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The Pleasant Street Partnership
BOOKS BY MARY F. LEONARD.
* * * * *
=THE SPECTACLE MAN.= A STORY OF THE MISSING
BRIDGE. 266 pages. Cloth. $1.00.
=MR. PAT'S LITTLE GIRL.= A STORY OF THE
ARDEN FORESTERS. 322 pages. Cloth. $1.50.
=THE PLEASANT STREET PARTNERSHIP.= A
NEIGHBORHOOD STORY. 269 pages. Cloth.
[Illustration: A SMALL BOY . . . STOOD SURVEYING THEM WITH GREAT
COMPOSURE]
The
Pleasant Street Partnership
_A Neighborhood Story_
* * * * *
By
Mary F. Leonard
_Illustrated by_
Frank T. Merrill
[Illustration]
W. A. WILDE COMPANY
BOSTON CHICAGO
_Copyright, July, 1903._
BY W. A. WILDE COMPANY.
_All rights reserved._
* * * * *
THE PLEASANT STREET PARTNERSHIP.
=To Charlotte=
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A WAVE OF IMPROVEMENT 11
II. WHAT SHALL WE CALL IT? 21
III. AN ALIEN 24
IV. MISS WILBUR 35
V. THE SHOP 42
VI. IN THE EYES OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD 50
VII. A SPOOL OF TWIST 60
VIII. A MATTER OF LOYALTY 72
IX. IN THE SHOP 82
X. ALEXINA 90
XI. THE LAST STRAW 98
XII. THE DISCOVERY 107
XIII. AFTERWARD 115
XIV. MRS. MILLARD DEPARTS 121
XV. GIANT DESPAIR 129
XVI. CHARLOTTE 138
XVII. AN EVENING CALL 146
XVIII. THE ADVENTURES OF A BIRTHDAY CAKE 156
XIX. TEA AND TALK 166
XX. MERRY HEARTS 175
XXI. THE RICH MISS CARPENTER 185
XXII. VALENTINES 192
XXIII. NEIGHBORS 203
XXIV. WAYLAND 215
XXV. THE PRICE OF A BOND 222
XXVI. NORAH'S ARK 229
XXVII. AN ANNIVERSARY 236
XXVIII. WHAT IT MEANT 248
XXIX. A LETTER 253
XXX. CHANGES 262
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
"A small boy . . . stood surveying them with great composure"
_Frontispiece_ 17
"Securely entrenched behind the lace curtain, she levelled her
glass" 61
"She sank into a chair" 109
"James Mandeville's taste was exacting" 194
The
Pleasant Street Partnership
=A Neighborhood Story=
CHAPTER FIRST
A WAVE OF IMPROVEMENT
Pleasant Street was regarded by the Terrace as merely an avenue
of approach to its own exclusive precincts. That Pleasant Street
came to an end at the Terrace seemed to imply that nothing was to
be gained by going farther; and if you desired a quiet, substantial
neighborhood,--none of your showy modern houses on meagre lots, but
spacious dwellings, standing well apart from each other on high
ground,--you found it here.
It could not be denied that the Terrace was rather far down town.
Around it the busy city was closing in, with its blocks of commonplace
houses, its schools and sanitariums, its noisy car lines, until it
seemed but a question of a few years when it would be engulfed in a
wave of mediocrity. Fashion had long ago turned her face in another
direction, and yet in a way the Terrace held its own. It could boast
of some wealth, and more distinguished grandfathers were to be heard
of within its small area than in the length and breadth of Dean
Avenue.
Its residents felt for each other that friendliness born of long
association. Some of the best people of the town had built their homes
here between thirty and forty years ago, and a comparison of
directories would have shown a surprising proportion of the old names
still represented.
Perhaps no one thing contributes more to a sense of dignity than long
residence in one house, and it was natural enough that the Terrace
should shrug its shoulders at the row of toy dwellings that sprang up
almost magically on Pleasant Street. That this thoroughfare, so long
given over to side yards and vacant lots, was showing a disposition to
improve, was a matter of no concern to the Terrace until unexpectedly
its own territory was invaded.
On the northeast corner of the Terrace and Pleasant Street there had
long stood a cottage. In the midst of a large lot, with fine
shade-trees around it and a beautifully kept lawn, it had never seemed
out of place among its more pretentious neighbors; but now upon the
death of its owner the property was divided into three lots and
offered for sale. What this might mean was at first hardly realized,
until one day men were discovered to be at work on the corner, digging
a foundation.
Upon inquiry it developed that a drug store was to be built. The
neighborhood did not like this, but felt on the whole it might have
been worse,--this conclusion, as Wayland Leigh pointed out later on,
being founded on the mistaken hypothesis that all drug stores are
pretty much alike.
It happened that the druggist had for a brother a young and aspiring
architect, who conceived the idea of putting up a building in keeping
with a residence district. The result was a sloping-roofed structure
whose shingled second story projected over the first, which was of
concrete. It might have been a rural station, or post-office, or a
seaside cottage, but a drug store it did not remotely suggest.
The store opened on Pleasant Street; to reach the private entrance you
must go in from the Terrace, where there was a square of lawn and a
maple tree, relic of better days.
The worst of it was its utter incongruousness, the best--so Alexina
Russell said--that it invariably made you smile, and anything in this
weary world that caused a smile was not wholly bad. Miss Sarah Leigh
pretended to admire it, and declared she wanted to meet the architect.
