but she had a stern feeling that hardship was likely to be their lot in
this world, and the sooner they became used to it the better. However,
when her pride was convinced that Mrs. Morrison could not use the dress,
she accepted it gratefully.
Emma's joy was beyond words, and she very much wondered how the
Spectacle Man could have known that something was going to happen.
When the eventful day came, Mrs. Morrison rolled her hair for her and
tied her long braids with butterfly bows of red, white, and blue, and
when she was dressed, Frances said, "Why, Emma, I believe you are as
pretty as Gladys!"
Certainly no little girl waved her flag with more enthusiasm, or
rejoiced more truly in the celebration of Washington's Birthday.
CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.
AT THE LOAN EXHIBIT.
Before the end of February there began to be hints of spring in the air;
now and then there came a day so mild and fair it seemed to belong to
April, and as the winter passed it carried with it some at least of the
cares that had for a while rested upon the inmates of the optician's
house.
Frances and her mother rejoiced because every day brought nearer their
traveller's return; Miss Moore, busy with the Easter work in her
kindergarten, was finding a new meaning in the season; and even Lillian
Sherwin felt now and then a thrill of joy that was like a prophecy of
days to come, to her sore heart.
Mr. Clark was cheerful because he loved sunshine; and though he could
not as yet see the way through his difficulties, he felt sure it was
there, and that in good time he should find it.
The pleasure of Washington's Birthday lingered with Emma; the General,
restored to health and amiability, was no longer such a care, and she
found time once more to spend in that haven of delight upstairs with
Frances.
George Washington was sent to the Loan Exhibit, together with the
cabinet, some silver candlesticks, and the Wedgwood cream jug and sugar
dish. With the blank space over the mantel the study looked deserted;
and the owl, deprived of his resting-place on the cabinet, perched
forlornly on a corner of the bookcase.
Frances took great interest in the Exhibit, and insisted upon going,
chiefly it seemed for the purpose of seeing how Washington looked in
his new surroundings. As Mrs. Morrison was housed with a cold, Miss
Sherwin offered to take her.
They found a beautiful display of valuable and interesting things
arranged in a large, handsomely decorated hall; but not until Frances
had viewed the portrait and made a diligent search for Mr. Clark's other
possessions would she give any attention to less familiar things.
She and Lillian were bending with delight over a case of miniatures when
she heard her name spoken, and turning, saw Mrs. Marvin.
"Do you like the miniatures?" the lady asked. "Then come over to the
other side; there is one there I want you to see."
[Illustration: "She pointed out a picture, set in diamonds"]
She pointed out a picture, set in diamonds, of a lovely young woman.
"How pretty! Is it you?" Frances asked, seeing a resemblance to the
handsome face beside her.
Mrs. Marvin smiled. "No, it is my mother,--the little girl you are so
fond of, after she was grown. They wanted the portrait too," she added,
"but I have decided not to trust it out of my hands again."
She pointed out several other miniatures in which she thought Frances
would be interested, all the while keeping the child's hand clasped in
her own. Miss Sherwin, seeing her charge had found an acquaintance,
moved on down the aisle.
"Your friend seems to be interested in the manuscripts; suppose we rest
a few minutes," and Mrs. Marvin drew Frances down beside her on a settee
that stood near a tall case of lace and embroidery.
"Who is the young lady with you?" she asked.
Frances' explained, and Mrs. Marvin remarked that she was a handsome
girl.
"And she is clever, too, for she writes lovely stories and illustrates
them," said Frances, impressively.
"Does she, indeed?"
"Yes, she wrote one for us about a song the Spectacle Man--I mean Mr.
Clark--sings. It is a fairy tale, and _The Young People's Journal_ took
it and are going to publish it next month. It has a beautiful moral to
it."
"What do you know about morals?" laughed Mrs. Marvin.
"I found this one out when I had a quarrel with Gladys. Mr. Clark helped
me to see it," was the reply; and then, as her companion looked
interested, Frances continued:
"It is hard to explain it because you haven't read the story. It is
called 'The Missing Bridge,' and is about a young man who couldn't get
across the river that was between him and the girl he was going to
marry, because there wasn't any bridge. That is he _thought_ there
wasn't, though it really was there all the time, and had just been made
invisible by a magician.
