Читать книгу The Figurehead of the "Folly" - Augusta Huiell Seaman - Страница 3

Table of Contents

I SHALL never forget the night Mother and I made that important decision. It scarcely seems more than a year ago! Such a wild, stormy night, with rain dashing in sheets against the windows, sand beating in through every tiny crevice, and the furious sea raging beyond the dunes, out in the darkness!

It was during the Easter holidays (which happened to come in March) and I was home from boarding school for two weeks. The storm had been raging for two days, and we’d been kept very much in the house. It’s impossible to tramp on the beach when the flying sand cuts you like a million needles!

I had noticed all day, ever since I’d come in with the morning mail, that Mother had seemed extremely worried and absent-minded, as if something were bothering her, something she hadn’t told me about. Which is unusual for Mother! She’d been rambling about as if she couldn’t decide just what to do, putting things down in the wrong places, answering questions as if her mind were a thousand miles away. Finally, after dinner, when we were sitting in the living room, listening to the shutters rattling and the howl of the storm and trying to read, I said to her:

“Something’s wrong, Mum—I can see it! You haven’t been like yourself all day. Won’t you tell me about it?” She put down the daily paper and looked at me rather curiously.

“Yes, something is wrong—has been for quite a while, if you must know, Joan,” she said. “I’ve been trying to make up my mind to tell you about it, but——”

“Is it the same old money matters?” I asked quickly, for I knew things had been in a rather bad way with us ever since the depression set in. “You needn’t be afraid to discuss them with me, you know.”

“It’s that—and something more,” she went on. “Things have come to such a pass that we can’t go on any longer, just sliding along and economizing more and more, but still living in pretty much the same way as we’ve always been used to. And that’s why I hate to tell you. It’s going to make quite a big difference to you—provided you’re willing to accept the situation.”

“Oh, do go ahead, Mum, and out with it!” I begged. “You know I’m willing to agree to anything—provided it makes things more comfortable for you. I hate to see you so worried all the time.”

“Well, here’s the whole matter in a nutshell,” she replied. “You’ve known all along that our income has been terribly cut down, but we’ve managed to keep this home intact and get you through your boarding school, which you’ll finish in June. But here’s what you don’t know: I haven’t been able to pay the taxes on this big house in three years, and they’re very heavy in this particular district. Each year I have hoped that things would improve so much by the next year that we could make it all up. But that hasn’t happened. Now, if they are not paid in a few months, this house will be taken from us and sold—and we’ll lose it. I had a notice just the other day. So you see it’s pretty serious!”

It certainly was! I had no idea that things were as bad as that. We both loved this beautiful home on the dunes by the sea. It was one of the loveliest for miles along the coast. Mother had come here to live after she was married. I was born here. Daddy had died here. It was associated with all our life, and we both loved it and would have been heartbroken to have to leave it. We’d always had plenty of money to keep it up till the depression came. Then Mother dismissed all the maids but our faithful old Karen, the cook, who’d been with us the longest, and we had cut down on everything, except that Mother insisted I must finish with my boarding school and go to college afterward. She was willing to cut down on clothes and trips abroad and entertaining and everything, so that I could do that. And I’d thought everything was working out very nicely till she told me what she just had. It was a real shock!

“But isn’t there something we can do?” I demanded. “Surely there must be some way out of it!”

“I’m coming to that,” she went on. “It isn’t entirely hopeless, but it’s going to involve considerable sacrifice on our part. And I’m afraid it will be particularly hard on you.”

“Never mind about me!” I cried. “Tell me what it is we can do!”

“It has been in my mind for some time,” said Mother, taking up a book and putting it down absent-mindedly, “that we might rent this house for part of a year, at least, and probably get a very good price for it. It’s right here on the ocean, in a very desirable locality, and people who come here for the spring, summer, and fall season are often anxious to rent just such a house as this. In fact, I’ve had several offers in the past, which I always refused. But this year, I think we shall have to do it. And a week ago, those old friends of mine, the Leveridges, made me an offer for six months—May to October—at a generous sum, and are willing to pay the whole thing at once, which is rather unusual. That will cover the taxes and a little over. So I wrote them today and accepted.”

“But that’s perfectly grand!” I interrupted. “What are you worrying about, Mum, if you’ve got it fixed so nicely? Of course, we’ll have to get out and go somewhere else, but we can both stand that—for just six months!”

“Unfortunately, that isn’t all of it!” continued Mother. “And the rest is what I’m worrying about. I’ve had to borrow a good deal in advance on my income, and there won’t be enough next fall for you to begin your college, and I’m determined you must do that—somehow. And to do this, I’ve accepted the position as secretary to a very wealthy society woman who makes her home in Bar Harbor every summer. What I receive for that will just about cover your tuition fees and board at college. I wish I could have you with me, but that isn’t in the contract, and I do not feel I should suggest it. It will mean that we’ll have to be separated—for the first time—during vacation. It won’t be easy for either of us!”

“But what about me?” I almost wailed. “Where am I to be parked—after school’s over?”

“There are just two things possible.” She hesitated. “One is for you to go to Cousin Lucretia in Boston. She would be glad to have you—though I expect you won’t fancy it much!”

“Oh, Mumsy—don’t, don’t send me to Cousin Lucretia!” I begged wildly. “You know how I hate it! She’s so fussy and peculiar, and her house is so dark and dreary, I’d die of lonesomeness. I couldn’t stand it. I’d rather do anything than that! What’s the other proposition?”

