A TICKET TO FAIRY-LAND
“I want to have a little talk with you, Gretel.”
Gretel looked up with a start from the pile of stockings she was
darning. Mrs. Marsh, solemn and majestic as usual, was blocking the
doorway of her little room, and there was an ominous sound in her voice
which caused Gretel’s heart to beat uncomfortably fast.
“Won’t you come in?” she said, timidly, rising to offer her visitor
the only chair the room contained, but Mrs. Marsh waved her back
impatiently.
“Go on with your work,” she commanded. “I don’t care to sit down; I can
say all I have to say in a few words. I am very sorry to be obliged
to find fault with you, Gretel, but I feel that I must speak to you
about your behavior of the past two weeks. Ada has spoken of it several
times, but I have postponed mentioning it to you, hoping things might
improve. You have not been at all like yourself since the night those
disgusting children were here.”
Mrs. Marsh paused, as if expecting Gretel to speak. The little girl had
grown very red, and her lip was trembling, but she said nothing, and
after waiting a moment Mrs. Marsh went on.
“It is rather difficult to fix upon any one particular thing you have
done, but your whole manner has been different. You have not looked
happy; indeed, you have appeared quite sullen at times. Now sullenness
is a very disagreeable trait in a child. When your brother placed you
in my care, he expected me to take a mother’s place to you, and so,
painful though it may be, I feel that it is my duty to reprove you for
your faults.”
Mrs. Marsh paused again, and this time Gretel raised her big honest
brown eyes to her face; they were full of tears.
“I’m sorry,” she said simply; “I didn’t mean to be sullen, but you see,
I haven’t been very happy since Dora went away.”
“Not been happy?” repeated Mrs. Marsh, her voice rising in
astonishment; “and why have you not been happy, pray?”
“I don’t know exactly,” said Gretel, “but Dora was very kind to me, and
I liked her. She wouldn’t have let Lillie and Peter come if I hadn’t
said I loved music, and so it was partly my fault that she had to go
away.”
“If that is all that is troubling you you may dismiss the matter from
your mind at once,” said Mrs. Marsh, decidedly. “The girl was very
careless and incompetent, and I should probably have dismissed her at
any rate. As for the mischief caused by those dreadful children, that
certainly was partly your fault. You had no business to bring food
into the house without my permission, but I forgave you for that when
you assured me you were sorry. I never bear malice, and even though my
carpet is practically ruined, I did not intend to refer to the matter
again. It is your sullen, disagreeable manner that has pained me so
deeply.”
Two big tears splashed down Gretel’s cheeks, and dropped on the
stocking she was darning.
“I’m very sorry,” she murmured tremulously; “I don’t want to pain
anybody.”
Mrs. Marsh’s face softened a little.
“I don’t suppose you do,” she admitted. “You are generally a very
well-behaved child, I will say that for you, Gretel. You have been much
less trouble than I expected you to be when I consented to take charge
of you.”
“Have I really?” inquired Gretel, her face brightening; “but what made
you take me when you thought I was going to be so much trouble?”
Mrs. Marsh frowned.
“You talk too much, Gretel,” she said reprovingly; “little girls should
not ask so many questions. I have always tried to do what I have felt
to be my duty. Now I hope I have said all that is necessary on this
subject. If I see an improvement in your manner I shall know that my
little talk has not been in vain. Ada and I like to see happy faces
about us, and I am sure that if any child in this world should be happy
you should. I wonder how many little girls of your age are having a
lovely long holiday right in the middle of the school year? By the way,
I had a letter from my sister this morning, in which she tells me that
her friend has decided to remain in California longer than she at first
expected. They will not be back before the middle of April.”
Gretel did not look as much pleased at this news as Mrs. Marsh
evidently expected.
“I’m rather sorry,” she said. “I like Miss Talcott, and she was so very
kind about letting me play on her piano. I don’t mind lessons much;
I used to love them when Father taught me. But I will try not to be
sullen, Mrs. Marsh; I really didn’t know I was.”
“That is right,” said Mrs. Marsh, in a tone of relief. “Now we have
discussed this matter quite enough, and I must hurry. Are you going out
this afternoon?”
