"FOR MISS KITTIE, FROM PANSY,"
"FOR MISS KITTIE, FROM PANSY,"
in crazy-looking capitals.
"Well, I don't see how she can," said Kat, "be so polite to a fellow who is paddling about in our canoe, while we flounder in the water, and get along the best we can. I think it's too mean."
"But it's not his fault," remonstrated Bea. "Uncle Ridley has a right to leave his money and house where he pleases; and I'm sure I can't see what right we have to fuss, especially after all he's done for us."
"We have too much to be thankful for to make complaints of any kind," said Mrs. Dering, looking out of the window, as the gate was heard to slam. "There comes a boy! You may go to the door, Kat, as you don't appear to be doing anything."
Kat lifted herself from the floor with a yawn, andstrolled lazily out to the door, but came back in a moment, with quicker steps, and less color in her face.
"It's a despatch," she said, holding out the envelope that always bears alarm in its very face; and Mrs. Dering took it quickly, while the girls hung round her chair in anxiety. Was Olive or Jean sick? Neither. The paper unfolded, briefly read:
"I will be home on Wednesday with Ernestine. She is quite ill. Meet the train with an easy carriage and pillows, and with Dr. B."OLIVE."
"I will be home on Wednesday with Ernestine. She is quite ill. Meet the train with an easy carriage and pillows, and with Dr. B.
"OLIVE."
For a moment not a sound broke the stillness, then Mrs. Dering dropped the paper, and hid her face in her hands, and the girls knew that her first thought was to return thanks for this answer to her long, yearning prayers. A moment after, it was as though a whirlwind had struck the peaceful room; no one seemed to know, in the excitement that possessed them, just what it was they wanted to say or do, and between the joy and anxiety that the news occasioned, they all laughed and cried alternately.
"To-morrow is Wednesday, and Ernestine will be here. Oh, don't it seem too happy to be true," cried Kittie, wiping away her tears with a strand of ruffling. "How do you suppose it ever happened? I can hardly wait; what shall we do to make time pass?"
There proved to be plenty to keep their hands in keeping with their thoughts, for a room must be preparedfor the invalid, and thoroughly prepared, too. They went to work on it that afternoon, first building a bright fire in the great fire-place, and throwing open all the windows to let the sunshine pour in. How strange it seemed; how happy, and yet how sad! Ernestine coming home! Not dead nor lost, but coming home, feeble and helpless! Where had she been all these long, weary months? and had any of their heart-aches and longings reached her? Perhaps she had been sick and alone, had not known of their eager search, or been able to drag herself back to them.
The girls laughed and cried, while they swept, and dusted, and made up the bed like a snow-bank, ready turned down to admit the weary form. The whitest, most beautifully fluted curtains were hung before the windows, whose panes glistened like diamonds from hot soap-suds and crisp rubbings. All the pretty knick-knacks were brought in and put upon the walls with an eye to Ernestine's graceful little fancy likings. The easiest chairs, and prettiest rugs—in short, when finished, it was a little bower, and Kittie put the finishing touches in the way of flowers and vines, that, together, with the sunshine, made a sick-room of perfection to greet the coming invalid. Mrs. Dering went down to Mr. Phillips's to get Prince and the buggy, and found that the news had preceded her. The telegram had been repeated, and in an hour's time had pretty nearmade the circle of Canfield; so her appearance was greeted with joyful congratulations and sympathetic rejoicing; for Canfield had taken the matter to heart, and having grieved with the family, were now prepared to rejoice with it also. Miss Clara Raymond met Mrs Dering on her way to Mr. Phillips's, and offered their carriage, which was gratefully accepted, as it was large, low, and easy, and much more comfortable than the buggy for an invalid.
Little sleeping was done that night, and in the morning the girls cooked every dainty that Ernestine had ever loved. They cleaned the whole house till it shone, under the stress of excitement; and, as train time drew near, they fairly grew weak and sick with anxiety and suspense. Mrs. Dering did not say much, but when the carriage came, and she put on her hat, while the girls got the pillows, they saw that she was pale and trembling, and that her voice shook beyond control when she gave Dr. Barnett a smiling "good-morning."
There was nothing left to do, so after the carriage drove away the three girls sat on the steps, with their hands clasped, and waited. Kittie made one or two flying trips up stairs to see if everything was really beyond further improvement, while Kat vibrated nervously between the porch and the gate, and Bea sat still, looking at her ring, and wondering if Ernestine would like the giver, and what she would say.
"There!" cried Kat at last, with a nervous jump. "The train is in, now in just a little bit—"
It is possible that there was not a heart in Canfield but gave an expectant throb when the rumble and roar of the train shook the little place to its centre, and was heard to stop, a thing it did not often do; and there were but few who did not imagine, and earnestly sympathize with the joy it was bringing to one home in their midst.
"There they come! Oh, girls I feel perfectly faint," cried Kittie, making a grasp at the gate post, to sustain her trembling excited self. "How slow and careful,—she must be so sick."
No one answered, but six eager eyes watched, and three throbbing hearts waited, as the horses came with slow steps, and the carriage rolled carefully along. The top had been raised, and curious gazers along the way could see nothing; neither could the girls, when at last the gate was reached, but though they went out, something restrained their eager joyous welcome, and they said nothing.
