[to be continued.]
[IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.]
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.
CHAPTER VIII.
At the threshold of the library Miss Herrick paused. "I cannot go into that room, Elizabeth," she said. "How cruel you are to subject me to this again! Bring the boy to me here, if you are speaking the truth and he is really in the house."
Elizabeth found her brother at the top of the stairs.
"Come down," she said. "Aunt Caroline wants you."
Without a word he brushed past her and went to the library. He was too angry to speak. Miss Herrick had seated herself in a high-backed chair, which had the appearance of being a throne of justice, while she herself looked sufficiently stern and forbidding to cause the stoutest heart to quail. Neither she nor her sister gave Valentine the slightest sign of greeting. The boy might have been an absolute stranger to them.
Miss Herrick motioned to her niece to come to her side, but Elizabeth did not heed her. She had followed Valentine into the room, and she now stood beside him.
"What have you to say for yourself?" asked their aunt, after a pause which to the two culprits seemed hours long.
"Nothing," said Valentine.
"You mean that you have no excuse to offer?"
There was no answer.
"Unless you explain fully why you are here and why you crept into the house in this underhand manner, I will telegraph at once to your uncle and aunt. Perhaps they will be able to account for your conduct."
"They don't know anything about it," Val blurted out at last.
"I thought not; but for all that I shall send for them to come. Their nephew needs looking after, and they should know it."
"This is your fault," cried Valentine, turning upon Elizabeth. "All would have gone right if you had not been a traitor. I could have gone off to-morrow morning, and no one would have known anything. Now the 'Q. R. K.' is done for as far as I am concerned, and I am in this scrape besides."
"Elizabeth did quite the proper thing," said Miss Herrick, "and now I wish you to explain yourself. I give you five minutes. At the end of that time, if you have not begun to explain, I will telegraph to your uncle." She glanced at the clock as she spoke.
"Oh, I suppose there is no help for it," said Valentine. "I've got to tell you! The 'Q. R. K.' is a secret society at our school, and you have to be initiated. I have been wanting to belong for ever so long, and this year I was elected. I had been telling the fellows about this house, and the queer room no one ever goes into, and how Elizabeth had the Brady girls there once, and they said that part of my initiation would be to come on here without any one knowing it, and spend the night in that room, and get back again the next day. They knew I couldn't do it, but if I did they would put me on the executive committee, and that is a big honor for a new member. Of course I thought it would be a lark to do it, and I was sure I could manage it. Aunt Helen thinks I am spending the night with one of the fellows. It would have been all right if Elizabeth hadn't gone back on me. I was to take back a statement from her that no one had seen me."
The Misses Herrick looked at him in amazement. "Do you mean to say that such things are customary among school-boys?" asked Miss Rebecca.
"I don't know," returned Valentine, sullenly. "I am only telling you about our club."
"Do you think, Valentine, that it was the proper thing for you to do, after you had been a guest in this house and had profited by our hospitality, to return to your home and gossip of our private affairs? Of that—that room? And we your own aunts, your father's sisters?"
It was Miss Herrick who asked these questions.
"No," said the boy, "I don't suppose it was. But I didn't gossip; only girls do that. One day when we were all telling queer stories, I told this. I never thought at the time, and afterwards when they were planning my initiation rites one of the fellows remembered it. That is all."
"And quite enough. As that room is connected with the greatest sorrow of my life, you have hurt me more than you can ever realize. You are cruel."
"Don't say that to Val," said Elizabeth. "After all, Aunt Caroline, it was really my fault that he got in there. He never would have known anything about it last year if I had not told him and taken him there, and I ought not to have let him in this time. I was the one who went to your desk and got the key and opened the door. He didn't do one of those things. And you would never have known about it if I had not told. I think I am the one to be scolded, Aunt Caroline—really, I do."
"You certainly are very much to blame, Elizabeth. I shall punish you by withdrawing my consent to your taking drawing-lessons. I had supposed that you had outgrown your prying, curious ways. I see that you are no more worthy of trust than you used to be."
Elizabeth's eyes filled with tears and her lip trembled. It had been so hard for her to determine to betray Valentine, and now they were all against her. He, especially. But the boy, after a long pause, suddenly spoke:
"Look here, Aunt Caroline! I think you are mighty hard on Elizabeth. I am as mad as I can be at her for peaching, and I sha'n't forgive her in a hurry, but you have no right to blame her such a lot. I took her by surprise, in the first place, and I made her go and get the key and open the door. Of course she ought not to have told after that was all done, but still it wasn't her fault that I got in there."
It cost Valentine some effort to say this. It was by no means an easy matter for him to shoulder the blame, but, as he said afterwards, he could not stand there and hear his aunt pitching into little Elizabeth, who had been so ready to make excuses for him. He was rewarded by Elizabeth's grateful look, which he pretended not to see; and when she stole her hand into his and squeezed it, he impatiently shook her off.
