What that ride was to Shirley she hardly dared let herself think
afterwards. Sitting cozily beside Graham in the little racing car,
gliding through the better part of town where all the tall, imposing
houses slept with drawn blinds, and dust-covered shutters proclaimed
that their owners were far away from heat and toil. Out through wide
roads and green-hedged lanes, where stately mansions set in flowers and
mimic landscapes loomed far back from road in dignified seclusion.
Passing now and then a car of people who recognized Graham and bowed in
the same deferential way as they had done in the tea-room. And all the
time his eyes were upon her, admiring, delighting; and his care about
her, solicitous for her comfort.
Once he halted the car and pointed off against the sunset, where wide
gables and battlemented towers stood gray amidst a setting of green
shrubbery and trees, and velvety lawns reached far, to high, trim
hedges arched in places for an entrance to the beautiful estate.
"That is my home over there," he said, and watched her widening eyes.
"I wish I had time to take you over to-night, but I know you are tired
and ought to get home and rest. Another time we'll go around that
way." And her heart leaped up as the car went forward again. There
was to be another time, then! Ah! But she must not allow it. Her
heart was far too foolish already. Yet she would enjoy this ride, now
she was started.
They talked about the sunset and a poem he had lately read. He told
her bits about his journey, referring to his experience at the mines,
touching on some amusing incidents, sketching some of the queer
characters he had met. Once he asked her quite abruptly if she thought
her mother would be disturbed if he had a cement floor put in the
basement of the barn some time soon. He wanted to have it done before
cold weather set in, and it would dry better now in the hot days. Of
course, if it would be in the least disturbing to any of them it could
wait, but he wanted to store a few things there that were being taken
out of the office buildings, and he thought they would keep drier if
there was a cement floor. When she said it would not disturb any one
in the least, would on the contrary be quite interesting for the
children to watch, she was sure, he went easily back to California
scenery and never referred to it again.
All through the ride, which was across a country she had never seen
before, and ended at Glenside approaching from a new direction, there
was a subtle something between them, a sympathy and quick understanding
as if they were comrades, almost partners in a lot of common interests.
Shirley chided herself for it every time she looked up and caught his
glance, and felt the thrill of pleasure in this close companionship.
Of course it was wholly in her own imagination, and due entirely to the
nervous strain through which she had passed that day, she told herself.
Of course, he had nothing in his mind but the most ordinary kindly
desire to give her a good time out of gratitude for what she had done
for him. But nevertheless it was sweet, and Shirley was loath to
surrender the joy of it while it lasted, dream though it might be.
It lasted all the way, even up to the very stop in front of the barn
when he took her hand to help her out, and his fingers lingered on hers
with just an instant's pressure, sending a thrill to her heart again,
and almost bringing tears to her eyes. Foolishness! She was
overwrought. It was a shame that human beings were so made that they
had to become weak like that in a time of pleasant rejoicing.
The family came forth noisily to meet them, rejoicing openly at
Graham's return, George and Harley vying with each other to shout the
news about the garden and the chickens and the dove-cote; Carol
demanding to know where was Elizabeth; and Doris earnestly looking in
his face and repeating:
"Ickle budie fy away, Mistah Gwaham. All gone! All ickle budies fy
away!"
Even Mrs. Hollister came smiling to the door to meet him, and the young
man had a warm word of hearty greeting and a hand-shake for each one.
It was as if he had just got home to a place where he loved to be, and
he could not show his joy enough. Shirley stood back for the moment
watching him, admiring the way his hair waved away from his temples,
thinking how handsome he looked when he smiled, wondering that he could
so easily fit himself into this group, which must in the nature of
things be utterly different from his native element, rejoicing over the
deference he paid to her plain, quiet mother, thrilling over the kiss
he gave her sweet little sister.
Then Mrs. Hollister did something perfectly unexpected and
dreadful--she invited him to stay to dinner! Shirley stood back and
gasped. Of course he would decline, but think of the temerity of
inviting the wealthy and cultured Mr. Graham to take dinner in his own
barn!
Oh! But he wasn't going to decline at all. He was accepting as if it
were a great pleasure Mrs. Hollister was conferring upon him. _Sure_,
he would stay! He had been wishing all the way out they would ask him.
He had wondered whether he dared invite himself.
