excitement. In the top tray lay a doll dressed as if for a wedding. She
wore a white satin gown, short-waisted, with a long panel down the
front, embroidered with tiny pearls and gold thread. Her little feet
were adorned with high-heeled slippers of white silk, also embroidered
in the tiny pearls. A necklace of shining stones, and two little
earrings made them gasp with delight. In the soft wavy hair was a high
shell comb. The little lady held a book in her clasped hands, and her
eyes, half closed, looked sleepily out from under long eyelashes.
"See! Here is a card," said Frieda, touching the soft folds of yellowed
tissue paper that lay around the little figure in the tray.
Hannah lifted the card with awe, and read: "The doll of Millicent
Wadsworth, as she dressed it on her own Wedding Day, to be put aside and
never played with more. The Bishop said it was a sinful Waste to dress
her so, but my Husband said he did not care!"
"What a reckless man My Husband was!" said Hannah, looking back at the
doll once more. "Think of playing with dolls up to your wedding day! I
wonder how old she was."
"Let's look in the other trays," suggested Frieda. They removed the top
one carefully, to find almost as delightful treasures in the next. Quite
as delightful, perhaps, for here was the little Millicent's
wedding-gown, with her slippers and necklace and high shell comb, all
like those the doll wore. Here, too, was a card, but written in an older
hand:
"The Wedding Clothes of Millicent Wadsworth Berryfield, married on the
16th anniversary of her birth to John Berryfield, Esq., a Devoted Lover
and Husband. She died three months and two days after of an Unknown
Malady. John Berryfield returned to England, leaving these, Her
Possessions, to be kept sacredly till he should come after them."
"It's dated almost a hundred years ago. Of course, he is dead too, now.
I wonder if she pined for her doll to play with."
Frieda, leaving speculation to Hannah, was taking the pretty garments
out, one by one.
"Here is another dress!" she exclaimed. "A pink one. O, Hannah, you
would look so pretty in this!" She held it up, quaint in style as the
other, with a little train, flowered silk over a straight front panel of
plain pink, tight sleeves with a little puff at the shoulder.
"I wonder--Do you suppose we dare try them on? They look almost big
enough."
"Of course, we dare. Miss Lyndesay told us to do what we liked and she
had peeped into this trunk, so she knew what was in it. We will be as
careful as careful can be."
They piled their arms with the delicate old fabrics and carried them
down to their own room where they proceeded to dress up. It was not an
easy process, for they dared not tug too hard, and Millicent had been
slenderer than they, though quite as tall. The little slippers defied
them, and the necklace of pearls they did not touch. "I think her
husband gave her that, and no one else should ever wear it," said
Hannah, and Frieda agreed.
By the time they had finished dressing, they were flushed and rosy. They
stole out into the hall and peered over the banisters to see if the
caller showed signs of departure. Miss Lyndesay was just closing the
door upon her. As she turned back, she heard steps on the stairs and,
looking up, saw a sight she loved always afterward to remember. Two
little Old World ladies, one in white and brocade, the other in flowered
pink satin, came down the winding stairs, their eyes bright with
excitement, their hair rough, and the big blue hair-ribbons, which they
had quite forgotten to remove, showing incongruously above their minuet
gowns.
"O you pretty children!" cried Miss Lyndesay. "Millicent herself wasn't
sweeter, I'm sure, when the Bishop married her off to John. Why didn't
you bring the doll?"
"We were afraid we'd drop her," said Hannah, stepping to the floor.
"There! I'm glad I'm safely down. You can't think what awkward skirts
these are to walk in. O!"
For as she turned, Frieda stepped on her train, and with shrieks both
fell to the floor, splitting their hundred-year-old seams.
Miss Lyndesay helped them up, laughing at their rueful faces, and
kissing away the tears that would come at the sight of the havoc they
had wrought.
"Cheer up, dear hearts! It was purest accident. And Millicent's pretty
gowns have served their purposes long ago. I've no doubt they can be put
together again well enough, and in any case you must not care! I forbid
it. Come, let's get back into our own century, and take a walk before
the sun goes down. I have no end of pretty by-paths to show you."
That evening, there was enough chill in the air for a small fire in the
living-room fireplace, and Miss Lyndesay seated herself before it on a
high-backed settle, with a girl on either side of her.
"If I didn't remember that one of the things Hannah liked me for first
was my habit of sitting quietly without work," she said, "I should be
tempted to improve these minutes by finishing the carving design I am
making to go over the fireplace."
