Phebe McAlister sat on the floor beside an open trunk. Around her was
scattered a pile of feminine mysteries, twice as bulky as the trunk from
which they had come, and the bed was littered with gowns as varied in hue
as in material. Pink chiffon met green broadcloth, and white silk and
blue gingham nestled side by side with a friendly disregard of the fact
that their paths in life would not often bring them together. The whole
room was in a wild state of disarray. The only orderly object in it was
Phebe herself.
A girl of the early twenties, perfect in health and in trim neatness,
never lacks a certain attractiveness; but Phebe went beyond that. At a
first glance, her features might be condemned as irregular, her eyes as
too piercing, her lips and chin as too firm. The next moment, all that
was forgotten. Phebe was rarely silent for more than one moment at a
time. As soon as she spoke, her face lighted and became whimsical,
piquant, merry, or fiery as suited her mood; and Phebe's friends were
never agreed as to which of her moods was most becoming. Pretty she was
not, beautiful she was not; but she was undeniably interesting, and at
times brilliantly handsome.
She looked up, as Theodora came into the room.
"How do? Sit down," she said briefly.
"I came over to see if I couldn't help you with your unpacking," Theodora
said, as she paused beside the trunk.
"Thank you, no. I can do it."
"But it is such a trial. I love to pack; but unpacking is always rather
an anti-climax."
"I don't mind it," Phebe said calmly, while she sorted stockings
industriously.
"Let me do that," Theodora urged.
"No; it might be a trial to you, and I really don't mind. Sit down and
look at my photographs. They are in the third box from the top of the
pile in the corner."
"Methodical as ever, Phebe?"
"I have to be. It takes too much time to sort out things. Your bureau
drawers would give me a fit." Phebe rolled up her stockings with an
emphatic jerk.
"It is no credit to you to be orderly, Babe; you were born so. I wasn't,"
Theodora said tranquilly, as she took up the photographs. "Billy's bump
of order is large enough for both of us, though."
"I should think you would be terribly trying to him," Phebe
remarked frankly.
"Poor old William! Perhaps I am; but he is considerate enough not to
mention it."
Phebe rose to bestow an armful of clothing in a bureau drawer.
"He looks so well." she said. "I do wish his mother could see him. She
worries about him even now, and gets anxious if the letters are delayed.
If she could see him, she would leave that off. He is ever so much
stronger than when we went away."
"Married life agrees with him. What is this, Babe? It isn't marked."
"It's the hotel at the foot of the Rigi, not a good picture, but I hadn't
time to get any other."
"Was that where you left Mrs. Farrington?"
"Yes."
"What made you do it, Babe?"
"The Ellertons were there on their way home, and I could travel with
them. I didn't care to cross half the continent alone, even if I am an
American girl."
"No; I don't mean that. What made you come home now?"
"A declaration of independence," Phebe responded enigmatically.
Theodora looked anxious.
"But I hope you didn't hurt Mrs. Farrington's feelings, leaving her so
suddenly after all she had done for you."
"I am not a child, Teddy, and I think you might trust me," Phebe
answered, with an access of dignity.
"I do, dear; only I couldn't understand your coming home so abruptly, and
I was afraid there might have been some trouble between you and Mrs.
Farrington."
Phebe shook her head.
"No; Mrs. Farrington is an angel. You can't imagine how good to me she
has been. She has always managed to make me feel that it was only for her
own pleasure that she asked me to go with her. If I had been her own
daughter, she couldn't have been more kind to me, and I know she was
sorry to have me come away."
"Then why didn't you stay? Were you homesick, Babe?"
"Not for an hour; I'm not that kind. I missed you all; but I was very
happy, and I knew you didn't need me here."
"What made you come home, then?"
Phebe pushed the gowns aside and sat down on the edge of the bed.
"Has it ever occurred to you, Teddy," she asked slowly; "that two years
is a great while?"
"Yes; but what then? You were happy."
"I know; but it was a child's happiness, and I am a woman, twenty-two
years old. It was lovely to wander over Europe, to wear pretty gowns and
to meet charming people, and let Mrs. Farrington pay all the bills."
"But if she loved to do it, Babe? She did."
"Yes, she was fond of me," Phebe admitted; "and she wanted me to stay for
one more year."
"I wish you had."
Phebe shook her head.
"I couldn't. At first, I thought it would be delightful, and all our
plans were made. Then, one night, I couldn't sleep at all, for thinking
about it. By morning, my mind was made up; and then,--"
"And then?" Theodora asked.
