Treasure and Zee were in the garage, studying history in the roomy back seat of the red car.
"Father is very pettish about some things," said Zee, suddenly banging the covers of the history together. "Why in the world does he always say we are too young to drive? He taught Doris, and she grips the wheel like mad—a very unprofessional thing to do, everybody says so. And he taught Rosalie, and she goes tearing along, smiling here and nodding there, and nearly runs over dogs and wagons and— But he says we are too young, though you are very cautious, and I am smart for my age. I know perfectly well how she goes."
They dropped their books on the floor and clambered over into the front seat, Zee at the wheel.
"First you turn this little business, and thenyou put this sparker thing here, and bang down with your heel on that, and push out with your left foot, and pull this thing back into low, and give it the gas, and away you go, tralalalala."
"That is right," said Treasure. "You do know, sure enough. I have watched them hundreds of times."
"So have I," said Zee in a discontented voice. "But that's all the good it does. They won't let us, though we know how, perfectly well. Treasure, don't you think maybe father would let us drive if we could prove to him that we know how? He says we are too young to learn, but if we show him we have learned already he certainly wouldn't have much argument left."
"Father is rather particular."
"But think how useful it would be if we knew how—then if anybody should get sick, or die in a hurry, we could rush after father in the car, and—I am sure he would not object, if we could just show him. Let's practise by ourselves a little, and then he won't say a word. Think how surprised he will be."
"Maybe you could not stop it."
"Why, you just turn the key, that's all. It is perfectly simple. A child could do it. Look out and see if there is any one around, will you? I know I can do it."
Why, you just turn the key, that's all
"Why, you just turn the key, that's all"
Treasure dutifully looked, and no one was in sight.
"How surprised they will be. Won't we have the laugh on them when we come driving up to the door?"
So Treasure opened the door of the garage and got in beside her sister again. Zee sat up very straight, and pursed her lips together.
"First, turn the key."
"Yes."
Zee turned the key.
"Now put the sparker business down in the middle."
"Yes."
Zee put it down.
"Step on the starter."
"Yes."
Zee stepped on it.
This produced a low aimless whirr, quite powerless.
"Pull up that little flooder thing," said Treasure. "Father always does that."
Zee pulled it to the tiptop, and banged her heel on the starter again. This time the enticing tug told her the engine had caught, and was ready for action.
"Push with the left foot and put her in low," said Zee, between her teeth.
She found it took quite a vicious pull on the gears to "put her in low." And the instant it clicked into place, the car shot forward out of the garage with a violent pull that dashed them against the seat and took their breath away. And there was a tearing and crashing of wood—the garage door was none too wide—
"Father's fault," shouted Zee, pulling on the wheel for dear life. "Just splintered a little."
"Slow up," cried Treasure.
The car was in the main road now, swerving over the corner to the right, which fortunately was a low grassy bank with no curbing. Zee,rocking dizzily in her seat, moved the wheel from side to side at such a furious pace that she kept the car almost inside the road, and clear of the ditches on either side.
"Go slow," begged Treasure.
"I can't," cried Zee. "She must be leaking."
After two blocks of riotously dangerous riding, Zee remembered that if she shoved with her left foot it did something to stop it—and she shoved, and the engine lifted, and the car slowed down.
She turned a white anxious face toward Treasure.
"That was some speed," she gasped.
"Watch the road, Zee. You had the gas thing in the middle instead of the sparker thing—"
"Oh, sure enough, wasn't that silly?" Zee put the hand feeder in its proper place and prepared to start again.
"I know how to drive this car—I know how, and I will do it," she said between her teeth.
She put it into low again, and started once more, very slowly.
"Put it into second now," suggested Treasure.
Zee shoved the gear shift grimly forward—into reverse—and there was a grinding of wheels and a curious sound of stripping gears that would have broken the heart of an older driver.
Zee discovered her mistake, and remedied it quickly, pulling the gear into low once more, ready for a fresh start.
"Oh, Zee, let me drive," begged Treasure. "I am sure I can do it."
By rare good fortune, Zee succeeded in getting it into second gear, and finally, with a tearing racket, into high, and leaned back in her seat.
"This is something like, now," she panted, releasing her scarlet lip from between her teeth.
"The fender is all bent," mourned Treasure.
"Oh, father'll fix it. See how well we're going now."
Treasure said nothing. They were not yet home, and there was a wagon coming toward them.
Zee swung the car to the right to pass the wagon—too far—she was fairly in the ditch atthe side—with a wild turn of the wheel they bumped into the road again, the fender banging the back wheel of the wagon.
"Hay, you blithering—" shouted the man angrily, and then, seeing their predicament, he pulled off to the side of the road and turned about in his seat staring after them.
Zee, panic-stricken at the collision, lost her wits completely, and couldn't remember how to stop it—but kept jamming desperately on the gas feeder, harder and harder, swinging along the road, swaying from side to side, while Treasure, with one long cry of agony slid into the bottom of the car and clasped her hands over her ears.
The car dashed madly on, and between bursts Zee pulled everything in sight and pushed everything she could find—but that car was a demon—it went over hills and through ditches like a thing possessed. It swung around wagons, and ran down a flock of chickens, and—oh, kindly Providence, which watches over straying preacher bodies—of its own free will, though guided, ofcourse, by a friendly predestination—the car went slower, and slower, with a funny choking powerless sound quite unlike its natural brisk chug, and presently Zee's scattered wits returned to her. She turned the key, and the car stopped.
Treasure, sobbing pitifully, untangled herself from the gears, and stumbled out of the car.
"I—drove—it," quivered Zee, and she opened the door and stepped out—falling limply on the ground.
Treasure, forgetting her own plight, ran to Zee's assistance.
"Nothing at all's the matter," stammered Zee, smiling pluckily. "Just wobbly, that's all—can't stand on myself."
