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* * * * *
CICELY
AND OTHER STORIES
+--------------------------------------------------------------+
| Works of |
| Annie Fellows Johnston |
| |
| THE LITTLE COLONEL SERIES |
| The Little Colonel $ .50 |
| The Giant Scissors .50 |
| Two Little Knights of Kentucky .50 |
| (The three stories above are also published in one |
| volume, entitled The Little Colonel Stories, $1.50) |
| The Little Colonel's House Party 1.00 |
| The Little Colonel's Holidays 1.50 |
| The Little Colonel's Hero _net_, 1.20 |
| The Little Colonel at Boarding-School _net_, 1.20 |
| |
| OTHER BOOKS |
| Big Brother .50 |
| Ole Mammy's Torment .50 |
| The Story of Dago .50 |
| Cicely _net_, .40 |
| Aunt 'Liza's Hero _net_, .40 |
| Asa Holmes 1.00 |
| Flip's "Islands of Providence" 1.00 |
| Songs Ysame 1.00 |
| |
| L.C. PAGE AND COMPANY |
| 200 Summer Street, Boston, Mass. |
| |
+--------------------------------------------------------------+
[Illustration: "THERE WERE VOICES PASSING HER DOOR."
(_See page 75_)]
Cosy Corner Series
CICELY
AND OTHER STORIES
By
Annie Fellows Johnston
Author of
"The Little Colonel's House Party," "The Little
Colonel's Holidays," "Two Little Knights
of Kentucky," etc.
_Illustrated by_
Sears Gallagher and others
Boston
L.C. Page & Company
1903
_Copyright, 1901_
BY PERRY MASON COMPANY
_Copyright, 1902_
BY L.C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
_All rights reserved_
Published, May, 1902
Colonial Press
Electrotyped and Printed by C.H. Simonds & Co.
Boston, Mass., U.S.A.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
These stories first appeared in the _Youth's Companion_ and _Forward_.
The author wishes to acknowledge the courtesy of the editors in
permitting her to republish them in the present volume.
Messrs. L.C. Page & Company wish also to acknowledge the courtesy of
the editors, by which they were able to arrange for the use of the
original illustrations.
CONTENTS
PAGE
CICELY 11
ALIDA'S HOMELINESS 35
THE HAND OF DOUGLAS 59
ELSIE'S "PALMISTRY EVENING" 87
THEIR ANCESTRAL LATCH-STRING 111
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"THERE WERE VOICES PASSING HER DOOR"
(_See page 75_) _Frontispiece_
"THE CHEER AND WARMTH OF IT ALL COMFORTED HER" 31
"HID HER FACE IN A GREAT BUNCH OF ROSES" 55
"'WHY, I HAVE NEVER EVEN HEARD OF THEM'" 67
"'WHAT IS THE MATTER?' HE REPEATED" 78
"IT WAS NOT HER VOICE ALONE WHICH DREW SO MANY ADMIRERS" 83
"'SHE HID HER FACE ON MY SHOULDER'" 100
"'LOOKING AT HER HAND A DOZEN TIMES A DAY'" 103
"'ASKED ME TO HUNT UP ALL THE REFERENCES'" 108
"PAUSING IN HER SCRUBBING" 116
"SHE ENTERTAINED THEM WITH STORIES OF HER TRAVELS" 122
"AT THE GATE HE TURNED FOR A LONG BACKWARD LOOK" 127
"'YOU NEEDN'T LOOK AT ME IN THAT WAY,' SHE WHISPERED, DEFIANTLY" 133
CICELY
CICELY
There was a noisy whir of sewing-machines in Madame Levaney's large
dressmaking establishment. Cicely Leeds's head ached as she bent over
the ruffles she was hemming. She was the youngest seamstress in the
room, and wore her hair hanging in two long braids.
It seemed a pity that such girlish shoulders should be learning to
stoop, and that her eyes had to bear such a constant strain. The light
was particularly bad this afternoon. Every curtain was rolled to the
top of its big window, but the dull December sky was as gray as a fog.
Even the snow on the surrounding housetops looked gray and dirty in
the smoky haze.
Now and then Cicely looked up from her work and glanced out of the
window. The cold grayness of the outdoor world made her shiver. It was
a world of sooty chimney-tops as she saw it, with a few chilly
sparrows huddled in a disconsolate row along the eaves. It would soon
be time to be going home, and the only home Cicely had now was a
cheerless little back bedroom in a cheap boarding-house. She dreaded
going back to it. It was at least warm in Madame Levaney's
steam-heated workrooms, and it was better to have the noise and
confusion than the cold solitude.
Cicely's chair was the one nearest the entrance to the parlour where
madame received her customers, and presently some one passing through
the door left it ajar. Above the hum of the machines Cicely could hear
a voice that she recognised. It was that of Miss Shelby, a young
society girl, who was one of madame's wealthiest customers.
"I've brought my cousin, Miss Balfour," Cicely heard her say, "and we
want to ask _such_ a favour of you, madame. You see my cousin stopped
here yesterday on her way East, intending to remain only one night
with us, but we've persuaded her to stay over to our party on New
Year's eve. Her trunks have gone on, and of course she hasn't a thing
with her in the way of an evening dress. But I told her you would
come to the rescue. You are always so clever,--you could get her up a
simple little party gown in no time. So, on the way down, we stopped
at Bailey's, and she bought the material for it. Show it to madame,
Rhoda. It's a perfect dream!"
