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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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Bobbie, General Manager - A Novel - -Author: Olive Higgins Prouty - -Release Date: January 5, 2017 [EBook #53891] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOBBIE, GENERAL MANAGER *** - - - - -Produced by Alan and the Online Distributed Proofreading -Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from -images generously made available by The Internet -Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - - - <div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/cover.jpg" - alt="Book front cover" /> - </div> - -<h1><span class="gesperrt">BOBBIE, GENERAL MANAGER</span></h1> - -<p class="c"> - BOBBIE<br /> - GENERAL MANAGER</p> - - <p class="titlepage"><i>A NOVEL</i></p> - - <p class="titlepage"><small>BY</small></p> - <p class="c">OLIVE HIGGINS PROUTY</p> - - <div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/fig1.jpg" - alt="swirl" /> - </div> - -<p class="c"> - GROSSET & DUNLAP<br /> - <small>PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK</small> -</p> - - - -<p class="c"> - - <i>Copyright, 1913, by</i><br /> -<span class="smcap">Frederick A. Stokes Company</span></p> - -<p class="c"><i>All rights reserved including that of translation into foreign<br /> -languages, including the Scandinavian.</i></p> - -<p class="c"><i>TENTH PRINTING</i> -</p> - - <div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/fig2.jpg" - alt="date" /> - </div> - - - - -<p class="c"> - <small>TO<br /> - THE MEMORY OF</small><br /> - MY FATHER<br /> -</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p001" id="Page_p001">[1]</a></span></p> - - - - - - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">I AM a junior in the H.C.H.S., which stands for -Hilton Classical High School, and am sixteen -years old. I live in a big brown house at number 240 -Main Street, and my father is a state senator in Boston. -I am a member of the First Congregational -Church, which I joined when I was thirteen, and am -captain of the basket-ball team at the high school. I -have travelled as far east as Revere Beach, as far -west as the Hoosac Tunnel, on my way to Aunt Ella's -funeral in Adams, and as far south as New London, -Connecticut, where I watched my oldest brother Tom -row in a perfectly stunning eight-oared boat-race on -the Thames. I haven't been north at all. I have had -six diseases, including scarlet fever and typhoid, with -which I almost died last year, and as a result of which -am now wearing my hair as short as a child with a -Dutch-cut.</p> - -<p>I am not pretty, nor a bit popular with the boys. I -can't play the piano, and I never went to dancing-school -in my life. Most of my clothes are as ugly as mud, for -I haven't any mother; and my hair has always been as -straight as a stick. They say that the kink that has -appeared in it since the typhoid won't last but a little -while, so it isn't much comfort. In fact, the only real -consolation that I have is a secret conviction which I -keep well concealed in the innermost compartment of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p002" id="Page_p002">[2]</a></span> -my heart. No one knows of its existence except myself, -and I wouldn't be the one to tell of it for anything -in the world. It is on account of it, however, -that I am writing the experiences of my early life. I -often think how valuable it would have been if William -Shakespeare had told us about his school-days -or Julius Caesar had described his family and what -they used to do when he was a boy of fifteen. Of -course I may not be a genius; but facts point that way. -I hate mathematics, my imagination is vivid, my life -is difficult and full of obstacles, and my handwriting -illegible. My Themes are generally read out loud in -English, and my quarterly deportment mark is frightfully -low. Moreover, if I am not a genius I shall be -awfully disappointed. Why, I think I should rather -be a genius than to go to a College Prom. It makes -everything so bearable, from a flunk in geometry, to -not being invited to Bessie Jaynes' birthday-party last -week.</p> - -<p>My life has not been an easy one. Ever since I -can remember I have been the mother of five children—two -of them older and three younger than myself. -They all call me Bobbie for short, but my real name -is Lucy Chenery Vars.</p> - -<p>Our house is a big ugly brown affair which Father -built when we were all babies and the business was -prosperous. The house has twenty rooms in it, and -on the top an octagon cupola, which I have fixed up -with a fish-net and some old tennis rackets, and -call my study. I have a plaster cast of a skull up -here, and a "No Trespassing" sign which Juliet -Adams and I stole out of old Silas Morton's blueberry-pasture. -It looks exactly like a college man's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p003" id="Page_p003">[3]</a></span> -room now and I intend to do all my writing up here. -It is a perfectly lovely place for inspirations! From -my eight little windows I can see all over New England, -and at night every star that shines. It is simply -glorious up here in a thunder-storm, and when I have -the trap-door once closed behind me, with all my cares -and troubles shut safely away down below, I feel as -if I could fly with the birds. I ought to write something -wonderful.</p> - -<p>In the first place I had better state that I haven't -anything distinguishing about me except my experience. -I am middling tall—five feet five inches, to be -precise; middling heavy—112 pounds; and am one -of six children—four boys and two girls—without -the honour of being either the oldest or youngest. -With Father there are seven of us; with Nellie and -the cook (when we have one) and poor little Dixie, -the horse, there are ten.</p> - -<p>Father is a big, quiet, solemn man and is sixty-eight -years old. He is president of the Vars & Company -Woollen Mills, has perfectly white hair, and wears -grey and white seersucker coats in the summer. Tom -is the oldest and is in business out West. We're all -awfully proud of Tom. He was a perfect star in college, -and is making money hand over fist with his -lumber camps in Michigan. Alec, the next to oldest, -is struggling along in business with Father. Then -I come, and next to me the twins—Oliver and Malcolm, -aged fifteen and perfect terrors. Last is -Ruthie; and after her, mother died and so there -weren't any more. <i>I</i> was the mother then, and I was -only a little over five. Father says he used to put me -on the dictionary in mother's chair at the table when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p004" id="Page_p004">[4]</a></span> -I was so little that Nellie had to help lift the big silver -pot while I poured the coffee. Well, I've sat there -ever since, pushed the bell, scowled at the twins and -performed a mother's duty generally, as well as I -knew how.</p> - -<p>It hasn't been easy. Ruthie isn't the kind of little -sister who likes to be petted or cuddled. The -twins scorn everything I do or say. The house is a -perfect elephant to run (there are thirty-three steps -between the refrigerator and the kitchen sink) and -our washings are something frightful. Alec says we -simply can<i>not</i> afford a laundress, and the result is -that I spend most of my Saturday mornings in intelligence-offices -hunting cooks. Intelligence-offices are -dreadful on inspirations.</p> - -<p>Ever since I can remember, the house has been out -of repair—certain doors that won't close, certain -windows that have no shades, certain ceilings that are -stained and smoked. It's hard to give the rooms the -proper look when there are paths worn all over the -Brussels carpet, exactly like cow-paths in a pasture, -and the stuffed arms of the furniture in the parlour -are worn as bare as the back of a little baby's head I -once saw.</p> - -<p>When Tom wrote that he was going to bring Elise, -his young bride, whom we had never laid eyes on, to -Hilton on their wedding trip, I nearly had a Conniption -Fit. I thought Tom must have lost his mind. -Any one ought to know what a shock our house would -be to the kind of girl Tom would choose to marry. -The concrete walk that leads up to the front door was -dreadfully cracked, and the crevices were filled with -a healthy growth of green grass. The iron fountain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p005" id="Page_p005">[5]</a></span> -in the centre of the walk was as dry as a desert, and -the four iron urns on the square porch as empty as -shells. The ninety feet of elaborate iron fence that -runs in front of the house needed a new coat of paint, -and the little filigree iron edging, standing up like -stiffly starched Hamburg embroidery around the top -of the cupola, had a piece knocked out in front. But -Tom <i>would</i> come, so I buckled down and made preparations.</p> - -<p>I must explain a little about Tom. It isn't simply -because he is the oldest son that we all look up to him -so much. Every one in Hilton admires Tom. The -<i>Weekly Messenger</i> refers to his "brilliant career," -and the minister at our church calls him "an exceptional -young man." He isn't a genius—he's too successful -and everybody likes him too much for a genius—but -he's different from the other young men -in Hilton. When Father picked out some little technical -school or other for Tom to go to, Tom announced -that he was awfully sorry but that he had -made up his mind to graduate from the biggest university -in the country. And once there, Tom had a -perfectly elegant time! Every one adored him. I -saw him carried off once on the shoulders of a lot of -shouting young men, who were singing his name. -Why, I was proud to be Tom Vars' sister! He was -captain of the crew, president of his class, a member -of a whole lot of societies, and when he graduated his -name was printed under the <i>magna cum laude</i> list on -the programme (I can show it to you in my Souvenir -Book) which meant that he was a perfect wizard in -his lessons.</p> - -<p>Tom graduated the year that Father's business be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p006" id="Page_p006">[6]</a></span>gan -to look a little wobbly. Just when Father was -looking forward, with a good deal of hope, to his oldest -son's help and coöperation, Tom ran up home for -over Sunday one day in May, and broke the news that -after Commencement he had decided to accept a position -from his room-mate's rich uncle in some wild -and woolly lumber camps in Michigan. It just about -broke poor Father's heart. He couldn't enjoy the -honours of Tom's Commencement. But Tom went -out West just the same—for Tom always carries out -his plans—he went, smiling and confident, with never -a single reference to Father's silence, ignoring absolutely -the sad look in Father's eyes. He went just -as if he were carrying out Father's dearest hope; and -the funny part is, that inside of three years Tom had -made Father so proud of his hard work and steady -success that the poor dear man's disappointment faded -away like mist before the sun, as they say in Shakespeare -or the Bible—I forget which. The whole -scheme worked like a charm, as Tom's schemes always -do. There was faithful Alec to help Father; and the -rich uncle, who had no son of his own, was simply -aching to get hold of a fine, smart, clean young man -like Tom Chenery Vars to boost up to success.</p> - -<p>Whenever Tom had a holiday, except Christmas -when he came home, he spent it in Chicago with his -room-mate or the uncle. That is how he happened -to fall in with such a lot of fashionable people—not -that Tom ever boasted that his friends were fashionable, -for Tom never blows his own horn—but I knew -they were, just the same. He used to send stunning -monograms to Ruthie and me for our collections, torn -off from the notes which his wealthy young-lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p007" id="Page_p007">[7]</a></span> -friends wrote to him; besides, when he came home -for Christmas he always had a pocketful of kodak -pictures to show us of his life in the West. They -weren't <i>all</i> taken in the lumber camps. Some were -snapshots of house-parties, which he'd been on, and -I assure <i>you</i>, I always took in the expensive background -of these pictures—carved stone doorways, -perfectly elegant houses, lawns kept like a park, and -automobiles with chauffeurs sitting up as stiff as ramrods. -I hadn't much doubt, when Tom wrote that he -was engaged to be married to Miss Elise Hildegarde -Parmenter, but that she was an inmate of one of these -millionaire mansions, and I was absolutely convinced -of it when I laid eyes on her photograph—one of -those brown carbons a foot square—and counted the -six magnificent plumes on her big drooping picture-hat. -I knew that 240 Main Street, Hilton, Mass., -would look pretty worn and dingy alongside Sunny-lawn-by-the-Lake, -which was engraved in gold letters -and hyphens at the top of Miss Parmenter's heavy -grey note-paper.</p> - -<p>The minute Tom wrote that he was going to bring -his elegant bride to Hilton I button-holed Father and -Alec one day after dinner, and told those two men -that the house had simply <i>got</i> to be done over. It -was disgraceful as it was; it hadn't been painted since -I could remember; it was unworthy of our name. -Father reminded me that the reason none of us went -to the wedding (Tom was married in California, on -Elise's father's orange ranch) was to save expense, as -I already knew, and merely to paint the house would -cost the price of a ticket or two.</p> - -<p>"Let us be ourselves, Lucy," said Father to me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p008" id="Page_p008">[8]</a></span> -"<i>ourselves</i>, child. If Tom's wife is the right kind -of woman, she will look within, <i>within</i>, Lucy."</p> - -<p>"Oh," I said, "but the inside is worse than the out, -Father. The wall-paper in the guest-room—"</p> - -<p>Father interrupted me gently.</p> - -<p>"Within our hearts," he corrected, touching his -heavy gold watch-chain across his chest. "Within -our hearts, Lucy."</p> - -<p>Father is a perfectly splendid man, but I knew that -spotless hearts wouldn't excuse smoked ceilings; and -when, the next day being Sunday, I saw Father drop -his little white sealed envelope, which I knew contained -five perfectly good dollars, into the contribution -box, I didn't believe any heathen girl needed that -money more than I.</p> - -<p>I am going to tell about that first appearance of -Elise's in detail. But it's got to be after dinner, for -fifteen minutes ago the big whistle on Father's factory -spurted out its puff of white steam (I could see it -from my north window before I heard the blast) and -Father and Alec will soon be driving up the hill in -the phaeton, with the top down and the reins slack -over faithful Dixie's back. I must be within calling-distance -when Father strikes the Chinese gong at the -foot of the stairs. It's the first thing he always does -when he enters the house at noon. We all recognise -his two strokes on each one of the three notes as -surely as his voice or step. Why, that ring of -Father's simply speaks! It is as full of impatience as -a motorman ringing for a truck to get off the track.</p> - -<p>Father hates to wait for dinner. By the time he -has taken off his overcoat, and scrubbed up in the -wash-room off the hall, he likes us all to be seated at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p009" id="Page_p009">[9]</a></span> -the table when he comes into the dining-room. -"Hello, chicken," he says to me. "Hello, baby," -to Ruth. (He calls Dixie "baby" too.) "Hello, -boys," to the twins. Then he sits down at the head -of the table, opposite me, clears his throat as a signal, -and asks the blessing.</p> - -<p>Father's blessing is always the same except when -we have company. I can tell how important the company -is by the length of Father's prayer. When -Juliet Adams, my best friend, drops in for supper, she -is served the regular everyday family blessing, but -when we have company important enough to put on -the best dishes, or at the first meal that Tom is with -us, Father keeps at it so long that the twins get to -fooling with each other under cover of the tablecloth. -I wished Father would omit the blessing entirely -when Elise came, and family prayers too. -They're so old-fashioned nowadays; but I knew better -than to suggest such a preposterous thing. Father -is a member of the Standing Committee at our church, -and has a lot of principles.</p> - -<p>There he is coming now! I wish he could afford a -new carriage. I'm simply dying for one of those -sporty little red-wheeled runabouts!</p> -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p010" id="Page_p010">[10]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">AMONG the first things I did in preparation for -Elise's visit was to set the twins to work on the -lawn, and Ruthie to clearing up a rubbishly-looking -place back of the barn where there was a pile of old -boxes and barrel hoops.</p> - -<p>I myself harnessed up Dixie, made a trip to the -country, and brought back three bushel-baskets full -of rock ferns from the woods. Juliet Adams helped -me fill the iron urns the next day. I know very well -that red geraniums, hanging vines, and a little palm -in the centre are the correct plants for urns (there's -a painting of one on the garden scenery at our theatre -here in Hilton) but as geraniums are a dollar -and a quarter a dozen, and the urns are perfectly -enormous, I knew that such luxuries could not be afforded. -I also knew that it was out of the question -to work the fountain. I cleared out its collection of -leaves, soused it well with the hose, and was obliged -to leave it in the middle of the walk, out of commission, -but at least clean. The tennis-court, which -hadn't been used for tennis for ten years, had now -passed even the potato-patch era and was a perfect -mass of weeds. I paid the twins five cents each for -mowing it twice, and then set out the croquet set with -a string. I put a fresh coat of white paint on the -wickets, and though the ground was far too uneven -for any practical use, the general effect at a distance -was not bad at all.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p011" id="Page_p011">[11]</a></span></p> - -<p>I spent two solid afternoons in the stable sweeping -and cleaning as if my life depended on it. We don't -keep a man now. Dixie is the only horse we own, -and Alec does all the feeding and rubbing-down that -Dixie gets. Poor little Dixie, rattling around in one -of the big box stalls, can't give the place the proper -air. It's a stunning stable—stalls for eight horses -and a big room filled with all sorts of carriages. -They are dreadfully out of style now (I used to play -house in them when I was ten and they had begun -their dust gathering even then), but Father says they -were the best that could be bought in their day. I -pinned the white sheets that cover them down around -their bodies as closely as I could, so that Miss Parmenter -couldn't see how out-of-date the dear old arks -were. I cleaned up all the harnesses and hung them -up, black and shining, on the wooden pegs. In an -old sleigh upstairs I discovered a girl's saddle, which -I dusted and hung up in plain view by the whip-rack; -there's something so sporty about horseback riding! -I was bound to have Miss Parmenter know that at -one time we were prosperous.</p> - -<p>But most of my efforts of course went into the -house. It was terribly discouraging. We own loads -of black walnut, and though I begged and begged for -a brass bed for the guest-room, Father was adamant. -He had allowed me to have the room repapered and -<i>that</i>, he said, was all that I must ask for. The new -paper really was lovely. I picked it out myself, pink -roses on a light blue ground and a plate-rail half-way -up.</p> - -<p>I spent a lot of pains on the guest-room, carrying -out the pink and blue colour-scheme in every possi<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p012" id="Page_p012">[12]</a></span>ble -detail. I took the light blue rose bowl off the -mantel in the sitting-room and put it on the bureau, -for hatpins. I rehung my "Yard of Pink Roses" -over the guest-room mantel. My blue kimono I had -freshly laundered and hung it up in the closet. A -pair of pink bedroom slippers were carefully placed -beneath. I found a book in the library bound in pink, -entitled "Baby Thoughts," and put it on the marble-topped -guest-room table alongside a magazine and my -work-basket on which I had sewed a huge blue bow -and inside of which I had placed my solid gold thimble. -I also tied a smashing pink and blue rosette on -the waste-basket; and the half-dozen coat-hangers -which I was able to scare up out of Alec's and Father's -closets Ruthie wound with pink and blue ribbons. I -didn't neglect the more necessary details either. I -paid thirty-five cents for a cake of pink French soap; -and the only embroidered towels we own I strung -along in a showy row on the back of the commode. -In the tooth-brush holder I placed a sealed Prophylactic -tooth-brush, which I read in the <i>Perfect Housekeeper</i> -should be found in every nicely appointed -guest-room; nor did I overlook the Bible, and candle -and matches by the bed. The <i>Perfect Housekeeper</i> -says that it is the little touches in your home, such -as a fresh bunch of flowers on the shelf in your -guest-room, or in cold weather a hot-water bag between -the sheets, that count with a guest. I was -dreadfully sorry that it was too warm for hot-water -bottles.</p> - -<p>I was in perfect despair about Nellie. Nellie is -our second-girl and has been with us for years. Nellie -doesn't look a bit like a servant. She has grey<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p013" id="Page_p013">[13]</a></span> -hair and wears glasses. People are always mistaking -her for an aunt. I wrote out a set of rules for Nellie, -tacked them up over the sink in the butler's pantry, -and told her to study them during the week before -Tom and Elise were due to arrive. Here's a copy of -them:</p> - - -<ul> -<li><i>Rule 1</i> - -When a meal is ready don't stand at the foot of the -stairs and holler "Dinner!" Come to me and say in a -low, well modulated voice, "Dinner is served, Miss -Lucy."</li> - -<li><i>Rule 2</i> - -Be sure and call me <i>Miss</i> Lucy, and Tom, <i>Mister</i> -Tom. Never plain Tom or plain Lucy. And so on -through the family.</li> - -<li><i>Rule 3</i> - -When I ring the bell during a meal, don't just stick -your head in through the swinging-door but enter all-over -and find out what is wanted.</li> - -<li><i>Rule 4</i> - -Don't offer a last biscuit or piece of cake and say, -"There's more in the kitchen."</li> - -<li><i>Rule 5</i> - -If any member of the family asks for any other member -of the family, don't say, "They're in the barn, or -down-cellar, or upstairs," but go quietly and find them -yourself.</li> - -<li><i>Rule 6</i> - -Be sure and put ice-water every night into Mrs. Vars' -bedroom when you turn down the bed.</li> - -<li><i>Rule 7</i> - -If you get the hiccups when waiting on the table,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p014" id="Page_p014">[14]</a></span> -withdraw to the kitchen immediately and take ten swallows -of water.</li> - -</ul> - -<p>Nellie is a good-natured old soul. I can manage -her beautifully, but it took a head to do anything with -Delia. Delia was the cook. I was in the butler's -pantry the day before Tom and Elise arrived, putting -away the family napkin-rings (for of course I know -napkin-rings are tabooed) when it occurred to me that -we had got to have clean napkins for every meal as -long as Elise stayed. If she was with us a week -that would make a hundred and sixty-eight napkins -in all, counting three meals a day and eight people at -the table. We owned just four dozen napkins and -that meant—I figured it all out on a piece of paper—that -the whole four dozen would have to be washed -every other day. I went out into the kitchen and explained -it to Delia just as nicely and sweetly as I -could. She went off on a regular tangent. It was -enough, she said, all the extra style I was planning -on, without piling on a week's washing for every -other day. She said she'd never heard of such tommyrot, -and if a napkin was clean enough for Tom and -Tom's family, she guessed it was clean enough for -Tom's wife, whoever she was. I was simply incensed!</p> - -<p>"We won't discuss it," I said with much dignity. -"Not another word, please, Delia," and I left the -kitchen.</p> - -<p>I heard her slam a kettle into the iron sink, and -mutter something about "another place," so I thought -it better policy not to press my point. I hate being -imposed upon—there isn't a teacher at the high<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p015" id="Page_p015">[15]</a></span> -school who can talk Lucy Vars into a hole—but I -wasn't going to cut off my own nose. So I went -straight to the telephone, called up a dry goods store -and ordered ten dozen medium-priced napkins to be -sent up special. All the rest of the afternoon I sat -at the sewing-machine hemming like mad, and Nellie -folded the things so that the machine stitches wouldn't -show. I knew that napkins should be hemmed by -hand.</p> - -<p>Tom and Elise were due at eight o'clock on a Wednesday -night. I had it planned that Father and Alec -would meet them at the station and I would remain -at the house to greet them as they came in. I -wished awfully that we had a coachman and some -decent horses, but I begged Father to hire a carriage -and he promised that he would. The suspense while -I waited for them to drive up over the hill was as -awful as when I've been sent for by the principal at -the high school—kind of thrilly inside and as nervous -as a cat. I walked from room to room like a -caged animal, trying to imagine how the old house -would look to a person who hadn't lived in it forever. -I lit the open fire in the hall, arranged the -books on the sitting-room table for the hundredth -time, and watched the piano-lamp like a hawk. It -smokes the ceilings if you leave it alone.</p> - -<p>The twins, Oliver and Malcolm, stationed themselves -in the parlour to keep watch of the road. -About half-past eight Oliver hollered out, "They're -coming, Bobbie!" and I went out into the hall and -opened the door. I saw the big bulky old depot carriage -draw up to the curbing out beyond the iron -fountain, and I whispered to the twins, "Go down<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p016" id="Page_p016">[16]</a></span> -and help with their bags!" They pushed by me; and -a minute after, everybody was in a confused bunch -in the vestibule—Oliver and Malcolm with the suitcases, -Father and Alec, Ruthie hanging on to my -skirt, and finally Tom, big and handsome and natural!</p> - -<p>"Hello, Bobbie, old girl," he said. "Hello, little -Ruthiemus!" And suddenly behind him Elise appeared—tall, -pale as a lily, quiet, and very calm. -"Well, here they all are, Elise," Tom went on lustily, -"Malcolm and Oliver, and Bobbie who is the -mother of us, and Ruthiemus the baby."</p> - -<p>Elise came forward, shook hands with the boys, -and when she came to me she kissed me. I'd never -been so near such a perfectly gorgeous Irish-lace -jabot in my life. After she had leaned down and -kissed Ruth she said in the quietest, lowest voice I -ever heard, while we all stared, "I know you all, already, -for Chenery has told me all about you."</p> - -<p>Chenery! How perfectly absurd! No one ever -calls Tom anything but just plain Tom. We all have -Chenery for a middle name—it was mother's before -she was married—but it is only to sign. After -that remark about Chenery the silence was simply -deathly, but Alec, who always comes to the rescue, exclaimed, -"Don't you people intend to stop with us -to-night? Usher us in, Bobbie."</p> - -<p>There was none of the Vars hail-fellow-well-met, -slap-you-on-the-back spirit about that evening. We -all distributed ourselves in a circle about the sitting-room, -exactly like a Bible-class at church, and talked -in the stiffest, most formal way imaginable. I don't -know why we couldn't be natural; but Elise, sitting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p017" id="Page_p017">[17]</a></span> -there so perfectly at ease, smiling and talking so -gracefully made us feel like country bumpkins before -a princess. I was furious at her for making us appear -in such a light. Why couldn't Tom have married -somebody like ourselves, some jolly good sport -who wouldn't be afraid to hurt her clothes? I knew -Elise Hildegarde Parmenter's style. She wore some -of those high-heeled shoes, like undressed kid gloves, -and her feet were regular pocket editions. If we had -acted as we usually do when Tom comes home, all -talking and laughing at once, we'd have shocked this -delicate little piece of china into a thousand bits.</p> - -<p>I was dreadfully surprised at Tom when he said, -as if Elise was not there, "Come on, Bobbie, bring -in the apples."</p> - -<p>You see it is one of our customs, the first night that -Tom comes home, to sit up awfully late and eat apples, -Father paring them with an old kitchen knife. -But of course I wasn't going to have apples to-night, -of all times, passed around in quarters on the end of -a knife. So I said to Tom as quietly as possible, for -really I was catching Elise's manner, "Not apples to-night, -Tom. I ordered a little chocolate. I'll speak -to Nellie." I had gotten out our best hand-painted -violet chocolate cups, told Delia to make some cocoa -and whip some cream, and had opened a fresh package -of champagne wafers. Everything was all ready -on a tray in the dining-room, so I went out and told -Nellie to bring it in. When she appeared holding the -big tray out before her I had to bite my tongue to -keep from laughing. Nellie had never worn a cap -before and it didn't seem to go with her style. It -was sticking straight up on the top of her grey pug<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p018" id="Page_p018">[18]</a></span> -of hair like a bird on the tip end of a flag pole. I -saw Malcolm and Oliver begin to giggle. I squelched -them with a look and began stirring my chocolate -hard.</p> - -<p>"Hello, Nellie," said Tom, when the tray reached -him, and though I'd cautioned Nellie a hundred times -to address Tom as <i>Mister</i> Tom, she got it mixed up -in some stupid fashion, and replied, "How do you -do, Mister Vars," and Father who heard her come -out with his name asked, "Did you speak to me, -Nellie?" Nellie replied, "No, I didn't. I was -speaking to Tom."</p> - -<p>Late that first night, as I was turning out my light, -and after I had set my alarm-clock for quarter of -six (for I thought I'd better get up early and see how -things were running) Malcolm and Oliver pushed -open my door and came in. Behind them was Alec -on his way to bed.</p> - -<p>"Hello, Bobbie," they said, grinning.</p> - -<p>"Close the door," I whispered, and then I wrapped -myself up in a down comforter and crawled up on the -bed. My brothers came over and all sat down around -me.</p> - -<p>"Well," I said, "what do you think of her?"</p> - -<p>"Did you see the diamond pendant?" Malcolm began. -"It was a ripper!"</p> - -<p>"Tom gave her that for a wedding-present," Oliver -explained.</p> - -<p>"He did!" I was amazed. "Plain Tom slinging -around diamond pendants like that!"</p> - -<p>"He'll have to, to live up to being called Chenery. -Did you get on to that?"</p> - -<p>"Did I? Isn't it too silly? I hate such airs! We<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p019" id="Page_p019">[19]</a></span> -stand for good plain things and why couldn't Tom get -something plain?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, she's a blue-blood," said Oliver. "We're -regular Indians beside her."</p> - -<p>"No, we're not, Oliver Vars," I flared back. -"Don't you say that. I shan't eat humble-pie for any -one. We're just as good as she is. It's brains that -count."</p> - -<p>"I bet a dollar she couldn't throw a ball straight; -and she looks as if she'd be afraid of the dark," said -Malcolm.</p> - -<p>"Oh, come ahead, you young knockers," interrupted -Alec, who hadn't said a word till now—Alec -never says much and when he does it's always nice—"Come -along to bed, and let the General-manager -here get a little rest. Good-night, Bobbie," he said, -coming up to me and giving me a little good-natured -shove, so that I toppled over on the bed. Oliver and -Malcolm each grabbed a pillow.</p> - -<p>"Good-night, angel," they sang out as they -lammed them at me hard. I heard them dash out of -the room and slam the door with a bang. Nice old -brothers! We Vars never waste much time in kissing, -but we understand all right.</p> - -<p>The next morning I was down in the kitchen before -Delia had her fire made. About eight o'clock when -we were all flaxing around as fast as we could there -suddenly broke out upon us a very queer noise. It -sounded like a cat trying to meow when it had a -dreadful cold. It startled me awfully and Delia gave -a terrible jump.</p> - -<p>"For the love of Mike, what's that?" said she.</p> - -<p>I investigated, and after a little, I discovered the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p020" id="Page_p020">[20]</a></span> -cause. Years ago we had some sort of a bell system -that connected with all the rooms, with an indicator -in the kitchen. We hadn't used it for a long -time and I supposed the whole system was as dilapidated -as the stable. Whenever we wanted Nellie -for anything we found it easier to go to the back -stairs and holler. It occurred to me that the electrician -who had put in some new batteries the week -before, for the front door bell, which before Elise -came was dreadfully unreliable, must have monkeyed -with the other bells too.</p> - -<p>"Elise has rung for you," I said to Nellie, thankful -with all my heart that the old thing had worked. -I knew that Tom was already downstairs, so of -course wasn't there to tell her that the old push-button -didn't mean a thing, and I was glad of that. Heaven -knew there was enough else to apologise for.</p> - -<p>When Nellie came back I asked, "What did she -want?"</p> - -<p>"She wanted me to button up her waist and also -to give me her laundry."</p> - -<p>"Laundry!" gasped Delia. I never could understand -why cooks hate washing so.</p> - -<p>"Yes," I said, turning to her, "laundry! I told -Mrs. Vars," I went on with much authority, "to put -any soiled clothing she might have in a pink and blue -bag which I made to match the guest-room, for this -express purpose—for her to put her laundry in. -That's only hospitality." I crossed the room. "And -now you may put breakfast on, Delia," I finished, and -went out.</p> - -<p>After breakfast Nellie came to me and said, "Delia -wishes to speak to you in the kitchen."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p021" id="Page_p021">[21]</a></span></p> - -<p>My heart sank. I left Elise in the sitting-room -talking in her lovely soft way to Father and Alec. -Delia was in the laundry standing by a regular haystack -of lacy lingerie. She was holding up the most -superb lace skirt I ever saw, rows upon rows of insertion -and if you'll believe me made every inch by -hand.</p> - -<p>"I just wanted to say," she began, "that I don't -stay if I have to wash these. They aren't dirty, in -the first place, and what's more I'm not hired to wash -company's clothes, and what's more I won't. And -what's more still, I think you better hunt for another -girl."</p> - -<p>I couldn't have received more depressing news. I -hated being ruled by a cook, and I hated to let her -go. I didn't have a soul to ask about it. I didn't -know what to do. I flared right up.</p> - -<p>"The washing must be done," I said sternly. -"<i>That's</i> settled."</p> - -<p>Delia dropped the skirt.</p> - -<p>"All right. I'll do the washing to-day," she announced, -"and I'll leave to-morrow."</p> - -<p>I just wanted to sit down and cry and cry and say, -"O please be nice about it and help us out. Please -stay! O please, please, <i>please!</i>" But I did no such -thing. I bit my lip hard and replied, "Very well," -and when I joined the others in the sitting-room, I -was apparently as undisturbed as a summer's breeze.</p> - -<p>Things got no better as time went on. Elise didn't -fit into our family a bit. None of us was natural. -Father didn't ring the gong when he came in at noon -and call up to me, "Slippers, chicken"; the twins -didn't fool under the tablecloth and call me "Snodgrass," -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p022" id="Page_p022">[22]</a></span>"Angel" or "Trolley" (because of my -shape); Alec didn't tilt back on the hind legs of his -chair after dessert, with his hands shoved down in -his pockets; Ruthie didn't practice a note on the -piano; even Tom was different. At first he tried to -whoop things up in the old Vars fashion, but he gave -it up after an attempt or two. We wouldn't respond. -We balked like stubborn horses, while all the time -Elise kept right on being very sweet and charming, -but, oh my, cold and far away.</p> - -<p>Her tact got on my nerves. I realised that she -was trying to be nice, but her appreciation of everything -made me tired. Of course she had seen grander -houses than ours and yet she pretended to enthuse -over our old-fashioned mantels. "What fine woodwork -in them," she'd say to Father, "and what beautiful -mahogany in those sliding-doors!" or, as she -gazed at our ornate black walnut bookcase, she would -remark, "Black walnut is becoming so popular!" -Once she exclaimed, "How many books you have!" -and her eyes were resting on a row of black-bound -town records Father insists on keeping. When she -and I attempted a miserable game of croquet she remarked, -"I think it is more fun having the ground -a little uneven." Heavens, I would have loved her -if she had blurted out, "Say, this is rotten! Let's -not play." I despise insincerity.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p023" id="Page_p023">[23]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">ONE day at dinner (I've forgotten whether it was -the first or second day of Elise's visit, but anyhow -it was before the ice was broken) Father suggested -that Tom take the new member of our family -for a drive in the afternoon with Dixie (he and Alec, -could go out to the factory by electrics), so as soon as -Elise went upstairs to rest, as she always did after -dinner, I escaped to the barn, to hitch up. Alec -doesn't have much time to devote to Dixie and I gave -that poor little animal such a currying as he had never -had before in his life. Then I drew up the check -two holes higher, dusted out the phaeton, and put in -the best yellow plush robe and lash whip.</p> - -<p>Elise and Tom got back about half-past six. I -was in the sitting-room when Elise came into the -house.</p> - -<p>"Chenery has been showing me all the sights," -she said. "I think Hilton is lovely. I told Chenery -we were staying too long. I'm afraid we're late for -dinner. But I'll hurry. It won't take me ten minutes -to dress."</p> - -<p>Dinner indeed! I wondered if she called the layout -we had at noon just lunch. We've always had -supper at night and I hadn't intended changing for -Elise. But if she'd gone upstairs to dress for it, -I'd got to prepare something besides tea, sliced meat -and toast, for all the trouble she was taking. I flew -to the kitchen. We had a can of beef-extract, and I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p024" id="Page_p024">[24]</a></span> -told Delia to make soup out of that. Then I sent -Ruth for some beefsteak, hauled down a can of peas -for a vegetable, and the sliced oranges which were -already prepared would have to do for dessert. I -rushed to my room, put on my best light blue cashmere -and laid out Ruth's white muslin.</p> - -<p>It was, after all, on the first day of Elise's visit that -she took that drive with Dixie, for <i>this</i>, I remember -now, was the first evening meal that she had had with -us. An awful catastrophe took place during the -ordeal too. In the first place, having dinner at night -added to the strain the family were all under, and it -may have been due to the general atmosphere of uneasiness -that made Nellie so stupid and careless. I -don't know how it happened, but when she was passing -the crackers to Elise, during the soup course, her -cap got loose somehow and fell cafluke on Elise's -bread-and-butter plate. There was an instant of -dead quiet, and then Oliver, who just at that moment -happened to have his mouth full of soup, exploded -like a rubber ball with water in it. He shoved back -his chair with a jerk, and coughing and choking into -his napkin, got up and left the room. Of course that -sent Malcolm off into a regular spasm, and little Ruth -began to giggle too. I could feel myself growing -as red as a beet, but I didn't laugh. No one laughed -outright.</p> - -<p>Elise was the first one to break the pause, and this -is what she said:</p> - -<p>"I've had the loveliest drive this afternoon," and -then as no one replied she went on, "Chenery took -me around the reservoir. How old are the ruins of -that old mill at the upper end?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p025" id="Page_p025">[25]</a></span></p> - -<p>Perhaps you think that that was a very graceful -way of treating the situation, but I didn't. We were -all simply dying to laugh. We couldn't think of old -mills with that cap sticking on Elise's butter. However, -I heard Father at the other end of the table -making some sort of an answer to Elise, and all of -us managed to control themselves somehow or other. -Nellie, red in the face, carried the bread-and-butter -plate away; Oliver sneaked back into his place; and -I slowly began to cool off. But of course it spoiled -the meal for me.</p> - -<p>As soon after the horrible occurrence as possible, I -escaped up here to my cupola, and Tom found me -here before he went to bed. I knew he must be disappointed -at the way I was running things. I hadn't -been alone with him before, and when his head -pushed up through the trap door and he asked, "You -here?" I didn't answer. I was sitting in the pitch -dark on the window-seat, but Tom must have seen -my shadow for he came up and stood beside me. He -remained perfectly silent for a minute then he said, -"Aren't there a lot of stars out to-night!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, Tom," I burst out, "I'm so sorry! Wasn't -it awful? Everything's going all wrong."</p> - -<p>He sat down.</p> - -<p>"It's all right, Bobbie," he said quietly. "Only I -wish Elise might see us as we really are. <i>Then</i>," he -added, "you would see Elise as <i>she</i> really is."</p> - -<p>Tom didn't ask me how I liked her (he knew better -than to do that), and suddenly I felt sorry for -my brother. I could have almost cried, not because -of the accident at dinner, not because of my failure, -but because Elise hadn't made us like her. I did so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p026" id="Page_p026">[26]</a></span> -want Tom's wife to be the same bully sort of person -Tom was.</p> - -<p>The crisis came the next day. At eleven o'clock -in the morning, I found Delia putting on her coat and -hat, actually preparing to go.</p> - -<p>"What does this mean?" I exclaimed.</p> - -<p>"Can't you see?" she asked very saucily.</p> - -<p>"But the washing. Have you—"</p> - -<p>"No, I haven't, and what's more I'm not going -to." She was spitting mad.</p> - -<p>I stood there, just helpless before her.</p> - -<p>"I have telephoned to all the intelligence offices," -I said, "and I can't get anyone to come until Saturday -night. I thought, to accommodate us, you might -be willing—"</p> - -<p>She cut me right off:</p> - -<p>"Well, I'm not! No one accommodates me here, -and I'm not used to being treated like this. Two -dinners a day and up until all hours!"</p> - -<p>It didn't seem to me as if she had half so much to -stand as I did. I wished I could up and clear out too. -I thought she was very disagreeable to leave me in -the lurch that way. But I didn't have any words -with her. I told her she might go as soon as she -pleased. I hated the sight of her standing there in -the kitchen, which she had left all spick and span, -not as a kitchen should look at eleven in the morning -with half a dozen full-grown mouths to be fed at one -o'clock.</p> - -<p>I was on my way upstairs to break the news to -Nellie when Elise called to me from the sitting-room.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Lucy," she said in her musical voice, "will<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p027" id="Page_p027">[27]</a></span> -there be time for me to run over to the postoffice with -some letters before lunch?"</p> - -<p>I stalked into the sitting-room. She was sitting at -the desk in her graceful easy way, with a beautiful -French hand-embroidered lingerie waist on, that I'd -be glad to own for very best. There were gold beads -about her neck, and her hair, even in the morning, -was soft and fluffy and wavy. She had her feet -crossed and I took in the silk stockings and the low -dull-leather pumps.</p> - -<p>I had a sudden desire to tear down all her beautiful -appearance of ease and grace.</p> - -<p>"We don't have lunch at noon," I said bluntly. -"We have dinner, just dinner. We've always had -dinner."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I know," she began in her persistently pleasant -way; "people do very often, in New England."</p> - -<p>I couldn't bear her unruffled composure.</p> - -<p>"Oh," I said, bound to shock her, "it isn't because -we're New England. It's because we're plain, plain -people. The rich families in New England as well -as anywhere, have dinner at night. But <i>we</i>," I said, -glorying in every word, "are <i>not</i> one of the rich -families. We have doughnuts for breakfast, baked -beans and brown bread Saturday nights, and Saturday -noons a boiled dinner. We love pie. We all just -<i>love it</i>. Father came from a farm in Vermont. He -didn't have any money at all when he started in. You -see we're common people. And so's Tom. Tom -comes from just a common, common, <i>common</i> -family," I said, loving to repeat the word.</p> - -<p>She was sitting with her arm thrown carelessly -over the back of the chair, and her gaze way out of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p028" id="Page_p028">[28]</a></span> -the west window. When I stopped to see what effect -my words had had she just laughed—a quiet pleased -laugh—and mixed up with it I heard her say, "Why, -Chenery is the most uncommon man I ever met." -And she blushed like eighteen.</p> - -<p>I went right on.</p> - -<p>"We don't call him Chenery, either," I said. "We -cut off all such fringes. He's plain Tom to us. I -know how the plain way we live must impress <i>you</i>. -I know you've been used to French maids, and push-a-button -for everything you want. I'm sorry for the -shock you must have got coming here. But you -might as well wake up to the truth. You see what -a mess the house is in, and how Nellie won't call us -Mister and Miss, and how if she is on the third floor -and she wants me she just yells. And," I said, pointing -out of the window, "there goes Delia now. And -there isn't a sign of a cook left in the house."</p> - -<p>Elise sat up straight.</p> - -<p>"Is she leaving without notice?" she exclaimed.</p> - -<p>"Naturally," I laughed.</p> - -<p>"How dreadfully unkind of her!"</p> - -<p>"That's what I think, but Delia doesn't care if I -do."</p> - -<p>"Haven't you some one to help you out? What -will you do?" Elise was really excited.</p> - -<p>"Do?" I replied grimly. "Oh, I'll duff in and -cook myself, I suppose."</p> - -<p>Elise put down her pen.</p> - -<p>"I can make delicious desserts," she said. "Can't -you telephone to the family not to come home this -noon? We can be ready for them by to-night. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p029" id="Page_p029">[29]</a></span> -know how to make the best cake you ever tasted in -your life."</p> - -<p>That's the way it came about. I took her out into -the kitchen and didn't try to cover up a thing. She -could see everything exactly as it was—smoked -kitchen ceiling, uneven kitchen floor, paintless pantry -shelves. She could go to the bottom of the flour -barrel if she wanted to; and she did. Covered with -an old apron and her sleeves rolled up, she was first -in the kitchen pantry looking into every cupboard, -drawer or bucket for powdered sugar; next in the -fruit-closet feeling all the paper bags, in search of -a lemon; then calling to me in her musical voice to -come here and taste some dough to see if it needed -anything else; in the butler's pantry choosing just -the plate she wanted for her cookies; and actually -underneath the sink, pulling out a greasy spider for -panouchie, which she was going to make out of some -lumpy brown sugar she discovered in a wooden -bucket. I took grim pleasure in having her see -the worst there was. I wondered if she could stand -the fact that we didn't own an ice-cream freezer, when -she suggested ice-cream for dessert, nor possess a -drop of olive oil for her mayonnaise. I didn't care. -I liked telling her the things we didn't have. When -I heard her burst into laughter in the butler's pantry, -and pushing open the swinging-door, saw her gazing -at my set of rules tacked up over the sink for Nellie, -I made no explanation whatsoever. I was delighted -to have her read them. At sight of me she went -off into regular peals.</p> - -<p>Finally she gasped, with her finger on Rule 6,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p030" id="Page_p030">[30]</a></span> -"She put—the ice—in a hunk, in the big pitcher -in the wash-bowl!" and the tears ran down her -cheeks.</p> - -<p>I laughed a little then in spite of myself.</p> - -<p>"Nellie's an old fool," I said and went back to my -work.</p> - -<p>It happened that Father and Alec had gone to Boston -for the day on business, and the last minute Tom -had joined them, so the men wouldn't be home until -night anyhow. I called up the twins, just before -their fifth-hour period (I had cut school myself) and -told them to get a bite to eat at the high school lunch-counter. -"I'll pay for it," I assured them, for I knew -the twins would jump at the chance of a free spread, -and as they had manual-training that afternoon, Elise -and I were safe from any interruption from the male -section.</p> - -<p>We had supper at half-past six as usual. It was -very queer about that meal. The awful strain we -had all felt the same day at breakfast had suddenly -disappeared. Elise had suggested that we shouldn't -tell any one of Delia's departure, and on the outside -everything was just as it was in the morning, even to -Nellie's ridiculous cap.</p> - -<p>"These biscuits are good, Lucy," Father said suddenly, -as he reached for the plate. Father usually -speaks of the food, but he hadn't done so once since -Elise had come.</p> - -<p>"There's more in the kitchen," announced Nellie -blandly.</p> - -<p>"There's a whole panful," added Elise. "I'm -awfully glad you like them!" she exclaimed and then -stopped short.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p031" id="Page_p031">[31]</a></span></p> - -<p>"There," I said, "I knew you'd let the cat out. -Elise made them!" I announced.</p> - -<p>"Delia's left—" Elise hurried to say.</p> - -<p>"And we—" I put in.</p> - -<p>"We got supper!" she finished proudly.</p> - -<p>"<i>You</i> and Bobbie?" exclaimed Alec.</p> - -<p>"Bobbie and <i>you</i>?" gasped Tom.</p> - -<p>"Of course!" she said. "Bobbie scallopped the -oysters."</p> - -<p>"Give me some more," said Malcolm.</p> - -<p>"Fling over the last biscuit," sang out Oliver. -And in a flash Elise picked up the little brown ball -and tossed it across the fern-dish straight as an arrow.</p> - -<p>"Good shot!" said Oliver, catching it in both -hands.</p> - -<p>"Oh," piped up Ruthie, "make Malcolm stop. He -took a cookie and it isn't time for them."</p> - -<p>Father just chuckled, and said, "Pretty good! -pretty good!" And I tell you it was simply glorious -to be natural again!</p> - -<p>"Don't eat too much," said Elise, "for dessert's -coming and it's awfully good."</p> - -<p>"And chocolate layer-cake with it!" said I.</p> - -<p>"Oh, bully!" shouted Malcolm and Oliver together.</p> - -<p>"Say," asked Alec, "isn't this a good deal better -than last night when Nellie's cap fell into your butter?"</p> - -<p>We all burst into sudden laughter and Nellie, -who was filling the glasses, had to set down the -pitcher. She was shaking with mirth. We laughed -until it hurt; we simply roared; and suddenly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p032" id="Page_p032">[32]</a></span> -Elise gasped, when she was able to get her breath:</p> - -<p>"Wasn't it funny? I was so frightened by you all -then, I didn't know what to say about that old cap. -But now—O dear!" and suddenly she turned to -Ruth who sat next to her, put her arms around her -and kissed her. "Oh, Ruthie," she exclaimed, "isn't -it <i>nice</i> to know them all!" And I couldn't tell -whether the tears in her eyes were from laughing or -crying.</p> - -<p>We stayed up late that night.</p> - -<p>"Run and get my slippers," said Father to Ruth -after supper; and all the evening he lay back in his -chair and watched us children while we sang college -songs to Elise's ripping accompaniment; and poked -fun at the twins because they'd just bought their first -derbies. It was eleven-thirty when we went up to -bed.</p> - -<p>"Come here a minute, Bobbie," whispered Elise -to me, and I went into the guest-room. "Do unhook -the back of this dress." When I had finished -she said, "I'll be down at six-thirty" (we were -going to get breakfast too), "and don't you dare to -be late! I'm going to make the omelet. You can -make the johnny-cake. Bobbie, isn't it nice Delia -left?" And she kissed <i>me</i> as well as Ruth.</p> - -<p>That night the boys all gathered in my room again. -I wrapped up in the down comforter, and we were -just beginning to talk when Tom appeared.</p> - -<p>"Hello," he said, smiling all over. He came in -and closed the door. "Well," he asked, "what do -you think of her?" And I knew he asked us because -he so well knew what we did think. But just -the same I wanted to tell him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p033" id="Page_p033">[33]</a></span></p> - -<p>I shot out my bare skinny arm at him.</p> - -<p>"Tom," I said, "I think she's a corker!"</p> - -<p>He first took my hand and then suddenly, very -unlike the Vars, he put both arms around me tight.</p> - -<p>"Bobbie," he said in a kind of choked voice, -"you're a little brick!"</p> - -<p>And, my goodness, I just had to kiss Tom then!</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p034" id="Page_p034">[34]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">IT has been nearly a whole year since I have written -in this book of mine. I've been too discouraged -and heart-sick even to drag myself up here -into my cupola. I've aged dreadfully. I've been disillusioned -of all the hopes and dreams I ever had in -my life. I've skipped that happy period called girlhood, -skipped it entirely, and I had hoped <i>awfully</i> -to go to at least one college football game before I -was grey. I am sitting in my study. It is a lovely -day in spring. There are white clouds in the sky, -young robins in the wild cherry, but <i>my</i> youth, <i>my</i> -schooldays, <i>my</i> aspirations are all over and gone.</p> - -<p>Miss Wood said to me one day last winter—Miss -Wood is my Sunday-school teacher and was trying -to be kind—"You know, Lucy, it is a law of the -universe for us all to have a certain amount of trouble -before we die. Some have it early, some late. Now -<i>you</i>, dear, are having your misfortunes when you are -young. Just think, later they will all be out of your -way." Miss Wood hasn't had a bit of her share of -trouble yet. Why, she has a mother, a father, a -fiancé, and a bunch of violets every Sunday. She has -perfectly lovely clothes, a coachman to drive her -around, and was president of her class her senior -year in college. Such blessings won't be half as nice, -and Miss Wood knows it, when I'm old and grey. -I just simply hate having all my troubles dealt out -to me before my skirts touch the ground.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p035" id="Page_p035">[35]</a></span></p> - -<p>Our minister said to me that misfortune is the -greatest builder of character in the world. Well, -it hasn't worked that way with me. I'm hot-tempered -and have an unruly tongue; I don't love a soul -except my brother Alec; and the only friend I have -in the world is Juliet Adams. I'm not even a genius—I've -discovered that—and my religious beliefs -are dreadfully unsettled. Years ago I used to lie -awake at night and imagine myself in deep sorrow. -I was always calm and sweet and dignified then, beautiful -and stately in my clinging black, and near me -always was a young man, a strong, handsome, clean-shaven -young man in riding clothes (I adore men in -riding clothes) and I used to play that this man was -the son of the governor of the state. Strange as it -might seem, he was in love with me and when my -entire family had suddenly been killed in a railroad -accident—I always had them <i>all</i> die—this man -came to me in my lonely house and told me of his devotion. -It really made sorrow beautiful. But let me -state right here that that was one of the many empty -dreams of my youth. When misfortune <i>did</i> swoop -down upon me, I was not sweet and lovely, there was -no man within a hundred miles to understand and -sympathise, there was nothing beautiful about it. It -was just plain hard and bitter. It's only in books -that trouble is romantic.</p> - -<p>Elise visited us in the spring a year ago about this -time (it seems like a century to me) and my misfortunes -began to pour in the following fall, when I -was a senior, and seventeen years old. That last year -of high school had started in to be a very happy one -for me. Father had finally allowed me to go to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p036" id="Page_p036">[36]</a></span> -dancing-school; mathematics was a bugbear of the -past; and our basket-ball team was a perfect winner.</p> - -<p>I loved dancing-school. It came every Saturday -night from eight to ten, and Juliet Adams used to call -for me in her closed carriage and drop me afterwards -at my door. I remember that on that last Saturday -night I was particularly full of good-feeling, for I -kissed Juliet good-bye—a thing I seldom do—and -called back to her as I ran up the steps, "Good-night. -See you at Church." I was never so unsuspecting -in my life as I opened the front door. But the instant -I got inside the house and looked into the sitting-room, -I knew something was wrong. The entire -family was all sitting about the room doing absolutely -nothing. Father was not at his roll-top desk; -the twins were not drawn up to the centre table studying -by the student-lamp; Alec was not out making -his Saturday night call; and, strangest of all, Ruthie -was not in bed.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter?" I asked.</p> - -<p>"Take your things off and come in, Lucy," said -Father.</p> - -<p>I didn't stir. My heart stood dead still for an instant. -I grabbed hold of the portière.</p> - -<p>"Something has happened to Tom," I gasped, so -sure I didn't even have to ask.</p> - -<p>I suppose I must have looked horribly frightened, -for one of the twins blurted out, in the twins' frank -brutal way, "Oh, say, don't get so everlastingly excited. -Tom's all right, for all we know. So's every -one else. Do cool off."</p> - -<p>Ruthie giggled. She always giggles at the twins, -and I knew then that my sudden fear had been for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p037" id="Page_p037">[37]</a></span> -nothing. The angry colour rushed into my face.</p> - -<p>"Smarties!" I flung back at the twins with all my -might.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Lucy!" I heard Father murmur, and I saw -Alec drop his eyes as if he were ashamed of such -an outburst from his seventeen-year-old sister.</p> - -<p>"I don't care," I went on. "Why do you want to -frighten me to death? What's the matter with you -all, anyway? What are you all doing? Why isn't -Ruthie in bed? Why are the twins—"</p> - -<p>"It's all about <i>you</i>!" Malcolm interrupted in a -sort of triumphant manner.</p> - -<p>"Me!" I gasped. "What in thunder—"</p> - -<p>"Oh, Lucy!" Father again murmured.</p> - -<p>"Well, what," I continued, "have you all been -saying about <i>me</i>?" And I sat down on the piano-stool.</p> - -<p>Father cleared his throat the way he does before -he asks the blessing, and every one else was quiet. -I knew something important was coming.</p> - -<p>"Lucy," Father said, "we think the time has come -for you to go to boarding-school."</p> - -<p>It hit me like a hard baseball and I couldn't have -spoken if I were to have died.</p> - -<p>Father went on in his sure, unfaltering way.</p> - -<p>"I have been considering it for some little while, -and now as I talk it over with the others—we always -do that, you know—I am more convinced of -the wisdom of such a step than ever. Alec has been -doing some investigating, and Elise suggested in her -last letter that Miss Brown's-on-the-Hudson is an excellent -school. I have, therefore, communicated with -Miss Brown and a telegram announces to me to-day<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p038" id="Page_p038">[38]</a></span> -that a vacancy allows her to accept you, late as it is. -Before worrying you unnecessarily, I have made all -arrangements. I have written to Aunt Sarah, and -she is willing to come and take your place here. So, -my dear child, I am only waiting now for your careful -and womanly consideration." I think he must -have seen the horror on my face, for he added gently, -"You needn't decide to-night, Lucy. Think it over -and in the morning your duty will seem clear to -you."</p> - -<p>I have heard of people whose hair grows grey in -a single night. It's a wonder mine didn't turn snow-white -during that single speech. Boarding-school had -never been intimated to me before. I had been away -from home for over night only twice in my life, and -then stayed only a week. Both times I had almost -died of homesickness. I would as soon be sentenced -to prison or to death. Oh, I didn't want to go away! -I didn't want to! The silence after Father finished -was awful. One of the twins broke it.</p> - -<p>"When Father told us about this to-night," Malcolm -began importantly, "we thought he was dead -right. You see," he went on, "we want our sister -to be as nice as any other fellow's sister."</p> - -<p>"Don't you 'sister' <i>me</i>," I managed to murmur, -for I wasn't going to be patronised by the twins who -are a year younger than I am.</p> - -<p>"Well, anyhow," said Oliver, the crueller one of -the twins, "you haven't got the right hang of fixing -yourself up yet. You go round with tomboys like -Juliet Adams, and some others I might mention, that -fellows haven't any use for. High school is all right -for <i>us</i>, but, no siree, not for <i>you</i>. Some girls get the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p039" id="Page_p039">[39]</a></span> -knack all right at home; but look at yourself now! -You wouldn't think a girl of seventeen would twist -her feet around a piano-stool like that!" I twisted -them tighter. "Even Toots" (that's Ruthie), he -went on, "seems to carry herself more like a young -lady."</p> - -<p>Ruth giggled at Oliver's last remark and I came -back to life.</p> - -<p>"I may be plain and awkward and gawky," I began, -"and as homely as a hedge fence, but let me -tell you two children, if I spent my time primping -before the glass, and mincing up and down the street -Saturday afternoons before Brimmer's drug-store like -your precious Elsie Barnard," I fired, looking straight -at Malcolm and bringing the colour to his face, for -he was awfully gone on Elsie, "or Doris Abbott, -Mister Oliver," I added, and Oliver flushed brilliant -red, "you two wouldn't have any stockings mended -or any buttons on your coats or any lessons either, -for you know without me to explain every little thing -you are awful dunces!"</p> - -<p>Father said, "Oh, come, Lucy, let us not quarrel;" -Ruth went over and sat on the arm of Oliver's chair -(she always sides with the twins); and my older -brother Alec just looked hard at his magazine.</p> - -<p>There was a long silence and then I got up and -walked over to Alec. I took the magazine out of his -hand. I was calm now.</p> - -<p>"Alec, what do <i>you</i> think about my going away?" -I said.</p> - -<p>He looked up and smiled his kind, tired smile at -me. Then he took my hand but I drew it away -quickly, turned and sat down on the arm of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p040" id="Page_p040">[40]</a></span> -Morris-chair in which he was sitting, with my back -square to him. His gentle voice came to me from -over my shoulder.</p> - -<p>"Well, Lucy," he said, "you see, you've been -working so hard for us all here, for so many years, -that I think, too, you've earned a little vacation. -You've been such a splendid mother to us—such a -perfect little housekeeper, that now I'd like to see you -less hard-worked. We don't want to cheat you of -your girlhood. We want you to have all the good -times, and gaieties, and clothes, and things like that, -that other girls have."</p> - -<p>Ah, yes! I saw finally. They were ashamed of -me. Even Alec was ashamed of me. I was not like -other girls. I was plain and awkward and wore ugly -clothes. I wasn't pretty. They wanted to send me -away as if I were an old dented spoon to be -straightened and polished at the jeweller's. When -Alec paused he put his arm over in front of me so -that it lay in my lap. At the touch of it the sobs -seemed suddenly to rise up in my throat, pressing -after each other as if they were anxious to get out -into the air, and I rose quickly, pushed Alec's arm -away and left the room. They mustn't see—oh, -no, they mustn't see me cry! I meant to go to my -bedroom and have it out by myself, but instead I -rushed to the kitchen and buried my face for a minute -in the roller-towel. Then before I let myself give -way, I drew the dipper full of cold water and swallowed -those sobs back, forcing them with the strength -of Samson. You see I knew my sudden exit would -leave an uncomfortable sensation in the room back -there, and I wouldn't have had one of them think I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p041" id="Page_p041">[41]</a></span> -was emotional for anything. So after a minute I -went back. They could see for themselves that there -wasn't a tear in sight. Standing in the doorway, facing -them all, this is what I said, my voice as hard as -metal.</p> - -<p>"Father, I shall be packed, and ready to go on -Monday morning."</p> - -<p>When I closed the door to my room that night I -did not cry, although my throat ached with wanting -to. As I drew my curtain and looked out into the -dark night I thought of Juliet Adams, sleeping peacefully -like a child, and I realised how little she knew -of sorrow. When the big clock in the hall struck -twelve I was kneeling before my bureau, stacking my -underclothes in neat little piles ready for my trunk. -How little I knew that what I then thought my pretty -ninety-eight-cent nightgowns, long-sleeved and high-necked, -would about die of shame for their plainness, -before the beautiful lace and French hand-embroidered -lingerie represented at midnight spreads at school. -I'm glad I didn't know then that I would come to despise -my poor faithful clothes.</p> - -<p>I was piling my gloves into a box when there came -a soft knock at the door. Alec came in, in his red -and grey bath-towel bath-robe.</p> - -<p>"Not in bed yet?" he said gently, and came over -and sat down near me on the floor with his back -against the wall, his knees drawn up almost to his -chin and his arms clasped about them. We sat there -for a moment silently, and I grimly folded gloves. -Then, "Good stuff, Bobbie," he said finally—and -oh, so kindly—"Good nerve."</p> - -<p>I turned and looked straight at him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p042" id="Page_p042">[42]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No, Alec," I said, "there isn't anything good -about it. It's horrid feelings and hate that make me -go."</p> - -<p>He looked away from me as he always does when -he disapproves, but he put his hand on my shoulder -and I was grateful for that touch.</p> - -<p>I turned on him frantically and burst out, "Alec -Vars, you are the only one in this whole house I -love—you and Father," I amended, for we all adore -Father. "You're the only one who is kind or thoughtful. -I've tried to do my duty in this place by you -and the others, but I guess I haven't succeeded. -Now I'm going away and we'll see how the twins enjoy -a dose of Aunt Sarah." I paused, then added, -"Look here, Alec, don't let Ruth go out to the -Country Club. She is pretty and the older men—why, -your friends talk to her and make her vain -and hold her on the arms of their chairs. Don't let -<i>her</i> go. And the twins—I haven't told on them -yet—but they're smoking! They're dead scared for -fear I'll tell Father, and I said that I should if I -caught them at it again."</p> - -<p>"Good Bobbie, you'd keep us straight if you could, -wouldn't you?"</p> - -<p>"No, I wouldn't," I flared back. "It's hate I feel -and—"</p> - -<p>Alec put his hand over my mouth.</p> - -<p>"What shall I do to you?" he laughed.</p> - -<p>I rose abruptly, crossed the room and closed the -window at my back. There was a big lump in my -throat and I stopped at the marble wash-stand built -into one corner of my room, and took a drink of -water. Then I went back to my glove-sorting.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p043" id="Page_p043">[43]</a></span> -Finally I was able to ask, "Alec, were you at the -bottom of this?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I don't know," he smiled. "Possibly—I—or -Will Maynard."</p> - -<p>"Will Maynard!" I exclaimed. Dr. Maynard is a -physician in our town, and was a classmate of Alec's -years ago in college. He has nothing to do with -<i>me</i>.</p> - -<p>Alec picked up one of my gloves and began turning -it right-side-out, as he explained.</p> - -<p>"We dropped into Grand Army Hall one afternoon -a week or so ago when you were playing a -basket-ball game. I'd never seen you play before. -We stayed for a half an hour or more. Going home -Will said to me, 'Why don't you send that little wild-cat -sister of yours away to school?' I began to mull -it over. Of course, Bobbie, old girl," Alec went on, -"I admire your pluck and spirit in basket-ball. I -like to see you win whatever you set out to. You -played a fine game—a bully fine game; but there are -other things in life to acquire—other kinds of things, -Bobbikins." He stopped. "Oh, you'll like boarding-school," -he said.</p> - -<p>"I'll like Dr. Maynard not to butt into my affairs," -I replied under my breath; then I remarked, "I'm -ready for that glove, please."</p> - -<p>Alec passed it over and got up.</p> - -<p>"Good-night," he said. "Oh, by the way," he -added, "here is something you may find a use for. -Your tuition and board, of course, will be paid -for by Father, but I know there are a lot of -extras—girl's things—that you'll need. Possibly -this will help." He dropped a piece of paper into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p044" id="Page_p044">[44]</a></span> -my lap and was gone before I could look up.</p> - -<p>I unfolded the paper and saw a check dancing before -my eyes for one hundred dollars! I knew very -well that we were as poor as paupers in spite of our -big house, and stable, as empty now as a shell. I -knew Father's business was about as lifeless as the -stable, and that Alec alone stood by him trying to give -a little encouragement. Splendid Alec! I fled after -him. He was just groping his way up the stairs to his -third-floor room. I caught him and very unlike my -even temperament put my arms around him tight.</p> - -<p>"O Alec," I blubbered, "it isn't because of the -money; it's because of <i>you</i>." Then I added, like a -great idiot, "Oh, I <i>will</i> try not to be such a tomboy! -I <i>will</i> try to be worth something when I'm away, and -all the things you want me to be." And then because -I hated to pose as any kind of an angel, I turned, fled -back to my room and locked the door.</p> - -<p>I made a great impression with my announcement -the next day in Sunday-school. Juliet could hardly -believe me. She stared at me as open-eyed and awestruck -as if I had told her I was going to China. She -wouldn't sing the hymns, and during the long prayer -she whispered to me: "You'll be going to Spreads!" -And later: "You'll have a Room-mate!" And again: -"Perhaps you'll be invited to House-parties!"</p> - -<p>If I were about to be hanged it would be little -comfort to me to be told that in a few hours I would -be playing on harps, walking streets of gold and wearing -wings. I didn't want to go away—that was the -plain truth. I preferred Intelligence-Offices to boarding-schools; -I preferred our big brown ugly old -house, empty stable, out-of-date carriages, cruel twins,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p045" id="Page_p045">[45]</a></span> -and uncuddleble Ruth to spreads, room-mates and -house-parties. I wanted to stay at home! But I -was bound that no one should know that my heart -was breaking; I was determined that no one should -guess that I was being sent away, boosted out of my -position, like the poor old minister in the South Baptist -church. I would go with my head up, and tearless! -Only once did I give way, and that was in poor -little Dixie's furry neck when I threw my arms about -him in his stall. Poor little dumb Dixie! Poor pitiful -dumb carriages gazing silently at me. "<i>You'll</i> -miss me. <i>You'll</i> be sorry," I said.</p> - -<p>On that last grey Sunday afternoon I took my -good-bye walk, through Buxton's woods back of our -house. I gazed for the last time on the precious -landmarks that I had grown to love—the two freak -chestnut trees, soldered into one like the Siamese -twins; the hollow oak where we used to dig the rich -dark brown peet and find the big, slimy white worms; -the huge fallen pine, struck once by lightning, along -whose trunk and in among whose dead branches we -used to play "ship" and "pirate-boat." I walked -alone—all alone. There was no romantic lover -in riding clothes, as in my dreams, to share my sad -reflections. Only a scurrying chipmunk or red squirrel, -now and then, gazed at me with frightened eyes, -then scampered away; only the dead leaves under my -feet kept rhythm with my dragging steps. I was -awfully lonely and unhappy. It seemed to me that -even the sombre sky and the dead quietness of Sunday -connived to add to my dreariness.</p> - -<p>When I reached our iron gate on my return, it was -nearly dark. Dr. Maynard was just coming away<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p046" id="Page_p046">[46]</a></span> -from one of his frequent Sunday afternoons with -Alec and I met him by the fountain.</p> - -<p>"Hello, little Wild-cat," he sang out cheerily. He -always has called me Wild-cat, though I never knew -why. "Back from one of your walks 'all by your -lone'?" I think he copied that from Kipling. "Ears -been burning? Al and I have just been talking about -you."</p> - -<p>I had never as much as peeped in Dr. Maynard's -presence before—he's fifteen years older than I—but -I couldn't bear his interference in my affairs and -I retorted, "I should advise you not to meddle with -wild-cats, Dr. Maynard!"</p> - -<p>"Whew!" he whistled in mock alarm; and though -it was not a pretty thing for a girl of seventeen to -say to a man whose hair was beginning to turn grey, -I finished hotly, "Or you'll get scratched!" and -turned and dashed into the house.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p047" id="Page_p047">[47]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">IN thinking over my career at boarding-school I always -recall three remarks which were made to me -in the smoky Hilton Station as I waited for my train. -Father and Alec and Juliet who, the dear old trump, -had actually cut school to see me off, were at the -station.