“Look here, Rick, what’s all this nonsense between you and Milly?” Lis
asked this direct question a trifle impatiently, about a week after his
return to Nantucket. Up to then he had made no comments, sought for no
information on a situation that unfortunately could not fail to be
obvious to anyone thrown much with the two girls.
According to his usual quiet, self-contained fashion, Lis had looked on
for a time, until he felt fairly certain of the correctness of his
observations, and had then made an opportunity to have a talk with Erica
alone. He had suggested a walk across the commons to the South
shore—their favorite tramp that led through the stretch of stunted pine
woods Erica had long ago christened the Owls’ Country.
It was a wonderful spring morning, the wind fresh and bracing from the
north, the air crisp with sea salt and that indescribable early-spring
smell of wakening green things, and sweet, sun-warmed earth. The cousins
had talked of every-day matters on the walk to the shore, but when they
emerged on the wide, yellow stretch of beach that rose into dunes on one
hand and sloped down to green, white-topped breakers on the other, Lis
fell silent. He stood still, staring out to sea rather wistfully for a
moment—as if, Erica thought, he were remembering his brief clipper
voyagings. Then, swinging about, he asked his question regarding Milly
Thorne abruptly.
The suddenness of it took Erica by surprise, and the unwonted impatience
of his tone astonished her even more. It sounded a little—incredible
notion—as if Lis were actually put out about something; as if it
mattered to him whether Erica and Milly got on well together, or didn’t.
Erica’s own temper, never too securely in leash, slipped into view in a
quick little flash of indignation peeping out of her blue eyes. Her red
head lifted a half inch or so, and her chin took on the squarer,
stubborn look that presaged an argument.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she retorted. “If you’ve noticed that
we’re not bosom friends, well—that’s perfectly true. But I don’t see why
you should call it nonsense. We’ll never be awfully fond of each other,
I guess. We’re—we’re too different. Milly’s so bored and uninterested in
things all the time, I lose my patience with her entirely. I—I just
can’t understand her a bit.”
“Do you try to?” Lis asked, bluntly.
Erica bit her lip to keep back the sharp words that rushed to her
tongue’s tip. She loved her cousin dearly, and up to a very few days ago
she had feared never to see him again, so she was resolved not to let
herself be angry with him now, no matter how unreasonable he might
choose to be. Still, it was a shock—and a highly unpleasant one—to find
Lis undertaking to champion Milly, who had brought all her present
unpopularity on her own head, as Tommy, or any of their special little
group of boys and girls, could have told him.
“I did try, Lis,” she said, after those two or three seconds of struggle
with herself. “So did Tommy. When Milly first came last winter, I mean.
But she showed us all pretty plainly that she didn’t care for our
company, or our fun or our friends. At school she doesn’t make friends,
either—only with teacher. It’s a pity I know, but—you can’t keep on
forcing yourself on somebody; you’ll have to admit that.”
“I—see,” Lis said, slowly. “I guess there’s a big misunderstanding
somewhere, Ricky. You’re not the sort to be unfair to a strange girl,
particularly when she’s in trouble over losing her mother and her home
like poor Milly. Neither is Tommy. Too bad, though. She seems to me
a—kind of a sweet girl, if she’d only open up and talk a little about
what’s worrying her, instead of moping round in corners, thinking of it,
whatever it is, all the time. Say, look at that wave coming in!” he
added, changing the subject without waiting for Erica’s reply. “Be ready
to run, Rick; she’s sure coming clear up the beach to the dunes.”
In the breathless, laughing dash for higher ground that followed—for the
wave _did_ wash far up the beach as Lis had predicted—there was no
chance for words of any sort, and when the two had scrambled up to the
dune-top they had both forgotten, temporarily at least, their
short-lived irritation with each other.
They tramped for several miles down the beach after that, discussing
China now, for the most part, and the absorbing possibility of Sun Li’s
really coming to Nantucket one day in the future, or the still more
exciting one of Captain Eric’s taking Erica to visit in those closed,
palace rooms to which she wore the little silver-and-jade key about her
neck.