So Treasure sat down beside her in the road, and they had a heart-restoring cry in each other's tender arms, the dust of the road mingling with their bitter tears and leaving tell-tale tracks upon their sorry faces. Zee recovered first.
"Crazy old thing," she said with a vicious little kick at the bent fender. "I always said Doris should have chosen the cow."
"What shall we do now?" asked Treasure helplessly.
"I am going to sit right here until father comes and finds us. Oh, Treasure, you'd better drive it off to the side of the road—and—"
"Who—me? Not on your life. I won't touch it. It is bewitched."
"Somebody will run into it then. Let's push it."
Treasure had serious objections even to that form of locomotion, for she felt in her inmost soul that the only way to keep that red demon stopped was never to give it a start. But as Zee was insistent, she finally consented to get behind and give a grudging push. Due, however, to the fact that it was still in gear, and the brakes were set, they could not budge it. So they went off to the side of the road where it could not fall on them if anybody did run into it and waited.
After a time a car came along, passed by, slowed up and stopped. The driver leaned over the door of his car and asked pleasantly:
"Are you in trouble, girls? Can I help you?"
"Oh, no, thank you, we are waiting for father," said Zee primly.
The driver regarded them curiously. "Don't you think you'd better pull off to the side of the road a little? Pretty narrow passing there."
The girls looked at the road in surprise. "Why, so it is. Isn't that too bad?"
"Can you drive off to the side?"
"No, indeed, father does not allow us to drive."
"I'll give you a push," he said very obligingly, and came at once to their assistance. He frowned a little when he saw the car in gear, and the brakes set, but he released them without comment, and the girls helping bravely, the disgraced red car was moved out of the main road.
"Shall I tow you back to town?"
The girls winced visibly. Be towed home in disgrace—rather would they sit there and freeze and starve and die of hunger and thirst forever.
"Oh, no, thank you. We'll just wait for father."
"Where is your father?"
"He isn't here just now," said Zee faintly.
So the man drove slowly away, looking back now and then. The girls, in spite of the dust, did not sit in the car. They would not trust themselves alone in that car under any circumstances. Instead they went soberly up the bank and sat down again, side by side. Once in a while Zee wiped her pale brow wearily.
"Such a life," she muttered once.
"Here comes something now," said Treasure, looking hopefully down the road toward town. "Maybe it is father."
"Horseback rider."
"I hope he does not offer to tow us home."
"If he does, I shall tell him to mind his own business."
As the rider drew near, the girls leaned forward and studied his features.
"He will laugh at us," said Treasure sadly. "That is worse than offering to tow us home. It is that horribly sarcastic Curious Cat that kept the Crab from arresting us when we trespassed on his ugly old ditch."
Zee flipped over on the ground and buried her face in her hands. "I will not look at him. Tell him I am dead, tell him— Tell him anything, but I can not let that hateful old thing look at me and grin."
"Zee," begged Treasure, "sit up and be decent. I can't talk to him. Sit up, and help me."
Zee was obdurate. So Treasure, determined not to face the Curious Cat without support, turned her back to the road and gazed off over the landscape.
The rider drew up beside the car, and stopped his horse. He looked intently at the two girls, who saw him not—except from the very tip tails of their eyes. Then he examined the car, whistling cheerfully—and his whistle was more aggravating than his laughter, if such a thing could be. He got off his horse presently and slipped the bridle over a fence post. Then he carefully inspected the bent fenders, and looked at the engine. And then—wasn't he the most infuriating thing you ever saw in your life?—from the pocket of his riding coat he pulled a package ofmilk chocolate, and sauntered over to the bank where the girls still sat, oblivious of his presence. He flung himself on the ground near them and began nibbling the chocolate.
Treasure's lips trembled with the shame of it. Zee twisted the toes of her shoes into the ground in impotent fury. The Curious Cat ate deliberately, soulfully, complacently, and tossed his hat to the ground, laying his head comfortably on his arm, his face toward the girls.
And to add to the insult of his presence he began humming that idiotic little ditty about "two babes in the woods" in a soft sentimental tone.
Zee stood it as long as she could. Then she sat up, seeming to blink the sleep from her bright eyes.
"Why, Treasure— Why, Ididgo to sleep, didn't I?" Then she saw him, apparently for the first time. "Why, how do you do?" she said brightly. "Where did you come from? I drove and drove until I was so tired—I couldn't stand it, and so we stopped to rest."
She held out a cordial hand, and he took it gravely. Then Treasure turned upon them, and said, "Why, you here? I was—enjoying that—beautiful view."
"Yes, I noticed that you were wrapped up in it. Had you a pleasant ride?"
"Oh, lovely. But I am not used to driving, and I got so tired. I don't believe I can ever get the thing home."
"Maybe your sister can—"
"Oh, Treasure will not drive. She is afraid of motors."
"Maybe I can take you home."
"Oh, we want to walk. We are so stiff from riding. But won't you please take the car in—we feel like walking ourselves—it will do us good."
He looked at them keenly. "Do you want some chocolate?"
The girls accepted it gratefully.
"Suppose we go on to the Haunted House, and let the old grouch give us some tea? I feel rather weak. Don't you?" he suggested finally.
"Very," they said with sincerity.
"But father will find out—I mean—they will worry about us. We have been gone—quite a while," protested Treasure.
"He will not worry. He knows nobody would hurt nice little preacher girls like you. I am willing—more than willing—to take the car home, but I've got to find a place to leave my horse, and I've got to have some tea. Is it a bargain or not? You come with me for tea, I take you home—and I will try to sneak you in the back way so your father will not catch you. But no tea, no sneak."
Zee stood up. "Treasure, you may sit here and be ministerial if you like. I want some tea."
"That is something like. Now, you drive the car down the road to the rustic gate, and—"
"Who, me? I am tired of driving. I guess I won't go after all."
"Well, then you girls must sit in the back seat and lead the horse. I shall drive slowly."
"I feel more like walking. I do not want to ride."
