CHAPTER XXOUT OF STEP WITH THE TIMES
“No,” Sadie told Helen, afterward, “I am very sure that poor Lurcher man doesn’t drink. Some says he does; but you never notice it on him. It’s just his eyes.”
“His eyes?” queried Helen, wonderingly.
“Yes. He’s sort of blind. His eyelids keep fluttering all the time. He can’t control them. And, if you notice, he usually lifts up the lid of one eye with his finger before he makes one of his base-runs for the next post. Chee! I’d hate to be like that.”
“The poor old man! And can nothing be done for it?”
“Plenty, I reckon. But who’s goin’ to pay for it? Not him—he ain’t got it to pay. We all has our troubles down here, Helen.”
The girls had come down from the home of Sadie again, and Helen was preparing to leave her friend.
“Aren’t there places to go in the city to have one’s eyes examined? Free hospitals, I mean?”
“Sure! And they got Lurcher to one, once. But all they give him was a prescription for glasses, and it would cost a lot to get ’em. So it didn’t do him no good.”
Helen looked at Sadie suddenly. “How much would it take for the glasses?” she asked.
“I dunno. Ten dollars, mebbe.”
“And do you s’pose he could have that prescription now?” asked Helen, eagerly.
“Mebbe. But why for?”
“Perhaps I could—could get somebody uptown interested in his case who is able to pay for the spectacles.”
“Chee, that would be bully!” cried Sadie.
“Will you find out about the prescription?”
“Sure I will,” declared Sadie. “Nex’ time you come down here, Helen, I’ll know all about it. And if you can get one of them rich ladies up there to pay for ’em—Well! it would beat goin’ to a swell restaurant for a feed—eh?” and she laughed, hugged the Western girl, and then darted across the sidewalk to intercept a possible customer who was loitering past the row of garments displayed in front of the Finkelstein shop.
But Helen did not get downtown again as soon as she expected. When she awoke the next morning there had set in a steady drizzle—cold and raw—and the panes of her windows were so murkythat she could not see even the chimneys and roofs, or down into the barren little yards.
This—nor a much heavier—rain would not have ordinarily balked Helen. She was used to being out in all winds and weathers. But she actually had nothing fit to wear in the rain.
If she had worn the new cheap dress out of doors she knew what would happen. It would shrink all out of shape. And she had no raincoat, nor would she ask her cousins—so she told herself—for the loan of an umbrella.
So, as long as it rained steadily, it looked as though the girl from Sunset Ranch was a sure-enough “shut-in.” Nor did she contemplate this possibility with any pleasure.
There was nothing for her to do but read. And one cannot read all the time. She had no “fancy-work” with which to keep her hands and mind busy. She wondered what her cousins did on such days. She found out by keeping her ears and eyes open. After breakfast Belle went shopping in the limousine. There was an early luncheon and all three of the Starkweather girls went to a matinée. In neither case was Helen invited to go—no, indeed! She was treated as though she were not even in the house. Seldom did either of the older girls speak to her.
“I might as well be a ghost,” thought Helen.
And this reminded her of the little old lady who paced the ghost-walk every night—the ex-nurse, Mary Boyle. She had thought of going to see her on the top floor before; but she had not been able to pluck up the courage.
Now that her cousins were gone from the house, however, and Mrs. Olstrom was taking a nap in her room, and Mr. Lawdor was out of the way, and all the under-servants mildly celebrating the free afternoon below stairs, Helen determined to venture out of her own room, along the main passage of the top floor, to the door which she believed must give upon the front suite of rooms which the little old lady occupied.
She knocked, but there was no response. Nor could she hear any sound from within. It struck Helen that the principal cruelty of the Starkweathers’ treatment of this old soul was her being shut away alone up here at the top of the house—too far away from the rest of its occupants for a cry to be heard if the old lady should be in trouble.
“If they shut up a dog like this, he would howl and thus attract attention to his state,” muttered Helen. “But here is a human being——”
She tried the door. The latch clicked and the door swung open. Helen stepped into a narrow, hall-like room, well furnished with old-fashioned furniture (probably brought from below stairswhen Mr. Starkweather re-decorated the mansion) with one window in it. The door which evidently gave upon the remainder of the suite was closed.
As Helen listened, however, from behind this closed door came a cheerful, cracked voice—the same voice she had heard whispering the lullaby in the middle of the night. But now it was tuning up on an old-time ballad, very popular in its day:
“Wait till the clouds roll by, Jennie—
Wait till the clouds roll by!
