On a sudden Elsie buried her face and wept--the only tears she had shed since her coming to Enderby.

CHAPTER XXII

Touched and perplexed, Mr. Middleton gave over for the moment; but presently he had his opportunity to be extravagant. As soon as his wife was able to leave her room, the doctor ordered her to pa.s.s a portion of every day out-of-doors. This was partly to strengthen her lungs and partly for the moral effect. Doctor Fenwick feared that if she should revert to the long days upon her couch or bed with the novels and chocolates, the headache-powders or a subst.i.tute would follow, soon or late, with more perilous results. She submitted to his dictum with resignation, being, indeed, rather captivated by the idea.

Her husband and Elsie went into Boston and selected a rich and warm fur coat, fur-lined gloves and overshoes, and three warm, dark-colored serge dresses which were a great improvement upon the wrappers. On the day after she received them, Mrs. Middleton spent two hours on the porch with ill-concealed delight. And, thereafter, rising and breakfasting with the others, she pa.s.sed the whole of every forenoon out-of-doors, not only with beneficial results but with continued enjoyment.

The sentimental aspect, of course, appealed to her strongly. Sometimes she pleased herself by fancying that the doctor had discovered that one of her lungs was quite gone and the other a mere fragment, and feared to tell her. On such days her voice was feeble but breathed the same sweet patience that her face wore. Again, it was her heart "outwearing its sheath," as she put it. Always, however, she felt herself an interesting and picturesque invalid, and her martyr-like expression scarcely disguised her enjoyment of the role.

Unconsciously, her somewhat torpid mental powers quickened. The house being on the main highway, there was always something to look at against the background of the beautiful common, and she conceived a vivid interest in the pa.s.sing show. An active in lieu of a pa.s.sive mind did its part in the improvement of her health. The tables were turned. Now it was she who told Kate that the Berrys had a fine new motor-truck, and had apparently disposed of their dappled greys to the grain-man--she only wished _they_ traded with the grain-man--couldn't one buy oatmeal of him? And Rachel Stewart actually had a new dress in which she looked very trim, though it was too long right in the back.

Perhaps Elsie could speak to her about it at the library? Little Robbie Caldwell had begun to go to school alone since the new baby had come. And they had a new perambulator and had given the old one to the Howes, which would make it easier for little Mattie.

People pa.s.sing began to run up and ask the minister's wife how she did.

She was never very well; but she was so sweetly patient and so truly grateful that they lingered and their visits became frequent; children came on Sat.u.r.days and made children's long flattering stays; and presently there was never a morning when she did not have some one, and often she was not alone at all. And thus it came about that for the first time she came to know many of her husband's parishioners with some familiarity.

More than one reversed their judgment, and almost every one revised it.

Mrs. Middleton was sentimental--there was no gainsaying that; she was rather gushing. Yet she was truly kind-hearted, generous to a fault, thoughtful in many ways, with really keen intuition in certain directions. As people came again and again, she guessed many a hidden trouble or vexation, and her sympathy was warm and very grateful; while now and again she had a flash of inspiration that was marvellously helpful.

No one's revision of judgment was more sweeping, perhaps, than that of Elsie Marley. Somehow her former shrinking had quite disappeared during the long illness, and the change in Mrs. Middleton's appearance helped bridge the way to a better understanding. The old wrappers and tea-gowns had gone to the ragman. The new afternoon gowns Elsie had selected were yet prettier than the morning ones and very becoming.

The out-of-door air had already almost made over her complexion: her skin looked healthy, her color was good; and with the new fashion of wearing her hair, she began to look attractive and almost pretty.

She had not curled her hair since her illness, and now it was soft and smooth and seemed warmer in color. The nurse having parted it one day when Mrs. Middleton was convalescent, and coiled it upon her head simply, had declared it made her look like a Raphael madonna. The allusion was far-fetched, but it touched Mrs. Middleton's sentimental fancy, and she adopted that style of hair-dressing permanently.

In the morning, Elsie attended to her household duties and helped the minister. She fell now into the habit of spending the early part of the afternoon with Mrs. Middleton, going over to the library just before four. Doctor Fenwick having suggested knitting as a soothing indoor occupation, his patient sent for an immense quant.i.ty of wool--enough to keep half a dozen pairs of hands busy all winter--and began to make red-white-and-blue afghans for the Labrador Mission.

Whereupon Elsie proposed reading to her while she worked. Mrs.

Middleton was delighted, but when Elsie got "Adam Bede" from the shelves, she confessed that it tired her head. "Henry Esmond" was likewise too heavy, and Elsie groaned inwardly, expecting to be asked to read some of the paper-covered novels she was addicted to. She said to herself she simply couldn't: she had never in her life read any such trash and she would have to excuse herself. Then, looking up, something made her change her mind and decide to be a martyr. But before she could speak Mrs. Middleton herself had a happy inspiration.