Phebe rose and bent over the trunk once more.
"And then I came home," she said quietly.
There was a long pause. Theodora was aimlessly turning over the
photographs in her lap, while Phebe methodically packed away the contents
of her trunk. The room was quite orderly again before either of the
sisters spoke. Then Theodora asked,--
"What are you going to do now, Babe?"
"Study."
"Study what?"
"Medicine."
"Phebe McAlister!"
A sudden flash of merriment came into the shrewd eyes.
"That is my name," she observed. "Do you remember how you worked at
Huntington's to get money for college? It is my turn now."
"I remember how you scolded me for it," Theodora responded tartly. "What
has turned you to this whim, Babe?"
"It is no whim. It is a good profession, and other women no smarter than
I, have succeeded in it."
"You are smart enough, Babe; it's not that. But why do you want to do
anything of the kind?"
"What should I do? I sha'n't marry. Billy is the only man I ever liked.
You took him, and you appear to be in rude health, so there is no chance
for me. I must do something, Teddy, something definite. I can't potter
round the house, all my days. The mother is housekeeper; I must have
something more absorbing than dusting and salads and amateur photography
to fill up my time."
Theodora laughed at the outburst. Then, as she sat looking up at her tall
young sister, a sudden gentleness crossed her face. In their childhood,
she and Phebe had always clashed. To-day, for the first time, she felt a
full comprehension of the girl's point of view.
"Things are out of joint, Teddy," Phebe was saying. "It is all right for
a boy to be restless and eager to find his place; but we girls must trot
up and down one narrow path, all our days. Sometimes I don't mind it; but
there come times when I want to knock down the fences and break away into
a new track of my own, a track that goes somewhere, not a promenade. I
want to have a goal and keep moving toward it, not swing this way and
that like a pendulum. Europe was lovely, and Mrs. Farrington; but--I'm
queer, Ted. There is no getting around the fact." Phebe brushed away a
tear that hung heavy on her brown lashes.
Theodora held out her hand to her invitingly; but Phebe shook her head.
"No; I don't want to be cuddled, Ted; I'm not a baby. I want to be
understood; that is all. You never can understand, though. You have Billy
and your writing, more than your fair share, and you grew up into them
both. You were foreordained. Other people are. I wish I were; but I'm
not, and yet I want to work, to do something definite." She paused with a
little laugh. "I said something about it once to some nice English girls
I met at Lucerne. They seemed very all-round and energetic, and I thought
they would understand. They just put their dear, rosy heads on one side
and said, 'Oh, dear me, how very unusual!' Then I gave it up and kept
still till I told Mrs. Farrington. She understood."
"Did she?"
"She always understands things. We talked it all over, and she agreed
that it was best for me to come home."
"But how did you happen to choose medicine?"
"What else was there? Besides, I ought to inherit it, and papa ought to
have some child follow him. Hubert didn't, and I must."
"What about Allyn?"
"He is too young yet to tell whether he will amount to anything or not. I
don't believe he is the right kind, either. I am."
"How do you mean?" In spite of herself, Theodora laughed at the assurance
in Phebe's tone.
"Oh, I have studied myself a good deal," she said with calm complacency.
"I am not nervous, nor very sympathetic, and I think I could operate on
people very nicely."
"Phebe!" This time, there was no concealment in Theodora's laugh.
"You needn't make fun of me," she said indignantly. "That helps along;
papa says it does. I had a long talk with him, last night, after you and
Billy went home."
"What did he say?"
"A good many things that there is no use in repeating," Phebe
responded loftily.
"Wasn't he surprised?"
"Yes, as much as he ever is, at anything I do." For the moment, Phebe's
sense of humor asserted itself. Then she grew grave again. "It is settled
that I am to work with him till summer. Then, next fall, if I really want
to go on with it, I am to go to Philadelphia to study there. Hope will be
shocked, and Hu will make all manner of fun of me, I know. I do hope you
and Billy will stand by me, Ted, and believe it is not a schoolgirl whim,
but a real wish to find some work and do it."
Theodora rose and stood beside her sister.
"I do believe it, dear," she said. "I know how I feel about my own work
and how I want to succeed in it, for all your sakes. Only, Phebe, the
time may come when you will be ready to put your profession, not in the
first place, but in the second."
But Phebe shook her head.
"No; I am not that kind, Ted. I'm queer, they all say, and I think my
work will always come first. Mrs. Farrington tried to make a society
woman of me; but it was no use."
