LARK'S LITERARY VENTURE
As commencement drew near, and Fairy began planning momentous things for
her graduation, a little soberness came into the parsonage life. The
girls were certainly growing up. Prudence had been married a long, long
time. Fairy was being graduated from college, her school-days were over,
and life was just across the threshold--its big black door just slightly
ajar waiting for her to press it back and catch a glimpse of what lay
beyond, yes, there was a rosy tinge showing faintly through like the
light of the early sun shining through the night-fog, but the door was
only a little ajar! And Fairy was nearly ready to step through. It
disturbed the parsonage family a great deal.
Even the twins were getting along. They were finishing high school, and
beginning to prate of college and such things, but the twins were
still, well, they were growing up, perhaps, but they kept jubilantly
young along in the process, and their enthusiasm for diplomas and
ice-cream sodas was so nearly identical that one couldn't feel seriously
that the twins were tugging at their leashes.
And Connie was a freshman herself,--rather tall, a little awkward, with
a sober earnest face, and with an incongruously humorous droop to the
corners of her lips, and in the sparkle of her eyes.
Mr. Starr looked at them and sighed. "I tell you, Grace, it's a
thankless job, rearing a family. Connie told me to-day that my collars
should have straight edges now instead of turned-back corners. And Lark
reminded me that I got my points mixed up in last Sunday's lesson. I'm
getting sick of this family business, I'm about ready to--"
And just then, as a clear "Father" came floating down the stairway, he
turned his head alertly. "What do you want?"
"Everybody's out," came Carol's plaintive voice. "Will you come and
button me up? I can't ask auntie to run clear up here, and I can't come
down because I'm in my stocking feet. My new slippers pinch so I don't
put them on until I have to. Oh, thanks, father, you're a dear."
After the excitement of the commencement, the commotion, the glamour,
the gaiety, ordinary parsonage life seemed smooth and pleasant, and for
ten days there was not a ruffle on the surface of their domestic waters.
It was on the tenth day that the twins, strolling down Main Street,
conversing earnestly together as was their custom, were accosted by a
nicely-rounded, pompous man with a cordial, "Hello, twins."
In an instant they were bright with smiles, for this was Mr. Raider,
editor and owner of the _Daily News_, the biggest and most popular of
Mount Mark's three daily papers. Looking forward, as they did, to a
literary career for Lark, they never failed to show a touching and
unnatural deference to any one connected, even ever so remotely, with
that profession. Indeed, Carol, with the charm of her smile, had
bewitched the small carriers to the last lad, and in reply to her
sister's teasing, only answered stoutly, "That's all right,--you don't
know what they may turn into one of these days. We've got to look ahead
to Lark's Literary Career."
So when humble carriers, and some of them black at that, received such
sweet attention, one can well imagine what the nicely rounded, pompous
editor himself called forth.
They did not resent his nicely-rounded and therefore pointless jokes.
They smiled at them. They did not call the _Daily News_ the "Raider
Family Organ," as they yearned to do. They did not admit that they urged
their father to put Mr. Raider on all church committees to insure
publicity. They swallowed hard, and told themselves that, after all, Mr.
Raider was an editor, and perhaps he couldn't help editing his own
family to the exclusion of the rest of Mount Mark.
When, on this occasion, he looked Lark up and down with his usual rotund
complacency, Carol only gritted her teeth and reminded her heaving soul
that he was an editor.
"What are you going to do this summer, Lark?" he asked, without
preamble.
"Why,--just nothing, I suppose. As usual."
"Well," he said, frowning plumply, "we're running short of men. I've
heard you're interested in our line, and I thought maybe you could help
us out during vacation. How about it? The work'll be easy and it'll be
fine experience for you. We'll pay you five dollars a week. This is a
little town, and we're called a little publication, but our work and our
aim and methods are identical with those of the big city papers." He
swelled visibly, almost alarmingly. "How about it? You're the one with
the literary longings, aren't you?"
Lark was utterly speechless. If the National Bank had opened its coffers
to the always hard-pressed twins, she could not have been more
completely confounded. Carol was in a condition nearly as serious, but
grasping the gravity of the situation, she rushed into the breach
headlong.
"Yes,--yes," she gasped. "She's literary. Oh, she's very literary."
Mr. Raider smiled. "Well, would you like to try your hand out with me?"
Again Carol sprang to her sister's relief.
