THE SOUTHBOUND LIMITED
Sally's first letter home was a short one, stating merely that Uncle
Timothy was very ill, very glad to see her, and that she was extremely
thankful she had come. The second letter, two days later, showed strong
anxiety. The illness was pneumonia, although not in its severest form;
but Mr. Rudd's age was an important factor in the case. For a week
bulletins were brief, then came a long letter, telling of improvement.
"The minute he is well out of danger she ought to come home," was
Max's opinion.
"She won't, though," Alec predicted. "She'll stay till she can bring him
with her."
"Not if she listens to me," and Max set about writing a reply which would
indicate to his sister in no uncertain terms the course he thought she
should pursue.
Her answer was prompt. "I want to come home just as much as you want to
have me, Max dear, but it is so much to Uncle Timmy to have me with him
I can't think of leaving."
Max frowned over this. "She seems to consult me precious little about
anything lately," he observed to Jarvis.
"You must admit she's grown up and can think for herself. Besides, much
as I'd like to see her back, I think she's right," was Jarvis's opinion.
"Of course you'd side with her against me every time. But I think her
brothers are a trifle nearer to her than her uncle."
"She'd undoubtedly think so too, if you were in bed with pneumonia. Since
you're all in vigorous health she imagines you can get on without her.
But she's not having a very jolly time of it, I should judge. Cheer her
up with a lively letter, not a peevish one," was Jarvis's advice.
"You can do that."
"I'm not writing."
"Not?" Max was surprised. "You and Sally haven't quarrelled, have you?"
"Not at all. But I've no reason to think she would care to hear from me.
You fellows are undoubtedly telling her all the news."
Jarvis flung a fresh log on the fire as he spoke, then took his place on
the hearth-rug with his back to the blaze and his face in the shadow.
Max stared at him interestedly, and was about to begin a discussion of
the subject when his companion abruptly opened up a new line of
conversation, in relation to plans for the farm, and the moment for
asking certain questions did not occur again.
The days went by, brief letters from Sally arriving at frequent
intervals. They reported very slow improvement in the invalid, with a
return of strength so tardy that she still felt she should not leave him.
The home in which they were was not that of relatives, and she was
unwilling to leave the responsibility of Mr. Rudd's care to those who had
expected to have him with them only for a brief visit. A month passed,
and then, just as her brothers were making up their minds that the limit
had certainly been reached and her duty done, came a letter which gave a
blow to their hopes. It read:
"DEAREST FAMILY:
"Doctor Wood has ordered Uncle Timmy South. The doctor says he positively
must get out of this wretched climate, and he must not think of coming
back before spring--and spring well advanced. If you could see what a
shadow of himself the poor dear is you would understand that I simply
must do what I have agreed to do--go with him. He will pay all my
expenses. I think he must have quite a bit more property than we have
known of, the matter of finances seems to trouble him so little. Of
course I know how you will feel about this--and I want you to believe
that I feel a thousand times sorrier than you possibly can. But I know
there is nothing else to do. He can't possibly go alone, and I can't see
mother's only brother have to hire some stranger to be with him when he
has a niece who loves him dearly and owes him for a deal of love he has
always lavished on her. It isn't as if you needed me in ways that Joanna
couldn't supply--for actual food and drink, I mean. Of course I hope--I
know--you all miss your little sister. I'm afraid I should feel very
badly if I thought you didn't!
"We plan to start Thursday evening, December third. We can't make quite
as good connections as I did in coming, so, according to Doctor Wood's
figuring with the time-tables, we shall go through the home city at one
o'clock on Saturday morning. We shall be in the station twenty minutes,
being switched around, and--well, I don't like to ask anybody to stay up
till that hour, but--I shall be up, and looking out--and--and--I'm almost
afraid that if I didn't see anybody, I should shed just a tear or two!
You see I haven't really cried once yet--and I don't want to break my
record.
"Your Sally."
It really is not necessary to report what was said in Sally's home upon
the receipt of this announcement. There was a good deal of excited
talking done, and a number of statements were made to the effect that it
was out of the question for Sally to be spared all winter, that she
should have waited for the consent of her family before deciding on such
an absence, and that it absolutely must not be allowed. Yet, after all,
when it came to forbidding it, nobody seemed to have quite the authority
to do that. Even Max, protesting that the thing was out of all reason,
and going so far as to take his pen in hand to write his refusal to
permit it, found himself brought to a halt by the remembrance that Sally
was showing more and more evidences of possessing a will of her own, and
of being perfectly competent to carry out its dictates when they seemed
to her right. Clearly she did not want to go South with Uncle Timothy--or
with anybody else. There was a homesick touch in more than one line of
the stoutly written letter--unquestionably Sally would not be doing this
thing if she were not persuaded of her duty.
