In the confusion and excitement which prevailed at the two houses in
the South Hollow in which this narrative is concerned, Alice Lorraine’s
secret perturbation either remained unnoticed or was attributed to the
cause which affected them all. But very shortly Mrs. Lorraine, who had
come out of her shell almost unbelievably in her week of companionship
with Miss Penny, so that now in the crisis she was a very tower of
strength not only to Miss Penny but to the Miller household as well,
began to be greatly troubled by her daughter’s demeanour. She had
rejoiced at the manner in which the girl had bloomed under Anna’s
influence, and had been amazed not only at her capacity for learning
and power of adaptability but at the generous warmth and sweetness
of her nature. She had believed that a real transformation had taken
place. Wherefore she was the more disappointed to discover that, at a
moment of crisis, Alice really wasn’t the useful, helpful, sympathetic,
understanding girl she had seemed. Anna’s arrival, shorn of her
wonderful hair and accompanied by the strange, unattractive, almost
uncanny baby, had upset Miss Penny’s household and all but devastated
the Millers’. And Alice, who might have cheered the former immensely
and have been of great service in restoring equanimity to the other,
seemed completely unstrung by the excitement and a subject rather than
a source of aid.
On Saturday morning, when she caught sight of Alice, who supposed
herself alone, wringing her hands as she stood by a window of the
living-room looking north, Mrs. Lorraine sighed and said to herself,
in Anna’s expressive phrase, that it seemed to be ‘up to’ her. And
summoning all her powers, some of which had been awakened of late and
others which had lain dormant almost all her life, Henrietta Lorraine
started in good earnest to bring some sort of order out of chaos.
She began with Miss Penny. It did not take long to reconcile that
philosophical and optimistic little lady to the loss of the yard of
silken tresses; and after a bit Mrs. Lorraine convinced her that Anna
would soon pick up again now that she was at home, would regain at
least as many pounds as she seemed to have lost, and would lose the
hurt, mournful look that close association with death in such sad
circumstances had left in her merry eyes. Moreover, the care of the
baby need not fall wholly upon her. There were plenty of people about
to help.
“The fact is, Mrs. Lorraine, Anna knows of people that will take the
child,” Miss Penny owned. “That’s the queer part of it--she wanted a
baby for these very people. Of course, she wouldn’t have had--but after
this afternoon--it’s Saturday, you know--I can probably tell you all
about it. And--O Mrs. Lorraine, I hope you won’t feel that you must
leave me right away. I have enjoyed having you here so much. And it
is such a relief to have an older person to talk to now all this has
happened. Dear me! it’s almost like having Reuben back--and I have only
known you a week.”
Mrs. Lorraine smiled. “We will stay as long as you are alone, Miss
Penny,” she assured her. “There is nothing to call us back after all to
that bare little cottage.”
“Then--O Mrs. Lorraine, why not spend the winter with me?” Miss Penny
cried eagerly. “It would make me so happy. You could have a separate
sitting-room, if you liked and--O, you would be here Christmas to see
Reuben! And Anna ought to be at home while Rusty’s away, anyhow. It is
so hard on her mother lending her to me. I feel troubled about it all
the time--and yet, I cannot get on alone. And of course I would pay
Alice just as I do Anna so that it needn’t make any difference and you
can do your embroidery as well here as--O Mrs. Lorraine, we could get
back my other cow and make butter! We both love to do it and I am sure
you could make more money in that way and--O don’t say no! Dear me! I
wish Mr. Langley would come in!”
“I won’t say no, and I will think it over. And we will stay on anyhow
until Anna gets rested, and so we may as well get the cow back in the
shed and begin making butter,” returned Mrs. Lorraine quietly though
not without secret excitement.
At dinner, Alice could not eat and her mother was distressed.
Afterwards she persuaded Miss Penny to lie down and then told Alice to
go to her room to rest. Not long afterwards the girl appeared in the
living-room in her prettiest suit with a jaunty little hat over her
dark plaits. Mrs. Lorraine looked up in some surprise.
