What was all wrong? What word did Uncle Bob want Daddy to say? And to
whom? In particular, what was it that Uncle Bob wanted Daddy to do? And
who, oh, who, was “_her_”?
She longed to go down to the kitchen and ask Sophie. But she knew there
was no use—Sophie would tell her nothing. Just now Sophie was on her
best behavior, and was taking a distinctly grown-up attitude toward
Phœbe. She had come close to being dismissed. And she had not been
independent about it. For what she had done was, by the very nature of
the case, known throughout the town, which meant that other families
might not care to hire a girl who had stolen out in the evening to a
theatre, taking with her a child. Uncle John had pointed this out to
Sophie, adding that he would make it his business to see she did not
deceive any other employer.
Uncle John and Sophie had had what Phœbe guessed was a most exciting
interview. Phœbe was almost sorry to have missed it. While Uncle Bob and
Phœbe’s father were out and away, searching, Uncle John had attended to
Sophie.
Grandma told Phœbe (in a whisper!) that Sophie had knelt in front of
Uncle John, weeping grievously over Phœbe’s disappearance, blaming
herself bitterly, and pleading for forgiveness. Uncle John had been
sternness itself. At first, he had declared for one course: Sophie must
go. Later, when Sophie vowed that she would give up moving-pictures, he
had softened a little. Still later, she brought down to him all the
photographs she owned of “movie” stars—forty-seven in all. She had
thrown them into the fireplace in the library, and put a match to them.
Then Uncle John had relented.
So Sophie was being a new Sophie—quiet of foot and tongue, and quiet of
dress. For two days she had not even curled her hair!
“There’s no use asking her,” concluded Phœbe, feeling somewhat injured.
That man, too, was responsible for the blame heaped on Sophie—that man
who had tagged them home from the theatre, and sat with them twice.
Phœbe was angry with him, too.
She was still puzzling her head over what Uncle Bob and her father had
to say to each other, when here came the former—almost stealthily, with
glances over his shoulder. His face was red; his eyes were solemn. Once
inside the door of Grandma’s room, he locked it!
“That’s all right,” he whispered. “Grandma knows.” He came to sit beside
the sofa.
For a long moment he did not speak. He patted her shoulder
absent-mindedly, and the small hand she had reached out to him—this dear
uncle whom she was so soon to leave! All the while he looked past her,
out of the window. And his lips, tight-pressed, worked in the way they
had when he was framing something important.
When he finally spoke, it was with great gentleness. “Of course, I wish
you hadn’t gone to that theatre without permission,” he began. “But I
wish more that you’d been so happy here at home that even a movie
wouldn’t have tempted you. But you haven’t been happy. You’ve been shut
up like a bird in a cage. No chums, no fun, no school—though Uncle John
has tried to do his best.” He stroked her cheek.
Phœbe nodded. “He’s talked about my soul,” she reminded. “But—I guess it
hasn’t helped.”
Another wait, with no patting of her shoulder, nor stroking of her
cheek. Then with a sudden move he fairly lifted Phœbe from the sofa and
held her at arm’s length. His face—Phœbe had never before seen it with
this expression. It was white now, and his eyes stared into hers. His
lips were trembling. He breathed like a man who is gathering himself for
a leap.
“Phœbe,” he began again, “if Uncle John failed, it’s because he couldn’t
help it. You see, only mothers understand little souls. Dear old
dumpling, let Uncle Bob tell you what’s wrong! You’ve got just about
everything that any small girl could ask for—good food, and a roof, and
clothes, and relatives, and a wonderful daddy. But the most important
thing——”
She understood. “My mother.”
“You’ve been so brave. Oh, Uncle Bob has watched, and understood how
you’ve grieved since your mother went. She can’t come back to you—you
realize that. And—and wouldn’t it be best if—if you—that is, certain
care and companionship and love are coming to a girl your size—you need
it, and so——”
He was floundering, he was stammering, and he was getting very red
again. Phœbe regarded him with grave eyes.
“What do you mean, Uncle Bob?” she asked bluntly.
