figure; for from the first he elected to bestow upon its proprietors
his unqualified friendship, and a day rarely went by without a visit
from him. He quickly learned to adapt himself to the rule that he must
not finger things, nor interrupt when customers were present. He
usually brought some plaything with him,--most frequently the flannel
donkey,--and amused himself quite happily, with an occasional appeal
to the sympathy of his companions.
His new friends began to look forward each day to his coming and to
the invariable piece of news with which he entered.
"Miss Norah, what do you think?" he exclaimed one morning. "The moon's
awake and it's daytime!" and drawing her to the door he pointed out
the misty phantom in the southwestern sky, with the air of a
discoverer.
On another occasion, "Miss Norah, I can't stay very long to-day,
'cause my geranium is going to bloom."
It developed that James Mandeville's mother was ill in a sanitarium,
his father absorbed in business, and his only guardian an old colored
woman, known as Mammy Belle. Mammy Belle was of the type fast
disappearing. She wore head handkerchiefs of bright colors, and her
purple calicoes were stiff with starch and spotlessly neat. She
possessed the peculiar dignity that accompanied a faithful,
unquestioning acceptance of her station in life.
Mammy had sole charge of the Norton household, and no doubt it was a
relief to her to know that her charge had found so safe an asylum; but
on the occasion of her first visit the shopkeepers felt they were
being weighed in the balance. Her manner was apologetic and reserved,
as she stood, her hands folded on her white apron.
"'Tain't possible to keep dat chile at home," she explained. "Yes'm. I
takes keer of him. Miss Maimie, she's in a hospital, an' dey ain't
nobody to raise James Mandeville but his old mammy."
"I ain't comin', mammy," declared her charge, positively.
"Yes, you is comin', honey; don' you talk to mammy dat way. 'Tisn't
pretty. Looks like it's mighty hard to raise you polite, James
Mandeville."
Norah delighted to talk with her, and gathered from her conversation
that her greatest pleasure, next to a funeral, was to take James
Mandeville to white folks' church on Sunday afternoon, "to see dem
chillen march and sing." To her enthusiasm was due the aspiration of
her charge to be a choir boy, and he was often heard singing lustily
versions of "Onward, Christian Soldiers," and "O Paradise," which were
all his own.
"Dey's ladies, store or no store," Belle was overheard remarking to
Susanna. "I knows quality; you can't fool Belle, no'm."
* * * * *
"I never in my life felt so rich," Marion said, rattling the money
drawer.
It was Saturday evening at the end of their first week. All was in
order in the shop, the long table pushed back, the small one with the
lamp brought forward, the shades drawn, the door barred, and Norah now
rested comfortably in one of the roomy chairs with a gay pillow behind
her head.
"We have done very well, I think," she agreed.
"I perceive this is one subject upon which my enthusiasm is greater
than yours. It must be because you have made money before." Marion
still hung over the money drawer.
"I don't consider that we have made anything yet; but the difference
between us is that I expected all along to do very well, while you
were a doubting Thomas."
"As I always am." With surprising ease for one so tall, Marion slipped
down on the rug at her friend's feet.
Norah caressed the dark head against her knee. "But you are improving,
dearest," she said, "and I'm glad, indeed, if this first week has
encouraged you." She laughed a little as she added, "I believe I am
just a bit more anxious to prove to our friend Miss Carpenter that in
lending us the capital for our venture she has not done a reckless and
unwise thing."
"But, Norah--"
"I know what you are going to say. She is not worrying about the money
and could well afford to take the risk, but with you and me it is a
matter of principle. We must succeed and justify her confidence. So we
won't count our chickens too soon, but lay low, like Brer Rabbit, and
say nothin'."
"At any rate I know what it is to have worked all the week, and to be
tired and glad of Sunday. Norah, it is nonsense expecting people
really to care for Sunday when they don't work."
"I hope you haven't tired yourself too much;" Norah bent forward till
she could see the face on her knee. Her manner was oddly motherly; she
seemed so much the younger and smaller of the two.
"Oh, no; and sometimes I have almost forgotten--"
"Go on forgetting, dear. I know you need not fear, if you will only
think so."
"If I were only sure," Marion sighed. "And sometimes I am," she added.
"At least I am charmed with the neighborhood," Norah went on, "If the
haughty lady across the street continues her opposition, our success
is assured. Her name, I have discovered, is Millard, and that dear
Miss Virginia is her sister, of course; and there is a bright-looking
little girl who goes in and out, and seems to belong to them.