Shirley with her cheeks very red hurried in to see that the table-cloth
was put on straight, and look after one or two little things; but
behold, he followed her out, and, gently insisting and assisting,
literally compelled her to come and lie down on the couch while he told
the family what she had been through that day. Shirley was so happy
she almost cried right there before them all. It was so wonderful to
have some one take care of her that way. Of course it was only
gratitude--but she had been taking care of other people so long that it
completely broke her down to have some one take care of her.
The dinner went much more easily than she had supposed it could with
those cracked plates, and the forks from which the silver was all worn
off. Doris insisted that the guest sit next to her and butter her
bread for her, and she occasionally caressed his coat-sleeve with a
sticky little hand, but he didn't seem to mind it in the least, and
smiled down on her in quite a brotherly way, arranging her bib when it
got tangled in her curls, and seeing that she had plenty of jelly on
her bread.
It was a beautiful dinner. Mother Hollister had known what she was
about when she selected that particular night to invite unexpected
company. There was stewed chicken on little round biscuits, with
plenty of gravy and currant jelly, mashed potatoes, green peas, little
new beets, and the most delicious custard pie for dessert, all rich,
velvety yellow with a golden-brown top. The guest ate as if he enjoyed
it, and asked for a second piece of pie, just as if he were one of
them. It was unbelievable!
He helped clear off the table too, and insisted on Carol's giving him a
wiping-towel to help with the dishes. It was just like a dream.
The young man tore himself reluctantly away about nine o'clock and went
home, but before he left he took Shirley's hand and looked into her
eyes with another of those deep understanding glances, and Shirley
watched him whirling away in the moonlight, and wondered if there ever
would be another day as beautiful and exciting and wonderful as this
had been, and whether she could come down to sensible, every-day living
again by morning.
Then there was the story of the day to tell all over again after he was
gone, and put in the little family touches that had been left out when
the guest was there, and there was: "Oh, did you notice how admiring he
looked when he told mother Shirley had a remarkably keen mind?" and "He
said his father thought Shirley was the most unspoiled-looking girl he
had ever seen!" and a lot of other things that Shirley hadn't heard
before.
Shirley told her mother what the senior Mr. Graham had said about
giving her a reward, and her mother agreed that she had done just right
in declining anything for so simple a service, but she looked after
Shirley with a sigh as she went to put Doris to bed, and wondered if
for this service the poor child was to get a broken heart. It could
hardly be possible that a girl could be given much attention such as
Shirley had received that day, from as attractive a young man as
Graham, without feeling it keenly not to have it continue. And of
_course_ it was out of the question that it should continue. Mrs.
Hollister decided that she had done wrong to invite the young man to
stay to supper, and resolved never to offend in that way again. It was
a wrong to Shirley to put him on so intimate a footing in the
household, and it could not but bring her sadness. He was a most
unusual young man to have even wanted to stay, but one must not take
that for more than a passing whim, and Shirley must be protected at all
hazards.
"Now," said the elder Graham the next morning, when the business of the
day was well under way and he had time to send for his son to come into
his office, "now, I want you to tell me all about that little girl, and
what you think we ought to give her. What did she mean by
'obligations' yesterday? Have you been doing anything for her, son? I
meant to ask you last night, but you came home so late I couldn't sit
up."
And then Sidney Graham told his father the whole story. It was
different from telling his mother. He knew no barn would have the
power to prejudice his father.
"And you say that girl lives in the old barn!" exclaimed the father
when the story was finished. "Why, the nervy little kid! And she
looks as if she came out of a bandbox! Well, she's a bully little girl
and no mistake! Well, now, son, what can we do for her? We ought to
do something pretty nice. You see it wasn't just the money we might
have lost. That would have been a mere trifle beside getting all those
other folks balled up in the mess. Why, I'd have given every cent I
own before I'd have had Fuller and Browning and Barnard and Wilts get
entangled. I tell you, son, it was a great escape!"
"Yes, father, and it was a great lesson for me. I'll never be buncoed
as easily again. But about Miss Hollister, I don't know what to say.
She's very proud and sensitive. I had an awful time doing the little
things I just had to do to that barn without her suspecting I was doing
it especially for her. Father, you ought to go out there and meet the
family; then you'd understand. They're not ordinary people. Their
father was a college professor and wrote things. They're cultured
people."
"Well, I want to meet them. Why don't we go out there and call to-day?
I think they must be worth knowing."