"Well, you know Gladys said she never would speak to me again, and that
was like having the bridge broken between us; don't you think so? But
Mr. Clark said he thought it was only hidden by the clouds of anger and
unkindness. I think it is very uncomfortable to quarrel, don't you?"
then, seeing an odd expression in her companion's face, Frances hastened
to add: "Of course I know you wouldn't quarrel with any one _now_, but I
thought maybe you had when you were a little girl. But don't you think
it is a nice moral? and--oh, yes--the last of it is that love and
courage can always find a way."
"And how about you and Gladys?"
"We made up. If you would like to read the story, Mrs. Marvin, it will
be out next week. The March number of _The Young People's Journal_, and
it's only twenty-five cents."
Mrs. Marvin smiled. "I shall certainly get a copy," she said, adding, "I
see your friend looking this way. Suppose we go to her; I should like to
meet her."
Why she said this she couldn't have told, and she half repented it the
next minute; but when Frances introduced Miss Sherwin she was all
graciousness.
"Frances and I have an odd way of meeting every now and then, and have
become great friends. I have been showing her a miniature of my mother,
and she has been telling me about your story."
"Why, Frances!" said Miss Sherwin, a pretty color coming into her face.
This girl was extremely attractive, Mrs. Marvin decided, and found a
good deal to say to her over the collection of ancient missals. After a
while Frances wandered off to look at the portraits.
Mrs. Marvin's eyes followed her as, with her hands clasped behind her,
she stood gazing at an old pioneer.
"She is a very charming child," she remarked.
"She is, and she ought to be, for her mother is one of the sweetest
women in the world," Miss Sherwin responded, in eager praise of her
friend, but the next moment she had the feeling of having somehow said
the wrong thing. Was it some change of expression in the handsome face,
or simply the silence that followed her little outburst, which caused
her discomfort? She could not tell. She had been wonderfully charmed by
this stately person, but now the spell was broken; with one impulse they
moved toward Frances.
"I don't believe I like her, after all," Lillian thought; and yet there
was a marvellous sweetness in the smile that greeted the child, and
brought her with instant response to Mrs. Marvin's side.
As they were making their way to the door after taking leave of Mrs.
Marvin, Miss Sherwin saw a lady step out from a group of people, and
exclaim: "Why, Mrs. Richards! how do you do? It was only the other day I
heard of your unexpected return." And the person to whom this greeting
was addressed was no other than Mrs. Marvin herself. It puzzled her, but
she said nothing about it to Mrs. Morrison when they related their
morning's adventures.
CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.
THE MARCH NUMBER OF THE YOUNG PEOPLE'S JOURNAL.
Mrs. Marvin was in a sadly restless state of mind. She wished again and
again that chance had not brought this child in her way. Having seen
her, she could not forget her, and each meeting cost her fresh pain.
And what was to be the outcome of it? Nothing? Frances had said they
would soon be going away. Perhaps then she might be able to settle down
again into the old life of resolutely putting aside the past.
She was not so strong as she used to be, yet she must endure it as she
had done for so many years. There was nothing she could do. Her pride
told her this with added emphasis each time the half-formed question
rose in her mind.
She actually fretted herself into a fever which the doctor pronounced
malarial, advising change of air,--a prescription Mrs. Marvin had no
thought of trying at present.
After several days in bed, she was lying on her couch weak and languid
one morning, when she suddenly remembered the March number of _The Young
People's Journal_. She would send for it and read the story.
When it was brought there came with it the swift recollection that Jack
used to take it. She could see him now poring over the puzzle column,
looking up with such a triumphant light in his brown eyes when he
discovered an answer.
She held the paper for a long time without opening it, lying quite still
with a desolate look on her face that was more than Caroline, her
faithful nurse, could stand.
"I declare, if Miss Frances doesn't cheer up, I don't know what I shall
do," she said to the seamstress.
After a while Mrs. Marvin began to turn the pages, till she found the
story of "The Missing Bridge," with the gay little tune for a heading.
It is doubtful if under ordinary circumstances she would have had
patience to read the simple story through, but to-day she found
something soothing in its very simplicity.
"No power can destroy the bridge between true and loving hearts." She
lay thinking of what Frances had said about her quarrel with Gladys. Ah!
many another bridge had been made invisible by clouds of anger and
pride. The paper slipped from her grasp. "I _did_ love him so dearly,"
she cried, clasping her hands; "and I thought he cared for me, but now
he has probably forgotten."