"Yes, indeed, she would," she cried. "Yes, indeed." And then, determined
to impress upon him that the _Daily News_ was the one to profit chiefly
from the innovation, she added, "And it's a lucky day for the _Daily
News_, too, I tell you. There aren't many Larks in Mount Mark, in a
literary way, I mean, and--the _Daily News_ needs some--that is, I
think--new blood,--anyhow, Lark will be just fine."
"All right. Come in, Monday morning at eight, Lark, and I'll set you to
work. It won't be anything very important. You can write up the church
news, and parties, and goings away, and things like that. It'll be good
training. You can study our papers between now and then, to catch our
style."
Carol lifted her head a little higher. If Mr. Raider thought her
talented twin would be confined to the ordinary style of the _Daily
News_, which Carol considered atrociously lacking in any style at all,
he would be most gloriously mistaken, that's certain!
It is a significant fact that after Mr. Raider went back into the
sanctum of the _Daily News_, the twins walked along for one full block
without speaking. Such a thing had never happened before in all the
years of their twinship. At the end of the block, Carol turned her head
restlessly. They were eight blocks from home. But the twins couldn't run
on the street, it was so undignified. She looked longingly about for a
buggy bound their way. Even a grocery cart would have been a welcome
though humbling conveyance.
Lark's starry eyes were lifted to the skies, and her rapt face was
glowing. Carol looked behind her, looked ahead. Then she thought again
of the eight blocks.
"Lark," she said, "I'm afraid we'll be late for dinner. And auntie told
us to hurry back. Maybe we'd better run."
Running is a good expression for emotion, and Lark promptly struck out
at a pace that did full credit to her lithe young limbs. Down the street
they raced, little tendrils of hair flying about their flushed and
shining faces, faster, faster, breathless, panting, their gladness
fairly overflowing. And many people turned to look, wondering what in
the world possessed the leisurely, dignified parsonage twins.
The last block was traversed at a really alarming rate. The passion for
"telling things" had seized them both, and they whirled around the
corner and across the lawn at a rate that brought Connie out into the
yard to meet them, with a childish, "What's the matter? What happened?
Did something bite you?"
Aunt Grace sat up in her hammock to look, Fairy ran out to the porch,
and Mr. Starr laid down his book. Had the long and dearly desired war
been declared at last?
But when the twins reached the porch, they paused sheepishly, shyly.
"What's the matter?" chorused the family.
"Are--are we late for dinner?" Carol demanded earnestly, as though their
lives depended on the answer.
The family stared in concerted amazement. When before this had the twins
shown anxiety about their lateness for meals--unless a favorite dessert
or salad was all consumed in their absence. And it was only half past
four!
Carol gently shoved Connie off the cushion upon which she had dropped,
and arranged it tenderly in a chair.
"Sit down and rest, Larkie," she said in a soft and loving voice. "Are
you nearly tired to death?"
Lark sank, panting, into the chair, and gazed about the circle with
brilliant eyes.
"Get her a drink, can't you, Connie?" said Carol indignantly. "Can't you
see the poor thing is just tired to death? She ran the whole way home!"
Still the family stared. The twins' devotion to each other was never
failing, but this attentiveness on the part of Carol was extremely odd.
Now she sat down on the step beside her sister, and gazed up into the
flushed face with adoring, but somewhat patronizing, pride. After all,
she had had a whole lot to do with training Larkie!
"What in the world?" began their father curiously.
"Had a sunstroke?" queried Fairy, smiling.
"You're both crazy," declared Connie, coming back with the water.
"You're trying to fool us. I won't ask any questions. You don't catch me
this time."
"Why don't you lie down and let Lark use you for a footstool, Carol?"
suggested their father, with twinkling eyes.
"I would if she wanted a footstool," said Carol positively. "I'd love to
do it. I'd be proud to do it. I'd consider it an honor."
Lark blushed and lowered her eyes modestly.
"What happened?" urged their father, still more curiously.
"Did she get you out of a scrape?" mocked Fairy.
"Oh, just let 'em alone," said Connie. "They think it's smart to be
mysterious. Nothing happened at all. That's what they call being funny."
"Tell it, Lark." Carol's voice was so intense that it impressed even
skeptical Connie and derisive Fairy.
Lark raised the glowing eyes once more, leaned forward and said
thrillingly:
"It's the Literary Career."
The silence that followed this bold announcement was sufficiently
dramatic to satisfy even Carol, and she patted Lark's knee approvingly.
"Well, go on," urged Connie, at last, when the twins continued silent.
"That's all."
"She's going to run the _Daily News_."
"Oh, I'll only be a cub reporter, I guess that's what you call them."
