Kat and Kit.Kat and Kit.
"Oh, Kittie! what shall I do," she cried, giving up entirely, between the sharp pain in her wrist, and the speedy arrival of this second disgrace. "It's only yesterday, that I crawled into the house in this fix; I can't go again."
"Never mind; I'll go," said Kittie, lost in sympathy. "Everybody is in the front part of the house, and I'll slip in the back way, go in over the roof, and bring you some clothes. Just sit down here and wait; I'll hurry, and it'll be all right."
So Kat sat down, quite pale with the painful wrist, and meditated, in a desperate fashion, on her inability to keep out of trouble and mischief; But Kittie was back in an incredibly short space of time, all flushed and panting, and with a little bundle of clothes tucked under her arm.
"Here Kat is a skirt, and dress, and stockings, and my slippers," she cried, running inside the wall where Kat sat forlornly.
"No one saw me; here hurry. How's your wrist?"
"Hurts," said Kat briefly, finding tears inclined to obstruct her utterance; and then they were silent, while the muddy garments were hastily laid aside and the dry ones slipped on; and the two started round-a-bouts for home.
A little while later, Kittie appeared at the sitting-roomdoor, where the girls were sewing with mother, while Ernestine trilled and warbled at the piano. Mrs. Dering came out to the hall in answer to Kittie's beckon, and received this somewhat incoherent report:
"Kat's upstairs; we walked the foundation, and she fell off the high part; I took her some clothes, but I don't know what she's done to her wrist;" and Mrs. Dering did not waste any time trying to get a straighter report, but hurried up stairs, where Kat was lying on the bed, moaning and trying not to cry, with the painfully swollen wrist, laid out on a pillow. Twenty minutes' later the doctor was there with splints and bandages, and Kat, looking into his eyes with a vague alarm, asked, after he had examined it: "How long before I can use it?"
"Many weeks, Kathleen."
"Why, is it badly sprained?"
"Worse, I think, my dear little girl, for it is pretty badly broken."
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Olive'sdoor was locked.
Jean saw her go in, and heard the bolt slide swiftly across after the door shut, and just the glimpse that the little girl had of her sister's face, showed tears on the sallow cheeks, and hanging to the lashes. Olive was bitterly opposed to having any one know that she cried, and above all things to have any one see her employed in that manner; she herself, could not have told why perhaps, except that she did not want it. All of her feelings were so carefully hidden, and herself so wrapped in a cloak of reserve, that the surface was as delicately sensitive, as gossamer, and at every touch that left its impress, she retired farther within herself, and left less room for touch of any kind. Now, when she caught a glimpse of Jean's face, she shut the door sharper than was necessary, and going over to the window, sat down and stared moodily off into the yard, where the scarlet tops of the maples nodded to a golden, glowing sky. Surprised and curious, Jean lingered a moment, with her hand on the bannister,surveying the door thoughtfully, then limped carefully across, and knocked softly.
"Who is it?" came tartly from within.
"Me, Olive. Are you sick?"
"No."
Jean turned away a little hurt. "Why need Olive speak so shortly?" she wondered, with the usual after-thought "Bea, never does, or the others."
Olive listened to the little crutch going slowly down stairs, and waited until everything was quiet, then she went over to a small trunk and sat down before it, lifted the lid, and supporting her chin in her hand, looked steadily into it, all the moody bitterness in her eyes changing slowly to a sadness that was almost despair.
"Oh, I don't see why it is!" she cried suddenly, laying her head down on the trunk's sharp edge, and breaking into a passionate sobbing, all the stronger for having been long denied. "I surely try, but, they are unkind; they are, I know." And then the thick sobs broke vehemently forth, and echoed out into the quiet hall; but Olive was alone upstairs, and she knew it; besides, I doubt if she could have controlled herself now, even had the whole of the amazed family confronted her. Poor, sensitive, unfortunate Olive; was it her fault wholly, that her sisters seemed able to be happy, quite regardless of her, and that she seemed to fill no place in home except as "that queer, homely Olive," as she had onceheard herself called? This afternoon, the girls had all dressed gayly, and gone for a ride behind "Prince" with Mr. Phillips. He had said, "all the girls," when asking for them, but Olive so seldom joined in any of their little gayeties outside of home, that it really seemed strange and out of place for her to go with them; so she waited, when the time came to dress, wondering, and half hoping that one of them would express a little desire that she should go. Such a thought, however, occurred to no one; for so many times had she flatly refused to go, that they had all gradually ceased asking, supposing that she would do as she pleased. Once, to be sure, Bea did run up to the arbor, seeing her there, with the question on her lips, but Olive saw her coming, and fearing that the new desire and expectation would show in her face, bent her eyes to her book, quite unconscious of the heavy scowl on her brow; so, after one glance, Bea withdrew in a hurry, remembering frequent complaints for disturbance. At the hasty disappearance, Olive looked up with a bitter little smile, that would have instantly disclosed to an observer, how she was construing the act, and how she was hurt in spite of herself.
