Charlotte was closing the piano after an hour's practice when Alexina walked in. A week had passed since the discovery of her disobedience,—a week of increasing unhappiness. The blow had fallen unexpectedly. One day at dinner she had been conscious of something amiss. A remark of her own met with no response; Aunt Caroline looked haughty, Aunt Virginia despondent. Charlotte had not, however, guessed the cause until she was summoned into the library and the question put to her by Mrs. Millard, "Did you go to the Lyles' in defiance of my express wishes, Charlotte?"
"I—"
"Yes or no, if you please."
"Yes," Charlotte answered, "but—"
"I want no explanations. There can be none."
"But, Aunt Caroline, you don't understand—"
"You are the one who seems not to understand," again Mrs. Millard interrupted. "You have deliberately disobeyed. I see you are not to be trusted. Hereafter, whenever you go out, you shall be provided with an attendant. The carriage will take you to and from school, your Aunt Virginia or I will accompany you to your music lesson when possible; at other times Martha will go."
"Aunt Caroline, you might let me speak. I tried to tell Aunt Virginia—I had promised Lucile—I had to go; but I am dreadfully sorry, and—"
"Charlotte, I will not have any words on the subject. You have deliberately disobeyed. Nothing you can say alters that." Mrs. Millard swept from the room, almost running down Miss Virginia, who hovered about the door.
"She did try to tell, Caroline," Charlotte heard her say.
"Nonsense, what difference can that make?" was the reply.
Not to be allowed one word in self-defence was hard. Charlotte locked herself in her roomand shed bitter tears of anger and mortification. That she was sorry and had tried to confess seemed to her to be very much to her credit, and Aunt Caroline was unreasonable as well as cruel. She refused to go down to supper, saying her head ached; and it would have been in harmony with her state of mind if she had been compelled to go without any, but it was sent up to her without comment.
The worst was to come, however. To a high-spirited girl, used to the greatest freedom, the constant surveillance was unbearable. She was not locked up, but in all other respects she felt herself a captive.
She was certain Aunt Virginia was sorry for her,—in an aloof and timid fashion she showed her friendliness; but Charlotte longed for some one to whom she could pour out all her unhappiness; and for this Aunt Virginia allowed her no opportunity.
How long was it to last? Aunt Caroline gave no word. As the days passed, Charlotte began to wear a sullen, dogged look. The sight of Alexina brought a thrill of hope. Surely, Miss Alex would listen to her, and be sorry.
"Charlotte, what is this I hear about you?" Alexina demanded, seating herself on the piano-stool.
"Oh, Miss Alex, I am so unhappy." Charlotte, who was kneeling to put away some music in the cabinet, sank in a forlorn little heap at her feet. "She won't let me go anywhere by myself,—not even to school; and she wouldn't listen when I said I was sorry." Charlotte's tone was guarded, but none the less appealing.
But Alex hardened her heart. "I suppose it is because you were disobedient. I must say I am disappointed in you, for it seems to me you were deceitful as well as disobedient."
Charlotte sat up. Her last hope of a confidante was gone. "You have no right to say that. I had to go: I had promised. I was willing to be punished, but she has no right to treat me like a baby. I wish I had never come."
"Probably your aunts wish so too," Alex observed coolly. "You are not reasonable, Charlotte. You have acted like a silly child and made yourself talked about, and you are just worrying Miss Virginia to death. But don'tlook at me in that way. I am sorry for you, and if you will be patient and accept your punishment, it will come out all right." Alex laid her hand on Charlotte's shoulder, but the girl twitched it away. Rising, she stood stony and silent. Alex's condemnation was the last straw.
As she went drearily up the stairway, Charlotte's thoughts turned with a great longing to her guardian and the quiet house in Philadelphia. He did perhaps care a little for her. He had sent her here because he thought it best, but it had turned out a terrible mistake. She would write to-night and tell him so. Tell him how impossible it was to endure it any longer, and implore him to send her to boarding-school.
