CLOUDS.
The beautiful snow-storm which came two weeks after Christmas seemed
to be the cause of all the unhappiness, though the real reason for it
was to be found in quite another quarter.
A deep snow followed by a week of clear cold weather seldom came more
than once during the winter in this part of the country, and the
children were wild with delight. Aunt Zelie was obliged to do a little
of the curbing that Aunt Marcia so often advised, and Bess and Louise
thought it hard that they were not allowed to hitch their sleds behind
wagons as Carl and Ikey did.
The boys first got into trouble. They began at once building forts in
their playground at school, and were soon divided into two opposing
forces, each with one of the older boys for captain.
For a time things went very well, and Carl and Ikey, though they
belonged to different sides, could discuss their battles
good-naturedly. But this did not last. One day the cry of "Not fair"
arose; someone was hurt and resented it, his friends took it up, and
all good feeling went to the winds. When the bell called them in there
were some bad bruises, and, worse still, angry looks and accusations.
On the way home the dispute ran high between Carl and Ikey. The
first-named in particular was very much excited, and declared he
wanted nothing more to do with cheats. Ikey retorted warmly, with
natural indignation, and so they parted.
About the same time discord arose among the girls.
Mr. Hazeltine had had a slide made for the children in the back yard.
It was built from the top of the stable loft, and was as good a
substitute for a hill as such an affair could be. Here they had a
grand time till one day when Elsie insisted it was her turn to slide.
"No, it is Dora's," objected Louise. "Isn't it, Constance?"
But Constance, always devoted to Elsie, was not sure. Bess and Helen
both agreed with Louise.
"I am sure it is my turn to slide," said Dora, "but if Elsie thinks it
is hers, I'd rather have her take it."
Bess had very positive ideas of fairness, however, and would not give
up. "No," she declared, "it is her turn, and we must play fair or it
isn't any fun."
"But I know it is my turn," said Elsie, equally stubborn; "Connie
thinks so too."
"Never mind, Bess," pleaded Dora.
"I _shall_ mind; for when Louise and Helen and I all say it is your
turn, and only Constance thinks it is Elsie's, you have a--a
majority, and she ought to see it."
"Yes," added Louise, admiring her sister's big word; "I think you
ought, Elsie."
"And it is _our_ slide," put in Helen very unwisely.
"That doesn't make any difference," Bess hastened to say; but the
mischief was done.
"Then keep your old slide," Elsie cried angrily. "I wouldn't be so
selfish. Come, Constance, let's not stay where they don't want us."
"Don't go, Elsie; it is not worth quarrelling about," urged Dora; but
she wouldn't listen and walked off with an air of offended dignity,
followed rather reluctantly by Constance. Dora wanted to go after her,
but Louise held her fast.
"Don't go, Dody; it won't do a bit of good. If she is mad, she can
just _be_ mad."
They took a few more slides, finding it not half so much fun as
before. Dora looked very sober, for quarrelling was something she was
not accustomed to, and after a visit to Carie, who was sick with a
cold, she went home feeling exceedingly uncomfortable. Perhaps it
would be all right to-morrow, she thought, but that did not prove to
be the case.
When they met at school Elsie entirely ignored Bess and Louise, who in
their turn treated her with a lofty indifference wonderful to behold.
"I am not at all mad at you, Dora," Elsie said to her; "but I am at
Bess and Louise, for they were impolite. I am not going to speak to
them till they say they are sorry."
"Oh, dear! I feel as though it were my fault in some way. It will
spoil our club and everything," sighed Dora.
How long this unhappy state of affairs might have continued had not
the Big Front Door taken matters in hand, it is impossible to say.
On the afternoon of the quarrel Elsie had a story book with her, which
in her hasty departure she forgot. She remembered it before she
reached home, but did not like to go back. The next day she planned a
very cold note which was to be carried by one of the servants. Mrs.
Morris, however, saw no reason why her daughter should not do her own
errand, and all arguments were in vain. Finding that it was of no use
to plead, after some rebellious tears she decided to go for her book
herself.
Bess, Louise, and Dora were studying their history lesson together,
when Joanna came in to say that Elsie was downstairs and wanted the
book she had left.
"I wonder," said Bess, when it had been found and sent down, "if she
will come to the club."
