THE FORECAST
The trip out to Sandford in the open trolley was bound to be either very
pleasant or horrid. Today it was horrid, for a light drizzle floated in,
not heavy enough to demand that curtains be lowered and not light enough
to be just damp. Gloria was going out to her Aunt Harriet’s in response
to the mysterious summons given in last night’s letter.
There seemed to be many things mysterious lately about her aunt, but
Gloria was determined that no unforeseen circumstance should come
between her and her father’s commission to the foreign port. From a
small beginning Edward Doane had quickly made his worth known to the big
firm he was employed by, and now the chance long hoped for had come,
right alongside of the opportunity to accept it.
Gloria’s education was to be assured, and with it that special care
expected from such circumstances as a first class boarding school
afforded. Because of the pronounced peculiarities of Gloria’s Aunt
Harriet, her father had not interfered with any matters concerning his
wife’s relatives, and even the loved Aunt Lottie had been very gently
refused when she had asked him to act as one of the two executors of her
estate.
Gloria did not know of the request. She only knew that her Aunt Harriet
and some strange man had been put in charge, and she was too delicately
sensitive about the whole situation to ask any direct questions.
There had been unexpected delays about the settlement, but these Gloria
condoned with the assurance to her father that with Aunt Harriet and
Hazel everything would be all right, and so she insisted he was to
finish up all his business and leave the details of hers to those just
mentioned.
The few passengers on the jerky trolley were taking their leave of each
other as the trip to Sandford lengthened, but Gloria had to ride to the
Green, then transfer to Oakley. The misty rain was collecting stringy
little drops when she alighted behind a rattling old farm wagon, and
when it passed and she emerged from her hiding place, she almost ran
into the arms of a girl crossing toward her.
“Oh, hello, Gloria!” greeted the girl with the wonderful smile.
“Whatever are you doing out here?”
“Hello, Trix,” called back Gloria, succumbing to the ready grasp of her
friend’s hand upon her arm. “I’m bound for Aunt Harriet’s—”
“Oh, of course,” interrupted Trix Travers. “Thought maybe you were out
for the postponed tennis match. It isn’t. Did you ever see such a mean
day?”
The two were upon the sidewalk now, Trix affably abandoning her evident
way to the north while she traveled south with Gloria. She was older
than Gloria but had that encompassing way about her that always swept
folks off their feet and into her graces. Even the tennis racket under
her arm had no cause to complain that it was being disappointed in a
possible victory, for Trixy held it fondly and found no fault herself.
The girls chatted as they walked, Trixy told Gloria of her cousin
Hazel’s try “in the tournament” and hinted of her ambitions to make the
team at “her school,” but Gloria was prudently impersonal, and only said
how fine tennis was, and how she wished the girls at Barbend would get
up a club.
“You babes,” teased Trixy, “better be playing bean-bag. It’s safer.” Her
sally was a compliment, the smile and tone completely belying her words.
Presently a little roadster swung up to the curb and a young man, after
greeting Trixy, asked if he could not give them a lift. It was while
driving out to Oakland that Gloria tried to vision herself in these new
surroundings permanently. The town was so unlike Barbend—a newly built
place with everything glowing and shining and threatening to break out
over night in further improvements. There was a hum and a din, but no
moan of the water bending over the bar, and no call of the kingfishers’
tallying their catches from the lake or river.
And how would Tommy compare with this artless Hal Caldwell? Of course
Hal was older, but would Tommy ever get to be like that? The capable
little car buzzed along. Trixy chatted first into Gloria’s ear then over
the wheel into Hal’s. Every one on the way bowed, smiled or called out
pleasantly, and while the ride was only a short one it seemed to Gloria
to typify life in Sandford.
They left her in front of her Aunt Harriet’s new cottage, and Trixy
wanted Gloria to promise she would call her up on the ’phone before she
left town. Trixy Travers was the sort of girl who makes friends as
readily as she smiles, and who keeps them without any more apparent
effort.
But whatever happened within the cottage between Gloria and her Aunt
Harriet it seemed to take all the glow out of the girl’s face, and to
put more gleam into her dark eyes. She did not wait to see Hazel later,
instead, she walked away quickly, not even waiting for the little
“jigger” that would have taken her to the regular trolley. Had Trixy
Travers happened to meet her on the return trip, perhaps even her
winning smile might not have been able to penetrate Gloria’s clouds.
The rain had stopped and it was late afternoon. A repressed sunset was
apologizing for the other dismal outlines of a jaded world, but none of
this diverted the young girl under the linen hat that shaded little
wisps of curls making tendrils to border the pretty face. It was pretty
even in its sadness.
