audience, waited breathless, but still Mr. Lysle did not speak. So,
supposing, at last, the homily must be concluded, we were about to
return to our various avocations, when he positively thundered forth:
“_Where_ is your Cousin Geoffrey? Where is that wilful lad? Speak! I
command you!”
Everybody in the room jumped, and Miss Lysle, who is nervous, uttered an
hysterical little squawk, like a frightened hen.
Ernie alone remained undaunted. The poor “Hippopotamus” continued to
gaze at her, triumph fading to chagrin, till, finally, he turned to his
wife with such a disappointed air:—
“I thought I could surprise it out of her,” he said; “but, evidently,
I—er—couldn’t!” And a few moments later he bade us a subdued
“good-night” and was soon followed upstairs by the rest of the boarders.
It seems too strange to be sitting here writing these things, with no
idea where Geoffrey may be! If only I did not feel my own responsibility
so keenly! I can see now that I should have told mother last Tuesday
when first I heard of Geof’s trou——. There is the bell! It may be
news....
* * * * *
Yes! and good news, too. Geoffrey is found! He was brought home about
eleven o’clock by one of Uncle George’s detectives, who ran across him
in a little out-of-the-way cottage in Elizabeth, where he had spent the
day with a German woman, who was once a cook at Uncle George’s when
Geoffrey’s own mother was alive. She is married now, and has a neat
little home of her own, with three fat German babies.
There Geoffrey arrived late last night, and to-morrow morning he had
planned to set out again on his travels and beat his way to South
Dakota, where Mrs. Prendergast, the German woman, has a brother who
works on a cattle ranch! Think of it!
Dear little Ernie broke down completely when she heard of Geoffrey’s
capture. She threw herself into mother’s arms, sobbing convulsively:—
“I didn’t mean to be naughty, mother dear! I didn’t! And, of course, you
know best—only I had given my word, you see, and then Uncle George might
have _made_ me take that hateful money! Oh, what are they going to do to
Geoffrey!”
“There! there, dear!” said mother. “Don’t cry so. It is all over now.
And as to Geoffrey, you need not worry. Aunt Adelaide and Uncle George
are only too anxious to forgive him. He has acted very wrongly, and
given us all a great fright; but it has been a lesson to everybody
concerned, and I don’t think Uncle George holds Geoffrey entirely
responsible.”
And later, after Ernie had snuggled down in bed, where she dropped at
once into an exhausted sleep, mother confided to me that she, as well as
Aunt Adelaide, fears that Geoffrey is going to be ill.
He seemed quite unlike himself this evening—indifferent and almost
dazed, and he still complained of headache. Aunt Adelaide sent him at
once to bed, and this morning, if he is not better, he is to see a
doctor.
I say this morning, because it is already nearly two o’clock. My eyes
are sticky with sleep. I cannot write another word, except to add that
even if Geof is to be ill, we are all thankful!
Tuesday, February 17.
Geoffrey has typhoid fever. So,—mother and Aunt Adelaide were right. Oh,
why could we not have suspected before? The doctor says the disease has
been coming on for months;—which accounts for Geof’s headaches, his
sleepless nights, his general indifference and lassitude. And we know,
too, now, that he never would have tried to run away, never would have
frightened us so, had he been himself.
How hard and unsympathetic we must have seemed these last weeks; for he
was sick, poor dear, and dazed, and stupid. He could not explain, and we
would not understand.
Well, we are going to be good to him, at last, and make up,—Meta, Aunt
Adelaide, all of us. “Only,” says Ernie, with an anxious little frown
(it was she who brought the news this morning before school), “we will
have to wait a while, I guess. Meta says Miss Barron, the trained nurse,
is a regular tyrant. She won’t let any one near Geof.”
It seems that Meta wanted to go to Geoffrey and apologise as soon as she
heard that he had typhoid. The memory of their various scraps and
misunderstandings troubled her. She made quite a point of the matter,
till Miss Barron said it was out of the question. Then Meta determined
she would slip in on the sly,—for she is very wilful, once she gets an
idea into her head. So she watched her chance, stole up when no one was
on guard, got as far as the door, and peeped in.
The room was quite dark. Geoffrey’s head was swathed in towels and an
ice-bag; he kept turning it from side to side upon the pillow. His eyes
were staring open, and he was muttering to himself in an odd hoarse
voice. Suddenly he caught sight of Meta, who was advancing on tip-toe
into the room, started up on his elbow, and shouted “_Scat!!_”
She turned and ran, poor thing, right into Uncle George, who was coming
upstairs with the doctor, and he scolded her, and sent her to her room.
