"I'm sure I don't know what you will think of my asking," said Shirley
excitedly, "but I want very much to know whether there is any
possibility that you would rent a beautiful big stone barn you own out
on the old Glenside Road, near Allister Avenue. You do own it, don't
you? I was told you did, or at least that Mr. Walter Graham did. They
said it belonged to 'the estate.'"
"Well, now you've got one on me," said the young man with a most
engaging smile. "I'm sure I don't know whether I own it or not. I'm
sorry. But if it belongs to grandfather's estate,--his name was
Walter, too, you know.--why, I suppose I do own part of it. I'm sorry
father isn't here. He of course knows all about it--or the
attorney--of course he would know. But I think he has left the office.
However, that doesn't matter. What was it you wanted? To rent it, you
say?"
"Yes," said Shirley, feeling very small and very much an impostor;
"that is, if I could afford it. I suppose perhaps it will be way ahead
of my means, but I thought it wouldn't do any harm to ask." Her shy
eyes were almost filled with tears, and the young man was deeply
distressed.
"Not at all, not at all," he hastened to say. "I'm just stupid that I
don't know about it. Where did you say it was? Out on the Glenside
Road? A barn? Come to think of it, I remember one of my uncles lived
out that way once, and I know there is a lot of land somewhere out
there belonging to the estate. You say there is a barn on it?"
"Yes, a beautiful barn," said Shirley anxiously, her eyes dreamy and
her cheeks like two glowing roses. "It is stone, and has a wide grassy
road like a great staircase leading up to it, and a tall tree over it.
There is a brook just below,--it is high up from the road on a little
grassy hill."
"Oh, yes, yes," he said, nodding eagerly, "I see! It almost seems as
if I remember. And you wanted to rent it for the summer, you say? You
are--ah--in the agricultural business, I suppose?" He looked at her
respectfully. He knew the new woman, and honored her. He did not seem
at all startled that she wanted to rent a barn for the summer.
But Shirley did not in the least understand. She looked at him
bewildered a moment.
"Oh, no! I am only a stenographer myself--but my mother--that is----"
she paused in confusion.
"Oh, I see, your mother is the farmer, I suppose. Your home is near
by--near to the barn you want to rent?"
Then she understood.
"No, oh, no!" she said desperately. "We don't want to use the barn for
a barn at all. I want to use it for a house!"
It was out at last, the horrible truth; and she sat trembling to see
his look of amazement.
"Use it for a house!" he exclaimed. "Why, how could you? To live in,
do you mean? or just to take a tent and camp out there for a few days?"
"To _live in_," said Shirley doggedly, lifting her eyes in one swift
defiant look and then dropping them to her shabby gloves and thin
pocketbook, empty now even of the last precious nickel. If he said
anything more, she was sure she should cry. If he patronized her the
least little bit, or grew haughty, now that he saw how low she was
reduced, she would turn and fly from the office and never look him in
the face.
But he did neither. Instead, he just talked in a natural tone, as if
it were the most common thing in the world for a girl to want to live
in a barn, and nothing to be surprised over in the least.
"Oh, I see," he said pleasantly. "Well, now, that might be arranged,
you know. Of course I don't know much about things, but I could find
out. You see, I don't suppose we often have calls to rent the property
that way----"
"No, of course not," said Shirley, gathering up her scattered
confidence. "I know it's queer for me to ask, but we have to
move--they are going to build an apartment-house where we are renting
now, and mother is sick. I should like to get her out into the
country, our house is so little and dark; and I thought, if she could
be all summer where she could see the sky and hear the birds, she might
get well. I want to get my little sisters and brothers out of the
city, too. But we couldn't likely pay enough rent. I suppose it was
silly of me to ask."
"Not at all!" said the young man courteously, as though she had been a
queen whom he delighted to honor. "I don't see why we shouldn't be
able to get together on some kind of a proposition--that is, unless
father has other plans that I don't know about. A barn ought not to be
worth such a big price. How much would you feel like paying?"
He was studying the girl before him with interested eyes; noting the
well-set head on the pretty shoulders, even in spite of the ill-fitting
shabby blue coat; the delicate features; the glint of gold in the soft
brown hair; the tilt of the firm little chin, and the wistfulness in
the big blue eyes. This was a new kind of girl, and he was disposed to
give her what she wanted if he could. And he _could_. He knew well
that anything he willed mightily would not be denied him.
The frightened color came into the delicate cheeks again, and the blue
eyes fluttered down ashamedly.
"We are only paying fifteen a month now," she said; "and I couldn't pay
any more, for we haven't got it. I couldn't pay _as much_, for it
would cost sixty cents a week apiece for George and me to come in to
our work from there. I couldn't pay more than twelve! and I know
that's ridiculous for such a great big, beautiful place, but--I _had_
to ask."
She lifted her eyes swiftly in apology, and dropped them again; the
young man felt a glow of sympathy for her, and a deep desire to help
her have her wish.
"Why, certainly," he said heartily. "Of course you did. And it's not
ridiculous at all for you to make a business proposition of any kind.
You say what you can do, and we accept it or not as we like. That's
our lookout. Now of course I can't answer about this until I've
consulted father; and, not knowing the place well, I haven't the least
idea what it's worth; it may not be worth even twelve dollars." (He
made a mental reservation that it _should_ not be if he could help it.)
"Suppose I consult with father and let you know. Could I write or
phone you, or will you be around this way any time to-morrow?"
Shirley's breath was fairly gone with the realization that he was
actually considering her proposition in earnest. He had not laughed at
her for wanting to live in a barn, and he had not turned down the price
she offered as impossible! He was looking at her in a kindly way as if
he liked her for being frank.
"Why, yes," she said, looking up shyly, "I can come in to-morrow at my
noon hour--if that would not be too soon. I always have a little time
to myself then, and it isn't far from the office."
"That will be perfectly all right for me," smiled young Graham. "I
shall be here till half-past one, and you can ask the boy to show you
to my office. I will consult with father the first thing in the
morning and be ready to give you an answer. But I am wondering if you
have seen this barn, I suppose you have, or you would not want to rent
it; but I should suppose a barn would be an awfully unpleasant place to
live, kind of almost impossible. Are you sure you realize what the
proposition would be?"
"Yes, I think so," said Shirley, looking troubled and earnest. "It is
a beautiful big place, and the outlook is wonderful. I was there
to-day, and found a door open at the back, and went in to look around.
The up-stairs middle floor is so big we could make several rooms out of
it with screens and curtains. It would be lovely. We could live in
picnic style. Yes, I'm sure mother would like it. I haven't told her
about it yet, because if I couldn't afford it I didn't want to
disappoint her; so I thought I would wait till I found out; but I'm
just about certain she would be delighted. And anyhow we've _got_ to
go _somewhere_."
"I see," said this courteous young man, trying not to show his
amazement and delight in the girl who so coolly discussed living in a
barn with curtains and screens for partitions. He thought of his own
luxurious home and his comfortable life, where every need had been
supplied even before he realized it, and, wondering again, was
refreshed in soul by this glimpse into the brave heart of the girl.
"Then I will expect you," he said pleasantly, and, opening the door,
escorted her to the elevator, touching his hat to her as he left her.
Shirley would not have been a normal girl if she had not felt the least
flutter in her heart at the attention he showed her and the pleasant
tones of his voice. It was for all the world as if she had been a lady
dressed in broadcloth and fur. She looked down at her shabby little
serge suit--that had done duty all winter with an old gray sweater
under it--half in shame and half in pride in the man who had not let it
hinder him from giving her honor. He was a _man_. He must be. She
had bared her poverty-stricken life to his gaze, and he had not taken
advantage of it. He had averted his eyes, and acted as if it were just
like other lives and others' necessities; and he had made her feel that
she was just as good as any one with whom he had to deal.
Well, it was probably only a manner, a kind of refined, courteous habit
he had; but it was lovely, and she was going to enjoy the bit of it
that had fallen at her feet.
On the whole, Shirley walked the ten blocks to her narrow little home
feeling that she had had a good day. She was weary, but it was a
healthy weariness. The problem which had been pressing on her brain
for days, and nights too, did not seem so impossible now, and hope was
in her heart that somehow she would find a way out. It had been good
to get away from the office and the busy monotony and go out into the
wide, open out-of-doors. It was good also to meet a real nobleman,
even if it were only in passing, and on business.
She decided not to tell her mother and the children of her outing yet,
not until she was sure there were to be results. Besides, it might
only worry her mother the more and give her a sleepless night if she
let out the secret about the barn.
One more little touch of pleasantness there came to make this day stand
out from others as beautiful. It was when she turned into Chapel
Street, and was swinging along rapidly in order to get home at her
usual time and not alarm her mother, that a car rolled quickly past to
the middle of the block, and stopped just under a street-light. In a
moment more a lady came out of the door of a house, entered the car,
and was driven away. As she closed the car-door, Shirley fancied she
saw something drop from the lady's hand. When Shirley reached the
place she found it was two great, luscious pink rosebuds that must have
slipped from the lady's corsage and fallen on the pavement. Shirley
picked them up almost reverently, inhaling their exotic breath, and
taking in their delicate curves and texture. Then she looked after the
limousine. It was three blocks away and just turning into another
street. It would be impossible for her to overtake it, and there was
little likelihood of the lady's returning for two roses. Probably she
would never miss them. Shirley turned toward the house, thinking she
ought to take them in, but discovered that it bore the name of a
fashionable modiste, who would, of course, not have any right to the
roses, and Shirley's conscience decided they were meant by Providence
for her. So, happily, she hurried on to the little brick house,
bearing the wonderful flowers to her mother.
She hurried so fast that she reached home ten minutes earlier than
usual, and they all gathered around her eagerly as if it were some
great event, the mother calling half fearfully from her bedroom
up-stairs to know whether anything had happened. She was always
expecting some new calamity like sickness, or the loss of their
positions by one or the other of her children.
"Nothing at all the matter, mother dear!" called Shirley happily as she
hung up her coat and hat, and hugged Doris. "I got off earlier than
usual because Mr. Barnard had to go away. Just see what a beautiful
thing I have brought you--found it on the street, dropped by a
beautiful lady. You needn't be afraid of them, for she and her
limousine looked perfectly hygienic; and it wasn't stealing, because I
couldn't possibly have caught her. Aren't they lovely?"
By this time she was up in her mother's room, with Doris and Carol
following close behind exclaiming in delight over the roses.
She kissed her mother, and put the flowers into a glass beside the bed.
"You're looking better to-night, I believe, dear," said the mother.
"I've been worried about you all day. You were so white and tired this
morning."
"Oh, I'm feeling fine, mother dear!" said Shirley gayly, "and I'm going
down to make your toast and poach you an egg while Carol finishes
getting supper. George will be here in ten minutes now, and Harley
ought to be in any minute. He always comes when he gets hungry. My!
I'm hungry myself! Let's hurry, Carol. Doris, darling, you fix
mother's little table all ready for her tray. Put on the white cloth,
take away the books, set the glass with the roses in the middle very
carefully. You won't spill it, will you, darling?"
Doris, all smiles at the responsibility accorded her, promised: "No, I
yun't spill it I'll move it tarefully."
There was something in Shirley's buoyant air that night that lifted
them all above the cares that had oppressed them for weeks, and gave
them new hope. She flew around, getting the supper things together,
making her mother's tray pretty, and taking little extra pains for each
one as she had not felt able to do before. Carol caught the contagion,
and mashed the potatoes more carefully, so that there wasn't a single
lump in them.
"Goodness! But it's been hot in this kitchen all day, Shirley," said
Carol. "I had the back door open, but it just seemed stifling. I got
the ironing all done except a table-cloth, and I guess I can finish
that this evening. I haven't got much studying to do for to-morrow.
Nellie Waite stopped, and left me my books. I don't believe I'll have
to stay at home another day this week. Mother says she can get along.
I can leave her lunch all ready, and Doris can manage."
Shirley's conscience gave a sudden twinge. Here had she been sitting
under a lovely tree by a brook, eating her lunch, and dreaming foolish
day-dreams about living in a barn, while Carol stayed at home from
school and toiled in the kitchen! Perhaps she ought to have come home
and sent Carol back to school. And yet perhaps that nice young Mr.
Graham would be able to do something; she would not condemn herself
until the morrow, anyway. She had tried to do her best. She had not
gone off there selfishly just to have a good time by herself when her
dear ones were suffering. It had been for their sake.
Then George came in whistling, and Harley banged in gayly a minute
later, calling to know whether supper was ready.
"'Cause I gotta date with the fellas this evening, and I gotta beat
it," he declared impatiently.
The shadow of anxiety passed over Shirley's face again at that, but she
quieted her heart once more with her hopes for to-morrow. If her plan
succeeded, Harley would be away from "the fellas," and wouldn't have so
many questionable "dates" to worry them all.
George was in a hurry, too.
"Gee, Shirley, I gotta be at the store all evening," he said, bolting
his food hurriedly. "I wouldn't 'a' come home, only I knew you'd
worry, and mother gets so upset. Gee, Shirley, what we gonta do about
a house? It's getting almost time to move. I went to all those places
you suggested at noon to-day, but there wasn't a vacant spot anywhere.
There's some rooms on Louden Street, but there's all sorts in the
house. Mother wouldn't like it. It's dirty besides. I suppose if we
look long enough we could find rooms; but we'd have to get along with
only two or three, for they come awful high. We'd have to have three
anyway, you girls and mother in one, us boys in the other, and one for
parlor and kitchen together. Gee! Wouldn't that be fierce? I oughtta
get a better job. We can't live that way."
"Don't worry, George; I think we'll find something better," said
Shirley with a hopeful ring in her voice. "I've been thinking out a
plan. I haven't got it all just arranged in my mind yet, but I'll tell
you about it pretty soon. You don't have school to-morrow night, do
you? No, I thought not. Well, maybe we can talk it over then. You
and I will have to go out together and look up a place perhaps," and
she smiled an encouraging smile, and sent him off to his school happily.
She extracted a promise from Harley that he would be in by nine
o'clock, discovered that he was only going to a "movie" show around the
corner with one of the fellows who was going to "stand treat" on
account of a wonderful ball game they had won, found out where his
lessons were for the morrow, promised to help him when he returned, and
sent him away with a feeling of comfort and responsibility to return
early. She washed the dishes and ironed the table-cloth so Carol could
go to her lessons. Then she went up and put Doris to bed with a story
about a little bird that built a nest in a tall, beautiful tree that
grew beside the place where the little girl lived; a little bird that
drank from a little running brook, and took a bath on its pebbly shore,
and ate the crumbs and berries the little girl gave it, and sat all day
on five little blue eggs.
Harley came in at five minutes after nine, and did his lessons with her
help. George came home just as they finished. He was whistling,
though he looked tired. He said "the prof." had been "the limit" all
the evening. Shirley fixed her mother comfortably for the night, and
went at last to her own bed, more tired than she had been for weeks,
and yet more happy. For through it all she had been sustained by a
hope; inspired by a cultured, pleasant voice, and eyes that wanted to
help, and seemed to understand.
As she closed her eyes to sleep, somehow that pleasant voice and those
kind eyes mingled with her dreams, and seemed to promise relief from
her great anxieties.
It was with a feeling of excitement and anticipation that she dressed
the next morning and hurried away. Something was coming, she felt
sure, some help for their trying situation. She had felt it when she
knelt for her usual prayer that morning, and it throbbed in her excited
heart as she hurried through the streets to the office. It almost
frightened her to feel so sure, for she knew how terrible would be the
disappointment if she got her hopes too high.
There was plenty to be done at the office, a great many letters to
answer, and a telegram with directions from Mr. Barnard. But she
worked with more ease than for some time, and was done by half-past
eleven. When she took the letters out to Mr. Clegg to be signed, he
told her that she would not be needed the rest of the day, and might go
at once if she chose.
She ate her bit of lunch hurriedly, and made herself as fresh and tidy
as was possible in the office. Then she took her way to the fourth
floor of the Ward Trust Building. With throbbing heart and glowing
cheeks she entered the office of Walter Graham, and asked for Mr.
Sidney Graham.
The office-boy had evidently received instructions, for he bowed most
respectfully this time, and led her at once to the inner office.