"It is a mile and a half, and you've got to get home some time. Don't be silly. I know how to handle a car."
So in quivering fear the girls stepped in and he gave Zee the bridle. Then he started the car—the treacherous, ungrateful thing!—it went off as smoothly and gently as a perfect lady. How tenderly Zee thought at that moment of the Jersey they did not choose. Down the road they went very slowly, then up a long winding trail among the trees by the creek to the Haunted House, an old-fashioned rambling building with vines and flowers running riot in every direction.
"Maybe he will not like it. He has a terrible disposition, you know."
"We shall charm him. He and the house are haunted, but fifty cents will enslave them both."
"Fifty cents would buy two gallons of gas," whispered Zee, shocked at the recklessness, but even her frankness did not extend to the point of protesting at the extravagance of a stranger—especially when she needed tea.
The Corduroy Crab greeted them asunconcernedly as though they came by invitation, and took the bridle from Zee's hand.
"Sir, we had a sad accident," said the Curious Cat in a respectful voice. "We are thirsty, tired, and—much wiser. May we have a cup of tea on the porch in a hurry?" He slipped a half-dollar into the man's willing hand as he spoke.
The Corduroy Crab seemed not at all surprised. "Of course," he said briefly, and led the horse away.
"Now there's a gentleman," said the Curious Cat appreciatively. "Took my money like a—preacher."
"What do you mean—like a preacher?" demanded Zee resentfully.
But the Curious Cat did not seem to hear, for he was piling soft cushions into wide porch chairs where the girls might sit in comfort.
A little later a black serving man came out and pulled a small table from a corner of the porch, arranging it deftly with doilies, and in less than five minutes the girls were eating chicken sandwiches and drinking tea—to be sure, they werenot allowed to drink tea at home, but Zee said truly that their nerves required something out of the ordinary. And there was a small silver basket of chocolates on the table—
"Isn't that lucky?" said the Curious Cat, eying the candy greedily. "It is my one and only weakness. Apart from chocolate I am free from worldly affectations. But chocolate—I eat it with every meal, and take a piece to bed at night. Without it I am become as a ravening wolf and a—a thirsting camel. It does seem rather a refined and ladylike accomplishment for one as rough and rude as I—one of the eccentricities of Nature, who played me many pranks."
"Yes," said Treasure politely.
"However do you suppose the Corduroy Crab—"
"Zee!"
"The what?"
"Oh, excuse me— He won't tell, Treasure. We call him the Corduroy Crab because he was so disagreeable, you know. I was just—"
"Pardon the interruption—but do you mindtelling me by what particular form of endearment you designate me?"
"The—the Curious Cat," said Zee, though Treasure kicked her smartly under the table. "Because you were so cattish to us, making fun of us, and laughing. Very catty thing to do. And we added the Curious because you really are awfully—queer, you know."
"And what were you wondering about the Crab?"
"I was just wondering how he comes to have things fixed so lovely? It is wonderful here. It used to be all tumbly and crazy, and things growing everywhere, and little funny animals and bugs shooting around in every direction—it was awful. Father brought us once because we had to write a theme in school—and we couldn't sleep for two nights."
"It still looks wild," said Treasure softly. "But it is such a lovely wildness—all the ugly grime is gone, and the beauty of it is more beautiful than ever. And it doesn't make you shiver now—it only makes you sad."
"It does not make me sad," said Zee. "I am never sad when there are chicken sandwiches. And this china— Well, I know it is better than ours at the manse, and it was given to us by our last Christian Endeavor, so you may know it is very nice indeed—but this is better still—and I believe to goodness these are regular silver spoons. And do you suppose the colored man is his servant? And hasn't he any wife? And do you think he bought this place? I wonder where he got the money? And why does he stay out of sight—he ought to come and eat with us, since we are company?"
The Curious Cat waved his arms helplessly. "I am trying to bring a spirit from the air to answer your questions. But it does not work. I am afraid I ate too many sandwiches. I never can do my enchantments when I eat more than six sandwiches at a sitting."
"I think we ought to go," said Treasure. "I am afraid we are not just welcome. Wouldn't it be lovely to lie around here a whole day, Zee? But we have to go."
"Can you truly sneak us in without any one catching us?"
"We are going to try."
So they drove hurriedly home to the manse again, and the girls said good-by to their Curious Cat and felt that after all he had his good points. He did not say a word about the shattered door of the barn, and the girls did not wonder until he had lifted his hat and disappeared how he was going to get back to his horse again.
They closed the doors of the barn sadly and went into the house.
How quiet and cool and beautiful the manse was that afternoon. They walked slowly, appreciatively through every room. Doris, sitting in the bay-window with the eternal mending, was like a glorious madonna, and they put their arms around her and kissed her tenderly, as girls returned from a long absence. But she took it very placidly. They saw Rosalie lying on her bed up-stairs, reading, and eating an apple. How pretty and dear Rosalie was. They stood in the doorway and looked at her almost worshipfully.Outside their father's study they stood a long time, thinking, but went at last to their own room and closed the door.
A little later they heard their father at the telephone, asking questions—but it was aimless conversation, they could make nothing of it. How strange it was that they had not been missed. Such wonderful things had happened, life had been spared to them by less than a fraction of an inch—and here were their loved ones, Doris mending, Rosalie eating apples, father writing a sermon—as serenely as though two dear young daughters had not just been returned to them from the shadow of the grave.
They sat in their room, waiting, talking not at all. After a while Doris called them to supper, and they took their places in subdued silence. What a wonderful way father had of asking the blessing—why, every word of it seemed to call down a benediction on every one at the table. And how good the dinner was—they were not hungry, but it was delicious food, unbelievablywell cooked. And Doris in the big kitchen apron was exquisite.
When they reached dessert, Zee rose to the height of public confession.