"There! she was afraid she'd have to ask me something about it, if she came in, so she got out in a hurry. But they needn't worry; I'll not force myself in; I'm queer, and ugly, and had better stay by myself;" and with that, Olive shut her lips fiercely tight, and didnot once lift her eyes, when, a little while later, they all went laughing down the walk, never heeding her or once regretting her absence. It often happened so now, and Olive missed the coaxings with which they had once tried to draw her out, never once dreaming that she had done away with them herself, by shortly, tersely, and repeatedly asking, to "be let alone."
No, this never occurred to her, as she sat there crying bitterly, but her broken words revealed the track of her thoughts.
"They never let Ernestine stay home! Indeed not, and there's the greatest commotion raised if she speaks of such a thing. She's pretty and graceful, and loves to dress up like a doll, while I'm ugly, and awkward, and always do things wrong, and disgrace them, I suppose. I don't see what I'm crying for, I'm sure. I can be happy without them as well as they without me!" and Olive raised her head defiantly, and flung the tears from her lashes, for having cried; the burden seemed lighter, and the little hurt and loneliness less hard. "I've plenty to think of besides them, and I might as well go to work." So out of the trunk came a box, and Olive's tears were as quickly gone as they had come. This box held a collection of sketches, many of them originals, some of them copies, but all bearing marks of a strong talent, rude and somewhat hasty as yet, but capable of much, when the young artist should have studied, andbrought a few happy ideas to color the faces and scenes that grew from under her fingers. Now they clearly betrayed the unhappy spirit that prompted them, for there was not one glad sunshiny picture among them; instead, there were several faces of women, in various attitudes of defiance or despair, with a stern relentless sorrow darkening their eyes, and hardening their lips; then there was an old boat over-turned in the shadow of a half-broken tree, and various sketches of home scenery from the different windows of the house. Olive had selected one, somewhat larger than the rest, and had gone to work rapidly, pressing her lips tightly in the earnestness of her work and thoughts, and the room was perfectly silent for a long time. Presently she stopped abruptly, and balancing her pencil on her finger, looked out of the window with a troubled longing in her eyes.
"I wonder if I ever can," she murmured slowly. "How hard it is to be patient, and wait, it's three months yet until I am sixteen, and they never will let me I know, because it's too dangerous for a girl. I'm sorry I am one anyhow; it makes everything go wrong. Now, there's my money, I'm glad I've got it to give to papa. Dear papa, I don't believe he or mama cares because I'm so ugly; I'll give it to him to-night, and then while I'm waiting, I'll work and earn some more, so as to have enough;" and, after ending this slightly enigmatical speech with an abrupt nod, Olive looked a littlebrighter and fell to work so rapidly, that she shaded a dimple until it looked like a bullet-hole in the cheek of her fair subject
Nothing further was heard for over an hour, then there came chattering voices, the slam of the gate, much laughter, and much spattering and crunching of gravel, that announced a race up the walk, between the festive twins, for though Kat's disabled arm swung gracefully in a sling, she had, after the first day or two, returned to all her romping with undiminished ardor, thereby keeping the family in constant terror, lest the necessary appendage be forever disabled. Jean had reported to Bea, the fact that Olive had locked her door and was crying, and with her conscience reproving her, Bea ran hastily up stairs, and knocked at the door. "Olive, may I come in?"
"What for?"
"Well, just to talk a little," Bea replied, knowing better than to give Jean's report.
Olive unlocked the door, after having first surveyed her face to see that no tears were visible.
"Come in, if you want to; I'm drawing," and Bea accepted the ungracious invitation, thinking to herself, as Olive straightway took her seat and pencil, and returned to work—
"Now Olive's in one of her moods, I wonder if I can say anything," for though not yet seventeen, Bea was womanly and thoughtful, and Mrs. Dering had sometimestalked with her, about the unfortunate peculiarities of this sister's disposition, and asked her help in being patient, and trying to overcome it.
"We had a delightful time," began Bea, anxious to work aright. "'Prince' was such a dear old fellow and Mr. Phillips so kind. I'm so sorry you didn't go, Olive."
Nothing but pride kept Olive's face from brightening a little at this; she turned away, made a fierce dab at her subject's nose, and thought grimly:—"It's all very well to be sorry now, when the thing's all over; I wonder if she thinks that I believe she's sorry, anyhow."
