By the Light of the Soul Part 28

"Edwin Shaw said he thought he saw Evelyn getting on the New York train this morning," said Maria, faintly.

"She is all used up," Harry said. "You had better drink some hot milk yourself, Maria. Only think of that child and that Mann girl going off to New York on their own accounts, Ida!"

"Yes," said Ida.

"Wollaston Lee went, too," Maria said, suddenly. A quick impulse for concealment in that best of hiding-places, utter frankness and openness, came over her. "He got off the train here. You know he began school, too, at Wardway this morning, and he and Gladys both went."

"Well, I'm thankful you had him along," said Harry. "The Lord only knows what you two girls would have done alone in a city like New York. You must never do such a thing again, whatever happens, Maria.

You might as well run right into a den of wild beasts. Only think of that child going to New York, and coming out on the last train, with that Mann girl; and Wollaston is only a boy, though he's bright and smart. And your cousin has moved, Ida."

"I thought she had," said Ida.

"And to think of what those children might have got into," said Harry, "in a city like New York, which is broken out all over with plague spots instead of having them in one place! Only think of it, Ida!"

Harry's voice was almost sobbing. It seemed as if he fairly appealed to his wife for sympathy, with his consciousness of the dangers through which his child had pa.s.sed. But Ida only said, "Yes."

"And the baby might have fallen into the worst hands," said Harry.

"But, thank G.o.d, a good woman, although she was coa.r.s.e enough, got hold of her."

"Yes, we can't be thankful enough," Ida said, smoothly, and then Josephine came in with a tray and a silver cup of hot milk for Evelyn.

"Is that all the milk Annie heated?" asked Harry.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, tell Annie to go to the sideboard and get that bottle of port-wine and pour out a gla.s.s for Miss Maria; and, Josephine, you had better bring her something to eat with it. You haven't had any supper, have you, child?"

Maria shook her head. "I don't want any, thank you, papa," said she.

"Is there any cold meat, Josephine, do you know?"

Josephine said there was some cold roast beef.

"Well, bring Miss Maria a plate, with a slice of bread-and-b.u.t.ter, and some beef."

"Have you had any supper yourself, dear?" Ida asked.

"I declare I don't know, dear," replied Harry, who looked unutterably worn and tired. "No, I think not. I don't know when I could have got it. No, I know I have not."

"Josephine," said Ida, "tell Annie to broil a piece of beefsteak for Mr. Edgham, and make a cup of tea."

"Thank you, dear," poor Harry said, gratefully. Then he said to Maria, "Will you wait and have some hot beefsteak and tea with papa, darling?"

Maria shook her head.

"I think she had better eat the cold beef and bread, and drink the wine, and go at once to bed, if she is to start on that early train to-morrow," Ida said.

"Maybe you are right, dear," Harry said. "Hurry with the roast beef and bread and wine for Miss Maria, Josephine, and Annie can see to my supper afterwards."

All this time Harry was coaxing the baby to imbibe spoonfuls of the hot milk. It was hard work, for Evelyn was not very hungry. She had been given a good deal of cake and pie from a bakery all day.

However, at last she was roused sufficiently to finish her little meal, and Maria drank her gla.s.s of wine and ate a little of the bread and meat, although it seemed to her that it would choke her. She was conscious of her father's loving, anxious eyes upon her as she ate, and she made every effort.

Little Evelyn had recently had her own little room fitted up. It was next to Maria's; indeed, there was a connecting door between the two rooms. Evelyn's room was a marvel. It was tiny, but complete. Ida had the walls hung with paper with a satin gloss, on which were strewn garlands of rose-buds. There was a white matting and a white fur rug.

The small furniture was white, with rose-bud decorations. There was a canopy of rose silk over the tiny bed, and a silk counterpane of a rose-bud pattern.

After Evelyn had finished her hot milk, her father carried her up-stairs into this little nest, and Josephine undressed her and put her to bed. The child's head drooped as helplessly as a baby's all the time, she was so overcome with sleep. When she was in bed, Ida came in and kissed her. She was so fast asleep that she did not know.

She and Harry stood for a moment contemplating the little thing, with her yellow hair spread over the white pillow and her round rose of a face sunken therein. Harry put his arm around his wife's waist.

"We ought to be very thankful, dear," he said, and he almost sobbed.

"Yes," said Ida. To do her justice, she regarded the little rosy-and-white thing sunk in slumber with a certain tenderness. She was even thankful. She had been exceedingly disturbed the whole day.

She was very glad to have this happy termination, and to be able to go to rest in peace. She bent again over the child, and touched her lips lightly to the little face, and when she looked up her own was softened. "Yes," she whispered, with more of womanly feeling than Harry had ever seen in her--"yes, you are right, we have a great deal to be thankful for."