</p> - -<p>Alec had said, "Go slowly, Bobbie, and know only -the best girls," and I had replied, pop-full of confidence, -"Of course, Alec."</p> - -<p>"And whatever else you do," exclaimed Juliet, -"don't you dare to get a swelled head, Lucy Vars." -"I won't," I had assured her.</p> - -<p>Father, dear kind Father, his hand on my shoulder, -had commanded: "Dear child, discover some one less -fortunate than yourself and be kind to her." And I -had promised, tussling with the painful lump in my -throat, "I will, dear Father."</p> - -<p>Father had slipped a paper bag into my hand then—a -bag of lemon-drops (Father always buys lemon-drops) -and two sticks of colt's-foot. The poor dear -man had forgotten that I didn't like colt's-foot, but -when I opened the bag in the train and saw those two -little brown sticks, somehow I loved dear Father -harder than ever. I put them into my travelling bag -very tenderly, and have kept them ever since.</p> - -<p>I don't know how to explain my impressions of -boarding-school. I realise now that in spite of the -pain at leaving home I did have buried in the bottom<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p048" id="Page_p048">[48]</a></span> -of my heart dreams of the vague, unknown joys of -room-mates and spreads. Every young girl has such -dreams, I guess. Even as I sped along in the train, -trying desperately to dissolve that lump in my throat -with Father's lemon-drops, I was wondering about the -new bosom friends I should make. Edith Campbell, -an awfully popular older girl in our town and a friend -of Alec's, had been to a fashionable boarding-school -in New York ever since she was a child, and she was -forever bringing home girls to visit her, or whisking -off herself to ball-games and Proms with "a Room-mate's -brother" or "a Best-friend's cousin." I could -hardly realise that I, Lucy Vars, was about to step -within the same fascinating circle. Fifty girls to eat -and sleep and walk with; fifty girls to choose my -friends from; fifty girls to bring home with me for -over a holiday; fifty girls for me to visit; and fifty -girls with brothers or cousins at Harvard and Yale and -Princeton. Perhaps that very winter some college -man would invite me to a Prom; I would dance till -morning, and become such a dazzling belle that by -Easter-time I would look upon the twins as mere -<i>boys</i>. Probably by summer I would be dashing about -to house-parties, and talking to real grown-up men -over a cup of tea like Dolly in the "Dolly Dialogues." -Perhaps I would be president of my class -at school, like Tom at college. Perhaps—perhaps—oh, -I am forced to smile at myself now as I look -back and see the funny little short-skirted, pig-tailed -creature that I was, sitting there in the train, gazing -out of the window, building my absurd little air-castles -by the score, on the very way to the destruction -of every dream I ever had. I didn't make a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p049" id="Page_p049">[49]</a></span> -single friend at boarding-school. I didn't meet a -man. Here it is almost summer, and house-parties -seem as remote from me as they did ten years ago. -I must try to explain why I made such a flat failure -of things. It isn't a pleasant story, but here goes:</p> - -<p>The first instant that I stepped into that school -I knew that I was a curiosity to everybody there. -Never shall I forget that first evening when Miss -Brown ushered me into the big school dining-room and -seated me beside her. It looked like fairy-land to me—red -candles on a dozen little round tables and all -the girls in soft, light dresses with Dutch necks. -When I finally dared look up from my plate and -glance round, I thought I had never seen such beautiful -creatures. I couldn't find a homely girl among -them; and such lovely hair as they had, done soft and -full and fluffy with large ribbon-bows tied at the back -of their necks. The girls at our table had the whitest -hands and the prettiest soft arms, with bracelets jingling -on them.</p> - -<p>After supper Miss Brown seated herself in a big -armchair by a low lamp in the drawing-room and -read aloud from "Pride and Prejudice." The girls -all gathered about her and did fancy work on big -hoops. I didn't have any work and tried to make -myself comfortable on a little high silk-brocaded -chair. I felt horribly embarrassed. Every time a -girl looked up from her work and scrutinised me from -top to toe, I felt like saying, "I know I'm a perfect -mess. I see it. I know my hands are like sandpaper, -and my shoes thick-soled, and my dress a sight. -I know my hair is ridiculous braided and bobbed up -with a black ribbon like a horse's tail. I know it."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p050" id="Page_p050">[50]</a></span> -I couldn't listen to a word that Miss Brown was reading. -I was awfully disturbed thinking about my -trunk on its way to me, filled with its queer collection, -and wondering what in the name of heaven I -could put on the next night. My blue cashmere -haunted me like a bad dream. I think that first evening -at boarding-school was the first time I really -missed having a mother. <i>She</i> would have known the -blue cashmere was ugly; <i>she</i> would have known that -little bronze slippers with stockings to match were the -proper thing; <i>she</i> would have known that girls at -boarding-school wore Dutch necks and wide ribbons -tied low, at the back of their necks. I simply dreaded -unpacking that pitiful little trunk of mine. I wished -it could be lost.</p> - -<p>My room-mate's name was Gabriella Atherton, but -when I entered the room which I was supposed to -share with her I wished she had been plain Mary -Jane. The bureau was simply loaded with silver -things—silver brushes and mirrors and powder-boxes, -and at least three silver frames with the -stunningest men's pictures in them you ever saw. -The walls were covered with college flags, and the -window-seat was banked with college sofa-cushions. -Why, I didn't know a single man, except high school -boys, great awkward creatures like the twins. I -hoped Gabriella wouldn't find out that I had never -been to a college football game in my life, nor been -invited to one either. My one last hope for consolation -lay in the possibility that Gabriella was older -than I. I thought she must be at least twenty to know -so many men. When we were finally alone, getting -ready to go to bed I asked her. My heart sank when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p051" id="Page_p051">[51]</a></span> -she announced that she was only sixteen. I know exactly -how a mother feels now when another person's -baby born a month before hers talks first and shows -signs of greater intelligence. I remember I was -standing before my chiffonier braiding my hair for -the night, pulling it flat back as I always did and fixing -it in one tight short little braid, when Gabriella -announced she was sixteen. Why, she looked old -enough to be married, and I—I gazed at my reflection—I -looked like poor Sarah Carew in the garret. -No wonder the family wanted to send the old spoon -away to be polished. No wonder!</p> - -<p>"One of the girls," Gabriella went on to say, "has -had a Box from home. She's asked the whole school -to a Kimono Spread in her room. Do you want to -go?"</p> - -<p>A Spread! My heart leaped! And then I got a -glimpse of Gabriella in the glass before me. She -was a vision in a flowing pink silk kimono with white -birds on it. She had her hair fluffed up on top and -tied with a wide pink taffeta ribbon—she actually -slept in it—and little pink shoes on her feet.</p> - -<p>"I guess I won't to-night, thanks," I said, not turning -around, for I didn't want her to see what a peeled -onion I looked like; "the train made me car-sick." -And I snapped the elastic band around the end of my -braid.</p> - -<p>After Gabriella had gone I turned out the light and -crawled into the little brass bed, which Miss Brown -had said was mine; but I didn't go to sleep. I just -lay there listening to the muffled laughter and chatter -at the end of the hall. It was only nine o'clock -and lights were not due to be out until ten. I hated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p052" id="Page_p052">[52]</a></span> -lying there wide awake and I kept wondering how I -could get dressed in the morning without letting my -room-mate see all my plain ugly things. Then I remembered -that I had left my common cheap little -wooden brush, the shellac all washed off with weekly -scrubbings, on top of my chiffonier. I jumped up -quickly and hid it in the top drawer; then suddenly -I turned on the light, sat down in my horrid red wool -wrapper, and wrote something like this to Alec, blubbering -and dabbing tears all through it:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"<i>Dear Alec</i>,</p> - -<p>I'm here safely, I've met all the girls and they are -perfectly lovely. I'm going to love it. My room-mate's -name is Gabriella Atherton—isn't that a beautiful -name?—and she is a perfect dear! I can't write -long for I am due at a spread; so, so-long until I have -more time. This place is full of corking girls. They -would, however, consider the twins mere babes-in-arms. -Tell Aunt Sarah that Father will want his flannel night-shirts -as soon as there is a frost. They are in the all-over -leather trunk in the storeroom. The girls will be -wondering where I am, so good-night.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -"Your enthusiastic<br /> - -"<span class="smcap">Bobbie</span>." -</p></blockquote> - -<p>Then I went back to bed and bawled like a baby, -until I heard Gabriella at the door. Another girl -was with her and I heard her say, "Good-night, -dear," and Gabriella call back exactly as they do in -books and as they did once in my dreams. "Good-night, -sweetheart." Thereupon I ducked my head -down underneath the covers and pretended to be -asleep. A half-hour later, when I felt sure that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p053" id="Page_p053">[53]</a></span> -Gabriella was dead to the world, I opened my eyes -and lay awake until almost morning.</p> - -<p>But no one needs to think that I was homesick. -Wild horses couldn't have dragged me home. I was -bound to stick it out or die and I tried not to be a -little goose and cry my eyes out. That wouldn't help -me to make the best girls my friends and I didn't -mean to disappoint Alec if I could help it. I was -there for business and I meant to accomplish it. Alec -had said he admired that quality.</p> - -<p>But Miss Brown's-on-the-Hudson was awfully different -from the Hilton Classical High School. They -played basket-ball as if it were drop-the-handkerchief: -there was no regular team. We exercised by walking -two by two for an hour every afternoon. There -wasn't the slightest chance for me to shine in -athletics.</p> - -<p>I was robbed also of my hope of being a genius. -There was a girl who could write ten times better -than I. It was after one of her poems was read out -loud in class, that I discovered I wasn't gifted in the -least. She was the marvel of the school, and whenever -there were guests she was asked to read her -poems herself. They were the deepest things I ever -listened to—about the soul, and sorrow, and "swift -sweet death." She <i>looked</i> like a genius too. She had -jet black hair and wore it in long curls tied loosely behind, -big dreamy eyes, and pale transparent skin. -She wasn't very healthy and always wore black. Her -mother was an artist in Florence, and Lucia (think -of it, <i>my</i> name, but pronounced so differently) Lucia -had always lived in Italy until she came to school. I -tell you, as soon as I saw her and listened to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p054" id="Page_p054">[54]</a></span> -poetry, I was terribly thankful that I had never let -any one know that I had ever thought <i>I</i> could write. -I got A on my compositions, and A in everything else, -but no one imagined that I was a genius. They considered -<i>me</i> just a plain everyday shark. But I tried -not to be offensively smart. I flunked on purpose -once in a while; I passed notes in class whenever I -could find any one to pass them to; I got so I could -turn off a "darn" as neatly as any of them, and -pout and say "The devil!" when I pricked my finger -pinning down my belt. For I was determined they -shouldn't think me a "goody-goody" or a "teacher's -pet." I even crocheted a man's tie and pretended it -was for a friend of mine at a fashionable preparatory -school in Massachusetts. I went so far in my frantic -endeavours, as to cut out from old magazines all -the pictures I could find of an actor, whom, by the -way, I had never even seen, and stuck them in the -corners of the glass over my chiffonier.</p> - -<p>Oh, I tried to be like the other girls. I knew they -hadn't liked their first impressions of me, but I tried -to show them that I wasn't as queer as I looked. I -tried to be pleasant and accommodating; I tried to be -patient and bide my time; I tried—heaven knows I -tried, Alec—but it was no use. From the start it -was absolutely no go. I couldn't make even the <i>worst</i> -of those girls my friends. I tell you I did my level -best, but I hadn't the clothes, nor the silver bureau-sets, -nor the frames, nor the men's pictures to put -into them, nor the college banners, nor the mother to -send me boxes of food from home. Those girls -treated me as if I were the mud under their feet. If -I was in the room, I might as well have been the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p055" id="Page_p055">[55]</a></span> -bed-post for all the attention they paid to me. If I -was told to walk with one of them during "Exercise," -that one was pitied by the rest. They looked -upon my clothes as if I were a Syrian or Turk in -strange costume. I used to get hot all over whenever -I had to appear in a dress they had never seen. -And, O Juliet—good old loyal Juliet—you were -afraid I would be spoiled by admiration! I simply -have to chortle with glee when I think of your warning -to your old chum. A swelled head! My <i>eyes</i> -got swollen instead, old Jule, with tears! And -Father—dear Father—there wasn't a single soul -for me to be kind to. <i>I</i> was the most miserable one -in the whole school, the most unpopular, the most -forlorn. And there's the truth in black and white.</p> - -<p>After about five weeks of an average of ten insults -a day, I got tired. Too long a stretch on the -diet of humble-pie doesn't agree with me. There's -an end to every one's patience. One day in late -November little Japan up and fought; and once -started, there was no stopping her. You see the girls -had gotten into the habit of asking me to help them -with their lessons. At first I was pleased, for I naturally -thought that if they would let me see their -stupid minds, they would admit me into a few of their -intimacies and secret affairs—and oh, I did long -to be friends with them! But I discovered they had -no such intention.</p> - -<p>One night I went into Beatrix Fox's room, by -appointment, at quarter of ten. She was waiting and -ready for me, but I could see the remains of a spread -on the table and desk—crumbs, nutshells, olive-stones, -and a half-eaten bunch of Tokays.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p056" id="Page_p056">[56]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh, here you are!" said Beatrix, and with no -attempt at concealment, she went on. "I've been -having half a dozen girls to a spread," she said. -"But I told them to leave one piece of cake for <i>you</i>, -Lucy. Here it is. Now let's get at the Latin."</p> - -<p>I was awfully insulted. Beatrix Fox nor any one -else had ever seen the least fire or spunk in Lucy Vars -before that night, but I couldn't hold in a minute -longer. I took the delicious piece of chocolate layer-cake -and went over to the waste-basket. I threw it -in. "There's your cake!" Beatrix stared as if I -had gone crazy. "There's your old cake, Beatrix -Fox!" I repeated, and went out of the room.</p> - -<p>After that night I was a changed person. I -couldn't be touched with a ten-yard pole. I became -a regular bunch of fire-crackers—spurting and going -off in everybody's face and eyes at the least spark. -And oh, to speak out my mind, and to spit out my -feelings at last, was simply glorious! It was like -getting the rubber-dam off your tooth after a three -hours' sitting at the dentist's. After that experience -with Beatrix, there was no more Cicero translated nor -French sentences corrected by Lucy Vars for a single -one of those stupid-minded, rattle-brained young -ladies. I made a notice on pasteboard in black ink -and hung it on my door. It read: "<span class="smcap">A public tutor -can be obtained from Miss Brown. Don't apply -here! Lucy Chenery Vars.</span>" The girls thought -the sign was perfectly horrid and I was glad of it. -I wanted to be horrid. I revelled in it. I wanted -to be horrid to everybody who had been horrid to -me.</p> - -<p>Once during "Written Exercise," I wrote a whole<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p057" id="Page_p057">[57]</a></span> -page of Latin Composition wrong, so that little cheating -snobbish Barbara Porter next to me might copy it -off on her paper and pass it in. At the bottom of -<i>my</i> sheet I wrote, "I've made these mistakes on purpose. -You may give me zero." Miss Brown, in a -long talk in her private office, told me it was not a -kind thing for me to do. But I didn't care. I had -let Barbara Porter copy my Latin Comp for five -weeks without a murmur, and she had never put <i>herself</i> -out to be kind to <i>me</i>. I wasn't going to be anybody's -door-mat!</p> - -<p>At Thanksgiving all the girls "double up," which -means that the ones who live far away spend the holiday -with the ones who live near. Of course no one -wanted me. Gabriella, who at times tried to be nice -to me, felt conscience-stricken, I suppose, for she said -to me one day when we were dressing, "It's too bad -you're going to be here alone, Lucy. Don't you suppose -Miss Brown would let you to come down to -East Orange" (Gabriella lived in East Orange, New -Jersey) "and eat Thanksgiving dinner with us?"</p> - -<p>I replied maliciously, "Why, I'm sure Miss Brown -would let me spend the entire three days with you, -Gabriella."</p> - -<p>Gabriella hedged then, as I knew she would. "Oh, -I'm so sorry. I'm taking Grace and Barbara home -with me, and there's a dance I do want to go to—and—if -you—"</p> - -<p>"O Gabriella," I broke in, "don't be alarmed. I -shan't burden you for one little tiny minute. I just -wanted to frighten you. I wouldn't give your friends -at home such a shock as the sight of me would be, for -anything in the world. I shall enjoy, on the other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p058" id="Page_p058">[58]</a></span> -hand, the quiet of this room after my charming room-mate -has departed."</p> - -<p>That's the way I talked but I wrote home: "Gabriella -wants me awfully to spend Thanksgiving with -her. There is a dance and all sorts of plans, but in -spite of all her urging I've refused. There's quite a -bunch of us staying here" (the bunch were teachers), -"and jolly spreads and sprees in store."</p> - -<p>I didn't want my family to know—kind Alec, the -arrogant twins, pretty Ruth, and Father who used to -be so proud of me—I didn't want them to know what -a poor little Cinderella I was. When I went home I -wanted every one to think I had had a glorious time -at school, as all girls do. I wanted my family to open -their eyes and say, "My, how you're changed!" and -every one at church to whisper when I came in a little -late, "There's Lucy Vars home! Hasn't she grown -up?" I wanted Dr. Maynard to raise his hat to me -when he met me on the street, and call me Miss Vars. -I wanted Juliet to gaze at me with envy. If there -was any real silver underneath the tarnish on me I -was bound it should shine when I went home at -Christmas. And so it happened that I made up my -mind that if I couldn't make friends with my new -schoolmates I could at least learn something from -them. I used to observe them very carefully and -jot down important points in my memory. Even the -things that I derided to their faces, I meant to copy -when I went home. My brain became a regular copybook -of rules.</p> - -<p>"My skirts," I recorded, "should be below my -shoe-tops, not above.</p> - -<p>"The way to keep a waist down, is to fasten it with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p059" id="Page_p059">[59]</a></span> -a safety-pin behind and a long black steel pin in front.</p> - -<p>"My nails should be as shining as a dinner-plate.</p> - -<p>"A shining face is not supposed to be pretty.</p> - -<p>"Powder is used to remove shine, and isn't wicked -like rouge.</p> - -<p>"Girls of seventeen use hairpins and rats, and keep -their hats on with hatpins instead of elastics.</p> - -<p>"Mohair and gingham underskirts and Ferris -waists are not worn by girls of seventeen.</p> - -<p>"Huge taffeta bows underneath the chin, on the -hair, or anywhere in fact, is the rubber-stamp for -a girl of my age.</p> - -<p>"Automobiles, actors, college football, and allowances -are popular subjects for conversation.</p> - -<p>"Don't break crackers into your soup.</p> - -<p>"Don't butter a whole slice of bread.</p> - -<p>"Don't cut up all your meat before beginning to -eat."</p> - -<p>I used to watch Gabriella dress like a hawk. She -had lots of clever little tricks, like pinning up her -pompadour to the brim of her hat, or rubbing her -cheeks with a hair-brush to make them rosy. She -used to put a little cologne just back of her ears, -which I thought very queer, and she was forever asking -me if I could see light through her hair. Every -week she gave her face what she called a cold-cream -bath. She said her mother always did, after riding -in the automobile.</p> - -<p>I planned to spend every cent of Alec's one hundred -dollars on clothes. I did all my shopping in New -York. I adored New York! Saturday afternoons -when the other girls went to the matinée, the chaperone -allowed me to spend the time in the big depart<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p060" id="Page_p060">[60]</a></span>ment -stores. I didn't buy anything—just looked and -looked, priced and priced, and when I had a nice -clerk, tried things on. Once I had my nails manicured, -so I would know how; once I went to a Fifth -Avenue hair dresser, who charged me a dollar and -a half to make me look like a sight; and one day I -bought Father a necktie for fifty cents and Alec a -scarf-pin for seventy-five. That is all I spent until -just before Christmas when I blew in the whole hundred. -For, you understand, it was not to impress -the girls at school, but the people at home, that I -bought my new outfit. It was not until after I had -made a great many estimates and carefully planned it -all out on a piece of paper that I asked one of the -younger teachers, who I thought had good taste, if -she would help me buy a few trifling clothes on the -following Saturday.</p> - -<p>We started on the early train and reached New -York at nine o'clock. I think that Saturday was the -happiest day of my life! I bought a suit for thirty-five -dollars at Kirby's; a hat marked down to ten dollars -at Earl & Kittredge's; a silk dress for twenty-five -dollars; a spotted veil for fifty cents; a barette -for twenty cents; pumps for four dollars; one pair of -silk stockings for one dollar, and so on. I had just -seven dollars and sixty-seven cents left after I had -bought my last purchase—a lovely red silk waist for -travelling. My suit was dark blue, my boots tan -with Cuban heels, and my blue velvet hat had two -reddish quills in it. I was awfully pleased with my -selections, and I confided to Miss Davis, the teacher, -that I wasn't going to wear any of the things until -the very day I started for home.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p061" id="Page_p061">[61]</a></span></p> - -<p>"And now," I said, "I'm going to take you to -luncheon, Miss Davis, after which I want you to be -my guest at a matinée."</p> - -<p>It was simply grand to have money! It makes you -feel like a queen to fling it around as if it were paper. -After I had spent almost a hundred dollars Miss Davis -thought I was an heiress in disguise, and to carry out -the part I left the whole of fifty cents as a tip for -our waiter at luncheon. I told Miss Davis to pick -out the most popular play in New York for us to see. -We bought the best seats in the house.</p> - -<p>Never, never as long as I live shall I forget those -two hours and a half of perfect happiness! I'd never -seen anything but vaudeville in my life, and I almost -cry now when I think of that play. It was perfectly -grand. The hero kept looking right straight at me -all the time and what do you think? What do you -suppose? He was the very actor whose pictures I -had cut out and stuck in my mirror! He was Robert -K. Dwinnell, and I hadn't known until I was inside -the theatre and looked at the program that he was in -New York. It seemed to me too strange a coincidence -to be true. I don't believe in omens, but Miss -Davis told me afterward she hadn't the slightest idea -that I had been collecting his pictures. After that -play I could hardly speak. The queer grey light of -day after the glow of the footlights, didn't seem real. -Boarding-school and all the girls seemed trifling. I -couldn't think of anything except Robert Dwinnell -and that play all the way back in the train. I felt -that I was the beautiful heroine instead of Lucy Vars. -I felt her joy at meeting her lover instead of my -anguish at going back to a lot of unfriendly girls. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p062" id="Page_p062">[62]</a></span> -lived and breathed in the action of the plot I had just -seen. I couldn't get away from it. Before I boarded -the train that night I dragged Miss Davis into a small -shop which we passed on the way to the station, and -with the last fifty cents of Alec's one hundred dollars -I bought a real picture of Robert Dwinnell. The -picture is here now in this very cupola, in the top -drawer of my desk and is the only comfort that I -have. Mr. Dwinnell is sitting on the edge of a table -swinging one foot, just as he did in the play—I remember -the place in the third act—and his eyes are -looking right at me.</p> - -<p>I wonder, oh, I wonder sometimes, if he and I will -ever meet.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p063" id="Page_p063">[63]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">IT was about a week before the Christmas vacation -that my last outbreak at boarding-school occurred. -It was one noon after lunch when I was -passing through the hall on my way upstairs. I had -to go by Sarah Platt's room, where the little clique of -girls I had once longed to be one of, used often to -congregate after luncheon before the two o'clock -study-hour. They were gathered there to-day, talking -and laughing together in their usual mysterious -manner, and I wondered vaguely as I went by, what -they were discussing now. I never allowed myself to -listen intentionally, but the conversation of those girls, -who were still strangers to me, always fascinated me, -and I confess I used to overhear all that I could without -being dishonourable. As I sauntered by the half-closed -door of that room I recognised the voice of -Sarah Platt herself, who of all the girls I had aspired -to make my best friend. Sarah was a dashing -kind of girl and would show off to awfully good advantage -before my family if I had invited her to -visit me.</p> - -<p>"Well," I heard her say, "I think Miss Brown is -taking her in on charity."</p> - -<p>I knew Sarah must be referring to me and I -stopped stock-still.</p> - -<p>"Why, she hasn't <i>anything</i>, and this horrid place is -probably a palace to her!"</p> - -<p>I flushed with rage. Palace nothing!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p064" id="Page_p064">[64]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I think," said a little Jewess by the name of Elsie -Weil, "it's too bad for Gabriella. I'd hate to have -such a room-mate forced on <i>me</i>."</p> - -<p>"I don't think Miss Brown ought to take such a -girl in at all and make us who pay a thousand dollars -a year be intimate with a person we never can -know socially," drawled Sarah Platt. "It's hard on -her too," she finished patronisingly.</p> - -<p>"Oh, don't mind about <i>me</i>," I breathed, ready to -explode.</p> - -<p>"I'm just tired," another girl broke in, "of having -all the teachers, and Miss Brown too, talking and lecturing -to us about being nice to <i>Lucy, Lucy, Lucy</i> all -the time."</p> - -<p>"And the spite and scorn that the child puts on -lately," added Sarah, "is perfectly absurd. As if she -had anything to back it up!"</p> - -<p>"I know," went on the little Jewess, "her family -can't be much. You can see that. Did you ever -notice the row of old-fashioned family pictures on the -back of her chiffonier?"</p> - -<p>At that I caught my breath. My dear good family! -And without waiting to hear another word I flung -open the door. There were six or seven girls before -me crowded together in a bunch on a couch in the -corner. I felt myself grow suddenly calm as I stood -there before them not saying a word, and they staring -back at me as if I were an apparition.</p> - -<p>"I heard every single word you said," I began -slowly, "every single word!" Then my thoughts -collected themselves and filed by in the order of soldiers -on parade. "I don't care a straw for your opinions. -I feel above every one of you. It makes me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p065" id="Page_p065">[65]</a></span> -smile to think I would be the least disturbed by common -and uneducated westerners," for Sarah lived in -Missouri, "or Jews!" I spat at Elsie Weil. "You -needn't any of you trouble about being kind to me. I -don't want your kindness. I'm perfectly indifferent -to every one of you. I am <i>not</i> here on charity; and -as for the pictures on my chiffonier, if you don't like -them, lump them, or else keep your eyes at home." I -knew I was acting unladylike but I was fired up and -couldn't help going on. "My family may not have -fashionable photographs, my clothes may be as ugly -as mud, but if you <i>knew</i> who my older brother is, if -you <i>knew</i> who my father is, if you <i>knew</i>! My father -is president of the Vars & Company Woollen Mills; -my father is a director in the Hilton County Savings -Bank; my father is a state senator; my father—oh, I -shan't tell you all he is, because you haven't got enough -brains to appreciate it. It would be like telling monkies -about Abraham Lincoln!" I stopped just a moment, -but no one spoke. All those girls huddled together -in a bunch just kept on staring as they would at -a rearing horse in a parade, meekly from the sidewalk. -"You don't know about anything but clothes and -theatres. And let me tell you once for all I don't want -anything of <i>any</i> of you." Sarah Platt opened her -mouth to speak. I cut her off short. "Keep still, -Sarah Platt," I said. "Don't you dare address one -word to me!" Oh, I wanted to do something insulting, -like sticking out my tongue, or making an ugly -face. But instead I just said, "And don't one of you -in this room ever assume to speak one word to me as -long as you live!" And I turned, stalked out of the -room, and went straight upstairs.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p066" id="Page_p066">[66]</a></span></p> - -<p>I don't know how I could have said anything so -horrid as all that, and I seventeen years old, but somehow -it is always easier for me to roll off spiteful things -than anything sweet and kind. I am always less embarrassed -about it. Poor Alec would have been awfully -disappointed to have heard such an outburst from -his sister. Father would have said, "Oh, Lucy!" -The arrogant twins wouldn't have wanted to own me. -Only my dear old chum Juliet Adams would have been -proud. She would have exclaimed, "Bully for you, -Bobs!"</p> - -<p>When I reached my room on the next floor, I calmly -opened the door and went in. Gabriella was standing -by her desk. I never shall forget how she looked—perfectly -white and staring at me horribly. I wondered -what ailed her, for she couldn't have heard my -tirade on the floor below.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter, Gabriella?" I asked.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Lucy," she began, then sank down in a chair -by her desk, leaned forward with her head buried in -her arms, and began to cry dreadfully.</p> - -<p>I went over to her.</p> - -<p>"Gabriella," I said, sorry for her somehow, for -though she was one of Sarah Platt's clique she had not -been talking about me; she was, after all, my -room-mate, and at least she let me see her cry. -"Please, Gabriella, tell me what it is."</p> - -<p>"Miss Brown," she choked, "wants—" she -stopped, then wailed, "<i>you</i>!"</p> - -<p>"Me?" I groped blindly. Me? Had my awful -words been telegraphed to Miss Brown's office? Did -she know already? I couldn't follow. Things were -happening too rapidly. "Me, Gabriella," I asked.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p067" id="Page_p067">[67]</a></span> -"But what for? Please stop crying and tell me."</p> - -<p>I could barely catch a few words amidst her violent -sobs.</p> - -<p>"<i>My</i> father," she said. (I knew Gabriella's father -had died the winter before when she was away at -school.) "A telegram," she stumbled on, and I -waited, "<i>your</i> father—"</p> - -<p>My father!</p> - -<p>I went to Gabriella quickly, put my arm about her -and leaned my head down close to hers.</p> - -<p>"Listen, Gabriella. Be quiet for just one minute -and answer me. Did you say <i>my</i> father?" and then -in a fresh torrent of sobs I heard her "Yes."</p> - -<p>I left her crying there and went down through the -long corridors to Miss Brown's office. I passed Sarah -Platt's room without knowing it. I even passed some -one in the hall but I have no idea who it was. I kept -thinking, "This is your first test. Be ready and don't -break."</p> - -<p>Miss Brown was at her desk. She started a little -when she saw me, then smiled—how could she smile—and -said, "Oh, Gabriella found you. Come here, -dear," and she put out her hand. I closed the door -and then backed up against it. I couldn't go near Miss -Brown. I didn't want her tissue-paper sympathy.</p> - -<p>"What's happened to my father, Miss Brown?" I -asked. "You can tell me the very worst right off."</p> - -<p>She didn't hedge any more.</p> - -<p>"He is very, very ill," she replied, going straight to -the point as I liked to have her.</p> - -<p>"Does that mean," I said, "that he is—is—" I -couldn't say it—"is worse than very ill?" I finished.</p> - -<p>"No," she replied. "No, Lucy. Your father is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p068" id="Page_p068">[68]</a></span> -still living. I have just called up your brother by -long distance telephone and they want you to come -home immediately. It is your father's heart." Then -she added, looking at me firmly, as if she were upholding -me by the hand: "It is a long trip. You -must be prepared for the worst, Lucy." I didn't answer -and she turned to her desk, picked up a piece of -paper and passed it to me. "Read it," she said. "It -is a telegram for you."</p> - -<p>I looked down and these words greeted me like -dear, comforting friends:</p> - -<p>"<i>Stand up, Bobbie. Be brave. We need you to -be strong. Alec.</i>"</p> - -<p>It was just as if my dear brother Alec were suddenly -there like a miracle in the room beside me, and -<i>now</i>, at last, I would not disappoint him.</p> - -<p>I looked up at Miss Brown.</p> - -<p>"When is there a train?" I asked calmly; but -to myself I was saying over and over again, "Stand -up. Be brave. They need you to be strong."</p> - -<p>Miss Brown came over to me, and I must say I've -always liked her from that day to this. She didn't -say anything silly or comforting to me. That would -all have been so useless. She just took my hand -in a man's sort of way and held it firmly a minute in -hers, "Your brother will be proud of you," she said. -That was all, but do you think then I would have -failed?</p> - -<p>"We will go upstairs and pack," she added immediately, -and I followed her, bound now to control -myself or die.</p> - -<p>I don't know how I ever got started. I only know -there was a confused half-hour of packing, with Miss<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p069" id="Page_p069">[69]</a></span> -Brown helping and Gabriella close by me all the time. -Gabriella couldn't seem to do enough. I saw her -slip her pink kimono into my suit-case; I saw her pin -one of her beautiful pearl bars on my red silk waist. -She got out my new blue suit and brushed it; my new -hat with the red quills; and while I combed my hair, -she laced my new tan shoes. I understood that it -was her way of telling me how sorry she was, for -every once in a while she'd have to stop and cry. -Once she said, "Oh, I am so sorry I've been so mean. -I hope—oh, I do <i>hope</i> you'll come back, Lucy." -But I didn't care now. It was too late. All my -thoughts were with my family who needed me. I -gathered their dear pictures together in a pile and put -them in my suit-case—Father's picture too, but I -didn't trust myself to look at it. Dear Father—but -I didn't dare let myself think, just at first.</p> - -<p>I felt in the air that all the girls knew my news -about as soon as I did. Of course they didn't come -near me. Even if I had been popular I don't believe -they would have come. Sorrow somehow builds up -such a barrier, and the one or two girls I met in the -corridors kept close to the other wall and tried to -avoid meeting my eyes. Gabriella and Miss Brown -and the English teacher, whom I had always hated, -saw me off. I begged to take the trip alone and Miss -Brown finally allowed it.</p> - -<p>I thought of everything during that journey, and -the more I thought the more I trusted myself to think, -I don't know what made me so clear-headed and fearless, -but I'd run my thoughts right up to any hard -truth, and they wouldn't balk; they'd go right over. -My mother had died when I was so little that I did<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p070" id="Page_p070">[70]</a></span> -not remember it and so this was the first test I had -ever had. Perhaps—oh, perhaps,—I faced it -clearly and squarely—perhaps when I was met at the -station they would tell me that I had come too late. -I knew now that I wouldn't give way. Some great -wonderful strength was in me and I wasn't afraid of -myself. My home-coming was very different from -the one I had planned, but when we drew near to the -familiar old station I just said, "Be strong," and I -knew that I should.</p> - -<p>Dr. Maynard was at the station to meet me. The -minute he got hold of my hand he said, "It's all -right. You're not too late."</p> - -<p>"That's good," I replied, but somehow I couldn't -feel any more joy than sorrow. I remember, in the -carriage, I asked lots of straight-forward, businesslike -questions and Dr. Maynard answered me in the -same way. There was no hope. The end might come -at any moment. When he stopped before our door -and helped me out, he said, "Bobbie, you're a brave -girl." But I wasn't. I couldn't have cried. I didn't -know how.</p> - -<p>I went into the house while Dr. Maynard stopped -to hitch and blanket his horse. I found the twins and -Ruth and Aunt Sarah all in the sitting-room. It -didn't come to my mind then, but now, as I remember -it, it was all very different from the triumphant -entry I had planned. No one jumped up to greet -me, and my new suit and tan shoes and hat with the -quills were all unnoticed even by myself. The twins -came forward and kissed me—not embarrassed as -they usually are, but scarcely realising it. They -didn't say anything, just kissed me and turned away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p071" id="Page_p071">[71]</a></span> -Ruth lay prostrate on the couch. She didn't stir at -sight of me and I went up to her and kissed her on the -temple. At that she buried her face deeper into the -cushions and began to sob. Aunt Sarah looked as if -she had been crying for weeks. She sat quietly rocking -by the west window and her big, dyed-out, blue -eyes were swimming in tears, brimming over, and -running down her wrinkled face. It's something -awful to me, to see a grown person cry. It's like an -old wreck at sea, and I just couldn't kiss her. Everybody -so horrible and silent and dismal, was worse -somehow than death, and just for a moment I stood -kind of helpless in the middle of the room. Then -the door into the library opened and I saw my dear -tired, patient Alec, and suddenly his arms were -around me tight, holding me close—close to him and -I heard him murmur, "Good Bobbie, good, brave -Bobbie," and oh, if I can hate people awfully, I can -love them too. When he let me go, he said calmly, -"Don't you want to come and see Father?" and I -followed him upstairs.</p> - -<p>Dr. Maynard led me to the side of Father's bed -and I took one of Father's dear, familiar hands in -mine. Alec sat down on the other side and for a -while we three waited silently until Father should -wake up. I wasn't frightened. It all seemed very -natural, and none of the heart-breaking thoughts that -came to me all during the weeks after he left us came -to me then. It really seemed almost beautiful to be -waiting there until Father should wake up. When -finally he opened his eyes and saw me, he smiled, and -pressed my hand a very little. Then he spoke.</p> - -<p>"Lucy!" he said; and after a long pause, "Do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p072" id="Page_p072">[72]</a></span> -you like school?" he asked, just as naturally as if we -were having a nice little talk downstairs.</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes, dear Father, I do!" I answered, and -he pressed my hand again. It didn't strike me so -very deeply then that my last word to my father was -a lie, but afterward I used to cry about it for hours -and hours. After a moment my father turned to -Alec, "Stand by the business, my son," he murmured.</p> - -<p>And without a moment's hesitation my brother -promised, "I will, Father."</p> - -<p>I didn't think Father would say anything more, -for he closed his eyes again, but after a while he -opened them and I saw he was actually noticing my -hat and red waist, and the pearl pin Gabriella had -given me. He smiled and I heard him murmur, -"Pretty!" That was all; and oh, since, I have been -so glad that my new clothes did so much more than I -had ever hoped. For that was the last word my -father said. I felt his hand grow limp in mine, and -just then Dr. Maynard touched my shoulder and led -me quietly away. He told me to lie down on the -bed in the guest-room. I obeyed him and when, a -little later, he came to me I understood the message -in his eyes. I didn't feel the awfulness of it then -nor I didn't have the least inclination to cry. I lay -there very quietly for half an hour, then of my own -accord I got up and went downstairs.</p> - -<p>I found Aunt Sarah by the window still crying -without the grace of covering her tear-stained face. -The twins were not there. Ruth jumped up when -I came in and clung to me frantically.</p> - -<p>"Aunt Sarah," I asked, annoyed, "<i>why</i> do you sit -there and cry?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p073" id="Page_p073">[73]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Unnatural girl," she answered, "have you no -heart, no tears? Don't you know your father has -died?"</p> - -<p>At those awful words poor little Ruth clung to me -still tighter and wailed, "Oh, send her away, make -her go off!"</p> - -<p>I replied to my aunt, "Aunt Sarah, don't you know -you shouldn't speak like that before Ruth? I'm surprised."</p> - -<p>A little later Alec came quietly into the room. -Poor Ruthie flung herself upon him just as she had -upon me, and as he held her and patted her shoulder, -he said, looking at me in a way that made me stronger, -"Lucy, you will find Oliver in the alcove under -the stairs. Go to him and give him something to -do."</p> - -<p>Poor Oliver was crying as only a boy of sixteen -who isn't used to it can, I guess—dreadfully uncontrolled. -He was sitting on the leather couch, leaning -forward with his face in his hands. I went straight -over to him and sinking down beside him, put my -arms right around him. Poor Oliver—poor big -broken Oliver! All the hate in my heart for that -cruel twin rolled right away when I felt his great -big body leaning up against me. I loved him just -as if he were my son come home. We sat there -together a long while—just Oliver and I—and -finally when he was a little quieter he managed to -say, "Don't—don't tell Alec and Malcolm—that I—I—"</p> - -<p>"Of course I won't, Oliver," I assured him, and -then I added just as if nothing had happened, "My -trunk is still at the station, Oliver. I need it awfully.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p074" id="Page_p074">[74]</a></span> -Here's the check. It's dark out now. Will you go -down and see about it?"</p> - -<p>He looked away and replied in a voice that tried -to sound natural, "Sure, I'll go," and stood up and -blew his nose very hard. I saw him glance into the -mirror over the fireplace. Then, "Will you get my -overcoat and hat?" he asked shamefacedly. When -he went out of the house he had the visor of his cap -pulled well down over his eyes, and his hands shoved -deep into his pockets. We hadn't said a word about -Father.</p> - -<p>As for myself, I don't know what was the matter. -I honestly didn't seem to feel a thing. I was just like -a soulless machine. During the three following days -I wrote notes, sent telegrams, saw about a black dress -for Ruth, Aunt Sarah and myself, planned good -nourishing meals for the family, went on errands, and -"picked up" every room in the house, for they certainly -looked awful. I didn't sleep and I wasn't hungry. -I was wound up pretty tight, I guess, for it -took me a long while to run down. On the second -afternoon Dr. Maynard took me out to drive and then -shut me up in my bedroom with the curtains all drawn -tight and a little white sleeping-powder to take in -fifteen minutes if I didn't go to sleep. I took the -powder and stayed awake all night besides. Once -during those blind, confused three days Juliet came -to see me, to tell me how sorry she was I suppose, but -I wasn't glad to have her. I remember I just said, -"Hello, Juliet, how's basket-ball and high school?" -I wasn't glad to see even Tom and Elise. When -Elise held me tight in her arms and whispered, "Poor -little Bobbie!" I felt like a hypocrite, and pulled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p075" id="Page_p075">[75]</a></span> -away. Every time the door-bell rang and I knew -that it was some one else who had come to try and -comfort us, I wanted to lock myself in my room. My -head ached and my eyes felt like chunks of lead. But -I didn't want sympathy. I didn't need it.</p> - -<p>The end came the night after the funeral. It -hadn't occurred to me but that I would go back to -boarding-school after Christmas. We were all in the -sitting-room—all but Aunt Sarah who finally had -stopped crying and was recuperating in her bed upstairs. -Tom and Alec were discussing all sorts of -plans, and I remember that Dr. Maynard, who seemed -to be one of the family now, was there too. I wasn't -following the conversation very closely, and suddenly -I heard Tom say, "Well certainly the sooner -Aunt Sarah packs up, the better."</p> - -<p>"Why, who then," I asked, "will take her place?"</p> - -<p>Alec looked up.</p> - -<p>"What do you mean, Bobbie," he asked. "You'll -be here, won't you?"</p> - -<p>"Why, no. I shall be at boarding-school," I replied.</p> - -<p>At that Ruth suddenly flopped over on the couch -and began her usual torrent of crying. "I hate Aunt -Sarah! I hate Aunt Sarah! I hate Aunt Sarah!" -she wailed.</p> - -<p>"The whole fall was rotten!" put in Malcolm. -"Do you mean to say, Lucy, that you're going back -to that school?" he fired.</p> - -<p>"I guess your duty is <i>here</i>, Bobbie, old girl," said -Tom; and Elise got up and came over to my -chair.</p> - -<p>"I know how hard it is to give up school," she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p076" id="Page_p076">[76]</a></span> -said sweetly, "but they do need you, don't they, dear? -Later, perhaps—"</p> - -<p>"Well, I must say," interrupted Oliver, who was -master of himself without any doubt now, "if this -isn't the greatest! Look here, Alec," he asked, "do -you intend to allow Bobbie to neglect us in this fashion?"</p> - -<p>And Alec, dear Alec, across the room just smiled -and said, looking straight at me, "I am going -to let her do as she thinks best," and his eyes were -full of kindness.</p> - -<p>I got up then. My knees were trembling. I -thought at last I was going to break down and cry. -They wanted—oh, finally my family wanted me! I -didn't know whether to trust my voice or not.</p> - -<p>"Well," I said a little wobbly, trying to smile back -at Alec, "I'll think it over." And as soon as I could, -I sneaked out of the room, on the pretense of getting -a drink of water. I went into the little back hall -off the kitchen, took an old golf cape that was hanging -there, threw it over my shoulders, and went outdoors. -It didn't seem as if I could get my breath inside -the house. It was dark, the stars had come out, -and I went out of the back gate, walking as hard and -fast as I could. I knew I must do something, for as -wicked as it seems I was almost crazy with happiness, -and I was afraid that at any moment, now at the very -last, I should give up entirely, lie down at the side of -the road and cry and cry. I almost ran as I hurried -along, and all the time I kept saying, "Hold on. Be -strong. Don't let go." Yet I knew the storm was -gathering and I was losing my grip. I didn't plan -to go to Juliet's house, but suddenly I saw it looming<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p077" id="Page_p077">[77]</a></span> -up in front of me, and it occurred to me to stop and -tell Juliet my beautiful good news. So I hurried to -the back door and burst into the kitchen. The -Adams's cook gave an awful start.</p> - -<p>"Good Lord!" she exclaimed.</p> - -<p>"Hannah," I asked, and my voice was strange and -hoarse, "where's Juliet?"</p> - -<p>"Why, at dinner," gasped Hannah, staring at me. -"What is it, Miss Lucy?"</p> - -<p>"Tell her to come up to her room," I managed to -say, and in our usual informal way I dashed up the -back stairs to Juliet's room, which I knew so well. -I waited impatiently in the dark and in a minute I -heard Juliet pounding up the stairs. Then I saw her -coming through the hall, her white napkin in her hand. -I grabbed her.</p> - -<p>"Juliet," I cried, "Juliet, I'm not going back to -boarding-school! They want me here! I'm so happy -I don't know what to do. It's horrible to be happy -but I am, I <i>am</i>!" And then it struck me so funny -to be happy on such a day that I laughed! I laughed -simply dreadfully. All my pent-up feelings burst -forth then, and I laughed till I cried. I could hear -myself laugh and that made me laugh more, and then -Juliet looked so queer and thunderstruck that that -added to it. Pretty soon Mrs. Adams was there and -they were putting cold water on my face, which struck -me as the hugest joke I ever heard of, for they must -have thought I was hysterical. I laughed so hard -that actually I hadn't enough will or strength left to -stop if I tried—I, who am usually so controlled. I -got down on the floor finally, and then I don't remember -anything more.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p078" id="Page_p078">[78]</a></span></p> - -<p>When I woke up it must have been hours later, for -I was all undressed lying quietly in Juliet's bed, and -there was Mrs. Adams going out of the door, and -there—yes—there was Dr. Maynard behind her. -There was a low light on the table by the bed and beside -it sat my dear stolid Juliet. I thought at first -I would burst out laughing again to see her sitting -there with her funny little tight pig-tails braided for -the night, with me in her bed getting her sheets all -hot. Just then she looked up.</p> - -<p>"Hello, Bob," she said in her commonplace, natural -way. "Want a drink of water?" and she came -over and gave me a little sip out of a glass. I didn't -remember anything then, only that it was good to -have old Juliet around.</p> - -<p>"There was no one as nice as you at school, -Juliet," I said.</p> - -<p>"I guess that's a merry jest," she replied in her -usual way. She took the glass away and I heard her -go out of the room. I lay there very quietly and -watched the dim light flickering. There was a little -clock somewhere that was ticking quietly.</p> - -<p>Then—oh, then I came back to life, and suddenly -the thought of my dear, dear father returned to me. -I began to cry softly for the first time, and finally -fell asleep.</p> - -<p>As I sit here this soft spring day and listen for the -noon-whistle on Father's factory to blow, I shall not -wait for the sight of Dixie and the phaeton coming -up the hill, for Alec will be alone and I hate to be reminded -of too many places left empty by Father. -Father had so many favourite chairs. In every room -in the house it seems as if he had his special place.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p079" id="Page_p079">[79]</a></span> -And his roll-top desk closed and locked, his various -pairs of shoes and slippers which he used to keep -underneath all put away, makes the dear spot look -as if it were for rent. I hate the neat orderly air of -the sitting-room. It seems to be reproaching me. -Father used to love to fill the room with all kinds and -descriptions of papers. Everything, from a folder -left at the front door directed to "The Lady of the -House" to year-old newspapers, Father wanted preserved. -There were three piles of the <i>Scientific Machinist</i>, -four feet high, stacked up in one corner. I -used to beg Father to let me carry off those <i>Scientific -Machinists</i> at least—they collected dust fearfully—but -he wouldn't allow me even to suggest such an -idea. So on my own responsibility one day, I -stealthily took away some of the bottom ones and -packed them in the storeroom. I knew he'd never -miss them and the pile was growing. Every month -I'd clear out the paper case, preferring to annoy the -kindest father a girl ever had to having an untidy -room. I cry when I think of the kind of daughter -I was; I cry and cry in the middle of the night. I -wasn't good! I wasn't good! I write it down for -every one to see. Of course it's too late now, but -I've taken down the muslin curtains from Father's -room, and the lace ones from the sitting-room. Father -never approved of hangings of any kind. I don't allow -the cat in the front of the house. I haven't destroyed -a single folder, pamphlet or catalogue. The -pile of <i>Scientific Machinists</i> I wouldn't move from the -corner for anything in the world.</p> - -<p>Oh, Father, if you were only here to be pleased; if -you were only here to scatter papers around; if you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p080" id="Page_p080">[80]</a></span> -were only here to ring the gong for dinner, call -Ruthie "baby," me "chicken," say "Hello, boys!" to -the twins, and then sit down opposite me, clear your -throat and ask the blessing; if you were here again I -would be a better oldest daughter. I wouldn't tease -for a rubber-tired runabout, for new wallpaper, nor -for that brass bed for my room.</p> - -<p>I don't know where you are, nor where my mother -is, but somehow up here in this cupola on a starry -night, when I sit on the window-seat, lie flat back -with my head out of the open window, and look up -into that great dome of a sky, I feel as if you two -may be together somewhere, perhaps seeing me.</p> - -<p>But I don't <i>know</i>. There are times when I'm -dreadfully doubtful; there are times that I don't -believe anything. I think I may be an atheist! I -have never discussed the subject with anybody, but -occasionally it comes to me, just as the fear used to -come that I was adopted, that religion is all a lie. -I know I'm a member of the church, and it may be -horribly wicked of me, but once in a while right in -the middle of my prayers at night, I'll stop and think, -"Perhaps no one is hearing me at all."</p> - -<p>Really, I wonder sometimes if any other girl ever -had such awful thoughts.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p081" id="Page_p081">[81]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">ONE day last fall I received an important letter -from Oliver. The twins are in college now, -perfectly great fellows and awfully prominent. I -don't know what they don't belong to down there at -that university; and good-looking—well, I just wish -Gabriella or Sarah Platt or horrid little Elsie Weil -could lay their eyes on Oliver's last photograph. He's -stunning! The big loose baggy clothes that college -men wear, suit those two boys perfectly, and though -I refuse to put on the worshipful air that Ruth assumes -in the twins' presence, I'm just exactly as proud -of my brothers as any girl in this world. Oliver is -the better-looking of the two and the more athletic. -He's a member of the crew now, and it gave me an -awfully funny feeling up and down my spine when -I saw my younger brother's picture in one of the -Boston papers. Malcolm is the more studious, wears -glasses and sings in the Glee Club. He isn't "a -greasy grind" at all—not that sort, but he never -gets into scrapes or mix-ups, and doesn't seem to need -so much money.</p> - -<p>Money was what Oliver's important letter to me -was about. Usually he wrote to Alec but this time -he appealed to me. When I tore open his letter at the -breakfast table and started to read it out-loud to Alec -and Ruthie as usual, I was confronted with great -printed notices at the top and on the margins—PRIVATE! -PERSONAL! DO NOT READ OUT<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p082" id="Page_p082">[82]</a></span> -LOUD! SECRET! and so forth. I assure you I -shuffled that letter back into its envelope as quickly -as I could and waited for a quiet hour by myself. -This is what the letter said:</p> - -<blockquote> -<p> -"<i>Dear Bobbie</i>, -</p> - -<p>"This is <i>very</i> important. So shut the door and read -it carefully. I'm writing to you because you have influence -with Alec, and you've <i>got</i> to use it. Alec -doesn't seem to realise the demands on a man down -here. When he and Tom were at college they had all -the money they wanted, and they don't in the least understand -the mighty embarrassing position it puts a fellow -in to have <i>no cash</i>. I get pretty sick of sponging. -There are certain class and society dues, Athletic Association -fees, etc., that any kind of a good fellow must -ante up on. Alec doesn't in the least appreciate the -situation. He's getting mighty close lately, it seems to -me, and every time he sends me my measly monthly -allowance, he seems to think it's a good chance to drool -out a sermon on economy. Economy! Heavens, I've -been known time and time again to walk out from town -after the theatre, to save a five-cent car-fare. I've been -to some of the swellest dances that are given in a hired -dress-suit. <i>Of course</i> I had to have some evening -clothes. <i>You</i> would know that.</p> - -<p>Now look here, Bobbie, it so happens that I've got to -have something that resembles a hundred dollars! -Don't jump. I'll pay it all back—every cent. But it's -serious, and I <i>must have it</i>. If you can't get it from -Alec, can't you borrow it out of the Household Account -which you have charge of? I'll make it right with -you in a week or so, and be more than grateful.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -"Your affectionate brother,<br /> -"<span class="smcap">Oliver</span>." -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p083" id="Page_p083">[83]</a></span></p> -<p>"P. S.</p> - -<p>"Don't let Malcolm know I need this money, nor tell -Alec what you want it for. And by the way, I must -have seventy-five of the hundred by December third at -the latest <i>absolutely</i>. Understand this is no ordinary -matter. If I don't get the money somehow it will mean -public disgrace. Comprenez-vous?"</p></blockquote> - -<p>Now Oliver knew as well as I that we were dreadfully -poor. Ever since Father died, Alec had made it -very plain to us that we were on the ragged edge of -financial disaster. We had never been what any one -could call prosperous—at least not since I could remember—but -when Alec took hold of the reins at -Father's woollen mills he found things in a pretty bad -condition, I guess. He explained to Malcolm and -Oliver just exactly how uncertain our financial future -was, before they even started in at college. He told -them that they must let it be known, early in their -college course, that they couldn't afford the luxuries -of well-to-do men's sons. He said that college must -mean to them a period of serious preparation. It -was only due to Tom's generosity, he explained, that -it was possible for the twins to go to college at all. -Tom assumed the responsibility of the twins' tuition. -"And sometime," announced Alec emphatically, -"both you boys are to pay back that loan, every -cent." "Sure. Certainly. Count on us!" were the -replies they made. They were overwhelming in -their assurances. There was no grumbling <i>then</i> when -Alec preached to them about economy.</p> - -<p>It was just before the twins went to college that we -were all put on an allowance. Alec called us together -one day in the sitting-room and we talked it over.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p084" id="Page_p084">[84]</a></span> -Alec conducts those discussions of ours with a lot of -ceremony. He sits in Father's big chair and allows -each one of us to state his or her opinion, while the -rest sit quietly and listen. Even little Ruth may say -what she thinks and no one is allowed to break in or -interrupt. Alec is the jury and the judge all in one, -and when he has heard both sides and weighed the -question carefully he makes the decision. Tom is -the higher court, but I've never known Tom once to -disagree with Alec's verdict, so it doesn't do much -good to appeal your case. At that meeting in the sitting-room -it was arranged that Ruth and I should -receive each twelve dollars a month, and when it came -to the twins we all agreed that they ought to have -a great deal more than two girls living at home. -Alec said that he would start them on twenty-five -apiece, and out of that amount everything, except -board and room and doctor's bills, should be paid. At -the same time Alec also arranged a household allowance, -and I was very proud when he appointed me -keeper of the Household Account. I was glad he -thought me old and able enough for such a position -and was bound to prove myself worthy. Every -month he made out a check to me for fifty dollars -and put it in the bank under my name. I paid the -grocery and provision bill on the tenth of every -month, submitted a report of the different items to -Alec on a long ruled sheet of paper, which he, when -he had time, examined and O.K'd. He impressed -upon me again and again the absolute necessity of -keeping the Household Account separate from my -own. He told me in a long talk how awfully dishonest -it would be if I ever used a single cent of that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p085" id="Page_p085">[85]</a></span> -deposit for anything but household expenses. He went -so far as to give me examples of cashiers in banks who -were put in prison because they borrowed a little -money now and then from the bank for their own -use, fully intending to pay it back as soon as they -could. So you see that when Oliver suggested my -borrowing from the Household Account it was entirely -out of the range of possibility to consider such -a thing.</p> - -<p>I felt sorry for Oliver. I knew exactly how much -he must have wanted a dress-suit. It seemed to me -a perfect shame to have two corking fine fellows like -the twins cheated out of friends and good times and -popularity—like myself at boarding-school—because -they couldn't afford the proper clothes or pay their -shares on spreads and theatre parties. A hundred -dollars was an awfully lot but I put Oliver's letter into -my work-bag the evening of the day it came and went -down into the sitting-room after supper to join Alec -by the drop-light on Father's desk. Every evening -I sewed while Alec worked on the factory books. -Alec didn't talk much lately. He didn't seem to want -to. He was usually too tired for anything but bed, -when he finally closed the big ledgers, but I was always -there beside him just the same. The twins sent -their laundry home every two weeks in an extension-bag, -and it's quite a job keeping two strapping college -boys sewed up. To-night as I weaved in and out -across a delicate little hole in a mauve-coloured sock -of Oliver's it looked to me as if it were an expensive -sock: it had silk clocks embroidered up the side. I -was so busy, planning just how I would approach -Alec for that hundred dollars, that he startled me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p086" id="Page_p086">[86]</a></span> -when he turned around in Father's revolving desk-chair.</p> - -<p>"Bobbie, I want to talk with you," he said.</p> - -<p>"All right," I replied gladly. "Go on." Perhaps, -I thought to myself, there will be a chance to -introduce Oliver's letter.</p> - -<p>Alec folded his hands on the slide of the desk -drawn out between us.</p> - -<p>"We're spending too much money," he said simply.</p> - -<p>I had heard that same sentiment expressed so often -that I wasn't deeply impressed. I had observed in -spite of Alec's continued talk about economy that -there was always enough to pay the bills. I continued -sewing.</p> - -<p>"Of course; I know," I said, trying to appear sympathetic.</p> - -<p>"No, Bobbie," Alec replied; "I don't think you do. -It is different this time. Will you stop sewing?"</p> - -<p>"What do you mean?" I asked, dropping my work -in my lap.</p> - -<p>"Bobbie," Alec said, "perhaps you will understand -the seriousness of the situation when I tell you that -I do not think that we ought to live in such a big -house."</p> - -<p>"Not live here?" I exclaimed.</p> - -<p>"I'm afraid not, Lucy. It's a big place to keep up -for just you and me and Ruth. We can't afford it."</p> - -<p>"Has the business failed, Alec?" I interrupted -with kind of a sick feeling in my stomach.</p> - -<p>"Certainly not," he said in an annoyed sort of manner -as if he had not liked me to ask. "We're simply -living way beyond what we can afford; that's all. -We've got to cut down. I don't know how long it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p087" id="Page_p087">[87]</a></span> -may take to make a favourable sale of this house, -but in the meanwhile we can't afford to keep two -servants. I'm sorry, Lucy; I'm sorry; but it's a matter -of economy <i>to-day</i>, not economy <i>to-morrow</i>. I've -thought it all out," my brother continued, beginning -now to pace up and down the room. "I know Nellie -has been with us twenty years. We shall miss her; -but she's not strong, she can't cook or wash. We -must have a good young Irish girl—five dollars a -week—not more. It means a big change this time, -you see. I had hoped to avoid such a course as this, -but if we are to escape a worse catastrophe—"</p> - -<p>I don't know what Alec went on talking about as -he walked up and down that sitting-room floor; I -don't know how long he continued explaining, and -trying to make clear to me the seriousness of our -situation; I don't know; I really <i>don't know</i>. I sat -stunned and silent in my chair, not stirring a muscle. -<i>Sell our home!</i> Why, Father had built it. I had -been born in it. <i>Dismiss Nellie!</i> Why, Nellie had -known my mother. Nellie was part of the foundation -of our lives. I couldn't take in the succeeding -facts because those two were stuck in my throat. I -felt like crying out, "Don't, don't cram any more in. -I'm choking!" But Alec kept right on.</p> - -<p>"The stable, of course, I shall close immediately. -We mustn't keep a horse. I shall have to get rid of -Dixie."</p> - -<p>It isn't a nice figure, but at that last announcement -I gulped up all that I had tried to swallow before.</p> - -<p>"O Alec," I interrupted, "poor little Dixie! Please, -please, <i>please</i> don't sell Dixie!" I pleaded. -"Please don't sell our home," I cried. "Why, where<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p088" id="Page_p088">[88]</a></span> -shall we live? Don't send Nellie away. Don't! -Don't! I'll do anything! I won't buy a stitch for -myself. And I'll work—I'll work my hands to the -bones! I can earn something. But oh, don't sell dear, -poor little Dixie." I leaned forward suddenly and -burst into tears. "Oh, everything has always been -hard in my life—hard, hard, hard!" I sobbed.</p> - -<p>Alec came over and stood in front of me perfectly -silent. He hadn't seen me go into a passion like this -for years. I could feel his tired kind gaze burrowing -through my two hands that covered my face. -I wished he wouldn't look so troubled and sad, for -though I didn't glance up, I knew exactly how disappointed -in me he was—how shocked by my tears. -For a full half-minute he said nothing. He waited -until I was perfectly quiet, then he spoke very gently.</p> - -<p>"Why, Bobbie," he said, "ever since the day that -you came from boarding-school when Father was so -ill, and I came into the room and found you strong -and calm and self-possessed, ever since then I have -thought of you as <i>my partner</i>." He stopped. "But -perhaps this—<i>this</i> is too much. Perhaps—"</p> - -<p>"No, Alec," I said, ashamed; "no, it isn't too -much. Just wait a minute, please."</p> - -<p>"I will," said Alec kindly, and walked over to the -window.</p> - -<p>I guess it might have been two minutes he waited. -His back was toward me when I mopped my eyes, -when I tucked my handkerchief into the front of my -shirt-waist and stood up. I summoned all my -strength. Alec is my commander-in-chief, and I tried -to rally my forces before him. I must not be a coward -before Alec. I took up my sewing.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p089" id="Page_p089">[89]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I won't be so foolish again," I remarked evenly. -"You can tell me <i>anything</i> now."</p> - -<p>And my general replied, "That's the sort," and -smiled. "As to the twins," he went on, taking me -at my word, "here's a letter stating the situation to -them." He gave a short laugh with no joy in it. -"The twins' allowances are going to be cut down -almost half!"</p> - -<p>"The twins!" I had completely forgotten -Oliver's letter. "The twins! Can't you possibly—O -Alec, college boys need so much and—Oliver, -you know—"</p> - -<p>"I'm tired of Oliver's extravagances," burst forth -Alec impatiently. "I don't want to hear another -word from Oliver about money. If he can't get -along on the amount I am able to send, he can come -home and go into the mill."</p> - -<p>Just here the cheerful honk-honk of Dr. Maynard's -automobile sounded outside the window. Alec went -to the door and let him in. As Dr. Maynard entered -the room he brought in a big breath of fall evening.</p> - -<p>"Hello," he said. "What are you two up to? -Come on, Al, put on an overcoat and come out for a -run around the reservoir. I've got my engine working -like a bird again."</p> - -<p>"Thanks, Will, wish I could," said Alec with that -tired smile of his, "but I've got a lot of work on hand -to-night. I think I'll send Bobbie."</p> - -<p>"All right! Fine!" said Dr. Maynard, and though -I didn't have much heart for going, I knew that Alec -didn't want to talk with even Will Maynard to-night, -so without a word I went for my things that were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p090" id="Page_p090">[90]</a></span> -hanging in what we called the "Black Closet."</p> - -<p>I was glad to escape for a minute to the protecting -dark. I stood pressing up against the old overcoats -and ulsters, waiting for my eyes to appear less swollen, -and wondering why Oliver needed seventy-five -dollars by December third. The vision of Oliver in -overalls at work in the mills, disgrace, no home, no -Nellie, no Dixie, rags, poverty, wriggled before my -eyes like moving pictures. I took hold of the nearest -garment at hand and pressed it against my face. -It happened to be Father's old overcoat. I recognised -it by the feeling, for often I had groped for it when -Father had been alive and brought it out to him -waiting in the hall. I reached up to-night and -touched the dear familiar, worn, velvet collar. "O -Father," I whispered, "everything is tumbling down. -What shall I do about Oliver?" Probably another -girl would have breathed a little prayer to God but -I make all <i>my</i> requests of Father. It seems to me -that Father is more likely to take a personal interest -in my affairs than any one else in heaven.</p> - -<p>"What are you up to?" Dr. Maynard sang out; -and I called back, "Coming," and hustled into my -warm overshoes.</p> - -<p>It was a beautiful dark starry night, and I wished -Alec could have felt a little of the cold air on his -hot head. I love an automobile! I'm never happier -than when I'm sitting with my two hands on the -wheel, one toe on the gas, the other on the brake, a -heel on the little pedal that makes the old machine -snort up a hill like a horse dug in the side with a spur. -But to-night I didn't care to run the car. I suppose -I wasn't a very entertaining companion, for on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p091" id="Page_p091">[91]</a></span> -way home, after we had been out about an hour, Dr. -Maynard asked in his friendly manner:</p> - -<p>"What is it, Bobbie? You're leaving it to me to -have most of the fun to-night."</p> - -<p>"Dr. Maynard," I exclaimed, "I'd give anything -in the world if I were a man and could earn some -money."</p> - -<p>"What profession would you follow?" he laughed -at me.</p> - -<p>"I'm serious. Has Alec ever told you much about -the business?"</p> - -<p>"Not much, but I know he's been disturbed about -something lately."</p> - -<p>"Well," I said, "there's one of those pictures in -that big Doré book with illustrations of the Old Testament, -that reminds me of the Vars' affairs. It's a -picture of Samson, and he's standing in a great huge -kind of hall, pushing down two perfectly enormous -stone pillars. The walls and the ceiling and the roof -are all caving in—people headfirst, arms, legs, great -blocks of granite, children, men,—oh, everything -you can think of—tumbling down in horrible confusion. -That picture used to give me the nightmare; -and now it seems to me as if some old giant of a -Samson had gotten down underneath us. All our -underpinnings are giving way and we're all falling -down—headfirst a thousand feet, smash, on to rock-bottom."</p> - -<p>"Why, what do you mean, Bobbie?" laughed Dr. -Maynard, amused.</p> - -<p>"I mean," I replied—though perhaps I ought not -to have told—"I mean, that Alec is going to sell -the house and Dixie and we're going to keep only one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p092" id="Page_p092">[92]</a></span> -girl. I mean that the business is on the ragged edge -of nothing, and that we're as poor as paupers."</p> - -<p>Dr. Maynard slowed down our speed to ten miles -an hour.</p> - -<p>"Al's a plucky fellow," he said. "I hadn't an -idea!" Then he added, "<i>You</i> want to help?"</p> - -<p>"Well," I replied, "I've got to have a lot of money -right off, and I don't like to ask Alec. It's for an -emergency," I added. "Can you think of any possible -way for a girl who can't do a thing on earth -but scrub and darn stockings, to earn a fortune?"</p> - -<p>I think we ran about a mile before Dr. Maynard -spoke. Then when he did, he seemed to be almost -apologising for his scheme, which seemed to me perfectly -lovely.