The maid retired, returning presently carrying a small cake covered
with an elaborate white icing, and further decorated, as has been
said, with five pink candles. This she set upon the desk, and, a gleam
of--was it malice or mischief? in her eyes, slipped away.
"Humph!" growled Giant Despair, peering at the strange object, even
resorting to his big magnifying glass that he might see it the better.
An innocent, saucy little cake, it was a wonder it did not shrivel and
disappear amid those strange surroundings, beneath that unfriendly
gaze.
Could this be a joke some one was playing on him? Giant Despair
wondered. But who thought enough about him even for that?
"Take it away," he commanded; but Annie had vanished, and so the cake
had a chance to tell its story.
In this gloomy, tiresome world, somebody was five years old to-day.
Not very much of a story, but somehow it impressed Giant Despair
strangely. He leaned back in his chair, his frown relaxing a trifle.
He did not care for children; they were meddlesome and noisy. He waged
continual warfare against certain naughty boys on Pleasant Street,
who, divining his dislike, resorted to all sorts of teasing tricks.
They carried off his door-mat, unhinged his gate, favored him with
uncomplimentary valentines, and robbed his grape arbor,--each in its
season.
So far as this went, however, he could not be called a favorite with
older persons. In the large drug company where he was still senior
partner he was held responsible for the policy of extorting just as
much work as possible for just as little pay.
Persons of forbidding countenances are fated to be harshly judged; and
the sins of others may have been laid at his door sometimes; but while
his defective sight might be the cause of his frown, it remained that
Giant Despair seldom spoke a kindly word.
The sympathy of that young woman in the shop, into which he stumbled
by mistake, had touched him. She _knew_. It was not pity,--that he
despised,--but a sort of fellowship in misfortune, and he had seized
upon it hungrily, even while he called himself a fool. Perhaps it was
this slight but softening experience which made possible to-day the
faint regret that a little child was to be disappointed about this
cake.
Such feelings could not find a harbor for long in that impatient
breast. Becoming aware of sounds in the hall, Giant Despair strode
across the room and flung open the door, intending to demand the
instant removal of the cake. He was confronted by a small boy in a red
coat and cap who cried excitedly, "Has you got my birfday cake?"
"Hey? So it is yours, is it? And who are you?"
But its owner had caught sight of it through the open door; and
pushing past Giant Despair, he lifted up his voice in a pæan of joy.
"It's here! it's here! it's here!" he cried, standing before the desk
with clasped hands and uplifted eyes, like a worshipper before a
shrine. "Somebody give it to me! It's mine!"
"Where did that child come from?" asked Giant Despair, as he spoke
becoming aware of the presence of some one else in the hall.
"I brought him, Mr. Goodman. It is Miss Carpenter of the shop." Marion
advanced. "It is James Mandeville Norton, a small friend of ours, to
whom we had promised a birthday cake. He was on the watch for it and
was quite sure he saw it carried in here, and to pacify him I ventured
to come and inquire."
If Giant Despair could ever be said to be affable he became so at this
moment, to the evident astonishment of Annie, the maid. She could not
know of the bond of sympathy that existed between this graceful young
lady and her surly master.
"Why, how do you do? Come in;--ridiculous mistake. Glad to find the
owner," he stammered, offering her a chair. "Fearful weather," he
added, poking the fire.
"Very Novemberish," Marion agreed, declining the chair. "We won't
trouble you further," she said.
"Somebody _please_ give me my cake. It's mine; I know it's mine."
James Mandeville's voice betrayed anguish of soul.
"He will let you have it, dear. Mr. Goodman doesn't want it. It was
brought here by mistake," said Marion, reassuringly putting her arm
around the child.
That any one could see such a cake and not want it was naturally
beyond James Mandeville's powers of belief. He stood silent, looking
from Marion to Mr. Goodman.
"Of course you can have it. What do I want with it?" asked the old
man, grimly.
James Mandeville moved forward and slipped his small, soft hand into
Giant Despair's big, hard one. "I'll tell you," he said, "you can come
to the party, and I'll let you have a slice of it; and you can help
blow out the candles."
The little voice was eager, but the confiding touch of the dimpled
hand did most execution.
"We shall be glad to have you, Mr. Goodman," Miss Carpenter said,
laughing. "The party is to be in the shop, and very select for the
reason that our circle of friends is limited."
"There's going to be candy," added James Mandeville.
