her that if she could find some conscientious woman, a lady, and a
person to whom what she could offer would be a consideration, who would
take charge of poor Allan, that she could die in peace."
"But why did you think of asking me?" the girl asked breathlessly. "And
why does she want me married to him? And how could you or she be sure
that I would not be as much of a hireling as any nurse she may have
now?"
Mrs. De Guenther answered the last two questions together.
"Mrs. Harrington's idea is, and I think rightly, that a conscientious
woman would feel the marriage tie, however nominal, a bond that would
obligate her to a certain duty toward her husband. As to why we selected
you, my dear, my husband and I have had an interest in you for some
years, as you know. We have spoken of you as a girl whom we should like
for a relative----"
"Why, isn't that strange?" cried Phyllis, dimpling. "That's just what
I've thought about you!"
Mrs. De Guenther flushed, with a delicate old shyness.
"Thank you, dear child," she said. "I was about to add that we have not
seen you at your work all these years without knowing you to have the
kind heart and sense of honor requisite to poor Angela's plan. We feel
sure you could be trusted to take the place. Mr. De Guenther has asked
his friend Mr. Johnston, the head of the library, such things as we
needed to supplement our personal knowledge of you. You have everything
that could be asked, even to a certain cheerfulness of outlook which
poor Angela, naturally, lacks in a measure."
"But--but what about _me_?" asked Phyllis Braithwaite a little
piteously, in answer to all this.
They seemed so certain she was what they wanted--was there anything in
this wild scheme that would make _her_ life better than it was as the
tired, ill-paid, light-hearted keeper of a roomful of turbulent little
foreigners?
"Unless you are thinking of marriage--" Phyllis shook her head--"you
would have at least a much easier life than you have now. Mrs.
Harrington would settle a liberal income on you, contingent, of course,
of your faithful wardership over Allan. We would be your only judges as
to that. You would have a couple or more months of absolute freedom
every year, control of much of your own time, ample leisure to enjoy it.
You would give only your chances of actual marriage for perhaps five
years, for poor Allan cannot live longer than that at his present state
of retrogression, and some part of every day to seeing that Allan was
not neglected. If you bestow on him half of the interest and effort I
have known of your giving any one of a dozen little immigrant boys, his
mother has nothing to fear for him."
Mr. De Guenther stopped with a grave little bow, and he and his wife
waited for the reply.
The Liberry Teacher sat silent, her eyes on her slim hands, that were
roughened and reddened by constant hurried washings to get off the dirt
of the library books. It was true--a good deal of it, anyhow. And one
thing they had not said was true also: her sunniness and accuracy and
strength, her stock-in-trade, were wearing thin under the pressure of
too long hours and too hard work and too few personal interests. Her
youth was worn down. And--marriage? What chance of love and marriage had
she, a working-girl alone, too poor to see anything of the class of men
she would be willing to marry? She had not for years spent six hours
with a man of her own kind and age. She had not even been specially in
love, that she could remember, since she was grown up. She did not feel
much, now, as if she ever would be. All that she had to give up in
taking this offer was her freedom, such as it was--and those fluttering
perhapses that whisper such pleasant promises when you are young. But,
then, she wouldn't be young so _very_ much longer. Should she--she put
it to herself crudely--should she wait long, hard, closed-in years in
the faith that she would learn to be absolutely contented, or that some
man she could love would come to the cheap boarding-house, or the little
church she attended occasionally when she was not too tired, fall in
love with her work-dimmed looks at sight, and--marry her? It had not
happened all these years while her girlhood had been more attractive and
her personality more untired. There was scarcely a chance in a hundred
for her of a kind lover-husband and such dear picture-book children as
she had seen Eva Atkinson convoying. Well--her mind suddenly came up
against the remembrance, as against a sober fact, that in her passionate
wishings of yesterday she had not wished for a lover-husband, nor for
children. She had asked for a husband who would give her money, and
leisure to be rested and pretty, and--a rose-garden! And here,
apparently, was her wish uncannily fulfilled.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" inquired the Destinies with
their traditional indifference. "We can't wait all night!"
She lifted her head and cast an almost frightened look at the De
Guenthers, waiting courteously for her decision. In reply to the look,
Mr. De Guenther began giving her details about the money, and the
leisure time, and the business terms of the contract generally. She
listened attentively. All that--for a little guardianship, a little
kindness, and the giving-up of a little piece of life nobody wanted and
a few little hopes and dreams!
Phyllis laughed, as she always did when there were big black problems to
be solved.
"After all, it's fairly usual," she said. "I heard last week of a woman
who left money along with her pet dog, very much the same way."
"Did you? Did you, dear?" asked Mrs. De Guenther, beaming. "Then you
think you will do it?"
The Liberry Teacher rose, and squared her straight young shoulders under
the worn net waist.
"If Mrs. Harrington thinks I'll do for the situation!" she said
gallantly,--and laughed again.
* * * * *
"It feels partly like going into a nunnery and partly like going into a
fairy-story," she said to herself that night as she wound her alarm.
"But--I wonder if anybody's remembered to ask the consent of the
groom!"
V
He looked like a young Crusader on a tomb. That was Phyllis's first
impression of Allan Harrington. He talked and acted, if a moveless man
can be said to act, like a bored, spoiled small boy. That was her
second.
