It was about a week before the Christmas vacation that my last outbreak
at boarding-school occurred. It was one noon after lunch when I was
passing through the hall on my way upstairs. I had to go by Sarah
Platt's room, where the little clique of girls I had once longed to be
one of, used often to congregate after luncheon before the two o'clock
study-hour. They were gathered there to-day, talking and laughing
together in their usual mysterious manner, and I wondered vaguely as
I went by, what they were discussing now. I never allowed myself to
listen intentionally, but the conversation of those girls, who were
still strangers to me, always fascinated me, and I confess I used to
overhear all that I could without being dishonourable. As I sauntered
by the half-closed door of that room I recognised the voice of Sarah
Platt herself, who of all the girls I had aspired to make my best
friend. Sarah was a dashing kind of girl and would show off to awfully
good advantage before my family if I had invited her to visit me.
"Well," I heard her say, "I think Miss Brown is taking her in on
charity."
I knew Sarah must be referring to me and I stopped stock-still.
"Why, she hasn't _anything_, and this horrid place is probably a palace
to her!"
I flushed with rage. Palace nothing!
"I think," said a little Jewess by the name of Elsie Weil, "it's too
bad for Gabriella. I'd hate to have such a room-mate forced on _me_."
"I don't think Miss Brown ought to take such a girl in at all and make
us who pay a thousand dollars a year be intimate with a person we never
can know socially," drawled Sarah Platt. "It's hard on her too," she
finished patronisingly.
"Oh, don't mind about _me_," I breathed, ready to explode.
"I'm just tired," another girl broke in, "of having all the teachers,
and Miss Brown too, talking and lecturing to us about being nice to
_Lucy, Lucy, Lucy_ all the time."
"And the spite and scorn that the child puts on lately," added Sarah,
"is perfectly absurd. As if she had anything to back it up!"
"I know," went on the little Jewess, "her family can't be much. You can
see that. Did you ever notice the row of old-fashioned family pictures
on the back of her chiffonier?"
At that I caught my breath. My dear good family! And without waiting to
hear another word I flung open the door. There were six or seven girls
before me crowded together in a bunch on a couch in the corner. I felt
myself grow suddenly calm as I stood there before them not saying a
word, and they staring back at me as if I were an apparition.
"I heard every single word you said," I began slowly, "every single
word!" Then my thoughts collected themselves and filed by in the order
of soldiers on parade. "I don't care a straw for your opinions. I
feel above every one of you. It makes me smile to think I would be
the least disturbed by common and uneducated westerners," for Sarah
lived in Missouri, "or Jews!" I spat at Elsie Weil. "You needn't any
of you trouble about being kind to me. I don't want your kindness. I'm
perfectly indifferent to every one of you. I am _not_ here on charity;
and as for the pictures on my chiffonier, if you don't like them, lump
them, or else keep your eyes at home." I knew I was acting unladylike
but I was fired up and couldn't help going on. "My family may not have
fashionable photographs, my clothes may be as ugly as mud, but if you
_knew_ who my older brother is, if you _knew_ who my father is, if you
_knew_! My father is president of the Vars & Company Woollen Mills; my
father is a director in the Hilton County Savings Bank; my father is a
state senator; my father--oh, I shan't tell you all he is, because you
haven't got enough brains to appreciate it. It would be like telling
monkies about Abraham Lincoln!" I stopped just a moment, but no one
spoke. All those girls huddled together in a bunch just kept on staring
as they would at a rearing horse in a parade, meekly from the sidewalk.
"You don't know about anything but clothes and theatres. And let me
tell you once for all I don't want anything of _any_ of you." Sarah
Platt opened her mouth to speak. I cut her off short. "Keep still,
Sarah Platt," I said. "Don't you dare address one word to me!" Oh,
I wanted to do something insulting, like sticking out my tongue, or
making an ugly face. But instead I just said, "And don't one of you in
this room ever assume to speak one word to me as long as you live!" And
I turned, stalked out of the room, and went straight upstairs.
