"Well, let's see." Teddy curled one foot under her, in the depths of the
great easy-chair. "There must be two heroines, of course, and two,--no,
three heroes."
"What'll you do with the odd one?" Billy asked.
"Kill him, to be sure." Theodora smacked her lips. "When the girl, his
girl, you know, marries the wrong man, he will--" She paused and
meditatively twisted the end of one of her long pigtails.
"Will what?"
"That's what I'm thinking about. It must be something original, not
poison nor drowning. I know; I'll have him turn sleepless, and get
up--No, he'll be a sleep-walker. He must dream that her house is on
fire, and get up to save her, and walk into the barn and be kicked to
death by her pet horse. She'll find him there in the morning, when she
goes to give him sugar." In the triumph of her lurid ending, Theodora
made havoc of her pronouns.
Billy pondered on the situation, clasping his hands under his head and
turning to face his friend.
"Um-m. That's not so bad," he said at length. "It might possibly happen,
even if it isn't likely. I had an uncle that somnambulated, and he used
to hide the sheets in an old carriage in the barn. I suppose he might
just as well have gone into a stall. Well?"
"And the other men would marry the girls. This one, the dead one, would
be dark and sallow, with high cheek-bones and a thin nose. The others
would be more commonplace. I think I'd have them something like Hu and
you."
"Thanks."
"Oh, I don't mean you are too common; but you aren't a bit like my ideal
hero," Theodora said bluntly. "I like the dead one best. I always do in
stories, if he's only hectic enough. I asked papa once what hectic
meant, and you ought to have heard him laugh when I told him the reason
I wanted to know."
"Great shame I'm not hectic!" Billy commented. "What about the girls?"
"One is light, with yellow hair and very much fun in her. She's the one
the dead man likes. The other is tall and still and stately, like a
lily, with soft, dark hair that droops and is caught up with rare old
combs."
"How many?"
"Oh, one at a time, of course, only she has ever so many, all of them of
old silver. Stop interrupting! She sways when she walks."
"Gout or intoxication?"
"Keep still, Billy, or I won't tell." Theodora's tone was impatient.
There were liberties which not even Billy was allowed to take, and this
story, the outcome of her girlish dreams, was a sacred subject to her.
She had pondered over it for months, and now that she felt the time had
come to begin the actual work of writing, she was revealing the secret
to Billy. Mrs. Farrington was spending a long rainy afternoon in her own
room, writing letters, and the two young people had the library to
themselves. For the most part, Billy was listening in respectful
silence; but his sense of humor would assert itself occasionally, and
Theodora, like all budding authors, was sensitive to ridicule.
Her threat was enough.
"I won't any more, Ted," Billy returned meekly; "only, if she wobbles
like that, I don't see what keeps her combs from tumbling out. Don't
make her too lop-sided, or else don't match her up to the man like me. I
want girls that are put together tight. That's one reason I like you."
Theodora was only half appeased by the intended compliment. She had a
secret liking for the "sweet disorder in the dress," and, of late, she
had vainly attempted to achieve it.
"That's all right," she said rather loftily; "only you know everybody
doesn't feel the way you do."
"Of course," Billy assented hastily. "What are their names, Ted?"
"The dark one is Violet Clementina Ascutney, and the little blond one is
Marianne--with a final _e_--Euphrosyne Blackiston. The men are Eugene
Vincent and Gerald Mortimer, and the dead one is Alessandro Stanley
Farrington."
"Oh, great Cæsar, Ted! I can't stand that. Why can't you have a good
plain Jack?"
"Jack is fearfully commonplace, and names do count for so much in a
story."
Billy groaned.
"Maybe. Anyhow, you've got to leave out the Farrington. I can't go that.
Which does Marianne-with-a-final-_e_ take?"
"That's just it. She's left an orphan, rich as can be, and she asks
Violet to live with her. Violet is the only daughter of a decayed
Southern family, who had to teach for a living until she was rescued
from her life of toil by the generosity of Marianne."
"With-a-final-_e_," Billy supplemented. His eyes were full of mischief,
for Theodora's tone matched the pomp of her words.
