Six Girls Part 35

"I think the manager will be up here in a moment," said Roger, when Olive had taken her seat and Bettine had retreated to the corner, wiping her eyes on the rough little pillow-case; and even as he spoke, there came steps in the hall and a slight tap at the door, and Bettine admitted the doctor, followed by a tall, surly-faced man, who looked fiercely around the room, and scowled at Olive, who took her seat by the bed, with an instinctive feeling that the unconscious sleeper might need her protection.

"You see for yourself," said the doctor, stepping to the bed with the stranger, after having bowed to Olive and Roger. "She is alive, and really doing better than I expected; but a slight turn may be her instant death, or she may live several months yet with perfect rest and comfort. She can never be of further use to you, for her last note had been sung, and her last act given."

The manager scowled down at the death-like sleeper.

"Nevertheless, I have a claim on her. I paid her fifty dollars in advance to buy necessary stage-wardrobe," he said, with a heartless coolness. "I never was such a fool before, but she had a fine voice and good stage air, and I thought she'd last."

Almost before he finished speaking, Olive had leaped to her feet with flas.h.i.+ng eyes and quivering white lips, but before she could speak, Roger's quiet voice interrupted:

"Will you step this way, sir, and make out your bill against the young lady? I am quite ready to cancel all or any demands."

The manager turned and looked at him for a moment, in silence, then crossed the room with a shrug of his shoulders, and took the pencil held out to him, also the little page of blanks.

"Sign her release, while I make out your check," said Roger, drawing his bank book from his pocket, and hastily filling a page, while the manager slowly scrawled a few words on the blank, attached his name, and pa.s.sed it over, receiving the check in exchange.

"It's not half what I ought to receive," he said, with surly grimace.

"Here I've got to go and look up some one else, and she made the performance fizzle out to-night, besides being a deal of trouble all along with her delicate airs."

"Leave the room!" cried Olive fiercely, trembling and white with uncontrollable rage. "You have killed her. I hope you will remember it to your last day. You are her murderer, and whatever you paid her, it is more than likely she had given her life to work out for you, so what you are paid now is wages for your brutish work. Leave the room, I say; you have no longer a right here, nor any claim, if indeed you ever had one, for I tell you I don't believe you ever paid her a cent, even what you owed her, and you shall not breathe the same air with her longer."

"Young woman, be careful!" thundered the manager, growing an irate scarlet, as the fiercely uttered words rolled in upon him; but Olive met his gaze with flas.h.i.+ng, undaunted eyes, and then the good doctor recovered from his speechless amaze and came between them, after which, Bettine, trembling with awe and fright, let the two gentlemen out. Olive dropped back into her seat, and through it all, Ernestine slept, her thin hands folded over her quiet bosom, and an air of utter repose on her face, as of one too near another world to heed struggles in this, even though they reached her weary hearing.

So the night wore on, and save the doctor returning for a moment, utter silence reigned. Olive never moved from her low seat by the bed, with her face hid. Bettine dropped asleep in her chair, and Roger, over by the window, found that his busy thoughts kept him awake for hours, but that he finally grew drowsy, and at last dropped into a doze, with his head against the casing.

As the city bell tolled the hour of three, Ernestine opened her eyes slowly, with a weary air that seemed like regret, and looked about the dimly lighted room, with only a half conscious air. Roger received a slow wondering look, then Bettine, and then her eyes fell on the figure by the bed, with crushed white flowers in her hair, and face bowed from sight; but it seemed to matter little who they all were, for she made no move and looked away beyond them all, with a dreamy air of lingering stupor, that still held thoughts and memory in check. But presently a brighter light of reason crept into the eyes that made them open wider and look about once more at the three silent figures, with more wonder and closer attention, and at last she put out her hand slowly, and touched the bowed head beside her; and startled by the light pressure, Olive raised her head quickly, and they looked at each other.