Jennie, my own true loved one—
Wait till the clouds roll by.”
“She doesn’t sound like a hopeless prisoner,” thought Helen, with surprise.
She waited a minute longer and, as the thin yet still sweet voice stopped, Helen knocked timidly on the inner door. Immediately the voice said, “Come in, deary. ’Tis not for the likes of you to be knockin’ at old Mary’s door. Come in!”
Helen turned the knob slowly and went into the room. The moment she crossed the threshold she forgot the clouds and rain and gloominess which had depressed her. Indeed, it seemed as though the sun must be ever shining into this room, high up under the roof of the Starkweather mansion.
In the first place, it was most cheerfully papered and painted. There were pretty, simple, yellow and white hangings. The heavier pieces of old furniture had gay “tidies” or “throws” upon them to relieve the sombreness of the dark wood. The pictures on the walls were all in white or gold frames, and were of a cheerful nature—mostly pictures of childhood, or pictures which would amuse children. Evidently much of the furnishings of the old nursery had been brought up here to Mary Boyle’s sitting-room.
Helen had a glimpse, through a half-open door, of the bedroom—quite as bright and pretty. There was a little stove set up here, and a fire burned in it. It was one of those stoves that have isinglass all around it so that the fire can be seen when it burns red. It added mightily to the cheerful tone of the room.
How neat everything appeared! Yet the very neatest thing in sight was the little old lady herself, sitting in a green-painted rocker, with a low sewing-table at her side, wooden needles clicking fast in her fleecy knitting.
She looked up at Helen with a little, bird-like motion—her head a bit on one side and her glance quizzical. This, it proved, was typical of Mary Boyle.
“Deary, deary me!” she said. “You’re anewgirl. And what do you want Mary to do for you?”
“I—I thought I’d come and make you a little call,” said Helen, timidly.
This wasn’t at all as she expected to find the shut-in! Instead of gloom, and tears, and the weakness of age, here were displayed all the opposite emotions and qualities. The woman who was forgotten did not appear to be an object of pity at all. She merely seemed out of step with the times.
“I’m sure you’re very welcome, deary,” said the old nurse. “Draw up the little rocker yonder. I always keep it for young company,” and Mary Boyle, who had had no young company up here for ten or a dozen years, spoke as though the appearance of a youthful face and form was of daily occurrence.
“You see,” spoke Helen, more confidently, “we are neighbors on this top floor.”
“Neighbors; air we?”
“I live up here, too. The family have tucked me away out of sight.”
“Hush!” said the little old woman. “We shouldn’t criticise our bethers. No, no! And this is a very cheerful par-r-rt of the house, so it is.”
“But it must be awful,” exclaimed Helen, “to have to stay in it all the time!”
“I don’t have to stay in it all the time,” replied the nurse, quickly.
“No, ma’am. I hear you in the night going downstairs and walking in the corridor,” Helen said, softly.
The wrinkled old face blushed very prettily, and Mary Boyle looked at her visitor doubtfully.
“Sure, ’tis such a comfort for an old body like me,” she said, at last, “to make believe.”
“Make believe?” cried Helen, with a smile. “Why,I’mnot old, and I love to make believe.”
“Ah, yis! But there is a differ bechune the make-believes of the young and the make-believes of the old.Youare playin’ you’re grown up, or dramin’ of what’s comin’ to you in th’ future—sure, I know! I’ve had them drames, too, in me day.
“But with old folks ’tis different. We do be har-r-rking back instead of lookin’ for’ard. And with me, it’s thinkin’ of the babies I’ve held in me ar-r-rms, and rocked on me knee, and walked the flure wid when they was ailin’—An’ sure the babies ofthishouse was always ailin’, poor little things.”
“They were a great trouble to you, then?” asked Helen, softly.
“Trouble, is it?” cried Mary Boyle, her eyes shining again. “Sure, how could a blessid infant be a trouble? ’Tis a means of grace they be to the hear-r-rt—I nade no preacher to tell me that, deary. I found thim so. And they loved me and was happy wid me,” she added, cheerfully.
“The folks below think me a little quare in me head,” she confided to her visitor. “But they don’t understand. To walk up and down the nursery corridor late at night relaves the ache here,” and she put her little, mitted hand upon her heart. “Ye see, I trod that path so often—so often——”
Her voice trailed off and she fell silent, gazing into the glow of the fire in the stove. But there was a smile on her lips. The past was no time to weep over. This cheerful body saw only the bright spots in her long, long life.