Cicely heard the snapping of a string, the rustling of paper, and then
madame's affected little cry of admiration. But at the next word she
knew just how the little Frenchwoman was shrugging her shoulders, with
clasped hands and raised eyebrows.
"But, mademoiselle," Cicely heard her protesting, "it is _impossible_!
If you will but step to ze door one instant and obsairve! Evair' one
is beesy. Evair' one work, work, work to ze fullest capacitee. Look!
All ze gowns zat mus' be complete before ze New Year dawn, and only
two more day!"
She stepped to the door, and with a dramatic gesture pointed to the
busy sewing women and the chairs and tables covered with dresses in
all stages of construction.
"Only two day, and all zese yet to be feenish for zat same ball! Much
as I desire, it is not _possible_!"
Every one looked up as the two girls stood for a moment in the
doorway. Miss Shelby glanced around in a coldly indifferent way,
holding up her broadcloth skirt that it might escape the ravellings
and scraps scattered over the floor. She was a tall brunette as
elegantly dressed as any figure in madame's latest Parisian
fashion-plate.
"Why can't you put somebody else off to accommodate me just this
once?" she said. "It is a matter of great importance. My cousin has
already bought the material on my promise that you would make it up
for her. I think you might make a little extra effort in this case,
madame, when you remember that I was one of your first customers, and
that I really brought you half your trade."
The little Frenchwoman wrung her hands. "I _do_ remember,
mademoiselle! Indeed! Indeed! But you see for yourself ze situation.
What can I do?"
"Make some of the women come back at night," answered Miss Shelby,
turning back into the parlour, "and have them take some of the work
home to finish. I'm sure you might be obliging enough to favour me."
Miss Balfour had taken no part in the conversation. She stood beside
her cousin, fully as tall and handsome as she, and resembling her in
both face and figure, but there was something in her expression that
attracted Cicely as much as the other girl had repelled her.
Miss Shelby had not seemed to distinguish the sewing women from their
machines, but Rhoda Balfour noticed how pallid were some of the faces,
and how gray was the hair on the temples of the old woman in the
corner bending over her buttonholes. When her glance reached Cicely,
the appealing little figure in the black gown, she could not help but
notice the admiration that showed so plainly in the girl's face, and
involuntarily she smiled in response, a bright, friendly smile.
As she turned away she did not see the sudden flush that rose to
Cicely's cheeks, and did not know that her recognition had sent the
blood surging warmly through the sad and discouraged heart. It had
been two months since Cicely Leeds had been left alone in the strange
city, and this was the first time in all those weeks that any one had
smiled at her.
Sometimes it seemed to her that the loneliness would kill her if she
knew it must go on indefinitely. But Marcelle's promise helped her to
bear it. Marcelle was her older sister, the only person in the world
left to her, and Marcelle was teaching the village school at home. In
another year the last penny of the debts their father had left when he
died would be paid, and Marcelle would be free to send for Cicely
then, and life would not be so hard. Just now there was no other way
for Cicely to live but to take the small wages madame offered, and be
thankful that she was having such an opportunity to learn the
dressmaker's trade. She could set up a little establishment of her own
some day, when she went back to Marcelle.
Cicely did not hear the final words of Miss Shelby's argument, but a
few minutes later madame came back to the workroom with a bundle in
her arms. There was a worried frown on her face as she unrolled it and
called sharply to her forewoman.
Every seamstress in the room bent forward with an exclamation of
pleasure as the piece of dress-goods was unrolled. It was a soft,
shimmering silk, whose creamy surface was covered with rosebuds, as
dainty and pink as if they had been blown across it from some June
garden. Cicely caught her breath with a little gasp of delight, and
thought again of the sweet face that had smiled on her. Miss Balfour
would look like a rose herself in such a dress.
The next day Cicely saw the cutter at work on it, and then the
forewoman distributed the various parts into different hands. Cicely
wished that she could have a part in making it. She would have enjoyed
putting her finest stitches into something to be worn by the beautiful
girl who had smiled on her. It would be almost like doing it for a
friend. But she was kept busy stitching monotonous bias folds.
Just as she was slipping on her jacket to go home that evening, the
forewoman came up to her with a bundle. "I am sorry, Cicely," she
said, "but I shall have to ask you to take some work home with you
to-night. We are so rushed with all these orders we never can get
through unless every one of you works over-hours. Miss Shelby's extra
order is just the last straw that'll break the camel's back, I'm
afraid. Try to get every bit of this hand work done some way or other
before morning."
It was no part of the rose-pink party dress that Cicely had to work
on; only more monotonous bias folds. But as she turned up the lamp in
her chilly little room and began the weary stitching again, she felt
that in a way it was for Miss Balfour, and she sewed on
uncomplainingly.
She had intended to write to Marcelle that evening in order that her
sister might have a letter on New Year's day, but there would be no
time now. She wrapped a shawl around her and spread a blanket over her
feet, but more than once she had to stop and warm her stiff fingers
over the lamp. It was long after midnight when she finished, and she
crept into bed, her head still throbbing with a dull ache.
"The last day of the old year!" she said to herself, as she waded
through a newly fallen snow to her work the next morning. "Oh,
Marcelle, how can I ever hold out ten months longer? Nobody in this
whole city cares that I caught cold sitting up in a room without a
fire, or that I feel so lonely and bad this minute that I can't keep
back the tears."
