Produced by Annie McGuire
THE SPECTACLE MAN
Out of a song the story grew;
Just how it happened nobody knew,
But, song and story, it all came true.
BOOKS BY MARY F. LEONARD.
* * * * *
=THE SPECTACLE MAN=. A STORY OF THE MISSING BRIDGE. 266 pages. Cloth.
$1.00.
=MR. PAT'S LITTLE GIRL=. A STORY OF THE ARDEN FORESTERS. 322 pages.
Cloth. $1.50.
=THE PLEASANT STREET PARTNERSHIP=. A NEIGHBORHOOD STORY. 269 pages.
Cloth. $.75, _net_.
[Illustration: "The Spectacle Man, leaning his elbows on the
show-case"]
The Spectacle Man
_A Story of the Missing Bridge_
* * * * *
By
Mary F. Leonard
AUTHOR OF
"THE BIG FRONT DOOR"
_Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill_
W. A. WILDE COMPANY
BOSTON AND CHICAGO
_Copyright, 1901,_
BY W. A. WILDE COMPANY.
_All rights reserved_.
_TO THE ONE
Whose Love has been from Childhood
An Unfailing Inspiration
Whose Friendship has made Dark Paths Light
This Little Book is Dedicated
In Memory of "Remembered Hours"_
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER FIRST. Page
Frances meets the Spectacle Man 11
CHAPTER SECOND.
A Certain Person 22
CHAPTER THIRD.
Gladys 32
CHAPTER FOURTH.
They look at a Flat 40
CHAPTER FIFTH.
Some New Acquaintances 50
CHAPTER SIXTH.
An Informal Affair 61
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
A Portrait 77
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
The Story of the Bridge 86
CHAPTER NINTH.
Finding a Moral 106
CHAPTER TENTH.
The Portrait Again 118
CHAPTER ELEVENTH.
Mrs. Marvin is perplexed 128
CHAPTER TWELFTH.
At Christmas Time 134
CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.
One Sunday Afternoon 151
CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.
Three of a Name 164
CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.
A Confidence 177
CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.
Hard Times 186
CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.
At the Loan Exhibit 198
CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.
The March Number of _The Young People's Journal_ 207
CHAPTER NINETEENTH.
Surprises 215
CHAPTER TWENTIETH.
Caroline's Story 231
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST.
Overheard by Peterkin 240
CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND.
The Little Girl in the Golden Doorway 249
CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD.
"The Ducks and the Geese they All swim over" 257
Illustrations.
Page
"The Spectacle Man, leaning his elbows on the
show-case" _Frontispiece_ 11
"'What is your name, baby?'" 54
"'Little girl, I wish I knew you'" 120
"She pointed out a picture, set in diamonds" 200
The Spectacle Man.
* * * * *
CHAPTER FIRST.
FRANCES MEETS THE SPECTACLE MAN.
"The bridge is broke, and I have to mend it,
Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri do--"
sang the Spectacle Man, leaning his elbows on the show-case, with his
hands outspread, and the glasses between a thumb and finger, as he
nodded merrily at Frances.
Such an odd-looking person as he was! Instead of an ordinary coat he
wore a velvet smoking-jacket; the top of his bald head was protected by
a Scotch cap, and his fringe of hair, white like his pointed beard, was
parted behind and brushed into a tuft over each ear, the ribbon ends of
his cap hanging down between in the jauntiest way. It was really
difficult to decide whether the back or front view of him was most
cheerful.
"Will it take long?" Frances asked, with dignity, although a certain
dimple refused to be repressed.
"Well, at least half an hour, if I am not interrupted; but as my clerk
is out, I may have to stop to wait on a customer. Perhaps if you have
other shopping to do you might call for them on your way home." If there
was a twinkle in the eye of the Spectacle Man, nobody saw it except the
gray cat who sat near by on the directory.
"Thank you, I think I'd better wait," replied Frances, politely, much
pleased to have it supposed she was out shopping.
At this the optician hastened to give her a chair at the window,
motioning her to it with a wave of the hand and a funny little bow; then
he trotted into the next room and returned with a _St. Nicholas_, which
he presented with another bow, and retired to his table in the corner.
As he set to work he hummed his tune, glancing now and then over his
shoulder in the direction of his small customer.
Perched on the high-backed chair, in her scarlet coat and cap, her hands
clasped over the book, her bright eyes fixed on the busy street, it was
as if a stray red bird had fluttered in, bringing a touch of color to
the gray-tinted room. From her waving brown locks to the tips of her
toes she was a dainty little maid, and carried herself with the air of a
person of some importance.
If the Spectacle Man was interested in Frances, she was no less
interested in him; neither the street nor the magazine attracted her
half so much as the queer shop and its proprietor. It had once been the
front parlor of the old dwelling which, with its veranda and grass-plat,
still held its own in the midst of the tall business houses that closed
it in on either side. Here were the show-cases, queer instruments, and
cabalistic looking charts for trying the sight; over the high mantel
hung a large clock, and in the grate below a coal fire nickered and
purred in a lazy fashion; and through the half-open folding doors
Francis had a glimpse into what seemed to be a study or library.
At least a dozen questions were on the tip of her tongue, but didn't get
any further. For instance, she longed to ask if those cunning little
spectacles on the doll's head in the case near her, were for sale, and
if the Spectacle Man had any children who read the _St. Nicholas_ and
what the gray cat's name was, for that he had a name she didn't doubt,
he was so evidently an important part of the establishment.