“You are going out, Alice?”
“Yes, mother, I want--I am going for a walk. I think--I will walk down
to the cottage and bring back--some things.”
“But I can’t go with you and I don’t like your going into that empty
house alone.”
“O it’s perfectly safe. They say it’s safe everywhere about Farleigh,”
murmured Alice uneasily.
“Alice, you must not do it,” declared Mrs. Lorraine with new
decision--for it was wise and kind and _motherly_.
“Very well, I won’t go in,” said Alice in an odd voice.
Her mother looked at her. “You are restless, dear. You are more upset,
now, over Anna’s escapade even than Miss Penny at her age. You feel
as if you wanted to get away from everything for a little and I don’t
blame you. But--we can’t do that any more, dear, you and I. That is
what we have always done, though it isn’t your fault. And anyhow we
have to make up now. Let me tell you what to do. Miss Penny says Anna
feels obliged to go over to the parsonage this afternoon. Suppose you
go over to the Millers’ and stay until she comes back? You can help
take care of the baby. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I’ll go right over,” said Alice, and would have started but her mother
arrested her.
“Hadn’t you better change your suit, Alice? To-morrow is Sunday, and if
you get it creased there’d be no chance to press it to-night.”
Already Alice had expended considerable nervous energy on the subject
of her dress. At one moment, she had felt as if she should don her
poorest gown out of consideration for the shabbiness of the stranger.
Again, that had seemed a shabby thing to do and she had decided to wear
her most attractive things to accord, not with the stranger’s garb but
with his manner and bearing. Then she would think of the dusty shop and
waver. She might never have any more new clothes and perhaps it was
foolish to risk spoiling a really handsome suit for the sake of making
a good appearance before a stranger whom she didn’t know whether she
liked and whom she would probably never see after to-day.
Then she said that she knew that she liked him. And besides, she had to
have excitement after having had that beautiful, romantic image of Dick
Cartwright so cruelly shattered before her eyes. She didn’t know how
she should bear that if it wasn’t for looking forward to seeing John
Converse. And she _would_ see him again after to-day. She would have
to--for she meant to help him in his quest. And to-day she was to be
as nice as she knew how to be and as interested in helping him plan,
and she would also look as well as it was in her power to look, so that
altogether it would seem pleasant to him or not boresome to see her
again.
She said now to her mother that she would be careful not to muss her
skirt, and Mrs. Lorraine did not protest further. But she breathed a
sigh of relief as she saw her at the Miller’s gate. She felt that Alice
would be all right after an hour with the baby. For though he wasn’t a
very attractive baby, he appealed to Mrs. Lorraine. He was quiet, he
didn’t cry nor fuss, and he was a baby-creature.
But he wasn’t to have a chance that day. For not long after, the two
girls left the house together. Alice had explained that her mother sent
her over to help but that she had planned to go to the cottage to get
the keys she had left there the day before. Anna declared that the baby
was asleep and that there was nothing to do, and begged her to come
along and tell her on the way of what had happened during her absence.
“I can’t get a sane, sensible word out of anyone. Braids of yellow hair
and orphan babies are the only subjects people will mention to-day,”
she added drolly and yet a bit plaintively. “And I’m fed up with the
matter of yellow hair, and if I am going to talk about babies, it’s
with people that appreciate their fine points better than anyone I have
seen thus far.”
As they parted at the lane, Alice begged Anna not to say anything about
her having come to the cottage. Anna assented without question and
went on to the parsonage.
Alice Lorraine stole softly up the lane. There was no one in sight and
no sound. She was earlier than the hour she had named and she went
round the house and sat down on the step of the kitchen porch. After a
little she stole part way down the overgrown path to the shop and back
again. The shop looked as empty as the house,--nay, emptier. The girl
was convinced that there was no one there. And her heart grew cold at
the thought that four o’clock might come and yet bring no one.
