CAMILLE SPEAKS OUT.
"There's George Dalton going to Joyce's again," remarked Camille,
turning from the library window which looked towards the other house.
"They seem to find plenty of matters to discuss, lately."
"I can well believe it," replied her mother calmly. "What with hurrying
to complete all the houses before snow falls, and looking after Nate's
trial and Lucy's family, it keeps Joyce on the anxious seat."
"Oh well, she likes it," laughed the girl. "There, he's gone in now. He
always comes to the house to talk nowadays, instead of her going to the
office."
"It's a better plan, I think."
"You always think everything is either good, better, or best, mother.
But it seems to me----"
She stopped to study the Madame's sightless countenance, until that lady
asked, laughingly,
"Well, what has cut you off, child? I imagine you suspended in mid-air."
Camille joined in the laugh, but not too heartily.
"I was going to say, it seems to me there's something more than business
in it all, ma mère."
Madame Bonnivel looked up quickly.
"Are you justified in saying that, daughter?"
"I don't know. I only spoke of the way in which it strikes me. There
now! He's coming out, and Joyce with him. She has on her new jacket and
her best walking hat. I do verily believe they are going into the city.
And I was going myself this afternoon, then gave it up--how provoking!
She looks odd, Joyce does."
"How, odd?"
"Well, excited perhaps. She doesn't seem to see, or think, of anything
but just what she is doing. I wonder if anything has happened, or if
it's just being with him?"
"Camille, dear, is it quite the thing to stand and comment on your
neighbor, so?"
"Why, it's only Joyce, mother. And I won't any longer. She's out of
sight now, anyway, and gone straight toward the station, too. But, I
will maintain, she consults twice as much with that manager lately as
with you, mother. You know that as well as I do."
A slight contraction of the Madame's smooth brow proved that the shaft
had hit.
"Yes, that is probable enough. It isn't to be wondered at, either. He is
her manager, and an excellent one. Camille, did you say Leon enclosed a
note to Joyce in his last letter to you?"
The girl's face broke into a mischievous grin. "What made you think of
that just now, dear? Yes he did, but it was a short one, and she didn't
show it to me. I wish he would come home!"
The Madame sighed.
"So do I. After all, what prospects in life has a naval officer without
private property? He must always be gone from home, where he may be
exposed to unknown dangers. He can scarcely hope to form family ties."
"Humph! Joyce's husband needn't be in the navy, if she doesn't like to
have him, mother."
"Hush, child, don't be absurd! They are like brother and sister."
"But they are not brother and sister, and I'm glad of it--if that Dalton
will keep his distance. I don't know but it's my duty to make up to him,
myself."
"Camille! Don't be coarse."
"Coarse! You ought to hear most of the girls talk. Well, good-by. I told
Joyce I'd go and tend library this afternoon, and I must be off. I'll
send Dodo in to keep you out of mischief."
She stooped to kiss the smooth cheek, where time had been sparing of
wrinkles, and her mother drew her down for a closer caress.
"Adieu, my love. One of the lessons my blindness teaches me is that, a
great many times in this world, the hardest work we are given is just to
sit one side and neither speak, nor act. It is then prayer becomes an
unspeakable blessing."
"Mother, you're awfully good! I won't meddle; don't worry. Here's Dodo.
She hasn't learned that lesson yet, bless her heart! Now don't let Mamma
mope, Blossom."
"Me'll tate tare ob her, S'e tan p'ay wiv mine Wobin, an' hol' mine
dolly."
Camille disappeared, throwing kisses as she went. The library she
mentioned was one in connection with the school, and somewhat chaotic in
condition. Joyce had bought a selected lot of good reading matter in
paper covers, with which to start a circulating library, and with the
assistance of the Bonnivels, was getting it in shape. In the absence of
a catalogue the books were now numbered on the backs, and when issued
the corresponding number, on a slip of paper marked the vacant place on
the shelf. In addition, the name of the drawer had to be recorded,
making the work of distribution something of a task. As yet no regular
librarian had been appointed. Joyce thought that either Dan or Rachel
could do the work satisfactorily, but both were valuable glass-workers,
and Dalton demurred at giving up any of their time. So the matter
rested.
Though well into the Fall the day had come off sunny and mild. As
always, in such weather, that part of the population not confined in the
factory was pretty well turned out of doors. Camille, crossing the park
from one end to the other, noted the women standing about in groups, or
passing from cottage to cottage, and wondered when they ever found time
for their household duties. She exchanged pleasant nods with those she
met--all liked her gay, gypsyish face and easy manners--and was in great
good humor when the school-house was reached.
It was still early and the children not dismissed, but already a large
group of women were waiting in the library room. Among these, so demure
and still as to seem oldest of all, waited Lucy Hapgood. Camille could
scarcely keep back a smile at sight of her incongruous attire. Her gown
was a cotton one of a washed out indigo-blue, with large polka spots
that had once been white, before the other color had beclouded them.