"Faith and courage can find the way--" so said the story.
"But I have neither," sighed Mrs. Marvin.
Her unquiet mind seized upon the words of the little song, and all
through the day she said them over and over:--
"The bridge is broke and I have to mend it."
The clock ticked:--
"The bridge is broke and I have to mend it, mend it, mend it, mend
it."
Even the horses' hoofs on the asphalt street rang out the same refrain.
Mrs. Marvin rose from her couch in some respects a changed woman. It
seemed to her she had lived years in that illness of two weeks. In her
soul a battle had been waged, and the struggle had left her passive and
unresisting; she was waiting. The outward result was a strange, new
gentleness of manner.
At the time of the Loan Exhibit she had been commissioned by a friend
to purchase a wedding gift, which was to be, if possible, something
antique. The silver candlesticks belonging to Mr. Clark rather pleased
her; and thinking he might have other interesting things, she had
written his address in her note-book, intending to go and see for
herself, but her illness had interfered. When she was once more able to
be out this was her first thought.
In the meantime the March _Journal_ was being read by a good many
persons who ordinarily never looked at it. The household at the
Spectacle Man's naturally took a deep interest in it; and Miss Sherwin
said she felt she ought to divide the profits, for if it had not been
for the song and Mrs. Morrison's suggestion, the story would never have
been written.
Frances laid emphatic commands upon her father to buy a copy the minute
he landed in San Francisco; and Mr. Clark was also charged to remind
Mark of the story, when he wrote.
In the hurry of sending telegrams, attending to his baggage, and making
arrangements for an early start eastward, Mr. Morrison forgot this
important matter, and it did not occur to him till, halfway on his
homeward journey, he one morning saw the paper among others the train
boy was carrying through the cars. He promptly purchased it, for it
would never do to meet his little daughter without having read the story
which was, she said, almost as good as one of his own.
Soon after leaving San Francisco, Mr. Morrison had made the acquaintance
of a young civil engineer who was on his way to his home in Tennessee
for a visit. He had frank, gentlemanly manners, and the cheerful,
self-reliant air of a trained worker who loves his work, and the
travellers were at once attracted to each other. As so often happens,
they discovered mutual friends, and also that they had the same
affection for Southern life and ways. Alexander Carter, as he gave his
name, had recently accepted a position with a Western mining company,--a
place of trust and responsibility of which he was justly proud in a
modest way.
"You seem to have found something amusing," he remarked, seeing Mr.
Morrison smiling over the magazine.
"Well, no, it happens to be a rather serious story, but something
reminded me of my little daughter," was the reply. "By the way, Carter,"
he added, "it is odd, but the hero of this tale bears a remarkable
resemblance to you--I mean in the illustration. See here!" Mr. Morrison
held before him the picture of the young farmer as he knelt to release
the white rabbit. "This is your profile exactly. Don't you see it
yourself?"
Mr. Carter laughed. "I believe there is a faint likeness, which only
goes to show that I have a very ordinary countenance."
"That is just what you have not, which is the curious part of it," said
Mr. Morrison.
"Who wrote the story?" his companion asked.
"It is unsigned, and I have forgotten the name. She is a young lady of
whom my wife and daughter are very fond."
At St. Louis the travellers separated with cordial good-byes, feeling
like old friends, and Mr. Morrison rushed off to catch the train that
would take him to his destination some hours earlier than he had
expected to arrive.
Mr. Carter, gathering up his things in a more leisurely way, noticed
_The Young People's Journal_ lying on the seat, and put it in his bag.
CHAPTER NINETEENTH.
SURPRISES.
"Expect me Wednesday evening; will wire from St. Louis," so read the
telegram from San Francisco; and on Wednesday morning Frances had just
exclaimed over her oatmeal, "O dear, what a long day this will be!" when
the door opened and there stood a familiar figure, looking, oh, so
bright and well!
After some moments of rapturous hugs and incoherent remarks, the
traveller was allowed to have some breakfast, while Mrs. Morrison and
Frances looked on, too happy to eat.
"I had to surprise you, for a despatch sent after I left St. Louis would
have aroused you in the night, or else not have reached you till about
this time," Mr. Morrison explained as he helped himself to a muffin.
"Jack, how brown you are, and how well you look! It is a delight to see
you," said his wife.