"We went around by the river, and way up on the hill," continued Bea, after waiting a reasonable length of time for an answer. "Mr. Phillips says we may ride often."
"Did he?"
"Yes, wasn't it kind? you know Mrs. Phillips and the girls are going away and 'Prince' will need exercising."
"Of course."
"Hasn't mama come home yet?"
"I don't know."
"Perhaps Mrs. Dane is worse."
No answer.
"It's almost supper time, I should think she would be here," and with that, Bea got up, somewhat discouraged with the one-sided conversation; but paused again at Olive's side.
"Oh! what a lovely face," she exclaimed, bending over the artist's shoulder. "Where did you get it, Olive?"
"Made it up."
"Well, I really envy you such a talent; I have none at all. Why do you make her look so sad?"
"That's the way she looked to my mind and I drew her so. Perhaps it's because she has no sisters," answered Olive, spoiling the meaning conveyed in the words by the sarcasm that crept into the voice, and Bea drew back, hurt and half inclined to be angry; but with her, a tender heart always went ahead of a quiet temper and ruled, so she walked to the door, saying as she went out: "You better put up your things; supper's nearly ready."
After tea Olive whispered something to Mr. Dering, and to everyone's curiosity, they went off together to the library. This was only a small room, but very cozy, with a dark green carpet on the floor, the chairs of various shapes, with the previous covering worn threadbare, neatly covered with green cloth, a cover of like shade on the table, and one side of the wall well packed with books; for Mr. Dering having never been wealthy, had only by care, and much time, collected the books which now formed a faultless, small library. It was Ernestine's idea, having the room green, and bestowing upon it the important sounding name of "library," for it suited her fancy by sounding stylish, and pleased her artistic eye bybeing all of one shade; so after much patient drilling, she got them all to call it "library," excepting Olive, for that sister, disapproving of Ernestine's notions in general, did not like to yield to this one, and insisted on calling it "study."
Well, in here came Mr. Dering, Olive following with a light, saying, as she placed it on the table:
"Papa, this is to be a secret."
"Oh! oh! and you expect me to keep it?"
"Of course, at least a part of it," and Olive looked so serious, as she came and stood by his chair, that he became attentive in an instant, saying heartily:—"Well, go on dear, I'm listening, and promise to keep the secret."
Olive hesitated an instant, but she always hated to show any feeling, especially of embarrassment, so pitched into her subject abruptly, with her eyes down. "You know, papa, that we know that you have been troubled with the hard times, and wanted to help you."
"Yes, Olive, and I can never forget the way that my girls and their dear mother anticipated, and have done to help me."
"No," Olive answered, almost impatiently. "We have done nothing; it most all falls on mama; she helps us with the work, and as for 'Prince,' of course, we loved him, but we girls are able to walk, it's only mama, who is denied; so all the help it is, she gives, not we."
"Then we should love her all the more, dear," said
Mr. Dering; and the tenderness and love that shone in his face would have gladdened the heart of the wife of thirty years, had she seen it.
"I don't think we can ever love her enough," answered Olive heartily; then hesitated again, while her hand went slowly into her pocket, and came slowly out again.
"Hold your hand, papa."
He did so, and after placing a little roll in it, and closing his fingers over it, she said hurriedly: "It is only a little, papa; just thirty dollars that I have saved, but I want you to take it, and——"
"But Olive, my dear child——"
"Don't, please;" she interrupted hastily. "I know what you want to say, but it's not denying me anything, and what if it was? I want you to have it. You never gave us our allowance to buy our clothes with, and as for fancy things, I don't care for them; I don't care to go out as the other girls do, and I do not need it for anything. I only wish it was more."
There may have been many reasons why Mr. Dering said nothing as he drew her on to his knee, and kissed her tenderly, but the right one would not have been hard to guess had any one seen his eyes full of tears. Olive's heart was beating happily, and she went on quite gayly: "And another thing, papa; now don't say anything until I finish; I want to have all my own way to-night. You know, sometime ago I helped Mr. Hess with some writing,and he said that if I would draw his little girl's head, he would teach me how to keep books; well, he did, you know, and now I want you to dismiss him, and let me be your book-keeper. It would help you, and oh, I should love to so much; it seems as if I wasn't a bit of use the way I live now, with nothing in particular to do."
"Why, my dear little girl," cried Mr. Dering, as she paused for breath. "Do you think they could spare you to me all day, down in that dusty old store?"
"Oh, yes, indeed!" and into Olive's brightened eyes crept a little of the old bitterness, as she recalled the afternoon.
"And I'm to pay you——"
"Nothing of course, papa."
"No, my dear, I cannot consent to that."
"Please; I want to help you now. You may pay me when you are not troubled any more about business."
"Ah, yes; when!" said Mr. Dering sadly to himself.