Of all things she liked originality. Mrs. Millard heard her
disdainfully. Any departure from tradition was objectionable in her
eyes, and she was deficient in a sense of humor. Judge Russell
complained that now St. Mark's had taken to high-church customs, and
the Terrace was degenerating, it was time for him to be put away in
Spring Hill Cemetery.
Pretty Madelaine, his granddaughter, looked longingly toward Dean
Avenue, being divided between a desire for its new splendors and a
complacent consciousness that it was something of a distinction in
these days to live in the house where your father was born. Alexina,
her sister, treated this with scorn. She loved the shabby old house
for other reasons.
In spite of the original intentions of the builder, fate decreed that
this much-talked-of place was not to be a drug store after all, and
early in the summer, before it was finished, it was advertised for
rent.
The plastering stage was beginning when the agent in charge one day
appeared conducting a young woman over the premises. If the agent's
manner revealed some slight curiosity concerning her, it was not to be
wondered at, for it was more than probable he had never before seen so
charming a person in the guise of a possible shopkeeper.
Her bearing was dignified and businesslike, and if a smile hovered
about her lips as they explored the odd little house, it did not go
beyond the bounds of a polite interest. At length she seated herself
on an empty nail keg in the shop, and became absorbed in thought. The
agent leaned against the door frame and waited.
"I shall want a few changes made if I lease it," she announced
suddenly, after some minutes of silence.
The agent started as her eyes met his. "Oh, certainly," he replied, as
if ready to agree without hearing what they were. On second thought he
added that the architect was at that moment coming up the street, and
the best plan, perhaps, would be to submit her wishes to him.
To this she graciously assented, and he left her. When he was gone,
the young woman's dignity relaxed. She smiled broadly; she even
laughed. "How ever did it happen!" she exclaimed.
She produced a tape-line and made measurements, then she stood with
the tip of her tongue touching her upper lip. "I do wish Marion could
see it," she said. "She will never believe what a fascinatingly funny
place it is."
She was surveying the neighborhood from the front door when the agent
returned, accompanied by the architect.
She wanted very little, she announced reassuringly; a fireplace in the
shop was the chief thing.
The agent suggested that it would be far more expensive to heat the
room with an open grate than with an anthracite base burner. Whereupon
she explained that an open fire was part of her stock in trade, and it
would be impossible to carry on her line of business without one.
The agent ventured to inquire what her line was, and she answered with
a twinkle in her eye, "Notions."
The architect was doubtful about the fireplace, but not unwilling to
discuss it, and they grew so friendly over the matter that the agent
retired to the door and stared gloomily up the street.
From the fireplace the discussion turned to other things. As a
possible tenant, the young lady consulted the architect about the best
color for the walls, so adroitly insinuating her own ideas as to the
proper stain for the woodwork that they seemed his own.
While they talked, a small boy in a gingham apron, with a sailor hat
on the back of his curly head and a gray flannel donkey under his arm,
wandered in and stood surveying them with great composure.
"Who's going to live here?" he presently asked, his brown eyes upon
the lady.
She met his gaze with a smile that drew him a step nearer, but caused
no break in his seriousness. "I am thinking of it," she said, adding,
with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes, "if they will let me have a
fireplace in this room. Shouldn't you want a fireplace if you were
going to live here?"
He nodded, "'Cause if you didn't, Santa Claus couldn't come."
The lady turned gravely to the architect. "That is a consideration
which had not occurred to me, but it is an important one. I shall not
take it without the fireplace." Her manner said there was no need for
further discussion.
"What is your name?" she asked the small boy.
He shook his head.
"Do you mean you haven't any?"
Another more vigorous shake.
"Perhaps you have forgotten it?"
"No, I haven't."
"Why not tell, then? I am always willing to tell mine."
"What is it?" he inquired with great promptness.
"But I don't think it is fair to ask me when you won't tell yours."
"You said you would."
The lady laughed. "Very well, I am Miss Pennington."
The small boy pondered this for a moment, then announced with much
distinctness, "My name is James Mandeville Norton."
"Well, James, I am glad to meet you. I see you are a fair-minded
person. Do you live in this neighborhood?"
James Mandeville pointed in the direction of the row of toy houses on
Pleasant Street, and said he lived over there.
"Then if they give me a fireplace, you and I will be neighbors."
They were standing in the door, just outside which, on the sidewalk,
was a velocipede. This James Mandeville now mounted with gravity. He
did not express a hope that she might come to live near him, but there
was friendliness in the tone in which he said good-by as he rode
away.
"Good-by Infinitesimal James," replied the lady.
"My name's James Mandeville," he called back.
In the course of a day or two the matter of the fireplace was adjusted
and the lease signed. Norah Pennington was the tenant's name, and her
references all the most timorous landlord could ask.
On the afternoon of the day on which the transaction was closed Miss
Pennington might have been seen walking along the Terrace, gazing
about with interested eyes.
"What dear old houses," she said to herself. "I am sure Marion will
like it here. This might be Doubting Castle, and there is Palace
Beautiful, a little out of repair."
She stood for a moment on the corner in the full blaze of the summer
sun. The happy courage of youth seemed to radiate from her. There was
a vitality, a sparkle in her glance, in the waves of her sunny hair,
in her smile, as with a slight gesture that embraced the Terrace, and
Pleasant Street, too, she said half aloud, "Good-by till September."
