Читать книгу: «A Dear Little Girl», страница 6

Chapter XI
ADOPTED

As the carriage turned into the driveway which led up to Mrs. MacDonald's house, Edna exclaimed, "O, I know the s'prise! We are going to see Mrs. MacDonald."

Dorothy clapped her two hands over her mouth as if to keep in the secret that trembled upon her lips. Then she looked up at her mother, repressing a little chuckle.

"Yes, we are going to Mrs. MacDonald's," said Mrs. Evans, smiling.

They were ushered into the cosy library, where an open wood fire was blazing. Some one was curled up in a big chair before the fire – a little girl with curly auburn locks falling about her face; she wore a soft cashmere frock, and was a very dainty-looking little maid. She glanced up quickly as the visitors entered the room. Then a bright smile broke over her face, and she ran forward to meet them.

"Why," exclaimed Edna, "it's Maggie! Maggie Horn!"

"No," and the auburn locks shook a decided negative; "no, it isn't Maggie Horn; it's Margaret MacDonald! O, Edna, I'm 'dopted!"

Edna danced up and down in sheer delight, and Dorothy followed suit. Then Edna gave Maggie a great hugging. "Tell me all about it," she said. "How did it happen? O, Dorothy, this is the most delicious secret that ever was. How did you keep it?"

Mrs. Evans left the children in order to find Mrs. MacDonald, who was in the conservatory, and Maggie began:

"Well," she said, smoothing down her frock, and taking a long breath, "I was in the schoolroom, you know, when Miss Barnes was called out to see a lady, and after a while she came back and said some one wanted to see me. I thought it was my beautiful Mrs. Ramsey, so I was very glad; but it wasn't Mrs. Ramsey at all, it was a lady I had never seen before. She looked at me very hard, and asked me a lot of questions, all about my mother and lots of things; and Miss Barnes told me to bring my Bible that belonged to my mother and show it to the lady, and when she saw my mother's name, 'Agnes Wallace, from her loving mother, Margaret Wallace, Glasgow, Scotland,' she said, 'Why, she has my name, Margaret, and she has Scotch blood in her, the same as I and my husband. She shall be my own little lassie!' That was what my mother called me, Mrs. Ryan used to say, and it sounded so natural. So she told me her name was Mrs. MacDonald, and asked me if I would like to be her own little girl, and – O, Edna! I was so glad. And that was three days ago. And O, it was like a dream, for when I got here who should run and meet me but dear old Mrs. Ryan. She told me my father died just after my mother did, and that nobody had a claim on me, so I could be Margaret MacDonald forever and ever."

"Well, chatterboxes," here a voice interrupted, "have you had your talk out? We must be going," and Mrs. Evans, with Mrs. MacDonald, entered the room.

Edna ran toward the latter. "O, Mrs. MacDonald," she cried, "I do want to kiss you. You won't be lonely any more, will you?"

"No, I think not," replied Mrs. MacDonald, "and I don't want my little daughter to be. So Mrs. Evans has promised that you and Dorothy shall spend day after to-morrow with us."

This was a delightful prospect, and Edna declared that the drive and the pleasure of seeing Maggie had made her feel entirely well.

"I can't get over it," she said. "To think of Maggie's living in that dear old house, and having that great big garden to play in and being just like any nice little girl. O, it is just too lovely for anything."

That was a happy day which the three little girls spent together. Margaret – as the two others delighted to call her – brought out the doll which had been awarded her at the fair, to be displayed to Dorothy's interested eyes.

"I must tell Miss Martin. She will be so glad," said Edna. "And O, Margaret, you must have Moggins. I shall have to send him out to you;" but there was a tinge of regret in her tone.

"Will Mrs. MacDonald let you keep him?" asked Dorothy, turning to Margaret.

"I'll go and ask her," decided Edna, and straightway took herself to Mrs. MacDonald, and was not long in winning her consent. But Margaret was not willing to rob her friend at once of such an amusing companion as Moggins. "Wait till you go home," she said, "and then you will not miss him." And Edna, although she protested, was secretly glad when this was decided upon.

A pretty little room had been prepared for Margaret to use as her very own. Mrs. MacDonald believed in substantials, and did not indulge in much ornament. She was extremely fond of flowers, and her greenhouse was her greatest luxury. The house in which she lived was large, old-fashioned, and exceedingly comfortable, but was not as tasteful in its appointments as that of Mrs. Evans, "I am a plain woman," said Mrs. MacDonald to Mrs. Evans, "and I'm not given to fal-lals, I like my flowers and my book; and now my little daughter suits me much better than if she were a beauty."

