When Rosanna went home that night after supper at the Club and a long
drive up the River Road, she realized for the first time just how great
a sacrifice she _had_ made. All the Ports of the World to see, and now
she might never, never see them! A thousand things might come up to
prevent another such a journey.
She fairly ached as she thought it over. And she wondered how the family
would receive the news she was about to spring.
To her surprise very little was said. Her grandmother immediately wanted
to know if this was more Girl Scout business, and when Rosanna said yes,
she simply nodded as though that answer settled the question in a
perfectly satisfactory way. Cita said, "Oh, Rosanna!" looked as though
she was going to say something also, and stopped. Uncle Robert said,
"Well, I'll be swamfoozled!" Being "swamfoozled" had a strange effect.
Uncle Robert picked Rosanna up bodily, hugged her very hard, kissed her
very hard, and then sat her down hard in a chair. Then everyone just sat
and thought.
"That Claire kid is sure having a hard row to hoe," said Uncle Bob
finally.
"Worse than death," said Mrs. Horton, thinking of young Mrs. Maslin.
"The Colonel told me about it," said Cita.
Uncle Robert heaved a sigh. "Well, sweetness, I believe _absolutely_ in
you Girl Scouts living up to your promises exactly as it seems right to
you. If you feel that staying with this girl is of enough importance to
lose out on this trip overseas, I have confidence enough in your
judgment to know that it _is_ important. And if it is a case of helping
that poor kid through a pretty black place in her life, there is nothing
else for you to do. I reckon it will come out right in the end for both
of you. And I am proud of you, Rosanna."
With a funny formality he bowed and shook her hand. Rosanna somehow felt
well repaid. Uncle Robert never did anything like that unless he was
very, very much in earnest.
Very little else was talked about for the next three days and then other
things came up to crowd it out of the front of Rosanna's mind.
For one thing, Uncle Bob found that he could not go as soon as he
thought, and that put off the packing, so Rosanna had time to get used
to the idea of being left behind without all the misery of seeing the
trunks filled. Claire, who did not know what a sacrifice Rosanna was
about to make for her, made happy plans and dozens of them. Colonel
Maslin, surprised at Claire's sudden refusal to plan for the seashore
trip, insisted on a reason and was made very happy by the knowledge that
his cold and moody daughter really loved her unhappy father more than
she did her own pleasure.
Late in the afternoon of the third day Rosanna was called to the
telephone. It was a long distance call from Cincinnati and for a full
five minutes Dr. Branshaw talked to her.
Rosanna was very thoughtful when she hung up the receiver and went down
to ask Claire who was sitting in the rose arbor, if she was going to
drive to camp after her father. Claire was, and together they started.
On a sunny corner, up by the Reform School, they saw Mabel Brewster
standing.
She looked warm and dejected, and Claire stopped the car and asked the
young newspaper woman if she cared to ride with them.
Mabel accepted with very little enthusiasm, remarking as she did so that
she had to be back at the office at a quarter before six.
When they reached Camp, Rosanna slipped her hand in Claire's and said
coaxingly, "Claire dear, I want to see your father all by himself. Will
you mind?"
"A secret?" asked Claire, laughing. "Dear me, how exciting this is!
Shall I ever know what it is about?"
"If you are a good girl perhaps," said Rosanna, skipping toward the
Colonel's office. When she found herself seated facing Colonel Maslin
across the big flat-top desk, her courage failed her for a minute, then
she plunged into the story.
"I don't know if I have done right or not, Colonel Maslin," she said.
"All I thought was that Claire is a Girl Scout and we are bound to help
each other. And I did not stop to ask anyone's advice."
"What can it be?" said Colonel Maslin, smiling.
"Claire told me about her mother," resumed Rosanna. "And what she is
afraid of, you know; and I felt as though there must be _some_ way to
help. So Sunday morning, you know, we went to church; and I just sat
there and thought and _thought_, and then I prayed. I did not hear a
word of the sermon, but right away Doctor Ford just shouted at me, and
asked if _I_ had been trying to _do_ anything. And that I had better had
if I expected God to help me. But even then I didn't know what to do.
When we were writing letters after dinner, it all came to me. You know
the little Gwenny I told you about, and the doctor in Cincinnati who
made her perfectly well?
"Well, I wrote him a letter right then. I asked him to please cure Mrs.
Maslin as soon as he had time, because Claire is a Girl Scout. This
afternoon Doctor Branshaw telephoned me. He says he can't go ahead and
take care of Mrs. Maslin unless you tell him to. He can't have anything
to do with it at all unless you say so. But he knows the doctor where
Mrs. Maslin is, so he went up to see her and he asked me if I knew how
long since Mrs. Maslin fell."
"She never had a fall," said Colonel Maslin positively.
"Yes, she fell from her horse about six years ago," said Rosanna. "It
gave her fearful headaches."
"How do you know all this?" demanded the Colonel.
"Claire told me. She was with her mother but she promised not to tell on
account of worrying you, and it didn't amount to anything."
"Good heavens!" muttered Colonel Maslin. "Go on!"
"I told the Doctor about that, and he said if you wanted to consult him,
to telephone him."
Instead of answering, the Colonel took down the telephone receiver and
inquired about trains to Cincinnati. Then he rose, came to Rosanna, and
very solemnly kissed her on the forehead.
"I shall take the nine o'clock train for Cincinnati to see this doctor
of yours, and I think it would be well if we kept our hopes to ourselves
for awhile. It would not be kind to raise Claire's hopes again."
"That is what I thought," answered Rosanna. "She will just think our
talk is something about vacation. Oh, Colonel, I am so _sure_ that
Doctor Branshaw will cure Mrs. Maslin! If you had seen Gwenny, you would
feel just as I do, I am sure."
"Claire's mother is ill in a different way, my dear," said Colonel
Maslin sadly, "but we will hope for the best. As soon as I return from
Cincinnati, I will tell you just what the doctor says. I would try
anything in the world--but we must go now."
Together they went out to the car, Colonel Maslin looking so thoughtful
that Claire declared that she didn't see how they could either of them
bear to leave her out of the secret. They drove down to the
_Times-Leader_ office with Mabel, and on the way home Claire said that
Mabel was awfully excited. She had written a poem and had left a copy of
it on the Editor's desk.
"She says," said Claire, "that she knows it is good, and if the
_Times-Leader_ pays a dollar a line, the way lots of the magazines do,
she will get a hundred dollars for it."
"Great Scott!" said Colonel Maslin. "How long is it?"
"Twenty stanzas, five lines each," said Claire. "She made them four
lines each at first, then she put on a sort of refrain, on account of
the extra dollar."
"A very businesslike young poet," said Colonel Maslin. "I would like to
see a sample of that poem. I am not sure that I would have time to read
twenty stanzas, but I could get a good idea of it from eight or ten
verses, no doubt."
"Well, we will see it all, if it is published," said Claire. "Mabel says
she will not allow them to print it unless they pay her price for it.
She says good work is always worth its price."
Colonel Maslin shook his head solemnly. "That beats all!" he said. "I
suppose by now she has her check and is wondering what to do with the
one hundred dollars."
Nothing like that was happening to Mabel!
Since the fatal Sunday when she had refused to attend the office boy's
picnic, he had regarded her with such scorn that it was apparent to the
whole force. Mabel's small, shy overtures of friendship were simply
scoffed at. He did not leave her alone; he put himself in her way for
the pleasure it gave him to stalk off again, with a grin on his face and
his snub nose in the air. Reams of society notes which Mabel had
written, only to have them discarded by Miss Gere, he picked out of the
waste baskets and laid on her desk, saying loudly, "I think these are
yours, Miss Brewster."
When she went out at night, she found him hanging affectionately over
Frank's shoulder, but at the sight of her he turned and strutted off.
Mabel was sure that the City Editor was watching her more than he had at
first, but her conceit took that as a compliment. Miss Gere's manner had
not changed, but Mabel heard her sigh often.
Miss Gere _was_ sighing over Mabel, but Mabel did not guess that. She
would not have believed such a thing possible.
She did not like the manner of the office boy, however. It hurt her
pride. When she reached the door of the office, it was deserted
excepting for Jimmie who, with his face pressed close to the dingy
window pane, was watching something in the street below. In a corner
near the door a temporary cloak-room had been made by running up two
flimsy partitions. They were only six feet high but there was a place to
fix one's hair at a little glass and keep coats and hats out of the
dust. Mabel tiptoed quickly into this haven and decided to wait there
until someone else came in. She sat down noiselessly on the rickety
chair but immediately she heard steps and voices. Before she could rise
she heard a sentence that froze her. She forgot that listening is a
despicable trick. She just sat transfixed! The voice was that of the
Editor and he was evidently talking to Miss Gere about her, because he
said:
"Why, today I found a poem on my desk, with a letter. Why, Miss Gere,
that kid ought to be home under her mother's wing, and here she is
trying to be sophisticated, and writing drivel that would shame a child
six years old!"
Miss Gere laughed.
"Don't be so severe, Chief," she begged.
"I am _not_ severe!" he said savagely. "You are not fair with her. If
that girl has no more feeling for her mother and no appreciation of her
brother--Why, do you know that youngster sleeps outside her door every
night to take care of her, for fear someone might frighten her? She
_needs_ a good scare _I_ should say. Sleeps there on the floor!"
Miss Gere interrupted. "Not quite as bad as that," she said. "I happen
to know that there is a settee there."
"Well, what's a settee for a growing boy?" growled the Chief. "Well, if
she has no affection, no gratitude and evidently no natural love for her
own people and only an _ordinary_ brain, what's the use of bothering
with her? _I_ don't want to see her hanging around. I know she is under
your charge, Miss Gere, but I wish you would let me fire her. I want to
tell her to go home and ask her mother to forgive her, and see if she
can get a little sense into her head, and try to live and act according
to her years. Where in time did she get such notions?"
"She reads a good deal, I believe," said Miss Gere. "Cheap magazines and
silly novels."
"Well, fire her! As far as I go, the experiment is over!" He walked over
to his desk. "When she comes in tomorrow, send her to me. I will at
least have the comfort of telling her what I think of this poem. You
will hear the truth about your imagined talents for once, Miss Mabel
Brewster." He slammed down the top of his desk and stalked out without
saying good-night.
Jesse, quite pale under his freckles, came over to Miss Gere.
"My land!" he said. "What ails the Old Man? Somebody on the _Journal_
must 'a' got a scoop away from him. Say, he gave it to her good, didn't
he?"
"She deserves all that, Jesse, but he was rather wild about it."
"_I_ don't think she deserves such a call," said Jesse. "And I don't say
that because she ever fell for me, because she didn't. She hates me
worse'n a stingin' adder, but I bet she's a darned nice girl if it
wasn't for this foolishness about a career. She's a Girl Scout, too, and
has a whole sleeve full of Merit badges. You can't fake those, you know.
She's due to get a fierce bump, and if she doesn't get it here, she will
the next place. Gee, I'm glad I'm not her!"
"She _is_ a little goose," said Miss Gere, who had had a hard day and
was tired out. "And she has the sweetest mother in the world."
"Don't I know? I'll say I do!" said Jesse fervently. "She chaperoned a
picnic last week for us, and before the picnic was half over all of us
fellows had forgotten the picnic, and the girls and everything, and were
sitting around Mrs. Brewster, listening to her talk. I'll say she is all
right! And Miss M. Brewster _wouldn't go_! Well, I am sorry for her. She
must have a good streak somewhere. Are you going now, Miss Gere?"
They went out together, and Mabel could hear their voices echoing along
the empty corridor. She was shaking. Somehow she got out of the building
and turned toward Third Street. Frank was not in sight, having been
told by Jesse that his sister was not in the office. She hoped fervently
that she would not meet him. As she passed a grocery she remembered that
her larder was empty, but she did not want to eat ever again. She wanted
to get into her room and shut the door on the whole world.
_Her_ world had tumbled. As she made her way blindly past the closed
stores and around by the trolley terminal she felt a touch on her arm.
She turned, and a young rowdy fell into step with her, and pushed his
battered hat rakishly over his eyes.
"Hello, girlie!" he muttered in a hoarse voice. "Seen you comin' an'
made up my mind you hadn't no date. I like your looks. How's a sody?" He
took Mabel by the elbow.
She wrenched herself free, and with a gasp ran fleetingly up the street.
So this was what Frank had been saving her from! Such creatures as the
one who had just spoken to her! She looked behind, and saw to her relief
that the fellow was not trying to follow her. She choked down her sobs
and hurried on. When she reached the apartment she locked the door
behind her with trembling fingers, and for the first time looked under
beds and in clothes-presses; everywhere where an intruder might lurk.
But she was quite alone.