A REAL ADVENTURE
Nora had been in bed and asleep for more than two hours, when she was
aroused by the sound of her mother’s latch-key in the door. She was
very sleepy, and only opened her eyes to inquire drowsily:
“Was it a very grand dinner, Mummy?”
“Yes, dear, but the speeches were terribly long, and my head ached. I
am thankful I don’t have to send in my report before Monday, for I am
tired out. I am going straight to bed now, and if my cold isn’t better
I shall stay in bed in the morning.”
“That’s right. I’ll get breakfast. Is it a clear night?”
“Yes, the stars are shining, and there is a full moon. Now go to sleep
again; it’s very late.”
When Nora awoke the next time it was broad daylight, and the church
clock on the corner was striking seven. It was Sunday morning, and
there was no hurry, so she turned over, and tried to go to sleep again.
She was just falling into a doze, when she was startled by a sharp fit
of coughing from the couch where her mother slept, and in a moment she
was sitting up in bed, inquiring anxiously--
“Are you awake, Mummy--is your cold better?”
“I’m afraid it isn’t much better, dear,” Mrs. O’Neil answered in a
rather husky voice. “I’ve been coughing a good deal in the night.”
“And I never heard a sound,” said Nora, reproachfully. “Why didn’t you
call me to get you a drink of water or something?”
“I didn’t need anything, chicken, but I don’t think I will get up till
later. A day’s rest will do me more good than anything else. Do you
think you can manage breakfast by yourself?”
“Of course I can,” declared Nora, springing out of bed. “You know I
love getting meals. I’ll light the stove, and your coffee will be ready
in ten minutes. You know you always feel better when you’ve had your
coffee.”
Mrs. O’Neil closed her eyes, with a sigh of content. Her head ached,
and the thought of a whole day of rest was very pleasant. It was seldom
that she allowed herself such an indulgence. She did not open her eyes
again until Nora was at her bedside, breakfast tray in hand.
“Doesn’t the coffee smell good?” remarked Nora in a tone of
satisfaction, as her mother sat up in bed, and took the cup of
steaming coffee from the tray. “I didn’t burn the toast this time
either, and I opened a jar of marmalade; I thought you wouldn’t mind,
as it was Sunday morning.”
“Everything is delicious, darling,” said Mrs. O’Neil, heartily; “you
are a famous little housewife. You cook much better already than I did
after I was married, and had gone to housekeeping. How your father used
to laugh at my attempts to get dinner on the maid’s night out!”
“But you learned afterwards,” said Nora, “and so it was all right,
wasn’t it? And when Father was ill he used to tell you what a splendid
nurse you were, and how very comfortable you made him.”
Mrs. O’Neil smiled sadly.
“I am afraid your father was prejudiced,” she said, “but I am glad I
had learned some things before our troubles came, and the maid had to
be dispensed with.”
“It’s a beautiful day,” remarked Nora, irrelevantly, glancing toward
the window. “I think it must be quite warm, too. We shall have a lovely
afternoon for the park.”
“Perhaps so, dear; I begin to feel better already; I may be quite well
by the middle of the day.”
But, despite this hopeful prediction, Mrs. O’Neil continued to cough
a good deal, and before the morning was over had come to the wise
conclusion that to go out would be a foolish tempting of Providence.
“I’m very sorry, darling,” she told Nora, when the little girl came
bounding in from Sunday-school, with the joyful news that “it felt just
like spring.” “It almost breaks my heart to lose a possible chance of
getting a glimpse of my Kathleen, but if I should add to this cold I
might be laid up for a week, and what would happen to my work then? I
have to report on two large weddings to-morrow, and a suffrage luncheon
on Wednesday.”
Nora’s face fell, but she tried hard to keep the disappointment out of
her voice.
“Never mind, Mummy,” she said, cheerfully; “we’ll have a nice, cozy
afternoon in the house. I’ll tell you a new story I’ve made up. I
thought of it coming home from Sunday-school, and it’s very exciting.”
