CHAPTER XV
THE INCOMPREHENSIBLE MR. PRESCOTT
A little after five o'clock on a dull January afternoon the two sisters met on the road that ran from Melbrook to the cottage. It had been just a week since they had actually started in "working." Alma had just spoken in time to get the position that had been opened in the young village lawyer's office, guided by a kindly Providence.
"I don't see how you are clever enough to teach, Nancy," said Alma, looking at her sister's rather tired face with admiration. "I'd be throwing books and things inside of five minutes. But isn't it wonderful to think that we are really and truly making money? Did you ever believe that we could do it? I just hope that Uncle Thomas hears what we are doing—that'll just show him that we don't want anything from him. I wonder what Mildred would say to us—wouldn't she be shocked, though?"
Inside the little house, Alma banged the door behind her, while Nancy shouted gaily to her mother up-stairs.
"Well, well, well, what is all this noise for?" inquired a calm, masculine voice from the sitting-room. The two girls stopped still, thunderstruck; for the voice, unfamiliar in its genial accents, was nevertheless unmistakably the voice of Mr. Prescott! Alma stared at Nancy, Nancy stared back at Alma, neither of them knowing whether to stay where they were or to go forward.
"I shan't bite," remarked Mr. Prescott, mildly. Nancy boldly advanced, being on more familiar terms with the "Ogre" than the frankly terrified Alma, and to Alma's amazement he proceeded to kiss them both, and then, as if embarrassed, cleared his throat, and said "How-do-you-do" in a dry, formal tone.
In a few moments Mrs. Prescott came downstairs. She looked older and sadder than she had the last time he had seen her, and, because she had denied herself any new clothes since she had lost the money, she now wore an old gown which she had had for years. It was not a pose with her, for she no longer pitied herself, or bemoaned her limited means, but rather a sincere half-childlike desire to punish herself for having, as she believed, deprived her daughters of what she considered the best things in life. Nevertheless, her natural instinct for daintiness had asserted itself in the little touches of lace at the neck and wrists—and she looked pretty and dignified as she greeted Mr. Prescott.
It was not long before the first feeling of constraint wore off. As Alma said afterwards, it was impossible to believe that they had been laughing and chatting with the "Ogre" "just as if he were a nice old man." He called Mrs. Prescott "Lallie," and paid her two compliments. He gave them a very long discourse on the value of a scientific education for everybody, and from that veered off into a heated tirade against the uselessness of modern education, anyway.
"Am I to understand that you two young ladies are—earning money?" inquired Mr. Prescott. Amusement, chagrin, curiosity, and admiration were mingled in his changing expressions.
"Indeed we are," replied Alma, quite beaming with self-satisfaction. "Ever so much. Of course, Nancy makes more than I, now—Nance is much cleverer than I, but Nancy's work is more the intellectual kind, you know, and Nancy will probably be famous, and I'll be rich."
"Bless my soul!" gasped the "Ogre," then suddenly he threw back his head, and laughed and laughed, nor could Nancy and Mrs. Prescott keep from joining in. The more Alma proclaimed her enthusiasm for business, the more patent her utterly delightful inaptitude for it became.
Then he grew grave, and turning to Mrs. Prescott said, in a gentle, friendly voice:
"Lallie, I wish you would tell me—everything that has happened. I would be very dull, indeed, if I could not guess that you and my nieces have had a new misfortune. I blame myself. I—I have made mistakes, and—well, life is very short."
Mrs. Prescott was silent for a moment, and sat up stiffly, as if uncertain whether she should listen to the dictates of her pride or of her hopes. Then presently, speaking in a quiet, monotonous voice, she told him about her bad investment, and why she had made it.
When Mrs. Prescott had finished speaking, everyone was silent for a little while. Then Mr. Prescott said, abruptly:
"You have been only vain, Lallie." Then, bluntly but not unkindly, turning to Mrs. Prescott. "Very vain, very foolish. And now that we've talked business, I'm going to ask if I may stay to supper?"
