LIZ
Old Jonathan, returning from his daily trip to the postoffice, brought
home the news that "there'd be doin's on Fourth of July 'count of the
soldier boys--that Webb'd said it'd got to be a Fourth that not a child
in Freedom'd forget!" And B'lindy had retorted that "it wa'nt likely,
I guess, if Webb got up the doin's anyone _would_--they'd be doin's no
one _could_ forget!"
But Nancy's interest in the coming event gave way with a quickly
smothered exclamation of delight when Jonathan drew from an inside
pocket a square, bluish envelope with a foreign postmark, redirected in
Mrs. Finnegan's most careful handwriting.
"And here's another," he added, bringing forth a letter from Claire.
"You're a _dear_," cried Nancy, hugging her treasures. "If you'll take
this pan of peas, Jonathan, I'll run off and read them!"
B'lindy watched Nancy disappear toward the orchard with mingled
amazement and disapproval. "There never was a letter _I_ got I'd set
by my work for! _That's_ a young one for you!"
Out in her Bird's-nest Nancy held up the two envelopes. "I'll save you
'til last, Daddy," she whispered, kissing the handwriting she loved.
Claire's letter was short and yet so like her that Nancy could have
believed her friend was there with her--talking to her.
"I'm perfectly miserable, and I can't let mother guess--she tries to
make everything so jolly for me. But I'm just plain homesick for
college and you girls. The summer isn't a bit what I'd planned. Barry
went away before I got home. Mother thought he'd come back but he
didn't, and the maddening thing is she won't tell me where he is. She
said Barry was 'getting settled.' Isn't that absurd? I suppose he's
gone off to the Canadian Rockies or maybe to Japan. But I don't see
why mother has to make a secret of it! The war's changed all the men I
know--none of them seem as nice. They're so restless and act so old.
But then, I'm restless, too, and feel as old as the hills. For
heaven's sake, Nancy, hurry up and do your duty by Anne's relatives and
come here to me--I need you!"
"Funny Claire," laughed Nancy, talking aloud in the way she had learned
at Happy House. "She's always trying to make herself think she's
miserable. But Barry _is_ a pill! Now, Daddy mine!"
Because she must make her moment of joy last as long as possible, she
spread out each page; she peeped into the envelope to be certain that
she had them all; she touched ever so lightly the penned lines; she
even sniffed joyously at the paper in a vain hope of detecting the
familiar odor of Havana tobacco.
The letter had been three weeks on its way. And it was in answer to
one Nancy had written to him from college, soon after Anne's plans to
go to. Russia had been completed.
"* * * * That is fine in Anne, but it seems to me, that in the
enthusiasm of her youth she's overlooking opportunities for service
closer at hand. These problems over here are so tremendous--they, need
a tried mind and the wisdom of years. You know, my dear, if you want
to do things to make this world better you can generally find them
waiting for you in your very own corner! Wherever you look you will
see the destruction of prejudice, ignorance, selfishness and pride--you
don't have to go to Russia to find it!
"In a few weeks my baby will be graduated. I cannot picture you grown
up. Perhaps you will never seem so to your Dad. I feel as though
these months that I have spent over here away from you must have made
many changes in my girl--they have cheated me of a great deal of joy in
your development. But I hope that the dignities you have acquired have
not changed the dear, kind, joyous heart of you!
"You tell me you have decided upon a 'career,' but you will not tell me
what--little torment! Is it something in which I can help? If it is
useful and honorable, my child, it will bring you happiness, whatever
it is. I hope it is a hard one, too, the more you have to work the
more satisfaction you will enjoy.
"Now for good news. My work over here is done. As soon as I can get
passage I will sail for home, I can't think of anything else. I
thought I'd spend my unexpected holiday nosing around in the places
where I've always wanted to go--but I can't. I'm too impatient to
enjoy anything. So I shall camp on the doorstep of the G. H. Q. Office
until word of my sailing comes. I suppose you are at the apartment
under Mrs. Finnegan's loving eye. When I return we'll run off to the
seashore or mountains for a few weeks."
