Elsie Marley had never been happier than as she prepared for her first
Christmas at Enderby. But that festival seemed the high-water mark of
her happiness. The close of the day found her strangely depressed and
thereafter she had more frequent periods of being ill at ease.
She had learned to knit and had spent most of her leisure time for
several weeks in making a soft white woollen shawl for Mrs. Middleton,
into which went a rather surprising amount of affection. She went into
Boston with one of the high-school girls and bought a charming little
plaid woollen frock for Mattie Howe and a beautiful doll to fill the
little mother's arms when they were not occupied with a real baby. For
Charles Augustus, she selected an harmonicon, and toys for the other
three Howes. She wanted to get a warm winter coat for her staunch ally
Kate, the jacket she wore being short and so thin as to require an
undergarment that spoiled what little shape it had. On the day before
she was to go into town, she consulted Mrs. Middleton.
Thus far Elsie hadn't accepted a penny of pocket-money, and the
Middletons were filled with dismay to have her spend her own money so
lavishly. But Mr. Middleton had told his wife that he meant to give
Elsie a check for Christmas, which being also her birthday, made a
large one legitimate. Consequently, at this time Mrs. Middleton did
not remonstrate. She only called herself heartless for not noticing
poor Katy's need and so forestalling Elsie.
After she had sufficiently exclaimed over it, she asked what the girl
meant to get.
"I thought of black broadcloth, rather plain. Should you think that
would be right, Aunt Milly?"
"Quite right, dear. It would be, of course, the proper thing," Mrs.
Middleton returned, "but I can't help wondering whether Katy herself
wouldn't fancy something not so plain and rather more stylish. After
all, we can hardly expect her to share our quiet tastes."
Elsie didn't resent the _our_ nor question the fact. She was only very
grateful.
"Oh, Aunt Milly, I'm so glad I spoke to you!" the girl cried with
unwonted warmth, for she felt immediately the cogency of Mrs.
Middleton's remark. "What do you think she would like? I might have
her go in with me and pick it out herself, only----"
"Only half the fun would be lost not to have her surprised on Christmas
morning? I don't know what she would like, I'm sure, but leave it to
me and I'll find out from Katy herself and without letting her mistrust
anything. Leave it to your Aunt Milly, dear. She is of so little use
that she has to seize upon whatever she can discover."
And truly she learned the desire of Katy's heart and reported to Elsie
that night. Green was Kate's first choice for color and blue next, and
she admired especially a long, loose garment with "one of them fur
collars that folds up like an accordion or a gentleman's opera-hat."
And Elsie succeeded in finding the very thing--not a difficult task,
Kate's choice being the latest fashion and very common.
Though her gifts gave extraordinary pleasure in every instance, the
reaction upon Elsie herself was yet greater. Her satisfaction was
increased by the fact that Mr. Middleton told her it was the happiest
Christmas he remembered, and that her being with them was largely what
made it so.
"Besides which," he added, "I realize that most of the other factors
and changes that contribute are really due to you and to your
influence, Elsie dear."
That was very precious to Elsie, but it couldn't ward off the reaction
that was to follow. The lavishness of the Middletons' gifts to her,
which they justified by reminding her that it was her birthday (she had
quite forgotten that Elsie Moss celebrated hers on Christmas!), quite
weighed down her spirits. On a sudden she seemed to herself to be
accepting what didn't belong to her, what wasn't meant for her.
Despite the placid way in which she had gone on acting the part of the
real niece, she pulled up and shied, so to speak, at this instance of
extravagant giving and a false birthday. It seemed as if she could not
bear it, could not accept the money, the jewelry, furs, books, and
other gifts showered upon her.
But there was no way out. She had to accept everything, and she had to
keep everything but the money. That she sent directly to Elsie Moss,
explaining that she couldn't possibly accept it, as it was especially
for her Christmas birthday. But Elsie Moss, probably with her friend's
recent request for the five hundred dollars in mind, sent it directly
back. Whereupon she wrote again, saying that she had more money than
she knew what to do with, and that she would be broken-hearted if Elsie
returned it a second time.
The letter in which Elsie Moss returned the money was written on the
very day when the girl had planned to write the letter announcing her
disappearance. It was only a short note, however, and contained
nothing of that nature. Her next letter, in which she reluctantly
agreed to accept half of the Christmas-birthday gift, was long and
surprising, but delightfully so rather than mysteriously or painfully.
Her Christmas had been quite as happy as that of the other Elsie.
Indeed, her greater capacity for blissful and ecstatic joy would have
rendered it even happier but for the valedictory character all its
details held secretly for her. Her youth and temperament, however,
which had carried her through the days following her momentous
decision, upheld her spirits even when she approached the brink of the
crisis. Her determination to right the wrong she had done at what she
believed the first possible moment had cleared her conscience so
completely that in the interim she had been able to enjoy the fruits of
that wrong-doing as never before since the very first.