So late that afternoon the father and son rode out to Glenside, and
when Shirley and George reached home they found the car standing in
front of their place, and the Grahams comfortably seated in the great
open doorway, enjoying the late afternoon breeze, and seemingly
perfectly at home in their own barn.
"I'm not going to swarm here every day, Miss Shirley," said the son,
rising and coming out to meet her. "You see father hadn't heard about
the transformation of the old barn, and the minute I told him about it
he had to come right out and see it."
"Yes," said the father, smiling contentedly, "I had to come and see
what you'd done out here. I've played in the hay up in that loft many
a day in my time, and I love the old barn. It's great to see it all
fixed up so cozy. But we're going home now and let you have your
dinner. We just waited to say 'Howdy' to you before we left."
They stayed a few minutes longer, however, and the senior Graham talked
with Shirley while he held Doris on his knee and stroked her silky
hair, and she nestled in his arms quite content.
Then, although young Graham was quite loath to leave so soon, they
went, for he could not in conscience, expect an invitation to dinner
two days in succession.
They rode away into the sunset, going across country to their home
without going back to town, and Doris, as she stood with the others
watching them away, murmured softly:
"Nice favver-man! Nice Gwaham favver man!"
The "nice-Graham-father-man" was at that moment remarking to his son in
very decided tones, as he turned to get a last glimpse of the old barn:
"That old barn door ought to come down right away, Sid, and a nice big
old-fashioned door with glass around the sides made to fill the space.
That door is an eyesore on the place, and they need a piazza. People
like those can't live with a great door like that to open and shut
every day."
"Yes, father, I've thought of that, but I don't just know how to manage
it. You see they're not objects of charity. I've been thinking about
some way to fix up a heating arrangement without hurting their
feelings, so they could stay there all winter. I know they hate to go
back to the city, and they're only paying ten dollars a month. It's
all they can afford. What could they get in the city for that?"
"Great Scott! A girl like that living in a house she could get for ten
dollars, when some of these feather-brained baby-dolls we know can't
get on with less than three or four houses that cost from fifty to a
hundred thousand dollars apiece! Say, son, that's a peach of a girl,
do you know it? A peach of a girl! I've been talking with her, and
she has a very superior mind."
"I know she has, father," answered the son humbly.
"I say, Sid, why don't you marry her? That would solve the whole
problem. Then you could fix up the old barn into a regular house for
her folks."
"Well, father, that's just what I've made up my mind to do--if she'll
have me," said the son with a gleam of triumph in his eyes.
"Bully for you, Sid! Bully for you!" and the father gave his son's
broad shoulder a resounding slap. "Why, Sid, I didn't think you had
that much sense. Your mother gave me to understand that you were
philandering around with that dolly-faced Harriet Hale, and I couldn't
see what you saw in her. But if you mean it, son, I'm with you every
time. That girl's a peach, and you couldn't get a finer if you
searched the world over."
"Yes, I'm afraid mother's got her heart set on Harriet Hale," said the
son dubiously, "but I can't see it that way."
"H'm! Your mother likes show," sighed the father comically, "but she's
got a good heart, and she'll bowl over all right and make the best of
it. You know neither your mother nor I were such high and mighties
when we were young, and _we_ married for _love_. But now, if you
really mean business, I don't see why we can't do something right away.
When does that girl have her vacation? Of course she gets one
sometime. Why couldn't your mother just invite the whole family to
occupy the shore cottage for a little while,--get up some excuse or
other,--ask 'em to take care of it? You know it's lying idle all this
summer, and two servants down there growing fat with nothing to do. We
might ship Elizabeth down there and let 'em be company for her. They
seem like a fine set of children. It would do Elizabeth good to know
them."
"Oh, she's crazy about them. She's been out a number of times with me,
and don't you remember she had Carol out to stay with her?"
"Was that the black-eyed, sensible girl? Well, I declare! I didn't
recognize her. She was all dolled up out at our house. I suppose
Elizabeth loaned 'em to her, eh? Well, I'm glad. She's got sense,
too. That's the kind of people I like my children to know. Now if
that vacation could only be arranged to come when your mother and I
take that Western trip, why, it would be just the thing for Elizabeth,
work right all around. Now, the thing for you to do is to find out
about that vacation, and begin to work things. Then you could have
everything all planned, and rush the work so it would be done by the
time they came back."
So the two conspirators plotted, while all unconscious of their
interest Shirley was trying to get herself in hand and not think how
Graham's eyes had looked when he said good-night to her.