Authors: Grace Livingston Hill
Sometimes she was weary enough to throw herself on her little white bed and cry; yet always, when she got near to it, the beauty of that rose-satin eider-down quilt would cry out to her, the silver frames on the wall, the silver-backed hair-brushes on the bureau, would reflect to her the love her brothers had given her, and their need and longing for her; and she would be constrained to rise and go on again with her burdens.
There was one thing she did not know, and that was that Cameron Stewart was watching her, taking notes of what manner of girl she was, and very much approving her. For Cameron Stewart had been transferred to the eastern office of his firm, and was making his home for the present out at Morningside with the friend whom he had called upon the day of the memorable ride on the trolley when he had seen Elsie crying.
But one morning coming down the street on his way to the station he saw Elsie standing at the corner by her father’s house, waiting for the trolley. Following an impulse, he took the trolley also. Thereafter, whenever he was out at Morningside, he went into town on that particular trolley, for a little experimenting showed him that Elsie always went in at the same time.
Yet he scarcely ever got even a bow for his trouble, for she walked to the nearest seat and plunged into her book which seemed to be absorbing; and she seldom had eyes for those about her. The first two or three times he was sure she did not recognize that she had ever seen him before; but he soon began to realize that she was avoiding him with intention. She never sat down near him if she could find another seat. Yet he liked her for it, and he usually planned to sit so that her clear profile would be outlined in his range or vision. He liked to see the sweet seriousness with which she performed her work, and to watch the business-like little hand that set down decided figures and characters in her notebook.
But somehow he did not seem to get any nearer to an acquaintance with her than if he had gone into town on the train instead of the trolley. Nevertheless, he continued to start early and patronize the trolley.
But one evening Cameron Stewart came boldly over to the house with a great armful of the most wonderful, glowing, out-of-door chrysanthemums, pink, white, gold, and crimson. He looked like a florist as he stood at the door and waited to be admitted; and the maid let him into the parlor where the fire was flickering sleepily away and the old cat, now robbed of her gauntness, sat sleek and neat, with her paws folded on the hearth and a contented purr rumbling softly in her breast. He drew a sigh of relief as he entered and looked around. He would not have liked to have that room be the conventional “best room,” crude, stiff, and ostentatious. He had felt that it would be different; but he had not been prepared for this room, this cozy, artistic, homelike refuge from the cares of the world; for that was what it looked like.
The big stone fireplace was finished with a stone shelf over which a latticed mirror gave the room a cozy distance. Each side of the chimney low bookcases were finished with casement windows, their lattice matching that over the fireplace. The firelight glowed over the gilt letters of the books and showed up their covers of crimson and blue and green. The old brass andirons that Elsie had found in the attic reflected the gleam of the fire.
A comfortable couch draped in a Bagdad rug, with big crimson pillows piled at the head, was rolled out into the room in the neighborhood of the fireplace.
All the other furniture in the room, the chairs, the music-cabinet, the big table with the pretty lamp, even the piano, seemed set in a grouping toward the fireplace, as though it were the heart, the altar, of the room. The walls were of a soft neutral tint, and the old crayon and oil portraits that hung about when Elsie came had been banished. Only two or three good pictures were left. Some small, inexpensive Oriental rugs were scattered about here and there, and the whole room looked a real “living-room,” not in any sense a parlor or drawing-room. It breathed its coziness and welcome as one came in.
The pleasantness of it entered the young man’s soul with a fine surprise. He had brought his flowers dubiously, wondering whether they would not be going into an alien atmosphere which it was doubtful whether they could do much in the way of glorifying. Now he realized that they belonged here and would glow out from the dusky quietness, catching the gleam of the firelight and blending exquisitely with the place.