That evening after supper, while Mrs. Folger was upstairs putting little
Barbee Thorne to bed, Lis from his deep chair at one side of the hearth
(spring evenings on Nantucket are quite cold enough for open fires),
looked over with troubled eyes at a slight, black-frocked little figure
curled up in the big chair just across from him, apparently absorbed in
a book. It came over the boy that he seldom saw Milly in the house
without a book for company—for her sole company; that was the pitiful
part of it.
Safe in her evident unawareness of his very presence in the room, Lis
studied the bent head with its smooth, thick braids of hair that looked
in the firelight like lustrous black satin. Milly’s big, rather sulky
dark eyes—her only real claim to beauty—were hidden by her lashes as she
read, and the un-childish, thin young face seemed thinner and whiter
than ever in the alternate play across it of fireshine and shadow. Lis
felt his heart contract a little at the sight. She looked, he thought
suddenly, like a lost and miserable black kitten; one that had been
starved, as well as frightened pretty badly about something.
Of course Milly wasn’t physically starved in his mother’s hospitable
house and at her bountiful table. And surely, since coming to the island
at least, nothing could have actually frightened the girl. It must be
some experience that had happened before Milly came to them, Lis
decided, knitting his brows indignantly at the notion. Some one had been
unkind—not just that foolishness of Erica’s and Tommy’s, of course. No,
this was something big and real that was hanging about Milly’s poor
little thin neck like a veritable Pilgrim’s pack. Well, then, if that
were so, since no one else appeared to be trying to do anything about
it, he was going to have a crack at it himself. She couldn’t do any more
than snap at him as he’d heard her do to Ricky.
He put down his own book quietly, and leaned back in his chair.
“Milly,” he said as casually as he could, for he was suddenly a bit shy
over what he was doing, now that he’d made up his mind. Suppose she
thought him just plain impertinent, instead of friendly.
Milly’s dark eyes came up from her reading and regarded him with an
unmistakable impatience, waiting for him to continue.
Lis felt his face grow red, and hoped the glow of the flames would
account for it, if the girl across the hearth noticed. But he went on
with his self-appointed task bravely.
“I’ve been doing some thinking.” Lis had a nice smile that very few
people failed to respond to. He smiled now, and almost reluctantly a
little flicker of answering friendliness softened the sharp black eyes
watching him. “I wasn’t home when you and Barbee came to us,” he went
on, encouraged by the change in her expression, slight as it was. “I’m
sorry I wasn’t here then. But it was certainly mighty jolly to come home
and find myself with two brand-new sisters. I’ve been wanting to tell
you that I appreciate the company and help you’ve been to mother. She
tells me you’ve taken over all the mending, and that you’ve even made
over one of her dresses so it looks like new. That—that was real good of
you, Milly. Mother hasn’t ever had much money for clothes, and she was
as pleased as could be the way you made that black silk look.”
He didn’t think it was only the firelight that caused that warm sweep of
color across Milly Thorne’s pinched little face. Her book slid off her
lap unnoticed, and she sat up straighter in the big chair.
“I like to sew,” was all she said, however. “My—mother taught me when I
was so little I could hardly hold a needle. I—kind of enjoy making over
things—making them pretty, you know. It’s nothing to thank me for.”
“Say, you’re all off your reckoning there,” Lis said, his smile
broadening. “Don’t you really know that’s the nicest way folks can do
favors for you—as if it was something they enjoyed?”
Milly considered this in silence for a moment or two; then her grave
face lighted with a smile so quick and brilliant that it was
transfiguring.
“Why, I never thought of it like that,” she said. “But I guess you’re
right.” She looked at Lis thoughtfully, that new, warm smile still
curling up the corners of her lips. “I’m glad you are going to be here
instead of Tommy,” she announced, unexpectedly. “He and Erica don’t like
me, but I sort of think maybe—maybe you might let me be your friend.”
That last was said so humbly and wistfully, without any of her usual
sharpness and discontent, that the boy was genuinely touched.