It seemed to Cicely that she had never had such a wretched morning.
The loss of sleep the night before left her languid and nervous. Her
cold seemed to grow worse every moment, and madame and the forewoman
were both unusually cross. She felt ill and feverish when she took her
seat again after the lunch hour.
Presently madame came in, looking sharply about her, and walked up to
Cicely with the rosebud silk skirt in her hands. "Here!" she said,
hurriedly. "Put ze band on zis. Ze ozair woman who do zis alway have
gone home ill. An' be in one beeg haste, also, for ze time have arrive
for ze las' fitting. You hear?"
Cicely took it up, pleased and smiling. After all, she was to have a
part in making the beautiful rose gown that would surely give Miss
Balfour such pleasure. Her quick needle flew in and out, but her
thoughts flew still faster.
She had had a gown like that herself once; at least it was something
like that pattern, although the material was nothing but lawn. She had
worn it first on the day when she was fifteen years old, and her
mother had surprised her by a birthday party. And they had had tea out
in the old rose-garden, and had pelted one another with the great
velvety king roses, and she had torn her hand on a thorn. Ah, how
cruelly it hurt! It was a very present pain that made her cry out
now, not the memory of that old one.
Some one had overturned a chair just behind her, and Cicely's
nervousness made her jump forward with a violent start. With that
sudden movement the sharp needle she held was thrust deep into her
hand and two great drops of blood spurted out. With that sudden
movement, also, the silk skirt slipped from her lap, and she clutched
it to save it from touching the floor. Before she was aware of
anything but the sharp pain, before she saw the blood that the needle
had brought to the surface, two great stains blotted the front breadth
of the dainty skirt.
She gave a stifled scream, and grew white and numb. Almost instantly
madame saw and heard, and pounced down upon her. "I am ruin'!" she
shrieked, pointing to the stains. "Nozzing will take zem out!
Mademoiselle will be so angry I will lose ze trade of her!"
The irate woman took Cicely by the shoulders and shook her violently,
just as Miss Shelby and Miss Balfour were announced. They had come for
the final fitting, expecting to take the dress home with them.
Madame, still wildly indignant, went storming in to meet them, and
poor Cicely shrank back into the corner, with her face hidden against
the wall. Never in her life had she been so utterly friendless and
alone.
Miss Balfour's disappointed exclamation over the stained dress reached
the girl's ears. She heard madame's eager suggestions of possible
remedies, and then Miss Shelby's cold tones:
"Now if it had been the bodice, it would not have been so bad. It
could have been hidden by some of the ribbons or lace or flowers; but
to have it right down the middle of the front breadth--that's _too_
hopeless! There's nothing for it but to make over the skirt and put in
a whole new breadth. There isn't time for that, I suppose, before this
evening."
Madame looked at the clock and shook her head. "Ze women air rush to
ze grave now," she said. "Zay work half ze night las' night. Zat is
why zis girl say she air so nairvous zat she could not help ze needle
stab herself."
"I could just sit down and cry, I am so disappointed!" exclaimed Miss
Balfour. "I had set my heart on going to the party, and in that
dress."
Cicely's sobs shook her harder than ever as the words reached her, and
her tears started afresh. Miss Shelby's voice broke in:
"I am surprised that you would keep such a careless assistant, madame.
Of course, you will expect to make the loss good to my cousin. It will
ruin your trade to keep incompetent employees. It would be better to
let the woman go."
"It is a young girl which I have jus' take," said madame, with another
shrug. "I have feel for her because she was an orphan, and I take her
in ze goodness of my heart. Behold how she repay me! Disappoint my
customers, ruin my beesness!"
She was pointing to the stains and working herself up into a passion
again, when Miss Balfour interrupted her.
"I should like to see the girl, madame. Will you please call her?"
"_Certainement!_ Willingly, mademoiselle! Ze plaisure shall be yours
for to scold ze careless creature."
Cicely heard and shivered. It had been hard enough to bear madame's
angry reproaches, but to have the added burden of Miss Balfour's
displeasure was more than she could endure--the displeasure of the
only one who had smiled on her since she left Marcelle! A moment later
madame confronted her, and Rhoda could hear the girl's sobs.
"Oh, I can't go in! Indeed I can't, madame! It nearly kills me to
think I have spoiled that lovely dress, and that she cannot go
to-night after all. I wouldn't have done it for the world, for it was
almost like having her for my friend. She--she smiled at me--the other
day."
Rhoda looked at her cousin wonderingly. Could it be some one that she
knew, who seemed to care so much about her pleasure?
Then her eyes fell on the shrinking Cicely, whom madame was pushing
somewhat unceremoniously into the room. Rhoda saw the little
black-gowned figure with the tear-swollen face, and suddenly the
crimson spots on her evening gown held a new significance.
It flashed through her mind that the very life-blood of such girls was
being sacrificed for her own selfish pleasure. If she had not hurried
madame so, there would have been no night-work for this poor child, no
fagged-out nerves for her the next day.
Suddenly Miss Balfour crossed the room and, to her cousin's
astonishment, caught Cicely's cold hands in hers.