He had descended from the directory, which was rather circumscribed for
one of his size, and curled himself comfortably on the counter; but
instead of going to sleep he gently fanned his nose with the tip of his
tail, and kept his yellow eyes fixed on Frances as if he too felt some
curiosity about her. She was thinking how much she would like to have
him in her lap when the Spectacle Man looked around and said, "The next
time your grandmother breaks these frames she will have to have some new
ones."
"They aren't my grandmother's, they are Mrs. Gray's. I haven't any
grandmother," she answered.
"You haven't? Why, that's a coincidence; neither have I!"
Frances laughed but didn't think of anything else to say, so the
conversation dropped, and the optician fell to humming:--
"The bridge is broke."
They might never have become really acquainted if, just as he was giving
a final polish to the glasses, it had not begun to rain.
"What shall I do?" Frances exclaimed, rising hurriedly. "I haven't any
umbrella."
The Spectacle Man walked to the window, the glasses in one hand, a piece
of chamois in the other. "It may be only a shower," he said, peering
out; "but it is time for the equinoctial." Then, seeing the little girl
was worried, he asked how far she had to go.
"Only two blocks; we are staying at the Wentworth, but mother and father
were out when I left and won't know where I am."
"Well, now, don't you worry; Dick will be in presently and I'll send him
right over to the hotel to let them know where you are, and get a
waterproof for you."
This made Frances feel more comfortable; and when, after putting the
glasses in their case and giving her the change from Mrs. Gray's dollar,
he lit the gas in the back parlor and invited her in, she almost forgot
the storm.
The room was quite different from any she had ever been in, and she at
once decided she liked it. Around the walls were low cases, some filled
with books and papers, others with china and pottery; from the top of an
ancient looking chest in one corner a large stuffed owl gazed solemnly
at her; the mantel-shelf was full of books, and above it hung a portrait
of Washington. There were some plaster casts and a few engravings, and
beside the study table in the middle of the room was an arm-chair which,
judging from its worn cover, was a favorite resting-place of the
Spectacle Man.
"I have a little writing to do before Dick comes in; can't I give you a
book while I am busy? I have a number of story-books," her host asked.
Frances thanked him, but thought she'd rather look about. "You seem to
have so many interesting things," she said.
While she walked slowly around the room the optician sat down at the
table and wrote rapidly. "How does this sound," he presently asked.
"'WANTED: Occupants for a small, partially furnished flat. All
conveniences; rent reasonable. Apply 432 Walnut Street.' You don't
happen to know any one who wants a flat, I suppose?"
Frances said she did not.
"The lady who had my second story rooms was called away by her mother's
death, and now she is not coming back. With Mark away at school it is
really very important to have them rented." The Spectacle Man tapped the
end of his nose with his pen and began to hum absent-mindedly:--
"The bridge is broke and I have to mend it."
At this moment a boy with a dripping umbrella appeared at the door. He
proved to be Dick, and was at once despatched to the Wentworth with
instructions to ask for Mr. John Morrison, and let him know his daughter
was safe and only waiting till the storm was over; and on his way back
to stop at the newspaper office and leave the advertisement.
"Dear me!" said Frances, after he had gone, "we might have sent Mrs.
Gray's glasses; I am afraid she will be tired waiting for them. She
can't see to do anything without them, and she is lame too."
"Well, she is fortunate in having a friend to get them mended for her.
And now I wonder if you wouldn't like to see old Toby," said the
optician, taking down a funny looking jug in the shape of a very fat old
gentleman. "When my grandfather died he left me this jug and the song
about the bridge. Did you ever hear it before?"
Frances said she never had.
"Grandfather used to sing it to me when I was a little boy, and I find
it still a very good song. When I get into a tight place and can't see
how I am to get through, why--" here he waved his hands and nodded his
head--
"'The bridge is broke, and I have to mend it,'
"and I go to work and try. Sometimes it is for other people, sometimes
for myself. Bridges are always getting broken,--'tisn't only
spectacles."
Frances smiled, for though she did not quite understand, it sounded
interesting; but before she had time to ask any questions a tall young
man entered. "Why, Wink! what in the world are you doing here?" he
exclaimed.
"Oh, daddy dear, I hope you haven't worried!" she cried, running to him;
"Mrs. Gray broke her glasses and couldn't read or sew, and I thought I
ought to have them mended for her,--it wasn't far you know--and then it
began to rain so I couldn't get back."
"And this is Mr. Clark, I suppose," said Mr. Morrison; "let me thank you
for taking care of my little daughter. And now, Wink, put on this coat
and your rubbers, and let us hurry before mother quite loses her mind."
When she was enveloped in the waterproof, Frances held out her hand.
"Thank you, Mr. Clark," she said; "I hope you will find some nice person
to rent your flat. Good-by."
The Spectacle Man stood in his door and watched the two figures till
they disappeared in the misty twilight, then he returned to the shop.
"Peterkin," he said, addressing the cat, "I like that little girl, and I
suppose I'll never see her again."
Peterkin uncurled himself, stood up on the counter, arched his back, and
yawned three times.
CHAPTER SECOND.
A CERTAIN PERSON.
A day or two after her visit to the optician's, Frances lay curled up on
the broad window-sill, a thoughtful little pucker between her eyes.
About fifteen minutes earlier she had entered the room where her father
and mother were talking, just as the former said, "As a certain person
is abroad I see no objection to your spending the winter here if you
wish."
