The stranger, who was dressed in a rather graceful and perhaps rather
flamboyant adaptation of the prevailing fashion, was picturesque and
radiant to the extreme: slender, dark, vivid, with big, dark eyes in a
small pointed face, dark hair "bobbed" and curling sufficiently to turn
under about her ears and neck, a rather large mouth flanked by really
extraordinary dimples, and an expression at once gay and saucy and
sweet and appealing withal. Her voice was very sweet, her unusually
finished pronunciation and enunciation giving a curious effect to her
slangy speech. She wore her clothes jauntily, carried herself with
charming grace, and her great dimples made her frank smile irresistible.
"Do you know, I've been simply crazy all the way to come and speak to
you," she confessed as soon as they were outside. "I spotted you the
very first thing, but I was rather phased by that woman with you.
Wasn't she the--goodness gracious! I hope she wasn't any
relation--your aunt or mother?"
"Oh, no indeed, scarcely an acquaintance," returned the other,
surprised that any one should even conjecture that Mrs. Bennet might be
connected with her. Then it occurred to her that Cousin Julia might be
even worse!
"I never met her until a week ago," she went on languidly. "She
happened to be a friend of my lawyer's wife, and he wished me to come
as far as I could in her company. I suppose I oughtn't to travel the
rest of the way alone, but he didn't make any other arrangement."
"Oh, it isn't bad. I've come all the way alone and everything's been
jolly. I've made awfully good friends, though they're all either
elderly or children. So your being about my age only made me want to
know you the more. Well, now that we're acquainted, we'll have to make
the most of what's left of the way. I am Elsie Moss and I was sixteen
Christmas day. Aren't you about that age?"
"I am sixteen, Miss Moss," returned Elsie Marley formally.
"But don't call me _Miss_," pleaded the other. "_Everybody_ calls me
Elsie."
Elsie Marley did not reply. She disliked the idea that the
unchaperoned stranger should be Elsie, also, and should even have the
same initials. Her imagination was limited; still it occurred to her
that the situation would have been much worse had the girl happened to
bear the surname Pritchard.
She stifled a sigh. They seemed to be getting acquainted perforce.
Now that she was out, however, she didn't care to go back at once, even
though the sun beat down upon them fiercely, and the dry grass was full
of dust and cinders. She glanced about irresolutely.
"Now if this were a scene in a play," remarked Elsie Moss reflectively,
"the engine would have broken down near a grove with immemorial trees,
or there'd be a dell hard by where the hero and heroine could wander by
a stream. Or else--" she hesitated. "You don't feel comfy, do you?"
"The sun is so hot, it's hardly safe to be out. I'd better go in
again," replied the other.
"But the car'll be awfully hot, too, standing right in the sun. I
know--I'll get an umbrella."
She rushed off at full speed lest the other should
remonstrate--something that Elsie Marley didn't think of doing. She
accepted the favor as a matter of course, and they walked on slowly,
the one restraining her eager feet with difficulty.
"Oh, dear, I suppose _you're_ going to New York, too?" she asked.
"Everybody seems to be except poor me."
The other returned a spiritless affirmative.
"Of course! Oh, dear, and I'm simply _perishing_ to go! But I'm due
in a poky little place in Massachusetts called Enderby. Isn't that the
limit? The name alone would queer the place, don't you think so? It's
fairly near Boston, but they say Boston's slow compared with New York
or even with San Francisco."
She waited a moment, then rattled on.
"Do you know, sometimes it seems my _duty_ to go to New York. I've got
five hundred dollars all my own. Dad had a long sickness, and, anyhow,
he never got much ahead; but he left me that clear, and I'm just going
to beg and implore my uncle on bended knee to let me take it and go to
New York to study. I could get a start with that, I'm sure."
She looked up so eagerly that something strange seemed to stir within
the quiet girl. It was almost as if she would have liked to express
her sympathy had she known how. And when the light suddenly died out
of the sparkling eyes and even the shadows of the dimples disappeared,
she felt almost at fault.
The other girl did not resent her want of sympathy, however.
"But he'll never, never consent," she went on mournfully, "because he's
an orthodox minister and I want to be an actress. Of course he
couldn't approve, and I ought not to blame him. And yet, if I wait
until I'm of age, I'll be too old. I'd like to run away right now, but
for the row it would make and for frightening auntie. Really, you
know, I'd rather join the circus than go to Enderby."
"But I have always understood that to be an actress one must go through
much that--isn't nice," remarked Elsie Marley in her colorless voice.
"Oh, but that's half the fun--the struggle against odds," exclaimed
Miss Moss with the assurance of untried youth. "Our class motto at the
high school was 'Per aspera ad astra.' Isn't that fine and inspiring?"
The other assented listlessly,
A breeze had arisen, and now, at a little distance from the track, the
air, though warm, was fresh and sweet. The yellowed grass extended to
the brilliant blue of the sky as far as the eye could reach. For the
first time, perhaps, in centuries, the plain was peopled by a throng;
for by now nearly every one in the long train had come out. Men stood
in groups discussing politics and the Mexican affair; women wandered
sedately about, most of them keeping a watchful eye upon the engine, as
if it might suddenly start and plunge on, dragging an empty train of
cars; children ran and frisked and shouted, making the most of the
occasion, as only children can. The two Elsies happened to be the only
young girls.
