It hurt Phœbe cruelly. And the pain was a double one. For she suffered on her own account, imagining a nebulous figure intrude itself between her and the father she loved with such a feeling of absolute possession; and she suffered for her mother. A strange woman in that mother’s place!—in that dear New York nest, at the dainty, round table in the cosy dining-room, in Mother’s corner of the davenport before the open fire of the little drawing-room! The pictures that Manila’s foreboding called up succeeded one another upon her mind’s eye as if it were the screen of a moving-picture theatre.
That was it! She understood all that Manila’s suggestion might mean because she knew step-mothers so well! Yes, she could even remember certain ones in the movies, though not clearly. One fact she was sure of: All step-mothers were cruel!
Miserable as she was, she did not think of seeking her father, of telling him what she feared, and how hurt she was. She felt angry toward him; she resented the way he was acting! Why should he think of another wife? And Mother away out there alone!
Phœbe went up to her room. Facing this new, threatening trouble, she wanted seclusion. But not seclusion to weep. Her eyes were dry, and her head was up. This was a thing that called for action—action! She must do something! She must! And what?
She knew! Standing in the middle of the room, talking to herself under her breath, suddenly it came to her. She would thwart any plan of her father’s to marry again! Did not people always thwart other people’s plans in the moving-pictures? Well, then, she would thwart.
From that hour forward she began to watch her father, secretly, jealously. And she discovered things about him that made her uneasy. Why did he always have that far-away look in his eyes? Why did he keep his lips shut so tight, with that knotting in the jaws that told her how hard his teeth were set together? Why did he walk the dull red carpet of Grandma’s sitting-room so often and so nervously? She had seen “movie” heroes act like that. Were all these signs that Daddy was in love?
She made up her mind to hunt Manila, and ask her just how her father had acted before he married that awful step-mother.
Meanwhile, seeing these things which at least conveyed worry, she came to forget herself in concern over her father. He was unhappy. Yet not about Mother, for it was clear that he did not care for Mother. Then of course he was suffering about someone else. She must try to distract his thoughts to herself. She would redouble her tenderness toward him. She would spend more time with him, kiss him oftener.
During the days that immediately followed, there came into her face and voice and manner a sweet concern toward him. She took to little attentions, such as finding his hat for him when he left the house, or hanging it up when he came in; she lighted his cigarettes; she searched for bits of lint, or small lengths of thread, on his coat. In other words, young and slim-legged as she was,—a baby still in most ways—she yet was assuming toward her father the rôle of little mother: she was yearning over him. Oh, her Daddy! Her dear, dear Daddy!
After a time, her worry about him lessened somewhat. Few women came to the house, and these were mostly elderly. And her father went out scarcely at all—never in the evenings. If he and she walked together, he often met women whom he knew, and bowed to them, smiling. If he seemed inclined to stop for a chat, Phœbe was quick to urge him on—first of all because she would not let herself be cordial to anyone in the town, and, second, because any woman might be the woman.