"Papa," Olive put an arm about his neck. "Is it so bad as that? I'm not sixteen yet, but oh, I feel so much older, I can understand if you tell me."
It really seemed so, as he looked into that grave, serious face, so unlike a merry, careless girl; and while a sigh crossed his lips, his eyes looked trustingly into hers.
"Yes, dear, I think you can. You deserve, and I am happy to give you, my confidence; besides, I wantto show you how you have helped me to-night. I am troubled very seriously, I have a note of six thousand to meet within sixty days, or the store goes, I see no way of raising it. There is four thousand in the bank in mama's name, but I do not want to touch it, because if anything should happen to me, you would not have one cent left in the world. Still, if one or two ways which I have in mind now, do not yield me something, I shall be obliged to take it, so as to save part of my business, and replace it as soon as possible. Thank God, the home is safe; it can never be taken from you, and never would I consider it my duty to rob my wife and children of home and happiness, to liquidate my debts. I owe my creditors a duty which I will work to fulfill, while I live; but, I owe my family a greater one; so Olive dear, the old home is always safe. To-night I am more thankful to hold thirty dollars, than two months ago, I would have been to hold a hundred, and only to-day I told Mr. Hess that I would have to do without him, and that I would try the book-keeping myself."
He paused here, and the joy that mastered trouble in Olive's face, found vent as she laid her head on his shoulder and cried heartily, "Oh papa I am so glad, so glad!"
"You know more now, dear, than mama," continued Mr. Dering, appreciating the caress, knowing how rare they were for any body from Olive. "I see she is just ascareful of home expenses as though she knew it all, and I do not want to give her the added trouble until I see that I cannot fight my way through, and that it must be known."
"Papa, isn't there some other way that I can help you?"
"My noble little girl, no, the load is already too heavy for your young shoulders; but, I do so warmly appreciate your womanly interest, and your desire to help is precious indeed, while you see how great a help it is to me."
Olive was smiling happily, even while her heart was filled with anxiety and many thoughts; so they sat there for some time in silence, then there came a tap on the door, and a sepulchral voice through the keyhole:
"If you don't want the whole family to come swarming over the transom, you'd better come out and tell us what that tremendous secret is. Speak quick, a single word."
"Shovels!" shouted Mr. Dering, implicitly obeying the threatening command.
"Very good; you may live, providing you come out immediately and give me a dime to buy some butter-scotch," returned the voice.
"The request betrays the speaker," laughed Mr. Dering as he stood up and unlocked the door. "Clear out, you begging Kat; you always——"
"Hurrah," cried the beggar shrilly. "Can't tell us apart yet; there's Kat on the stairs; now, whenever wedemand it, you have to give us a dime a piece; fine, you know."
"Yes; I know, you mercenary little monkeys; come in the sitting-room if you want to hear our secret."
Kittie and Kat rushed promptly in, and Mr. Dering spoke, indicating Olive by a wide flourish.
"Ladies and gentlemen—I suppose I must represent the gentlemen:—Let me introduce you to my future book-keeper and business confidante."
Olive lifted her eyes, as he bowed again, and first saw her mother's face so happy and pleased, then Ernestine's so full of something that was almost ridicule, and in an instant, without looking farther, her own darkened, and withdrawing her hand, she walked over to her accustomed corner, thinking bitterly, while they all commented and applauded.
"There! now every one but mama, thinks I'm a fool, and they needn't be saying, 'how splendid' and 'oh! Olive,' for didn't Ernestine look as if she wanted to laugh, and as if she would be ashamed of me if I worked, even in papa's store. But I don't care what any of them say or think," and having turned bitterly against all the girls, merely because of the unconscious smile on Ernestine's astonished face, Olive crushed all the joy from her own face, and nearly all from her heart.
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"Well, surely there never was such a pokey family," exclaimed Ernestine, lounging into the room where the girls were gathered, one bleak dreary morning, early in November. "Nothing ever happens, any more than as if we were in back-woods. Kittie, I'll change seats with you."
"I suppose you will," returned Kittie, keeping her chair and frowning over her slate and book. "You'll always change if you get the best by it; get out of my light will you."
"I wish you'd shut the door, Ernestine," growled Kat over the top of a bandage bound round her head and face; "I wish your tooth was ready to jump out of your mouth, and some one would leave the door open on you."
"I'd try and set you a good example, by being polite at least," laughed Ernestine, who really never could be cross or blue, very long at a time. "How grum we are; what's the matter Bea?"
"I've an awful headache," answered Bea, who sharedin the general depression, and was considerably ruffled over not being able to set a puff straight on her skirt. "Be quiet, please, and sit down; it was still enough before you came in."
