[to be continued.]
IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.[1]
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.
CHAPTER V.
Elizabeth was in her own room when she arrived at this determination to seek a home with the Brady family, and the more she thought of it the more advisable did the plan seem. She began to prepare for an immediate departure. Most fortunately for her purpose, Miss Rice had gone out, her aunt Caroline was about to go, and she could very easily escape from her aunt Rebecca, who was reading in the library.
The first thing to do was to dress suitably for the occasion. The frock that she had on seemed scarcely the thing to wear at the Bradys'; in fact, she had nothing that was exactly appropriate, except a dress which her aunt had told her was too much spotted to wear again. She would be more like Eva Louise and Bella if she had on something which was not altogether clean.
This important matter settled, she put on her hat—it was a large one, with many feathers, but the Brady girls wore very gay hats—and slipped quietly down the stairs, carrying a bag in which were her night-dress and toilet articles. On her aunt's cushion she pinned a note—she believed runaway heroines always did so—explaining the situation.
"Dear Aunt Caroline," she had written, "I am going away to some people I know. You will never find me. I cannot go to Virginia. If my father ever comes back I will hear of it, and then I will come home. Please take good care of Julius, for the sake of your affectionate niece,
"Elizabeth Herrick.
"P. S.—Please do not try to find me. I am with friends. P. S. number two.—I hope you won't mind my going very much."
This done, she continued her way down stairs, out of the front door, and around to the home of the Brady family.
Eva Louise and Bella were playing the inevitable jack-stones on their own door-step when Elizabeth appeared. They looked up, but continued their game.
"How do you do?" said Elizabeth.
"Holloa! I say, Eva Louise, that ain't no fair. Them's mine."
"'Tain't, neither. Yer a reg'lar cheat, Bella Brady! I'm a-goin' to tell pop, an' I ain't a-goin' to play with yer another minute."
Elizabeth, fearing that slaps were imminent, hastened to interpose.
"I want to ask you something, Eva Louise. Is your mother at home?"
"Is that all yer want to ask? Well, I guess she is. I say, Bella—"
"But, Eva Louise, I really want to speak to you. Do you think—do you think your mother would be willing to let me stay here a little while?"
"Stay here! What ever do yer mean?"
"I mean that I want to live here till my father comes home. I— Well, the truth is, my aunts want me to go somewhere, and I don't want to go, because I don't know the people, and I thought perhaps I might stay here with you, that is if you don't mind."
"Well, I never!" exclaimed Eva Louise. "If you ain't a queer one! Ma! I say, ma!"
There was no reply, so Eva Louise went into the house, leaving Bella in triumphant possession of all the jack-stones, which she immediately swept into a very dirty pinafore. Presently her sister returned, followed by Mrs. Brady, with the front of her skirt turned up and her arms bared to the elbow.
"How do you do, Mrs. Brady? Has Eva Louise told you? Would you mind?"
"What iver on earth do yer mean, miss? Sure it can't be that yer afther wantin' to lave yer nice house that's as big as a palace, and come here to the loikes o' us?"
"I really do, Mrs. Brady; and I shall be so much obliged to you if you will let me."
"Come inter the house, miss, an' we'll talk it over. Sure, do the Herrickses know yer afther comin' here?"
"Oh no, of course not. No one knows it, and I don't want you to tell them, please, Mrs. Brady," said Elizabeth, as she followed her hostess through the narrow passageway into the kitchen.
Here the baby was crying upon the floor, while Mr. Brady smoked his pipe in the corner. Through the window Elizabeth could see their own garden fence, with the fruit trees beyond, and above them the windows of the closed room.
"If you don't mind, I should like to stay here awhile," she said. "I won't be any trouble, really, Mrs. Brady, and I might help you to take care of the baby."
The child had seated herself on the extreme edge of the only available chair in the room. Mrs. Brady stood with her hands on her hips, looking at her, with a daughter on either side.
"Well, I never!" said she at last. "I can't think yer really mean it. Pop, what do yer say to it?"
