CHAPTER XIVAFTER THE CLOCK STRUCK TWELVE
IT was still very early the next morning when Gretel awoke; a robin was singing on a tree just outside her window, but everything else was still. For the first few bewildered moments she could not remember where she was, or what had happened, and lay wondering idly why her head ached, and her eyes felt so stiff and swollen. Then it all came back with a rush; the music, Barbara’s story, and those dreadful words of her brother’s. Afterwards the long hours she had lain awake, alone in the darkness, trying to make up her mind what she ought to do. She had cried herself to sleep at last, having finally decided upon the course of action, which it seemed to the poor foolish little girl, was the right one to take.
“I’ve got to tell them; I’ve got to; I’ve got to,” she had told herself resolutely. “I couldn’t go on living here, letting them love me, and be good to me, and not tell them I was a dishonestperson. Of course they won’t ever love me any more when they know, but I can’t help that. Percy will be so ashamed to have a dishonest girl for a sister, and Barbara won’t want to ever see me again.”
It was a terrible thought, but it had to be faced. It never occurred to Gretel for a moment that the ticket she had picked up on the sidewalk, in front of the opera house, might not be the one her sister-in-law had lost. “Lohengrin”—the windy afternoon—the date—everything pointed too plainly to the fact that the tickets were one and the same.
And now it was morning, and she must begin her preparations, or it would be too late to carry out the plan she had decided upon. If she waited until people were up, she might be stopped and asked awkward questions, and she must get away before Percy and Barbara knew—she could never face them after that, she would be too much ashamed. With as little noise as possible, she crept out of bed, and began putting on her clothes. How merrily the birds sang and how brightly the sun was shining. She remembered that this was to have been her first day in her beautiful new home. But she never wavered for a moment in her purpose. It did not takelong to dress, for she had decided to omit her usual morning bath, lest the sound of running water should disturb the still sleeping household. She was just fastening her dress when another sound besides the singing of the birds, broke the early morning stillness; the shrill whistle of a passing train, and she suddenly remembered that Percy had told her the railway station was not more than half a mile away.
“I’m glad it isn’t far,” she said to herself, with a feeling of something like relief; “I can easily walk there, and there must be plenty of trains going to New York. I’ve got enough money for a ticket. I’m glad I didn’t spend all the ten dollars Percy gave me the day before the wedding.” And she slipped into her pocket the pretty little silver purse her brother had given her.
This done, Gretel opened the closet door, in quest of her hat. At sight of the row of pretty frocks that Higgins had unpacked the night before, she was conscious of a sharp little stab of pain.
“It’s dreadful to have to leave all those lovely things,” she said, with a sob. “It doesn’t seem quite grateful either, when Percy was so good to buy them all for me, but I couldn’t stay andnot tell, and when he knows I’m a dishonest person he won’t want me anyway. Perhaps they can find some other girl to give the clothes to, who will deserve them more than I did.”
She selected her plainest hat, and began putting a few necessary toilet articles into the suit-case Higgins had left on the lowest shelf of the closet. Having procured a night-gown, and a fresh set of underclothes from the bureau drawer, she hesitated for a moment, and then drew the packet of old letters from beneath her pillow, and tucked it carefully away in one corner of the suit-case. She glanced regretfully at the row of shabby books, but decided it would not be possible to carry them, and tried to comfort herself with the reflection that Barbara would take care of them for her—Barbara was always so kind.
Her preparations completed, Gretel sat down at the desk to write her confession. She selected a sheet of paper; dipped her pen in the ink, and began to write; but her fingers trembled so she could scarcely form the letters, and it was a very blotted, illegible little note that Higgins, coming in an hour later to wake her little charge, found on the desk, addressed to Mr. Percy Douane.