“You bet I’ll let you be my friend, Milly,” he said, decidedly. “You
just count on me, and when you feel homesick, or things—go kind of
wrong, you come and tell me about it. See? It always helps a lot if you
can talk your worries over with some one. And I know,” he added, more
awkwardly, “that Ricky and Tom will want to be your friends, too, if
you’d only give ‘em an idea you’d meet them halfway. I guess they think
you don’t like them, either.”
To this Milly made no answer, but as she did not argue the point Lis
felt encouraged.
“I know what homesickness is,” he volunteered after a second little
silence had fallen between them. “I would have given most anything at
times, on that voyage to China, to be back here on Orange Street. You
see, I’d never been away from home before, and I missed
everyone—specially Tom.”
“It isn’t all homesickness with me,” Milly said, honestly. “I haven’t a
nice disposition, really. If I know people round me love me and want me
with them, why I—I’d do just _anything_ for them. I always thought of my
mother first, and I do now of Barbee, and—and I’m fond of Cousin Callie.
But—it’s a horrid feeling,” she burst out, vehemently, her face flushing
hotly, “to know you’re not wanted—that you’re only in the way, and—and
that you’re—dependent on—on charity for your food and home and—and
clothes. Mother didn’t leave any money for Barbee and me. Poor little
mother, she worked hard at dress-making up to the very last, to keep a
roof over our heads. I used to wish so hard I was a few years older, so
I could earn money, too—somehow. Of course, uncle helped as much as he
could, but he has only his pay as mate on a packet, you know, and there
are others in the family to call on him, too.”
Lis’s face was very grave and sympathetic.
“Yes, that was hard—seeing your mother troubled about money, I mean,” he
agreed. “We haven’t much ourselves, but we’re—not poor. We’ve got our
home, and mother has a small income, and some day Tom and I’ll be
earning more, of course. So you mustn’t ever feel you and Barbee are any
burden. It doesn’t cost us anything to have you two sleep in the
house—now, does it? Be sensible,” he urged, anxiously. “And you more
than pay for the little you eat, by helping mother as you do with the
housework and the sewing. You’re not—not dependent at all, Milly Thorne.
I think that’s an unkind word to use between relations—truly I do.”
“Well, all the same,” Milly said, stubbornly, though she smiled at him
again with a flash of gratitude in the big, troubled eyes, “I do wish
there was some way I could earn even a little bit, so at least I’d know
I was paying for part of what we cost Cousin Callie.”
“Mother wouldn’t like to have you feel that way, if she knew,” Lis
reminded her.
Milly appeared to hesitate as if deliberating her next words. Then
suddenly she pulled the big armchair nearer, and leaned toward the boy.
“Lis, I—I do know of a way I—could earn something—not much,
but—_something_,” she breathed, her thin hands clasping and unclasping
each other in her lap as she talked. “If I told you—asked you to help me
and—and keep it a secret from—everyone—even Cousin Callie,
and—Erica—would you promise?”
Lis looked a little doubtful. “But I don’t know what it is, you see,” he
pointed out, coloring. “Maybe——”
“There’s nothing _wrong_ in it—you’ll agree when you hear,” Milly broke
in, feverishly. “But I—don’t want anyone to know till I’ve proved I can
do it—successfully. If you think it’s something your mother would really
mind, of course you can tell her. But will you promise not to,
otherwise?”
“Sure, that sounds fair enough,” Lis assented, heartily. “Go ahead; I’m
all ears.”
But in spite of his flippant words his tone was kind, and the friendly
sympathy in his face not to be mistaken. Milly drew a long, relieved
breath, and put her hand impulsively on his coat sleeve.
“I guess we—we _are_ going to be friends, Lis,” she said, gratefully,
and turned her head at the sound of footsteps behind her.
Lis, following with his own glance the direction of hers, swung about in
his chair as Erica burst into the sitting room in her usual headlong
hurry.
“Aunt Charity’s sick,” the latter announced in a tone that shook
slightly from running and alarm combined. “Where’s Aunt Callie, Lis? I
think she’d better come over, if she can.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lis said, jumping up, his expression full of concern.
