AMID FALLING LEAVES
The mountains around Sandgate were aflame with the scarlet and gold of
autumn before life seemed quite as usual to Alice Page. The summer idyll
had passed, and though it left a scar on her heart, she had resolutely
determined to put the sweet illusion out of her mind. "I was very
foolish to let him see that I cared," she thought, "for it can never be,
and by and by he will forget me, or if he does think of me, it will be
to recall me as one of his summer girls who had a fit of silliness."
But for all that her heart ached at times, and in spite of all
resolution her fingers would once in a while stray to the chords of "Ben
Bolt." She tried, and fairly succeeded in answering his letters in a
cool, matter-of-fact way. Occasionally when he referred to his heart
hunger, and how hard he was studying in hopes that she might think
better of him, she wished that he had no purse-proud and haughty mother
to stand between him and a poor girl, and her next letter would be more
chilly than ever. What perhaps was a bitter-sweet thought was the fact
that the colder she answered him, the warmer his next letter would be.
Unwisely, too, he happened to mention once that his mother had spoken of
a certain young lady who belonged to the cream of Boston society as an
eligible match, and advised him to show her a little attention. It was
really of no moment, yet it hardened Alice against his mother, and did
not help his cause.
Every Sunday she took her wonted place in the choir, and after church
occasionally walked alone to the cemetery and visited her mother's
grave. Then, too, her brother's letters grew less frequent, and that was
a source of pain. With intuitive and feminine instinct she began to
assume that some woman was winning his thoughts, and as it was but
natural, she could not and did not mention her belief to him. How
grateful she was all through those melancholy autumn days that she had a
large school to absorb her thoughts, no one, not even Aunt Susan,
guessed. She was having a long and hard fight with her own feelings and
imagined she had conquered them, when Thanksgiving time drew near and
her brother announced he would run up and spend the day with her. She
almost cried for joy at the good news, for poor, pretty, and
proud-spirited Alice Page was feeling very heart-hungry when the letter
came. He was just a little surprised at her vehement welcome.
"Oh, I have been so lonesome, Bertie," she said when they were alone
together, "and the evenings drag by so slowly! Then you do not write me
as often or such nice letters as formerly, and Aunt Susan never seems to
notice that I am blue. If it were not for my school, I should go crazy,
I think."
His heart smote him as he thought of a certain other blue-eyed girl who
was now occupying his thoughts to the partial exclusion of this loving
sister, and of whom he had meant to tell Alice. In an instant it
occurred to him that it would hurt her now to know it, and that he had
best keep it to himself.
"I am very busy these days, sis," he replied, "and my mind is all taken
up with work. Mr. Nason's business is increasing and I have a good many
clients besides him." Then as if to draw her out, he added: "How did you
like Blanch Nason?"
"Oh, she was very nice," replied Alice coolly, "and if she were a poor
girl and lived here I could easily learn to love her. As it is, it is
useless for me to think of her as a friend. It was good of her to pay me
a visit, though, and I enjoyed every minute of it."
"And what about Frank?" queried Albert, eyeing his sister with a smile;
"did he not say a lot of sweet things to you?"
Alice colored.
"Oh, he is nice enough," she answered, "and tried to make me believe he
had fallen in love with me, but it won't do any good. I am sure his
managing mamma will marry him to some thin girl with a fat purse, or
aristocratic family, which, I imagine, is of more consequence to her."
Albert gave a low and prolonged whistle.
"So that is the way the wind blows, my sweet sister, is it?" he
observed; "and yet my possible future law partner has been humming 'Ben
Bolt' nearly every day for the past two months! I made believe you must
have smiled on him very sweetly when he was here."
The thought of one day when she had done more than smile at this young
man brought even a deeper color than before to her face.