"Oh, Elsie, I know what I'd just love to hear," she cried, "and what my poor head could take in as it couldn't Thackeray to-day, though when I'm strong I dote on him--I always took naturally to the cla.s.sics. But now I feel like one of Miss Alcott's books. I suppose you have read them over and over?" she asked rather wistfully.

Elsie confessed that she had never done so, but would be glad to make their acquaintance.

Mrs. Middleton was truly amazed--as was the minister, indeed; for his sister had known them almost by heart. They had the whole set in the house, and Elsie began with "Little Women" that afternoon.

For the first time she was reluctant to go to the library when the hour approached. It was hard to stop reading. And they laughed together in an easy, natural way that was quite new to their intercourse as each exacted a promise from the other not to look at the story again until they should go on with it together.

They went through the whole set that winter and sighed when they had come to the last volume. Perhaps no single thing had influenced Elsie Marley more than the reading those sweet, wholesome stories at that time and in that manner. She had already changed much, and was perhaps just ready for the influence. Reading them with Mrs. Middleton, she was drawn to her as she would never have believed it to be possible, as they laughed and cried together over the pranks and trials, joys and sorrows of those New England boys and girls of a singularly happy generation. And, unawares, she was strengthened for the hour of trial that was to come to her as it comes to every one that tampers with the laws that are inherent in the structure of the universe.

Meantime, circ.u.mstances were leading on toward that hour.

CHAPTER XXIII

Late one afternoon early in December, Miss Pritchard telephoned to Elsie to say that she would not be home to dinner as she was going directly from the office to see a friend who had been taken suddenly to a hospital. She was to dine in town on her way back and would be late home. Mr. Graham, whom Elsie would remember, had spoken of calling in the evening, and Miss Pritchard asked her to explain the circ.u.mstance to him and keep him until her return.

As she turned away from the telephone, Elsie sighed deeply. Mr.

Graham's name stirred up uncomfortable recollections. In any case, much as she had admired and liked him, she would have dreaded meeting him again; and to entertain him alone for an indefinite period, with his undivided attention focussed upon her, seemed an ordeal not only to be dreaded but truly to be shunned.

Suppose he should refer again to her darling mother--as he surely would! Acting or no acting, the girl felt that she couldn't deny her again. Should she do so, it would be like the Palladium ceasing to stand and Troy falling. And yet, what was she to do? If she didn't hold to her statement of the summer, wouldn't she hazard spoiling everything, not only for herself, but for the Elsie at Enderby?

Too wretched to allow herself the comfort of the window-seat in the bow, Elsie dropped down on the floor before one of the long, low windows of the adjacent side of the room, and gazing drearily out into the dusky street, tried to prepare herself for an impromptu scene with the coming guest wherein the matter of extraordinary dimples or sticky babies might come up at any moment and be skilfully parried. But stage-fright, confusion, and tears threatened imminently, like an ugly nightmare, and she said to herself there was no use, she simply dared not face it.

The temptation came to her to avoid the whole encounter by going to bed at once. She certainly felt queer--almost faint; and when she should be missed at the dinner-table and some one came up to see what had happened, she could truly say she didn't feel able to see Mr. Graham, and send word that he was to wait for Miss Pritchard.

As she considered the suggestion, reaching the point where Cousin Julia came in, the girl's heart smote her. Cousin Julia would be startled--yes, frightened. What a wretch she was deliberately to plan to cause her utterly gratuitous anxiety! And how practised, how _grounded_, in deceit she had grown, to turn thereto so readily for help out of difficulty! How very far she was getting from her cla.s.s motto, "Per aspera ad astra"! And she recollected a word, strange hitherto to her, which Cousin Julia had used in the summer. She had mentioned her hope, as she had looked forward to the coming of the real Elsie Marley, that she shouldn't have, at sixteen, become _inveterate_ in the ways of the Pritchard family. Well, wasn't she fast becoming _inveterate_ in the ways of deceit? Wasn't she, perhaps, already inveterate? Truly, she must be perilously near it. And oh, wasn't this a far, far worse sort of _inveterateness_ than the Pritchard sort?

And if Cousin Julia had dreaded that, how, pray, would she feel in regard to this?

Rising suddenly, Elsie rushed into her own room as if she were running away from the visions she had conjured. As she made herself tidy for dinner, her desperation grasped at a third expedient, a middle way.

Couldn't she get around the difficulty by preventing or forestalling the introduction of any doubtful topic into the conversation? During the time that would elapse between Mr. Graham's arrival and Cousin Julia's return--three-quarters of an hour at the longest, she supposed--she would keep him from bringing up any matter of resemblances, of big dimples, of madonnas, or sticky babies. She would monopolize the conversation, so far as she could, and direct it all the time. At the risk of utterly losing the good opinion of one of Cousin Julia's most valued friends, of appearing forward, conceited, tiresome, she would rattle on like the empty-headed society girl in certain modern plays. She would introduce utterly impersonal subjects, such as--at the moment she couldn't think of anything but prohibition, which would last about two minutes--and chatter foolishly and fast upon them, one after another. Then, if she exhausted them and all else failed, she would make such pointed and brazen references to her own singing that he would be obliged to ask her to sing--and once going, she could easily keep that up until Cousin Julia came to the rescue. And she certainly wouldn't sing "Elsie Marley" nor anything that would in any way remind Mr. Graham of it. Either she would shock that elegant gentleman's taste with the ugliest of ragtime, or she would inflict him with a succession of the operatic selections she had taken up with Madame Valentini. The latter choice would probably, upon Miss Pritchard's arrival, serve to bring up the unhappy matter of her abandoning the stage for music, but that would be a minor evil.

