celebrating, I'd like to know? Rob and I are head couple."
He gave his hand to Rob, Basil and Wythie took one side, Bruce and
Frances the other, while tall Bartlemy and Prue fell together, as they
usually did.
Mrs. Grey played, concealing as well as she could, with her fine touch
and real talent, time's ravages on the queer, yellow-keyed old piano.
"Now sing," ordered Mr. Grey, when, the dance over, he dropped weary,
but happy, into a chair. The quaint figures with the flushed young
faces gathered about the old piano, and sang as they were bidden, sang
until the clock in the hall startled them by striking eleven.
"Why, I had no idea of the time!" cried Frances. "Mamma will think I'm
stolen. I must hurry and get into my present-day things and fly home.
We've had a lovely time, dear Grey people! There never was a place
where people had so much fun without trying, and because they couldn't
help it, as in the little grey house."
"And there never was a place where good luck was more needed, nor
where people were more grateful for hearing that it had come to them,
than in the little grey house to-day," added Rob, as she wound her arm
around her friend's waist, and bore her away to her room.
"Oh, Rob," said Frances, "and oh, Wythie," she added, turning back to
include Wythie in the caress she gave Rob, "you know how glad I am of
what that man told you! It's well you do, for I can't begin to tell you
how glad I am. Isn't it perfectly blessed?"
"It's the beginning of the end of our troubles, that's all it is,
Francie," said Rob. "This isn't the little grey house to-night; it's
Pandora's box, with everything bad flying out, and only hope left."
CHAPTER TWELVE
ITS TRAGIC SIDE
"Maimie Flinders is sick," said Prue, coming in from school the next
noon, and hastening to thrust first one foot and then the other into
warmth issuing from the open oven-door, for the day was cold. "I met
Mr. Flinders, and he said 'Maimie was pretty miserable, and they
was worried about her.'" Prue pulled down the corners of her mouth,
imitating Farmer Flinders's drawl as she spoke.
"I must go see her," said Rob. "Poor little Pollykins! She's a misfit
in that household--a dear, quaint little soul! None but a very nice
child could admire me the way that mite does. I think I owe her a
cheering visit. Look out, Prudy; let me get the pudding out."
After dinner Rob girded herself in her warm, ex-parlor-curtains
coat, and having selected from her accumulation of the Rutherfords'
contributions to her entertainments some things that she thought would
amuse the sick child, started out to make a call which was not alluring
for many reasons.
Farmer Flinders lived in a yellowish-brown house from which the
green blinds that adorned it in summer had been removed to save them
unnecessary wear during the winter. It was square and bare, and Rob
felt its bleakness anew as she entered the gate, passing the straggling
stalks which in summer developed into a lilac and syringa bush,
and pulled the octagonal glass door-bell, remembering the solitary
and sensitive child who was trying to grow into a woman in these
surroundings.
Mrs. Flinders opened the door, cautiously displaying a little of her
gaunt person.
"We heard that Maimie was sick," said Rob. "I should like to see her,
if I may."
"Come in," said Maimie's mother. "She's pretty mis'rable, but if
anything could do her good 'twould be seein' you. I always say that to
Mr. Flinders when he's talkin' of the bother he has with your place,
an' you bein' pretty spunky. 'Eliab,' I says, 'there's got to be good
in a girl that children take to, an' I never see our Maimie take to
anyone's she doos to Roberta Grey. She makes her laugh,' I says, 'an'
she seems to chirk her right up.' An' you can see yourself, Roberta,
that if you'd had seven children, an' all had died but jest this one,
you'd take to anyone she took to yourself, no matter who 'twas."
Roberta accepted these dubious remarks as complimentary, that being,
on the whole, apparently their intention, but she had considerable
difficulty in keeping her face straight, for it did not seem to her
necessary for Mrs. Flinders to apologize to her, either for her liking
for Rob, nor for her desire to have Maimie made happy.
She followed Mrs. Flinders into the kitchen, which was also the
sitting-room, and saw the little white face which she hoped to make
smile, languidly looking out on the glimpse of the world allowed the
child by the enormous chintz arm-chair, with its extended side-pieces,
in which she was very nearly swallowed up. A long, thin, little hand
came out from the plaid shawl enveloping Maimie and waved feebly to
Rob, while a piping voice cried: "Oh, Rob Grey, I'm awful glad to see
you!"