But though she tried hard to be cheerful, it was not easy, and many
were the wistful glances she cast out of the window, while preparing
the Sunday dinner. After dinner was over, and the dishes were washed
and put away, she sat down by her mother’s couch, and for a short time
everything else was forgotten in the interest of “telling her latest
story.” Mrs. O’Neil listened attentively, now and then interrupting
to ask a question, or make a suggestion. A writer of some ability
herself, she realized that her little daughter’s talent for “making-up”
was something more than a mere childish amusement. She knew that Nora
possessed a gift, which, if properly trained, was sure to bring her
in a rich harvest in the years to come. It was a great comfort to the
hard-worked little newspaper reporter to feel that whatever might
happen to herself, Nora would not be unprovided with the means for
earning a livelihood, for she had no near relatives, and there was no
one in whose care she could leave her little girl.
“It’s a very good story, chicken,” she said, when Nora had brought the
adventures of her heroine to a satisfactory conclusion. “If you keep on
improving, I am almost sure you will write books when you are older.”
Nora looked a little doubtful.
“I should love it,” she said, “but Father wrote beautiful books, and he
never made much money. I think I should like to make money.”
“Money isn’t everything, dear; there are other things much more worth
while than getting rich. Your father never made a fortune, but he was
very happy in his work. I would rather have written some of those poems
and plays of his than be the richest woman in New York.”
“I know,” said Nora. “Of course it’s beautiful to be a genius like
Father, and I’m very proud of him, but still, it must be very pleasant
to be rich.”
Nora checked herself abruptly, startled by the sudden look of pain on
her mother’s face.
“Don’t talk like that, dear,” said Mrs. O’Neil, almost sharply; “it
hurts me.”
“All right, Mummy, I won’t, but I didn’t know you minded. Oh, Mummy
darling, don’t cry!” And impulsive Nora flung her arms round her
mother’s neck and hugged her.
“There, there, darling, it’s all right,” whispered Mrs. O’Neil, holding
her little daughter tight, and hastily brushing away her tears. “I’m
just a foolish little Mummy, who ought to be ashamed of herself. But,
oh, my darling, think, it was only a chance. You might have been having
all the money and all the luxuries instead of Kathleen.”
“As if I wanted them!” cried Nora, indignantly. “Why, I wouldn’t
change places with Kathleen for the whole world. It’s lovely to live
in a beautiful house, and have lots of clothes, and an automobile, but
Kathleen hasn’t got you, and when I think of that sometimes it makes me
feel so terribly sorry for her I just wish I could do something about
it.”
Mrs. O’Neil laughed softly.
“You dear little comforter,” she said, kissing her. “Do you really love
me as much as all that?”
“I love you better than anything in the whole world,” said Nora,
simply, and after that they were both very happy for a long time.
But as the afternoon wore on Nora grew restless and although she tried
hard to interest herself in the book she had brought home from the
Sunday-school library, it was easy to see that her thoughts were not
on the story. There was no performance at the vaudeville theatre on
Sunday, so her services were not required by the Judson family, and
after a call at the door of their apartment, to inquire how Jimmy and
May were getting on, she came back to the studio feeling that all her
efforts at being cheerful were rather a hopeless failure. All the week
she had been anticipating this Sunday afternoon, and now it had come,
and there was nothing to do but sit at home and read a Sunday-school
book.
Mrs. O’Neil was up and dressed by that time, but her cough still
troubled her a good deal.
“It is really a beautiful afternoon,” she remarked, glancing out of the
window; “I wonder if I dare venture out.”
Nora’s face brightened.
“Perhaps if you put on your warmest things----” she suggested
doubtfully, but at that moment her mother was seized by another fit of
coughing, and her rising hopes sank again.
“I am afraid to run the risk,” said Mrs. O’Neil, with a sigh. “We
might have to sit in the park for a long time.”
“Yes, I know we might,” said Nora, resignedly, “but it’s such a lovely
day she’d be almost sure to come out. I’m sure nobody would stay
indoors who didn’t have to.”
There was a short pause, during which Nora stood flattening her nose
against the window pane, and gazing away over the chimney-tops in the
direction of the park. Then Mrs. O’Neil spoke.