"And I forgot to tell you my adventure this morning. When I got off
the car at Walnut Street, coming home, there was an old gentleman with
some books just behind me. He had an armful, and as he stepped to the
ground they slipped and fell in the dust. He was evidently lame and
stiff with rheumatism, so I picked them up for him. He was a beautiful
old man, with a most courtly manner; and he seemed to think as I had
helped him, I was entitled to know about the books. We walked along
together, and he explained they were some he had found at a
second-hand store. One of them was a first edition of the 'Essays of
Elia' which he thought a tremendous bargain; and it was, I'm sure.
"We fell to discussing books, and he seemed delighted to find I was
not absolutely ignorant and ended by inviting me in to see his
library. He lives in the house that needs paint so badly,--where you
have noticed that beautiful Ginkgo tree."
"Did you accept his invitation?"
"No, I told him I had not time just then. He asked if I lived near;
and, Marion, you should have seen his puzzled look when I said, 'On
the corner of Pleasant Street.' 'You are visiting?--the Wilburs,
perhaps.' he said. 'No,' I answered, 'I am one of the proprietors of
the shop.' He was terribly shocked and disappointed, I could see. I
had really made an impression. He grew a little distant, but was still
charming, thanking me again for my kindness; however, he said no more
about the library."
"It is funny--" began Marion, but she did not finish her sentence, and
they sat in silence for a while. Presently Marion took possession of
the hand that was touching her hair so lightly, and laid her cheek
against it. Not many people, she thought, had such a friend. One who
had been everything in a time of need, who had given her new hope and
courage in an hour of darkness. She felt herself unworthy, because she
did not believe she could ever be such a help to any one.
"Do you remember, when you were a child, Norah, how sometimes when you
had found some delightful game that stirred your imagination, you
would go to sleep at night with the most blissful sense of waking up
to go on with it in the morning? I have had much the same feeling
lately."
"Then I am satisfied about you. 'As little children' is the key to the
best things of life, I firmly believe. Let's read a bit of 'The Golden
Age' before we go to bed," said Norah.
CHAPTER TENTH
ALEXINA
Alexina Russell longed to be of use in the world. It fretted her to
live as they did, pensioners on her grandfather, whose fortune had
sadly dwindled of late years. Her mother's income was barely
sufficient to clothe the three of them, and Alex felt she ought to be
earning her own living. That her grandfather made them more than
welcome, and besides had an old-fashioned horror of a woman going out
into the world as a worker, did not alter her conviction.
She did not feel competent to teach. Delicate as a child, she had gone
to school intermittently, and the best of her somewhat scrappy
education had been gained in her grandfather's library; but she found
it difficult to combat the prejudice of the whole family against any
other method of supporting herself. Alex loved the old house,--the
outside of which time and coal-dust had turned a uniform dingy
gray,--and sometimes wondered how she could ever stand it to live
anywhere else. There is a point where dinginess becomes picturesque;
and the vines, undisturbed by repairs, were doing their best to hide
all deficiencies. The grounds were ample for a city; and the tall
Ginkgo tree which reached out its fern-like branches protectingly
toward the timeworn mansion was only one of many other fine trees and
shrubs. Inside, the lofty rooms and handsome furnishings of many years
ago, some fine old portraits, and many valuable books and prints gave
it a distinction not to be achieved by many modern houses.
Pretty Mrs. Russell, almost as dainty and girlish as her youngest
daughter, shed tears over Alex's oddity; and Alex, who sincerely loved
and admired her mother, felt her burden all the greater because she
was a disappointment. She had submitted for one winter to be taken to
receptions and teas, and to have a dinner given in her honor, in the
newspaper accounts of which the rare old Russell silver figured
effectively, and on the whole she had enjoyed it. But a season of it
was enough; her practical mind rebelled against the expense and
uselessness of such a life. She adopted the plainest style of dress,
declined invitations, and privately studied shorthand.
In the bottom of her heart Madelaine thought it just as well. Plain
things became Alex, and it was nobody's fault but her own if she
preferred the background. And Alex was not in the least jealous of her
sister's popularity. She had something of the responsible feelings of
a father or brother toward her mother and Madelaine.
Alex's refuge was the library and the companionship of her
grandfather, who often told her she took life too seriously.