Olive got out first, then Mrs. Dering, and Dr. Barnett, and then came a strange gentleman, bearing a perfectly helpless and evidently unconscious figure, with its face covered; and the girls shrank back to let them pass, then surrounded Olive with eager, trembling questions.
"She has fainted," Olive said. "She kept growing more excited after we left New York, and I thought shewould faint when we came in sight of Canfield, but she didn't until the train stopped; and then the moment she saw mama, she tried to speak, and fainted right away."
There was no time to ask, or answer further questions, as they hurried into the house and up stairs, where Ernestine had been carried, and laid upon the soft, snowy bed; but after one glance at her unconscious face, they drew back and burst into tears. Olive was talking to the strange gentleman, for whose name no one had thought to inquire, and Dr. Barnett and Mrs. Dering hung over the bed, winning life back to the fragile figure thereon. They all saw the first opening of her eyes, that went straight to one dear face, saw the feeble arms lifted with a strength, born of joy, and heard the sobbing cry:
"Mama, mama! darling mama!" and everybody cried.
After awhile the girls went in and kissed her quietly, then the room was ordered to be cleared, and under the influence of an opiate, Ernestine sank to sleep, with her hands clasping those of the dear woman who was, and would be always, "mama."
When they went down stairs, Olive presented them to Cousin Roger, and told in few words of all his kindness; and Kat, the vivacious, who hated and longed to see him removed from the face of the earth, was seen to drop twobig tears on his hand that she was shaking heartily. To Beatrice came the same vague, uncertain feeling that Olive had experienced when first seeing him, and he caught the same bewildered look in her eyes.
Had she ever seen him before? If not, what was it in his face that reminded her of—something?
Mrs. Dering did not leave Ernestine's side again that day. Olive came up with her, and they held a long conversation in low voices; and a look of perfect content was seen to drift into the mother's pale, anxious face, as she listened how Jean was growing well, and then looked down at the quiet sleeper—the one who had been snatched from the burning, and given back into her arms.
"Just think, if I had not gone to Virginia?" Olive said that evening, while they were all in the kitchen, doing up the supper work. "It really makes me tremble to think how I did not want to go, and hesitated about it."
"If I had been you, I should have screamed right out when she came on the stage," said Kat, unable to imagine herself in such a position and remaining quiet. "How did you feel, Olive?"
"So weak that I could not move, I never came so near losing my senses in my life, and it is such a dreadful feeling that you can't scream. It was dreadful to sit there and watch her, and when the hemorrhage came, I just jumped and ran."
"Dear me, how you must have felt," said Kittie with a shiver, as she polished a tumbler brightly, and put it back in the water to every one's amusement.
"I don't know what I would have done without Cousin Roger," said Olive. "He was so kind and thoughtful."
"Who does he make me think of?" asked Bea, which caused Olive to look up in surprise.
"How strange; he reminds me of some one, too, and it worried me so for a while, but I thought it was nonsense, and never spoke about it," she said.
"Well, I s'pose it is a notion," answered Bea, and then talk went back to Ernestine and Jean, of whom, it seemed, enough could never be told.
The next day, a little discovery was made to the girls.
Mr. Congreve was seen walking about in the fresh autumn sunshine, before breakfast, and the girls saw him gathering a small cluster of flowers, selecting from the dewy bunches with much care; and after a while Olive, who had slept late with fatigue, came down in her grey wrapper with its blue facings, and part of the flowers were in her wavy hair, and part at her throat, with a little knot of ribbon.
"Good gracious!" cried Kat, rushing into the kitchen with a tragic expression, and setting a pile of dishes on the table with some force. "Do you see that? What's this family coming to?"
"Dust," responded Kittie calmly. "What's the matter, Kat?"
"Do you mean to tell me you didn't see Olive wearing the flowers he gathered before breakfast, and that you didn't see how he looked at her at the table?" cried Kat impatiently.
"That's the way they all do; it's the first symptoms I guess, for it's the way that Bea and Dr. Barnett began."
"Oh, the idea," laughed Kittie, "of Olive being in love."
"I don't care, perhaps she isn't, but he is," asserted Kat, with an appeal to Bea, who had just come in.
"I don't know," said Bea. "I saw him give her the flowers, and fasten those in her hair, but I don't think it's anything."
"Well, you watch—there they go now!" exclaimed Kat, whereupon they all rushed to the window, to see Olive and Roger strolling out among the flowers.
"Would you ever think that was Olive?" said Kittie, as they looked. "Think how quiet and snappy she used to be, and how ugly she always looked, and just see how pretty she is now, and how she laughs and talks. But she's not in love, dear no; she looks as cool and dignified as a cucumber, not a bit blushy, or anything of the kind."
"Well, I should hope not," said Kat severely. "One engaged sister is enough; two would ruin the family."
"If such a thing was to happen," remarked Bea, with a little mercenary expectation, "Congreve Hall would be Olive's; just think of it, girls, how grand! and Cousin Roger is immensely wealthy, and there would be no end of splendid things;" and Bea sighed a little, as she spoke, for she was not going to win any wealth or grand home by her wedding, and there came, just now, a little moment of regret, that such would never be hers. Then she looked at her ring, and felt wicked and ungrateful. Would she exchange with Olive, or any other girl who might win wealth? No, no, never!