But would he understand? It was so difficult to write things. If only she could be with him and Cousin Francis for half an hour and tell them her story, she was sure she could make them see the matter as she did. And now a daring thought entered her mind. Why not go to them? Naturally self-reliant, the thought of the long journey by herself did not terrify her. In the little silver purse (Aunt Cora's partinggift) were two gold pieces,—more than enough to buy a ticket to Philadelphia.
Charlotte's misery grew less at the picture her imagination drew of her aunts' consternation when her flight should be discovered. Probably there would be more talk; but little would she care, safe with Uncle Landor.
Carried away by the excitement of the idea, she found a daily paper and sat down in the dainty room prepared for her with so much loving care by Aunt Virginia not three months ago, to study the time-table and lay her plans.
There was a through train at half-past eight at night which would exactly suit. She could steal away after supper. It was the evening for Aunt Caroline's Antiquarian Society, and Aunt Virginia could be easily eluded.
In stories people who ran away usually left notes. Charlotte considered this, and decided she would write one to Aunt Virginia. It took a long while and a great deal of note-paper was wasted before it was done, and her enthusiasm had cooled a little as she folded it.
She carried a flushed face and an abstracted manner to the supper table, but her aunts wereevidently too much interested in some matter they were discussing to notice her. If she had been less absorbed, her curiosity would have been aroused by the guarded manner in which they talked.
"It is a case where duty seems to call one in opposite directions," said Mrs. Millard, studying the handle of her spoon with an air of profound seriousness that provoked one of those occasionally profane suggestions from her sister.
"You'll have to toss up a penny," remarked Miss Virginia.
The thought of Aunt Caroline tossing a penny caused Charlotte a moment's diversion, and a faint smile curled about her lips as Aunt Virginia promptly took it all back.
"I realize, of course, Caroline, that it is hard to decide; but, really, I think you can't refuse Georgiana."
"I shall take the matter under careful consideration till to-morrow," replied Mrs. Millard.
Before they left the table Miss Sarah Leigh looked in to ask Virginia about a Mount Mellick stitch. Thus fortune seemed to favor Charlotte's plans.
"Are you going to study, dear?" Aunt Virginia asked.
Charlotte flushed at the kind tone, "I am going upstairs, Aunt Virginia," she answered. "I am tired."
If Aunt Virginia's kindness weakened her resolve to run away, an encounter with Aunt Caroline in the upper hall made it strong again.
While the servants were at supper and Miss Virginia occupied with the embroidery lesson, and just as Mrs. Millard left the house by the front door, a slight figure in a long gray coat with a blue veil over her face slipped down the back stairs, bag in hand, and out of the side door.
Pleasant Street was full of swaying shadows, for the wind had risen and the electric light on the corner swung slowly to and fro. Charlotte held to the gate a moment to steady herself; she seemed swaying, too. Not a single person was to be seen. For the first time in her life she was alone on the street at night. She told herself there was nothing to fear, but she looked wistfully at the lighted windows of the houses along the Terrace, and the cheerful glowthat shone from the little shop across the way; but she did not think of going back. It was not far to the street-car, which would take her to the door of the station; after that all would be perfectly simple.
It was still early when Miss Sarah rolled up her work, saying her aunt was not well and must not be left any longer alone.
After she had gone Miss Virginia moved about the drawing-room, pushing chairs back into their places, changing by a few inches the position of some ornament, and rearranging the folds of the curtains. Meanwhile she was thinking that, in part at least, the problem that had been weighing upon her was about to be solved. She had not felt so cheerful in weeks.
At last she was to have a chance to redeem herself and silence that troublesome conscience which continually reminded her she was shirking her duty. Her relief was not unmixed, for at times she felt convicted of disloyalty.
Ever since the episode of the spool of twist Caroline had been a little disagreeable, though in an intangible way that hardly stood analysis.Where Charlotte was concerned, Miss Virginia considered her sister's severity extreme, and she had been hurt that her own protest and plea of extenuating circumstances should have been so scornfully dismissed. Now if events turned out as they promised, all would be well again. If only she dared give Charlotte a hint. The child looked pale and unhappy.
Could there be any harm in saying to her that something was about to happen which would make everything right? Miss Virginia resolved to do it. There could be no reasonable doubt as to what Caroline's decision would be. She ran upstairs light-heartedly.