CHAPTER SECOND
WHAT SHALL WE CALL IT?
"And now what shall we call it?" Norah asked.
"Call it?" echoed Marion.
They sat on the rocks beside a mountain stream that filled the air
with its delicious murmur.
"Certainly, everything has to have a name. Shall it be _Carpenter and
Pennington, Dry-goods_?"
Marion removed the dark glasses she wore, turning a pair of serious
eyes upon her companion. "How absurd," she said.
"No," insisted Norah, taking the glasses and adjusting them on her own
nose, "not at all. It is businesslike. Can't you see it?--a large
black sign with gilt letters."
"Give me my glasses, and don't be silly. It is not to be a dry-goods'
store in the first place, and above all things let us be original. If
such signs are customary, ours must be different."
"Here speaks wisdom. Here the instinct of the born advertiser betrays
itself. Let us think." Norah buried her face in her hands.
Marion watched her with a half smile, then as an expression of
weariness stole into her face she restored the glasses and sighed, as
with her elbow supported on a ledge of rock she rested her chin in her
palm and looked down on the swift running water. She was extremely
slender, and it was easy to guess she was also tall, and that, seen at
her best, she was a person of grace and elegance rather than beauty.
"I have it," Norah cried presently. "_The Pleasant Street Shop._"
"Or _The Neighborhood Shop_," Marion suggested.
"No, let us have Pleasant Street in it. It seems a good omen that the
street is called Pleasant."
Marion smiled. "Have you told Dr. Baird?" she asked.
"Yes. He said I should be a novelist, and confine my wild-goose
schemes to paper."
"_The Notions of Norah_ would be a taking title," laughed Marion, the
weariness gone from her face.
"But as I told him, 'Deeds, not Dreams,' is my motto, and I'll show
him if it is a wild-goose scheme. I am convinced that deep down in his
heart he was interested; and although he made no promises, I believe
we may count on him."
CHAPTER THIRD
AN ALIEN
With the swiftness of a small tornado, Charlotte descended the long,
straight stairway only to sink in a heap on the broad step at the
bottom. "Oh, dear!" she said, her chin in her hand, "Oh, _dear_!"
A ray of sunlight falling through the side-lights of the door with
their pattern of fleur-de-lis on a crimson ground, cast a rosy stain
on the neutral-tinted carpet and brought to notice a few atoms of dust
on one of the rosewood chairs that stood to attention on either side
of the tall hat-rack. The wall against which they were ranged was done
in varnished paper to represent oak panelling, and on it hung one or
two steel engravings.
"If only something were crooked!" Charlotte sighed.
Now at Aunt Cora's nothing was straight. Etchings and water colors
fought for the honors of the walls, and chased each other up the side
of the stairway. Tables and shelves were crowded with trifles, costly
and otherwise, the chairs were deep and cushiony, except now and then
a gilt toy which was distinctly for show; the divans were smothered
with gay pillows. In contrast this house in Kenton Terrace seemed
unbearably stiff and prim.
Why had not Uncle Landor allowed her to stay with him instead of
sending her so far away? Perhaps, after all, he had not wanted her.
Nobody wanted her--dreadful thought!--unless it were Aunt Cora; and
Charlotte knew in her heart Uncle Landor was wise in deciding she was
not to travel about with Aunt Cora any more.
Since she had been taken away, a child of seven, her memories of this
southern town had grown vague, and it seemed strange to hear Uncle
Landor refer to it as her home. He also said it was the sort of a
background she needed for the next few years, until she should be
ready for college. After that he promised, if she still wished it, she
might come and keep house for him.
But it would be so long. How could she stand it? If only she might
have gone to boarding-school. Why had Aunt Caroline and Aunt Virginia
agreed to her coming? They did not like her. Nothing she did pleased
them. Charlotte looked about for a refuge where she might fling
herself down and cry her heart out. She rose and stole on tiptoe into
the drawing-room.
Here the same absolute order prevailed. She felt sure the carved
chairs and sofas, with their covering of satin brocade, had occupied
these same positions ever since they first appeared on the scene when
Aunt Caroline made her début, more than thirty years ago. Fancy Aunt
Caroline having a party! Aunt Virginia had described it to her, but it
sounded unreal. Thirty years ago was too far in the past. Charlotte's
own mother had been a little girl then.
The buhl cabinet near the window, the inlaid chess table in the corner
beside the white marble mantel, even the folds of the handsome lace
curtains, seemed petrified into their present positions. For thirty
years the mantle mirror had been reflecting the Dresden clock and
candelabra, and the crystal pendants of the chandelier; the face and
figure that confronted Charlotte in the pier glass was, however,
something new and alien.
It was a brown face with blue eyes that danced with mischief or
flashed with anger, or grew soft with entreaty beneath their black
lashes, as occasion might demand. Her hair, too, was brown, and
shadowed her face in a wavy mass held most objectionable by her aunts.
That a girl barely fourteen should have decided views on the subject
of dress, and insist upon wearing what she called a pompadour and
having her belts extremely pointed in front, was surprising to Aunt
Virginia, shocking to Aunt Caroline.
As she stood facing her own image, the sound of sweeping skirts on the
stairway sent her flying behind the half-open door.
"What has become of Charlotte?" she heard Aunt Virginia ask.
"I am sure I don't know," responded Aunt Caroline.
"And what is more, you don't care," added Charlotte, under her breath.
When the door had closed behind them, she ran to the window and
watched as they went down the walk and entered the waiting carriage.
