UNEXPECTED GUESTS
A large store of information may be put into a receptive mind in two
years. Levis, watching his sturdy young Ellen to see that her bright
cheeks did not grow pale or her alert step slow, proceeded to find out
how much she could acquire. It was a new and interesting occupation,
but his pleasure was tempered by a remorseful wonder as to how much
could have been accomplished if he had not been so certain that his own
blood and the spirit of the age would keep Matthew and Ellen safe.
Ellen continued her mathematics and concluded her geography. She had
studied Beginner's Latin with Amos, and her father required her to
translate French. Furnishing his pupil with an outline of English
history, he prescribed reading and the relating of what she read.
Elementary astronomy, botany, and physiology she absorbed like a sponge.
He sent for books which he had long wished to possess, but had denied
himself, a many-volumed illustrated history of art, a history of music,
a history of architecture in sumptuous dress. He sat late at night
thinking over plans for Ellen, and even brought his accounts up to date
and sent out bills, so that nothing might be denied her.
The summer and another winter passed and between the farm and the
Kloster there was no communication. Ellen saw Matthew and Millie
walking together, and hid by the roadside or turned back. There drifted
to Levis's ears a report that Matthew wished to marry, but that
Millie's father was obdurate. Millie should not marry a penniless man,
the two must wait; when Matthew's prospects improved, then marriage
might be discussed. He had, it was reported, spoken his mind plainly.
"You should have stayed in the nest. What if you couldn't go to meeting
for a while? You are now near twenty-one and then you can do as you
choose. You should have consulted with some one."
Ellen had little idea of what college would be like, and still less
of what life would be like, but she knew that they must be glorious
and she longed intensely for both experiences. The second summer
of preparation passed slowly. She was sure that much was happening
elsewhere and she knew that little was happening to her.
One Sunday afternoon she went to sit on her favorite stump in the
woodland. Before starting she looked at herself in the mirror, at her
curls and rosy cheeks, made redder by a reflection from her scarlet
tie. She held up her hands and saw with satisfaction that they were
whiter than any other hands she knew.
Her inspection had the result which usually follows the self-inspection
of seventeen--she wished that there was some one at hand to admire.
Perhaps in the woods she would meet a stranger! There she could at
least dream of meeting one.
She had been established on the stump for an hour, now reading, now
sitting idly, her chin in her hands, when, lifting her head, she
observed that the farmhouse was about to receive an unusual visitation.
Since the house stood near the main road, she saw daily the cars of
tourists who were starting across the country, or who journeyed to
Gettysburg or Pittsburgh. Once, sitting on the fence, she had talked to
several elegant ladies who walked about while a tire was being repaired.
Now a car, more beautiful than any she had ever seen, was turning up
the lane and approaching the farmhouse. Its passengers had come, no
doubt, to ask for some small favor, and she, alas, was not there to
wait upon them! A month ago she would have run, now she descended in as
rapid a walk as dignity would permit.
To her astonishment she found when she reached the porch that the
occupants of the car, except the driver, had gone into the house.
Curious as she was, she was seized with sudden shyness and wished
herself back under the trees. But in plain view as she was from the
office windows there was nothing to do but to proceed.
Her father appeared at the office door, his face flushed and smiling.
Stephen Lanfair, halting for a moment at his gate, had seen his name on
the letter box and had come in with his wife. He had passed unknowing,
he said, many times. Levis's heart throbbed so that he had to draw deep
breaths of air. Stephen was the old Stephen; his renewal of their
friendship seemed to make possible all he had dreamed. Mrs. Lanfair's
presence suggested the solution of another problem which had troubled
him. Ellen needed associations and opportunities which he did not know
how to give her; Mrs. Lanfair might help him to provide them.
"Oh, Ellen, come here," he said, not without pride. "I was just going
to find you!"
Ellen felt his arm across her shoulders. It was silly to be afraid of
meeting strangers. She lifted her head and went in smiling.
"This is my daughter."
She felt her hand taken in a long, firm grasp, and received a general
impression of height and grayness and alertness and very bright eyes.
She looked up into them and smiled, feeling the blood rush to her
cheeks. She was sensitive and she had as yet received few impressions
which were not those of childhood. This stranger, who was younger than
her father and much older than herself, was the first person like her
father whom she had ever met.
"Your daughter!" said a low voice.
Then she heard another voice, and courage vanished and embarrassment
returned. It was that of a woman, seated in her father's chair, and
looking about with appraising eyes. She was small, and the old chair in
which she sat seemed much too large for her. Ellen saw in a flash the
handsome and slightly bizarre dress, through the yoke and sleeves of
which her flesh showed faintly pink, the strange and pretty face with
brows which almost met. It was not in the least a happy face, but Ellen
was not critical. Hilda was not interested in this plain _ménage_ or in
Stephen's old acquaintance, recalled thus suddenly to his mind. But it
pleased her for the moment to be friendly.
"Come and shake hands with me," said she, and Ellen obeyed, feeling
young and awkward and ill at ease.
"Do you go to school?"
"I go to school to my father."
"Have you brothers or sisters?"
