"The bridge is broke--but faith and courage will find the way; yes, I
like it," and he nodded his head emphatically.
"I thought morals weren't interesting," said Frances, at which they all
laughed, and Miss Sherwin said she hoped she had not made hers too
prominent. "I feel very grateful to you for liking it," she added.
"I want you to elaborate it a little and send it to _The Young People's
Journal_," Mrs. Morrison said.
Miss Sherwin shook her head, but Miss Moore declared she would see that
it was done.
Peterkin, who had been completely forgotten in the interest of the
story, created a sensation just here by catching one of his sharp lower
teeth in his frill, thereby causing temporary lockjaw. He was promptly
released by Miss Moore, who declared he should not be dressed up again.
After he had gone into seclusion under the sofa, and the rest of the
company were eating grapes and apples, Mr. Clark took down the Toby jug
from the mantel shelf.
"It seems hardly right to tell another story to-night after the
beautiful one we have listened to," he said, "but this is a very short
one, and I promised Frances. This brown ware is called Rockingham, and
you see how the likeness of a very fat old gentleman is embossed upon
it. It is said that there once lived a jolly toper named Toby Fillpot.
In the course of time he died and was buried, and then, according to an
old drinking song:--
"'His body when long in the ground it had lain,
And time into clay had resolved it again,
A potter found out in its covert so snug,
And from part of fat Toby he formed this brown jug.'
"In fact, I believe he made a number of them, and dedicated them to
friendship, mirth, and mild ale."
"It seems to suggest Dickens; doesn't he somewhere mention a Toby jug?"
asked Mrs. Morrison.
"I don't remember, but it is likely," answered Mr. Clark.
"Was your grandfather an Englishman?" Miss Sherwin asked.
"Yes, he was English and my mother was French."
"I was sure there was French somewhere," said Mrs. Morrison.
The children thought the jug very funny and interesting, but Frances did
not want to touch it after she had heard the story.
"It might really be true," she said, putting her hands behind her.
"Is this supposed to be one of the originals?" asked Miss Moore.
"Well, that is as you choose to believe. It is over one hundred years
old, at any rate," was Mr. Clark's reply.
CHAPTER NINTH.
FINDING A MORAL.
In spite of her disapproval of the place where the Morrisons had gone to
live, Gladys was very often there. She liked Frances, and at the house
of the Spectacle Man there seemed never to be any lack of something to
do. There were glorious games of "I spy" in the halls when Emma was off
duty, or visits to the studio where Miss Sherwin illustrated her stories
and was delighted to have them pose for her, or if it were a rainy
afternoon Mr. Clark did not object to their coming into the shop. He
kept some glasses especially to lend to them on these occasions, and if
business happened to be very dull he would entertain them with stories
of his childhood, of which they never tired. Any chance customer must
have been amused at the sight of three little girls in spectacles,
seated in a row listening to the old man.
Gladys tyrannized over Emma and patronized her by turns, the latter
being too timid to resent it openly; and Frances enjoyed playing the
part of protector and defender. Naturally this state of affairs
sometimes led to war, for Frances was quick-tempered and impulsive, and
Gladys very stubborn.
One afternoon Mrs. Morrison went out, leaving the three children deeply
interested in a new game. Everything went smoothly until Emma, who was
sometimes rather slow in understanding things, made a wrong play that
resulted in Gladys's defeat. When this was discovered Gladys in the
excitement of the moment accused her of cheating, whereupon Emma began
to cry and Frances became very angry.
"She didn't cheat, Gladys Bowen, you know she didn't; and you haven't
any right to say so!" she exclaimed, with blazing eyes.
"She did," asserted Gladys, with a dogged conviction in her tone that
infuriated Frances, and sweeping the dominoes from the table she
cried:--
"I'll never play with you again, never!"
"No, you will never have a chance," was the cool reply. "I won't play
with either of you; and I'd be ashamed of myself if I were you,
Frances."
"Oh, never mind!" urged Emma, aghast at the scene.
"I will mind. She knows it is a story--and--" Frances could get no
further, her tears choked her, and rushing from the room she shut the
door behind her.
Mrs. Morrison, coming in, found Gladys putting on her things with an air
of injured innocence quite impressive, while Emma stood helplessly
looking at her. The dominoes lay scattered on the floor.
"Where is Frances?" she asked.
"In the other room; she's mad," Gladys explained briefly.
