CHAPTER IIIA TICKET TO FAIRY-LAND
“I WANT to have a little talk with you, Gretel.”
Gretel looked up with a start from the pile of stockings she was darning. Mrs. Marsh, solemn and majestic as usual, was blocking the doorway of her little room, and there was an ominous sound in her voice which caused Gretel’s heart to beat uncomfortably fast.
“Won’t you come in?” she said, timidly, rising to offer her visitor the only chair the room contained, but Mrs. Marsh waved her back impatiently.
“Go on with your work,” she commanded. “I don’t care to sit down; I can say all I have to say in a few words. I am very sorry to be obliged to find fault with you, Gretel, but I feel that I must speak to you about your behavior of the past two weeks. Ada has spoken of it several times, but I have postponed mentioning it to you, hoping things might improve. You havenot been at all like yourself since the night those disgusting children were here.”
Mrs. Marsh paused, as if expecting Gretel to speak. The little girl had grown very red, and her lip was trembling, but she said nothing, and after waiting a moment Mrs. Marsh went on.
“It is rather difficult to fix upon any one particular thing you have done, but your whole manner has been different. You have not looked happy; indeed, you have appeared quite sullen at times. Now sullenness is a very disagreeable trait in a child. When your brother placed you in my care, he expected me to take a mother’s place to you, and so, painful though it may be, I feel that it is my duty to reprove you for your faults.”
Mrs. Marsh paused again, and this time Gretel raised her big honest brown eyes to her face; they were full of tears.
“I’m sorry,” she said simply; “I didn’t mean to be sullen, but you see, I haven’t been very happy since Dora went away.”
“Not been happy?” repeated Mrs. Marsh, her voice rising in astonishment; “and why have you not been happy, pray?”
“I don’t know exactly,” said Gretel, “but Dora was very kind to me, and I liked her. Shewouldn’t have let Lillie and Peter come if I hadn’t said I loved music, and so it was partly my fault that she had to go away.”
“If that is all that is troubling you you may dismiss the matter from your mind at once,” said Mrs. Marsh, decidedly. “The girl was very careless and incompetent, and I should probably have dismissed her at any rate. As for the mischief caused by those dreadful children, that certainly was partly your fault. You had no business to bring food into the house without my permission, but I forgave you for that when you assured me you were sorry. I never bear malice, and even though my carpet is practically ruined, I did not intend to refer to the matter again. It is your sullen, disagreeable manner that has pained me so deeply.”
Two big tears splashed down Gretel’s cheeks, and dropped on the stocking she was darning.
“I’m very sorry,” she murmured tremulously; “I don’t want to pain anybody.”
Mrs. Marsh’s face softened a little.
“I don’t suppose you do,” she admitted. “You are generally a very well-behaved child, I will say that for you, Gretel. You have been much less trouble than I expected you to be when I consented to take charge of you.”
“Have I really?” inquired Gretel, her face brightening; “but what made you take me when you thought I was going to be so much trouble?”
Mrs. Marsh frowned.
“You talk too much, Gretel,” she said reprovingly; “little girls should not ask so many questions. I have always tried to do what I have felt to be my duty. Now I hope I have said all that is necessary on this subject. If I see an improvement in your manner I shall know that my little talk has not been in vain. Ada and I like to see happy faces about us, and I am sure that if any child in this world should be happy you should. I wonder how many little girls of your age are having a lovely long holiday right in the middle of the school year? By the way, I had a letter from my sister this morning, in which she tells me that her friend has decided to remain in California longer than she at first expected. They will not be back before the middle of April.”
Gretel did not look as much pleased at this news as Mrs. Marsh evidently expected.
“I’m rather sorry,” she said. “I like Miss Talcott, and she was so very kind about letting me play on her piano. I don’t mind lessons much; I used to love them when Father taughtme. But I will try not to be sullen, Mrs. Marsh; I really didn’t know I was.”
“That is right,” said Mrs. Marsh, in a tone of relief. “Now we have discussed this matter quite enough, and I must hurry. Are you going out this afternoon?”