"I have--"
"One brother who is at his grandfather's," Levis answered for her.
"Lanfair, it is doubtless difficult for an observer to realize that you
and I were in school together."
"In school together!" Hilda looked from one to the other. "Impossible!"
Stephen halted suddenly. He had been moving about restlessly, now
picking up one of Ellen's books, now reading the titles on Levis's
shelves. He was at once glad and ashamed to have found Levis. But he
should have come alone, he should not have brought Hilda. He stood
close to Levis, his tightly closed hand thrust into the pocket of his
coat.
"Levis was an instructor and a Senior at once, and I was a Sophomore,"
he explained. "He left school and married and I continued to study. I
didn't begin to practice till he was well settled in life." He turned
his head and looked at Levis, and from eye to eye a message flashed. In
Stephen's there was regret and a childlike desire to be restored to the
good graces of an older person.
Levis returned the glance steadily and with the same expression with
which he looked at Ellen, as though Stephen needed, as Ellen needed,
love and care. She saw the exchange and curiosity and admiration
quickened. She glanced at Hilda who was taking in from under
half-lowered eyelids the old sofa, the little table, and the doctor's
medicine cupboards. Her stare made Ellen determine to examine carefully
all these articles of furniture. Had the never-failing broom of Mrs.
Sassaman left lint, or had her own dust-cloth touched them too lightly?
A restless step brought Stephen to her little table.
"Are these your books?"
Ellen explained her course of study. His bright eyes were kind; she
looked frankly into them and smiled while she talked.
"I'm going to college in the fall. I can hardly wait."
Levis, after a second's reflection about the present temper of Mrs.
Sassaman, spoke to Hilda.
"Won't you stay and have supper with us? Now that we have you here,
we'd like to keep you."
Hilda uttered effusive regrets and Levis looked at her curiously.
Her expression had changed; it was no longer that of slightly bored
curiosity, but of anger, sharp and unpleasant. Her eyes darted to her
husband, then back to Levis, and then back again to the little table
where Stephen and Ellen stood together.
"Oh, thank you. It's really very good of you, but it's impossible,
really. We have guests ourselves this evening. We should be going now.
We sail for Europe on Tuesday."
"Medical convention at Vienna?" asked Levis, his keen, curious eye
fixed upon her.
"Yes; that is, my husband is going there. I'm going to Paris for
clothes. I don't like conventions. Nor medicine," said Hilda as she
rose. She laid one hand in the other and kneaded them together in a
strange gesture.
"It's time to go!" said she.
Hearing the sharpened voice, Ellen turned swiftly. How fairylike this
stranger was, now that she was standing! She determined in a flash to
live on bread and water, to take some sort of medicine, to do anything
to resemble her. She saw the small, arched foot, set in absurd,
high-heeled shoes--how did she manage to stand, and how to walk? But
she did both gracefully. Ellen had heard the invitation; she hastened
to second it.
"I do wish you'd stay!"
Stephen looked down at her. There was a quality in Ellen which was hard
to describe unless one said that she gave herself with every smile. He
had dismissed the thought of children as he had dismissed his father's
creed, but from his deeper consciousness an instinctive longing rose.
"I wish I had her or one like her!" said he to himself with sudden
startled hunger.
"Won't you stay?" said Ellen to him.
Then Ellen was conscious that something unpleasant had been said or
done. She could not tell what it was, but she felt that she had given
offense. Hilda went out quickly into the hall and stood waiting. She
did not speak to Levis or to Ellen; she only said once more, "I said
that it's time to go!"
"You're not really going this minute!" protested Levis, his sharp
disappointment quickening his throbbing heart.
"Yes," said Stephen. His voice was louder than it had been and even a
little more pleasant. "We really must be off." He held out his hand. "I
haven't forgotten anything, not anything!"
Hilda followed across the grass to the car and stepped in. From the
car Stephen waved his hand and Levis and Ellen waved theirs. Hilda did
not look back. The car started noiselessly; they sat like king and
queen in a state chariot, a silent retainer conducting them.
"I think she behaved in a very queer way," said Ellen.
"I agree with you," said Levis. He went into his office and stood
looking at the books in his case, and Ellen followed closely.
"Who are they?"
"He was a friend in college. I haven't seen him for years." Frowning,
Levis took down one of a set of volumes and went to his desk. "He was a
nice boy."
"Was he married when you knew him?"
"No; I remember hearing that he had married a rich wife."
"She must be very rich. Did you know they were coming?"
"No, indeed."
"Where do they live?"
Levis had opened his book at the letter "D," and did not answer. The
uneasy sensation in his heart had sharpened once or twice in the last
hour to an acute though fleeting pain, gone as soon as it was felt. He
had seen Stephen, but the visit seemed to make impossible all that he
had hoped for.
For a moment, in curiosity about Hilda's behavior, he forgot his own
problems. He had found the article which he wished to consult under
the letter "D," but he could not fix his mind on what he read. It was
in reality something within his own breast which disturbed him, but it
seemed to him that it was Ellen hanging over his shoulder and cutting
off the air which he needed.