"That's right," cried Rob, running over to give the child a hug. "So
you should be, because I'm glad to see you, though I'm not one bit
glad to see you ill. But, you see! I always told you they ought
to call you Polly, and not Maimie--because it was 'little _Polly_
Flinders sat among the cinders, warming her pretty little toes.' And
if you're not among the cinders, you're close to the stove, Pollykins!
But we're certain sure you're not the real Polly Flinders, in Mother
Goose, because 'her mother came and caught her, and whipped her little
daughter, for spoiling her nice new clothes.' That can't happen to you,
you know, because you've got on your wrapper!"
The child laughed out. "You're funny, Rob," she said, stroking Rob's
cheek.
"And you're funny, Polly; as funny as a fiddler-crab, with this big
chair high up above your head, and your thin little face peering out!
What do you play all day--do you play you're a little turtle and this
is your shell?" laughed Rob, her heart full of pity for the wan little
creature.
"Nothin'," said Polly. "I don't play nothin'; I just sit an' sit."
"Read?" hinted Rob.
Polly shook her head. "I can't read fast, 'cause I didn't go to school
much, an' it makes me awful tired."
"Well, now, reading is hard work, because they won't stop writing
books long enough to let us catch up," laughed Rob. "I've been telling
stories, telling them to lots of little children, and we do have the
most fun!"
"Father told about that," cried Polly eagerly. "He said 'twas queer
folks paid to hear 'em, but I know! You've told me stories, an' I know!
I wish I could be there when you tell 'em, but father wouldn't get a
ticket, not ever."
"What does the doctor say about Polly, Mrs. Flinders?" asked Rob, who
had been forming her own unprofessional opinion, and deciding that poor
little Polly was dying of pure dreariness.
"He says she ain't any stamina, an' he's afraid she'll go like the
rest. He says she don't seem to have any real disease, but too much
Flinders--you know Dr. Fairbairn, an' the way he says things. I guess
he means she'll go like the rest," said Mrs. Flinders, apparently
oblivious to Polly's intense gaze.
Rob thought that she did indeed "know Dr. Fairbairn," and read in his
diagnosis of "too much Flinders" confirmation of her own judgment on
poor Polly. The mite looked so frightened at the prospect of "going
like the others" that Rob was divided between pity for the shrinking
child and wondering wrath at her obtuse mother.
"Now, I'll tell you what it is, Mrs. Flinders," cried Rob, "Polly
isn't going like the others; she isn't going at all. But she's sick
and lonely, and I think a bit of cheering would do her more good than
medicine--or even than splendid Dr. Fairbairn can do! I want you to
lend us Polly. We've plenty of room in the little grey house--we always
have room and time to do what we want to do--and I'll take Polly under
my special charge, so the others shall not have any trouble about it.
I'll tuck her up in the little bed we three girls had in turn when we
were little, and we'll let her play with our dear white kitten Kiku,
and she'll hear us chatter, and I'll tell her stories, and you see if
she doesn't get to be another Polly in no time!"
"Oh, mother, mother!" cried Polly, starting up in uncontrollable
rapture and clasping her thin hands prayerfully. "Oh, mother, mother!"
Mrs. Flinders stared at Rob in amazement, then she wiped her eyes on
the corner of her faded apron. "Well, Roberta, you're a good girl,
an' I'll say that for you," she said, her reserve dropping from her
suddenly. "Young as you be, you see what's the matter with Maimie. The
child's just pining and pindling out of the world, an' I can't stop
her. He's near; you know how he is. He's got plenty money an' no one
but us, an' if Maimie dies, what's the use of it all? But he won't send
the child away--says it's all nonsense. An' the house's lonely, an'
I can't amuse her, an' so I stand by an' see her going the way they
all went, till it seems 's if there wa'n't enough vim in me to git her
supper--let alone savin' her. If you could--and would--take her awhile,
I know she'd come right up. But they ain't many's 'd do it, an' I guess
he's been tryin' enough to you fer you not to feel gret interest in his
child. An' what'd your folks say?"
"I'd do anything I could for dear little Polly, Mrs. Flinders," said
Rob. "And as to my mother and father, the one thing that makes them
happy is a chance to do a slight kindness for someone. You needn't
be afraid that Polly won't be welcome. I know, or I wouldn't have
spoken--or at least not until I had first consulted them. You get her
ready, and I'll ask the Rutherford boys to come here and carry her off
to the little grey house. Will Mr. Flinders let her go?"
