A LOST MOTHER
A week passed, and though Dories received several picture postcards from
her best friend, not a line came from her Great-Aunt Jane.
“She has probably changed her mind about going to Siquaw, dear, and so
you would better prepare to start back to school on Monday. I had talked
the matter over with the principal, Mr. Setherly, and he told me that you
could easily make up October’s work, but, if you are not going away, it
will be better for you to begin the term with the others.”
They were at breakfast, and for a long, silent moment the girl sat gazing
out of the window at a garden that was beginning to look dry and sear.
When she turned back toward her mother, there were tears in her eyes.
The woman placed a hand on the one near her as she tenderly inquired,
“Are you disappointed because you’re not going, daughter?”
“No, no, not that, but you can’t know how I dread returning to High
without Nann. We had planned graduating together and after that going to
college together if only we could find a way.”
Her mother glanced up quickly as though there was something that she
wanted to say, then pressed her lips firmly as though to keep some secret
from being uttered. Dories listlessly continued eating. There was a
closer pressure of her mother’s hand. “It is hard, dear, I know,” the
understanding voice was saying. “Life brings many disappointments, but
there is always a compensation. You’ll see!” Then, glancing toward the
stair door, which was slowly opening, the mother called, “Hurry up, you
lazy Peterkins. Come and have your breakfast. I want you and Dories to go
to the village and match some silk for me as soon as you can.”
Then, when she served the little fellow, the loving woman returned to her
daily task and left a half self-pitying, half rebellious and wholly
dispirited girl to wash and put away the dishes. Then listlessly she
donned her scarlet tam and sweater coat and went into the sewing room to
get the samples that she was to match. Her mother smiled up into her
dismal face. “Dori, daughter, don’t gloom around so much,” she pleaded.
“I shall actually believe that you are disappointed because you are _not_
going to Siquaw. Now, here’s the silk to be matched and there’s Peterkins
waiting for you. Come back as soon as you can, won’t you?”
It was midmorning when Dories and the small boy returned from the
shopping expedition. They went at once to the sewing room, but their
mother was not there. They looked in the living room and in the kitchen.
“Mother, where are you?” they both called, but there was no reply.
“Maybe she’s upstairs,” Peter suggested.
“Of course. How stupid for me to forget that we have an upstairs to our
house.” Dories felt strangely excited as she ran up the circling front
stairway calling again and again, but still there was no reply. Down the
long upper corridor they went, opening one door and another, beginning to
feel almost frightened at the stillness.
Then Dories exclaimed, “Oh, maybe she’s gone over to Mrs. Doran’s for a
moment. I guess she couldn’t do any sewing until we came back with the
silk.” They were about to descend the back stairs when they heard a noise
in the garret overhead.
The frail boy caught his sister’s hand and held it tight. “Do you suppose
it’s ghosts,” he whispered.
“No, of course not,” the girl replied. The attic was a low, dark,
cobwebby place hardly high enough to stand in, and they never went there.
“There are no ghosts. Mother said so.”
“Then maybe it’s a rat scratching around,” the boy suggested, “or that
wild barn cat may have got in somehow. Do you dare open the door, Dori,
and call up?”
“Of course I do, but first I’ll creep up a little way and look.” Very
quietly Dories opened the door and stealthily ascended the dark, short
stairway. All was still in the dusky, musty attic. Then a light flashed
for a moment in a far corner. Truly frightened, Dories turned and hurried
down the stairs. Quick steps were heard above: then a familiar voice
called, “Dories, is that you, dear? Why are you stealing about in that
way? Come up a moment, daughter! I want you to help me drag this old
trunk out of the corner.”
Then, when the girl, with Peter following, appeared on the top step, the
mother explained: “I thought I’d be down before you could get back. I
have news for you, Dori. Just after you left, a night letter was
delivered. In it your Great-Aunt Jane said that she had entirely given up
her plan to spend a month at Siquaw Point until she received your letter.
She had decided that if you were so rude as to ignore her invitation, you
were not the kind of a girl she wished to know, even if you are her
niece, but your letter caused her to change her mind. She wishes you to
meet her this afternoon in Boston and go directly from there to Siquaw
Point.”
“O, Mother, how terrible!” Dories was truly dismayed. “I won’t have time
to let Nann know, and she was to meet me at the station. That was the one
redeeming feature about the whole thing.”
“Well, you can see her when you return, and maybe you can plan to stay a
day or two with her. Now help me with this little trunk, dear. We have
only two hours to prepare your clothes and pack.”
They carried the small steamer trunk down to Dories’ room and by noon it
was packed and locked, and, soon after, the expressman came to take both
the trunk and the girl to the station.
Dories’ face was flushed and tears were in her eyes when she said
good-bye. “I feel so strange and excited, Mother,” she confided, “going
out into the world for the very first time, and O, Mumsie, no one knows
how I dread being all alone in a boarded-up cottage at a deserted summer
resort with such a dreadful old woman.” Dories clung to her mother in
little girl fashion as though she hoped at the very last moment she might
be told that she need not go, but what she heard was: “Mr. Hanson is in a
hurry, dear. He has the trunk on his cart and he’s waiting to help you up
on the seat.”
