Elsie Marley lay in her berth that night for some time in a state
between musing and actually dreaming. She was conscious--partly
conscious, that is--of a new sensation of happiness. She did not,
however, at all realize how fortunate she was. She did not know that
for the first time in her life the door of her heart had been opened in
response to another. It was, perhaps, open only a crack. Possibly it
had been fast so long that it would not remain open. None the less, at
the moment it stood ajar.
After dinner the girls had talked late--late for sleeping-car hours,
that is to say. Elsie Marley herself had talked; had said more in an
hour than she had ever before said in a day. Questioned in a frank,
sympathetic manner by the other Elsie, she had been led to speak of her
grandmother's household and of her daily life there, going into details
so far as she knew how, as she found the other so generously and
romantically concerned. Then she had gone on to speak of Cousin Julia
Pritchard and the boarding-house, confessing her apprehension and
dread, which seemed somehow to have become more definite in the
interval. She even showed the stranger Cousin Julia's letter.
Having perused it, Elsie Moss acknowledged that it wasn't altogether a
pleasant outlook for such a one as Elsie Marley, honey, though she
herself wouldn't mind it. Indeed, she declared that she should have
liked it immensely. And finally, as she left to go back to her berth,
she exclaimed with fervor that she only wished that Miss Pritchard were
her cousin, and the Reverend John Middleton Elsie Marley's uncle and
guardian.
As those were Elsie Moss's last spoken words that night, so that
thought was uppermost in her mind as she fell asleep shortly after her
cropped head touched the pillow. And next morning when she woke early
with a startlingly delightful idea, it almost caused her to bound from
her upper berth as if it had been a bed in the middle of a stationary
floor. For it came not in embryo, not in the egg, so to speak, but
full-fledged. It seemed as if she couldn't possibly wait until she was
dressed to divulge it to Elsie Marley.
But Elsie Marley was, like her prototype, late in rising, and the other
Elsie's eagerness grew yet keener as she waited. Finally, however,
they were alone together in the former's seat, as the train sped
rapidly eastward.
Elsie Marley's countenance seemed almost to have changed overnight.
There was truly something in it that had not been there before. Of
course it was not animated now; nevertheless, it was not so utterly
wanting in expression as it had been the day before, even in
juxtaposition with the vivid little face beside her.
"Oh, Elsie-Honey, I've got something perfectly gorgeous to tell you,"
cried the dark Elsie. "Listen--you're not very keen about going to
your cousin's, are you?"
Elsie confessed that she liked the idea less than ever.
"And I just _hate_--the short of it is--I simply _cannot_ go anywhere
but to New York. You'd ever so much prefer Enderby because it's select
and has culture and advantages, and you'd sooner have a dignified
clergyman uncle than a newspaper cousin. As for me, I should adore
Cousin Julia."
"It seems a pity, surely," admitted Elsie quietly.
The other looked at her. "You see what's coming, honey?"
She shook her head, perplexed.
"Oh, Elsie-Honey! It's plain as pudding. Presto! change! That's all.
Aren't we both Elsie, and don't we both want just what's coming to the
other? All we have to do is to swap surnames. See?"
Still Elsie Marley did not understand.
"Shake us up in a box, you know," the other explained, her dimples very
conspicuous, "and you come out Elsie Moss and I, Elsie Marley, without
the honey. You go to live with Reverend John Middleton and I'll go to
New York and try to persuade your Cousin Julia to let her supposed
relative study for the stage. What could be better? It's simply
ripping and dead easy. Neither of them has seen either of us. Uncle
John would draw a prize instead of me, and--I'd be awfully good to your
cousin, Elsie-Honey."
Really to grasp a conception so daring and revolutionary took Elsie
Marley some time. But when she had once grasped it, she considered it
seriously. It did not seem to her, even at first, either unreasonable
or impossible. Indeed, influenced by the enthusiasm of the other girl,
she began to feel it both reasonable and fitting. In a way, too, it
was only natural. For after all, the girl had always had her way made
smooth for her, and this appeared only a continuation of that process.
She certainly _didn't_ want to go to Cousin Julia's, and she liked the
idea of living in the quiet parsonage of the aristocratic country town.
