“I don’t see why you are in such a hurry,” complained Caro. “If you will wait a while, I can go with you. Mother wants to try on the dress I am to wear to Florence’s party this evening. Of course you will go, Ellen.”
“Oh, but I am not invited.”
“That is because Florence didn’t know you would be here. When she knows you are visiting me of course she will expect you.”
Ellen shook her head. “I don’t think so. Moreover, I really don’t feel in the humor for going; I am tired after all the excitement of the past week.”
“Well, maybe you’ll change your mind before night. I do want you to go with me.”
Ellen did not reply, but hurried off. It was a crisp, bright morning. Snow, which had fallen a few days before, still lay in little heaps on the spots untouched by the sun. As Ellen turned the key in the door Wipers bounded to meet her from a warm corner where he had been curled up. She stooped to stroke him, and then entered the chilly1 house. It was very still and desolate2, windows barred and lower rooms dark. Ellen did not tarry on the lower floor, but mounted the stairs to her own room, leaving her violin on the hall table.
How cold and silent it was, yet the sun was streaming in, and, as she looked around at the familiar objects, she realized that this was home and that she was glad to get back to it. She busied herself for a time in putting together the things Miss Rindy had asked for, and when these were ready she went back to her own room, took out her writing materials, and sat thoughtfully looking out the window. She had kept on her coat, so she decided3 that she would not take cold if she remained long enough to write the note, which was an important one. How should she begin it? Should she say “My dear Reed,” “Dear Cronine,” or “My dear Mr. Marshall”? Finally she decided that as this was a strictly4 business matter she would best be as formal as possible; therefore she wrote:
“My dear Mr. Marshall:
“If you were in earnest about wanting my father’s violin if I ever wished to part with it, I am ready to offer it to you. The hole is quite a deep one, otherwise I could not think of giving up dear Mr. Barstow’s Christmas gift; you remember that he said I could sell it if ever I was in a hole, so I must do it now.”
She read over carefully what she had written, and then added:
“Please don’t think you must take the violin if you don’t want it. Perhaps you spoke5 on the spur of the moment, and didn’t really mean me to take you seriously.”
She hesitated a moment before signing her name. Then she slipped the note into the envelope, and began the address: “Mr. Reed Marshall.” Suddenly she realized that she did not know where the young man lived. “I shall have to send it in Mr. Barstow’s care,” she soliloquized, “and I ought to write to him and explain. It wouldn’t do to sell his gift without telling him why I am doing it.”
She wrote another note, enclosed the one to Reed, and felt that the matter was concluded. “It can go off in the evening mail, and he should get it to-morrow,” she told herself. “I should have an answer in a few days.”
By this time her fingers were stiff with cold, and, as there was no reason why she should linger, she hurried off, bearing the bag containing her cousin’s belongings6 and her violin. The latter she wanted to show to Jeremy Todd, but just as she was about to turn in at his gate she saw him ahead of her, and hastened to catch up with him. This, however, she did not do till he had reached the church, where he turned in.
Ellen was right at his heels as he fitted the big key in the door. “Happy New Year, Mr. Jeremy Todd!” she greeted him.
He flung open the door, and held out both hands. “Well, this is a surprise,” he cried. “When did you get in? Have you seen Rindy? How is she?”
“I got in yesterday and went right out to the hospital. Cousin Rindy is doing as well as one could expect, but of course she worries. May I come in with you? I have such a lot to tell you, and I want to consult you about something. You know I am nothing if not a consulter.”
“Come right in and tell me all about it. We certainly have missed you, child. It made me feel very lonesome to see the house next door shut up and deserted8.”
They entered the church and seated themselves near the organ. Then Ellen poured forth9 her tale, concluding with: “So, you see, Mr. Todd, here is my chance to do something for Cousin Rindy, something really worth while. Of course I am sorry to give up dear Daddy’s violin, but I am not used yet to owning it, so it is better to give it up before it becomes harder to do. It will be a comfort to think that it is in the hands of one who will treasure it, that is, if he really does want it. Besides, I am not expecting to be a violinist.”
“And this young man is?”
“Why, he must be of a sort, although he is studying to be an artist he told me. Funny I never thought to ask him to try the violin again. I saw him only once, you know. I want you to try it and tell me what you think of it.” She took it from its case and handed it over to him.
He handled it reverently10, tuned12 it, and played a few measures. “It is a very fine instrument,” he assured her, “and should be worth a big price.”
“As much as a hundred dollars?” asked Ellen eagerly.
“It is worth more, though perhaps you may not get anything beyond that. I wish it were my privilege to afford to buy it.”