Two very charming ladies, an unprejudiced observer might have
pronounced them. A little precise in their elegance, perhaps, but
pleasant to look upon, especially Aunt Caroline, from head to foot a
shimmer of silver gray. Aunt Caroline was Mrs. Millard, the widow of
an army officer, and Charlotte had expected to like her best; but
after all, Aunt Virginia, who was only Miss Wilbur, had proved the
least objectionable.
She was not so handsome, but seemed kinder; and when she laughed,
Charlotte always felt a little thrill of sympathy. When Aunt Caroline
laughed, it was in a reserved, controlled manner. Charlotte had
arrived at the conclusion that Aunt Virginia stood in awe of her
sister; and this might have been a bond of union if it had been
possible to become really acquainted, but Aunt Virginia held aloof.
It was almost as if she were afraid of Charlotte, too. Still there was
something rather nice about her. Charlotte hardly realized how often
she returned to this opinion.
When they had driven away, she went to the library,--a less formidable
apartment than the drawing-room,--and making herself comfortable in an
arm-chair by the window, began to consider what she should say to
Cousin Francis, for she had decided that pouring out her soul in a
letter would, after all, be more satisfactory than tears.
She looked out across the garden to where, on the other side of
Pleasant Street, stood the little corner shop with its gray-green
shingles, its upper windows all aglow in the afternoon sunshine.
Before it stood a furniture van, and Charlotte idly watched the
unloading.
She had made up her mind that life here was going to be hopelessly
dull. She swung her foot listlessly, and, forgetting her letter,
thought of Aunt Cora's home in a gay little suburb where something was
always going on,--teas, dinners, receptions, where, although in the
background, she had had her share of the excitement.
At the Landors', where she sometimes spent several weeks while Aunt
Cora, worn by her strenuous social life, went down to Atlantic City to
recuperate, it was much quieter. And still she loved to be there. The
elder Mr. Landor was a busy lawyer, his son Francis a literary person,
and they lived in a tall, brown stone house in the old part of
Philadelphia, among any number of others exactly like it. It was a
man's house, overflowing with books and pictures, and yet showing the
lack of a woman's presence. Charlotte was very fond of her guardian
and his son, who petted and made much of her on the occasions of her
visits. She was conscious, however, that Uncle Landor was not quite
satisfied with her. He had a way of looking at her long and steadily
through his glasses, as if he were studying her.
Cousin Frank, perhaps because he had no responsibility in the matter,
treated her as a comrade in a way that was flattering. She was, of
course, an ardent admirer of his stories and verses, and upon one or
two rare occasions had been made blissfully happy by being allowed to
listen to one fresh from the typewriter. But most interesting of all
had been a discovery made on her last visit in the spring. Between the
leaves of a manuscript she had been allowed to read she found some
verses beginning:--
"I love her whether she love me or no,
Just as I love the roses where they blow
In fragrant crimson there beyond the wall."
There was something more about roses being sweet although out of
reach, and teaching a lesson to his heart; but before she had quite
grasped the idea, Francis took the paper away from her with an
exclamation of impatience.
"Why should Francis have minded, unless those verses meant something
personal?" Charlotte wondered. As she thought it over, she recalled
some remarks of Aunt Cora's about a little water-color portrait of a
child in Uncle Landor's study.
"Who is this?" Mrs. Brent asked one day, pausing before it.
"That is old Peter Carpenter's granddaughter May, when she was ten
years old. He had two portraits done of her, and liking the other
better, gave this to me not long before he died."
Aunt Cora said, "Ah!" and studied it with interest. "So this is _the_
Miss Carpenter, is it? I presume Francis has a more recent likeness."
"I do not know that he has. We see very little of May in these days.
She is a great lady." Uncle Landor spoke as one who dismisses a
subject.
Then one rainy afternoon Mrs. Wellington, the Landors' housekeeper,
entertained Charlotte with stories of this same young lady who, it
turned out, lived just across the street in a house distinguished from
the rest of the block by a garden at one side. According to Mrs.
Wellington she was beautiful and rich, and if one more touch were
needed to make her an irreproachable heroine, the long illness from
which she was then beginning to recover supplied it. Watching at the
window, Charlotte had the pleasure of seeing her carried out for a
drive once or twice, but she never had a glimpse of her face.
Putting two and two together, she became quite sure that this Miss
Carpenter was the rose which was out of reach; but though she was on
the point of it several times, she never quite dared to question
Cousin Francis about her.
Charlotte had woven a charming romance with these slender threads,
being at the romantic age when real life is seen beneath the
lime-light of fairyland. Was it any wonder things seemed dull here in
Kenton Terrace?
These entertaining memories being for the time exhausted, her thoughts
turned to the grievance that had sent her downstairs with such
vehemence,--a thrilling, fascinating story taken from her at the most
critically exciting point.
"I cannot allow you to read novels when you are going to school," Aunt
Caroline had said; adding, "and this book is not at all the sort of
thing for a little girl."
At the recollection Charlotte put her hand to her hair. Little girl,
indeed! When people wished to be disagreeable, they reminded you that
you were a little girl.
"I have always read what I pleased," she insisted, relinquishing the
book unwillingly.
"I cannot understand Mrs. Brent's allowing it; but however that may
have been, while you are with us your Aunt Virginia and I will
exercise some supervision over what you read."
