Half a Dozen Girls Part 37

Even then, Katharine's self-control did not leave her. Pausing before her aunt, she said quietly, as she held out the letter,--

"Do you remember our talk last fall, auntie? My call has come, and I must answer: 'ready.'"

"Katharine!"

Mrs. Hapgood s.n.a.t.c.hed the note, read it, and turned impulsively to the young girl before her.

"You poor child!" she began; but Katharine interrupted her, as she had done Alan.

"Don't worry about me, auntie. But can you tell Jessie now, please? I am afraid I can't." And she turned away and went into the house.

When Mrs. Hapgood came down-stairs, an hour later, it seemed as if a shadow had always rested on the house, the sorrow it contained had so soon become a part of their lives. Up-stairs, Jessie had cried until she was tired, stopped to listen vaguely to her aunt's comforting words, then cried again, but all without any real understanding of the trouble which had come upon her. Down-stairs, Alan and Molly were walking the room, arm in arm, with a settled look of sadness which was strangely out of place on their young faces. Alan had told his sister the news as gently as he could, and she could only cling to him and cry, as she took in all the meaning of the shame and disgrace, all the consequences of the father's sin upon the coming life of his children.

"But where is Katharine?" asked Mrs. Hapgood anxiously.

"Isn't she up-stairs?" said Molly.

"I haven't seen her," answered her mother.

"Why, we supposed she was with you!" And Alan hurried away to look for his cousin.

At last he found her. Up in the familiar old garret that she had loved so well, close by the great gray chimney which seemed to be s.h.i.+elding her with its giant strength, there lay Katharine on the shabby old sofa, sobbing as if her heart must break. To the young lad, these unrestrained tears were much more alarming than her former quiet, and he dared not speak, as he sat down on the floor by her side, and put his brown hand against her cheek.

"Oh, Alan!"

"Yes, Kit; I know."

"Let me have my cry out now," she said brokenly. "It must come sometime; then I can be brave for mamma and Jessie."

Alan stole away to tell his mother where Katharine was, and then went back to her side. All the morning he remained there, saying little, but keeping near her with a simple, boyish devotion of which, in after years, she never lost the memory.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THERE LAY KATHARINE ON THE SHABBY OLD SOFA, SOBBING AS IF HER HEART MUST BREAK."--Page 350.]

When Katharine went down-stairs again, she appeared to have grown years older during that one morning. It was not that she was less beautiful than she had been; but she seemed to have gained a new, gentle dignity which suddenly changed her from a child into a woman. As she entered the room, with her hand on Alan's shoulder, she met them with a perfect composure which gave no hint of her trouble; but they all felt instinctively that it was as she had said to her aunt, her call had come, and she had answered "ready."

The day wore slowly away. They were to start on their journey, late the next afternoon, accompanied by Mrs. Hapgood, who had made up her mind to go to her sister for a few weeks, to help her through the sad changes which must inevitably follow. Late in the day, Mrs. Adams and Polly came in, for Molly had told them of the letter. Mrs. Adams took both the girls into her motherly arms, and her few whispered words were very tender, while Polly threw her arms around Katharine, as she said,--

"Alan has told me what you said, Kit, about your call's coming, and I think it was grand; but it isn't one bit more so than we expected, only it makes us proud to be your friends."

At length it was bedtime, and for the last time the girls went up to their pleasant room in the old Hapgood house. The whole place was in confusion, and trunks stood in the middle of the floor, with piles of clothing, books, and pictures heaped about them, just as they had been left in the morning. At sight of them, Jessie threw herself down on the bed.

"Oh, Kit!" she cried; "what are we going to do?" "Please don't cry so, Jessie," said Katharine wearily. "We must try not to be babyish about it."

"Babyis.h.!.+" And Jessie turned on her petulantly. "I do believe you don't care, Katharine. Oh, poor papa!" Then, as she saw the pain in her sister's face, she added, "Forgive me, Kit! I know you do care; but how can you keep so quiet? It's all so dreadful, and we shall be poor and alone, and n.o.body will care for us."

"Hush, Jessie!"

