CHAPTER XVI
PROFESSOR BENSON
Trust to girls to solve problems. There were those wonderful orchids, to be aired and watered daily, that beautiful studio which had been rented furnished, and for which Professor Benson was personally responsible, yet the girls managed it all beautifully.
Tom, the trusted taxi driver, was engaged to take them to the studio and back every morning, and quite as if the task were a joy, and it really was; the girls went back and forth, saw that everything was all right, and daily Mary became more and more accustomed to the change in her surroundings.
Following orders at the sanitarium, Mary had not yet visited her "Grandie," but this morning the telephone permission had been called in, and on their way from the studio she was to stop at Crow's Nest.
"I am so glad you decided to lay off your pure white, Mary dear," said Mrs. Dunbar as the girls were ready to leave. "It was pretty and becoming, but having worn it so long must have been depressing. Now you just look like a rose bud in that soft pink, and I feel certain Professor Benson will be delighted with the improvement."
"It was so good of you to shop for me, Mrs. Dunbar," answered Mary. "I suppose I would have had pretty things before, if anyone could have bought them, but you see Reda didn't know," she finished loyally.
"Course not," chimed in Madaline. "So long as she drained the rainbow dry of colors for herself, she didn't care what happened to anyone else. Aunt Audrey, you just ought to see her room at the studio. It looks like a leaky paint shop."
"Yes, Reda loves colors herself," agreed Mary, "but I think one reason why she thought I ought always wear white was for Loved One. But I am sure she would dress me in flower colors if she were here," said Mary, gently, smoothing the soft pink voile she now wore so becomingly.
"All aboard!" cried Cleo, climbing into her place on the seat beside Tom. Since she was too young to drive a car, she did the next best thing—took a seat beside the driver. No wonder Mary was a changed child, to see her as she sat between Grace and Madaline, her cheeks as pretty and pink as the new dress; her heavy braids, though braided still, unbound half way with the ends floating around in curls, the delight, if not the envy, of her companions. Surely Mary was already a much changed girl. As Grace had threatened, she had been initiated into the Girl Scout secrets to the extent of taking the "good cheer and helpful" pledge, and that this had furnished the stray child with a practical motto, was very evident in the almost complete effacement of her former wistful, dejected and often gloomy moods. Altogether it was a delightful achievement, due principally to the subtle and gentle influence of the sincere little Girl Scouts.
Over the hill now to Second Mountain seemed almost too short a run, save that to-day when "Orchidia," the house of orchids, had been looked after, there was to be the visit to Professor Benson, the long wished-for meeting of Maid Mary and her "Grandie."
Everything seemed as usual at the studio. The flowers were blossoming riotously, and the place was heavy with the glory of the tropics confined in a mere glassy room of this temperate zone.
"It must be wonderful in the land where these come from, Mary-love," said Cleo, as she bent over a magnificent gray lavender bloom, melting into liquid purple, and shading again into misty pinks, like tints from a spring sunrise over the ocean—a sunrise that steals the gray mists and snatches up the pearly foam, to paint its unnamed colors on an expectant sky. "Oh, it must be too wonderful to describe," said Cleo, enthused to rapture.
"It is, indeed," said Mary, "but I often thought the wealth of flowers there was too much for earth. You see, it is very near the equator, very hot and so unbearably oppressive. That is what gave us all the deadly fever." She was trimming off a few withered leaves from a plant in its hanging basket, and standing on the high rustic stool, her face above the blossoms, brought sighs of admiration even to Grace, who ordinarily disclaimed so small a thing as mere vanity.
"But, Mary, how did you become so well educated away out there?" asked
Cleo.
"Oh, I had an English nurse, and a governess always," replied Mary, surprise at the question toning her answer.
"And your daddy?" Grace had asked the question before she had a chance to "feel her way to it."
"Daddy!" answered Mary, a tear falling into the heart of an orchid.
"Daddy—was lost!"
"In the sea?" Cleo felt impelled to ask further.
"Yes, he had the fever, and some sailors took him out on the water to refresh him—and he was lost, overboard!"
"Oh, how dreadfully sad!" murmured Grace, putting her arm around Mary, who sat now on a bench in a bower of ferns. "But, Mary-love, see all the sisters you have now, and you know how dearly we all do love you!"
"Yes," Mary finally answered, "but I feel little bit guilty, that is not exactly guilty, but deceitful, as I cannot tell you who I am really. There! I should cry 'Secret' to myself, for I am getting on dangerous ground. Come along! I am going to keep my scout pledge in mind, and smile away my tears. See!" and she brushed two living pearls from her cheeks. "There now, all our work is done, and we are ready for Grandie."
"Oh!" exclaimed Madaline, in evident delight. "See the perfectly gorgeous butterfly! However did it get in here?"
"Oh, we coax them in once in a while, but they soon fly out to freedom again. Yes, that is a beauty. He has taken some of the orchid colors," said Mary.
The brilliant, noiseless, flying creature soared up and sailed down from flower to flower, resting finally on a humble little clover bloom.
"See, he likes the field blossoms best," remarked Cleo. "I suppose if we opened a window he would turn his back on all this vain-glory, and float away to a roadside buttercup."
"Come along, pretty maidens, we must away!" quoted Mary. "Grace, please be sure the latch is tightly fastened on the fern window. Did I put enough water in their fountain?"
"Oh, plenty," replied Grace. "See the hose is still dripping."
"All right. Come, I am just all a-quiver to see Grandie. And, girls, will you mind if I ask you to go out first? I must bring one little thing to Grandie, and it's part of our secret." She smiled sweetly and the girls answered with just as pretty, dimpled acquiescence.
No one would dream of inquiring what Mary was bringing to the sick man at Crow's Nest, but it seemed to be associated with the orchids. Just why anything there should be made a secret of puzzled the girls.
In a few minutes Mary joined them on the porch, and Tom threw in the clutch of the car, rather impatiently, as they piled in the machine again.
It was a perfect day, and the girls fairly bubbled with the joy of it, as the taxi rattled on.
"You come in with me, won't you, Cleo?" Mary asked, when the car swung into Crow's Nest tan-barked drive.
"If you want me to," assented Cleo, "but do you think your Grandie would like a third party to spoil your fairy confab?"
"Oh, I am sure he would like to meet all the girls again," Mary spoke politely, "but just to-day among those strangers, perhaps two of us would be best."
So it was agreed, and Cleo jumped out with Mary, while Grace and Madaline prepared to play "finger scotch" while they waited outside in the car.
A boy in white duck uniform opened the door and showed the girls into a very restful waiting room. Presently a white robed nurse appeared, took Mary's name simply as "Mary to see Professor Benson," went to a wall phone, and returned to conduct the girls to the waiting patient.
What a lovely surprise! There sat the professor out in a big, comfortable steamer chair, on the loveliest little porch, right out of the window from his own room.
"Grandie! Grandie, dear!" cried Mary, almost running to throw her arms around him.
"Mary, Mary darling!" he answered, extending his hands to meet her embrace.
Cleo held back. She would not intrude on that moment of happiness, as the two, speechless with affection, held each other in fond embrace. Then Mary threw up her head to look in the face of the man who seemed the only parent and protector she had known for so long a time.
"How perfectly lovely you look, Grandie!" she exclaimed. "Why, whatever did they do to you? You—look so—different."
She was studying a change, unable to name it, but impossible to escape it. He was different. His eyes were bright, and they looked at her with a focus directed from a clear mind.
"And you, baby!" he answered. "At last you have taken on the sunlight.
What is it—with you?"
"Oh, my pink dress!" Mary answered promptly. "See, here is Cleo in her sea-green, and the other girls outside are wearing, one a blue and the other yellow. You always loved the bright colors so, Grandie, but you know Reda would not let me have anything but white."
"Oh, yes, that was it," he replied, including a smiling greeting to Cleo in his pleasant bow. "Yes, Reda wanted white, and it always made me think of death."
"Now, Grandie, don't you think I am waking up, if not actually awake?" and Mary made a pretty little curtsey with a sweep of her skirts. "Oh, you won't know me. All the ghosts of our tropical home are melting away. The girls are too lovely, and Mrs. Audrey Dunbar is simply the most charming woman——"
"Dunbar, did you say, Mary? Dunbar?" he repeated a question of memory in his voice.
"Yes," spoke Cleo quickly. "Did you ever know the name, Professor?"
"I may have, child. You see, my brain, as it grows stronger, fancies it knows many more things than it really does. The cells seem to be jealous of each other, and they keep prodding me to recognize their claims on memory, one before the other, as quickly as any new, interesting topic is mentioned. But the doctors here know, and I am certain they will untangle the snarl presently. Then, Mary-love, we may be able to trace our lost prize." He kissed her forehead to make the hope more emphatic, and she, leaning close to him in his big chair, tilted her head nearer still, acknowledging the caress.
"Perhaps you may have known some of Uncle Guy Dunbar's people," suggested Cleo. "I know they were all scientists. Uncle Guy is a writer, you know." She was addressing the professor.
"It might be, little girl," he replied, a thoughtful look overspreading his handsome, scholarly face. "But, Mary, dear, how is the studio?" he asked.
"Just lovely, Grandie. Everything is behaving beautifully, and we go every day to attend to things——"
"Doesn't Reda look after things properly?"
"Oh, yes, certainly," Cleo answered before Mary could do so. She saw the professor was ignorant of the changes at the studio, and wisely guessed he should not be taxed with too many cares, without permission from the sanitarium nurse. Mary took Cleo's cue quickly, and, after making a few general comments, tactfully changed the subject.
Then remembering Mary had planned some secret for the professor, Cleo stepped out in the hall, ostensibly to read a big, framed testimonial, but really to give Mary some time alone with him. A nurse stepped up to Cleo and spoke very cordially.
"Isn't he wonderfully better?" asked the white gowned young woman, with the capable air, so characteristic of professional women.
"Yes, he seems greatly improved," replied Cleo.
"His mind is unfolding like a child's," went on the nurse. "The doctors think his home life has been against him. He is such a profound student, and has had no relaxation. The wheels just buzz in one direction all the time," said the nurse with a very attractive smile. Cleo had always a high regard for the graduate nurse, but she decided this girl was her ideal of the type.
"Are you cousins?" asked the nurse kindly.
"No," replied Cleo, "but very dear friends."
"I must go now," Mary's voice floated from the little veranda off the professor's room, and Cleo turned back from the corridor. "Cleo, come here a moment," called Mary. "Grandie wants to say something to you."
Cleo advanced to take the professor's hand as he held it to her.
"Little girl," he said, as his eyes lighted with a soft, affectionate glow. "Mary has been telling me—and it is all remarkable. You are wonderful little girls to have rescued her, and I feel, daughter, the time is coming when we shall be able at least to thank you, though we never can do that adequately. I have given Mary permission to break a pledge we took when we came back to New York months ago. Months!" he repeated. "It seems like years. But I believe now it was all a question of health; we were both sick from fright. There!" and he reluctantly raised his voice to the note of dismissal. "I must not anger my good nurse, and this interview was restricted to just thirty minutes by that faithful little clock."
"Then you think the—other matter—will be all right that way." Mary faltered with the evident intention of being understood by the professor only.
"Oh yes, child, that is splendid. Just do it as we planned—and, Mary, remember to use your cheeks. Daughter," this to Cleo, "see that my little girl draws some money for the good things you all like. She has plenty of it," and he shook his head definitely. "She must not want for anything a little girl should have."
More puzzled than ever, Cleo made her adieux, and when she and Mary joined Grace and Madaline in the auto she personally felt like a wonderful book with uncut pages—overburdened with hidden information and delicious secrets.