AN OLD SONG.
AT first, Jack wrote very regularly, giving graphic accounts of his
surroundings; he had taken charge of a plantation in Florida, and,
though he made no complaint, his friends could detect his utter
loneliness in the letters he sent.
In one of his early letters, written while it was yet cold weather, he
said:
"You cannot imagine, Arch, old fellow, how quiet it seems here of
nights, after the noisy, clattering streets of New York. You will think
me a silly-billy when I tell you that I make a fire and set my kettle
boiling just for company; there is something cosey about the singing of
the kettle and the bubbling of the water. When it boils down, I fill it
up again, and then I sit down and think of you all, wonder what you are
doing, and when I shall see you all again."
But of late the letters came infrequently, and then they were short and
unsatisfactory.
"It has been a long time since we heard from Jack," said Miss Janet to
Mr. Smith, one evening, as they sat on the porch at Lyndehurst. "I am
worried about him."
"I am more worried about Theo," returned Mr. Smith, nodding in the
direction of the girl, who, with Felix Parkhurst, was sitting on a
rustic seat, listening intently to something her companion was reading
to her. The last beams of a setting sun touched her bright hair and
lingered on her white gown. She was leaning slightly forward, her hands
clasped, her lips gently parted.
Auntie looked fixedly in her direction. "I am not afraid for my girl,"
she said.
Mr. Smith shook himself impatiently. "Facts are facts," he declared.
"You can't get rid of them by ignoring them. It is perfectly natural
for young people to think on subjects which we older ones set aside as
trifling and mawkish. Now, Miss Nelson, you know perfectly well that
half the mothers, and fathers maybe, will say, if a girl begins to talk
of lovers, 'You are too young for such things. I don't want to hear any
such nonsense,' or else, with a wave of the hand, will put aside the
subject with, 'You little goose, you don't know what you are talking
about.'
"Of course she doesn't know what she is talking about, and, failing the
proper advice and sympathy there, she takes her confidences to some
one quite as inexperienced and romantic as herself, and between them,
they build up some absurd fancy which, in the end, leads to an unhappy
marriage, or to a season of sorrowful days and tearful nights."
"But Theo is in no such danger, I am sure," responded Miss Nelson, yet
with some alarm. "She is not such a girl as you describe. She would not
talk of such things in the way girls generally do."
"I am not so sure about there being no danger; and the young lady, if
she doesn't talk about it, thinks about it, and gets her ideas from
some sentimental companion or from some gushing novel."
"I don't know which of Theo's companions you could call sentimental."
Mr. Smith's glance fell significantly upon Felix.
"And," continued Miss Nelson, "she doesn't read 'gushing novels,' as
you call them."
Mr. Smith smiled; he was in one of his sarcastically disagreeable
moods. "She reads love stories, then," he said; "and, even if they be
good ones, they appeal to her sentiment and her imagination. So, no
doubt by this time she has woven a fine dream for herself about that
young cad."
"You do not approve of Felix Parkhurst, I notice."
Mr. Smith compressed his lips. "I do approve of Theo, and I don't
want her thrown away on a self-indulgent, indolent fellow like that.
What sort of a prop would he be in time of trouble, I'd like to know,
granting he has no special vices? He is the kind that would turn his
back on a woman's tears because he 'hated a scene,' and would consider
himself much abused if his wife failed to amuse him. He would tire
of her in a month, and would hunt up some more entertaining company,
neglecting her with a languid indifference which would be intolerable
to a girl like Theo. I know just the sort of a butterfly he is. Girls
don't see those things; how can they, when they have had no experience?
A girl whose only brother is a courteous gentleman expects all men
to be like him; and what does she know of the world of men who are
different? And suppose he were to lose his money, what sort of support
do you suppose he could give her?"
"You remember Theo lived under the same roof with Felix Parkhurst for
three months," interposed Miss Nelson.
"And how much did she see him? At meal-time, maybe, and once in a while
very casually; he was away half the time."
"I think you are a little severe, Colonel," said Miss Nelson; "and I
still feel sure that Theo is in no danger."
The Colonel gave a gruff "Humph!" and walked away, leaving Miss Nelson
somewhat disquieted.
"I will talk to Theo," she said to herself; "there is some truth
in what he says. I ought not to set aside any subject which may be
interesting to my girls. But Theo has always given me her entire
confidence, and I may have been too sure that she had none to give."