Indeed, she agreed to the proposal more readily and unquestioningly
than a girl of more imagination or experience could have done. For her
part, Elsie Moss foresaw certain complications, though in truth only
the most obvious ones. They discussed these gravely, yet with much
confidence. Indeed, an older person must have been both amused and
amazed at the youthfulness, the inexperience, and the ignorance of life
the girls exhibited, at their utter unconsciousness that they were not
qualified to act as responsible human beings and shuffle blood
relationships about like pawns on a chess-board.
"There's certainly nothing about it that even my stepmother could
object to," Elsie Moss concluded. "Nobody's being cheated: they are
both going to get what they would really choose if they had a chance,
and to escape what might be very uncomfortable, and so are we. We're
both Elsies, and about the same age, and have brown eyes: if Uncle John
were to take his pick, wouldn't he take a quiet, dignified, ladylike
Elsie, instead of a harum-scarum one with short hair that was mad for
the stage? And Aunt Milly being rather frail, I should have driven her
to drink, while you're used to an invalid aunt. Isn't it just
wonderful? The more I think of it, the _righter_ it seems. I almost
feel now as if it would be wrong _not_ to do it, don't you?"
Like one in a dream, Elsie Marley assented. She was almost giddy at
the swift flight of the other's imagination. She listened spellbound
while Elsie Moss spun plans, able herself to contribute nothing but
assent and applause. Under skilful questioning, however, she related
all the Pritchard traditions and family history that Cousin Julia might
be expected to be familiar with, and endeavored in a docile manner to
learn enough of Moss and Middleton annals to take her part in the
Middleton household.
Elsie Moss possessed a certain sort of executive ability which enabled
her to make the practical arrangements for carrying through the plan.
Quite self-reliant, she planned to accompany the other to Boston to
make sure that all went well, going thence herself to New York. After
consultation with the conductor in regard to time-tables, she sent a
telegram asking Miss Pritchard to meet a later train. The change in
the destination of their respective luggage was more difficult to
effect, but she accomplished that also, and both girls changed cars for
Boston.
Indeed, presently it seemed as if the only difficult part of the whole
affair would be the parting from each other. They were to write
frequently, of course, and not only for the sake of mutual information;
but it seemed, particularly to the pale Elsie, who had never had a
friend, cruelly hard to have to be separated so soon from this most
charming companion. She gazed at her wistfully, unable to express
herself.
The other Elsie, as quick, nearly, to read as to express feeling, and
naturally the more impulsive, answered from her heart.
"Oh, we'll see each other often, we'll just have to, Elsie-Honey," she
cried. "And anyhow, we'll want to compare notes and brush up on our
parts. We'll visit back and forth. You come to New York and I----"
She stopped short.
"My goodness, that'll never do! I can never come to Enderby. You'll
have to do all the visiting, honey. I'm the very image of my mother,
and I'd give it all away."
"Oh," said the other feebly.
"You've noticed that I have dimples, I suppose?" inquired the other
gloomily.
Elsie could not deny it, though denial was evidently what the other
craved.
The latter sighed deeply. "Then they're just as plain as ever, and
would give me away first thing," she said. "Dad used to say he had
never seen such big dimples as mother's, and that mine were just like
'em. He said if I had straight yellow hair and blue eyes, any one that
had seen her would know me. Oh, dear, aren't you lucky to have nothing
conspicuous about you? I'm sure you're not the image of any one,
Elsie-Honey, and you'll come to see me often enough to make up, won't
you?"
"Oh, yes, Elsie, unless he--Mr. Middleton--should object to my coming
to New York alone?"
"You'd better begin right away calling him Uncle John, so as to get
used to it as soon as you can," suggested the other. "And I'm sure he
won't object. I'm sure from his letters that he's not an old fuss, and
it's a straight trip with no changes from Boston to New York. And
Cousin Julia and I will meet you at the Grand Central!"
She grinned at her own _cheek_, as she called it, and the other Elsie
smiled happily.
"Just the same, I'm more than sorry not to be able to come to Enderby
to visit," Elsie Moss declared. "You know it would be simply stunning
practice, playing the stranger in my uncle's house--something like the
real wife in 'East Lynne,' you know."
