CHAPTER XXV
Elsie Marley had never been happier than as she prepared for her first Christmas at Enderby. But that festival seemed the high-water mark of her happiness. The close of the day found her strangely depressed and thereafter she had more frequent periods of being ill at ease.
She had learned to knit and had spent most of her leisure time for several weeks in making a soft white woollen shawl for Mrs. Middleton, into which went a rather surprising amount of affection. She went into Boston with one of the high-school girls and bought a charming little plaid woollen frock for Mattie Howe and a beautiful doll to fill the little mother's arms when they were not occupied with a real baby. For Charles Augustus, she selected an harmonicon, and toys for the other three Howes. She wanted to get a warm winter coat for her staunch ally Kate, the jacket she wore being short and so thin as to require an undergarment that spoiled what little shape it had. On the day before she was to go into town, she consulted Mrs. Middleton.
Thus far Elsie hadn't accepted a penny of pocket-money, and the Middletons were filled with dismay to have her spend her own money so lavishly. But Mr. Middleton had told his wife that he meant to give Elsie a check for Christmas, which being also her birthday, made a large one legitimate. Consequently, at this time Mrs. Middleton did not remonstrate. She only called herself heartless for not noticing poor Katy's need and so forestalling Elsie.
After she had sufficiently exclaimed over it, she asked what the girl meant to get.
"I thought of black broadcloth, rather plain. Should you think that would be right, Aunt Milly?"
"Quite right, dear. It would be, of course, the proper thing," Mrs. Middleton returned, "but I can't help wondering whether Katy herself wouldn't fancy something not so plain and rather more stylish. After all, we can hardly expect her to share our quiet tastes."
Elsie didn't resent the our nor question the fact. She was only very grateful.
"Oh, Aunt Milly, I'm so glad I spoke to you!" the girl cried with unwonted warmth, for she felt immediately the cogency of Mrs. Middleton's remark. "What do you think she would like? I might have her go in with me and pick it out herself, only——"
"Only half the fun would be lost not to have her surprised on Christmas morning? I don't know what she would like, I'm sure, but leave it to me and I'll find out from Katy herself and without letting her mistrust anything. Leave it to your Aunt Milly, dear. She is of so little use that she has to seize upon whatever she can discover."
And truly she learned the desire of Katy's heart and reported to Elsie that night. Green was Kate's first choice for color and blue next, and she admired especially a long, loose garment with "one of them fur collars that folds up like an accordion or a gentleman's opera-hat." And Elsie succeeded in finding the very thing—not a difficult task, Kate's choice being the latest fashion and very common.
Though her gifts gave extraordinary pleasure in every instance, the reaction upon Elsie herself was yet greater. Her satisfaction was increased by the fact that Mr. Middleton told her it was the happiest Christmas he remembered, and that her being with them was largely what made it so.
"Besides which," he added, "I realize that most of the other factors and changes that contribute are really due to you and to your influence, Elsie dear."
That was very precious to Elsie, but it couldn't ward off the reaction that was to follow. The lavishness of the Middletons' gifts to her, which they justified by reminding her that it was her birthday (she had quite forgotten that Elsie Moss celebrated hers on Christmas!), quite weighed down her spirits. On a sudden she seemed to herself to be accepting what didn't belong to her, what wasn't meant for her. Despite the placid way in which she had gone on acting the part of the real niece, she pulled up and shied, so to speak, at this instance of extravagant giving and a false birthday. It seemed as if she could not bear it, could not accept the money, the jewelry, furs, books, and other gifts showered upon her.
But there was no way out. She had to accept everything, and she had to keep everything but the money. That she sent directly to Elsie Moss, explaining that she couldn't possibly accept it, as it was especially for her Christmas birthday. But Elsie Moss, probably with her friend's recent request for the five hundred dollars in mind, sent it directly back. Whereupon she wrote again, saying that she had more money than she knew what to do with, and that she would be broken-hearted if Elsie returned it a second time.
The letter in which Elsie Moss returned the money was written on the very day when the girl had planned to write the letter announcing her disappearance. It was only a short note, however, and contained nothing of that nature. Her next letter, in which she reluctantly agreed to accept half of the Christmas-birthday gift, was long and surprising, but delightfully so rather than mysteriously or painfully.
Her Christmas had been quite as happy as that of the other Elsie. Indeed, her greater capacity for blissful and ecstatic joy would have rendered it even happier but for the valedictory character all its details held secretly for her. Her youth and temperament, however, which had carried her through the days following her momentous decision, upheld her spirits even when she approached the brink of the crisis. Her determination to right the wrong she had done at what she believed the first possible moment had cleared her conscience so completely that in the interim she had been able to enjoy the fruits of that wrong-doing as never before since the very first.
She had herself made her gift for Cousin Julia and little things for Miss Peacock and nearly everybody in the house. On Christmas Eve she sang in the parlor for Miss Peacock, the servants, and those remaining in the boarding-house over the holidays. First she went through the carols. Then she sang the favorite song or songs of every one present, including several of Miss Pritchard's. And though the programme was haphazard it wasn't motley—only simple and old-fashioned and full of sweetness and melody. The girl must have been dull indeed not to have guessed something of the exquisite and genuine pleasure she gave.
In truth she lay long awake, thrilled by the remembrance. It had been her swan-song, she told herself, half-tremulously, half-buoyed by the excitement of it all. For she was passing out of their lives, in very truth—even out of Cousin Julia's, and—forever. And Cousin Julia, who, Elsie knew had basked in the enjoyment of the others, would have it for a happy memory, when——
But she mustn't go further now. It was hardly safe. To-morrow was Christmas Day. Until the day after, she wasn't going to think ahead. Only on the 26th of December would she begin to make definite, final preparations. She wouldn't spoil tomorrow by looking beyond it.
Christmas was a wonderful day. Elsie did not realize how delirious her enjoyment was nor how painfully she was keyed up because of her underlying apprehension of coming agony. Neither did she understand it when she waked suddenly from sleep the following morning, feeling so exhausted as to be almost ill, and with a terrible sinking at heart which settled into depression the like of which she had never experienced before.
It might have seemed that she was in no condition to complete the proposed plans. But as a matter of fact, there was little to do. Though the girl hadn't deliberately or consciously looked ahead, the matter had been in her mind; and now when she came to consider the question as to where she should go, she found it practically settled. When she brought up the idea of going to California and trying to get a chance as a moving-picture actress, she was ready with the objection that the films were most likely to reach New York and that her dimples would give her away at once. Her wisest move would be to take refuge in some place equally distant from her stepmother in San Francisco and from New York. Which, of course, was no other than Chicago. She had enough money to take her thither and take care of her until she should get a start—in some vaudeville house as she hoped. And then she would be truly lost—forever, in all probability, and perhaps in more senses than one.
Miss Pritchard was struck by the change in Elsie that morning at the breakfast-table. The child looked almost ill. She said nothing to her, however, feeling that it was the reaction from the excitement of Christmas, and believing she would be better for the distraction of the school. But she couldn't dismiss the matter from her mind all day, and the more she thought of it the more serious it seemed. She realized that Elsie hadn't looked merely tired or even exhausted. It was worse than that. For the first time since she had come East, Miss Pritchard thought she saw in the child indication of genuine, positive suffering.
She decided that she herself had been gravely remiss. The strain of giving herself so generously and whole-heartedly had worn upon the girl disastrously, and—she had had warning and hadn't heeded. Until recently, it is true, Elsie's blithe buoyancy had seemed always the normal, unconscious, almost effortless efflorescence of a lovely nature, as natural as playful grace to a kitten, as simple as breathing. But once or twice back in the fall, Miss Pritchard had been startled into wondering if the sweet instrument wasn't in danger of being strained through constant playing upon it, and to be fearful that Elsie might truly be rarely sensitive in a personal, as she seemed to be in an artistic, way.
The first time when this had presented itself to her mind had been a matter of a month or six weeks previous. At that time she had seemed to discover a shadow in the sparkling eyes and a transient pensive droop of the lips. Then on the night of Charley Graham's visit, she had been frightened by the worn look upon the beloved little face, and had feared some definite trouble.
It was not long after the affair of the five hundred dollars, and Miss Pritchard had wondered if the difficulty might not be somehow connected with that. She had just reached the decision to question the girl when suddenly the weariness, the sadness, the pensiveness, the shadow, vanished utterly, leaving Elsie not only herself again, but even more glowingly and infectiously happy and buoyant than before. And from that moment until this morning at the breakfast-table she had remained so.
It was natural that now Miss Pritchard's mind should hark back to those former suspicions. All day she vacillated between the fear that Elsie was beset by some secret trouble or by the solicitations of some unscrupulous person, and the apprehension that she was on the verge of nervous exhaustion. Her face was anxious indeed as she left the office that night.
She opened the door of her sitting-room with strange sinking of heart. Then she almost gasped. Her breath was almost taken away by sheer amazement. Elsie was waiting for her—yet another Elsie. For, radiant and sparkling as the girl had been, she had never before been like this. She was fairly dazzling. If Miss Pritchard hadn't been almost stunned, she would have made some feeble remark about getting out her smoked glasses.