"Father, Treasure and I—and principally I, for I did it—were very naughty. We took the car out of the garage, and smashed the door getting it out, and we drove into the country and nearly killed horses and wagons and autos and ran into ditches and bent the fenders and ran down a lot of chickens, and got stuck, and a man brought us home. We are very sorry."
How calmly they took it!—a climactic, criminal thing like that—after all, they were rather a sordid family.
Father looked at the girls soberly, noted their pale faces, the dark circles under their weary eyes.
"I know it," he said at last gravely.
"Oh, father, you knew it—and you didn't try to find us?" There was pain and reproach in Treasure's voice.
"I knew all that was happening," he said quickly, with a reassuring smile at Treasure. "Mr. Smelton telephoned that he helped you to the side of the road—that was the first we knew of it. And a little later some one else—I did not just get the name—but he telephoned that he was giving you some tea, and you were quite safe, and he was going to bring you home."
"It was that Curious Cat— You know, Doris, the one who made the Corduroy Crab be good to us—"
"The Curious Cat? Oh, father, what was his name?" cried Doris, leaning way over the table in her eagerness.
"It sounded like—Saunders—something like Saunders—"
"Saunders, nothing," cried Zee. "Saunders is the Corduroy Crab—we heard that. Oh, it must have been him who phoned—"
"He."
"Yes, he. Because the Curious Cat was not away long enough—he just left a minute—to see about the horse."
"And then he told Saunders to telephone—"
"Yes, of course."
Doris sat back. "The old torment. How can anybody find out about such a curious old—Curious Cat?" she wondered to herself.
In answer to her questions, the girls could tell little.
"He does not live at the Haunted House, just the Corduroy Crab—and the—the—"
"The Courteous Coon," cried Zee. "Let's stick to our harmony."
"They live there, and the Curious Cat lives somewhere very near—and things are lovely at the Haunted House, there are flowers on the porch, and pictures, and curtains—did you ever hear of such a thing? Soft brown curtains of silk rubbery stuff—and it is lovely. And the vines are all red and gold, and the ground is a mass of fallen leaves."
"Father, please tell us the punishment. It gives you such an—empty feeling to have—unknown punishments hanging over your head."
"Oh, the punishment," he said, and startedpromptly for the door. "That is why we have a General. Leave it to her."
The girls turned appealing faces toward Doris. "Tell us, General," they said, in the tone of martyrdom.
"You can not ride in the car again for three whole weeks. When the rest of us drive, you two must walk. And that is all—for you have had quite a little punishment already."
The girls thanked her warmly, and went out. In the hall they looked at each other lovingly, and smiled.
"Isn't that ducky?" said Zee. "It is not any punishment at all. Somehow since this afternoon the smell of the engine makes me seasick."
Treasure quivered. "Ducky? Oh, Zee, it is delicious. Suppose she had made us ride all day to-morrow. I couldn't have stood it."
"Anyhow, I guess I proved that I can drive the car," said Zee stoutly. "Only, of course, since father does not wish me to, I shall never think of doing it until I am older."
Doris had taken a sudden and unaccountable predilection for morning strolls. The family did not understand it, for she had always been partial to her final morning nap. She did not neglect her work, no indeed, she was getting up early, very ridiculously early—at five o'clock!—and then going around for a jaunt all by herself wherever fancy prompted.
To herself Doris admitted candidly that she wanted to see that awfully aggravating Curious Cat, as she called him to herself, though she reproved the twins very seriously for the disrespectfulness of it. But she did not see him. She walked east, west, north and south, but he remained hidden from view.
She did not forget that twice he had appeared to the girls in the neighborhood of the erstwhile Haunted House. But it was too far—she couldnot walk there, however much she wished to do so. Then came a sudden idea. She would take a morning drive, instead of a stroll—and she might, if necessary, walk along the creek herself in search of wild flowers— Of course, it was too late for wild flowers, far too late—but anyhow one never could tell what one might find.
So the very next morning, dimply with the delight of it, she took the car and drove gleefully out to the lovely hickory grove, and ran the car deliberately up beside the road, and waited. No Mr. Wizard gloomed on the horizon. Not even a Corduroy Crab came crashing through the fallen leaves which blanketed the ground around her. So she got out of the car, climbed through the fence, and sauntered comfortably along by the creek, under the big bare trees. Still no angry keeper dashed out upon her. She took small pebbles and tossed them into the trees to see the squirrels go scampering—nobody minded in the least. It was very annoying—like everything else connected with that Curious Cat.
She was very near the Haunted House now, sonear she could not go any farther. Even a wilful and deliberate trespasser could not walk right into the very doors of an irate proprietor.
She was quite vexed. Why did he claim to be a wizard, and boast of fairy powers, if he could not see there was a damsel out in search of him? She turned and walked briskly back down the creek toward the road. Putting her hands on the top rail of the low fence, she vaulted lightly over, and cried out in surprise and fear.—The car was gone.
She had left it there, not fifteen minutes ago. She could not be dreaming—there were the broad smooth tracks in the dust. Some one had stolen the dear, darling little car.
"Now every one will say I should have chosen the cow," she thought bitterly.
Doris was several miles from home, and it was breakfast time. They would know that she was out for her silly morning walk—and when father found the car gone it would be apparent she had gone for a drive instead. Oh, dear—it was a long way, and very hot, and dusty—andshe was so unhappy. And it was only natural to blame it all on that perfectly disgusting Curious Cat, who should have been there, and was not.
Because she was angry, the first mile passed quickly. But neither anger nor grief shortened the second mile, nor the third, nor the fourth. Then she got a ride with a friendly farmer, who openly marveled at her being in the country so early in the morning. But Doris was not communicative. They were preachers, of course, but if they wanted to be in the country, they could be—and the whole neighborhood did not need to know the wherefore. At eight o'clock she marched grimly into the manse, and found the family at breakfast.
"Oh, you runaway," laughed Rosalie. "I had a terrible time getting breakfast. Aren't you a good housekeeper—not a bit of flour in the house and the cream sour."