Of course he stayed. And Hannah, as she saw the last of her delicacies vanishing silently down the "Ogre's" lean, old throat, indulged in a bright vision of his eventual surrender.
But, having stuck to his principles for thirteen years, Mr. Prescott was not a man to change them in a moment of impulse. After that evening at his niece's he made no further reference to their affairs, and seemed quite oblivious of their difficulties. Some very narrow straits lay ahead of the Prescotts, and they had to deny themselves things that once their little income had allowed them.
Winter wore away into spring, and the girls went on doggedly with their tasks. Miss Bancroft had gone away for a month or so. They had been to see her several times during the winter, and she had dropped in to see Mrs. Prescott fairly often. There had been something very delightful in those few afternoons spent with her; for she was one of those charming old ladies who remain perennially girlish, and her interest and sympathy in their talk had won from them a very warm affection. Mr. Arnold had not appeared on the scenes during the entire winter and spring; having gone to England, Miss Bancroft had casually explained, for an indefinite stay. This intelligence had depressed Nancy unaccountably, but she explained her depression to herself on the grounds that she was worried about reclaiming the ring, which she valued so dearly.
As the days grew longer, they had their tea out in the little garden, which Nancy zealously tended. And these pleasant evenings made the whole day seem quite cheerful—if it had not been for the incessant worry about the future.
One afternoon in the middle of the month, they were sitting out in the little arbor, where the vines, covered with a veil of delicate, sticky little leaves, already offered a light shade from the beams of the western sun. As Nancy turned her head to say something joking to Alma, she noticed for the first time how very quiet her sister had been while they had been talking. Alma was lying full length on the little bench, with her arm across her eyes. Evidently feeling that her mother and sister were wondering what was the matter, she took away her arm, revealing a feverishly flushed face and heavy eyelids. "I just have a beastly old headache," she explained drowsily. "It isn't anything but spring fever."
"You poor little kid!" cried Nancy, going to her in concern and throwing her arm around her.
"It isn't anything," said Alma, feebly. "I had it yesterday, too, but it wasn't so bad."
"Well, I'm going to see if you have any fever, anyway," Nancy said quietly, not liking the look of Alma's hot cheeks and crimson lips.
They got Alma to bed, and in a few moments after her head had sunk into the cool pillow, she had dozed off into a heavy sleep. Nancy tried to conceal her uneasiness, but Alma had a fever of a hundred and one, which is not common to a simple headache.
But the visit from Dr. Bevan, cheerful as he was, did anything but set their fears at rest.
Nancy could only stare from him to her mother in speechless consternation, when it developed next day that Alma had the measles beyond a doubt. In the morning Mr. Dixon and the Porterbridges were notified that the Prescotts could not be at their work. The situation was indeed a pretty serious crisis in their career; for their income was reduced at once by something over a hundred dollars a month. This worry, however, was completely dwarfed when, on the third day after Alma had fallen ill, Dr. Bevan announced that he thought it best to send a trained nurse.
Nancy had had about all that she could bear, and without saying another word, rushed off, to bury her face in the sofa cushions, and smother her frantic sobs from her mother's ears. It seemed to her absolutely certain that Alma was going to die, and her mind filled with little forgotten memories, each of which stabbed her with an agonizing pang of misery.
The nurse, a very tall, strong, rosy woman named Miss Tracy, arrived about noon-time and, quickly changing into her stiff white uniform, ordered Mrs. Prescott off to lie down, telling Nancy that there was no need for either of them to worry. Her presence, her brisk, thorough, confident manner, lifted a hundred pounds from their hearts, and for the first time in three days they drew a breath of relief. Mrs. Prescott, who sadly needed sleep, lay down in her own room, and Nancy, who had not been out of the house since Alma had fallen ill, took a book and went out onto the porch to free her mind of worries that seemed to have dulled her thoughts. Everything had become so complicated, it was so utterly impossible to know what was to be done, that she felt as if it were no use worrying, as if something unforeseen would have to happen to solve difficulties that were absolutely beyond their power to solve. And so she merely wondered idly how the nurse's bills and the doctor's bills were to be paid. And finally, the warm air and the whirr of the lawn-mower, and the sleepy hum in the vines, made her drowsy; her eyelids fell, opened, and then closed again.
