Читать книгу The Greatest Romance Novels of Grace Livingston Hill - Grace Livingston Hill - Страница 13

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The crisis was precipitated by Shirley's finding her mother crying when she came up softly to see her.

"Now, little mother, dear! What can be the matter?" she cried aghast, sitting down on the bed and drawing her mother's head into her lap.

But it was some time before Mrs. Hollister could recover her calmness, and Shirley began to be frightened. At last, when she had kissed and petted her, she called down to the others to come up-stairs quickly.

They came with all haste, George and Harley with dish-towels over their shoulders, Carol with her arithmetic and pencil, little Doris trudging up breathless, one step at a time, and all crying excitedly, "What's the matter?"

"Why, here's our blessed little mother lying here all by herself, crying because she doesn't know where in the world we can find a house!" cried Shirley; "and I think it's time we told our beautiful secret, don't you?"

"Yes," chorused the children, although Harley and Doris had no idea until then that there was any beautiful secret. Beautiful secrets hadn't been coming their way.

"Well, I think we better tell it," said Shirley, looking at George and Carol questioningly. "Don't you? We don't want mother worrying." So they all clustered around her on the bed and the floor, and sat expectantly while Shirley told.

"You see, mother, it's this way. We've been looking around a good deal lately, George and I, and we haven't found a thing in the city that would do; so one day I took a trolley ride out of the city, and I've found something I think will do nicely for the summer, anyway, and that will give us time to look around and decide. Mother dear, would you mind camping so very much if we made you a nice, comfortable place?"

"Camping!" said Mrs. Hollister in dismay. "Dear child! In a tent?"

"No, mother, not in a tent. There's a—a—sort of a house—that is, there's a building, where we could sleep, and put our furniture, and all; but there's a lovely out-of-doors. Wouldn't you like that, for Doris and you?"

"Oh, yes," sighed the poor woman; "I'd like it; but, child, you haven't an idea what you are talking about. Any place in the country costs terribly, even a shanty——"

"That's it, mother, call it a shanty!" put in Carol. "Mother, would you object to living in a shanty all summer if it was good and clean, and you had plenty of out-of-doors around it?"

"No, of course not, Carol, if it was perfectly respectable. I shouldn't want to take my children among a lot of low-down people——"

"Of course not, mother!" put in Shirley. "And there's nothing of that sort. It's all perfectly respectable, and the few neighbors are nice, respectable people. Now, mother, if you're willing to trust us, we'd like it if you'll just let us leave it at that and not tell you anything more about it till we take you there. George and Carol and I have all seen the place, and we think it will be just the thing. There's plenty of room, and sky, and a big tree, and birds; and it only costs ten dollars a month. Now, mother, will you trust us for the rest and not ask any questions?"

The mother looked in bewilderment from one to another, and, seeing their eager faces, she broke into a weary smile.

"Well, I suppose I'll have to," she said with a sigh of doubt; "but I can't understand how any place you could get would be only that price, and I'm afraid you haven't thought of a lot of things."

"Yes, mother, we've thought of everything—and then some," said Shirley, stooping down to kiss the thin cheek; "but we are sure you are going to like this when you see it. It isn't a palace, of course. You don't expect plate-glass windows, you know."

"Well, hardly," said Mrs. Hollister dryly, struggling with herself to be cheerful. She could see that her children were making a brave effort to make a jolly occasion out of their necessity, and she was never one to hang back; so, as she could do nothing else, she assented.

"You are sure," she began, looking at Shirley with troubled eyes. "There are so many things to think of, and you are so young."

"Trust me, mudder dearie," said Shirley joyously, remembering the fireplace and the electric lights. "It really isn't so bad; and there's a beautiful hill for Doris to run down, and a place to hang a hammock for you right under a big tree where a bird has built its nest."

"Oh-h!" echoed the wondering Doris. "And could I see de birdie?"

"Yes, darling, you can watch him every day, and see him fly through the blue sky."

"It's all right, mother," said George in a businesslike tone. "You'll think it's great after you get used to it. Carol and I are crazy over it."

"But will it be where you can get to your work, both of you? I shouldn't like you to take long, lonely walks, you know," said the troubled mother.