"What is it? Let us see it, and maybe we'll let you. You have such a
peaceful way of working you don't make me nervous as some people do."
"It is there on the desk."
Hannah brought the brown paper, and she and Frieda bent over it
together.
"L-a-e," spelled Hannah, but Frieda looked up, delighted.
"I know. _Laetus sorte mea!_ It means 'Happy in my lot!' It is in
the book Tante Edith sent me for my birthday, about the little cripple."
"O, yes, _The Story of a Short Life_. I've read that, too," said
Hannah, "but I didn't recognize it just at first. I should think, if it
is to be your motto, you'd have to change the gender and make it
'_laeta_,' Aunt Clara."
Miss Lyndesay laughed. "I'm glad you both know the story. I expected
Hannah to, but hardly Frieda. Did you read it all by yourself, dear?"
"Yes," answered Frieda proudly. "I have read seven English books, and I
like that best. Mother and I made a list of Poor Things the way Leonard
did."
"O, how nice!" cried Hannah. "Did you put Bertha's lame sister on it?"
"Yes, and Onkel Heinrich's brother who can not see and is always
cheerful, and the little woman who sells string and roses in the shop
under us, and Edna Helm who had to stop school and go to work because
her father couldn't afford to take care of her."
"Poor Edna!" said Hannah. "I liked her best of all your friends. I'm
going to start a Poor Things book myself, when I get home."
"Have you ever heard of the Guild of Brave Poor Things in England?"
asked Miss Lyndesay, and as the girls showed their interest she went on
to tell them of the organization which took its name and its motive from
Mrs. Ewing's little story, and has grown into a large organization with
industrial schools and shops.
"So all these people, boys and men and women and girls who cannot work
in factories, because of some infirmity, are enabled to make beautiful
things and to sell them. I bought some of their doll furniture when I
was last in London. Let me see. Yes, it was in the box I unpacked
yesterday."
"Let me get it," begged Frieda, and as soon as she had been told where
to look she was off. She came quickly back again bringing a doll's
white-wood bed, strong and well-made as the fine old furniture which had
outlived Aunt Abigail and her parents.
"It is just right for Millicent's doll," cried Frieda, as she brought it
in. "Couldn't we put her in it, Tante Clara, to make up for having torn
the pretty dresses?"
"Indeed you may. I had no one in mind to give it to, but bought it
because I had enjoyed visiting the school at Chailey."
"Can all the cripples make pretty things like this?" asked Hannah,
wondering, as Frieda placed the bed in her hands.
"O, no, only a very few. But the Guild of Brave Poor Things does many
other things, besides establishing the schools. All maimed persons may
belong, and the guild makes investigations, finds out if they can be
helped by surgery, and, if not, tries to make their lives happier in
every possible way. Of course, those of them who can use their hands are
happier doing so than they could be in any other way. Every Friday
afternoon, from three to six, they meet in the settlement rooms and have
music and games and reading, and hear talks on interesting subjects by
ladies and gentlemen who are glad to tell them of their particular lines
of work. Then they have a short service of prayer--"
"Do they sing the tug-of-war hymn?" asked Hannah eagerly. "I remember
about that better than anything else in the book."
"Yes, they almost always sing that. I heard them, myself," and Miss
Lyndesay's eyes grew sweeter at the thought. "I have never heard
anything more affecting than that singing:
"'Who best can drink His cup of woe,
Triumphant over pain,
Who patient bears His cross below,
He follows in His train.'"
Frieda and Hannah were still as she finished speaking, and all three sat
looking at the fire for a few moments in silence. Presently Hannah said
softly:
"And _they_ have _'Laetus sorte mea'_ for a motto? I can see
how you could take it, Aunt Clara, for of course you have everything
anybody could want. You are well and beautiful and good, and have money
and talent and friends."
Miss Lyndesay was silent and Hannah, who had been studying the flames
reflectively, looked up presently to see why she made no reply. There
was a grave expression on her face, and Hannah's grew startled.
Miss Lyndesay, seeing the look of alarm in the child's eyes, smiled and
took her hand.
"Would you give up your father and mother for any or all of those
things, Hannah dear?" she said.
_"O!"_ cried Hannah in a hurt frightened tone, and Frieda suddenly
choked back a sob.
Miss Lyndesay lifted her head quickly.