Charlotte's door was closed, perhaps she was already asleep. Softly Miss Virginia turned the knob. The room was dark, except for the outside electric light that threw a vivid shadow of the window-frame and curtain on the opposite wall. She crossed the room to lower the blind, and as she did so, discovered the bed was unoccupied.
SHE SANK INTO A CHAIR.SHE SANK INTO A CHAIR.
With nervous haste she searched for the matches. Why did she tremble so? It seemed an age till she found them. No, Charlotte wasnot there; but how absurd to be alarmed, she must be somewhere in the house. Mechanically Miss Virginia began to fold a ribbon that lay on the dressing-table. Then her eye fell on a folded paper addressed to herself. Scarcely able to breathe, she sank into a chair and opened it. It was written in a large, schoolgirl hand.
"Dear Aunt Virginia: I am going away to Uncle Landor. I am sorry to give you so much trouble. I am going to ask him to send me to boarding school, because I can't stand it any longer. I know how to go to Philadelphia, and I have money enough. I did not mean to be deceitful, but Miss Alex said I was, and that I was making you miserable, so I think I ought to go."Your niece,"Charlotte Creston."
"Dear Aunt Virginia: I am going away to Uncle Landor. I am sorry to give you so much trouble. I am going to ask him to send me to boarding school, because I can't stand it any longer. I know how to go to Philadelphia, and I have money enough. I did not mean to be deceitful, but Miss Alex said I was, and that I was making you miserable, so I think I ought to go.
"Your niece,"Charlotte Creston."
To Philadelphia—that child! Miss Virginia, who never travelled alone, was overcome with the terror of it. What could she do? Was it too late to stop her? Oh, for some one to help! She ran out into the hall, but something checked her first impulse to call the servants.At what hour did the evening train leave for the north? She hastened downstairs for the paper.
"It is all my fault! all my fault!" she murmured to herself, as with trembling hands she searched for the railroad column. It was too late; the train must have left half an hour ago.
She must consult somebody. Surely, something could be done. Opening the front door, she looked out into the night. A bright light shone from the Russells' across the way. Forgetting to close the door behind her, she hurried over the street and rang the bell.
She told the servant tremblingly that she wished to speak to Miss Alex, who presently came to her in evident surprise.
"Why, Miss Virginia! Is anything the matter?"
"Oh, Alex, something dreadful has happened!" In her agitation it was not possible to say more.
"Is any one ill?"
"No, it is Charlotte—she has gone!"
"Gone?" echoed Alex. "But do come in, Miss Virginia."
"I can't; I left the door open. I don't want people to know. Oh, Alex, what shall I do?"
"I'll go back with you," said Alex. "I don't understand yet what has happened. Where has Charlotte gone?"
Once inside her own door, Miss Virginia thrust Charlotte's note into Alexina's hand. "What shall I do?" she cried. "That long journey alone, and it is all my fault!"
"Don't say that; I am afraid it is partly mine. I was hard on her this afternoon, but I didn't dream— There must be some way to stop her,—by telegraphing ahead, you know. I wonder— It should be done at once. The train left half an hour ago, you say?"
Miss Virginia nodded; words were beyond her.
And now into the drawing-room, where they stood in agitated uncertainty, walked Miss Pennington, the shopkeeper. Her face was flushed, her hair a little disordered by the wind, but she was smiling, and somehow her presence seemed at once to relieve the tension.
"Perhaps you can help me," cried poor Miss Virginia, hardly knowing what she said.
"I am sure I can," answered the stranger,going to her and taking the trembling hands in her own firm ones. "Are you worried about Charlotte? If you are, I have come to tell you she is safe, and is not going to Philadelphia to-night."
"You are sure? How do you know?" cried Miss Virginia, in bewilderment.
Alex drew near in surprise. She had not at first recognized Miss Pennington.
"I'll tell you about it as quickly as I can, but you must sit down;" and Norah drew her to a sofa, where, sitting beside her, she explained that her friend, Miss Carpenter, had had occasion that night to go to the station with her maid, whose nephew was to pass through the city on his way to a western army post. In the waiting-room her attention had been attracted by the efforts of a man to annoy a little girl. Finally it became so marked, and the child seemed so alarmed, that Miss Carpenter interfered, and appealed to a passing official. Then, surprised that a girl of her appearance should be travelling alone at night, she questioned her; and thoroughly frightened, Charlotte had revealed the fact that she was running away.
