HER FATHER’S DAUGHTER
In a house that hid behind friendly old trees cuddled in trumpet vines
and tender, little trailing things, Barbara Hale and her father, Dr.
Winthrop Hale, lived. It was just off the road that stretched into the
newly settled summer place called by the land developers Sea Cosset. A
fanciful name indeed, and its choice had caused much discussion, for
as every one with access to a dictionary soon discovered, cosset means
pet and is usually applied to a little lamb.
“Sea Lamb,” scoffed the old sailors who brought their nets in from the
ocean at the road’s turn.
“Why didn’t they call it ‘the kid,’ and be done with it,” Thom Merrill
wanted to know. Thom had sold all his land to the enterprising
development company, and now he had nothing else to do but criticize
their choice of name for the new colony.
“But you’re all wrong,” declared Mary-Louise Trainor, who was the
“bookiest” woman in the county. “We chose the name because it
literally means that the sea fondles, loves, yes if you like——” she
flung this defiantly into Thom Merrill’s red face—“the sea _pets_ the
land at this pretty little point, and Sea Cosset is a perfectly ideal
name.”
“Sure is,” agreed Thom, chuckling so audibly that Mary-Louise turned
away in evident disgust at that memorable meeting held three years ago
last spring. Then Sea Cosset was cut away from the surrounding
territory by its fancy name, a number of pretty bungalows, the land
agents’ promise to build more “of any design desired as fast as they
would be applied for,” not to mention all the other well-advertised
improvements of a new summer place as compared with its well-seasoned,
comfortable old town of Landing.
Strange that all of this would have anything to do with Cara Burke’s
house party. But it had, for Barbara Hale and her beloved “Dads,” the
doctor, were this very day admitting they should have sold their land,
or some of it, to that company that developed Sea Cosset.
“Then, my dear Babs,” said father, regretfully, “you might have
afforded proper things for your party.”
“But I don’t need them, really, Dads; I’ve got lots of clothes,”
protested the daughter. “It’s just that these different affairs
require different things.”
Which explanation meant not a thing, in the way of an explanation, for
it plainly stated that Barbara Hale did not have things ready for a
house party.
On the floor of her quaintly old-fashioned bedroom, Barbara was now
packing her suit-case. And only the suit-case that lay there
helplessly could have seen or understood the expression on her face,
for the bag had more than once witnessed that same look as Barbara
leaned over, putting things in and taking them out, anxiously.
“She’s worried but she’s brave,” would have been the verdict could the
leather case have spoken.
“But she’s plucky and she’ll never never give in to silly little
clothes,” the comb and brush might easily have confided to each other.
“And you don’t know, Dads, what a perfectly stunning pair of pajamas I
have,” the girl leaning over the bag spoke up finally. “You know, dear
old Mrs. Seaman sent them to me for Christmas; wasn’t that lucky?”
“It was,” replied the tall, thin man sullenly. “And if it hadn’t been
for dear old Mrs. Seaman,” he was adding irony to every word, “I
suppose you wouldn’t have that perfectly stunning pair of slippers,
either.” More irony, more sarcasm, and teams of bitterness sharpened
Dr. Hale’s words. He was blaming himself, only, and was therefore free
to be as cruel as he wished about it.
“Dads,” coaxed Barbara, jumping up from her packing and confronting
the ogre, “you’re being mean.” She was standing there before him in
her big white bungalow apron—this was _her_ idea of a practical
bathrobe—and her eyes, always the deepest blue, were now so truly
violet that their shadows were almost purple.
Certainly Barbara had a remarkable face—every feature matched up so
perfectly—but the two most striking were her pallor, for one of her
type, which she left untinted; and the deep violet of her eyes. She
looked foreign or rather classic, with a firmness about her expression
hardly fair to her youth. Her nose was very straight with that
sculptured curve at her nostrils that made one think of a Greek
statue—or a young colt, depending entirely upon Barbara’s mood.
Just now she was being the colt, and Dr. Hale, her indulgent father,
was well aware of that mood.
“We should have sold off some of our land, Babs,” he repeated, coming
back to her door and intoning the words like a verdict for some one
doomed.
“We should not, Dads,” she contradicted. “Just because I haven’t a few
brand new rags for a silly little party, you stand there bewailing our
misery.” Her words were serious enough but her tone was bantering.
Barbara was determined to cheer up the gloomy man before her.
“Well, all right,” he conceded, tapping his fingers impatiently on her
door jamb and thereby drawing one’s attention to its shabby paint.
“But I’m glad you’re going. Do you good,” he pronounced, again in that
judicial tone.
“Maybe,” scoffed Barbara. “But I wouldn’t have gone a single step if
it hadn’t been for that Cara Burke.” Barbara ignored her packing
completely now. “She’s the nicest girl, Dads, really a thoroughbred. I
just couldn’t refuse her.” The inference was plainly that she
preferred to have refused even Cara.
“And why should you refuse?” demanded Dr. Hale. “Look here, Babs,” he
spoke a little sharply. “Do you know this won’t do? I won’t have folks
talking about you as if I—as if I were depriving you of—of
everything.”
“Dadykins!” Barbara burst out, and all the pallor of her face was now
dyed with an angry flush. “Who has said that? Whose business is it
what we do or how we live? Just because I _want_ to keep to myself
more than other girls do, they think I’m being deprived of—of what?”
she ended bitterly, and it was easy to see now that she was very much
her father’s daughter.
“There now, don’t get excited,” placated the doctor. “I’m sure _no_
one was talking about us, dear. Do hurry your packing,” he urged
anxiously. “Dora has lunch ready and we must not get _her_ wrought
up,” he ended wearily. “Dora’s our stand-by,” he pointed out
emphatically.