A little before this, Felix Parkhurst had called. And, finding it
convenient to drive over, had come every day, sometimes bringing a
book in his pocket, from which he would read aloud to Theo, being
entertained by her enjoyment of some new author, and finding it a
pleasant diversion to bring the soft color to her cheeks when he
emphasized some ardent passage by lifting his eyes and looking at her
with tender reproach.
But Theo's blushes were not all for his sake; they were partly from a
consciousness that she had been near to loving the man before her, and
partly from a fear that he might imagine she still felt so disposed
towards him.
"Theo grows good-looking," said Archie. "I never thought she would be
so pretty. She has grown up to her nose, and her eyes have grown up to
her."
"She was always pretty," insisted Val. "Her eyes always had that sweet,
earnest look, and her mouth, nothing ever was lovelier than Theo's
mouth and her smile. As for her nose, that was easily passed over."
"Of course," responded Archie; "it always had a bridge to it."
"Silly!" retorted Val, throwing a rose-bud at him. "You'll never grow
up, whatever Theo's nose does. I declare, Archie, you ought to be in
knickerbockers."
Archie suddenly jumped up and rushed into the house, appearing in a few
minutes wearing his bicycle dress. He threw himself down on the grass
by Val.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Nowhere."
"I thought you had a bicycle trip on hand, you went off so suddenly."
"You're dreadfully dense. Here, when I try to please you, you
completely set aside my little efforts."
"What do you mean? I declare, Archie, you are an exceedingly foolish
youth."
"Most sapient maiden, didn't you say I ought to be in knickerbockers? I
tried to please you."
Val replied by whacking him over the head with his cap, while he
laughed at her simulated rage.
"To return to Theo," said Val. "There, Archie, it's too hot to exercise
so violently. I think it is too bad she is not going to the shore with
us. But it's just like her. Because Fanny Parkhurst has set her heart
on her going there for a visit, and because Jamie wants her, she'll go;
and I 'know' she doesn't want to, but she's just that self-sacrificing.
I wouldn't do it."
"No, 'you' wouldn't."
"You mean, horrid boy!" and Val again brought the cap into requisition.
"You wouldn't, either."
"Of course I wouldn't. A pretty dance I would lead Miss Fan, and I
would scare Jamie stiff before I'd been there twenty-four hours. I
believe I should like to go, after all. I'd scandalize the whole band,
from Papa Parkhurst down."
"We could make them have a lively time if we both went," said Val,
falling into the spirit of the thing. "I should love to do it, but
we are not invited, as good luck would have it. Some one told Mrs.
Parkhurst the way we behaved at the Aldridges that time."
"What time?"
"Don't you know? We drove over from Roseville, you and Jack and Nan and
Theo and I, and we tied the napkins together at table, and when one
jerked, we all wiped our mouths. Before that, though, we started to go
home because Mrs. Aldridge said she had not had time to make any cake,
and Theo was so distressed at our actions. They were disgraceful."
"Of course they were. That was years ago; we were on a high horse that
day. I remember you and Nan wouldn't let Mr. Aldridge drive his own
horse, but insisted on his getting into the buggy with Jack and me. You
ought to have been ashamed of yourselves."
"So we ought. You needn't talk, though; you were worse than any of us.
No, I believe I was the worst, and I am ashamed of myself now. I wish
we could see ahead when it occurs to us to do those things, then we
wouldn't have half so much to blush for. School-girls are such silly,
'silly' things. Do you remember how I used to giggle?"
"Used to?"
"I don't near as much as I did. Do I?"
"I trust you will not continue at the present rate until you are fifty."
"I won't. I'll be as sedate as you please. I have less hope of you,
though. I know, if you were holding court and anything funny should
occur, that you would disgrace your title of judge by going off into a
fit of undignified mirth. I just know it."
"Goodness knows I'll have time enough in which to improve before that
day comes, Val," and Archie arose and went towards the house.
Fan's entreaties had gained a promise from Theo to pay a visit to her
former pupils, and Miss Nelson rather encouraged the plan. Theo as a
guest, she reflected, would have a better opportunity of judging of
Felix, since she would see him more unrestrainedly.
"You will join us, dear, the last of the week," she said. "Mr. Smith
will be coming down on Saturday with Archie, and you can come with
them."
"I think it's mean of you," said Val. "I wouldn't desert you in that
way."
"You'll have a good time, I promise," replied Theo. "Nan will be
there," for Nannie had joined her mother's family a month earlier, and
all had gone to the sea-shore together.
"Nan isn't you," pouted Val. "If you get tired, promise you'll come
sooner."
