A REVELATION
Once the letter writing began it fairly showered. Millie was at first
distinctly peeved that her best friend should have so long neglected
her, and at least three of her letters began with such a charge. Also
that Sandford was not “one hundred miles away” was repeated time after
time, but in spite of all this, Millie must have forgiven Gloria, for
there were many pages filled with affectionate declarations, as well as
news. It did seem the name of Ben Hardy or just “Ben” headed quite a few
items, and it was easy to guess that Millie still considered him a
“wonderful young man and all that.” Tom Whitely was so busy that Millie
had seen him but seldom, but the direct letters from that faithful
friend brought forth the information that he expected to get a place in
the new drug store.
Then, one day came a special delivery from Millie. Her folks were going
away to the city for the winter, quite unexpectedly, and she didn’t even
have time to come out to say goodbye.
“Well,” sighed Gloria crushing the little note in her warm hand, “that’s
another link in our daisy chain, broken.”
But she must turn to sterner realities. Her mind seemed to swing in a
circle around the suspicions betrayed by the mason’s children.
“I guess Jane was right when she used to tell me that joy is a picture
framed in shadows,” Gloria was deliberating. Not much given to such
fancies the fact of her entertaining them betrayed a very serious state
of mind.
“I’m glad the hoodlum’s father didn’t work on this house. I should never
feel comfortable here if I found out the charges meant walls unpaid for.
Of course, what I feel is mostly pride,” she qualified, “but one can’t
help being—proud.”
Her aunt’s change of attitude, and with it the life that had suddenly
bashed in upon her otherwise gloomy existence, was like a lifted veil.
But now there was this sinister threat of those impossible children.
What could it mean? Whom could she ask?
With this question uppermost in the mind, Gloria started for school. And
just as she had feared, the shadows that lined the joy pictures stood
waiting for her at the Elm Tree turn.
“Those children!”
There they were, four abreast in battle formation, confronting her with
some sort of guns ready to fire!
“I’ll fool them,” decided Gloria. “I’ll—go for them—first.”
She hurried so they would see she intended to catch up with them.
“Hey, there!” she called out, “Wait a minute.”
“Whadda y’u think we’re doin’?” came back the retort from the larger
boy. A glimmer of admiration shot across Gloria’s face. “They’re game
little things, at any rate,” she thought, “if I can only get them to
talk reasonably.”
The boy stood forth this time and openly charged her.
“Say,” he began, “what right has that girl to shake me? That’s what I
wanna know.” He stepped toward Gloria with a threatening gesture.
“Didn’t you try to hit me with that stone?” she demanded sharply.
“Suppose I did? Yeah, j’est suppose I did!” He was swaggering in that
way affected by boys usually styled “bullies.” Their idea is to frighten
the one they consider their enemy, to intimidate them as the boy does
his companions when playing Wild Indians.
“Now, see here,” said Gloria, in a tone not too friendly, “what have you
got against me? That’s what I want to know.”
With a gleam of scorn too deep for utterance the boy cast a look of
helplessness at his constituents, evidently his sister, small brother
and their girl friend. “Whadda y’u know about that?” he said finally.
“Don’t you know I just came to Sandford?” persisted Gloria. She was
anxious now to get the matter over with, for at any moment others might
happen along. “Why should you—pick on me?” she asked, smiling secretly
at the convenient phrase.
“Because you’re one of them, ain’t chu?”
“Who?”
“Towers.”
“I live there. She’s my aunt,” said Gloria defiantly.
“Then you can’t put up no innocent face,” spoke up the older girl. “Our
mother says you’re all alike.”
“Sure y’u are,” scoffed the boy, who had however, forgotten all about
his fight. He was just digging his heels in the ground as naturally as
any other boy might have been doing, and he looked at Gloria less
belligerently.
“See here,” attempted Gloria again, assuming as nearly as she could the
queer tone of voice the youngster employed, “I believe we could be good
friends if you would just—let me get on—to all this. Honest, I don’t
know what it’s all about.”
Her manner was irresistible. Even the little rebels felt its influence.
“Maybe she don’t,” said the boy aside. A smaller boy dropped two stones
right through what had seemed to be a pocket.
“Well, if you don’t know,” said the older girl crisply, “you had just
better come around to our mother. She’ll tell you.”
“All right, I will,” declared Gloria accepting the challenge.
“You wouldn’t dast,” said the boy. But he showed a spark of admiration
for Gloria’s courage. It was betrayed in his questioning tone of voice.