"She has a nice, sensible, interesting face," returned Mrs. Evans.

"And, please God, she shall be a nice, sensible, interesting woman," replied Mrs. MacDonald, "and I hope a contented one. It's just wonderful what one little child can do. I'm thinking, Mrs. Evans, of that little child Edna. She has brought gladness to more hearts than one by the loving little spirit in her."

"She's a dear little body," replied Mrs. Evans, "She always makes the best of things; her little cheery ways are good to see, and are a lesson to us older growlers."

"I think my Margaret is going to be much the same," said Mrs. MacDonald. "It's no wonder they took to each other. When poor little Margaret has forgotten how ill a world she lived in, I think she'll brighten many a life by her own content."

Meanwhile the children thus discussed were making the most of their opportunities, for the day was at hand when Edna must return to the city. It must be confessed that all these good times had rather spoiled the little girl for the taking up of her life at school. But she was very brave about it, and, indeed, rather reproached herself for having any regrets at all in leaving these pleasant friends. Then she began to wonder about Louis, feeling quite selfish at having been too much taken up in the affairs which had lately interested her to think of how he might be faring, and she set out with a serious mind for her journey home.

"We will stop at the post-office and see if there are any letters," said Mr. Evans, who had taken the little girl under his protection. "The train will not be due for some minutes."

And Edna stood on the platform until he should return.

"I did find a letter for you," he said, as he joined her, and she was handed an envelope addressed in Louis' schoolboy hand.

The train was now in sight, and, after establishing the little girl in a seat by the window, Mr. Evans left her for a few minutes and Edna opened her letter.

It was dated a day or two earlier. "Dear Edna," it read, "I am going to run away. Don't tell anyone. I know you won't go back on me. I am going to my father and mother in Pasadena.

Affectionately, Louis"

A distressed little child it was who turned the letter over and over, helplessly. She had been having such a good time; all unhappy things had been smoothed away from her, and it seemed as if this going back became suddenly more dreadful than she could possibly have expected. She was very quiet during the short trip, once in a while casting furtive glances at Mr. Evans, who, absorbed in his newspaper, did no more than address a word or two to her. He set her down at her uncle's door, bidding her good-by pleasantly, and telling her that they should hope to see her in the country often.

The latch of the door being up, Edna went in, feeling very heavy-hearted.

It was early on Saturday afternoon, the house was very quiet; there was no one in the sitting-room and Edna went through the dining-room and on to where she heard voices.

Ellen in a freshly scoured kitchen was chatting with a friend while she set things to rights. She turned with an exclamation at the sight of Edna.

"Bless the choild!" she cried. "Comin' in like a bit of a ghost! It's good to see ye, darlint. An' are ye well again? Let me see. Thim cheeks bid to be a bit more rosy."

"Where is uncle?" asked Edna.

"Sure the two of thim is after foll'in' Masther Louis."

"And Louis?" Edna's lip quivered. She hoped against hope.

"Hear now; he's gone, av coorse."

"When did he go?" asked Edna, her voice shaking.

"Poor dear; don't mourn; to be sure ye'll be missin' him. He went to-day. Let Ellen take off your wrap, and thin ye can go up and see how nate an' nice yer room looks," and Ellen turned to continue an exciting bit of gossip for her friend's benefit.

Edna slowly went up stairs. She felt, O, so lonely, and such a weight as Louis' secret gave her. Ellen couldn't understand, and didn't seem to care. What should she do? If Louis' father and mother only knew, perhaps they could do something; grown people had so many ways of preventing mishaps; time and space were often no obstacles to them. Suppose Uncle Justus and Aunt Elizabeth should find him and bring him back. Edna's sympathies were divided. She knew her cousin would be punished, and yet she knew the others would be troubled sorely if he did not return.

She sat on the top step of the stairs, thinking, thinking harder than ever before in her life. Louis had run away because he was unhappy. He had not let his parents know for fear they would tell his aunt and uncle to take measures to prevent it. But if they knew he had actually started, they would realize, maybe, how miserable he had been and would take his part. If she could only let them know. Why, she could, of course she could. She could send a telegram. She knew she could. There was a telegraph office down at the depot from which she had just come. Perhaps she could get there and back before her aunt and uncle returned, and no one would miss her.

