CHAPTER XXII
REAL LEAVITTS AND OTHERS
The storm overtook Peter and Nancy on a lonely road that Peter had taken as a short-cut home.
At a sharp flash of lightning Nancy clutched Peter's arm.
"Pe-ter! Oh-h! It's silly for me to be afraid! It's only when it crackles!"
"I thought we could make Freedom before it broke. But I guess not. Here comes the rain!"
It came, in a blinding deluge.
"Sit close to me, Nancy. We must get to a house somewhere along this road!"
"B'lindy's bones certainly did feel right," Nancy giggled, excitedly. "Oh-h!" at another flash. "Pe-ter! I'm—I'm such a coward. Don't you think that's the worst?"
Peter hoped that it wasn't. He did not mind at all the flashes that sent little quivers of alarm through Nancy and made her huddle closer to him; he enjoyed the sense of protecting her, though his face, bent grimly upon the puddled road ahead, gave no hint of his real feeling.
"If this bus only had its curtains! Are you soaked?"
"You are, too, Peter! Do you suppose this is a cloudburst? Can the car make it?" For the little Ford was floundering uncertainly along the flooded road.
"What an end to our picnic," declared Peter, disgustedly. "Ha—a house, as I live! See ahead there."
Through the sheet of rain Nancy made out a low-gabled cottage almost hidden by the trees.
"It looks deserted," she declared, disappointedly.
"It'll be shelter, anyway. Deserted nothing—hear the dog! When I stop make a dash for the door."
The dog's bark was by way of a welcome rather than a warning, for, as he bounded toward the road, his shaggy tail wagged in a most friendly way. As Nancy, following Peter's command, made a dash for shelter, the door of the cottage opened hospitably and a little old woman, unmindful of the fury of the rain, reached out to draw Nancy in.
"Come right in! Bless me, you're soaked." She had a cheery, piping voice and a way of repeating, "well, well, well," as though everything on earth was an exciting surprise.
"Won't your young man come in, too. Sit right over here by the fire! I told sister Janie that I'd light a few sticks of wood to keep it cheery. It got so dark-like. I'll set the kettle over and have a cup of tea in the shake of a dog's tail. When it storms in these parts it does storm, dearie! How wet you are!" She fussed over the fire and over her kettle and over Nancy's wet blouse. "Now, Janie, isn't it nice to have folks come here out of the storm?"
Then Nancy, through the gloom of the storm, made out that Janie was another little old woman sitting in an old arm chair in the window. Quite unmindful of the storm, she was tranquilly knitting.
"Folks don't come by this road so often," she smiled back.
"Aren't you afraid—sitting there?" Nancy cried. As she spoke there came a flash of lightning followed almost simultaneously by a roar of thunder that threatened the weather-beaten walls.
The sister called Janie waited smilingly, her head cocked on one side as though she enjoyed the storm. "Afraid, honey? Goodness, no. Saphrony and I've lived through too many of these storms to be afraid! Isn't the Lord watching over us just like all folks?"
"And didn't He just bring you poor souls here out of the storm?" added the older woman. "This tea will steep in a minit and I'm goin' to call that boy in!"
Peter had been trying to fasten a makeshift arrangement that would keep Nancy's seat dry. He was glad enough to give it up at their hostess' call. He looked so much like a drowned cat with the water dripping from his hat and shoulders that Nancy was as concerned as Saphrony and Janie.
"You poor children," Saphrony cried, running around Peter in a flutter of worry. "Take your coat right off this minit! Ain't I glad I started that fire! Fetch another stick, Janie. Well, well, well, now ain't it a nice storm that brings folks here for shelter?"
The fire did feel good against their soaked backs and Nancy and Peter enjoyed the chatter of the two funny, fussy little old women. The kettle sang merrily, too, and steamed invitingly. Janie, at her sister's bidding, opened a treasure-chest in the other room and brought from it a piece of fruit cake, wrapped in a red and white napkin.
"A bite'll taste good with our tea," Saphrony explained, apologetically.
"Aren't they the cutest pair?" Nancy whispered to Peter. "And isn't it the funniest little house?"
There seemed to be only the living room and kitchen combined and the bedroom adjoining. The furniture in it was very old and very worn, but everything was spotlessly clean. The red and white cover on the table, the braided rugs on the uneven floor; and the piece-work cushions in the armed chairs added a homey, cosy touch that made up for the little luxuries lacking. Even in the storm the room was cheery.
Nancy forgot the storm in her enjoyment of the situation. Janie removed the red and white cover and spread a very worn white cloth. Saphrony took from a cupboard built in the wall a shiny pewter sugar-bowl and cream pitcher. Peter, amid a storm of protest from both little women, drew up some chairs.
"Now you stay right there by the fire," cried Saphrony. "We like to fuss! Janie and I don't have folks here often. The hot tea'll warm you."
The tea tasted very good, both Peter and Nancy declared over and over. "It's just like a party," Nancy added, nibbling on the thinnest shaving of fruit cake. Her evident pleasure set both little old ladies off in a soft cackling of satisfaction.
