Two days later I received a frenzied reply to my note to Oliver. The
words were underscored, smeared, repeated, blotted and scratched out.
I never read such a letter. I think Oliver swore in it. At any rate
my heart almost stood still when the words "for God's sake" struck at
me like swords from the white paper. I knew at least that Oliver was
terribly in earnest. I read and re-read the letter, then locked it away
in the cupola in the lowest drawer of my table-desk. No one shall ever
see it; no one shall ever know what it contains--no one but Oliver and
me. I shall never tell Alec, nor his own twin Malcolm, nor even his
wife, if he should ever marry. This is between Oliver and me. He had
chosen to tell his older sister about his trouble to the exclusion of
every one else, and she would prove to him that he had rightly placed
his faith.
I don't want to imply that Oliver had been really dishonest. I am sure
he had not been that, but it seems that he was treasurer of something
or other down there at college, and had boggled the accounts. He never
could keep money straight. Perhaps he had borrowed a little of it--like
the bank clerk Alec told me about--and now suddenly he discovered
there was more of a shortage than he could make good. He wrote that on
December third he must make a report, and if he couldn't account for
seventy-five dollars short in the treasury--well--There followed six
dashes with three exclamation points at the end.
I wrote back I'd get that seventy-five dollars for him or die.
I scraped money out of every hole and corner I could find. I sold my
lavender liberty automobile veil to Juliet Adams for a dollar and
a half, and Ruth bought my rhinestone horse-shoe pin, which I paid
three-fifty for, for seventy-five cents. I didn't spend a single penny
of my own allowance for November and begged Alec for five dollars which
I told him, without a quiver, that I'd got to have for the purpose of
buying some new stuff for the kitchen. But most of the money had to
come from Dr. Maynard. I sewed like mad. Locked in my bedroom with
the alarm-clock keeping track of my time I simply devoured holes.
I was like a hungry animal. I couldn't get enough of them--and the
bigger they were the better they satisfied me. Socks by the dozens;
table-clothes gnawed by rats; napkins worn to shreds; blankets to be
rebound; sheets to be hemmed; _anything_ that required a needle, I
welcomed with rejoicing.
But of course a man doesn't need more than three dozen socks on hand,
five dozen perfectly whole towels and ten table-clothes. There is an
end to a bachelor's equipment, and even after I had finished mending
with gummed paper a whole music-rack full of old sheet-music Dr.
Maynard used to sing, I had earned only twenty dollars.
I was very unhappy when Dr. Maynard passed me my last receipted bill.
He was looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
"Well," he said, "does this close our business transactions? Are you
all fixed up now?"
I shook my head and blushed, ashamed somehow to be in need of so much
money.
"Oh, I know," I hastened to say, "that there's no more work you can
give me, and I do thank you--I do really."
"Let's see," Dr. Maynard said. "Let's see. What kind of a hand do you
write? If it's plain and legible, I don't know but what I'll engage you
to copy some old letters of my mother's--written to me when I was a
small boy at school. The ink is fading and I want them preserved."
"Dr. Maynard," I exclaimed, "I don't know what I'd do if it wasn't for
you!" There were almost tears in my eyes I was so grateful.
"Nonsense," he laughed. "But what do you want so much money for?"
"A bill--for some dresses I had made, and I don't want to bother Alec."
Dr. Maynard gave a long low whistle.
"Oh, I see." Then quite seriously he added "Better tell him, Bobbie."
"Dr. Maynard," I said, "if you mention one single word of this to
Alec, you don't know the harm you'll do. You don't know!" Why, if Alec
had gotten wind of what Oliver had done, there wouldn't be a scrap
of lenience shown that poor twin. It would mean clattering looms for
Oliver, as surely as the electric chair for a murderer; and I was
absolutely fierce in my determination that that brother of mine should
graduate from college, as well as all the others. Before Dr. Maynard
went home that afternoon he had promised he would not tell Alec a word
about our business transactions.