"So I should think, from the way you all look like tomb-stones. Nobody looks peaceful, but Jean, and she's asleep; and Olive is the only one that looks natural, because she always looks solemn and cross, no matter what's up."
Olive turned from the window with a jerk. She had such a cold, that she could not go down to the store, and her face was swollen most unbecomingly.
"Perhaps if you had a little more sense, you might be able to look at least reasonably solemn sometimes," she said sharply.
"Oh, mercy," cried Ernestine, with her gay laugh, far more tantalizing than the sharpest words. "If having sense would make me look like you, I'd never want it,—never."
Olive jumped from her seat with a force that knocked the chair over, and startled the whole company.
"Ernestine Dering," she cried fiercely, and as though the words almost choked her. "You are the most heartless, selfish, senseless creature, that ever lived; I never will forgive you! You haven't got a thought above looking like a wax doll, and acting like a ninny, and I hate you;—there!"
"Well—if—I—ever," cried Kittie, as Olive vanished with a bang of the door that woke Jean and made Bea clap her hands to her aching head.
"You ought to be ashamed," exclaimed Kat, glaring over her bandage. "Olive's the best one of the lot, and I've three minds to go and tell her so."
"And have your head taken off for your pains," said Ernestine, walking over to the glass, and smiling at her own unruffled image. "Olive's a touchy goose, but I didn't mean to hurt her feelings, and I'm sorry for it; so that's the best I can do now, isn't it?"
"I suppose so, unless it is to think once in a while, that there is some one in the world with feelings, besides yourself," answered Bea, jerking her unruly sewing, and getting crosser than ever as she ran her needle into her finger.
"Dear me," cried Ernestine, throwing her hands up, and admiring them in the glass. "It's a sure sign that something is going wrong with this family, when you get cross, Bea."
"I'm not an angel," grumbled Bea, then threw her sewing down, and gave herself a shake, both mentally and physically. "But there's no need of my acting like a bear, and I'm really ashamed. Come sit on my lap, Jean, you look terribly grieved."
"Well, 'tisn't very pleasant with mama gone, and you all fussing so," answered Jean, limping over with hercrutch, and laying her head on Bea's shoulder with a sigh. "If you all were lame awhile, you'd be so glad to get straight again, that you never would fuss or scold, never."
Bea sucked her bruised thumb, and thought more heartily than ever, that they ought to be ashamed; but a little witch of impatience and petulance lurks in the gentlest of feminine hearts, and though Bea had resolved to hush talking, and be patient, the little meddling temper was wide awake, much aggravated at the gloomy weather, and bound to make mischief if possible. Ernestine turned away from the glass in a moment, and strolled over to the lounge.
"I don't see," she exclaimed, "why everything should be denied us. I'd like to live for awhile just as I want to."
No one answered, for just then Kittie threw down her slate, and burst into impatient tears.
"What's the use! I can't understand such fractions, and I never will; I'd like to smash that slate, and burn this old book!"
"Doesn't Miss Howard show you?"
"O yes, she shows and shows, and talks and explains, 'till my head spins like a top; but I can't understand, and after a while she says, in such a surprised way, as if she thought I was the biggest dummy in the world—'Why, Kittie, don't you see it yet?' and I don't seeit any more than ink in the dark, but I'm ashamed, so I pretend that I do, and that's the way it always is," and Kittie cried despairingly.
"How the cheerfulness increases," laughed Ernestine, jumping up. "I'm going down stairs, and I sha'n't come up again until I can say something that will please you all. By-by," and away she went, nodding brightly.
The morning wore slowly away. Jean, with a pain in her back, lay in Bea's arms until she fell asleep again; then after laying her down, Beatrice went back to her sewing, made patient and penitent by contact with that frail, peaceful little sister, and, after viewing her unmanageable puff determinedly for a few minutes, saw her mistake, and immediately went to work and finished it with no trouble. Kat, after much grumbling, finally brought her tooth to comparative submission, and went to sleep, while Kittie fled from the field of fractions, and spent her morning in the swing, which hung in the shed.
Just before dinner, the door-bell rang, and in a minute Ernestine came flying up stairs.
"There," she cried, waving a tinted paper. "I've something to please you with. Just listen:—'Mrs. Richards would be pleased to see Miss Dering, Miss Ernestine and Miss Olive for tea next Wednesday Eve!' I expect they'll dance. Won't it be fun?"
"I don't see any use of your waking me up, I'm not invited;" exclaimed Kat, sinking back on to her pillow,when she found that she was not included in the coming bliss.
"I hope you didn't expect it, only a child," said Ernestine, as Bea took the magic paper in great delight.
"Child, indeed!" cried Kat. "I'm tall as you."