Helen loved to hear her talk. And soon she and Mary Boyle were very well acquainted. One thing about the old nurse Helen liked immensely. She asked no questions. She accepted Helen’s visit as a matter of course; yet she showed very plainly that she was glad to have a young face before her.
But the girl from Sunset Ranch did not know how Mrs. Olstrom might view her making friends with the old lady; so she made her visit brief. Butshe promised to come again and bring a book to read to Mary Boyle.
“Radin’ is a great accomplishment, deary,” declared the old woman. “I niver seemed able to masther it—although me mistress oft tried to tache me. But, sure, there was so much to l’arn about babies, that ain’t printed in no book, that I was always radin’ them an’ niver missed the book eddication till I come to be old. But th’ foine poethry me mistress useter be radin’ me! Sure, ’twould almost put a body to slape, so swate and grand it was.”
So, Helen searched out a book of poems downstairs, and the next forenoon she ventured into the front suite again, and read ta Mary Boyle for an hour. The storm lasted several days, and each day the girl from the West spent more and more time with the little old woman.
But this was all unsuspected by Uncle Starkweather and the three girls. If Mrs. Olstrom knew she said nothing. At least, she timed her own daily visits to the little old woman so that she would not meet Helen in the rooms devoted to old Mary’s comfort.
Nor were Helen’s visits continued solely because she pitied Mary Boyle. How could she continue to pity one who did not pity herself?
No. Helen received more than she gave in thisstrange friendship. Seeking to amuse the old nurse, she herself gained such an uplift of heart and mind that it began to counteract that spirit of sullenness that had entered into the Western girl when she had first come to this house and had been received so unkindly by her relatives.
Instead of hating them, she began to pity them. How much Uncle Starkweather was missing by being so utterly selfish! How much the girls were missing by being self-centred!
Why, see it right here in Mary Boyle’s case! Nobody could associate with the delightful little old woman without gaining good from the association. Instead of being friends with the old nurse, and loving her and being loved by her, the Starkweather girls tucked her away in the attic and tried to ignore her existence.
“They don’t know what they’re missing—poor things!” murmured Helen, thinking the situation over.
And from that time her own attitude changed toward her cousins. She began to look out for chances to help them, instead of making herself more and more objectionable to Belle, Hortense, and Flossie.
CHAPTER XXIBREAKING THE ICE
As for Floss, Helen had already got a hold upon that young lady.
“Come on, Helen!” the younger cousin would whisper after dinner. “Come up to my room and give me a start on these lessons; will you? That’s a good chap.”
And often when the rest of the family thought the unwelcome visitor had retired to her room at the top of the house, she was shut in with Flossie, trying to guide the stumbling feet of that rather dull girl over the hard places in her various studies.
For Floss had soon discovered that the girl from Sunset Ranch somehow had a wonderful insight into every problem she put up to her. Nor were they all in algebra.
“I don’t see how you managed to do it, ’way out there in that wild place you lived in; but you must have gone through ’most all the text-books I have,” declared Flossie, once.
“Oh, I had to grab every chance there was forschooling,” Helen responded, and changed the subject instantly.
Flossie thought she had a secret from her sisters, however, and she hugged it to her with much glee. She realized that Helen was by no means the ignoramus Belle and Hortense said.
“And let ’em keep on thinking it,” Flossie said, to herself, with a chuckle. “I don’t know what Helen has got up her sleeve; but I believe she is fooling all of us.”
A long, dreary fortnight of inclement weather finally got on the nerves of Hortense. Belle could go out tramping in it, or cab-riding, or what-not. She was athletic, and loved exercise in the open air, no matter what the weather might be. But the second sister was just like a pussy-cat; she loved comfort and the warm corners. However, being left alone by Belle, and nobody coming in to call for several days, Hortense was completely overpowered by loneliness.
She had nothing within herself to fight off nervousness and depression. So, having caught a little, sniffly cold, she decided that she was sick and went to bed.
The Starkweather girls did not each have a maid. Mr. Starkweather could not afford that luxury. But Hortense at once requisitioned one of the housemaids to wait upon her and of courseMrs. Olstrom’s very carefully-thought-out system was immediately turned topsy-turvy.