"William Farrington!" Theodora said, that night.
"Yes, madame."
"Once upon a time, there was a girl who came down out of a tree, and
took a boy to bring up. That's us, Billy, and I always have supposed
that my hands were full with training you. Now I have discovered that
they are not."
"Is it a new story?" her husband asked, dropping his book and looking at
her expectantly.
"Alas, no! No such luck. I came home with a dozen plans for work
simmering in my brain; but I must put them back and let them parboil
themselves for a while longer. My family are demanding my whole
attention."
"What now?"
"Sisterly confidences. It is funny, Billy; but it is rather distracting
to my work. Allyn took me to walk, this morning, and told me the tragic
tale of his first love affair. It was Lois Hawes, and it ended most
unromantically. He helped her to get ready for the prize speaking, last
month, and then she took the prize away from him and neglected to mention
that he had coached her. Now he rages at the whole race of girls and
says he won't finish his term of dancing school."
"That is unwise of him," Mr. Farrington commented, "Did you bring him to
a better way of thinking?"
"I wrestled with him; but he was still proclaiming that 'girls aren't any
good,' so I beat a retreat."
"He needs a girl to bring him up, as you brought me," Billy remarked.
"There aren't many who would dare attack Allyn," Theodora said, laughing.
"I had you at my mercy; you couldn't escape. Allyn can fight and run
away; that makes him doubly dangerous. He does fight, too. He is a dear
boy, Billy; but I honestly think that, if he goes on, he won't have a
friend left in town. He is a veritable porcupine, and his quills are
always rising."
"He has the worst of it. But I do wish you needn't worry about him, Ted"
"I don't really worry; only I wish more people knew the other side of the
boy. But now prepare yourself for a shock. It is Babe, this time. She is
going to study medicine."
"What!"
"Yes. She came home for that."
"Phebe a doctor! She is about as well fitted for it as for a--plumber."
"So I think; but to hear her talk about it, one would think her whole aim
in life was wholesale surgery. She appears to revel in grim details of
arteries and ligaments. The fact is, she is restless and wants some
occupation, and this seems to appeal to her."
"I believe I know how she feels. I went through something the same
experience, my last year in college," Billy said thoughtfully. "It is a
species of mental growing pains; one wants to do something, without
knowing just what. I don't believe Babe will ever write M.D. after her
name, and I devoutly hope she won't kill too many people in trying for
it; but the study will be good for her. She has played long enough, and a
little steady grind will help her to work off some of her extra energy.
Let her go on."
Theodora rose and stood leaning on the back of his chair.
"You are such a comfort, Billy," she said gratefully. "I was afraid you
would be horrified at the idea, and feel that Phebe didn't appreciate all
your mother has done for her. It was a great deal for her to take a young
girl like Babe for two years, and give her the best of Europe. Babe
knows it, and she almost reveres your mother." She was silent for a
moment. Then she said impetuously, "Billy, are my family too near?"
"Of course not. Why?"
"Are they too much in evidence? We belong to each other, you and I; I
want you all to myself, and it seems as if my people were always coming
in to interrupt us,--not they themselves, but worries about them. I love
them dearly, and I want them; but I could be content on a desert island
alone with you. I never have half enough of you, and sha'n't, as long as
I have to bring up Allyn and Phebe and Hubert. Your family are
well-behaved; they stay in the background."
"They may crop up unexpectedly," Mr. Farrington answered, in a burst of
prophecy of whose truth he was unconscious. "But what about the book,
Teddy? It is time you were at work."
Theodora clasped her hands at the back of her head and began to pace the
floor. Her step was as free and lithe as that of an active boy; and her
pale gown brightened the color in her cheeks and in the glossy coils of
her hair. Her husband looked up at her proudly. They had been comrades
before they had been lovers; and, from the day of their first meeting to
the present hour, his admiration and his loyalty had been boundless and
unswerving. Suddenly she paused before him.
"William," she said; "I am lazy, utterly lazy. It is so good to be at
home again and keeping house all by our two selves that I want to enjoy
myself for a space. For a month, a whole month longer, I am going to play
and have the good of life. Then I shall shut myself up and say farewell
to the world while I create a masterpiece that will rend your heart and
your tear glands. Only," she dropped down on a footstool beside him;
"only I do hope that Allyn and Babe will return to their wonted habits,
and that this new cook will learn that one doesn't usually mash macaroni
before bringing it to the table. If it were not for the souls and the
digestions of our families, Billy, we could all produce great works."