NORA EXPLAINS
“It isn’t true! I don’t believe it!”
Kathleen was staring at this girl so like herself, with wild, dilated
eyes.
“It is true; it is true,” maintained Nora. “Of course you don’t believe
it; I don’t see how you possibly could believe it just at first. I was
almost as much surprised when Mother told me.”
Kathleen had grown very white, and was beginning to tremble.
“I--I guess I’d better sit down,” she said, faintly; “I feel rather
queer.”
Nora put a protecting arm about her, and drew her to the sofa.
“You’ll feel all right in a minute,” she said, reassuringly. “May I sit
here, too? I’ve been wanting to know you for such a long time, but I
never thought I really should.”
“Tell me, tell me all about it, quick,” commanded Kathleen, and she
clutched Nora’s hand, and held it tight, as though fearful that this
mysterious visitor might vanish as suddenly as she had appeared.
Nora hesitated.
“I don’t believe I ought to tell,” she said, “but I guess I’ll have to.
I know if I were in your place I couldn’t wait a minute. But you see, I
don’t know how much you’ve heard.”
Kathleen gave a violent start, and a look of comprehension came into
her face.
“I know some things,” she said. “I know Daddy isn’t my real--oh, I hate
even to think about it, but he isn’t my very own father. He told me
once a long time ago, because he said he didn’t want me to find out in
some other way, but he loves me just every bit as much as if I were----
Oh, I don’t want to talk about it. I won’t even think about it if I can
help it.”
“But if you don’t think about it, how can I tell you?” said practical
Nora.
Kathleen made an impatient movement.
“Tell it quick, then,” she said, “and I’ll try to forget. Daddy never
said anything about a twin sister.”
“Perhaps he didn’t want you to know,” suggested Nora. “Did he ever tell
you about Mother?”
Kathleen shook her head.
“Of course I knew I must have had a mother,” she said, “but I thought
she was dead, like Mamma. Mamma died when I was six, and I can’t
remember her very well. Isn’t my other mother dead?”
“No, she isn’t,” said Nora, softly. “She’s the dearest, loveliest
person in the whole world, and she loves you--oh, how she does love
you!”
“Loves me?” repeated Kathleen, in a low, startled voice. “What makes
her love me? She doesn’t know me.”
“But you’re her own little girl, just the same as I am,” explained
Nora. “It nearly broke her heart to give you up.”
“Do you mean when she gave me to Daddy and Mamma?”
“Yes. You see, when we were babies Father and Mother were very poor,
and Father was ill. He was ill for a long time before he died, and
Mother had to take care of him as well as of us. It was terribly hard,
and sometimes there wasn’t enough to eat, so when a friend of Mother’s
came and told her that she knew some very rich people who wanted to
adopt a little girl baby, Mother felt she ought to let one of us go.
It nearly killed her, though, and if it hadn’t been for Father’s being
so ill, and needing medicines and nourishing food, she never could
have done it. We were so exactly alike that nobody but Mother could
ever tell us apart; even Father used to make mistakes. Mother wouldn’t
decide which baby to give, because she loved us both so much, so Father
had to do it, and it just happened to be you.”
Nora paused, and drew a long, deep breath.
“I’m glad he didn’t happen to choose me,” she said, simply.
“Why?” inquired Kathleen, in the same low, startled voice.
“Because then I shouldn’t have stayed with Mother.”
“Do you love her so very much?” Kathleen’s lip was quivering, and there
were tears in her eyes.
“Of course I do,” said Nora; “I love her better than anybody in the
world. That’s why I’d rather be with her, even though we’re poor, and I
can’t have any of the beautiful things you have. Mother is a newspaper
reporter, and we live in a studio at the top of a big apartment house
over on the West Side.”
“It’s very wonderful,” said Kathleen, slowly; “it sounds just like
something out of a story-book. I’m sure I shouldn’t like to be poor,
but you say you’re glad you’re not me.”
“Only because I’ve got Mother. I should love to be you for lots of
reasons, but not if I had to live away from Mother.”
“I don’t remember Mamma very well,” said Kathleen, reflectively, “but
she was very pretty, and Daddy loved her dearly. I suppose you feel
the same way about your mother that I feel about Daddy. I wouldn’t
leave him if he were the poorest person in the world, but he leaves me
sometimes. He’s gone away to Bermuda now, and I miss him dreadfully.”
“There’s one comfort in being poor,” said Nora; “Mother never goes away
and leaves me. She hasn’t got money enough, and there wouldn’t be any
one for me to stay with except the Judsons.”
“Who are the Judsons?”
“Some friends of ours who live on the second floor. I stay with the
children sometimes when Mrs. Judson is at the vaudeville theatre. By
the way, have you had the measles?”
“Yes, I had them last winter,” said Kathleen; “why do you want to know?”
“Because Jimmy and May Judson have them now, and I’m just out of
quarantine myself. I haven’t been to school for nearly three weeks.”
Kathleen settled back more comfortably among the sofa cushions.
“Tell me about school, and the Judsons, and--and about your mother,”
she said. “It’s all very interesting.”
And Nora, quite forgetful of the lapse of time, and of the fact that
her mother must already be expecting her return, told of home and
school, and mother, and her twin sister drank in every word, with a
strange, new light in her eyes--a strange, new feeling stirring at her
heart. She told of the Sunday afternoons in the park; of the patient
hours spent in watching for a glimpse of the wonderful twin sister, and
ended with an account of her adventure with the maid who had mistaken
her for Kathleen.
“It must have been on account of my hat,” she said. “You see, it’s just
like one you wear sometimes. Mother trimmed it, and I got her to copy
yours. I tried to make that old woman understand I wasn’t you, but she
didn’t seem to hear a word I said. She brought me in the basement way,
and told me to run right up-stairs, and she wouldn’t tell any one about
my being out by myself. I know I ought not to have come in; I ought
to have made her understand somehow, or told the girl who opened the
basement door, but, oh, it was so wonderful, and so exciting; I just
couldn’t help myself.”
“I’m glad you came,” said Kathleen; “it’s the most interesting thing
that ever happened to me. That woman must have been Ellen, the cook.
She’s very deaf, and people have to shout to make her hear anything.
She’s lived here a long time, and she’s very good-natured. I did go out
by myself once, and there was an awful row. I just went over to Aunt
Kitty’s; it isn’t far, and I knew the way perfectly, but nobody knew
where I had gone, and Mrs. Anderson and Sarah were frightened. I only
went because Sarah had been cross, and I was so tired of having her
always tagging after me everywhere. It wasn’t much fun, after all,
for Aunt Kitty was out, and I had to come home again. Of course they
scolded, and told Daddy, and he made me promise never to go out alone
again. I suppose you can go wherever you like.”
“I go to school alone,” said Nora, “and to some of the stores in the
neighborhood, to get things for Mother, but I never came over to this
side of the park alone before. Mother only let me come to-day because
of her cold. She was afraid to go out herself, and she was so anxious
to know you were all right.”
“Was she?” said Kathleen. “I’m glad. I didn’t know anybody cared very
much about me except Daddy. I think I’ll go home with you. I want to
see her.”
Nora clasped her hands in dismay.
“Oh, you couldn’t, you couldn’t possibly!” she cried. “Mother would
love it better than anything in the world, but it would never do.
You see, when Mother gave you to the Crawfords, she had to sign a
paper, promising never to try to see you without their consent. If Mr.
Crawford found out he might be very angry, and it might get Mother into
terrible trouble.”
“My daddy wouldn’t get anybody into trouble,” declared Kathleen.
“He’s much too kind. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind my going to see my own
mother. I shall tell him about it the minute he comes home.”
“But you promised; you promised!” pleaded Nora, actually wringing her
hands in her distress. “Oh, what shall I do--what shall I do? I ought
never to have told you, but you did promise.”
“Yes, I know I did,” said Kathleen, “and I don’t break promises,
either, so you needn’t be so worried. Just tell me where you live,
though, so I can think about it. Have you really got to go so soon? I
wish you could stay longer; it’s only a little after five.”
But Nora could not be persuaded to prolong her visit.
“I must hurry just as fast as I can,” she said, firmly. “I’m afraid
Mother will be frightened. She might even come out to look for me, and
that would be so bad for her cold. Good-bye, Kathleen. Would you--would
you let me give you a kiss? I’ve often thought how I should love to
kiss you.”
Kathleen’s answer was to fling her arms round her sister’s neck, and
for a moment the two children clung to each other in silence. Then
Kathleen whispered in a rather choked voice--
“It was wonderful to have you come, and I won’t ever forget you. Tell
her I love her, and if I can ever manage it without anybody’s finding
out I’m coming to see her.”
Nora’s face was suddenly illuminated by the light of a great joy.
“Oh, do you think you ever could?” she gasped. “Mother might not think
it was right to let you, but I won’t say anything to her about it, and
then she can’t object, and if you really did come I know she’d be too
happy to think of anything else. I’ll give you our address, and you can
write it down, so you won’t forget.”
“I won’t forget,” said Kathleen, confidently, and having given the
street and number, and another good-bye kiss to Kathleen, Nora tore
herself away from the embrace of her twin, and ran swiftly down-stairs.