"More's the pity, for you're only twelve, and as wild as a boy."
"I don't care; I'm going if mama says so; can't I Bea?"
"Why no; Mrs. Richards didn't ask you."
"What's the difference? She likes me just as well as she does you and would be just as glad to see me."
"Of course; but girls of twelve are never invited out in the evening," expostulated Bea, re-reading the delightful invitation, for events were rare in Canfield, and then it was so nice to be called "Miss Dering."
"I don't care, I think it's real mean!" and Kat vented her resentment by punching her pillow into a helpless knot.
"Go, call Olive, Ernestine," continued Bea, all smiles and complacency; "and just say, by the way, that you're sorry you hurt her feelings; it's quite the proper thing to do, you know."
"All right," and Ernestine ran down the hall.
"Oh, Olive! come with us; here's an invitation from Mrs. Richards. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings; come on."
"I don't care for anything that you said, and I've something to think about besides invitations. Go away, will you?"
"Oh, certainly," and having glibly uttered her penitent speech, Ernestine cared nothing about its reception, but hurried back to discuss their dress with Beatrice.
"But mama has not said that we can go," said Bea, caressing the tinted paper, as she interrupted an enthusiastic speech that was making Ernestine's eyes glow like diamonds.
"But she will; why shouldn't she? Any how I'm going to believe that she will, I will wear my silk and my new scarf, and borrow mama's laces for the sleeves, and her white comb, and jewelry with the bracelets, if she will loan them;—do you suppose she will?"
"No, I know she won't; she'll think it's too much dress for a young girl. Wear flowers."
"Nonsense! I won't. I want the jewelry. What will you wear?"
"My cashmere; it's all I've got," and Bea sighed a little, for she did love to look nice. "The sleeves are dreadfully worn, and the over-skirt isn't the latest; but it can't be made over again, and I can't afford to spend a cent."
"Never mind," said Ernestine, who could, and did readily advise what she disliked to practice. "Brush it up good, put ink over the little hole in the sleeve, and I'llloop the over-skirt so that it looks later in style, and loan you my blue bows."
"I suppose you will," returned Bea petulantly, for the temper, though appeased, was still awake and alert. "You're quick enough to loan me what you don't want yourself, and to say for me to go in an old-fashioned dress, with the holes inked up, and no jewelry; when you want silk and laces, and all the jewelry; you are generous."
"Oh, well, you may have the—the things if she will loan them; don't get fussy," said Ernestine, not a trifle abashed. "Who do you suppose will be there?"
"Whoever she invites, I suppose," answered Bea, still ruffled.
"And I expect Dell will be dressed beautifully; oh, dear, how nice it would be to be rich," sighed Ernestine.
"I don't think it's fair for some girls to have so much, and others to have to scrimp and pinch, and then have nothing," cried Bea, exaggerating her woes, as is usual, when one is determined to think one's self the worst abused of all mortals. "I wonder if Olive is going, and how she will dress."
"Just like she always does, I suppose, in that old green, with a big white collar, and her hair pulled straight back, and as smooth as a door-knob, no ornaments, and look fierce enough to chew every body up. I do wonder what Olive is good for anyhow, she isn't any comfort toanybody," and, as Ernestine spoke, her eyes went slyly over to the glass, where her pretty attitude in Jean's chair, and the sunshine lying warm on her hair, were reflected.
Usually, Bea would have taken up her sister's cause, and uttered some conclusive defence, but now she felt abused, and didn't care much what was said of anybody, so after a moment, Ernestine went on—
"I wish I knew the 'German,' I'm going to ask Dell to teach me, she does it beautifully. I think it is so hateful in Olive not to dance, it spoils a set for us, so that we can never dance quadrilles ourselves."
"I suppose she has a right to do as she pleases," answered Bea, revelling in the questionable luxury of being as cross as she could. "I don't care whether mama lets us go or not, I haven't a thing to wear, and of course if I don't go, you can't."
"Oh, but she will, I'll fix you so pretty, that you'll blush to look at yourself, and you know Mrs. Richards said last summer, that you looked like an angel in white, and you may have quillings off my bolt of footing to put in your basque, and around the pleatings;" and, with these skilfully thrown in words, Ernestine ran off to look over her little collection of ribbons and laces, while Bea turned her eyes slowly to the glass, just as her pretty sister had done a moment before, only not with such an air of perfect satisfaction.
"How pretty Ernestine is, and even if she is selfish, she's always so willing to loan things, that any one doesn't think that it's just because she doesn't happen to want them herself. I hope if Olive does go, she will fix up a little," and with a sigh Bea turned away from her reflection, and after covering Jean with a shawl, went down to see if dinner was not nearly ready.
If they could have seen Olive, they would never needed to have asked if she was going. All the afternoon she walked slowly up and down her room, sometimes increasing her gait, as the thoughts crowded and doubled the deep trouble in her face; and, in her mind was one thought that mastered every other, and that often formed itself into words and crossed her lips in a whisper of shivering dread.
"The sixty days are almost gone, and papa has not got the money! What will he do? oh! what will he do?"
Being with him constantly in the store, Olive saw, what he struggled to hide from those at home,—the utter despair that was mastering a patient hope;—and she knew that as the days went so swiftly by, that to him, the end was growing more certain. Once she saw him eagerly tear open a letter, and after reading a few lines, drop his head on his hands, and, unconscious of her nearness, groan despairingly. It weighed on her mind terribly, and her great desire to be of help, faced by the fact of her perfect inability, made her almost desperate, at times.
Beatrice spent the afternoon in fussing with her dress, and Ernestine in watching for her mother, who was spending the day with a sick friend, so as she was still absent, when the tea-bell rang, the meal was rather gloomy; for the three older girls were busy with thoughts; Kat's tooth still ached, Kittie had caught cold, and their resentment at not being included in the invitation, being mutual, they devoted themselves exclusively to each other, and Jean dismayed at the unusual silence, ate her bread and milk with a pathetic air of loneliness, quite touching.
"Ernestine, won't you sing just a little something," she asked, as they went into the sitting-room, where the fire burned low. "It'ssolonesome without mama, when you're all so still. Seems to me everything has gone wrong all day, what's the matter?"
"Everybody's in the blues, it's in the air," laughed Ernestine, sitting down to the piano, and skimming the keys. "Sit down chickie, and I'll sing 'Three Fishers.'"
Jean curled in a chair, with a pleased smile, and Ernestine began the plaintive song, with the firelight flitting over her face, showing that she sang with more feeling than usual.
"For men must work, and women must weep,And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep."
"For men must work, and women must weep,And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep."
"For men must work, and women must weep,And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep."
The door-bell rang just there, and made them jump,then Bea went to the door, for though quite dark, it was not seven yet.
A man stood just outside, a stranger, and as Bea opened the door with no light, but the fire from the sitting-room, he did not seem to know what to say.
"Is Mrs. Dering here,—that is,—is she home?"
"No, she is not, but will you come in, perhaps I will do," answered Bea, peering beyond him, and starting, as she caught the outline of other figures on the steps.
"I do not think you will, I,—in fact we,—" and there he paused, and looked behind him, and a vague chilling alarm struck Bea, and made her voice tremble as she asked—
"Is it anything so particular, any——,"
"Bad news," he said, as she hesitated. "Yes Miss,—Dering, I presume, I do bring bad news, your father——;"
Ernestine stood in the sitting-room door, and as the words were uttered, she saw Bea rush out, heard a faint scream, and a strange voice say, "catch her, she's falling;" then there came a tramp of feet across the porch, and four men crossed the hall, and came into the room with a strange burden; a rude litter, with a motionless figure on a mattress! Bea had fainted, for she had followed it, but as the men set their burden down with pitying faces, there came a shrill scream and a fall, for Ernestine dropped to the floor, and Jean continued to scream with her face hid. The three girls from up stairs came flying down, Huldahran from the kitchen, and in the dire confusion, the strangers stood, not knowing what to do, or whom to address, for every one seemed to have lost self-possession in the overwhelming shock. So thought the gentleman who seemed to be leader, but at that minute a hand touched his arm, and a voice startlingly hushed, asked: "Is hedead?"
"He is, madam."
A spasm of pain crossed her set-white face, as her lips opened slowly, and the next question came with a gasp of dread:
"By—by his own hand?"
"Oh, no, madam, no indeed," cried the gentleman eagerly, glad to give that relief. "He was on the train going down to the city, which was wrecked twenty miles this side of it. His death was instant and painless, a blow on the left temple."
"Thank God!"
She uttered it slowly, and almost below her breath, then lifted her eyes from the peaceful face so life-like in death, and looked around the room. Ernestine lay moaning on the lounge, Kittie and Kat locked in each others arms crouched in the corner, tearless, because paralyzed with fright, Jean shook as with a spasm in Bea's lap, while Huldah stood by the lounge, with her apron over her head; and the men stood hushed and abashed with their eyes down.
"Take Jean out," Olive said again in that strange still voice. "Huldah carry Ernestine to her room, and Kittie, you and Kat go out to the steps and watch for mama."
How instantly they all obeyed her, as though recognizing one with authority, and how curiously the gentleman scanned her stonily white face, so worn in this brief moment of suffering, and listened to her last words with wonder.
"Then you are not Mrs. Dering?"