</p> - -<p>Dr. Maynard has stacks of money and since his -mother died, lives all alone in the big, white-pillared -house where he was born. Eliza, their old servant, -takes care of him. "But," he explained to me, -"cooking and cleaning are Eliza's strong points. -Now there are lots of odds and ends she doesn't have -time for. She never liked to sew, and I have a pretty -hard time keeping socks mended, and linen, and -towels, and such things in good condition. I hire a -woman now by the day once in a while. But I'm -sure I'm way behind now. If the scheme appeals to -you at all, I'll have Eliza lay out a pile of stuff that -needs a few stitches, and you can sew on it at odd -moments. Just keep track of your time and I'll pay -you—well, you seem to be a fairly busy person, I'll -pay you double what I'm paying now which would -be about fifty cents an hour."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p093" id="Page_p093">[93]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Dr. Maynard," I said, "I think you're the very -kindest man I ever knew!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, no," he broke in, "this is purely a business -transaction."</p> - -<p>"But," I went on, "fifty cents is a lot too much. -That would be giving me money."</p> - -<p>"Well, let it be understood," he said, "I'm not -giving you anything. You're earning it in just as -businesslike a manner as a stenographer—or Eliza. -I'd like you to keep an accurate account of your time, -please, and send me an itemised bill. I said fifty cents -and I stick to it. Shall I come over to-morrow with -your first relay?"</p> - -<p>I thanked Dr. Maynard with my whole heart. I -was so relieved I didn't know what to do.</p> - -<p>"Would you mind," I said as he opened the front -door for me, "waiting just a minute? I've a note -upstairs that I wish you'd mail on your way home."</p> - -<p>I dashed up to my room, directed an envelope in mad -haste to Oliver, and on a half-sheet of note-paper I -scratched:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"In spite of Alec's news I may be able to scare up -some of the money.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -"<span class="smcap">Bobbie.</span>" -</p></blockquote> - -<p>Alec had half a dozen letters for Dr. Maynard to -mail also, and I had the satisfaction of laying my note -to Oliver on top of the announcement which cut his -allowance in half. After the door had closed and -Alec and I were alone, I went and kissed my brother -good-night.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p094" id="Page_p094">[94]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Good-girl," he said wearily; "the ride brightened -you up."</p> - -<p>"Yes," I replied; "and I know we're going to -come out all right, Alec." And I felt that we should, -now that I was going to put <i>my</i> shoulder to the wheel.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p095" id="Page_p095">[95]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">TWO days later I received a frenzied reply to my -note to Oliver. The words were underscored, -smeared, repeated, blotted and scratched out. I never -read such a letter. I think Oliver swore in it. At -any rate my heart almost stood still when the words -"for God's sake" struck at me like swords from the -white paper. I knew at least that Oliver was terribly -in earnest. I read and re-read the letter, then -locked it away in the cupola in the lowest drawer of -my table-desk. No one shall ever see it; no one shall -ever know what it contains—no one but Oliver and -me. I shall never tell Alec, nor his own twin -Malcolm, nor even his wife, if he should ever marry. -This is between Oliver and me. He had chosen to -tell his older sister about his trouble to the exclusion -of every one else, and she would prove to him that -he had rightly placed his faith.</p> - -<p>I don't want to imply that Oliver had been really -dishonest. I am sure he had not been that, but it -seems that he was treasurer of something or other -down there at college, and had boggled the accounts. -He never could keep money straight. Perhaps he -had borrowed a little of it—like the bank clerk Alec -told me about—and now suddenly he discovered -there was more of a shortage than he could make -good. He wrote that on December third he must -make a report, and if he couldn't account for seventy-five -dollars short in the treasury—well—There fol<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p096" id="Page_p096">[96]</a></span>lowed -six dashes with three exclamation points at the -end.</p> - -<p>I wrote back I'd get that seventy-five dollars for -him or die.</p> - -<p>I scraped money out of every hole and corner I -could find. I sold my lavender liberty automobile -veil to Juliet Adams for a dollar and a half, and Ruth -bought my rhinestone horse-shoe pin, which I paid -three-fifty for, for seventy-five cents. I didn't spend -a single penny of my own allowance for November -and begged Alec for five dollars which I told him, -without a quiver, that I'd got to have for the purpose -of buying some new stuff for the kitchen. But most -of the money had to come from Dr. Maynard. I -sewed like mad. Locked in my bedroom with the -alarm-clock keeping track of my time I simply devoured -holes. I was like a hungry animal. I -couldn't get enough of them—and the bigger they -were the better they satisfied me. Socks by the -dozens; table-clothes gnawed by rats; napkins worn to -shreds; blankets to be rebound; sheets to be hemmed; -<i>anything</i> that required a needle, I welcomed with -rejoicing.</p> - -<p>But of course a man doesn't need more than three -dozen socks on hand, five dozen perfectly whole -towels and ten table-clothes. There is an end to a -bachelor's equipment, and even after I had finished -mending with gummed paper a whole music-rack full -of old sheet-music Dr. Maynard used to sing, I had -earned only twenty dollars.</p> - -<p>I was very unhappy when Dr. Maynard passed me -my last receipted bill. He was looking at me out of -the corner of his eye.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p097" id="Page_p097">[97]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Well," he said, "does this close our business -transactions? Are you all fixed up now?"</p> - -<p>I shook my head and blushed, ashamed somehow -to be in need of so much money.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I know," I hastened to say, "that there's no -more work you can give me, and I do thank you—I -do really."</p> - -<p>"Let's see," Dr. Maynard said. "Let's see. -What kind of a hand do you write? If it's plain and -legible, I don't know but what I'll engage you to copy -some old letters of my mother's—written to me -when I was a small boy at school. The ink is fading -and I want them preserved."</p> - -<p>"Dr. Maynard," I exclaimed, "I don't know what -I'd do if it wasn't for you!" There were almost -tears in my eyes I was so grateful.</p> - -<p>"Nonsense," he laughed. "But what do you want -so much money for?"</p> - -<p>"A bill—for some dresses I had made, and I -don't want to bother Alec."</p> - -<p>Dr. Maynard gave a long low whistle.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I see." Then quite seriously he added -"Better tell him, Bobbie."</p> - -<p>"Dr. Maynard," I said, "if you mention one single -word of this to Alec, you don't know the harm you'll -do. You don't know!" Why, if Alec had gotten -wind of what Oliver had done, there wouldn't be a -scrap of lenience shown that poor twin. It would -mean clattering looms for Oliver, as surely as the -electric chair for a murderer; and I was absolutely -fierce in my determination that that brother of mine -should graduate from college, as well as all the others. -Before Dr. Maynard went home that afternoon he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p098" id="Page_p098">[98]</a></span> -promised he would not tell Alec a word about our -business transactions.</p> - -<p>I enjoyed the copying. Dr. Maynard's mother -must have been a perfectly lovely woman. She used -to write to her son every Sunday, and oh, such sweet -companionable little notes—all about what was going -on in the town, and always at the end just a sentence -or two about honour and ideals, and how she believed -in her son and missed him. If Oliver had had a -mother to write to him like that—to tell him how -she wanted him to grow up in the image of his honoured -father who had died, who rejoiced at every -success he had, who sympathised at every failure—if -Oliver had had a mother to write him letters every -Sunday evening by the firelight, I don't believe he -would have ever gotten into such a difficulty. I wondered -if mothers wrote letters like these to their -daughters. Of course they must.</p> - -<p>Every once in a while, I would run across a reference -to my own mother (for Mrs. Maynard was her -neighbour) and, really, it was a little like seeing her -for just a minute.</p> - -<p>I know I'm neglecting my story, but I must tell -about one special letter of Mrs. Maynard's, because -it referred to me. It didn't happen to be written to -her son but to a woman friend whom I didn't know. -It was a chatty letter, that related all the important -events and happenings in the town, very long and -full of the littlest details you can imagine. It was on -the fourth thin sheet that I ran across this: "And our -dear neighbour Mrs. Vars has a little daughter three -weeks old," I deciphered. "She has named her -Lucy for herself. I went in to see her last week and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p099" id="Page_p099">[99]</a></span> -took her a jar of my quince jelly. She is a very -happy woman. She has always wanted a little girl. -When she took the little baby in her arms she said -with tears in her eyes, 'My little daughter and I are -going to be "best friends" all our lives.'"</p> - -<p>I read that precious sentence over and over again. -My mother and I 'best friends all our lives'—and -oh, I couldn't remember her smile. 'Best friends all -our lives'—and she had gone before we could share -a single secret. I leaned right forward over my copying -and cried, "If you'd lived I wouldn't care if we -were poor. If you and I were 'best friends,' I -wouldn't care if I never had a good time. Oh, if you -were here! If you were here!"</p> - -<p>And yet, although I cried so hard, I was strangely -happy that evening. Of course I don't believe in -miracles. They don't happen nowadays, and yet it -seems almost as if my mother might have sent that -message to me, to console me in my struggle, to tell -me that I wasn't all alone. I gazed at her picture—the -only one she had ever had taken—under its cold -glass over my bed, before I went to sleep that night. -It is a profile, clear-cut and a little sad. They tell me -she was only nineteen in the picture—my age, just -my age now.</p> - -<p>"My best friend," I whispered, "my best friend all -my life!"</p> - -<p>As the dreary days wore on, all the sympathy that I -possessed yearned over my patient brother Alec. But -I couldn't help him any. Time and time again I tried -to cheer him up, but my attempts fell flat. There was -a time when Alec used to go out among the young -people in Hilton quite a good deal, but I observed that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p100" id="Page_p100">[100]</a></span> -lately he had nothing but business engagements -to take him away.</p> - -<p>Alec had never talked to me about a certain young -lady named Edith Campbell—I don't know that he -had ever mentioned her name to me—but I knew -that he had always entertained a sneaking admiration -for her. Since father died he hadn't seen her so -much and I had been glad of it. I don't like Edith -Campbell. There is so much show about her, and she -always contrives to make Alec look so forlorn and -pathetic. I remember one morning not long after -Alec's serious talk with me, that he went out of the -door gloomier than ever with his green felt bag filled -with the ledgers that he'd been working over till midnight. -Just as he was going down the front steps -who should appear but Edith Campbell in a sporty -little rig, driving a new cob of hers—round and -plump and shiny. She had some little out-of-town -whippersnapper of a man beside her, and as she drew -her horse to a standstill right by Alec, she looked trig -and sporty enough for the front cover of a magazine. -She gave Alec a play salute from the brim of her -perky little hat, and my poor tired brother took off -his limp grey felt. He went over and leaned one -hand on the horse's brilliant flank, and gazed up at -Edith. His overcoat that used to be black looked -greenish in the bright sunlight and the velvet collar -was worn about the edges.</p> - -<p>"Hello, Al Vars!" exclaimed Miss Campbell. I -could hear her through the open door, hidden behind -the lace. "I haven't seen you for <i>one age</i>. You -ought to come out of that shell of yours. Al <i>used</i> -to be a pal of mine," she laughed to the man beside<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p101" id="Page_p101">[101]</a></span> -her and introduced them. The stiffly-starched little -out-of-town man gave Alec a hand gloved in yellow -dog-skin and Alec turned and said something I -couldn't hear to Miss Campbell. She called her reply -back over her shoulder as she drove off. "Sorry, -Al. Can't. Too bad. I'm going to Florida with -Mother and Dad for the winter next week!"</p> - -<p>Alec stood forlorn in the middle of the street, -watching her descend the hill. The back of the -highly-shellacked little waggonette flashed in the sunlight. -Miss Campbell sat erect, sleek as her horse. -My feelings grew savage against her, and when Alec -finally shifted the heavy green bag to the other hand -and moved slowly off down the street toward the factory -I wanted to run after him and tell him she wasn't -worth a single thought of his. I wished that my life-long -devotion might make up for this single morning's -sting of Edith Campbell's heartless exhibition of prosperity. -But it couldn't. It couldn't break through -my brother's brooding silence for even an interval.</p> - -<p>Ruth took our change of circumstances very philosophically -at first. Ruth is sixteen now, and awfully -pretty. She has boy-callers about three times a week. -She's very popular. She can sing like a little prima-donna, -and can dance a cake-walk like a young -vaudeville performer. The twins think Ruth is the -cleverest little creature alive. She's a very independent -sort of girl. No one can give any advice to Ruth -on what is the proper thing for her to wear; no one -can tell <i>her</i> what is the correct way for girls of sixteen -to act; at least, <i>I</i> can't. Ruth loves fashion and style. -She was glad to have Alec dispose of Dixie.</p> - -<p>"Why," she said to me in her little sophisticated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p102" id="Page_p102">[102]</a></span> -way, "Dixie is eating his <i>head</i> off, and he <i>limps</i>! -I'd be ashamed to be seen at a funeral driving Dixie! -You may have noticed <i>I</i> never use him." She was -delighted to learn that Alec was going to sell the -house. "For he says," she announced to me gleefully, -"that perhaps <i>now</i> we can live in one of those -darling little shingled houses on the south side. -Those houses have the loveliest little dens in them -with a stained-glass window, where I could have my -callers. I just hate the parlour here. There's a big -new crack over the marble mantel, and I have a dreadful -time making people sit with their backs to it."</p> - -<p>"And Nellie?" I questioned.</p> - -<p>"Good riddance, I think. She's the bane of my -life, and she hasn't a scrap of style. She's been here -so long she thinks she can boss me as if she were my -mother."</p> - -<p>Ruth's chief source of sorrow was the announcement -that she couldn't attend dancing-school. That -brought the tears and for three days she'd hardly -speak a word. When I told her that she ought to be -cheerful for Alec's sake, she slammed the door in -my face and told me not to preach.</p> - -<p>I am afraid Ruth and I aren't very congenial -sisters. I try very hard to be helpful and sympathetic, -for Ruth, of course, is as motherless as I am. -But she's a difficult younger sister. She never -wanted me to take her to places when she was a little -girl. She hates to be petted. It troubles me a little -to think we aren't closer friends, because we each are -the only sister in the world that the other has.</p> - -<p>It was Ruth who stepped in and upset my whole -scheme with Dr. Maynard. She can be dreadfully<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p103" id="Page_p103">[103]</a></span> -annoying, and cause as much trouble as any grown-up -person I ever knew. It was when I was within -ten dollars of the end of my struggle. I had finished -the copying, and now I was working Dr. Maynard's -initials on about everything that that man owned.</p> - -<p>It was on a Saturday afternoon, and Juliet Adams, -who had come down from college to spend Sunday -with her family (Juliet goes to a girl's big college -now), had dropped over to see me. I was sitting by -the west window sewing on some things of my own, -for of course all Dr. Maynard's work I was careful -to do in private. Ruth was upstairs getting dressed -to go out to a party with one of her numerous boy-friends. -Suddenly, with her hair down her back, -and dressed only in her white petticoat and dressing-sack, -she appeared in the doorway.</p> - -<p>"Got a thimble?" she asked. "I want to baste -in a ruching," and without asking leave she grabbed -my work-bag that was on the couch. It was open -and she caught hold of it in such a way that the contents -all went tumbling out on the floor. A dozen -new socks done up in balls, on which I had been working -initials, rolled out in all directions. The red -monogram stared me in the face.</p> - -<p>"I'll pick them up," I said hurriedly, but Ruth was -too quick for me and she pounced upon them before -I could stop her. Very little of importance escapes -Ruth.</p> - -<p>"W. F. M.!" she exclaimed. "Who's that? W. -F. M.! As I live, on <i>every</i> one of them! Who's -W. F. M.?" She unrolled one pair. "Men's socks -too," she said, holding them up to plain view. "W. -F. M.!" Then suddenly she broke into hilarious<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p104" id="Page_p104">[104]</a></span> -laughter. "I have it!" she burst out, waving the -socks over her head and triumphantly dancing around -the room. "William Ford Maynard! W. F. M. -William Ford Maynard!"</p> - -<p>"Stop, Ruth!" I cried, my old anger beginning to -surge up in me. "<i>Stop</i>, I tell you!"</p> - -<p>But Ruth was deaf to me. She simply kept on -tearing around the room like a wild Indian. "How -do you do, Mrs. Maynard," she shouted at me in silly -school-girl fashion, and amidst her mad laughter sang -out, full of derision, "Juliet, let me introduce Mrs. -William Ford Maynard!"</p> - -<p>I was standing up in a minute and was at Ruth with -all my might and main. I was firing mad.</p> - -<p>"Ruth Chenery Vars," I cried, "stop, <i>stop</i>, <span class="smcap">STOP</span>!" -and then suddenly there was Alec standing quietly in -the doorway in his overcoat and hat.</p> - -<p>Ruth and I went out like flames.</p> - -<p>There was a dead silence for an instant, then Alec -asked quietly:</p> - -<p>"What does this mean?"</p> - -<p>Ruth answered him.</p> - -<p>"I tipped over Lucy's work-bag and all these men's -socks fell out. Every one of them is marked with -Dr. Maynard's initials, and Lucy got mad because I -made fun of her."</p> - -<p>"Will's initials, Lucy?" asked Alec perplexed.</p> - -<p>"Yes, W. F. M.," went on Ruth delightedly. -"See?" She gave the socks to Alec. "Nobody is -W. F. M. in this town, but William Ford Maynard," -she finished and sat down on the piano-stool in a satisfied -way, as if she had cleared <i>herself</i> of any blame, -and now was ready for some fun.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p105" id="Page_p105">[105]</a></span></p> - -<p>I think it was here that Juliet got up and slipped -out of the room. Anyhow I know she wasn't there -during the whole interview.</p> - -<p>"Well, Lucy?" said Alec, looking at me.</p> - -<p>"I was paid for it," I exclaimed. "I was paid for -every single initial and every single stitch I ever took -for him! Oh, there was nothing sentimental about -it. Ruth makes me sick! I did it simply to earn -money."</p> - -<p>Alec looked down at the initials.</p> - -<p>"How much were you paid?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"I was paid," I went on, still on the defensive, "I -was paid fifty cents an hour. It was all business -from beginning to end. Oh, there was nothing silly -in it!"</p> - -<p>"Fifty cents an hour?" Alec repeated.</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes," I said. "Ruth is absurd. I made out -bills and receipts and everything. It was absolutely -businesslike."</p> - -<p>"And how much has Will already given you?"</p> - -<p>The colour for some reason rose to my cheeks. -Alec looked as if he wasn't pleased and I was suddenly -ashamed.</p> - -<p>"About—sixty dollars," I murmured.</p> - -<p>"Sixty dollars!" Alec flashed. "Why did you -need so much money?" he asked me sternly.</p> - -<p>I saw my danger then. It was as if I had had my -hands on the steering-wheel of Dr. Maynard's automobile, -and suddenly saw an enormous limousine -headed for me around a curve.</p> - -<p>"Why," I stammered, trying to keep calm, "I -thought the business was doing so—poorly, that I—I—"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p106" id="Page_p106">[106]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Why did you think it necessary not to tell me -about this—enterprise of yours?" asked Alec.</p> - -<p>The limousine kept coming straight for me, you see.</p> - -<p>I hesitated just a moment. I had no idea of telling -about Oliver. After you've worked for a cause, -you'll protect it if it kills you. But I was at a loss to -know which way to turn, and I had to act quickly. -An inspiration came to me. It wasn't a good one, -but I was excited.</p> - -<p>"I borrowed seventy-five dollars from the Household -Account. I had a dressmaker's bill of my own -to pay that had stood a long while, and so—now I'm -trying to make it up."</p> - -<p>Alec dropped the socks as if they had been hot. -He didn't say a single word. He just stood there and -stared and stared. I glanced up for a fleeting second -and Alec's eyes were terrible. The vision of -them remained with me for days, just as the image -of the sun will dance before your eyes after you have -gazed at its piercing light for an instant. I turned -and looked quickly out of the window. The clock in -the hall struck five. I counted it to myself. The -last stroke died away, and still Alec stood and stared. -He seemed to be willing me to bow down in remorse -and shame. I couldn't help it. I tried and I -couldn't. I wasn't guilty—oh, no, Alec, I wasn't -guilty—but suddenly a hot wave spread over me up -to my temples and I hung my head before my -brother's condemning gaze.</p> - -<p>He turned away then, and without a word went -out into the hall.</p> - -<p>I didn't know a silence could be so eloquent; I -didn't know a silence could hurt. It sobered even<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p107" id="Page_p107">[107]</a></span> -Ruth. She slunk quietly upstairs. And when I discovered -I was quite alone, I drew a long breath. -Then I got up, gathered the poor socks that had -caused so much trouble together in a pile and put -them back into my work-bag.</p> - -<p>I didn't go down to supper that night. Alec -knocked on my bedroom door about nine o'clock, and -came in.</p> - -<p>"Please put the household check-book on my desk," -he said shortly; "I will take charge of it hereafter."</p> - -<p>"Very well," I replied, perfectly calm; and a thick -heavy curtain fell quietly down between Alec and -me like the curtain after the last act at the theatre.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p108" id="Page_p108">[108]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">HOW can I tell about the days that followed—black, -blinding days with Alec's silent displeasure -following me wherever I went, Ruth looking at -me askance and avoiding an encounter, and I, firm, -uncommunicative, and dismal as the grave?</p> - -<p>To save Oliver from disgrace cost me a big price. -I paid Alec's confidence and respect to buy Oliver's -honour. Sisters ought not to have preferences among -their brothers, but, Father, you know, <i>you</i>—before -whom now there is no deceiving or pretending—you -know that there is no one in the world to me -like Alec. Why, Oliver and I used to fight like cats -and dogs. Ruth is Oliver's favourite. I don't know -why I was putting myself to so much trouble for -Oliver, breaking my heart to save his reputation. -Father would have put Oliver into the mills; Tom -would have put him there; Alec also; but at night -when I look at the sad profile over my bed, that face -which only until lately had been simply an old-fashioned -picture of my mother, I wonder what <i>she</i> would -have done. I know Mrs. Maynard would have sold -her soul to protect <i>her</i> son's reputation. Perhaps I -was saving Oliver from disgrace for the sake of my -"best friend." At any rate there was no going back -now.</p> - -<p>Meal-time of course was dreadful. There was no -connected conversation. The clatter of the slumpy -general-housework girl, as she piled up our plates<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p109" id="Page_p109">[109]</a></span> -and took them away, was more annoying than ever, -when we all simply sat and listened. It's a difficult -thing, too, to ask for the bread, and avoid glancing -at the person who passes it. I didn't join Alec in the -sitting-room any more by the drop-light; I didn't -hurry downstairs to meet him at noon; I didn't ask -him if he were tired.</p> - -<p>"Please, Alec, say <i>something</i>!" I said, almost -desperate, at the end of the third day.</p> - -<p>I didn't know Alec could be so hard and unforgiving. -His reply made me feel awfully sympathetic -and kind toward Oliver, or any one else who -might have made a mistake. It seems that, besides -shattering my brother's entire confidence in my -honesty, I had shocked his sense of propriety in accepting -money from Dr. Maynard. To call it a business -transaction appealed to Alec as absolutely absurd. -He assured me that he was going to pay every -cent of Will's money back to him. I started to reply, -but Alec shrugged his shoulders and turned away.</p> - -<p>"I don't want to talk about it, Lucy. Let us not -argue about a matter in which your honesty and reliability -is so involved. I had such faith in you! I -could have forgiven you your lack of pride—your -utter ignorance of the proprieties in spite of your nineteen -years, in accepting sixty dollars from a friend! -But you have been dishonest. You knew as well as -I the seriousness of your offence when you borrowed -from the Household Account placed in your name at -the bank. No, please, do not answer me. For what -is there for you to say?"</p> - -<p>I didn't know. I went upstairs—not to cry, not -to grieve, but to sit down in my black walnut rocker<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p110" id="Page_p110">[110]</a></span> -by the window and think bitter thoughts. I didn't -care if I had been improper; I didn't care if Alec was -unjust and willing to believe the worst of me; <i>I didn't -care</i>! I had sixty good, crisp dollars tucked safely -away in a little chamois bag in the bandbox where -I keep my best Sunday-go-to-meeting hat, and when -my allowance came due on December first I should -have seventy-five. I didn't care if all the world -turned against me. I had accomplished what I had -set out to do, and no one could rob me of my victory -anyhow.</p> - -<p>I had it all planned that on December first I would -deposit the seventy-five dollars in the bank and make -out a check for Oliver immediately. But something -happened which made quicker action necessary.</p> - -<p>When December third, Oliver's fateful day, was -about a week off I received another letter from him. -In his haste, in directing it, he had omitted the state, -and the letter had travelled to a Hilton, New York, -which I never knew was on the map, before it found -its way to me three days later.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"The business meeting has been set forward to November -twenty-sixth, so you better send the check on -the twenty-fourth, at the latest. You've been a trump -to get it for me, and if you're good, I'll have both you -and Ruth down for a game sometime, with a spread in -my room."</p></blockquote> - -<p>I didn't read any farther. I reached for my -calendar. I found the twenty-sixth. I followed the -column up to the days of the week. Yes—as sure -as I was alive—Saturday! To-day was Saturday.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p111" id="Page_p111">[111]</a></span> -To-day was November twenty-sixth! Oliver must -have seventy-five dollars to-day!</p> - -<p>It was nine o'clock. Alec was at the factory. -Ruth was not in the house. I went down to the roll-top -desk and found a timetable. There was a train -at nine-fifty. It didn't take me an instant to decide -that I would deliver that money to Oliver myself. I -would go down to that college town, hunt that boy -up, and place my little packet of seventy-five hard-earned -dollars in his hands.</p> - -<p>I put on my hat and coat—the same old black -coat, by the way, that I had had dyed when Father -left us—instructed the general-housework girl to tell -Alec that I wouldn't be home for lunch, and hurried -over to Dr. Maynard's. I buried all the pride I ever -had (which Alec had said was a small amount) and -pulled the big front bell. I was glad when Eliza said -the doctor was in. I had never called there before, -and I refused to enter even the hall. I had come to -beg for money and it seemed more correct to stand on -the doorstep. I had made up my mind after Alec's -cutting speech that I would never take another cent -from Dr. Maynard as long as I lived. But I had -to, you see. My allowance wasn't due for five days. -I simply had to have nineteen dollars immediately—four -for my railroad fare and fifteen for Oliver. -I wasn't going to have that twin even fifteen dollars -dishonest. I wasn't going to fail now, at the eleventh -hour, even if it cost my reputation.</p> - -<p>"Hello," said Dr. Maynard in the doorway. -"Good morning! It isn't often I have calls from -young ladies so early. Come in!"</p> - -<p>"No," I replied. "No, thanks." I stopped a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p112" id="Page_p112">[112]</a></span> -minute then I said, "I know you'll be very much -surprised. I know I'm going to do a very improper -thing. I must seem to have no pride at all, but—but—can -you lend me nineteen dollars?" My -cheeks were burning red. Dr. Maynard folded his -arms and leaned up against the casement of the door. -I could see him smiling. "I'll pay you back," I went -on bravely, "in four days—at least fifteen dollars -of it. The rest I can give you on January first."</p> - -<p>Dr. Maynard sat down on the doorstep and made a -place for me.</p> - -<p>"Sit down, Bobbie," he said.</p> - -<p>"I can't," I replied; "I'm in a hurry."</p> - -<p>Dr. Maynard stood up again—he's always very -polite with me—and refolded his arms.</p> - -<p>"Alec came over last night," he went on, "and it -seems, Lucy, that Al didn't approve of our little -game. He took it a little more seriously than we -did, and perhaps it's better, after all, if you're in any -sort of difficulty to go straight to your brother, if -you've got as good a one as Alec."</p> - -<p>"Aren't you going to lend it to me?" I asked -point-blank.</p> - -<p>"Well, now, you see," Dr. Maynard smiled, "Al -didn't tell me the story, but he implied that you had -explained the whole thing to <i>him</i>; and of course, -Bobbie, if he, your brother, doesn't approve of your -cause—"</p> - -<p>"I told him a lie," I interrupted; "I told him I'd -just the same as stolen seventy-five dollars from the -Household Account, which he put me in charge of; -and I haven't at all. I simply haven't! I shan't ever -need any more money after to-day. I'll never ask<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p113" id="Page_p113">[113]</a></span> -another favour after this, but I've got to have it. -<i>I've got to!</i> If it would do any good to get down -on my knees and beg, I'd do it. But it seems to me -when I debase myself by asking you for money right -out of a clear sky, you must know it's awfully important. -Alec tells me I've been improper even to -earn money from a friend. It must be worse to beg -it. But I don't care—I <i>don't care</i>—just so you -give it to me, and quick, because I've got to take a -train."</p> - -<p>Dr. Maynard looked very sober and serious for -him.</p> - -<p>"Can't you tell me what you need it for?" he -asked.</p> - -<p>For a moment I was tempted, but men are so queer -and severe with boys who make mistakes, so terribly -correct about honesty, how did I know but perhaps -Dr. Maynard, too, would think Oliver ought to go -into the mills.</p> - -<p>I shook my head.</p> - -<p>"I can't," I said; "I wish I could,—but, I'm -sorry, I can't."</p> - -<p>"How much do you need for your railroad fare?" -he inquired, irrelevantly, and when I had told him -he asked, "And what time does your train leave?"</p> - -<p>"At nine-fifty," I burst out impatiently; "and I -shall lose it if you don't hurry. We are wasting time. -Oh, please decide quickly."</p> - -<p>He didn't answer for a minute. He was biting -his under lip, beneath his moustache, and gazing far -away beyond my head. His arms were still -folded.</p> - -<p>"Four dollars; the nine-fifty," he contem<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p114" id="Page_p114">[114]</a></span>plated -out loud, unmindful of my precious minutes.</p> - -<p>The frown between his eyes looked dreadfully unfavourable -to me. I stepped toward him, and looking -up to him on the step above I said, "Dr. Maynard, -I copied all those letters of your mother's, and -it seems as if I almost knew her now. I just know -<i>she</i> would think my cause was worthy."</p> - -<p>Dr. Maynard simply adored his mother, and I suppose -it was the sudden thought of her that brought -a kind of mist into his eyes. He stepped down beside -me, took out his leather bill-book, and passed me -two ten-dollar bills. "Then, Bobbie, here it is!" he -said gravely.</p> - -<p>I thanked him quietly, opened my bag, and put them -away.</p> - -<p>I have always thought Dr. Maynard was a mind-reader. -His next speech simply staggered me.</p> - -<p>"I should go to the train immediately," he said; -"the nine-fifty will be crowded this morning, with -people going to the game. And by the way, if by -any chance, you have a notion of passing through any -college town on the day of a big football game, you'll -find it very confusing. Why not let me go with -you? I'll ask no questions. Or will the twins meet -you?"</p> - -<p>"How did you know? How did you guess?" was -on the tip of my tongue; but I replied instead, "Oh, -thank you. I <i>must</i> go alone. I shall be back by -dark—and—and some one will meet me," I -stammered.</p> - -<p>All the way to the station I kept thinking, "Why -couldn't Alec have believed me worthy of good motives -too? Why couldn't Alec have surmised and un<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p115" id="Page_p115">[115]</a></span>derstood? -Why couldn't it have been my brother -who trusted and had faith?"</p> - -<p>Before I bought my ticket I sent a telegram to -Oliver, so he wouldn't be passing away with anxiety. -"<i>Coming to-day. Bobbie</i>" I said, and five minutes -later sank into a seat in the train with a sigh of relief.</p> - -<p>It was nearly twelve o'clock when the last friendly, -blue-coated policeman left me with a pleasant nod -near the end of my destination. I didn't have a bit -of difficulty changing trains, crossing Boston and -weaving my way in and out and up and down a -labyrinth of subway passages and various street-car -lines. Everybody was awfully helpful and as long -as I have a tongue I could travel around the world, -I believe, without the least bit of trouble. It wasn't -until I neared the end of my journey that I felt any -nervousness at all. Oliver roomed at number 204 -Grey Street and as I reached the nineties my uneasiness -became quite apparent. I could feel it in my -chest, as if I were hungry. I did hope Oliver would -be in. I did hope I was doing the right thing. Probably -my growing excitement was a little due to the -gala spirit of the football day. It pervaded everything. -It thrilled me. Crowds of people with -steamer-rugs and overcoats over their arms had -thronged the trains and street-cars all along my -route—a good-natured crowd, prosperous-looking -young men and stunning girls wearing great bunches -of flowers and carrying flags. Everybody was excited, -even down to the small boys selling programmes -and banners in the square I had just left; everybody -glowed with enthusiasm and with the foretaste of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p116" id="Page_p116">[116]</a></span> -triumph. I had never been to a football game in my -life, and I had always wanted to. Perhaps Oliver -would take me; perhaps we would have lunch together -somewhere! I should adore to see the college -buildings! Possibly—oh, possibly, he would introduce -me to some of his friends!! The thought of the -thrilling things that might be in store for me made -me swallow to keep myself calm. As I hurried along -Grey Street I was so excited that I somehow wished -that the wonderful time was all over, and that I was -speeding safely and victoriously home again, wearing -a faded bunch of chrysanthemums that Oliver -would buy for me, and hoarding in my memory the -brand-new acquisition of a real College Football Game.</p> - -<p>I was rather disappointed in the appearance of -number 204. It was a big brick building and not at -all my idea of a College Dormitory. It was just as -plain and ordinary as it could be, with the door opening -right square on to the brick sidewalk, and a horrid -little tailor-shop and drug-store opposite. I didn't -know what I ought to do. The big front door was -wide open, and I could see into the hall. It looked -like a prison—all brick and masonry, and bare -granolithic stairs with an iron railing. I didn't know -whether to go in or not. If there had been a policeman -in sight I would have asked his advice, or an -old lady, or a girl, but there was only a very good-looking -young man on the other side of the street, -so I rang the bell and waited. No one came. I rang -again; I rang that old bell—at least I pushed the -button—six times! No one answered, so I finally -started up the stairs. Perhaps I was waiting at the -basement door (the interior certainly looked like a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p117" id="Page_p117">[117]</a></span> -cellar) and the parlours or reception-rooms were possibly -on the floor above. It was while I was standing, -hesitating on the second landing, gazing up interminable -flights of cement stairs and brick walls, -wondering how in the world I could dig Oliver out -of such a tomb, that a door opened somewhere up -above and down those stairs—bump-bump, clappity-clap, -pell-mell, like ten barrels falling down one over -another, shouting, laughing, guffawing—I heard -what I thought must be a regiment charging down -upon me. I drew back a little into the corner and -suddenly four men—four stunning young college -men appeared before me.</p> - -<p>They all stopped shouting as if I had been a vision, -and though they didn't say a word I could feel they -observed me with a start of surprise as if young ladies -in their corridors were a great curiosity. I blushed -for no particular reason; they passed on quietly down -the stairs; and would have left me there without a -word if I hadn't spoken.</p> - -<p>"Excuse me," I said to the back of the last young -man. "Could you tell me—I'm sorry to stop you—but -does Oliver Vars room here?"</p> - -<p>They all halted and looked up at me. I blushed -worse than ever. I suddenly felt as if I ought not -to have been there, and though the young men were -just as courteous and polite as they could be I was -awfully embarrassed.</p> - -<p>"Why, yes, he does room here," said the young -man nearest me, taking off his hat. "Did you want -to see him?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," I stammered. "It's—it's very important. -I'm sorry but I—"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p118" id="Page_p118">[118]</a></span></p> - -<p>"That's all right," he assured me quickly, for I -guess he heard my voice tremble; "I'll find him for -you." And oh, he had the nicest, straightest, cleanest -look. "You go on," he said to his friends; "I'll be -with you in a minute." Then to me, "Vars rooms -here, but I am about sure he's out now. If you'll -come with me perhaps—Must you see him right -off?" he inquired.</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes, thank you. I must. I <i>must</i>! I've -come on the train to see him. I've got to see him if -I sit here and wait for him."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I'll get him all right," the young man said. -"We haven't much of a place here to wait, but if -you'll come with me, we'll find him," he assured me.</p> - -<p>He stepped back to let me pass out in front of him -to the street, and once on the sidewalk, he fell behind -me a moment so that he might walk next to the -curbing. Oh, that young man had beautiful manners! -I'll always remember them. It was just the -noon hour and he met lots of men that he knew. To -each one he raised his hat as if he'd had a princess -with him. They returned his bow in the same manner, -with a curious look at me.</p> - -<p>"They think," he laughed pleasantly, "I'm taking -you to the game this afternoon!"</p> - -<p>I flushed. I wanted to say, "I wish you were." -If I had been the pretty girl whom we had just passed, -in the black lynx, with a little round fur hat with a -red flower on it, it would have been easy to smile, -glance sidewise, and say pretty things. But from under -my black felt sailor, side glances wouldn't be attractive. -I kept my eyes straight ahead. "You can -explain to them afterward," I said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p119" id="Page_p119">[119]</a></span></p> - -<p>He left me in a drug-store. "I'll get him!" were -his last words as he raised his hat.</p> - -<p>I waited three quarters of an hour. It was after -one o'clock when I saw Oliver push open the big -plate-glass door. He had been hurrying. His face -was red, his eyes startled and frightened, his hair -tossed a little under the cap he wore. At sight of me -he stopped, then strode up to me, where I was sitting -on a stool by the soda-fountain.</p> - -<p>"You!" he gasped. "You! For heaven's sake, -Bobbie, what are you here for?"</p> - -<p>"I telegraphed," I explained. "Didn't you—"</p> - -<p>"No," he broke in, "I've had no telegram. -What's the trouble anyhow? Who's dead? Who—"</p> - -<p>"Why, Oliver," I replied calmly, "nobody's dead." -Then in a lower tone, "I've come with the money," -I said.</p> - -<p>"The money! Why didn't you mail it?" he fired.</p> - -<p>"Your letter didn't come till this morning, and—isn't -the meeting to-day?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes," he said still annoyed; "but there was -no such rush. I've managed to borrow enough to -fix <i>that</i> up. Oh, I knew I better not rely on your -getting it here, and so a friend of mine lent me -enough to tide me over." We had moved away from -the soda-fountain and were talking in low tones beside -a display of fancy soap.</p> - -<p>"Then why—?" I began.</p> - -<p>"Oh, because," he took me up, "I've got to pay -Holmes back. No man of any respect owes money -to a friend for a longer time than he can help. But -Holmes didn't expect it till next week. It was absolutely -crazy, your coming way down here. You<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p120" id="Page_p120">[120]</a></span> -went to my room, didn't you? What do you suppose -the men will think? Do you know who it was told -me you were here? Blanchard! Blanchard! A -Senior! One of the biggest men here! Heavens, -when he told me a girl wanted to see me—You don't -have any idea of propriety, Lucy!"</p> - -<p>"Oliver Vars," I returned, "I've brought seventy-five -dollars down here in this bag for you, and you -had better stop talking like that to me. If it wasn't -for me and my impropriety, you'd be working in the -mills, let me tell you. And I don't know but what -it would be better. If Alec knew what you'd done—if -Tom knew—"</p> - -<p>Oliver's attitude changed immediately.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I know," he interrupted. "It's been bully of -you, Bobbie. I tell you I appreciate it. I suppose -you had a hard time squeezing even such an amount -out of old Al, and just now too, when business is so -rotten. But I'll pay you back some day, you'll see. -You've helped me out of a devil of a scrape. I'm -going to have you down to a game or a tea soon."</p> - -<p>"There's a game this afternoon!" I exclaimed. -"Oh, Oliver—I've never seen a football game."</p> - -<p>My brother frowned. "I'm more than sorry, but -I'm taking some one this afternoon. Malcolm and I, -two other fellows and four girls, a party of eight of -us, are all going together."</p> - -<p>"Couldn't I sit alone somewhere, off in a corner? -I wouldn't mind a bit. I want to see the crowds and -be able to say that I have been. Oh, I'd love to hear -the cheering. You could call for me afterward, -and—"</p> - -<p>"Oh, no, Lucy; oh, no. That's out of the ques<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p121" id="Page_p121">[121]</a></span>tion. -Why even if I could get a ticket, which I -can't, it wouldn't do. You don't understand in the -least."</p> - -<p>There was something about the way Oliver glanced -at my old rusty laced boots that made me say fiercely, -"I don't suppose I'm dressed well enough!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, it isn't that—not at all," he assured me, -and suddenly I felt that it was. "Of course it isn't, -though the girls do put on the best things they have. -It's simply that no girl ever goes alone to a game."</p> - -<p>"Well, then, here's the money," I said in a hard -voice.</p> - -<p>"Say, Bobbie, I'm awfully sorry. If you only had -let me know. If you only—"</p> - -<p>"Oh, never mind," I interrupted.</p> - -<p>A young man in a grey sweater entered the store. -Oliver glanced around at him, then flushed and finally -raised his cap. The young man returned the bow -generously. If I had been less sensitive I wouldn't -have noticed how Oliver stood so as to shield me -from the young man's gaze. If I hadn't walked that -three blocks and a half with that young god Blanchard, -whoever he was, I wouldn't have minded Oliver's -half-apologetic bow. Mr. Blanchard hadn't been -ashamed of me; <i>he</i> hadn't hidden me; <i>he</i> hadn't -flushed when he met his friends. I wanted to get -away from Oliver as soon as I could. I wanted to -go home.</p> - -<p>"Well, I might as well be starting along," I said. -"I found my way down here without any trouble, -and I guess I'll get home all right."</p> - -<p>"Say, Bobbie, I'm more than sorry. I wish I -could put you safely on the Hilton train, but I've got<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p122" id="Page_p122">[122]</a></span> -to rush like mad as it is—change my clothes, get -some food, and call for Miss Beresford, all before -two o'clock. So if you're sure—"</p> - -<p>"I am," I tucked in.</p> - -<p>"I'll put you on the electric car. Say—" his face -brightened, "don't you want some hot chocolate?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I couldn't, Oliver. No thanks. Please."</p> - -<p>I was glad to be alone again. I was glad of the -protection of the crowds and the stream of strange -faces. I sat in the corner of the car, where Oliver -had left me, with a hard look about my mouth—at -least I felt as if it were hard. There is no such thing -as reward. Everything in life is unfair. Who was -Miss Beresford? Would she wear coon-skin and -velvet? Would Oliver buy her a stunning bunch of -flowers to wear at her waist? Perhaps one of the -actual dollars that I had earned would purchase a -little flag for her to wave. Why should I pay for -Miss Beresford's good time? Why should I have to -work so hard, and wear ugly black? Why should I -be going home—hungry and faint, and ashamed—while -every one else was thronging in the other -direction?</p> - -<p>It was while I was changing cars, standing alone -on the edge of the sidewalk, taking in all I could see -of the excitement, that my eyes fell on a stunning -creature in a long luxurious fur coat. She wore a -huge bunch of violets, as big as a cauliflower. A -great big sweeping plume streamed out behind. She -was bubbling with laughter, and the young man striding -along beside her was laughing too. They were a -lovely pair, both of them full of the joy of living. -The girl (I looked twice to make sure) was some one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p123" id="Page_p123">[123]</a></span> -I knew. The girl, as sure as I was alive, was no -other than Sarah Platt—Sarah Platt, whom I had -longed to know at boarding-school; Sarah Platt who -had always scorned the very sight of Lucy Vars; -Sarah Platt whom finally I had almost spat upon as -contemptible and mean. A half an hour ago, Oliver -had tried to hide me, and now I tried to hide myself. -I slunk behind a telegraph-pole. Sarah swept -by like a gilded chariot; I heard her voice; I smelled -the odor of her violets. "She'll always be glorious -and happy," I thought savagely. "She'll always -have a good time. She'll marry that young man. I -know she will. And I—I'll always be poor and -miserable and forgotten."</p> - -<p>It was half-past two when I re-entered the big -station, inquired of a news-stand girl the way to the -restaurant, and found my way to the lunch counter. -Instead of luncheon with Oliver, at a small table in -some darling little college-town restaurant, I hoisted -myself up on a stool and ordered a ham sandwich -and a cup of coffee. The girl who drew the steaming -black liquid out of the shining metal tank looked -sour and dissatisfied. She slopped some of it on the -saucer as she shoved the thick crockery toward me. -She slammed down my check and slung a towel up -over her shoulder with a sort of vehemence that expressed -my feelings exactly. I don't know why she -was so miserable; I never knew; but I sympathised -just the same. When she dropped a glass and it -shattered and broke at her feet, she merely shrugged -her shoulders, and kicked the pieces as if she didn't -care a rap if the whole station fell down and broke. -Oh, I just loved that girl, somehow. I knew she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p124" id="Page_p124">[124]</a></span> -thought life was cruel, hard as iron, and terribly unjust. -I wasn't the only one who at that moment was -not cheering with the crowds at the football game. -I wasn't the only wretched person in the world.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p125" id="Page_p125">[125]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">ABOUT a week after I had been down to see -Oliver, I observed that something strange had -come over Dr. Maynard. The first time I noticed it -was the day I hailed him when he was passing the -house one noon, and gave him an envelope with my -December allowance sealed up inside. I explained it -was in part payment of the loan he had made me -the week before. He didn't laugh; he didn't even -smile; he was as solemn as a judge, as he took that -envelope and put it in his breast-pocket. Usually -there is a joke on the tip of Dr. Maynard's tongue. -He is always saving situations from becoming serious -by a bit of fun. I never knew what it was to feel -uncomfortable with Dr. Maynard. The next day -when he passed me alone in his automobile, when I -was coming home from downtown, it flashed upon me -as very odd that he didn't stop and take me in as -usual. Then it occurred to me that he hadn't taken -me out for a ride, for days. I got to thinking! The -next Sunday at church he and Alec seemed friendly -enough, but I observed that Dr. Maynard didn't drop -in on us in the afternoon. The grave look that had -come into his eyes when he passed those two bills to -me that morning on his front porch, the solemn tone -in his voice when he said, "Then, here it is, Bobbie," -seemed to be there every time he spoke to me. I was -sorry. It made me uneasy. It didn't seem as if I -could bear it if Dr. Maynard should go back on me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p126" id="Page_p126">[126]</a></span>—along -with the business, and Alec, and everything -and everybody I ever cared a cent about.</p> - -<p>I wondered what was the cause of Dr. Maynard's -coolness. Perhaps he felt that Alec was blaming him -for allowing me to take so much of his money; perhaps -he was nursing the idea that he was responsible -for the strangeness between my older brother and myself; -or else, possibly Dr. Maynard thought that since -I had committed such an unheard-of act as to ask -him for money I would naturally feel embarrassed -and ill-at-ease in his presence. But that was all nonsense. -I didn't regret a thing that I had done. In -spite of what Alec might consider my shocking impropriety, -I didn't feel ashamed. I adored Dr. Maynard's -cheerfulness! It seemed as if I must go and -tell him that the only fun I had left now was the fun -I had with him. I used to love his jokes and merry-making. -I believe Dr. Maynard could make the -worst catastrophe in the world a lark, if he wanted -to. Why, whenever we had a puncture in the automobile, -Dr. Maynard was so good-natured about it -that any one would have thought he enjoyed punctures. -"You've got a flat tire, George," he'd sing out to -me (he calls me George when I am running the car), -or, "Sorry, Miss; sounds mighty like a blow-out," -he'd say, if he happened to be at the wheel; and while -he was jacking-up, I'd flax around and unlock the -tools. Before he had the shoe off, I was ready with -the new inner tube, and thirty minutes from the time -we had stopped we were zinging along again as good -as new. Most of the sunshine in my life—literal -sunshine and the other kind too—came through Dr. -Maynard.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p127" id="Page_p127">[127]</a></span></p> - -<p>As I became more and more convinced that he was -acting queerly, I began to realise how kind he had -been to me. I suppose Dr. Maynard is really a better -friend of mine than Juliet Adams, to whom I -write twice every week, and for whom I make a stunning -Christmas present every year. He has surely -done more to fill my heart with gratitude and everlasting -appreciation. It flashed upon me, one day, that -I had never done a thing in my life, without pay, -for Dr. Maynard. I began thinking and thinking -what a girl of nineteen could do anyhow, for a man -of thirty-five, who lives all alone and has all the -money he wants.</p> - -<p>It was when I was working on Juliet's Christmas -present that it occurred to me that possibly it might -please an older man, who didn't have any family, -if some one gave <i>him</i> a Christmas present. The -more I thought about it the better I liked -the idea. It seemed to me a delicate way of expressing -my thanks to Dr. Maynard for all that he had -done.</p> - -<p>I had an awful time deciding on the present. First -I wanted to buy a wind-shield for his automobile but -the price of wind-shields is something terrific. Fur -robes, automobile clocks, a Gabriel horn all were delightful -possibilities, but beyond the limits of my -purse. My oldest brother Tom likes books, I always -give Alec socks or handkerchiefs. The twins adore -sofa-pillows for their rooms. Sofa pillows! Would -Dr. Maynard like a sofa-pillow for his room? For -a week I hesitated between a sofa-pillow and a hand-embroidered -picture frame, but finally decided on the -pillow.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p128" id="Page_p128">[128]</a></span></p> - -<p>I knew exactly how I was going to make it. I had -seen one of my friends, who attends a big boarding-school -near Philadelphia, embroidering a perfectly -stunning one at Thanksgiving for a college man she -knew. I copied hers. Of course I realised that Dr. -Maynard had been out of college for years, but he -is very loyal to his Alma Mater. He told me all -about the fifteenth reunion he attended last June as -soon as he got home, and seemed awfully enthusiastic. -So I bought and had charged to myself, two -yards of the most expensive and shiniest satin in the -Hilton stores, had it stamped on one side with the -seal of Dr. Maynard's college, and on the other with -his initials and the numerals of his class beneath. It -wasn't very complimentary to Dr. Maynard I suppose, -but as I worked, I wondered if I would ever embroider -a sofa-pillow for a real college man. I wished this -one was destined for some one who was in college -now. I should have enjoyed the thought that a pillow -made by my hands would be piled high on a couch in -the corner of a college boy's room, beneath posters -and signs and flags, and that college men would lean -up against it and play banjos and guitars. I wished -I had half an excuse for making a sofa-pillow for Mr. -Blanchard. Dr. Maynard graduated perfect ages -ago, in the class of '90—three years before the -World's Fair in Chicago, which is one of my earliest -recollections. The pillow that I copied mine from -has on it a big '09, and Mr. Blanchard is a member -of the class of '06. I had only to turn my pillow upside -down and it would have been perfect for Mr. -Blanchard.</p> - -<p>After I had finished the embroidery, I bought the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p129" id="Page_p129">[129]</a></span> -best down-pillow for the thing that I could find—for -I wasn't going to skimp on Dr. Maynard's Christmas -present, after all his generosity—and also a -heavy black silk cord to go around the edge. I must -confess when it was all done—the black letters standing -up so that they cast a shadow on the red satin, -and the surface as round and full as a raised biscuit—I -must confess it was perfectly lovely. I think Mr. -Blanchard would have liked it very much. I wrapped -it up very carefully in tissue paper, over that a layer -of brown paper held together by pins, and put it well -out of sight on my closet shelf. I was determined -that Ruth shouldn't see it.</p> - -<p>Christmas used to be a great day with us. Tom -always came home from the West; and we had -fricasseed chicken for breakfast; turkey and pies for -dinner; figs, nuts and Malaga grapes for supper. We -never celebrated with a Christmas tree (we considered -them childish) and the younger ones of us—Ruth -and I and the twins—never hung our stockings. -Since Mother died there was no one to keep -up the fiction of Santa Claus, and I remember we -used to feel awfully set-up and superior at the church -supper on Christmas Eve when we, with grown-ups, -knew that the person in the old red coat and white -beard was just the Sunday-school superintendent -dressed up. We always opened our presents in the -sitting-room directly after breakfast. Each member -of the family had a chair of his own, with his presents -piled in it. When we all finally got started on -the opening, I don't know whether we were more interested -in seeing the presents we had given, opened, -or opening the ones we had received. It was a won<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p130" id="Page_p130">[130]</a></span>derful -hour anyhow, and I can't even remember it -without getting a thrill.</p> - -<p>It's different now; everything is different—Memorial -Day, Fourth of July and Thanksgiving—with -Father gone. We can't seem to fill up the rooms -without Father. When we try to celebrate a holiday -I think it must be something like acting or -preaching to an empty house. Father was a beautiful -audience, and his applause made the day -worth while. Since Tom has been married he hasn't -been here for Christmas either. Elise's family -wants her with them. Besides, she has two little -daughters now and can't possibly come East anyhow. -You can imagine with only Ruth, the twins, heart-sick -Alec, and me—no Dixie, no Nellie, no money -for presents, and the "For Sale" sign still outside the -parlour window—it wasn't a very merry Christmas -for the Vars family. It just dragged, I can tell you. -I had to cook the dinner myself because Bridget, the -general-housework girl, had too soft a heart to disappoint -her second cousin, who had invited her to spend -the day with her. Ruth and the twins started off on -a skating-party about three in the afternoon, after -we'd done up the dishes together. As soon as I was -sure they were all safely out of the way—Alec was -sound asleep on the third floor—I stuck on my red -tam and sweater, and took my present over to Dr. -Maynard.</p> - -<p>I was dreadfully afraid I'd meet some one I knew -on the way, and they'd inquire what I had in the -bundle. It was the awkwardest thing I ever attempted -to carry in my life. Try it sometime. When -I struggled up to Dr. Maynard's front door, I won<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p131" id="Page_p131">[131]</a></span>dered -if he had been watching me from the windows, -and asking himself what in the name of heaven was -coming now. But he wasn't at home. Eliza who -came to the door explained that Dr. Maynard had -gone out horseback riding, but wouldn't I come in -and wait?</p> - -<p>I thanked Eliza—I'd never been inside Dr. Maynard's -house before—and entered the hall. She -showed me into a big square room at the left, and -told me to sit down.</p> - -<p>"I won't stop, I think," I said. "I'll just leave -this. It's a Christmas present for Dr. Maynard. -Don't tell him who left it. There's a card inside."</p> - -<p>"I'll lay it right here on his desk," said Eliza, -grinning with pleasure.</p> - -<p>She'd no sooner put my bundle down than I heard -the clatter of horse's hoofs on the hard driveway outside.</p> - -<p>"I believe he's coming," I exclaimed. "How -lucky! I'll wait."</p> - -<p>After Eliza had gone back to the kitchen and I was -alone, I gazed about the room. It was a dark, dull -room with bronze-coloured walls. Low, black walnut -bookcases were built in around two sides, and over -them hung two solitary pictures—steel engravings of -battle scenes. There were several huge leather armchairs, -and a bare leather couch in one corner. There -wasn't a single sofa-pillow on it. I didn't believe -Dr. Maynard liked sofa-pillows after all. Everything -was so big and dark and stiff in that room, I -was afraid a pillow would look out of place. I -walked over to Dr. Maynard's desk. It was just like -the room—nothing pretty on it—a book or two, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p132" id="Page_p132">[132]</a></span> -big bronze horse, a piece of black onyx for a paperweight. -There was also a small, dark leather frame, -and in it a kodak picture of Alec on horseback. The -horse was poor dear little Dixie, who had gone away. -I remembered when Dr. Maynard had taken that picture. -It was in our back yard last summer. The -smoke-bush had been in full plumage. Just before -he snapped the picture, he had called to me, "You get -into it, too, Bobbie. Stand up here, in front, by -Dixie's head." And there I was, as sure as life, -pinching the dear little horse's soft under lip, and -smiling at Dr. Maynard.</p> - -<p>As I stood looking at the picture, wondering where -Dixie had gone—for Alec hadn't told me and I -dreaded to ask—Dr. Maynard passed by the window -by my side. He was coming in from the stable by -way of the front door, and Eliza would have no opportunity -for telling him that he had a caller. As I -heard him fitting his key into the lock of the outside -door, it occurred to me that it would be fun to hide. -I glanced around the room. There wasn't a drapery -in sight. There wasn't a hanging of any description -that I could crawl behind. So finally I dashed into -what proved to be a closet—dark as pitch.</p> - -<p>Dr. Maynard didn't stop in the hall. He didn't -call Eliza. He came directly toward the library door -and entered the room. The sun was just setting, and -a few last rays came slanting through the windows. -They burnished the room like magic brass-polish. -The bronze-coloured walls shone like dull copper; the -brown leather armchairs, the black walnut woodwork, -the old camel-shaded rugs were absolutely golden. As -Dr. Maynard stood in the late sunshine in his khaki<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p133" id="Page_p133">[133]</a></span> -coloured riding things, his face all aglow and ruddy -with the cold, he too glowed like everything else. He -looked very handsome in his riding boots (I could see -him through the crack in the door) and much sportier -than in automobile goggles and a visored cap.</p> - -<p>He tossed down his riding whip and soft felt hat -in a chair, rubbed his bare hands together as if they -were cold, blew through his fingers, then abruptly flung -himself full length on the leather couch. He clasped -his two hands underneath his head, and lay there with -his eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling. I hoped -he wouldn't keep me waiting long. A small travelling -clock on the desk struck four-thirty, and he turned toward -it. It was then that he saw the big white bundle -resting on his blotter. He frowned a moment, as his -gaze fell upon it (I was shaking with laughter) then -got up and walked over to it. He picked it up, turned -it over, and laid it down again. He examined the -outside closely—for an address, I suppose—gave it -up, then shoving his hands into his pockets, stood looking -down at the bundle, as if some stranger had left -a baby at his door and he didn't know what to do with -it. Finally, he decided to open the thing at least, and -began taking out the pins. Beneath the brown paper -was the layer of white tissue paper, tied with red -Christmas ribbon. I didn't think Dr. Maynard would -ever get beneath that tissue paper. You would have -thought that there was something explosive inside. -He lifted up the rustling package gingerly by the red -ribbon and looked it all over. My card was hanging -from the under side. Dr. Maynard took it off at -last and read it.</p> - -<p>It was a plain white card with simply the words: -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p134" id="Page_p134">[134]</a></span>"Merry Christmas to W. F. M. from his discharged -chauffeur, George." Dr. Maynard gazed at that card -as if there had been volumes written on it. He -turned it over, searched on the back, and examined -again its face. Then he went to the window, put the -shade up to the top, and came back to the desk. His -back was toward me; I couldn't see the expression -on his face as he folded back the tissue paper, and my -pillow finally shone up at him. He didn't speak nor -make a single sound as he stood looking down at the -initials and his class numeral. He didn't stir—just -looked until the silence grew uncomfortable. Suddenly -he sat down in his desk-chair, leaned forward, -picked up Alec's picture and began looking at that in -the same awfully still, quiet way. I couldn't bear -it a minute longer. The tensity was something like -a shrill, long-drawn-out note on a violin. I can't explain -it, but it made me want to scream.</p> - -<p>Suddenly I burst out upon him.</p> - -<p>"Well," I exclaimed, "do you like it?"</p> - -<p>He wheeled about, as if he'd heard a shot.</p> - -<p>"Lucy!" he said, "Where did you—?"</p> - -<p>"In the closet," I interrupted, "watching."</p> - -<p>He still had the picture in his hands. He glanced -at it, then laid it down, and for the first time in my -life I saw the dark colour come into Dr. Maynard's -face. He came over to me.</p> - -<p>"Did you make it?" he asked me quietly.</p> - -<p>"Every stitch for you!" I said, laughing.</p> - -<p>He didn't answer at first. He just kept looking at -me, with that queer, new look of his. He didn't -joke. His eyes didn't twinkle with fun. When he -spoke his voice trembled. He took one of my hands<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p135" id="Page_p135">[135]</a></span> -very kindly and gently in both of his cold ones.</p> - -<p>"You have made my Christmas the very happiest -one in my life, Lucy," he said solemnly.</p> - -<p>I glanced up surprised. I wish I could write down -how his eyes looked. I can't. I only know I was -suddenly afraid. I drew my hand away and laughed, -for no reason. I was actually embarrassed before -Dr. Maynard!</p> - -<p>"I guess I must go," I said nervously. The sun -had set and the glow had all gone out of the room.</p> - -<p>Dr. Maynard didn't answer me. He just stood -there like a stone man. Oh, I think that silences are -the most awfully eloquent things in the world!</p> - -<p>"It's getting dark," I added desperately.</p> - -<p>Without a word Dr. Maynard went to the library -door and opened it. I followed. Then to the front -door and opened that. He stood holding it back, still -not speaking (but I could feel his gaze burning into -me) and I sped past him out into the dusk, like a wild -bird out of a cage.</p> - -<p>I don't know how I got home. I half ran, half -stumbled along the frozen road. My heart was -thumping, and though I wasn't a bit cold (my cheeks -fairly burned) my teeth chattered as if I were chilled -through. When I reached the house there was a -funny, choking feeling in my throat, and I dashed up -to my room and locked myself in.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>All this last took place not eight hours ago and it -is very late Christmas night.</p> - -<p>When I write down what has happened it seems -absurd to be excited. But when I think of it—when -I close my eyes, see his gaze, hear his voice, I can't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p136" id="Page_p136">[136]</a></span> -sleep. So I have climbed up into my cupola. I have -been sitting looking up at the stars. They are very -bright to-night. There are millions shining.</p> - -<p>I can see most all the houses in Hilton from my -eyrie. They are dark now. It is after twelve. But -there are two windows aglow. I can see them shining, -side by side like eyes, through the bare limbs of -our apple orchard. They are western windows, in -a white house, and eight hours ago the setting sun -shone into them, upon Dr. Maynard in his riding -clothes. I wonder what he is doing so late.</p> - -<p>It's a lovely night—cold, clear and so still. I'd -like to walk twenty miles before morning. I'd like to -fly a thousand.</p> - -<p>O Father, I don't know why it is—it doesn't -seem right, for the awful shadow is still over our -house and Alec hasn't smiled all day—but this—oh, -this is <i>my</i> happiest Christmas too!</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p137" id="Page_p137">[137]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">ON a certain night in April I was in the sitting-room -trying to keep awake until Alec came -home. His train was not due until midnight. I was -awfully anxious to wait up for him, but at ten o'clock -I was so sleepy that I couldn't keep my eyes open -another minute. So I went to Father's roll-top desk -and scribbled this on a piece of paper: "<i>Dear Alec—Be -sure and stop at my room when you come in. -Bobbie</i>," and fastened it with a wire hairpin on the -light that I left burning.</p> - -<p>Alec and I were on friendly terms again, and the -whole world was smiling for me. I didn't care if the -"For Sale" was still hitting me in the face every -time I entered the yard, since Alec had put me back -in charge of the Household Account. I might have -known my cheque-book wouldn't have lied for me. -Alec didn't get around to look into my bookkeeping -until about the first of January, and then he was so -delighted to discover that I hadn't failed in my trust, -after all, that he couldn't reinstate me quickly -enough. It was so good to be friends again, -such a relief to have his faith in me restored and -made whole, that I guess he didn't want to risk urging -me to explain what I really wanted the seventy-five -dollars for. "I know you'll explain all about it, -sometime," he said. And I replied, "Sometime, -Alec." That was the way our quarrel ended. The -next morning I walked to the factory with my brother;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p138" id="Page_p138">[138]</a></span> -the next evening I sat with him by the drop-light and -when he went to bed I carried to his room some hot -milk and crackers so that he would sleep. Since then -we have been nearer to each other than ever before.</p> - -<p>There is something beautiful about our relations. -I'd die for Alec. I don't believe there ever has been -a brother and sister more congenial than Alec and I. -I know just how to please him, and he knows better -than any one in this world how to manage me. -There isn't a prouder girl alive than I, when Alec -confides his business affairs to me. I do not understand -them very well. Companies and Coöperations, -Preferred and Common Stock, Bonds and Bank-notes -are all a perfect jumble in my mind. But I've learned -long ago, that nothing will shut a man up more quickly -than a comment on a girl's part that shows him how -ignorant she is. So now I keep still; listen as hard -and closely as I can; sympathise with my whole heart -when Alec is worried, and rejoice with him when he -announces that some Boston bank or other has lent -him twenty-five thousand dollars, although I <i>am</i> -frightened to death of borrowing. I never give my -brother a chance to scoff at a girl's comprehension of -business transactions. The result is, he talks to me -by the hour, and thinks I understand a great deal -more than I do.</p> - -<p>Ever since last Christmas Alec has been running -down to New York about every two weeks. There -was a big order that he was trying to secure, besides -some sort of an arrangement he wanted to work up -with some rich men down there to increase the capital -stock of the business, I think he said. I have an -idea, though I never asked, that if he could have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p139" id="Page_p139">[139]</a></span> -worked that arrangement it would have saved the -business from peril of failing. Alec used to stay in -New York about three days usually, and always came -home a little more worried, anxious, and discouraged -than when he started.</p> - -<p>This time he had been away almost two weeks. -I had had only one short note from him written the -day after he left home. Since then I had not heard -from him until his telegram had arrived announcing -he would reach Hilton on the midnight from New -York.</p> - -<p>It was a cold blustering night for April, and before -I went to bed myself, I went up into Alec's third-floor -room, turned on the heat, filled a hot-water bag -and stuck it down between the cold sheets of his bed.</p> - -<p>I must have been sleeping very soundly when Alec -stole into my room at twelve-thirty. I didn't know -he was in the house, until I felt his hand on my -shoulder and his gentle, "Hello, Bobbie!" I woke -up with a glad start and found him sitting on the side -of my bed. "My, what a sleeper!" he said and -leaned down and kissed my forehead.</p> - -<p>I knew from the first whiff that Alec must have -been sitting in the smoking-car (he doesn't smoke himself) -and I drew in a fine, long breath before I spoke.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Alec," I exclaimed, "how beautifully New -Yorky you smell!"</p> - -<p>"Do I, funny Bobbikins?" he laughed at me, and -at the sound of that name which Alec had not called -me by for six months, a thrill of new courage ran -through me.</p> - -<p>I sat up.</p> - -<p>"Alec," I said, "you've brought good news. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p140" id="Page_p140">[140]</a></span> -<i>know</i> it! I <i>know</i> it! I knew we couldn't fail. I've -felt it all along. I knew Father's dear old business -wouldn't go back on us. I had a feeling that <i>this</i> -trip to New York would be a lucky one."</p> - -<p>"I've been farther than New York, Bobbie. I've -been to Pinehurst, North Carolina," Alec announced.</p> - -<p>"To Pinehurst! Mercy! Whatever in the world—do -tell me <i>every</i> word. I'm simply crazy to hear -all about it."