Mr. Brady smoked in silence for some minutes. Then he removed his pipe, and remarked, in a surly tone:
"If the old ladies is willin' to pay us han'some for it, I 'ain't got no objections. If we take boarders, of course we look for boarders' pay."
Having made this statement, he replaced his pipe. His wife and daughters again looked at Elizabeth.
"What old ladies?" she asked.
"It's yer aunts he is afther meanin', miss. As pop says, we 'ain't got no objections to takin' boarders."
"Oh, but I am afraid I can't pay you just now. My aunts don't know where I am, you know, and I don't want them to. I haven't any money of my own now, but I will have when I grow up, and I will pay you then, Mrs. Brady—indeed I will."
The pipe was again removed.
"If yer afther thinkin' yer goin' to live here for nothin' till yer growed up, yer pretty much mistaken. Atin' us out o' house an' home, an' nothin' to show for it!"
"OH, BUT, REALLY, MR. BRADY, I DON'T EAT MUCH."
"Oh, but really, Mr. Brady, I don't eat much. That is just what is the matter with me, and why I had to have the doctor. I only eat a little oatmeal and cream for breakfast, and I don't really care for anything but sweetbreads and ice-cream, and I can get along very well without them. You won't have to get anything extra for me. I will promise not to eat a bit more than I can help. And I could do ever so much to help Mrs. Brady, taking care of the baby or washing the dishes. Please let me stay!"
And she looked imploringly from one to the other.
Mrs. Brady stepped over to the corner, and a conversation ensued between her and her husband of which Elizabeth could hear but snatches. The question of money appeared to figure largely in it, and she heard the words "reward" and "have us arrested."
Finally Mrs. Brady turned to her visitor.
"Pop says you can stay for the prisent."
"Oh, thank you!" said Elizabeth, gratefully. "Shall I go take off my things? And where shall I put them?"
Eva Louise volunteered to take her up stairs. She had a great curiosity to see what was in the beautiful leather travelling-bag which Elizabeth carried, a curiosity which was presently gratified when the new-comer took from it a silver-backed brush and comb, and laid them on the old wash-stand which appeared to serve as a dressing-table.
"La!" cried Bella, who had followed them up stairs, "ain't we grand? Say, is them real solid silver?"
"Why, yes," said Elizabeth; "I suppose so."
"Pop needn't worry about no board money, I guess."
And the two daughters of the house hurried downstairs.
Elizabeth looked about her. It was certainly very different from her own room in the next street. As there were but few bedrooms in the house, she feared that she might be obliged to sleep with the Brady girls. Already she felt homesick. And the house was filled with the odor of salt fish mingled with that of onions and bad-tobacco smoke. It was almost unbearable.
Presently she heard loud voices. Some of the boys had returned, and it sounded as if they were quarrelling. How very dreadful it was! Elizabeth was afraid to go down, so she staid where she was, with difficulty opening the window a crack in order to get a breath of fresh air.
She began to wonder if life in Virginia could be worse than this. If she only had Julius Cæsar here, it would be a comfort; but Julius would not be happy in such a place. He liked soft cushions and rugs to lie upon, and he was particular about having a clean plate for his food.
She wondered if her aunt Caroline had returned yet, and what she would think when she read her note. After what seemed a long time, she heard the State House clock strike six. She would be about to sit down to supper if she were at home. The aunts were expecting guests to dinner that night. The voices downstairs grew louder. She distinctly heard Mr. Brady say:
"If we ain't a-goin' to be paid for it, she don't stay the night. I'll murder the whole o' yers before I let her ate us out o' house an' home. Silver, yer say she's got? I'll see it before I believe yers."
This was too dreadful! Elizabeth began to cry. And then she heard a loud knocking at the door.
In the mean time Miss Herrick had returned from her drive. She found visitors in the parlor, and when they had gone it was necessary to give a glance at the dinner table to see that all was properly arranged for her guests; and then she went up stairs to dress. It was almost six o'clock.
