TOMMY FINNEMORE was seldom enthusiastic over anything except magic.
Everyone in the village liked the odd, lazy, careless lad; but though
he cherished no dislike for anyone, nearly everybody bored him, his
schoolmates as well as older people, and especially his parents.
Wherefore when he spoke in glowing terms of the stranger in the
Phillips house, it meant much to one who knew Tommy as Betty Pogany
knew him, and who regarded him not only as a scientific experimenter
and observer but also as something of a philosopher. And Tommy took
occasion to mention Mr. Meadowcroft every time he saw Betty. He wished
her to appreciate the value of her invitation and did not mind if she
realized that it came through him. And if she guessed that it was in a
sense a reward for her devotion to his magic, so much the better.
Accordingly, when Saturday arrived, Betty was in a state of unusual
excitement, though none would have guessed it from her appearance.
Perhaps it was better so. For it was childish excitement, and perhaps
childish emotion in a great girl like Betty would have made her the
Baby Giant Mrs. Phillips saw in her. However, it would have been far
more difficult for the girl to express her emotion than to hide it.
It was also characteristic of her that though she was all eagerness to
present herself at the Phillips house, she went first for her wonted
dreary, weekly visit to a friend and former schoolmate who had been
left blind six months earlier after a severe attack of scarlet fever.
Moreover, Betty went to the Harrows’ cottage first, not because she
wished to have the visit over and out of the way, but because she
wanted to make sure of that whatever happened.
Betty lived in a large comfortable house on the main street not far
from where it became the highway leading to Paulding. Tommy lived in a
lane which branched off one-eighth of a mile nearer the post office,
and Rose Harrow in a street meeting the avenue on the opposite side
just above the Phillips estate. Mr. Harrow was a carpenter and had
built the cottage, which had many gables and porches and a great deal
of ornamentation which Aunt Sarah referred to as “gingerbread.” Betty
went round to a side porch which looked like a little pagoda, and
knocked. Mrs. Harrow came to the door.
Mrs. Harrow had changed greatly since her daughter’s tragic misfortune.
Formerly a pretty, cheerful, youthful-appearing woman, she had grown
thin and worn, and bluish shadows under her large dark eyes made them
look as over-large as they were solemn. She always seemed on the verge
of bursting into tears, and always whispered at the door as if someone
within were desperately ill.
“Rosy didn’t sleep very well last night, Betty; she tossed and turned,”
she whispered warningly; “so you’d better only stay half an hour
to-day. And do be very careful about mentioning anything that might
excite her. I couldn’t think of letting anyone else come in, but you
are so mature that I can trust you. Being such a great girl, I almost
forget you aren’t a woman.”
Betty’s face didn’t express how she hated being whispered to. She
promised solemnly to be careful, though she wondered what she should
talk about. She was never allowed to mention school, for that would
make Rose feel very badly, nor to have anything to say about the other
girls or flowers or colors or games. There wasn’t much left to talk
about except Tommy’s magic, and probably Mrs. Harrow would think that
exciting. She could read aloud, but Rose’s mother did that by the hour
and another voice wouldn’t make much difference.
She stifled a sigh as Mrs. Harrow ushered her into the familiar
sitting-room, silently and solemnly as one leads a visitor into a
sick-chamber. Rose sat in a big, soft chair, leaning back listlessly
against the cushions. Exceedingly pretty and vivacious before her
illness, the girl was thin to emaciation now, shockingly pale and
forlornly apathetic. Her big, dark, mournful-looking eyes gave no
indication that they were sightless except that they stared straight
before her; the enlarged pupils only made them seem darker and more
brilliant. Her abundant dark crinkly hair, which she had worn parted
at the side with piquant effect and adorned with huge, bright-colored
bows, was strained unbecomingly back from her brow, braided tightly,
and tied at the end with a bit of string. She wore a shapeless
dressing-gown and ugly slippers.
She had been the liveliest, the best dressed, and one of the prettiest
girls in the grammar school; and the change struck Betty anew each
week, though she had seen Rose every Saturday since the first of April.
She could scarcely control her voice, but Mrs. Harrow’s warning
presence aided her. After some rather forced talk about a nest the
robins were building in the portico over her front door, which she had
described at some length a week earlier, she came to a halt. In a sort
of desperation, she proposed that they should sit out in the piazza for
a little.
“It’s very mild out, Mrs. Harrow,” she added in her mature way.
“Yes, I know, but her papa’s going to take her out in the buggy when he
comes home, and I don’t know’s she’d better be out now, Betty. What do
you think, Rosy?” her mother inquired anxiously.
“I don’t care,” said Rose languidly.
“Then you may as well stay right here, for the windows are open,”
Mrs. Harrow decided with evident relief. “I’ll change you into the
rocking-chair so’s you’ll get more breeze.” And she led the girl very
gently and carefully to a seat nearer the window and established her
in it with an excessive amount of fussing. Then, deciding to take
advantage of Betty’s presence to finish some work in the kitchen, she
left the room with a farewell glance of warning to the girl.
Conversation limped along a little and then halted. It occurred to
Betty to propose to sing. Rose was very fond of music, and assented
with rather less than her wonted indifference; and taking her place
at the pianoforte, Betty sang all the cheerful songs she could think
of. Just as she was obliged to resort to hymns, Mrs. Harrow returned.
Though the effect of the music appeared to be soothing, she watched
her daughter anxiously and presently began making signs at Betty and
pointing to the clock. With some hesitation, Betty finished a stanza,
then went to her friend and took her hand.
“I guess I’d better be going now, Rose dear,” she said gently; and as
Rose clung to her, bent and kissed her. On a sudden the blind girl
burst into tears, and Mrs. Harrow hurried Betty off with scant ceremony.
“I suppose it was the music,” said Betty sorrowfully to herself as she
went along. “Dear me, I begin to dread next Saturday already. I don’t
know what I can do or say. O, and now, here’s this lame gentleman.
I must be careful with him, too. I mustn’t speak of legs or arms or
mention any sort of sports. Well! at least I can talk about sunsets and
how things look, and school, if he should be interested. And--here I am
already, and--I hope Mrs. Phillips isn’t at home.”