treasures outside--a small vegetable-garden in which were potatoes and +some corn. A man had squatted in this little shack for years, and had +raised his own garden-truck. He had died only a few weeks ago, and +his furniture had been pre-empted with the exception of the stove, the +chair, a tilting lounge in the small room, and a few old iron pots and +fryingpans. Stebbins gathered corn, dug potatoes, and put them on the +stove to cook, then he hurried out to the village store and bought a few +slices of bacon, half a dozen eggs, a quarter of a pound of cheap tea, +and some salt. When he re-entered the house he looked as he had not for +years. He was beaming. "Come, this is a palace," he said to himself, +and chuckled with pure joy. He had come out of the awful empty spaces of +homeless life into home. He was a man who had naturally strong domestic +instincts. If he had spent the best years of his life in a home instead +of a prison, the finest in him would have been developed. As it was, +this was not even now too late. When he had cooked his bacon and eggs +and brewed his tea, when the vegetables were done and he was seated upon +the rickety chair, with his supper spread before him on an old board +propped on sticks, he was supremely happy. He ate with a relish which +seemed to reach his soul. He was at home, and eating, literally, at his +own board. As he ate he glanced from time to time at the two windows, +with broken panes of glass and curtainless. He was not afraid--that +was nonsense; he had never been a cowardly man, but he felt the need of +curtains or something before his windows to shut out the broad vast face +of nature, or perhaps prying human eyes. Somebody might espy the light +in the house and wonder. He had a candle stuck in an old bottle by +way of illumination. Still, although he would have preferred to have +curtains before those windows full of the blank stare of night, he WAS +supremely happy. + +After he had finished his supper he looked longingly at his pipe. He +hesitated for a second, for he realized the necessity of saving his +precious tobacco; then he became reckless: such enormous good fortune +as a home must mean more to follow; it must be the first of a series of +happy things. He filled his pipe and smoked. Then he went to bed on the +old couch in the other room, and slept like a child until the sun shone +through the trees in flickering lines. Then he rose, went out to the +brook which ran near the house, splashed himself with water, returned +to the house, cooked the remnant of the eggs and bacon, and ate his +breakfast with the same exultant peace with which he had eaten his +supper the night before. Then he sat down in the doorway upon the sunken +sill and fell again to considering his main problem. He did not smoke. +His tobacco was nearly exhausted and he was no longer reckless. His head +was not turned now by the feeling that he was at home. He considered +soberly as to the probable owner of the house and whether he would be +allowed to remain its tenant. Very soon, however, his doubt concerning +that was set at rest. He saw a disturbance of the shadows cast by the +thick boughs over the cart path by a long outreach of darker shadow +which he knew at once for that of a man. He sat upright, and his face +at first assumed a defiant, then a pleading expression, like that of +a child who desires to retain possession of some dear thing. His heart +beat hard as he watched the advance of the shadow. It was slow, as +if cast by an old man. The man was old and very stout, supporting +one lopping side by a stick, who presently followed the herald of his +shadow. He looked like a farmer. Stebbins rose as he approached; the two +men stood staring at each other. + +"Who be you, neighbor?" inquired the newcomer. + +The voice essayed a roughness, but only achieved a tentative +friendliness. Stebbins hesitated for a second; a suspicious look came +into the farmer's misty blue eyes. Then Stebbins, mindful of his prison +record and fiercely covetous of his new home, gave another name. The +name of his maternal grandfather seemed suddenly to loom up in printed +characters before his eyes, and he gave it glibly. "David Anderson," he +said, and he did not realize a lie. Suddenly the name seemed his own. +Surely old David Anderson, who had been a good man, would not grudge the +gift of his unstained name to replace the stained one of his grandson. +"David Anderson," he replied, and looked the other man in the face +unflinchingly. + +"Where do ye hail from?" inquired the farmer; and the new David Anderson +gave unhesitatingly the name of the old David Anderson's birth and life +and death place--that of a little village in New Hampshire. + +"What do you do for your living?" was the next question, and the new +David Anderson had an inspiration. His eyes had lit upon the umbrella +which he had found the night before. + +"Umbrellas," he replied, laconically, and the other man nodded. Men +with sheaves of umbrellas, mended or in need of mending, had always been +familiar features for him. + +Then David assumed the initiative; possessed of an honorable business +as well as home, he grew bold. "Any objection to my staying here?" he +asked. + +The other man eyed him sharply. "Smoke much?" he inquired. + +"Smoke a pipe sometimes." + +"Careful with your matches?" + +David nodded. + +"That's all I think about," said the farmer. "These woods is apt to +catch fire jest when I'm about ready to cut. The man that squatted here +before--he died about a month ago--didn't smoke. He was careful, he +was." + +"I'll be real careful," said David, humbly and anxiously. + +"I dun'no' as I have any objections to your staying, then," said the +farmer. "Somebody has always squat here. A man built this shack about +twenty year ago, and he lived here till he died. Then t'other feller +he came along. Reckon he must have had a little money; didn't work at +nothin'! Raised some garden-truck and kept a few chickens. I took them +home after he died. You can have them now if you want to take care of +them. He rigged up that little chicken-coop back there." + +"I'll take care of them," answered David, fervently. + +"Well, you can come over by and by and get 'em. There's nine hens and a +rooster. They lay pretty well. I ain't no use for 'em. I've got all the +hens of my own I want to bother with." + +"All right," said David. He looked blissful. + +The farmer stared past him into the house. He spied the solitary +umbrella. He grew facetious. "Guess the umbrellas was all mended up +where you come from if you've got down to one," said he. + +David nodded. It was tragically true, that guess. + +"Well, our umbrella got turned last week," said the farmer. "I'll give +you a job to start on. You can stay here as long as you want if you're +careful about your matches." Again he looked into the house. "Guess +some boys have been helpin' themselves to the furniture, most of it," he +observed. "Guess my wife can spare ye another chair, and there's an old +table out in the corn-house better than that one you've rigged up, and I +guess she'll give ye some old bedding so you can be comfortable. + +"Got any money?" + +"A little." + +"I don't want any pay for things, and my wife won't; didn't mean that; +was wonderin' whether ye had anything to buy vittles with." + +"Reckon I can manage till I get some work," replied David, a trifle +stiffly. He was a man who had never lived at another than the state's +expense. + +"Don't want ye to be too short, that's all," said the other, a little +apologetically. + +"I shall be all right. There are corn and potatoes in the garden, +anyway." + +"So there be, and one of them hens had better be eat. She don't lay. +She'll need a good deal of b'ilin'. You can have all the wood you want +to pick up, but I don't want any cut. You mind that or there'll be +trouble." + +"I won't cut a stick." + +"Mind ye don't. Folks call me an easy mark, and I guess myself I am easy +up to a certain point, and cuttin' my wood is one of them points. Roof +didn't leak in that shower last night, did it?" + +"Not a bit." + +"Didn't s'pose it would. The other feller was handy, and he kept +tinkerin' all the time. Well, I'll be goin'; you can stay here and +welcome if you're careful about matches and don't cut my wood. Come over +for them hens any time you want to. I'll let my hired man drive you back +in the wagon." + +"Much obliged," said David, with an inflection that was almost tearful. + +"You're welcome," said the other, and ambled away. + +The new David Anderson, the good old grandfather revived in his +unfortunate, perhaps graceless grandson, reseated himself on the +door-step and watched the bulky, receding figure of his visitor through +a pleasant blur of tears, which made the broad, rounded shoulders +and the halting columns of legs dance. This David Anderson had almost +forgotten that there was unpaid kindness in the whole world, and it +seemed to him as if he had seen angels walking up and down. He sat for a +while doing nothing except realizing happiness of the present and of +the future. He gazed at the green spread of forest boughs, and saw in +pleased anticipation their red and gold tints of autumn; also in pleased +anticipation their snowy and icy mail of winter, and himself, the +unmailed, defenseless human creature, housed and sheltered, sitting +before his own fire. This last happy outlook aroused him. If all this +was to be, he must be up and doing. He got up, entered the house, and +examined the broken umbrella which was his sole stock in trade. David +was a handy man. He at once knew that he was capable of putting it in +perfect repair. Strangely enough, for his sense of right and wrong was +not blunted, he had no compunction whatever in keeping this umbrella, +although he was reasonably certain that it belonged to one of the two +young girls who had been so terrified by him. He had a conviction that +this monstrous terror of theirs, which had hurt him more than many +apparently crueler things, made them quits. + +After he had washed his dishes in the brook, and left them in the sun +to dry, he went to the village store and purchased a few simple things +necessary for umbrella-mending. Both on his way to the store and back he +kept his eyes open. He realized that his capital depended largely upon +chance and good luck. He considered that he had extraordinary good +luck when he returned with three more umbrellas. He had discovered one +propped against the counter of the store, turned inside out. He had +inquired to whom it belonged, and had been answered to anybody who +wanted it. David had seized upon it with secret glee. Then, unheard-of +good fortune, he had found two more umbrellas on his way home; one was +in an ash-can, the other blowing along like a belated bat beside the +trolley track. It began to seem to David as if the earth might be +strewn with abandoned umbrellas. Before he began his work he went to +the farmer's and returned in triumph, driven in the farm-wagon, with +his cackling hens and quite a load of household furniture, besides some +bread and pies. The farmer's wife was one of those who are able to give, +and make receiving greater than giving. She had looked at David, who +was older than she, with the eyes of a mother, and his pride had melted +away, and he had held out his hands for her benefits, like a child who +has no compunctions about receiving gifts because he knows that they are +his right of childhood. + +Henceforth David prospered--in a humble way, it is true, still he +prospered. He journeyed about the country, umbrellas over his shoulder, +little bag of tools in hand, and reaped an income more than sufficient +for his simple wants. His hair had grown, and also his beard. Nobody +suspected his history. He met the young girls whom he had terrified +on the road often, and they did not know him. He did not, during the +winter, travel very far afield. Night always found him at home, warm, +well fed, content, and at peace. Sometimes the old farmer on whose land +he lived dropped in of an evening and they had a game of checkers. The +old man was a checker expert. He played with unusual skill, but David +made for himself a little code of honor. He would never beat the old +man, even if he were able, oftener than once out of three evenings. He +made coffee on these convivial occasions. He made very good coffee, and +they sipped as they moved the men and kings, and the old man chuckled, +and David beamed with peaceful happiness. + +But the next spring, when he began to realize that he had mended for a +while all the umbrellas in the vicinity and that his trade was flagging, +he set his precious little home in order, barricaded door and windows, +and set forth for farther fields. He was lucky, as he had been from the +start. He found plenty of employment, and slept comfortably enough in +barns, and now and then in the open. He had traveled by slow stages for +several weeks before he entered a village whose familiar look gave him +a shock. It was not his native village, but near it. In his younger life +he had often journeyed there. It was a little shopping emporium, almost +a city. He recognized building after building. Now and then he thought +he saw a face which he had once known, and he was thankful that there +was hardly any possibility of any one recognizing him. He had grown +gaunt and thin since those far-off days; he wore a beard, grizzled, as +was his hair. In those days he had not been an umbrella man. Sometimes +the humor of the situation struck him. What would he have said, he the +spruce, plump, head-in-the-air young man, if anybody had told him that +it would come to pass that he would be an umbrella man lurking humbly in +search of a job around the back doors of houses? He would laugh softly +to himself as he trudged along, and the laugh would be without the +slightest bitterness. His lot had been so infinitely worse, and he had +such a happy nature, yielding sweetly to the inevitable, that he saw now +only cause for amusement. + +He had been in that vicinity about three weeks when one day he met the +woman. He knew her at once, although she was greatly changed. She had +grown stout, although, poor soul! it seemed as if there had been no +reason for it. She was not unwieldy, but she was stout, and all the +contours of earlier life had disappeared beneath layers of flesh. Her +hair was not gray, but the bright brown had faded, and she wore it +tightly strained back from her seamed forehead, although it was thin. +One had only to look at her hair to realize that she was a woman who +had given up, who no longer cared. She was humbly clad in a blue-cotton +wrapper, she wore a dingy black hat, and she carried a tin pail half +full of raspberries. When the man and woman met they stopped with a sort +of shock, and each changed face grew like the other in its pallor. She +recognized him and he her, but along with that recognition was awakened +a fierce desire to keep it secret. His prison record loomed up before +the man, the woman's past loomed up before her. She had possibly not +been guilty of much, but her life was nothing to waken pride in her. +She felt shamed before this man whom she had loved, and who felt shamed +before her. However, after a second the silence was broken. The man +recovered his self-possession first. + +He spoke casually. + +"Nice day," said he. + +The woman nodded. + +"Been berrying?" inquired David. The woman nodded again. + +David looked scrutinizingly at her pail. "I saw better berries real +thick a piece back," said he. + +The woman murmured something. In spite of herself, a tear trickled over +her fat, weather-beaten cheek. David saw the tear, and something warm +and glorious like sunlight seemed to waken within him. He felt such +tenderness and pity for this poor feminine thing who had not the +strength to keep the tears back, and was so pitiably shorn of youth and +grace, that he himself expanded. He had heard in the town something of +her history. She had made a dreadful marriage, tragedy and suspicion had +entered her life, and the direst poverty. However, he had not known that +she was in the vicinity. Somebody had told him she was out West. + +"Living here?" he inquired. + +"Working for my board at a house back there," she muttered. She did not +tell him that she had come as a female "hobo" in a freight-car from the +Western town where she had been finally stranded. "Mrs. White sent me +out for berries," she added. "She keeps boarders, and there were no +berries in the market this morning." + +"Come back with me and I will show you where I saw the berries real +thick," said David. + +He turned himself about, and she followed a little behind, the female +failure in the dust cast by the male. Neither spoke until David stopped +and pointed to some bushes where the fruit hung thick on bending, +slender branches. + +"Here," said David. Both fell to work. David picked handfuls of berries +and cast them gaily into the pail. "What is your name?" he asked, in an +undertone. + +"Jane Waters," she replied, readily. Her husband's name had been Waters, +or the man who had called himself her husband, and her own middle name +was Jane. The first was Sara. David remembered at once. "She is taking +her own middle name and the name of the man she married," he thought. +Then he asked, plucking berries, with his eyes averted: + +"Married?" + +"No," said the woman, flushing deeply. + +David's next question betrayed him. "Husband dead?" + +"I haven't any husband," she replied, like the Samaritan woman. + +She had married a man already provided with another wife, although +she had not known it. The man was not dead, but she spoke the entire +miserable truth when she replied as she did. David assumed that he was +dead. He felt a throb of relief, of which he was ashamed, but he +could not down it. He did not know what it was that was so alive and +triumphant within him: love, or pity, or the natural instinct of the +decent male to shelter and protect. Whatever it was, it was dominant. + +"Do you have to work hard?" he asked. + +"Pretty hard, I guess. I expect to." + +"And you don't get any pay?" + +"That's all right; I don't expect to get any," said she, and there was +bitterness in her voice. + +In spite of her stoutness she was not as strong as the man. She was not +at all strong, and, moreover, the constant presence of a sense of injury +at the hands of life filled her very soul with a subtle poison, to her +weakening vitality. She was a child hurt and worried and bewildered, +although she was to the average eye a stout, able-bodied, middle-aged +woman; but David had not the average eye, and he saw her as she really +was, not as she seemed. There had always been about her a little +weakness and dependency which had appealed to him. Now they seemed +fairly to cry out to him like the despairing voices of the children whom +he had never had, and he knew he loved her as he had never loved her +before, with a love which had budded and flowered and fruited and +survived absence and starvation. He spoke abruptly. + +"I've about got my business done in these parts," said he. "I've got +quite a little money, and I've got a little house, not much, but mighty +snug, back where I come from. There's a garden. It's in the woods. Not +much passing nor going on." + +The woman was looking at him with incredulous, pitiful eyes like a +dog's. "I hate much goin' on," she whispered. + +"Suppose," said David, "you take those berries home and pack up your +things. Got much?" + +"All I've got will go in my bag." + +"Well, pack up; tell the madam where you live that you're sorry, but +you're worn out--" + +"God knows I am," cried the woman, with sudden force, "worn out!" + +"Well, you tell her that, and say you've got another chance, and--" + +"What do you mean?" cried the woman, and she hung upon his words like a +drowning thing. + +"Mean? Why, what I mean is this. You pack your bag and come to the +parson's back there, that white house." + +"I know--" + +"In the mean time I'll see about getting a license, and--" + +Suddenly the woman set her pail down and clutched him by both hands. +"Say you are not married," she demanded; "say it, swear it!" + +"Yes, I do swear it," said David. "You are the only woman I ever asked +to marry me. I can support you. We sha'n't be rolling in riches, but we +can be comfortable, and--I rather guess I can make you happy." + +"You didn't say what your name was," said the woman. + +"David Anderson." + +The woman looked at him with a strange expression, the expression of +one who loves and respects, even reveres, the isolation and secrecy +of another soul. She understood, down to the depths of her being she +understood. She had lived a hard life, she had her faults, but she was +fine enough to comprehend and hold sacred another personality. She was +very pale, but she smiled. Then she turned to go. + +"How long will it take you?" asked David. + +"About an hour." + +"All right. I will meet you in front of the parson's house in an hour. +We will go back by train. I have money enough." + +"I'd just as soon walk." The woman spoke with the utmost humility of +love and trust. She had not even asked where the man lived. All her life +she had followed him with her soul, and it would go hard if her poor +feet could not keep pace with her soul. + +"No, it is too far; we will take the train. One goes at half past four." + +At half past four the couple, made man and wife, were on the train +speeding toward the little home in the woods. The woman had frizzled her +thin hair pathetically and ridiculously over her temples; on her left +hand gleamed a white diamond. She had kept it hidden; she had almost +starved rather than part with it. She gazed out of the window at the +flying landscape, and her thin lips were curved in a charming smile. The +man sat beside her, staring straight ahead as if at happy visions. + +They lived together afterward in the little house in the woods, and were +happy with a strange crystallized happiness at which they would have +mocked in their youth, but which they now recognized as the essential of +all happiness upon earth. And always the woman knew what she knew about +her husband, and the man knew about his wife, and each recognized the +other as old lover and sweetheart come together at last, but always +each kept the knowledge from the other with an infinite tenderness +of delicacy which was as a perfumed garment veiling the innermost +sacredness of love. + + + + +THE BALKING OF CHRISTOPHER + +THE spring was early that year. It was only the last of March, but the +trees were filmed with green and paling with promise of bloom; the front +yards were showing new grass pricking through the old. It was high +time to plow the south field and the garden, but Christopher sat in his +rocking-chair beside the kitchen window and gazed out, and did absolutely +nothing about it. + +Myrtle Dodd, Christopher's wife, washed the breakfast dishes, and later +kneaded the bread, all the time glancing furtively at her husband. She +had a most old-fashioned deference with regard to Christopher. She was +always a little afraid of him. Sometimes Christopher's mother, Mrs. +Cyrus Dodd, and his sister Abby, who had never married, reproached her +for this attitude of mind. "You are entirely too much cowed down by +Christopher," Mrs. Dodd said. + +"I would never be under the thumb of any man," Abby said. + +"Have you ever seen Christopher in one of his spells?" Myrtle would ask. + +Then Mrs. Cyrus Dodd and Abby would look at each other. "It is all your +fault, mother," Abby would say. "You really ought not to have allowed +your son to have his own head so much." + +"You know perfectly well, Abby, what I had to contend against," replied +Mrs. Dodd, and Abby became speechless. Cyrus Dodd, now deceased some +twenty years, had never during his whole life yielded to anything but +birth and death. Before those two primary facts even his terrible will +was powerless. He had come into the world without his consent being +obtained; he had passed in like manner from it. But during his life +he had ruled, a petty monarch, but a most thorough one. He had spoiled +Christopher, and his wife, although a woman of high spirit, knew of no +appealing. + +"I could never go against your father, you know that," said Mrs. Dodd, +following up her advantage. + +"Then," said Abby, "you ought to have warned poor Myrtle. It was a shame +to let her marry a man as spoiled as Christopher." + +"I would have married him, anyway," declared Myrtle with sudden +defiance; and her mother-inlaw regarded her approvingly. + +"There are worse men than Christopher, and Myrtle knows it," said she. + +"Yes, I do, mother," agreed Myrtle. "Christopher hasn't one bad habit." + +"I don't know what you call a bad habit," retorted Abby. "I call having +your own way in spite of the world, the flesh, and the devil rather a +bad habit. Christopher tramples on everything in his path, and he always +has. He tramples on poor Myrtle." + +At that Myrtle laughed. "I don't think I look trampled on," said she; +and she certainly did not. Pink and white and plump was Myrtle, although +she had, to a discerning eye, an expression which denoted extreme +nervousness. + +This morning of spring, when her husband sat doing nothing, she wore +this nervous expression. Her blue eyes looked dark and keen; her +forehead was wrinkled; her rosy mouth was set. Myrtle and Christopher +were not young people; they were a little past middle age, still far +from old in look or ability. + +Myrtle had kneaded the bread to rise for the last time before it was put +into the oven, and had put on the meat to boil for dinner, before she +dared address that silent figure which had about it something tragic. +Then she spoke in a small voice. "Christopher," said she. + +Christopher made no reply. + +"It is a good morning to plow, ain't it?" said Myrtle. + +Christopher was silent. + +"Jim Mason got over real early; I suppose he thought you'd want to get +at the south field. He's been sitting there at the barn door for 'most +two hours." + +Then Christopher rose. Myrtle's anxious face lightened. But to her +wonder her husband went into the front entry and got his best hat. "He +ain't going to wear his best hat to plow," thought Myrtle. For an awful +moment it occurred to her that something had suddenly gone wrong with +her husband's mind. Christopher brushed the hat carefully, adjusted it +at the little looking-glass in the kitchen, and went out. + +"Be you going to plow the south field?" Myrtle said, faintly. + +"No, I ain't." + +"Will you be back to dinner?" + +"I don't know--you needn't worry if I'm not." Suddenly Christopher did +an unusual thing for him. He and Myrtle had lived together for years, +and outward manifestations of affection were rare between them. He put +his arm around her and kissed her. + +After he had gone, Myrtle watched him out of sight down the road; then +she sat down and wept. Jim Mason came slouching around from his station +at the barn door. He surveyed Myrtle uneasily. + +"Mr. Dodd sick?" said he at length. + +"Not that I know of," said Myrtle, in a weak quaver. She rose and, +keeping her tear-stained face aloof, lifted the lid off the kettle on +the stove. + +"D'ye know am he going to plow to-day?" + +"He said he wasn't." + +Jim grunted, shifted his quid, and slouched out of the yard. + +Meantime Christopher Dodd went straight down the road to the minister's, +the Rev. Stephen Wheaton. When he came to the south field, which he was +neglecting, he glanced at it turning emerald upon the gentle slopes. He +set his face harder. Christopher Dodd's face was in any case hard-set. +Now it was tragic, to be pitied, but warily, lest it turn fiercely upon +the one who pitied. Christopher was a handsome man, and his face had an +almost classic turn of feature. His forehead was noble; his eyes full of +keen light. He was only a farmer, but in spite of his rude clothing he +had the face of a man who followed one of the professions. He was in +sore trouble of spirit, and he was going to consult the minister and ask +him for advice. Christopher had never done this before. He had a sort +of incredulity now that he was about to do it. He had always associated +that sort of thing with womankind, and not with men like himself. +And, moreover, Stephen Wheaton was a younger man than himself. He was +unmarried, and had only been settled in the village for about a year. +"He can't think I'm coming to set my cap at him, anyway," Christopher +reflected, with a sort of grim humor, as he drew near the parsonage. The +minister was haunted by marriageable ladies of the village. + +"Guess you are glad to see a man coming, instead of a woman who has +doubts about some doctrine," was the first thing Christopher said to the +minister when he had been admitted to his study. The study was a small +room, lined with books, and only one picture hung over the fireplace, +the portrait of the minister's mother--Stephen was so like her that a +question concerning it was futile. + +Stephen colored a little angrily at Christopher's remark--he was a +hot-tempered man, although a clergyman; then he asked him to be seated. + +Christopher sat down opposite the minister. "I oughtn't to have spoken +so," he apologized, "but what I am doing ain't like me." + +"That's all right," said Stephen. He was a short, athletic man, with an +extraordinary width of shoulders and a strong-featured and ugly face, +still indicative of goodness and a strange power of sympathy. Three +little mongrel dogs were sprawled about the study. One, small and alert, +came and rested his head on Christopher's knee. Animals all liked him. +Christopher mechanically patted him. Patting an appealing animal was as +unconscious with the man as drawing his breath. But he did not even look +at the little dog while he stroked it after the fashion which pleased it +best. He kept his large, keen, melancholy eyes fixed upon the minister; +at length he spoke. He did not speak with as much eagerness as he did +with force, bringing the whole power of his soul into his words, which +were the words of a man in rebellion against the greatest odds on earth +and in all creation--the odds of fate itself. + +"I have come to say a good deal, Mr. Wheaton," he began. + +"Then say it, Mr. Dodd," replied Stephen, without a smile. + +Christopher spoke. "I am going back to the very beginning of things," +said he, "and maybe you will think it blasphemy, but I don't mean it for +that. I mean it for the truth, and the truth which is too much for my +comprehension." + +"I have heard men swear when it did not seem blasphemy to me," said +Stephen. + +"Thank the Lord, you ain't so deep in your rut you can't see the stars!" +said Christopher. "But I guess you see them in a pretty black sky +sometimes. In the beginning, why did I have to come into the world +without any choice?" + +"You must not ask a question of me which can only be answered by the +Lord," said Stephen. + +"I am asking the Lord," said Christopher, with his sad, forceful voice. +"I am asking the Lord, and I ask why?" + +"You have no right to expect your question to be answered in your time," +said Stephen. + +"But here am I," said Christopher, "and I was a question to the Lord +from the first, and fifty years and more I have been on the earth." + +"Fifty years and more are nothing for the answer to such a question," +said Stephen. + +Christopher looked at him with mournful dissent; there was no anger +about him. "There was time before time," said he, "before the fifty +years and more began. I don't mean to blaspheme, Mr. Wheaton, but it is +the truth. I came into the world whether I would or not; I was forced, +and then I was told I was a free agent. I am no free agent. For fifty +years and more I have thought about it, and I have found out that, at +least. I am a slave--a slave of life." + +"For that matter," said Stephen, looking curiously at him, "so am I. So +are we all." + +"That makes it worse," agreed Christopher--"a whole world of slaves. I +know I ain't talking in exactly what you might call an orthodox strain. +I have got to a point when it seems to me I shall go mad if I don't talk +to somebody. I know there is that awful why, and you can't answer it; +and no man living can. I'm willing to admit that sometime, in another +world, that why will get an answer, but meantime it's an awful thing to +live in this world without it if a man has had the kind of life I have. +My life has been harder for me than a harder life might be for another +man who was different. That much I know. There is one thing I've got +to be thankful for. I haven't been the means of sending any more slaves +into this world. I am glad my wife and I haven't any children to ask +'why?' + +"Now, I've begun at the beginning; I'm going on. I have never had +what men call luck. My folks were poor; father and mother were good, +hardworking people, but they had nothing but trouble, sickness, and +death, and losses by fire and flood. We lived near the river, and one +spring our house went, and every stick we owned, and much as ever we +all got out alive. Then lightning struck father's new house, and the +insurance company had failed, and we never got a dollar of insurance. +Then my oldest brother died, just when he was getting started in +business, and his widow and two little children came on father to +support. Then father got rheumatism, and was all twisted, and wasn't +good for much afterward; and my sister Sarah, who had been expecting to +get married, had to give it up and take in sewing and stay at home and +take care of the rest. There was father and George's widow--she was +never good for much at work--and mother and Abby. She was my youngest +sister. As for me, I had a liking for books and wanted to get an +education; might just as well have wanted to get a seat on a throne. I +went to work in the grist-mill of the place where we used to live when I +was only a boy. Then, before I was twenty, I saw that Sarah wasn't going +to hold out. She had grieved a good deal, poor thing, and worked too +hard, so we sold out and came here and bought my farm, with the mortgage +hitching it, and I went to work for dear life. Then Sarah died, and then +father. Along about then there was a girl I wanted to marry, but, Lord, +how could I even ask her? My farm started in as a failure, and it has +kept it up ever since. When there wasn't a drought there was so much +rain everything mildewed; there was a hail-storm that cut everything to +pieces, and there was the caterpillar year. I just managed to pay the +interest on the mortgage; as for paying the principal, I might as well +have tried to pay the national debt. + +"Well, to go back to that girl. She is married and don't live here, and +you ain't like ever to see her, but she was a beauty and something more. +I don't suppose she ever looked twice at me, but losing what you've +never had sometimes is worse than losing everything you've got. When she +got married I guess I knew a little about what the martyrs went through. + +"Just after that George's widow got married again and went away to +live. It took a burden off the rest of us, but I had got attached to the +children. The little girl, Ellen, seemed 'most like my own. Then poor +Myrtle came here to live. She did dressmaking and boarded with our +folks, and I begun to see that she was one of the nervous sort of women +who are pretty bad off alone in the world, and I told her about the +other girl, and she said she didn't mind, and we got married. By that +time mother's brother John--he had never got married-died and left her +a little money, so she and my sister Abby could screw along. They bought +the little house they live in and left the farm, for Abby was always +hard to get along with, though she is a good woman. Mother, though +she is a smart woman, is one of the sort who don't feel called upon to +interfere much with men-folks. I guess she didn't interfere any too +much for my good, or father's, either. Father was a set man. I guess if +mother had been a little harsh with me I might not have asked that awful +'why?' I guess I might have taken my bitter pills and held my tongue, +but I won't blame myself on poor mother. + +"Myrtle and I get on well enough. She seems contented--she has never +said a word to make me think she wasn't. She isn't one of the kind of +women who want much besides decent treatment and a home. Myrtle is +a good woman. I am sorry for her that she got married to me, for she +deserved somebody who could make her a better husband. All the time, +every waking minute, I've been growing more and more rebellious. + +"You see, Mr. Wheaton, never in this world have I had what I wanted, +and more than wanted-needed, and needed far more than happiness. I have +never been able to think of work as anything but a way to get money, +and it wasn't right, not for a man like me, with the feelings I was born +with. And everything has gone wrong even about the work for the money. +I have been hampered and hindered, I don't know whether by Providence +or the Evil One. I have saved just six hundred and forty dollars, and +I have only paid the interest on the mortgage. I knew I ought to have a +little ahead in case Myrtle or I got sick, so I haven't tried to pay +the mortgage, but put a few dollars at a time in the savings-bank, which +will come in handy now." + +The minister regarded him uneasily. "What," he asked, "do you mean to +do?" + +"I mean," replied Christopher, "to stop trying to do what I am hindered +in doing, and do just once in my life what I want to do. Myrtle asked +me this morning if I wasn't going to plow the south field. Well, I ain't +going to plow the south field. I ain't going to make a garden. I ain't +going to try for hay in the ten-acre lot. I have stopped. I have worked +for nothing except just enough to keep soul and body together. I have +had bad luck. But that isn't the real reason why I have stopped. Look +at here, Mr. Wheaton, spring is coming. I have never in my life had a +chance at the spring nor the summer. This year I'm going to have the +spring and the summer, and the fall, too, if I want it. My apples may +fall and rot if they want to. I am going to get as much good of the +season as they do." + +"What are you going to do?" asked Stephen. + +"Well, I will tell you. I ain't a man to make mystery if I am doing +right, and I think I am. You know, I've got a little shack up on Silver +Mountain in the little sugar-orchard I own there; never got enough sugar +to say so, but I put up the shack one year when I was fool enough to +think I might get something. Well, I'm going up there, and I'm going +to live there awhile, and I'm going to sense the things I have had to +hustle by for the sake of a few dollars and cents." + +"But what will your wife do?" + +"She can have the money I've saved, all except enough to buy me a few +provisions. I sha'n't need much. I want a little corn meal, and I will +have a few chickens, and there is a barrel of winter apples left over +that she can't use, and a few potatoes. There is a spring right near the +shack, and there are trout-pools, and by and by there will be berries, +and there's plenty of fire-wood, and there's an old bed and a stove and +a few things in the shack. Now, I'm going to the store and buy what +I want, and I'm going to fix it so Myrtle can draw the money when she +wants it, and then I am going to the shack, and"--Christopher's voice +took on a solemn tone--"I will tell you in just a few words the gist of +what I am going for. I have never in my life had enough of the bread +of life to keep my soul nourished. I have tried to do my duties, but I +believe sometimes duties act on the soul like weeds on a flower. They +crowd it out. I am going up on Silver Mountain to get once, on this +earth, my fill of the bread of life." + +Stephen Wheaton gasped. "But your wife, she will be alone, she will +worry." + +"I want you to go and tell her," said Christopher, "and I've got my +bank-book here; I'm going to write some checks that she can get cashed +when she needs money. I want you to tell her. Myrtle won't make a fuss. +She ain't the kind. Maybe she will be a little lonely, but if she is, +she can go and visit somewhere." Christopher rose. "Can you let me have +a pen and ink?" said he, "and I will write those checks. You can tell +Myrtle how to use them. She won't know how." + +Stephen Wheaton, an hour later, sat in his study, the checks in his +hand, striving to rally his courage. Christopher had gone; he had seen +him from his window, laden with parcels, starting upon the ascent of +Silver Mountain. Christopher had made out many checks for small amounts, +and Stephen held the sheaf in his hand, and gradually his courage to +arise and go and tell Christopher's wife gained strength. At last he +went. + +Myrtle was looking out of the window, and she came quickly to the door. +She looked at him, her round, pretty face gone pale, her plump hands +twitching at her apron. + +"What is it?" said she. + +"Nothing to be alarmed about," replied Stephen. + +Then the two entered the house. Stephen found his task unexpectedly +easy. Myrtle Dodd was an unusual woman in a usual place. + +"It is all right for my husband to do as he pleases," she said with an +odd dignity, as if she were defending him. + +"Mr. Dodd is a strange man. He ought to have been educated and led a +different life," Stephen said, lamely, for he reflected that the words +might be hard for the woman to hear, since she seemed obviously quite +fitted to her life, and her life to her. + +But Myrtle did not take it hardly, seemingly rather with pride. "Yes," +said she, "Christopher ought to have gone to college. He had the head +for it. Instead of that he has just stayed round here and dogged round +the farm, and everything has gone wrong lately. He hasn't had any luck +even with that." Then poor Myrtle Dodd said an unexpectedly wise thing. +"But maybe," said Myrtle, "his bad luck may turn out the best thing for +him in the end." + +Stephen was silent. Then he began explaining about the checks. + +"I sha'n't use any more of his savings than I can help," said Myrtle, +and for the first time her voice quavered. "He must have some clothes +up there," said she. "There ain't bed-coverings, and it is cold nights, +late as it is in the spring. I wonder how I can get the bedclothes and +other things to him. I can't drive, myself, and I don't like to hire +anybody; aside from its being an expense, it would make talk. Mother +Dodd and Abby won't make talk outside the family, but I suppose it will +have to be known." + +"Mr. Dodd didn't want any mystery made over it," Stephen Wheaton said. + +"There ain't going to be any mystery. Christopher has got a right to +live awhile on Silver Mountain if he wants to," returned Myrtle with her +odd, defiant air. + +"But I will take the things up there to him, if you will let me have a +horse and wagon," said Stephen. + +"I will, and be glad. When will you go?" + +"To-morrow." + +"I'll have them ready," said Myrtle. + +After the minister had gone she went into her own bedroom and cried a +little and made the moan of a loving woman sadly bewildered by the ways +of man, but loyal as a soldier. Then she dried her tears and began to +pack a load for the wagon. + +The next morning early, before the dew was off the young grass, Stephen +Wheaton started with the wagon-load, driving the great gray farm-horse +up the side of Silver Mountain. The road was fairly good, making many +winds in order to avoid steep ascents, and Stephen drove slowly. The +gray farmhorse was sagacious. He knew that an unaccustomed hand held +the lines; he knew that of a right he should be treading the plowshares +instead of climbing a mountain on a beautiful spring morning. + +But as for the man driving, his face was radiant, his eyes of young +manhood lit with the light of the morning. He had not owned it, but he +himself had sometimes chafed under the dull necessity of his life, but +here was excitement, here was exhilaration. He drew the sweet air into +his lungs, and the deeper meaning of the spring morning into his soul. +Christopher Dodd interested him to the point of enthusiasm. Not even the +uneasy consideration of the lonely, mystified woman in Dodd's deserted +home could deprive him of admiration for the man's flight into the +spiritual open. He felt that these rights of the man were of the +highest, and that other rights, even human and pitiful ones, should give +them the right of way. + +It was not a long drive. When he reached the shack--merely a one-roomed +hut, with a stovepipe chimney, two windows, and a door--Christopher +stood at the entrance and seemed to illuminate it. Stephen for a minute +doubted his identity. Christopher had lost middle age in a day's time. +He had the look of a triumphant youth. Blue smoke was curling from the +chimney. Stephen smelled bacon frying, and coffee. + +Christopher greeted him with the joyousness of a child. "Lord!" said +he, "did Myrtle send you up with all those things? Well, she is a good +woman. Guess I would have been cold last night if I hadn't been so +happy. How is Myrtle?" + +"She seemed to take it very sensibly when I told her." + +Christopher nodded happily and lovingly. "She would. She can understand +not understanding, and that is more than most women can. It was mighty +good of you to bring the things. You are in time for breakfast. Lord! +Mr. Wheaton, smell the trees, and there are blooms hidden somewhere that +smell sweet. Think of having the common food of man sweetened this way! +First time I fully sensed I was something more than just a man. Lord, I +am paid already. It won't be so very long before I get my fill, at this +rate, and then I can go back. To think I needn't plow to-day! To think +all I have to do is to have the spring! See the light under those +trees!" + +Christopher spoke like a man in ecstasy. He tied the gray horse to a +tree and brought a pail of water for him from the spring near by. + +Then he said to Stephen: "Come right in. The bacon's done, and the +coffee and the corn-cake and the eggs won't take a minute." + +The two men entered the shack. There was nothing there except the little +cooking-stove, a few kitchen utensils hung on pegs on the walls, an old +table with a few dishes, two chairs, and a lounge over which was spread +an ancient buffalo-skin. + +Stephen sat down, and Christopher fried the eggs. Then he bade the +minister draw up, and the two men breakfasted. + +"Ain't it great, Mr. Wheaton?" said Christopher. + +"You are a famous cook, Mr. Dodd," laughed Stephen. He was thoroughly +enjoying himself, and the breakfast was excellent. + +"It ain't that," declared Christopher in his exalted voice. "It ain't +that, young man. It's because the food is blessed." + +Stephen stayed all day on Silver Mountain. He and Christopher went +fishing, and had fried trout for dinner. He took some of the trout home +to Myrtle. + +Myrtle received them with a sort of state which defied the imputation of +sadness. "Did he seem comfortable?" she asked. + +"Comfortable, Mrs. Dodd? I believe it will mean a new lease of life to +your husband. He is an uncommon man." + +"Yes, Christopher is uncommon; he always was," assented Myrtle. + +"You have everything you want? You were not timid last night alone?" +asked the minister. + +"Yes, I was timid. I heard queer noises," said Myrtle, "but I sha'n't +be alone any more. Christopher's niece wrote me she was coming to make +a visit. She has been teaching school, and she lost her school. I rather +guess Ellen is as uncommon for a girl as Christopher is for a man. +Anyway, she's lost her school, and her brother's married, and she don't +want to go there. Besides, they live in Boston, and Ellen, she says +she can't bear the city in spring and summer. She wrote she'd saved a +little, and she'd pay her board, but I sha'n't touch a dollar of her +little savings, and neither would Christopher want me to. He's always +thought a sight of Ellen, though he's never seen much of her. As for me, +I was so glad when her letter came I didn't know what to do. Christopher +will be glad. I suppose you'll be going up there to see him off and on." +Myrtle spoke a bit wistfully, and Stephen did not tell her he had been +urged to come often. + +"Yes, off and on," he replied. + +"If you will just let me know when you are going, I will see that you +have something to take to him--some bread and pies." + +"He has some chickens there," said Stephen. + +"Has he got a coop for them?" + +"Yes, he had one rigged up. He will have plenty of eggs, and he carried +up bacon and corn meal and tea and coffee." + +"I am glad of that," said Myrtle. She spoke with a quiet dignity, but +her face never lost its expression of bewilderment and resignation. + +The next week Stephen Wheaton carried Myrtle's bread and pies to +Christopher on his mountainside. He drove Christopher's gray horse +harnessed in his old buggy, and realized that he himself was getting +much pleasure out of the other man's idiosyncrasy. The morning was +beautiful, and Stephen carried in his mind a peculiar new beauty, +besides. Ellen, Christopher's niece, had arrived the night before, and, +early as it was, she had been astir when he reached the Dodd house. She +had opened the door for him, and she was a goodly sight: a tall girl, +shaped like a boy, with a fearless face of great beauty crowned with +compact gold braids and lit by unswerving blue eyes. Ellen had a square, +determined chin and a brow of high resolve. + +"Good morning," said she, and as she spoke she evidently rated Stephen +and approved, for she smiled genially. "I am Mr. Dodd's niece," said +she. "You are the minister?" + +"Yes." + +"And you have come for the things aunt is to send him?" + +"Yes." + +"Aunt said you were to drive uncle's horse and take the buggy," said +Ellen. "It is very kind of you. While you are harnessing, aunt and I +will pack the basket." + +Stephen, harnessing the gray horse, had a sense of shock; whether +pleasant or otherwise, he could not determine. He had never seen a girl +in the least like Ellen. Girls had never impressed him. She did. + +When he drove around to the kitchen door she and Myrtle were both there, +and he drank a cup of coffee before starting, and Myrtle introduced him. +"Only think, Mr. Wheaton," said she, "Ellen says she knows a great deal +about farming, and we are going to hire Jim Mason and go right ahead." +Myrtle looked adoringly at Ellen. + +Stephen spoke eagerly. "Don't hire anybody," he said. "I used to work on +a farm to pay my way through college. I need the exercise. Let me help." + +"You may do that," said Ellen, "on shares. Neither aunt nor I can think +of letting you work without any recompense." + +"Well, we will settle that," Stephen replied. When he drove away, his +usually calm mind was in a tumult. + +"Your niece has come," he told Christopher, when the two men were +breakfasting together on Silver Mountain. + +"I am glad of that," said Christopher. "All that troubled me about being +here was that Myrtle might wake up in the night and hear noises." + +Christopher had grown even more radiant. He was effulgent with pure +happiness. + +"You aren't going to tap your sugar-maples?" said Stephen, looking up +at the great symmetrical efflorescence of rose and green which towered +about them. + +Christopher laughed. "No, bless 'em," said he, "the trees shall keep +their sugar this season. This week is the first time I've had a chance +to get acquainted with them and sort of enter into their feelings. Good +Lord! I've seen how I can love those trees, Mr. Wheaton! See the pink on +their young leaves! They know more than you and I. They know how to grow +young every spring." + +Stephen did not tell Christopher how Ellen and Myrtle were to work the +farm with his aid. The two women had bade him not. Christopher seemed to +have no care whatever about it. He was simply happy. When Stephen left, +he looked at him and said, with the smile of a child, "Do you think I am +crazy?" + +"Crazy? No," replied Stephen. + +"Well, I ain't. I'm just getting fed. I was starving to death. Glad +you don't think I'm crazy, because I couldn't help matters by saying I +wasn't. Myrtle don't think I am, I know. As for Ellen, I haven't seen +her since she was a little girl. I don't believe she can be much like +Myrtle; but I guess if she is what she promised to turn out she wouldn't +think anybody ought to go just her way to have it the right way." + +"I rather think she is like that, although I saw her for the first time +this morning," said Stephen. + +"I begin to feel that I may not need to stay here much longer," +Christopher called after him. "I begin to feel that I am getting what I +came for so fast that I can go back pretty soon." + +But it was the last day of July before he came. He chose the cool of +the evening after a burning day, and descended the mountain in the full +light of the moon. He had gone up the mountain like an old man; he came +down like a young one. + +When he came at last in sight of his own home, he paused and stared. +Across the grass-land a heavily laden wagon was moving toward his barn. +Upon this wagon heaped with hay, full of silver lights from the moon, +sat a tall figure all in white, which seemed to shine above all things. +Christopher did not see the man on the other side of the wagon leading +the horses; he saw only this wonderful white figure. He hurried forward +and Myrtle came down the road to meet him. She had been watching for +him, as she had watched every night. + +"Who is it on the load of hay?" asked Christopher. + +"Ellen," replied Myrtle. + +"Oh!" said Christopher. "She looked like an angel of the Lord, come to +take up the burden I had dropped while I went to learn of Him." + +"Be you feeling pretty well, Christopher?" asked Myrtle. She thought +that what her husband had said was odd, but he looked well, and he might +have said it simply because he was a man. + +Christopher put his arm around Myrtle. "I am better than I ever was in +my whole life, Myrtle, and I've got more courage to work now than I had +when I was young. I had to go away and get rested, but I've got rested +for all my life. We shall get along all right as long as we live." + +"Ellen and the minister are going to get married come Christmas," said +Myrtle. + +"She is lucky. He is a man that can see with the eyes of other people," +said Christopher. + +It was after the hay had been unloaded and Christopher had been shown +the garden full of lusty vegetables, and told of the great crop with no +drawback, that he and the minister had a few minutes alone together at +the gate. + +"I want to tell you, Mr. Wheaton, that I am settled in my mind now. I +shall never complain again, no matter what happens. I have found that +all the good things and all the bad things that come to a man who tries +to do right are just to prove to him that he is on the right path. They +are just the flowers and sunbeams, and the rocks and snakes, too, that +mark the way. And--I have found out more than that. I have found out the +answer to my 'why?'" + +"What is it?" asked Stephen, gazing at him curiously from the +wonder-height of his own special happiness. + +"I have found out that the only way to heaven for the children of men is +through the earth," said Christopher. + + + + +DEAR ANNIE + +ANNIE HEMPSTEAD lived on a large family canvas, being the eldest of six +children. There was only one boy. The mother was long since dead. If +one can imagine the Hempstead family, the head of which was the Reverend +Silas, pastor of the Orthodox Church in Lynn Corners, as being the +subject of a mild study in village history, the high light would +probably fall upon Imogen, the youngest daughter. As for Annie, she +would apparently supply only a part of the background. + +This afternoon in late July, Annie was out in the front yard of the +parsonage, assisting her brother Benny to rake hay. Benny had not cut +it. Annie had hired a man, although the Hempsteads could not afford to +hire a man, but she had said to Benny, "Benny, you can rake the hay and +get it into the barn if Jim Mullins cuts it, can't you?" And Benny had +smiled and nodded acquiescence. Benny Hempstead always smiled and nodded +acquiescence, but there was in him the strange persistency of a willow +bough, the persistency of pliability, which is the most unconquerable +of all. Benny swayed gracefully in response to all the wishes of others, +but always he remained in his own inadequate attitude toward life. + +Now he was raking to as little purpose as he could and rake at all. The +clover-tops, the timothy grass, and the buttercups moved before his rake +in a faint foam of gold and green and rose, but his sister Annie raised +whirlwinds with hers. The Hempstead yard was large and deep, and had two +great squares given over to wild growths on either side of the gravel +walk, which was bordered with shrubs, flowering in their turn, like a +class of children at school saying their lessons. The spring shrubs had +all spelled out their floral recitations, of course, but great clumps +of peonies were spreading wide skirts of gigantic bloom, like dancers +courtesying low on the stage of summer, and shafts of green-white Yucca +lilies and Japan lilies and clove-pinks still remained in their school +of bloom. + +Benny often stood still, wiped his forehead, leaned on his rake, and +inhaled the bouquet of sweet scents, but Annie raked with never-ceasing +energy. Annie was small and slender and wiry, and moved with angular +grace, her thin, peaked elbows showing beneath the sleeves of her pink +gingham dress, her thin knees outlining beneath the scanty folds of the +skirt. Her neck was long, her shoulder-blades troubled the back of +her blouse at every movement. She was a creature full of ostentatious +joints, but the joints were delicate and rhythmical and charming. Annie +had a charming face, too. It was thin and sunburnt, but still charming, +with a sweet, eager, intent-to-please outlook upon life. This last was +the real attitude of Annie's mind; it was, in fact, Annie. She was +intent to please from her toes to the crown of her brown head. She +radiated good will and loving-kindness as fervently as a lily in the +border radiated perfume. + +It was very warm, and the northwest sky had a threatening mountain +of clouds. Occasionally Annie glanced at it and raked the faster, and +thought complacently of the water-proof covers in the little barn. This +hay was valuable for the Reverend Silas's horse. + +Two of the front windows of the house were filled with girls' heads, and +the regular swaying movement of white-clad arms sewing. The girls sat in +the house because it was so sunny on the piazza in the afternoon. There +were four girls in the sittingroom, all making finery for themselves. +On the other side of the front door one of the two windows was blank; in +the other was visible a nodding gray head, that of Annie's father taking +his afternoon nap. + +Everything was still except the girls' tongues, an occasional burst of +laughter, and the crackling shrill of locusts. Nothing had passed on the +dusty road since Benny and Annie had begun their work. Lynn Corners was +nothing more than a hamlet. It was even seldom that an automobile got +astray there, being diverted from the little city of Anderson, six miles +away, by turning to the left instead of the right. + +Benny stopped again and wiped his forehead, all pink and beaded with +sweat. He was a pretty young man--as pretty as a girl, although large. +He glanced furtively at Annie, then he went with a soft, padding glide, +like a big cat, to the piazza and settled down. He leaned his head +against a post, closed his eyes, and inhaled the sweetness of flowers +alive and dying, of new-mown hay. Annie glanced at him and an angelic +look came over her face. At that moment the sweetness of her nature +seemed actually visible. + +"He is tired, poor boy!" she thought. She also thought that probably +Benny felt the heat more because he was stout. Then she raked faster +and faster. She fairly flew over the yard, raking the severed grass +and flowers into heaps. The air grew more sultry. The sun was not yet +clouded, but the northwest was darker and rumbled ominously. + +The girls in the sitting-room continued to chatter and sew. One of them +might have come out to help this little sister toiling alone, but Annie +did not think of that. She raked with the uncomplaining sweetness of an +angel until the storm burst. The rain came down in solid drops, and the +sky was a sheet of clamoring flame. Annie made one motion toward the +barn, but there was no use. The hay was not half cocked. There was no +sense in running for covers. Benny was up and lumbering into the house, +and her sisters were shutting windows and crying out to her. Annie +deserted her post and fled before the wind, her pink skirts lashing her +heels, her hair dripping. + +When she entered the sitting-room her sisters, Imogen, Eliza, Jane, and +Susan, were all there; also her father, Silas, tall and gaunt and gray. +To the Hempsteads a thunder-storm partook of the nature of a religious +ceremony. The family gathered together, and it was understood that they +were all offering prayer and recognizing God as present on the wings of +the tempest. In reality they were all very nervous in thunder-storms, +with the exception of Annie. She always sent up a little silent petition +that her sisters and brother and father, and the horse and dog and cat, +might escape danger, although she had never been quite sure that she was +not wicked in including the dog and cat. She was surer about the horse +because he was the means by which her father made pastoral calls upon +his distant sheep. Then afterward she just sat with the others and +waited until the storm was over and it was time to open windows and see +if the roof had leaked. Today, however, she was intent upon the hay. In +a lull of the tempest she spoke. + +"It is a pity," she said, "that I was not able to get the hay cocked and +the covers on." + +Then Imogen turned large, sarcastic blue eyes upon her. Imogen was +considered a beauty, pink and white, golden-haired, and dimpled, with +a curious calculating hardness of character and a sharp tongue, so at +variance with her appearance that people doubted the evidence of their +senses. + +"If," said Imogen, "you had only made Benny work instead of encouraging +him to dawdle and finally to stop altogether, and if you had gone +out directly after dinner, the hay would have been all raked up and +covered." + +Nothing could have exceeded the calm and instructive superiority of +Imogen's tone. A mass of soft white fabric lay upon her lap, although +she had removed scissors and needle and thimble to a safe distance. She +tilted her chin with a royal air. When the storm lulled she had stopped +praying. + +Imogen's sisters echoed her and joined in the attack upon Annie. + +"Yes," said Jane, "if you had only started earlier, Annie. I told Eliza +when you went out in the yard that it looked like a shower." + +Eliza nodded energetically. + +"It was foolish to start so late," said Susan, with a calm air of wisdom +only a shade less exasperating than Imogen's. + +"And you always encourage Benny so in being lazy," said Eliza. + +Then the Reverend Silas joined in. "You should have more sense of +responsibility toward your brother, your only brother, Annie," he said, +in his deep pulpit voice. + +"It was after two o'clock when you went out," said Imogen. + +"And all you had to do was the dinner-dishes, and there were very few +to-day," said Jane. + +Then Annie turned with a quick, cat-like motion. Her eyes blazed under +her brown toss of hair. She gesticulated with her little, nervous hands. +Her voice was as sweet and intense as a reed, and withal piercing with +anger. + +"It was not half past one when I went out," said she, "and there was a +whole sinkful of dishes." + +"It was after two. I looked at the clock," said Imogen. + +"It was not." + +"And there were very few dishes," said Jane. + +"A whole sinkful," said Annie, tense with wrath. + +"You always are rather late about starting," said Susan. + +"I am not! I was not! I washed the dishes, and swept the kitchen, and +blacked the stove, and cleaned the silver." + +"I swept the kitchen," said Imogen, severely. "Annie, I am surprised at +you." + +"And you know I cleaned the silver yesterday," said Jane. + +Annie gave a gasp and looked from one to the other. + +"You know you did not sweep the kitchen," said Imogen. + +Annie's father gazed at her severely. "My dear," he said, "how long must +I try to correct you of this habit of making false statements?" + +"Dear Annie does not realize that they are false statements, father," +said Jane. Jane was not pretty, but she gave the effect of a long, +sweet stanza of some fine poetess. She was very tall and slender and +large-eyed, and wore always a serious smile. She was attired in a purple +muslin gown, cut V-shaped at the throat, and, as always, a black velvet +ribbon with a little gold locket attached. The locket contained a coil +of hair. Jane had been engaged to a young minister, now dead three +years, and he had given her the locket. + +Jane no doubt had mourned for her lover, but she had a covert pleasure +in the romance of her situation. She was a year younger than Annie, and +she had loved and lost, and so had achieved a sentimental distinction. +Imogen always had admirers. Eliza had been courted at intervals +half-heartedly by a widower, and Susan had had a few fleeting chances. +But Jane was the only one who had been really definite in her heart +affairs. As for Annie, nobody ever thought of her in such a connection. +It was supposed that Annie had no thought of marriage, that she was +foreordained to remain unwed and keep house for her father and Benny. + +When Jane said that dear Annie did not realize that she made false +statements, she voiced an opinion of the family before which Annie was +always absolutely helpless. Defense meant counter-accusation. Annie +could not accuse her family. She glanced from one to the other. In her +blue eyes were still sparks of wrath, but she said nothing. She felt, as +always, speechless, when affairs reached such a juncture. She began, +in spite of her good sense, to feel guiltily responsible for +everything--for the spoiling of the hay, even for the thunder-storm. +What was more, she even wished to feel guiltily responsible. Anything +was better than to be sure her sisters were not speaking the truth, that +her father was blaming her unjustly. + +Benny, who sat hunched upon himself with the effect of one set of bones +and muscles leaning upon others for support, was the only one who spoke +for her, and even he spoke to little purpose. + +"One of you other girls," said he, in a thick, sweet voice, "might have +come out and helped Annie; then she could have got the hay in." + +They all turned on him. + +"It is all very well for you to talk," said Imogen. "I saw you myself +quit raking hay and sit down on the piazza." + +"Yes," assented Jane, nodding violently, "I saw you, too." + +"You have no sense of your responsibility, Benjamin, and your sister +Annie abets you in evading it," said Silas Hempstead with dignity. + +"Benny feels the heat," said Annie. + +"Father is entirely right," said Eliza. "Benjamin has no sense of +responsibility, and it is mainly owing to Annie." + +"But dear Annie does not realize it," said Jane. + +Benny got up lumberingly and left the room. He loved his sister Annie, +but he hated the mild simmer of feminine rancor to which even his +father's presence failed to add a masculine flavor. Benny was always +leaving the room and allowing his sisters "to fight it out." + +Just after he left there was a tremendous peal of thunder and a blue +flash, and they all prayed again, except Annie; who was occupied with +her own perplexities of life, and not at all afraid. She wondered, as +she had wondered many times before, if she could possibly be in the +wrong, if she were spoiling Benny, if she said and did things without +knowing that she did so, or the contrary. Then suddenly she tightened +her mouth. She knew. This sweet-tempered, anxious-to-please Annie was +entirely sane, she had unusual self-poise. She KNEW that she knew +what she did and said, and what she did not do or say, and a strange +comprehension of her family overwhelmed her. Her sisters were truthful; +she would not admit anything else, even to herself; but they confused +desires and impulses with accomplishment. They had done so all their +lives, some of them from intense egotism, some possibly from slight +twists in their mental organisms. As for her father, he had simply +rather a weak character, and was swayed by the majority. Annie, as she +sat there among the praying group, made the same excuse for her sisters +that they made for her. "They don't realize it," she said to herself. + +When the storm finally ceased she hurried upstairs and opened the +windows, letting in the rain-fresh air. Then she got supper, while her +sisters resumed their needlework. A curious conviction seized her, as +she was hurrying about the kitchen, that in all probability some, if +not all, of her sisters considered that they were getting the supper. +Possibly Jane had reflected that she ought to get supper, then she +had taken another stitch in her work and had not known fairly that her +impulse of duty had not been carried out. Imogen, presumably, was sewing +with the serene consciousness that, since she was herself, it followed +as a matter of course that she was performing all the tasks of the +house. + +While Annie was making an omelet Benny came out into the kitchen and +stood regarding her, hands in pockets, making, as usual, one set of +muscles rest upon another. His face was full of the utmost good nature, +but it also convicted him of too much sloth to obey its commands. + +"Say, Annie, what on earth makes them all pick on you so?" he observed. + +"Hush, Benny! They don't mean to. They don't know it." + +"But say, Annie, you must know that they tell whoppers. You DID sweep +the kitchen." + +"Hush, Benny! Imogen really thinks she swept it." + +"Imogen always thinks she has done everything she ought to do, whether +she has done it or not," said Benny, with unusual astuteness. "Why don't +you up and tell her she lies, Annie?" + +"She doesn't really lie," said Annie. + +"She does lie, even if she doesn't know it," said Benny; "and what is +more, she ought to be made to know it. Say, Annie, it strikes me that +you are doing the same by the girls that they accuse you of doing by me. +Aren't you encouraging them in evil ways?" + +Annie started, and turned and stared at him. + +Benny nodded. "I can't see any difference," he said. "There isn't a day +but one of the girls thinks she has done something you have done, or +hasn't done something you ought to have done, and they blame you all the +time, when you don't deserve it, and you let them, and they don't know +it, and I don't think myself that they know they tell whoppers; but they +ought to know. Strikes me you are just spoiling the whole lot, father +thrown in, Annie. You are a dear, just as they say, but you are too much +of a dear to be good for them." + +Annie stared. + +"You are letting that omelet burn," said Benny. "Say, Annie, I will go +out and turn that hay in the morning. I know I don't amount to much, but +I ain't a girl, anyhow, and I haven't got a cross-eyed soul. That's +what ails a lot of girls. They mean all right, but their souls have been +cross-eyed ever since they came into the world, and it's just such +girls as you who ought to get them straightened out. You know what has +happened to-day. Well, here's what happened yesterday. I don't tell +tales, but you ought to know this, for I believe Tom Reed has his eye +on you, in spite of Imogen's being such a beauty, and Susan's having +manners like silk, and Eliza's giving everybody the impression that she +is too good for this earth, and Jane's trying to make everybody think +she is a sweet martyr, without a thought for mortal man, when that is +only her way of trying to catch one. You know Tom Reed was here last +evening?" + +Annie nodded. Her face turned scarlet, then pathetically pale. She bent +over her omelet, carefully lifting it around the edges. + +"Well," Benny went on, "I know he came to see you, and Imogen went to +the door and ushered him into the parlor, and I was out on the piazza, +and she didn't know it, but I heard her tell him that she thought you +had gone out. She hinted, too, that George Wells had taken you to the +concert in the town hall. He did ask you, didn't he?