"Give me coffee," said Doris, sitting down wearily and resting her elbows on the table. "Black coffee, strong coffee, lots of it, no sugar and no cream."
"Why, you poor dear, you are tired," said Rosalie in her softest, most gurgly voice. "Let me make some fresh toast."
"No toast—just coffee—but lots of it."
"I always said it was silly, walking around without breakfast. I told you that before. You look positively yellow."
"Dust."
"At the least, you should choose a cool and shady street," said her father. "You look jaded, dear. I am afraid it is too much for you."
"Iamjaded. Father, my poor dear father, be prepared for a bitter blow."
"What is it?"
"The car, the beautiful red car that dear Mr. Davison left you, is stolen."
"Stolen!"
"The car?"
"Oh, Doris, I'll bet you had a wreck."
"What happened?"
"I went for a drive instead of a walk, and I left the car just to walk through the woods a little—and when I came back it was gone."
"Gone!"
"Oh, Doris! You would not let us ride for three weeks, and now it is gone and we can never ride again—the dear darling precious little car."
"Never mind, girls, if it is gone, no use to worry."
"Every one said we were foolish not to take the cow in the first place."
"Oh, Rosalie, please don't throw that up to me," said Doris tearfully. "I loved it too much, I was just crazy about it, I thought of it day and night. Maybe it is a punishment, I suppose it is. And it is all my fault, for I did adore it."
"Oh, no, Doris. I am sure that had nothing to do with it. You know we preachers do not have many of these physical, sensational joys—and the car has been an ecstasy for every one of us. I am sure an understanding Providence has rejoiced in our pleasure, and not begrudged us a second of it."
"Why shouldourcar be stolen?" wailed Zee. "Why couldn't it have been a banker's, who couldbuy another? Or a bad man's, who did not deserve one anyhow? Or a sick man's, who couldn't enjoy it? Why is it always we preachers who get the raw deal?"
"Oh, Zee!"
"I had several perfectly lovely things I wanted to do with the car," said Rosalie regretfully. "I am sorry I put them off from day to day."
Treasure slipped away from the table and out of the room. She had uttered no protest. She had made no complaint. But she crept sadly out to the garage—she wanted to sit down in the dust where the dear red car had been of yore, and weep over the spot, as at the passing of a dear companion.
She opened the door with hands that trembled—and stopped aghast. Her lips parted several times, and she uttered a curious sputtering gasp. The red car was right there where it belonged—it was not stolen at all. Doris was out of her mind!
She walked slowly, dimly back to the manse,her eyes swimming. Poor Doris—she had walked too far and too fast. Treasure entered the dining-room, pale, with eyes still clouded.
"I am so sorry," Doris was saying. "I know you are all very angry at me, and I do not blame you."
"Where did you leave the car?"
Doris blushed. She could not admit to keen-witted Zee that she had deliberately gone to their Haunted House in the hickory grove.
"Oh, out in the country about six miles—along the Emery Road."
Treasure threw out both hands, and her lips parted spasmodically.
"She is having a nightmare," said Zee, staring at her sister.
"Is the garage gone, too?" demanded Rosalie.
Treasure's lips parted again, but no sound came.
"Shake her, father. She is having a spell or something."
"Out of her mind," said Treasure, at last, with a violent effort.
The family gazed upon her, speechless.
"Car's in the garage," she stammered. "Isn't gone—at all."
With one accord they arose from their chairs and made a united dash on the garage. It was quite true, the car was there, shiny and serene, in its accustomed place. They gazed on it silently as Treasure had done, and then they turned to Doris, wide-eyed and horrified.
"You're off," said Zee succinctly.
"It was a dream, dearest," said Rosalie, slipping a tender arm around her sister's shoulders. "You haven't been well lately."
"Never mind, Doris. It must have been a dream."
"It was not a dream. I was away out in the country by the hickory grove of the twins' Haunted House—I left the car and walked along the creek—"
"Did you see the Corduroy Crab?" asked Treasure eagerly.
"Maybe he lammed her on the head," said Zee, touching her own curly brow suggestively.
"I did not see any one. And I went right back to the road— You know I couldn't go way out there on foot, father."
"You must have been walking in your sleep, dear," said Rosalie. "Maybe you only dreamed you were there. You are home now, anyhow, and the car is here, and everything is all right."
"Rosalie, do you think I am out of my head?" demanded Doris sharply.
"I think it was a bad dream, dearest."
"Come on back to the house," said their father pleasantly. "Be glad the car is here."
"I'll bet the old placeishaunted, and they've put a spell on Doris. Maybe it was the Curious Cat—he says he can put charms," suggested Zee.
Doris smiled at that. As far as she could see, it was the only explanation possible—the Curious Cat had certainly put his charm upon her.
She was very cross at Rosalie—for Rosalie insisted that Doris lie down, and she herself stayed at home from school to do the work, and father sat by the cot all morning—it was perfectly infuriating. They looked at her withtender solicitude, and Rosalie made more hot coffee for her, and bathed her brow every few minutes, and Doris fumed impotently. For she was helpless. Father had said, "I think you'd better, dearest," and when father said things in that quiet settled voice even the General refrained from argument.
But to lie there like an invalid—when she had only been on the trail of mystery and— She had found mystery, though! She could swear by her life's blood that she had driven the car out to the hickory grove. And she had certainly walked home. But how in the world came the car safely back in the manse garage? It was more than Doris could understand.
When the girls came home to lunch they kissed Doris tenderly and spoke to her in a softly soothing way that made her long to shake them. When they were eating their lunch Zee was called to the telephone, and she crossed the room on tiptoes, and whispered "Yes," very softly, and then she gave a little scream.