“I cannot allow you, Miss, to have the services of Maggie all day long,” Helen heard the housekeeper announce at the door of the invalid’s room. “We are not prepared to do double work in this house. You must either speak to your father and have a nurse brought in, or wait upon yourself.”
“Oh, you heartless, wicked thing!” cried Hortense. “How can you be so cruel? I couldn’t wait upon myself. I want my broth. And I want my hair done. And you can see yourself how the room is all in a mess. And——”
“Maggie must do her parlor work to-day. You know that. If you want to be waited upon, Miss, get your sister to do it,” concluded the housekeeper, and marched away.
“And she very well knows that Belle has gone out somewhere and Flossie is at school. I coulddiehere, and nobody would care,” wailed Hortense.
Helen walked into the richly furnished room. Hortense was crying into her pillow. Her hair was still in two unkempt braids and shedidneed a fresh boudoir cap and gown.
“Can I do anything to help you, ’Tense?” asked Helen, cheerfully.
“Oh, dear me—no!” exclaimed her cousin.“You’re so loud and noisy. And do,docall me by my proper name.”
“I forgot. Sure, I’ll call you anything you say,” returned the Western girl, smiling at her. Meanwhile she was moving about the room, deftly putting things to rights.
“I’m going to tell father the minute he comes home!” wailed Hortense, ignoring her cousin for the time and going back to her immediate troubles. “I am left all alone—and I’m sick—and nobody cares—and—and——”
“Where do you keep your caps, Hortense?” interrupted Helen. “And if you’ll let me, I’ll brush your hair and make it look pretty. And then you get into a fresh nightgown——”
“Oh, I couldn’t sit up,” moaned Hortense. “I really couldn’t. I’m too weak.”
“I’ll show you how. Let me fix the pillows—so!Andso!There—nothing like trying; is there? You’re comfortable; aren’t you?”
“We-ell——”
Helen was already manipulating the hairbrush. She did it so well, and managed to arrange Hortense’s really beautiful hair so simply yet easily on her head that the latter quite approved of it—and said so—when she looked into her hand-mirror.
Then Helen got her into a chair, in a fresh robe and a pretty kimono, while she made thebed—putting on new sheets and cases for the pillows so that all should be sweet and clean. Of course, Hortense wasn’t really sick—only lazy. But she thought she was sick and Helen’s attentions pleased the spoiled girl.
“Why, you’re not such a bad little thing, Helen,” she said, dipping into a box of chocolates on the stand by her bedside. Chocolates were about all the medicine Hortense took during this “bad attack.” And she was really grateful—in her way—to her cousin.
It was later on this day that Helen plucked up courage to go to her uncle and give him back the letter he had written to Fenwick Grimes.
“I did not use it, sir,” she said.
“Ahem!” he said, and with evident relief. “You have thought better of it, I hope? You mean to let the matter rest where it is?”
“I have not abandoned my attempt to get at the truth—no, Uncle Starkweather.”
“How foolish of you, child!” he cried.
“I do not think it is foolish. But I will try not to mix you up in my inquiries. That is why I did not use the letter.”
“And you have seen Grimes?” he asked, hastily.
“Oh, yes.”
“Does he know who you are?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And you reached him without an introduction? I understand he is hard to approach. He is a money-lender, in a way, and he has an odd manner of never appearing to come into personal contact with his clients.”
“Yes, sir. I think him odd.”
“Did—did he think he could help you?”
“He thinks just as you do, sir,” stated Helen, honestly. “And, then, he accused you of sending me to him at first; so I would not use your letter and so compromise you.”
“Ahem!” said the gentleman, surprised that this young girl should be so circumspect. It rather startled him to discover that she was thoughtful far beyond her years. Was it possible that—somehow—shemightbring to light the truth regarding the unhappy difficulty that had made Prince Morrell an exile from his old home for so many years?
Once May Van Ramsden ran in to see Belle and caught Helen going through the hall on her way to her own room. It was just after luncheon, which she and Belle had eaten in a silence that could be felt. Belle would not speak to her cousin unless she was obliged to, and Helen did not see that forcing her attentions upon the other girl would do any good.
“Why, here you are, Helen Morrell! Why don’t I ever see you when I come here?” cried the caller, shaking Helen by both hands and smiling upon her heartily from her superior height. “When are your cousins going to bring you to call upon me?”
Helen might have replied, truthfully, “Never;” but she only shook her head and smilingly declared: “I hope to see you again soon, Miss Van Ramsden.”