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, Imogen spoke in this way." Benny lowered his voice and imitated +Imogen to the life. "'Yes, we are all well, thank you. Father is busy, +of course; Jane has run over to Mrs. Jacobs's for a pattern; Eliza is +writing letters; and Susan is somewhere about the house. Annie--well, +Annie-George Wells asked her to go to the concert--I rather--' Then," +said Benny, in his natural voice, "Imogen stopped, and she could say +truthfully that she didn't lie, but anybody would have thought from what +she said that you had gone to the concert with George Wells." + +"Did Tom inquire for me?" asked Annie, in a low voice. + +"Didn't have a chance. Imogen got ahead of him." + +"Oh, well, then it doesn't matter. I dare say he did come to see +Imogen." + +"He didn't," said Benny, stoutly. "And that isn't all. Say, Annie--" + +"What?" + +"Are you going to marry George Wells? It is none of my business, but are +you?" + +Annie laughed a little, although her face was still pale. She had folded +the omelet and was carefully watching it. + +"You need not worry about that, Benny dear," she said. + +"Then what right have the girls to tell so many people the nice things +they hear you say about him?" + +Annie removed the omelet skilfully from the pan to a hot plate, which +she set on the range shelf, and turned to her brother. + +"What nice things do they hear me say?" + +"That he is so handsome; that he has such a good position; that he is +the very best young man in the place; that you should think every girl +would be head over heels in love with him; that every word he speaks is +so bright and clever." + +Annie looked at her brother. + +"I don't believe you ever said one of those things," remarked Benny. + +Annie continued to look at him. + +"Did you?" + +"Benny dear, I am not going to tell you." + +"You won't say you never did, because that would be putting your sisters +in the wrong and admitting that they tell lies. Annie, you are a dear, +but I do think you are doing wrong and spoiling them as much as they say +you are spoiling me." + +"Perhaps I am," said Annie. There was a strange, tragic expression +on her keen, pretty little face. She looked as if her mind was +contemplating strenuous action which was changing her very features. She +had covered the finished omelet and was now cooking another. + +"I wish you would see if everybody is in the house and ready, Benny," +said she. "When this omelet is done they must come right away, or +nothing will be fit to eat. And, Benny dear, if you don't mind, please +get the butter and the cream-pitcher out of the ice-chest. I have +everything else on the table." + +"There is another thing," said Benny. "I don't go about telling tales, +but I do think it is time you knew. The girls tell everybody that you +like to do the housework so much that they don't dare interfere. And +it isn't so. They may have taught themselves to think it is so, but it +isn't. You would like a little time for fancy-work and reading as well +as they do." + +"Please get the cream and butter, and see if they are all in the house," +said Annie. She spoke as usual, but the strange expression remained in +her face. It was still there when the family were all gathered at the +table and she was serving the puffy omelet. Jane noticed it first. + +"What makes you look so odd, Annie?" said she. + +"I don't know how I look odd," replied Annie. + +They all gazed at her then, her father with some anxiety. "You don't +look yourself," he said. "You are feeling well, aren't you, Annie?" + +"Quite well, thank you, father." + +But after the omelet was served and the tea poured Annie rose. + +"Where are you going, Annie?" asked Imogen, in her sarcastic voice. + +"To my room, or perhaps out in the orchard." + +"It will be sopping wet out there after the shower," said Eliza. "Are +you crazy, Annie?" + +"I have on my black skirt, and I will wear rubbers," said Annie, +quietly. "I want some fresh air." + +"I should think you had enough fresh air. You were outdoors all the +afternoon, while we were cooped up in the house," said Jane. + +"Don't you feel well, Annie?" her father asked again, a golden bit of +omelet poised on his fork, as she was leaving the room. + +"Quite well, father dear." + +"But you are eating no supper." + +"I have always heard that people who cook don't need so much to eat," +said Imogen. "They say the essence of the food soaks in through the +pores." + +"I am quite well," Annie repeated, and the door closed behind her. + +"Dear Annie! She is always doing odd things like this," remarked Jane. + +"Yes, she is, things that one cannot account for, but Annie is a dear," +said Susan. + +"I hope she is well," said Annie's father. + +"Oh, she is well enough. Don't worry, father," said Imogen. "Dear Annie +is always doing the unexpected. She looks very well." + +"Yes, dear Annie is quite stout, for her," said Jane. + +"I think she is thinner than I have ever seen her, and the rest of you +look like stuffed geese," said Benny, rudely. + +Imogen turned upon him in dignified wrath. "Benny, you insult your +sisters," said she. "Father, you should really tell Benny that he should +bridle his tongue a little." + +"You ought to bridle yours, every one of you," retorted Benny. "You +girls nag poor Annie every single minute. You let her do all the work, +then you pick at her for it." + +There was a chorus of treble voices. "We nag dear Annie! We pick at dear +Annie! We make her do everything! Father, you should remonstrate with +Benjamin. You know how we all love dear Annie!" + +"Benjamin," began Silas Hempstead, but Benny, with a smothered +exclamation, was up and out of the room. + +Benny quite frankly disliked his sisters, with the exception of Annie. +For his father he had a sort of respectful tolerance. He could not see +why he should have anything else. His father had never done anything +for him except to admonish him. His scanty revenue for his support and +college expenses came from his maternal grandmother, who had been a +woman of parts and who had openly scorned her son-in-law. + +Grandmother Loomis had left a will which occasioned much comment. By its +terms she had provided sparsely but adequately for Benjamin's education +and living until he should graduate; and her house, with all her +personal property, and the bulk of the sum from which she had derived +her own income, fell to her granddaughter Annie. Annie had always +been her grandmother's favorite. There had been covert dismay when the +contents of the will were made known, then one and all had congratulated +the beneficiary, and said abroad that they were glad dear Annie was so +well provided for. It was intimated by Imogen and Eliza that probably +dear Annie would not marry, and in that case Grandmother Loomis's +bequest was so fortunate. She had probably taken that into +consideration. Grandmother Loomis had now been dead four years, and her +deserted home had been for rent, furnished, but it had remained vacant. + +Annie soon came back from the orchard, and after she had cleared +away the supper-table and washed the dishes she went up to her room, +carefully rearranged her hair, and changed her dress. Then she sat down +beside a window and waited and watched, her pointed chin in a cup of one +little thin hand, her soft muslin skirts circling around her, and +the scent of queer old sachet emanating from a flowered ribbon of her +grandmother's which she had tied around her waist. The ancient scent +always clung to the ribbon, suggesting faintly as a dream the musk and +roses and violets of some old summer-time. + +Annie sat there and gazed out on the front yard, which was silvered over +with moonlight. Annie's four sisters all sat out there. They had spread +a rug over the damp grass and brought out chairs. There were five +chairs, although there were only four girls. Annie gazed over the yard +and down the street. She heard the chatter of the girls, which was +inconsequent and absent, as if their minds were on other things than +their conversation. Then suddenly she saw a small red gleam far down the +street, evidently that of a cigar, and also a dark, moving figure. Then +there ensued a subdued wrangle in the yard. Imogen insisted that her +sisters should go into the house. They all resisted, Eliza the most +vehemently. Imogen was arrogant and compelling. Finally she drove them +all into the house except Eliza, who wavered upon the threshold of +yielding. Imogen was obliged to speak very softly lest the approaching +man hear, but Annie, in the window above her, heard every word. + +"You know he is coming to see me," said Imogen, passionately. "You +know--you know, Eliza, and yet every single time he comes, here are you +girls, spying and listening." + +"He comes to see Annie, I believe," said Eliza, in her stubborn voice, +which yet had indecision in it. + +"He never asks for her." + +"He never has a chance. We all tell him, the minute he comes in, that +she is out. But now I am going to stay, anyway." + +"Stay if you want to. You are all a jealous lot. If you girls can't have +a beau yourselves, you begrudge one to me. I never saw such a house as +this for a man to come courting in." + +"I will stay," said Eliza, and this time her voice was wholly firm. +"There is no use in my going, anyway, for the others are coming back." + +It was true. Back flitted Jane and Susan, and by that time Tom Reed had +reached the gate, and his cigar was going out in a shower of sparks on +the gravel walk, and all four sisters were greeting him and urging upon +his acceptance the fifth chair. Annie, watching, saw that the young man +seemed to hesitate. Then her heart leaped and she heard him speak +quite plainly, with a note of defiance and irritation, albeit with +embarrassment. + +"Is Miss Annie in?" asked Tom Reed. + +Imogen answered first, and her harsh voice was honey-sweet. + +"I fear dear Annie is out," she said. "She will be so sorry to miss +you." + +Annie, at her window, made a sudden passionate motion, then she sat +still and listened. She argued fiercely that she was right in so doing. +She felt that the time had come when she must know, for the sake of her +own individuality, just what she had to deal with in the natures of her +own kith and kin. Dear Annie had turned in her groove of sweetness and +gentle yielding, as all must turn who have any strength of character +underneath the sweetness and gentleness. Therefore Annie, at her window +above, listened. + +At first she heard little that bore upon herself, for the conversation +was desultory, about the weather and general village topics. Then Annie +heard her own name. She was "dear Annie," as usual. She listened, fairly +faint with amazement. What she heard from that quartette of treble +voices down there in the moonlight seemed almost like a fairy-tale. +The sisters did not violently incriminate her. They were too astute for +that. They told half-truths. They told truths which were as shadows of +the real facts, and yet not to be contradicted. They built up between +them a story marvelously consistent, unless prearranged, and that Annie +did not think possible. George Wells figured in the tale, and there were +various hints and pauses concerning herself and her own character in +daily life, and not one item could be flatly denied, even if the girl +could have gone down there and, standing in the midst of that moonlit +group, given her sisters the lie. + +Everything which they told, the whole structure of falsehood, had beams +and rafters of truth. Annie felt helpless before it all. To her fancy, +her sisters and Tom Reed seemed actually sitting in a fairy building +whose substance was utter falsehood, and yet which could not be utterly +denied. An awful sense of isolation possessed her. So these were her +own sisters, the sisters whom she had loved as a matter of the simplest +nature, whom she had admired, whom she had served. + +She made no allowance, since she herself was perfectly normal, for the +motive which underlay it all. She could not comprehend the strife of the +women over the one man. Tom Reed was in reality the one desirable match +in the village. Annie knew, or thought she knew, that Tom Reed had it +in mind to love her, and she innocently had it in mind to love him. She +thought of a home of her own and his with delight. She thought of it as +she thought of the roses coming into bloom in June, and she thought of +it as she thought of the every-day happenings of life--cooking, setting +rooms in order, washing dishes. However, there was something else +to reckon with, and that Annie instinctively knew. She had been +long-suffering, and her long-suffering was now regarded as endless. She +had cast her pearls, and they had been trampled. She had turned her +other cheek, and it had been promptly slapped. It was entirely true +that Annie's sisters were not quite worthy of her, that they had taken +advantage of her kindness and gentleness, and had mistaken them for +weakness, to be despised. She did not understand them, nor they her. +They were, on the whole, better than she thought, but with her there was +a stern limit of endurance. Something whiter and hotter than mere wrath +was in the girl's soul as she sat there and listened to the building of +that structure of essential falsehood about herself. + +She waited until Tom Reed had gone. He did not stay long. Then she went +down-stairs with flying feet, and stood among them in the moonlight. Her +father had come out of the study, and Benny had just been entering the +gate as Tom Reed left. Then dear Annie spoke. She really spoke for the +first time in her life, and there was something dreadful about it all. +A sweet nature is always rather dreadful when it turns and strikes, +and Annie struck with the whole force of a nature with a foundation of +steel. She left nothing unsaid. She defended herself and she accused her +sisters as if before a judge. Then came her ultimatum. + +"To-morrow morning I am going over to Grandmother Loomis's house, and +I am going to live there a whole year," she declared, in a slow, steady +voice. "As you know, I have enough to live on, and--in order that no +word of mine can be garbled and twisted as it has been to-night, I speak +not at all. Everything which I have to communicate shall be written in +black and white, and signed with my own name, and black and white cannot +lie." + +It was Jane who spoke first. "What will people say?" she whimpered, +feebly. + +"From what I have heard you all say to-night, whatever you make them," +retorted Annie--the Annie who had turned. + +Jane gasped. Silas Hempstead stood staring, quite dumb before the +sudden problem. Imogen alone seemed to have any command whatever of the +situation. + +"May I inquire what the butcher and grocer are going to think, no +matter what your own sisters think and say, when you give your orders +in writing?" she inquired, achieving a jolt from tragedy to the +commonplace. + +"That is my concern," replied Annie, yet she recognized the difficulty +of that phase of the situation. It is just such trifling matters which +detract from the dignity of extreme attitudes toward existence. Annie +had taken an extreme attitude, yet here were the butcher and the grocer +to reckon with. How could she communicate with them in writing without +appearing absurd to the verge of insanity? Yet even that difficulty had +a solution. + +Annie thought it out after she had gone to bed that night. She had been +imperturbable with her sisters, who had finally come in a body to +make entreaties, although not apologies or retractions. There was +a stiff-necked strain in the Hempstead family, and apologies and +retractions were bitterer cuds for them to chew than for most. She had +been imperturbable with her father, who had quoted Scripture and prayed +at her during family worship. She had been imperturbable even with +Benny, who had whispered to her: "Say, Annie, I don't blame you, but it +will be a hell of a time without you. Can't you stick it out?" + +But she had had a struggle before her own vision of the butcher and the +grocer, and their amazement when she ceased to speak to them. Then she +settled that with a sudden leap of inspiration. It sounded too apropos +to be life, but there was a little deaf-anddumb girl, a far-away +relative of the Hempsteads, who lived with her aunt Felicia in +Anderson. She was a great trial to her aunt Felicia, who was a widow +and well-to-do, and liked the elegancies and normalities of life. This +unfortunate little Effie Hempstead could not be placed in a charitable +institution on account of the name she bore. Aunt Felicia considered it +her worldly duty to care for her, but it was a trial. + +Annie would take Effie off Aunt Felicia's hands, and no comment would +be excited by a deaf-anddumb girl carrying written messages to the +tradesmen, since she obviously could not give them orally. The only +comment would be on Annie's conduct in holding herself aloof from her +family and the village people generally. + +The next morning, when Annie went away, there was an excited conclave +among the sisters. + +"She means to do it," said Susan, and she wept. + +Imogen's handsome face looked hard and set. "Let her, if she wants to," +said she. + +"Only think what people will say!" wailed Jane. + +Imogen tossed her head. "I shall have something to say myself," she +returned. "I shall say how much we all regret that dear Annie has such +a difficult disposition that she felt she could not live with her own +family and must be alone." + +"But," said Jane, blunt in her distress, "will they believe it?" + +"Why will they not believe it, pray?" + +"Why, I am afraid people have the impression that dear Annie has--" Jane +hesitated. + +"What?" asked Imogen, coldly. She looked very handsome that morning. Not +a waved golden hair was out of place on her carefully brushed head. She +wore the neatest of blue linen skirts and blouses, with a linen collar +and white tie. There was something hard but compelling about her blond +beauty. + +"I am afraid," said Jane, "that people have a sort of general impression +that dear Annie has perhaps as sweet a disposition as any of us, perhaps +sweeter." + +"Nobody says that dear Annie has not a sweet disposition," said Imogen, +taking a careful stitch in her embroidery. "But a sweet disposition is +very often extremely difficult for other people. It constantly puts them +in the wrong. I am well aware of the fact that dear Annie does a great +deal for all of us, but it is sometimes irritating. Of course it is +quite certain that she must have a feeling of superiority because of it, +and she should not have it." + +Sometimes Eliza made illuminating speeches. "I suppose it follows, +then," said she, with slight irony, "that only an angel can have a very +sweet disposition without offending others." + +But Imogen was not in the least nonplussed. She finished her line of +thought. "And with all her sweet disposition," said she, "nobody can +deny that dear Annie is peculiar, and peculiarity always makes people +difficult for other people. Of course it is horribly peculiar what she +is proposing to do now. That in itself will be enough to convince people +that dear Annie must be difficult. Only a difficult person could do such +a strange thing." + +"Who is going to get up and get breakfast in the morning, and wash the +dishes?" inquired Jane, irrelevantly. + +"All I ever want for breakfast is a bit of fruit, a roll, and an egg, +besides my coffee," said Imogen, with her imperious air. + +"Somebody has to prepare it." + +"That is a mere nothing," said Imogen, and she took another stitch. + +After a little, Jane and Eliza went by themselves and discussed the +problem. + +"It is quite evident that Imogen means to do nothing," said Jane. + +"And also that she will justify herself by the theory that there is +nothing to be done," said Eliza. + +"Oh, well," said Jane, "I will get up and get breakfast, of course. I +once contemplated the prospect of doing it the rest of my life." + +Eliza assented. "I can understand that it will not be so hard for you," +she said, "and although I myself always aspired to higher things than +preparing breakfasts, still, you did not, and it is true that you would +probably have had it to do if poor Henry had lived, for he was not one +to ever have a very large salary." + +"There are better things than large salaries," said Jane, and her face +looked sadly reminiscent. After all, the distinction of being the only +one who had been on the brink of preparing matrimonial breakfasts was +much. She felt that it would make early rising and early work endurable +to her, although she was not an active young woman. + +"I will get a dish-mop and wash the dishes," said Eliza. "I can manage +to have an instructive book propped open on the kitchen table, and keep +my mind upon higher things as I do such menial tasks." + +Then Susan stood in the doorway, a tall figure gracefully swaying +sidewise, long-throated and prominent-eyed. She was the least +attractive-looking of any of the sisters, but her manners were so +charming, and she was so perfectly the lady, that it made up for any +lack of beauty. + +"I will dust," said Susan, in a lovely voice, and as she spoke she +involuntarily bent and swirled her limp muslins in such a way that she +fairly suggested a moral duster. There was the making of an actress in +Susan. Nobody had ever been able to decide what her true individual self +was. Quite unconsciously, like a chameleon, she took upon herself the +characteristics of even inanimate things. Just now she was a duster, and +a wonderfully creditable duster. + +"Who," said Jane, "is going to sweep? Dear Annie has always done that." + +"I am not strong enough to sweep. I am very sorry," said Susan, who +remained a duster, and did not become a broom. + +"If we have system," said Eliza, vaguely, "the work ought not to be so +very hard." + +"Of course not," said Imogen. She had come in and seated herself. Her +three sisters eyed her, but she embroidered imperturbably. The same +thought was in the minds of all. Obviously Imogen was the very one to +take the task of sweeping upon herself. That hard, compact, young body +of hers suggested strenuous household work. Embroidery did not seem to +be her role at all. + +But Imogen had no intention of sweeping. Indeed, the very imagining of +such tasks in connection with herself was beyond her. She did not even +dream that her sisters expected it of her. + +"I suppose," said Jane, "that we might be able to engage Mrs. Moss to +come in once a week and do the sweeping." + +"It would cost considerable," said Susan. + +"But it has to be done." + +"I should think it might be managed, with system, if you did not hire +anybody," said Imogen, calmly. + +"You talk of system as if it were a suction cleaner," said Eliza, with +a dash of asperity. Sometimes she reflected how she would have hated +Imogen had she not been her sister. + +"System is invaluable," said Imogen. She looked away from her embroidery +to the white stretch of country road, arched over with elms, and +her beautiful eyes had an expression as if they sighted system, the +justified settler of all problems. + +Meantime, Annie Hempstead was traveling to Anderson in the jolting +trolley-car, and trying to settle her emotions and her outlook upon +life, which jolted worse than the car upon a strange new track. She +had not the slightest intention of giving up her plan, but she realized +within herself the sensations of a revolutionist. Who in her family, +for generations and generations, had ever taken the course which she was +taking? She was not exactly frightened--Annie had splendid courage when +once her blood was up--but she was conscious of a tumult and grind of +adjustment to a new level which made her nervous. + +She reached the end of the car line, then walked about half a mile to +her Aunt Felicia Hempstead's house. It was a handsome house, after the +standard of nearly half a century ago. It had an opulent air, with +its swelling breasts of bay windows, through which showed fine lace +curtains; its dormer-windows, each with its carefully draped curtains; +its black-walnut front door, whose side-lights were screened with +medallioned lace. The house sat high on three terraces of velvet-like +grass, and was surmounted by stone steps in three instalments, each of +which was flanked by stone lions. + +Annie mounted the three tiers of steps between the stone lions and rang +the front-door bell, which was polished so brightly that it winked +at her like a brazen eye. Almost directly the door was opened by an +immaculate, white-capped and white-aproned maid, and Annie was ushered +into the parlor. When Annie had been a little thing she had been +enamoured of and impressed by the splendor of this parlor. Now she had +doubts of it, in spite of the long, magnificent sweep of lace curtains, +the sheen of carefully kept upholstery, the gleam of alabaster +statuettes, and the even piles of gilt-edged books upon the polished +tables. + +Soon Mrs. Felicia Hempstead entered, a tall, well-set-up woman, with +a handsome face and keen eyes. She wore her usual morning costume--a +breakfast sacque of black silk profusely trimmed with lace, and a black +silk skirt. She kissed Annie, with a slight peck of closely set lips, +for she liked her. Then she sat down opposite her and regarded her with +as much of a smile as her sternly set mouth could manage, and inquired +politely regarding her health and that of the family. When Annie +broached the subject of her call, the set calm of her face relaxed, and +she nodded. + +"I know what your sisters are. You need not explain to me," she said. + +"But," returned Annie, "I do not think they realize. It is only because +I--" + +"Of course," said Felicia Hempstead. "It is because they need a dose +of bitter medicine, and you hope they will be the better for it. I +understand you, my dear. You have spirit enough, but you don't get it +up often. That is where they make their mistake. Often the meek are meek +from choice, and they are the ones to beware of. I don't blame you for +trying it. And you can have Effie and welcome. I warn you that she is a +little wearing. Of course she can't help her affliction, poor child, but +it is dreadful. I have had her taught. She can read and write very +well now, poor child, and she is not lacking, and I have kept her well +dressed. I take her out to drive with me every day, and am not ashamed +to have her seen with me. If she had all her faculties she would not be +a bad-looking little girl. Now, of course, she has something of a vacant +expression. That comes, I suppose, from her not being able to hear. She +has learned to speak a few words, but I don't encourage her doing that +before people. It is too evident that there is something wrong. She +never gets off one tone. But I will let her speak to you. She will be +glad to go with you. She likes you, and I dare say you can put up with +her. A woman when she is alone will make a companion of a brazen image. +You can manage all right for everything except her clothes and lessons. +I will pay for them." + +"Can't I give her lessons?" + +"Well, you can try, but I am afraid you will need to have Mr. Freer come +over once a week. It seems to me to be quite a knack to teach the deaf +and dumb. You can see. I will have Effie come in and tell her about +the plan. I wanted to go to Europe this summer, and did not know how to +manage about Effie. It will be a godsend to me, this arrangement, and of +course after the year is up she can come back." + +With that Felicia touched a bell, the maid appeared with automatic +readiness, and presently a tall little girl entered. She was very well +dressed. Her linen frock was hand-embroidered, and her shoes were ultra. +Her pretty shock of fair hair was tied with French ribbon in a fetching +bow, and she made a courtesy which would have befitted a little +princess. Poor Effie's courtesy was the one feature in which Felicia +Hempstead took pride. After making it the child always glanced at her +for approval, and her face lighted up with pleasure at the faint smile +which her little performance evoked. Effie would have been a pretty +little girl had it not been for that vacant, bewildered expression of +which Felicia had spoken. It was the expression of one shut up with +the darkest silence of life, that of her own self, and beauty was +incompatible with it. + +Felicia placed her stiff forefinger upon her own lips and nodded, and +the child's face became transfigured. She spoke in a level, awful voice, +utterly devoid of inflection, and full of fright. Her voice was as the +first attempt of a skater upon ice. However, it was intelligible. + +"Good morning," said she. "I hope you are well." Then she courtesied +again. That little speech and one other, "Thank you, I am very well," +were all she had mastered. Effie's instruction had begun rather late, +and her teacher was not remarkably skilful. + +When Annie's lips moved in response, Effie's face fairly glowed with +delight and affection. The little girl loved Annie. Then her questioning +eyes sought Felicia, who beckoned, and drew from the pocket of her +rustling silk skirt a tiny pad and pencil. Effie crossed the room and +stood at attention while Felicia wrote. When she had read the words on +the pad she gave one look at Annie, then another at Felicia, who nodded. + +Effie courtesied before Annie like a fairy dancer. "Good morning. I hope +you are well," she said. Then she courtesied again and said, "Thank you, +I am very well." Her pretty little face was quite eager with love and +pleasure, and yet there was an effect as of a veil before the happy +emotion in it. The contrast between the awful, level voice and the grace +of motion and evident delight at once shocked and compelled pity. Annie +put her arms around Effie and kissed her. + +"You dear little thing," she said, quite forgetting that Effie could not +hear. + +Felicia Hempstead got speedily to work, and soon Effie's effects were +packed and ready for transportation upon the first express to Lynn +Corners, and Annie and the little girl had boarded the trolley thither. + +Annie Hempstead had the sensation of one who takes a cold plunge--half +pain and fright, half exhilaration and triumph--when she had fairly +taken possession of her grandmother's house. There was genuine girlish +pleasure in looking over the stock of old china and linen and ancient +mahoganies, in starting a fire in the kitchen stove, and preparing a +meal, the written order for which Effie had taken to the grocer and +butcher. There was genuine delight in sitting down with Effie at her +very own table, spread with her grandmother's old damask and pretty +dishes, and eating, without hearing a word of unfavorable comment upon +the cookery. But there was a certain pain and terror in trampling upon +that which it was difficult to define, either her conscience or sense of +the divine right of the conventional. + +But that night after Effie had gone to bed, and the house was set to +rights, and she in her cool muslin was sitting on the front-door step, +under the hooded trellis covered with wistaria, she was conscious of +entire emancipation. She fairly gloated over her new estate. + +"To-night one of the others will really have to get the supper, and wash +the dishes, and not be able to say she did it and I didn't, when I +did," Annie thought with unholy joy. She knew perfectly well that her +viewpoint was not sanctified, but she felt that she must allow her +soul to have its little witch-caper or she could not answer for the +consequences. There might result spiritual atrophy, which would be much +more disastrous than sin and repentance. It was either the continuance +of her old life in her father's house, which was the ignominious and +harmful one of the scapegoat, or this. She at last reveled in this. Here +she was mistress. Here what she did, she did, and what she did not do +remained undone. Here her silence was her invincible weapon. Here she +was free. + +The soft summer night enveloped her. The air was sweet with flowers +and the grass which lay still unraked in her father's yard. A momentary +feeling of impatience seized her; then she dismissed it, and peace came. +What had she to do with that hay? Her father would be obliged to buy hay +if it were not raked over and dried, but what of that? She had nothing +to do with it. + +She heard voices and soft laughter. A dark shadow passed along the +street. Her heart quickened its beat. The shadow turned in at her +father's gate. There was a babel of welcoming voices, of which Annie +could not distinguish one articulate word. She sat leaning forward, her +eyes intent upon the road. Then she heard the click of her father's gate +and the dark, shadowy figure reappeared in the road. Annie knew who it +was; she knew that Tom Reed was coming to see her. For a second, rapture +seized her, then dismay. How well she knew her sisters-how very well! +Not one of them would have given him the slightest inkling of the true +situation. They would have told him, by the sweetest of insinuations, +rather than by straight statements, that she had left her father's roof +and come over here, but not one word would have been told him concerning +her vow of silence. They would leave that for him to discover, to his +amazement and anger. + +Annie rose and fled. She closed the door, turned the key softly, and ran +up-stairs in the dark. Kneeling before a window on the farther side from +her old home, she watched with eager eyes the young man open the gate +and come up the path between the old-fashioned shrubs. The clove-like +fragrance of the pinks in the border came in her face. Annie watched +Tom Reed disappear beneath the trellised hood of the door; then the bell +tinkled through the house. It seemed to Annie that she heard it as she +had never heard anything before. Every nerve in her body seemed urging +her to rise and go down-stairs and admit this young man whom she loved. +But her will, turned upon itself, kept her back. She could not rise +and go down; something stronger than her own wish restrained her. She +suffered horribly, but she remained. The bell tinkled again. There was a +pause, then it sounded for the third time. + +Annie leaned against the window, faint and trembling. It was rather +horrible to continue such a fight between will and inclination, but she +held out. She would not have been herself had she not done so. Then she +saw Tom Reed's figure emerge from under the shadow of the door, pass +down the path between the sweet-flowering shrubs, seeming to stir up +the odor of the pinks as he did so. He started to go down the road; +then Annie heard a loud, silvery call, with a harsh inflection, from her +father's house. "Imogen is calling him back," she thought. + +Annie was out of the room, and, slipping softly down-stairs and out into +the yard, crouched close to the fence overgrown with sweetbrier, its +foundation hidden in the mallow, and there she listened. She wanted to +know what Imogen and her other sisters were about to say to Tom Reed, +and she meant to know. She heard every word. The distance was not great, +and her sisters' voices carried far, in spite of their honeyed tones +and efforts toward secrecy. By the time Tom had reached the gate of +the parsonage they had all crowded down there, a fluttering assembly in +their snowy summer muslins, like white doves. Annie heard Imogen first. +Imogen was always the ringleader. + +"Couldn't you find her?" asked Imogen. + +"No. Rang three times," replied Tom. He had a boyish voice, and his +chagrin showed plainly in it. Annie knew just how he looked, how dear +and big and foolish, with his handsome, bewildered face, blurting out to +her sisters his disappointment, with innocent faith in their sympathy. + +Then Annie heard Eliza speak in a small, sweet voice, which yet, to one +who understood her, carried in it a sting of malice. "How very strange!" +said Eliza. + +Jane spoke next. She echoed Eliza, but her voice was more emphatic and +seemed multiple, as echoes do. "Yes, very strange indeed," said Jane. + +"Dear Annie is really very singular lately. It has distressed us all, +especially father," said Susan, but deprecatingly. + +Then Imogen spoke, and to the point. "Annie must be in that house," said +she. "She went in there, and she could not have gone out without our +seeing her." + +Annie could fairly see the toss of Imogen's head as she spoke. + +"What in thunder do you all mean?" asked Tom Reed, and there was a +bluntness, almost a brutality, in his voice which was refreshing. + +"I do not think such forcible language is becoming, especially at the +parsonage," said Jane. + +Annie distinctly heard Tom Reed snort. "Hang it if I care whether it is +becoming or not," said he. + +"You seem to forget that you are addressing ladies, sir," said Jane. + +"Don't forget it for a blessed minute," returned Tom Reed. "Wish I +could. You make it too evident that you are--ladies, with every word you +speak, and all your beating about the bush. A man would blurt it out, +and then I would know where I am at. Hang it if I know now. You all say +that your sister is singular and that she distresses your father, and +you"--addressing Imogen--"say that she must be in that house. You are +the only one who does make a dab at speaking out; I will say that much +for you. Now, if she is in that house, what in thunder is the matter?" + +"I really cannot stay here and listen to such profane language," said +Jane, and she flitted up the path to the house like an enraged white +moth. She had a fleecy white shawl over her head, and her pale outline +was triangular. + +"If she calls that profane, I pity her," said Tom Reed. He had known the +girls since they were children, and had never liked Jane. He continued, +still addressing Imogen. "For Heaven's sake, if she is in that house, +what is the matter?" said he. "Doesn't the bell ring? Yes, it does ring, +though it is as cracked as the devil. I heard it. Has Annie gone deaf? +Is she sick? Is she asleep? It is only eight o'clock. I don't believe +she is asleep. Doesn't she want to see me? Is that the trouble? What +have I done? Is she angry with me?" + +Eliza spoke, smoothly and sweetly. "Dear Annie is singular," said she. + +"What the dickens do you mean by singular? I have known Annie ever since +she was that high. It never struck me that she was any more singular +than other girls, except she stood an awful lot of nagging without +making a kick. Here you all say she is singular, as if you meant she +was"--Tom hesitated a second--"crazy," said he. "Now, I know that Annie +is saner than any girl around here, and that simply does not go down. +What do you all mean by singular?" + +"Dear Annie may not be singular, but her actions are sometimes +singular," said Susan. "We all feel badly about this." + +"You mean her going over to her grandmother's house to live? I don't +know whether I think that is anything but horse-sense. I have eyes in my +head, and I have used them. Annie has worked like a dog here; I suppose +she needed a rest." + +"We all do our share of the work," said Eliza, calmly, "but we do it in +a different way from dear Annie. She makes very hard work of work. +She has not as much system as we could wish. She tires herself +unnecessarily." + +"Yes, that is quite true," assented Imogen. "Dear Annie gets very tired +over the slightest tasks, whereas if she went a little more slowly +and used more system the work would be accomplished well and with no +fatigue. There are five of us to do the work here, and the house is very +convenient." + +There was a silence. Tom Reed was bewildered. "But--doesn't she want to +see me?" he asked, finally. + +"Dear Annie takes very singular notions sometimes," said Eliza, softly. + +"If she took a notion not to go to the door when she heard the bell +ring, she simply wouldn't," said Imogen, whose bluntness of speech was, +after all, a relief. + +"Then you mean that you think she took a notion not to go to the door?" +asked Tom, in a desperate tone. + +"Dear Annie is very singular," said Eliza, with such softness and +deliberation that it was like a minor chord of music. + +"Do you know of anything she has against me?" asked Tom of Imogen; but +Eliza answered for her. + +"Dear Annie is not in the habit of making confidantes of her sisters," +said she, "but we do know that she sometimes takes unwarranted +dislikes." + +"Which time generally cures," said Susan. + +"Oh yes," assented Eliza, "which time generally cures. She can have no +reason whatever for avoiding you. You have always treated her well." + +"I have always meant to," said Tom, so miserably and helplessly that +Annie, listening, felt her heart go out to this young man, badgered by +females, and she formed a sudden resolution. + +"You have not seen very much of her, anyway," said Imogen. + +"I have always asked for her, but I understood she was busy," said Tom, +"and that was the reason why I saw her so seldom." + +"Oh," said Eliza, "busy!" She said it with an indescribable tone. + +"If," supplemented Imogen, "there was system, there would be no need of +any one of us being too busy to see our friends." + +"Then she has not been busy? She has not wanted to see me?" said Tom. "I +think I understand at last. I have been a fool not to before. You girls +have broken it to me as well as you could. Much obliged, I am sure. Good +night." + +"Won't you come in?" asked Imogen. + +"We might have some music," said Eliza. + +"And there is an orange cake, and I will make coffee," said Susan. + +Annie reflected rapidly how she herself had made that orange cake, and +what queer coffee Susan would be apt to concoct. + +"No, thank you," said Tom Reed, briskly. "I will drop in another +evening. Think I must go home now. I have some important letters. Good +night, all." + +Annie made a soft rush to the gate, crouching low that her sisters might +not see her. They flocked into the house with irascible murmurings, like +scolding birds, while Annie stole across the grass, which had begun to +glisten with silver wheels of dew. She held her skirts closely wrapped +around her, and stepped through a gap in the shrubs beside the walk, +then sped swiftly to the gate. She reached it just as Tom Reed was +passing with a quick stride. + +"Tom," said Annie, and the young man stopped short. + +He looked in her direction, but she stood close to a great +snowball-bush, and her dress was green muslin, and he did not see her. +Thinking that he had been mistaken, he started on, when she called +again, and this time she stepped apart from the bush and her voice +sounded clear as a flute. + +"Tom," she said. "Stop a minute, please." + +Tom stopped and came close to her. In the dim light she could see that +his face was all aglow, like a child's, with delight and surprise. + +"Is that you, Annie?" he said. + +"Yes. I want to speak to you, please." + +"I have been here before, and I rang the bell three times. Then you were +out, although your sisters thought not." + +"No, I was in the house." + +"You did not hear the bell?" + +"Yes, I heard it every time." + +"Then why--?" + +"Come into the house with me and I will tell you; at least I will tell +you all I can." + +Annie led the way and the young man followed. He stood in the dark entry +while Annie lit the parlor lamp. The room was on the farther side of the +house from the parsonage. + +"Come in and sit down," said Annie. Then the young man stepped into +a room which was pretty in spite of itself. There was an old Brussels +carpet with an enormous rose pattern. The haircloth furniture gave out +gleams like black diamonds under the light of the lamp. In a corner +stood a what-not piled with branches of white coral and shells. Annie's +grandfather had been a sea-captain, and many of his spoils were in the +house. Possibly Annie's own occupation of it was due to an adventurous +strain inherited from him. Perhaps the same impulse which led him to +voyage to foreign shores had led her to voyage across a green yard to +the next house. + +Tom Reed sat down on the sofa. Annie sat in a rocking-chair near by. At +her side was a Chinese teapoy, a nest of lacquer tables, and on it stood +a small, squat idol. Annie's grandmother had been taken to task by her +son-in-law, the Reverend Silas, for harboring a heathen idol, but she +had only laughed, + +"Guess as long as I don't keep heathen to bow down before him, he can't +do much harm," she had said. + +Now the grotesque face of the thing seemed to stare at the two +Occidental lovers with the strange, calm sarcasm of the Orient, but they +had no eyes or thought for it. + +"Why didn't you come to the door if you heard the bell ring?" asked Tom +Reed, gazing at Annie, slender as a blade of grass in her clinging green +gown. + +"Because I was not able to break my will then. I had to break it to go +out in the yard and ask you to come in, but when the bell rang I hadn't +got to the point where I could break it." + +"What on earth do you mean, Annie?" + +Annie laughed. "I don't wonder you ask," she said, "and the worst of +it is I can't half answer you. I wonder how much, or rather how little +explanation will content you?" + +Tom Reed gazed at her with the eyes of a man who might love a woman and +have infinite patience with her, relegating his lack of understanding of +her woman's nature to the background, as a thing of no consequence. + +"Mighty little will do for me," he said, "mighty little, Annie dear, if +you will only tell a fellow you love him." + +Annie looked at him, and her thin, sweet face seemed to have a luminous +quality, like a crescent moon. Her look was enough. + +"Then you do?" said Tom Reed. + +"You have never needed to ask," said Annie. "You knew." + +"I haven't been so sure as you think," said Tom. "Suppose you come over +here and sit beside me. You look miles away." + +Annie laughed and blushed, but she obeyed. She sat beside Tom and +let him put his arm around her. She sat up straight, by force of her +instinctive maidenliness, but she kissed him back when he kissed her. + +"I haven't been so sure," repeated Tom. "Annie darling, why have I been +unable to see more of you? I have fairly haunted your house, and seen +the whole lot of your sisters, especially Imogen, but somehow or other +you have been as slippery as an eel. I have always asked for you, but +you were always out or busy." + +"I have been very busy," said Annie, evasively. She loved this young man +with all her heart, but she had an enduring loyalty to her own flesh and +blood. + +Tom was very literal. "Say, Annie," he blurted out, "I begin to think +you have had to do most of the work over there. Now, haven't you? Own +up." + +Annie laughed sweetly. She was so happy that no sense of injury could +possibly rankle within her. "Oh, well," she said, lightly. "Perhaps. I +don't know. I guess housekeeping comes rather easier to me than to the +others. I like it, you know, and work is always easier when one likes +it. The other girls don't take to it so naturally, and they get very +tired, and it has seemed often that I was the one who could hurry the +work through and not mind." + +"I wonder if you will stick up for me the way you do for your sisters +when you are my wife?" said Tom, with a burst of love and admiration. +Then he added: "Of course you are going to be my wife, Annie? You know +what this means?" + +"If you think I will make you as good a wife as you can find," said +Annie. + +"As good a wife! Annie, do you really know what you are?" + +"Just an ordinary girl, with no special talent for anything." + +"You are the most wonderful girl that ever walked the earth," exclaimed +Tom. "And as for talent, you have the best talent in the whole world; +you can love people who are not worthy to tie your shoestrings, and +think you are looking up when in reality you are looking down. That is +what I call the best talent in the whole world for a woman." Tom Reed +was becoming almost subtle. + +Annie only laughed happily again. "Well, you will have to wait and find +out," said she. + +"I suppose," said Tom, "that you came over here because you were tired +out, this hot weather. I think you were sensible, but I don't think you +ought to be here alone." + +"I am not alone," replied Annie. "I have poor little Effie Hempstead +with me." + +"That deaf-and-dumb child? I should think this heathen god would be +about as much company." + +"Why, Tom, she is human, if she is deaf and dumb." + +Tom eyed her shrewdly. "What did you mean when you said you had broken +your will?" he inquired. + +"My will not to speak for a while," said Annie, faintly. + +"Not to speak--to any one?" + +Annie nodded. + +"Then you have broken your resolution by speaking to me?" + +Annie nodded again. + +"But why shouldn't you speak? I don't understand." + +"I wondered how little I could say, and have you satisfied," Annie +replied, sadly. + +Tom tightened his arm around her. "You precious little soul," he said. +"I am satisfied. I know you have some good reason for not wanting to +speak, but I am plaguey glad you spoke to me, for I should have been +pretty well cast down if you hadn't, and to-morrow I have to go away." + +Annie leaned toward him. "Go away!" + +"Yes; I have to go to California about that confounded Ames will case. +And I don't know exactly where, on the Pacific coast, the parties I have +to interview may be, and I may have to be away weeks, possibly months. +Annie darling, it did seem to me a cruel state of things to have to go +so far, and leave you here, living in such a queer fashion, and not +know how you felt. Lord! but I'm glad you had sense enough to call me, +Annie." + +"I couldn't let you go by, when it came to it, and Tom--" + +"What, dear?" + +"I did an awful mean thing: something I never was guilty of before. +I--listened." + +"Well, I don't see what harm it did. You didn't hear much to your or +your sisters' disadvantage, that I can remember. They kept calling you +'dear.'" + +"Yes," said Annie, quickly. Again, such was her love and thankfulness +that a great wave of love and forgiveness for her sisters swept over +her. Annie had a nature compounded of depths of sweetness; nobody +could be mistaken with regard to that. What they did mistake was the +possibility of even sweetness being at bay at times, and remaining +there. + +"You don't mean to speak to anybody else?" asked Tom. + +"Not for a year, if I can avoid it without making comment which might +hurt father." + +"Why, dear?" + +"That is what I cannot tell you," replied Annie, looking into his face +with a troubled smile. + +Tom looked at her in a puzzled way, then he kissed her. + +"Oh, well, dear," he said, "it is all right. I know perfectly well you +would do nothing in which you were not justified, and you have spoken to +me, anyway, and that is the main thing. I think if I had been obliged +to start to-morrow without a word from you I shouldn't have cared a hang +whether I ever came back or not. You are the only soul to hold me here; +you know that, darling." + +"Yes," replied Annie. + +"You are the only one," repeated Tom, "but it seems to me this minute as +if you were a whole host, you dear little soul. But I don't quite like +to leave you here living alone, except for Effie." + +"Oh, I am within a stone's-throw of father's," said Annie, lightly. + +"I admit that. Still, you are alone. Annie, when are you going to marry +me?" + +Annie regarded him with a clear, innocent look. She had lived such a +busy life that her mind was unfilmed by dreams. "Whenever you like, +after you come home," said she. + +"It can't be too soon for me. I want my wife and I want my home. What +will you do while I am gone, dear?" + +Annie laughed. "Oh, I shall do what I have seen other girls do--get +ready to be married." + +"That means sewing, lots of hemming and tucking and stitching, doesn't +it?" + +"Of course." + +"Girls are so funny," said Tom. "Now imagine a man sitting right down +and sewing like mad on his collars and neckties and shirts the minute a +girl said she'd marry him!" + +"Girls like it." + +"Well, I suppose they do," said Tom, and he looked down at Annie from +a tender height of masculinity, and at the same time seemed to look up +from the valley of one who cannot understand the subtle and poetical +details in a woman's soul. + +He did not stay long after that, for it was late. As he passed through +the gate, after a tender farewell, Annie watched him with shining eyes. +She was now to be all alone, but two things she had, her freedom and her +love, and they would suffice. + +The next morning Silas Hempstead, urged by his daughters, walked +solemnly over to the next house, but he derived little satisfaction. +Annie did not absolutely refuse to speak. She had begun to realize that +carrying out her resolution to the extreme letter was impossible. But +she said as little as she could. + +"I have come over here to live for the present. I am of age, and have a +right to consult my own wishes. My decision is unalterable." Having said +this much, Annie closed her mouth and said no more. Silas argued and +pleaded. Annie sat placidly sewing beside one front window of the sunny +sittingroom. Effie, with a bit of fancy-work, sat at another. Finally +Silas went home defeated, with a last word, half condemnatory, half +placative. Silas was not the sort to stand firm against such feminine +strength as his daughter Annie's. However, he secretly held her dearer +than all his other children. + +After her father had gone, Annie sat taking even stitch after even +stitch, but a few tears ran over her cheeks and fell upon the soft mass +of muslin. Effie watched with shrewd, speculative silence, like a pet +cat. Then suddenly she rose and went close to Annie, with her little +arms around her neck, and the poor dumb mouth repeating her little +speeches: "Thank you, I am very well, thank you, I am very well," over +and over. + +Annie kissed her fondly, and was aware of a sense of comfort and of love +for this poor little Effie. Still, after being nearly two months with +the child, she was relieved when Felicia Hempstead came, the first of +September, and wished to take Effie home with her. She had not gone to +Europe, after all, but to the mountains, and upon her return had missed +the little girl. + +Effie went willingly enough, but Annie discovered that she too missed +her. Now loneliness had her fairly in its grip. She had a telephone +installed, and gave her orders over that. Sometimes the sound of a +human voice made her emotional to tears. Besides the voices over the +telephone, Annie had nobody, for Benny returned to college soon after +Effie left. Benny had been in the habit of coming in to see Annie, and +she had not had the heart to check him. She talked to him very little, +and knew that he was no telltale as far as she was concerned, although +he waxed most communicative with regard to the others. A few days before +he left he came over and begged her to return. + +"I know the girls have nagged you till you are fairly worn out," he +said. "I know they don't tell things straight, but I don't believe they +know it, and I don't see why you can't come home, and insist upon your +rights, and not work so hard." + +"If I come home now it will be as it was before," said Annie. + +"Can't you stand up for yourself and not have it the same?" + +Annie shook her head. + +"Seems as if you could," said Benny. "I always thought a girl knew how +to manage other girls. It is rather awful the way things go now over +there. Father must be uncomfortable enough trying to eat the stuff they +set before him and living in such a dirty house." + +Annie winced. "Is it so very dirty?" + +Benny whistled. + +"Is the food so bad?" + +Benny whistled again. + +"You advised me--or it amounted to the same thing--to take this stand," +said Annie. + +"I know I did, but I didn't know how bad it would be. Guess I didn't +half appreciate you myself, Annie. Well, you must do as you think best, +but if you could look in over there your heart would ache." + +"My heart aches as it is," said Annie, sadly. + +Benny put an arm around her. "Poor girl!" he said. "It is a shame, but +you are going to marry Tom. You ought not to have the heartache." + +"Marriage isn't everything," said Annie, "and my heart does ache, but--I +can't go back there, unless--I can't make it clear to you, Benny, but +it seems to me as if I couldn't go back there until the year is up, or +I shouldn't be myself, and it seems, too, as if I should not be doing +right by the girls. There are things more important even than doing +work for others. I have got it through my head that I can be dreadfully +selfish being unselfish." + +"Well, I suppose you are right," admitted Benny with a sigh. + +Then he kissed Annie and went away, and the blackness of loneliness +settled down upon her. She had wondered at first that none of the +village people came to see her, although she did not wish to talk to +them; then she no longer wondered. She heard, without hearing, just what +her sisters had said about her. + +That was a long winter for Annie Hempstead. Letters did not come very +regularly from Tom Reed, for it was a season of heavy snowfalls and the +mails were often delayed. The letters were all that she had for comfort +and company. She had bought a canary-bird, adopted a stray kitten, and +filled her sunny windows with plants. She sat beside them and sewed, and +tried to be happy and content, but all the time there was a frightful +uncertainty deep down within her heart as to whether or not she was +doing right. She knew that her sisters were unworthy, and yet her love +and longing for them waxed greater and greater. As for her father, she +loved him as she had never loved him before. The struggle grew terrible. +Many a time she dressed herself in outdoor array and started to go +home, but something always held her back. It was a strange conflict +that endured through the winter months, the conflict of a loving, +self-effacing heart with its own instincts. + +Toward the last of February her father came over at dusk. Annie ran to +the door, and he entered. He looked unkempt and dejected. He did not +say much, but sat down and looked about him with a half-angry, +half-discouraged air. Annie went out into the kitchen and broiled some +beefsteak, and creamed some potatoes, and made tea and toast. Then she +called him into the sitting-room, and he ate like one famished. + +"Your sister Susan does the best she can," he said, when he had +finished, "and lately Jane has been trying, but they don't seem to have +the knack. I don't want to urge you, Annie, but--" + +"You know when I am married you will have to get on without me," Annie +said, in a low voice. + +"Yes, but in the mean time you might, if you were home, show Susan and +Jane." + +"Father," said Annie, "you know if I came home now it would be just +the same as it was before. You know if I give in and break my word with +myself to stay away a year what they will think and do." + +"I suppose they might take advantage," admitted Silas, heavily. "I fear +you have always given in to them too much for their own good." + +"Then I shall not give in now," said Annie, and she shut her mouth +tightly. + +There came a peal of the cracked door-bell, and Silas started with a +curious, guilty look. Annie regarded him sharply. "Who is it, father?" + +"Well, I heard Imogen say to Eliza that she thought it was very foolish +for them all to stay over there and have the extra care and expense, +when you were here." + +"You mean that the girls--?" + +"I think they did have a little idea that they might come here and make +you a little visit--" + +Annie was at the front door with a bound. The key turned in the lock and +a bolt shot into place. Then she returned to her father, and her face +was very white. + +"You did not lock your door against your own sisters?" he gasped. + +"God forgive me, I did." + +The bell pealed again. Annie stood still, her mouth quivering in a +strange, rigid fashion. The curtains in the dining-room windows were +not drawn. Suddenly one window showed full of her sisters' faces. It was +Susan who spoke. + +"Annie, you can't mean to lock us out?" Susan's face looked strange and +wild, peering in out of the dark. Imogen's handsome face towered over +her shoulder. + +"We think it advisable to close our house and make you a visit," she +said, quite distinctly through the glass. + +Then Jane said, with an inaudible sob, "Dear Annie, you can't mean to +keep us out!" + +Annie looked at them and said not a word. Their half-commanding, +half-imploring voices continued a while. Then the faces disappeared. + +Annie turned to her father. "God knows if I have done right," she said, +"but I am doing what you have taken me to account for not doing." + +"Yes, I know," said Silas. He sat for a while silent. Then he rose, +kissed Annie--something he had seldom done--and went home. After he had +gone Annie sat down and cried. She did not go to bed that night. The cat +jumped up in her lap, and she was glad of that soft, purring comfort. It +seemed to her as if she had committed a great crime, and as if she +had suffered martyrdom. She loved her father and her sisters with such +intensity that her heart groaned with the weight of pure love. For the +time it seemed to her that she loved them more than the man whom she was +to marry. She sat there and held herself, as with chains of agony, from +rushing out into the night, home to them all, and breaking her vow. + +It was never quite so bad after that night, for Annie compromised. She +baked bread and cake and pies, and carried them over after nightfall +and left them at her father's door. She even, later on, made a pot of +coffee, and hurried over with it in the dawn-light, always watching +behind a corner of a curtain until she saw an arm reached out for it. +All this comforted Annie, and, moreover, the time was drawing near when +she could go home. + +Tom Reed had been delayed much longer than he expected. He would not be +home before early fall. They would not be married until November, and +she would have several months at home first. + +At last the day came. Out in Silas Hempstead's front yard the grass +waved tall, dotted with disks of clover. Benny was home, and he had been +over to see Annie every day since his return. That morning when Annie +looked out of her window the first thing she saw was Benny waving a +scythe in awkward sweep among the grass and clover. An immense pity +seized her at the sight. She realized that he was doing this for her, +conquering his indolence. She almost sobbed. + +"Dear, dear boy, he will cut himself," she thought. Then she conquered +her own love and pity, even as her brother was conquering his sloth. She +understood clearly that it was better for Benny to go on with his task +even if he did cut himself. + +The grass was laid low when she went home, and Benny stood, a conqueror +in a battle-field of summer, leaning on his scythe. + +"Only look, Annie," he cried out, like a child. "I have cut all the +grass." + +Annie wanted to hug him. Instead she laughed. "It was time to cut it," +she said. Her tone was cool, but her eyes were adoring. + +Benny laid down his scythe, took her by the arm, and led her into the +house. Silas and his other daughters were in the sitting-room, and the +room was so orderly it was painful. The ornaments on the mantel-shelf +stood as regularly as soldiers on parade, and it was the same with the +chairs. Even the cushions on the sofa were arranged with one corner +overlapping another. The curtains were drawn at exactly the same height +from the sill. The carpet looked as if swept threadbare. + +Annie's first feeling was of worried astonishment; then her eye caught +a glimpse of Susan's kitchen apron tucked under a sofa pillow, and of +layers of dust on the table, and she felt relieved. After all, what she +had done had not completely changed the sisters, whom she loved, faults +and all. Annie realized how horrible it would have been to find her +loved ones completely changed, even for the better. They would have +seemed like strange, aloof angels to her. + +They all welcomed her with a slight stiffness, yet with cordiality. Then +Silas made a little speech. + +"Your father and your sisters are glad to welcome you home, dear Annie," +he said, "and your sisters wish me to say for them that they realize +that possibly they may have underestimated your tasks and overestimated +their own. In short, they may not have been--" + +Silas hesitated, and Benny finished. "What the girls want you to know, +Annie, is that they have found out they have been a parcel of pigs." + +"We fear we have been selfish without realizing it," said Jane, and she +kissed Annie, as did Susan and Eliza. Imogen, looking very handsome +in her blue linen, with her embroidery in her hands, did not kiss her +sister. She was not given to demonstrations, but she smiled complacently +at her. + +"We are all very glad to have dear Annie back, I am sure," said she, +"and now that it is all over, we all feel that it has been for the best, +although it has seemed very singular, and made, I fear, considerable +talk. But, of course, when one person in a family insists upon taking +everything upon herself, it must result in making the others selfish." + +Annie did not hear one word that Imogen said. She was crying on Susan's +shoulder. + +"Oh, I am so glad to be home," she sobbed. + +And they all stood gathered about her, rejoicing and fond of her, but +she was the one lover among them all who had been capable of hurting +them and hurting herself for love's sake. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Copy-Cat and Other Stories, by +Mary E. Wilkins Freeman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COPY-CAT AND OTHER STORIES *** + +***** This file should be named 1716.txt or 1716.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/1/1716/ + +Produced by Judy Boss + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon + University" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Carnegie-Mellon University". + +*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +This etext was prepared by Judy Boss, Omaha, NE + + + + + +The COPY-CAT +& Other Stories + +BY +MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE + + I. THE COPY-CAT . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 + + II. THE COCK OF THE WALK . . . . . . . . . 33 + + III. JOHNNY-IN-THE-WOODS . . . . . . . . . 55 + + IV. DANIEL AND LITTLE DAN'L . . . . . . . . 83 + + V. BIG SISTER SOLLY . . . . . . . . . . 107 + + VI. LITTLE LUCY ROSE . . . . . . . . . . 137 + + VII. NOBLESSE . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163 + +VIII. CORONATION . . . . . . . . . . . . 183 + + IX. THE AMETHYST COMB . . . . . . . . . . 211 + + X. THE UMBRELLA MAN . . . . . . . . . . 237 + + XI. THE BALKING OF CHRISTOPHER . . . . . . . 267 + + XII. DEAR ANNIE . . . . . . . . . . . . 293 + + + + +THE COPY-CAT + + + + +THE COPY-CAT + +THAT affair of Jim Simmons's cats never became +known. Two little boys and a little girl can +keep a secret -- that is, sometimes. The two little +boys had the advantage of the little girl because they +could talk over the affair together, and the little +girl, Lily Jennings, had no intimate girl friend to +tempt her to confidence. She had only little Amelia +Wheeler, commonly called by the pupils of Madame's +school "The Copy-Cat." + +Amelia was an odd little girl -- that is, everybody +called her odd. She was that rather unusual crea- +ture, a child with a definite ideal; and that ideal was +Lily Jennings. However, nobody knew that. If +Amelia's mother, who was a woman of strong charac- +ter, had suspected, she would have taken strenuous +measures to prevent such a peculiar state of affairs; +the more so because she herself did not in the least +approve of Lily Jennings. Mrs. Diantha Wheeler +(Amelia's father had died when she was a baby) +often remarked to her own mother, Mrs. Stark, and +to her mother-in-law, Mrs. Samuel Wheeler, that she +did not feel that Mrs. Jennings was bringing up Lily +exactly as she should. "That child thinks entirely +too much of her looks," said Mrs. Diantha. "When +she walks past here she switches those ridiculous +frilled frocks of hers as if she were entering a ball- +room, and she tosses her head and looks about to see +if anybody is watching her. If I were to see Amelia +doing such things I should be very firm with her." + +"Lily Jennings is a very pretty child," said +Mother-in-law Wheeler, with an under-meaning, and +Mrs. Diantha flushed. Amelia did not in the least +resemble the Wheelers, who were a handsome set. +She looked remarkably like her mother, who was a +plain woman, only little Amelia did not have a square +chin. Her chin was pretty and round, with a little +dimple in it. In fact, Amelia's chin was the pretti- +est feature she had. Her hair was phenomenally +straight. It would not even yield to hot curling- +irons, which her grandmother Wheeler had tried sur- +reptitiously several times when there was a little +girls' party. "I never saw such hair as that poor +child has in all my life," she told the other grand- +mother, Mrs. Stark. "Have the Starks always had +such very straight hair?" + +Mrs. Stark stiffened her chin. Her own hair was +very straight. "I don't know," said she, "that the +Starks have had any straighter hair than other +people. If Amelia does not have anything worse to +contend with than straight hair I rather think she +will get along in the world as well as most people." + +"It's thin, too," said Grandmother Wheeler, with +a sigh, "and it hasn't a mite of color. Oh, well, +Amelia is a good child, and beauty isn't everything." +Grandmother Wheeler said that as if beauty were +a great deal, and Grandmother Stark arose and shook +out her black silk skirts. She had money, and loved +to dress in rich black silks and laces. + +"It is very little, very little indeed," said she, and +she eyed Grandmother Wheeler's lovely old face, +like a wrinkled old rose as to color, faultless as to +feature, and swept about by the loveliest waves of +shining silver hair. + +Then she went out of the room, and Grandmother +Wheeler, left alone, smiled. She knew the worth of +beauty for those who possess it and those who do not. +She had never been quite reconciled to her son's +marrying such a plain girl as Diantha Stark, although +she had money. She considered beauty on the +whole as a more valuable asset than mere gold. +She regretted always that poor little Amelia, her +only grandchild, was so very plain-looking. She +always knew that Amelia was very plain, and yet +sometimes the child puzzled her. She seemed to see +reflections of beauty, if not beauty itself, in the +little colorless face, in the figure, with its too-large +joints and utter absence of curves. She sometimes +even wondered privately if some subtle resemblance +to the handsome Wheelers might not be in the child +and yet appear. But she was mistaken. What she +saw was pure mimicry of a beautiful ideal. + +Little Amelia tried to stand like Lily Jennings; +she tried to walk like her; she tried to smile like +her; she made endeavors, very often futile, to dress +like her. Mrs. Wheeler did not in the least approve +of furbelows for children. Poor little Amelia went +clad in severe simplicity; durable woolen frocks in +winter, and washable, unfadable, and non-soil-show- +ing frocks in summer. She, although her mother had +perhaps more money wherewith to dress her than had +any of the other mothers, was the plainest-clad little +girl in school. Amelia, moreover, never tore a frock, +and, as she did not grow rapidly, one lasted several +seasons. Lily Jennings was destructive, although +dainty. Her pretty clothes were renewed every +year. Amelia was helpless before that problem. +For a little girl burning with aspirations to be and +look like another little girl who was beautiful and +wore beautiful clothes, to be obliged to set forth for +Madame's on a lovely spring morning, when thin +attire was in evidence, dressed in dark-blue-and- +white-checked gingham, which she had worn for +three summers, and with sleeves which, even to +childish eyes, were anachronisms, was a trial. Then +to see Lily flutter in a frock like a perfectly new white +flower was torture; not because of jealousy -- Amelia +was not jealous; but she so admired the other little +girl, and so loved her, and so wanted to be like her. + +As for Lily, she hardly ever noticed Amelia. She +was not aware that she herself was an object of +adoration; for she was a little girl who searched for +admiration in the eyes of little boys rather than +little girls, although very innocently. She always +glanced slyly at Johnny Trumbull when she wore a +pretty new frock, to see if he noticed. He never did, +and she was sharp enough to know it. She was also +child enough not to care a bit, but to take a queer +pleasure in the sensation of scorn which she felt in +consequence. She would eye Johnny from head to +foot, his boy's clothing somewhat spotted, his bulging +pockets, his always dusty shoes, and when he twisted +uneasily, not understanding why, she had a thrill +of purely feminine delight. It was on one such occa- +sion that she first noticed Amelia Wheeler particularly. + +It was a lovely warm morning in May, and Lily +was a darling to behold -- in a big hat with a wreath +of blue flowers, her hair tied with enormous blue silk +bows, her short skirts frilled with eyelet embroidery, +her slender silk legs, her little white sandals. Ma- +dame's maid had not yet struck the Japanese gong, +and all the pupils were out on the lawn, Amelia, in +her clean, ugly gingham and her serviceable brown +sailor hat, hovering near Lily, as usual, like a common, +very plain butterfly near a particularly resplendent +blossom. Lily really noticed her. She spoke to her +confidentially; she recognized her fully as another of +her own sex, and presumably of similar opinions. + +"Ain't boys ugly, anyway?" inquired Lily of +Amelia, and a wonderful change came over Amelia. +Her sallow cheeks bloomed; her eyes showed blue +glitters; her little skinny figure became instinct with +nervous life. She smiled charmingly, with such +eagerness that it smote with pathos and bewitched. + +"Oh yes, oh yes," she agreed, in a voice like a quick +flute obbligato. "Boys are ugly." + +"Such clothes!" said Lily. + +"Yes, such clothes!" said Amelia. + +"Always spotted," said Lily. + +"Always covered all over with spots," said Amelia. + +"And their pockets always full of horrid things," +said Lily. + +"Yes," said Amelia. + +Amelia glanced openly at Johnny Trumbull; Lily +with a sidewise effect. + +Johnny had heard every word. Suddenly he arose +to action and knocked down Lee Westminster, and +sat on him. + +"Lemme up!" said Lee. + +Johnny had no quarrel whatever with Lee. He +grinned, but he sat still. Lee, the sat-upon, was a +sharp little boy. "Showing off before the gals!" he +said, in a thin whisper. + +"Hush up!" returned Johnny. + +"Will you give me a writing-pad -- I lost mine, and +mother said I couldn't have another for a week if I +did -- if I don't holler?" inquired Lee. + +"Yes. Hush up!" + +Lee lay still, and Johnny continued to sit upon his +prostrate form. Both were out of sight of Madame's +windows, behind a clump of the cedars which graced +her lawn. + +"Always fighting," said Lily, with a fine crescendo +of scorn. She lifted her chin high, and also her nose. + +"Always fighting," said Amelia, and also lifted her +chin and nose. Amelia was a born mimic. She +actually looked like Lily, and she spoke like her. + +Then Lily did a wonderful thing. She doubled her +soft little arm into an inviting loop for Amelia's little +claw of a hand. + +"Come along, Amelia Wheeler," said she. "We +don't want to stay near horrid, fighting boys. We +will go by ourselves." + +And they went. Madame had a headache that +morning, and the Japanese gong did not ring for +fifteen minutes longer. During that time Lily and +Amelia sat together on a little rustic bench under a +twinkling poplar, and they talked, and a sort of +miniature sun-and-satellite relation was established +between them, although neither was aware of it. +Lily, being on the whole a very normal little girl, and +not disposed to even a full estimate of herself as +compared with others of her own sex, did not dream +of Amelia's adoration, and Amelia, being rarely +destitute of self-consciousness, did not understand the +whole scope of her own sentiments. It was quite +sufficient that she was seated close to this wonderful +Lily, and agreeing with her to the verge of immo- +lation. + +"Of course," said Lily, "girls are pretty, and boys +are just as ugly as they can be." + +"Oh yes," said Amelia, fervently. + +"But," said Lily, thoughtfully, "it is queer how +Johnny Trumbull always comes out ahead in a fight, +and he is not so very large, either." + +"Yes," said Amelia, but she realized a pang of +jealousy. "Girls could fight, I suppose," said she. + +"Oh yes, and get their clothes all torn and messy," +said Lily. + +"I shouldn't care," said Amelia. Then she added, +with a little toss, "I almost know I could fight." +The thought even floated through her wicked little +mind that fighting might be a method of wearing out +obnoxious and durable clothes. + +"You!" said Lily, and the scorn in her voice wilted +Amelia. + +"Maybe I couldn't," said she. + +"Of course you couldn't, and if you could, what a +sight you'd be. Of course it wouldn't hurt your +clothes as much as some, because your mother dresses +you in strong things, but you'd be sure to get black +and blue, and what would be the use, anyway? +You couldn't be a boy, if you did fight." + +"No. I know I couldn't." + +"Then what is the use? We are a good deal +prettier than boys, and cleaner, and have nicer +manners, and we must be satisfied." + +"You are prettier," said Amelia, with a look of +worshipful admiration at Lily's sweet little face. + +"You are prettier," said Lily. Then she added, +equivocally, "Even the very homeliest girl is prettier +than a boy." + +Poor Amelia, it was a good deal for her to be called +prettier than a very dusty boy in a fight. She fairly +dimpled with delight, and again she smiled charm- +ingly. Lily eyed her critically. + +"You aren't so very homely, after all, Amelia," +she said. "You needn't think you are." + +Amelia smiled again. + +"When you look like you do now you are real +pretty," said Lily, not knowing or even suspecting +the truth, that she was regarding in the face of this +little ardent soul her own, as in a mirror. + +However, it was after that episode that Amelia +Wheeler was called "Copy-Cat." The two little +girls entered Madame's select school arm in arm, +when the musical gong sounded, and behind them +came Lee Westminster and Johnny Trumbull, sur- +reptitiously dusting their garments, and ever after +the fact of Amelia's adoration and imitation of Lily +Jennings was evident