</p> - -<p>"Well—" he began. "Say, Bobbikins," he broke -off, "would you be very much surprised to know that -it is—all right between Edith and me?"</p> - -<p>Alec might as well have struck off on a tangent -about George Washington or Joan of Arc.</p> - -<p>"Edith?" I gasped.</p> - -<p>"Yes," went on Alec gently; "Edith Campbell. -Of course you've known I've cared for no one else for -the last ten years. The business and our large family -have always made it seem rather hopeless. But when -I was in New York I had a common little picture -post-card from Edith, who was at Pinehurst, and -your disgraceful old brother here dropped everything -and went down there. I was there for six whole -days, and she and her family and I all came home -together to-night after two rather nice days in New -York. She's actually got a ring in a little blue velvet -box which she's going to wear for me a little later, -Bobbie." He tried to say it lightly but his whole -voice was exulting. "You see, I had to come in and -tell my partner, didn't I? She would have to know -first of all about such a great piece of news."</p> - -<p>He stopped and I sat perfectly silent, stunned for -an instant, not knowing quite what had struck me and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p141" id="Page_p141">[141]</a></span> -knocked me down with my breath all gone. Alec -waited and I tried to jump up, as it were, and speak, -so he would know I wasn't dead.</p> - -<p>"Why, Alec Vars!" I managed to gasp, and then -the horror of his news flashed over me. The man I -loved best in the whole world had just told me that he -was engaged to be married to a girl whom I abhorred! -I wanted to scream; I wanted to bury my face in my -pillow and cry; I wanted to say, "Oh, go away, go -away, Alexander Vars. Leave me alone. I want to -die." But instead I remarked quite calmly, "You engaged? -To Edith Campbell? My goodness, but I'm -surprised." And then warned by the choke in my -voice, I switched off into something commonplace. -"Say, would you mind," I said jovially enough, "just -removing your hundred and seventy-five pounds off -my left foot there? You're crushing the bones in it."</p> - -<p>Alec leaned forward and kissed me hard.</p> - -<p>"You little brick of a Bobbie! I knew you'd take -it like a soldier."</p> - -<p>I gulped down a disgusting sob.</p> - -<p>"But wasn't I the goose," I hurried like mad to -say, for I was afraid I'd break down and bawl like a -baby before his very eyes, "wasn't I the little goose -to think it was the business that made you so happy?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, the business," Alec announced, "is bound to -succeed <i>now</i>."</p> - -<p>"Sure," I broke in hastily, "just bound to. It's -awfully nice, all around, isn't it? And I—" I -floundered on, "I am just—just <i>pleased</i>!"</p> - -<p>The hall clock struck one. I grasped the blessed -sound like a sinking man.</p> - -<p>"Is that twelve-thirty, one, or one-thirty? I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p142" id="Page_p142">[142]</a></span> -haven't the ghost of an idea," I said lightly. Then -desperately, at the breaking point, I gasped, "Is it -cold out?"</p> - -<p>Alec patted my hand.</p> - -<p>"Brave girl! I understand. But don't you worry. -Everything will work out all right. Now I'll say -good-night."</p> - -<p>I think Alec must have seen I couldn't hold in much -longer. I was, in fact, using every atom of strength -that I possessed to fight that pushing, shoving, tumbling -crowd of lumps and sobs in my throat. Just -as Alec was closing my door I managed to call after -him, so that he might know that I wasn't crying, "Be -sure and turn out the lights."</p> - -<p>"All right, General-manager."</p> - -<p>"And say," I added, "you know I think it's perfectly -fine."</p> - -<p>"Surely! Good-night."</p> - -<p>Then my door closed, and I sank down on my pillow, -opened the gates wide, and let the torrent of sobs -rush through.</p> - -<p>Can any one realise the torture of my mind during -the long dark hours of that night? I hardly can -realise it now, myself. The fact, "<span class="smcap">ALEC IS ENGAGED -TO EDITH CAMPBELL!</span>" glared at me horribly -as if it were printed in enormous white letters -on a black ground, like a big sign on a factory, -and I stared and stared, hypnotised, beyond power of -thought. I was so stunned and overcome by the fact -itself that at first I was unable to comprehend -what it would mean to me. I hated Edith -Campbell. All my life I had hated her. She had -always treated Alec like the dirt under her feet—for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p143" id="Page_p143">[143]</a></span>ever -flaunting Palm Beach and Poland Springs in -his face and eyes, parading to church every other Sunday -with smart stylish-looking men and planting them -down in the pew two rows in front of ours to show -them off.</p> - -<p>Of course I had guessed that Alec had liked -Edith Campbell. As long ago as I can remember -he used to call on her when she came home from -her fashionable New York boarding-school. Alec invited -her to be his special guest, at his Class-Day, -when he graduated from college. But she elected to -go with somebody else, and pranced down there with -a millionaire's son. Poor Alec didn't invite any other -girl. I was in knee skirts then, but I was old enough -to hate her for it. Not that I wanted such a creature -to be nice to Alec. I didn't. I knew my brother was -miles too good for her, but I couldn't bear to have -such a flashy, worldly, inferior girl show scorn toward -a prince. I never understood why Alec had -admired her. She's absolutely opposite from my -brother in every possible way. She has the most -confident, cock-surest manner I ever witnessed. Her -clothes are dreadfully flashy and her father is a mere -upstart who squeezes money out of everybody he -knows. Hilton used to criticise Edith Campbell before -it commenced bowing and scraping to her. -When she came home from boarding-school, she let -it be known that her intimate friends lived outside of -Hilton. She advertised that she visited at some of -the big places in the Berkshires. She merely tolerated -Hilton and its people.</p> - -<p>Oh, I hate her! I never saw why men ran after her -so frantically. It used to make me absolutely sick<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p144" id="Page_p144">[144]</a></span> -when the younger girls in Hilton got the Edith Campbell -craze. They used to try to copy everything she -wore. But <i>I</i> didn't. I wouldn't as much as turn my -head to look at her. I was delighted when Alec -stopped going to see her. I had thought, when Alec -announced his engagement to me, that that little romance -of his had been dead and buried for five years. -It hadn't even worried me.</p> - -<p>When I awoke the morning after Alec told me his -astonishing news, and saw the sun shining in a square -on the wall opposite me, I lay very still for a moment. -"You've had a horrible dream," I said. -"Alec didn't come home last night. Just a minute, -and things will get themselves fixed." I sat up, but -the dream didn't fade. There was the tell-tale towel -with which I had bathed my eyes; there the glass of -water; there the dissipated-looking candle burned -down to its very last; here the confused tossed bed-clothes, -and when I staggered to the mirror, there -were my swollen red eyes and awful tangled hair. I -dressed slowly, with a very heavy heart, and unable -to cry any more, smiled at myself once or twice in the -glass out of grim spite.</p> - -<p>I had not gone to sleep until it had begun to grow -light. I remembered now. And it was nine o'clock -when I went downstairs for an attempt at breakfast. -Ruth was devouring eggs when I went into the dining-room. -I had thought she would be at school, but I -had forgotten that it was Saturday. Alec had already -gone to the factory. His eggy plate and half-filled -coffee-cup stood at his deserted place.</p> - -<p>"My, but you're late," said Ruth, emptying the -cream-pitcher into her coffee. "Say, isn't it corking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p145" id="Page_p145">[145]</a></span> -about Alec? We've been sitting here hours talking -about it. I think it's simply dandy. Just imagine—Edith -Campbell!"</p> - -<p>I became very busy fixing my cuff-link, for I was -ashamed of my swollen eyes; but Ruth was sure to -see them. She glanced up.</p> - -<p>"I might have known you'd take it like that," she -broke out, though I hadn't said a word; "always acting -like a thunder-cloud, and throwing wet blankets -on everything. Now why in the world shouldn't Alec -get married?"</p> - -<p>"I didn't say he shouldn't," I murmured.</p> - -<p>"Well," went on Ruth, "Edith Campbell is <i>great</i>. -I can't get over the fact, that with all the men she's -known, she likes Alec better than any of them. She's -dreadfully popular. I'll bet she's had a dozen proposals. -Oh, I think Al's done awfully well. The -Campbells have piles of money. I know her younger -sister Millicent, and their house beats anything I ever -saw. You ought to see it. And besides, Edith Campbell -is the best-looking thing! She's stunning on a -horse."</p> - -<p>Ruth always antagonises me when she talks about -people she admires.</p> - -<p>"<i>I</i> think," I said in a low voice, "that Edith Campbell -is common and loud and vulgar."</p> - -<p>"Oh, nonsense!" retorted Ruth. "I'm simply -wild about the whole thing. The Campbells are going -to do this tumbledown old ark all over, for a wedding -present, and Al says her father is going to insist on -Edith's bringing her horses with her. I don't call -that common or vulgar. I call it generous!"</p> - -<p>"Is she going to live here?" I gasped.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p146" id="Page_p146">[146]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Of course she is. Where else? And Alec says -that you and I will each have a perfectly lovely room, -and divide our time between here and Tom's. I tell -you what, I'm glad for one, that we won't have to -live like pigs any more. Edith Campbell is used to -piles of servants!"</p> - -<p>I don't know why Ruth's words made me so terribly -angry.</p> - -<p>"Ruth Chenery Vars," I said, "I hate Edith Campbell, -and I'll never live under the same roof with her. -I never will. Do you hear me? I never will!"</p> - -<p>Ruth glanced up and met my fiery eyes.</p> - -<p>"Mercy," she said, simply disgusted, "why get so -everlasting mad?"</p> - -<p>I shoved back my chair and left the table quietly, -hurried up the stairs straight to my disheveled room, -and locked the door tight. My mind was clear now -all right; I could comprehend the meaning of the -awful black and white sign <i>now</i>, without any difficulty. -I was no goose not to know perfectly well that Alec's -engagement meant that Miss Lucy Vars would be requested -to hand in her resignation as General-manager, -Keeper-of-the-Household-Account, Bosser-of-the-meals, -Mother-of-the-family, and oh, too, Partner-of-Alec. -Why, I had poured the coffee at our table -ever since the day Father had put me there in Mother's -empty chair. I had always sat there, pushed the bell, -and told the maid to take off the plates for dessert. -My place had always been opposite Father, and after -he had gone, Alec had sat there. Ever since, he and -I had held the reins together. There wasn't a chair -nor a rug, nor a table in the house that I hadn't put in -position. There wasn't a pound of sugar, nor a half-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p147" id="Page_p147">[147]</a></span>dozen -oranges in the pantry that I had not ordered. -For five years there hadn't been a servant engaged by -any one but me. Now, suddenly, all such an arrangement -was to be at an end. Ruth was delighted; Alec -was supremely happy; the twins, who worship anything -that means more cash, would be transported with joy. -Everybody, in fact, would delight in a change in administration—everybody -but the poor old dethroned -ruler, who was locked in her desolate room trying to -find consolation in vigorously making her bed.</p> - -<p>When Alec came home at noon I saw him scanning -my impassive face, for I had not been crying since the -night before, and the trace of tears was gone. After -our regular Saturday boiled dinner he asked me to -come into the sitting-room. He closed the doors carefully -and sat down beside me on the couch. I wished -he wouldn't take my hand for it was chapped and red, -and of course he had held hers, for which he had -bought the beautiful ring in the little blue velvet box, -and hers would be soft and white. I drew mine away. -Alec talked to me gently and told me about the arrangements. -I heard him say with a dull shock, that -they would be married in the early fall. I remember -wondering how they had decided such details in the -course of ten days. I soon discovered that they had -managed to go over the whole ground. There seemed -to be no question undecided, no points untouched. -Ruth, he said, would start in at boarding-school in -the fall; the twins of course would continue at college -and their vacations would, as usual, be spent at home. -He repeated what I already very well knew that after -the twins graduated they would probably go out West -and start into one of Tom's lumber camps.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p148" id="Page_p148">[148]</a></span></p> - -<p>"So there'll just be me left," I hurried to say, kind -of to help him out.</p> - -<p>"And, of course, <i>you'll</i> live right along here with -us," he said, "except, once in a while, when Tom and -Elise want you there with them."</p> - -<p>"I'm worse to dispose of than a mother-in-law," I -half laughed, sorry in a moment that I had spoken so, -for Alec looked hurt, and exclaimed, "Oh, Bobbie -dear!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I'll try, Alec, I really will," I reassured him, -for Alec always brings out the best in me.</p> - -<p>"And go and see Edith very soon?" he said, following -me up cruelly. "She'll be expecting you."</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes, I'll try," I murmured, biting my trembling -under lip.</p> - -<p>"Good girl! I knew I could count on you. You'll -like Edith," he said. "And she wants to be awfully -kind to you and Ruth. I know you'll try and make -it easy for her, Bobbie," he added, and left me as -cheerfully as a summer's breeze.</p> - -<p>Late that afternoon, about five I think, I started out -for a walk in Buxton's woods, a quarter of a mile -back of our house. I hadn't been gone very long -when I heard a step behind me, and turning around I -saw, mounted on her stunning black Kentucky thoroughbred, -Edith Campbell, coming toward me. I -wanted to run away, to hide perhaps behind a tree -and let her pass, but I couldn't for she had caught -sight of me.</p> - -<p>"Hold on," she called. "Wait a minute," and she -drew up beside me. "Hello, Lucy," she said in her -familiar, breezy way. "Now isn't this luck?" Her -dark, crisp hair was neat and firm beneath the little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p149" id="Page_p149">[149]</a></span> -black derby—an affectation in dress that no one wears -riding in Hilton except Edith Campbell. She didn't -have them on to-day, but usually she wears long green -drop-earrings, screwed on, I think—too New Yorky -for anything. "Wait a jiffy," she laughed, "and I'll -walk along with you. Pierre here, can mosey along -behind." She sprang down from her saddle like a -sporty horse-woman, came up and thrust out a gauntlet-gloved -hand to me. She gave me a Hercules grip. -"Has Al told you?" she asked, plunging straight -ahead, with no delicacy.</p> - -<p>"Yes, he has," I stammered, "and—I congratulate -you both," I finished desperately.</p> - -<p>It did sound stiff and formal and schoolgirlish, but -I was angry with Edith Campbell when she laughed -at me and exclaimed, "You funny old-fashioned -child!"</p> - -<p>She arranged one pair of reins over her horse's -neck and used the other pair for a lead, slipping her -arm through the loop.</p> - -<p>"Come on now, let's walk," she said and put her -free arm through mine, a familiarity from the wonderful -Edith Campbell for which even sensible Juliet -would envy me. <i>I</i> wanted to edge away from her. -"Alec," she went on, "thinks the world and all of -you, Bobbie," (as if she had to inform me!) "and I -want you to know right off, you won't be losing a -brother, simply gaining a sister." (Usual, meaningless -words! As if Ruth wasn't more than enough -anyhow.) "And another thing," she ploughed ahead, -"there will always be a room in our house for Bobbie. -One of the things I told Alec was that he must look -out for his sisters."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p150" id="Page_p150">[150]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Alec would do that anyway," I said.</p> - -<p>"Of course. Nice old Al! He's as good as gold."</p> - -<p>I couldn't bear her patronising manner. She has -always treated Alec like that, just because she had -money and he had nothing but goodness. I turned -to her seriously.</p> - -<p>"Miss Campbell," I asked, "how did you come to -want to marry Alec?"</p> - -<p>"You amusing chicken!" she laughed, then pinching -me disgustingly on the arm, she added in a sly -way, "You wait, you'll know when the right one -comes."</p> - -<p>I flushed but held my peace.</p> - -<p>"I was only wondering," I said. "Alec has so -little money, and you—I mean our business—our -success is so uncertain."</p> - -<p>"Alec is bound to succeed <i>now</i>," she replied in her -cock-sure way. "I told Al there was no such word in -my vocabulary as failure. Besides <i>Father</i> is going to -look into the business, and Father never touched a -thing that wasn't successful."</p> - -<p>"Your father!" I gasped with the colour again in -my face. Her father used to collect junk-iron. -"Our business!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, come, come. Just like Al at first. This Vars -pride! Don't you see, my dear, that, independent of -weddings, a man can put a little life into a dead business -if he wants to?"</p> - -<p>"My father's business isn't dead," I exclaimed, -now filled with indignation.</p> - -<p>"Oh, come, Bobbikins!"</p> - -<p>"Don't call me that, please," I said and drew away -my arm.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p151" id="Page_p151">[151]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Tut, tut! Come now! You and I are going to -be friends." She treated me as if I were aged five. -"You know," she went on, "when I come, I think -there'll be an extra saddle horse, in one of the stalls -in your stable." She used that mysterious tone you -do to children when talking about Santa Claus. "I -think if you will look very hard you will find your -initials on him somewhere, Bobbie."</p> - -<p>"I wouldn't touch it, Miss Campbell. I wouldn't -touch one hair of the horse; and please call me Lucy."</p> - -<p>We were breaking out of the narrow wood-path, -and coming to a travelled road. We walked in silence -till we reached the highway. It was almost dark. -Suddenly Edith Campbell spoke.</p> - -<p>"I must be hustling homeward," she said glibly, -and as if nothing unpleasant had occurred between us -she asked, "Lend me your hand, will you, Bobbie, -please?"</p> - -<p>I helped her mount, in silence.</p> - -<p>"That's the way," she said. "Thanks. Now look -here, poor little childie," she broke off, looking down -at me like a queen from her saddle, "whenever you're -ready to be friends, remember, so am I. All right, -Pierre!" and she cantered off in the dusk.</p> - -<p>I stood quite still for a moment, and then right to -that lonely, empty road, I said out loud, "I can't live -with her. I can't—I can't! Dear Alec, I tried. -Dear Father and Tom and Elise, I tried, but I can't, -I can't!" And all the dark way home, all the long -night through, I ran over and over the words like a -squirrel in a revolving cage.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p152" id="Page_p152">[152]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">FOR three days and nights I wandered over the -ruins of my life, back and forth, helpless, almost -driven mad by the horror of it; and then at last Dr. -Maynard came. I had not realised that he had been -out of town. I had been so stunned by Alec's announcement -that I had not missed him. He had been -down to Baltimore for three days attending some sort -of a medical conference and I had not known that he -had been outside of Hilton.</p> - -<p>Dr. Maynard and I were as good friends as ever -now. Three whole months had passed since that -Christmas Day when he discovered my sofa-pillow -on his desk, and I had come to the conclusion that he -had been merely surprised into his queer behaviour -that day. He had never shown a scrap of the same -emotion since. I remember the very next time I saw -him he had dropped that newly acquired gravity of -his. Somehow I had been disappointed. When he -referred to my pillow in his old natural, jovial way, -I had been hurt. "I tell you what," he had said, "I -feel like an undergraduate again. Nice girl like Lucy -Vars making me a pillow for my room! Won't you -come to my Class-Day?" he had laughed. It was I -who had flushed then. I managed to throw back -some sort of a careless rejoinder, but I tell you, I -didn't waste any more madly happy moments on Dr. -Maynard. Grey-haired old bachelor! He was old -enough to be my uncle anyhow! We had resumed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p153" id="Page_p153">[153]</a></span> -our automobile rides just as naturally as if he'd never -acted queerly at all. We took up our jolly repartee, -returned to our old plane of good-comradeship, exactly -as if I had never seen him gaze at my picture, -and heard his voice tremble when he told me I had -made his Christmas the very happiest in his life. <i>I</i> -didn't care. I was glad of it. I had never wanted -Dr. Maynard for a lover! But I wanted him for a -friend.</p> - -<p>I don't believe I quite appreciated how much I -wanted him, until he came back from Baltimore and -discovered me wandering about my ruins like a maniac. -When I found myself bundled up in Father's -old ulster, again beside him in his automobile, flashing -through the cool night air, a great wave of relief ran -over me. Dr. Maynard has seen me through so much -trouble, brought me safely over so many difficulties, -that it was a comfort just to sit beside him in silence. -When we had reached a good clear stretch of road, he -settled down comfortably behind the wheel.</p> - -<p>"Now go ahead," he said heartily; "the whole -story, please," and I knew that Alec had broken his -news to him.</p> - -<p>"Well," I started in, "since you've been gone, -there's been a dreadful earthquake around here." -(Dr. Maynard and I adore to talk in similes.) "My -house has been smashed up, and I'm a pitiful refugee. -I am cold and hungry and without a home."</p> - -<p>"I've come with supplies," laughed Dr. Maynard, -taking it up delightfully. "I'm a little late, but I've -brought bread and meat and a tent, and want you to -crawl in and warm up."</p> - -<p>"I can't live with her, Dr. Maynard. I can't!" I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p154" id="Page_p154">[154]</a></span> -broke out, too heart-sick to play with similes any -more. "I hate her and I can't help it. She's taken -Alec away, she's pushed herself into my dear father's -business, and there's no place for me, as I can see, -anywhere."</p> - -<p>"Tell me all about it," said Dr. Maynard, and I -related every single word of my whole pitiful story, -growing sorrier and sorrier for myself as I went along, -and finally at the end breaking down completely, repeating -my old time-worn phrase, "I can't live with -her. I can't, can't!" I covered my face with both -hands. There were tears trickling down my cheeks.</p> - -<p>Without a word of advice or comfort, Dr. Maynard -shut off the power and brought the car to a standstill -by the side of the bleak country road. He took hold -of my hands and gently drew them away from my -face down into my lap. Then in a low voice with the -play and banter all gone out of it he said, "Could you -live with <i>me</i>, Lucy?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes," I replied quickly enough, "fifty times -easier!"</p> - -<p>Perhaps he smiled, for he added half laughing and -yet gravely, too, "I would like to have you, if you -want to."</p> - -<p>"I only wish I could," I said desperately.</p> - -<p>And then very seriously and very solemnly he told -me his story. I can't say that I was exactly surprised. -I had half guessed it for the last two years; -but then I had half guessed a lot of preposterous -things that never came true. "I talked with Alec -last night," I heard Dr. Maynard telling me gently, -"and if you would like—that is if you want to come -with me, Lucy, your brother would be glad to have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p155" id="Page_p155">[155]</a></span> -you, I am certain. This isn't the only talk Alec and -I have had about you. I wanted to speak to you about -this last fall, but Al thought it better to wait. -And I wanted to speak again after—the sofa-pillow, -and again Al couldn't quite make up his mind that -you had grown up, and wanted me to wait again. So -I did. You see," he smiled, "it isn't a <i>new</i> idea with -me."</p> - -<p>I listened calmly as Dr. Maynard went on talking -in his quiet, unexcited manner. I didn't interrupt his -long, well-planned speech. I simply sat dumb with my -hands clasped tightly in my lap. I don't remember -that I felt a single sensation during the entire explanation -except at the end a kind of shock as I thought -to myself: "So after all it's going to be just Dr. -Maynard!" For when he had finally finished, I said -evenly, with the moon standing there like a clergyman -before us, and all the watching stars like witnesses behind, -"I will come, Dr. Maynard," and I added, -"and I think you are the very kindest man I know." -For you see he had offered me his home, his protection, -and his love, he said, for all my life.</p> - -<p>There was something awfully silent and ominous -about the gentle still way he turned the machine -around and started for home. It was entirely different -from what I had guessed might take place. In the -dreams that I had woven I had never accepted Dr. -Maynard. I had been grateful for his devotion, honoured -by his proposal, deeply sorry for his disappointment, -but like the girl in an old play called "Rosemary," -my heart belonged to one who possessed youth -and passion. In those absurd imaginings of mine I -used to frame letters which I should write to Juliet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p156" id="Page_p156">[156]</a></span> -Adams about poor Will Maynard. I used to plan -just how I should break the news to my brother Alec. -But now—Oh, now, I couldn't write Juliet at all; I -couldn't tell Alec; I couldn't tell any one about my first -proposal. I had accepted it in the first half-hour. -There was nothing thrilling about it. I sat like a -stone image beside Dr. Maynard. I couldn't speak.</p> - -<p>"It took you an awfully long while to grow up," -he said at last, half laughing. "I've actually grown -grey waiting for you. Alec said to me the first time, -'Wait till she's nineteen,' and then, 'Good heavens, -Will, she's nothing but a child yet. Wait till she's -twenty,' and so on, and so on. Awful hindrance, because -for the last two years I've been wanting to do -some important research work in Germany. But I -couldn't leave you to the wolves. How did I know -but that some good-looking young chap would come -along and snatch you up? But now, we'll go to Germany -together, and, Lucy," he said, "Lucy—" but -I didn't want Dr. Maynard to grow serious. I think -he must have seen me kind of cringe away for he -broke off lightly enough, "and perhaps some fine day -the refugee and I will be seeing Paris together."</p> - -<p>I stole into the house that night very quietly, crept -up to my room and closed the door without a sound. -I wanted to be alone. I was suddenly filled with a -kind of panic-stricken wonder, for there had been -actual tears in Dr. Maynard's eyes when he took my -hand at the door (I hadn't known how to say good-night -to him), a tremble in his voice that awed and -frightened me. He acted very much as he had about -my Christmas present. It had made me happy then, -but, you see <i>then</i> I hadn't just promised to marry<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p157" id="Page_p157">[157]</a></span> -him. Oh, I hated having him look so serious and -solemn about it, and now as I stood a moment with -my back against my closed door, my hat and coat still -on, I pressed my two cool hands against my burning -cheeks and tried to comprehend a little of what it all -meant. Suddenly I crossed the room, pulled on the -gas by my bureau, leaned forward and gazed grimly at -my familiar old face in the glass before me. So this -was what was to become of Lucy Chenery Vars, I -thought calmly; this was her story; this was her end; -and oh, to think that all the beautiful unknown future -of the person in the glass before me was wiped out -and decided in one fell swoop, made me want to throw -my arms about her image and kiss her for pity. I -turned away.</p> - -<p>Of course I liked Dr. Maynard—I had always -liked him. And his big, empty, white-pillared house -was in the very town, on the very street of my dear -beloved home. There was a place for me there. -Alec had given Dr. Maynard to understand that there -would be no objection from him. Probably it seemed -to Alec a good way to dispose of me. Oh, there was -everything in favour of the arrangement. I had always -longed to go to Europe. Germany and Paris -were sparkling ahead, and here—<i>here</i> nothing but -the nightmare of Edith Campbell everywhere I turned. -I drew a long breath—there was no other course for -me to follow—looked once more sadly into the glass, -pulled down my curtain and began to get ready for -bed.</p> - -<p>I never shall forget that night. I don't believe I -slept at all. I don't know what time it was when I -got up and, lighting my candle, sat down at my desk,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p158" id="Page_p158">[158]</a></span> -shivering in my long white nightgown. I just sat -and sat; and gazed and gazed; and thought and -thought; and dropped, I remember, little drops of -melted wax along my bare arm, as I turned over my -problem in my mind. "If only I didn't actually have -to marry him!" I said out loud and turned and sank -again into troubled silence. I got up once and carried -the candle close to the cold, glass-covered picture of -my mother that hung over my bed. Why did she -have to die so long ago? What would she say—she -who was to have been my best friend—what would -she say if she could turn that clear-cut profile around -and let me look into her eyes? I didn't know. I -hadn't been old enough to remember even her smile. -Shouldn't a girl be glad on the night of her betrothal? -Shouldn't there be ardent looks, passionate words, -tender caresses for her to live through again in -thought? Shouldn't she long for the sight of the -man whom she had promised to marry? "What -shall I do, Father?" I said out loud. "What shall -I do?" But only my clock answered me with its -steady, unintelligible tick. No one could help me—no -one in the wide world. I asked them, and they -couldn't. Even Edith Campbell had said, "you'll -know"; but oh, I didn't, I didn't.</p> - -<p>So that is why, near morning, I got up again, went -to my desk, opened a little secret drawer, and took -out a picture. The picture was the one I had bought -in New York after I had seen Robert Dwinnell at -the theatre in the afternoon. Of course it is silly and -very absurd for a girl of my years to treasure a picture -of an actor in a secret drawer in her desk. I can't -help it. That picture had been my ideal for almost<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p159" id="Page_p159">[159]</a></span> -five years now. It wasn't the actor that I liked so -much (for of course I have been told that actors aren't -nice); it wasn't Robert Dwinnell himself I admired. -It was simply the jolly look in his eyes and the way -he had—I remembered it so well—of striding across -the stage, sitting carelessly on the edge of a table and -swinging one foot. It had just about torn the heart -out of me to watch that man make love. He had a -kind of lingering way with his hands, and with his eyes -too, every time the heroine was in his presence. Even -before he had proposed to her, I knew he adored her -and afterward—oh, really I think Robert Dwinnell -must have loved that actress off the stage as well as on. -Dr. Maynard's hands had never lingered about my -shoulders when he helped me on with a coat; he had -never gazed at me eloquently across a crowded room; -and even after I had promised to marry him he hadn't -crushed me to him in any mad wave of joy. I gazed -for a whole half-minute at Robert Dwinnell's picture. -I forgot all my problems for a little while—I forgot -everything in the memory of that man's image. Call -it absurd if you want to, ridiculous and impossible, -but when I raised my eyes at last and rose, clear as the -day that was just breaking, bright as a new-born vision, -I knew—I <i>knew</i> I couldn't marry just everyday, -kind Dr. Maynard. It was just as if Robert Dwinnell -had gotten up from out of that picture, walked -over to me, taken my hand and said, "You must wait -for some one like me." And I looked up and knew -that I must. It was like a miracle, and I shall never -forget the sudden trembling assurance in my heart, as -I found my way to my desk and in the light of that -lovely new morning, drew out a sheet of paper and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p160" id="Page_p160">[160]</a></span> -wrote to Edith Campbell and told her I was ready to -be friends. For suddenly, brought face to face with -the thrilling image of the man of my dreams, I was -ready to live with twenty Edith Campbells. Of -course, <i>of course</i>, I couldn't marry Dr. Maynard, and -with a little pang of regret or something like it in -my heart, I finally wrote him this note:</p> - -<blockquote> -<p> -"<i>Dear Dr. Maynard</i>, -</p> - -<p>The refugee has thought it all over very carefully and -has decided to gather the pieces of her house together -and rebuild on the same spot, like San Francisco."</p></blockquote> - -<p>Then I added, dropping all play and with something -I knew to be pain:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"I can't do it, Dr. Maynard, I've tried and I can't. -But you'll always be the very kindest man I know.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -"<span class="smcap">Lucy Chenery Vars.</span>" -</p></blockquote> - -<p>"<i>Now</i> if you don't come!" I said to the picture, and -leaned forward and buried my head in my arms.</p> - -<p>So that is how it happened that Dr. Maynard went -away to Germany alone and I remained at home to -fight my battle. It was a dull, grey morning that he -sailed, some three weeks after that wakeful night of -mine, and I was sitting alone in my room at precisely -eleven o'clock—the sailing hour—trying to imagine -Dr. Maynard down there in New York on the big, -white-decked liner, waving good-bye in his Oxford -grey overcoat.</p> - -<p>I was wondering if the nicest, cheerfullest steamer -letter I could write had reached him when suddenly -Mary, the general-housework girl, pushed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p161" id="Page_p161">[161]</a></span> -open my door and shoved in a long white box that had -come by express. I opened it wonderingly and gasped -at the big mass of fresh red roses that met my gaze. -I lifted them into my arms. It was exactly as if the -kindest man I know had thrown them to poor me -upon the shore, just at the moment that the big boat -was pulling out, and I had caught them safely in my -arms. There was a little limp card that came with -them. The stick had all come off the envelope and it -fell out on the bed like a loose rose petal. I leaned -and picked it up. The ink had begun to run a little -as if the message had been written on blotting-paper, -but I could make it out all right. The three little -words brought burning tears to my eyes.</p> - -<p>The card said: "For plucky San Francisco."</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p162" id="Page_p162">[162]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">MANY months have passed since Dr. Maynard -went to Europe. There have been two crops -of chestnuts for me to gather alone in October since -he sailed away—two dull, grey, unimportant Christmas -nights since my ridiculous happiest one. Edith -has been in command of my father's house for so long -now that all the difficult adjustments have been made, -the machinery is running without an audible squeak, -and the house itself has developed into a plant as imposing -and prosperous as a modern factory. As I -write to-day I am sitting in my elaborate new bedroom, -built on over the new porte-cochère—my old -room was cut up into two baths and a shower—and -am surrounded with rose cretonne hangings, lacy -curtains, and delicately shaded electric lights.</p> - -<p>Even the people in my life have changed so radically -that I hardly recognise them as the ones that I -once worked and cared for. Ruth has grown into -a charming young lady; the twins have graduated -from college and are earning their own way—Malcolm -in New York and Oliver in a lumber camp out -West; Tom is middle-aged; Elise, whom I visited -last winter, is becoming a little stout and her hair is -sprinkled through with grey; Alec has buried his personality -in Edith; nothing is as it was. Even Hilton -is different. The old Brooks Hotel on Main Street, -where George Washington once stopped for over<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p163" id="Page_p163">[163]</a></span> -night, has been torn down; there's a new postoffice, -a new City Hall; there's a double-tracked electric-car line -to Boston. There are two taxicabs in the town -now and a new theatre. Dr. Maynard's house looks -like a tomb. The wisteria vine is the only live thing -about it. Like hair it keeps on growing after death—winding, -coiling, across the doors and window-panes -with no hand to push it back. A young man -just graduated from medical school has taken Dr. -Maynard's practice; and as for kind, gentle Dr. -Maynard himself I begin to doubt if such a person -ever existed. When he went away he sold his automobile -to Jake Pickens, a plumber down on Blondell -Street, and to-day as I glided grandly by in Edith's -limousine I observed Mr. Pickens wheezing up Main -Street, chugging along with awful difficulty. The -poor old machine looked about ready for the junk -heap. A great wave of pity for it swept over me -that brought tears to my eyes. Oh, I wish I could -have kept right straight on with my old story. But -I suppose everything has got to change, houses and -towns and automobiles, as well as people and their -histories.</p> - -<p>I can hardly believe it was only two years ago that -I used to climb into the cupola and lock myself away -from everything below. There <i>is</i> no cupola now. -It was cut off, like an offending wart. I was surprised -to discover what a perfectly enormous thing -it was as it stood upon the lawn waiting to be carried -off. It reminded me of a horse that has fallen down -on the pavement—symmetrical enough in its proper -position, but dreadfully awkward and absolutely -colossal sprawling about on the ground. Why, it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p164" id="Page_p164">[164]</a></span> -took four horses to drag it up to old Silas Morton's. -Silas Morton is a farmer up near Sag Hill and he -bought my sacred temple for fifteen dollars. He uses -it for a hen-house! It seemed to me like sacrilege, -but the hens laid eggs in it, Mr. Morton said, as -if they were possessed. The upper part of the window-panes -in the cupola are made of yellow stained-glass, -and he thinks—Silas Morton is kind of an -inventor—that the hens have an idea it's sunshine -and that spring is coming. I tell him the cupola is -inspired. I saw a picture once of a common little -farmhouse where Mrs. Eddy wrote her book, "Science -and Health." If my book were to be published, -and some photographer took a picture of the house -in which I wrote it, I guess that old hen-coop would -win the prize for an odd spot in which to have an -inspiration.</p> - -<p>With the cupola gone and the French roof entirely -obliterated, the iron fence and the iron fountain sold -to a junk man, a spreading porte-cochère at one side -of the house, a billiard-room at the other, low -verandas like a wide brim to a hat surrounding the -entire structure, and everything painted a bright yellow -trimmed with green, you never in this world -would recognise 240 Main Street, once brown and -square and ugly. There's a new stable a quarter of -a mile back of the house; there are lawns where the -vegetable garden used to be; the old apple orchard is -now a sunken garden with a pool in the centre. As I -write I can hear the trickle of a stream of water that -spouts out of the little artificial pond, and catch the -prosperous sound of the hum of a lawn-mower run -by a motor. The name that Edith has chosen to give<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p165" id="Page_p165">[165]</a></span> -to all this grandeur is "The Homestead." It is engraved -at the head of every sheet of note-paper in -the establishment. The Homestead! You might as -well call Windsor Castle the "Bide a Wee" or the -"Dewdrop Inn" as this glaring, officious, stone-gated -palace anything that suggests plainness and sweet -homely comfort. The last time I wrote to Juliet I -drew a big black ink line through the words "The -Homestead" and wrote above "The Waldorf-Ritz-Plaza."</p> - -<p>I've tried not to interfere with the changes Edith -has made. I will confess I appealed to Alec about -the apple orchard. But it was of no use. It seemed -a shame to me, to go among that little company of -old friends—twenty or thirty bent and bowing apple-trees -grown up now side by side, touching -branches and blooming together beautifully every -spring just as if they were not far too old to bear -anything to be called a harvest. I told Alec that I -thought an apple orchard and a stone wall with -poison ivy climbing over it was the loveliest garden -for a New England homestead that any one could lay -out. Alec must have told Edith, for the next day she -asked me, in her laughing way, if I wouldn't like -chickens scratching in the front yard, and yellow -pumpkins piled on the back porch. New England -homesteads even managed, she added, to keep pigs near -enough the house so that the family could breathe the -healthy odour in the parlour. "Dear child," she said, -"of course we can't let the place be run over with poison -ivy! How funny you are!" And the apple-trees -came down. There are formal paths in the apple -orchard now, the imported shrubs are tagged with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p166" id="Page_p166">[166]</a></span> -labels, the pond is lined with cement. I simply have -to escape to the woods, every once in a while, to make -sure that nature is still having her way somewhere -in the world.</p> - -<p>You must think from this description that Edith -Campbell is something of an heiress. Now that word -to me has a kind of aristocratic sound, and so I prefer -to say in regard to the Campbells, that they have simply -oodles and oodles of money. I hate the word -"oodles," but it just fits Edith Campbell. It describes -her worldly possessions to a T. Her father, -old Dave Campbell, is rolling up a fortune that is attracting -attention. Why, the cost of all the improvements -on old "two-forty" here didn't make a dent in -his bank account they say. Alec tells me that if it -wasn't for Mr. Campbell, Father's woollen business -would not have endured another twelve months. Mr. -Campbell has gone into the business heart and soul, -and I don't know whether to be glad or sorry. -Father never had any use at all for Mr. Campbell. -He used to call him "scurvy." I remember the word -because as a child I thought it a funny adjective to -apply to a man who had a perfectly flawless complexion. -I had to muster up all the control I had -when I first saw David Campbell's big, fat, voluminous -body occupying Father's revolving desk-chair -in the private office down at the factory. I didn't -think Father would like it. But Alec says that -Father would much prefer to have Mr. Campbell -elected as a president of the Vars & Company -Woollen Mills than that any concern bearing his, -Father's, name should fail to pay its creditors a hundred -cents on the dollar. Perhaps he would; I don't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p167" id="Page_p167">[167]</a></span> -know much about business. Anyhow I try to be nice -to Mr. Campbell.</p> - -<p>I try to be nice to Edith, too. It isn't easy. I -don't like her, and I don't like her methods, but I -don't tell her so. We don't quarrel, although we -mix about like oil and water. Of course Edith has -her good points. For instance she is the most generous -person I ever knew, and she's good-nature itself. -She'll take an insult from you, pay you back in -your own coin and then exclaim: "Oh, come on, -let's not fight. There's a dear! Let's go to the -matinée this afternoon." She has a lot of practical -ability too. She's a born manager, and as systematic -as a machine. The trouble with Edith is her ambition. -She wants to stand at the head of all society -in the world, and to get there she is ready to work -till she drops. Just as soon as she struggles up on -top of one heap of people she begins on another, -and so on. I don't know where she'll stop. Juliet -Adams' mother told me that she could remember -when people in Hilton didn't like to invite Mrs. Campbell -to their houses. That was years ago, of course, -for now they thank their lucky stars if they are invited -to hers. There used to be, and are still, lots -of beautiful country places sprinkled around Hilton. -These summer people never mingled very much with -Hiltonites, but as soon as Edith was able to walk she -was bound to mingle with them. Well, she has realised -that ambition. The summer colony, which is -the set that gives social distinction to Hilton, includes -Edith in all of its big functions now, in spite of the -damning fact that she is a "native" and an "all-the-year-round."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p168" id="Page_p168">[168]</a></span></p> - -<p>Edith's social activities are simply marvellous to -me. She has her plan of campaign—the various -combinations of people to be invited to dinner-parties, -bridges, or small teas, all mapped out and written -down in a book at the beginning of each season. -Then she manages to inveigle, by means of big fat -cheques, I imagine, lions—pianists, and authors, and -lecturers, whom everybody wants to see and hear—to -act as her guest of honour. So her parties are -always rather popular, you see. Oh, Edith is clever. -She may not understand my nature very well, but to -the likes and dislikes, pet ambitions and pleasures of -human-nature generally she can cater to the queen's -taste.</p> - -<p>She has fairly hypnotised Ruth. My little sister -thinks there is no one like her. As soon as Edith -married Alec, she took complete possession of Ruth, -provided her with a lot of lovely clothes and sent her -off, for the first winter, to a fashionable boarding-school -in New York. After eight dazzling months -of that sort of life she ordained that Ruth should return -to Hilton and "come out." Last fall she gave her -a reception that fairly thrilled the town. Edith's -word is sacred law to Ruth; Edith's opinion the ultimatum -to any doubt on any question whatsoever. <i>I</i> -am a mere speck on Ruth's outlook on life; <i>my</i> ideas -don't count; I am so old-fashioned and so easily -shocked; I don't know what style is; I don't possess -a scrap of what Edith calls social-sense. Perhaps -as much as anything else it is Edith's complete -possession of Ruth that hurts me. It seems a shame -that she couldn't have been satisfied with Alec. I -don't see why she had to rob me of my only sister<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p169" id="Page_p169">[169]</a></span> -too. I don't cry about it (I won't let myself) but -I think I've missed my own mother more since I was -twenty than before I was ten. It may be a comfort -to mothers whose little children have grown out of -the helpless age to know this from a grown-up daughter.</p> - -<p>I don't know what to say to you about my brother -Alec. I wonder sometimes what has become of him. -I see him, I hear him speak, I reply, but I might as -well be gazing at his picture and talking with him -over the long distance 'phone. I have no idea what -he thinks about this new life of ours. He doesn't -confide in me any more; we are almost strangers -now. Of course I should expect him to be loyal to -his wife—he's such a thoughtful man that he -wouldn't hurt Edith's feelings for anything—but I -wonder and wonder where all his old qualities have -gone. Alec used to be so firm and determined, so -frugal and economical. Are those qualities still -smouldering away down deep in him somewhere, or -when Edith took possession of his house, did she take -possession of his soul too, and sweep out everything -she didn't like, just as she cut off the cupola and sold -the iron fence? Some men let women do that with -them, especially if it's a woman they've wanted terribly -for a dozen years, and never thought themselves -good enough for her to accept. Why, Alec simply -wants to please Edith and her family in every human -way that he can. I have an idea that he feels so -grateful to Edith for accepting him, and to Mr. -Campbell for saving the business, that he doesn't dare -disagree with a single solitary thing the Campbells -ever do or think or suggest. I believe my brother<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p170" id="Page_p170">[170]</a></span> -is so overcome by living in such continual grandeur, -sleeping in a bed with gold trimmings—Napoleonic, -Edith says—bathing in a bathroom with Florentine -tiles, entertaining all the big bugs within a hundred -miles, and travelling to the office every morning in -a limousine, that he feels that he must have been a -mere worm when Edith picked him up. <i>I</i> think he's -more of a worm <i>now</i>! Anyhow he doesn't show any -backbone.</p> - -<p>Sometimes at the table I glance at him across the -flowers, and once in a long, long while there's a look -in his eyes when they meet mine that I recognise as -my dear brother's. Usually it's when Ruth and -Edith are discussing society; and after one of these -clandestine meetings of Alec's and mine across the -flowers, I always come up here to my room wonderfully -comforted, with a feeling that I am not absolutely -deserted, after all.</p> - -<p>Perhaps that sounds as if I were unhappy. Please -do not think so, because I'm not. I'm <i>bound</i> not to -be. I should be ashamed of myself, if just because -I happened to be ousted from my job and didn't -fancy my successor, I simply "went out into the back -yard and ate worms." That isn't what I'm doing -at all. Once Alec was married and I had made up -my mind that I couldn't run away to New York and -earn my way, or hire a house of my own and live -by myself, I buckled down and did my level best to -adjust my likes and habits to the conditions of Edith's -reign. One can get used to anything, I believe. I -accepted Edith as a person ought to accept any circumstance -that can't be avoided. What if her ambitions -do seem to me unworthy? What if she has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p171" id="Page_p171">[171]</a></span> -crowded me out of my little niche? What if the customs -and the things I liked are desecrated before my -very eyes? All this will not cripple me, as a chance -railroad accident might. I'm not enduring physical -torture. I can still see, and hear, and use my two -unhampered feet for long sweet walks in the country. -What if, indeed, Edith has robbed me of Alec, -and Ruth too? She cannot rob me of the joys of -out-of-doors, the messages to me in books, the thrill -I feel at the sound of distant music.</p> - -<p>I can generally find several hours every day -when I am able to steal away somewhere by myself -with a book. I never had much time to read when -I was younger and no one to suggest and guide as I -grew up. I had never read <i>Vanity Fair</i> even, nor -<i>Silas Marner</i>, nor <i>David Copperfield</i>. So after Alec -was married, I made it my task to catch up with -other girls of my age. I have my nose buried inside -a novel most all of the time now. At first I used -to drive myself to it, allot myself a certain number -of chapters to read each day and accomplish it as if -it were a stint. Now I simply devour a book in -great hungry bites and wish there were more when -I am finished. I don't know what I should do if I -hadn't learned to love to read. I wonder if it would -open up other sources of joy if I should learn to appreciate -symphony or Italian Art. Perhaps Beethoven -and Leonardo da Vinci, mere names to me now, would -become as individual and inspire me with their messages -as deeply as dear old Stevenson, whom I couldn't -live without.</p> - -<p>I think you must have surmised by this time that -I haven't proved a great belle in society. You're ex<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p172" id="Page_p172">[172]</a></span>actly -right. In the first place I hate bridge! Whenever -I attempt to play, I get hot all over, and I wish -I could unhook my tight collar and roll up my prickly -sleeves. When it comes my turn to play, and I find -myself desperately at a loss to know whether to trump -or not—my partner looking daggers at me across -the table and everybody waiting in dead silence—I -simply give up all responsibility in the matter, repeat -to myself: "Eenie, meenie, mynie moe, Catch -a nigger by the toe," etc., and fling down the card -that's "it," in utter abandon. Of course, that isn't -good bridge, and Edith says I'll never make a player. -She says I don't possess any more card-sense than -social-sense. I wonder what kind of sense I do possess -anyhow! It was a big consolation when I -learned that the emptiest-headed women often make -the best card players, simply because no superfluous -ideas are at work in their brains to interrupt the -train of concentrated card thought.</p> - -<p>I'm not much more successful in conversation than -I am in bridge. I seem to be always on the outside -of women's intimacies somehow. Edith's set know -one another so confidentially—keep tabs on the -gowns, the hats, the jewellery, the number of servants -each one has, and guess at one another's incomes. -And then they use such a lot of mysterious signs! -Sometimes raised eyebrows, a little nod toward a -person's back, very tightly pursed lips, somebody abruptly -twirling her two thumbs, will set off a whole -roomful into peals of laughter, while I simply sit -dazed and blank. It's just so with Ruth's younger -crowd too. They're always giggling or making unintelligible -remarks. You see I'm a kind of an in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p173" id="Page_p173">[173]</a></span>-between -age, not old enough for Edith's set, nor -young enough for Ruth's. The girls I used to know -in the high school have not proved to be of the fashionable -society here in Hilton, and Edith won't let -me have them at the house. I've drifted away from -most of them, except Juliet Adams, who is doing settlement -work in New York, and I can't find any one -to take their place.</p> - -<p>I've come to the sad conclusion that I'm not popular -with men either. At the little dances given here -in Hilton occasionally, I'm not a wall-flower, possibly -because I'm Edith Vars' sister-in-law, but I'm never -"rushed." I can't be very brilliant in conversation -at a dance when I'm anxiously watching for some -kind, charitable soul to deliver my partner from the -fear of two numbers in succession with me. And I -have a sneaking conviction that I don't dance very -well. You see all Ruth's set "Boston" to a waltz -and two-step, and I don't know how. When a man -is good enough to ask me to dance it seems too bad -to make him exercise until he perspires. No one -knows that I don't enjoy dances very much. It looks -as if I were having a good time, I suppose, but down -in my heart I'm worried and afraid.</p> - -<p>At first I used to be eagerly on the lookout for my -ideal—for a fleeting glimpse of a face that resembled -the picture locked away in my secret desk-drawer. -But such a quest is mere nonsense. I go to -Boston to shop with Edith quite often; but never, in -all the trains, railroad stations, restaurants, or elevators -in law-office buildings (where one runs across -so many good-looking men) have I seen even once -the face of my desire. Why, I searched for that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p174" id="Page_p174">[174]</a></span> -face throughout Oliver's and Malcolm's entire class -when they graduated from college; I look for it -among the new young men that come to call on Ruth, -but I can't find it. Yet if I ever do marry, the man -must be born by this time, I suppose. Sometimes, especially -when I listen to music, I wonder where he -is, in just what city, what house, what room he is -sitting at that particular moment. I smile to think -how unconscious he is of me, who some day will fill -his life completely, and how surprised he'd be if he -knew that I was loving him even now.</p> - -<p>I wonder what he's doing this very minute—three -o'clock on a Saturday afternoon. Perhaps -he's playing golf in a Norfolk Scotch tweed; perhaps -he's oiling an engine in blue overalls; perhaps -he's at the point of death with typhoid fever and -is lying in bed with a thermometer in his mouth, -and I am going to lose him! Oh, I hope he will be -spared! I'll love him, overalls and all, and be proud -too, to stand at the back-door and wave my apron -when his train goes by, just as they do in magazine -stories. I don't believe, after all, I'm a bit ambitious -when it comes to marrying.</p> - -<p>I suppose every reader of this résumé chapter of -mine is simply skipping paragraphs by the dozen in -the fond hope that he'll run across some exciting reference -to Dr. Maynard. People are always so suspicious -of an old love-affair. Let me relieve your -mind. As much as you may be disappointed, I must -announce that I am not reserving any sweet sentimental -morsel, for a climactic finale. Far from it. -I haven't got it to reserve. I only wish I had. A -sweet memory is such a comforting possession, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p175" id="Page_p175">[175]</a></span> -thrilling romance of the past such a reassurance. -But it is very evident that Dr. Maynard has no intention -of providing me with sweet memories or thrilling -romances. All the balm and comfort that his proposal -may have given me in the beginning he has destroyed -by being hopelessly commonplace ever since. -I wish you could read his letters! Impersonal? -Why, they might easily be addressed to a maiden -aunt. Never once has he referred to that starry -night, when he asked me to go to Germany with him; -never intimated that he wished that I were there to -see the castles on the Rhine, or hear the music in the -gardens above Heidelberg; never asked, as any -normal man would do, if I had changed my mind. -Not that I have in the least. I haven't! Only it -seems to me almost impolite not as much as to inquire.</p> - -<p>Dr. William Ford Maynard is becoming quite well -known here in America. There have been several articles -already in the magazines about him and the remarkable -results of his scientific research. I ought -to be flattered to receive envelopes addressed to <i>me</i> -from <i>him</i> at all, I suppose. We write about once -a month. His letters are full of descriptions of pensions, -and cafés, and queer people at his boarding-place. -I know some of his guinea-pigs by name—the -ones who have the typhoid, the scarlet-fever, and -the spinal meningitis; the convalescents, the fatalities, -and the triumphant recoveries are reported to me -monthly. But as honoured as I ought to feel, I suppose, -to share the results of this man's famous work, -the truth is I don't enjoy his letters one bit! I am -glad I was foresighted enough not to marry such a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p176" id="Page_p176">[176]</a></span> -passionless man. I never would have been satisfied. -I see it clearly now.</p> - -<p>My letters to him are regular works of art. I'm -bound not to let him pity me, at any rate, and if he -can write cheerful and enthusiastic descriptions so -can I. To Dr. Maynard I am simply delighted over -our burst into prosperity and social splendour. -Edith's improvements on the house I rave over. I -describe bridge parties, teas and dances as if I gloried -in them. I refer to various men—mostly -Ruth's suitors, I must confess—frequently and with -familiarity. I am simply "Living," with a big capital -L, in my letters to Dr. Maynard, and my stub -pen crosses its T's and ends its sentences with great -broad, militant dashes that are bold with triumph.</p> - -<p>Once only did Dr. Maynard condescend to refer -to the past, and that was in a little insignificant postscript -at the end of a long humorous description of a -German family that he saw in a café. This is what -he wrote, all cramped up in a little bit of space, after -he had signed his name:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"How is San Francisco progressing in her reconstruction? -Does she need any outside help in building up -her beautiful city? Please let me know when she -does!"</p></blockquote> - -<p>I tell you I wrote him the gayest, most flippant little -note I could compose—all about how busy I was -with engagements, etc., etc.; and then after I had -signed my name, along the margin of the paper I -said:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p177" id="Page_p177">[177]</a></span></p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"About San Francisco—she is progressing wonderfully, -she doesn't need any help from any one, unless -possibly lead weights to keep her from soaring. -The earthquake did her good. She's becoming very -modernised and when you see her next I doubt if -you recognise her on account of all the changes. Is -Lizzie better? Or was it Nibbles who had the -typhoid?"</p></blockquote> - -<p>If Dr. Maynard couldn't afford a fresh sheet of -paper, go upstairs and shut himself in his room, and -ask me seriously and quietly if I were unhappy or -lonely, I would starve first before I'd ask bread of -him.</p> - -<p>I have it all planned just how I shall treat Dr. -Maynard when he comes home—very distantly and -as if so much society had made me a little blasé. -When his name is sent up I shall keep him waiting in -the little gold reception-room for about five minutes, -and then glide into his presence, in a long clinging -crêpe-de-chine dress. After I have shaken hands -and said, "How pleasant it is to have you with us -again," I'll ring for tea, then go back and sit down in -the carved Italian armchair with the high back, dangle -the ivory paper-cutter in one hand the way Ruth -does, and inquire what sort of a passage he has had.</p> - -<p>If he should come this year I've just the gown to -wear. It's black, with a gold cord around the waist. -I look about twenty-nine in it, and awfully sophisticated.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p178" id="Page_p178">[178]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">RUTH'S coming-out party cost over two thousand -dollars, they say. Her dress alone was -made by a dressmaker in Boston who won't "touch -a thing" under a hundred and fifty; and Edith's—shimmering -blue, draped with chiffon covered with -green spangles, and here and there a crimson one (it -looked just like the shining sides of a little wet brook -trout)—simply spelled money.</p> - -<p>I tell you the whole party lived up to the gorgeousness -of Edith's gown too. There were orchids -frozen in ice, for a punch bowl, in the dining-room; -Killarney roses by the dozens in the reception-room; -chrysanthemums in big round red bunches in the living-room; -and the stairway was wound with smilax and -asparagus fern, with real birch trees—silvery bark -and all—at intervals of four or five feet. There -were extra electric lights, extra maids, extra everything; -and on the morning of Wednesday, the twenty-fifth -of October, there arrived a whole squad of -caterers from Boston with cases large as trunks filled -with pattie shells, a thousand tiny brown pyramids of -potato croquettes, tanksful of mushrooms, crab meat, -and sweet-breads, cratesful of Malaga grapes and actual -strawberries imported from somewhere which they -dipped in white fondant and then set away to cool in -little frilled paper holders, all over the butler's pantry.</p> - -<p>It took Edith and Ruth two solid weeks of discussion -and consultation to complete the invitation<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p179" id="Page_p179">[179]</a></span> -list. You see Edith was careful to give the party -early in the fall before the summer colony had gone -back home to its winter quarters. After the reception -itself there was to be a small dance, and the elect -were invited to remain. It was a source of satisfaction -to Edith that only a dozen native Hilton men -were invited to the dance, and but eight girls. Of -course such partiality and ruthless slight and scorn -of the people of her own native city caused a good -deal of feeling in Hilton, but I observed that most -every one who was invited to the reception came, in -spite of the fact that they had been omitted from the -dance to follow. Every living woman in Hilton -was anxious, I suppose, to prove by her presence that -she had the distinction of a portion of the engraved -invitation at least.</p> - -<p>I remember one name was under discussion for a -week—a Mrs. Hugh Fullerton who was simply -crazy "to get into things," Edith said—an officious, -showy little bride from the West, she explained, who -had married that young Yale graduate, Hugh Fullerton. -Hugh Fullerton had been invited everywhere -before he was married. He had been in Hilton only -three years, but he had taken well. New young men -usually do take well in Hilton. It's the women and -the girls who have to climb and scramble. Mr. Fullerton -was from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and was -learning the boiler business in the Hilton Boiler -Works. He was a fine, tall, athletic, bronzed sort -of fellow; Edith used to invite him to The Homestead -very often; he'd ridden every one of her hunters; -he was supposed to be one of her favourites. -Then he married, and Edith's invitations came to an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p180" id="Page_p180">[180]</a></span> -abrupt end. I had never seen Mrs. Fullerton, but I -felt sorry for her.</p> - -<p>"She has been married only since June," I said to -Edith; "why not invite the poor thing to the dance? -What harm would it do? She may be a little homesick -way on here in the East, and it might cheer her -up a lot to have a little distinction if she's so awfully -anxious for it."</p> - -<p>"Bobbie, dear child, I'm not running an institution -for homesick girls," replied Edith. "I know -what I'm about. I rather liked the girl at first, I confess. -She's got a lot of style, but she simply isn't -being taken up—that's all. The Ogdens live in St. -Louis in the winter and this Mrs. Fullerton lived there -before she was married. The Ogdens know everybody -in St. Louis of any importance, but they never -even heard of Mrs. Fullerton. I'm not going to try -to float a girl in society, whom I know nothing about. -You may be sure of <i>that</i>."</p> - -<p>"I should think your position would be secure -enough after a while, for you to show a little independence," -I murmured.</p> - -<p>"Independence! Why, child, I'm inviting her to -the reception, as it is. Anyhow what can <i>you</i> know -about it? I'll settle the invitations, dearie." That -was an example of the manner with which my ideas -were usually treated.</p> - -<p>There was a house-party planned at The Homestead -in addition to the tea and dance. Edith always -does a thing up good and brown. She wrote -to about a dozen out-of-town people and invited them -to become the guests of the house for over the twenty-fifth. -These consisted of boarding-school friends of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p181" id="Page_p181">[181]</a></span> -Ruth's, several of Edith's; and Oliver and Malcolm, -who of course came home for the event, provided a -generous supply of men from their crowd at college.</p> - -<p>The three automobiles were kept busy meeting -trains all the day before the tea, and the expressmen -were tramping up and down the stairs with dozens -of various trunks of all styles and sizes. The guest-rooms -in The Homestead looked very festive, all -decked out in real lace and silver, with Edith's best -embroidered trousseau-spreads stretched out gorgeously -upon the beds. It really grew quite exciting -as the time for the tea drew near—even I felt a little -of the pervading delight. Of course I hated meeting -so many new people, but everybody's attention was -centered upon Ruth, and I was perfectly free to withdraw -to my room at any time I desired. I, thank -goodness, was only Ruth's sister.</p> - -<p>The tea was on a Wednesday, October twenty-fifth, -from five until seven o'clock. Edith had bought a -lovely dress for me—pink and soft and shining—and -about three o'clock she sent the professional hair -dresser, who had been spending the day at the house, -to puff and marcel Bobbie, she said.</p> - -<p>I hardly knew myself when I gazed into my mirror -after I was all dressed. My hair was done up -high like a queen's, and there were two little sparkling -pink wings in it. My dress was cut into a V in front, -and my neck looked so long and slender with my hair -drawn away from its usual place in the back, and -piled up in a soft puffy pyramid on top, that I seemed -almost stately. I just wished Dr. Maynard could see -San Francisco then!</p> - -<p>As I walked out into the hall, my train made a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p182" id="Page_p182">[182]</a></span> -lovely sound on the soft oriental rugs. I stood at -the top of the stairs and gazed about me. Everything -was in readiness—maids in black and white -stationed at the bedroom doors, the musicians below -already beginning to tune their instruments, the dark -draperies drawn, a soft illumination of electricity -everywhere, and the faint delicious odour of coffee -mixed with the perfume of roses. I was overwhelmed -with the spirit of prosperity that filled every -corner and cranny of my father's house. I wondered -what Father would think of it all—big, calm, -quiet Father whose tastes were so plain, habits so -simple, and whose words of advice to us his children -always so eloquent with the wickedness of extravagance. -I put him out of my mind just as quickly as -I could. I didn't want to think of him just now. I -wanted to have a good time for once in my life; I -wanted everybody to see that I wasn't shy and quiet -and plain; I wanted to be clever and admired; and I -would be too! I caught a glimpse of myself, whole -length, in the long hall-mirror. My cheeks were -flushed and rosy, my eyes were dark and bright. I -really believed I was pretty! I could have shouted, -I felt so happy. I ran down the side stairway, that -leads to the hall off the porte-cochère, through the -chrysanthemum-laden living-room and hall, into the -rose-perfumed reception-room, where I found Edith -and Ruth ready for the first arrival. I felt suddenly -generous-hearted toward all the prosperity and luxury -that made such a palace of our old house and -such a new creature of me. I wanted to tell Edith -how lovely I thought it all was.</p> - -<p>I had more reason than ever to feel grateful to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p183" id="Page_p183">[183]</a></span> -Edith about an hour later. It was at the very height -of the afternoon rush, about quarter past five. I happened -to be standing just back of Edith, waiting for -a chance to offer her some lemonade which one of -the ladies assisting had been thoughtful enough to -send to her by me. There was a long line of women -that stretched way out into the hall, just like a line -in front of a ticket window at the theatre, each waiting -her turn for a chance to shake hands with Edith, -though most of them she sees every time she goes -out anyhow. Edith was very gracious and cordial -this afternoon. I've heard very often that she makes -a lovely hostess. I watched her closely, trying to see -just where the charm lay.</p> - -<p>"Ah, good afternoon! Mrs. Fullerton, I believe?" -suddenly broke in on my reflections, and I -glanced up quickly, curious to see the poor little neglected -bride whom I championed. There really was -nothing very poor nor very neglected about her appearance. -I couldn't see her face beneath her -plumed picture-hat, but her costume was very costly -and elegant—a lot of Irish lace over something -dark.</p> - -<p>"Yes, Mrs. Hugh Fullerton," she replied effusively. -"Hugh has told me so much about his good -times here at The Homestead, Mrs. Vars, and how -kind and cordial you've been to him, and I <i>do</i> want -to thank you. Haven't you a gorgeous afternoon? -I'm so glad to meet you, after all Hugh has said. -Why, I know some of your horses by name even—Regal, -for instance—the one that threw Hugh—do -you remember?"</p> - -<p>Edith's manner cooled, hostess though she was.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p184" id="Page_p184">[184]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Regal has thrown so many!" she remarked. -"Ruth, Mrs. Fullerton," she finished.</p> - -<p>"Oh," went on Mrs. Fullerton to Ruth, not at all -abashed, "I've met Miss Vars already. A bride remembers -everybody new she meets, you know, and -then of course I couldn't help but remember <i>you</i>." -There was something hauntingly familiar about Mrs. -Fullerton's manner and voice. I put the lemonade -on a table near by and drew nearer. "It was at Mrs. -Jaynes' bridge-party last week," she went on; "don't -you remember? We played at the same table, Miss -Vars."</p> - -<p>"Did we?" inquired Ruth in her sweet, icy, little -way; "I don't remember."</p> - -<p>"Of course," flushed Mrs. Fullerton. "Débutantes -meet so many new people. I know just -how it is—I was there once myself. I don't wonder -one bit. I remember <i>I</i> couldn't keep even the men -straight, to say nothing of the women."</p> - -<p>"O Lucy," suddenly exclaimed Edith, catching -sight of me, "this is Mrs. Fullerton. My other sister, -Miss Vars, Mrs. Fullerton. She'll take you to -the dining-room and serve you some tea or an ice."</p> - -<p>I raised my eyes to Mrs. Fullerton's. No, I hadn't -been mistaken. I should have recognised that voice -in China. Mrs. Fullerton's mouth opened in amazement -as she gazed at me.</p> - -<p>"Lucy Vars," she finally ejaculated. "Lucy -Vars! Why, Lucy, don't you remember Sarah -Platt?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I remember," I nodded.</p> - -<p>"How lovely! How perfectly lovely!" exploded -Sarah. "Why, Mrs. Vars," she sparkled, "Lucy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p185" id="Page_p185">[185]</a></span> -and I are old pals! Isn't it too nice for anything? -We were at Miss Brown's-on-the-Hudson the same -year, and I guess if you've ever been to boarding-school -yourself, you know what that means. Why, -Lucy, you old trump, how are you anyway? I'm -simply pleased to pieces!" And the once much-envied -Sarah Platt of years ago, the successful, the glorious -Sarah Platt, enveloped me at last in a huge -schoolgirl embrace!</p> - -<p>"Hypocrite!" I thought.