"Oh, yes, I'm a very great man. I know the King of England intimately," someone who did not look at all like Mr. Arnold, a fat, pompous-looking man with mutton-chop whiskers, who, however, was Mr. Arnold, kept repeating to her; and she kept wondering, "Why did I think he was so nice? Why did I think he was good-looking?"
Then all at once she heard someone coming up the wooden steps of the porch. She sat bolt upright, putting hasty hands to her tumbled, curly hair, and with dazed, sleepy eyes stared at the newcomer with a positively unintelligent expression of amazement. At length she articulated, in an almost reproachful tone:
"I thought you were in Europe. You were in Europe."
"Yes. But one doesn't have to stay in Europe, you know, unless they put you in jail over there, and I always try to avoid that," returned Mr. Arnold pleasantly.
"But you've been there for months," said Nancy, quite aware that she wasn't talking perfectly good sense. And then they both burst out laughing.
"Alma is ill," Nancy told him. "She has measles, and we are in quarantine, so you ought to go away."
He looked at her tired face, where the strain of fear and trouble showed in her pale cheeks and heavy eyes, and then he smiled in his warm, understanding way, and said gently:
"You've been worried to death about something, haven't you, Nancy? Well, I'm not going to ask you any questions now, only, whenever you feel that you want to, remember that you can tell me anything. Would you rather I went away now and came back later on, when you are less troubled? Is there anything I can do?"
"Oh, don't go away—I mean, it's very nice to see you. Alma has a nurse now, and I think she is going to be better soon—and it's so cheerful to see you!"
"Does Mr. Prescott know of Alma's illness?" he asked, after a moment's hesitation. "I don't think my aunt does. She has just come back. I landed the day before yesterday, and came down here last night. I—I asked her about you all, and she said nothing about Alma's being ill."
"No, I don't suppose Uncle Thomas does know," answered Nancy. "He comes over to see us every now and then, but then again he'll shut himself up for quite a long while, and I don't think he knows what we are doing any more than we know what he's doing."
"You know I'm buying a house here in Melbrook," said Mr. Arnold, rather irrelevantly. "A very nice house—do you know that yellow one, with the white columns and the porte-cochère over on Tindale Road?"
"I do know the one you mean," cried Nancy. "It's a beauty. There's the loveliest old-fashioned garden——"
"That's it—that's the one. I—you're sure you like it?"
For some reason or other Nancy turned pink at this simple question, and tried to stammer a casual reply. Then he went on serenely:
"I expect to have it in pretty good shape in a week or two, and when your sister is better, I'd love to have you and your mother and Alma come over and have tea with me. Aunt Eliza is directing the furnishing and all that—she's quite in her element, but I'd love to have your expert advice too. Heavens, I don't know anything about chintz, and scrim, and all that sort of foolishness."
He chatted along, telling her about his trip, recounting amusing little incidents of the things that had happened on the boat, and completely carrying her thoughts away from her own personal affairs. But after a little while she began to notice that he was really not thinking about what he was saying, that he seemed to have something on his mind, which he was always on the point of saying, and then veered off to something else. All at once he got up and remarked abruptly:
"What the dickens do I care personally for chintzes and scrim? I don't know which is which." Nancy stared at him, thinking that he had taken leave of his senses. He rammed his long, brown hands fiercely into the pockets of his gray trousers, took them out again, and thrust them into the pockets of his coat; then, as if he had taken a deep breath, and was holding it, he said:
"Will you marry me, Nancy?"
She could not have uttered a word. She simply sat and stared at him. Then, without being conscious of a single idea in her head, she jumped up and made a dive for the door. He caught her hand and made her turn around and face him. He had begun to smile, slightly, and it was that gentle, wonderfully sweet smile, half-amused and half-tender, that made her blush from the yoke of her gingham dress up to the edge of her hair.