Before she could ask a single question a caller was announced, and she
had taken refuge behind the curtains.
It was quite by accident that they happened to be staying for a few
weeks in this pleasant town where the Spectacle Man lived. They were
returning from North Carolina, where they had spent the summer, when a
slight illness of Mrs. Morrison's made it seem wise to stop for a while
on the way; and before she was quite well, Mr. Morrison was summoned to
New York on business, so his wife and daughter stayed where they were,
waiting for him, and enjoying the lovely fall weather.
They liked it so well they were beginning to think with regret of the
time when they must leave, for though really a city in size, the place
had many of the attractions of a village. The gardens around the houses,
the flowers and vines, the wide shady streets, combined to make an
atmosphere of homelikeness; but to Frances' mind its greatest charm lay
in the fact that once, long ago, her father had lived here. At least she
felt sure it must have been long ago, for it was in that strange time
before there was any Frances Morrison.
She had never heard as much as she wanted to hear about these years,
although she had heard a good deal. There were some things her father
evidently did not care to talk about, and one of these was a mysterious
individual known as a Certain Person. The first time she had heard this
Certain Person mentioned she had questioned her mother, who had replied,
"It is some one who was once a friend of father's, but is not now. I
think he does not care to mention the name, dear."
After this Frances asked no more questions, but she thought a great
deal, and her imagination began to picture a tall, fierce looking man
who lurked in dark corners ready to spring out at her. Sometimes when
she was on the street at night she would see him skulking along in the
shadows, and would clasp her father's hand more closely. Altogether this
person had grown and flourished in her mind in a wonderful way.
And, she couldn't tell how, a Certain Person was connected in her
thoughts with "The Girl in the Golden Doorway." This was a story in her
very own story-book, a collection of tales known only to her father and
herself, which had all been told in the firelight on winter evenings and
afterward written out in Mr. Morrison's clear hand in a book bought for
the purpose, so that not even a printer knew anything about them.
This particular story, which she had heard many times, was of a boy who
lived in a great old-fashioned house in the country, where there were
beautiful things all about, both indoors and out. The only other child
in the house was a little girl who looked down from a heavy gilt frame
above the library mantel. The boy, who was just six years old, used to
lie on the hearth rug, gazing up at her, and sometimes she would smile
and beckon to him as if she wanted to be friends.
This happened only at nightfall when the shadows lay dark in the corners
of the room and the fire blazed brightly; at such times things that had
before been a puzzle to him became quite clear. For instance, he
discovered one evening that what looked like the frame of a picture was
really a doorway belonging to the house where the little girl lived, and
it was plain that if he could only get up there he could find out all
about her. Once there, he felt sure she would take him by the hand and
together they would go away--away--somewhere! But the mantel was very
high, and polished like glass.
One afternoon when he had come in from a long drive, and feeling tired
was lying very still in his usual place, looking up at the little girl
and the long passage that seemed to stretch away behind her, a strange
thing happened. So unexpectedly it sent his heart into his mouth, the
girl stepped out of the doorway; and then, wonder of wonders! he saw a
stairway at one side of the chimney-piece where he had never noticed one
before.
Daintily holding up her silken skirt, the little maid descended and
stood beside him. Astonished and bewildered, he put out his hand to
touch her, but with a laugh she flitted across the room.
Seized with the fear that she would escape him altogether, the boy
started in pursuit. In and out among the massive chairs and tables they
ran, the girl always just out of reach, the boy breathless with anxiety.
His heart quite failed him when she darted toward the mantel. Then he
remembered he could follow; and indeed she seemed to expect it, for she
stood still at the top of what had grown to be a very long flight of
steps, and beckoned. He hurried on, but the steps were very steep and
slippery, and try as he would he could not reach the top.
Suddenly some one opened the library door, there was a crash and a
clatter, the girl disappeared, and the boy heard his mother's voice
asking, "Jack, what in the world are you doing?"
"I fell down the steps," he replied, picking himself up from among the
fire irons that had tumbled in a heap on the hearth.
"What steps?" asked his mother.
He rubbed his eyes: they were not to be seen, and the little girl--yes,
there she was, looking out of the golden doorway, and he was sure she
shook her finger and laughed. He gave up trying to explain--grown people
are hopelessly stupid at times--but he always felt certain that if the
library door had not opened just when it did, he could have caught the
little girl.
"Wasn't it a pity!" Frances always exclaimed at this point.
"Yes," her father would reply, "the little boy lost the chance of a
lifetime, for there is no knowing what he might not have discovered in
the house of the golden doorway."
"And she never came down again?"
"No, for the boy went away to live not long after this, and everything
was changed."
"And is the little girl still over the library mantel?"
"No, Wink, she was taken away long ago."
When the caller left, Frances came out of her hiding-place behind the
curtains. "Are we going to stay here all winter?" she asked.
Mrs. Morrison drew her daughter down beside her on the couch where she
sat. It was hard to believe such a small person the mother of this great
girl. "You shall hear all about it, dearie, and then help us to decide,"
she said. "Father has had an offer from the _Eastern Review_. They want
him to go to Hawaii, and besides paying him well it will be an
advantage to him in other ways."
"But can't we go with you, father?"
"No, Wink, I am afraid not, for several reasons."
"Of course it will be hard for us all, but if it seems to be the best
thing I am sure you and I will be brave and let him go;" Mrs. Morrison's
voice trembled a little, and for a moment she hid her face on Frances'
shoulder.