"Reporter nothing," contradicted Carol. "There's nothing literary about
that. You must take the whole paper in hand, and color it up a bit. And
for goodness' sake, polish up Mr. Raider's editorials. I could write
editorials like his myself."
"And you might tone down the family notes for him," suggested Fairy. "We
don't really care to know when Mrs. Kelly borrows eggs of the editor's
wife and how many dolls Betty got for Christmas and Jack's grades in
high school. We can get along without those personal touches."
"Maybe you can give us a little church write-up now and then, without
necessitating Mr. Raider as chairman of every committee," interposed
their father, and then retracted quickly. "I was only joking, of course,
I didn't mean--"
"No, of course, you didn't, father," said Carol kindly. "We'll consider
that you didn't say it. But just bear it in mind, Larkie."
Fairy solemnly rose and crossed the porch, and with a hand on Lark's
shoulder gave her a solemn shake. "Now, Lark Starr, you begin at the
beginning and tell us. Do you think we're all wooden Indians? We can't
wait until you make a newspaper out of the _Daily News_! We want to
know. Talk."
Thus adjured, Lark did talk, and the little story with many striking
embellishments from Carol was given into the hearing of the family.
"Five dollars a week," echoed Connie faintly.
"Of course, I'll divide that with Carol," was the generous offer.
"No, I won't have it. I haven't any literary brains, and I can't take
any of your salary. Thanks just the same." Then she added happily: "But
I know you'll be very generous when I need to borrow, and I do borrow
pretty often, Larkie."
For the rest of the week Lark's literary career was the one topic of
conversation in the Starr family. The _Daily News_ became a sort of
literary center piece, and the whole parsonage revolved enthusiastically
around it. Lark's clothes were put in the most immaculate condition, and
her wardrobe greatly enriched by donations pressed upon her by her
admiring sisters. Every evening the younger girls watched impatiently
for the carrier of the _Daily News_, and then rushed to meet him. The
paper was read with avid interest, criticized, commended. They all
admitted that Lark would be an acquisition to the editorial force,
indeed, one sorely needed. They begged her to give Mount Mark the news
while it was news, without waiting to find what the other Republican
papers of the state thought about it. Why, the instructions and sisterly
advice and editorial improvements poured into the ears of patient Lark
would have made an archangel giddy with confusion!
During those days, Carol followed Lark about with a hungry devotion that
would have been observed by her sister on a less momentous occasion. But
now she was so full of the darling Career that she overlooked the once
most-darling Carol. On Monday morning, Carol did not remain up-stairs
with Lark as she donned her most businesslike dress for her initiation
into the world of literature. Instead, she sulked grouchily in the
dining-room, and when Lark, radiant, star-eyed, danced into the room for
the family's approval, she almost glowered upon her.
"Am I all right? Do I look literary? Oh, oh," gurgled Lark, with music
in her voice.
Carol sniffed.
"Oh, isn't it a glorious morning?" sang Lark again. "Isn't everything
wonderful, father?"
"Lark Starr," cried Carol passionately, "I should think you'd be
ashamed of yourself. It's bad enough to turn your back on your--your
life-long twin, and raise barriers between us, but for you to be so
wildly happy about it is--perfectly wicked."
Lark wheeled about abruptly and stared at her sister, the fire slowly
dying out of her eyes.
"Why, Carol," she began slowly, in a low voice, without music.
"Oh, that's all right. You needn't try to talk me over. A body'd think
there was nothing in the world but ugly old newspapers. I don't like
'em, anyhow. I think they're downright nosey! And we'll never be the
same any more, Larkie, and you're the only twin I've got, and--"
Carol's defiance ended in a poorly suppressed sob and a rush of tears.
Lark threw her gloves on the table.
"I won't go at all," she said. "I won't go a step. If--if you think for
a minute, Carol, that any silly old Career is going to be any dearer to
me than you are, and if we aren't going to be just as we've always been,
I won't go a step."
Carol wiped her eyes. "Well," she said very affectionately, "if you feel
like that, it's all right. I just wanted you to say you liked me better
than anything else. Of course you must go, Lark. I really take all the
credit for you and your talent to myself, and it's as much an honor for
me as it is for you, and I want you to go. But don't you ever go to
liking the crazy old stories any better than you do me."
Then she picked up Lark's gloves, and the two went out with an arm
around each other's waist.