"Well—will you?"
"I—I don't know," stammered Nancy; with that she promptly turned and fled into the house.
Mr. Arnold stood regarding the screen-door with a blank expression; then, after a moment or two, he walked away slowly. It was not until he had reached the gate that he remembered he had left his hat on one of the porch chairs.
*****
Alma was sitting up. Wrapped in a pink blanket, with her yellow curls pinned on top of her head, where they nodded like the heads of daffodils, surrounded by her admiring family, including Hannah and the trained nurse, and a perfect garden of spring flowers, which had been arriving daily since the appearance of Mr. Arnold, she was convalescing visibly.
"I didn't know that Mr. Arnold was back," said Alma, burying her small nose in a huge bouquet of white lilacs. "Isn't it perfectly dear of him to send these things, when I only met him once in my life?" Upon which guileless remark Nancy turned a lively and hopelessly noticeable scarlet. To make her embarrassment quite complete, Alma looked directly into her eyes and grinned deliberately.
"I wonder why he takes such a tremendous interest in us?" she went on, mercilessly. "I feel it in my bones. I feel as if something perfectly scrumptious were going to happen." Mrs. Prescott laughed and kissed her.
"Now, Nancy, come on, and 'fess up," was the bomb which Alma hurled without a word of warning. "I know perfectly well that you've got something on your conscience, and I've got a suspicion already that it's Mr. Arnold."
If she was desirous of creating a sensation, she should have been amply satisfied with the result of her remarks. Mrs. Prescott, as if she had been suddenly aroused from sleep, opened her pretty mouth and stared at her elder daughter for a moment and then exclaimed:
"I must have been dreaming!" Nancy squirmed. She looked reproachfully at Alma, then at her mother, and at length said simply:
"He—he asked me to marry him." And then she followed with the whole story. She told them of her visit to her uncle, where she had seen Mr. Arnold for the second time, and then went on to give a full account of her memorable trip to the pawnbrokers' with the ring.
"I—I would have told you everything long ago, but I didn't want you to think that Uncle Thomas was 'relenting' because he asked me to visit him—and about the other time——" Alma stopped her by leaning over and kissing her.
"You were paying for my experience," Alma said bravely. "I learned—I don't know what exactly, except that people like Mildred, whom I always thought as being important to know, weren't worth one teeny little ounce of trouble. I learned to be honest with myself, and that it's a whole lot better to work with your two hands than to be a toady, for the sake of making things easier,—and lots else. And I'm going to work hard, Nancy——"
"Stuff and nonsense!" declared an angry voice from the doorway. From a gargantuan bouquet of hyacinths, lilacs, and daffodils, issued the voice of the "Ogre." Evidently, finding the front door open, and the lower floor deserted, and hearing the sound of voices from above, the old gentleman had borne his offering aloft, without a word of announcement. Snorting with some inward indignation, he testily tossed his head to get rid of an impudent lilac which was tickling his nose, and glared over the bouquet.
"This idea of working is pure foolishness. I never heard of such women's nonsense before in my life. Here, where in the name of common sense can I put these flowers, and why wasn't I informed of my niece's illness?" When Nancy, stifling her unseemly laughter, had relieved him of his offering, he grew calmer.
"Why wasn't I told that you were ill, my dear?" he asked, sitting down and taking Alma's hand in his.
"We—we hardly thought of anything until she began to be better," answered Mrs. Prescott. He looked at her sternly a moment, and then his whole face softened, almost to a look of humility and shame-facedness.
"Once you told me that you were a foolish woman, Lallie," he said, "and I must confess that for a very long time I was blind enough, and selfish enough, to think it of you. Now it's only fair that I should be as brave as you and admit that I have been a very foolish man. I have been about the biggest fool that ever escaped the badge of long ears. All I did was to deprive myself of a lot of happiness, and to deprive some other very dear people of happiness that it was my privilege to bestow.