"Will you be gone very long?" asked the little girl.
"Several months, if I go. The matter is not decided by any means. I do
not see how I can leave you," answered Mr. Morrison.
"You must go, Jack; it will be the very thing for you. It isn't only the
money, dear, or even the opportunity for getting on in your work, but
you need a change, for you haven't been yourself lately. Frances and I
will stay here and be very comfortable, and when you come home we'll
have a jubilee."
"And not go back to Chicago?" Frances asked.
"The winters there are too cold for you. No, I think we'd better stay
here, but not in this house," said her mother.
"It will be difficult to find the kind of place I shall be willing to
leave you in," replied Mr. Morrison. "What is it you are always singing,
Frances?" he added, for as she turned the leaves of a magazine she was
humming softly to herself.
"I don't know," she answered laughing, then--"Why, yes, I do--it is the
song of the Spectacle Man,
"'The bridge is broke, and I have to mend it,'
"that is all I know of it. He was telling me about it when you came for
me. I wish I could go to see him again."
CHAPTER THIRD.
GLADYS.
While they were still talking matters over, Gladys Bowen, a little girl
who lived in the house, came to ask if Frances might play with her; and
Frances, who had not had a playmate of her own age for some time, was
very ready to go. They had once or twice spoken rather shyly to each
other, and she thought Gladys's golden curls perfectly beautiful.
"Would you like to come upstairs and see my dolls, or shall we go down
to the reception room?" Gladys asked, adding, "My Uncle Jo owns this
house, and he lets me go where I please."
"I'd like to see the dolls," Frances said, much impressed by the uncle
who owned a hotel.
Her companion led the way to a room where a lady in an elaborate
house-gown sat in an arm-chair reading. "Mamma, I have brought Frances
to see my dolls," she announced.
"How do you do, Frances.-- Very well, Gladys, but I don't want you to
worry me. You must play in the other room." Mrs. Bowen spoke in a
languid tone, and returned to her book, but she looked up again to say,
"That is a pretty dress you have on, Frances."
The child looked down at the red challis she wore, not knowing what
reply to make.
"But you are stylish, as Gladys is, I am thankful to say," the lady
continued. "You look well together, you are dark and she so fair."
"Come on," Gladys called impatiently from the door, and Frances
followed, feeling that she ought to have said something to Mrs. Bowen.
"I'll show you Marguerite first; she's my handsomest doll. Uncle Jo gave
her to me, and she cost twenty-five dollars."
Frances caught her breath at the idea of such a doll, but was a little
disappointed when her hostess took from a drawer a fine lady, whose hair
was done up in a French twist, and whose silk gown was made with a
train. She was certainly very elegant, however, and her muff and collar
were _sure enough_ sealskin, as Gladys explained.
"She is beautiful, but I believe I like little girl dolls best," Frances
said.
Gladys brought out others of all varieties and sizes, and while her
visitor examined them, she herself talked on without a pause.
"Where did you get your name?" she asked.
Frances, who was adjusting a baby's cap, replied that she was named for
her great-grandmother.
"Are you? How funny! Mamma named me for a lady in a book--Gladys
Isabel. She doesn't like common names."
Frances wondered if Gladys thought her name common, and for a moment she
wished she had been called something more romantic.
"There is a girl who lives here in the winter," continued the
chatterbox, "whose name is Mathilde. Isn't that funny? It's French--and
she has the loveliest clothes! I wish you could see her--she hasn't come
yet. And just think! she has diamond earrings. Have you any diamonds?"
Frances shook her head, feeling very insignificant beside a girl with a
French name and diamond earrings.
"I have a diamond ring, but mamma won't let me wear it all the time for
fear I'll lose it," said Gladys. "Haven't you any rings?" and she
glanced at the plump little hands of her guest.
"I have one, but it is too small for me now. I don't care very much for
rings," was the reply.
"Don't you? I do. Mamma has ever so many. If you won't tell I'll tell
you something," Gladys went on; "Uncle Jo is going to give me a party at
Christmas, and if you are here I'll invite you. It is to be just like a
grown-up party."
"Do you go to school?" Frances asked.
"Everyday school? Yes; but I don't like it. I haven't started yet."
"I think I'll have to go now," said Frances, rising; "I hope you will
come to see me, Gladys. I have only one doll with me, but I have some
games and books."
"I don't care for books, but I'll come; and if Mathilde is here maybe
I'll bring her."
Frances went downstairs with a sober face. She had intended to tell
Gladys the story of The Golden Doorway, and about the Spectacle Man, but
she had not had a chance, and now she felt that these things would
probably seem tame and uninteresting to a young person of such varied
experience.
"Has my little girl had a good time?" Mrs. Morrison asked.
"Y-es, mother, Gladys has some of the prettiest dolls you ever saw, but
they are too dressed up to have much fun with, and she didn't seem to
want to play."
"Perhaps she doesn't know how to have a really good time, Wink; some
persons don't."
"I know one thing; she hasn't a darling mother like you!" and Frances
emphasized her words with an ardent hug.
"Very few have, Wink," remarked her father, coming in with his hands
full of papers.
"Thank you both for your kind appreciation," said Mrs. Morrison,
laughing. "What do you expect to find in those papers, Jack?"
"I am going to look up advertisements."
"What for, daddy?" Frances asked, dancing about on tiptoe.