Dories caught her breath in an effort not to cry, kissed her mother and
Peter hurriedly, picked up her hand-satchel and darted down the path.
From the high seat she waved and smiled. Then she called in an effort at
cheeriness. “Don’t forget, Mrs. Moore, that you promised to take October
for a real vacation and not sew a bit after you finish the silk dress.”
“I promise!” the mother called. “Peter and I will just play. Write to us
often.”
Mr. Hanson, finding that it was late, drove rapidly to the station, and
it was well that he did, for the train was just drawing in when they
arrived. Dories quickly purchased a ticket and checked her trunk with the
expressman’s help, then, climbing aboard, chose a seat near a window.
After all, she found herself quite pleasurably excited. It was such a new
experience to be traveling alone. Few of the passengers noticed her and
no one spoke. She was glad, as her mother had warned her not to enter
into conversation with strangers.
As she watched the flying landscape the girl thought of something her
mother had said on the day that she had asked her to answer her
Great-Aunt Jane’s letter. “I have a reason, Dori, for really wishing you
to go to Siquaw with your aunt,” she had said. What could that reason be?
Not until Boston was neared did her speculation cease; then she became
conscious of but two emotions, curiosity about her Great-Aunt Jane and a
crushing disappointment because she had not been able to let Nann Sibbett
know when to meet her.
When the train finally stopped, Dories, feeling very young and very much
alone, followed the crowd of passengers into the huge station. She was to
meet her aunt in the woman’s waiting room, and she stopped a hurrying
porter to inquire where she would find it. Almost timidly she entered the
large, comfortably furnished room, then, seeing an elderly woman dressed
in black, who was sitting stiffly erect, the girl went toward her as she
said diffidently: “Pardon me, but are _you_ my Great-Aunt Jane?” The
woman threw back a heavy black crepe veil and her sharp gray eyes gazed
up at the girl penetratingly.
“Humph!” was the ungracious reply. “Well, at least you’ve got your
father’s eyes. That’s something to be thankful for, but I’ve no doubt
that you look like your mother otherwise.”
There was something about the tone in which this was said that put the
girl on the defensive.
“I certainly hope I do look like my darling mother,” she exclaimed, her
diffidence vanishing. The elderly woman seemed not to hear.
“Sit down, why don’t you?” she said in a querulous tone. “The train
doesn’t go for an hour yet.”
The girl sank into a comfortable chair which faced the one occupied by
her aunt; the back of which was toward the door.
For a moment neither spoke, then remembering the coaching she had
received, Dories said hesitatingly, “I want to thank you, Aunt Jane, for
having invited me to go with you. I am pleased to——”
A sniff preceded the remark that interrupted: “I know how pleased you are
to go with a fussy old woman to a deserted summer resort. About as
pleased as a cat is out in the rain.” Then, as though her interest in
Dories had ceased, the old woman drew the heavy crêpe veil down over her
face, but the girl was sure that she could see the sharp eyes peering
through it as though she were intently watching some object over Dori’s
shoulder.
The girl had expected her aunt to be queer, but this was far worse than
her most dismal anticipations. At last the girl became so nervous that
she glanced back of her to see what her aunt could be watching. She saw
only the open door that led into the main waiting room of the station.
Women were passing in and out, but that was nothing to stare at. Seeming,
at last, to recall her companion’s presence, the old woman addressed her:
“Dories, you wrote me that you had a girl friend here in Boston who would
come down to the train to see you off. Why doesn’t she come?”
“I didn’t have time to let her know, Aunt Jane,” was the dismal reply.
“I’m just ever so disappointed.”
The old woman nodded her head toward the door. “Is that her?” she asked.
“Is that your friend?”
Dories sprang to her feet and turned. A tall girl, carrying a suitcase,
was approaching them. With a cry of mingled amazement and joy, Dories ran
toward her and held out both hands. “Why, Nann, darling, it _can’t_ be
you.” The newcomer dropped her bag and they flew into each other’s arms.
Then, standing back, Dori asked, much mystified, “Why, are you going
somewhere Nann?”
It was the old woman who replied grimly: “She is! I invited her to go
with us. There now! Don’t try to thank me.” She held up a protesting hand
when Dori, flushed and happy, turned toward her. “I did it for myself, I
can assure you. I knew having you moping around for a month wouldn’t add
any to _my_ pleasure.”
An embarrassing moment was saved by a stentorian voice in the doorway
announcing: “All aboard for Siquaw Center and way stations.” A colored
porter appeared to carry the bags, and the old woman, leaning heavily on
her cane, limped after him, followed by the girls, in whose hearts there
were mingled emotions, but joy predominated, for, however terrible Dori’s
Great-Aunt Jane might be, at least they were to spend a whole long month
together.