“But you will keep it for me, won’t you, till Reed wants it? I would be so glad if you would take charge of it.”
“Why not keep it yourself?”
Ellen shook her head. “No, the longer I have it the harder it will be to part with it. I know it will be safe in your hands, and perhaps you will like to play on it sometimes.”
“That I surely will. This Mr. Barstow of whom you speak, is his name Peter, by any chance?”
“It is indeed, and he knows you. He was so glad when I could tell him about you; said he was going to write to you.”
“My old friend, Don Pedro; well, well.”
“Oh, do you call him that? So did Daddy, and I do when I am with him. Reed calls him Uncle Pete. Isn’t it funny that Reed’s father and mine both were what Mr. Barstow calls old cronies, and Reed says I am a cronette and he is a cronine in consequence. He is a very ridiculous person.”
Mr. Todd looked at her thoughtfully. “And you like him very much, this lad?”
“I liked him with a black face; I don’t know how much I should like him with a white one. Probably he will seem quite a different person. I must run along now, or Caro will think I am lost. I shall see you soon again, I hope.”
“We begin our organ lessons again on Saturday, don’t we?”
“That’s up to you, Mr. Music Master.”
“Then by all means. I shall want your report of the sale of your violin as soon as you have it.”
“That you shall.” She left him softly playing upon the violin, and went on to mail her note. “It’s just as well that it is addressed to Don Pedro,” she said to herself, “otherwise Mrs. Perry would be consumed with curiosity to know who my new correspondent might be. She keeps a mental list of all my other ones, I am sure.”
Caro was just stepping out of the completed party frock when Ellen came into the room where she was. “What a time you have been,” she exclaimed. “You haven’t been shut up in that cold house all this time, I hope.”
“Well, no; I was at the church with Mr. Todd part of the time, and I went to the post-office to mail a letter.”
“Frank Ives has been trying to get you on the ’phone. He has called up two or three times.”
“What did he want?”
“He wouldn’t leave his message, although I tried to get him to. He said he must speak to you himself, and that he would come around before one o’clock, so don’t run off again.”
Ellen’s only response was: “How pretty your dress is, Caro. It is mighty13 becoming, too. You’ll be the belle14 of the ball.”
“Not if you are there.”
“Which I shall not be, and it is nonsense to say I would be a belle if I were there. Florence would see to it that I played the part of wall flower.”
“I’d like to see her try, then; not with Frank and Clyde and the other boys there. You are not going to be so cruel as to refuse to go, Ellen, when you know how disappointed I shall be, not to mention several others. You can wear your lovely crêpe de Chine that you look so perfectly15 dear in.”
Just here a big red car dashed up to the door and Frank Ives sprang out. “I can’t go down,” declared Caro. “He wants to see you anyway, and I am not dressed. Go along.”
There was nothing left to do but go, which Ellen did half reluctantly. For some reason she didn’t care to see Frank just then. It was evident, however, that he very much wanted to see her. “I came to apologize,” were his first words. “Flo didn’t know you were here till I told her, so that explains why you haven’t received an invitation to her party. If you don’t mind the informality of it, I am the bearer of a verbal invitation which we hope you will accept. I want to come for you, and please give me as many dances as you can. Please don’t say No. You will spoil my evening if you do.”
With two persons asserting that the evening would be spoiled for them if she refused to attend the party, Ellen was obliged to give in, and sent Frank off in high feather. If she had but known, the invitation was entirely16 due to the stand he took in the matter, for he announced that he would not appear unless Ellen were there. “I’ll go and spend the evening with her,” he declared to his sister, “so count me out, Miss Snobby17.”
“I think you are perfectly horrid,” pouted18 Florence. “It’s my party, and I reckon I can invite who I choose.”
“So you can,” retorted Frank, “but allee samee you can count me out, and I’d advise you to give an hour’s study to your grammar before you mingle19 in society.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Florence returned. “I reckon I can talk as good grammar as you or any of the boys.”
Frank shrugged20 his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows21 as he turned to walk away. He had not reached the door before Florence called him back. “I never can have my own way,” she fumed22. “What is it you want me to do?”
“I want you to give me leave to invite Ellen in your name. I can make it all right with her, I think.”
“What will you do for me if I consent?”
“I’ll dance with that little foolish Suzanne Mills, or any one else you may select.”
“All right, but Ellen is such a Priss.”
“She is not at all. You don’t know her; she can be as jolly as the next, and stars! how she can sing.”
“Oh, very well, go along and get your little red-headed missy, only don’t expect me to fall on her neck.”
“You’ll have to be decently polite; that’s all I ask. I’ll see that she has a good time, so I should worry.”
So that is how Ellen happened to go to the dance, and, to the chagrin23 of her hostess, she had all the attention she could desire, and did not in the least miss the blandishments which Florence bestowed24 upon some of her guests, notably25 Suzanne Mills, who was a flapper of flappers, and as brainless a little somebody as one could meet, but she glittered in shining raiment, and was bestrung with gauds, so she could not help attracting attention. “Her people are awful rich,—that’s a real pearl necklace she’s got on,” Ellen heard Florence remark; and, thinking of Mabel Wickham, who also was “awful rich” but who dressed simply and made no display of jewelry26, Ellen smiled. However, the blood rushed to her face when Suzanne asked, “Who is the red-headed girl that your brother Frank is so devoted27 to?”
“Oh, that’s a sort of a little ‘orphant Annie,’ taken up by one of her relatives who lives here. She is poor as poverty, and I’d never have invited her if Frank hadn’t insisted upon it.”
“She doesn’t look poor,” returned Suzanne. “That’s a handsome dress she has on, and those look like real rock-crystal beads28 she wears.”
“Probably some rich friend gave them to her; her cousin couldn’t afford either dress or beads, unless Ellen badgered her till she was obliged to give them to her to keep peace. It’s pretty hard on Miss Rindy to have to support a girl who is old enough to make her own living.”
Ellen’s face was flaming as the girls moved off. If only she could have escaped from her corner before those two came near enough for her to hear what they said. Eavesdropping29? Perhaps it was, but she was hemmed30 in by a screen of palms, and could not easily have made her way out without crowding others. She was waiting for Frank, who had established her there.
Presently he came up, bearing a plate of chicken salad in one hand and one of oysters32 in the other. “I’ll get you some ice-cream and cake in a minute,” he said. “This is a nice, quiet corner, isn’t it? Just big enough for two. Rather a tight squeeze getting in and out, but room enough when you get here. I’ve had my eye on it from the first. I’ll be right back.” He set down the plates, and Ellen saw him threading his way through the crowd.
She felt that the food would choke her if she attempted to eat it, but how dispose of it? She could not let Frank see that it had not been touched. She looked around wildly. It would never do to empty it in any of the pots or tubs which held the palms. Then she realized that this was a bay window. Perhaps she could lift one of the sashes. She made the attempt, and found she could open the window far enough to allow her to toss out the contents of the plates, trusting that a dog or cat would discover it before morning. Then she sat back, fervently33 hoping that Frank would not return before what would seem a reasonable time for one to eat what he had brought. “He certainly will think I have a good appetite,” she said to herself as she regarded the empty dishes which she set down under one of the palms.
As luck would have it Frank did not return very soon. “There was such a mob I could scarcely get near the tables,” he said, “but I knew how to turn the trick by going around the back way, and I snatched a bite for myself while the going was good.”
Ellen picked at the ice-cream and nibbled34 a macaroon, but permitted herself to appear more absorbed in Frank’s long-winded account of how he was nearly held up for speeding a few days before. Frank was never eloquent35, and his tales always held many digressions. Ellen made few comments, for her thoughts were not on the subject. She longed for the time to come when she might go, or, at least, that there might be an interruption.
This came before long, when Clyde Fawcett’s face appeared between branches of a tall palm. “So this is where you are twosing,” he exclaimed. “I might have known foxy old Frank would seek some out-of-the-way corner. They are going to start up the music again, Ellen, and this is our dance. Tight squeeze getting out, isn’t it? Here, I’ll help you. Step on the edge of that tub.”
With the help of her two cavaliers Ellen managed an escape from her bower36 and was soon among the dancers, desperately37 longing7 for the time to come when she could make her farewells. At last the hour arrived when Caro in her rosy38 dress came up to her. “Dad is here for me,” she said. “Are you going home with us, Ellen?”
“Not much she isn’t,” Frank spoke up. “I brought her and I shall take her home. Stay for another dance or two, Hazel.”
“Oh, no, I mustn’t,” Ellen spoke hastily. “Mrs. Rowe will be sitting up for us, and I must get back when Caro does.” And in spite of Frank’s persuasions39 she kept to her decision, glad when she could follow in Caro’s wake and murmur40 a few polite words to Florence as they took their leave. As she stepped into the big red car she cast one backward look at the pretentious41, brilliantly lighted mansion42. “Farewell, Castle Mammon,” she said to herself. “I hope never to enter your walls again.”
She said not a word to Caro of the conversation between Florence and Suzanne, but she did pour out her heart to her good old friend, Jeremy Todd. “They are so different, so very different from the people my mother and father knew. Nobody cared who was rich or who was poor. If they were good and talented and kind, it was all that mattered, and no one could have better times than artists and their friends.”
Mr. Todd nodded in assent43. “I know that full well. ‘The life is more than meat, and the body than raiment.’”
“I never understood that so well before,” replied Ellen reflectively. “It is like something my mother used to tell me her old mammy often said of a certain sordidly44 rich family: ‘Dey has money, but dey hasn’t nothin’ else.’ How true that can be of some.”
Mr. Todd laughed. “That’s worth remembering, and one should be sorry for those who have nothing but money. With only that one cannot buy an appreciation45 of beauty, nor character, nor truth; in fact, few of the really worth-while things can be bought with money, and they are the rich who can enjoy the heaven-sent gifts instead of grubbing for what earth can supply.”
“But it is mighty nice to have riches,” sighed Ellen.
“To do good with, to help others, yes, and they are blest who have both the heavenly spirit and the earthly means.”
“It is the earthly means I am yearning46 for just now. One reason I am so angry with Florence is that she hit upon the truth when she said I should be earning my living. Plenty of girls of sixteen do earn it, and I must be casting around to find a way to do the same. It is intolerable to be spoken of as a charity girl who is sponging on a relative.”
Mr. Todd looked distressed47. “I think, my dear, that your work is cut out for you while Rindy is laid up. When she is well it will be time enough for you to think of your independence. By the way, have you heard from your young friend about the violin?”
“Not yet, and it’s getting to be time that I did. Of course I can’t expect he will be as prompt as I want him to be, but I am getting a trifle impatient.”
Still it was several days before the letter did come, and in the meantime Caro asked Ellen what she had done with the violin. “I am letting Mr. Todd keep it,” she explained. “It is of more use to him than to me.”
“Oh, but I love to hear you play that pretty piece on it.”
“You’d soon get tired of that; I’d be like a music box that plays only one tune11. No, it’s better Mr. Jeremy should keep it for the present.” In this way she put off Caro, and felt that she had done it rather cleverly.
To her great joy Reed’s letter came one day when she went herself to the post-office. She could hardly wait to open it, and hurried back, not to the doctor’s, but to her old home, where, “If I have to cry nobody will see me,” she said to herself.
Up to her own little room she went, sat down, and held the letter a moment or two before opening it, but, when she finally did, out fell a check which she hurriedly scanned. Down went the letter on the floor. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” she exclaimed. “It is too good to be true. It may be only filthy48 lucre49, but, oh, how glad I am to get it! Say what you will, Mr. Todd, there are moments in life when there is nothing like a check to satisfy one’s cravings.” She held out the check before her and gazed at it fondly. “I could kiss you, but I will only press you to my heart,” which she proceeded to do. “Now, let’s see what that nice boy has to say.”
She picked up the letter, which read:
“Dear Cronette:
“You must think me a beast for not answering your note sooner, but the fact of the matter is that I am laid up with a mean attack of grippe, and, lest my temperature should be too seriously affected50 by a note from you, Uncle Pete didn’t hand it over till this morning.
“Of course I want the dear fiddle51, want it like the mischief52, but I feel like a thief to take it from you. However, if it helps you out of a hole to cash the within meagre check, I send it along; and if the time comes when you want to buy it back, the fiddle, I mean, you must feel free to do it. By that time it may be a little shop-worn, so you should beat me down in the price. Remember that I am not paying what it is worth, but perhaps you will consider that my deep appreciation is worth something.
“I wish I could come for it myself, but, ‘Nay53, nay, Pauline,’ says the doctor. If you have a chance to send it by some reliable messenger please do so, for it is too precious to be sent by any ordinary means. If no such trustworthy person appears on the horizon, just wait till I can come for it or can send some one.
“It was bad luck not to have a chance of seeing you again, but I shall do it yet. Somehow I feel it in my bones, honey chile, dat we is gwine be de bes’ ob fren’s.
“Yo’ expectation fren’ an’ pal31,
“Cronine.”
“What a nice, nice boy,” murmured Ellen as she folded the letter and put it back in the envelope; but almost immediately she took it out and read it all over again. Then she sat in deep thought for a while, but suddenly she jumped up, gathered together her letter and check, and ran in next door to show them to Mr. Todd.
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1
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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forth
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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snobby
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pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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eavesdropping
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| n. 偷听 | |
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hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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nibbled
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的过去式和过去分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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44
sordidly
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| adv.肮脏地；污秽地；不洁地 | |
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45
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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46
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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48
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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49
lucre
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| n.金钱，财富 | |
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50
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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51
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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52
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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53
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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