Mr. Gray began to go to town in the Sunday-night boat for two or three days of business, though he still spent the larger half of the week in Newport. Marian was sent to Lenox for a week's visit to an aunt. The family seemed very small now; and when Mrs. Gray one Monday morning announced her intention of running up to Boston next day for the night and taking Gertrude with her, Georgie loudly protested.
"It is really cruel of you, mamma. Cannie and I will feel like two deserted little scraps, all alone in this big house. I do think you might wait till papa is at home. And there's Marian coming back to-morrow night. What on earth shall we do with her all day? She will feel dreadfully to find you gone."
"I am sorry about Marian," confessed Mrs. Gray; "but Tuesday happens to be the best day for us on several accounts. You and Candace must be particularly good to her, and not let her feel aggrieved or forlorn. I have ordered the breakfasts and luncheons and dinner for to-morrow and Wednesday, so you will have no housekeeping to trouble you, and we shall be back at six o'clock, you know. Two days are but a short time, after all. You might ask a couple of girls to dine with you to-morrow,—any one you like."
But Georgie seemed out of spirits. She was dull and dreamy, and said she didn't care to invite anybody,—she would rather have a nice lazy time by themselves, if Candace liked it just as well. Candace, who had made up her mind to the inevitable Berry Joy, was glad to be let off; so she spent a very quiet day, for Georgie went to her room as soon as lunch was over, to lie down, as she said, and sleep off a little headache, and Candace was left alone till nearly dinner-time.
Marian's arrival from the train brought a little stir and variety; but it was not of the most pleasurable kind, for she was so disappointed and indignant at finding her mother absent, that till the first sharp sting of vexation had abated, nothing could be got out of her but sobs and broken words of complaint. Even when she grew calmer, things were still rather melancholy; for she was too tired and depressed for speech, and just sat in silence, leaning her head against Candace's shoulder until bedtime. Nor did Georgie and Candace find much to say to each other after she had departed. Georgie remarked, rather peevishly, that Marian was a most cross, tiresome child sometimes, and Candace said, "Yes, poor little thing! but she was really very tired this time, as well as cross;" then each took a book and read to herself till ten o'clock, when they separated with a brief good-night. It was a great contrast to the usual bright, cheerful evenings of the household; and Cannie, as she undressed, was conscious of being low-spirited. "Homesick" she would have called it; but the phrase did not justly express her mood, for even on that dull evening I am very sure that she did not pine for Aunt Myra, or for the North Tolland farm-house, which was the only place she had ever called by the name of home.
The next day opened more brightly. Marian was asked to lunch with the Frewens, who were her favorite friends; and her absence was something of a relief to the others. Georgie and Candace did their little morning tasks, not forgetting the arrangement of the fresh flowers, which usually fell to Gertrude's share; then Georgie sat down to practise, and Candace settled herself in a deep cushioned chair in the library with Motley's "Dutch Republic," which she was reading for the first time. It was the chapter on the siege of Leyden; and the wild, fantastic nocturne by Chopin which Georgie was playing, seemed to blend and mix itself with the tragic narrative. Candace did not know how long the reading and the music had been going on, each complementing the other. She was so absorbed in her book as not to heed the sound of the bell or Frederic's noiseless tread as he crossed the hall to answer it; but she roused from her absorption as the nocturne came suddenly to an end with a crash of startled chords, and Georgie's hands fell from the keys, at the sight of Berry Joy, who came hurriedly in at the door. Candace in her corner was invisible.
"Oh, Georgie, that dreadful creature is here again," she heard Berry say, while Georgie answered with a little despairing cry, "Not really! oh, Berry, what shall we do?" Then came a long whispered confabulation; then another tinkle at the door-bell.
"Frederic, I am engaged," Georgie called out.—"Come upstairs, Berry. If we stay here, some one is certain to break in." The two rushed across the hall. Candace heard their rapid steps on the stairs; then Georgie's door shut with a bang, and all was still.
Her book dropped into her lap unheeded. Her mind was full of puzzled amazement. Who was the "dreadful creature," and what did it all mean?
The silence in the house was unbroken except by the tick-tick of the tall clock. It made her nervous at last, and she went out on the lawn to get rid of the sensation. She picked a few flowers, pulled the seed-pods from one of the geraniums under her care, and spent some minutes in petting and fondling Marian's pretty colly, who lay stretched out luxuriously in the full rays of the mild September sunshine. Then she caught a glimpse of Berry's figure passing out of the gate, and went back to the house. The drawing-room was empty. Motley lay on the floor where she had dropped him. She picked up the volume, and slowly mounted the stairs. As she passed through the upper entry she heard a sound from the morning-room; was it a sob? Candace gently approached the door. Again the sound came, an unmistakable sob; and looking in she saw Georgie, lying on her mother's sofa with her face hidden, sobbing as if her heart would break, and saying over and over to herself in a voice which was like a moan, "What shall I do? oh, what shall I do?"