Over this, as if apologizing and condoning, streamed the sombre veil,
more suitable for a widow than for that round-faced child. But Lucy drew
it about her with a tender touch, as she sat apart, and Camille could
plainly note her satisfaction in its heavy folds.
The latter at once began her work of distribution, that these older
people might be disposed of before the school children should come
trooping in. When Lucy's turn arrived, and she took her place before the
little railing, like a veiled oriental mute, Camille looked down upon
her with an air of good comradeship, and said,
"I know you'll want something bright and wide awake. I don't believe you
like doleful books any better than I do."
Lucy's demure face lightened, but she seemed to hesitate for a reply.
"I did like that kind," she said finally, "but now I don't know. Mis'
Hemphill said I ought to read something sober, nowadays. There's a book
about a girl that was took up because they thought she'd killed her
father, and they tried to torment and torture her into telling."
"Good gracious! Such a book would be the death of you. Is she crazy?
I'll pick you out something. Now, here's the loveliest story! It's about
two merry, sensible girls who found themself obliged to earn their own
living. They did not sit down and cry, but just went about it, as gay
and jolly as you please, and they had lots of funny adventures, but
conquered in the end. I know you'd like it."
Lucy looked at the volume wistfully.
"Do you think I ought to?" she whispered.
"Of course I do. Why not? Look it over, at least."
She took the book, dipped into it here and there, looked at the
illustrations, then glanced up with a flushing cheek.
"I know I'd like it and, if you say so--"
"Certainly I say so. What's its number?"
"One hundred and twenty."
"All right. Now, you read every word of it, and tell me how you like it
when you bring it back, will you?"
Lucy tucked it carefully under her veil, but lingered.
"Isn't Miss Lav'lotte going to be here to-day?"
"No, I think she went into the city, probably to see Mr. Nate Tierney."
Camille spoke deliberately, turning to replace a volume in the large
pine case as she did so.
"Do--do you know where 'tis she goes to see him?" asked the girl in a
low voice, glancing about her with a furtive air.
Camille looked at her quickly.
"Don't you know? Haven't they told you?'"
"Then he is in--jail?"
Camille nodded regretfully.
"I kinder thought maybe Mr. Dalton might get him out," was the next
remark in a despairing tone.
"I hope they will soon, Lucy, but it takes time. Have you been to see
him yet?"
"I?" Lucy started, and stared at her.
"Yes, you to be sure. He has been such a good friend of yours. Of course
they'll do all they can--Mr. Dalton and Joyce--but you know him so much
better he could tell you things he wouldn't them. Then, he must get
awfully lonely for his own friends. He suffers terribly over it all."
"But--but--you know what he's in jail for?"
"Of course. But nobody believes he is guilty. Miss Lavillotte says, and
so does every one, that it was just an accident."
"He was mad at pa, though, fearful mad!"
"Yes, he owns to that. But he had gotten control of himself. He simply
meant to shut him up where he could not harm you."
Lucy sighed.
"I wish I was sure. Nate never lied to me in his life. If he'd say it
solemn and true I'd believe it."
"Why don't you go to see him, then, and ask all about it?"
"Oh, I couldn't What would people say?"
She shrank back as if from a blow.
"Do you always stop to think about that?" asked Camille with contempt.
"Why don't you figure out what is really right and then go ahead? I do."
Lucy studied her a minute, then asked in return,
"Do you think it's right to care more for other folks than for your own
family?"
"I don't think it's natural, but, if you do, there must be something
wrong with the family. We generally like those nearest to us, if they'll
let us."
"Yes, that's so," said the other eagerly, as if new light were coming to
her.
"As far as family is concerned, though, I like Joyce Lavillotte better
than any cousin I have, almost better than my own sister, and she is no
relation at all."
"Isn't she?"
"Not the slightest. And my mother, I do believe, likes her better than
anybody in the world."
"Not better'n you--her own girl?"
"Just as well, I'm sure. And it's all right, too. I would not have it
otherwise. They say this Mr. Tierney has always been kindness itself to
you and the children; I should think you ought to love him just as well
as if he were your big brother."
"Do you think so--really?"
"I know it."
Something of perplexed sadness fell away from the child's face, and just
then the measured beat of young feet being marched through the halls
proclaimed that school was dismissed. Lucy turned quickly and grasped at
Camille.
"Say, I don't know where to go nor how to get at him. I don't know where
to write to him, even. If you'd tell Miss Lav'lotte, don't you b'lieve
she'd go with me, or something? She's so kind."
"Of course she would. I'll tell her."
"And see here, you--you won't tell anybody else?" speaking low and
hurriedly for the children were at the door.
"Tell! Of course not! But Lucy, what ails you is you have been so used
to care and sorrow that you don't dare to catch the least ray of
sunshine that comes to you. Now, that's all wrong. You ought to talk
with my mother. Come and see us some day, on the knoll, will you? Come
soon."