"You are young yet. Be happy, and things will work out of themselves."
But Alexina did not share his gentle optimism. It seemed to her at
once the charm and weakness of her grandfather's character. She was
impatient; she wanted to know what was the right path for her to take,
not to waste years in finding it.
Mrs. Russell sometimes laughingly declared that Alex's most intimate
friends were Miss Virginia Wilbur and Miss Sarah Leigh, and it was
true she often sought their society. Miss Wilbur had made pets of the
Russell children from their babyhood, and they were both fond of her.
There were times when Alex found her placid absorption in everyday
matters rather soothing, at others Miss Sarah suited her mood better.
Miss Sarah had all manner of troubles and worries, but she did not box
them up and label them "Personal"; instead, she offered them to her
friends dressed up in whimsical fashion for their entertainment, until
it was difficult to consider them seriously. Old Mrs. Leigh was heard
to say she did not know what Sarah would find to laugh about if she
ever became prosperous.
Alexina found shorthand depressing, and after spending an hour or more
over it one afternoon she gave it up in despair and went over to see
Miss Sarah. As she entered the sitting room Mrs. Millard stood talking
to Mrs. Leigh.
"I suppose the next thing we'll be going to the Poor House," the old
lady was remarking cheerfully, for she was not far behind her niece in
the ability to extract pleasure from adversity. "Sarah says the Cement
Company has passed their dividend again. I know that means we don't
get any money."
"Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Millard; "why, Sarah, what are you living
on?"
The person addressed looked up from her sewing with a grim smile. "I
don't know--Caroline. We--are just living--_on_."
"I don't see how you can _smile_," said Mrs. Millard, with reproachful
emphasis. She was never guilty of making light of affliction.
"Well, there are funny things about being poor, Caroline; but I
suppose it takes a poor person to appreciate them." Then observing
Alex in the door, Miss Sarah added, "Come in and cheer us up, Alex."
"I am ashamed to say I came to be cheered," Alex said, after Mrs.
Millard had rustled away.
"Well, misery loves company, so just come to the kitchen with me while
I stir up a spice cake for Wayland, and we'll swap woes and have a
good time. I let Anne go to see her sister this afternoon."
When the materials had been collected and Alex assigned her share of
the task, Miss Sarah continued: "I have two things to tell you. First,
I have made up my mind to take boarders. I was trembling in my shoes
all the while Caroline was here, for fear Aunt Sally would tell her.
She will think it a disgrace to the neighborhood; I'll be ranked with
the shop, but I must do something. We can't sell the house, and it
would break Aunt Sally's heart if we could, for it is all she has."
"I don't think it will hurt the neighborhood, and I hope you will
succeed. I'm sure I should love to board with you."
"Would you really, Alex? Doesn't the house strike you as very forlorn?
I'll tell you what I am going to do," and Miss Sarah launched forth
into an account of how she meant to cut the hall carpet in two and
turn it around so the worn part would come under the stairs. "But dear
me!" she interrupted herself to say, "how absurd to bother you with
all this. It is your turn to say something."
"I like to hear it. I am interested, and my worries are the same old
ones. I do want to learn how to do something to support myself, and
stenography is so--abominably dull. I am angry with myself for finding
it so." Alex rested her chin in her hand, and looked at Miss Sarah
disconsolately across the table.
"I do not believe you were meant for that sort of thing," Miss Sarah
said stoutly. "Of course I can't tell you what you _were_ made for;
but I know what I'd like to do, and that is, keep a shop such as the
one on the corner."
"What would Mrs. Millard say to that?" Alex asked, laughing.
"She can't say much since she was caught there herself. You needn't
tell me curiosity had not something to do with it. But I am forgetting
the other thing I had to tell you. I have made trouble in the Wilbur
household."
"What do you mean? How?"
"I was never more provoked with myself. The other day I happened to be
out on Dean Avenue, and whom should I see going into the Lyles' but
Charlotte Creston. You know that big, showy house near the park. What
possessed me to mention it, I don't know, but I did, one evening when
Caroline and Virginia were here. I knew in a minute something was
wrong. I have an idea Charlotte went without permission."
"Who are the Lyles?" asked Alex.
"Mrs. Lyle was at the glove counter at Mason's years ago; she was then
Maggie McKay, and a vain, pretentious thing. She married a plumber
with a romantic name, and her rise has been rapid. Now, if you and I
could only be plumbers!"
