AT THE HOTEL
"Oh Clarice, isn't it too bad that it's raining?" said Sue. "It hadn't
begun when I started. It did look a little threatening, though. And I
meant to take you such a lovely walk, Clarice. I don't suppose you
want to go in the rain? I love to walk in the rain, it's such fun; but
you are so delicate--"
"That's it," said Clarice, ignoring the wistful tone in Sue's voice.
"I shouldn't dare to, Sue. There is consumption in my family, you
know,"--she coughed slightly,--"and it always gives me bronchitis to
go out in the rain. Besides, I have such a headache! Have some candy?
I'll show you my new dresses, if you like. They just came this
morning from New York--those muslins I told you about."
"Oh, that will be fun!" said Sue. But as she took off her
tam-o'-shanter she gave a little sigh, and glanced out of the window.
The rain was coming down merrily. It was the first they had had for
several weeks, and sight, sound, and smell were alike delightful. It
would be such fun to tramp about and splash in the puddles and get all
sopping! Last summer, when the drought broke, she and Mary put on
their bathing-dresses, and capered about on the lawn and played
"deluge," and had a glorious time. But of course she was only twelve
then, and now she was thirteen; and it made all the difference in the
world, Clarice said. The water was coming in a perfect torrent from
that spout! If you should hold your umbrella under it, it would go
f-z-z-z-z-z! and fly "every which way"; that was centrifugal force, or
something--
"Here they are," said Clarice.
Sue came back with a start, and became all eyes for the muslin dresses
which were spread on the bed. They were too showy for a young girl,
and the trimmings were cheap and tawdry; but the colors were fresh and
gay, and Sue admired them heartily.
"Oh, Clarice, how lovely you will look in this one!" she cried. "Don't
you want to try it on now, and let me see you in it?"
Clarice asked nothing better, and in a few minutes she was arrayed in
the yellow muslin with blue cornflowers. But now came a difficulty:
the gown would not meet in the back.
"Oh, what a shame!" said Sue. "Will you have to send it back, Clarice,
or can you have it altered here? There is a very good dressmaker; she
makes all our clothes,--Mary's and mine,--except what are made at
home."
Clarice tittered.
"I'm afraid she wouldn't be quite my style," she said. "I wondered
where your clothes _were_ made, you poor child! But this is all right.
I'll just take in my stays a little, that's all."
"Oh, don't, Clarice! Please don't! I am sure it will hurt you. Why,
that would be tight lacing, and tight lacing does dreadful things to
you. I learned about it at school. Dear Clarice, don't do it, please!"
"Little goose! who said anything about tight lacing? I'm only going
to--there! Now look--I can put my whole hand in. You mustn't be so
awfully countrified, Sue. You can't expect every one to go about in a
bag, as you and Mary Hart do. I am two years older than you, my dear,
and I haven't lived in a village all my life. It is likely that I know
quite as much about such matters as you do."
"I--I beg your pardon, Clarice!" said Sue, the quick tears starting to
her eyes. "Of course you know a great, great deal more than I do; I--I
only thought--"
"There, do you see?" Clarice went on. "Now, that is real
comfortable--perfectly comfortable; and it does fit alegant, don't
it?"
"It certainly makes you look very slender," faltered Sue.
"Don't it?" repeated Clarice. "That's what my dressmaker always says."
She was turning slowly round and round before the glass, enjoying the
effect. "There is nothing like a slender figure, she says; and I
think so, too. Why, Sue, if you'll promise never to tell a soul, I'll
tell you something. I used to be fat when I was your age--almost as
fat as Mary Hart. Just think of it!"
"Oh, did you? But Mary isn't really fat, Clarice. She's only--well,
rather square, you know, and chunky. That is the way she is made; she
has always been like that."
"I call her fat!" said Clarice, decisively. "Of course, it's partly
the way she dresses, with no waist at all, and the same size all the
way down. You would be just as bad, Sue, if you weren't so slim. I
don't see what possesses you to dress the way you do, making regular
guys of yourselves. But I was going to tell you. My dressmaker--she's
an alegant fitter, and a perfect lady--told me to eat pickled limes
all I could, and put lots of vinegar on everything, and I would get
thin. My! I should think I did. I used to eat six pickled limes every
day in recess. I got so that I couldn't hardly eat anything but what
it had vinegar in it. And I fell right away, in a few months, to what
I am now."
"Oh! Oh, Clarice!" cried Sue, transfixed with horror. "How could you?
Why, it must have made you ill; I know it must. Is that why you are so
pale?"