"Dear, dear thoughtful Daddy--nice, old, _preachy_ Daddy--with your
sugar-coated sermons in little pellets, all easy to swallow!" cried
Nancy, laughing, then suddenly a sob choked her, another and then
another.
"It's almost _dreadful_ to have Daddy have just me. What if he is
disappointed when he sees me! What if he is--angry--at what I've done!"
For the first time this possibility crossed her mind {134} leaving a
terrible fear. Impulsive Nancy had often displeased her father, but
always the most trivial offence had troubled her deeply. Her father
had such an aversion to the smallest departure from truth! And wasn't
she really acting a lie?
For the next few moments poor Nancy sorely needed the support of Anne's
convincing arguments! Remorse of the most torturing kind swept her.
And she had dared to judge Miss Sabrina's standards of honor and
justice!
"I'll go away," she cried, aloud. "I'll go straight back to Mrs.
Finnegan's where I belong."
But this determination, soothing at it was, brought added problems.
Nancy's brow wrinkled with a deep frown of perplexity. It would not be
fair to Anne to just run away--she'd have to give some explanation to
Miss Sabrina and Miss Milly and B'lindy, and even Webb. And just now,
in her present mood, anything but the absolute truth seemed abhorrent
to her.
Then she thought of Aunt Milly--dear little Aunt Milly. She was a
different creature now from the pale little woman Nancy had first seen
on the couch in the darkened room. Each day, when she did not go to
the orchard, she spent in the sitting room or on the hollyhock porch,
knitting and helping in little household tasks. And Nancy knew by the
wistful glance that met hers when she came and went, how Aunt Milly
hungered for her company. Nancy had told herself that it was because
she was young and that she seemed, perhaps, like what Aunt Milly had
wanted to be--before the dreadful accident.
What _would_ Aunt Milly's life be if she went suddenly out of it?
There was Davy, too, and all she had planned to start for the Club and
Nonie--
What must Nonie think? She had let a whole day go by and had not seen
Liz!
Nancy re-read her father's letter. "If you want to do things to make
this world better you can generally find them waiting for you in your
very own corner!" Funny--that Daddy should have written just that!
Nancy folded her letter with a sigh of relief. "Of course, there's
work right here and maybe--I'd be a coward to run away--just now. The
wrong was done when I came!"
The logic was youthful, but then Nancy, despite the dignity of
graduation was very youthful, too. Her mind made up she looked very
resolute. She'd go and call upon Liz that very afternoon.
However, she must know more concerning the Hopworth's before she braved
Liz on her own ground. So she sought out the all-wise B'lindy.
B'lindy was most generous with her information.
"I guess the Hopworths ain't any concern of yours, Miss Anne. The
Leavitts al'las visited mostly with good folks like the Allens and the
Chamberlains and the Fiskes over in South Hero, and the Hills up to
Isle Le Motte and the Eatons and Todds, here to Freedom. Time was when
the best come to Happy House--Miss Sabriny's mother liked company--but
not trash like the Hopworth's!"
"But _why_ are they trash, B'lindy? What do they do? Webb says
they're an old family, that they've been here as long as the Leavitts."
B'lindy snorted. "Webb's tongue's tied in the middle and wags both
ends and I guess most of the time at the wrong end! Mebbe they are
old--you can't kill off folks same's you can a strain of cattle. They
don't do nothin', Miss Anne, that's it--they don't do nothin'. They're
just shiftless, no-good folks. Old Dan'l don't work--never did, and
his pa before him. And that Eric--he was worst of all!"
"Who was Eric?" begged Nancy.
"Old Dan'l's son and as bad a boy as ever tormented a neighborhood.