"Well, dear suz, what a funny place the world is," said Kat. "Here I've just hated that Roger Congreve, and now I could bless him forever, for being so good and kind, and after all, perhaps he'll be my brother, and Congreve Hall come back to us. I don't like it though," she added, with energy, "we're all getting broken up some way; it don't seem like old times, and I don't want any of us to get married! It's horrid, and I never will. Now Ernestine is home, I'd rather be poor all the days of my life, and have us all stay together, and never get old, or big."
"Very good, but 'buds will be roses, and kittens, cats,' as Jo says," answered Bea, going off with a laugh.
Ernestine was still too weak to see or say much this day.She had been much better on leaving Virginia, and as the trip home was taken in the most luxurious way afforded to travellers, she might have stood it very well, had it not been for the nervous excitement that completely prostrated her before home was reached. So Dr. Barnett prescribed the most perfect quiet, which was given, the girls only going in on tiptoe, now and then, to carry some little dainty, or smile their loving welcome, while Mrs. Dering spent all of her time at the bed side. Ernestine seemed perfectly content, for she lay for hours, with dreamy eyes fixed on Mrs. Dering's face, and never spoke or moved, as though she had been beaten and bruised by her brief struggle with the world, and only wanted to lie at peace, with one dear face in constant sight; and to let her tired life drift in or out. The change was heart-breaking, and drove the girls from her room at every visit, to hide their tears, and think, as in a dream, of the time when Ernestine, gay, frivolous, careless-hearted girl, was the sunshine of the house, the one being who seemed to never feel or know the touch of care or sadness.
Roger was to go back the second day, and on the evening before, he said:
"The scenery about this little place is perfectly beautiful. Does Canfield afford a livery stable, Olive? If so, I will get a buggy in the morning, and you shall pilot me around the country."
Kat sent an expressive wink and nod of her head to Kittie and Bea, while Olive answered:
"There is a small one, I believe, where you might find something."
"Perhaps they'd loan you their wheel-barrow," added Kat, who found herself in a fair way of liking this distant relative, in spite of his usurping what she termed the family position.
So next morning Roger went down town, and came back in a rather dilapidated buggy, with a lamb-like looking horse, and said with a laugh, as he helped Olive in:
"The very best your city affords; I hope it will not break with us, for my life is not insured."
"My mind's eye rests lovingly on Congreve Hall, as presided over by my artistic sister," cried Kat, with a dramatic gesture, as they drove off; and the next moment she was looking after them with a touch of regretful sadness in her face.
"I don't like it," she said. "Bea gone, Olive going, Jean way off, Ernestine so changed;—oh, Kittie! when anything happens to you, I will be ruined for sure. You don't think you are going to fall in love, or be sick, or go away, or anything; do you?"
"Nonsense," said Kittie, but gave an expressive hug that was soothing and satisfactory, and set Kat's heart at rest.
The ride in that clear morning air, brought a warm stain of color into Olive's clear cheeks, and a sparkle to her eyes, that was very becoming; and she laughed and talked, in a careless, happy way, that left no doubt in her companion's mind as to her perfect ignorance of his love, and made him more determined not to return to Virginia, leaving her in ignorance.
It was difficult to approach the subject, while her mind was so far away from it, and his perfect assurance as to her answer made it still harder for him. But Olive unconsciously led the way at last, for she was talking of their trip home, and dwelling gratefully on his care and kindness, her eyes bright with feeling, as she turned them to him suddenly:
"You have helped me through it all," she said. "I wish I could thank you for all your thoughtful kindness."
They were rolling lazily around a hill, with autumn colors on every side, and autumn's soft winds fanning the air into life, and Olive thought the answer she received was some deceptive flutter of their wings.
"Do not try," he was saying. "Every care or anxiety you have felt have been to me as my own. I have tried to show you what you were to me, and I have failed, but you cannot help but understand me, when I say that I love you, Olive."
She did not take her eyes from a distant hill-top, where their glance had rested, neither did she blush orlook pleased when he finished, but was as silent for a moment as though studying on what he had said; then looked at him slowly:
"You surely do not mean it?"
"I surely do mean it, and have tried to make you see and know it, for weeks past, but your answer now is only what I had expected, for though I at first thought your indifference feigned, I soon came to see that neither I, nor any other man had ever received a thought from you, and to fear that I never would. You seemed wedded to your love of art, but now, when you know that I love you, cannot you find a little feeling somewhere in your heart for me, Olive?"
"No, I cannot," answered Olive, after a moment, and with the air of one who had been literally hunting for something, and failed to find it. "I could not help but think a great deal of you, when you made my visit so pleasant, and then was so kind when trouble came; but I never dreamed that you loved me; I really think you must be mistaken, it seems so strange. Why do you?"
There was no misunderstanding the honest wonder in her eyes, as she asked the question, and no possibility of construing it into a desire for flattery.
"I have loved you," he said, "ever since that first sad night, so long ago, when you showed a womanly strength—"
"What night?" she asked eagerly, the old vague remembrance coming back to her; and, at the interruption, he looked at her in amaze.
"Is it possible you do not remember?" he asked.
"No, I do not; but the moment I saw you, there seemed a remembrance that has worried me ever since. What is it?"