"Look up here, you poor little thing," she said, kindly. "Now don't
cry another tear, or grieve another bit about this. It's no matter at
all. I'll just get some new stuff to replace the front of the skirt,
and madame can make it over next week for me and send it on East after
me. I'll pay for it myself, of course, for I'll be very glad to have
the silk that must be ripped out. Mamma is making me a silk quilt, and
the rosebuds will work in beautifully. I shall have it put in,
blood-spots and all, to remind me that my selfish pleasure may often
prove a cruel thorn to somebody else. I don't want to go through the
world leaving scratches behind me."
"Why, Rhoda!" gasped Miss Shelby; but with a proud lifting of her
head, Miss Balfour went on:
"I realise it is my own fault in rushing you with the work, madame,
and the consequences of my own unreasonableness are not to be laid at
this girl's door. Do you understand, madame? Not a cent is to come out
of her wages, and you are to keep her and be good to her, if you want
my good-will. I am coming back this way in the spring, and this gown
is so beautifully made that I shall be glad to order my entire summer
wardrobe from you."
"Why, Rhoda Balfour!" exclaimed her cousin again, while madame bowed
and smiled and bowed again.
As for Cicely, she went back to the workroom almost dazed, and
tingling with the remembrance of Miss Balfour's friendly tones. It was
several hours later when she climbed the stairs to her little back
bedroom to light her coal-oil stove, and make her toast and tea. Her
eyes were still swollen from crying, but she had not felt so
light-hearted for weeks.
Just inside her door she stumbled over a big pasteboard box. There was
a note on top, and she hurried to light her lamp. "I know that you
will be glad to hear I am going to the party, after all," she read. "I
have found a very pretty white dress in my cousin's wardrobe that fits
me well enough. As long as you have had such a thorny time on my
account, it is only fair that you should share my roses; so I send
them with the earnest wish that the coming year may bring you no thorn
without some rose to cover it, and that it may be a very, very happy
New Year indeed to you. Sincerely your friend, Rhoda Balfour."
Cicely tore aside the paraffine paper, and found six great roses, each
with a leafy stem half as long as Cicely herself. She caught them up
in her arms and laid her face against their velvety petals. For a
moment, as she stood with closed eyes, drinking in their summer
fragrance, she could have almost believed she was back in the old
garden.
"Marcelle, dear," she murmured, "I can be brave now! I can hold out a
little longer, for she wrote, 'Sincerely your friend.'"
The little room was glorified in Cicely's eyes that night by the
flowers she loved best. She ate her scant supper as if she were at a
festival, sent a little letter of thanks that made the tears come to
Miss Balfour's handsome eyes, and afterward wrote a bright, hopeful
letter to Marcelle that lifted a burden from the elder sister's heart.
Marcelle had been half afraid that Cicely would be growing bitter
against all the world.
"Think of it, sister!" Cicely wrote. "American Beauties are a dollar
apiece, and I have _six_! There is a music-teacher who has the room
across the hall from mine. She is at home this week with a cold on her
lungs, and to-morrow, when I go to work, I am going to loan her all my
beautiful roses. It's too bad to have them 'wasting their sweetness on
the desert air' all day while I am gone. So she shall have them until
I come home at night."
Madame Levaney gave no holiday to her employees on New Year's day, but
Cicely did not care. She left her roses at Miss Waite's door with the
announcement that they were hers for the day, but that she would have
to call for them and claim them at night. The oddness of the
arrangement, and the quaint way in which Cicely made it, won Miss
Waite's heart, and when she heard the girl's step in the hall that
evening, she opened the door.
"Come right in," she called, cordially. "I can't spare the roses until
after supper, so you will have to come in and eat with me. You've no
idea how much I have enjoyed them!"
Cicely paused timidly on the threshold. There were the gorgeous
American Beauties in a tall vase in the middle of the table, between
some softly shaded candles. And there was a bright lamp on the open
piano, and a glowing coal fire in the grate. The little table was
spread for two, and a savoury smell of oysters stole out from the
chafing-dish Miss Wade had just uncovered.
"We'll celebrate the New Year together, and drink to our friendship in
good strong coffee," said Miss Waite, lifting the steaming pot from
the hearth. "Draw your chair right up to the table, please, while
everything is hot."
Only one who has been as cold and hungry and homesick as Cicely was,
can know how much that evening meant to her, or how the cheer and the
warmth of it all comforted her lonely little heart. The best of it was
that it was only a beginning, and there were few nights afterward,
during that long winter, when the warmth and light of Miss Waite's
room was not shared for awhile, at least, with the little seamstress.
The roses lasted more than a week; then Miss Waite helped Cicely to
gather up the petals as they fell, and together they packed them away
in a little rose-jar, according to an old recipe that Miss Waite read
out of her grandmother's time-yellowed note-book.
Then Cicely brought Miss Balfour's note.
[Illustration: "THE CHEER AND WARMTH OF IT ALL COMFORTED HER."]
"I want to preserve this, too," she said, dropping it in among the
dried rose-leaves. "You told me that Rhoda means 'little rose,' and
that line, 'Sincerely your friend,' was as sweet to me that day as the
flowers themselves. As long as I live I shall think of her as an
'American Beauty.'"
She lifted the little rose-jar for one more whiff of its faint, sweet
fragrance, and said, slowly, as she closed it again, "And as long as I
live the thought of her will help to take the sting out of all my
thorns."
ALIDA'S HOMELINESS
ALIDA'S HOMELINESS
With a sigh of relief Alida Gooding saw the dentist put away his
instruments. Her nerves seemed all aquiver as she slowly rose and went
into the little dressing-room to put on her hat and coat, and to wait
for the family carriage which was to call for her at this hour.