"A place for you and mother while I run off and leave you. Listen to
this: 'Wanted: Occupants for a small, partially furnished flat. All
conveniences, terms reasonable. Apply at 432 Walnut Street.'"
"The Spectacle Man's! the Spectacle Man's!" cried Frances, clapping her
hands. "Let's go there, it's lovely!"
"How do you know?" asked her father and mother in the same breath, and
then she explained how he had written the advertisement while she was
waiting for the storm to be over.
"Partially furnished--it might do. I mean, of course, if it is nice,"
said Mrs. Morrison.
"It is too far down town," objected her husband.
"Oh, father, no, it isn't! It is just a beautiful place, and the
Spectacle Man will show me his Toby jugs and things, and there's the
cat,--please let's go!"
"Of course if there is a Toby jug and a cat, there's nothing else to be
desired," said Mr. Morrison, gravely, pinching the cheek of his
enthusiastic daughter. However, he promised that bright and early next
day they would go to look at this flat.
CHAPTER FOURTH
THEY LOOK AT A FLAT.
The house occupied by Mr. Clark the optician was old-fashioned and
roomy; built in the days when ground was cheap and space need not be
economized. It belonged to his nephew, whose guardian he was, and some
day, when the hard times were over, it was likely to be a valuable piece
of property. At present it could be rented for little or nothing as a
residence, and for this reason he had decided to live in it himself,
taking the first floor and turning the second and third into flats.
The dignified old mansion had the air of having stepped back in disdain
from the hurry and bustle of the street, preserving in its seclusion
between the tall buildings on either side something of the leisurely
atmosphere of other days.
The optician himself was quite in keeping with the house. He loved old
things and old ways; his business methods were those of thirty years
ago, and so perhaps were most of his patrons. There were still many
persons who could remember the time when he had been joint proprietor of
the largest jewellery store in the city, but times had changed. In some
way he had been crowded out and half forgotten, much as the old house
had been.
He kept the place in the best of order; the bit of lawn that lay between
the house and the street was as thrifty and green as care could make it,
and was a pleasant surprise when one came upon it unexpectedly, an oasis
in the desert of brick pavement.
Frances' bright eyes had noticed, in passing, the mammoth pair of
spectacles swinging above the veranda, and so when she found Mrs. Gray,
an old lady who had a room near theirs in the hotel, lamenting over her
broken glasses, she had known where to take them.
The clock struck eleven as the Morrisons entered the shop next morning.
The sun shone cheerily in on the Spectacle Man, who was waiting upon a
customer; and Peterkin, who had selected the brightest spot to be found,
was making his toilet in an absorbed manner.
Mr. Clark bowed and smiled and asked them to be seated for a few
minutes; but Frances, all impatience, could not think of keeping still,
and, seeing the cat, was presently down on the floor beside him.
"Do you know, puss," she whispered, stroking him gently, "that maybe we
are coming here to live?"
The news evidently tickled him, so much so that he sneezed and shook
his head vigorously; then, as if fearing to be misunderstood, he began
to purr softly.
"Come, Frances, Mr. Clark is ready to show us the rooms," her father
called; and it is to be hoped Peterkin was not hurt by the sudden manner
in which he was dropped.
"This is a nice old place, Jack," whispered Mrs. Morrison as they
followed Frances and the Spectacle Man up the stairs. The former was
explaining with great animation how they had seen the advertisement in
the paper and she had recognized it. "You see, father is going away and
can't take us, and mother and I think we'd like to come here, perhaps,"
she said.
"Well, I had a presentiment I was going to find a good tenant, but I did
not think it would be you," was his reply.
The rooms proved to be large and light; the paper and paint were fresh
and clean, and what furniture there was was simple and new.
"I believe it is the very place for us," Mrs. Morrison said, her
housewifely eyes taking in all the possibilities of cosey comfort. "It
will be a new and charming experience; and as for the Spectacle Man, he
is simply delightful!"
After showing them through, Mr. Clark had left them, and they could hear
him singing as he went,
"The bridge is broke, and I have to mend it."
"Yes, this will be a nice sitting room, with its windows where,--to
quote Frances--'The little sun comes peeping in at morn!'" said Mr.
Morrison.
"And this bedchamber is lovely, and the little kitchen--"
"We can make candy sometimes, can't we, mother?" Frances interrupted,
dancing wildly about.
"O Jack! if only you were going to be here;" Mrs. Morrison turned
suddenly to the sunny window.
"You know I'll not go one step unless you are willing, Kate," her
husband said, coming to her side.
"Don't be a goose, dear, of course you are going." Her face was hidden
against his shoulder for a moment, then she turned brightly to Frances,
who was anxiously inquiring where she was to sleep.
"And mother," she exclaimed, "such a pretty young lady passed through
the hall just now."
"That is something we must ask about,--what other persons are in the
house," said her father.
Frances was not a little surprised and indignant when, after carrying on
what seemed to her a long conversation with Mr. Clark upon various
unimportant subjects, her father left with nothing more definite than
that they were pleased with the rooms and would let him know their
decision next day.
"Aren't we going to take them? I thought it was all settled; I don't
understand," she said when they were on the street.
"Now, Wink, let me ask you something. Don't you honestly think that two
persons who have lived more than thirty years ought to have a little
better judgment about some things than one who has lived only ten?"
"But I'll be eleven in February, and--well, father, I suppose so, but
grown people do take so long to think!"
"It is an interesting old house, and do you know, I think that is a
Gilbert Stuart over the mantel in the back room," remarked Mr. Morrison.