Valentine departed in disgrace the following day, and the letter which Miss Herrick wrote to his uncle bore such results that he concluded that it would be wiser in future to avoid any such initiation rites as those which had just been attempted.
Elizabeth went to school as usual, but it was with so sad a heart that even her friend Patsy could not succeed in cheering her. A note was sent to Mrs. Arnold, which told her that Miss Herrick's niece was not to take drawing lessons, so that delightful prospect faded away into thin air, much to the little girl's disappointment.
And the room was closed again, and life in the old Herrick house went on about as usual, until an event came to pass by which it was again startled out of its accustomed calm, and which brought a great change into Elizabeth's existence.
For some weeks Patsy Loring had been planning to give a party. It was to be on her birthday, which fell on the first day of December. Elizabeth had never been to a party in her life, and the thought of going to one, and to one so delightful as Patsy Loring's was sure to be, served to keep her awake at night and to absorb her mind by day. And then a present was to be bought, and although her aunts took little interest in the all-important subject, Elizabeth was allowed to go to Chestnut Street under the care of the maid, and after much hesitation and the visiting of many shops, a beautiful silver pencil was selected for Patsy to use in school.
Twenty times a day did Elizabeth gaze upon it as it lay on green cotton in a pink box, and at last it was tied up in tissue-paper with a colored ribbon, and carried to Patsy's house, for the hour for the party had arrived.
Elizabeth Herrick had grown to be quite a tall girl, and in many respects she seemed much older than her thirteen years, while in others she was a mere child.
Her beautiful hair still hung in a shining mass over her shoulders, and she was simply dressed in a white frock with a broad blue sash about her waist. Her aunt believed in "dressing children as children," so that she seemed almost out of place among the very young-ladyfied girls who assembled at Mis. Loring's on this birthday afternoon.
After supper—for it was a tea party—Patsy's sister took her seat at the piano, and they all danced. All except Elizabeth. The mere idea of being asked to dance so terrified her that she fled up stairs to the little sitting-room, determined to stay there until the evening had worn away and some one should come to take her home.
She was overcome with disappointment. Even the pencil had not been the success that she had anticipated, for all the girls had brought presents to Patsy, and among them had been a pencil which she very much feared her friend might admire more than the one she had given, although Patsy had thrown her arms about Elizabeth's neck and declared hers to be the sweetest in the world.
"There are so many disappointing things," thought Elizabeth, at the age of the thirteen. "I wonder, if my father were to come home I should be disappointed about him!"
In the sitting-room she found a lady, who sat by the table, reading the evening paper. Elizabeth did not see at first who it was, for her face was hidden, but the lady looked up presently, and, to her surprise, it proved to be Mrs. Brown, who gave drawing and painting lessons at the school.
She was a very beautiful woman, and Elizabeth had always admired her in secret, and had longed more than ever to be allowed to take lessons of her. They had never exchanged a word, however, for Mrs. Brown was at the school merely during the hours of her lessons, and knew only those girls who were in her classes, but she recognized Elizabeth's face to-night, and smiled kindly at the little girl when she saw her.
"You are one of Miss Garner's pupils, are you not?" she said, with the lovely light in her eyes that won the heart of every girl to whom she spoke. "I think I have seen you there, although you are not in my class."
"No," said Elizabeth, "I am not in your class, though I do wish I could be. I love drawing."
"Perhaps another year you may be allowed to study."
"I am afraid not," replied Elizabeth, sadly; "my aunt does not approve of my learning it. I don't know why. She said once that I might, but I was dreadfully bad—so naughty that she had to punish me by not letting me learn to draw and paint, and I do love it so!"
"I am sorry," said Mrs. Brown; "but you do not look as if you could be dreadfully bad."
"Oh, but I am!" replied the little girl, earnestly. "I am terribly curious, for one thing, but I don't think I should be if there were not so many mysteries in our house. Don't you hate mysteries?"
"They are not agreeable things, certainly. Tell me what your name is. I feel sure we shall be friends, and you remind me of some one whom I used to know."
"Oh, do you think so?" cried Elizabeth, going to her side. "I do love friends, and this is the first year I ever had any. My name is Elizabeth Herrick."
"Elizabeth Herrick!" repeated Mrs. Brown, in a low, startled voice. "Where—where do you live?"
"I live in Fourth Street. With my two aunts. What is the matter, Mrs. Brown? Don't you feel well?"
"Yes, dear. It was only a momentary shock. I—I sometimes have them. You live with your aunts, you say? How many aunts have you?"
"Two—Aunt Caroline and Aunt Rebecca."