I am afraid Geof is going to be very ill. Dr. Porter, who called to see
Robin this afternoon, was extremely uncommunicative. “It is impossible
to predict at this stage,” was all we could get him to say.
“Fortunately, the boy has a good constitution.”
Wednesday, February 25.
Geof no better. Oh, how can we endure this suspense!
Sunday, March 1.
Geoffrey desperately ill. He is delirious the greater part of the time,
or lies in a heavy stupour.
Poor little Ernie, who goes every day for news, crept up to his door
yesterday morning, crouched outside, and listened. Geof was singing in a
queer, hoarse voice:—
“Forty years on, when afar and asunder,
Parted are those who are singing to-day,
When you look back and forgetfully wonder,
What you were like in your work and your play....”
followed by snatches of the Eton Boating Song. Then he would break off
to shout football signals:—
“25, 39, 15—Left-end and Tackle over! 19, 56, 22—You fellows, there!
What are you trying for? 19’s a bluff! Can’t you remember what’s told
you,—confound it!”
Interspersed with muttered snatches of German, and Latin paradigms.
“And, oh,” mourned Ernie, pathetically, “we’ve done dear Geof a great
injustice, Elizabeth. It’s amazing all that boy knows! He repeated lines
and lines of Cæsar;—I only wish Haze could have heard him!—and strings
of irregular French verbs, and then began to say the Capitals of the
States, and exports and imports! It was simply wonderful! I felt so
proud!”
But mother and I are frightened. Geof never would have known such things
in his right mind, we feel sure; and we suspect that Dr. Porter fears
cerebral complications. A consultation was held yesterday, and a second
nurse has been engaged to relieve Miss Barron.
Monday, March 9.
The fever has still three weeks to run. It does not seem as if Geof
could hold out. Ernie has grown so pale and still these last few days.
Mother and I are really anxious about her.
Wednesday, March 18.
I am desperate. I can’t bear it! I can’t! We have just been told that
our precious Robin must undergo an operation. Didn’t we have enough to
endure without this? Geoffrey so ill,—not past the crisis yet,—and now
Bobsie, my own baby, whom I love better than anything in all the world!
God is cruel!... Oh, I don’t know what I am writing! I must calm myself.
* * * * *
This afternoon, after hearing about Robin and trying to write, and
giving it up, I put on my hat and jacket and escaped alone to the Park.
I walked fast, and just at first I did not notice anything,—the bare
branches of the trees against the early sunset sky, the patches of
melting snow about the rhododendron bushes, the children playing with
their nurses on the common,—till one little fellow with rosy cheeks and
shining eyes came running, laughing and shouting over his shoulder, and
stumbled against me. “’S’cuse me!” he piped, and shied off again.
It was like a knife in my heart! I wondered stupidly why it should hurt
so, and sat down on a bench to think;—and then I knew it was because
Robin had never run like that. Oh, he has missed so much in his little
life!
I remember perfectly Bobsie’s first birthday. How I woke with a start,
before it was yet light, and saw the morning star, big and beautiful,
shining in at my window. I sat up in bed, and clasped my knees and
blinked at it,—conscious of an unusual stir in the house. Till all at
once there rose a little cry! How my heart beat. I jumped out of bed,
slipped on my dressing gown and slippers, and crept down the stairs to
mother’s door, where I crouched against the wall and listened.
A few moments later the door opened, and Mrs. Parsons, the nurse, poked
her head out. “Bless my soul,” she said, “I almost thought you was a
ghost, my dear. Run down to the library like a good girl, and tell your
pa that everything is all right. It is a fine little boy and your mamma
is doing nicely.”
“Oh, nurse,” I breathed, “might I see the baby first?”
“To be sure, you might,” answered Mrs. Parsons. And she went back into
the room and returned again with a little white flannel bundle which she
laid in my arms.
And I put back a corner of the blanket and peeped in, and there was
Robin smiling up at me! His eyes were big and dark, just as they are
to-day, and he blinked them. Everybody says it is impossible that Robin
should have smiled; but I saw him, and I know. So the next morning, I
put away my dolls, and never played with them again. It would have been
too stupid, with a real baby to mother, and dress, and sing to.
“She’s crying!” chirped a little voice. For I was thinking of these
things as I sat on the bench in the Park; and sure enough the tears were
on my face, and I looked up to find three chubby tots standing hand in
hand before me, staring in a solemn row.
So then I got up and came home again, since I did not care to make a
public spectacle of myself;—and mother met me on the doorstep with
outstretched hands, and her own brave smile.
“My darling,” she said, “I meant to spare you; but I am afraid it has
come as too much of a shock. Come into the parlour. We will have a cup
of cocoa.”
