“A FEELING OF SADNESS AND LONGING”
The half year was nearly ended, and most of the girls were looking eagerly forward to the Christmas vacation, which would release them from a cordially detested surveillance. But Toinette had no release to look forward to; vacation or term time were much the same to her. She had spent some of her holidays with her schoolmates, but the greater part of them had been passed in the school, and dull enough they were, too.
The past week had been a particularly stormy one, and the outcome had reflected anything but credit upon the school. Consequently, the girls were out of sorts and miserable, and the world looked decidedly blue, with only a faint rosy tint far down in the horizon, where vacation peeped.
As in most schools, Saturday was a holiday. The day was wonderfully soft and mild for December, and shortly after breakfast Toinette threw her golf-cape about her shoulders and stepped out upon the piazza to see if the fresh air would blow away the mental vapors hovering about her, for she felt not unlike a ship at sea without a compass. Poor little lassie, although what might be called a rich girl, in one respect she was a very poor one indeed, for she had scarcely known the influence of a happy home, or the tender mother love which we all need, whether we be big daughters or little ones. True, she had never known what it meant to want those things which girls often wish to have, but which limited means place beyond their reach. But often amidst the luxuries of her surroundings, for her father provided most liberally for her, she would be seized with a restless longing for something, she hardly knew what, which made her feel out of sorts with herself and everybody else.
“What ails you, this morning?” asked her chum, Cicely Powell, joining her upon the piazza. “You look as solemn as an oyster, and I should think you’d feel jolly because it’s Saturday, and that horrid Grace Thatcher won’t be here to poke her inquisitive nose into all our plans,” referring to the prime mischief-maker of the school, already departed for her vacation, with the admonition to think twice before returning.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with me: I wish I did. Somehow, I don’t feel satisfied with myself or anyone else, and I half believe I hate everybody,” was Toinette’s petulant reply.
“Well, I like that, I declare!” was the sharp retort. “Perhaps you include me among those you hate, and if that is the case, Toinette Reeve, you may just do as you like; I don’t care a straw.”
Ordinarily Toinette’s reply would have been as sharp as Cicely’s, but this time she just looked at her with her big eyes—eyes suspiciously bright, as though tears lay not far back of them—and walked away, leaving Cicely to wonder what had come over her.
“Well, I never!” was her rather vague comment. “I don’t see what has come over Toinette since that last flareup. Mercy knows, we’ve had so many that we all ought to be used to them by this time. She has acted as though she were sorry that that horrid Grace was sent off earlier than the others, and I’m sure she has as much reason to be glad of it as any of us have. She did nothing but tell tales about all of us, and peep and spy upon her more than anyone else. Miss Carter would never have found out about half the things she did if it hadn’t been for Grace, and we could have had no end of fun,” and after this rather prolonged monologue Cicely went to join the other girls.
Meanwhile Toinette had drawn the hood of her cape over her head and strolled down to the lower end of the garden, where a rustic summer-house not far from the gate afforded a quiet little nook in which to indulge one’s fancies, whether pleasant or painful. Curling herself up in one corner, she rested her cheek upon her arm, which she had thrown over the railing, and looked down the road toward the railway station.
Although a very beautiful one, it was a sad, wistful young face which turned toward the sunshine and shadows dancing upon the road. Poor little Toinette, now is the moment in which the mother-love you are unconsciously longing for would make the world anew for you. If, as you sit there, a gentle form and face could creep up quietly, slip an arm about your waist as she takes her seat beside you, and ask in the tender tone that only mothers use: “Well, Sweetheart, what is troubling you? Tell mother all about it, and let us see if there is not a sunny lining to the dark cloud that is casting its unpleasant shadow over this cozy nook.”
Where is the daughter who could resist it? It would not be many minutes before the head would find a happy resting-place upon the shoulder beside it, and all the little trials and troubles—trials so very real and very appalling to young hearts—would be put into words, and lose half their bitterness in the telling just because love—that mighty magician—had come to help bear them.
A great man once said: “O opportunity, thy guilt is great!” and I have often wondered why he did not add, “or thou art very precious.” So much depends upon an auspicious moment. A big door can swing upon a very small hinge.
As Toinette looked down the road with unseeing eyes, the whistle of an incoming train, brought her back to a realization of things around her. The station was barely half a mile away, and ere ten minutes had passed a man appeared in the distance. Evidently the owner of that athletic figure knew where he was bound, and was going to get there as quickly as his firm, long strides could carry him. He was a large man, sun-burned to the point of duskiness, bearded and moustached as though barbers were unknown in the land from which he hailed. Dressed in servicable tweed knickerbockers and Norfolk jacket, his Alpine hat placed upon his head to stay put, his grip slung by a strap across his broad shoulders, he came striding over the ground as though intent upon very important business. Toinette watched his approach in a listless sort of way, but as he drew nearer and nearer seemed to recognize something familiar.
“Who can he be, and where have I seen him, I wonder?” she said, half aloud, as she peered at him from behind the lattice-work of the summer-house.
On he came, quite unconscious of the big eyes regarding him so intently, and presently stopped to look about him, as though trying to recall old landmarks. He now stood almost opposite Toinette, when, chancing to glance toward the house, he became aware of her presence.
“Why, little lady, you could have popped me over from ambush if you had had a gun, for I walked straight upon you and never suspected that you were there. Can you direct me to the Misses Carter’s school? The station-master said it was about ten minutes’ walk, but it is so many years since I have been here that I find I’ve forgotten the lay of the land, and I don’t want to waste much time, for I’ve a very precious somebody there whom I’m very anxious to see. Last time I saw her she was only about knee-high to a grasshopper, but I suspect I shall find a young lady now, and have to be introduced to her.”
At the sound of his voice Toinette arose to her feet, her color coming and going, and her heart beating so loudly that she was sure he could hear it. As he finished speaking he regarded with very genuine surprise the young girl who, with parted lips and outstretched hands, was walking toward him like one who doubted the evidence of her own senses, and with a cry of, “Papa! oh, papa! don’t you know me?” she was gathered into the strong arms whose owner had travelled half around the globe in order to win that one precious moment.
“YOU COULD HAVE POPPED ME OVER FROM AMBUSH.”