At one o'clock in the morning of Saturday a party of people stood in the
great electric-lighted station. Again the offices of Mr. Jarvis Burnside
had taken the group past the usual hindrances and established them on a
certain platform, nearly in the centre of the rows of tracks, where the
Southbound Limited would come in. This time their numbers were
considerably augmented by the presence of Mrs. Burnside and Josephine,
Donald and Janet Ferry. Various packages encumbered the arms of each
member of the party, and appearances certainly boded well for the
reception of the young traveller who at the moment was watching eagerly,
as the train rolled through the familiar streets, for the first sign of
approach to the station.
"Here she comes!" Bob was the first to cry, pointing to a brilliant
headlight just rounding into view on the distant track. "Jolly, I'll bet
Sally's wide awake, if she ever was in her life!"
"I expect we're going to find out now how dreadfully short twenty minutes
can be," said Janet Ferry to Jarvis, beside whom she stood, an
attractively put-up basket of hot-house grapes in her hand.
He nodded, watching the great headlight grow all too slowly bigger and
bigger. "Even the twenty minutes will probably be cut short. The train's
considerably overdue now."
The long line of sleepers came to a stand-still beside them, and they
scanned the cars anxiously for the first sign of Sally. Far down the
track could be seen a coloured porter waving in their direction, and the
next instant a girl in dark blue jumped off the step of the Pullman and
ran toward them. They ran to meet her, Bob and Alec outstripping the
rest, and when the others arrived all that could be seen of Sally Lane
was the top of a bright head on Bob's shoulder, both blue arms about his
neck, his affectionate hand patting her back.
Then they had her in their midst, and everybody was trying to greet her
at once. Josephine's arm was about her, and Sally was regarding the group
with a radiant smile, crying girlishly; "Oh, how good you people do look!
How dear of you all to come down! If I only could stay just a little
longer! We don't stop but ten minutes, instead of twenty, the train is so
late. Uncle Tim doesn't know you are here--I was afraid he would be too
excited to sleep the rest of the night, and he's only just dropped off.
Oh, how are you all? You look perfectly fine--I don't believe you've
pined away a bit, missing me! Let me look at you."
She studied each in turn, missing nobody. Her clear gaze, the blue eyes
black beneath the shadowing thick lashes, met each answering pair of eyes
with a steady scrutiny which did not once waver.
"That was a review one would be sorry not to be able to stand," said
Ferry to Josephine, as Sally ended by thrusting her arm through Max's and
leading him off by himself. "Miss Sally put us all to the test in that
minute, didn't she? She gives the impression of demanding the best one
has--rather an unusual characteristic in a girl of her age."
"She does demand the best--and gets it," answered Josephine warmly.
Ten feet away Sally was speaking hurriedly: "The thing I wanted most to
see you for, Maxy, was to make sure you weren't really angry with me for
taking my own way about this."
Her hand pressed his arm. She was looking up into his face. He returned
the gaze. "I was angry, Sis," he admitted. "But, somehow, now that I see
you, I can't seem to get up steam to tell you so. I suppose you're
right--but the place is mighty lonesome without you. If it wasn't for
the Ferrys--"
"Are they over much?"
"We get them over as often as we can. I say, I've been noticing that
Jarve and Janet seem to hit it off pretty well."
"Do they? That's very nice. You like Janet yourself, don't you?"
"She's the belle of the ball, now you're away, and a mighty jolly girl to
have around. If you don't look out your old friend J.B. will slip away
from you."
Sally's head went up, her cheeks bloomed a deeper colour. "If I weren't
going to leave you in a minute I should punish you for that piece of
brotherly impertinence," said she, with spirit. "Have I ever laid hands
on anybody to keep him, for you to talk of 'slipping away'?"
"No--you're not that sort," conceded Max, with a laugh which certainly
carried a hint of brotherly admiration.
Sally walked straight over to Janet, at whose other side stood Jarvis.
"Janet," said she, "Max says you are the life of them all. I'm so
glad--and it's so kind of your mother and brother to bring you over to
make the evenings pleasant. You'll keep on being good to them all winter,
won't you?"
