That night, at supper, Phœbe viewed the members of her family with a new
eye—with a fresh understanding. And was thrilled, as well as gratified
in her vanity, by the thought that she knew quite as much about
“everything” as they did. Now and then she stole a wise glance at
Sophie, to which the latter gave no answering sign.
Other thoughts thrilled Phœbe even more: Daddy had stolen her!—caught
her up and carried her off, precisely like the heroine in a drama! Then
(delicious thought!) dear Mother had sent wire after wire—probably
demanding Phœbe’s return! And had wanted to steal her back! How? Had
Mother actually been here? Close? Right in the town? the neighborhood?
Had she even caught glimpses of Phœbe, perhaps?
In the hour preceding her going up to bed, as she strolled with her
father to the drug-store and back, she thought of a great many questions
that she meant to ask Sophie the very first chance she had.
The chance came that evening. As Phœbe was on the point of falling
asleep, her door opened stealthily, there was a cautious whisper to
allay any alarm, then the door closed softly and Sophie turned on the
light.
“Phœbe,” she began—her face was grave and her voice anxious; “you won’t
say a word about my tellin’ you what I did this afternoon?”
“I won’t,” declared Phœbe.
“’Cause if the folks was to find out, they’d fire me.”
Phœbe took Sophie’s hand and made her sit on the bed. “Oh, there’s more
I want to find out,” she whispered; “—lots more.”
“If the folks find out you know,” continued Sophie, too concerned over
her own danger to think about what Phœbe was saying, “why, it needn’t be
me they blame. ’Cause almost anybody in town mighta told y’.”
Phœbe stared. “You mean everybody _knows_?” she demanded.
“Everybody ’round here, anyhow.”
“And I—I didn’t know!”
“I’m sorry I told y’.” Sophie turned away her face. She lifted a corner
of her apron to an eye.
“Please!” begged Phœbe. “I won’t tell. Honest! Didn’t I promise? Only
I’m—well, I hate to think about it. Everybody knew—but me.”
Sophie went then. She would answer no more questions, vowing she had
already told everything she knew. She left Phœbe quite cast down. It was
one thing to hear such thrilling things about herself, to realize that
she had been the subject of those long and heated conferences that she
knew had been carried on in the library, to understand that Grandma had
shed tears over her. It was quite another to find out that the whole
town knew. As far as Phœbe was concerned, finding that out simply
spoiled everything.
And now, every week-day morning, she and Uncle John spent three hours
together in the library. All of the three hours were not spent in actual
study; that is to say, whenever Uncle John got impatient and wanted to
turn to his own work, he permitted Phœbe to make herself comfortable on
the big, old library couch and read whatever she liked. With the
awakening of her emotions, what Phœbe liked to read about was love. She
found some books by “The Duchess”. They were Uncle Bob’s, and they were
full of romance. Phœbe devoured them—while across the room the clergyman
toiled over a sermon that was, perhaps, concerned with Peter’s wife’s
mother.
And every week-day afternoon Phœbe went driving. With such an unvarying
program, she was able to live up to her determination that she would
never permit herself—in that little, mean, gossiping town—to make a
single friend. And certainly not now, since she knew that the whole town
knew!
But she had scarcely made up her mind to remain cut off completely from
everyone (she would punish them all!) when she made two friends. And
both—though each was so different from the other—soon became very dear
to her.
It was on a Saturday afternoon that the first came. Phœbe and Uncle Bob
were just back from a drive, and were busy, concocting a lemonade in the
butler’s pantry, when Sophie came bursting in upon them. The very
momentum of her entrance, the queer, excited look of her (even her hair
seemed to be lifting), told Phœbe that something unusual had happened.
“Judge!” whispered Sophie.
He glanced up, half a lemon in each hand, and damp sugar on his face.
Phœbe had pinned one of Sophie’s aprons about him. He looked comical
enough for the “movies”!
“Miss Ruth,” announced Sophie.
Uncle Bob stared, as if scarcely comprehending; then dropped the lemon
halves, hastily wiped his face on the apron, which Sophie unfastened,
took Phœbe by the hand and started for the sitting-room.
“Who is Miss Ruth?” asked Phœbe as they went.
Uncle Bob smiled down at her. But he did not seem to see her.
There was a slender young woman with Grandma in the sitting-room. She
had on a dress that fell in soft folds, was mistily gray, wide-tucked,
and cut out squarely at the neck to show a strong round throat. In her
hands the visitor held a sun-hat, black, with a sprinkling of
forget-me-nots.