"Right on the trolley line, mother dear; and the difference in rent will more than pay our fare."

"Besides, I'm thinking of buying a bicycle from one of the fellows. He says he'll sell it for five dollars, and I can pay fifty cents a month. Then I could go in on my bike in good weather, and save that much." This from George.

"Oh, gee!" said Harley breathlessly. "Then I could ride it sometimes, too."

"Sure!" said George generously.

"Now," said Shirley with her commanding manner that the children called "brigadier-general," "now, mother dear, you're going to put all your worries out of your head right this minute, and go to sleep. Your business is to get strong enough to be moved out there. When you get there, you'll get well so quick you won't know yourself; but you've got to rest from now on every minute, or you won't be able to go when the time comes; and then what will happen? Will you promise?"

Amid the laughing and pleading of her children the mother promised, half smilingly, half tearfully, and succumbed to being prepared for the night. Then they all tiptoed away to the dining-room for a council of war.

It was still two weeks before they had to vacate the little brick house, plenty of time to get comfortably settled before they took their mother out there.

It was decided that George and Shirley should go out the next evening directly from their work, not waiting to return for supper, but eating a lunch down-town. Now that the place was lighted and they had been told to use the light as freely as they chose, with no charge, the question of getting settled was no longer a problem. They could do it evenings after their work was over. The first thing would be to clean house, and for that they needed a lot of things, pails, pans, brooms, mops and the like. It would be good to take a load of things out the next day if possible.

So George went out to interview the man with the moving-wagon, while Shirley and Carol made out a list of things that ought to go in that first load. George came back with the report that the man could come at half past four in the afternoon; and, if they could have the things that were to go all ready, he would have his son help to load them, and they could get out to Glenside by six o'clock or seven at the latest. Harley might go along if he liked, and help to unload at the other end.

Harley was greatly excited both at the responsibility placed upon him and at the prospect of seeing the new home. It almost made up for the thought of leaving "the fellows" and going to live in a strange place.

The young people were late getting to bed that night, for they had to get things together so that Carol would not have her hands too full the next day when she got home from school. Then they had to hunt up soap, scrubbing-pails, rags, brushes and brooms; and, when they went to bed at last, they were much too excited to sleep.

Of course there were many hindrances to their plans, and a lot of delay waiting for the cartman, who did not always keep his word; but the days passed, and every one saw some little progress toward making a home out of the big barn. Shirley would not let them stay later in the evenings than ten o'clock, for they must be ready to go to work the next morning; so of course the work of cleaning the barn progressed but slowly. After the first night they got a neighbor to sit with their mother and Doris, letting Carol and Harley come out on the car to help; and so with four willing workers the barn gradually took on a nice smell of soap and water.

The old furniture arrived little by little, and was put in place eagerly, until by the end of the first week the big middle room and the dining-room and kitchen began really to look like living.

It was Saturday evening of that first week, and Shirley was sitting on the old couch at the side of the fireplace, resting, watching George, who was reeling out a stormy version of chopsticks on the piano, and looking about on her growing home hopefully. Suddenly there came a gentle tapping at the big barn door, and George as the man of the house went to the door with his gruffest air on, but melted at once when he saw the landlord and his sister standing out in front in the moonlight.

"Are you ready for callers?" asked Graham, taking off his hat in greeting. "Elizabeth and I took a spin out this way, and we sighted the light, and thought we'd stop and see if we could help any. My, how homelike you've made it look! Say, this is great!"

Sidney Graham stood in the centre of the big room, looking about him with pleasure.

The young people had put things in apple-pie order as far as they had gone. A fire was laid in the big stone fireplace, all ready for touching off, and gave a homelike, cleared-up look to the whole place as if it were getting ready for some event. On each side of the chimney stood a simple set of bookshelves filled with well-worn volumes that had a look of being beloved and in daily intimate association with the family. On the top of the shelves Carol had placed some bits of bric-â-brac, and in the centre of each a tall vase. Beside them were a few photographs in simple frames, a strong-faced man with eyes that reminded one of Shirley and a brow like George's; a delicate-featured, refined woman with sweet, sensitive mouth and eyes like Carol's; a lovely little child with a cloud of fair curls.