There was no one in sight, and no one heard the opening and closing of
the front door. At that very moment, Ellen, the cook, was recounting
to a couple of friends--who had dropped in to tea--how she had found
little Miss Kathleen all by herself in the park, “as bold as you
please,” and how she had pounced upon her, and “brought her home as
meek as a lamb.”
“But I promised I wouldn’t tell on her,” she added, with an indulgent
smile, “for she’s a nice little thing, if she _is_ spoiled, and Mrs.
Anderson and Sarah do keep her very close since Mr. Crawford’s been
away.”
When Mrs. Anderson, the elderly housekeeper, reached home at six
o’clock, she found Kathleen curled up in an arm-chair by the schoolroom
fire, apparently doing nothing in particular, and to her inquiries
as to how the child had spent the afternoon, she received such short
and unsatisfactory responses that she retired to her room somewhat
offended, remarking to herself that “Kathleen really was a very cold,
unresponsive child.” But after tea, when she and Kathleen had gone into
the big music room, and the housekeeper had started the organ, which
ran by electricity, Kathleen suddenly drew close to her on the sofa,
and asked a rather unusual question.
“Mrs. Anderson, did you ever have a mother?”
“Did I ever have a mother?” repeated the housekeeper. “What an absurd
question. Of course I had a mother; every one has.”
“I mean do you remember her?” said Kathleen, flushing. “You see my
mamma died when I was so little that I can’t remember her very well. I
was wondering about yours.”
“My mother lived till I was past forty,” said Mrs. Anderson, “but we
mustn’t talk now; we want to listen to the music.”
“I don’t care about the music,” said Kathleen, impatiently; “I want to
talk. Was your mother very fond of you?”
“Certainly she was. My mother was a very fine woman, but unfortunately,
she had a paralytic stroke when she was seventy, and was quite helpless
for the last ten years of her life. Now do keep quiet and listen to
this beautiful selection. You are the most unreasonable child. Not
a word could I get out of you all tea-time, and now just because I
want to rest, and listen to the music, you must begin to ask foolish
questions.”
Kathleen said nothing aloud, but to herself she remarked emphatically--
“I don’t believe she’d understand what I mean anyway, so there isn’t
any use in talking to her.”
But later, when Selma, the Swedish chambermaid, was helping her to
undress, in the absence of Sarah, she suddenly broke silence to
inquire--
“Have you got a mother, Selma?”
Selma paused, with the hair-brush poised for action, and the tears
started to her kind eyes.
“Ah, no, Miss Katleen,” she answered in her slow, broken English; “my
dear moder did die last year, and it went near to break my heart.”
“Did it?” said Kathleen, and there was so much sympathy in her tone
that Selma, who was fond of talking, and who had not found many
congenial spirits in the Crawford household, was emboldened to continue.
“Yes, Miss Katleen, it was very sad. I love my dear moder so much, and
I always tink some day I go back to Sweden to see her. I send her money
all de time, but she write she want to see me so much.”
“I suppose mothers always want to see their children,” said Kathleen,
reflectively. “And if a mother had a little girl she had given away to
some one else, and could never see her any more, it would make her very
unhappy, wouldn’t it?”
“Oh, Miss Katleen, what funny tings you say. Moders do not give away
dere little girls.”
“Sometimes they do,” said Kathleen, “when they are very poor, and their
husbands are ill. I heard of one mother who did, and she kept on loving
her little girl just the same, although she could never speak to her,
because she had signed a horrid paper once.”
“Ah, but dat is very terrible,” said Selma, sympathetically. “Such a
ting would sure have killed my moder. When my little sister die, my
moder cry and cry all de time; she want her back so bad. Now, Miss
Katleen, de hair is done; shall I take off de shoes?”
It was more than an hour later when Sarah reached home. She occupied
the small hall-room next to Kathleen, and as she turned on the light,
and took off her hat and jacket, she was startled by a sound of
low, suppressed sobbing. Going to Kathleen’s door, she listened for
a moment; then softly turned the handle. The room was in complete
darkness, but there was a slight rustle in the bed.
“Are you awake, Miss Kathleen?” Sarah’s voice was kinder than it had
been in the afternoon.
There was no answer; only the regular breathing of some one who was
apparently fast asleep.
“I must have been mistaken,” said Sarah to herself, as she closed
the door, “but I was sure I heard her crying. What she could have to
cry for, though, is more than I can imagine, for if there ever was
a spoiled, pampered child, she is one. When I think of dear patient
little Miss Joy!” And Sarah’s reflection ended in a regretful sigh.