“What’s the matter, Rick? She was all right this afternoon, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, she seemed to be,” Erica agreed, dubiously. “But I guess she
wasn’t letting on how she felt. Right after supper she had a funny sort
of faint turn—took me most ten minutes to bring her to. I was awfully
scared, I can tell you. But she’s in bed now, and doesn’t want me to
send for the doctor. So I thought I’d better come over and tell your
mother.”
“I’ll call her,” Lis offered, and pulled his chair closer to the hearth.
“Sit down here, Rick; you’re all worked up and excited. I’m sure there’s
nothing really to worry about,” he added. “Don’t most women faint?” he
asked, naïvely.
Erica laughed scornfully. “Not Aunt Charity. That’s what scared me. I
don’t believe she ever did such a thing before in her whole life. You
ask Aunt Callie to hurry down, please. I don’t want to leave her alone
over there longer than I can help.”
Milly had tried valiantly to feel a proper anxiety, but she was sharply
disappointed at having her talk with Lis interrupted just at the crucial
point when he had seemed ready to pledge his aid to her still
unexplained plan. Her own mother had often fainted, so it did not strike
her as particularly alarming to hear of Miss Charity’s sudden collapse.
Of course she’d be all right in the morning, after a good night’s sleep.
But if only—_only_ it hadn’t had to happen at just this special moment!
She directed a pleading glance at Lis as he passed her chair, and spoke
in a half whisper.
“May I tell you my plan when you come back, Lis? After your mother and
Erica go, I mean? I do need advice awfully, and—there doesn’t seem to be
anyone else who cares what I do.”
Lis nodded, smiling down into the raised, tense young face with his
gentlest expression. Milly looked particularly like a forlorn and lost
black kitten at that moment, and all that was chivalrous and kindly in
the boy responded to the appeal.
“‘Course you can,” he said. “But we all care, really, Milly, and want to
help. You’ll find that out some day.”
Erica’s quick ears had caught every word of Milly’s whispered plea and
Lister’s low-toned, emphatic rejoinder, and her own eyes opened a little
wider with a touch of curiosity, that was swiftly followed by
resentment. So Milly Thorne was having secrets with Lis already.
Probably telling him long tales of how Tommy and she and the rest of
their little group left her out, and abused her. And that very afternoon
when she—Erica—had tried to tell him the real version of the difference
between them, he hadn’t agreed with a word she’d said; had tried to talk
about Milly being a “sweet girl” and misunderstood, and similar
ridiculous nonsense. It was really too bad of old Lis. Stupid, too. If
Tommy were only at home, they’d be able to make him see, together, that
Milly had actually started in repelling all friendly advances from the
very start.
Erica looked rather defiantly over at Milly, still curled up comfortably
in her chair, and debated whether or not to come right out with a
straightforward question or two. It might clear the air a bit, if she
did. But the swift thought of Aunt Charity alone at home, sick, and
needing her, decided her to postpone the discussion she foresaw any
opening of the subject would be sure to entail.
She hesitated, bit her lip, and began, half-heartedly, “Milly—I——”
Milly had bent over to pick up her dropped book, and she did not trouble
to look up at the sound of her name.
“Well?” she asked, coolly, sitting up at last, a trifle flushed, and
apparently more absorbed in straightening some crumpled page corners
than in anything Erica might choose to say.
“Oh—nothing,” Erica returned in a flat tone, and sprang to her feet in
relief as her aunt entered the room, followed by Lis. She was suddenly
and vehemently surer than ever that never had she met so disagreeable
and utterly aggravating a girl as this dark, silent, aloof young person
with whom she was expected to live on terms of close intimacy for
perhaps years and _years_ to come.
And then, swiftly, she remembered Aunt Charity again, and catching at
Mrs. Folger’s arm with cold, frightened fingers, hurried her out of the
house and across the lawn next door. The petty annoyance of Milly’s
unfriendliness was completely swallowed up for the time being in the
larger worry.