THE START.
HALF-PAST five of a breathless summer morning. "Warmer even than
yesterday," Mr. West said, as he mopped his heated face with the skirt
of his coat, then rushed away as some new thought for Dilly's comfort
came to him.
A bustling home it had been since the first streak of daylight; and
now Dilly sat in state on a carefully dusted chair, dressed from head
to foot, in neatness, with a broad-brimmed sunhat, already carefully
adjusted, and a brown paper bundle containing her wardrobe, occupying
another chair at her side. Wonderful times were these for Dilly West.
All yesterday had been a wonderful day. It began with Mrs. Hammond; and
she had not been long gone, not long enough for father and daughter to
calm into an every-day state, before a trim colored woman presented
herself, with a curtsey, and the statement that if this was Mr. West's,
if he pleased, she was to wash, iron, and mend Miss Dilly's things.
Which astonishing business she had immediately undertaken with such
swift skill that Dilly, despite all she had to think of, could but stop
and give admiring heed. Poor little duds of "things" they were.
The trim, colored maiden from her more luxurious standpoint, believed
in her heart that the thing to do with every one of them was to
bundle them up for the ragman; nevertheless she washed, and starched,
and sprinkled, and ironed, and mended; going through all the forms
as carefully as though they were Mrs. Hammond's tucked and ruffled
beauties. And in an incredibly short, time, as it seemed to Dilly, her
entire wardrobe had been arranged in a neat little mended pile on one
of the chairs.
So proud was Dilly of them! Yet they brought the swift tears to her
great sorrowful eyes; for mamma used to mend just as neatly and iron
just as carefully.
There had been little time for tears, however; the excitement kept up
all day. In the next place there was dinner. Now dinner at the Wests'
had long been a burden; something to be endured because the hour for
such a performance came around just as regularly when there was nothing
with which to perform, as when there was abundance; but on this day,
her father came in with an important air, and a bundle under his arm,
and motioned her to the little corner cupboard.
"I struck a streak of luck, this forenoon," he said, "and I thought
we'd have a celebration in honor of your going off to get well." Then
he undid the bundle.
"Eggs!" said Dilly. "Six of them! Why, father, aren't they very dear?"
"Not so dreadful," said Mr. West evasively; "and they are
strengthening; I heard the doctor say so. And here's a big loaf of
bread baked this morning; it's a present to you, Dilly, from the fat
baker at the corner, with his compliments; and he hopes you will tell
Mrs. Hammond that he sends up fresh rolls by the train every evening.
And here is a pat of very good batter, because toast and eggs need
good butter, you know, and this I got cheap, because it had just come,
and the tub was very heavy, and the right fellow wasn't around to lift
it, so I lifted it myself; he sold me a half pound at half-price. And
here," diving into both pockets of the shabby coat, and bringing out
two potatoes in each hand, "are some Irish beauties; two of 'em to eat
for dinner, and two of them to warm up for breakfast to-morrow. Oh!
We'll live high this time."
The anxious father was rewarded by seeing Dilly eat a piece of the
baked potato, and a bit of bread, and a whole egg for her dinner; doing
better than she had for days before. The truth was, Mr. West had had
no "streak of luck" for several days; and though Dilly had faithfully
tried, the dry bread, and strong "oil" which she called butter, had
been very hard to swallow.
The excitement of dinner was barely over, when a messenger came from
Mrs. Hammond, bearing on his head a good-sized basket. "With some
things for Miss Dilly," he explained.
What a time they had over that basket! Mr. West cleared the table,
wiped it off carefully, and set the basket thereon, so that Dilly need
not weary herself by stooping, then stood watching the color deepen on
her face, while she drew out, at first with exclamations, and then in
excited tremulous silence, the treasures it contained. A dress of some
soft material in delicate plaids, threaded with blue—Dilly's own color,
as her mother had called it. Then a sack of the same pretty material,
with a row of tucks up and down the front, and a ruffle around the
edge. Then a pair of button-boots, partly worn, but fitting Dilly's
slight foot as though they had been made for her. Then brown stockings,
and brown gloves, and a hat trimmed in brown; everything complete—a
complete travelling outfit! Dilly was so astonished, and so eager, that
she trembled as though she had a chill; yet the perspiration stood in
drops on her forehead, and the little room was breathless.