“Ada wants me to take her new dress back to the dressmaker’s. Something has to be done to the skirt, and she’s going to stop and try it on on her way home, but she doesn’t want to carry the box herself, it’s so heavy.”
“Very well; the walk will do you good, but don’t stay out too long. It isn’t at all the proper thing for little girls to be in the streets after it begins to grow dark.”
Gretel promised that she would be in the house before dark, and Mrs. Marsh departed, feeling that she had done all that was necessary in the way of “administering a gentle reproof.”
When she was alone Gretel sat quite still for several minutes; her hands lying idly in her lap. She was thinking hard. It was quite true that she had not been happy, but she had not supposed Mrs. Marsh or her daughter had noticed that fact. Dora was the first one of all the long list of maids who had come and gone during her residence with Mrs. Marsh who had ever takenany particular interest in her. Dora was rough, and not very neat, but Gretel had liked her, and there did not seem to be many people to like, now that her father was dead, and all the old friends had gone out of her life. The colored woman who now filled Dora’s place was anything but prepossessing, and Ada had been suffering from a cold, which always made her more cross and exacting than usual. She had not meant to be sullen. She had tried very hard to be grateful, as Mrs. Marsh had so often told her she ought to be. She really had no idea that Mrs. Marsh had cared whether she was happy or not.
“I wonder if she truly does care,” she reflected. “She doesn’t always say things that are quite true. It wasn’t true when she told Mr. Pendleton she would rather hear a symphony concert than go to the theater. She doesn’t really love music a bit, and I don’t believe she loves me, either, though she told that lady who was here the other day, that I was as dear to her as her own child. I don’t suppose anybody will ever love me very much now I haven’t got Father any more.”
Suddenly, without quite knowing why she was doing it, Gretel found herself crying—crying so hard that the stockings rolled off her lap onto the floor, and she buried her face in her hands,and shook from head to foot with great choking sobs.
But the cry did her good, and being a plucky little soul, she soon cheered up again, dried her eyes, picked up the stockings, and went on with her darning.
When the stockings were finished, and put away in Ada’s drawer, Gretel went to the window to look out. The sun was shining, but there was a fierce wind blowing, which rattled the window frames, and sent great clouds of dust into the faces of the passers-by. It did not look like a very pleasant afternoon for a walk. Gretel glanced over across the street at fairy-land, which was closed and deserted that afternoon, but there was nothing surprising about that fact, for it was only Friday, and fairy-land was seldom open on any afternoon but Saturday. But as Gretel glanced at the familiar building, her eye was caught by an announcement, which was posted up in large letters “Saturday Matinee, 2P. M., Lohengrin.”
Gretel caught her breath in a little gasp, and just then she saw two young girls come out of the opera house, and one of them paused on the steps to put an envelope into her purse.
“She’s been buying a ticket,” said the childto herself. “I wonder if it’s for ‘Lohengrin.’ Oh, how very happy she must be!”
But there was nothing to be gained by standing there dreaming of impossibilities, and she must hurry if she intended to do Ada’s errand, and be at home again before dark. So she turned resolutely away from the window, and ten minutes later was toiling up Broadway in the teeth of the fierce March wind, carrying the big box, containing Miss Marsh’s new dress.
It was nearly a mile to the dressmaker’s, and the box was heavy for small weak arms to carry, but no one had suggested her taking a car, and as her supply of ready money consisted of but three pennies, riding was out of the question. It was very cold, although it was the middle of March, and by the time Gretel reached her destination her teeth were chattering, and she was shivering from head to foot.
Relieved of her burden, however, the walk home was more comfortable, and for the first few blocks she almost ran, to get her blood in circulation. Then she suddenly realized that she was very tired, and the poor little feet began to lag once more.
“If it were only nice and warm I could sit down in Bryant Park, and watch the childrenplay,” she told herself, with a sigh. “Oh, I shall be glad when summer comes, only then fairy-land will be all shut up, and I can’t watch the people going in any more.”
Just then a fiercer gust than usual tore off her hat, and by the time she had caught it again, after an exciting chase of more than a block, she began to feel quite warm. Still, it was a relief when the sight of the big opera house assured her that she had almost reached home. There was only one more wide crossing, and then she would be safely indoors, away from the wind and dust.