"Please do not say any more about him, Bert," she answered with a little
pain in her voice; "he is all right, but I am too poor and too proud to
satisfy his mother, so that is all there is or ever will be to it." Then
she added in self-protection, "Tell me about the island girl I heard you
fell in love with on the yachting-trip, and for whom you deserted the
crowd." It was his turn to look confused, and he did, in a way that
smote his keen-eyed sister with sudden dread. "It is true, Bertie," she
said quickly; "I can see it in your face. That explains your short
letters." A little quiver passed over her lips and down the round chin
like a tiny ripple on still water, and she added pathetically, "I hated
to believe it, but it cannot be helped, I suppose. I shall feel more
desolate now than ever." Then womanlike she said, "Is she very pretty,
Bertie? She must be, or you would not have fallen in love with her so
soon."
There was no use in concealment or evasion, and it was not like him to
resort to either. "Alice, my sweet little sister," he replied,
resolutely drawing his chair near and taking her hand, "it is true, and
I intended to tell you all about it, only I hated to do it at first, and
so put it off. She is more than pretty, she is beautiful, and the most
unaffected and tender-hearted girl I ever met. But you need not worry.
She is so devoted to the two old people who have brought her up as their
own that she will not leave them for me as long as they live." Then he
added regretfully, "So you see I must be a patient waiter for a long
time yet." Then he frankly told Alice the entire story of his waif of
the sea, and how even at the last moment she had refused to yield to his
pleading.
"And now, sweet sister," he said at last, "I have a plan to unfold, and
I want you to consider it well. I am now earning enough to maintain a
home, and I am sick and tired of boarding-house life. It is not likely I
shall marry the girl I love for many years to come, and there is no need
for us to be separated in this way. I think it is best that we close the
house, or rent it for the present, and you and Aunt Susan come to
Boston. I can hire a pretty flat, and we can take down such of the
furniture as we need, and store the rest. What do you think of the
plan?"
"Oh, I shall be so glad of the change, Bertie!" she answered,
brightening; "it is so desolate here, and you do not know how I dread
the long winter." And then she added quickly, "But what can I do in
Boston? I cannot be idle; I should not be contented if I were."
"Will not housekeeping for me be occupation enough?" he answered,
smiling, "or you might give music lessons and study shorthand. I need a
typewriter even now, and in a few months must have one."
She was silent, considering the matter in its various bearings for a few
moments, and then said: "But what will Aunt Susan think of the change,
and it will be _such_ a change for her; like going into a new world!"
"Well, she will have to get used to it," he answered; "at any rate, it
is not wise for us to go on in this way solely for her comfort."
Then, as Alice began to realize what it meant to bid good-by to the
scenes of her childhood, the old home, the great trees in front, the
broad meadows, the brook that rippled through them, the little church
where every one greeted her with a smile, and the grand old hills that
surrounded Sandgate's peaceful valley, her heart began to sink. Then she
thought of the pleasant woods where she had so often gone nutting in
autumn, the old mill-pond where every summer since babyhood she had
gathered lilies, and even those barefooted school-children of hers,
every one of whom had come to love the pretty teacher, came into her
thoughts. Life in Sandgate did not seem so desolate to her as it had,
and the thought of going away grew less attractive.
"I shall dislike to go, after all," she said at last, "but perhaps it is
best. I shall cry when I leave here, I know, and be very homesick for a
spell, but then I shall have you, and that is a good deal." Then this
mingled clouds and sunshine of a girl deliberately rose, and like a big
baby, crept into her brother's lap, and tucking her sunny head under his
chin, whispered, "Oh, if you were never going to be married, Bertie, I
would leave it all and try to be contented. I could come up here every
summer, and go the rounds, could I not?" Then she added disconsolately,
"But you will get married, and in less than a year, too. I know it. Your
beautiful island girl cannot and will not keep you waiting so long. I
could not if I were she, I know."
Then that big brother, blessed with such an adorable sister, raised her
face so he could look into her blue eyes and said, "No sweetheart and no
wife shall ever lessen my love for you, Alice, who have been my
playmate, my companion, and my confidant all my life. And if you are
likely to be homesick and unhappy in Boston, we will abandon the plan at
once."