</p> - -<p>"I'd lost track of Lucy completely," she went on -to Edith and Ruth, linking her arm familiarly through -mine. "I'd forgotten your home was in Hilton, -though I certainly knew it was in Massachusetts somewhere. -Wasn't it stupid? Here I've been living for -three months in the same place with you, Lucy Vars, -and never knew it! Here you were all the time a -sister to Mrs. Alexander Vars, whom Hugh wrote me -so much about that I almost grew jealous," she -laughed. "Isn't this world just the smallest place you -ever heard of, Mrs. Vars? You must come right -over and see me, Lucy, and make up for lost time, -and I hope you'll both come with her," smiled Sarah -upon my sisters; "I'd simply love to have you."</p> - -<p>We moved away toward the dining-room.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Lucy," went on Sarah, "I am so glad to see -you again! It's just like discovering somebody from -home. I haven't any friend here my own age at all. -You've grown so pretty! You're looking splendid; -and aren't your sister and sister-in-law just stunning!"</p> - -<p>I drew my arm away from Sarah's. I remembered -what she had thought about my family once.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p186" id="Page_p186">[186]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Don't leave me," she exclaimed, "please, or I'll -perish. Stay while I have my ice. I don't know -one soul in that dining-room."</p> - -<p>Life works out its patterns very cunningly, I think. -Once I had hidden in shame behind a telegraph-pole -from this majestic creature; once she had looked -upon me as mean and insignificant, unworthy of even -her pity; now she actually plead for my favour, toadied -to my family, palavered me with flatteries. I drew -in deep breaths of satisfaction.</p> - -<p>"Dear, dear life, how kind and just you are after -all!" I said half an hour later, gazing into my mirror, -in my own closed room. "<i>My</i> day is dawning -now—mine, mine, at last! And I'm so happy! -I'm going to have a wonderful time at the dance to-night. -I feel it. Oh, it's good after all to have -money and prosperity; it's good to wear soft, pink -shimmering dresses that are becoming and make people -gaze and whisper; it's good to hold such a position -in a community that even Sarah Platts bow and -scrape and try to please; it's more than good—it's -exhilarating!"</p> - -<p>I went out into the hall and started to go down the -main stairway. It was deserted now. The hour -was seven-thirty, just before the men were due to arrive -for the supper and the evening celebrations to -follow.</p> - -<p>Half-way down this stairway, on the landing, -there is a large portrait of my father. Amid all the -preparations going on in the house I had not known -that Edith had had the electricians adjust a row of -shielded electric lights at the top of the heavy frame -of Father's picture. The portrait had always hung<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p187" id="Page_p187">[187]</a></span> -on the landing where the light is very dim. We had -had it for years. It was painted when we were prosperous, -but I had never examined it very closely. It -was an awfully black sort of picture, and before Ruth's -tea I could not have definitely said whether Father -was standing or sitting in it. I didn't know that a -row of lights could make such a difference. As I -turned on the landing that night and came suddenly -upon the painting I stopped stock-still. Why, it -wasn't a picture! I didn't see the frame, nor the -canvas, nor the paint. It was Father, dear Father -himself, sitting at his roll-top desk down in the sitting-room. -I could see every little wrinkle in his -face, the crows-feet at the corners of his eyes, the -fine, tired-looking lines along his forehead. He was -sitting in his big leather armchair, and I remembered -exactly how the leather had worn brown and velvety -like that, along the edges. As usual he wore across -his breast his heavy gold watch-chain, with the black -onyx fob—the one he used to let me play with in -church, when I was very little—and in one hand, -which was resting easily along the arm of the chair, -Father held his glasses just as he used to hold them -when he took them off to glance up at me before I -dashed off to dancing-school on Saturday nights. -"Can't you keep that hair a little smoother?" he'd -say to me, and "Isn't there a good deal of trimming -on that dress? Your mother always wore plain -things with a little white at her neck. Keep your -tastes simple, my girl, and your clothes neat and nicely -sewed." They were plain, homely words. Any man -could say them, but as I remembered them that night, -they seemed terribly sweet—almost sacred—and I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p188" id="Page_p188">[188]</a></span> -backed up against the wall, and stared at Father there -before me, with tears in my eyes. He would not -have liked the sparkling wings I was wearing in my -hair. The dress that Edith had given me—all shining -satin, wasn't like my mother's with a little white -at the neck. The silent, sad expression in my father's -eyes smote me. He was gazing straight at me, -down into my heart. I almost saw his lips move. -The words of the verse that he used to repeat so often -at our morning prayers after breakfast, I seemed to -hear again: "Children, how hard it is for them that -trust in riches to enter into the Kingdom of God." -Father was always quoting things from the Bible -about vanity and riches. His heroes were always big, -simple, honest men like Abraham Lincoln and Benjamin -Franklin. As I stood and stared at Father's picture -the musicians began to play some soft, dreamy -melody, and just then Alec from above caught sight -of me leaning up against the wall.</p> - -<p>"Hello," he called cheerfully; "how do you like -the new lights on the picture?" And he came tripping -down all dressed up in his evening clothes to -join me. I don't believe Alec had seen the portrait -lighted before either, for he stopped short beside me -when he came in full view of it. He was speechless -for a moment. Really those lights made Father look -as if he could answer if we spoke to him. He seemed -to be actually sitting there amid all the luxury and -splendour he had so despised. Alec came over beside -me. He took my hand in his and for a long -sweet half-minute, my old partner and I stood there -together on the landing and gazed up into Father's -noble eyes.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p189" id="Page_p189">[189]</a></span></p> - -<p>"It's miraculous," breathed Alec, softly, at last.</p> - -<p>I couldn't answer. It <i>was</i> miraculous. I wished -I was in my ugly old blue cashmere and could crawl -up into Father's lap.</p> - -<p>I didn't know anybody was coming up the stairs -till suddenly Alec dropped my hand and left me.</p> - -<p>"Hello—hello there," he called out jovially. -"Come right up, Mr. Campbell. Just gotten here, -haven't you? Everything's gone in tip-top shape so -far. We're looking pretty fine around here, aren't -we? Bobbie and I were passing judgment on Edith's -new lights. Here, let me take that coat. Edith discovered -that this old portrait of Father was by an -artist who has a reputation now, so she had it properly -lighted. It is marvellous what a really excellent -likeness it is. Come and tell us your opinion."</p> - -<p>I slunk away to my room quietly.</p> - -<p>All that evening amid the babble of voices and din -of violins, pianos and cornets, while girls in gorgeous -raiment sat beneath Father's picture between dances -with their partners on the top stair of the landing, and -just below men gathered around the punch-bowl; -while Edith and Ruth shone in jewels, and old Dave -Campbell blatantly exhibited the latest improvements -in the house to all his friends, Father looked down -upon it all from his lofty position silently, disapprovingly, -a look of censure in his eyes that I couldn't -seem to escape. My little hour of triumph was -snuffed out by Father's gaze like a candle in a tempest; -my sudden self-satisfaction, my burst of eager -joy in prosperity and position, born to feel the throb -of life but for an hour.</p> - -<p>I didn't enjoy the dance. I couldn't. I tried once<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p190" id="Page_p190">[190]</a></span> -or twice to "enter in," but it was masquerade. -There had been champagne served at the supper. -Girls as well as men were full of the spirit of mad -merry-making. Everybody was having a glorious -time—everybody but me. I hated the hilarious -laughter. I don't mean to imply that any one became -intoxicated, I don't think they did exactly, but just -the same the whole affair seemed to me like a debauch -going on in my father's house beneath his very eyes. -I stole up to the landing about eleven o'clock when -the music was still shrieking, Ruth's cheeks burning -with excitement, Oliver laughing so loudly that I -could hear him above the music, and switched off the -lights above Father's picture. He shouldn't look on -at such festivities—mute, unable to speak his mind, -tied there in his chair, helpless and forgotten—he -shouldn't if I could help it!</p> - -<p>Late that same night—or it must have been the -next morning—anyway after every one was quiet, -and the house was finally dark I stole out of my room -and crept quietly down on the landing. The house -was dead still. I heard the big clock with the chimes -strike a half-hour, and a second after all the other -clocks reply. I was in my nightgown wrapped -around with an eiderdown bath-robe. I found my -way stealthily to the little button behind the portrait. -I pushed it. There was a little click and suddenly -Father was before me! I went back and sat down -on the lowest stair, close up to the railing, and looked -up into his comforting eyes. No one had known that -I had spent the last six dances shut up in my room. -No one had missed me. I had had a horrid time, but -no one cared.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p191" id="Page_p191">[191]</a></span></p> - -<p>There were the remains of the orgy of the night -before scattered all about Father's feet—a discarded -bunch of violets, a torn piece of chiffon, a half a -macaroon, a girl's handkerchief. As I sat there and -wondered how Ruth and the twins and Alec could all -go peacefully to sleep, unmindful of their strict and -rigid bringing-up, forgetful of Father left here in the -midst of the confusion of the things he preached -against, I heard from somewhere, way off, a queer -long laugh. I listened intently, and in a moment I -could catch the rumble of voices from behind closed -doors. I wondered who could be awake at such an -hour, when a door opened downstairs, and as plain -and distinct as day, a man's voice exclaimed, "Come -on, boys, we'll have to carry old Ol up. Lend a hand, -one of you chaps who can walk straight, and don't -make any noise. Wake up, Oliver, old pal. We're -going to bed." I heard a horrid guttural sort of rejoinder -from Oliver, and I shuddered. Some of the -men must have been sitting up in the dining-room and -drinking! I knew, oh, I knew now, that Oliver must -be intoxicated! I was in my nightgown. There was -no time to turn out the lights over Father's picture, -to shield Father from the awful sight of his son, -drunk—horridly, helplessly drunk, being carried upstairs -to bed. I glanced up at Father shining there -in his frame. He was looking straight down the long -broad stairway. In another minute Oliver and -Father would meet face to face. I turned and fled -back to my room.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p192" id="Page_p192">[192]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">FOUR months later. Twelve o'clock at night. -Wrapped up in my eiderdown bath-robe. Sitting -at my desk.</p> - -<p>It is midnight. I cannot sleep. I have been lying -wide awake, listening to a strong April wind, howling -around the corner of the house, for two hours! -I've repeated the twenty-third Psalm over and over -again. I've imagined a flock of sheep going over -a stile (though I never saw it done) for ten minutes -solid. I've swallowed two Veronal tablets. It's useless. -I surrender. I don't want to get up. I shall -have an awful headache to-morrow, besides heavy -lead weights behind my eyes; and to-morrow—to-morrow -of all days—I want to be fresh and bright -and as beautiful as nature can make me. Moreover, -I'd rather not write. But I can't read. There has -never been a book printed that could hold my thoughts -to-night. My mind goes back to the events of the -day like steel to a magnet. I've tried solitaire, and -ended by pushing the silly cards on the floor. -You see something has happened—something big -and actual and real!</p> - -<p>I have seen Dr. Maynard!</p> - -<p>I have met him face to face, talked with him, -laughed with him, walked with him from Charles -Street to the sunken garden, sat with him by the fountain. -I am beside myself with excitement. I had -better tell how it all happened. If I get it out of my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p193" id="Page_p193">[193]</a></span> -system I may be able to snatch a little sleep, and I -<i>must</i> sleep. I have an important engagement to-morrow -at three.</p> - -<p>It occurred at four o'clock this afternoon. I had -bought a bunch of primroses from a man on the street -five minutes before. I was on my way home from -a shopping tour, and with my pretty early-spring -flowers tucked in at my waist, and my hands full of -packages, I turned up Charles Street as unconcerned -as you please. At the corner I bowed to our minister's -wife, and the remains of the smile were still -on my face, I suppose, when I saw Dr. Maynard. I -didn't know that he was on this side of the ocean, -and when I observed him coming down the steps of -the postoffice—vigorous and strong and buoyant—I -stood still in my tracks, and the remains of the smile -turned into something startled and afraid. Dr. Maynard -approached me all aglow, stretched out his hand -and took mine in a warm, firm grasp. A thrill went -through me like a knife. He was as natural as day, -beautifully tanned, smiling, big, broad-shouldered as -ever, and yet different—oh, awfully different.</p> - -<p>"Hello, Bobbie," he said in his hearty old voice, -and I looked back at him, perfectly white—I could -feel that I was—and speechless. "Don't be a goose. -It's just Dr. Maynard," I tried to reason with myself.</p> - -<p>"Am I speaking to Miss Lucy Vars?" I heard -asked of me. "Miss Lucy Chenery Vars, of 240 -Main Street, Hilton, Mass.?"</p> - -<p>I nodded, and somewhere down there in the chaos -in my chest, I found my poor little voice. "Is it -<i>you</i>?" I asked shakily.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p194" id="Page_p194">[194]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Well, I'm not quite sure. Nothing looks very -natural around here. I'm beginning to think I'm -somebody else."</p> - -<p>"Well, I <i>am</i> surprised!" I exploded. "I -certainly <i>am</i> surprised! Why, I never <i>was</i> so surprised!" -I stopped a minute. Dr. Maynard was -smiling right down into my eyes. "I never was so -surprised in all my life!" I repeated, as if I hadn't -another idea in my head.</p> - -<p>He leaned down just here and picked up a half-dozen -bundles, more or less, that I had dropped when -we shook hands.</p> - -<p>"I better help you carry some of these home, -hadn't I?" he suggested.</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes, <i>do</i>," I replied eagerly, and somehow we -managed to walk back to the house together.</p> - -<p>I don't know through what streets we went, past -what houses. I can scarcely recall of what we -talked. "He's come home! He's come home! -He's come home!" kept ringing in my ears over and -over again, like jubilant chimes. "Dr. Maynard has -come home!" And whenever I looked up and saw -him smiling down at me—so naturally, so beautifully—it -seemed as if I should have to make a -pirouette or two, right there on the sidewalk. Every -time he laughed I wanted to shout; every time he remarked -upon a new building or a new house, and especially -when he exclaimed, "Good heavens! What -have we here?" at the sight of one of the taxicabs, -I wanted to turn a handspring. When he first came -in view of 240 Main Street and stood stock-still in his -tracks, and gasped, "Where's the cupola, and the -French roof, and the iron fountain, and the barn, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p195" id="Page_p195">[195]</a></span> -the apple orchard?" I wanted to throw my arms -around him for joy. I must have felt like a dog at -the sight of his beloved master whom he hasn't seen -for months. It was so intoxicating to have Dr. Maynard -beside me again that it seemed as if I must express -my joy by jumping up on him, and half knocking -him down. Which, of course, I didn't do. My -voice broke a dozen times, my underlip trembled, my -cheeks burned with excitement, but otherwise I walked -along as sedately as if it were an everyday occurrence -to run across a man I believed was hopelessly buried -in a laboratory in Europe.</p> - -<p>It was in the sunken garden that the most important -part of our conversation took place. You remember, -don't you, that in my letters to Dr. Maynard I had -always been enthusiastic over the improvements Edith -has made on old 240. So now it was with apparent -pride that I led my old friend down the granolithic -steps into the one-time apple orchard. I showed him -the cement-lined pool in the centre, the Italian garden-seat, -the rare shrubbery now bound up in yellow straw, -with something like delight. I was so full of exultation -at the mere sight of dear, kind, understanding -Dr. Maynard that I could have rejoiced about anything. -When I exclaimed, "And there's a squash-court -connected with the garage, and a tennis-court -as <i>smooth</i> as <i>glass</i> beside the stable; and where the -old potato-patch used to be, there's a pergola!" my -eyes fairly sparkled. "That sun-dial over there," I -boasted, "was designed especially for Edith; and oh, -there's the dearest, slimmest little stream of water that -spouts out of the centre of the pool, in the summer. -You ought to see it!" I was all enthusiasm. Edith<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p196" id="Page_p196">[196]</a></span> -wouldn't have recognised me. Ruth would have -thought I had lost my reason. Even Dr. Maynard -looked at me curiously.</p> - -<p>"It certainly is all very fine, I've no doubt," he -remarked.</p> - -<p>"Yes, isn't it?" I exclaimed.</p> - -<p>"But I must confess," he went on. "<i>I</i> never objected -to the old apple orchard. Just about where -the pool is now, there used to grow the best old Baldwins -I ever tasted."</p> - -<p>"Oh, my," I scoffed, "you ought to see the bouncing -big Oregon apples Edith buys by the crate."</p> - -<p>Dr. Maynard shook his head and smiled. Then he -came over and sat down beside me on the Italian seat.</p> - -<p>"Well, well," he sighed, "I suppose old Rip must -get used to the changes that have taken place since -he's been asleep—squash-courts and pergolas, great -sweeping estates with granolithic drives and sunken -gardens; new hotels; new postoffices; instead of the -roomy, old-fashioned livery-stable hacks, taxicabs; instead -of good old snappy New England Baldwins, -apples imported from Oregon; and instead of a girl -in a red Tam-o-Shanter and her father's old weather-beaten -ulster, sitting behind the wheel of a little one-lunger -automobile, running it, in all sorts of weather, -like a young breeze—instead of that girl," said Dr. -Maynard, looking me up and down closely, "a very -correct and up-to-date young lady in kid gloves and -a veil, a smart black and white checked suit, a very -fashionable hat (<i>I</i> should call it), with a bunch of -primroses, to cap it all, pinned jauntily at her waist."</p> - -<p>I blushed with triumph.</p> - -<p>"I've just about come to the conclusion," added<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p197" id="Page_p197">[197]</a></span> -Dr. Maynard in a kind of wistful voice, "that I don't -know San Francisco at all now."</p> - -<p>"Well," I laughed waveringly, "I do hope you'll -find it a little more civilised than it was before."</p> - -<p>"<i>I</i> never thought it was uncivilised," said Dr. Maynard -quietly; "<i>I</i> rather enjoyed it just as it was, to -tell the truth. I shall be sorry to find many changes -in it because I shall have to become acquainted with -it all over again and my time is so short."</p> - -<p>"Short?" I exclaimed. I don't know why I had -drawn the sudden conclusion that Dr. Maynard had -come back to stay. His very next words put an end -to my little half-hour of jubilance like the announcement -of a death.</p> - -<p>"Yes," he said; "I'm sailing back to Germany in -two weeks. I was appointed an executor of a distant -relative's will, and it seemed necessary to come to -New York and attend to it. Of course I couldn't be -so near—San Francisco, without coming to see how -it prospered after the earthquake. I'm glad to find -you so happy, Bobbie. You've richly earned all this," -he glanced around the display that surrounded us, -"both you and Al, and it's really fine that the change -in your circumstances came about, when <i>you</i>, Lucy, -were still a young girl, and just ready to appreciate -and enjoy good times, and pretty surroundings, and -new young people. Sometimes the apparent catastrophes -work out for our best happiness. You <i>are</i> happy, -aren't you, Bobbie?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes—perfectly happy," I flashed indignantly.</p> - -<p>"I thought so. Your enthusiasm brims over in -your letters. Well, well," twitted Dr. Maynard, -"who ever would have thought Al's little sister, whom<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p198" id="Page_p198">[198]</a></span> -I used to call 'wild-cat,' would turn into a society girl—a -mighty popular one too, if <i>I'm</i> any judge. -Parties and engagements all the time, I suppose. Now -I'm just curious enough to wonder," went on Dr. -Maynard teasingly, while my feelings, hurt and enraged, -were working up to one of their habitual explosions, -"which one of all those admirers I hear mentioned -in your letters sent you your pretty primroses -<i>this</i> morning."</p> - -<p>"No one sent them," I blurted out. "If you <i>must</i> -know, I bought them myself five minutes before I saw -you. Those men in my letters were Ruth's friends, -not mine."</p> - -<p>Dr. Maynard glanced at me sharply.</p> - -<p>"Oh," I went on fiercely, "I'm glad to know if -you think that I'm happy. It shows how well you -understand me. Happy! I'm perfectly miserable, if -you want to know the truth. I hate and loathe and -despise all this display you say I've so richly earned. -I hate parties, and splurge, and sunken gardens, and -pergolas, and I haven't a single solitary admirer in -the world. I thought you knew me, but I see you -don't. I thought if you ever came back <i>you'd</i> understand, -but you don't—not one little single bit. I -thought <i>you</i>—<i>you</i>—"</p> - -<p>I stopped abruptly. There's no use trying to hide -tears that run shamelessly down your cheeks. It was -absolutely necessary for me to ask for my bag which -Dr. Maynard held, and produce a handkerchief. He -didn't say anything as I mopped my eyes. I thought -perhaps he was too shocked to speak. He didn't offer -me a single word of comfort—just sat and waited. -I didn't look at him; and still with my face turned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p199" id="Page_p199">[199]</a></span> -away I said, subdued, apologetically, "I don't see -what is the matter with me lately. You mustn't mind -my being so silly. I'm always getting 'weepy' for no -reason at all." I opened my bag, tucked away my -handkerchief, as a sign that the storm was over, and -stood up. "I hope you won't think that I usually -act this way with—with all those admirers of mine," -I added, smiling.</p> - -<p>Dr. Maynard ignored my attempt at humour.</p> - -<p>"Lucy," he said quietly, but in a voice and manner -that made me start and catch my breath, "my real -reason for coming to America wasn't the will. It was -you." He stopped and I looked hard into the centre -of the dry pool. "I mistrusted some of your letters -lately, though I confess not at first—not until last -fall. You've been overdoing your enthusiasm this -winter, Bobbie. So I decided to come over and find -out for myself if you had been trying to deceive me. -The will offered a good excuse, so here I am. And -you <i>have</i> been deceiving me—for two whole years. -Why, Bobbie," he said very softly, "what shall I do -to you?"</p> - -<p>I glanced up and saw the old piercing tenderness in -his eyes.</p> - -<p>"Don't be kind to me," I warned hastily; "not <i>now</i>—not -for anything. <i>Please</i>, or I shall cry again."</p> - -<p>I heard Dr. Maynard laugh the tenderest, gentlest -kind of laugh, and in a second both his arms were -around me. Yes, both Dr. Maynard's arms were -close around me! I didn't cry. I just stayed there -quiet and still and safe; and I've been there in imagination -about every moment since.</p> - -<p>When he finally let me go he said simply, but in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p200" id="Page_p200">[200]</a></span> -queer trembling voice, "Will you go to drive with me -to-morrow afternoon at three, way off into the country, -away from pergolas and cement pools, and people?"</p> - -<p>I nodded, unable to speak.</p> - -<p>"All right. I'll be here. Good night," he said -gently, and turned abruptly and left me there alone -in the garden.</p> - -<p>I watched him hurry up the garden-steps and out -of the gateway. He turned once and waved his hand -to the pitiful little wind-blown creature he left behind -in the bleak unbeautiful garden. I felt as if he had -torn me from my moorings and that I must toss and -drift in strange unknown seas until to-morrow at -three.</p> - -<p>I managed to gather my bundles together somehow, -and come up here to the house. My cheeks were flaming -when I opened the door. I left my packages in a -chair in the hall and hurried up here to my room as -quickly as I could. Once here I locked my door tight -and threw off my things. "Oh, don't be silly; don't -be absurd," I said, and buried my face in the dark of -my arms on my desk. "It's just Dr. Maynard," I -went on later, "and you know how you felt two years -ago. Oh, be reasonable. Be calm." But all the time -that I was talking sense to myself, I was feeling strong -arms about my shoulders, and a kind of sinking, fainting, -going-out feeling that people must experience -when they lose consciousness, would steal over me so -that I couldn't think.</p> - -<p>Finally to put an end to my nonsense I opened a -secret compartment and took out Robert Dwinnell's -picture. <i>He</i> would cure me of my delusion; <i>he</i> would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p201" id="Page_p201">[201]</a></span> -keep me true to my ideals. I gazed at Robert Dwinnell -for a solid sixty seconds, then deliberately, straight -across the forehead, down the nose, through the very -smile that once had thrilled me, I tore that poor picture -into a thousand bits, and dumped the remains into -the waste-basket. It was a dreadful act. I felt like -a murderess. I don't know what made me do it, but -Robert Dwinnell had lost his charm. Dr. Maynard, -glowing with health, his eyes fierce with a tenderness -that actually hurt, made my poor old idol look flat -and insipid.</p> - -<p>Some time later—ten minutes perhaps—an hour—I -don't know—a maid knocked and asked if I -were coming down to dinner. I got up and followed -her mechanically, and for the life of me I don't know -whether there was roast-beef or lamb.</p> - -<p>Now I am again locked in my room, and my soul -is actually on fire. It is as dark as death outdoors. -Every one in the house is asleep. But I am sitting -here gazing at a little faded picture of an automobile -which I finally discovered in an old souvenir-book of -mine. That little speck there is Dr. Maynard and I -am going to see him to-day at three!</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p202" id="Page_p202">[202]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">EVER since I can remember having any ideas on -the subject at all, I have always longed to be -married in one of those dark, little tucked-away -chapels in some cathedral or other, in France or England, -like a girl I read about in a book. Perhaps a -late afternoon service would be going on up near the -big altar; candles would be burning; the priest would -be chanting queer minor things; poor women would -be stepping in, crossing themselves, to say a prayer; -and, all unconscious of me, nearly hidden by the big -stone pillars, tourists would be tip-toeing about, gazing -at the rose-window and the towering arches. There -would be footfalls and whispers in the nave. Echoes -everywhere. I should have loved the echoes! "But -then," Edith said, "you wouldn't have had a sign of -a wedding present, and you can't furnish your house -with echoes, crazy Bobbs."</p> - -<p>If ever there was a wedding opposite to my ideal of -one, it was mine. For of course I am married to Dr. -Maynard.</p> - -<p>You aren't surprised, I know. It was all decided -that afternoon at three, and two weeks later when -Will sailed back to Germany it wasn't in imagination -that I stood on the dock and waved him good-bye. -I was there soul and body this time, and I followed -with my fluttering handkerchief every motion that he -made with his hat and great spoke of an arm. I -watched him till he faded out of sight, and then with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p203" id="Page_p203">[203]</a></span> -Ruth and Edith, who went to New York with me, -I returned to the shops to buy my trousseau.</p> - -<p>Will had to be back in Germany on May first to deliver -a lecture before a very learned assembly of scientists -and doctors. They wanted him to tell them -about a few of his experiments with his guinea-pigs. -It was a great compliment for so young a man, and -an American besides, to receive an invitation to address -a body of old-world sages. Of course he -couldn't disappoint them, but he told me that by the -middle of August he would be sailing back again and -after a simple little wedding in the dead quiet of midsummer, -he would at last carry his refugee back with -him to Europe. He was not going to begin work -until October. We planned to travel till then.</p> - -<p>"So, after all," said Will to me that afternoon at -three o'clock, "after all, some day—oh, Lucy—perhaps -some day—" and <i>this</i> time it was I who finished -the sentence.</p> - -<p>"Yes, perhaps some day," I said sparkling, "the -refugee and you will be seeing Paris together."</p> - -<p>Our plans would have been lovely if they had -worked out; but they didn't. I haven't seen Paris -yet, and there's no prospect that I shall until Will's -Sabbatical year comes around. We're going across -then, he says, if we have to work our way -on a cattle ship. You see Will no sooner -got back there to Germany and delivered his -lectures to those old sages, than the medical -department of one of the biggest universities here -in America sent him an invitation to become a member -of their faculty. The position was quite to his -taste, he wrote me. He could keep right on with his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p204" id="Page_p204">[204]</a></span> -experimenting and guinea-pigs to his heart's content—the -university had wonderfully equipped laboratories, -the best in America—and what did I say? What -<i>should</i> I say to a person whose very picture that had -been taken for just me to put on my bureau, had appeared -in two magazines that month? Such an insignificant -tail to the big lion as I, ought cheerfully -to go wagging to the North Pole or the Sahara Desert. -Of course I didn't say a word.</p> - -<p>I never saw anything like the way the magazines -burst forth in sudden praise of Will. His appointment -to the faculty of the university was reported in -every paper published. I didn't know whether my -emotions were of pride or fear. After reading an account -of what Dr. William Ford Maynard had accomplished -and how high his position was in the scientific -world, and then, immediately following, seeing -the announcement of his engagement to Miss Lucy -Chenery Vars, of Hilton, Mass., I was filled with a -good deal of apprehension.</p> - -<p>Edith was delighted with my engagement. To -boast of William Ford Maynard as a future brother-in-law -was a great feather in her cap. The plans for -an elaborate wedding were formed and crystallised -before I had gotten used to wearing my engagement -ring. I didn't want a big wedding, but it seemed -useless to remonstrate. You see I was under obligations -to Edith. All my linen, stiff gorgeous stuff with -heavy elaborate monograms, she had given me; bath -towels two yards long which I despise, sets of underwear -all ruffles, fol-de-rols and satin rosettes, she had -bestowed upon me; also my solid silver service, Sheffield -tray and flat silver were gifts from Edith. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p205" id="Page_p205">[205]</a></span> -didn't like my flat silver. The design is awfully elaborate, -representing a horn of plenty overflowing with -pears and grapes and apples. Edith, however, thought -it was stunning. I didn't like my wedding invitations, -thick as leather, engraved in enormous block letters, -my name staring at me like a sign over a store and a -whole pack of cards besides. But Edith did. I -didn't want the ceremony to take place in the Episcopal -church which Edith has been attending lately, with a -boys' choir preceding me up the aisle, when I've always -been a plain straight old-fashioned Congregationalist. -I didn't want eight bridesmaids of Edith's -choosing, selected from the most prominent families -that she could find. I didn't want all society invited. -But I soon discovered that my wedding was to be -Edith's party, not mine.</p> - -<p>On the morning of the fifth day before the great -occasion I was in the Circassian walnut guest-chamber -looking at the overwhelming display of wedding presents. -The original furniture had been moved into -the stable and a low wide shelf covered with heavy -white damask ran around the entire room. Edith had -put all the cut-glass together in the bay-window, and -under the glare of a dozen extra electric lights it -sparkled bright and hard. There were two enormous -punch-bowls, a lamp, a vase big enough for an umbrella-stand, -thirteen berry dishes, baskets and candlesticks, -two ice-cream sets, two dozen finger-bowls and -six dozen glasses. I hate cut-glass!</p> - -<p>"Lucy, Lucy, you up there?" somebody called as -I gazed.</p> - -<p>"I suppose so," I sang back, and I heard Edith -coming up the stairs. I hadn't a doubt but that she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p206" id="Page_p206">[206]</a></span> -would be staggering under a fresh load of presents -and I wasn't mistaken. She appeared with a regular -Pisa Tower of them, extending up to her eyes.</p> - -<p>"How's this for a haul?" she gasped. "Come on, -my dear, hustle up and see what you draw." Then -she added, "Gracious, Lucy, where in the world did -you resurrect that old dress? Don't you know every -one will be dropping in at all hours during these last -days?" Edith herself was fairly dazzling in stiff -crackling white linen.</p> - -<p>"It was so comfortable," I murmured, "and it has -no bones in the collar."</p> - -<p>"I should say it hadn't! Your bridesmaids will be -here any minute. Hurry up and look at these things, -and then go and get yourself fixed up. <i>Do.</i>"</p> - -<p>I began silently on the bottom box, cut the string, -removed the cover, and from beneath the tissue-paper -drew out a red flannelette bag.</p> - -<p>"It's another plateau," I said wearily before I unpulled -the draw-string. I had seven already.</p> - -<p>"A plateau! From the Elmer Scotts!" She -tossed the cards over to me contemptuously. "That -girl visited me for two weeks before I was married. -They have loads. A plateau! Only the six-fifty size -at that, and—how disgusting—<i>marked</i>!"</p> - -<p>I didn't know the Scotts from Adam. Half my -presents were from Edith's friends. I didn't see why -the Scotts should give me anything.</p> - -<p>"Why, they were invited to the reception, my -dear!" said Edith, scandalised. "Come, pass it over! -Here goes for three hundred and seventy-two," and -she tore off a little number from a sheet of others, -touched it with the tip of her tongue and slapped it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p207" id="Page_p207">[207]</a></span> -on to the face of the plateau. She listed it under S -in a small book and placed it with my seven other -plateaus on the silver table. I hadn't liked putting -them all together. "But, nonsense," Edith had said. -"Don't you see, little simpleton, if they are together, -people can tell how many plateaus you have at a -glance? My goodness, three hundred and seventy-two -presents so far and three more days yet! I'll bet -you get five hundred. Dear me, Lucy," she broke -off, "there come your bridesmaids. Do go and change -your dress. Put on the embroidered mulle; and hurry, -child."</p> - -<p>I suppose my blue checked gingham did look faded -and plain, but I went to my room with a great swelling -loyalty in my heart for every plain thing in the -world. I hung my blue gingham in the closet almost -tenderly. Already my wedding costume was there, -staring at me from the corner—shining satin and expensive -lace, little sachet bags sewed into the lining, -and, on the belt inside, the name in gold letters of -one of the most fashionable dressmakers in New York. -I was gazing at it, wishing with all my heart that I -hadn't got to take the place of the tissue-paper now -stuffed into the waist and sleeves, when my sister-in-law -suddenly appeared at the door.</p> - -<p>"Hurry, Bobbie," she said. "Hurry, do. Your -bridesmaids are all here and the Leonard Jacksons -have brought over the John Percivals in their car. -Don't forget the Jacksons gave you the dozen silver -coquilholders, and the Percivals the Dresden service -plates. Be nice to Mrs. Percival. She's going to be -one of your neighbours next year. I must run along. -They'll be wondering." She started to go, but turned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p208" id="Page_p208">[208]</a></span> -back and added, "Why in the world aren't you more -enthusiastic, Lucy? You ought to be the happiest -girl in the world, <i>I</i> think. I never saw a more elaborate -trousseau or a costlier layout of presents in my -life. I can't imagine what else you want!"</p> - -<p>A maid knocked outside the door and spoke to -Edith. I didn't hear the message, but Edith gave a -little exclamation and hurried away.</p> - -<p>"The King Georges or the Kaiser Wilhelms in their -aeroplane, no doubt," I muttered, and made a face at -my wedding-gown as I yanked down my embroidered -mulle.</p> - -<p>I am going to skip the details of my wedding—the -broiling condition of the thermometer, the sweltering -bridesmaids, the crowds, the push, the funny grown-up -feeling in my heart when Alec and Tom kissed me -good-bye so gently, the joy when the train finally gave -a snort and a jerk, and I knew that Edith in her pearls -and satin couldn't possibly follow. I am so anxious -to describe the funny old brown house that Will and I -leased in the shadow of chemistry buildings, law-schools, -and dormitories down here in this university -town, and the life—the curious, happy, contented -life that I drifted into—that I do not want to waste -any time.</p> - -<p>The week after my wedding Edith sailed with Ruth -for four months in Europe. That is how it happened -that she wasn't on the ground to superintend the choice -of a residence for Will and me. I knew very well -that Edith would never have countenanced for a minute -the house that we finally decided to rent for the -winter. It was a brown, square affair, a door in the -middle with a window on each side, not colonial in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p209" id="Page_p209">[209]</a></span> -the least, nondescript as it could be, with a slate French -roof. Will and I thought it would answer the purpose, -however—even though the bathtub was tin—and -moved into it when the brick sidewalk was sprinkled -with yellow maple-leaves, and the gutter was collecting -dry ones.</p> - -<p>I didn't know a soul in the town. I didn't know -the name of a single street except our own. I didn't -know where to go to buy even a spool of thread. But -I wasn't homesick—oh, no, I wasn't homesick. You -see I had forgotten the joy of my own kitchen and -pantry; I had forgotten what a collander looked like; -I had forgotten how sweet a row of cups are hanging -by their handles, underneath a shelf edged with scalloped -paper!</p> - -<p>I enjoyed acting as my own mistress too; though -I am sure if Edith had known what I was up to, she -would have left all the pleasures of Paris to set me in -the right path. For I didn't even unpack some of -my wedding presents. They didn't fit in very well -with Will's furniture which he had freighted down -from the old white-pillared house in Hilton, and every -sliver of which I simply adored. It wasn't colonial -furniture, understand, which is so fashionable nowadays, -but black walnut of the seventies—high-backed -armchairs and sofas and marble-topped bedroom tables. -There were funny old steel engravings of the United -States Senate, battle scenes, and Abraham Lincoln, -besides some big heavy bronzes that Will told me were -very valuable. The sideboard was black walnut like -everything else and Edith's elaborate silver service -made it look so out-of-date that I put on it instead my -own mother's old coffee-pot—the one that used to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p210" id="Page_p210">[210]</a></span> -so heavy for me—and our old-fashioned silver water -pitcher with four high goblets to match. I didn't even -unlock my enormous chest of silver. Alec had let -me take from the safe at home the forks and darling -thin spoons and knives that had always been in our -family. It was like sheltering old friends under my -roof to care for them again.</p> - -<p>Edith would have hated the life I drifted into. She -would have called it "a mere existence" or "worse -than the frontier." From September to February, I -didn't go to a single luncheon, tea, or bridge! People -had called—members of the faculty, I suppose, I'm -sure I don't know, for the cards were mere names to -me and I was always out when they were left. You -see one evening I had run across something in a -pamphlet of Will's on our living-room table that set -me to thinking. The pamphlet was a sort of bulletin -of lectures given by different professors in the college. -There was a star after several of the announcements -and at the bottom of the page it said, "Open to -the Public." I hadn't a notion whether it was the -right thing for me to go to them or not, but one rainy -afternoon I hunted up Tyler Hall and Room twenty-one -on the second floor and slunk into one of the back -chairs at five minutes to three, very much frightened -and wondering if I would be turned out. The lecture -was the second or third of a series given by a Dr. -Van Breeze on something in philosophy. I didn't understand -more than about two sentences, but no one -seemed to question my right to sit there, and I felt ten -times more comfortable than I ever had at bridge -parties in Hilton.</p> - -<p>You see I have never been to college. Although I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p211" id="Page_p211">[211]</a></span> -hated boarding-school with all my heart and soul, I -have always had a sneaking idea I might have done -better at college. I always liked to study and when -I became aware of the fact that Juliet—who, though -the best and staunchest girl in the world, was never -very brainy—was soaring above me in knowledge, -I used to be a little envious. It may seem odd to you -for a married woman to be trotting across a campus -every other day to attend lectures in class-rooms, as -if she were an undergraduate, but after my first plunge -into that discourse on philosophy by Dr. Van Breeze -I never missed a single lecture in the series. I went -the next week and the next and the next; and also -bolted bravely into a series of French lectures every -Monday afternoon. I liked just to sit and breathe -the air of those class-rooms. I liked the long line -of blackboards covered with unintelligible words that -belonged to a previous lecture, the row of felt erasers, -the smell of dry chalk-dust. I liked sitting in those -studious-looking chairs with a big arm on one side. -It was as strange and foreign as a new country in -those class-rooms, with the bare maple-tree branches -grazing the window-pane, and in my ears the music -of the French language which I hadn't heard since I -left high school. I was a thousand, thousand miles -away from the atmosphere of limousines and Edith, -five hundred and two wedding presents, and a wedding-dress -that cost two hundred dollars. It was like -a distant echo from another world when I received an -invitation for a bridge one day from a Mrs. Percival. -It had completely escaped my mind that she was -one of the individuals who had given me a dozen -Dresden plates. Even if I had recollected I shouldn't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p212" id="Page_p212">[212]</a></span> -have accepted the invitation. Why should I put handcuffs -on myself again, now I was once free from a -bondage that I loathed? I sent a very proper note -of regret to Mrs. Percival, pleading a previous engagement. -It was true. An old white-haired gentleman -whom I often met at Dr. Van Breeze's lectures -had asked me to sit beside him that particular afternoon -at three o'clock in Tyler Hall.</p> - -<p>I didn't tell Will about the lectures. He was usually -busy at the medical school daytimes, and I was -always at home when he arrived at six. I was -ashamed to confess to Will that I, who never studied -a science in my life, was presuming to attend lectures -on the Geology of Fuels and Fluxes (for I took in -everything that was starred), the Influence of Science -upon Religion, and something about the Law of Falling -Spheres. I hated to have him laugh at me, so I kept -absolutely quiet on the subject of my ridiculous search -for knowledge. I didn't even tell him about my new -acquaintances.</p> - -<p>The white-haired old gentleman and I developed -quite a friendship. Every Thursday we used to walk -home together as far as the Library, and he would -explain things in the lecture that I didn't understand. -He called me Pandora in fun because I was so inquisitive -and couldn't bear to let things unknown to me -alone. Once in a while a queer little man in a frock -coat and a soft artist's tie would join us, and a woman—a -Miss Avery in an ugly brown suit and a stiff linen -collar like a man's. They used to think that my questions -were the drollest things they had ever heard in -their lives; but I couldn't help but feel that the sweet -old man took quite a fancy to me. He gave me a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p213" id="Page_p213">[213]</a></span> -book once on philosophy, by a famous scholar, and another -time he asked me to come to his house to meet -his wife. Naturally I didn't go, for I wouldn't have -let any one guess I was Mrs. William Ford Maynard -for all the wives in creation. It was a funny existence -to drift into, wasn't it—cake and snow-pudding -in the morning (I loved to mess about in the kitchen); -economics, geology, philosophy and French in the afternoon; -and evenings our open fire and cribbage with -dear old Will, by the light of our big bronze lamp? -It was a happy existence too.</p> - -<p>I found something in those lectures of Dr. Van -Breeze's which I had lost a long time ago. It was a -precious thing and at first I didn't recognise it. You -see every once in a while Dr. Van Breeze would say -something that was better than anything I had ever -heard in any church. I wasn't sure that I quite understood -him, so I asked the old gentleman. It was -a great eye-opener to me when I learned that such a -great thinker as Dr. Van Breeze had a religion.</p> - -<p>"Why, even <i>I</i> don't believe anything," I told my -white-haired friend.</p> - -<p>His little eyes twinkled at that. "And proud of it -too, I'll wager," he laughed.</p> - -<p>I blushed, for I think I did feel rather superior, just -as I had felt wise when I knew there was no Santa -Claus. Juliet and I had talked quite a good deal about -religion. She took a course in "Bible" at college, -which seemed to knock all the inspiration and the miracles -out of it for her; and when it came to her course -in philosophy, well—she said that she thought that -ministers were a very credulous lot of men. She said -you couldn't argue with them because they always<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p214" id="Page_p214">[214]</a></span> -wanted to prove things by quoting the Bible, while -there existed simply dozens of other worthy reference -books. She said that she preferred to rely on great -scholars and philosophers for truth, rather than on -men who only looked in <i>one</i> book for information. -Naturally I didn't want to keep on believing in a fallacy, -simply because I had never been to college. -Childish as it may seem at first, I used to feel awfully -unanchored not to say my prayers at night; but of -course such a custom was silly, if I really was an unbeliever. -I told my white-haired old friend in defence -of my shocking statement (which by the way -didn't shock him at all) that he might laugh, but anyhow -I was backed up by scholars and philosophers, -who since the year one had all been busy trying to -prove that there wasn't anything in religion to believe.</p> - -<p>"Why, my dear mistaken Pandora," smiled my -friend. "On the contrary, philosophers have all been -trying to prove there <i>is</i> something to believe, of some -nature or other."</p> - -<p>"Really?" I exclaimed. "It would be a big relief -to me—but are you sure?"</p> - -<p>"Did you ever hear of Benedict Graham?" he replied. -Of course I had—every one has. He's at -the head of the philosophy department at this university. -The next week my friend presented me with -Benedict Graham's "Introduction to Philosophy." I -thought such a book would be way beyond my understanding, -but it wasn't. I used to read a chapter or -two by myself and then talk it over with my friend -afterward. He made everything very simple to me -and seemed besides to be an awfully well-informed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p215" id="Page_p215">[215]</a></span> -old gentleman. I didn't think even Juliet could scoff -at him, though he did <i>believe</i> a lot of things. After -a week or two I felt rather ashamed at having so -loftily pronounced myself an Unbeliever. I am no -such thing! I can't tell you exactly what I am. I -really don't know. But so long as minds ten times -bigger and greater than mine (like Dr. Van Breeze -and Benedict Graham, and lots of those learned old -Greeks and Germans) so long as such intellects entertain -the idea that there is <i>something</i> of <i>some</i> nature -to believe in, I tell you, I'm going to believe in it -with all my might and main.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p216" id="Page_p216">[216]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER XVII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">EDITH didn't remain in Europe as long as she expected. -She dropped down upon us one night, -with Ruth trailing on behind, as unexpectedly as a -falling star. I had just had a letter that said that -she and Ruth and Alec—my brother had since joined -them—were all installed in a fashionable hotel in -Paris for six weeks. You can imagine my surprise -when Edith and Ruth appeared at my front door.</p> - -<p>Will and I were playing cribbage. He had laid -down his big book; I had put aside my sewing; and -the four little pegs on the cribbage-board had already -run the course twice. We always play five games of -cribbage every night before we go upstairs to bed. -We call it our sleeping-powder. Will had just dealt -the cards—it was almost nine o'clock—when the -door-bell rang. Old Delia had creaked up to bed ages -ago, so Will went to the door himself. I didn't bother -even to uncurl my feet—I was sitting Turkish fashion—for -I thought it must be the expressman. I -yawned and waited.</p> - -<p>I heard Will say, "Hello! hello! Well, well, of all—When -did you—Where—" and a moment later, -resplendent in a long sealskin coat, a sealskin hat, a -perfectly enormous muff and a gold chain purse, -Edith pushed into our hall, eyes simply sparkling and -cheeks aglow.</p> - -<p>"Hello, Turtle-doves!" she exclaimed. "Hello, -Brother Will! Hello, Mrs. Bobbikins!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p217" id="Page_p217">[217]</a></span></p> - -<p>I started up.</p> - -<p>"Of all things!" I ejaculated.</p> - -<p>Edith kissed me through a prickly veil. Ruth -kissed me too. Ruth was simply overwhelming in a -huge blue hat with not less than six blue ostrich -plumes. They both kissed Will. We all began to -laugh.</p> - -<p>"We <i>knew</i> you'd be surprised," said Ruth.</p> - -<p>"But I thought—" I began.</p> - -<p>"Where's Alec?" asked Will.</p> - -<p>"Why in the world—" I tucked in.</p> - -<p>"Listen! Wait!" commanded Edith. "<i>I'll</i> explain. -We thought," she said, gurgling with mirth, -"it would be great fun to surprise you, so—"</p> - -<p>"Alec got a cable last week—" put in Ruth.</p> - -<p>"From my dad," Edith went on. "Business! -Wasn't it disgusting when we weren't planning to sail -for six weeks? Al had to go right on to Chicago—and -The Homestead—"</p> - -<p>"We had the bridal suite on the <i>Mauretania!</i>" I -heard Ruth exclaim to Will.</p> - -<p>"—isn't open," finished Edith. "The servants are -scattered to the four winds. I've written to them, -but of course they haven't had a chance to open things -up yet. So we thought it would be fun to—"</p> - -<p>"To pop in on you!" giggled Ruth.</p> - -<p>"Can you put us up?" snapped Edith.</p> - -<p>"Of course! How nice!" I tried to say cordially, -with the image of my cold, unused, north guest-room -dancing before my eyes, the floor covered with newspapers, -two cut-glass punch-bowls, thirteen berry -dishes and seven vases. "<i>Of course</i> I can put you up. -Take off your things."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p218" id="Page_p218">[218]</a></span></p> - -<p>Will produced two dining-room chairs and Edith -and Ruth buried them in no time beneath a stack of -coats, hats and muffs. Edith was gowned—slick as -a black suede glove—in a tight-fitting, broadcloth, -one-piece dress, Irish lace at neck and wrists. Ruth's -new Parisian hair was simply glorious. They strutted -into our comfortable living-room like two peacocks, -Edith surveying the walls and ceilings as if she were -examining the dome of the Boston State-house.</p> - -<p>"So this is where you coo!" she said in her horrid -patronising manner. Imagine Dr. William Maynard -of the medical department of one of the biggest universities -in the country cooing! I blushed for Will. -He pushed up a chair. It chanced to be one of Father's -old morocco leather armchairs I had found in the -storeroom at home. Edith made opera-glasses of her -two hands, and pretended to gaze intently at the poor -old piece of furniture.</p> - -<p>"Hello, old friend!" she said, and made a mock -salute. "You look familiar. Back into service -again, hey? 'Comfy' anyhow!" she finished and settled -into it.</p> - -<p>"What sort of a passage was it?" asked Will, and -for the next half-hour we listened to an account of a -perfectly disgusting customs officer in New York, who -made Edith pay one hundred and ninety-five dollars -on a half-dozen mere gowns that already were simply -worn to shreds.</p> - -<p>It was when Will had gone to the kitchen for -some water that Edith leaned forward and said to -me:</p> - -<p>"How'd you happen to take <i>this</i> house, my dear? -And don't you dress for dinner, Lucy?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p219" id="Page_p219">[219]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh," I said, "this? It's short and I can hook it -up myself."</p> - -<p>"I just <i>knew</i>," chimed in my own sister Ruth, -"that Lucy would be one of those to get slack after -she was once married. Now I've always said that -<i>I</i>—"</p> - -<p>"I didn't know," broke in Edith in a sudden burst -of laughter, "that there were any houses left nowadays -that had those funny old-fashioned storm-doors -that you hook on every winter."</p> - -<p>"Trust Lucy to pick out the oldest shack in the -town," tucked in Ruth, touching the surface of her -perfect coiffure with light fingers, and glancing sideways -at herself in an old gilt-framed mirror on the -wall.</p> - -<p>"By the way, Lucy," Edith added, piling it on, I -thought, a bit too thick, "people aren't using doilies -under ornaments any more. Where are all those -stunning plateaus?"</p> - -<p>"Dear me," I laughed, bound to be good-natured, -"I'd completely forgotten the plateaus. They must -be in one of the barrels we haven't opened."</p> - -<p>"Haven't opened! I <i>never</i> saw any one like you. -Haven't opened! It certainly is a good thing that -I've come home."</p> - -<p>It was with a sinking heart that I took Edith and -Ruth up to the guest-room in which I had put one of -Will's black walnut bedroom sets.</p> - -<p>"If I'd only known you were coming!" I began -going up the stairs trying to explain. "The bureau -is chuck-full of silver things—we ought to have a -safe. And the closet—all my good dresses are there. -We have so little closet-room in this house. In the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p220" id="Page_p220">[220]</a></span> -morning I'll clear it out. I know you'd like separate -beds too, but when Will's things were all unpacked -there wasn't room for much new furniture. And I'm -sorry, Edith, that you haven't a bath connected. We -have only one bathroom in the entire house and even -that—"</p> - -<p>Edith wouldn't let me finish. We were in the guest-room -now. Her eyes were on the cut-glass in the -corner.</p> - -<p>"I ought never to have gone to Europe," she -announced. "Never in this world!"</p> - -<p>I wished she had never come home, and when I -kissed her good-night, all the old rancour and rebellion, -dormant for so long, was raging in my heart. -I stole downstairs after I was undressed, pulled out -Edith's silver service from underneath the stairs and -put it on the sideboard; I unlocked Edith's chest of -silver, and began laying the breakfast table with the -horns-of-plenty; I dragged out some elaborate breakfast -napkins; I hauled down from the top shelf of the -pantry a Coalport breakfast-set. At one <span class="smcap">A. M.</span>, when -I was crawling back stealthily to our room, I had to -pass the guest-chamber door. I heard voices, and -stopped a moment.</p> - -<p>"It's human nature for a man, single or married, -to prefer a woman in pretty clothes, whoever she is," -said Edith.</p> - -<p>"Of course," Ruth agreed. "When she came in -to say good-night did you see the horrid old red -worsted bedroom slippers she had on?"</p> - -<p>"And moreover," Edith went on, "a man likes an -attractive house—pretty pictures, pretty ornaments, -a place where he is proud to bring his friends."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p221" id="Page_p221">[221]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Naturally."</p> - -<p>"A man likes to be proud of his wife too," went on -the sage, "proud of her friends, of her place in society. -Now Lucy—absolutely <i>no</i> social-sense—not -a spark. No doubt, if she's made any friends at all, -they're the grocery-man and the seamstress, or the -woman who washes her hair."</p> - -<p>Ruth giggled.</p> - -<p>"Now <i>you</i>, Ruth," Edith pursued, "are a girl after -my own heart. <i>You</i> are the kind to be the wife of a -famous man. <i>You</i> could be Mrs. William Maynard -with the right sort of go."</p> - -<p>I had to smile at the thought of Ruth and Will. -Will hates false things—puffs and brilliantine; he -hates fluffy negligees, and silly, high-heeled unwalkable -shoes; he hates fuss and feathers. I passed on -down the hall.</p> - -<p>"It will take more than Edith Campbell and my -young sister Ruth to disturb me, I guess," I said to -myself as I turned out several flaring gas-jets in the -hall and bathroom, left by those two extravagant -creatures to burn all night.</p> - -<p>Edith awoke the next morning armoured for battle. -I could see it in her eyes and feel it in her manner. -I knew it was to be no slight skirmish, but a -well-thought-out and carefully-planned campaign. I -knew it was to be a serious engagement because neither -she nor Ruth criticised a single thing for the next -two days. If they were shocked and surprised, I -knew it only by raised eyebrows, critical smiles or -covert glances. I hated their silence. I felt as if -the entire foundation of my life was stealthily being -honeycombed with tunnels, laid with bombs and dyna<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p222" id="Page_p222">[222]</a></span>mite, -and I wondered a little uncomfortably when -Edith would light the fuse. Edith is wonderful in -some ways, as you know. At a hotel or on a steamer -she catches on to the right people to know within the -first twenty-four hours, and by the third day she's -playing bridge with them. As soon as ever her half-dozen -pieces of baggage had arrived, she donned a -Paquin three-piece velvet suit and set out to call on -Mrs. Percival. That night the explosion took place.</p> - -<p>"I called on Mrs. Percival this afternoon," she began -after dinner. "She says, Lucy, that you never -returned her call."</p> - -<p>Will had gone to a lecture that evening. Ruth was -playing solitaire in front of the fire.</p> - -<p>"Has Mrs. Percival called on me? I didn't realise -it," I replied.</p> - -<p>"Not only has Mrs. Percival called, but every one -else who should. That impossible servant of yours -said that all these people had called." Edith took -down the brass jardinière where I deposit all my -visiting-cards. "She said that you were never in -afternoons and had not seen <i>one</i> of them. Where -under the heavens were you, Lucy?"</p> - -<p>I felt ashamed to tell Edith about the lectures, so -I said instead:</p> - -<p>"Oh, anywhere—walking, shopping—<i>anywhere</i>. -I never stay in afternoons. I can't bear to."</p> - -<p>"How many of those calls have you returned?" -cross-examined my sister-in-law.</p> - -<p>"Well—I am <i>going</i> to return them all," I began. -"They're such strangers to me that I've been putting -it off. You know how I hate making calls anyway. -But of course—"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p223" id="Page_p223">[223]</a></span></p> - -<p>Edith interrupted me.</p> - -<p>"<i>The</i> people in this town are the ones connected -with the university. I have always heard that. -You've had every opportunity to know them. -They've all called on account of Will. You've simply -thrown away chance upon chance. Here are the -Philemon Omsteds' cards. Mrs. Percival says that -Dr. Omsted is awfully queer—kind of a socialist—but -that Mrs. Omsted's musicales are the selectest -things given. Here are Mrs. Daniel Haynes McClellan's -cards, the Bernkapps, Madame Gauthier. I -found out from Mrs. Percival, indirectly of course, -that all these people are <i>in</i> things. Mrs. Benedict -Graham—even <i>she</i> has called on you. And Mrs. -Percival says that <i>she</i> was a Granville—daughter of -President Emeritus Granville. Dr. Graham is an awfully -prominent man himself. Surely you've heard -of Benedict Graham, Lucy. Surely—"</p> - -<p>"Of course!" I interrupted. "Every one has, -Edith, and I'm reading his book, but I'd be frightened -to death to go up and pull the Benedict Grahams' -bell. I couldn't!"</p> - -<p>"You ought to be married to a clerk or a barber, -and then you wouldn't need to. I should hate to -think I had married a man whom I couldn't live up -to. Every one has heard of Will. He has been -talked about all over the country. But what about -his wife? Who is she?" Edith's words were beginning -to cut now and I bit my lip. "There was -a tea this very afternoon to which Mrs. William Maynard -ought to have been invited. Were you?"</p> - -<p>I shook my head.</p> - -<p>"Of course you weren't, nor last week to a musi<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p224" id="Page_p224">[224]</a></span>cale -that Mrs. Omsted gave, and I'll bet you had nothing -whatsoever to do with the Charity Bazaar that -the younger women in the university set get up every -Christmas. Do you think a man wants to be -married to a person who is not received—absolutely -ignored, as if something was the matter with her? -Whom in the world do you know here, anyway? -Any one at all?"</p> - -<p>Pictures of the little man with the soft tie, the dear -white-haired old gentleman whose name I did not even -know, and Miss Avery, all impossible I knew to Edith, -flashed before my eyes. So I shook my head and -Edith went on.</p> - -<p>"And the house—it's simply impossible! Such a -location! Why, no one lives in this part of town. -You would think that Will couldn't afford anything -better, but he can. You ought to have two maids. -And why under the heavens all this old furniture? -People don't use black walnut any more, and that old -narrow, square dining-room table is simply beyond -words!"</p> - -<p>"And you have no butler's pantry nor back stairs," -put in Ruth.</p> - -<p>"And you ought to make your maid wear black -afternoons."</p> - -<p>"And turn down the beds," added Ruth.</p> - -<p>"It's <i>my</i> house," I began. "If you don't like -it—" I got up quickly and started to leave the room.</p> - -<p>"Oh, come, Bobbikins," Edith said in her persistently -cheerful way. "Don't get cross. I was only -trying to be helpful." Then she went on: "I found -this on the floor, by your desk. I couldn't help but -see it. It's an invitation for dinner from Mrs. Bene<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p225" id="Page_p225">[225]</a></span>dict -Graham. I can't understand why she invites you -if you've never returned her call, but of course it's -on account of Will. I can't imagine your not accepting -this invitation and yet I heard you say that -next Thursday, the sixth, the very evening of this -dinner, you and Will had tickets for the theatre."</p> - -<p>"Yes, we've been planning to go on that particular -night for three weeks. It's a little secret anniversary -of ours," I said sullenly; "and we're going -too. Why should you, Edith, come here and try to -upset the whole universe? We're happy. Will is -satisfied. He loves things simple. I wish you'd -leave us alone. Will doesn't care a scrap about society, -and I hate it, hate it, hate it!" I was on the -verge of bursting into tears.</p> - -<p>"Well, if there's going to be a scene, excuse <i>me</i>, -please," said Ruth, and started to leave the room.</p> - -<p>"If you're through with that card-table, please fold -it up and put it in the closet," I said to Ruth with -my eyes full of fire. "I haven't got six servants."</p> - -<p>"Whew!" whistled Ruth and began gathering up -her cards.</p> - -<p>"I should think," calmly went on Edith like a repeating -alarm-clock, "you'd like your husband to be -<i>proud</i> of you."</p> - -<p>"Oh, please—please—" I fired back, and then -suddenly, too full to speak, I turned abruptly and fled -up the stairs to my room.</p> - -<p>The sweet darkness enveloped me. I drew a chair -to the window. <i>Will</i> would ask her to mind her own -affairs; <i>Will</i> would talk to her; <i>Will</i> would tell her -how he hated her mean ambitions, how he abhorred -her contemptible snobbishness; <i>Will</i> would defend<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p226" id="Page_p226">[226]</a></span> -and stand up for me; <i>Will</i> would fix her! "Just -wait for <i>Will</i>!" I said, and listened for his step -on the sidewalk outside and the sound of his key in -the latch. I heard him come in about half past ten. -It was almost twelve when he came up to me.</p> - -<p>"Not in bed?" he asked gently and leaned down -and kissed me. "Edith was downstairs when I came -in and we've been talking. I don't know but what we -ought to keep two maids, Bobbie dear," Will said, -and I felt as if I had been struck. Will went over -and lit the gas. "I guess we might as well postpone -our theatre party for next Thursday," he went on. -"I think, after all, we'd better go to the Grahams' -dinner. By the way," he broke off, "didn't you get -an invitation to the Omsteds' affair last week?"</p> - -<p>"No, Will, I didn't," I said dully.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps you'll find time to pay back a few of -those calls some time pretty soon, Bobbie dear," he -said to me. And that morning about four <span class="smcap">A. M.</span> I -cried myself to sleep.</p> - -<p>Edith went to the dinner too. She had Will telephone -and fix it up someway. I don't know how nor -I didn't ask. I was very miserable, very unhappy. -My heart was heavier than it had been for a whole -year. "Will wasn't satisfied, Will wasn't proud, -Will was ashamed of me," rang in my ears from -morning till night. During the few days that still -must be lived before Thursday the sixth at seven -o'clock, Edith exhibited the usual kindness and gentle -consideration of any victor over the vanquished. I -didn't make another plea. I was as resigned as a -fatalist, and as unmurmuring as a stoic. I wrote my -acceptance at Edith's dictation without a word, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p227" id="Page_p227">[227]</a></span> -silently fought the tears that came to my eyes, as I -sealed the envelope.</p> - -<p>"O Bobbie," said Will gently, "don't worry so -about it, dear. You weren't so frightened about your -own wedding."</p> - -<p>"Exactly," said Edith. "And I've had dinners at -The Homestead just as grand as this. You're simply -out of training. People won't notice you so much -as you think anyhow. Just act slowly, and don't try -to talk. That's all. <i>I'll</i> be there and you can 'lean -on me, grandpa.' <i>You'll</i> be all right," she assured -me grandly.</p> - -<p>I couldn't explain to Will and Edith how I felt -about that dinner at the Grahams'. They wouldn't -understand. Of course I had been to Edith's parties -at The Homestead, but then I was simply Lucy Vars; -and now I was Mrs. William Ford Maynard. Everybody -in Hilton had accepted Lucy Vars long ago as -a queer, quiet sort of shy little mouse, and treated her -as such. She was used to it. But here, no one had -as yet discovered Mrs. William Ford Maynard. She -had been living for six, beautiful, unmolested months -in idyllic secretion. But she had been run down at -last, she must give herself up like a hunted convict, -and by Thursday at midnight all of Dr. Maynard's -learned associates would know just what sort of insignificant -little person he had married. Oh, if only -for Will's sake I had been born clever and brilliant; -if only I had possessed a little of Edith's style; -Ruth's <i>savoir faire</i>. Do you wonder then, that -I trembled in anticipation of this occasion? Ruth's -coming-out party, my wedding, a dozen dinners -of Edith's, were as doll's tea-parties as compared to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p228" id="Page_p228">[228]</a></span> -this, when Mrs. William Ford Maynard must come -forth from her hiding-place and meet this test of a -searching inspection.</p> - -<p>I shall never forget the faint, sickening feeling inside -of me as we stood waiting for admittance before -the big colonial house. We must have been the -last ones to arrive. A babble of voices in the drawing-room -at the left greeted us as we entered. We -walked up the old colonial stairway, and into a big -bedroom at the top with a black walnut bedroom set. -I noticed that even in my fright.</p> - -<p>"Mercy, child, don't take off your gloves," whispered -Edith to me.</p> - -<p>"I <i>hate</i> them," I said, and ripped my arms bare. -I wore a light blue silk dress with a Dutch neck, in -spite of Edith in her low-cut ball-gown plastered over -with glittering black spangles. My hair was done in -its usual everyday knot at the back of my neck, -bobbed up in the last five minutes after Ruth's sixth -attempt at dressing it in the "new way." Edith looked -like a fashion-plate: she had a perfect figure; her neck -is marvellous; she wore diamonds and a string of -pearls.</p> - -<p>I followed her down the stairs very carefully, lest -I trip in my little French-heeled satin slippers or lose -the silly things altogether. My heart was in my -mouth. "What shall I say when I am introduced? -What shall I say? What shall I say?" I kept thinking -in a panic and watched Edith sweep across the -hall in her most impressive manner. I waited an instant. -A minute more and Will was announcing, -"And this is my wife, Mrs. Graham." My heart -fluttered as it used to at parties at home.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p229" id="Page_p229">[229]</a></span></p> - -<p>The grand lady smiled upon me. She took my -hand.</p> - -<p>"So this is <i>Mrs.</i> William Maynard," she said. "I'm -glad you could come. We all know Dr. Maynard -so well—we're so proud to have him one of us—that -I am glad to meet <i>you</i>." Was she thinking how -funny and young I looked? Was she saying "What -a strange little insignificant bit of thing indeed for -such a man as William Maynard!" I wished, after -all, I had had my hair marcelled.</p> - -<p>"I want Dr. Graham to meet you," my hostess -continued and, leaning over, touched the great philosopher -on the shoulder with her fan. He was talking -to Edith. "Benedict, my dear." He turned. "Mrs. -Maynard!"</p> - -<p>I trembled in my shoes and raised my eyes.</p> - -<p>"You!" I gasped and stepped back. Dr. Benedict -Graham—<i>the</i> Dr. Benedict Graham—was no -other than my dear sweet old white-haired gentleman -of the philosophical lectures! His hands went out to -me—both of them—and gathered my ten cold trembling -fingers in his warm grasp.</p> - -<p>"You?" he repeated with the sweet light of recognition -in his eyes. "You! <i>Pandora!</i> Julia," he -said to Mrs. Graham, "Mrs. Maynard is Pandora of -whom I have told you, my little friend who takes a -walk with me every week. Well—well," he chuckled. -"Well—well." Then to astonished Will he -exclaimed, "Your wife and I are old friends," and -oh, I could have kissed him!</p> - -<p>The colour rushed back into my cheeks. My hand -was in Mrs. Graham's again, and when I looked -around the room I found I stood in a little circle—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p230" id="Page_p230">[230]</a></span>every -one's eyes, like the lights, upon me. It was -like a surprise-party, or a fairy story, or some trick -worked by a skilful magician. First my eyes fell -upon Dr. Van Breeze; and then, in a flash, on Monsieur -Gauthier, who gave the French lectures; and -suddenly coming toward me was the funny little man -with the soft wide tie. He wore it even to-night. -He took my hand cordially and Will exclaimed, "Do -you know her too, Mr. Omsted?"</p> - -<p>It all happened in a minute. I can't tell it quickly -enough. "She has read one of my books from cover -to cover," I heard Dr. Graham laugh, eyes twinkling -into mine; and I think it was just after that remark -of Dr. Graham's that Monsieur Gauthier stepped forward -and bowing before me in the dearest, Frenchiest -manner in the world, said in his own language with -every one listening, "I have never been presented to -Mrs. Maynard, but if I am not mistaken I think I -have observed her face at my Monday afternoon lectures. -Is it not so? Always the same chair—third -from the back, two removed from the aisle—always -the same. It has been a pleasure to see you there each -week."</p> - -<p>I understood every word. I didn't lose a phrase. -The warmth, the light, those words in French, everybody's -eyes upon me acted like just enough champagne.