It was a dreary morning for Carol, but none of her sisters knew that
most of it was spent in the closet of her room, sobbing bitterly. "It's
just the way of the world," she mourned, in the tone of one who has
lived many years and suffered untold anguish, "we spend our lives
bringing them up, and loving them, and finding all our joy and happiness
in them, and then they go, and we are left alone."
Lark's morning at the office was quiet, but none the less thrilling on
that account. Mr. Raider received her cordially, and with a great deal
of unctuous fatherly advice. He took her into his office, which was one
corner of the press room glassed in by itself, and talked over her
duties, which, as far as Lark could gather from his discourse, appeared
to consist in doing as she was told.
"Now, remember," he said, in part, "that running a newspaper is
business. Pure business. We've got to give folks what they want to hear,
and they want to hear everything that happens. Of course, it will hurt
some people, it is not pleasant to have private affairs aired in public
papers, but that's the newspaper job. Folks want to hear about the
private affairs of other folks. They pay us to find out, and tell them,
and it's our duty to do it. So don't ever be squeamish about coming
right out blunt with the plain facts; that's what we are paid for."
This did not seriously impress Lark. Theoretically, she realized that he
was right. And he talked so impressively of THE PRESS, and its mission
in the world, and its rights and its pride and its power, that Lark,
looking away with hope-filled eyes, saw a high and mighty figure,
immense, all-powerful, standing free, majestic, beckoning her to come.
It was her first view of the world's PRESS.
But on the fourth morning, when she entered the office, Mr. Raider met
her with more excitement in his manner than she had ever seen before.
As a rule, excitement does not sit well on nicely-rounded, pink-skinned
men.
"Lark," he began hurriedly, "do you know the Dalys? On Elm Street?"
"Yes, they are members of our church. I know them."
He leaned forward. "Big piece of news down that way. This morning at
breakfast, Daly shot his daughter Maisie and the little boy. They are
both dead. Daly got away, and we can't get at the bottom of it. The
family is shut off alone, and won't see any one."
Lark's face had gone white, and she clasped her slender hands together,
swaying, quivering, bright lights before her eyes.
"Oh, oh!" she murmured brokenly. "Oh, how awful!"
Mr. Raider did not observe the white horror in Lark's face. "Yes, isn't
it?" he said. "I want you to go right down there."
"Yes, indeed," said Lark, though she shivered at the thought. "Of
course, I will." Lark was a minister's daughter. If people were in
trouble, she must go, of course. "Isn't it--awful? I never knew
of--such a thing--before. Maisie was in my class at school. I never
liked her very well. I'm so sorry I didn't,--oh, I'm so sorry. Yes, I'll
go right away. You'd better call papa up and tell him to come, too."
"I will, but you run along. Being the minister's daughter, they'll let
you right up. They'll tell you all about it, of course. Don't talk to
any one on the way back. Come right to the office. Don't stay any longer
than you can help, but get everything they will say about it,
and--er--comfort them as much as you can."
"Yes,--yes." Lark's face was frightened, but firm. "I--I've never gone
to the houses much when--there was trouble. Prudence and Fairy have
always done that. But of course it's right, and I'm going. Oh, I do wish
I had been fonder of Maisie. I'll go right away."
And she hurried away, still quivering, a cold chill upon her. Three
hours later she returned to the office, her eyes dark circled, and red
with weeping. Mr. Raider met her at the door.
"Did you see them?"
"Yes," she said in a low voice. "They--they took me up-stairs, and--"
She paused pitifully, the memory strong upon her, for the woman, the
mother of five children, two of whom had been struck down, had lain in
Lark's strong tender arms, and sobbed out the ugly story.
"Did they tell you all about it?"
"Yes, they told me. They told me."
"Come on into my office," he said. "You must write it up while it is
fresh in your mind. You'll do it better while the feeling is on you."
Lark gazed at him stupidly, not comprehending.
"Write it up?" she repeated confusedly.
"Yes, for the paper. How they looked, what they said, how it
happened,--everything. We want to scoop on it."
"But I don't think they--would want it told," Lark gasped.
"Oh, probably not, but people want to know about it. Don't you remember
what I told you? The PRESS is a powerful task master. He asks hard
duties of us, but we must obey. We've got to give the people what they
want. There's a reporter down from Burlington already, but he couldn't
get anything out of them. We've got a clear scoop on it."
Lark glanced fearfully over her shoulder. A huge menacing shadow lowered
black behind her. THE PRESS! She shuddered again.
"I can't write it up," she faltered. "Mrs. Daly--she--Oh, I held her in
my arms, Mr. Raider, and kissed her, and we cried all morning, and I
can't write it up. I--I am the minister's daughter, you know. I can't."