"Do you two live here all alone?" Nancy asked, passing her cup for more tea. "It seems so lonely."
"Lonely—not a bit! Janie and I've lived here all our lives. Not many folks come 'long this road, but we don't get lonesome—not a bit! There's always something to do. Folks just gets lonesome and miserable when they're idle, I always tell Janie. A little more cake, Mister——"
"Peter," laughed Nancy. "Well, I shall remember this storm because it's given us such a jolly half-hour, as well as a drenching! Oh, look—the sun!"
Through the mist of rain and the purple gloom the sun burst warm and golden, pouring through the bare windows into the little room, touching every corner and cranny with a cheerful glow.
"How wonderful," Nancy exclaimed. "It's the bright lining, all right—the cloud has turned inside out! I believe," she turned to Peter, "that when the sun does shine it shines brighter—here! You two have magic."
"Janie and I never shut it out," laughed the sister Saphrony. "We say it's God's way of smiling and frowning. There's no storm but what passes and we're just mighty glad you two children came 'long this way. Goin' to Freedom?"
Afterwards Nancy said to Peter that that had been the most curious thing about the two friendly little old women—that they had not right at first asked who they were nor where they were going!
Peter answered from the window. "Yes—we thought this road would be shorter." Then, to Nancy: "Do you think we can venture now? I guess the storm's passed."
Nancy nodded. "We'd better start. My aunts are worrying dreadfully, I'm afraid. But we've loved it—here. May we come again sometime? And may we not know who it is that has given us shelter?"
"Why, yes—I never thought to tell! Most folks know us, but maybe you're new in these parts. We're Saphrony and Janie Leavitt."
"What!" cried Nancy with such astonishment that Peter turned from the door. "Why, I—I am Anne Leavitt!" she said in very much the same way she had spoken in the French class, four years before.
The two little old women laughed. "I guess you're one of the Happy House Leavitts—they're real Leavitts. Sister Janie and I are only plain Leavitts," Saphrony explained with a twinkling in her eyes that seemed to say that to confuse real Leavitts with plain Leavitts was very, very funny. "Are you Miss Sabriny's niece?"
Nancy avoided the question. "Aren't you any relation to us—up at Happy House?"
"Not as anybody ever knew of. There's Leavitts and Leavitts all over New England, I guess. We've always been poor as Job."
"Well, I shall always pretend we're related," declared Nancy, warmly, "because it's been so nice here!"
While Peter was carefully tucking her into the seat with much lamenting that it had gotten so wet, Nancy was staring reflectively at the funny little weather-beaten cottage. From the door smiled the two sisters.
"I wish," she said, "that I could take a piece of their philosophy back to Happy House!" She leaned out to wave her hand once more. "Hasn't it been fun? I'm glad now that it stormed."
As they splashed along toward Freedom, Nancy fell into a sudden quiet. Her mind was held by an overwhelming desire to tell Peter, in this last hour she might have alone with him, the whole truth—that she, like the two sisters they had left, was not a real Leavitt, of that day back in college, of Anne's pleading and her yielding. Twice she opened her lips to speak, then shut them quickly. There was something in Peter's strong profile that made her afraid. Once he turned quickly and saw her eyes upon him with a frightened, troubled expression in their depths.
"What is it, Nancy?" he asked tenderly.
She couldn't tell him—she could not bear to see his face when he knew the truth! She tried to speak lightly.
"I was thinking how much I'd grown to like—things—around here and how I hate to—go away. Peter, will you keep Nonie and Davy doing happy things—like other children. And, Peter—do you hate people that—act lies?"
Peter laughed—Nancy was so deliciously child-like. Then he suddenly colored to the very roots of his hair.
"Generally—I haven't much use for people that can't stick pretty well to the truth. But when there may be some reason—someone may start doing it for someone else——" he stopped abruptly. Nancy stared ahead with startled eyes. Did he know? But, no, how could he! It had only been an accident that he had so nearly hit upon the truth.
She could not tell him—she need not tell him; in a few days she would say good-by and go away and never see him again! Theirs had been a pleasant friendship, for awhile she would miss it, but she'd be just plain Nancy Leavitt again, playing with Claire at Merrycliffe or with Daddy somewhere in the mountains or at the seashore, working, too—beginning life. After a while these weeks at Happy House would seem a curious memory—a dream!
Suddenly she shivered.
"Freedom—at last!" exclaimed Peter, increasing his speed. Ahead they saw the gleam of roofs through the trees. "And it looks as though they'd caught the storm worse than we did!"
CHAPTER XXIII
WHAT THE CHIMNEY HELD
The storm, sweeping down the valley, had reached the heighth of its fury over Freedom.
As the flashes of lightning grew sharper and more frequent, B'lindy bade Miss Milly watch the baby while she made things fast around the house. Beth women had been hanging over the sleeping child with something like awe. "Poor little mite—like as not right this minit Sarah Hopkins is watchin' us," B'lindy had whispered, "little bit of a thing, goin' to grow into a big, big man some day! Ain't it just wonderful, Milly Leavitt?"