She was a plain-looking girl of eighteen, with homely, irregular
features, a sallow complexion, and a reserved, haughty manner that
tended to repel all friendly advances. All that clothes could do to
improve a girl's appearance had certainly been done for her. Every
part of her costume, from her fashionable gown to her stylish hat,
indicated wealth and good taste; but the face that looked wistfully
back at her from the little dressing-room mirror was not pretty.
The door into the adjoining parlour was slightly ajar, and she could
hear some one pacing restlessly about, awaiting his turn. "I'll be
ready for you in about three minutes, Charley!" called the dentist
from the inner room; and Alida heard the reply, "No hurry. I want to
speak to one of the boys I see coming down the street."
The voice was a familiar one. She recognised it as belonging to
Charley Jarvis, a friend of her sister. The next instant she heard a
window thrown up, and a shrill whistle sounded out on the snowy air.
Peering cautiously out of the window where she stood watching for the
carriage, she saw another acquaintance, Phil Bently, look up and wave
his hand in response to the whistle. A moment later he came bounding
up the stairs, three steps at a time, and into the adjoining parlour.
"What's up, old fellow?" he asked. "What's wanted now?"
"I've been trying to see you for three days," answered Charley, "but
they told me that you were out of town when I inquired at the office.
Mrs. Lancaster has a pretty little girl visiting her from Alabama, and
she intends to give an old-fashioned valentine party for her
entertainment next week. I am helping with the invitations. Here's
the list of the boys she wants, and each one is to bring one of the
girls of our set as his valentine, in fancy costume, you know. I've
seen all the boys but you and Ben Fuller, and they've chosen the girls
they want to invite."
"Who's left for us?" queried Phil. "Let me see the list a minute.
Nannie Mason," he read, slowly. "No wonder she was left to the last;
she's such a silly little thing and does nothing but giggle. Alida
Gooding! Jarvis, you haven't left me much choice. Alida's the
homeliest girl in town. It is a pity that she is so ugly when her
sister May is such a beauty. Now if it were only May who was one of
the left-overs, I'd jump at the chance. Any fellow would be proud to
take her."
"But you see," interrupted Charley, with a tantalising drawl, "May is
_my_ valentine. Come on, now, which do you choose--Nannie or Alida?
Ben is good-natured; he'll take whoever is left."
"Well, then--Nannie," said Phil, in a martyrlike tone. "Ben can escort
the comic valentine."
"Oh, I say, Bently," exclaimed his friend, "you needn't talk about
the girl that way! She can't help being so plain!"
"That's so. It's brutal of me, and I'm sorry I said that. But she
might at least be jolly," answered Phil. "You wouldn't want to take a
girl that wasn't even--"
Alida did not hear the rest of the sentence. The moment that she
realised they were talking about her, she had begun to struggle into
her coat in order to leave. Without looking into the mirror,--her eyes
were too full of tears to see, even if she had done so,--she pinned on
her hat and hurried out into the hall. The coupé had just drawn up at
the curbstone, and with a curt order to the coachman to drive home as
rapidly as possible, she sank down on the cushions, shrinking back
from the carriage windows.
Mortified by the cruelly careless speech that she had overheard, she
gave herself up to an uncontrollable fit of crying. "I know that I've
always been uh-uh-ugly," she sobbed, "but I never knew before that
people felt and talked that way about me! I'll never show my face
outside of the house again, and Ben Fuller shall certainly be spared
the mortification of escorting a 'comic valentine' to Mrs.
Lancaster's party. Oh, I would rather be dead than so homely and
unattractive!"
She was still sobbing when she reached the house, and stood shivering
on the steps in the chill February wind while she waited for the front
door to open. A cheerful wood fire blazed in the fireplace in the wide
reception hall. A bowl of hothouse violets greeted her with their
fragrant springlike odour; but heedless of the luxurious warmth and
cheer that pervaded the house, she hurried up-stairs, with the gloom
of the cloudy winter day in her tear-stained face.
"Lunch is served, Miss Alida," said the maid, meeting her in the upper
hall.
"Tell mamma that I don't want any," she answered, passing into her own
room. "I'm going to lie down. My head aches, and I do not wish to be
disturbed by any one."
A slight expression of annoyance crossed Mrs. Gooding's handsome face.
She and May were alone at lunch, and when the servant had left the
room she said impatiently to May: "I particularly wanted Alida to go
out with us this afternoon to call on Mrs. Lancaster's guest. She
takes so little interest in people outside the family, and it really
mortifies me to see how silent and stiff she is in company. She always
has some excuse to stay at home. She can never overcome her reticence
unless she goes out more. Oh, May, I wish she were more like you!"
As Alida lay up-stairs, battling with her tears and a throbbing
headache, a note was brought to her. It was from Ben Fuller, asking
her to be his valentine at Mrs. Lancaster's party. By this time she
had worked herself up to such a state of morbid sensitiveness that she
could not even write a gracious refusal. It was so curt and cool that
Ben gave a low whistle of surprise when he received it.
"I shall never ask _her_ to go anywhere again!" was his mental
comment, as he tossed the note into the fire.
All the rest of the week Alida stayed in her room as much as possible.