"Then they live in this beautiful house," Theodora went on, sternly
regardless of his flippancy; "with an old housekeeper, and they have
beautiful times, parties and everything. One stormy night in summer,
when they are sitting by the fire, watching the blaze and seeing
pictures in it, the bell rings and a man in livery comes in to tell them
that there has been a runaway accident and a man hurt. That's
Alessandro, and I mean to get all this part out of papa's books."
"Well?"
"Well, he's there for weeks, and the housekeeper takes care of him and
the girls don't see him; they just make him broth and things, and send
them up to his room. One day, when he is pale and interesting, he leaves
his room and sees Marianne and falls in love with her; but she never
knows it. He is poor and too honorable to tell her his love, so he just
wastes away, and she never guesses. It's all terribly sad."
"Well, yes, I should say so," Billy observed. "Are the others as
forlorn?"
"No. Gerald is a student, and Marianne's cousin, who lives next door.
He's jolly, with yellow hair, and means to be a doctor. He loves Violet,
even if she is poor. He has a friend, Eugene, that isn't well,--not
hectic a bit, but has trouble with his eyes or something, so he can't
work, and comes to spend the summer there, and falls in love with
Marianne. They all have great times, and poor Alessandro, in bed
upstairs, can hear all their fun, when they sit on the piazza in the
moonlight, and he buries his head in the pillows and sobs. One night,
just in fun, Marianne makes her will and leaves all she has to Violet.
Then Marianne and Eugene get engaged. Then Marianne dies of a fever, and
they find the will and accuse Violet of killing her, and Eugene is so
sorrowful that he goes into a convent."
"I thought men usually took to a monastery."
"What's the difference? Well, they have a trial, and Gerald stops being
a doctor and studies law and makes a brilliant plea and saves her.
Then, right in the court-room before them all, he presses her hand to
his lips and cries, 'Mine! Mine forever!' and the whole room full of
people thunders applause."
Theodora paused. Her cheeks were glowing with excitement. Billy had
turned away his head and his arm half shielded his face.
"What do you think?" she demanded.
"It's great," he answered, with an odd huskiness in his tone.
"You really like it? You're not laughing at me?" Her tone was eager, yet
mistrustful.
Billy's loyalty asserted itself. He took down his arm.
"Honestly, Ted, it's a great thing," he said with perfect gravity. "It's
different, too; not just like all the others."
Theodora drew a deep sigh of relief as she nestled back in the chair.
"I'm so glad you like it, Billy, for I did want you to. You're the only
living soul I've ever told, and now, if you don't think it's too bad,
I'm going right to work on it." There was still a little note of
question in her voice.
Billy held out his hand to her.
"Do you know what I honestly think, Teddy? Some day, you'll get there.
If I were in your place, I'd go right to work on this, and I don't
believe you'll ever be sorry. This first one may not be the success; but
I'd try the chance, and keep on trying."
He was only a boy, though developed and deepened in character by his
long illness until at times he spoke with the dignity and thoughtfulness
of a man. Now his words rang true, and Theodora, as she stood beside him
looking down into his eyes, was satisfied; and as she went home to begin
her great undertaking, she thanked Providence, as she had so often done
before during the past few weeks, for bringing her so loyal a friend.
It was with a feeling of elated self-consciousness that Theodora took
her place in the family circle, that evening, with her little writing
tablet in her hand. As she seated herself near the light, she cast a
pitying glance at her family who were talking of trivial details, quite
unconscious of the fact that that evening would mark an epoch in the
literary history of America. They were used to her and to her tablet,
and beyond the slight shifting of the group needful to give her a place
by the table, she called forth no comment from anyone but Phebe, who,
bent on teasing, turned the fire of her questions upon her older sister.
Mrs. McAlister promptly quieted her by a suggestion of bedtime; and
Theodora, left to herself, paused to smile in anticipation of the day
when, book in hand, she could remind them all of that evening. Then she
launched forth into a description of the swaying figure and drooping
hair of Violet, too eagerly intent upon mustering the forces of her
adjectives to heed the scratching of her own pen, or the conversation of
the others. Once only she was roused from her writing to hear her father
say, as he entered the room,--
"Yes, I've just been over there, and Will is improving, every day. I
can't see why he won't be walking a little, in a week or so. I hope so,
for he's had a long pull of it, and he has shown splendid pluck."
For an instant, Theodora was conscious of a jealous pang. Once on his
feet and independent, good-by to her good times with Billy. He would be
free to seek boy society and boy sports, and her company would cease to
interest him. Angry at herself for her selfishness, yet conscious of a
vague dissatisfaction with the future, she bent still closer over her
writing, while her stepmother answered,--
"Really, Jack? I had no idea of it's coming so soon. Did you know that
Jessie has asked us all to eat Thanksgiving dinner with her?"
The talk strayed on, but Theodora had lost herself once more. She had
finished with Violet, and was now painting the horrors of the stormy
night outside the house where the two girls sat over the fire. Like most
girls of her age, Theodora had a natural talent for melodrama, and she
revelled in her description, as her pen raced over the paper. Pausing at
last to decide whether _lurid_ or _murky_ best described the night, she
caught Hope's eyes fixed on her steadily.
"What is it?" she asked abruptly.
"I was thinking it was about time you began to put up your hair," Hope
answered, rising and laying her hand upon Theodora's heavy braids.
The transition was sudden and sharp. Theodora had been feeling as if she
trod on air. Now the clouds seemed to part and let her drop into the
common clay. She shook off her sister's hand.
"I don't want to put up my hair," she said sharply.
"But you're old enough, and you would look so much better. Don't you
think so?" Hope appealed to her stepmother.
"I don't care how I look. I want to be comfortable." Theodora threw her
pen down on the table.
"But you're almost a young lady," Hope urged, with a quiet persistency
which exasperated Theodora. "You are really too old to wear two tails,
any longer."
"I don't care if I am!" Theodora exclaimed hotly. "It's neat, and it's
comfortable, and I intend to wear it like this till I get ready to put
it up. You can take care of your own hair, Hope McAlister, and I'll take
care of mine."
At best, Theodora was hot-tempered. To-night, excited by her attempt at
writing and tired with the unwonted effort, she flashed like a train of
powder. She realized, even in the midst of it, that her annoyance was
out of all proportion to the cause. Before she could control herself,
Hubert gave a new direction to her thoughts.
"If all you're after is comfort, Teddy," he drawled; "I'd advise you to
get a hair-cut. It's much the most comfortable thing you can find."
For the moment, Theodora was too angry to see the humor of his
suggestion.
"I will," she exclaimed. "Hope McAlister, if you say another word, I'll
have my hair cut off."
"Oh, Teddy dear!" Hope's hand was very gentle, as it touched her hair.
"You wouldn't do anything so crazy. Just see how pretty I can make you
look."
But Theodora jerked herself away, rushed out of the room and up to her
own room.
"I won't! I won't!" she said fiercely. "I hate Hope. She's jealous
because my hair is better than hers. I won't put it up. I'd rather cut
it off, myself, short off."
She paused to listen. Hope was coming up the stairs. She recognized the
slow, gentle footfall. It came nearer the door. Theodora took a quick
step to the table and caught up the scissors from her little
work-basket.
"Come, Teddy," Hope called; "don't be silly and get cross about a little
thing like that."
Theodora clashed her scissors ominously. Even in her anger, there came a
sudden wonder how Marianne would meet such a crisis, and her voice took
a higher, more incisive note, as she said,--
"Hope, unless you let me alone, I'm going to cut it off."
"But, Teddy--"
There came a snip and a long, grinding cut, followed by a light thud, as
one heavy braid fell to the floor. Startled at what she had done,
Theodora turned to the mirror. One side of her head was covered with
loose, shaggy locks standing out in wild disorder. As she looked, she
grew white and her lips quivered. She hesitated for a moment; then,
shutting her teeth, she sheared away the other braid. For a moment
longer, she stood staring at the white face and wide, terrified eyes
reflected in the mirror. Then, throwing aside the scissors, she cast
herself down on her bed and pulled the pillows over her head to smother
the sound of her sobs.