“Ada wants me to take her new dress back to the dressmaker’s. Something
has to be done to the skirt, and she’s going to stop and try it on on
her way home, but she doesn’t want to carry the box herself, it’s so
heavy.”
“Very well; the walk will do you good, but don’t stay out too long. It
isn’t at all the proper thing for little girls to be in the streets
after it begins to grow dark.”
Gretel promised that she would be in the house before dark, and Mrs.
Marsh departed, feeling that she had done all that was necessary in the
way of “administering a gentle reproof.”
When she was alone Gretel sat quite still for several minutes; her
hands lying idly in her lap. She was thinking hard. It was quite true
that she had not been happy, but she had not supposed Mrs. Marsh or
her daughter had noticed that fact. Dora was the first one of all the
long list of maids who had come and gone during her residence with Mrs.
Marsh who had ever taken any particular interest in her. Dora was
rough, and not very neat, but Gretel had liked her, and there did not
seem to be many people to like, now that her father was dead, and all
the old friends had gone out of her life. The colored woman who now
filled Dora’s place was anything but prepossessing, and Ada had been
suffering from a cold, which always made her more cross and exacting
than usual. She had not meant to be sullen. She had tried very hard to
be grateful, as Mrs. Marsh had so often told her she ought to be. She
really had no idea that Mrs. Marsh had cared whether she was happy or
not.
“I wonder if she truly does care,” she reflected. “She doesn’t always
say things that are quite true. It wasn’t true when she told Mr.
Pendleton she would rather hear a symphony concert than go to the
theater. She doesn’t really love music a bit, and I don’t believe she
loves me, either, though she told that lady who was here the other day,
that I was as dear to her as her own child. I don’t suppose anybody
will ever love me very much now I haven’t got Father any more.”
Suddenly, without quite knowing why she was doing it, Gretel found
herself crying--crying so hard that the stockings rolled off her lap
onto the floor, and she buried her face in her hands, and shook from
head to foot with great choking sobs.
But the cry did her good, and being a plucky little soul, she soon
cheered up again, dried her eyes, picked up the stockings, and went on
with her darning.
When the stockings were finished, and put away in Ada’s drawer, Gretel
went to the window to look out. The sun was shining, but there was a
fierce wind blowing, which rattled the window frames, and sent great
clouds of dust into the faces of the passers-by. It did not look like
a very pleasant afternoon for a walk. Gretel glanced over across the
street at fairy-land, which was closed and deserted that afternoon, but
there was nothing surprising about that fact, for it was only Friday,
and fairy-land was seldom open on any afternoon but Saturday. But as
Gretel glanced at the familiar building, her eye was caught by an
announcement, which was posted up in large letters “Saturday Matinee, 2
P. M., Lohengrin.”
Gretel caught her breath in a little gasp, and just then she saw two
young girls come out of the opera house, and one of them paused on the
steps to put an envelope into her purse.
“She’s been buying a ticket,” said the child to herself. “I wonder if
it’s for ‘Lohengrin.’ Oh, how very happy she must be!”
But there was nothing to be gained by standing there dreaming of
impossibilities, and she must hurry if she intended to do Ada’s errand,
and be at home again before dark. So she turned resolutely away from
the window, and ten minutes later was toiling up Broadway in the teeth
of the fierce March wind, carrying the big box, containing Miss Marsh’s
new dress.
It was nearly a mile to the dressmaker’s, and the box was heavy for
small weak arms to carry, but no one had suggested her taking a car,
and as her supply of ready money consisted of but three pennies, riding
was out of the question. It was very cold, although it was the middle
of March, and by the time Gretel reached her destination her teeth were
chattering, and she was shivering from head to foot.
Relieved of her burden, however, the walk home was more comfortable,
and for the first few blocks she almost ran, to get her blood in
circulation. Then she suddenly realized that she was very tired, and
the poor little feet began to lag once more.
“If it were only nice and warm I could sit down in Bryant Park, and
watch the children play,” she told herself, with a sigh. “Oh, I shall
be glad when summer comes, only then fairy-land will be all shut up,
and I can’t watch the people going in any more.”
Just then a fiercer gust than usual tore off her hat, and by the time
she had caught it again, after an exciting chase of more than a block,
she began to feel quite warm. Still, it was a relief when the sight of
the big opera house assured her that she had almost reached home. There
was only one more wide crossing, and then she would be safely indoors,
away from the wind and dust.
