CHAPTER XXIV
What was all wrong? What word did Uncle Bob want Daddy to say? And to whom? In particular, what was it that Uncle Bob wanted Daddy to do? And who, oh, who, was “her”?
She longed to go down to the kitchen and ask Sophie. But she knew there was no use—Sophie would tell her nothing. Just now Sophie was on her best behavior, and was taking a distinctly grown-up attitude toward Phœbe. She had come close to being dismissed. And she had not been independent about it. For what she had done was, by the very nature of the case, known throughout the town, which meant that other families might not care to hire a girl who had stolen out in the evening to a theatre, taking with her a child. Uncle John had pointed this out to Sophie, adding that he would make it his business to see she did not deceive any other employer.
Uncle John and Sophie had had what Phœbe guessed was a most exciting interview. Phœbe was almost sorry to have missed it. While Uncle Bob and Phœbe’s father were out and away, searching, Uncle John had attended to Sophie.
Grandma told Phœbe (in a whisper!) that Sophie had knelt in front of Uncle John, weeping grievously over Phœbe’s disappearance, blaming herself bitterly, and pleading for forgiveness. Uncle John had been sternness itself. At first, he had declared for one course: Sophie must go. Later, when Sophie vowed that she would give up moving-pictures, he had softened a little. Still later, she brought down to him all the photographs she owned of “movie” stars—forty-seven in all. She had thrown them into the fireplace in the library, and put a match to them. Then Uncle John had relented.
So Sophie was being a new Sophie—quiet of foot and tongue, and quiet of dress. For two days she had not even curled her hair!
“There’s no use asking her,” concluded Phœbe, feeling somewhat injured. That man, too, was responsible for the blame heaped on Sophie—that man who had tagged them home from the theatre, and sat with them twice. Phœbe was angry with him, too.
She was still puzzling her head over what Uncle Bob and her father had to say to each other, when here came the former—almost stealthily, with glances over his shoulder. His face was red; his eyes were solemn. Once inside the door of Grandma’s room, he locked it!
“That’s all right,” he whispered. “Grandma knows.” He came to sit beside the sofa.
For a long moment he did not speak. He patted her shoulder absent-mindedly, and the small hand she had reached out to him—this dear uncle whom she was so soon to leave! All the while he looked past her, out of the window. And his lips, tight-pressed, worked in the way they had when he was framing something important.