“Ruth?” said Uncle Bob in greeting. And the hand that held Phœbe’s
trembled.
“I’m here with more Court troubles,” explained Miss Ruth. She was
looking at Phœbe. Her eyes were the color of the flowers on her hat.
“My dear,”—it was Grandma speaking—“this is Jim’s little girl.”
Phœbe went forward then. Gravely she took Miss Ruth’s hand, and made the
quick dipping curtsey that Mother had taught her. “How do you do,” she
said politely.
Miss Ruth bent and touched Phœbe’s cheek with her lips. “I’ve wanted to
meet you—often,” she said. Then, as if with sudden feeling, she drew
Phœbe to her, and held her close.
The welcome tenderness of it, the embracing arms, the soft, fragrant
dress—it was all like Mother to Phœbe. Her eyes swam. She reached up,
clasping her arms about Miss Ruth. “Oh, why haven’t you ever been here
before?” she asked.
“Ha! ha!” laughed Uncle Bob, triumphantly. “That’s it, Phœbe! Scold her!
Scold her!”
Miss Ruth seemed embarrassed. “I’m so busy always, dear,” she answered.
“But you’ll come to see me?” Then to Uncle Bob, “Judge, it’s about the
Botts case again.” And to Grandma, “Your son will wish his Probation
Officer didn’t live so close, bothering him of a Saturday like this.”
“M-m-m!” commented Uncle Bob. He gave her a long, grave look.
“I’ve just had a telephone message from the Botts’s nearest neighbor,”
went on Miss Ruth. “And I felt sure you’d want to do something about it
before Monday. Judge, Mrs. Botts has been whipping Manila again.”
“Oh, that woman!” scolded Uncle Bob.
“She’s a step-mother, isn’t she, Bob?” inquired Grandma. There was a gay
twinkle in her old eyes.
“She’s a bad step-mother,” he answered. He went over to her, leaned down
and gave her a resounding kiss. “But, you see, a Judge is likely to hear
only of the bad ones.”
“Mr. Botts isn’t keeping his word,” reminded Miss Ruth.
“I know,” returned Uncle Bob. “He promised to put a stop to any more
whipping. What do you think we ought to do?”
“Well,”—Miss Ruth hesitated—“of course, you may not agree, but I’ve been
wondering if Manila wouldn’t like to leave home.”
“Suppose you ask her, Ruth.”
“Or if I might send her here to see you.”
“That’s a good idea. It’ll keep her away from the Court House, poor
youngster.”
Miss Ruth made as if to go then. But “What do you think of our young
lady?” he wanted to know.
“Just—just what I hoped she’d be like,” Miss Ruth answered, almost as if
to herself. She held Phœbe away from her a little. “You will come
sometimes to see me, Phœbe?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I live very close.”
“And—and you’ll come to see me?” asked Phœbe, eagerly. What was it about
Miss Ruth that she liked so well? Miss Ruth was grave. Her look was
tender. The hands that held Phœbe’s were firm and cool.
“If you want me to come——”
“Oh, I do!”
“Then I’ll come.”
Phœbe rose upon tiptoe. “Could you come after supper, maybe?” she asked.
“That’s—that’s always the lonesomest time.”
Miss Ruth nodded. “And perhaps Grandma will let us have a good talk
together upstairs, before you go to sleep—will you, Mrs. Blair?”
“Phœbe loves stories,” answered Phœbe’s grandmother. “She misses the
moving-pictures she used to see. And so if you’d tell her a story some
evening, Ruth,——”
“Or,” put in Phœbe, quickly, “if you know some songs—if you’d sing to
me, like mother used to sing. I—I like that.”
“I’ll come.” Miss Ruth kissed Phœbe again. “But you’ve Grandma, and
Uncle John, and Uncle Robert, and—and your father——”
Phœbe raised an eager face. “I’d like to have you, too. Because,”—her
voice faltered—“oh, it takes an awful lot of love to—to make up for my
mother.”
“I won’t fail to come.” Miss Ruth left then, and Phœbe, with Uncle Bob
beside her, stood at the wide glass door of the sitting-room, watching
the gray dress flutter its way, mistily, across the lawn to the driveway
gate.
“Well, little Phœbe?” said the Judge. He had her hand, and he squeezed
it.
Phœbe understood. “Uncle Bob,” she confided, “I like her. And I wish she
lived here right with us.”
Judge Blair nodded. “Ah, that’s what I’ve been saying,” he answered;
“yes, I’ve been saying that for years, and years—and years.”