“Well, I guess you must!” cried the caller. “I want to hear some more of your experiences,” and she went on to meet the scowling Belle at the door of the reception parlor.
Later her eldest cousin said to the Western girl:
“In going up and down to your room, Miss, I want you to remember that there is a back stairway. Use the servants’ stairs, if you please!”
Helen made no reply. She wasn’t breaking much of the ice between her and Belle Starkweather, that was sure. And to add to Belle’s dislike for her cousin, there was another happening in which Miss Van Ramsden was concerned, soon after this.
Hortense was still abed, for the weather remained unpleasant—and there really was nothing else for the languid cousin to do. Miss Van Ramsden found Belle out, and she went upstairs tosay “how-do” to the invalid. Helen was in the room making the spoiled girl more comfortable, and Miss Van Ramsden drew the younger girl out into the hall when she left.
“I really have come to seeyou, child,” she said to Helen, frankly. “I was telling papa about you and he said he would dearly love to meet Prince Morrell’s daughter. Papa went to college with your father, my dear.”
Helen was glad of this, and yet she flushed a little. She was quite frank, however: “Does—does your father know about poor dad’s trouble?” she whispered.
“He does. And he always believed Mr. Morrell not guilty. Father was one of the firm’s creditors, and he has always wished your father had come to him instead of leaving the city so long ago.”
“Then he’s been paid?” cried Helen, eagerly.
“Certainly. It is a secret, I believe—father warned me not to speak of it unless you did; but everybody was paid by your father after a time.Thatdid not look as though he were dishonest. His partner took advantage of the bankruptcy courts.”
“Of—of course your father has no idea whowasguilty?” whispered Helen, anxiously.
“None at all,” replied Miss Van Ramsden.“It was a mystery then and remains so to this day. That bookkeeper was a peculiar man, but had a good record; and it seems that he left the city before the checks were cashed. Or, so the evidence seemed to prove.
“Now, don’t cry, my dear! Come! I wish we could help you clear up that old trouble. But many of your father’s old friends—like papa—never believed Prince Morrell guilty.”
Helen was crying by this time. The kindness of this older girl broke down her self-possession. They heard somebody coming up the stairs, and Miss Van Ramsden said, quickly:
“Take me to your room, dear. We can talk there.”
Helen never thought that she might be giving the Starkweather family deadly offence by doing this. She led Miss Van Ramsden immediately to the rear of the house and up the back stairway to the attic floor. The caller looked somewhat amazed when Helen ushered her into the room.
“Well, they could not have put you much nearer the sky; could they?” she said, laughing, yet eyeing Helen askance.
“Oh, I don’t mind it up here,” returned Helen, truthfully enough. “And I have some company on this floor.”
“Ahem! The maids, I suppose?” said May Van Ramsden.
“No, no,” Helen assured her, eagerly. “The dearest little old lady you ever saw.”
Then she stopped and looked at her caller in some distress. For the moment she had forgotten that she was probably on the way to reveal the Starkweather family skeleton!
“A little old lady? Who canthatbe?” cried the caller. “You interest me.”
“I—I—Well, it is an old lady who was once nurse in the family and I believe Uncle Starkweather cares for her——”
“It’s never Nurse Boyle?” cried Miss Van Ramsden, suddenly starting up. “Why! I remember about her. But somehow, I thought she had died years ago. Why, as a child I used to visit her at the house, and she used to like to have me come to see her. That was before your cousins lived here, Helen. Then I went to Europe for several years and when we returned the house had all been done over, your uncle’s family was here, and I think—I am not sure—somebody told me dear old Mary Boyle was dead.”
“No,” observed Helen, thoughtfully. “She is not dead. She is only forgotten.”
Miss Van Ramsden looked at the Western girl for some moments in silence. She seemed to understandthe whole matter without a word of further explanation.
“Would you mind letting me see Mary Boyle while I am here?” she asked, gravely. “She was a very lovely old soul, and all the families hereabout—I have heard my mother often say—quite envied the Starkweathers their possession of such a treasure.”
“Certainly we can go in and see her,” declared Helen, throwing all discretion to the winds. “I was going to read to her this afternoon, anyway. Come along!”
She led the caller through the hall to Mary Boyle’s little suite of rooms. To herself Helen said:
“Let the wild winds of disaster blow! Whew! If the family hears of this I don’t know but they will want to have me arrested—or worse! But what can I do? And then—Mary Boyle deserves better treatment at their hands.”