Giant Despair was embarrassed. "Thank you," he said; "I have not been
to a party for a hundred years, and I am in too bad a humor to-day."
Then it seemed necessary to explain the cause,--the lost lease that
had been burned or thrown in the ash barrel.
Miss Carpenter stood beside a table on which lay several large
volumes; from the leaves of one of them the edge of a folded paper was
visible. "Could this be it?" she asked.
"Pshaw! I put it there myself. Confound my eyes and my memory!" cried
the old man.
* * * * *
Of course Giant Despair had no idea of going to the party, yet,
strange to relate, he went. Miss Sarah Leigh met him striding down the
street with two long, gray flannel ears and a beady eye visible above
a bulging overcoat pocket. She turned to look after him, and was much
amazed to see him disappear presently within the shop.
It was Jack, the flannel donkey, who really won the day. After the
visitors had left, Giant Despair stumbled over him as he lay forgotten
on the floor. The strange object was at first puzzling. He turned and
twisted and felt it, until at length getting the right point of view
he recognized it to be a donkey.
A toy animal was no less out of place in that house than a birthday
cake. He was going out for his daily walk; he would leave it at the
shop door. But once at the door he was lost, for James Mandeville
seized upon him joyfully and would not be denied.
It was Saturday afternoon, and so a half holiday in the shop; and it
seemed to Giant Despair, as he stumbled in looking anything but
festive, yet unable to resist his small captor, that there were a
great many people assembled.
It turned out that the only guest was Charlotte Creston, who had been
the first to discover James Mandeville bewailing the disappearance of
his cake before Mr. Goodman's gate, some hours earlier, and after
trying to console him had taken him back to his friends. This seemed
to entitle her to an invitation, which she delightedly accepted. Mammy
Belle and Susanna were there, also, to look on.
It is certain that never before in his life had Giant Despair
participated in a scene of such childish gayety. He was exceedingly
gruff and awkward, but no amount of gruffness could dismay James
Mandeville.
The sight of Giant Despair seated at the small table, personating the
fifth guest for whom Miss Pennington assured him they had been on the
lookout, and drinking a cup of tea in lieu of the goodies the young
host pressed upon him, was one not soon to be forgotten. After a time
he succumbed to the humor of it, and blew out his candle with the
rest.
James Mandeville did his best to be entertaining. He sang, and recited
Mother Goose, after which he climbed on Giant Despair's knee and asked
for a story.
This was something Giant Despair couldn't do, but he showed the big
seals on his watch chain, and dropped some bright new five-cent pieces
into the chubby hand.
The old man walked home in a somewhat dazed condition. He told himself
roughly that he had turned fool; and yet more than once that evening,
as he sat by his lonely fireside, he felt again the pressure of James
Mandeville's warm little body upon his knee and heard the childish
voice, prompted by Mammy Belle, saying, "Thank you for coming to my
party, Mr. Goodman."
CHAPTER NINETEENTH
TEA AND TALK
"I used to think if ever I kept a shop there would be a bell on the
door to jingle cheerily whenever a customer entered." Norah spoke from
the window where she was occupied in making some changes. Outside the
rain fell steadily, the terrace gardens had a soaked, dismal look, and
the street was almost deserted, except for an occasional wagon.
"If it will add to your happiness, we will have it put in; but I doubt
if you would be able to find one that would ring cheerily,--they
usually jangle."
"I suppose that depends somewhat on the hearer; however, we must
confine ourselves for the present to the strict necessities of life.
Did it ever occur to you, Marion, how the old-fashioned bell is
passing? When I was a child, the milkmen heralded their approach with
bells; and maids would appear with bowls and pitchers and have the
milk measured out to them from large tin cans."
"Your youth must have been in the Dark Ages. I never heard of such a
thing."
"I am often impressed by your ignorance of simple matters. Yesterday,
out in the southwestern part of this very town, where I went to look
for a seamstress, I heard again one of those bells rung lustily, and
there was the tin can, as of old, riding majestically on the front
seat of the wagon; but probably as a concession to modern prejudice
the milkman was supplied with bottles, too. Come and tell me what you
think of my rainy-day window."
Marion crossed the room. "It looks cheerful," she said, "but I hardly
think it will bring us many customers to-day. It is too bad even for
James Mandeville."
Norah had ransacked their stock for the brightest draperies, gayest
baskets, and oddest jars, making of them a sort of barbaric medley not
ungrateful to the eye, which she regarded with satisfaction.