He took both her hands in a firm grasp. “I mean just this:” he answered
firmly enough; “you need a new mother.”
She stood up, and drew away from him. “A step?”
“A step.”
“Oh, Daddy has promised that we’re to be alone together—with Sally.”
He nodded. “Suppose he has! How about getting a step-mother yourself?”
“But I don’t _want_ one!” she protested. “I just want my real
mother—like other girls have!” And then, in a quavering remonstrance
against Fate, and with breast heaving, and clenched fists, “Oh, _why_
haven’t I my mother! Even the kittens have a mother, and the little
ducks have a mother!”
“Ah!” cried Uncle Bob, triumphantly, “you’ve made my point for me, young
lady!”
“Point? What?”
“The little ducks have a step-mother!”
“M-m-mm!” That was a new thought. Phœbe sat down.
“That Plymouth Rock,” went on Uncle Bob, “is a mighty good little hen.”
“I never thought,” agreed Phœbe. “Of course that hen _is_ a step.”
“Nice, kind little step! You see, my dear, some step-mothers are
bad—like Mrs. Botts. And then some are just peaches—like Grandma.”
Phœbe leaned closer. “Grandma?” she repeated. “You mean——?”
“Darling, we never told you. At first, for no reason, except that we
boys—your daddy and Uncle John and I—have never used the word to each
other, much less to anyone else. Afterwards, when I found you hated
step-mothers—when Manila helped you to think them all bad—we still
didn’t tell you. We wanted you to learn to love Grandma dearly.”
“I do.” (Grandma! She of the gentle look and gentler voice, who did not
know how to be cross or unkind, she was a step-mother!) “Then of
course,” she added, “Grandma has never—er—whipped you.”
He burst into laughter, throwing back his big head and slapping his
knees. “Whipped!” he repeated. “Whipped! Oh, Phœbe!” Then, gravely,
“That sweet mother-woman? Why, I couldn’t love Grandma better if she
were my own mother.”
“You couldn’t?”
“I never knew the difference,” he declared earnestly. “She’s been so
wonderfully dear. And—you wouldn’t either, Phœbe. No; very soon, you
wouldn’t either.”
“I wonder,” commented Phœbe. She was thinking aloud.
“Take your daddy,” went on Uncle Bob. “He was just a little shaver when
Grandma came to us. He wasn’t strong—he didn’t sleep. She spent night
after night carrying him, mothering him. Grandma saved your daddy’s
life.”
“Then Grandma _is_ a good step,” asserted Phœbe. Her eyes grew moist
with quick gratitude.
“There are thousands of good steps,” declared Uncle Bob.
“But Manila—see what Manila got!”
He smiled knowingly, mysteriously. “Manila’s own fault,” he said.
“No!”
“Yes. She made the mistake of not picking her own step.”
“Manila’s father picked Mrs. Botts,” confided Phœbe.
“Mrs. Botts picked him,” contradicted Uncle Bob. “Oh, Phœbe, I want you
to trust me, to believe me!”
“Of course!” she cried.
“Phœbe,”—he rested a hand on either shoulder—“you need a good step. But
you mustn’t make Manila’s mistake. You must not trust to your father’s
judgment. You—must—pick—that—step—_yourself_.”
Phœbe gasped. “Myself?”
“Yourself—or you won’t get one.”
“But—but,” she protested, trying to rise from beneath his hold.
He would not let her go. “Phœbe! Oh, Phœbe, listen to me! Your father
guesses that you don’t want him to marry. And so he won’t. For that very
reason _you_ must choose your mother. And you must choose her before you
go!”
“Before tomorrow?”
“This very afternoon!”
At that they both rose. There was that set look about Uncle Bob’s jaw
which Phœbe, learning the moods of men, recognized as a sign of
determination. Before that big, glowing countenance and those clenched
teeth, Phœbe weakened.
He saw that. “Oh, Phœbe,” he pleaded, “there’s so much that you must
know for your own safety and happiness. My little girl, you didn’t even
realize what dangers lay along the Valley Road as you went! Think of it!