For a moment her heart stood still in terror, as the dark eyes rested on her face, then there came a feeble, husky moan of delirious joy. "Olive!

Oh, Olive!" and Roger, wakened by the slight sound, sprang up, to find Ernestine fainted entirely away, and Olive rushed wildly for water; at which Bettine also awakened, and shaking with fright, as her first thought was, that Ernestine was dying. But she was not, for with moistened lips and dampened brow, they brought a feeble flutter of life back, and with the first lifting of the eyelids, Olive bent down to lay her lips to those that tried to speak.

"Not another word for your life's sake, darling. I am here. I am going to take you home to mama, but you must not speak."

Words cannot describe the incredulous joy and perfect peace that touched the wan face at the words, nor the bewildering happiness that lighted the sunken eyes, as the feeble arms tried to clasp themselves about Olive's neck, but fell weakly down.

Roger found his eyes blinded by tears as he stepped back to get the wine. "Give her some," he said, handing the gla.s.s to Olive, and slipping his arm under Ernestine's pillow to raise her head slightly, and Ernestine sipped slowly at the wine held to her lips, never once moving her eyes from Olive's face, then lay back with that contented, peaceful look, like some who, from facing despair, desperation, and the bitterest heart-ache, suddenly find themselves cradled in perfect peace, with no trouble, no want, no sadness, and too weak to wonder, hold fast their wild joy and are content.

For a long time it seemed as though Ernestine cared to know nothing, save that Olive was beside her, held her hand, and bent to kiss her every few moments; but, after a long time her eyes went to Roger, as though she had just discovered his presence, and Olive answered the question in them.

"It is our Cousin Roger, dear, and Uncle Ridley, and Jean will be here in the morning; can't you go to sleep, so as to be stronger then?"

Ernestine's lips trembled with joy, but she shut her eyes instantly, as though to win sleep and hasten the morning; but no sleep came, and so till daylight touched the world, Olive sat and held the hands that trembled eagerly, as the moments went by. At last, she grew perfectly quiet, and Olive, knowing she had dropped asleep drew back from the long-held position that had made every muscle ache.

"Won't you lie down?" whispered Roger. "You look like a ghost. I am going to sit out in the hall so as to keep things quiet when the boarders begin to leave their rooms."

"How good you are!" said Olive, looking up at him with a sudden grat.i.tude, and noting how pale and worn he looked from the long night of sleeplessness and anxiety. "I can never thank you."

"Do not try," he answered, pressing the hand she had held out to him, and looking at her with eyes she could not have failed to read had she not been in such a tumult of absorbing thoughts, and then he went carefully out, and Olive, bidding sleepy Bettine to lie down, took her seat again by the bed, and daylight came up brightly, while she watched Ernestine's sleeping face, with eyes that were continually blinded by thankful tears.

Soon after breakfast, the carriage from the Hall came das.h.i.+ng up to the Virginia, and in a few moments, Mr. Congreve was stamping hurriedly up stairs, while James followed, carrying Jean, who was trembling like a leaf with eager excitement.

"G.o.d bless my soul! I never did!" cried Mr. Congreve, as Roger, hearing them coming, met them at the top of the last flight. "Such thundering stairs! Why I sha'n't breathe straight again for a month, and I don't want to go in on the dear child puffing like a crazy porpoise. Let me sit right down here to blow my nose and get my breath. How is she, Roger?"

"Better this morning. She ate a little breakfast and drank some wine, but is very weak yet. Jeanie, that is the room. You may go in, but go quietly," said Roger, and Jean, being placed on the floor, almost forgot to use her cane, as she limped hurriedly along.

Ernestine was watching the door with eager, hungry eyes, and the moment Jean appeared, she held out her feeble hands, and the next moment, Jean's kisses were covering her face, and the little girl was saying in joyous eagerness:

"I knew G.o.d would bring you back. I've asked Him every night since you went away. Oh, my precious, darling, Ernestine, I'm so glad that I can't help crying," the delighted sobs bubbling up as she spoke; while Ernestine, forbidden to speak, fondled the curly hair and dear little face, and feebly smiled her happiness.

"Well, my child, G.o.d bless you, I'm glad we've got you again," was Mr.

Congreve's greeting, as he came in, making every effort not to be noisy or speak too loud, in consequence of which, his voice was dropped to a sepulchral whisper, and he walked as if the floor was spread with eggs.

But his kind, sharp eyes were full of tears, his voice shook, and he held her frail hand as though it was a precious wafer, that slight pressure might demolish.

"The doctor was here, just now," said Olive, "He says we may take her out home by to-morrow, if she continues to do well."

"Yes, yes, to be sure," answered Mr. Congreve, retreating to the corner and employing both hands and an immense handkerchief to wipe away the tears. "Has the child everything that she wants, Olive? I--G.o.d bless my soul! she looks half dead already, as though she had been starved and treated like a dog! Confound my eyes! but then I must cry; I'd like to take a good out and out bellow, I would, indeed; I haven't felt so stuffed with tears for fifty years. Have you sent word to your mother?"

"No; I wanted to ask you about it. Ernestine is out of danger, and yet, if mama knows she is found and so ill, it will make her sick with anxiety and waiting, so I thought we had better wait until she is able to be taken home, then write."

"Just so, exactly; you're right, no doubt. I hope the dear child can be moved to-morrow, for this place is like a musty chicken coop; I wouldn't put my worst enemy's dog in such a room, and I think I'll go down and blow off my feelings by telling the man who runs this shanty, just what I think of him;" and away went the excited old gentleman in a hurry, after telling Olive once more to spare no expense, if the dear child wanted anything.

The next day Ernestine was taken to Congreve Hall.

How many times had the girls thought of Ernestine, with her beauty, her grace, and queenly little airs, as being in Congreve Hall. How they had imagined her ornamenting its stately rooms, sweeping through the great halls, and queening it to her happy heart's content, a fit inmate to its splendor.

Now, on a bed, that could be lifted from the carriage, by two careful servants, and slowly taken in at the great entrance, wan, wasted, and helpless, Ernestine was going into Congreve Hall at last.

CHAPTER XIX.

COMING HOME.

"We haven't had a letter from Olive this week," said Bea, breaking a silence that had fallen upon them, as they sat sewing in the cheerful sitting-room. "How long she has been gone! Isn't it most time for her to be coming home, mama?"

"She was to stay as long as she was enjoying herself, and pleasing Uncle Ridley," answered Mrs. Dering. "I hardly thought she would stay so long on account of her studies, but from what she writes about the scenery and gallery of pictures at Congreve, I suppose she is having a little artistic revelry that is very pleasant."

"Well, she has forever lost place in my eyes," said Kat severely, "for not snubbing that chap. 'Cousin Roger,' she calls him! Stuff! He's no more our cousin than I'm your uncle; and he's to own the Hall, when it ought to be ours. I should think his conscience would wear a hole right through him, and if she brings that picture of his head home with her, I'll jab the carving-fork into it, sure's the world!"

"It would make you feel better, I've no doubt," remarked Kittie, who sat by the window st.i.tching ruffles, with a lady-like air, while a great bouquet ornamented the sill, shedding its fragrance through the room; it having been brought that morning by the polite colored man from Raymond's, with a tiny, three-cornered card, fastened to a rose-bud, and reading:

"FOR MISS KITTIE, FROM PANSY,"

in crazy-looking capitals.

"Well, I don't see how she can," said Kat, "be so polite to a fellow who is paddling about in our canoe, while we flounder in the water, and get along the best we can. I think it's too mean."

"But it's not his fault," remonstrated Bea. "Uncle Ridley has a right to leave his money and house where he pleases; and I'm sure I can't see what right we have to fuss, especially after all he's done for us."