The old couch was at one side of the fireplace, at a convenient angle to watch the firelight, and yet not hiding the bookshelves. On the other side, with its back toward the first landing of the rude staircase, stood an old upright piano with a pile of shabby music on the top and a book of songs open on the rack. On the floor in the space between was spread a worn and faded ingrain rug, its original colors and pattern long since blended into neutral grays and browns, which strangely harmonized with the rustic surroundings. A few comfortable but shabby chairs were scattered about in a homelike way, and a few pictures in plain frames were hung on the clean new partitions. Under one stood a small oak desk and a few writing-materials. A little further on a plain library table held a few magazines and papers and a cherished book or two. There had been no attempt to cover the wide bare floor spaces, save by a small dingy rug or two or a strip of carpet carefully brushed and flung here and there in front of a chair. There was no pretension and therefore no incongruity. The only luxurious thing in the place was the bright electric light, and yet it all looked pleasant and inviting.

"Say, now, this is great!" reiterated the young owner of the place, sinking into the nearest chair and looking about him with admiration. "Who would ever have imagined you could make a barn look like this? Why, you're a genius, Miss Hollister. You're a real artist."

Shirley in an old gingham dress, with her sleeves rolled high and her hair fluffing wilfully in disorder about her hot cheeks, stood before him in dismay. She had been working hard, and was all too conscious of the brief time before they must be done; and to have company just now—and such company—put her to confusion; but the honest admiration in the young man's voice did much to restore her equilibrium. She began to pull down her sleeves and sit down to receive her callers properly; but he at once insisted that she should not delay on his account, and, seeing her shyness, immediately plunged into some questions about the water-pipes, which brought about a more businesslike footing and relieved her embarrassment. He was soon on his way to the partitioned corner which was to be the kitchen, telling Shirley how it was going to be no trouble to run a pipe from the spring and have a faucet put in, and that it should be done on the morrow. Then he called to Elizabeth.

"Kid, what did you do with those eats you brought along? I think it would be a good time to hand them out. I'm hungry. Suppose you take George out to the car to help you bring them in, and let's have a picnic!"

Then, turning to Shirley, he explained:

"Elizabeth and I are great ones to have something along to eat. It makes one hungry to ride, you know."

The children needed no second word, but all hurried out to the car, and came back with a great bag of most delicious oranges and several boxes of fancy cakes and crackers; and they all sat down to enjoy them, laughing and chattering, not at all like landlord and tenants.

"Now what's to do next?" demanded the landlord as soon as the repast was finished. "I'm going to help. We're not here to hinder, and we must make up for the time we have stopped you. What were you and George doing, Miss Carol, when we arrived?"

"Unpacking dishes," giggled Carol, looking askance at the frowning Shirley, who was shaking her head at Carol behind Graham's back. Shirley had no mind to have the elegant landlord see the dismal state of the Hollister crockery. But the young man was not to be so easily put off, and to Carol's secret delight insisted upon helping despite Shirley's most earnest protests that it was not necessary to do anything more that evening. He and Elizabeth repaired to the dining-room end of the barn, and helped unpack dishes, pans, kettles, knives, and forks, and arrange them on the shelves that George had improvised out of a large old bookcase that used to be his father's. After all, there was something in good breeding, thought Shirley, for from the way in which Mr. Graham handled the old cracked dishes, and set them up so nicely, you never would have known but they were Haviland china. He never seemed to see them at all when they were cracked. One might have thought he had been a member of the family for years, he made things seem so nice and comfortable and sociable.

Merrily they worked, and accomplished wonders that night, for Shirley let them stay until nearly eleven o'clock "just for once"; and then they all piled into the car, Shirley and Carol and Elizabeth in the back seat, George and the happy Harley with Graham in the front. If there had been seven more of them, they would have all happily squeezed in. The young Hollisters were having the time of their lives, and as for the Grahams it wasn't quite certain but that they were also. Certainly society had never seen on Sidney Graham's face that happy, enthusiastic look of intense satisfaction that the moon looked down upon that night. And, after all, they got home almost as soon as if they had gone on the ten-o'clock trolley.

After that on one pretext or another those Grahams were always dropping in on the Hollisters at their work and managing to "help," and presently even Shirley ceased to be annoyed or to apologize.