“I rather thought you wouldn’t care for that, but the other may not be any more attractive,” smiled Mother. “Here it is. I have an old college friend, Miss McKeever—Elsie McKeever—who has a home in Mapleside, New Jersey. Her parents died shortly after she graduated from college and left her with a big, roomy house and very little money, so she’s made a living ever since by keeping the house as a very exclusive boarding house, with the kind of people who stay year after year. We write to each other frequently, though we meet very seldom. Lately she wrote that she had recently taken into her home a little niece of twelve, whose mother died a while ago and left no one to take care of her. She is a little crippled child, who had a serious illness in her babyhood and has never recovered the use of her legs. Of course, she is quite a care, with all her aunt’s other duties, and Miss McKeever wrote that she did so wish she could find some nice young girl who would be willing to be a companion for, and tend to, this child for a while, at least during the summer, after which she hopes to place the little thing in a good hospital for treatment. She has a trained nurse with her now, but finds it very expensive, and the nurse can, at present, do little that a strong, sensible, able young girl could not do. Also she thinks a younger companion would be pleasanter for Mary Lou. She says the child is most attractive and interesting—and lovable.

“It somehow occurred to me that this might be something you could do—provided you were willing to try—so I wrote her, suggesting it as a bare possibility. And she seemed delighted with the idea. She wrote back—I just got the letter this morning—that she could pay you a moderate sum a week, and of course you would have your room and board without charge, if you would consent to come. She said Mary Lou was simply thrilled to think it might be possible that she would have a young companion. She has never been able to be with children of or near her own age. This money would help a lot toward your clothes and spending-money for college; for this year, at least, I shan’t be able to do much more than pay your tuition and board. I know that you would have nice quarters and a good, kind friend in Miss McKeever, or I shouldn’t consent to the arrangement. Well, there is the proposition, my dear! Think it over. You are to please only yourself in this matter.”

I had sat perfectly quiet, listening to all this, and somehow I felt rather stunned with the idea. It was so different from anything I had ever done—or thought of doing! Being a companion to an invalid child—in a boarding house—among perfectly strange people! How could I ever endure it? I didn’t dare let Mother see how I really felt about it, but she must have guessed.

“You don’t have to do it, Joan, remember!” she suggested. “If you can’t ‘go’ it, you can make the best of things at Cousin Lucretia’s.”

A sudden idea struck me, then.

“There’s one other thing, Mother,” I faltered. “I meant to tell you when I first came home. My roommate, Betty Cavanaugh, has invited me to spend a month with her at their summer place on Long Island, this year, if you’ll agree. She told me to be sure to ask you. I might go to Cousin Lucretia’s for a while, and then spend the rest of the time with Betty. But that wouldn’t be earning me any money!” I thought Mother’s face changed at this, just the tiniest bit. But she only said:

“Of course you can go to Betty’s if you wish, dear. It would at least be a pleasant thing to help pass the time. As for the money, if you can get along with the clothes you have, for next fall and winter, I guess I can manage a little allowance. But you must do the deciding yourself.”

And as Mother said that it suddenly dawned on me what a selfish pig I was. Trying to plan it so that I, at least, would have some good times, while Mother was working hard. And next winter she would skimp herself to death to give me spending-money and no doubt clothes too, while I was in college, and never say a reproachful word about it! I just threw myself into her lap and hugged her and sobbed:

“Oh, Mumsy dear, don’t you worry another minute! I’ll go and take that job and be glad of it. But I don’t mind saying I’ll be pretty lonesome, with not a soul I know for a hundred miles in any direction!” And Mother gave me a big hug and said:

“I don’t mind saying I’m glad you’ve decided as you have, Joan dear. I think the experience will be rather good for you. But I’ve a little surprise for you. You won’t be as lonesome as you think, with no one you know around. And I’ll tell you why: I’ve been sort of puzzled what to do about Karen. The people that have taken this house have their own cook and maids, and she has nowhere she can go. Fortunately, Miss McKeever told me she was losing her cook and dreading trying to get a new one, and so Karen has consented to go to her for the period we’ll be away from this house. So you’ll feel sort of at home with Karen right near you, won’t you? You’ve always been very fond of her.”

At that I fairly wept with joy. Karen has been with us as long as I remember, and has always petted and babied me, and I’ve come to feel as if she were a member of the family. If Karen was to be in the same house with me, I felt I could stand anything!

Well, we talked and planned about the thing for hours, that stormy night. I asked Mother what kind of a place it was, what sort of people, etc., so that I’d know more about what I was in for. Mother said she’d never happened to be there, except once, a number of years before. But said she thought they were all more or less elderly people, and some of them rather queer, from what she’d heard, but the kind that stayed on and on in a place like that and made a home of it.

“But you’ll have Mary Lou, and you’ll probably find her companionable,” Mother ended, “and no doubt there are other pleasant young people near by, so I wouldn’t worry about it. You’ll get along!”

Before we went up to bed at last, we stood in the darkened living room, looking out at the furious storm and the wild ocean. It made my heart ache to think how long it would be before I should see it again, after I left this time, for Mother had arranged to turn over the house to its new tenants before school closed, and I was to go straight to Miss McKeever’s at Mapleside. I think Mother was feeling the same way too, for she hugged me again and whispered:

“Never mind, my dear! We’ll enjoy it all the more when we get back to it next winter!”

But I little guessed in what strange things I was going to be entangled at Miss McKeever’s before I got back to this house again!