"He'll do anything as long's it don't come out of him," said Mrs.
Flinders, bitterly. "I know in his heart he'll be pleased, for this
child's the only thing he doos care about. An' I guess you no need to
ask those boys to fetch her; we've got a horse, an' if she's goin'
visitin' I'll see she gets there properly."
"Then it's settled!" cried Rob, and, turning to Polly, who had been
listening to this conversation with her breath fluttering over her
parted lips, and color coming and going in her pinched face, she added:
"Are you glad to come, Pollykins?"
"Glad, Rob!" cried little Polly. "It'll be 'most heaven. I'm sure I'll
have a better time than the others."
And Rob knew that she referred to the other little Flinders, and was as
delighted with Polly's gratitude as if she had not seen how much the
small creature dreaded following them to greater happiness than the
little grey house could give her.
When Rob announced at home the prospective visitor there was
consternation for a time, but it was not long before her mother and
Wythie were planning for Polly's comfort with as much pleasure as Rob
felt, and Prue fell to washing and setting in order the wardrobe of
her discarded doll for Polly's delectation.
Mrs. Flinders drove the child over in the buggy with the purpling
wheel-spokes and the wood obtruding through the back of the seat. Polly
was wrapped so closely that only her dilated eyes showed, and her
mother sat, uncompromising and severe, beside her, hauling on the reins
which guided the temperate horse.
The Rutherfords were at the grey house when the little invalid arrived,
and Bruce's strong arms lifted her out with a gentleness that warranted
his choice of vocation, and bore her into the warmth of the open fire
in the dining-room.
"These are her drops," said Mrs. Flinders, setting a bottle on the
table. "We're very much obliged to you for taking Polly, Mis' Grey.
He's obliged too--I guess he's some ashamed of being so cantankerous to
you about the garden truck. If she's troublesome you let me know, an'
I'll fetch her back."
"She will trouble us only by looking pale," said Mrs. Grey. "If she
gets better as fast as we hope to have her she will trouble us no more
than a little cricket on our hearth."
"We shall have to hide Polly from Aunt Azraella," said Wythie,
returning from seeing Mrs. Flinders's departure. "If she disapproved
of our extravagance in having a kitten, what will she say to a child in
the house?"
"We always have plenty of what we don't want," said Rob. "We run no
risk of impoverishing ourselves in sharing our deprivations with
Pollykins."
"It's a funny little grey house, with all its bothers," said their
mother. "It always seems to be able to bear a bit more--that often
cheers me when I think it has almost more than it can bear."
"We have to go up to the attic, Pollykins, to put away lots and lots
of old clothes--the oldest kind of old clothes!" said Rob, on her
knees before Polly, unbuttoning the child's coat. "Some day, when it's
warmer, or you're strong enough to go where it's cold, I'll show you
the funniest old hats and bonnets and dresses you ever saw in all your
little life! We don't like to put them away, but we must. Last night
we dressed up in them, and danced, and so to-day we have to pay the
fiddler--that means we have to pack them all away again, whether we
like to or not. You won't mind if you have to stay here alone with
Hortense, do you? That's the doll's name. By and by Prudy will come
in, and we shall be down soon."
"I don't mind, Rob," said Polly, eying Hortense longingly. "I'll play
house and rock that dolly. Does she shut her eyes?"
"Yes, indeed; goes to sleep like a good baby whenever she is bidden.
Why, you're better already! You didn't feel like playing house when I
saw you after dinner, did you?" cried Rob, delighted.
Polly shook her head with happy solemnity. "I never had such a nice
doll," she said.
Mr. Grey came in looking pale and tired, but he smiled at white little
Polly, and said, as he tipped up her chin: "Rob says you're little
Polly Flinders who sat among the cinders, but I think she's turned you
into a little coal of fire, right out of the cinders. Do you know what
that means--to be a coal of fire?"
Polly smiled, evidently feeling it safer not to commit herself, and
trustingly confident that whatever it meant to be a coal of fire, it
was something pleasant.
"I am going to lie down here, please little Polly, and if you will sing
to Hortense while you rock her I shouldn't be surprised if you made me
go to sleep too," said Mr. Grey, stretching out on the old couch with a
sigh of relief.
"Do you feel ill, Sylvester dear?" asked Mrs. Grey, stroking the hair
from his forehead. "You look tired."