For a moment he hesitated to tell her.
"It was I, who brought your father home," he said, at last; and with a swift, painful recollection, she dropped her face into her hands, and said nothing.
"When you came to the Hall," he went on presently, "and was introduced to me, there was such an air of surprise, together with a look of pain in your face, that I immediately supposed you remembered me, and that the memory was painful, so I never spoke of it. I was travelling here in New York, and was on the train just a few seats behind your father. I saw him when he received the blow on the temple, and went to him as soon as possible, and was the one asked to see him brought safely to his home. I did not know, until my return home, two weeks later, that it was Uncle Ridley's nephew."
After he finished speaking, they rode in silence for a long way, and the peaceful old horse, finding himself unguided, turned his head homeward, and jogged off more lively. Olive did not look up again. She was evidently lost in sad memories, that his words awakened, and hehad not the heart to bring her back to a subject so foreign to her thoughts as his love. So in silence, they reached home, and, as he helped her from the buggy, Olive said with trembling lips:
"I'm glad it was you. I loved papa better than any one in the world, and I can never forget that you saw him last and tried to help him." Then, after telling her mother and the girls their additional cause for gratitude to him, she went off to her room, and was not seen again for some time; for when affected so that tears were her only relief, she always took them alone.
Roger went that night. He spent the afternoon sitting in Ernestine's room with them all, and telling over and over the last moments of Mr. Dering, what he had overheard him saying to another passenger just a few moments before the accident; just how the blow came, so quick and painless, and how his last words had been of home, and how they would be surprised at his sudden departure.
Olive was not present, and fearing that Roger might consider it rude, Mrs. Dering explained the little habit of taking all her grief alone, and how the reminding of that sad night had doubtless overcome her. But Olive came down just before supper, and her face showed plainer than ever before, its traces of heavy tears, though she said nothing about it, and seemed to think her absenceexplained itself to the only one to whom an explanation was due.
While the girls were busy in the kitchen, and mother was with Ernestine, they were alone in the sitting-room, and Roger said to her, as they stood by the window, watching the shadows creep through the yard, and lift themselves in a misty cloud:
"Olive, have you no other answer for me, before I go?"
"No," said Olive, slowly. "You seem so different to me. In one way, I love you; I could not help it; and, in another way, you are nothing to me. I wish you would forget that you ever thought you loved me, and let me feel as though you were my brother."
"I cannot," he answered. "I do not think that I love you, but Iknowthat I do, and that I always will; and some time, when you are older, and come to feel that home-love and art cannot satisfy you, I will come back and try to win a place in the new yearning."
"You needn't," said Olive, with discouraging honesty. "I shall never love any one that way. I don't want to. All I want is mama and the girls, and to study until I am satisfied with myself, or as near it as I can be. But you mustn't let that keep you away; you will forget this, indeed, you will, and must come and see us often, and then everything will be delightful."
"No; I shall never come until I feel that I do not come in vain. Do not doubt my love, Olive, because your own heart is so free from it. It is a girlish heart, and when it reaches womanhood, I may not be the one to satisfy it, but I will come and try."
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Ernestinewas getting better, and how could she help it, with everything heart could wish, perfect peace and quiet, and six devoted hearts and pairs of hands, ready to obey her slightest command. She did not issue many, for one of the changes that had come to her, was asking for little, complaining of nothing, even her own suffering, but lying still, patient, contented, unselfish and quiet. She seemed grateful and pleased at the least little act of kindness, a thing she would have accepted before as a matter-of-course, and complained at not receiving; and after she grew stronger, and the girls resumed their gayeties, she never seemed to regret for a moment, that she was removed from all such, and must lie still, day after day; when before, it was intolerable to pass a single day without something to pass away her gleeful spirits withCanfield, with its promising circle of girls, budding into young ladyhood, was beginning to put on quite a number of social airs, in the way of little dances, nutting parties, one or two literary clubs, and a card club; which acted upon the little place, like a fresh spring breeze, blowing in upon a pile of peaceful autumn leaves. The Dering girls were popular, and partook largely in all these innocent festivities, bringing gay accounts of them to Ernestine, to which she listened, with a quiet smile, but with never a wish to be in them. Nothing seemed to interest her so much, as the new experience and dignity that had fallen upon Beatrice; and for hours they would chat together of the new plans, and tender little fancies, which Bea had not the courage to confess to others, and Ernestine, bolstered up with pillows, would listen, and now and then, do a little of the pretty work that was going on to the bridal garments.
After a while, when she grew strong enough to talk more, and cough less, she told them of her life, while they had been separated, and the girls never forgot the day on which they listened to it. She was partly sitting up in bed, as colorless as the snowy ruffled linen about her, with her beautiful golden hair in the old-time waves, and curly ends; her lovely eyes, with their liquid brown lights and heavy lashes, and the dainty ruffles to her snowy night-dress, fastened at the throat with a fragilebit of coral, that seemed to throw a shade of its exquisite coloring into her stainless face.
It was a lovely home-scene, for the girls were sewing in their low rocking-chairs, Olive was sketching at the window, Mrs. Dering sat at the bedside holding Ernestine's hand, and over them all the autumn sunshine fell, warm and sweet, as with a touch of loving benediction; and the trill of Jeanie's canary down stairs, was the only sound, save Ernestine's low voice, sad and sweet, in its feebleness.
