Six Girls Part 17

"She was quite well, thank you, the last time she was home," answered Bea, watching those eagle eyes in terror.

"Umph! Pity she can't stay home," said Miss Strong, once more taking in the room with an unmistakable glance.

"It's very lonely without her," a.s.sented Bea, catching sight of the wilted flowers under her father's portrait, and fervently hoping that her visitor's eye would not see them. But vain hope! Miss Strong's eyes went straight from the dirt under the stove up to the neglected vase, and she smiled in a way, that made Bea long to jump up and scream.

"I have often wanted to see your father's portrait, and I have heard what beautiful flowers you always kept under it. So lovely!"

"We do," answered Bea, with much dignity, and flas.h.i.+ng a resentful glance at Miss Strong. "Papa loved flowers dearly, and we always love to have them under his picture; but Kittie must have been in a hurry, and forgotten it this morning."

"In-deed," said Miss Strong slowly. "But excuse me, pray do, I wouldn't have spoken of it, but I supposed, of course, that this room had not been arranged for the day yet."

"Well, it is very early," retorted Bea, stung quite out of her patient politeness; and Miss Strong got up immediately, shutting her mouth with a vicious snap.

"I'm sure I wouldn't have called so early," she said shortly. "But I am soliciting for the Church Fund, and having heard how exceedingly generous and willing you all were to give to all such causes, I made my first call here, confident that it would yield me encouragement."

Poor Bea colored violently again, remembering that she only had enough money to pay the grocery bill, due to-morrow, and yet Miss Strong had made her feel as though she must give something; every one would expect it.

"I'm very sorry," she said, slowly. "But I really cannot this morning."

"In-deed," said Miss Strong again. "But then, people will be mistaken once in a while; I must bid you good morning, Miss Dering;" and out she stalked, before Bea could gain her breath.

When Kittie and Kat came in from the pond a little while later, they found Bea, lying on the lounge and sobbing, with a despairing energy, that excited their liveliest alarm, and made all horrible things seem possible, from mother's death down to the breaking of the cherished family tea-pot. Bea told her story, but hadn't room to remonstrate, for the sobs that caught her breath; and the girls listened in grave alarm.

"Who cares for old Polly Strong?" cried Kat, with defiant irreverence, and throwing her hat to the ceiling.

"Well, I'm sorry," cried Kittie, running to comfort the prostrate chief.

"It's all my fault; Kat swept the parlor this morning and I cleaned in here. Oh, I am ashamed, and so sorry, Bea dear."

"Well--well, I think it's too--too bad," sobbed Bea, uncomforted. "She talked so mean, and--and--she'll tell everybody that--that--I'm no housekeeper, and then--then, mama--"

"If she does," interrupted Kat fiercely, "I'll tell every mortal man, woman and child, in turn, that she's a meddling old thing, if they don't know it already; and I'll tell them just the truth about this room, too."

"It was horrible in me," sighed Kittie in great self-reproach. "And when you were so kind as to change, too. We'll go right back to the dishes, Bea, and not disgrace your work any more, and I'll go right to work and clean this room decent, so that everything will s.h.i.+ne until you can see your face in it."

By this time Ernestine's wardrobe was pretty near ready to go upon her visit. She had exercised her ingenuity in making few things look their best and go a long way; and her selfishness in getting every available thing from the girls, without ever expressing a wish that they were going to share the pleasure; because, she reasoned in her mind, if they were going, she couldn't have all their pretty things, so better be still, than express an untruthful desire. On the day after the Strong visit, she came from down-town, and walked up to the house, very much as if she were a little ashamed to go in, but which she did, with an a.s.sumption of indifference, and came into the room where the girls were sitting.

"I've got the last things," she said with a laugh, tinged with an uneasiness that no one noticed, and unwrapping a small parcel.

"What?" asked Bea, glancing up with interest; then looked at the open paper, and did not say another word.

Kittie and Kat did likewise, and in a moment Ernestine broke the silence with an impatient laugh.

"Well, what do you all look so horrified at? It was my own money, I guess, and precious little at that."

"What did you pay for them?" asked Bea gravely.

