Six Girls Part 8

"No, I know she won't; she'll think it's too much dress for a young girl. Wear flowers."

"Nonsense! I won't. I want the jewelry. What will you wear?"

"My cashmere; it's all I've got," and Bea sighed a little, for she did love to look nice. "The sleeves are dreadfully worn, and the over-skirt isn't the latest; but it can't be made over again, and I can't afford to spend a cent."

"Never mind," said Ernestine, who could, and did readily advise what she disliked to practice. "Brush it up good, put ink over the little hole in the sleeve, and I'll loop the over-skirt so that it looks later in style, and loan you my blue bows."

"I suppose you will," returned Bea petulantly, for the temper, though appeased, was still awake and alert. "You're quick enough to loan me what you don't want yourself, and to say for me to go in an old-fas.h.i.+oned dress, with the holes inked up, and no jewelry; when you want silk and laces, and all the jewelry; you are generous."

"Oh, well, you may have the--the things if she will loan them; don't get fussy," said Ernestine, not a trifle abashed. "Who do you suppose will be there?"

"Whoever she invites, I suppose," answered Bea, still ruffled.

"And I expect Dell will be dressed beautifully; oh, dear, how nice it would be to be rich," sighed Ernestine.

"I don't think it's fair for some girls to have so much, and others to have to scrimp and pinch, and then have nothing," cried Bea, exaggerating her woes, as is usual, when one is determined to think one's self the worst abused of all mortals. "I wonder if Olive is going, and how she will dress."

"Just like she always does, I suppose, in that old green, with a big white collar, and her hair pulled straight back, and as smooth as a door-k.n.o.b, no ornaments, and look fierce enough to chew every body up. I do wonder what Olive is good for anyhow, she isn't any comfort to anybody," and, as Ernestine spoke, her eyes went slyly over to the gla.s.s, where her pretty att.i.tude in Jean's chair, and the suns.h.i.+ne lying warm on her hair, were reflected.

Usually, Bea would have taken up her sister's cause, and uttered some conclusive defence, but now she felt abused, and didn't care much what was said of anybody, so after a moment, Ernestine went on--

"I wish I knew the 'German,' I'm going to ask Dell to teach me, she does it beautifully. I think it is so hateful in Olive not to dance, it spoils a set for us, so that we can never dance quadrilles ourselves."

"I suppose she has a right to do as she pleases," answered Bea, revelling in the questionable luxury of being as cross as she could. "I don't care whether mama lets us go or not, I haven't a thing to wear, and of course if I don't go, you can't."

"Oh, but she will, I'll fix you so pretty, that you'll blush to look at yourself, and you know Mrs. Richards said last summer, that you looked like an angel in white, and you may have quillings off my bolt of footing to put in your basque, and around the pleatings;" and, with these skilfully thrown in words, Ernestine ran off to look over her little collection of ribbons and laces, while Bea turned her eyes slowly to the gla.s.s, just as her pretty sister had done a moment before, only not with such an air of perfect satisfaction.

"How pretty Ernestine is, and even if she is selfish, she's always so willing to loan things, that any one doesn't think that it's just because she doesn't happen to want them herself. I hope if Olive does go, she will fix up a little," and with a sigh Bea turned away from her reflection, and after covering Jean with a shawl, went down to see if dinner was not nearly ready.

If they could have seen Olive, they would never needed to have asked if she was going. All the afternoon she walked slowly up and down her room, sometimes increasing her gait, as the thoughts crowded and doubled the deep trouble in her face; and, in her mind was one thought that mastered every other, and that often formed itself into words and crossed her lips in a whisper of s.h.i.+vering dread.

"The sixty days are almost gone, and papa has not got the money! What will he do? oh! what will he do?"

Being with him constantly in the store, Olive saw, what he struggled to hide from those at home,--the utter despair that was mastering a patient hope;--and she knew that as the days went so swiftly by, that to him, the end was growing more certain. Once she saw him eagerly tear open a letter, and after reading a few lines, drop his head on his hands, and, unconscious of her nearness, groan despairingly. It weighed on her mind terribly, and her great desire to be of help, faced by the fact of her perfect inability, made her almost desperate, at times.

Beatrice spent the afternoon in fussing with her dress, and Ernestine in watching for her mother, who was spending the day with a sick friend, so as she was still absent, when the tea-bell rang, the meal was rather gloomy; for the three older girls were busy with thoughts; Kat's tooth still ached, Kittie had caught cold, and their resentment at not being included in the invitation, being mutual, they devoted themselves exclusively to each other, and Jean dismayed at the unusual silence, ate her bread and milk with a pathetic air of loneliness, quite touching.