"Well," she said, "if we have no customers, I shall have all the more
time to give to collars. I am sorry I could not find a seamstress. I
did not dream there would be such a demand."
"And there is probably some one who would be glad to do them if we
only knew," said Marion. "Would it be worth while to advertise?"
Not troubled with much custom, the shopkeepers were working and
chatting in the south window that afternoon, when Miss Sarah Leigh put
her head in at the door.
"I hate to come in, I'm so wet," she said; "I'll leave my umbrella
outside."
"You need not mind," said Norah, rising. "As you see, we have a large
rubber mat and an umbrella-stand, and this is the first time we have
needed them."
"Thank you. I had to go to the grocery, and as Aunt Sally was out of
knitting cotton, I dropped in to get some. It is a dreadful day."
Norah pushed a chair to the fire, "Sit down and have a cup of tea.
Miss Carpenter and I are just going to have some."
Miss Sarah accepted the chair. "I have no business to,--I have a
thousand things to do; but this seems a veritable haven of rest."
Susanna now entered, a model of the respectable, elderly maid,
carrying a tray which she placed before Marion.
"Another cup please, Susanna," said Marion; and while she poured the
tea, Norah coaxed the fire into a blaze, remarking that it had fallen
into the way of sympathizing with the weather.
"Are you in the habit of treating your customers in this fashion?"
Miss Sarah asked, accepting the cup and helping herself from the plate
of warm tea-cakes with which Susanna returned.
"This is a reward to rainy-day callers," answered Marion, smiling.
"Well, you are the most astonishing people I ever came in contact
with. I hope you don't mind my saying it," Miss Sarah spoke
confidentially. "I don't mean in respect to tea."
"Not at all," laughed Norah. "We, too, have our impressions of the
neighborhood."
"I shouldn't be surprised if you had." Miss Sarah joined in the laugh.
"Of course it is no secret to you that the neighborhood did not very
much want you, and the way in which you are winning us over is a
miracle. Miss Wilbur, Charlotte, Alex, and now you have captured Mr.
Goodman. Charlotte told me about the party. How do you do it?"
"It has all come about through the merest accident," Marion explained.
"Such accidents don't happen to everybody. I think you practise
witchcraft."
"James Mandeville and the birthday cake captured Giant Despair," said
Norah, the name slipping out before she thought.
"So that is what you call him! Have you named us all? It suits him,
too; but poor man, he has had his troubles, as have some of the rest
of us." Miss Sarah looked meditatively into the fire. "Soon after he
built his house in the Terrace," she continued, "his daughter, an only
child, was burned to death. It was a sad thing,--she was just
eighteen. Then a nephew whom he adopted turned out a scamp, and now he
has lost faith in everything."
While she was speaking the shop door opened to admit Alexina and
Charlotte, rosy and wet from a walk in the rain.
"I want a spool of twist," Charlotte announced merrily.
"Won't a cup of tea do? We are serving that at present," Norah asked.
"How pleasant!" Alex exclaimed as they slipped off their wet
waterproofs. "Are you always cheerful over here?"
Charlotte sought Miss Carpenter's side. "I like tea," she said, the
blue eyes showing, however, a fondness for something more than that
innocent beverage. Just now this young lady had a profound fascination
for her. Miss Alex and Aunt Virginia might prefer Miss Pennington,
Miss Carpenter had her admiration.
"If you need anything more in the way of cheer, I will bring forth the
grab-bag," said Norah, as she handed Alex some tea.
"That sounds interesting; do let us have it," begged Miss Sarah.
"You will be disappointed," Marion put in, mischievously, while Norah
went for the rainbow bag. "You expect amusement and get a sermon. Its
variegated hues give symbolic expression to the truth that 'behind the
clouds the sun is still shining.'"
"You might add that its existence destroys the pleasing idea that we
are always cheerful," Miss Pennington added, holding out the bag to
Alex.
"Am I to take something?" Alex asked; and putting her hand in, she
drew out a card. "'If we live truly, we shall see truly,'" she read.
"But it seems to me it ought to be the other way. If we could see
truly, we could live truly. It is such a puzzle. Do you think this is
true? And what does it mean to live truly?"
"You are an animated problem, Alex," Miss Sarah remarked.
"It is a little like something Uncle Landor said to me, that if we try
to do right and keep our hearts pure, we will hear a voice telling us
which way to go." Charlotte spoke shyly.