"Miss Carpenter is a very decided person,and when she understood the matter, would not let her go, but instead brought her home, where we talked it over. I hope you won't think me very presuming when I say that it seemed to us if there were any way of keeping it quiet, it would be so much better. It was just the momentary rebellion of a high-spirited girl. I know she is sorry now."
"Caroline need never know a thing about it," exclaimed Miss Virginia, looking at Alex.
"I am sure that would be best. I'll never speak of it," answered Alex.
"Then I'll bring her over," said Norah, rising. "She is a good deal excited, so I offered to come over and pave the way."
"You can tell her I will be as good to her—things are going to be very different." Tears came into Miss Virginia's eyes.
"I am sure you are always good. I haven't the least doubt she was naughty, but girls are very foolish sometimes." Norah looked at Alex as if she might be expected to agree to this.
A very pale, subdued Charlotte made her appearance soon after. There was nobody toreceive her but Aunt Virginia, who waited at the door.
Little was said that night. "We'll just pretend it never happened, dear," Aunt Virginia said tearfully, as she took her into her arms and kissed her. "You didn't know it, but your Aunt Caroline is going away for the winter," she added. "It is a secret yet, but she is going very soon; and I was thinking you and I would have such a good time, and then—" They both fell to crying over this in a manner to suggest to one unenlightened that a good time without Aunt Caroline would prove but a dreary affair.
"I am so sorry, and I am going to be good," Charlotte whispered, when her aunt came to tuck her in. "And oh, Aunt Virginia, they are lovely! They were so good." This, of course, referred to the shopkeepers.
"I didn't thank Miss Pennington; I didn't say one word, so far as I remember," exclaimed Miss Wilbur, "and she was certainly kind. I shall have to go over and express my appreciation. Judging from her appearance she is a charming young woman."
The newly built fire crackled and blazed merrily, putting to rout what little daylight sifted through the slats of the window-shutters. How pleasant to lie there safe and warm! Charlotte hugged her pillow in thankfulness.
Far from being the heroine she had imagined herself, she realized she was only a foolish little girl. For once she felt the truth of that objectionable phrase. The experience of the night before had subdued her. She went all over it as she lay there, waiting for the rising bell.
On her way to the station the persistent stare of a man who sat opposite in the street-car made her uneasy; and when at the station, after she had bought her ticket, he again appeared and attempted to talk to her, even following her when she changed her seat, her uneasiness became alarm.
The dreadful loneliness of that great station, with its hurrying crowds, she would not soon forget.If it had been day, Charlotte was sure she would have been braver. In her despair Miss Carpenter came to her rescue. She recalled vividly how the young lady swept down upon her tormentor, with blazing eyes, demanding imperiously what he meant by annoying a little girl; and then Charlotte, clinging to the friendly hand held out to her, had allowed herself to be led meekly away. It was all over in a moment, and in a quiet corner out of the crowd she was replying brokenly to the questions of her rescuer.
Why was it that under the serious gaze of those dark eyes all her self-confidence and determination had oozed away? Miss Carpenter's manner was kind, but her decision had been prompt and final. It seemed to Charlotte no one could have resisted her.
"My child," she said, still holding Charlotte's hand, "you cannot take such a journey alone. I cannot let you. Come home with me, where we can talk it over. We'll find some way out of the trouble." And she added: "You live on the corner of Pleasant Street and the Terrace, don't you? I think I have seen you there. I am Miss Carpenter of the shop."
In a sort of bewilderment Charlotte had submitted, and escorted by Miss Carpenter and the elderly maid she rode back to the Terrace. And that half-hour in the shop, where they found Miss Pennington comfortably established by the fire with a book! Charlotte could still feel the atmosphere of sympathy and reason that enveloped her as she poured out her story to these strangers with all the pent-up unhappiness of the past week. How gently they had pointed out that running away would only add difficulties to the situation.