"And did you never have any other?"
"No, not here in Philadelphia. There was never any one else in our family but my father."
"So they have not told her!" murmured Mrs. Brown, but so low that Elizabeth could not quite catch the words. Then with an effort she continued, "And your father! Where is he?"
"He is abroad. He has never lived at home since my mother died, and that was when I was a baby, so I have never seen him."
"Ah, poor Edward!" said Mrs. Brown.
"Why, Mrs. Brown, do you know him? That is exactly what Aunt Caroline always calls him. Do you know my father?"
"What did I say?" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, hurriedly. "I must have been thinking of—at least, I used to know your father, it is true. But don't ask me any more, my child; and perhaps it would be as well not to mention to your aunts that—-that you have seen me."
"Another mystery!" cried Elizabeth. "Oh, dear me, I do hate them!"
"My child," said Mrs. Brown, taking the little girl's hands in her own and looking tenderly into the great brown eyes, "I do not ask you to hide anything on my account. Say just what you think best. And I hope I shall see more of you, Elizabeth. Perhaps some day you can come to see me with Patsy. My home is in the country, and I am merely spending the night with Mrs. Loring, who is an old friend whom I have not seen in some years. She only discovered to-day that I was at the school, and she begged me to stay with her to-night. I am sitting here waiting for her to come to me. And now I want you to kiss me, Elizabeth, for already I love you dearly."
Elizabeth threw her arms about her new friend.
"You are the most beautiful lady in the world," she whispered. "And I wish you were my mother or my aunt."
They were interrupted by a maid who came to say that the carriage had been sent for Miss Elizabeth Herrick, and that she must hurry. Her aunts wanted her at once.
"I wonder why," said Elizabeth, discontentedly, as she glanced at the clock. "Aunt Caroline told me I could stay until nine o'clock, and it is only eight now. And I was just beginning to enjoy the party."
"Never mind, dear," said Mrs. Brown; "it is very nice that you happened to come up here and find me, and I shall look forward to seeing you again soon. Perhaps after a time you may be allowed to take drawing-lessons. I am so glad you love it, Elizabeth"—kissing her again—"and I am more glad still that you like me even a tiny bit!"
"Like you!" cried Elizabeth. "I love you. I adore you!"
And then she ran to put on her coat and hat, for her aunt's message had been imperative, and she dared not linger.
She was driven quickly home, and when the door was opened for her the man told her that her aunts were in the library and wished to see her at once. Wondering, she ran up stairs, and, drawing aside the portière, she entered the room. It was more brightly lighted than usual, and her eyes fell upon a group of people who were sitting at the farther end of it, beyond the big library table.
Her two aunts were there, and a gentleman whose back was turned to her. A strange feeling came over Elizabeth. Who was this gentleman? Why had they sent for her? Was the longing of years to be fulfilled at last?
They did not see her at first, not until she had slowly advanced and was very near them. Then Miss Herrick discovered her.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "you are here! Edward, this is Elizabeth."
The gentleman turned quickly and rose to his feet. "So this is Elizabeth!" he repeated. "My child, do you know who I am?"
"Yes!" she cried, with a sob in her voice, "you are my father, at last, at last!"
It was half an hour later, and Elizabeth was even yet unable to realize that her father was actually here, in the same room with her, touching her, stroking her hair. She had drawn a footstool to the side of his chair, and sat holding his hand in both of hers, and looking up into his face.
He seemed older than she had thought, for the photograph of him that she had was taken long ago when he was first married. His eyes were sad now, and his hair and mustache were quite gray, while his face was browned with exposure to the sun, for he had travelled widely.
"And so you are glad to see me, Elizabeth?" he said.
"GLAD? WHY, YOU ARE MY FATHER!"
"Glad? Why, you are my father!"
And the look in Elizabeth's eyes and the tone of her voice showed that these words conveyed all that could be said.
"Poor little girl, I have neglected you."
"Elizabeth can scarcely be said to have been neglected," put in Miss Herrick, somewhat stiffly.
"Oh no, Aunt Caroline, you have been very good to take care of me so long, and I have given you so much trouble; but you are not my father, and I have wanted him so much."
"And what do you think was the means of bringing me home at last, Elizabeth?"
"I don't know, father."
Mr. Herrick released her hand for a moment, and took from his pocket a leather case. Carefully put away in the innermost compartment was a letter. The envelope was covered with postmarks, and it had the appearance of having journeyed to many places.
"Do you remember this letter that you wrote me more than a year ago?" he asked. "It reached me only the day before I sailed, and until it came, Elizabeth, I had no intention of sailing for many years to come. It has followed me about from place to place, and has been mislaid and sent astray, until at last it found me. When I read it, Elizabeth, I believe I realized for the first time that I had a daughter, and that I ought to come home to her."