I don't know how I could have said anything so horrid as all that, and
I seventeen years old, but somehow it is always easier for me to roll
off spiteful things than anything sweet and kind. I am always less
embarrassed about it. Poor Alec would have been awfully disappointed to
have heard such an outburst from his sister. Father would have said,
"Oh, Lucy!" The arrogant twins wouldn't have wanted to own me. Only
my dear old chum Juliet Adams would have been proud. She would have
exclaimed, "Bully for you, Bobs!"
When I reached my room on the next floor, I calmly opened the door and
went in. Gabriella was standing by her desk. I never shall forget how
she looked--perfectly white and staring at me horribly. I wondered what
ailed her, for she couldn't have heard my tirade on the floor below.
"What's the matter, Gabriella?" I asked.
"Oh, Lucy," she began, then sank down in a chair by her desk, leaned
forward with her head buried in her arms, and began to cry dreadfully.
I went over to her.
"Gabriella," I said, sorry for her somehow, for though she was one
of Sarah Platt's clique she had not been talking about me; she was,
after all, my room-mate, and at least she let me see her cry. "Please,
Gabriella, tell me what it is."
"Miss Brown," she choked, "wants--" she stopped, then wailed, "_you_!"
"Me?" I groped blindly. Me? Had my awful words been telegraphed to Miss
Brown's office? Did she know already? I couldn't follow. Things were
happening too rapidly. "Me, Gabriella," I asked. "But what for? Please
stop crying and tell me."
I could barely catch a few words amidst her violent sobs.
"_My_ father," she said. (I knew Gabriella's father had died the winter
before when she was away at school.) "A telegram," she stumbled on, and
I waited, "_your_ father--"
My father!
I went to Gabriella quickly, put my arm about her and leaned my head
down close to hers.
"Listen, Gabriella. Be quiet for just one minute and answer me. Did you
say _my_ father?" and then in a fresh torrent of sobs I heard her "Yes."
I left her crying there and went down through the long corridors to
Miss Brown's office. I passed Sarah Platt's room without knowing it. I
even passed some one in the hall but I have no idea who it was. I kept
thinking, "This is your first test. Be ready and don't break."
Miss Brown was at her desk. She started a little when she saw me, then
smiled--how could she smile--and said, "Oh, Gabriella found you. Come
here, dear," and she put out her hand. I closed the door and then
backed up against it. I couldn't go near Miss Brown. I didn't want her
tissue-paper sympathy.
"What's happened to my father, Miss Brown?" I asked. "You can tell me
the very worst right off."
She didn't hedge any more.
"He is very, very ill," she replied, going straight to the point as I
liked to have her.
"Does that mean," I said, "that he is--is--" I couldn't say it--"is
worse than very ill?" I finished.
"No," she replied. "No, Lucy. Your father is still living. I have just
called up your brother by long distance telephone and they want you
to come home immediately. It is your father's heart." Then she added,
looking at me firmly, as if she were upholding me by the hand: "It is a
long trip. You must be prepared for the worst, Lucy." I didn't answer
and she turned to her desk, picked up a piece of paper and passed it to
me. "Read it," she said. "It is a telegram for you."
I looked down and these words greeted me like dear, comforting friends:
"_Stand up, Bobbie. Be brave. We need you to be strong. Alec._"
It was just as if my dear brother Alec were suddenly there like
a miracle in the room beside me, and _now_, at last, I would not
disappoint him.
I looked up at Miss Brown.
"When is there a train?" I asked calmly; but to myself I was saying
over and over again, "Stand up. Be brave. They need you to be strong."
Miss Brown came over to me, and I must say I've always liked her from
that day to this. She didn't say anything silly or comforting to me.
That would all have been so useless. She just took my hand in a man's
sort of way and held it firmly a minute in hers, "Your brother will be
proud of you," she said. That was all, but do you think then I would
have failed?
"We will go upstairs and pack," she added immediately, and I followed
her, bound now to control myself or die.
