A LITTLE OLD LADY’S DOLL
Something the heart must have to cherish.
--_Henry W. Longfellow._
THE next Monday afternoon Elsa and Alice went home from school with
Betty to talk over a plan which Elsa had said, with a very mysterious
air, that she wanted to tell them about. Finding that the baby was not
in the nursery, Betty took her friends to this delightful room, with
the flowering geraniums and the little strawberry-birds and the row of
dolls, the gay pillows of the window-seat, and the Kate Greenaway paper.
“I should think you would stay here all the time, Betty,” exclaimed
Elsa, curling herself into a little heap on the rug, and leaning back
against the bed; her eyes began roaming around the “picture-book room,”
as she called it to herself.
“I do stay here half of the time,--all night,” Betty answered quickly.
“That’s half the time when you have to go to bed at eight o’clock! Now
tell us about your secret.” Betty sat down near the door, to guard the
approach, and Alice drew a small rocking-chair close to the shelf of
plants, so that she could watch the lively little strawberry-birds.
“It’s this,” said Elsa; “when my Uncle Ned was here, last Friday, he
asked me ever and ever so much about the Club, and I told him about
our dressing dolls for the Convalescent Home children, and about how
much they needed money; and he thought it would be nice if we could
earn some money,--no matter if it was just a little,--and surprise Miss
Ruth, and have it to give to the Convalescent Home with the dolls on
Christmas Day.” Elsa’s eyes were shining with interest.
“I know how I can earn some,” cried Betty. “When I especially
want to earn money, mother gives me five cents a day for emptying
waste-baskets; and I will ask father to let me black his boots. How
many days are there before Christmas,--let me see, just fourteen, and
the waste-baskets would give me seventy cents, surely. What are you
going to do, Elsa, to earn money?”
“Uncle Ned said he would give me fifty cents a week if I would write a
four-page letter to him twice a week.”
“That will be a dollar,” said Betty, a little envious at Elsa’s being
able to earn more than she. “What will you do, Alice?”
“Mamma sometimes pays me for washing the dishes. If I do them twice a
day, she will give me five cents, I think, each day.”
“That will be seventy cents more,” Betty said encouragingly, “and two
dollars and forty cents in all.”
“And I’m sure Ben can earn some, shovelling snow and running errands,”
cried Alice eagerly.
“I wish grandmother would let me wash dishes or black boots,” sighed
Elsa. “Work hurts people’s hands, she says.”
“But we will have at least three dollars, if Ben earns some, too,”
Betty said quickly, thinking how tiresome it must be to have to be
careful all the time about keeping one’s hands soft and white. “Won’t
Miss Ruth be surprised, though!” she added joyfully.
Elsa clasped her slender little hands around her knees: “I know a
lovely surprise the Club is going to have;” her violet-gray eyes danced
with pleasure.
“O, what is it?” cried both the other girls.
“I mustn’t tell; Uncle Ned told me not to. You see, he asked me
what I wanted most for Christmas, and at first I said some little
strawberry-birds like Betty’s, and then we talked it over, and he said
he couldn’t get them very well in cold weather, and perhaps grandmother
wouldn’t like them, so we decided on something even nicer,--something
the whole Club will like.”
“I think it’s mean to tell just a little bit, and not tell the rest,”
declared Betty.
“But I should think you’d like to know you are going to have something,
anyway,” said peacemaker Alice. “Will Miss Ruth like it, too?”
“I think so; I am sure she will,” Elsa answered, joyfully.
Seeing the cloud on Betty’s face, Alice spoke up quickly: “Don’t you
think we ought to decide to-day on something to give Miss Ruth for
Christmas,--maybe something from all of us?”
“Yes, I’ve been thinking about that,” exclaimed Betty, diverted by the
suggestion. “Mother said she would help us decide.” And Betty ran out
into the hall, calling “Mother! Mother, dear!”
Presently Mrs. White came into the nursery. Being an affectionate
and thoughtful woman, she felt that it was wise not in any way to
discourage the generous impulses of the little girls. “How will this
plan suit you?” she asked, after they had talked the matter over for
a few moments: “Each one of you bring to me the amount of money she
can perfectly well afford to give for a present, and no one shall know
how much the others give; then all of you go with me some day after
vacation begins, and we will choose the present.”
This plan suited the girls perfectly.
“And it makes another surprise,” cried Elsa in great delight. “We have
so many now that I am almost getting them mixed up.”
Mrs. White’s motherly heart was rejoiced at Elsa’s brighter, happier
face. “The Club and the being with other children are doing her a world
of good,” she said to herself wisely.
* * * * *
At noon on Friday, Betty White ran in to see Miss Ruth, solely for the
purpose of talking about the Club meeting. “Elsa and I were saying at
recess this morning,” she began breathlessly, “that we thought you had
forgotten all about the story of the old lady’s doll that you were
going to tell us. Will you tell it this afternoon? You can be thinking
it up.”
To this Miss Ruth agreed.
Betty had in one hand a fancy-striped paper bag, full of chocolate
candy. She held it toward Miss Ruth: “Take some, please. O, take more
than one piece! Mother had a birthday yesterday and she gave each of us
children two dollars. She hid the money in different places ’round the
house, and we had to hunt for it; it was such fun.