Mr. Graham appeared promptly at the hour Miss Pritchard had predicted, and Elsie greeted him in the role she had chosen and proceeded to give him a gushing account of their journey back to New York at the end of the summer. The artist, who had looked forward to seeing again the charming little creature who had been such a vision of grace and loveliness as she had sung and danced on the hotel veranda that summer day, was surprised and dismayed at the change, the almost distressing change, that had come upon the girl meantime. At first he took it for granted that it was the coa.r.s.ening effect of studying for the stage, but very shortly he had decided otherwise. Whatever his skill in reproduction, Charles Graham had the eye, the mind, and the heart of the portrait-painter; and now he read the little actress's behavior with a good measure of precision. Her restlessness, her chattering, the high, unpleasing pitch of her naturally lovely low voice, her a.s.sumption of the manner and speech of the blase young person of the stage, he saw to be primarily the cover of nervousness. He understood that the girl was troubled about something, was perhaps suffering, and tried to conceal it in this way. Moreover, he felt that, whatever it was, she was bearing it altogether alone, hiding it from everybody.

So far, so good. But presently he jumped to a false conclusion. As he referred casually to Miss Pritchard as an _inveterate_ optimist, suddenly all the color died out of the girl's face, the shadow in her eyes became momentarily genuine distress, and the bravado dropped from her manner. It struck him that there was some misunderstanding between his friend and her young cousin. And the pain this realization brought him was curiously acute.

"But, my dear child," he exclaimed earnestly, "hers is no cheap optimism. Miss Pritchard's wise, sane outlook upon life is the courageous, positive optimism of the seasoned soldier. She has known hardship and suffering, and it is victory over them that makes her serenity and strength so impressive."

As the artist paused, he glanced with searching kindness at the girl who was such a mere child, after all. But he seemed to feel a touch of hardness or of obstinacy in the way she set her lips. He couldn't bear the idea of her misunderstanding Miss Pritchard.

"I wonder, Miss Marley, if you ever heard about Miss Pritchard's love-story?" he asked rather hesitatingly. "It all happened of course before you were born; but your family may have spoken of it to you?"

Elsie raised her eyes quickly, regardless of the fact that there were tears in them.

"Oh, no, Mr. Graham, I never knew--anything about it," she almost gasped.

"Then I believe I will tell you," he said gravely. "If ever you should--well, it makes one understand why Miss Pritchard so impresses even a chance stranger with the strength of her personality."

He sighed. "It was years ago. Miss Pritchard was a newspaper woman at the time--the most brilliant reporter, man or woman, in the city, we thought her, in the little coterie of journalists and artists to which we both belonged. More than one of us would have given all he had to win her love. I don't mind saying to you, Miss Marley, that it was because I could not win it that I have never married. She bestowed it, however, upon an older man and a more brilliant than any of us. At that time he was city editor of one of the big dailies; he had invested a moderate inheritance wisely, and was worth millions when he died.

Miss Pritchard was in her late twenties, and though she was called plain, possessed rare beauty of expression that is of course the highest beauty of all; and it was no mere girl's heart that she gave that man. She loved him with the intensity and maturity of a generous, n.o.ble woman. He returned the love and he appreciated her fineness; and yet he was unworthy of her. In the course of his business life, at a certain stage of his career, he did something which, while it wasn't dishonorable, wasn't strictly honorable. By means of this action, which no one else of the few who knew it deemed reprehensible, he gained prestige for his paper as well as for himself; but he lost Julia Pritchard. Had he yielded in a moment of temptation, though it would still have hurt her cruelly, I believe she would have overlooked his fault. But the act was deliberate; and though he regretted it bitterly and to his dying day, it was only because Miss Pritchard looked at it as she did. Of the act itself, he never repented."

When Miss Pritchard came in, she noticed at once that Elsie looked very pale--almost ill. After greeting her old friend warmly, she turned anxiously to the girl.

"Has it been a hard day, honey?" she asked tenderly.

"Oh, yes, Cousin Julia," Elsie returned mournfully. And Mr. Graham felt not only that his suspicion had been correct but that his relating the story had truly had the desired effect.

"I think I'll go now, and--write a letter," the girl faltered.

"Go by all means, dear," Miss Pritchard bade her, "but don't write the letter to-night unless it's imperative. I have tickets for 'The Good-Natured Man' for to-morrow night, so if you can put off the letter, hop right into bed and get a good rest in order to be fresh for it."

CHAPTER XXIV