I don't know how I ever got started. I only know there was a confused
half-hour of packing, with Miss Brown helping and Gabriella close by
me all the time. Gabriella couldn't seem to do enough. I saw her slip
her pink kimono into my suit-case; I saw her pin one of her beautiful
pearl bars on my red silk waist. She got out my new blue suit and
brushed it; my new hat with the red quills; and while I combed my
hair, she laced my new tan shoes. I understood that it was her way of
telling me how sorry she was, for every once in a while she'd have to
stop and cry. Once she said, "Oh, I am so sorry I've been so mean. I
hope--oh, I do _hope_ you'll come back, Lucy." But I didn't care now.
It was too late. All my thoughts were with my family who needed me.
I gathered their dear pictures together in a pile and put them in my
suit-case--Father's picture too, but I didn't trust myself to look at
it. Dear Father--but I didn't dare let myself think, just at first.
I felt in the air that all the girls knew my news about as soon as I
did. Of course they didn't come near me. Even if I had been popular I
don't believe they would have come. Sorrow somehow builds up such a
barrier, and the one or two girls I met in the corridors kept close to
the other wall and tried to avoid meeting my eyes. Gabriella and Miss
Brown and the English teacher, whom I had always hated, saw me off. I
begged to take the trip alone and Miss Brown finally allowed it.
I thought of everything during that journey, and the more I thought
the more I trusted myself to think, I don't know what made me so
clear-headed and fearless, but I'd run my thoughts right up to any hard
truth, and they wouldn't balk; they'd go right over. My mother had died
when I was so little that I did not remember it and so this was the
first test I had ever had. Perhaps--oh, perhaps,--I faced it clearly
and squarely--perhaps when I was met at the station they would tell me
that I had come too late. I knew now that I wouldn't give way. Some
great wonderful strength was in me and I wasn't afraid of myself. My
home-coming was very different from the one I had planned, but when we
drew near to the familiar old station I just said, "Be strong," and I
knew that I should.
Dr. Maynard was at the station to meet me. The minute he got hold of my
hand he said, "It's all right. You're not too late."
"That's good," I replied, but somehow I couldn't feel any more joy than
sorrow. I remember, in the carriage, I asked lots of straight-forward,
businesslike questions and Dr. Maynard answered me in the same way.
There was no hope. The end might come at any moment. When he stopped
before our door and helped me out, he said, "Bobbie, you're a brave
girl." But I wasn't. I couldn't have cried. I didn't know how.
I went into the house while Dr. Maynard stopped to hitch and blanket
his horse. I found the twins and Ruth and Aunt Sarah all in the
sitting-room. It didn't come to my mind then, but now, as I remember
it, it was all very different from the triumphant entry I had planned.
No one jumped up to greet me, and my new suit and tan shoes and hat
with the quills were all unnoticed even by myself. The twins came
forward and kissed me--not embarrassed as they usually are, but
scarcely realising it. They didn't say anything, just kissed me and
turned away. Ruth lay prostrate on the couch. She didn't stir at sight
of me and I went up to her and kissed her on the temple. At that she
buried her face deeper into the cushions and began to sob. Aunt Sarah
looked as if she had been crying for weeks. She sat quietly rocking
by the west window and her big, dyed-out, blue eyes were swimming
in tears, brimming over, and running down her wrinkled face. It's
something awful to me, to see a grown person cry. It's like an old
wreck at sea, and I just couldn't kiss her. Everybody so horrible and
silent and dismal, was worse somehow than death, and just for a moment
I stood kind of helpless in the middle of the room. Then the door into
the library opened and I saw my dear tired, patient Alec, and suddenly
his arms were around me tight, holding me close--close to him and I
heard him murmur, "Good Bobbie, good, brave Bobbie," and oh, if I can
hate people awfully, I can love them too. When he let me go, he said
calmly, "Don't you want to come and see Father?" and I followed him
upstairs.
Dr. Maynard led me to the side of Father's bed and I took one of
Father's dear, familiar hands in mine. Alec sat down on the other side
and for a while we three waited silently until Father should wake
up. I wasn't frightened. It all seemed very natural, and none of the
heart-breaking thoughts that came to me all during the weeks after
he left us came to me then. It really seemed almost beautiful to be
waiting there until Father should wake up. When finally he opened his
eyes and saw me, he smiled, and pressed my hand a very little. Then he
spoke.