And when I was tucked snugly on the lounge and had wept my little weep
where no one could see,—we talked it all out together. What comfortable
institutions mothers are!
It seems that if Robin does not have the operation now he can never have
it. A few months later would be too late. And though Dr. Porter had
hoped to obviate the necessity by a long rest in bed, everything else
has failed. There remains this one chance.
“So we must be brave for our baby, Elizabeth,” explained mother. “He is
too young to make the decision for himself. The doctor spoke to me of
the matter first before Christmas. I would not tell you then, dear,
since there seemed a chance of escape, and we had worries enough without
adding anything else. But that was why I was so determined not to draw
from our little stock of money. _You_ helped me there. Think how
thankful we should be that we do not have to borrow, that we can engage
a nurse for Robin,—everything that is necessary. He need not even be
moved to a hospital, Dr. Porter says. It will all be over in a couple of
weeks, and whatever the result there will be the inexpressible comfort
of knowing that everything possible has been tried. Are you satisfied?
Do you blame me?”
“No, no, indeed!” I answered. “Only,—I think I hate the doctor!”
“Oh, Elizabeth!” smiled mother, as she took my empty cocoa-cup and put
it upon the table. “And now I want you to run up to your room, bathe
your face, and put on a pretty frock. Mrs. Burroughs has sent over a
charming mould of orange jelly and some lady-fingers for Robin. There is
to be a tea-party in the nursery, and you and Abraham Lincoln are
invited. What do you think of that?”
It was one of mother’s dear, considerate schemes to save my tell-tale
eyes from a downstairs dinner. So I kissed her, sped up to my room,
dabbed a little powder on the tip of my nose, and donned my
forget-me-not dress. Robin’s invitation should be honoured with the best
I had.
How his black eyes danced when I entered to him in all my finery:—
“Allow me the Honour of Presenting my Friend, Mr. Abraham Lincoln,” he
piped. “There’s the globe, Elizabeth, on the side of the bed. You must
pertend to shake hands, and p’raps we can get him to eat a little
lady-finger.”
So I pretended to shake hands with the much-enduring Abraham Lincoln,
and tempted him with lady-fingers and orange jelly, both of which
delicacies he obstinately refused.
“Never mind,” says Robin. “He doesn’t know what’s good. _We_ will eat
instead.”
Such a jolly party as it was! We told stories, guessed riddles, and ran
races to see who could dispose of the most sandwiches; till even the
kind “Hippopotamus” could not have complained of Robin’s appetite. But,
at last, he grew tired, and the weary pain returned:
“Take away the party, please, and sing to me, Ellie dear,” he said.
So I carried the tray outside, and came back and sat down by the bed,
and with Robin’s thin little hand in mine, sang to him,—all the dear,
familiar “heaven hymns” that we have both come to love so well. And
Bobsie cuddled up against my arm and closed his eyes and sighed.
And then somehow I knew that if he is not to grow up strong and straight
like other boys, if he is to suffer more and more as the years go by, it
would be cruel to want to keep Robin. And, oh, I went on singing, and my
voice did not once break or trail! So perhaps God will forgive the
wicked words I wrote when I was so wild,—for I believe I can be brave
now because after a bit Bobsie dropped asleep with his hand still in
mine, and—I think, before I left him, that I said “good-bye.”
Sunday, March 22.
It is over. All yesterday morning Ernie and I sat on the attic stairs,
holding each other’s hands and trying to feel hopeful.
“He had such a pretty colour in his cheeks last evening,” said Ernie,
“and he did _so_ enjoy looking out the window. Buster was there, and
John waved his hand before they went away. It was a good sign that the
doctor should have let him up in his chair for half an hour,—don’t you
think so, Elizabeth? Robin has a lot of vitality.”
“Yes; I know he has,” I agreed. “And if the operation does go well,—how
splendid it will be!”
“Somehow one never thinks of Bobsie running about like other boys,”
continued Ernie,—“going to school, and playing marbles, and doing
errands. I,—I can’t hardly realise it.”
“Neither can I,” I answered, and for a while there was silence between
us.
Then Ernie began again:—“How good everybody has been! Uncle George even
offered to pay for the operation. I’m glad we didn’t have to accept,
though;—and we ought to be very thankful, too, Elizabeth, about the
boarders. The oatmeal was burned this morning,—did you notice?—and they
never said ‘boo’! Just think, if Mrs. Hudson had been here!”
“I know it,” I answered. “Oh, Ernie, if Robin and Geof pull through,
there is not another thing in the world we could dare to ask for!”