to all. Even Madame became +aware of it, and held conferences with two of the +under teachers. + +"It is not at all healthy for one child to model +herself so entirely upon the pattern of another," said +Miss Parmalee. + +"Most certainly it is not," agreed Miss Acton, the +music-teacher. + +"Why, that poor little Amelia Wheeler had the +rudiments of a fairly good contralto. I had begun +to wonder if the poor child might not be able at +least to sing a little, and so make up for -- other +things; and now she tries to sing high like Lily Jen- +nings, and I simply cannot prevent it. She has +heard Lily play, too, and has lost her own touch, and +now it is neither one thing nor the other." + +"I might speak to her mother," said Madame, +thoughtfully. Madame was American born, but she +married a French gentleman, long since deceased, +and his name sounded well on her circulars. She +and her two under teachers were drinking tea in her +library. + +Miss Parmalee, who was a true lover of her pupils, +gasped at Madame's proposition. "Whatever you +do, please do not tell that poor child's mother," said +she. + +"I do not think it would be quite wise, if I may +venture to express an opinion," said Miss Acton, +who was a timid soul, and always inclined to shy at +her own ideas. + +"But why?" asked Madame. + +"Her mother," said Miss Parmalee, "is a quite +remarkable woman, with great strength of character, +but she would utterly fail to grasp the situation." + +"I must confess," said Madame, sipping her tea, +"that I fail to understand it. Why any child not an +absolute idiot should so lose her own identity in an- +other's absolutely bewilders me. I never heard of +such a case." + +Miss Parmalee, who had a sense of humor, laughed +a little. "It is bewildering," she admitted. "And +now the other children see how it is, and call her +'Copy-Cat' to her face, but she does not mind. I +doubt if she understands, and neither does Lily, for +that matter. Lily Jennings is full of mischief, but +she moves in straight lines; she is not conceited or +self-conscious, and she really likes Amelia, without +knowing why." + +"I fear Lily will lead Amelia into mischief," said +Madame, "and Amelia has always been such a good +child." + +"Lily will never MEAN to lead Amelia into mis- +chief," said loyal Miss Parmalee. + +"But she will," said Madame. + +"If Lily goes, I cannot answer for Amelia's not +following," admitted Miss Parmalee. + +"I regret it all very much indeed," sighed Ma- +dame, "but it does seem to me still that Amelia's +mother --" + +"Amelia's mother would not even believe it, in +the first place," said Miss Parmalee. + +"Well, there is something in that," admitted Ma- +dame. "I myself could not even imagine such a +situation. I would not know of it now, if you and +Miss Acton had not told me." + +"There is not the slightest use in telling Amelia +not to imitate Lily, because she does not know that +she is imitating her," said Miss Parmalee. "If she +were to be punished for it, she could never compre- +hend the reason." + +"That is true," said Miss Acton. "I realize that +when the poor child squeaks instead of singing. All +I could think of this morning was a little mouse +caught in a trap which she could not see. She does +actually squeak! -- and some of her low notes, al- +though, of course, she is only a child, and has never +attempted much, promised to be very good." + +"She will have to squeak, for all I can see," said +Miss Parmalee. "It looks to me like one of those +situations that no human being can change for better +or worse." + +"I suppose you are right," said Madame, "but +it is most unfortunate, and Mrs. Wheeler is such a +superior woman, and Amelia is her only child, and +this is such a very subtle and regrettable affair. +Well, we have to leave a great deal to Providence." + +"If," said Miss Parmalee, "she could only get +angry when she is called 'Copy-Cat.'" Miss Parma- +lee laughed, and so did Miss Acton. Then all the +ladies had their cups refilled, and left Providence to +look out for poor little Amelia Wheeler, in her mad +pursuit of her ideal in the shape of another little +girl possessed of the exterior graces which she had +not. + +Meantime the little "Copy-Cat" had never been +so happy. She began to improve in her looks also. +Her grandmother Wheeler noticed it first, and spoke +of it to Grandmother Stark. "That child may not +be so plain, after all," said she. "I looked at her +this morning when she started for school, and I +thought for the first time that there was a little re- +semblance to the Wheelers." + +Grandmother Stark sniffed, but she looked grati- +fied. "I have been noticing it for some time," said +she, "but as for looking like the Wheelers, I thought +this morning for a minute that I actually saw my +poor dear husband looking at me out of that blessed +child's eyes." + +Grandmother Wheeler smiled her little, aggra- +vating, curved, pink smile. + +But even Mrs. Diantha began to notice the change +for the better in Amelia. She, however, attributed +it to an increase of appetite and a system of deep +breathing which she had herself taken up and en- +joined Amelia to follow. Amelia was following Lily +Jennings instead, but that her mother did not know. +Still, she was gratified to see Amelia's little sallow +cheeks taking on pretty curves and a soft bloom, +and she was more inclined to listen when Grand- +mother Wheeler ventured to approach the subject +of Amelia's attire. + +"Amelia would not be so bad-looking if she were +better dressed, Diantha," said she. + +Diantha lifted her chin, but she paid heed. "Why, +does not Amelia dress perfectly well, mother?" she +inquired. + +"She dresses well enough, but she needs more +ribbons and ruffles." + +"I do not approve of so many ribbons and ruffles," +said Mrs. Diantha. "Amelia has perfectly neat, +fresh black or brown ribbons for her hair, and ruffles +are not sanitary." + +"Ruffles are pretty," said Grandmother Wheeler, +"and blue and pink are pretty colors. Now, that +Jennings girl looks like a little picture." + +But that last speech of Grandmother Wheeler's +undid all the previous good. Mrs. Diantha had an +unacknowledged -- even to herself -- disapproval of +Mrs. Jennings which dated far back in the past, for +a reason which was quite unworthy of her and of her +strong mind. When she and Lily's mother had been +girls, she had seen Mrs. Jennings look like a picture, +and had been perfectly well aware that she herself +fell far short of an artist's ideal. Perhaps if Mrs. +Stark had believed in ruffles and ribbons, her daugh- +ter might have had a different mind when Grand- +mother Wheeler had finished her little speech. + +As it was, Mrs. Diantha surveyed her small, pretty +mother-in-law with dignified serenity, which savored +only delicately of a snub. "I do not myself approve +of the way in which Mrs. Jennings dresses her daugh- +ter," said she, "and I do not consider that the child +presents to a practical observer as good an appear- +ance as my Amelia." + +Grandmother Wheeler had a temper. It was a +childish temper and soon over -- still, a temper. +"Lord," said she, "if you mean to say that you +think your poor little snipe of a daughter, dressed +like a little maid-of-all-work, can compare with that +lovely little Lily Jennings, who is dressed like a +doll! --" + +"I do not wish that my daughter should be dressed +like a doll," said Mrs. Diantha, coolly. + +"Well, she certainly isn't," said Grandmother +Wheeler. "Nobody would ever take her for a doll +as far as looks or dress are concerned. She may be +GOOD enough. I don't deny that Amelia is a good +little girl, but her looks could be improved on." + +"Looks matter very little," said Mrs. Diantha. + +"They matter very much," said Grandmother +Wheeler, pugnaciously, her blue eyes taking on a +peculiar opaque glint, as always when she lost her +temper, "very much indeed. But looks can't be +helped. If poor little Amelia wasn't born with pretty +looks, she wasn't. But she wasn't born with such +ugly clothes. She might be better dressed." + +"I dress my daughter as I consider best," said +Mrs. Diantha. Then she left the room. + +Grandmother Wheeler sat for a few minutes, her +blue eyes opaque, her little pink lips a straight line; +then suddenly her eyes lit, and she smiled. "Poor +Diantha," said she, "I remember how Henry used +to like Lily Jennings's mother before he married +Diantha. Sour grapes hang high." But Grand- +mother Wheeler's beautiful old face was quite soft +and gentle. From her heart she pitied the reacher +after those high-hanging sour grapes, for Mrs. Dian- +tha had been very good to her. + +Then Grandmother Wheeler, who had a mild +persistency not evident to a casual observer, began +to make plans and lay plots. She was resolved, +Diantha or not, that her granddaughter, her son's +child, should have some fine feathers. The little +conference had taken place in her own room, a large, +sunny one, with a little storeroom opening from it. +Presently Grandmother Wheeler rose, entered the +storeroom, and began rummaging in some old trunks. +Then followed days of secret work. Grandmother +Wheeler had been noted as a fine needlewoman, +and her hand had not yet lost its cunning. She had +one of Amelia's ugly little ginghams, purloined from +a closet, for size, and she worked two or three dainty +wonders. She took Grandmother Stark into her +confidence. Sometimes the two ladies, by reason +of their age, found it possible to combine with good +results. + +"Your daughter Diantha is one woman in a thou- +sand," said Grandmother Wheeler, diplomatically, +one day, "but she never did care much for clothes." + +"Diantha," returned Grandmother Stark, with a +suspicious glance, "always realized that clothes were +not the things that mattered." + +"And, of course, she is right," said Grandmother +Wheeler, piously. "Your Diantha is one woman in +a thousand. If she cared as much for fine clothes as +some women, I don't know where we should all be. +It would spoil poor little Amelia." + +"Yes, it would," assented Grandmother Stark. +"Nothing spoils a little girl more than always to be +thinking about her clothes." + +"Yes, I was looking at Amelia the other day, and +thinking how much more sensible she appeared in +her plain gingham than Lily Jennings in all her +ruffles and ribbons. Even if people were all notic- +ing Lily, and praising her, thinks I to myself, 'How +little difference such things really make. Even if +our dear Amelia does stand to one side, and nobody +notices her, what real matter is it?'" Grandmother +Wheeler was inwardly chuckling as she spoke. + +Grandmother Stark was at once alert. "Do you +mean to say that Amelia is really not taken so much +notice of because she dresses plainly?" said she. + +"You don't mean that you don't know it, as ob- +servant as you are?" replied Grandmother Wheeler. + +"Diantha ought not to let it go as far as that," said +Grandmother Stark. Grandmother Wheeler looked +at her queerly. "Why do you look at me like that?" + +"Well, I did something I feared I ought not to +have done. And I didn't know what to do, but your +speaking so makes me wonder --" + +"Wonder what?" + +Then Grandmother Wheeler went to her little +storeroom and emerged bearing a box. She dis- +played the contents -- three charming little white +frocks fluffy with lace and embroidery. + +"Did you make them?" + +"Yes, I did. I couldn't help it. I thought if the +dear child never wore them, it would be some com- +fort to know they were in the house." + +"That one needs a broad blue sash," said Grand- +mother Stark. + +Grandmother Wheeler laughed. She took her impe- +cuniosity easily. "I had to use what I had," said she. + +"I will get a blue sash for that one," said Grand- +mother Stark, "and a pink sash for that, and a flow- +ered one for that." + +"Of course they will make all the difference," +said Grandmother Wheeler. "Those beautiful sashes +will really make the dresses." + +"I will get them," said Grandmother Stark, with +decision. "I will go right down to Mann Brothers' +store now and get them." + +"Then I will make the bows, and sew them on," +replied Grandmother Wheeler, happily. + +It thus happened that little Amelia Wheeler was +possessed of three beautiful dresses, although she +did not know it. + +For a long time neither of the two conspiring +grandmothers dared divulge the secret. Mrs. Dian- +tha was a very determined woman, and even her +own mother stood somewhat in awe of her. There- +fore, little Amelia went to school during the spring +term soberly clad as ever, and even on the festive +last day wore nothing better than a new blue ging- +ham, made too long, to allow for shrinkage, and new +blue hair-ribbons. The two grandmothers almost +wept in secret conclave over the lovely frocks which +were not worn. + +"I respect Diantha," said Grandmother Wheeler. +"You know that. She is one woman in a thousand, +but I do hate to have that poor child go to school +to-day with so many to look at her, and she dressed +so unlike all the other little girls." + +"Diantha has got so much sense, it makes her +blind and deaf," declared Grandmother Stark. "I +call it a shame, if she is my daughter." + +"Then you don't venture --" + +Grandmother Stark reddened. She did not like +to own to awe of her daughter. "I VENTURE, if that is +all," said she, tartly. "You don't suppose I am +afraid of Diantha? -- but she would not let Amelia +wear one of the dresses, anyway, and I don't want +the child made any unhappier than she is." + +"Well, I will admit," replied Grandmother Wheel- +er, "if poor Amelia knew she had these beautiful +dresses and could not wear them she might feel +worse about wearing that homely gingham." + +"Gingham!" fairly snorted Grandmother Stark. +"I cannot see why Diantha thinks so much of ging- +ham. It shrinks, anyway." + +Poor little Amelia did undoubtedly suffer on that +last day, when she sat among the others gaily clad, +and looked down at her own common little skirts. +She was very glad, however, that she had not been +chosen to do any of the special things which would +have necessitated her appearance upon the little +flower-decorated platform. She did not know of the +conversation between Madame and her two as- +sistants. + +"I would have Amelia recite a little verse or two," +said Madame, "but how can I?" Madame adored +dress, and had a lovely new one of sheer dull-blue +stuff, with touches of silver, for the last day. + +"Yes," agreed Miss Parmalee, "that poor child is +sensitive, and for her to stand on the platform in +one of those plain ginghams would be too cruel." + +"Then, too," said Miss Acton, "she would re- +cite her verses exactly like Lily Jennings. She can +make her voice exactly like Lily's now. Then every- +body would laugh, and Amelia would not know why. +She would think they were laughing at her dress, and +that would be dreadful." + +If Amelia's mother could have heard that conver- +sation everything would have been different, al- +though it is puzzling to decide in what way. + +It was the last of the summer vacation in +early September, just before school began, that a +climax came to Amelia's idolatry and imitation of +Lily. The Jenningses had not gone away that sum- +mer, so the two little girls had been thrown together +a good deal. Mrs. Diantha never went away during +a summer. She considered it her duty to remain at +home, and she was quite pitiless to herself when it +came to a matter of duty. + +However, as a result she was quite ill during the +last of August and the first of September. The sea- +son had been unusually hot, and Mrs. Diantha had +not spared herself from her duty on account of the +heat. She would have scorned herself if she had done +so. But she could not, strong-minded as she was, +avert something like a heat prostration after a long +walk under a burning sun, nor weeks of confinement +and idleness in her room afterward. + +When September came, and a night or two of com- +parative coolness, she felt stronger; still she was +compelled by most unusual weakness to refrain from +her energetic trot in her duty-path; and then it was +that something happened. + +One afternoon Lily fluttered over to Amelia's, +and Amelia, ever on the watch, spied her. + +"May I go out and see Lily?" she asked Grand- +mother Stark. + +"Yes, but don't talk under the windows; your +mother is asleep." + +Amelia ran out. + +"I declare," said Grandmother Stark to Grand- +mother Wheeler, "I was half a mind to tell that +child to wait a minute and slip on one of those +pretty dresses. I hate to have her go on the street +in that old gingham, with that Jennings girl dressed +up like a wax doll." + +"I know it." + +"And now poor Diantha is so weak -- and asleep + -- it would not have annoyed her." + +"I know it." + +Grandmother Stark looked at Grandmother +Wheeler. Of the two she possessed a greater share +of original sin compared with the size of her soul. +Moreover, she felt herself at liberty to circumvent +her own daughter. Whispering, she unfolded a dar- +ing scheme to the other grandmother, who stared +at her aghast a second out of her lovely blue eyes, +then laughed softly. + +"Very well," said she, "if you dare." + +"I rather think I dare!" said Grandmother Stark. +"Isn't Diantha Wheeler my own daughter?" Grand- +mother Stark had grown much bolder since Mrs. +Diantha had been ill. + +Meantime Lily and Amelia walked down the +street until they came to a certain vacant lot inter- +sected by a foot-path between tall, feathery grasses +and goldenrod and asters and milkweed. They en- +tered the foot-path, and swarms of little butterflies +rose around them, and once in a while a protesting +bumblebee. + +"I am afraid we will be stung by the bees," said +Amelia. + +"Bumblebees never sting," said Lily; and Amelia +believed her. + +When the foot-path ended, there was the river- +bank. The two little girls sat down under a clump +of brook willows and talked, while the river, full of +green and blue and golden lights, slipped past them +and never stopped. + +Then Lily proceeded to unfold a plan, which was +not philosophical, but naughtily ingenious. By this +time Lily knew very well that Amelia admired her, +and imitated her as successfully as possible, consid- +ering the drawback of dress and looks. + +When she had finished Amelia was quite pale. "I +am afraid, I am afraid, Lily," said she. + +"What of?" + +"My mother will find out; besides, I am afraid +it isn't right." + +"Who ever told you it was wrong?" + +"Nobody ever did," admitted Amelia. + +"Well, then you haven't any reason to think it is," +said Lily, triumphantly. "And how is your mother +ever going to find it out?" + +"I don't know." + +"Isn't she ill in her room? And does she ever +come to kiss you good night, the way my mother +does, when she is well?" + +"No," admitted Amelia. + +"And neither of your grandmothers?" + +"Grandmother Stark would think it was silly, +like mother, and Grandmother Wheeler can't go up +and down stairs very well." + +"I can't see but you are perfectly safe. I am the +only one that runs any risk at all. I run a great deal +of risk, but I am willing to take it," said Lily with +a virtuous air. Lily had a small but rather involved +scheme simply for her own ends, which did not seem +to call for much virtue, but rather the contrary. + +Lily had overheard Arnold Carruth and Johnny +Trumbull and Lee Westminster and another boy, +Jim Patterson, planning a most delightful affair, +which even in the cases of the boys was fraught with +danger, secrecy, and doubtful rectitude. Not one +of the four boys had had a vacation from the village +that summer, and their young minds had become +charged, as it were, with the seeds of revolution and +rebellion. Jim Patterson, the son of the rector, and +of them all the most venturesome, had planned to +take -- he called it "take"; he meant to pay for it, +anyway, he said, as soon as he could shake enough +money out of his nickel savings-bank -- one of his +father's Plymouth Rock chickens and have a chicken- +roast in the woods back of Dr. Trumbull's. He +had planned for Johnny to take some ears of corn +suitable for roasting from his father's garden; for +Lee to take some cookies out of a stone jar in his +mother's pantry; and for Arnold to take some pota- +toes. Then they four would steal forth under cover +of night, build a camp-fire, roast their spoils, and +feast. + +Lily had resolved to be of the party. She resorted +to no open methods; the stones of the fighting suf- +fragettes were not for her, little honey-sweet, curled, +and ruffled darling; rather the time-worn, if not +time-sanctified, weapons of her sex, little instruments +of wiles, and tiny dodges, and tiny subterfuges, which +would serve her best. + +"You know," she said to Amelia, "you don't look +like me. Of course you know that, and that can't +be helped; but you do walk like me, and talk like +me, you know that, because they call you 'Copy- +Cat.'" + +"Yes, I know," said poor Amelia. + +"I don't mind if they do call you 'Copy-Cat,'" +said Lily, magnanimously. "I don't mind a bit. +But, you see, my mother always comes up-stairs to +kiss me good night after I have gone to bed, and to- +morrow night she has a dinner-party, and she will +surely be a little late, and I can't manage unless you +help me. I will get one of my white dresses for you, +and all you have to do is to climb out of your window +into that cedar-tree -- you know you can climb down +that, because you are so afraid of burglars climbing +up -- and you can slip on my dress; you had better +throw it out of the window and not try to climb in +it, because my dresses tear awful easy, and we might +get caught that way. Then you just sneak down to +our house, and I shall be outdoors; and when you +go up-stairs, if the doors should be open, and any- +body should call, you can answer just like me; and I +have found that light curly wig Aunt Laura wore +when she had her head shaved after she had a fever, +and you just put that on and go to bed, and mother +will never know when she kisses you good night. +Then after the roast I will go to your house, and +climb up that tree, and go to bed in your room. And +I will have one of your gingham dresses to wear, and +very early in the morning I will get up, and you get +up, and we both of us can get down the back stairs +without being seen, and run home." + +Amelia was almost weeping. It was her worshiped +Lily's plan, but she was horribly scared. "I don't +know," she faltered. + +"Don't know! You've got to! You don't love +me one single bit or you wouldn't stop to think about +whether you didn't know." It was the world-old +argument which floors love. Amelia succumbed. + +The next evening a frightened little girl clad in +one of Lily Jennings's white embroidered frocks was +racing to the Jenningses' house, and another little +girl, not at all frightened, but enjoying the stimulus +of mischief and unwontedness, was racing to the wood +behind Dr. Trumbull's house, and that little girl was +clad in one of Amelia Wheeler's ginghams. But the +plan went all awry. + +Lily waited, snuggled up behind an alder-bush, +and the boys came, one by one, and she heard this +whispered, although there was no necessity for whis- +pering, "Jim Patterson, where's that hen?" + +"Couldn't get her. Grabbed her, and all her tail- +feathers came out in a bunch right in my hand, and +she squawked so, father heard. He was in his study +writing his sermon, and he came out, and if I hadn't +hid behind the chicken-coop and then run I couldn't +have got here. But I can't see as you've got any +corn, Johnny Trumbull." + +"Couldn't. Every single ear was cooked for din- +ner." + +"I couldn't bring any cookies, either," said Lee +Westminster; "there weren't any cookies in the jar." + +"And I couldn't bring the potatoes, because the +outside cellar door was locked," said Arnold Car- +ruth. "I had to go down the back stairs and out +the south door, and the inside cellar door opens out +of our dining-room, and I daren't go in there." + +"Then we might as well go home," said Johnny +Trumbull. "If I had been you, Jim Patterson, I +would have brought that old hen if her tail-feathers +had come out. Seems to me you scare awful easy." + +"Guess if you had heard her squawk!" said Jim, +resentfully. "If you want to try to lick me, come on, +Johnny Trumbull. Guess you don't darse call me +scared again." + +Johnny eyed him standing there in the gloom. +Jim was not large, but very wiry, and the ground was +not suited for combat. Johnny, although a victor, +would probably go home considerably the worse in +appearance; and he could anticipate the conse- +quences were his father to encounter him. + +"Shucks!" said Johnny Trumbull, of the fine old +Trumbull family and Madame's exclusive school. +"Shucks! who wants your old hen? We had chicken +for dinner, anyway." + +"So did we," said Arnold Carruth. + +"We did, and corn," said Lee. + +"We did," said Jim. + +Lily stepped forth from the alder-bush. "If," +said she, "I were a boy, and had started to have a +chicken-roast, I would have HAD a chicken-roast." + +But every boy, even the valiant Johnny Trum- +bull, was gone in a mad scutter. This sudden appari- +tion of a girl was too much for their nerves. They +never even knew who the girl was, although little +Arnold Carruth said she had looked to him like +"Copy-Cat," but the others scouted the idea. + +Lily Jennings made the best of her way out of the +wood across lots to the road. She was not in a par- +ticularly enviable case. Amelia Wheeler was pre- +sumably in her bed, and she saw nothing for it but +to take the difficult way to Amelia's. + +Lily tore a great rent in the gingham going up the +cedar-tree, but that was nothing to what followed. +She entered through Amelia's window, her prim +little room, to find herself confronted by Amelia's +mother in a wrapper, and her two grandmothers. +Grandmother Stark had over her arm a beautiful +white embroidered dress. The two old ladies had +entered the room in order to lay the white dress on +a chair and take away Amelia's gingham, and there +was no Amelia. Mrs. Diantha had heard the com- +motion, and had risen, thrown on her wrapper, and +come. Her mother had turned upon her. + +"It is all your fault, Diantha," she had declared. + +"My fault?" echoed Mrs. Diantha, bewildered. +"Where is Amelia?" + +"We don't know," said Grandmother Stark, "but +you have probably driven her away from home by +your cruelty." + +"Cruelty?" + +"Yes, cruelty. What right had you to make that +poor child look like a fright, so people laughed at +her? We have made her some dresses that look +decent, and had come here to leave them, and to +take away those old gingham things that look as if +she lived in the almshouse, and leave these, so she +would either have to wear them or go without, when +we found she had gone." + +It was at that crucial moment that Lily entered +by way of the window. + +"Here she is now," shrieked Grandmother Stark. +"Amelia, where --" Then she stopped short. + +Everybody stared at Lily's beautiful face suddenly +gone white. For once Lily was frightened. She lost +all self-control. She began to sob. She could scarce- +ly tell the absurd story for sobs, but she told, every +word. + +Then, with a sudden boldness, she too turned on +Mrs. Diantha. "They call poor Amelia 'Copy- +Cat,'" said she, "and I don't believe she would ever +have tried so hard to look like me only my mother +dresses me so I look nice, and you send Amelia +to school looking awfully." Then Lily sobbed +again. + +"My Amelia is at your house, as I understand?" +said Mrs. Diantha, in an awful voice. + +"Ye-es, ma-am." + +"Let me go," said Mrs. Diantha, violently, to +Grandmother Stark, who tried to restrain her. Mrs. +Diantha dressed herself and marched down the +street, dragging Lily after her. The little girl had +to trot to keep up with the tall woman's strides, and +all the way she wept. + +It was to Lily's mother's everlasting discredit, in +Mrs. Diantha's opinion, but to Lily's wonderful re- +lief, that when she heard the story, standing in the +hall in her lovely dinner dress, with the strains of +music floating from the drawing-room, and cigar +smoke floating from the dining-room, she laughed. +When Lily said, "And there wasn't even any chicken- +roast, mother," she nearly had hysterics. + +"If you think this is a laughing matter, Mrs. Jen- +nings, I do not," said Mrs. Diantha, and again her +dislike and sorrow at the sight of that sweet, mirth- +ful face was over her. It was a face to be loved, and +hers was not. + +"Why, I went up-stairs and kissed the child good +night, and never suspected," laughed Lily's mother. + +"I got Aunt Laura's curly, light wig for her," ex- +plained Lily, and Mrs. Jennings laughed again. + +It was not long before Amelia, in her gingham, +went home, led by her mother -- her mother, who +was trembling with weakness now. Mrs. Diantha +did not scold. She did not speak, but Amelia felt +with wonder her little hand held very tenderly by +her mother's long fingers. + +When at last she was undressed and in bed, Mrs. +Diantha, looking very pale, kissed her, and so did +both grandmothers. + +Amelia, being very young and very tired, went to +sleep. She did not know that that night was to mark +a sharp turn in her whole life. Thereafter she went +to school "dressed like the best," and her mother +petted her as nobody had ever known her mother +could pet. + +It was not so very long afterward that Amelia, +out of her own improvement in appearance, devel- +oped a little stamp of individuality. + +One day Lily wore a white frock with blue rib- +bons, and Amelia wore one with coral pink. It was +a particular day in school; there was company, and +tea was served. + +"I told you I was going to wear blue ribbons," +Lily whispered to Amelia. Amelia smiled lovingly +back at her. + +"Yes, I know, but I thought I would wear pink." + + + + +THE COCK OF THE WALK + + + + +THE COCK OF THE WALK + +DOWN the road, kicking up the dust until he +marched, soldier-wise, in a cloud of it, that +rose and grimed his moist face and added to the +heavy, brown powder upon the wayside weeds and +flowers, whistling a queer, tuneless thing, which yet +contained definite sequences -- the whistle of a bird +rather than a boy -- approached Johnny Trumbull, +aged ten, small of his age, but accounted by his +mates mighty. + +Johnny came of the best and oldest family in the +village, but it was in some respects an undesirable +family for a boy. In it survived, as fossils survive +in ancient nooks and crannies of the earth, old traits +of race, unchanged by time and environment. Liv- +ing in a house lighted by electricity, the mental con- +ception of it was to the Trumbulls as the conception +of candles; with telephones at hand, they uncon- +sciously still conceived of messages delivered with +the old saying, "Ride, ride," etc., and relays of +post-horses. They locked their doors, but still had +latch-strings in mind. Johnny's father was a phy- +sician, adopting modern methods of surgery and pre- +scription, yet his mind harked back to cupping and +calomel, and now and then he swerved aside from +his path across the field of the present into the future +and plunged headlong, as if for fresh air, into the +traditional past, and often with brilliant results. + +Johnny's mother was a college graduate. She was +the president of the woman's club. She read papers +savoring of such feminine leaps ahead that they +were like gymnastics, but she walked homeward +with the gait of her great-grandmother, and inwardly +regarded her husband as her lord and master. She +minced genteelly, lifting her quite fashionable skirts +high above very slender ankles, which were heredi- +tary. Not a woman of her race had ever gone home +on thick ankles, and they had all gone home. They +had all been at home, even if abroad -- at home in +the truest sense. At the club, reading her inflam- +matory paper, Cora Trumbull's real self remained +at home intent upon her mending, her dusting, her +house economics. It was something remarkably +like her astral body which presided at the club. + +As for her unmarried sister Janet, who was older +and had graduated from a young ladies' seminary +instead of a college, whose early fancy had been +guided into the lady-like ways of antimacassars and +pincushions and wax flowers under glass shades, +she was a straighter proposition. No astral pre- +tensions had Janet. She stayed, body and soul to- +gether, in the old ways, and did not even project +her shadow out of them. There is seldom room +enough for one's shadow in one's earliest way of +life, but there was plenty for Janet's. There had +been a Janet unmarried in every Trumbull family +for generations. That in some subtle fashion ac- +counted for her remaining single. There had also +been an unmarried Jonathan Trumbull, and that +accounted for Johnny's old bachelor uncle Jonathan. +Jonathan was a retired clergyman. He had retired +before he had preached long, because of doctrinal +doubts, which were hereditary. He had a little, +dark study in Johnny's father's house, which was +the old Trumbull homestead, and he passed much +of his time there, debating within himself that mat- +ter of doctrines. + +Presently Johnny, assiduously kicking up dust, +met his uncle Jonathan, who passed without the +slightest notice. Johnny did not mind at all. He +was used to it. Presently his own father appeared, +driving along in his buggy the bay mare at a steady +jog, with the next professional call quite clearly +upon her equine mind. And Johnny's father did +not see him. Johnny did not mind that, either. +He expected nothing different. + +Then Johnny saw his mother approaching. She +was coming from the club meeting. She held up her +silk skirts high, as usual, and carried a nice little +parcel of papers tied with ribbon. She also did not +notice Johnny, who, however, out of sweet respect +for his mother's nice silk dress, stopped kicking up +dust. Mrs. Trumbull on the village street was really +at home preparing a shortcake for supper. + +Johnny eyed his mother's faded but rather beau- +tiful face under the rose-trimmed bonnet with ad- +miration and entire absence of resentment. Then he +walked on and kicked up the dust again. He loved +to kick up the dust in summer, the fallen leaves in +autumn, and the snow in winter. Johnny was not +a typical Trumbull. None of them had ever cared +for simple amusements like that. Looking back for +generations on his father's and mother's side (both +had been Trumbulls, but very distantly related), +none could be discovered who in the least resembled +Johnny. No dim blue eye of retrospection and re- +flection had Johnny; no tendency to tall slender- +ness which would later bow beneath the greater +weight of the soul. Johnny was small, but wiry of +build, and looked able to bear any amount of men- +tal development without a lasting bend of his physi- +cal shoulders. Johnny had, at the early age of ten, +whopped nearly every boy in school, but that was a +secret of honor. It was well known in the school +that, once the Trumbulls heard of it, Johnny could +never whop again. "You fellows know," Johnny +had declared once, standing over his prostrate and +whimpering foe, "that I don't mind getting whopped +at home, but they might send me away to another +school, and then I could never whop any of you +fellows." + +Johnny Trumbull kicking up the dust, himself +dust-covered, his shoes, his little queerly fitting dun +suit, his cropped head, all thickly powdered, loved +it. He sniffed in that dust like a grateful incense. +He did not stop dust-kicking when he saw his aunt +Janet coming, for, as he considered, her old black +gown was not worth the sacrifice. It was true that +she might see him. She sometimes did, if she were +not reading a book as she walked. It had always +been a habit with the Janet Trumbulls to read im- +proving books when they walked abroad. To-day +Johnny saw, with a quick glance of those sharp, +black eyes, so unlike the Trumbulls', that his aunt +Janet was reading. He therefore expected her to +pass him without recognition, and marched on kick- +ing up the dust. But suddenly, as he grew nearer +the spry little figure, he was aware of a pair of gray +eyes, before which waved protectingly a hand clad +in a black silk glove with dangling finger-tips, be- +cause it was too long, and it dawned swiftly upon +him that Aunt Janet was trying to shield her face +from the moving column of brown motes. He +stopped kicking, but it was too late. Aunt Janet +had him by the collar and was vigorously shaking +him with nervous strength. + +"You are a very naughty little boy," declared +Aunt Janet. "You should know better than to walk +along the street raising so much dust. No well- +brought-up child ever does such things. Who are +your parents, little boy?" + +Johnny perceived that Aunt Janet did not recog- +nize him, which was easily explained. She wore +her reading-spectacles and not her far-seeing ones; +besides, her reading spectacles were obscured by +dust and her nephew's face was nearly obliterated. +Also as she shook him his face was not much in evi- +dence. Johnny disliked, naturally, to tell his aunt +Janet that her own sister and brother-in-law were +the parents of such a wicked little boy. He there- +fore kept quiet and submitted to the shaking, mak- +ing himself as limp as a rag. This, however, exas- +perated Aunt Janet, who found herself encumbered +by a dead weight of a little boy to be shaken, and +suddenly Johnny Trumbull, the fighting champion +of the town, the cock of the walk of the school, +found himself being ignominiously spanked. That +was too much. Johnny's fighting blood was up. +He lost all consideration for circumstances, he for- +got that Aunt Janet was not a boy, that she was quite +near being an old lady. She had overstepped the +bounds of privilege of age and sex, and an alarming +state of equality ensued. Quickly the tables were +turned. The boy became far from limp. He stiff- +ened, then bounded and rebounded like wire. He +butted, he parried, he observed all his famous tac- +tics of battle, and poor Aunt Janet sat down in the +dust, black dress, bonnet, glasses (but the glasses +were off and lost), little improving book, black silk +gloves, and all; and Johnny, hopeless, awful, irrev- +erent, sat upon his Aunt Janet's plunging knees, +which seemed the most lively part of her. He kept +his face twisted away from her, but it was not from +cowardice. Johnny was afraid lest Aunt Janet +should be too much overcome by the discovery of +his identity. He felt that it was his duty to spare +her that. So he sat still, triumphant but inwardly +aghast. + +It was fast dawning upon him that his aunt was +not a little boy. He was not afraid of any punish- +ment which might be meted out to him, but he was +simply horrified. He himself had violated all the +honorable conditions of warfare. He felt a little +dizzy and ill, and he felt worse when he ventured +a hurried glance at Aunt Janet's face. She was very +pale through the dust, and her eyes were closed. +Johnny thought then that he had killed her. + +He got up -- the nervous knees were no longer +plunging; then he heard a voice, a little-girl voice, +always shrill, but now high pitched to a squeak with +terror. It was the voice of Lily Jennings. She +stood near and yet aloof, a lovely little flower of a +girl, all white-scalloped frills and ribbons, with a +big white-frilled hat shading a pale little face and. +covering the top of a head decorated with wonder- +ful yellow curls. She stood behind a big baby-car- +riage with a pink-lined muslin canopy and con- +taining a nest of pink and white, but an empty nest. +Lily's little brother's carriage had a spring broken, +and she had been to borrow her aunt's baby-carriage, +so that nurse could wheel little brother up and down +the veranda. Nurse had a headache, and the maids +were busy, and Lily, who was a kind little soul and, +moreover, imaginative, and who liked the idea of +pushing an empty baby-carriage, had volunteered +to go for it. All the way she had been dreaming of +what was not in the carriage. She had come directly +out of a dream of doll twins when she chanced upon +the tragedy in the road. + +"What have you been doing now, Johnny Trum- +bull?" said she. She was tremulous, white with +horror, but she stood her ground. It was curious, +but Johnny Trumbull, with all his bravery, was +always cowed before Lily. Once she had turned and +stared at him when he had emerged triumphant +but with bleeding nose from a fight; then she had +sniffed delicately and gone her way. It had only +taken a second, but in that second the victor had +met moral defeat. + +He looked now at her pale, really scared face, and +his own was as pale. He stood and kicked the dust +until the swirling column of it reached his head. + +"That's right," said Lily; "stand and kick up +dust all over me. WHAT have you been doing?" + +Johnny was trembling so he could hardly stand. +He stopped kicking dust. + +"Have you killed your aunt?" demanded Lily. +It was monstrous, but she had a very dramatic im- +agination, and there was a faint hint of enjoyment +in her tragic voice. + +"Guess she's just choked by dust," volunteered +Johnny, hoarsely. He kicked the dust again. + +"That's right," said Lily. "If she's choked to +death by dust, stand there and choke her some more. +You are a murderer, Johnny Trumbull, and my +mamma will never allow me to speak to you again, +and Madame will not allow you to come to school. +AND -- I see your papa driving up the street, and there +is the chief policeman's buggy just behind." Lily +acquiesced entirely in the extraordinary coincidence +of the father and the chief of police appearing upon +the scene. The unlikely seemed to her the likely. +"NOW," said she, cheerfully, "you will be put in +state prison and locked up, and then you will be put +to death by a very strong telephone." + +Johnny's father was leaning out of his buggy, look- +ing back at the chief of police in his, and the mare +was jogging very slowly in a perfect reek of dust. +Lily, who was, in spite of her terrific imagination, +human and a girl, rose suddenly to heights of pity +and succor. "They shall never take you, Johnny +Trumbull," said she. "I will save you." + +Johnny by this time was utterly forgetful of his +high status as champion (behind her back) of Ma- +dame's very select school for select children of a +somewhat select village. He was forgetful of the +fact that a champion never cries. He cried; he +blubbered; tears rolled over his dusty cheeks, mak- +ing furrows like plowshares of grief. He feared lest +he might have killed his aunt Janet. Women, and +not very young women, might presumably be un- +able to survive such rough usage as very tough +and at the same time very limber little boys, and +he loved his poor aunt Janet. He grieved because +of his aunt, his parents, his uncle, and rather more +particularly because of himself. He was quite sure +that the policeman was coming for him. Logic had +no place in his frenzied conclusions. He did not +consider how the tragedy had taken place entirely +out of sight of a house, that Lily Jennings was the +only person who had any knowledge of it. He looked +at the masterful, fair-haired little girl like a baby. +"How?" sniffed he. + +For answer, Lily pointed to the empty baby-car- +riage. "Get right in," she ordered. + +Even in this dire extremity Johnny hesitated. +"Can't." + +"Yes, you can. It is extra large. Aunt Laura's +baby was a twin when he first came; now he's just +an ordinary baby, but his carriage is big enough for +two. There's plenty of room. Besides, you're a +very small boy, very small of your age, even if you +do knock all the other boys down and have mur- +dered your aunt. Get in. In a minute they will +see you." + +There was in reality no time to lose. Johnny +did get in. In spite of the provisions for twins, +there was none too much room. + +Lily covered him up with the fluffy pink-and-lace +things, and scowled. "You hump up awfully," +she muttered. Then she reached beneath him and +snatched out the pillow on which he lay, the baby's +little bed. She gave it a swift toss over the fringe +of wayside bushes into a field. "Aunt Laura's nice +embroidered pillow," said she. "Make yourself just +as flat as you can, Johnny Trumbull." + +Johnny obeyed, but he was obliged to double him- +self up like a jack-knife. However, there was no +sign of him visible when the two buggies drew up. +There stood a pale and frightened little girl, with +a baby-carriage canopied with rose and lace and +heaped up with rosy and lacy coverlets, presumably +sheltering a sleeping infant. Lily was a very keen +little girl. She had sense enough not to run. The +two men, at the sight of Aunt Janet prostrate in the +road, leaped out of their buggies. The doctor's +horse stood still; the policeman's trotted away, to +Lily's great relief. She could not imagine Johnny's +own father haling him away to state prison and +the stern Arm of Justice. She stood the fire of +bewildered questions in the best and safest fashion. +She wept bitterly, and her tears were not assumed. +Poor little Lily was all of a sudden crushed under +the weight of facts. There was Aunt Janet, she had +no doubt, killed by her own nephew, and she was +hiding the guilty murderer. She had visions of +state prison for herself. She watched fearfully while +the two men bent over the prostrate woman, who +very soon began to sputter and gasp and try to sit +up. + +"What on earth is the matter, Janet?" inquired +Dr. Trumbull, who was paler than his sister-in- +law. In fact, she was unable to look very pale on +account of dust. + +"Ow!" sputtered Aunt Janet, coughing violently, +"get me up out of this dust, John. Ow!" + +"What was the matter?" + +"Yes, what has happened, madam?" demanded +the chief of police, sternly. + +"Nothing," replied Aunt Janet, to Lily's and +Johnny's amazement. "What do you think has +happened? I fell down in all this nasty dust. Ow!" + +"What did you eat for luncheon, Janet?" in- +quired Dr. Trumbull, as he assisted his sister-in- +law to her feet. + +"What I was a fool to eat," replied Janet Trum- +bull, promptly. "Cucumber salad and lemon jelly +with whipped cream." + +"Enough to make anybody have indigestion," +said Dr. Trumbull. "You have had one of these +attacks before, too, Janet. You remember the time +you ate strawberry shortcake and ice-cream?" + +Janet nodded meekly. Then she coughed again. +"Ow, this dust!" gasped she. "For goodness' sake, +John, get me home where I can get some water and +take off these dusty clothes or I shall choke to +death." + +"How does your stomach feel?" inquired Dr. +Trumbull. + +"Stomach is all right now, but I am just choking +to death with the dust." Janet turned sharply tow- +ard the policeman. "You have sense enough to +keep still, I hope," said she. "I don't want the +whole town ringing with my being such an idiot as +to eat cucumbers and cream together and being +found this way." Janet looked like an animated +creation of dust as she faced the chief of police. + +"Yes, ma'am," he replied, bowing and scraping +one foot and raising more dust. + +He and Dr. Trumbull assisted Aunt Janet into +the buggy, and they drove off. Then the chief of +police discovered that his own horse had gone. +"Did you see which way he went, sis?" he inquired +of Lily, and she pointed down the road, and sobbed +as she did so. + +The policeman said something bad under his +breath, then advised Lily to run home to her rna, +and started down the road. + +When he was out of sight, Lily drew back the +pink-and-white things from Johnny's face. "Well, +you didn't kill her this time," said she. + +"Why do you s'pose she didn't tell all about it?" +said Johnny, gaping at her. + +"How do I know? I suppose she was ashamed +to tell how she had been fighting, maybe." + +"No, that was not why," said Johnny in a deep +voice. + +"Why was it, then?" + +"SHE KNEW." + +Johnny began to climb out of the baby-carriage. + +"What will she do next, then?" asked Lily. + +"I don't know," Johnny replied, gloomily. + +He was out of the carriage then, and Lily was +readjusting the pillows and things. "Get that nice +embroidered pillow I threw over the bushes," she +ordered, crossly. Johnny obeyed. When she had +finished putting the baby-carriage to rights she +turned upon poor little Johnny Trumbull, and her +face wore the expression of a queen of tragedy. +"Well," said Lily Jennings, "I suppose I shall have +to marry you when I am grown up, after all this." + +Johnny gasped. He thought Lily the most beau- +tiful girl he knew, but to be confronted with murder +and marriage within a few minutes was almost too +much. He flushed a burning red. He laughed fool- +ishly. He said nothing. + +"It will be very hard on me," stated Lily, "to +marry a boy who tried to murder his nice aunt." + +Johnny revived a bit under this feminine disdain. +"I didn't try to murder her," he said in a weak +voice. + +"You might have, throwing her down in all that +awful dust, a nice, clean lady. Ladies are not like +boys. It might kill them very quickly to be knocked +down on a dusty road." + +"I didn't mean to kill her." + +"You might have." + +"Well, I didn't, and -- she --" + +"What?" + +"She spanked me." + +"Pooh! That doesn't amount to anything," +sniffed Lily. + +"It does if you are a boy." + +"I don't see why." + +"Well, I can't help it if you don't. It does." + +"Why shouldn't a boy be spanked when he's +naughty, just as well as a girl, I would like to know?" + +"Because he's a boy." + +Lily looked at Johnny Trumbull. The great fact +did remain. He had been spanked, he had thrown +his own aunt down in the dust. He had taken ad- +vantage of her little-girl protection, but he was a +boy. Lily did not understand his why at all, but +she bowed before it. However, that she would not +admit. She made a rapid change of base. "What," +said she, "are you going to do next?" + +Johnny stared at her. It was a puzzle. + +"If," said Lily, distinctly, "you are afraid to go +home, if you think your aunt will tell, I will let you +get into Aunt Laura's baby-carriage again, and I +will wheel you a little way." + +Johnny would have liked at that moment to knock +Lily down, as he had his aunt Janet. Lily looked +at him shrewdly. "Oh yes," said she, "you can +knock me down in the dust there if you want to, +and spoil my nice clean dress. You will be a boy, +just the same." + +"I will never marry you, anyway," declared +Johnny. + +"Aren't you afraid I'll tell on you and get you +another spanking if you don't?" + +"Tell if you want to. I'd enough sight rather be +spanked than marry you." + +A gleam of respect came into the little girl's +wisely regarding blue eyes. She, with the swiftness +of her sex, recognized in forlorn little Johnny the +making of a man. "Oh, well," said she, loftily, +"I never was a telltale, and, anyway, we are not +grown up, and there will be my trousseau to get, +and a lot of other things to do first. I shall go to +Europe before I am married, too, and I might meet +a boy much nicer than you on the steamer." + +"Meet him if you want to." + +Lily looked at Johnny Trumbull with more than +respect -- with admiration -- but she kept guard over +her little tongue. "Well, you can leave that for +the future," said she with a grown-up air. + +"I ain't going to leave it. It's settled for good +and all now," growled Johnny. + +To his immense surprise, Lily curved her white +embroidered sleeve over her face and began to weep. + +"What's the matter now?" asked Johnny, sulkily, +after a minute. + +"I think you are a real horrid boy," sobbed Lily. + +Lily looked like nothing but a very frilly, sweet, +white flower. Johnny could not see her face. There +was nothing to be seen except that delicate fluff of +white, supported on dainty white-socked, white- +slippered limbs. + +"Say," said Johnny. + +"You are real cruel, when I -- I saved your -- li-fe," +wailed Lily. + +"Say," said Johnny, "maybe if I don't see any +other girl I like better I will marry you when I am +grown up, but I won't if you don't stop that howl- +ing." + +Lily stopped immediately. She peeped at him, +a blue peep from under the flopping, embroidered +brim of her hat. "Are you in earnest?" She smiled +faintly. Her blue eyes, wet with tears, were lovely; +so was her hesitating smile. + +"Yes, if you don't act silly," said Johnny. "Now +you had better run home, or your mother will won- +der where that baby-carriage is." + +Lily walked away, smiling over her shoulder, the +smile of the happily subjugated. "I won't tell any- +body, Johnny," she called back in her flute-like +voice. + +"Don't care if you do," returned Johnny, looking +at her with chin in the air and shoulders square, +and Lily wondered at his bravery. + +But Johnny was not so brave and he did care. He +knew that his best course was an immediate return +home, but he did not know what he might have to +face. He could not in the least understand why his +aunt Janet had not told at once. He was sure that +she knew. Then he thought of a possible reason for +her silence; she might have feared his arrest at the +hands of the chief of police. Johnny quailed. He +knew his aunt Janet to be rather a brave sort of +woman. If she had fears, she must have had reason +for them. He might even now be arrested. Suppose +Lily did tell. He had a theory that girls usually +told. He began to speculate concerning the horrors +of prison. Of course he would not be executed, +since his aunt was obviously very far from being +killed, but he might be imprisoned for a long term. + +Johnny went home. He did not kick the dust +any more. He walked very steadily and staidly. +When he came in sight of the old Colonial mansion, +with its massive veranda pillars, he felt chilly. How- +ever, he went on. He passed around to the south +door and entered and smelled shortcake. It would +have smelled delicious had he not had so much on +his mind. He looked through the hall, and had a +glimpse of his uncle Jonathan in the study, writing. +At the right of the door was his father's office. The +door of that was open, and Johnny saw his father +pouring things from bottles. He did not look at +Johnny. His mother crossed the hall. She had +on a long white apron, which she wore when making +her famous cream shortcakes. She saw Johnny, +but merely observed, "Go and wash your face and +hands, Johnny; it is nearly supper-time." + +Johnny went up-stairs. At the upper landing he +found his aunt Janet waiting for him. "Come +here," she whispered, and Johnny followed her, +trembling, into her own room. It was a large room, +rather crowded with heavy, old-fashioned furni- +ture. Aunt Janet had freed herself from dust and +was arrayed in a purple silk gown. Her hair was +looped loosely on either side of her long face. She +was a handsome woman, after a certain type. + +"Stand here, Johnny," said she. She had closed +the door, and Johnny was stationed before her. +She did not seem in the least injured nor the worse +for her experience. On the contrary, there was a +bright-red flush on her cheeks, and her eyes shone +as Johnny had never seen them. She looked eagerly +at Johnny. + +"Why did you do that?" she said, but there was +no anger in her voice. + +"I forgot," began Johnny. + +"Forgot what?" Her voice was strained with +eagerness. + +"That you were not another boy," said Johnny. + +"Tell me," said Aunt Janet. "No, you need not +tell me, because if you did it might be my duty to +inform your parents. I know there is no need of +your telling. You MUST be in the habit of fighting +with the other boys." + +"Except the little ones," admitted Johnny. + +To Johnny's wild astonishment, Aunt Janet seized +him by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes +with a look of adoration and immense approval. +"Thank goodness," said she, "at last there is going +to be a fighter in the Trumbull family. Your uncle +would never fight, and your father would not. Your +grandfather would. Your uncle and your father are +good men, though; you must try to be like them, +Johnny." + +"Yes, ma'am," replied Johnny, bewildered. + +"I think they would be called better men than +your grandfather and my father," said Aunt Janet. + +"Yes, ma'am." + +"I think it is time for you to have your grand- +father's watch," said Aunt Janet. "I think you are +man enough to take care of it." Aunt Janet had +all the time been holding a black leather case. Now +she opened it, and Johnny saw the great gold watch +which he had seen many times before and had always +understood was to be his some day, when he was a +man. "Here," said Aunt Janet. "Take good care +of it. You must try to be as good as your uncle and +father, but you must remember one thing -- you +will wear a watch which belonged to a man who +never allowed other men to crowd him out of the +way he elected to go." + +"Yes, ma'am," said Johnny. He took the +watch. + +"What do you say?" inquired his aunt, sharply. + +"Thank you." + +"That's right. I thought you had forgotten your +manners. Your grandfather never did." + +"I am sorry. Aunt Janet," muttered Johnny, +"that I --" + +"You need never say anything about that," his +aunt returned, quickly. "I did not see who you +were at first. You are too old to be spanked by a +woman, but you ought to be whipped by a man, +and I wish your grandfather were alive to do it." + +"Yes, ma'am," said Johnny. He looked at her +bravely. "He could if he wanted to," said he. + +Aunt Janet smiled at him proudly. "Of course," +said she, "a boy like you never gets the worst of it +fighting with other boys." + +"No, ma'am," said Johnny. + +Aunt Janet smiled again. "Now run and wash +your face and hands," said she; "you must not keep +supper waiting. Your mother has a paper to write +for her club, and I have promised to help her." + +"Yes, ma'am," said Johnny. He walked out, +carrying the great gold timepiece, bewildered, em- +barrassed, modest beneath his honors, but little +cock of the walk, whether he would or no, for reasons +entirely and forever beyond his ken. + + + + +JOHNNY-IN-THE-WOODS + + + + +JOHNNY-IN-THE-WOODS + +JOHNNY TRUMBULL, he who had demon- +strated his claim to be Cock of the Walk by a +most impious hand-to-hand fight with his own aunt, +Miss Janet Trumbull, in which he had been deci- +sively victorious, and won his spurs, consisting of his +late grandfather's immense, solemnly ticking watch, +was to take a new path of action. Johnny suddenly +developed the prominent Trumbull trait, but in his +case it was inverted. Johnny, as became a boy of +his race, took an excursion into the past, but instead +of applying the present to the past, as was the +tendency of the other Trumbulls, he forcibly applied +the past to the present. He fairly plastered the +past over the exigencies of his day and generation +like a penetrating poultice of mustard, and the +results were peculiar. + +Johnny, being bidden of a rainy day during the +midsummer vacation to remain in the house, to +keep quiet, read a book, and be a good boy, obeyed, +but his obedience was of a doubtful measure of +wisdom. + +Johnny got a book out of his uncle Jonathan Trum- +bull's dark little library while Jonathan was walking +sedately to the post-office, holding his dripping +umbrella at a wonderful slant of exactness, without +regard to the wind, thereby getting the soft drive +of the rain full in his face, which became, as it +were, bedewed with tears, entirely outside any +cause of his own emotions. + +Johnny probably got the only book of an anti- +orthodox trend in his uncle's library. He found +tucked away in a snug corner an ancient collection +of Border Ballads, and he read therein of many +unmoral romances and pretty fancies, which, since +he was a small boy, held little meaning for him, or +charm, beyond a delight in the swing of the rhythm, +for Johnny had a feeling for music. It was when he +read of Robin Hood, the bold Robin Hood, with his +dubious ethics but his certain and unquenchable +interest, that Johnny Trumbull became intent. He +had the volume in his own room, being somewhat +doubtful as to whether it might be of the sort +included in the good-boy role. He sat beside a rain- +washed window, which commanded a view of the +wide field between the Trumbull mansion and Jim +Simmons's house, and he read about Robin Hood +and his Greenwood adventures, his forcible setting +the wrong right; and for the first time his imagina- +tion awoke, and his ambition. Johnny Trumbull, +hitherto hero of nothing except little material fist- +fights, wished now to become a hero of true romance. + +In fact, Johnny considered seriously the possi- +bility of reincarnating, in his own person, Robin +Hood. He eyed the wide green field dreamily +through his rain-blurred window. It was a pretty +field, waving with feathery grasses and starred with +daisies and buttercups, and it was very fortunate +that it happened to be so wide. Jim Simmons's +house was not a desirable feature of the landscape, +and looked much better several acres away. It was +a neglected, squalid structure, and considered a dis- +grace to the whole village. Jim was also a disgrace, +and an unsolved problem. He owned that house, +and somehow contrived to pay the taxes thereon. +He also lived and throve in bodily health in spite of +evil ways, and his children were many. There +seemed no way to dispose finally of Jim Simmons +and his house except by murder and arson, and the +village was a peaceful one, and such measures were +entirely too strenuous. + +Presently Johnny, staring dreamily out of his +window, saw approaching a rusty-black umbrella +held at precisely the wrong angle in respect of the +storm, but held with the unvarying stiffness with +which a soldier might hold a bayonet, and knew it +for his uncle Jonathan's umbrella. Soon he beheld +also his uncle's serious, rain-drenched face and his +long ambling body and legs. Jonathan was coming +home from the post-office, whither he repaired every +morning. He never got a letter, never anything +except religious newspapers, but the visit to the +post-office was part of his daily routine. Rain or +shine, Jonathan Trumbull went for the morning +mail, and gained thereby a queer negative enjoy- +ment of a perfectly useless duty performed. Johnny +watched his uncle draw near to the house, and cruelly +reflected how unlike Robin Hood he must be. He +even wondered if his uncle could possibly have read +Robin Hood and still show absolutely no result in his +own personal appearance. He knew that he, Johnny, +could not walk to the post-office and back, even with +the drawback of a dripping old umbrella instead of +a bow and arrow, without looking a bit like Robin +Hood, especially when fresh from reading about him. + +Then suddenly something distracted his thoughts +from Uncle Jonathan. The long, feathery grass in +the field moved with a motion distinct from that +caused by the wind and rain. Johnny saw a tiger- +striped back emerge, covering long leaps of terror. +Johnny knew the creature for a cat afraid of Uncle +Jonathan. Then he saw the grass move behind the +first leaping, striped back, and he knew there were +more cats afraid of Uncle Jonathan. There were +even motions caused by unseen things, and he +reasoned, "Kittens afraid of Uncle Jonathan." +Then Johnny reflected with a great glow of indigna- +tion that the Simmonses kept an outrageous num- +ber of half-starved cats and kittens, besides a quota +of children popularly supposed to be none too well +nourished, let alone properly clothed. Then it was +that Johnny Trumbull's active, firm imagination +slapped the past of old romance like a most thorough +mustard poultice over the present. There could be +no Lincoln Green, no following of brave outlaws +(that is, in the strictest sense), no bows and arrows, +no sojourning under greenwood trees and the rest, +but something he could, and would, do and be. +That rainy day when Johnny Trumbull was a good +boy, and stayed in the house, and read a book, +marked an epoch. + +That night when Johnny went into his aunt +Janet's room she looked curiously at his face, which +seemed a little strange to her. Johnny, since he had +come into possession of his grandfather's watch, +went every night, on his way to bed, to his aunt's +room for the purpose of winding up that ancient +timepiece, Janet having a firm impression that it +might not be done properly unless under her super- +vision. Johnny stood before his aunt and wound up +the watch with its ponderous key, and she watched +him. + +"What have you been doing all day, John?" said +she. + +"Stayed in the house and -- read." + +"What did you read, John?" + +"A book." + +"Do you mean to be impertinent, John?" + +"No, ma'am," replied Johnny, and with perfect +truth. He had not the slightest idea of the title of +the book. + +"What was the book?" + +"A poetry book." + +"Where did you find it?" + +"In Uncle Jonathan's library." + +"Poetry In Uncle Jonathan's library?" said Janet, +in a mystified way. She had a general impression +of Jonathan's library as of century-old preserves, +altogether dried up and quite indistinguishable one +from the other except by labels. Poetry she could +not imagine as being there at all. Finally she +thought of the early Victorians, and Spenser and +Chaucer. The library might include them, but she +had an idea that Spenser and Chaucer were not fit +reading for a little boy. However, as she remem- +bered Spenser and Chaucer, she doubted if Johnny +could understand much of them. Probably he had +gotten hold of an early Victorian, and she looked +rather contemptuous. + +"I don't think much of a boy like you reading +poetry," said Janet. "Couldn't you find anything +else to read?" + +"No, ma'am." That also was truth. Johnny, +before exploring his uncle's theological library, had +peered at his father's old medical books and his +mother's bookcases, which contained quite terrify- +ing uniform editions of standard things written by +women. + +"I don't suppose there ARE many books written for +boys," said Aunt Janet, reflectively. + +"No, ma'am," said Johnny. He finished winding +the watch, and gave, as was the custom, the key to +Aunt Janet, lest he lose it. + +"I will see if I cannot find some books of travels +for you, John," said Janet. "I think travels would +be good reading for a boy. Good night, John." + +"Good night. Aunt Janet," replied Johnny. His +aunt never kissed him good night, which was one +reason why he liked her. + +On his way to bed he had to pass his mother's room, +whose door stood open. She was busy writing at her +desk. She glanced at Johnny. + +"Are you going to bed?" said she. + +"Yes, ma'am." + +Johnny entered the room and let his mother kiss his +forehead, parting his curly hair to do so. He loved +his mother, but did not care at all to have her kiss +him. He did not object, because he thought she +liked to do it, and she was a woman, and it was a +very little thing in which he could oblige her. + +"Were you a good boy, and did you find a good +book to read?" asked she. + +"Yes, ma'am." + +"What was the book?" Cora Trumbull inquired, +absently, writing as she spoke. + +"Poetry." + +Cora laughed. " Poetry is odd for a boy," said she. +"You should have read a book of travels or history. +Good night, Johnny." + +"Good night, mother." + +Then Johnny met his father, smelling strongly of +medicines, coming up from his study. But his father +did not see him. And Johnny went to bed, having +imbibed from that old tale of Robin Hood more of +history and more knowledge of excursions into realms +of old romance than his elders had ever known during +much longer lives than his. + +Johnny confided in nobody at first. His feeling +nearly led him astray in the matter of Lily Jennings; +he thought of her, for one sentimental minute, as +Robin Hood's Maid Marion. Then he dismissed +the idea peremptorily. Lily Jennings would simply +laugh. He knew her. Moreover, she was a girl, +and not to be trusted. Johnny felt the need of +another boy who would be a kindred spirit; he +wished for more than one boy. He wished for a +following of heroic and lawless souls, even as Robin +Hood's. But he could think of nobody, after con- +siderable study, except one boy, younger than him- +self. He was a beautiful little boy, whose mother +had never allowed him to have his golden curls +cut, although he had been in trousers for quite a +while. However, the trousers were foolish, being +knickerbockers, and accompanied by low socks, +which revealed pretty, dimpled, babyish legs. The +boy's name was Arnold Carruth, and that was against +him, as being long, and his mother firm about al- +lowing no nickname. Nicknames in any case were +not allowed in the very exclusive private school +which Johnny attended. + +Arnold Carruth, in spite of his being such a beau- +tiful little boy, would have had no standing at all +in the school as far as popularity was concerned +had it not been for a strain of mischief which tri- +umphed over curls, socks, and pink cheeks and a +much-kissed rosebud of a mouth. Arnold Carruth, +as one of the teachers permitted herself to state +when relaxed in the bosom of her own family, was +"as choke-full of mischief as a pod of peas. And the +worst of it all is," quoth the teacher, Miss Agnes +Rector, who was a pretty young girl, with a hidden +sympathy for mischief herself -- "the worst of it is, +that child looks so like a cherub on a rosy cloud that +even if he should be caught nobody would believe +it. They would be much more likely to accuse poor +little Andrew Jackson Green, because he has a snub +nose and is a bit cross-eyed, and I never knew that +poor child to do anything except obey rules and learn +his lessons. He is almost too good. And another +worst of it is, nobody can help loving that little imp +of a Carruth boy, mischief and all. I believe the +scamp knows it and takes advantage of it." + +It is quite possible that Arnold Carruth did +profit unworthily by his beauty and engagingness, +albeit without calculation. He was so young, it +was monstrous to believe him capable of calculation, +of deliberate trading upon his assets of birth and +beauty and fascination. However, Johnny Trum- +bull, who was wide awake and a year older, was alive +to the situation. He told Arnold Carruth, and +Arnold Carruth only, about Robin Hood and his +great scheme. + +"You can help," said this wise Johnny; "you can +be in it, because nobody thinks you can be in any- +thing, on account of your wearing curls." + +Arnold Carruth flushed and gave an angry tug +at one golden curl which the wind blew over a +shoulder. The two boys were in a secluded corner +of Madame's lawn, behind a clump of Japanese +cedars, during an intermission. + +"I can't help it because I wear curls," declared +Arnold with angry shame. + +"Who said you could? No need of getting mad." + +"Mamma and Aunt Flora and grandmamma +won't let me have these old curls cut off," said +Arnold. "You needn't think I want to have curls +like a girl, Johnny Trumbull." + +"Who said you did? And I know you don't like +to wear those short stockings, either." + +"Like to!" Arnold gave a spiteful kick, first of +one half-bared, dimpled leg, then of the other. + +"First thing you know I'll steal mamma's or Aunt +Flora's stockings and throw these in the furnace -- +I will. Do you s'pose a feller wants to wear these +baby things? I guess not. Women are awful queer, +Johnny Trumbull. My mamma and my aunt Flora +are awful nice, but they are queer about some +things." + +"Most women are queer," agreed Johnny, "but +my aunt Janet isn't as queer as some. Rather guess +if she saw me with curls like a little girl she'd cut +'em off herself." + +"Wish she was my aunt," said Arnold Carruth +with a sigh. "A feller needs a woman like that till +he's grown up. Do you s'pose she'd cut off my curls +if I was to go to your house, Johnny?" + +"I'm afraid she wouldn't think it was right unless +your mother said she might. She has to be real +careful about doing right, because my uncle Jonathan +used to preach, you know." + +Arnold Carruth grinned savagely, as if he endured +pain. "Well, I s'pose I'll have to stand the curls and +little baby stockings awhile longer," said he. "What +was it you were going to tell me, Johnny?" + +"I am going to tell you because I know you aren't +too good, if you do wear curls and little stockings." + +"No, I ain't too good," declared Arnold Carruth, +proudly; "I ain't -- HONEST, Johnny." + +"That's why I'm going to tell you. But if you +tell any of the other boys -- or girls --" + +"Tell girls!" sniffed Arnold. + +"If you tell anybody, I'll lick you." + +"Guess I ain't afraid." + +"Guess you'd be afraid to go home after you'd +been licked." + +"Guess my mamma would give it to you." + +"Run home and tell mamma you'd been whopped, +would you, then?" + +Little Arnold, beautiful baby boy, straightened +himself with a quick remembrance that he was +born a man. "You know I wouldn't tell, Johnny +Trumbull." + +"Guess you wouldn't. Well, here it is --" Johnny +spoke in emphatic whispers, Arnold's curly head close +to his mouth: "There are a good many things in +this town have got to be set right," said Johnny. + +Little Arnold stared at him. Then fire shone in +his lovely blue eyes under the golden shadow of his +curls, a fire which had shone in the eyes of some +ancestors of his, for there was good fighting blood +in the Carruth family, as well as in the Trumbull, +although this small descendant did go about curled +and kissed and barelegged. + +"How'll we begin?" said Arnold, in a strenuous +whisper. + +"We've got to begin right away with Jim Sim- +mons's cats and kittens." + +"With Jim Simmons's cats and kittens?" repeated +Arnold. + +"That was what I said, exactly. We've got to +begin right there. It is an awful little beginning, +but I can't think of anything else. If you can, I'm +willing to listen." + +"I guess I can't," admitted Arnold, helplessly. + +"Of course we can't go around taking away money +from rich people and giving it to poor folks. One +reason is, most of the poor folks in this town are +lazy, and don't get money because they don't want +to work for it. And when they are not lazy, they +drink. If we gave rich people's money to poor +folks like that, we shouldn't do a mite of good. +The rich folks would be poor, and the poor folks +wouldn't stay rich; they would be lazier, and get +more drink. I don't see any sense in doing things +like that in this town. There are a few poor folks +I have been thinking we might take some money +for and do good, but not many." + +"Who?" inquired Arnold Carruth, in awed tones. + +"Well, there is poor old Mrs. Sam Little. She's +awful poor. Folks help her, I know, but she can't +be real pleased being helped. She'd rather have the +money herself. I have been wondering if we couldn't +get some of your father's money away and give it +to her, for one." + +"Get away papa's money!" + +"You don't mean to tell me you are as stingy as +that, Arnold Carruth?" + +"I guess papa wouldn't like it." + +"Of course he wouldn't. But that is not the point. +It is not what your father would like; it is what that +poor old lady would like." + +It was too much for Arnold. He gaped at +Johnny. + +"If you are going to be mean and stingy, we may +as well stop before we begin," said Johnny. + +Then Arnold Carruth recovered himself. "Old +Mr. Webster Payne is awful poor," said he. "We +might take some of your father's money and give +it to him." + +Johnny snorted, fairly snorted. "If," said he, +"you think my father keeps his money where we +can get it, you are mistaken, Arnold Carruth. My +father's money is all in papers that are not worth +much now and that he has to keep in the bank +till they are." + +Arnold smiled hopefully. "Guess that's the way +my papa keeps HIS money." + +"It's the way most rich people are mean enough +to," said Johnny, severely. "I don't care if it's +your father or mine, it's mean. And that's why +we've got to begin with Jim Simmons's cats and +kittens." + +"Are you going to give old Mrs. Sam Little cats?" +inquired Arnold. + +Johnny sniffed. "Don't be silly," said he. +"Though I do think a nice cat with a few kittens +might cheer her up a little, and we could steal enough +milk, by getting up early and tagging after the milk- +man, to feed them. But I wasn't thinking of giving +her or old Mr. Payne cats and kittens. I wasn't +thinking of folks; I was thinking of all those poor +cats and kittens that Mr. Jim Simmons has and +doesn't half feed, and that have to go hunting +around folks' back doors in the rain, when cats hate +water, too, and pick things up that must be bad +for their stomachs, when they ought to have their +milk regularly in nice, clean saucers. No, Arnold +Carruth, what we have got to do is to steal Mr. +Jim Simmons's cats and get them in nice homes +where they can earn their living catching mice and +be well cared for." + +"Steal cats?" said Arnold. + +"Yes, steal cats, in order to do right," said Johnny +Trumbull, and his expression was heroic, even +exalted. + +It was then that a sweet treble, faltering yet +exultant, rang in their ears. + +"If," said the treble voice, "you are going to +steal dear little kitty cats and get nice homes for +them, I'm going to help." + +The voice belonged to Lily Jennings, who had +stood on the other side of the Japanese cedars and +heard every word. + +Both boys started in righteous wrath, but Arnold +Carruth was the angrier of the two. "Mean little +cat yourself, listening," said he. His curls seemed +to rise like a crest of rage. + +Johnny, remembering some things, was not so +outspoken. "You hadn't any right to listen, Lily +Jennings," he said, with masculine severity. + +"I didn't start to listen," said Lily. "I was look- +ing for cones on these trees. Miss Parmalee wanted +us to bring some object of nature into the class, and +I wondered whether I could find a queer Japanese +cone on one of these trees, and then I heard you +boys talking, and I couldn't help listening. You +spoke very loud, and I couldn't give up looking for +that cone. I couldn't find any, and I heard all +about the Simmonses' cats, and I know lots of other +cats that haven't got good homes, and -- I am going +to be in it." + +"You AIN'T," declared Arnold Carruth. + +"We can't have girls in it," said Johnny the mind- +ful, more politely. + +"You've got to have me. You had better have +me, Johnny Trumbull," she added with meaning. + +Johnny flinched. It was a species of blackmail, +but what could he do? Suppose Lily told how she +had hidden him -- him, Johnny Trumbull, the cham- +pion of the school -- in that empty baby-carriage! +He would have more to contend against than Arnold +Carruth with socks and curls. He did not think Lily +would tell. Somehow Lily, although a little, be- +frilled girl, gave an impression of having a knowledge +of a square deal almost as much as a boy would; +but what boy could tell with a certainty what such +an uncertain creature as a girl might or might not +do? Moreover, Johnny had a weakness, a hidden, +Spartanly hidden, weakness for Lily. He rather +wished to have her act as partner in his great enter- +prise. He therefore gruffly assented. + +"All right," he said, "you can be in it. But just +you look out. You'll see what happens if you tell." + +"She can't be in it; she's nothing but a girl," +said Arnold Carruth, fiercely. + +Lily Jennings lifted her chin and surveyed him +with queenly scorn. "And what are you?" said she. +"A little boy with curls and baby socks." + +Arnold colored with shame and fury, and subsided. +"Mind you don't tell," he said, taking Johnny's cue. + +"I sha'n't tell," replied Lily, with majesty. "But +you'll tell yourselves if you talk one side of trees +without looking on the other." + +There was then only a few moments before +Madame's musical Japanese gong which announced +the close of intermission should sound, but three +determined souls in conspiracy can accomplish much +in a few moments. The first move was planned in +detail before that gong sounded, and the two boys +raced to the house, and Lily followed, carrying a toad- +stool, which she had hurriedly caught up from the +lawn for her object of nature to be taken into class. + +It was a poisonous toadstool, and Lily was quite +a heroine in the class. That fact doubtless gave her +a more dauntless air when, after school, the two +boys caught up with her walking gracefully down +the road, flirting her skirts and now and then giving +her head a toss, which made her fluff of hair fly into +a golden foam under her daisy-trimmed straw hat. + +"To-night," Johnny whispered, as he sped past. + +"At half past nine, between your house and the +Simmonses'," replied Lily, without even looking at +him. She was a past-mistress of dissimulation. + +Lily's mother had guests at dinner that night, +and the guests remarked sometimes, within the little +girl's hearing, what a darling she was. + +"She never gives me a second's anxiety," Lily's +mother whispered to a lady beside her. "You can- +not imagine what a perfectly good, dependable child +she is." + +"Now my Christina is a good child in the grain," +said the lady, "but she is full of mischief. I never +can tell what Christina will do next." + +"I can always tell," said Lily's mother, in a voice +of maternal triumph. + +"Now only the other night, when I thought +Christina was in bed, that absurd child got up and +dressed and ran over to see her aunt Bella. Tom +came home with her, and of course there was nothing +very bad about it. Christina was very bright; she +said, 'Mother, you never told me I must not get up +and go to see Aunt Bella,' which was, of course, +true. I could not gainsay that." + +"I cannot," said Lily's mother, "imagine my +Lily's doing such a thing." + +If Lily had heard that last speech of her mother's, +whom she dearly loved, she might have wavered. +That pathetic trust in herself might have caused her +to justify it. But she had finished her dinner and +had been excused, and was undressing for bed, with +the firm determination to rise betimes and dress +and join Johnny Trumbull and Arnold Carruth. +Johnny had the easiest time of them all. He simply +had to bid his aunt Janet good night and have the +watch wound, and take a fleeting glimpse of his +mother at her desk and his father in his office, and +go whistling to his room, and sit in the summer +darkness and wait until the time came. + +Arnold Carruth had the hardest struggle. His +mother had an old school friend visiting her, and +Arnold, very much dressed up, with his curls falling +in a shining fleece upon a real lace collar, had to be +shown off and show off. He had to play one little +piece which he had learned upon the piano. He had +to recite a little poem. He had to be asked how old +he was, and if he liked to go to school, and how +many teachers he had, and if he loved them, and +if he loved his little mates, and which of them he +loved best; and he had to be asked if he loved his +aunt Dorothy, who was the school friend and not his +aunt at all, and would he not like to come and live +with her, because she had not any dear little boy; +and he was obliged to submit to having his curls +twisted around feminine fingers, and to being kissed +and hugged, and a whole chapter of ordeals, before +he was finally in bed, with his mother's kiss moist +upon his lips, and free to assert himself. + +That night Arnold Carruth realized himself as +having an actual horror of his helpless state of pam- +pered childhood. The man stirred in the soul of the +boy, and it was a little rebel with sulky pout of lips +and frown of childish brows who stole out of bed, +got into some queer clothes, and crept down the +back stairs. He heard his aunt Dorothy, who was +not his aunt, singing an Italian song in the parlor, +he heard the clink of silver and china from the +butler's pantry, where the maids were washing the +dinner dishes. He smelt his father's cigar, and he +gave a little leap of joy on the grass of the lawn. +At last he was out at night alone, and -- he wore long +stockings! That noon he had secreted a pair of +his mother's toward that end. When he came home +to luncheon he pulled them out of the darning-bag, +which he had spied through a closet door that had +been left ajar. One of the stockings was green silk, +and the other was black, and both had holes in +them, but all that mattered was the length. Arnold +wore also his father's riding-breeches, which came +over his shoes and which were enormously large, +and one of his father's silk shirts. He had resolved +to dress consistently for such a great occasion. His +clothes hampered him, but he felt happy as he sped +clumsily down the road. + +However, both Johnny Trumbull and Lily Jen- +nings, who were waiting for him at the rendezvous, +were startled by his appearance. Both began to +run, Johnny pulling Lily after him by the hand, +but Arnold's cautious hallo arrested them. Johnny +and Lily returned slowly, peering through the dark- +ness. + +"It's me," said Arnold, with gay disregard of +grammar. + +"You looked," said Lily, "like a real fat old man. +What HAVE you got on, Arnold Carruth?" + +Arnold slouched before his companions, ridiculous +but triumphant. He hitched up a leg of the riding- +breeches and displayed a long, green silk stocking. +Both Johnny and Lily doubled up with laughter. + +"What you laughing at?" inquired Arnold, crossly. + +"Oh, nothing at all," said Lily. "Only you do +look like a scarecrow broken loose. Doesn't he, +Johnny?" + +"I am going home," stated Arnold with dignity. +He turned, but Johnny caught him in his little iron +grip. + +"Oh, shucks, Arnold Carruth!" said he. "Don't +be a baby. Come on." And Arnold Carruth with +difficulty came on. + +People in the village, as a rule, retired early. Many +lights were out when the affair began, many went +out while it was in progress. All three of the band +steered as clear of lighted houses as possible, and +dodged behind trees and hedges when shadowy +figures appeared on the road or carriage-wheels were +heard in the distance. At their special destination +they were sure to be entirely safe. Old Mr. Peter +Van Ness always retired very early. To be sure, +he did not go to sleep until late, and read in bed, +but his room was in the rear of the house on the +second floor, and all the windows, besides, were +dark. Mr. Peter Van Ness was a very wealthy +elderly gentleman, very benevolent. He had given +the village a beautiful stone church with memorial +windows, a soldiers' monument, a park, and a home +for aged couples, called "The Van Ness Home." +Mr. Van Ness lived alone with the exception of a +housekeeper and a number of old, very well-disci- +plined servants. The servants always retired early, +and Mr. Van Ness required the house to be quiet for +his late reading. He was a very studious old gentle- +man. + +To the Van Ness house, set back from the street +in the midst of a well-kept lawn, the three repaired, +but not as noiselessly as they could have wished. In +fact, a light flared in an up-stairs window, which +was wide open, and one woman's voice was heard +in conclave with another. + +"I should think," said the first, "that the lawn +was full of cats. Did you ever hear such a mewing, +Jane?" + +That was the housekeeper's voice. The three, +each of whom carried a squirming burlap potato-bag +from the Trumbull cellar, stood close to a clump +of stately pines full of windy songs, and trem- +bled. + +"It do sound like cats, ma'am," said another voice, +which was Jane's, the maid, who had brought Mrs. +Meeks, the housekeeper, a cup of hot water and +peppermint, because her dinner had disagreed with +her. + +"Just listen," said Mrs. Meeks. + +"Yes, ma'am, I should think there was hundreds +of cats and little kittens." + +"I am so afraid Mr. Van Ness will be disturbed." + +"Yes, ma'am." + +"You might go out and look, Jane." + +"Oh, ma'am, they might be burglars!" + +"How can they be burglars when they are cats?" +demanded Mrs. Meeks, testily. + +Arnold Carruth snickered, and Johnny on one side, +and Lily on the other, prodded him with an elbow. +They were close under the window. + +"Burglars is up to all sorts of queer tricks, ma'am," +said Jane. "They may mew like cats to tell one +another what door to go in." + +"Jane, you talk like an idiot," said Mrs. Meeks. +"Burglars talking like cats! Who ever heard of such +a thing? It sounds right under that window. Open +my closet door and get those heavy old shoes and +throw them out." + +It was an awful moment. The three dared not +move. The cats and kittens in the bags -- not so +many, after all -- seemed to have turned into multi- +plication-tables. They were positively alarming in +their determination to get out, their wrath with one +another, and their vociferous discontent with the +whole situation. + +"I can't hold my bag much longer," said poor little +Arnold Carruth. + +"Hush up, cry-baby!" whispered Lily, fiercely, +in spite of a clawing paw emerging from her own +bag and threatening her bare arm. + +Then came the shoes. One struck Arnold squarely +on the shoulder, nearly knocking him down and +making him lose hold of his bag. The other struck +Lily's bag, and conditions became worse; but she +held on despite a scratch. Lily had pluck. + +Then Jane's voice sounded very near, as she leaned +out of the window. "I guess they have went, +ma'am," said she. "I seen something run." + +"I can hear them," said Mrs. Meeks, queru- +lously. + +"I seen them run," persisted Jane, who was tired +and wished to be gone. + +"Well, close that window, anyway, for I know I +hear them, even if they have gone," said Mrs. Meeks. +The three heard with relief the window slammed +down. + +The light flashed out, and simultaneously Lily +Jennings and Johnny Trumbull turned indignantly +upon Arnold Carruth. + +"There, you have gone and let all those poor cats +go," said Johnny. + +"And spoilt everything," said Lily. + +Arnold rubbed his shoulder. "You would have +let go if you had been hit right on the shoulder +by a great shoe," said he, rather loudly. + +"Hush up!" said Lily. "I wouldn't have let my +cats go if I had been killed by a shoe; so there." + +"Serves us right for taking a boy with curls," said +Johnny Trumbull. + +But he spoke unadvisedly. Arnold Carruth was +no match whatever for Johnny Trumbull, and had +never been allowed the honor of a combat with him; +but surprise takes even a great champion at a dis- +advantage. Arnold turned upon Johnny like a flash, +out shot a little white fist, up struck a dimpled leg +clad in cloth and leather, and down sat Johnny +Trumbull; and, worse, open flew his bag, and there +was a yowling exodus. + +"There go your cats, too, Johnny Trumbull," +said Lily, in a perfectly calm whisper. At that mo- +ment both boys, victor and vanquished, felt a simul- +taneous throb of masculine wrath at Lily. Who was +she to gloat over the misfortunes of men? But retri- +bution came swiftly to Lily. That viciously claw- +ing little paw shot out farther, and there was a limit +to Spartanism in a little girl born so far from that +heroic land. Lily let go of her bag and with diffi- +culty stifled a shriek of pain. + +"Whose cats are gone now?" demanded Johnny, +rising. + +"Yes, whose cats are gone now?" said Arnold. + +Then Johnny promptly turned upon him and +knocked him down and sat on him. + +Lily looked at them, standing, a stately little +figure in the darkness. "I am going home," said +she. "My mother does not allow me to go with +fighting boys." + +Johnny rose, and so did Arnold, whimpering +slightly. His shoulder ached considerably. + +"He knocked me down," said Johnny. + +Even as he whimpered and as he suffered, Arnold +felt a thrill of triumph. "Always knew I could if I +had a chance," said he. + +"You couldn't if I had been expecting it," said +Johnny. + +"Folks get knocked down when they ain't ex- +pecting it most of the time," declared Arnold, with +more philosophy than he realized. + +"I don't think it makes much difference about the +knocking down," said Lily. "All those poor cats +and kittens that we were going to give a good home, +where they wouldn't be starved, have got away, +and they will run straight back to Mr. Jim Sim- +mons's." + +"If they haven't any more sense than to run back +to a place where they don't get enough to eat and +are kicked about by a lot of children, let them run," +said Johnny. + +"That's so," said Arnold. "I never did see what +we were doing such a thing for, anyway -- stealing +Mr. Simmons's cats and giving them to Mr. Van +Ness." + +It was the girl alone who stood by her guns of +righteousness. "I saw and I see," she declared, with +dangerously loud emphasis. "It was only our duty +to try to rescue poor helpless animals who don't +know any better than to stay where they are badly +treated. And Mr. Van Ness has so much money he +doesn't know what to do with it; he would have been +real pleased to give those cats a home and buy milk +and liver for them. But it's all spoiled now. I will +never undertake to do good again, with a lot of boys +in the way, as long as I live; so there!" Lily turned +about. + +"Going to tell your mother!" said Johnny, with +scorn which veiled anxiety. + +"No, I'm NOT. I don't tell tales." + +Lily marched off, and in her wake went Johnny +and Arnold, two poor little disillusioned would-be +knights of old romance in a wretchedly common- +place future, not far enough from their horizons for +any glamour. + +They went home, and of the three Johnny Trum- +bull was the only one who was discovered. For him +his aunt Janet lay in wait and forced a confession. +She listened grimly, but her eyes twinkled. + +"You have learned to fight, John Trumbull," said +she, when he had finished. "Now the very next +thing you have to learn, and make yourself worthy +of your grandfather Trumbull, is not to be a fool." + +"Yes, Aunt Janet," said Johnny. + +The next noon, when he came home from school, +old Maria, who had been with the family ever since +he could remember and long before, called him into +the kitchen. There, greedily lapping milk from a +saucer, were two very lean, tall kittens. + +"See those nice little tommy-cats," said Maria, +beaming upon Johnny, whom she loved and whom +she sometimes fancied deprived of boyish joys. +"Your aunt Janet sent me over to the Simmonses' +for them this morning. They are overrun with cats +-- such poor, shiftless folks always be -- and you can +have them. We shall have to watch for a little while +till they get wonted, so they won't run home." + +Johnny gazed at the kittens, fast distending with +the new milk, and felt presumably much as dear +Robin Hood may have felt after one of his successful +raids in the fair, poetic past. + +"Pretty, ain't they?" said Maria. "They have +drank up a whole saucer of milk. 'Most starved. I +s'pose." + +Johnny gathered up the two forlorn kittens and +sat down in a kitchen chair, with one on each shoul- +der, hard, boyish cheeks pressed against furry, pur- +ring sides, and the little fighting Cock of the Walk +felt his heart glad and tender with the love of the +strong for the weak. + + + + + +DANIEL AND LITTLE DAN'L + + + + + +DANIEL AND LITTLE DAN'L + +THE Wise homestead dated back more than a +century, yet it had nothing imposing about it +except its site. It was a simple, glaringly white cot- +tage. There was a center front door with two win- +dows on each side; there was a low slant of roof, +pierced by unpicturesque dormers. On the left of +the house was an ell, which had formerly been used +as a shoemaker's shop, but now served as a kitchen. +In the low attic of the ell was stored the shoemaker's +bench, whereon David Wise's grandfather had sat +for nearly eighty years of working days; after him +his eldest son, Daniel's father, had occupied the same +hollow seat of patient toil. Daniel had sat there for +twenty-odd years, then had suddenly realized both +the lack of necessity and the lack of customers, since +the great shoe-plant had been built down in the vil- +lage. Then Daniel had retired -- although he did +not use that expression. Daniel said to his friends +and his niece Dora that he had "quit work." But +he told himself, without the least bitterness, that +work had quit him. + +After Daniel had retired, his one physiological +peculiarity assumed enormous proportions. It had +always been with him, but steady work had held it, +to a great extent, at bay. Daniel was a moral +coward before physical conditions. He was as one +who suffers, not so much from agony of the flesh as +from agony of the mind induced thereby. Daniel +was a coward before one of the simplest, most in- +evitable happenings of earthly life. He was a coward +before summer heat. All winter he dreaded summer. +Summer poisoned the spring for him. Only during +the autumn did he experience anything of peace. +Summer was then over, and between him and another +summer stretched the blessed perspective of winter. +Then Daniel Wise drew a long breath and looked +about him, and spelled out the beauty of the earth +in his simple primer of understanding. Daniel had +in his garden behind the house a prolific grape-vine. +He ate the grapes, full of the savor of the dead sum- +mer, with the gusto of a poet who can at last enjoy +triumph over his enemy. + +Possibly it was the vein of poetry in Daniel which +made him a coward -- which made him so vulnerable. +During the autumn he reveled in the tints of the +landscape which his sitting-room windows com- +manded. There were many maples and oaks. Day +by day the roofs of the houses in the village be- +came more evident, as the maples shed their crimson +and gold and purple rags of summer. The oaks re- +mained, great shaggy masses of dark gold and burn- +ing russet; later they took on soft hues, making +clearer the blue firmament between the boughs. +Daniel watched the autumn trees with pure delight. +"He will go to-day," he said of a flaming maple +after a night of frost which had crisped the white +arches of the grass in his dooryard. All day he +sat and watched the maple cast its glory, and did +not bother much with his simple meals. The Wise +house was erected on three terraces. Always through +the dry summer the grass was burned to an ugly +negation of color. Later, when rain came, the grass +was a brilliant green, patched with rosy sorrel and +golden stars of arnica. Then later still came the +diamond brilliance of the frost. So dry were the +terraces in summer-time that no flowers would +flourish. When Daniel's mother had come to the +house as a bride she had planted under a window a +blush-rose bush, but always the blush-roses were +few and covered with insects. It was not until the +autumn, when it was time for the flowers to die, that +the sorrel blessing of waste lands flushed rosily and +the arnica showed its stars of slender threads of +gold, and there might even be a slight glimpse of +purple aster and a dusty spray or two of goldenrod. +Then Daniel did not shrink from the sight of the +terraces. In summer-time the awful negative glare +of them under the afternoon sun maddened him. + +In winter he often visited his brother John in +the village. He was very fond of John, and John's +wife, and their only daughter, Dora. When John +died, and later his wife, he would have gone to live +with Dora, but she married. Then her husband also +died, and Dora took up dressmaking, supporting +herself and her delicate little girl-baby. Daniel +adored this child. She had been named for him, +although her mother had been aghast before the propo- +sition. "Name a girl Daniel, uncle!" she had cried. + +"She is going to have what I own after I have +done with it, anyway," declared Daniel, gazing with +awe and rapture at the tiny flannel bundle in his +niece's arms. "That won't make any difference, but +I do wish you could make up your mind to call her +after me, Dora." + +Dora Lee was soft-hearted. She named her girl- +baby Daniel, and called her Danny, which was not, +after all, so bad, and her old uncle loved the child +as if she had been his own. Little Daniel -- he always +called her Daniel, or, rather, "Dan'l" -- was the only +reason for his descending into the village on summer +days when the weather was hot. Daniel, when he +visited the village in summer-time, wore always a +green leaf inside his hat and carried an umbrella +and a palm-leaf fan. This caused the village boys to +shout, "Hullo, grandma!" after him. Daniel, being +a little hard of hearing, was oblivious, but he would +have been in any case. His whole mind was con- +centrated in getting along that dusty glare of street, +stopping at the store for a paper bag of candy, and +finally ending in Dora's little dark parlor, holding his +beloved namesake on his knee, watching her bliss- +fully suck a barley stick while he waved his palm- +leaf fan. Dora would be fitting gowns in the next +room. He would hear the hum of feminine chatter +over strictly feminine topics. He felt very much +aloof, even while holding the little girl on his knee. +Daniel had never married -- had never even h ad a sweet- +heart. The marriageable women he had seen had not +been of the type to attract a dreamer like Daniel Wise. +Many of those women thought him "a little off." + +Dora Lee, his niece, privately wondered if her +uncle had his full allotment of understanding. He +seemed much more at home with her little daughter +than with herself, and Dora considered herself a +very good business woman, with possibly an unusual +endowment of common sense. She was such a good +business woman that when she died suddenly she +left her child with quite a sum in the bank, besides +the house. Daniel did not hesitate for a moment. +He engaged Miss Sarah Dean for a housekeeper, +and took the little girl (hardly more than a baby) +to his own home. Dora had left a will, in which +she appointed Daniel guardian in spite of her doubt +concerning his measure of understanding. There was +much comment in the village when Daniel took +his little namesake to live in his lonely house on +the terrace. "A man and an old maid to bring up +that poor child!" they said. But Daniel called +Dr. Trumbull to his support. "It is much better for +that delicate child to be out of this village, which +drains the south hill," Dr. Trumbull declared. +"That child needs pure air. It is hot enough in +summer all around here, and hot enough at Daniel's, +but the air is pure there." + +There was no gossip about Daniel and Miss +Sarah Dean. Gossip would have seemed about as +foolish concerning him and a dry blade of field-grass. +Sarah Dean looked like that. She wore rusty black +gowns, and her gray-blond hair was swept curtain- +wise over her ears on either side of her very thin, +mildly severe wedge of a face. Sarah was a notable +housekeeper and a good cook. She could make an +endless variety of cakes and puddings and pies, and +her biscuits were marvels. Daniel had long catered +for himself, and a rasher of bacon, with an egg, +suited him much better for supper than hot biscuits, +preserves, and five kinds of cake. Still, he did not +complain, and did not understand that Sarah's fare +was not suitable for the child, until Dr. Trumbull +told him so. + +"Don't you let that child live on that kind of food +if you want her to live at all," said Dr. Trumbull. +"Lord! what are the women made of, and the men +they feed, for that matter? Why, Daniel, there are +many people in this place, and hard-working people, +too, who eat a quantity of food, yet don't get enough +nourishment for a litter of kittens." + +"What shall I do?" asked Daniel in a puzzled way. + +"Do? You can cook a beefsteak yourself, can't +you? Sarah Dean would fry one as hard as sole- +leather." + +"Yes, I can cook a beefsteak real nice," said +Daniel. + +"Do it, then; and cook some chops, too, and +plenty of eggs." + +"I don't exactly hanker after quite so much sweet +stuff," said Daniel. "I wonder if Sarah's feelings +will be hurt." + +"It is much better for feelings to be hurt than +stomachs," declared Dr. Trumbull, "but Sarah's +feelings will not be hurt. I know her. She is a wiry +woman. Give her a knock and she springs back +into place. Don't worry about her, Daniel." + +When Daniel went home that night he carried a +juicy steak, and he cooked it, and he and little Dan'1 +had a square meal. Sarah refused the steak with a +slight air of hauteur, but she behaved very well. +When she set away her untasted layer-cakes and +pies and cookies, she eyed them somewhat anxiously. +Her standard of values seemed toppling before her +mental vision. "They will starve to death if they +live on such victuals as beefsteak, instead of good +nourishing hot biscuits and cake," she thought. +After the supper dishes were cleared away she went +into the sitting-room where Daniel Wise sat beside +a window, waiting in a sort of stern patience for a +whiff of air. It was a very close evening. The sun +was red in the low west, but a heaving sea of mist was +rising over the lowlands. + +Sarah sat down opposite Daniel. "Close, ain't +it?" said she. She began knitting her lace edging. + +"Pretty close," replied Daniel. He spoke with +an effect of forced politeness. Although he had such +a horror of extreme heat, he was always chary of +boldly expressing his mind concerning it, for he had +a feeling that he might be guilty of blasphemy, since +he regarded the weather as being due to an Almighty +mandate. Therefore, although he suffered, he was +extremely polite. + +"It is awful up-stairs in little Dan'l's room," said +Sarah. "I have got all the windows open except the +one that's right on the bed, and I told her she needn't +keep more than the sheet and one comfortable over +her." + +Daniel looked anxious. "Children ain't ever over- +come when they are in bed, in the house, are they?" + +"Land, no! I never heard of such a thing. And, +anyway, little Dan'l's so thin it ain't likely she feels +the heat as much as some." + +"I hope she don't." + +Daniel continued to sit hunched up on himself, +gazing with a sort of mournful irritation out of the +window upon the landscape over which the misty +shadows vaguely wavered. + +Sarah knitted. She could knit in the dark. After +a while she rose and said she guessed she would go +to bed, as to-morrow was her sweeping-day. + +Sarah went, and Daniel sat alone. + +Presently a little pale figure stole to him through +the dusk -- the child, in her straight white night- +gown, padding softly on tiny naked feet. + +"Is that you, Dan'l?" + +"Yes, Uncle Dan'l." + +"Is it too hot to sleep up in your room?" + +"I didn't feel so very hot, Uncle Dan'l, but skeet- +ers were biting me, and a great big black thing just +flew in my window!" + +"A bat, most likely." + +"A bat!" Little Dan'l shuddered. She began a +little stifled wail. "I'm afeard of bats," she la- +mented. + +Daniel gathered the tiny creature up. "You can +jest set here with Uncle Dan'l," said he. "It is jest +a little cooler here, I guess. Once in a while there +comes a little whiff of wind." + +"Won't any bats come?" + +"Lord, no! Your Uncle Dan'l won't let any bats +come within a gun-shot." + +The little creature settled down contentedly in the +old man's lap. Her fair, thin locks fell over his +shirt-sleeved arm, her upturned profile was sweetly +pure and clear even in the dusk. She was so deli- +cately small that he might have been holding a fairy, +from the slight roundness of the childish limbs and +figure. Poor little girl! -- Dan'1 was much too small +and thin. Old man Daniel gazed down at her +anxiously. + +"Jest as soon as the nice fall weather comes," +said he, "uncle is going to take you down to the +village real often, and you can get acquainted with +some other nice little girls and play with them, and +that will do uncle's little Dan'l good." + +"I saw little Lucy Rose," piped the child, "and +she looked at me real pleasant, and Lily Jennings +wore a pretty dress. Would they play with me, +uncle?" + +"Of course they would. You don't feel quite so +hot, here, do you?" + +"I wasn't so hot, anyway; I was afeard of bats." + +"There ain't any bats here." + +"And skeeters." + +"Uncle don't believe there's any skeeters, neither." + +"I don't hear any sing," agreed little Dan'l in a +weak voice. Very soon she was fast asleep. The +old man sat holding her, and loving her with a simple +crystalline intensity which was fairly heavenly. He +himself almost disregarded the heat, being raised +above it by sheer exaltation of spirit. All the love +which had lain latent in his heart leaped to life be- +fore the helplessness of this little child in his arms. +He realized himself as much greater and of more +importance upon the face of the earth than he had +ever been before. He became paternity incarnate +and superblessed. It was a long time before he car- +ried the little child back to her room and laid her, +still as inert with sleep as a lily, upon her bed. He +bent over her with a curious waving motion of his +old shoulders as if they bore wings of love and pro- +tection; then he crept back down-stairs. + +On nights like that he did not go to bed. All the +bedrooms were under the slant of the roof and were +hot. He preferred to sit until dawn beside his open +window, and doze when he could, and wait with +despairing patience for the infrequent puffs of cool +air breathing blessedly of wet swamp places, which, +even when the burning sun arose, would only show +dewy eyes of cool reflection. Daniel Wise, as he sat +there through the sultry night, even prayed for +courage, as a devout sentinel might have prayed +at his post. The imagination of the deserter was +not in the man. He never even dreamed of appro- +priating to his own needs any portion of his savings, +and going for a brief respite to the deep shadows of +mountainous places, or to a cool coast, where the +great waves broke in foam upon the sand, breathing +out the mighty saving breath of the sea. It never +occurred to him that he could do anything but re- +main at his post and suffer in body and soul and +mind, and not complain. + +The next morning was terrible. The summer had +been one of unusually fervid heat, but that one day +was its climax. David went panting up-stairs to +his room at dawn. He did not wish Sarah Dean to +know that he had sat up all night. He opened his +bed, tidily, as was his wont. Through living alone +he had acquired many of the habits of an orderly +housewife. He went down-stairs, and Sarah was in +the kitchen. + +"It is a dreadful hot day," said she as Daniel +approached the sink to wash his face and hands. + +"It does seem a little warm," admitted Daniel, +with his studied air of politeness with respect to the +weather as an ordinance of God. + +"Warm!" echoed Sarah Dean. Her thin face +blazed a scarlet wedge between the sleek curtains +of her dank hair; perspiration stood on her triangle +of forehead. "It is the hottest day I ever knew!" +she said, defiantly, and there was open rebellion in +her tone. + +"It IS sort of warmish, I rather guess," said +Daniel. + +After breakfast, old Daniel announced his in- +tention of taking little Dan'l out for a walk. + +At that Sarah Dean fairly exploded. "Be you +gone clean daft, Dan'l?" said she. "Don't you know +that it actually ain't safe to take out such a delicate +little thing as that on such a day?" + +"Dr. Trumbull said to take her outdoors for a +walk every day, rain or shine," returned Daniel, +obstinately. + +"But Dr. Trumbull didn't say to take her out if +it rained fire and brimstone, I suppose," said Sarah +Dean, viciously. + +Daniel looked at her with mild astonishment. + +"It is as much as that child's life is worth to take +her out such a day as this," declared Sarah, viciously. + +"Dr. Trumbull said to take no account of the +weather," said Daniel with stubborn patience, "and +we will walk on the shady side of the road, and +go to Bradley's Brook. It's always a little cool +there." + +"If she faints away before you get there, you +bring her right home," said Sarah. She was almost +ferocious. "Just because YOU don't feel the heat, +to take out that little pindlin' girl such a day!" she +exclaimed. + +"Dr. Trumbull said to," persisted Daniel, al- +though he looked a little troubled. Sarah Dean +did not dream that, for himself, Daniel Wise would +have preferred facing an army with banners to going +out under that terrible fusillade of sun-rays. She +did not dream of the actual heroism which actuated +him when he set out with little Dan'l, holding his +big umbrella over her little sunbonneted head and +waving in his other hand a palm-leaf fan. + +Little Dan'l danced with glee as she went out of +the yard. The small, anemic creature did not feel +the heat except as a stimulant. Daniel had to keep +charging her to walk slowly. "Don't go so fast, +little Dan'l, or you'll get overhet, and then what +will Mis' Dean say?" he continually repeated. + +Little Dan'l's thin, pretty face peeped up at him +from between the sides of her green sunbonnet. She +pointed one dainty finger at a cloud of pale yellow +butterflies in the field beside which they were walk- +ing. "Want to chase flutterbies," she chirped. +Little Dan'l had a fascinating way of misplacing +her consonants in long words. + +"No; you'll get overhet. You just walk along +slow with Uncle Dan'l, and pretty soon we'll come +to the pretty brook," said Daniel. + +"Where the lagon-dries live?" asked little Dan'l, +meaning dragon-flies. + +"Yes," said Daniel. He was conscious, as he +spoke, of increasing waves of thready black floating +before his eyes. They had floated since dawn, but +now they were increasing. Some of the time he +could hardly see the narrow sidewalk path between +the dusty meadowsweet and hardhack bushes, since +those floating black threads wove together into a +veritable veil before him. At such times he walked +unsteadily, and little Dan'l eyed him curiously. + +"Why don't you walk the way you always do?" +she queried. + +"Uncle Dan'l can't see jest straight, somehow," +replied the old man; "guess it's because it's rather +warm." + +It was in truth a day of terror because of the heat. +It was one of those days which break records, which +live in men's memories as great catastrophes, which +furnish head-lines for newspapers, and are alluded +to with shudders at past sufferings. It was one of +those days which seem to forecast the Dreadful +Day of Revelation wherein no shelter may be found +from the judgment of the fiery firmament. On that +day men fell in their tracks and died, or were rushed +to hospitals to be succored as by a miracle. And on +that day the poor old man who had all his life feared +and dreaded the heat as the most loathly happening +of earth, walked afield for love of the little child. +As Daniel went on the heat seemed to become pal- +pable -- something which could actually be seen. +There was now a thin, gaseous horror over the blaz- +ing sky, which did not temper the heat, but in- +creased it, giving it the added torment of steam. +The clogging moisture seemed to brood over the +accursed earth, like some foul bird with deadly +menace in wings and beak. + +Daniel walked more and more unsteadily. Once +he might have fallen had not the child thrown one +little arm around a bending knee. "You 'most +tumbled down. Uncle Dan'l," said she. Her little +voice had a surprised and frightened note in it. + +"Don't you be scared," gasped Daniel; "we +have got 'most to the brook; then we'll be all right. +Don't you be scared, and -- you walk real slow and +not get overhet." + +The brook was near, and it was time. Daniel +staggered under the trees beside which the little +stream trickled over its bed of stones. It was not +much of a brook at best, and the drought had caused +it to lose much of its life. However, it was still +there, and there were delicious little hollows of cool- +ness between the stones over which it flowed, and +large trees stood about with their feet rooted in the +blessed damp. Then Daniel sank down. He tried to +reach a hand to the water, but could not. The +black veil had woven a compact mass before his +eyes. There was a terrible throbbing in his head, +but his arms were numb. + +Little Dan'l stood looking at him, and her lip +quivered. With a mighty effort Daniel cleared +away the veil and saw the piteous baby face. "Take +-- Uncle Dan'l's hat and -- fetch him -- some water," +he gasped. "Don't go too -- close and -- tumble in." + +The child obeyed. Daniel tried to take the drip- +ping hat, but failed. Little Dan'l was wise enough +to pour the water over the old man's head, but she +commenced to weep, the pitiful, despairing wail of +a child who sees failing that upon which she has +leaned for support. + +Daniel rallied again. The water on his head gave +him momentary relief, but more than anything else +his love for the child nerved him to effort. + +"Listen, little Dan'l," he said, and his voice +sounded in his own ears like a small voice of a soul +thousands of miles away. "You take the -- um- +brella, and -- you take the fan, and you go real slow, +so you don't get overhet, and you tell Mis' Dean, +and --" + +Then old Daniel's tremendous nerve, that he had +summoned for the sake of love, failed him, and he +sank back. He was quite unconscious -- his face, +staring blindly up at the terrible sky between the +trees, was to little Dan'l like the face of a stranger. +She gave one cry, more like the yelp of a trodden +animal than a child's voice. Then she took the open +umbrella and sped away. The umbrella bobbed +wildly -- nothing could be seen of poor little Dan'l +but her small, speeding feet. She wailed loudly all +the way. + +She was half-way home when, plodding along in +a cloud of brown dust, a horse appeared in the road. +The horse wore a straw bonnet and advanced very +slowly. He drew a buggy, and in the buggy were +Dr. Trumbull and Johnny, his son. He had called +at Daniel's to see the little girl, and, on being told +that they had gone to walk, had said something +under his breath and turned his horse's head down +the road. + +"When we meet them, you must get out, Johnny," +he said, "and I will take in that poor old man and +that baby. I wish I could put common sense in +every bottle of medicine. A day like this!" + +Dr. Trumbull exclaimed when he saw the great +bobbing black umbrella and heard the wails. The +straw-bonneted horse stopped abruptly. Dr. Trum- +bull leaned out of the buggy. "Who are you?" he +demanded. + +"Uncle Dan'l is gone," shrieked the child. + +"Gone where? What do you mean?" + +"He -- tumbled right down, and then he was -- +somebody else. He ain't there." + +"Where is 'there'? Speak up quick!" + +"The brook -- Uncle Dan'l went away at the +brook." + +Dr. Trumbull acted swiftly. He gave Johnny a +push. "Get out," he said. "Take that baby into +Jim Mann's house there, and tell Mrs. Mann to +keep her in the shade and look out for her, and you +tell Jim, if he hasn't got his horse in his farm-wagon, +to look lively and harness her in and put all the ice +they've got in the house in the wagon. Hurry!" + +Johnny was over the wheel before his father had +finished speaking, and Jim Mann just then drew up +alongside in his farm-wagon. + +"What's to pay?" he inquired, breathless. He +was a thin, sinewy man, scantily clad in cotton +trousers and a shirt wide open at the breast. Green +leaves protruded from under the brim of his tilted +straw hat. + +"Old Daniel Wise is overcome by the heat," an- +swered Dr. Trumbull. "Put all the ice you have +in the house in your wagon, and come along. I'll +leave my horse and buggy here. Your horse is faster." + +Presently the farm-wagon clattered down the road, +dust-hidden behind a galloping horse. Mrs. Jim +Mann, who was a loving mother of children, was +soothing little Dan'l. Johnny Trumbull watched +at the gate. When the wagon returned he ran out +and hung on behind, while the strong, ungainly +farm-horse galloped to the house set high on the +sun-baked terraces. + +When old Daniel revived he found himself in the +best parlor, with ice all about him. Thunder was +rolling overhead and hail clattered on the windows. +A sudden storm, the heat-breaker, had come up and +the dreadful day was vanquished. Daniel looked +up and smiled a vague smile of astonishment at Dr. +Trumbull and Sarah Dean; then his eyes wandered +anxiously about. + +"The child is all right," said Dr. Trumbull; +"don't you worry, Daniel. Mrs. Jim Mann is tak- +ing care of her. Don't you try to talk. You didn't +exactly have a sunstroke, but the heat was too much +for you." + +But Daniel spoke, in spite of the doctor's man- +date. "The heat," said he, in a curiously clear +voice," ain't never goin' to be too much for me again." + +"Don't you talk, Daniel," repeated Dr. Trum- +bull. "You've always been nervous about the heat. +Maybe you won't be again, but keep still. When I +told you to take that child out every day I didn't +mean when the world was like Sodom and Gomor- +rah. Thank God, it will be cooler now." + +Sarah Dean stood beside the doctor. She looked +pale and severe, but adequate. She did not even +state that she had urged old Daniel not to go out. +There was true character in Sarah Dean. + +The weather that summer was an unexpected +quantity. Instead of the day after the storm being +cool, it was hot. However, old Daniel, after his re- +covery, insisted on going out of doors with little +Dan'l after breakfast. The only concession which +he would make to Sarah Dean, who was fairly fran- +tic with anxiety, was that he would merely go down +the road as far as the big elm-tree, that he would sit +down there, and let the child play about within sight. + +"You'll be brought home agin, sure as preachin'," +said Sarah Dean, "and if you're brought home ag'in, +you won't get up ag'in." + +Old Daniel laughed. "Now don't you worry, +Sarah," said he. "I'll set down under that big ellum +and keep cool." + +Old Daniel, at Sarah's earnest entreaties, took a +palm-leaf fan. But he did not use it. He sat peace- +fully under the cool trail of the great elm all the +forenoon, while little Dan'l played with her doll. +The child was rather languid after her shock of the +day before, and not disposed to run about. Also, +she had a great sense of responsibility about the old +man. Sarah Dean had privately charged her not +to let Uncle Daniel get "overhet." She continually +glanced up at him with loving, anxious, baby eyes. + +"Be you overhet. Uncle Dan'l?" she would ask. + +"No, little Dan'l, uncle ain't a mite overhet," +the old man would assure her. Now and then little +Dan'l left her doll, climbed into the old man's lap, +and waved the palm-leaf fan before his face. + +Old Daniel Wise loved her so that he seemed, to +himself, fairly alight with happiness. He made up his +mind that he would find some little girl in the village +to come now and then and play with little Dan'l. +In the cool of that evening he stole out of the back +door, covertly, lest Sarah Dean discover him, and +walked slowly to the rector's house in the village. +The rector's wife was sitting on her cool, vine-shaded +veranda. She was alone, and Daniel was glad. He +asked her if the little girl who had come to live with +her, Content Adams, could not come the next after- +noon and see little Dan'l. "Little Dan'l had ought +to see other children once in a while, and Sarah Dean +makes real nice cookies," he stated, pleadingly. + +Sally Patterson laughed good-naturedly. "Of +course she can, Mr. Wise," she said. + +The next afternoon Sally herself drove the rec- +tor's horse, and brought Content to pay a call on +little Dan'l. Sally and Sarah Dean visited in the +sitting-room, and left the little girls alone in the +parlor with a plate of cookies, to get acquainted. +They sat in solemn silence and stared at each other. +Neither spoke. Neither ate a cooky. When Sally +took her leave, she asked little Dan'l if she had had +a nice time with Content, and little Dan'l said, +"Yes, ma'am." + +Sarah insisted upon Content's carrying the cookies +home in the dish with a napkin over it. + +"When can I go again to see that other little girl?" +asked Content as she and Sally were jogging home. + +"Oh, almost any time. I will drive you over -- +because it is rather a lonesome walk for you. Did +you like the little girl? She is younger than you." + +"Yes'm." + +Also little Dan'l inquired of old Daniel when the +other little girl was coming again, and nodded em- +phatically when asked if she had had a nice time. +Evidently both had enjoyed, after the inscrutable +fashion of childhood, their silent session with each +other. Content came generally once a week, and +old Daniel was invited to take little Dan'l to the +rector's. On that occasion Lucy Rose was present, +and Lily Jennings. The four little girls had tea to- +gether at a little table set on the porch, and only +Lily Jennings talked. The rector drove old Daniel +and the child home, and after they had arrived the +child's tongue was loosened and she chattered. She +had seen everything there was to be seen at the rec- +tor's. She told of it in her little silver pipe of a voice. +She had to be checked and put to bed, lest she be +tired out. + +"I never knew that child could talk so much," Sarah +said to Daniel, after the little girl had gone up-stairs. + +"She talks quite some when she's alone with me." + +"And she seems to see everything." + +"Ain't much that child don't see," said Daniel, +proudly. + +The summer continued unusually hot, but Daniel +never again succumbed. When autumn came, for +the first time in his old life old Daniel Wise was +sorrowful. He dreaded the effect of the frost and +the winter upon his precious little Dan'l, whom he +put before himself as fondly as any father could +have done, and as the season progressed his dread +seemed justified. Poor little Dan'l had cold after +cold. Content Adams and Lucy Rose came to see +her. The rector's wife and the doctor's sent dainties. +But the child coughed and pined, and old Daniel +began to look forward to spring and summer -- the +seasons which had been his bugaboos through life +-- as if they were angels. When the February thaw +came, he told little Dan'l, "Jest look at the snow +meltin' and the drops hangin' on the trees; that is +a sign of summer." + +Old Daniel watched for the first green light along +the fences and the meadow hollows. When the trees +began to cast slightly blurred shadows, because of +budding leaves, and the robins hopped over the +terraces, and now and then the air was cleft with +blue wings, he became jubilant. "Spring is jest +about here, and then uncle's little Dan'l will stop +coughin', and run out of doors and pick flowers," he +told the child beside the window. + +Spring came that year with a riotous rush. Blos- +soms, leaves, birds, and flowers -- all arrived pell- +mell, fairly smothering the world with sweetness +and music. In May, about the first of the month, +there was an intensely hot day. It was as hot as +midsummer. Old Daniel with little Dan'l went +afield. It was, to both, as if they fairly saw the car- +nival-arrival of flowers, of green garlands upon tree- +branches, of birds and butterflies. "Spring is right +here!" said old Daniel. "Summer is right here! +Pick them vilets in that holler, little Dan'l." The +old man sat on a stone in the meadowland, and +watched the child in the blue-gleaming hollow gather +up violets in her little hands as if they were jewels. +The sun beat upon his head, the air was heavy with +fragrance, laden with moisture. Old Daniel wiped +his forehead. He was heated, but so happy that he +was not aware of it. He saw wonderful new lights +over everything. He had wielded love, the one in- +vincible weapon of the whole earth, and had con- +quered his intangible and dreadful enemy. When, +for the sake of that little beloved life, his own life +had become as nothing, old Daniel found himself +superior to it. He sat there in the tumultuous heat +of the May day, watching the child picking violets +and gathering strength with every breath of the +young air of the year, and he realized that the fear +of his whole life was overcome for ever. He realized +that never again, though they might bring suffering, +even death, would he dread the summers with their +torrid winds and their burning lights, since, through +love, he had become under-lord of all the conditions +of his life upon earth. + + + + +BIG SISTER SOLLY + + + + + +BIG SISTER SOLLY + +IT did seem strange that Sally Patterson, who, +according to her own self-estimation, was the +least adapted of any woman in the village, should +have been the one chosen by a theoretically selective +providence to deal with a psychological problem. + +It was conceded that little Content Adams was a +psychological problem. She was the orphan child of +very distant relatives of the rector. When her par- +ents died she had been cared for by a widowed aunt +on her mother's side, and this aunt had also borne +the reputation of being a creature apart. When the +aunt died, in a small village in the indefinite "Out +West," the presiding clergyman had notified Edward +Patterson of little Content's lonely and helpless +estate. The aunt had subsisted upon an annuity +which had died with her. The child had inherited +nothing except personal property. The aunt's house +had been bequeathed to the church over which the +clergyman presided, and after her aunt's death he +took her to his own home until she could be sent to +her relatives, and he and his wife were exceedingly +punctilious about every jot and tittle of the aunt's +personal belongings. They even purchased two +extra trunks for them, which they charged to the +rector. + +Little Content, traveling in the care of a lady who +had known her aunt and happened to be coming +East, had six large trunks, besides a hat-box and two +suit-cases and a nailed-up wooden box containing +odds and ends. Content made quite a sensation +when she arrived and her baggage was piled on the +station platform. + +Poor Sally Patterson unpacked little Content's +trunks. She had sent the little girl to school within +a few days after her arrival. Lily Jennings and +Amelia Wheeler called for her, and aided her down +the street between them, arms interlocked. Content, +although Sally had done her best with a pretty +ready-made dress and a new hat, was undeniably a +peculiar-looking child. In the first place, she had +an expression so old that it was fairly uncanny. + +"That child has downward curves beside her +mouth already, and lines between her eyes, and what +she will look like a few years hence is beyond me," +Sally told her husband after she had seen the little +girl go out of sight between Lily's curls and ruffles +and ribbons and Amelia's smooth skirts. + +"She doesn't look like a happy child," agreed the +rector. "Poor little thing! Her aunt Eudora must +have been a queer woman to train a child." + +"She is certainly trained," said Sally, ruefully; +"too much so. Content acts as if she were afraid to +move or speak or even breathe unless somebody +signals permission. I pity her." + +She was in the storeroom, in the midst of Con- +tent's baggage. The rector sat on an old chair, +smoking. He had a conviction that it behooved him +as a man to stand by his wife during what might +prove an ordeal. He had known Content's deceased +aunt years before. He had also known the clergyman +who had taken charge of her personal property and +sent it on with Content. + +"Be prepared for finding almost anything. Sally," +he observed. "Mr. Zenock Shanksbury, as I re- +member him, was so conscientious that it amounted +to mania. I am sure he has sent simply unspeakable +things rather than incur the reproach of that con- +science of his with regard to defrauding Content of +one jot or tittle of that personal property." + +Sally shook out a long, black silk dress, with jet +dangling here and there. "Now here is this dress," +said she. "I suppose I really must keep this, but +when that child is grown up the silk will probably +be cracked and entirely worthless." + +"You had better take the two trunks and pack +them with such things, and take your chances." + +"Oh, I suppose so. I suppose I must take chances +with everything except furs and wools, which will +collect moths. Oh, goodness!" Sally held up an +old-fashioned fitch fur tippet. Little vague winged +things came from it like dust. "Moths!" said she, +tragically. "Moths now. It is full of them. Ed- +ward, you need not tell me that clergyman's wife +was conscientious. No conscientious woman would +have sent an old fur tippet all eaten with moths into +another woman's house. She could not." + +Sally took flying leaps across the storeroom. She +flung open the window and tossed out the mangy +tippet. "This is simply awful!" she declared, as she +returned. "Edward, don't you think we are justi- +fied in having Thomas take all these things out in +the back yard and making a bonfire of the whole +lot?" + +"No, my dear." + +"But, Edward, nobody can tell what will come +next. If Content's aunt had died of a contagious +disease, nothing could induce me to touch another +thing." + +"Well, dear, you know that she died from the +shock of a carriage accident, because she had a weak +heart." + +"I know it, and of course there is nothing con- +tagious about that." Sally took up an ancient +bandbox and opened it. She displayed its contents: +a very frivolous bonnet dating back in style a half- +century, gay with roses and lace and green strings, +and another with a heavy crape veil dependent. + +"You certainly do not advise me to keep these?" +asked Sally, despondently. + +Edward Patterson looked puzzled. "Use your +own judgment," he said, finally. + +Sally summarily marched across the room and +flung the gay bonnet and the mournful one out of the +window. Then she took out a bundle of very old +underwear which had turned a saffron yellow with +age. "People are always coming to me for old linen +in case of burns," she said, succinctly. "After these +are washed I can supply an auto da fe." + +Poor Sally worked all that day and several days +afterward. The rector deserted her, and she relied +upon her own good sense in the disposition of little +Content's legacy. When all was over she told her +husband. + +"Well, Edward," said she, "there is exactly one +trunk half full of things which the child may live to +use, but it is highly improbable. We have had six +bonfires, and I have given away three suits of old +clothes to Thomas's father. The clothes were very +large." + +"Must have belonged to Eudora's first husband. +He was a stout man," said Edward. + +"And I have given two small suits of men's clothes +to the Aid Society for the next out-West barrel." + +"Eudora's second husband's." + +"And I gave the washerwoman enough old baking- +dishes to last her lifetime, and some cracked dishes. +Most of the dishes were broken, but a few were only +cracked; and I have given Silas Thomas's wife ten +old wool dresses and a shawl and three old cloaks. +All the other things which did not go into the bon- +fires went to the Aid Society. They will go back out +West." Sally laughed, a girlish peal, and her hus- +band joined. But suddenly her smooth forehead +contracted. "Edward," said she. + +"Well, dear?" + +"I am terribly puzzled about one thing." The +two were sitting in the study. Content had gone to +bed. Nobody could hear easily, but Sally Patterson +lowered her voice, and her honest, clear blue eyes had +a frightened expression. + +"What is it, dear?" + +"You will think me very silly and cowardly, and +I think I have never been cowardly, but this is really +very strange. Come with me. I am such a goose, +I don't dare go alone to that storeroom." + +The rector rose. Sally switched on the lights as +they went up-stairs to the storeroom. + +"Tread very softly," she whispered. "Content is +probably asleep." + +The two tiptoed up the stairs and entered the +storeroom. Sally approached one of the two new +trunks which had come with Content from out West. +She opened it. She took out a parcel nicely folded +in a large towel. + +"See here, Edward Patterson." + +The rector stared as Sally shook out a dress -- +a gay, up-to-date dress, a young girl's dress, a very +tall young girl's, for the skirts trailed on the floor as +Sally held it as high as she could. It was made of +a fine white muslin. There was white lace on the +bodice, and there were knots of blue ribbon scattered +over the whole, knots of blue ribbon confining tiny +bunches of rosebuds and daisies. These knots of +blue ribbon and the little flowers made it undeniably +a young girl's costume. Even in the days of all ages +wearing the costumes of all ages, an older woman +would have been abashed before those exceedingly +youthful knots of blue ribbons and flowers. + +The rector looked approvingly at it. "That is +very pretty, it seems to me," he said. "That must +be worth keeping, Sally." + +"Worth keeping! Well, Edward Patterson, just +wait. You are a man, and of course you cannot un- +derstand how very strange it is about the dress." +The rector looked inquiringly. + +"I want to know," said Sally, "if Content's aunt +Eudora had any young relative besides Content. I +mean had she a grown-up young girl relative who +would wear a dress like this?" + +"I don't know of anybody. There might have +been some relative of Eudora's first husband. No, +he was an only child. I don't think it possible that +Eudora had any young girl relative." + +"If she had," said Sally, firmly, "she would have +kept this dress. You are sure there was nobody +else living with Content's aunt at the time she died?" + +"Nobody except the servants, and they were an +old man and his wife." + +"Then whose dress was this?" + +"I don't know, Sally." + +"You don't know, and I don't. It is very strange." + +"I suppose," said Edward Patterson, helpless be- +fore the feminine problem, "that -- Eudora got it in +some way." + +"In some way," repeated Sally. "That is always +a man's way out of a mystery when there is a mys- +tery. There is a mystery. There is a mystery which +worries me. I have not told you all yet, Edward." + +"What more is there, dear?" + +"I -- asked Content whose dress this was, and +she said -- Oh, Edward, I do so despise mysteries." + +"What did she say, Sally?" + +"She said it was her big sister Solly's dress." + +"Her what?" + +"Her big sister Solly's dress. Edward, has Con- +tent ever had a sister? Has she a sister now?" + +"No, she never had a sister, and she has none +now," declared the rector, emphatically. "I knew +all her family. What in the world ails the child?" + +"She said her big sister Solly, Edward, and the +very name is so inane. If she hasn't any big sister +Solly, what are we going to do?" + +"Why, the child must simply lie," said the rector. + +"But, Edward, I don't think she knows she lies. +You may laugh, but I think she is quite sure that +she has a big sister Solly, and that this is her dress. +I have not told you the whole. After she came home +from school to-day she went up to her room, and +she left the door open, and pretty soon I heard her +talking. At first I thought perhaps Lily or Amelia +was up there, although I had not seen either of +them come in with Content. Then after a while, +when I had occasion to go up-stairs, I looked in her +room, and she was quite alone, although I had heard +her talking as I went up-stairs. Then I said: 'Con- +tent, I thought somebody was in your room. I +heard you talking.' + +"And she said, looking right into my eyes: 'Yes, +ma'am, I was talking.' + +"'But there is nobody here,' I said. + +"'Yes, ma'am,' she said. 'There isn't anybody +here now, but my big sister Solly was here, and she +is gone. You heard me talking to my big sister +Solly.' I felt faint, Edward, and you know it takes +a good deal to overcome me. I just sat down in +Content's wicker rocking-chair. I looked at her and +she looked at me. Her eyes were just as clear and +blue, and her forehead looked like truth itself. She +is not exactly a pretty child, and she has a peculiar +appearance, but she does certainly look truthful and +good, and she looked so then. She had tried to +fluff her hair over her forehead a little as I had +told her, and not pull it back so tight, and she wore +her new dress, and her face and hands were as clean, +and she stood straight. You know she is a little +inclined to stoop, and I have talked to her about +it. She stood straight, and looked at me with those +blue eyes, and I did feel fairly dizzy." + +"What did you say?" + +"Well, after a bit I pulled myself together and +I said: 'My dear little girl, what is this? What do +you mean about your big sister Sarah?' Edward, +I could not bring myself to say that idiotic Solly. +In fact, I did think I must be mistaken and had not +heard correctly. But Content just looked at me +as if she thought me very stupid. 