Phil Bently's speech so rankled in her mind that she could take no
pleasure in anything, not even in the making of May's costume, in
which all the family were interested. It was an odd affair--a white
silk gown dotted with red hearts and bordered with dozens of
old-fashioned lace-paper valentines, with their bright array of
cupids and doves and flowers; and to May it was most becoming.
"Where did you ever get all the things to put on it?" asked her father
as she slowly revolved before him the night of the party.
"Oh, I saved them as an Indian brave does his scalp-locks," she
answered. "They were sent to me ages ago, before I left the nursery. I
had them all packed away, and had forgotten them until I began
planning this costume. I wonder if Charley Jarvis will recognise that
row, or Phil Bently remember when he sent this. They were barely out
of the kindergarten then."
The judge looked at the trophies with an amused smile. "I remember
sending valentines to your mother once upon a time. It is too bad the
custom is dying out. Young people seem to be discarding their patron
saint."
"Oh, no, indeed, father," answered May. "We have got beyond hearts and
darts and lace-paper affairs; but cast your judicial eye over that
table at all I have received to-day: books and music and boxes of
candy and no end of flowers."
"Where is your share, Alida?" asked the judge, kindly, peering over
his eye-glasses at his youngest daughter. "What did St. Valentine
bring you?"
"Nothing," answered Alida, rising suddenly to leave the room, lest he
should notice the tears she could not force back. "He's like everybody
else," she added, bitterly, as she reached the door. "He doesn't care
for homely people."
The judge looked annoyed. "I wish she were not so self-conscious and
sensitive!" he exclaimed.
"She hasn't seemed well for some time," said her mother,
apologetically. "It might be a wise thing to have the doctor see her
soon. The next time Agnes drops in I shall speak to her."
"If the child is ailing, have her come at once," said the judge,
decidedly, and a few minutes later he was at the telephone, sending a
message for Doctor Agnes Mayne to call that evening, if possible.
Instead of going to her own room, Alida opened the door of the old
nursery, turned on the gas, and began searching through closets and
drawers. At last she found the object of her search, a little
portfolio in which she had laid away some of her childish treasures,
as her older sister had done. Kneeling on the floor beside it, she
took out the valentines it contained and counted them. There were only
six--all that she had ever received; and now she noticed that each
little lace envelope was addressed in her father's familiar
handwriting. She had failed to see that in those earlier years.
"So, really, St. Valentine has never brought me anything," she
thought, bitterly, "and he never will! I wonder how it feels to be
loved and admired by everybody, as May is!"
Going into her own room, she sat down before her little mahogany
dressing-table, and tilting back the oval mirror, studied the
reflection in it. As she looked, the tears began to roll down her
cheeks, and finally she crossed her arms on the table and laid her
head on them with a choking sob. There was a knock at the door
presently, but she paid no attention. It was repeated, and then some
one came in softly, pausing as she saw the girl's dejected attitude.
Alida looked up, "Oh, Doctor Agnes!" she exclaimed; then, despite a
strong effort to control her nervous tears, down went her head on the
table, and she sobbed harder than before.
Doctor Agnes Mayne was the warm friend of all the family, and on the
most familiar footing with them. As she was a woman of strong
personal magnetism, and knew just how to win Alida's confidence, it
was not long before her judicious questions had drawn out the reason
of the girl's grief. After Alida had finished her recital of the
conversation at the dentist's, there was a long silence.
"Well, Alida," said Doctor Agnes at last, "what you need is a dose of
definitions, and I am going to give them to you at once. I wish you
would go to your dictionary and look for the word 'homely.' That seems
to be such a bugbear to you."
Much surprised, Alida crossed the room and opened the ponderous volume
on her writing-table. While she ran her finger slowly down the page,
the doctor continued: "It has several definitions, but the original
meaning was home_like_, and it is only in that archaic sense that I
want you to take it. Now, what is given as the definition of
homelike?"
"Comfortable; cheerful; cozy; friendly," read Alida.
"Now look for comfortable," directed the doctor. "Not any modern
meaning. I want the good old ones that have become obsolete."
"Strong; vigorous; serviceable; helpful," read Alida again.
"Now just one word more," said the doctor. "Find cozy, the meaning
that the English give it."
Alida searched the columns a moment and then read: "Chatty; talkative;
sociable."
"There!" exclaimed the doctor, taking the girl's feverish wrist in her
firm, cool hand. "That is my prescription for you. Take those
definitions faithfully to heart for a year, and you will become so
homely, in the good old sense of the word, that by another St.
Valentine's day you will find yourself admired by everybody."
Alida shrugged her shoulders so incredulously that the doctor took out
her watch and showed her a picture inside the case. "There is my
proof," she said. It was the picture of a sweet, kindly old face,
plain in features, but with a beauty of expression that made Alida's
eyes soften as she looked at it.
"My mother," said Doctor Agnes, gently. "She might be called a homely
woman in both senses of the word. Every one feels the cheer of her
presence as of a warm, comfortable fire-side. Nobody can come into
contact with her without being helped by her sunny, friendly interest.
People feel at home--at their easiest and best--with her, and she is
the 'cozy corner' they naturally turn to, old and young alike."
"Then she must have been born with such a nature," interrupted Alida.
"No, she was as reserved and timid as you are--always worrying about
her appearance and thinking that people were criticising her, until
she went to visit an eccentric old aunt, who spent her time in finding
employment for friendless young girls.
