At once lessons were resumed, filling the morning hours of each
week-day. And a strict program of driving was followed out each
afternoon that the weather permitted. In consequence of which Phœbe had
little time to herself, and none for Manila.
“They don’t want me to have even one friend,” Phœbe concluded
resentfully. “And Uncle John wants me to forget Mother.”
He was leading Phœbe from chapter to chapter of “A Child’s History of
England,” each chapter, to her mind, being dryer and more tiresome than
the last. She determined that no one should make her forget her mother,
and lengthened her prayers, therefore, saying the first one reverently
to God, but always, the portrait before her, making her final, and
longer one, to her mother.
Also she spoke to Uncle Bob about the History. “It doesn’t seem like
anything for a child,” she complained.
“Pretty dry—after the movies?” he suggested.
Phœbe assented. “I’m used to something exciting.”
“I understand,” he said gently. “But, little old dumpling, later on,
when you’re older, you’ll be mighty sorry if you don’t read all these
things. The movies are all right—as entertainment. They’re like the
dessert at the end of dinner. But don’t fail to know about the
substantial things. The day is past when girls need only to be pretty
and fluffy. We don’t want fluffy women, either. Great things have just
happened on this earth. You must know about them, and you must know
about the things that went before them. Uncle Bob wants you to be fine,
and good, and wise, and womanly, like—like Miss Ruth, for instance.”
Phœbe remembered that she wanted to ask Sophie about Miss Ruth. Sophie
had afternoons off; not Thursday afternoons, like Sally, but occasional
ones, when, in her very best coat-suit, with a hat upon which were
brick-red plumes, she set forth to shop, or make calls or see a matinée.
Phœbe, going promptly to find and question her, found her descending the
back stairs, drawing on, as she went, white gloves that were half a size
too small. Her face was shining from a vigorous soaping, as well as with
expectancy. Phœbe joined her, and went as far as the gate, bouncing the
rubber ball on the way.
“Sophie, what’s a probation officer?” she wanted to know.
“It’s a party that keeps a’ eye on another party,” Sophie declared; “to
see if they’re behavin’. Miss Ruth Shepard is one. Your Uncle Bob tells
her who to watch, and it’s always some kid.”
Phœbe looked back at the house, and lowered her voice confidentially.
“Why did Uncle Bob say he wished Miss Ruth lived at our house?” she
asked. “He said he’d been saying she ought to for years and years and
years.”
At first Sophie did not answer. But when they reached the gate, past
which Phœbe was not to go, Sophie put it between them, then turned to
lean upon it.
“If I tell you, you’ll tell,” she charged.
“Cross my heart to die!” vowed Phœbe.
“Well, y’ see, the fact is the Judge just worships Miss Ruth.”
“O-o-oh.”
“Yes, he’s in love with her.—Now, don’t you dare say I told you, because
I’d lose my job.—But he’s been in love with her since before you was
born.”
“I don’t blame him,” declared Phœbe. “She’s dear, and she’s pretty. And
I love her.”
A strange look came into Sophie’s eyes—a searching look. “Say! You let
everybody see you love her, will y’?” she asked.
“Of course! Because I do.”
“You show your grammaw how y’ feel, and your uncles, and also your
papa.”
“I will.”
“Because Miss Ruth is good,” Sophie went on. She was oddly grave, for
some reason. “Don’t forget that, Phœbe. She’s the nicest woman in this
town. But—she’s never been happy.” Sophie sighed. “Things’ve never gone
right for Miss Ruth, some way.”
“And she doesn’t love Uncle Bob?” persisted Phœbe.
Sophie drew back. “You know all you oughta know about it,” she said,
laughing. “Now run home, dearie, to Grammaw.”
“Uncle Bob isn’t handsome,” conceded Phœbe. “He’s too short, and he’s
bald, and a little old, too——”
“Miss Ruth ain’t a girl no more,” reminded Sophie. “She looks awful
young. But she was nineteen the year your daddy got married, and so she
must be about thirty-three or so.”
“My!” marveled Phœbe. “I thought she was twenty-five, maybe.”
“Bein’ a probation officer don’t take it out of you like housework,”
reminded Sophie.
“But she doesn’t _hate_ Uncle Bob, does she?” went on Phœbe.
“Naw! Don’t they see each other every day at the Court House?”
“But she doesn’t come here any more. Why?”
Far down the street a man could be seen, slowly approaching. “Well, I’ve
got to be trottin’,” said Sophie, fixing her hair and giving a touch to
hat and dress.
“If Uncle Bob likes her, and I like her, and you like her,” argued
Phœbe, “why doesn’t she come?”
“Maybe she’s tired at night. You know she works all day.”
“She sat up with me after—Mother died. She wasn’t tired then.”
“Well, now, I’ll tell you what’s the matter. Everybody in town knows it,
anyway. But you didn’t hear it from me, mind y’, if you happen to let it
out——”
“I’ll remember.”
“Your Uncle Bob loves Miss Ruth, and he’d marry her if certain things
wasn’t a fact.”
“What things?”
“Never mind. But this much I can tell y’: Miss Ruth don’t love your
Uncle Bob, and she’ll never marry him, for the plain and simple reason
that she loves somebody else.”
“Oh!—Who, Sophie?”
“Somebody that went and married somebody else,” Sophie answered glumly.
“And so Miss Ruth stayed single. And folks say her heart is broke——”
“Just like in the moving-pictures, Sophie!”
“Only it’s a lot harder when it’s real, and not make-believe.”
“Some day maybe that man’ll get free and come back to Miss Ruth,”
suggested Phœbe. “And then she’ll marry him, and they’ll be happy for
the rest of their lives.”
“No.” Sophie shook her head with finality. “It won’t end that way. You
see, the man Miss Ruth loves has got a brother that also happens to be
in love with her.”
“My, what a lot of gentlemen love Miss Ruth,” marveled Phœbe. “Doesn’t
that make three?”
“Maybe. But the trouble is that the one brother just won’t ever take her
from the other brother, and so neither’ll marry her. And I’m afraid the
picture’s goin’ to end sad.”
She started away. And presently Phœbe, watching, saw Sophie meet that
man who had been slowly approaching in the distance. The man turned with
Sophie, and the two disappeared down the long, tree-shaded street. The
man, then, was Sophie’s beau!
Phœbe turned houseward. The world was just full, she reflected, of good
moving-pictures that no one seemed to be using.