“I like mother’s birthdays, ’cause she always gives us something,”
Betty rattled on, in her usual lively fashion. “Last year she baked
some new silver dollars into a cottage pudding: it looked so heavy that
none of us would take any at first, except Max, but when he bit into a
dollar and showed it to us, we all took some in a hurry.
“Have some more candy, please,” urged Betty, generously, holding forth
the striped bag again. “I bought a lot,--twenty-five cents’ worth out
of my two dollars,--so I could have some candy to eat in school. I
never get found out. Don’t ever tell, will you?”
“Do I ever tell?” asked Miss Ruth.
“No,” Betty said, with an approving nod, “I don’t believe you ever do.”
“Don’t you think it would be more honourable, however, Betty, since
candy-eating is not allowed in school, for you not to take the candy
there?” Ruth Warren asked, looking intently into Betty’s face.
Betty lowered her eyes, but did not make any answer.
“Leave the candy here,” suggested Ruth Warren, “and have it for the
Club meeting.”
“All--right, I will,” came the rather reluctant but courageous consent.
“Well, it’s ’most school-time and I must go,” cried Betty in her wonted
happy manner, a half-moment later. “Thank you for keeping the candy.”
She took a last piece by way of reward to herself, and hurried off to
school.
* * * * *
There was no Alice with Betty and Elsa when they arrived, soon after
three o’clock. “She wasn’t at school this morning, but Ben has gone
home to see if she can come,” Betty explained at once.
“Mrs. Holt has just now telephoned me,” Ruth Warren said, “and she
tells me that Alice has a feverish cold, so she cannot come to the
Club.”
“We might go out there,” Betty suggested.
“But we are not invited,” Ruth Warren replied merrily. “If Alice has a
feverish cold, naturally enough her mother would not invite us there.”
“It is too bad,” cried Elsa. “Alice will be so disappointed.” Both she
and Betty looked quite downcast, for they were very fond of Alice.
“Can we have the story just the same, or shall we wait?” Betty inquired
anxiously.
“We will have the story,” replied Miss Ruth, “because I shall go out
to see Alice to-morrow, and if she would like, I will tell it to her
there.”
“Please begin now, then,” urged Betty.
“But first I want to show you what I have for the Club to work upon,”
said Miss Ruth, beginning to undo the wrappings of a large, flat
pasteboard box which stood upon the table.
“O, goody!” cried Betty, who had been eying the box with lively
curiosity.
“Paper dolls!” exclaimed Elsa, clasping her hands in rapturous delight,
as the box-cover came off.
“What beauties!” Betty said, dancing a quick-step in her excitement.
There were twelve sets of dolls, all fully dressed, and with extra
costumes, ready to be painted.
“All those dresses,--all the hats, too, to be painted,” said Elsa, in
great glee.
“What fun! What fun!” cried Betty, whirling around like a lively top,
while Miss Ruth took from the box a large tin case of water-colour
paints and several brushes, and placed them upon some sheets of
blotting-paper which already covered the polished mahogany table.
Betty had just been out to the kitchen for some water,--at Miss Ruth’s
suggestion and to grim-faced Sarah’s great delight,--and she was
filling the paint saucers when she glanced up at the sound of loud
sleigh-bells and cried out: “Why! there is Alice!”
“It can’t be Alice!” said Elsa, following Betty to the window.
“It’s the Holts’ hired man, grinning from ear to ear, and Alice with
him,” insisted Betty. “She has just jumped out of the sleigh.”
The bell rang, and in a surprisingly short time Sarah appeared at the
library door, trying hard not to burst out laughing; for behind her
came Ben, very red in the face, dressed in a brown sailor-suit of
Alice’s, and looking so sheepish and so comical that Miss Ruth joined
in the general laugh, and Sarah went off chuckling, with her white
apron up to her face.
“Peggy felt so bad because she couldn’t come that I put on one of her
old dresses over my own clothes, just for fun, to make her laugh,” said
Ben, hanging his head, but marching bravely into the room.
“I shouldn’t think you’d want to wear girls’ clothes and come to a
girls’ Club,” said Betty teasingly.
“Girls are all right, most of the time,” Ben answered. “They’re too
afraid of their clothes to be as nice as boys, all the time. This is
awful tight; mother said she knew something would happen to it;” he was
still very red in the face.
Something had happened already, for one of the sleeves had partly
ripped from the blouse waist. Noticing this, Ruth Warren noticed also
a tumultuous movement under the blouse, suggestive of sobs. But Ben’s
smiling, ruddy face showed no signs of grief. A half-moment later,
a tiny, furry head with bright bead-like eyes, looked out above the
blouse collar.
In her usual tone Miss Ruth said: “I see you have brought one of your
pets with you, Ben.”
Ben made a quick movement, but not quick enough to prevent a gray
squirrel from springing out of his attempted grasp, upon the
window-sill.
Elsa jumped, and Betty cried: “Ben Holt! How mean of you! Poor little
squirrel!”