“Nora,” she said, slowly, “would you like to go by yourself?”
With a bound Nora was at her mother’s side; her eyes fairly dancing
with joy and excitement.
“Oh, Mummy darling, may I? I’ll be so careful crossing the avenues, and
I know the way just as well as you do. Then if I see her I can tell you
all about it, and you’ll know she’s well, and---- Oh, Mummy, please!”
Mrs. O’Neil laughed in spite of her anxiety.
“Well, I believe I will let you go,” she said. “You have never been so
far by yourself before, but you are a sensible child, and I think I can
trust you. It would be a great comfort to know you had seen her, if
only for a moment. I get so worried sometimes thinking that she might
be ill, and I not know. So hurry and put on your things, dear; I’m
afraid it’s getting late.”
Nora needed no second bidding. Already she had whisked off her
house-dress, and was diving into the closet, in quest of more festal
attire.
“I’m going to put on my new dress,” she announced; “the one you gave me
for my birthday. It’s just like one she had on the rainy Sunday we saw
her going out in the automobile. Oh, Mummy, I do believe if somebody
saw me who didn’t know there were two of us, they might think I was
Kathleen. Wouldn’t that be exciting, but how in the world would I ever
explain?”
“I sincerely trust nothing of the kind will ever happen,” said Mrs.
O’Neil, gravely. “You are so much alike that I almost wish I had never
copied that dress and hat.”
“Oh, don’t be sorry, Mummy, please. It’s so nice to think I have some
things just a little bit like hers. Now I’m ready; wasn’t I quick? If
I see her I’ll throw a kiss--oh, not so she can see it, of course--and
I’ll say very softly, ‘It’s from Mother; she sends you her love, and
she’s so sorry she can’t come to-day, on account of her cold.’”
Ten minutes later Nora had crossed Columbus Avenue and Central Park
West, and was walking rapidly across the beautiful park to the East
Side. The day was warm for March, and the park was crowded with
pleasure-seekers, but Nora glanced neither to left nor right, so
eager was she to reach her goal, a certain bench near one of the
Fifth Avenue entrances. For more than a year now that particular spot
had been to her one of the most fascinatingly interesting places in
the world. To most people there might not be anything remarkably
interesting about the big brownstone house on Upper Fifth Avenue,
although its front windows did command a fine view of the opposite
park, but to Nora that house meant all the excitement and romance of
her life. For a long time Nora had wondered why it was that Sunday
after Sunday--weather permitting--she and her mother went to the park,
and she was told to play about and amuse herself, while Mummy always
sat on that one particular bench, and gazed and gazed over at the big
house opposite. They never went to any other part of the park except
in summer, when all the big Fifth Avenue houses were shut up. Then one
day, when she was nearly eleven, Mummy had told her--and from that day
Nora’s twin sister had been the romance of her life.
Nora’s heart began to beat fast as she approached the familiar spot.
There were no faces at the windows of the big house; no automobile
stood before the door. That was not surprising, however, for it was
still early, and, with a sigh of satisfaction, Nora took her seat on
the usual bench, prepared to await developments. But, contrary to her
expectations, nothing happened, and as the minutes passed, and the
afternoon sun began to sink toward the west, her hopes sank, too, and
her heart grew heavier and heavier.
“O dear! what shall I do?” she said to herself, with a sigh. “She must
have gone out before I got here, or else perhaps she’s ill. Mummy will
be so worried if I have to go home and say I haven’t seen her. If I
could only just make sure she’s all right.”
Another half-hour slipped by, and, with a last desperate glance at the
row of empty windows opposite, Nora rose to her feet. She was moving
slowly away, when she was hailed by a friendly policeman.
“Hello, kiddie! All alone to-day?”
“Yes,” said Nora; “Mother has a cold, and she let me come by myself.
I suppose you don’t happen to know if the people who live in that big
house over there have gone away?”
Nora’s tone was eager, and the man regarded her with some curiosity.
“The Crawfords, I suppose you mean,” he said. “That house belongs to
Duncan Crawford, the great financier. Why, I believe he’s gone to
Bermuda.”