Her face grew hot now at the thought of how silly she must have seemed to them. And she wished these young ladies to think well of her,—which, of course, they never could do.
Aunt Virginia had been good, too. A wave of warm affection surged up in Charlotte's heart, and with it a determination to be a comfort to her after this. As she dressed, she wondered if she would ever again be free from this dreadful feeling of shame. She hated to go down to breakfast, even though Aunt Caroline did not know.
Later in the day Aunt Virginia called herinto her room and closed the door. There was a pretty flush on her face as she sat erect in an arm-chair which, like the other furniture in the room, had been her grandmother's. Beside her on a table was an old Bible with yellow leaves, and some ancient books of devotion.
"I have been talking to your Aunt Caroline," Miss Wilbur began.
Charlotte started.
"I do not mean about last night. While I feel almost deceitful in keeping it from her, I have decided to do it. As I told you, your Aunt Georgiana is out of health and must go to California, and it seems Caroline's duty to go with her. This will leave you in my charge. You were really put in my charge at first, but I felt inexperienced and—" Miss Virginia hesitated, then continued: "What I have been thinking is this. I should like to try again, starting fresh and forgetting all that has happened. I think if you would promise always to be frank with me, and perhaps put up with some things that seem to you foolish and old-fashioned notions, that we could get along together. I loved your mother, and I want to love you and haveyour affection. But if you cannot be happy, I will write to Mr. Landor and explain—"
"Aunt Virginia, I do love you. I don't want to go away. I am so sorry about last night!" Charlotte buried her face in her aunt's lap.
"Don't cry, dear. It is all over, then, and we will forget it." Miss Virginia caressed the brown head.
"But I am so ashamed. It hurts—I can't forget."
"Well, dear, perhaps you had some excuse. Caroline overlooked the fact that you have lived an unusually independent life, and I think she did not just understand how you felt about Lucile. I don't mean you were right to go there, but— Well, from now on you are my charge, and the punishment is over. After this we'll try to understand and trust each other."
"I am going to be good; you'll see," Charlotte whispered, her arms about her aunt's neck.
She felt impatient to show Aunt Virginia she was really in earnest. What could she do? As she dressed for the evening an idea occurred to her. With many a pang she shook out herwavy brown hair and combed it resolutely back from her face. It had always taken an absurd length of time to arrange that drooping mass in just the proper manner, but Lucile had commended her skill. It was much easier to brush it back in a way to show how prettily it grew about her forehead, but Charlotte really considered herself a fright as she tied a blue ribbon on her long braid.
The change gave her rather a chastened look, combined as it was with a timid self-consciousness when she entered the dining-room. Her aunts surveyed her with evident astonishment.
"Well, Charlotte," Mrs. Millard remarked, affably, "you are really a nice-looking little girl when you let yourself alone."
Aunt Virginia patted her hand and said nothing, but Charlotte felt sure she understood.
Relieved and thankful though Miss Virginia felt, and confident, too, that she and Charlotte would now get on very well together, she still had something on her mind. The feeling that she was concealing something from her sister weighed upon her, but not so heavily as her sense of obligation to the shopkeepers. In her agitation she had hardly thanked Miss Pennington; and the more she considered it, the more remarkable their kindness and thoughtfulness appeared. Would Caroline call it officiousness?
Mrs. Millard had gone so far as to acknowledge the shopkeepersseemedto be persons of refinement, and their effort to make a living was, of course, creditable; but she feared they did not quite know their position. Perhaps they were from some small town, where social distinctions were overlooked.
"Perhaps they are well born, but have lost their money and have to do something," Miss Virginia suggested, thinking that the manners of the young women in question were not in the least rustic.
Ignoring this her sister continued: "It is quite evident to my mind that they are pushing. Why else should they have come into a neighborhood like this, instead of going where they belong, among other shops? They evidently hope for some social recognition, and this is why I lay stress upon not giving them our patronage in any respect. I see plainly they will leave no stone unturned to ingratiate themselves."
Did this account for Charlotte's rescue? Miss Virginia shivered at the thought. It had seemed to her the extreme of neighborly kindness. One thing was certain,—Miss Carpenter had not invented the occasion. Had she seized it in the hope of advancing her own interests? Miss Virginia felt this was silly.