Theo promised, and they parted,—Val and Miss Nelson to proceed to the
sea-shore, and Theo to take up her abode for a week where three years
previously she had gone to teach Mrs. Parkhurst's children.
The first few days passed very pleasantly. Theo kept with Jamie and Fan
as much as possible, helping them to a better understanding of each
other, and opening to them such out-door pleasures as both could enjoy.
Mr. Felix rather resented this, and reproached Theo for inconstancy.
"You used to be such a good friend," he complained, "and now, when I
need you, you go off with those tiresome children; they cannot interest
you."
"Can you?" asked Theo, quietly.
For a moment, Felix was disconcerted. "I used to once. I tried to," he
said, recovering himself.
Theo felt the color come to her face in a most provoking way. "I came
to visit Fan," she said shortly, and turned away.
Toward the latter part of the week, an arrangement was made for the
young people of the family, with a few others invited, to drive to a
famous spot, from which could be seen an exceptionally fine view, and
which resort was a popular one for picnic parties. As it was Fan's
idea, she and Jamie were to be of the party.
"We're going to take supper," explained Jamie. "You'll go in the
carriage with us, won't you, Miss Theo?"
"If I may," Theo promised.
"We'll have a lovely time," declared Fan. "I love to scramble about
those old rocks and explore. There will be so much to show you, Miss
Theo. We'll have a fine time, for there will be lots of other girls,
and Felix won't want you," she added, naïvely.
At the time of setting out, however, the children's plans were set
aside by Felix, who insisted upon driving the buck-board, with Theo as
companion.
"There is plenty of room for Jamie," said Theo, seeing his
disappointment, and the little fellow's face brightened.
"We don't want to be bothered with the kid," said Felix, crossly, and
he frowned threateningly at the child.
"Ah! Miss Nelson," said Mrs. Parkhurst, from the step, "you will spoil
Jamie. He cannot expect a man like Felix to give up to him. Let Felix
take you."
And Theo, overruled by her hostess, could say nothing, and the drive
was begun.
But both Theo and her companion felt a little cross, and it was not
long before a new cause of difference arose.
About a mile from the house was a narrow place in the road with a
little gully at one side. As they approached this place, they saw a
light spring wagon on its way towards them.
"We shall have to turn out," remarked Theo.
"We shall do nothing of the kind," replied Felix, whipping up his
horses. "Let the wagon turn out for us," and he kept the middle of the
road.
"But there isn't room," insisted Theo. "You will make the man overturn
his wagon in that gully."
"That is his lookout," replied Felix. "I'm not going to get out of the
way of a clodhopper. You're not afraid?" he asked, altering his tone to
one of suavity. "You are perfectly safe with me."
"I'm not afraid. No," replied Theo, sitting up very straight, and
feeling a rising resentment at his speech, "but I do not believe in
placing a fellow-creature in danger."
Felix smiled with an air of superiority, and at this moment, the wagon
came up to them.
"Why, it's Tommy!" exclaimed Theo.
"Who?" inquired Felix.
"Why, Tommy Reed, from Lyndehurst."
"Oh!" And Theo cried out as the wagon gave a lurch.
Then, looking behind her, she saw it had indeed, happened as she
feared. The wagon had overturned, but the horse had scrambled to his
feet, and was standing perfectly still, though Tommy was not to be seen.
"Stop!" cried Theo, imperiously.
At her tone, Felix checked his horses and looked back. "What is the
matter?" he asked.
By this time, Tommy was seen standing by the horse.
"He's all right. Why wasn't he more careful? The awkward lubber! I
could have passed easily," said Felix.
Theo gave him a quick look, and could not refrain from smiling
scornfully. "I am not so sure it is all right," she returned. "I wish
to go and see."
"Nonsense. Why, Miss Theo, you are too Quixotic. We shall be very late.
Oh, of course, if you insist," and Felix turned his horses with the air
of one giving in to a woman's whim.
Reaching the spot, Theo was out of the buck-board in a moment.
"Tommy! Tommy!" she cried. "I am so sorry. Tell me, are you hurt?"
Tommy was trying to raise the fallen wagon; he turned at the kind
voice. "I was thrown out, but it is only a scratch, Miss," he replied.
But Theo saw his face was white and drawn with pain, and the sleeve of
his coat badly torn. "He 'is' hurt," she declared, turning to Felix.
By this time, Tommy, by using all the strength he could muster with his
left arm, had raised the wagon, which, strange to say, was not injured.