Mrs. Morrison knew it would be useless to ask questions at this stage,
so she only said she was sorry, and waited till Gladys left, then went
to find her daughter.
Frances was lying on the bed crying convulsively.
"What is the matter?" her mother asked gently.
The child sat up, exclaiming between her sobs, "Gladys is so hateful.
She said Emma cheated--and it's a story--and I'll never play with her
again!"
"Oh, my little girl! I am so sorry," was all Mrs. Morrison said, as she
left the room.
Sorry about what? Frances wondered as her anger cooled. Because Gladys
had been so hateful? or was it because she had been in a passion?--but
then she had a right to be angry. As she lay quiet for a while, feeling
languid, now the storm had passed, a sense of shame stole over her.
Presently she went softly into the sitting room. It was growing dark,
and her mother sat alone among the cushions of the couch; Frances
nestled down beside her, and there in the firelight and the stillness
she couldn't help feeling sorry, even though she still felt sure she had
a right to be angry.
She wished her mother would speak, but as she did not, Frances asked,
"Don't you think Gladys was very unkind?"
"She ought to have been very certain of the truth of what she said,
before she accused any one of cheating."
"I think so too; and I had a right to be angry." She began to feel quite
certain of this.
"I have been talking it over with Emma," said Mrs. Morrison, "and I find
she did not understand the game. She really played as Gladys said, but
she did it by mistake."
"Did she? But Gladys ought to have known Emma wouldn't cheat."
"And of course there was nothing for you to do, but throw down the
dominoes and accuse Gladys of telling a story?"
"But, mother--" Frances hesitated.
"Suppose you had told Gladys that there must be some mistake, and then
had tried to find out what it was."
"But I was so provoked."
"Yes, and you lost your self-control. You let yourself be ruled by your
temper. It is sometimes right to be angry, but it is never right to be
in a passion."
"Don't you think I am getting better of my temper?" Frances asked
meekly.
"Yes, dear; I have thought so lately, and it was right for you to want
to defend Emma; but to throw the dominoes on the floor, to be in such a
fury--my darling, it makes me afraid for you! You might sometime do
something that all your life would be a sorrow to you. God meant you to
rule your feelings and passions, not be ruled by them. You are like a
soldier who has surrendered to the enemy he might have conquered."
"I'll ask him to forgive me," Frances whispered.
"You know father and I want our little girl to grow into a sweet,
gracious woman--"
"Just like you," Frances interrupted, with her arms around her mother's
neck.
"No, not just like me," answered Mrs. Morrison, smiling; "you must be
your own self, Wink. I have tried not to spoil you, but of course I have
made mistakes, and now you are getting old enough to share the
responsibility with me."
"Do you think you ought to punish me, mother?"
"Dear, I think the punishment will be the trying to set things right
again."
Nothing more was said on the subject that evening, but the next day
Frances came to her mother with a bright face; "I have found out what it
means," she said.
"What what means?" Mrs. Morrison asked.
"The story of the bridge. You know Gladys is mad with me and won't come
here any more-- Emma says she said she would never speak to me
again--and that is a broken bridge and I have to mend it; but I don't
know how," she added.
"Perhaps you can find a way if you try," replied her mother, thinking it
best to let her solve her own problems.
All day Frances' thoughts kept going back to the unfortunate quarrel,
and even when she was not thinking about it she was not happy. The storm
clouds hung low and made the atmosphere heavy.
At twilight she slipped downstairs and peeped into the study where Dick
had just lit the lamp and Peterkin lay stretched at his ease before the
bright fire. She stole in and sat beside him on the rug and stroked him
softly. He purred gently, looking up in her face with so much wisdom in
his yellow eyes she felt like telling him about the trouble.
Presently the Spectacle Man came with the evening paper, and was
surprised and pleased to see her.
"Mr. Clark," she began, "I have a broken bridge to mend."
"Is that so? I hope it will not give you much trouble."
Frances sighed and put her face down on Peterkin's soft coat for a
moment. "I am afraid it will," she said, and then she told the story.
The Spectacle Man listened gravely. "I don't believe the bridge is
really broken," he said; "it is only invisible beneath the clouds of
anger and unkindness."
Frances drew a very deep breath. "Then what can I do?" she asked.
"How was it in the story?"
"But the young man had a fairy to help him.
"I don't think you need one; love and courage can find a way," said Mr.