She paused on the curb, waiting for a momentary lull in the long stream
of cars and automobiles, and just at that moment something white came
fluttering along the sidewalk, and rested at her feet.
“Why, it’s a letter,” said Gretel to herself, stooping to pick up the
envelope; “somebody must have dropped it. No, it isn’t a letter either;
it’s a ticket. Oh!” Gretel gave one great gasp, and in another second
she was darting across the street, clutching a white envelope tightly
in her hand.
Her heart was beating so fast when she entered the apartment-house that
she could scarcely breathe. It was not until she had reached her own
little room, unmolested and unquestioned, that she dared draw a long
free breath. Then she sank down on the edge of the bed, and for the
first time since that one hurried glance in the street, ventured to
examine the contents of the soiled white envelope.
There was not much in the envelope; only one small, thin ticket, but
if it had been a hundred-dollar bill Gretel could not have gazed upon
it with greater awe. For it was nothing less than an admission to
fairy-land.
“It’s for Saturday afternoon,” she said in a rapturous whisper; “it’s
for ‘Lohengrin!’ Oh, how wonderful, how wonderful!”
In those first moments she had no other thought than that this
wonderful thing had, by some unknown, wholly inexplicable chance, been
sent to her. How it happened to be lying there on the sidewalk did not
even occur to her. She kept repeating over to herself: “It’s mine; it’s
really mine; nobody can take it away from me!”
She sat for some time, gazing at her treasure, with loving eyes. Then
she rose, and went to the bureau.
“I must put it away very carefully,” she said to herself. “No one must
know anything about it. If Mrs. Marsh knew she might not let me keep
it; she might make me--”
Gretel’s hold on the precious ticket tightened imperceptibly, and she
grew suddenly very pale.
“She might make me take it back to the opera house,” she finished, with
a gasp.
Then, all at once came another thought--a thought so dreadful that she
actually began to tremble.
“Perhaps I ought to take it back,” she whispered. “It may belong to
some one; some one may have dropped it. Oh, but I can’t--I can’t!
Nobody in the whole world can possibly want it as much as I do.”
Just then she heard Mrs. Marsh’s voice in the hall, and hastily opening
her bureau drawer, she thrust the envelope and its contents deep down
among her handkerchiefs.
Both Mrs. Marsh and her daughter regarded Gretel curiously when she
appeared at the dinner-table that evening. The child’s cheeks were
flushed, and there was such a feverish brightness in her eyes that Mrs.
Marsh began to fear she was going to be ill. But when she questioned
Gretel on the subject, the little girl assured her eagerly that she was
quite well.
“You aren’t eating much dinner, at any rate,” remarked Ada, with a
wondering glance at Gretel’s almost untouched plate. “You ought to have
a good appetite after your walk in the wind. What an awful afternoon
it was. I was almost blown off my feet coming round the corner by the
opera house. Madame has promised to have my dress ready for me to wear
to the wedding to-morrow, Mamma. Are you very tired, Gretel?”
“I’m not tired at all,” replied Gretel, in a rather dreamy, faraway
voice.
“Little girls who cannot eat their dinners properly should not be
allowed any dessert,” said Mrs. Marsh, severely. But Gretel only
smiled, and when the dessert appeared she ate so little of it that Mrs.
Marsh felt more uneasy than before.
“You had better go to bed early, Gretel,” she advised, “and I will give
you a dose of medicine, for I am sure your stomach must be upset.” And
when Gretel had retired obediently directly after dinner, Mrs. Marsh
spoke with more severity than usual to her daughter, on the folly of
sending the child on such a long walk in the wind.
Gretel swallowed her medicine without a word of protest, and then,
having locked her door against intruders, she once more drew her
treasure from its hiding-place.
“It is mine; it is; it is!” she told herself almost fiercely. “I found
it. I don’t have to take it back. Perhaps the person who dropped it
doesn’t care any more about ‘Lohengrin’ than Mrs. Marsh and Ada do.
Anyway, nobody knows where it is now; nobody but me, and I want it--oh,
I want it more than I ever wanted anything in my life before.”
And then Gretel undressed very quickly, and crept into bed, with the
ticket to fairy-land safely deposited under her pillow.