SHADOWS
When Gloria left Tom, after pressing her three dollars upon him, she met
her chum Mildred Graham. Millie had been out in a canoe with the girl
visiting old Mrs. Jenkins, and like Mrs. Jenkins, her visitor Katherine
Bruen, was a most likable person. She had all the city ways and city
graces, she dressed stylishly and looked well in the clothes, in fact
the girls whom she had met at Barbend considered Kathy quite the most
attractive visitor they had been privileged to entertain in a number of
summers. Her light brown hair was bobbed, as so many other heads of hair
were that year, and she had blue eyes with heavy lashes, rather too
heavy to look real, she was plump and wore dresses that seemed to have
been poured upon her—they were so slick and plain. Alongside of her,
Millie, who was really quite up-to-date, looked rather quaint in her
ginghams and flowered voiles.
“We were looking for you,” Millie told Gloria when the two fell together
walking the remainder of the way to their cottages.
“Oh, I’ve been working for dad,” smiled Gloria. “The pleasantest sort of
work—collecting launch dues,” she explained.
“We had a wonderful sail. Won’t we miss Katherine? She goes in two more
days,” sighed Millie.
“Yes, we will; I think Kathy is a splendid girl. But, Millie, vacation
is almost over for all of us,” Gloria reminded her chum.
“I wonder who will be the new teacher and what she will be like?”
“Perhaps I won’t be here to find out,” said Gloria wistfully. She was
purposely mysterious.
“Going away, Glo?”
“Perhaps.”
“Where?”
“I may go to boarding school.”
“Oh, how lovely!”
“It isn’t quite settled yet, and, Millie, you know, I’ve told you the
very first.”
Millie looked slyly out of her hazel eyes. “Before Tom?” she asked
archly.
“Yes. Before Tom.”
“Oh, I know, Glo,” and she squeezed the arm next her. “But I love to
tease. Tom and you are such a jolly pair.”
“If I go I shall surely miss you both,” said Gloria, with a solemnity
quite new and not exactly natural.
“As if we won’t miss you!” Millie’s tone was equally dramatic.
“Well, Millie, you know how long I have hoped for the chance and I am
not perfectly positive it has arrived now. But my Aunt Lottie always
promised to educate both me and my cousin Hazel. She, Aunt Lottie, was
an invalid, you know, and was afraid to part with any of her money while
she lived lest some turn in her ailment might mean very big
expenditures. She was lovely, poor little Aunt Lottie!”
The affection and sympathy in Gloria’s voice filled the space of several
moments as they walked. The red roof of Gloria’s low house could be seen
through the trees in the settling twilight, and the late summer flowers
were doing their fragrant best to sweeten the air, while frogs croaked,
birds whimpered and every living hidden thing poured out its soul in
vesper greeting.
“Your Aunt Lottie died last month, didn’t she?” finally asked Millie.
“Yes, and Hazel’s mother, Aunt Harriet, is settling her affairs. You
see, she lived with them.”
“Is Hazel to go to school with you?”
“I’m afraid not. They built a new house and Aunt Lottie gave Hazel’s
share to them for that. But dad would never touch mine. You know how he
works with this house. He just painted it all himself and, you know,
Millie,” Gloria’s voice was affectionate, “you know, dad never did heavy
work. He has always hoped to follow his calling, but I have held him
here. Now, Millie, I am telling more than I planned, but I know I can
depend upon you to keep it secret.”
“Of course you can, Gloria. But I just hope you won’t go.”
“Don’t you want me to grow up stylish, like Kathy?” teased Gloria.
“I don’t want you to go away, and I don’t want you to grow up like
anyone but Gloria Doane,” said Mildred fondly. “Now, I’ll have to run. I
promised Joe to help weed his garden and I’ve been out all afternoon.
So-long, Glo! See you tomorrow.”
“So-long, Millie,” waved Gloria, for her chum was running off with her
feet in one direction and her eyes in the other. Now she was looking
back at Gloria Doane as she stood for a few moments under the big cedar
tree.
Did Gloria want to leave all this? How peaceful and sweet it seemed now!
But no idle dreamer was Gloria. With the first temptation to feel sorry
for herself she called up the picture of her dad, Edward Doane, working
at a bookkeeper’s desk and dreaming of the great adventure. The young
man made serious through sudden hardship—the loss of a lovely wife and
the care of a darling daughter. This last would not have meant hardship,
if only things had been different in Barbend. But here he had come in
quest of the hoped-for health of an ailing wife. Here he had set up his
humble home, and here he had still remained for Gloria’s sake.