“I’ve prayed, and prayed,” returned Ernie, simply. “And I saw Miss
Barron yesterday, and she says that Geof is holding his own.”
Then for a long time we were quiet, each thinking her own thoughts. It
seemed as the morning would never go.
“Robin isn’t feeling anything at all,” said Ernie, at last. “Dr. Porter
promised that. It was to take about an hour, Elizabeth, only, of course,
there would be a great deal to get ready first. I must see what time it
is. It seems as if we had been sitting here weeks!”
And Ernie opened the hall door and stole out into the light, blinking
like a little owl. A moment more and she was back,—very white and
scared.
“It smells so of chloroform,” she confessed. “I,—I didn’t quite reach
the clock.”
So then we shut the door again, and waited a long, long while; till, at
last, we heard mother call:—
“Elizabeth! Ernestine!”
I sat quite still, but Ernie ran down and threw back the door:—“We are
here, mother dear, on the attic stairs.”
“Oh, my poor lambs,” said mother, with a little catch in her voice.
“Couldn’t you have found a more comfortable place to wait? But it is
over, now. Dr. Porter declares the operation a complete success; and
Robin has come out from the anæsthetic beautifully!”
“Oh!” gasped Ernie. And then, with a quick little cry,—“Elizabeth!
_Elizabeth!_”
I couldn’t see why she should be calling me, when I was right there
sitting on the top step looking down at her. Till....
The next thing I knew they had me on the attic floor, a pungent scent of
ammonia at my nose, while Ernie poured cold water down my neck in a vain
attempt to get me to swallow, and mother relieved me of my
collar-button.
“Go away!” I murmured, crossly. “I am only resting.”
“Then do it with your eyes open,” commanded Ernie. “We aren’t used to
fainters in this family!”
“I think she is all right, now,” said mother. “We will get her into the
workshop to Hazard’s cot.”
So there, despite all my protestations, they put me, and after a while
the doctor came up and gave me some medicine in a glass. It was very
mortifying, but he said I could not help it, and perhaps if I had not
made up my mind to expect the worst, I should have borne the news
better. And, next, if you please, I went to sleep,—it was that medicine,
don’t tell me!—and never woke till evening, when dear Haze brought up a
tray and sat beside me while I ate some chicken broth.
“Bobsie is doing splendidly,” he said. “Of course, we have none of us
seen him yet, except mother. And, Elizabeth,—don’t faint, there’s a good
girl,—but Geof has passed the crisis! They telephoned Uncle George at
noon. The office had a half-holiday. I came home, heard the good news
about Robin, and then went shopping!”
“Shopping, Hazey?” I repeated; for it seemed rather an odd way for him
to spend his afternoon.
“Yes,” returned Hazard. “Want to see what I got?” And, with a somewhat
conscious smile, he sidled toward the workshop door. A moment later and
he was back, bearing a portentous-looking package:—which, the wrappings
being quickly removed, revealed a beautiful Clement Braun print of the
Sistine Madonna, finished in soft sepia tints and set off by a
charmingly tasteful frame.
“Oh, Hazard!” I cried. “How lovely! Is it for Robin? No,—he is hardly
old enough. You must have bought it for mother.”
“Well, I didn’t then,” contradicted Haze. “It’s just for you, my dear.
You see I had planned to get something like this at Christmas, but I
lost my money, and couldn’t; and you stood by me like a trump, while all
the rest of the world thought I was pretty much of an ass,—and didn’t
hesitate to say so, occasionally. Sometimes I have been afraid you
didn’t know that I appreciate what a splendid chum you are, Elizabeth.
So I determined to find some way to show you, and as soon as I began to
draw my salary again I thought of this. It’s an Easter present,—but I
wanted you to have it to-day.”
“You dear!” I cried. “Oh, Haze, I’ve always wanted this Madonna. But it
must have cost a lot,—and you have given mother two dollars every single
week! How did you ever manage?”
Hazey blushed beamfully. “That’s all right,” he answered with becoming
modesty. “I’m glad you like it.”
And, looking up, I noticed again what mother and I were commenting upon
only the other day.
“Hazard,” I accused, “you are thin! You have been saving from your
lunches,—don’t deny it!”
“Oh, I’m used to short rations,” admitted Hazard. “It wasn’t anything at
all, Elizabeth. But it needn’t happen again, because (now _don’t_ faint,
there’s a dear) I’ve been promoted, and am to get five dollars a week
from now on! It all comes from my head for figures. You see, I’ve been
helping Mr. Simpkins lately,—he’s senior accountant,—and he was pretty
well satisfied with my work. So when Bridges spoke of taking me back
into the outside office, what should the old man do but go direct to
Uncle George with the matter, and say he couldn’t get along without me.