"Nonsense, now, Lark," he said, "be sensible. You needn't give all the
sob part. I'll touch it up for you. Just write out what you saw, and
what they said, and I'll do the rest. Run along now. Be sensible."
Lark glanced over her shoulder again. The PRESS seemed tremendously big,
leering at her, threatening her. Lark gasped, sobbingly.
Then she sat down at Mr. Raider's desk, and drew a pad of paper toward
her. For five minutes she sat immovable, body tense, face stern,
breathless, rigid. Mr. Raider after one curious, satisfied glance,
slipped out and closed the door softly after him. He felt he could trust
to the newspaper instinct to get that story out of her.
Finally Lark, despairingly, clutched a pencil and wrote
"Terrible Tragedy of the Early Morning.
Daly Family Crushed with Sorrow."
Her mind passed rapidly back over the story she had heard, the father's
occasional wild bursts of temper, the pitiful efforts of the family to
keep his weakness hidden, the insignificant altercation at the breakfast
table, the cry of the startled baby, and then the sudden ungovernable
fury that lashed him, the two children--! Lark shuddered! She glanced
over her shoulder again. The fearful dark shadow was very close, very
terrible, ready to envelope her in its smothering depths. She sprang to
her feet and rushed out of the office. Mr. Raider was in the doorway.
She flung herself upon him, crushing the paper in his hand.
"I can't," she cried, looking in terror over her shoulder as she spoke,
"I can't. I don't want to be a newspaper woman. I don't want any
literary career. I am a minister's daughter, Mr. Raider, I can't talk
about people's troubles. I want to go home."
Mr. Raider looked searchingly into the white face, and noted the
frightened eyes. "There now," he said soothingly, "never mind the Daly
story. I'll cover it myself. I guess it was too hard an assignment to
begin with, and you a friend of the family, and all. Let it go. You stay
at home this afternoon. Come back to-morrow and I'll start you again.
Maybe I was too hard on you to-day."
"I don't want to," she cried, looking back at the shadow, which seemed
somehow to have receded a little. "I don't want to be a newspaper woman.
I think I'll be the other kind of writer,--not newspapers, you know,
just plain writing. I'm sure I shall like it better. I wasn't cut out
for this line, I know. I want to go now."
"Run along," he said. "I'll see you later on. You go to bed. You're
nearly sick."
Dignity? Lark did not remember that she had ever dreamed of dignity. She
just started for home, for her father, Aunt Grace and the girls! The
shabby old parsonage seemed suddenly very bright, very sunny, very
safe. The dreadful dark shadow was not pressing so close to her
shoulders, did not feel so smotheringly near.
A startled group sprang up from the porch to greet her. She flung one
arm around Carol's shoulder, and drew her twin with her close to her
aunt's side. "I don't want to be a newspaper woman," she cried, in a
high excited voice. "I don't like it. I am awfully afraid of--THE
PRESS--" She looked over her shoulder. The shadow was fading away in the
distance. "I couldn't do it. I--" And then, crouching, with Carol, close
against her aunt's side, clutching one of the soft hands in her own, she
told the story.
"I couldn't, Fairy," she declared, looking beseechingly into the strong
kind face of her sister. "I--couldn't. Mrs. Daly--sobbed so, and her
hands were so brown and hard, Fairy, she kept rubbing my shoulder, and
saying, 'Oh, Lark, oh, Lark, my little children.' I couldn't. I don't
like newspapers, Fairy. Really, I don't."
Fairy looked greatly troubled. "I wish father were at home," she said
very quietly. "Mr. Raider meant all right, of course, but it was wrong
to send a young girl like you. Father is there now. It's very terrible.
You did just exactly right, Larkie. Father will say so. I guess maybe
it's not the job for a minister's girl. Of course, the story will come
out, but we're not the ones to tell it."
"But--the Career," suggested Carol.
"Why," said Lark, "I'll wait a little and then have a real literary
career, you know, stories, and books, and poems, the kind that don't
harrow people's feelings. I really don't think it is right. Don't you
remember Prudence says the parsonage is a place to hide sorrows, not to
hang them on the clothesline for every one to see." She looked for a
last time over her shoulder. Dimly she saw a small dark cloud,--all that
was left of the shadow which had seemed so eager to devour her. Her arms
clasped Carol with renewed intensity.
"Oh," she breathed, "oh, isn't the parsonage lovely, Carol? I wish
father would come. You all look so sweet, and kind, and--oh, I love to
be at home."