'Solly,' said she. +'My sister's name is Solly.' + +"'But, my dear,' I said, 'I understand that you +had no sister.' + +"'Yes,' said she, 'I have my big sister Solly.' + +"'But where has she been all the time?' said I. + +"Then Content looked at me and smiled, and it +was quite a wonderful smile, Edward. She smiled +as if she knew so much more than I could ever +know, and quite pitied me." + +"She did not answer your question?" + +"No, only by that smile which seemed to tell +whole volumes about that awful Solly's whereabouts, +only I was too ignorant to read them. + +"'Where is she now, dear?' I said, after a little. + +"'She is gone now,' said Content. + +"'Gone where?' said I. + +"And then the child smiled at me again. Edward, +what are we going to do? Is she untruthful, or has +she too much imagination? I have heard of such a +thing as too much imagination, and children telling +lies which were not really lies." + +"So have I," agreed the rector, dryly, "but I +never believed in it." The rector started to leave +the room. + +"What are you going to do?" inquired Sally. + +"I am going to endeavor to discriminate between +lies and imagination," replied the rector. + +Sally plucked at his coat-sleeve as they went +down-stairs. "My dear," she whispered, "I think +she is asleep." + +"She will have to wake up." + +"But, my dear, she may be nervous. Would +it not be better to wait until to-morrow?" + +"I think not," said Edward Patterson. Usually +an easy-going man, when he was aroused he was +determined to extremes. Into Content's room he +marched, Sally following. Neither of them saw +their small son Jim peeking around his door. He +had heard -- he could not help it -- the conversation +earlier in the day between Content and his mother. +He had also heard other things. He now felt entirely +justified in listening, although he had a good code +of honor. He considered himself in a way respon- +sible, knowing what he knew, for the peace of +mind of his parents. Therefore he listened, peeking +around the doorway of his dark room. + +The electric light flashed out from Content's +room, and the little interior was revealed. It was +charmingly pretty. Sally had done her best to make +this not altogether welcome little stranger's room +attractive. There were garlands of rosebuds swung +from the top of the white satin-papered walls. +There were dainty toilet things, a little dressing- +table decked with ivory, a case of books, chairs +cushioned with rosebud chintz, windows curtained +with the same. + +In the little white bed, with a rose-sprinkled cover- +lid over her, lay Content. She was not asleep. +Directly, when the light flashed out, she looked at +the rector and his wife with her clear blue eyes. Her +fair hair, braided neatly and tied with pink ribbons, +lay in two tails on either side of her small, certainly +very good face. Her forehead was beautiful, very +white and full, giving her an expression of candor +which was even noble. Content, little lonely girl +among strangers in a strange place, mutely beseech- +ing love and pity, from her whole attitude toward +life and the world, looked up at Edward Patterson +and Sally, and the rector realized that his determina- +tion was giving way. He began to believe in imagi- +nation, even to the extent of a sister Solly. He had +never had a daughter, and sometimes the thought +of one had made his heart tender. His voice was +very kind when he spoke. + +"Well, little girl," he said, "what is this I hear?" + +Sally stared at her husband and stifled a chuckle. + +As for Content, she looked at the rector and said +nothing. It was obvious that she did not know +what he had heard. The rector explained. + +"My dear little girl," he said, "your aunt Sally" +-- they had agreed upon the relationship of uncle and +aunt to Content -- "tells me that you have been +telling her about your -- big sister Solly." The rector +half gasped as he said Solly. He seemed to himself +to be on the driveling verge of idiocy before the pro- +nunciation of that absurdly inane name. + +Content's responding voice came from the pink- +and-white nest in which she was snuggled, like the +fluting pipe of a canary. + +"Yes, sir," said she. + +"My dear child," said the rector, "you know +perfectly well that you have no big sister -- Solly." +Every time the rector said Solly he swallowed hard. + +Content smiled as Sally had described her smiling. +She said nothing. The rector felt reproved and +looked down upon from enormous heights of inno- +cence and childhood and the wisdom thereof. How- +ever, he persisted. + +"Content," he said, "what did you mean by +telling your aunt Sally what you did?" + +"I was talking with my big sister Solly," replied +Content, with the calmness of one stating a funda- +mental truth of nature. + +The rector's face grew stern. "Content," he said, +"look at me." + +Content looked. Looking seemed to be the in- +stinctive action which distinguished her as an indi- +vidual. + +"Have you a big sister -- Solly?" asked the rector. +His face was stern, but his voice faltered. + +"Yes, sir." + +"Then -- tell me so." + +"I have a big sister Solly," said Content. Now +she spoke rather wearily, although still sweetly, as +if puzzled why she had been disturbed in sleep to +be asked such an obvious question. + +"Where has she been all the time, that we have +known nothing about her?" demanded the rector. + +Content smiled. However, she spoke. "Home," +said she. + +"When did she come here?" + +"This morning." + +"Where is she now?" + +Content smiled and was silent. The rector cast +a helpless look at his wife. He now did not care +if she did see that he was completely at a loss. +How could a great, robust man and a clergyman +be harsh to a tender little girl child in a pink-and- +white nest of innocent dreams? + +Sally pitied him. She spoke more harshly than +her husband. "Content Adams," said she, "you +know perfectly well that you have no big sister +Solly. Now tell me the truth. Tell me you have +no big sister Solly." + +"I have a big sister Solly," said Content. + +"Come, Edward," said Sally. "There is no use +in staying and talking to this obstinate little girl +any longer." Then she spoke to Content. "Before +you go to sleep," said she, "you must say your +prayers, if you have not already done so." + +"I have said my prayers," replied Content, and +her blue eyes were full of horrified astonishment at +the suspicion. + +"Then," said Sally, "you had better say them +over and add something. Pray that you may always +tell the truth." + +"Yes, ma'am," said Content, in her little canary +pipe. + +The rector and his wife went out. Sally switched +off the light with a snap as she passed. Out in the +hall she stopped and held her husband's arms hard. +"Hush!" she whispered. They both listened. They +heard this, in the faintest plaint of a voice: + +"They don't believe you are here, Sister Solly, +but I do." + +Sally dashed back into the rosebud room and +switched on the light. She stared around. She +opened a closet door. Then she turned off the light +and joined her husband. + +"There was nobody there?" he whispered. + +"Of course not." + +When they were back in the study the rector +and his wife looked at each other. + +"We will do the best we can," said Sally. "Don't +worry, Edward, for you have to write your sermon +to-morrow. We will manage some way. I will admit +that I rather wish Content had had some other +distant relative besides you who could have taken +charge of her." + +"You poor child!" said the rector. "It is hard +on you, Sally, for she is no kith nor kin of yours." + +"Indeed I don't mind," said Sally Patterson, "if +only I can succeed in bringing her up." + +Meantime Jim Patterson, up-stairs, sitting over +his next day's algebra lesson, was even more per- +plexed than were his parents in the study. He paid +little attention to his book. "I can manage little +Lucy," he reflected, "but if the others have got hold +of it, I don't know." + +Presently he rose and stole very softly through +the hall to Content's door. She was timid, and +always left it open so she could see the hall light +until she fell asleep. "Content," whispered Jim. + +There came the faintest "What?" in response. + +"Don't you," said Jim, in a theatrical whisper, +"say another word at school to anybody about your +big sister Solly. If you do, I'll whop you, if you +are a girl." + +"Don't care!" was sighed forth from the room. + +"And I'll whop your old big sister Solly, too." + +There was a tiny sob. + +"I will," declared Jim. "Now you mind!" + +The next day Jim cornered little Lucy Rose under +a cedar-tree before school began. He paid no atten- +tion to Bubby Harvey and Tom Simmons, who were +openly sniggering at him. Little Lucy gazed up +at Jim, and the blue-green shade of the cedar seemed +to bring out only more clearly the white-rose softness +of her dear little face. Jim bent over her. + +"Want you to do something for me," he whis- +pered. + +Little Lucy nodded gravely. + +"If my new cousin Content ever says anything +to you again -- I heard her yesterday -- about her +big sister Solly, don't you ever say a word about it +to anybody else. You will promise me, won't you, +little Lucy?" + +A troubled expression came into little Lucy's kind +eyes. "But she told Lily, and Lily told Amelia, and +Amelia told her grandmother Wheeler, and her +grandmother Wheeler told Miss Parmalee when she +met her on the street after school, and Miss Parma- +lee called on my aunt Martha and told her," said +little Lucy. + +"Oh, shucks!" said Jim. + +"And my aunt Martha told my father that she +thought perhaps she ought to ask for her when she +called on your mother. She said Arnold Carruth's +aunt Flora was going to call, and his aunt Dorothy. +I heard Miss Acton tell Miss Parmalee that she +thought they ought to ask for her when they called +on your mother, too." + +"Little Lucy," he said, and lowered his voice, +"you must promise me never, as long as you live, +to tell what I am going to tell you." + +Little Lucy looked frightened. + +"Promise!" insisted Jim. + +"I promise," said little Lucy, in a weak voice. + +"Never, as long as you live, to tell anybody. +Promise!" + +"I promise." + +"Now, you know if you break your promise and +tell, you will be guilty of a dreadful lie and be very +wicked." + +Little Lucy shivered. "I never will." + +"Well, my new cousin Content Adams -- tells lies." + +Little Lucy gasped. + +"Yes, she does. She says she has a big sister +Solly, and she hasn't got any big sister Solly. She +never did have, and she never will have. She makes +believe." + +"Makes believe?" said little Lucy, in a hopeful +voice. + +"Making believe is just a real mean way of lying. +Now I made Content promise last night never to +say one word in school about her big sister Solly, and +I am going to tell you this, so you can tell Lily and +the others and not lie. Of course, I don't want to +lie myself, because my father is rector, and, besides, +mother doesn't approve of it; but if anybody is +going to lie, I am the one. Now, you mind, little +Lucy. Content's big sister Solly has gone away, +and she is never coming back. If you tell Lily and +the others I said so, I can't see how you will be lying." + +Little Lucy gazed at the boy. She looked like +truth incarnate. "But," said she, in her adorable +stupidity of innocence, "I don't see how she could +go away if she was never here, Jim." + +"Oh, of course she couldn't. But all you have to +do is to say that you heard me say she had gone. +Don't you understand?" + +"I don't understand how Content's big sister Solly +could possibly go away if she was never here." + +"Little Lucy, I wouldn't ask you to tell a lie for +the world, but if you were just to say that you heard +me say --" + +"I think it would be a lie," said little Lucy, "be- +cause how can I help knowing if she was never here +she couldn't --" + +"Oh, well, little Lucy," cried Jim, in despair, still +with tenderness -- how could he be anything but +tender with little Lucy? -- "all I ask is never to say +anything about it." + +"If they ask me?" + +"Anyway, you can hold your tongue. You know +it isn't wicked to hold your tongue." + +Little Lucy absurdly stuck out the pointed tip of +her little red tongue. Then she shook her head +slowly. + +"Well," she said, "I will hold my tongue." + +This encounter with innocence and logic had left +him worsted. Jim could see no way out of the fact +that his father, the rector, his mother, the rector's +wife, and he, the rector's son, were disgraced by +their relationship to such an unsanctified little soul +as this queer Content Adams. + +And yet he looked at the poor lonely little girl, who +was trying very hard to learn her lessons, who sug- +gested in her very pose and movement a little, scared +rabbit ready to leap the road for some bush of hiding, +and while he was angry with her he pitied her. He +had no doubts concerning Content's keeping her +promise. He was quite sure that he would now say +nothing whatever about that big sister Solly to the +others, but he was not prepared for what happened +that very afternoon. + +When he went home from school his heart stood +still to see Miss Martha Rose, and Arnold Carruth's +aunt Flora, and his aunt who was not his aunt, Miss +Dorothy Vernon, who was visiting her, all walking +along in state with their lace-trimmed parasols, +their white gloves, and their nice card-cases. Jim +jumped a fence and raced across lots home, and +gained on them. He burst in on his mother, sitting +on the porch, which was inclosed by wire netting +overgrown with a budding vine. It was the first +warm day of the season. + +"Mother," cried Jim Patterson -- "mother, they +are coming!" + +"Who, for goodness' sake, Jim?" + +"Why, Arnold's aunt Flora and his aunt Dorothy +and little Lucy's aunt Martha. They are coming to +call." + +Involuntarily Sally's hand went up to smooth her +pretty hair. "Well, what of it, Jim?" said she. + +"Mother, they will ask for -- big sister Solly!" + +Sally Patterson turned pale. "How do you +know?" + +"Mother, Content has been talking at school. A +lot know. You will see they will ask for --" + +"Run right in and tell Content to stay in her +room," whispered Sally, hastily, for the callers, +their white-kidded hands holding their card-cases +genteelly, were coming up the walk. + +Sally advanced, smiling. She put a brave face +on the matter, but she realized that she, Sally +Patterson, who had never been a coward, was +positively afraid before this absurdity. The callers +sat with her on the pleasant porch, with the young +vine-shadows making networks over their best gowns. +Tea was served presently by the maid, and, much to +Sally's relief, before the maid appeared came the +inquiry. Miss Martha Rose made it. + +"We would be pleased to see Miss Solly Adams +also," said Miss Martha. + +Flora Carruth echoed her. "I was so glad to hear +another nice girl had come to the village," said she +with enthusiasm. Miss Dorothy Vernon said some- +thing indefinite to the same effect. + +"I am sorry," replied Sally, with an effort, "but +there is no Miss Solly Adams here now." She spoke +the truth as nearly as she could manage without +unraveling the whole ridiculous affair. The callers +sighed with regret, tea was served with little cakes, +and they fluttered down the walk, holding their card- +cases, and that ordeal was over. + +But Sally sought the rector in his study, and she +was trembling. "Edward," she cried out, regardless +of her husband's sermon, "something must be done +now." + +"Why, what is the matter, Sally?" + +"People are -- calling on her." + +"Calling on whom?" + +"Big sister -- Solly!" Sally explained. + +"Well, don't worry, dear," said the rector. "Of +course we will do something, but we must think it +over. Where is the child now?" + +"She and Jim are out in the garden. I saw them +pass the window just now. Jim is such a dear boy, +he tries hard to be nice to her. Edward Patterson, +we ought not to wait." + +"My dear, we must." + +Meantime Jim and Content Adams were out in +the garden. Jim had gone to Content's door and +tapped and called out, rather rudely: "Content, I +say, put on your hat and come along out in the +garden. I've got something to tell you." + +"Don't want to," protested Content's little voice, +faintly. + +"You come right along." + +And Content came along. She was an obedient +child, and she liked Jim, although she stood much +in awe of him. She followed him into the garden +back of the rectory, and they sat down on the bench +beneath the weeping willow. The minute they were +seated Jim began to talk. + +"Now," said he, "I want to know." + +Content glanced up at him, then looked down +and turned pale. + +"I want to know, honest Injun," said Jim, "what +you are telling such awful whoppers about your old +big sister Solly for?" + +Content was silent. This time she did not smile, +a tear trickled out of her right eye and ran over the +pale cheek. + +"Because you know," said Jim, observant of the +tear, but ruthless, "that you haven't any big sister +Solly, and never did have. You are getting us all +in an awful mess over it, and father is rector +here, and mother is his wife, and I am his +son, and you are his niece, and it is downright +mean. Why do you tell such whoppers? Out +with it!" + +Content was trembling violently. "I lived with +Aunt Eudora," she whispered. + +"Well, what of that? Other folks have lived +with their aunts and not told whoppers." + +"They haven't lived with Aunt Eudora." + +"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Content +Adams, and you the rector's niece, talking that way +about dead folks." + +"I don't mean to talk about poor Aunt Eudora," +fairly sobbed Content. "Aunt Eudora was a real +good aunt, but she was grown up. She was a good +deal more grown up than your mother; she really +was, and when I first went to live with her I was +'most a little baby; I couldn't speak -- plain, and +I had to go to bed real early, and slept 'way off from +everybody, and I used to be afraid -- all alone, and +so --" + +"Well, go on," said Jim, but his voice was softer. +It WAS hard lines for a little kid, especially if she +was a girl. + +"And so," went on the little, plaintive voice, "I +got to thinking how nice it would be if I only had +a big sister, and I used to cry and say to myself -- I +couldn't speak plain, you know, I was so little -- +'Big sister would be real solly.' And then first +thing I knew -- she came." + +"Who came?" + +"Big sister Solly." + +"What rot! She didn't come. Content Adams, +you know she didn't come." + +"She must have come," persisted the little girl, +in a frightened whisper. "She must have. Oh, Jim, +you don't know. Big sister Solly must have come, +or I would have died like my father and mother." + +Jim's arm, which was near her, twitched convul- +sively, but he did not put it around her. + +"She did -- co-me," sobbed Content. "Big sister +Solly did come." + +"Well, have it so," said Jim, suddenly. "No use +going over that any longer. Have it she came, but +she ain't here now, anyway. Content Adams, you +can't look me in the face and tell me that." + +Content looked at Jim, and her little face was +almost terrible, so full of bewilderment and fear +it was. "Jim," whispered Content, "I can't have +big sister Solly not be here. I can't send her away. +What would she think?" + +Jim stared. "Think? Why, she isn't alive to +think, anyhow!" + +"I can't make her -- dead," sobbed Content. "She +came when I wanted her, and now when I don't so +much, when I've got Uncle Edward and Aunt Sally +and you, and don't feel so dreadful lonesome, I +can't be so bad as to make her dead." + +Jim whistled. Then his face brightened up. He +looked at Content with a shrewd and cheerful grin. +"See here, kid, you say your sister Solly is big, +grown up, don't you?" he inquired. + +Content nodded pitifully. + +"Then why, if she is grown up and pretty, don't +she have a beau?" + +Content stopped sobbing and gave him a quick +glance. + +"Then -- why doesn't she get married, and go out +West to live?" + +Jim chuckled. Instead of a sob, a faint echo of his +chuckle came from Content. + +Jim laughed merrily. "I say, Content," he cried, +"let's have it she's married now, and gone?" + +"Well," said Content. + +Jim put his arm around her very nicely and pro- +tectingly. "It's all right, then," said he, "as all +right as it can be for a girl. Say, Content, ain't it +a shame you aren't a boy?" + +"I can't help it," said Content, meekly. + +"You see," said Jim, thoughtfully, "I don't, as +a rule, care much about girls, but if you could coast +down-hill and skate, and do a few things like that, +you would be almost as good as a boy." + +Content surveyed him, and her pessimistic little +face assumed upward curves. "I will," said she. +"I will do anything, Jim. I will fight if you want +me to, just like a boy." + +"I don't believe you could lick any of us fellers +unless you get a good deal harder in the muscles," +said Jim, eying her thoughtfully; "but we'll play +ball, and maybe by and by you can begin with +Arnold Carruth." + +"Could lick him now," said Content. + +But Jim's face sobered before her readiness. "Oh +no, you mustn't go to fighting right away," said he. +"It wouldn't do. You really are a girl, you know, +and father is rector." + +"Then I won't," said Content; "but I COULD knock +down that little boy with curls; I know I could." + +"Well, you needn't. I'll like you just as well. +You see, Content" -- Jim's voice faltered, for he was +a boy, and on the verge of sentiment before which +he was shamed -- "you see, Content, now your big +sister Solly is married and gone out West, why, you +can have me for your brother, and of course a +brother is a good deal better than a sister." + +"Yes," said Content, eagerly. + +"I am going," said Jim, "to marry Lucy Rose +when I grow up, but I haven't got any sister, and +I'd like you first rate for one. So I'll be your big +brother instead of your cousin." + +"Big brother Solly?" + +"Say, Content, that is an awful name, but I don't +care. You're only a girl. You can call me any- +thing you want to, but you mustn't call me Solly +when there is anybody within hearing." + +"I won't." + +"Because it wouldn't do," said Jim with weight. + +"I never will, honest," said Content. + +Presently they went into the house. Dr. Trum- +bull was there; he had been talking seriously to the +rector and his wife. He had come over on purpose. + +"It is a perfect absurdity," he said, "but I made +ten calls this morning, and everywhere I was asked +about that little Adams girl's big sister -- why you +keep her hidden. They have a theory that she is +either an idiot or dreadfully disfigured. I had to +tell them I know nothing about it." + +"There isn't any girl," said the rector, wearily. +"Sally, do explain." + +Dr. Trumbull listened. "I have known such +cases," he said when Sally had finished. + +"What did you do for them?" Sally asked, anx- +iously. + +"Nothing. Such cases have to be cured by time. +Children get over these fancies when they grow up." + +"Do you mean to say that we have to put up with +big sister Solly until Content is grown up?" asked +Sally, in a desperate tone. And then Jim came in. +Content had run up-stairs. + +"It is all right, mother," said Jim. + +Sally caught him by the shoulders. "Oh, Jim, +has she told you?" + +Jim gave briefly, and with many omissions, an +account of his conversation with Content. + +"Did she say anything about that dress, Jim?" +asked his mother. + +"She said her aunt had meant it for that out- +West rector's daughter Alice to graduate in, but +Content wanted it for her big sister Solly, and told +the rector's wife it was hers. Content says she knows +she was a naughty girl, but after she had said it she +was afraid to say it wasn't so. Mother, I think that +poor little thing is scared 'most to death." + +"Nobody is going to hurt her," said Sally. +"Goodness! that rector's wife was so conscientious +that she even let that dress go. Well, I can send it +right back, and the girl will have it in time for her +graduation, after all. Jim dear, call the poor child +down. Tell her nobody is going to scold her." +Sally's voice was very tender. + +Jim returned with Content. She had on a little +ruffled pink gown which seemed to reflect color on +her cheeks. She wore an inscrutable expression, at +once child-like and charming. She looked shy, fur- +tively amused, yet happy. Sally realized that the +pessimistic downward lines had disappeared, that +Content was really a pretty little girl. + +Sally put an arm around the small, pink figure. +"So you and Jim have been talking, dear?" she said. + +"Yes, ma'am," replied little Content. "Jim is +my big brother --" She just caught herself before +she said Solly. + +"And your sister Solly is married and living out +West?" + +"Yes," said Content, with a long breath. "My +sister Solly is married." Smiles broke all over her +little face. She hid it in Sally's skirts, and a little +peal of laughter like a bird-trill came from the soft +muslin folds. + + + + + +LITTLE LUCY ROSE + + + + + +LITTLE LUCY ROSE + +BACK of the rectory there was a splendid, long +hill. The ground receded until the rectory +garden was reached, and the hill was guarded on +either flank by a thick growth of pines and cedars, +and, being a part of the land appertaining to the +rectory, was never invaded by the village children. +This was considered very fortunate by Mrs. Patterson, +Jim's mother, and for an odd reason. The rector's +wife was very fond of coasting, as she was of most +out-of-door sports, but her dignified position pre- +vented her from enjoying them to the utmost. In +many localities the clergyman's wife might have +played golf and tennis, have rode and swum and +coasted and skated, and nobody thought the worse +of her; but in The Village it was different. + +Sally had therefore rejoiced at the discovery of +that splendid, isolated hill behind the house. It +could not have been improved upon for a long, per- +fectly glorious coast, winding up on the pool of ice +in the garden and bumping thrillingly between dry +vegetables. Mrs. Patterson steered and Jim made the +running pushes, and slid flat on his chest behind +his mother. Jim was very proud of his mother. He +often wished that he felt at liberty to tell of her +feats. He had never been told not to tell, but real- +ized, being rather a sharp boy, that silence was +wiser. Jim's mother confided in him, and he re- +spected her confidence. "Oh, Jim dear," she would +often say, "there is a mothers' meeting this after- +noon, and I would so much rather go coasting with +you." Or, "There's a Guild meeting about a fair, +and the ice in the garden is really quite smooth." + +It was perhaps unbecoming a rector's wife, but +Jim loved his mother better because she expressed a +preference for the sports he loved, and considered that +no other boy had a mother who was quite equal to +his. Sally Patterson was small and wiry, with a bright +face, and very thick, brown hair, which had a boyish +crest over her forehead, and she could run as fast +as Jim. Jim's father was much older than his mother, +and very dignified, although he had a keen sense of +humor. He used to laugh when his wife and son +came in after their coasting expeditions. + +"Well, boys," he would say, "had a good time?" + +Jim was perfectly satisfied and convinced that his +mother was the very best and most beautiful per- +son in the village, even in the whole world, until +Mr. Cyril Rose came to fill a vacancy of cashier in +the bank, and his daughter, little Lucy Rose, as +a matter of course, came with him. Little Lucy +had no mother. Mr. Cyril's cousin, Martha Rose, +kept his house, and there was a colored maid with a +bad temper, who was said, however, to be inval- +uable "help." + +Little Lucy attended Madame's school. She +came the next Monday after Jim and his friends had +planned to have a chicken roast and failed. After +Jim saw little Lucy he thought no more of the +chicken roast. It seemed to him that he thought +no more of anything. He could not by any possi- +bility have learned his lessons had it not been for +the desire to appear a good scholar before little Lucy. +Jim had never been a self-conscious boy, but that +day he was so keenly worried about her opinion of +him that his usual easy swing broke into a strut +when he crossed the room. He need not have been +so troubled, because little Lucy was not looking at +him. She was not looking at any boy or girl. She +was only trying to learn her lesson. Little Lucy was +that rather rare creature, a very gentle, obedient +child, with a single eye for her duty. She was so +charming that it was sad to think how much her +mother had missed, as far as this world was con- +cerned. + +The minute Madame saw her a singular light +came into her eyes -- the light of love of a childless +woman for a child. Similar lights were in the eyes +of Miss Parmalee and Miss Acton. They looked +at one another with a sort of sweet confidence when +they were drinking tea together after school in Ma- +dame's study. + +"Did you ever see such a darling?" said Madame. +Miss Parmalee said she never had, and Miss Acton +echoed her. + +"She is a little angel," said Madame. + +"She worked so hard over her geography lesson," +said Miss Parmalee, "and she got the Amazon River +in New England and the Connecticut in South +America, after all; but she was so sweet about it, +she made me want to change the map of the world. +Dear little soul, it did seem as if she ought to have +rivers and everything else just where she chose." + +"And she tried so hard to reach an octave, and her +little finger is too short," said Miss Acton; "and she +hasn't a bit of an ear for music, but her little voice +is so sweet it does not matter." + +"I have seen prettier children," said Madame, +"but never one quite such a darling." + +Miss Parmalee and Miss Acton agreed with Ma- +dame, and so did everybody else. Lily Jennings's +beauty was quite eclipsed by little Lucy, but Lily +did not care; she was herself one of little Lucy's +most fervent admirers. She was really Jim Patter- +son's most formidable rival in the school. "You +don't care about great, horrid boys, do you, dear?" +Lily said to Lucy, entirely within hearing of Jim +and Lee Westminster and Johnny Trumbull and +Arnold Carruth and Bubby Harvey and Frank Ellis, +and a number of others who glowered at her. + +Dear little Lucy hesitated. She did not wish to +hurt the feelings of boys, and the question had been +loudly put. Finally she said she didn't know. Lack +of definite knowledge was little Lucy's rock of refuge +in time of need. She would look adorable, and say +in her timid little fluty voice, "I don't -- know." +The last word came always with a sort of gasp which +was alluring. All the listening boys were convinced +that little Lucy loved them all individually and gen- +erally, because of her "I don't -- know." + +Everybody was convinced of little Lucy's affec- +tion for everybody, which was one reason for her +charm. She flattered without knowing that she did +so. It was impossible for her to look at any living +thing except with soft eyes of love. It was impos- +sible for her to speak without every tone conveying +the sweetest deference and admiration. The whole +atmosphere of Madame's school changed with the +advent of the little girl. Everybody tried to live +up to little Lucy's supposed ideal, but in reality +she had no ideal. Lucy was the simplest of little +girls, only intent upon being good, doing as she was +told, and winning her father's approval, also her +cousin Martha's. + +Martha Rose was quite elderly, although still +good-looking. She was not popular, because she +was very silent. She dressed becomingly, received +calls and returned them, but hardly spoke a word. +People rather dreaded her coming. Miss Martha +Rose would sit composedly in a proffered chair, her +gloved hands crossed over her nice, gold-bound card- +case, her chin tilted at an angle which never varied, +her mouth in a set smile which never wavered, her +slender feet in their best shoes toeing out precisely +under the smooth sweep of her gray silk skirt. Miss +Martha Rose dressed always in gray, a fashion +which the village people grudgingly admired. It +was undoubtedly becoming and distinguished, but +savored ever so slightly of ostentation, as did her +custom of always dressing little Lucy in blue. There +were different shades and fabrics, but blue it always +was. It was the best color for the child, as it re- +vealed the fact that her big, dark eyes were blue. +Shaded as they were by heavy, curly lashes, they +would have been called black or brown, but the blue +in them leaped to vision above the blue of blue +frocks. Little Lucy had the finest, most delicate +features, a mist of soft, dark hair, which curled +slightly, as mist curls, over sweet, round temples. +She was a small, daintily clad child, and she spoke +and moved daintily and softly; and when her blue +eyes were fixed upon anybody's face, that person +straightway saw love and obedience and trust in +them, and love met love half-way. Even Miss +Martha Rose looked another woman when little +Lucy's innocent blue eyes were fixed upon her rather +handsome but colorless face between the folds of +her silvery hair; Miss Martha's hair had turned +prematurely gray. Light would come into Martha +Rose's face, light and animation, although she never +talked much even to Lucy. She never talked much +to her cousin Cyril, but he was rather glad of it. +He had a keen mind, but it was easily diverted, and +he was engrossed in his business, and concerned lest +he be disturbed by such things as feminine chatter, +of which he certainly had none in his own home, if +he kept aloof from Jenny, the colored maid. Hers +was the only female voice ever heard to the point +of annoyance in the Rose house. + +It was rather wonderful how a child like little +Lucy and Miss Martha lived with so little conversa- +tion. Martha talked no more at home than abroad; +moreover, at home she had not the attitude of wait- +ing for some one to talk to her, which people outside +considered trying. Martha did not expect her cousin +to talk to her. She seldom asked a question. She +almost never volunteered a perfectly useless obser- +vation. She made no remarks upon self-evident +topics. If the sun shone, she never mentioned it. +If there was a heavy rain, she never mentioned that. +Miss Martha suited her cousin exactly, and for that +reason, aside from the fact that he had been devoted +to little Lucy's mother, it never occurred to him to +marry again. Little Lucy talked no more than Miss +Martha, and nobody dreamed that she sometimes +wanted somebody to talk to her. Nobody dreamed +that the dear little girl, studying her lessons, learn- +ing needlework, trying very futilely to play the +piano, was lonely; but she was without knowing +it herself. Martha was so kind and so still; and her +father was so kind and so still, engrossed in his papers +or books, often sitting by himself in his own study. +Little Lucy in this peace and stillness was not hav- +ing her share of childhood. When other little girls +came to play with her. Miss Martha enjoined quiet, +and even Lily Jennings's bird-like chattering be- +came subdued. It was only at school that Lucy +got her chance for the irresponsible delight which +was the simple right of her childhood, and there her +zeal for her lessons prevented. She was happy at +school, however, for there she lived in an atmos- +phere of demonstrative affection. The teachers +were given to seizing her in fond arms and caress- +ing her, and so were her girl companions; while +the boys, especially Jim Patterson, looked wistful- +ly on. + +Jim Patterson was in love, a charming little poetical +boy-love; but it was love. Everything which he +did in those days was with the thought of little +Lucy for incentive. He stood better in school than +he had ever done before, but it was all for the sake +of little Lucy. Jim Patterson had one talent, rather +rudimentary, still a talent. He could play by ear. +His father owned an old violin. He had been in- +clined to music in early youth, and Jim got per- +mission to practise on it, and he went by himself +in the hot attic and practised. Jim's mother did +not care for music, and her son's preliminary scra- +ping tortured her. Jim tucked the old fiddle under +one round boy-cheek and played in the hot attic, +with wasps buzzing around him; and he spent his +pennies for catgut, and he learned to mend fiddle- +strings; and finally came a proud Wednesday after- +noon when there were visitors in Madame's school, +and he stood on the platform, with Miss Acton +playing an accompaniment on the baby grand piano, +and he managed a feeble but true tune on his violin. +It was all for little Lucy, but little Lucy cared no +more for music than his mother; and while Jim was +playing she was rehearsing in the depths of her mind +the little poem which later she was to recite; for +this adorable little Lucy was, as a matter of course, +to figure in the entertainment. It therefore happened +that she heard not one note of Jim Patterson's pain- +fully executed piece, for she was saying to herself +in mental singsong a foolish little poem, beginning: + + There was one little flower that bloomed + Beside a cottage door. + +When she went forward, little darling blue-clad +figure, there was a murmur of admiration; and when +she made mistakes straight through the poem, saying, + + There was a little flower that fell + On my aunt Martha's floor, + +for beginning, there was a roar of tender laughter +and a clapping of tender, maternal hands, and every- +body wanted to catch hold of little Lucy and kiss her. +It was one of the irresistible charms of this child +that people loved her the more for her mistakes, +and she made many, although she tried so very +hard to avoid them. Little Lucy was not in the +least brilliant, but she held love like a precious vase, +and it gave out perfume better than mere knowledge. + +Jim Patterson was so deeply in love with her when +he went home that night that he confessed to his +mother. Mrs. Patterson had led up to the subject +by alluding to little Lucy while at the dinner-table. + +"Edward," she said to her husband -- both she +and the rector had been present at Madame's school +entertainment and the tea-drinking afterward -- "did +you ever see in all your life such a darling little girl +as the new cashier's daughter? She quite makes up +for Miss Martha, who sat here one solid hour, hold- +ing her card-case, waiting for me to talk to her. +That child is simply delicious, and I was so glad +she made mistakes." + +"Yes, she is a charming child," assented the rector, +"despite the fact that she is not a beauty, hardly +even pretty." + +"I know it," said Mrs. Patterson, "but she has the +worth of beauty." + +Jim was quite pale while his father and mother +were talking. He swallowed the hot soup so fast +that it burnt his tongue. Then he turned very +red, but nobody noticed him. When his mother +came up-stairs to kiss him good night he told her. + +"Mother," said he, "I have something to tell +you." + +"All right, Jim," replied Sally Patterson, with her +boyish air. + +"It is very important," said Jim. + +Mrs. Patterson did not laugh; she did not even +smile. She sat down beside Jim's bed and looked +seriously at his eager, rapt, shamed little boy-face +on the pillow. "Well?" said she, after a minute +which seemed difficult to him. + +Jim coughed. Then he spoke with a blurt. +"Mother," said Jim, "by and by, of course not quite +yet, but by and by, will you have any objection to +Miss Lucy Rose as a daughter?" + +Even then Sally Patterson did not laugh or even +smile. "Are you thinking of marrying her, Jim?" +asked she, quite as if her son had been a man. + +"Yes, mother," replied Jim. Then he flung up +his little arms in pink pajama sleeves, and Sally +Patterson took his face between her two hands and +kissed him warmly. + +"She is a darling, and your choice does you credit, +Jim," said she. "Of course you have said nothing +to her yet?" + +"I thought it was rather too soon." + +"I really think you are very wise, Jim," said his +mother. "It is too soon to put such ideas into +the poor child's head. She is younger than you, +isn't she, Jim?" + +"She is just six months and three days younger," +replied Jim, with majesty. + +"I thought so. Well, you know, Jim, it would +just wear her all out, as young as that, to be obliged +to think about her trousseau and housekeeping and +going to school, too." + +"I know it," said Jim, with a pleased air. "I +thought I was right, mother." + +"Entirely right; and you, too, really ought to +finish school, and take up a profession or a busi- +ness, before you say anything definite. You would +want a nice home for the dear little thing, you +know that, Jim." + +Jim stared at his mother out of his white pillow. +"I thought I would stay with you, and she would +stay with her father until we were both very much +older," said he. "She has a nice home now, you +know, mother." + +Sally Patterson's mouth twitched a little, but she +spoke quite gravely and reasonably. "Yes, that is +very true," said she; "still, I do think you are wise +to wait, Jim." + +When Sally Patterson had left Jim, she looked in +on the rector in his study. "Our son is thinking +seriously of marrying, Edward," said she. + +The rector stared at her. She had shut the door, +and she laughed. + +"He is very discreet. He has consulted me as to +my approval of her as daughter and announced his +intention to wait a little while." + +The rector laughed; then he wrinkled his forehead +uneasily. "I don't like the little chap getting such +ideas," said he. + +"Don't worry, Edward; he hasn't got them," +said Sally Patterson. + +"I hope not." + +"He has made a very wise choice. She is that +perfect darling of a Rose girl who couldn't speak +her piece, and thought we all loved her when we +laughed." + +"Well, don't let him get foolish ideas; that is all, +my dear," said the rector. + +"Don't worry, Edward. I can manage him," +said Sally. + +But she was mistaken. The very next day Jim +proposed in due form to little Lucy. He could not +help it. It was during the morning intermission, +and he came upon her seated all alone under a haw- +thorn hedge, studying her arithmetic anxiously. +She was in blue, as usual, and a very perky blue bow +sat on her soft, dark hair, like a bluebird. She +glanced up at Jim from under her long lashes. + +"Do two and seven make eight or ten? If you +please, will you tell me?" said she. + +"Say, Lucy," said Jim, "will you marry me by +and by?" + +Lucy stared at him uncomprehendingly. + +"Will you?" + +"Will I what?" + +"Marry me by and by?" + +Lucy took refuge in her little harbor of ignorance. +"I don't know," said she. + +"But you like me, don't you, Lucy?" + +"I don't know." + +"Don't you like me better than you like Johnny +Trumbull?" + +"I don't know." + +"You like me better than you like Arnold Carruth, +don't you? He has curls and wears socks." + +"I don't know." + +"When do you think you can be sure?" + +"I don't know." + +Jim stared helplessly at little Lucy. She stared +back sweetly. + +"Please tell me whether two and seven make +six or eleven, Jim," said she. + +"They make nine," said Jim. + +"I have been counting my fingers and I got it +eleven, but I suppose I must have counted one finger +twice," said little Lucy. She gazed reflectively at +her little baby-hands. A tiny ring with a blue stone +shone on one finger. + +"I will give you a ring, you know," Jim said, +coaxingly. + +"I have got a ring my father gave me. Did you +say it was ten, please, Jim?" + +"Nine," gasped Jim. + +"All the way I can remember," said little Lucy, +"is for you to pick just so many leaves off the hedge, +and I will tie them in my handkerchief, and just be- +fore I have to say my lesson I will count those +leaves." + +Jim obediently picked nine leaves from the haw- +thorn hedge, and little Lucy tied them into her +handkerchief, and then the Japanese gong sounded +and they went back to school. + +That night after dinner, just before Lucy went to +bed, she spoke of her own accord to her father and +Miss Martha, a thing which she seldom did. "Jim +Patterson asked me to marry him when I asked him +what seven and two made in my arithmetic lesson," +said she. She looked with the loveliest round eyes +of innocence first at her father, then at Miss Martha. +Cyril Rose gasped and laid down his newspaper. + +"What did you say, little Lucy?" he asked. + +"Jim Patterson asked me to marry him when I +asked him to tell me how much seven and two made +in my arithmetic lesson." + +Cyril Rose and his cousin Martha looked at each +other. + +"Arnold Carruth asked me, too, when a great +big wasp flew on my arm and frightened me." + +Cyril and Martha continued to look. The little, +sweet, uncertain voice went on. + +"And Johnny Trumbull asked me when I 'most +fell down on the sidewalk; and Lee Westminster +asked me when I wasn't doing anything, and so did +Bubby Harvey." + +"What did you tell them?" asked Miss Martha, +in a faint voice. + +"I told them I didn't know." + +"You had better have the child go to bed now," +said Cyril. "Good night, little Lucy. Always tell +father everything." + +"Yes, father," said little Lucy, and was kissed, +and went away with Martha. + +When Martha returned, her cousin looked at her +severely. He was a fair, gentle-looking man, and +severity was impressive when he assumed it. + +"Really, Martha," said he, "don't you think you +had better have a little closer outlook over that +baby?" + +"Oh, Cyril, I never dreamed of such a thing," +cried Miss Martha. + +"You really must speak to Madame," said Cyril. +"I cannot have such things put into the child's +head." + +"Oh, Cyril, how can I?" + +"I think it is your duty." + +"Cyril, could not -- you?" + +Cyril grinned. "Do you think," said he, "that +I am going to that elegant widow schoolma'am and +say, 'Madame, my young daughter has had four +proposals of marriage in one day, and I must beg +you to put a stop to such proceedings'? No, Martha; +it is a woman's place to do such a thing as that. +The whole thing is too absurd, indignant as I am +about it. Poor little soul!" + +So it happened that Miss Martha Rose, the next +day being Saturday, called on Madame, but, not +being asked any leading question, found herself abso- +lutely unable to deliver herself of her errand, and +went away with it unfulfilled. + +"Well, I must say," said Madame to Miss Par- +malee, as Miss Martha tripped wearily down the +front walk -- "I must say, of all the educated women +who have really been in the world, she is the strang- +est. You and I have done nothing but ask inane +questions, and she has sat waiting for them, and +chirped back like a canary. I am simply worn out." + +"So am I," sighed Miss Parmalee. + +But neither of them was so worn out as poor +Miss Martha, anticipating her cousin's reproaches. +However, her wonted silence and reticence stood +her in good stead, for he merely asked, after little +Lucy had gone to bed: + +"Well, what did Madame say about Lucy's pro- +posals?" + +"She did not say anything," replied Martha. + +"Did she promise it would not occur again?" + +"She did not promise, but I don't think it will." + +The financial page was unusually thrilling that +night, and Cyril Rose, who had come to think rather +lightly of the affair, remarked, absent-mindedly; +"Well, I hope it does not occur again. I cannot have +such ridiculous ideas put into the child's head. If +it does, we get a governess for her and take her away +from Madame's." Then he resumed his reading, +and Martha, guilty but relieved, went on with her +knitting. + +It was late spring then, and little Lucy had at- +tended Madame's school several months, and her +popularity had never waned. A picnic was planned +to Dover's Grove, and the romantic little girls had +insisted upon a May queen, and Lucy was unani- +mously elected. The pupils of Madame's school went +to the picnic in the manner known as a "straw- +ride." Miss Parmalee sat with them, her feet +uncomfortably tucked under her. She was the +youngest of the teachers, and could not evade the +duty. Madame and Miss Acton headed the pro- +cession, sitting comfortably in a victoria driven by +the colored man Sam, who was employed about the +school. Dover's Grove was six miles from the vil- +lage, and a favorite spot for picnics. The victoria +rolled on ahead; Madame carried a black parasol, +for the sun was on her side and the day very warm. +Both ladies wore thin, dark gowns, and both felt +the languor of spring. + +The straw-wagon, laden with children seated upon +the golden trusses of straw, looked like a wagon- +load of blossoms. Fair and dark heads, rosy faces +looked forth in charming clusters. They sang, they +chattered. It made no difference to them that it +was not the season for a straw-ride, that the trusses +were musty. They inhaled the fragrance of blooming +boughs under which they rode, and were quite ob- +livious to all discomfort and unpleasantness. Poor +Miss Parmalee, with her feet going to sleep, sneezing +from time to time from the odor of the old straw, +did not obtain the full beauty of the spring day. +She had protested against the straw-ride. + +"The children really ought to wait until the season +for such things," she had told Madame, quite boldly; +and Madame had replied that she was well aware +of it, but the children wanted something of the sort, +and the hay was not cut, and straw, as it happened, +was more easily procured. + +"It may not be so very musty," said Madame; +"and you know, my dear, straw is clean, and I +am sorry, but you do seem to be the one to ride +with the children on the straw, because" -- Madame +dropped her voice -- "you are really younger, you +know, than either Miss Acton or I." + +Poor Miss Parmalee could almost have dispensed +with her few years of superior youth to have gotten +rid of that straw-ride. She had no parasol, and the +sun beat upon her head, and the noise of the children +got horribly on her nerves. Little Lucy was her one +alleviation. Little Lucy sat in the midst of the +boisterous throng, perfectly still, crowned with her +garland of leaves and flowers, her sweet, pale little +face calmly observant. She was the high light of +Madame's school, the effect which made the +whole. All the others looked at little Lucy, they +talked to her, they talked at her; but she remained +herself unmoved, as a high light should be. "Dear +little soul," Miss Parmalee thought. She also +thought that it was a pity that little Lucy could +not have worn a white frock in her character as +Queen of the May, but there she was mistaken. The +blue was of a peculiar shade, of a very soft material, +and nothing could have been prettier. Jim Patterson +did not often look away from little Lucy; neither +did Arnold Carruth; neither did Bubby Harvey; +neither did Johnny Trumbull; neither did Lily +Jennings; neither did many others. + +Amelia Wheeler, however, felt a little jealous as +she watched Lily. She thought Lily ought to have +been queen; and she, while she did not dream of +competing with incomparable little Lucy, wished +Lily would not always look at Lucy with such wor- +shipful admiration. Amelia was inconsistent. She +knew that she herself could not aspire to being an +object of worship, but the state of being a nonentity +for Lily was depressing. "Wonder if I jumped out +of this old wagon and got killed if she would mind +one bit?" she thought, tragically. But Amelia did +not jump. She had tragic impulses, or rather im- +aginations of tragic impulses, but she never carried +them out. It was left for little Lucy, flower-crowned +and calmly sweet and gentle under honors, to be +guilty of a tragedy of which she never dreamed. +For that was the day when little Lucy was lost. + +When the picnic was over, when the children were +climbing into the straw-wagon and Madame and +Miss Acton were genteelly disposed in the victoria, +a lamentable cry arose. Sam drew his reins tight +and rolled his inquiring eyes around; Madame and +Miss Acton leaned far out on either side of the vic- +toria. + +"Oh, what is it?" said Madame. "My dear Miss +Acton, do pray get out and see what the trouble is. +I begin to feel a little faint." + +In fact, Madame got her cut-glass smelling-bottle +out of her bag and began to sniff vigorously. Sam +gazed backward and paid no attention to her. Ma- +dame always felt faint when anything unexpected +occurred, and smelled at the pretty bottle, but she +never fainted. + +Miss Acton got out, lifting her nice skirts clear +of the dusty wheel, and she scuttled back to the up- +roarious straw-wagon, showing her slender ankles +and trimly shod feet. Miss Acton was a very wiry, +dainty woman, full of nervous energy. When she +reached the straw-wagon Miss Parmalee was climb- +ing out, assisted by the driver. Miss Parmalee +was very pale and visibly tremulous. The children +were all shrieking in dissonance, so it was quite +impossible to tell what the burden of their tale of +woe was; but obviously something of a tragic na- +ture had happened. + +"What is the matter?" asked Miss Acton, tee- +tering like a humming-bird with excitement. + +"Little Lucy --" gasped Miss Parmalee. + +"What about her?" + +"She isn't here." + +"Where is she?" + +"We don't know. We just missed her." + +Then the cry of the children for little Lucy Rose, +although sadly wrangled, became intelligible. Ma- +dame came, holding up her silk skirt and sniffing at +her smelling-bottle, and everybody asked ques- +tions of everybody else, and nobody knew any satis- +factory answers. Johnny Trumbull was confident +that he was the last one to see little Lucy, and so +were Lily Jennings and Amelia Wheeler, and so +were Jim Patterson and Bubby Harvey and Arnold +Carruth and Lee Westminster and many others; +but when pinned down to the actual moment +everybody disagreed, and only one thing was cer- +tain -- little Lucy Rose was missing. + +"What shall I say to her father?" moaned Ma- +dame. + +"Of course, we shall find her before we say any- +thing," returned Miss Parmalee, who was sure to +rise to an emergency. Madame sank helpless be- +fore one. "You had better go and sit under that +tree (Sam, take a cushion out of the carriage for +Madame) and keep quiet; then Sam must drive +to the village and give the alarm, and the straw- +wagon had better go, too; and the rest of us will +hunt by threes, three always keeping together. Re- +member, children, three of you keep together, and, +whatever you do, be sure and do not separate. We +cannot have another lost." + +It seemed very sound advice. Madame, pale and +frightened, sat on the cushion under the tree and +sniffed at her smelling-bottle, and the rest scattered +and searched the grove and surrounding underbrush +thoroughly. But it was sunset when the groups +returned to Madame under her tree, and the straw- +wagon with excited people was back, and the victoria +with Lucy's father and the rector and his wife, and +Dr. Trumbull in his buggy, and other carriages fast +arriving. Poor Miss Martha Rose had been out +calling when she heard the news, and she was walk- +ing to the scene of action. The victoria in which +her cousin was seated left her in a cloud of dust. +Cyril Rose had not noticed the mincing figure with +the card-case and the parasol. + +The village searched for little Lucy Rose, but it +was Jim Patterson who found her, and in the most +unlikely of places. A forlorn pair with a multi- +plicity of forlorn children lived in a tumble-down +house about half a mile from the grove. The man's +name was Silas Thomas, and his wife's was Sarah. +Poor Sarah had lost a large part of the small wit she +had originally owned several years before, when her +youngest daughter, aged four, died. All the babies +that had arrived since had not consoled her for the +death of that little lamb, by name Viola May, nor +restored her full measure of under-wit. Poor Sarah +Thomas had spied adorable little Lucy separated +from her mates by chance for a few minutes, pick- +ing wild flowers, and had seized her in forcible but +loving arms and carried her home. Had Lucy not +been such a silent, docile child, it could never have +happened; but she was a mere little limp thing in +the grasp of the over-loving, deprived mother who +thought she had gotten back her own beloved Viola +May. + +When Jim Patterson, big-eyed and pale, looked +in at the Thomas door, there sat Sarah Thomas, a +large, unkempt, wild-visaged, but gentle creature, +holding little Lucy and cuddling her, while Lucy, +shrinking away as far as she was able, kept her big, +dark eyes of wonder and fear upon the woman's +face. And all around were clustered the Thomas +children, unkempt as their mother, a gentle but +degenerate brood, all of them believing what their +mother said. Viola May had come home again. +Silas Thomas was not there; he was trudging slowly +homeward from a job of wood-cutting. Jim saw +only the mother, little Lucy, and that poor little +flock of children gazing in wonder and awe. Jim +rushed in and faced Sarah Thomas. "Give me +little Lucy!" said he, as fiercely as any man. But +he reckoned without the unreasoning love of a +mother. Sarah only held little Lucy faster, and the +poor little girl rolled appealing eyes at him over that +brawny, grasping arm of affection. + +Jim raced for help, and it was not long before it +came. Little Lucy rode home in the victoria, seated +in Sally Patterson's lap. "Mother, you take her," +Jim had pleaded; and Sally, in the face and eyes of +Madame, had gathered the little trembling crea- +ture into her arms. In her heart she had not much +of an opinion of any woman who had allowed such +a darling little girl out of her sight for a moment. +Madame accepted a seat in another carriage and rode +home, explaining and sniffing and inwardly resolving +never again to have a straw-ride. + +Jim stood on the step of the victoria all the way +home. They passed poor Miss Martha Rose, still +faring toward the grove, and nobody noticed her, +for the second time. She did not turn back until +the straw-wagon, which formed the tail of the little +procession, reached her. That she halted with mad +waves of her parasol, and, when told that little Lucy +was found, refused a seat on the straw because she +did not wish to rumple her best gown and turned +about and fared home again. + +The rectory was reached before Cyril Rose's +house, and Cyril yielded gratefully to Sally Patter- +son's proposition that she take the little girl with +her, give her dinner, see that she was washed and +brushed and freed from possible contamination from +the Thomases, who were not a cleanly lot, and later +brought home in the rector's carriage. However, +little Lucy stayed all night at the rectory. She had +a bath; her lovely, misty hair was brushed; she +was fed and petted; and finally Sally Patterson +telephoned for permission to keep her overnight. +By that time poor Martha had reached home and +was busily brushing her best dress. + +After dinner, little Lucy, very happy and quite +restored, sat in Sally Patterson's lap on the veranda, +while Jim hovered near. His innocent boy-love +made him feel as if he had wings. But his wings +only bore him to failure, before an earlier and +mightier force of love than his young heart could +yet compass for even such a darling as little Lucy. +He sat on the veranda step and gazed eagerly and +rapturously at little Lucy on his mother's lap, and +the desire to have her away from other loves came +over him. He saw the fireflies dancing in swarms +on the lawn, and a favorite sport of the children of +the village occurred to him. + +"Say, little Lucy," said Jim. + +Little Lucy looked up with big, dark eyes under +her mist of hair, as she nestled against Sally Patter- +son's shoulder. + +"Say, let's chase fireflies, little Lucy." + +"Do you want to chase fireflies with Jim, darling?" +asked Sally. + +Little Lucy nestled closer. "I would rather stay +with you," said she in her meek flute of a voice, +and she gazed up at Sally with the look which she +might have given the mother she had lost. + +Sally kissed her and laughed. Then she reached +down a fond hand and patted her boy's head. +"Never mind, Jim," said Sally. "Mothers have to +come first." + + + + +NOBLESSE + + + + + +NOBLESSE + +MARGARET LEE encountered in her late middle +age the rather singular strait of being entirely +alone in the world. She was unmarried, and as +far as relatives were concerned, she had none except +those connected with her by ties not of blood, but by +marriage. + +Margaret had not married when her flesh had been +comparative; later, when it had become superlative, +she had no opportunities to marry. Life would have +been hard enough for Margaret under any circum- +stances, but it was especially hard, living, as she did, +with her father's stepdaughter and that daughter's +husband. + +Margaret's stepmother had been a child in spite of +her two marriages, and a very silly, although pretty +child. The daughter, Camille, was like her, although +not so pretty, and the man whom Camille had mar- +ried was what Margaret had been taught to regard +as "common." His business pursuits were irregular +and partook of mystery. He always smoked ciga- +rettes and chewed gum. He wore loud shirts and a +diamond scarf-pin which had upon him the appear- +ance of stolen goods. The gem had belonged to +Margaret's own mother, but when Camille expressed +a desire to present it to Jack Desmond, Margaret +had yielded with no outward hesitation, but after- +ward she wept miserably over its loss when alone in +her room. The spirit had gone out of Margaret, +the little which she had possessed. She had always +been a gentle, sensitive creature, and was almost +helpless before the wishes of others. + +After all, it had been a long time since Margaret +had been able to force the ring even upon her little +finger, but she had derived a small pleasure from +the reflection that she owned it in its faded velvet +box, hidden under laces in her top bureau drawer. +She did not like to see it blazing forth from the tie +of this very ordinary young man who had married +Camille. Margaret had a gentle, high-bred contempt +for Jack Desmond, but at the same time a vague +fear of him. Jack had a measure of unscrupulous +business shrewdness, which spared nothing and no- +body, and that in spite of the fact that he had not +succeeded. + +Margaret owned the old Lee place, which had been +magnificent, but of late years the expenditures had +been reduced and it had deteriorated. The conserva- +tories had been closed. There was only one horse +in the stable. Jack had bought him. He was a worn- +out trotter with legs carefully bandaged. Jack drove +him at reckless speed, not considering those slender, +braceleted legs. Jack had a racing-gig, and when +in it, with striped coat, cap on one side, cigarette in +mouth, lines held taut, skimming along the roads in +clouds of dust, he thought himself the man and true +sportsman which he was not. Some of the old Lee +silver had paid for that waning trotter. + +Camille adored Jack, and cared for no associations, +no society, for which he was not suited. Before the +trotter was bought she told Margaret that the kind +of dinners which she was able to give in Fairhill were +awfully slow. "If we could afford to have some +men out from the city, some nice fellers that Jack +knows, it would be worth while," said she, "but +we have grown so hard up we can't do a thing to +make it worth their while. Those men haven't got +any use for a back-number old place like this. We +can't take them round in autos, nor give them a +chance at cards, for Jack couldn't pay if he lost, +and Jack is awful honorable. We can't have the +right kind of folks here for any fun. I don't propose +to ask the rector and his wife, and old Mr. Harvey, +or people like the Leaches." + +"The Leaches are a very good old family," said +Margaret, feebly. + +"I don't care for good old families when they are +so slow," retorted Camille. "The fellers we could +have here, if we were rich enough, come from fine +families, but they are up-to-date. It's no use hang- +ing on to old silver dishes we never use and that I +don't intend to spoil my hands shining. Poor Jack +don't have much fun, anyway. If he wants that +trotter -- he says it's going dirt cheap -- I think it's +mean he can't have it, instead of your hanging on to +a lot of out-of-style old silver; so there." + +Two generations ago there had been French blood +in Camille's family. She put on her clothes beauti- +fully; she had a dark, rather fine-featured, alert lit- +tle face, which gave a wrong impression, for she was +essentially vulgar. Sometimes poor Margaret Lee +wished that Camille had been definitely vicious, if +only she might be possessed of more of the charac- +teristics of breeding. Camille so irritated Margaret +in those somewhat abstruse traits called sensibilities +that she felt as if she were living with a sort of +spiritual nutmeg-grater. Seldom did Camille speak +that she did not jar Margaret, although uncon- +sciously. Camille meant to be kind to the stout +woman, whom she pitied as far as she was capable +of pitying without understanding. She realized that +it must be horrible to be no longer young, and so +stout that one was fairly monstrous, but how horrible +she could not with her mentality conceive. Jack also +meant to be kind. He was not of the brutal -- that is, +intentionally brutal -- type, but he had a shrewd +eye to the betterment of himself, and no realization +of the torture he inflicted upon those who opposed +that betterment. + +For a long time matters had been worse than usual +financially in the Lee house. The sisters had been +left in charge of the sadly dwindled estate, and had +depended upon the judgment, or lack of judgment, +of Jack. He approved of taking your chances and +striking for larger income. The few good old grand- +father securities had been sold, and wild ones from +the very jungle of commerce had been substituted. +Jack, like most of his type, while shrewd, was as +credulous as a child. He lied himself, and expected +all men to tell him the truth. Camille at his bidding +mortgaged the old place, and Margaret dared not +oppose. Taxes were not paid; interest was not paid; +credit was exhausted. Then the house was put up +at public auction, and brought little more than suffi- +cient to pay the creditors. Jack took the balance +and staked it in a few games of chance, and of course +lost. The weary trotter stumbled one day and had +to be shot. Jack became desperate. He frightened +Camille. He was suddenly morose. He bade Ca- +mille pack, and Margaret also, and they obeyed. +Camille stowed away her crumpled finery in the +bulging old trunks, and Margaret folded daintily her +few remnants of past treasures. She had an old silk +gown or two, which resisted with their rich honesty +the inroads of time, and a few pieces of old lace, +which Camille understood no better than she under- +stood their owner. + +Then Margaret and the Desmonds went to the +city and lived in a horrible, tawdry little flat in +a tawdry locality. Jack roared with bitter mirth +when he saw poor Margaret forced to enter her tiny +room sidewise; Camille laughed also, although she +chided Jack gently. "Mean of you to make fun of +poor Margaret, Jacky dear," she said. + +For a few weeks Margaret's life in that flat was +horrible; then it became still worse. Margaret near- +ly filled with her weary, ridiculous bulk her little +room, and she remained there most of the time, +although it was sunny and noisy, its one window +giving on a courtyard strung with clothes-lines and +teeming with boisterous life. Camille and Jack went +trolley-riding, and made shift to entertain a little, +merry but questionable people, who gave them +passes to vaudeville and entertained in their turn +until the small hours. Unquestionably these peo- +ple suggested to Jack Desmond the scheme which +spelled tragedy to Margaret. + +She always remembered one little dark man with +keen eyes who had seen her disappearing through +her door of a Sunday night when all these gay, be- +draggled birds were at liberty and the fun ran high. +"Great Scott!" the man had said, and Margaret had +heard him demand of Jack that she be recalled. +She obeyed, and the man was introduced, also the +other members of the party. Margaret Lee stood +in the midst of this throng and heard their repressed +titters of mirth at her appearance. Everybody +there was in good humor with the exception of Jack, +who was still nursing his bad luck, and the little +dark man, whom Jack owed. The eyes of Jack and +the little dark man made Margaret cold with a ter- +ror of something, she knew not what. Before that +terror the shame and mortification of her exhibition +to that merry company was of no import. + +She stood among them, silent, immense, clad in +her dark purple silk gown spread over a great hoop- +skirt. A real lace collar lay softly over her enormous, +billowing shoulders; real lace ruffles lay over her +great, shapeless hands. Her face, the delicacy of +whose features was veiled with flesh, flushed and +paled. Not even flesh could subdue the sad brill- +iancy of her dark-blue eyes, fixed inward upon her +own sad state, unregardful of the company. She +made an indefinite murmur of response to the saluta- +tions given her, and then retreated. She heard the +roar of laughter after she had squeezed through the +door of her room. Then she heard eager conversa- +tion, of which she did not catch the real import, but +which terrified her with chance expressions. She +was quite sure that she was the subject of that eager +discussion. She was quite sure that it boded her +no good. + +In a few days she knew the worst; and the worst +was beyond her utmost imaginings. This was be- +fore the days of moving-picture shows; it was the +day of humiliating spectacles of deformities, when +inventions of amusements for the people had not +progressed. It was the day of exhibitions of sad +freaks of nature, calculated to provoke tears rather +than laughter in the healthy-minded, and poor Mar- +garet Lee was a chosen victim. Camille informed +her in a few words of her fate. Camille was sorry +for her, although not in the least understanding why +she was sorry. She realized dimly that Margaret +would be distressed, but she was unable from her +narrow point of view to comprehend fully the whole +tragedy. + +"Jack has gone broke," stated Camille. "He +owes Bill Stark a pile, and he can't pay a cent of it; +and Jack's sense of honor about a poker debt is +about the biggest thing in his character. Jack has +got to pay. And Bill has a little circus, going to +travel all summer, and he's offered big money for +you. Jack can pay Bill what he owes him, and we'll +have enough to live on, and have lots of fun going +around. You hadn't ought to make a fuss about it." + +Margaret, pale as death, stared at the girl, pertly +slim, and common and pretty, who stared back +laughingly, although still with the glimmer of un- +comprehending pity in her black eyes. + +"What does -- he -- want -- me -- for?" gasped +Margaret. + +"For a show, because you are so big," replied +Camille. "You will make us all rich, Margaret. +Ain't it nice?" + +Then Camille screamed, the shrill raucous scream +of the women of her type, for Margaret had fallen +back in a dead faint, her immense bulk inert in her +chair. Jack came running in alarm. Margaret had +suddenly gained value in his shrewd eyes. He was +as pale as she. + +Finally Margaret raised her head, opened her +miserable eyes, and regained her consciousness of +herself and what lay before her. There was no course +open but submission. She knew that from the first. +All three faced destitution; she was the one financial +asset, she and her poor flesh. She had to face it, +and with what dignity she could muster. + +Margaret had great piety. She kept constantly +before her mental vision the fact in which she be- +lieved, that the world which she found so hard, and +which put her to unspeakable torture, was not all. + +A week elapsed before the wretched little show +of which she was to be a member went on the road, +and night after night she prayed. She besieged her +God for strength. She never prayed for respite. +Her realization of the situation and her lofty reso- +lution prevented that. The awful, ridiculous com- +bat was before her; there was no evasion; she prayed +only for the strength which leads to victory. + +However, when the time came, it was all worse +than she had imagined. How could a woman gently +born and bred conceive of the horrible ignominy of +such a life? She was dragged hither and yon, to this +and that little town. She traveled through swelter- +ing heat on jolting trains; she slept in tents; she +lived -- she, Margaret Lee -- on terms of equality +with the common and the vulgar. Daily her absurd +unwieldiness was exhibited to crowds screaming with +laughter. Even her faith wavered. It seemed to her +that there was nothing for evermore beyond those +staring, jeering faces of silly mirth and delight at +sight of her, seated in two chairs, clad in a pink +spangled dress, her vast shoulders bare and +sparkling with a tawdry necklace, her great, bare +arms covered with brass bracelets, her hands in- +cased in short, white kid gloves, over the fingers +of which she wore a number of rings -- stage prop- +erties. + +Margaret became a horror to herself. At times +it seemed to her that she was in the way of fairly +losing her own identity. It mattered little that +Camille and Jack were very kind to her, that they +showed her the nice things which her terrible earn- +ings had enabled them to have. She sat in her two +chairs -- the two chairs proved a most successful +advertisement -- with her two kid-cushiony hands +clenched in her pink spangled lap, and she suffered +agony of soul, which made her inner self stern and +terrible, behind that great pink mask of face. And +nobody realized until one sultry day when the show +opened at a village in a pocket of green hills -- indeed, +its name was Greenhill -- and Sydney Lord went to +see it. + +Margaret, who had schooled herself to look upon +her audience as if they were not, suddenly compre- +hended among them another soul who understood +her own. She met the eyes of the man, and a won- +derful comfort, as of a cool breeze blowing over the +face of clear water, came to her. She knew that the +man understood. She knew that she had his fullest +sympathy. She saw also a comrade in the toils of +comic tragedy, for Sydney Lord was in the same case. +He was a mountain of flesh. As a matter of fact, +had he not been known in Greenhill and respected +as a man of weight of character as well as of body, +and of an old family, he would have rivaled Mar- +garet. Beside him sat an elderly woman, sweet- +faced, slightly bent as to her slender shoulders, as if +with a chronic attitude of submission. She was +Sydney's widowed sister, Ellen Waters. She lived +with her brother and kept his house, and had no +will other than his. + +Sydney Lord and his sister remained when the rest +of the audience had drifted out, after the privileged +hand-shakes with the queen of the show. Every +time a coarse, rustic hand reached familiarly after +Margaret's, Sydney shrank. + +He motioned his sister to remain seated when +he approached the stage. Jack Desmond, who +had been exploiting Margaret, gazed at him with +admiring curiosity. Sydney waved him away +with a commanding gesture. "I wish to speak to +her a moment. Pray leave the tent," he said, +and Jack obeyed. People always obeyed Sydney +Lord. + +Sydney stood before Margaret, and he saw the +clear crystal, which was herself, within all the flesh, +clad in tawdry raiment, and she knew that he saw it. + +"Good God!" said Sydney, "you are a lady!" + +He continued to gaze at her, and his eyes, large +and brown, became blurred; at the same time his +mouth tightened. + +"How came you to be in such a place as this?" +demanded Sydney. He spoke almost as if he were +angry with her. + +Margaret explained briefly. + +"It is an outrage," declared Sydney. He said +it, however, rather absently. He was reflecting. +"Where do you live?" he asked. + +"Here." + +"You mean --?" + +"They make up a bed for me here, after the people +have gone." + +"And I suppose you had -- before this -- a com- +fortable house." + +"The house which my grandfather Lee owned, +the old Lee mansion-house, before we went to the +city. It was a very fine old Colonial house," ex- +plained Margaret, in her finely modulated voice. + +"And you had a good room?" + +"The southeast chamber had always been mine. +It was very large, and the furniture was old Spanish +mahogany." + +"And now --" said Sydney. + +"Yes," said Margaret. She looked at him, and +her serious blue eyes seemed to see past him. "It +will not last," she said. + +"What do you mean?" + +"I try to learn a lesson. I am a child in the school +of God. My lesson is one that always ends in peace." + +"Good God!" said Sydney. + +He motioned to his sister, and Ellen approached +in a frightened fashion. Her brother could do no +wrong, but this was the unusual, and alarmed her. + +"This lady --" began Sydney. + +"Miss Lee," said Margaret. "I was never mar- +ried. I am Miss Margaret Lee." + +"This," said Sydney, "is my sister Ellen, Mrs. +Waters. Ellen, I wish you to meet Miss Lee." + +Ellen took into her own Margaret's hand, and said +feebly that it was a beautiful day and she hoped +Miss Lee found Greenhill a pleasant place to -- visit. + +Sydney moved slowly out of the tent and found +Jack Desmond. He was standing near with Camille, +who looked her best in a pale-blue summer silk and +a black hat trimmed with roses. Jack and Camille +never really knew how the great man had managed, +but presently Margaret had gone away with him +and his sister. + +Jack and Camille looked at each other. + +"Oh, Jack, ought you to have let her go?" said +Camille. + +"What made you let her go?" asked Jack. + +"I -- don't know. I couldn't say anything. That +man has a tremendous way with him. Goodness!" + +"He is all right here in the place, anyhow," said +Jack. "They look up to him. He is a big-bug here. +Comes of a family like Margaret's, though he hasn't +got much money. Some chaps were braggin' that +they had a bigger show than her right here, and I +found out." + +"Suppose," said Camille, "Margaret does not +come back?" + +"He could not keep her without bein' arrested," +declared Jack, but he looked uneasy. He had, how- +ever, looked uneasy for some time. The fact was, +Margaret had been very gradually losing weight. +Moreover, she was not well. That very night, after +the show was over, Bill Stark, the little dark man, +had a talk with the Desmonds about it. + +"Truth is, before long, if you don't look out, you'll +have to pad her," said Bill; "and giants don't +amount to a row of pins after that begins." + +Camille looked worried and sulky. "She ain't +very well, anyhow," said she. "I ain't going to +kill Margaret." + +"It's a good thing she's got a chance to have a +night's rest in a house," said Bill Stark. + +"The fat man has asked her to stay with him and +his sister while the show is here," said Jack. + +"The sister invited her," said Camille, with a +little stiffness. She was common, but she had lived +with Lees, and her mother had married a Lee. She +knew what was due Margaret, and also due herself. + +"The truth is," said Camille, "this is an awful sort +of life for a woman like Margaret. She and her +folks were never used to anything like it." + +"Why didn't you make your beauty husband +hustle and take care of her and you, then?" de- +manded Bill, who admired Camille, and disliked her +because she had no eyes for him. + +"My husband has been unfortunate. He has +done the best he could," responded Camille. "Come, +Jack; no use talking about it any longer. Guess +Margaret will pick up. Come along. I'm tired out." + +That night Margaret Lee slept in a sweet chamber +with muslin curtains at the windows, in a massive +old mahogany bed, much like hers which had been +sacrificed at an auction sale. The bed-linen was +linen, and smelled of lavender. Margaret was too +happy to sleep. She lay in the cool, fragrant sheets +and was happy, and convinced of the presence of +the God to whom she had prayed. All night Sydney +Lord sat down-stairs in his book-walled sanctum +and studied over the situation. It was a crucial one. +The great psychological moment of Sydney Lord's +life for knight-errantry had arrived. He studied +the thing from every point of view. There was no +romance about it. These were hard, sordid, tragic, +ludicrous facts with which he had to deal. He knew +to a nicety the agonies which Margaret suffered. +He knew, because of his own capacity for sufferings +of like stress. "And she is a woman and a lady," +he said, aloud. + +If Sydney had been rich enough, the matter would +have been simple. He could have paid Jack and +Camille enough to quiet them, and Margaret could +have lived with him and his sister and their two old +servants. But he was not rich; he was even poor. +The price to be paid for Margaret's liberty was a +bitter one, but it was that or nothing. Sydney faced +it. He looked about the room. To him the walls +lined with the dull gleams of old books were lovely. +There was an oil portrait of his mother over the +mantel-shelf. The weather was warm now, and +there was no need for a hearth fire, but how ex- +quisitely home-like and dear that room could be +when the snow drove outside and there was the leap +of flame on the hearth! Sydney was a scholar and +a gentleman. He had led a gentle and sequestered +life. Here in his native village there were none to +gibe and sneer. The contrast of the traveling show +would be as great for him as it had been for Margaret, +but he was the male of the species, and she the +female. Chivalry, racial, harking back to the begin- +ning of nobility in the human, to its earliest dawn, +fired Sydney. The pale daylight invaded the study. +Sydney, as truly as any knight of old, had girded +himself, and with no hope, no thought of reward, +for the battle in the eternal service of the strong +for the weak, which makes the true worth of the +strong. + +There was only one way. Sydney Lord took it. +His sister was spared the knowledge of the truth +for a long while. When she knew, she did not lament; +since Sydney had taken the course, it must be right. +As for Margaret, not knowing the truth, she yielded. +She was really on the verge of illness. Her spirit +was of too fine a strain to enable her body to endure +long. When she was told that she was to remain +with Sydney's sister while Sydney went away on +business, she made no objection. A wonderful sense +of relief, as of wings of healing being spread under +her despair, was upon her. Camille came to bid +her good-by. + +"I hope you have a nice visit in this lovely house," +said Camille, and kissed her. Camille was astute, +and to be trusted. She did not betray Sydney's +confidence. Sydney used a disguise -- a dark wig +over his partially bald head and a little make-up -- +and he traveled about with the show and sat on +three chairs, and shook hands with the gaping crowd, +and was curiously happy. It was discomfort; it +was ignominy; it was maddening to support by the +exhibition of his physical deformity a perfectly +worthless young couple like Jack and Camille Des- +mond, but it was all superbly ennobling for the man +himself. + +Always as he sat on his three chairs, immense, +grotesque -- the more grotesque for his splendid dig- +nity of bearing -- there was in his soul of a gallant +gentleman the consciousness of that other, whom +he was shielding from a similar ordeal. Compassion +and generosity, so great that they comprehended +love itself and excelled its highest type, irradiated +the whole being of the fat man exposed to the gaze +of his inferiors. Chivalry, which rendered him almost +god-like, strengthened him for his task. Sydney +thought always of Margaret as distinct from her +physical self, a sort of crystalline, angelic soul, with +no encumbrance of earth. He achieved a purely +spiritual conception of her. And Margaret, living +again her gentle lady life, was likewise ennobled +by a gratitude which transformed her. Always a +clear and beautiful soul, she gave out new lights of +character like a jewel in the sun. And she also +thought of Sydney as distinct from his physical self. +The consciousness of the two human beings, one of +the other, was a consciousness as of two wonderful +lines of good and beauty, moving for ever parallel, +separate, and inseparable in an eternal harmony of +spirit. + + + + + +CORONATION + + + + + +CORONATION + +JIM BENNET had never married. He had +passed middle life, and possessed considerable +property. Susan Adkins kept house for him. She +was a widow and a very distant relative. Jim had +two nieces, his brother's daughters. One, Alma +Beecher, was married; the other, Amanda, was not. +The nieces had naively grasping views concerning +their uncle and his property. They stated freely +that they considered him unable to care for it; that +a guardian should be appointed and the property +be theirs at once. They consulted Lawyer Thomas +Hopkinson with regard to it; they discoursed at +length upon what they claimed to be an idiosyn- +crasy of Jim's, denoting failing mental powers. + +"He keeps a perfect slew of cats, and has a coal +fire for them in the woodshed all winter," said Amanda. + +"Why in thunder shouldn't he keep a fire in the +woodshed if he wants to?" demanded Hopkinson. +"I know of no law against it. And there isn't a +law in the country regulating the number of cats a +man can keep." Thomas Hopkinson, who was an +old friend of Jim's, gave his prominent chin an up- +ward jerk as he sat in his office arm-chair before +his clients. + +"There is something besides cats," said Alma + +"What?" + +"He talks to himself." + +"What in creation do you expect the poor man to +do? He can't talk to Susan Adkins about a blessed +thing except tidies and pincushions. That woman +hasn't a thought in her mind outside her soul's +salvation and fancy-work. Jim has to talk once in +a while to keep himself a man. What if he does +talk to himself? I talk to myself. Next thing you will +want to be appointed guardian over me, Amanda." + +Hopkinson was a bachelor, and Amanda flushed +angrily. + +"He wasn't what I call even gentlemanly," she +told Alma, when the two were on their way home. + +"I suppose Tom Hopkinson thought you were +setting your cap at him," retorted Alma. She rel- +ished the dignity of her married state, and enjoyed +giving her