V
Such a quiet afternoon. Rose turned off the highway, into the beach road; the bright sea lay before her, roughened by a frolic wind, and on its edge three or four little children played; their voices came to her joyous and clear. Their end of the beach had been described by the real estate agent as “the quiet end,” and so it was; their bungalow and the Morgans’ were the only ones occupied as yet, and even these two showed no signs of life to-day.
Rose entered the house. It was certain[Pg 392]ly not a good house to hide in, and she very soon discovered Nina in the bedroom with her hat on!
“I had a telegram from Mr. Doyle,” she explained, hurriedly. “He wants to see me about—something. So I thought to-day would be a good time to run into town.”
“That won’t do!” said Rose, severely. “You can’t treat me this way, Mrs. De Haaven! I want to know all about it.”
Nina turned and put both hands on her sister’s shoulders, looking steadily into her face.
“Rose!” she said. “Let me do this—my own way—alone. I’ve been such a useless creature. No! Please, darling, let me finish! I have been useless. I know you don’t mind, but—sometimes—Rose! I do so want to manage this all by myself. And I know I can!”
They were both silent for a moment.
“All right! Go ahead, darling!” Rose agreed at last. “Only don’t come back to-night. Stay in a hotel and come back to-morrow morning.”
“And leave you all alone?”
“The Morgans are here, and they’re enough. If you don’t promise not to come back to-night, I’ll—I’ll go with you!”
So Nina consented, although reluctantly, and a few minutes later they set off together for the railway station. Rose stood on the platform, looking after the train.
“God bless you, darling!” she said, softly to herself.
Poor valiant, gentle Nina, going off to attend to business affairs, to “manage” the elusive and plausible Mr. Doyle.
“But it would have hurt her if I’d said anything,” thought Rose. “And, anyhow, things couldn’t be much worse, financially.”
She walked back to the bungalow, a long walk; but she was in no hurry to reënter the empty house. It was ridiculous to miss Nina so, just for one night; it was weak and sentimental to feel so lonely.
“I might learn a lesson from the Morgans,” she thought, as she went down the beach road. “No one could accuse them of being too sentimental in their family life!”
And suddenly she felt sorry for the Morgans, with their quarrels and their banging doors and their stormy, miserable existence. She thought of them, and she thought of the love between Nina and herself which made any place home, any trial endurable. And she pitied them with all her heart.
There was Margie on the veranda now, sewing—sewing in such a Morgan way! She had a paper pattern spread out on the table, and the wind fluttered it, and Margie pounced down upon it furiously, upsetting her workbasket and getting herself tangled up in the yards and yards of green charmeuse on her lap. Rose watched her for a minute; then she said, moved by a friendly impulse:
“Miss Morgan, won’t you let me help you?”
Margie spun round, upsetting everything again.
“No, thanks!” she replied, in her scornful way. But something in Rose’s face made her flush and glance away. “Well,” she said, sullenly, “I am having a pretty bad time. There’s no reason why you should bother, but—”
Rose came up on the veranda beside her, and surveyed the woeful muddle.
“What a pretty shade!” she remarked. “It ought to go well with your hair.”
“I know,” said Margie. “Paul—I mean—I’ve been told I ought to wear green. And I’m going somewhere to-morrow afternoon.”
“But you don’t expect to have this dress ready for to-morrow afternoon.”
“I’ve got to.”
Rose reflected for a moment.
“I’ll tell you what!” she announced at last. “I have a green dress—a really pretty georgette. I’ve only worn it once. With just a little bit of altering, we could make it do beautifully for you to wear to-morrow. It’s a good model. I got it in Paris last autumn. Won’t you come and look at it?”
“No!” cried Margie. “I don’t want any of your old clothes. I don’t want—” Her voice broke. “I just hate you and your—highfalutin’ ways!” she ended with a sob.
“Upon my word!” Rose began, indignantly. “Is that—” But her resentment could not endure against the sight of Margie weeping in that furious, defiant way, the tears falling recklessly on the green charmeuse.
“You don’t really hate me, Margie,” she said. “You couldn’t—when I like you so much.”
“Like me?”
“I liked you the very first time I saw you,” Rose explained. “You were saying good-by to Paul, on the beach.[Pg 393]”
“You saw Paul?” cried Margie. “I suppose you’ll tell Bill. Well, I don’t care! If you don’t tell Bill, Gilbert will.”
Rose found it surprisingly easy not to get angry with Margie.
“But why should your brother object to Paul?” she inquired.
“It’s not that,” said Margie. “Only what do you suppose Paul would think of Bill—and this house—and the way we live? Oh, I’m so ashamed of us! I’m so—so ashamed of us! If you knew—when mother was alive—three years ago—we had our dear home, and everything so dainty and pretty in it—and she kept us from fighting—just by being there. Oh, mother! Mother darling! You don’t know—nobody knows—what it’s like—without her.”
Rose knelt down beside the girl, put an arm about her, and drew the bright head down on her shoulder.
“You poor little thing!” she crooned. “Poor little Margie!”
“And now—I’m going to lose Paul,” Margie went on, in a choked voice. “He’s always asking why he can’t come to see me in my own home. He’s awfully particular and high minded. He hates to meet me on the sly that way. And—”
“I’d let him come, if I were you.”
“I won’t! I’m too much ashamed of us.”
“Couldn’t you make things a little better?” Rose suggested, very gently.
“Bill won’t let me! Bill’s a beast! When mother died, he gave up our dear old house—he’s packed up all her pretty things—they’re in the woodshed, in barrels and boxes. He won’t let me touch them. He says we’ve got to learn to work and to live simply. He just adored mother, and he thought father didn’t make her happy enough, so he’s got this idiotic idea about our not being like father’s people—not being highfalutin’. ‘Plain living and high thinking,’ that’s what he’s always saying. High thinking, when he hasn’t left one beautiful thing in our lives! It’s all very well for him; he’s away at sea most of the time—”
“At sea?”
“Yes; he’s first mate on a cargo steamer,” said Margie, with a change in her voice. “I know he’s a beast, and all that, but there is something fine about Bill, after all. He’s a real man. And he’s been awfully good to us—in his way. When Gilbert had bronchitis last winter, Bill was—wonderful. And when mother died—I—I don’t know how I could have lived without Bill.”
She was silent for a moment. “Mother said she knew Bill would take care of us—and he does—only it’s in a wrong way. Bill’s so—I don’t know how to describe it—Bill’s so—big, he could live on a desert island and not be discontented. He can live in this rough, common way and still be—dignified. I don’t suppose you’ve ever noticed, but Bill has a way of coming into a room sometimes and taking off his hat, that’s like—like a king.”
Rose felt her cheeks grow scarlet.
“He is—impressive,” she agreed.
“Bill’s big,” Margie went on, “and he only wants a few big things. But Gilbert and I are little, and we want lots of little things. And—” She sat up straight.
“Paul wants to take me to see his sister to-morrow afternoon,” she said, “and I’m going! There’ll be a row—because Gilbert said he’d have to have his dinner at six, and he’s not going to get it. I’m not even going to try to get home by six. He can tell Bill about Paul if he wants. I don’t care. It’s got to happen some day.”
“Margie, I’ll get Gilbert’s dinner for him to-morrow.”
“You?” said Margie.
“I’d like to. And you can enjoy your afternoon with an easy mind. I’ll get Gilbert’s supper, and—Margie—bring Paul back with you, and I’ll have something nice ready for you both.”