"I wish you'd run away, Ellen, for a little while. I'll talk to you
later about these people."
"All right," said Ellen cheerfully, remembering her own unwillingness
to be interrupted. She read over his shoulder--"'Dementia'--Father, who
has that?"
"No one that I know of, Missy."
"I expect you think I have it. Well, read away, I won't bother."
Levis smiled at the tone of maternal indulgence, then he returned to
his book. Again he put his hand over his heart uneasily. The sensation
was now of weak fingers moving gently. He coughed, then he looked at
Ellen who had sat down at her table. What a strange woman Lanfair's
wife was! What had annoyed her? Most wives who brought fortunes
proved to be impeditive in some fashion--there was unquestionably an
impediment here! He turned a page and read for a moment. There was a
mental disorder difficult to distinguish in early stages from sheer
devilishness of disposition; and patients had peculiar traits and
nervous ways like this woman. Poor Lanfair! Perhaps he would return and
confide in his old friend. He had looked as though he needed a refuge.
Presently Ellen returned to her place on the stump and there sat for
half an hour.
"I think she was very disagreeable," she said, beginning to speculate
about married life. She, Ellen, would never make her husband
uncomfortable!
"If I get one!" said Ellen. "And he was splendid!"
They must live in a very grand house--perhaps she and her father might
some day visit them. She realized that she didn't even know their
name--how strange the whole incident was!
At the end of half an hour curiosity sent her back to the house. Her
father had now had time to read all he wanted, she was sure. She
remembered that to-morrow a dressmaker was coming to get her ready for
school and she sang for joy as she walked.
But in the half-hour that she spent in the woodland, life had taken a
long stride. Levis sat with his treatise open at "Dementia," his eyes
still bent upon the page. He had not moved since she went away.
"Father!" she cried gayly.
He answered without lifting his head.
"I've been taken suddenly with a bad stitch in my side, Ellen, and
I don't wish to move until I've had medicine. You'll find it in the
right-hand cupboard in a blue bottle. Bring me a pellet."
Ellen obeyed quickly, growing pale. Levis broke the pellet in his hand
and held it close to his nostril, then he straightened his shoulders.
It was exactly like a tiger that the thing leaped upon one!
"I'm going over to the couch. Don't be frightened if I go slowly. Lend
me your shoulder."
Ellen made her shoulder like iron.
"Telephone Dr. Wescoe."
Ellen flew. It seemed when she returned that her father's face was less
terribly gray and drawn.
"What shall I do now?"
Levis managed a wry smile.
"You'll make a capital doctor. Bring paper from your desk and sit here,
beside me. You must be brave and steady."
Ellen obeyed swiftly.
"I've known for some time that my heart was a bit out of order. I'm
likely to have another attack, but probably not before the doctor gets
here. I want you to write something down."
Ellen looked steadily at Levis. If she held his eyes with hers, they
could not become blank, unseeing, as they were a moment ago! There
was in his face now a dreadful eagerness. In spite of the last hour
he turned in desperate need to the memory of Stephen's old affection.
Stephen had forgotten for a while, but he meant to remember and he
would help him now. He felt the same fearful despair which he had felt
as a boy when he needed food and did not know where to get it. He had
heard the Creator called upon at too many death-beds to ignore entirely
that refuge, but he was not one to turn even in such a moment to a help
which he had denied. The "sum and term" of education had not been his,
the loss by death of one whom he had deeply loved. If his wife had died
in their earliest married life, or if Ellen had died, his spiritual
history might have been different.
But what was it he had meant to do? Ah, yes! Ellen was waiting, pencil
in hand.
"I give to my daughter Ellen all my property and make my friend--"
"'Make my friend,'" repeated Ellen after a pause.
"Can you remember his name, Ellen?"
"I don't think I heard it!"
"It'll come to me! Listen! You and Matthew inherit this farm from your
mother. What I have besides you must take. Don't let them shame you out
of it! Remember it's my will. If you wish, you can live economically
and share with Matthew after you've had your education. I feel better,
darling." He took suddenly a long, relieving breath. After all he was
not to be cut off now from life, from Ellen. He looked deeply into her
frightened eyes. It was now that she would need him! He had, he felt
suddenly with amazement, not yet really lived; he could not _die_!
Tears rolled down upon his cheeks. "I'll be able to eat supper with
you, I'm sure. We needn't worry to complete the paper. The doctor will
write it for me. Don't look so horrified. I think--"
His smile stiffened suddenly and drops of perspiration appeared upon
his forehead. Was everything then over? He put out his hands and took
Ellen's face between them.
"Don't let them keep you here! Remember!"
"I'll remember," promised Ellen.
Her head dropped to his breast, pressed by his hands close to his
heart. She could see nothing, but she could hear a strange beating
sound like a wooden hammer upon flesh. Her body was cramped; it seemed
to her that she could not breathe; then her father's embrace relaxed
and she rose quickly.
Her wild glance sought the window. Mrs. Sassaman drove slowly up the
lane, Dr. Wescoe's car turned in from the highway, but their coming now
made no difference.