Questions about the owner of the novel followed, and here was another
grievance. It had been lent to Charlotte by one of her schoolmates, a
girl with fluffy yellow hair and many rings, whom after a week's
acquaintance,--to use her own phrase,--she simply adored. Her name was
Lucile Lyle--in itself adorable--and the intimacy with her had
resulted in Charlotte becoming Carlotta.
"Lyle?" Aunt Virginia repeated questioningly.
"Don't you remember Maggie McKay, Virginia? This is her daughter," was
Aunt Caroline's reply. To Charlotte she said, "To-morrow I shall give
you this book to return, and while of course I wish you to be polite,
I do not wish you to be intimate with this girl."
"I don't care what she says, I shall read it, and be as intimate as I
please with Lucile," Charlotte told herself; which goes to show that
Mr. Landor was right when he felt she needed different training.
And now having nothing else to do, she wandered to the piano, and
finding an old music book, turned its pages, playing snatches of
"Monastery Bells" and "Listen to the Mocking-bird." She was putting a
good deal of feeling into "I'm a Pilgrim, and I'm a Stranger," when a
sound behind caused her to start.
"You have a pretty touch, my dear," said Aunt Virginia. "We have been
out to Marat's greenhouse, and I have brought you some roses." She
laid them on the piano as she spoke, and slipped away before Charlotte
could make any response.
Was it a peace offering?
CHAPTER FOURTH
MISS WILBUR
Miss Wilbur was perplexed to the point of annoyance, a state of mind
most unusual with her.
She was by nature a serene person, quite content with her easy,
uneventful life. The outside world she faced with a timid reserve
which had not diminished with years and indulgence, finding her life
in her family circle and the round of small cares, her flowers and her
embroidery. She disliked responsibility, and except in what she
considered matters of principle was inclined to distrust her own
judgment. She was full of family loyalty, and had been satisfied to
look on from her place in the background, while her more clever and
ambitious sisters and brothers one by one passed from the home into
the world.
Naturally enough she had not married. She had not cared to, and had
never given any one the opportunity to combat this indifference. Most
people liked her, but she had few intimate friends, having apparently
no desire to be singled out in any way, and yet she was warmly
affectionate. In truth Miss Virginia was an elusive sort of person,
sometimes allowing a glimpse of herself in all her unselfish
sweetness, and then, presto! her reserve had taken alarm, the vision
was gone.
She was conventional, made so by her environment; yet her failings,
many of them, so her sister Caroline declared, were those of an
untrained child. She was careless,--as Charlotte had noticed, she
sometimes forgot the fastenings of her skirt; when she wrote, she
invariably inked her fingers; and she was constantly losing or
breaking her glasses. She treated these matters lightly herself, but
tried to conceal them from her sister.
In their girlhood this sister, a few years older than she, had been
the object of her deepest devotion. Caroline was beautiful and clever,
and to question her opinions never entered Miss Virginia's mind. It
puzzled and hurt her loyal heart that she could not quite get back to
the old attitude when Caroline returned to her home a widow. She
submitted when Caroline assumed command of the household; but after
their father's death relieved her of the position of devoted nurse,
Miss Virginia found life a little empty; and what made it the harder
was that she no longer felt herself altogether in sympathy with her
sister's opinions and methods.
Her aspirations had never gone beyond making home pleasant for
somebody, and now even this was taken from her. The things that most
absorbed Mrs. Millard were of little interest to her; she began to
feel useless and unhappy. She was a failure. Life had somehow slipped
by unawares. She felt old at forty-eight.
Above everything she disliked change, and the sale of the corner lot
and the building of the shop caused her many a pang. In the midst of
all this disquietude Mr. Landor's letter arrived.
"I have most agreeable recollections of your home," he wrote, "and I
realize I am asking a good deal of you, for our little niece is a
somewhat tumultuous person. She has suffered from both over indulgence
and neglect. She needs a different atmosphere, and much in the way of
training that her old guardian cannot give her, so he ventures for
Helen's sake to ask if you will take charge of her daughter for a few
years."
This half sister, twelve years younger than herself, had come and gone
like some happy dream in Miss Virginia's life. She had grown up under
the care of her grandmother, almost a stranger in her father's house,
to which she returned in her gay young girlhood, and for the one time
in her experience Miss Wilbur had been swept into a whirl of gayety as
Helen's chaperon. Her charge had married early, and after a few years
went abroad with her husband and little girl in search of health she
was never to find.
The thought of Helen's child aroused memories both bright and
sorrowful, but at least here was an opportunity to be useful again. It
would be pleasant to have a child in the house, Miss Virginia thought,
studying the photograph of Charlotte at seven, bright-eyed and demure.
The tall, well-grown girl had been a surprise to her aunts. Her
assured manner and pronounced style of dress were not exactly what
one desired in a girl of fourteen. At sight of her Miss Virginia had
been seized with a fit of shyness; in consequence the reins had been
taken by Mrs. Millard, who was not shy and was, besides, a born
manager.
Miss Virginia felt a sympathy for Charlotte, even while disapproving
of her; she felt her sister to be too peremptory. In the matter of the
novel it would have been better to allow Charlotte to finish it, with
the understanding that it was to be the last. What could be more
aggravating than to have to give up a story with only two-thirds of it
read? It was an interesting story, too. Miss Virginia herself sat up
till midnight to finish it. Some time perhaps she would tell Charlotte
the end. Then she reminded herself that this would never do.
