AFTER THE CLOCK STRUCK TWELVE
It was still very early the next morning when Gretel awoke; a robin
was singing on a tree just outside her window, but everything else was
still. For the first few bewildered moments she could not remember
where she was, or what had happened, and lay wondering idly why her
head ached, and her eyes felt so stiff and swollen. Then it all came
back with a rush; the music, Barbara’s story, and those dreadful words
of her brother’s. Afterwards the long hours she had lain awake, alone
in the darkness, trying to make up her mind what she ought to do. She
had cried herself to sleep at last, having finally decided upon the
course of action, which it seemed to the poor foolish little girl, was
the right one to take.
“I’ve got to tell them; I’ve got to; I’ve got to,” she had told herself
resolutely. “I couldn’t go on living here, letting them love me, and
be good to me, and not tell them I was a dishonest person. Of course
they won’t ever love me any more when they know, but I can’t help that.
Percy will be so ashamed to have a dishonest girl for a sister, and
Barbara won’t want to ever see me again.”
It was a terrible thought, but it had to be faced. It never occurred to
Gretel for a moment that the ticket she had picked up on the sidewalk,
in front of the opera house, might not be the one her sister-in-law had
lost. “Lohengrin”--the windy afternoon--the date--everything pointed
too plainly to the fact that the tickets were one and the same.
And now it was morning, and she must begin her preparations, or it
would be too late to carry out the plan she had decided upon. If she
waited until people were up, she might be stopped and asked awkward
questions, and she must get away before Percy and Barbara knew--she
could never face them after that, she would be too much ashamed. With
as little noise as possible, she crept out of bed, and began putting on
her clothes. How merrily the birds sang and how brightly the sun was
shining. She remembered that this was to have been her first day in her
beautiful new home. But she never wavered for a moment in her purpose.
It did not take long to dress, for she had decided to omit her usual
morning bath, lest the sound of running water should disturb the still
sleeping household. She was just fastening her dress when another sound
besides the singing of the birds, broke the early morning stillness;
the shrill whistle of a passing train, and she suddenly remembered that
Percy had told her the railway station was not more than half a mile
away.
“I’m glad it isn’t far,” she said to herself, with a feeling of
something like relief; “I can easily walk there, and there must be
plenty of trains going to New York. I’ve got enough money for a ticket.
I’m glad I didn’t spend all the ten dollars Percy gave me the day
before the wedding.” And she slipped into her pocket the pretty little
silver purse her brother had given her.
This done, Gretel opened the closet door, in quest of her hat. At sight
of the row of pretty frocks that Higgins had unpacked the night before,
she was conscious of a sharp little stab of pain.
“It’s dreadful to have to leave all those lovely things,” she said,
with a sob. “It doesn’t seem quite grateful either, when Percy was so
good to buy them all for me, but I couldn’t stay and not tell, and
when he knows I’m a dishonest person he won’t want me anyway. Perhaps
they can find some other girl to give the clothes to, who will deserve
them more than I did.”
She selected her plainest hat, and began putting a few necessary toilet
articles into the suit-case Higgins had left on the lowest shelf of the
closet. Having procured a night-gown, and a fresh set of underclothes
from the bureau drawer, she hesitated for a moment, and then drew the
packet of old letters from beneath her pillow, and tucked it carefully
away in one corner of the suit-case. She glanced regretfully at the row
of shabby books, but decided it would not be possible to carry them,
and tried to comfort herself with the reflection that Barbara would
take care of them for her--Barbara was always so kind.
Her preparations completed, Gretel sat down at the desk to write her
confession. She selected a sheet of paper; dipped her pen in the ink,
and began to write; but her fingers trembled so she could scarcely form
the letters, and it was a very blotted, illegible little note that
Higgins, coming in an hour later to wake her little charge, found on
the desk, addressed to Mr. Percy Douane.
“DARLING PERCY”: it began.
“When you get this I shall have gone away, and you and Barbara won’t
ever see me any more. I suppose it would be much braver if I stayed
and told you myself instead of writing, but I am not at all brave.
“Dear Percy, I may as well say it right away, I am a dishonest
person. I stole Barbara’s ticket to fairy-land--I mean the opera. I
didn’t know it was hers till last night, but I always knew it was
somebody’s. I found it on the sidewalk, and I kept it, and went to
hear Lohengrin. I knew it was wicked, but I wanted to hear Lohengrin
more than anything else in the world, and I thought nobody would ever
find out. Nobody ever did, but now I know it was Barbara’s ticket, I
can’t keep the secret any longer.
“It happened the very afternoon you came home. I was going to tell
you once, but you said to let bygones be bygones, and I was so glad,
because I thought if you knew you might not love me, and nobody had
loved me since Father died. If I hadn’t found out it was Barbara’s
ticket I am afraid I might never have told, but I couldn’t go on
living here in this beautiful place, and having everybody so good to
me, and not have you know I was a dishonest person. If I didn’t tell
now, I should be a great deal more dishonest than I was before.
“I am going to some old friends of Father’s in New York, and I think
they’ll let me stay with them till I can earn some money. I don’t
play the piano at all well now, but I play much better than a boy I
know, and he said his father was going to get him into vaudeville,
so I think perhaps Fritz Lipheim can get me into vaudeville, too,
and just as soon as I have earned three dollars I will send it to
Barbara, to pay for that ticket. I heard her tell you it cost three
dollars.