"Partly that," said Clarice, complacently. "Partly, I used to eat
slate-pencils. I haven't had hardly any appetite for common food this
year. The worst is these headaches I have right along. But I don't
care! I should hate to have staring red cheeks like Mary Hart. Your
color is different; it's soft, and it comes and goes. But Mary Hart is
dreadful beefy-looking."
"Clarice," said Sue, bravely, though she quivered with pain at the
risk of offending her new friend, "please don't speak so of Mary. She
is my oldest friend, you know, and I love her dearly. Of course I know
you don't mean to say anything unkind, but--but I'd rather you didn't,
please."
"Why, I'm not saying anything against her character!" said Clarice;
and any one save Sue might have detected a spiteful ring in her voice.
"I won't say a word about her if you'd rather not, Sue, but if I do
speak, I must say what I think. She's just as jealous of me as she
can be, and she tries to make trouble between us--any one can see
that; and I don't care for her one bit, so there!"
"Oh, Clarice, don't say that! I thought we were all going to be
friends together, and love one another, and-- But you don't really
know Mary yet. She is a dear; really and truly she is."
Clarice tossed her head significantly. "Oh, _I_ don't want to make
mischief!" she said. "Of course it doesn't matter to _me_, my dear. Of
course I am only a stranger, Sue, and I can't expect you to care for
me half as much as you do for Mary Hart. Of course I am nobody beside
her."
"Clarice, Clarice, how can you? Don't talk so. It _kills_ me to have
you talk so! when you know how I love you, how I would do anything in
the wide world for you, my dear, lovely Clarice!"
Clarice pouted for some time, but finally submitted to be embraced and
wept over, and presently became gracious once more, and said that all
should be forgiven (she did not explain what there was to forgive),
and only stipulated that they should not talk any more about Mary
Hart. Then she changed the subject to the more congenial one of
clothes, and became eloquent over some of the triumphs of her
dressmaker. Finally, in a fit of generosity, she offered to let Sue
try on the other muslin dress. Sue was enchanted. "And then we can
play something!" she cried. "Oh, there are all kinds of things we can
play in these, Clarice."
"I guess not!" said Clarice. "Play in my new dresses, and get them all
tumbled? Sue Penrose, you are too childish. I never saw anything like
the way you keep wanting to play all the time. I should think you were
ten, instead of thirteen."
Much abashed, Sue begged again for forgiveness. She did not see so
very much fun in just putting on somebody else's dress and then taking
it off again, but she submitted meekly when Clarice slipped it over
her head. But the same difficulty arose again: the dress would not
come anywhere near meeting round Sue's free, natural figure.
"Here," said Clarice; "wait a minute, Sue. I've got another pair of
stays. We'll fix it in a moment."
Sue protested, but was overruled. Clarice was determined, she said, to
see how her little friend would look if she were properly dressed for
once. In a few moments she was fastened into the blue muslin, and
Clarice was telling her that she looked too perfectly sweet for
anything.
"Now _that_ is the way for you to dress, Sue Penrose. If I were you I
should insist upon my mother's getting me a pair of stays to-morrow.
Why, you look like a different girl. Why, you have an alegant
figure--perfectly alegant!"
But poor Sue was in sore discomfort, and no amount of "alegance" could
make her at ease. She could hardly breathe; she felt girded by a ring
of iron. Oh, it was impossible; it was unbearable!
"I never, never could, Clarice!" she protested. "Unhook it for me;
please do! Yes, it is very pretty, but I cannot wear it another
moment."
She persisted, in spite of Clarice's laughing and calling her a little
countrified goose, and was thankful to find herself free once more,
and back in her own good belted frock.
"Oh, Clarice," she said, "if you only _knew_ how comfortable this was,
you would have your dresses made so; I know you would."
"The idea!" said Clarice. "I guess not, Sue. Have some more candy? My,
how my head aches!"
"It is this close room," said Sue, eagerly. "Clarice, dear, you are
looking dreadfully pale. See, it has stopped raining now. Do let us
come out; I know the fresh air will do you good."
But Clarice shook her head, and said that walking always made her head
worse, and she should get her death of cold, besides.
"Then lie down, and let me read to you. Why, I forgot; I have 'Rob
Roy' in my pocket; I wondered what made it so heavy. I remember, now,
I did think it might possibly rain, so I brought 'Rob' in case. There,
dear, lie down and let me tuck you up. Oh, Clarice, you do look so
lovely lying down! I always think of you when I want to think of the
Sleeping Beauty. There, now; shut your eyes and rest, while I read."
Clarice detested "Rob Roy," but her head really did ache,--she had
been eating candy all the afternoon and most of the morning,--and
there was nothing else to do. She lay back and closed her eyes. They
were dreadfully stupid people in this book, and she could hardly
understand a word of the "Scotch stuff" they talked. She wished she
had brought "Wilful Pansy, the Bride of an Hour," or some other
"alegant" paper novel. And thinking these thoughts, Clarice presently
fell asleep, which was perhaps the best thing she could do.