After they went back to their lessons Dora's thoughts kept wandering
off to that miserable quarrel, and she said, as she put on her hat,
"If Elsie were willing to make up, you would be, wouldn't you?"
"Oh, yes," they both answered readily, Louise adding, "but she doesn't
want to."
Elsie felt rather uncomfortable as she sat in the library. She hoped
that none of the children would come in and find her there. She could
not help remembering the pleasant time she had had in that very room a
few weeks ago, getting ready for the New Year's eve entertainment, and
for a moment she was sorry about the quarrel.
When Joanna brought her the book she hurried away, and, opening the
front door for herself, pulled it to behind her with a bang, when to
her dismay she found herself held fast. The door had closed on her
dress. She pulled and twisted, but it was of no use--she was a
prisoner. She could not reach the bell, and only a dead latch-key
would open it from the outside. It was late in the afternoon and few
people were passing; then too she did not like to call for help. The
poor child felt herself to be in a somewhat ridiculous position, and
if she dreaded anything it was being made fun of.
Suppose Carl should come in and find her! He was such a tease he would
tell the other boys, and they would think it a great joke. The wind
was so cold and penetrating that after a little Elsie forgot her fear
of being laughed at, and began to long for anybody who would release
her. All the passers-by seemed to be on the other side of the street.
Once she called to a colored boy, but he only looked at her stupidly
and went on.
"Oh, dear! what shall I do!" she cried, sinking down on the cold
marble step. "I wish I had never thought of my book."
She wondered what Bess and Louise would think if she were found frozen
to death on their doorstep. Her mother would be sorry she had not
allowed one of the servants to take her note. There was some comfort
in this thought. Then--was that really someone coming down the walk at
the side of the house? She held her breath. Yes, it certainly was. She
immediately returned to life.
It was Dora on her way home, so busy thinking that she started when
Elsie called her.
"Why, Elsie Morris," she exclaimed as she caught sight of the forlorn
figure on the doorstep.
"Oh, Dora, please help me. I am caught and can't get out."
"Have you been here all this time?" Dora asked, running up the steps
in great surprise. "Shall I ring the bell or go around?" pausing with
her hand on the knob.
"You'd better ring. I don't want to see the girls."
Dora's hand still rested on the bell, but she hesitated. "Elsie," she
said, "I just believe this has happened so we can make up. Won't you?
I know that Bess and Louise will if you will. Think how unhappy we
are! We can't have any more good times." Dora felt that she had the
advantage.
"No," said Elsie crossly; "and I wish you would ring that bell; I am
as cold as I can be. It was my turn, and it was selfish and mean in
them not to let me have it."
"Oh, Elsie, they are not selfish; they are always ready to do what we
like, but they thought it was my turn. That is why I feel so badly
about it; for if it had been her own turn I think Bess would have
given up. Please, _please_ promise to make up."
That Dora cared a great deal was plain, for her eyes were full of
tears, and those tears did much towards gaining the victory.
"I am not the least bit mad with you, Dora," Elsie hastened to say,
"but I am with Bess. Please ring the bell."
"In one minute, if you will only promise to make up."
"Dora Warner, I tell you I _can't_," stamping her foot. "I can't say
it wasn't my turn, for that would be a story."
"That won't make any difference, for you need not say anything about
it, only that you are willing to make up. You think you were right,
and Bess thinks she was right, so all you have to do is not to say
anything about it. _Please_, Elsie."
Dora's logic may not have been altogether convincing, but her
earnestness was not to be resisted.
"Well," began the prisoner, "I suppose I shall freeze to death if I
don't, so I will only--"
Dora waited for nothing more, but gave the bell a joyous pull.
Louise, who was on her way upstairs, ran back to see who was at the
door.
"Why, it is Dora!" she exclaimed, opening it.
It did not take long to explain, and Elsie was glad to sit down by the
register in the hall and make it up in earnest.
Bess, who heard them talking and ran down, was quite ready to meet her
more than half way, and no one would have guessed, seeing their
friendliness, that an hour ago they were not on speaking terms.
Elsie was pitied and petted to her heart's content, while Dora beamed
on them like a genial little sun which had at last made its way
through the clouds.
Aunt Zelie heard the whole story that night.
"Wasn't it funny, Elsie's getting caught?" said Louise. "I believe it
is really a magic door; Dora thinks so too."
"I don't know. It seems to me if the rest of you had been as anxious
for peace as she was, the door need not have come to your relief. If
you had each been trying to help," said her aunt.
"I believe I have been forgetting the text," Bess said gravely.
If only the quarrel between Carl and Ikey could have been settled as
quickly. A week passed and matters did not mend. The walk to and from
school was now taken alone, and neither made any sign of recognition
when they met. Ikey was miserable at the sight of Carl's intimacy
with Jim, and he imagined, too, that Mrs. Howard took her nephew's
part, and this was hardest of all.
The fact was Aunt Zelie knew little or nothing about it. She had a
house full of company, and Carie was sick besides.
In spite of appearances to the contrary, Carl was no happier than his
friend, and quite as keenly missed the daily companionship in lessons
and play. It had its effect in making him overbearing and
fault-finding in an unusual degree. The family began to wonder what
had happened to merry, good-tempered Carl, when one Saturday morning
matters reached a climax. As he came upstairs from the library where
he had been copying a composition, his father called to him from the
hall below. Running into the girls' room, he laid his paper on the
table there, with strict injunctions to them not to touch it.
Some minutes passed before his return, and Helen, who was apt to be
attracted by forbidden fruit, could not resist going over to look at
it. "I only want to see if I can read it," she said in reply to a
warning word from Bess, who passed through the room on her way to the
star chamber, where she and Louise were busy.
Helen, left to herself, was seized with a desire to make a capital S
like Carl's. Finding a pen and some ink, she set to work, forgetting
everything else till Bess, returning for something, exclaimed, "Why,
Helen, what are you doing? Here he comes."
Very much startled, she looked around quickly, and the pen fell from
her unaccustomed fingers upon the composition, scattering ink in every
direction. At this moment her brother entered the room, and at one
glance took in Helen's frightened look and the blotted paper.
"Didn't I tell you not to touch that?" he thundered, all the stored-up
anger of weeks coming to the surface, and, springing forward, he
caught her by the shoulder, gave her a furious shake, and pushed her
from him with all his strength. With a frightened scream she fell
backwards, striking her head against the edge of the half-open door.
"You wicked boy!" cried Bess, greatly shocked; "perhaps you have
killed her."
But Helen's cries told that it was not so bad as this. Everybody came
running to see what the matter was, and Joanna picked her up and
carried her into Aunt Zelie's room, where it was found that a large
lump on her head and a bruise on her arm were the worst of her
injuries. Bess told how it happened.
"I can't think what ails Carl lately," said Louise.
"He is a mean, hateful boy," sobbed Helen; "I don't care if I _did_
spoil his composition."
Feeling that it would be of no use to talk to her then, Aunt Zelie
left her to the tender ministrations of her sisters and Joanna, and
went to seek the chief offender.
He was still in the girls' room, standing his ground defiantly.
The moment's fright lest he had hurt Helen badly had passed, and the
sight of his composition stirred his anger afresh.
"Is it true that you threw your sister down?" His aunt stood before
him with a look in her dark eyes which it was not pleasant to meet.
Carl glanced down, but answered, "Yes, and here is what _she_ did!"
holding up the blotted paper.
"Does that excuse your unmanliness, your--you might have killed her,
you know. I can't talk to you now, Carl; you'd better go to your room.
I can't tell you how disappointed I am."
He never thought of not following her suggestion; indeed, he was glad
to get away from those indignant eyes.
"Of course," he muttered to himself, "I am all to blame and nothing is
said to Helen about spoiling my work. Boys are always found fault
with, but girls can do anything."
Down in his heart he knew this was not true, but he chose to think it.
He flung himself into a chair by the window. It was a gloomy, thawing
day; the snow, as if aghast at the trouble it had caused, was melting
sadly away. There was nothing in the prospect to make him feel
cheerful. After awhile he went to work on his composition again, and
as he wrote he felt more and more like a martyr. When it was finished
he folded it and put it away, and began to think it must be near
lunch-time. With the door closed, there in the third story he could
not hear the bell; however, he would not go down; if they wanted him
they might send for him. By two o'clock he was feeling deeply injured.
Nobody cared whether he starved or not. Then he remembered that Uncle
William was to take them to see Hermann that afternoon. By this time
they must have gone without him. Carl threw himself on the bed and
shed some tears of vexation and disappointment. All the while
something was whispering to him that he deserved to be unhappy. The
afternoon dragged slowly; he grew very hungry, and at last saying to
himself that he would go and get some biscuit, and "Tom Sawyer," one
of his favorite books, he went softly downstairs.
The house was so quiet that the sight of Mr. Smith asleep on a hall
chair was a positive relief. After visiting the pantry he went to the
library for his book. The door was half open, and when he reached it
he suddenly stopped, for there was Aunt Zelie by the table with her
head bowed on her arms. Evidently she had not heard him, and Carl
almost held his breath. He thought she was crying; he was not sure,
but certainly she was unhappy. It came to him in that moment, as it
never had before, how tender and sweet and helpful she was. She had
sorrow of her own, he knew, and who was there to comfort her as she
comforted others? And he had disappointed her--had behaved shamefully.
As he stood there it seemed to him that he must have been crazy. He
could not endure the sight of that sorrowful figure, and turning to go
away, instead; the next minute he was kneeling beside her saying,
"Aunt Zelie, I am _so_ sorry."
She was startled, for she had not heard him; but she turned and put
her arms around him for a moment, without speaking.
"Aunt Zelie, I know how contemptible I am; you ought not to have
anything to do with me," Carl exclaimed in a great burst of
contrition. She took his hand and held it fast as she answered, "I
can't throw stones at you, dear, but perhaps I can help you to learn
the lesson I have had to learn many times."
He never forgot that afternoon. How he sat beside her with his head on
her shoulder, while she talked to him as she had never talked before.
How his face glowed with mingled shame and pride as she said that, of
all the children, he was, if possible, the dearest to her.
"But I have more fear for you than for the others. I long to have you
grow up a strong, true man--master of yourself in every sense. If you
do not, I shall feel that in some way it is my fault."
"I will try to be what you want me to be--like Uncle Carl--if I
can; and nobody in the world could help me as you do."
[Illustration: "HE TOLD HER ABOUT THE TROUBLE AT SCHOOL."]
"I shall not leave you till you leave me," Aunt Zelie said, smiling
rather wistfully at the tall boy.
"That will be never, and I will always take care of you," answered
Carl, laying his cheek against her hand. He told her about the trouble
at school too, finding it a relief to confess everything and she
listened gravely.
"For a little misunderstanding like this, a little hateful pride,
pleasant friendships are given up, and the good times we expected to
have in the club this winter! Have my Good Neighbors forgotten their
motto already?"
"I'm afraid so," Carl said, thinking how hard it would be to make
things right again.
"Have you told Father?" he asked.
"No, he did not come to lunch."
"Then I shall have to tell him," with a sigh.
This was not an easy thing to do. That they were the best of
companions and friends made it all the harder, for he felt he had
forfeited the right to this good-fellowship.
Carl told his story with such evident shame and repentance that,
though he listened with a grave face, Mr. Hazeltine could not find it
in his heart to be very severe.
"I did not think," he said, "that my only son could be guilty of such
a cruel and ungentlemanly act."
Carl winced at this.
"You see," his father continued, laying his hand on his shoulder, "I
always had such a tender feeling for my little sister that it is hard
for me to understand how you could be so unkind."
It was Carl's private opinion that Aunt Zelie could never have been so
trying as Helen, but he did not say so. They had a serious talk, and
for a week after, Carl was seen only at the table, for he and his
father decided that as he had sinned against the happiness of the
family, he must forfeit the privileges of the family life for a while.
Everybody was glad when the week was over, Carl most of all.
No one else knew how lonely those evenings were, spent in his room, or
how he longed to join the group around the library fire.
Helen was deeply impressed by her brother's humble apology, and
decided that after all she wasn't glad she had spoiled his
composition, but very sorry she had been so meddlesome.
Carl lost no time in starting out to find Ikey and make friends.
It was on Monday morning, and they met just outside the gate.
"Hello!" said Carl.
"Hello!" replied Ikey.
"Know your Latin?"
"Hope so, I have studied it a lot," and they walked down street
together as if nothing had happened.
"Where were you going this morning when I met you?" Carl asked when
his neighbor came in, in the old way, with his books that afternoon.
"I was coming over for you. I was tired of it."
"Were you? Why, I was going for you!"