“Please don’t be any angrier with me than you can help. I know you
can’t ever love me any more, because you love Barbara so much, and it
was her ticket, but she is so good I think perhaps she will forgive
me when she knows how sorry and ashamed I am.
“Good-by, dear Percy; thank you a million times for all the beautiful
things you have done for me, and please try to forgive me if you
possibly can.
“Your loving little sister,
“GRETEL.
“PS. I am not taking any more clothes than I can help. I hope you
will be able to find some other little girl to give them to, for I
know she will love them as much as I did.”
Gretel was not at all satisfied with her letter when she read it over,
but there was no time to write another, for already the clock on the
stairs was striking six, and in another half hour the servants would
be up and about. So, having put the poor little confession in the
most conspicuous place on the desk and given one more glance about
the pretty room, which was to have been hers, she opened her door,
and stepped softly out into the silent hall. How very still it was;
evidently the household was still in bed and asleep. Gretel stole on
tiptoe past her brother’s closed door, and down the front stairs to
the lower hall. The front door was fastened, but the key turned easily
in the lock, and two minutes later a little figure, carrying a heavy
suit-case, was walking rapidly down the broad avenue to the gate.
It was the beginning of a very hot day, but as yet the air felt fresh
and cool, and the sun only comfortably warm. How beautiful it all was,
with the dew sparkling on the grass in the bright morning sunshine,
and birds singing in every tree. Gretel paused at the gate for one
last long look, and a big lump rose in her throat, but still she did
not waver in her purpose. With one quickly suppressed sob, she turned
resolutely away, and in another moment Cinderella had turned her back
on the palace of beauty, and was trudging away down the dusty road to
the station.
It was still too early for many people to be about, and Gretel did
not meet a single person between her brother’s house and the little
country station, which she remembered having passed in the motor-car
the evening before. The station was closed and locked, and she was
beginning to wonder what she should do next when a train came puffing
up to the platform. Gretel sprang forward eagerly, her poor little
heart pounding so that she could scarcely breathe.
“Is this train going to New York?” she inquired of the brakeman.
“Yes,” answered the man, regarding her rather curiously; “want to get
on?”
“I--I haven’t any ticket,” faltered Gretel; “I’ve got the money for
one, but the station is shut up.”
“You can pay on the train,” the man assured her. “Hurry up if you want
to get on board; we only stop here one minute.”
Without another word, Gretel hastily mounted the steps of one of the
cars, the brakeman good-naturedly helping her with her suit-case,
glancing behind him at the same time, as though in expectation of more
passengers.
“Going to New York all by yourself?” he inquired in some surprise.
Gretel nodded.
“Pretty early in the morning to be going to town, ain’t it? Expecting
somebody to meet you at the Grand Central?”
“I am going to some friends in New York,” said Gretel, and there was so
much dignity in her tone, that the brakeman decided she must be able to
take care of herself, and asked no further questions.
“It’s quite true, I am going to friends,” Gretel told herself, as she
sank into an empty seat. “Mrs. Lipheim is my friend, and so is Fritz. I
know they’ll both be glad to see me, even if they didn’t invite me, and
I haven’t heard from them in such a long time.”
She recalled the many acts of kindness shown her by Fritz Lipheim and
his mother in the old studio days, and at the time of her father’s
death. She had once gone to have supper with Mrs. Lipheim, and she
remembered the cozy little flat, and the kind old German woman bustling
about her neat kitchen. The thought of that supper reminded her of
the fact that she had had no breakfast that morning, and she suddenly
realized that she was very hungry.
“I’m afraid I shall be late for the Lipheims’ breakfast,” she thought
a little uneasily, “but they are so kind, they’ll be sure to give me
something to eat.”
She had never forgotten the Lipheims’ address, although she had not
been there since her father’s death. She had once asked Mrs. Marsh
if she might go to see her old friends, but that lady had refused so
decidedly that she had never dared broach the subject again. Since
her brother’s return she had not been in New York long enough to make
calls, especially as the Lipheims lived in Harlem, but Barbara had
promised to take her some day to see her kind old friends. And now she
was going all by herself, but under what sadly different circumstances
from any she had anticipated.
When the conductor came to collect the tickets, Gretel explained about
the closed station, and taking out her purse, inquired the price of a
trip to New York. The conductor looked at her much as the brakeman had
done, but she seemed such a capable little person, and so thoroughly
convinced of what she wanted to do, that he decided it was none of his
business, and walked away, after receiving her fare, and returning the
proper change.
It was a slow train, and made a great many stops. As they neared the
city, the car began to fill up, chiefly with men and women on their way
to work, but no one took any particular notice of the solitary little
girl. Gretel’s heart grew heavier and heavier. She heard a man in the
seat behind her say it was half-past seven. By this time Higgins must
have come to call her, and have found her letter to Percy. How shocked
and pained they must all be when they learned the dreadful truth about
her. Of course they would never want to have anything more to do with
her now they knew her to be a dishonest person. A big tear splashed
down on Gretel’s cheek, and was quickly followed by another, but the
child brushed them away hurriedly, fearing the passengers might see
that she was crying. Gretel was a proud child, and she did not want to
be pitied or questioned by strangers.