"I never was better in my life; but I can't tell you how I have wished
for you and Frances."
"Next time you'll take me, won't you, father?" Frances asked.
"Yes, indeed. Wink, I believe you have grown a foot! You'll soon be a
young lady, and I don't like it; people will begin to think your mother
and I are elderly, when we are really in the heyday of youth."
In this irrelevant fashion conversation went on through the day. There
were all the winter experiences to be related, and Frances could not
rest till each person in the house had been brought in to see her
father. First of all Mr. Clark ran up to say how glad he was to see the
traveller back again; and on her way to school Miss Moore looked in with
a merry greeting; then Emma and the General were waylaid in the hall
and introduced, the former in a dreadful fit of shyness; and last, Miss
Sherwin was pounced upon and dragged reluctantly into the sitting room.
To her Mr. Morrison's return meant the breaking up of the pleasant
companionship of the winter, and she was not in the least glad to see
him. Mrs. Morrison's exclamation as she entered was somewhat
disconcerting.
"Jack, I want you to know Lillian, she has been so good to me!"
"Good! I?" Miss Sherwin cried in a tone that made them all laugh, and
then her hand was given a cordial grasp by a tall man with a boyish
face, who said, "We shall have to take each other on sufferance, Miss
Sherwin, till we can find out for ourselves how much truth there is in
what our friends say of us."
"I am very glad we came here; it has really been a delightful
winter,--all but those two dreadful days when Frances was so ill,--but I
don't think I can ever let you go again," Mrs. Morrison said. It was
after lunch, and Frances had gone to get ready for a walk with her
father.
"Then, will you go to New York with me next week?" asked her husband.
"I may have to stand that. It will depend on how soon we must leave here
permanently. Jack, there is one rather strange thing I must tell you--"
but just here Frances danced in, and her mother did not finish her
sentence.
When they returned from their walk late in the afternoon they stopped in
the shop for a moment to speak to Mr. Clark. Peterkin was the only
person to be seen, but the door into the study stood open, and,
supposing the Spectacle Man was there, Frances and her father entered.
Some one was standing before the mantel looking up at the portrait of
Washington, and Frances gave an exclamation of surprise, for it was not
the optician, but, of all persons, Mrs. Marvin!
It was not very light, and for a second she thought she must be
mistaken, then something very strange happened. Mrs. Marvin turned, and
with a little cry stepped forward, holding out her hands appealingly.
"Jack, O Jack!" she said.
The astonished child saw the light in her father's eyes as he exclaimed,
"Auntie!" and then his arms were around her, her cheek pressed to his.
"Jack, I have wanted you so;" the words came with a sob.
"Dear auntie, I am so glad!"
Mrs. Marvin was not one to lose her self-control for long; she presently
lifted her head, with one hand on his shoulder she looked at him. "You
have not changed," she said, "but I have grown old."
In truth, she was very white now the first flush of excitement was
fading, and with gentle hands Jack put her into the shabby leather
chair, and drew another to her side.
"I wonder if I shall wake and find it a dream," she said, smiling up at
him.
"It is better than any dream," he answered, bending over her.
"I have been so lonely,--it has been so long. I thought perhaps you had
forgotten, and-- I am sorry-- Jack." It was the proud woman's surrender,
and John Morrison was touched to the heart. Tears rose to his eyes.
"It was more my fault than yours, dear,--the years have taught me that,
and I have often wished I could tell you so," he said.
Frances had stood an amazed spectator of this scene. What did it mean?
Ought she to stay? It was plain she was forgotten. After a little she
touched her father's arm, saying softly, "Daddy, I'm here, you know."
The plaintive tone recalled both her companions; her father drew her to
his side, but before he could speak Mrs. Marvin took her hand.
"Frances darling, you will love me, won't you? You are my own little
niece. The day when I first saw you in my library you reminded me of my
dear Jack."
It was Mr. Morrison's turn to be surprised as his daughter impulsively
threw her arms round the lady's neck, exclaiming, "I do love you, but I
didn't know you knew father."
"And I didn't know you knew each other," he said.
"And I don't understand how you happened to come here," added his aunt.
"Why, we live here, Mrs. Marvin," Frances replied.
"Mrs. Marvin!" echoed Mr. Morrison.
"That is a mistake which I encouraged because I wanted to see more of
her," his aunt said; adding, "Is this really the house of the Spectacle
Man?"