"I went on the midnight train, you know," she was saying. "It seemed terrible, and with all the people around, I felt as if I was the only person out in the night. Oh, it is too horrible to feel so alone and as though no one knew, or cared where you were going, or what terrible trouble you might be in. Nearly everybody in the car was asleep, and there was only one lady; so I sat down behind her, and for a long time I was so miserable myself that I didn't notice her; then her baby woke up, and began to cry, so did her little girl, and I saw that she was sick or something; so in a little bit, I spoke to her, and asked if I could do anything. She said no, at first, but afterwards said if I would take the baby a moment, as she felt so sick and faint; so I did, and he seemed so astonished that he stopped crying, and then the little girl wanted to come over in my seat, and I helped her over, and told the lady to lie down, as shelooked very pale. I knew she was astonished at my being alone, and thought that she might ask my name, and after thinking about it a while, I decided to take my very own name, my—mother's," with a little choke over the name. "She did ask me in a little while, said I looked so young, and why was I travelling alone; and I told her that I was an orphan, that my name was Florence Clare, and that I was on my way to New York; and then she looked so kind and interested that I burst right out crying. I couldn't help it. She didn't ask me any more then, but when we got to New York, no one met her, and she was terribly worried. She asked me where I was going, and I was afraid she would think something was wrong if I told her I didn't know where; so I just gave any street and number, but I said that if she wanted me to go and help her, I could just as well as not, as no one was expecting me anywhere. She seemed very glad, so I carried the children out, and after a policeman had called a hack for her, we went to the St. Nicholas; she was very sick after we got there, and after I put the children to sleep, I sat up with her nearly all night. She was a widow, she said, and had written to a friend in New York to meet her on that train, but that, probably, he had not received the letter; and that she wanted to go right on to Boston, next morning, if she was able. I asked her then if she did not want me to go with her, to take care of the children, that I was all alone in the world, andobliged to work some way and somewhere, and after asking me a great many questions, she said she would think about it. She seemed like a very good, kind lady, and I was afraid she would think there was something strange about me, so I made my story sound just as good as possible. I said I was coming to the city because I thought I could find work better than in a small place, and that I had no near relatives in the world, and would like to go with her, because she looked kind, and I would just as soon take care of children as anything else. She looked at my clothes, but they were my very plainest; and then she asked me what baggage I had, and I showed her my satchel, with nothing but some clothes in it, and then she said that I looked truthful, and too young and pretty to be alone in the city, and that I should go on with her in the morning. I don't know what I would have done if it hadn't been for her, for when I was on the train, I had no idea where I would go or what I would do. Before I left home, I tried to feel right, to forget who I was, but I couldn't; my head kept aching, and I thought every day that it ached harder, and that pretty soon I would be crazy; and then I thought of going away where I could never be found, and die somewhere, and something made me go. It seemed as if I was being pulled away, and every time I heard any of the girls say 'mama,' it came to me that you wasn't my mama, that the girls were not my sisters,then my head ached harder than ever and I couldn't cry. I thought God must surely feel sorry for me, and that he sent the lady on purpose—" and as Ernestine paused to cough and get breath, several tears were smuggled out of sight by her listeners, and Mrs. Dering's voice trembled, as she kissed the speaker, and said:
"He did, dear; believe it, I asked Him to care for and watch over you, wherever you might be, and I knew that He would."
"I went on to Boston with her," continued Ernestine, after a moment's rest. "I knew you would never find me there, and I didn't want to know that you ever looked for me; I knew you would, but I didn't want to hear about it. For awhile the lady watched me very closely, and I knew she was a little distrustful, but the children liked me, and though the work nearly killed me, I kept up. I was with the children constantly, slept, ate, and went out with them, washed, dressed and took care of them from morning 'till night; and sometimes I wished I could die, I was so tired and unhappy. I did not intend to stay with her, but meant to go on the stage just as soon as possible, though I never saw the papers, and had no chance of finding the names of companies. Once I asked to see the papers, but she didn't like it; she was never unkind really, but she always seemed a little suspicious, and when I asked for the paper, she asked what I wanted it for? I hada good place, and no need of the papers. I didn't want to tell her, for fear she would turn me off, so I just waited. One day I was singing the baby to sleep; it was the first time I had ever sung in her house, and she happened to hear me, and came in and complimented my voice, said how beautiful it was, and why didn't I use it, instead of wearing my life out nursing babies. I said right away that I wanted to, and meant to go on the stage as soon as I could; then she was angry, and threatened to find another girl if I did not at once give up such a notion. I promised I would, but I didn't and a few days later, I was out with the children, and saw an advertisement for fifty girls wanted at a play, and as soon as I got back, I told her I was going to leave. She was very angry, and kept that week's wages, but I went, and the next day I answered the advertisement. It was for girls to dance, and I said I could not, and would not, and was just going to leave, when the manager came in, and stopped me. He began by making foolish speeches about how beautiful I was, but when I started away, he begged pardon, and said I was just what they wanted for a queen, who was to come out of a flower, and did not have to dance, which would suit me, since I was so over-particular. At first I thought I never could, and it made me so ashamed, to think of being in such a crowd, that I felt like hiding my face