How friendly and helpful Miss Pennington had seemed! Could a commonplace, pushing young woman have so won Miss Virginia's heart? She lay awake at night thinking about it, wonderinghow she could suitably express her gratitude and at the same time preserve a distant dignity. In the silence and darkness all sorts of dreadful possibilities floated through her mind. Perhaps these harmless-looking young women were adventuresses, come into the neighborhood with some deep scheme, and the attractive shop as a blind. They might be burglars. One read of astonishing things done by women in these days.
Miss Virginia felt impatient over this new problem, and her irritation caused a display of unusual spirit when her sister began to give her parting instructions.
"You'd better send the drawing-room curtains to Lucinda in January," said that lady, thoughtfully, balancing her pencil above the pad on her knee. "I have made a list—"
"It is quite unnecessary, Caroline," interrupted Miss Virginia; "I kept house for a good many years without you, and you can't expect to run things here while you are in California."
"It seems to me, Virginia, you use very unbecoming expressions. I have no desire torun things;I only supposed you would be glad of a few suggestions."
"I am sure I don't wish to be rude, but I will be frank and tell you, Caroline, that I mean to do as I please while you are away."
Mrs. Millard gazed at her in surprise. "Why, Virginia, one would suppose you had been a captive in chains! Very well, I wash my hands of it all,—only," relapsing into a tone of pathetic reproach, "you do such singular things at times, you know."
She was manifestly shaken by this declaration of independence, but she was committed to her older sister. It was too late to change her plans. She ventured one parting injunction. "Pray, Virginia, do not patronize the shop. Let me beg of you, if you have any regard for me."
In Mrs. Millard's sudden departure the Terrace naturally felt an interest.
"So Caroline's going to leave us," Judge Russell remarked at the breakfast table. "We shall be free to do as we please this winter. I'll have that poplar set out in February."
"Aren't you ashamed, grandfather!" laughed Madelaine. "As if you had not strength of mind to do as you like."
The judge smiled as he stirred his coffee. "Caroline is a forceful woman; and then, too, she is generally right. It may be, as she says, the tree will not grow, but I want to try it."
"I wonder she is willing to leave Virginia all the responsibility of Charlotte. She is such a headstrong child, and so northern," said Mrs. Russell.
"Now, mother," expostulated Alexina, "isn't that dreadfully narrow?"
"What harm is there in liking your own part of the country best?" asked her sister.
"I did not mean any such thing," cried Alex. "I only insist that no locality has the monopoly of nice people."
"But some peculiarities are northern and some are southern, and I don't see that it is narrow to prefer one sort above the other," Madelaine persisted. "How can Mrs. Millard make up her mind to leave the shop?" she continued. "Miss Sarah has gone over to the enemy, and Alex is going."
"I don't understand about that shop," said her grandfather, not for the first time, by any means. "I told you about that young lady whoso kindly picked up my books,—a most intelligent person, and as pretty as—as Madelaine." This with a smile at his youngest granddaughter.
"Here is another conversion," laughed Madelaine.
"I can't understand about the shop," the judge repeated.
"Why isn't keeping a shop just as respectable as teaching or keeping boarders?" asked Alex. She had in truth been strongly attracted to Miss Pennington that evening at Miss Wilbur's, and had a secret desire to see more of her.
Wayland Leigh brought the news of Mrs. Millard's proposed departure to his two aunts. He had it from Madelaine Russell.
"I wish you could have such a trip, Sarah," said Mrs. Leigh. "It would do you a world of good. As Aunt Nancy used to say, you are so thin you have to stand up twice to cast a shadow."
"Caroline is going from a sense of duty, you may be sure. And what would my boarders do while I was skylarking in California?" her niece demanded. This was a mild joke, for the boarders had not as yet materialized.
"I wish you would give up that idea, Aunt Sarah," growled Wayland.
"You agree with Mrs. Millard, I suppose. She thinks it involves the whole Terrace in a downward step. But what am I to do? Caroline assured me she could secure the position of matron at the Children's Home for me, but what would you and Aunt Sally do then, poor things?"