Sue read on and on, full of glory and rejoicing. Di Vernon was one of
her favorite heroines, and she fairly lived in the story while she was
reading it. She was in the middle of one of Di's impassioned speeches
when a sound fell on her ear, slight but unmistakable. She looked up,
her eyes like stars, the proud, ringing words still on her lips.
Clarice was asleep, her head thrown back, her mouth open, peacefully
snoring. Another snore, and another! Sue closed the book softly. It
was a pity that Clarice had lost that particular chapter, it was so
splendid; but she was tired, poor darling, and her head ached. It was
the best thing, of course, that she should have fallen asleep. Sue
would watch her sleep, and keep all evil things away. It was not clear
what evil things could come into the quiet room of the respectable
family hotel, but whatever they might be, Sue was ready for them.
Sue's ideas of hotel life had become considerably modified since she
had had some actual experience of it. Instead of being one round of
excitement, as she had fancied, she was obliged to confess that it was
often very dull. The Binns House was a quiet house, frequented mostly
by "runners," who came and went, and with a small number of permanent
boarders--old couples who were tired of housekeeping, or ancient
single gentlemen. The frescoes and mirrors were there, but the latter
reflected only staid middle-aged faces, or else those of bearded men
who carried large handbags, and wore heavy gold watch-chains, and
smelt of strong tobacco and cheap perfumery. Even the table, with its
array of little covered dishes that had once promised all the delights
of fairy banquets, proved disappointing. To lift a shining cover which
ought to conceal something wonderful with a French name, and to find
squash--this was trying; and it had happened several times. Also,
there was a great deal of mincemeat, and it did not compare with
Katy's. And the bearded men gobbled, and pulled things about, and
talked noisily. Altogether, it was as different as could well be
imagined from Sue's golden dream. And it was simply impossible to use
the soap they had, it smelt so horribly.
Hark! was that a foot on the stairs? Suppose something were really
going to happen now, while Clarice was asleep! Suppose she should hear
voices, and the door should open softly, softly, and a villainous face
look in--a bearded face, not fat and good-natured looking like those
people's at dinner, but a haggard face with hollow, burning eyes and a
savage scowl. Some robber had heard of Clarice's jewelry and her
father's wealth, and had come all the way from New York (there were no
robbers in Hilton) to rob, perhaps to murder her. Ah! but Sue would
fling herself before the unconscious sleeper, and cry: "Back, villain,
or I slay thee with my hands!" He might go then; but if he didn't, she
would throw the lamp at him. She and Mary had decided long ago that
that was the best thing to do to a robber when you had no weapons,
because the oil and glass together would be sure to frighten him.
And--and--oh! what was that?
This time it was no fancy. A man's voice was heard in the hall below;
a man's foot came heavily up the stairs, and passed into the next
room. A hand was laid on the latch.
"Clarissy, are you here?" asked the voice.
Sue sprang to her feet. It was Mr. Packard. What should she do? Mr.
Packard was no robber, but Sue did not like him, and it seemed quite
out of the question that he should find her here, with Clarice asleep.
Seizing her tam and her jacket, and slipping "Rob Roy" into her
pocket, she opened the window softly, and stepped out on the balcony
which formed the roof of the hotel porch. She might have gone out of
the other door, but the window was nearer; besides, it was much more
exciting, and he might have seen her in the passage. Sue closed the
window behind her, with a last loving glance at Clarice, who snored
quietly on; and just as Mr. Packard entered the room she climbed over
the balustrade and disappeared from sight.
"What upon earth is that?" asked Mrs. Binns, looking out of the window
of the office, which was on the ground floor. "Somebody shinnin' down
the door-post!--a boy, is it? Do look, Mr. Binns. I ain't got my
glasses."
Mr. Binns looked.
"Well, I should say!" he remarked, with a slow chuckle. "It's Mis'
Penrose's little gal. Well, she is a young 'un, to be sure! Be'n up to
see the Packard gal, I s'pose. Now, you'd think she'd find the door
easier; most folks would. But it wouldn't be Sue Penrose to come out
the door while the' was a window handy by, _and_ a post."
"Sue Penrose is gettin' too big to go shinnin' round the street that
way," said Mrs. Binns. "I don't care for that Packard gal myself;
she's terrible forthputtin', and triflin' and greedy, besides; but you
wouldn't see her shinnin' down door-posts, anyway."
"Humph!" said Mr. Binns. "She don't know enough!"