Clark.
Frances went upstairs very soberly. "Mother, I believe I'll write to
Gladys," she said, going at once to her desk. It took a good deal of
time and thought, but it was finished at last, and she felt a weight
lifted from her heart as she put it in the envelope. This is what she
wrote:--
"DEAR GLADYS: I am sorry I behaved so the other day. I was mad
because you said Emma cheated, and I thought I had a right to be;
but I know now I ought not to have been in a passion. It was a
mistake; Emma did play wrong, but she didn't know any better.
Gladys, I have found the moral of the story. The bridge between
you and me is invisible because of the clouds of anger. I want to
find it again, don't you?
"Your friend,
"FRANCES MORRISON."
This note was despatched by Wilson, and bright and early next day Gladys
answered it in person. She went to Frances and kissed her. "I am not mad
with you any more," she said; "it was nice of you to write that note,
and I am sorry I said Emma cheated."
After this, Frances was as merry as a cricket, and went about singing:--
"The bridge is broke and I have to mend it,"
till her mother was forced to beg for a little variety.
Meanwhile the story of "The Missing Bridge," with some changes and
additions, and accompanied by two charming illustrations, had gone to
seek its fortune in the office of _The Young People's Journal_, and it
was no longer a secret that Miss Sherwin was in the habit of writing
stories and had already met with considerable success.
Frances thought this a strong bond between them, "For father writes
stories too, you know," she would often say.
It was about this time that the first letters, so long waited for,
arrived from Honolulu, giving such glowing accounts of the voyage and
the climate, and written in such evident good spirits, and so full of
love for the two left behind, that they had to be read at least once a
day for a week.
CHAPTER TENTH.
THE PORTRAIT AGAIN.
Frances wished very much to go to school, but for several reasons her
mother did not think it wise, so she studied at home every morning,
going upstairs at twelve o'clock to Miss Sherwin for a drawing lesson.
Emma thought this a delightful arrangement, but Frances looked with envy
upon the children who passed, swinging their school bags. "It is because
I wasn't strong last winter and mother thinks it wouldn't be good for me
to be shut up in a schoolroom, but I shall go next year," she explained.
As the fall weather was beautiful they spent a great deal of time out of
doors, and when Mrs. Morrison did not care to go herself she would send
Frances with Zenobia for a walk or a ride on the cars, to the delight of
the latter, who adored her young charge.
These two were returning from a long walk one cold day, when they met
Emma Bond, who said she was going to Mrs. Marvin's with some work, and
asked them to go back with her.
"I don't know whether mother would like me to; do you think she would
care, Zenobia?" Frances asked.
It was only a short distance, and Zenobia couldn't see any harm in
stopping a moment; so they went in with Emma and sat in the hall while
she ran upstairs to speak to the housekeeper.
Everything was in perfect order to-day, and Frances gave a little sigh
of satisfaction as she looked about her; it was all so warm and
beautiful, with a stately sort of beauty that was very impressive. She
sat as still as a mouse, listening to the ticking of some unseen clock.
Emma stayed a long time, and presently Frances whispered, "Zenobia,
there is a picture I want to see, and I am just going to peep in that
door; I'll be back in a minute;" and she stole softly across the hall as
if afraid she might break the stillness.
The room she entered was a library, spacious and beautiful; but Frances
thought of nothing but the portrait, which in the softened light that
came from the curtained windows was more charming than ever.
[Illustration: "'Little girl, I wish I knew you'"]
"Little girl, I wish I knew you," she said half aloud, standing before
it, her eyes bright from her walk in the keen air, her cheeks the
deepest rose.
On the hearth a wood fire smouldered, breaking into little gleams of
flame now and then.
"If you would only come down and talk to me, and tell me who you are,"
Frances continued under her breath, unconsciously taking the attitude of
the picture girl who smiled down on her so brightly.
The fire purred softly, and there was added to this sound after a little
a gentle rustle which, though she heard it, seemed so a part of the
quiet that she gave it no thought. Then, suddenly, as if she had been
awakened from a dream, she became conscious of the presence of some one
near her.
Turning, her eyes met those of a very stately person who stood only a
few feet away leaning on the back of a chair. She had silvery hair and a
proud, handsome face, and for a second or two Frances continued to gaze
at her, the two pairs of eyes holding each other as if by some magnetic
power.