"Aunt Winifred soon found that mother was in as great need of
employment as the poorest little seamstress on her list. So she
interested her in her charities, drawing her by degrees into the
active work of them until her unhappy little niece had learned the
beautiful gospel of self-forgetfulness. Afterward, when mother was
married and had the happiness of her five daughters at heart, she
induced each one of us to take up something of absorbing interest, in
order that there might be no empty, idle days when discontent could
creep in. That is how I came to study medicine, and that is how I
learned to love the word 'homely' in its first and best sense. She
taught me the definitions which I have just given you."
Half an hour later Judge Gooding was surprised to see Alida and Agnes
Mayne coming gaily into the room with their arms around each other.
There was more animation in Alida's face than it had shown for days.
"Papa, I am going to study medicine," she announced. "Doctor Agnes has
told me so many interesting things about her profession, and the cases
she has in the children's hospital, that I can hardly wait to begin.
She has promised to take me round with her and lend me all her books.
I think I shall begin to-morrow morning."
The judge smiled indulgently. "I have no fears of your going into the
practice of medicine seriously," he said. "I should not like a
daughter of mine to do that; but if you think you would enjoy the
study as a pastime and Doctor Mayne recommends it, I shall not object
if your mother is willing."
The family thought that "Alida's fad," as they called it, would not
last long; but under Agnes Mayne's wise supervision it became an
unfailing source of pleasure to the girl. Winter slipped into spring,
and the crocuses gave way to the summer roses, and still her interest
grew daily. She even begged not to be taken to the seashore, where the
family always spent their summers.
"Mrs. Mayne has asked me to stay with her," she said, "and she has
such a dear little house, and I am sure that the children at the
hospital would miss me now if I were to go away. There is so much that
I can do to make the poor little things happier."
Alida had her own way finally. She studied on through the summer,
learning much about anatomy and physiology from the doctor's big books
in the office, but unconsciously learning the higher wisdom of a
spiritual hygiene from her sweet-souled old hostess, the doctor's
mother. It cleared her mental vision. It made her quick to understand
other people, warm in her sympathies, and forgetful of self in her
intercourse with them.
"She do be such a comfortable sort of body, that young doctor," said a
poor washerwoman, suffering from a scalded arm, as Doctor Mayne made
her rounds alone one morning. "She is that chatty and sociable that I
forget the pain while she is about, and it would do your heart good to
see how she do cozy up the place before she leaves it."
Doctor Mayne repeated this to Alida. "You are getting on bravely with
your definitions," she said, with an approving pat on her shoulder.
"What do you think of 'Alida's fad' now?" she asked Mrs. Gooding,
several months later. It was a dull December day, and she had called
for a hasty visit.
"My dear Agnes," said Mrs. Gooding, "we are simply delighted! It has
waked her up and made a different creature of her. She is almost as
easy and sociable with May's friends now as May is herself. Yesterday
afternoon half a dozen of them came in with May to get warm after a
long sleigh-ride. Alida prepared a delicious little chafing-dish lunch
for them, and made herself so agreeable and entertaining that I was
really surprised.
"I thought that she looked almost pretty, too. Her complexion is so
clear now, since she has put to such good use what she has learned
about hygiene. She looked so bright and animated, laughing and
talking there in the firelight, that it did not seem possible she had
ever been a cold, reticent girl, who always repelled people."
One morning, not long after this conversation, the family were
surprised by Ben Fuller's driving up in his sleigh soon after
breakfast, and asking for Alida. They were all in the library, and he
announced his errand without taking a seat. "My sister Ada--Mrs.
Cranford, you know--is very anxious for you to come over for a little
while. She was so prostrated yesterday by the shock of what happened
in her absence that she couldn't talk coherently to you then; but she
feels that she must see you for a few moments, if possible, and she is
unable to come out this morning. May I take you over in my sleigh?"
Alida, showing no trace of surprise at the message, rose at once to go
up-stairs for her hat, but Mrs. Gooding plied him with astonished
questions.
"Is it possible that she has not told you?" he exclaimed. "My sister
is spending the winter here with her little daughter Doris. We all
idolise the child, and she is never left alone a moment. But yesterday
we were all out of town at a wedding, and Doris had to be left with
only the nurse. Nobody will ever know how it happened, but she slipped
away and got into the little cottage around the corner. There was a
child there that she had taken a fancy to from seeing it at the window
whenever she passed.
"Nobody can find out how long she was there, or what the two children
did. She says that they played party and had 'good fings' to eat that
they 'finded' by themselves. Miss Alida met her coming home about four
o'clock, and turned to walk with her and see her safely into the
house, for she suspected that Doris had run away. Doris was eating
some of the pink candy that she had brought home from the cottage,
although we did not know where it came from until this morning.
"She offered Miss Alida a taste out of the little pasteboard box she
carried. To Miss Alida's horror, she found it was a package of roach
paste, warranted to be a deadly poison to insects. Miss Alida hurried
the child into the house and set to work so skilfully that by the time
the doctor reached there, nothing was left for him to do. He said that
Doris would have died but for Miss Alida's medical knowledge and
immediate attention. If nothing had been done until he arrived, it
would have been too late to save the child.
"Ada got home about the time he pronounced Doris entirely out of
danger, and was so frightened when she heard what had happened that
she went from one fainting spell into another. This morning we found
where Doris got the poison, and learned that the little child at the
cottage died in the night. Ada is so unnerved that she is nearly
frantic, thinking how near she came to losing Doris. She is so
grateful to Miss Alida that she would go through fire and water to
serve her in any way. Well, we all would, in fact," added the young
man, with a suspicion of huskiness in his voice. "You see, Doris is
the only grandchild in the family, and we are almost foolishly fond of
her."