The girl and her dad were inseparable when he could be at home. He
taught her more than she had learned from books, and the best of his
gifts was a determination to overcome obstacles. When other girls of her
age were suffering from the well meant shelter and warning of the home
circle, Gloria was absorbing the lessons of courage and determination.
And now she was soon to see results. Her dad was going to have _his_
chance. He was to be free from the care of a rather fractious daughter;
he was to be unchained from the cottage that always needed a shingle or
a daub of paint; he was to go on the trip that would pay its own way and
take care of the explorer, while Gloria would be safely imprisoned in a
boarding school. She thought of it that way. No love of culture nor hope
of new adventure, even such as she had so long and so often read about,
presented to her anything like a glowing picture of boarding school
life. Kathy Bruen had done something to color up the prospect, but then
there was Millie, and Tom, and even her faithful housekeeper and
care-taker, Jane Morgan. Jane loved her and she was so faithful! Ever
since Gloria could remember it had been Jane.
Jane’s gray head made a second post at the gate just now. Gloria hurried
on to answer the unspoken call to supper. Her father would not be home;
he only came up the river twice a week in busy season and this was not
his night.
“There’s a letter for you, dear,” said Jane, with a smile that betrayed
the possibility of good news.
“From Aunt Harriet?”
“Postmark’s Sandford, so I guess it must be,” said Jane, winding an arm
around Gloria’s waist as they both moved to the door.
“I’m getting so excited now I can hardly wait,” said Gloria.
Jane threw her head up and turned away slightly, but not too secretly to
betray a sigh of regret.
“Of course I hate to leave you, Nanty,” said Gloria, using her pet name
coined to be as near “aunty” as no such relationship might imply. “But
then—it won’t be for long.”
“I know, Glory. It is going to be just beautiful for you and your dad.
As far as I am concerned, I might as well confess, I am aching to get
out to sister Mary’s and have a close look at all the children she is
constantly sending pictures of. Can’t tell whether they’re white or
black, big or little, and as for knowing or guessing which is good or
which is a rascal—” Jane stopped as if that were indeed too much even to
guess at from the serial snap-shots sister Mary Murdock, of Logan
Center, kept sending.
All during supper the two talked of the great prospects ahead, but for
once Gloria did not read aloud her letter from Aunt Harriet. She had,
however, read it over twice up in her room just before coming down to
the table, and what she suspected the veiled references therein might
mean, had by no means a pleasant outlook. Aunt Harriet wanted to know if
Gloria could go out to her home in Sandford to talk over a matter
without her father’s knowledge. She also asked Gloria not to make any
new plans until she had talked things over, “because,” the letter
stated, “there is something we must consider very seriously, and,” said
Aunt Harriet, “I hated to tell you about it before, so I just kept
putting it off.” Now that was like Aunt Harriet. She was plainly taking
refuge in a foolish excuse, nevertheless that there was really something
serious to be considered Gloria had not the slightest, not even the
feeblest doubt. She wished she had. The hint was very dark and all black
around the edges. Of course, being secret she would not consult the ever
faithful Nanty, but without her dad and without her caretaker’s
confidence just now, the burden seemed rather heavy. And just when
everything was so thrilling! So promising! It couldn’t be that something
would prevent her going to boarding school after all her plans were
made? And after her father was all ready to take the commission to go
abroad on his long hoped-for enterprise?
“Let’s go down to the post office,” suggested Gloria suddenly, with a
determined attempt to throw off the impending gloom. “It’s wonderful
out, Nanty, and I suppose you have been poking over that hot stove all
afternoon.”
Jane agreed. It was a wonderful evening and she always enjoyed a quiet
walk after tea, with Gloria.
“Don’t let’s do anything until we get back,” said the girl who was
already slipping on a bright red sweater. “We can work after dark but we
can’t see the sunset then.”
So it happened they met Tom Whitely coming toward their cottage. He was
slicked up as he always was for evening, his very brown hair bubbling up
in little curls in spite of all his troubles with it, and his fresh blue
blouse showing his brown neck to advantage. The blue garment was sold as
a blouse, his mother called it a waist, but Tom insisted that kind were
shirts. He scorned anything else.
Seeing Jane, Tom wondered how he was going to get a word alone with
Gloria. All three walked amiably along through the locust grove, but Tom
did not appear to get much vim into his answers, and made no attempt at
anything so positive as a question. He was very glum.
Finally, at Mrs. Mayhew’s, Jane stopped. “Suppose you two go on,” she
said, “and I’ll stop and talk to Clara. There she’s alone on the porch,
and I want to ask her something about apple jelly.”
This gave Tom his chance.