"I never saw 'East Lynne.'"
"Dear me, I cried quarts and bucketsful over it. It's the most tragic
play! If I had time I could show you how it goes. I always act things
out over and over after I've seen them, making up words where I don't
remember them. But, alas! we haven't any time to spare with what we've
got ahead of us, have we, honey? Now we must arrange for meeting
Uncle--no, _I_ must call him _Mr._ Middleton."
On a sudden the girl clasped her hands in apparent distress.
"Oh, I never thought!" she cried. "It won't even be safe for Uncle
John to see me at the station in Boston. Well, I shall have to drop
behind and keep perfectly sober. I'll just watch out to see that
everything's all right with you, and then I'll skidoo. Dear me, I hope
I don't look so awfully unlike the Marleys as to frighten Cousin Julia?"
Had she said the _Pritchards_, Elsie would have been in a quandary; as
it was, her face brightened.
"She never knew the Marleys, and there aren't any now," she said. "She
knows only the Pritchards."
"Hooray! I shall harp on the Marleys morning, noon, and night!"
"She'll like you," observed Elsie wistfully. "You know she spoke in
her letter of young life."
"I shall adore her, dear old thing!" cried the warm-hearted girl. "And
Uncle John will adore you. He adored my mother, who was quiet and deep
like you. He was always sending her rare things, and pitying her
because she was poor and longing to send her money, though dad wouldn't
have that."
The appearance of an expressman warned them that they were nearing
Boston.
"You're perfectly sure that you're willing to exchange New York for
Enderby?" demanded Elsie Moss suddenly.
"Oh, yes, indeed, Elsie."
"And you don't yearn for Cousin Julia?"
Elsie Marley half smiled. "Oh, no," she declared.
But the other was determined not to take any undue advantage.
"Now listen," she said; "if after you see Uncle John you don't fancy
him, just say the word or nudge me or wink and I'll swap back without a
word. I'll simply step up and say, 'Oh, Uncle John, you've kissed the
wrong girl!' though, of course, he may be too dignified to kiss at a
train. And then I'll introduce you properly."
They sped on. Soon a trainman entered to say that the next station was
Boston and request them not to leave any articles in the car. They
said good-by to each other before the train stopped, kissing warmly
like real friends. Then Elsie Moss tied a large, dark veil over her
hat and well down over her forehead and eyes. It looked as
inappropriate for the hot day as the scowling expression she assumed to
cloak the dimples was ill suited to her charming little face.
As they alighted, and a handsome, distinguished-looking gentleman in
grey clerical garb advanced to meet them, she fell behind. Raising his
hat, he took the hand of the girl who was not his niece.
"And this is Elsie?" he said in a fine, kindly voice.
She murmured a weak affirmative. He kissed her affectionately, took
her portmanteau from the porter, and turned to the girl who had come
from the car with her.
"And this is your friend, Elsie?" he inquired.
Elsie Moss came forward, scowling so fiercely that the other, despite
her blunted sense of humor, could scarcely keep from laughing out.
"My friend, Miss M-Marley," she stammered.
Mr. Middleton shook hands with his sister's daughter, took her satchel,
and asked how he could serve her. The girl replied in a thin falsetto
voice, which she realized immediately didn't go with the scowl so well
as a gruff tone would have done, that she had only twenty-five minutes
to get the train for New York and must say good-by at once and take a
cab for the other station.
However, he didn't let her go so easily. Assuming charge in a simple,
offhand manner, he found a taxicab which took them to the South
Station, led her to the ticket-office, secured a chair, and put her on
the train.
She kissed Elsie Marley again, squeezing her hand meaningly. And she
nearly forgot and showed her dimples, looking out of the window as her
train pulled out, to see them together, her uncle with his hat in his
hand, Elsie waving her pocket-handkerchief.
"He's a darling," she said to herself as they moved toward the Trinity
Place Station, "and it's mighty lucky for my career that I didn't see
more of him. But he'll be far happier with that lovely honey-princess,
and I'm glad she's drawn a prize. As for me, hooray for Cousin Julia
and the footlights!"