"Oh, it is easy to laugh—" began Wayland.
"Is it? Then I wish you would favor us sometimes, my dear nephew."
"I was going to say," continued Wayland, with dignity, "that it was easy to make fun of Mrs. Millard, but she is my idea of an elegant woman."
"Far be it from me to deny Caroline's elegance. I am often proud to know her. I believe there could be no emergency great enough to make her say 'hello!' over the telephone, and I saw her on one occasion put up her lorgnette when she answered a call."
"Now, Sarah," said Mrs. Leigh, laughing.
The two ladies talked on about neighborhood affairs, but Wayland paid little heed, beingabsorbed in his own thoughts. He was in an impatient and critical mood. What he considered his aunt's oddity annoyed him. He wished she would dress like other people,—meaning Mrs. Millard. He was twenty years old, and was working in a bank for fifty dollars a month, with small chance of promotion. He had wished to go to college,—not so much, however, as his aunt had wished it for him,—but now this was overshadowed by the ambition to be rich. And all for Madelaine. Sometimes he fiercely resolved that hewouldbe rich; and again he lost heart at the thought that lovely, dainty Madelaine was certain to find another palace long before his was built. Her frank worldliness did not weaken his adoration, strange to say.
"Miss Norah, I am afraid Miss Marion is falling back." Susanna stood in the doorway, a tea towel in one hand, a cup in the other.
Norah, who was putting in order certain shelves before the day's work began, asked, "Why do you think so, Susanna?"
"Well, Miss Norah, I caught her walking around the house with her eyes shut, feeling her way like she was trying to get used to it." Susanna advanced and spoke in a whisper, "And she hasn't had a smile for anybody this last day or two. Haven't you noticed it?"
"To tell the truth, I have, Susanna; but, after all, it is not unnatural. The excitement of getting settled and beginning work made her forget, and now the novelty is wearing off she has, as you say, slipped back. All this rain and fog is in itself depressing. Don't worry, Susanna.Hasn't everything I promised you come true up till now?"
"I suppose so, Miss Norah," was the reluctant answer.
"Then don't worry, and I'll let you keep shop this afternoon."
Where the shop was concerned, Susanna was like a child; and nothing pleased her more than to be left in charge for an hour or so. Her own domain, the three bedrooms, dining room, and kitchen, she kept in spotless order, creating the daintiest repasts as if by magic, and seeming always to have time to spare.
She went back to her dishes, and Norah worked away with a thoughtful frown. Presently Marion entered and dropped into a chair with a weary sigh. "It is a horrid day," she said.
"There is a bit of blue in the west; by afternoon it may be pleasant," Norah responded.
When one is immersed in gloom, the sight of determined cheerfulness is irritating. So Marion found it.
"The air is so heavy one can hardly breathe," she went on. "I believe I'll let Susanna attend to the plants; I am tired."
"I have time to do it," said Norah, closing the door of the case.
Marion rose impatiently. "You shall not touch them. If Susanna cannot do them, I will."
"Susanna would cut off her hand if you asked it; but I know she has more than usual to do this morning, and we agreed the shop was to be our part. I am not in the least tired. Please, Marion!" Norah stood between her and the door.
"Very well. I shall attend to it myself," and Marion swept by her.
"O dear!" sighed Norah, "I feel like a tyrant; but she must not give up."
Marion returned presently and began washing the palms and clipping away the dead leaves. She worked listlessly, her face wore an expression of deep melancholy.
A diversion was created by the entrance of James Mandeville. He had been kept in several days by a cold, and the joy of release radiated from his small person.
"Mammy says she reckons the sun's going to shine by and by, so she let me come," he announced.
"Mammy and I are of the same opinion, then," said Norah, helping him off with his coat. "Can't you think of something to cheer Miss Marion? She is very tired of this rainy weather."
"I'll sing her a song, that's what I'll do," James Mandeville cried eagerly. "You wait."
He disappeared into the next room, where presently his voice was heard uplifted in "Onward, Christian Soldiers," and if the tune was a trifle uncertain, nothing was lacking in spirit. Through the open door he marched, holding the morning paper before him, and proceeding the length of the shop.