CHAPTER XXIIIN THE SADDLE
The little old lady “tidied” her own room. She hopped about like a bird with the aid of the ebony crutch, and Helen and Miss Van Ramsden heard the “step—put” of her movements when they entered the first room.
“Come in, deary!” cried the dear old soul. “I was expecting you. Ah, whom have we here? Good-day to you, ma’am!”
“Nurse Boyle! don’t you remember me?” cried the visitor, going immediately to the old lady and kissing her on both cheeks.
“Bless us, now! How would I know ye?” cried the old woman. “Is it me old eyes I have set on ye for many a long year now?”
“And I blame myself for it, Nurse,” cried May Van Ramsden. “Don’t you remember little May—the Van Ramsdens’ May—who used to come to see you so often when she was about so-o high?” cried the girl, measuring the height of a five or six-year-old.
“A neighbor’s babydidcome to see Old Marynow and then,” cried the nurse. “But you’re never May?”
“I am, Nurse.”
“And growed so tall and handsome? Well, well, well! It does bate all, so it does. Everybody grows up but Mary Boyle; don’t they?” and the old woman cackled out a sweet, high laugh, and sat down to “visit” with her callers.
The two girls had a very charming time with Mary Boyle. And May Van Ramsden promised to come again. When they left the old lady she said, earnestly, to Helen:
“And there are others that will be glad to come and see Nurse Boyle. When she was well and strong—before she had to use that crutch—she often appeared at our houses when there was trouble—serious trouble—especially with the babies or little children. And what Mary Boyle did not know about pulling young ones out of the mires of illness, wasn’t worth knowing. Why, I know a dozen boys and girls whose lives were probably saved by her. They shall be reminded of her existence. And—it shall be due to you, Little Cinderella!”
Helen smiled deprecatingly. “It will be due to your own kind heart, Miss Van Ramsden,” she returned. “I see that everybody in the city is notso busy with their own affairs that they cannot think of other people.”
The young lady kissed her again and said goodbye. But that did not end the matter—no, indeed! The news that Miss Van Ramsden had been taken to the topmost story of the Starkweather mansion—supposedly to Helen’s own room only—by the Western girl, dribbled through the servants to Belle Starkweather herself when she came home.
“Now, Pa! I won’t stand that common little thing being here any longer—no, I won’t! Why, she did that just on purpose to make folks talk—to make people believe that we abuse her. Of course, she told May thatIsent her to the top story to sleep. You get rid of that girl, Pa, or I declare I’ll go away. I guess I can find somebody to take me in as long as you wish to keep Prince Morrell’s daughter here inmyplace.”
“Ahem! I—I must beg you to compose yourself, Belle——”
“I won’t—and that’s flat!” declared his eldest daughter. “Either she goes; or I do.”
“Do let Belle go, Pa,” drawled Flossie. “She is getting too bossy, anyway.Idon’t mind having Helen here. She is rather good fun. And May Van Ramsden came here particularly to see Helen.”
“That’s not so!” cried Belle, stamping her foot.
“It is. Maggie heard her say so. Maggie was coming up the stairs and heard May ask Helen to take her to her room. What could the poor girl do?”
“Ahem! Flossie—I am amazed at you—amazed at you!” gasped Mr. Starkweather. “What do you learn at school?”
“Goodness me! I couldn’t tell you,” returned the youngest of his daughters, carelessly. “It’s none of it any good, though, Pa. You might as well take me out.”
“I’ve told that girl to use the back stairs, and to keep out of the front of the house,” went on Belle, ignoring Flossie. “If she had not been hanging about the front of the house, May Van Ramsden would not have seen her——”
“’Tain’t so!” snapped Flossie.
“Willyou be still, minx?” demanded the older sister.
“I don’t care. Let’s give Helen a fair deal. I tell you, Pa, May said she came particularly to see Helen. Besides, Helen had been in Hortense’s room, and that is where May found her. Helen was brushing Hortense’s hair. Hortense told me so.”
“Ahem! I am astonished at you, Flossie.The fact remains that Helen is a source of trouble in the house. I really do wish I knew how to get rid of her.”
“You give me permission, Pa,” sneered Belle, “and I’ll get rid of her very quickly—you see!”
“No, no!” exclaimed the troubled father. “I—I cannot use the iron hand at present—not at present.”
