"Recitation_______________Miss Carol Starr.Recitation_______________Miss Lark Starr."
It looked very well indeed, and the whole family took a proper interest in it. No one gave Carol's recitation a second thought. She always recited, and did it easily and well. It was quite a commonplace occurrence for her.
On the night of the concert she superintended Lark's dressing with maternal care. "You look all right," she said, "just fine. Now don't get scared, Lark. It's so silly. Remember that you know all those people by heart, you can talk a blue streak to any of them. There's no use—"
"But I can't talk a blue streak to the wholehouseful at once," Lark protested. "It makes me have such a—hollow feeling—to see so many white faces gazing up, and it's hot, and—"
"Stop that," came the stern command. "You don't want to get cold feet before you start. If you do accidentally forget once or twice, don't worry. I know the piece as well as you do, and I can prompt you from behind without any one noticing it. At first it made me awfully cross when they wanted us reciters to sit on the platform for every one to stare at. But now I'm glad of it. I'll be right beside you, and can prompt you without any trouble at all. But you won't forget." She kissed her. "You'll do fine, Larkie, just as fine as you look, and it couldn't be better than that."
Just then Connie ran in. "Fairy wants to know if you are getting stage fright, Lark? My, you do look nice! Now, for goodness' sake, Lark, remember the parsonage, and don't make a fizzle of it."
"Who says fizzle?" demanded their father from the doorway. "Never say die, my girl. Why, Lark, I never saw you look so sweet. You have your hair fixed a new way, haven't you?"
"Carol did it," was the shy reply. "It does looknice, doesn't it? I'm not scared, father, not a bit—yet! But there's a hollow feeling—"
"Get her an apple, Connie," said Carol. "It's because she didn't eat any supper. She's not scared."
"I don't want an apple. Come on, let's go down. Have the boys come?"
"No, but they'll be here in a minute. Jim's never late. I do get sore at Jim—I'd forty times rather go with him than Hartley—but he always puts off asking us until the last minute and then I have a date and you get him. I believe he does it on purpose. Come on down."
Aunt Grace looked at the pale sweet face with gratified delight, and kissed her warmly. Her father walked around her, nodding approval.
"You look like a dream," he said. "The wind a-drifting o'er the lea ne'er blew upon a fairer sight! You shall walk with me."
"Oh, father, you can't remember that you're obsolete," laughed Fairy. "The twins have attained to the dignity of boys, and aren't satisfied with the fond but sober arm of father any more. Our little twins have dates to-night, as usual nowadays."
"Aunt Grace," he said solemnly, "it's a wretchedbusiness, having a parsonage full of daughters. Just as soon as they reach the age of beauty, grace and charm, they turn their backs on their fathers and smile on fairer lads."
"You've got me, father," said Connie consolingly.
"And me,—when Babbie's in Chicago," added Fairy.
"Yes, that's some help. Connie, be an old maid. Do! I implore you."
"Oh, Connie's got a beau already," said Carol. "It's the fat Allen boy. They don't have dates yet, but they've got an awful case on. He's going to make their living by traveling with a show. You'll have to put up with auntie—she's beyond the beauing stage!"
"Suits me," he said contentedly, "I am getting more than my deserts. Come on, Grace, we'll start."
"So will we, Connie," said Fairy.
But the boys came, both together, and the family group set out together. Carol and Hartley—one of her high-school admirers—led off by running a race down the parsonage walk. And Lark, old,worn and grave, brought up the rear with Jim Forrest. Jim was a favorite attendant of the twins. He had been graduated from high school the year previous, and was finishing off at the agricultural college in Ames. But Ames was not far from home, and he was still frequently on hand to squire the twins when squires were in demand. He was curiously generous and impartial in his attentions,—it was this which so endeared him to the twins. He made his dates by telephone, invariably. And the conversations might almost have been decreed by law.
"May I speak to one of the twins?"
The nearest twin was summoned, and then he asked:
"Have you twins got dates for the ball game?"—or the party, or the concert.
And the twin at the telephone would say, "Yes, we both have—hard luck, Jim." Or, "I have, but Carol hasn't." Sometimes it was, "No, we haven't, but we're just crazy to go." And in reply to the first Jim always answered, "That's a shame,—why didn't you remember me and hold off?" And tothe second, "Well, ask her if I can come around for her." And to the third, "Good, let's all go together and have a celebration."
For this broad-minded devotion the twins gave him a deep-seated gratitude and affection and he always stood high in their favor.
On this occasion Carol had answered the telephone, and in reply to his query she answered crossly, "Oh, Jim, you stupid thing, why didn't you phone yesterday? I would so much rather go with you than—But never mind. I have a date, but Lark hasn't. And you just called in time, too, for Harvey Lane told Hartley he was going to ask for a date."
And Jim had called back excitedly, "Bring her to the phone, quick; don't waste a minute." And Lark was called, and the date was duly scheduled.
"Are you scared, Lark?" he asked her as they walked slowly down the street toward the church.
"I'm not scared, Jim," she answered solemnly, "but I'm perfectly cavernous, if you know what that means."
"I sure do know," he said fervently, "didn't Ihave to do a speech at the commencement exercises? There never was a completer cavern than I was that night. But I can't figure out why folks agree to do such things when they don't have to. I had to. It was compulsory."
Lark gazed at him with limpid troubled eyes. "I can't figure out, either. I don't know why I did. It was a mistake, some way."
At the church, which was gratifyingly crowded with Sunday-school enthusiasts, the twins forsook their friends and slipped along the side aisle to the "dressing-room,"—commonly utilized as the store room for worn-out song books, Bibles and lesson sheets. There they sat in throbbing, quivering silence with the rest of the "entertainers," until the first strains of the piano solo broke forth, when they walked sedately out and took their seats along the side of the platform—an antediluvian custom which has long been discarded by everything but Sunday-schools and graduating classes.
