From the Valley of the Missing Part 18

Everett made an angry gesture. "But I object to Ann having anything to do with such--" he hesitated and finished, "such youngsters. There's no need of it."

"Oh, Everett--but those two children must be cared for! Horace will come back in a few minutes, and then we'll know all about it."

"In the meantime I'm hungry," grumbled Everett, "and if we're going to the theater--"

He had no time to finish his sentence before Horace, with a grave countenance, opened the door.

"I'm sorry, Katherine," he apologized, and then stopped; for he noticed Everett's face dark with anger. Sh.e.l.lington did not forget that his friends had come to dinner; but he had just witnessed a scene that had touched his heart, and he determined to make both of his guests understand it also.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I'M GOIN' TO TAKE HIS KIDS--AND I'LL MAKE OF 'EM WHAT I BE."]

"The evening has turned out differently from what Ann and I expected,"

he explained. "The fact is that sister can't go to the theater, and I feel that I ought to stay with her. So, we'll order another dinner, and then, Everett, if you and Katherine don't--" His fingers had touched the bell as he was speaking; but Everett stopped him.

"If the boy is too ill to be taken to a hospital," he said coldly, "Ann might be persuaded to leave him with the servants."

"Yes, I suggested that," answered Horace; "but she refused. The boy has somehow won her heart, and the doctor will be here at any moment."

A servant appeared, and in a half-hour the table was spread with another dinner. Ann's coming to the dining-room did not raise the spirits of the party; for her eyes were red from weeping, and she refused to eat.

"I've never known before, Everett," she said, "that children could suffer as that little boy does."

"And you shouldn't know it now, Ann, if I had my way," objected Brimbecomb. "There's a strong line drawn between their kind and ours, and places have been provided for such people. I really want you to come with us tonight."

In sharp astonishment, Ann turned on him.

"Oh, I really couldn't, Everett!" she said, beginning to sob. "I shouldn't enjoy one moment of the time, while thinking of that poor child. You take Katherine, and say to Governor and Mrs. Vandecar that we couldn't come tonight. Tell them about it or not as you please. They are both good and kind, and will understand."

Her tears had ceased during the latter part of her speech; for the frown had deepened on Everett's brow, bringing determination to her own. Never before had she been forced to exercise her wish above his, and Brimbecomb was not prepared for it. Something new had been born in the large, sad eyes turned to his, something he did not comprehend, and he inwardly cursed the squatter children.

At eight o'clock Everett handed Katherine into the carriage and gloomily took his place beside her. They were late at the theater by several minutes, when he brushed aside the curtain and ushered Miss Vandecar into the Governor's box. Mrs. Vandecar was seated in the far corner, her attention directed upon the play. Vandecar rose quietly, and before resuming his seat waited until his niece had taken her place. Then they were silent until the curtain fell after the first act.

"Where are Horace and Ann?" asked Mrs. Vandecar of Everett. "Ann telephoned me at dinner-time that she would be here."

Everett inclined his head toward Katherine, and the girl explained the situation. When she had added pathos to the story by telling of Flukey's illness, Mrs. Vandecar broke in.

"I'm glad Ann stayed, dear girl! It's like her to nurse that sick child." She said no more; but turned away with misty eyes.

During the next act the Governor drew near her, and amid the shadows of the darkened box, took up the slender fingers and held them until the lights flashed upon the falling curtain. Both had gone back in memory to those dreadful days when tragedy had cast its somber shadows over them.

The doctor had predicted a serious illness for Flukey. Ann and Horace held an earnest conversation about it. Miss Sh.e.l.lington's maid had been instructed to relieve Flea of her boy's attire and clothe her in some of Ann's garments. Horace led his sister to the room where Flukey lay, and suggested that Flea be called.

A servant appeared at the touch of the bell.

"Tell the boy's sister to come here," said Horace.

When Flea knocked at the door a few minutes later, he bade her enter.

Suppressing her pleasure and surprise at the girl's loveliness, Ann walked forward to meet her; but the little stranger backed timidly against the door and flashed a blushing glance at the man.

The mauve dressing-gown, reaching to the floor, displayed to advantage the girl's lithe figure, accentuating its long, graceful lines. The bodice, opened at the neck, exposed the slender white throat, around which the summer's sun had tanned a ruddy ring. Her hair had been parted in the center and twined in adorable curls about the young head.

The transformation drew an untactful e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n from Horace, and he stared intently at the sensitive face. Flea's gray eyes, after the first hasty glance at him, sought Flukey.

"Flukey ain't so awful sick, be he?" she questioned fearfully.

Ann pa.s.sed an arm tenderly around her. "Yes, child, he is very ill. My brother and I want to speak to you about him."

"But he ain't goin' dead?"

Her tone brought Horace nearer. In spite of Flea's somberness, the bouyancy of her youth obliterated the memory of every other girl he knew. He was confounded by the thought that a short time before she had stood as a ragged boy before him. She had been transformed into womanhood by Ann's clothing.

Flea bent over Flukey and hid her face. Even when Horace had discovered the pig in the salad, her embarra.s.sment had been of small moment to this. After an instant, she lifted her eyes from her muttering brother and allowed them to fall upon her Prince. There was an unmistakable smile upon his lips; nevertheless, a great fear possessed her. If Flukey were allowed to stay there because of his illness, she at least would be taken away; for she had never heard of a theft being entirely overlooked, and she believed that her imprisonment must be the penalty.

She stooped a little and lovingly touched Flukey's shoulder, looking first at Ann, then at Horace. Straightening up, she burst out:

"Mister, if ye're goin' to have me pinched for stealin', do it quick before my brother knows about it, and--I'd ruther go to prison in Fluke's pants--please!"

Still the master of the house did not speak. Flea was filled with suspicion, and thought she divined the cause of his quietness and smile.

He was ridiculing her dress, perhaps making sport of the way her curls were arranged. She thrust one hand upward and tumbled the ma.s.s of hair into disorder.

"Yer woman put these togs onto me," she said, "and I feel like an old guy--dressed up this way!"

Anger forced tears into her eyes, and her two small brown hands clenched under the hanging lace at her wrists. Her words and the spontaneous action deepened the expression on the face of the silent man, and she cried out again:

"Ye needn't be making fun of me, Mister! I can't help how I look."

But a feverish exclamation from the sick boy so increased her anxiety for him that her own troubles were overwhelmed. She was rendered unmindful that Ann had softly called her name; nor did she realize that Sh.e.l.lington had spoken quietly to her.

She flung out her hands in eloquent appeal.

"Oh, I thank ye for covering my brother up so warm! He didn't need no sheets nor piller-slips; but his bones did need the blankets--sure. I say as how he'd thank ye, too, if he weren't offen his head."

Horace gently took the girl's hands in his, and Flea lowered her sun-browned face.

"I know he would, child," he said in moved tones. "He's more than welcome to all we can do--and you are to stay here, too, little girl."

Horace had done what Ann had been unable to do. The words had soothed the squatter girl, and the savage young heart was softened. The long, dreary country marches were over; the cold nights and bare fields were things of the past. For Flukey, there were tender hands that would ease his pain; for her, a home unmenaced by Lem. She had looked her last upon horrors that had bound her to a life she hated.

Sh.e.l.lington spoke to her.

"Look at me, child!" said he. "I want to tell you what the doctor said."

She lifted an anxious gaze filled with the emotion of a woman's soul. It was her dawning womanhood that Horace saw, and toward it his manhood was unconsciously drawn.

Ann spoke quietly: