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[Illustration: _VIRGINIA DALE_]
THE TRIUMPH OF VIRGINIA DALE
BY JOHN FRANCIS, JR.
WITH A FRONTISPIECE IN FULL COLOR
FROM A PAINTING BY W. HASKELL COFFIN
AND OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS FROM DRAWINGS
BY JOHN GOSS
BOSTON
THE PAGE COMPANY
MDCCCCXXI
Copyright, 1921
By The Page Company
All rights reserved
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
First Impression, August, 1921
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.
DEDICATED
TO THE MEMORY OF
MY FATHER AND MOTHER
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
I HER MISSION IN LIFE 1
II THE MISSION BEGUN 17
III UNGIVEN ADVICE 29
IV THOSE DARKIES AGAIN 37
V ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN 45
VI IKE EXPLAINS 59
VII JOE PROVES INTERESTING 74
VIII ANOTHER OPPORTUNITY 97
IX HEZEKIAH HAS A SOLUTION 118
X AN AFTERNOON OFF 143
XI OLD HEARTS MADE YOUNG 161
XII MORE TROUBLE 183
XIII VIRGINIA HELPS AGAIN 195
XIV AN OUTING AND AN ACCIDENT 209
XV A MAN IN DISGRACE 236
XVI VIRGINIA MUST GO 262
XVII A FRIEND IN NEED 276
XVIII AUNT KATE LENDS A HAND 292
XIX OBADIAH "COMES-TO" 308
XX HIS JOURNEY'S END 330
XXI THE TRIUMPH 339
XXII NOBODY HOME, MR. DEVIL 353
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Virginia Dale (in full color) Frontispiece
"This request appeared to require deep thought" 155
"'I must choose between your way and the way of my Mother'" 251
"'I think that I shall love it,' she said softly" 261
"'You are my sweetheart,' the brazen Helen told him" 297
THE TRIUMPH OF VIRGINIA DALE
CHAPTER I
HER MISSION IN LIFE
Obadiah Dale was the richest man in South Ridgefield. He owned the great
textile mill down by the river where hundreds of people were employed
and which hummed and clattered from morning until night to add to his
wealth. He lived in a fine house. About it, broad lawns, shaded by
ancient elms and dotted with groups of shrubbery, formed a verdant
setting for the walls and massive porch pillars spotless in white paint.
Obadiah's only child was Virginia. She was a charming bit of girlhood
with a complexion so clear that it seemed pale in contrast to the black
hair and the clearly lined brows which arched those big, serious, blue
eyes.
On an afternoon in early June she was reading on the couch which swung
from the lofty ceiling of the porch when she became aware that some one
was coming up the walk from the gate. She arose and her face lighted
with happiness as she ran down the steps to greet a smartly dressed
woman of middle age. "Oh, Hennie dear," she cried, "I am so glad
that you've come."
The older woman laughed gaily as she caught the girl in her arms, "You
know I couldn't forget your birthday, Virginia."
"No, you wouldn't do that, Hennie. You don't come often," the girl
sighed, "but you always remember that."
Mrs. Henderson kissed her little hostess. Always had her big heart gone
out to this motherless maid. Long ago she had been the intimate friend of
Virginia's mother. Elinor Dale had died when her daughter was a year
old so that Hennie had a twofold reason for loving her young friend.
"It's good to have you here," exclaimed the girl as she drew her
visitor to a chair by the couch. "I wish you would come every day."
"Now, listen to that. Wouldn't it be better, please, for you to come
and see me instead of planning for a poor old woman,"--Mrs. Henderson
did not look the part--"who has twinges of rheumatism, to make daily
calls upon you?"
Virginia regarded her guest with great seriousness. "I come to your
house very often, Hennie. I was over the other day, but,"--she gave
another sigh,--"you were not home."
"I do remember. Carrie told me that you were over with Serena. I
supposed that you came to see her. I am on so many committees for
various charitable organizations----" She stopped short and reaching
over patted the girl's hand. "I am sorry that I was not home, dear.
I should remember that you are rather old to call upon my negro cook."
Virginia's eyes danced. "I must have called upon Carrie a thousand
times since I was a baby. A few more calls in your kitchen instead of
your parlor won't hurt me."
"Why are you laughing?" demanded Mrs. Henderson.
"I can tell you a secret about your own house but you must agree not to
use it against Carrie."
"I promise."
"Well, Hennie, you might be interested to know that refreshments are
served oftener in your kitchen than your parlor. I learned that years
ago."
"The very idea!" exclaimed the caller.
The girl's gaze wandered thoughtfully over the beautiful grounds. "I do
so love to have you here. I don't see very many people." Her voice
was wistful. "This big place gets lonesome sometimes. I think I envy
girls who live in houses with stoops on the sidewalk. They have the
cars, peddlers, policemen and lots of people going by all of the time.
It would be great fun to live that way." She was very sober now. "I
think that I want noises and lots of things going on. Am I very strange,
Hennie?"
"No indeed, all young people are that way," declared Mrs. Henderson
with emphasis. "I felt so myself, once. Of course, it is lonely for you
in this big house with only Serena. Your father is home for so short a
time each day."
"Please don't misunderstand me, I am not very lonely--only a
little bit. If something interesting--something exciting and wildly
adventurous--would happen, Hennie, it would be fine."
Mrs. Henderson smiled. "I am afraid that I can't help you in such
ways, dear, but I have something here which I am very sure that you will
dearly love." She drew forth a small parcel from her bag.
Virginia waited in pleased expectation. "I am going to adore it," she
cried joyously, as, accepting the package, she prolonged anticipation
by inspecting it curiously, "because you gave it to me."
"You will care for it for other reasons," replied the older woman
soberly.
Within the wrappings, the girl found a little volume, the cover of which
was much worn.
"Don't be misled by appearances," Mrs. Henderson suggested as Virginia
opened the book.
Upon the fly leaf, written in ink faded with age, was the name, Elinor
Clark. The girl's eyes opened wide in wonder and suppressed delight.
"It was my mother's book, Hennie?" she asked gently.
"Yes, dear, it was a girlhood possession of your mother. During her last
illness she gave it to me and asked me to see that you got it on your
eighteenth birthday. She explained that she didn't want to trouble
your father, yet she wanted you to have it. It was the last request
Elinor ever made of me." Mrs. Henderson's eyes winked suspiciously and
leaning forward she peered at the worn cover. When she spoke her voice
was husky with emotion. "It's a gift that you will always cherish,
dear."
A great tenderness swept over Virginia's face. "It's my mother's
birthday present to me, isn't it, Hennie?"--she almost whispered--"the
only one that I can remember."
As the older woman bowed her agreement, she moved over upon the couch by
the girl and for a time they were silent.
Virginia was the first to speak. "Tell me about my mother, please,"
she said softly, her hand caressing the cover of the book. "It makes
Daddy sad if I talk to him too much about her so I never do. But Hennie,
I should like to know more of her if I could."
"Bless your heart, I will gladly tell you everything I can, dear." She
was thoughtful for a moment and then resumed, "Your mother was three
years older than you are now when I first met her."
"And married," cried the girl in surprise, "I never thought of my
mother as so young. I pictured her as much older."
"Old, nonsense! Your mother was my age. She was hardly grown at the time
of her death."
"Where did my father meet her? I know that she lived down South. Serena
is always talking about the old home."
"He met her here in South Ridgefield. He had come here from New England
and started his mill. It was small in those days, but prosperous.
Social affairs had little attraction for your father. That made him
very interesting to us girls. I suppose too we did not forget that he
was making lots of money and could give the girl of his choice everything
she desired. He had been here four or five years when the marriage
took place. Its announcement caused much excitement among us young
people. We had given your father up as a hopeless old bachelor. Think
of it, in a week, your mother snatched the best catch from under the
noses of the South Ridgefield girls." Mrs. Henderson laughed gaily.
"Elinor did that very thing."
"My mother must have been very beautiful?"
"She was, every one admitted that, but she had the advantage in another
way. She came from Virginia after her father's death to settle some
business affairs with your father." Again Mrs. Henderson laughed.
"The girls used to say that he took Elinor in full settlement of all
indebtedness. After the marriage he built this house and you were born,"
she pointed upwards, "in that big corner room on the second floor."
"Please go on, Hennie," begged the girl, after a pause in which the
older woman's thoughts wandered in the past.
"I was thinking of the good times I've had in this house. Your mother
used to give delightful dances."
"Dances, _here_!" Virginia's astonishment was evident.
"Certainly, I have danced here many times until three o'clock in the
morning and thought nothing of it."
"You danced, too?" It was as if the girl were shocked.