"Oh may I? How lovely to ask me!" Lucy's face fairly shone at the
thought. "Good by," she whispered, fairly squeezing Camille's little
brown paw, "good-by. I'll come, sure," and dropping the thick veil to
hide smiles rather than tears, she glided out between the ranks of
impatient children, who looked after her with awed interest.
That evening Camille, full of frank curiosity, tripped across to the
other house, tapping lightly on the side door opening upon the driveway,
and entered without waiting for admission. The room she stepped into was
unlighted, except from the hall beyond, but crossing both she came into
a delightful little apartment, softly illumined with lamps which shed a
rosy light through their silken shades. A couple of logs burned on the
brass andirons of the fireplace with an aromatic odor that suggested
deep pine woods.
Before them a couch was drawn, upon which Joyce nestled lazily amid a
nest of pillows. At a table, little withdrawn, Ellen was reading aloud
from a late magazine, the rosy light making her look almost young and
handsome to-night. She withdrew, after a word or two of greeting, while
Joyce without stirring, said drowsily,
"I know you won't ask me to get up, Camille; you are too good-natured.
Come, take this easy little rocker and tell me all you know."
"No thank you. I've come to put you to the question, my lady! Who told
you you could go off to the city with that handsome George Dalton when I
had given up the trip just because I hated to go alone?"
"Had you? What a pity we did not know!" The lamps made Joyce's cheeks a
lovely color. "Of course our business would have been a bore to you, but
we could have met for a nice time somewhere, later."
"How do you know it would have been a bore? And what was 'our' business,
anyhow?"
"Camille, we are both convinced that poor Lozcoski has been unjustly
accused, and Murfree is the real criminal. To get the Pole out of
prison, and to keep Murfree out, requires some man[oe]uvring, and a lot
of 'lawing,' as Gilbert calls it."
"But why keep that old Murfree out? I should think he deserved all he
can get."
"I suppose he does, but the poor man is so ill. It's a cruel world,
dear--but a beautiful one, too!"
"Then, didn't you go to see the Tierney man?" asked Camille, more
interested in that tragedy than the other.
"Yes, we did. He has every comfort, and we secured him the best of
counsel. We are sure he will be acquitted."
Camille winked at the fire, a smile on her lips. That "we" tickled her.
She glanced around at Joyce, who lay dreamily gazing into the blaze, her
eyes and thoughts far away. She broke into a little laugh which
attracted the dreamer's attention, and as the latter turned her head
surprisedly, she said.
"Do you realize how funny that 'we' and 'our' sound, Joycie dear? Six
months ago you thought little enough of George Dalton, and now he is in
everything you do."
"Well, it's his business to be, child. Six months ago I did not
understand nor appreciate him--now, I do."
Camille gave a grunt.
"We don't see anything of you at all, any more," she flung out, almost
spitefully.
"I have been very busy, sweetheart. Did you eat pickled peppers for
supper? I wouldn't. They spoil your--complexion."
Camille had to laugh at the tone of this, and at the other's merry eyes.
"No, I didn't, and I've been good all day. I went to your old library
concern and attended to it beautifully, and I talked to Lucy like a
grandmother, and gave her splendid advice. She really chirked up
wonderfully, and tried to hide her smiles behind that ridiculous veil.
Isn't she funny?"
"Or pathetic--which? But you've been a good child, I see. Now, try the
same process on me. I'm all tired out and need 'chirking,' too."
"You may be tired, but it hasn't struck in, Joyce. You're just beaming
inside, and it shines through."
Joyce laughed and snuggled down closer into her pillows.
"What sharp eyes you have! So you don't approve of me unless I am weary
inside, as well as out?"
"I do too, only--well, this is just the way you used to look when we
were expecting Leon home, and we are not expecting him now."
"Oh, you think I have mistaken the occasion? I see!" She spoke in a tone
Camille knew of old which, though seldom used towards a Bonnivel, could
hold almost any one in check. So the girl went on rapidly, determined to
have her say out,
"I won't beat about the bush any more. I believe you are perfectly happy
with George Dalton, and don't want anybody else. Now, aren't you? Own
up!"
Joyce had burrowed so deeply by this time that only one pink ear was
visible, and Camille was looking at this with a determined expression
when a quick, firm step was heard in the hall--in fact, more than
one--and Larry's voice called impatiently.
"Where are you girls, anyhow? Can't you let a wanderer in without the
ceremony of an announcement?"
"Here!" called Camille rising, while Joyce hastily shook up the pillows
and arranged her hair. "What's wanted of us?"
"Very little," cried Larry, bouncing in with a beaming face. "I've
simply brought you a new beau," and he pointed behind him to a tall,
straight figure in dark blue, which stood at "attention," smiling
happily.
"Leon!" cried Camille, springing to his arms, and Joyce was thankful for
the instant's space in which to collect herself.
When he turned quickly to her both hands were out to meet his own, but
she neither paled nor flushed as her eyes met his with a glance of
truest friendship and camaraderie.