MADGE'S OPPORTUNITY
Mollie slipped into her place as a member of the little houseboat
family as quietly as though she had always been a part of it. She was
shy and gentle, and rarely talked. She was more like a timid child
than a woman. She liked to cook, to wash the dishes, to do the things
to which she was accustomed, and to be left alone. At first the
houseboat girls tried to interest her in their amusements, but Miss
Jenny Ann persuaded them that it was wiser to let Mollie become
accustomed to the change in her life in any way she could. Mollie
never spoke of the past, and she seemed worried if any one of the girls
questioned her about it. They did not even know whether she feared the
return of Captain Mike or Bill. The girls hoped that Mollie's lack of
memory had made her quickly forget her unhappy life.
One thing haunted Mollie: it was her fear of strangers. If a visitor
came aboard the houseboat the young girl would disappear and hide in
the cabin until there was no danger of her being noticed. Jack Bolling
and Tom Curtis came calling nearly every day, but neither one of them
had seen anything of Mollie, except her flying skirts as she ran away
to hide from them. They were vaguely aware of her unusual beauty, but
neither of them knew what she actually looked like.
Madge was particularly sorry that Mollie would not see Mrs. Curtis.
The houseboat holiday could only last a short time longer. Mr. and
Mrs. Butler had written that they expected to return from California in
about ten days, and must have Madge and Eleanor back at "Forest House."
Lillian's and Phil's parents were also clamoring for their girls to
spend a part of their summer vacation at home. So the question must
soon arise: What could be done with Mollie when the crew of the "Merry
Maid" disbanded? Madge felt they needed their friend's advice. But
neither Mrs. Curtis nor Miss Jenny Ann thought it best to force Mollie
to see people until she became more used to the atmosphere of affection
about her, and had learned that no one meant to harm or ill treat her.
Once Mrs. Curtis caught a brief glimpse of Mollie, standing framed in
the cabin doorway. The girl had given a frightened stare at her, and
then had fled inside her room. She could not be coaxed out again.
Mrs. Curtis was curious. The one quick look at Mollie seemed oddly to
recall some friend of her youth. It was nothing to think of seriously.
She would know better when she saw the girl another time.
Daily Mrs. Curtis seemed to grow more and more fond of Madge. If Madge
failed to come to see her every day or so, she would send Tom over as a
messenger to bring her little friend back with him to luncheon or to
dinner. She and the little captain used to have long, confidential
talks together, and Mrs. Curtis seemed never to weary of the young
girl's romantic fancies. She used to make Madge tell her of her family
and what she knew of her dead father and mother. At times Madge
wondered idly why Mrs. Curtis was interested in them, and every now and
then she thought Tom's mother wished to ask her an important question.
But Mrs. Curtis always put off the inquiry until another time.
Toward the close of their stay on the "Merry Maid" the girls were
invited to a six o'clock dinner at the Belleview, given in their honor
by Mrs. Curtis and Tom. On the day of the dinner Tom was sent to the
"Merry Maid" to ask Madge to come to his mother an hour earlier than
the others were expected. Miss Jenny Ann had elected to stay at home
with Mollie. Nothing would induce Mollie to attend the party, and Miss
Jenny Ann would not allow any one of the girls to remain on the
houseboat with her.
Tom and Madge went up to the hotel on the street car, since it was
impossible for Tom to row with his lame arm. They found Mrs. Curtis on
a little balcony that opened off her private sitting-room. The piazza
overlooked the waters of the small bay. It was a wonderful summer
afternoon; white clouds were rioting everywhere in the clear, blue sky;
the water was astir with white-masted boats, dipping their sails toward
the waves like the flapping wings of sea gulls.
Madge was looking her prettiest. She had on her best white frock, and
as a mark of her appreciation of Mrs. Curtis wore the string of pearls
about her throat. Without making any noise, she crept out on the
balcony and kissed Mrs. Curtis lightly on the forehead. Then she
dropped into a low, cushioned chair near her friend's side.
"Here I am, dressed for the dinner," she announced happily. "How do
you like me? Tom said you wanted me to come before the other girls,
and that this was perhaps our farewell dinner with you, for you might
be going away in a few days. Dear me, I am sorry. Are you going to
Old Point Comfort for the rest of the summer, or to your own summer
place?"
Mrs. Curtis shook her head. "I don't know, Madge, just where I shall
go," she answered, pushing Madge's curls to one side of her white
forehead. It was the way that Mrs. Curtis liked best to have Madge
wear her hair. "But, wherever we go, can't you go with us?" she
concluded.
Madge sighed. "I'd love to go with you," she sighed, "but I can't.