The squirrel’s heart was thumping wildly under the soft fur of his
chest, and his breath came in quick gasps as he turned his head
rapidly from side to side, searching a chance to escape.
“Is he your tame squirrel, Ben?” Ruth Warren inquired.
“Not exactly; you see we’ve been feeding him from the dining-room
window, so he’s quite tame,” explained Ben, “and--and I caught him on
the wood-pile, with some nuts, and brought him along to see if the
girls would be frightened.”
“O, that is it,” was all Ruth Warren said, but Ben’s face grew redder
than ever.
Making a sudden leap, the squirrel landed on top of the tall bookcase.
From here he gave another leap to the top of a window, and began
scolding loudly.
“I will bring some walnuts, Ben, so that you can capture this
frightened little creature and take him home,” Miss Ruth said, going to
the pantry.
“Now aren’t you sorry, Ben?” teased Betty.
The relish of the joke was indeed gone for Ben, but he faced the music
bravely, for, though often heedless, he was no coward. When Miss Ruth
came back with the walnuts, he asked the girls to keep quiet, and in
a few moments coaxed Mr. Squirrel down from the window-top to the
mantel, where he sat with his bushy tail curled up over his back,
turning a nut-meat round and round in his paws as he ate it, listening
and watching intently.
It was hard for Betty and Elsa to keep from laughing, and even Miss
Ruth had difficulty in keeping her face sober, for Ben in his sister’s
short-skirted dress, which hardly came to his knees,--leaving an
extra long pair of thin legs which ended in good-sized feet,--was an
exceedingly droll sight. A giggle from Betty at the critical moment
sent the squirrel flying to the curtain-top again; but greedy hunger
conquered fear, and growing venturesome again, the squirrel came by
cautious degrees down to the window-sill. While he sat there, filling
his cheek pouches with the cracked walnuts, Ben, who had been close at
hand all the while, deftly captured him and tucked him away securely
into the blouse waist.
“Now, if one of you girls will unfasten this old dress skirt, I’ll drop
it off,” Ben said meekly, after struggling to unbutton the skirt with
one hand while holding the squirrel fast with the other. “I can’t go
through the streets with a skirt on,” he added, shamefacedly.
Miss Ruth unfastened the waist-band buttons, the skirt dropped to the
floor, and Ben stood there in the middle of the room, looking even
funnier than ever in his dark blue knickerbockers and the brown blouse
waist. Miss Ruth mercifully and quickly helped him into the old blue
reefer jacket, which was so tight now that he could not button it at
all.
“I should be glad to have you come back to the Club meeting, after you
have taken the squirrel home, Ben,” Miss Ruth said, with the double
purpose of making sure that the squirrel reached his headquarters and
of giving Ben a share in the meeting if he really wanted to come back.
“Will you ask Alice if she would like some of the paper dolls to paint,
and if she would, you could take them to her,” she added.
“Yes, I will come back,” Ben answered, with a brightening face. “I’d
like to--anyway--and Peggy would be disappointed not to know all about
the meeting.”
“I am going to tell the Club a story I promised them. It is only about
a little old lady’s doll; but if you would like to hear it, I will wait
till you come.”
“Yes, ma’am, I should like to hear it, thank you,” replied Ben most
humbly.
“Alice said you like dolls, Ben,” cried Betty mischievously.
“I don’t care,--I do like dolls sometimes. I ducked a boy into the
frog-pond once--” began Ben; but he stopped and burst out laughing, for
Miss Ruth had given him a queer look, and now she was saying: “It seems
to me we have heard about that before, Ben.”
“Hurry, Ben,” exclaimed Elsa, impatient for the story. “Hurry home and
hurry back again.”
“Perhaps I can find our hired man on the road with Jerry,” called out
Ben, as he left the room, “and then I’d go flying home and back quicker
than a flash.”
“Or a squirrel,” added Miss Ruth. “Be careful of the squirrel, Ben.”
Both Elsa and Betty wanted some advice about the colours of paints
to use first, so the time did not seem very long to them before Ben
returned,--a most penitent-faced boy now, and in his own clothes.
Ben walked straight up to Miss Ruth, made his best bow, and said in a
manly way, though very fast: “Mother says I must beg your pardon for
bringing the squirrel. I am sorry I did it.”
“I think you frightened the squirrel more than you did the girls,
Ben,” Miss Ruth replied, feeling that the boy had already done
sufficient penance for his attempted fun.
Ben drew a long breath of relief. “I had a ride both ways,” he said,
quite cheerfully. “May I paint, too?” he inquired, turning to look at
the tempting array upon the table, and also at the plateful of thin
sandwiches which Miss Ruth had wisely provided to go with Betty’s candy.
“Yes, indeed,” Miss Ruth answered. “How would you like to paint the
shoes on the dolls? Take some sandwiches, children.”
“I will black their boots for them,” cried Ben merrily, as he helped
himself to a chicken sandwich and a paint-brush.
“Betty brought the candy,” said Miss Ruth, for Ben, somehow, was ready
for a piece in a flash. Then Betty bravely made the explanation.
“Peggy says she will do all the painting you want her to. She can’t
hardly wait for it.” Ben suddenly remembered the message.