"Girls, do you realize the absurdity of us? Here we started out
discussing: 'Happy in my lot' and in a few minutes we have grown sad
with the burden of sorrow of half the world and our own individual
troubles besides! That is anything but wise, isn't it? I didn't intend
to preach to you when I invited you to Brookmeadow. But since we are on
the subject, let's say a little more and then drop it. I do want you to
remember that while the people who seem fortunate often have something
to bear that offsets most of the pleasant circumstances of their lives,
at the same time, many people who seem to have nothing to be glad about
are persistently and genuinely joyful. The sad folk meet sadness
everywhere, and the glad folk find gladness. Let me read you something,
written by Sister Grace, who founded the order of Brave Poor Things
about the time you girls were born, and then I refuse to say or hear
another solemn word this evening!"
She took up a little pamphlet and read aloud:
"To bear pain cheerfully, to take defeat nobly, to be constant and
loyal, to be brave and happy with the odds dead against us, to be full
of sympathy and tenderness--these are gifts which mark out the truly
great."
"Now let's put Millicent's doll to bed," suggested Frieda, who disliked
solemnity and saw that Hannah was still staring into the fire. Miss
Lyndesay seconded the motion, and, taking candles, the three mounted
into the garret, sought out the old trunk and brought the beautiful doll
down stairs. There, by the fire, they laid her gently down on a soft
blanket in the pretty bed which was exactly the right size.
Then Evangeline appeared with a corn-popper and a sack of corn, and the
half-hour before bedtime passed quickly and merrily away.
When Aunt Clara had tucked her guests into the big four-poster, they
cuddled close to each other, forgetting the friction of the last few
days in present comfort, sleepily grateful for the glimpse they had had
that day of difficulties and griefs much greater than any of their own,
and each resolving to be happy in her lot.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ARRIVAL AT WINSTED
Mr. and Mrs. Eldred turned away from the station, from which the through
Chicago train had just pulled out, carrying with it two passengers for
Winsted, Wisconsin.
"Well, I'm glad that's over," said Mrs. Eldred aloud. "I always feel
sorry for Hannah when she has to say good-by. She does suffer so over
it, but she recovers quickly."
"She seems to be acquiring a comfortable philosophy," remarked Mr.
Eldred, as he looked at his watch and then up the street where his car
was not in sight. "She told me that the world was fixed wrong, because
it ought to be possible to be with all of one's beloveds at the same
time. 'But,' she added sagely, 'that's probably Heaven.'"
"'Earth being so good, would Heaven seem best?'" quoted Hannah's mother,
smiling. "We have all had to stay our hearts with that thought, I
suppose. I am much more content about both girls, since Karl and Miss
Lyndesay took them in hand. For a few days I really feared that the
adjustment might be too much for them. But Karl worked some magic spell
over Frieda, and Miss Lyndesay charmed Hannah. I must go over to
Brookmeadow this very week, and pay my respects to that remarkable
woman."
"Some mothers would be jealous of such an outside influence," suggested
Mr. Eldred, glancing fondly at his pretty little wife.
"Then they are very unwise," declared that lady decisively. "I remember
my own girlhood well enough to know that there were certain crises
through which my mother could not help me as well as an outsider, simply
because she was my mother. I'm not in the least afraid that any one
could be dearer to Hannah than I am, and she is such a bundle of
contradictions, of sweet impulses and rebelliousness, that I'm heartily
glad of all the help I can get in bringing her up. There's my car. Do
try to come home to luncheon. I'll be missing my lively children and
their German-English patois!"
The two girls on the train had settled themselves cosily with the aid of
a porter rendered over-zealous by Mr. Eldred's generosity, and were
watching the flying scenery and the other passengers with interest.
Frieda was not eager to arrive at her journey's end. She already missed
Karl and the friendly Eldreds, who had seemed nearer her own parents
than any one else in this strange country could. The prospect before her
was not wholly pleasant. Hannah had spent so much energy in singing the
praises of Dexter College, Alice Prescott and Catherine Smith, that
Frieda's desire to see them was distinctly modified by a jealous feeling
that such perfections must be somewhat tiresome. She was much more
interested in watching a bride and groom across the aisle, and in making
comments on American trains, some of which, according to her compact
with Karl, she kept to herself, meaning to unburden her mind in the
first letter she should write him. Others of a favorable sort she made
aloud to Hannah, who received them graciously, on behalf of the nation.