You see, Nellie and I have to go back to 'Forest House,' to spend the
rest of our holiday with Uncle and Aunt. They would be dreadfully hurt
if I suggested making a visit to you, instead of coming home to them."
"Then I wonder if your uncle and aunt would allow me to make them a
short visit?" questioned Mrs. Curtis gravely.
Madge opened her blue eyes. Why in the world should Mrs. Curtis wish
to go to "Forest House"? But she answered her friend promptly. "Of
course Uncle and Aunt would be most happy to have you, and Nellie and I
would be perfectly delighted."
"Why do you think I am anxious to come, Madge?"
Madge smiled in her sauciest fashion. "To see me, of course," she
replied. "Doesn't that sound conceited?"
But Mrs. Curtis was not smiling. She was looking at Madge so seriously
that the young girl's merry face sobered.
"I am not coming merely to see you, dear. I am coming to ask if I may
take you away with me for always. Haven't you guessed, that I want you
to come to live with me, to be my daughter? Tom and I are lonely. My
husband is dead, and I have no other child now, except Tom. I can't
tell you how much I want a daughter. I have plenty of money,
dear--more than I know what to do with. So we could have wonderful
times together, and do anything we chose to do. Only I would wish you
with me all the time. I couldn't let you wander off with the girls or
go to boarding school. Tom has to be away so much. You haven't any
own father and mother, and you told me that you were poor and would
have to earn your living some day. So I thought perhaps your uncle and
aunt would give you up to me. But, first, I wish to know whether my
plan pleases you."
[Illustration: "I wish you to come and live with me, Madge."]
Mrs. Curtis stopped talking to gaze earnestly at Madge. The girl had
turned so white that her friend was startled. She did not realize what
a surprise her suggestion had been to the little captain. She believed
that Madge must have partly guessed her intention. Miss Jenny Ann and
Phil had understood that some day Mrs. Curtis might make just this
proposal to Madge Morton. But to Madge it was a complete surprise.
She had never for an instant dreamed of such a thing.
In a moment all the young girl's familiar world fell broken at her
feet--the old childhood home in the country, her happy friendships at
school. She saw a new world, like a vision in a fairy tale. It was a
wonderful world, that contained all the marvels of which she had
dreamed--wealth, position, admiration. Yet it was a homesick world,
for it was peopled with few of the friends whom Madge loved, with none
of the familiar places. In spite of the girl's fancies, the actual
every-day life of poverty and hope was too dear to be laid lightly
aside.
Mrs. Curtis still waited for Madge to speak.
"Uncle and Aunt----" she faltered. "They--would miss me----"
"Yes, I know," returned Mrs. Curtis sympathetically. "Of course, your
own people will find it hard to give you up just at first, and Eleanor
will miss you. But I do not believe your uncle and aunt will stand in
your way if you really wish to come to me."
Mrs. Curtis concluded in the tone of a woman accustomed to having her
own way. She was puzzled at Madge's indecision.
"Are you sure you care for me enough to wish me to live with you, Mrs.
Curtis?" asked Madge quietly. "You see, you know only the nicest part
of me, but I have a miserable temper. Nellie and my friends are used
to me. Suppose you should take me away to live with you, and then grow
tired of me?" The girl's clear eyes questioned her new friend gravely.
Mrs. Curtis smiled and shook her head. "No; I shouldn't grow tired of
you. People may sometimes grow vexed with you, but they are not going
to become tired of you. Now sit quite still. I want you not to speak,
but to think very hard for three minutes and then to tell me whether
you wish to be my adopted daughter. I do not wish to trouble your
uncle and aunt unless you feel sure of yourself."
Mrs. Curtis took out her watch and laid it in her lap.
She did not look at the watch; she kept her gaze on Madge's face.
The little captain did not speak. She knew her eyes were filled with
tears. She was so young, and it was hard to decide her whole future
life in the space of three minutes. She realized that if Mrs. Curtis
adopted her, she would have to give up her gay, independent existence
among her old friends, the joy of doing for herself and of learning to
overcome obstacles. Then, on the other hand, Mrs. Curtis loved her and
she would give her everything in the world that a young girl could
desire.
"Mrs. Curtis," declared Madge, when the three minutes had gone by, "I
can't--I can't decide what you ask me now. Please don't think I do not
love you. It is too wonderful for you and Tom to wish me to come to
live with you. But may I have a few days to think things over before I
give you my answer? The thought of leaving Aunt Sue and Uncle William
and Nellie does--does----" Madge could not go on.
"Never mind, dear," soothed Mrs. Curtis. "It was not fair in me to
take you unawares, and then expect you to make up your mind so soon.
Suppose I give you three days, instead of three minutes, to think
things over. Even then, Madge, we can't be sure that your uncle and
aunt will be willing to let you be my girl instead of theirs."