“Darling Percy”: it began.“When you get this I shall have gone away,and you and Barbara won’t ever see me any more. I suppose it would be much braver if I stayed and told you myself instead of writing, but I am not at all brave.“Dear Percy, I may as well say it right away, I am a dishonest person. I stole Barbara’s ticket to fairy-land—I mean the opera. I didn’t know it was hers till last night, but I always knew it was somebody’s. I found it on the sidewalk, and I kept it, and went to hear Lohengrin. I knew it was wicked, but I wanted to hear Lohengrin more than anything else in the world, and I thought nobody would ever find out. Nobody ever did, but now I know it was Barbara’s ticket, I can’t keep the secret any longer.“It happened the very afternoon you came home. I was going to tell you once, but you said to let bygones be bygones, and I was so glad, because I thought if you knew you might not love me, and nobody had loved me since Father died. If I hadn’t found out it was Barbara’s ticket I am afraid I might never have told, but I couldn’t go on living here in this beautiful place, and having everybody so good to me, and not have you know I was a dishonest person. If I didn’t tell now, I should be a great deal more dishonest than I was before.“I am going to some old friends of Father’s in New York, and I think they’ll let me stay with them till I can earn some money. I don’t play the piano at all well now, but I play much better than a boy I know, and he said his father was goingto get him into vaudeville, so I think perhaps Fritz Lipheim can get me into vaudeville, too, and just as soon as I have earned three dollars I will send it to Barbara, to pay for that ticket. I heard her tell you it cost three dollars.“Please don’t be any angrier with me than you can help. I know you can’t ever love me any more, because you love Barbara so much, and it was her ticket, but she is so good I think perhaps she will forgive me when she knows how sorry and ashamed I am.“Good-by, dear Percy; thank you a million times for all the beautiful things you have done for me, and please try to forgive me if you possibly can.“Your loving little sister,“Gretel.“PS. I am not taking any more clothes than I can help. I hope you will be able to find some other little girl to give them to, for I know she will love them as much as I did.”
“Darling Percy”: it began.
“When you get this I shall have gone away,and you and Barbara won’t ever see me any more. I suppose it would be much braver if I stayed and told you myself instead of writing, but I am not at all brave.
“Dear Percy, I may as well say it right away, I am a dishonest person. I stole Barbara’s ticket to fairy-land—I mean the opera. I didn’t know it was hers till last night, but I always knew it was somebody’s. I found it on the sidewalk, and I kept it, and went to hear Lohengrin. I knew it was wicked, but I wanted to hear Lohengrin more than anything else in the world, and I thought nobody would ever find out. Nobody ever did, but now I know it was Barbara’s ticket, I can’t keep the secret any longer.
“It happened the very afternoon you came home. I was going to tell you once, but you said to let bygones be bygones, and I was so glad, because I thought if you knew you might not love me, and nobody had loved me since Father died. If I hadn’t found out it was Barbara’s ticket I am afraid I might never have told, but I couldn’t go on living here in this beautiful place, and having everybody so good to me, and not have you know I was a dishonest person. If I didn’t tell now, I should be a great deal more dishonest than I was before.
“I am going to some old friends of Father’s in New York, and I think they’ll let me stay with them till I can earn some money. I don’t play the piano at all well now, but I play much better than a boy I know, and he said his father was goingto get him into vaudeville, so I think perhaps Fritz Lipheim can get me into vaudeville, too, and just as soon as I have earned three dollars I will send it to Barbara, to pay for that ticket. I heard her tell you it cost three dollars.
“Please don’t be any angrier with me than you can help. I know you can’t ever love me any more, because you love Barbara so much, and it was her ticket, but she is so good I think perhaps she will forgive me when she knows how sorry and ashamed I am.
“Good-by, dear Percy; thank you a million times for all the beautiful things you have done for me, and please try to forgive me if you possibly can.
“Your loving little sister,“Gretel.
“PS. I am not taking any more clothes than I can help. I hope you will be able to find some other little girl to give them to, for I know she will love them as much as I did.”
Gretel was not at all satisfied with her letter when she read it over, but there was no time to write another, for already the clock on the stairs was striking six, and in another half hour the servants would be up and about. So, having put the poor little confession in the most conspicuous place on the desk and given one more glance about the pretty room, which was to have beenhers, she opened her door, and stepped softly out into the silent hall. How very still it was; evidently the household was still in bed and asleep. Gretel stole on tiptoe past her brother’s closed door, and down the front stairs to the lower hall. The front door was fastened, but the key turned easily in the lock, and two minutes later a little figure, carrying a heavy suit-case, was walking rapidly down the broad avenue to the gate.
