Ben was again in Boston. A position on the staff of a great railroad had
been offered him, and Boston for some time would be his headquarters. He
was not sorry to be at home. His mother and father seemed to him to be
growing less capable. His sisters needed him, and his salary was large
enough to enable him to do for them the many little things that add so
much to young girls' pleasure.
To Miss Theodora his return was almost as great a boon as to his own
family. At least once a day he called to see what he could do for her,
and usually he went within the house to have a little chat with her. It
was not strange that they talked chiefly of Ernest. Ben's nature was
strongly sympathetic, and he knew what subject lay nearest Miss
Theodora's heart. Yet he disturbed her by telling her plainly that he
really thought that she ought to take some notice of Eugenie.
"But they're not engaged," apologized Miss Theodora, who discerned in
Ben a feeling that she was unjust to Ernest.
"I know they're not," he replied; "but it's much the same thing as if
they were. Ernest won't change, and her father will soon give his
consent."
Yet Miss Theodora could not get herself into a relenting mood, though
Ben, like Richard Somerset, added to her confusion.
Sometimes when Ben called at Miss Theodora's he found Kate there. In her
presence little was said about Ernest, and nothing about Eugenie.
He had thought himself almost disloyal to Kate when he had asked Miss
Theodora to recognize Eugenie. His only defence was his friendship for
Ernest, and he was pleased enough that Ernest had never sought his
advice in this love affair of his. How could he have counselled Ernest
to be more appreciative of Kate without disclosing his view of her
feelings, and how could he have encouraged Ernest in his love for
Eugenie without being disloyal to Kate?
But what was Ernest made of, he queried, to pass Kate by for a girl like
Eugenie, well enough in her way, perhaps, but oh! so different from
Kate? Then, as he glanced at the latter, he could but wonder if certain
changes which he noticed in her--a quietness of expression, an unwonted
slowness of response, so unlike her former habit of repartee--were
induced by regret at this new turn in Ernest's affairs. It was a matter
about which he himself could say nothing. His own feeling for her was
now too strong. He wondered if any one would even suspect how much he
had cared for Kate. Kate of course must never know. He would not run the
risk of destroying their friendship by rash expressions of a regard
warmer than she had dreamed of. Surely he was not presumptuous in
believing that Kate valued this friendship. Certainly there was no one
else to whom he could open his own heart as freely as to her; and he
flattered himself that she confided not a little in him. This autumn she
had come to town in advance of her mother, and was spending a month
with Miss Theodora. He saw her often, therefore, sometimes when he
called at Miss Theodora's, sometimes in one of the neighboring side
streets, on her way, as he usually thought, to visit some of her colored
beneficiaries.
Ben knew that Kate, since she had come of age, had spent no small share
of her income in furthering schemes for the improvement of various poor
people. Some of these schemes he fully approved; others seemed to him of
doubtful value. Yet his disapproval, though he might not have admitted
it to himself, was based on no firmer ground than his wish that Kate, as
far as possible, should be spared the sight and knowledge of
disagreeable things.
Meeting her one day, "It seems to me that you are always running away
from Miss Theodora's," he had said in a tone of mock reproof.
"Oh, well, only when I go to my cooking class. You see, it's such
fascinating work, and the new teacher doesn't get on with those children
half as well as I do. She's a good teacher, but it's the human nature,
the black human nature, that she does not exactly understand. When
things are running smoothly I don't expect to see her more than once or
twice a week."
"Once or twice a week," echoed Ben, "about twice as often as you ought
to inhale the odors of Phillips Street."
"Oh, nonsense, you should see our room, as clean and bright as fresh
paint and paper can make it, with its perfectly ideal arrangements in
the shape of stove and dishes."
Ben smiled, though not exactly in approval. Yet more and more he
realized her power in the neighborhood.
"See that new machine," said Miss Chatterwits, when he called on her one
day, and she pointed proudly to a new combination of polished wood and
shining metal. "Well, Kate bought me that. She gives me a good deal of
fine sewing to do, and thought this machine would be handier than my old
one, which I'd had--well, I won't say how long, but almost ever since
they were first made. It had grown kind of rickety, and hadn't any
modern improvements."
"This one looks as if it could do almost everything," said Ben, glancing
at it a second time.
"Well, I do get a sight of comfort with it. Kate, or p'r'aps I ought to
say Miss Digby, allows me so much a week, and expects to have all my
time. She has me do white stitching for her,--which I always do by
hand,--and make garments of various kinds for her poor people, which I
do on the machine." Miss Chatterwits said "poor people" in a very
dignified tone. She was never quite sure that she enjoyed sewing for
these dependents.
"You must be kept pretty busy, then," responded Ben.
"Well, not so busy as I might be," she answered. "Some weeks there's
very little for me to do. But I get my money just the same," she added
quickly. "To tell you the truth, I guess Kate wanted to keep me out of
the Old Ladies' Home, where I certainly should be living this very
minute if she hadn't planned things out for me. Of course you wouldn't
mention this to any one else;"--and she looked at Ben earnestly, for she
suddenly remembered that the outside world did not know of this little
arrangement.
"Of course I won't mention it," said the young man; "but it's just like
Kate, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is; you see, she found out just how I was situated after my
sisters died. There wasn't a cent of our savings left, and people began
to get so dressy that they thought they had to have their things made
out of the house, or employ young women. Not that I couldn't have done
as well as anybody, with the help of paper patterns, but people didn't
think so, and I was at my wits' end. What to do I didn't know--"
"There was Miss Theodora," began Ben.
"Yes, she was ready enough, and she kept me along with the little work
she had. But Kate herself kind of interfered with that. She said Miss
Theodora had worn old clothes long enough, and she some way persuaded
her to get that dress for Ernest's graduating exercises made down town.
Well, it seems a pity, when Miss Theodora's got almost a whole trunk of
things to be cut over, that she shouldn't use them up. However, just
when I was at my wits' end, Kate came along, and says she: 'How much
ought you to earn every week to live comfortably? I'll add a third to
that if you'll save all your time for me; I see that I'll have to have
lots of sewing done the next year or two;'--and though I knew it was me
she was thinking of more than herself, I was glad enough to say 'yes' to
her offer."
After this Miss Chatterwits wondered how she had happened to open her
heart so to Ben. A third person would have accounted for it by the fact
that Ben and Miss Chatterwits were both deeply interested in the same
object.
[Illustration]