"Now, the truth is, that while my 'principles' were excellent,—they wouldn't work. They didn't do me any good. Hang it all! Here I was trying to make good, thrifty wives out of you two girls, for some young rascal—and depriving myself of the sweetest pleasure in life for that same impudent young husband who shan't have you, anyway!
"They were excellent principles, too, their only fault being that they—wouldn't work.
"And now, ladies, I herewith adopt you. I shall establish my legal right to you all. I—I feel—well, I hope I have made it quite clear, that anything, everything—on this green earth, that I can give you, is yours. And if you want to make me very happy, you'll demand it instantly."
For a little time no one said anything, then, heaving a great sigh, Alma burst out:
"Uncle Thomas, I'll expire if I don't hug you!"
And when she had hugged him, until there was more likelihood of his demise than her own, he said:
"I'm afraid I'm breaking up a brilliant business career for you, ma'am. The little that I can offer you is a mere nothing compared to the dazzling prospects which were opening before you——"
"You needn't be jocose, Uncle," interrupted Alma, severely. "Many a millionaire started on only five cents, and I started on fifteen dollars!"
"I hear that young Arnold is buying a house here," remarked Mr. Prescott. "Now, what in the world is he doing that for?"
"Why, indeed?" murmured Alma, wickedly. "The truth is, Uncle Thomas that he is madly in love with me. He sent me all these flowers, and, measles or no measles, he has been serenading me every night; hasn't he, Miss Tracy?"
"Alma! You ridiculous creature," cried Mrs. Prescott, joining in the laugh at this nonsense. Uncle Thomas looked amused but puzzled, hardly certain whether to believe there was an element of truth in this rigmarole or not. He glanced from Mrs. Prescott to Alma, to Nancy, and there he paused. He was a good enough reader of faces to know now where the wind lay, and his eyes grew sober.
"Well, my dear little niece, you're pretty young," he said gently, "but one is never too young to be happy. What do you think, Lallie?"
Mrs. Prescott smiled, although there were tears in her eyes, and said:
"Ask Nancy, Uncle Thomas."
"Well, Nancy?"
Nancy tried to laugh, as she took her mother's hand and Alma's, and faltered again:
"I—I don't know."
But here we, who can see into the minds of all these people, have no hesitation about saying in just so many words, that she did know very well; only she didn't know that she knew.
*****
The "Ogre" had sent a note to his nieces, asking them for dinner on a certain June evening. And strange to relate it was Nancy who delayed the proceedings. When she finally joined her admiring family she was deliciously conscious that a dress of pale gold-colored organdie, and a broad-brimmed hat trimmed with delicate blue flowers, were about the most becoming things she could possibly wear. And she was not entirely ignorant of the fact that she could be very, very pretty when she wanted to. It was pleasant to register this interesting fact on other people also, Miss Bancroft and the Ogre, and—well, George Arnold, for instance.
It was partly on account of the gathering darkness, no doubt, or partly because Alma wanted to look at the summer-house while Nancy and George wanted to continue to look at the roses, but however it was—well, there they were—Mr. Arnold and Miss Prescott, absorbedly looking at the roses. Or perhaps they weren't even looking at the roses.
"Now, look here, Nancy, if you'll be a good girl, and say what I tell you to, I'll give you something nice. It's not a candy, either."
"Wh-what do you want me to say?" gasped Nancy, suddenly feeling quite terrified.
"First of all, put your hand in mine, so," he took her hand gently, and then lifted it to his lips. "And now say—'I love you, George!'"
"Oh—I c-can't!" whispered Nancy, feebly.
"Yes, you can. Try it, dear."
"Well, don't you, Nancy?" For the first time he sounded very grave, and his eyes looked anxious. Then somehow Nancy felt quite calm and happy and brave, she answered him, honestly:
"Yes, I do. I love you, George."
She felt him take her left hand and single out the third finger. Then she felt something cool slipped on it. She gasped. The first diamond she had ever owned caught and flashed back a moonbeam.
"Oh—I didn't know it was that!" she stammered. "I would have said what—what you wanted me to, anyway, George. I mean, I wanted to, awfully."
He promptly kissed her.