So Suzanna in a short time descended. How restful the house was; no insistent voices of children, no clattering of dishes.

"It's so quiet and nice here, Mrs. Reynolds," said Suzanna, as she entered the kitchen. "At home there's lots of talking and sometimes the baby cries."

"Do you like quiet, Suzanna?"

"Ye-es," Suzanna stammered. A recurrent attack of homesickness was upon her; that dreadful pulling of the heartstrings; that sinking feeling that she had cut herself loose from all to whom she belonged rightfully.

She stood still watching Mrs. Reynolds who was busy at the stove. She admired the deftness with which an egg was broken and dropped into boiling water, and in a few seconds brought to the top intact, to be placed upon the awaiting toast.

"You're awful quick, Mrs. Reynolds," she started to say when a knock sounded upon the door.

The door slowly opened and, alone, Suzanna's mother entered.

She stood just looking in. She was pale, her eyes wide, languid, shadows beneath them as though she had not slept. But those same tired eyes lightened as they fell upon Suzanna.

"Mother-eyes," the phrase grew in Suzanna's heart. She should never in all her life forget that look of longing, of love.

And somehow another impression, new, almost unbelievable, came to Suzanna. Her mother was _young_, for wasn't that yearning note in her voice; that tentative little gesture; her whole questioning att.i.tude, all her seekings, but expressions of her youngness? She wasn't after all far removed from her little daughter, not for this minute, anyway. A delicious sense of comradeship with this mother flooded the child.

And the mother stood and looked at her child, almost as for the first time, at least with a sense of newness, as though Suzanna had been born anew to her.

In the night a far reaching understanding had come to her. It came out of her conclusion to strike a blow at the child's oversensitiveness by a full dose of ridicule; by accusing her of affectation, a clever playing to the gallery; this when the night was early, and the mother still aching with weariness from the day's many tasks. And then as the hours wore on, and the quiet soothed her weary nerves, the knowledge came, flashing out of the ether, as often it does for serious mothers, that the gift of keen sensibility, of intense desire was too valuable to be quenched.

What if Suzanna began to question her own motives; what if she should lose belief in her own spiritual integrity; learn in time to look in on herself with a spirit of morbid a.n.a.lysis instead of living out her natural qualities beautifully and spontaneously!

All these truths stirred her again as she looked at her child.

While Suzanna didn't move from her place, she wanted to stay at some distance that she might look her soul's full at her mother--_her mother_!

At length she spoke: "Mother--I want to be your little girl again. Will you take me back?"

Would she take her back? Mrs. Procter's arms opened wide. Into them Suzanna flew.

Mrs. Reynolds regarded the cold poached egg, the second one spoiled that morning. Furtively she wiped the tears from her eyes. At last she cleared her voice and spoke:

"I'll go upstairs and pack your bag, Suzanna," she said.

CHAPTER VIII

SUZANNA MEETS A CHARACTER

That summer was a happy one, filled to the brim, as Suzanna often said, with joyful times. In her pink lawn dress with the petticoat after all showing through the lace, she recited "The Little Martyr of Smyrna" and brought much applause to herself.

And then following close upon that happy occasion, Miss Ma.s.sey invited her pupils to a "lawn party." Once again the pink dress was to see the day.

"I'll be very careful with the dress, mother," Suzanna promised on the day of the lawn party. "Perhaps it'll wear just as long if I take extra care of it as though the goods weren't cut away."

"Enjoy your dress," said Mrs. Procter. She had learned another truth which had sprung from the episode of the pink lawn. Economy might, indeed must dwell in a little home like hers, but sometimes, recklessly, the stern G.o.ddess must be usurped from her place. For the child love of beauty, the child's capacity for fine imaginings, could not be killed at the nod of economy.

The children were both ready and waiting anxiously at the front window long before the hour. Maizie was the first to make her announcement.

"Miss Ma.s.sey's coming down the path," she cried.

They all crowded to the window. Miss Ma.s.sey, looking up, waved her hand gaily, and the children delightedly waved back.

"Oh, Miss Ma.s.sey, we're all ready for you," Maizie exclaimed at once as Miss Ma.s.sey entered.

"Lovely," Miss Ma.s.sey returned. Glancing casually at her, she appeared young, yet looking closely it might be seen that her first youth was over. She was perhaps in her middle thirties. Her hair beneath the simple blue chip hat, had gray strands. There was a hesitating quality about her, as though she had never done so daring a thing as reach a decision; a wavering, indefinite figure, with a wistfulness, a soft appeal, quite charming. That she had never come in contact with realities showed in the wide innocence of the childlike eyes; the sometime trembling of the lips as when a thought as now engendered by the Procter home and its humbleness, its lack of many real comforts, forced its way into the untouched depths of her mind.

She was the only child of old John Ma.s.sey. He was a large figure in the small town, and one not cordially admired. He was masterful, choleric, some claimed, unjust. Owner of the steel mill which stood just outside of the town limits, the employer of hundreds of men, he had failed to gain the esteem of one human being. Fear, for many depended upon him for their livelihood, was the emotion he most inspired.

Fairfax Ma.s.sey, his daughter, inspired a deep sympathy, perhaps because her leading characteristic was a pitiable holding to her ideals. She painted her father as a good and loving man hiding his real tenderness beneath gruff mannerisms. When he denied her friendship with the man she secretly loved, she put upon that denial a high value. He could not bear to run the chance of losing her, his one close possession. To that chivalrous thought of her father, she sacrificed her friend and went her way, undramatically, uncomplainingly.

She spoke in a low sweet voice. "The children will have a happy time, I'm sure, Mrs. Procter," she said, as she left, Suzanna and Maizie clinging to her.

Other little girls were waiting in the phaeton. They greeted Suzanna and Maizie and moved to make room for them. Miss Ma.s.sey took her place near the driver, from which vantage spot she could watch her little guests, and with a great flourish off they started.

"Are you quite comfortable, Suzanna?" Miss Ma.s.sey asked once.

Suzanna looked up quickly, a puzzled line between her eyes. After brief hesitation she answered, merely in good manners, "Yes, thank you."

The phaeton stopped several times till eight little girls filled the vehicle to overflowing. Then with no more pauses, they were off to the big house on the hill.

The day was wonderful. A soft little breeze caressed the children and the sky overhead was like an angel's breast, thought Suzanna. But she did not say this, even to excited Maizie; she was gathering impressions and burnishing them with her vivid imagination. Once her gaze fell on Miss Ma.s.sey's long, slender, tired-looking hands. Her mother's hands, Suzanna recalled, were tired-looking, too, but in a different way. Her mother's, she decided after a time, were just plain tired-looking, while Miss Ma.s.sey's were a sorry tired, as though they missed something. They were never quiet, always doing futile little things. And yet, Miss Ma.s.sey lived in a wonderful house and wore pretty dresses and hats with gorgeous, real-looking flowers. Suzanna pondered unanswerable questions.

The driver, with the air of a brave knight, swept round the last corner.

He commanded his horses to stand still, when even the smallest girl knew he would have to urge and coax for a full minute before the fat, complacent animals would start again. But Suzanna liked his play. It was in keeping with this wondrous event. She even forgave the driver his wrinkled red neck, from which as she sat behind him, she had earlier deliberately turned away her eyes.

The children sprang to the ground and stood looking up at the big pile of stone, this great show house of the town. Miss Ma.s.sey swung back an iron gate and led the way first through an arbor, sun-shaded and fragrant; then out again into a garden glowing with crimson flowers.

"The garden I love best," she said. This from simple, dear Miss Ma.s.sey into whose whole life no great color had fallen, or if there was once a promise that life should blossom for her into a full, joyous thing, the promise had fallen very short of fulfillment.

And just then the disaster befell Suzanna. There in the wonderful red garden, a dire sound fell upon her ears and her eyes following the direction of the sound were just in time to see one white toe burst through the confines of the black ribbon lengthening her slipper.

She stood a moment, gazing down. Then in an agony lest the others should discover her plight, she tried to draw the toe back within the slipper, but with no success. As Miss Ma.s.sey and the little girls walked on, Suzanna stopped and pulled the ribbon over the protruding toe, tucking in the ravelled edges. Mercifully, the ribbon stayed in place since Suzanna cramped her toe back that it might not force its way through again. Hastily hopping along, she entered the ma.s.sive front doors held wide by a solemn man with bra.s.s b.u.t.tons. He pointed down the wide hall.

"To the right," he said.

Would the ribbon hold! was Suzanna's only thought as she later found herself in a room called the library, with books and soft-toned pictures; with a great fireplace banked now with greens, from above which looked down the lovely face of a lady, Miss Ma.s.sey's mother whom the daughter scarce remembered.

If only she had worn black stockings instead of her one beloved pair of white, went on in thought, unhappy, humiliated Suzanna. If only--but in conjecture Suzanna was lost. The cramped toe exerting its right, thrust itself through again. One fleeting, horrified glance told the child that two toes now peeped out on a world that would be scandalized should it peep back.

No time now for any furtive maneuver an active little mind might suggest to remedy the situation, for Miss Ma.s.sey at the end of the room turned her head and looked toward Suzanna's place. In a second her eyes might fall on the white toes! Quickly Suzanna sank into a large velvet armchair and drew her foot beneath her. Just in time, for Miss Ma.s.sey said: "Shall we play the game of 'Answers?' You know the game, Suzanna, don't you?"

Suzanna moistened her lips: "I know it, Miss Ma.s.sey, but I don't care to play games, thank you." How could she move, since doing so would necessitate putting confidence in Miss Ma.s.sey? Telling her that once discarded slippers too small even for Maizie had been made to do duty by cutting the toes and lengthening with black ribbon, ribbon which in a miserable moment failed in its work? But how eventually to extricate herself from the miserable predicament? She could not sit forever on her foot!