"Not in the least ill, Mary dear, but tired, yes," replied her husband,
kissing the gentle hand. "I did not sleep much last night--too excited
and happy, you know--but I am quite well, and still most happy. _Still_
happy? Why, I'm going to be happy all my days!"
"You've won, Sylvester," said Mrs. Grey, and she laid her cheek for a
moment where her hand had rested.
"I've won--_we've_ won through Rob, my son! That's what I've been
saying over and over, for the past twenty-four hours," cried Mr. Grey,
triumphantly. "You never can know what a help and a comfort you are,
Rob boy! It's a good deal of a joy to a man who has been accounted a
failure, to know his brains have given his dear ones all they need!
If you orderly housewives don't make too much noise in the attic, I'm
going to sleep, to dream of my happiness, and for the first time in all
my life waken from such a dream to find it true."
"Put me in your dream, Patergrey," cried Rob, as she ran out of the
room, seeing that little Polly had already established herself in the
small rocking-chair brought out for her use, and was hushing Hortense
to sleep with low croonings.
Wythie joined her mother and Rob in the upper hall, and all three went
atticward, laden with the garments of last night's frolic.
It took a longer time to put them away than they had foreseen, for the
chests had been sadly upset, and required much rearranging.
The brief winter light had nearly faded before Mrs. Grey straightened
herself, and said, with a sigh for the knees which the bare floor had
hurt: "Dear girls, it must be more than time to put the kettle on!"
"Perhaps Polly has done it; she ought, to preserve the unities. I don't
know what the unities are, but I mean well, and I'm trying to quote
'Polly, put the kettle on' in that clever, indirect way people make
allusions in novels," said Rob.
"Thanks, Rob," said Wythie, quietly. "We know the poem."
The little procession of three filed down the narrow stairs, stepping
slowly and carefully in the dusk. The house was absolutely still; Prue
had evidently not come in, and perhaps Polly had fallen asleep with
Hortense, Wythie suggested.
There was a faint glow in the dining-room from the fire burning low on
the hearth. By its light they saw Mr. Grey lying on the couch as they
had left him, and Polly's little figure drooping over Hortense in her
arms, sound asleep in Prue's outgrown chair.
"The palace of the Sleeping Beauty," whispered Rob, thinking it a
pretty picture.
"I can't bear to disturb your father, but we must get tea," whispered
her mother back.
Wythie struck a light and Polly stirred, straightened herself, looked,
startled, around the room, and then smiled at Rob.
"I didn't know where I was," she said, running to her idol. "Your
father woke up and said something quick, and I woke up, too, but when I
went to him he was asleep, so then Hortense and I went to sleep again."
"What did papa say, Polly?" asked Wythie, with a sudden fear.
Her mother had crossed to the couch, and knelt beside it. She took her
husband's face in her hands, and something in her attitude brought her
girls to her instantly. Mrs. Grey laid the beloved head back on the
pillow and raised her face to Wythie and Rob without a sound.
"Mardy!" cried the girls together, dropping on their knees beside her.
There was no need of question nor of answer; no need of the frantic
pressure of the motionless heart. No need of Rob's rushing to meet
Prue, who opened the door at that moment, nor of bidding her hasten for
her life for Dr. Fairbairn.
For they knew, the stricken wife and daughters, that Sylvester Grey had
slipped painlessly, quietly away from them, and from the joy of the
triumph of his loving efforts for them, into the joy that should never
end.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ITS DANGER
The days that followed its bereavement passed like a dream over the
little grey house. There is no preparation for grief; Mr. Grey's death
came upon those who had loved him as if there had been no warning of
the danger in which he lived, and, as they met the necessary claims and
performed the hard tasks their sorrow laid upon them, it was impossible
for them to realize that it was the dear dreamer whom they were laying
away to dreamless sleep up on the hill, under the great elms of Fayre's
old graveyard.
But when these confused days were past and the tall, thin figure no
longer cast its shadow over the old doorway, nor the nervous step fell
on bewildered ears, unconsciously straining to hear it, Sylvester
Grey's wife and daughters began dimly to realize that he had gone away.
Of the three girls the loss and loneliness was bitterest to Rob, but
it was she who met it most bravely, resolving to be, indeed, to her
mother the "son Rob" her "Patergrey" had always called her.
Aunt Azraella, in her own way, had been a comfort during this first,
disturbed week, coming in with perfect efficiency to plan and execute
the arrangements from which the Greys shrank, but it was "Cousin Peace"
on whom they all leaned now that, everything done, they sat down with
sorrow.
One morning, when her sister-in-law had been widowed ten days, Aunt
Azraella came down to the little grey house for a business conference.
"Little Polly Flinders" was hastily smuggled upstairs, with Hortense to
bear her company. She was a different little Polly than Rob had found
pining away in the big chintz chair; color was coming into the white
little face, and in the necessity of making things cheerful around the
child, all four Greys found help and comfort. It was much to feel that
they were establishing in health and life the pathetic child who had
chanced to be the one to hear the last tones of that voice now forever
silent.
"I came down, Mary, to talk with you about your prospects," said Aunt
Azraella, unwinding her long barège veil as she seated herself before
the fire.
"You must make up your mind precisely what you are going to do. Of
course, Sylvester's death doesn't affect you like the loss of a
business man such as your brother, my husband, was, but it does settle
the question of that invention. Whatever it is, it must remain, so
I advise you to see if you can do anything with it, if it has any
practical value."
"There was a Mr. Marston, from New York, here to see it two weeks
ago," said Mrs. Grey, quietly. "We had a letter from him this morning,
offering to buy the machine."
Mrs. Winslow gave a start of genuine pleasure. "Well, I am surprised,"
she said. "How much did he offer? I hope it will take the mortgage off
the house, and leave you a little. But I suppose it wasn't much."
"No; only four thousand dollars," replied Mrs. Grey. "Rob thinks he
is trying to take advantage of our necessities, or what he hopes will
prove necessities."
"Rob thinks!" ejaculated Aunt Azraella. "Why, Mary, it's a wonderful
offer! I hope you wrote at once! If you haven't written, write now, and
I'll post the letter when I go out."
"We haven't decided to accept it," began Mrs. Grey, but got no further.
"Now, Mary Winslow Grey," cried Aunt Azraella, "for mercy's sake, don't
listen to that child! Even allowing she's not flighty, as I know she
is, you have to admit a girl of sixteen is not a competent adviser.
You accept that offer on the spot, _on the spot_, do you hear? Four
thousand dollars! Why, you can pay a thousand and clear the mortgage,
and have three thousand to invest--that'll be quite an addition to
your income. It will leave you better off than you were with Sylvester
alive."
"Oh!" gasped Wythie. Roberta began to speak very slowly, with manifest
effort to be dignified, and to lay aside her natural quickness of
speech and retort.
"Aunt Azraella," she said, "you do not understand the invention--no one
here does, except me. Either the invention is worth nothing, or it is
worth a great deal--more than ten times as much as this offer. You see,
the offer proves it is worth something, and if we accepted it we should
be cheating ourselves out of about fifty thousand dollars."
"Fifty thousand dollars!" Aunt Azraella tossed her head scornfully,
words failing to express her opinion of this visionary estimate.
"You see; I told you you had no idea of the value of that invention,"
said Rob. "Pater--our dear father said, the day Mr. Marston was here,
that he should refuse an offer of less than fifty thousand dollars. I
feel that we have no right to throw it away, for his sake, if not for
our own."
"If you don't close with this offer at once it may be withdrawn," said
Mrs. Winslow, seeing the effect of Rob's argument on her mother.
"That's precisely what Mr. Marston writes," said Mrs. Grey, "and that's
what frightens me. I am so afraid of refusing the only offer we may
ever get."
"And I think that proves him dishonest," cried Rob. "He wants to
frighten us into closing with him, because he knows if we took time
to investigate, we should find out the true value of the machine. He
saw enough when he was here--our doing our own work, and our simple
way of living--to guess we should need money now we were alone. He is
trying to take advantage of a woman and three young girls, and if I
have my way, he won't succeed! I hated him the day he was here--he's a
villain, if ever there was one, a smiling villain at that."
"What do you propose doing, then?" asked Aunt Azraella, satirically.
"If you are taking matters into your own hands you ought to have
some other plan to propose instead of this certain one--for I hope
you realize, Roberta, that you are trying to use your influence with
your mother to urge her to throw away a certainty, on the chance of
something better, and on the advice of a girl of sixteen, who has as
much knowledge of the world as my Tobias has."
"I do realize, aunt, and it frightens me, but I was my father's helper
all through the last four years he was working on this machine, and I
feel I must stand firm, now that he has left it to me. I know we shall
be cheated if we take this offer, and sell the bricquette machine to
this Mr. Marston," cried Rob.