"Why, father, it is a George Washington! I'm sure it is," cried Frances,
and couldn't understand why they laughed, till her mother explained that
they were probably both right, as Gilbert Stuart had painted a number
of portraits of Washington.
It spoke well for the Spectacle Man's flat that they looked no farther
that day, but there were many things to be taken into consideration that
Frances did not dream of. After she was snugly tucked in bed that night,
her father and mother sat long talking over their plans.
"I do not like the idea of leaving you here without looking up any of my
old friends," said Mr. Morrison.
"But that is just what we want to avoid. I don't care to meet your
friends till you are with me. We shall be perfectly comfortable, and
shall enjoy the experience, and Mr. Clark, I know, will be kindness
itself," replied his wife.
"You are as infatuated as Frances; you are just two little girls with a
new playhouse. But if anything should happen--I don't know what--it
might be awkward."
"I suppose I know what you mean, Jack; but we could not be suspected of
any motive in coming here, a certain person being abroad, and nothing is
going to happen. Who is likely to find us out? Morrison is a
sufficiently common name, and the Spectacle Man's apartment house is, to
say the least, not conspicuous. You forget we are not so important to
other people as we are to you. The months will soon pass, and we shall
be together again in some delightful place, and you will write your
novel and become famous, and then--"
Her husband lifted to his lips the hand he held, just as he used to do
when he was her gallant young lover, a dozen years ago. "For your sake I
wish I might. If only I had half your cheerful courage," he said,
adding, "I hope Frances will grow up to be exactly like you."
"She is exactly like you, Jack, I am happy to say."
As they sat in silence the song of the Spectacle Man kept repeating
itself in Mrs. Morrison's mind, and it suggested to her the broken
bridge which separated Jack from so much that might have been his. Would
it ever be mended?
CHAPTER FIFTH.
SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES.
"I am as sorry as I can be that you are going away, I shall miss you so
much;" said Mrs. Gray to Frances and her mother when they came in to
tell her about their plans for the winter.
Their rooms were across the hall from hers, and the acquaintance had
begun in the elevator, where they often met on the way to the dining
room. The old lady was somewhat crippled with rheumatism and moved about
with difficulty, so her life was rather a lonely one; and it had given
her a great deal of pleasure to have Mrs. Morrison and her little girl
drop in every now and then to chat with her and bring her books and
papers. Then she could never sufficiently express her gratitude to
Frances for taking her glasses to be mended.
"If I hadn't, I might never have known the Spectacle Man, and we
shouldn't have found our flat, so I am much obliged to _you_," Frances
said, laughing, when Mrs. Gray went over it all for the tenth time, more
or less.
"Then perhaps you would have stayed here for the winter. I am sorry I
let you go," was her answer.
"We'll often run in to see you, Mrs. Gray, and sometime you may be able
to come to see us," said Mrs. Morrison; adding, "we haven't many
friends, you know."
Mrs. Gray shook her head. "I can't get out any more; but as for friends,
you'll find them wherever you go."
Gladys did not approve of the move, and frankly expressed her opinion.
"It is such a funny old house, in between the stores. I shouldn't think
you would want to live there," she said.
"But you don't know how nice it is inside," Frances urged. "It is going
to be such fun; and Mr. Clark has some lovely things and the dearest
cat!"
"It seems to me you like very funny things," Gladys remarked. She
announced, however, that she intended to call.
What with getting the traveller ready to start and moving into their new
quarters, those were busy days. They were all three very cheerful
indeed, making a great many jokes and talking about next summer, when
they should be together again, saying nothing of the long winter that
stretched between.
It was a mistake to think of Hawaii as so far away. Had it not been
annexed? Two thousand miles from California was simply no distance at
all in these days. When it came to saying good-by it was hard indeed to
remember all this, but it was gone through with somehow, and one bright
October day Frances and her mother found themselves alone in their new
sitting room.
"Oh, mother, I wish you wouldn't cry!" sobbed Frances.
"But you are crying yourself," said Mrs. Morrison, half laughing. At
this tearful moment there came a knock at the door, and a long heavy
package was handed in.
"There must be some mistake," Mrs. Morrison said, drying her eyes and
reading the address, which was, however, unmistakable.
They made haste to cut the twine, and behold, a beautiful rug! "Isn't
this like that dear, extravagant Jack?" she cried. "Isn't it pretty,
Wink? He thought we'd need cheering up!"
Chairs and tables must be pushed aside at once and the rug put in place.
Frances had just sat down in the middle of it with great satisfaction,
when through the half-open door walked the fattest, rosiest baby
imaginable, wearing a very clean blue check apron and an affable smile.
"Why, where did you come from?" they both exclaimed.
This was evidently something he did not care to reveal, for, although he
continued to smile and gaze about him with interest, he made no reply.
[Illustration: "'What is your name, baby?'"]
"What is your name, baby?" Frances asked, holding out her hands.
"Dennyleebon,"--or so it sounded.
"Do you suppose that is intended for English?" said Mrs. Morrison.
"I don't know. Make him say something else. Baby, can you talk?"
"Tock," repeated the infant, pointing to the mantel.
"Yes," cried Frances, delighted, "it is a clock. You see, mother, he
thought I said clock. That is English."
"You don't mean it! But let him alone, Wink, and see what he will do."
The visitor showed plainly that he had a mind of his own. He did not
wish to be petted and kissed, but preferred to walk around the room on a
tour of investigation. Presently he paused before a table and remarked
earnestly, "Book."
