Mrs. Russell sat on the veranda, waiting for her son. A handsome and
dignified woman she was, and a very calm one, but her calmness did not
suggest patience.
On the contrary, she looked like one of those persons who wait until
exactly the right moment, and then proceed to do whatever is exactly the
right thing to be done, leaving late or careless persons to their
well-deserved fate. Half past six was the dinner hour; at half past six
she would go into the dining room, and if her son were not home--
He always was home, though. For twenty-three years he had been trained
in punctuality, neatness, and economy, and his mother was satisfied with
the result. She turned her eyes toward the west, where the sun was
preparing to leave, gathering together his gorgeous, filmy raiment.
She was not looking at, or thinking of, any sunset, however, but looked
in that direction because the railway station lay there, and she had
heard a train whistle. It was not Geordie’s regular train, but once in
awhile he came a little earlier; and, though Mrs. Russell was too
reasonable to expect such a thing, she hoped he was coming now.
It was nice to have an extra half hour with her boy; nice to walk about
the lawn with him, to talk to him, to listen to him, even just to look
at him, as long as he didn’t catch her at it.
No; he wasn’t coming early to-night. The long tree lined street was
empty, except for a woman who had just crossed the road. She was an odd
figure; even the judicial Mrs. Russell had to smile a little at her
frantic progress. A flower crowned hat had slipped far to the back of
her head, a gray dust coat, unbuttoned, flew out behind her.
She walked bent by the weight of two heavy bags, pressing forward in
haste, as if struggling against a mighty wind. She came nearer, and
through the branches of a tree a shaft from the setting sun fell upon
her wild fair hair.
“But--goodness gracious!” said Mrs. Russell, half aloud. “But--no!
Nonsense! It can’t be!”
For there had been somebody else, with wild fair hair like that, shining
not gold, but silver when the sun lay on it; somebody else slight and
tall, and always in a desperate hurry. That was years and years ago.
She got up and came to the edge of the veranda, a queer flutter in her
heart. Could there be any one else with quite that air--distinguished,
and yet a little ridiculous, and somehow so touching?
“_Louie!_” she said, incredulously.
Down went the bags on the pavement. The newcomer stood where she was for
an instant, then, headlong, rushed through the gate, up the steps, and
clasped Mrs. Russell in her arms so violently that the flower crowned
hat fell off and rolled down the steps. It lay on the gravel walk like a
poor dry little flowerpot.
“Oh, Bella!” she cried. “Oh, Bella! Oh, Bella!”
“There--” said Mrs. Russell. “Sit down, my dear! Try to control
yourself!”
As a matter of fact, she was crying herself, in a quiet, dignified sort
of way. But, by the time she had gone down the steps and fetched her
sister’s lively hat, she had put an end to all such nonsense, and was
quite calm again.
“I’m _very_ happy to see you, Louie--” she began, but the other
interrupted her.
“After all these years!” she cried, with a sob. “It doesn’t seem
possible, does it, Bella? We were young then, Bella. Oh, think of that!
Young, Bella--”
“I shan’t think of any such thing,” said Mrs. Russell, tartly. “Do stop
crying, Louie, please, and tell me something about yourself.”
“It isn’t me yet, Bella; not the poor, silly forty-five-year-old me.
It’s the other Louie, with her hair down her back, sitting here with the
old Bella in that plaid dress. Do you remember that plaid gingham,
Bella, that mother made for you? With the bias--”
“No!” Mrs. Russell replied. “I do not. I don’t want to, either. What I
want to hear is something about yourself, Louie--something sensible and
intelligible.”
“I remember you, Bella, so well--sitting at the piano, with a great
black braid over your shoulder, playing that ‘Marche Aux Flambeaux,’ and
poor father keeping time with his pipe. And that duet, Bella! You and
I--the Grande Fantasia for Les Huguenots--” She giggled through her
tears, and that giggle was more than Mrs. Russell could bear. It made
the plaid dress and the duet and a hundred heartbreaking, dusty,
forgotten things rise up before her.
“Louie!” she said. “I’m ashamed of you! When two sisters haven’t met
for--”
“For two lifetimes!” said the incorrigible Louie. “I don’t care, Bella!
The old things are the best.”
“What,” interrupted Mrs. Russell, sternly, “have you been doing all
these years, Louie? Why didn’t you ever write to me?”
“I never had time, Bella. I’ve been too busy, failing. I’ve failed at
everything, Bella, everything! I gave my recital--and you must have read
how quickly and thoroughly I failed there. Then I tried giving music
lessons, but I was always late, or I forgot to come at all, or I’d feel
not in the mood for teaching. Then I studied filing and indexing, and
oh, Bella, you should have seen the awful things I did! You know I never
was exactly methodical! Then I learned typing. I was a little frightened
then, Bella. I really tried, at that. But, you see, I wasn’t young any
more then, and not good at the work. That failed, too. Then I tried to
peddle things--scented soap, from door to door.”
“Louie! I--I’m very sorry, my dear!”
“Well, you needn’t be!” said her sister, drying her eyes. “It’s been
very wonderful--sometimes, Bella. I’ve been happy most of the
time--because, you see, I never minded failing.”
“Are you--” Mrs. Russell began, with no little embarrassment. “Are
you--in difficulties now, Louie?”
“I haven’t a penny in the world, Bella. You remember that fable of La
Fontaine’s we used to recite in school? _‘La Cigale et La Fourmis’?_
(The Grasshopper and the Ant.) I’m Miss Cigale, Bella, and you’re Mrs.
Fourmis. I’m the poor, silly grasshopper who danced the summer away--and
here I am, Bella. It’s winter--for me--and I want to rest, here with
you, until the summer comes back.”
“Oh, don’t be so--‘highfalutin’’!” cried Mrs. Russell, stung by emotion
into using a long-forgotten word. “Try to talk sensibly, Louie.”
This was all so typical of her sister; all her memories of Louisa were
made up of these queer little storms, these showers of tears, these
rainbow smiles.
“Always so upsetting!” she thought, half angry. Yet there never had been
any one dear to her in the way Louisa was.
“Come upstairs,” she said, firmly, “and get ready for dinner, and
then--Oh! There’s Geordie!”
“Oh, Bella! Your son!”
“Louie, listen to me! You must not be--silly about Geordie. He won’t
understand it, and he won’t like it. Do, for goodness’ sake, pull
yourself together!”
But Louie couldn’t. She tried; she sat up very straight in her chair,
and smiled, but Mrs. Russell was not satisfied. She wished that she had
had time to put Louie in order before the boy saw her. He was so
fastidious; what would he think of this unexpected aunt, with her wild,
fair hair, her blue eyes swimming in tears, her trembling smile?
“She looks worn,” thought Mrs. Russell, “but not--well, somehow, not
grown up!”
Geordie had come up the steps now; a good-looking young fellow, and
somehow touching, with his sulky mouth and his sulky blue eyes.
“Louisa!” said Mrs. Russell, in a threatening voice. “This is my son,
George. Geordie, your Aunt Louisa!”
Poor Louisa said nothing at all, for fear of bursting into tears, but
Geordie could be trusted to behave with decorum. He said something about
this being an unexpected pleasure; said it punctiliously. But Mrs.
Russell knew at once, by the tone of his voice, that he didn’t like this
aunt. She saw him cast a quick glance at her lamentable untidiness.
“Are those your bags, out in the street?” he inquired. “Shan’t I get
them?”
“Oh, no!” cried Louie. “Please don’t bother! I’ll get them!” And she
made a sort of rush forward, which Mrs. Russell checked.
“Louie!” she said, sternly, and after Geordie had gone down the steps:
“Louie! You must have more dignity!”