"Of course I danced. Do you think I was a wall flower who could lure no
partners to myself?" Mrs. Henderson demanded with spirit. "Remember, I
had been married only a year. There were grand dinners, too." She went
on more calmly. "How we enjoyed Serena's cooking and afterwards many
is the gay crowd this porch sheltered in those days."
"It is hard to imagine, Hennie." The girl shook her head soberly.
"Daddy and I are so quiet. We sit here in the evenings and I talk until
he falls asleep. Then I watch the fire-flies until he wakes up and we
go to bed. The thought of him dancing is very strange."
There was a note of pity in Mrs. Henderson's voice when she spoke, "To
be sure it is, dear. I never said that your father danced. He seemed
to enjoy having people here. It was your mother, though, who loved that
sort of thing and her word was law to him in everything. She depended on
Hezekiah Wilkins to set the pace by wielding a rhythmic toe, as he used
to call it." A smile of gay memories died in her eyes at more solemn
thoughts. "Those good times lasted only a couple of years. Your mother
was taken ill and then--" she paused and continued softly, "--one
afternoon she went away from the room upstairs and left you, dear,"
her voice caught, "to Serena and me."
Mrs. Henderson's arm went about the girl but in a moment she resumed,
"After the death of your mother your father devoted himself to money
making again. It took all of his time." There was a flash of anger in
her eye. "He has succeeded very well in that."
Mrs. Henderson arose hastily. "Dear me, child, I am staying too long.
You should go to some of these youthful affairs about town. I imagine
that the boys and girls of South Ridgefield have some very good times."
The girl's eyes lighted with interest but in a moment it had gone,
replaced by a thoughtful little smile. "Daddy would be lonely without
me. I ought not to leave him alone in the evening."
Again the angry glint came in Mrs. Henderson's eyes, but she controlled
herself and said quietly, "You are the best judge of that, dear. But
now that you have finished school you should have something to occupy
your time. I know that Serena would have you play great lady, but,
with due respect to her ideas, you will find it a lonely game in these
busy days. Why don't you give some of your time to helping those not so
fortunate as you? Think it over, child," she urged as she left.
After her caller had departed Virginia returned to the couch and with
intense interest gave herself up to the examination of the book which had
been her mother's.
A negress of uncertain age appeared in the doorway of the house. Her hair
was streaked with grey and she was enormously fat. She wore a calico
dress over the front of which stretched a snowy white apron, its strings
lost in a crease of flesh at the waist line. Bound about her head was a
white handkerchief and her sleeves were rolled to her elbows.
She moved about the porch replacing the wicker furniture. Stopping by
the couch she rearranged some magazines, and then, "Honey chil', ain'
you gwine git dressed? De clock done struck fo'."
"In a minute."
Serena's eyes wandered to the side lawn. Instantly her attention was
riveted upon certain objects protruding from some shrubbery. They were
conspicuous and unusual as lawn decorations, bulking large beside a
recumbent lawn mower, a rake and grass shears.
"You Ike," she shouted. The objects moved convulsively. "Wot you
mean a sleepin' under dat bush?" The commotion in the shrubbery ceased
and the objects reappeared in their normal position as the feet of a
sleepy-eyed negro youth.
"Ah ain' a sleepin' none, Miss Sereny, ah was a layin' under dat bush
a ca'culatin' whar ah gwine to trim it."
"You got a po' haid fo' figgers den. You computen all dis yere
afternoon, ah guesses. Ma eye is on you, boy. Go change you' clothes
an' git dat ca'ah down to de office a fo' you is late."
Ike gathered the tools and disappeared in haste.
Serena turned again to the girl, who had displayed but slight interest
in the sleeping laborer. "It gittin' mighty late, chil'."
"Yes, I know, Serena."
"You bettah dress you'se'f."
"Please, only a little longer."
"You gwine be fo'ced to be mighty spry den," warned the old negress
as she waddled into the house.
"Oh, how wonderful," breathed the girl, a great joy suddenly showing in
her face. "It's for me--from mother. Really."
The worn volume lay open in her lap. It contained selections from the
works of many poets. Upon the page before her these lines, taken from
Coleridge's, "The Ancient Mariner," were printed,
"He prayeth best who loveth best
All things both great and small:
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all."
They were heavily underlined. In the broad margin was written in a
tremulous hand which displayed the effects of illness,
"My darling little daughter--
--live these lines. ELINOR DALE."