"I remember Charlotte mentioned a Lucile Lyle, and seemed rather
fascinated, but I did not think she would be so silly as to go there
against her aunt's wishes. I am afraid she is headstrong."
"She is the sort of a child to be goaded to distraction by Caroline. I
wish I had held my tongue. I can see Virginia is dreadfully upset
about something."
"I think I'll go over and talk to Charlotte," Alex said, as Miss Sarah
shut the oven door on the spice cake. Alexina had had dreams of
influencing Charlotte, and she felt a little annoyed that what she had
said on the subject of this foolish friendship had made such a slight
impression.
"Now don't you go and make matters worse, Alex," cautioned Miss Sarah.
"I have no doubt Caroline has harped on the matter till the child is
desperate. I feel terribly guilty."
"I am disappointed in her, and I mean to tell her so," Alex replied
firmly.
CHAPTER ELEVENTH
THE LAST STRAW
Charlotte was closing the piano after an hour's practice when Alexina
walked in. A week had passed since the discovery of her
disobedience,--a week of increasing unhappiness. The blow had fallen
unexpectedly. One day at dinner she had been conscious of something
amiss. A remark of her own met with no response; Aunt Caroline looked
haughty, Aunt Virginia despondent. Charlotte had not, however, guessed
the cause until she was summoned into the library and the question put
to her by Mrs. Millard, "Did you go to the Lyles' in defiance of my
express wishes, Charlotte?"
"I--"
"Yes or no, if you please."
"Yes," Charlotte answered, "but--"
"I want no explanations. There can be none."
"But, Aunt Caroline, you don't understand--"
"You are the one who seems not to understand," again Mrs. Millard
interrupted. "You have deliberately disobeyed. I see you are not to be
trusted. Hereafter, whenever you go out, you shall be provided with an
attendant. The carriage will take you to and from school, your Aunt
Virginia or I will accompany you to your music lesson when possible;
at other times Martha will go."
"Aunt Caroline, you might let me speak. I tried to tell Aunt
Virginia--I had promised Lucile--I had to go; but I am dreadfully
sorry, and--"
"Charlotte, I will not have any words on the subject. You have
deliberately disobeyed. Nothing you can say alters that." Mrs. Millard
swept from the room, almost running down Miss Virginia, who hovered
about the door.
"She did try to tell, Caroline," Charlotte heard her say.
"Nonsense, what difference can that make?" was the reply.
Not to be allowed one word in self-defence was hard. Charlotte locked
herself in her room and shed bitter tears of anger and mortification.
That she was sorry and had tried to confess seemed to her to be very
much to her credit, and Aunt Caroline was unreasonable as well as
cruel. She refused to go down to supper, saying her head ached; and it
would have been in harmony with her state of mind if she had been
compelled to go without any, but it was sent up to her without
comment.
The worst was to come, however. To a high-spirited girl, used to the
greatest freedom, the constant surveillance was unbearable. She was
not locked up, but in all other respects she felt herself a captive.
She was certain Aunt Virginia was sorry for her,--in an aloof and
timid fashion she showed her friendliness; but Charlotte longed for
some one to whom she could pour out all her unhappiness; and for this
Aunt Virginia allowed her no opportunity.
How long was it to last? Aunt Caroline gave no word. As the days
passed, Charlotte began to wear a sullen, dogged look. The sight of
Alexina brought a thrill of hope. Surely, Miss Alex would listen to
her, and be sorry.
"Charlotte, what is this I hear about you?" Alexina demanded, seating
herself on the piano-stool.
"Oh, Miss Alex, I am so unhappy." Charlotte, who was kneeling to put
away some music in the cabinet, sank in a forlorn little heap at her
feet. "She won't let me go anywhere by myself,--not even to school;
and she wouldn't listen when I said I was sorry." Charlotte's tone was
guarded, but none the less appealing.
But Alex hardened her heart. "I suppose it is because you were
disobedient. I must say I am disappointed in you, for it seems to me
you were deceitful as well as disobedient."
Charlotte sat up. Her last hope of a confidante was gone. "You have no
right to say that. I had to go: I had promised. I was willing to be
punished, but she has no right to treat me like a baby. I wish I had
never come."