</p> - -<p>"<i>Merci, Monsieur</i>," I dared to say and swept him -a little bow. I can hear now my voice and those two -little French words falling upon the silence of that -room like a noise on a still night. I don't know how -I ever presumed to speak in French. I would have -thought it affected in any one else, but at that exult<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p231" id="Page_p231">[231]</a></span>ant -moment I could have mimicked Chinese. Two -words in a foreign language I know should not be -very amazing (any one could do it) but I could feel a -little murmur pass among the people after I had -spoken that was something—a little—like the applause -at the theatre. A moment later the talking began -again; I was being introduced at left and right; my -own voice and laughter mingled with the general babble. -It was exactly as though I had taken my plunge, -come safely to the surface and now was swimming -along with long even strokes with the others for the -shore. Edith looked at me astonished. Will observed -me as though I were a stranger. Easy words -came to my lips, my cheeks burned, and every one -was so kind—so good to me, that I forgot my dress, -my hair and my French-heeled shoes.</p> - -<p>I don't mean to imply that I was the belle of the -evening. Of course I wasn't. It would be absurd -for a mere slip of a girl, married though she was, to -come among learned men and sages and have them -all turning their attention and thought upon her. -Even if she had been pretty, and skilful in the art of -smiles and glances, which I am not, such an event -would be amazing. I only mean to say that I didn't -feel awkward nor wonder where to put my hands between -the courses. I was placed at the left of Dr. -Graham and felt as easy as if I were sitting beside my -own father. The dinner, it seemed, was in honour of -Dr. Van Breeze on account of his book about to be -published, consisting of the very lectures he had been -delivering in Tyler Hall. The talk centred about the -book a good deal and though I didn't contribute a -single idea to the conversation I understood perfectly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p232" id="Page_p232">[232]</a></span> -what was being discussed. But I do not think Edith -enjoyed herself. She was over-jewelled, in the first -place, and kept running on to Dr. Omsted, who, you -know, is a kind of socialist, about the gorgeous bridal -suite on the <i>Mauretania</i>, the one hundred and ninety-two -dollars duty she had to pay, and of how she -smuggled in a thousand-dollar pearl necklace, until -I was embarrassed.</p> - -<p>We went home about ten-thirty. Just at the door -as we were going out Mrs. Philemon Omsted stopped -me. Will had me by the arm. Edith was just in -front.</p> - -<p>"Mrs. Maynard," she said to me, "just a moment, -please. I have been very glad to meet you. And, by -the way, Easter Monday I am giving a small musicale. -Mrs. Graham is to pour for me. I should be delighted -if you will assist."</p> - -<p>I thanked her quietly (but oh, in my heart I could -have crowned her with flowers) and passed out to -our hired carriage.</p> - -<p>I sat in the middle between Edith and Will. We -drove away in silence, my heart singing, and my -cheeks warm with excitement. Will pressed my arm -with his bare hand hidden underneath the folds of my -party-coat. I could feel his joy. It was Edith who -spoke first.</p> - -<p>"What a miserable stuffy little carriage," she said; -then after a moment, "Those people may have brains, -but I don't think I ever saw such a lot of frumpily -dressed women in my life."</p> - -<p>Will leaned forward then, and said playfully, but -with a queer little sure sound in his voice, "What was -your impression of Mrs. William Maynard?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p233" id="Page_p233">[233]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Of Bobbie?" Edith asked raising her eyebrows, -disgusted with Will's little streak of fun.</p> - -<p>"Of Mrs. William Maynard," he corrected; then -in a low voice he added, "Of Mrs. William Maynard, -of whom I am so proud!" and I had to draw away -my hand to wipe away two silly tears.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p234" id="Page_p234">[234]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">IT used to be a source of great anxiety to Father -that none of his children was married. He had -a notion that the only way to make a family name -a strong one was by increase. When Tom and Alec -were scarcely out of college and the twins were still -in short trousers, Father announced that he was going -to present to the first grandson bearing the name -of Vars, a check for three thousand dollars. We -treated it a good deal as a joke then and used to -poke a lot of fun at the boys about it. That was a -long time ago—before Father died—and when we -found the same offer written out in plain black and -white in Father's will we were a little surprised and -a little touched too, realising how dreadfully in earnest -the poor dear man must have been about it, and -how disappointed. According to his instructions, -however, the three thousand dollars was put away at -interest to await the coming of the first Vars heir.</p> - -<p>At the beginning of this chapter three of us were -married—though of course I didn't count, being a -girl—and still the three thousand dollars remained -unclaimed. Poor unlucky Elise had had four girls, -and Edith hadn't had a baby of any kind. However, -we all knew if ever such an event should take place -in Edith's career it would be the most important occasion -in the entire annals of the family. And we -weren't mistaken. Edith had been married several -years when the wonderful preparations were begun.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p235" id="Page_p235">[235]</a></span> -One would have thought she was the Queen of Holland. -Everybody in Hilton seemed to vie one with -another in embroidering tiny martingales, knitting -worsted blankets, or scalloping flannel shawls for -Edith Vars' baby. The nursery that she had had -built on the sunny side of Father's house four years -before fairly bloomed into pink and white equipment. -You had only to spend a half-hour there to discover -what a popular person Edith was and what a select -place in society she had at last attained. She was -more than accommodating about telling from whom -each little gift had come. For instance the superb -baby-dress with Irish insertion Mrs. Alfred Sturtevant -brought over herself yesterday; the elaborate hand-embroidered -bassinette sheets were from Mrs. Barlow—<i>the</i> -Mrs. Barlow, you understand; the silk puffs, -silk socks, silk caps from Beatrice, Phyllis and Bernice. -A hand-made, finely-worked Christening dress -of Alec's, proving the family's prosperity thirty-five -years ago (Edith herself had risen from the sod, you -know; you may be sure <i>her</i> Christening dress wasn't -on exhibition) had been rooted out of an old trunk -in the storeroom. The most expensive "Specialist" -within reach had been engaged, and a nurse from Boston -was to remain for four months at the rate of -twenty-five a week. You could trust Edith to do the -thing up in the proper style; you could trust her also -to carry away that three thousand dollars premium in -Father's will. She felt cock-sure of it herself. -Things had always come her way, hadn't they? <i>She</i> -never did the ignominious thing, did she? Poor Elise -and her four little girls she had always held in the -lowest esteem. Fate simply wouldn't allow Edith<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p236" id="Page_p236">[236]</a></span> -Vars' baby to be a girl. Every one said so. Even -I was convinced.</p> - -<p>Alec treated Edith as if she were the centre of the -universe. When the shocking news about Oliver -reached us, Alec's chief concern was in regard to the -effect of the news upon poor Edith. It was two -years after that first dinner of ours at Dr. Graham's -that the knowledge of my brother Oliver's latest escapade -reached me one morning in early April.</p> - -<p>I was diligently dusting the black walnut bookcases -in our sunny living-room. I sat down in the nearest -chair at hand, perfectly stunned for a moment, my -jaw hanging open, no doubt, and read through the -letter containing the fatal news at least three times -before I had the strength to get up. The first thing -I did was to hang up the square piece of hem-stitched -cheese-cloth at the head of the cellar stairs; then I -went and hunted up a time-table. There was a train -due to leave for Hilton at eleven-ten. Will had left -early that morning, for he had a nine o'clock recitation, -so he wasn't at home when Alec's letter came. -But I knew that nothing less than a death in the family -could drag him away from his precious clinic the -next day, so I hurried off for the train alone. I stuck -a note of explanation into the dish of ferns on the -middle of the dining-room table:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"<i>Dear Will</i>,</p> - -<p>"I've had a letter from Alec. Oliver was married -to a Madge Tompkins in February! He's bringing -her to Hilton to-night. This is all I know about it. -Will try to be back before Sunday.</p> - -<p class="sig">"<span class="smcap">Bobbie.</span>"</p></blockquote> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p237" id="Page_p237">[237]</a></span></p> - -<p>During the last half-year Oliver had been superintending -a gang of granite workers in a little town in -Vermont. City life hadn't seemed to agree with -Oliver's purse very well, and the diversions of the -several middle-western cities, in each of which Oliver -had made a great hit with all the nicest girls and their -mothers, had interfered with his business hours. It -was after he had tried six or seven positions, starting -with banking in Pittsburg, and ending up with -shipping automobile tires in Akron, Ohio, that Tom -and Alec deposited Oliver, with scarcely a cent to his -name, in Glennings Falls, Vermont, where the possibilities -for spending money were rather limited.</p> - -<p>Poor Oliver! I felt awfully sorry for him. He's -such a brilliant-appearing fellow! It seemed to me -as if he had struck an awfully hard run of luck since -he graduated from college. He really is a civil engineer, -but fate has swerved him into other lines, which -I think is the cause of his checkered career. He always -loved to build bridges and dams and toy railroads -even as a small boy. After he finally succeeded -in squeezing through college he conceived a foolish -notion—foolish according to Tom—to take a course -in Civil Engineering at Cornell. Of course he didn't -have anything else to study—no bugbears like English -Composition, Latin or Greek, so perhaps that is -why he did so well in the Engineering. Anyhow he -passed the examinations with some kind of an honour—the -only one, poor boy, that he had ever been able -to boast of in his life. Tom, who had pooh-poohed -the idea of Oliver's wasting a year at Cornell, finally -gave up his plan of putting the boy to work in his -lumber camps, and Oliver started forth, hopes high<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p238" id="Page_p238">[238]</a></span> -and spirits aglow, to accept an engineering job in -Arizona. On the way out, at Pittsburg, he stopped -off to visit an old college friend for a fortnight, and -at the end of the first week he wrote that he had -struck a "gold mine." His friend's father was -prominently connected with half a dozen banks in -Pittsburg and had offered him a position. I could -have told the friend's father that Oliver would never -make a banker, but he found it out himself in a little -while.</p> - -<p>After Oliver left Pittsburg everything went wrong -with him. No civil engineering jobs presented themselves, -no more friends' fathers, no more "gold -mines" seemed to be available. After that Oliver -became a regular rolling-stone. He couldn't seem to -keep any of his positions, or he wouldn't, I don't -know which. He tried everything. It was manufacturing -automobile parts in Toledo; selling motorcycles -in Buffalo; making out orders for plumbers' -supplies in Cleveland. He fizzled miserably each time. -He never had any money. He was forever sending -to Tom or Alec for a check for fifty until his salary -was due. He was forever running down to New -York or over to Chicago for a class reunion or a -dance. He was forever writing to me vivid descriptions -of new "queens" he had met.</p> - -<p>It was when Tom and Alec had to pay fourteen -hundred and fifty dollars for a "swell" little last season's -roadster that Oliver had secured at a wonderful -bargain from a friend of his in Akron (this was when -he was a shipping clerk in a tire factory) and in which -he had been sporting about through the streets of the -place at a speed of thirty an hour, that he was sum<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p239" id="Page_p239">[239]</a></span>moned -to the court of his older brothers, and after -due consultation was sent up to Glennings Falls, like -a convict, to work in the mines. His roadster was -sold at a terrible sacrifice, he said, and that fact seemed -at the time to be his greatest regret.</p> - -<p>I could have cried for Oliver. There would be no -"queens" in Glennings Falls; there would be no Sunday-night -Lobster-Newbergs over a chafing-dish; -there would be no stunning "visiting girls" whom he -met at Class-Day or in Pittsburg when he was there, -or in Toledo, Cleveland or Buffalo, for him to call on -until eleven <span class="smcap">P.M.</span></p> - -<p>When I arrived in Hilton, Alec was at the station -in the automobile to meet me (I had had just time to -'phone him that I was coming) and Tom who had -come flying on from the West the minute Alec's shocking -telegram had reached him was there too. Malcolm -had caught the midnight from New York and -was waiting on the veranda when we ran up under the -porte-cochère. It was really a family reunion, but -all the joy of seeing each other again was buried beneath -the horror and consternation in our hearts. -Oliver's act was astounding. We're not an erratic -family. We never figure in accidents or tragedies of -any kind. We hate notoriety.</p> - -<p>"And besides all the horrid publicity of a secret -marriage," said Ruth, "Edith says the creature is too -<i>common</i> for anything." Ruth dangled a dainty velvet -pump on the tip of her toe as she made this remark. -We were gathered in the room that used to be -the sitting-room, all of us—Tom, Malcolm, Edith, -Alec, Ruth and I. We had been talking for an hour.</p> - -<p>"Common!" took up Edith. "She's absolutely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p240" id="Page_p240">[240]</a></span> -impossible, I tell you! We stopped off to see Oliver -for an hour on our way to the Green Mountains," she -explained to me, "last fall, in the automobile. He -didn't know we were coming. It was Sunday and -he had some dreadful little frowzy-headed creature in -tow, I'm sure her name was Tompkins—silly, simpering -little thing—perfectly enormous pompadour -and a cheap Hamburg open-work lingerie waist, over -bright pink—oh, horribly cheap! I can't begin to -tell you!"</p> - -<p>"Well—well—we must try to make the best of -it," said Tom lightly.</p> - -<p>"Best of it!" scoffed Edith. "Well, if Oliver -thinks for one minute that I am going to throw open -my house to his precious Madge Tompkins he's -greatly mistaken. Ruth is having a large bridge -party Thursday—ten tables. This affair has simply -got to be kept quiet until after that. Breck Sewall is -coming up from New York to spend Sunday. You -all know he's paying marked attention to Ruth, and -the Sewalls—Heavens!—they're particular to a degree! -Oh, we mustn't let a single word of this miserable -affair leak out—not a single word! Oh, -when I think of it, I just want—"</p> - -<p>"Come, come, Edith," interrupted Alec. "Gently, -dear. Gently, you know."</p> - -<p>"Well, if any of you expect <i>me</i>," Edith went on, -"to have that common person here, I must tell you -that I can't—I simply can't! I'm not in a condition -to endure it. I—"</p> - -<p>"Now look here, dear," Alec said soothingly, "no -one expects you to. Everything will be exactly as -you wish."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p241" id="Page_p241">[241]</a></span></p> - -<p>Oh, he would have stopped the sun from rising if -Edith had requested it. I've never witnessed such -dog-devotion as Alec shows to Edith. He can't be -five minutes late to an appointment with her, without -telephoning a plausible excuse, or sending a special -messenger. She has him wonderfully trained. You -ought to see him run around and put down windows, -raise shades, carry chairs or rush upstairs for her -work-bag which she forgot and left on her bureau -just before dinner.</p> - -<p>At about five o'clock that afternoon Malcolm, who -had been haunting the station all day in the hope of -meeting Oliver and his companion, and hurrying them -quietly into a closed carriage as soon as possible, -burst in upon us, all excitement.</p> - -<p>"What in the world is the matter now?" exclaimed -Ruth.</p> - -<p>"Have they come?" asked Alec.</p> - -<p>"Has any one heard of it?" gasped Edith.</p> - -<p>"Heard of it! It's gotten into the papers!" Malcolm -announced.</p> - -<p>Tom and Alec both got up.</p> - -<p>"Very bad?" asked one of them, and Edith sprang -forward like a cat and snatched the paper out of -Malcolm's hand.</p> - -<p>"On the front page," said Malcolm. "Here! -There it is. Oh, no one can miss it."</p> - -<p>"Heavens!" Edith ejaculated as her eyes fell upon -the headlines.</p> - -<p>"Read it," commanded Tom.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"Romantic Love Affair of Oliver Chenery Vars ends -in an Elopement. Son of William T. Vars, former<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p242" id="Page_p242">[242]</a></span> -President of the Vars & Co. Woollen mills of this City -Marries his Landlady's Daughter."</p></blockquote> - -<p>She stopped short.</p> - -<p>"Go on," said Tom in a low voice.</p> - -<p>"Hadn't <i>I</i> better?" suggested Alec.</p> - -<p>But Edith continued:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"The friends of Oliver Chenery Vars will be surprised -to learn of his marriage to Miss Madge Tompkins -of Glennings Falls, Vermont. For the past year -young Vars has been connected with the Glennings -Falls Granite Works, and the attachment between himself -and Miss Tompkins, daughter of Mrs. Ebenezer -Tompkins, a widow with whom he boarded, has been -a matter of some concern to the Vars family. The -news of his marriage, which is said to have taken place -last February, comes as a total surprise and few particulars -are known. However, it has been ascertained -that the young lovers have been forgiven and that they -will be the guests of the Alexander Vars at The Homestead -for the remainder of the week. The new Mrs. -Vars is but eighteen and carried off the blue ribbon in -the Pretty Girl contest at the Glennings Falls Agricultural -Fair last September."</p></blockquote> - -<p>"How perfectly disgusting!" broke in Ruth.</p> - -<p>"Rotten!" muttered Malcolm.</p> - -<p>Edith couldn't speak. The paper fluttered to the -floor and Alec went over and put her gently in a -chair. Tom scowled and looked hard out of the window. -We sat in silence for a full half-minute, then -Tom turned suddenly.</p> - -<p>"Look here," he said, "here he comes! Here -Oliver comes!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p243" id="Page_p243">[243]</a></span></p> - -<p>I leaned forward quickly, picked up the discarded -paper and thrust it under my elbow on the -table.</p> - -<p>Oliver was alone. I shall always remember how -he looked on that spring evening as he swung along, -overcoat open and flapping in the wind, head held high -and brow smooth and cloudless. His step was as -sure and firm as when he joined us all after -he had received his diploma on his graduation day at -college. My heart went out to him—poor Oliver -always getting into trouble, gifted and talented in a -way (he can sing like an angel) awfully good-looking -and lovable (he has friends everywhere), poor Oliver—what -would become of him? I heard his step on -the veranda, and a minute later he was standing, six -feet high, smiling and confident in the door of the -library. There is something irresistible about -Oliver's smile. If he had only looked at me -I should have smiled back, but his eyes rested on -Tom.</p> - -<p>"Hello, everybody!" he said. "Hello, Tom! -Mighty good of <i>you</i> to come way on East. Well, -well," he glanced swiftly around the room, "all here, -aren't you?" Then he added, "Well, what do you -think?"</p> - -<p>"Seen the paper?" inquired Tom.</p> - -<p>"Is it in the paper?" asked Oliver, and Malcolm -pulled the horrible thing from beneath my elbow and -thrust it into Oliver's hands. I watched Oliver -closely. I saw the slow, dark colour spread over his -face and across that cloudless brow of his. I saw his -eyes travel once through the article and then go back -and retrace each painful word of it again. When<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p244" id="Page_p244">[244]</a></span> -he had satisfied himself he laid the paper down and -looked up.</p> - -<p>"Well, it's true," he said, and six pairs of eyes -glowered upon him.</p> - -<p>"What explanation have you for this—step of -yours?" asked Tom.</p> - -<p>Oliver's confidence fell away a little. He picked -off a bit of lint from the sleeve of his coat.</p> - -<p>"Oh, why hash the whole thing over?" he said. -"I'm married all right. What's the use—of course -I'm sorry it is in the paper."</p> - -<p>"Sorry!" sniffed Ruth.</p> - -<p>"But <i>I</i> didn't let it out. Hang it all," he broke -off, "you bury me in a hole like that—she was the -only girl worth looking at. <i>I</i> didn't want to go to -Glennings Falls. It was <i>your</i> plan."</p> - -<p>"You had had six other positions before we resorted -to Glennings Falls," fired Alec.</p> - -<p>Oliver flushed.</p> - -<p>"Oh, well—if you've all made up your minds to -be disagreeable! I left Madge at the station to come -up in a carriage," he explained. "She'll be here in -five minutes. I hope at least you'll be decent to <i>her</i>."</p> - -<p>"Decent to <i>her</i>, Oliver Vars!" Edith had found -her voice, "I guess you better begin and think how -<i>you</i> can be decent to <i>us</i>. Do you know what you've -done? You've simply ruined our reputations and -just when Breck Sewall—oh, you've disgraced us -all! I shall never want to hold up my head again, -and Ruth has invitations out for a big bridge. Madge -Tompkins! Don't ask <i>me</i> to be decent to <i>her</i>. She'll -never spend a night under <i>this</i> roof as long as <i>I</i> live. -Oh, I've seen her—common little—"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p245" id="Page_p245">[245]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Be careful," shot back Oliver, flushed and angry -now. "Madge's father was a minister, an educated -gentleman, when yours at that period of his career -was collecting scrap iron and junk from people's back -yards!"</p> - -<p>Edith grew red. The early life of her iron-king -father had always been a sore point with her. I don't -know what she would have done; perhaps literally -have scratched Oliver's eyes out, if Tom hadn't interrupted.</p> - -<p>"Oh, come. None of this," he said. "Oliver, you -were hasty in what you said; and, Edith, let us see -the young lady before we pass judgment on her. I -think she's coming. At least here is a carriage."</p> - -<p>It was very touching to me when Oliver went down -to the carriage at the curbing and helped out the girl -whom of all the hundreds (for Oliver could have had -almost any one: Women adored him) he had chosen -to honour the most highly. She was short and a little -shabby with a sort of cheap flashiness that you could -see a hundred yards away. I knew particular, fastidious -Oliver must feel a little ashamed of the wrinkled -checked suit she wore, the big-figured gaudy lace -veil over her hat, the dingy white ostrich plumes. I -felt very sorry for Oliver when at the library door -she stepped back to let him enter, and he said gently, -"<i>You</i> first, Madge." She stumbled in smiling and -confused. She really was rather impossible: pretty -in a way, but oh, miles and miles away from everything -that is essential to a good taste and good manners. -She wore white kid gloves and patent-leather -slippers that pinched her feet. There was a celluloid -comb in the back of her hair with rhinestones in it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p246" id="Page_p246">[246]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Well, here they are, Madge!" said Oliver heartily.</p> - -<p>Her first words jarred us.</p> - -<p>"I guess we surprised you some," she laughed.</p> - -<p>"Well—it was unexpected," said Tom finally.</p> - -<p>She giggled at that; then she asked, trying to appear -at ease, "Well, aren't you going to introduce me -around, Oliver?"</p> - -<p>It was very painful. She gave her fingers to us -in a ridiculous fashion. "Pleased to meet you!" -she said like a machine after each name, and then after -I, the last one, had dropped her hand, in a moment -of deep confusion she remarked, glancing around the -room, "Oh, my, I think your house is just grand!"</p> - -<p>Malcolm coughed; Oliver flushed.</p> - -<p>"Did you have a long trip?" I asked.</p> - -<p>"Just dreadful," she replied eagerly. "The dirt -was something awful. We came up in a parlour-car. -I just love parlour-cars! We've been staying at an -elegant hotel in New York."</p> - -<p>"Sit down, won't you?" said Malcolm kindly. -He pushed up a chair and she glanced at him archly.</p> - -<p>"Thank you ever so much!" Then she added -coyly, and my heart bled for her poor pitiful attempt, -"I know <i>you</i>. <i>You're</i> Malcolm. I was awfully -gone on your photo once." She giggled again. -Alec took out a large white handkerchief and wiped -his brow. Malcolm shifted uneasily to his other foot, -and she added confidentially, "It was something awful -the way it used to make Oliver jealous."</p> - -<p>At that moment Edith swept up before her. "I -think I met you once," she began loftily.</p> - -<p>"I remember," said Madge. "You came through<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p247" id="Page_p247">[247]</a></span> -in a big auto. My, but I thought Oliver had some -stylish folks!"</p> - -<p>"I'm extremely sorry that our rooms are all filled -to-night," went on Edith grandly, "and that it will -be impossible for me to ask you to remain."</p> - -<p>Madge reddened. "I wouldn't trouble you for -anything," she apologised.</p> - -<p>"No," said Oliver and his voice shook with scorn, -"we wouldn't trouble you. Madge, please wait for -me a moment on the veranda." She looked up frightened. -"Yes," he said, and she rose and without a -word walked out of the room. Oliver closed the -door. He was red in the face with indignation.</p> - -<p>"Thank you all for your kindness," he said very -scathingly; "I'm sure I'm very grateful. If this is -what it means to be a member of a family, let me be -free of it."</p> - -<p>Tom got up. "Well—" he drawled, "if you can -get along without us, why we—"</p> - -<p>"Very well," retorted Oliver. "Very well, if -that's your answer. I've thrown up the charming job -at Glennings Falls anyway. I'm not so everlasting -dependent as you have an idea. I'm off, and thank -heaven! It's too bad if I've interrupted Ruth's bridge -party. It's really too bad. I'm through with the -whole lot of you. I'm through!" He turned. The -door slammed. The room trembled to the very ceiling -and a gust of wind snatched a pile of loose papers -on the table and whirled them on to the floor. We -heard the angry bang of the outer door and Oliver -had gone.</p> - -<p>That evening I wired to Will: "<i>Three of us will -arrive to-night. Bobbie.</i>"</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p248" id="Page_p248">[248]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">THE minute I heard Oliver explode out of that -house of ours, and swing down the street—proud, -angry, indignant, with that ridiculous little -creature running on behind—I felt that he was -headed straight to unhappiness and disaster. I understand -Oliver pretty well, and knew that he saw, as -plainly as any of us, all the crude rough corners of -the little country girl, to whom he had been attracted, -and married in some mad impulsive moment. After -listening for half an hour to a lot of plagiarisms from -Tom and Alec such as, "He must paddle his own -canoe," "Experience is the best teacher," etc., I -slipped out of the house and down to the station.</p> - -<p>I told Will about it late that night.</p> - -<p>"I found them sitting on a bench in the waiting-room. -They weren't speaking. She had been crying. -Oliver was glum and very silent. I think he was feeling -awfully sorry that he had married her—I do -really—and I don't know whether I felt sorrier for -him or for her. So right then and there I decided to -bring them home with me. We <i>must</i> do something, -Will. We <i>must</i>. I finally wormed it out of Oliver -that he was down to his very last one hundred dollars -and not a single thing in sight. I know as well as -you that Madge is a difficult proposition, but we've -got to have her for a sister-in-law whether we like -it or not. I know that our reputations are all tangled -up in this thing, but a snarl will never get untangled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p249" id="Page_p249">[249]</a></span> -unless somebody begins to pick it apart. Will, I'm -so glad that you have got a mind that is concerned -with the ailments of guinea-pigs rather than society -and what people think. For you see, dear, I've told -Oliver that he and Madge shall stay right here with -us until something turns up for Oliver to do."</p> - -<p>"But, Bobbie, my dear girl," said Will, "have you -forgotten that for Commencement week we have invited -Dr. Merrill, who is to receive an honorary degree, -and his wife to be our guests?"</p> - -<p>"No, Will dear, I haven't forgotten it, nor that I -was giving my first really-truly little dinner next Wednesday; -but I know that Oliver is my own brother -and that I've simply got to stand by him and see him -through."</p> - -<p>Three days later I received a scathing letter from -Edith:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"I suppose that you are posing as the Good Samaritan. -We all think you acted very unwisely and not at all for -Oliver's best good. You may be interested to know that -the doctor says he wouldn't have allowed me to keep -the girl here for one minute. I am still in bed, as it is, -from the bad effects of the shock of the whole affair. -I made Alec write something for the paper yesterday, -denying the report that we were entertaining the couple -here. On the contrary I have let it be known that I -do not intend to recognise the new Mrs. Vars at all. -It is the only safe policy. If you want to know <i>my</i> opinion, -<i>I</i> think you are extremely foolish to have taken that -girl into your house for one night even. You'll simply -kill yourself socially. Remember you're a new member -in the circle in which you are moving and will be known -and judged by the friends and connections you have. It's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p250" id="Page_p250">[250]</a></span> -a shame when you've just got started on the right path -to ruin your chances, and Will's too. However, it's your -affair. Do as you please."</p></blockquote> - -<p>"Oh, thanks," I said and stuffed the charming -epistle into the kitchen stove.</p> - -<p>My real difficulty however lay with Madge herself. -The poor deluded girl had been brought up to believe -that she was irresistibly charming. There hadn't -been a prettier girl than she in Glennings Falls. She -could boast of more "best young men," as she called -them, than any girl I ever knew. Four young aspirants, -before Oliver had appeared, had proposed to -her, and she was only nineteen. Her father, a man -of enough education to be a minister, had died of consumption, -when Madge was a baby. Since then, she -and her mother had managed to make a living by -boarding some of the foremen and superintendents at -the quarries. They had always had the distinction of -entertaining the owner of the granite works whenever -he came to Glennings Falls for a yearly inspection. -It was he who had procured a position for Madge -"to wait on table" summertimes at one of the big -mountain hotels. There she had picked up a great -many ideas on style and fashion, and copied them now -in cheap exaggerated imitation.</p> - -<p>The first evening after her trunk arrived at our -house, she appeared decked out in a fearful display of -lace and flashy finery, redolent with cologne, and manners -that matched her clothes. She talked incessantly. -Her lace and perfumery seemed to give her -confidence. She discoursed volubly on New York, -and aired her newly-acquired knowledge of hotel life<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p251" id="Page_p251">[251]</a></span> -in a way that was pitiable. Even Will, quiet and -dignified, failed to impress Madge. All the scientific -knowledge in the world could not awe the little village -coquette into silence. She even dangled her ear-rings -at solemn old Will and tried to flirt with him. It was -not Madge who appeared ill-at-ease; it was the rest of -us who squirmed in our boots, blushed at her mistakes, -coughed, gulped down desperate swallows of water -to cover our confusion. She was quite unconscious -of the horrible burlesque she was playing. As the -days went on, the more silent the rest of us became, -the more she prattled. The more we failed to appreciate -her loveliness and wit, the more toggery she -pulled out of her trunk and exhibited for our benefit, -the crimpier grew her hair, the higher, if possible, became -her pompadour, the noisier her laughter. Once -I humbly suggested that she leave off her ear-rings on -a certain occasion when we were going shopping. -She treated my interference with utter scorn, and appeared -half an hour later ready to accompany me to -the market, with two large pearls screwed securely -into the lobe of each ear. "Every one wears them -in New York," she announced.</p> - -<p>I didn't know what to do with the child. For two -weeks I rose every morning and went downstairs to -a painful ordeal at breakfast; for two weeks I saw -Oliver flush and try to keep his eyes from meeting -mine when Madge opened her mouth to speak; for -two weeks I saw a threatening frown hover about -Oliver's brow. I began to despair. Then suddenly, -one evening, I found my poor brother in the gloomy -living-room, brooding over an open fire. His head -was in his hand, his elbow on his knee. I hadn't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p252" id="Page_p252">[252]</a></span> -spoken to Oliver directly about Madge. I didn't now. -I simply said very gently, "Want me to read aloud -to you?"</p> - -<p>"She wasn't like this at Glennings Falls," he burst -out miserably, not stirring. "I want you to know it, -because, well—I suppose you wonder why I ever was -attracted to her. I wonder sometimes myself -now—" He stopped a moment, then went on, talking -straight into the fire. "I used to see a lot of -her, you see. Every night and every morning. She -used to pack my lunch and bring it up to me to the -grove near the works every noon. I used to look forward -to having her come—a lot. Glennings Falls -is the deadliest hole you ever struck, and well—Madge -was bright and full of fun. She isn't herself -now. She wasn't like this. She was just as natural -and simple. Upon my word," he broke off, "I've -seen a lot of girls, one time and another, winners too, -but somehow they none of them took such a hold on -me as Madge. I thought she'd learn quickly enough, -as soon as I got her down into civilisation, and so—anyway, -I married her. Since—Well, it's no go, -that's all. It's been bully of you to take her in, but -I see clearly enough it can't work. Of course I mean -to stick to her," he went on. "<i>Of course.</i> I suppose -I've simply got to find a job out West somewhere, -a long way off from everything and every one I know -or—care about, and clear out. I mean to do the -right thing." Then raising his eyes to mine he said -with a queer, forced smile, "I guess <i>my</i> fun's all over, -Bobbie."</p> - -<p>"Oh, no, no, <i>no</i>, it isn't." I said fiercely. "Don't -say that." I put my hand on his shoulder. "No, it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p253" id="Page_p253">[253]</a></span> -isn't, Oliver," and suddenly, because I couldn't bear -to see Oliver unhappy and despairing, because my -voice was trembling and there were tears in my eyes, -I went quickly out of the room and upstairs.</p> - -<p>I was surprised on passing the guest-room to hear -muffled sobs. I stopped and listened, and then, quite -sure, I abruptly knocked and immediately opened the -door. I was amazed to discover Madge face downward -on the bed in tears.</p> - -<p>"Why, what's the matter?" I exclaimed. I had -never seen anything but arch glances in her eyes before.</p> - -<p>"I want to go home! I want to go home! -They're not ashamed of me at home!" she wailed.</p> - -<p>I closed the door and went over to her.</p> - -<p>"I just hate it here, I just hate it!" she went on. -"Oliver thought I was good enough at home." She -was crying all the time and each sentence came brokenly. -"Oh, I wish I'd never <i>heard</i> of Oliver -Vars," she choked. "I've tried and tried to be like -his folks but he finds fault with every single thing I -do, or wear, or say, or think, and I'm going home. I -think his people are all stuck-up, horrid old things anyway -and I just hate it, hate it, <i>hate it here</i>. Oh, go -away, go away!" she cried out at me in a torrent of -sobs.</p> - -<p>Instead I sat down beside her.</p> - -<p>"Look here, Madge," I said sternly. "Stop talking -like that. Stop it. You can't go home. Don't -you know you're married? Why, it's perfectly absurd!"</p> - -<p>The sobbing stopped suddenly and she lay still with -her nose buried in the down comforter. I went on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p254" id="Page_p254">[254]</a></span> -talking to the cheap rhinestone comb in the back of -her head.</p> - -<p>"I've got something to say to you," I said, "and -I want you to listen. I've been wanting to talk to -you ever since you came to this house, and now I'm -going to do it. You say Oliver finds fault with you, -and let me tell you I don't blame him a bit. He certainly -has reason to. Why, I never have run across -a young lady who knew so little about things as you -do. You don't know how to do anything properly. -Your clothes are atrocious, and your manners—your -self-assured manners here in my house are inexcusable. -You're only a young girl of nineteen years -who never has had any experience nor seen anything -of the world. I don't blame you, understand. It -isn't your <i>fault</i> that everything you do or say or -wear makes us all blush with shame; but it does—it -does, Madge. Why, I had to give up inviting -some people here to dinner because I was afraid of -the breaks and the horrible remarks you might make -before my friends. Edith wouldn't have you in her -house. That's the bald truth of it, my dear. You -might as well know how we feel. It may sound cruel -and hard, and I wouldn't say these things to Oliver's -wife if she had come here modest, unpretentious, and -anxious to learn; but she didn't, I should say she -didn't! The worst ignorance in the world is that -which parades itself up and down thinking itself very -grand and elegant while all the lookers-on are laughing -up their sleeves. That's what you've been doing, -Madge." I stopped a moment to give the poor girl -a chance to say something.</p> - -<p>"Go away—go away—<i>go away</i>!" she burst out<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p255" id="Page_p255">[255]</a></span> -at me, turning her head enough to let the words out -into the room. "Oh, go away!"</p> - -<p>I stood up.</p> - -<p>"No, Madge," I replied calmly. "I shan't go -away, and neither shall you. You don't seem to know -what's best for yourself, so I will tell you. You're -going to stay right here with me, and work and study -and learn. You are married to Oliver Vars and -you're to make a success of it if it kills you; and it -won't kill you. You're going to make him and the -rest of us all proud of you before you get through -and I am going to help you. Do you hear me? -We're going to work it out together. You've got -it in you. I know you have. I <i>see</i> you have," I -lied. "You're a fine girl underneath. Don't you remember -up there in Glennings Falls how you used to -bring Oliver his lunch at noon? He has told me all -about it—how nice you were, I mean—and how -sure he was that you would learn as soon as you -came down here. Well—you're going to begin to-night. -Hereafter you'll do exactly as I say."</p> - -<p>"Go away!" came again from the depths of the -down comforter.</p> - -<p>I ignored it entirely.</p> - -<p>"Get up now and bathe your eyes," I said cheerfully. -"Dinner will be ready in half an hour. I -want you to wear the white muslin you had on this -morning and no ear-rings. Remember," I added distinctly, -going to the door, "remember, absolutely no -ear-rings to-night, please."</p> - -<p>But Oliver and Will and I had dinner alone that -evening. "She won't come down," Oliver had announced -gloomily. "She's in an awful state. She's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p256" id="Page_p256">[256]</a></span> -crying. She wants to go home," he said, and my -heart sank for I knew I had played my last card and -lost.</p> - -<p>That night Will had brought home the long-looked-for -good news of a position for Oliver. We discussed -it quietly at dinner—the three of us with -Madge crying upstairs. A friend of Will's, a civil -engineer, had said that if Oliver cared to go down -into South America to some God-forsaken spot in -the Argentine Republic—no place for a woman, by -the way—there was an engineering job down there -waiting for somebody. The job would take some -five or six months; there might or might not be any -future—Will's friend couldn't say.</p> - -<p>"I'll go. I'll go right off," said Oliver. "Madge -is unhappy and wants to go home anyway. I'm sure -it's best. It was all a mistake," he admitted sadly to -Will, "my taking her away from Glennings Falls. -I might have known it wouldn't work." I stared -hard at a saltcellar. Will began carving the steak -silently. "You can go ahead now and have your -people here for Commencement," observed Oliver; -"Madge and I will both be gone in a week. I'm relieved -it's settled," he added gravely.</p> - -<p>It was during our dessert, after Delia had taken -up a tray to Madge, that I was told that Mrs. Vars -wanted me in her bedroom. I excused myself and -slipped upstairs quietly. Madge was in bed; her -hair was parted, braided neatly down her back; her -tears were dried; her plain little nightgown buttoned -at her throat. I had never seen her look so pretty. -Her dinner stood beside her bed untouched.</p> - -<p>"You wanted me?" I asked.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p257" id="Page_p257">[257]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Yes," she replied. "I'm not going home. I'll -do anything you tell me," she said.</p> - -<p>And she didn't go home. We packed Oliver off -alone for South America, the next week, and as I -rode back from the station in the open car with his -slip of a wife beside me, on my hands for the next -half year, I drew my first long free breath. Oliver, -I recognised, had been more of a responsibility on my -mind than Madge. My way was clear now. Lessons -could begin any day, and no one will ever know -what earnestness and determination went into the task -that I had undertaken. From the beginning I took -it absolutely for granted that since our stormy talk -that evening in the guest-room our relations thereafter -would be those of scholar and teacher; my -authority would be unquestioned.</p> - -<p>I overhauled the child's entire wardrobe with the -freedom and cruelty of a customs officer. The cheap -lace things I sent to the Salvation Army. The rhinestone -comb I dropped into the stove before her very -eyes. Ear-rings, jingling bracelets, glass beads, -enameled brooches, I put in a box in the storeroom. -A much-treasured parasol made out of cheap Hamburg -embroidery I presented to Delia. Even Madge's -toilet accessories were somehow done away with. -Her elaborate hand-mirror with decorated porcelain -back and hair-brush to match were replaced by a set -of plain white celluloid that could be scrubbed with -safety every week. The perfumery was poured -down the bathroom sink. As soon as I was able, I -purchased for Madge a few plain white shirt-waists -with tailored collars, and a "three-fifty" stiff sailor -hat made of black straw. When the crimp had all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p258" id="Page_p258">[258]</a></span> -been soaked out of her hair, a wire pompadour supporter, -three side-combs, eighteen hairpins, a net, a -switch that didn't match, two puffs and a velvet bow -had been extracted from her coiffure, I parted the -little hair that remained and rolled it into a bun about -as big as a doughnut in the back of her neck. She -looked as shorn as a young sheep that has just been -clipped. Her eyes fairly stared out of her head. I -discovered that they were large and blue, with long -lashes. Her features, unframed by the dreadful halo -of hair, were flawless—small and finely cut. After -I had gotten all the dreadful veneer off of the child -she reminded me of a lovely old piece of mahogany -discovered in some old attic or other, after the several -coats of common crude paint have been scraped -off and the natural grain finally appears perfect and -unharmed.</p> - -<p>She looked on at her metamorphosis, and at the -cruel ravage of her treasures, passive and apparently -indifferent. After her surrender to me she had no -spirit left. She accepted my rule with a meekness I -couldn't understand. After that night in the guest-room -she became a different creature. She -dropped her little airs and affectations as abruptly as -if they were a garment that she could hang up and -leave behind her in the closet. She became dumb at -our table, and with Will actually shy and frightened. -I thought her sudden change was due to ill-temper, -and I bullied the poor beaten little creature terribly. -I domineered, tyrannised, scorned and mocked. I -didn't dare be tender, for I was convinced that success -lay only in complete submission. Poor little "alone" -thing—I did feel sorry for her at times! Her eyes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p259" id="Page_p259">[259]</a></span> -were often red from crying. She didn't eat very -much and her cheeks grew pale before my sight. -She used to sit sometimes for an hour at a time without -saying a word, until I longed to put comforting -arms about her. When she accompanied me to the -market several weeks after Oliver had gone away—quiet, -silent, subdued, Glennings Falls would never in -the world have recognised their gay sparkling little -village coquette who had had a word, a nod, and a -smile ready for every one who passed.</p> - -<p>Oliver had been gone about six weeks when Madge -told me her astounding news. I didn't know what to -say to her for a moment. I was awfully surprised. -She seemed such a baby, and I suppose it always -comes with a jolt when you first realise your younger -brother is actually a man. I was amazed too that -such an apparently weak little thing as Madge had so -pluckily kept her big secret to herself for so many -weeks. She had known of it before Oliver had gone -away, but she hadn't liked to tell him, she confessed. -He had left her without as much as a premonition of -the truth, and it was because of what was waiting for -her in the future that she had been frightened into -staying with me. She hadn't known what else to do. -I stared at her open-eyed. It was when I saw her -under lip tremble like a little child's and two tears -fall splash upon her wrist, that I put out my hand -and drew her down beside me on the couch. She -leaned against me and began to cry in earnest then.</p> - -<p>"Oh, don't, don't cry, Madge," I pleaded quietly. -"Please! I'm just as glad as I can be, dear," I said. -"Everything will be all right. Don't be afraid." -But still she sobbed. "Listen; I've been wanting to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p260" id="Page_p260">[260]</a></span> -tell you for days how well you're doing—even Will -remarks on it. Please, please don't cry, Madge. -Why, I hadn't an idea of <i>this</i>. I didn't dream of it. -But we'll see you safely through. Oh, Madge, don't -cry so hard. Listen, my dear girl, you can go home -to-morrow if you want to."</p> - -<p>Suddenly she turned and buried her head on my -shoulder. Her hand sought mine and held it tight. -She clung to me as if she needed me very much.</p> - -<p>"I don't want to go home. I'd rather stay right -here with you," she sobbed.</p> - -<p>My arms went around her. Remember I have -never had many friendships with girls. Staunch, -true, loyal Juliet would nurse me through the smallpox -if necessary, but she doesn't like to be kissed. -Years ago when we stayed all night at each other's -houses we slept on the extreme opposite edges of the -bed and if one of my elbows as much as grazed -Juliet's shoulder-blade, I was vigorously poked in the -ribs and told to get over to my side. My younger sister -Ruth had not sought one of my hands since she -was able to walk alone. She would rather cry into -a pillow than on my shoulder. If there had ever -been any doubt about my loving this little helpless -creature, who turned to me now in her hour of fear -and dread, it was entirely dispelled during that half-hour -on the couch in our living-room.</p> - -<p>It was after that day that our best work began. I -continued stern and severe with Madge, but there was -unmistakable affection underneath. I resorted to -every device in the world for my little protegée's education. -I laugh as I look back to some of the drills -and tests I put her through. Fridays, for instance,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p261" id="Page_p261">[261]</a></span> -were our shopping days in Boston. Department -stores are regular educational institutions. It wasn't -a month before Madge was able to detect machine -embroidery from hand-work; imitation Irish crochet -from real; coarse linen from fine. We spent hours at -"window-gazing." In that old, popular childhood -game of "Choosing," Madge became quite an adept. -I used to make her pick out the suit, or the hat, or -the piece of dress-goods in a window display which -was the most conservative, and verify her choice by -my selection. Conservatism I preached to her -from morning till night, and she got so she could -recognise it a block away. Homeward-bound from -those Friday shopping days, I would indicate an individual -opposite to us in the car, and that evening a -vivisection of her toilet would take place in our library. -I have often felt sorry for the poor mortals -whose oversupply of imitation fillet, high-heeled ill-kept -pumps, or spotted veil we so severely criticised; -for the young girls—gay, unconscious creatures—who -laughed too freely, talked too loudly for our -fastidious requirements.</p> - -<p>Madge's table-manners had been shocking. She -mashed her food with the prongs of her fork and -poured gravy over her bread; she ate enough butter -for three men. We used to have written examinations -on table-manners. After she had progressed so -that she could eat a poached egg without daubing the -entire plate, and a half-orange with a spoon without -sprinkling the front of her waist with drops of yellow -juice, I advanced her to my place at the table. -For a month she sat opposite Will and played at -hostess. She offered the bread; she inquired if any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p262" id="Page_p262">[262]</a></span> -one would have more of the dessert; she learned to -address Delia with consideration. I left it to my pupil -to suggest that we adjourn to the living-room at -the close of our meals. I made her pour the coffee -into our tiny best china cups.</p> - -<p>The effect of all this training upon myself was as -miraculous as upon Madge. You don't know what -confidence in a subject it gives you to teach it. I honestly -believe Madge did Will and me about as much -good as we did her. Our meal-times became regular -little models of perfection—quiet voices, good conversation, -and manners fit for a queen. I began to -dress every evening for the ceremony, as an example -for Madge, and it was then that Will who entered -into the game beautifully began changing every night -into a dinner coat. The fussy little frills—candlelight -and coffee served in the living-room, which I -had spurned after leaving Edith—I returned to for -Madge's sake. For her (for I discovered that my -pupil considered me as a model of all that is proper -and correct) I dressed myself with greatest care—spotless -white kid-gloves, carefully adjusted veil, neat -and well-kept boots—and sallied forth to pay some -calls. As an example to Madge I invariably inquired -what time Will would return in the evening and made -a point of arriving at the house at least a half-hour -before him, so that he might find me calm, quiet and -freshly attired, like a lady leisurely awaiting her lord, -in an apartment as neat and well-kept as the library -of his Club. I didn't allow myself to slump awkwardly -into a comfortable chair in his presence, nor -yawn and stretch my arms. I even tucked away the -horrid, red worsted bedroom slippers and from my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p263" id="Page_p263">[263]</a></span> -supply of unused negligees drew forth a blue china-silk -kimono. There was a pink one like it which I -gave to Madge. Her eyes sparkled as they fell upon -it. "Save it till Oliver comes," I said, and I, who -had scoffed in my heart at Ruth's and Edith's conversation -which took place in that same guest-room of -mine eight months before, repeated their very words, -as if they had left them printed on the walls. "You -mustn't be the kind to grow careless before your husband. -A man likes a woman to be dainty whether -he is married to her or not. A man likes to be proud -of his wife," I repeated parrot-like. Oh, you see, -there was more than one conversion taking place -that spring in the ugly brown house in the unfashionable -street, and the greater of these was not, in -my estimation, that of the little country girl from -Glennings Falls, Vermont.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p264" id="Page_p264">[264]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER XX</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">WILL and I used to run up to Hilton for over -Sunday very often. But when Edith found -out that Oliver had gone to South America and -Madge had remained with us, she wrote to me immediately -and warned me never to attempt "to cram the -girl down her throat." She had no idea of <i>ever</i> recognising -Oliver's wife as any connection of <i>hers</i>. If -Will and I came up to Hilton she must ask us to leave -our preposterous protegée behind.</p> - -<p>I didn't see that it would hurt Edith any to be formally -courteous to Madge. She needn't have become -intimate. I didn't expect Madge to be invited everywhere -I went. I didn't take her anywhere with me -in my social life at the university. But I did think -that Edith was neglecting her duty as a woman to -ignore Alec's own brother's wife, whoever she was. -It was almost inevitable to avoid the growth of a feeling -of hostility between Edith and me; but I did want -to escape an open break. I didn't want to quarrel -about Madge, so whenever I saw Edith I tried to -overlook the existence of any bone of contention between -us. I made a point of running up to Hilton -very often for the day, and tried to refer to Madge -in a natural, open, frank sort of manner that made -little of the seriousness of the situation. I didn't go -to Hilton to court trouble, I assure you. I made my -fortnightly trips for the express purpose of promoting -family peace and harmony.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p265" id="Page_p265">[265]</a></span></p> - -<p>The arrival of Edith's baby was only about a -month off when I went up to carry her a little afghan -I had crocheted. I found her unpacking some baby -scales and the most elaborate weighing basket I ever -saw. It was all beruffled and trimmed with artificial -rosebuds around the edge. It was when I stood off -and admired it that I remarked with a sigh, and in -the most offhand way in the world, that I guessed -Madge's baby would have to be weighed on the -kitchen scales if at all. I meant it as a kind of tribute -to Edith's basket. Besides I thought it a good -idea to refer to Madge's expectations. It seemed -more friendly to the family to take them into my confidence -in such a matter.</p> - -<p>You would have thought a bomb had gone off in -the room.</p> - -<p>"That creature going to have a baby!" Edith exclaimed.</p> - -<p>"Yes," I said. "Just think of it! Oliver with a -little son or daughter!"</p> - -<p>Edith turned suddenly upon me.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I see!" she flashed. "I see! A son indeed! -So that's the story! I suppose the girl has -her eyes on that three thousand, without doubt. Designing -little minx!"</p> - -<p>"Why, your baby comes first, Edith," I replied. -"Of course if you shouldn't get the prize, I think -Madge could make pretty good use of three thousand -dollars. She probably needs it more than you."</p> - -<p>"Oh! So you hope I won't have a boy! That's -it. Very well. We'll see. You hope—"</p> - -<p>"Why, Edith," I interrupted, "I don't hope anything -of the sort. I—"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p266" id="Page_p266">[266]</a></span></p> - -<p>"We'll see if this girl of Oliver's has any right -to that money," Edith went on excitedly. "We'll -see about that. When is her precious baby expected? -Too soon for decency's sake, I suppose—horrid, -common little—"</p> - -<p>I flushed. "Edith Vars," I fired, "don't you imply -anything like that about Madge. Don't you -<i>dare</i>!"</p> - -<p>I was angry now and Edith knew it. She seemed -to glory in it, for she prodded me again with another -false accusation against Madge, and before I could -stop it we were quarrelling dreadfully. I don't remember -all we said to each other that morning in -Edith's room, but I know our words came thick and -fast; I know our voices shook with our fury, and that -we glared at each other across the expanse of the -snowy bed with actual hatred in our eyes. It all -ended by Edith's suddenly flinging herself face down -upon the pillows, and bursting into awful sobs. Not -until then did I realise that my sister-in-law was not -well, nor quite herself these days—I had never seen -her cry before in my life—and frightened I went -out of the room to call for help.</p> - -<p>That noon Alec sent for a doctor, and half an hour -later it was announced that Edith had a temperature. -A trained nurse appeared at four o'clock and Alec -called me into the library.</p> - -<p>He was dreadfully concerned about the consequences -of my news in regard to Madge; I shouldn't -have mentioned it, it seems; it might be the cause -of the most dreadful results—he couldn't tell. -Edith was very excitable just now. I ought to have -known better. He blamed me wholly. I had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p267" id="Page_p267">[267]</a></span> -careless, inconsiderate and cruel. I had better leave -for home as soon as possible. The thought of me in -the house annoyed and disturbed Edith even now; -she had inquired three times if I had gone. Alec -had ordered the automobile; I could catch the five-thirty -if I hurried. He wished I hadn't come to see -Edith at all; she had been so well; everything had appeared -very favourable before my arrival; Alec -couldn't understand my attitude toward Edith anyway; -she had done everything for Ruth and me (had -I forgotten my wedding?) and I paid her back with -gratitude like this!</p> - -<p>I didn't reply to my brother. Alec and I had travelled -too many miles in opposite directions to understand -each other now. A bitter antagonism arose -in my heart against Edith. I should have quarrelled -with Alec too had I opened my mouth to speak. I -went out and got into the automobile without a retort, -and as I whisked out of the driveway and looked -back at Edith's curtained windows, a wicked wish -was born in my heart. I said to myself, "I hope it -<i>will</i> be a girl. 'Twould serve her exactly right."</p> - -<p>It was, however, a pretty discouraged ambassador -of peace who crawled back to her little brown refuge -that night about eight o'clock. Will was sitting by -the fire reading a big book, his hair all ruffled up as -it always is when he reads. Madge had gone upstairs -to bed. The comfortable lamp-light, the dear, homely -black walnut furniture, Will's quiet sympathy, never -seemed more precious to me than that night.</p> - -<p>"O Will," I said tearfully when he kissed me, -"I've quarrelled with Edith and Alec. And, oh, -dear, it was the last thing in the world I meant to do."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p268" id="Page_p268">[268]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Tell me about it," he said and laid aside his big -book. I took its place on the arm of his chair, and -told him my story. After he had rung up Edith's -doctor by telephone and found that there wasn't -cause for alarm, he came back to me and called me -"young wildcat" which sweet words were music to -my ears. I knew at the sound of them that Will -didn't consider the quarrel serious. "It will all -blow over in a week. You see!" he laughed, and I -went to sleep comforted.</p> - -<p>But it didn't blow over. That fateful visit of -mine marked the beginning of an understood family -war. Clouds of trouble grew thicker instead of blowing -away. The very next evening I received a brief -note from Alec asking that I postpone any more visits -to Hilton until after Edith's illness. Ruth wrote -she couldn't understand me in the least; she thought -it was dreadful that Madge was going to have a child -anyway, but if she got Father's three thousand dollars -it would be the unjustest thing that ever happened! -Tom—even fair-minded Tom from out -West—told me to remember that Oliver's marriage -had been rather out-of-order, and asked me if I was -championing a cause I could call worthy. When -Ruth ran across me one day in town a fortnight later -she treated me like a bare acquaintance. Alec went -so far as to cancel a Saturday golf engagement with -Will. Long distance telephone calls between our -houses came to an abrupt end. Malcolm from New -York bluntly referred to the "family row."</p> - -<p>I didn't tell Madge about the trouble brewing in -our family. I never even imparted to her the knowledge -of the premium to be paid for the first Vars<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p269" id="Page_p269">[269]</a></span> -grandson. Silently I sat with her sewing by the -hour on her meagre little outfit of five nainsook slips, -three flannel Gertrudes, two bands, two shirts, and -three flannellette night-gowns, with never a word of -my eager thoughts. I became very loyal to the -cause I had chosen to defend. It didn't trouble me -that our little baby-clothes were so much plainer -than Edith's, for night and day, day and night, I -was hoping against hope, wishing against chance, willing -and frantically demanding that Madge's splendour -might lie in her victory.</p> - -<p>You can imagine the ecstatic state of excitement I -was thrown into when the news of the arrival of -Edith's nine-pound daughter reached me some six -weeks after my last visit to Hilton.</p> - -<p>I must have felt a good deal like the supporters of -a weaker foot-ball team when their side makes the -first touchdown. I could have thrown up my hat -with joy; I could have shouted myself hoarse. -Madge had an opportunity! Madge had a chance! -It seemed too good to be true, and I longed to share -with Madge the triumph so nearly hers. But Will -was afraid she might worry and fret about it,—there -was, of course, the possibility of disappointment,—so -I followed his advice and kept on building -my air-castles in secret.</p> - -<p>It was on November twenty-first that Madge's little -child was born. We had written to Oliver in -June and he had started on his homeward journey as -soon as Madge's belated letter reached him, some -time in August. He had tramped a hundred miles -down a tropical river, had lain sick for five weeks -with a fever in a native camp, had dragged himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p270" id="Page_p270">[270]</a></span> -in a weakened condition twenty miles farther on to -the coast, and finally had caught a slow-travelling -freight-boat bound for Spain. Blown out of its -course, becalmed, disabled by a terrific storm, Oliver -never saw the coast of Europe until well into November. -His mite of a child was two weeks old before -he reached home.</p> - -<p>Oliver had done well down there in South America. -Reports of his ability had reached the Boston office -months before Oliver himself appeared. It seems -that Oliver's chief had written a long letter telling all -about the ingenuity which young Vars had shown in -working out some technical problem connected with a -suspension bridge down there. I told you Oliver's -line was civil engineering. The Boston office informed -Will they had offered Vars a good position -right here at home with a salary that he could live -on. I was delighted, and as soon as we learned that -he had started for God's country, I began to hunt up -apartments.</p> - -<p>I wanted Oliver to see for himself and <i>by</i> himself -what a perfect little housekeeper—what a lovely little -creature, simple as she was, he had chanced to pick -out up there in the mountains of Vermont. I honestly -began to fear Oliver wouldn't appreciate half -of the delicate points that Madge had developed. I -wished I could give my brother a course of training -too. He is the kind to be rather impolite inside the -walls of his own domain. I selected for Madge and -Oliver a suburb where the rents were not high, about -half an hour by trolley from Boston. I planned to -have Madge well established in her own five sunny -little rooms before the arrival of either her husband<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p271" id="Page_p271">[271]</a></span> -or child. From my safe-full of silver and attic-full -of Will's furniture, which I couldn't use, I could -easily have set up two brides at housekeeping. I sent -over a whole load of things from our house to -Madge's and we spent days afterward settling the -darling little rooms. On November twenty-first I -went over to the apartment alone. Madge had complained -of not feeling very well and I didn't want her -to get all tired out before she actually moved the following -week. The kitchen utensils were waiting to -be washed and set in rows on the cupboard shelves, -so I started out straight after breakfast and spent the -whole day "playing house" there alone. I didn't get -back until after seven o'clock at night. Will must -have been watching for me, for he met me at the -door. The instant I entered the house I knew something -unexpected had happened. There was a white -pillow on the couch in the living-room. I smelled -ether.</p> - -<p>"Will," I said all weak in my knees, "where's -Madge? What's happened?"</p> - -<p>He closed the living-room door and turned up the -gas.</p> - -<p>"She's all right, dear. We didn't send for you, -because there was nothing you could do. I was here -all the time."</p> - -<p>"You mean—" I began. "Will," I said, and -then my mind leaped over a league of details to one -question, and after I had asked it Will took my hands -and replied gently:</p> - -<p>"No, dear, a sweet little girl."</p> - -<p>I couldn't answer at first. I crumpled down in a -heap in Will's big chair.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p272" id="Page_p272">[272]</a></span></p> - -<p>"It was the only thing I ever really, really -wanted," I said brokenly. "Oh, Will, I can't believe -fate would be so unkind! Tell me again—did you -say a girl—really a <i>girl</i>?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, dear, a fine, perfect, lovely little girl."</p> - -<p>I stared straight in front of me.</p> - -<p>"Isn't it too bad, too bad, too bad," I said. "Oh, -Will!" I broke out, and began to cry.</p> - -<p>Will came over and put his arms around me.</p> - -<p>"Why, Bobbie dear," he said sadly, "I should -think the little kiddie was yours."</p> - -<p>I couldn't have been more disappointed if it had -been. All the victorious telegrams, all the confident, -buoyant notes to the different members of the family -were more than useless now. The poor little mite of -humanity wrapped up in a piece of flannel upstairs in -the sewing-room in the clothes-basket, which Madge -and I had lined with muslin, had shattered all my -plans—had frustrated its poor little mother's only -chance for glory.</p> - -<p>It was all I could do to muster up a smile for poor, -broken, beaten Madge herself, when the nurse ushered -me into her bedroom the next day. I was glad -when I saw her smiling up at me from the pillows that -I had not confided my eager hopes to her.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Lucy," she said to me, "it's a girl! I knew -you hoped it would be a little girl, because you were -so happy when Edith's baby came. And I—"</p> - -<p>"Are you glad?" I asked tremblingly, feeling like -a hypocrite before an angel.</p> - -<p>"I—oh, I <i>prayed</i> for a girl. I wouldn't know -what to do with a boy. My dolls were always girls."</p> - -<p>It wasn't until I ran across Edith, most unex<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p273" id="Page_p273">[273]</a></span>pectedly, -several days later in town, that I woke up -to the fact that that little girl of Madge's was a blessing -in disguise. Edith's daughter was then about -three months old and she was flitting about again as -gay as ever, feathered and furred, stepping like a -horse who has just had a good rub-down. I had seen -her several times in the last month. She does all her -shopping in Boston and I am often there myself. Of -course we had spoken, even chatted on impersonal -subjects as we chanced to meet here and there. On -this particular day we happened to find ourselves in -the drapery department of a large department store -both waiting for the elevator to take us to the street.</p> - -<p>"Oh, how do you do?" she said to me loftily. -"Gorgeous day, isn't it?"</p> - -<p>"Fine," I replied.</p> - -<p>And then she asked evasively, her curiosity getting -the better of her. "How's everything at your establishment?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, all right. I have a note already written to -you. There's a new member in our family, you -know."</p> - -<p>I saw the colour rush to Edith's face.</p> - -<p>"No!" she exclaimed. "Really?" Then arming -herself against a dreaded blow she gasped, "Which -is it?"</p> - -<p>"A girl," I hated to announce; "born Thursday."</p> - -<p>"A girl! Did you say a girl?" Edith's voice -broke into a nervous laugh. "Lucy Vars, has -Oliver's wife a little girl? Is she dreadfully disappointed? -How is she? When was it? How much -does it weigh? A girl! Well, well, is it <i>possible</i>?" -Her eyes were fairly glowing now.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p274" id="Page_p274">[274]</a></span></p> - -<p>I followed her into the elevator.</p> - -<p>"You mean it? You aren't fooling? This isn't -a joke?" she exclaimed as we dropped a floor.</p> - -<p>"No," I assured her.</p> - -<p>"Poor thing! Poor thing!" she ejaculated with -sparkling eyes. "A girl. A girl!" She found my -hand and gave it an eager little squeeze. "Won't -Oliver be just too cute with a daughter?" she -bubbled.</p> - -<p>By the time we reached the ground floor, she had -slipped her arm through mine.</p> - -<p>"You've got to come and have lunch with me, -Bobbie Vars," she said. "Let's let bygones be bygones. -I hate fights. I'm tired to death putting myself -out to be disagreeable. Heavens! I can hardly -wait to tell Alec. A little girl!" She led me out into -the street. "I'm starved," she ran on. "We'll -blow ourselves to the best luncheon in this town. I -want to know <i>all</i> the details—every one. Do you -know I felt in my bones she would have a daughter, -and I simply never make a mistake; and by the way, -way down in my boots, <i>I</i> wanted a girl myself. I -<i>said</i> I preferred a boy, but that was talk. You can -dress girls up in such darling clothes. That's what -I'm telling people anyhow," she confided frankly. -"Remember, should any one ask."</p> - -<p>In spite of the many things about Edith I do not -like, she has some splendid qualities. "Look here," -she ejaculated abruptly, "I believe I'll send that poor -little creature of Oliver's some flowers. I don't suppose -she has many. Come on in here, Bobbie, and -help me pick out something stunning!"</p> - -<p>Next Wednesday Ruth 'phoned from town. Fri<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p275" id="Page_p275">[275]</a></span>day -she came out for dinner, and not very long afterward, -the expressman left a lovely embroidered -baby's coat and cap "for the dear little daughter," it -said on Edith's visiting-card in her bold unmistakable -handwriting.</p> - -<p>It was Oliver himself, who had been at home about -two days, who opened the package. He and I were -alone in the living-room. He flushed when his eyes -fell upon the card.</p> - -<p>"So Edith—" he began.</p> - -<p>"Yes," I assured him; "and the roses on Madge's -bureau are from Edith too."</p> - -<p>He flung the card down on the table and came over -and stood before me.</p> - -<p>"Look here, Bobbie," he said. "I must have been -completely run down or something, before I went -away. I don't know what ailed me. Everything -bothered me horribly and to think I took it out so on -poor little Madge. Why, Madge—Say, Bobbie, -isn't Madge—" He stopped. "Pshaw!" he went -on, "I've known a lot of girls in my day but not one -to come up to Madge. Did I ever tell you how she -can cook? Like a streak! You ought to see her arrange -flowers in the middle of the table. Looks as -if they were growing! Madge is worth twenty society -girls. Could Ruth run a vegetable garden, do -you think? Could her boarding-school friends go into -the village store and run the accounts when the regular -girl's off on a vacation? Madge can! I knew -she would learn city ways and manners quickly -enough once she was here. I <i>knew</i> it. And say—isn't -she pretty? Isn't she simply—lovely with the -kid? Humph—" he broke off, picking up Edith's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p276" id="Page_p276">[276]</a></span> -card and tossing it down again. "I knew the family -couldn't help but like Madge once they knew her, and -I'm mighty glad!"</p> - -<p>"So am I, Oliver. She's got the loveliest, sweetest -disposition! Sometimes I've been afraid that <i>you</i> -would be the one not to appreciate it. She's thinking -a lot how to make you happy, Oliver. Her head is -full of schemes and little devices to please and satisfy -you; and I've been wondering if you've been -thinking up little ways to please her. Sometimes married -people take it for granted that schemes and -methods and contrivances for happiness are superfluous, -if they love each other; but <i>I</i> believe that -new love needs just about as much care and tending -as that little helpless baby in there. I hope you think -so too, Oliver."</p> - -<p>"I don't know as I'd thought much about it. I'm -not much of a philosopher on such subjects. Things -come to me in flashes, and they stick too. I remember -the last time I ever had a real good old time with -the college crowd was at Ruth's party, two or three -years ago. I drank more than was good for me that -night and when I came to go upstairs about four -<span class="smcap">A. M.</span>, right there on the landing waiting for me was -Father. Somebody had left his picture lighted up, -you know, and it was absolutely gruesome how he -stared down at me out of his frame—like a ghost or -something. I never forgot it. I tried to get the fellows -to put out the light, but they couldn't find the -switch. It was horrible to struggle up in front of -Father in my condition—I can't explain it; but from -that day to this I've never been able to enjoy that -sort of a time since. I've never taken more than I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p277" id="Page_p277">[277]</a></span> -should since that night, and I never shall again. I'm -sure of myself now."