"These--" Ernestine held up a pair of snowy kids, with three b.u.t.tons--"I got for a dollar and a half, cheap, because one finger is a little soiled. This--" lifting a creamy tip, with pale blue shading--"was two dollars. Won't it look lovely in my black hat?"

"Yes, it will look lovely," said Bea slowly; she was really too astonished and hurt to say any more; but Kat cried out explosively:

"Oh Ernestine Dering! you selfish, selfish, old--pig, you--" "Know mama wants shoes," interrupted Kittie, with her voice full of indignant tears. "And you heard her say the last time she was home, that she did not want to spend the money for them, and here you spend three dollars and a half for--"

"Things that I want," finished Ernestine, getting up and pus.h.i.+ng her chair away. "I've worked hard, and I think I might spend a very little bit of my own money. You all don't seem to think so, and you're not very pleasant, so I'll just leave you until you are in a better humor."

With that she went out, feeling really as though she were more aggrieved than aggressor, and stillness followed her departure.

"She's worked hard?" cried Kittie at length, with indignant scorn. "Very hard; but mama hasn't, nor we haven't--"

"Oh don't, please," exclaimed Bea, bursting into tears. "Don't say anything, girls; I don't know what I hadn't rather have, than for mama to know that Ernestine would do such a thing. Oh, I wish she need never to know it."

It did not take much thought to decide Ernestine, that she was much abused, and though her usually laggard conscience insisted on being touched, she solaced it by putting the tip in her hat, and seeing how becoming it was, and by trying on the gloves, which were a perfect fit.

Then putting them away, she stole off to the garret, to carry out a plan, made in secrecy--that of rummaging the packed trunks there, and perhaps finding something that could be turned into a party dress, which she was quite sure she would need. The garret was roomy and sunny, and all the rest of the afternoon, Ernestine comforted herself, and her abused feelings by hunting among the old trunks, and spinning many gay dreams, wherein she dwelt in luxury, and all that heart could wish. She had selected a pale green silk, and a fine soft lawn from her mother's put aside wardrobe, and her mind's eye saw herself most becomingly, and beautifully dressed in them--if mama would only consent.

Over in the corner, something caught her eye presently, that she had never seen before. Only a small dark trunk with an air of secrecy about it; and something irresistibly took her right over to it, with her arm load of gay things.

"I wonder what it is," she mused, fingering the lock curiously, and feeling so strange as she did so.

"Go away!" something seemed to say imperatively; but she lingered, and fingered more curiously than ever the small key attached to a faded ribbon.

"Go away! Go away!" seemed to come again that voice, and she felt it to her inmost soul; but the very realization of an inward warning against it, urged her on. She put the key in the lock,--and hesitated; turned it slowly,--and hesitated again; then broke into a nervous little laugh, and tossed the cover open.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "NOW LET'S SEE WHAT'S IN THIS WONDERFUL TRUNK."]

"Why I'm as cold as ice, what a goose! Now let's see what's in this wonderful trunk to make me feel so funny; something splendid I guess, but I couldn't help opening it, I really couldn't,--oh dear!"

It was of disappointment, for there was nothing there but a queer old basket, a pillow, with a plain little slip, and a worn faded letter on top.

CHAPTER XI.

WHERE IS ERNESTINE?

The odor of hot cakes brought everybody in a hurry, when Kat opened the dining-room door, and shouted, "supper!" as though she was a pop-gun and the single word a deadly fire, and everybody had fallen to work at demolis.h.i.+ng the pile of aforesaid cakes, before Bea looked up suddenly and asked:

"Where is Ernestine?"

n.o.body knew, but Kat ventured, that perhaps she was going to supper it, on gloves and feathers.

"You better call again, Kat, perhaps she didn't hear."

So Kat rushed to the door, and shouted:

"Er-nes-tin-e-e, cakes are getting cold," with an amount of energy and noise that might have reached that young lady, had she been sitting on the top-most round of the farthest chimney; but there was no response of any kind, neither was there any indications of a light up stairs, so Kat went back, remarking, as she again fell to work:

"She's put on her new toggery, most likely, and gone somewhere."