Suppose he shouldn’t come? John Converse had the key not only to the
shop but to the house. Suppose he had been--well, the sort of person
her mother, for example, might guess him to be upon hearing the story?
He wasn’t, but--something might have happened. He might be ill at the
hotel at Marsden Bridge or--any number of things might have happened to
prevent his coming. And he had the keys! Suppose her mother should want
to get into the cottage to-morrow?
The girl rose and ran swiftly but quietly to the shop. Her heart was in
her mouth as she knocked softly on the door, so softly that the sound
wouldn’t have been heard from the porch she had just left. The door
opened and the stranger held it wide for her.
Another stranger to-day! And it wasn’t only the dear light that made
the difference. John Converse might have been another person from the
man of yesterday. He was dressed well,--almost elegantly. Certainly
his suit, though it had a sack coat, was of fine material and good
make and he wore a silk shirt and jaunty tie as if he were used to
such informal elegance; and all the accessories were in keeping down
to his neat shoes. He was not less thin nor pale--his face was almost
cadaverous in the stronger light. But his eyes were merry and full of
life, his rather large, thin-lipped mouth puckered with amusement at
her wonderment, and there was a boyish eagerness about him that was
flattering and very grateful to the girl’s perturbed spirit.
They shook hands gravely.
“It is more than good of you to come,” he said.
Alice Lorraine gave a little cry.
“Why, what have you done!” she exclaimed and looked about her as if
frightened.
“Won’t you sit down and take in the magnificence at your ease?” he
asked with a whimsical charm which seemed native to him. And Alice
dropped into the large and comfortable wooden chair he indicated which
was not only free from dust but had apparently been scrubbed clean.
Likewise the whole place. The room had been cleared of rubbish and
transformed by the magic of strong, eager hands and soap and water to
a quaintly attractive sitting-room. The bareness added to its apparent
size. Odd bits of hand-made furniture were disposed gracefully about
and every natural comeliness made the most of. Even the stairway added
something to the general attractiveness. A bit of old rug lay before
it and another at the door. The windows had a strip of dark cloth above
for a blind and a white curtain over the lower sash. A small sheet-iron
stove, still rusty, but clean, warmed the place and held a tiny kettle
in which the water was boiling. A stand in the corner was covered by a
white tea cloth, apparently just out of the shop, and held a tea pot
and two cups, which were also new and gaudily pretty, and a plate of
sweet biscuit.
“O Mr. Converse, you are a wizard surely!” cried the girl. “I really
believe that you could turn yourself into whatever you wished. You
could be an old gypsy woman or a fat man with bright-red hair and could
walk the streets of Farleigh by day.”
He laughed. “It was soap and water and elbow grease that did this. I am
afraid they wouldn’t presto-change me so easily.”
Then suddenly he paled. “Nevertheless, I have seen the time when soap
and water might have worked wonders with me,” he declared bitterly.
Alice looked at him in consternation.
“Pardon me. It was awfully good of you to come,” he said in another
tone. “I hoped you would, and I believed you would unless you were
prevented. And really----”
“You will stay right here now that you have made it so comfortable,
won’t you?” Alice asked eagerly.
“O, I didn’t do it for that. I wanted to have a decent place for you to
come to,” he said, boyishly ingenuous. Despite his gaunt face, which
was also lined, and his grey hair, he was really youthful as he spoke.
“What a lot of work for a person you never saw but once,” she said.
“I felt last night--when we saw Mr. Langley, you know--that we hadn’t
settled anything--I mean, I thought I might help you--tell you about
people or find out about those I don’t know--but----”
She paused. “I’m talking for all the world like Miss Penny,” she owned.
“What I mean to say is that I am glad I did manage to arrange to see
you to-day and that I was able to get away. And I am glad you have done
this because it will make it comfortable for you. You can stay here as
long as you choose--make it your headquarters.” And she went on to say
that she and her mother were to remain at the Hollow for some time.
“You will stay, won’t you?” she begged.