Then it flashed into Frances' mind that this must be Mrs. Marvin, and
the spell was broken. She had come home--and what must she think of a
girl who roamed about her house without leave! The child wanted to
explain, but words were not easy to find, and the lady did not speak.
"I did not know--" she began, then hesitated and tried again; "I
thought--" her throat felt very dry, and she wondered if she had spoken
at all. It was so strange and uncomfortable that tears rose to her eyes.
"I wish you would tell me who you are;" the lady spoke in a strange,
cold voice.
The feeling that she was not being fairly treated, together with her
determination not to cry, made Frances intensely dignified, and it was
with a haughtiness almost equal to the lady's own that she replied, "My
name is Frances Morrison," and with a movement of her head which seemed
to add, "it is useless to try to explain," she turned away.
A singular expression came into the stranger's face; she sat down in
the nearest chair. "I wish you would not go," she said; "I am afraid I
startled you as much as you did me. Come and tell me how you happen to
be here." Her tone was no longer cold, and she held out her hands
appealingly.
The smile transformed her face, which was all sweetness and graciousness
now, and impulsive little Frances was instantly won. She went quickly to
the lady's side, saying in a breathless way she had when excited, "I
thought perhaps you did not like it,--but I didn't know any one was
here, and I wanted to see the picture again, so while Emma was upstairs
I thought I'd just peep in, but I'm sorry--" she paused; evidently her
words had not been heard. This strange person held her hands and gazed
at her in the oddest way.
"And so you are a real little girl!" she said at length.
The child smiled uneasily, and seeing it, the lady put her arm around
her and drew her closer. "Forgive me, dear, for not listening," she
said. "You came with--whom?"
Again Frances explained, but perhaps she did not make it very clear, for
her companion still looked puzzled.
"Do you live here?" she asked.
"No, we are spending the winter here, mother and I."
"Your mother and you--" the questioner repeated.
"Yes, while father is away; he has gone to Honolulu. We stopped here
because mother was ill, and then the _Eastern Review_ wanted father to
go to Hawaii, so we thought we'd just stay. We have a flat at the
Spectacle Man's--I mean Mr. Clark's--and it is very nice."
"Is it?" The stranger's eyes travelled over the dainty figure. "You will
think I am asking a great many questions, but where did you get your
name?" she added.
"It was my great-grandmother's. Mother wanted to put Chauncey in. That
is father's name, John Chauncey Morrison. Perhaps you have read his
stories." Again Frances saw that strange expression in the face before
her.
"Do you know who I am?" the lady asked.
"I suppose you are Mrs. Marvin. Emma said you had not come home yet, but
that you were coming very soon, and when I saw you I knew who it must
be, and-- I hope you'll excuse me," she added, remembering she had
offered no apology.
Emma and Zenobia, who had been standing in the door for several minutes,
now succeeded in catching Frances' eye. "I must go," she said, "they are
waiting for me."
Mrs. Marvin glanced in their direction. "Will you come to see me again?"
she asked.
"I don't know whether mother will let me," Frances replied doubtfully.
The lady suddenly took the child's face in her hands and kissed her
lips,--such a strange, passionate kiss it was; and then Frances felt
herself almost pushed away.
She had hardly any answer for Emma's excited questions, which began as
soon as they were outside the door, but walked along with an absent
expression that was rather provoking.
"I can't see what makes you so funny, Frances," said her friend.
"Why, Wink, how late you are!" Mrs. Morrison exclaimed, meeting them at
the head of the steps, having spent the last half hour at the window.
Frances put her arms around her mother's neck. "Oh, mother, I have seen
such a beautiful lady, and she kissed me, and it made me feel like
crying!"
By degrees Mrs. Morrison had the whole story, and looked rather grave
over it. "I am sorry you went in at all, dear, and it was very wrong to
go wandering about the house, even though you thought the owner was
away."
"But I don't think she minded; at least she asked me to come again, so I
think she must have liked me."
Mrs. Morrison smiled as she kissed her little daughter; she saw nothing
improbable in this.
"I think I won't tell Jack about it," she said to herself, "For it would
only worry him; but I'll be careful to have it understood that Frances
is not to go into any house unless I am with her or have given my
permission. It can't happen again. Marvin is not a name I ever heard
Jack mention, I am quite sure of that."
CHAPTER ELEVENTH
MRS. MARVIN IS PERPLEXED.