But no one knew he'd be anything but no-good, and he wasn't. Ran off
to sea. Folks never heard much 'bout him, but they knew they wouldn't
hear anything good, anyway. Then, sudden-like, he turns up with two
young 'uns. Brought 'em to old Dan'l to keep. One was a girl and the
other, a baby in his arms, was a boy."
Freedom folks had never lost their enjoyment in this episode of Eric
Hopworth's adventurous life. B'lindy, happy now in her tale, made the
most of it.
"I guess there were a lot of stories 'bout them young uns, but old
Dan'l never made a sign 'bout which was true. And Eric Hopworth went
off's suddenly as he come, leavin' those two more Hopworth's for old
Dan'l to feed and bring up, and for the folks 'round here to watch,
unless they wanted all their apples stolen and their chickens killed!
Mis' Tubbs told Mis' Sniggs that she _see_ a marriage certificate and
that the mother'd been one of them actor-women down in New York and she
thought like's not the woman died when the boy was born. Mis' Jenkins
sez _she'd_ heard other stories over in North Hero! Anyways old
Dan'l's as close-mouthed as a stature!"
"And who's Liz?" asked Nancy.
"Old Dan'l's half-sister. He brought her over from Bend after the
young 'uns came, to do for 'em."
Nancy mused for a moment. There was not much use in telling B'lindy
that she was going to call upon Liz--it would take days and days of
argument to overcome the heritage of prejudice in B'lindy's mind.
Perhaps, for the present, she had better keep Nonie in the orchard.
It had not needed B'lindy's description for Nancy to recognize the
Hopworth dwelling, if by such a name could be called the four
weather-beaten walls hanging crazily together as though by a last nail.
A litter of debris cluttered the bare ground around the house and
between the shed and the unused barn. Back of the shed an old man
slouched in the sun.
The door sagged on its one hinge, partly open. When Nancy knocked a
gaunt, slatternly woman, in the room within, turned with a scowl.
As Nancy's eyes, sweeping over the dirty, crowded room, came back to
the hard face before her, she sickened at the thought of little Nonie,
with her "dreams," growing in this environment. Then, as Liz' scowl
gave place to a sullen indifference, Nancy realized that the most
marked thing about the woman was a resigned hopelessness.
Nancy, choosing her words carefully, introduced herself. As Liz'
unfriendliness discouraged any advances, Nancy plunged straight to the
point. She had taken a fancy to the children, she explained--would
Miss Hopworth permit Nonie and sometimes Davy, to come often to Happy
House? She, Nancy, found it a little lonesome at Happy House and she
would enjoy their company.
Liz dropped a pan with a bang. "I'll tell you just's I tell her--there
ain't goin' to be any more traipsing 'way from her work all the time
like with the schoolmar'm either to Happy House nor nowhere. All them
notions is settin' the girl loony goin' on with her lies and things
'bout things bein' differunt. She'll stay _right_ to home!"
And to prevent further argument Liz' head bent meaningly toward the
door.
But at that moment a shadow crossed it. Mrs. Sniggs, very gingerly,
thrust a head inside. Under her arm she carried a kettle. Once in a
while old Dan'l mended the village kettles.
"How d'do," snapped Liz.
But Mrs. Sniggs, with an uplift of her nose that said plainly: "I don't
even _see_ you," put her kettle near the door without a word and turned
to depart. At which Liz, in a loud tone, exclaimed: "Most _certainly_,
Miss Leavitt, we're _delighted_! Our Nonie can visit you up to Happy
House real often!"
Liz knew and Nancy knew, by the tell-tale shadow that lingered across
the threshold that Mrs. Sniggs had heard; Nancy blessed the good
fortune that had brought the woman there at that moment!
Walking homeward, her mind full of plans of all she wanted to do for
Nonie and Davy, Nancy with a shudder recalled the Hopworth home--and
Liz. Something in the tired eyes haunted her. "Maybe," she thought
with a pang of pity, "maybe she's as--starved--as Nonie!"