It was no use talking to Caroline, and yet Mr. Landor had asked _her_
to take charge of Charlotte, and Caroline had no right to assume
command. Miss Virginia wished they had not agreed to take the child.
She paced back and forth on the front porch one afternoon, thinking of
all this and of the peaceful days of the past, feeling that dulness
was better than problems like these. Across Pleasant Street was the
little shop already showing signs of habitation. As she stood idly
with her hand on the rail, a boy came up the walk and handed her what
at first glance she thought was a note, but it proved on investigation
to be an announcement.
THE PLEASANT STREET SHOP
WILL OPEN
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER SECOND
Dainty Turnovers Pretty Draperies
Ribbons Bright Chintzes
Baskets
Pottery
Needles and Pins and Other Small Matters
A Specialty.
"How absurd!" thought Miss Virginia. "A shop of this sort in the
Terrace!"
"Have you heard about the new shop, Miss Virginia?" called Alexina
Russell from the gate.
Miss Wilbur held up the card. "I am just reading the announcement. Who
can be starting it? and isn't it too bad?" As she spoke, she descended
the steps and joined the young girl.
"It is the funniest little place I ever saw," answered Alex. "I
suppose it is not nice to have shops springing up in the
neighborhood, but--sometimes I wish I were going to keep a shop."
"My dear! I trust you will never have to do that."
"Haven't you ever felt that you would like to be doing something?--to
be in things--part of the real working world?" Alexina spoke with
fervor.
"I never wanted to keep a shop, I am sure," answered Miss Wilbur.
CHAPTER FIFTH
THE SHOP
James Mandeville did not forget the pretty young lady who said she was
coming to be his neighbor if they would give her a fireplace. He had
kept an eye on the shop all summer, and he knew there was a fireplace.
He saw plasterers, carpenters, and painters come and go as he rode
back and forth on his velocipede at a rate of speed altogether out of
proportion to the effort put forth by his plump legs, bare and brown
above his socks. From beneath the brim of his old sailor hat he looked
on with solemn intentness. He was on excellent terms with the workmen,
and often carried home a whole armful of treasures--odd-shaped pieces
of wood, curly shavings, and bits of tile.
At length all was done; the square of lawn on the Terrace side was
sodded, and from the street in front of the shop all the débris was
carried away. Surely, she would come now!
Some rainy days followed, and when the weather permitted James
Mandeville and his velocipede to be abroad again, the place showed
unmistakable signs of occupancy. There were muslin curtains in the
upstairs windows, and, peeping in through the glass door of the shop,
he saw packing-boxes. At another time a woman stood on the curbstone
buying vegetables from a wagon, but she was far removed from the lady
of his dreams. His heart fell.
The door of the shop stood open the next time he passed. James
Mandeville halted, letting one foot slip along the pavement as a
brake. Under his left arm, pressed close to his linen blouse, was a
tin horn. At this moment a lady came to the door and looked out. She
was not the lady of the fireplace,--a glance told him that,--yet she
was quite different from the one who bought vegetables. She was tall
and dark, and wore unbecoming smoked glasses. She took no notice of
him, but turned and went back into the shop. James Mandeville
dismounted and followed.
The packing-cases had been removed, and the sunshine that streamed in
above the sheet tacked across the lower part of the west window
lighted up a scene of cheerful disorder, pervading which was a
pleasant odor of newness. With her back toward him, the lady began to
measure off lengths of some green fabric, standing before a long
table.
He waited, but still she took no notice. Should he go away? He
summoned all his courage and gave voice to the question that was
asking itself in his own mind: "Where is she?"
The lady turned in surprise and looked down upon him. If he could have
expressed his feelings, he would have said she was a haughty person.
But as she looked at him her manner changed, and she smiled as she
asked, "What is it? I don't understand."
James Mandeville struggled to reply, but words were hard to find. As
he stood silent a voice behind him cried, "Why, if it isn't
Infinitesimal James!" and there she was, with her shining hair and
laughing eyes. He laughed, too, for very relief.
"There's a fireplace," he announced, going to meet her. "I saw them
make it."
"So you knew I would come back, didn't you? Yes, it is a very nice
fireplace, and will be all ready for a visit from Santa Claus," she
replied, shaking hands. Then quite unexpectedly she picked him up and
set him on the table among the waves of green stuff. "Now you look
like Triton," she said.
James Mandeville held fast to his horn and eyed his captor doubtfully,
as if he had a mind to escape.
"Do you remember my name? I am Miss Norah, and I want to introduce you
to my partner, who is almost as nice as I am. She is Miss Marion."
The other young lady smiled. "Do you believe in blowing your own horn,
as Miss Norah does?" she asked.
James Mandeville looked at his horn, and then at the speaker; but as
he did not understand, he made no reply.
"She asks foolish questions, doesn't she?" said Miss Norah. "As you
are the first neighbor to call on us, you shall not be required to
answer. You may help me trim the show window, if you like."
James Mandeville wriggled out from among the green waves. "What are
you going to keep in your store?" he asked.
The reply was disappointing. "Why don't you keep candy?" was the next
question.
"Because Miss Marion would give it all away, and we shouldn't be able
to make a living."
"Would you?" he asked, turning to that lady with earnest eyes.
Clearly, she might be worth cultivating.
She laughed and left the room for a moment, returning with something
in her hand wrapped in silver paper. "Do you like chocolate?" she
inquired; adding, "I don't know how it would be if I kept it; but as I
don't keep it, of course I give it away."
