"Oh, Cis!"
"Well?"
"Come down here."
"Can't. I'm busy."
"What are you doing?"
"Washing Melchisedek. He hunted an hypothetical rat all over the coal
cellar, and came out looking like a chimney sweep."
"Well, hurry up. I have something to tell you, something exciting."
"I can't. It is a work of time to get him bleached out again. Come up and
talk to me while I scrub."
Allyn clattered up the stairs. He found Cicely kneeling before a pail in
which Melchisedek stood upright, a picture of sooty dolefulness, with
water trickling from every sodden spike of his coat. The corners of his
mouth drooped dejectedly, whether from Cicely's chidings or from the
taste of the soap it would be hard to say.
"Pretty little dear; isn't he, Allyn?" she asked, while she scoured away
at the tiny paws. "Just my ideal of a dainty lap dog. Melchisedek mustn't
go into the coal. No, no!"
Melchisedek make a futile attempt to waggle his dripping tail; it only
splattered sadly against the top of the pail, and he gave up that effort
in favor of one to climb into Cicely's lap.
"No; Melchisedek must stand on own footies. What is your news, Allyn?"
"Mr. Barrett is here. Called, last night."
"On Babe?"
"On the whole family."
"It was meant for Babe, though," Cicely said conclusively. "But it
strikes me he doesn't waste much time."
"About what?"
"About putting in an appearance here. Babe has only been at home for
two days."
"You think it is Babe, then?"
"Who else? You didn't see them in New York, Allyn. I did." Cicely
emphasized her rhetoric by rubbing Melchisedek so violently that he
howled. "There! Poor little boy! Stand still!" she added.
"But Babe doesn't care two pins for him."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Wait and see."
"Of course she doesn't. Fancy Babe in love!" He giggled derisively
at the idea.
"Fancy Melchisedek neat and dressed up in a pink bow!" she retorted. "It
seems impossible now; but it will occur in time. Allyn, what do you
suppose sent Babe into medicine?"
"Sheer Babe-ishness."
"She won't stay there."
"Maybe. But I think Babe really wants to do something," he added, with
sudden gravity. "You know papa isn't very rich, to say the least, and
Babe is an independent mortal that wouldn't want to be supported all
her days."
"I wonder if that did have anything to do with it," Cicely said musingly.
"It must be horrid to have to think about money things."
"Don't you ever do it?"
"No. Papa attends to all that, and he has all he wants. Oh, but won't it
be good to see him!"
"Are you glad you're going, Cis?" Allyn's tone showed that he was hurt at
the thought.
"No," she said flatly. "I have missed papa terribly, more than you can
even imagine; but I have had a very happy year here, and I shall be
sorry to go away. You've all made it pleasant for me, Allyn; you and
Cousin Ted more than any of the rest."
"I--I'm glad if we have. It doesn't seem so. But what am I going to do
without you, Cis?"
"Take to Jamie Lyman," she said merrily. "He won't fight with you as I
do. Tell me about Mr. Barrett, Allyn. How long is he going to stay?"
"Till the day before Christmas."
"I hope he will call here. I'd like to see him," she said, as she gave
Melchisedek a final polish and set him down on the floor. "Oh, Allyn, I
am so glad I am to have one jolly Christmas here. Papa and I have been by
ourselves lately, and it will be great fun to have a whole large family
to play with."
That very day, she had started her Christmas gift on its way to her
father and, that same evening, she sat alone over the library fire, so
absorbed in planning her gifts for the McAlisters that she paid no heed
when Theodora and Billy came into the next room. She felt very
comfortable as she sat there, very content with what fate offered her.
Early in the new year, her father was to sail for home, and she was to
join him in New York again. Meanwhile, she was to spend the holidays
here, and, as she glanced about the cozy, luxurious room, lighted only
with the flickering fire, she realized how dear to her this adopted home
had become. Next to their own beautiful house in New York, this was the
dearest spot in the world to her, and there would be some regret mingled
with her happiness in her return to the city once more. In the meantime,
she did wish she knew what Allyn wanted for Christmas, good old Allyn
whose squabbles with her were largely in the past.
Suddenly she roused herself.
"Do you think it is necessary to tell her?" Theodora was asking.
"She will see it," Billy answered.
"No; she never half reads the papers. Burn this one, and she will
never miss it."
"But she will have to know."
"Yes; but wait and let her father tell her."
"Poor Harry! It will be a blow to him. I wonder if he knew it was
coming."
Cicely stepped out from the dusky library and stood before them. Her
eyes, dazzled by the sudden glare of light, had a strained, frightened
expression; but there was no suggestion of faltering in her bearing and
in the poise of her head.