"Jack's little girl! can it be? It is the strangest thing that ever
happened to me. I do not understand it." Mrs. Marvin paced restlessly
back and forth, an expression of pain and perplexity on her handsome
face.
"Why should I care?" she thought; "what is it to me? I gave it all up
long ago.-- And yet--that dear little girl--those eyes--a Morrison every
inch of her! There can be no mistake, but it is all a mystery how she
happened to come here. How weak I am! why should it torture me so? Oh,
Jack, Jack!" She hid her face in her hands.
It showed, however, no trace of emotion when half an hour later she
encountered her housekeeper in the upper hall.
"Caroline, who is the little girl who came to see you this afternoon?"
she asked.
"I suppose it was Emma Bond, Miss Frances; her mother has been
hemstitching some pillow cases."
"Do you know anything about the child who was with her? I think she said
she lived in the same house."
"I don't know who she is, Miss Frances. She is a pretty child, but I
don't remember her name if I ever heard it."
"I saw her and was rather attracted to her. She seemed not quite the
sort of child you would expect to find in a tenement house. There was a
very respectable looking maid with her."
Caroline smiled. She was a bright-faced Swiss woman who had lived with
her mistress for nearly thirty years, knew her thoroughly, and loved her
devotedly. She was not deceived by the air of indifference with which
the lady moved away; she understood that for some reason her mistress
wished to find out all she knew about this little girl.
"It isn't what you'd call a tenement house," she said; "the man who owns
it has made it into flats. He lives there himself, and has his shop, and
Mrs. Bond keeps house for him. It is a real nice place."
"I fail to see the difference," was the reply; "but, Caroline, why did
she think I was Mrs. Marvin? She called me so."
"I don't know, Miss Frances, unless it was Emma Bond's mistake. Her
mother did some sewing for Mrs. Marvin when she was staying here."
"Well, Caroline, if you see Mrs. Bond you need not say anything about
the mistake. You understand? I have a reason for wishing them to think I
am Mrs. Marvin, as in fact I am."
"I should like to know what it means," Caroline said to herself as her
mistress walked away.
"This is all very melodramatic and absurd, but I must have time to
consider," the lady was thinking as she entered her own room, and closed
the door behind her. "I must contrive to see her again."
Going to a cabinet, she took from an inner compartment a box, then she
had a long search for the key, and after it was found she sat with the
box on her lap gazing absently before her.
It was thirteen--almost fourteen years since she had lifted that lid.
She had thought never to open it, unless--well, unless the impossible
happened, and now a pair of brown eyes had aroused an irresistible
longing to look once more on something that lay hidden there. In vain
she told herself it was foolish, idle, worse than childish. She recalled
the burning anger and resentment with which she had put the box away so
long ago. Yes, and had she not just cause? But the touch of those young
lips was still fresh upon her own, and whether she would or not, was
carrying her back, back to the dear old days.
There was really very little in it, she reflected, as she began to look
over the contents; but a few trifles can mean so much sometimes. There
was a light brown curl, some photographs that showed how a certain
chubby, dimpled baby had developed into a manly boy of sixteen, a bundle
of letters in a schoolboy hand, and down at the very bottom, the thing
she was so anxious to see again, a lovely miniature of a boy of seven.
She gazed at it long and earnestly. Such a dear little face! and this
afternoon she had seen the same smile, had looked into the same eyes!
Jack's daughter! was it possible?
He had called her Frances, too; he had not quite forgotten. It was, of
course, a family name, and with all his independence Jack had a great
deal of family pride. And the air with which she had said, "Perhaps you
have read his stories,"--she could have laughed, but for the pain of the
thought that she who had once been first had now no part in his life.
Others had the right to be proud of him, but not she.
She closed the lid and put the box away: the past could not be recalled,
she must try to forget, as she had tried all these years; but even as
she made the resolve her heart was saying, "I must see that child
again,--I must, must!"
CHAPTER TWELFTH.
AT CHRISTMAS TIME.
"Hurrah!" said the Spectacle Man, "Mark's coming home for Christmas." He
waved a letter above his head as he spoke, and looked as if he might be
going to dance a jig.
"Is he? I am very glad," replied Frances, who had run down to speak to
the postman, and now paused in the open door of the shop.
"I was really afraid we couldn't manage it, travelling costs so much,
but one of his friends has given him a pass. Mark is a great fellow for
such things!" Mr. Clark's face beamed with pleasure.