It makes my heart sick when _I_ think of it. Well, there must be someone
beside you—some dear woman who will love you, someone you can trust and
love!”
“But—but who—?” she faltered.
He drew back. “Mm,—yes, that’s so. Now, who?” He took one of his
characteristic turns, hands behind back, knuckles of one tapping the
palm of the other. “Now who? Of course, it must be somebody nice.”
She stared. “I should think so!”
“Well,”—Uncle Bob came about, suave and smiling once more—“there are any
number of charming ladies about. Now let’s just think. Mm! Who? For
instance.”
“We-e-ell.” Phœbe gave him a sidewise look. Certain “movie” stars (she
could think of two whom she adored!) had loomed first in her mind’s eye.
But considering what had so recently transpired, _could_ she venture to
mention these young goddesses to Uncle Bob? She felt she could not. And
besides might not her father, if he were to marry one of them, find her
so attractive that his little daughter——
Staunchly she put jealousy out of her heart. Once Mother had told her
that there are different kinds of love, and one could not subtract from
another. So if Daddy were to care for a new wife, it did not follow that
he would care a whit less for his daughter. And so Phœbe met the problem
at its nearest point—the drug-store.
“There’s a new young lady down at Fletcher’s,” she informed Uncle Bob.
“And she likes me better than the one did who has the baby. Because as
soon as my ice-cream soda is gone, she asks me to have another. Now,
wouldn’t she do?”
Uncle Bob looked dubious. “It can’t be somebody who will just ‘do’.”
“I suppose not.”
“And there’s Daddy. You know—in a way—we’ll have to please him.”
At that she felt more jealous than before; but she fought it. “Yes,” she
answered steadily, “we’ll have to pick somebody that Daddy likes.—I’ll
think again.”
Uncle Bob was thinking, for he was scratching his head as he walked.
“Let me see,” he mused. “Let me see.” He gave a quick glance at Phœbe
from under lowered lids.
“I can’t seem to remember another good one,” she announced
apologetically.
Her uncle halted—abruptly. He brought his two fists up in front of him.
He smiled, showing all of his teeth.
“Phœbe!” he cried.
“Yes?” Her eyes were a little fearful.
“Just the one!” He came to sit beside her.
“Who?” She sat very straight.
“Phœbe,”—he took her face between his hands; his kind blue eyes searched
hers, shining upon her with infinite love; “Phœbe, how about Miss Ruth?”
She started. “Miss Ruth!” And that moment a strange thing happened to
Phœbe. The forbidding step-mother figure which had haunted her so
long—the tall, bony, heavy-shouldered woman whose arms were like the
arms of a gorilla that Phœbe had once seen at the Zoo in Bronx Park, in
New York; that gray-haired, sullen-eyed, formidable, silent creature
made out of childish imaginings—now stepped backward, as it were, out of
Phœbe’s brain; and to take the place that was left, there came forward
Ruth Shepard, a tender smile lighting her eyes and curving her
mouth—Ruth Shepard, with hands outstretched.
Phœbe drew a sobbing breath of relief. “She’d be perfect!” she declared.
“She loves me, and I love her. And—and Daddy——”
“Phœbe,” went on Uncle Bob, “your daddy loves Miss Ruth.”
Phœbe blinked, trying to understand. “_Daddy_ loves her?”
“Devotedly.”
“And—you love her.”
“I don’t count.”
Phœbe was puzzling something out: “You love her, and Daddy loves her,
and you’re two brothers——”
“And each wants the other to be happy,” said Uncle Bob, as if completing
the sentence. “But you see, Miss Ruth loves your daddy; she’s never
loved anyone else—not since she wore braids down her back. So that’s how
it is, old dumpling. And you’ll understand why my own brother pulls
back, and says No, and——” His voice broke.
“Uncle Bob,” she asked tenderly, “are you _sure_ you want Daddy to marry
Miss Ruth? Because—because you’re crying.”