"One in hope ofdoctor, one incherry tree,"
he proclaimed lustily.
Even Marion must smile a little at this.
"It is beautiful," said Norah, "though I don't quite understand it. I seem to feel a sort of connection between the doctor and the cherry tree, too."
"There's a heap more of verses," James Mandeville assured her. "Do you feel better?" This to Marion.
Who could resist? She laughed as she drew him to her and kissed him. "I am cross thismorning, and you are a nice boy to sing for me. I make life very hard for Miss Norah. Suppose you go tell her I am sorry."
James Mandeville trotted off obediently to find Norah, who had left the room a moment before. Marion, having finished with the plants, was absently looking out of the window when the door opened with a jerk and some one bounced into the shop. Turning with a start, she recognized the personage Norah called Giant Despair.
"What do you mean?—" he began, then paused and stared about in bewilderment. "Where am I?" he demanded; and as Marion advanced he removed his hat, displaying a massive head covered with shaggy gray hair.
"We call this the Pleasant Street Shop," she answered.
"See here—I thought it was the plumber's. I am getting so blind I shall soon have to be led around. So you call this a shop? Does it belong to you? For I can tell you now you have made a mistake in coming here." His voice was gruff, and as he spoke he peered this way and that, as if to get some idea of his surroundings.
"If we can't make a success here, we will go elsewhere, but we are doing very well," Marion said, "The plumber is on the next block."
"I know that now. I am not losing my mind as well as my sight."
Something impelled Marion to say, "I am sorry about your eyes. Can't something be done?"
"Sorry? How can you be sorry? Nobody knows anything about it who hasn't tried it."
"I have lived in constant fear of blindness for a year." Marion seldom spoke of her eyes, but the sight of trouble like her own broke down her usual reticence.
The old man softened. "You have? A young thing like you?" He peered at her in his intent way. "I guess you have grit," he said.
"Not much," she answered. "But my eyes are better, they tell me. Time will show. Can't something be done for yours?"
"Oh, yes, they are going to operate on the right one in the spring, but it is not likely to do any good; and then I shall have just half an eye left."
Norah and James Mandeville now entered unobserved.
"I have got to row up that plumber," Giant Despair continued, looking at his hat. "As I told you, I don't approve of a shop in this neighborhood, but I don't see anything that looks like one. Good day," and with a grim smile he went out more quietly than he had entered.
"Who would ever have expected a visit from Giant Despair?" cried Norah, "and he seems to have a bit of humor about him, too."
"I am sorry for him. He looks as if he had no one to take care of him, and he is nearly blind, as you can tell," said Marion.
When Mammy Belle came for her charge at noon, Marion asked her if she knew anything about old Mr. Goodman.
"Yes'm," answered Belle, "I knows him, Miss Marion," smoothing her apron.
"Does he live alone in that big house on the Terrace?"
"Yes'm, and he's mighty rich and crusty. He don't waste no pleasant words, and he don't waste no money. Law, Miss Marion, he's got rusty dollars layin' up in bank."
"Rusty dollars?" repeated Norah.
"Yes, honey, been layin' thar so long they's rusty. Get up offen the floor, James Mandeville. You won't have no skin on your knees, fust you knows."
"Then will I have to be born again to get some?" inquired the small boy, sitting back on his heels to consider the matter.
"Law, chile, what you talkin' 'bout? You mus' think you's Nickorydemus! Miss Norah's settin' there laughin' at you. Come 'long home with mammy."
"Isn't there a delightful variousness about our neighborhood?" said Norah. "Do you see that sun? Tell me I am not a prophet!"
"You are an angel to put up with me," sighed Marion, but her face was no longer gloomy.
"I have been constructing a grab-bag, and you shall have the first grab;" and Norah brought out a bag made of rainbow ribbons. "This is outwardly symbolic of the cheer within. The principle on which it works is simple. Whenever I find a consoling sentiment, I write it on a card and drop it in, then when I am low in my mind, I take one out. Help yourself."
"What an absurd person you are!" said Marion,obediently putting her hand in and drawing out a card. She read:—