"Can't you find a picture-book for him?" asked Mrs. Morrison.
There happened to be an old animal book in the box they were unpacking,
and, getting it out, Frances and the baby sat together on the new rug
and turned the leaves, the latter never failing to say, "ion," "effunt,"
"tiger," as the case might be, with unvarying correctness and great
enthusiasm.
In the midst of this there came a modest little tap at the door, and
when Mrs. Morrison opened it, there stood a girl of about Frances' age.
Her red calico dress was very fresh, her cheeks as rosy as the
infant's, and her flaxen hair was drawn tightly back and braided in a
long tail.
"Is the baby here?" she asked.
"No, no," came in decided tones from the visitor.
This made them all laugh, even the baby himself seeming to think it a
good joke.
"Can't he stay for a while? He is good, and we like to have him," said
Mrs. Morrison.
The girl hesitated; plainly the baby had no thought of leaving. "The
lady who used to have these rooms made a pet of him, and he is always
running off up here," she explained.
"I am glad he came, for my daughter and I were feeling lonely. Won't you
come in and sit down? Do you live in the house?"
The newcomer accepted Mrs. Morrison's invitation rather shyly, looking
as if she had a mind to carry the baby off by main force. Her name, she
said, was Emma Bond, and she and her two-year-old brother lived in the
back part of the house with their mother, who took care of Mr. Clark's
rooms. The baby's name was Robert Lee, but he was commonly known as the
General, a nickname given him by the Spectacle Man, and evidently well
bestowed.
After the picture-book had been examined from beginning to end twice
over, the General was, with the aid of some candy and much diplomacy,
induced to accompany his sister downstairs, calling "By-by," and kissing
his hand with great affability to Frances.
"Aren't they the cleanest looking children you ever saw?" said the
latter, coming back from the hall, where she had gone with their
guests.
"Aren't they! I think I shall like Emma, she is a nice, sensible,
old-fashioned little girl, and the General is great fun. I hope they
will come again," replied Mrs. Morrison.
In the course of the next few days they began to feel at home in their
new quarters, and they also made the acquaintance of Mrs. Bond, a small
woman with a pleasant but firm face, and such an air of energy that no
lazy person could exist comfortably in her presence.
She was never known to waste any time. With the assistance of a colored
boy,--a theological student,--who came in twice a day and in the time he
could spare from his Latin and Greek cleaned for her, she kept Mr.
Clark's rooms and the halls in beautiful order. Her children were always
as neat as wax, and her busy fingers found time for a little fine sewing
occasionally, which, as a girl, she had learned in the convent school
where she was educated.
Mrs. Bond was trying to train her daughter in the same industrious ways,
and one Saturday morning Frances discovered Emma dusting the show-cases
in the shop. Stopping to speak to her, she learned that this was her
daily task, and that on Saturdays she dusted the study also. It must be
very interesting work, Frances thought, and the two children found so
much to talk about that Mrs. Bond presently came in search of Emma and
reproved her for idling. She did not positively object to play after
lessons were learned and other duties attended to, but she conveyed the
impression to Frances that in her opinion a really exemplary little girl
would care more for her tasks than for amusement.
"I am so sorry, but I have to go," Emma whispered, as her mother left
the room.
"Won't your mother let you come to see me some time?" Frances asked.
"I guess so, when I haven't anything to do," answered Emma, who thought
Frances the most charming little girl she had ever seen.
CHAPTER SIXTH.
AN INFORMAL AFFAIR.
It was not long before the Morrisons' apartment blossomed into a
charmingly homelike place. Even Mrs. Bond, who on one of her tours of
inspection in the wake of Wilson Barnes, the student, had been enticed
in for a moment, agreed that the rooms were very fine, though she
herself would not care to have so many things to keep clean.
Their sitting room was the greatest achievement. There was the new rug,
which really was a beauty, and the couch, with its plump cushions all
covered in a marvellous fifteen-cent stuff that looked like a costly
Oriental fabric, together with the books and pictures, which had been
left packed and ready to be sent to them whenever they should settle
down, and last of all, in the sunniest corner was a beautiful sword
fern, a rubber plant, and a jar of ivy.
"Transients can't afford many plants, but a little greenness is
essential to happiness," Mrs. Morrison declared.
The cosey kitchen was presided over by Zenobia Jackson, who exactly
suited her surroundings, being small and neat and quick, combining in a
most satisfactory way the duties of a parlor maid and cook.
She was a friend of Wilson's, to whom Mrs. Morrison had applied. When
asked if he knew any one she could get to do the work of their small
flat, he replied, "Yes, ma'm; I know a young girl who would suit you,
but she is going to school at present."
"If that is the case, she wouldn't suit at all," said Mrs. Morrison.
"Well, she's thinking of leaving school. Her ma she's sick, and her
pa's out of work, and their insurance is getting in the rear, so Zenobia
'lows she'll have to get a place."
"Can she cook?" asked Mrs. Morrison.
"Yes, ma'm; her ma's one of the best cooks in town."
"Her mother has taught her, then, I suppose."
"No, ma'm; the best ones ain't taught. It comes by nature, and Zenobia
is a naturalist." Wilson spoke with ministerial gravity.
Mrs. Morrison smiled. "I'd like to have her come to see me," she said.
Wilson promised to let her know, and added, "If you take her, Mrs.
Morrison, she'll do her best, and angels can't do any better."
