THE END OF A JOURNEY
Hours later, from a red-plush, Pullmanless train, Elliott Cameron
stepped down to three people--a tall, dark, surprisingly pretty
girl a little older than herself, a chunky girl of twelve, and a
middle-sized, freckle-faced boy. The boy took her bag and asked for
her trunk-checks quite as well as any of her other cousins could
have done and the tall girl kissed her and said how glad they were
to have the chance to know her.
"I am Laura," she said, "and here is Gertrude; and Henry will bring up
your trunks to-morrow, unless you need them to-night. Mother sent you
her love. Oh, we're so glad to have you come!"
Then it is to be feared that Elliott perjured herself. Her all-day
journey had not in the least reconciled her to the situation; if
anything, she was feeling more bewildered and put out than when she
started. But surprise and dismay had not routed her desire to please.
She smiled prettily as her glance swept the welcoming faces, and
kissed the girls and handed the boy two bits of pasteboard, and
said--Oh, Elliott!--how delighted she was to see them at last. You
would never have dreamed from Elliott's lips that she was not
overjoyed at the chance to come to Highboro and become acquainted with
cousins that she had never known.
But Laura, who was wiser than she looked, noticed that the new-comer's
eyes were not half so happy as her tongue. Poor dear, thought Laura,
how pretty she was and how daintily patrician and charming! But her
father was on his way to France! And though he went in civilian
capacity and wasn't in the least likely to get hurt, when they were
seated in the car Laura leaned over and kissed her new cousin again,
with the recollection warm on her lips of empty, anxious days when she
too had waited for the release of the cards announcing safe arrivals
overseas.
Elliott, who was every minute realizing more fully the inexorableness
of the fact that she was where she was and not where she wasn't,
kissed back without much thought. It was her nature to kiss back,
however she might feel underneath, and the surprising suddenness of
the whole affair had left her numb. She really hadn't much curiosity
about the life into which she was going. What did it matter, since she
didn't intend to stay in it? Just as soon as the quarantine was lifted
from Uncle James's house she meant to go back to Cedarville. But she
did notice that the little car was not new, that on their way through
the town every one they met bowed and smiled, that Henry had amazingly
good manners for a country boy, that Laura looked very strong, that
Gertrude was all hands and elbows and feet and eyes, and that the car
was continually either climbing up or sliding down hills. It slid out
of the village down a hill, and it was climbing a hill when it met
squarely in the road a long, low, white house, canopied by four big
elms set at the four corners, and gave up the ascent altogether with a
despairing honk-honk of its horn.
A lady rose from the wide veranda of the white house, laid something
gray on a table, and came smilingly down the steps. A little girl of
eight followed her, two dogs dashed out, and a kitten. The road ran
into the yard and stopped; but behind the house the hill kept on going
up. Elliott understood that she had arrived at the Robert Camerons'.
[Illustration: Laura took the new cousin up to her room]
The lady, who was tall and dark-haired, like Laura, but with lines of
gray threading the black, put her arms around the girl and kissed her.
Even in her preoccupation, Elliott was dimly aware that the quality of
this embrace was subtly different from any that she had ever received
before, though the lady's words were not unlike Laura's. "Dear child,"
she said, "we are so glad to know you." And the big dark eyes smiled
into Elliott's with a look that was quite new to that young person's
experience. She didn't know why she felt a queer thrill run up her
spine, but the thrill was there, just for a minute. Then it was gone
and the girl only thought that Aunt Jessica had the most fascinating
eyes that she had ever seen; whenever she chose, it seemed that she
could turn on a great steady light to shine through their velvety
blackness.
Laura took the new cousin up to her room. The house through which they
passed seemed rather a barren affair, but somehow pleasant in spite of
its dark painted floors and rag rugs and unmistakably shabby
furniture. Flowers were everywhere, doors stood open, and breezes blew
in at the windows, billowing the straight scrim curtains. The guest's
room was small and slant-ceilinged. One picture, an unframed
photograph of a big tree leaning over a brook, was tacked to the wall;
a braided rug lay on the floor; on a small table were flowers and a
book; over the queer old chest of drawers hung a small mirror; there
was no pier-glass at all. Very spotless and neat, but bare--hopelessly
bare, unless one liked that sort of thing.
There was one bit of civilization, however, that these people
appreciated--one's need of warm water. As Elliott bathed and dressed,
her spirits lightened a little. It did rather freshen a person's
outlook, on a hot day, to get clean. She even opened the book to
discover its name. "Lorna Doone." Was that the kind of thing they read
at the farm? She had always meant to read "Lorna Doone," when she had
time enough. It looked so interminably long. But there wouldn't be
much else to do up here, she reflected. Then she surveyed what she
could of herself in the dim little mirror--probably Laura would wish
to copy her style of hair-dressing--and descended, very slender and
chic, to supper.
It was a big circle which sat down at that supper-table. There was
Uncle Robert, short and jolly and full of jokes, who wished to hear
all about everybody and plied Elliott with questions. There was
another new cousin, a wiry boy called Tom, and a boy older than Henry,
who certainly wasn't a cousin, but who seemed very much one of the
family and who was introduced as Bruce Fearing. And there was
Stannard. Stannard had returned in high feather from Upton and
intercourse with a classmate whom he would doubtless have termed his
kind. Stannard was inclined for a minute or two to indulge in code
talk with Elliott. She did not encourage him and it amused her to
observe how speedily the conversation became general again, though in
quite what way it was accomplished she could not detect.