This had a puzzling sound. James Mandeville almost forgot to say thank
you. He decided to go, feeling he could better enjoy the chocolate
alone. He edged toward the door.
"Good-by," called Miss Norah. "Come again."
"All right," said James Mandeville, and disappeared from the scene.
After his departure all was quiet in the shop for a time, except for
the occasional sound of Norah's hammer as she worked in the window.
Marion was putting things away in the cases which stood against the
wall. It was she who first spoke.
"I wonder if we shall have any customers?"
"That is reflection upon my skill as a decorator. Do you think the
public can resist the display which is about to dawn upon it on the
morrow?" was Norah's reply.
Marion left her work and sat on the window ledge. Norah wore a blue
dress and a large white apron, and as she stood to drive a tack, the
sunshine sparkled in her hair. She looked the incarnation of cheerful
industry.
"I do not know that I altogether believe in show windows," Marion
said, smiling up at her friend.
"Of course not. It is all of a piece with your haughty reserve. Let me
remind you that after we have made a success and have a name we can
retire into our shell and become the sought rather than the seeker,
but at present it is needful to catch the public eye. You have imbibed
your ideas from the rich Miss Carpenter, but _we_ have our living to
make." She drove her tack with emphasis, then sat down on the floor of
the window. "I am not sure I shall not always like this way best,"
she continued. "Think, if there were no show windows at Christmas!
Marion, think of Christmas!"
"Isn't it a little early? There is a good deal to be done between now
and then." Marion spoke calmly.
Norah tossed a ball of twine at her. "I see it will be by the hardest
work if I get any fun out of life. But to resume my train of thought
which you interrupted--"
"I beg your pardon, you interrupted yourself."
"Did I? Well, to resume, at any rate: my idea is that it will be much
nicer to keep a shop which will attract both great and small, so to
speak. To make a specialty always of nice, simple things."
"Flannelette?" suggested Marion.
"Why not? It is a useful fabric."
"I foresee if we enter into a discussion of this momentous question
your window will not be finished, and I own to some curiosity as to
how you mean to attract the great, for instance."
Marion returned to her baskets, and there was silence again for a
time.
"Your idea of the bookcases was a happy one," she said presently,
standing back to view her work. "These baskets have the air of a
collection of curios behind the glass."
"A charming touch of color against our olive walls. Confess, did you
ever have such a good time in your life?"
"My enthusiasm is sprouting vigorously."
"And the fun is only just beginning. But do come here--quick, Marion!
I want you to see Giant Despair."
A tall, heavily built old man was passing along Pleasant Street, his
brows drawn together in a tremendous frown. He swung a stout
walking-stick in his right hand, as if he would have been pleased to
lay it over somebody's shoulders. At the corner he paused and looked
back at the shop.
"Did you see? He shook his fist!" cried Norah.
"Have we an enemy?" asked Marion.
CHAPTER SIXTH
IN THE EYES OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD
Its isolation in the heart of the city had something to do, no doubt,
with certain village-like customs that prevailed in the Terrace. The
neighbors ran in upon one another with their needlework for a social
afternoon. If Alexina or Madelaine Russell were going to a party,
there was sure to be an audience of two or three waiting to see them
after they were dressed. When the Leigh's cook, Aunt Minty, made
jumbles, a plateful always found its way over the back fence to Miss
Virginia Wilbur; and when the Wilburs had something particularly nice
for dessert, some neighbor had a share of it. Judge Russell and Mr.
Goodman played chess together and talked of old times, and on the
whole friendliness prevailed, with only an occasional neighborly tiff,
when perhaps some one was heard to wish that Caroline Millard would
mind her own business. There were other occasions when Mrs. Millard's
executive ability proved helpful and was warmly appreciated.
The strenuous life had not as yet invaded the Terrace. Mrs. Millard,
to be sure, belonged to the Woman's Club, and presided at various
board meetings, but she was the exception.
The Terrace had its problems. We know Miss Virginia's; but Alexina,
not suspecting it, watching her in church on Sundays, wished she
herself were middle-aged and had all her troublesome questions
answered, for at forty-eight one must have solved life's problems,
Alex thought.
Madelaine only wanted money to gratify her taste for pretty things.
Given plenty of money, and life would be a simple matter. And so it
seemed to Miss Sarah Leigh, always cheery, yet always burdened with
the doubt where next month's bread and butter were to come from, and
with the regret that her nephew, Wayland, must work instead of going
to college.
Old Mr. Goodman had the money, and his great tomb of a house was full
of valuable things, but his problem was hardest of all; for having to
a sad degree lost his faith in men and things, he found no use for it.
Judge Russell sighed for the good old days; but it was a gentle sigh,
and soon forgotten in the companionship of his beloved books.
If from one point of view the neighborhood characteristic was
sociability, its attitude toward the outsider was another matter. A
new resident must undergo a term of probation before being in any
sense accepted. Charlotte Creston, as the Wilburs' niece, was received
and freely discussed. She was only a child, and for that reason
something of a novelty in the Terrace, since the Russells and Wayland
Leigh had grown up.
Toward the shop, which divided with Charlotte the distinction of
latest comer, the feeling was decidedly antagonistic. It was as if
that monster Business had suddenly reached out from his own domain,
blocks away, and laid his hand upon their peaceful territory.