It was the beginning of a very hot day, but as yet the air felt fresh and cool, and the sun only comfortably warm. How beautiful it all was, with the dew sparkling on the grass in the bright morning sunshine, and birds singing in every tree. Gretel paused at the gate for one last long look, and a big lump rose in her throat, but still she did not waver in her purpose. With one quickly suppressed sob, she turned resolutely away, and in another moment Cinderella had turned her back on the palace of beauty, and was trudging away down the dusty road to the station.
It was still too early for many people to be about, and Gretel did not meet a single person between her brother’s house and the little country station, which she remembered having passed inthe motor-car the evening before. The station was closed and locked, and she was beginning to wonder what she should do next when a train came puffing up to the platform. Gretel sprang forward eagerly, her poor little heart pounding so that she could scarcely breathe.
“Is this train going to New York?” she inquired of the brakeman.
“Yes,” answered the man, regarding her rather curiously; “want to get on?”
“I—I haven’t any ticket,” faltered Gretel; “I’ve got the money for one, but the station is shut up.”
“You can pay on the train,” the man assured her. “Hurry up if you want to get on board; we only stop here one minute.”
Without another word, Gretel hastily mounted the steps of one of the cars, the brakeman good-naturedly helping her with her suit-case, glancing behind him at the same time, as though in expectation of more passengers.
“Going to New York all by yourself?” he inquired in some surprise.
Gretel nodded.
“Pretty early in the morning to be going to town, ain’t it? Expecting somebody to meet you at the Grand Central?”
“I am going to some friends in New York,” said Gretel, and there was so much dignity in her tone, that the brakeman decided she must be able to take care of herself, and asked no further questions.
“It’s quite true, I am going to friends,” Gretel told herself, as she sank into an empty seat. “Mrs. Lipheim is my friend, and so is Fritz. I know they’ll both be glad to see me, even if they didn’t invite me, and I haven’t heard from them in such a long time.”
She recalled the many acts of kindness shown her by Fritz Lipheim and his mother in the old studio days, and at the time of her father’s death. She had once gone to have supper with Mrs. Lipheim, and she remembered the cozy little flat, and the kind old German woman bustling about her neat kitchen. The thought of that supper reminded her of the fact that she had had no breakfast that morning, and she suddenly realized that she was very hungry.
“I’m afraid I shall be late for the Lipheims’ breakfast,” she thought a little uneasily, “but they are so kind, they’ll be sure to give me something to eat.”
She had never forgotten the Lipheims’ address, although she had not been there since herfather’s death. She had once asked Mrs. Marsh if she might go to see her old friends, but that lady had refused so decidedly that she had never dared broach the subject again. Since her brother’s return she had not been in New York long enough to make calls, especially as the Lipheims lived in Harlem, but Barbara had promised to take her some day to see her kind old friends. And now she was going all by herself, but under what sadly different circumstances from any she had anticipated.
When the conductor came to collect the tickets, Gretel explained about the closed station, and taking out her purse, inquired the price of a trip to New York. The conductor looked at her much as the brakeman had done, but she seemed such a capable little person, and so thoroughly convinced of what she wanted to do, that he decided it was none of his business, and walked away, after receiving her fare, and returning the proper change.
It was a slow train, and made a great many stops. As they neared the city, the car began to fill up, chiefly with men and women on their way to work, but no one took any particular notice of the solitary little girl. Gretel’s heart grew heavier and heavier. She heard a man in the seatbehind her say it was half-past seven. By this time Higgins must have come to call her, and have found her letter to Percy. How shocked and pained they must all be when they learned the dreadful truth about her. Of course they would never want to have anything more to do with her now they knew her to be a dishonest person. A big tear splashed down on Gretel’s cheek, and was quickly followed by another, but the child brushed them away hurriedly, fearing the passengers might see that she was crying. Gretel was a proud child, and she did not want to be pitied or questioned by strangers.