Then Elsie came into the room, a fitting mistress of the place in her bright crimson house-gown, a little glow on her cheeks from a brisk walk she had just taken to the store for something that was needed for super, her brown hair ruffled into little rebellious curls around her face. She came forward with startled surprise in her face; which held him at a distance in spite of his strong resolve to break down the wall between them: He had risen as she came in the room and held out his flowers. “These flowers were just running riot in the yard,” he said, “and crying out to be picked. Our folks are all away for a week and you are the only person I know in Morningside. Will you take them and enjoy them?” What could Elsie do then but be gracious?
She took the flowers from him, and made him sit down while she began to arrange them in jars and a big brass bowl on the stone mantel. They seemed to be just the touch the room needed to make it perfect. Cameron Stewart looked from her to the flowers, and was thinking how they seemed to belong together, when she turned with a pretty little gesture of delight and said quaintly.
“O, don’t they look happy?”
He laughed joyously. The phrase was so unusual and so fitting.
“They do!” said he. “I was just trying to get hold of a phrase, but you have struck it exactly; they look happy. Flowers have to have the right environment to look their best, just as people do; and I believe this room was just made to set off these flowers. Everything seems to ‘look happy’ in here.”
He cast his eyes about admiringly, and let them rest for a moment lingeringly on the slim girl standing beside the flowers.
He did not stay more than a minute or two that first time. It was almost dinnertime. He could smell delicious odors faintly stealing through from the regions of the kitchen, and he knew he had no excuse to remain; but, as he was going out, he looked toward the piano, and noticed a volume of Beethoven’s sonatas lying open on the rack.
“You play!” he said with a sudden lighting of his eyes.
“A little,” said Elsie. “Of course I don’t have much time these days for practicing.”
“I wish I might come over and listen sometime.” There was a wistfulness in his voice, and what could she do but give him permission? Although she warned him that he would be sure to be disappointed if he came.
As he went out the door, Eugene came up the steps, a pile of books under his arm, and stopped his merry whistle at sight of the stranger.
Stewart put out his hand.
“You’re just getting home from the university? Then you come home every night? What a privilege!”
“Think so? Well, ’tis a privilege since my sister’s home,” admitted the young man with a gallant glance at the girl. “But one misses a lot of things not living down there.”
“Yes, a few, perhaps; but one misses a lot of things not being here, I should suppose; and I can tell you a university life gets mighty tiresome when one’s had it steadily without anything else. I’ve had ten years of school without any home to go to; so I know. Well, I won’t keep you. I can sniff a mighty good dinner waiting for you, so good-night.”
“He isn’t so bad when you see him close,” affirmed Eugene as he followed his sister into the house. “Ten years! Good-night!”
E
ugene’s work at the university was going very well. He was taking hold of things with vim, and seemed to be happy in his new environment. Elsie had not been long in discovering from her friend, Professor Bowen, that Tod Hopkins was no fearful bugbear to be dreaded. He was the best beloved of the university, the idol alike of both faculty and student body, the finest, strongest, brainiest, best all-around student, athlete, and everything else that the university had enrolled in years.
“And he’s awfully religious, too,” the principal had added. “Gives talks to the boys on all sorts of ethical subjects, and sometimes holds prayer meetings, actually
prays!
Doesn’t it sound strange? And yet the boys say it isn’t at all bizarre.”
Instantly all Elsie’s fears of Tod Hopkins vanished. If he was that kind of fellow, heaven be praised! She would do all she could to further Eugene’s love for him. And when after a little her brother came home with a mysterious little silver symbol embedded in the fabric of his vest, and announced that he was “pledged,” she said not a word against fraternities, but bent her energies toward furthering her brother’s plans.
“Our frat puts no end of stress on marks. We want to get the highest average of any frat this year,” he announced one day after he had been duly initiated and had exchanged the symbol of mystery for a pin of enamel and gold. Then Elsie openly rejoiced that her brother was a member. He was really studying hard. The mid-semester examinations were upon him, and now was the test whether he would be able to catch up with his class. She had been fearful lest he should get discouraged, but the blessed “frat” seemed to be behind him, cheering him on to success.