forever. But there I was, with no home and no money,and what could I do? So I signed the contract for ten nights, at fifty cents a night, and felt that I could never look you in the face again, or any of the girls. It was not as bad as I expected, but oh, so different from what I had always thought the stage was. We all had to dress in a little room that was as cold as ice, and most of the girls were so loud and coarse, and talked slang, and they all took a dislike to me because I was queen. They called me "old prudy," and had all kinds of coarse jokes that made me feel as though I would die of shame; I took cold the first night, the stage was so windy, and our dresses as thin as wisps, and then I was so mortified and miserable. I nearly starved while I was there, the pay was so small, and I couldn't afford to have any fire in my room at the small hotel, and took such a heavy cold that I thought I would die coughing. Oh, how wretched I was! I wanted to die, for I thought I had fallen so low that you would never care for me again, and I never felt that I needed God as I did then. I don't think I ever prayed honestly before, but it seemed as if that terrible feeling of being alone, would kill me, so I began to go to God, as I would to you, and it became such a comfort. I wanted to be good and honest, whatever I did, so that I could feel that I still had a right to love and think of you all. I stayed with that company the rest of the winter, at a salary of two dollars a week, and did all manner of odds and ends. Sometimes go onas a substitute, sometimes as a servant or some inferior character, and often to dress the leading ladies, when they found that I could do it nicely. The manager was a gruff, coarse man, but he had a kind heart, and after a while, he seemed to take a sort of interest in me, especially when my cough grew so bad. He brought me medicine twice, and one night asked me if I had been used to such a life. I told him, no, but would not answer any other questions. When the company broke up in the spring, he found me a place as nurse-girl in a family that he knew, and said, that in the fall, a friend of his was going to organize an opera-troupe, and that he would try and get me in, for by that time, I had sung for him, and said that opera was what I had rather be in.
"I found my second trial as nurse-girl, a great deal harder than the first; for there were three children, all sick and cross, and when hot weather came, I had a little room up under the roof to sleep in, and the heat was frightful. I had to be up nearly every night with the children, for two of them were very sick during the hottest weather, and I was called upon for nearly every thing. Between the heat and working so hard, I gave out, and fainted one night, while sitting up with the little girl, and the doctor told my mistress that if I did not have a rest, I would be sick, and probably die on her hands. So in a few days, she sent me and her oldestgirl out to her mother's, who lived in the country. I was so glad and grateful for the rest, that I never can forget her. The grandmother was a plain, good-hearted old lady, who seemed very sorry for me, and she used to tell me every day, that I would never live to see another year, especially after she found that my mother had died of consumption. I didn't care how soon I died, and told her so, and then she thought I was wicked, and began to preach long sermons to me, and give me all kinds of queer drinks and medicines, which did me much more good than the sermons, for after staying there three weeks, I was much better, as was Nettie; so we went back to the city, and I stayed with Mrs. Feathers until late in August.
"One day, Mr. Fox, the old manager, came and brought Mr. Hurst, the friend who was going to organize the troupe, and I sang for him. He liked my voice, but said he would not engage me until I had rehearsed once or twice with the company, so that he could see what I amounted to, and Mrs. Feathers said I might keep my place with her, until he had decided. After one or two rehearsals, he engaged me, at four dollars a week, and so I left Mrs. Feathers. She was so kind, gave me a new dress and two dollars, and said if I broke down in health, that her mother had taken a fancy to me, andwould like to have me come out again and stay awhile with her. I felt so grateful that I threw my arms around her neck and cried, and she kissed me; I never shall forget how good it seemed to really be kissed again by some one who was a mother, and whom I knew, felt sorry for me.
"I had a very rough time in the new troupe. The manager was cross and rude, and I had to study hard to catch up with the old members; we rehearsed stiff and steadily, and started out in September, visiting only small places first, and not making much money, so that our pay was often behind. In a while I was promoted from chorus singing to character, and I had no money to buy a wardrobe, so the manager paid me fifteen dollars that he owed me, and advanced ten—"
Here Olive gave an indignant breath, but said nothing, on second thought; and Ernestine went on, without noticing the interruption.
"I bought some stage clothes with part of it, and used the other to redeem my ring, that you gave me, mama, that I had been obliged to pawn for my board; but while I was working out the ten for him, I had to pawn it again, and one of my dresses, as I hadn't a cent. We travelled south, and were in Virginia a few nights before going to Staunton, and when I heard that we were to go there, I felt as thoughI never could! I didn't know whether Jean was there yet, and I didn't expect she would come to an opera if she was; but to go there, and perhaps be so near her, when I would have been glad to have died, just for the sake of seeing, or hearing from one of you, in some way—oh, it was so hard! The manager grew very much provoked and impatient because I coughed so much and was so weak, and threatened to discharge me, as I was getting useless; so I used to nearly strangle trying not to cough, and never dared say I was tired again. The very evening we got to Staunton, Miss Downs, one of the leading ladies, was taken quite sick, and the manager told me I would have to take her part next evening, in 'The Bohemian Girl,' so I sat up nearly all night to study, and sang all next day, until I was ready to drop. When the time came to go to the theatre, I was so faint I could not stand up and dress; I begged them not to tell the manager, for I knew he would discharge me right there; but Madame T—— heard of it, and sent her maid up with a hot whiskey-toddy, and to help me dress, and that is the way I started out for the evening.