"Sally"--Janet caught hold of both her hands--"let me give you an
illustration of how nobly and completely I fill your place. The last time
we were over I played for them--played my best, too. I ended with my most
brilliant performance of Liszt. Two minutes afterward, when I had gone
back to the fire, I heard somebody very softly doing a one-finger
melody, picking it out note by note. I listened, and presently made out
one of your favourite 'little tunes'--'A Red, Red Rose.' I looked around
the group to see who was missing. It was not Bob. It was not Max. It was
not Alec. It was not Don. It was not--"
"Anybody. It was--a ghost," supplied Jarvis. He was looking intently at
Sally, but she was smiling back at Janet, and the colour in her face was
not less than it had been a moment before.
"My ghost, probably," she said lightly. "I'm sure if it were with you
all by that fire as often as I think about you, it would be playing
little tunes for itself, most of the time. Now I must spend my next
minute with Alec," and she was away again.
The minutes certainly were flying.
Janet looked after her. "There's something perfectly irresistible about
her, isn't there?" she suggested to her companion. He did not answer and
she glanced at him. He had pulled out a card-case from his pocket and was
writing something on one of the cards. He slipped the card into the big,
green paper-box he held.
"Suppose I take all our packages to the porter and have him put them in
her berth while she is off with Alec. Then she'll not have to bother with
them, getting on," he proposed. Janet assented, and in a minute Jarvis,
laden with packages, approached the porter. Retaining half his burden he
followed the porter into the car. He did not immediately return
therefrom, and when, three minutes afterward, the signal came for the
departure of the train, he was not in the group of whom she took leave.
"Has Jarvis gone? Say good-by for me to him, please, Jo," she whispered
as she embraced her friend. Waving the others back Max escorted her into
her car. In the passage they met Jarvis. Over her head the two young men
looked at each other.
"Good-by, sister," said Max, and kissed her, "I see Jarve wants me to cut
it short." With which tactful brotherly explanation he abruptly retraced
his steps to the vestibule, where he waited.
In the half-lit narrow passage Jarvis made the most of his minute of
grace, although Sally's hand was already extended, and a friendly
good-by, with a frank smile, was on her lips.
"Are you in such a hurry to be rid of me?" said he, taking the hand. "You
make me feel somehow as if you didn't care even for the old friendship.
Is that so, Sally?"
"Not at all. I care very much. It seems so good to see you all."
"To see 'us all' doesn't flatter me much." He smiled a little. "Sally,
may I write to you?"
"Do. Tell me all about everybody."
"Will you answer?"
"Now and then."
"You are--" He stopped, with a half impatient movement of his broad
shoulders.
"I'm Sally Lane." She said this very distinctly, even though both were
speaking under their breath. Then she laughed, with a delicate touch
of defiance.
"You certainly are," he agreed. "No doubt in the world of that. But I
want you to know I'm Jarvis Burnside, and that stands for something
too--something positive--and permanent. My letters will be signed by
that name."
"Mine--if I write any--now and then--will be signed by mine--The train is
moving. Good-by--old friend!"
She was a slim maid to oppose so colossal a resistance as she did to
anything in the least suggestive to sentiment in the leave-taking. Oppose
it, however, did the small hand which drew itself away with decision, the
pretty lips which smiled again that coolly friendly smile, the blue-black
eyes which were steady as ever in their straight look. Max, peering in
upon the two to tell Jarvis to come along, saw his sister break down in
her self-command, but only at sight of himself. As Jarvis turned away she
ran after him to reach beyond him and clutch her brother's arm for one
quick pressure, with the low cry, "Oh, Max--_please--please_--write to
me often!"
As Max jumped off, Jarvis turned again. Sally was upon the platform.
"That almost makes me wish I were a brother," said he rapidly, from the
bottom step, looking straight up at her. He prepared to drop off. "_But
not quite_" he added--and swung himself off and out of sight.
Back in her berth, the little electric side-light on, Sally opened her
bundles. Their contents made her feel like laughing and crying both
together, all by herself, there on the fast train flying southward
through the night. Janet's superb grapes, Mrs. Ferry's preserved Canton
ginger, Donald Ferry's little book of verse, with the ribbon mark opening
it at "My Garden," all pleased her greatly, each in its way. Then there
was a fascinating little traveller's work-box from Josephine, a letter
writing-case from Mrs. Burnside, an ink-pencil from Max, a package of
current magazines from Alec, a box of chocolates from Bob. The cards and
merry messages accompanying these remembrances made pleasant reading, and
Sally put them all together in her handbag, that she might look them over
many times.
