URSULA WRITES A LETTER
The Christmas rush came on the Higgledy Piggledies with such force that
the fright about little Philip was soon banished from all their minds.
“I may have been mistaken about Miss Fitchet,” Ursula confessed. “That
woman I saw may not have been she. I dread her so that I can’t help
thinking about her. I may have fancied a resemblance.”
“So you may,” said Josie solemnly. “Anyhow you have not been worried
by her and the chances are she will never turn up again, even if the
person you saw was Miss Fitchet.”
With the help of Captain Lonsdale, Josie had come to the conclusion
that the dreaded nurse had been in Dorfield, but for what purpose the
detective put on the case had not been able to discover. At any rate
she had left in a day or so and had not returned.
“Probably she was here just to satisfy the curiosity of herself and
her employer,” Josie decided. “I hope she will stay away now.”
The girl detective said nothing to Ursula about the information gained
by the police concerning Fitchet. It was meager and not very satisfying
and if Ursula had begun to feel that she had been mistaken and had
only fancied she had seen the woman, so much the better for Ursula.
Certainly the trained nurse had a perfect right to visit Dorfield and
even to go heavily veiled if she had a mind to.
Josie regretted, in a way, that Ursula had so entirely cut herself
off from Louisville and her girlhood friends. She had, in a measure,
flitted from her old home and left the situation in the hands of an
unscrupulous man. No doubt he was making the most of the power he had
thereby gained.
“Suppose letters for you come to Mr. Cheatham. What directions did you
leave about forwarding them?” she asked Ursula.
“It would do no good to leave directions. Mr. Cheatham would see to
it that nothing I want would ever reach me. There is no way to get
satisfaction of my stepfather. I realized that and so I left. If I can
just be allowed to keep my darlings with me and bring them up without
his contaminating presence, that is all I ask,” said Ursula.
“In what way could he contaminate the boys?”
Ursula considered--and answered:
“In the way a wicked person could influence impressionable children--by
making fun of high ideals; mocking at religion; applauding any clever
evasion of the truth and then flying into a rage at the slightest
excuse and whipping the boys if they happen to do something that
annoyed him for the time being, although that same action might at a
former period have brought forth commendation. I have heard him, in
all seriousness, tell my little brothers that the greatest crime of
all was to break the eleventh commandment, which is: ‘Thou shalt not
get found out.’ There is a sturdiness about Ben that usually resisted
his influence, still he is nothing but a little boy and was not always
proof against Mr. Cheatham’s wiles and cleverness. As for poor little
Philip, he actually was fond of the man at times and I believe Mr.
Cheatham had a spark of affection for him, but nothing could be worse
than to have such a man care for you. He is dishonorable, unscrupulous
and vacillating in everything but villainy.”
“I thought you said both of the boys hated and feared him.”
“So they did usually, but Philip is such a baby and an ice cream cone
had a marvelous effect on the poor kiddy--that and a few gentle joking
words.”
“Have you never communicated with any friends in Louisville since you
left?”
“I have very few friends,” and Ursula flushed painfully. “I have for
so many years been so taken up with my sick mother and the children,
and then Mr. Cheatham has in some underhand way cut me off from what
intimates I might have had. The Trasks, at Peewee Valley, are the only
real friends I own.”
“And the Trasks--have you written them?”
“No. You see I knew Mr. Cheatham would take it for granted they
would keep in touch with me and would worm out of them all they knew
concerning me and so I simply could not put them in the uncomfortable
position of having connived with me in leaving as I did.”
“Is Mrs. Trask a young woman?”
“About fifty, I think.”
“Any children?”
“Two--a daughter and a son.”
“Are they about your age?”
“Anita is my age and Teddy is several years older.”
“Do you think it is quite fair to keep your friends in ignorance of
your whereabouts?”
“I don’t know, Josie. I acted for the best, I felt, at the time. Now I
don’t know.”
“Put yourself in the place of your friends,” suggested Josie. “How
would you like it if Anita Trask were to be in trouble and needing a
friend and she did not call on you?”
“Oh, but she has her mother and father and her brother!”
“Certainly, and so had you at one time, but she might lose them and
have nobody left but you to help her. Would you not have been willing
to share to the last crumb and drop with her?”
“Indeed I would have, or with any member of the family!”
“Exactly! And don’t you see that by trying to save them worry and
annoyance you have, in a measure, caused them bitter sorrow and
trouble?” Josie’s tone was a little stern.
“I know it--I know it, but not so much trouble as they would have had,
had Mr. Cheatham been given any cause for complaint against them. He is
a terrible man.”
“I believe you exaggerate his power for evil. He may want to be a
terrible man, but I can’t see what he could do to the Trasks if you
should communicate with them and let them know you are well and, we
might add, happy.”
“Indeed we might, Josie, thanks to you and my other wonderful friends
here in Dorfield. If you think it best I’ll write to Mrs. Trask
this very night. I always saw them on Christmas, and now at least I
can write to them so the letter will reach them before that day and
reassure them. I know I am obsessed with fear of Mr. Cheatham and what
he might be able to accomplish in the way of harming us. I must get
over the feeling.”
“You certainly must! Remember there is a perfectly good law in this
land of the free and home of the brave, and a fairly good police force
to carry out the law. There is nothing Cheatham can do to you, either,
for that matter. You tell me he was not appointed your guardian?”