"You know the rest. From the time that I felt my voice leaving me, and everything began growing dark, I did not know anything, until I opened my eyes, and saw Olive! Oh, I thought I was in Heaven,surely; it seemed too sweet to be true. I wonder I did not die, instead of faint, with pure joy. Even after I had looked at her long, had heard her speak, and felt her kisses, I could not believe it. I almost expected to wake up and find that I had been dreaming between acts, on the cold, windy stage, or that the manager was scolding me for falling to sleep, and daring to dream of happiness and you. I don't think I would have lived much longer, and perhaps when I found that I was really going to die, I could not have left you without a little word of some kind, for my heart used to nearly break with longing to know if you loved me yet, or would ever want to see me again. I did not feel as though I ever had a right to go back, but when I found that I was coming, that you wanted and loved me, oh, mama! I thought then my heart would surely break, I was so happy!"
At this point every one was crying. Mrs. Dering had laid her face down in the pillows; the girls had, one by one, retired behind their work, and Kat, with her head wrapped in the towel she had been hemming was crying, while she vowed vengeance alike on saint and sinner.
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"I wouldlike to see my lady."
It was an imperious demand, that every one in the Dering household had become used to, likewise, to the speaker, a mite of humanity, with wicked big blue eyes, a pug nose, and a frowzled head of brown curls.
She was dressed to day, in a long white fur cloak, a cap of the same, and a mite of a muff, with scarlet silk tassels, and hung to her neck with a broad scarlet ribbon; and she had rung the bell with her own wee hand, and presented her message, in that imperative way, that indicated a spoiled, but precious specimen of babydom.
"I do hope you will forgive us," said the smiling faced young lady, who accompanied her. "We don't intend to come every day, but mother made some delicious chocolate cake yesterday, and I thought possiblyMiss Ernestine might relish a taste of it, with some of my wine jelly; and when I spoke of bringing it, Pansy heard me, and insisted on coming too; so here we are."
"How very kind you are," said Bea, taking the dainty wicker basket, knotted with scarlet ribbons, and peeping in at its fancy glass of moulded jelly, the delicious cake, and a bunch of hot-house flowers. "We should be glad to see you every day; how could we help it, when you always come laden like a good angel!"
"I would like—to—see—my—lady!" repeated Pansy, with impressive dignity, and some severity of manner; for what did she care about jelly, and good angels, and all that. "I haven't seen her since the other day before yesterday morning."
"You shall see her right away," laughed Bea, setting down the basket. "Excuse me a moment, Miss Clara, Kittie is busy in the kitchen. I'll take Pansy out there, before we go up stairs."
Kittie was pealing apples, and meditating on how she would trim her hat, since it had to be trimmed over, and nothing new to do it with; but she put all such thoughts aside when she saw her visitor, and made a seat for her on the bench.
"I 'spect I'm most gladder to see you than I ever was before," said Pansy, with a devoted smile, as she took her seat near Kittie.
"Why, what are you sitting there for? Here I am,"said Kat, who sat opposite slicing apples. "I thought you always knew me."
Pansy looked from one to the other, for a moment, then nestled close to Kittie, as she remarked with decision:
"You're not my lady; you're the other one."
"How do you know?"
"Well, I 'spect I couldn't jes tell, but then you are."
"I shouldn't wonder if you were right, but I want to tell you that you mustn't love Kittie so much; she's mine, and I'm jealous," said Kat, with a foreboding shake of her head.
"But she keeped the bear from eating me up," cried Pansy, with unshaken belief that she would have been forever lost except for Kittie's timely arrival. "I jes never'd seen my papa once any more, 'f she hadn't finded me in the woods; and he said I ought to love her jes as much more as ever I could, and Ido," accompanying the assertion with a loving clasp of Kittie's arm, the suddenness of which sent her apple spinning across the floor.
"There, see; I'll get it," she cried, running after it, with a triumphant glance at Kat. "'F I'd knocked your apple, you'd a scolded me."
"Oh, no; I'm an angel," laughed Kat. "Kittie's the one that scolds."
"Do you?" asked Pansy, leaning against Kittie, with adevotion that nearly knocked the whole pan of apples over.
"I never scolded you, did I?" asked Kittie.
"No, but Auntie Raymond says I mind you the bestest of anybody. I think I do. I 'spect it's because I love you best, right up next to my papa; do you love me?"
"Ever so much."
"Well, I don't know what I'll do," said Pansy, with a long sigh, after she expressed a little rapture over the assurance. "My papa said the other day, what I'd do when we went back to the city 'thout you, and I said I was going to take you along; 'll you go?"
"How could I? Leave my mama and sisters?"
"But don't you love me 'n my papa?"
"I love you a very great deal."
"'N not my papa?"
"I think he's a very nice gentleman, and that you ought to be a very good little girl, and love him lots and lots."
Pansy drew back, and slowly surveyed her idol, as though she had just discovered the first flaw. "I think you might love him, too," she said with a grieved air, and some resentment.
"If she loved him, she wouldn't love you so much," said Kat, slyly.
"Then I'm glad you don't," exclaimed Pansy, with sudden satisfaction, and returning to her seat with an enraptured smile.
