PHŒBE’S SECRET
“Let’s get some pails and go to the woods for blackberries,” suggested
Sue, posing as peacemaker. “P’raps Auntie’ll make us a pie for dinner.”
“Can’t,” said Don. “I promised old Miss Halliday I’d make her a chicken
coop. Another hen is hatching out and there’s no coop to put her in.”
“All right, I’ll help you,” exclaimed Becky, jumping up. “You saw the
boards, Don, and I’ll hammer the nails.”
“Can’t you saw?”
“Not straight; but, I’m game to try it.”
A rush was made for the back yard, and Don searched the shed for some
old boards to use in making the coop for the expected flock. When the
saw and hammer began to be heard Miss Halliday came down from Gran’pa
Eliot’s room and stood watching them, her finger on her lips to caution
them to be as quiet as possible.
She was old and withered, lean and bent; but her small black eyes
still twinkled brightly. Miss Halliday seldom spoke to the Daring
children and had as little to do with them as possible. She was
virtually the autocrat of the establishment, for old Mr. Eliot was
paralyzed and almost speechless. It is true he could mumble a few
words at times, but no one seemed able to understand them, except his
constant nurse and attendant.
Miss Halliday had been with the Eliots since she was a young woman. She
was Gran’ma Eliot’s maid, at first, then the housekeeper, and after
Mrs. Eliot’s death and her master’s paralytic stroke, the sole manager
of the establishment and a most devoted servant. In person she was
exceedingly neat, although she dressed very simply. She was noted in
Riverdale for her thrift and shrewd bargaining. They called her miserly
until it came to be generally understood that Mr. Eliot’s money was
gone; then the merchants respected her careful management of the old
man’s finances.
Why Elaine Halliday stuck to her post, under such unpleasant
conditions, had puzzled more than one wise head in the village. Some
said that Jonathan Eliot had willed her the homestead in return for her
services; others, that the frugal stewardess was able to save more than
her wages from the reputed wreck of the Eliot fortunes, which had once
been considered of enormous extent. Only a very few credited her with
an unselfish devotion to her old master.
After the death of his daughter, Mrs. Daring, and just before his
own paralytic stroke, Mr. Eliot had had a stormy interview with his
son-in-law, Wallace Daring; but, no one except Elaine Halliday knew
what it was about. Twenty-four hours later the irascible old man was
helpless, and when Phœbe hurried over to assist him he refused to
see her or any of his grandchildren. Mr. Daring, a kindly, warm-hearted
man, had been so strongly incensed against his father-in-law that
he held aloof in this crisis, knowing old Elaine would care for the
stricken man’s wants. All this seemed to indicate that the rupture
between the two men could never be healed.
After the Daring children had been left orphans and reduced to poverty,
Judge Ferguson went to Miss Halliday and pleaded with her to intercede
with Jonathan Eliot to give the outcasts a home. The big house was then
closed except for a few rooms on the second floor, where the invalid
lay awaiting his final summons. There was more than enough room for the
Darings, without disturbing the invalid in the least.
At first, the old woman declared such an arrangement impossible; but,
Mr. Ferguson would not be denied. He had been Mr. Eliot’s lawyer, and
was the guardian of the Darings. If anyone knew the inner history
of this peculiar family it was Peter Ferguson. For some reason Miss
Halliday had been forced to withdraw her objections; she even gained
the morose invalid’s consent to “turn his house into an orphan asylum,”
as she bitterly expressed it. The Darings were to be allowed the entire
lower floor and the two front bedrooms upstairs; but they were required
to pay their own expenses. Elaine declared that it was all she could do
to find money enough to feed Gran’pa Eliot his gruel and pay the taxes
on the place.
A powerful antipathy, dating back many years, existed between Miss
Halliday and the Darings’ black servant, Aunt Hyacinth. During the
two months since the Darings had found refuge in the old house not a
word had been exchanged between them. But the black mammy, as much
the protector of the orphans as Miss Halliday was of their grandsire,
strove to avoid trouble and constantly cautioned her flock not to
“raise a racket an’ ’sturb poeh gran’pa.” As for the children, they
stood so much in awe of the invalid that they obeyed the injunction
with great care.
It was not often that Miss Halliday asked the boys to assist her in
any way; but, occasionally Phil or Don would offer to do odd jobs about
the place when they were not in school.