I enjoyed the copying. Dr. Maynard's mother must have been a perfectly
lovely woman. She used to write to her son every Sunday, and oh, such
sweet companionable little notes--all about what was going on in the
town, and always at the end just a sentence or two about honour and
ideals, and how she believed in her son and missed him. If Oliver had
had a mother to write to him like that--to tell him how she wanted
him to grow up in the image of his honoured father who had died, who
rejoiced at every success he had, who sympathised at every failure--if
Oliver had had a mother to write him letters every Sunday evening by
the firelight, I don't believe he would have ever gotten into such a
difficulty. I wondered if mothers wrote letters like these to their
daughters. Of course they must.
Every once in a while, I would run across a reference to my own mother
(for Mrs. Maynard was her neighbour) and, really, it was a little like
seeing her for just a minute.
I know I'm neglecting my story, but I must tell about one special
letter of Mrs. Maynard's, because it referred to me. It didn't happen
to be written to her son but to a woman friend whom I didn't know.
It was a chatty letter, that related all the important events and
happenings in the town, very long and full of the littlest details you
can imagine. It was on the fourth thin sheet that I ran across this:
"And our dear neighbour Mrs. Vars has a little daughter three weeks
old," I deciphered. "She has named her Lucy for herself. I went in to
see her last week and took her a jar of my quince jelly. She is a very
happy woman. She has always wanted a little girl. When she took the
little baby in her arms she said with tears in her eyes, 'My little
daughter and I are going to be "best friends" all our lives.'"
I read that precious sentence over and over again. My mother and I
'best friends all our lives'--and oh, I couldn't remember her smile.
'Best friends all our lives'--and she had gone before we could share a
single secret. I leaned right forward over my copying and cried, "If
you'd lived I wouldn't care if we were poor. If you and I were 'best
friends,' I wouldn't care if I never had a good time. Oh, if you were
here! If you were here!"
And yet, although I cried so hard, I was strangely happy that evening.
Of course I don't believe in miracles. They don't happen nowadays, and
yet it seems almost as if my mother might have sent that message to
me, to console me in my struggle, to tell me that I wasn't all alone.
I gazed at her picture--the only one she had ever had taken--under its
cold glass over my bed, before I went to sleep that night. It is a
profile, clear-cut and a little sad. They tell me she was only nineteen
in the picture--my age, just my age now.
"My best friend," I whispered, "my best friend all my life!"
As the dreary days wore on, all the sympathy that I possessed yearned
over my patient brother Alec. But I couldn't help him any. Time and
time again I tried to cheer him up, but my attempts fell flat. There
was a time when Alec used to go out among the young people in Hilton
quite a good deal, but I observed that lately he had nothing but
business engagements to take him away.
Alec had never talked to me about a certain young lady named Edith
Campbell--I don't know that he had ever mentioned her name to me--but
I knew that he had always entertained a sneaking admiration for her.
Since father died he hadn't seen her so much and I had been glad of it.
I don't like Edith Campbell. There is so much show about her, and she
always contrives to make Alec look so forlorn and pathetic. I remember
one morning not long after Alec's serious talk with me, that he went
out of the door gloomier than ever with his green felt bag filled with
the ledgers that he'd been working over till midnight. Just as he was
going down the front steps who should appear but Edith Campbell in
a sporty little rig, driving a new cob of hers--round and plump and
shiny. She had some little out-of-town whippersnapper of a man beside
her, and as she drew her horse to a standstill right by Alec, she
looked trig and sporty enough for the front cover of a magazine. She
gave Alec a play salute from the brim of her perky little hat, and my
poor tired brother took off his limp grey felt. He went over and leaned
one hand on the horse's brilliant flank, and gazed up at Edith. His
overcoat that used to be black looked greenish in the bright sunlight
and the velvet collar was worn about the edges.
"Hello, Al Vars!" exclaimed Miss Campbell. I could hear her through
the open door, hidden behind the lace. "I haven't seen you for _one
age_. You ought to come out of that shell of yours. Al _used_ to be a
pal of mine," she laughed to the man beside her and introduced them.
The stiffly-starched little out-of-town man gave Alec a hand gloved in
yellow dog-skin and Alec turned and said something I couldn't hear to
Miss Campbell. She called her reply back over her shoulder as she drove
off. "Sorry, Al. Can't. Too bad. I'm going to Florida with Mother and
Dad for the winter next week!"