A vast tenderness enfolded the girl. She reread the lines. "My mother
is telling me how to live," she whispered. "Her voice is calling to me
through all the years--the only time." She touched her lips impulsively
to the place where the cherished hand had rested and then, clasping the
book to her breast, she closed her eyes and remained so for awhile. When
her lids raised anew, the blue eyes were filled with a great yearning
as she breathed softly and reverently as if in prayer, "Yes, mother."
A little later, Virginia entered the house and Serena told her, "Ah done
lay out yo'all's clothes, honey chil'. Ef you want anythin' else jes
yell."
The girl dreamily climbed the broad staircase. At the bend she remembered
something, and, turning back, smiled down at the old colored woman below.
"Thank you, Serena," she called.
Amply rewarded, the faithful servant contentedly busied herself once more
with the affairs of the Dale household. From that far away day when she
had, "'cided ah gwine foller Miss Elinor to de no'th," she had been
recognized by well informed persons as one in authority in that home.
It was Serena who first held Virginia in her arms and tenderly rocked the
squirming red mite across her ample bosom. During those long days and
nights of watching in the last illness of Elinor Dale, it was Serena
who, with undisguised distrust of the trained nurse, was in and out of
the sick room almost every hour. It was Serena who closed Elinor Dale's
eyes, and it was Serena who held the motherless child with great tears
rolling down her black face as she stood by the open grave.
No formal agreement held Serena after the death of her mistress. She saw
the home as a storm tossed craft, from whose deck the navigator had been
swept, drifting aimlessly upon the sea of domesticity. Unhesitatingly,
she had assumed the vacant command which carried with it the mothering
of Virginia.
In the early months of his bereavement, Obadiah Dale gave some attention
to the establishment which he had created for his wife's enjoyment.
Yet all things followed a well managed routine and, more important than
all to a man of his nature, the monthly bills evidenced economical
judgment. Quick to recognize a valuable subordinate, Obadiah saw no
necessity for immediate change.
Serena had excellent ideas in child training. Although in her mind
Virginia was a young lady of position who could properly demand
appropriate attention, yet must she learn to meet the responsibilities
of her station.
Obadiah was assured that his daughter in Serena's charge was in the
care of one who loved her. From time to time he made vague plans for
the child's future. As they were to commence at an indefinite time
they never materialized. More and more the business activities of the
manufacturer occupied his time, and slowly but surely the duty of
Virginia's upbringing was shifted to the negro woman.
When Virginia was five, Serena told her employer, "Dis yere chil'
orter be in school a learnin' mo' an' ah kin teach her," and so
the mill owner's daughter was started upon her scholastic career at a
kindergarten.
Obadiah never knew the worries of this illiterate negro woman in
planning suitable clothing for his child. No man could appreciate that
watchful eye ever ready to copy styles and materials from the garments
of children of families deemed worthy as models.
Virginia's education was continued under the guidance of a Miss Keen
who conducted a select school for young ladies in South Ridgefield. This
institution, highly esteemed as a seat of learning by Serena, offered
courses usually terminating when pupils refused longer to attend the
establishment. In its most prosperous years its enrollment never exceeded
twenty misguided maidens.
Now, Virginia had arrived at the age of eighteen, a serious, rather shy
girl, whose youth had been spent under the supervision of an old negro
woman, narrowed by the influence of a small school and neglected by a
busy father.
When Obadiah came home that night for dinner, she met him in the hall.
He was a very tall man and extremely thin. His sharp features gave a
shrewd expression and his smooth shaven face displayed a cruel mouth
and an obstinate jaw.
"Hello, Daddy dear," cried the girl as she held up her mouth to be
kissed. She gave a happy little laugh when he pinched her cheek, and
demanded of him, "What day is this?"
"Tuesday," he answered indifferently, "the tenth of June."
"Can't you think of anything else?"
He looked puzzled. "It's not a holiday, is it?"
"No, but it's my birthday, Daddy dear."
He displayed some interest now. "Is that so? How old are you today?"
"I am eighteen," she explained proudly. "Serena made me a cake with
candles. She brought it in at lunch. She said it might bother you,
tonight." She looked up at him quickly. "Do you love me, Daddy?"
"Surely," he answered absently and shaking his iron grey head he
ascended the stairs to prepare for dinner, muttering, "Time flies--how
time flies."