</p> - -<p>"Isn't it splendid to live on in the way Father -does?" I remarked quietly.</p> - -<p>"Well," went on Oliver, "the first sight of Madge -in there with the baby was like that lighted picture -of Father. Do you know what I mean? It flashed -over me, 'Heavens, I've got to amount to something -now <i>anyhow</i>,' and those flashes stick, as I said. I -<i>shall</i> amount to something. See if I don't!" He -stopped a moment, embarrassed. "I don't know as -you understand at all about that picture of Father, -and Madge in bed in there, as if they had any connection. -They haven't, only—"</p> - -<p>"I do understand, Oliver," I said; "I do perfectly. -And I'm so glad and happy and proud! I always felt -you had it in you!"</p> - -<p>About a week later Edith called me up from Boston.</p> - -<p>"Hello," she said. "You, Bobbie? It's Edith. -Ruth and I are in town. We've just had lunch. I've -got to go to the tailor's at two, but we thought later -we might come out and see the baby." ("It's -Edith," I whispered excitedly to Will with my hand -over the receiver.) "Will it be all right?"</p> - -<p>"Surely," I called back. "Come right ahead."</p> - -<p>"Is Madge able to see people yet?" ("She wants -to see Madge," I told Will.) "Oh, yes! She -comes downstairs every afternoon now. We'll expect -you—good-bye."</p> - -<p>I hung up the receiver, and went into the butler's -pantry to prepare my tea-tray. Ten minutes later I -casually remarked to Madge:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p278" id="Page_p278">[278]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh, by the way, Edith and Ruth are coming out -this afternoon. I think I shall ask you to pour tea, -Madge."</p> - -<p>"All right," she replied quietly, like a little stoic. -"I understand. I'll do my very best, Lucy."</p> - -<p>I felt something of the same tremulous pride of a -mother listening to her daughter deliver a valedictory -at a high school graduation, as I watched Madge at -the tea-table that afternoon. Her parted hair, simply -knotted behind, pale cheeks tinged with a little colour, -her frail hands among the tea-cups, her shy timid manner, -were all lovely to behold. Oliver, from the -piano-stool, glowed with pride; Edith and Ruth, from -the couch, could not fail to appreciate the careful, -calm, and correct collection of napkin, plate, tea-cup -and spoon. Edith has a great faculty for observation. -I knew she was sizing up Madge out of the -corner of her eye, even as she rattled on to me on the -wonders of the little niece in Hilton whom I had -never seen.</p> - -<p>She and Ruth stayed until just time to connect -with the six-thirty train for Hilton. It was closeted -in my room that Edith said to me in her erratic way, -"My dear, I never saw such a change in any living -<i>mortal</i>. Do you realise that having that baby has -simply made that girl over? It's wonderful—put -refinement into her. Why, really, one wouldn't guess -the child's origin <i>now</i>. Listen to me. I've decided -to invite the whole family bunch, as usual, for Christmas -(one may as well be forgiving in this short life, -I've concluded); so I came to have a look at Madge. -She isn't half bad, you know. I had a nice little chat -alone with her when you were showing Ruth the baby.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p279" id="Page_p279">[279]</a></span> -She says she was simply crazy for a girl, and I think -she means it. She isn't as impossible as I feared—not -half. All she needs are some clothes and I've -gotten it into my head to take her to my own dressmaker -in town. One may as well be generous, Lucy. -Besides, if the girl comes to the house at Christmas -she must dress decently. I've a good mind to take -the little thing in hand myself and polish her up a -little. She's pretty enough. You see," Edith broke -off, "Breck Sewall will probably be around Christmas-time—won't -it be wonderful if he should marry -Ruth?—and I simply had to have a look at Madge -before inviting her. However, I really think she'll -do."</p> - -<p>The instant the door had closed on Edith I rushed -back to Madge. I threw my arms about her.</p> - -<p>"You've passed your preliminaries, dear child!" I -said and kissed her hard.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p280" id="Page_p280">[280]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER XXI</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">DID you ever attempt to buy a lot of fifteen thousand -feet at fifty cents a foot, and build a house -on it of twelve rooms, three baths, a shower, a sleeping-porch -and a small unpretentious garage for fourteen -thousand dollars? This isn't an example in -mental arithmetic, but it was a problem Will and I -laboured over every March and April for three successive -springs, before deciding each year to stay on -for another twelve months in our old rented brown -box, gas-lighted and tin-tubbed. I am not going to -explain how such a problem can be solved, because -frankly I don't know.</p> - -<p>Will is a regular miracle-performer in some lines. -He'll work for hours over some knotty proposition in -his laboratory, and come home from the hospital -simply glowing with enthusiasm over the successful -onslaught of a squad of his well-trained microbes upon -an unruly lot of beasts who were making life miserable -for a poor man almost dying with carbuncles. -The medical journals describe Dr. William Ford -Maynard's accomplishments as miraculous. However, -I can vouch that he is utterly unable to perform -any feats with wood and plaster and plumbers' supplies. -Two hours working over our house-plans used -to exhaust Will more than four days solid in his laboratory. -He said there was more hope in discovering -the haunts of the wary meningitis microbe than in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p281" id="Page_p281">[281]</a></span> -finding a contractor who would build us a house at -our price.</p> - -<p>Will and I adored our first little home, of course, -but then there were disadvantages. Every time it -rained I had to put a basin in the middle of my bed—in -case the roof leaked—and the fireplaces did smoke -when you first lit them, and the kitchen stove did -need a new lining. The owner was awfully disagreeable -about repairs, and after we had been vainly pleading -for three months solid for a new brick or two -in a disabled chimney, which threatened to burn down -the house, we began to consider moving. We didn't -intend to build. We thought it would cost too much. -We didn't even intend to buy. We simply wanted to -find something better to rent.</p> - -<p>Rummaging about among second-hand houses is -very depressing, I can tell you. Some of the same -old arks that had been on the market when we were -first married, were still without a master, like certain -wrecks of servants who haunt intelligence-offices. -Dilapidated run-down old things—I hate the very -thought of them! They have a musty, dead-rat sort -of odour that's far from welcoming when you enter -their darkened halls. You always wonder if it's the -plumbing and ask why the last people left. And oh, -the closets in those houses—little, black horrid holes! -I used to pull open their doors, and time and again -find some sort of human paraphernalia left behind on -one of the hooks—a man's battered straw hat, or -once, I remember, a solitary pair of discarded corsets. -Spattered places in the bedrooms, paths worn on the -hardwood floors, ink spots, grease spots, and on the -walls an accurate pattern of the arrangement of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p282" id="Page_p282">[282]</a></span> -last family's pictures, actually offended me. I've heard -that robins will never take possession of a last year's -birds' nest. I know exactly how they feel about -them. Oh, it isn't inspiring to hunt for a home -among other people's cast-offs. Will and I were -awfully discouraged after we had inspected the -fifteenth impossibility—a dreadful affair with high -ceilings, elaborately stencilled, and in the corners of -each room little arched plaster grooves designed for -statuary. For six months Will and I searched in vain -for the sweet, clean little ready-made cottage of our -dreams, shining in a fresh coat of white paint, its -perennial garden in full-bloom, waiting for two nice -home-loving people like ourselves to open its gate, -stroll up its flag-stoned walk, and claim it for our -own.</p> - -<p>On our way home from impossibility the fifteenth, -we took a street that had just been cut through some -new land where little brand new houses were springing -up like mushrooms. There was one, a tiny -plaster house trimmed with light green blinds with -half-moons cut in them, that I thought was simply -adorable. It wasn't completed; I could see the workmen -through the open windows. The temporary pine -door stood open.</p> - -<p>"Let's go in, for fun," I suggested, and Will helped -me up the inclined plank that led to the little front -stoop.</p> - -<p>We stayed for a whole hour in that house! It was -like gazing on sweet sixteen; it was simply refreshing; -we didn't know anything so lovely existed. -There was a darling little bathroom with open plumbing, -and a shining porcelain tub. There was a marble<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p283" id="Page_p283">[283]</a></span> -slab for mixing in the pantry. The bedrooms were -painted white. The closets, tiny though they were, -smelled of fresh plaster. Will got into conversation -with the contractor while I amused myself by planning -which room I would choose for ours. But the -house wasn't for rent. A man who ran a fish-market -was building it. I saw Will get out an old letter and -begin figuring on the back of the envelope. That -place, lot and all, wasn't going to cost that fish man -but ten thousand dollars—Will told me that night -that we could own a house that cost fourteen thousand -and still save money on our rent. I was excited. -We didn't look at another house to hire. We -dropped them as if they were infected. The very -next Saturday afternoon we set out to search for lots.</p> - -<p>We weren't very particular at first. Any little -square of ground that we looked at with the idea of -possible ownership seemed perfectly lovely to me; anything -with a tiny glimpse of horizon, and a place in -the back for a garden, was like a little piece of heaven. -We were both awfully easily pleased the first month. -There were so many pretty places to build on, we -simply didn't know which one to choose. Then one -day the agent sent us up to look at some land that -had just been put on the market at sixty cents a foot. -Of course it was more than we could pay, and we -went to inspect it simply out of idle curiosity. The -result was that the next day among that whole townful -of open spaces and green fields, there was -only one solitary spot that Will and I wanted for our -own. You see after we had once climbed up on to -that expensive little hilltop and looked off and seen -the view—a round bowl of a lake with a clump of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p284" id="Page_p284">[284]</a></span> -pines beside it, and beyond, a hill with a long ribbon -of road leading up to a real New England white -farmhouse with a splash of red barn beside it, we -couldn't think kindly of any other spot in town. -After we had sat down on the stone wall that ran -right square through the back of the lot, and watched -a glorious sunset reflected in the lake below, Will said, -"By Jove, we'll have this!" There were six old -apple-trees on the lot, a wild cherry and a dear little -waif of a pine-tree. Will and I made a solemn vow -to each other that we would build a cheap house, and -get along a while longer with one maid for the sake -of that lovely sunset every night when we ate supper. -I said I'd as soon live in a lean-to. Will said -we'd live just where we were for another year until -we could afford to put up even a lean-to. We bought -the darling of our hearts seven days later. It used up -over two-thirds of our fourteen-thousand-dollar house -fund.</p> - -<p>We ate picnic suppers on our stone wall, and winter-times -drank hot coffee there boiled over a tiny -bon-fire built in the rocks, for three solid years before -we began to dig the cellar of our lean-to. I had hollyhocks -and a whole row of Canterbury-bells flowering -in our garden for two springs before there was a -door and some steps to lead out to it. It's all very -well to vow you'll build a cheap house, but it's another -thing to do it. Of course we had to have plumbing -and heat; electric light fixtures seemed a necessity too, -as well as a few doors here and there.</p> - -<p>Will and I literally laboured over those plans. -They had to undergo a dreadful series of operations. -Every spring when it seemed to us as if we couldn't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p285" id="Page_p285">[285]</a></span> -endure another summer cooped up in our noisy, stone-paved, -double-electric-car-tracked street, I'd haul -down the architect's blue-prints and stretch them out -on a card-table. We amputated so much from those -plans I wondered they held together. Of course the -shower-baths and the garage, oak floors, and a superfluous -bathroom came off as easily as fingers; but -when we began cutting out partitions here and there, -a treasured fireplace or two, two closets, and even the -back stairs, I tell you it was ticklish! Even when -we'd shaved off two feet from the length of the living-room, -four from the dining-room, and squeezed our -hall so that it was only nine feet wide, even then we -couldn't find a generous-hearted builder who would -even try to be reasonable in his charges.</p> - -<p>Our house wasn't, by the way, anything like the -fish man's. It wasn't a plaster house with light green -blinds, with half-moons cut in them. It seemed to -our architect (and to me too, as soon as he suggested -it) that the most New England type of house possible—flat-faced, -clapboarded, painted white, a hall in the -centre and a room on each side, would fit in with those -apple-trees better than anything quaint or original. -Oh, ours was just the housiest house possible, with -nothing odd about it like oriel windows, or diamond -trellises, or unexpected bays and swells.</p> - -<p>The first day the plans arrived I did some measuring, -and cut out of cardboard on the same scale as -the plans, patterns of our furniture. That night Will -and I moved into our paper house, shoving the furniture -around the rooms with lightning speed, shifting -hall-clocks, davenports, and grand pianos from parlour -to bedroom with surprising little effort. Why<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p286" id="Page_p286">[286]</a></span>, -I rearranged my rooms time and time again before I -ever stepped foot in them. If you'll believe me, I -made a complete new bedroom set for the nursery, -and a little crib which I placed between the windows, -when the real room was only a square block of air -above the apple-trees.</p> - -<p>You can imagine how excited we were when at the -end of three years we finally signed the contract with -McManus & Mann, Contractors and Builders. We -were simply house-crazy by that time. I wanted to -celebrate the important occasion somehow, so I went -down to Mr. McManus's office and ordered several -bundles of six-foot-length laths, such as are used in -plastering a room, to be sent up to our lot on Saturday -morning. Will and I always spend Saturday -afternoons together, and, provided with the roll of -plans, a yard-stick, a hatchet and my lunch-basket -packed with tea and sandwiches, we started out about -two <span class="smcap">P. M.</span> to lay out our house, life size, with the -laths on the very spot where it was so soon now to -stand. By five o'clock I was serving tea before the -fireplace in the living-room, and apple-blossom petals -were blowing through the kitchen and hall partitions -into the very cream-pitcher by my side.</p> - -<p>It was just when the water over my alcohol stove -had begun to boil that our first guests arrived. Dr. -Van Breeze is married now, and his wife, Alice, and I -are very good friends. For the three years that Will -and I had been working on house-plans she had followed -the changes in them as if they were hers. So -I 'phoned her that I should be delighted if she and -George (George is Dr. Van Breeze) would take tea -with us Saturday afternoon at four-thirty in our new<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p287" id="Page_p287">[287]</a></span> -house. When they appeared in their touring-car at -the foot of our hill, I saw that dear Dr. Graham and -Mrs. Graham were in the back seat, and I dashed -through the living-room wall and down to the road to -meet them. Ten minutes later the Omsteds arrived -strolling up the hill from their house which is the -nearest one to ours. Will had already arranged boulders -for chairs around the fireplace, and my dainty -little sandwiches and tiny cream puffs were laid out -neatly on plates covered with fresh napkins. The tea -was hot and strong and fragrant; the decorations of -six trees full of apple-blossoms, lovely to behold; the -illumination of a pink and blue sunset, reflected in the -lake below, more beautiful than a hundred electric -lights.</p> - -<p>After we had drank tea and eaten the last cream -puff, I invited my guests to inspect the house. Every -one entered into my little game. Dr. Omsted made -us all respect the partitions as if they existed; George -Van Breeze insisted on walking up the front stairs; -and dear Dr. Graham found a grasshopper somewhere -and exclaimed chuckling, "Oh, my dear Pandora" -(he still calls me that silly name), "what of your -housekeeping? I saw dozens of these in your pantry!"</p> - -<p>Oh, it was just the nicest house-warming in the -world. I like every one of Will's friends; they may -be awfully learned, but they seem just plain natural -and unpretentious to me. They stayed until nearly -six o'clock. We waved them good-bye from our -front door. When they all had disappeared over the -brow of the hill, Will drew me into our hall and -kissed me, just as if there had really been walls.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p288" id="Page_p288">[288]</a></span> -Then he came into the living-room and helped me -clear up.</p> - -<p>I haven't mentioned yet the thorn I keep hidden in -my heart and carry everywhere I go. I don't like -to talk of it because Will doesn't like to have me, but -it robs every joy I have of completeness. As Will -and I strolled home that night perhaps we ought to -have been very happy. We had the best and pleasantest -friends in the world—I granted it; ground -for our dream-house was to be broken on Monday -morning; we had been married four years, and loved -each other more than ever.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Will, four years—four long years," I exclaimed, -and sighed.</p> - -<p>"Pshaw," he replied, and changed the subject.</p> - -<p>Ever since Madge's little baby was born, I've -wanted one of my own. I didn't care before that, -but when I held the warm little thing in my arms for -minutes at a time, dressed it, cared for it when the -nurse was out, and listened to its poor pitiful little -cry in the middle of the night, something seemed to -spring open in me that I can't close.</p> - -<p>I want a little daughter-companion of my very -own! I want to wash her, and dress her and take -her out with me. I want her to sit with me rainy -afternoons in her little rocking-chair and play while -I sew. I want her to tell me all her secrets, and I -want to give her all the love, all the good times and -pretty things a little girl wants. When Madge brings -over her Marjorie, and I see her clinging to her -mother's knee when I come into the room, I'd give -anything in the world to have some little girl cling to -<i>me</i> like that! Will has always loved children; he has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p289" id="Page_p289">[289]</a></span> -wanted them even longer than I, though he never told -me. Will affects indifference on the subject, but he -doesn't deceive me in the least. I know the lurking -hunger is always in his heart as it is in mine.</p> - -<p>Why I was so especially down-hearted to-night as -we walked home from our tea-party on the hilltop -was on account of a remark of Alice Van Breeze's -thrown off in her quick, careless fashion. I think -Will kissed me in the hall to soothe a little of the hurt -of Alice's unconscious words. People who have babies -of their own don't guess how many times they -stab those who haven't.</p> - -<p>"What an ideal place this is for children!" Alice -had exclaimed. "Such air! Such sunshine! If -you don't mind, Lucy," she had caught herself up, -"I shall bring Junior up here often to get some tan -in your adorable garden."</p> - -<p>"Do," I had said, looking away.</p> - -<p>"How is the little chap?" Will had asked her -kindly. Will can't even talk about a child without a -little note of tenderness in his tone.</p> - -<p>"Oh, he's perfect!" Alice had laughed. "The -very world revolves about him. Why, we're prouder -of that little bundle of bones and flesh than of his -father's latest book!"</p> - -<p>I didn't look at Will and Will didn't look at me. -We're so filled with pity for each other at such moments -(and there are many of them) that we can't -bear to gaze upon the hurt look in the other's face.</p> - -<p>Our whole sad little story can be traced in our -house-plans. When we first decided to build, we -talked bravely <i>then</i> about the nursery on the sunny -side; it looked out towards the south and east; it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p290" id="Page_p290">[290]</a></span> -large and airy, with four big windows, and a fireplace -for chilly nights. When the first sketches arrived the -room was plainly labelled in printed letters, and I remember -that the mere word gave me a queer thrill of -joy. I had, as you know, immediately made patterns -of the nursery furniture, placed the paper crib in position, -and estimated the number of steps from my bed -to the baby's. I had had it beautifully planned for -contagious diseases: Will could move into the guest-room, -and I and the sick children could be absolutely -isolated from the rest of the house, in two lovely -rooms with a bathroom of our own. But I needn't -have planned on children's contagious diseases. -There will never be any little children with measles, -or chicken-pox, or whooping-cough in our house, to -take care of. I am sure of it now. On the last roll -of plans which our architect submitted to us the word -printed across the face of the southeast room had -been changed from Nursery to Chamber! I think -Will must have requested it and I knew then with -awful finality that even Will had given up hope. I -never asked how or why the room's name had been -changed. I simply understood without asking and -cried it out by myself in my room. The next day I -burned the nursery paper furniture—the crib, the -folding yard, the toy-case like Edith's—in the kitchen -stove, with a pang as big as if they had been real.</p> - -<p>After that I called the southeast chamber, "Ruth's -room." I had always secretly hoped that Ruth would -live with me if ever I had a house of my own. I had -hoped it ever since Alec had married Edith. It -hadn't come to pass—it never would. Ruth is so -fastidious. But she has spent a night with me very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p291" id="Page_p291">[291]</a></span> -often so I decided to make over the room that no little -child seemed to want to occupy, for my only sister. -It really was easier to refer to the room as -Ruth's. I was glad, after the first shock, that Will -had made the change. The evident question and pity -in people's eyes when we had called it by its old name -had become unpleasant for both Will and me.</p> - -<p>I grew very philosophical about my disappointment -as time went on. I didn't mean to allow it to shadow -my whole life. There was lots else to be thankful -for. But that night after our little tea-party my philosophy -seemed to leave me. It always does when -I'm a little tired and need it most. I couldn't keep -up any kind of conversation at dinner that night. I -tried, but I couldn't. My thoughts got to travelling -the wellworn path that they will stray away to every -once in a while in spite of me, and it's always Will -who comes to my rescue and pulls them back on to -safe sure ground, before they lose themselves in utter -dejection.</p> - -<p>"Let's play some cribbage!" he suggested lightly -after dinner.</p> - -<p>I laid down my useless embroidery and listlessly -drew up to the table. We played three games without -an interruption. I won them all. Then just as -Will was dealing for a fourth game I had to get out -my handkerchief and wipe my eyes.</p> - -<p>"Oh, my dear girl!" said Will accusingly.</p> - -<p>"I know it, but I can't help it!" I replied. "It -seems <i>too</i> cruel! I simply can't bear not to use the -room we built the house around. I wish we could -find a little child somewhere that we could—borrow. -You see, Will, a woman, to be really happy, seems to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p292" id="Page_p292">[292]</a></span> -require a family to take care of, unless she's a genius—an -artist or a poet, or something like that, which -I'm not. Why, Will," I broke out, "I'm getting so -I don't like to hear about other people's children—or -see them or want them around. When Alice spoke -about bringing her baby into my garden it seemed as -if I'd simply have to find <i>somewhere</i> a little creature -of our own to play with the flowers I've planted. -Don't I <i>know</i> it's a perfect place for children? Don't -I know it? And does she think we also wouldn't be -prouder of a little child than of your discoveries? -Oh, Will, I know how disappointed you are. You -won't say it but I know it's awfully hard for you too."</p> - -<p>"Nonsense," Will scoffed. "What's hard about -it? I've got you, haven't I? You and I are the two -best children at playing games in a garden that <i>I</i> -ever saw. <i>I'm</i> perfectly satisfied. Come ahead, cut -the cards. I'm about to beat you now at five games -of crib."</p> - -<p>I shook my head and looked away.</p> - -<p>"You're mistaken," Will went on, "if you think -<i>I'm</i> envying anybody anything. I've yet to meet two -people happier than we. Children are pleasant -enough incidents in life," Will went on, "but don't -you draw any wrong conclusions that happiness is -dependent on them. It isn't. Look at Dr. and Mrs. -Graham. They never had any, and two more congenial, -more contented, happier people never existed—except -perhaps ourselves. Dr. Graham has too -much sound thought to allow the denial of any <i>one</i> -of the supposed blessings of life to disturb his peace. -And so have we, Bobbie, don't you think? Some of -the very best people in the world, some of those who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p293" id="Page_p293">[293]</a></span> -have accomplished the most effective work, never had -children. It isn't the first question we ask about a -great man or a good woman. I might have reason to -complain if I didn't have my health or a good sound -mind, or if after these few precious years together, -I lost <i>you</i>. But as it is—well, please don't ever say -again, young lady, that our present conditions are -hard for me. Hard—Nonsense!"</p> - -<p>Dear Will! I'd heard this same little speech of -his dozens of times before. When he tries so hard -to cheer me it seems too bad not to respond; so I -smiled now.</p> - -<p>"Will Maynard," I said, "you don't deceive me -for one minute by all this talk! Don't think you do! -<i>I</i> know—<i>I</i> understand. But I'll say this—and I've -said it a hundred times before—you certainly <i>are</i> -the kindest man I ever knew."</p> - -<p>"Bosh!" he laughed.</p> - -<p>"Yes, you are—yes, you are. And I guess if -I've got you I'd better not complain." I put away my -handkerchief. "It's all over now," I announced, -"and I'm ready to beat you at those five games of -crib."</p> - -<p>He dealt the cards and for five minutes we played -in earnest; then suddenly Will reached across and -took my hand.</p> - -<p>"Who says you and I aren't perfectly happy?" he -asked.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p294" id="Page_p294">[294]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER XXII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">IT wasn't a week after that Sunday afternoon of -ours on our darling hilltop that I received a letter -from Ruth announcing her intention of paying me -a visit. I was amazed.</p> - -<p>Ruth usually prefers to visit at houses where she -can stay in bed until ten o'clock in the morning and -sink luxuriously into an upholstered limousine fitted -up with plum-coloured cushions and a bunch of fresh -flowers, every time she goes out of doors. She isn't -the type who likes making her own bed and helping -with the dishes—not that I require such toll from a -guest; but you know our house has only one bathroom -and Ruth says a tin tub always looks greasy. -She says that black walnut furniture has a depressing -effect on her, and assures me that she doesn't dare -turn over in my guest-room bed for fear the head of -the thing—a big towering mass of black walnut -blocks and turrets—will fall down on top of her in -the night. Ruth suffered the hardships of my establishment -only when it was necessary. Whenever a -taxicab did draw up to my door and deposit my dressy -sister for the night, I knew that it was because she -had an early appointment with her tailor the next -morning, or had missed the last Hilton Express. I -didn't remember that Ruth had ever spent a single -night under my roof for the mere friendliness or sisterly -love of sleeping between my embroidered sheets. -Ruth has a very sensitive temperament—so sensi<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p295" id="Page_p295">[295]</a></span>tive -that certain combinations of colour will affect her -spirits. My guest-room has mustard-coloured walls -with reddish fleur-de-lis.</p> - -<p>Ruth is an extraordinary girl. She doesn't seem a -bit like a Vars. We're such a conventional and just-what-you-would-expect -kind of family. Ruth contrives -somehow to shroud herself in a veil of mystery -and create an impression everywhere she goes. I -guess she's the most discussed girl in all Hilton. She -affects heliotrope shades in her clothes, combining several -tones in one gown, and wears large, round, floppy -hats. She always manages to select big stagy chairs -to sit in, that set her off as if she were a portrait. I -have to pinch myself every once in a while to make -sure she isn't a foreign adventuress of some kind with -an exciting past, instead of just my common ordinary -little sister Ruthie. She has the queerest ideas on -life and love that I ever heard talked outside of a -book, and she preaches them too. I don't know how -she dares; but somehow a little wickedness, a little -cynicism, from so very pretty a girl seems simply to -add to her piquancy and charm. Ruth dabbles in -every artistic line that exists—sings with the finish -of a prima-donna and loves to improvise by the hour -on the big drawing-room piano at home, while some -love-lorn suitor sits in silence in the half-dark and -worships. She's clever at drawing—has designed -book-plates for all her friends, besides having modelled -in bas-relief several of their portraits in clay. -She writes poetry too. She never read any of it to -<i>me</i>; I suppose I'm not sympathetic enough for it; -but I got hold of some of her papers once and spent -a whole hour with them. I never knew till then what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p296" id="Page_p296">[296]</a></span> -deep ideas Ruth really has! I copied several of the -verses and Bob Jennings, who is an instructor in English -at the university down here, said they were "full -of promise."</p> - -<p>When Ruth's letter arrived announcing her proposed -visit, my only sorrow lay in the fact that her -room in the new house wasn't ready. I was going -to have it papered in lavender chambray and had already -selected a wisteria design in cretonne for the -hangings. It was going to be the most artistic room -in the house. I wasn't going to hang a single picture -on the walls (no pictures is Ruth's latest fad) and -the furniture was going to be plain colonial mahogany. -It's queer how all the family pay homage to Ruth. -She's younger than I, by three years, but I've always -longed for her approval. I used to criticise her extravagance, -and tell her she was vain and selfish, but -down in the bottom of my heart I've always thought -Ruth was wonderful. Will makes fun of me for -laying out my best linen every time Ruth comes to -see us. It <i>is</i> foolish, but I don't want Ruth to think -that I don't possess any of the fine points of the people -she most admires. I began to plan to make her -first real visit with me as much of a success as I -knew how. Ruth likes to have parties planned ahead -for her, so I decided to invite the Van Breezes to dinner -one night, and Bob Jennings another.</p> - -<p>Bob is a perfectly splendid young man and awfully -good-looking. I was sorry that Ruth had to meet -him for the first time in the unkind surroundings of -our house. Setting, background, atmosphere, influence -her so much. If she sees a man for -the first time in company with black walnut and mar<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p297" id="Page_p297">[297]</a></span>ble-topped -tables, she is apt to think him as offensively -old-fashioned as the furniture. And I did want to -prove to Ruth that there existed a decent man with -several degrees to his name, who knew how to dress -properly for dinner and converse intelligently on the -latest opera.</p> - -<p>Will and I both met Ruth at the station when she -arrived. She kissed me and gave both her hands to -Will in her most engaging manner. She presented -him later with three trunk checks. I was flattered. -I was glad that there happened to be several teas on -hand, and a musicale at the Omsted's that week. I -would show Ruth that all our friends didn't live in -ugly brown French-roofed houses, and that she hadn't -brought all her pretty gowns to my house in vain.</p> - -<p>But here I was disappointed. After dinner Ruth -announced, "Oh, no; I couldn't. Don't make any engagements -for me, please. My time won't be my own -while I'm here. I didn't mention in my letter that -Breck Sewall is coming up from New York to-morrow. -He has invited me to several things in town. -I thought it would be simpler for me to spend my -nights here, than to go back so many times to Hilton."</p> - -<p>I didn't say a word, but my heart skipped a beat, -I think. I had thought the affair with Breck Sewall -had blown over. The Sewalls haven't occupied their -summer place near Hilton for three years. It hadn't -occurred to me that Ruth's visit could have any possible -connection with Breck Sewall. Ruth knew that -Will and I disapprove of him; she knew the sound of -his very name was unwelcome in our house. I felt -like telling Ruth to go upstairs, lock up her precious<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p298" id="Page_p298">[298]</a></span> -trunks, and go home. Once I would have spat out -something nasty to my sister about accepting attentions -from a man she knew was not nice, but now I -was too anxious to become her friend to quarrel with -her on the first night she arrived. I had learned that -the safest course for me to follow was simply not to -oppose Ruth in anything.</p> - -<p>It was Will, turning from fastening the windows, -who blurted out bluntly, "Are you still keeping up -your connections with that man?"</p> - -<p>Ruth smiled, raising her eyebrows a little, and then -folded her hands behind her head, her pretty arms -bare to the elbows.</p> - -<p>"Don't you approve of him, brother William?" -she inquired archly as if she didn't care a straw -whether he did or not.</p> - -<p>"Do <i>you</i>?" asked Will.</p> - -<p>Ruth laughed an amused, silvery laugh and replied -lightly, "I am engaged to be married to Breck -Sewall, I suppose, if that answers you."</p> - -<p>Will didn't say a word for a minute. Then, "I -am sorry to hear that," he replied shortly.</p> - -<p>"Really?" smiled Ruth. "Breck and I shall certainly -miss your blessing, William." She always -calls him William when she's making fun of him. I -don't see how she dares to mock a man so much wiser -and older than she, but Ruth would deride the President -of the United States if he interfered with her -little schemes.</p> - -<p>Will replied; "You're too fine a girl to make such -a mistake, Ruth."</p> - -<p>She rippled into another laugh and my cheeks grew -warm with indignation. She leaned forward and se<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p299" id="Page_p299">[299]</a></span>lected -a chocolate-cream from a box of candy on the -table.</p> - -<p>"That's a very prettily veiled compliment, William, -and I thank you," she said. She nibbled a bit of her -candy as she spoke.</p> - -<p>She was awfully exasperating, sitting there so gay -and unconcerned. Will stepped up to her chair and -I could tell from his voice that he was angry.</p> - -<p>"I know all about Breck Sewall," he said. "He's -not the kind of man for any nice girl to associate -with. He spent a year at this university. He was -expelled, not only because he could not keep up in his -courses, not only because he was brought home time -and time again too disgustingly drunk to stand alone, -not only because of these things, but because of another -and more disreputable affair. I think you -ought to know about it before this goes any further. -It was an affair with a girl. There was no doubt -about it. He acknowledged the whole thing. Why, -Ruth, he isn't the kind of man for you even to speak -to!" Will said. "Sometime I will tell you the whole -story—sometime—if it's necessary."</p> - -<p>Ruth took another bite of her chocolate-cream.</p> - -<p>"Do <i>now</i>," she smiled, "if it amuses you. But -it will be no news to <i>me</i>. I know all about that college -affair of Breck's. He has told me the whole -story himself. I know the girl's name and all the -particulars. Breck isn't afraid to tell me the truth. -Nothing in the world shocks me, you know," she announced -with bravado. "Did you think I was so -narrow-minded and hemmed in by prejudice not to -overlook the follies a man may have committed when -he was hardly more than a boy? I don't care what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p300" id="Page_p300">[300]</a></span> -Breck did before he knew me. What other awful -news have you to break to me, William?" Ruth inquired -sweetly.</p> - -<p>Will stared at Ruth as if she were something he -never knew existed.</p> - -<p>"Nothing else," he said shortly, "if that isn't sufficient."</p> - -<p>There was an uncomfortable silence. My sister -must have felt a little uneasy under the gaze of Will's -astonished eyes; for when she had finished her candy, -daintily touched her lips with her bit of a white handkerchief, -tucked it away, and spoke again, her manner -towards him had changed.</p> - -<p>"Will," she said, "I'm so different from any one -you ever knew that you can't understand me, can -you? Now I know you told me just now about that -little unfortunate affair of Breck's because you want -me to be happy. And I do appreciate your interest -in me—I do really. Of course I have no mother," -she put in quite tragically; "I never had. Perhaps -that is why I am so different from other girls. I'm -not shocked at the things young girls are brought up -to be shocked at. I don't tremble at the sound of -unadulterated truth and bare facts. I am aware of -it. I am not living under the false illusion that the -man I am to marry is perfect. I know he isn't, and -I am content. Why, the very qualities I require in a -man preclude at least a few of the supposed virtues. -Perhaps, Will," said Ruth patronisingly, "you do not -understand a man of Breck's tempestuous nature. -<i>You're</i> so scientific. It's easy for you to stay within -the narrow path. But you shouldn't be severe on -others."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p301" id="Page_p301">[301]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Do you love Breck Sewall?" asked Will point-blank.</p> - -<p>"Oh, <i>love</i>!" Ruth shrugged her shoulders. -"Love would be the last thing I would marry a man -for. I'm not as short-sighted as that. Love may -last a year, or two perhaps, but it is not enduring. -I marry for sounder reasons than love. You must -know that the Sewalls are immensely wealthy. -Their position is as established as royalty in England. -Oh, you see," laughed Ruth, standing up and walking -over toward the bookcase, "how dreadfully worldly -and wicked I am! Have you La Rochefoucauld? -Let me read you a little saying of his."</p> - -<p>"No, not dreadfully worldly—not dreadfully -wicked, Ruth," said Will; "only dreadfully young, I -think."</p> - -<p>Ruth hates to be accused of youth.</p> - -<p>"But old enough to marry whom I please, William, -perhaps," she flashed.</p> - -<p>"Oh," scoffed Will, "that doesn't require much -age, nor much wisdom. You are young enough to -think it rather clever and smart to scorn virtue, make -fun of love, and pretend to marry a man for his -wealth and position. It sounds so bookish and so -sophisticated!"</p> - -<p>Ruth would not have deigned to respond to such -an insulting assault as that if I had made it, but to -Will she replied, "You're mistaken there. I've -thought and read on this subject. I'm not so young -as you think." She walked over to the mantel and -leaned her back against the white marble, then folding -her arms across her chest, like a judging goddess, -she continued: "I believe, and several people of repu<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p302" id="Page_p302">[302]</a></span>tation -agree with me, that the most important thing -to consult in considering marriage is one's temperament. -Ask yourself what your tastes are and then -see if the new life will gratify them. Temperament -never changes. If you love music when you are -twenty, you will love it when you are forty. Well, -I have studied my nature very closely. I know what -pleases it. I know what annoys and disturbs it. -I'm different from the others in our family. I often -wonder from whom I inherit my peculiarities. I love -beautiful music, beautiful pictures, soft rugs, fine furniture, -delicate lace at the windows. Low, artistic -lamp-light, the comings and goings of soft-footed unobtrusive -servants, a dinner perfectly served, exquisite -china, old silver, exclusive people—all such -things give me actual physical pleasure. I enjoy position -and influence. My nature grows and expands -under recognition. It dries up and dies under slight -and disregard. The people I envy most in the world -are those who are born in high positions. I can't -alter my birth, but I have been invited to become a -member of a prominent and influential family, and -as one of that family I shall be invited and received -everywhere, without any of the humiliating striving. -I'm proud, you know. I despise toadying. I don't -want to work for social position. I want it placed -upon me, like a king his crown. Why, Will, Breck -Sewall can supply my nature with everything it demands. -Why shouldn't I marry him?"</p> - -<p>"Can Breck supply your intellect with what it demands?" -asked Will.</p> - -<p>Ruth laughed good-naturedly.</p> - -<p>"Poor Breck! Poor old maligned Breck! He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p303" id="Page_p303">[303]</a></span> -isn't exactly intellectual, I agree, but don't you worry, -Will, I shall find congenial minds enough in his circle. -The Sewalls entertain all sorts of interesting professional -people—the top-notchers, I mean. My intellect -won't suffer. Where is the woman, anyhow, who -discusses her soul with her husband? How can a -woman read poetry with a man who has just been -grumbling at the price of her prettiest gown?" Ruth -shuddered. "No, no! Please! I prefer not. But -I shan't be lonely. Never fear." She gave Will a -meaning look from beneath her eyebrows and added -in a sort of bold, daring way, "There will be some -one."</p> - -<p>I don't know why Ruth loves to preach such wickedness. -She doesn't mean half she says. I waited -for the walls to fall. Will abhors married women -who attempt to flirt with other men. Ruth waited -too for the clap of thunder she thought must follow -her startling implication. But when Will spoke there -wasn't a trace of anger in his voice—just disgust—just -plain unflattering disgust. "Come, Lucy," he -said to me; "I've had about enough of this. Let's -go upstairs to bed."</p> - -<p>The Sewalls are the high-muck-a-mucks of the Hilton -summer colony. They're New York people and -their place, just outside Hilton, reminds me of the -castles that give distinction to so many otherwise nondescript -little towns in Europe—not in age, for I -can remember when the Sewalls' place was rough cow-pasture -land, but in its relation to the town and the -surrounding country. It's Hilton's show-place. We -always point it out to strangers when we take them -on their first drive. The wrought-iron gates cost five<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p304" id="Page_p304">[304]</a></span> -thousand dollars; the distance around the house and -adjoining buildings added together measures half a -mile; the big entrance hall, we state (and we're proud -of our knowledge too) is hung with old tapestries and -furnished in carved English oak.</p> - -<p>After Mrs. F. Rockridge Sewall's advent, there -was established among the Hilton summer colonists -a new law of society. You were either of the elect -or of the rejected; you were either entertained by -Mrs. F. Rockridge Sewall or you were an ignominious -nobody. There existed no self-respecting middle -position in Hilton after Mrs. Sewall arrived in -mid-July with her retinue of some twenty-odd servants, -her four or five automobiles, and half-dozen -hunters. Mrs. Sewall was for some time a very disturbing -factor in Edith's life. The lights of a ballroom, -the sound of dance-music, however lovely they -may be, are absolutely irritating to my sister-in-law, -if seen and heard from the outside. It took two long -discouraging seasons of scheming, manipulating, and -rather bold attacking, before Edith gained the proper -kind of entrance to the hallowed ground inside those -five-thousand-dollar wrought-iron gates. It was -really due to Ruth that she was admitted then. -Young Breckenridge Sewall had chanced to see a -stunning young creature in lavender and grey at a -garden-party at Mrs. Leonard Jackson's, one afternoon -late in August, during his mother's second season -at Grassmere, the name of their place in Hilton. -He had only to see Ruth once to beg for an introduction. -That is the way it is with every man across -whose field of vision my sister steps. I think that -Ruth is the loveliest production that Hilton, or Hil<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p305" id="Page_p305">[305]</a></span>ton's -environs, ever produced; and Breckenridge -Sewall thought so too. Three weeks after that introduction -at Mrs. Leonard Jackson's Ruth rushed -in upon Edith one Friday noon and announced, "I'm -invited to a house-party at the Sewalls'! One of the -out-of-town guests has disappointed Mrs. Sewall at -the last moment and Breck wants me to fill in!" -Before the Sewalls went back to New York that fall, -Ruth was the most distinguished young lady in all -Hilton. She was pointed out everywhere she went -as the girl to whom Breck Sewall was paying such -marked attention; she burst into notoriety; and -Edith's position was at last made secure. Trust -Edith to squeeze into the limelight along with Ruth. -I don't know how my sister-in-law manages such -things but it was clear sailing for her after Breck's -discovery.</p> - -<p>That man rushed Ruth for two years and a half -before there was any word from my sister about an -engagement. During the summer he used to call on -Ruth about six evenings a week, and as Edith made -us all go upstairs (this was before I was married) on -the nights that Breck came, by nine o'clock, it got to -be a nuisance. At first I remember we were all a -little flattered by the young millionaire's attention to -our pretty Ruth and even I used to feel a thrill of -pride at the thought of such a brilliant match in our -quiet midst.</p> - -<p>Breck didn't propose to Ruth till after I was married. -She came in from a long motor run one Sunday -in July, when Will and I happened to be in Hilton, -and told us the news before she even took off her -hat. I remember it very well for there followed one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p306" id="Page_p306">[306]</a></span> -of our dreadful family discussions. By that time -Will and I, and Alec too, had begun to feel a little -doubt as to Breck's desirability. We had always -heard rumours about his habits, but Edith prized -Breck's attentions to Ruth so highly, that Alec had -neglected a thorough investigation. He thought that -Breck didn't intend to marry Ruth anyway, called it -a summer affair and trusted that time would cure -them both of their fancy. So when Will came out -with a few telling facts detrimental to Breck Sewall's -character, Edith was simply furious. She told me -that I shouldn't come back meddling after I was married. -Ruth loved Breck Sewall—she was sure of -it; we might be the cause of wrecking the child's -happiness for life if we interfered. Alec looked awfully -distressed as we talked but he didn't rise up in -indignation, stampede as he should have, and swear -that no sister of his should ever marry a man with -Breck Sewall's reputation, so long as he lived. Alec -is awfully ineffectual when Edith is around.</p> - -<p>I don't know how it all would have come out, if -Mrs. Sewall hadn't interrupted matters. Suddenly, -right in the midst of the thickest of our discussion, -three or four days after Ruth's announcement, Mrs. -Sewall decided to go abroad. She closed up her summer -mansion, mid-season though it was, barred the -windows, locked the gates, and sailed away to Europe, -Breck and all. She didn't come back for two years, -and even then she didn't come back to Hilton. The -excitement about Breck and Ruth died down like fire, -and about as suddenly. He didn't even write to -Ruth after three or four months, and just before -Ruth came down to visit me and announced her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p307" id="Page_p307">[307]</a></span> -startling piece of news, I had read that Breckenridge -Sewall was reported engaged to his cousin, Miss Gale -somebody or other, a débutante of last season.</p> - -<p>Ruth's news was an awful shock to me. I knew -without being told how jubilant Edith would be, how -helpless Alec in the face of what seemed to both the -women of his household such a brilliant victory. I -didn't know what to do. It didn't seem as if I could -stand by and watch my own sister marry the kind of -man Will said that Breck Sewall was. I lay awake -a long while that night after Ruth's arrival at our -house, wondering what under heaven I, whose ideas -on life my sister considered so provincial—what -there was that <i>I</i> might do to swerve her from her -purpose.</p> - -<p>I could hope for no help from Will. Ruth had -thrown him utterly out of sympathy with her. He -washed his hands of the whole affair; he told me so -that night when we came upstairs to bed, and I knew -by his manner to my sister the next morning at breakfast, -courteous enough though it was, in what contempt -he held her. I told Will I couldn't send Ruth -back to Hilton, and, as distasteful as I knew Breck -Sewall's coming to our door would be to him, I -hoped he would let me keep Ruth with me as long as -she would stay. I didn't have any plan, any deep-laid -scheme. It simply seemed to me that it must -have been an act of heaven that Ruth had been sent -to me during such a critical period in her history, and -I didn't want to fly in the face of Providence.</p> - -<p>I began by being just as nice and kind to her as I -knew how. I didn't offer one word of opposition; -I didn't advise; I didn't criticise; I appeared even to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p308" id="Page_p308">[308]</a></span> -welcome her suitor when he first arrived to carry my -sister in town to dinner and the theatre; I chatted -with him pleasantly while she put on her party coat -upstairs. I served Ruth breakfasts in bed at eleven -<span class="smcap">A. M.</span>; and admired and praised all her gowns and -lovely fol-de-rols as she dressed every afternoon in -preparation for her lover.</p> - -<p>For five days Ruth blandly carried on her love-affair -in our house, going and coming at her own -sweet time, accepting our hospitality as a matter of -course, while she bestowed her rarest smiles upon a -man whom she knew Will considered disreputable and -whom therefore I could not approve of. For five -days she lunched, motored, and dined with Breck -Sewall, and in between times talked with him over -the 'phone for twenty-minute periods. I despaired. -I didn't see any way out, and as the days went on and -the house became more and more perfumed by Breck -Sewall's roses and violets and valley-lilies, I began to -give up hope.</p> - -<p>On the sixth day I received a letter from Edith:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"Ruth would go down to you. I told her that neither -you nor Will liked Breck Sewall and it wouldn't be a bit -pleasant. Alec and I are both very much pleased about -the engagement, because Ruth really loves Breck Sewall -with all her heart, and since his renewed attentions, the -dear girl has been simply radiant. I write this because -I'm afraid that you'll try to poison Ruth's mind against -the man she loves. We all want her to be happy, I'm -sure, and I think you would assume a lot of responsibility -in trying to stop a girl from marrying the only man she -ever has cared for or ever will. She likes to boast that -she doesn't love Breck. It's pose. I, who have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p309" id="Page_p309">[309]</a></span> -with Ruth so intimately for so long, know she is <i>wild</i> -about Breck Sewall, and loves him madly. Don't meddle -with it, Bobbie. I'd hate to be to blame for <i>my</i> -sister's broken heart."</p></blockquote> - -<p>That letter of Edith's set me to thinking. It -hadn't occurred to me that Ruth was simply <i>pretending</i> -to marry for position. I didn't think that such a -repulsive creature as Breck Sewall could inspire anything -so divine as love in my sister's heart. And -yet, perhaps—how did I know (I understand Ruth -so little anyway)—how did I know—perhaps Edith -was right. Perhaps, after all, Ruth was simply trying -to conceal her love by contempt and scorn of it. -It wouldn't have made any difference as to my opposition, -but it would have cleared Ruth of unworthy -motives, at any rate. I was determined to find out.</p> - -<p>She had told me when she left the house at three -that afternoon that she and Breck were going to motor -to somebody's place on the north shore and would -not be back until late in the evening. It was eleven-thirty -when I finally heard Breck Sewall fumbling -with the lock and a minute later I caught the odour -of his cigarette, as I lay waiting for it in bed. I -knew then that he and Ruth were established in the -living-room for their usual half-hour alone before he -bade her good-night. I don't suppose it was a very -honourable thing to do, but after about five minutes -I got up, put on a wrapper, and crawled quietly down -to the landing, stepping over the third step which -creaks awfully. It was pitch dark in the corner near -the wall; there was no danger of being seen from below; -and I stood perfectly still, eavesdropping for all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p310" id="Page_p310">[310]</a></span> -I was worth. Ruth had lit one dim burner by the -piano and from my balcony I could plainly see Breck -Sewall, low as the light was, ensconced in a corner of -our davenport-sofa.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p311" id="Page_p311">[311]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER XXIII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">HE was making himself entirely at home. He -had crossed his feet and had placed them -square in the middle of the mahogany seat of my -nice little Windsor chair, which he had drawn up in -front of him. His toes pointed to the ceiling; his -cigarette pointed there too; for he had comfortably -pillowed his greasy old head (Breck's hair is jet -black and always looks as if it was wet) on the top -of the low back of the sofa. The smoke that he blew -at times from his nose went straight up like smoke -from a chimney on a windless day. I didn't think it -was a very pretty attitude for a man to assume in the -presence of a young lady. His hands were stuffed in -his trousers pockets, and when he spoke the only trouble -he went to was to roll his head in Ruth's direction. -He's anything but good-looking. He has half-closed -eyes like a Chinaman's, and a yellow, unpleasant complexion.</p> - -<p>"Come on over here," I heard him say in that kind -of guttural voice a man uses when he tries to talk -with a cigarette in his mouth, and I saw him shift -up one shoulder to motion Ruth to sit down beside -him.</p> - -<p>I couldn't see my sister but I heard her reply. "I -don't feel like it to-night, Breck," she said.</p> - -<p>Breck smoked in silence for half a minute, then he -asked, removing his cigarette, "Say, what's the matter -with you to-night? Are you back again on that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p312" id="Page_p312">[312]</a></span> -old subject which your precious saint of a professor -here raised up out of the past? Haven't I explained -that to you a dozen times?"</p> - -<p>"I wish you wouldn't refer to members of my family -in such a way," replied Ruth. "It isn't respectful -to me. You're not marrying beneath you, as your -manner sometimes seems to imply. My brother-in-law -whom you choose to call a saint is a noted man, -if you only read enough to know it, Breck. Oh, no, -I'm not thinking about that college affair of yours. -I'm not a jealous kind of girl. You know that."</p> - -<p>"Well, what is it then? It gets <i>me</i> what I've done -to deserve such treatment. Weren't they the right -kind of flowers?"</p> - -<p>"Don't be absurd, Breck. As if ornaments or -flowers were what I required! I'll tell you what's the -matter, if you want to know," said Ruth. "It's simply -this: I don't think you're treating your engagement -with proper respect. It seems out-of-order to -me that I should have told my family about our intentions -before you have told yours. It isn't a bit -as it should be. I hate even to speak about so delicate -a thing—but, Breck, why hasn't your mother -written to me? Why hasn't she set a day for me to -come and see her? Here <i>my</i> family are all recognising -<i>you</i> as a future member of their group, while -your family haven't even as much as made a sign."</p> - -<p>"Oh, now, now," replied Breck soothingly. -"That's it, is it? Don't you worry, little one. The -mater will come around, all right. Give her time. -For my part, though, I'd rather step into the Little -Church Around the Corner and get it over with in a -swoop."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p313" id="Page_p313">[313]</a></span></p> - -<p>If Ruth was sitting down, I'll wager she stood up -now. Her reply came like lightning.</p> - -<p>"Breck Sewall," she exclaimed, "that's the third -time in a week that you've suggested eloping to me! -I wish you'd stop it. It is absolutely insulting!"</p> - -<p>Breck looked up surprised.</p> - -<p>"Insulting?" he repeated dazed.</p> - -<p>"Exactly. Insulting," went on Ruth in hot haste. -"I'm not a servant-girl. I require all the proprieties -that exist, understand. Why," she added, "until -your mother recognises me publicly as your fiancée, -I'll never marry you as long as I live!" She stopped -suddenly. I knew she was very angry, for Ruth.</p> - -<p>Breck chuckled in a horrid insulting sort of way, -and lay down his cigarette.</p> - -<p>"Say," he broke out, putting his feet down on the -floor, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees -and rubbing his two hands together, "say, you're simply -stunning when you're mad." He was looking at -Ruth as if he'd like to gobble her up. "You're glorious! -You're great! Most of 'em cry and make -sights of themselves, but you—you—" He got up. -He strode over to Ruth. I suppose she was simply -too stunning, too glorious, too great to resist. I -don't know. The portière hid her and I was glad of -it. I shouldn't enjoy seeing Breck Sewall as much -as lay a finger on my sister. I closed my eyes and -waited. I should have been afraid of a man like -that, myself, but I suppose Ruth suffered herself to -be kissed by him with the indifference that she offers -her cheek for the same caress to a girl. When she -spoke again her anger seemed to have spent itself.</p> - -<p>"You're very silly, Breck," she said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p314" id="Page_p314">[314]</a></span></p> - -<p>"And you—you're as cold as a little fish," he replied -as tenderly as he knew how. I really think he -loved Ruth, though I was convinced that she didn't -have an emotion of any kind for him. "But I'll -wake you up, you little marble statue," he went on. -"I'll make you care for me. Women are all alike. -See if I don't."</p> - -<p>"It's more important," I heard Ruth reply, "to -make your mother care for me. You see, Breck, if -we hope to get married in October you had better tell -her your news as soon as possible. Why not to-night -when you go back to the hotel? She has been here -now three days with you and if she wants me to call -I can go to-morrow, or the next day, before I go -home. You say she came on so as to make arrangements -to open Grassmere this year. Certainly the engagement -must be announced immediately, so that I -shall be received by your mother properly this summer."</p> - -<p>"You seem to care more about my mother than -about me," objected Ruth's lover.</p> - -<p>Ruth laughed prettily.</p> - -<p>"Poor abused creature!" she mocked. "Poor -sulky boy! If I showed my feelings for you, Breck, -all the time, you wouldn't care for me half so much. -I understand men. You call me a little fish and that's -what I am—always slipping out of your fingers, always -evading capture, for I know that once a man -gets his fish and puts it in his little basket, the cat can -eat it then for all he cares."</p> - -<p>"You're a clever little piece," said Breck admiringly. -"Half the time I don't know what you're -driving at."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p315" id="Page_p315">[315]</a></span></p> - -<p>Just here I saw Ruth walk over to the table and -pick up Breck's gold cigarette box. I don't remember -that I have ever been so shocked in my life as -when, staring like a cat out of my dark corner, I -saw my sister—my own little sister Ruth, over -whose bed hung the pure, clean-cut profile of my -mother, in whose heart must dwell the memory of the -best, the noblest, the finest father a girl ever had—select -a cigarette, light it, and actually place it between -her lovely lips! I wanted to call out, "Ruth -Chenery Vars, what are you doing? Have you lost -your mind? Are you crazy?" I saw her sit down -on the corner of the sofa that Breck had left empty -and lean her head back in much the same luxurious -fashion. I saw her blow a fine little ribbon of smoke -up to the ceiling. I waited until I saw Breck cross -the room to her side, and then, too sick to endure the -awful spectacle another instant, I turned and groped -my way upstairs to bed.</p> - -<p>I couldn't sleep for hours and hours. I turned -over at intervals of four to eight minutes, until it -began to grow light. I may have dropped off into -semi-consciousness. I don't know. Anyhow my -dreams were one continuous nightmare of my waking -vision. Had it been Ruth whom I had seen with my -own eyes smoking a cigarette in my living-room? -Had it been my own little sister? Had she done it -before? Did she do it often? If I had been anxious -to save Ruth from Breck before my horrible discovery, -now I was determined. She shouldn't share such -a life as his. She shouldn't! She shouldn't! I -waited impatiently for the morning light. I was -eager to be about my undertaking. I had a disagree<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p316" id="Page_p316">[316]</a></span>able -task before me, and haunted by the dread of it, -very much as we are visited by the fear of an operation -that must be undergone, I wanted to get it over -with and out of the way as soon as possible.</p> - -<p>After Will had left for the university and I, as -usual, had carried the breakfast-tray to Ruth (lying -as sweet and fresh as a carnation in her white sheets—you -would never have dreamed she had ever tasted -a cigarette) I went upstairs to my room, put on my -best eighty-five-dollar Boston tailor-made suit, and -grimly set out for town.</p> - -<p>It was ten-thirty when I sent up my name to Mrs. -F. Rockridge Sewall at the Hotel St. Mary, where I -knew Breck had been stopping since his arrival in -town. The clerk behind the yellow onyx counter -that enclosed the office of this exclusive hotel, had informed -me that Mrs. Sewall had just breakfasted and -therefore could assure me that she was in. He asked -for my card and summoned a bell-boy. I withdrew -to the rose-brocade writing-room at the left, and five -minutes later into the envelope in which I placed my -card I slipped a note that read something like this:</p> - -<blockquote> -<p> -"<i>My dear Mrs. Sewall</i>, -</p> - -<p>"It occurs to me that you may not remember who I -am from my card, or if so, be quite at a loss to know -what prompts this call. I have come to consult with -you on a matter that concerns your son, and would be -greatly obliged if you will see me.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -"<span class="smcap">Lucy Maynard.</span>" -</p></blockquote> - -<p>I must confess my heart acted like a trip-hammer, -as I waited for my answer. I experienced a moment -of misgiving and apprehension, as I gazed at the pat<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p317" id="Page_p317">[317]</a></span>tern -of the rose brocade on the walls. I had not confided -to Will my intention of a consultation with Mrs. -Sewall, and just for a moment as I sat there on the -edge of a formal little gilt-trimmed chair, I wondered -if my intuitions were leading me into a dreadful social -blunder.</p> - -<p>"She will see you; suite thirty-three. The boy -will show you up," suddenly broke in on my reflections, -and in another moment I was silently shooting -up the elevator shaft, gazing at a row of brass buttons -on the bell-boy's coat and estimating their number, -to keep myself calm.</p> - -<p>The room into which I was conducted was empty -when I entered it—a typical hotel-suite drawing-room, -furnished with elaborate and very puffy looking -stuffed furniture. I chose the only straight chair in -the room, and sat down and waited again. I had -met Mrs. Sewall only once in my life, quite formally -at a party of some sort at Edith's. We may -have exchanged a half dozen words, not more. I had -never been invited to her grand house, and most of -my knowledge of the lady had come through hearsay, -and the social columns in the papers. It was -necessary to keep my mind pretty closely fastened on -the cigarette spectacle, or else I might have lost courage, -and quietly withdrawn before Mrs. Sewall appeared. -She kept me waiting in torture for at least -fifteen minutes (I can tell you the subject of every -one of the engravings on the wall, I am sure) but the -queer thing is, that when she finally joined me and I -rose to speak, I forgot to be afraid. Will says that -such an experience is very common with him in making -an after-dinner speech.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p318" id="Page_p318">[318]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You don't know me, Mrs. Sewall," I began.</p> - -<p>"I fear I do not," she replied, smiling formally. -She was dressed very plainly, but elegantly too. Her -iron-grey hair looked as if it were cut out of marble -not a wisp astray; and you simply felt, so perfect was -everything about her, that the nail of her little finger -was as nicely pointed, polished, and pinked as all the -rest.</p> - -<p>"But your card," she went on, "your name sounds -familiar."</p> - -<p>Of course it did—she probably had seen it signed -after Will's articles in the magazines, I thought—but -I replied simply, "You met me before I was Mrs. -William Ford Maynard—in Hilton—several years -ago. My name was Lucy Vars."</p> - -<p>I was quite prepared for the expression of hostility -that crossed Mrs. Sewall's face at this remark.</p> - -<p>"Vars," she repeated a little vaguely. "Oh, yes, -I remember. There was, I believe, a Ruth Vars. -Are you related?" Then as if she had forgotten it -up to this time, she suddenly asked, "Won't you sit -down?"</p> - -<p>I thanked her and did so, she herself sinking into -a voluminous tufted armchair opposite.</p> - -<p>"I am Ruth Vars' sister," I explained, "and it is -about Ruth and your son that I have come to talk -with you."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Sewall raised her brows.</p> - -<p>"Your sister? My son? Really? How extraordinary!"</p> - -<p>"Why, yes. You must know," I went on, "that -your son is seeing a great deal of Ruth lately."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Sewall smiled in a very patronising manner<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p319" id="Page_p319">[319]</a></span> -and replied, "It is very difficult for a mother to keep -track of all a young man's fancies."</p> - -<p>"This is more than a fancy, Mrs. Sewall. Ruth -and your son are engaged to be married," I announced -calmly.</p> - -<p>A slight flush spread over Mrs. Sewall's face to the -very roots of her marcel wave, but her voice showed -no emotion when she spoke.</p> - -<p>"Would it not have been more delicate to have allowed -my son to have told me this piece of news," -she asked me cuttingly.</p> - -<p>"I was not thinking much about the delicacy of my -call, I'm afraid."</p> - -<p>"Evidently," she agreed.</p> - -<p>"I have come simply to find out if you approve of -this engagement and, if not, what we can do about it."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Sewall looked me up and down deliberately, -then:</p> - -<p>"You seem to be a very courageous young person," -she said, "but I fear this interview cannot alter -my opinion. Your sister is no doubt a very -charming young girl, but I have other ambitions for -my son, Mrs. Maynard."</p> - -<p>"I thought so. I guessed it from a conversation -I overheard, and that is why I have come this morning. -I thought we could work better together than -alone."</p> - -<p>"I plainly see," said Mrs. Sewall, gazing pityingly -upon me, "that it will be necessary to be quite blunt -with you. Did you never suspect that I closed -Grassmere three years ago, simply to separate my son -from your sister? As soon as I learned that my son -actually intended to marry Miss Vars I was forced to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p320" id="Page_p320">[320]</a></span> -take him to a different environment. When you consider -that I have fought against this attachment for -so long, you will see how absurd it is for you to hope -to win my approval now, however bold your attempt."</p> - -<p>"Oh," I flushed, "it isn't to win your approval -that I am here. You have misunderstood me. It is -to win, or rather to assure myself of your disapproval. -You see I'm not in favour of the marriage either."</p> - -<p>"You're not in favour of it?" Mrs. Sewall ejaculated.</p> - -<p>"I'm not in favour of it," I repeated. "Ruth -doesn't love your son. She's marrying for position—and -I want to save her from such unhappiness. I -don't want her to marry any one she doesn't love," -I hastened to add.</p> - -<p>"Well, well," Mrs. Sewall interrupted, "this is a -novel experience for me. I wonder," she broke off -in a sudden burst of friendliness, sarcasm and patronage -gone from her voice, "I wonder I never discovered -you in Hilton, Mrs. Maynard." Then she -added with an amused twinkle in her eyes, "You are -rather unlike your very enterprising sister-in-law, -Mrs. Alexander Vars."</p> - -<p>"Yes," I smiled, "perhaps a little. I have rather -old-fashioned ideas on marriage, I suppose."</p> - -<p>"I trust," Mrs. Sewall went on, "that you are -sincere in saying you are opposed to this affair between -your sister and my son."</p> - -<p>"Sincere? Oh, yes, truly. Perfectly sincere." -I blushed in spite of myself.</p> - -<p>"I believe you—oh, I believe you," Mrs. Sewall -reassured me quickly. "I know without your saying -so that there may be other grounds why you object<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p321" id="Page_p321">[321]</a></span> -to your sister's engagement. You know," she -smiled, "there is a different code of morals for every -class of society that exists."</p> - -<p>"I know," I murmured.</p> - -<p>"But we won't go into that. It is sufficient that -you <i>do</i> object. And now that we discover ourselves -to be, instead of enemies, fellow soldiers, fighting together -on the same side for the same cause, I am going -to be very frank and tell you how low my ammunition -is. I am powerless to do anything to influence -this affair, I fear. A mother's wishes are of little -account these days—my advice, my desires, not -worth consideration. There are some things, I am -learning, that I cannot control. A determined and -hot-tempered young man in love with an ambitious -girl, who sees wealth and position in her lover's proposals, -is a combination beyond hope of breaking -up."</p> - -<p>"Oh, no, it isn't," I interrupted.</p> - -<p>She shook her head.</p> - -<p>"I have opposed and opposed. My son knows my -hostile and bitter attitude toward the whole affair. -It does not make the slightest dent upon his intentions. -I have talked by the hour; I have cajoled; I have -threatened; but to no avail. Mrs. Maynard, my son -ought to marry a girl with money. His fortune is -greatly overestimated, and until he ran across your -sister again—oh, by the merest chance three months -ago on Fifth Avenue—he was devoted to his cousin, -Miss Gale Oliphant, whom you may have read about -when she made her brilliant début last season. I -heartily approve of such a match—appropriate in -every way."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p322" id="Page_p322">[322]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Of course," I tucked in. "Why, Ruth has barely -enough to buy her necessary clothes."</p> - -<p>"Exactly," Mrs. Sewall sighed. "Oh, I don't -know how it all will work out; I really don't know. -At least your sister is a nice girl. My son might -have chosen some one who wasn't educated or cultured—he -has had so many fancies—and I shall -have the satisfaction also, I suppose, of having -avoided the notoriety of an elopement. My consent -was forced from me, but it seemed the only way."</p> - -<p>"Have you consented?" I asked alarmed.</p> - -<p>"Reluctantly. Why, I could do nothing else. -Breckenridge threatened a month ago that if I didn't -consent he would elope with Miss Vars. At least, if -the marriage <i>must</i> take place, it had better be decently. -When he disappeared from home a week -ago, I thought the worst had happened. I was so -relieved when I placed my son at this hotel and found -he was still single, that I decided to accept the inevitable -with as much grace as possible now that I had -been given a second opportunity. Breckenridge says -your sister will marry him at any time if he but says -the word, and he assures me he <i>will</i> say it unless my -note of welcome reaches Miss Vars—to-morrow. -So—" She shrugged her shoulders.