But the great drops stood out on the boy's forehead, and he trembled
painfully after the effort.
Theo turned determinedly to her companion. "I shall go back to
Lyndehurst with Tommy," she announced; "he is not able to go alone."
"What do you mean? Why, Miss Theo, I could not allow that. The boy is
all right. Aren't you, my good fellow? He doesn't seem to be much hurt;
he couldn't have lifted the wagon if he had been. You can drive back
alone, can't you, boy?"
"Yes, sir," said Tommy, bravely.
"And perhaps have him faint on the way," said Theo. "Pray, don't let me
detain you, Mr. Parkhurst," and Theo threw up her head haughtily. "I
intend to see Tommy safely at Lyndehurst, and, further, to see that he
has medical attendance at once."
"Oh, if your determination is taken, allow me to drive you there."
"And Tommy?"
Mr. Felix looked perplexed. "The boy is perfectly able to drive," he
repeated.
"I do not agree with you. No, do not trouble yourself further. I prefer
to have you leave me," said Theo, now, thoroughly roused. "My intention
is to drive the wagon myself."
"Miss Theo!" in accents of astonishment from both Tommy and Mr. Felix.
"You wouldn't be seen driving that wagon, I hope," from Felix.
But Theo gave a silencing wave of the hand, as if dismissing the
subject, and without further argument clambered into the wagon. By this
time, Tommy was quite faint, and made no further protest, but took his
place in the back of the wagon, and Theo gathered up the lines.
"I am very sorry to disappoint the children," she said to Felix, "but
Tommy is suffering."
"His suffering is not to be compared to my disappointment," was the
response; "but you are not going to give up the trip altogether?" added
Mr. Felix, with some chagrin. "We can stop at the first house and send
assistance. Come, Miss Theo, consider how unnecessary this is. Do get
out and come with me."
Theo looked at him coldly. "I have announced my intention," she said.
"Very well, then," returned Felix, now thoroughly out of patience. "If
you prefer that lout's company to mine, I have nothing further to say."
Theo made no reply, but simply bowed and turned the horse towards
Lyndehurst, which place was soon reached.
Great was Mrs. Barton's surprise at seeing Miss Theo drive up with
Tommy.
"Why, bless my soul, Miss!" she cried, running out. "What's this? What
would Mr. Smith say to your driving up here in his wagon?"
"Tommy is hurt," said Theo, cutting short Mrs. Barton's protests.
"Please send one of the men for the doctor at once."
And Mrs. Barton bustled off, returning soon with Parsons, the butler,
and old David, who took Tommy in charge.
In a short time, the doctor arrived, and pronounced Tommy's accident a
dislocation of the shoulder, and a bad one. So the poor boy was put to
bed, and Theo was satisfied that she had taken the right course.
"I feel anxious about Tommy, Mrs. Barton," she said. "The doctor said
there might possibly be some internal injury, and I do not want to go
back to Mrs. Parkhurst's."
"I don't think he's so bad, Miss. I'm sure he'll come all right; he's
pretty badly bruised where he was thrown against a pile of stones,
but I don't believe there is anything worse. But you stay right here,
Miss, if you feel better satisfied; it is good to have you back again,
the house seems so empty. Mr. Smith won't be home to-night, but we'll
try to make you comfortable; and if you want to send any message to
Mrs. Parkhurst, one of the men will be glad to take it. Maybe," she
suggested further, "you'd like to have Miss Fanny and Mr. Jamie come
over and stay with you."
"What would Mr. Smith say to that?"
"Oh, Miss, he'd be most pleased. I am sure he would; he always says to
me that you and Miss Val are to have just what you want. I'm sure he'll
be most pleased, Miss. It was so beautiful of you to do all you did for
poor Tommy. I don't know another young lady would have done it, and you
so proud, too. Oh, Miss, Tommy is so grateful, and Eldorado Ann just
worships the ground you walk on. Yes, indeed, Miss, anything you want
shall be done."
So Theo despatched the note to Mrs. Parkhurst, asking if Jamie and Fan
might come the next day, to remain through the time set for her own
visit to them. And then, having satisfied the old housekeeper that she
wanted no further errands done, she sat down with her little dog in her
arms.
The house did indeed seem lonely and deserted without Val's merry laugh
or Archie's quick, springing tread. And Theo finally found vent for
her feelings in talking to Posie-Cossie, whom she rocked as if he were
a little baby, while he, once in a while, touched her hand with his
little red tongue.