The east end of the barn had been selected for bedrooms. A pair of cretonne curtains was stretched across the long, narrow room from wall to partition, leaving the front room for their mother's bed and Doris's crib, and the back room for Shirley and Carol. The boys had taken possession of the loft with many shouts and elaborate preparations, and had spread out their treasures with deep delight, knowing that at last there was room enough for their proper display and they need feel no fear that they would be thrown out because their place was wanted for something more necessary. Little by little the Hollisters were getting settled. It was not so hard, after all, because there was that glorious big "attic" in which to put away things that were not needed below, and there was the whole basement for tubs and things, and a lovely faucet down there, too, so that a lot of work could be done below the living-floor. It seemed just ideal to the girls, who had been for several years accustomed to the cramped quarters of a tiny city house.

At last even the beds were made up, and everything had been moved but the bed and a few necessities in their mother's room, which were to come the next day while they were moving their mother.

That moving of mother had been a great problem to Shirley until Graham anticipated her necessity, and said in a matter-of-fact way that he hoped Mrs. Hollister would let him take her to her new home in his car. Then Shirley's eyes filled with tears of gratitude. She knew her mother was not yet able to travel comfortably in a trolley-car, and the price of a taxicab was more than she felt they ought to afford; yet in her secret heart she had been intending to get one; but now there would be no necessity.

Shirley's words of gratitude were few and simple, but there was something in her eyes as she lifted them to Graham's face that made a glow in his heart and fully repaid him for his trouble.

The last thing they did when they left the barn that night before they were coming to stay was to set the table, and it really looked very cozy and inviting with a white cloth on it and the dishes set out to look their best. Shirley looked back at it with a sweeping glance that took in the great, comfortable living-room, the open door into the dining-room on one hand and the vista of a white bed on the other side through the bedroom door. She smiled happily, and then switched off the electric light, and stepped out into the sweet spring night. Graham, who had stood watching her as one might watch the opening of some strange, unknown flower, closed and locked the door behind them, and followed her down the grassy slope to the car.

"Do you know," he said earnestly, "it's been a great thing to me to watch you make a real home out of this bare barn? It's wonderful! It's like a miracle. I wouldn't have believed it could be done. And you have done it so wonderfully! I can just see what kind of a delightful home it is going to be."

There was something in his tone that made Shirley forget he was rich and a stranger and her landlord. She lifted her face to the stars, and spoke her thoughts.

"You can't possibly know how much like heaven it is going to be to us after coming from that other awful little house," she said; "and you are the one who has made it possible. If it hadn't been for you I know I never could have done it."

"Oh, nonsense, Miss Hollister! You mustn't think of it, I haven't done anything at all, just the simplest things that were absolutely necessary."

"Oh, I understand," said Shirley; "and I can't ever repay you, but I think God will. That is the kind of thing the kingdom of heaven is made of."

"Oh, really, now," said Graham, deeply embarrassed; he was not much accustomed to being connected with the kingdom of heaven in any way. "Oh, really, you—you over-estimate it. And as for pay, I don't ask any better than the fun my sister and I have had helping you get settled. It has been a great play for us. We never really moved, you see. We've always gone off and had some one do it for us. I've learned a lot since I've known you."

That night as she prepared to lie down on the mattress and blanket that had been left behind for herself and Carol to camp out on, Shirley remembered her first worries about Mr. Graham, and wondered whether it could be possible that he thought she had been forward in any way, and what her mother would think when she heard the whole story of the new landlord; for up to this time the secret had been beautifully kept from mother, all the children joining to clap their hands over wayward mouths that started to utter tell-tale sentences, and the mystery grew, and became almost like Christmas-time for little Doris and her mother. It must, however, be stated that Mrs. Hollister, that last night, as she lay wakeful on her bed in the little bare room in the tiny house, had many misgivings, and wondered whether perchance she would not be sighing to be back even here twenty-four hours later. She was holding her peace wonderfully, because there really was nothing she could do about it even if she was going out of the frying-pan into the fire; but the tumult and worry in her heart had been by no means bliss. So the midnight drew on, and the weary family slept for the last night in the cramped old house where they had lived since trouble and poverty had come upon them.