Maria, in the next room, heard quite distinctly what Ida said. It would once have aroused in her a contemptuous sense of her step-mother's hypocrisy, but now she felt too humbled herself to blame another, even to realize any fault in another. She felt as if she had undergone a tremendous cataclysm of spirit, which had cast her forever from her judgment-seat as far as others were concerned.

Was she not deceiving as never Ida had deceived? What would Ida say?

What would her father say if he knew that she was--? She could not say the word even to herself. When she was in bed and her light out, she was overcome by a nervous stress which almost maddened her. Faces seemed to glower at her out of the blackness of the night, faces which she knew were somehow projected out of her own consciousness, but which were none the less terrific. She even heard her name shouted, and strange, isolated words, and fragments of sentences. She lay in a deadly fear. Now was the time when, if her own mother had been alive, she would have screamed aloud for some aid. But now she could call to no one. She would have spoken to her father. She would not have told him--she was gripped too fast by her sense of the need of secrecy--but she would have obtained the comfort and aid of his presence and soothing words; but there was Ida. She remembered how she had talked to Ida, and her father was with her. A dull wonder even seized her as to whether Ida would tell her father, and she should be allowed to remain at home after saying such dreadful things. There was no one upon whom she could call. All at once she thought of the maid Annie, whose room was directly over hers. Annie was kindly. She would slip up-stairs to her, and make some excuse for doing so--ask her if she did not smell smoke, or something. It seemed to her that if she did not hear another human voice, come in contact with something human, she should lose all control of herself.

Maria, little, slender, trembling girl, with all the hysterical fancies of her s.e.x crowding upon her, all the sufferings of her s.e.x waiting for her in the future, and with no mother to soften them, slipped out of bed, stole across her room, and opened the door with infinite caution. Then she went up the stairs which led to the third story. Both maids had rooms on the third story. Josephine went home at night, and Hannah, the cook, had gone home with her after the return of the wanderers, and was to remain. She was related to Josephine's mother. She knocked timidly at Annie's door. She waited, and knocked again. She was trembling from head to foot in a nervous chill. She got no response to her knock. Then she called, "Annie,"

very softly. She waited and called again. At last, in desperation, she opened the door, which was not locked. She entered, and the room was empty. Suddenly she remembered that Annie, kind-hearted as she was, and a good servant, had not a character above suspicion. She remembered that she had heard Gladys intimate that she had a sweetheart, and was not altogether what she should be. She gazed around the empty, forlorn little room, with one side sloping with the slope of the roof, and an utter desolation overcame her, along with a horror of Annie. She felt that if Annie were there she would be no refuge.

Maria turned, and slipped as silently as a shadow down the stairs back to her room. She looked at her bed, and it seemed to her that she could not lie down again in it. Then suddenly she thought of something else. She thought of little Evelyn asleep in the next room.

She opened the connecting door softly and stole across to the baby's little bed. It was too small, or she would have crept in beside her.

Maria hesitated a moment, then she slid her arms gently under the little, soft, warm body, and gathered the child up in her arms. She was quite heavy. At another time Maria, who had slender arms, could scarcely have carried her. Now she bore her with entire ease into her own room and laid her in her own bed. Then she got in beside her and folded her little sister in her arms. Directly a sense of safety and peace came over her when she felt the little snuggling thing, who had wakened just enough to murmur something unintelligible in her baby tongue, and cling close to her with all her little, rosy limbs, and thrust her head into the hollow of Maria's shoulder. Then she gave a deep sigh and was soundly asleep again. Maria lay awake a little while, enjoying that sense of peace and security which the presence of this little human thing she loved gave her. Then she fell asleep herself.

She waked early. The thought of the early train was in her mind, and Maria was always one who could wake at the sub-recollection of a need. Evelyn was still asleep, curled up like a flower. Maria raised her and carried her back to her own room and put her in her bed without waking her. Then she dressed herself in her school costume and went down-stairs. She had smelled coffee while she was dressing, and knew that Hannah had returned. Her father was in the dining-room when she entered. He usually took an earlier train, but this morning he had felt utterly unable to rise. Maria noticed, with a sudden qualm of fear, how ill and old and worn-out he looked, but Harry himself spoke first with concern for her.

"Papa's poor little girl!" he said, kissing her. "She looks tired out. Did you sleep, darling?"

"Yes, after a while. Are you sick, papa?"

"No, dear. Why?"

"Because you did not go on the other train."

"No, dear, I am all right, just a little tired," replied Harry. Then he added, looking solicitously at Maria, "Are you sure you feel able to go to school to-day?--because you need not, you know."

"I am all right," said Maria.

She and her father had seated themselves at the table. Harry looked at his watch.

"We shall neither of us go if we don't get our breakfast before long," he said.

Then Hannah came in, with a lowering look, bringing the coffee-pot and the chops and rolls.

"Where is Annie?" asked Harry.

"I don't know," replied Hannah, with a toss of her head and a compression of her lips. She was a large, solid woman, with a cast in her eyes. She had never been married.