She had herself made her gift for Cousin Julia and little things for
Miss Peacock and nearly everybody in the house. On Christmas Eve she
sang in the parlor for Miss Peacock, the servants, and those remaining
in the boarding-house over the holidays. First she went through the
carols. Then she sang the favorite song or songs of every one present,
including several of Miss Pritchard's. And though the programme was
haphazard it wasn't motley--only simple and old-fashioned and full of
sweetness and melody. The girl must have been dull indeed not to have
guessed something of the exquisite and genuine pleasure she gave.
In truth she lay long awake, thrilled by the remembrance. It had been
her swan-song, she told herself, half-tremulously, half-buoyed by the
excitement of it all. For she was passing out of their lives, in very
truth--even out of Cousin Julia's, and--forever. And Cousin Julia,
who, Elsie knew had basked in the enjoyment of the others, would have
it for a happy memory, when----
But she mustn't go further now. It was hardly safe. To-morrow was
Christmas Day. Until the day after, she wasn't going to think ahead.
Only on the 26th of December would she begin to make definite, final
preparations. She wouldn't spoil tomorrow by looking beyond it.
Christmas was a wonderful day. Elsie did not realize how delirious her
enjoyment was nor how painfully she was keyed up because of her
underlying apprehension of coming agony. Neither did she understand it
when she waked suddenly from sleep the following morning, feeling so
exhausted as to be almost ill, and with a terrible sinking at heart
which settled into depression the like of which she had never
experienced before.
It might have seemed that she was in no condition to complete the
proposed plans. But as a matter of fact, there was little to do.
Though the girl hadn't deliberately or consciously looked ahead, the
matter had been in her mind; and now when she came to consider the
question as to where she should go, she found it practically settled.
When she brought up the idea of going to California and trying to get a
chance as a moving-picture actress, she was ready with the objection
that the films were most likely to reach New York and that her dimples
would give her away at once. Her wisest move would be to take refuge
in some place equally distant from her stepmother in San Francisco and
from New York. Which, of course, was no other than Chicago. She had
enough money to take her thither and take care of her until she should
get a start--in some vaudeville house as she hoped. And then she would
be truly lost--forever, in all probability, and perhaps in more senses
than one.
Miss Pritchard was struck by the change in Elsie that morning at the
breakfast-table. The child looked almost ill. She said nothing to
her, however, feeling that it was the reaction from the excitement of
Christmas, and believing she would be better for the distraction of the
school. But she couldn't dismiss the matter from her mind all day, and
the more she thought of it the more serious it seemed. She realized
that Elsie hadn't looked merely tired or even exhausted. It was worse
than that. For the first time since she had come East, Miss Pritchard
thought she saw in the child indication of genuine, positive suffering.
She decided that she herself had been gravely remiss. The strain of
giving herself so generously and whole-heartedly had worn upon the girl
disastrously, and--she had had warning and hadn't heeded. Until
recently, it is true, Elsie's blithe buoyancy had seemed always the
normal, unconscious, almost effortless efflorescence of a lovely
nature, as natural as playful grace to a kitten, as simple as
breathing. But once or twice back in the fall, Miss Pritchard had been
startled into wondering if the sweet instrument wasn't in danger of
being strained through constant playing upon it, and to be fearful that
Elsie might truly be rarely sensitive in a personal, as she seemed to
be in an artistic, way.
The first time when this had presented itself to her mind had been a
matter of a month or six weeks previous. At that time she had seemed
to discover a shadow in the sparkling eyes and a transient pensive
droop of the lips. Then on the night of Charley Graham's visit, she
had been frightened by the worn look upon the beloved little face, and
had feared some definite trouble.
It was not long after the affair of the five hundred dollars, and Miss
Pritchard had wondered if the difficulty might not be somehow connected
with that. She had just reached the decision to question the girl when
suddenly the weariness, the sadness, the pensiveness, the shadow,
vanished utterly, leaving Elsie not only herself again, but even more
glowingly and infectiously happy and buoyant than before. And from
that moment until this morning at the breakfast-table she had remained
so.
It was natural that now Miss Pritchard's mind should hark back to those
former suspicions. All day she vacillated between the fear that Elsie
was beset by some secret trouble or by the solicitations of some
unscrupulous person, and the apprehension that she was on the verge of
nervous exhaustion. Her face was anxious indeed as she left the office
that night.
She opened the door of her sitting-room with strange sinking of heart.
Then she almost gasped. Her breath was almost taken away by sheer
amazement. Elsie was waiting for her--yet another Elsie. For, radiant
and sparkling as the girl had been, she had never before been like
this. She was fairly dazzling. If Miss Pritchard hadn't been almost
stunned, she would have made some feeble remark about getting out her
smoked glasses.