“Humph!” exclaimed the shrewd Belle. “I’d like to know what you are afraid of, Pa?”
Mr. Starkweather tried to frown down his daughter, but was unsuccessful. He merely presented a picture of a very cowardly man trying to look brave. It wasn’t much of a picture.
So—as may be easily conceived—Helen was not met at dinner by her relatives in any conciliatory manner. Yet the girl from the West really wished she might make friends with Uncle Starkweather and her cousins.
“It must be that a part of the fault is with me,” she told herself, when she crept up to her room after a gloomy time in the dining-room. “If I had it in me to please them—to make them happier—surely they could not treat me as they do. Oh, dear, I wish I had learned better how to be popular.”
That night Helen felt about as bad as she had any time since she arrived in the great city. Shewas too disturbed to read. She lay in bed until the small hours of the morning, unable to sleep, and worrying over all her affairs, which seemed, since she had arrived in New York, to go altogether wrong.
She had not made an atom of progress in that investigation which she had hoped would bring to light the truth about the mystery which had sent her father and mother West—fugitives—before she was born. She had only succeeded in becoming thoroughly suspicious of her Uncle Starkweather and of Fenwick Grimes.
Nor had she made any advance in the discovery of the mysterious Allen Chesterton, the bookkeeper of her father’s old firm, who held, she believed, the key to the mystery. She did not know what step to take next. She did not know what to do. And there was nobody with whom she could consult—nobody in all this great city to whom she could go.
Never before had Helen felt so lonely as she did this night. She had money enough with her to pay somebody to help her dig back for facts regarding the disappearance of the money belonging to the old firm of Grimes & Morrell. But she did not know how to go about getting the help she needed.
Her only real confidante—Sadie Goronsky—wouldnot know how to advise her in this emergency.
“I wish I had let Dud Stone give me his address. He said he was learning to be a lawyer,” thought Helen. “And just now, I s’pose, a lawyer is what I need most. But I wouldn’t know how to go about engaging a lawyer—not a good one.”
She awoke at her usual time next morning, and the depression of the night before was still with her. But when she jumped up she saw that it was no longer raining. The sky was overcast, but she could venture forth without running the risk of spoiling her new suit.
And right there a desperate determination came into Helen Morrell’s mind. She had learned that on the west side of Central Park there was a riding academy. She washungryfor an hour in the saddle. It seemed to her that a gallop would clear all the cobwebs away and make her feel like herself once more.
The house was still silent and dark. She took her riding habit out of the closet, made it up into a bundle, and crept downstairs with it under her arm. She escaped the watchful Lawdor for once, and got out by the area door before even the cook had crept, yawning, downstairs to begin her day’s work.
Helen, hurrying through the dark, drippingstreets, found a little restaurant where she could get rolls and coffee on her way to the Columbus Circle riding academy. It was still early when the girl from Sunset Ranch reached her goal. Yes, a mount was to be had, and she could change her street clothes for her riding suit in the dressing-rooms.
The city—at least, that part of it around Central Park—was scarcely awake when Helen walked her mount out of the stable and into the park. The man in charge had given her to understand that there were few riders astir so early.
“You’ll have the bridle-path to yourself, Miss, going out,” he said.
Helen had picked up a little cap to wear, and astride the saddle, with her hair tied with a big bow of ribbon at the nape of her neck, she looked very pretty as the horse picked his way across the esplanade into the bridle-path. But there were few, as the stableman had said, to see her so early in the morning.
It did not rain, however. Indeed, there was a fresh breeze which, she saw, was tearing the low-hung clouds to shreds. And in the east a rosy spot in the fog announced the presence of the sun himself, ready to burst through the fleecy veil and smile once more upon the world.
The trees and brush dripped upon the fallenleaves. For days the park caretakers had been unable to rake up these, and they had become almost a solid pattern of carpeting for the lawns. And down here in the bridle-path, as she cantered along, their pungent odor, stirred by the hoofs of her mount, rose in her nostrils.
This wasn’t much like galloping over an open trail on a nervous little cow-pony. But it was both a bodily and mental relief for the outdoor girl who had been, for these past weeks, shut into a groove for which she was so badly fitted.
She saw nobody on horseback but a mounted policeman, who turned and trotted along beside her, and was pleasant and friendly. This pleased Helen; and especially was she pleased when she learned that he had been West and had “punched cows” himself. That had been some years ago, but he remembered the Link-A—now the Sunset—Ranch, although he had never worked for that outfit.