She paused on the curb, waiting for a momentary lull in the long stream of cars and automobiles, and just at that moment something white came fluttering along the sidewalk, and rested at her feet.
“Why, it’s a letter,” said Gretel to herself, stooping to pick up the envelope; “somebody must have dropped it. No, it isn’t a letter either; it’s a ticket. Oh!” Gretel gave one great gasp, and in another second she was darting across the street, clutching a white envelope tightly in her hand.
Her heart was beating so fast when she entered the apartment-house that she could scarcelybreathe. It was not until she had reached her own little room, unmolested and unquestioned, that she dared draw a long free breath. Then she sank down on the edge of the bed, and for the first time since that one hurried glance in the street, ventured to examine the contents of the soiled white envelope.
There was not much in the envelope; only one small, thin ticket, but if it had been a hundred-dollar bill Gretel could not have gazed upon it with greater awe. For it was nothing less than an admission to fairy-land.
“It’s for Saturday afternoon,” she said in a rapturous whisper; “it’s for ‘Lohengrin!’ Oh, how wonderful, how wonderful!”
In those first moments she had no other thought than that this wonderful thing had, by some unknown, wholly inexplicable chance, been sent to her. How it happened to be lying there on the sidewalk did not even occur to her. She kept repeating over to herself: “It’s mine; it’s really mine; nobody can take it away from me!”
She sat for some time, gazing at her treasure, with loving eyes. Then she rose, and went to the bureau.
“I must put it away very carefully,” she saidto herself. “No one must know anything about it. If Mrs. Marsh knew she might not let me keep it; she might make me—”
Gretel’s hold on the precious ticket tightened imperceptibly, and she grew suddenly very pale.
“She might make me take it back to the opera house,” she finished, with a gasp.
Then, all at once came another thought—a thought so dreadful that she actually began to tremble.
“Perhaps I ought to take it back,” she whispered. “It may belong to some one; some one may have dropped it. Oh, but I can’t—I can’t! Nobody in the whole world can possibly want it as much as I do.”
Just then she heard Mrs. Marsh’s voice in the hall, and hastily opening her bureau drawer, she thrust the envelope and its contents deep down among her handkerchiefs.
Both Mrs. Marsh and her daughter regarded Gretel curiously when she appeared at the dinner-table that evening. The child’s cheeks were flushed, and there was such a feverish brightness in her eyes that Mrs. Marsh began to fear she was going to be ill. But when she questioned Gretel on the subject, the little girl assured her eagerly that she was quite well.
“You aren’t eating much dinner, at any rate,” remarked Ada, with a wondering glance at Gretel’s almost untouched plate. “You ought to have a good appetite after your walk in the wind. What an awful afternoon it was. I was almost blown off my feet coming round the corner by the opera house. Madame has promised to have my dress ready for me to wear to the wedding to-morrow, Mamma. Are you very tired, Gretel?”
“I’m not tired at all,” replied Gretel, in a rather dreamy, faraway voice.
“Little girls who cannot eat their dinners properly should not be allowed any dessert,” said Mrs. Marsh, severely. But Gretel only smiled, and when the dessert appeared she ate so little of it that Mrs. Marsh felt more uneasy than before.
“You had better go to bed early, Gretel,” she advised, “and I will give you a dose of medicine, for I am sure your stomach must be upset.” And when Gretel had retired obediently directly after dinner, Mrs. Marsh spoke with more severity than usual to her daughter, on the folly of sending the child on such a long walk in the wind.
Gretel swallowed her medicine without a word of protest, and then, having locked her dooragainst intruders, she once more drew her treasure from its hiding-place.
“It is mine; it is; it is!” she told herself almost fiercely. “I found it. I don’t have to take it back. Perhaps the person who dropped it doesn’t care any more about ‘Lohengrin’ than Mrs. Marsh and Ada do. Anyway, nobody knows where it is now; nobody but me, and I want it—oh, I want it more than I ever wanted anything in my life before.”
And then Gretel undressed very quickly, and crept into bed, with the ticket to fairy-land safely deposited under her pillow.