But if these new cousins' manners were above reproach, their
supper-table was far from sophisticated. No maid appeared, and
Gertrude and Tom and eight-year-old Priscilla changed the plates.
Laura and Aunt Jessica, Elliott noticed, had entered from the kitchen.
It was no secret that all the girls had been berrying in the forenoon.
Henry seemed to have had a hand in making the ice-cream, judging by
the compliments he received. So that was the way they lived, thought
the new guest! It was, however, a surprisingly good supper. Elliott
was astonished at herself for eating so much salad, so many berries
and muffins, and for passing her plate twice for ice-cream.
After supper every one seemed to feel it the natural thing to set to
work and "do" the dishes, or something else equally pressing; at least
every one for a short time grew amazingly busy. Even Elliott asked for
an apron--it was Elliott's code when in Rome to do as the Romans
do--though she was relieved when her uncle tucked her arm in his and
said she must come and talk to him on the porch. As they left the
kitchen, the boy Bruce was skilfully whirling a string mop in a pan
full of hot suds.
Under cover of animated chatter with her uncle Elliott viewed the
prospect dolefully. Dish-washing came three times a day, didn't it?
The thing was evidently a family rite in this household. The girl
understood her respite could be only temporary; self-respect would see
to that. But didn't she catch a glimpse of Stannard nonchalantly
sauntering around a corner of the house with the air of one who hopes
his back will not be noticed?
Presently she discovered another household custom--to go up to the top
of the hill to watch the sunset. Up between flowering borders and
through a grassy orchard the path climbed, thence to wind through
thickets of sweet fern and scramble around boulders over a wild,
fragrant pasture slope. It was beautiful up there on the hilltop, with
its few big sheltering trees, its welter of green crests on every
side, and its line of far blue peaks behind which the sun went
down--beautiful but depressing. Depressing because every one, except
Stannard, seemed to enjoy it so. Elliott couldn't help seeing that
they were having a thoroughly good time. There was something engaging
about these cousins that Elliott had never seen among her cousins at
home, a good-fellowship that gave one in their presence a sense of
being closely knit together; of something solid, dependable and
secure, for all its lightness and variety. But, oh, dear! she knew
that she wasn't going to care for the things that they cared for, or
enjoy doing the things that they did! And there must be at least six
weeks of this--dish-washing and climbing hills, with good frocks on.
Six weeks, not a day longer. But she exclaimed in pretty enthusiasm
over Laura's disclosure of a bed of maidenhair fern, tasted
approvingly Tom's spring water, recited perfectly, after only one
hearing, Henry's tale of the peaks in view, and let Bruce Fearing give
her a geography lesson from the southernmost point of the hilltop.
It was only when at last she was in bed in the slant-ceilinged room,
with her candle blown out and a big moon looking in at the window,
that Elliott quite realized how forlorn she felt and how very, very
far three thousand miles from Father was actually going to seem.
The world up here in Vermont was so very still. There were no lights
except the stars, and for a person accustomed to an electrically
illuminated street only a few rods from her window, stars and a moon
merely added to the strangeness. Soft noises came from the other
rooms, sounds of people moving about, but not a sound from outside,
nothing except at intervals the cry of a mournful bird. After a while
the noises inside ceased. Elliott lay quiet, staring at the moonlit
room, and feeling more utterly miserable than she had ever felt before
in her life. Homesick? It must be that this was homesickness. And she
had been wont to laugh, actually laugh, at girls who said they were
homesick! She hadn't known that it felt like this! She hadn't known
that anything in all the world could feel as hideous as this. She knew
that in a minute she was going to cry--she couldn't help herself;
actually, Elliott Cameron was going to cry.
A gentle tap came at the door. "Are you asleep?" whispered a voice.
"May I come in?"
Laura entered, a tall white shape that looked even taller in the
moonlight.
"_Are_ you sleepy?" she whispered.
"Not in the least," said Elliott.
Laura settled softly on the foot of the bed. "I hoped you weren't.
Let's talk. Doesn't it seem a shame to waste time sleeping on a night
like this?"
Elliott tossed her a pillow. It was comforting to have Laura there, to
hear a voice saying something, no matter what it was talking about.
And Laura's voice was very pleasant and what she said was pleasant,
too.
Soon another shape appeared at the door Laura had left half-open. "It
is too fine a night to sleep, isn't it, girls?" Aunt Jessica crossed
the strip of moonlight and dropped down beside Laura.
"Are you all in here?" presently inquired a third voice. "I could hear
you talking and, anyway, I couldn't sleep."
"Come in," said Elliott.
Gertrude burrowed comfortably down on the other side of her mother.
Elliott, watching the three on the foot of her bed, thought they
looked very happy. Her aunt's hair hung in two thick braids, like a
girl's, over her shoulders, and her face, seen in the moonlight, made
Elliott feel things that she couldn't fit words to. She didn't know
what it was she felt, exactly, but the forlornness inside her began to
grow less and less, until at last, when her aunt bent down and kissed
her and a braid touched the pillow on each side of Elliott's face, it
was quite gone.
"Good night, little girl," said Aunt Jessica, "and happy dreams."