"What is it, Cousin Theodora?" she asked. "You were talking about papa
and me; weren't you?"
Surprised at her sudden appearing, both Billy and Theodora were silent.
Then Theodora put her arm around Cicely's waist and drew the girl down on
the arm of her chair. The motion was womanly and gentle and protecting;
but it was not enough to satisfy Cicely. She must have the truth.
"Please tell me," she said again with a ring of authority in her voice.
"I'm not a baby; and, whatever it is, I ought to know it."
"To-night's paper reports the failure of Everard and Clark," Billy said
quietly. "It may be an error, Cis, and it may not be a bad failure. I
wouldn't worry till I knew the truth of it."
She looked straight into his face, and her own face grew white; but she
neither exclaimed nor bewailed. There was a short hush. Then she said
steadily,--
"Let me see the paper, please."
Silently Billy handed her the paper. Silently she read to the end the
sensational account of the failure of the well-known banking firm.
"Is anybody to blame?" she demanded then.
Billy read her secret fear, and was glad that he could answer it with
perfect truth.
"No, Cis. The trouble all came from outside the firm. You needn't worry
about that."
"I'm glad," she said slowly, as she rose. "No; don't come, Cousin Ted. I
want to think it over."
But Theodora did come. Up in the dark in Cicely's room, they talked it
all over, crying a little now and then, then rousing themselves to make
brave plans for the future and for the meeting between Cicely and her
father. His home-coming now must mean a return to anxiety and business
care, and to the sharp mortification of finding the firm whose reputation
had been made by his sagacity and skill, fallen into bankruptcy during
his one short year of absence.
"Oh, it was cruel for him to be ill," Cicely said forlornly. "They say it
would never have come, if he had only been here to manage things. He
couldn't help having pneumonia and going away; but I do wish they had
left that out. It's like throwing the blame on him for something he
couldn't help. He isn't the man to shirk things, Cousin Theodora."
"They didn't mean that, dear," Theodora said gently. "They were only
trying to show how much he had done in past years. You've no reason to be
ashamed of your father, Cicely."
"Ashamed of him!" Cicely's tone was hard and resonant, free from all
suspicion of tears. "You don't know my father, Cousin Ted. He couldn't do
anything, anything in the world, that would make me ashamed of him. He's
not that kind of a man."
Two days later, Gifford Barrett came to call. Cicely received him alone.
She was pale; but a bright red spot burned in either cheek, as she
offered him her hand.
"Cousin Theodora is out, Mr. Barrett. I knew she wouldn't be here, and I
asked you to come now on purpose, because I wanted to see you alone." She
paused and restlessly pushed back her hair from her forehead. Then she
went on rapidly, "Have you heard of papa's failure?"
The young man's face showed his distress.
"Yes, I have." His reply was almost inaudible. "I am very sorry."
"Thank you," she said. "I knew you would be; but please don't say so,
for it--I can't stand being pitied. You know what I mean." Brave as was
her smile, it was appealing. "Now I want to talk business. Have you
time for it?"
"Of course. I wish I could be of some use," he said eagerly. He liked
Cicely, and he was surprised at the sudden womanliness that had come into
her manner. For the hour, they met, not as man and child, but on
precisely equal terms.
"It is going to take everything we have," she said hurriedly. "Papa will
want to pay all he can, and it will leave us poor. I don't mean to have
him do all the work; I must help what I can, and I've been wondering
whether my music would be good for anything. I have taken lessons for
years and from good teachers. Are you willing to hear me play, and to
tell me honestly whether I could teach beginners?"
He wondered at her steady bravery, at the gallant courage with which she
was starting into the battle, her colors flying. A moment later, he
wondered again, for Cicely played well. He had braced himself for the
girlish, amateurish performance, had braced himself for the inevitable
fibs he must tell, the specious promises he must make. Instead of that,
as she ended a Dvorak dance, he contented himself with one short
exclamation which was more eloquent than many words.
"Good!" he said, and Cicely was satisfied; but she only said,--
"Wait, and let me try once more."
She turned back to the piano and, after a random chord or two, she played
the _Alan Breck Overture_, played it so well that even its creator was
pleased, as he listened. Then she rose, shut the piano and crossed the
room to the fireside.
"Mr. Barrett," she said, and her voice never betrayed the fact that this
moment was the hardest she had ever known; "when you go back to New
York, will you try to find me some little girls to teach? I'll do the
best I can for them, and perhaps I can help along a little in making
both ends meet."