"No!" Olive did not seem surprised at the question, but her eyes went to his face slowly, and her lips began to twitch. "How will we ever tell her; oh! how will we?" she murmured, clasping her hands tightly; but the stranger heard the low words, and spoke hurriedly, with his eyes on the dead face.
"If you are expecting her, some one had better go to prepare her, for the shock might prove——"
Olive did not wait for more, but snatching a shawl from the chair, saying as she vanished:
"I will go, only stay 'till we come back."
The moon was coming slowly through a bank of clouds, and the wind sighing mournfully through the bare treetops, as she sped swiftly down the path and through the gate, whose familiar slam sounded dreary and dull, though it hardly reached her, as she ran down the quiet street.
In just a few minutes she saw another figure wearing a familiar shawl in the moonlight.
"Why, Olive," cried Mrs. Dering. "Were you allworried about me. Mr. Dane wanted to walk home with me, but I told him I would stop at the store for papa, and when I got there, the boy told me he had taken the afternoon train to the city; some sudden business I suppose. Why dear, how you have run!"
"Oh, mama!" it was Olive's only utterance, but it told its own story, for Mrs. Dering instantly grasped the hand held out to her and inquired sharply:
"What is it, quick,—any trouble at home?"
"Yes,"—gaspingly.
"What,—I heard them talking of an accident,—Oh! Olive!"
"Papa," said Olive, growing calm as she saw her mother blanch and tremble in the pale light; but Mrs. Dering waited for no more; grasping Olive's hand still tighter, she broke into a swift run, that did not slacken, until the steps were reached, and the sobbing within reached their ears; then Olive forcibly held her back an instant.
"Oh, mama,—wait,—let me tell you,—"
"No,—he is dead, I know it;" and breaking from the detaining hold, Mrs. Dering ran in, and when Olive reached the door, she was kneeling beside the litter, with one dead hand pressed to her hidden face.
In a moment they knew that she was praying, and feeling in the presence of something sacred, each man bent his head reverently, and covering her face, Olive too, tried to pray, and shed her first tears.
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Onthe day of the funeral, the sun came up and flashed over the grey chill earth, with a spring-like warmth and radiance, and crept through the open windows with a broad glad smile, as though no sorrow darkened the home and hushed the merry voices.
Many times in these three days of crushing sorrow, when heart and hand seemed powerless to act, had Ernestine thought in a vague, wondering way, of her words: "I wonder what Olive is good for, she is no comfort to any one." Why, she herself, shivering and white, clung to her; Bea went to her; Mrs. Dering turned to them all for comfort, but to Olive for help and advice; Huldah came to her for orders; callers with offers of flowers and help saw her, and all said when questioned; "ask Olive, she can tell you;" "where is Olive?" "Olive knows all about it, don't disturb mama;" and so for once, home without Olive, would have known its greatest need.
On the evening of that last day, when all the sorrowful farewells were over, and the grief stricken family had returnedto their saddened home; there came a stranger into Canfield, and after inquiring the way, stalked briskly out to the Dering house. All the heavy foliage being gone, Jean saw him coming through the gate, and turned from the window.
"Some one is coming, Olive," and Olive reached the door, just as the stranger gave a vain pull at the muffled bell. He was a strange, odd looking old gentleman, erect as a picket, scrupulously dressed, and looking at her with fierce grey eyes from under the bushiest lashes.
"Is Mrs. Dering in?" he inquired with a tap of his cane.
"Yes, sir, but——,"
"Well, that's all I want to know now, I'll ask the rest after I get in," and emphasizing the words with another sharp tap of his cane, in he walked.
"But, sir, my mother cannot see you to-night," said Olive, somewhat startled, but speaking with decision, and still holding the door open.
"Tut, tut, tut! I haven't come three hundred miles to be turned out into the night. Come, come, young woman, lead the way to where there's a fire and light, then take this card to your mother, and if she won't see me, give me a good comfortable bed, and I'll wait 'till morning for her."
Olive began to feel as though she had little to say in the matter, besides, he stamped his cane and looked at her sofiercely, that she thought he might be an escaped lunatic, and perhaps she had better humor him. So she led the way into the sitting room, poked the fire till it glowed brightly, then the old gentleman sat down, but jerked his head around quickly as the sound of Jean's retiring crutch fell on his ear.
"Ha, hum; come here little girl;" and his voice sharp and rough, softened wonderfully; but Jean only lifted her tear-stained pale little face, for an instant, then vanished; whereupon he pulled out a scarlet silk handkerchief, and blew his nose fiercely, then turned to Olive as if he expected to demolish her instantly with the card in his fingers.
"Here girl, take that to your mother and be quick."
Olive took it and unconsciously dropped her eyes to the name—