They had gone some little distance beyond the others. Failing to draw
out her companion, Elsie Moss took it for granted that she was shy, and
chatted on about her own affairs, hoping presently to effect an
exchange of confidences.
"I can't help wondering what my uncle will be like," she said soberly,
thrusting her hand into the pocket of her coat. "You see, I've never
seen him, though he and my mother were the greatest chums ever when
they were young--almost like twins, though he was heaps older. But
mother went to California when she married and I was born there, and
though he always meant to, he never got out to see us. His wife
couldn't stand the journey. And when mother died, he was way over in
Egypt, so of course he didn't come. All that I know is that he's
handsome and dignified and lives in a very proper place where they have
everything correct and conventional--musical advantages and oratorios
and lectures on Emerson, and village improvement and associated
charities and all that, but no vaudeville nor movies. I suppose if
there were a theatre they'd only play Ibsen and Bernard Shaw."
Elsie Marley opened her eyes rather wider than usual. For it all
sounded attractive to her, particularly in contrast with the
boarding-house and New York.
"He's awfully religious-looking, you know," Elsie Moss continued. "He
wears the same sort of waistcoats and collars the Episcopalians do,
though he's a Congregationalist, and his picture is more than
dignified, I can tell you. Well, no doubt he's dreading me just as
much as I am him, or else he's expecting me to be just like mother and
will have the surprise of his life."
She hesitated. "I suppose I do look like her," she added gently and
quite as if she believed the other girl to be deeply interested. Then
her voice dropped suddenly and her eyes filled with tears. "Mother
died--in the earthquake," she added.
Something vaguely uncomfortable just stirred the surface of Elsie
Marley's consciousness, though it wasn't sufficiently acute to be
called a pang. The earthquake had happened seven or eight years
ago--and this girl's grief seemed fresh to-day. Her own mother had
been dead less than three years.
She did not acknowledge that her mother was only a memory. She hardly
realized it, indeed. Only, conscious of that vague, strange
discomfort, she had an impulse to get away from it. She put a languid
question.
"What have you done since?"
"I've learned what a difference mothers make," returned the girl
soberly. Then she darted suddenly outside the range of the umbrella.
"What's that? A gopher?" she cried. "Oh, my goodness, it's only one
of those ridiculous Dutch dogs.
"It might have been, you know," she said as she returned to the shade.
Then she resumed the subject she had dropped. Elsie Marley said to
herself that she needn't listen, but as a matter of fact she heard
every word.
"I was so small I couldn't do much, and we had an awful time for a
year. Dad was always more or less hard up, but he was worse after the
earthquake, and if we had a servant she wasted things so that he was
wild. He married again--a schoolteacher, and it wasn't a year, quite,
after--the earthquake. Most people didn't blame him, but Uncle John
where I'm going did, and wanted me to come right on East and live with
him, but dad wouldn't hear of it. And, anyhow, she was the nicest
thing. I loved her dearly at the end of a week. She wanted to keep me
with her after dad died, but my uncle insisted upon my coming to him,
so here I am."
She looked into the other girl's eyes half appealingly, though her big
dimples were dimly visible.
"She wouldn't stand for my being an actress, either, so there you are.
And I liked her so much I couldn't half urge her. And that's the worst
of it; if I stay with my uncle the least little while I shall get to
liking him so much I shan't be able to run away. It's perfectly
terrible to get so fond of people when you want a career. I suppose
the thing to do would really be to disappear right now. Oh, not this
moment, but simply never to go to Enderby. Suppose I should go right
on to New York with you?"
Elsie Marley gazed at her without a word and almost without expression.
But within, she was secretly roused. She marvelled at the stranger's
audacity. She was surprised to feel that she was not bored. She
decided that she would not return to the car until they should be
summoned.
As she was fumbling in her mind for the response the Moss girl
evidently awaited, one of the children whose acquaintance the latter
had made came running up to her and shyly took her hand and kissed it.
Again putting the umbrella into the other girl's hands, Elsie Moss
impulsively caught the little thing into her arms and fondled her.
Then dropping her gently, she took both the little hands in hers and
danced away with her.
They made a charming picture against the long, yellow prairie-grass.
The little girl moved with the grace of a child, but Elsie Moss danced
like a fairy. Her cheeks glowed, her dark eyes shone, her dimples
twinkled, her feet scarcely seemed to touch the ground. Her red hat
was like a poppy-cup, and the dark hair tumbling about her little face,
elf-locks. Elsie Marley gazed spellbound.
But only for a moment; on a sudden she turned and made her way back to
the car, which was almost empty. She returned not because she wanted
to, not even because she was indifferent as to what she did. She went
because she didn't want to. Unconsciously she was struggling against
yielding to the charm of the vivid young creature who threatened to
take her by storm. In all her life she had never been deeply or warmly
affected by another personality. Perhaps now she realized this dimly,
and some instinct warned her subtly to avoid any departure from old
habitude, even when avoidance meant the first real struggle she had
ever made against definite inclination.
It seemed long before the other occupants of the car began to stroll
in. Then the engine whistled sharp warning, the laggards trooped back,
and the train started briskly. Elsie Moss entered by the rear door, as
Elsie Marley knew, though she did not turn around. She said to herself
that no doubt she would be upon her directly, that she would have her
company for the rest of the day and the remainder of the journey. But
she established herself in the middle of the seat lest she seem to give
any invitation.