"Lucy!" he said; and after a long pause, "Do you like school?" he
asked, just as naturally as if we were having a nice little talk
downstairs.
"Oh, yes, dear Father, I do!" I answered, and he pressed my hand again.
It didn't strike me so very deeply then that my last word to my father
was a lie, but afterward I used to cry about it for hours and hours.
After a moment my father turned to Alec, "Stand by the business, my
son," he murmured.
And without a moment's hesitation my brother promised, "I will, Father."
I didn't think Father would say anything more, for he closed his eyes
again, but after a while he opened them and I saw he was actually
noticing my hat and red waist, and the pearl pin Gabriella had given
me. He smiled and I heard him murmur, "Pretty!" That was all; and
oh, since, I have been so glad that my new clothes did so much more
than I had ever hoped. For that was the last word my father said. I
felt his hand grow limp in mine, and just then Dr. Maynard touched my
shoulder and led me quietly away. He told me to lie down on the bed in
the guest-room. I obeyed him and when, a little later, he came to me
I understood the message in his eyes. I didn't feel the awfulness of
it then nor I didn't have the least inclination to cry. I lay there
very quietly for half an hour, then of my own accord I got up and went
downstairs.
I found Aunt Sarah by the window still crying without the grace of
covering her tear-stained face. The twins were not there. Ruth jumped
up when I came in and clung to me frantically.
"Aunt Sarah," I asked, annoyed, "_why_ do you sit there and cry?"
"Unnatural girl," she answered, "have you no heart, no tears? Don't you
know your father has died?"
At those awful words poor little Ruth clung to me still tighter and
wailed, "Oh, send her away, make her go off!"
I replied to my aunt, "Aunt Sarah, don't you know you shouldn't speak
like that before Ruth? I'm surprised."
A little later Alec came quietly into the room. Poor Ruthie flung
herself upon him just as she had upon me, and as he held her and patted
her shoulder, he said, looking at me in a way that made me stronger,
"Lucy, you will find Oliver in the alcove under the stairs. Go to him
and give him something to do."
Poor Oliver was crying as only a boy of sixteen who isn't used to it
can, I guess--dreadfully uncontrolled. He was sitting on the leather
couch, leaning forward with his face in his hands. I went straight
over to him and sinking down beside him, put my arms right around him.
Poor Oliver--poor big broken Oliver! All the hate in my heart for that
cruel twin rolled right away when I felt his great big body leaning up
against me. I loved him just as if he were my son come home. We sat
there together a long while--just Oliver and I--and finally when he
was a little quieter he managed to say, "Don't--don't tell Alec and
Malcolm--that I--I--"
"Of course I won't, Oliver," I assured him, and then I added just as if
nothing had happened, "My trunk is still at the station, Oliver. I need
it awfully. Here's the check. It's dark out now. Will you go down and
see about it?"
He looked away and replied in a voice that tried to sound natural,
"Sure, I'll go," and stood up and blew his nose very hard. I saw him
glance into the mirror over the fireplace. Then, "Will you get my
overcoat and hat?" he asked shamefacedly. When he went out of the house
he had the visor of his cap pulled well down over his eyes, and his
hands shoved deep into his pockets. We hadn't said a word about Father.
As for myself, I don't know what was the matter. I honestly didn't seem
to feel a thing. I was just like a soulless machine. During the three
following days I wrote notes, sent telegrams, saw about a black dress
for Ruth, Aunt Sarah and myself, planned good nourishing meals for
the family, went on errands, and "picked up" every room in the house,
for they certainly looked awful. I didn't sleep and I wasn't hungry.
I was wound up pretty tight, I guess, for it took me a long while to
run down. On the second afternoon Dr. Maynard took me out to drive and
then shut me up in my bedroom with the curtains all drawn tight and a
little white sleeping-powder to take in fifteen minutes if I didn't
go to sleep. I took the powder and stayed awake all night besides.
Once during those blind, confused three days Juliet came to see me, to
tell me how sorry she was I suppose, but I wasn't glad to have her.