“We can’t hardly wait for that story! Please, _please_, begin!”
entreated Betty.
* * * * *
This is a true story, children,--said Ruth Warren, going toward the
hearth, where a bright wood-fire burned steadily, and wheeling a deep,
comfortable chair half around so that she might watch the children at
their work:--The winter that I was eleven years old, my father had
to go to California. My mother went with him, and as it would have
been a rather long, hard journey for a child, they left me with my
grandmother, who lived in a roomy, old-fashioned house just on the
border of a large town. I was not very well that winter, and the doctor
had said I must not go to school, but must be out-of-doors all that
I could. I remember this half made up to me for having my father and
mother go away--or I tried to think it did.
About three minutes’ walk from my grandmother’s, Miss Phœbe Dean,
a little old lady who had been a school-teacher in her younger
days, lived all alone in a snug, small story-and-a-half house. Miss
Dean owned the house, but she was rather poor and not very strong.
Grandmother used to send broths and jellies and things of that kind to
her, every few days, and as I had no school lessons to take my time,
grandmother generally sent the things by me.
Miss Dean was very friendly. She had all sorts of quaint, interesting
curiosities in her house, for her father had been around the world
several times as captain of his own ship and had brought home many
treasures; sometimes she would open an old carved chest and show me
wonderful pictures and beautiful embroideries. Before long, she and I
were such good friends that I went to see her almost every day, whether
or not grandmother had anything to send.
The bedroom which I slept in at my grandmother’s had a dormer window
facing toward Miss Dean’s house; and Miss Dean told me that she used
to watch for my light every night at my bedtime. Grandmother had made
Miss Dean promise that if she ever was ill at night, and wanted help,
she would put two candles side by side in her front window. One night,
after grandmother had put out my light and tucked me into bed, I looked
toward Miss Dean’s house, thinking that she was thinking about me; and
I felt sure that I saw two candles in her front window. There were a
few flakes of snow falling, and the lights looked rather dim, but I was
sure they were there, and meant that Miss Dean was ill.
I called down to grandmother. She came up-stairs to look, and then
we both looked, but now neither one of us could see any light.
Grandmother said: “You imagined you saw the two candles, Ruth.”
“No, grandmother,” I insisted. “I am sure I saw them.”
Grandmother laughed and called me a foolish little girl; but, to
comfort me, said she would sit near the window down-stairs and look
out every now and then toward Miss Dean’s house. I kept my eyes on her
window, by propping myself up in bed, with the pillows, until by and by
I grew too sleepy to keep my eyes open,--especially as I did not see
the candles again.
The next morning there was deep snow over everything. And because
grandmother’s house was on the border of the town, the streets were not
cleared of snow until noonday. I kept thinking and talking about Miss
Dean so much that about eleven o’clock grandmother said: “Put on your
rubber boots, Ruth, and go over to see her, if you want to.”
In about a minute I had on those rubber boots and my thick red coat,
and was wading in the snow, quite to my knees, toward the little white
house. It took me so long that two or three times I almost gave it up,
because I was used to running over in such a short time. But I kept
on, and finally came to Miss Dean’s green-and-white gate. There were no
foot-tracks in the front yard, and the snow was so deep that I could
hardly find the door-steps. When I did find them, I began pounding on
the front door--Miss Dean did not have any door-bell--and very soon I
saw her all bundled up in a shawl, looking out of the window to see who
it was, before she unlocked the door.
Poor little old lady! She led me into the sitting-room, where she slept
in the winter. “I shall have to go back to bed, dear,” she said in her
sweet way; “I have had a dreadful pain in my head ever since yesterday
afternoon.”
“Then you did put the two candles at the window last night?” I asked
eagerly.
“Yes, dear, for a little while,” she said in a weak voice as she sank
back against her pillows. “But when I saw that it was snowing, I took
the candles away so as not to disturb your grandmother, for I thought
the hired man and his wife might be gone down town, and she would have
no one to send over.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked, for she had closed her
eyes as if she were suffering. Half-frightened by her white face, I
looked away from the bed; and there in a little rocking-chair what did
I see but a black-eyed doll, dressed in a long, clean white flannel
nightgown and with a red shawl pinned around her.
“You might get some hot water from the tea-kettle on the kitchen
stove,” said Miss Dean, without opening her eyes, “and put a
teaspoonful of peppermint essence out of that bottle on the table into
a half glass of water. That might make me feel better.”
I hurried out to the kitchen and brought back the hot mixture. Miss
Dean took it all, then settled down again among the pillows; but she
did not look so pale now. “I shall soon feel better,” she said in her
pretty, patient way.
So I waited, seating myself opposite that doll. It had a china head
with such black hair, big black eyes and a round face, very white
except the bright red cheeks and lips. It was a pretty, lovable doll,
and I knew it must be a very old one.
“You are looking at my doll, Ruth,” Miss Dean said suddenly; and
turning, I found her eyes fixed upon my face.
“Is it your doll?” I cried.
“Yes,” she said softly. She had large brown eyes and a delicate
face; her eyes seemed larger than ever now, because her face was so
white.