"Would I leave poor Tommy, dear?" said Theo. "No, indeed. You wouldn't
have done it either, you dear, faithful, little bit. Did the naughty,
selfish man want to leave poor Tommy all alone? Jack wouldn't have done
it, would he? Why, he wouldn't even leave you all alone in the streets.
Jack would have picked Tommy up, and have held him as gently and as
tenderly as his own brother. He was so good to him when he came to New
York, a little ragged boy. It was all Jack's doing his coming here. How
well I remember. And he wouldn't have left us here alone for the world;
he would have stayed and helped, wouldn't he, Posie-Cossie? We miss
Jack. Oh, Posie-Cossie, we do miss him, and we are too hateful to let
him think so; at least I am. Poor Jack! He was so lonely, too, and he
hadn't any dear little doggie; he only had a tea-kettle—just think, how
pathetic! Nothing but an old tin tea-kettle—to keep him company, and it
has been so long since we heard from him."
Theo leaned her head against the back of the rocking-chair. The long
summer twilight had begun; through the open window drifted the odor
of such summer flowers as could open to a scorching sun and lose
none of their sweetness thereby,—petunias and verbenas, clematis and
mignonette. Across fields came the scent of new-mown hay, and the
pine-trees in the garden lent a spicy quality to the perfume of the
indrifting evening breeze.
Theo sat thinking, thinking. The room in which she was opened on the
porch, and presently she heard a foot upon the step leading from the
walk. Posie-Cossie pricked up his ears and gave a little sharp bark.
Theo's hand stilled him, and he lay quiet again.
The door-bell rang, and Theo, listening, heard some one softly whistle
an air that came back to her memory almost startlingly,—the air of a
German song Jack used to sing, Greig's "Ich liebe dich."
"Jack! Could it be Jack?" she thought, with mixed emotions.
The door was opened, and, after a short parley, Parsons appeared,
saying, "I beg your pardon, Miss Theo, but there is a man here would
like to see you."
Theo put down Posie-Cossie and went out into the hall, where stood a
rather rough-looking individual, who greeted her with,—
"Excuse me, Miss, but I thought you'd do to leave a message with. I'm
just up from Texas, and I promised a pal of mine I'd hunt up his folks
an' tell 'em why he's been so mum."
"Texas! A pal of yours!"
"Yes'm; Jack Allen, ye know."
A friend of Jack Allen's,—this rough, unshorn, uncouth person.
"Jack Allen!" exclaimed Theo. "Yes, he is our friend; but how—" Then
she paused.
"Jack's been down on his luck; he got sickened out o' Floridy—didn't
pay—an' he come over to Texas. Me an' him's had a ranch there,
leastways he's been a helpin' me; but he took sick of a low kind of
fever some months back, an' he ain't been able to write, Jack ain't,
an' when I says,—
"'Jack,' I says, 'I'm a goin' up to Albany fur a spell on biz, my
granddaddy's lef' me a little cash, an' I've got to go an' see about
it.'
"Jack he says, 'I wisht ye'd stop in New York an' tell 'em I ain't been
up to the notch, er else I'd writ 'em.'
"An' he give me yer brother's direction. I reckon it's yer brother, A.
Nelson."
Theo nodded.
"But yer brother wasn't there, an' I ast 'em where the res' of the
fambly was, an' they gimme this here place, right on my way, too, so I
stopped to tell ye."
"Oh, do come in and tell me more," said Theo, eagerly.
"Sorry, Miss, I can't stop long. I've got a train to make. Jack's
gittin' on right good; he'll be about soon. Says he, 'Tell 'em not to
bother.' Strange, as I was a standin' there on them steps, how that
tune of his'n kep' a runnin' through my head, and I ketched myself
whistlin' it,—that there Dutch song of his'n that he sings so much.
He kep' on a singin' it right along all the time he was down, flighty
like."
"I heard you," answered Theo.
"And it 'minded ye of Jack, didn't it? Fust-rate fellow, he is. We're
good pals, we are. I must be going."
"Wait, give me his address."
The man fumbled in his pocket. "He ain't very near to no pos'-office,
but this'll find him when he does go," and he handed Theo an envelope,
on which an address was written.
"And your address? Oh, thank you very much for coming to tell us. You
were very kind to come out of your way."
"That ain't nothin' to do for a pal. Don't mention it; Jack 'ud do
it. I'm a goin' back as soon as I kin, an' I'll stop an' take any
word. This'll find me if ye want to let me know anythin'." And the man
scratched another address on the envelope, then after a clumsy bow,
departed.
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