Mr. Pat's Little Girl Part 2

Her tone impressed him as unduly mysterious. "What is it?" he asked indifferently.

"Come, and I'll show you."

"I sha'n't come till you tell me," he persisted.

"Oh, I think you might, because if I stop to tell you she may be gone."

"Who'll be gone? You might have told it twice over in this time."

"The girl I want you to see," explained Katherine, drawing nearer in desperation. "Did you know there was a girl next door?"

"Yes, of course." There was nothing in Maurice's tone to indicate how brief a time had pa.s.sed since this information had been acquired.

"Truly? I don't believe it," Katherine faltered.

"She is Mrs. Whittredge's granddaughter, and her name is Rosalind, so now!"

Privately, Katherine thought her brother's power of finding things out, little short of supernatural. "Don't you want to see her?" she asked meekly. "There is a thin place in the hedge behind the calycanthus bush, and she is walking to and fro studying something." Would Maurice declare he had already seen this girl?

Maurice sat up and reached for a crutch that rested against the tree. He had his share of curiosity. He was a tall, well-grown boy of thirteen, and it was apparent as he swung himself after Katherine, that accident and not disease had caused his lameness.

Rosalind, studying her hymn all unconscious of observation, was a pleasant sight.

"Isn't she pretty?" whispered Katherine, but Maurice silenced her so sternly she concluded he did not agree with her.

In reality he thought very much as she did, although he would not have used the same adjective. There was something unusual about this girl. Why it was, he did not understand, but she seemed somehow to belong in a special way to the sweet old garden with its June roses. Maurice had fancies that would have astonished Katherine beyond measure if she could have known anything about them. But how was she to know when he pinched her arm and looked sternly indifferent?

The tea bell called them back to the house; on the way Katherine's enthusiasm burst forth afresh.

"Isn't she sweet? and such a beautiful name--Rosalind. How old do you think she is? and do you suppose she is going to live there? Oh, Maurice, shouldn't you be afraid of Mrs. Whittredge?"

"I don't know anything about her," Maurice replied, forgetting for the moment that he bad been pretending to know a great deal.

"I should like to have my hair tied on top of my head with a big ribbon bow as hers is," continued Katherine, who would innocently persist in laying herself open to brotherly scorn.

"I suppose you think you will look like her then," was his retort.

"Now, Maurice, I don't. I know I am not pretty." Katharine's round face grew suddenly long, and tears filled her blue eyes.

"Don't be a goose, then. I'll tell you what she made me think of, that statue of Joan of Arc--don't you remember? Where she is listening to the voices? We saw it at the Academy of Fine Arts."

"Why, Maurice, how funny! She is much prettier than that," said Katherine.

CHAPTER THIRD.

FRIENDSHIP.

"True it is that we have seen better days."

A rambling, sleepy town was Friendship, with few aspirations beyond the traditions of its grandfathers and a fine indifference toward modern improvements.

During the era of monstrous creations in black walnut it had clung to its old mahogany and rosewood, and chromos had never displaced in its affections the time-worn colored prints of little Samuel or flower-decked shepherdesses. In consequence of this conservatism Friendship one day awoke in the fashion.

There were fine old homes in Friendship which in their soft-toned browns and grays seemed as much a part of the landscape as the forest trees that surrounded them and shaded the broad street. a.s.sociated with these mansions were names dignified and substantial, such as Molesworth, Parton, Gilpin, Whittredge.

In times past the atmosphere of the village had seemed to be pervaded by something of the spirit of its name, for here life flowed on serenely in old grooves and its ways were the peaceful ways of friendship. But of late years, alas! something alien and discordant had crept in.

'"And what is Friendship but a name--'"

quoted the cabinet-maker sadly one morning when after climbing the hill from the wharf he paused to rest on the low stone wall surrounding the Gilpin place.

Landing Lane ended at the top of the hill, and here at right angles to it the Main Street of Friendship might be said to begin, slowly descending to a level and following the leisurely curves of the old stage road till it came to a straggling end at the foot of another prominence known as Red Hill.

In forty years a life takes deep root, and this time had pa.s.sed since Morgan, a raw Scotch boy of eighteen, had come to Friendship as a.s.sistant to the village cabinet-maker. A year or two later an illness deprived him of his hearing, but fortunately not of his skill, and upon the death of his employer he succeeded to the business, his kindly, simple nature, together with his misfortune, having won the heart of Friendship.