The day wore away not unpleasantly, but when the gas was lighted and the
bride frankly rested her head upon the bridegroom's shoulder, a mighty
homesickness swept over Frieda. She could barely choke down her food in
the dining-car, and hated a waiter for watching her with a white-toothed
smile. The porter was making up berths when they returned and the
proceeding scandalized her, accustomed as she was to the decency of
compartment trains.
Forgetting her promise, she spoke her disgust:
"Ladies and gentlemen like pots of marmalade on shelves in a cupboard!"
Hannah only laughed and scrambled up to the top shelf with the agility
of a squirrel, leaving Frieda to solitude and unsuspected misery.
The porter and the grinning waiter would not be forgotten. Their
blackness combined with the close warm atmosphere to alarm her. She
dared not undress, and when she tried to lie down, she felt as though
she should choke. The darkness seemed to her sleepy but resisting mind
to be taking on human shape. With her eyes closed she saw it develop
pink fingernails and gleaming teeth and eyeballs. Her real distrust of
anything foreign was made keener by her homesickness. At last she fell
into an uneasy sleep, clutching her purse and her gold beads tightly. At
each station she woke with a jerk and a horrible conviction that the
train had been wrecked and she was the sole survivor. Sometimes she put
her hand up and felt of the wooden wall over her head for assurance that
the upper berth to which Hannah had blithely committed herself had not
treacherously closed. There were subdued rustlings in the aisle now and
then, and quick brushings past her curtains which made her sit up,
gasping, her eyes staring into the dark and her heart thumping. Frieda
Lange crawled out of her tumbled berth next morning, certain that life
could have in store for her nothing more hideous than her first night in
an American sleeping-car.
Hannah, on the other hand, having "slept like a top, the way you ought
to in an upper berth," as she said with a gleeful laugh, and having made
her toilet with the lucky ease which seemed one of her characteristics,
was full of good spirits, and joyous anticipations. Winsted seemed very
near, and her bubbling joy over the prospect of seeing Catherine added
to Frieda's gloom. They went into the dining-car to breakfast, where
Frieda was so unfortunate as to be shot from her seat as the train
dashed around a curve, a glass of milk following her, anointing her hair
and face in a manner calculated to ruffle the serenest temper. Hannah
and the too friendly waiter helped her up with an effort at
self-control, but Frieda had mislaid her sense of humor.
The change of cars in Chicago was accomplished simply, Hannah thoroughly
enjoying leading the way and Frieda sulkily following. It would have
taken more than a fit of sulks on Frieda's part to have quenched
Hannah's joy in life that day, however, and she rattled on of the
pleasures coming, scarcely noticing Frieda's failure to respond.
"Winsted!"
Hannah was out of the car almost before it stopped. Frieda, delayed by
other passengers who pushed in ahead of her, saw the rapturous meeting
between her own Hannah and a tall sweet-faced girl with red-gold hair,
whose beauty she was obliged to admit, though she did so gloomily. "I
hoped she would be homely," she growled to herself as she stepped down
to the platform, and suffered Catherine to kiss her cheek.
"Let's walk," suggested Catherine. "It's much too beautiful a day to be
cooped in a bus. I'll have your bags sent up. O, Hannah, my darling,
I've been waiting ages for you! And for you, too, Frieda," she added
shyly.
But Frieda was regarding the wrinkled pleats in her dress, and was
conscious that her hair was still wet with milk; therefore she only
mumbled something and stalked along beside the others who, in their
delight at seeing each other, quickly forgot her, and chattered away in
English, with many little bursts of laughter.
Dr. Helen was out when they reached the pretty house on the hillside.
Catherine led Frieda to the big rose guest-chamber, and then carried
Hannah off across the wide hall to her own room and the little
dressing-room opening from it, which Hannah had occupied on her first
visit a year and a half before. The trunks arrived at once, and Hannah
immediately began to unpack, Catherine sitting on the edge of the bed
and exclaiming over every new frock as it came out. Frieda, left alone,
because she had only partly understood the invitation the others gave
her to join them, and had wilfully refused the part she had understood,
was wretched indeed. She sat stiffly on a straight mahogany chair, and
wished with all her might that she had never been born, or at least, if
that mistake had been inevitable, that she had never left her native
land.
Suddenly there came a quick tap at the door and Hannah, not waiting for
a "Come," ran in and tossed a parcel into her lap.