Printed programs had been distributed, but the superintendent called off the numbers also. Not because it was necessary, but because superintendentshave to do something on such occasions and that is the only way to prevent superfluous speech-making.
The program went along smoothly, with no more stumbles than is customary at such affairs, and nicely punctuated with hand clappings. When the superintendent read, "Recitation—Miss Carol Starr," the applause was enthusiastic, for Carol was a prime favorite in church and school and town. With sweet and charming nonchalance she tripped to the front of the platform and gave a graceful inclination of her proud young head in response to the applause. Then her voice rang out, and the room was hushed. Nobody ever worried when Carol spoke a piece. Things always went all right. And back to her place she walked, her face flushed, her heart swelling high with the gratification of a good deed well done.
She sat down by Lark, glad she had done it, glad it was over, and praying that Lark would come off as well.
Lark was trembling.
"Carol," she whispered, "I—I'm scared."
Instantly the triumph left Carol's heart. "You'renot," she whispered passionately, gripping her twin's hand closely, "you are not, you're all right."
Lark trembled more violently. Her head swayed a little. Bright flashes of light were blinding her eyes, and her ears were ringing. "I—can't," she muttered thickly. "I'm sick."
Carol leaned close to her and began a violent train of conversation, for the purpose of distracting her attention. Lark grew more pale.
"Recitation—Miss Lark Starr."
Again the applause rang out.
Lark did not move. "I can't," she whispered again. "I can't."
"Lark, Lark," begged Carol desperately. "You must go, you must. 'The wind went drifting o'er the lea,'—it's easy enough. Go on, Lark. You must."
Lark shook her head. "Mmmmm," she murmured indistinctly.
"Remember the parsonage," begged Carol. "Think of Prudence. Think of papa. Look, there he is, right down there. He's expecting you, Lark. You must!"
Lark tried to rise. She could not. She could not see her father's clear encouraging face for those queer flashes of light.
"You can," whispered Carol. "You can do anything if you try. Prudence says so."
People were craning their necks, and peering curiously up to the second row where the twins sat side by side. The other performers nudged one another, smiling significantly. The superintendent creaked heavily across the platform and beckoned with one plump finger.
"I can't," Lark whispered, "I'm sick."
"Lark,—Lark," called the superintendent.
Carol sighed bitterly. Evidently it was up to her. With a grim face, she rose from her chair and started out on the platform. The superintendent stared at her, his lips parting. The people stared at her too, and smiled, and then laughed. Panic-stricken, her eyes sought her father's face. He nodded quickly, and his eyes approved.
"Good!" His lips formed the word, and Carol did not falter again. The applause was nearly drowned with laughter as Carol advanced for her second recitation.
"The wind went drifting o'er the lea," she began,—her voice drifting properly on the words,—and so on to the end of the piece.
Most of the audience, knowing Lark's temperament, had concluded that fear prevented her appearance, and understood that Carol had come to her twin's rescue for the reputation of the parsonage. The applause was deafening as she went back. It grew louder as she sat down with a comforting little grin at Lark. Then as the clapping continued, something of her natural impishness entered her heart.
"Lark," she whispered, "go out and make a bow."
"Mercy!" gasped Lark. "I didn't do anything."
"It was supposed to be you—go on, Lark! Hurry! You've got to! Think what a joke it will be."
Lark hesitated, but Carol's dominance was compelling.
"Do as I tell you," came the peremptory order, and Lark arose from her chair, stepped out before the astonished audience and made a slow and graceful bow.
This time the applause ran riot, for people of less experience than those of Mount Mark could tell that the twins were playingagame. As it continued, Carol caught Larkin's hand in hers, and together they stepped out once more, laughing and bowing right and left.
Lark was the last one in that night, for she and Jim celebrated her defeat with two ice-cream sodas a piece at the corner drug store.
"I disgraced the parsonage," she said meekly, as she stepped into the family circle, waiting to receive her.
"Indeed you didn't," said Fairy. "It was too bad, but Carol passed it off nicely, and then, turning it into a joke that way took all the embarrassment out of it. It was perfectly all right, and we weren't a bit ashamed."
"And you did look awfully sweet when you made your bow," Connie said warmly,—for when a member of the family was down, no one ventured a laugh, laugh-loving though they were.
Curious to say, the odd little freak of substitution only endeared the twins to the people of Mount Mark the more.
"By ginger, you can't beat them bloomin' twins," said Harvey Reel, chuckling admiringly. And no one disagreed.
AUNT GRACE sat in a low rocker with a bit of embroidery in her hands. And Fairy sat at the table, a formidable array of books before her. Aunt Grace was gazing idly at her sewing basket, a soft smile on her lips. And Fairy was staring thoughtfully into the twilight, a soft glow in her eyes. Aunt Grace was thinking of the jolly parsonage family, and how pleasant it was to live with them. And Fairy was thinking—ah, Fairy was twenty, and twenty-year-olds always stare into the twilight, with dreamy far-seeing eyes.
In upon this peaceful scene burst the twins, flushed, tempestuous, in spite of their seventeen years. Their hurry to speak had rendered them incapable of speech, so they stood in the doorway panting breathlessly for a moment, while Fairy and her aunt, withdrawn thus rudely from dreamland, looked at them interrogatively.
"Yes, I think so, too," began Fairy, and the twins endeavored to crush her with their lofty scorn. But it is not easy to express lofty scorn when one is red in the face, perspirey and short of breath. So the twins decided of necessity to overlook the offense just this once.
Finally, recovering their vocal powers simultaneously, they cried in unison:
"Duckie!"
"Duck! In the yard! Do you mean a live one? Where did it come from?" ejaculated their aunt.