"Ernestine, won't you sing just a little something," she asked, as they went into the sitting-room, where the fire burned low. "It's _so_ lonesome without mama, when you're all so still. Seems to me everything has gone wrong all day, what's the matter?"

"Everybody's in the blues, it's in the air," laughed Ernestine, sitting down to the piano, and skimming the keys. "Sit down chickie, and I'll sing 'Three Fishers.'"

Jean curled in a chair, with a pleased smile, and Ernestine began the plaintive song, with the firelight flitting over her face, showing that she sang with more feeling than usual.

"For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep."

The door-bell rang just there, and made them jump, then Bea went to the door, for though quite dark, it was not seven yet.

A man stood just outside, a stranger, and as Bea opened the door with no light, but the fire from the sitting-room, he did not seem to know what to say.

"Is Mrs. Dering here,--that is,--is she home?"

"No, she is not, but will you come in, perhaps I will do," answered Bea, peering beyond him, and starting, as she caught the outline of other figures on the steps.

"I do not think you will, I,--in fact we,--" and there he paused, and looked behind him, and a vague chilling alarm struck Bea, and made her voice tremble as she asked--

"Is it anything so particular, any----,"

"Bad news," he said, as she hesitated. "Yes Miss,--Dering, I presume, I do bring bad news, your father----;"

Ernestine stood in the sitting-room door, and as the words were uttered, she saw Bea rush out, heard a faint scream, and a strange voice say, "catch her, she's falling;" then there came a tramp of feet across the porch, and four men crossed the hall, and came into the room with a strange burden; a rude litter, with a motionless figure on a mattress!

Bea had fainted, for she had followed it, but as the men set their burden down with pitying faces, there came a shrill scream and a fall, for Ernestine dropped to the floor, and Jean continued to scream with her face hid. The three girls from up stairs came flying down, Huldah ran from the kitchen, and in the dire confusion, the strangers stood, not knowing what to do, or whom to address, for every one seemed to have lost self-possession in the overwhelming shock. So thought the gentleman who seemed to be leader, but at that minute a hand touched his arm, and a voice startlingly hushed, asked: "Is he _dead_?"

"He is, madam."

A spasm of pain crossed her set-white face, as her lips opened slowly, and the next question came with a gasp of dread:

"By--by his own hand?"

"Oh, no, madam, no indeed," cried the gentleman eagerly, glad to give that relief. "He was on the train going down to the city, which was wrecked twenty miles this side of it. His death was instant and painless, a blow on the left temple."

"Thank G.o.d!"

She uttered it slowly, and almost below her breath, then lifted her eyes from the peaceful face so life-like in death, and looked around the room. Ernestine lay moaning on the lounge, Kittie and Kat locked in each others arms crouched in the corner, tearless, because paralyzed with fright, Jean shook as with a spasm in Bea's lap, while Huldah stood by the lounge, with her ap.r.o.n over her head; and the men stood hushed and abashed with their eyes down.

"Take Jean out," Olive said again in that strange still voice. "Huldah carry Ernestine to her room, and Kittie, you and Kat go out to the steps and watch for mama."

How instantly they all obeyed her, as though recognizing one with authority, and how curiously the gentleman scanned her stonily white face, so worn in this brief moment of suffering, and listened to her last words with wonder.

"Then you are not Mrs. Dering?"

"No!" Olive did not seem surprised at the question, but her eyes went to his face slowly, and her lips began to twitch. "How will we ever tell her; oh! how will we?" she murmured, clasping her hands tightly; but the stranger heard the low words, and spoke hurriedly, with his eyes on the dead face.

"If you are expecting her, some one had better go to prepare her, for the shock might prove----"

Olive did not wait for more, but s.n.a.t.c.hing a shawl from the chair, saying as she vanished:

"I will go, only stay 'till we come back."

The moon was coming slowly through a bank of clouds, and the wind sighing mournfully through the bare treetops, as she sped swiftly down the path and through the gate, whose familiar slam sounded dreary and dull, though it hardly reached her, as she ran down the quiet street.

In just a few minutes she saw another figure wearing a familiar shawl in the moonlight.

"Why, Olive," cried Mrs. Dering. "Were you all worried about me. Mr.

Dane wanted to walk home with me, but I told him I would stop at the store for papa, and when I got there, the boy told me he had taken the afternoon train to the city; some sudden business I suppose. Why dear, how you have run!"

"Oh, mama!" it was Olive's only utterance, but it told its own story, for Mrs. Dering instantly grasped the hand held out to her and inquired sharply:

"What is it, quick,--any trouble at home?"