"Let me think about it a few weeks first," she replied. "I could not go
away until this term of school is over, and that will not be till
Christmas."
Then after those two good friends had discussed the proposed step in all
its bearings for a half hour Albert said, "Come, now, sis, sing a little
for me; I am hungry to hear you once more."
She complied willingly, and as the mischievous heartbreaker never forgot
to pay an old score, the moment she was seated at the piano she began
with "Hold the Fort," and singing every verse of that, followed it with
"Pull for the Shore."
Her brother never winced, and after she had inflicted two more of those
well-worn gospel hymns upon him he quietly remarked, "My dear sis, you
are not punishing me for what I once said half as much as you think you
are. Sing some more of them; they sound like old times." And it was
true, too.
The latest and most classic compositions are all very well for highly
cultured ears afflicted with Wagnerian delirium; but for plain, ordinary
country-born people, such as Albert was, there is a sweet association in
the old songs first heard in childhood that no classic productions can
usurp. The "Quilting Party" will surely recall some moonlight walk home
with a boyhood sweetheart along a maple-shaded lane, when "on your arm a
soft hand rested," and "Money Musk" will carry you back to a lantern-lit
barn floor with one fiddler perched on a pile of meal bags; and how
delightful it was to clasp that same sweet girl's waist when "balance
and swing" came echoing from the rafters.
And so that evening, as the piquant voice of Alice Page trilled the list
from "Lily Dale" to "Suwanee River" and back to "Bonny Eloise" and
"Patter of the Rain," Albert lazily puffed his cigar and lived over his
boyhood days.
When the concert was ended he exclaimed:
"Do you know, sis, that an evening like this in Boston would seem like a
little taste of heaven to me, after I came back from the all-day grind
among hard-hearted, selfish men who think only of the mighty dollar! And
now you see why I want you to come to Boston to live."
It pleased that loving sister of his wonderfully, for as yet her brother
was far dearer than any other living person. No lover had so far usurped
his place or seemed to her as likely to. She gave him a grateful look
and smile that prompted him to say:
"Now I will look around before Christmas and see what kind of a flat can
be found, and then when your school closes you must come down and visit
me and see how you like Boston."
"Oh, that will be just delightful," was the rejoinder, "only you must
promise not to tell the Nasons that I am coming."
"But if they find it out, Blanch and Frank would feel bitterly hurt," he
replied; "remember, they did you the honor of coming up here to visit
you, and Blanch has said to me several times that she hoped you would
visit her this winter."
"I should love to," replied Alice, hesitating, "but--well, I will tell
you what we can do: we will wait until the day before I am to return,
and then we can call there one evening. They need not know how long I
have been in Boston."
Albert looked curiously at his sister. "I think I understand you, sis,"
he observed, "and that is right; but is it not a little rough on Frank?
He has settled down to hard study and sticks to it, and really is an
exemplary young man and a good fellow. I am growing very fond of him,
and should dislike to have you actually offend him."
"I do not want to offend him, by any means," said Alice soberly, "and
neither do I want him or his haughty mother to think I am disposed to
put myself in his way. If he wants to see me, let him come here."
The next day Albert and Alice felt obliged to attend church, as all the
good people of Sandgate usually so observed Thanksgiving day, and he was
gladdened by many a cordial handshake and kindly inquiry from old
friends. Alice as usual sang in the choir, and when the services were
over they returned, to find that Aunt Susan had the honored emblem of
the day well browned and ready for the table. In a way the meal was a
trifle saddened, for in spite of the good cheer, it brought back to all
three recollections of those who would never more be present. And that
evening both brother and sister called on Abby Miles, more to escape
the home mood than to enjoy her society.
When morning and departure came Albert said: "I will do as you wish,
sweet sister, and unless some of the Nasons should meet us at a theatre,
I imagine it will work all right. Only it is a little rough on Frank,
after all."