As she looked at the tiny clock on her dressing-table, her eye was attracted by Elizabeth's note, pinned on her cushion.
"What is this for?" she said to herself, as she opened and read it.
"What can the child mean? Gone to some friends—'some people she knows'? Who are they? Has she lost her mind? Perhaps her illness is affecting her brain."
Miss Herrick almost ran from the room, and called Miss Rice.
"Where is Elizabeth?" she demanded.
"Is she not with you?" asked Miss Rice. "As she was not at home, I fancied that you had taken her to drive."
"Not at all. The child must be found. Read this quickly, and tell me what you think. Was there ever anything so trying? The child will be the death of me. Company for dinner, and all this excitement! Where can she be? Rebecca," to her sister, who appeared at this moment, "Elizabeth, has actually had the audacity to run away! What shall we do about it?"
Miss Rebecca Herrick read the note.
"How perfectly absurd!" she remarked as she finished it. "No doubt she has gone to those dreadful Bradys she was forever talking about. She always spoke of them as friends."
"Of course! How clever you are, Rebecca! Miss Rice, kindly tell James to go to the Bradys' and ask if she is there. He probably knows where they live. I have barely time to dress for dinner. Let me know if he brings her back." And Miss Herrick returned to her room. "No doubt she is there," she said to herself. "It is useless to become unduly alarmed before it is absolutely necessary. What a strange child she is! Perhaps Helen Redmond will understand her better than I do. I hope so, I am sure, and the sooner she is sent there the better, if she is going to behave in this way."
But Miss Herrick was more alarmed than she cared to acknowledge. She moved nervously about the room, and it was a relief to her when, as she was putting the finishing touches to her toilet, there was a knock at the door.
"Who is it?" she cried.
"It is Elizabeth," said a small voice. "May I come in, Aunt Caroline? Oh, I am so glad to get back! Thank you so much for sending James after me!"
"Do you think this is the proper way for a little girl to behave?" asked Miss Herrick, in a severe voice, although she was greatly relieved to see her niece.
"No, Aunt Caroline, I don't, and I hope you will excuse me. I—I didn't want to go to Virginia, you know, and I thought that the Bradys' would be better than that. But it isn't, Aunt Caroline. Nothing could be worse than the Bradys! I was so glad to have James come for me! They were all quarrelling, and Mr. Brady was not at all nice. He was even talking about murdering people when James knocked at the door. And I am so glad to get home! Don't you think I might stay here now, Aunt Caroline? Must I really go to Virginia?"
"Certainly you must, more so now than ever. It is nonsense for you to dread it so. There is no reason why you should not be happy there. Now run away, for I must go down to the drawing-room."
"I should have liked to kiss her," said Miss Herrick to herself, as she went down stairs. "I am growing very fond of her, with all her oddness. But I must not allow myself to care deeply again. One disappointment is enough."
And she thought of the locked door upstairs.
Elizabeth went to her room. It was softly lighted, and it all looked so comfortable and quiet compared with the Brady apartment. How thankful she should be that she had not been born a Brady! Even Miss Rice was endurable after Mrs. Brady. If she could only stay here, and not go to Virginia!
But fate and the doctor and Miss Herrick were apparently inexorable, and day after day slipped by, bringing nearer that which was set for her departure. Her trunk was packed; it was off. She bade good-by to her aunts and to Julius Cæsar—she had begged to be allowed to take him with her, and had wept bitter tears over the refusal—and now the carriage was at the door. Miss Rice, on her way to her home in South Carolina, was to take Elizabeth to her destination.
"Good-by, Aunt Caroline," said the little girl, with streaming eyes. "Good-by, Aunt Rebecca. I am sorry I have not been a better child, but you don't know how hard it is sometimes. And you will send me word if my father comes home, won't you, Aunt Caroline? I still think he will come some day."
And then she ran down the steps, the carriage door was shut, and she was driven rapidly away.