There was so much to be explained it seemed almost hopeless; Mr. Clark
came in and went out again unobserved. It was not an opportune time for
selling candlesticks, evidently.
"We will not try to unravel the tangle all at once," Mr. Morrison said,
rising. "Auntie, will you come upstairs? I want you to meet Katherine."
This was hardest of all. It brought back one of her old disappointments;
and without doubt Katherine Morrison was aware how Jack's aunt felt
about his marriage, but she did not hesitate. It was not her custom to
do things by halves.
Mrs. Morrison, sitting in the twilight lost in happy thoughts, was
aroused by Frances' excited voice: "Mother, what do you think has
happened?"
Surprised at sight of the stranger, she rose; her husband met her and
drew her forward: "Auntie, this is my wife, to whom I owe my greatest
happiness."
His aunt understood. This fair, girlish looking little person filled the
first place in his heart; whatever else was changed, this was not.
"You must try to love me for Jack's sake," she said, taking Katherine's
hand with that new gentleness her nephew found so touching.
It won his wife. "I shall not have to try," she answered.
"Are you willing to forget and begin again?--that is what we are going
to do, is it not, Jack?" his aunt looked from his wife to him. "It will
make a great difference in my life," she continued; "I have been very
lonely, and I want this little girl;" she put her arm around Frances.
"Then she will certainly have to take us, too; won't she, Katherine?"
and Mr. Morrison laughed happily.
Frances still seemed puzzled. "If this is my Aunt Frances--" she said
slowly, "who is the little girl? Is she the Girl in the Golden Doorway,
truly?--the portrait, I mean.
"I think she must be, and she is also your great-grandmother," her aunt
replied.
"Then who is a Certain Person. You said he was abroad, father." Frances
evidently thought it time all mysteries were solved.
"Why, yes, auntie, how does it happen you are not abroad? I heard last
summer on the best authority that you would spend the winter in Egypt,"
said her nephew.
"I fully expected to be gone eighteen months when I left, but the death
of the mother of my friend, Mrs. Roberts, changed our plans. I did not
wish to go alone."
Frances was listening intently. "Father! you don't mean Aunt Frances is
a Certain Person?" she cried. "I thought it was a man."
"It is a character we are going to forget. I am your father's aunt and
yours, dear, and I am not Mrs. Marvin, but Mrs. Richards. Mrs. Marvin is
my cousin. You understand it all now, don't you?"
Frances was not quite certain of this, but there was no doubt about her
pleasure in her new relative; and when her father went home with his
aunt she was rather impatient at not being allowed to go too.
"Come sit beside me, Wink, and have a little talk," Mrs. Morrison
suggested when they were alone.
Frances came and nestled down beside her mother; the day had been so
full of excitement she found it hard work to keep still.
"You know, dear, that Aunt Frances and father have not seen each other
for years,--not since before you were born,--and of course they have a
great deal to say to each other. There was some trouble--a
misunderstanding--but now it is over--"
"They have found the bridge like Gladys and me," Frances put in.
"Yes; but what I was going to say is this: we mustn't be selfish. We
must let Aunt Frances have father to herself sometimes. Don't you think
so?"
As they sat quietly there in the twilight Mrs. Morrison saw opening
before her a path she would not have chosen. She was a person of simple
tastes and wide sympathies, and the world of wealth and convention to
which her husband would return so naturally had few attractions for her.
She would have need of love and courage, she told herself.
"What do you think, Kate; auntie wants me to take you to New York with
me and leave Frances with her!" said Mr. Morrison, coming in.
"She has never been away from me in her life. What do you say, Wink?"
and her mother lifted the face that rested against her shoulder and
kissed it.
"I don't know; I believe I'd like it, for then I could see the little
girl every day," was the reply.
"I think her great-grandmother has cut out all the rest of her
relations," her father remarked, laughing.
"I don't see how she _could_ be my great-grandmother," Frances said
meditatively.
Mrs. Richards remembered the candlesticks next day, and they gave her an
excuse for an early visit to Mr. Clark. She felt in love and charity
with all men, and, finding the optician at leisure, she entered into
conversation with him in her most gracious manner. His old-fashioned
courtliness pleased her, and she recalled him as one of the proprietors
of the large jewellery store of Mason and Clark, years ago.