Milly's awe of the baby had been mixed with alarm at the increasing intensity of the storm. So that, as B'lindy moved to go, she held out an imploring hand.
"Now you just hold yourself together, Milly Leavitt—that storm ain't goin' to hurt you! Anyways, it's lots more likely to if I don't see that everything's shut up tight, so's the lightnin' can't get in! Ouch!" Even B'lindy covered her eyes from a blinding flash. "You hold on to that baby, Milly Leavitt," she commanded, bolting from the room.
But with each flash, each roar of thunder, poor Miss Milly's courage ebbed. Her cry—rising above, the noise of the storm brought Miss Sabrina and B'lindy to her.
"I can't—help—it!" she sobbed, covering her face. "It's so—so dreadful! And where's—Nancy! Oh—oh!"
Even Miss Sabrina's face was pale with alarm.
"You two women are like so many children," cried B'lindy, taking command. "Milly Leavitt, you'll work yourself into fits. Nancy's all right somewheres! I guess Peter Hyde's man enough to take care of her—mebbe they ain't where this storm is, anyways! Sabrina—you take that baby where Milly's yellin' won't wake it. Goodness knows the crashin's bad enough! Now Milly, you just hide your poor head in my lap," with grand tenderness, "I ain't afraid a bit."
Sabrina had no choice—B'lindy had put the baby into her arms and almost shoved her to the door.
She carried it to her own room and sat down very carefully. Never in her whole life had she held a little baby. What would she do if it wakened suddenly? And if it kicked and squirmed, might she not drop it?
But the baby did not kick or squirm—he felt very comfortable in Miss Sabrina's arms—he snuggled ever so gently a little closer, turned his face toward the warmth of her embrace, and throwing up one little arm, laid it against her throat. The warm, soft baby fingers burned against Sabrina's throbbing pulse—the little spark crept down, down to her old, cold heart and kindled something there—something that swept her whole being. Cautiously she held the baby closer, pressed it to her breast so that she might feel the whole perfect little body; the little lips twisted and Sabrina, thinking it was a smile, smiled back with infinite tenderness. She forgot the storm raging without, her ears were deaf to its roar; after a little she leaned her head down until she could lay her cheek against the baby's soft head.
Within the darkened room a miracle was working!
Suddenly the air was split by a sharp crackle as of a hundred rifles spitting fire close at hand; and simultaneously came a deafening roar as though the very Heavens were dropping with a crash. Through it all pierced Aunt Milly's scream. The walls of Happy House trembled and swayed; for a moment everything went black before Sabrina's eyes! Then B'lindy, running through the hall brought her sharply back to her senses.
"We're struck—we're struck! Sabrin'y! Jonathan!"
Once more Happy House had been struck by lightning! The crashing had been the tumbling of the bricks of the chimney. And just as in that other storm, long before, the lightning had worked its vengeance on the old mantel. It lay in pieces on the floor of the sitting-room, covered with a litter of broken bric-a-brac and mortar and bricks from the chimney.
But in the fear of fire no one thought of the mantel. B'lindy ran wildly around ordering Jonathan to throw buckets of water on any cranny that might possibly conceal a smouldering flame, at the same time heaping all kinds of curses down upon the heads of the neighbors who'd "let Happy House burn right to the ground without liftin' a finger." And Sabrina, after one look at the lightning's havoc, still with the baby in her arms, had gone to quiet Miss Milly.
When Jonathan's activity had threatened to destroy everything in the house with water, B'lindy finally became convinced that there was to be no fire. "Funniest lightnin' I ever see," she declared, breathlessly dropping into a chair; "set down that pail, Jonathan—you've most drowned us all. Thank Heaven, here comes Nancy."
Nancy and Peter, after one glance at the bricks scattered over the garden, had guessed what had happened.
"Struck,—sure as preachin'! Lucky we ain't burned to a crisp. Just look at the muss!" and B'lindy swept her arm toward the sitting-room door.
Nancy's face was tragic as she saw the broken mantel and the gaping fireplace. She clutched Peter's arm. "What a pity—what a shame! It was so very old and—and——" She leaned down and picked up one of the pieces. "Look, Peter, here are parts of the letters! See H-A-P. It had been cracked by another lightning storm, you know, years and years ago! Oh, I'm afraid it has been destroyed so that——" as she spoke she searched in the debris on the floor for more of the carving. Suddenly she cried out sharply and, straightening, held out an old, worn, stained leather wallet. "Peter! B'lindy! Aunt Sabrina!"
Her cry brought Miss Sabrina, alarmed, running.
"It must—be—the—wallet!"
Now it was Sabrina who cried out—a protesting, frightened cry. For a moment she staggered as though she was going to fall; Nancy's strong arm went closely around her.
"Look quickly, dear Aunt Sabrina," Nancy implored.