Uncle George was very much pleased, I really think; so I’m to have what
is practically a junior clerk’s position,—though my official title is
only ‘Simpkins’ boy,’—and a two-dollar increase in salary. Rather a
pretty turn of luck, hey?”
“Then you helped turn it, Haze darling,” I answered. “And you’ve earned
it every bit! You have worked well and faithfully at things you hated,
without any hope of reward. Oh, I’m proud of you,—we all are!”
And just at that moment mother and Ernie came up, and helped me
congratulate him;—and after a bit, when we had discussed the news from
every possible point of view, we all went down to hang the picture, and
Ernie and Haze insisted upon supporting me tenderly, one on either hand,
which was ridiculous! And before I went to bed they let me in to kiss
Robin; ... and now it is to-morrow morning. I am sitting at my desk
writing, with, oh, such a thankful heart! while above me on the wall
hangs Raphael’s most beautiful Madonna, quite glorifying and
illuminating this shabby little room.
Sunday, April 5.
Spring has come at last with Easter. Such a beautiful blue sky as we
woke to this morning, such tender breaths of gusty air!
“It seems funny to be putting on one’s winter hat,” remarked Ernie,
cheerfully, as she picked up her shabby gray beaver and shook out its
matted pompon; while I sniffed suspiciously at my white gloves in the
window, wondering if they really did whiff faintly of gasoline.
“Yes,” I admitted. “Hand me that whisk-broom, please. Everybody will be
wearing new clothes but us to-day, and we haven’t got any. Do you care?”
“I should think myself pretty mean if I did,” returned Ernie, roundly.
“Come on, Elizabeth. The bells are ringing. We have barely time to say
good-bye to Bobs.”
The nursery windows were open. The sunshine fell in bright patches
across Robin’s little white crib, where he lay among his pillows,
literally embowered amid blossoming plants.
“See, Elizabeth,” he called. “Here’s another!—a crimson bramble rose. It
hasn’t any card, ’cept just a happy Easter one. Mother can’t guess who
sent it, so I think _maybe_ it was Mrs. _Bo_-gardus! That makes five
flowers, and two rabbits, and three chickens, and a little red
prayer-book, all for me! Here’s a pansy for you and Ernie, please;
’cause you want to look pretty Easter day.”
“Thank you, honey,” we answered. And, though the stems were very short,
we managed to pin Robin’s pansies into our coats.
“They are playing ‘Welcome, happy morning!’” said Ernestine, as the
front door closed behind us, and the jubilant music of the chimes rang
more clearly to our ears. “Oh, Elizabeth, we _are_ happy, aren’t we?”
“Indeed we are, Ernie dear,” I returned. And then we had to hurry, since
it was already late.
“See, there are Aunt Adelaide and Meta,” I cried, presently, as we
neared the church porch. “They are going in just ahead of us. How
stunningly they are gotten up! Meta’s suit is charming, and what a love
of a hat!”
“But we look nice, too,” returned Ernie, with an irrepressible little
skip, and a downward glance at the bright flower in her button-hole. “We
can’t help it, Elizabeth,—because, we are _so glad_!”
The swelling notes of the organ, the youthful, soaring voices of the
choristers, in exultant anthem and hymn, the collect, and short, strong
sermon, seemed all a wonderful expression of our own inward thanksgiving
and gratitude. Never before has an Easter service meant so much to me,
and I know it was the same with Ernie.
Our shabby gloves met in sympathetic clasp. We squeezed one another’s
hands, and thought of that other morning when we sat side by side on the
dark attic stairs, waiting for news of Robin. Oh, to have made up one’s
mind to renunciation, only to have one’s treasure given back
double-fold! For we have great hopes of Bobsie now; Dr. Porter is more
than satisfied with the progress he is making; and only listen,—there’s
more good news to tell!
For after service Aunt Adelaide and Meta waited for us in the
church-porch, and we walked a couple of blocks together.
“Geof is very anxious to see you, Ernie,” said Aunt Adelaide. “Can you
manage to get around for a little visit this afternoon? Dr. Porter has
given his permission.”
“Oh!” cried Ernie, with an ecstatic little prance. “May I truly come?
That’s the one thing needed to make the day perfect!”
“Ask your mamma to come with you,” smiled Aunt Adelaide;—for the old
breach seems really healed at last. Our mutual anxiety over Geof and
Robin has brought us closer together than anything else could ever have
done. “Tell her please that there is a little matter Uncle George and I
want to talk over with her.”
“Yes; certainly I will,” returned Ernie; while Meta asked, with a glance
at the posy in my button-hole: