Sara, a Princess: The Story of a Noble Girl Part 17

Molly was on her feet in an instant.

"I always go to bed early, Mr. Glendenning, only when Sara wants me to sit up, like last night: you don't blame me for that, do you?"

"Indeed I don't; and seeing you're so anxious to go to-night, I think I will give it to you, after all," slowly drawing a package from the pocket of his great-coat, which was thrown over a neighboring chair.

Molly grasped it, managing to get out a hurried "Thank you," under Sara's eyes; pulled at the string, whirled around a few times in search for a knife, though Morton was holding his out all the time, and finally, getting to the box, s.n.a.t.c.hed at its cover--and dropped the whole thing, the bonbons inside rolling all over the floor.

"Oh, oh, oh! Sara," she screamed, dancing up and down, "they're running away! What are they?"

The young man laughed heartily.

"Only French creams and candied fruits, child; you may not like them as well as Miss Zeba's striped lemon and h.o.r.ehound sticks, but I thought I'd give you a taste of Vanity Fair, at least."

"Is that its name?" asked Molly, who had secured a chocolate-cream, and was now burying her little white teeth in its soft lusciousness. "Oh, how sweet! and it melts while you're tasting. Is Vanity Fair all that way?"

"Pretty much," he said gravely, with an odd look at Sara.

"Well, it's nice," she concluded, after a second taste, "but there isn't much to it; you can't _chomp_ it like h.o.r.ehound, or wintergreen candy. _I_ like to chomp!"

"I presume so, and suck lobster-claws too, don't you? The fact is, I fear your tastes are too commonplace for you to thoroughly relish these French sweeties, and I'm glad of it! Now, don't eat too much to-night, for a very little of Vanity Fair goes a great way, you'll find. And now, good-night."

"Good-night, sir. I suppose some is for Morton?"

"I left that to your magnanimity."

"My who?" bewilderedly. "Do you mean Sara? Well, then, I may as well give him half this minute, 'cause she'll certainly make me," and the two finally disappeared, Molly laboriously counting over the recovered bonbons, to be sure the division was exact.

He turned back to Sara.

"It is too much care for you," he said warmly. "Think of that boy, who will soon be beginning to a.s.sert himself, and Molly, who is enough to keep a whole family on the alert, to say nothing of the baby. How are you going to manage?"

His reference to Morton reminded her of their difference, which for a time she had forgotten, and she told him about it, adding,--

"What can I do?"

"Stand firm," he said at once. "But wait; I see how hard that will be, with the whole town against you. Let me think."

She waited, watching him, while he gazed into the fire.

Finally he turned again to her.

"You spoke of leaving here, why not do so now, soon? Put it to Morton that you need his protection and help, and go to Boston. You have some means?"

"Yes." If Sara had mentioned the sum of these, the young man would have been aghast; but, accustomed as she was to the most frugal living, it seemed large to her.

"Then what is to hinder?" eagerly. "Uncle Leon will stay there this winter, anyhow; and they can find you a small flat, where you could keep house in a cosey way. Then there are things you can do at home, I am sure; things for the Woman's Exchange, say, that'll help you out."

Sara's eyes brightened. It was her dream to go out into that wider life she had read of, and this seemed her opportunity.

"What would I have to pay for such rooms?" she asked.

"Oh, that would depend on locality, the conveniences, and so on; probably from eighteen to thirty dollars, although I am more familiar with Western than Eastern rentals, but I presume that's somewhere near it."

Sara, supposing him to mean this as the yearly rental, thought it moderate enough, and went on,--

"If it were not for baby, I could teach perhaps, or go out to sew; but I'll have to wait till he's older for that."

"Would you take the baby?" he asked surprisedly.

"How could I leave him?" she returned.

"I thought perhaps--didn't your stepmother have any relatives?"

"A few; but they are not people with whom he would be happy," she said simply.

He looked at her with a puzzled face, made a move to speak, then stopped, ashamed to utter what was in his mind; ashamed to tell her that such devotion to a half-brother would hardly be expected of her, and that, freed from him, she might make a far easier start in life.

Instead, he merely nodded his head understandingly, and kept silence, feeling that here was a nature not to be approached, except with care and reverence, first putting off the dust-soiled shoes of custom and worldly prudence, as unfit to enter there. After a little more talk he rose reluctantly.

"Our good Mrs. Upd.y.k.e will be scandalized to see a light here after half-past nine," he remarked lightly. "Have you any word to send to Aunt Felicie?"

"Always my love and reverence," said Sara, with a touch of the old- fas.h.i.+oned manner that Robert thought one of her greatest charms. "And, if you think I may trouble her, I will write what there is to tell, though even Miss Prue does not know all the dreams I have had for the future."

"Why should she?" asked the young man jealously. "My aunt may not be so old a friend, but I am sure she is as good a one."

"She's more than kind! I can't understand," with a little burst of confidence, "why you are all so good to a poor fisherman's daughter like me?" They had risen, and he had shaken himself into his fur-trimmed great-coat; now he turned, hat in hand, and looked down upon her, for, though Sara was tall for a girl of eighteen, he towered well above her.

"You ask why?" he began in a quick, eager tone, then something in her calm face seemed to alter his mind, or at least speech, for he added more carelessly, "Do you think it so queer? But you forget you are a princess!" laughing lightly. "Well, good-night; it is time for me to go," and, with a more hasty farewell than he had intended, he turned, and left her standing in the doorway.

The next morning he was sitting before a cheerful grate fire in his aunt's private parlor at a certain hotel in Boston, his long legs stretched towards the blaze, and his chin dropped meditatively on his breast, while she, at the other end of the leopard-skin, worked busily on some fleecy white wool-work, occasionally glancing towards his darkly-thoughtful face.

"Ah, well, Robare," she said at last, "this is then your last evening here?"

He shook himself a little, sat upright, took his hands from his pockets, and, forcing a smile, turned to her.

"Yes, Aunt Felicie; and a nice way to spend it, glowering at the fire!

Where's uncle?"

"He has to that meeting gone at the Natural History building; I cannot its name remember. Why? had you a private word to say?"

"Well, I haven't told you about my trip yet, to Killamet."

"Ah! It was then to Killamet that you have been? I have thought so, though you did say it was a business trip."

"And so it was, partly; old Adam has sold my yacht, and I went to get the money."

"Are there, then, no banks with drafts, or notes of post in Killamet?"

rallyingly.