There was no mistaking the child's devotion. She firmly believed that Kittie had saved her from being lost forever, and on the foundation of her great gratitude, she had built an overwhelming love, that expressed itself in various ways. She never let any one of the family come to town without bringing flowers, and she insisted on coming in at least three times a week, herself; and it may be remarked, that whatever Pansy set her mind on, she did.
Between aunts, uncles, and cousins, and a father, who was rapidly coming to the conclusion that she was the most wonderful child alive, she was in a fair way of being spoiled, and had finally come to where she ruled the household with the most imperious little will, which every one submitted to, and thought delightful.
Twice since the picnic, she had come with her papa, in the phaeton, and taken Kittie to ride, and three times, Mr. Murray had come in the long summer evenings, and brought her to spend an hour or two; and there Kittie's acquaintance with him ceased.
In the rides, he had talked to her but little, preferring to listen to the unbroken chatter which Pansy kept up with her. And then he saw, that to her, he appeared in a fatherly guise, which made her feelperfectly free and unrestrained, and he thought it best to leave it so for the present.
His calls in the evenings had been entirely devoted to Mrs. Dering. They would sit on the porch, in proper, elderly fashion, sometimes joined by Bea, while the twins and Pansy would roam about the yard, and play together like three children, and Mr. Murray would have nothing to say to the one he really came to see except "Good evening, Miss Kittie," when he came, and when he left.
No one, except his own sister, suspected in the least that anything took him there save a desire to accompany Pansy, whose absorbing devotion everyone in Canfield knew by this time.
Mr. Murray was quick to see that in the mother's eyes, Kittie and Kat were the merest children, and that a thought of any other kind in connection with them, would not be harbored for an instant; and he also saw, that never a girlish heart was freer from anything of loves or lovers, than Kittie's, and so long as it was so, he was quite content to let it remain, and watch it grow to maturity. There was no denying that he was strangely and powerfully interested in her, wonder and laugh at the idea, as he would, though he could not yet think that the feeling had assumed the name of love. It was only that respect and interest that comes to the heart of manwhen he meets a woman, lovely, fresh-hearted, and unselfishly sweet.
The approaching dignity of sixteen lay over the girls, and while Kat was still a most thoroughly romping tom-boy, Kittie was wonderfully womanly, with pretty, graceful, lady-like ways, the sweetest possible voice, and the loveliest eyes that ever looked, with girlish innocence, into the face of the man who felt that love her he could, and love her he would, in spite of himself.
There was something irresistibly attractive and sweet to Paul Murray, in watching the love between his little daughter and the young girl. Kittie's slightest word was law to Pansy; and there was something so womanly in the way she exercised her influence, and made the child's love a source of benefit unto her spoiled, wayward little self.
When fall drifted into the chilly reign of winter, Mr. Murray went back to the city. He had intended going long before, but had put it off, a week at a time, until winter had finally come; then he decided with a sudden determination, and, as if to test his firmness of purpose, had slipped away from Pansy, and galloped into town, trusting to the darkness to hide from Canfield's prying eyes, that he was coming to the Dering's alone. Not that he cared; oh, no, he would just as soon have heralded to every soul therein that it was so, but forKittie's sake, it was best to give no one's tongue a chance to wag. Many a bud is rudely hastened into blossom by impatient fingers, and withers from the shock; it must not be so now.
He fastened his horse at the gate, and went slowly up the walk, wondering a little if they would be surprised. A bright light came from Ernestine's window, and out from down stairs, falling across the porch floor; and before ringing the bell, he paused a moment, and looked in. How bright and homelike everything looked, and there, before the grate, stood the very object of his visit, making the prettiest picture imaginable, with a big kitchen apron on, her sleeves rolled up, and reading a letter. He knew it was Kittie, in a moment, for in her hair was a knot of scarlet ribbon, and the foot resting on the fender wore a bow, of the same color, astride its slippered toe—little niceties that Kat, was seldom, if ever, guilty of.
Beatrice answered his ring, and tried to look as though she had not expected some one else, some one who would have given her a more cordial greeting, than "Good evening, Miss Dering."
"Good evening, Mr. Murray; walk in, please, and I will call mama," said Bea, ushering him into the sitting-room, with some little wonder, and going up stairs.
Kittie had vanished with her letter; but as Mr. Murray sat down, he saw the envelope on the table,and immediately experienced the most peculiar and unpleasant sensation, on observing the masculine scrawls thereon. What gentleman was writing to her? he wondered, with quick resentment; and the next moment Kittie came in, and found him studying that envelope closely. She had thrown off her apron, and let down her sleeves, and he thought she looked prettier the other way, though he found that either way she was suddenly invested with a stronger attraction than ever; for a little competition will always make us more eager, and the star of our desire much brighter. He explained, with a laugh, as they sat down, that he had just been admiring the free, easy chirography on the envelope; which same was a fib of first degree, but then—
"It is Cousin Ralph's; I think it beautiful," said Kittie, unconsciously obliging, but giving no relief, for Mr. Murray's mind went back to the day he met "Cousin Ralph," handsome, manly fellow, and he remembered that it was only second cousin, and that Ralph had been very attentive to Kittie at the picnic, and that—oh, what didn't he think, all in a few minutes; and how true it is that