Marion took her hand in a soft clasp, and Norah gave her a friendly
smile. "Yes," she said, "that is it. I will tell you what it means to
me. It means that if I go straight on, doing each day the thing that
comes to me, not allowing myself to become entangled in fears for
to-morrow, that little by little the path will be made plain to me."
"I am afraid I want to _know_ where I am going. It might be such a
waste of time," said Alex.
"Its very simplicity makes it hard, but I believe it is the best way,"
Norah answered.
"Are we allowed to have only one helpful sentiment at a time?" asked
Miss Sarah.
"Certainly; one is as much as anybody can live up to at a time."
"It is not for lack of moral sentiments, however," Marion added. "The
supply is constantly renewed. They naturally gravitate to Norah."
"I wish," remarked Norah, "that a seamstress capable of making stocks
and collars would gravitate to me."
"Here is one at your side." Miss Sarah leaned over to examine her
work. "I think I could do it."
"She can do anything," said Alex, waking up from a brown study. "But
how would you find time, Miss Sarah?"
"If you could do only a few, it would be a help," the shopkeepers
cried in the same breath, and Norah began at once to explain what was
wanted, and unfold patterns.
Susanna carried away the tea things, and Alex joined Charlotte and
Marion, who were talking about James Mandeville and Mr. Goodman.
"He has won the old man's heart," Marion was saying. "They have been
walking together several times, and James Mandeville always returns
with a bag of what he calls _finger ladies_."
Miss Sarah's voice interrupted presently. "I don't know when I have
spent such an eventful hour. I must take my knitting cotton and go. I
know now where to come when I have the blues."
"It is worth while to give Miss Sarah a little pleasure," Alex said as
the door closed behind her. "She is the bravest, brightest person, and
her life is anything but easy." Then she returned to the consideration
of the card she had drawn. "I am dreadfully puzzled over what I ought
to do. I want to make my own living, and yet it is hard to go against
the wishes of everybody at home. Do you really think if I just go on
doing what comes to me that the way will open? It sounds lazy."
"No, it sounds serene. If I were you, I'd try it," said Norah.
CHAPTER TWENTIETH
MERRY HEARTS
Many things combined in the Terrace to proclaim the season of the
year. Great was the seeding of raisins, shelling of nuts, and slicing
of citron for fruit-cake and puddings,--matters these housekeepers
were wont to attend to themselves. Neighborly consultations were held
also, and the relative merits of last year's cakes discussed.
"I really have no business making fruit-cake this season," Miss Sarah
Leigh remarked over her grocery bill. "Everything is so expensive."
"Why, Sarah Leigh, who ever heard of Christmas without fruit-cake!"
her aunt exclaimed.
"But you don't eat it, Aunt Sally."
"I shall this year."
Wayland ate it, if his aunt did not. He would be disappointed if she
did not have one as usual; perhaps she could save in some other way,
Miss Sarah thought. "After all, my saving will be a good deal like
Mrs. Green's keeping Lent," she told Miss Virginia. "She never, under
any circumstances, went anywhere, and she didn't have dessert except
on Sunday, and then she seldom ate it on account of her rheumatism, so
there really seemed to be no way to deny herself any further."
Nevertheless, Miss Sarah ordered the raisins and other good things,
and at night she sat up making collars and belts for the shop.
At the shop James Mandeville lay on the floor, poring over a profusely
illustrated copy of "'Twas the Night before Christmas," bursting forth
tunefully, now and then, with "_Susanna_ in the highest."
There was no manner of use in correcting him, he preferred his own
versions, and stuck to them.
The window of the shop presented an ever changing variety of wares,
from posters and colored photographs to baskets, bags, and pottery,
all unique in their way. Besides the other things, Norah had done a
motto in black and red letters, "A merry heart doeth good like a
medicine," and hung it in the midst.
The popularity of the place increased. Susanna was often called in to
help, and one day a society reporter, out for news, and directed there
by Madelaine Russell, dropped in and interviewed them.
An elaborate description, with mention of the charming and intelligent
young women who had it in charge, appeared next day in one of the
papers. Miss Sarah immediately sent a marked copy to Mrs. Millard.
"We are becoming famous," laughed Norah, as she read it to Marion.
"I wish it did not have to be," said Marion, discontentedly.
"Ungrateful person that you are!" cried Norah.
The newspaper article brought Mrs. Leigh to the shop. Heretofore her
opposition had been consistently maintained; but now, early one
morning, she walked in, a picture of an old lady, with a close-fitting
bonnet over her silvery puffs, a black silk circular lined with gray
squirrel, and an old-fashioned reticule on her arm.
"I have just come to look around," she told Norah. "I have heard so
much of this shop, and it is not in the least like anything I ever saw
before,--and neither are you, for that matter."
Then, as Norah laughed, she added, "I mean you are entirely too pretty
for a shopkeeper. I'd like to know what you are doing it for, but of
course you won't tell me."
"Oh, yes, I will. I am doing it for a living."
"Well, in my day a pretty girl like you wouldn't have had a chance to
make her own living for long, but it is different now. I don't know
whose fault it is."
All the while she was walking about, seeing everything, admiring or
finding fault with equal frankness. Norah, who was delighted with her
visitor, urged her to sit down and rest a few moments.
"Thank you, I believe I will. I am on my way out to my niece's to show
her how to make a plum-pudding." She laughed a little, reminiscently,
and Norah looked interested.
"It makes me think of the time my husband was invited to dine at Dr.
Gray's to meet a distinguished clergyman who had arrived
unexpectedly. It was on Saturday, and when Mr. Leigh came home that
evening he couldn't say enough about Mrs. Gray's plum-pudding. It was
the best he ever ate, and I must get the receipt. I didn't say
anything until next day. Mr. Leigh was mighty fond of dessert; and
when he found there wasn't any for Sunday dinner, he looked terribly
disappointed, and wanted to know why. 'The reason is, Mr. Leigh,' I
said, 'because you ate it yesterday. I intended to have plum-pudding
to-day, but as Mrs. Gray had unexpected company, I sent it over to
her; and my own opinion is, it is more than you deserved to have had a
taste of it.'
"Maybe you think he wasn't teased. He didn't hear the last of that
very soon. Yes, indeed, it was all true. Mrs. Gray and I were good
friends and often helped each other out in an emergency. Well, you
will think me a most unprofitable customer; here I have talked a blue
streak, as Sarah says, and haven't bought a thing."
"Nevertheless, I hope you will come again soon, and I wish success to
the pudding," Norah said, following her visitor to the door.
Being off the beaten track of trade, the rush at the shop was over
before Christmas Eve, and Marion and Norah, leaving Susanna in charge,
went down town on a lark, as Norah said, and came home loaded with
holly and mistletoe.
It was after their late dinner and Norah was putting up the last bit
of holly, when Mammy Belle came in. "Miss Norah, honey, kin you trim a
Chris'mus tree?" she asked.
"Why, yes, I have trimmed many a one."
"I done promise James Mandeville he should have one, for him an' his
papa in the mawnin',--Marse Tom's comin' home; but look like I ain't
got good sense, and I seed Miss Maimie do it las' year." Mammy Belle's
tone was despairing.
"Never mind, we'll do it for you. I might have thought of it, only I
have been so busy," said Norah. "Don't you want to go, Marion?"
Marion was more than ready for anything so in keeping with the night,
and gathering up some unused holly and a box of ornaments for the
tree, they accompanied Mammy Belie to the small house, half a block
distant on Pleasant Street.
It was a tiny place, quite simply and tastefully furnished, but
betraying in many trifling ways the absence of the mistress. James
Mandeville was fast asleep in his crib upstairs, where Mammy Belle
conducted them to peep at him.
"I hope Miss Maimie won't mind our doing this," Norah whispered, as
they went down again.
"I don't believe she will," Marion answered, moving about the tiny
parlor, changing the position of a table here, a chair there, till the
whole room had taken on a new look. The tree in the corner by the
window bore melancholy witness to Mammy Belle's lack of ability in
that line, but under Norah's fingers it began at once to revive.
They were in the midst of the dressing, Mammy Belle looking on in
delight, when there was a ring at the door, and of all persons, who
should it be but Mr. Goodman with a large package under his arm!
"It is a horse for that little rascal," he explained, puffing and
embarrassed.
"Come in and see our tree, Mr. Goodman," called Norah.
The old man stood in the doorway. "I have been stumbling round trying
to find this place for half an hour," he growled. "I took this thing
to the shop, but you weren't there, and that Susan woman tried to
direct me where to go."
"Ought you to go about by yourself at night?" Marion asked. "Won't you
come in and wait for us? We are nearly through."