spinster sister little claws when occasion +called. However, Amanda had a temper of her own, +and she could claw back. + +"YOU needn't talk," said she. "You only took +Joe Beecher when you had given up getting anybody +better. You wanted Tom Hopkinson yourself. I +haven't forgotten that blue silk dress you got and +wore to meeting. You needn't talk. You know +you got that dress just to make Tom look at you, +and he didn't. You needn't talk." + +"I wouldn't have married Tom Hopkinson if he +had been the only man on the face of the earth," +declared Alma with dignity; but she colored hotly. + +Amanda sniffed. "Well, as near as I can find out +Uncle Jim can go on talking to himself and keeping +cats, and we can't do anything," said she. + +When the two women were home, they told Alma's +husband, Joe Beecher, about their lack of success. +They were quite heated with their walk and excite- +ment. "I call it a shame," said Alma. "Anybody +knows that poor Uncle Jim would be better off with +a guardian." + +"Of course," said Amanda. "What man that +had a grain of horse sense would do such a crazy +thing as to keep a coal fire in a woodshed?" + +"For such a slew of cats, too," said Alma, nodding +fiercely. + +Alma's husband, Joe Beecher, spoke timidly and +undecidedly in the defense. "You know," he said, +"that Mrs. Adkins wouldn't have those cats in the +house, and cats mostly like to sit round where it's +warm." + +His wife regarded him. Her nose wrinkled. "I +suppose next thing YOU'LL be wanting to have a cat +round where it's warm, right under my feet, with +all I have to do," said she. Her voice had an actual +acidity of sound. + +Joe gasped. He was a large man with a constant +expression of wondering inquiry. It was the expres- +sion of his babyhood; he had never lost it, and it +was an expression which revealed truly the state of +his mind. Always had Joe Beecher wondered, first +of all at finding himself in the world at all, then at +the various happenings of existence. He probably +wondered more about the fact of his marriage with +Alma Bennet than anything else, although he never +betrayed his wonder. He was always painfully +anxious to please his wife, of whom he stood in +awe. Now he hastened to reply: "Why, no, Alma; +of course I won't." + +"Because," said Alma, "I haven't come to my +time of life, through all the trials I've had, to be +taking any chances of breaking my bones over any +miserable, furry, four-footed animal that wouldn't +catch a mouse if one run right under her nose." + +"I don't want any cat," repeated Joe, miserably. +His fear and awe of the two women increased. +When his sister-in-law turned upon him he fairly +cringed. + +"Cats!" said Amanda. Then she sniffed. The +sniff was worse than speech. + +Joe repeated in a mumble that he didn't want +any cats, and went out, closing the door softly after +him, as he had been taught. However, he was en- +tirely sure, in the depths of his subjugated masculine +mind, that his wife and her sister had no legal au- +thority whatever to interfere with their uncle's right +to keep a hundred coal fires in his woodshed, for a +thousand cats. He always had an inner sense of +glee when he heard the two women talk over the +matter. Once Amanda had declared that she did +not believe that Tom Hopkinson knew much about +law, anyway. + +"He seems to stand pretty high," Joe ventured +with the utmost mildness. + +"Yes, he does," admitted Alma, grudgingly. + +"It does not follow he knows law," persisted +Amanda, "and it MAY follow that he likes cats. +There was that great Maltese tommy brushing round +all the time we were in his office, but I didn't dare +shoo him off for fear it might be against the law." +Amanda laughed, a very disagreeable little laugh. +Joe said nothing, but inwardly he chuckled. It was +the cause of man with man. He realized a great, +even affectionate, understanding of Jim. + +The day after his nieces had visited the lawyer's +office, Jim was preparing to call on his friend Edward +Hayward, the minister. Before leaving he looked +carefully after the fire in the woodshed. The stove +was large. Jim piled on the coal, regardless out- +wardly that the housekeeper, Susan Adkins, had +slammed the kitchen door to indicate her contempt. +Inwardly Jim felt hurt, but he had felt hurt so long +from the same cause that the sensation had become +chronic, and was borne with a gentle patience. +Moreover, there was something which troubled him +more and was the reason for his contemplated call +on his friend. He evened the coals on the fire with +great care, and replenished from the pail in the ice- +box the cats' saucers. There was a circle of clean +white saucers around the stove. Jim owned many +cats; counting the kittens, there were probably over +twenty. Mrs. Adkins counted them in the sixties. +"Those sixty-seven cats," she said. + +Jim often gave away cats when he was confident +of securing good homes, but supply exceeded the +demand. Now and then tragedies took place in +that woodshed. Susan Adkins came bravely to the +front upon these occasions. Quite convinced was +Susan Adkins that she had a good home, and it +behooved her to keep it, and she did not in the least +object to drowning, now and then, a few very young +kittens. She did this with neatness and despatch +while Jim walked to the store on an errand and was +supposed to know nothing about it. There was +simply not enough room in his woodshed for the +accumulation of cats, although his heart could have +held all. + +That day, as he poured out the milk, cats of all +ages and sizes and colors purred in a softly padding +multitude around his feet, and he regarded them +with love. There were tiger cats, Maltese cats, black- +and-white cats, black cats and white cats, tommies +and females, and his heart leaped to meet the plead- +ing mews of all. The saucers were surrounded. +Little pink tongues lapped. "Pretty pussy! pretty +pussy!" cooed Jim, addressing them in general. He +put on his overcoat and hat, which he kept on a peg +behind the door. Jim had an arm-chair in the wood- +shed. He always sat there when he smoked; Susan +Adkins demurred at his smoking in the house, which +she kept so nice, and Jim did not dream of rebellion. +He never questioned the right of a woman to bar +tobacco smoke from a house. Before leaving he +refilled some of the saucers. He was not sure that +all of the cats were there; some might be afield, +hunting, and he wished them to find refreshment +when they returned. He stroked the splendid striped +back of a great tiger tommy which filled his arm- +chair. This cat was his special pet. He fastened the +outer shed door with a bit of rope in order that it +might not blow entirely open, and yet allow his +feline friends to pass, should they choose. Then he +went out. + +The day was clear, with a sharp breath of frost. +The fields gleamed with frost, offering to the eye a +fine shimmer as of diamond-dust under the brilliant +blue sky, overspread in places with a dapple of little +white clouds. + +"White frost and mackerel sky; going to be falling +weather," Jim said, aloud, as he went out of the +yard, crunching the crisp grass under heel. + +Susan Adkins at a window saw his lips moving. +His talking to himself made her nervous, although it +did not render her distrustful of his sanity. It was +fortunate that Susan had not told Jim that she +disliked his habit. In that case he would have +deprived himself of that slight solace; he would not +have dreamed of opposing Susan's wishes. Jim had +a great pity for the nervous whims, as he regarded +them, of women -- a pity so intense and tender that +it verged on respect and veneration. He passed his +nieces' house on the way to the minister's, and both +were looking out of windows and saw his lips moving. + +"There he goes, talking to himself like a crazy +loon," said Amanda. + +Alma nodded. + +Jim went on, blissfully unconscious. He talked +in a quiet monotone; only now and then his voice +rose; only now and then there were accompanying +gestures. Jim had a straight mile down the broad +village street to walk before he reached the church +and the parsonage beside it. + +Jim and the minister had been friends since boy- +hood. They were graduates and classmates of the +same college. Jim had had unusual educational ad- +vantages for a man coming from a simple family. +The front door of the parsonage flew open when Jim +entered the gate, and the minister stood there +smiling. He was a tall, thin man with a wide mouth, +which either smiled charmingly or was set with +severity. He was as brown and dry as a wayside +weed which winter had subdued as to bloom but +could not entirely prostrate with all its icy storms +and compelling blasts. Jim, advancing eagerly tow- +ard the warm welcome in the door, was a small +man, and bent at that, but he had a handsome old +face, with the rose of youth on the cheeks and the +light of youth in the blue eyes, and the quick changes +of youth, before emotions, about the mouth. + +"Hullo, Jim!" cried Dr. Edward Hayward. Hay- +ward, for a doctor of divinity, was considered some- +what lacking in dignity at times; still, he was Dr. +Hayward, and the failing was condoned. More- +over, he was a Hayward, and the Haywards had +been, from the memory of the oldest inhabitant, the +great people of the village. Dr. Hayward's house +was presided over by his widowed cousin, a lady +of enough dignity to make up for any lack of it in +the minister. There were three servants, besides +the old butler who had been Hayward's attendant +when he had been a young man in college. Village +people were proud of their minister, with his degree +and what they considered an imposing household +retinue. + +Hayward led, and Jim followed, to the least pre- +tentious room in the house -- not the study proper, +which was lofty, book-lined, and leather-furnished, +curtained with broad sweeps of crimson damask, but +a little shabby place back of it, accessible by a nar- +row door. The little room was lined with shelves; +they held few books, but a collection of queer and +dusty things -- strange weapons, minerals, odds and +ends -- which the minister loved and with which his +lady cousin never interfered. + +"Louisa," Hayward had told his cousin when she +entered upon her post, "do as you like with the +whole house, but let my little study alone. Let it +look as if it had been stirred up with a garden-rake +-- that little room is my territory, and no disgrace +to you, my dear, if the dust rises in clouds at every +step." + +Jim was as fond of the little room as his friend. +He entered, and sighed a great sigh of satisfaction +as he sank into the shabby, dusty hollow of a large +chair before the hearth fire. Immediately a black +cat leaped into his lap, gazed at him with green- +jewel eyes, worked her paws, purred, settled into a +coil, and slept. Jim lit his pipe and threw the match +blissfully on the floor. Dr. Hayward set an electric +coffee-urn at its work, for the little room was a +curious mixture of the comfortable old and the +comfortable modern. + +"Sam shall serve our luncheon in here," he said, +with a staid glee. + +Jim nodded happily. + +"Louisa will not mind," said Hayward. "She is +precise, but she has a fine regard for the rights of the +individual, which is most commendable." He seated +himself in a companion chair to Jim's, lit his own +pipe, and threw the match on the floor. Occasion- +ally, when the minister was out, Sam, without orders +so to do, cleared the floor of matches. + +Hayward smoked and regarded his friend, who +looked troubled despite his comfort. "What is it, +Jim?" asked the minister at last. + +"I don't know how to do what is right for me to +do," replied the little man, and his face, turned +toward his friend, had the puzzled earnestness of a +child. + +Hayward laughed. It was easily seen that his +was the keener mind. In natural endowments +there had never been equality, although there was +great similarity of tastes. Jim, despite his education, +often lapsed into the homely vernacular of which he +heard so much. An involuntarily imitative man in +externals was Jim, but essentially an original. Jim +proceeded. + +"You know, Edward, I have never been one to +complain," he said, with an almost boyish note +of apology. + +"Never complained half enough; that's the trou- +ble," returned the other. + +"Well, I overheard something Mis' Adkins said +to Mis' Amos Trimmer the other afternoon. Mis' +Trimmer was calling on Mis' Adkins. I couldn't +help overhearing unless I went outdoors, and it +was snowing and I had a cold. I wasn't listening." + +"Had a right to listen if you wanted to," declared +Hayward, irascibly. + +"Well, I couldn't help it unless I went outdoors. +Mis' Adkins she was in the kitchen making light- +bread for supper, and Mis' Trimmer had sat right +down there with her. Mis' Adkins's kitchen is as +clean as a parlor, anyway. Mis' Adkins said to Mis' +Trimmer, speaking of me -- because Mis' Trimmer +had just asked where I was and Mis' Adkins had +said I was out in the woodshed sitting with the cats +and smoking -- Mis' Adkins said, 'He's just a door- +mat, that's what he is.' Then Mis' Trimmer says, +'The way he lets folks ride over him beats me.' +Then Mis' Adkins says again: 'He's nothing but a +door-mat. He lets everybody that wants to just +trample on him and grind their dust into him, and +he acts real pleased and grateful.'" + +Hayward's face flushed. "Did Mrs. Adkins men- +tion that she was one of the people who used you +for a door-mat?" he demanded. + +Jim threw back his head and laughed like a child, +with the sweetest sense of unresentful humor. "Lord +bless my soul, Edward," replied Jim, "I don't be- +lieve she ever thought of that." + +"And at that very minute you, with a hard cold, +were sitting out in that draughty shed smoking +because she wouldn't allow you to smoke in your +own house!" + +"I don't mind that, Edward," said Jim, and +laughed again. + +"Could you see to read your paper out there, +with only that little shed window? And don't you +like to read your paper while you smoke?" + +"Oh yes," admitted Jim; "but my! I don't mind +little things like that! Mis' Adkins is only a poor +widow woman, and keeping my house nice and not +having it smell of tobacco is all she's got. They can +talk about women's rights -- I feel as if they ought +to have them fast enough, if they want them, poor +things; a woman has a hard row to hoe, and will +have, if she gets all the rights in creation. But I +guess the rights they'd find it hardest to give up +would be the rights to have men look after them +just a little more than they look after other men, +just because they are women. When I think of +Annie Berry -- the girl I was going to marry, you +know, if she hadn't died -- I feel as if I couldn't do +enough for another woman. Lord! I'm glad to sit +out in the woodshed and smoke. Mis' Adkins is +pretty good-natured to stand all the cats." + +Then the coffee boiled, and Hayward poured out +some for Jim and himself. He had a little silver ser- +vice at hand, and willow-ware cups and saucers. +Presently Sam appeared, and Hayward gave orders +concerning luncheon. + +"Tell Miss Louisa we are to have it served here," +said he, "and mind, Sam, the chops are to be thick +and cooked the way we like them; and don't forget +the East India chutney, Sam." + +"It does seem rather a pity that you cannot have +chutney at home with your chops, when you are so +fond of it," remarked Hayward when Sam had gone. + +"Mis' Adkins says it will give me liver trouble, +and she isn't strong enough to nurse." + +"So you have to eat her ketchup?" + +"Well, she doesn't put seasoning in it," admitted +Jim. "But Mis' Adkins doesn't like seasoning her- +self, and I don't mind." + +"And I know the chops are never cut thick, the +way we like them." + +"Mis' Adkins likes her meat well done, and she +can't get such thick chops well done. I suppose our +chops are rather thin, but I don't mind." + +"Beefsteak and chops, both cut thin, and fried +up like sole-leather. I know!" said Dr. Hayward, +and he stamped his foot with unregenerate force. + +"I don't mind a bit, Edward." + +"You ought to mind, when it is your own house, +and you buy the food and pay your housekeeper. +It is an outrage!" + +"I don't mind, really, Edward." + +Dr. Hayward regarded Jim with a curious ex- +pression compounded of love, anger, and contempt. +"Any more talk of legal proceedings?" he asked, +brusquely. + +Jim flushed. "Tom ought not to tell of that." + +"Yes, he ought; he ought to tell it all over town. +He doesn't, but he ought. It is an outrage! Here +you have been all these years supporting your +nieces, and they are working away like field-mice, +burrowing under your generosity, trying to get a +chance to take action and appropriate your property +and have you put under a guardian." + +"I don't mind a bit," said Jim; "but --" + +The other man looked inquiringly at him, and, +seeing a pitiful working of his friend's face, he +jumped up and got a little jar from a shelf. "We +will drop the whole thing until we have had our +chops and chutney," said he. "You are right; it is +not worth minding. Here is a new brand of tobacco +I want you to try. I don't half like it, myself, but +you may." + +Jim, with a pleased smile, reached out for the +tobacco, and the two men smoked until Sam brought +the luncheon. It was well cooked and well served +on an antique table. Jim was thoroughly happy. +It was not until the luncheon was over and another +pipe smoked that the troubled, perplexed expression +returned to his face. + +"Now," said Hayward, "out with it!" + +"It is only the old affair about Alma and Amanda, +but now it has taken on a sort of new aspect." + +"What do you mean by a new aspect?" + +"It seems," said Jim, slowly, "as if they were +making it so I couldn't do for them." + +Hayward stamped his foot. "That does sound +new," he said, dryly. "I never thought Alma +Beecher or Amanda Bennet ever objected to have +you do for them." + +"Well," said Jim, "perhaps they don't now, but +they want me to do it in their own way. They +don't want to feel as if I was giving and they taking; +they want it to seem the other way round. You +see, if I were to deed over my property to them, and +then they allowance me, they would feel as if they +were doing the giving." + +"Jim, you wouldn't be such a fool as that?" + +"No, I wouldn't," replied Jim, simply. "They +wouldn't know how to take care of it, and Mis' +Adkins would be left to shift for herself. Joe Beecher +is real good-hearted, but he always lost every dollar +he touched. No, there wouldn't be any sense in +that. I don't mean to give in, but I do feel pretty +well worked up over it." + +"What have they said to you?" + +Jim hesitated. + +"Out with it, now. One thing you may be sure +of: nothing that you can tell me will alter my opinion +of your two nieces for the worse. As for poor Joe +Beecher, there is no opinion, one way or the other. +What did they say?" + +Jim regarded his friend with a curiously sweet, +far-off expression. "Edward," he said, "sometimes +I believe that the greatest thing a man's friends can +do for him is to drive him into a corner with God; +to be so unjust to him that they make him under- +stand that God is all that mortal man is meant to +have, and that is why he finds out that most people, +especially the ones he does for, don't care for +him." + +Hayward looked solemnly and tenderly at the +other's almost rapt face. "You are right, I suppose, +old man," said he; "but what did they do?" + +"They called me in there about a week ago and +gave me an awful talking to." + +"About what?" + +Jim looked at his friend with dignity. "They +were two women talking, and they went into little +matters not worth repeating," said he. "All is -- +they seemed to blame me for everything I had ever +done for them, and for everything I had ever done, +anyway. They seemed to blame me for being born +and living, and, most of all, for doing anything for +them." + +"It is an outrage!" declared Hayward. "Can't +you see it?" + +"I can't seem to see anything plain about it," +returned Jim, in a bewildered way. "I always sup- +posed a man had to do something bad to be given +a talking to; but it isn't so much that, and I don't +bear any malice against them. They are only two +women, and they are nervous. What worries me is, +they do need things, and they can't get on and be +comfortable unless I do for them; but if they are +going to feel that way about it, it seems to cut me +off from doing, and that does worry me, Edward." + +The other man stamped. "Jim Bennet," he said, +"they have talked, and now I am going to." + +"You, Edward?" + +"Yes, I am. It is entirely true what those two +women, Susan Adkins and Mrs. Trimmer, said about +you. You ARE a door-mat, and you ought to be +ashamed of yourself for it. A man should be a man, +and not a door-mat. It is the worst thing in the +world for people to walk over him and trample him. +It does them much more harm than it does him. In +the end the trampler is much worse off than the +trampled upon. Jim Bennet, your being a door- +mat may cost other people their souls' salvation. +You are selfish in the grain to be a door-mat." + +Jim turned pale. His child-like face looked sud- +denly old with his mental effort to grasp the other's +meaning. In fact, he was a child -- one of the little +ones of the world -- although he had lived the span +of a man's life. Now one of the hardest problems of +the elders of the world was presented to him. "You +mean --" he said, faintly. + +"I mean, Jim, that for the sake of other people, +if not for your own sake, you ought to stop being +a door-mat and be a man in this world of men." + +"What do you want me to do?" + +"I want you to go straight to those nieces of yours +and tell them the truth. You know what your +wrongs are as well as I do. You know what those +two women are as well as I do. They keep the letter +of the Ten Commandments -- that is right. They +attend my church -- that is right. They scour the +outside of the platter until it is bright enough to +blind those people who don't understand them; but +inwardly they are petty, ravening wolves of greed and +ingratitude. Go and tell them; they don't know +themselves. Show them what they are. It is your +Christian duty." + +"You don't mean for me to stop doing for them?" + +"I certainly do mean just that -- for a while, +anyway." + +"They can't possibly get along, Edward; they +will suffer." + +"They have a little money, haven't they?" + +"Only a little in savings-bank. The interest pays +their taxes." + +"And you gave them that?" + +Jim colored. + +"Very well, their taxes are paid for this year; +let them use that money. They will not suffer, ex- +cept in their feelings, and that is where they ought +to suffer. Man, you would spoil all the work of the +Lord by your selfish tenderness toward sinners!" + +"They aren't sinners." + +"Yes, they are -- spiritual sinners, the worst kind +in the world. Now --" + +"You don't mean for me to go now?" + +"Yes, I do -- now. If you don't go now you never +will. Then, afterward, I want you to go home and +sit in your best parlor and smoke, and have all your +cats in there, too." + +Jim gasped. "But, Edward! Mis' Adkins --" + +"I don't care about Mrs. Adkins. She isn't as +bad as the rest, but she needs her little lesson, +too." + +"Edward, the way that poor woman works to +keep the house nice -- and she don't like the smell +of tobacco smoke." + +"Never mind whether she likes it or not. You +smoke." + +"And she don't like cats." + +"Never mind. Now you go." + +Jim stood up. There was a curious change in his +rosy, child-like face. There was a species of quicken- +ing. He looked at once older and more alert. His +friend's words had charged him as with electricity. +When he went down the street he looked taller. + +Amanda Bennet and Alma Beecher, sitting sewing +at their street windows, made this mistake. + +"That isn't Uncle Jim," said Amanda. "That +man is a head taller, but he looks a little like him." + +"It can't be Uncle Jim," agreed Alma. Then +both started. + +"It is Uncle Jim, and he is coming here," said +Amanda. + +Jim entered. Nobody except himself, his nieces, +and Joe Beecher ever knew exactly what happened, +what was the aspect of the door-mat erected to +human life, of the worm turned to menace. It must +have savored of horror, as do all meek and down- +trodden things when they gain, driven to bay, the +strength to do battle. It must have savored of the +god-like, when the man who had borne with patience, +dignity, and sorrow for them the stings of lesser +things because they were lesser things, at last arose +and revealed himself superior, with a great height of +the spirit, with the power to crush. + +When Jim stopped talking and went home, two +pale, shocked faces of women gazed after him from +the windows. Joe Beecher was sobbing like a child. +Finally his wife turned her frightened face upon him, +glad to have still some one to intimidate. + +"For goodness' sake, Joe Beecher, stop crying +like a baby," said she, but she spoke in a queer whis- +per, for her lips were stiff. + +Joe stood up and made for the door. + +"Where are you going?" asked his wife. + +"Going to get a job somewhere," replied Joe, and +went. Soon the women saw him driving a neighbor's +cart up the street. + +"He's going to cart gravel for John Leach's new +sidewalk!" gasped Alma. + +"Why don't you stop him?" cried her sister. +"You can't have your husband driving a tip-cart +for John Leach. Stop him, Alma!" + +"I can't stop him," moaned Alma. "I don't +feel as if I could stop anything." + +Her sister gazed at her, and the same expression +was on both faces, making them more than sisters +of the flesh. Both saw before them a stern boundary +wall against which they might press in vain for the +rest of their lives, and both saw the same sins of +their hearts. + +Meantime Jim Bennet was seated in his best +parlor and Susan Adkins was whispering to Mrs. +Trimmer out in the kitchen. + +"I don't know whether he's gone stark, staring +mad or not," whispered Susan, "but he's in the +parlor smoking his worst old pipe, and that big +tiger tommy is sitting in his lap, and he's let in all +the other cats, and they're nosing round, and I +don't dare drive 'em out. I took up the broom, then +I put it away again. I never knew Mr. Bennet +to act so. I can't think what's got into him." + +"Did he say anything?" + +"No, he didn't say much of anything, but he said +it in a way that made my flesh fairly creep. Says he, +'As long as this is my house and my furniture and +my cats, Mis' Adkins, I think I'll sit down in the +parlor, where I can see to read my paper and smoke +at the same time.' Then he holds the kitchen door +open, and he calls, 'Kitty, kitty, kitty!' and that +great tiger tommy comes in with his tail up, rubbing +round his legs, and all the other cats followed after. +I shut the door before these last ones got into the +parlor." Susan Adkins regarded malevolently the +three tortoise-shell cats of three generations and vari- +ous stages of growth, one Maltese settled in a purring +round of comfort with four kittens, and one perfectly +black cat, which sat glaring at her with beryl-colored +eyes. + +"That black cat looks evil," said Mrs. Trimmer. + +"Yes, he does. I don't know why I didn't drown +him when he was a kitten." + +"Why didn't you drown all those Malty kittens?" + +"The old cat hid them away until they were too +big. Then he wouldn't let me. What do you sup- +pose has come to him? Just smell that awful pipe!" + +"Men do take queer streaks every now and then," +said Mrs. Trimmer. "My husband used to, and he +was as good as they make 'em, poor man. He +would eat sugar on his beefsteak, for one thing. +The first time I saw him do it I was scared. I +thought he was plum crazy, but afterward I found +out it was just because he was a man, and his ma +hadn't wanted him to eat sugar when he was a boy. +Mr. Bennet will get over it." + +"He don't act as if he would." + +"Oh yes, he will. Jim Bennet never stuck to +anything but being Jim Bennet for very long in +his life, and this ain't being Jim Bennet." + +"He is a very good man," said Susan with a +somewhat apologetic tone. + +"He's too good." + +"He's too good to cats." + +"Seems to me he's too good to 'most everybody. +Think what he has done for Amanda and Alma, and +how they act!" + +"Yes, they are ungrateful and real mean to him; +and I feel sometimes as if I would like to tell them +just what I think of them," said Susan Adkins. +"Poor man, there he is, studying all the time what +he can do for people, and he don't get very much +himself." + +Mrs. Trimmer arose to take leave. She had a +long, sallow face, capable of a sarcastic smile. +"Then," said she, "if I were you I wouldn't begrudge +him a chair in the parlor and a chance to read and +smoke and hold a pussy-cat." + +"Who said I was begrudging it? I can air out the +parlor when he's got over the notion." + +"Well, he will, so you needn't worry," said Mrs. +Trimmer. As she went down the street she could +see Jim's profile beside the parlor window, and she +smiled her sarcastic smile, which was not altogether +unpleasant. "He's stopped smoking, and he ain't +reading," she told herself. "It won't be very long +before he's Jim Bennet again." + +But it was longer than she anticipated, for Jim's +will was propped by Edward Hayward's. Edward +kept Jim to his standpoint for weeks, until a few +days before Christmas. Then came self-assertion, +that self-assertion of negation which was all that +Jim possessed in such a crisis. He called upon Dr. +Hayward; the two were together in the little study +for nearly an hour, and talk ran high, then Jim +prevailed. + +"It's no use, Edward," he said; "a man can't +be made over when he's cut and dried in one fashion, +the way I am. Maybe I'm doing wrong, but to me +it looks like doing right, and there's something in +the Bible about every man having his own right +and wrong. If what you say is true, and I am hin- +dering the Lord Almighty in His work, then it is +for Him to stop me. He can do it. But meantime +I've got to go on doing the way I always have. Joe +has been trying to drive that tip-cart, and the horse +ran away with him twice. Then he let the cart fall +on his foot and mash one of his toes, and he can +hardly get round, and Amanda and Alma don't dare +touch that money in the bank for fear of not having +enough to pay the taxes next year in case I don't +help them. They only had a little money on hand +when I gave them that talking to, and Christmas +is 'most here, and they haven't got things they really +need. Amanda's coat that she wore to meeting last +Sunday didn't look very warm to me, and poor +Alma had her furs chewed up by the Leach dog, and +she's going without any. They need lots of things. +And poor Mis' Adkins is 'most sick with tobacco +smoke. I can see it, though she doesn't say anything, +and the nice parlor curtains are full of it, and cat +hairs are all over things. I can't hold out any longer, +Edward. Maybe I am a door-mat; and if I am, and +it is wicked, may the Lord forgive me, for I've got +to keep right on being a door-mat." + +Hayward sighed and lighted his pipe. However, +he had given up and connived with Jim. + +On Christmas eve the two men were in hiding +behind a clump of cedars in the front yard of Jim's +nieces' house. They watched the expressman deliver +a great load of boxes and packages. Jim drew a +breath of joyous relief. + +"They are taking them in," he whispered -- "they +are taking them in, Edward!" + +Hayward looked down at the dim face of the man +beside him, and something akin to fear entered his +heart. He saw the face of a lifelong friend, but he +saw something in it which he had never recog- +nized before. He saw the face of one of the children +of heaven, giving only for the sake of the need of +others, and glorifying the gifts with the love and +pity of an angel. + +"I was afraid they wouldn't take them!" whis- +pered Jim, and his watching face was beautiful, +although it was only the face of a little, old man of +a little village, with no great gift of intellect. There +was a full moon riding high; the ground was covered +with a glistening snow-level, over which wavered +wonderful shadows, as of wings. One great star pre- +vailed despite the silver might of the moon. To +Hayward Jim's face seemed to prevail, as that star, +among all the faces of humanity. + +Jim crept noiselessly toward a window, Hayward +at his heels. The two could see the lighted interior +plainly. + +"See poor Alma trying on her furs," whispered +Jim, in a rapture. "See Amanda with her coat. +They have found the money. See Joe heft the tur- +key." Suddenly he caught Hayward's arm, and +the two crept away. Out on the road, Jim fairly +sobbed with pure delight. "Oh, Edward," he said,"I +am so thankful they took the things! I was so afraid +they wouldn't, and they needed them! Oh, Edward, +I am so thankful!" Edward pressed his friend's arm. + +When they reached Jim's house a great tiger-cat +leaped to Jim's shoulder with the silence and swift- +ness of a shadow. "He's always watching for me," +said Jim, proudly. "Pussy! Pussy!" The cat be- +gan to purr loudly, and rubbed his splendid head +against the man's cheek. + +"I suppose," said Hayward, with something of +awe in his tone, "that you won't smoke in the parlor +to-night?" + +"Edward, I really can't. Poor woman, she's got +it all aired and beautifully cleaned, and she's so +happy over it. There's a good fire in the shed, and +I will sit there with the pussy-cats until I go to bed. +Oh, Edward, I am so thankful that they took the +things!" + +"Good night, Jim." + +"Good night. You don't blame me, Edward?" + +"Who am I to blame you, Jim? Good night." + +Hayward watched the little man pass along the +path to the shed door. Jim's back was slightly +bent, but to his friend it seemed bent beneath a +holy burden of love and pity for all humanity, and +the inheritance of the meek seemed to crown that +drooping old head. The door-mat, again spread +freely for the trampling feet of all who got comfort +thereby, became a blessed thing. The humble +creature, despised and held in contempt like One +greater than he, giving for the sake of the needs +of others, went along the narrow foot-path through +the snow. The minister took off his hat and stood +watching until the door was opened and closed and +the little window gleamed with golden light. + + + + + +THE AMETHYST COMB + + + + + +THE AMETHYST COMB + +MISS JANE CAREW was at the railroad station +waiting for the New York train. She was +about to visit her friend, Mrs. Viola Longstreet. +With Miss Carew was her maid, Margaret, a middle- +aged New England woman, attired in the stiffest +and most correct of maid-uniforms. She carried an +old, large sole-leather bag, and also a rather large +sole-leather jewel-case. The jewel-case, carried +openly, was rather an unusual sight at a New Eng- +land railroad station, but few knew what it was. +They concluded it to be Margaret's special hand- +bag. Margaret was a very tall, thin woman, un- +bending as to carriage and expression. The one +thing out of absolute plumb about Margaret was +her little black bonnet. That was askew. Time +had bereft the woman of so much hair that she could +fasten no head-gear with security, especially when +the wind blew, and that morning there was a stiff +gale. Margaret's bonnet was cocked over one eye. +Miss Carew noticed it. + +"Margaret, your bonnet is crooked," she said. + +Margaret straightened her bonnet, but immedi- +ately the bonnet veered again to the side, weighted +by a stiff jet aigrette. Miss Carew observed the +careen of the bonnet, realized that it was inevitable, +and did not mention it again. Inwardly she resolved +upon the removal of the jet aigrette later on. Miss +Carew was slightly older than Margaret, and dressed +in a style somewhat beyond her age. Jane Carew +had been alert upon the situation of departing youth. +She had eschewed gay colors and extreme cuts, and +had her bonnets made to order, because there were +no longer anything but hats in the millinery shop. +The milliner in Wheaton, where Miss Carew lived, +had objected, for Jane Carew inspired reverence. + +"A bonnet is too old for you. Miss Carew," she +said. "Women much older than you wear hats." + +"I trust that I know what is becoming to a woman +of my years, thank you. Miss Waters," Jane had +replied, and the milliner had meekly taken her order. + +After Miss Carew had left, the milliner told her +girls that she had never seen a woman so perfectly +crazy to look her age as Miss Carew. "And she a +pretty woman, too," said the milliner; "as straight +as an arrer, and slim, and with all that hair, scarcely +turned at all." + +Miss Carew, with all her haste to assume years, +remained a pretty woman, softly slim, with an abun- +dance of dark hair, showing little gray. Sometimes +Jane reflected, uneasily, that it ought at her time +of life to be entirely gray. She hoped nobody would +suspect her of dyeing it. She wore it parted in the +middle, folded back smoothly, and braided in a +compact mass on the top of her head. The style +of her clothes was slightly behind the fashion, just +enough to suggest conservatism and age. She car- +ried a little silver-bound bag in one nicely gloved +hand; with the other she held daintily out of the +dust of the platform her dress-skirt. A glimpse of +a silk frilled petticoat, of slender feet, and ankles +delicately slim, was visible before the onslaught of +the wind. Jane Carew made no futile effort to keep +her skirts down before the wind-gusts. She was so +much of the gentlewoman that she could be gravely +oblivious to the exposure of her ankles. She looked +as if she had never heard of ankles when her black +silk skirts lashed about them. She rose superbly +above the situation. For some abstruse reason Mar- +garet's skirts were not affected by the wind. They +might have been weighted with buckram, although +it was no longer in general use. She stood, except +for her veering bonnet, as stiffly immovable as a +wooden doll. + +Miss Carew seldom left Wheaton. This visit to +New York was an innovation. Quite a crowd gath- +ered about Jane's sole-leather trunk when it was +dumped on the platform by the local expressman. +"Miss Carew is going to New York," one said to +another, with much the same tone as if he had said, +"The great elm on the common is going to move +into Dr. Jones's front yard." + +When the train arrived, Miss Carew, followed by +Margaret, stepped aboard with a majestic disregard +of ankles. She sat beside a window, and Margaret +placed the bag on the floor and held the jewel-case +in her lap. The case contained the Carew jewels. +They were not especially valuable, although they +were rather numerous. There were cameos in +brooches and heavy gold bracelets; corals which +Miss Carew had not worn since her young girlhood. +There were a set of garnets, some badly cut diamonds +in ear-rings and rings, some seed-pearl ornaments, +and a really beautiful set of amethysts. There were +a necklace, two brooches -- a bar and a circle -- ear- +rings, a ring, and a comb. Each piece was charm- +ing, set in filigree gold with seed-pearls, but perhaps +of them all the comb was the best. It was a very +large comb. There was one great amethyst in the +center of the top; on either side was an intricate +pattern of plums in small amethysts, and seed-pearl +grapes, with leaves and stems of gold. Margaret +in charge of the jewel-case was imposing. When +they arrived in New York she confronted every- +body whom she met with a stony stare, which was +almost accusative and convictive of guilt, in spite +of entire innocence on the part of the person stared +at. It was inconceivable that any mortal would +have dared lay violent hands upon that jewel-case +under that stare. It would have seemed to partake +of the nature of grand larceny from Providence. + +When the two reached the up-town residence of +Viola Longstreet, Viola gave a little scream at the +sight of the case. + +"My dear Jane Carew, here you are with Mar- +garet carrying that jewel-case out in plain sight. +How dare you do such a thing? I really wonder +you have not been held up a dozen times." + +Miss Carew smiled her gentle but almost stern +smile -- the Carew smile, which consisted in a widen- +ing and slightly upward curving of tightly closed lips. + +"I do not think," said she, "that anybody would +be apt to interfere with Margaret." + +Viola Longstreet laughed, the ringing peal of a +child, although she was as old as Miss Carew. "I +think you are right, Jane," said she. "I don't be- +lieve a crook in New York would dare face that +maid of yours. He would as soon encounter Ply- +mouth Rock. I am glad you have brought your de- +lightful old jewels, although you never wear any- +thing except those lovely old pearl sprays and dull +diamonds." + +"Now," stated Jane, with a little toss of pride, +"I have Aunt Felicia's amethysts." + +"Oh, sure enough! I remember you did write +me last summer that she had died and you had the +amethysts at last. She must have been very old." + +"Ninety-one." + +"She might have given you the amethysts before. +You, of course, will wear them; and I -- am going +to borrow the corals!" + +Jane Carew gasped. + +"You do not object, do you, dear? I have a new +dinner-gown which clamors for corals, and my bank- +account is strained, and I could buy none equal to +those of yours, anyway." + +"Oh, I do not object," said Jane Carew; still she +looked aghast. + +Viola Longstreet shrieked with laughter. "Oh, +I know. You think the corals too young for me. +You have not worn them since you left off dotted +muslin. My dear, you insisted upon growing old +-- I insisted upon remaining young. I had two +new dotted muslins last summer. As for corals, I +would wear them in the face of an opposing army! +Do not judge me by yourself, dear. You laid hold +of Age and held him, although you had your com- +plexion and your shape and hair. As for me, I had +my complexion and kept it. I also had my hair +and kept it. My shape has been a struggle, but it +was worth while. I, my dear, have held Youth so +tight that he has almost choked to death, but held +him I have. You cannot deny it. Look at me, +Jane Carew, and tell me if, judging by my looks, +you can reasonably state that I have no longer the +right to wear corals." + +Jane Carew looked. She smiled the Carew smile. +"You DO look very young, Viola," said Jane, "but +you are not." + +"Jane Carew," said Viola, "I am young. May +I wear your corals at my dinner to-morrow night?" + +"Why, of course, if you think --" + +"If I think them suitable. My dear, if there +were on this earth ornaments more suitable to ex- +treme youth than corals, I would borrow them if you +owned them, but, failing that, the corals will answer. +Wait until you see me in that taupe dinner-gown +and the corals!" + +Jane waited. She visited with Viola, whom she +loved, although they had little in common, partly +because of leading widely different lives, partly be- +cause of constitutional variations. She was dressed +for dinner fully an hour before it was necessary, +and she sat in the library reading when Viola +swept in. + +Viola was really entrancing. It was a pity that +Jane Carew had such an unswerving eye for the +essential truth that it could not be appeased by +actual effect. Viola had doubtless, as she had said, +struggled to keep her slim shape, but she had kept +it, and, what was more, kept it without evidence +of struggle. If she was in the least hampered by +tight lacing and length of undergarment, she gave +no evidence of it as she curled herself up in a big +chair and (Jane wondered how she could bring her- +self to do it) crossed her legs, revealing one delicate +foot and ankle, silk-stockinged with taupe, and shod +with a coral satin slipper with a silver heel and a +great silver buckle. On Viola's fair round neck the +Carew corals lay bloomingly; her beautiful arms +were clasped with them; a great coral brooch with +wonderful carving confined a graceful fold of the +taupe over one hip, a coral comb surmounted the +shining waves of Viola's hair. Viola was an ash- +blonde, her complexion was as roses, and the corals +were ideal for her. As Jane regarded her friend's +beauty, however, the fact that Viola was not young, +that she was as old as herself, hid it and overshad- +owed it. + +"Well, Jane, don't you think I look well in the +corals, after all?" asked Viola, and there was some- +thing pitiful in her voice. + +When a man or a woman holds fast to youth, even +if successfully, there is something of the pitiful and +the tragic involved. It is the everlasting struggle +of the soul to retain the joy of earth, whose fleeting +distinguishes it from heaven, and whose retention +is not accomplished without an inner knowledge of +its futility. + +"I suppose you do, Viola," replied Jane Carew, +with the inflexibility of fate, "but I really think +that only very young girls ought to wear corals." + +Viola laughed, but the laugh had a minor cadence. +"But I AM a young girl, Jane," she said. "I MUST +be a young girl. I never had any girlhood when I +should have had. You know that." + +Viola had married, when very young, a man old +enough to be her father, and her wedded life had been +a sad affair, to which, however, she seldom alluded. +Viola had much pride with regard to the inevitable +past. + +"Yes," agreed Jane. Then she added, feeling +that more might be expected, "Of course I suppose +that marrying so very young does make a difference." + +"Yes," said Viola, "it does. In fact, it makes of +one's girlhood an anti-climax, of which many dis- +pute the wisdom, as you do. But have it I will. Jane, +your amethysts are beautiful." + +Jane regarded the clear purple gleam of a stone +on her arm. "Yes," she agreed, "Aunt Felicia's ame- +thysts have always been considered very beautiful." + +"And such a full set," said Viola. + +"Yes," said Jane. She colored a little, but Viola +did not know why. At the last moment Jane had +decided not to wear the amethyst comb, because it +seemed to her altogether too decorative for a woman +of her age, and she was afraid to mention it to Viola. +She was sure that Viola would laugh at her and in- +sist upon her wearing it. + +"The ear-rings are lovely," said Viola. "My dear, +I don't see how you ever consented to have your +ears pierced." + +"I was very young, and my mother wished me +to," replied Jane, blushing. + +The door-bell rang. Viola had been covertly lis- +tening for it all the time. Soon a very beautiful +young man came with a curious dancing step into +the room. Harold Lind always gave the effect of +dancing when he walked. He always, moreover, +gave the effect of extreme youth and of the utmost +joy and mirth in life itself. He regarded everything +and everybody with a smile as of humorous appre- +ciation, and yet the appreciation was so good- +natured that it offended nobody. + +"Look at me -- I am absurd and happy; look at +yourself, also absurd and happy; look at every- +body else likewise; look at life -- a jest so delicious +that it is quite worth one's while dying to be made +acquainted with it." That is what Harold Lind +seemed to say. Viola Longstreet became even more +youthful under his gaze; even Jane Carew regretted +that she had not worn her amethyst comb and be- +gan to doubt its unsuitability. Viola very soon +called the young man's attention to Jane's ame- +thysts, and Jane always wondered why she did not +then mention the comb. She removed a brooch and +a bracelet for him to inspect. + +"They are really wonderful," he declared. "I +have never seen greater depth of color in amethysts." + +"Mr. Lind is an authority on jewels," declared +Viola. The young man shot a curious glance at her, +which Jane remembered long afterward. It was one +of those glances which are as keystones to situations. + +Harold looked at the purple stones with the ex- +pression of a child with a toy. There was much of +the child in the young man's whole appearance, +but of a mischievous and beautiful child, of whom +his mother might observe, with adoration and ill- +concealed boastfulness, "I can never tell what that +child will do next!" + +Harold returned the bracelet and brooch to Jane, +and smiled at her as if amethysts were a lovely +purple joke between her and himself, uniting them +by a peculiar bond of fine understanding. "Exqui- +site, Miss Carew," he said. Then he looked at Viola. +"Those corals suit you wonderfully, Mrs. Long- +street," he observed, "but amethysts would also +suit you." + +"Not with this gown," replied Viola, rather piti- +fully. There was something in the young man's +gaze and tone which she did not understand, but +which she vaguely quivered before. + +Harold certainly thought the corals were too young +for Viola. Jane understood, and felt an unworthy +triumph. Harold, who was young enough in actual +years to be Viola's son, and was younger still by +reason of his disposition, was amused by the sight +of her in corals, although he did not intend to be- +tray his amusement. He considered Viola in corals +as too rude a jest to share with her. Had poor Viola +once grasped Harold Lind's estimation of her she +would have as soon gazed upon herself in her cof- +fin. Harold's comprehension of the essentials was +beyond Jane Carew's. It was fairly ghastly, par- +taking of the nature of X-rays, but it never disturbed +Harold Lind. He went along his dance-track undis- +turbed, his blue eyes never losing their high lights +of glee, his lips never losing their inscrutable smile +at some happy understanding between life and him- +self. Harold had fair hair, which was very smooth +and glossy. His skin was like a girl's. He was so +beautiful that he showed cleverness in an affecta- +tion of carelessness in dress. He did not like to wear +evening clothes, because they had necessarily to +be immaculate. That evening Jane regarded him +with an inward criticism that he was too handsome +for a man. She told Viola so when the dinner was +over and he and the other guests had gone. + +"He is very handsome," she said, "but I never +like to see a man quite so handsome." + +"You will change your mind when you see him +in tweeds," returned Viola. "He loathes evening +clothes." + +Jane regarded her anxiously. There was some- +thing in Viola's tone which disturbed and shocked +her. It was inconceivable that Viola should be in +love with that youth, and yet -- "He looks very +young," said Jane in a prim voice. + +"He IS young," admitted Viola; "still, not quite +so young as he looks. Sometimes I tell him he will +look like a boy if he lives to be eighty." + +"Well, he must be very young," persisted Jane. + +"Yes," said Viola, but she did not say how young. +Viola herself, now that the excitement was over, +did not look so young as at the beginning of the +evening. She removed the corals, and Jane con- +sidered that she looked much better without +them. + +"Thank you for your corals, dear," said Viola. +"Where Is Margaret?" + +Margaret answered for herself by a tap on the +door. She and Viola's maid, Louisa, had been sit- +ting on an upper landing, out of sight, watching the +guests down-stairs. Margaret took the corals and +placed them in their nest in the jewel-case, also the +amethysts, after Viola had gone. The jewel-case +was a curious old affair with many compartments. +The amethysts required two. The comb was so +large that it had one for itself. That was the reason +why Margaret did not discover that evening that it +was gone. Nobody discovered it for three days, +when Viola had a little card-party. There was a +whist-table for Jane, who had never given up the +reserved and stately game. There were six tables +in Viola's pretty living-room, with a little conserva- +tory at one end and a leaping hearth fire at the other. +Jane's partner was a stout old gentleman whose wife +was shrieking with merriment at an auction-bridge +table. The other whist-players were a stupid, very +small young man who was aimlessly willing to play +anything, and an amiable young woman who be- +lieved in self-denial. Jane played conscientiously. +She returned trump leads, and played second hand +low, and third high, and it was not until the third +rubber was over that she saw. It had been in full +evidence from the first. Jane would have seen it +before the guests arrived, but Viola had not put it +in her hair until the last moment. Viola was wild +with delight, yet shamefaced and a trifle uneasy. +In a soft, white gown, with violets at her waist, she +was playing with Harold Lind, and in her ash-blond +hair was Jane Carew's amethyst comb. Jane gasped +and paled. The amiable young woman who was her +opponent stared at her. Finally she spoke in a low +voice. + +"Aren't you well. Miss Carew?" she asked. + +The men, in their turn, stared. The stout one +rose fussily. "Let me get a glass of water," he said. +The stupid small man stood up and waved his hands +with nervousness. + +"Aren't you well?" asked the amiable young lady +again. + +Then Jane Carew recovered her poise. It was +seldom that she lost it. "I am quite well, thank you, +Miss Murdock," she replied. "I believe diamonds +are trumps." + +They all settled again to the play, but the young +lady and the two men continued glancing at Miss +Carew. She had recovered her dignity of manner, +but not her color. Moreover, she had a bewildered +expression. Resolutely she abstained from glancing +again at her amethyst comb in Viola Longstreet's +ash-blond hair, and gradually, by a course of sub- +conscious reasoning as she carefully played her cards, +she arrived at a conclusion which caused her color +to return and the bewildered expression to disappear. +When refreshments were served, the amiable young +lady said, kindly: + +"You look quite yourself, now, dear Miss Carew, +but at one time while we were playing I was really +alarmed. You were very pale." + +"I did not feel in the least ill," replied Jane +Carew. She smiled her Carew smile at the young +lady. Jane had settled it with herself that of course +Viola had borrowed that amethyst comb, appealing +to Margaret. Viola ought not to have done that; +she should have asked her, Miss Carew; and Jane +wondered, because Viola was very well bred; but +of course that was what had happened. Jane had +come down before Viola, leaving Margaret in her +room, and Viola had asked her. Jane did not then +remember that Viola had not even been told that +there was an amethyst comb in existence. She +remembered when Margaret, whose face was as +pale and bewildered as her own, mentioned it, when +she was brushing her hair. + +"I saw it, first thing. Miss Jane," said Margaret. +"Louisa and I were on the landing, and I looked +down and saw your amethyst comb in Mrs. Long- +street's hair." + +"She had asked you for it, because I had gone +down-stairs?" asked Jane, feebly. + +"No, Miss Jane. I had not seen her. I went +out right after you did. Louisa had finished Mrs. +Longstreet, and she and I went down to the mail- +box to post a letter, and then we sat on the landing, +and -- I saw your comb." + +"Have you," asked Jane, "looked in the jewel- +case?" + +"Yes, Miss Jane." + +"And it is not there?" + +"It is not there. Miss Jane." Margaret spoke with +a sort of solemn intoning. She recognized what the +situation implied, and she, who fitted squarely and +entirely into her humble state, was aghast before +a hitherto unimagined occurrence. She could not, +even with the evidence of her senses against a lady +and her mistress's old friend, believe in them. Had +Jane told her firmly that she had not seen that +comb in that ash-blond hair she might have been +hypnotized into agreement. But Jane simply stared +at her, and the Carew dignity was more shaken than +she had ever seen it. + +"Bring the jewel-case here, Margaret," ordered +Jane in a gasp. + +Margaret brought the jewel-case, and everything +was taken out; all the compartments were opened, +but the amethyst comb was not there. Jane could +not sleep that night. At dawn she herself doubted +the evidence of her senses. The jewel-case was thor- +oughly overlooked again, and still Jane was incredu- +lous that she would ever see her comb in Viola's +hair again. But that evening, although there were +no guests except Harold Lind, who dined at the +house, Viola appeared in a pink-tinted gown, with a +knot of violets at her waist, and -- she wore the ame- +thyst comb. She said not one word concerning it; +nobody did. Harold Lind was in wild spirits. The +conviction grew upon Jane that the irresponsible, +beautiful youth was covertly amusing himself at her, +at Viola's, at everybody's expense. Perhaps he +included himself. He talked incessantly, not in +reality brilliantly, but with an effect of sparkling +effervescence which was fairly dazzling. Viola's +servants restrained with difficulty their laughter at +his sallies. Viola regarded Harold with ill-concealed +tenderness and admiration. She herself looked even +younger than usual, as if the innate youth in her +leaped to meet this charming comrade. + +Jane felt sickened by it all. She could not under- +stand her friend. Not for one minute did she dream +that there could be any serious outcome of the +situation; that Viola, would marry this mad youth, +who, she knew, was making such covert fun at her +expense; but she was bewildered and indignant. +She wished that she had not come. That evening +when she went to her room she directed Margaret +to pack, as she intended to return home the next +day. Margaret began folding gowns with alacrity. +She was as conservative as her mistress and she +severely disapproved of many things. However, the +matter of the amethyst comb was uppermost in her +mind. She was wild with curiosity. She hardly +dared inquire, but finally she did. + +"About the amethyst comb, ma'am?" she said, +with a delicate cough. + +"What about it, Margaret?" returned Jane, +severely. + +"I thought perhaps Mrs. Longstreet had told you +how she happened to have it." + +Poor Jane Carew had nobody in whom to confide. +For once she spoke her mind to her maid. "She +has not said one word. And, oh, Margaret, I don't +know what to think of it." + +Margaret pursed her lips. + +"What do YOU think, Margaret?" + +"I don't know. Miss Jane." + +"I don't." + +"I did not mention it to Louisa," said Margaret. + +"Oh, I hope not!" cried Jane. + +"But she did to me," said Margaret. "She asked +had I seen Miss Viola's new comb, and then she +laughed, and I thought from the way she acted +that --" Margaret hesitated. + +"That what?" + +"That she meant Mr. Lind had given Miss Viola +the comb." + +Jane started violently. "Absolutely impossible!" +she cried. "That, of course, is nonsense. There +must be some explanation. Probably Mrs. Long- +street will explain before we go." + +Mrs. Longstreet did not explain. She wondered +and expostulated when Jane announced her firm +determination to leave, but she seemed utterly at +a loss for the reason. She did not mention the comb. + +When Jane Carew took leave of her old friend she +was entirely sure in her own mind that she would +never visit her again -- might never even see her +again. + +Jane was unutterably thankful to be back in her +own peaceful home, over which no shadow of absurd +mystery brooded; only a calm afternoon light of +life, which disclosed gently but did not conceal or +betray. Jane settled back into her pleasant life, +and the days passed, and the weeks, and the months, +and the years. She heard nothing whatever from +or about Viola Longstreet for three years. Then, one +day, Margaret returned from the city, and she had +met Viola's old maid Louisa in a department store, +and she had news. Jane wished for strength to +refuse to listen, but she could not muster it. She +listened while Margaret brushed her hair. + +"Louisa has not been with Miss Viola for a long +time," said Margaret. "She is living with some- +body else. Miss Viola lost her money, and had to +give up her house and her servants, and Louisa said +she cried when she said good-by." + +Jane made an effort. "What became of --" she +began. + +Margaret answered the unfinished sentence. She +was excited by gossip as by a stimulant. Her thin +cheeks burned, her eyes blazed. "Mr. Lind," said +Margaret, "Louisa told me, had turned out to be +real bad. He got into some money trouble, and +then" -- Margaret lowered her voice -- "he was ar- +rested for taking a lot of money which didn't belong +to him. Louisa said he had been in some business +where he handled a lot of other folks' money, and +he cheated the men who were in the business with +him, and he was tried, and Miss Viola, Louisa thinks, +hid away somewhere so they wouldn't call her to +testify, and then he had to go to prison; but --" +Margaret hesitated. + +"What is it?" asked Jane. + +"Louisa thinks he died about a year and a half +ago. She heard the lady where she lives now talking +about it. The lady used to know Miss Viola, and +she heard the lady say Mr. Lind had died in prison, +that he couldn't stand the hard life, and that Miss +Viola had lost all her money through him, and then" +-- Margaret hesitated again, and her mistress prodded +sharply -- "Louisa said that she heard the lady say +that she had thought Miss Viola would marry him, +but she hadn't, and she had more sense than she +had thought." + +"Mrs. Longstreet would never for one moment +have entertained the thought of marrying Mr. Lind; +he was young enough to be her grandson," said +Jane, severely. + +"Yes, ma'am," said Margaret. + +It so happened that Jane went to New York +that day week, and at a jewelry counter in one of +the shops she discovered the amethyst comb. There +were on sale a number of bits of antique jewelry, +the precious flotsam and jetsam of old and wealthy +families which had drifted, nobody knew before +what currents of adversity, into that harbor of +sale for all the world to see. Jane made no inquiries; +the saleswoman volunteered simply the information +that the comb was a real antique, and the stones +were real amethysts and pearls, and the setting was +solid gold, and the price was thirty dollars; and +Jane bought it. She carried her old amethyst comb +home, but she did not show it to anybody. She +replaced it in its old compartment in her jewel- +case and thought of it with wonder, with a hint of +joy at regaining it, and with much sadness. She +was still fond of Viola Longstreet. Jane did not +easily part with her loves. She did not know where +Viola was. Margaret had inquired of Louisa, who +did not know. Poor Viola had probably drifted +into some obscure harbor of life wherein she was +hiding until life was over. + +And then Jane met Viola one spring day on Fifth +Avenue. + +"It is a very long time since I have seen you," +said Jane with a reproachful accent, but her eyes +were tenderly inquiring. + +"Yes," agreed Viola. Then she added, "I have +seen nobody. Do you know what a change has come +in my life?" she asked. + +"Yes, dear," replied Jane, gently. "My Margaret +met Louisa once and she told her." + +"Oh yes -- Louisa," said Viola. "I had to dis- +charge her. My money is about gone. I have only +just enough to keep the wolf from entering the door +of a hall bedroom in a respectable boarding-house. +However, I often hear him howl, but I do not mind +at all. In fact, the howling has become company +for me. I rather like it. It is queer what things one +can learn to like. There are a few left yet, like the +awful heat in summer, and the food, which I do not +fancy, but that is simply a matter of time." + +Viola's laugh was like a bird's song -- a part of her +-- and nothing except death could silence it for long. + +"Then," said Jane, "you stay in New York all +summer?" + +Viola laughed again. "My dear," she replied, +"of course. It is all very simple. If I left New +York, and paid board anywhere, I would never have +enough money to buy my return fare, and certainly +not to keep that wolf from my hall-bedroom door." + +"Then," said Jane, "you are going home with me." + +"I cannot consent to accept charity, Jane," said +Viola. "Don't ask me." + +Then, for the first time in her life, Viola Longstreet +saw Jane Carew's eyes blaze with anger. "You +dare to call it charity coming from me to you?" +she said, and Viola gave in. + +When Jane saw the little room where Viola lived, +she marveled, with the exceedingly great marveling +of a woman to whom love of a man has never come, +at a woman who could give so much and with no +return. + +Little enough to pack had Viola. Jane under- +stood with a shudder of horror that it was almost +destitution, not poverty, to which her old friend was +reduced. + +"You shall have that northeast room which you +always liked," she told Viola when they were on +the train. + +"The one with the old-fashioned peacock paper, +and the pine-tree growing close to one window?" +said Viola, happily. + +Jane and Viola settled down to life together, +and Viola, despite the tragedy which she had known, +realized a peace and happiness beyond her imagina- +tion. In reality, although she still looked so youth- +ful, she was old enough to enjoy the pleasures of later +life. Enjoy them she did to the utmost. She and +Jane made calls together, entertained friends at +small and stately dinners, and gave little teas. They +drove about in the old Carew carriage. Viola had +some new clothes. She played very well on Jane's +old piano. She embroidered, she gardened. She +lived the sweet, placid life of an older lady in a little +village, and loved it. She never mentioned Harold +Lind. + +Not among the vicious of the earth was poor Har- +old Lind; rather among those of such beauty and +charm that the earth spoils them, making them, in +their own estimation, free guests at all its tables +of bounty. Moreover, the young man had, deeply +rooted in his character, the traits of a mischievous +child, rejoicing in his mischief more from a sense of +humor so keen that it verged on cruelty than from +any intention to harm others. Over that affair of +the amethyst comb, for instance, his irresponsible, +selfish, childish soul had fairly reveled in glee. He +had not been fond of Viola, but he liked her fondness +for himself. He had made sport of her, but only +for his own entertainment -- never for the entertain- +ment of others. He was a beautiful creature, seeking +out paths of pleasure and folly for himself alone, +which ended as do all paths of earthly pleasure and +folly. Harold had admired Viola, but from the same +point of view as Jane Carew's. Viola had, when she +looked her youngest and best, always seemed so +old as to be venerable to him. He had at times +compunctions, as if he were making a jest of his +grandmother. Viola never knew the truth about the +amethyst comb. He had considered that one of the +best frolics of his life. He had simply purloined it +and presented it to Viola, and merrily left matters +to settle themselves. + +Viola and Jane had lived together a month before +the comb was mentioned. Then one day Viola was +in Jane's room and the jewel-case was out, and she +began examining its contents. When she found the +amethyst comb she gave a little cry. Jane, who had +been seated at her desk and had not seen what was +going on, turned around. + +Viola stood holding the comb, and her cheeks +were burning. She fondled the trinket as if it had +been a baby. Jane watched her. She began to +understand the bare facts of the mystery of the dis- +appearance of her amethyst comb, but the subtlety +of it was forever beyond her. Had the other woman +explained what was in her mind, in her heart -- how +that reckless young man whom she had loved had +given her the treasure because he had heard her +admire Jane's amethysts, and she, all unconscious +of any wrong-doing, had ever regarded it as the one +evidence of his thoughtful tenderness, it being the +one gift she had ever received from him; how she +parted with it, as she had parted with her other +jewels, in order to obtain money to purchase com- +forts for him while he was in prison -- Jane could +not have understood. The fact of an older woman +being fond of a young man, almost a boy, was be- +yond her mental grasp. She had no imagination +with which to comprehend that innocent, pathetic, +almost terrible love of one who has trodden the +earth long for one who has just set dancing feet +upon it. It was noble of Jane Carew that, lacking +all such imagination, she acted as she did: that, al- +though she did not, could not, formulate it to herself, +she would no more have deprived the other woman +and the dead man of that one little unscathed bond +of tender goodness than she would have robbed +his grave of flowers. + +Viola looked at her. "I cannot tell you all about +it; you would laugh at me," she whispered; "but +this was mine once." + +"It is yours now, dear," said Jane. + + + + +THE UMBRELLA MAN + + + + + +THE UMBRELLA MAN + +IT was an insolent day. There are days which, +to imaginative minds, at least, possess strangely +human qualities. Their atmospheres predispose peo- +ple to crime or virtue, to the calm of good will, to +sneaking vice, or fierce, unprovoked aggression. The +day was of the last description. A beast, or a human +being in whose veins coursed undisciplined blood, +might, as involuntarily as the boughs of trees lash +before storms, perform wild and wicked deeds after +inhaling that hot air, evil with the sweat of sin- +evoked toil, with nitrogen stored from festering sores +of nature and the loathsome emanations of suffering +life. + +It had not rained for weeks, but the humidity was +great. The clouds of dust which arose beneath the +man's feet had a horrible damp stickiness. His face +and hands were grimy, as were his shoes, his cheap, +ready-made suit, and his straw hat. However, the +man felt a pride in his clothes, for they were at least +the garb of freedom. He had come out of prison the +day before, and had scorned the suit proffered him +by the officials. He had given it away, and bought +a new one with a goodly part of his small stock of +money. This suit was of a small-checked pattern. +Nobody could tell from it that the wearer had just +left jail. He had been there for several years for +one of the minor offenses against the law. His term +would probably have been shorter, but the judge +had been careless, and he had no friends. Stebbins +had never been the sort to make many friends, +although he had never cherished animosity toward +any human being. Even some injustice in his sen- +tence had not caused him to feel any rancor. + +During his stay in the prison he had not been +really unhappy. He had accepted the inevitable -- +the yoke of the strong for the weak -- with a patience +which brought almost a sense of enjoyment. But, +now that he was free, he had suddenly become alert, +watchful of chances for his betterment. From being +a mere kenneled creature he had become as a +hound on the scent, the keenest on earth -- that of +self-interest. He was changed, while yet living, from +a being outside the world to one with the world +before him. He felt young, although he was a +middle-aged, almost elderly man. He had in his +pocket only a few dollars. He might have had more +had he not purchased the checked suit and had he +not given much away. There was another man whose +term would be up in a week, and he had a sickly +wife and several children. Stebbins, partly from +native kindness and generosity, partly from a senti- +ment which almost amounted to superstition, had +given him of his slender store. He had been de- +prived of his freedom because of money; he said to +himself that his return to it should be heralded by the +music of it scattered abroad for the good of another. + +Now and then as he walked Stebbins removed his +new straw hat, wiped his forehead with a stiff new +handkerchief, looked with some concern at the grime +left upon it, then felt anxiously of his short crop +of grizzled hair. He would be glad when it grew +only a little, for it was at present a telltale to obser- +vant eyes. Also now and then he took from another +pocket a small mirror which he had just purchased, +and scrutinized his face. Every time he did so he +rubbed his cheeks violently, then viewed with satis- +faction the hard glow which replaced the yellow +prison pallor. Every now and then, too, he remem- +bered to throw his shoulders back, hold his chin +high, and swing out his right leg more freely. At +such times he almost swaggered, he became fairly +insolent with his new sense of freedom. He felt +himself the equal if not the peer of all creation. +Whenever a carriage or a motor-car passed him on the +country road he assumed, with the skill of an actor, +the air of a business man hastening to an important +engagement. However, always his mind was work- +ing over a hard problem. He knew that his store of +money was scanty, that it would not last long even +with the strictest economy; he had no friends; a +prison record is sure to leak out when a man seeks +a job. He was facing the problem of bare existence. + +Although the day was so hot, it was late summer; +soon would come the frost and the winter. He wished +to live to enjoy his freedom, and all he had for assets +was that freedom; which was paradoxical, for it +did not signify the ability to obtain work, which +was the power of life. Outside the stone wall of the +prison he was now inclosed by a subtle, intangible, +yet infinitely more unyielding one -- the prejudice +of his kind against the released prisoner. He was +to all intents and purposes a prisoner still, for all his +spurts of swagger and the youthful leap of his pulses, +and while he did not admit that to himself, yet +always, since he had the hard sense of the land of +his birth -- New England -- he pondered that problem +of existence. He felt instinctively that it would be +a useless proceeding for him to approach any human +being for employment. He knew that even the +freedom, which he realized through all his senses +like an essential perfume, could not yet overpower +the reek of the prison. As he walked through the +clogging dust he thought of one after another whom +he had known before he had gone out of the world +of free men and had bent his back under the hand of +the law. There were, of course, people in his little +native village, people who had been friends and +neighbors, but there were none who had ever loved +him sufficiently for him to conquer his resolve to +never ask aid of them. He had no relatives except +cousins more or less removed, and they would have +nothing to do with him. + +There had been a woman whom he had meant to +marry, and he had been sure that she would marry +him; but after he had been a year in prison the +news had come to him in a roundabout fashion that +she had married another suitor. Even had she re- +mained single he could not have approached her, +least of all for aid. Then, too, through all his term +she had made no sign, there had been no letter, no +message; and he had received at first letters and +flowers and messages from sentimental women. +There had been nothing from her. He had accepted +nothing, with the curious patience, carrying an odd +pleasure with it, which had come to him when the +prison door first closed upon him. He had not for- +gotten her, but he had not consciously mourned +her. His loss, his ruin, had been so tremendous that +she had been swallowed up in it. When one's +whole system needs to be steeled to trouble and pain, +single pricks lose importance. He thought of her +that day without any sense of sadness. He imagined +her in a pretty, well-ordered home with her husband +and children. Perhaps she had grown stout. She +had been a slender woman. He tried idly to imagine +how she would look stout, then by the sequence of +self-preservation the imagination of stoutness in an- +other led to the problem of keeping the covering +of flesh and fatness upon his own bones. The ques- +tion now was not of the woman; she had passed +out of his life. The question was of the keeping that +life itself, the life which involved everything else, +in a hard world, which would remorselessly as a steel +trap grudge him life and snap upon him, now he was +become its prey. + +He walked and walked, and it was high noon, and +he was hungry. He had in his pocket a small loaf +of bread and two frankfurters, and he heard the +splashing ripple of a brook. At that juncture the +road was bordered by thick woodland. He followed, +pushing his way through the trees and undergrowth, +the sound of the brook, and sat down in a cool, +green solitude with a sigh of relief. He bent over +the clear run, made a cup of his hand, and drank, +then he fell to eating. Close beside him grew some +wintergreen, and when he had finished his bread and +frankfurters he began plucking the glossy, aromatic +leaves and chewing them automatically. The savor +reached his palate, and his memory awakened before +it as before a pleasant tingling of a spur. As a boy +how he had loved this little green low-growing plant! +It had been one of the luxuries of his youth. Now, +as he tasted it, joy and pathos stirred in his very +soul. What a wonder youth had been, what a +splendor, what an immensity to be rejoiced over +and regretted! The man lounging beside the brook, +chewing wintergreen leaves, seemed to realize anti- +podes. He lived for the moment in the past, and +the immutable future, which might contain the past +in the revolution of time. He smiled, and his face +fell into boyish, almost childish, contours. He +plucked another glossy leaf with his hard, veinous +old hands. His hands would not change to suit his +mood, but his limbs relaxed like those of a boy. He +stared at the brook gurgling past in brown ripples, +shot with dim prismatic lights, showing here clear +green water lines, here inky depths, and he thought +of the possibility of trout. He wished for fishing- +tackle. + +Then suddenly out of a mass of green looked two +girls, with wide, startled eyes, and rounded mouths +of terror which gave vent to screams. There was a +scuttling, then silence. The man wondered why +the girls were so silly, why they ran. He did not +dream of the possibility of their terror of him. He +ate another wintergreen leaf, and thought of the +woman he had expected to marry when he was ar- +rested and imprisoned. She did not go back to his +childish memories. He had met her when first youth +had passed, and yet, somehow, the savor of the +wintergreen leaves brought her face before him. It +is strange how the excitement of one sense will some- +times act as stimulant for the awakening of another. +Now the sense of taste brought into full activity +that of sight. He saw the woman just as she had +looked when he had last seen her. She had not been +pretty, but she was exceedingly dainty, and pos- +sessed of a certain elegance of carriage which at- +tracted. He saw quite distinctly her small, irregu- +lar face and the satin-smooth coils of dark hair +around her head; he saw her slender, dusky hands +with the well-cared-for nails and the too prominent +veins; he saw the gleam of the diamond which he +had given her. She had sent it to him just after his +arrest, and he had returned it. He wondered idly +whether she still owned it and wore it, and what her +husband thought of it. He speculated childishly -- +somehow imprisonment had encouraged the return +of childish speculations -- as to whether the woman's +husband had given her a larger and costlier diamond +than his, and he felt a pang of jealousy. He re- +fused to see another diamond than his own upon +that slender, dark hand. He saw her in a black silk +gown which had been her best. There had been +some red about it, and a glitter of jet. He had +thought it a magnificent gown, and the woman in it +like a princess. He could see her leaning back, in +her long slim grace, in a corner of a sofa, and the +soft dark folds starry with jet sweeping over her +knees and just allowing a glimpse of one little foot. +Her feet had been charming, very small and highly +arched. Then he remembered that that evening +they had been to a concert in the town hall, and +that afterward they had partaken of an oyster stew +in a little restaurant. Then back his mind traveled +to the problem of his own existence, his food and +shelter and clothes. He dismissed the woman from +his thought. He was concerned now with the primal +conditions of life itself. How was he to eat when +his little stock of money was gone? He sat staring +at the brook; he chewed wintergreen leaves no +longer. Instead he drew from his pocket an old +pipe and a paper of tobacco. He filled his pipe +with care -- tobacco was precious; then he began to +smoke, but his face now looked old and brooding +through the rank blue vapor. Winter was coming, +and he had not a shelter. He had not money enough +to keep him long from starvation. He knew not +how to obtain employment. He thought vaguely of +wood-piles, of cutting winter fuel for people. His +mind traveled in a trite strain of reasoning. Some- +how wood-piles seemed the only available tasks for +men of his sort. + +Presently he finished his filled pipe, and arose +with an air of decision. He went at a brisk pace +out of the wood and was upon the road again. He +progressed like a man with definite business in view +until he reached a house. It was a large white +farm-house with many outbuildings. It looked most +promising. He approached the side door, and a +dog sprang from around a corner and barked, but +he spoke, and the dog's tail became eloquent. He +was patting the dog, when the door opened and a +man stood looking at him. Immediately the taint +of the prison became evident. He had not cringed +before the dog, but he did cringe before the man +who lived in that fine white house, and who had +never known what it was to be deprived of liberty. +He hung his head, he mumbled. The house-owner, +who was older than he, was slightly deaf. He +looked him over curtly. The end of it was he was +ordered off the premises, and went; but the dog +trailed, wagging at his heels, and had to be roughly +called back. The thought of the dog comforted +Stebbins as he went on his way. He had always +liked animals. It was something, now he was past +a hand-shake, to have the friendly wag of a dog's +tail. + +The next house was an ornate little cottage with +bay-windows, through which could be seen the flower +patterns of lace draperies; the Virginia creeper +which grew over the house walls was turning crim- +son in places. Stebbins went around to the back +door and knocked, but nobody came. He waited +a long time, for he had spied a great pile of uncut +wood. Finally he slunk around to the front door. +As he went he suddenly reflected upon his state of +mind in days gone by; if he could have known that +the time would come when he, Joseph Stebbins, +would feel culpable at approaching any front door! +He touched the electric bell and stood close to the +door, so that he might not be discovered from the +windows. Presently the door opened the length +of a chain, and a fair girlish head appeared. She +was one of the girls who had been terrified by him +in the woods, but that he did not know. Now again +her eyes dilated and her pretty mouth rounded! +She gave a little cry and slammed the door in his +face, and he heard excited voices. Then he saw two +pale, pretty faces, the faces of the two girls who had +come upon him in the wood, peering at him around +a corner of the lace in the bay-window, and he under- +stood what it meant -- that he was an object of ter- +ror to them. Directly he experienced such a sense +of mortal insult as he had never known, not even +when the law had taken hold of him. He held his +head high and went away, his very soul boiling with +a sort of shamed rage. "Those two girls are afraid +of me," he kept saying to himself. His knees shook +with the horror of it. This terror of him seemed the +hardest thing to bear in a hard life. He returned +to his green nook beside the brook and sat down +again. He thought for the moment no more of wood- +piles, of his life. He thought about those two young +girls who had been afraid of him. He had never had +an impulse to harm any living thing. A curious +hatred toward these living things who had accused +him of such an impulse came over him. He laughed +sardonically. He wished that they would again +come and peer at him through the bushes; he would +make a threatening motion for the pleasure of seeing +the silly things scuttle away. + +After a while he put it all out of mind, and again +returned to his problem. He lay beside the brook +and pondered, and finally fell asleep in the hot air, +which increased in venom, until the rattle of thun- +der awoke him. It was very dark -- a strange, livid +darkness. "A thunder-storm," he muttered, and +then he thought of his new clothes -- what a mis- +fortune it would be to have them soaked. He arose +and pushed through the thicket around him into a +cart path, and it was then that he saw the thing +which proved to be the stepping-stone toward his +humble fortunes. It was only a small silk umbrella +with a handle tipped with pearl. He seized upon it +with joy, for it meant the salvation of his precious +clothes. He opened it and held it over his head, +although the rain had not yet begun. One rib of +the umbrella was broken, but it was still serviceable. +He hastened along the cart path; he did not know +why, only the need for motion, to reach protection +from the storm, was upon him; and yet what pro- +tection could be ahead of him in that woodland +path? Afterward he grew to think of it as a blind +instinct which led him on. + +He had not gone far, not more than half a mile, +when he saw something unexpected -- a small un- +tenanted house. He gave vent to a little cry of joy, +which had in it something child-like and pathetic, +and pushed open the door and entered. It was +nothing but a tiny, unfinished shack, with one room +and a small one opening from it. There was no +ceiling; overhead was the tent-like slant of the +roof, but it was tight. The dusty floor was quite +dry. There was one rickety chair. Stebbins, after +looking into the other room to make sure that the +place was empty, sat down, and a wonderful wave +of content and self-respect came over him. The +poor human snail had found his shell; he had a +habitation, a roof of shelter. The little dim place +immediately assumed an aspect of home. The rain +came down in torrents, the thunder crashed, the +place was filled with blinding blue lights. Stebbins +filled his pipe more lavishly this time, tilted his +chair against the wall, smoked, and gazed about +him with pitiful content. It was really so little, +but to him it was so much. He nodded with satis- +faction at the discovery of a fireplace and a rusty +cooking-stove. + +He sat and smoked until the storm passed over. +The rainfall had been very heavy, there had been +hail, but the poor little house had not failed of per- +fect shelter. A fairly cold wind from the northwest +blew through the door. The hail had brought about +a change of atmosphere. The burning heat was +gone. The night would be cool, even chilly. + +Stebbins got up and examined the stove and the +pipe. They were rusty, but appeared trustworthy. +He went out and presently returned with some fuel +which he had found unwet in a thick growth of +wood. He laid a fire handily and lit it. The little +stove burned well, with no smoke. Stebbins looked +at it, and was perfectly happy. He had found other +treasures outside -- a small vegetable-garden in which +were potatoes and some corn. A man had squatted +in this little shack for years, and had raised his own +garden-truck. He had died only a few weeks ago, +and his furniture had been pre-empted with the ex- +ception of the stove, the chair, a tilting lounge in +the small room, and a few old iron pots and frying- +pans. Stebbins gathered corn, dug potatoes, and +put them on the stove to cook, then he hurried out +to the village store and bought a few slices of bacon, +half a dozen eggs, a quarter of a pound of cheap tea, +and some salt. When he re-entered the house he +looked as he had not for years. He was beaming. +"Come, this is a palace," he said to himself, and +chuckled with pure joy. He had come out of the +awful empty spaces of homeless life into home. He +was a man who had naturally strong domestic in- +stincts. If he had spent the best years of his life +in a home instead of a prison, the finest in him would +have been developed. As it was, this was not even +now too late. When he had cooked his bacon and +eggs and brewed his tea, when the vegetables were +done and he was seated upon the rickety chair, with +his supper spread before him on an old board propped +on sticks, he was supremely happy. He ate with a +relish which seemed to reach his soul. He was at +home, and eating, literally, at his own board. As +he ate he glanced from time to time at the two win- +dows, with broken panes of glass and curtainless. +He was not afraid -- that was nonsense; he had +never been a cowardly man, but he felt the need of +curtains or something before his windows to shut +out the broad vast face of nature, or perhaps prying +human eyes. Somebody might espy the light in the +house and wonder. He had a candle stuck in an old +bottle by way of illumination. Still, although he +would have preferred to have curtains before those +windows full of the blank stare of night, he WAS +supremely happy. + +After he had finished his supper he looked long- +ingly at his pipe. He hesitated for a second, for he +realized the necessity of saving his precious tobacco; +then he became reckless: such enormous good for- +tune as a home must mean more to follow; it must +be the first of a series of happy things. He filled +his pipe and smoked. Then he went to bed on the +old couch in the other room, and slept like a child +until the sun shone through the trees in flickering +lines. Then he rose, went out to the brook which +ran near the house, splashed himself with water, +returned to the house, cooked the remnant of the +eggs and bacon, and ate his breakfast with the same +exultant peace with which he had eaten his supper +the night before. Then he sat down in the doorway +upon the sunken sill and fell again to considering +his main problem. He did not smoke. His tobacco +was nearly exhausted and he was no longer reckless. +His head was not turned now by the feeling that +he was at home. He considered soberly as to the +probable owner of the house and whether he would +be allowed to remain its tenant. Very soon, how- +ever, his doubt concerning that was set at rest. He +saw a disturbance of the shadows cast by the thick +boughs over the cart path by a long outreach of +darker shadow which he knew at once for that of a +man. He sat upright, and his face at first assumed +a defiant, then a pleading expression, like that of a +child who desires to retain possession of some dear +thing. His heart beat hard as he watched the ad- +vance of the shadow. It was slow, as if cast by an +old man. The man was old and very stout, sup- +porting one lopping side by a stick, who presently +followed the herald of his shadow. He looked like +a farmer. Stebbins rose as he approached; the two +men stood staring at each other. + +"Who be you, neighbor?" inquired the new- +comer. + +The voice essayed a roughness, but only achieved +a tentative friendliness. Stebbins hesitated for a +second; a suspicious look came into the farmer's +misty blue eyes. Then Stebbins, mindful of his +prison record and fiercely covetous of his new home, +gave another name. The name of his maternal +grandfather seemed suddenly to loom up in printed +characters before his eyes, and he gave it glibly. +"David Anderson," he said, and he did not realize +a lie. Suddenly the name seemed his own. Surely +old David Anderson, who had been a good man, +would not grudge the gift of his unstained name to +replace the stained one of his grandson. "David +Anderson," he replied, and looked the other man +in the face unflinchingly. + +"Where do ye hail from?" inquired the farmer; +and the new David Anderson gave unhesitatingly +the name of the old David Anderson's birth and +life and death place -- that of a little village in New +Hampshire. + +"What do you do for your living?" was the next +question, and the new David Anderson had an in- +spiration. His eyes had lit upon the umbrella which +he had found the night before. + +"Umbrellas," he replied, laconically, and the +other man nodded. Men with sheaves of umbrellas, +mended or in need of mending, had always been +familiar features for him. + +Then David assumed the initiative; possessed +of an honorable business as well as home, he grew +bold. "Any objection to my staying here?" he +asked. + +The other man eyed him sharply. "Smoke +much?" he inquired. + +"Smoke a pipe sometimes." + +"Careful with your matches?" + +David nodded. + +"That's all I think about," said the farmer. +"These woods is apt to catch fire jest when I'm +about ready to cut. The man that squatted here +before -- he died about a month ago -- didn't smoke. +He was careful, he was." + +"I'll be real careful," said David, humbly and +anxiously. + +"I dun'no' as I have any objections to your stay- +ing, then," said the farmer. "Somebody has always +squat here. A man built this shack about twenty +year ago, and he lived here till he died. Then +t'other feller he came along. Reckon he must have +had a little money; didn't work at nothin'! Raised +some garden-truck and kept a few chickens. I took +them home after he died. You can have them now +if you want to take care of them. He rigged up +that little chicken-coop back there." + +"I'll take care of them," answered David, fer- +vently. + +"Well, you can come over by and by and get 'em. +There's nine hens and a rooster. They lay pretty +well. I ain't no use for 'em. I've got all the hens +of my own I want to bother with." + +"All right," said David. He looked blissful. + +The farmer stared past him into the house. He +spied the solitary umbrella. He grew facetious. +"Guess the umbrellas was all mended up where +you come from if you've got down to one," said he. + +David nodded. It was tragically true, that guess. + +"Well, our umbrella got turned last week," said +the farmer. "I'll give you a job to start on. You +can stay here as long as you want if you're careful +about your matches." Again he looked into the +house. "Guess some boys have been helpin' them- +selves to the furniture, most of it," he observed. +"Guess my wife can spare ye another chair, and +there's an old table out in the corn-house better +than that one you've rigged up, and I guess she'll +give ye some old bedding so you can be comfortable. + +Got any money?" + +"A little." + +"I don't want any pay for things, and my wife +won't; didn't mean that; was wonderin' whether +ye had anything to buy vittles with." + +"Reckon I can manage till I get some work," +replied David, a trifle stiffly. He was a man who +had never lived at another than the state's expense. + +"Don't want ye to be too short, that's all," said +the other, a little apologetically. + +"I shall be all right. There are corn and potatoes +in the garden, anyway." + +"So there be, and one of them hens had better +be eat. She don't lay. She'll need a good deal of +b'ilin'. You can have all the wood you want to +pick up, but I don't want any cut. You mind that +or there'll be trouble." + +"I won't cut a stick." + +"Mind ye don't. Folks call me an easy mark, +and I guess myself I am easy up to a certain point, +and cuttin' my wood is one of them points. Roof +didn't leak in that shower last night, did it?" + +"Not a bit." + +"Didn't s'pose it would. The other feller was +handy, and he kept tinkerin' all the time. Well, +I'll be goin'; you can stay here and welcome if +you're careful about matches and don't cut my wood. +Come over for them hens any time you want to. +I'll let my hired man drive you back in the wagon." + +"Much obliged," said David, with an inflection +that was almost tearful. + +"You're welcome," said the other, and ambled +away. + +The new David Anderson, the good old grand- +father revived in his unfortunate, perhaps graceless +grandson, reseated himself on the door-step and +watched the bulky, receding figure of his visitor +through a pleasant blur of tears, which made the +broad, rounded shoulders and the halting columns of +legs dance. This David Anderson had almost for- +gotten that there was unpaid kindness in the whole +world, and it seemed to him as if he had seen angels +walking up and down. He sat for a while doing +nothing except realizing happiness of the present +and of the future. He gazed at the green spread +of forest boughs, and saw in pleased anticipation +their red and gold tints of autumn; also in pleased +anticipation their snowy and icy mail of winter, +and himself, the unmailed, defenseless human crea- +ture, housed and sheltered, sitting before his +own fire. This last happy outlook aroused him. +If all this was to be, he must be up and doing. +He got up, entered the house, and examined the +broken umbrella which was his sole stock in trade. +David was a handy man. He at once knew that +he was capable of putting it in perfect repair. +Strangely enough, for his sense of right and wrong +was not blunted, he had no compunction whatever +in keeping this umbrella, although he was reasonably +certain that it belonged to one of the two young +girls who had been so terrified by him. He had a con- +viction that this monstrous terror of theirs, which +had hurt him more than many apparently crueler +things, made them quits. + +After he had washed his dishes in the brook, and +left them in the sun to dry, he went to the village +store and purchased a few simple things necessary +for umbrella-mending. Both on his way to the store +and back he kept his eyes open. He realized that +his capital depended largely upon chance and good +luck. He considered that he had extraordinary +good luck when he returned with three more umbrel- +las. He had discovered one propped against the +counter of the store, turned inside out. He had in- +quired to whom it belonged, and had been answered +to anybody who wanted it. David had seized upon +it with secret glee. Then, unheard-of good fortune, +he had found two more umbrellas on his way home; +one was in an ash-can, the other blowing along like +a belated bat beside the trolley track. It began to +seem to David as if the earth might be strewn with +abandoned umbrellas. Before he began his work +he went to the farmer's and returned in triumph, +driven in the farm-wagon, with his cackling hens +and quite a load of household furniture, besides +some bread and pies. The farmer's wife was one of +those who are able to give, and make receiving +greater than giving. She had looked at David, +who was older than she, with the eyes of a mother, +and his pride had melted away, and he had held out +his hands for her benefits, like a child who has no +compunctions about receiving gifts because he knows +that they are his right of childhood. + +Henceforth David prospered -- in a humble way, +it is true, still he prospered. He journeyed about +the country, umbrellas over his shoulder, little bag +of tools in hand, and reaped an income more than +sufficient for his simple wants. His hair had grown, +and also his beard. Nobody suspected his history. +He met the young girls whom he had terrified on +the road often, and they did not know him. He +did not, during the winter, travel very far afield. +Night always found him at home, warm, well fed, +content, and at peace. Sometimes the old farmer +on whose land he lived dropped in of an evening +and they had a game of checkers. The old man was +a checker expert. He played with unusual skill, +but David made for himself a little code of honor. +He would never beat the old man, even if he were +able, oftener than once out of three evenings. He +made coffee on these convivial occasions. He made +very good coffee, and they sipped as they moved +the men and kings, and the old man chuckled, and +David beamed with peaceful happiness. + +But the next spring, when he began to realize that +he had mended for a while all the umbrellas in the +vicinity and that his trade was flagging, he set his +precious little home in order, barricaded door and +windows, and set forth for farther fields. He was +lucky, as he had been from the start. He found +plenty of employment, and slept comfortably enough +in barns, and now and then in the open. He had +traveled by slow stages for several weeks before he +entered a village whose familiar look gave him a +shock. It was not his native village, but near it. +In his younger life he had often journeyed there. +It was a little shopping emporium, almost a city. +He recognized building after building. Now and +then he thought he saw a face which he had once +known, and he was thankful that there was hardly +any possibility of any one recognizing him. He had +grown gaunt and thin since those far-off days; he +wore a beard, grizzled, as was his hair. In those +days he had not been an umbrella man. Sometimes +the humor of the situation struck him. What would +he have said, he the spruce, plump, head-in-the-air +young man, if anybody had told him that it would +come to pass that he would be an umbrella man lurk- +ing humbly in search of a job around the back doors +of houses? He would laugh softly to himself as he +trudged along, and the laugh would be without the +slightest bitterness. His lot had been so infinitely +worse, and he had such a happy nature, yielding +sweetly to the inevitable, that he saw now only +cause for amusement. + +He had been in that vicinity about three weeks +when one day he met the woman. He knew her +at once, although she was greatly changed. She +had grown stout, although, poor soul! it seemed as +if there had been no reason for it. She was not +unwieldy, but she was stout, and all the contours of +earlier life had disappeared beneath layers of flesh. +Her hair was not gray, but the bright brown had +faded, and she wore it tightly strained back from +her seamed forehead, although it was thin. One had +only to look at her hair to realize that she was a +woman who had given up, who no longer cared. +She was humbly clad in a blue-cotton wrapper, she +wore a dingy black hat, and she carried a tin pail +half full of raspberries. When the man and woman +met they stopped with a sort of shock, and each +changed face grew like the other in its pallor. She +recognized him and he her, but along with that +recognition was awakened a fierce desire to keep it +secret. His prison record loomed up before the +man, the woman's past loomed up before her. She +had possibly not been guilty of much, but her life +was nothing to waken pride in her. She felt shamed +before this man whom she had loved, and who felt +shamed before her. However, after a second the +silence was broken. The man recovered his self- +possession first. + +He spoke casually. + +"Nice day," said he. + +The woman nodded. + +"Been berrying?" inquired David. The woman +nodded again. + +David looked scrutinizingly at her pail. "I saw +better berries real thick a piece back," said he. + +The woman murmured something. In spite of +herself, a tear trickled over her fat, weather-beaten +cheek. David saw the tear, and something warm +and glorious like sunlight seemed to waken within +him. He felt such tenderness and pity for this +poor feminine thing who had not the strength +to keep the tears back, and was so pitiably shorn +of youth and grace, that he himself expanded. He +had heard in the town something of her history. +She had made a dreadful marriage, tragedy and +suspicion had entered her life, and the direst poverty. +However, he had not known that she was in the vi- +cinity. Somebody had told him she was out West. + +"Living here?" he inquired. + +"Working for my board at a house back there," +she muttered. She did not tell him that she had +come as a female "hobo" in a freight-car from the +Western town where she had been finally stranded. +"Mrs. White sent me out for berries," she added. +"She keeps boarders, and there were no berries in +the market this morning." + +"Come back with me and I will show you where +I saw the berries real thick," said David. + +He turned himself about, and she followed a little +behind, the female failure in the dust cast by the +male. Neither spoke until David stopped and +pointed to some bushes where the fruit hung thick +on bending, slender branches. + +"Here," said David. Both fell to work. David +picked handfuls of berries and cast them gaily into +the pail. "What is your name?" he asked, in an +undertone. + +"Jane Waters," she replied, readily. Her hus- +band's name had been Waters, or the man who had +called himself her husband, and her own middle +name was Jane. The first was Sara. David remem- +bered at once. "She is taking her own middle name +and the name of the man she married," he thought. +Then he asked, plucking berries, with his eyes averted: + +"Married?" + +"No," said the woman, flushing deeply. + +David's next question betrayed him. "Husband +dead?" + +"I haven't any husband," she replied, like the +Samaritan woman. + +She had married a man already provided with +another wife, although she had not known it. The +man was not dead, but she spoke the entire miser- +able truth when she replied as she did. David as- +sumed that he was dead. He felt a throb of relief, +of which he was ashamed, but he could not down it. +He did not know what it was that was so alive and +triumphant within him: love, or pity, or the natural +instinct of the decent male to shelter and protect. +Whatever it was, it was dominant. + +"Do you have to work hard?" he asked. + +"Pretty hard, I guess. I expect to." + +"And you don't get any pay?" + +"That's all right; I don't expect to get any," +said she, and there was bitterness in her voice. + +In spite of her stoutness she was not as strong as +the man. She was not at all strong, and, moreover, +the constant presence of a sense of injury at the +hands of life filled her very soul with a subtle poison, +to her weakening vitality. She was a child hurt and +worried and bewildered, although she was to the +average eye a stout, able-bodied, middle-aged wom- +an; but David had not the average eye, and he +saw her as she really was, not as she seemed. There +had always been about her a little weakness and +dependency which had appealed to him. Now they +seemed fairly to cry out to him like the despairing +voices of the children whom he had never had, and +he knew he loved her as he had never loved her be- +fore, with a love which had budded and flowered +and fruited and survived absence and starvation. +He spoke abruptly. + +"I've about got my business done in these parts," +said he. "I've got quite a little money, and I've +got a little house, not much, but mighty snug, back +where I come from. There's a garden. It's in the +woods. Not much passing nor going on." + +The woman was looking at him with incredulous, +pitiful eyes like a dog's. "I hate much goin' on," +she whispered. + +"Suppose," said David, "you take those berries +home and pack up your things. Got much?" + +"All I've got will go in my bag." + +"Well, pack up; tell the madam where you live +that you're sorry, but you're worn out --" + +"God knows I am," cried the woman, with sudden +force, "worn out!" + +"Well, you tell her that, and say you've got an- +other chance, and --" + +"What do you mean?" cried the woman, and she +hung upon his words like a drowning thing. + +"Mean? Why, what I mean is this. You pack +your bag and come to the parson's back there, that +white house." + +"I know --" + +"In the mean time I'll see about getting a license, +and --" + +Suddenly the woman set her pail down and +clutched him by both hands. "Say you are not +married," she demanded; "say it, swear it!" + +"Yes, I do swear it," said David. "You are the +only woman I ever asked to marry me. I can sup- +port you. We sha'n't be rolling in riches, but we +can be comfortable, and -- I rather guess I can make +you happy." + +"You didn't say what your name was," said the +woman. + +"David Anderson." + +The woman looked at him with a strange ex- +pression, the expression of one who loves and re- +spects, even reveres, the isolation and secrecy of +another soul. She understood, down to the depths +of her being she understood. She had lived a hard +life, she had her faults, but she was fine enough to +comprehend and hold sacred another personality. +She was very pale, but she smiled. Then she turned +to go. + +"How long will it take you?" asked David. + +"About an hour." + +"All right. I will meet you in front of the par- +son's house in an hour. We will go back by train. +I have money enough." + +"I'd just as soon walk." The woman spoke with +the utmost humility of love and trust. She had +not even asked where the man lived. All her life +she had followed him with her soul, and it would +go hard if her poor feet could not keep pace with +her soul. + +"No, it is too far; we will take the train. One +goes at half past four." + +At half past four the couple, made man and wife, +were on the train speeding toward the little home +in the woods. The woman had frizzled her thin +hair pathetically and ridiculously over her temples; +on her left hand gleamed a white diamond. She had +kept it hidden; she had almost starved rather than +part with it. She gazed out of the window at the +flying landscape, and her thin lips were curved in a +charming smile. The man sat beside her, staring +straight ahead as if at happy visions. + +They lived together afterward in the little house +in the woods, and were happy with a strange crys- +tallized happiness at which they would have mocked +in their youth, but which they now recognized as the +essential of all happiness upon earth. And always +the woman knew what she knew about her husband, +and the man knew about his wife, and each recog- +nized the other as old lover and sweetheart come +together at last, but always each kept the knowledge +from the other with an infinite tenderness of deli- +cacy which was as a perfumed garment veiling the +innermost sacredness of love. + + + + +THE BALKING OF CHRISTOPHER + + + + + +THE BALKING OF +CHRISTOPHER + +THE spring was early that year. It was only +the last of March, but the trees were filmed +with green and paling with promise of bloom; the +front yards were showing new grass pricking through +the old. It was high time to plow the south field +and the garden, but Christopher sat in his rocking- +chair beside the kitchen window and gazed out, and +did absolutely nothing about it. + +Myrtle Dodd, Christopher's wife, washed the +breakfast dishes, and later kneaded the bread, all +the time glancing furtively at her husband. She +had a most old-fashioned deference with regard to +Christopher. She was always a little afraid of him. +Sometimes Christopher's mother, Mrs. Cyrus Dodd, +and his sister Abby, who had never married, re- +proached her for this attitude of mind. "You are +entirely too much cowed down by Christopher," +Mrs. Dodd said. + +"I would never be under the thumb of any man," +Abby said. + +"Have you ever seen Christopher in one of his +spells?" Myrtle would ask. + +Then Mrs. Cyrus Dodd and Abby would look +at each other. "It is all your fault, mother," Abby +would say. "You really ought not to have allowed +your son to have his own head so much." + +"You know perfectly well, Abby, what I had to +contend against," replied Mrs. Dodd, and Abby +became speechless. Cyrus Dodd, now deceased +some twenty years, had never during his whole life +yielded to anything but birth and death. Before +those two primary facts even his terrible will was +powerless. He had come into the world without +his consent being obtained; he had passed in like +manner from it. But during his life he had ruled, +a petty monarch, but a most thorough one. He had +spoiled Christopher, and his wife, although a woman +of high spirit, knew of no appealing. + +"I could never go against your father, you know +that," said Mrs. Dodd, following up her advantage. + +"Then," said Abby, "you ought to have warned +poor Myrtle. It was a shame to let her marry a +man as spoiled as Christopher." + +"I would have married him, anyway," declared +Myrtle with sudden defiance; and her mother-in- +law regarded her approvingly. + +"There are worse men than Christopher, and +Myrtle knows it," said she. + +"Yes, I do, mother," agreed Myrtle. "Christo- +pher hasn't one bad habit." + +"I don't know what you call a bad habit," re- +torted Abby. "I call having your own way in spite +of the world, the flesh, and the devil rather a bad +habit. Christopher tramples on everything in his +path, and he always has. He tramples on poor Myrtle." + +At that Myrtle laughed. "I don't think I look +trampled on," said she; and she certainly did not. +Pink and white and plump was Myrtle, although she +had, to a discerning eye, an expression which denoted +extreme nervousness. + +This morning of spring, when her husband sat +doing nothing, she wore this nervous expression. Her +blue eyes looked dark and keen; her forehead was +wrinkled; her rosy mouth was set. Myrtle and +Christopher were not young people; they were a +little past middle age, still far from old in look or +ability. + +Myrtle had kneaded the bread to rise for the +last time before it was put into the oven, and had +put on the meat to boil for dinner, before she dared +address that silent figure which had about it some- +thing tragic. Then she spoke in a small voice. +"Christopher," said she. + +Christopher made no reply. + +"It is a good morning to plow, ain't it?" said +Myrtle. + +Christopher was silent. + +"Jim Mason got over real early; I suppose he +thought you'd want to get at the south field. He's +been sitting there at the barn door for 'most two +hours." + +Then Christopher rose. Myrtle's anxious face +lightened. But to her wonder her husband went +into the front entry and got his best hat. "He +ain't going to wear his best hat to plow," thought +Myrtle. For an awful moment it occurred to her +that something had suddenly gone wrong with her +husband's mind. Christopher brushed the hat care- +fully, adjusted it at the little looking-glass in the +kitchen, and went out. + +"Be you going to plow the south field?" Myrtle +said, faintly. + +"No, I ain't." + +"Will you be back to dinner?" + +"I don't know -- you needn't worry if I'm not." +Suddenly Christopher did an unusual thing for him. +He and Myrtle had lived together for years, and out- +ward manifestations of affection were rare between +them. He put his arm around her and kissed her. + +After he had gone, Myrtle watched him out of +sight down the road; then she sat down and wept. +Jim Mason came slouching around from his station +at the barn door. He surveyed Myrtle uneasily. + +"Mr. Dodd sick?" said he at length. + +"Not that I know of," said Myrtle, in a weak +quaver. She rose and, keeping her tear-stained face +aloof, lifted the lid off the kettle on the stove. + +"D'ye know am he going to plow to-day?" + +"He said he wasn't." + +Jim grunted, shifted his quid, and slouched out of +the yard. + +Meantime Christopher Dodd went straight down +the road to the minister's, the Rev. Stephen Wheaton. +When he came to the south field, which he was +neglecting, he glanced at it turning emerald upon +the gentle slopes. He set his face harder. Christo- +pher Dodd's face was in any case hard-set. Now +it was tragic, to be pitied, but warily, lest it turn +fiercely upon the one who pitied. Christopher was +a handsome man, and his face had an almost classic +turn of feature. His forehead was noble; his eyes +full of keen light. He was only a farmer, but in +spite of his rude clothing he had the face of a man +who followed one of the professions. He was in +sore trouble of spirit, and he was going to consult +the minister and ask him for advice. Christopher +had never done this before. He had a sort of in- +credulity now that he was about to do it. He had +always associated that sort of thing with womankind, +and not with men like himself. And, moreover, +Stephen Wheaton was a younger man than himself. +He was unmarried, and had only been settled in the +village for about a year. "He can't think I'm com- +ing to set my cap at him, anyway," Christopher +reflected, with a sort of grim humor, as he drew +near the parsonage. The minister was haunted by +marriageable ladies of the village. + +"Guess you are glad to see a man coming, instead +of a woman who has doubts about some doctrine," +was the first thing Christopher said to the minister +when he had been admitted to his study. The +study was a small room, lined with books, and only +one picture hung over the fireplace, the portrait of +the minister's mother -- Stephen was so like her that +a question concerning it was futile. + +Stephen colored a little angrily at Christopher's +remark -- he was a hot-tempered man, although a +clergyman; then he asked him to be seated. + +Christopher sat down opposite the minister. "I +oughtn't to have spoken so," he apologized, "but +what I am doing ain't like me." + +"That's all right," said Stephen. He was a short, +athletic man, with an extraordinary width of shoul- +ders and a strong-featured and ugly face, still indica- +tive of goodness and a strange power of sympathy. +Three little mongrel dogs were sprawled about the +study. One, small and alert, came and rested his +head on Christopher's knee. Animals all liked him. +Christopher mechanically patted him. Patting an +appealing animal was as unconscious with the man +as drawing his breath. But he did not even look at +the little dog while he stroked it after the fashion +which pleased it best. He kept his large, keen, +melancholy eyes fixed upon the minister; at length +he spoke. He did not speak with as much eagerness +as he did with force, bringing the whole power of +his soul into his words, which were the words of a +man in rebellion against the greatest odds on earth +and in all creation -- the odds of fate itself. + +"I have come to say a good deal, Mr. Wheaton," +he began. + +"Then say it, Mr. Dodd," replied Stephen, without +a smile. + +Christopher spoke. "I am going back to the very +beginning of things," said he, "and maybe you will +think it blasphemy, but I don't mean it for that. +I mean it for the truth, and the truth which is too +much for my comprehension." + +"I have heard men swear when it did not seem +blasphemy to me," said Stephen. + +"Thank the Lord, you ain't so deep in your rut +you can't see the stars!" said Christopher. "But +I guess you see them in a pretty black sky sometimes. +In the beginning, why did I have to come into the +world without any choice?" + +"You must not ask a question of me which can +only be answered by the Lord," said Stephen. + +"I am asking the Lord," said Christopher, with +his sad, forceful voice. "I am asking the Lord, and +I ask why?" + +"You have no right to expect your question to be +answered in your time," said Stephen. + +"But here am I," said Christopher, "and I was +a question to the Lord from the first, and fifty years +and more I have been on the earth." + +"Fifty years and more are nothing for the answer +to such a question," said Stephen. + +Christopher looked at him with mournful dissent; +there was no anger about him. "There was time +before time," said he, "before the fifty years and +more began. I don't mean to blaspheme, Mr. +Wheaton, but it is the truth. I came into the world +whether I would or not; I was forced, and then I was +told I was a free agent. I am no free agent. For +fifty years and more I have thought about it, and +I have found out that, at least. I am a slave -- a +slave of life." + +"For that matter," said Stephen, looking curi- +ously at him, "so am I. So are we all." + +"That makes it worse," agreed Christopher -- "a +whole world of slaves. I know I ain't talking in +exactly what you might call an orthodox strain. I +have got to a point when it seems to me I shall go +mad if I don't talk to somebody. I know there is that +awful why, and you can't answer it; and no man +living can. I'm willing to admit that sometime, in +another world, that why will get an answer, but +meantime it's an awful thing to live in this world +without it if a man has had the kind of life I have. +My life has been harder for me than a harder life +might be for another man who was different. That +much I know. There is one thing I've got to be +thankful for. I haven't been the means of sending +any more slaves into this world. I am glad my wife +and I haven't any children to ask 'why?' + +"Now, I've begun at the beginning; I'm going on. +I have never had what men call luck. My folks +were poor; father and mother were good, hard- +working people, but they had nothing but trouble, +sickness, and death, and losses by fire and flood. +We lived near the river, and one spring our house +went, and every stick we owned, and much as ever +we all got out alive. Then lightning struck father's +new house, and the insurance company had failed, +and we never got a dollar of insurance. Then my +oldest brother died, just when he was getting started +in business, and his widow and two little children +came on father to support. Then father got rheu- +matism, and was all twisted, and wasn't good for +much afterward; and my sister Sarah, who had been +expecting to get married, had to give it up and take +in sewing and stay at home and take care of the +rest. There was father and George's widow -- she +was never good for much at work -- and mother and +Abby. She was my youngest sister. As for me, I +had a liking for books and wanted to get an educa- +tion; might just as well have wanted to get a seat +on a throne. I went to work in the grist-mill of the +place where we used to live when I was only a boy. +Then, before I was twenty, I saw that Sarah wasn't +going to hold out. She had grieved a good deal, +poor thing, and worked too hard, so we sold out +and came here and bought my farm, with the mort- +gage hitching it, and I went to work for dear life. +Then Sarah died, and then father. Along about then +there was a girl I wanted to marry, but, Lord, how +could I even ask her? My farm started in as a +failure, and it has kept it up ever since. When there +wasn't a drought there was so much rain everything +mildewed; there was a hail-storm that cut every- +thing to pieces, and there was the caterpillar year. +I just managed to pay the interest on the mortgage; +as for paying the principal, I might as well have tried +to pay the national debt. + +"Well, to go back to that girl. She is married +and don't live here, and you ain't like ever to see +her, but she was a beauty and something more. I +don't suppose she ever looked twice at me, but +losing what you've never had sometimes is worse +than losing everything you've got. When she got +married I guess I knew a little about what the +martyrs went through. + +"Just after that George's widow got married again +and went away to live. It took a burden off the +rest of us, but I had got attached to the children. +The little girl, Ellen, seemed 'most like my own. +Then poor Myrtle came here to live. She did +dressmaking and boarded with our folks, and I +begun to see that she was one of the nervous sort of +women who are pretty bad off alone in the world, +and I told her about the other girl, and she said she +didn't mind, and we got married. By that time +mother's brother John -- he had never got married -- +died and left her a little money, so she and my sister +Abby could screw along. They bought the little +house they live in and left the farm, for Abby was +always hard to get along with, though she is a +good woman. Mother, though she is a smart woman, +is one of the sort who don't feel called upon to inter- +fere much with men-folks. I guess she didn't inter- +fere any too much for my good, or father's, either. +Father was a set man. I guess if mother had been a +little harsh with me I might not have asked that +awful 'why?' I guess I might have taken my bitter +pills and held my tongue, but I won't blame myself +on poor mother. + +"Myrtle and I get on well enough. She seems +contented -- she has never said a word to make me +think she wasn't. She isn't one of the kind of +women who want much besides decent treatment +and a home. Myrtle is a good woman. I am sorry +for her that she got married to me, for she deserved +somebody who could make her a better husband. +All the time, every waking minute, I've been growing +more and more rebellious. + +"You see, Mr. Wheaton, never in this world have +I had what I wanted, and more than wanted -- +needed, and needed far more than happiness. I +have never been able to think of work as anything +but a way to get money, and it wasn't right, not +for a man like me, with the feelings I was born with. +And everything has gone wrong even about the +work for the money. I have been hampered and +hindered, I don't know whether by Providence or +the Evil One. I have saved just six hundred and +forty dollars, and I have only paid the interest on +the mortgage. I knew I ought to have a little ahead +in case Myrtle or I got sick, so I haven't tried to +pay the mortgage, but put a few dollars at a time +in the savings-bank, which will come in handy now." + +The minister regarded him uneasily. "What," he +asked, "do you mean to do?" + +"I mean," replied Christopher, "to stop trying to +do what I am hindered in doing, and do just once in +my life what I want to do. Myrtle asked me this +morning if I wasn't going to plow the south field. +Well, I ain't going to plow the south field. I ain't +going to make a garden. I ain't going to try for +hay in the ten-acre lot. I have stopped. I have +worked for nothing except just enough to keep soul +and body together. I have had bad luck. But that +isn't the real reason why I have stopped. Look at +here, Mr. Wheaton, spring is coming. I have never +in my life had a chance at the spring nor the summer. +This year I'm going to have the spring and the sum- +mer, and the fall, too, if I want it. My apples may +fall and rot if they want to. I am going to get as +much good of the season as they do." + +"What are you going to do?" asked Stephen. + +"Well, I will tell you. I ain't a man to make +mystery if I am doing right, and I think I am. You +know, I've got a little shack up on Silver Mountain +in the little sugar-orchard I own there; never got +enough sugar to say so, but I put up the shack one +year when I was fool enough to think I might get +something. Well, I'm going up there, and I'm going +to live there awhile, and I'm going to sense the +things I have had to hustle by for the sake of a +few dollars and cents." + +"But what will your wife do?" + +"She can have the money I've saved, all except +enough to buy me a few provisions. I sha'n't need +much. I want a little corn meal, and I will have a +few chickens, and there is a barrel of winter apples +left over that she can't use, and a few potatoes. +There is a spring right near the shack, and there are +trout-pools, and by and by there will be berries, +and there's plenty of fire-wood, and there's an old +bed and a stove and a few things in the shack. +Now, I'm going to the store and buy what I want, +and I'm going to fix it so Myrtle can draw the money +when she wants it, and then I am going to the +shack, and" -- Christopher's voice took on a solemn +tone -- "I will tell you in just a few words the gist +of what I am going for. I have never in my life +had enough of the bread of life to keep my soul +nourished. I have tried to do my duties, but I believe +sometimes duties act on the soul like weeds on a +flower. They crowd it out. I am going up on Silver +Mountain to get once, on this earth, my fill of the +bread of life." + +Stephen Wheaton gasped. "But your wife, she +will be alone, she will worry." + +"I want you to go and tell her," said Christopher, +"and I've got my bank-book here; I'm going to +write some checks that she can get cashed when she +needs money. I want you to tell her. Myrtle won't +make a fuss. She ain't the kind. Maybe she will +be a little lonely, but if she is, she can go and visit +somewhere." Christopher rose. "Can you let me +have a pen and ink?" said he, "and I will write +those checks. You can tell Myrtle how to use +them. She won't know how." + +Stephen Wheaton, an hour later, sat in his study, +the checks in his hand, striving to rally his courage. +Christopher had gone; he had seen him from his +window, laden with parcels, starting upon the ascent +of Silver Mountain. Christopher had made out +many checks for small amounts, and Stephen held +the sheaf in his hand, and gradually his courage +to arise and go and tell Christopher's wife gained +strength. At last he went. + +Myrtle was looking out of the window, and she +came quickly to the door. She looked at him, her +round, pretty face gone pale, her plump hands +twitching at her apron. + +"What is it?" said she. + +"Nothing to be alarmed about," replied Stephen. + +Then the two entered the house. Stephen found +his task unexpectedly easy. Myrtle Dodd was an +unusual woman in a usual place. + +"It is all right for my husband to do as he pleases," +she said with an odd dignity, as if she were defending +him. + +"Mr. Dodd is a strange man. He ought to have +been educated and led a different life," Stephen said, +lamely, for he reflected that the words might be +hard for the woman to hear, since she seemed obvi- +ously quite fitted to her life, and her life to her. + +But Myrtle did not take it hardly, seemingly rather +with pride. "Yes," said she, "Christopher ought +to have gone to college. He had the head for it. +Instead of that he has just stayed round here and +dogged round the farm, and everything has gone +wrong lately. He hasn't had any luck even with +that." Then poor Myrtle Dodd said an unexpectedly +wise thing. "But maybe," said Myrtle, "his bad +luck may turn out the best thing for him in the end." + +Stephen was silent. Then he began explaining +about the checks. + +"I sha'n't use any more of his savings than I can +help," said Myrtle, and for the first time her voice +quavered. "He must have some clothes up there," +said she. "There ain't bed-coverings, and it is +cold nights, late as it is in the spring. I wonder +how I can get the bedclothes and other things to +him. I can't drive, myself, and I don't like to hire +anybody; aside from its being an expense, it would +make talk. Mother Dodd and Abby won't make +talk outside the family, but I suppose it will have +to be known." + +"Mr. Dodd didn't want any mystery made over +it," Stephen Wheaton said. + +"There ain't going to be any mystery. Christo- +pher has got a right to live awhile on Silver Mountain +if he wants to," returned Myrtle with her odd, +defiant air. + +"But I will take the things up there to him, if you +will let me have a horse and wagon," said Stephen. + +"I will, and be glad. When will you go?" + +"To-morrow." + +"I'll have them ready," said Myrtle. + +After the minister had gone she went into her +own bedroom and cried a little and made the moan +of a loving woman sadly bewildered by the ways +of man, but loyal as a soldier. Then she dried +her tears and began to pack a load for the +wagon. + +The next morning early, before the dew was off +the young grass, Stephen Wheaton started with the +wagon-load, driving the great gray farm-horse up +the side of Silver Mountain. The road was fairly +good, making many winds in order to avoid steep +ascents, and Stephen drove slowly. The gray farm- +horse was sagacious. He knew that an unaccustomed +hand held the lines; he knew that of a right he should +be treading the plowshares instead of climbing a +mountain on a beautiful spring morning. + +But as for the man driving, his face was radiant, +his eyes of young manhood lit with the light of the +morning. He had not owned it, but he himself had +sometimes chafed under the dull necessity of his life, +but here was excitement, here was exhilaration. He +drew the sweet air into his lungs, and the deeper +meaning of the spring morning into his soul. Christo- +pher Dodd interested him to the point of enthusiasm. +Not even the uneasy consideration of the lonely, +mystified woman in Dodd's deserted home could +deprive him of admiration for the man's flight into +the spiritual open. He felt that these rights of the +man were of the highest, and that other rights, even +human and pitiful ones, should give them the right +of way. + +It was not a long drive. When he reached the +shack -- merely a one-roomed hut, with a stove- +pipe chimney, two windows, and a door -- Christo- +pher stood at the entrance and seemed to illuminate +it. Stephen for a minute doubted his identity. +Christopher had lost middle age in a day's time. +He had the look of a triumphant youth. Blue smoke +was curling from the chimney. Stephen smelled +bacon frying, and coffee. + +Christopher greeted him with the joyousness of +a child. "Lord!" said he, "did Myrtle send you up +with all those things? Well, she is a good woman. +Guess I would have been cold last night if I hadn't +been so happy. How is Myrtle?" + +"She seemed to take it very sensibly when I told +her." + +Christopher nodded happily and lovingly. "She +would. She can understand not understanding, and +that is more than most women can. It was mighty +good of you to bring the things. You are in time +for breakfast. Lord! Mr. Wheaton, smell the trees, +and there are blooms hidden somewhere that smell +sweet. Think of having the common food of man +sweetened this way! First time I fully sensed I was +something more than just a man. Lord, I am paid +already. It won't be so very long before I get my +fill, at this rate, and then I can go back. To think +I needn't plow to-day! To think all I have to do +is to have the spring! See the light under those +trees!" + +Christopher spoke like a man in ecstasy. He tied +the gray horse to a tree and brought a pail of water +for him from the spring near by. + +Then he said to Stephen: "Come right in. The +bacon's done, and the coffee and the corn-cake and +the eggs won't take a minute." + +The two men entered the shack. There was noth- +ing there except the little cooking-stove, a few +kitchen utensils hung on pegs on the walls, an old +table with a few dishes, two chairs, and a lounge +over which was spread an ancient buffalo-skin. + +Stephen sat down, and Christopher fried the eggs. +Then he bade the minister draw up, and the two +men breakfasted. + +"Ain't it great, Mr. Wheaton?" said Christopher. + +"You are a famous cook, Mr. Dodd," laughed +Stephen. He was thoroughly enjoying himself, and +the breakfast was excellent. + +"It ain't that," declared Christopher in his ex- +alted voice. "It ain't that, young man. It's be- +cause the food is blessed." + +Stephen stayed all day on Silver Mountain. He +and Christopher went fishing, and had fried trout for +dinner. He took some of the trout home to Myrtle. + +Myrtle received them with a sort of state which +defied the imputation of sadness. "Did he seem +comfortable?" she asked. + +"Comfortable, Mrs. Dodd? I believe it will mean +a new lease of life to your husband. He is an un- +common man." + +"Yes, Christopher is uncommon; he always was," +assented Myrtle. + +"You have everything you want? You were not +timid last night alone?" asked the minister. + +"Yes, I was timid. I heard queer noises," said +Myrtle, "but I sha'n't be alone any more. Chris- +topher's niece wrote me she was coming to make +a visit. She has been teaching school, and she lost +her school. I rather guess Ellen is as uncommon for +a girl as Christopher is for a man. Anyway, she's +lost her school, and her brother's married, and she +don't want to go there. Besides, they live in Boston, +and Ellen, she says she can't bear the city in spring +and summer. She wrote she'd saved a little, and +she'd pay her board, but I sha'n't touch a dollar of +her little savings, and neither would Christopher +want me to. He's always thought a sight of Ellen, +though he's never seen much of her. As for me, I +was so glad when her letter came I didn't know +what to do. Christopher will be glad. I suppose +you'll be going up there to see him off and +on." Myrtle spoke a bit wistfully, and Ste- +phen did not tell her he had been urged to come +often. + +"Yes, off and on," he replied. + +"If you will just let me know when you are going, +I will see that you have something to take to him +-- some bread and pies." + +"He has some chickens there," said Stephen. + +"Has he got a coop for them?" + +"Yes, he had one rigged up. He will have plenty +of eggs, and he carried up bacon and corn meal and +tea and coffee." + +"I am glad of that," said Myrtle. She spoke with +a quiet dignity, but her face never lost its expression +of bewilderment and resignation. + +The next week Stephen Wheaton carried Myrtle's +bread and pies to Christopher on his mountainside. +He drove Christopher's gray horse harnessed in his +old buggy, and realized that he himself was getting +much pleasure out of the other man's idiosyncrasy. +The morning was beautiful, and Stephen carried in +his mind a peculiar new beauty, besides. Ellen, +Christopher's niece, had arrived the night before, +and, early as it was, she had been astir when he +reached the Dodd house. She had opened the door +for him, and she was a goodly sight: a tall girl, +shaped like a boy, with a fearless face of great beauty +crowned with compact gold braids and lit by un- +swerving blue eyes. Ellen had a square, determined +chin and a brow of high resolve. + +"Good morning," said she, and as she spoke she +evidently rated Stephen and approved, for she smiled +genially. "I am Mr. Dodd's niece," said she. "You +are the minister?" + +"Yes." + +"And you have come for the things aunt is to +send him?" + +"Yes." + +"Aunt said you were to drive uncle's horse and +take the buggy," said Ellen. "It is very kind of you. +While you are harnessing, aunt and I will pack the +basket." + +Stephen, harnessing the gray horse, had a sense +of shock; whether pleasant or otherwise, he could +not determine. He had never seen a girl in the least +like Ellen. Girls had never impressed him. She +did. + +When he drove around to the kitchen door she +and Myrtle were both there, and he drank a cup of +coffee before starting, and Myrtle introduced him. +"Only think, Mr. Wheaton," said she, "Ellen says +she knows a great deal about farming, and we are +going to hire Jim Mason and go right ahead." +Myrtle looked adoringly at Ellen. + +Stephen spoke eagerly. "Don't hire anybody," +he said. "I used to work on a farm to pay my way +through college. I need the exercise. Let me help." + +"You may do that," said Ellen, "on shares. +Neither aunt nor I can think of letting you work +without any recompense." + +"Well, we will settle that," Stephen replied. +When he drove away, his usually calm mind was in +a tumult. + +"Your niece has come," he told Christopher, +when the two men were breakfasting together on +Silver Mountain. + +"I am glad of that," said Christopher. "All that +troubled me about being here was that Myrtle might +wake up in the night and hear noises." + +Christopher had grown even more radiant. He +was effulgent with pure happiness. + +"You aren't going to tap your sugar-maples?" +said Stephen, looking up at the great symmetrical +efflorescence of rose and green which towered about +them. + +Christopher laughed. "No, bless 'em," said he, +"the trees shall keep their sugar this season. This +week is the first time I've had a chance to get ac- +quainted with them and sort of enter into their feel- +ings. Good Lord! I've seen how I can love those +trees, Mr. Wheaton! See the pink on their young +leaves! They know more than you and I. They +know how to grow young every spring." + +Stephen did not tell Christopher how Ellen and +Myrtle were to work the farm with his aid. The two +women had bade him not. Christopher seemed to +have no care whatever about it. He was simply +happy. When Stephen left, he looked at him and +said, with the smile of a child, "Do you think I am +crazy?" + +"Crazy? No," replied Stephen. + +"Well, I ain't. I'm just getting fed. I was starv- +ing to death. Glad you don't think I'm crazy, be- +cause I couldn't help matters by saying I wasn't. +Myrtle don't think I am, I know. As for Ellen, I +haven't seen her since she was a little girl. I don't +believe she can be much like Myrtle; but I guess if +she is what she promised to turn out she wouldn't +think anybody ought to go just her way to have it +the right way." + +"I rather think she is like that, although I saw +her for the first time this morning," said Stephen. + +"I begin to feel that I may not need to stay here +much longer," Christopher called after him. "I +begin to feel that I am getting what I came for so +fast that I can go back pretty soon." + +But it was the last day of July before he came. +He chose the cool of the evening after a burning day, +and descended the mountain in the full light of the +moon. He had gone up the mountain like an old +man; he came down like a young one. + +When he came at last in sight of his own home, +he paused and stared. Across the grass-land a +heavily laden wagon was moving toward his barn. +Upon this wagon heaped with hay, full of silver +lights from the moon, sat a tall figure all in white, +which seemed to shine above all things. Christopher +did not see the man on the other side of the wagon +leading the horses; he saw only this wonderful +white figure. He hurried forward and Myrtle came +down the road to meet him. She had been watch- +ing for him, as she had watched every night. + +"Who is it on the load of hay?" asked Christopher. + +"Ellen," replied Myrtle. + +"Oh!" said Christopher. "She looked like an +angel of the Lord, come to take up the burden I had +dropped while I went to learn of Him." + +"Be you feeling pretty well, Christopher?" asked +Myrtle. She thought that what her husband had +said was odd, but he looked well, and he might have +said it simply because he was a man. + +Christopher put his arm around Myrtle. "I am +better than I ever was in my whole life, Myrtle, +and I've got more courage to work now than I had +when I was young. I had to go away and get rested, +but I've got rested for all my life. We shall get +along all right as long as we live." + +"Ellen and the minister are going to get married +come Christmas," said Myrtle. + +"She is lucky. He is a man that can see with the +eyes of other people," said Christopher. + +It was after the hay had been unloaded and Chris- +topher had been shown the garden full of lusty +vegetables, and told of the great crop with no draw- +back, that he and the minister had a few minutes +alone together at the gate. + +"I want to tell you, Mr. Wheaton, that I am +settled in my mind now. I shall never complain +again, no matter what happens. I have found that +all the good things and all the bad things that come +to a man who tries to do right are just to prove to +him that he is on the right path. They are just the +flowers and sunbeams, and the rocks and snakes, +too, that mark the way. And -- I have found out +more than that. I have found out the answer to my +'why?'" + +"What is it?" asked Stephen, gazing at him curi- +ously from the wonder-height of his own special +happiness. + +"I have found out that the only way to heaven +for the children of men is through the earth," said +Christopher. + + + + + +DEAR ANNIE + + + + +DEAR ANNIE + +ANNIE HEMPSTEAD lived on a large family +canvas, being the eldest of six children. There +was only one boy. The mother was long since dead. +If one can imagine the Hempstead family, the head of +which was the Reverend Silas, pastor of the Orthodox +Church in Lynn Corners, as being the subject of a +mild study in village history, the high light would +probably fall upon Imogen, the youngest daughter. +As for Annie, she would apparently supply only a +part of the background. + +This afternoon in late July, Annie was out in the +front yard of the parsonage, assisting her brother +Benny to rake hay. Benny had not cut it. Annie +had hired a man, although the Hempsteads could +not afford to hire a man, but she had said to Benny, +"Benny, you can rake the hay and get it into the +barn if Jim Mullins cuts it, can't you?" And Benny +had smiled and nodded acquiescence. Benny Hemp- +stead always smiled and nodded acquiescence, but +there was in him the strange persistency of a willow +bough, the persistency of pliability, which is the +most unconquerable of all. Benny swayed gracefully +in response to all the wishes of others, but always he +remained in his own inadequate attitude toward life. + +Now he was raking to as little purpose as he could +and rake at all. The clover-tops, the timothy grass, +and the buttercups moved before his rake in a faint +foam of gold and green and rose, but his sister Annie +raised whirlwinds with hers. The Hempstead yard +was large and deep, and had two great squares given +over to wild growths on either side of the gravel walk, +which was bordered with shrubs, flowering in their +turn, like a class of children at school saying their +lessons. The spring shrubs had all spelled out their +floral recitations, of course, but great clumps of +peonies were spreading wide skirts of gigantic bloom, +like dancers courtesying low on the stage of summer, +and shafts of green-white Yucca lilies and Japan +lilies and clove-pinks still remained in their school +of bloom. + +Benny often stood still, wiped his forehead, leaned +on his rake, and inhaled the bouquet of sweet scents, +but Annie raked with never-ceasing energy. Annie +was small and slender and wiry, and moved with +angular grace, her thin, peaked elbows showing be- +neath the sleeves of her pink gingham dress, her thin +knees outlining beneath the scanty folds of the skirt. +Her neck was long, her shoulder-blades troubled the +back of her blouse at every movement. She was a +creature full of ostentatious joints, but the joints +were delicate and rhythmical and charming. Annie +had a charming face, too. It was thin and sun- +burnt, but still charming, with a sweet, eager, intent- +to-please outlook upon life. This last was the real +attitude of Annie's mind; it was, in fact, Annie. She +was intent to please from her toes to the crown of +her brown head. She radiated good will and loving- +kindness as fervently as a lily in the border radiated +perfume. + +It was very warm, and the northwest sky had a +threatening mountain of clouds. Occasionally An- +nie glanced at it and raked the faster, and thought +complacently of the water-proof covers in the little +barn. This hay was valuable for the Reverend Silas's +horse. + +Two of the front windows of the house were filled +with girls' heads, and the regular swaying movement +of white-clad arms sewing. The girls sat in the +house because it was so sunny on the piazza in the +afternoon. There were four girls in the sitting- +room, all making finery for themselves. On the +other side of the front door one of the two windows +was blank; in the other was visible a nodding gray +head, that of Annie's father taking his afternoon nap. + +Everything was still except the girls' tongues, an +occasional burst of laughter, and the crackling shrill +of locusts. Nothing had passed on the dusty road +since Benny and Annie had begun their work. Lynn +Corners was nothing more than a hamlet. It was +even seldom that an automobile got astray there, +being diverted from the little city of Anderson, six +miles away, by turning to the left instead of the right. + +Benny stopped again and wiped his forehead, all +pink and beaded with sweat. He was a pretty +young man -- as pretty as a girl, although large. He +glanced furtively at Annie, then he went with a soft, +padding glide, like a big cat, to the piazza and settled +down. He leaned his head against a post, closed his +eyes, and inhaled the sweetness of flowers alive and +dying, of new-mown hay. Annie glanced at him +and an angelic look came over her face. At that +moment the sweetness of her nature seemed actually +visible. + +"He is tired, poor boy!" she thought. She also +thought that probably Benny felt the heat more be- +cause he was stout. Then she raked faster and +faster. She fairly flew over the yard, raking the +severed grass and flowers into heaps. The air grew +more sultry. The sun was not yet clouded, but the +northwest was darker and rumbled ominously. + +The girls in the sitting-room continued to chatter +and sew. One of them might have come out to help +this little sister toiling alone, but Annie did not think +of that. She raked with the uncomplaining sweet- +ness of an angel until the storm burst. The rain +came down in solid drops, and the sky was a sheet +of clamoring flame. Annie made one motion toward +the barn, but there was no use. The hay was not +half cocked. There was no sense in running for +covers. Benny was up and lumbering into the house, +and her sisters were shutting windows and crying +out to her. Annie deserted her post and fled before +the wind, her pink skirts lashing her heels, her hair +dripping. + +When she entered the sitting-room her sisters, +Imogen, Eliza, Jane, and Susan, were all there; also +her father, Silas, tall and gaunt and gray. To the +Hempsteads a thunder-storm partook of the nature +of a religious ceremony. The family gathered to- +gether, and it was understood that they were all +offering prayer and recognizing God as present on +the wings of the tempest. In reality they were all +very nervous in thunder-storms, with the exception +of Annie. She always sent up a little silent petition +that her sisters and brother and father, and the horse +and dog and cat, might escape danger, although she +had never been quite sure that she was not wicked +in including the dog and cat. She was surer about +the horse because he was the means by which her +father made pastoral calls upon his distant sheep. +Then afterward she just sat with the others and +waited until the storm was over and it was time to +open windows and see if the roof had leaked. To- +day, however, she was intent upon the hay. In a +lull of the tempest she spoke. + +"It is a pity," she said, "that I was not able to +get the hay cocked and the covers on." + +Then Imogen turned large, sarcastic blue eyes +upon her. Imogen was considered a beauty, pink +and white, golden-haired, and dimpled, with a curi- +ous calculating hardness of character and a sharp +tongue, so at variance with her appearance that +people doubted the evidence of their senses. + +"If," said Imogen, "you had only made Benny +work instead of encouraging him to dawdle and +finally to stop altogether, and if you had gone out +directly after dinner, the hay would have been all +raked up and covered." + +Nothing could have exceeded the calm and in- +structive superiority of Imogen's tone. A mass of +soft white fabric lay upon her lap, although she had +removed scissors and needle and thimble to a safe +distance. She tilted her chin with a royal air. When +the storm lulled she had stopped praying. + +Imogen's sisters echoed her and joined in the at- +tack upon Annie. + +"Yes," said Jane, "if you had only started earlier, +Annie. I told Eliza when you went out in the yard +that it looked like a shower." + +Eliza nodded energetically. + +"It was foolish to start so late," said Susan, with +a calm air of wisdom only a shade less exasperating +than Imogen's. + +"And you always encourage Benny so in being +lazy," said Eliza. + +Then the Reverend Silas joined in. "You should +have more sense of responsibility toward your broth- +er, your only brother, Annie," he said, in his deep +pulpit voice. + +"It was after two o'clock when you went out," +said Imogen. + +"And all you had to do was the dinner-dishes, and +there were very few to-day," said Jane. + +Then Annie turned with a quick, cat-like motion. +Her eyes blazed under her brown toss of hair. She +gesticulated with her little, nervous hands. Her +voice was as sweet and intense as a reed, and withal +piercing with anger. + +"It was not half past one when I went out," said +she, "and there was a whole sinkful of dishes." + +"It was after two. I looked at the clock," said +Imogen. + +"It was not." + +"And there were very few dishes," said Jane. + +"A whole sinkful," said Annie, tense with wrath. + +"You always are rather late about starting," said +Susan. + +"I am not! I was not! I washed the dishes, and +swept the kitchen, and blacked the stove, and cleaned +the silver." + +"I swept the kitchen," said Imogen, severely. +"Annie, I am surprised at you." + +"And you know I cleaned the silver yesterday," +said Jane. + +Annie gave a gasp and looked from one to the +other. + +"You know you did not sweep the kitchen," said +Imogen. + +Annie's father gazed at her severely. "My dear," +he said, "how long must I try to correct you of this +habit of making false statements?" + +"Dear Annie does not realize that they are false +statements, father," said Jane. Jane was not pretty, +but she gave the effect of a long, sweet stanza of +some fine poetess. She was very tall and slender and +large-eyed, and wore always a serious smile. She +was attired in a purple muslin gown, cut V-shaped +at the throat, and, as always, a black velvet ribbon +with a little gold locket attached. The locket con- +tained a coil of hair. Jane had been engaged to a +young minister, now dead three years, and he had +given her the locket. + +Jane no doubt had mourned for her lover, but she +had a covert pleasure in the romance of her situation. +She was a year younger than Annie, and she had +loved and lost, and so had achieved a sentimental +distinction. Imogen always had admirers. Eliza +had been courted at intervals half-heartedly by a +widower, and Susan had had a few fleeting chances. +But Jane was the only one who had been really defi- +nite in her heart affairs. As for Annie, nobody ever +thought of her in such a connection. It was supposed +that Annie had no thought of marriage, that she was +foreordained to remain unwed and keep house for +her father and Benny. + +When Jane said that dear Annie did not realize +that she made false statements, she voiced an opinion +of the family before which Annie was always abso- +lutely helpless. Defense meant counter-accusation. +Annie could not accuse her family. She glanced +from one to the other. In her blue eyes were still +sparks of wrath, but she said nothing. She felt, as +always, speechless, when affairs reached such a junc- +ture. She began, in spite of her good sense, to feel +guiltily responsible for everything -- for the spoiling +of the hay, even for the thunder-storm. What was +more, she even wished to feel guiltily responsible. +Anything was better than to be sure her sisters were +not speaking the truth, that her father was blaming +her unjustly. + +Benny, who sat hunched upon himself with the +effect of one set of bones and muscles leaning upon +others for support, was the only one who spoke for +her, and even he spoke to little purpose. + +"One of you other girls," said he, in a thick, sweet +voice, "might have come out and helped Annie; +then she could have got the hay in." + +They all turned on him. + +"It is all very well for you to talk," said Imogen. +"I saw you myself quit raking hay and sit down on +the piazza." + +"Yes," assented Jane, nodding violently, "I saw +you, too." + +"You have no sense of your responsibility, Ben- +jamin, and your sister Annie abets you in evading +it," said Silas Hempstead with dignity. + +"Benny feels the heat," said Annie. + +"Father is entirely right," said Eliza. "Benja- +min has no sense of responsibility, and it is mainly +owing to Annie." + +"But dear Annie does not realize it," said +Jane. + +Benny got up lumberingly and left the room. He +loved his sister Annie, but he hated the mild simmer +of feminine rancor to which even his father's pres- +ence failed to add a masculine flavor. Benny was +always leaving the room and allowing his sisters +"to fight it out." + +Just after he left there was a tremendous peal +of thunder and a blue flash, and they all prayed +again, except Annie; who was occupied with her own +perplexities of life, and not at all afraid. She won- +dered, as she had wondered many times before, if +she could possibly be in the wrong, if she were spoil- +ing Benny, if she said and did things without know- +ing that she did so, or the contrary. Then suddenly +she tightened her mouth. She knew. This sweet- +tempered, anxious-to-please Annie was entirely sane, +she had unusual self-poise. She KNEW that she knew +what she did and said, and what she did not do or +say, and a strange comprehension of her family over- +whelmed her. Her sisters were truthful; she would +not admit anything else, even to herself; but they +confused desires and impulses with accomplishment. +They had done so all their lives, some of them from +intense egotism, some possibly from slight twists in +their mental organisms. As for her father, he had +simply rather a weak character, and was swayed by +the majority. Annie, as she sat there among the +praying group, made the same excuse for her sisters +that they made for her. "They don't realize it," +she said to herself. + +When the storm finally ceased she hurried up- +stairs and opened the windows, letting in the rain- +fresh air. Then she got supper, while her sisters +resumed their needlework. A curious conviction +seized her, as she was hurrying about the kitchen, +that in all probability some, if not all, of her sisters +considered that they were getting the supper. Pos- +sibly Jane had reflected that she ought to get supper, +then she had taken another stitch in her work and +had not known fairly that her impulse of duty had +not been carried out. Imogen, presumably, was sew- +ing with the serene consciousness that, since she was +herself, it followed as a matter of course that she was +performing all the tasks of the house. + +While Annie was making an omelet Benny came +out into the kitchen and stood regarding her, hands +in pockets, making, as usual, one set of muscles rest +upon another. His face was full of the utmost good +nature, but it also convicted him of too much sloth +to obey its commands. + +"Say, Annie, what on earth makes them all pick +on you so?" he observed. + +"Hush, Benny! They don't mean to. They don't +know it." + +"But say, Annie, you must know that they tell +whoppers. You DID sweep the kitchen." + +"Hush, Benny! Imogen really thinks she swept +it." + +"Imogen always thinks she has done everything +she ought to do, whether she has done it or not," +said Benny, with unusual astuteness. "Why don't +you up and tell her she lies, Annie?" + +"She doesn't really lie," said Annie. + +"She does lie, even if she doesn't know it," said +Benny; "and what is more, she ought to be made to +know it. Say, Annie, it strikes me that you are +doing the same by the girls that they accuse you of +doing by me. Aren't you encouraging them in evil +ways?" + +Annie started, and turned and stared at him. + +Benny nodded. "I can't see any difference," he +said. "There isn't a day but one of the girls thinks +she has done something you have done, or hasn't +done something you ought to have done, and they +blame you all the time, when you don't deserve it, +and you let them, and they don't know it, and I +don't think myself that they know they tell whop- +pers; but they ought to know. Strikes me you are +just spoiling the whole lot, father thrown in, Annie. +You are a dear, just as they say, but you are too +much of a dear to be good for them." + +Annie stared. + +"You are letting that omelet burn," said Benny. +"Say, Annie, I will go out and turn that hay in +the morning. I know I don't amount to much, but +I ain't a girl, anyhow, and I haven't got a cross-eyed +soul. That's what ails a lot of girls. They mean all +right, but their souls have been cross-eyed ever +since they came into the world, and it's just such +girls as you who ought to get them straightened +out. You know what has happened to-day. Well, +here's what happened yesterday. I don't tell tales, +but you ought to know this, for I believe Tom Reed +has his eye on you, in spite of Imogen's being such +a beauty, and Susan's having manners like silk, +and Eliza's giving everybody the impression that +she is too good for this earth, and Jane's trying to +make everybody think she is a sweet martyr, with- +out a thought for mortal man, when that is only +her way of trying to catch one. You know Tom +Reed was here last evening?" + +Annie nodded. Her face turned scarlet, then +pathetically pale. She bent over her omelet, care- +fully lifting it around the edges. + +"Well," Benny went on, "I know he came to see +you, and Imogen went to the door and ushered him +into the parlor, and I was out on the piazza, and +she didn't know it, but I heard her tell him that she +thought you had gone out. She hinted, too, that +George Wells had taken you to the concert in the +town hall. He did ask you, didn't he?