Fired by this idea, she started out intent upon the business in hand. She had little difficulty in finding the place, and went timidly up to the desk.

She stood still, not knowing just what to do until the clerk, looking up, said, "Well, little girl, what is it?"

"I want to send a telegram;" she answered.

"Where?" asked the man, pulling a blank toward him.

Edna carefully unfolded the letter from Louis. "Pasadena, California," she said.

"Name?" continued the man.

"Mr. William Morrison."

"Well, what is the message?"

Edna looked doubtfully at him.

"Have you forgotten it?" he asked.

"No, but I – but I – "

"Well, then, out with it." The man was a trifle impatient.

"I think I had just better say Louis has runned away."

The man looked at her a moment, and a smile came over his face. "O, you are sending it yourself, are you?" he said.

Edna nodded.

"Do you want to pay for it, or shall it paid at the other end?"

Here was another dilemma; but Edna concluded that since the contents of her little purse might not cover the expense, it would best be paid for at Pasadena. Then having asked her name, the man told her it was all right, and she left with a sense of relief.

She was making her way home again as fast as possible, when suddenly she stood still with terror, for coming up the street, directly toward her, was a herd of Texas cattle on their way to the stock yards.

If there was anything that Edna feared, it was these creatures; their wide-spreading horns seemed to menace her even a block away, and as the foremost one was quite near, she turned in a perfect agony of fear and went tumbling pell mell up the first high flight of steps which she happened to see. It seemed to her that she would never be able to get out of the way of those dreadful horns, and the rushing sound of hoofs and the bellowings which were issuing from the creatures appeared to surround her completely.

How she reached the top step she hardly knew, but, scrambling, falling, in her haste she gained her place of safety, sprawling flat on her face as she did so.

Chapter XII
THE RUNAWAY

Meanwhile Uncle Justus had returned and was told by Ellen that Edna had arrived.

A pleased look came into Professor Horner's face. "Send her to me, Ellen," he said, and Ellen hastened up stairs to do his bidding. Failing to find the child in her room, she hunted high and low, but no Edna, and she returned to Professor Horner in perplexity.

"Shure, sor, I've looked the house over, an' the choild is nowhere at all, at all," she informed him.

Uncle Justus looked annoyed. "Some one should have been here when she came," he said to himself. "Perhaps she went to the candy shop to spend some pennies; no doubt that is it. She will be here in a few moments;" and he settled himself comfortably.

But the time passed and Edna did not appear. Professor Horner walked the floor thoughtfully, then putting on his hat and coat he went out, first to the candy shop, where nothing was learned of Edna, then to the different houses in the neighborhood in which the little girl's schoolmates might be found, but no one had seen the child, and Uncle Justus returned home to find that his wife had arrived.

She, too, looked anxious as her husband appeared with no little niece. "Edna is an obedient child," she said, "and she is not prone to get into serious mischief, but – "

"That is why I am the more anxious," replied Uncle Justus.

"I was about to say that this influence, under which she has been, may have spoiled her," continued Aunt Elizabeth, remembering that it was at her husband's suggestion that the visit to the country was made.

Uncle Justus frowned. "That is not likely; and if it were, what has it to do with the case?"

"She may have taken a fancy to go back there."

Uncle Justus caught at the suggestion. He rose to his feet.

"Where are you going?" asked Mrs. Horner. "I am going to see if she has gone back;" and he was soon on his way to Mr. Evans' office. That gentleman insisted on making the journey with the perturbed professor, and the two set out together But on arriving they found only the family, and the situation grew more and more perplexing. "I am sure Edna is too conscientious to start back here without leave," said Mrs. Evans. "She talked very cheerfully of her return."

"I am so afraid she is run over by a trolley car," said Agnes, in distress.

"Or maybe she is lost and will be out in the dark night all alone," wept Dorothy. "O, papa, do try and find her." And the two men returned to the city together.

No news at police stations of a lost or injured child, and to the railway depots as a last resource they betook themselves. As Uncle Justus was making his inquiries some one stood by listening. It was one of the colored porters.

"'Scuse me, sah," he said, "but I b'leeves I seen de little lady you all's inquirn' fo'. I 'members her on account of de 'casion of a accident when she was on boa'd our train along o' her pa. I reckleck she went to de telegraph office dis afternoon. I were gwine to call myse'f to her remembers, but she slip out whilst I were busy, sah."

Yes, the man at the telegraph office did remember her. "A little girl," he said, "yes, sir, wore a plain frock and a big hat. Yes, she came here and got us to send a message."