With trembling fingers Aunt Sabrina opened it—within lay mouldy, age-worn bank-notes—many of them!
"It must have fallen behind the mantel in that other storm," cried Nancy. Then a great joy shone in her face. "He didn't take it—Anne's grandfather!" she stopped abruptly. But Miss Sabrina had not even heard her, and Peter was too mystified by the whole thing to think Nancy's words strange. Miss Sabrina turned, with a stricken face.
"Anne—I—I can't think! What—what—wrong—have I done? Oh, God forgive me!" She threw her arms up over her head. Her grief was terrible because it was strange. Even Nancy, frightened, drew away.
"Oh, God, give back the years——" she moaned.
"It—is—too—late." She lifted a white, frightened face. "I must—-be alone! Don't let anyone disturb me. Tell them, Anne—tell them—everything!" And with the wallet in her hand she went quickly but of the room.
Nancy turned to Peter, a triumph in her manner that was in strange contrast to Miss Sabrina's sorrow. She held her hand out toward the broken marble.
"What a story!" she cried, "over two generations that ugly old mantel concealed the vindication of a man's honor!" Then, laughing at Peter's puzzled face, she told him briefly the story of the trouble that had hung over Happy House shadowing and embittering the lives of those beneath its roof.
"And, Peter, it has gone with the storm! Oh, you don't know what that means!" she cried, because Peter could not know that she did not rejoice for herself, but because, now, there need be no barriers between Happy House and her own dear Anne—the real Anne Leavitt.
"After awhile—it will be Happy House," she ended, enigmatically.
She walked with him to the door.
"What a day it has been," she laughed, catching her breath. "I feel as though it had been weeks ago that we started off! I've forgotten how wet we were," she pulled at her blouse. "Run away now, Peter, for I must break the wonderful news to Aunt Milly and B'lindy, and, as B'lindy would say—"there's a pile of work's got to be done!"
"Nancy, the day isn't over yet!" Peter hesitated. "There's going to be a gorgeous sunset to-night—won't you come into the orchard—just for a little while?"
"Silly—haven't you seen enough of me for one day?"
His look spoke more eloquently than could any words.
"I have something to tell you!" he said, gravely.
CHAPTER XXIV
PETER
Nancy knew, with the instinct of a heart unfamiliar with coquetry, what Peter had to tell her!
She had wanted dreadfully to have to stay away from the orchard—she had hoped that Aunt Milly might need her, but Aunt Milly had gone to bed directly after supper, exhausted by the day's happenings. Aunt Sabrina's door had been shut ever since, with the wallet, she had gone into her room, and from within no sound betrayed her tragedy. B'lindy was fiercely struggling, with mop and broom, to remove all traces of the "curse" from Happy House. "Now just keep out of my way! I'm that upset," she answered Nancy, shortly.
The sunset was gorgeous. It flooded the garden with a soft, flaming golden light.
Like all girls, Nancy had had her dream of that time when her Knight should come riding to her; like all girls her dream-Knight was a pleasantly hazy individual, changing with her changing moods. And she had not wanted him to come quickly. Her young freedom was very precious to her.
One or two others had proposed to Nancy in hot-headed, boyish fashion. That had been part of girlhood's fun. One, a Junior, after begging her to elope with him, had gone away crushed, and vengeful, only to send her, two weeks later, a bunch of violets and a little note thanking her for her "common-sense," explaining that "Pop had threatened to cut his allowance in half unless he settled down and made his mid-years."
These had been boys; dear, sentimental, clean-hearted boys, but Peter Hyde was different—
She had not dreamed of this—not for a moment, until she had seen it in his eyes that afternoon as they sat under the maple tree with B'lindy's lunch spread between them. He had been such a jolly comrade through these weeks at Freedom, he had been so understandable, like Claire and Anne and Daddy! He had never thought she was silly or not-grown-up-enough, he liked children and animals and knew just what to do to make Nonie and Davy happy; he had shared with her his ambitions in his work as though she was a man but, with it all, he was a farmer—his lot had been cast in the narrow confines of Judson's farm and barns and piggery—except for these pleasant days at Happy House she, Nancy Leavitt, with her heart set on a goal as distant as the stars themselves, could have little in common with him.
All this flashed through her mind as she walked slowly, reluctantly toward the orchard—and with it an annoyance that their pleasant comradeship should end this way. So that when, a little later, a very earnest Peter began to tell her in stumbling, awkward words how much her going must mean to him, she wanted to cry out and beg him to stop.
"Nancy—I'm clumsy as the devil. Don't you know what I want to tell you? I can't let you go without knowing it—and—and—Nancy, could you ever—ever love a fellow—like me—enough—to—want—to marry him?"
Then the woman's heart within her made Nancy ages old.
"Oh, Peter!" she said with tender compassion. She didn't want to hurt this very dear friend!
"I'm not nearly good enough for you, Nancy, but then, any fellow isn't good enough! And, Nancy, there isn't anything in this whole world I wouldn't do—if you cared."
"Oh, Peter!" Why in the world couldn't she say something more, she thought. Why couldn't she stem that flood she knew was coming? Why could she not make him see instantly, how impossible it all was—and say good-bye and go!
"I'll make you happy, Nancy—if loving will do it," he finished humbly.
"Peter—I wish—you hadn't—said this!"
"Do you mean you don't care—a bit?" he cried, protestingly. "Have I frightened you? You said yourself that living one day up here was like weeks somewhere else! Somehow I've not thought of your going away—ever. You seemed such a part of it here. You're so—different—from all the girls I've known! You're such a—pal. That's the kind a man needs!"
Nancy was biting her lip to hide its trembling. Over her swept a reverence for this that Peter Hyde was offering her—she knew that a man's pure soul was being bared before her. His awkward words came slowly because they were born of a deep feeling. She was not worthy!
"Oh, Peter! Peter! Please—I'm—I can't let you say all this! I'm not—what you think me! I'm a cheat! You'd hate me if——"
He caught her hand. "I know what you are, Nancy—you're the best, truest, straightest-hearted little girl that ever lived!"
With an effort that hurt Nancy pulled herself together. She looked away so that she might not see that it hurt Peter Hyde when she pulled her hand from his close clasp.
"Peter—we must be—sensible." She hated her own words, but something within her, told her that she must say them. "We've been jolly comrades—here, but—I'm not cut out for—this sort of life. I'd hate it—after a little; I'd go mad on a farm with just cows and pigs and things around," she caught her breath; "I'm really an awfully selfish girl, Peter, and I've set my heart on my career! I'll always put that before anything—anyone else! That wouldn't be fair—to you. You must forget me and find someone who will help you in your work."
His face was turned from her—his silence frightened her. She tried to make her tone light. "You've been a fine pal, Peter, you've helped me a lot. You've taught me a great many things, too. I've always thought that farmers and—and——"
He wheeled suddenly.
"Nancy, you haven't said you didn't care for me, any!" he cried.
Nancy flushed in vexation.
"Well, I'm trying to—the best way I know how! I do like you—I'm going to be as honest as I can be! I just couldn't ever—no matter how much I might like the farmer—stand for—for a farm like Judson's!"
To Nancy's unutterable amazement Peter Hyde commenced to laugh, very softly, with a look in his eyes that caressed her. What an unexplainable creature he was—anyway!
"When my play is produced," Nancy went on, airily, "I shall invite you to come down and sit in a box and see it—and maybe, you'll bring Miss Denny with you!" She wanted to punish him.
But Peter Hyde, the incorrigible, was looking neither crestfallen nor disheartened. He seized both of Nancy's hands and held them very close.
"I'll come! When that play is produced you can just bet I'll be in the stage box and it won't be Miss Denny that's with me either! You haven't told me, Nancy—that you did not love me! You've just said you didn't like—pigs and cows and hired men and Judson's in general. Dear, I'm not going to let you answer me—now! I'm not even going to say good-bye! You're a tired little girl. If I go, will you promise me to go straight to bed?"
In her astonishment Nancy submitted to the impetuous kiss he pressed against her fingers. When but a few moments before her heart had been torn with pity that she must hurt this man, now he was, in a masterful way, sending her off to bed as though she was a very little girl! And nothing in his tone or manner suggested anything but utter peace of mind and heart.
But Nancy was tired—so very tired that it was pleasant to be led up the path toward the house, to think that someone—even Peter Hyde—cared enough about her to beg her "not to open an eye for twenty-four hours."
And of course it was because the day had held so much for her that upon reaching her room, she threw herself across her bed and burst into a passion of tears.
CHAPTER XXV
NANCY'S CONFESSION
A thousand torments seemed to rack poor Nancy's tired soul and body. For a long time she had lain, very still, across her bed. Then she had, mechanically, made ready for the night. But sleep would not come. Wider and wider-eyed she stared at the dim outline that was her open window. After awhile she crossed to it and knelt down before it, her bare arms folded on the sill.
A sense of remorse, which Nancy had been trying for some time past to keep tucked back somewhere in a corner of her mind, now overwhelmed her. She saw herself a cheat, an imposter. What would these good people of Happy House say of her when they knew all of them, even Peter Hyde—and little Nonie!
Her hands clenched tightly, Nancy faced what she called the reckoning.
Only a few days before she and Aunt Milly had had a long talk. Aunt Milly had told her how, one afternoon, she had tried to walk—and had failed.
"I'd been praying, my dear, that it might be possible. I thought, perhaps, I felt so much better——. But the wonderful thing was Nancy,—I didn't care! My life seems so full, now, of real things, thanks to all you've done for me, that whether I can walk or not is insignificant. And I shall always have you, anyway, Nancy!" Aunt Milly had said with the yearning look in her eyes that Nancy knew so well.
What would Aunt Milly say when she knew?
How had she, Nancy, betrayed Sabrina's trust?
Rapidly, as one can at such moments, Nancy's mind went over the weeks of her stay at Happy House. She had let herself go so far; she had taught these people she was deceiving to grow fond of her—to need her!
And she had grown fond of them—that was her punishment. She had grown fond of Happy House; she wanted to be the real Anne Leavitt and belong to Happy House and its precious traditions, that she had mocked; she wanted to have the right to rejoice, now, in the vindication of that brother who had gone away, years before.
Poor little Nancy, shivering there in the chill and silence of the night, her world, her girl's world, fell away from her. Like one looking in from without, she saw her own life as though it was another's—and what it might hold for her! She saw it stripped of the little superficialities of youth; she saw clearly, with uncanny preciseness, causes and effects, the havoc, too, of her own thoughtlessness and weaknesses.
Something in the vision frightened her, but challenged the best in her, too. One had only one life to live and each wasted day counted so much—each wasted hour cost so dearly! In the striving for the far goal one must not leave undone the little things that lay close at hand, the little, worth-while, sometimes-hard things. She had gone a long way down the wrong road, but she'd turn squarely! Her head went high—she would make a clean breast of it all—to them all; Aunt Sabrina, Aunt Milly—Peter Hyde.
Her face went down against her arms; she wanted to hide, even in the darkness, the flush that mantled her cheeks. She could see his eyes as they had seemed to caress her—out there in the orchard. Oh, why had she not told him the truth, then and there; if she had he would have despised her, but it would have killed forever the hope she had read in his face.
Nancy, girlishly eager to struggle in life's tide, now, facing the greatest thing in life, shrank back, afraid. She wanted, oh so much, to be little again; there had always been someone, then, to whom to turn when problems pressed—Daddy, even Mrs. Finnegan—the Seniors in college, the Dean herself. Now—she felt alone.
Lighting her lamp, she pulled a chair to the table and spread out sheets of paper. She wanted to tell it all, while her courage lasted. She wrote furiously, her lips pressed in a straight line. She would not spare herself one bit—Peter Hyde must know just what she had done.
But, at the end, she yielded to a longing too strong to resist.
"Please, please don't think too badly of me. You see you don't know Anne and how her heart was set on going to Russia, and she was sure that if she told her relatives about going they'd stop her. And that seemed, then, the only important thing—neither of us thought of the wrong we'd be doing the people—here. It seemed, too, a very little thing for me to do for her. But I just can't bear to have you hate me!" For a moment she held her pencil over the last words, then hastily sealed the letter and addressed it.
The last paragraph stayed in her mind. "How silly we were, Anne," she said aloud, mentally arraigning those two very young creatures of college days.
Her confession made, a load rolled from Nancy's heart. "Anyway, he'll know the truth," was her soothing thought as she crawled into bed. In the morning she would tell Aunt Sabrina.
But Nancy's first waking thought—at a very late hour, for her over-tired body had taken its due in sound sleep—was that she was very, very unhappy. As she dressed, with trembling haste, she wondered if she had not better plan to catch the afternoon train at North Hero.
She sought out Jonathan first and despatched him with her letter, then walked slowly back into the house to face Aunt Sabrina.
On the newel post of the stairs were letters that Jonathan had just brought up from the post-office. One was addressed to her in Anne's familiar handwriting and was postmarked New York!
As though she had been struck, Nancy dropped down on the stairs.
Anne's valiant spirit of sacrifice and service had given way to complaint.
"All these weeks cooped up in a little room in London waiting for further orders, only to have them dare to tell me—after all the encouragement I'd had—that I was too young and inexperienced to go on into Russia, and that I could be of greater service in organization work back home. Think of it, Nancy! And then shipping me back as though I was a little child. I have worn myself out with disappointment, rage and disgust. I came here to your rooms and slept last night in your bed (as much as any one could sleep with the Finnegan baby cutting a tooth downstairs) and I shall stay here until I can calm down enough to make some definite plans.
"... You've been a dear, Nancy, and I've been quite curious to know how you've gotten on. I never dreamed you'd stay so long! And now I must ask you to stay just a little longer, until I know what I want to do. Under no circumstances let my aunt know the truth...."
Nancy read the letter three times—she could scarcely believe her eyes. Poor Anne, her splendid dreams had come to nothing.
In her own desire to clean her soul by confession, she had forgotten Anne! Of course she could not tell Aunt Sabrina—at least not now. She must wait, as Anne had asked.
"Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive," Nancy repeated, bitterly, feeling as though the web she had made was tying her hand and foot.
B'lindy, looking in from the kitchen, saw her. B'lindy's face was strangely brightened; she gave a mysterious crook to her finger as she beckoned to Nancy to come into the kitchen.
"I set some coffee by for you—I guessed you'd be tuckered out after yesterday, ridin' round in that storm and then findin' the wallet was 'nough to tucker anybody." Before she poured the coffee she closed the door leading into the front of the house. "Miss Nancy, there's been more changes in Happy House even than findin' that wallet!"
"What do you mean, B'lindy?"
B'lindy leaned a radiant face over Nancy.
"It's Miss Sabriny—she's been just like she was born again! I guess folks won't know her. And you'll never guess what we're goin' to have up here. A baby!"
Nancy was frankly astonished. Then B'lindy told her what, in the excitement of the afternoon before, she had not heard—of finding the baby and Davy's note.
"I guess that little mite opened up somethin' that was all dried up in Sabriny Leavitt's heart! Seems while we was all fussin' over the mess in the settin' room Davy Hopworth come up after that baby lookin' like he'd been scared to death. And then this mornin' Sabriny Leavitt comes to me 'n asks me to go down to Timothy Hopkins with her while she asks him for that baby back. Well, we went—she couldn't even wait for me to pick up. And Timothy Hopkins refused her flat! You wouldn't have believed your ears, Nancy, Sabriny Leavitt took most to cryin' and she told him how lonesome it was up to Happy House and how her whole life 'd been wasted 'cause she'd never done for others and he'd be doin' a kindness to an old woman to let her take the baby and do for it. But it wa'n't until she'd promised that she'd just sort o' bring him up and he could always go home and play with the nine others, and the nine o' them could come to Happy House's often as they wanted that he'd as much as listen. So we're goin' to have a baby!" B'lindy said it with unconcealed triumph. "Cunnin' little thing—smart's can be. You should a' seen it grab for the spoon when I was feedin' it!"
Nancy's eyes were shining. "Oh, that will be wonderful," she cried. "Where is Aunt Sabrina?"
As though in answer to her question, Miss Sabrina's voice called her from the front hall and at the same moment Miss Sabrina opened the door. Yes, it was a transformed Sabrina Leavitt—her face was deeply lined by all she had gone through, but there was a humility in her eyes that softened them and brought a deeper glow as though, indeed, from some new-born spirit within.
Impulsively, Nancy threw two strong arms about her neck and kissed her.
"Come into the sitting-room with me, Anne, I have a great deal I want to say to you." She led Nancy through the hall into the sitting-room and they sat down together upon the old horse-hair sofa. In Miss Sabrina's tone there was a dignified tranquility that made Nancy look at her with a little wonder. As though in answer to Nancy's thought Miss Sabrina said, quietly:
"God alone knows what I've lived through—since yesterday afternoon. Nancy, it is a terrible thing for an old woman to look back upon a life she has wasted—through pride and prejudice. The storm and finding the wallet—that was God's own way of opening my eyes! I have been a wicked, proud, selfish woman. But I've hurt myself worst of all. For here I am an old woman, and not a soul in the world really loves me——"
Nancy put out a protesting hand. Miss Sabrina patted it.
"I am right, my dear, I know it now. But if God will be good to me He will give me a few more years to live, so that I may make up, in a small way, for the wrong I have done—to others and to myself. Do you know, Nancy, it was you who first brought home to me the truth—that happiness comes as it is given. It was a fortunate thing for Happy House when I brought you here, dear."
Nancy had to bite her lips to strangle the words of confession that sprang to them. Aunt Sabrina went on:
"I cannot bring back the years or atone to my brother for the wrong I did to him. I do not know how I can make up to your own father. Perhaps, if you ask him to, he will forgive me, some day. But I shall, as soon as I can see my lawyers in North Hero, make a new will, leaving Happy House and my share of my father's fortune to you——"
"Good gracious——" thought Nancy; "she thinks Anne's father is still living!" In dismay Nancy sprang to her feet. But Miss Sabrina paid no heed to her agitation. She rose and went to the table and opened a leather-bound book that lay there.
"I have brought down some papers and letters that belonged to your grandfather—when he was a young man. Here is a picture of him. Come and see it, my dear."
Unwillingly Nancy crossed to the table. Miss Sabrina reverently placed the faded picture in her hand.
"My only brother," she whispered, brokenly. "Your grandfather."
"No, Anne's grandfather," Nancy almost screamed.
She looked at the picture with intent interest. It portrayed a strikingly handsome young man. She turned the card in her hand. Across the back had been written the name. "Eugene Standbridge Leavitt."
Astounded, Nancy cried out: "Why, that—that is my father's name!"
CHAPTER XXVI
EUGENE STANDBRIDGE LEAVITT
For a moment Nancy thought she had gone quite crazy! She put her hand to her head to steady its whirling. This was her grandfather—her own father's father! She was the real Anne Leavitt!
Aunt Sabrina was fussing over a note-book in which clippings had been pasted. She thought Nancy's agitation quite excusable; she was trembling herself.
"That is a family name. The Standbridge comes from our great-grandmother's side. I knew your father had been called Eugene—yes, here's what B'lindy cut out of the newspaper." She placed the open page of the book in Nancy's hands.
She told Nancy how, after the quarrel, her father had ordered her to destroy everything about the house that might remind anyone of the disowned son.
"I carried out his wishes. After our mother's death my father and I had been constant companions. I was terribly angry at my brother for having brought this grief and shame to my father in his old age. Now——" she caught her breath sharply.
"But B'lindy was fond of the boy. She packed these letters and the picture away, and after that, for years, whenever she'd read anything about him in the papers, or hear a word, she'd enter it in this little book. I never knew that until years later. See—here's an account of his wedding. It says he went abroad—he'd always wanted to, even when he was a young lad. Here it tells that he bought a newspaper. Here's where it speaks about his son Eugene."
It seemed to Nancy as though the little pages of the book, with their age-yellow clippings and curious entries, were opening to her a new side of her father's life. She remembered some stuffed birds in her father's cabinet that she had known in a vague sort of way had come from Africa; it was intensely interesting to read from the little book that "the well-known newspaper man, Eugene Leavitt, and his young son, Eugene, had gone on a six-months' trip to Africa."
"Milly wrote once to our brother, though I never knew it until I found this book. After a long while he answered with this note. B'lindy's put it here," turning a page.
The few lines were strangely characteristic of Nancy's own father. They told the younger sister that he'd found the world a very kind and a very good place to live in.
Another letter had been written by Nancy's father. It told, in a boyish, awkward way, of his father's death and that his father, before his death, had asked him to write to the relatives in Freedom and tell them that "there was no hard feeling."
Nancy pondered over this letter for a moment. A great many questions came into her mind. Her father must have inherited from his father a sense of hurt and injustice, or why, through all the years, and years of poverty, too, had he refrained from any mention of the aunts in Freedom?
Like links in a chain the little entries in B'lindy's book connected the three generations, for the last clipping told how the young wife of Eugene Leavitt, Jr., had been killed in a runaway in Central Park, leaving motherless the little three-year-old daughter, Anne Leavitt.
"Once Milly told me of finding this. Sometimes she used to wonder what you were like. But I was always angry when she mentioned you—I wanted to feel that I had rooted out all affection for my brother and his kin! As the years went by, though, I grew afraid—what was I going to do with this earthly wealth I possessed? Then I wrote that letter to you in college."
As though it had been but the day before Nancy saw again the beloved dormitory room, old Noah and his letter.
Then the whole truth flashed across her mind! Anne's Aunt Sa-something was the dear little Saphonia Leavitt, who lived with her sister Janie on the lonely road out of Freedom!
With a glee she made no effort to suppress, Nancy caught Aunt Sabrina by the elbows, danced her madly around, and then enveloped her in an impetuous hug.
"Oh, you don't know—you can't ever, ever know how nice it all—is," she cried, laughing and wiping away a tear at the same time. "To know that I really, truly belong to you and to Happy House!" Nancy's words rang true. They brought a flood of color to the old woman's cheeks.
"You see I never knew how long I could stay—I was sort of on probation and I love you all so much—now! But, tell me, are those two funny little Leavitt sisters any relation of—ours?" Nancy emphasized the last word with a squeeze of Miss Sabrina's hand.
"No—or if they are, it is so far back it's been lost. When I was little I used to see them occasionally, but they've never gone around much. They have always been very poor. They had a brother, but he went away from the Island when he was young—I think he must have died."
"I am going to pretend we're related," declared Nancy, "because I just love them. They took us in during the storm. And—and I have a dear chum, my very best chum, whose name is Anne Leavitt, too, and I am sure they are her aunts." She told Aunt Sabrina, then, in a sketchy way, of her four years' friendship with the other Anne Leavitt.
The windows of the sitting-room had been opened after the storm to let out the dust from the fallen mortar and brick. The blinds had not been closed again. Through the windows streamed a flood of sunshine.
With an impulsive movement Nancy closed the book and laid it down on the table. Her manner said plainly that thus they would dispose of all the past-and-gone Leavitts. She nodded toward the gaping fireplace.
"Let's have a new mantel made with Happy House carved in it, Aunt Sabrina. And, I think, it will be a Happy House, now."
There was a great deal Nancy wanted to tell Aunt Sabrina—of her father, and of their happy life together. But she had suddenly, with consternation, remembered the eloquent confession she had sent off to Peter Hyde.
"And I didn't need to—for I am Anne Leavitt!"
As quickly as she could break away from her aunt, she ran off in search of Jonathan. She found him tying up some of his vines that had been beaten down in the storm.
"Jonathan—that letter I gave you—did—did you give it to—to Mr. Hyde?" she asked with a faint hope that he had' not.
"Yes'm! Caught him jes' agoin' to take the stage."
"Going away?" Nancy cried.
"Yes'm. He hed a big bag and he give me a handshake like he was goin' to be away for a spell, tho' it's most harvestin' and he's not the kind to leave Judson short-handed—not him."
After a moment Nancy grew conscious that old Jonathan was staring curiously at her. So she turned and walked slowly back to the house.
Peter Hyde had gone away—without a word! He would read her letter—he would always think of her as she had pictured herself in it! And he might never know how the curious tangle had come out!