DESERTED!
"A QUARTER to six, and father not home yet!" exclaimed Mrs. Grace,
glancing at the clock as she struck a match for the gas. "What can be
keeping him?"
She was a rather short, rather stout lady, with wavy light brown hair,
large sweet gray eyes, and a face that would be pretty all her life
long, for love and kindliness and gentle mirth gave expression to every
line. Margerie was the most like her of the three little girls.
The moment the light came, Maud reopened her book, Minnie stood up
to "tidivate" a pet curl on her forehead by the chimney glass, and
Margerie, hanging herself basket-fashion on her mother's arm, pressed a
soft cheek against her shoulder with a look that said, "How nice it is
to have someone to cuddle!"
"Perhaps father lost the train," suggested Minnie, pulling out and
tying afresh the smart little bow of pink ribbon at her throat.
Minnie would have been, with her shining fair hair and delicate
complexion, an extremely attractive looking girl, but her little
self-conscious airs and graces spoilt it all. She seemed never to
forget that she was pretty, and in consequence, other people found it
difficult to remember.
"Traffic may be delayed by the drifts of snow," observed Mrs. Grace. "I
think we may as well have tea, girls."
"Let's wait just five minutes longer," pleaded Margerie. "Father always
likes to have tea with us on his early evening. He is sure to get home
if he can."
"The next train will be in at three minutes past six," said Minnie.
"That's two trains later than he usually is on a Thursday evening."
"That will be three—eight—thirteen minutes longer," observed Margerie;
"only thirteen, mother. And I can be making some toast, can't I? Father
is so fond of my toast with all the crust cut off."
"Very well," smiled Mrs. Grace, well pleased, and she whisked out her
stocking-basket wherewith to improve the interval. Maud, buried in her
book, was lost to all around, oblivious of tea, and unconscious that
any discussion whatever had been taking place.
"There!" cried Margerie, with uplifted finger, as she stood her fourth
delicately-browned slice in the china rack. "That's the train coming
in now; don't you hear it? It will only take father two minutes to get
from the station to our door."
"You might allow him half a minute extra on account of the weather,"
suggested Minnie.
"Yes, to be sure," Margerie gravely agreed. And seating herself on the
corner of a chair with her toasting-fork held trident-fashion, like a
small Britannia, she fixed her eyes upon the dial of the time-piece.
It was probably because their father was already overdue, and they had
worked themselves up into an unusual state of expectancy by so closely
calculating the time, but never in her life before had Margerie Grace
watched the clock with anything like the nervous anxiety she did then.
"Half a minute is gone," she said. "He's out of the train and up the
stairs. Now he's getting past the ticket man. Now he's putting up his
umbrella at the door."
Years afterwards she still recollected the peculiar thrill of those
almost breathless moments.
"He must have turned our corner by this time, but we sha'n't be able to
hear his footsteps till he gets quite close, because of the snow."
She jumped from her chair in a feverish kind of way, and ran to the
window. Parting the red curtains, she looked out. Nothing could
she discern through the veil of white flakes that were falling, if
possible, more thickly than ever in the darkness. Every moment it
seemed that the muffled thud of footsteps must reach her ear, and the
welcome form take shape amid that strange chaos without. But eye and
ear were alike strained in vain.
"Put the curtain down, Margie dear; there is such a draught," said her
mother at length.
Margerie obeyed. The clock was pointing to seventeen minutes past
six. The child slowly and silently came back to the fireside, then to
everyone's surprise suddenly burst into tears.
"My dear child!" exclaimed Mrs. Grace. "You must not be so much upset
about a little thing. Father has been detained at the office, no doubt.
If you set your heart so upon things turning out just as you expect,
you are sure to meet with disappointment."
"What is the matter with Margie?" asked Maud, coming out of the realm
of fiction with the dazed air of a person awaking from a dream.
"She made sure father would come by the 6.3 train, and he hasn't,"
answered Minnie.
"That was just the way to keep him away," said Maud sententiously. "The
things we make so sure of, are the very things that never happen. I've
noticed it over and over again."
"Quite so," rejoined teasing Minnie. "You seem to be making sure that
by reading a storybook all this evening you'll keep top of the French
class to-morrow."
"I won't make sure again," said Margerie, wiping her eyes—she hardly
knew herself what had brought that irrepressible gush of tears; "and
then perhaps he'll come."
But the next train, and the next, and still another—seven o'clock,
half-past seven, eight o'clock came, and yet Mr. Grace had not returned.
His wife herself was beginning to feel no small anxiety about him,
for as a rule his hours were most regular. But she would not let the
children see how much she was troubled.
Nine year old Margerie, after fruitless protests, went to bed as usual
at eight o'clock, her sisters an hour later.
She was still awake when they came up. "Father hasn't come home?" she
said.
"No. I can see mother is getting to feel awfully worried about his
being so late," replied Minnie. "I wanted to sit up and keep her
company, but she wouldn't let me. It is dreadful to think of father
being out somewhere in that lonely snow! I feel almost as if we
oughtn't to go to bed and leave him."
"Hush!" said Maud. "You'll make Margie cry again."
Margerie's eyes were filling with tears, but she said: "God is out in
the snow, though, isn't He? Just the same as in here. Perhaps more
even, because of people wanting Him more."
Like a little prophetess she had spoken a word of comfort to them all,
and resting on it as on a pillow soft and firm, the three sisters soon
fell asleep. The love and power of our Father pervades every inch
of the universe; it must be so, or He could not be God. He was with
everybody's dear ones out in that terrible storm, He was guarding the
children under their safe home-roof, He was sustaining the trembling
watcher in the room below. But oh! the loneliness, the fear-filled
stillness of the house when the maid too had gone up to her attic, and
midnight drew on, and Mrs. Grace was the only one awake! And still her
husband did not come.
Early in the small hours Maud awoke with the toothache. She bore it
quietly for some time, hearing the clock strike two, meanwhile. But
as it did not get better and she could not go to sleep, she slipped
out of bed, wrapped herself in a shawl, and tip-toed to her mother's
chamber-door. She had no doubt that both her parents were by this time
asleep within.
She tapped, but received no answer. She tapped again. She opened the
door a little way and said, "Mother!"
She repeated the word a little louder—when before had it failed to meet
with a ready response?—but all was silence. She peeped in. The blinds
were still up, and the pallid gleam from the snow outside fell upon a
smooth and vacant bed. No one was there!
A strange terror at her heart frightening the toothache away, she sped
with trembling limbs down the stairs. The lower part of the house was
in total darkness. The parlour door stood open; the gas was turned
down; a dull red spot indicated the position of the grate, but the
dying ashes seemed to have been untended for hours.
"Mother!" she cried aloud, in a horror of desertedness. "Mother!
'Mother!'"
Not a sound came in response but the weird moan of the snow-bringing
wind, and the soft pat of great icy flakes against the pane. Even the
clock had stopped, and the house was as silent as a tomb.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]