“Tod thinks I might stand a chance of getting on the scrub football team if I get through these all right,” he announced one morning at breakfast. “There’s a corker of an exam tomorrow in English lit, and I won’t have a minute today to study up, either. Have to be at shop work all the afternoon.”
“Never mind,” said Elsie, smiling. “I’ll come home early, and go over the things, and pick out what you ought to concentrate on; and then this evening we’ll go over them together. Professor Bowen says you can do twice as much in preparing for an examination if you have some system about your preparation instead of trying to cram all creation into your brain in one evening. You want to be sure of the stories of the books you’ve read, a general outline, and be ready to have some kind of opinion on the subject-matter of each. There’ll likely be a few dates to get fixed in your mind, and I’ll glance through things, and call your attention to any passages you’ll be likely to have to locate or quote, so you can brush up on them. Don’t you worry. I’ll stick by you, and you’ll get through all right.”
“You’re a trump, Elsie,” said her brother, flashing a look of appreciation toward her that sent her off to her school day with a warm and happy heart, and kept her thinking pleasantly, with real anticipation of the evening and how she could best help her brother.
Then at recess one of the girls came from the office with a message for her.
“Elsie, your cousin Katharine wants to speak with you at the telephone.”
Elsie’s heart beat wildly as she rose from her desk to go to the telephone. Not in all the weeks she had been away from her aunt’s had there come a sign or word from any of them except her uncle. He had written her a comforting little note the first week of her absence, telling her that they were missing her greatly, but he was proud of her that she could follow in the way of duty. He also enclosed a substantial check, which he asked her to use for little things that she might find lacking in her home, things to which she had been accustomed lately, and which she might miss. He said he should be happier to think she had them. She had responded by a frank, loving letter thanking him fervently, accepting the check, as she knew he would want her to do, and be terribly hurt if she did not, and telling him what a dear, precious uncle he was and how glad she was he was her uncle.
She had also written to her aunt dutifully and pleasantly, hoping that she was forgiven for insisting on following her present course, but trying to make it plain that she still felt even more strongly that it was the path of right, and begging that they would come out and see for themselves.
Not one word had she received in reply.
Later she wrote to each of her cousins, but nothing came in answer. The fourth week she wrote to her aunt again, and tried once more to make plain what she was attempting to do for her home, her father and brothers; but still nothing came of it. After that she settled down to the inevitable, and with many a tear tried to resign herself to the break with those who were so near and dear to her. She knew of course that they were away at their seashore cottage. But they had plenty of time to write.
Now, when the sudden, unexpected message came that Katharine was at the telephone waiting to speak with her, her limbs trembled beneath her, and things in the schoolroom seemed confused and whirling for just an instant. But she rallied, smilingly thanked the messenger, and went to the phone. Her hand trembled a little as she took up the receiver; but she managed to control her voice and say, “Hello!”
Yes, it was Katharine’s voice, but cold and distant, almost condescending in its reserve.
“Is that you, Elsie? Mamma wished me to phone for her and say that she has arranged to have some of your friends here this evening, and she would like you to come directly here from school and remain all night.”
“O Katharine! How dear of Auntie!” exclaimed Elsie, her heart all aglow with warmth, utterly forgetful of the cold tone in which the invitation was uttered. “But I’m
so sorry
I can’t come! It would be just beautiful, and I’m perfectly hungry to see you all; but it’s just impossible tonight. You see I promised Eugene I’d be at home early to help him with something—”
Katharine’s cold voice cut in on her explanation.
“Mamma has not been at all well since you left us in that unceremonious style, and you certainly owe it to her to do as she asks, especially when she has planned something for your pleasure. Telephone your brother you cannot come. You can help him another time. Mamma needs you now, and the other people are all invited.”
“I’m so sorry, dear!” wailed Elsie. “Anything else in the world, almost, I could put off; I would find some way to do it; but this is very important. You see Eugene—”