Helen’s heart expanded as she cantered along. The sun dispelled the mist and shone warm upon the path. The policeman left her, but now there were other riders abroad. She went far out of town, as directed by the officer, and found the ride beautiful. After all, there were some lovely spots in this great city, if one only knew where to find them.
She had engaged a strong horse with good wind; but she did not want to break him down. So she finally turned her face toward the city again and let the animal take its own pace home.
She had ridden down as far as 110th Street and had crossed over into the park once more, when she saw a couple of riders advancing toward her from the south. They were a young man and a girl, both well mounted, and Helen noted instantly that they handled their spirited horses with ease.
Indeed, she was so much interested in the mounts themselves, that she came near passing the two without a look at their faces. Suddenly she heard an exclamation from the young fellow, she looked up, and found herself gazing straight into the handsome face of Dudley Stone.
“For the love of heaven!” gasped that astonished young man. “It surelyisHelen Morrell! Jess! See here! Here’s the very nicest girl who ever came out of Montana!”
Dud’s sister—Helen knew she must be his sister, for she had the same coloring as and a strong family resemblance to the budding lawyer—wheeled her horse and rode directly to Helen’s side.
“Oh, Miss Morrell!” she cried, putting outher gauntleted hand. “Is it really she, Dud? How wonderful!”
Helen shook hands rather timidly, for Miss Jessie Stone was torrential in her speech. There wasn’t a chance to “get a word in edgewise” when once she was started upon a subject that interested her.
“My goodness me!” she cried, still shaking Helen’s hand. “Is this really the girl who pulled you out of that tree, Dud? Who saved your life and took you on her pony to the big ranch? My, how romantic!
“And you really own a ranch, Miss Morrell? How nice that must be! And plenty of cattle on it—Why! you don’t mind the price of beef at all; do you? And what a clever girl you must be, too. Dud came back full of your praise, now I tell you——”
“There, there!” cried Dud. “Hold on a bit, Jess, and let’s hear how Miss Morrell is—and what she is doing here in the big city, and all that.”
“Well, I declare, Dud! You take the words right out of my mouth,” said his sister, warmly. “I was just going to ask her that. And we’re going to the Casino for breakfast, Miss Morrell, and you must come with us. You’ve had your ride; haven’t you?”
“I—I’m just returning,” admitted Helen, rather breathless, if Jess was not.
“Come on, then!” cried the good-natured but talkative city girl. “Come, Dud, you ride ahead and engage a table and order something nice. I’m as ravenous as a wolf. Dear me, Miss Morrell, if you have been riding long you must be quite famished, too!”
“I had coffee and rolls early,” said Helen, as Dud spurred his horse away.
“Oh, what’s coffee and rolls? Nothing at all—nothing at all! After I’ve been jounced around on this saddle for an hour I feel as though I neverhadeaten. I don’t care much for riding myself, but Dud is crazy for it, and I come to keep him company. You must ride with us, Miss Morrell. How long are you going to stay in town? And to think of your having saved Dud’s life—Well! he’ll never get over talking about it.”
“He makes too much of the incident,” declared Helen, determined to get in a word. “I only lent him a rope and he saved himself.”
“No. You carried him on your pony to that ranch. Oh, I know it all by heart. He talks about it to everybody. Dud issoenthusiastic about the West. He is crazy to go back again—he wants to live there. I tell him I’ll go out and try it for a while, and if I find I can stand it, he can hangout his shingle in that cow-town—what do you call it?”
“Elberon?” suggested Helen.
“Yes—Elberon. Dud says there is a chance for another lawyer there. And he came back here and entered the offices of Larribee & Polk right away, so as to get working experience, and be entered at the bar all the sooner. But say!” exclaimed Jess, “I believe one reason why he is so eager to go back to the West is becauseyoulive there.”
“Oh, Miss Stone!”
“Do call me Jess. ‘Miss Stone’ is so stiff. And you and I are going to be the very best of friends.”
“I really hope so, Jess. But you must call me Helen, too,” said the girl from Sunset Ranch.
Jess leaned out from her saddle, putting the horses so close that the trappings rubbed, and kissed the Western girl resoundingly on the cheek.
“I justlovedyou!” said the warm-hearted creature, “when Dud first told me about you. But now that I see you in the flesh, I love you for your very own self! I hope you’ll love me, too, Helen Morrell—And you won’t mind if I talk a good deal?”