The Tangled Threads Part 13

"Why, Mrs. Mason, of course! He has--he does," declared the girl quickly, the red deepening in her cheeks. "He--he sent her money only to-day."

"Yes, I know; she told me--of that." Mrs. Mason's voice was significant in its smoothness. "Your mother said she was going to get her--a tie."

"Yes, a tie," repeated Helen, with feverish lightness; "lace, you know.

Mother does so love pretty things! Oh, and by the way," hurried on the girl breathlessly, "if you don't mind--about the dinners, you know.

Mother does n't care for codfish-and-cream, and if you could just subst.i.tute something else, I'll pay more, of course! I'd expect to do that. I've been thinking for some time that you ought to have at least ten cents a day more--if you could manage--on that. And--thank you; if you _would_ remember about--the codfish, and now I really must--go!" she finished. And before Mrs. Mason knew quite what had happened a flying figure had darted by her through the half-open doorway.

"Well, of all things! _Now_ what have I said?" muttered the puzzled woman, staring after her visitor. "Ten cents a day more, indeed! And where, for the land's sake, is the poor lamb going to find that?"

Long hours later in the Raymond flat, after the mending was done, the waist ironed, and the mother's querulous tongue had been silenced by sleep, the "poor lamb" sat down with her little account book and tried to discover just that--where she was going to find the extra ten cents a day to buy off Mrs. Mason's codfish.

It did not rain the next morning. The sun shone, indeed, as if it never had rained, and never would rain. In Helen Raymond's soul a deeper shame than ever sent the blue devils skulking into the farthermost corners--as if it were anything but a matter for the heartiest congratulations that one's mother had at least one child who had proved not to be a disappointment to her! And very blithely, to cheat the last one of the little indigo spirits, the girl resolutely uptilted her chin, and began her day.

It was not unlike the days that had gone before. There was the same apologetic rush in the morning, the same monotonous succession of buyers and near-buyers at the counter, the same glitter and sparkle and chatter--the youth, and love, and laughter. Then at night came the surprise.

Helen Raymond went home to find the little flat dominated by a new presence, a presence so big and breezy that unconsciously she sniffed the air as if she were entering a pine grove instead of a stuffy, four-room city flat.

"Helen, he knows Herbert, my Herbert," announced Mrs. Raymond rapturously; and as she seemed to think no further introduction was necessary, the young man rose to his feet and added with a smile:--

"My name is Carroll--Jack Carroll; Miss Raymond, I suppose. Your brother--er--suggested that I call, as I was in the city."

"Of course you'd call," chirruped Mrs. Raymond. "As if we were n't always glad to see any friend of my boy's. Helen, why don't you say something? Why don't you welcome Mr. Carroll?"

"I have n't had much chance yet, mother," smiled the girl, in some embarra.s.sment. "Perhaps I--I have n't caught my breath."

"Not that Mr. Carroll ought to mind, of course," resumed Mrs. Raymond plaintively. "And he won't when he knows you, and sees how moderate you are. You know Herbert is so quick," she added, turning to Herbert's friend.

"Is he?" murmured the man; and at the odd something in his voice Helen looked up quickly to find the stranger's eyes full upon her. "You see, I'm not sure, after all, that I do know Herbert," he continued lightly, still with that odd something in his voice. "Herbert's mother has been telling me lots of things--about Herbert."

"Yes; we've been having such a nice visit together," sighed Mrs. Raymond.

"You see, _he_ understands, Helen,--Mr. Carroll does."

Again Helen glanced up and met the stranger's eyes. She caught her breath sharply and looked away.

"Of course he understands," she cried, in a voice that was not quite steady. "If he knew you better, mother dear, he would know that there could n't be any nicer subject than Herbert to talk about--Herbert and the fine things he has done!" There was no bitterness, no sarcasm, in tone or manner. There was only a frightened little pleading, a warding-off, as of some unknown, threatening danger. "Of course, Mr.

Carroll understands," she finished; and this time she turned and looked straight into the stranger's eyes unswervingly.

"I understand," he nodded gravely.