Her sister spoke almost sharply, for she felt her own courage fast giving way. Then, sitting down on the side of the bed, with her beautiful brown hair waving loose about her shoulders, she took her sister's hand in hers.

"Jessie dear," she said gently; "listen to me, please. You and I mustn't give up so and cry about this; we must be brave and cheerful for mamma's sake. Poor mamma is out there all alone, and we must go to her and help her to bear it all. We are stronger than she is, and we have each other, so we must help each other and help her. We've had a great many good times already, and nothing can take those away; but now comes the chance to show what we are, and whether we have any courage. There will be a great deal to do when we get home, so we have no right to give up and make ourselves ill with crying. Now we must go to bed and try to sleep, so we can be ready for to-morrow; and--Oh, Jessie, if we only knew where papa was to-night! He was always so good and kind that I know he has never done anything wicked."

Katharine's head went down on the pillow beside Jessie's, and the two daughters sobbed together over their father's guilt.

They were all at the station to see them off the next night. The sun was just setting as the train moved away, and the little group of three on the rear platform looked back to see its golden light fall upon the friends they were leaving: the girls, Alan, Dr. and Mrs. Adams, and even patient old Job, who stood quietly in the background, watching the scene about him with a half wondering air of sympathy.

Jessie turned to enter the car.

"Wait just a minute more," said Katharine wistfully.

A sudden opening between the buildings gave her one more glimpse of the figures still standing there as they had left them, and Katharine strained her eyes to catch the parting wave of Alan's cap, while her lips quivered. Then she exclaimed excitedly,--

"See, Jessie! See!"

They were just pa.s.sing within sight of the hospital and, from a well-known window, a hand was waving a farewell to them. It was Bridget, who had begged to be moved to the window, that she might be the one to say the final good by, before the train went rus.h.i.+ng away into the gathering twilight.

"I feel as if I had just been to a funeral," sighed Molly, as she walked home with Polly; for she and Alan were to stay with Mrs.

Adams during their mother's absence.

"It was just like one," said Jean sorrowfully. But Polly objected.

"No, girls," she said; "no funeral was ever like this, for a funeral is all sad, and this isn't. I'm sorry for them, more so than I can tell; but, after all, it has given Katharine a chance to show how glorious she is. It just makes me glad to know such a magnificent girl."

And Alan added,--

"Yes, you may talk all day about your heroines; but I've just seen one of them, and it's a sight I shan't forget soon, either."

CHAPTER XX.

ONE LAST GLIMPSE.

Indian summer had come once more, and the same soft haze which, only last year, the girls had seen over the blue Connecticut with its meadows and mountains, now rested quite as lovingly upon the dull waters of the Missouri, as they wound along between their low bluffs and level prairies. There, there had been the restful quiet of the old town, peacefully living on the reputation of its two centuries of strong, honorable life, justly proud of the famous names it had given to its state and country; here, there was the ceaseless, unwearying bustle of a new civilization, the restless activity of a city whose glory was yet to be and whose present ambition was only to grow and to acc.u.mulate riches. All the contrast between the two places, all the change from the surroundings of a year ago to the life of to-day were keenly felt by the young girl who was sitting on the piazza of a little house in Omaha, one morning, idly enjoying the late autumn suns.h.i.+ne.

"Come out here a minute, Jessie," she called suddenly, as she heard some one coming down the stairs behind her. "We shan't have many more days like this, and do let's take a few minutes to enjoy this one."

"But Aunt Jane would say it was sinful to waste the golden moments," said Jessie, laughing, as, duster in hand, she came out on the steps.

"Not a bit of it," said the other. "I haven't sat down before this since my breakfast, and I know that lunch will be all the better, if I take a few minutes to rest and breathe this lovely air.

Where's mamma?"

"She's lying down; she said her head ached. Oh, Kit, doesn't this make you homesick for last year and all the girls?"

"And Alan, too," added Katharine. "Yes, it does, Jessie, whenever I stop to think of it. We did have a perfect year at auntie's, and once in a while I wish we were back there. Do you remember the day Job was loose, and they couldn't catch him?"

"'I feel it in my bones,' as Miss Bean would say," said Jessie; "that the time will come when we shall all be together again. At least, we made the very most of our time."