"Father," she said, controlling her chattering teeth as best she could,
"what makes her do it? Why does she give me all these things, and take
me with her? Why did it all come to me? Do you understand it?"
"I guess, my girl," said the father, stroking her brown hair back from
her wet forehead,—"I think maybe the Lord saw that something had got to
come now, or you would be slipping away and leaving father all alone.
I bless the Lord with all my soul that He has come to our help. It has
cut me to the heart, Dilly, to see you failing and failing, and me not
being able to do for you; and yet things are queer. The first lift I've
had toward giving you a decent meal has been this morning—things all
come in a heap, somehow; our 'troubles' did, you know."
Well, they lived through the day and all its excitements; and had
had the toast and eggs and warmed-up potatoes for breakfast, and,
despite the heated air and the excitement, Dilly had forced herself to
eat, because it would disappoint her father if she did not, and now
everything was ready, and the carriage was being waited for.
"A carriage to come for me!" said Dilly. "Father, only think how queer!"
And then it came, whirling around the corner, drawing up, in a
gleam of silver-mounted harness, and sunshine, the horses tossing
their beautiful necks as though hot weather was of no consequence
to them. The children from all the little tumble-down houses in the
thickly-settled neighborhood, swarmed to doors and windows to view the
sight. Mothers with babies in their arms came to the door-steps to see
her off; the driver got down and opened the door—carriage door—while he
explained to the father that Mrs. Hammond had already been set down at
the depot.
"My!" said Mrs. Jenkins, the nearest neighbor, getting a glimpse of
Dilly's fluttering ribbons and buttoned boots. "How fine we do look! I
declare, if the little piece hasn't got gloves on!" Then she went in
and slammed the door.
It was not that she bore poor Dilly any ill-will, but Mrs. Jenkins had
five children, and found it hard work to get them enough to eat; still,
they were all well and hearty; up to yesterday she had been superior in
station to the Wests, and had pitied them, and done them a kind turn
when she could, but this rise in their fortunes was too much for her
nerves.
At last the carriage door was shut, and Dilly, having hung about her
father's neck and kissed him, and cried, and said she was sorry she was
going away to leave him alone, and having been assured for the tenth
time that he was glad she was going, she rolled away in state.
"Poor thing!" said Mrs. Potter, the neighbor across the street. "I
declare, I'm glad for her; I did think the first time she went away
from that door it would be in her coffin."
"There comes the Hammond carriage again," said a depot-lounger as the
carriage drew up. "I wonder who's come now? I thought all the people,
and band-boxes, and bundles, and style, had got here."
What more he might have said, was stopped by the sudden rush past him
of Mr. Hart Hammond, who threw open the carriage door, and held out his
hand to help Dilly.
"Here we are!" he said briskly. "Not much time to spare. Go in that
way; you will find my mother; I'll attend to the luggage."
"Ain't that Jim West's girl?" asked the lounger of one of his mates.
"My eyes! Ain't she rigged up! I hardly knew her. What streak of luck
has struck her, I wonder? She looks as pale as a sheet; most as though
she ought to be carried around in a coffin."
But Dilly did not hear this complimentary bit of talk; she had already
passed inside the door where Mrs. Hammond and her maid, and busy little
Miss Effie, waited. There was but a moment for greeting. Almost on her
entrance sounded the whistle of the train.
"Not a minute to spare," said Mrs. Hammond. "Hart said we were late,
but I did not think it. Well, we are all ready; Hart has your ticket,
with the rest. How do you feel this morning? It is breathless already,
isn't it?"
There was no time in which to answer her. Hart came, and hurried them
to the train; other people hurried, also, and pushed and jammed against
one another, in the wild fashion which uncultured and selfish people
have, and, almost before she knew it, Dilly was seated just back of
Mrs. Hammond and Hart, with the nurse and baby Effie in front, and they
were off. The train was noisy, and I suppose Hart counted on its hiding
the words he spoke, but Dilly could hear them distinctly:
"Mother, what in the world do you want of a sick girl up on the
mountain? I thought you were going up there to get rid of care?"
"I hardly know why I took her," said Mrs. Hammond reflectively. "She
looked so miserable, it seemed as though I must; it is her one chance,
I think. Hart, she would have died if we hadn't taken her with us; and
if she should rally, she will do to look after Effie, a little, when
nurse is busy."