</p> - -<p>"That isn't true!" I replied. "Not a word of it! -Ruth wouldn't elope for anything in the world. She's -awfully proud, Mrs. Sewall. I ought not to have -done it, but I listened to a private conversation between -Ruth and your son. I heard Ruth say, when -your son suggested a secret marriage, that the idea -was absolutely insulting to her. She was awfully angry, -and that was only last night at eleven o'clock."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p323" id="Page_p323">[323]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You heard her say that? Last night? You are -sure?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," I went on quickly, "and what is more I -heard her say she would never marry Breck in this -world till you accepted her publicly as his fiancée. -It was when I heard that, that I decided to come and -talk with you."</p> - -<p>"Breckenridge has been misrepresenting the situation," -Mrs. Sewall remarked.</p> - -<p>"Ruth <i>is</i> ambitious," I went on. "Ruth <i>is</i> fond -of wealth and position, but she's the proudest girl I -ever knew. I thought if you understood how important -a part <i>you</i> and your attitude played in the engagement, -you could act accordingly. Ruth would -break it off herself, if—it sounds awfully disloyal to -her—but if you made the situation uncomfortable -enough for her. I'm sure of it."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Sewall got up and walked over to the little -mahogany desk.</p> - -<p>"I was afraid the maid had already mailed it," she -exclaimed, holding up the little square envelope with -Ruth's name and my address upon it. "It was a -note of—" she smiled wryly—"of welcome to your -sister. How fortunate," she added, "that you called -just when you did. It throws a different light on the -matter."</p> - -<p>I remained with Mrs. Sewall until nearly twelve -o'clock. We talked the situation threadbare before I -left. I told her all I knew of Ruth's hopes and visions -of the future. I repeated my sister's speech to -Will of the peculiar demands of her temperament. I -discussed her as freely as if she were a patient with -important symptoms, and Mrs. Sewall the physician.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p324" id="Page_p324">[324]</a></span> -I explained the situation in Hilton, Edith's influence -upon Ruth, at what a high value my sister-in-law -placed Mrs. Sewall's recognition, how persistently she -preached the advantage of a connection by marriage. -In the face of the force of Edith's influence, I pointed -out Ruth's saving traits of pride and self-esteem. -Ruth was as haughty as the highest. I enlarged on -the absolute impossibility of an elopement as far as -my high-spirited sister was concerned. Oh, I urged -Ruth's humiliation as the only hope for success!</p> - -<p>Before I left I had the satisfaction of seeing Mrs. -Sewall tear up my sister's card of introduction to the -Sewall family, and deposit the remains in the waste-basket. -As I rose to go Mrs. Sewall took my hand -in both of hers. Edith, I am sure, would have been -surprised if she could have witnessed such intimacy -between grand Mrs. F. Rockridge Sewall and Bobbikins.</p> - -<p>"I am so glad you came," she said. "I owe you -so much. I haven't entirely decided on my exact -course, but if you later hear of my opening Grassmere, -do not be surprised. There may be method in -my madness."</p> - -<p>"I'll leave it all with you," I reassured her. "Only -I hope you won't make it any worse for Ruth than -necessary."</p> - -<p>"I won't, my dear; and by the way, sometime when -you are in Hilton, will you let me know? Or by any -chance in New York? After this we surely must be -friends."</p> - -<p>"Instead of connections?" I asked.</p> - -<p>"You would be delightful as both," she laughed, -and I bade her good-bye.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p325" id="Page_p325">[325]</a></span></p> - -<p>I felt like a traitor that night at dinner. Ruth -never seemed sweeter. She had explained as she sat -down to our evening meal that she was going to visit -with Will and me alone that night. She was returning -to Hilton in two days and she had told Breck -that one evening at least, she intended to devote to -her sister. I felt dreadfully guilty. But for me, her -long-looked-for, much-coveted note of welcome from -Mrs. Sewall would now be on its way to her; but for -me, her bright visions of a social position being placed -upon her head like a crown would have become a -reality. I wished she wouldn't keep on piling coals -of fire upon my head. She started in on her appreciation -of my hospitality right after dinner. She said -she would always remember her nice little breakfasts -that I had served her in bed, whatever her future life -might be (and she implied that it promised to be rather -grand); she remarked she hoped I didn't believe all -that she said to Will the first night she was with us; -she assured me that my quiet and gracious acceptance -of Breck had made an impression that she would never -forget. She kissed me good-night of her own accord.</p> - -<p>I told Will about my call on Mrs. Sewall as soon -as we were safely in our room. I wanted to get the -secret knowledge of it off my mind. I was beginning -to feel a little apprehensive and doubtful. I really -don't know what right I have to snatch Ruth's life -away from her and treat it as if it were mine. But -Will always reassures me.</p> - -<p>"Well," he said, "if you do succeed in breaking -off this disreputable affair, Lucy, I'll take off my hat -to you, and so will Ruth—some day."</p> - -<p>"Oh, do you think she will?" I asked relieved.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p326" id="Page_p326">[326]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Know it. My, but what a girl I did marry! -You <i>do</i> take the bull by the horns. If you had had -a son what a staver he would have been."</p> - -<p>I forgot Ruth and her affairs in a twinkling.</p> - -<p>I wilted like a flower plucked from its stem.</p> - -<p>"You used to say that in the simple future, and -now it's past subjunctive," I trembled.</p> - -<p>Will laughed at me. "Don't like my tenses! -What a particular person! Well, how's this? Here's -a sentence in the simple present. It always has been -present tense, always will be present." He leaned -and whispered something in my ear.</p> - -<p>"Pooh!" I scoffed, smiling for his sake. "That's -too easy. It's the first tense of the first verb given -in every grammar of every language in the world!"</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p327" id="Page_p327">[327]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER XXIV</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">IT was five months later, sometime during the last of -September, that I again heard directly from Ruth -and her love-affair with Breckenridge Sewall.</p> - -<p>Miss Kavenaugh, the dollar-and-a-half-a-day university -seamstress, had come to help me with my muslin -curtains. Miss Kavenaugh is a very much-sought-after -lady, and when I am able to secure her for a -day, I give up everything else, sit down and sew with -her. She plans, cuts and bastes, and I run the chain-stitch -machine like mad. We had been working since -eight <span class="smcap">A. M.</span> in my darling new bedroom that looks out -on my row of late dahlias. I could hardly keep my -eyes on the machine-needle because of the distracting -flame of several maple-trees against some dark green -cedars across the lake. Will and I had been in our -new house about two weeks and we adored it! I -was perched on the step-ladder at the particular moment -the telephone bell rang, hanging the last muslin -curtain in the room we called Ruth's. Miss Kavenaugh -was puttering with the cretonne overhangings, -pulling and patting them as tenderly as if they had -been dainty dresses hung up on forms.</p> - -<p>It was Ruth on the telephone calling me from town.</p> - -<p>"I'm in here shopping," she said. "Can you possibly -come in and have lunch? Do, if you can. I -want to see you."</p> - -<p>Now whenever Ruth did honour me with an invitation -to luncheon it was in quite a different manner.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p328" id="Page_p328">[328]</a></span> -To-day she actually asked me to set the hour and -seemed inclined to adapt her plans to mine. I didn't -want to leave Miss Kavenaugh in the least (she -couldn't give me another day for a week), but if Ruth -was as anxious to see me as all that, I decided I had -better meet her if it broke a bone. I told her I would -be at the appointed place at one-thirty.</p> - -<p>Since June, Will and I had been buried in a little -out-of-the-way spot in Newfoundland. The few -letters that I had received had scarcely mentioned -Ruth's affairs. Only one from my sister herself -early in July had given me any inkling that -Mrs. Sewall was acting on my suggestion. In that -letter Ruth had briefly said that her engagement to -Breck would probably not be announced till fall, and -asked me to say nothing about the matter to any one. -I was delighted not to.</p> - -<p>Ruth was looking as pretty as ever, when I finally -found myself sitting opposite to her at one of the side -tables in the dining-room of the only hotel in town -where she will condescend to eat. If she had anything -of importance on her mind she certainly exhibited -no outward agitation. She was dressed in a -scant, tailor-made white serge suit, and had on a big, -floppy, soft, fur-felt hat, which no other woman I -know would have attempted to wear. It was lavender -in shade and the brim drooped as if it had lost all -its stiffening. Around the crushed crown was tied a -piece of hemp rope. I never saw a hat like it in any -shop. Ruth is always discovering odd, outlandish -"shapes" in the millinery line and trimming them up -with things no one ever thought of putting on a hat -before. This particular creation looked as if it had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p329" id="Page_p329">[329]</a></span> -been blown on to Ruth's head, but I must say it had -landed at just the right angle to reveal a bit of her -pretty hair, and to frame her face in a halo of soft -mauve.</p> - -<p>"What shall we eat?" asked Ruth in a bored little -way, and tossed me a menu. After we had decided -on mock-turtle soup, sweet-breads a-la-something, little -peas, and Waldorf salad (Ruth isn't the kind to -pick up a ham-sandwich and cup of coffee at a lunch-counter, -I can tell you) and the superior-looking -waiter had departed, Ruth opened her shopping bag -and tossed two dress samples down upon the white -cloth.</p> - -<p>"What do you think of these?" she asked nonchalantly.</p> - -<p>I wondered if Ruth had dragged me all the way -in town, occupied and busy as I had been at home, to -show me dress samples. Always the psychological -moment to share a confidence, or to announce a startling -piece of news, is after the waiter has departed -with your order. But Ruth took her own time.</p> - -<p>"I'm trying a new tailor," she went on. "I've ordered -the black-and-white stripe. It's very good in the -piece. By the way, don't you prefer butter without -salt? Waiter!" Ruth is very imperious when she -is in a hotel. Clerks and maids and bell-boys simply -fly to obey when Ruth gives an order. We were supplied -with crescents, corn-muffins and slim brown-bread -sandwiches, fresh butter, ice-water and two -napkins apiece, before a man lunching alone at the -next table could get his glass refilled.</p> - -<p>It wasn't until we were well started on our elaborate -menu, that Ruth thought best to gratify my curi<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p330" id="Page_p330">[330]</a></span>osity. -It was while she was pouring the tea, and after -I had given up hope that she had anything thrilling -to announce to me after all, that she asked, "Sugar, I -believe?" and then as she dropped one little crystal -cube into the cup added, "Oh, by the way, I've broken -my engagement to Breck Sewall."</p> - -<p>I didn't show a trace of wonder or surprise.</p> - -<p>"Is that so?" I said, as if I didn't much care if she -had, and then after I had taken a swallow of tea I -asked, "How did that happen?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I simply decided to," Ruth replied shortly; -and as if the subject were closed, she inquired, -"How's the new house?"</p> - -<p>I was simply aching to ask a few questions, but I -didn't allow myself even one.</p> - -<p>"Oh, it's very nice," I replied; "we've been in it -two weeks now."</p> - -<p>"How did the lavender room turn out?" asked -Ruth, travelling away as fast as possible from the subject -of her engagement.</p> - -<p>"<i>Your</i> room, Ruth, you mean," I replied patiently. -"Very well, I think."</p> - -<p>"Is it finished yet? I mean could any one sleep in -it—to-night?"</p> - -<p>"Will you come home with me, Ruth?" I asked -eagerly.</p> - -<p>"I thought I might—possibly, if you'd like to have -me, and if you have an empty bed. At least," she -added, "I'm not going back to The Homestead."</p> - -<p>"Oh, you're not!" I replied, vaguely wondering if -it were the tailor who was keeping her or the manicurist. -"Well, I can lend you a nightgown and you -can buy a tooth-brush."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p331" id="Page_p331">[331]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh, my trunk is at the station," said Ruth. "I -was determined to go somewhere. You see things -are not very pleasant for me just now in Hilton. Besides, -Edith and I have quarrelled."</p> - -<p>It wasn't very charitable to rejoice at such an announcement; -it wasn't very noble of me, I suppose, to -delight that conditions at Hilton were too disagreeable -for Ruth to remain there; but remember I had -always wanted to shelter my sister—remember I had -always been jealous of her loyalty and devotion to -Edith, and remember, also, ever since the plans of -our house had been put on paper, I had hoped and almost -prayed that <i>some one</i> would wish to sleep in the -southeast chamber.</p> - -<p>I reached for a biscuit to help conceal my feelings.</p> - -<p>"Well," I said steadily, "your room is ready, and -you're free to use it or not, as you wish."</p> - -<p>"It won't be for very long," apologised Ruth, "and -perhaps I can help you settle. You mustn't let me be -the least bother. I haven't forgotten, you know," -she said smiling, "how to wipe dishes."</p> - -<p>"Didn't there used to be a lot of them in the old -days at home," I remarked.</p> - -<p>"And wasn't I horrid?" she followed up in a sudden -burst of generosity. "Wasn't I horrid about -helping? I was never very nice to you, I'm afraid, -Lucy."</p> - -<p>"Of course you were!" I scoffed.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I know I wasn't, but you used to be awfully -rabid. It seems to me you've improved a great deal -in that respect since you were married. I noticed it -when I visited you last spring." She stopped a moment. -Then, "I want to tell you," she went on,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p332" id="Page_p332">[332]</a></span> -"that I think you were awfully decent about Breck -Sewall. You may not have liked him, but I appreciated -your not trying to urge and influence me, the way -Will did. If you had mixed yourself up in the affair -too much I wouldn't feel like coming to you now."</p> - -<p>I lowered my eyes as a hypocrite should.</p> - -<p>"Of course not," I murmured ashamed.</p> - -<p>Suddenly Ruth shoved her tea-cup to one side, her -plate to the other, and folding her hands on the table -in front, abruptly launched out into the midst of the -details of her broken engagement.</p> - -<p>"Edith," she began, "is willing to humiliate herself -to any degree for the sake of a promotion in the -social world. Now I'm too proud to stoop to some -things. Edith actually advised me to marry Breck -without Mrs. Sewall's approval. She said Mrs. Sewall -would be sure to come around once the affair was -settled. Could you imagine me in such a position?"</p> - -<p>"Oh," I said, "didn't Mrs. Sewall approve?"</p> - -<p>"Haven't you heard?" asked Ruth. "Every one -else has. It has been anything but pleasant. When -I wrote you that my engagement wouldn't be announced -till fall it was simply because I hadn't heard -from Mrs. Sewall. Breck said he hadn't told his -mother and I believed him. She was ill or something, -and I was willing to wait until it seemed wise to break -the news to her. I was willing to meet her half-way, -you see. I meant to be patient with Mrs. Sewall. -Of course I realise I have no money nor position; but -I won't be insulted by any one! She opened Grassmere -in August, and brought along with her a young -niece of hers, a Miss Oliphant—a silly creature, I -thought; and she set in entertaining for her as she's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p333" id="Page_p333">[333]</a></span> -never entertained before. Hilton has never been so -gay, and everyone who was within the range of possibility -was invited to Grassmere—everybody except -Edith and me. Think of it! Think of the insult! -It was the most pointed thing you ever saw. Edith -is simply furious. Mrs. Sewall avoids her everywhere -she sees her, and me too for that matter. <i>I</i> don't -mind so much. It is Edith whom it stings so. <i>I</i> -simply long for a chance to cut Mrs. Sewall. That's -<i>my</i> attitude. However I don't enjoy being gossiped -about, and all Hilton is buzzing. Oh, it's horrid!"</p> - -<p>"I should say so," I murmured, stunned by the -disaster I had caused.</p> - -<p>"Well, during it all Breck has kept right on coming -to see me—late every night after his social engagements -at Grassmere. That was the feature I hated -most, and the one that Edith, on the other hand, clung -to as our only hope of salvation. But I'm not the -kind to become the secret fancy of any man, even if -he is the King of England. If I'm not good enough -for his mother to recognise, then I don't want anything -of him. Anyhow I consider myself, from the -point of view of culture and education, superior to -the Sewalls!"</p> - -<p>"Of course," I agreed.</p> - -<p>"The whole thing has made me sick and tired of -the social game," ejaculated Ruth. "I don't believe -there's any such thing as pure, unadulterated friendship -between people who are socially ambitious. -Why, some of the girls, who I thought were my best -friends, have been acting very cool and offish since -they've observed Mrs. Sewall's attitude towards me. -And both Edith and I are omitted from lots of other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p334" id="Page_p334">[334]</a></span> -people's parties besides the Sewalls, simply because -Mrs. Sewall and Miss Oliphant are often the guests -of honour. Oh, I think that all women are vain -and selfish and insincere, and, if sometimes they <i>appear</i> -thoughtful or sacrificing, it's simply because such -an attitude toward someone will help them up another -rung on the ladder. I'd like to get away from -society for a while. It almost seems," Ruth added -vehemently, "as if I'd like to enter a convent!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I'm awfully sorry, Ruth," I began.</p> - -<p>"There's nothing for <i>you</i> to be sorry about. You -couldn't help it. If I only had more money," Ruth -went on, "I'd travel. I'd escape this sort of life. -But what can any one do on my income? Eight hundred -dollars! And I won't take any more from -Edith."</p> - -<p>"Did you quarrel very badly?" I dared to ask.</p> - -<p>"Oh, quite. She went into an awful passion when -I told her that I'd broken the engagement. She -called me a short-sighted little fool! Breck, you see, -wanted me to marry him in spite of his mother. Imagine -me eloping! I wouldn't do such a vulgar thing. -Edith said that her mother had run off with her father -(imagine comparing me to that impossible Mrs. -Campbell!) and that if I didn't marry Breck everybody -would think <i>he</i> had gotten tired of <i>me</i>—cast -me off, and all that sort of thing. I don't get angry -often, but I gave Edith a piece of my mind that I -guess she'll remember for a long time, and Alec -didn't like it a bit. So this morning I just decided to -decamp."</p> - -<p>"But of course Breck will follow you," I suggested -cheerfully.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p335" id="Page_p335">[335]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh, no, he won't. I've quarrelled with him too." -Ruth smiled. "I seem to have quarrelled with everybody. -But Breck threatened, and threats never have -the least effect on me. He really did want to marry -me, in spite of what people said about his marked attentions -to this Oliphant girl. He was crazy to marry -me. Things got to an awful pitch of excitement and -one night three days ago, he said that if I wouldn't -run off with him in the dark like some common girl -in a newspaper story, and get married by a country -parson along the road somewhere, he wasn't going to -spend any more of his time waiting around. He said -that Gale—that's Miss Oliphant—would marry -him, mother or no mother; she had some heart and -feeling in her. I told him that <i>I</i> on the other hand -wouldn't lower my self-respect one iota, for love, or -position, or any other reason. And so ... -well, here I am, with all my bridges burned. By the -way," Ruth broke off, "please don't ask me to discuss -this matter with Will. He was too intolerant -last spring for me to care to talk it over with him -now."</p> - -<p>"You needn't mention it to him," I assured her.</p> - -<p>"You can imagine," said Ruth, "that I'm not feeling -very much like talking about it to any one."</p> - -<p>"I understand, and we won't refer to it at all. I -know how hard it is, Ruth,—but time—"</p> - -<p>"Oh, time!" replied my sophisticated sister. -"There's no scar on my heart for time to heal. You -see now, don't you, how safe it is to keep such affairs -strictly in the region of one's head."</p> - -<p>Two or three weeks later I received a letter from -Mrs. Sewall. I didn't know her writing but I saw<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p336" id="Page_p336">[336]</a></span> -Grassmere engraved on the envelope, so I suspected -before I broke the seal.</p> - -<blockquote> -<p> -"<i>My dear Mrs. Maynard</i>, -</p> - -<p>"You will be interested to know that the engagement -of Miss Gale Oliphant to my son is to be publicly announced -on Wednesday next. But for you I am afraid -this very happy alliance might not have been arranged. -Relying absolutely on what you told me I could expect -from your sister I have acted on your suggestion, with -these results. I was sorry to treat so lovely a girl as -your sister seems to be in so cruel a manner, but such -an object-lesson seemed to me the most effectual way of -showing what a future relation with me might prove -to be. Let me say I think she is a very fine-principled -and high-minded girl, and another season when I shall -return to Grassmere with my son and his bride I trust -I may see a great deal of her. Another season I hope -I may set everything right with Mrs. Alexander Vars -also, whom it seemed necessary to sacrifice for a little -while to our cause, if, in fact, I cannot do something -toward reparation this year in the few weeks left before -I return to New York. Let me add with all heartiness -that I am particularly anticipating the pleasure of entertaining, -sometime soon, an old fellow-soldier of mine.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -"Sincerely,<br /> -"<span class="smcap">Frances Rockridge Sewall</span>." -</p></blockquote> - -<p>"Take off your hat," I said to my husband late that -night. "You promised you would. The engagement -is broken. Breck Sewall is going to marry his -cousin, and Ruth is in bed in the southeast chamber."</p> - -<p>During the weeks immediately following Ruth's decision -in regard to Breck Sewall, she became an absorbingly -interesting proposition, to herself. For the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p337" id="Page_p337">[337]</a></span> -first month she wouldn't show any interest in anything -outside her own problem. Ruth has admirers where-ever -she goes and under any circumstances; and as -soon as it was learned that she was staying with me -the telephone began to ring every day—the door-bell -every night or so with would-be suitors. But Ruth -wouldn't see any of her callers or accept any invitations. -She assumed such a blasé and indifferent attitude -toward life that it worried me. She used to -take long walks alone over the hills and improvise by -the hour by firelight in our living-room. Evenings -after dinner she spent in her own room reading Marcus -Aurelius, Omar Khayyam, Oscar Wilde and Marie -Bashkirtseff. I used to find the books missing from -the book-shelves, and discover them on the couch in -Ruth's room later. A drop-light arranged on a small -table by the head of the couch, a soft down quilt -wrapped around a china-silk negligee, and Ruth -nestled down inside of all that, was the picture to -which Will and I always sang out good-night when -we closed our door at ten P.M. She used to devote -several hours a day to writing, but whether it was a -novel or an epic poem that she was so busy about, I -didn't know. She kept her papers safely locked away -in her trunk and I didn't like to intrude on her intimacy. -I think Ruth rather enjoyed herself during -these first days after the settlement of her affair -with Breck. Her newly-won independence, her -freedom, brought about entirely by her own -will and volition, filled her with a little self-admiration. -She appealed to herself as rather -an unique and remarkable young person, bearing -the interesting distinction of a broken engagement.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p338" id="Page_p338">[338]</a></span> -She was young and fresh and lovely, and belonged -to no one; her future lay in her own hands; she didn't -know what she should do with it, but it was hers—hers -alone, and full of all sorts of exciting possibilities.</p> - -<p>"I don't want to see anything more of men for a -long time," she would say. "I haven't decided yet -what I'm going to go into, but I want to <i>do</i> something. -I want to see all sides of life. I have had -enough of society and bridge and silly girls who only -want to get married. I'm seriously considering settlement -work in New York. Sometime I'd like to go -to Paris and study sculpture."</p> - -<p>At the end of Ruth's third week with us—one -Saturday night, I believe it was—the door-bell rang -about eight o'clock. The maid answered it and when -she came upstairs and passed by the door of Will's -study (which is a little room over the front door and -where we sit evenings) I said with a sigh of relief, -"Thank goodness, it's for Ruth. I did want to finish -this ruffle." And a moment later I added, "I wonder -what excuse she'll send down to-night."</p> - -<p>I was surprised five minutes later by Ruth's appearance -in the doorway. She had put on a favourite -gown of hers—crow-black meteor satin, so plain it -had kind of a naked appearance, with a V-shaped -neck that showed a bit of Ruth's throat. There -wasn't a scrap of any kind of trimming on it.</p> - -<p>"Will you hook this up please?" she asked, and -when I had finished, "Thanks," she said, and -with no explanation went downstairs.</p> - -<p>"I wonder who it can be!" I exclaimed after she -had departed. "It's the first one she has seen."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p339" id="Page_p339">[339]</a></span></p> - -<p>Will looked up and smiled.</p> - -<p>"Oh, it's just a <i>man</i>. Rest assured that this pose -of Ruth's can't last much longer. Three weeks of a -diet that excludes all forms of masculine admiration -is a long fast for Ruth. They'll be calling here thick -and fast now."</p> - -<p>But it wasn't just a man! About nine-thirty I stole -down the back stairs to get two pieces of chocolate -cake and two glasses of milk for Will and me. I -peeked into the front hall before crawling back again.</p> - -<p>"Will," I said two minutes later, "leaning up -against the Chippendale chair in the hall is a man's -walking-stick and it has got a plain silver top like Bob -Jennings'. I introduced Bob to Ruth last week at a -Faculty Tea and he walked home with her, before I -was ready to leave. It does seem odd that he didn't -send cards up to us too, doesn't it?"</p> - -<p>It was almost eleven o'clock before I heard the -front door close and Ruth snapping off the lights in -the living-room. Will was staying up late to-night, -and I had put on a soft wrapper and curled up in the -Morris-chair with a magazine. The door was slightly -ajar, and as Ruth passed it on her way to bed she -stopped just outside, and asked softly:</p> - -<p>"Are you both still up?"</p> - -<p>"Surely," I replied. "Come in."</p> - -<p>She came over and stood by the table where Will -was working.</p> - -<p>"Can you be torn away from your precious books -for a while, Will?" she asked sweetly.</p> - -<p>"Of course I can," he replied.</p> - -<p>"Because," Ruth went on, "I want to tell you -something." She paused.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p340" id="Page_p340">[340]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Yes?" encouraged Will. "Fire away."</p> - -<p>"I suppose," Ruth continued, "you two are wondering -when I am going home. I've been here nearly -a month now and I ought to decide what I am going -to do. I'd like your advice if you're not too busy."</p> - -<p>"Certainly I'm not," Will responded heartily.</p> - -<p>Ruth can be very complimentary and deferential -when she chooses. She chose so to be now. Will -closed his books. Ruth was standing by the table; -her tapering finger-tips just reached the mahogany -surface, she leaned lightly on them; her face was in -the shadow, for the only light was Will's low reading-lamp, -and her arms suddenly appearing out of the -dark were startlingly white and pretty.</p> - -<p>"It was Mr. Jennings who called to-night," she -went on. "I saw him because he rather interested me -last week when I met him at one of your Faculty -Teas. I was talking with him to-night a little about -my life. It came in after I had read him a few of -my verses, which he said he would be kind enough to -give me his opinion about, when I told him last week -that I wrote a little. He suggested a plan that rather -appealed to me. I don't know what you think of it, -but he says that there are a lot of girls who take -special courses here at Shirley (Shirley is the girls' -college connected with the university) and that, even -though I'm not a college girl, he thinks he could arrange -for me to take a course or two in poetry and -literature. He wants me to develop my talent. Oh, -I'd love to do it!" Ruth exclaimed, suddenly enthusiastic. -"Mr. Jennings is <i>so</i> encouraging! He -thinks I really might write something worth while -some day. I've always thought that poetry was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p341" id="Page_p341">[341]</a></span> -very highest form of expression. Mr. Jennings -thinks so too. He says, Lucy, that you attend certain -courses connected with the university that would -be excellent for me. He says that I could go to some -of those afternoons with you perhaps. He's going to -get the Shirley catalogue and lay out a course of study -for me. Do you suppose, Will, that you could find a -place for me to room somewhere around here?"</p> - -<p>"To room, Ruth? Why, we should want you to -stay right here with us," I exploded.</p> - -<p>"Oh, of course," Ruth scoffed, "I couldn't break -in on you and Will that way."</p> - -<p>"But, Ruth," I began.</p> - -<p>"Oh, no, Lucy, I wouldn't do that. I've been fifth -wheel at The Homestead for years, but I don't intend -to be here."</p> - -<p>"Nonsense," said Will; "we'd like to have you. -Lucy spent a lot of time preparing that room you're -in and—"</p> - -<p>"No. Please. I shan't listen. Why, you haven't -even talked it over. Wait till morning anyway. I -simply came in to ask your advice on my turning into -a 'blue-stocking.' Do you think it absolutely ridiculous?"</p> - -<p>We thought it was splendid—both Will and I. -We talked and planned and built air-castles with Ruth -till after midnight. She even read us some of her -pretty verses and before she went to bed at one A. M. -she had already become a poetess of renown with contributions -appearing frequently in the most exclusive -magazines.</p> - -<p>A new-found genius slept in the southeast chamber -that night, and at seven <span class="smcap">A. M.</span> when the sun and I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p342" id="Page_p342">[342]</a></span> -crawled into her room together we found her fast -asleep with one hand tucked cosily under her cheek. -Her hair, which is neither blonde nor brown but kind -of a dull mouse-colour and almost mauve when she -wears the right shade, was braided and flung up back -over the pillow. Upon the pillow beside her lay her -left hand upturned and free from jewellery of any -kind. That upturned hand had kind of an appealing, -wistful expression about it that made me want to cry. -Somehow the sight of Ruth's bare unpromised hand -making the only dent on the surface of the pillow by -her side filled me with a wave of thanksgiving. She -breathed softly, regularly, her violet-tinted eyelids -quivering a little, a half-smile lingering in the corners -of her mouth. A fly lit on Ruth's chin and, unmolested, -walked audaciously up along the flushed, -velvety surface of her cheek. It stopped just beneath -her long-curved eyelashes. She didn't stir—just -kept on with her even, measured breathing and -her steady sleep. I frightened that bold creature -away with a wave of my hand. I honestly believe -that Breck Sewall hadn't disturbed my sister any more -than the fly on her cheek. She seemed to me the most -superbly virginal creature I had ever gazed upon.</p> - -<p>I sat down and touched her shoulder softly.</p> - -<p>"It's morning," I said, and when she was entirely -awake I continued, "It's morning, and you wanted us -to wait till morning. We've talked it all over together -alone and we both still want you to stay with -us as long as you possibly can. Why, Ruth, we built -this room for <i>you</i>—especially for <i>you</i>—and I do -hope you'll like it well enough to stay."</p> - -<p>"It's prettier than my room at Edith's," replied<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p343" id="Page_p343">[343]</a></span> -Ruth. Then suddenly she put out her hand and -touched my knee. "Lucy," she said, "I'm <i>crazy</i> to -stay. I'd <i>hate</i> a stuffy boarding-house."</p> - -<p>"Of course you would!"</p> - -<p>"This is so adorably fresh and clean and simple. -Have you and Will really talked it all over? I think -I ought not to stay, but I'll promise not to be the -least bother in the world."</p> - -<p>"Bother!" I exclaimed.</p> - -<p>"I'll be busy with my studies daytimes and keep -out of the way evenings. Really," she asked, "do -you want me?"</p> - -<p>"We really do," I said solemnly.</p> - -<p>She turned and suddenly sat up beside me on the -edge of the bed. She was a lovely creature with her -long thick hair, her white arms, and her pretty, soft, -beribboned nightgown falling off one shoulder. She -seemed too lovely to be my sister. She flung one arm -around my shoulders.</p> - -<p>"Lucy," she exclaimed, "from this time on, I'm -going to be nice to you."</p> - -<p>I don't remember that Ruth had ever before put -her arm around me of her own accord. A lump came -in my throat. Tears blinded me. I got up hastily -and began putting down the windows.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p344" id="Page_p344">[344]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CHAPTER XXV</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap2">IF you want to know what became of Ruth I'll tell -you—I'll tell you right off. She fell in love -with Bob Jennings. She fell awfully in love with -him—absorbingly, overwhelmingly in love. Ruth, -the lofty, the high, the pedestalled! Ruth who prided -herself on her coolness and her circumspection, Ruth -who boasted that fate had foreordained a brilliant -marriage, lost her head over a young college instructor -who taught English composition to freshmen and -sophomores, at a salary something less than three -thousand a year. It simply proves that the eternal -feminine will crop out, however much it has been -choked and blighted, just like a dry bulb that's been -kept in a damp dark cellar all winter. Once you put -it in the sun and warmth, and give it a little water, -it just can't help but grow up bright and green—brilliant -rank green, full of juicy stalks and buds. -Why, Ruth got to be such a normal sort of girl that -she blushed every time Bob's name was mentioned. -Ruth the invulnerable! She even lost her appetite—of -all ordinary things—and great circles appeared -under her eyes. The most astounding feature to me -was that Ruth fell in love before she was asked to. -Imagine that if you can. Ruth the haughty! The -bulb began to send out shoots like a common onion or -potato, before invited by the sun. Things came to -such a pass that Will finally touched on the delicate -subject with Bob. We thought the man must be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p345" id="Page_p345">[345]</a></span> -blind, crazy or heartless, not to have seen the tell-tale -symptoms in Ruth's manner long before circles -began to appear. But Will found that Bob was -simply penniless. This university pays salaries about -large enough to keep two canaries alive, and Bob told -Will that though he had loved Ruth ever since the day -he first saw her, he couldn't say a word to her about -it, because he already had a mother quite alone and -dependent living with him, besides a sister he was -trying to put through college, and he knew Ruth was -a girl who had been used to luxuries.</p> - -<p>Bob is a kind of dreamy sort of man. He says the -simplest things in a way that thrills you. His letters, -even his notes accepting dinner invitations (and such -are the only kind I have ever received) have a kind of -"way" with them—exclamation points here and -there, single words, capitalised and perioded, to express -a whole sentence. Oh, Bob is awfully individual; -but he'll never be rich. He's a teacher, in the -first place; and in the second, he hasn't a father with -a fortune. When I realised that Ruth loved Bob -Jennings, I was worried about those demands of that -temperament of hers—the soft-footed, unobtrusive -servants, the exquisite china, the fine lace, the dinners -perfectly served, all those expensive things that Bob -couldn't supply in a lifetime. If only Bob had had -Breck's fortune, or Breck had had Bob's poetic soul, -everything would have been all right; for I am sure -Ruth would have eloped with Bob Jennings the first -time he asked her.</p> - -<p>I realised that Ruth was thinking seriously about -Bob Jennings when she began inquiring of Will about -the salaries of instructors at the university. Later<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p346" id="Page_p346">[346]</a></span> -she asked me how much rents were, in this section of -the country. She was perfectly aware from the very -beginning that Bob earned just about enough to afford -an apartment the size of Oliver's and Madge's, which -she had formerly pronounced "cunning" but "impossible." -If Ruth, as she boasted, confined matrimonial -questions to the region of her head she ought -to have sent Bob on his way the very instant that she -learned these salient facts about him. But she didn't. -She kept right on seeing him, night after night, as if -he were a millionaire who could supply her every desire -by merely dashing off his signature. She kept -on reading her poetry with him, discussing art and -literature by the hour, and quoting him to me all the -next day as if he were an authority. Ruth simply -lost her equilibrium over Bob. I don't believe she -had ever seen a man like him before. He certainly -is different from Breck Sewall, packed with sentiment, -full impressions and delicate sensibilities. I -overheard him talking with Ruth about women smoking -once. He said you might as well deface a beautiful -picture by painting cigarettes in the angels' -mouths. I suppose it might have been the fact of -being classed with the angels that "took" Ruth so. -Anyhow she wanted Bob for her own, salary or no -salary; she wanted him so badly that we couldn't even -joke on the subject in her presence. By Christmas-time -the situation was tragic.</p> - -<p>The quarrel with Edith, as all quarrels with Edith -are sure to be, had been of short duration. The fact -that Mrs. Sewall had invited her to assist at a tea -before her final departure from Hilton had assuaged -her grievances somewhat in that quarter. Moreover<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p347" id="Page_p347">[347]</a></span> -a startling piece of news in the New York papers in -early December, ten days before the Oliphant-Sewall -wedding was to take place, had vindicated Ruth's -course of action even in Edith's eyes, beyond a shadow -of doubt. It seems that there was already a Mrs. -Breckenridge Sewall. Breck had, after all, been more -decent than Will thought. He had married the girl -whom he had known in college, and it was she who -was now bringing suit against the groom-to-be. So -as there existed nothing but kindly feelings between -Edith and Ruth now, there was no reason why Ruth -should not have spent the holidays in Hilton, but she -simply wouldn't give up a single hour with Bob Jennings. -He always came Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays -and Sundays. Our electric-light bill, dim as -Ruth prefers the room to be, was a dollar extra a -month, after Bob began to call.</p> - -<p>I was glad to have Ruth with me during the Christmas -vacation. Otherwise I should have been all -alone. Early in December Will had gone to a medical -conference of some kind in Chicago, and just as he -was about to start for home, some big physician out -there called him in, in consultation, on the case of a -little boy, who had some awful thing the matter with -his spine. He was the son of a millionaire, and experts -and specialists from all over the country had -given up hope of recovery. The father was just -about crazy and when Will suggested some radical -treatment of his own which he had tried out successfully -on one of our little guinea-pigs, he wrote that -that father simply clung to him bodily, got hold of -him with his hands and told him he could have every -cent of money that he possessed in the world if he'd<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p348" id="Page_p348">[348]</a></span> -only give him back his son. So Will stayed. He -would have stayed if the man had been a pauper, if -he'd loved his little boy like that. You see it is just -the way Will would feel about <i>his</i> son. He understood. -I wanted him to stay too. I was only -sorry that, after all the long nights he had to sit up -by the little chap's bed (for first there was an operation -before Will began his treatment; and Will -wouldn't leave much to the nurses), after the weary -nights, the doubtful dawns, the long uncertain journey -to the day of the crisis, I was only sorry that Will -couldn't bring the little boy he saved home with him -(if he saved him) for ours to keep and love. He -fought for the life of that child. He wanted it to -live awfully; and I, hundreds of miles away, would -wake often in the night during the long struggle—at -three, at four, at seven when it grows light—and -wonder, and hope, and, I suppose you'd call it, pray.</p> - -<p>It was just before Christmas that my dread and -fear about that little boy's life in Chicago became -intermingled with a thrilling hope that was very much -nearer home. My startling realisation came so unexpectedly -to me after all the waiting, so undreamed, -so miraculously a gift of heaven, that I couldn't believe -at first that there was any real substantial fact -about it. I couldn't, or I wouldn't, I don't know -which. I dreaded disappointment. But oh, the mere -possibility of such a joy being mine at last, made me -so happy that I couldn't help but show a jubilant spirit -in my letters. I wrote to Will that somehow, suddenly, -I felt that that little boy out there was going to -get well; I'd been as doubtful as he last week, but now, -unaccountably, I was sure that the dear little fellow<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p349" id="Page_p349">[349]</a></span> -was going to live to grow up. I didn't tell Will <i>why</i> I -felt so (it was such a silly woman's reason) but I -kept on writing it over and over again, every day, as -I woke each morning with the reassurance that the -thing I wanted more than anything in the world was -coming true.</p> - -<p>I never thought I was superstitious, but you know -how over-particular and over-careful you are about -anything that's awfully important. Your anxiety -borders on superstition before you know it, and when -somebody accuses you, you simply don't care, you're -so eager to have everything propitious. Well, I somehow -got to believing that that child's life in Chicago -that Will was striving so hard to save and the life of -my hidden joy had something to do with each other. -The idea obsessed me; I couldn't get it out of my -head, fanatical and ridiculous as I knew a sensible -person would call it, and I kept writing to Will as if -that millionaire's son were mine. Will said it was a -good thing that he wasn't a practising physician if I -took his cases so much to heart as all that; but, just -the same, he told me that my letters did fill him with -hope and courage.</p> - -<p>All during this period, while Ruth was eating out -her soul for Bob, and Will was eating out his soul for -the little sick boy, and I was eating out my soul for a -gift I'd have died to possess for a day, no one would -have guessed from Ruth's and my pleasant good-mornings, -our casual calm and undisturbed conversations -at meal-time, and Will's cheerful paragraphs, -that we were all living through crises. Ruth and I -with our anxieties grew very near to each other at -this time. She was a lot of comfort to me and I tried<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p350" id="Page_p350">[350]</a></span> -to appreciate the feelings of a proud girl in love with -a man who has not spoken. During the evenings that -Bob called I sat up alone in Will's study, embroidering -a centrepiece for the dining-room table. Evening -after evening my fingers fairly ached to get out the -rustling tissue paper patterns that Madge had left. -But I wouldn't let myself—I wasn't going to be -heart-broken—I wouldn't let myself put a needle to -a single bit of nainsook.</p> - -<p>It was on Saturday, January fifteenth, at ten o'clock -at night, that Will's special delivery letter came. My -fingers trembled as they tore at the envelope. I -closed the study door to be alone. "If the little boy -has died," I said out loud, "I mustn't be superstitious. -I simply mustn't." But oh, he hadn't died! -He hadn't died! Will's letter was one triumphant -song from beginning to end. The little boy had -passed the crisis; he was going to live; and live strong -and well and normal. The miracle had been performed; -the serum had done its magic part; there had -been just the response that Will had dared to rely -on; everything had been gloriously successful; and he -was coming home in five days!</p> - -<p>I let myself be just as superstitious then as I -wanted. I had said if that little sick boy lived, so -would my hopes, and I believed it. I lit a candle -and went up into the unfinished part of our attic where -there is a lot of old furniture packed away. It's -rather a spooky place in the dark, and cold too, but I -didn't notice it to-night. 'Way over in the corner -stood the little old-fashioned cradle that belonged to -Will's mother—one of those low, wooden-hooded -ones with rockers, that you can rock with one foot.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p351" id="Page_p351">[351]</a></span> -I had always planned to use that. It's so quaint and -dear and old-fashioned. In the cradle in a green -pasteboard box was a whole bundle of Will's baby-clothes—the -queerest, finest little hand-made muslin -shirts, and dresses with a lot of stiff embroidery and -ruffles.</p> - -<p>I had no idea what time it was when later I heard -Ruth calling me from below.</p> - -<p>"Lucy, Lucy! Are you up there?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," I answered. "What time is it?"</p> - -<p>"Why, it's after midnight! <i>What</i> are you doing?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, looking up some old stuff. I'll be right -down."</p> - -<p>I met her on the stairs. I felt guilty. I was afraid -that joy was written all over my face. I might as -well have just left the arms of a lover.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Ruth," I exclaimed, "isn't it <i>fine</i>? That little -boy in Chicago is going to live! I've had a special -delivery from Will. Isn't it <i>great</i>? He's going to -get well!"</p> - -<p>"That's splendid," said Ruth, and then, eyes sparkling, -voice trembling, she exploded, "Oh, Lucy, Bob -has just gone! We're engaged!"</p> - -<p>I blew out the candle for safety's sake, and put my -arms about my sister.</p> - -<p>"Really, Ruth?" I exclaimed, and we sat down -side by side on the dark stairs.</p> - -<p>"He's cared for me all along, <i>all</i> the fall—<i>all this -time</i>! Of course we both couldn't help but know it! -But Bob—he's just that honourable he wouldn't say -a word till he told me all about his circumstances -and—everything. Circumstances! Oh, dear, I—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p352" id="Page_p352">[352]</a></span>What -do you think of Bob, Lucy?" she broke off.</p> - -<p>"I've always said that, next to Will, I'd rather -marry Bob than any man I've known," I replied heartily.</p> - -<p>"And does Will like him?" quivered Ruth.</p> - -<p>"Will calls Bob the salt of the earth. <i>Everybody</i> -likes Bob Jennings, Ruth!"</p> - -<p>"I know they do. I know it. I don't see how I -ever got him. You know all the men in his classes -simply adore him! His courses are awfully popular. -He's going to have juniors and seniors next year. -The President stopped Bob the other day in the street -and complimented him on his work. Oh, Bob is going -to go right to the top! And he isn't a bit spoiled. -His dear old silver-haired mother worships him just -like everybody else. Do you know, Bob was afraid -I wouldn't want her to live with us—she's the loveliest -old lady—of course I do! And he thought, besides, -I'd hate an apartment and one maid. But he -didn't know me. My nature isn't the kind that requires -'Things.' If it didn't have sympathy and understanding -and inspiration, it's the kind that would -simply shrivel up and die. But Bob, he responds in -just the right way, to every side of my temperament. -It's wonderful!"</p> - -<p>"Isn't it?" I agreed. "Why, we're all happy to-night! -Will because of the little boy, and you because -of Bob, and I because—" I hesitated just a moment, -and then in the pitch-dark of the back stairs I confided -to Ruth, "because the southeast chamber has a waiting-list."</p> - -<p>"A waiting-list?" queried Ruth.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I was upstairs when you called, seeing if<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p353" id="Page_p353">[353]</a></span> -Will's little old-fashioned mahogany cradle would do."</p> - -<p>"Oh, really!" said Ruth not very much impressed -after all. "Of course. My room <i>was</i> meant to be -the nursery. I remember now. Well, I suppose -you're glad, and there'll be a vacancy all right for some -one to fill in June. We're going to be married right -after Commencement. We've got it all planned. -Isn't it exciting?" she exclaimed, eager on the trail -of her own happiness. "We're not going to Europe, -or anything grand like that. We're going to begin -by saving. With my eight hundred a year and Bob's -salary, and a little he has besides, our income will be -about four thousand. We're going to have a lovely -honeymoon! Bob likes the word 'honeymoon' -though no one uses it now. Bob's so funny! We're -going to camp out all alone for a whole month on a -little lake we know about in the Adirondacks and I'm -going to cook while he cuts wood. Bob didn't know -I could cook. Why, he was awfully surprised when -he discovered how practical I am, and that I trim all -my own hats even now. Lucy, don't you think that -Bob's <i>awfully</i> nice-looking?" she asked and pressed -my hand.</p> - -<p>"Yes I do. I've always told Will that Bob was the -best-looking man on the faculty," I replied and pressed -back.</p> - -<p>An hour later we groped down the stairs together. -It was two o'clock in the morning. The light in the -study was still going and I went in and turned it off.</p> - -<p>At my door Ruth begged, "Come on into my bed, -Lucy. I shall never be able to get to sleep to-night."</p> - -<p>"All right. In five minutes," I agreed.</p> - -<p>When I went into Ruth's room she was sitting by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p354" id="Page_p354">[354]</a></span> -the window ready for bed, her long hair braided, and -a knitted worsted shawl wrapped around her white -shoulders.</p> - -<p>"Well, Ruth, it's half-past two," I said.</p> - -<p>"Bob's coming at nine o'clock, before his first recitation," -remarked Ruth dreamily. "That's six hours, -isn't it?"</p> - -<p>"And a half," I smiled.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Lucy," suddenly exclaimed Ruth, standing up -before me, "I'm terribly happy!"</p> - -<p>"Are you? Well, so am I!" I replied.</p> - -<p>"It just seems as if I'd have to open a window and -let off steam somehow!" said Ruth.</p> - -<p>"Well, let's!" said I.</p> - - -<p class="c">THE END</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p355" id="Page_p355">[355]</a></span></p> - - <div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/fig3.jpg" - alt="advert." /></div> - - -<div class="ad"> - -<p class="c"><strong>JOHN FOX, JR'S.</strong><br /> - -STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS<br /> - -May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.</p> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 150px;"> -<img src="images/fig13.jpg" width="150" height="205" alt="Drawing of a book." /> -</div> - - -<p class="u">THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE.</p> - -<p>Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.</p> - -<p>The "lonesome pine" from which the -story takes its name was a tall tree that -stood in solitary splendor on a mountain -top. The fame of the pine lured a young -engineer through Kentucky to catch the -trail, and when he finally climbed to its -shelter he found not only the pine but the -<i>foot-prints of a girl</i>. And the girl proved -to be lovely, piquant, and the trail of -these girlish foot-prints led the young -engineer a madder chase than "the trail -of the lonesome pine."</p> - - -<p class="u">THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME.</p> - -<p>Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.</p> - -<p>This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as "Kingdom -Come." It is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural -and honest, from which often springs the flower of civilization.</p> - -<p>"Chad," the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor -whence he came—he had just wandered from door to door since -early childhood, seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who -gladly fathered and mothered this waif about whom there was -such a mystery—a charming waif, by the way, who could, play -the banjo better that anyone else in the mountains.</p> - - -<p class="u">A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND.</p> - -<p>Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.</p> - -<p>The scenes are laid along the waters of the Cumberland -the lair of moonshiner and feudsman. The knight is a moonshiner's -son, and the heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened -"The Blight." Two impetuous young Southerners' fall -under the spell of "The Blight's" charms and she learns what -a large part jealousy and pistols have in the love making of the -mountaineers.</p> - -<p>Included in this volume is "Hell fer-Sartain" and other -stories, some of Mr. Fox's most entertaining Cumberland valley -narratives.</p> - - -<p class="c"><i>Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction</i><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p356" id="Page_p356">[356]</a></span></span></p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/fig4.jpg" - alt="advert." /></div> - -<div class="ad"> - -<p class="c">STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY<br /> - -<strong>GENE STRATTON-PORTER</strong><br /> - -May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.</p> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 150px;"> -<img src="images/fig11.jpg" width="150" height="204" alt="Drawing of a book." /> -</div> - -<p class="u">THE HARVESTER.</p> - -<p>Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs</p> - -<p>"The Harvester," David Langston, is -a man of the woods and fields, who draws -his living from the prodigal hand of Mother -Nature herself. If the book had nothing in -it but the splendid figure of this man, with -his sure grip on life, his superb optimism, -and his almost miraculous knowledge of -nature secrets, it would be notable. But -when the Girl comes to his "Medicine -Woods," and the Harvester's whole sound, -healthy, large outdoor being realizes that -this is the highest point of life which has -come to him—there begins a romance, -troubled and interrupted, yet of the rarest idyllic quality.</p> - -<p class="u">FRECKLES.</p><p> Decorations by E. Stetson Crawford</p> - -<p>Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in -which he takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the -great Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets -him succumbs to the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story -with "The Angel" are full of real sentiment.</p> - - -<p class="u">A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST.</p> - -<p>Illustrated by Wladyslaw T. Brenda.</p> - -<p>The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, lovable -type of the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and -kindness towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the -sheer beauty of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from -barren and unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage.</p> - -<p>It is an inspiring story of a life worth while and the rich beauties -of the out-of-doors are strewn through all its pages.</p> - - -<p class="u">AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW.</p> - -<p>Illustrations in colors by Oliver Kemp. Design and decorations by -Ralph Fletcher Seymour.</p> - -<p>The scene of this charming, idyllic love story is laid in Central -Indiana. The story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing -love; the friendship that gives freely without return, and -the love that seeks first the happiness of the object. The novel is -brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and its pathos -and tender sentiment will endear it to all.</p> - - -<p class="c"><i>Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction</i><br /> - - - -<span class="smcap">Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p357" id="Page_p357">[357]</a></span></span></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -</div> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/fig5.jpg" - alt="advert." /></div> - -<div class="ad"> - -<p class="c"><strong>MYRTLE REED'S NOVELS</strong><br /> - -May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</p> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 150px;"> -<img src="images/fig12.jpg" width="150" height="207" alt="Drawing of a book." /> -</div> - - -<p class="u">LAVENDER AND OLD LACE.</p> - -<p>A charming story of a quaint corner of -New England where bygone romance finds a -modern parallel. The story centers round -the coming of love to the young people on -the staff of a newspaper—and it is one of the -prettiest, sweetest and quaintest of old fashioned -love stories, * * * a rare book, exquisite -in spirit and conception, full of -delicate fancy, of tenderness, of delightful -humor and spontaneity.</p> - - -<p class="u">A SPINNER IN THE SUN.</p> - -<p>Miss Myrtle Reed may always be depended upon to write a story -in which poetry, charm, tenderness and humor are combined into a -clever and entertaining book. Her characters are delightful and she -always displays a quaint humor of expression and a quiet feeling of -pathos which give a touch of active realism to all her writings. In -"A Spinner in the Sun" she tells an old-fashioned love story, of a -veiled lady who lives in solitude and whose features her neighbors -have never seen. There is a mystery at the heart of the book that -throws over it the glamour of romance.</p> - - -<p class="u">THE MASTER'S VIOLIN.</p> - -<p>A love story in a musical atmosphere. A picturesque, old German -virtuoso is the reverent possessor of a genuine "Cremona." He -consents to take for his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have -an aptitude for technique, but not the soul of an artist. The youth -has led the happy, careless life of a modern, well-to-do young American -and he cannot, with his meagre past, express the love, the passion -and the tragedies of life and all its happy phases as can the master -who has lived life in all its fulness. But a girl comes into his life—a -beautiful bit of human driftwood that his aunt had taken into her -heart and home, and through his passionate love for her, he learns -the lessons that life has to give—and his soul awakes.</p> - -<p>Founded on a fact that all artists realize.</p> - - -<p class="c"><i>Ask for a complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction</i><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p358" id="Page_p358">[358]</a></span></span></p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/fig6.jpg" - alt="advert." /></div> - -<div class="ad"> - -<p class="c"><strong>GROSSET & DUNLAP'S<br /> - -DRAMATIZED NOVELS</strong><br /> - -THE KIND THAT ARE MAKING THEATRICAL HISTORY<br /> - -May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</p> - -<p><span class="u">WITHIN THE LAW.</span> By Bayard Veiller & Marvin Dana.</p> - -<p>Illustrated by Wm. Charles Cooke.</p> - -<p>This is a novelization of the immensely successful play which ran -for two years in New York and Chicago.</p> - -<p>The plot of this powerful novel is of a young woman's revenge -directed against her employer who allowed her to be sent to prison -for three years on a charge of theft, of which she was innocent.</p> - -<p><span class="u">WHAT HAPPENED TO MARY.</span> By Robert Carlton Brown.</p> - -<p>Illustrated with scenes from the play.</p> - -<p>This is a narrative of a young and innocent country girl who is -suddenly thrown into the very heart of New York, "the land of her -dreams," where she is exposed to all sorts of temptations and dangers.</p> - -<p>The story of Mary is being told in moving pictures and played in -theatres all over the world.</p> - -<p><span class="u">THE RETURN OF PETER GRIMM.</span> By David Belasco.</p> - -<p>Illustrated by John Rae.</p> - -<p>This is a novelization of the popular play in which David Warfield, -as Old Peter Grimm, scored such a remarkable success.</p> - -<p>The story is spectacular and extremely pathetic but withal, -powerful, both as a book and as a play.</p> - -<p><span class="u">THE GARDEN OF ALLAH.</span> By Robert Hichens.</p> - -<p>This novel is an intense, glowing epic of the great desert, sunlit -barbaric, with its marvelous atmosphere of vastness and loneliness.</p> - -<p>It is a book of rapturous beauty, vivid in word painting. The play -has been staged with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties.</p> - -<p><span class="u">BEN HUR.</span> A Tale of the Christ. By General Lew Wallace.</p> - -<p>The whole world has placed this famous Religious-Historical Romance -on a height of pre-eminence which no other novel of its time -has reached. The clashing of rivalry and the deepest human passions, -the perfect reproduction of brilliant Roman life, and the tense, fierce -atmosphere of the arena have kept their deep fascination. A tremendous -dramatic success.</p> - -<p><span class="u">BOUGHT AND PAID FOR.</span> By George Broadhurst and Arthur<br /> -Hornblow. Illustrated with scenes from the play.</p> - -<p>A stupendous arraignment of modern marriage which has created -an interest on the stage that is almost unparalleled. The scenes are laid -in New York, and deal with conditions among both the rich and poor.</p> - -<p>The interest of the story turns on the day-by-day developments -which show the young wife the price she has paid.</p> - - -<p class="c"><i>Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction</i><br /> - - -<span class="smcap">Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p359" id="Page_p359">[359]</a></span></span></p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/fig7.jpg" - alt="advert." /></div> - -<div class="ad"> - -<p class="center bold">GROSSET & DUNLAP'S<br /> - -DRAMATIZED NOVELS</p> - -<p class="c">Original, sincere and courageous—often amusing—the<br /> -kind that are making theatrical history.</p> - -<p>MADAME X. By Alexandre Bisson and J. W. McConaughy. -Illustrated with scenes from the play.</p> - -<p>A beautiful Parisienne became an outcast because her husband -would not forgive an error of her youth. Her love for -her son is the great final influence in her career. A tremendous -dramatic success.</p> - -<p>THE GARDEN OF ALLAH. By Robert Hichens.</p> - -<p>An unconventional English woman and an inscrutable -stranger meet and love in an oasis of the Sahara. Staged -this season with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties.</p> - -<p>THE PRINCE OF INDIA. By Lew. Wallace.</p> - -<p>A glowing romance of the Byzantine Empire, presenting -with extraordinary power the siege of Constantinople, and -lighting its tragedy with the warm underglow of an Oriental -romance. As a play it is a great dramatic spectacle.</p> - -<p>TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRY. By Grace -Miller White. Illust. by Howard Chandler Christy.</p> - -<p>A girl from the dregs of society, loves a young Cornell University -student, and it works startling changes in her life and -the lives of those about her. The dramatic version is one of -the sensations of the season.</p> - -<p>YOUNG WALLINGFORD. By George Randolph -Chester. Illust. by F. R. Gruger and Henry Raleigh.</p> - -<p>A series of clever swindles conducted by a cheerful young -man, each of which is just on the safe side of a State's prison -offence. As "Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford," it is probably -the most amusing expose of money manipulation ever seen -on the stage.</p> - -<p>THE INTRUSION OF JIMMY. By P. G. Wodehouse. -Illustrations by Will Grefe.</p> - -<p>Social and club life in London and New York, an amateur -burglary adventure and a love story. Dramatized under the -title of "A Gentleman of Leisure," it furnishes hours of -laughter to the play-goers.</p> - -<p class="c"><span class="smcap">Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p360" id="Page_p360">[360]</a></span></span></p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/fig8.jpg" - alt="advert." /></div> - -<div class="ad"> - -<p class="center bold">B. M. Bower's Novels<br /> - -Thrilling Western Romances</p> - -<p class="center">Large 12 mos. Handsomely bound in cloth. Illustrated</p> - -<p class="u">CHIP, OF THE FLYING U</p> - -<p>A breezy wholesome tale, wherein the love affairs of Chip and -Delia Whitman are charmingly and humorously told. Chip's -jealousy of Dr. Cecil Grantham, who turns out to be a big, blue -eyed young woman is very amusing. A clever, realistic story of -the American Cow-puncher.</p> - -<p class="u">THE HAPPY FAMILY</p> - -<p>A lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of -eighteen jovial, big hearted Montana cowboys. Foremost amongst -them, we find Ananias Green, known as Andy, whose imaginative -powers cause many lively end exciting adventures.</p> - -<p class="u">HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT</p> - -<p>A realistic story of the plains, describing a gay party of Easterners -who exchange a cottage at Newport for the rough homeliness -of a Montana ranch-house. The merry-hearted cowboys, the -fascinating Beatrice, and the effusive Sir Redmond, become living, -breathing personalities.</p> - -<p class="u">THE RANGE DWELLERS</p> - -<p>Here are everyday, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist. -Spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a Romeo -and Juliet courtship make this a bright, jolly, entertaining story, -without a dull page.</p> - -<p class="u">THE LURE OF DIM TRAILS</p> - -<p>A vivid portrayal of the experience of an Eastern author, -among the cowboys of the West, in search of "local color" for a -new novel. "Bud" Thurston learns many a lesson while following -"the lure of the dim trails" but the hardest, and probably the most -welcome, is that of love.</p> - -<p class="u">THE LONESOME TRAIL</p> - -<p>"Weary" Davidson leaves the ranch for Portland, where conventional -city life palls on him. A little branch of sage brush, -pungent with the atmosphere of the prairie, and the recollection of -a pair of large brown eyes soon compel his return. A wholesome -love story.</p> - -<p class="u">THE LONG SHADOW</p> - -<p>A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the free, outdoor, -life of a mountain ranch. Its scenes shift rapidly and its actors play -the game of life fearlessly and like men. It is a fine love story from -start to finish.</p> - - -<p class="c">Ask for a complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction.<br /> - - - -<span class="smcap">Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p361" id="Page_p361">[361]</a></span></span></p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/fig9.jpg" - alt="advert." /></div> - -<div class="ad"> - - -<p class="center bold">THE NOVELS OF<br /> - -STEWART EDWARD WHITE</p> - -<p><span class="u">THE RULES OF THE GAME.</span> Illustrated by Lajaren A. Hiller</p> - -<p>The romance of the son of "The Riverman." The young college -hero goes into the lumber camp, is antagonized by "graft" and comes -into the romance of his life.</p> - -<p><span class="u">ARIZONA NIGHTS.</span> Illus. and cover inlay by N. C. Wyeth.</p> - -<p>A series of spirited tales emphasizing some phases of the life -of the ranch, plains and desert. A masterpiece.</p> - -<p><span class="u">THE BLAZED TRAIL.</span> With illustrations by Thomas Fogarty.</p> - -<p>A wholesome story with gleams of humor, telling of a young -man who blazed his way to fortune through the heart of the Michigan -pines.</p> - -<p><span class="u">THE CLAIM JUMPERS.</span> A Romance.</p> - -<p>The tenderfoot manager of a mine in a lonesome gulch of the -Black Hills has a hard time of it but "wins out" in more ways than -one.</p> - -<p><span class="u">CONJUROR'S HOUSE.</span> Illustrated Theatrical Edition.</p> - -<p>Dramatized under the title of "The Call of the North."</p> - -<p>Conjuror's House is a Hudson Bay trading post where the -head factor is the absolute lord. A young fellow risked his life and -won a bride on this forbidden land.</p> - -<p><span class="u">THE MAGIC FOREST.</span> A Modern Fairy Tale. Illustrated.</p> - -<p>The sympathetic way in which the children of the wild and -their life is treated could only belong to one who is in love with the -forest and open air. Based on fact.</p> - -<p><span class="u">THE RIVERMAN.</span> Illus. by N. C. Wyeth and C. Underwood.</p> - -<p>The story of a man's fight against a river and of a struggle -between honesty and grit on the one side, and dishonesty and -shrewdness on the other.</p> - -<p><span class="u">THE SILENT PLACES.</span> Illustrations by Philip R. Goodwin.</p> - -<p>The wonders of the northern forests, the heights of feminine -devotion, and masculine power, the intelligence of the Caucasian -and the instinct of the Indian, are all finely drawn in this story.</p> - -<p class="u">THE WESTERNERS.</p> - -<p>A story of the Black Hills that is justly placed among the -best American novels. It portrays the life of the new West as no -other book has done in recent years.</p> - -<p><span class="u">THE MYSTERY.</span> In collaboration with Samuel Hopkins Adams</p> -<p>With illustrations by Will Crawford.</p> - -<p>The disappearance of three successive crews from the stout -ship "Laughing Lass" in mid-Pacific, is a mystery weird and inscrutable. -In the solution, there is a story of the most exciting voyage -that man ever undertook.</p> - - -<p class="c"><span class="smcap">Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_p362" id="Page_p362">[362]</a></span></span></p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/fig10.jpg" - alt="advert." /></div> - -<div class="ad"> - -<p class="center bold">STORIES OF WESTERN LIFE<br /> - -May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list</p> - -<p><span class="u">RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE,</span> By Zane Grey.<br /> - -Illustrated by Douglas Duer.</p> - -<p>In this picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago, we -are permitted to see the unscrupulous methods employed by the invisible -hand of the Mormon Church to break the will of those refusing -to conform to its rule.</p> - -<p><span class="u">FRIAR TUCK,</span> By Robert Alexander Wason.<br /> - -Illustrated by Stanley L. Wood.</p> - -<p>Happy Hawkins tells us, in his humorous way, how Friar Tuck -lived among the Cowboys, how he adjusted their quarrels and love -affairs and how he fought with them and for them when occasion -required.</p> - -<p><span class="u">THE SKY PILOT,</span> By Ralph Connor.<br /> - -Illustrated by Louis Rhead.</p> - -<p>There is no novel, dealing with the rough existence of cowboys, -so charming in the telling, abounding as it does with the freshest and -the truest pathos.</p> - -<p><span class="u">THE EMIGRANT TRAIL,</span> By Geraldine Bonner.<br /> - -Colored frontispiece by John Rae.</p> - -<p>The book relates the adventures of a party on its overland pilgrimage, -and the birth and growth of the absorbing love of two strong -men for a charming heroine.</p> - -<p><span class="u">THE BOSS OF WIND RIVER,</span> By A. M. Chisholm.<br /> - -Illustrated by Frank Tenney Johnson.</p> - -<p>This is a strong, virile novel with the lumber industry for its central -theme and a love story full of interest as a sort of subplot.</p> - -<p><span class="u">A PRAIRIE COURTSHIP,</span> By Harold Bindloss.</p> - -<p>A story of Canadian prairies in which the hero is stirred, through -the influence of his love for a woman, to settle down to the heroic -business of pioneer farming.</p> - -<p><span class="u">JOYCE OF THE NORTH WOODS,</span> By Harriet T. Comstock.<br /> - -Illustrated by John Cassel.</p> - -<p>A story of the deep woods that shows the power of love at work -among its primitive dwellers. It is a tensely moving study of the -human heart and its aspirations that unfolds itself through thrilling -situations and dramatic developments.</p> - - -<p class="c"><i>Ask for a complete free list of C. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction</i><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York</span> -</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - -<div class="transnote"> -<h2>Transcriber's Notes</h2> - - -<p>—Quotation marks in the letters have been retained as published.<br /> -—Variations in hyphenation have been maintained.<br /> -—Assumed printer's errors have been changed.</p> -</div> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Bobbie, General Manager, by Olive Higgins Prouty - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOBBIE, GENERAL MANAGER *** - -***** This file should be named 53891-h.htm or 53891-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/8/9/53891/ - -Produced by Alan and the Online Distributed Proofreading -Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from -images generously made available by The Internet -Archive/American Libraries.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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