Tommy happened to be at the square when her car rumbled in. She tried to
avoid him but he waited for her, his own face aglow with some good news.
“I made it!” he exclaimed. “I made the extra three dollars.”
“Oh, that’s good.” Gloria jerked her mind back to the disabled bicycle
and smiled.
“Yep, I ran the launch all afternoon and Pop Sargeant gave me the dollar
he’s been owing me so long.”
“That’s fine,” said Gloria abstractedly.
“And what do you think?” went on Tommy. “Old lady Trivett made mother a
present of a horse-shoe geranium, the kind ma always admired.”
“She never!” exclaimed Gloria.
“Sure did,” insisted Tom. “We were awfully surprised.”
“I should think you would be,” agreed Gloria. She and Tom were leaving
the village behind them and wending their way homeward.
“I tell you, Tom,” mused Gloria. “I guess poor old Nancy felt sorry for
being so—so hasty. You can’t always judge folks, can you?”
“No. Ma said she’d rather have that potted slip all ready for the
winter, you know, than most anything else.”
“So, see what your wheel spill did after all.” Gloria laughed
lightly—rather too lightly for Gloria. “That geranium’s what they call a
conscience gift, I guess,” she continued. “You know how Walter
Garrabrant sent a dollar to the trolley company last year?”
“Yes, but that seemed foolish,” replied Tom. “If he stole rides he
didn’t use any extra power.”
“Tom Whitely! I’m ashamed of you!” declared Gloria. “Of course the
trolley company can’t be robbed any more than other folks. I believe the
very meanest feeling must be that of taking and keeping something
belonging to someone else.” She shuddered so that Tom looked up queerly.
“What’s the matter, Glo? Did you have any trouble out to your aunt’s?”
“Why no. Of course not,” said Gloria quickly.
“How’s your cousin with the red hair?”
“Look out who you’re calling a red head, Tom Whitely,” charged Gloria,
“I can’t see that your own head is exactly black.”
“’Tisn’t as carroty as hers,” retorted Tom. “Well, how is the girl with
the golden locks? If you like that better.”
“I didn’t see Hazel,” replied Gloria indifferently. Then hurried to talk
of something else. “Tom,” she said suddenly, “I guess I’ll have time to
go over and see the peace offering. Jane doesn’t expect me till the six
o’clock car.”
“And Mumsey will be glad to see you, Glo,” responded the boy, brightly.
“She said this morning you were scarcer than hen’s teeth.”
“I don’t like to be compared with hen’s teeth, but since there isn’t any
such thing perhaps I’ll forgive you. How’s all the bruises?”
“Turning green and mother says that’s the last stage. But no fooling,
that old arm is stiff.” He demonstrated with a couple of easy exercises
and even winced at those.
“Get the wheel?”
“I wouldn’t take it. The chain rattled like a flivver. There’s mother
fetching in kindling. I thought I left enough for a week,” and before
Gloria had time to reply Tom was off to relieve the mother of her
kindling basket.
Amid praise and good wishes for Nancy Trivett the rose geranium was
presently exhibited.
“You can’t always tell the difference between a wasp and a bee,” said
Mrs. Whitely. “Both buzz a lot but only one poisons.”
“Well, Nancy is more the wasp—”
“Tommy-lad! You hush!” ordered the mother. “Nancy Trivett leads a lonely
life—”
“Moth-er!” mocked Tom. “As if any one could be lonesome with those
geese, chickens and—”
But the mother shooed the irrepressible Tom clear off the porch before
he could further tell of Nancy Trivett’s diversions.
“I heard Sally Hinds say the new teachers were to board at Blains,” said
Mrs. Whitely, while Toni remained at a safe distance.
“Yes?” said Gloria.
“What’s the matter, child? You don’t seem a bit like yourself,” remarked
Mrs. Whitely, noting Gloria’s abstraction.
“I’m just tired,” replied the girl, avoiding those eyes so like Tom’s in
their kind scrutiny. “And you see—I’m not going to Barbend school next
term.”
Then in snatches and exclamations, the prospect of Gloria’s change of
school, change of home life and change, perhaps, of acquaintance was
talked of. But somehow Gloria could not respond to her friend’s
sympathetic eagerness.
Tom went for Higgins’ cows while the way to the Doane’s cottage was
traversed, but before they had reached the lane where Gloria should have
parted with her companion, she suddenly jerked out a queer “S’long!” and
raced off leaving Tom with his mouth open wider than his eyes.
This was a new Gloria.