The result was that a few days later Zenobia was installed and proved
herself worthy of her recommendation.
"She does beautifully," Mrs. Morrison wrote to her husband, "and while I
am not in a position to assert that angels couldn't do better, I am
inclined to believe it."
"Frances, I wish we knew those girls upstairs. I meet them so often in
the hall. One of them--Miss Moore, I think she is--is exceedingly
pretty." Mrs. Morrison was washing the glossy leaves of the rubber
plant.
"I know them," her daughter replied, as she carefully measured the long
bud that was about to open. "The pretty one is Miss Sherwin," she
added. "I know, because when Emma and I went up to their room with a
package that had been left downstairs by mistake, Miss Moore opened the
door, and I heard her say, 'Here is your dress, Lillian.'"
"I can't see how that proves anything. How did you know that the one who
opened the door was Miss Moore?"
Frances thought for a moment, "I know now! The package had Miss
Sherwin's name on it. Doesn't that prove it?"
"Perhaps it does, Wink, though it seems something of a puzzle," replied
her mother. "At any rate, I wish I knew them. I must remember to ask Mr.
Clark about them; they look lonely."
"Let's go to see them," Frances suggested.
"They were here before we came; they may not wish to know us."
"I should think they would," Frances exclaimed, so earnestly her mother
laughed.
"So should I, Winkie, but we don't know. Perhaps something will happen
to make us acquainted."
Something did happen, and it was the General who brought it to pass.
Mrs. Bond often remarked that Emma's head never saved her heels, and it
was quite true; for, although she went about her tasks willingly
enough, her thoughts had a way of travelling off into a world of their
own. She had long ago discovered this way of escape from the rather dull
routine of her daily life, but her mother declared since the Morrisons
came she had been worse than ever. And, indeed, the life upstairs in
those bright rooms seemed very strange and delightful to Emma, so much
so that in thinking about it she would forget the sugar bowl, or the
tea-cups when she set the table, and do all sorts of absent-minded
things.
One afternoon, soon after Frances and her mother had the conversation
about their neighbors overhead, the former went down to see Emma.
She found her in the kitchen that was as usual tidy to the last degree;
the General, however, true to the influence of his environment, was busy
with a tiny broom and dustpan. Emma sat in the window reading, and on
the stove something simmered and bubbled gently.
"This is a very nice kitchen," Frances remarked, as she walked in.
Emma closed her book. "Do you think so? I don't like kitchens, but your
sitting room is beautiful. It reminds me of a house where I go sometimes
for mother; oh, such a lovely place!"
"Don't get down; let me sit beside you," Frances begged, and quickly
established herself in the other corner of the window-sill.
"Mother doesn't care for pretty things; she says she is thankful if she
can be clean," Emma continued, with a sigh.
"I think you are very clean," said the visitor, looking around her; "but
tell me about that beautiful house, won't you?"
Emma obediently began an animated description of it. It was just like a
palace, she said, with a beautiful garden and conservatory, and rooms
and rooms full of lovely things. "Mother sews sometimes for the lady who
lives there, and I take the work home. I wonder, Frances, if you
couldn't go with me next time."
"Look at the General!" cried Frances, suddenly, jumping down.
All unnoticed by the girls he had contrived to set his broom on fire and
was now waving it aloft in great delight. He had no mind to give it up
either, and frightened by the excited manner in which they rushed upon
him, he clung to it for dear life, filling the house with his shrieks.
In the struggle a roller towel caught fire and some damage might have
been done, but for the appearance of Miss Moore and Miss Sherwin.
The former seized the baby with a practised hand while her companion
unfastened the roller and let the towel fall to the floor, where the
fire was easily put out. It was all over when Mrs. Morrison, who had
heard the screams as she was dressing, came hurrying in, followed by Mr.
Clark. The General sat quiet in Miss Moore's lap, a finger in his mouth,
tears still on his cheek; Emma with a dazed expression was holding on to
all that remained of the broom; and Frances danced around excitedly
trying to explain how it happened.
When Mrs. Bond walked in, everything quieted down as if by magic.
Explanations were needless, her quick eyes took it all in: "Emma wasn't
minding what she was about," she said decidedly.
The Spectacle Man chuckled to himself as they all filed out, leaving her
restoring order. "The General is too much for Emma," he remarked; "it is
odd to see how like his mother that baby is already--as alert and
determined in the pursuit of mischief as she is in her more important
affairs."
"I have a dozen erratic infants not more than a year older than the
General, at my table in kindergarten, so I know something about it,"
said Miss Moore.
The excitement had broken the ice, and the Morrisons and their
third-floor neighbors went upstairs together chatting sociably. Miss
Sherwin, indeed, had not much to say; but her companion made up for her
silence, and accepted without hesitation Mrs. Morrison's invitation to
come in and make her and Frances a call.
"I have been wanting to come, but Lillian wouldn't let me," she said.
"It is not fair to say that without giving my reason," put in Miss
Sherwin, coloring in a way that was most becoming.
"I believe she thought you wouldn't care to know us," said Miss Moore,
laughing.
"That was a great mistake," answered Mrs. Morrison. "Frances and I are
sociable persons, and besides, we are strangers here."
"So are we, and we came here because Mr. Clark is an old friend of my
father's." As she spoke, Miss Moore looked about her with frankly
admiring eyes. "I am taking the kindergarten course; and my friend is
keeping house and amusing herself, and keeping me from dying of
home-sickness."