[Illustration: “‘WHAT DID I SEE BUT A BLACK-EYED DOLL.’”]
“It is my doll,” Miss Dean repeated. “Would you like to hold her?”
I had been longing to take that quaint, white-nightgowned doll into my
arms. So I jumped up quickly and brought her back with me to the chair
by the bed. Probably my face showed how I loved that old china doll on
the spot. Anyway, after Miss Dean had watched me holding it a little
while, she said: “That peppermint makes my head feel better. I will
tell you about the doll.”
“What is her name?” I asked.
“Susie,” Miss Dean said, “and I have had her ever since I was five
years old. The way I happen to keep her out now is this: You see, when
I was younger, I used to teach children, year after year, different
ones, of course. I used to think that maybe if I married and had a
little daughter of my own, I would name her Susie,--my mother’s name
was Susan. But I grew older, and I didn’t marry, and then, after a
time, I had to give up school-teaching. My father and my mother had
died, and I missed the children more and more.
“One day when it was very stormy and I was dreadfully, desperately
lonely, without a human being around, I went to the old trunk under the
eaves, where I had put my dolls away when I was fourteen years old, and
I took Susie out for just that day. And having that doll with me made
me feel so much happier that, afterward, every once in awhile, when I
grew lonely, I would take her out again. I made some new dresses and
nightgowns for her, because it didn’t seem quite fair not to treat her
well when she gave me so much pleasure.
“Then, two or three years ago,”--Miss Dean went on; and her large
brown eyes began to grow very bright now,--“I put Susie into that
little rocking-chair one snowy night when I went to bed; and it was
so pleasant to wake up in the morning and find her there that I began
to have her out every night. By day I always put her into the bureau
drawer, because I thought if people saw her, they wouldn’t understand.
I should have put her away this morning when you came, only I was
suffering so, I forgot her.”
“But I understand,” I said very quickly. “I am sure that if I lived
alone, I should do just the same.”
“So should I. Wasn’t Miss Dean dear?” said Elsa, pushing back her
cloudy golden hair as Miss Ruth stopped a moment to put a bit of fallen
wood again into the fire.
“Why didn’t she have more than one doll?” Betty asked, thoughtfully,
splashing her brush into the water.
“Because one is enough,” said Elsa instantly.
“Everybody likes one best,” explained Ben, with the wisdom of ten and a
half years.
* * * * *
After Miss Dean had told me about Susie,--continued Ruth Warren,
leaning comfortably back into her chair again,--she asked me if I
would like to see Susie’s dresses. I said yes, of course, and she told
me to open the lower drawer of the bureau. Such a quantity of pretty
things as I found! I dressed and undressed Susie to my heart’s content,
putting on first a plaid silk gown, then a checked blue-and-white
gingham and a funny little Red Riding-hood suit; and finally I put
Susie back into her white nightgown, for I felt that Miss Dean would
probably rather choose her dress for the day. And very soon I said I
must go.
“Can’t you stop and have a little bit of dinner--a kind of lunch--with
me?” Miss Dean asked. “If you will put some biscuits into the oven to
warm, and make some tea, I will dress myself, and we can have that with
some cold ham and jelly.”
I said I could stay,--for I knew grandmother wouldn’t mind. So Miss
Dean told me where the biscuit and tea were, and by the time I had them
ready, she came out into the kitchen, dressed in a gray flannel wrapper
with light blue trimmings. She made me think of a doll, she was so
small and so dainty;--she was one of the daintiest people I have ever
known, with white, beautifully shaped hands and soft, silky hair--
* * * * *
“She makes me think of Elsa,” said Betty, with a little sigh, half of
envy, half of appreciation.
“Don’t interrupt, _please_, Betty,” Elsa entreated, unmindful of what
Betty had said.
* * * * *
Everything about Miss Dean’s house was as dainty as Miss Dean
herself--resumed the story-teller;--and everything in the house seemed
small, like herself,--tables, chairs, lamps, vases, kitchen stove, even
the dishes we ate out of. We had a good luncheon, I remember, and Miss
Dean kept me interested, as she always did, with stories of what had
happened long ago. After we finished eating, she leaned her head back
against her chair in a tired way--she sat at the table in a little
rocking-chair--and she said in a wistful voice: “I have been thinking
about my poor hens. Not a bit of corn or water have they had since
yesterday, and I don’t dare go out to feed them because my head is so
dizzy that I am afraid of falling.”
“O, let me feed them,” I begged instantly.
“But they will be afraid of you,” she said; “they are used to seeing my
clothes.”
“I can dress up in your clothes,” I said. “O, do let me, please!”
Miss Dean liked a little fun, and she did want her hens fed. So she
showed me where she kept her “chicken clothes”--as she called them,--a
short brown skirt and a square plaid shawl that she wore over her head
and shoulders. The skirt was long for me and the shawl made my head
dreadfully hot. But we both laughed over it, and Miss Dean said she
was glad to know how she looked. Then she told me not to flop my arms
around, because that would frighten the hens. So, with a pail of water
and two quarts of corn, I made my way to the hen-house, which was just
beyond a little shed. By the time I arrived, I had forgotten not to
flop my arms, and the hens grew rather excited and lively, but they
were too hungry and thirsty to care much who fed them. After that, I
hunted around and found over a dozen white eggs, some of them quite
warm, I remember. I tripped upon the brown skirt, going back, and let
one egg fall out of the corn measure.
