Phebe, Her Profession Part 32

She needs something to humanize her womanhood, not make an abstract thing of her. I'd rather see Babe a gentle, loving woman than the greatest light of her profession."

"What a little bigot it is!" the doctor said teasingly.

"No, not a bigot," she returned quickly. "I believe in a girl's taking a profession, when it is the one absorbing interest of her life. It wouldn't be so with Babe. She would take it from restlessness, not love, from sheer unused vitality that must have an outlet. It was different with Ted; it will be different with Allyn. They are ready to give up other things for their work. Phebe isn't."

"After all, Babe is developing," the doctor said thoughtfully. "She is steadier than she used to be, and a good deal more true and sincere. If she would only grow a little more affectionate, I should be content."

"Wait," his wife repeated. "She develops slowly, and she hasn't found out yet just which way it is worth her while to grow. When she does, you will find that she grows fast enough. Look at Allyn. He seems like a new creature in this new plan of his."

The doctor smiled a little sadly.

"Perhaps I am impatient, Bess; but I am getting to be an old man, and I want to see all my children on their own straight roads, before I die."

But if Phebe's choice of career filled her family with doubtful questionings, their doubts were at an end in respect to Allyn. The boy had not only come back from the seash.o.r.e to settle down into the harness of school life again; he was even tugging hard at the traces. Mindful of his bargain with his father, anxious to prove that his wish was both fixed and earnest, he had gone to work with a dogged determination to show his father that, once interested, he was capable of doing honest, solid work. He did work with a will and with a healthy appet.i.te that left him scant time and energy for outside things; and between his books and his drawings he was far too busy to heed the ways and the warts of Jamie Lyman and his kin. Directly after their return to The Savins, the doctor had sent a package of Allyn's drawings to one of his old-time cla.s.smates, now the head of a famous school of technology. The answer which came back to him was prompt and full of enthusiasm, and Dr. McAlister, as he read it, felt his last regret leaving him that his son was to abandon his own profession.

Cicely, meanwhile, was mounting guard over Allyn's languages, advising, admonis.h.i.+ng and often helping him along the devious paths of syntax and subjunctives. She had a good deal of time at her disposal. She gave it to him freely, and unconsciously she gained as much as she gave, in her work with the boy. Their comrades.h.i.+p was as perfect as was their unlikeness.

Each complemented the other, each modified the other, and both were far the better and the happier for the intimacy. To be sure, their paths were not all of pleasantness and peace. Both Cicely and Allyn were outspoken and hot-tempered; but their feuds now were measured by moments, not by days, and the overtures of peace were mutual.

Although Gifford Barrett had never been known to speak more than a dozen words to Cicely, and those were chiefly concerning the weather, the girl appeared to have gained great inspiration from her meeting with the young composer, and she plodded away more diligently than ever at her long hours of practice. Day after day, she ended with her beloved overture, playing it over, not so much to perfect herself in it, as to remind herself that music was a living, vital means of expression quite within the reach of one not so much older than herself. It was not that Cicely ever hoped to compose. That was as far beyond her ambition as it was beyond her powers. She only gained courage from the thought that success in one's chosen line was not always deferred until the end of life.

Moreover, she felt a certain human and girlish satisfaction in being able to state that, once at least, she had swept the gifted composer of the _Alan Breck Overture_ completely off his feet. The fact was enough; no need to enter into details.

Theodora and Billy never stopped to a.n.a.lyze how large a hold upon their hearts this healthy, happy girl had taken. If she dined at The Savins, they devoured their own meal in silence. If she spent an evening away from home Billy read his paper with one eye on the clock, and Theodora reduced Melchisedek to whimpering frenzy by asking once in ten minutes where his missy was. They wanted her chatter, wanted her more gentle moments, wanted above all else her pranks which served as a sort of vicarious outlet for their own animal spirits. For nine days out of ten, Cicely and Melchisedek frisked through life together. On the tenth, Cicely pa.s.sed into a thoughtful mood; Melchisedek never.

"What's the matter, Cousin Ted?" Cicely asked, one day, as she met Theodora stalking up the stairs after dismissing a caller.

"Another reporter. I wish they would let law-abiding citizens alone, and use up their energy on tramps," Theodora said viciously. "Such a morning as I have had! My marketing took twice as long as usual; my typewriter has broken a spring, and now this man has wasted a good half-hour of my time. Cis, the next man that comes to interview me, I shall hand over to you."

"All right. What shall I tell him?"

"Anything you choose, as long as you keep him away from me. It's no use to refuse to see them. I tried that, and they straight-way went off and published three columns of my utterances on South African politics, when I don't know a Boer from a Pathan. Farewell, I am going to work." And, the next moment, Cicely heard the click of her typewriter.

It was more than three weeks later that Cicely sat alone, one afternoon, reading lazily before the fire, when the maid brought her a card.

"It's for Mrs. Farrington," she said.

"Let me see." Cicely took it and glanced at the name, Mr. William Smith.

Down in the corner was the legend "Boston _Intermountain_." "It is all right, Mary," she added. "I will see the man."

There was a short delay while she sped upstairs, ransacked Theodora's closet for a long skirt, and swiftly coiled her hair on the top of her head. Then demurely enough she presented herself to the waiting guest.

"Mrs. Farrington?" he said interrogatively, as he rose.

"Good-afternoon," she answered, extending her hand graciously. "Won't you be seated?"

He looked surprised. As a rule, the reception accorded to him was not so cordial.

"I came here on behalf of the Boston _Intermountain_," he said a little uneasily. "They are making up a Thanksgiving number, and are anxious for a special feature or two. Among other things, they want a little sketch of your work and your ways of doing it."

"Certainly." Cicely seated herself on the sofa and smiled encouragement at the young man, while she vaguely wondered whether he had discovered that her cousin's waist measure was three inches smaller than her own.

"Might I ask," he inquired, as he pulled out a notebook; "whether you are busy just now on a new book?"

"Yes, I am writing four at present," she answered unexpectedly.

"Four, all at once?"

"Yes."

"But--pardon me--but is there not danger of confusing them?"

"Oh, no; I keep them in different pigeon-holes," Cicely replied blandly.

"Ah, yes. Do you? Very good!" He laughed a little vaguely. "Are they to come out soon?"

"This winter, all but one. That will not appear for seven years."

"Indeed. And are you willing, Mrs. Farrington to tell me when you do your writing?"

"Certainly. I do it all at night."

"But isn't that very wearing?"

"Of course. I am often a total wreck for months after finis.h.i.+ng a book."

"Where do you do your writing?"

For a moment, Cicely hesitated between the rival charms of the front steps and the attic. Then she replied,--

"In the kitchen."

"The--kitchen!" For an instant, the man was thrown from his professional calm.

"Yes. I put my little kettle of tea to draw on the hob--"

"The--what?"

"The hob," Cicely said severely; "and when I am tired of writing, I refresh myself with a cup of Flowery Pekoe and a biscuit, and then I return to my pen once more."

"How much do you usually accomplish in a night?"

"Four thousand, five hundred words is my usual limit."

"And do your never write during the day?"

"Never. My thoughts only arise by candle-light."

At this poetic outburst, the interviewer glanced up and privately registered the belief that Mrs. Farrington was slightly cracked.

"I always sleep till noon," Cicely rea.s.sured him. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"