Something like a council of war took place in the Wilburs'
drawing-room several evenings before the opening. Charlotte, supposed
to be studying in the library, became an interested listener, shielded
from view by the half-drawn hangings.
Alexina Russell was the first comer. Charlotte had not yet made up
her mind about Alex, she was so different at different times. She
might have been almost as pretty as Madelaine, if she had fluffed her
hair and dressed a little less plainly. Sometimes she was full of
animation, again, as this evening, she appeared abstracted and silent.
After Miss Sarah Leigh and her aunt arrived there was no more silence;
it had no charms for either of these ladies. Charlotte had at first
felt something like contempt for a person so odd as Miss Sarah, who
wore skirts short enough to display to advantage her serviceable
shoes, and poked her head out when she walked. But if Miss Sarah had
no pretensions to beauty or style, her face was pleasant, her eyes
really fine, and her smile full of kindly humor. Charlotte learned
from Aunt Virginia that Miss Sarah had an unusual number of
distinguished ancestors, which went to show how little appearance can
be relied on in such matters.
Mrs. Leigh suggested a bit of pretty old china of a pattern grown
rare. Her eyes were bright, there was a hint of pink in her cheeks,
and the silvery puffs beneath her lace cap had the exactness born of
long years of training in the way they should go. When she walked, it
was with a lightness wonderful in a woman of seventy-eight.
Before the Leighs were fairly seated one or two others dropped in,
until it seemed quite like a called meeting of the neighborhood. Aunt
Caroline was in the chair which, on this occasion, happened to be
placed where the rosy glow from a shaded lamp fell becomingly on her
soft gray draperies. Aunt Virginia fluttered about, constantly
interrupting conversation with footstools or sofa cushions, or
irrelevant remarks.
"Miss Virginia is always wondering if one more cushion or some other
chair would not make you a little more comfortable," said Alex, as
that lady appeared after her sixth excursion to the hall, this time
with a light shawl for Mrs. Leigh's rheumatic shoulder.
"Do come and sit down, Virginia," laughed Miss Sarah; "you have no
repose of manner."
"It is very fortunate that so many of us happen to be together this
evening," began Mrs. Millard, "for I think we should decide upon our
course in regard to the shop." Her white hand, veiled in a fall of
lace, made a slight motion in the direction of the corner.
"Don't you want some chocolate candy?" asked Miss Virginia, in an
audible aside to Miss Sarah. "Charlotte and I made some this
afternoon."
"When we have decided the fate of the shop," the lady whispered back.
"Seriously," continued Mrs. Millard, turning toward her sister with a
slight frown, "should we not take some action?"
"You are right, Caroline. In my day shops kept to their own
territory," Mrs. Leigh responded. "I remember the colonel used to
say--but there! I promised Sarah I wouldn't tell any stories this
evening. She says I bore people."
"Why, Aunt Sally! you are telling the biggest kind of a one this
minute," cried her niece.
A good-natured warfare waged continually between these two. Mrs.
Leigh, who was in reality the most petted and indulged of old ladies,
pretending to live in constant fear of Miss Sarah.
"But what can we do?" Alexina was heard asking, as the skirmishers
finally retired, Mrs. Leigh having the last word. "We can't exactly
blame these persons, whoever they may be, for coming here. They could
not know we did not want them."
"I saw some one standing in the door of the shop this morning who
_looked_ like a lady," Miss Virginia remarked.
"How do you define a lady, Virginia?" her sister asked with some
severity.
"Why, Caroline, I am not a dictionary; I wish you wouldn't ask me to
define things," replied Miss Virginia, with a little laugh. Then with
the manner of one who regretted this flippancy she added, "I think I
understand the word as you do."
"It seems to me we are too often content with a surface meaning," Mrs.
Millard continued.
"That is true," agreed Alex. "Now, there is no reason in the world why
these shopkeepers may not be ladies."
Mrs. Millard looked at her doubtfully. "Still," she interposed,
"ladies do not as a usual thing keep shops."
"No; they sweep and scrub and cook, and pretend they don't,--that is
the difference," put in Miss Sarah, crossing her knees and bending
forward with the air of one who had found a congenial theme. "I am a
paper-hanger, a painter, and a maid-of-all-work; and this is what it
usually means to be a lady when you are poor."
"Teaching has always seemed to me a most suitable occupation for a
woman," suggested Mrs. Millard.
"The day has passed, Caroline, when just anybody can teach."
"I don't know any girl who had a better education or was more studious
than you, Sarah," spoke up her aunt.
"And when Brother Willie died I didn't know how to write a check or
make the discount on a gas bill."
"I feel as you do, Miss Sarah. It is dreadful to be so ignorant as
women are of the simplest things," exclaimed Alexina.
"Still, I think it is more comfortable not to have to know about them,
don't you?" Miss Virginia asked timidly.
"What are you people talking about?" The question came from the
doorway, where Madelaine stood, a vision of such airiness, daintiness,
and ethereal charm that nothing else seemed worth a thought. Behind
her towered Wayland Leigh.
"May we join the party and help decide the burning question?" he
asked. "Don't get up, Miss Virginia; we'll find chairs."
"I know it is the shop," said Madelaine, floating across the room to
an ottoman beside Mrs. Millard. Madelaine, too, had an instinct for
the effective, and nothing could have made a more charming picture.
"Grandpa and Mr. Goodman were at it a few minutes ago. Mr Goodman
talks about an injunction."