When Anna Miller had a concrete problem to solve, it was her
habit--rather more unconscious, however, than deliberate--to put
herself in touch with the situation or the matter itself and trust to
her mother-wit for suggestions as to procedure. Wherefore, as soon as
Joe, Junior, fell asleep the following afternoon, she betook herself
over to Miss Penny’s to see Alice. She had no plan. She only wished to
spend an hour in Alice’s company, after which she might have something
to meditate upon.
She found Mrs. Lorraine just finishing the washing-up and was surprised
that Alice would have left it to her. Then she recollected the hour and
wondered why the work should have been delayed. As she enquired for
Alice with apparent unconcern, she saw that Mrs. Lorraine’s face was
flushed and that Miss Penny showed traces of excitement, and guessed
that something had happened directly after dinner. It wasn’t unlikely
that there had been a discussion between Alice and her mother and that
Alice had flown.
“Alice is up in her chamber lying down, Anna dear,” Miss Penny informed
her. “She may be asleep, but you are so quiet you may steal up to see
if you like.”
Anna gazed enquiringly at Mrs. Lorraine, who begged her to sit down.
“Have you noticed anything strange about Alice lately, Anna?” she asked
in a troubled voice.
“Why Mrs. Lorraine, now you speak of it--Alice does seem--nervous,” the
girl admitted.
“She does. Decidedly. I cannot understand it. She gets wrought up
over such trifles. You saw how it was last night about giving up the
cottage? And to-day she wanted to rush off the minute dinner was over
to look for the key she lost. She seemed all used up over it. I told
her Mr. Clarke very likely had others, and that anyhow it wasn’t such a
serious matter as she made it to lose a key in a quiet community like
this, but she was too excited to be reasonable. Finally, I persuaded
her to go up and lie down and put this off until to-morrow, but I feel
worn out myself from the struggle.”
“You don’t think the work she does here is tiring her?” asked Miss
Penny anxiously.
“She did more at the cottage, and besides of late she hardly does
anything,” said Mrs. Lorraine.
“Alice is high-strung and goes into things too intensely,” remarked
Miss Penny. “She took to going off for long walks when you were away,
Anna, and I think she overdid. I don’t think she went so far as going
to the cemetery as you did; but she seems to have become interested in
old-time things and people--antiquities and relics--not relicts,--and
yet, I don’t know--there’s Enoch Arden, you know.”
“Enoch Arden!” cried Anna aghast.
Miss Penny smiled. “My dear, my head is all right,--as good, that is
to say, as it ever was. I was simply--but naturally you didn’t see
the point. One night some time ago--it was, O, a month ago, I should
say, though it might not have been, Alice read Enoch Arden aloud
to her mother and me. We all talked about it afterwards but Alice
couldn’t seem to get through. She kept questioning me. She wanted to
find out whether it could be true--here, for instance, right here in
this village. She started me to thinking of the different widows, you
know, and whether any husbands had left Farleigh and never come back.
Reuben’s father wasn’t exactly a husband, you know, though he went away
and never returned. But he was a widower. And his wife even if she had
been alive would never have married again. And if she had, it wouldn’t
have been Enoch Arden, for he was killed in a wreck--that’s more
certain than being lost at sea.”
“But--Enoch Arden?” asked Anna still perplexed.
“That’s just it. That’s why it took so long to get through--if we ever
got through? Alice would get me started and then I would be reminded of
something else and lose the point. There are so many different stories
connected with everyone, you see. And yet, I don’t know that anyone
in Farleigh ever had so many stories that could be told at his age as
Reuben has.”
Anna put the kitten tenderly down on the hearth.
“You’re not going upstairs, Anna?” asked Mrs. Lorraine.
“I think I’ll run straight home and see my baby,” returned Anna, who
knew well that Alice Lorraine was not in her room or in the Hollow at
all. And she acted upon her words.
She sighed as she climbed the stair at home to her own chamber. The
problem of Alice seemed too big for the like of her. But she sighed yet
more deeply when Freddy came up to say that Mr. Langley was down in the
sitting-room. Had something happened? she asked herself in terror; or
was it only that he had come to ask her if she had spoken to Alice? But
no, he had given her until to-morrow. Looking over the baby to see that
he was immaculate, she picked him up and went down, not even stopping
to glance at the mirror, though she had been lying on her bed.
“Anna looks almost as much a child as the baby himself,” Mr. Langley
remarked to Mrs. Miller, rising as the girl entered with little Joe on
her arm, his starched frock standing out over his frilled petticoats,
his mournful, colourless face against her rosy one, the wisp of hair on
top of his head contrasting oddly with her thick yellow mop of short
locks.
“She’s just wearing herself out with that child, Anna is,” remarked her
mother rather fretfully.
“Let me have him, pray Anna,” said the minister eagerly holding out his
arms. The baby went to him indifferently.
He was equally indifferent to the remainder of the company that filled
the room. Miss Penny and Mrs. Lorraine had come over to be in time for
him when he waked. All the Millers were there. The boys always hung
round when they felt sure the baby wouldn’t be left alone for them to
mind, and Seth Miller never liked to leave the house when the child was
awake. But one or many,--it was all a matter of indifference to little
Joe.
Anna was secretly relieved by the presence of Miss Penny and Mrs.
Lorraine. For the minute she saw Mr. Langley she knew his coming had
nothing to do with Alice. She recollected her visit at the parsonage
the day before and knew as well as if he had announced it that he had
come to bid her reconsider her decision. But he wouldn’t be likely to
ask her before the others and if he did, it would be easier for her to
refuse. But she sighed within her. She wasn’t sure. And fancy refusing
Mr. Langley anything before Miss Penny! And she couldn’t explain
afterwards even to Miss Penny that it was all for his ultimate good.
That would be quite too smug!
But he acted as if he had come merely for a social call. The baby
rested in his arms, quiet and sober, while they talked of indifferent
things though not indifferently. Mr. Langley and Mrs. Miller discussed
the concert at the church last month and Seth Miller declared that
his wife was full of music, and announced, to the surprise of all,
that he planned to get a piano-forte before very long for her and
the girls--Rusty would enjoy playing on it when she was home for her
holidays.
“O pa, can we play on it?” cried both the boys at once.
Seth Miller frowned. But before he could speak, Anna smiled on him.
“I guess they can, if I am in the room with them until they get used
to it and know how to handle it, can’t they, pa?” she asked. And he
assured her that of course they could.
Meantime one and another tried to relieve Mr. Langley of his burden,
though none was as disinterested as he seemed. The baby was sober--sad,
indeed, but he was very comfortable to hold. He never wriggled as many
babies do. And plain as he was, there was something appealing about
him. And besides, there was always the prospect of being the fortunate
one to win his first smile. But Mr. Langley refused all proffers. He
wouldn’t even give him up to Miss Penny.
“You may have him when I go, Miss Penny,” he said smiling, “but I want
him as long as I stay. You’re all near neighbours and can see little
Joe every day, but I seldom get a chance. But bless me, what’s the boy
up to now?”
Nothing very exciting, truly. A weak little hand was fumbling for Mr.
Langley’s watch guard, the baby gazing at the bright trinkets with
some interest. Of course the minister did the usual thing, drew out
his watch and held it to the child’s ear. Joe listened attentively and
apparently wished it to be held there indefinitely.
Mr. Langley had to return it to his pocket, however, when he rose to
take leave, and it was probably that which troubled the baby. But he
thought, as he would have put the child in Miss Penny’s arms, that
little Joe cried for him, and a certain satisfaction was apparent
beneath his concern.
The baby did not cry out. He did not make a sound. But two tears
spilled upon his thin cheeks and the maternal Anna seized him
anxiously. Burying his face in her shoulder, Joe, Junior, found instant
solace.
“I want to speak to you a moment, please, Anna,” Mr. Langley asked.
Anna’s heart sank but she went out into the passage with him. It was
cold there, so he wouldn’t keep her, and she hoped she could hold out.
“Mrs. Langley is feeling badly because you said you couldn’t come to
see her next Saturday,” he said very kindly. “If you are willing to
spend the time, I wonder if we can’t rearrange matters. Why can’t I
come over and mind the baby while you’re gone? He’s good with me, as
you see, and with the watch----”
He was like a boy in his eagerness. Anna paled.
“I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Langley, only really that wouldn’t help out.
You see ma would feel just the same. She’d love to have you come, of
course, but she wouldn’t feel as if it was polite to leave you and--you
see if she was right here all the while, there wouldn’t be any need of
your coming way over from the parsonage. Now would there?”
He smiled. “You remind me of what is called in logic a vicious
circle,” he said. But he became serious at once.
“I hate to seem to overpersuade you, but, Anna, if there’s any way in
the world you can manage it, I should be more than grateful to you,” he
said earnestly. “Already, I know, I am under tremendous obligation to
you. You have done more for Mrs. Langley--and for me--than I can ever
begin to thank you for. And yet I am asking further grace. But perhaps
if you could manage to keep up for a few weeks more, we can get along
afterwards.”
The girl’s eyes filled with tears. With all the hardship she had
known, she had never learned to be ungracious. She couldn’t explain
that she was holding out because only so, it seemed to her, could she
bring about the desired end, and that she was acting for his ultimate
good. She couldn’t tell him that she, a school girl, was treating a
grown woman, and the minister’s wife into the bargain, like a naughty,
stubborn child.
“Really and truly, Mr. Langley, I have thought and planned and tried to
do the best I can. But I can’t come to the parsonage any more unless I
can bring the baby with me,” she said in a low, desperate voice.
“Well, you know best, Anna,” he said in a tone whose kindness could not
cloak his intense disappointment. “I am very sorry, and if anything
happens that would enable you to change your mind, I am sure you will
let me know.”
Anna Miller flew to her room and wept. She who had endured with all
sweetness much that would have made another bitter, now wept almost
bitterly, while little Joe sat beside her on the bed in solemn silence.
But presently the girl felt a little hand on her head, uncovered her
face and smiled through her tears at the baby’s first attempt at a
caress. And he of his own accord cuddled down beside her on the pillow
with his cheek against hers.
“You darling love!” the girl cried. “But, O, it’s _my_ heart you’ll be
breaking instead of Mrs. Langley’s. Here I am with my frame-up to get
rid of you, hurting Mr. Langley and disciplining his wife, when if I
should make a get-away of it, it would simply kill me dead! And after
all, why should I? I have a mind, honey-sweet, to throw over the whole
thing, that ginger-coloured old woman with the peppery eyes and all,
and let Mr. Langley become a hoary old man as soon as he has a mind to,
and just devote myself to you. When are you going to talk, precious?
Can’t you say An-na?”
Joe, Junior, remained dumb.
“Well, I am mighty thankful you can’t--or won’t. For if you could--or
would--then I would never in the world let you go. And really, I _must_
put it through. You’d be far better off at the parsonage with the best
man in all the world for a daddy, and with a mother that wouldn’t be
half bad if she would once give in to your blessed charms--as she
is going to do. Besides, you’d belong there, and you don’t here. Ma
doesn’t want you round, and you feel it in your sensitive little heart
and that’s why you act so queer and offish. But it’ll all come out
right--for everybody but poor me. Cheer up, old sport!”