"You—did?—Mercy! Well, thank goodness!Oh, you horrible thing, won't Doris rage?—Why, no, Mr. Curious Cat, your charm did not work worth a cent. It was not Treasure and I at all. It was Doris, and the poor thing had to walk all the way home, and she is in bed, and we thought she was out of her mind, and she said the car was stolen." She hung up the receiver abruptly, and did not hear the sharp exclamations at the other end of the wire.
Doris rose from the cot, and the family rushed from the table.
"Tell it, and talk fast," commanded the General.
Zee flung herself into a big chair and rocked and screamed with laughter. "Oh, Treasure, we are even with the Curious Cat at last." Then wiping her eyes, and between bursts of laughter, she explained. "He began talking in that sarcastic smart little way he has, and he said, 'Say, Miss Zee, the next time I find that red car of yours stuck in front of my house I am going to take it as a gift from Heaven, and keep it. But this time, just to be friendly and keep you out ofa scrape, I drove it home for you and left it in your garage. I suppose you were playing hooky, and got stuck. Did I save you? I shall never do it again.'"
How they all laughed, even Doris, and how heartily she ate of the luncheon Rosalie had prepared, and what a splendid joke it was— Only Doris did wish she had just remained in the car instead of strolling up the creek—he was such a funny Curious Cat—maybe—Oh, then he did own the Haunted House, after all!
"He was teasing you girls again," she cried. "The Crab and the Courteous Coon must be his servants, for he said you left the car in front ofhishouse."
Then the girls were freshly indignant—pretending he was getting tea from the Crab, when it was his own tea, and he could give it away if he wished! But it was funny anyhow, and now he was a more Curious Cat than ever.
That afternoon, when the girls had gone to school, deciding that Doris could safely be left alone now—and when father had gone calling,Doris hurried up-stairs and arranged her hair in most enticing little curls around her forehead, and put on her very daintiest, bluest, floweriest dress—because he was in honor bound to call her up and make apology. Oh, of course, he would not see the enticing curls, and the dainty blue flowery dress—but it was a great moral support to know that she looked irreproachable, even when none was there to see. And she wanted to be very clever and interesting over the telephone—because—he really had done a very disagreeable thing, and she wanted to make him sorry.
And then he did not telephone at all. He came himself—in person—and Doris knew some kindly angel had been guiding her actions that day. When she heard the ring she went to the door so lightly, so unconcernedly, sure it was something trivial and some one unimportant. And there he stood, smiling at her, regret in his eyes.
"I brought my apology with me. May I come in and deliver it?"
"Yes, please do. I know where you live, and that is a beginning, isn't it?"
"How did you learn that?"
"You said the car was in front of your house. And it was the Haunted House," she cried gleefully.
"Did you really have to walk home?"
"Four miles and a half." Somehow it did not seem half so long and weary a way now as it had been seeming all the day. "And I was sure the car was stolen. And when we found it in the garage they thought I was ill and put me to bed, and Rosalie stayed home from school to nurse me."
"I am sorry. It was terribly stupid of me. I was sure the girls were in another scrape, and when the car stuck on them had got a ride back to school. It was a terrible blunder."
"I am glad of it now, because it brought you to visit me."
And he seemed in not the least bit of hurry, but settled back and talked, and he had a wonderful basket of fruit, apples and grapes and golden pears, and he hoped Doris would accept them in token of forgiveness.
"But when you tell your father, will he ask who brought them?"
"I shall just say the Curious Cat brought them to apologize—and father is not a bit inquisitive. He will think it is quite all right—he has the dearest way of thinking things are quite all right."
Doris did long to know how old he was—of course she could not ask—he surely was not nearly so old as father, yet he did not look young. The college men of Rosalie's favor looked like children beside him. And he talked like a man who knew things. But he could not be old—he laughed so readily, and teased so constantly, and his eyes were so friendly and warm. Father was forty-three, and forty-three is very terribly old when one is twenty.
They had tea together—on the Endeavor china. He was much more fun than the bishop. And in spite of the very-close-to-gray-hairs at his temples, he had a dear boyish way of settling back in a chair and getting himself comfortable and happy. And when you see another thoroughlycomfortable and happy right at your side, you are bound to feel the same way yourself. And Doris did.
After she had watched his departure from the shelter of the front window, she came back into the room, and there on the card tray—how in the world it got there she could not imagine—but she knew instantly it was his card—and she pounced upon it eagerly.
"Mr. Daniel Amberton MacCammon."
After all, the name meant nothing. And there was so much she wished to know. His age, and who he was, and why he came there, and what in the world he was doing in the Haunted House, and—oh, a thousand things.
But Doris looked at the card in a friendly companionable way, and said, in her softest and chummiest voice:
"Honestly, I like you."
"Now, Doris," began Rosalie briskly, "you must help decide my life career. They gave us a fine talk at chapel this morning, urging us to spot our high ambitions for guiding stars to work toward. Of course, we can change our minds later on if we like, we are not to be irrevocably bound to what we say, but no student 'can plan most wisely and most surely for the future, without a pole star ever shining in his mind's eye,'" she quoted patly. "Now, what are my ambitions?"
"Mercy, Rosalie, you know your ambitions better than I do," said Doris, as earnestly as though the same subject had not been discussed regularly ever since Rosalie was a freshman.
"I think I was born for the stage, barring the one accident of the ministry. But since that avenue of fame is closed, what shall I do? ShallI be a teacher—and if so, a teacher of what? I am not particularly clever, you know."
"You are very clever, indeed, and I think you would be a wonderful teacher."
"Thanks, but I have neither patience nor dignity, and all authorities agree that they are prime requisites."
"You can be as patient and dignified as anybody if you want to. And you are tactful and pleasant, both good teaching qualities. I suppose you do not feel particularly drawn to any religious work, missionary, or—or pastor's assistant, or anything like that?"
"I am interested in gymnasium work," said Rosalie. "It seems my only forte. I am very good at all outdoor sports, and I have a fine physique, and adore exercise."
"That would be nice."