"What was it?" asked Uncle Justus, eagerly. The man smiled. "As near as I can recollect, it was, 'Louis has runned away.' It was sent to Mr. William Morrison, Pasadena, California."

Uncle Justus looked puzzled. "I cannot understand why the message was sent," he said, and after some further questions he concluded to return home.

Meanwhile how fared it with Edna? At the instant that she fell upon the stone step, in her flight from the cattle, the door opened and she was lifted to her feet by a pleasant-looking boy, who, followed by another, came out of the house.

"Why, little girl," said the boy who gave her his help, "you've cut your lip; it is all bleeding. Did you fall down? That is too bad." And he began tenderly to wipe off the stains of blood. "Come in and let mother wash it off," he continued. "You call mother, Steve," he said to the other boy, and Edna was drawn into the house whether or no.

Some one came swiftly down the hall. "What is the matter, Roger?" a voice asked. "Why, I know this little girl. I have wondered for a long time if I should see her again. It is little Edna Conway;" and, looking up, Edna recognized her kind travelling companion, Mrs. Porter.

"And you never came to see me," continued the lady, reproachfully. "I had quite given you up, but 'better late than never,' and now that I have you I mean to have a good long visit to make up for your not coming before."

"I couldn't come before," replied Edna; "my aunt doesn't allow me to visit." She looked up wistfully, not liking to explain that this appearance of herself was purely accidental. "But I'm very, very glad to see you," she added.

Mrs. Porter was busy washing off the stain. "It isn't very much of a cut," she said. "I do not think it will trouble you much."

"I was so afraid of the cows," replied Edna, "and I ran up the steps as hard as I could scramble out of the way."

"They are rather terrifying, I admit. How came your aunt to allow you away down here alone, when she is so particular?" asked Mrs. Porter.

Edna was silent, and stood with downcast eyes. Then she looked up, saying, candidly, "My aunt didn't have anything to say about it. I had to come. I had to, indeed I did, but I'd rather not tell why."

Mrs. Porter looked down into the clear eyes, but they answered her look too innocently for her to suspect any wrong motive. So she smiled and kissed her little visitor. "Never mind, then," she replied. "Now you are here you must stay and take tea with us. I want you to know my boys. You look rather pale. Have you been sick?"

"I've had the measles. But I must go home, Mrs. Porter. They will be worried about me."

"No, they won't. I will send Steve with a note right away. I will tell your aunt that you tumbled up my steps, and that I am going to keep you a while. I will make it all right."

And this was done forthwith. There was no resisting Mrs. Porter, but yet Edna had a little uneasy feeling at heart that it was not just right for her to remain, although she felt tired and her head ached.

Stephen was dispatched with the note, and soon returned, saying he had delivered it safely into Ellen's hands. And the two boys proceeded to amuse their little visitor with as much gallantry as possible. Roger brought out his Punch and Judy figures. Stephen displayed his electric motor and his gold-fish; therefore the afternoon passed very quickly, and Edna forgot her fright and her troubles in all the new and interesting games the boys had to show.

"I wish we had a little sister," said Roger.

"And I wish my two brothers were here," returned Edna.

"We'll be your two brothers while you are here," said Stephen.

Edna laughed. "Then I'll have to call you Frank and Charlie," and she proceeded to decide which should be which, and to tell the boys of her brothers' pranks and funny sayings.

This was after tea, when the three were having a fine time over a game of "Parchesi," sitting around a big table.

Presently the bell rang; there were voices in the hall – questions and answers – and Mrs. Porter was summoned; then, in another minute, in walked Uncle Justus.

A look at his face told Edna something of his anxiety; but he held out his hand, and she went straight to him, where he kept her close, as if he could not let her go.

"We thought you were lost," he said, in trembling tones; "I have been looking for you since early in the day."

"O," cried Edna, "Uncle Justus, I am so sorry."

"Didn't Mrs. Horner get my note?" asked Mrs. Porter.

"That she didn't receive it made the trouble," replied Uncle Justus. "The maid took the note and put it on the hall table, where it was not discovered until an hour ago, Ellen having forgotten it and not connecting it with Edna. In the meantime I have been searching everywhere."

"It is my fault," cried Mrs. Porter; "I should not have kept Edna this time, but I was so glad to see her, and she had hurt herself; besides, she looked so pale and tired."

"Where were you going when you started down town?" asked Uncle Justus.

