"He might make one," Eleanor persisted.

Margaret found the rest of her story harder to tell than she had antic.i.p.ated. Eleanor, wrapped in the formidable aloofness of the sensitive young, was already suffering from the tale she had come to tell,--why, it was not so easy to determine. It might be merely from the pang of being shut out from confidences that she felt should have been shared with her at once.

She waited until they were both ready for bed (their rooms were connecting)--Eleanor in the straight folds of her white dimity nightgown, and her two golden braids making a picture that lingered in Margaret's memory for many years. "It would have been easier to tell her in her street clothes," she thought. "I wish her profile were not so perfect, or her eyes were shallower. How can I hurt such a lovely thing?"

"Are the ten Hutchinsons all right?" Eleanor was asking.

"The ten Hutchinsons are very much all right. They like me better now that I have grown a nice hard Hutchinson sh.e.l.l that doesn't show my feelings through. Haven't you noticed how much more like other people I've grown, Eleanor?"

"You've grown nicer, and dearer and sweeter, but I don't think you're very much like anybody else, Aunt Margaret."

"I have though,--every one notices it. You haven't asked me anything about Peter yet," she added suddenly.

The lovely color glowed in Eleanor's cheeks for an instant.

"Is--is Uncle Peter well?" she asked. "I haven't heard from him for a long time."

"Yes, he's well," Margaret said. "He's looking better than he was for a while. He had some news to tell us too, Eleanor."

Eleanor put her hand to her throat.

"What kind of news?" she asked huskily.

"He's going to be married too. It came out when the others told us. He said that he hadn't the consent of the lady to mention her name yet.

We're as much puzzled about him as we are about the other two."

"It's Aunt Beulah," Eleanor said. "It's Aunt Beulah."

She sat upright on the edge of the bed and stared straight ahead of her. Margaret watched the light and life and youth die out of the face and a pitiful ashen pallor overspread it.

"I don't think it's Beulah," Margaret said. "Beulah knows who it is, but I never thought of it's being Beulah herself."

"If she knows--then she's the one. He wouldn't have told her first if she hadn't been."

"Don't let it hurt you too much, dear. We're all hurt some, you know.

Gertrude--and me, too, Eleanor. It's--it's pain to us all."

"Do you mean--Uncle David, Aunt Margaret?"

"Yes, dear," Margaret smiled at her bravely.

"And does Aunt Gertrude care about Uncle Jimmie?"

"She has for a good many years, I think."

Eleanor covered her face with her hands.

"I didn't know that," she said. "I wish somebody had told me." She pushed Margaret's arm away from her gently, but her breath came hard.

"Don't touch me," she cried, "I can't bear it. You might not want to--if you knew. Please go,--oh! please go--oh! please go."

As Margaret closed the door gently between them, she saw Eleanor throw her head back, and push the back of her hand hard against her mouth, as if to stifle the rising cry of her anguish.

The next morning Eleanor was gone. Margaret had listened for hours in the night but had heard not so much as the rustle of a garment from the room beyond. Toward morning she had fallen into the sleep of exhaustion. It was then that the stricken child had made her escape.

"Miss Hamlin had found that she must take the early train," the clerk said, "and left this note for Miss Hutchinson." It was like Eleanor to do things decently and in order.

"Dear Aunt Margaret," her letter ran. "My grandmother used to say that some people were trouble breeders. On thinking it over I am afraid that is just about what I am,--a trouble breeder.

"I've been a worry and bother and care to you all since the beginning, and I have repaid all your kindness by bringing trouble upon you.

Perhaps you can guess what I mean. I don't think I have any right to tell you exactly in this letter. I can only pray that it will be found to be all a mistake, and come out right in the end. Surely such beautiful people as you and Uncle David can find the way to each other, and can help Uncle Jimmie and Aunt Gertrude, who are a little blinder about life. Surely, when the stumbling block is out of the way, you four will walk together beautifully. Please try, Aunt Margaret, to make things as right as if I had never helped them to go wrong. I was so young, I didn't know how to manage. I shall never be that kind of young again. I grew up last night, Aunt Margaret.

"You know the other reason why I am going. Please do not let any one else know. If the others could think I had met with some accident, don't you think that would be the wisest way? I would like to arrange it so they wouldn't try to find me at all, but would just mourn for me naturally for a little while. I thought of sticking my old cap in the river, but I was afraid that would be too hard for you. There won't be any use in trying to find me. I am going where you can not. I couldn't ever bear seeing one of your faces again. I have done too much harm.

Don't let Uncle Peter _know_, please, Aunt Margaret. I don't want him to know,--I don't want to hurt him, and I don't want him to know.

"Oh! I have loved you all so much. Good-by, my dears, my dearests. I have taken all of my allowance money. Please forgive me.

"Eleanor."

CHAPTER XXII

THE SEARCH

Eleanor had not bought a ticket at the station, Margaret ascertained, but the ticket agent had tried to persuade her to. She had thanked him and told him that she preferred to buy it of the conductor. He was a lank, saturnine individual and had been seriously smitten with Eleanor's charms, it appeared, and the extreme solicitousness of his att.i.tude at the suggestion of any mystery connected with her departure made Margaret realize the caution with which it would be politic to proceed. She had very little hope of finding Eleanor back at the school, but it was still rather a shock when she telephoned the school office and found that there was no news of her there. She concocted a somewhat lame story to account for Eleanor's absence and promised the authorities that she would be sent back to them within the week,--a promise she was subsequently obliged to acknowledge that she could not keep. Then she fled to New York to break the disastrous news to the others.

She told Gertrude the truth and showed her the pitiful letter Eleanor had left behind her, and together they wept over it. Also together, they faced David and Jimmie.

"She went away," Margaret told them, "both because she felt she was hurting those that she loved and because she herself was hurt."

"What do you mean?" David asked.

"I mean--that she belonged body and soul to Peter and to n.o.body else,"

Margaret answered deliberately.

David bowed his head. Then he threw it back again, suddenly.

"If that is true," he said, "then I am largely responsible for her going."

"It is I who am responsible," Jimmie groaned aloud. "I asked her to marry me and she refused me."

"I asked her to marry me and didn't give her the chance to refuse,"

David said; "it is that she is running away from."