Alec stood forlorn in the middle of the street, watching her descend
the hill. The back of the highly-shellacked little waggonette flashed
in the sunlight. Miss Campbell sat erect, sleek as her horse. My
feelings grew savage against her, and when Alec finally shifted the
heavy green bag to the other hand and moved slowly off down the street
toward the factory I wanted to run after him and tell him she wasn't
worth a single thought of his. I wished that my life-long devotion
might make up for this single morning's sting of Edith Campbell's
heartless exhibition of prosperity. But it couldn't. It couldn't break
through my brother's brooding silence for even an interval.
Ruth took our change of circumstances very philosophically at first.
Ruth is sixteen now, and awfully pretty. She has boy-callers about
three times a week. She's very popular. She can sing like a little
prima-donna, and can dance a cake-walk like a young vaudeville
performer. The twins think Ruth is the cleverest little creature alive.
She's a very independent sort of girl. No one can give any advice to
Ruth on what is the proper thing for her to wear; no one can tell _her_
what is the correct way for girls of sixteen to act; at least, _I_
can't. Ruth loves fashion and style. She was glad to have Alec dispose
of Dixie.
"Why," she said to me in her little sophisticated way, "Dixie is
eating his _head_ off, and he _limps_! I'd be ashamed to be seen at a
funeral driving Dixie! You may have noticed _I_ never use him." She
was delighted to learn that Alec was going to sell the house. "For he
says," she announced to me gleefully, "that perhaps _now_ we can live
in one of those darling little shingled houses on the south side. Those
houses have the loveliest little dens in them with a stained-glass
window, where I could have my callers. I just hate the parlour here.
There's a big new crack over the marble mantel, and I have a dreadful
time making people sit with their backs to it."
"And Nellie?" I questioned.
"Good riddance, I think. She's the bane of my life, and she hasn't a
scrap of style. She's been here so long she thinks she can boss me as
if she were my mother."
Ruth's chief source of sorrow was the announcement that she couldn't
attend dancing-school. That brought the tears and for three days she'd
hardly speak a word. When I told her that she ought to be cheerful for
Alec's sake, she slammed the door in my face and told me not to preach.
I am afraid Ruth and I aren't very congenial sisters. I try very hard
to be helpful and sympathetic, for Ruth, of course, is as motherless as
I am. But she's a difficult younger sister. She never wanted me to take
her to places when she was a little girl. She hates to be petted. It
troubles me a little to think we aren't closer friends, because we each
are the only sister in the world that the other has.
It was Ruth who stepped in and upset my whole scheme with Dr. Maynard.
She can be dreadfully annoying, and cause as much trouble as any
grown-up person I ever knew. It was when I was within ten dollars of
the end of my struggle. I had finished the copying, and now I was
working Dr. Maynard's initials on about everything that that man owned.
It was on a Saturday afternoon, and Juliet Adams, who had come down
from college to spend Sunday with her family (Juliet goes to a girl's
big college now), had dropped over to see me. I was sitting by the west
window sewing on some things of my own, for of course all Dr. Maynard's
work I was careful to do in private. Ruth was upstairs getting dressed
to go out to a party with one of her numerous boy-friends. Suddenly,
with her hair down her back, and dressed only in her white petticoat
and dressing-sack, she appeared in the doorway.
"Got a thimble?" she asked. "I want to baste in a ruching," and without
asking leave she grabbed my work-bag that was on the couch. It was open
and she caught hold of it in such a way that the contents all went
tumbling out on the floor. A dozen new socks done up in balls, on which
I had been working initials, rolled out in all directions. The red
monogram stared me in the face.
"I'll pick them up," I said hurriedly, but Ruth was too quick for me
and she pounced upon them before I could stop her. Very little of
importance escapes Ruth.
"W. F. M.!" she exclaimed. "Who's that? W. F. M.! As I live, on _every_
one of them! Who's W. F. M.?" She unrolled one pair. "Men's socks too,"
she said, holding them up to plain view. "W. F. M.!" Then suddenly she
broke into hilarious laughter. "I have it!" she burst out, waving the
socks over her head and triumphantly dancing around the room. "William
Ford Maynard! W. F. M. William Ford Maynard!"
"Stop, Ruth!" I cried, my old anger beginning to surge up in me.
"_Stop_, I tell you!"