“It seems like helping to pay the rent,” said Phil, with a laugh, “and
as gran’pa quarreled with father I hate to be under obligations to him.
So, let’s do all we can to help old Miss Halliday. She has enough to
worry her, I’m sure.”
That was why Don set about making the chicken coop this Saturday
morning, as he had promised to do, and why Becky and Sue were eager to
assist him. The saw was dull, and that made the sawing the hard part
of the work until Becky declared she could handle the tool much better
than her brother--even if she couldn’t manage to keep on the marked
line. He let her try, and then scolded her--and jeered her attempts. A
row started very promptly and a struggle began for the possession of
the saw, ending by Don’s snatching it away and drawing the jagged teeth
across the palm of Becky’s hand. She let go with a scream of pain and
the blood spurted forth in a manner to frighten them all.
Don tried to tie his handkerchief over the wound, but with a wail of
anguish Becky turned and fled into the house and up the front stairway
to the door of Phœbe’s room, leaving a red trail behind her as she
went.
“Quick, Phœbe--I’m murdered! Let me in before I die,” she shouted,
kicking at the door as she squeezed the wounded hand with the other.
A key turned in the lock and the door flew open.
Phœbe stared a moment at her sister’s white face and noted the
stream of blood. Then she drew Becky into the room without a word and
led her to the washbasin. She bathed the wound freely with cold water,
applied a healing lotion and bandaged the hand, neatly. It was a broad,
jagged cut, but not deep. Phœbe knew that it was not a serious
wound, but it would be very sore and lame for several days to come.
Becky, trembling with nervousness and weak from fright and the sight of
blood, tottered to a lounge and sank down among the cushions.
“How did it happen, dear?” Phœbe now asked.
Becky related the incident with dramatic details until her eyes fell
upon a table drawn before the window and covered with papers, among
which rested an imposing looking machine.
“Jumpin’ jooks, Phœbe!” she exclaimed; “it’s a typewriter. Where on
earth did it come from?”
Phœbe flushed and for a moment looked distressed.
“I rented it,” she replied. “It’s a great secret, Becky, and you must
promise not to tell anyone.”
“Can you run it? Have you had lessons?” asked the younger girl, sitting
up in her eagerness and forgetting her affliction for a time.
“I’ve taught myself,” said Phœbe. “It is not very hard to learn. At
first, you know, I made lots of mistakes; but, now I do very well. I’ve
had it almost six months, and every Saturday I typewrite all day.”
“But why? What are you copying?” demanded Becky, going to the table and
looking down at the piles of manuscript.
“It is a book of sermons that Doctor Huntley is preparing for a
publisher. He is too busy to do it himself, so he gave me the job.
I get ten cents a page, and I’ve copied nearly four hundred pages
already.”
“My!” cried Becky; “what a lot of money! Whatever will you do with it,
dear?”
Phœbe smiled a little sadly, but put her arm around her sister and
kissed her, affectionately.
“That’s a part of my secret, dear, and you mustn’t ask me. You’ll not
mention the typewriter, Becky--nor anything I’ve told you? I don’t want
Phil or the children to know.”
“Trust me!” returned Becky, delighted to share so important a secret
with her elder. Then, she remembered her sore hand and lay down upon
the couch again, while Phœbe, having once more locked the door,
resumed her work.
It was dinner time when Don finished the chicken coop and helped Miss
Halliday to move the hen and her newly hatched brood into it. There had
been sundry quarrels between him and Sue, who accused him of “spilling
Becky’s heart’s blood,” but now the girl was so fascinated by the fuzzy
chicks that she was loth to leave them, when Auntie called her to the
midday meal.
Phil came in, flushed with his exertions on the ball field, but
unusually glum and serious. He found no time for his proposed talk with
Phœbe then, for as soon as dinner was over he was obliged to put on
his baseball uniform and hurry to the ground, where the important match
game with the Exeter nine was to take place.
“Any of you coming to the game?” he inquired.
“We’re all coming,” declared Becky, who now posed as a heroine because
of her hurt. But, Phœbe shook her head and smiled.
“I shall be too busy at home, Phil,” she said; “but the others may go.”
He gave her a quick, curious look, but said nothing more.