Detaching a locket from his watch-chain, he handed it to the judge.
"Here is a miniature of her," he said. The judge looked at the
beautiful baby face framed in its golden curls, and then glanced up at
Alida, who had returned, dressed for her drive.
[Illustration: "HID HER FACE IN A GREAT BUNCH OF ROSES."]
"Thank God for such a sensible little daughter!" he said with
fervour, as he rose and kissed her.
This was not the last time that Ben Fuller was sent to escort Alida to
his sister. Mrs. Cranford's gratitude grew into an intense affection
for the girl. All winter she sent for her on every possible occasion,
to drive with her, to dine, to go to the opera, or attend some
entertainment. She was constantly planning some new way to give Alida
pleasure. Finding her deeply interested in the children at the
hospital, she sent a beautiful tree out to them on Christmas day, in
Alida's name. When February 14th came again, a great package of
valentines found its way to Alida for the children--enough for every
child in every ward, and the finest that could be bought in the city.
Doctor Agnes came up to Alida's room to help her sort and address
them. "You certainly have your share this year," she said, laughing.
"Do you remember what a slough of despond you were in a year ago?"
Alida smiled happily, and then hid her face in a great bunch of roses
on her dressing-table. The little note that had come with the flowers
was still in her hand, and she had just reread it.
"St. Valentine has brought me something else," she said, hesitatingly.
"Doctor Agnes, I'm to be Ben's valentine at the party to-night, and
he--he thinks that I am really homely in the archaic sense."
THE HAND OF DOUGLAS
[Illustration]
THE HAND OF DOUGLAS
"Hurry, Mary Lee, it is nearly train time!" called Mrs. Marker, where
she sat in a dingy little dining-room, pouring out a cup of coffee in
nervous haste for her daughter's early breakfast. The brand-new
hand-satchel on the lounge, packed for its first journey, was the only
thing in the room undimmed by service. Even at this early hour the
house felt hot and stuffy, for the August sun was fast warming the
great Southern city to a heat that would be intolerable by noon.
"I wish you were going with Mary Lee, Henry," said Mrs. Marker,
looking across the table at her husband as he seated himself. "You
need the rest."
There was a weary stoop in the man's shoulders that told of years
spent over a bookkeeper's desk, and his face was pale and worn. "Don't
say that in Mary Lee's hearing," he answered. "It is the child's first
real outing, and I would not have her pleasure marred by a single
thought of my work or ill health."
It was the greatest disappointment of Henry Marker's life that he had
not been able to give his daughter all that other fathers gave theirs.
Both he and his wife had been gently reared, and it was through no
fault of his that their property had been swept away just as he was
launching into his profession. A place at a bookkeeper's desk had been
the first thing that he had been able to obtain.
He felt Mary Lee's lack of advantages more than she did. With the
exception of a few excursions into the country, she had lived all her
seventeen years in this dingy little house on a side street. Her
mother had been her only teacher, and the men and women found in the
books of her father's library her only companions. Mary Lee was a
sociable creature; she longed for the companionship of girls of her
own age. To be a debutante, to have the seasons filled with a round of
visiting and receiving, to meet brilliant people, and to number one's
friends by the score--this to her simple little heart seemed the
height of happiness.
Now for the first time in her life she was to have a taste of it. Miss
Travis Dent had invited her to spend a month with her at Wicklett
Springs, a fashionable summer resort, in a house full of interesting
people, whose sayings and doings were already familiar to her through
the society columns of the daily papers. She was to be Travis's guest.
The rest of it, the railroad expenses, the new trunk and the new
clothes which footed up to such an enormous sum in her eyes, were of
her father's giving, and she promised herself a happiness in
proportion to the sacrifice he had made to provide for her.
"Hurry, Mary Lee!" called her mother, again. At the second call there
was a light rustle through the hall, and the bright face looking in at
the door seemed to transform all its surroundings.
"I couldn't come any sooner, mother dear, for admiring myself in my
new travelling-clothes. Oh, I'm such a fine peacock in all my fine
feathers!" she said, pausing to give her father a quick hug before she
took her place at the table. "Do tell me that I look like a real
born-to-the-purple, tailor-made girl."
Her father looked at her critically from the crown of her simple
travelling-hat to the tips of her little shoes, and there was an
unmistakable gleam of pride in his eyes as he completed his survey.
"Yes, you do," he said, slowly. "You would pass muster anywhere. I
don't mean your clothes alone; but it is written all over you, so
plainly that even a stranger must see at a glance, 'This is a real
little lady!'"
A little later they were bidding each other good-bye on a parlour car
in the Union Depot. Travis Dent had joined them.
"I could not send my little girl in better company," thought Mr.
Marker, as he shook hands with the serene young woman who came forward
to meet them, with a sweet unconsciousness of self in her greeting.
There were depths in Travis Dent's grave, gray eyes that bespoke a
strong, self-reliant character.
The train was beginning to move. Mary Lee waved a last good-bye and
went back to Travis. Settling herself luxuriously in the big cushioned
chair, she smiled across at her friend. "Isn't it lovely!" she
exclaimed. "I want to begin a letter home this minute and tell them
the good times have begun."
* * * * *