His eyes were indeed brimming. But through the tears shone a smile. He
caught her to him, laughing down at her, pressing her head against his
shoulder, pressing his cheek against her cheek. “Of course I’m crying,”
he said, not even trying to keep his voice even. “Because I know why you
asked what you did. You think—you’re afraid that old Uncle Bob will be
terribly hurt, broken-hearted. And so your tender, precious thought is
for him. Oh, little Phœbe! My sweet girl!” He choked. And fell to
rocking her back and forth, not being able to go on.
“Yes,” she whispered up to him. “That’s why. Oh, dear Uncle Bob!”
“Well, Phœbe,”—he set her free, found his handkerchief, mopped his eyes
with it, blew a resounding blast, and took on a wider smile than
ever—“this is the truth, little woman: I want Daddy to marry Miss Ruth
better than anything else in the world.”
Phœbe smiled back at him. Only fourteen years had those gray-blue eyes
looked upon the big world, yet those years had brought Phœbe something
of that age-long wisdom of woman which is called intuition. And as she
looked at Uncle Bob, she knew that he was, at one and the same time,
telling the whole truth and a great falsehood.
She put a hand against his cheek. “Precious Uncle Bob!” she whispered
tremulously. And lowering her head, hid her face against his breast. He
had freed her from the ugly vision that haunted: he had given her the
promise of love and peace and joy. He had said he would do anything in
the world to make her happy. Now he was keeping his word—he was giving
up his hope of happiness in giving up Miss Ruth.
“More than anything, Phœbe,” he repeated huskily.
She moved her head in assent “Then he will,” she said simply.
“But there isn’t any time to lose!” Uncle Bob stood up, wound his
watch-chain round a finger, pulled the big silver time-piece from its
pocket, consulted it hastily, and shoved it back. “I must get Miss Ruth.
I’ll telephone her house.”
“Oh, but suppose she won’t come,” suggested Phœbe.
“What shall I say to her?” Uncle Bob looked suddenly helpless.
“I know!” A mischievous twinkle came back into Phœbe’s eyes. “If she
holds back you _scare_ her!”
He gasped. “Scare her?”
“Once I saw it—in the movies,” she confided excitedly. “Oh, Uncle Bob,
you say to her, ‘Poor Phœbe is dying!’”
He joined in her laughter. “You muggins! If I have to, I’ll do it!” Then
gravely, “When she gets here, go awful slow—take your time.”
Phœbe gave him a wise smile. “At first, I’ll just hint.”
“Good. And—and there’s something else: If I were you I wouldn’t tell
Miss Ruth that you’ve talked this over with me.”
“I won’t,” she promised, understanding.
“Let her—and Daddy—think it was all your idea.”
“If you think I’d better.”
“I do. And, Phœbe, I’m not going to tell you what to say, or how to say
it; I’m just going to let you follow your own blessed ideas.”
Her eyes grew solemn. “You needn’t be afraid,” she answered
reassuringly. “I know _just_ how to do it. I’ve got a wonderful plan.”
“Ah, fine!” Then a little awkwardly, “But—er—I wonder if you could
manage (just this once) to tell a—a sort of a fib.”
Phœbe laughed. “I guess so.” And added, roguishly, “If it’s a little
one.”
He sobered and leaned down to her, taking her hands. “It’s important.
Even if you don’t understand why, oh, remember and believe what I tell
you—it’s _very_ important. Phœbe, if Miss Ruth asks you who wanted you
to do this, you must say it was Daddy.”
“It was Daddy,” she repeated.
He put a hand under her chin and lifted her face to his. He was smiling.
The tears in his eyes were tears of joy. “Oh, my little girl,” he said
tenderly, “this is going to make everybody happy.”
She looked up at him, not smiling, and not in the least deceived. She
understood his sacrifice. It was made for her father, for Miss Ruth, for
her. And that moment, Uncle Bob, ageing, growing stout, getting bald,
was transformed to Phœbe, through her grateful love, into a figure all
knightly and splendid and beautiful.
“I love you,” she told him.
He swept her to him in another embrace. “Good luck!” he whispered. “Good
luck, and God bless you!”—and was gone.