“Let’s take time——”
Phœbe opened her eyes. It was broad daylight. Another train was passing
overhead, shutting out the sound of the voice. She raised herself a
little, and peered to both sides.
What she saw was men—two lines of them! Each was a little distance away
from his nearest neighbors. All were walking in the same
direction—toward the little town. The train gone, Phœbe could hear the
men calling to one another. She wondered what it was all about.
Then she knew! They were hunting her! If they found her, they would drag
her out, all dusty as she was, and carry her back with them. And she
would be laughed at, and talked about, and pointed out, as if she were
wicked, or crazy.
Once she had told herself that she did not care what the town thought or
said. Now she knew that if she were to return, a culprit, she could not
bear it, could not face anyone again. She had feared to face them
all—Uncle John in particular—after her discovery by Mrs. Botts. But
now—! This was a thousand times worse!
When Uncle John had told her that her mother was dead, she had not
thought of dying. But now she longed to die. There flashed across her
mind the picture of herself as they would find her. Perhaps she would be
lying, pale and still, on some flowery, sunny slope, where, faint from
lack of food and drink, she had at last sunk down. Or, better still, she
would be washed by the waves toward some shore, and the moon would shine
on her white face, and her hair would float out on the water.
She heard steps. Farther back against the timbers she crouched, and held
her hat before her face.
Then the voice began again—“Somebody would’ve seen her, I tell you, if
she’d passed.” She lifted her head, unable to believe her ears. Her
father’s voice! And he was in Peru!
Then two men moved into sight from the direction of the wide road. One
was a stranger. The other was her father. As they halted under the
bridge, Phœbe gave a great cry, and half crawled, half rolled, from her
hiding-place. Her face was streaked with dirt, her hair tangled, her
dress rumpled. Sobbing, she almost fell down the embankment to her
father’s arms.
“Daddy! Oh, Daddy! Daddy! Oh, Daddy, forgive me! Forgive——!”
He caught her to him, and she knew that he was weeping, too. Oh, the joy
of having his arms about her, of feeling herself back in his tender
care! Men were running toward them from both directions, shouting as
they came. Shots were being fired. It was all because she was found. But
she hid her face and clung to heir father. What mattered if only she had
him?
“Dear baby!” he was saying. “Oh, my precious little girl! Oh, were they
bad to her while Daddy was away? He’ll never go again—he’ll never leave
his darling again——”
He carried her through the crowd that had gathered, and stepped with her
into the tonneau of an automobile. The car turned slowly. A great cheer
went up. Nearby a church bell began to ring. Then the ride home began.
Phœbe lay as she had lain that afternoon and evening on the train, her
head pillowed on her father’s shoulder, her feet curled up on the wide
seat. But now her father talked to her, lovingly, soothingly.
“She wanted to go back to New York, my baby,” he said.
“Yes,—oh, yes!”
“Well, she shall! She shall!”
“Oh, Daddy, do you mean it?”
“Darling, I was keeping that as a surprise.”
She threw her arms about him. She drew herself up so that she could
speak, her lips at his ear. The man who was driving them—he must not
hear. “Daddy,” she whispered, “just you and I will go? Nobody else?”
He was puzzled. “Why—why, who else?” he asked.
“Oh, nobody, Daddy! Thank you! Thank you!” Contentedly she rested her
cheek once more against his coat.
“The little apartment is all ready,” he went on; “and Sally is waiting.
And down there not a soul shall ever know——”
She nodded. “About this.”
“Not a soul,” he promised. Then to the man, “Speed up!”
They were nearing town now. The driver fairly tore past the depot, and
along one short street to the gate of the Blair grounds. The gate was
open, and the car whisked through a little group of the curious who were
waiting. Another group, with more boldness, was at the front porch. But
the automobile did not stop here. Taking to the lawn, it circled the
house to the rear entrance. Grandma was there. And Phœbe’s father was
out of the tonneau and up the steps to the kitchen before anyone could
follow them.
In the rear hall, Phœbe was set upon her feet. Her father knelt beside
her, wiping her face and smoothing her hair. Grandma joined them,
speaking not at all, but shaking her head very hard. There were tears on
her old cheeks. Grandma did not look angry—only glad and sad! Phœbe,
glancing at her, knew that in the future there would never be any
blaming on Grandma’s part.
But Uncle Bob!—what about him? He was the Children’s Judge, used to
dealing with young wrong-doers. Mrs. Botts had called Phœbe “a little
sneak”. What would Uncle Bob do to a little sneak?
All nervous and frightened and tired as she was, there flashed across
her brain the picture of herself up before this dearer of her two
uncles—before him at the very bar of his terrible Court, her head
hanging while scores of strangers stared at her, and Uncle Bob passed
judgment!
Then she heard the door open. It was not Sophie—the step was too slow
and too heavy. The door closed, softly.
Phœbe knew who it was; she held her breath.
“Little old dumpling!”
Phœbe turned. “Oh, Uncle Bob, I’m sorry—and—and I’m ashamed!”
“I see both sides of this question,” he said gently.
She held out her arms in a wild, tearful appeal. “Then you won’t arrest
me! You won’t take me to Court!”
It brought him to her in a rush. He put his arms about her, and gave a
great gulping laugh, and hugged her.
In Phœbe’s inmost soul there was no real fear of his punishing her
publicly. But the growing woman in her sensed the dramatic, and enjoyed
it. Also, she knew how to touch the big heart of this uncle; the heart
of her father, too!
“Phœbe!”—Uncle Bob was reproving her lovingly. “Going to the movies
isn’t a State’s Prison offence—not yet!”
She felt suddenly weak and faint. Someone put a glass to her lips—a
glass of warm milk. It was Grandma. She tried to smile as she drank.
Grandma was smiling at her.
When the glass was drained, Uncle Bob caught her up. “No, Jim, let me
carry her,” he begged. (Phœbe felt like a real heroine!)
At that moment, the thing most dreaded came to pass. The dining-room
door opened. Through it came Uncle John. “My dear child,” he began.
Uncle Bob halted, Phœbe in his arms. “Not a word!” he cried, his voice
trembling with anger. “I won’t have Phœbe picked on. If you’re wise,
you’ll stop fighting the movies and fight _with_ them—fight for better
pictures. Don’t tear down—_improve_!” Then he went on.
There was a happy surprise awaiting Phœbe when her room was reached. The
surprise was Miss Ruth, with one of Sophie’s big aprons pinned about
her. She received Phœbe from Uncle Bob, and there was no mistaking her
joy. It was Miss Ruth who tended Phœbe, undressed and bathed her, helped
her to bed, and brought her the broth.
“You won’t go, will you?” whispered Phœbe, lying back among the pillows.
“Please don’t leave me!”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” declared Miss Ruth. She took a seat beside the
bed.
Phœbe sighed, snuggled her cheek against Miss Ruth’s hand, and slept.