His fame for making and doing over furniture had spread beyond the borders of the town; his opinion was valued highly by collectors, and it was said he might have made a fortune in the city. But what use had he for a fortune? It was the friendly greetings, the neighborly kindnesses, the comradeship with the children of the village, that made his life.

In spite of its rugged lines his face as he grew older had taken on a singularly sweet expression, but it was sad to-day as he sat on the wall in his knit jacket and work ap.r.o.n, looking down on the town, its roofs and spires showing amongst the trees. It seemed to him that the times were out of joint, and his cheerful philosophy was beginning to fail him. Something had been wrong ever since Patterson Whittredge went away, more than a dozen years ago.

Morgan never failed to follow with interest the careers of the boys of Friendship as they went out into the world, and of all the boys of the village Patterson had been his favorite. He had understood the trouble as well as if it had been carefully explained to him. His deafness had quickened his insight. A girl's lovely face on Pat's dressing-table, seen when he replaced a broken caster, partly told the story, and Mrs.

Whittredge's pride and determination were no secret to any one.

Judge Whittredge's whitening head and heavy step, his fruitless search for health abroad, his return to die at last in his old home, Patterson's coming,--sent for by his heart-broken mother,--this was the rest of the story. But before this family difference had been settled by the stern hand of death, the removal of Thomas Gilpin had precipitated another quarrel upon the town.

It was a puzzle to Morgan that a man like his old friend Mr. Gilpin, who had it in his power to do so much good, should have chosen to do harm instead. As he rose to go, he looked over his shoulder at the old house, closed and deserted since the death of its owner.

The site was a beautiful one, commanding a view of valley and hill and the narrow winding river. The house, an unpretentious square of red brick, with sloping roof and dormer windows, wore its hundred years with dignity, and amid its fine trees was an object of interest to strangers, of pride to the villagers.

Below it on the slope stood a more modern house, in what had been until recently a handsome garden. Morgan, as he pa.s.sed recalled how proud Dr.

Fair had been of his flowers. Celia, who was entering the gate, nodded and smiled brightly. He noted, however, that her face was losing its soft curves and rose tints. Celia was another of his favorites, and he knew she was having her battle with misfortune, meeting it as bravely as a young woman could. Thomas Gilpin might so easily have smoothed the way for her.

The spinet was an interesting heirloom, no doubt, but would not help Celia solve the problem of bread and b.u.t.ter.

The shop of the cabinet-maker was just off Main Street, at the foot of the hill. To its original two rooms he had added two more, and here he lived with no companions but a striped cat and a curly dog, who endured each other and shared the affection of their master.

Morgan's housekeeping was not burdensome. Certain of his neighbors always remembered him on baking day, and his tastes were simple. His shop opened immediately on the street; back of it was his living room and the small garden where he cultivated the gayest blooms. The living room had an open fireplace, for it was one of the cabinet-maker's pleasures to sit in the firelight when the work of the day was over, and a small oil stove sufficed for his cooking. On one side of the chimney was a high-backed settle, and above it a book shelf. Like most Scotch boys, he had had a fair education, and possessed a genuine reverence for books and a love of reading. In the opposite corner was an ancient mahogany desk where he kept his accounts, and near by in the window a shelf always full of plants in the winter. A cupboard of his own manufacture, a table, a lamp, and an arm-chair completed the furniture of the room. The walls he had painted a dull red, and over the fireplace in fanciful letters had traced this motto: "Good in everything."

To this cheerful belief Morgan held firmly, although there were times like this morning, when coming out of the sunlight and feeling a little weary, he noticed that the walls were growing dingy and the motto dim, and sighed to think how hard it was to see the good in some things.

He placed a paper in the old secretary and was turning toward the shop when he stopped short in amazement, for in the doorway stood Rosalind, her face full of eagerness. Behind her was Miss Herbert, whom Morgan entirely overlooked in his pleasure at seeing Mr. Pat's little girl again.

He shook hands warmly and offered the arm-chair, but Rosalind had no thought of sitting down. As she gazed with bright-eyed interest around the room, her glance fell on the motto, and she pointed to it and then to herself.

The cabinet-maker was puzzled. "Is it your motto?" he asked.