"They mean Professor Duck of their freshman year," explained Fairy complacently. "It's nothing. The twins always make a fuss over him. They feel grateful to him for showing them through freshman science—that's all."
"That's all," gasped Carol. "Why, Fairy Starr, do you know he's employed by the—Society of—a—a Scientific Research Organization—or something—in New York City, and gets four thousand dollars a year and has prospects—all kinds of prospects!"
"Yes, I know it. You haven't seen him, auntie. He's tall, and has wrinkles around his eyes, and adictatorial nose, and steel gray eyes. He calls the twins song-birds, and they're so flattered they adore him. He sends them candy for Christmas. You know that Duckie they rave so much about. It's the very man. Is he here?"
The twins stared at each other in blank exasperation for a full minute. They knew that Fairy didn't deserve to hear their news, but at the same time they did not deserve such bitter punishment as having to refrain from talking about it,—so they swallowed again, sadly, and ignored her.
"He's in town," said Lark.
"Going to stay a week," added Carol.
"And he said he wanted to have lots of good times with us, and so—we—why, of course it was very sudden, and we didn't have time to ask—"
"But parsonage doors are always open—"
"And I don't know how he ever wormed it out of us, but—one of us—"
"I can't remember which one!"
"Invited him to come for dinner to-night, and he's coming."
"Goodness," said Aunt Grace. "We were going to have potato soup and toast."
"It'll keep," said Carol. "Of course we're sorry to inconvenience you at this late hour, but Larkie and I will tell Connie what to do, so you won't have much bother. Let's see, now, we must think up a pretty fair meal. Four thousand a year—and prospects!"
Aunt Grace turned questioning eyes toward the older sister.
"All right," said Fairy, smiling. "It's evidently settled. Think up your menu, twins, and put Connie to work."
"Is he nice?" Aunt Grace queried.
"Yes, I think he is. He used to go with our college bunch some. I know him pretty well. He brought me home from things a time or two."
Carol leaned forward and looked at her handsome sister with sudden intentness. "He asked about you," she said, keen eyes on Fairy's. "He asked particularly about you."
"Did he? Thanks. Yes, he's not bad. He's pretty good in a crowd."
By the force of her magnetic gaze, Carol drew Lark out of the room, and the door closed behind them. A few minutes later they returned. Therewas about them an air of subdued excitement, suggestive of intrigue, that Fairy found disturbing.
"You needn't plan any nonsense, twins," she cautioned. "He's no beau of mine."
"Of course not," they assured her pleasantly. "We're too old for mischief. Seventeen, and sensible for our years! Say, Fairy, you'll be nice to Duckie, won't you? We're too young really to entertain him, and he's so nice we want him to have a good time. Can't you try to make it pleasant for him this week? He'll only be here a few days. Will you do that much for us?"
"Why, I would, twins, of course, to oblige you, but you know Gene's in town this week, and I've got to—"
"Oh, you leave Babbie—Gene, I mean—to us," said Carol airily. Fairy being a junior in college, and Eugene Babler a student of pharmacy in Chicago, she felt obliged to restore him to his Christian name, shortened to Gene. But the twins refused to accede to this propriety, except when they particularly wished to placate Fairy.
"You leave Gene to us," repeated Carol. "We'll amuse him. Is he coming to-night?"
"Yes, at seven-thirty."
"Let's call him up and invite him for dinner, too," suggested Lark. "And you'll do us a favor and be nice to Duckie, won't you? We'll keep Babb—er, Gene—out of the road. You phone to Gene, Carol, and—"
"I'll do my own phoning, thanks," said Fairy, rising quickly. "Yes, we'll have them both. And just as a favor to you, twins, I will help amuse your professor. You'll be good, and help, won't you?"
The twins glowed at Fairy with a warmth that seemed almost triumphant. She stopped and looked at them doubtfully. When she returned after telephoning, they were gone, and she said to her aunt:
"I'm not superstitious, but when the twins act like that, there's usually a cloud in the parsonage sky-light. Prudence says so."
But the twins comported themselves most decorously. All during the week they worked like kitchen slaveys, doing chores, running errands. And they treated Fairy with a gentle consideration which almost drew tears to her eyes, though she still remembered Prudence's cloud in the parsonage sky-light!
They certainly interfered with her own plans. They engineered her off on to their beloved professor at every conceivable turn. And Gene, who nearly haunted the house, had a savage gleam in his eyes quite out of accord with his usual chatty good humor. Fairy knew she was being adroitly managed, but she had promised to help the twins with "Duckie." At first she tried artistically and unobtrusively to free herself from the complication in which her sisters had involved her. But the twins were both persistent and clever, and Fairy found herself no match for them when it came right down to business. She had no idea of their purpose,—she only knew that she and Gene were always on opposite sides of the room, the young man grinning savagely at the twins' merry prattle, and she and the professor trying to keep quiet enough to hear every word from the other corner. And if they walked, Gene was dragged off by the firm slender fingers of the friendly twins, and Fairy and the professor walked drearily along in the rear, talking inanely about the weather,—and wondering what the twins were talking about.
And the week passed. Gene finally fell off in hisattendance, and the twins took a much needed rest. On Friday afternoon they flattered themselves that all was well. Gene was not coming, Fairy was in the hammock waiting for the professor. So the twins hugged each other gleefully and went to the haymow to discuss the strain and struggle of the week. And then—
"Why, the big mutt!" cried Carol, in her annoyance ignoring the Methodist grammatical boundaries, "here comes that bubbling Babler this minute. And he said he was going to New London for the day. Now we'll have to chase down there and shoo him off before Duckie comes." The twins, growling and grumbling, gathered themselves up and started. But they started too reluctantly, too leisurely. They were not in time.
Fairy sat up in the hammock with a cry of surprise, but not vexation, when Gene's angry countenance appeared before her.
"Look here, Fairy," he began, "what's the joke? Are your fingers itching to get hold of that four thousand a year the twins are eternally bragging about? Are you trying to throw yourself into the old school-teacher's pocketbook, or what?"
"Don't be silly, Gene," she said, "come and sit down and—"
"Sit down, your grandmother!" he snapped still angrily. "Old Double D. D. will be bobbing up in a minute, and the twins'll drag me off to hear about a sick rooster, or something. He is coming, isn't he?"
"I—guess he is," she said confusedly.
"Let's cut and run, will you?" he suggested hopefully. "We can be out of sight before—Come on, Fairy, be good to me. I haven't had a glimpse or a touch of you the whole week. What do you reckon I came down here for? Come on. Let's beat it." He looked around with a worried air. "Hurry, or the twins'll get us."
Fairy hesitated, and was lost. Gene grabbed her hand, and the next instant, laughing, they were crawling under the fence at the south corner of the parsonage lawn just as the twins appeared at the barn door. They stopped. They gasped. They stared at each other in dismay.
"It was a put-up job," declared Carol.
"Now what'll we do? But Babbie's got moresense than I thought he had, I must confess. Do you suppose he was kidnaping her?"
Carol snorted derisively. "Kidnaping nothing! She was ahead when I saw 'em. What'll we tell the professor?"
Two humbled gentle twins greeted the professor some fifteen minutes later.
"We're so sorry," Carol explained faintly. "Babbie came and he and Fairy—I guess they had an errand somewhere. We think they'll be back very soon. Fairy will be so sorry."
The professor smiled and looked quite bright.
"Are they gone?"
"Yes, but we're sure they'll be back,—that is, we're almost sure." Carol, remembering the mode of their departure, felt far less assurance on that point than she could have wished.
"Well, that's too bad," he said cheerfully. "But my loss is Babler's gain. I suppose we ought in Christian decency to give him the afternoon. Let's go out to the creek for a stroll ourselves, shall we? That'll leave him a clear field when they return. You think they'll be back soon, do you?"
He looked down the road hopefully, but whether hopeful they would return, or wouldn't, the twins could not have told. At any rate, he seemed quite impatient until they were ready to start, and then, very gaily, the three wended their way out the pretty country road toward the creek and Blackbird Lane. They had a good time, the twins always did insist that no one on earth was quite so entertaining as dear old Duckie, but in her heart Carol registered a solemn vow to have it out with Fairy when she got back. She had no opportunity that night. Fairy and Gene telephoned that they would not be home for dinner, and the professor had gone, and the twins were sleeping soundly, when Fairy crept softly up the stairs.
But Carol did not forget her vow. Early the next morning she stalked grimly into Fairy's room, where Fairy was conscientiously bringing order out of the chaos in her bureau drawers, a thing Fairy always did after a perfectly happy day. Carol knew that, and it was with genuine reproach in her voice that she spoke at last, after standing for some two minutes watching Fairy as she deftly twirled longribbons about her fingers and then laid them in methodical piles in separate corners of the drawers.
"Fairy," she said sadly, "you don't seem very appreciative some way. Here Larkie and I have tried so hard to give you a genuine opportunity—we've worked and schemed and kept ourselves in the background, and that's the way you serve us! It's disappointing. It's downright disheartening."
Fairy folded a blue veil and laid it on top of a white one. Then she turned. "Yes. What?" She inquired coolly.
"There are so few real chances for a woman in Mount Mark, and we felt that this was once in a lifetime. And you know how hard we worked. And then, when we relaxed our—our vigilance—just for a moment, you spoiled it all by—"
"Yes,—talk English, Carrie. What was it you tried to do for me?"
"Well, if you want plain English you can have it," said Carol heatedly. "You know what professor is, a swell position like his, and such prospects, and New York City, and four thousand ayear with a raise for next year, and we tried to give you a good fair chance to land him squarely, and—"
"To land him—"
"To get him, then! He hasn't any girl. You could have been engaged to him this minute—Professor David Arnold Duke—if you had wanted to."
"Oh, is that it?"
"Yes, that's it."
Fairy smiled. "Thank you, dear, it was sweet of you, but you're too late. I am engaged."
Carol's lips parted, closed, parted again. "You—you?"
"Exactly so."
Hope flashed into Carol's eyes. Fairy saw it, and answered swiftly.
"Certainly not. I'm not crazy about your little Prof. I am engaged to Eugene Babler." She said it with pride, not unmixed with defiance, knowing as she did that the twins considered Gene too undignified for a parsonage son-in-law. The twins were strong for parsonage dignity!
"You—are?"
"I am."
A long instant Carol stared at her. Then she turned toward the door.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to tell papa."
Fairy laughed. "Papa knows it."
Carol came slowly back and stood by the dresser again. After a short silence she moved away once more.
"Where now?"
"I'll tell Aunt Grace, then."
"Aunt Grace knows it, too."
"Does Prudence know it?"
"Yes."
Carol swallowed this bitter pill in silence.
"How long?" she inquired at last.
"About a year. Look here, Carol, I'll show you something. Really I'm glad you know about it. We're pretty young, and papa thought we ought to keep it dark a while to make sure. That's why we didn't tell you. Look at this." From her cedar chest—a Christmas gift from Gene—she drew out a small velvet jeweler's box, and displayed before the admiring eyes of Carol a plain gold ring with a modest diamond.
Carol kissed it. Then she kissed Fairy twice.
"I know you'll be awfully happy, Fairy," she said soberly. "And I'm glad of it. But—I can't honestly believe there's any man good enough for our girls. Babbie's nice, and dear, and all that, and he's so crazy about you, and—do you love him?" Her eyes were wide, rather wondering, as she put this question softly.
Fairy put her arm about her sister's shoulders, and her fine steady eyes met Carol's clearly.
"Yes," she said frankly, "I love him—with all my heart."
"Is that what makes you so—so shiny, and smiley, and starry all the time?"
"I guess it is. It is the most wonderful thing in the world, Carol. You can't even imagine it—beforehand. It is magical, it is heavenly."
"Yes, I suppose it is. Prudence says so, too. I can't imagine it, I kind of wish I could. Can't I go and tell Connie and Lark? I want to tell somebody!"
"Yes, tell them. We decided not to let you know just yet, but since—yes, tell them, and bring them up to see it."
Carol kissed her again, and went out, gently closing the door behind her. In the hallway she stopped and stared at the wall for an unseeing moment. Then she clenched and shook a stern white fist at the door.
"I don't care," she muttered, "they're not good enough for Prudence and Fairy! They're not! I just believe I despise men, all of 'em, unless it's daddy and Duck!" She smiled a little and then looked grim once more. "Eugene Babler, and a little queen like Fairy! I think that must be Heaven's notion of a joke." She sighed again. "Oh, well, it's something to have something to tell! I'm glad I found it out ahead of Lark!"
AS COMMENCEMENT drew near, and Fairy began planning momentous things for her graduation, a little soberness came into the parsonage life. The girls were certainly growing up. Prudence had been married a long, long time. Fairy was being graduated from college, her school-days were over, and life was just across the threshold—its big black door just slightly ajar waiting for her to press it back and catch a glimpse of what lay beyond, yes, there was a rosy tinge showing faintly through like the light of the early sun shining through the night-fog, but the door was only a little ajar! And Fairy was nearly ready to step through. It disturbed the parsonage family a great deal.
Even the twins were getting along. They were finishing high school, and beginning to prate of college and such things, but the twins were still, well, they were growing up, perhaps, but they kept jubilantly young along in the process, and their enthusiasm for diplomas and ice-cream sodas was so nearly identical that one couldn't feel seriously that the twins were tugging at their leashes.
And Connie was a freshman herself,—rather tall, a little awkward, with a sober earnest face, and with an incongruously humorous droop to the corners of her lips, and in the sparkle of her eyes.
Mr. Starr looked at them and sighed. "I tell you, Grace, it's a thankless job, rearing a family. Connie told me to-day that my collars should have straight edges now instead of turned-back corners. And Lark reminded me that I got my points mixed up in last Sunday's lesson. I'm getting sick of this family business, I'm about ready to—"
And just then, as a clear "Father" came floating down the stairway, he turned his head alertly. "What do you want?"
"Everybody's out," came Carol's plaintive voice. "Will you come and button me up? I can't ask auntie to run clear up here, and I can't come down because I'm in my stocking feet. My new slipperspinch so I don't put them on until I have to. Oh, thanks, father, you're a dear."
After the excitement of the commencement, the commotion, the glamour, the gaiety, ordinary parsonage life seemed smooth and pleasant, and for ten days there was not a ruffle on the surface of their domestic waters. It was on the tenth day that the twins, strolling down Main Street, conversing earnestly together as was their custom, were accosted by a nicely-rounded, pompous man with a cordial, "Hello, twins."
In an instant they were bright with smiles, for this was Mr. Raider, editor and owner of theDaily News, the biggest and most popular of Mount Mark's three daily papers. Looking forward, as they did, to a literary career for Lark, they never failed to show a touching and unnatural deference to any one connected, even ever so remotely, with that profession. Indeed, Carol, with the charm of her smile, had bewitched the small carriers to the last lad, and in reply to her sister's teasing, only answered stoutly, "That's all right,—you don't know what they may turn into one of these days. We've got to look ahead to Lark's Literary Career."
So when humble carriers, and some of them black at that, received such sweet attention, one can well imagine what the nicely rounded, pompous editor himself called forth.
They did not resent his nicely-rounded and therefore pointless jokes. They smiled at them. They did not call theDaily Newsthe "Raider Family Organ," as they yearned to do. They did not admit that they urged their father to put Mr. Raider on all church committees to insure publicity. They swallowed hard, and told themselves that, after all, Mr. Raider was an editor, and perhaps he couldn't help editing his own family to the exclusion of the rest of Mount Mark.
When, on this occasion, he looked Lark up and down with his usual rotund complacency, Carol only gritted her teeth and reminded her heaving soul that he was an editor.
"What are you going to do this summer, Lark?" he asked, without preamble.
"Why,—just nothing, I suppose. As usual."
"Well," he said, frowning plumply, "we're running short of men. I've heard you're interested in our line, and I thought maybe you could help usout during vacation. How about it? The work'll be easy and it'll be fine experience for you. We'll pay you five dollars a week. This is a little town, and we're called a little publication, but our work and our aim and methods are identical with those of the big city papers." He swelled visibly, almost alarmingly. "How about it? You're the one with the literary longings, aren't you?"
Lark was utterly speechless. If the National Bank had opened its coffers to the always hard-pressed twins, she could not have been more completely confounded. Carol was in a condition nearly as serious, but grasping the gravity of the situation, she rushed into the breach headlong.
"Yes,—yes," she gasped. "She's literary. Oh, she's very literary."
Mr. Raider smiled. "Well, would you like to try your hand out with me?"
Again Carol sprang to her sister's relief.
"Yes, indeed, she would," she cried. "Yes, indeed." And then, determined to impress upon him that theDaily Newswas the one to profit chiefly from the innovation, she added, "And it's a luckyday for theDaily News, too, I tell you. There aren't many Larks in Mount Mark, in a literary way, I mean, and—theDaily Newsneeds some—that is, I think—new blood,—anyhow, Lark will be just fine."
"All right. Come in, Monday morning at eight, Lark, and I'll set you to work. It won't be anything very important. You can write up the church news, and parties, and goings away, and things like that. It'll be good training. You can study our papers between now and then, to catch our style."
Carol lifted her head a little higher. If Mr. Raider thought her talented twin would be confined to theordinarystyle of theDaily News, which Carol considered atrociously lacking in any style at all, he would be most gloriously mistaken, that's certain!
It is a significant fact that after Mr. Raider went back into the sanctum of theDaily News, the twins walked along for one full block without speaking. Such a thing had never happened before in all the years of their twinship. At the end of the block, Carol turned her head restlessly. They were eight blocks from home. But the twins couldn't run on the street, it was so undignified. She looked longingly about for a buggy bound their way. Even a grocery cart would have been a welcome though humbling conveyance.
Lark's starry eyes were lifted to the skies, and her rapt face was glowing. Carol looked behind her, looked ahead. Then she thought again of the eight blocks.
"Lark," she said, "I'm afraid we'll be late for dinner. And auntie told us to hurry back. Maybe we'd better run."
Running is a good expression for emotion, and Lark promptly struck out at a pace that did full credit to her lithe young limbs. Down the street they raced, little tendrils of hair flying about their flushed and shining faces, faster, faster, breathless, panting, their gladness fairly overflowing. And many people turned to look, wondering what in the world possessed the leisurely, dignified parsonage twins.
The last block was traversed at a really alarming rate. The passion for "telling things" had seized them both, and they whirled around the corner and across the lawn at a rate that brought Connie out into the yard to meet them, with a childish, "What'sthe matter? What happened? Did something bite you?"
Aunt Grace sat up in her hammock to look, Fairy ran out to the porch, and Mr. Starr laid down his book. Had the long and dearly desired war been declared at last?
But when the twins reached the porch, they paused sheepishly, shyly.
"What's the matter?" chorused the family.
"Are—are we late for dinner?" Carol demanded earnestly, as though their lives depended on the answer.
The family stared in concerted amazement. When before this had the twins shown anxiety about their lateness for meals—unless a favorite dessert or salad was all consumed in their absence. And it was only half past four!
Carol gently shoved Connie off the cushion upon which she had dropped, and arranged it tenderly in a chair.
"Sit down and rest, Larkie," she said in a soft and loving voice. "Are you nearly tired to death?"
Lark sank, panting, into the chair, and gazed about the circle with brilliant eyes.
"Get her a drink, can't you, Connie?" said Carol indignantly. "Can't you see the poor thing is just tired to death? She ran the whole way home!"
Still the family stared. The twins' devotion to each other was never failing, but this attentiveness on the part of Carol was extremely odd. Now she sat down on the step beside her sister, and gazed up into the flushed face with adoring, but somewhat patronizing, pride. After all, she had had a whole lot to do with training Larkie!
"What in the world?" began their father curiously.
"Had a sunstroke?" queried Fairy, smiling.
"You're both crazy," declared Connie, coming back with the water. "You're trying to fool us. I won't ask any questions. You don't catch me this time."
"Why don't you lie down and let Lark use you for a footstool, Carol?" suggested their father, with twinkling eyes.
"I would if she wanted a footstool," said Carol positively. "I'd love to do it. I'd be proud to do it. I'd consider it an honor."
Lark blushed and lowered her eyes modestly.
"What happened?" urged their father, still more curiously.
"Did she get you out of a scrape?" mocked Fairy.
"Oh, just let 'em alone," said Connie. "They think it's smart to be mysterious. Nothing happened at all. That's what they call being funny."
"Tell it, Lark." Carol's voice was so intense that it impressed even skeptical Connie and derisive Fairy.
Lark raised the glowing eyes once more, leaned forward and said thrillingly:
"It's the Literary Career."
The silence that followed this bold announcement was sufficiently dramatic to satisfy even Carol, and she patted Lark's knee approvingly.
"Well, go on," urged Connie, at last, when the twins continued silent.
"That's all."
"She's going to run theDaily News."
"Oh, I'll only be a cub reporter, I guess that's what you call them."
"Reporter nothing," contradicted Carol. "There's nothing literary about that. You must take the whole paper in hand, and color it up a bit. And forgoodness' sake, polish up Mr. Raider's editorials. I could write editorials like his myself."
"And you might tone down the family notes for him," suggested Fairy. "We don't really care to know when Mrs. Kelly borrows eggs of the editor's wife and how many dolls Betty got for Christmas and Jack's grades in high school. We can get along without those personal touches."
"Maybe you can give us a little church write-up now and then, without necessitating Mr. Raider as chairman of every committee," interposed their father, and then retracted quickly. "I was only joking, of course, I didn't mean—"
"No, of course, you didn't, father," said Carol kindly. "We'll consider that you didn't say it. But just bear it in mind, Larkie."
Fairy solemnly rose and crossed the porch, and with a hand on Lark's shoulder gave her a solemn shake. "Now, Lark Starr, you begin at the beginning and tell us. Do you think we're all wooden Indians? We can't wait until you make a newspaper out of theDaily News! We want to know. Talk."
Thus adjured, Lark did talk, and the little storywith many striking embellishments from Carol was given into the hearing of the family.
"Five dollars a week," echoed Connie faintly.
"Of course, I'll divide that with Carol," was the generous offer.
"No, I won't have it. I haven't any literary brains, and I can't take any of your salary. Thanks just the same." Then she added happily: "But I know you'll be very generous when I need to borrow, and I do borrow pretty often, Larkie."
For the rest of the week Lark's literary career was the one topic of conversation in the Starr family. TheDaily Newsbecame a sort of literary center piece, and the whole parsonage revolved enthusiastically around it. Lark's clothes were put in the most immaculate condition, and her wardrobe greatly enriched by donations pressed upon her by her admiring sisters. Every evening the younger girls watched impatiently for the carrier of theDaily News, and then rushed to meet him. The paper was read with avid interest, criticized, commended. They all admitted that Lark would be an acquisition to the editorial force, indeed, one sorely needed. They begged her to give Mount Markthe news while it was news, without waiting to find what the other Republican papers of the statethoughtabout it. Why, the instructions and sisterly advice and editorial improvements poured into the ears of patient Lark would have made an archangel giddy with confusion!
During those days, Carol followed Lark about with a hungry devotion that would have been observed by her sister on a less momentous occasion. But now she was so full of the darling Career that she overlooked the once most-darling Carol. On Monday morning, Carol did not remain up-stairs with Lark as she donned her most businesslike dress for her initiation into the world of literature. Instead, she sulked grouchily in the dining-room, and when Lark, radiant, star-eyed, danced into the room for the family's approval, she almost glowered upon her.
"Am I all right? Do I look literary? Oh, oh," gurgled Lark, with music in her voice.
Carol sniffed.
"Oh, isn't it a glorious morning?" sang Lark again. "Isn't everything wonderful, father?"
"Lark Starr," cried Carol passionately, "I shouldthink you'd be ashamed of yourself. It's bad enough to turn your back on your—your life-long twin, and raise barriers between us, but for you to be so wildly happy about it is—perfectly wicked."
Lark wheeled about abruptly and stared at her sister, the fire slowly dying out of her eyes.
"Why, Carol," she began slowly, in a low voice, without music.
"Oh, that's all right. You needn't try to talk me over. A body'd think there was nothing in the world but ugly old newspapers. I don't like 'em, anyhow. I think they're downright nosey! And we'll never be the same any more, Larkie, and you're the only twin I've got, and—"
Carol's defiance ended in a poorly suppressed sob and a rush of tears.
Lark threw her gloves on the table.
"I won't go at all," she said. "I won't go a step. If—if you think for a minute, Carol, that any silly old Career is going to be any dearer to me than you are, and if we aren't going to be just as we've always been, I won't go a step."
Carol wiped her eyes. "Well," she said very affectionately, "if you feel like that, it's all right. Ijust wanted you to say you liked me better than anything else. Of course you must go, Lark. I really take all the credit for you and your talent to myself, and it's as much an honor for me as it is for you, and I want you to go. But don't you ever go to liking the crazy old stories any better than you do me."
Then she picked up Lark's gloves, and the two went out with an arm around each other's waist.
It was a dreary morning for Carol, but none of her sisters knew that most of it was spent in the closet of her room, sobbing bitterly. "It's just the way of the world," she mourned, in the tone of one who has lived many years and suffered untold anguish, "we spend our lives bringing them up, and loving them, and finding all our joy and happiness in them, and then they go, and we are left alone."
Lark's morning at the office was quiet, but none the less thrilling on that account. Mr. Raider received her cordially, and with a great deal of unctuous fatherly advice. He took her into his office, which was one corner of the press room glassed in by itself, and talked over her duties, which, as faras Lark could gather from his discourse, appeared to consist in doing as she was told.
"Now, remember," he said, in part, "that running a newspaper is business. Pure business. We've got to give folks what they want to hear, and they want to hear everything that happens. Of course, it will hurt some people, it is not pleasant to have private affairs aired in public papers, but that's the newspaper job. Folks want to hear about the private affairs of other folks. They pay us to find out, and tell them, and it's our duty to do it. So don't ever be squeamish about coming right out blunt with the plain facts; that's what we are paid for."
This did not seriously impress Lark. Theoretically, she realized that he was right. And he talked so impressively of THE PRESS, and its mission in the world, and its rights and its pride and its power, that Lark, looking away with hope-filled eyes, saw a high and mighty figure, immense, all-powerful, standing free, majestic, beckoning her to come. It was her first view of the world's PRESS.
But on the fourth morning, when she entered the office, Mr. Raider met her with more excitementin his manner than she had ever seen before. As a rule, excitement does not sit well on nicely-rounded, pink-skinned men.
"Lark," he began hurriedly, "do you know the Dalys? On Elm Street?"
"Yes, they are members of our church. I know them."
He leaned forward. "Big piece of news down that way. This morning at breakfast, Daly shot his daughter Maisie and the little boy. They are both dead. Daly got away, and we can't get at the bottom of it. The family is shut off alone, and won't see any one."
Lark's face had gone white, and she clasped her slender hands together, swaying, quivering, bright lights before her eyes.
"Oh, oh!" she murmured brokenly. "Oh, how awful!"
Mr. Raider did not observe the white horror in Lark's face. "Yes, isn't it?" he said. "I want you to go right down there."
"Yes, indeed," said Lark, though she shivered at the thought. "Of course, I will." Lark was a minister's daughter. If people were in trouble, shemust go, of course. "Isn't it—awful? I never knew of—such a thing—before. Maisie was in my class at school. I never liked her very well. I'm so sorry I didn't,—oh, I'm so sorry. Yes, I'll go right away. You'd better call papa up and tell him to come, too."
"I will, but you run along. Being the minister's daughter, they'll let you right up. They'll tell you all about it, of course. Don't talk to any one on the way back. Come right to the office. Don't stay any longer than you can help, but get everything they will say about it, and—er—comfort them as much as you can."
"Yes,—yes." Lark's face was frightened, but firm. "I—I've never gone to the houses much when—there was trouble. Prudence and Fairy have always done that. But of course it's right, and I'm going. Oh, I do wish I had been fonder of Maisie. I'll go right away."
And she hurried away, still quivering, a cold chill upon her. Three hours later she returned to the office, her eyes dark circled, and red with weeping. Mr. Raider met her at the door.
"Did you see them?"
"Yes," she said in a low voice. "They—they took me up-stairs, and—" She paused pitifully, the memory strong upon her, for the woman, the mother of five children, two of whom had been struck down, had lain in Lark's strong tender arms, and sobbed out the ugly story.
"Did they tell you all about it?"
"Yes, they told me. They told me."
"Come on into my office," he said. "You must write it up while it is fresh in your mind. You'll do it better while the feeling is on you."
Lark gazed at him stupidly, not comprehending.
"Write it up?" she repeated confusedly.
"Yes, for the paper. How they looked, what they said, how it happened,—everything. We want to scoop on it."
"But I don't think they—would want it told," Lark gasped.
"Oh, probably not, but people want to know about it. Don't you remember what I told you? The PRESS is a powerful task master. He asks hard duties of us, but we must obey. We've got to give the people what they want. There's a reporterdown from Burlington already, but he couldn't get anything out of them. We've got a clear scoop on it."
Lark glanced fearfully over her shoulder. A huge menacing shadow lowered black behind her. THE PRESS! She shuddered again.
"I can't write it up," she faltered. "Mrs. Daly—she—Oh, I held her in my arms, Mr. Raider, and kissed her, and we cried all morning, and I can't write it up. I—I am the minister's daughter, you know. I can't."
"Nonsense, now, Lark," he said, "be sensible. You needn't give all the sob part. I'll touch it up for you. Just write out what you saw, and what they said, and I'll do the rest. Run along now. Be sensible."
Lark glanced over her shoulder again. The PRESS seemed tremendously big, leering at her, threatening her. Lark gasped, sobbingly.
Then she sat down at Mr. Raider's desk, and drew a pad of paper toward her. For five minutes she sat immovable, body tense, face stern, breathless, rigid. Mr. Raider after one curious, satisfiedglance, slipped out and closed the door softly after him. He felt he could trust to the newspaper instinct to get that story out of her.
Finally Lark, despairingly, clutched a pencil and wrote
"Terrible Tragedy of the Early Morning. Daly Family Crushed with Sorrow." Her mind passed rapidly back over the story she had heard, the father's occasional wild bursts of temper, the pitiful efforts of the family to keep his weakness hidden, the insignificant altercation at the breakfast table, the cry of the startled baby, and then the sudden ungovernable fury that lashed him, the two children—! Lark shuddered! She glanced over her shoulder again. The fearful dark shadow was very close, very terrible, ready to envelope her in its smothering depths. She sprang to her feet and rushed out of the office. Mr.Raiderwas in the doorway. She flung herself upon him, crushing the paper in his hand.
"I can't," she cried, looking in terror over her shoulder as she spoke, "I can't. I don't want to be a newspaper woman. I don't want any literarycareer. I am a minister's daughter, Mr. Raider, I can't talk about people's troubles. I want to go home."
Mr. Raider looked searchingly into the white face, and noted the frightened eyes. "There now," he said soothingly, "never mind the Daly story. I'll cover it myself. I guess it was too hard an assignment to begin with, and you a friend of the family, and all. Let it go. You stay at home this afternoon. Come back to-morrow and I'll start you again. Maybe I was too hard on you to-day."
"I don't want to," she cried, looking back at the shadow, which seemed somehow to have receded a little. "I don't want to be a newspaper woman. I think I'll be the other kind of writer,—not newspapers, you know, just plain writing. I'm sure I shall like it better. I wasn't cut out for this line, I know. I want to go now."
"Run along," he said. "I'll see you later on. You go to bed. You're nearly sick."
Dignity? Lark did not remember that she had ever dreamed of dignity. She just started for home, for her father, Aunt Grace and the girls! The shabby old parsonage seemed suddenly very bright, verysunny, very safe. The dreadful dark shadow was not pressing so close to her shoulders, did not feel so smotheringly near.
A startled group sprang up from the porch to greet her. She flung one arm around Carol's shoulder, and drew her twin with her close to her aunt's side. "I don't want to be a newspaper woman," she cried, in a high excited voice. "I don't like it. I am awfully afraid of—THE PRESS—" She looked over her shoulder. The shadow was fading away in the distance. "I couldn't do it. I—" And then, crouching, with Carol, close against her aunt's side, clutching one of the soft hands in her own, she told the story.
"I couldn't, Fairy," she declared, looking beseechingly into the strong kind face of her sister. "I—couldn't. Mrs. Daly—sobbed so, and her hands were so brown and hard, Fairy, she kept rubbing my shoulder, and saying, 'Oh, Lark, oh, Lark, my little children.' I couldn't. I don't like newspapers, Fairy. Really, I don't."
Fairy looked greatly troubled. "I wish father were at home," she said very quietly. "Mr. Raider meant all right, of course, but it was wrong to senda young girl like you. Father is there now. It's very terrible. You did just exactly right, Larkie. Father will say so. I guess maybe it's not the job for a minister's girl. Of course, the story will come out, but we're not the ones to tell it."
"But—the Career," suggested Carol.
"Why," said Lark, "I'll wait a little and then have a real literary career, you know, stories, and books, and poems, the kind that don't harrow people's feelings. I really don't think it is right. Don't you remember Prudence says the parsonage is a place to hide sorrows, not to hang them on the clothesline for every one to see." She looked for a last time over her shoulder. Dimly she saw a small dark cloud,—all that was left of the shadow which had seemed so eager to devour her. Her arms clasped Carol with renewed intensity.
"Oh," she breathed, "oh, isn't the parsonage lovely, Carol? I wish father would come. You all look so sweet, and kind, and—oh, I love to be at home."