But Ruth was deaf to me. She simply kept on tearing around the room
like a wild Indian. "How do you do, Mrs. Maynard," she shouted at me in
silly school-girl fashion, and amidst her mad laughter sang out, full
of derision, "Juliet, let me introduce Mrs. William Ford Maynard!"
I was standing up in a minute and was at Ruth with all my might and
main. I was firing mad.
"Ruth Chenery Vars," I cried, "stop, _stop_, STOP!" and then suddenly
there was Alec standing quietly in the doorway in his overcoat and hat.
Ruth and I went out like flames.
There was a dead silence for an instant, then Alec asked quietly:
"What does this mean?"
Ruth answered him.
"I tipped over Lucy's work-bag and all these men's socks fell out.
Every one of them is marked with Dr. Maynard's initials, and Lucy got
mad because I made fun of her."
"Will's initials, Lucy?" asked Alec perplexed.
"Yes, W. F. M.," went on Ruth delightedly. "See?" She gave the socks to
Alec. "Nobody is W. F. M. in this town, but William Ford Maynard," she
finished and sat down on the piano-stool in a satisfied way, as if she
had cleared _herself_ of any blame, and now was ready for some fun.
I think it was here that Juliet got up and slipped out of the room.
Anyhow I know she wasn't there during the whole interview.
"Well, Lucy?" said Alec, looking at me.
"I was paid for it," I exclaimed. "I was paid for every single initial
and every single stitch I ever took for him! Oh, there was nothing
sentimental about it. Ruth makes me sick! I did it simply to earn
money."
Alec looked down at the initials.
"How much were you paid?" he asked.
"I was paid," I went on, still on the defensive, "I was paid fifty
cents an hour. It was all business from beginning to end. Oh, there was
nothing silly in it!"
"Fifty cents an hour?" Alec repeated.
"Oh, yes," I said. "Ruth is absurd. I made out bills and receipts and
everything. It was absolutely businesslike."
"And how much has Will already given you?"
The colour for some reason rose to my cheeks. Alec looked as if he
wasn't pleased and I was suddenly ashamed.
"About--sixty dollars," I murmured.
"Sixty dollars!" Alec flashed. "Why did you need so much money?" he
asked me sternly.
I saw my danger then. It was as if I had had my hands on the
steering-wheel of Dr. Maynard's automobile, and suddenly saw an
enormous limousine headed for me around a curve.
"Why," I stammered, trying to keep calm, "I thought the business was
doing so--poorly, that I--I--"
"Why did you think it necessary not to tell me about this--enterprise
of yours?" asked Alec.
The limousine kept coming straight for me, you see.
I hesitated just a moment. I had no idea of telling about Oliver. After
you've worked for a cause, you'll protect it if it kills you. But I
was at a loss to know which way to turn, and I had to act quickly. An
inspiration came to me. It wasn't a good one, but I was excited.
"I borrowed seventy-five dollars from the Household Account. I had a
dressmaker's bill of my own to pay that had stood a long while, and
so--now I'm trying to make it up."
Alec dropped the socks as if they had been hot. He didn't say a single
word. He just stood there and stared and stared. I glanced up for a
fleeting second and Alec's eyes were terrible. The vision of them
remained with me for days, just as the image of the sun will dance
before your eyes after you have gazed at its piercing light for an
instant. I turned and looked quickly out of the window. The clock in
the hall struck five. I counted it to myself. The last stroke died
away, and still Alec stood and stared. He seemed to be willing me
to bow down in remorse and shame. I couldn't help it. I tried and I
couldn't. I wasn't guilty--oh, no, Alec, I wasn't guilty--but suddenly
a hot wave spread over me up to my temples and I hung my head before my
brother's condemning gaze.
He turned away then, and without a word went out into the hall.
I didn't know a silence could be so eloquent; I didn't know a silence
could hurt. It sobered even Ruth. She slunk quietly upstairs. And when
I discovered I was quite alone, I drew a long breath. Then I got up,
gathered the poor socks that had caused so much trouble together in a
pile and put them back into my work-bag.
I didn't go down to supper that night. Alec knocked on my bedroom door
about nine o'clock, and came in.
"Please put the household check-book on my desk," he said shortly; "I
will take charge of it hereafter."
"Very well," I replied, perfectly calm; and a thick heavy curtain fell
quietly down between Alec and me like the curtain after the last act at
the theatre.