Six Girls Part 39

The approaching dignity of sixteen lay over the girls, and while Kat was still a most thoroughly romping tom-boy, Kittie was wonderfully womanly, with pretty, graceful, lady-like ways, the sweetest possible voice, and the loveliest eyes that ever looked, with girlish innocence, into the face of the man who felt that love her he could, and love her he would, in spite of himself.

There was something irresistibly attractive and sweet to Paul Murray, in watching the love between his little daughter and the young girl.

Kittie's slightest word was law to Pansy; and there was something so womanly in the way she exercised her influence, and made the child's love a source of benefit unto her spoiled, wayward little self.

When fall drifted into the chilly reign of winter, Mr. Murray went back to the city. He had intended going long before, but had put it off, a week at a time, until winter had finally come; then he decided with a sudden determination, and, as if to test his firmness of purpose, had slipped away from Pansy, and galloped into town, trusting to the darkness to hide from Canfield's prying eyes, that he was coming to the Dering's alone. Not that he cared; oh, no, he would just as soon have heralded to every soul therein that it was so, but for Kittie's sake, it was best to give no one's tongue a chance to wag. Many a bud is rudely hastened into blossom by impatient fingers, and withers from the shock; it must not be so now.

He fastened his horse at the gate, and went slowly up the walk, wondering a little if they would be surprised. A bright light came from Ernestine's window, and out from down stairs, falling across the porch floor; and before ringing the bell, he paused a moment, and looked in.

How bright and homelike everything looked, and there, before the grate, stood the very object of his visit, making the prettiest picture imaginable, with a big kitchen ap.r.o.n on, her sleeves rolled up, and reading a letter. He knew it was Kittie, in a moment, for in her hair was a knot of scarlet ribbon, and the foot resting on the fender wore a bow, of the same color, astride its slippered toe--little niceties that Kat, was seldom, if ever, guilty of.

Beatrice answered his ring, and tried to look as though she had not expected some one else, some one who would have given her a more cordial greeting, than "Good evening, Miss Dering."

"Good evening, Mr. Murray; walk in, please, and I will call mama," said Bea, ushering him into the sitting-room, with some little wonder, and going up stairs.

Kittie had vanished with her letter; but as Mr. Murray sat down, he saw the envelope on the table, and immediately experienced the most peculiar and unpleasant sensation, on observing the masculine scrawls thereon. What gentleman was writing to her? he wondered, with quick resentment; and the next moment Kittie came in, and found him studying that envelope closely. She had thrown off her ap.r.o.n, and let down her sleeves, and he thought she looked prettier the other way, though he found that either way she was suddenly invested with a stronger attraction than ever; for a little compet.i.tion will always make us more eager, and the star of our desire much brighter. He explained, with a laugh, as they sat down, that he had just been admiring the free, easy chirography on the envelope; which same was a fib of first degree, but then--

"It is Cousin Ralph's; I think it beautiful," said Kittie, unconsciously obliging, but giving no relief, for Mr. Murray's mind went back to the day he met "Cousin Ralph," handsome, manly fellow, and he remembered that it was only second cousin, and that Ralph had been very attentive to Kittie at the picnic, and that--oh, what didn't he think, all in a few minutes; and how true it is that

"Trifles light as air, are to the jealous, Confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ."

The rebound from a feeling of perfect security to one of miserable doubt, at finding the field already taken, nearly drove Mr. Murray into a precipitancy that he might have regretted forever. As it was, he answered Kittie's inquiries for Pansy, in a pre-occupied way, that was surprising, and seemed too much pleased with that envelope to ever lay it down; and yet, with all his looking, he failed to discover that the name, in a maze of flourishes, was Miss Kathleen Dering, instead of Miss Katherine. Just so do we make up our minds to see things in a certain light, and see them so, in spite of fate.

How pleasant it was, sitting there in the warm firelight, with Kittie opposite, in the low rocking chair, and no one else near. It seemed so homelike and sweet to this man who had no fireside of his own, and only a memory of one short, happy year, when another girlish face and heart, not unlike Kittie's, had been all his own. He wished now, that no one else would come in to spoil this cozy chat; but they did, in just a moment--Mrs. Dering and Bea; and Kittie resigned the low rocker, for a corner over on the lounge, to his great regret.

They all heard with polite and honest expressions of regret, that he was going to leave for the city on the next day; but after hearing that he was going to leave Pansy behind, Kittie was quite satisfied.

"I have no home, you know," he said, looking at Mrs. Dering, with an expression that caused her kindly heart to pity him. "I shall board, and be hard at work 'till late every night, and poor little Pansy would have a dreary life with a hired nurse. Besides, the influences surrounding her would not be such as I would like. So Sister Julia has kindly promised to keep her until I can make some arrangements, and become a little settled."

He staid for some time; promised to call in and see Olive, who had gone to her studies at last; and then he rose to leave. If he held Kittie's hand a little longer than any of the others, no one noticed it; and if, in that good-bye, his eyes went to her face less guarded in their expression than usual, no one noticed that either, because no one dreamed of such a thing.

"May I have Pansy with me as often as I want her?" asked Kittie, just before he left.

"Certainly; I shall always be pleased to hear that you still love the child, and that she is sometimes with you," he answered, lingering, as if loth to go. But at that instant a step was heard on the porch, and a certain expression in Bea's face warned him that the sitting-room would now be in demand; whereupon he gave a hasty good-bye, and left; not without a little envy for Dr. Barnett, who entered at the same moment, and who came, in the full a.s.surance of recognized right, such as was not yet Paul Murray's.

Of course, the family discreetly retired, after a few words of greeting to the young man, and while the cozy sitting-room took unto itself these

"Two souls with but a single thought,"

the others went up to Ernestine's room to finish the evening.

CHAPTER XXII.

TO REAR, TO LOVE, AND THEN TO LOSE.

Spring came, and with it much that was of absorbing interest, of untold importance, and yet so sad. In May, Bea would leave the home of childhood and girlhood, and would be mistress of one of the prettiest little cottages in Canfield. She was blithely happy, and sang and sewed from morning until night, in a blissful content, that made mother and sisters smile and sigh at once; and wonder how home would seem with Bea gone. Such marvels of pretty things as had been made, and such a little gem of a bower, as the new home was, and how happy and gay everything was, to be sure. Every Sat.u.r.day night, when Olive came home from the city, her first trip was to the little cottage, to see the latest improvements; for there were several, in the way of a verandah, a frail, spidery looking summer-house, with a sick looking vine started over one corner, a new front fence, and a hitching post. Each and every one was of greatest importance and everybody in Canfield was as interested, as though they were one great family, just marrying off their first daughter. Bea visited her future dominion every day, as did the twins; but Ernestine was not to go, until everything was ready for the new occupants, and then she was to pa.s.s her opinion on the whole, and suggest any changes that might strike her graceful fancy.

"It must have a name," said Bea, coming in one day, just a week before the wedding. "When Meg got married in 'Little Women,' she went to housekeeping in a little cottage, and they called it Dovecot. What shall I call mine?"

"Call it a house and let it go; better not begin with fancy names and all that, it won't last," advised Kat, rigidly practical.

"Yes, it will--always," a.s.serted Bea, with the fond delusive belief, experienced by every women when in love, that life will be one endless courtship and honey-moon.

"I think a name is a pretty idea," said Kittie, recalling all the Roman t.i.tles she had ever heard of. "Call it--let's see, call it Fern-nook."

"Yes, I would," laughed Kat "It's so appropriate. There's not a fern within a mile, and not the ghost of a nook anywhere."

"Well, I thought Bird's-nest a real pretty name," said Bea, swinging her hat by its ribbon, and looking thoughtful. "But, somehow, I want something else."

"What kind of flowers are you going to have?" asked Kittie, with a view to selecting something appropriate this time.

"Geraniums in the big bed in front, with a border of some kind, then I will have vines all over the porch, and a lily in the little urn, and a heart-shaped bed of pansies under that shady side-window. None of those do for a name, though."

Kittie confessed that they did not, but said in a moment:

"We'll go up and ask Ernestine, if she can't think of something no one else can." To which they all agreed, and hurried up stairs forthwith.

Ernestine was sitting up in the big rocker, in a lovely white wrapper, and a little fancy scarlet sacque. She looked very frail and weak, though very lovely, and much interested when the important question was put to her. The girls had perfect faith in her selection, and waited patiently, as her eyes went from the budding trees outside, to the gleams of sunshine playing across the carpet, then to the bunch of purple pansies in the vase on the table.

"Call it Hearts-ease," she said.

"I told you," cried Kittie. "That's just the name."

"Hearts-ease it is, to the end of the chapter;" exclaimed Kat with a flourish as of benediction.

"Yes, that is lovely--and there comes Walter, I'll go right down and tell him," said Bea, and flitted gayly away.

"A penny for your thoughts, Ernestine," said Kat, watching her eyes go out to the sunshine again with a dreamy smile.

"I was thinking how happy everything was," answered Ernestine slowly.

"It's all so lovely. Olive is doing so splendidly in her painting. Bea is so happy. Jean is coming home, and--I am here. I can hardly believe it even now, and I so often wonder if I'm happy enough."

"This will be a gay old household," said Kat briskly, warmed into gayety by the sad tone of the invalid's voice. "Uncle Ridley will make Bea a handsome present I expect."

"How strange and delightful it will be to have Jeanie home, bless her precious little heart," cried Kittie with loving eagerness. "I can hardly wait, and mama seems almost too happy to live."

"Jean has not changed much," said Ernestine. "She is taller and sweeter looking, but just the same dear, quiet little thing. She walks with a cane now, and is perfectly straight. How glad I shall be to see her, I wish she was coming to-day!"

She came the next, as if in answer to their eagerness and longing, and this is the way it happened.

Mrs. Dering was in the hall, when she saw a carriage stop at the gate, and though Mr. Congreve and Jean were expected in two or three days, it never occurred to her, that they might come before; so while she took off her ap.r.o.n, and brushed a little flour--having been in the kitchen--from her dress, the arrivals had left the carriage, and were coming in at the gate. She got as far as the door, then paused, and caught her breath as if in a spasm of sudden joy.

Coming up the walk with swiftly flying feet, outstretched arms, and glowing face wildly eager, was a light girlish figure in a pretty travelling suit, and the mother, feeling her strength forsaking her knelt down on the porch and opened her arms, her lips dumb, her eyes blinded with great joyful tears.

Could it be? Oh, had G.o.d been so good? Was the flying figure, with strong perfect limbs and bright eager face, her crippled, crooked little Jean? It seemed a dream too blissful to be true but the next moment, their arms were clasped, and Jean's tears and kisses fell like rain, on her mother's face and hair.