“Oh, wouldn’t I!” sang back Gloria. “You don’t know me.” She it was who
boasted now. “I don’t like anything better than a good fight— fair and
square and even,” she hurried to add. “If we’re going to fight, let’s
fight, but if we’re going to play fair, let’s play fair.” Secretly she
was chuckling that her former association with Tommy and his friends had
afforded her an education in their peculiar line of arguments.
“That’s right,” agreed the boy. The little fellow was calling him Marty
so Gloria took advantage of the information.
“Now, Marty,” she began again, first looking sharply over the road for
spectators or eavesdroppers, “if you say so, I’ll go up to your house
and have a talk with your mother. Honestly, I don’t want to be enemies
with you. But don’t you see, I don’t know anything about the fight?”
In that sullen fashion peculiar to children who have a forced maturity,
they all turned away toward the road to school. It did not occur to them
that an answer was due to Gloria’s question. They had a way of shutting
their lips tight, just like Jane would have done in trouble, and now
they marched off in what might be called “high dudgeon” if they had
known what that term meant.
Gloria smiled after them. She had seen other children just like these,
and one dominant trait in their character had always impressed her.
They were so loyal!
Also they were brave!
Not being wise enough herself to understand why this was so, she,
nevertheless, admired the children for it.
“I believe I could win Marty over,” she was thinking as she now hurried
along. Her brigands were well on toward the long hill that bent itself
up into a great, green hump, with a little smooth landing at the end
where Sandford School stood up majestically in all its modern
importance.
No nearer to an understanding of their motive in taunting her, Gloria
felt more urgent the need of becoming better acquainted with these
Gorman children.
“If I just dared go see their mother,” she meditated further. “But she
might eat me up!”
She had finally decided to search out the home of the children when on
her way home from school that afternoon a curious thing occurred. Old
Squire Hanaford hailed her, as she was passing his office.
“Isn’t your name Doane?” he asked briskly.
“Yes, sir,” replied Gloria.
“You’re Harriet Towers’ niece, ain’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” again replied Gloria.
“Well, I’ve been a’waitin’ to see you. Suppose you just step in a
moment,” he suggested.
Up the steps with a one-sided hand rail, Gloria followed the old man. He
was twirling his glasses in a professional way, and inside the small
door placarded with a country sign, she discovered the clue to his
profession. One sign read:
Homer Hanaford, Justice of the Peace
Attorney at Law
A sudden intake of breath followed her discovery. Why did he want her?
“You know, or maybe you don’t know,” began the man, swinging back in his
chair while Gloria gingerly sat on the edge of hers—“that your Aunt
Lottie—she was your Aunt Lottie, Charlotte Macumber, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, sir,” gasped Gloria.
“Well, as I was saying, maybe you don’t know that I am one of the
executors of her will.”
“I didn’t.”
“I thought maybe not.” He changed the position of his paper weight
although there were no papers to be weighted. “Well,” he continued, “I
am.” This was orated rather than said.
Gloria looked out of the window to hide an unbidden smile.
“And since your father is away—that’s right, I believe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I feel, I have felt for some time, I ought to ask you—well, to
enquire how you are gettin’ on over at your Aunt Harriet Towers?”
“Why, very well,” faltered Gloria. “Of course, I am getting along
splendidly,” she managed to amend.
“Then it’s all right, I suppose,” added the queer little man with the
deep set, squinting eyes. His manner was mysterious. He said he
_supposed_ it was all right, but the words and their tone included an
unmistakable doubt.
“Of course, I couldn’t go to boarding school,” Gloria could not help
complaining. “Aunt Hattie seemed to have mixed things up—”.
“I should say she did.” Again the paper weight was moved, this time to
the left. “I suppose you know that house is yours?”
“Mine?”
“It certainly is.” The man at the desk was speaking eloquently, but
Gloria was dumbfounded. “And if I can do anything to carry out the
wishes of that noble little lady, Lottie Macumber, I’m here to do it.”
“You say the house is mine? Why, that was built before Aunt Lottie—”
“Oh, I don’t mean the house they are living in. I mean the one that was
bought on ‘speck,’” Mr. Hanaford hastened to explain.
“But I didn’t know there was any other house,” gasped the mystified
Gloria.
“Well, now! And haven’t you heard your own story?”
“No,” said Gloria weakly.
“Don’t you know why you’re not at the fancy school?”