And yet--it was not of Herbert that he talked during the next ten minutes. It was of Mrs. Raymond and her daughter, of their life at home and at the store. It was a gay ten minutes, for the man laughed at the whimsical playfulness with which Miss Raymond set off the pitiful little tale of the daily struggle for existence. If he detected the nervousness in the telling, he did not show it. He did frown once; but that was when Herbert's mother sighed apologetically:--

"You must n't mind all she says, Mr. Carroll. Helen never did seem to realize the serious side of life, nor what I suffer; but that is Helen's way."

"After all, it must be a way that helps smooth things over some," he had retorted warmly.

And there the matter had ended--except in Helen's memory: there it bade fair to remain long, indeed.

At the end of the ten minutes, Herbert's friend rose to his feet and said that he must go. He added that he would come again, if he might; and to Miss Raymond he said very low--but very impressively--that she would see him soon, very soon. It was no surprise, therefore, to Helen, to encounter the big, tall fellow not twenty feet from her doorway when she started for the store the next morning.

His clean-cut face flushed painfully as he advanced; but the girl did not change color.

"Good-morning. I thought you'd do this," she began hurriedly. "We can talk as we walk. Now, tell me, please, quick. What is it about--Herbert?"

"Then you--know?"

"Not much; only suspect. I know everything is n't quite--right."

"But your mother doesn't know--even that much?"

"No, no! You saw that, didn't you? I was so glad you did, and did n't speak! He is her pet, and she's so proud of him!"

"Yes, I know," nodded the man grimly. "I saw--that."

The girl lifted her chin.

"And mother has a right to be proud of him. Herbert is fine. It is only that--that--" She weakened perceptibly. "Was it--money?" she faltered.

"Y-yes." Carroll spoke with evident reluctance. His eyes looked down almost tenderly at the girl with the still bravely uptilted chin.

"It--it is rather serious this time. He asked me to call and--and make it plain to you. I had told him I was coming up to town on business, and I promised. But--good Heavens, Miss Raymond, I--I can't tell you!"

"But you must. I'll have to know," cried the girl sharply. All the pride had fled now. "And you need n't fear. I know what it is. He wants money to settle debts. I've sent it before--once. That is it--that _is_ it?"

"Yes, only it's--it's a particularly bad job this time," stammered the other. "You see, it--it's club money--a little club among the boys, of which he is treasurer--and he sto--used part of the--funds."

The man choked over the wretched tale, and instinctively laid his hand on the girl's arm. She would faint or cry, of course, and he wondered what he could do. But there was no fainting, no crying. There was only the pitiful whitening of a set little face, and the tense question:

"How much--was it?"

Carroll sighed in relief.

"Miss Raymond, you're a--a brick--to take it like that," he cried brokenly. "I don't know another girl who-- It was--well, a hundred dollars will cover it; but he's got to have it--to-morrow."

"I'll send it."

"But how--forgive me, Miss Raymond, but last night you were telling me that--that--" He flushed, and came to a helpless pause.

"How can I get it?" she supplied wearily. "We've a little in the bank--a very little laid by for a rainy day; but it will cover that. We never think of touching it, of course, for--for ordinary things. But--_this_."

She shuddered, and Carroll saw her shabbily gloved hand clinch spasmodically. "Mr. Carroll, how did he come to--do it?"

It was a short story, soon told--the usual story of a pleasure-loving, thoughtless youth, tempted beyond his strength. Carroll softened it where he could, and ended with:--

"I asked Bert to let me make it good, somehow, but he would n't, Miss Raymond. He--he just would n't!"

"Of course he would n't," exclaimed the girl sharply. Then, in a softer voice: "Thank you, just the same. But, don't you see? 'T would have done no good. I'd have had to pay you. . . . No, no, don't say any more, please," she begged, in answer to the quick words that leaped to his lips. "You have been kind--very kind. Now, just one kindness more, if you will," she hurried on. "Come tonight. I must leave you now--it's the store, just around the corner. But to-night I 'll have the money.

It's in my name, and I can get it without mother's--knowing. You understand? Without--mother's--_knowing_."

"I understand," he nodded gravely, as he wrung her hand and turned chokingly away.