"Probably your aunts wish so too," Alex observed coolly. "You are not
reasonable, Charlotte. You have acted like a silly child and made
yourself talked about, and you are just worrying Miss Virginia to
death. But don't look at me in that way. I am sorry for you, and if
you will be patient and accept your punishment, it will come out all
right." Alex laid her hand on Charlotte's shoulder, but the girl
twitched it away. Rising, she stood stony and silent. Alex's
condemnation was the last straw.
As she went drearily up the stairway, Charlotte's thoughts turned with
a great longing to her guardian and the quiet house in Philadelphia.
He did perhaps care a little for her. He had sent her here because he
thought it best, but it had turned out a terrible mistake. She would
write to-night and tell him so. Tell him how impossible it was to
endure it any longer, and implore him to send her to boarding-school.
But would he understand? It was so difficult to write things. If only
she could be with him and Cousin Francis for half an hour and tell
them her story, she was sure she could make them see the matter as she
did. And now a daring thought entered her mind. Why not go to them?
Naturally self-reliant, the thought of the long journey by herself did
not terrify her. In the little silver purse (Aunt Cora's parting
gift) were two gold pieces,--more than enough to buy a ticket to
Philadelphia.
Charlotte's misery grew less at the picture her imagination drew of
her aunts' consternation when her flight should be discovered.
Probably there would be more talk; but little would she care, safe
with Uncle Landor.
Carried away by the excitement of the idea, she found a daily paper
and sat down in the dainty room prepared for her with so much loving
care by Aunt Virginia not three months ago, to study the time-table
and lay her plans.
There was a through train at half-past eight at night which would
exactly suit. She could steal away after supper. It was the evening
for Aunt Caroline's Antiquarian Society, and Aunt Virginia could be
easily eluded.
In stories people who ran away usually left notes. Charlotte
considered this, and decided she would write one to Aunt Virginia. It
took a long while and a great deal of note-paper was wasted before it
was done, and her enthusiasm had cooled a little as she folded it.
She carried a flushed face and an abstracted manner to the supper
table, but her aunts were evidently too much interested in some
matter they were discussing to notice her. If she had been less
absorbed, her curiosity would have been aroused by the guarded manner
in which they talked.
"It is a case where duty seems to call one in opposite directions,"
said Mrs. Millard, studying the handle of her spoon with an air of
profound seriousness that provoked one of those occasionally profane
suggestions from her sister.
"You'll have to toss up a penny," remarked Miss Virginia.
The thought of Aunt Caroline tossing a penny caused Charlotte a
moment's diversion, and a faint smile curled about her lips as Aunt
Virginia promptly took it all back.
"I realize, of course, Caroline, that it is hard to decide; but,
really, I think you can't refuse Georgiana."
"I shall take the matter under careful consideration till to-morrow,"
replied Mrs. Millard.
Before they left the table Miss Sarah Leigh looked in to ask Virginia
about a Mount Mellick stitch. Thus fortune seemed to favor Charlotte's
plans.
"Are you going to study, dear?" Aunt Virginia asked.
Charlotte flushed at the kind tone, "I am going upstairs, Aunt
Virginia," she answered. "I am tired."
If Aunt Virginia's kindness weakened her resolve to run away, an
encounter with Aunt Caroline in the upper hall made it strong again.
While the servants were at supper and Miss Virginia occupied with the
embroidery lesson, and just as Mrs. Millard left the house by the
front door, a slight figure in a long gray coat with a blue veil over
her face slipped down the back stairs, bag in hand, and out of the
side door.
Pleasant Street was full of swaying shadows, for the wind had risen
and the electric light on the corner swung slowly to and fro.
Charlotte held to the gate a moment to steady herself; she seemed
swaying, too. Not a single person was to be seen. For the first time
in her life she was alone on the street at night. She told herself
there was nothing to fear, but she looked wistfully at the lighted
windows of the houses along the Terrace, and the cheerful glow that
shone from the little shop across the way; but she did not think of
going back. It was not far to the street-car, which would take her to
the door of the station; after that all would be perfectly simple.
CHAPTER TWELFTH
THE DISCOVERY
It was still early when Miss Sarah rolled up her work, saying her aunt
was not well and must not be left any longer alone.
After she had gone Miss Virginia moved about the drawing-room, pushing
chairs back into their places, changing by a few inches the position
of some ornament, and rearranging the folds of the curtains. Meanwhile
she was thinking that, in part at least, the problem that had been
weighing upon her was about to be solved. She had not felt so cheerful
in weeks.