Jarvis's box she did not open till the last. Why, might be a subject for
speculation. Does one leave the most interesting letter or package till
the last--or does one eagerly open it first? When everything else had
been disposed of Sally's fingers untied the cord slowly, she lifted the
cover with apparent reluctance, she drew aside the sheltering sheets of
green tissue as if she feared to disclose that which they protected. But
then, when the bright light at her side shone in upon fresh tints of
pink and white and lilac, she drew one deep breath and buried her face
in the mass.
"Sweet peas!" she murmured, and shut her eyes and thought of her garden,
lying forsaken and desolate in the December frost.
Then she picked up the card. On its back she read, in vigorous
pencilling:
"A ghost from the garden, sent by the ghost who tried to pick out the
'little tune.' There seem no other tunes in the world worth listening
to."
The next morning Mr. Timothy Rudd had many questions to ask his niece.
He sat comfortably among pillows and rugs, his breakfast brought in
from the dining-car and served in his section by a waiter who was ready
to show him every attention, to oblige the young lady whose smile he
liked to win.
"You say they were all down, Sally? This breakfast looks very nice, my
dear--I wish I could eat more of it." He laid down a half slice of toast
and brushed his thin fingers.
"Uncle Timmy, are you sure you can't manage just a little more? Two
spoonfuls of boiled egg, half a slice of toast, and a cup of
coffee--that's no breakfast at all. If I tell you all about it, won't you
eat just half the egg?"
"I'll try, child, but--really--the old fellow who is wearing my
clothes--and not half big enough for them--doesn't seem to be able to
summon much of an appetite."
"If you don't eat a good breakfast I shall feel more than ever guilty
for not telling you they were coming--though of course I didn't dream
of their _all_ coming. But if you had seen them you wouldn't have
slept a bit."
"No, like enough I shouldn't. I'll be satisfied if you tell me how they
all looked. The boys--Max?"
"Very well, indeed--he's a trifle heavier than when I went away. Joanna's
cooking is beginning to tell. I think she pampers them, don't you?--I'm
so grateful to her for that."
"Alec?"
"Just as usual. He was wearing a new overcoat, and looked a glass of
fashion! He says as long as Mr. Ferry lives in the country in the winter
he's willing to stand it there. Isn't it lucky they're staying at least
one more year? By another winter the demands on Mr. Ferry in town may be
so heavy he can't take time to go back and forth."
"Yes, I should say it was a very good thing for Alec to be as much
under the influence of such a man as could be brought about, until he
is where he can do his own thinking along the right lines. How is my
nephew Robert?"
"Oh, Bob's cheeks are so round and red they look like a very large
infant's. Dear Bobby--think he misses us most. He ran in and peeped
into your berth while the train stood there. I think he rather hoped to
wake you."
"Bless the lad--I wish he had." Mr. Rudd took another spoonful of egg
under the stimulus of the wish, forgetting that he had not meant to take
up that spoon again.
"Mrs. Burnside and Jo looked their own dear selves--every line of them.
It struck me afresh, as it always does when I see them after an interval,
how beautifully yet quietly dressed they are, and how their photographs
might be taken at any minute with delightful results. 'Portrait of a Lady
and her Daughter' it would be." And Sally sighed a little sigh of a quite
feminine sort, looking down at her own blue travelling attire and
wondering how the same material would have looked if made up by Mrs.
Burnside's tailor.
"And Jarvis--how is he? I am very fond of Jarvis. I suppose he has lost
some of the summer's tan?"
"If he has it's been put back again by the frosty winds, for he's the
image of health. Mr. Ferry and Janet are very much themselves, too. And
they all sent you something." Sally reached under the berth and drew out
a big florists' box, signalled the waiter to remove the remains of the
breakfast, and then spread forth the cards which accompanied the great
bunch of crimson roses, enjoying Mr. Rudd's almost boyish pleasure in the
remembrance of his friends.
"These must be for you too, Sally," said he, burying his nose in one fine
half-open bud.
"Not a bit of it."
"No flowers for you, child?"
"Fruit and chocolates and writing-tablets and other delightful things.
You must have some of the grapes, Uncle Timmy--I ought to have thought of
them for your breakfast."
"These roses are as good as a square meal--but they should have been for
you, not for an old fossil like me."
"Don't you dare call yourself an old fossil, Uncle Timmy. Now look at all
these pretty gifts," and Sally brought them forth, exhibiting them well
concealed from the other passengers. Uncle Timothy looked and exclaimed
and admired, and did not note that one person seemed to be unrepresented
by any remembrance. Neither did he guess that tucked far away under
Sally's berth was a box containing a mass of sweet peas which had that
morning been carefully sprinkled, but which were destined never to be
seen again by mortal eye except her own.