I remember I just said, "Hello, Juliet, how's basket-ball and high
school?" I wasn't glad to see even Tom and Elise. When Elise held me
tight in her arms and whispered, "Poor little Bobbie!" I felt like a
hypocrite, and pulled away. Every time the door-bell rang and I knew
that it was some one else who had come to try and comfort us, I wanted
to lock myself in my room. My head ached and my eyes felt like chunks
of lead. But I didn't want sympathy. I didn't need it.
The end came the night after the funeral. It hadn't occurred to me but
that I would go back to boarding-school after Christmas. We were all in
the sitting-room--all but Aunt Sarah who finally had stopped crying and
was recuperating in her bed upstairs. Tom and Alec were discussing all
sorts of plans, and I remember that Dr. Maynard, who seemed to be one
of the family now, was there too. I wasn't following the conversation
very closely, and suddenly I heard Tom say, "Well certainly the sooner
Aunt Sarah packs up, the better."
"Why, who then," I asked, "will take her place?"
Alec looked up.
"What do you mean, Bobbie," he asked. "You'll be here, won't you?"
"Why, no. I shall be at boarding-school," I replied.
At that Ruth suddenly flopped over on the couch and began her usual
torrent of crying. "I hate Aunt Sarah! I hate Aunt Sarah! I hate Aunt
Sarah!" she wailed.
"The whole fall was rotten!" put in Malcolm. "Do you mean to say, Lucy,
that you're going back to that school?" he fired.
"I guess your duty is _here_, Bobbie, old girl," said Tom; and Elise
got up and came over to my chair.
"I know how hard it is to give up school," she said sweetly, "but they
do need you, don't they, dear? Later, perhaps--"
"Well, I must say," interrupted Oliver, who was master of himself
without any doubt now, "if this isn't the greatest! Look here, Alec,"
he asked, "do you intend to allow Bobbie to neglect us in this fashion?"
And Alec, dear Alec, across the room just smiled and said, looking
straight at me, "I am going to let her do as she thinks best," and his
eyes were full of kindness.
I got up then. My knees were trembling. I thought at last I was going
to break down and cry. They wanted--oh, finally my family wanted me! I
didn't know whether to trust my voice or not.
"Well," I said a little wobbly, trying to smile back at Alec, "I'll
think it over." And as soon as I could, I sneaked out of the room, on
the pretense of getting a drink of water. I went into the little back
hall off the kitchen, took an old golf cape that was hanging there,
threw it over my shoulders, and went outdoors. It didn't seem as if I
could get my breath inside the house. It was dark, the stars had come
out, and I went out of the back gate, walking as hard and fast as I
could. I knew I must do something, for as wicked as it seems I was
almost crazy with happiness, and I was afraid that at any moment, now
at the very last, I should give up entirely, lie down at the side of
the road and cry and cry. I almost ran as I hurried along, and all the
time I kept saying, "Hold on. Be strong. Don't let go." Yet I knew the
storm was gathering and I was losing my grip. I didn't plan to go to
Juliet's house, but suddenly I saw it looming up in front of me, and
it occurred to me to stop and tell Juliet my beautiful good news. So I
hurried to the back door and burst into the kitchen. The Adams's cook
gave an awful start.
"Good Lord!" she exclaimed.
"Hannah," I asked, and my voice was strange and hoarse, "where's
Juliet?"
"Why, at dinner," gasped Hannah, staring at me. "What is it, Miss Lucy?"
"Tell her to come up to her room," I managed to say, and in our usual
informal way I dashed up the back stairs to Juliet's room, which I
knew so well. I waited impatiently in the dark and in a minute I heard
Juliet pounding up the stairs. Then I saw her coming through the hall,
her white napkin in her hand. I grabbed her.
"Juliet," I cried, "Juliet, I'm not going back to boarding-school! They
want me here! I'm so happy I don't know what to do. It's horrible to be
happy but I am, I _am_!" And then it struck me so funny to be happy on
such a day that I laughed! I laughed simply dreadfully. All my pent-up
feelings burst forth then, and I laughed till I cried. I could hear
myself laugh and that made me laugh more, and then Juliet looked so
queer and thunderstruck that that added to it. Pretty soon Mrs. Adams
was there and they were putting cold water on my face, which struck me
as the hugest joke I ever heard of, for they must have thought I was
hysterical. I laughed so hard that actually I hadn't enough will or
strength left to stop if I tried--I, who am usually so controlled. I
got down on the floor finally, and then I don't remember anything more.