"O," Edna said, "Uncle Justus, I felt so dreadfully about Louis. I couldn't stand it."

"Well, my child, I don't understand why you should; but we had better go straight home now, and relieve the minds of your friends."

Edna did not talk much on the way home, but she held Uncle Justus' hand very tightly. "Was I very bad?" once she asked, softly.

Uncle Justus, for answer, gave her hand a little squeeze, and she was satisfied. She did not ask about Louis, for she thought her uncle had been troubled enough. She felt that somewhere and somehow she had made a mistake.

"I don't believe little girls know just what is right to do without asking grown people," she said, as they left the car and neared home. "It's awfully hard to do right every time by yourself, isn't it, Uncle Justus?"

"Yes; it is best to ask advice," he replied, as he opened the front door with his latch-key.

Edna rushed in. The sitting-room seemed full of people. Who were they all? Why, there was Louis – not run away at all, but safe and sound, with an arm fondly around his mother's neck. And there – no, it could not be! There were her own father and mother. Edna gave one scream of joy – ignoring Aunt Elizabeth, whom she had not seen for three weeks, scarcely seeing Louis or anyone, but throwing herself into the dear arms for which she had so often longed during these last months.

"So, my little runaway, we have you safe and sound," said her father.

Edna looked around bewildered. She a little runaway! Did he mean her? Why, it was Louis who ran away. "I didn't run away," she said, indignantly; "it was Louis," and then everybody laughed – why, she didn't know.

"Now, give an account of yourself," said Mr. Conway. "Who told you Louis had gone away?"

"Why, Ellen did," replied Edna.

"So I had gone!" piped up Louis; "I went with papa and mamma to the hotel. They came this morning, and uncle and aunt came to take dinner with us there."

"O," exclaimed Edna, "and I sent word by the telegraph that you had runned away."

"What made you think that?" asked Mrs. Conway.

Edna looked at Louis; he looked rather sheepish, but he was brave enough to help Edna out of the difficulty now that he had his father and mother at hand. "Why – I – I – wrote to Edna," he faltered; "I said I was going to run away, and – and – what did Ellen say?"

"She said – let me see – she – why I asked where you were, and she said you were gone, and, of course, I thought you had run away, and when she said aunt and uncle had followed you I thought it must be so, and I was in such trouble I didn't know what to do 'cept to telegraph your father so he would get you, somehow; and, O, dear! I saw some dreadful cows, and I was so scared that I tumbled up the steps and Mrs. Porter's boys let me in. Then Mrs. Porter made me stay; and O, just think of it! I never knew my own papa and mamma were so near. Did you get my telegram?" she asked Mr. Morrison, innocently.

"No," he said, laughing, "it may be at the hotel now, if it was re-sent by my friends in Pasadena. You were a dear child to think of doing something for Louis, although it turned out to be such a time of trial."

"I think," said Mrs. Conway, "that Uncle Justus is the one who has had the hardest time. We knew Edna was safe as soon as we reached here, for then the note from Mrs. Porter had been found. Poor Ellen was so distressed at your loss that she never once thought of giving Aunt Elizabeth the note. You meant well, daughter, but you were too young to take matters into your own hands."

Then Mr. and Mrs. Morrison took their leave, and Louis went with them.

"I'm going home soon," he said to his cousin. "Say, Edna, I'm awfully sorry about all this fuss. It was all my fault, but I did mean to run away, only father and mother came."

"I'm very glad you didn't go," answered Edna.

It is very doubtful if Louis would have gone any great distance, even if he had started, although he stuck to it that the arrival of his parents alone prevented his making the venture.

"O, mamma! O, mamma! it is really you," said Edna, when her cousin had gone. "When am I going home with you?"

"In a few days," replied her mother.

Uncle Justus, looking at her, sighed.

"Don't you want to stay with us?" asked Aunt Elizabeth, as if she, too, felt that it would be hard to part.

With the dear mother-arms so near it was not easy to think of anyone else, but the feeling sorry for people was always ready to rise in Edna's heart, and she looked from one to the other. Poor Uncle Justus! she did not like to leave him, and even Aunt Elizabeth seemed more lovable when she considered the distance that would soon be between them.

"O," she cried, "I want you all!"

"Well," replied her father, cheerfully, "I don't know but what that can be managed. I have been thinking of a plan which we will talk over to-morrow. Just now it is high time for runaways to be in bed;" and with a kiss all around Edna said "Good-night."