"What? Aren't you dressed yet? Do hurry. Karl asked me to give you this
as soon as we got here. Did Catherine show you your bath-room? You have
one all to yourself; isn't that lovely? It's the most beautiful house,
anyway. O, what dear roses on the dressing-table! Wasn't it just like
Catherine to put them there? Hurry up. Dr. Helen will be here pretty
soon, and Polly Osgood and Dot Winthrop are coming over to see us. I'd
put on that white poplin skirt and the waist with the blue butterfly bow
at your throat. You look awfully fetching in that. Yes, Catherine, I'm
coming," and she flew out, tossing a kiss to Frieda.
In her excitement she had spoken in English, and the compliment was
quite lost on Frieda who had not yet learned the meaning of "fetching."
That young person's sulks were not dissipated by the call, accordingly,
and there is no telling what depths of obstinate misery she might have
reached, had not Karl's parcel fallen to the floor and called attention
to itself. With a manner which suggested to her mirror that life was
distinctly not worth while, Frieda lifted the object and drearily
removed the wrappings.
From a small carved frame Karl's clear honest face looked out at her,
and a card in the corner read--in German--"Remember the compact,
Comrade!"
Like a flash brightness came back to Frieda's face. Good cheer was much
more natural to her than moroseness. From the face in the picture she
turned her gaze to the tousled reflection in the mirror. "The Fatherland
is not much honored by such a representative!" she said, and began
taking down her hair with a fine energy.
In the living-room downstairs teacups were clinking, and girls' voices,
subdued and sweet, mingled with laughter. Hannah, her back to the door,
was talking merrily to Dot, to whom she had taken an instantaneous
liking; Catherine bent anxiously over the tea-tray on the wicker table
in the window when Polly, from the comfortable depths of a low chair,
looked up and saw on the landing of the stairs a picture that made her
catch her breath.
Frieda, in a pale pink mull gown, with roses in her long soft sash, her
yellow braids wound into a garland around her head, her cheeks burning
with shyness, and her big eyes looking wistful and sweet, stood waiting.
Polly sprang up with a soft little "O!" Catherine, looking up, smiled a
welcome, but Polly went forward and taking Frieda's hands in both of
hers, said eagerly: "We've been waiting and waiting for you, Frieda."
Dot was introduced, but her usual self-possession promptly deserted her.
"I always feel as though I ought to shout to a foreigner," she had
confessed to Hannah, "and in order not to do that, I just have to keep
still." Catherine, who had felt a little rebuffed by Frieda's chilly
manner at the station, and Hannah, not quite sure what the present mood
might indicate, were both willing to leave to Polly the role she had
undertaken. Frieda sat quite near her, and watched her pretty bright
movements with gentle interest, maintaining a silence meanwhile only
surpassed in completeness by Dot's. Hannah rattled on, but there was a
hollowness in the rattle that made Catherine's hostess heart falter. She
was never fluent, herself. Her gentle art consisted in making her guests
entertain themselves and each other.
Then Dr. Helen came in, big, strong and competent, socially and in every
other way.
Her welcome to Frieda would have warmed an iceberg's heart. She hugged
Hannah, and gave her right hand to Polly and the left to Dot. "Give me a
taste of your tea, Daughter," she said, as she took off her gloves and
her hat and seated herself. "It will take something as strong as tea to
heal my weary spirit this afternoon. I've just had an emergency call."
Dr. Helen's eyes smiled reminiscently, and Dot awoke.
"Do tell us, do, do, Dr. Helen," she pleaded. "I know it's something
funny, by the twinkle in your eye. And we'll never, never tell."
Dr. Helen tasted her tea leisurely, and added a slice of lemon.
"I don't tell tales about my patients, but there is no sense in a rule
that isn't transgressed once in a while. You wouldn't know it was a
rule! And I do believe you girls will enjoy this and never tell."
"You 'give us credit for more discretion than you have, yourself?'"
quoted Catherine.
"If you like to put it that way! I was overtaken on my way home to greet
these visitors by a messenger from Mrs. Swinburne, saying that Elsmere
was very ill. It is a wonder that he has lived as long as he has, with
his reckless tendencies and such erratic care. So I hastened over to the
house. Mrs. Swinburne was in a mild state of hysterics, and it was some
time before I could quiet her enough to learn the difficulty. Then my
alarm vanished, changed to wrath, would perhaps be more accurate.
Elsmere had eaten all her pills! They were pills that would not have
hurt a cat. Mrs. Swinburne's ailments are of a nature to require very
weak remedies."
"Bread and butter?" asked Dot, with a twinkle as merry as the doctor's
own.