When I woke up it must have been hours later, for I was all undressed
lying quietly in Juliet's bed, and there was Mrs. Adams going out of
the door, and there--yes--there was Dr. Maynard behind her. There was
a low light on the table by the bed and beside it sat my dear stolid
Juliet. I thought at first I would burst out laughing again to see her
sitting there with her funny little tight pig-tails braided for the
night, with me in her bed getting her sheets all hot. Just then she
looked up.
"Hello, Bob," she said in her commonplace, natural way. "Want a drink
of water?" and she came over and gave me a little sip out of a glass. I
didn't remember anything then, only that it was good to have old Juliet
around.
"There was no one as nice as you at school, Juliet," I said.
"I guess that's a merry jest," she replied in her usual way. She took
the glass away and I heard her go out of the room. I lay there very
quietly and watched the dim light flickering. There was a little clock
somewhere that was ticking quietly.
Then--oh, then I came back to life, and suddenly the thought of my
dear, dear father returned to me. I began to cry softly for the first
time, and finally fell asleep.
As I sit here this soft spring day and listen for the noon-whistle on
Father's factory to blow, I shall not wait for the sight of Dixie and
the phaeton coming up the hill, for Alec will be alone and I hate to be
reminded of too many places left empty by Father. Father had so many
favourite chairs. In every room in the house it seems as if he had his
special place. And his roll-top desk closed and locked, his various
pairs of shoes and slippers which he used to keep underneath all put
away, makes the dear spot look as if it were for rent. I hate the
neat orderly air of the sitting-room. It seems to be reproaching me.
Father used to love to fill the room with all kinds and descriptions
of papers. Everything, from a folder left at the front door directed
to "The Lady of the House" to year-old newspapers, Father wanted
preserved. There were three piles of the _Scientific Machinist_, four
feet high, stacked up in one corner. I used to beg Father to let me
carry off those _Scientific Machinists_ at least--they collected dust
fearfully--but he wouldn't allow me even to suggest such an idea. So
on my own responsibility one day, I stealthily took away some of the
bottom ones and packed them in the storeroom. I knew he'd never miss
them and the pile was growing. Every month I'd clear out the paper
case, preferring to annoy the kindest father a girl ever had to having
an untidy room. I cry when I think of the kind of daughter I was; I
cry and cry in the middle of the night. I wasn't good! I wasn't good!
I write it down for every one to see. Of course it's too late now,
but I've taken down the muslin curtains from Father's room, and the
lace ones from the sitting-room. Father never approved of hangings
of any kind. I don't allow the cat in the front of the house. I
haven't destroyed a single folder, pamphlet or catalogue. The pile of
_Scientific Machinists_ I wouldn't move from the corner for anything in
the world.
Oh, Father, if you were only here to be pleased; if you were only here
to scatter papers around; if you were only here to ring the gong for
dinner, call Ruthie "baby," me "chicken," say "Hello, boys!" to the
twins, and then sit down opposite me, clear your throat and ask the
blessing; if you were here again I would be a better oldest daughter. I
wouldn't tease for a rubber-tired runabout, for new wallpaper, nor for
that brass bed for my room.
I don't know where you are, nor where my mother is, but somehow up here
in this cupola on a starry night, when I sit on the window-seat, lie
flat back with my head out of the open window, and look up into that
great dome of a sky, I feel as if you two may be together somewhere,
perhaps seeing me.
But I don't _know_. There are times when I'm dreadfully doubtful; there
are times that I don't believe anything. I think I may be an atheist!
I have never discussed the subject with anybody, but occasionally it
comes to me, just as the fear used to come that I was adopted, that
religion is all a lie. I know I'm a member of the church, and it may be
horribly wicked of me, but once in a while right in the middle of my
prayers at night, I'll stop and think, "Perhaps no one is hearing me at
all."
Really, I wonder sometimes if any other girl ever had such awful
thoughts.