“I know he has, but she hasn’t--I mean Kathleen, his little girl. When
she’s at home she almost always comes to one of the windows on the
third floor, but I haven’t seen her to-day.”
The policeman laughed good-naturedly.
“You seem to be interested in the Crawford kid,” he said. “Making a
study of millionaires, eh?”
Nora blushed.
“Good-afternoon,” she said rather hurriedly; “I’m afraid it’s getting
late.”
In another moment she was walking quickly away. The policeman looked
after her curiously.
“It’s queer how that young one and her mother turn up just here almost
every Sunday,” he reflected. “I wonder what they’re up to, and why she
wanted to know about the Crawfords.”
But the policeman had other things to think about, and in a very few
moments the memory of the pretty child, with big dark eyes, and long
golden curls, had passed from his mind. His beat was taking him rapidly
away from the neighborhood of the Crawfords’ home, so he failed to
notice a little scene, which, if he had noticed, would probably have
entirely changed the events of this story.
With feelings somewhat ruffled by the policeman’s remark about her
interest in millionaires, Nora walked on for several minutes, without
turning her head. She was sorry she had asked that question about the
Crawfords. Was not her mother constantly warning her against showing
too great an interest in Kathleen?
“Miss Kathleen, Miss Kathleen! stop for goodness sake! Where in the
world are you off to now, all by yourself?”
At the sound of the familiar name, Nora paused instinctively, and
turned her head. A stout, elderly woman was hurrying rapidly towards
her, her whole manner expressive of astonishment and disapproval.
“Oh, Miss Kathleen,” she panted, “you’ve gone and done it again, after
promising so faithful you never would. You come right straight home
with me just as fast as you can.” And Nora felt her arm seized in a
firm grasp.
For the first moment sheer astonishment had deprived the child of the
power of speech, but as the full realization of what this meant began
to dawn upon her, she made a feeble effort to free herself. At this
evident desire to escape, the clutch on her arm tightened perceptibly.
“Now, Miss Kathleen, don’t you try to get away, because know perfectly
well it isn’t any use. You promised your papa you’d be good while he
was away, and mind Sarah, and not get into any mischief. Sarah’ll have
a fit if she finds out about this, and so will Mrs. Anderson.”
“But I’m not----” began Nora, desperately. But the woman did not seem
to hear. She was walking very fast, and almost dragging the unwilling
child along with her.
“Now, Miss Kathleen, don’t hang back like that,” she urged; “it ain’t
one bit of use. What you want to do it for is more than I can make out,
with all the things you’ve got to amuse yourself within the house. It
really is very naughty, you know, but I don’t want to see you punished,
so if you’re good, and come right along with me, I’ll take you in the
basement way, and nobody’ll see you but Lizzie, and I won’t let her
tell. Mrs. Anderson and Sarah are both out.”
“But--but you’re making a mistake,” faltered Nora, whose heart was by
this time beating so fast that she could scarcely breathe. “I’m not
Kathleen; I’m Nora O’Neil; I----”
She paused abruptly, having suddenly realized that her words were quite
wasted on her companion, whose countenance did not even change, and who
continued to martial her charge along, in the direction of the park
entrance.
“Why, she must be deaf,” gasped Nora. “Oh, how ever shall I make her
understand?”
Then all at once, her heart gave a great bound. This was an adventure;
the first real adventure of her life. She suddenly ceased her efforts
to free herself.
“That’s right,” remarked her captor, in a tone of evident relief.
“Lizzie won’t say a word, if I forbid her, and not another living soul
need know how naughty you was, but it was lucky I saw you. I was taking
the short cut across the park, home from my daughter’s, and when I saw
you walking along by yourself, as bold as brass, why, I declare you
could have knocked me down with a feather. Now you just look up and
down the avenue before we cross; I’m scared to death of them autos, and
I’m so deaf I can’t hear their old horns till they’re on top of me.”
With these words, the woman, still holding her charge firmly by the
arm, plunged across the crowded avenue, and in another moment was
ringing Mr. Crawford’s basement door-bell.