"Some places I might have to teach dancing. I could handle it as one form of physical development, and if the naughty things took it into the ballroom it wouldn't be my fault, would it?"
"Not—exactly—I suppose."
"But I ought to have an extra year for special study somewhere after I finish college. Do you suppose we could manage it, father?"
Mr. Artman looked up from his mail absently. "Yes, dear, what? I am afraid I was not paying attention." His eyes wandered back to the letter in his hand.
Rosalie promptly deposited herself on his knee, pulling his arms around her.
"Doris has just decided that I would be a lovely athletic director for girls if I could have a year of special training after college. Prospects, please?"
"Maybe we could arrange it—I hope so. It would be fine. But—things might interfere."
"Always granted, of course, dearest, but am I justified in saying it is my present plan if things do not interfere?"
"Yes, to be sure, but—remember—plans have a way of going astray, dear."
"Why, father, that does not sound like you."
"I know, forgive me, but I do not feel like myself to-day. Look ahead to it, Rosalie, by allmeans, and count on it, and if it is right for you, it will come."
"That is the way for a preacher to talk," said Rosalie. "Then it is all settled, isn't it?"
She ran back to her chair, and her father turned anxious eyes on the letter again. He did not notice that his girls looked at him often, and very wonderingly. Presently he went to the telephone and put in a long-distance call to Chicago. Two years previous he had taken a course of study at the seminary in Chicago, and ever since had made frequent appointments with Doctor Hancock necessitating hurried trips to the city.
"Some old 'prof' at the seminary, I suppose," Doris said lightly. "They won't let us preachers settle down and preach and be comfortable nowadays. They keep us up and coming every minute, studying this and studying that, and then practising what we study on the public. It is no easy matter being a preacher any more."
And so, although the Chicago trips had grown more and more frequent, Doris gave them small heed.
But after her father had left the house the next morning, she walked soberly up-stairs to where Rosalie was dressing for school and said, "Rosalie, I hate to push my worries on to you, but—does—father act funny some way? Or do I imagine it? He seems so serious and anxious."
"He has been rather quiet lately," said Rosalie slowly.
"I am sure he is not well. I wish he did not take these Chicago trips so often. I think they expect entirely too much of us preachers. He is always tired and worried when he gets home. If we had a bishop, I think I should report it."
Rosalie said nothing.
Both girls watched their father closely when he returned home late that night. He was tired indeed, and his eyes were darkly circled. He did not laugh so freely as usual at their merry chatter, and though he was tender with them as always, he seemed distrait and absent-minded, which was not like him. And Doris pondered over it anxiously.
The next morning he came down-stairswearing wide amber glasses, "which," he explained apologetically, "I am not wearing for style, I assure you, but the light seems rather too much for me. I think it causes the headaches."
The girls had great fun with the amber glasses, shaking their heads sadly over his worldliness, for every one knew that amber glasses were fashionable. But after that, he always wore them except when he went into the pulpit.
Two days later, when he came in to lunch, his face was as bright and smiling as it had been in the olden days when his laughter had been as spontaneous as Rosalie's or Zee's. He began talking, boyishly, before he reached his chair at the table, and the girls smiled happily at his cheerfulness.
"I met a very clever man down-town to-day, and had quite a talk with him. He is an author—a psychologist and philosopher—he wrote all those books I have been so interested in lately. Very entertaining fellow, and so I invited him to dinner to-night."
"Good night, nurse," gasped Doris. "Youinvited an author and a psychologist and a philosopher to dinner to-night?"
"Only one, Doris," he explained patiently.
"Father, there is something the matter with you. First you flash a bishop on us in the middle of the night, and now a psychologist-philosopher combination. Whatever in the world do you suppose he eats?"
"Cheer up," said Rosalie. "He is a philosopher, remember, so he will be satisfied with what he gets. Food, nowadays, is the greatest test of human philosophy."
"Oh, he is all right. I am sure he eats regular things. He has bought a place out here to do his work—close to his publishers in Chicago, and far enough out to be isolated when he is on a book. It will be a great treat for me to have him here." He looked at Doris reflectively. "Let's have a good dinner, regardless of the cost, and, Doris, I hope you—I mean, I hope all of you—will look your very sweetest and act your very dearest."
"Is he married?" demanded Zee. "I believe on my soul you have a scheme to marry one of usoff to him. Doris, I suppose, for I am too young, and Treasure is too good, and Rosalie is too frivolous."
"Does he write fairy stories, or—"
"He does not write fairy stories, but I believe he tells them sometimes," laughed their father. "And I have no matrimonial designs on him, I assure you, but I want him to be our friend. It will be a great pleasure to me, and a great help—and I need both."
Doris and Rosalie looked swiftly at each other at that, but neither made any comment. When Mr. Artman had gone up-stairs, still laughing with satisfaction, the four of them put their heads together.
"Let's think up a dinner fit for a—fit for a—"
"A pope," suggested Zee.
"Zee, I am surprised at you. Fit for a president."
"Since father said spare no expense, I say fried chicken, and I want the wishbone."
"A good idea. We'll have fried chicken. Now what else?"
"Let's do it up in style, and have courses. Treasure can wait on the table without spilling things, and then come quietly to her place without banging chairs. Soup—"
"Yes."
"Then chicken, mashed potatoes, and—"
"Corn fritters—I've been asking for corn fritters for six weeks."
"Well, corn fritters. Salad—"
"Olives are easy, and—"
"No, let's have a salad like regular folks. Mrs. Andrieson makes lovely thousand island dressing, and I have only one recitation this afternoon so I'll just run down after class and get her to show me how. Then we'll have head lettuce with the dressing, and—"
"And coffee with whipped cream, and—"
"For dessert—"
"Ice-cream. If I do any baking I'll be too hot to look nice. Treasure, you run over to Wilcot's and get a quart of milk and a pint of cream and a half pint of whipping cream, and Rosalie you call up the ice company and have them leave adime's worth of ice on the first delivery without fail, and I'll freeze it first thing. And, Rosalie, I leave the salad entirely to you."