"She won't rally," said Hart, with a wise toss of his head; "she is too
far gone, 'I' believe. She will just be a nuisance to you; she'll get
worse, and you won't know what to do with her; and she may get too low
to bring home. Besides, how do you know you can trust Effie with her?
You don't know anything about her, do you?"
"No," said Mrs. Hammond, in a disturbed tone, "nothing at all; save
that she was sick and needed a change. Never mind, Hart, it is done,
and cannot be undone, just now. I don't often follow out my impulses in
this blind way."
Now all this was not pleasant for Dilly to hear. She disliked the idea
of being in the way; she felt it hard to have been gathered up in this
sudden manner, and carried away from her father and made a burden of.
One thing was certain, she was never a burden to her father, except as
he mourned over the impossibility of getting her what she needed. Dilly
swallowed hard, and had much difficulty in keeping back some tears that
wanted to fall. Much of the intense gratitude with which she had begun
the morning seemed to ooze away from her. She was angry with Hart for
his disagreeable words, and told herself that she should never like him
the least bit in the world, and that she did not love Mrs. Hammond,
even, nearly so much as she had thought she would.
"I 'shall' get well," she said to herself in a little burst of
indignation over Hart's prophecy. "You don't know everything, Mr. Hart,
and you need not think it; I'm not going to die, and leave father.
I know why your mother brought me with her, if she doesn't; it was
father's prayers that did it; and father wants me to get well, and I'll
try as hard as ever I can; and I'll show her I can be useful, too; but
I won't do a thing for you, Mr. Hart, if I can help it."
Isn't it a fortunate thing, sometimes, that our thoughts cannot be
seen? Some of hers Dilly would have been ashamed to show to Mrs.
Hammond.
Just how far hurt feelings, and weakness of body, and homesickness for
father, would have carried this little traveller into gloomland, I do
not know, for just at that moment came a ray of sunshine for which she
had not planned. It suited that busy little woman, Effie, to smile on
her, and reach after her, and finally demand that she be set beside her.
"I'm afraid she will tire you," Mrs. Hammond said, but Dilly made a
faint protest, her voice being muffled just at that moment with tears,
and Effie made a determined spring from the nurse's arms and landed on
her feet beside Dilly, and put a pair of witching baby arms about her
neck, and the softest little velvet tongue on her cheek—which was Baby
Effie's way of offering a kiss.
"Effie takes a fancy to her if you do not," Mrs. Hammond said to Hart,
as Dilly smiled, and returned the kiss with great tenderness, and even
roused herself to play peek-a-boo behind her glove, at Effie. "I hardly
ever knew her to spring to a stranger in that way before."
"Oh! I fancy her enough; at least, I don't care, if it pleases you to
take a dozen sick children to the mountain; I should think you would
need something to occupy your time, buried up there. It only struck me
that she was a particularly doleful specimen, who would give you no end
of trouble, probably. I say, mother," he continued, "how long do you
want me to vegetate up there?"
This question brought over Mrs. Hammond's face the troubled look which
it so often wore, and she sighed heavily as she said,—
"I was hoping, Hart, you would find it so pleasant that you would want
to spend the summer with me there."
"Not I. If you choose to bury yourself for the summer, I don't see why
I should; after get you comfortably settled, I want to come back to the
city. I mean to be there for the twenty-third, if possible."
"What is on the twenty-third?"
The quick, anxious tone in which Mrs. Hammond spoke would have told a
careful observer that she was used to being on the watch for all sorts
of annoyances with which in one way and another this handsome young son
of hers was connected.
"Why, the bicycle race comes off then, and no end of fun connected with
it. I'm interested, of course, in having our side beat."
Mrs. Hammond sighed again. Of all the many things which were just now
giving her anxiety this Bicycle Club, for certain reasons, troubled her
the most. She looked at Dilly's pale face, flushed a little now with
pleasure over baby Effie's sweet words, and ways, and said to herself
that to have a child fade away before one's eyes, as that girl was
doing, was no doubt hard—very hard; but there were other troubles which
came in the train of perfect health and high spirits.
And then she looked again at her handsome boy.
Isn't it hard for a mother of an only son whom she has watched over and
cared for, more than sixteen years, that she must nearly always look
at, and think of him, with a sigh?