“Aunt Hattie started to tell me,” Gloria could not hold back her
emotion, “and I was so anxious that nothing would interfere with my
father’s trip that I simply would not listen. You see, dad had this
offer standing for three years. It was the foreign commission for his
firm.”
“Oh, I see. You were afraid if you heard the whole thing you might not
have the courage to come out here,” mused the old lawyer. “Well, I must
say I admire your pluck. I’ve heard about it. But it does seem to me
that you should stand up for your rights. In fact, under your Aunt
Lottie’s orders, I am bound to see that you do.”
Just then there flashed before Gloria’s agitated mind the memory of this
man’s name in connection with her Aunt Lottie’s only romance. Yes, the
name was Homer Hanaford.
“But the house. Which house do you mean?” she asked as soon as she could
collect enough reason to do so.
“They call it a fancy name, but that didn’t help it any with the Board
of Health,” replied the man. “You see, it looked all right and when Aunt
Hattie went into the thing she asked me about it, as she knew she had
to.” He shifted in the chair to emphasize this point. “I advised against
it, but she won Lottie over. Dear little Lottie! She was so gentle and
trusting.” He paused and sat very still. Not even the paper weight was
pressed into action. Yes, Gloria was reflecting, this must have been
Aunt Lottie’s knight. He who had sat by her in all her troubles and who
wore crepe on his hat at the funeral.
A bond of sympathy was immediately established between the girl at the
window and the man at the desk. It was so completely overpowering that
Gloria was reluctant to press her questions about the house.
But the lawyer promptly reacted to his duty. “Now, what I want to know,
little girl,” he said, “is, if you are really contented over there?”
“Why, yes. You see dad thinks I am at boarding school—”
“I knew Ed Doane would never have gone off and left you this way if he
knew the truth,” said Mr. Hanaford.
“But I’m all right at Aunt Hattie’s,” declared Gloria, a challenge in
her voice. She felt guilty in listening. It was her aunt who should have
told her all this.
“Oh, yes. I knew all three sisters. They were all fine girls. I knew
your mother too. She was like Lottie, gentle and trusting—” ruminated
the romantic squire.
“Do you think—I look like—my mother?” faltered Gloria, glad to change
the subject.
“Not much. Just the same curly little mouth, and yes, you have got that
famous Macumber dimple right in the middle of your chin.”
Gloria blushed at the close-up criticism. She had always wondered if she
did look like her mother. Jane said so, but Jane usually agreed on
pleasant questions.
“And you didn’t know about that fancy house that the Board of Health
condemned?” asked the lawyer.
“Why did they condemn it?” queried Gloria.
“Built on a swamp. Couldn’t drain the cellar. You see, a company started
a big boom, promised wonders and what-not to investors. Your Aunt Hattie
had put too much fixings in the house on Maple Street. I don’t know how
much she paid for the decoratin’ of her daughter’s room, but folks
around here know. It was talked over pretty generally. So I suppose she
hoped to retrench.”
This was what those children had meant! It was the house built upon the
swamp, of course, decided the startled Gloria.
“And couldn’t anything be done with it?” She found herself saying.
“Seems not.” Squire Hanaford scratched his head meditatively.
“And they have another house?” Gloria could not quite grasp this
startling fact.
“Now, you listen to me, little girl, and make no mistake,” said the
legal man. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong about your Aunt Hattie. Folks
blame her a lot, for indulgin’ her fastid-i-ous daughter and the
like-o-that, but they don’t know everything,” he insisted. “The fact is,
your aunt wanted to turn five hundred dollars into one thousand. The
offer was made her an’ a lot of others—she ain’t to blame alone. Others
bit just as hard. Well, here’s what happened. This speculator was a
young man, a likable chap. He thought he saw a good thing, bought up
that strip of land and made a little picture book park out of it. And
I’ll say this for him, he worked hard himself.”
Mr. Hanaford paused for breath. Also for a moment’s reflection, and
Gloria seized upon the space to insert a question of her own.
“Did they call it Echo Park?” she asked eagerly.
“The very name. Wasn’t that fanciful? Just like a magazine picture and
the whole thing now is—a swamp.”
“I’ve heard of the place,” said Gloria like one dazed. “It is out near
where my—my friend, Miss Jane Morgan, is visiting her sister. Wasn’t it
too bad? And did poor Aunt Hattie lose the money in that venture?”
“That’s where it went to,” said Homer Hanaford with finality.
Here indeed was a new problem.
What could a girl do to satisfy such a claim as the Gorman children so
rudely pressed?