“It would be perfectly bully if I could,” he cried eagerly. “I
could--well, reconnoiter from here in grand style.”
But as he referred to his purpose in this region, the boyish look fled
and he looked sad and perhaps old. And Alice remembered Enoch Arden and
her heart ached for him.
But he was a boy again as he made the tea, served her, and sat down
with his own cup. Alice, too, was a younger girl than she would have
been if she had never known Anna Miller. They dallied happily over
the ceremony and afterwards went to the top of the stair so that Alice
might see the change in the upper chamber, which was as wonderful as
that below. The upper room, indeed, with its tent roof, beams, rafters
and brick chimney, its window at either end and its built-in benches
was more attractive than the lower. Alice rather hoped John Converse
would suggest their sitting there, but he did not, and they returned
to their chairs in the lower apartment to begin finally upon the real
business of the afternoon.
“I don’t really know how to start out,” Alice remarked. “The people I
know best are Miss Penny and the Miller family.”
“In my day there were no Millers in Farleigh--except the moth
millers,--dusty-millers, we used to call them. I remember Miss Penny,
however,--a little old maid who always came to church. She drove a fat
pony. I suppose that is dead long ago?”
“I’m learning to drive him. I feed him sugar every day,” said Alice.
“But I am wasting time. Suppose you ask me questions.”
“Well, suppose you tell me a bit more about that Cartwright fellow you
mentioned yesterday.”
Alice paled. She didn’t want to think of Dick Cartwright now.
“I was all wrong,” she said in a low, pained voice. “He wasn’t good. He
was--O, a dreadful man.”
“Why Miss Lorraine! what do you mean?” he asked. And she thought he had
noticed her secret pain.
“I can’t tell you what he did. Mr. Langley told me in confidence and I
really ought not to say anything,” she returned sadly. “Mr. Langley’s
the only one who--well, he’s very anxious that this Richard Cartwright
should be forgotten.”
“But I thought--didn’t you tell me yesterday that Mr. Langley was this
man’s friend?”
“O yes. But this is on account of the son, Reuben. He’s a fine boy,
everyone says, and he’s in college. Mr. Langley doesn’t want him to
know how bad his father was. And he doesn’t want people to be thinking
and talking of him for fear--well, he says it is best that he be
forgotten.”
“I told you I knew Mr. Langley once. I should have thought of him as
being faithful to the end of things,” he said bitterly.
“He was faithful to the end of things,” the girl rejoined warmly.
“He----”
“Nonsense. There’s no such thing to-day as faithfulness,” he declared
bitterly.
Afterwards, as she lay in her bed at night--Alice remembered Enoch
Arden and wondered if he had learned of his wife’s unfaith and that had
made him so bitter. At this moment, however, the girl was too wrought
up to think of aught but the matter under discussion.
“There is, too. There is--ever so much!” she cried hotly.
“Not at all. One faces this way--a tiny breath of wind, and round goes
the weather-cock!”
“I should think--” the girl began indignantly. She didn’t pause
because she didn’t exactly know what it was she should think but
because he was looking at her with a strange, half-hurt, half-angry
look in his eyes.
“Even you, Miss Lorraine,--pardon me, but aren’t you really an example?
Wasn’t it only yesterday that you were saying that it wasn’t fair
that this man who had loved music and planned higher things than his
weakness could fulfill should be utterly forgotten because he ran amuck
when his head was turned by grief? And to-day--apparently you can’t
think badly enough of him!”
The girl’s heart throbbed wildly. A flaming colour came to her cheeks
giving her real beauty.
“Well, you yourself!” she cried hotly. “You--you said nasty things
yesterday about Dick Cartwright and now, to-day, one would think he was
your best----”
Suddenly she stopped. She was aware of a disturbance from without.
Someone was calling her name and banging on the door of the cottage.
Now she realised that it had been going on some time and she had been
vaguely aware of it. She sprang to her feet, her face horror-stricken.
Her mother had come for her!