“But it does make me so mad, Dad,” Barbara echoed. “To have folks
always slurring——”
“But they were _not_, dear.” He raised his voice irritably. “I merely
guessed that they might.”
Still in her bungalow apron and with her arms bare, Barbara answered
Dora’s call to lunch. She was excited. Not on account of her father’s
words, which really had amounted to nothing unusual, but because she
had to go to that party. And she hadn’t the right things to wear.
The little meal was not, apparently, being much appreciated, for both
Barbara and her father were entirely preoccupied, as Dora passed from
one to the other the slighted food.
Suddenly the jangling telephone startled them.
“I’ll go,” offered Barbara. “Take your tea, Dads.”
It was Cara Burke calling.
“Yes, yes,” Barbara answered. “That’s awfully good of you, Cara, but I
am honestly on the point of sending my very late regrets. I really
should not have accepted.”
“Why Barbara!” almost shrieked Cara at the other end of the wire but
the telephone voice was of course, pouring into Barbara’s ear, “I just
couldn’t have the party without you. You’ve got to come. Don’t mind
about the little dance,” went on distracted Cara. “I shouldn’t have
told you only I thought you would want to know.”
“I do, Cara. And it’s lovely of you to call me up.” Barbara hesitated.
Cara had just called her to say there would be a little dance and she
might want to fetch something different for it. And that had added to
Barbara’s misery, for what had she different to take?
Long and ardent pleas and protestations were coming over the wire, for
Cara had counted much upon the presence of Barbara at her party, but
now, at the last moment, the much-desired one was hesitating.
There was no questioning the sincerity of Cara Burke. Unspoiled by all
her advantages, she was so worth-while a girl that Barbara found it
very difficult indeed to ignore her advances.
“It’s so good of you,” Barbara repeated. “But you see, I——” she
paused, and instantly Cara filled the gap.
“You know, my brother Dudley thinks you and your friend Glenn are just
about right,” Cara chuckled, “and he promised to get Glenn to come to
our little dance if _I_ could get you to come to the party.”
“Really!” laughed Barbara. “Glenn’s an awful stick—I mean he’s what we
call a real stude, student you know,” Barbara explained. “But is he
going?”
“Dud says he is, and that’s why you really couldn’t disappoint me; now
could you, Barbara?”
“After all that? It would be ungrateful I know, Cara. But clothes—”
“I understand perfectly, Babs,” Cara was saying, using the endearing
name with telling effect. “You don’t pay much attention to clothes.
Couldn’t I lend you a little dress? You are just about my size and
I’ve so many useless frocks that mother loves to buy. Wouldn’t you
wear one just out of charity? It would really be a blessing to air the
stuff.”
What could Barbara say to such an impulsive, generous girl? Well, that
was just what she did say, and when she finally left the phone and
returned to the table, her face had lost its look of perplexity.
“Well, Dads,” she exclaimed, beaming so merrily that her dark eyes
threatened to ignite, “I guess I’m in for it now. Cara is bound to
play me up, although why she’s so keen I can’t see.”
“I can,” replied her father grimly. “And look here, Barbara Hale,” he
continued, using her name to emphasize his seriousness, “I’m glad
you’re going. It’s highly important that you should go. It’s all very
well to be a high-brow——”
“High-brow! Me, a high-brow?”
“Exactly. What do you think a good student ever becomes if not
intelligent?”
“But I want to know—just certain things——”
“Exactly again. That’s just how one becomes a high-brow. If you had
scattered interests, Babs dear, it would be different. But when one
concentrates one achieves.”
“Daddy, don’t you want me to study?” Barbara’s voice was pleading, her
eyes misty.
“Yes, daughter, of course I do,” replied the father, himself softening
his tone until it matched Barbara’s. “But this summer I want you to go
out with your friends. In fact, I want you to promise me that you will
set aside everything in the way of study for this summer.” He went
over to where she stood and put his hands upon her shoulders so that
his look completely encompassed her. “You are so like your mother now,
my dear——”
“And mother loved the same things I do,” quickly defended Barbara, in
turn putting her hands on his shoulders.
“Yes, but not at your age,” he argued.
A silence fell between them. The man whose shoulders were straight as
a soldier’s, in spite of his bending over with constant research work,
was now thinking of Barbara’s mother. She was gone. Her devotion to
nursing during the war had cost her her life with the deadly influenza
then ravaging the camps among America’s flower of youth. She had been
a nurse, just as Barbara was now determined to be, and the research
work in bacteriology, which was Dr. Hale’s chosen field, had been as
fascinating to her as it now threatened to become to Barbara.
“Do you mean, Dads, that we shouldn’t do any more experiments this
summer?” his daughter asked gently.
“I do, dear. This must be your play season. I’ve got plenty to do
single-handed. I’ll miss your help, of course——” he hurried to
interject, “but you must promise me, right this minute, to fall in
line with the girls and boys——”
“And fall out of line—with you!” Barbara’s arms went quickly about his
neck and so the promise was given.
“And this is splendid, this affair today,” her father continued, when
he recovered his composure. “I only wish you had a lot of pretty
things——”
“I have, slathers of them,” she fibbed bravely. But no mention was
made of Cara’s offer of the extra party dress.
Nor did she bother to tell her dad that Glenn Gaynor was expected to
be at the party. Glenn was the attractive youth who figured so
prominently in Barbara’s appearance on the beach, when Cara and her
girl friends stood at a safe distance, thrilled in admiration.
One hour more—and then she must be at Billows.