* * * * *
“The dolls’ shoes are all blacked,” exclaimed Ben, rising suddenly and
stretching himself, boy-fashion. “May I take a sofa pillow and lie down
in front of the fire?” he asked, coming toward Miss Ruth.
“Make yourself comfortable, Ben,” she answered readily; which Ben
accordingly did.
“Excuse my interrupting,” he said, in a low tone; “and please go on.”
* * * * *
Miss Dean told me that breaking the egg did not matter,--that she
often broke more than one, though I knew she said this just to make me
feel better. “I have brought something out for you,” she said, after
I had taken off the brown skirt and the stifling plaid shawl, and she
was counting the eggs. I saw on the kitchen table a black-and-gold
lacquered box, neither large nor small. It looked so interesting that I
wanted to open it at once, but Miss Dean began talking about the hens.
I happened to see by the kitchen clock that it was almost three
o’clock, and I knew that I ought to be going, for, though I sometimes
stayed to lunch with Miss Dean, grandmother always said for me to come
home immediately.
You may imagine how much I wanted to see what was in that beautiful
lacquered box; but I said that I must go home. I hurried into the
bedroom for my coat and Miss Dean followed me. I saw that she had
dressed Susie in the blue-and-white gingham frock while I had been out
feeding the hens.
“I will come over to-morrow,” I said, as Miss Dean helped me on with my
coat. She noticed me looking at Susie,--although I was not thinking of
the doll just then.
“Do you mind, dear, not telling any one about Susie?” Miss Dean asked
in a timid voice.
“I will not tell anybody at all,” I remember I said, slowly, as I went,
slowly also, out of the front door, hoping that Miss Dean would call me
back to give me that box.
“Have you light enough for your painting, girls?” Miss Ruth stopped to
ask. The daylight had suddenly begun to disappear.
“Let’s stop now; I have done three sets,” said Betty, dropping her
paint-brush.
“I have finished two.” Elsa straightened back her shoulders and
stretched her arms.
Miss Ruth reached over to the couch and pulled two cushions down upon
the hearth-rug. “You have both done splendidly, and so has Ben. Sit
here and rest yourselves now,” she said.
“Don’t waste any time from the story, please,” Betty said in a loud
whisper as she seated herself, Turk-fashion, on the large square
cushion and leaned her head against Miss Ruth’s knees.
“Didn’t Miss Dean give you the box, or even show it to you that day?”
inquired Ben, who was lying flat upon his stomach, looking into the
fire.
“No,” replied Miss Ruth, “not that day.”
“I think she was mean to forget it,” said out-spoken Betty.
“Wait till we’ve heard the end of the story,” exclaimed Elsa, who had
curled up on her cushion against the heavy brass stand which held the
fire-tongs and shovel.
“Do you know the end of it?” Betty asked quickly.
“No,--only I know anybody so nice as Miss Dean will be the same at the
end,” Elsa said, with a very earnest expression in her eyes.
“I’ll bet I know what was in that box,” cried Ben, from his position on
the centre of the rug.
“What?” asked Betty.
“Hens’ eggs to hatch,” Ben replied confidently.
“The idea!” exclaimed Betty. “Just as if Miss Dean would have given a
girl hens’ eggs for a present! Now keep still, Ben.”
“We can have only a bit more of the story to-day, because it is almost
five o’clock,” said Miss Ruth, putting her hand softly over Betty’s
mouth, which began to frame an objecting “O!” Then she continued:
* * * * *
When I came home from Miss Dean’s, grandmother felt dreadfully to think
that the little old lady had been ill there all alone by herself. “I
must send her some nourishing things to eat,” said grandmother; “I
would have Barker go now”--he was the hired man--“but he is off hauling
wood, and Jenny”--that was his wife--“has a bad cold.”
I said “O, grandmother, let me go!” For I was wondering, harder than
ever, what was in the lacquered box. But grandmother said, “No, child,
you have been out enough to-day in this bad walking. You may go over,
though, early in the morning.”
* * * * *
The clock pealed out five as Miss Ruth stopped with these words.
“Just a little more,” urged Betty.
“This will be a good place to begin again,” said Miss Ruth; “we will
have the rest of the story at the next Club meeting, if you like.”
“I want it now,” insisted Betty; “I can stay.”
“But I can’t,” said Ben, “only about a minute longer. I will think the
first part over, going home, to tell Alice.”
“I hope she can come to the next meeting,” said Elsa, with a loyal
thought for her little friend.
“You must tell her, Ben, that we have missed her a great deal,” Miss
Ruth said.
“And give her the Club’s love,” added Elsa.
“I like to have you do that,” said Betty, who had given up teasing and
suddenly grown very quiet as Miss Ruth passed her hand slowly over the
rumpled brown hair.