“No, my father appointed Uncle Ben executor of his will and guardian in
case my mother should marry again, but Mother was influenced by Mr.
Cheatham to dispute Uncle Ben’s rights to dictate to us and so Uncle
Ben left the matter in her hands. If Uncle Ben would only come back!”
“Well, suppose he does come back--has come back, in fact. How under
Heaven would he find his wards, if they go off and run a tea room in a
quiet little spot like Dorfield?”
Ursula wrote to her friends at Peewee Valley that same evening,
giving them a detailed account of the happenings to herself and small
brothers, begging their forgiveness for her long silence and explaining
to them the reason for her running off without informing them of her
plans. When the letter was in the mail the girl felt happier than she
had for a long time, but still doubts would arise as to the wisdom of
having written.
Poor Ursula had fallen in the habit of worrying. She was naturally of a
timid disposition and the hard life she had endured with her stepfather
had increased the tendency to fear imaginary evils as well as the ones
of which there was no doubt. She could not say what it was she feared
from Mr. Cheatham and the evil Miss Fitchet, but with her at all
times was a kind of nameless dread. The gay, bright atmosphere at the
Higgledy Piggledy Shop did much to dispel this gloom, but at times it
enveloped her in spite of her endeavors to break through it. Now that
she had at last written the dear old friends the cloud seemed somewhat
lifted.
“I hope it is for the best,” she said to Josie, with a note of cheer in
her voice.
“Sure it is for the best! Brace up, Ursula! I can’t see what good it is
to worry so much about it. Do what you think is right and then trust in
the Lord. What harm could come of writing to old friends? No harm in
the world. I’m glad you have told them as to your whereabouts.”
In her heart Josie could not help a feeling of impatience over Ursula’s
timidity. Josie herself never acknowledged fear of anything, known or
unknown. She had a philosophy that carried her through all dangers.
“I wish she would buck up and not give in to this nameless fear about
what Cheatham might or might not do,” Josie mused. “Of course, if I
had two little brothers like Ben and Phil I might not be so sure of
myself,” she continued, “but what under Heaven could happen to those
kids here in Dorfield?”
It was Christmas Eve and the Higgledy Piggledy Shop was closed for a
week. It had been a strenuous time and all of the girls were tired and
needed a rest. Orders of all descriptions had poured in and in the
midst of the rush Josie had been employed in her capacity of detective
to track a lavender suit belonging to a dressy woman, who sent it to a
cleaner by her colored maid. Suit and maid had disappeared off the face
of the earth. Josie had found both maid and suit. The maid was the same
color but the suit, alas! was a vivid scarlet. Cleaners are also dyers.
Josie was glad the rush was over. Even her iron nerves were stretched
by the Christmas rush. She was alone in the shop. It was good to be
alone even if it did happen to be Christmas Eve. The partners had gone
for the week. Mary Louise had come in laden with parcels, her cheeks
glowing with the crisp December air and her eyes shining from the joy
of giving. She had insisted upon taking Josie home with her for the
holidays but to no avail.
“I’ll come and have Christmas dinner with you. I have a lot of things
to do and loose ends to tie up and I’ll get it over with while the shop
is closed. I’m not lonesome, dear, so don’t worry about me. Go on home
to your Danny and forget your spinster friends.”
“Oh, Josie, how funny to call yourself a spinster! You won’t be a
spinster for years and years.”
“Look in the dictionary and see if I’m not one already. That book says
a spinster is one who spins and also an unmarried woman. I certainly am
an unmarried woman even though I’m not a very old one as yet. I am also
a spinster in that I am spinning a web in my mind in which to catch
poor Ursula’s unscrupulous stepfather. I may never need the web but I
am on the alert in case I should have to spread it out in the path of
the unwary. I’ll see you to-morrow, dear. Good-bye! It was like you to
get those presents for Ben and Philip. Ursula was very happy over them.
She is planning a lovely to-morrow for them. She is a wonderful girl
but I wish she would cheer up.”
Night closed down on Dorfield. It was a white Christmas. Josie could
hear the sleigh bells ringing, as merry parties passed the shop. She
made herself cosy by the open grate which was one of the attractions of
the Higgledy Piggledy. She settled herself snugly in a winged chair, an
antique they were selling on commission, and drawing her reading light
closer with a contented sigh she opened her book--a new detective story.
“Clever, very clever!” she said aloud. Josie had a habit of talking to
herself when left alone. “Clever as to story but the author is afraid
to draw characters with any clearness for fear of giving away his plot.
If the characterization is good then the characters must act according
to the way such persons are bound to behave and so the secret is out
long before the book has reached its climax. A detective tale leaves
one in doubt right to the end, as to who has done the direful deed.
That is because the folks in the books are like so many paper dolls,
as far as being real people is concerned--painted on one side with no
innards.”
The girl read on and on. The shop was quiet, with that abnormal
stillness that settles on the business section of a town after business
hours. As it was Christmas Eve and business is not over on that day
until midnight, this extreme quiet meant that the hour had struck and
it was really the dawn of Christmas Day. Still Josie read on.
“It’s my one excess and I’m going to indulge in it since Christmas
comes but once a year,” she announced to the accusing ship’s clock over
the mantel as it chimed out “eight bells.” She mended the fire with a
large lump of coal from the hod and settled herself again.