"Oh, father! did that letter really bring you at last? I knew it would, for it is what I have prayed for every night and morning ever since I wrote it; but you were so long in coming that I had almost begun to give up hoping."
"May I see the letter?" asked Miss Herrick.
"No," said her brother. "I don't think any one shall ever read this letter but my daughter and myself." Which made Elizabeth sigh with satisfaction.
There was a short pause, and then she summoned courage to ask a question—one of the utmost importance, and the asking of which cost her a great effort. She rose from her stool and stood in front of her father, her hands clasped behind her and tightly locked.
"Father," she said, timidly.
"What is it, my darling?"
"I want you to look at me very, very hard. Do you think—you—can—bear the sight of me?"
"My child, what on earth do you mean? You are the most beautiful sight in the world to me."
He put his arms around her and drew her down to his knee. Elizabeth hid her face on his shoulder and cried with relief.
It was indeed a happy Elizabeth who went to bed that night, and the next morning when she awoke and remembered that her father was actually in the house, she was obliged to pinch herself to make sure that it was not all a dream.
When she went down to breakfast there he was, waiting to kiss her for good-morning, and Elizabeth felt that she was at last like other girls with a father to love her, and she should soon have a brother also, for Valentine had already been sent for, and would hereafter make his home with them in the house which their father intended to buy.
Elizabeth rather dreaded Val's coming, for she feared that he had not yet forgiven her for telling their aunt of his previous visit; but when he arrived, a few days later, she found that he was ready to acknowledge that his sister had done right, and that it was he who had been in the wrong.
The morning after Mr. Herrick's return the father and daughter had a long conversation, and Elizabeth was able to ask him about the subjects which most interested her. One question related to her drawing-lessons, which her father readily promised that she should take. The other was in regard to the mystery of the locked door.
"It was your aunt's room, my child," said Mr. Herrick.
"But which aunt, father—Aunt Caroline or Aunt Rebecca?"
"Your aunt Mildred."
"But who was she? I never heard of her."
"You have never heard of your aunt Mildred? Is it possible?"
And then he told her of his beautiful younger sister who, years before, when she was but twenty, had left home to become a trained nurse in a hospital. Miss Herrick, who was devotedly fond of her, and who had expected her to make a brilliant marriage, had bitterly opposed this course.
"They were equally obstinate," said Mr. Herrick, "and neither one would give up. It was not that it was a disgraceful thing for Mildred to do—far from it. She had a longing to do some good in the world, and it suited her fancy to try to do it in that way. In a year or two she would probably have come back. But Caroline told her she must make her choice then and there—if she left her it was to be forever; and Mildred chose to go. Your aunt Caroline never forgave her for this, and her room has been closed and padlocked ever since, and her name is never mentioned. It is a sad story, Elizabeth, and I think your aunt has made a mistake; but it is not for me to judge her, I who have neglected my children all these years. We Herricks are all more or less peculiar."
Elizabeth told her father of the letters in the closed room, and from one of them Mr. Herrick learned that his sister had married an artist by the name of Brown. A second letter told that he had died within a year of their marriage, that her money was almost gone, and that she was now obliged to support herself.
Mr. Herrick reproached his sister Caroline for not having forwarded these letters to him, and although Miss Herrick tried to defend herself, she knew in her heart that she had done very wrong, and she longed to make amends to the Mildred whom she had once loved so dearly. But she gave no outward sign of this change of feeling.
Mr. Herrick determined to lose no further time in looking for Mildred, but he wished, first of all, to settle Elizabeth comfortably at school in regard to her drawing-lessons, which seemed to be so near her heart. That very morning, therefore, he went with her to Mrs. Arnold's, and asked to see the teacher of drawing and painting. Mrs. Arnold left the room to send her to the parlor, and the father and daughter were left alone together.
Presently there was a faint sound on the stairs, a rustle in the hall. The door was opened and Mrs. Brown came in. Mr. Herrick, attracted by the slight sound of her entrance, turned, and their eyes met. For a moment he was speechless, and there was a silence in the room.
"Mildred!" he said, starting forward, "have I found you here?"
"Edward, at last you have come!"
The three returned to Fourth Street together, and Mr. Herrick and his sister waited in the parlor while Elizabeth went to her aunts. She found them in the library.
"Aunt Caroline," said she, standing in front of her, "whom do you love best in the world?"
Her aunt looked at her for a moment without speaking. Then she said, "You, Elizabeth, I think."
"No, there is some one else. Some one you used to love and who loved you, and she is here now, in this very house. Come, Aunt Caroline and Aunt Rebecca, come down and see her."
And she took the hand of each.
And so it was Elizabeth who in the end brought them together. It was she who unlocked the door.