Elsa looked on, from her seat against the tall brass fire-stand. She
was too loving-natured to be jealous, but she would have dearly liked
to be in Betty’s place, there against Miss Ruth’s knees. Still, Elsa
was very happy. Miss Ruth’s dark red dress was so warm-looking in
the firelight, and the room seemed so pleasant; it was restful and
delightful just to be there. Elsa felt this keenly, although she would
not have been able to put it into words.
“Do you know what fire-sparks are?” asked Ben, who was leaning on
his elbows with his chin in his hands, and looking straight into the
glowing fire. “Sparks are the sunbeams that got shut up in the wood
while the tree was growing, and now they are going up the chimney and
back into the air again.”
Sarah Judd, passing the library door to light the hall lamp, looked
in for a moment, unnoticed by the Club. “It do seem good to see them
children stretched out in front of the fire and havin’ such a good
time,” she said to herself, with one of the unexpectedly cracking-like
smiles upon her grim face.
* * * * *
The day after this meeting of the Club Miss Virginia Warren took a cold
from having her room overheated. “I am really worried about myself,”
she said after her niece had spent most of the day trying to make her
comfortable.
“But the doctor says it is only a cold, and that your heart is in no
danger,” said Ruth Warren; “to be sure, a cold is uncomfortable enough
to make one wretched,” she added. “Let me open that farther window; a
little fresh air will make you feel better.”
“O, no, no!” cried Miss Virginia, drawing her thick white shawl closer
around herself at the thought. “Don’t excite me so, Ruth. There’s no
telling what may happen. My heart seems very feeble,” she went on,
after trying for a half-moment to count the pulse-beats in her own
wrist. “I am more and more certain that I must have a nurse to watch my
pulse and look out every moment for draughts. Yes, I really must ask
you now to see about a nurse,” added Miss Virginia, clasping one large
hand over the other wrist to keep track of her heart-beats.
Ruth Warren consulted the doctor.
“Your aunt doesn’t need a nurse any more than you or I need one,” he
said, gruffly. “Better have one, though, and I will order her to open
the windows every hour of the day. We will give your aunt a little
training, and it may do her good.”
As a result of this conversation, and of a plan which she found she
could carry out, Ruth Warren called a few days later at Mrs. Danforth’s.
“Mrs. Danforth isn’t very well to-day, miss, and she asks will you come
up to her room, please,” said Cummings; so Ruth Warren followed the
stiff-backed maid up the polished stairs. From the top of the stairs
she saw, just ahead, a room all furnished in white, which she knew must
be Elsa’s. “What an unpretty room for a child!” she said to herself.
Mrs. Danforth had on a beautiful white dressing-gown with long lace
ruffles hanging from the sleeves, and she was leaning back in a blue
velvet chair. “She does not look so ill as unhappy,” Ruth Warren
thought to herself.
Not wishing to take any more time than was necessary, Ruth Warren began
at once to give the reason for her call:
“Elsa has told me, Mrs. Danforth, of a nurse she once had by the name
of Bettina March. Curiously enough, I find that this same Bettina
March has quite lately been employed at the Convalescent Home here in
Berkeley. She was very much liked, but she was not strong, and went
away, hoping to return. She is not yet able to take up the work, and
she is anxious to find some occupation which will give her, for a time,
less active duties.”
“Well, and what of it?” inquired Mrs. Danforth coldly, fixing her
eyes upon her visitor’s face. She and Miss Ruth had exchanged calls
formally; that was all the acquaintance they had, save a chance
meeting, now and then.
“I should not have intruded upon you with a personal matter, Mrs.
Danforth, except for good reason,” Ruth Warren said quietly. “My Aunt
Virginia, who, as you know, lives with me, feels the need of having
a nurse; it will be an easy position and one which Bettina March can
easily fill, as my aunt is by no means very ill. I came to ask if you
have any objection to my engaging Bettina March?”
“Is it that you wish to inquire of me in regard to Bettina March’s
character?” demanded Mrs. Danforth. “I know nothing against her.”
Now Mrs. Danforth was accustomed to have people a little afraid of her.
She was rather surprised, therefore, to find that Ruth Warren did not
show any embarrassment, but went on, in a quite simple and perfectly
self-possessed manner, to say: “It is not that, Mrs. Danforth. The
head-nurse at the Convalescent Home has satisfied me entirely with
regard to the woman’s character. It is only on Elsa’s account that I
have come to you.”
“Why should I object to your employing Bettina March on Elsa’s
account?” Mrs. Danforth made things as hard as she could for Ruth
Warren.
“Because my house is next to yours, and Elsa has told me that you were
unwilling to have her keep up any acquaintance with her old nurse,”
Ruth Warren replied, in the same even-toned voice.
Mrs. Danforth felt now obliged to explain. “Bettina March was nurse to
Elsa’s mother during her last illness, and after the mother died stayed
on with Elsa until her father died. I felt that the child was growing
too dependent on the woman. Elsa is almost entirely without relatives.
Her mother was an only child, and her father had only one brother,
Mr. Ned Danforth. If he should marry, or if I should die, Elsa would
be quite alone in the world and she would need to be self-reliant. I
did not think she was a child who would talk over my affairs,” Mrs.
Danforth remarked haughtily.