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, Imogen spoke in this way." Benny +lowered his voice and imitated Imogen to the life. +"'Yes, we are all well, thank you. Father is busy, +of course; Jane has run over to Mrs. Jacobs's for +a pattern; Eliza is writing letters; and Susan is +somewhere about the house. Annie -- well, Annie -- +George Wells asked her to go to the concert -- I +rather --' Then," said Benny, in his natural voice, +"Imogen stopped, and she could say truthfully +that she didn't lie, but anybody would have thought +from what she said that you had gone to the concert +with George Wells." + +"Did Tom inquire for me?" asked Annie, in a +low voice. + +"Didn't have a chance. Imogen got ahead of +him." + +"Oh, well, then it doesn't matter. I dare say he +did come to see Imogen." + +"He didn't," said Benny, stoutly. "And that +isn't all. Say, Annie --" + +"What?" + +"Are you going to marry George Wells? It is +none of my business, but are you?" + +Annie laughed a little, although her face was still +pale. She had folded the omelet and was carefully +watching it. + +"You need not worry about that, Benny dear," +she said. + +"Then what right have the girls to tell so many +people the nice things they hear you say about him?" + +Annie removed the omelet skilfully from the pan +to a hot plate, which she set on the range shelf, and +turned to her brother. + +"What nice things do they hear me say?" + +"That he is so handsome; that he has such a +good position; that he is the very best young man +in the place; that you should think every girl +would be head over heels in love with him; that +every word he speaks is so bright and clever." + +Annie looked at her brother. + +"I don't believe you ever said one of those things," +remarked Benny. + +Annie continued to look at him. + +"Did you?" + +"Benny dear, I am not going to tell you." + +"You won't say you never did, because that +would be putting your sisters in the wrong and +admitting that they tell lies. Annie, you are a dear, +but I do think you are doing wrong and spoiling +them as much as they say you are spoiling me." + +"Perhaps I am," said Annie. There was a strange, +tragic expression on her keen, pretty little face. +She looked as if her mind was contemplating strenu- +ous action which was changing her very features. +She had covered the finished omelet and was now +cooking another. + +"I wish you would see if everybody is in the +house and ready, Benny," said she. "When this +omelet is done they must come right away, or nothing +will be fit to eat. And, Benny dear, if you don't +mind, please get the butter and the cream-pitcher +out of the ice-chest. I have everything else on the +table." + +"There is another thing," said Benny. "I don't +go about telling tales, but I do think it is time you +knew. The girls tell everybody that you like to do +the housework so much that they don't dare inter- +fere. And it isn't so. They may have taught them- +selves to think it is so, but it isn't. You would like +a little time for fancy-work and reading as well as +they do." + +"Please get the cream and butter, and see if +they are all in the house," said Annie. She spoke +as usual, but the strange expression remained in her +face. It was still there when the family were all +gathered at the table and she was serving the puffy +omelet. Jane noticed it first. + +"What makes you look so odd, Annie?" said she. + +"I don't know how I look odd," replied Annie. + +They all gazed at her then, her father with some +anxiety. "You don't look yourself," he said. "You +are feeling well, aren't you, Annie?" + +"Quite well, thank you, father." + +But after the omelet was served and the tea +poured Annie rose. + +"Where are you going, Annie?" asked Imogen, +in her sarcastic voice. + +"To my room, or perhaps out in the orchard." + +"It will be sopping wet out there after the shower," +said Eliza. "Are you crazy, Annie?" + +"I have on my black skirt, and I will wear rub- +bers," said Annie, quietly. "I want some fresh air." + +"I should think you had enough fresh air. You +were outdoors all the afternoon, while we were +cooped up in the house," said Jane. + +"Don't you feel well, Annie?" her father asked +again, a golden bit of omelet poised on his fork, as +she was leaving the room. + +"Quite well, father dear." + +"But you are eating no supper." + +"I have always heard that people who cook don't +need so much to eat," said Imogen. "They say +the essence of the food soaks in through the pores." + +"I am quite well," Annie repeated, and the door +closed behind her. + +"Dear Annie! She is always doing odd things +like this," remarked Jane. + +"Yes, she is, things that one cannot account for, +but Annie is a dear," said Susan. + +"I hope she is well," said Annie's father. + +"Oh, she is well enough. Don't worry, father," +said Imogen. "Dear Annie is always doing the +unexpected. She looks very well." + +"Yes, dear Annie is quite stout, for her," said Jane. + +"I think she is thinner than I have ever seen her, +and the rest of you look like stuffed geese," said +Benny, rudely. + +Imogen turned upon him in dignified wrath. +"Benny, you insult your sisters," said she. "Father, +you should really tell Benny that he should bridle +his tongue a little." + +"You ought to bridle yours, every one of you," +retorted Benny. "You girls nag poor Annie every +single minute. You let her do all the work, then +you pick at her for it." + +There was a chorus of treble voices. "We nag +dear Annie! We pick at dear Annie! We make +her do everything! Father, you should remonstrate +with Benjamin. You know how we all love dear +Annie!" + +"Benjamin," began Silas Hempstead, but Benny, +with a smothered exclamation, was up and out of +the room. + +Benny quite frankly disliked his sisters, with the +exception of Annie. For his father he had a sort of +respectful tolerance. He could not see why he should +have anything else. His father had never done +anything for him except to admonish him. His +scanty revenue for his support and college expenses +came from his maternal grandmother, who had been +a woman of parts and who had openly scorned her +son-in-law. + +Grandmother Loomis had left a will which occa- +sioned much comment. By its terms she had pro- +vided sparsely but adequately for Benjamin's edu- +cation and living until he should graduate; and her +house, with all her personal property, and the bulk of +the sum from which she had derived her own income, +fell to her granddaughter Annie. Annie had always +been her grandmother's favorite. There had been +covert dismay when the contents of the will were +made known, then one and all had congratulated +the beneficiary, and said abroad that they were glad +dear Annie was so well provided for. It was inti- +mated by Imogen and Eliza that probably dear +Annie would not marry, and in that case Grand- +mother Loomis's bequest was so fortunate. She had +probably taken that into consideration. Grand- +mother Loomis had now been dead four years, and +her deserted home had been for rent, furnished, but +it had remained vacant. + +Annie soon came back from the orchard, and after +she had cleared away the supper-table and washed +the dishes she went up to her room, carefully re- +arranged her hair, and changed her dress. Then she +sat down beside a window and waited and watched, +her pointed chin in a cup of one little thin hand, her +soft muslin skirts circling around her, and the scent +of queer old sachet emanating from a flowered ribbon +of her grandmother's which she had tied around her +waist. The ancient scent always clung to the rib- +bon, suggesting faintly as a dream the musk and +roses and violets of some old summer-time. + +Annie sat there and gazed out on the front yard, +which was silvered over with moonlight. Annie's +four sisters all sat out there. They had spread a +rug over the damp grass and brought out chairs. +There were five chairs, although there were only +four girls. Annie gazed over the yard and down the +street. She heard the chatter of the girls, which +was inconsequent and absent, as if their minds were +on other things than their conversation. Then sud- +denly she saw a small red gleam far down the street, +evidently that of a cigar, and also a dark, moving +figure. Then there ensued a subdued wrangle in +the yard. Imogen insisted that her sisters should +go into the house. They all resisted, Eliza the most +vehemently. Imogen was arrogant and compelling. +Finally she drove them all into the house except +Eliza, who wavered upon the threshold of yielding. +Imogen was obliged to speak very softly lest the ap- +proaching man hear, but Annie, in the window above +her, heard every word. + +"You know he is coming to see me," said Imogen, +passionately. "You know -- you know, Eliza, and +yet every single time he comes, here are you girls, +spying and listening." + +"He comes to see Annie, I believe," said Eliza, +in her stubborn voice, which yet had indecision in it. + +"He never asks for her." + +"He never has a chance. We all tell him, the +minute he comes in, that she is out. But now I am +going to stay, anyway." + +"Stay if you want to. You are all a jealous lot. +If you girls can't have a beau yourselves, you be- +grudge one to me. I never saw such a house as this +for a man to come courting in." + +"I will stay," said Eliza, and this time her voice +was wholly firm. "There is no use in my going, +anyway, for the others are coming back." + +It was true. Back flitted Jane and Susan, and by +that time Tom Reed had reached the gate, and his cigar +was going out in a shower of sparks on the gravel +walk, and all four sisters were greeting him and +urging upon his acceptance the fifth chair. Annie, +watching, saw that the young man seemed to hesi- +tate. Then her heart leaped and she heard him +speak quite plainly, with a note of defiance and irri- +tation, albeit with embarrassment. + +"Is Miss Annie in?" asked Tom Reed. + +Imogen answered first, and her harsh voice was +honey-sweet. + +"I fear dear Annie is out," she said. "She will +be so sorry to miss you." + +Annie, at her window, made a sudden passionate +motion, then she sat still and listened. She argued +fiercely that she was right in so doing. She felt that +the time had come when she must know, for the sake +of her own individuality, just what she had to deal +with in the natures of her own kith and kin. Dear +Annie had turned in her groove of sweetness and +gentle yielding, as all must turn who have any +strength of character underneath the sweetness and +gentleness. Therefore Annie, at her window above, +listened. + +At first she heard little that bore upon herself, +for the conversation was desultory, about the weather +and general village topics. Then Annie heard her +own name. She was "dear Annie," as usual. She +listened, fairly faint with amazement. What she +heard from that quartette of treble voices down there +in the moonlight seemed almost like a fairy-tale. +The sisters did not violently incriminate her. They +were too astute for that. They told half-truths. +They told truths which were as shadows of the real +facts, and yet not to be contradicted. They built +up between them a story marvelously consist- +ent, unless prearranged, and that Annie did not +think possible. George Wells figured in the tale, +and there were various hints and pauses concerning +herself and her own character in daily life, and not +one item could be flatly denied, even if the girl could +have gone down there and, standing in the midst +of that moonlit group, given her sisters the lie. + +Everything which they told, the whole structure +of falsehood, had beams and rafters of truth. Annie +felt helpless before it all. To her fancy, her sisters +and Tom Reed seemed actually sitting in a fairy +building whose substance was utter falsehood, and +yet which could not be utterly denied. An awful +sense of isolation possessed her. So these were her +own sisters, the sisters whom she had loved as a +matter of the simplest nature, whom she had ad- +mired, whom she had served. + +She made no allowance, since she herself was per- +fectly normal, for the motive which underlay it all. +She could not comprehend the strife of the women +over the one man. Tom Reed was in reality the one +desirable match in the village. Annie knew, or +thought she knew, that Tom Reed had it in mind +to love her, and she innocently had it in mind to +love him. She thought of a home of her own and +his with delight. She thought of it as she thought +of the roses coming into bloom in June, and she +thought of it as she thought of the every-day hap- +penings of life -- cooking, setting rooms in order, +washing dishes. However, there was something +else to reckon with, and that Annie instinctively +knew. She had been long-suffering, and her long- +suffering was now regarded as endless. She had +cast her pearls, and they had been trampled. She +had turned her other cheek, and it had been promptly +slapped. It was entirely true that Annie's sisters +were not quite worthy of her, that they had taken +advantage of her kindness and gentleness, and had +mistaken them for weakness, to be despised. She +did not understand them, nor they her. They +were, on the whole, better than she thought, but +with her there was a stern limit of endurance. Some- +thing whiter and hotter than mere wrath was in the +girl's soul as she sat there and listened to the build- +ing of that structure of essential falsehood about +herself. + +She waited until Tom Reed had gone. He did +not stay long. Then she went down-stairs with +flying feet, and stood among them in the moonlight. +Her father had come out of the study, and Benny +had just been entering the gate as Tom Reed left. +Then dear Annie spoke. She really spoke for the +first time in her life, and there was something dread- +ful about it all. A sweet nature is always rather +dreadful when it turns and strikes, and Annie struck +with the whole force of a nature with a foundation +of steel. She left nothing unsaid. She defended +herself and she accused her sisters as if before a +judge. Then came her ultimatum. + +"To-morrow morning I am going over to Grand- +mother Loomis's house, and I am going to live there +a whole year," she declared, in a slow, steady voice. +"As you know, I have enough to live on, and -- in +order that no word of mine can be garbled and twisted +as it has been to-night, I speak not at all. Every- +thing which I have to communicate shall be written +in black and white, and signed with my own name, +and black and white cannot lie." + +It was Jane who spoke first. "What will people +say?" she whimpered, feebly. + +"From what I have heard you all say to-night, +whatever you make them," retorted Annie -- the +Annie who had turned. + +Jane gasped. Silas Hempstead stood staring, +quite dumb before the sudden problem. Imogen +alone seemed to have any command whatever of +the situation. + +"May I inquire what the butcher and grocer are +going to think, no matter what your own sisters +think and say, when you give your orders in writ- +ing?" she inquired, achieving a jolt from tragedy +to the commonplace. + +"That is my concern," replied Annie, yet she +recognized the difficulty of that phase of the situa- +tion. It is just such trifling matters which detract +from the dignity of extreme attitudes toward ex- +istence. Annie had taken an extreme attitude, +yet here were the butcher and the grocer to reckon +with. How could she communicate with them in +writing without appearing absurd to the verge of +insanity? Yet even that difficulty had a solution. + +Annie thought it out after she had gone to bed +that night. She had been imperturbable with her +sisters, who had finally come in a body to make +entreaties, although not apologies or retractions. +There was a stiff-necked strain in the Hempstead +family, and apologies and retractions were bitterer +cuds for them to chew than for most. She had been +imperturbable with her father, who had quoted +Scripture and prayed at her during family worship. +She had been imperturbable even with Benny, who +had whispered to her: "Say, Annie, I don't blame +you, but it will be a hell of a time without you. +Can't you stick it out?" + +But she had had a struggle before her own vision +of the butcher and the grocer, and their amazement +when she ceased to speak to them. Then she settled +that with a sudden leap of inspiration. It sounded +too apropos to be life, but there was a little deaf-and- +dumb girl, a far-away relative of the Hempsteads, +who lived with her aunt Felicia in Anderson. She +was a great trial to her aunt Felicia, who was a +widow and well-to-do, and liked the elegancies and +normalities of life. This unfortunate little Effie +Hempstead could not be placed in a charitable insti- +tution on account of the name she bore. Aunt +Felicia considered it her worldly duty to care for +her, but it was a trial. + +Annie would take Effie off Aunt Felicia's hands, +and no comment would be excited by a deaf-and- +dumb girl carrying written messages to the trades- +men, since she obviously could not give them orally. +The only comment would be on Annie's conduct +in holding herself aloof from her family and the +village people generally. + +The next morning, when Annie went away, there +was an excited conclave among the sisters. + +"She means to do it," said Susan, and she wept. + +Imogen's handsome face looked hard and set. +"Let her, if she wants to," said she. + +"Only think what people will say!" wailed Jane. + +Imogen tossed her head. "I shall have some- +thing to say myself," she returned. "I shall say how +much we all regret that dear Annie has such a +difficult disposition that she felt she could not live +with her own family and must be alone." + +"But," said Jane, blunt in her distress, "will they +believe it?" + +"Why will they not believe it, pray?" + +"Why, I am afraid people have the impression +that dear Annie has --" Jane hesitated. + +"What?" asked Imogen, coldly. She looked very +handsome that morning. Not a waved golden hair +was out of place on her carefully brushed head. +She wore the neatest of blue linen skirts and blouses, +with a linen collar and white tie. There was some- +thing hard but compelling about her blond beauty. + +"I am afraid," said Jane, "that people have a +sort of general impression that dear Annie has per- +haps as sweet a disposition as any of us, perhaps +sweeter." + +"Nobody says that dear Annie has not a sweet +disposition," said Imogen, taking a careful stitch in +her embroidery. "But a sweet disposition is very +often extremely difficult for other people. It con- +stantly puts them in the wrong. I am well aware of +the fact that dear Annie does a great deal for all +of us, but it is sometimes irritating. Of course +it is quite certain that she must have a feeling +of superiority because of it, and she should not +have it." + +Sometimes Eliza made illuminating speeches. "I +suppose it follows, then," said she, with slight irony, +"that only an angel can have a very sweet disposi- +tion without offending others." + +But Imogen was not in the least nonplussed. +She finished her line of thought. "And with all her +sweet disposition," said she, "nobody can deny +that dear Annie is peculiar, and peculiarity always +makes people difficult for other people. Of course +it is horribly peculiar what she is proposing to do +now. That in itself will be enough to convince +people that dear Annie must be difficult. Only a +difficult person could do such a strange thing." + +"Who is going to get up and get breakfast in the +morning, and wash the dishes?" inquired Jane, +irrelevantly. + +"All I ever want for breakfast is a bit of fruit, a +roll, and an egg, besides my coffee," said Imogen, +with her imperious air. + +"Somebody has to prepare it." + +"That is a mere nothing," said Imogen, and she +took another stitch. + +After a little, Jane and Eliza went by themselves +and discussed the problem. + +"It is quite evident that Imogen means to do +nothing," said Jane. + +"And also that she will justify herself by the +theory that there is nothing to be done," said Eliza. + +"Oh, well," said Jane, "I will get up and get +breakfast, of course. I once contemplated the pros- +pect of doing it the rest of my life." + +Eliza assented. "I can understand that it will +not be so hard for you," she said, "and although I +myself always aspired to higher things than preparing +breakfasts, still, you did not, and it is true that you +would probably have had it to do if poor Henry +had lived, for he was not one to ever have a very +large salary." + +"There are better things than large salaries," +said Jane, and her face looked sadly reminiscent. +After all, the distinction of being the only one who +had been on the brink of preparing matrimonial +breakfasts was much. She felt that it would make +early rising and early work endurable to her, although +she was not an active young woman. + +"I will get a dish-mop and wash the dishes," said +Eliza. "I can manage to have an instructive book +propped open on the kitchen table, and keep my +mind upon higher things as I do such menial tasks." + +Then Susan stood in the doorway, a tall figure +gracefully swaying sidewise, long-throated and promi- +nent-eyed. She was the least attractive-looking of +any of the sisters, but her manners were so charming, +and she was so perfectly the lady, that it made up +for any lack of beauty. + +"I will dust," said Susan, in a lovely voice, and +as she spoke she involuntarily bent and swirled her +limp muslins in such a way that she fairly suggested +a moral duster. There was the making of an actress +in Susan. Nobody had ever been able to decide what +her true individual self was. Quite unconsciously, +like a chameleon, she took upon herself the charac- +teristics of even inanimate things. Just now she +was a duster, and a wonderfully creditable duster. + +"Who," said Jane, "is going to sweep? Dear +Annie has always done that." + +"I am not strong enough to sweep. I am very +sorry," said Susan, who remained a duster, and did +not become a broom. + +"If we have system," said Eliza, vaguely, "the +work ought not to be so very hard." + +"Of course not," said Imogen. She had come in +and seated herself. Her three sisters eyed her, but +she embroidered imperturbably. The same thought +was in the minds of all. Obviously Imogen was the +very one to take the task of sweeping upon herself. +That hard, compact, young body of hers suggested +strenuous household work. Embroidery did not +seem to be her role at all. + +But Imogen had no intention of sweeping. Indeed, +the very imagining of such tasks in connection with +herself was beyond her. She did not even dream +that her sisters expected it of her. + +"I suppose," said Jane, "that we might be able +to engage Mrs. Moss to come in once a week and +do the sweeping." + +"It would cost considerable," said Susan. + +"But it has to be done." + +"I should think it might be managed, with sys- +tem, if you did not hire anybody," said Imogen, +calmly. + +"You talk of system as if it were a suction cleaner," +said Eliza, with a dash of asperity. Sometimes she +reflected how she would have hated Imogen had +she not been her sister. + +"System is invaluable," said Imogen. She looked +away from her embroidery to the white stretch of +country road, arched over with elms, and her beau- +tiful eyes had an expression as if they sighted sys- +tem, the justified settler of all problems. + +Meantime, Annie Hempstead was traveling to +Anderson in the jolting trolley-car, and trying to +settle her emotions and her outlook upon life, which +jolted worse than the car upon a strange new track. +She had not the slightest intention of giving up her +plan, but she realized within herself the sensations +of a revolutionist. Who in her family, for generations +and generations, had ever taken the course which +she was taking? She was not exactly frightened +-- Annie had splendid courage when once her blood +was up -- but she was conscious of a tumult and grind +of adjustment to a new level which made her nervous. + +She reached the end of the car line, then walked +about half a mile to her Aunt Felicia Hempstead's +house. It was a handsome house, after the standard +of nearly half a century ago. It had an opulent air, +with its swelling breasts of bay windows, through +which showed fine lace curtains; its dormer-windows, +each with its carefully draped curtains; its black- +walnut front door, whose side-lights were screened +with medallioned lace. The house sat high on three +terraces of velvet-like grass, and was surmounted by +stone steps in three instalments, each of which was +flanked by stone lions. + +Annie mounted the three tiers of steps between the +stone lions and rang the front-door bell, which was +polished so brightly that it winked at her like a +brazen eye. Almost directly the door was opened +by an immaculate, white-capped and white-aproned +maid, and Annie was ushered into the parlor. When +Annie had been a little thing she had been enamoured +of and impressed by the splendor of this parlor. Now +she had doubts of it, in spite of the long, magnificent +sweep of lace curtains, the sheen of carefully kept +upholstery, the gleam of alabaster statuettes, and +the even piles of gilt-edged books upon the polished +tables. + +Soon Mrs. Felicia Hempstead entered, a tall, well- +set-up woman, with a handsome face and keen eyes. +She wore her usual morning costume -- a breakfast +sacque of black silk profusely trimmed with lace, +and a black silk skirt. She kissed Annie, with a +slight peck of closely set lips, for she liked her. Then +she sat down opposite her and regarded her with +as much of a smile as her sternly set mouth could +manage, and inquired politely regarding her health +and that of the family. When Annie broached the +subject of her call, the set calm of her face relaxed, +and she nodded. + +"I know what your sisters are. You need not +explain to me," she said. + +"But," returned Annie, "I do not think they +realize. It is only because I --" + +"Of course," said Felicia Hempstead. "It is be- +cause they need a dose of bitter medicine, and you +hope they will be the better for it. I understand you, +my dear. You have spirit enough, but you don't +get it up often. That is where they make their mis- +take. Often the meek are meek from choice, and +they are the ones to beware of. I don't blame you +for trying it. And you can have Effie and welcome. +I warn you that she is a little wearing. Of course +she can't help her affliction, poor child, but it is +dreadful. I have had her taught. She can read +and write very well now, poor child, and she is not +lacking, and I have kept her well dressed. I take +her out to drive with me every day, and am not +ashamed to have her seen with me. If she had all +her faculties she would not be a bad-looking little +girl. Now, of course, she has something of a vacant +expression. That comes, I suppose, from her not +being able to hear. She has learned to speak a few +words, but I don't encourage her doing that before +people. It is too evident that there is something +wrong. She never gets off one tone. But I will let +her speak to you. She will be glad to go with you. +She likes you, and I dare say you can put up with +her. A woman when she is alone will make a com- +panion of a brazen image. You can manage all right +for everything except her clothes and lessons. I +will pay for them." + +"Can't I give her lessons?" + +"Well, you can try, but I am afraid you will need +to have Mr. Freer come over once a week. It seems +to me to be quite a knack to teach the deaf and +dumb. You can see. I will have Effie come in and +tell her about the plan. I wanted to go to Europe +this summer, and did not know how to manage +about Effie. It will be a godsend to me, this ar- +rangement, and of course after the year is up she +can come back." + +With that Felicia touched a bell, the maid ap- +peared with automatic readiness, and presently a +tall little girl entered. She was very well dressed. +Her linen frock was hand-embroidered, and her shoes +were ultra. Her pretty shock of fair hair was tied +with French ribbon in a fetching bow, and she made +a courtesy which would have befitted a little prin- +cess. Poor Effie's courtesy was the one feature in +which Felicia Hempstead took pride. After making +it the child always glanced at her for approval, and +her face lighted up with pleasure at the faint smile +which her little performance evoked. Effie would +have been a pretty little girl had it not been for that +vacant, bewildered expression of which Felicia had +spoken. It was the expression of one shut up with +the darkest silence of life, that of her own self, and +beauty was incompatible with it. + +Felicia placed her stiff forefinger upon her own +lips and nodded, and the child's face became trans- +figured. She spoke in a level, awful voice, utterly +devoid of inflection, and full of fright. Her voice +was as the first attempt of a skater upon ice. How- +ever, it was intelligible. + +"Good morning," said she. "I hope you are well." +Then she courtesied again. That little speech and +one other, "Thank you, I am very well," were all +she had mastered. Effie's instruction had begun +rather late, and her teacher was not remarkably +skilful. + +When Annie's lips moved in response, Effie's face +fairly glowed with delight and affection. The little +girl loved Annie. Then her questioning eyes sought +Felicia, who beckoned, and drew from the pocket +of her rustling silk skirt a tiny pad and pencil. Effie +crossed the room and stood at attention while Felicia +wrote. When she had read the words on the pad she +gave one look at Annie, then another at Felicia, who +nodded. + +Effie courtesied before Annie like a fairy dancer. +"Good morning. I hope you are well," she said. +Then she courtesied again and said, "Thank you, +I am very well." Her pretty little face was quite +eager with love and pleasure, and yet there was an +effect as of a veil before the happy emotion in it. +The contrast between the awful, level voice and the +grace of motion and evident delight at once shocked +and compelled pity. Annie put her arms around +Effie and kissed her. + +"You dear little thing," she said, quite forgetting +that Effie could not hear. + +Felicia Hempstead got speedily to work, and soon +Effie's effects were packed and ready for transporta- +tion upon the first express to Lynn Corners, and +Annie and the little girl had boarded the trolley +thither. + +Annie Hempstead had the sensation of one who +takes a cold plunge -- half pain and fright, half exhil- +aration and triumph -- when she had fairly taken pos- +session of her grandmother's house. There was gen- +uine girlish pleasure in looking over the stock of +old china and linen and ancient mahoganies, in +starting a fire in the kitchen stove, and preparing +a meal, the written order for which Effie had taken +to the grocer and butcher. There was genuine de- +light in sitting down with Effie at her very own table, +spread with her grandmother's old damask and +pretty dishes, and eating, without hearing a word of +unfavorable comment upon the cookery. But there +was a certain pain and terror in trampling upon that +which it was difficult to define, either her conscience +or sense of the divine right of the conventional. + +But that night after Effie had gone to bed, and +the house was set to rights, and she in her cool muslin +was sitting on the front-door step, under the hooded +trellis covered with wistaria, she was conscious of +entire emancipation. She fairly gloated over her +new estate. + +"To-night one of the others will really have to +get the supper, and wash the dishes, and not be able +to say she did it and I didn't, when I did," Annie +thought with unholy joy. She knew perfectly well +that her viewpoint was not sanctified, but she felt +that she must allow her soul to have its little witch- +caper or she could not answer for the consequences. +There might result spiritual atrophy, which would +be much more disastrous than sin and repentance. +It was either the continuance of her old life in her +father's house, which was the ignominious and harm- +ful one of the scapegoat, or this. She at last reveled +in this. Here she was mistress. Here what she did, +she did, and what she did not do remained undone. +Here her silence was her invincible weapon. Here +she was free. + +The soft summer night enveloped her. The air +was sweet with flowers and the grass which lay still +unraked in her father's yard. A momentary feeling +of impatience seized her; then she dismissed it, and +peace came. What had she to do with that hay? +Her father would be obliged to buy hay if it were not +raked over and dried, but what of that? She had +nothing to do with it. + +She heard voices and soft laughter. A dark +shadow passed along the street. Her heart quick- +ened its beat. The shadow turned in at her father's +gate. There was a babel of welcoming voices, of +which Annie could not distinguish one articulate +word. She sat leaning forward, her eyes intent upon +the road. Then she heard the click of her father's gate +and the dark, shadowy figure reappeared in the road. +Annie knew who it was; she knew that Tom Reed +was coming to see her. For a second, rapture seized +her, then dismay. How well she knew her sisters -- +how very well! Not one of them would have given +him the slightest inkling of the true situation. They +would have told him, by the sweetest of insinuations, +rather than by straight statements, that she had left +her father's roof and come over here, but not one +word would have been told him concerning her vow +of silence. They would leave that for him to dis- +cover, to his amazement and anger. + +Annie rose and fled. She closed the door, turned +the key softly, and ran up-stairs in the dark. Kneel- +ing before a window on the farther side from her old +home, she watched with eager eyes the young man +open the gate and come up the path between the +old-fashioned shrubs. The clove-like fragrance of +the pinks in the border came in her face. Annie +watched Tom Reed disappear beneath the trellised +hood of the door; then the bell tinkled through the +house. It seemed to Annie that she heard it as she +had never heard anything before. Every nerve in her +body seemed urging her to rise and go down-stairs +and admit this young man whom she loved. But +her will, turned upon itself, kept her back. She +could not rise and go down; something stronger +than her own wish restrained her. She suffered +horribly, but she remained. The bell tinkled again. +There was a pause, then it sounded for the third +time. + +Annie leaned against the window, faint and trem- +bling. It was rather horrible to continue such a fight +between will and inclination, but she held out. She +would not have been herself had she not done so. +Then she saw Tom Reed's figure emerge from under +the shadow of the door, pass down the path between +the sweet-flowering shrubs, seeming to stir up the +odor of the pinks as he did so. He started to go +down the road; then Annie heard a loud, silvery call, +with a harsh inflection, from her father's house. +"Imogen is calling him back," she thought. + +Annie was out of the room, and, slipping softly +down-stairs and out into the yard, crouched close +to the fence overgrown with sweetbrier, its founda- +tion hidden in the mallow, and there she listened. +She wanted to know what Imogen and her other +sisters were about to say to Tom Reed, and she +meant to know. She heard every word. The dis- +tance was not great, and her sisters' voices carried +far, in spite of their honeyed tones and efforts tow- +ard secrecy. By the time Tom had reached the +gate of the parsonage they had all crowded down +there, a fluttering assembly in their snowy summer +muslins, like white doves. Annie heard Imogen first. +Imogen was always the ringleader. + +"Couldn't you find her?" asked Imogen. + +"No. Rang three times," replied Tom. He had +a boyish voice, and his chagrin showed plainly in it. +Annie knew just how he looked, how dear and big +and foolish, with his handsome, bewildered face, +blurting out to her sisters his disappointment, with +innocent faith in their sympathy. + +Then Annie heard Eliza speak in a small, sweet +voice, which yet, to one who understood her, carried in +it a sting of malice. "How very strange!" said Eliza. + +Jane spoke next. She echoed Eliza, but her voice +was more emphatic and seemed multiple, as echoes +do. "Yes, very strange indeed," said Jane. + +"Dear Annie is really very singular lately. It +has distressed us all, especially father," said Susan, +but deprecatingly. + +Then Imogen spoke, and to the point. "Annie +must be in that house," said she. "She went in +there, and she could not have gone out without our +seeing her." + +Annie could fairly see the toss of Imogen's head +as she spoke. + +"What in thunder do you all mean?" asked Tom +Reed, and there was a bluntness, almost a brutality, +in his voice which was refreshing. + +"I do not think such forcible language is becoming, +especially at the parsonage," said Jane. + +Annie distinctly heard Tom Reed snort. "Hang +it if I care whether it is becoming or not," said he. + +"You seem to forget that you are addressing +ladies, sir," said Jane. + +"Don't forget it for a blessed minute," returned +Tom Reed. "Wish I could. You make it too evi- +dent that you are -- ladies, with every word you +speak, and all your beating about the bush. A man +would blurt it out, and then I would know where +I am at. Hang it if I know now. You all say that +your sister is singular and that she distresses your +father, and you" -- addressing Imogen -- "say that +she must be in that house. You are the only one +who does make a dab at speaking out; I will say +that much for you. Now, if she is in that house, +what in thunder is the matter?" + +"I really cannot stay here and listen to such pro- +fane language," said Jane, and she flitted up the path +to the house like an enraged white moth. She had +a fleecy white shawl over her head, and her pale +outline was triangular. + +"If she calls that profane, I pity her," said Tom +Reed. He had known the girls since they were +children, and had never liked Jane. He continued, +still addressing Imogen. "For Heaven's sake, if she +is in that house, what is the matter?" said he. +"Doesn't the bell ring? Yes, it does ring, though +it is as cracked as the devil. I heard it. Has Annie +gone deaf? Is she sick? Is she asleep? It is only +eight o'clock. I don't believe she is asleep. Doesn't +she want to see me? Is that the trouble? What +have I done? Is she angry with me?" + +Eliza spoke, smoothly and sweetly. "Dear Annie +is singular," said she. + +"What the dickens do you mean by singular? +I have known Annie ever since she was that high. +It never struck me that she was any more singular +than other girls, except she stood an awful lot of +nagging without making a kick. Here you all say +she is singular, as if you meant she was" -- Tom +hesitated a second -- "crazy," said he. "Now, I +know that Annie is saner than any girl around here, +and that simply does not go down. What do you +all mean by singular?" + +"Dear Annie may not be singular, but her actions +are sometimes singular," said Susan. "We all feel +badly about this." + +"You mean her going over to her grandmother's +house to live? I don't know whether I think that +is anything but horse-sense. I have eyes in my +head, and I have used them. Annie has worked +like a dog here; I suppose she needed a rest." + +"We all do our share of the work," said Eliza, +calmly, "but we do it in a different way from dear +Annie. She makes very hard work of work. She +has not as much system as we could wish. She tires +herself unnecessarily." + +"Yes, that is quite true," assented Imogen. +"Dear Annie gets very tired over the slightest tasks, +whereas if she went a little more slowly and used +more system the work would be accomplished well +and with no fatigue. There are five of us to do the +work here, and the house is very convenient." + +There was a silence. Tom Reed was bewildered. +"But -- doesn't she want to see me?" he asked, +finally. + +"Dear Annie takes very singular notions some- +times," said Eliza, softly. + +"If she took a notion not to go to the door when +she heard the bell ring, she simply wouldn't," said +Imogen, whose bluntness of speech was, after all, +a relief. + +"Then you mean that you think she took a notion +not to go to the door?" asked Tom, in a desperate +tone. + +"Dear Annie is very singular," said Eliza, with +such softness and deliberation that it was like a +minor chord of music. + +"Do you know of anything she has against me?" +asked Tom of Imogen; but Eliza answered for her. + +"Dear Annie is not in the habit of making confi- +dantes of her sisters," said she, "but we do know +that she sometimes takes unwarranted dislikes." + +"Which time generally cures," said Susan. + +"Oh yes," assented Eliza, "which time generally +cures. She can have no reason whatever for avoid- +ing you. You have always treated her well." + +"I have always meant to," said Tom, so miserably +and helplessly that Annie, listening, felt her heart +go out to this young man, badgered by females, +and she formed a sudden resolution. + +"You have not seen very much of her, anyway," +said Imogen. + +"I have always asked for her, but I understood +she was busy," said Tom, "and that was the reason +why I saw her so seldom." + +"Oh," said Eliza, "busy!" She said it with an +indescribable tone. + +"If," supplemented Imogen, "there was system, +there would be no need of any one of us being too +busy to see our friends." + +"Then she has not been busy? She has not wanted +to see me?" said Tom. "I think I understand at +last. I have been a fool not to before. You girls +have broken it to me as well as you could. Much +obliged, I am sure. Good night." + +"Won't you come in?" asked Imogen. + +"We might have some music," said Eliza. + +"And there is an orange cake, and I will make +coffee," said Susan. + +Annie reflected rapidly how she herself had made +that orange cake, and what queer coffee Susan +would be apt to concoct. + +"No, thank you," said Tom Reed, briskly. "I +will drop in another evening. Think I must go +home now. I have some important letters. Good +night, all." + +Annie made a soft rush to the gate, crouching +low that her sisters might not see her. They flocked +into the house with irascible murmurings, like scold- +ing birds, while Annie stole across the grass, which +had begun to glisten with silver wheels of dew. She +held her skirts closely wrapped around her, and +stepped through a gap in the shrubs beside the walk, +then sped swiftly to the gate. She reached it just +as Tom Reed was passing with a quick stride. + +"Tom," said Annie, and the young man stopped +short. + +He looked in her direction, but she stood close +to a great snowball-bush, and her dress was green +muslin, and he did not see her. Thinking that he +had been mistaken, he started on, when she called +again, and this time she stepped apart from the bush +and her voice sounded clear as a flute. + +"Tom," she said. "Stop a minute, please." + +Tom stopped and came close to her. In the dim +light she could see that his face was all aglow, like +a child's, with delight and surprise. + +"Is that you, Annie?" he said. + +"Yes. I want to speak to you, please." + +"I have been here before, and I rang the bell three +times. Then you were out, although your sisters +thought not." + +"No, I was in the house." + +"You did not hear the bell?" + +"Yes, I heard it every time." + +"Then why --?" + +"Come into the house with me and I will tell you; +at least I will tell you all I can." + +Annie led the way and the young man followed. +He stood in the dark entry while Annie lit the parlor +lamp. The room was on the farther side of the +house from the parsonage. + +"Come in and sit down," said Annie. Then the +young man stepped into a room which was pretty in +spite of itself. There was an old Brussels carpet +with an enormous rose pattern. The haircloth fur- +niture gave out gleams like black diamonds under +the light of the lamp. In a corner stood a what-not +piled with branches of white coral and shells. Annie's +grandfather had been a sea-captain, and many of +his spoils were in the house. Possibly Annie's own +occupation of it was due to an adventurous strain +inherited from him. Perhaps the same impulse +which led him to voyage to foreign shores had led +her to voyage across a green yard to the next house. + +Tom Reed sat down on the sofa. Annie sat in a +rocking-chair near by. At her side was a Chinese +teapoy, a nest of lacquer tables, and on it stood a +small, squat idol. Annie's grandmother had been +taken to task by her son-in-law, the Reverend Silas, +for harboring a heathen idol, but she had only laughed, + +"Guess as long as I don't keep heathen to bow +down before him, he can't do much harm," she had +said. + +Now the grotesque face of the thing seemed to +stare at the two Occidental lovers with the strange, +calm sarcasm of the Orient, but they had no eyes +or thought for it. + +"Why didn't you come to the door if you heard +the bell ring?" asked Tom Reed, gazing at Annie, +slender as a blade of grass in her clinging green +gown. + +"Because I was not able to break my will then. +I had to break it to go out in the yard and ask you +to come in, but when the bell rang I hadn't got to +the point where I could break it." + +"What on earth do you mean, Annie?" + +Annie laughed. "I don't wonder you ask," she +said, "and the worst of it is I can't half answer you. +I wonder how much, or rather how little explanation +will content you?" + +Tom Reed gazed at her with the eyes of a man +who might love a woman and have infinite patience +with her, relegating his lack of understanding of +her woman's nature to the background, as a thing +of no consequence. + +"Mighty little will do for me," he said, "mighty +little, Annie dear, if you will only tell a fellow you +love him." + +Annie looked at him, and her thin, sweet face +seemed to have a luminous quality, like a crescent +moon. Her look was enough. + +"Then you do?" said Tom Reed. + +"You have never needed to ask," said Annie. +"You knew." + +"I haven't been so sure as you think," said Tom. +"Suppose you come over here and sit beside me. +You look miles away." + +Annie laughed and blushed, but she obeyed. She +sat beside Tom and let him put his arm around her. +She sat up straight, by force of her instinctive +maidenliness, but she kissed him back when he +kissed her. + +"I haven't been so sure," repeated Tom. "Annie +darling, why have I been unable to see more of you? +I have fairly haunted your house, and seen the whole +lot of your sisters, especially Imogen, but somehow +or other you have been as slippery as an eel. I have +always asked for you, but you were always out or +busy." + +"I have been very busy," said Annie, evasively. +She loved this young man with all her heart, but she +had an enduring loyalty to her own flesh and blood. + +Tom was very literal. "Say, Annie," he blurted +out, "I begin to think you have had to do most of +the work over there. Now, haven't you? Own up." + +Annie laughed sweetly. She was so happy that +no sense of injury could possibly rankle within her. +"Oh, well," she said, lightly. "Perhaps. I don't +know. I guess housekeeping comes rather easier +to me than to the others. I like it, you know, and +work is always easier when one likes it. The other +girls don't take to it so naturally, and they get very +tired, and it has seemed often that I was the one +who could hurry the work through and not mind." + +"I wonder if you will stick up for me the way you +do for your sisters when you are my wife?" said +Tom, with a burst of love and admiration. Then +he added: "Of course you are going to be my wife, +Annie? You know what this means?" + +"If you think I will make you as good a wife as +you can find," said Annie. + +"As good a wife! Annie, do you really know +what you are?" + +"Just an ordinary girl, with no special talent for +anything." + +"You are the most wonderful girl that ever walked +the earth," exclaimed Tom. "And as for talent, +you have the best talent in the whole world; you +can love people who are not worthy to tie your shoe- +strings, and think you are looking up when in +reality you are looking down. That is what I call +the best talent in the whole world for a woman." +Tom Reed was becoming almost subtle. + +Annie only laughed happily again. "Well, you +will have to wait and find out," said she. + +"I suppose," said Tom, "that you came over +here because you were tired out, this hot weather. +I think you were sensible, but I don't think you +ought to be here alone." + +"I am not alone," replied Annie. "I have poor +little Effie Hempstead with me." + +"That deaf-and-dumb child? I should think this +heathen god would be about as much company." + +"Why, Tom, she is human, if she is deaf and +dumb." + +Tom eyed her shrewdly. "What did you mean +when you said you had broken your will?" he in- +quired. + +"My will not to speak for a while," said Annie, +faintly. + +"Not to speak -- to any one?" + +Annie nodded. + +"Then you have broken your resolution by speak- +ing to me?" + +Annie nodded again. + +"But why shouldn't you speak? I don't under- +stand." + +"I wondered how little I could say, and have +you satisfied," Annie replied, sadly. + +Tom tightened his arm around her. "You pre- +cious little soul," he said. "I am satisfied. I know +you have some good reason for not wanting to speak, +but I am plaguey glad you spoke to me, for I should +have been pretty well cast down if you hadn't, and +to-morrow I have to go away." + +Annie leaned toward him. "Go away!" + +"Yes; I have to go to California about that con- +founded Ames will case. And I don't know exactly +where, on the Pacific coast, the parties I have to +interview may be, and I may have to be away weeks, +possibly months. Annie darling, it did seem to me +a cruel state of things to have to go so far, and leave +you here, living in such a queer fashion, and not +know how you felt. Lord! but I'm glad you had +sense enough to call me, Annie." + +"I couldn't let you go by, when it came to it, +and Tom --" + +"What, dear?" + +"I did an awful mean thing: something I never +was guilty of before. I -- listened." + +"Well, I don't see what harm it did. You didn't +hear much to your or your sisters' disadvantage, +that I can remember. They kept calling you 'dear.'" + +"Yes," said Annie, quickly. Again, such was her +love and thankfulness that a great wave of love and +forgiveness for her sisters swept over her. Annie had +a nature compounded of depths of sweetness; nobody +could be mistaken with regard to that. What they +did mistake was the possibility of even sweetness be- +ing at bay at times, and remaining there. + +"You don't mean to speak to anybody else?" +asked Tom. + +"Not for a year, if I can avoid it without making +comment which might hurt father." + +"Why, dear?" + +"That is what I cannot tell you," replied Annie, +looking into his face with a troubled smile. + +Tom looked at her in a puzzled way, then he +kissed her. + +"Oh, well, dear," he said, "it is all right. I know +perfectly well you would do nothing in which you +were not justified, and you have spoken to me, +anyway, and that is the main thing. I think if I +had been obliged to start to-morrow without a word +from you I shouldn't have cared a hang whether +I ever came back or not. You are the only soul to +hold me here; you know that, darling." + +"Yes," replied Annie. + +"You are the only one," repeated Tom, "but it +seems to me this minute as if you were a whole host, +you dear little soul. But I don't quite like to leave +you here living alone, except for Effie." + +"Oh, I am within a stone's-throw of father's," +said Annie, lightly. + +"I admit that. Still, you are alone. Annie, when +are you going to marry me?" + +Annie regarded him with a clear, innocent look. +She had lived such a busy life that her mind was +unfilmed by dreams. "Whenever you like, after you +come home," said she. + +"It can't be too soon for me. I want my wife and +I want my home. What will you do while I am +gone, dear?" + +Annie laughed. "Oh, I shall do what I have seen +other girls do -- get ready to be married." + +"That means sewing, lots of hemming and tucking +and stitching, doesn't it?" + +"Of course." + +"Girls are so funny," said Tom. "Now imagine a +man sitting right down and sewing like mad on his +collars and neckties and shirts the minute a girl +said she'd marry him!" + +"Girls like it." + +"Well, I suppose they do," said Tom, and he +looked down at Annie from a tender height of mascu- +linity, and at the same time seemed to look up from +the valley of one who cannot understand the subtle +and poetical details in a woman's soul. + +He did not stay long after that, for it was late. +As he passed through the gate, after a tender fare- +well, Annie watched him with shining eyes. She +was now to be all alone, but two things she +had, her freedom and her love, and they would +suffice. + +The next morning Silas Hempstead, urged by his +daughters, walked solemnly over to the next house, +but he derived little satisfaction. Annie did not +absolutely refuse to speak. She had begun to realize +that carrying out her resolution to the extreme letter +was impossible. But she said as little as she could. + +"I have come over here to live for the present. +I am of age, and have a right to consult my own +wishes. My decision is unalterable." Having said +this much, Annie closed her mouth and said no +more. Silas argued and pleaded. Annie sat placidly +sewing beside one front window of the sunny sitting- +room. Effie, with a bit of fancy-work, sat at another. +Finally Silas went home defeated, with a last word, +half condemnatory, half placative. Silas was not the +sort to stand firm against such feminine strength as +his daughter Annie's. However, he secretly held +her dearer than all his other children. + +After her father had gone, Annie sat taking even +stitch after even stitch, but a few tears ran over her +cheeks and fell upon the soft mass of muslin. Effie +watched with shrewd, speculative silence, like a pet +cat. Then suddenly she rose and went close to Annie, +with her little arms around her neck, and the poor +dumb mouth repeating her little speeches: "Thank +you, I am very well, thank you, I am very well," +over and over. + +Annie kissed her fondly, and was aware of a sense +of comfort and of love for this poor little Effie. +Still, after being nearly two months with the child, +she was relieved when Felicia Hempstead came, the +first of September, and wished to take Effie home +with her. She had not gone to Europe, after all, but +to the mountains, and upon her return had missed +the little girl. + +Effie went willingly enough, but Annie discovered +that she too missed her. Now loneliness had her +fairly in its grip. She had a telephone installed, +and gave her orders over that. Sometimes the sound +of a human voice made her emotional to tears. +Besides the voices over the telephone, Annie had +nobody, for Benny returned to college soon after +Effie left. Benny had been in the habit of coming in +to see Annie, and she had not had the heart to +check him. She talked to him very little, and knew +that he was no telltale as far as she was concerned, +although he waxed most communicative with regard +to the others. A few days before he left he came +over and begged her to return. + +"I know the girls have nagged you till you are +fairly worn out," he said. "I know they don't tell +things straight, but I don't believe they know it, +and I don't see why you can't come home, and insist +upon your rights, and not work so hard." + +"If I come home now it will be as it was before," +said Annie. + +"Can't you stand up for yourself and not have +it the same?" + +Annie shook her head. + +"Seems as if you could," said Benny. "I always +thought a girl knew how to manage other girls. It +is rather awful the way things go now over there. +Father must be uncomfortable enough trying to +eat the stuff they set before him and living in such +a dirty house." + +Annie winced. "Is it so very dirty?" + +Benny whistled. + +"Is the food so bad?" + +Benny whistled again. + +"You advised me -- or it amounted to the same +thing -- to take this stand," said Annie. + +"I know I did, but I didn't know how bad it +would be. Guess I didn't half appreciate you myself, +Annie. Well, you must do as you think best, but +if you could look in over there your heart would +ache." + +"My heart aches as it is," said Annie, sadly. + +Benny put an arm around her. "Poor girl!" he +said. "It is a shame, but you are going to marry +Tom. You ought not to have the heartache." + +"Marriage isn't everything," said Annie, "and +my heart does ache, but -- I can't go back there, +unless -- I can't make it clear to you, Benny, but it +seems to me as if I couldn't go back there until the +year is up, or I shouldn't be myself, and it seems, too, +as if I should not be doing right by the girls. There +are things more important even than doing work for +others. I have got it through my head that I can +be dreadfully selfish being unselfish." + +"Well, I suppose you are right," admitted Benny +with a sigh. + +Then he kissed Annie and went away, and the +blackness of loneliness settled down upon her. She +had wondered at first that none of the village people +came to see her, although she did not wish to talk to +them; then she no longer wondered. She heard, with- +out hearing, just what her sisters had said about her. + +That was a long winter for Annie Hempstead. +Letters did not come very regularly from Tom Reed, +for it was a season of heavy snowfalls and the mails +were often delayed. The letters were all that she +had for comfort and company. She had bought a +canary-bird, adopted a stray kitten, and filled her +sunny windows with plants. She sat beside them +and sewed, and tried to be happy and content, but +all the time there was a frightful uncertainty deep +down within her heart as to whether or not she was +doing right. She knew that her sisters were un- +worthy, and yet her love and longing for them +waxed greater and greater. As for her father, she +loved him as she had never loved him before. The +struggle grew terrible. Many a time she dressed +herself in outdoor array and started to go home, +but something always held her back. It was a +strange conflict that endured through the winter +months, the conflict of a loving, self-effacing heart +with its own instincts. + +Toward the last of February her father came over +at dusk. Annie ran to the door, and he entered. +He looked unkempt and dejected. He did not say +much, but sat down and looked about him with a +half-angry, half-discouraged air. Annie went out +into the kitchen and broiled some beefsteak, and +creamed some potatoes, and made tea and toast. +Then she called him into the sitting-room, and he +ate like one famished. + +"Your sister Susan does the best she can," he said, +when he had finished, "and lately Jane has been try- +ing, but they don't seem to have the knack. I +don't want to urge you, Annie, but --" + +"You know when I am married you will have to +get on without me," Annie said, in a low voice. + +"Yes, but in the mean time you might, if you +were home, show Susan and Jane." + +"Father," said Annie, "you know if I came home +now it would be just the same as it was before. +You know if I give in and break my word with my- +self to stay away a year what they will think +and do." + +"I suppose they might take advantage," admitted +Silas, heavily. "I fear you have always given in +to them too much for their own good." + +"Then I shall not give in now," said Annie, and +she shut her mouth tightly. + +There came a peal of the cracked door-bell, and +Silas started with a curious, guilty look. Annie +regarded him sharply. "Who is it, father?" + +"Well, I heard Imogen say to Eliza that she +thought it was very foolish for them all to stay over +there and have the extra care and expense, when +you were here." + +"You mean that the girls --?" + +"I think they did have a little idea that they +might come here and make you a little visit --" + +Annie was at the front door with a bound. The +key turned in the lock and a bolt shot into place. +Then she returned to her father, and her face was +very white. + +"You did not lock your door against your own +sisters?" he gasped. + +"God forgive me, I did." + +The bell pealed again. Annie stood still, her +mouth quivering in a strange, rigid fashion. The +curtains in the dining-room windows were not drawn. +Suddenly one window showed full of her sisters' +faces. It was Susan who spoke. + +"Annie, you can't mean to lock us out?" Susan's +face looked strange and wild, peering in out of the +dark. Imogen's handsome face towered over her +shoulder. + +"We think it advisable to close our house and +make you a visit," she said, quite distinctly through +the glass. + +Then Jane said, with an inaudible sob, "Dear +Annie, you can't mean to keep us out!" + +Annie looked at them and said not a word. Their +half-commanding, half-imploring voices continued +a while. Then the faces disappeared. + +Annie turned to her father. "God knows if I +have done right," she said, "but I am doing what +you have taken me to account for not doing." + +"Yes, I know," said Silas. He sat for a while +silent. Then he rose, kissed Annie -- something he +had seldom done -- and went home. After he had +gone Annie sat down and cried. She did not go to +bed that night. The cat jumped up in her lap, and +she was glad of that soft, purring comfort. It +seemed to her as if she had committed a great crime, +and as if she had suffered martyrdom. She loved +her father and her sisters with such intensity that +her heart groaned with the weight of pure love. For +the time it seemed to her that she loved them more +than the man whom she was to marry. She sat there +and held herself, as with chains of agony, from rush- +ing out into the night, home to them all, and break- +ing her vow. + +It was never quite so bad after that night, for +Annie compromised. She baked bread and cake +and pies, and carried them over after nightfall and +left them at her father's door. She even, later on, +made a pot of coffee, and hurried over with it in the +dawn-light, always watching behind a corner of a +curtain until she saw an arm reached out for it. All +this comforted Annie, and, moreover, the time was +drawing near when she could go home. + +Tom Reed had been delayed much longer than +he expected. He would not be home before early +fall. They would not be married until November, +and she would have several months at home first. + +At last the day came. Out in Silas Hempstead's +front yard the grass waved tall, dotted with disks +of clover. Benny was home, and he had been over +to see Annie every day since his return. That morn- +ing when Annie looked out of her window the first +thing she saw was Benny waving a scythe in awkward +sweep among the grass and clover. An immense +pity seized her at the sight. She realized that he +was doing this for her, conquering his indolence. +She almost sobbed. + +"Dear, dear boy, he will cut himself," she thought. +Then she conquered her own love and pity, even as +her brother was conquering his sloth. She under- +stood clearly that it was better for Benny to go on +with his task even if he did cut himself. + +The grass was laid low when she went home, and +Benny stood, a conqueror in a battle-field of summer, +leaning on his scythe. + +"Only look, Annie," he cried out, like a child. +"I have cut all the grass." + +Annie wanted to hug him. Instead she laughed. +"It was time to cut it," she said. Her tone was cool, +but her eyes were adoring. + +Benny laid down his scythe, took her by the arm, +and led her into the house. Silas and his other daugh- +ters were in the sitting-room, and the room was so +orderly it was painful. The ornaments on the man- +tel-shelf stood as regularly as soldiers on parade, +and it was the same with the chairs. Even the cush- +ions on the sofa were arranged with one corner over- +lapping another. The curtains were drawn at ex- +actly the same height from the sill. The carpet +looked as if swept threadbare. + +Annie's first feeling was of worried astonishment; +then her eye caught a glimpse of Susan's kitchen +apron tucked under a sofa pillow, and of layers of +dust on the table, and she felt relieved. After all, +what she had done had not completely changed the +sisters, whom she loved, faults and all. Annie +realized how horrible it would have been to find her +loved ones completely changed, even for the better. +They would have seemed like strange, aloof angels +to her. + +They all welcomed her with a slight stiffness, yet +with cordiality. Then Silas made a little speech. + +"Your father and your sisters are glad to welcome +you home, dear Annie," he said, "and your sisters +wish me to say for them that they realize that pos- +sibly they may have underestimated your tasks and +overestimated their own. In short, they may not +have been --" + +Silas hesitated, and Benny finished. "What the +girls want you to know, Annie, is that they have +found out they have been a parcel of pigs." + +"We fear we have been selfish without realizing +it," said Jane, and she kissed Annie, as did Susan +and Eliza. Imogen, looking very handsome in her +blue linen, with her embroidery in her hands, did +not kiss her sister. She was not given to demon- +strations, but she smiled complacently at her. + +"We are all very glad to have dear Annie back, +I am sure," said she, "and now that it is all over, +we all feel that it has been for the best, although it +has seemed very singular, and made, I fear, con- +siderable talk. But, of course, when one person in +a family insists upon taking everything upon her- +self, it must result in making the others selfish." + +Annie did not hear one word that Imogen said. +She was crying on Susan's shoulder. + +"Oh, I am so glad to be home," she sobbed. + +And they all stood gathered about her, rejoicing +and fond of her, but she was the one lover among +them all who had been capable of hurting them and +hurting herself for love's sake. + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Copy-Cat & Other Stories + diff --git a/old/cpyct10.zip b/old/cpyct10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..02f1beb --- /dev/null +++ b/old/cpyct10.zip |