He joined his daughter again in the dining room in response to the
gong. Serena had planned the meal with due regard to the fact that the
day had been warm. A lobster, magnificent in its gorgeousness, reposed
upon a bed of lettuce on the platter before Obadiah. A potato salad
flanked it and a dish of sliced tomatoes reflected the color scheme of
the crustacean. Dainty rolls, Serena's pride, peeped from the folds
of a napkin and the ice clinked refreshingly in the tall tumblers of tea
as they were stirred.
Sometimes Virginia and her father chatted, but there were long silences.
At intervals, Serena, noiselessly in spite of her weight, appeared to
replenish or change a dish and to see that all things were in order.
As they waited for the table to be cleared for dessert, the girl said
wistfully, "I wish that I could help somebody, Daddy."
He looked at her curiously. "What ever put that into your head? You are
a help to me sitting there and smiling at me."
"Oh, but that's not much. To sit at a table and smile and eat good
things only helps oneself."
"Well, why should you want to help anybody but you and me?"
She gazed at him thoughtfully. "Don't joke, Daddy. I know I would be
happier if I could do something for some one."
Obadiah chuckled. "Where did you get that idea? I am perfectly happy
tonight, and I haven't bothered myself about other people."
"The very idea. All this livelong day you have been planning for those
who work in your mill."
A sudden light came to him, he chuckled again. "Surely, I look after
my employees or they would look after me."
"That makes you happy." Virginia was certain that she had made her
point.
"No," Obadiah shook his head vigorously, "my employees make me angry
more than they make me happy. My happiness is the result of my own
efforts."
"That is what I mean, Daddy. You have had such great opportunities to
make yourself happy." She viewed him with eyes of fond admiration. "You
have accomplished so much."
Obadiah was filled with a comfortable egotism. "I have accomplished
a whole lot," he boasted. His mind was upon his commercial success and
the wealth he had accumulated. "I'm not through," he bragged. He
became thoughtful as he dwelt upon certain fertile fields awaiting
his financial plough. His jaw set. He had rivals who would contest his
tillage. He would fight as he had always fought. His eyes glistened
beneath his shaggy brows as he sensed the fray.
The conversation languished as they ate their dessert, but Obadiah's
pride of accomplishment had not departed. "I am going to do bigger
things than ever before," he exulted. "When you are older you will
realize what I have done for you," he explained as they went out on
the porch.
For a time the girl and the old man followed their own thoughts while
the fire-flies sparkled and gleamed about the lawn as if they were
the flashlights of a fairy patrol. Emma Virginia was thinking of her
father's words. He was going to do more for her. She must certainly
share her blessings.
"Daddy dear, do you mind if I help some one?" she asked gently.
"Back on that?" he demanded with a note of sharpness.
She gave an emphatic little nod. "It is very important. I--I--can't
tell you now, why," she hesitated. "I should feel much better, though."
"You are not sick, are you?" Obadiah worried.
"Oh, no indeed, perfectly well. Only, I am sure that I would be much
happier if I could do something for someone else. I don't know whom.
That doesn't make any difference."
"What a strange idea!" It seemed to bother Obadiah. "You want to help
someone but you don't know whom." He considered a moment. "Here's
my advice. Help somebody who can help you."
"Now you are teasing me, Daddy?" she protested. "I am really serious
about this. I want to be of more use in the world." Her voice was very
soft and gentle now. "I know that I should share my blessings and I
want to do it. It is such a comfort to talk things over with you, Daddy
dearest." She moved quietly over to him and seated herself upon his lap.
As she touched him, he jumped. "Gracious, you startled me so, Virginia.
I was asleep."
"Please, Daddy, don't mind," she whispered, "I'll be quiet as a
mouse."
Almost grudgingly, he let her settle herself and drop her head against
his shoulder. In a moment his head slipped down against the soft hair
of the girl and Obadiah dozed anew.
She murmured softly, "It was so easy to explain to you. Serena wouldn't
understand, I am afraid. All of your life, Daddy, you have been helping
other people."
"Whom?" asked Obadiah in alarm, starting up and shaking the girl's
head from his shoulder.
"Daddy, wake up. You were asleep while I was talking to you." She tried
to kiss him as he rubbed his eyes, but his arms were in her way. "You
are such a comfort, Daddy. I wish I could be like you," she said softly.
"You can try," conceded Obadiah immodestly. "You are keeping me up.
I am tired. I want to go to bed. My legs are asleep from your sitting on
them," he complained and then told her shortly, "The place for you to
dream is in bed, not on my lap."