Ruth Warren could not let Elsa stand in a false light before her
grandmother’s eyes. Therefore she suddenly decided to tell the story
of the child’s grief over the giving away of her doll.
The coldness of Mrs. Danforth’s blue eyes gave way, little by little,
to a softer expression as Ruth Warren described Elsa’s visit to her,
that late evening.
“So she was brave enough to go out of the house alone at night, and she
kept the loss of the doll from me for fear it would hurt my feelings,”
said Mrs. Danforth half to herself, toying with a silver paper-cutter
the while. “Of course I did not know that the child cared anything
about the doll.”
“That is what Elsa said,” returned Ruth Warren, quite eagerly now. Then
she went on in a lower tone: “Elsa seems to me a keenly sensitive,
thoughtful and affectionate-natured little girl, but very much
repressed. As I have observed her--her shyness and her pale face--I
cannot help thinking that what she needs more than anything else is to
have some love shown her, and to feel free to show her own affection.”
Ruth Warren rose to go, feeling that perhaps she had said too much.
“Wait a moment,” said Mrs. Danforth, not unkindly. “You mean to tell
me that I am too severe with the child?” She remembered, with an
uncomfortable feeling, that Mrs. White had said much the same thing.
“Not too severe in the matter of discipline, but--” Ruth Warren left
the sentence unfinished.
“On the whole, I thank you, Miss Warren,” said Mrs. Danforth slowly.
“I am sure you have Elsa’s best interest at heart. I am grateful to
you for taking charge of the little Club. It has made me feel safe
in regard to her. Do you think that the Holt children are perfectly
suitable companions for Elsa, in every way?” she asked suddenly.
“They are perfectly suitable companions for any children, I am
sure,” Ruth Warren said warmly. “They are charming little children,
well-trained and gentle-mannered. The boy is mischievous, but he is
perhaps all the more likeable for his liveliness, and he is very manly
with his mother and his little sister. I have seen the mother several
times, and I have never met a more attractive or charming woman,--or a
braver woman.”
A quick flush reddened Mrs. Danforth’s face, then died away as suddenly
as it came. Reaching out a trembling hand, she rang for her maid, who
appeared as if she had risen out of the blue velvet carpeted floor.
“Cummings, some water,” said Mrs. Danforth, with an evident effort.
Then she leaned back against her chair and closed her eyes.
Ruth Warren had started to leave the room, but fearing lest Mrs.
Danforth should faint, she stood waiting for Cummings to return.
As she waited, she noticed, half unconsciously at first, then with
a quick start of interest, an oil-painting hanging upon the softly
tinted wall, back of Mrs. Danforth’s chair,--an oil-painting of a
large, gable-windowed house, exactly like the one at Mrs. Holt’s. Ruth
Warren remembered it particularly because of one small red-leaved maple
tree at the left-hand corner of the picture; and she also remembered
Elsa’s exclamation over Mrs. Holt’s picture. She looked again at Mrs.
Danforth’s white, set face, and a haunting resemblance flashed through
her mind, leaving her fairly bewildered.
Just then Cummings came in with a glass of water. Mrs. Danforth opened
her eyes, drank the water, and appeared instantly better. “I have these
dizzy attacks once in a while, Miss Warren,” she said in her usual
stately manner, “but they pass off quickly. I am sorry this happened
while you were here. Thank you for coming. I am sure you will find
Bettina March a very useful woman.”
Then Ruth Warren, turning many things over in her mind, went home,
leaving Mrs. Danforth to her pride and loneliness.
It had chanced that, coming from a drive by way of Berkeley Avenue the
day before, and having Elsa with her, Mrs. Danforth had met a young,
fair-haired, plainly dressed woman walking along slowly between a boy
and a girl who looked very much alike, although the boy was the taller.
Mrs. Holt had been to the shops that afternoon with her children, and
in the basket which Ben was carrying so carefully, were the precious
Christmas remembrances they had bought for the dear father out in
Colorado. Mrs. Holt’s face was unusually sad, for this would be the
first Christmas that she had ever been parted from her husband, and
she felt the separation more and more keenly as the days drew near to
Christmas.
Elsa had leaned forward and waved eagerly behind the closed window
of the coupé. The twins had smilingly waved their hands in turn. The
tired-looking, sad-faced mother, in bowing to Elsa, had given a sudden,
startled look at Mrs. Danforth.
The encounter had been over in a half-moment, for the strong gray horse
was going swiftly toward home.
“It is Alice and Ben and their mother, grandmother,” Elsa had cried
excitedly. “Don’t you remember about ‘Sweet Alice and Ben Bolt?’ Only
their name is Holt.”
Fearing that her grandmother’s silence meant reproof, Elsa had looked
around. Mrs. Danforth was sitting very white-faced and rigid, against
the coupé cushions. She did not speak again during the drive.
This was the first time that Mrs. Danforth and Mrs. Holt had met, face
to face, in Berkeley; and it was the memory of this meeting, which Mrs.
Danforth could not put out of her mind, that kept her in her own room
the next day. Through shutting out love from her life, Mrs. Danforth
had burnt her heart almost to ashes.