Mrs. Harrington, fragile, flushed, breathlessly intense in her
wheel-chair, had yet a certain resemblance in voice and gesture to Mrs.
De Guenther--a resemblance which puzzled Phyllis till she placed it as
the mark of that far-off ladies' school they had attended together.
There was also a graceful, mincing white wolfhound which, contrary to
the accepted notion of invalids' faithful hounds, didn't seem to care
for his master's darkened sick-room at all, but followed the one sunny
spot in Mrs. Harrington's room with a wistful persistence. It was such a
small spot for such a long wolfhound--that was the principal thing which
impressed itself on Phyllis's frightened mind throughout her visit.
Mrs. De Guenther convoyed her to the Harrington house for inspection a
couple of days after she had accepted some one's proposal to marry Allan
Harrington. (Whether it counted as her future mother-in-law's proposal,
or her future trustee's, she was never sure. The only sure thing was
that it did not come from the groom.) She had borrowed a half-day from
the future on purpose, though she did not want to go at all. But the
reality was not bad; only a fluttering, emotional little woman who clung
to her hands and talked to her and asked useless questions with a
nervous insistence which would have been nerve-wearing for a steady
thing, but was only pitiful to a stranger.
You see strange people all the time in library work, and learn to place
them, at length, with almost as much accuracy as you do your books. The
fact that Mrs. Harrington was not long for this world did not prevent
Phyllis from classing her, in her mental card-catalogue, as a very
perfect specimen of the Loving Nagger. She was lying back, wrapped in
something gray and soft, when her visitors came, looking as if the
lifting of her hand would be an effort. She was evidently pitifully
weak. But she had, too, an ineradicable vitality she could summon at
need. She sprang almost upright to greet her visitors, a hand out to
each, an eager flood of words on her lips.
"And you are Miss Braithwaite, that is going to look after my boy?" she
ended. "Oh, it is so good of you--I am so glad--I can go in peace now.
Are you sure--sure you will know the minute his attendants are the least
bit negligent? I watch and watch them all the time. I tell Allan to ring
for me if anything ever is the least bit wrong--I am always begging him
to remember. I go in every night and pray with him--do you think you
could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my
poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you
are conscientious----"
At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation
firmly, if sweetly.
"Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De
Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest
not to fulfil my duties faithfully."
"Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of
mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was
concerned."
So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for
what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion
herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply.
Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation
with her son struck her as right after all.
"If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any
strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about
him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were
my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust
me."
"I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good
girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?"
"Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely.
"And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I
speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd
better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear
Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!"
"Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it
happens?"
Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up
like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through
it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side
of the situation she had engineered.
"Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost
gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door,
Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find
herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the
door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was
with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan
Harrington, lying white in the darkened place.
A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk
the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut
hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His
hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a
crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness
about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image
that she could have watched him for hours.
"Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young
lady we have been talking about so long."
The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again.
"Is she?" he said listlessly.
"Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half
out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and
insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her
life.
"No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd
rather not talk. I'm tired."
His mother seemed not at all put out.
"Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still,
however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence,
imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how
it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term
of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her
unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to
slap him.
Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went
away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let
herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively.
"May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and
had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted
into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the
white couch again.
"Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm
afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't
you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of
interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I
won't do it unless you really prefer it."
The heavy white lids half-lifted again.
"I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are
quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will
give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me."
He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time.
"Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to
go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back
on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing,
half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy
clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid."
She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his
reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and
unmoving.
Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow
she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a
sort of wistful gold-brown.
For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute
detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs.
Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went,
instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the
flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real
gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her
mother-in-law.
She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot
of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark.
"He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!"
VI
After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's
visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons',
and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had
finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing,
because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home,
nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that
she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her
mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for
meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the
wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight,
or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and
looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb.
She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she
had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some
money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had
earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she
knew, that she would have backed out.
"And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to
Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I
have on, any more than they do now."
Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was
determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse
for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other.
"My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty
frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The
rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in
this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well!
What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!"
And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose,
for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after
Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss
Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make
out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had
told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or
something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had
ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of
the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very
stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for
her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always
considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window.
"Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as
the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them,
expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is
not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I
remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she
was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her."
Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through
her friend's arm.
"I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if
you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would
have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can
only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently
voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long
time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think
cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre
enough now."
"Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you
may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's
life before he joins his mother."
"Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to
think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead,
where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately
considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be
only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the
clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She
could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet
so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her
guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the
afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture
of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise
velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale
green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white
crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of
one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this
was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie,
straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously
over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom.
"It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about
using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a
good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week.
There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all."
And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid
all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was
any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her
summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet
street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never
knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes
nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was
taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a
turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very
genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise
child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost
worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs.
Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift,
italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do,
how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his
wishes must be ascertained and followed.
"Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously.
"I don't even go in there now to cry."
She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her
son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could
feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous
driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not
very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs.
Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost
anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration
and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as
he was.
Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange
way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay
and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave
people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people
you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was
with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing.
They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost
invisible, charm.
She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure
the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great,
dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan.
She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a
distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be
as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure
her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded.
It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought
she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library
telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the
first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid
down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her
desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts
overlapped, and there was some one to take her place.
"Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's
clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have
arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a
suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your
boarding-place."