"I will go to Benson's after school and get some flowers," said Treasure. "Mrs. Benson is always glad to give me the carnations that are not fresh enough to sell, but too good to throw away. And we can pick out the best ones."
"Isn't that grand? Won't father be pleased?"
"And what shall we wear?"
This brought forth a prolonged and heated discussion of ribbons and gowns, for father had said to look their sweetest and act their dearest—and being girls, they knew the latter was impossible except when the former had been accomplished. Finally all was arranged, and the dresses were laid out nicely on their various beds, and Treasure was given a quarter to buy a new blue ribbon because she got oil on the old one sticking her head under the car to see what father was doing. And the girls rushed excitedly to school, to tell their friends carelessly that they had to hurry home to-night and could not stop to study Latinen masse, for "Father has invited a perfectly enormous author and psychologist and all that to dinner." And although none of them had a very clear idea what kind of a psychologist he was, or what he did, or why he was so perfectly enormous, the very meagerness of their information added luster to his halo.
The table that night was a dream of loveliness, and the girls had everything ready and were up-stairs taking a last final reconnoiter of their physical charms when they heard their father greeting the perfectly enormous guest.
They filed down breathlessly, eyes bright with anticipation, their hearts palpitating with the unwonted glory of it. And then—
"Why, it is only the Curious Cat," ejaculated Zee.
"Mr. Wizard," gasped Doris. "Father, you knew it all the time."
"Well, I am glad my girls have been encroaching on your hospitality, Mr. MacCammon, for otherwise we might not have the privilege of extending ours to you now."
Mr. MacCammon held Doris' hand warmly in his. "I hope the charm has not all gone with the mystery," he said. "I was ashamed to conceal my identity any longer, and besides I wished to see more of you, and I wanted to know your father. But if you have lost all interest in me now, I know I shall wish I had not come at all."
"I haven't—it isn't—not by any means," stammered Doris nervously, and hurried away to the kitchen to look after the dinner.
Oh, but wasn't she glad father had stipulated they should spare no expense? It was a wonderful, delicious dinner, and when he turned from gay banter with Rosalie and Zee, to real intense discussion with her father, and always bending warm and friendly eyes on her—really, it was too good to be true.
"But I always said I liked him," she told herself, comfortably.
After that he came often to the manse, and many times he took them all out to the Haunted House, where Mr. Artman was immediately lost in the depths of huge volumes, and whereTreasure and Zee wandered off to look for baby rabbits with the Corduroy Crab, who wasn't a bit crabbish any more, and where Rosalie flung herself into a big hammock with a plate of fruit and a chatty story—and what could he do, as host, but entertain Doris, who was left without other form of amusement?
"Oh, but you wait till the bishop comes," Rosalie whispered to Doris, when they were safe in the manse again. "What will he say to these carryings on? Your very own bishop—"
"He is not my very own bishop. And if he is, I will not have him. And it certainly is nothing to the bishop if father has a friend."
"I do not imagine the dear bishop cares two cents how many friends father has. But what your bishop will say to you is more than I can imagine. And who but a serious sensible girl would ever dream of bandying with a bishop? Frivolous and all as I am, General, I should never be guilty of trifling with a bishop's affections."
"He hasn't any."
"Oh, yes, he has. He has oceans of them. Butwhat difference does it make to you how many affections he has?"
"No difference at all," admitted Doris, laughing. And she added, flushing a little, but still laughing, "But I should really like to know whether—father's friend—has any."
And then she ran away, before Rosalie could catch and shake her.
The Chicago trips were very frequent now, and in spite of his evident pleasure in the new and brilliant friend, Mr. Artman grew more preoccupied. Sometimes Doris could hear him pacing up and down his room at night, when he should have been asleep. And very often he pushed his plate away from him at the table, and could not eat, although Doris had patiently and painstakingly prepared the dishes he loved best. And every day he spoke of little headaches, and kept the blinds lowered in his room, working with the amber glasses. And many times, when they thought he was working, he was sitting at his desk with his head in his arms.
"Oh, Rosalie, I can't stand it," Doris cried atlast. "I know there is something wrong with father. But some way—I can't ask him. I am afraid to. I know he is sick."
"No, he is not sick, Doris. I know what it is."
"Rosalie!"
"One day I got a Chicago city directory—oh, long ago, when he first began making these trips to see Doctor Hancock—I got a directory, and looked the doctor up. He is not a minister, as you thought. He is an oculist."
"Father's eyes!"
"Yes. And last week I wrote to the doctor myself, and told him we were worried about father, and asked him to tell me. He says father's eyes are very bad, and he must have an operation as soon as possible. It should have been done some time ago, but father has been putting it off. And the doctor says by all means he should rest his eyes for several months, a year if possible, without using them one little bit."
For a moment all the bright room went swimming before Doris. Then she cried out, in pain and self-reproach.
"Oh Rosalie, I was happy myself, and I forgot to look after father. It was you who thought of him."
"That is nothing. Do you remember, Doris, away last fall, when you said I must begin to solve my problems for myself? I have been trying to, that is all. And father is one of them. Somehow, as long as I could throw my worries off on you and father, I was glad to do it, and did not care what came of it. But when you put things squarely up to me, I found to my surprise that I had a sort of personal pride that kept pulling me up to the mark. You were pretty slick, General. And so I have been sort of looking ahead, and trying to help plan for father."
"I am going to have it out with him right now. He shan't bear it alone any longer."
She went softly up-stairs, and into her father's room, which was always in shadow now, although Doris in her happiness had thought nothing of it, and crept very quietly into her father's arms.
"Let's talk it over, father. How soon do you plan to have the operation on your eyes? IsDoctor Hancock the very best you can get? Tell me what arrangements you have made."