"I feel as if I could not let her go," said Miss Herrick, as she stood in the window and stroked Julius Cæsar, who was quite aware that something out of the ordinary was happening. "If it were not that the doctor spoke so strongly, I should keep her now. It is very strange that she cannot be happy or well with us. I am afraid, Rebecca, that I am going to miss her sadly."
"You will soon grow accustomed to it, Caroline," returned her sister, calmly. "The child was a great care, for we never knew what she was going to do next—running away, investigating Mil—what she should not have done, up to all kinds of mischief."
"Do not allude to that, Rebecca, I beg of you," said Miss Herrick, with some agitation. "The child reminds me of her in certain ways. This taste for drawing that she has developed fills me with dread. I do not want her to be like her. I shall write to Helen Redmond, and tell her it must not be encouraged."
Just as Miss Herrick said this a telegram was handed to her. She opened it hurriedly, and read:
"Marjorie has scarlet fever. Do not let Elizabeth come.
"Helen Redmond."
For a moment Miss Herrick scarcely knew what to do. She glanced helplessly at the window from which a few minutes before she had seen Elizabeth drive away. Then she looked at the clock. There was a good half-hour yet before the train would start.
"What is the matter, Caroline? Do tell me what is in the telegram, instead of keeping me in suspense," exclaimed Miss Rebecca.
Her sister thrust it toward her without a word, and left the room. She was dressed for the street, for she had intended to go out as soon as the carriage should return from taking Elizabeth to the station. She went out of the house, and her acquaintances would have been greatly startled had they seen the stately Miss Herrick almost run to Walnut Street, and with ungloved hand signal to a trolley-car to stop for her. It was rarely that Miss Herrick condescended to set foot in any conveyance but her own carriage.
She was quite breathless when she reached the station and mounted the stairs. She looked for the gate through which the passengers were crowding to the southern train.
"Your ticket, madam?" said the gate-keeper.
"Oh, I have none! I am not going anywhere. I must get my niece. Scarlet fever!"
And before he could stop her, Miss Herrick had pushed through and was running down the long platform.
Elizabeth, sitting forlornly in her place in the parlor-car, with the back of Miss Rice's austere-looking bonnet in front of her, and her mind filled with the dread of Virginia, was astonished to see her aunt suddenly appear at her side and grasp her hand.
"Come quickly, Elizabeth! You are not to go, after all. Come, before the train starts."
"Not to go?" repeated the child.
"No. Marjorie has scarlet fever. Good-by, Miss Rice. I will write and explain. There is the bell ringing. Hurry, child, hurry!"
And they were but just in time. The train moved off with Miss Rice, and Elizabeth remained in Philadelphia.
It seemed too good to be true. She asked her aunt a thousand questions, but she gained little satisfaction. Now that Elizabeth was saved from the danger of infection, Miss Herrick did not know what to do next. According to the doctor, she must not remain with them; but now that the home in Virginia was closed to her, there seemed to be no way of disposing of the child. Her mind was so occupied with Elizabeth's future that she could not attend to her present needs.
They returned to the house which Elizabeth, in tears, had left so short a time before, and then Miss Herrick got into her carriage and drove to the doctor's. He must help her out of the difficulty.
The result was that the town house and the country house were closed for the summer, and the three Misses Herrick went to the sea-shore. When they should come back in the autumn, there was to be a new order of things. Elizabeth was to go to school, and she was to have companions of her own age.
"That is, if you don't want to kill her," said the doctor, bluntly, when he had stated his views.
That same night Elizabeth heard that Marjorie Redmond had died of scarlet fever. She had been almost glad to hear that she was ill, for it had been the means of preventing her from going there; and now the favorite cousin of whom Val had been so fond was dead.
Miss Herrick shuddered when she heard the news. How narrow Elizabeth's escape had been! If she had gone a week earlier, there would have been no saving her. But she gave no sign of the strong hold that her niece had gained upon her heart, and Elizabeth little guessed how much her aunt really cared for her.